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

يكفي

"Why aren't you dressed?" his mum questions, frowning at her son's black tee shirt and basketball shorts.

Brad sits up from his lying position on the bed and shakes up his bedheaded curls into something that could pass as a hairstyle. "What do you mean? I am dressed."

"You're wearing sleeping clothes," she claims. She pulls open his closet and throws a pair of jeans at him. "Put that on."

"I'm not wearing sleeping clothes, and I don't have to dress up for Tristan, Mum," the sixteen-year-old tells her, pushing the jeans aside. "It's just Tristan. He already knows what I look like. It's not like we're going on a date or anything."

"Get dressed!" his mum demands, disappearing out of his bedroom and into the hallway. Brad falls back onto his pillow, letting out a loud groan. He throws the jeans somewhere and grabs his crutches, limping over to his closet to find a more "suitable" pair of shorts to wear instead. It's too complicated and time consuming forcing his cast inside of jeans. Brad's already cut one leg off two pairs of trousers due to his frustration, but he has no idea where they are now.

He drops his basketball shorts and wiggles his legs into a pair of denim shorts just as the doorbell rings indicating Tristan's arrival. Smoothing out his tee shirt, he balances his weight on his crutches and limps out of his bedroom to the staircase leading downstairs. Tristan's at the door, strangely smiling at Brad's mum with a bouquet of pretty yellow and orange flowers in his hands. He hands it to Brad's mum causing her to smile and loudly thank him, like the teenager had just handed her a diamond. She doesn't notice how badly Tristan's hands are shaking. Only Brad does.

The curly-haired boy holds both crutches in one hand and grabs onto the railing, hopping down each individual step before reaching the bottom. "Hey," he greets the older boy still standing in the doorway. "Are you going to come inside?"

"Yeah," Tristan replies, pocketing his hands before stepping inside the house and taking in his surroundings.

"Brad, go put these..." Brad's mum trails off, thoughtfully eyeing the bouquet of flowers in her hands.

"Chrysanthemums," the seventeen-year-old informs her.

She smiles widely. "Brad, go put these chrysanthemums in a vase with water."

Brad mentally groans, turning to Tristan and balancing his weight on his crutches again. "Come with," he says, nudging one of his crutches towards direction of the staircase.

Tristan slowly nods and takes the flowers from Brad's mum with unsteady hands before they both head towards the staircase. "Are you sure you're okay walking up there?" the older boy asks.

"Yeah, I've been getting up perfectly fine for about a week. Hold this." He hands Tristan both of his crutches and basically repeats his actions from earlier, hopping up the staircase until he reaches the top.

Tristan slowly walks up after him, his eyes scanning over Natalie's many photos and the only two involving Brad. "You're still upset," the blond observes, handing the smaller boy his crutches.

"Well, you shouldn't expect me to be happy," Brad mutters. He places his crutches back under his arm and leads the way to his parents' crowded bedroom. "I don't understand why you can't trust me, Tris. I tell you everything about myself, and you don't trust me with any information on your life. If I hadn't been at your house that night, how long would we have to be friends before you tell me about your father?"

"My father is irrelevant," Tristan tells him. Brad pushes the door open to his parents' room.

"My ex is irrelevant, but you still felt like you should know nearly everything about our relationship that ended eight months ago," Brad argues. "And this isn't even about your dad. This is about you lying to me about your mum dying, and then avoiding the issue."