"Please don't cry," the blond begs through the phone. Brad curls his body into a tighter ball despite the thick, white cast on his leg, tears threatening to break past his waterline. He wishes he were stronger than this. He wishes it weren't so easy for him to be pushed off the edge. "Maybe your parents will change their mind."
"What if they don't?" the curly-haired boy questions, tightening his grip on the phone. Cursing himself, he brings his wrist to his face, wiping away the tears escaping from his eyes. "I can't go back to the medical center, Tris. I just"-he balls his hand into a fist, more tears falling from his eyes and slipping into his curls-"I can't."
"Breathe, okay?" Tristan says. "Everything is going to be okay, baby."
Brad pauses, a smile tugging on his thin lips. "Baby?" he questioningly repeats.
"Too soon?"
"No." The curly-haired boy's shaking his head, even though he knows Tristan can't see him. "It's fine. I like it"-he nervously runs his tongue over his lips-"babe."
Tristan chuckles at the name. "Very creative, love."
"I try...Trissy-bear."
They both burst out into laughter. Brad closes his eyes, realising how quickly Tristan managed to have happiness radiating throughout his body and warming him all over in just a matter of seconds. Even though the thought of returning to the medical center churns his stomach. Four days ago, when Brad intelligently snapped his ankle whilst running, his parents were disgusted with him, even his dad, which is nearly impossible to do. Disappointing his mum is something he's used to. Nearly every day she's on his ass about something. But seeing the anger on his dad's face when his parents picked him up from the hospital, it was evident he fucked up big this time.
Brad knows they are upset, and in a few ways he understands why (thanks to his therapist, Elliott, enlightening him,) but now, he feels like they're crossing the line with discussing whether to send him back to the medical center or not while they think their son's asleep in the other room. He immediately hid in his closet and called Tristan as soon as they concluded their conversation with: "We'll talk about it more in the morning."
The sixteen-year-old can't see himself locked away in the medical center again, being watched when he showers, being watched when he pees, being weighed every week, being checked everywhere so the nurses make sure he doesn't hide anything to add onto his weight when he steps on the scale. And he's way too sensitive now, it'll only make his mixed emotions worse. He can't even imagine himself rewinding all the way back to day one, reliving his depressing four weeks all over again, except it'll be more tortorous, because there'll be no one there for him to talk to. In the medical center, he went many days without having someone there to distract him from reality (the whole center was a distraction from reality, really, depending on how you look at it,) but most times there was Tristan, willing to take his time, and somehow make being in that hellhole somewhat bearable. Brad smiles to himself, thinking over how helpful Tristan is, even when he doesn't know he's helping people, he's helping them, and there's still a chance Brad's parents will force him back into hospitalisation, but the sixteen-year-old can't seem to find any sadness anymore with Tristan.
"Thank you for listening to me, Tris," Brad says, rolling his shirt up to dry his face with it. "I know I can get annoying -"
"You're not annoying," the seventeen-year-old instantly interrupts. "I like talking to you, and I like that you feel comfortable coming to me when you're upset. I love listening to you speak and I love making you happy. Don't ever feel like you're annoying me, okay? Because you're not."
"Okay, okay, okay, you're talking my ear off." Tristan laughs. "I remember when I first met you and you would never talk, and now I can't ever get you to stop."
"Not like you'd ever want me to or anything, though."
"Right," Brad slowly replies, dragging out the one syllable. The blond lets out another laugh, the younger boy laughing along with him. "Thanks for that, by the way. And I want you to know whatever happens, it's okay for you to come to me, too."
"I know." Brad smiles. "By the way, my nan loved the zucchini pie we made."
"Really?"
"Yeah, she told me to tell you you're an amazing cook, and then she took it home with her."
"I'm glad she enjoyed it."
There's a long period of silence, the curly-haired boy on the verge of falling asleep, before Tristan speaks again: "Brad?"
"Mm-hm?"
"I know this may sound weird, but can we just stay on the phone with each other for the rest of the night?"
Brad pulls his lips into a sloppy smile, letting out a yawn and nodding his head, and then he realises Tristan can't see him. "Yeah, of course."
"Okay, good." Even though he can't see the blond, he can tell he's smiling.
Brad rolls over on his other side, trying to find the most comfortable lying position without his stupid cast getting in the way. "Well, night," the younger boy sleepily mutters, giving up on being comfortable and rolling over on his back.
