above all (m×m) ✔

17) just nightmares

Brandon was untying his apron, when the bell rang and a chirpy, familiar voice carried all the way to the kitchen. He smiled, despite the ache in his back, always present after a sift in the bakery. Despite the persistent headache, which had only gotten worse during the morning, thanks to Håkan's pestering. 

"I was just wondering where you are." Sunniva squeaked, spreading her arms as she spotted Brandon by the door. Her normally pale skin had some tan on it and a cluster of freckles adorned her tiny button nose. Brandon walked to her, dutifully letting her squeeze the life out of him.

"Where's Gianna?" He asked just as the bell rang again. Whereas Sunniva was tall and had a stocky build, like her son, her wife, Gianna, was short and petite. She still hugged like a weightlifter, though.

"Oh, and who do we have here?" Gianna asked, smiling, when she let go of Brandon and found someone standing behind him.

"I'm Steven, Brandon's.. friend?" Steven introduced himself, giving the older couple a winning smile. 

"Steven, this is Gianna, and this is Sunniva. They own the place and they're also Håkan's moms." Brandon turned to explain to Steven. He couldn't help but think of it as introducing his boyfriend to his parents, as these two women were the closest to parents he had there days.

Steven had no trouble to make a lasting impression on Gianna and Sunniva. What came to Håkan, he kept his guard up, stubbornly thinking that Brandon being on edge must be Steven's doing. Maybe Håkan still blamed himself for not being able to do anything for Brandon when things went down with flames, but Steven wasn't Trey for God's sake. He would never say things like..

"I saw how you looked at him, I'm not blind. You like him, don't you?"

When a customer entered the bakery, Brandon used the opportunity to slip away with Steven. When Steven lit up a cigarette and guided them to a parking space, Brandon pondered whether he should tell Steven about the nightmares and what was causing Håkan's protective streak.

"You two are fucking, is that it? Don't you dare to lie to me, slut."

"You have a car?" Brandon asked, pushing the memory back right where it had come from. He had never seen Steven driving, and he had assumed that was because Steven didn't have a car, but there Steven was leaning against the hood of a sleek, black car.

"Yeah." Steven shrugged, like owning a car like that was no big deal at all. He took a drag from his cigarette, then flicked off some of the ash. "I don't care much about driving, so mostly it just gathers dust in the parking space."

"Don't ever say anything like that to Ash, or he's going to kick you out of our group." Brandon warned Steven, making him choke on his cigarette smoke when he bursted into laughter. The laughter was so contagious that Brandon couldn't help but join in. 

"How about we get to my place and order in?" Steven suggested. Brandon hadn't remembered how happy and carefree Steven could make him feel, but already he could breathe easier, like every inhale wasn't an effort.

"Yes, please." Brandon agreed, as nothing could have sounded better for him at that moment. Eating out required too much socializing, and he wasn't ready to go back home yet.

Lately it had felt altered, like it wasn't his home but a mirror image of it. Like the foggy dimension in Silent Hill, where everything is gray and the monsters come out at night. Brandon couldn't pinpoint why he felt that way, because it couldn't just be about the picture of his dad or some missing drawing. Each passing day made him more convinced that it was all just a figment of his imagination. 

Brandon was just seeing threats where there weren't any. It was hypervigilance, an alertness created by his traumatized mess of a brain, nothing more, nothing less. Besides, he had been forgetful of late, so he had probably taken the drawing himself and put it in somewhere safe. He needed to hold on to that thought. No one, not even Steven, would want to be with him, if he started acting like a scared little mouse again.