Hello! I present to you the second chapter. Thank you for reading; I really appreciate you.

It's the first of a double update!

***

Well, I'm not rich, and I'm not free, but I've got my girl, and she got me.

I wake up from the shriek of my alarm; I get up on my elbow and reach for my phone. I look through blurry eyes and fall back onto the bed. It's 4 am, that's fucking great.

I sigh loudly and turn, pushing my face into the pillow. I fall asleep within seconds, but my second alarm goes off next to my head, and I jolt awake. "Fine, fuck. Jesus Christ, I'm up." I grumble into the darkness.

I stumble out of bed, hoping with everything in me that a shower will wake me up. It doesn't help one bit. I'm exhausted before I finish getting dressed. I grab my keys and my wallet and head out, grumbling as I almost slam my fingers in the door. It's going to be a very long fucking day.

I arrive at work with five minutes to spare, Great now I have to rush. I half run to the back of the building and push open the heavy steel doors. I take a deep breath, the smell comforts me, and I calm down a bit. I fucking hate waking up early, but the moment I set foot in the bakery, It's all worth it.

I greet everyone quietly and grab my apron. Amy comes around the corner, and she giggles when she sees me. I raise my eyebrow at her, fumbling with the strings of my apron. Stupid, fucking big useless hands.

She comes over to me and points at my stomach in silence. I look down at where she's looking. Great, it's the wrong way around.

"Turn around." She says once I turned it inside out. She swiftly ties it in a knot. Show off. "Thanks." She nods in acknowledgment.

"Doughnuts mention it." I let out a sharp laugh. "God, Amy, they're getting worse." I tease her. She always had some kind of joke ready for any situation. "Go bake something." She shoves me away from her, and with a final laugh, I do exactly that.

It's always been a dream of mine to be able to have my own bakery. There's just something about mixing a load of shit together and crossing your fingers in hopes that it comes out perfect.

I hide this side about me, the baker with the long hair who's obsessed with flowers. Not many people know what I do for a living, not because I'm ashamed but because usually, they are.

I've heard every single joke there is about it. 'Someone like you want to be a baker?' 'Very funny, but seriously what do you want to do with your life?'

That's the thing that always gets me. People see the outside, and they decide what the inside should look like. When they're not right, it's you, the person who actually gets to decide, that's wrong.

They ask you how someone who looks like a rock star from the '80s wants to be a baker. It's never them who drew the wrong conclusions. There's instantly something wrong with you. Pisses me the fuck off.

The smell wavering from the oven brings me out of my musing; I know they're perfect before I open the door. I place the pastries on the cooling rack and put the next batch in. I've been working at Dough for the last three years, gaining experience and saving every penny to open my own business.

The owner is a woman in her sixties. I adore the hell out of her, and she reminds me of the perfect grandmother. It's a stupid thing to think because what the fuck do I know about grandmas, but I imagine it's how they are.

She takes a lot of time to teach me everything she knows from her almost forty years of experience. She always jokes that she's going to leave me the bakery when she dies, but I refuse to acknowledge it because I don't deal well with death.

She stopped making the joke when I collapsed behind the counter in the front of the shop, having a minor panic attack. I may have exaggerated a little, but she'll never know, and I scored free brownies for a long time. I don't usually joke about my mental issues. Still, sometimes even I have to take a break from being the broody misunderstood guy.

From years and years of therapy, I have come to the conclusion that it's something that's woven into you, like a crochet blanket. For the most part, my blanket is somewhat neutral, but you can't miss the black threat running next to the other colors.

If you try to pull the black thread out, the whole thing falls apart. I've tried it. It's always there, though, looming, and sometimes it's so harsh that it consumes all the other colors.

My mind will have a thousand words running through it, but my brain to mouth connection is rusted. You don't do it anymore. I can't remember when was the last time I did it. I've become too closed off.

"What's going on in that brain of yours today?" I jump from Augustine's sudden presence next to me. "Just tired, didn't get much sleep," I confirm my statement when a yawn escapes. "Go home, rest some before tonight." I raise my brows at her.

"It's almost closing time anyway, and you've been here way past your hours. Here take this, you're too skinny. Don't eat; need to take care of yourself." She rambles on as she shoves a container into my hands. I don't fight her.

