After the dream reality hits (Brody)

I'm so incredibly lost in thoughts and consumed by my own problems and trying to deal with thme by sanding wood that I only hear the sound when it's right behind me. A hard nock, that damn near makes me fall flat on my ass.
Instantly my heart leaps into my throat and I drop my tools.
"What the...?"
Then I recognise Brody, who stands there and smiles at me.
"You might want to consider installing a doorbell, if you're gonna get this sucked into your work." The guy says and he has a good point.
"Yeah." I growl. "Or you could not sneak around like that." Of course I know that he might not have snuck at all. I wouldn't have heard an elephant.
"I think I said your name about seventeen times."

I pick up my sander and shut it off soI can hear him better. The loud sound dies making me realize how annyoing it really was. Saw dust still fills the air though and makes me cough once or twice even though I'm wearing a mask, which I now push up on top of my head where it holds back my dirty hair.

That's when I realize that he scanning my naked torso that still holds the evidence of my defeat.
"Why do you look like hell warmed over?"

I just frown at him. He's cought me on a bad day and somehow his words don't make it better.
"It's good to see you, too, Brody."
It's nice of him not to go digging right into my problems.
"Did your dad send you?" His father is a real gem. "I really appreciate him being there for me at the hospital, haven't talked to my own father since then. I think he's ashamed of my weakness." The disgust for my old man drips of my tongue.
Oh my, am I ever sour today. It spills right out.

I place the tools on the ground wondering whether he wants to stay and help or just interrupt.
So I give him a quizzical look. "You look all rosy and cheerful. What's gotten into you? Or should I ask who?" My tone is still pissy even though it's supposed to be a joke.

It's true. I don't hang out with him because he's a ball of sunshine. Actually far from it. But why do I call him my friend? I think it's because he's been there for me, kicked my ass and supported me when I needed him. He became more than a mentor, he became a friend, even showing me his home and introducing me to his family. In some ways we are very different, in others not so much: Our inability to cope with rough stuff is similar.
We're both a bit rough around the edges, too.

When I start rambling about his dad at the hospital it soon becomes apparent that he has no idea what I'm talking about because he holds up his hand like a football coach and wants me to walk him through what happened, which is the last thing I want to do.

"Okay, time out. First off, why were you in the hospital? What happened?"

So I huff and raise my brows.
"Nolan didn't tell you?" I use both hands to smooth back the way too long hair that keeps falling in my eyes. Maybe it's time for a cut.
I contemplate how much I should tell him but since he knows Vy I might as well give him a bit.

"Vy was mouthing off at a bar and some guys decided that she was an easy target. they waited for me to go to the bathroom and then split up. 4 cornered me, the rest finished her."
My voice becomes bitter and strained because I still don't know exactly what they did to the poor girl. Plus I'm usure whether I should be proud that I fought them as long as I did or whether I should be ashamed that I didn't see it through but passed out?
"Four on one wasn't exactly fair. I didn't win." I press my lips together with a shrug because I know that doesn't explain what I did in the hospital and I don't want him to know about my lung. That would only provoke a lecture about ...
"Yeah I know I should have stayed with the corps, then CAP med would have taken care of my lung a long time ago, yada yada, save it, Brody."
Oh damn, I'm a fucking bliss to be around today. Poor guy. Now he gets the lash out that should be directed at the guys, who beat me up.

When asked about his own, rather cheerful mood he tells me about his tailor which shuts me right up.
"You have a tailor?" For his pk uniform maybe?
My imagination runs wild on the spot. Despite my rage I suddenly have pictures of a half naked Brody getting measured by a handsome, dark haired, toned, tailor in my head...which makes me realize that I'm only wearing my pants. Fuck.

"I was gonna see if you needed some help, but if your panties are in a wad I can come back later."

Suddenly totally insecure (instead of angry) but covering it up with more anger I nod.
"My 'panties' are exactly where they are supposed to be!"

Of course I could use a hand...or ten...and he'd be the guy of my choice if only my mind was in a better place.

I motion for the tools. "Not exactly what your tailor would use. You really want to get your hands dirty?"
I'm almost ashamed for the attitude I'm giving him but way too frustrated and insecure to do it any other way. What can I say. Sometimes I can be a real jackass.

Despite my insults and attitude I'm giving him Brody seems little irritated but reminds me thatI'm taking it out on the wrong guy.
"I didn't come here to watch. Provided you can refrain from taking your shit out on me while we work."
He baffles me. If I was him I would have bitten right back at me, maybe even yelled or simply walked out on him. He chooses to stay and help if I keep my shit to myself.
My face is still a frown but I'd rather have him help me and distract me a little than keep mulling my own problems over and over while toiling away by myself.

"Well, then grab the nails and hammer and start nailing down the thin, long boards where I drew the lines."
I indicate a few on the wall that I've put there as markers.

While he's grabbing the tool kit my eyes scan the room for my shirt which is now covered in dust. Damn. Usually I wouldn't have a problem working next to another guy without a shirt on. Brody however makes me nervous because he's 'sort of made a move' on me.
In my dream, which is suddenly very present in my mind when I watch him bend down and grab a box of nails and the hammer, I saw much more of him, too.
Did I say saw? That's an understatement. In my dream we had each others tongue on our mouths and our hands in places I'd never imagine to touch another guy. The worst of it all was that I found it enticing and hot.