"G'night," Tristan happily replies back before Brad's closing his eyes and they're falling asleep together.
. . .
3 Missed Calls from JEMS ✨
The curly-haired boy pulls himself into a sitting position after ending his call with Tristan. He was still asleep when Brad had woken up (and he may or may not have just lied there, listening to Tristan breathing in hopes he'd magically wake up to say good morning to him) so he'd decided to just hang up, hoping the seventeen-year-old wouldn't be upset with him.
He runs a hand over his face, furrowing his eyebrows at the missed calls from his friend last night. Even though the two boys were becoming pretty close, James rarely called him, let alone three times. It worried Brad, sending him to instantly return the boy's call, pressing the phone to his ear and anxiously waiting for him to pick up.
"Hey," James groggily greets, loudly yawning into the phone.
"You called me quite a bit last night," Brad tells him. James loudly yawns again causing the younger boy to roll his eyes.
"Oh, yeah, don't get excited, I was calling about Con," he informs his friend. "I rung him twenty-five times last night and he didn't answer. I was wondering if you knew what happened."
"Wow, someone's clingy."
"I'm not clingy. I was worried. He told me two days ago he was going to do this stupid sacrifice thing to the goddess of anorexia - whatever that is - so it can help him fast or whatever, and I told him that he's dumb, and then he got all upset and started telling me off and stormed out of my house. So, um, I was just wondering if you talked to him any time soon?"
"No," he slowly replies. Suddenly he feels like a bad friend. He hasn't spoken to Connor in five days. But then he pauses, repeating James's sentence in his mind. "Wait - there's a goddess of anorexia?"
"Apparently." James lets out a sigh. "I hope he's okay."
"He's probably just mad at you, James," Brad assumes. "I mean, I wouldn't answer your calls if I were mad at you either."
"Right," the seventeen-year-old agrees. "So, can you ring him for me and see how he's doing?"
"Sure."
"Thanks. You know, when I think about it, you're kind of not so terrible," James tells him.
Brad playfully rolls his eyes. "I'm hanging up now, James."
Before his friend has a chance to utter anything else insulting, the sixteen-year-old hangs up the phone, heading to his contacts and quickly finding Connor. He presses the phone to his ear, listening to the annoying ring. He nervously shakes up his hair after a few rings, wondering if his friend will even move to pick up the phone.
"Hello?" Brad can automatically tell it's Connor's mum, even though he's only ever talked to her once.
He furrows his brows at the sound of Connor's mum's voice instead of his friend's, like he'd expected. "Um, hi. Is Connor there?"
"Not at the moment, no," his mum briefly replies.
Brad sits there in silence, hoping she'll continue in further detail, but she doesn't. "Um, is he all right?"
"It'll be better for him to explain it to you. You can visit him, if you'd like. How about I give you the hospital and visiting hours?"
"That'll be great," Brad slowly replies, hoping he's successfully hiding how anxious he is. There are so many questions swirling through his head, he's not sure which one he's supposed to start with. Pulling himself onto his hands and knees with his crutches, he limps out of the closet and into his bedroom, scrambling to find a notebook and pen. He finds a science composition book from year eight and flips to the last page covered with doodles before jotting down the hospital, visting hours, and Connor's information. "Thanks," Brad says after repeating all of the information back to his mum.
"You're welcome." She quickly hangs up the phone without saying anything close to a goodbye. Brad stares at his home screen in disbelief, wondering if he should call James back and inform him about Connor's hospitalisation, but he stops himself knowing the seventeen-year-old would probably freak out and set the whole country to flames.
Brad pinches the bridge of his nose at the realisation he's going to have to deal with this all by himself. In cases like this, the curly-haired boy isn't the one any person should confide in. It's not that he's heartless, he just struggles being sympathetic when people need sympathy most. But of course, Connor is his friend, and he knows the fifteen-year-old needs someone to be there for him. Unfortunately, that someone has to be Brad.
. . .
As soon as the sixteen-year-old spots the hospital, he feels sick to his stomach. His father notices him silently panicking in the passenger's seat and sympathetically places a hand on his son's shoulder. "You really don't have to go in there if you don't want to, Brad."
