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

ذكريات

The thought of returning to school churns the teenager's stomach. After a dreadful spring break of sitting in the closet with Jesse and ghosting around the two-story house whenever he becomes tired of drowning in his sadness, he's not ready to fall back into the world again. He's not sure how he's supposed to pay attention in school and manage to maintain an average grade for the next three months when his friend is dead. The more he thinks about Connor and the fact he's really dead, it bothers him even more. He never knew he'd take his death so hard. He never really realised how much he really did appreciate Connor's friendship. Well, besides when he was pissed at the sixteen-year-old's birthday party; although, the fact he only really told Connor how he felt when he wasn't sober bothers him more than the fact he's dead.

I hate me, the curly-haired boy thinks, critically eyeing his horrid reflection in the mirror. Throwing his head back, the sixteen-year-old swallows a pill with a gulp of water before shaking two more into his palm to get him through the day. The teenager quickly downs them and pushes the bottle in the pocket of his uniform trousers. He feels bad secretly taking the diet pills every morning, mostly because Tristan evidently hates that he feels the need to, and he doesn't like going behind his boyfriend's back and keeping important things away from him, but Brad doesn't think the blond really understands him as much as he used to.

The teenager doesn't want Tristan to be sick, and he doesn't want the older boy to understand how badly it feels losing a friend to bulimia, but it saddens him how different the two boys are now. Brad always liked the fact whenever it came to anorexia, it was something Tristan and him could understand, but now it's just weird; although, his boyfriend tries his best, and that's one thing he loves about him. He tries his best to see situations in Brad's perspective, too.

The younger boy whips his head around at the sound of a knock on the door, even though it's wide open. "I'll be waiting in the car," his father informs him, poking his head inside the room.

"Okay," the teenager replies, shaking up his curls. With one last glance at his frowning reflection, he trudges out of the toilet and carefully makes his way down the staircase to not hurt his ankle. He thinks about asking his dad if he can stay home a little longer without them telling his mum, but he decides against it by the time he reaches the last step. If he doesn't return to school anytime soon, he'll most likely never find the strength to. And anyway, he's already dressed.

Letting out a sigh laced with discontentment, the sixteen-year-old pulls the straps of his bookbag onto his shoulders and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, the only two red bracelets on his wrist somehow catching his attention. The teenager remembers sitting in the rec room at the medical center, inspecting the bruise forming on his wrist. It was strange how often he bruised back then. It's one of the things he'll never miss about dieting. But even though he knows he shouldn't want to be the unhealthy boy in the medical center, there's still a small part of him that'll rather live life with bruises painted all over his body than free of bruises and unattractively chubby. Brad doesn't ever think that small part of him will ever leave, and he's not entirely upset about that. Because even though he's come to his senses and he realises that starvation isn't the right way to diet, he also knows that that little voice will hold him back from binges he'll instantly regret afterwards; although, the little voice has so far failed miserably to help him maintain his sanity and resist the irresistible urge to binge on food.

Brad closes the front door behind himself and slowly walks towards his dad's new car parked in the driveway, his boots dragging onto the concrete. Pulling open the passenger's car door, he slides into the car and slams the door behind himself, letting out a long breath of air.

"If everything gets a little overwhelming, don't hesitate to call, okay? I can pick you up and drop you off at the house," his dad says as he starts the engine. Brad silently nods in response and sinks into the seat as he straps himself with the vehicle's seatbelt.