Work Text:
When the darkness takes over, don't blame yourself for what has to be done.
Brad furrows his brows at the words printed on the thin page and chuckles, in an attempt to laugh off the anxiety that fills him at the sight of the ominous words. He knows it's foolish to let such a silly thing intimidate him. All the horoscopes he reads sound honestly ridiculous. But today's horoscope, these words, aren't something a person can just easily push to the back of their mind. It nearly sends a shiver down his spine and anxiety twisting his innards.
Connor lets out a laugh, suddenly yanking the curly-haired boy from his contemplative thoughts. He hadn't even realised his friend had woken up and accompanied him on the couch, a bowl of cereal in hand. "What's your horoscope say for today? Is anyone dying yet?"
"No." He playfully rolls his eyes at the ridiculous question and folds the newspaper into a rectangle. Connor had been teasing him ever since he confessed his beliefs. Astrology is interesting to Brad, and he knew it isn't just a coincidence how sometimes his daily horoscopes would end up having a little connection with events in his life. But then again, he knows there's a possibility the horoscopes he reads could only be coincidences, and he's a little too superstitious for his own good.
"That sucks. I've been waiting for the day I get to finally claim your bunk," he jokes with a smirk. Brad chuckles. "So, what exactly did a forecast from the stars and planets tell you this time, huh?"
"It doesn't really matter." Brad tucks the newspaper in between his songbook and slides it underneath his arse to keep Connor from snatching it, or attacking him for it, which he'd done plenty of times before. But he only smirks at the songbook and shakes his head.
"I still don't understand why you even waste your time reading that bullshit. It's not like the stars and the planets can tell someone their future."
"Well, you believe in what you believe in, and I'll believe in what I believe in," Brad playfully retorts.
The nineteen-year-old raises a hand in surrender and laughs along with his bandmate before fortunately dropping the horoscope topic. They continue their breakfast with a peaceful silence. But Brad still can't erase the strange horoscope from his mind.
"So, what're you planning on doing at our next stop?" Connor questions after finishing off his bowl of frosted squares.
"Um, 'm not really sure yet, actually," Brad replies with a mouthful of scrambled eggs. The twenty-year-old embraces stops as much as he can, since the band barely has a chance to stop anywhere and sleep overnight in actual beds. By now, Brad's aching for the feeling of a mattress. "I hear there's going to be a thunderstorm tonight, so I don't think I'm really going to chance going anywhere."
"Oh, okay, then I guess I'll just stay in with you."
Brad wiggles his brows. "You hitting on me, Con? Sorry, but you're not really my type."
"But we both know who your type is," he shoots back with a smirk. The older boy playfully rolls his eyes at his friend and chucks a piece of ice at him just as a shirtless Tristan stumbles into the department on cue. He rubs two fist over his droopy eyelids and gives Brad an adorable sleepy smile that leaves the brown-eyed boy blushing. Tristan doesn't even notice it, but by the look he can feel Connor shoot his way, he knows his friend does.
"What are you guys meeting up so early for? A morning gossip session?" Tristan jokingly questions the two boys on the couch. He ignores the unoccupied space on the furniture beside his bandmate and plops on Brad's lap instead, casually stealing a forkful of the curly-haired boy's plate of eggs.
Brad quickly snatches the eating utensil from his grasp, glaring at the twenty-one-year-old happily munching on his breakfast. "If you want to keep your hands, do not bring them anywhere near my food!" he threatens.
Tristan emits a high-pitched whine before heading off to search for his own meal. Brad laughs and turns back to his plate, narrowing his eyes at the sight of the smirk that has returned to his friend's face.
"What?" the older boy questions, even though he knows the exact reason behind the little smirk on his bandmate's face, and the teasing laugh he lets out at Brad's ridiculousness.
Connor just shakes his head in response and lets out another laugh before setting his bowl down and sauntering back off to his bunk.
. . .
As soon as they enter the hotel room, Brad's instantly flopping onto the first bed he lays eyes on, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips at the glorious softness his small body bounces on. Tristan mimics his actions, sprawling his long limbs all over the younger boy and rolling around in the white sheets as the other two boys file into the hotel room. Connor walks slow, his eyes seemingly spaced out as he enters in empty-handed. He has been acting strange ever since they tour bus stopped at the hotel. But Brad assumes he just needs a little time to freshen up with a long nap. After Tristan woke him up by dragging him out of his bunk, he guesses their bandmate must feel a little irritated.
