apocalypse: t.h. series (pt. 2)
a/n | this is the second part of the Apocalypse series- and it was an emotional rollercoaster to write! had so many requests to continue the story that i couldn’t resist, also bc i kinda fell in love w it myself. fair warning, this is a lot of exposition! but i left ample room to get exciting in the next part (wink wink)
summary | a toxic storm that has wiped out most of the world’s population has you taking shelter and fighting for survival with an unexpected ally.
wanna listen? | cursive by billie marten
Read Part 1, join the taglist :)
tom x fem reader | contains language, descriptions of parent death, generally morbid themes, but also very sweet character development | word count: 3.1k | enjoy!
With a small sizzle, the wick in the lantern gave its last breath, dissipating into the night. Or into the morning? Truthfully, it could’ve been any time of the day, any day of the week. You had your bets on Saturday, but Tom said it was Tuesday, it had to be Tuesday, and that he would die on this hill.
There was no surefire way to keep track of time—all you knew is that it had to have at least been four days since the second acid rainstorm came, since you had hunkered down in this storage room-turned home with a boy who you now clung to with every available fiber.
The first time the flame in the lantern disappeared, you were utterly screwed—neither of you had thought about the pitch black darkness that would enclose upon you the minute it burned out, rendering it near impossible to find more oil to burn, or even a flashlight to help, as you had fallen fast asleep in a close embrace after a long span of hours petrified by the sound of the rain. It was a harsh, thrashing, shrill noise that you and Tom dreaded having to learn to live with again, and any time you felt sleep begin to tug at your eyelids that first night, the downpour would leave a piercing ring in your brain, forcing your eyes back open. So, when your minds finally shut down, neither of you thought about the oil or the lantern or your only source of light, as all you could focus on was running away hand in hand into the bliss of unconsciousness. Eventually, though, you were able to light it back up, and grew a little wiser about planning ahead.
In the long days following, you learned to understand the subtle nuances in how you each spoke, how to pick out certain syllables from the thunderous noise outside, and it gave you both reason to fall deeply in love with the sound of each other’s voices. It was your only escape from reality, really—you only had him, he only had you, and all there was to do was talk. It wasn’t a hard task. Tom could get you to willingly spill your deepest, dirtiest secrets just by looking at you the right way. You told him about the letters you used to put in the mail for your imaginary friends; he speculated for a long time about the fantastical places those letters were sent to. He told you he’d had a pet goldfish who he’d taken to the beach and released into the ocean, hoping he’d swim back one day to tell him that mermaids really do exist, and he’d seen them with his own two fishy eyes. He’d tried to teach you some yoga poses to help you sleep better, you taught him how to braid your hair. He was getting good now, could even manage a four-strand if the light was flickering in his favor.
You’d held each other in soft silence, fallen asleep together with your foreheads touching, fingers intertwined, as if you let Tom out of your grasp, even for a moment, the blackness would consume him and he’d be lost forever. The dark had ripped enough away from you; that just wasn’t a chance you were willing to take.
On day question mark, you woke up from a deep sleep with a jolt as the roof rattled especially loudly. In a momentary panic, you looked down at the sweet sleeping face next to you, and were able to reclaim your breath. Ever so lightly, you brushed your fingers against Tom’s cheek.
His eyes opened directly on you and he smiled, yawning, moving his hand to rest atop yours.
“Well it’s 7 am on a Monday, sweetie. You gotta get ready for work and I need to feed the kiddos before I get them to school,” you said in a slight southern accent, batting your eyelashes. It was dim, but Tom could see every ounce of effort in your facial expressions, and gave a breathy laugh.
He sat up and leaned against the wall, shivering at the cold now that he was awake to feel it. You took the blanket from around you, moved to straddle his lap and face him, and wrapped it around you both, nuzzling into his chest.
“Personal space heater at your service.”
He gave your torso a small squeeze and placed a little kiss on the top of your head.
You wanted nothing more than to lift your face up to meet his, to look into his eyes and watch them flutter shut as you leaned in to kiss him. You wanted to know, hell, even dreamed about how warm his lips would feel, how soft and fuzzy it would render your whole body, a welcome high—but you two had drawn so incredibly close divulging your life stories in the dark that you’d almost surpassed the puppy love stage and moved right into companionate territory. He hadn’t kissed you yet, and you were afraid to understand exactly why. So you stayed put, but your mind and mouth betrayed you as curiosity got the better of your judgement.
“Tom,” you said quietly, half-hoping he wouldn’t hear you. But he was too good for that.
Quick, change the subject. “…are you warmer now?”
“Yes, my little ball of sunshine.”
You smiled, deciding not to go forth with asking him about the kiss. Yet again, Tom saw right through you, even in the opacity of the dark.
“Something on your mind?” he pulled your shoulders back so he could see your face when he asked his question, and seeing those big brown orbs didn’t help you gain your composure.
“It’s…it’s nothing, never mind,” you tried to shake it off, looking away and mushing your hands together. He took each one of yours in one of his and held them, refusing to accept that. A worry pinpricked your brain that your hands being clammy would be a dead giveaway.
“Hey, there’s not enough room in here for secrets, you said that yourself.”
“Damn me and my wise words.”
He chuckled but persisted. “What is it, y/n?”
“Tom, I just…” you brought your hands up to his face, cupping both of his cheeks. “You have such a sweet face.”
He took your hands and moved them away, expecting you to continue, silently showing that your pleas to shift the focus weren’t working. But you just couldn’t let the words why-haven’t-you-kissed-me-yet roll off your tongue.
“Wait…do you hear that?” you looked up at the ceiling as if something had changed.
“I don’t hear anything,” Tom said, realization hitting a moment later. “Oh my god, I don’t hear anything. It’s quiet. Does that mean…?” he looked at you wide-eyed with hope, and you both got up and ran to the door, opening it ever so slightly to see the outside. Once again, the world made its debut in a pale orange glow, and the rain had stopped. Your confession would have to wait.
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