The curly-haired boy suddenly jumps awake from the strange dream again, breathing heavily and frantically taking in the dark surroundings he fell asleep to nearly three hours ago. Once he rolls over onto his side, he catches his breath, face-to-face with his sleeping boyfriend softly inhaling and exhaling in the sleeping bag beside him. Brad struggles to imitate the seventeen-year-old's involuntary actions and pulls his body into a sitting position in his sleeping bag, rubbing two fist over droopy eyes.
"Tris," he whispers, gently brushing his fingertips over the blond's jawline. Tristan stirs in his sleep, unconsciously murmuring an incomprehensible response before rolling over onto his back. The younger boy lets out a sigh and shakes up his messy curls, wishing he could peacefully fall asleep each night without seeing that creepy skeleton behind his eyelids. And of course, waking up with the seemingly unbearable emptiness in his stomach. It's like the skeleton and hunger walk hand in hand.
He slowly sinks back into the partially zipped sleeping bag until he's resting on his back before rolling over onto his stomach, burying his face into the fluffy pillow beneath his head. Maybe I should've ate a little more, he thinks, already disagreeing with himself as soon as the thought comes. He wonders what's happening to him. How did he turn from always telling himself: "eat for the body you want, not for the body you have," to believing that feeling hungry isn't a good thing? This is the least he's eaten in three months. He should be ecstastic.
But it's hard being ecstastic knowing that crisps, pie, biscuits, pizza, sausage, cake, chips, ice-cream, doughnuts, soda, and pasta still exist, and somewhere near half of those fattening foods are stored in the kitchen, just waiting for Brad to consume them.
With one last look at the back of his boyfriend's tousled blond locks, the curly-haired boy's unzipping his own sleeping bag, crutches in hand, as he quickly limps through Tristan's nan's house to the staircase leading to the second floor.
He doesn't worry about making his way downstairs unheard. He hurriedly hops down the staircase and flies to the kitchen despite his ankle. As soon as he flicks on the kitchen light, he pauses.
What am I doing? he asks, resting his back against the wall. He realises he can't just freely raid Tristan's nan's cabinets, even though she did tell him to help himself to anything in the kitchen. But he's not stupid. Everyone says that.
I shouldn't even be down here, anyway, Brad tells himself. But he doesn't pick his feet up from the tiled floor. Instead, he drops his crutches, allowing them to clatter to the floor before he limps over to the cabinet and snatches out a bag of wavy crisps. He instantly drops to his knees and tries prying the bag open, groaning in frustration when the stubborn bag remains closed. Frowning, he fumbles with the opening, trying to force the crisps open before it suddenly rips open, sending all of them flying into the air and landing onto the kitchen floor. Brad doesn't care. He quickly scrambles over on his hands and knees, like an animal, to the crisps sprawled out on the floor, and grabs a handful, shoving the salty snack into his mouth.
After he's done, he pulls himself up with the counter and limps over to the fridge, pulling out a half finished container of vanilla ice-cream. He frantically searches through all the drawers until he finds the drawers of utensils and instantly snatches up a large, silver spoon, shoving it into the dessert. Instantly, he's licking the silver clean before shoving it back into the container again for another spoonful. He limps over to the refrigerator, searching for cherries before his eyes light up at the sight of chocolate syrup. He quickly pulls it out along with a container of vanilla frosting, and pops off the lid of the chocolate syrup, squirting a thin line of fudge into the container until the vanilla inside is no longer visible. He carelessly lets the bottle slip from his fingers when he's finished and forces spoonfuls of chocolate syrup and vanilla ice-cream into his mouth, literally moaning at the taste.