"Well, I guess we see who's sleeping together again," James mutters with a smirk. Tristan obliviously chuckles, but only Brad and Connor really understand the reason behind James' (uncalled for) comment. Brad rolls his eyes at his friend for the hundredth time that day and kicks off his trainers to crawl underneath the covers. A knock sounds from the other side of the door just as his head hits the pillow, causing Brad to let out a groan. He really rather not have company right now.
"Who is it?" James calls as he drops onto the mattress.
"It's me, and Drew," Nate's voice emits from behind the door.
"Who's me?" Brad teases.
"We have doughnuts!" Drew informs the band. It's enough to have Tristan rushing to the door and unlocking it to two-fourths of The Tide in the doorway. The two happily saunter in before Drew's being attacked by three of the four boys for the box of doughnuts in his hand.
"I knew you two were good for something," the curly-haired boy jokes. He hums happily as he bites into a glazed doughnut before he notices Connor sitting on the edge of the second bed, insensible to the fried dessert brought for the four boys. He plops down beside him. "Want one, Con?"
He looks at him, and then redirects his eyes into space again. "'m fine."
"What's up?"
"I don't know," he quietly replies. "Just a little nauseous, I guess. But I'll be better by the concert tomorrow; I'm sure of it."
Brad places his hand on the younger boy's forehead, only met with his regular temperature. "Maybe you should lie down for a bit," he suggests, eyebrows furrowed with concern for his friend.
He nods slowly, toeing off his boots and setting the pair by the nightstand. "Save a doughnut for me?"
"Okay," the curly-haired boy replies with a chuckle. He pats his friend on the back, and with one last glance at the blue-eyed boy, he rejoins the group of four happily chattering around the box of doughnuts.
. . .
Thunder cracks, pulling Brad from his glorious sleep. Over night, Tristan's body somehow pressed into him, one of his long arms draped around his bandmate's torso as he sleeps, but Brad doesn't even have time to appreciate the lack of space in between them. He questioningly eyes Connor's silhouette sitting up from the bed. The nineteen-year-old stands for a bit, facing the direction of Brad and Tristan's bed before he turns and walks towards the door with stiff movements. Brad furrows his brows. He can tell something is different, that something is wrong with his friend. He'd been sick in bed for most of the day, but he seems even worse than before. The lightning momentarily brightens the dark room, and Brad sits up at the sight of Connor slipping out of the door without a sound.
The curly-haired boy steps into his pair of trainers and picks up two bottles of beer for himself and Connor as he rushes after him into the bright hallway. He sees Connor make a turn and disappear, causing his bandmate to quicken his footsteps. Where is he going? Brad asks himself, and he wonders why he's heading out so early when he's supposed to be recovering from nausea.
They walk down hallways for what feels like forever before Brad realises where they're going. Connor pushes a door open to the exit and disappears into the thunderstorm outside. Brad would rather not walk out into the rain, but he rushes outside after his friend nonetheless, jogging as if it'd save him from the raindrops sprinkling from the dark sky.
"Con!" Brad shouts after him, but the thunder drowns out his call. He speeds up after the younger boy heading towards the woods.
"Con, where are you going?" the twenty-year-old finally questions as he reaches him, taking a hold of his shoulder. He spins him around to make him face him, but Connor only looks at him with a blank stare before he blinks, his eyelids peeling back open to black.
Brad lets out a gasp and stumbles backwards. "What the hell, man?"
Connor lunges at him, sending the two boys dropping onto the wet grass. Cold hands clasp around his neck. Brad struggles against his weight on top of him, wrapping his fingers around the nineteen-year-old's wrist and trying to pry his hands away from his throat. The curly-haired boy pushes against his chest and tugs at his grip, but Connor doesn't budge. He bares his teeth at the older boy thrashing around underneath him, shooting more fear within the small boy's body.
He thinks that this is it, that this is how he's going to die, before he spots the beer bottles neglected on the grass. He doesn't have to think before he's extending an arm towards the bottle and grabbing it, shattering the glass over Connor's head. He shoves him off as soon as the air returns to him and scrambles to his feet, clenching his shaky fist around the half broken bottle in hand. Lightning illuminates the sky. The nineteen-year-old has already recovered and standing on his two feet. Brad can't manage to move, even as Connor charges after him, teeth bared and eyes narrowed. But he stops as he reaches him with wide black eyes, slowly clutching at his chest and letting out a breathless gasp. The white and blue suddenly reappear to Connor's eyes. Brad feels relieved to see Connor—the real Connor. But the relief is gone as quick as it comes, Brad gaping at his best friend as he suddenly collapses onto the wet grass.
