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Brian glared at his brother and signed angrily. “You act like an ass to him and it’ll be me and you.”
Ford tilted one side of his mouth, his salt and pepper beard so overgrown it was hanging past his jawline. “Been a while since we did that too. Think you can take me? Never could before.”
Brian couldn’t hold his intimidating glower anymore and grinned at the thought of him and Ford, going pound for pound like they’d used to. “I’ll bring him. But no grand inquisition. Don’t ask stupid shit, like, if he’s ready to settle down.”
“I wouldn’t ask that. Do I look like your goddamn father—?”
Brian scoffed, “Yeah, you do actually with that big ass beard. Just like him.”
“Fuck off.”
“Are you gonna help cook? Did you ask Dana about a group dinner before committing him to cooking for it?” Brian stared at Ford then looked over at Dana. He was watching him intently, trying to catch any sign he knew.
“What was that sign after cook, B. I didn’t catch that?” Dana moved his hands awkwardly, then made some sign that Brian had never seen before.
“Babe, stop.” Ford chuckled deeply, then turned back to Brian. “Dana was the one that suggested the dinner.”
“Oh. Okay then.”
“What’s okay?” Dana said. It was clear he hated it when they left him out.
Ford ignored his boyfriend and started signing. “You’re always sticking up for him.”
“Because that’s my dog,” Brian said.
“You my dog too, B!” Dana blurted loud as hell, mouth stretched wide, seeming happy he’d caught that one bit. “And why are you both signing? Knock it off. It’s hard enough following you, Brian.”
Ford put his hands up defensively still disregarding Dana. “I don’t only make him cook, I treat him too. He just likes cooking so I let him. It’s a hobby since he’s gotten so good at it recently.”
“Has he?” Brian inquired, staring at Ford, hoping his brother wasn’t slipping in his skills now that he was in love. No one turned into Bobby Flay overnight. “I hope he keeps it up.”
Ford turned towards his computer, blocking Dana. Signing for only Brian to see. “Yeah. And I hope Trader Joe’s doesn’t discontinue those pre-pack meals he’s using.”
Brian reared back in his chair and exploded with laughter. I knew it! His brother had to know. When he sat up, Ford and Dana were both staring at him—at his mouth—with shocked expressions. Brian shrugged, then signed, “What?”
Ford watched him then slowly raised his hands to speak but chose to voice his words instead. They were rough and throaty. “I haven’t heard you laugh that loud in almost six years, Brian.”
Brian turned his head, not able to look at the optimism he saw in his big brother’s eyes. “It was a just a laugh.”
Dana was standing now. “No. That was loud as hell, B.”
“Could you hear it?” Ford frowned.
“And what was so freakin’ funny, anyway?” Dana glared.
Brian waved him off. Of course, he heard it, but it was nothing. His more concentrated breathing over time was helping him pull from his diaphragm more… that’s all. Dammit. He knew they’d make a big deal out of nothing. A laugh wasn’t anything to write home about. He wondered briefly if he should tell Ford about Sway’s confession but quickly decided against it. He didn’t need any extra pressure. His brother would push him if he knew he was having even the smallest breakthrough. He couldn’t risk adding stress to his life. Last thing he needed was more panic attacks or debilitating flashbacks. He hadn’t had a bad one since the garage, and he was fighting daily not to have another.
Not wanting to delve deeper into that topic, he ended the conversation. He was done. Fun time was over. Brian got up and threw on his jacket… he needed a walk.
They knew not to follow.
Sway
“Hey, Squirt. You’re home early. How was work?” Tweetie asked, the same as she did every day when he came home.
“Horrible. I think I may be coming down with something,” Sway mumbled, rubbing the center of his forehead on his way to his bedroom.
“Oh no. You didn’t catch that virus, did you?” His mom, rolled after him.
“God, I hope not. But, Dr. Chauncey told me not to come back tomorrow, regardless.”
“What?” Tweetie yelled from the kitchen. “He let you go?!”
Sway flopped onto his bed and dropped his head in his hands. “No, Tweets. He can’t have me on the floor and tending to patients if I’m sick.”
“You just get changed and comfortable, honey. I’ll bring you a plate.”
“No, Mom. I just want to rest a while. I don’t have an appetite anyway.” Sway pulled off his scrub top, his whole body aching as he did. He was definitely sick. God, he was bummed. On top of that, Tweetie was making one of his favorite dinners—fried pork chops and mashed potatoes with sour cream—and the thought of eating it made him cringe. His stomach rolled the more the smell of frying meat hit his nose.
