Brad balls his hands into fist and squeezes them against his thighs, fixing his eyes on the terrible, oak tree painting on the mint green walls. He doesn't care if his therapist notices he isn't listening to her anymore. He hopes she will. Maybe it'd shut her up for once. He's already taught himself how to tune out her critical voice and still seem like he's listening, being able to pick up the sounds of her words and knowing exactly when to engage in her informative lecture with an interested 'hmm' or 'yes/no' or a (hopefully) convincing 'i see that now,' but today it's like he's forgotten how to click the mute button when he needs it most. All she wants to talk about is school: his grades and his friends and how his peers treat him. If Brad wanted to be attacked about what's going on in his school life, he might as well just pack up his bags and head back home.
"I know how your grades dropped drastically from the beginning of the year," she informs him, like she knows everything about him. Brad wants to roll his eyes at her. He's already sat down with his parents and had this talk about his grades dropping twenty percent. They already tried prying into his life to find out "what's wrong with him" before sending him to bed with the same information they'd started with. "Do you know what could've happened to interrupt your performance in school?"
Brad doesn't really have a response for that, except sometimes in life you figure out some things are less important than others. He'd rather stay awake all night doing one-hundred push ups than studying for a stupid test. "I went down the wrong path, but I see my mistakes now, and I'm going to do better," the sixteen-year-old decides to say. It sounds convincing to him, convincing enough to push her off the topic of his life and attack him with her endless statistics instead, but she still refuses to just leave it alone, and he's forced to sit through fifteen minutes of her asking about his life. He thinks he's going to die, if he hasn't already.
Eventually, Brad calms down, because he's sure she's not going to say, "Tell me about you friends," which she does.
It's the first time one of her questions have actually left him speechless. All he can do is squirm uncomfortably in his chair, wondering why there isn't a clock on the wall to inform the patients how much longer you have to last in hell. He thinks about making up a friend, but his mind is so messy, he can't even think of a fake name. "Um," he pathetically utters, anxiously looking down at his lap, like the answer will be written on his hands, "they're cool?"
She sympathetically nods. Brad squeezes his hands into fist against his lap again, frustrated. "You're a smart person, Brad," Miss Lillian surprisingly compliments him. "You hold a lot of dedication and perseverance."
"Thank you?"
"And that's what anorexia loves about people. It takes your intelligence and uses it to lie constantly about eating, and it takes your perseverance to push you to keep exercising even when you're tired and can't go any longer." Brad thinks about all the hour runs he took before running home, how he would lock himself in his bedroom and exercise until his dad forced him to go to sleep, how great it felt to see the number on the scale drop, how great it felt to feel his ribs whenever he breathed in. "Anorexia takes a good person and takes advantage of all their good qualities until there's nothing left but a self-centered, moody liar."
Brad's pretty sure his therapist just called him a dick.
"I can see that now," the curly-haired boy replies as his brown eyes roll back over to the sloppy, oak tree on the wall. He tries figuring out the significance of the terrible painting in hopes it'd wash his therapist's untrue statement from his mind. He knows he's not self-centered or moody or a liar. Maybe he did suddenly drop all of his "friends" to prevent them from interfering with his weight loss, maybe he is kind of irritated ninety-nine perfect of the time and accidentally snaps at people without really understanding why, and maybe he did lie once in a while about why he's wearing long boxers in the summer and why he drinks more water at dinner than what's on his plate, but that doesn't make him a dick.
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.
Tristan plops down in the seat beside him and sympathetically places a hand on his shoulder, his eyebrows knitted together. The genuine concern on his face makes Brad uncomfortably squirm in his chair. That damn look urks him. "What's up?" Tristan asks. He runs his hand up and down Brad's arm, electrifying all the nerves in his body.
"Nothing," he easily replies before pulling his arm away from the blond and returning to the clay on the table. Brad offers some to Tristan and he takes it, but doesn't turn away. "I'm serious," the younger boy adds. He smiles for evidence. "Nothing's up. I'm just kind of angry."
"Okay." Tristan easily lets it go and decides playing with the clay he handed him.
"I'm angry all the time," Brad thinks out loud. He frowns down at the table, his mind rewinding back to Miss Lillian calling him moody.
