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

هواء

"Please don't cry," the blond begs through the phone. Brad curls his body into a tighter ball despite the thick, white cast on his leg, tears threatening to break past his waterline. He wishes he were stronger than this. He wishes it weren't so easy for him to be pushed off the edge. "Maybe your parents will change their mind."

"What if they don't?" the curly-haired boy questions, tightening his grip on the phone. Cursing himself, he brings his wrist to his face, wiping away the tears escaping from his eyes. "I can't go back to the medical center, Tris. I just"-he balls his hand into a fist, more tears falling from his eyes and slipping into his curls-"I can't."

"Breathe, okay?" Tristan says. "Everything is going to be okay, baby."

Brad pauses, a smile tugging on his thin lips. "Baby?" he questioningly repeats.

"Too soon?"

"No." The curly-haired boy's shaking his head, even though he knows Tristan can't see him. "It's fine. I like it"-he nervously runs his tongue over his lips-"babe."

Tristan chuckles at the name. "Very creative, love."

"I try...Trissy-bear."

They both burst out into laughter. Brad closes his eyes, realising how quickly Tristan managed to have happiness radiating throughout his body and warming him all over in just a matter of seconds. Even though the thought of returning to the medical center churns his stomach. Four days ago, when Brad intelligently snapped his ankle whilst running, his parents were disgusted with him, even his dad, which is nearly impossible to do. Disappointing his mum is something he's used to. Nearly every day she's on his ass about something. But seeing the anger on his dad's face when his parents picked him up from the hospital, it was evident he fucked up big this time.

Brad knows they are upset, and in a few ways he understands why (thanks to his therapist, Elliott, enlightening him,) but now, he feels like they're crossing the line with discussing whether to send him back to the medical center or not while they think their son's asleep in the other room. He immediately hid in his closet and called Tristan as soon as they concluded their conversation with: "We'll talk about it more in the morning."

The sixteen-year-old can't see himself locked away in the medical center again, being watched when he showers, being watched when he pees, being weighed every week, being checked everywhere so the nurses make sure he doesn't hide anything to add onto his weight when he steps on the scale. And he's way too sensitive now, it'll only make his mixed emotions worse. He can't even imagine himself rewinding all the way back to day one, reliving his depressing four weeks all over again, except it'll be more tortorous, because there'll be no one there for him to talk to. In the medical center, he went many days without having someone there to distract him from reality (the whole center was a distraction from reality, really, depending on how you look at it,) but most times there was Tristan, willing to take his time, and somehow make being in that hellhole somewhat bearable. Brad smiles to himself, thinking over how helpful Tristan is, even when he doesn't know he's helping people, he's helping them, and there's still a chance Brad's parents will force him back into hospitalisation, but the sixteen-year-old can't seem to find any sadness anymore with Tristan.

"Thank you for listening to me, Tris," Brad says, rolling his shirt up to dry his face with it. "I know I can get annoying -"

"You're not annoying," the seventeen-year-old instantly interrupts. "I like talking to you, and I like that you feel comfortable coming to me when you're upset. I love listening to you speak and I love making you happy. Don't ever feel like you're annoying me, okay? Because you're not."

"Okay, okay, okay, you're talking my ear off." Tristan laughs. "I remember when I first met you and you would never talk, and now I can't ever get you to stop."