"I don't want to go," Brad whines, comfortably tugging his blankets back over his head. The curly-haired boy attempts snuggling into the blankets, like the creative cocoon he wrapped himself in (before Connor insensitively took it upon himself to pull him out of it fourteen minutes ago.) But the fifteen-year-old quickly yanks his blankets off of him, once again exposing his underdressed body to the cold.
"It is Saturday!" Connor argues before grabbing him by the arm and attempting to force him out of the bed. The older boy lets out a frustrated groan and desperately reaches for something to hold him back, accidentally dragging all his sheets to the carpeted floor along with him.
He self-consciously hides his embarrassingly, chubby stomach behind knees. "I hate you, Con."
"You should appreciate me being a good friend," the younger boy tells him. "You've been hiding away in your man cave for two weeks because of Tristan, Brad. That's extremely unhealthy and depressing."'
Brad carelessly shoots him a thumbs up before shouting out in pain and frowning up at Connor after he kicks him in the leg. "You're such a bully," he says, carefully rubbing the pained area.
"Great observation," Connor sarcastically replies. "Look, are you going to hang out with me or not?"
The curly-haired boy pulls himself into a sitting position, wrapping his blankets back around his body. "I'm sure I've made it more than clear I'd rather be left alone."
The younger boy plops down on the floor alongside him. "I know something that'll no doubt make you feel better."
"Does it involve Tristan?"
"No."
"Then it's most likely not going to make me feel better." Brad shamelessly lies down on his bedroom floor, curling himself into a little ball of sadness. "I fucked everything up, Con, and it's not easy just going out and being happy, okay?"
"You could just call him, yano."
"It's not that easy."
"Everything is really difficult with you," the younger boy tells him, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I mean, I'm not Einstein or anything, but I think if you just talk to Tristan and tell him how you feel then he'll listen to you. It's not like he's supposed to gain this magical superpower that gives him the ability to know exactly what's going on in that complicated brain of yours. Not everything is as complicated as you think it is."
"What if it actually is as complicated as I think it is?"
Connor glares at him, like that's the stupidest question Brad could ask. "Brad, you're the most stubborn person I know, and you're just sitting here, allowing your boyfriend to get away."
"You've been spending way too much time with James."
"Funny. I told James that yesterday." Connor pulls himself onto his boots and looks down at the older boy. "Okay, I promise to leave you alone-"
"Thank, God."
"-If you at least get out of the house and hang out with James and I tonight."
Brad frowns before quickly saying: "I would, but my parents don't allow me to go out on weekends."
"I already asked them and they said it'll be fine," Connor informs him. Damn it, Brad thinks. The fifteen-year-old pulls his lips into a smug smile, like he's reading his mind. "Well, anyway, I'll text you about what I've planned for us."
"Does it involve bowling?" Brad asks, unenthused.
Connor pauses and awkwardly glances around his room. "Um, no," he scoffs.
"We're going bowling, aren't we?"
"You'll find out!" he says before hurriedly leaving the room, mumbling something about Brad being impatient.
The sixteen-year-old watches his friend leave, crawling back onto his comfortable mattress and pulling his blankets onto the bed along with him. Maybe it wouldn't hurt for you to hang out with someone, the teenager thinks to himself. But he doesn't really have the energy to whether he needs to keep his social life intact or not. All his emotion and energy is drained out of him at the constant memory of all the stupid things he'd said to Tristan, and the hurt visible on the blond's face. He wishes he could make things better without overthinking how badly everything could turn out. Sometimes Brad wishes he weren't such a pessimist when it came to things like this.
It hurts now, but it'll get better later, he thinks to himself. It's weird telling himself that about a boy. Brad suddenly laughs at himself, thinking about how ridiculous he really has become. His heart feels like it's been ripped in two over a boy.
Don't you have better stuff to worry about?
But suddenly Brad's confidence is drained and the the familiar feeling of loneliness returns. And he buries his face in his pillow thinking: No, I really don't.
. . .
Directly after Brad's father waves him off and his vehicle disappears down the road, the teenager frowns at the bowling alley, already regretting not staying at home. For one, he thinks bowling is boring, and the itchy jumper he threw on at last minute isn't helping his growing irritation with being outdoors. Letting out a long sigh, he stumbles towards the entrance, whipping out his phone to ring Connor and inform him of his arrival. It doesn't take long for him to answer.
"You're there?" the boy enthuses, a smile audible in his voice.
"Um, yeah," Brad awkwardly replies. He slightly laughs at the younger boy's excitement. "You okay there, mate? You sound way too excited about this."
"I just really wanted to go bowling," Connor claims. "I'm running a little late, though. Don't wait up for me, James is already inside."