Brad doesn't know what happened until his eyes take in his shaky hands, and he realises the glass has disappeared. "No," he whispers.
He doesn't want to look. He's too afraid. He doesn't want to see the damage he's done. But his brown eyes trail upwards, anyway, a gasp escaping his lips at the sight of one of his best friends sprawled across the grass as rain falls around him, and the broken bottle from Brad's hands punctured in his heart. Rolling thunder smothers the strangled cry Brad lets out. He sinks into the wet grass, sobbing hysterically at Connor's lifeless body. He can barely care how drenched he is, or how loud he sounds. His friend is dead, and it's all because of him. His mind can't even think correctly. He doesn't understand what happened. He doesn't know why Connor suddenly wanted to kill him, or whatever happened to the colour of his eyes. Nothing is making sense.
The frightened boy finally forces himself back onto his soaked trainers and rushes back towards the backdoor of the hotel. He breathes heavily, running through the shower of rain until he's indoors. Beads of water drip from his body as he sprints through the hallways with blurry vision. He doesn't really know how he ends back up at the hotel room. He never knew their room number. But he balls his hand into a fist, harshly knocking it onto the wooden door and anxiously waiting for a tired James or Tristan to appear.
No one opens the door. Brad bangs his fist against the door so hard it pains his knuckles. But he doesn't care. He just stabbed his best friend, his best friend tried to kill him, his best friend is dead. Brad killed his best friend.
"What the fuck, Brad?" is the first thing James says when the door swings open. His expression softens at the condition Brad's in, drenched with water and shaking as tears stream down his face. "What happened? Why are you all wet?"
"I did a very bad thing," Brad tells him in between sobs. He hiccups, tugging at the wet sleeves of his jumper. "I did a very bad thing, James. You're going to hate me."
"Brad, sit down." He guides the smaller boy into the hotel room as a lamp flicks on, Tristan questioningly sitting up in the bed and eyeing their bandmate.
"Why are you all wet?" Tristan inquires, voice deepened with exhaustion.
"I did a very bad thing," he repeats to himself. He can't stop crying, or shaking, or get the image of Connor's dead body out of his head. He can't believed he killed him. It didn't even feel like he'd done it. He hadn't even known he'd moved a muscle.
"What's wrong with him?" James shrugs his shoulders at the question and pushes Brad into a chair.
"Brad, tell me what happened."
He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head in response.
"Brad," the older boy says, lowly, "tell me what happened. Now."
"Connor's dead," Brad blurts. James pauses, furrowing his brows as the small boy bursts into hysterical tears once again.
"W-what do you mean 'dead'?" he quietly asks.
"He's gone; he's dead. I-I killed him."
James slowly backs away from him with wide eyes. He steals a glance of Tristan's confused expression before returning his attention to Brad. "What?"
"I had to. There was no other way I could stop him. H-he would've killed me."
"You're lying. You have to be lying. Connor is alive, and you guys just think this is a funny joke, yeah?" James lets out a laugh without a hint of humour. He backs away from Brad, tears filling his wide eyes. "You have to be lying, Brad. Please tell me you're lying."
Brad shakes his head. "He's gone."
"Oh my, God," Tristan mutters from the bed. James suddenly shoots up from the floor and rushes towards his nightstand, towards his phone. The curly-haired boy doesn't remember ever jumping up from the rolling chair, but he's on his feet, fingers wrapped around James' phone before he's lunging it at the wall.
"What the hell!" James shouts.
"You can't call anyone, James. You have to let me explain!"
He shakes his head and stumbles away from him. "Do you think I want to hear you explain, Brad? You killed our best friend; you killed our band mate! There is nothing to explain!"
"Y'think this isn't hard for me, too, James? He was my friend!"
"Well, I don't know if you know this, Brad, but people don't kill their friends!"
"I had to do it." Brad softens his tone, the pain and guilt weighing him down and sending the small boy sinking to the floor. "I didn't know what else I could do. He would've killed me, James. You guys have to believe me. The person I killed wasn't our best friend."
"Then who was he?" James shouts at him.
"I don't know," he quietly replies.
James shakes his head at him. He doesn't seem frightened at all. He doesn't even show any sympathy towards Brad, like everything he said went in one ear and out the other. It's like he's insensible to the sadness evident on his best friend's face. Brad's not sure if he thinks he's a psychopath, or he thinks he's just lying. Brad doesn't know how to tell his friends in a way that doesn't sound ridiculous. He knows the whole situation sounds unbelievable. People don't just fall asleep and wake up with black eyes and ready to attack. But Brad knows it happened.