Dropping the empty container to the floor, splattering chocolate and vanilla, he peels off the red lid of the frosting and scoops it up with his spoon. He quickly grows annoyed with the utensil and drops it, scooping a large amount of frosting on his finger instead and eating it. Wiping his saliva finger on his shirt, he quickly returns to the opened cabinet, accidentally stepping on the opened chocolate syrup bottle during his journey. He ignores the chocolate squirting across the floor and stands in front of the cabinet, greedy eyes scanning all the food items inside. He attempts extending his arm to the pack of biscuits on the top shelf and pushing himself onto his tippy toes to reach it, but his fingertips barely reach the top shelf. Brad instantly limps over to the dining room beside the kitchen, dragging a barstool randomly sitting in the corner of the room across the tiled floor and placing it in front of the cabinet. Balancing his weight on the counter, he slowly highers himself on the unsteady chair with one leg to reach the box of biscuits on the top shelf. He obliviously extends his arm again, his one good leg wobbling on all the weight pressed onto it along with the barstool underneath him.
Brad tries balancing himself as he pushes his weight onto his tippy toes and -
"Brad?" The curly-haired boy entirely loses his faltering balance and falls along with all the food stored in the cabinet and the barstool, heroically dropping backwards into his boyfriend's arms. Tristan sighs of relief and slowly lowers the small boy to the floor. "What the hell were you doing on that broken barstool?"
"There were biscuits. I was hungry. I -" the younger boy widens his eyes at the mess he made as suddenly, he's yanked into reality, and everything has a chance to slowly sink into his brain. Tears sting his eyes.
Tristan automatically pulls the younger boy into his bare chest as tears spill down Brad's cheeks. "It's okay," he reassures him, sympathetically running a hand down his back. "It's okay to be hungry, babe."
The sixteen-year-old allows himself to sob into his chest, snaking his arms around the taller boy's torso and crawling into his lap. Tristan only laces his fingers through the younger boy's curls, tightening his hold on him, like he's terrified of letting go.
. . .
"Cover your eyes," Brad instructs the older boy sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Tristan pouts, but obediently places two hands over his eyes to shield his view. The curly-haired boy self-consciously turns his back towards him, anyway, before pulling his sticky, chocolate stained tee shirt over his head, hoping his boyfriend isn't peeking at him changing shirts. The younger boy allowed Tristan to be in the toilet with him as he tried cleaning himself up, hence his boyfriend was afraid Brad would purge behind his back in the toilet by himself. It's becoming kind of annoying how much of a mum his boyfriend is suddenly becoming, but he rather not argue with him about it. He assumes Tristan has a reason to be worried.
Pulling a clean, long-sleeved tee shirt over his head, he turns to his horrendous reflection, smoothing his shirt over his stomach. I really need to do sit ups, he thinks, pinching the fat through his shirt. He lets out a sigh, pulling his fingers through his curls. Every day it becomes more frustrating living in his skin.
"What's wrong?" Tristan asks, his face still hidden behind his hands.
Brad widens his eyes. His presence had somehow completely left his mind. "Nothing. You can uncover your eyes now."
The blond pulls his hands away and smiles at the small boy standing in front of him. "You look beautiful."
"I'm wearing a long-sleeved shirt with boxers," the younger boy reminds him, amused by the compliment.
"You still look beautiful," Tristan claims. He pulls himself up from his sitting position and walks up behind the shorter boy, snaking his long arms around his waist. He rests his chin on Brad's shoulder, swaying the two boys side-to-side. "You always d0."
Brad chuckles before turning away from the mirror and snuggling into Tristan's bare chest. "Am I the only one kind of cold?"
"No," the older boy replies, despite his lack of clothing. "I'll get you something warm to put on, okay?"
"Okay." Brad nods. "Can you get my phone out my bag, too?"
"Sure."
The curly-haired boy turns back to the mirror, watching the tired, chubby teenager standing across from him. Somehow his eyes trail over to the toilet as the realisation he's finally alone dawns over him.
Do it, that little voice demands in his head. Two fingers are already pressed to his lips. Brad doesn't even remember raising them. He's already turning, too, slowly limping towards the toilet, patiently waiting for him to rid himself of the calorie-infested snacks he hysterically devoured minutes ago.
But Tristan trusts me, he reminds himself, backing away from the toilet. Brad deeply believes Tristan genuinely cares about him, and he couldn't live with himself if he disappointed him. The seventeen-year-old doesn't want his boyfriend hurting himself, and Brad doesn't want to make him upset.
