Brodie Jay Bradford (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lostinthefairytale) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
noirenewyork2014-01-24 12:52 am
lostinthefairytale) wrote in noirenewyork2014-01-24 12:52 am
@ muserevival // Quote of the Day 035.
HERE @ muserevival
“Flowers are happy things.”
- P. G. Wodehouse
Brodie was bored. Bored and frustrated about still being in the hospital when he felt fine. Well, maybe not entirely fine, but he was pretty sure there were other much less fine people whose butts could be in that hospital bed instead of his. He was picking moodily at a loose end of the micro-pore tape holding the IV line in his hand in place. He wanted to go home. Not that there was a whole lot at home for him to go to. It had sort of become a burrow for him, somewhere he hid away and hibernated in the dark when everything got too overwhelming for him to handle. Most days, Caleb would leave him to it. But there were still always days his best friend would fight for him and try to get him up, moving around, even just for a round of Guitar Hero to try to cheer him up.
But then, Caleb didn't know Brodie's secret yet. Brodie was still working on how to tell him. It was easier to just tell people you didn't know and had little care in the world about because he would probably never speak to them again. They didn't care about him. Caleb did, though. That was Brodie's stumbling block. How were you supposed to tell the closest person to you in your life, the guy who was every bit a brother to you in all ways but blood, that you were dying? He had just kept trying to push it aside to deal with it another time, but no good time ever came for him. In fact, he seemed to be on a collision course of shit lately that he didn't know how to get off.
Now they were keeping him in hospital when all he wanted to do was go home, curl up in bed, and seriously consider never coming out again. They were keeping him in to speak to an 'oncology counsellor' to 'discuss his treatment options' and 'plan the best regime' for him. He hadn't wanted to be rude or ungrateful of their care, but in his mind, he was blatantly telling them to go fuck themselves with a spiky and fiery cactus. Instead, he just sat there giving them a blank stare. He hadn't even nodded. They had just accepted his silence as agreement. It was interesting what gaps people could fill in for themselves when they didn't get direct answers. He didn't want treatment. He didn't see the point of shitting all over the last months of his life by making him more sick than the cancer did. He didn't know exactly what should be on his Bucket List, but he wanted to be well enough to do them if he ever figured it out.
The last attempt he had tried at penning a Bucket List, he had been so tired that he fell asleep, waking up to discover he had just written ASHER, ASHER, ASHER, ASHER... over and over again on every line. It was like he was doing things without knowing again. Was he losing his mind? Had the cancer spread to his brain? It was impossible to know if he wouldn't agree to brain scans. He wasn't agreeing to very much at all right now.
He had been sitting up in the hospital bed, aimlessly flicking through the TV channels, but was now slumped down so much he was almost lying again. The TV sucked when he didn't have DVDs at his disposal. He just kept coming across TV shows he used to watch with Asher, and that just hurt even more. He couldn't get Asher off his mind. He used to be able to divert that heartache, push it back into a little compartment of his heart that was locked away safely from everything else but would never cease to exist. But in the last few weeks, it was like everything he did led him to think about Asher for some reason. He couldn't shake it. It was driving him crazy.
Puffing his cheeks out with a huff of annoyance, he chucked the TV remote onto the table with disinterest right when there was a knock at the door of his room. He looked up to find a large arrangement of red roses coming towards with him a cheery greeting of, "Floral delivery for Mr Brodie Bradford!"
Brodie just blinked and looked at the roses as the young delivery girl set them down on the stand by his bed for him. If she hadn't actually said his name, he would be assuming they were a mistaken delivery. "Wait, who are they from?" he asked suspiciously. If the abusive fuck who had tried to force him into sex in the name of 'loving him' had sent them, Brodie was going to pitch a fit and send Caleb after him once and for all. Caleb was built like a brick shithouse and right now, Brodie had nothing to lose if he went to fuck the fucker up. It might actually be somewhat satisfying.
"It's an anonymous delivery, sir," the girl explained and then checked her delivery instructions. "It was paid by a credit card over the phone, in the name of a company. But unfortunately, I can't give you their name. They did very specifically ask to remain anonymous."
Brodie just stared at the roses that came without a card and no indication whatsoever who sent them. Why did they have to be roses? Red roses. The first flowers Asher had ever given Brodie on their first date, and Rose just happened to be Asher's surname. Why did the world have to keep fucking him like this? He sighed and just nodded. "Okay, thank you." He didn't have the energy to fight. But still, even when she left, he poked around at the bouquet a little to make sure there really wasn't a card there to tell him who had sent them to him.
Nothing. They were beautiful, though, and smelled gorgeous. Brodie had always joked to Asher that he was named a rose and just like a rose. Gorgeous, smelled fantastic, and always made a room feel happy. His head sunk back against the pillow as he analysed the roses quietly. Red roses more said love, romance, attraction and not 'Sorry you showed up unconscious at a hospital, get well soon!' Part of him was almost tempted to call for a nurse and have them taken away to the cancer ward so the patients there could enjoy them. But he was drawn to the flowers and couldn't stop looking at them.
