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

طيران

The two boys are seated on a swing set as they wait for Brad's dad to come pick his son up, their hands still intertwined since they sneaked out of the door of Tristan's house. The curly-haired boy wants so badly to go home with his family and have a long bath in his overly-decorated bathroom, but at the same time Brad doesn't want to leave Tristan and have him go back to his father. "Isn't there something you can do?" the younger boy questions, dragging his feet in the sand beneath him.

"About my dad?" Brad nods causing Tristan to let out a small laugh. "It's just a little slap, Brad. It's not like he cut off my genitals."

Brad frowns. "But it's not right."

"Well, Ghandi, life is full of things that someone wouldn't practically call right," Tristan says, pulling his hand away from Brad and bumping his swing into him.

The sixteen-year-old squeals and grabs onto the chain of Tristan's swing so that they're swaying left to right together. "I'm not Thomas Hobbes anymore?"

"You still are." He grabs onto Brad's swing, too, laughing. "And anyway, I don't think you're intelligent enough to be Ghandi."

The younger boy pouts. "Meanie."

"Aw." Tristan smiles at him before jumping off his swing and falling onto the sand. Brad bursts out into laughter as he picks himself up, brushing sand off his clothes. "Shush, Hobbes."

He laughs in response and kicks more sand at him causing the older boy to glare at him. "By the way," Brad says, pushing himself forward, " I forgot to tell you thank you."

The older boy walks up to his swing and grabs onto the chains. "Thank you?"

"For helping me a while ago," he explains, "and understanding."

"You don't have to thank me for that, Brad."

"I wanted to, anyway."

Tristan bites his lip. "And I wanted to tell you sorry that my dad ruined our night."

"That's not your fault, Tris." Tristan just shrugs and loosens his grip on Brad's chains, allowing him to swing away from him. The sixteen-year-old tightens his own grip on the chains to prevent himself from falling off. "What was that all about, anyway?"

"Apparently the wine bottle I opened cost a lot of money, and my dad wasn't planning on opening it anytime soon," he replies, catching the younger boy when he swings back into him before letting him swing away again. "Somehow I was supposed to automatically know that."

"I'm sorry," Brad apologises. He wishes he could say more, but an apology is the only words he can seem to come up with.

"Don't apologise. He's just an asshole. Everything is fine, really."

"How about this: my mum's a social worker, we could go to her about your dad and -"

Tristan shakes his head. "That's not necessary, Brad."

"But -"

"Let's not talk about it anymore, yeah?"

The curly-haired boy stares at him desperately before letting out a sigh and reluctantly nodding his head, defeated. "Yeah - okay."

"Or ever."

"Or ever," he confirms, still nodding his head.

Tristan catches his chains again and smiles, blue eyes boring into brown. "I'm really glad we had a chance to be together tonight," he softly tells him.

Brad smiles back at him, his heart wildly beating at how wonderfully the moonlight illuminates the older boy's face. "Yeah, me, too."

"I really don't want you to leave." Tristan nudges his nose against the curly-haired boy's before connecting their lips.