"Well," Tristan suddenly speaks, nervously fiddling with his fingers, "what are we going to do?"
Brad looks up to his blurry best friend. He's now standing up, keeping a good distance between the two boys. "What do you mean?"
"What are we going to tell the public? What are we s'pose to tell our fans, Connor's family, the crew, The Tide?" he quietly questions. "If someone finds out about this... I don't know, but it's not going to be pretty. We can't just come out about this..."
James only looks up at him, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Tristan, you can't actually be contemplating..."
"There's no other way," the blond tells him. "I'm hurting, too, but you can't make decisions out of the heat of the moment, James. Think of the aftermath."
"This isn't right," James mutters.
Tristan lowers down to Brad's height on the floor, slipping two hands over the smaller boy's shoulders. "Now, Brad, can you tell me where Connor is?"
. . .
Things are beginning to get stressful, but doubts will soon disappear, like magic.
The horoscope gives him a little spark of hope. It's the only thing that has for two weeks. So many things have changed since Connor died, or went missing, as far as the public knows. James barely looks at either one of them anymore; Tristan plays "the responsible one," but at night, Brad always hears him crying; Brad doesn't even remember the sound of his own laugh, or how it feels to smile without forcing it. Everyday he's in fear of someone finding out the real reason why Connor went missing. Everyone would hate him. He's supposed to be the smiley lead singer of The Vamps, the perfect son, the friend that brightens everyone's day. Not a murderer.
"Do you think a break is going to make any of this better?" Brad quietly asks Tristan. His eyes somehow find the curtain of Connor's bunk again, hoping that the younger boy would crawl out, and the last two weeks would've just been some crazy dream.
"Well, no, but I guess it's s'pose to help."
"Do you hate me for what happened?"
Tristan hesitates before shaking his head. "No, of course not. It was only an accident, Brad."
"I know, but..." He lets out a sigh and just looks out the window, deciding the sentence isn't important enough to continue.
"None of this is fair to Connor," James voices from the other couch. Brad's surprised he's talking to them, he hasn't heard James' voice since that night. "I can't believe you two actually think we can just throw this in a box and lock it away. It's going to come back, and it's going to bite us in the ass."
"You don't need to keep reminding us that, James," Brad mutters.
"Then why do you guys still think all of this is okay?" he questions, voice shaky. "Our best friend is dead, and you two act like you don't even give a shit."
"How could you say that? Of course we care; of course I care. It's not like I wanted Connor to die, James."
"Did you, Brad?"
The question stings. Brad knows he's a terrible person. He knows good people don't kill their best friends. But he wishes that James could just understand he had no other choice. If Brad could go back in time and erase what happened, he easily would've. He's not the villain in this story. "Don't pretend that you weren't a part of all of this, too."
James stares hard at him before jumping up from his spot on the couch and pulling his arms through a jacket.
"Where are you going?" Tristan calls after him.
"Out!" he sharply replies. The anger in his voice startles the curly-haired boy. He wishes he could've just kept his mouth shut. The three were under enough stress with Connor's death, and trying to keep the story private. But it was getting a little tougher everyday. People are worried about Connor, and people care about him. It worries him that one day someone is going to connect the dots, and then Brad will get all of the band in trouble.
James slams the tour bus door after stepping out, leaving the two boys in an uncomfortable silence. Brad tries to hold back the tears filling his eyes, pulling himself onto his feet and running away to his bunk. He wishes everything would go back to normal, and that their best friend could just come back to them again.
. . .
The twenty-one-year-old speeds away from the bus with anger boiling in his blood. He's so tired of everything. None of this is fair to Connor. He feels as if he's the only one who cares that his best friend died, and that his best friend is the one who killed him. He feels as if he's the only one who sees how twisted it was for them to clean up the murder of their best friend. All of this is killing him, and he feels so alone in it.
James pockets his hands and ducks into the food market, a sigh escaping him at the thoughts swarming around in his head. It's so fucked up how they can't even have a funeral for their best friend, since everyone's under the impression that he's only missing. Every time he spots the headline of an article discussing Connor's sudden disappearance, it kills him that he knows what actually happened that night, and that he can't tell anyone about it. The secret slowly eats away at him day-by-day. James isn't sure he'll be able to hold onto it anymore.
