teach me gently on how to breathe || tradley/brad

الأخطاء

Brad's brown eyes flutter open to darkness, the only light source provided by the moonlight shining through his translucent curtains. The room is freezing hence he left the window open all night, but he's senseless to the cold. Letting out a yawn, he rolls over on his side to his phone resting on the nightstand.

After the light blinds him for a moment or two, he reads 03:15 on his lockscreen. Perfect, he thinks, throwing his thick blankets off his body and pulling himself onto his sock-covered feet. He pulls on the large running shoes he used to fit perfectly and ties his yellow shoelaces with double knots before tiptoeing towards the open window. The ladder he pulled over to his bedroom window is still there, waiting for the sixteen-year-old to climb down it. He quickly does, ignoring a chill involuntarily running down his spine.

As he reaches the last step, he plugs his earphones in, bobbing his head along with the beat flowing in his ears before shaking up his already tousled curls and starting down the road. Brad has no idea where he's going, but he's happily jogging without having to think about it. Soon he's adjusted to the cold and barely notices it as he speeds through sleeping neighbourhoods, clearing his mind of the growling in his stomach due to his lack of dinner last night and clearing his mind of yesterday and the day before and the day before and the day before. They don't matter anymore; Brad can't control them. But this, he can control. Finally, there's something he can.

A fire ignites inside of him as he pushes harder, leaving behind the feeling of exhaustion behind him. There's no way he's stopping any time soon. In a world of monitoring and a list of everything he's not allowed to do, he can finally do something he loves, and freely.

When his dark surroundings become unfamiliar, he realises it seems like he's the only person in the world, running aimlessly, and in some ways he is. But then, no, he decides that it seems like the world is his, and somehow that excites him causing him to push himself even harder, allowing the world and his legs and everything to blur around him as the flame in his gut only burns brighter. He only forces himself to run longer and faster than before until he feels like he's flying on the ground.

It feels like only seconds, but Brad stops when the darkness seems like it's coming to an end, and the sky is close to waking up. He pulls out his earphones and stops to check the time, but his legs give out causing him to fall onto the concrete. Fuck, he thinks, breathing heavily. His legs feel like they're actually on fire. He inhales and exhales rapidly, trying to calm himself before painfully pulling his body into a sitting position. My strides were probably too wide, he assumes, lying back on the ground and crawling over to a mailbox to help him up on his weak, wobbly legs.

The walk back home is hell, but he makes it back up the ladder before the alarm clock in his parents' room goes off. He strips off his sweaty clothes and large sneakers, pushing them under his bed before he crawls under his blankets and closes his eyes, like he's been lying here, asleep, the whole night. His dad comes stumbling in a minute later after the alarm clock is clicked off and shakes his son "awake."

"Time to get ready for school," he yawns.

Brad groans and rolls over on his side, trying to ignore the unbearable pain burning in his legs. "Do I have to?" the sixteen-year-old asks, faking his best morning voice.

His dad nods. "Of course."

"Ugh."

"And maybe you should sleep with less blankets at night," his dad obliviously suggests. "You're all sweaty."

"I will." Brad nods before letting out a yawn, a real one, and rolling over onto his belly. "Five more minutes, please."

"Fine, but nothing over it."