"Okay. See you then, I guess." He hangs up and pockets his phone before trudging into the bowling alley, letting out another sigh at the sight of a small group of people littering the building. Ugh, humans, Brad thinks to himself. He wonders why he even agreed to this. In his opinion, he would've been better off with Connor constantly annoying him instead, like he threatened. At least then he would've been able to stay at home and be lazy and mope around freely.
Brown eyes carefully scan the deserted room. Brad frowns realising there's no sight of James anywhere. He lets out a sigh for what feels like the hundredth time tonight and forces one Converse in front of the other to go and get his bowling shoes himself and claim a lane. Minutes later, Brad's impatiently sitting by himself, wondering if he should go ahead and type in Connor, James, and his's name or if he should wait for the two boys to arrive. Whenever that'll be.
"There you are!" Brad whips his head around as he ties on his bowling shoes to James hovering over him. The curly-haired boy freezes when he spots who's standing far behind him, setting his brain on fire. "Tristan and I were looking for you," he says, like everything is oh so fine.
Brad doesn't reply. Because he knows if he tried to, anyway, no words would make their way past his lips. Somehow Tristan looks even more gorgeous than the last time the teenager saw him, and Brad wasn't sure that was even possible.
"You should sit down, Tris," James suggests. The blond slowly heads towards the seat furthest away from Brad, but James abruptly stops him, pulling him over to the seat directly beside the sixteen-year-old. "Sorry, I want to sit there," he says, shrugging and plopping down in the seat Tristan attempted to escape to.
It doesn't take long for Brad to figure out what James and Connor are trying to do. I'm going to kill Connor, he thinks, trying to look anywhere that isn't Tristan, and James.
"So," James says after an awkward silence of Tristan drumming his fingers on the table and Brad nervously rubbing his neck, "sha'll we start?"
"Sure," Brad mumbles, shrugging his shoulders. He accidentally glances over to the blond who only silently nods in response. James frowns, but only for a second before he's smiling and typing in their names and the amount of rounds. The sixteen-year-old glares at him, noticing he only typed in 'Tris' and 'Brad.' "Okay, Tristan, you're up first while I, um, go over there."
As James jumps up from his chair, he randomly hands Brad breath spray. "You're welcome," he says, wiggling his eyebrows. Brad doesn't even have time to feel offended.
"Wait-" Before Brad has a chance to finish his sentence, James is already sprinting away from the table and disappearing outside of the bowling alley, leaving the two boys alone together. The sixteen-year-old nervously looks down at his hands as a man at the lane beside their's cheers after making a strike. Brad deeply inhales, trying not to panic at the fact he's now entirely alone with Tristan.
"You should probably go," the curly-haired boy tells him, slipping the shit gift from James into the pocket of his black jeans.
"I know that," Tristan replies, kneeling down to tie his bowling shoes. Brad absentmindedly taps his wrist on the side of the chair at his tone-defensive and emotionless.
"I meant you should probably go home," Brad elaborates. "I know you don't want to be here with me."
"You're right." The blond nods. He stands up after double knotting his shoelaces and stretches his arms before cracking his knuckles. "But James is my ride so I guess I just have to deal with it."
"Okay," the younger boy mutters to his lap, pulling his red wrist away from the chair after realising the annoying tapping sound he was creating. Brad wishes he could say something that'll make this less awkward. He wishes he could just stand up and run out of the building without ever looking back, but he feels glued to his seat.
Tristan chooses a pink bowling ball after testing which one he can hold best before strolling over towards the lane, presenting ten pins. He doesn't pause to think out his movements beforehand. Right when he's across from the pins, he hurriedly walks towards the lane before releasing the bowling ball and sending it flying down the lane. After successfully knocking down all the pins, Tristan silently plops down in his seat, nonchalantly crossing his arms over his chest. "Your turn," the blond says, pulling out his phone.
"Do you really want to play this?" Brad questions, glancing at the new set of pins at the end of the lane. Tristan shrugs in response without looking up at him. "Look, Tristan," the sixteen-year-old says, frowning at the older boy across from the table. Tristan's blue eyes slowly lock with brown causing Brad's heart to jump. "We can't just interact like this the whole night."
"You think so?" Tristan asks.
Furrowing his brows, Brad nods. "Yes."
Somehow this causes the older boy to chuckle. He shakes his head at Brad and looks down at his phone again. "You're unbelievable."
"How?"
"Do you have any idea how I feel right now, Brad?"
"I have an idea, yes," he slowly replies. "I know what I said was terrible and I know that I hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just upset."
"That doesn't make it hurt any less," Tristan tells him.
"Then what can I do to make it hurt less? Could you please tell me that?"
