"Why aren't you dressed?" his mum questions, frowning at her son's black tee shirt and basketball shorts.
Brad sits up from his lying position on the bed and shakes up his bedheaded curls into something that could pass as a hairstyle. "What do you mean? I am dressed."
"You're wearing sleeping clothes," she claims. She pulls open his closet and throws a pair of jeans at him. "Put that on."
"I'm not wearing sleeping clothes, and I don't have to dress up for Tristan, Mum," the sixteen-year-old tells her, pushing the jeans aside. "It's just Tristan. He already knows what I look like. It's not like we're going on a date or anything."
"Get dressed!" his mum demands, disappearing out of his bedroom and into the hallway. Brad falls back onto his pillow, letting out a loud groan. He throws the jeans somewhere and grabs his crutches, limping over to his closet to find a more "suitable" pair of shorts to wear instead. It's too complicated and time consuming forcing his cast inside of jeans. Brad's already cut one leg off two pairs of trousers due to his frustration, but he has no idea where they are now.
He drops his basketball shorts and wiggles his legs into a pair of denim shorts just as the doorbell rings indicating Tristan's arrival. Smoothing out his tee shirt, he balances his weight on his crutches and limps out of his bedroom to the staircase leading downstairs. Tristan's at the door, strangely smiling at Brad's mum with a bouquet of pretty yellow and orange flowers in his hands. He hands it to Brad's mum causing her to smile and loudly thank him, like the teenager had just handed her a diamond. She doesn't notice how badly Tristan's hands are shaking. Only Brad does.
The curly-haired boy holds both crutches in one hand and grabs onto the railing, hopping down each individual step before reaching the bottom. "Hey," he greets the older boy still standing in the doorway. "Are you going to come inside?"
"Yeah," Tristan replies, pocketing his hands before stepping inside the house and taking in his surroundings.
"Brad, go put these..." Brad's mum trails off, thoughtfully eyeing the bouquet of flowers in her hands.
"Chrysanthemums," the seventeen-year-old informs her.
She smiles widely. "Brad, go put these chrysanthemums in a vase with water."
Brad mentally groans, turning to Tristan and balancing his weight on his crutches again. "Come with," he says, nudging one of his crutches towards direction of the staircase.
Tristan slowly nods and takes the flowers from Brad's mum with unsteady hands before they both head towards the staircase. "Are you sure you're okay walking up there?" the older boy asks.
"Yeah, I've been getting up perfectly fine for about a week. Hold this." He hands Tristan both of his crutches and basically repeats his actions from earlier, hopping up the staircase until he reaches the top.
Tristan slowly walks up after him, his eyes scanning over Natalie's many photos and the only two involving Brad. "You're still upset," the blond observes, handing the smaller boy his crutches.
"Well, you shouldn't expect me to be happy," Brad mutters. He places his crutches back under his arm and leads the way to his parents' crowded bedroom. "I don't understand why you can't trust me, Tris. I tell you everything about myself, and you don't trust me with any information on your life. If I hadn't been at your house that night, how long would we have to be friends before you tell me about your father?"
"My father is irrelevant," Tristan tells him. Brad pushes the door open to his parents' room.
"My ex is irrelevant, but you still felt like you should know nearly everything about our relationship that ended eight months ago," Brad argues. "And this isn't even about your dad. This is about you lying to me about your mum dying, and then avoiding the issue."
"I just don't want to talk about it." Tristan rests his back against the wall, running a hand through his hair. "Why can't you respect the fact I don't want to bloody talk about it?"
"Whatever, Tris," the curly-haired mumbles, picking up the empty vase on his mum's nightstand and handing it to the taller boy. He places the chrysanthemums in the vase before Brad leads him to the toilet, helping Tristan place the vase under the faucet of his parents' bath tub and fill it with water.
"I'm sorry," Tristan apologises, noticing the hurt expression on the younger boy's face. He brushes his hair away from his forehead sending his curls falling back into place. "I trust you, Brad. I do."
"Okay."
"I'm not lying," Tristan claims, pulling the smaller boy's hands away from the vase and holding them.