She physically pushes me to the door. My slippery shoes slide across the floor, and it's a pretty laughable situation. "You talking to me?" I haven't even taken off my apron. She gives me a look I can only describe as a secondhand embarrassment. "Okay, okay, I'll go." I sigh but laugh when I see her victorious face.

I remove my apron and go put it in its place, grab my wallet and keys, and with a kiss on the cheek, I'm once again escorted outside. She slammed the heavy door in my face, and I'm left standing out like a homeless puppy.

I shake my head with a smile and start walking home. I pass the same shops I do every morning and evening. I stop by the flower shop and peek through the window like I do every day. It's been closed for about three months now.

I used to go inside every day after work to buy some flowers. The owner Fred is a kind man, and we always have fascinating conversations.

One day after work, when I wanted to make my way into the shop, it was boarded shut with a sign that said 'closed for renovation.' Since then, they've removed the boards, and I'm excited by the prospect of it opening soon.

It's another small thing I live for, fresh flowers. I close my eyes; a girl sits in front of me. 'Little to the left.' She wiggles in her spot on the grass. 'Yea, that's perfect.' Sunshine is beaming. The boy in front of her sits in amazement, just mesmerized. He has a bunch of flowers in his hair. The camera goes off, and the moment is burned into paper forever.

What I wouldn't give to have that again. My mind is flooded with memories of her all the way home.

PAST

"Are you excited, Sunshine?" Harry asks next to me on the bus. "It's too cold today," I grumble while I rub my hands together for warmth. He laughs at me, his nose is red, and his breath comes out in small vapors. "Take this." He hands me the black beanie that was on his head.

"Harry, now you're going to be cold." I scold him. "I got this." He answers, pushing his hood over his head. I relax a little, knowing he won't be cold. My book bag is resting between us, and I reach in to get the pamphlet that I threw inside yesterday.

We're going to an art gallery today. I think the only kids that are excited about it are Harry and me. "So are you? Excited?" He asks again. "I am; I always wanted to go to a gallery," I tell him.

"Me too!" He almost shouts, right in my ear. I flinch from the harshness. It's a rare occasion for us to be able to go on a field trip. Some rich guy who felt sorry for a second sponsored the whole class to go to the art gallery this year.

"Look, the misfits are here too." I roll my eyes at the boy standing in front of us. He's closest to Harry, who's sitting in the aisle to shield me. We both ignore him, but it doesn't help much. "You wanna go look at the pretty pictures? See everything you'll never get to have?" He taunts us.

Harry is almost halfway out of his seat. "Harry, please," I beg him, if he gets in trouble now, he'll get kicked off the bus. We never get to do these things together. I'm going to be upset about it.

He sits back down with a sigh. "I'm sorry, Patrick," I say, a little louder, making sure the boy can hear me. He lifts his eyebrow at me, confused. "For what?" He asks. "The pain you're in must be horrible." He blinks a couple of times and darts to the back of the bus without another word.

Harry slowly turns his head to me. "How do you do that?" He utters. "He's hurting. It's not his fault." I comb my hand through my hair. It gets stuck halfway. I look at the ends that are still tangled in my fingers.

I get a pang of sadness. It's split and dry; I want to have beautiful hair like the other kids. "I'm sorry, I almost ruined it for us." Harry is my protector, always have been. He'd do anything for me. I'm eternally grateful for him.

"I appreciate what you wanted to do, Harry," I assure him with a smile, a dimple appears on his red cheeks, and he nods at himself proudly.

**

The rest of the bus ride is uneventful. We arrive at the gallery, and I'm literately buzzing with excitement. The bus door opens with a groan, but Harry waits for everyone to leave before he stands up. He always knows what to do

Harry and I walk behind the rest of the class. My bag is on my shoulders. I walk as close to Harry as possible. The group rushes off, but in an unspoken mutual decision, we stroll through the gallery.

"We should buy this one dear, what do you think?" Harry turns his accent posh. I stop to look at the painting. The beautiful colors almost leap out of the frame. It's a red house in the distance. There's a dirt road coming from the one corner and sunflowers growing at the house's side.

The grass is green all around, the picture itself is simple, but it speaks volumes. "I don't know, honey, it's going to clash with all the gold." I play along, putting my hand on my hip.

He slaps his hand over his forehead. "The gold!" He exclaims. "How can I forget about all the gold." I'm all giggles over his acting. Harry doesn't act like this a lot. It's a rare occurrence.