"I don't know," the blond replies, chewing on his bottom lip. Sadness laces his beautiful features and he looks down at the table. "I just don't understand you at all, and honestly, I don't think I want to. I'm just so confused. If you wanted me out of your life, why'd you cause me to think that you wanted me in it?"
Brad wishes he knew. "I'm a little confused with myself right now, too."
Tristan just looks at him before glancing at the lane. "Are you going to go or not?"
"I don"t think so," Brad says. He's already done with being here and he's sure he's only sat down ten minutes ago. "I think I should call it a night."
"Okay then." He shrugs and jumps up, disappearing somewhere near the counter.
The teenager deeply inhales, thinking over their conversation. Brad wishes he could've said more to him. He wishes all the words he's stored in his head for the seventeen-year-old could've came spilling out right when he first laid eyes on him tonight. But like always, Brad stayed silent when his large mouth needed to be opened the most. You're so pathetic, Brad thinks, the hatred for himself quickly returning. The hatred only spreads wider the longer he sits there, letting everything soak in. This could've been your chance and you ruined it. You have no idea where he went now. There's no way he's coming back. He probably hates you even more now.
Soon, anger is boiling in his blood and he jumps up from his seat, rushing off to the bathroom to calm himself down.
But he doesn't end up going to the bathroom. He doesn't really know what happens in between a span of fifteen minutes later until he's back at his table forcefully shoving a hotdog and cheese chips down his throat. Brad doesn't give himself a chance to stop and think. Whenever a thought seems as if it's on its way, he shuts it off with a mouthful of food or a gulp of his glass of soda.
It doesn't occur to him what damage he's doing to his body until he realises he's not alone, and he turns his head to a group of teenagers from school at the lane beside his. And of course it's just his luck that it's Jack and his group of friends.
The curly-haired boy quickly flushes red and a sickness overtakes his stomach at the realisation of everything he'd unconsciously consumed. He feels like bursting into tears, and not only because he feels humiliated, but also because he thought he was better than this. He thought he rid himself of the food-obsessed Brad that inconsiderately ate anything in his path. But as he looks down at the evidence of his binge, he realises he sees no difference from the fat and insecure boy he was.
"This is starting to become a regular thing, isn't it?" Jack mentions, smirking at the red-faced boy, looking up at him with fearful brown eyes. Brad's so confused. Two weeks ago he's shouting at him to fuck off, and now he's approaching him just to tease him with his friends. "You, showing up everywhere I turn. It's funny, really."
"Isn't he supposed to hate food or something?" one of the guys loudly whisper to his date, like the boy isn't sitting directly in front of him.
"Probably faked all that anorexia shit for attention," Jack stupidly assumes. He laughs at the sixteen-year-old nervously tapping wrist on the side of the chair. "Well, at least it did do some good for you. I mean, now that all the weight is gone. Kind of."
He wishes he weren't so weak. He wishes he could look up at his ex-boyfriend without feeling scared and insecure and hating himself. He wishes he could stay in his seat and face the problem like a man. But instead, because he's Brad Simpson, he jumps up from his chair and rushes off to the toilet-a dim-lit, singular, unisex bathroom-and bursts inside of it, instantly dropping to his knees in front of the toilet bowl. Right now, it doesn't matter to him how disgusting this is, or how terrible it made him feel the first two times. All he cares about is getting everything he ate out of his system, and the only method he can think of is shoving two fingers down his throat. But when he brings his fingers to his lips, he pauses.
I can't, Brad thinks, shrinking away from the toilet. He lets out a sigh and squeezes his eyes shut.
But it'll make you feel better.
He leans over the toilet again, bringing his hand to his lips. Just do it.
The curly-haired boy tightens his fingers around the toilet bowl, his knuckles whitening as he rids his stomach of his horrendous, thirty minute binge. He sucks in a shaky breath, heavily inhaling and exhaling, eyeing the terrible mess he made. This is better than being fat, he convinces himself. But he doesn't feel better at all, he doesn't feel anything.
Tears fall down his cheeks. He can still hear the conversations of teenagers and adults outside the bathroom as techno music plays. Everyone is outside, enjoying their Saturday night, bowling with a shitload of friends or family members, and Brad's sitting here, alone and empty, covered in vomit.
Suddenly the door is pushed open. Brad curses himself for not locking it and scrambles to flush the toilet before the person has a chance to see, but it doesn't really matter. When he turns around, he notices Tristan already saw everything, and the evidence is already all over him. He looks frozen, his hand tightened around the doorknob as he takes in the younger boy wide-eyed, like he just walked in on him murdering a man. Brad thinks about how gorgeous he must look right now with red, teary eyes and vomit dripping from his chin.
"I-I'm sorry," Tristan quietly apologises, resting his back against the door and locking it. "I saw you run in here a little upset and you kind of left the door open so I just wanted to see if you're okay."
