Its probably five of six in the morning when Adam’s phone sounds, blaring call me maybe.
“This fucking early?” one hand makes for the phone, the other supporting him as he sits upright. “Hello, Chris?”
“Adam! I got a call from some dudes last night and guess what? We get to start an a cappella band!” the baritone voice of his brother is warm but slurred.
“I know,” he smiles, hand dragging at his face. He can hear Chris' brow furrow.
“Oh right,” Chris says, “so? Are you in?”
“Always, Chris,” he says softly.
“Great! Uh, sorry for waking you,” Chris says, promptly ending the call.
“Gee, thanks,” Adam mutters, pushing off the bed covers and swinging his legs out of bed in quite possibly the most unenergetic fashion. He probably should have went to bed earlier, rather than internally screaming for about four hours about the pretty boy who wants to make music in a band with him. Adam rolls his eyes, and tries to start his day.
At seven, when he really isn’t too sure of how long he’s been awake he, he slips his shoes on (worn down converse that have lasted more years than actually possible.) He triple checks – phone, jacket, keys, brain cells – and he’s off and out the door.
He makes his way to the shop, in the early light, and opens the doors, wincing slightly at the bell. He grabs an apron and ties it neatly, shuffling to the backroom to begin organisation. He's met with a burst red that’s too easily identifiable, Adam already fed up with them
Adam hates red roses. The story? Aphrodite cutting herself whilst she attempts to save a mortal whom she loves dearly? Beautiful. Wonderful. That story is not Adam’s problem. It’s just – they’re so bland. They are used again and again by people who want to say sorry but don’t mean it, by people who just want something that looks pretty, and they’re everywhere for every little holiday. He wrinkles his nose in distaste as he eyes the roses.
Gingerly, he gathers two bunches of roses and moves them to the bucket of water in the front room, labelled with a bold black font reading roses. He hisses as the flesh between his thumb and forefinger is caught on an thorn. He sighs, before again moving to backroom again and gathering the more favourable flowers. His current favourite is the yellow chrysanthemums. They seem to glow. Glorious.
Its a relatively quick task, no more than half an hour passes before he’s completed filling empty baskets and buckets. Its five to eight when he looks at the clock, and startles into quickly gathering up the scissors for cutting at the thorns and cleaning up the copious amount of leaves.
Moments before the clock hand passes nine, the door opens, Adam greeted with the sight of Chance. He goes to smile but drags it into a frown when he notes dark under eye bags and messy unkempt clothing. His hair is still slicked to the side. Adam’s frown deepens.
“Chance?”
“Yeah?” Adam thinks about how to say this.
“You look... not so good? You okay?” Chance shifts, and it isn’t clear whether its an uncomfortable act or an act of necessity. Chance sighs.
“No,” he moves to the counter, leaning on his elbows. He exasperatedly drags calloused hands over his face. “Adam, I..” he groans, “I just don't know what to do. I feel like I have to do something that may ruin me. I don't want it to.”
“Chance, it won’t ruin you unless you let it. You can trust me,” Adam smiles, “I’m your family.”
“I trust you, its not you who will ruin me,” Chance speaks, “never you,” he says more softly. “It’s my family I’m worried about. Adam I’m bi.” His tone is frustrated, emphasised by the agonised furrow of his brow.
“Chance. They're your family, but that doesn’t mean they’re the only family you’ll ever get. That’s what communities are for, friends are for. Chance, your my brother from another mother,” the other man laughs tiredly at the statement, and Adam smiles softly. “You do it when your ready. It isn't worth losing sleep over.”
“Adam they could kill me, beat me, hate me disown me,” Chance rambles.
“That’s their choice. We have to fight for this y'know. It's unfair but still, reality beats equality. We can only be unapologetically ourselves.”
“I wish you'd take your own advice sometimes.” Adam rolls his eyes.
“C'mon, this is getting to deep for nine in the morning.”
“Way to ruin the moment blondie.”
“Chance, call me blondie again, I swear, you might be my boss but that won't stop me,” Adam threatens jokingly.
Chance moves through the backroom doorway. He leans back, hand gripping the frame. “Blondie!”
“Fuck off Chance,” Adam calls, grinning.
“You two have lovely conversations,” Jenika comments, strolling through the door, twisting the sign from close to open.
“Simply the most wonderful,” Adam says, tone almost mocking. Jenika's brow furrows.
“Looking good today I see,” she teases Chance, but the concern in her eyes is still there. Chance smiles.
“You know it, squirt.” Jenika scowls.
“it isn’t my fault that your a six foot goliath,” Jenika whines.
“Your not that much shorter than him,” Adam chimes in.
“Exactly!” she says, glaring at Chance, who smirks at her.
“Sorry, squirt,” he teases. Jenika looks at Adam.
“I know what you mean now,” Jenika says.
“C’mon, got work to do, so quit yapping,” Chance says, with sense of finality.
--
Ah, chapter 3! Please tell me what you think so far! I know it's probably been underwhelming.
Thanks for reading! Comment if you'd like to!
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Faith(less)
Fanfiction"Every story has a beginning, middle and end. Not necessarily in that order." - Jean-Luc Godard Sometimes you think your story has long since ended. Maybe its never even started. This is a story about a man who thinks his...