"Here you go." The blond returns behind his reflection, his phone and a grey jumper in hand. He suddenly looks a little upset, but Brad doesn't mention it, deciding if the seventeen-year-old has anything to talk about, he'll come to him. Which the younger boy hopes Tristan actually does when he's upset. He wants to be there for him as much as he can.
Brad smiles at his boyfriend as he helps him pull his head into the large jumper. Tristan lets out a little laugh when his headful of messy curls pop out of the opening, flopping down over his face.
"You look so lost," he tells him, pulling his small body in by the long sleeves and pressing a kiss to his lips. He slips Brad's phone into his palm as he laces his fingers through his curls, brushing them away from his face. "Let's go back to sleep, okay?"
"Okay," Brad answers. Tristan kisses him once again before slowly disappearing into the guest room.
As he leaves, the curly-haired boy limps back over to the mirror, critically eyeing his reflection reciprocating his discontented frown. Tristan is right. He does look lost in his jumper. He looks like a little child, lost and alone, fading away inch by inch.
When Brad limps his way back into the bedroom, Tristan's lying in the bed, the sleeping bag they used hours before neglected on the floor. The younger boy's not even sure he's supposed to, but he sets his phone on the nightstand and slowly crawls into the bed beside him, snuggling into Tristan's side. Automatically, the older boy's arms are wrapped around him, tightly pressing their bodies together.
"Night," Brad says as streaks of sunlight peek through the windows.
Tristan kisses his forehead, leaving his lips there longer than necessary before burying his face in the smaller boy's neck. "G'night."
. . .
Brad's eyes slowly flutter open, a sloppy smile spreading on his face at the sight of his boyfriend lying beside him, the blond's body intertwined with his. The younger boy pulls his fingers through his curls before reluctantly peeling himself away from Tristan causing the seventeen-year-old to unconsciously frown and reach his arms out for him. Brad places a pillow between the older boy's outstretched arms and glances around the guest room, trying to figure out what happened, why he's awake, before his tired eyes land on the nightstand, occupied by his pinging phone.
He stretches his arm over to the nightstand, furrowing his brows at the five text messages from Connor. It's too early for the fifteen-year-old to be released from the hospital. At least that's what Brad thinks. James told him that the more you're hospitalised, an extra two weeks are added to your hospitalisation (apparently it's E.D unit rules,) meaning that his friend would have had to stay in the hospital for eight weeks.
As Brad attempts reading the text messages from his friend, informing the older boy he's back at home and having a birthday party next weekend, his phone goes off, indicating Connor's calling him. Tristan stirs beside him, rolling over onto the pillow and burying his face inside of it. Brad limps over to the closet and goes inside the empty space before answering his friend's call.
"Hi," the older boy greets, shaking up his curls.
"Hey," he says. "Did I wake you up?"
"Kind of, yeah."
"Oh, well," he unapologeticaly replies. "Read my messages. My birthday is the fifteenth so I'm having a party this weekend. I sent you all the details."
"Okay."
"Tristan's invited, too, by the way, but I don't have his number so ring him for me." Brad hums in response. "Are you coming?"
"Um, I don't know..."
"You have to come!" Connor tells him.
" I don't really do parties."
"It's not a huge party! It's a small one. I only invited sixty people."
"Sixty people?" Brad repeats. "Wow, that's such a small party!"
"That's what I was trying to tell you." The older boy rolls his eyes at his audible sarcasm going unrecognised. "And you know, a lot aren't even going to come. I say at least forty people will be there. You'll be fine."
"I'm really not into parties. I haven't been to one in nearly eight months."
"That's depressing. See you Saturday then." Before Brad has a chance to protest, Connor hangs up, leaving the curly-haired boy angrily staring at his lock screen. He lets out an exasperated sigh and pockets his phone in Tristan's jumper before there's a knock outside the guest room. The younger boy limps out of the closet.
"Breakfast is downstairs, you two!" Tristan's nan loudly informs them from outside the door. The seventeen-year-old stirs, his arm dangling off the bed.