Of course I do, Brad thinks, rolling the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. He wipes his clammy hands on his jeans and looks over to his dad. "I'm fine," he promises, unbuckling his seat belt and slowly climbing out of his dad's vehicle. His father hands him his crutches, watching his son struggle to balance on them.
"Call me when you're done, okay?" Brad nods and slams the car door close, nervously facing the building behind him.
The hospital temperature is as cold as the outdoors when the sixteen-year-old manages to limp inside. He waves his hand under a sanitizer dispenser (just because he's nervous and needs to do something with his hands) before limping into an elevator to the eating disorder unit. It's like the special care unit in the medical center. He sucks in a breath, deciding to keep his eyes ahead and not on the unhealthy people lying in hospital beds until he reaches the tiny room at the end of the hall. Connor's the only person inside, happily laughing at something on the small TV hooked to the wall despite his current situation. Brad wonders why he doesn't just sit in the TV room with everyone else, but Connor's weird so he doesn't question him.
"Brad?" Connor furrows his brows at the sight of the older boy. Brad wonders why he's wearing such baggy clothing. "What are you doing here?"
"I found out you were in the hospital so"-he nervously licks his lips and plops down beside him-"I just wanted to see how you're doing."
"I'm fine," Connor replies, smiling. He looks back to the TV where a dubbed anime Brad's never seen before is playing. "I'm a little upset with being here, though. Nothing is wrong with me, besides my heart being extremely weird, but that's usual. I'm perfectly fine."
"You look fine," Brad agrees. He's not lying. Connor looks exactly like how he'd seen him five days ago. Then he stares at him harder, realising that he does look a bit different.
"Exactly!" Connor shakes his head. "Could you tell my mum that? She's freaking out over nothing. I'm not even here because of my heart. It's a completely different reason - whoa, wait, what happened to your leg?"
"Stress fracture," Brad sheepishly explains. "I was running and my ankle snapped."
"Damn, that sounds like fun," he sarcastically replies.
"Yeah." Brad lets out a laugh before taking in the room. "So, why are you here?"
"There was a full moon two nights ago," Connor excitedly tells him, strangely lowering his voice. He sounds like a little girl at a sleepover, telling her friends a ghost story. All that's missing is a flashlight. "And I'd been going through some ana blogs to help me with fasting and stuff, and throughout my searching, I found out that there is a goddess of anorexia, Anamadim, and so I decided to make a sacrifice to her."
"Like, what?" the curly-haired boy questions, furrowing his brows.
"Foods that tempt me," Connor tells him, playfully rolling his eyes, like Brad should already know this. "You really haven't ever heard of this?"
"Um, no."
"Oh," he says. "Well, anyway, I sunk outside and squashed some chips onto the driveway before saying the pledge. I had to write it down, and then sign it in blood. When I made the cut my wrist I apparently hit a vein or something like that, and then my mum went into this full panic attack and took me to the hospital. She thinks I'm a self-harmer, which I'm not. It wasn't a big deal. I'm quite sure I would've been okay with staying at home."
"Well"-Brad uncomfortably shifts on the lumpy couch, noticing the bandage around Connor's wrist. He wonders if he's even speaking with the same person he's been hanging out with for so long-"that's rather... interesting."
"I know, it's ridiculous," Connor tells him, frowning. "But it kind of helped me. I want to reach my goal, and I'll do anything that makes it easier for me. I don't care if it's the third time I've been hospitalised, I'm just devoted to it. Does that make sense?"
"I guess..."
"Great," the fifteen-year-old mumbles. "I get it, it's crazy. James gave me the same look. Maybe I should just be in a mental instuition, for fucks sake. That'll probably be the only place I'm accepted."
Brad doesn't know what to say so he just keeps his mouth closed.
"You know, I've had some great moments in here already," Connor tells him. "I've met some amazing people and my boyfriend came by and gave me a teddy bear. I thought it was sweet."
"You have a boyfriend?"
"Yeah," he says. "I'm pansexual. I thought I told you that."
"No."
"Oh, well, I am. My boyfriend's name is Drew."
What a terrible coincidence, his boyfriend has the same name as my enemy, Brad thinks. "Drew what?"
"Drew Dirksen." Brad widens his eyes at his last name. "What?" the younger boy asks. "You know him? He moved here from America - Los Angeles to be exact - and he has blond hair and beautiful blue eyes..."