I find myself staring at Brody with my shirt still crumpled up in front of me. So I bend down with some discomfort and reach for it. my ribs still hurt like a bitch from where they kicked me so I straighten up with a hiss to shake the dirt of my shirt.

Is he watching me? I look up at him with more embarassment than I can easily hide.

My friend is reaching for the nails while I'm desperately shaking the sawdust off my shirt to slip it on. Of course he has no idea why I would want my shirt on so fast. He can blame it on the bruises or my general homophobia, which usually doesn't stop me.
The crumpled up, dirty thing slips over my equally dirty hair before I struggle my arms inside. My body is still so sore that these fast, jerky movements aggrovate the bruises.
"Shit." I curse while he's asking whether I'm alright. Of course he has caught on to my awkward behavior.
"Fine, just sore." I nod in embarassment, which is complete bullshit.

Every bit of that dream I had about him vividly replays in my mind, from the innuendo to the touching and kissing but most of all I remember what it felt like- what he felt like.
It's incredibly embarassing and I would not tell him in a million years because he'd laugh and enjoy the fact that I dream about him. He'd take it as a sign that I want more, just like he signalled but I blame it on the day when he made a move on me. It put my imagination into a crazy spin.

"Everything's sweet, stop looking at me that way!" I snap. "No need for you to see my back, right?"
I'm not exactly sure how bad my back looks because I don't have eyes in the back of my head but it's a great excuse.
I bite my lip and turn away from his gaze to grab the sander again.

"So if your dad didn't tell you...why did you come here?" I try to change the subject and instantly hope he won't say. 'Because I wanted to make you sweat...' or something along those lines.

Brody gets increasingly annoyed with me and who can blame him. He's got a sensitive radar for others being a trained interrogator plus he doesn't take shit from anyone. Not even me. On the contrary. Usually he comes to me when he wants to get away from shit- not that I'm the ideal listener, very understanding or empathetic but we share some common experiences.

"Whatever, man." He replied, "Excuse the fuck outta me for being concerned."
He was concerned..for me? It makes me pause for a second wondering how much he actually knew. "Why are you concerned? I'm fine now." The question is for how long and whether the next time I will even survive or not. Put me in a remote setting or the games and I'm done.

He actually opens up and shares why he's here making me forget for a moment how awkward my dream made me feel.
"Needed to get away." His tone is really unpleasant "Had another episode. Bad one."

I bite my lip and drop the sander again. Obviously he came to turn to me and all I do is bitch at him. I just don't want to get too friendly so he doens't get the wrong idea. I still can feel his hands on me when I think about that dream. How they slipped all over my chest and...

"An episode...anxiety? Nerves? What triggered it?" I swallow and try to remain 'neutral'.

"If it helps you...I kinda had an episode, too. It wasn't fun. Kyanite is all freaked out. truth be told. It ....scared me, too. Nothing I can do about it now....sorta low on cash." Is my muttered explanantion. It's hard to admit that I have no cash and no job. I feel useless in one way or the other. But maybe he'd be willing to help, if I let some information seep through. After all his pockets are always full, curtesy of the Capitol.

Maybe if he sees that he's not the only one he'll feel better. For some reason I need him to turn towards me again, so I can see his face.

I listen to his story about the patrol car and what happened afterwards with growing concern. It seems a lot like the black out that Vy had and that got her boyfriend in a very uncomfortable almost dangerous position. I’m not about to tell Brody that because I don’t want to freak him out if he turns to me to open up.
His tone is so dark, sinister that I can only imagine how heavy this weighs on his mind, so all I can do is shut up, bite my lip and keep listening even though I got enough on my own plate.
“That can happen. You hear something that triggers a memory.” I know very well what that feels like. Most times I like to avoid talking about what happened at the poolo but Brody was there- at the receiving end. No need to hide anything.
“Remember the pool. I can’t tell you how it all happened. Just that I thought I’m under attack again. Must have been the same for you.”
What can I say to make him feel better though?
“It hasn’t happened since then. You’ll get less skiddish with time. I understand it’s hard in your line of work.”
There’s always guns being fired at the shooting range or training. Maybe he needs a sole desk job.
“Have you thought about changing positions?”

Brody seems to have much less understanding when it comes to me though. He’s pretty snappy when I ‘ask for help’
"First off, I don't actually make that much; it only seems that way because the Peacekeepers provide me with medical care and a place to live. And secondly, you quit the Peacekeepers to have a family; why not suck it up with your old man until you find something else? At least you'd be earning something to take care of Kyanite in the kid."
I’m taken aback by his tone and posture- real asshole behavior- not that I don’t deserve that but I still don’t have to like it right?
“Well thanks a lot for that piece of genius advice. Sucking up to my father- who didn’t even show up at the hospital or offer to help in any way- financially or with Kyanite. He hates me for being weak and vulnerable. He wants a winner, a strong guy like him…and he hates the fact that I have a girl friend when he was so damn unsuccessful with women and his kids. “
My words come out like verbal diarrhea. But I hate to think of my father at the moment. He’s all I got but not really MUCH:
“He’s the last person I’d ask for help!”