He stops in front of the row of organic juices as his phone pings in his pocket. The blue-eyed boy slips it out and glues his eyes to the cracked screen of his phone notifying him of a text from his little sister. He unlocks his phone, thoughtfully staring at his home screen of Mickey. He doesn't know how his thumb presses the phone icon at the bottom of his screen, but he's already there. He doesn't know where to go with this next. He knows this is the right thing to do. James knows he has to bring all of this to justice, but at the same time he can't stop thinking of Tristan's logic about all of this. It could make everything worse for them, but at the same time, he believes they deserve it. All three of them got rid of their best friend's body to save Brad's arse. James is tired of hiding everything away.
His attention is suddenly snatched away at the sound of a gunshot. He gasps, his phone falling from his grasp as he stumbles backwards into the refrigerator.
"EVERYBODY GET DOWN!" he hears a rough voice bark from the other side of the store followed by a chorus of terrified screams.
James drops to the floor at the sound of another gunshot and crawls away from the voices, hoping that he'll make it out alive. He jumps at the sounds of a slamming cash register and gunshots that pain his ears. But he can't die. Not now. He hasn't even said goodbye to his parents, or his little sister, and the band... It's only then James realises he left his phone, his phone he could've called the police with. But it's too risky to go back. He just has to think about getting out, and then maybe he won't have to say goodbye to anyone.
He makes it towards the snack aisle and quickly crawls behind the row of biscuits at the sight of a masked man waving a gun. James holds his breath, trying to map out his next movements. He needs to make it out of the double doors unseen.
The blue-eyed boy sucks in a breath and moves towards the direction of the entrance, the robber's back turned to him. He's too occupied with the other customers to see James, shouting at them to take off their watches and intimidating them with his weapon. James tries keeping his eyes set ahead, and not towards the scene happening beside him. If he focuses too much on it, he might end up in the same position as everyone else.
He inches closer towards the door, drowning out the threatening shouts and forgetting about the fear building inside of him. All he can think about is that door, and getting to the other side of it. He quickens his crawling as he nears it and extends his arm to the entrance, pushing it open to the cold wind from outside. And that's when he hears the gunshot.
It stings his ears and a gasp escapes his lips as he falls to the floor. He doesn't understand until he feels the wetness forming underneath him and the sudden pain that hits him as hard as the realisation he's been shot.
. . .
"Guys!"
The sudden sound of Austin's voice pulls the curly-haired boy from his restless sleep. He can hear Austin speaking to Tristan in rushed sentences that don't fit well together before Levi's voice follows just as fast. Brad groans and crawls out of bed. Tristan's seated on the couch, furrowing his brows at the two boys struggling to explain something. All Brad makes out is 'store' and 'c'mon.'
"What's happening?" Brad questions, voice raspy from his sleep.
"Something happened at the little market from across the street," Levi quickly explains to him. "There are like police cars and ambulances and everything. I'm surprised you two didn't hear."
"I was listening to music," Tristan explains with an uninterested tone.
"I wonder what happened," the brown-eyed boy admits, pulling a jumper over his head. "Did y'two find out?"
"No," Austin answers, "we came over here to see who's interested in being nosy with us."
"Well, I have nothing better to do." Brad pulls on a pair of trainers and rushes after Austin and Levi already heading out towards the tour bus door. The twenty-year-old pauses once when he realises Tristan isn't following after the trio. "Y'coming, Tris?"
"Um... sure," he mutters before stepping into his Converse shoes and walking out after the three nosy boys.
Brad steps out into the night, hurrying to join Levi and Austin walking towards the market with long strides. "What do you think happened?" Austin questions as they make it to the other side of the street.
"I don't know. For twenty dollars, I say someone was shot," Levi bets with a laugh as they near the market. Two police cars and an ambulance are parked behind a 'CAUTION' tape wrapped around the small building. Curious bystanders crowd outside, waiting for something to happen.
"Twenty dollars someone was trying to steal something," Austin says.
"And they called an ambulance for no reason," Brad sarcastically adds in. Levi laughs.
"By the way, what happened to James?" Levi questions. It's only then the curly-haired boy remembers why he'd cried himself to sleep.
Tristan shrugs. "He went out for a breath of fresh air."
"Oh," Levi mutters, nodding understandingly, "is he okay?"
"He's going to be okay," the blond reluctantly replies. Brad glances at him, the uncertainty visible on his face. Brad wants to comfort him, but he doesn't move. Instead, he stares ahead, waiting for something to go down like everyone else standing outside of the market.
