bambi eyes || tradley

3. people grow like flowers

"We made a deal, You."

"But the deal had gaps; therefore, I did not fully comprehend it."

Tristan face-palmed, unlocking the car door and quickly climbing inside his vehicle before slamming the door behind himself. Rolling the car window down he said: "You're on your own, Nineteen-Seventeen."

Before the boy had a chance to utter anything in reply, Tristan quickly pulled out of the parking lot, speeding down the road leading to the bookstore near his apartment complex without looking back. He let out a frustrated groan, reading the time printed on his radio. Tristan was fifteen minutes late to work already, and his boss was surely not going to be happy with his late arrival. It was probably the millionth time Tristan had strolled into the bookstore minutes later than he was supposed to, and his boss was already annoyed with him.

He parked his car and quickly rushed inside the building, spotting his best mate not-so secretly texting underneath the counter. Tristan quickly swung his long legs over the counter like every morning, jumping to the other side.

"You know, climbing the counter is entirely unnecessary when there are two entrances right here," Connor notified him.

Tristan glanced at the entrances on both sides and carelessly shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well."

The first sixty minutes ticked by slowly, Connor and Tristan bickering again with only two to three customers strolling inside, only one actually leaving with a purchase. Everything was back to normal until the door opened and Tristan glanced up from the counter, frowning at the small boy standing across from it.

"Tris!" The curly-haired boy smiled, pushing back his untamed, chocolate curls with a hand. "As you see, I've returned."

"Go away!" Tristan demanded, throwing the first thing he could get his hands on at him - a pink, pocket pen.

In a matter of seconds, the pen was in the small boy's hand and he was behind the counter, roughly pushing the taller boy into the wall with the pen pressed to a green vein in his neck. "What did I tell you about my dangerous reflexes, Tristan?" he asked, his kind voice in complete contrast with the unfriendly position he had Tristan in. "You are my friend, and I do not want to hurt you. But I cannot control that if you try to hurt me."

"I'm sorry," Tristan quickly apologised, fear coursing throughout his body. He widened his eyes at Connor standing behind him with a large book in his hands. But before he had a chance to stop the younger boy, his co-worker was already bringing it down and smacking the large, hardcover book over the top of the curly-haired boy's head.

Nineteen-Seventeen was physically senseless to the blow, simply gripping the little ladder the workers used to reach the top shelves in one small hand and swinging it backwards at Tristan's best mate, somehow sending Connor flying backwards and falling on the other side of the counter. The small boy still impressively had the pen dangerously pressed into Tristan's neck. "Your friend is rather violent, Tris," Nineteen-Seventeen innocently said, pulling the pen away from his vein and carefully placing it back into the bin of pocket pens. "Strange manners you lads have around here."

Tristan decided to close the shop early (despite how angry the manager would be) hence his best mate was unconscious on the floor and the culprit had no intentions of leaving the two boys alone anytime soon.

"Take him by the legs and I'll lift his arms," Tristan instructed the curly-haired boy, wrapping his hands around his co-worker's wrist.

"That's not necesary," Nineteen-Seventeen said.

"We have to take him..." the twenty-one-year-old trailed off, widening his eyes as the small boy effortlessly lifted Connor from the floor and hurled his limp body over his shoulder. "Well, damn..."

Tristan's phone rung in his pocket. He hurriedly pulled it out, sucking in a breath when he realised the phone call was from his manager. He quickly answered it and pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Tristan, how is everything going with the shop?" she questioned.

"Great -"

"Tris, do I put the body in the trunk or the backseat?" the boy loudly asked. Tristan narrowed his blue eyes at him and brought a finger to his lips, silently asking him to shut his mouth.

"Um, Tristan, is everything all right?" his manager asked, distrust and fear audible in her voice.

"Everything is fine," Tristan told her in a reassuring voice. He awkwardly laughed to lighten the mood. "Connor's trying to imitate a character from a film we saw. The accent's kind of off, but he's getting there."

"Hmm, okay," she mumbled. "Ring me when your shift's over."

"Sure thing!" Tristan awkwardly laughed again before voicing his goodbyes and hanging up, quickly turning to the small boy carrying his unconscious friend. "Get Connor into the backseat and fast."

. . .

Carelessly dumping Connor's body onto Tristan's couch, Nineteen-Seventeen nonchalantly sat on top of him, like Tristan's best mate was a cushion. "What now?" the boy questioned, his round, Bambi eyes innocently staring up at the taller boy angrily hovering over him.

"Get off my friend!" Tristan demanded.

"Your friend is fine," he told him, calmly waving the boy off. "He will be in a lot of pain when he wakes from his slumber, but he'll be okay."

"Slumber?" the blond repeated, amused by the small boy's choice of wording. "You're so strange."

"Thank you." He beamed up at him and stared at the blank screen ahead of him. Tristan sighed, exhausted from dealing with the boy for so long. He flicked on the TV to the news station and sat on the arm of the couch.

"He was very strong, much too strong for his small build," a fearful police officer voiced on the screen. He had a brace on his arm and a large bandage covering the side of his face. "After an hour of us trying to figure out his identity, he attacked everyone in the station and escaped! We have no idea where he went!"

"Six police officers were severely injured during the incident and all currently hospitalised," the news reporter informed the viewers. "If you see this boy, please notify your local police station immediately."

The twenty-one-year-old widened his blue eyes as a sketch was presented on the screen. A sketch of a smiling boy that looked almost identical to the smiling, curly-haired boy getting comfortable on top of his unconscious friend.

"Oh, look, Tris! A drawing of me is on TV!" the boy obliviously exclaimed, excitedly pointing to the sketch.

Tristan could've croaked.