"We'll be down there in a second!" Brad replies, quickly limping over to his bag on the floor. He unzips it, fumbling through all the items stored inside for the diet pills he stole from James. Widening his eyes at the loss of the bottle, he pours everything inside out onto the floor, running his hands through everything. Brad frowns. He remembers vividly dropping the bottle inside his bag. There's no reason why it shouldn't be in here. He can't eat breakfast without them.
"Are you looking for this?" Brad jumps, redirecting his eyes towards his boyfriend sleepily sitting up in the bed with tousled hair and Brad's diet pills in hand.
"Yes," the younger boy slowly says. He zips his bag closed and pulls himself onto his one leg, retrieving his crutches from the wall and limping back over towards the bed. "Why do you have them?"
"I took them," Tristan casually replies. He looks down at the bottle, slowly turning it in his hands.
"Are you going to give them back?" Brad impatiently asks.
"Why do you need them?" the older boy questions. "You're fine, Brad. Skinny pills aren't going to help anything, anyway."
"Because you know everything," the curly-haired boy snaps. He desperately reaches for the bottle of pills, but Tristan pulls them out of his reach. "I'm not going to chase you around, Tris! I'm serious! Give them back!"
"Why do you do this?"
"Do what?"
"Hurt yourself," he says, concern laced in his sleepy features. "You're so blinded by this mad image of being muscular and twenty-seven kilos that you ruin yourself to get there. It'll be quite hard being happy in your skin when you're dead, Brad."
"You don't know anything!" the younger boy claims, shaking his head and backing away from him.
He frowns. "I almost died at one point. The mass of my heart decreased; my potassium was so low I had to go on a feeding tube; I was a size double zero, and I didn't even know that was possible.
"I'm not you, and I can't possibly know exactly what'll happen to you, but I know a lot, okay? I have an idea of what'll happen to you if you don't stop being mean to yourself. I don't want you to get hurt, Brad. I care a lot about you. I don't want you to do damage you can't, like, undo..."
Brad's expression softens and suddenly his anger is replaced by fear that steals all the air from his lungs. I almost died, too, he remembers. He thinks about before he was hospitalised - how he'd randomly find himself on the floor sometimes without knowing what happened, how he'd jump up feeling dizzy, how sometimes the floor looked like it was rising, how he'd do one hundred push ups and two hundred fifty crunches and end up throwing up, even though there was no food in his system. And then he starts thinking back to the special care unit and the bald girls and how small Tristan's arms were, and then he's shaking his head, like maybe everything Tristan said will become more of a lie the more he shakes it and all the memories in his head will become unreal. But suddenly he's panicking, his heart thumping wildly in his chest and his breathing dangerously picking up. Placing a hand over his heart, he drops his crutches, tears falling down his face. He doesn't even know why he's crying or why he's scared. He just is.
"Brad?" the older boy calls, questioningly eyeing his boyfriend.
Thr curly-haired boy shakes his head, running a hand over his face. "Stop it!" he shouts.
"Stop what?" Tristan asks, furrowing his brows.
Brad shakes his head again, realising that he's sounding as mad as Connor. But he's nothing like the younger boy. He's in control and he's sane and nothing like him. "I'm going home," he decides, snatching his diet pills from the older boy's grasp and limping over to his bag. With a blurry vision, he grabs the first pair of his one leg and a half trousers he can find and pulls them on over his boxers before dropping to his knees and sloppily chucking in everything he sprawled out on the floor.
"Brad," Tristan says, slowly standing up from his sitting position, "how are you going to get there?"
"Don't worry about it," he replies, wiping his tears away and grabbing his crutches from the floor.
"Brad..." The older boy locks his fingers around Brad's wrist.
"Let go of me!" he shouts, attempting to wriggle his arm free. The curly-haired boy doesn't remember biting him, but suddenly he's free and there are teeth marks on Tristan's arm. "Just stop it, please!"
He swings the straps of his bag on his shoulders, snatching up his crutches, and quickly limping out of the room.