"What happened here?" a stranger questions the group, adding to the accumulating crowd on the other side of the 'CAUTION' sign.
"Some kid from a boyband got shot," a man carelessly replies.
On cue, a body is rolled out of the building, partially covered by a thin sheet. Tristan leans over to catch a glimpse of the body before his face quickly drains of its colour and he leans away. “Oh, shit,” the twenty-one-year-old whispers.
“What? Who is it?” Brad questions his bandmate. Tristan doesn’t reply. He just keeps his eyes glued to the two paramedics and the hidden body, causing the smaller boy to impatiently tug on his arm. “Tris, tell me. Who is it?"
Tears pool in the blond’s eyes, and Brad doesn’t have to hear a name before he already knows who the person is. “It’s James.”
. . .
You will lose something meaningful to you. Keep all your prized possessions close.
The horoscope doesn’t surprise Brad. The world hasn’t seemed like it’s on his wavelength at all for a while. It’s almost unbelievable how a month ago he was just touring the world with his three best friends, before Connor’s death, before everything began falling down like dominoes. Everything Brad used to have is no longer in his reach anymore. The band’s gone, Connor is gone, James’ gone… Brad’s not sure losing anything else could hurt as bad, or even deepen the gash that’s already been cut in his heart.
Ever since he arrived back home to his family, he doesn’t think he’s left his bedroom, or even his bed. There doesn’t seem to be a point, and the pain of losing his two best friends and losing the band holds him back from everything. Brad hasn’t even heard from Tristan since the funeral. But he hasn’t made any effort to call him. His thoughts are filled with memories that hurt even more than the present. They all run together, and seem to have a common mission in making his heart ache. He’s tried to be strong for the fans and he’s done a pretty good job of doing so for the magazines. But deep down, Brad feels as if he’s breaking more each day. He doesn’t even want to let the thought of how Tristan’s feeling pass through his head. He’d been the strongest one throughout all of this, and Brad wonders how he’s putting up such a good façade.
He doesn’t realise it’s his birthday until he looks at the screen of his phone, his droopy eyes scanning over the long list of Twitter and message notifications. Brad tries to feel happy about it, he really does, but even cracking a smile is impossible. Brad can only fall onto his pillow, looking up at the ceiling and wishing that he could’ve spent the day doing what he does best: performing in front of his favourite people alongside his favourite people. But there’s no happiness he can find in his birthday. The only thing he can think about is that he’s not going to be able to spend it with his best friends, and it hurts even worse knowing that the reason he’s waking up unhappy on his birthday is all because of him.
He doesn’t bother wiping away the tear that escapes from his eye and slips down the bridge of his nose. Everything hurts so badly. Brad doesn't know how to make it stop. All he can really do is just give into the sadness and soak into it, like he's been doing ever since Connor passed away. But Brad wishes he could just stop crying. He wishes so badly that he could be happy and rewind back to when he was touring with his bestmates and not having a care in the world. He wishes he could smile again; he wishes he could laugh without forcing it. He wishes he knew what happiness even felt like.
His phone rings, slicing through the deafening silence and Brad's murderous thoughts. The curly-haired boy doesn't move a muscle to answer it. He just stares blankly as the song fills the room, and then falls silent. Brad doesn't check who it is. He rolls over onto his side and stares at the wall.
The annoying ringtone flows throughout the room, and Brad wants to scream. Why can't the world just leave him alone? Why can't whoever just understand he doesn't feel like talking, or doing anything? But he pauses once he gets a glimpse of his screen, and sees the person calling him is Tristan.
Brad hasn't spoken to him in forever. He thinks he's even forgotten what Tristan's voice sounds like. The brown-eyed boy's not sure how to carry out a conversation with him. After everything, there seems like there's nothing to talk about, no words worth exchanging. The dialogue he's playing in his head nearly causes him to miss his call. But Brad quickly answers it, pressing the cool feeling of his screen to his ear.
"Hey," he greets. His voice comes out raspy and quiet from not being used for so long. He clears his throat before repeating the three-lettered word.
"Um, hi, Brad,” Tristan quietly replies. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks…”
“So, I’m kind of in town at the moment… I was wondering if I could stop by later on?”
Brad’s not sure if he’s ready to see anyone, or if he actually feels like pulling himself out of bed and attempting to look like he’s not falling apart. But there’s a larger part of him that knows it’d be good for the two of them to see each other. It’s only then he realises how much he misses being around him.
“Um, yeah that’d be great, actually.”