"You are," the blond confirms, nodding his head.
Brad forms a small body with his clay, deciding to make an elephant. "I don't think anyone likes me. And not just in here, I don't think anyone likes me anywhere."
"I like you," Tristan smiles, looking up from his blob of clay. Brad's stomach flips, but he ignores it and snorts causing the blond's smile to fade. "What?" he obliviously asks.
"I'm pretty sure you like everyone, Tristan."
The seventeen-year-old lets out a laugh. "What makes you think that?"
"You're nice to people you barely know."
"Because they're nice to me," he says, like Brad's the strange one in the situation. "That's how life works, yano. When people are nice to you, you're nice back."
"I don't think it's that simple."
"Why not?"
Brad shrugs, adding a trunk to his little clay elephant. "It just isn't."
"Probably because you're so convinced that every breathing soul is shit." The brown-eyed boy chuckles, shrugging his shoulders. "You can find good people once in a while, yano."
"Nope, I'm pretty sure everyone is shit."
Tristan rolls his eyes with a small smile on his face. "Okay then, Thomas Hobbes."
The lights suddenly flick back on. Brad blinks rapidly, his eyes not yet adjusted to the light as the girls surrounding the two boys excitedly chatter. The sixteen-year-old eyes Tristan while he's looking away. Now that the lights are on, he notices the blue-eyed boy looks a little different. Paler. It's almost scary. He looked perfectly fine during the six times Brad saw him in the cafeteria yesterday and today. Or maybe he didn't. He's not sure, it's not like he was really paying attention to the complexion of his skin, but now that he's noticed, it's the only thing Brad sees.
"You okay?" Tristan asks, glancing up from his clay. Brad quickly nods in response, probably looking like an idiot, but the older boy just laughs. "Okay," he says, smiling, before he looks away and fixes his eyes back on the clay, the tip of his tongue adorably sticking out between his thin lips as he concentrates on flattening it.
Everything he does is so damn cute, Brad thinks, resting his chin on his hand and watching the older boy. He quickly stops himself and snaps his mind back to its senses. No, stop gushing over him. Bad Brad.
They don't say anything else to each other. Brad spends the remainder of the time blankly staring at his elephant and wondering if Tristan's okay as he also tries convincing himself that he's fine. He knows he is fine. He's smiling every time Brad is around and he finally started drinking his Ensure from a tiny straw a nurse gave him. But he doesn't really know why he cares so much, anyway. Brad hasn't really cared about anyone in a while. It's strange to worry about someone again. It's strange for other people to be on his mind, period. All he ever thought about for four months was staying dedicated to his weight loss, and now, ever since he stepped foot into the medical center, his mind is full of so many other things he doesn't want it to be.
"Well, night," Brad waves when his nurse comes to take him to his temporary room for bed. He's a little surprised Tristan's nurse hasn't figured out where he is by now, but then again, he isn't. For some reason, Tristan always tends to get the dumbest nurses.
"See you in the morning," Tristan smiles. He jumps up from his seat, instantly gripping onto the chair to keep himself from falling to the floor. In under a second, Brad's nurse is by the blond's side, carefully helping the boy regain balance. Tristan sheepishly smiles at his sudden loss of balance and places a hand on his head. "'m fine. I just stood up way too fast."
Don't get freaked out, he hisses at himself. But it doesn't work. The teenager quickly turns to the door to escape before Tristan's voice stops him: "You forgot your elephant."
"I don't need it," he hurriedly replies without looking back.
"Um, okay, g'night," Tristan calls after him. The curly-haired boy stupidly nods in response and pushes open the rec room's door alongside his nurse before he's speeding out.
. . .
Later in the week, James unexpectedly returns to the cafeteria table, cheerful and talkative. The girl, Connor, and him happily converse as Brad silently munches on his partials, invisible to the three teenagers. By his second snacktime, he's convinced that no one can even see him despite the critical glances he receives (mostly from James) whenever he lets out a sigh. But he's forgotten as soon as his presence is acknowledged.
Oh, well, I don't need them, the curly-haired boy thinks when he makes his way to group therapy. I don't need anyone.
