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

خفي

At least he doesn't think it does.

. . .

A TV's set up in the rec room with chairs occupied by patients rearranged around it, kind of like a movie theatre. Despite their situation, everyone seems like they're actually enjoying themselves. Well, everyone except Brad. The sixteen-year-old instantly isolated himself from everyone when he stepped foot into the room, plopping down at the empty circled table, which is pushed to the side to make room for the chairs.

His back faces the patients as he absentmindedly attacks a sheet of paper with a green marker, trying to block out the enthusiastic girls behind him, watching their lame, drama film. After his infuriating therapy session, he feels like punching something. His day has already been irritating, like every other day, but Brad didn't realise how much not walking the grounds could affect his mood until he was suspended from it for Tristan and his's little runaway, instead leaving him sitting in his room, blankly staring at the wall with paper and markers he didn't have any energy to put to use.

The room suddenly fills with laughter, somehow irritating the teenager even more. He pulls his hoodie over his head, feeling like an idiot, sitting alone, angry, in a room overflowing with happy people. But he's used to being alone, watching everyone else around him enjoying their lives. Being alone used to constantly bother him before he decided to accept it, yet loneliness has returned to consume him and tease him, reminding him he's going to be in the same position forever. Somehow everywhere he goes, he always ends up being the outcast. It's a label that follows him everywhere, no matter how hard he tries to escape from it. But he doesn't understand why he suddenly wants to step out from behind the barrier that separated him from every breathing thing in this medical center and everyone else. He's already learned his lesson with trying to be liked and noticed by everyone, and he doesn't want to make the same mistake from four months ago again. Though, all he can think about is himself choking up at the mention of friends. Brad's never felt like he needed to have any, but now Miss Lillian is causing him to question himself.

He glances over his shoulder as the female patients laugh at the TV again, and he wonders if maybe he should try to fit in, even if he has no interest in the film or all the laughing girls across the room. But before he has a chance to think about it any further, he's already turned himself back to his sheet of paper, messily decorated with sloppy words and scribbles, like the creation of a toddler. Brad balls up the sheet of paper and pushes it aside before grabbing the clay on the table and angrily squeezing it into his fist.

Someone touches his shoulder from behind causing the sixteen-year-old to instantly stiffen. "Hi," the person casually greets.

Brad surprisingly turns to Tristan, who's supposed to be suspended from coming to the rec room. "What are you doing here?" he asks, his brown eyes somehow instantly finding Tristan's lips. He doesn't know why they always end up there now, but he can't really not have them end up there. Ever since their lips were inches away from each others, Brad finds every little thing about the blond intriguing. More specifically, his lips. After he fell asleep the night they were dragged back to their temporary rooms, Tristan's lips were all he could think about. His lips tugging upward into a smile, his lips exhaling air, his lips moving as he speaks. Maybe it's strange being obsessed with someone's lips (especially when they evidently do not feel the same about you,) but Brad doesn't really care. It's not like he wants to be drawn to Tristan. He's just so Tristan.

"Well , first I-wait, were you crying?"

"What?" The curly-haired boy questioningly brings his hand to his face, surprised that it's wet. "Oh," he mumbles, embarrassed. He wonders why his immediate reaction to anger always has to be tears as he drops the squashed clay from his palm and pulls his sleeves over his hands to dry his face.