The older boy emits a sigh of relief, as if Brad would’ve actually told him no. “Cool. I'll see you at noon then."
"Okay."
Brad lets out a sigh after hanging up, and hesitantly drags himself out of bed.
. . .
Brad is still lying around when the doorbell rings. He scolds himself inwardly for not keeping track of time so he could tidy up. But it’s just Tristan, anyway. The curly-haired boy just embraces a pile of clothes carelessly flung onto the floor and shoves it in his closet before approaching the door.
It doesn’t hit him until his hand is on the doorknob how nervous he feels, and he knows he’s not supposed to feel that way at the thought of seeing his best friend. They haven’t talked in a while. Brad doesn't know what words they'd be able to exchange between each other. It feels like there's nothing to really say, and nothing to really catch up on. At least not for Brad.
With a deep breath, the curly-haired boy pulls the door open. Tristan picks up his arm at the sight of him, awkwardly waving his hand side-to-side before dropping it. "Hey," the younger boy quietly greets.
"Hi." Brad steps aside so Tristan can enter. "How's your birthday been going?"
"I don't know. Nothing different from the past few days, actually."
"Oh, 'm sorry." Tristan's eyes are seemingly glued to the carpeted floor beneath his shoes as they speak to each other. Brad had a feeling things between them would feel uncomfortable and awkward, but he didn't know it'd feel like this. It's like he can't even talk to him. "Well, do you want to go out with me for a bit?"
Brad shrugs. "Sure. Are we headed towards the coffeeshop?"
"No, we're not headed towards the only place we go during breaks," Tristan sarcastically responds with a teasing smile. Brad laughs slightly before a wave of sadness washes over him at the realisation they aren't just on break, and his stay at home is permanent.
He steps into a pair of shoes before heading out after the blond into the summer weather. They avoid Tristan's car in the parking lot and head down the street in a silence that Brad's not sure feels comfortable or not. He wishes things could be different, that he didn't have to feel so pressured to fill the silence between the two boys. Everything feels so out of order. Talking with Tristan should be easy; it's always easy. But there aren't any words in Brad's vocabulary that he can possibly come up with. They're standing right beside each other, yet somehow Brad feels so far away from his best friend—the only person that he has left. He feels as if they should be helping each other, but it's been the opposite, actually.
"Do you think that any of this will ever get better?" Brad finds himself questioning. Neither of the boys bother looking before crossing the street.
"Of course it's going to," Tristan replies. "We're going to have to get past all of this someday, even if it doesn't feel that way right now."
Brad nods slowly. "I really miss them, Tris, and the band... I miss touring around with my best friends."
"Me, too, but life happens, I guess," the older boy mumbles. Brad doesn't know why, but his response makes him feel a little bit upset, as if he's just brushing it off, like their two best friends' deaths do not affect every aspect of their lives. He wonders how he can even think with that perspective, or how he doesn't even look like any of this has affected him at all. Sure, he was behaving pretty awkward, but that's just a very Tristan thing to do in this situation. He expected both of them to be broken, yet Brad feels like he's the only one who is. Matter of fact, Brad doesn't even remember Tristan shedding a tear at James' funeral. It's like the blond's insensible to everything that's been thrown their way whilst Brad feels like he's been hit by a train.
"How are you holding up so well?" Brad finally asks him.
Tristan furrows his brows. "What do you mean?"
"It's like all of this is nothing to you," the curly-haired boy mutters. "I feel like I'm the only one who cares that both of our friends are dead."
"Well, that's a ridiculous way to feel. James and Connor were my best friends. Why would I not feel sad?"
"'If someone finds out about this it won't be pretty,'" Brad mocks Tristan from the night of Connor's death. "'We can't just come out about this.'"
Tristan pauses and looks at Brad, like he'd slapped him. "Is this a real thing, Brad? Are you really attacking me about that night, because I'm not the reason Connor is missing in the first place!"
"Our best friend died, and the first thing you thought of was to get rid of his body."
"You're my best friend, too, Brad! I didn't want to see you getting into any serious trouble for something that was all a mistake, for something that should've never happened!"
Brad shakes his head and turns to walk away.
"This is honestly ridiculous, y'know?" Tristan shouts after him. "This whole entire time you've been playing victim when everything has fallen into rubbish because of you! The band is ruined because of you; our two best friends—no, our brothers are gone because of you! That's no one else's fault besides you, and ever since that night, you've been trying your best to get James and I to sink with you. You're not the victim in this! I don't think you've been buried, Brad; I don't think you were stabbed by someone you thought was your best friend!"