So why does he care so much?
After Dr. Hans greets him at the door, Brad plops down in a folding chair and unconsciously places his jacket in the empty chair beside himself for Tristan. The sixteen-year-old instantly pauses after setting it down and questioningly looks at his jacket, like he's not sure how it even ended up there. Just so I don't have to sitbeside anyone I don't want to, he decides, mentally approving of his answer. And anyway, he hadn't seen Tristan all day. Not even at the cafeteria. He thinks it isn't that strange to want to catch up with him. They are kind of friends in a way.
He looks down at his lap as three girls beside him casually carry a conversation about great places to secretly throw up when they're home. Brad wonders when he's going home. He knows he's supposed to be here for four weeks, but he's so terrible at keeping up with the dates. If it weren't for the nurses, Brad probably wouldn't even know what day of the week today is.
"I take my showers after I eat breakfast so I can throw up inside of it," one of the girls quietly confess to her friends. Brad scrunches up his face in disgust, feeling sick just by the thought of vomit. Making yourself throw up after eating has never made sense to him, even when the girls in group talk about it. Usually the explanation is 'throwing up is the best feeling in the world,' which evidently gives Dr. Hans a heart attack, but Brad's pretty sure the doctor has to sit, listening to these weird, vomit discussions on a daily basis, unlike Brad who uncomfortably squirms in his seat whenever someone mentions purging. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to understand the point of it, and neither does he want to. Though, the sixteen-year-old did attempt it when he was fifteen. But that was past Brad that was desperate and out of control.
"I just throw up in the bin in my room," the other shamelessly girl tells the group. "I have to turn my music up loud so no one can hear me, but I guess that didn't work since my parents walked in on me."
The three girls let out laughs, confusing Brad even more before Dr. Hans's loud voice grabs the patients' attention. The curly-haired boy glances down at his jacket in the folding chair, wondering where the hell Tristan is (not like he's waiting for him or anything.) But he knows the blond always arrives late for group therapy (and everything else) so Brad keeps his jacket there, convincing himself it's not strange.
"For today we're going to do a short activity -it shouldn't take very long-and then I'll let everyone talk for the remainder of class," Dr. Hans announces as he hands out blank sheets of paper and a marker to the patients. Brad lets out a sigh. He hates being lazy, like the old him, but he really has no energy to do anything today. The whole week he's been just sitting and lying around, doing nothing, and his body or mind isn't in the mood for making changes. "Everyone write your name in the middle of your paper," the doctor instructs. Brad follows his directions, sloppily writing his name in purple, capital letters. "Basically what we're going to do is pass around your sheet of paper, and you have to anonymously write something nice about -"
The door flies open to the tall blond strolling inside, rubbing his eyes with his fist, like he just woke up. He's wearing a large jumper under a large jacket that looks like they're swallowing him whole. Brad doesn't like the way his clothes hang off of him, but he still finds him cute. In a non-affectionate kind of way.
Before Brad has a chance to motion towards the chair he saved for him, Tristan plops down in the empty chair beside the door and instantly sinks into his seat, staring blankly at the carpeted floor. Brad picks up his jacket and pulls his arms through the sleeves as Dr. Hans hurriedly hands Tristan a sheet of paper and a marker, repeating himself from before, "We're going to write our names in the center of the paper and pass it around. Everyone has twenty seconds to anonymously write something nice about every person before passing it to the next person. Got it?" The patients nod. Dr. Hans looks down at Tristan slowly writing down his name. "Got it?" he repeats. Tristan half-heartedly nods, like he only wants to get rid of him.
"Okay," he speaks, looking down at his phone, "pass your papers to the right in three... two...one..."
Brad hands his paper to his right and takes the paper of the girl on his left, looking down at the name of the bin-vomiter sitting beside him. By the time he's almost complimented most of the patients, he receives Tristan's paper. There are a lot of things he could say about the seventeen-year-old, but his mind is wiped blank as he looks down at Tristan's sloppy handwriting and the various handwriting surrounding it, reading I like your shoes and you're my thinspo, which Brad thinks will most likely make Tristan uncomfortable, but he doesn't have time to think about it.
