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

الأخطاء

Brad's eyes flutter close as his dad exits his bedroom. His stomach growls. That's a good thing, he reminds himself, even though he knows in a few minutes he'll be forced to eat a large breakfast with his mum and dad. He lets out another yawn and throws all his blankets off of his body, letting the cold air hit his skin. He sighs of relief and buries his face into his pillow, trying to not let his pain get to him. It hurts now, but it won't hurt later. At least, that's what Brad tells himself to help him feel better. It's only because he's in poor shape, and soon he won't be if he continues his daily runs in the morning. His legs will grow used to it again. And anyway, running felt great. There's nothing that could ruin it.

It'll get better like before, he reminds himself as the stained blue morning creeps under the curtains.

. . .

After school, Brad heads to the park and jogs (quickly limps) laps again until James's car is in view an hour later. This time, the sixteen-year-old actually warned his parents he'd be coming in late, and he'll show up with a receipt or a confirmation from James that he'd eaten dinner if he doesn't return home in time. But James already said he'd let him off the hook.

When the curly-haired boy reaches the passenger's seat, he pauses at the sight of someone already occupying it, searching through the glove compartment. Brad redirects himself to the backseat, and slides inside, slamming the door behind himself and throwing his backpack on the seat. He wonders who James decided to tag along with them to the medical center. The third person on the trip causes him to feel a little uneasy hence Brad isn't very talented at having people like him, but he forces himself to swallow his fear down.

"Well, damn, Brad," James comments, smiling at the curly-haired boy from the mirror. "This day wasn't any better than yesterday?"

"No," Brad mumbles, fumbling to buckle his seatbelt. "Worse, actually."

"What happened?" James asks before turning to the person beside him. "People aren't really nice to Brad at his school," he explains.

The person pulls his head out of the glove compartment and turns around to face Brad. The sixteen-year-old gasps at the sight of Connor. He looks slightly different with more blond hair dominating the brown in the front than Brad remembers. "What happened?" he questions, furrowing his brows.

"It's nothing," Brad mumbles, pulling the sleeves of his jumper over his hands.

"He said they say stupid things about his anorexia," James tells him, pulling out of the park and starting down the road.

Connor glances at him before turning back to Brad. "Like what?"

"It's nothing," the sixteen-year-old repeats, rolling his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it."

"We will fight them," James decides.

Brad laughs at that. "You two are going to fight everyone in sixth form?"

"Yeah," he laughs along with him. "But seriously, it gets on my nerves when people take eating disorders as a joke. I've never heard anyone at my school say shit about mine, but they're rather dumb about it, and get bulimia mixed up with anorexia. It's frustrating straightening people out."

"The first time I was hospitalised everyone at school said I had a girls' disorder," Connor tells them, annoyed. "But then I broke this guy's nose and everyone welcomed me back this time."

"So, basically what you're saying is that I just need to punch a guy in the face, and everything will be okay?" Brad asks.

The fifteen-year-old smiles, nodding. "Exactly."