Sweet Dreams are Made of This
That's what his 'husband' was.
Nothing could hurt him or them or their son or their Hanatamago.
They were all impervious to the horrors of the outside world- living in their protected bubble of naivety and convincing themselves that pain doesn't exist, that people don't abhor homosexuality and homosexual adoption.
No one could hurt them, especially not with his husband around.
The supposed wife lived a life of forced normalcy, he woke every morn early at five o'clock to a relatively warm bed and a dim room. He'd roll quietly out of bed so as to not wake his lover and then would slip his slippers on and shuffle downstairs, avoiding creaks in the steps and floorboards so he would not run the risk of waking up the other members of his household.
He'd open the door and stroll down the stone path to the mailbox, where he'd bend and pick up the newspaper for the morning. He goes back inside and puts the paper on the dining room table for his husband to read when he wakes up.
He dons an apron at around five thirty as the birds start to chirp and the sun begins to rise, and commences the arduous yet rewarding task of preparing breakfast for the two ravenous males he is expected to feed. He cooks a large, splendid breakfast before setting the table and smiling happily at the work he has completed. He puts a few bacon strips out for Hanatamago along with his usual heaping bowl of dog food, as well.
Hardly having time to grab a quick bite of his own marvelous cooking, he goes back upstairs and showers, gets dressed, brushes his teeth, and then goes out before telling his loves goodbye. There is much to do that day, for he has wasted a day's worth of groceries in preparing breakfast. He also has to get some more dog food for Hanatamago, go to the hardware store for white paint, and pick up some prescription medication.
He heads off to the town with wallet in hand and immediately heads for the grocery store, basking in the sunlight of the warm summer's day. He enters the store to the tinkling of a bell, greets the cashier merrily, and then picks up a basket that sit to the right of the doorway. He happily meanders through the aisles, picking out various food necessities for his beloved family along the way, though becoming conflicted over which brand of dog food to pick for Hanatamago.
Eventually he chooses between the two (but not without great difficulty) and goes to the counter where the smiling clerk awaits him. They banter pleasantly about the weather as the clerk rings up the price of his purchased items. He pays the estimated sum after handing over a few coupons and bids farewell to the clerk as he carries the heavy paper bags out of the store in his arms.
The sun kisses him some more as he heads over to the hardware store, where he buys the whitest paint they have to offer. He puts the handle of the can around his arm and is able to carry it in this way without it being too much of a hindrance to the carrying of his grocery bags.
Now he only needs to pick up the medicine, but on his way there he spots a toy sailboat in a shop window which looks like it was made for his little son. So he, of course, is more than willing to spend a little money for the joy of his young son. He purchases the sailboat and is already anticipating the look on the boy's face when he receives his gift, the mere thought puts a smile on his face as he gently places the toy in one of his less-full grocery bags.
He then arrives at the pharmacy, where he picks up the medication and thanks the cashier as he usually does. She informs him that they should be taken immediately, though he smiles it off and assures her that he plans to take them as soon as he gets back home. He drops the cylinder in his pocket as the cashier smiles at him and bids him good day as he exits the store and starts the journey to his home.
However, on his way home he passes a cute little cafe- and he is feeling rather tired from all the carrying he's been doing all day, so he decides that a brief rest won't hurt. He enters the store to another bell tinkle, and sets his purchases down on the nearest, unoccupied table. A smiling waiter comes over, and he merely asks for a water to cool him down. The waiter, still smiling, saunters off to fill the order.
In the mean time, he removes the toy from the paper grocery bag and examines it with happy eyes- feeling it is the most important buy of the day. He can't wait to get home and show it to his son. Sighing, he stretches up to put the toy back- but as he does so a small, cylindrical case falls from his pocket and onto the table. He stares down at the medicine contemplatively until the waiter arrives with his water. He thanks the man cheerily and waits for the man to leave before opening the medicine and taking a few pills out, placing them in his mouth and downing both water and medicine alike in two gulps.
He screws the lid back on and puts the medicine back in his pocket, taking out his wallet instead and placing a generous tip on the table before exiting the shop- eager to get home to give the toy to his son.
It is raining now, heavily. He was not expecting rain, and therefore did not have an umbrella with him. Not wanting the groceries to get drenched too badly, he runs all the way back home. He ignores the stares and glares of passerby, the sneers and whispers and familiar faces of the towns' citizens. He runs, runs, runs, all the way back home.
He reaches the stone path with barely any breath left in his lungs, and must take a few rasping breaths to re-fill his airway, although he is drenched to the core he needs a little time to rest. After barely recovering, he forces himself forward and toward the stark-white house where the birds no longer sing, he steps over the fallen, dented mailbox and splintered white picket fence. He puts the groceries down after safely reaching the porch of his home and opens the light blue door easily.
When he bends to pick up the purchases again the graffiti catches his eye, but as with any other day, he ignores the crimson proclamations of "go die, fag" and "God hates you," in favor of entering the warmth of his home.
He put the bags down and stripped at the entrance to prevent dripping water all over the floors that he cleaned just yesterday. He left his pants and shirt on and carried the rest of his clothes to the dryer past the living room and through the hallway. He took his remaining clothes off there, also placing them in the dryer and pulling a giant shirt from the clean pile of laundry.
He pulls the shirt over his head and pulls on some boxers before returning to the kitchen.
The food is untouched, all of it soiled in the four hours that he has been gone. He cleans everything up with a smile, putting all the dishes in the washer after he scrapes all the food into the trash can. He looks out the window over the sink blankly, thinking the rain has subsided, so he picks up the paint from the Welcome mat and goes outside, where he paints over the vandalism for the next three hours.
He returns to the house drenched at exactly one o'clock when he remembers that he has a present for the youngest member of the family. He takes the ice cream and ham with him and pays no mind to the water he is shedding on the floor as he opens the door to the cellar, easily traversing the frequently traveled narrow stairwell and pulling a string to turn on the only light bulb in the room. It swings uneasily as he canters over to the white, rectangular freezer in the back of the tiny room.
He opens it and smiles.
"I've got a present for you, Peter," he says to the motionless, blue body of a tiny, blonde child. He places the toy carefully on the boy's lap, watching his face for a moment before bursting into tinkling laughter. "I knew you would like it!"
Then he turns to his husband, smiling wider, putting the ham and ice cream in his lap.
"Berwald, I'll make sure to get you something tomorrow, okay? So don't get too jealous, okay?"
The man lays still in his slightly curled position, eyes staring lifelessly back at the dancing ones of his wife, who continues to smile vaguely at his soulless counterpart.
He laughs again, the light bulb incessantly swinging in the background.
He places a kiss on top of the two heads of blonde hair, ignoring the frost that grazes his lips.
Then he kisses the holes in their foreheads tenderly.
"Good night, my loves," he whispers quietly to the empty basement as the light bulb finally ceases to swing.
And sweet dreams.
WHO AM I TO DISAAAGREE?
That song is so old.
SO YEAH I LIKE THE IDEA OF CRAZY FINLAND, SUE ME. I wrote this on a whim, forgot the inspiration, wasn't planning on posting, other whiny shit.
Joey told me to post so I did. I know it's quite boring, I didn't really try that hard in writing this.
WHATEVA HOPE YOU ENJOYED ANYWAY.