"Five seconds," Dr. Hans calls. Brad screams in the inside and hurriedly writes you're very nice before passing it to the girl beside the empty chair.
You're very nice, Brad critically repeats to himself as he writes another compliment on a sheet of paper. He face palms after he's done. Who the hell says that? It's not like he was planning on writing a full monologue about his strong, inexplicable urge to kiss Tristan's lips, but he wanted to write more than a fucking you're very nice.
Not long after, Brad retrieves his paper. He instantly scans everything on it, fighting a smile as he eyes a I love your hair and your style is cool. Compliments always make the sixteen-year-old uncomfortable since it's so rare for him to receive them, but somehow this makes him feel good. Maybe because he can't tell whose handwriting is who, and the only voice he's left to read it in is his own.
One stands out the most in blue handwriting. It's the largest in capital, swirly letters, like it belongs on a typography poster. It reads: your smile could bring world peace. Brad feels his cheeks heating up at the ridiculously dramatic compliment and he accidentally lets himself smile, even though he has no idea who wrote it.
"I see a lot of happy people," Dr. Hans comments. Brad's eyes somehow end up on Tristan again. The seventeen-year-old isn't even looking at his paper, his eyes fixed on the floor and his paper forgotten on his lap, folded in half. "Now, does anyone want to talk about their week? Or say something in general?" No one says anything, except the three girls whispering about purging. "Brad?" The curly-haired boy freezes at the sound of his name. "You still haven't said anything about yourself from the first day here."
"Um," Brad mumbles, "what am I supposed to say?"
"Tell us about your week."
Brad lets out a sigh causing a few patients to laugh. "Um, well, it was a week."
This somehow caused laughter again. "Anything remarkable?"
"Nope."
"Anything positive?"
"Well, I'm in here so..." More laughing. Dr. Hans looks disappointed. Brad looks down. He hates receiving that look.
"Okay then," the doctor says, glancing around the room. "Anyone else want to talk about their week?"
Brad sighs of relief now that the attention is off of him and looks down at his hands again.
After group therapy, the curly-haired-boy has to chase Tristan down and grab the sleeve of his baggy jacket to keep him from leaving. He pulls the taller boy back into him, frowning when he notices how upset he looks - all the colour completely drained from his face and his blue eyes seemingly grey. "Hi," Brad stupidly greets, still unconsciously holding onto Tristan's sleeve.
The older boy looks down at him, biting his lip. "Hey."
"I didn't see you at all today," he tells him.
"Sorry, I felt a little weird when I woke up," Tristan explains. "But I feel better now."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." Tristan rests his back against the wall, crossing his arms across his chest. "Thanks for saying I'm nice, by the way. And not only am I nice, I'm very nice."
Brad playfully rolls his eyes to mask his embarrassment. "How did you know it was me?"
"I saw your handwriting when we did that assignment together."
"And what did you write about me? I didn't see anything in your handwriting."
Tristan just shrugs and smiles at him. Brad automatically smiles at him back. "Which one do you think was me?"
"I don't know," Brad says, his eyes trailing down to the lips he's been obsessing over since last Wednesday.
"You're not even going to guess?"
"Nope."
Tristan laughs. "Of course."
Brad wonders how many times his heart beats per minute now, because it's going insane behind his ribcage, like it's seconds from leaping straight out of his chest. "Well," he says before he ends up doing something stupid again, like attempting to kiss someone who doesn't want to kiss him back, "I'm going to go with my nurse now. I'll see you around, okay?"
"Okay." Tristan pushes himself from the wall before leaning back on it to gain balance. "These dizzy spells are insane," he laughs. Brad's not sure what dizzy spells are, but he laughs along with him anyway and turns away to go grab his nurse.
"Wait, Brad," the blond calls after him, but he doesn't finish his sentence when Brad turns back around. He's holding onto the wall again, and the sixteen-year-old barely gets the first syllable out of Tristan's name before the older boy is collapsing to the floor.
. . .
omg, wth. i actually updated (and before michael killed me.) i'm srry i died. hopefully this crappy chapter made up for it. also, the whole 'what's the point of making yourself throw up' wasn't meant to offend anyone. brad's character can be rlly judgmental okie x