As Connor continues gushing over Drew, he tries imagining the two boys together, but he can't. They're just two different people. Them as a couple would be way too weird. The curly-haired boy loudly gags in hopes it'd stop his friend from talking about his enemy like the blond's Francisco Lachowski.
"What?" Connor questions, angrily furrowing his brows. "You know, my eating disorder isn't a joke, you dick! I'm not the little, vulnerable boy in the medical center anymore! I'm not letting you walk all over me like before! Stop picking on my eating disorder or I'll punch your fucking face in!"
"I'm not picking on you?" Brad widens his eyes. "I was just -"
"Stop looking at me like that!" Connor shouts. The older boy quickly jumps away from him, putting his hands up. "Ugh, I thought you, out of all people, would understand me. But you're just like everyone else!"
"I didn't do anything..."
"Stop it!" Brad shrinks away from him, not knowing what he's supposed to stop doing. "I'm not crazy! I'm not!"
"I never said you were, Con."
"You're right." Connor sighs, running a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I haven't slept for twenty hours. I just need to rest, and I'll be fine. I didn't mean to snap. I don't know what's happening."
And then he suddenly starts crying. Brad awkwardly watches, wondering what he's supposed to do to make him stop. Crying people and Brad definitely do not mix. He doesn't even know what just happened. A second ago Connor was smiling, and now he's crying.
"I'll just go," the sixteen-year-old quietly decides, balancing his weight onto his good leg and placing his crutches underneath his arms.
Connor nods up at him and pulls his teary eyes to the anime on TV again, wiping his face on the sleeves of his jumper. Brad quickly limps out as fast as he can and down the hallway to the elevator, his one sneaker annoyingly squeaking against the floor. He'd be able to see his reflection below him if he actually looked, but he doesn't. The only thing on his mind is getting out of there.
. . .
"Can't we go somewhere that I won't see people from school at?" Brad pleads his parents.
Due to his shitty family therapist, she assigned for the family of three to go out together somewhere Saturday night. The sixteen-year-old already wanted to bang his head into a wall at the fact he's forced to hang out with his lame parents on a Saturday night, but now that they've informed him they're planning on taking him to the movie theatre, Brad's sure he's going to perish. There's a huge chance someone from school is going to be there, and Brad's positive he's bullied enough about his eating disorder. Getting picked on for hanging out with his parents on a Saturday night will only make it worse. And anyway, Drew works there on the weekends. Brad doesn't want to see him. He'll think of Connor, and right now, the thought of his friend only puts him in a bad mood. Well, a worse mood than he already is in.
"It'll be fine, Brad," his dad attempts reassuring him. "If you see someone from school, I'll help you hide."
Brad lets out a sigh before hesitantly approving his solution.
"Going out to eat is still an option, you know," his mum reminds him. She's in the mirror putting mascara on her eyelashes. Brad doesn't understand why she's getting dressed up just to hang out with her son and husband, but he's learned not to question her.
"Can we go and ruin my dying social life yet?" the sixteen-year-old impatiently asks his parents.
"Okay, we're leaving." his dad informs him, shaking his head at his moody son. "You really need to take a nap that lasts for a month."
"You get it," Brad tells him. "Maybe when I get known as the boy who hangs out with his parents on Saturday nights, the embarrassment will slap me into a coma."
In some ways, he isn't completely joking.
As soon as Brad sees the movie theatre, he lets out a loud groan. He crosses his fingers, hoping that no one from school will happen to be there. But he already knows there is, because the universe hates his guts.
"Stop worrying so much," his mum tells him as he limps inside the building alongside his parents. Brad rolls his eyes when she looks away. His parents just don't get it. They don't understand how much everyone hates Brad already. They don't understand how even being seen alone at a bowling alley encourages his peers to pick on him. Ever since the group of teenagers from his school saw Brad unconsciously forcing down all that food, they haven't left him alone about it. In fact, they think his binge is the funniest thing ever. Of course including his ex-boyfriend who thinks everything about his eating disorder is one big joke.
Brad frowns at the sight of Drew behind the counter in his work uniform. The curly-haired bou automatically looks down, fiddling with his fingers. He doesn't remember the last time he's spoken to the younger boy. He sees him around at school sometimes, but Drew instantly looks away from him, like he doesn't even exist. The curly-haired boy thinks he should've yelled at him a long time ago if it were this easy to push him away for good; although, sometimes it makes him inexplicably sad when he thinks back on how their friendship used to be. They were so close, and knew each other better than they knew themselves in short, six months. And now it's like they're strangers.