He feels like he needs to be an adult like he needs to protect me all the time. He forgets he's just a kid because he had to grow up pretty fast.

"Sunshine, one day we'll walk around my parents' gallery. I'll buy you all the things you want." He promises, and my heart skips. "Why not your own gallery?" I wonder out loud. "I don't want to bother with rich old people who want to buy over expensive art." He explains.

"I don't want all of those things. I just want to be happy." He looks at me, folding his arms over his chest. "Then, my dear, I can give you the world. "My insides are warm because he will... one day.

The day goes much the same, Harry finds a story in every piece of art, and he has my sides hurting by the end of the day.

He dances around me, and he makes fun of the people with the deep pockets who stare for hours at the same painting.

"Harry, watch out," I yell in shock, but I'm too late; he trips over his untied shoelace. He tries to stop the fall, but it makes it worse, and he falls in segments. I'm hysterical by the time his ass lands on the floor.

He sits on the floor, his head bowed down and his legs spread in front of him. I rush over, still laughing. "I'm sorry, I'm terrible. It was just so... It took so long for you to fall, Harry." I set off another round of laughter, and his shoulders start to shake from his own.

He flips his head up to me with tears in his eyes from laughing too hard. "It did, didn't it?" He asks, and I nod, biting my lower lip. "Not all of us can be as graceful as you, Tiny dancer." He scolds, standing up slowly.

"You just have to grow into your legs." I tease him, and he scoffs at me. "My ego is bruised now and my left ass cheek." He grumbles.

"You can have my pudding cup." I bargain with him, and he gives me a toothy smile. "That will definitely make it better."

"Your ego or your butt?" His jaw falls open. "You'll never know." He struts away, with what I assume the last bit of dignity he possesses.

***

The ride home is silent. There's a small amount of dread that always comes after the perfect day. There's no specific reason to feel this way. It's just the fact that I don't know when I'll be able to experience something like this again.

"I have a list," Harry says next to me; we're walking home after school. "What list," I ask warily. "A list for when we get out of here."He states. "What's on the list?"

"Written things." He smiles like the Cheshire cat he is. I roll my eyes but don't push him for information. He has a secret smile and a glint in his eyes. I hate when he only gives me hints.

I'm pulled back suddenly. I fall with force, my bag digging into my back. I look around to see what happened, and Patrick is standing over me with a smirk. I shuffle back, away from him. "You think you know me, freak?" He spits at me. Harry is crouching down beside me, his hands hovering above my arm.

"Are you okay?" He whispers worry edged on his face. I nod my head, swallowing hard. I look at Patrick again, still afraid. "I'm okay," I say and get up slowly. My palm is bleeding a little, but I'm okay for the most part.

Harry stands up slowly. The look in his eyes scares me. He's too far gone for me to calm him down. He stalks over to Patrick, a smirk making it's way up to his face. He looks feral, like a caged animal.

"Tell her you're sorry." He says calmly, standing to his full height, towering over Patrick. I move forward a little but halt when Harry yells at Patrick. "I said, say fucking sorry." He shouts in Patrick's face.

Harry's fists are clenched against his side. Patrick cowers away from him. Harry looks back at me, and his face softens for a split second. He takes a deep breath, and Patrick lifts his hand. "Harry!" I yell out. He turns around, already swinging his fist into Patrick's nose.

"Let's go." He tells me, and I hurry to him. "Gonna get shit for this." He grumbles while we almost run home. "Also very worth it." He continues. I'm still trying to wrap my head around what happened. "You okay?" I look up at him. My palm automatically comes up to my eyes.

There are only a few dense lines, scratch marks. "I'm okay." I gulp. "Your hand is okay, are you okay?" I smile because he's my hero. He can't see it yet, how he always takes the role of protector.

"I'm okay, you made it okay. Can always count on you." He smiles at me. "It's what friends are for." He looks at me expectantly. "Edelweiss," I whisper, and he smiles brightly.

He doesn't notice that he always walks a half step behind me. Ever so content to let me stand out to the world. He'll know one day, he'll know that his magic is making others feel safe.

"Bond. James Bond." He suddenly utters, pulling the lapel of his jacket. I roll my eyes because God knows this boy can only function on movie quotes and song lyrics.

Quote: "You talking to me?" Taxi Driver (1976) | "Bond. James Bond." Dr. No (1963)

Thank you so much for supporting me. I hope you have a wonderful day.

Mkay bye!