Who the hell were they from, and what the hell were they supposed to mean?
“Flowers are happy things.”
- P. G. Wodehouse
Brodie was bored. Bored and frustrated about still being in the hospital when he felt fine. Well, maybe not entirely fine, but he was pretty sure there were other much less fine people whose butts could be in that hospital bed instead of his. He was picking moodily at a loose end of the micro-pore tape holding the IV line in his hand in place. He wanted to go home. Not that there was a whole lot at home for him to go to. It had sort of become a burrow for him, somewhere he hid away and hibernated in the dark when everything got too overwhelming for him to handle. Most days, Caleb would leave him to it. But there were still always days his best friend would fight for him and try to get him up, moving around, even just for a round of Guitar Hero to try to cheer him up.
But then, Caleb didn't know Brodie's secret yet. Brodie was still working on how to tell him. It was easier to just tell people you didn't know and had little care in the world about because he would probably never speak to them again. They didn't care about him. Caleb did, though. That was Brodie's stumbling block. How were you supposed to tell the closest person to you in your life, the guy who was every bit a brother to you in all ways but blood, that you were dying? He had just kept trying to push it aside to deal with it another time, but no good time ever came for him. In fact, he seemed to be on a collision course of shit lately that he didn't know how to get off.
Now they were keeping him in hospital when all he wanted to do was go home, curl up in bed, and seriously consider never coming out again. They were keeping him in to speak to an 'oncology counsellor' to 'discuss his treatment options' and 'plan the best regime' for him. He hadn't wanted to be rude or ungrateful of their care, but in his mind, he was blatantly telling them to go fuck themselves with a spiky and fiery cactus. Instead, he just sat there giving them a blank stare. He hadn't even nodded. They had just accepted his silence as agreement. It was interesting what gaps people could fill in for themselves when they didn't get direct answers. He didn't want treatment. He didn't see the point of shitting all over the last months of his life by making him more sick than the cancer did. He didn't know exactly what should be on his Bucket List, but he wanted to be well enough to do them if he ever figured it out.
The last attempt he had tried at penning a Bucket List, he had been so tired that he fell asleep, waking up to discover he had just written ASHER, ASHER, ASHER, ASHER... over and over again on every line. It was like he was doing things without knowing again. Was he losing his mind? Had the cancer spread to his brain? It was impossible to know if he wouldn't agree to brain scans. He wasn't agreeing to very much at all right now.
He had been sitting up in the hospital bed, aimlessly flicking through the TV channels, but was now slumped down so much he was almost lying again. The TV sucked when he didn't have DVDs at his disposal. He just kept coming across TV shows he used to watch with Asher, and that just hurt even more. He couldn't get Asher off his mind. He used to be able to divert that heartache, push it back into a little compartment of his heart that was locked away safely from everything else but would never cease to exist. But in the last few weeks, it was like everything he did led him to think about Asher for some reason. He couldn't shake it. It was driving him crazy.
Puffing his cheeks out with a huff of annoyance, he chucked the TV remote onto the table with disinterest right when there was a knock at the door of his room. He looked up to find a large arrangement of red roses coming towards with him a cheery greeting of, "Floral delivery for Mr Brodie Bradford!"
Brodie just blinked and looked at the roses as the young delivery girl set them down on the stand by his bed for him. If she hadn't actually said his name, he would be assuming they were a mistaken delivery. "Wait, who are they from?" he asked suspiciously. If the abusive fuck who had tried to force him into sex in the name of 'loving him' had sent them, Brodie was going to pitch a fit and send Caleb after him once and for all. Caleb was built like a brick shithouse and right now, Brodie had nothing to lose if he went to fuck the fucker up. It might actually be somewhat satisfying.
"It's an anonymous delivery, sir," the girl explained and then checked her delivery instructions. "It was paid by a credit card over the phone, in the name of a company. But unfortunately, I can't give you their name. They did very specifically ask to remain anonymous."
Brodie just stared at the roses that came without a card and no indication whatsoever who sent them. Why did they have to be roses? Red roses. The first flowers Asher had ever given Brodie on their first date, and Rose just happened to be Asher's surname. Why did the world have to keep fucking him like this? He sighed and just nodded. "Okay, thank you." He didn't have the energy to fight. But still, even when she left, he poked around at the bouquet a little to make sure there really wasn't a card there to tell him who had sent them to him.
Nothing. They were beautiful, though, and smelled gorgeous. Brodie had always joked to Asher that he was named a rose and just like a rose. Gorgeous, smelled fantastic, and always made a room feel happy. His head sunk back against the pillow as he analysed the roses quietly. Red roses more said love, romance, attraction and not 'Sorry you showed up unconscious at a hospital, get well soon!' Part of him was almost tempted to call for a nurse and have them taken away to the cancer ward so the patients there could enjoy them. But he was drawn to the flowers and couldn't stop looking at them.
Who the hell were they from, and what the hell were they supposed to mean?