Brad doesn't even realise his parents already purchased their tickets and received them until his dad snaps him back to reality. "Planning on moving any time soon?" he asks.
Brad nods. "Yeah - sorry."
As he walks away, he glances at Drew, but his blue eyes are glued to the computer screen in front of him, already forgetting about the brown-eyed boy limping away from him. This is how I wanted it, Brad reminds himself, heading towards their movie. But he feels strange.
His dad stops him again. "We're going to get some popcorn. Where has your head gone, Brad?"
"I'm just anxious about seeing people from school, that's all," Brad lies, shrugging his shoulders. "I'll wait by the tables until you get your popcorn."
His dad slowly nods, like he knows Brad's not entirely telling the truth before walking away with his mum. The teenager limps towards the tables by the soda machine, pulling his phone out of his pocket and typing a text message to Tristan before pocketing it again. As he looks around, he notices a tall boy by the soda machine, drizzling butter over popcorn before pulling his phone out of his pocket and glancing down it, his long fingers tapping across the screen. The longer Brad stares, he realises he knows him.
Instantly, he jumps onto his sneaker and quickly limps over towards the boy, engulfing him in a hug. His crutches drop to the floor, but he doesn't care. All he cares about is the beautiful boy in front of him.
"Whoa," Tristan utters, pocketing his phone and turning around to the smaller boy tightly clinging onto him. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, this is a public place so..." Brad trails off, laughing at the question as he buries his face in his chest. "I'm so glad you're here. Ever since I left the playground I've been waiting to hug you again."
The seventeen-year-old chuckles, burying his face in his curls. "I've missed you, too."
Brad can tell something is wrong with him, but he doesn't say anything.
"So, who are you here with?" the younger boy questions.
"Well, um -" Tristan's sentence is cut off by Brad's annoying parents suddenly joining his side.
"Who is this?" his mum asks, smiling widely at Tristan.
Brad coughs and pulls away from him. Tristan bends down and hands him his crutches. "A friend," her son awkwardly replies.
"That's nice. I'm Brad's mum," she introduces, shaking his hand. His dad introduces himself and shakes Tristan's hand also.
"'m Tristan," the blond sheepishly replies. Brad frowns, realising he's mumbling.
"Tristan?" the sixteen-year-old's mum questions. "You're the boy who delivered those balloons and that bear to our house on Valentine's Day! That was so sweet!"
"I thought Jack delivered those?" his dad says, furrowing his brows.
The seventeen-year-old frowns, questioningly looking down at Brad. "Who's Jack, Brad?"
Brad lets out a small sigh, realising how bad all this looks, before a woman interrupts the conversation alongside a blond, little girl.
"Tristan, our movie is about to start!" she says, angrily furrowing her brows at the older boy. She questioningly eyes the three people surrounding Tristan. "What's happening here?"
"Just talking with my friend and his parents," the blond mumbles, looking down at the buttered popcorn in his hands. The woman takes it away from him and hands it to the little girl.
"Oh, okay. That makes sense," she says, glancing at Brad and his family. Her tone is flat, like a computer. Brad automatically doesn't like her. Whoever she is. "I'm Tristan's mum," she explains.
Brad furrows his brows. Didn't Tristan say that his mum died? he thinks, questioningly looking over towards the seventeen-year-old. His face is red and he refuses to look up at the younger boy as his parents introduce themselves.
"I'm Brad, Tristan's friend," he slowly informs her.
She nods. "Okay, now that that's finished, we have a movie to get to. Sorry. Tristan, you can catch up with your friend later."
Tristan nods without looking at the younger boy and rushes away without saying goodbye. The curly-haired boy's not sure what to think. Who lies about their mum dying? the sixteen-year-old asks himself, limping behind his parents. Tristan didn't seem like a person who'd lie about something so serious. Tristan didn't seeem like a person who lied at all. But when Brad thinks about it, there seems to be a lot of things he doesn't know about Tristan.
. . .
o damn things just got messy
i bet u thought everything between tradley was going to stay all gumdrops and rainbows hehehhe u thought wrong