Tristan's words leave a lump in Brad's throat that the curly-haired boy doesn't even try to swallow. Everything he says processes through Brad's mind, and it hurts how true it is. He's ruined all of his best friends' lives, and all he's been doing is trying to find someone else to blame. He's been trying his best to take all of the weight off of him, and throw it onto someone else.
"Have a good birthday," Tristan spats before turning back into the street to leave.
It hits Brad in that moment how much he needs Tristan. If it weren't for him, Brad would be in so much trouble. He knows he would've been caught; everything would've been madder than it is now, and Brad doesn't even want to see how messier this situation could get. He wishes he could've just kept his big mouth shut. But it's like Brad can't control anything of himself anymore.
"Tristan, wait!" Brad calls. The blond's ahead of him, walking across the street fast and angrily, and that's when it happens. The bus comes so quickly, so unexpectedly. Brad doesn't even hear it. He didn't know it was ever there until it's speeding right towards his best friend. He screams his name at the top of his lungs, but Tristan's already swept off his feet, his body roughly thrown to the ground as he lets out a scream that mixes with the screeching of the bus' tires.
And then all that's left is silence.
. . .
With a new state of mind, you will find your way out of your darkest hour with a little push.
"Mr. Simpson," the nurse calls from the doorway, "Doctor Whitaker is ready to see you."
Brad sets the newspaper down on the wooden table, a sigh escaping his lips as he hesitantly pulls himself up from the cushioned chair. The therapist is sat in the center of her office, notepad in hand, a smile finding its way onto her face at the sight of her patient. The brown-eyed boy takes a seat across from her and glues his dull eyes to his lap. He just already wants the session to be over.
"How have you been doing since our last session? Have you tended to the exercises I recommended?" she questions.
He looks at her before quickly returning his eyes to his white jumpsuit. "No," Brad quietly replies.
"Do you believe that they will not be helpful?"
"Of course they're going to be helpful," he tells her, letting out a dry laugh.
"Mr. Simpson, what did I tell you about sarcasm?"
"I don't know what you people expect from me!" Brad shouts as tears fill his eyes. "There's no hope left! All my friends are dead! I have no one; I have nothing!"
"Maybe we should talk more on the subject of your friends' deaths," she suggests.
"Ha, like that's a good idea." He darts his eyes upward to his therapist's expression and lets out a defeated sigh. Brad knows he has to at least try. He was the one who started all of this, and it was time for him to bring it to an end. "We were on tour when it happened..."
Brad goes on to explaining every twisted piece of shit that's been going down for the last few months. He doesn't bother lying about stabbing his best friend in the rain, and then throwing his dead body in a lake; he spills out every ounce of guilt he has about his best friend not even being able to have a funeral; he talks about how he didn't even see James' death coming, but he probably should have, and then Tristan—fucking Tristan—the sight of seeing his best friend's skull smacking against the road kills him each time the memory flashes through his brain. Brad can still hear his screams, and the sound of his own.
He's sobbing in his hands towards the end of it, shoulders shaking as every emotion spills out of him. "And it all started with that fucking horoscope!"
Suddenly, it dawns on him. He sits up, teary eyes wide. "It all started with that fucking horoscope," he quietly repeats to himself.
Brad's instantly jumping onto his feet and rushing out of the therapist's office, ignoring the calls of his name behind him. He blocks out the world as he runs. The only thing his mind is set on is being able to inhale fresh air, being able to have room to just breathe.
The curly-haired boy races up the staircase until he's shoving the door open to the roof. His head is spiraling with everything that's happened, and he's finally starting to connect the dots. How could he have been so fucking blind? Every time he picked up a newspaper, every time he brushed off the horoscopes he read each day, he didn't know that each one was a path heading straight towards the end.
He has to defeat this bloody curse. He can't let it get to him.
Brad climbs onto the edge of the roof, sucking in a deep breath as he looks down at the ground beneath him. It's so far away from him. Shit—is he really going to do this?
He brings his wrist to his face, wiping away the tears on his sleeve, and he knows he can't do this. He knows there has to be another way. There has to be some way he can fight whatever is happening.
He attempts to step back, but there's a sudden weight that prevents any further movement.
And then Brad's falling forward.
. . .
Connor laughs. "Y'can't actually believe that crap is real, right?"
The older boy peels his eyes away from the horoscope printed on the newspaper and narrows them at his friend. "Well, it's real to me."