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

جائع

Dropping the empty container to the floor, splattering chocolate and vanilla, he peels off the red lid of the frosting and scoops it up with his spoon. He quickly grows annoyed with the utensil and drops it, scooping a large amount of frosting on his finger instead and eating it. Wiping his saliva finger on his shirt, he quickly returns to the opened cabinet, accidentally stepping on the opened chocolate syrup bottle during his journey. He ignores the chocolate squirting across the floor and stands in front of the cabinet, greedy eyes scanning all the food items inside. He attempts extending his arm to the pack of biscuits on the top shelf and pushing himself onto his tippy toes to reach it, but his fingertips barely reach the top shelf. Brad instantly limps over to the dining room beside the kitchen, dragging a barstool randomly sitting in the corner of the room across the tiled floor and placing it in front of the cabinet. Balancing his weight on the counter, he slowly highers himself on the unsteady chair with one leg to reach the box of biscuits on the top shelf. He obliviously extends his arm again, his one good leg wobbling on all the weight pressed onto it along with the barstool underneath him.

Brad tries balancing himself as he pushes his weight onto his tippy toes and -

"Brad?" The curly-haired boy entirely loses his faltering balance and falls along with all the food stored in the cabinet and the barstool, heroically dropping backwards into his boyfriend's arms. Tristan sighs of relief and slowly lowers the small boy to the floor. "What the hell were you doing on that broken barstool?"

"There were biscuits. I was hungry. I -" the younger boy widens his eyes at the mess he made as suddenly, he's yanked into reality, and everything has a chance to slowly sink into his brain. Tears sting his eyes.

Tristan automatically pulls the younger boy into his bare chest as tears spill down Brad's cheeks. "It's okay," he reassures him, sympathetically running a hand down his back. "It's okay to be hungry, babe."

The sixteen-year-old allows himself to sob into his chest, snaking his arms around the taller boy's torso and crawling into his lap. Tristan only laces his fingers through the younger boy's curls, tightening his hold on him, like he's terrified of letting go.

. . .

"Cover your eyes," Brad instructs the older boy sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Tristan pouts, but obediently places two hands over his eyes to shield his view. The curly-haired boy self-consciously turns his back towards him, anyway, before pulling his sticky, chocolate stained tee shirt over his head, hoping his boyfriend isn't peeking at him changing shirts. The younger boy allowed Tristan to be in the toilet with him as he tried cleaning himself up, hence his boyfriend was afraid Brad would purge behind his back in the toilet by himself. It's becoming kind of annoying how much of a mum his boyfriend is suddenly becoming, but he rather not argue with him about it. He assumes Tristan has a reason to be worried.

Pulling a clean, long-sleeved tee shirt over his head, he turns to his horrendous reflection, smoothing his shirt over his stomach. I really need to do sit ups, he thinks, pinching the fat through his shirt. He lets out a sigh, pulling his fingers through his curls. Every day it becomes more frustrating living in his skin.

"What's wrong?" Tristan asks, his face still hidden behind his hands.

Brad widens his eyes. His presence had somehow completely left his mind. "Nothing. You can uncover your eyes now."

The blond pulls his hands away and smiles at the small boy standing in front of him. "You look beautiful."

"I'm wearing a long-sleeved shirt with boxers," the younger boy reminds him, amused by the compliment.

"You still look beautiful," Tristan claims. He pulls himself up from his sitting position and walks up behind the shorter boy, snaking his long arms around his waist. He rests his chin on Brad's shoulder, swaying the two boys side-to-side. "You always d0."