"How am I supposed to know when you're lying and when you're not?"
"Don't be like that," he begs, cupping Brad's face in his hands. "Please look at me."
Brad slowly looks up, locking his brown eyes with blue.
"I'll tell you when I'm ready," he promises, nudging his nose against Brad's. The younger boy breathes him in, his minty scent filling his lungs. He wonders why they always seem to have these moments in bathrooms. "Your eyes are so pretty," Tristan suddenly compliments. "Have I ever told you that?"
A smile twitches on his lips, even though he doesn't believe him, and he especially doesn't want to smile at him. "Sweet talk isn't going to work, babe."
"I just wanted to tell you that your eyes are pretty."
"Yeah - okay." Brad pulls away from him, but Tristan leans back into him, placing his hands on the smaller boy's shoulders and pressing their lips together in a kiss.
"Have you put my flowers in the vase yet?" Brad hears his mum ask from outside of the room. The two boys quickly pull away from each other, Brad turning towards the chrysanthemums they accidentally let nearly drown in water. The younger boy quickly turns the faucet off and pours some of the water out as his mum enters the room, obliviously smiling at them.
"Hurry up, the food is going to get cold," she says.
"Sorry," Brad quickly apologises, handing the vase of chrysanthemums to a red-faced Tristan. He awkwardly smiles at Brad's mum until she slowly backs out of the small space (due to the weird plants his mum has scattered around) and into her bedroom.
"Your face gives everything away," Brad quietly tells him, playfully shoving him in the shoulder. Water splashes out of the vase and nearly slips out of Tristan's fingertips. The younger boy frowns at how unsteady he is. "Loosen up, Tris. What's wrong with you?"
"I'm nervous."
"Why? They're not going to bite your head off." Brad laughs and holds onto the wall to help him up. Tristan frowns up at him, like there's actually a possibility Brad's parents will bite his head off once they sit down for dinner. "C'mon, idiot, let's go downstairs."
. . .
Once the two teenagers sit down at the table, the blond placing Brad's mum's chrysanthemums in the middle of the table, the younger boy's parents are automatically looking towards Tristan. Brad pinches the bridge of his nose knowing that soon the questions are going to come, which will intimidate Tristan even more. They'd done the same thing with Jack, interrogating him like he was accused of murder, but his ex is able to handle being under pressure while Tristan panics when there's only a group of patients' looking at him.
"So, Tristan, how old are you?" his dad questions, placing Brad's Ensure bottle beside his son's plate.
The sixteen-year-old twists off the cap of the bottle and takes a small sip of the drink as Tristan mumbles something in response. Brad furrows his brows at him.
"I'm sorry, may you repeat that?" Brad's dad asks. Tristan mumbles again, his blue eyes glued to the food on his plate. The younger boy's father furrows his brows at the blond and glances towards Brad, like he's asking what he's supposed to do.
"Seventeen," the curly-haired boy quickly replies for him. He glances towards Tristan before looking at his father again. "He's seventeen-years-old."
Tristan slowly nods in agreement without looking up at the three of them. He carefully picks up his utensils as he blankly stares at the potatoes on his plate, nervously gnawing on his bottom lip. Brad extends his arm over to the older boy and places a hand on his knee in hopes his anxiety will thin out, but he jumps at the contact, his utensil clanking against the plate. Brad furrows his brows as his eyes find Tristan's. He mouths, loosen up, causing the older boy to nod, nervously darting his eyes around the table. He pulls his hand under the table, placing it on top of Brad's and squeezing his small hand. The curly-haired boy gives him a little smile and looks down at the plate of food. It's a smaller portion than what Brad's usually forced to down three times a day. He assumes the smaller portion's due to his parents actually being considerate for once and deciding that they wouldn't want to torture their son in front of the guy he likes. Brad wishes they'd thoroughly think about this everyday for every meal.
The first three minutes pass by in silence, everyone silently eating their food. Brad nervously glances around the table, trying to take in his parents' expressions, but they're unreadable.
"So, Tristan," his mum suddenly speaks, invading the awkward silence, "what University are you planning on going to after you finish school?"
