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

ذكريات

He wonders if it's too early to call and tell him he's already overwhelmed. Everything has already been overwhelming since Connor died. He wonders what his dad expects. But he's honestly not surprised with how oblivious his parents are with his feelings towards the loss of his friend. They never have any idea how he feels.

The curly-haired boy's phone pings in his pocket. He quickly pulls it out, smiling softly when he scans the text message from Tristan reading: Good morning ☺️ I hope you smile today.

Brad pockets his phone, writing a mental note to reply to him later. Right now he's just not in the mood. He knows, he should always be in the mood to talk to his boyfriend. But each day it's becoming a little difficult to find the energy to communicate with anyone, really. The two boys had already went over this conversation with each other, anyway. The first day of spring break Brad explained how detached he's going to be, and Tristan seems to understand it. It didn't stop the blond from reminding the brown-eyed boy that he's there for him whenever he's needed, though. That was the only highlight of his break. Brad loves how much Tristan cares about him. He hasn't felt like anyone cares about him in a while, and knowing someone appreciates every little breath you take is the best feeling in the world.

He wishes he didn't have to feel like this. He wishes he could easily talk to the one person who makes him happy and be able to call Connor and have him answer. Brad knows Tristan deserves more than what he's giving him. He really wants the curly-haired boy to be happy, and Brad knows his boyfriend deserves at least some type of reply. It's just no longer as easy as it should be.

"Have a good day," his dad tells him. His son nods as the cars stops in front of the school building. Pushing the car door open, he climbs out, slamming it closed behind him. "Remember what I said!"

"Okay," Brad inaudibly mutters before turning away and taking in the large school building. He feels like collapsing onto the sidewalk and just lying there for the rest of his life, but he lets out a sigh, pocketing his hands and trudging towards the staircase before entering the hellhole called school.

. . .

A wave of nostalgia hits the sixteen-year-old once he steps into the school cafeteria, the graphic novel Tristan gave him pressed to his chest and lunch box in hand. He realises maybe he shouldn't have chosen today to finally eat with his peers again. He realises maybe he shouldn't have chosen any day to return to the cafeteria. No one is going to want to sit with him, and sitting alone surrounded by large groups of chatty teenagers is like him stamping 'BULLY ME' on his forehead.

Slowly, he makes his way through the rows of tables, reminding himself to keep his eyes glued to the tiled floor. Although he can feel the critical glances thrown his way as he passes, he knows by the time he makes it to an empty table, he'll have some type of confidence left inside of him.

Eventually, he finds an unoccupied spot and he plops down, setting his beloved graphic novel and his lunch box on the wooden table. He zips it open and glances over the little notecard his dad placed inside, listing how much calories everything is, like every other lunch he packs. Great, Brad sarcastically thinks, pulling out his dad's infamous chicken sandwich cut into four squares, a four hundred calorie lunch.

He picks up the first square and nibbles on it before extending his arm over towards the graphic novel and returning to the page he'd left off on. A small smile tugs on his lips when he notices how close he is to finishing the memoir entirely, and then he can return it back to Tristan. He'll be so proud of me, he thinks to himself as he
quickly finishes the page before flipping to the next.

You should be exercising instead of wasting your time reading, that little voice states in his head. A frown quickly replaces the growing smile on his face at his own thoughts. The statement is true, but sometimes Brad's not sure where his some of his thoughts come from. Sometimes they feel like they're not himself.