Brad self-consciously looks away from him, keeping his glassy eyes glued to the toilet bowl. "Well, now you see so..."
The older boy drops to his knees beside Brad. "I don't understand."
"Understand what?"
"How you can be so unkind to yourself," he replies, bringing his hand to Brad's messy curls. He tries brushing them away from his forehead, but they just fall back into place.
"I deserve it," Brad mumbles.
"No, you don't." Tristan pulls toilet paper off the roll and gently dries the younger boy's wet mouth and chin. "Why would you say something like that?"
"Because."
"Because?"
"Because I'm a dick," he tells him, tears filling his eyes. "I'm such a dick, and everyone hates me."
There's a long pause before Tristan says: "I don't know what your problem is, but running away and crying isn't going to make anything better. So don't be stupid."
Brad stares at him blankly before he realises Tristan's telling him his own words. He accidentally lets out a giggle as a tear escapes his eye and runs down his cheek causing a smile to spread on Tristan's face. "I was the stupid one for saying that," the curly-haired boy tells him.
"No," the seventeen-year-old disagrees, wiping away his tear with the sleeve of his jacket. "You were right. When you're too busy moping about the problems in your life, you're wasting time you could use for changing it, or figuring out what good can come out of it.
"I used to sit around, feeling sorry for myself a lot, like when I was first admitted to the medical center. I didn't want to talk to anyone, and I'd just cry or freeze up every time an Ensure bottle was placed in front of me. But when you told me that, I realised that throwing yourself a pity party isn't the best option to get yourself by."
"Well," Brad interjects, "you can throw yourself one pity party."
"Only one," Tristan agrees, smiling, "but after it's finished, you have to get off your ass."
"I like that philosophy."
"Me, too."
Brad smiles before frowning down at his jumper, realising vomit somehow ended up all over it. He feels like slapping himself. You can't do anything right. You can't even throw up right. "I'm sorry, I'm such a mess."
"It's okay to be a mess," Tristan reassures him, pulling off more toilet paper to clean his jumper. "As long as you clean yourself up," he adds.
"I try to. I try to all the time, and then I make myself more messy."
"Then that's where I come in," the blond tells him, a smug smile tugging on his lips. "And I'll be there to help."
"Always?"
He nods and drops the tissue in the toilet water, placing both of his hands on Brad's cheeks and forcing him to look into his blue eyes. "Only if you let me."
The curly-haired boy nods without so much as a millisecond of hesitation. "Of course I will."
Tristan smiles, lighting up all his features like a city, and then he pecks Brad's nose. "Good."
The curly-haired boy buries his face into his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of Wint O Green. The seventeen-year-old's arms automatically snake around the smaller boy's body, squeezing him into a hug that makes every part of him believe everything'll turn out okay, even if it's only for seconds or even minutes.
"I'm sorry," Brad apologises in his neck. He squeezes his eyes shut and only allows himself to concentrate on how warm Tristan feels pressed to him. He never wants to come close to never experiencing this again. "I'm such an idiot. I should've never said those things to you. I was just so scared of not having control over myself, I thought I was weak for liking someone so much I just-I'm so sorry."
"You could've just told me that, Hobbes," Tristan tells him, gently running his hand up and down his spine. Brad smiles into his neck at the nickname. "We both like having control over ourselves. I would've understood."
"I know," he tells him, his face pathetically heating up. He's glad Tristan can't see him. Pulling away, he realises that suddenly, all the anxiety he had over losing control over himself fades away, and he feels stupid for worrying about it, anyway. Who cares if being this close to someone makes him "weak?" It's hard to feel weak when he's with Tristan, anyway. He feels great, in fact, and wanted. For once, Brad feels wanted by someone, and he never wants to let this feeling go.
"Now," Tristan tells him, "prove to those assholes you're stronger than they think you are."
"What am I going to do about this?" Brad frowns at the large stain on his jumper. In response, Tristan automatically starts unbuttoning his jacket. "What? No. I can't take your jacket."
"It's fine. I don't need it." Brad believes him. He's wearing a baggy jumper he looks completely lost in under his jacket and Brad can spot another sleeve coming from under it.
But he shakes his head again, anyway. "I can't."
"Just fucking take it," he says. But somehow his voice remains nonchalant and casual, like he's just telling the younger boy what time it is.
After Brad cleans himself up (in more ways than one, depending on how you look at it) and rids his mouth of vomit with the terrible breath spray James handed him, he's ready to leave the bathroom. He's a little nervous to walk out of his hiding place, back in front of Jack and the long list of other people that hate his guts. But then he looks up at Tristan, slipping his shaky fingers in the taller boy's palm, and, for once, Brad's able to face the world with his chin up.