Tristan's face instantly flushes red at the question. He glances at Brad, his eyes pleading for help, but the curly-haired boy only shrugs. The seventeen-year-old looks at his glass of water, swallowing and inaudibly replying under his breath once again causing his mum to furrow her brows at him.
Brad mentally sighs, squeezing Tristan's knee. "Speak louder," he mouths.
"I'm not sure yet," Tristan quietly replies. The three have to lean forward to actually hear him.
"Oh," she says, glancing at her husband. "When did you turn seventeen?"
"Last August," he answers. His hand becomes clammy on top of Brad's causing him to pull it away, wiping his hand on his jeans before slipping his fingers into the younger boy's palm under the table.
Brad's parents exchange incomphrensible glances again at the blond's response. Tristan nervously licks his lips.
"Are you involved in anything in school?" his mum asks, weirdly smiling at him.
"No," the seventeen-year-old quietly says. Brad takes a small bite of his potatoes. Tristan notices the expression of his face and quickly adds: "But I do sometimes stay after school and help out with the art club if my dad lets me."
His mum grins, happy that he's actually engaging in the conversation. "That's nice! Do you like art?"
"It's okay."
"Are you any good at it?"
"No." This causes Brad's mother to furrow her brows again. "I mostly just help clean and set up everything," he quietly explains, awkwardly nodding at his plate. He hasn't touched anything on it, which is probably good since everything his parents cook are pre-frozen meals that you can easily pop in the microwave.
"What are your hobbies?" his dad asks. Brad's mother quickly downs her glass of water, like she's happy to not be the one asking questions anymore.
"I don't have any," Tristan answers.
"Do you play any sports?"
"No."
"Do you like any sports?"
The older boy harshly bites on his lip, contemplating his answer before simply replying with: "No."
His dad furrows his eyebrows before glancing at Brad, like he's pleading for him to do something. The curly-haired boy has no idea what he's supposed to do. He can't just make his parents see Tristan in his perspective, because they don't know the other side of him. Based on who the seventeen-year-old's talking to, Tristan's personality varies. Sometimes he's talkative and warm-hearted while most times (around most people) he's awkward and shy. That's just how he is.
"Do you have a job?" his dad asks. Brad appreciates his perserverance, but he wishes he'd just stop with the questions. It's obviously making Tristan feel sick.
"I sometimes cut my neighbour's grass during the summertime if my dad lets me," he replies. Brad mentally face-palms at his response. He wonders if Tristan's even hearing himself talk right now.
His parents exchange glances again. "That's, um, nice..."
There's silence again. Usually, awkward silence makes everything more awkward, but somehow this dinner is less uncomfortable when handled in silence. The sixteen-year-old feels like throwing himself out of the window, and he's not even the one being interrogated.
"Can I go to the toilet?" Tristan utters.
"Sure," Brad's mum tells him, eyeing Tristan's untouched plate. "It's upstairs on the right."
The blond nods, pulling his hand away from Brad's and scurrying out of his seat before he disappears up the staircase. The sixteen-year-old wonders how long it's going to take before they realise the door is locked.
"What was that?" Brad angrily asks his parents. "This is dinner, not a job interview. You scared him off."
"One, lower your voice and drop the attitude; two, we did not "scare him off," we were answering simple questions," she defends. "And please eat a little more. I know it's hard seeing him avoid his plate, but the rules haven't changed. You still have to eat."
Brad frowns at his parents. "I'm going to find something to help him unlock the door."
Before they have a chance to say anything, the younger boy grabs his crutches and limps off to the staircase. As he leaps up the stairs on one leg, he frowns at the sound of sniffling. Letting out a sigh, he shakes up his curls with his free hand and continues leaping up the rest of the stairs, seeing Tristan sitting down on the floor with his head resting on the wall behind him.
"Tris," the curly-haired boy says, frowning down at the blond, "why are you crying?"
"I'm not crying," he disagrees, drying his face. "There's just something in my eye."
"I don't understand what's wrong," he says, slowly plopping down next to him and lying his crutches beside him.
