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

مخفي

"Aren't we trespassing?" Brad questions as his boyfriend carries him into the back of his next-door neighbour's yard. There aren't any cars in the driveway, indicating there's no one home, but still, the owners could unexpectedly pull into the driveway any second.

"Don't worry," Tristan says. "They're never home."

The sixteen-year-old glances around the widespread yard. It's empty besides an enormous pine tree in the center of it. Tristan carries him over to it and sets the smaller boy back down on his one leg before they both crawl underneath the tree. Brad has never been much of a nature guy, but he likes it. It's small and the cool air smells of Christmas.

"This is my little hideout," the blond explains as Brad crawls into his lap. Tristan automatically wraps an arm around him and casually eases his free hand in between the smaller boy's thighs. "Is this okay?" he asks, nervously chewing his bottom lip.

Brad easily nods and presses a kiss to his mouth. "Of course."

The curly-haired boy just lies there with his head pressed to Tristan's chest and he sucks in a deep breath, filling his lungs with nature's air before exhaling. Closing his eyes, he repeats his actions, deeply breathing inhaling and exhaling, like a flower slowly closing and opening. It temporarily distracts him from the fact his friend is dead and the fact they're trespassing and hiding under a pine tree in Tristan's next-door neighbour's yard. But soon his minutes of relaxation slip away and his sadness attacks him again. His breathing becomes shaky, and when he inhales, it hurts.

"We can talk, if you want," the blue-eyed boy informs him, like he senses the younger boy's pain. He presses his face into Brad's curls and kisses his head. "About Connor, I mean."

"I'm not sure what to say," Brad replies. Tristan nods and gently kisses his jaw before his lips are pressed to his neck, slowly leaving little pecks on his tingling skin until he reaches his collarbone. A shiver runs down Brad's spine. The curly-haired boy gently pushes him away, confused with his boyfriend's unusual behaviour. "Are you coming onto me, love?"

"Not necessarily," Tristan slowly answers. Brad cocks an eyebrow causing the older boy to let out a sigh. "I just feel so helpless," he admits, self-consciously chewing his lips again. "I want so badly to make this better, but it's just impossible."

"You don't have to try so hard," the younger boy reassures him. He slips his fingers into Tristan's palm.

"I know." Tristan rests his forehead against his. "I wish I could do more. I hate this. I hate that Con didn't get a happy ending, I hate seeing you so sad, and I hate that I can't make you happy."

Brad's lips pull into a smile. It's small, but it's real at least. Tristan smiles back at him, widely, like his boyfriend handed him the world. "Just you being here and caring about me makes me happy, Tris. I promise."

They both fall into a comfortable silence. The sixteen-year-old can hear the sound of Tristan's heartbeat mixing in with the sound of cars driving through the neighbourhood, occupied with people heading to work and to school. It's like he's on the outside of the world, listening in on life going on without him, and even though the thought of life going on without him used to scare the teenager, Brad realises sometimes you need a separation from reality, a separation from the world to catch your breath. He wishes he could stay under this pine tree forever where it seems like they're the only two people floating in space and nothing can hurt them, even if pain is basically all the curly-haired boy feels. But with Tristan's warm hand comfortably resting in between his legs and his soft lips occasionally ending up on his face, he realises he feels a little love, too.

. . .

Brad has never seen a dead person before. He wishes seeing Connor in a casket didn't have to be his first. Just the imagination of his friend dead makes his stomach churn, but actually seeing him gone... Reality has a chance to wash over him and he feels sick all over again. His muscles weaken, like he's suddenly come down with the flu, and he's not sure he can make it to his seat on his on. The teenager forces himself to look away and lock eyes on his two legs, finally without a cast. He slowly redirects his focus and finds blue eyes, instantly hit with a wave of relief. One leg in front of the other, the sixteen-year-old reminds himself. Somehow his legs move and he limps away, finding himself plopping down in between James and Tristan, leaving his parents to find a seat of their own in the back of the building. His boyfriend automatically finds his shaky hand and their fingers interlock, Tristan placing their interlaced hands in his lap.