Now, twelve years later, the city was exhausting. The past year had been a lot, and he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something else waiting for him. A new relationship, a chance to move abroad and live somewhere exciting, maybe. Just… something.
He got out of bed around three in the morning when he really couldn’t pretend to sleep any more. Everything about being in this house was so familiar, and so strange at the same time. This bed—the one he’d slept in for the last few years before he left for uni—was nowhere near as comfortable as his one back at his flat. Things were quieter here than the constant hum of traffic he was used to; any noise muffled more by the falling snow.
Very quietly, Brandon got up and got dressed in jeans and a hoodie, thick socks, and a knitted beanie hat that covered his ears. He knew how to sneak downstairs and avoid the stair that always creaked, and, leaving everything else behind, he snuck down the alleyway to the bakery.
He didn’t have a key, but there was one behind the loose brick next to the door, and the new owner either didn’t know about it or had kept the hiding place because the old key was still there.
Brandon let himself in and carefully shut the door.
And found himself standing in his dad’s kitchen.
Nothing much had changed, and that was confusing to a part of his brain that knew this place belonged to someone else now. Technically he was trespassing. Brandon wasn’t sure what he was expecting… just… not this. Maybe a new lick of paint, or the old cookbooks on the shelf to have been taken down, or even for the aprons hung on the flour-dusty hooks to be different.
But it was the same as he remembered, right down to the little details, and his heart suddenly ached for all the things that he’d never be able to do again.
His dad had died eighteen months ago, just weeks after his diagnosis with prostate cancer. Brandon sometimes thought it was a good thing that his dad had never really suffered or been in any pain, but losing his dad was one of the hardest things he’d ever experienced. Their family had owned the bakery—this bakery—going back generations.
Brandon had worked here ever since he was tall enough to reach the counters. After school he’d come back and help his mum clean down the shop area and then help his dad set up for the next day, earning his pocket money. His early life had been lived in these rooms, and the relief that someone hadn’t decided to rip it all out and start over sank deep into his bones.
He didn’t bother turning a light on; the moon was bright outside and he could move around in here with his eyes closed. There was a big island in the middle of the bakery that had a marble top—for making dough and pastry and cake decorating. The ovens lined one side of the room, all off now, and the racks for cooling and preparing were filled with the stock for tomorrow.
Brandon moseyed over and had a look. A lot of it was familiar and predictable: gingerbread biscuits, gingerbread cake, stollen, mince pies… no, two different types of mince pies, already filled with glistening, jammy fruit.
He wasn’t entirely sure why he was breaking and entering into the bakery in the middle of the night. There was nothing stopping him coming by in the morning, and if the new owner was as nice as his mum seemed to think he was, Brandon might even get an actually legal tour back here.
But that wasn’t really what he wanted.
When he was really little, and “helping” his dad mostly meant just getting in the way, Brandon would sit where two counters met in the corner of the room, right next to the window. It meant a huge waste of counter space, but it kept him out of the way and meant he had a good view of the tree outside and the birds that lived in it.
For very childish, heartsore reasons, Brandon toed off his shoes and hoisted himself up onto the counter. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his knees, and tried very, very hard not to cry.
Alex often thought of this time of day as “ungodly o’clock” in the morning. And he was a morning person.
Sometimes, during the very peak of summer, he would walk to work when the sun was coming up, and that was a nice feeling. He liked the idea of starting his day when the world was stretching and yawning and coming to life with him. Those days were long gone though, and wouldn’t be back for a while yet.
There was something very satisfying about midwinter too. Just not when he started work at four in the morning and at this time of year, put in a solid twelve hour day.
He let himself into the bakery and stopped short.
Because there was a man sleeping on his counter.
There was a man, asleep, on his counter.
A few things flashed through Alex’s mind at the same time: stranger! Thief? Homeless person looking for shelter? Runaway? Stranger!
He froze, entirely unsure of what to do next. But he must have made some kind of noise, because the man looked up, and jumped out of his skin.
“Holy shit!”
“Woah.” Alex held his hands up and took a step back. “Are you okay? Do you need me to call anyone for you?”
“Shit,” the man said again, and pressed his hands to his face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Alex carefully took a step back, towards the door, just in case the guy turned violent and he had to run. “It’s okay.”
“I’m so embarrassed.” He slid off the counter and looked around for his shoes. “I really am sorry.”
Now Alex could see him better, the stranger didn’t seem so intimidating. He was tall, with thick dark hair, and very deliberate stubble on his jaw. He didn’t look like a homeless person. He was wearing nice clothes and a heavy hoodie.
“I should go,” he said.
“You want anything first?” Alex gestured to the stacks of food. “Help yourself.”
He ran his hand over his face. “Shit. I suppose I should explain.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Brandon. David’s son.”
Suddenly everything clicked into place. “You’re Brandon,” Alex echoed. “Oh.”
“Yeah. I won’t do this again, I promise. I suppose I just wanted to come in here one last time, before….”
“It’s fine.”
Alex really wasn’t awake enough to fully process everything that was trying to find space in his head. It was still so damn early.
“You want a coffee?” he said quickly.
Brandon froze. “Coffee?”
“Yeah. Hot bean juice. I need some.”
“Okay.”
Alex grinned, flicked the bakery lights on, and headed over to the back counter where he kept his stash. Brandon leaned back against his counter and folded his arms over his chest and frowned. Alex decided it wasn’t an angry frown. Brandon was probably still half asleep.
“How did you get in?” Alex asked as he started putting the French press together.
“The key behind the loose brick.”
Alex forced himself not to smile. Carol had warned him about that, but he’d assumed that since all three of her kids lived somewhere else, it wasn’t much of a security risk.
“Maybe I should change that hiding place.”
“Please don’t,” Brandon said quickly. “I won’t do it again.”
Alex huffed a laugh. “Okay.”