"They don't like me," Tristan tells him. "I don't have myself together, I don't do anything, I can't eat, I'm not good enough. I'm not enough for you at all, and your parents know that. I know that."
"You are enough, Tris."
He shakes his head, closing his eyes. "I bet Jack was involved in school. I bet he has his whole life figured out, too."
"And I bet he's also planning on how else to make my life hell."
Tristan furrows his brows. "What?"
"You know the guy at the bowling alley?" the sixteen-year-old asks. "The one with the curly, short hair?"
"Um, yeah."
"That's Jack."
"Oh, man," Tristan says, scrunching his face up in disgust, "what an asshole."
"Yeah." Brad laughs and rests his head on Tristan's shoulder. "And even if Jack wasn't an asshole, I'd still choose you. I'd always choose you. No matter what, you're always going to be my first choice, Tris."
"You're always going to be my first choice, too. Like I said, you are my first everything."
"And possibly your first boyfriend, too?" Brad questions, lifting his head from Tristan's shoulder and smiling at him.
The blond pauses, a wide smile slowly forming on his face. He interlaces their fingers. "Yeah, definitely my first boyfriend."
Brad laughs and pulls him in for a kiss, because he can't help looking at his lips and not kissing him. When they hesitantly pull away from each other, Tristan wraps an arm around his small body, bringing the younger boy into his chest.
"My mum and I never really got along," Tristan tells him. "We're completely different, and when I lived with her, she was barely at home at all. My parents weren't ever home, really. It was just me, trying to figure out how to take care of myself. Even though I think I have a lot more years and years of growing up, life sort of forced me to grow up earlier than I had to. I never liked my parents because of that, especially my mum, because she's so judgmental over everything. I remember being six-years-old and her yelling at me about mumbling and yelling at me about not having any friends in school and yelling at me for liking certain things. I never liked her, but I don't like people not liking me so I always tried to meet her expectations, but it always turned out wrong.
"Well, when I was hospitalised, it wasn't even because my mum saw that I was becoming sick. I don't think she cared, or maybe she didn't notice. I don't know why, but I was hospitalised because I fainted in class, and after being sent to the hospital, the doctor suggested for me to be sent to the medical center. I guess my mum wanted to be seen as a good mother so she went ahead and admitted me, but one Wednesday she came to visit me and..." he pauses, sucking in a deep breath, "... she told me she moved all my things to my dad's, and that she doesn't have time to take care of someone like me, and that she didn't have room for a sick person in her life. It was the same day you saw me crying in the hallway."
Brad frowns, realising he basically told Tristan the same thing the day he visited him.
"I was so upset about her giving up on me, I thought it'd just make me feel better to say she's dead," Tristan explains. "I couldn't believe she didn't have room for her own son so the words just came out naturally. And you and I didn't know each other that well so I didn't see the harm in lying, because I didn't think we'd ever become this close. And I didn't want to tell you the truth when we started becoming close, because I was scared you wouldn't like me anymore. I'm sorry."
Brad sits up and looks at the older boy. "Don't apologise, Tris. I'm so sorry about your mum."
"It's okay."
"No, it isn't," he tells him. "You don't deserve to be treated so badly. And I'm still so sorry about what I said when I went to visit you. I was such a dick to say you don't fit in my life."
"I forgave you, Brad." Tristan smiles at him and pecks his lips. "I understand why you said that. You're nothing like her."
Brad pulls his lips into a small smile, snaking his arms around the taller boy. "I'm still sorry, though, Tris. You're perfect, okay? You're an amazing person with this big heart, and it saddens me how people don't give you recognition for how amazing you are. But I'm going to make up for that, okay?" he says, kissing him again. "I'm never going to let you forget how amazing you are. I'm never going to stop telling you that you deserve cities and the sun and the sky and just... everything."
Tristan smiles, pressing their foreheads together and looking into Brad's eyes. "If this isn't cities and the sun and the sky and everything," he says, his fingertips brushing his hair away from his forehead before he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, "then I don't want it."
. . .
if you want to scream and fling yourself off a cliff bc tradley is so cute and the feels are too strong and you can't take this any longer clap yer hands