The Best of Us

twenty one

NOTE
this chapter is extremely long, feel free to read it over as many days as you want :') posting now while I work on the end of my other ongoing book. i hope you enjoy <3

TW: homophobia, domestic violence mention, panic attack mention, mentions of throwing up

DECEMBER

THE NEXT MORNING I woke myself up by swilling my face with cold water and brushing my teeth. When I returned to Bradley's room, he was still lounging in bed, one of his arms thrown over his head as he watched me collect my things, his hair tousled with sleep and his eyes soft with morning even in the grey light. There was no expression on his face until I moved over to him and kissed him good morning which was when he smiled and allowed his eyes to flutter shut, turning onto his side and pulling the bed covers up to his shoulders.

We hadn't slept much and I had a headache from the deprivation but it was already late morning and I figured that I should get home, despite how much I'd enjoyed my time with him.

It wasn't like we had gone all the way but we had gone further than we had been before and it made me stupid with affection every time I thought about it; his hands on me and my hands on him, patient and tender but equally as ambitious, deft and eager to please, his eyes always finding mine, his lips always finding mine, soft sighs and murmurs of pleasure mingling.

"Come back over later," he yawned, snuggling his cheek against his pillow.

And I stroked through his hair, promised I would and kissed his cheek before leaving him to sleep.

As I left the house, I called good morning and goodbye to Clarke, Genevieve and Brandon and used the clothes I was holding as a kind of makeshift cover against the bitter, howling wind, partially blocked by the houses. The ground was hard and grey with a sheet of thin, frosted ice and the sky was heavy with clouds, bulking with water that I imagined would fall soon in torrential downpour.

I rushed across the road and up towards home, closing the door swiftly behind me, still dressed in the sweatpants and sweater that I had slept in. With my jeans and my other sweater in my arms, I pushed down on the damp heel of one shoe and kicked it off before repeating with the other, leaving them in the corner.

The house was still, though the cars belonging to my Dad and Thomas were both outside. It was only as I moved towards the stairs that I heard them talking- arguing- in the kitchen, my clothes against my chest. Slowly and with silent, hesitant steps, I edged towards the closed kitchen door and hovered beside it, feeling my lungs swell and harden until I trusted myself to breathe again.

"-why you have to keep bringing it up," Thomas declared with striking impatience. "It's done now. I'm not moving back in with him. I'm paying rent. What's the issue?"

There was a beat of silence. My heart was steady.

"What is going on with you, Thomas?" Dad asked, emphasising each word so that it sounded like a real, genuine question. Just listening to it felt like a test.

For a while, Thomas didn't reply but the silence didn't feel heavy. There was no burden of emotion or betrayed sadness. It was just a sturdy, matter-of-fact, baffled stillness.

"I don't understand," he said and I realised in the following moment that, for the first time in a long time, he sounded like himself.

His voice had shaken that tired, mumbling drawl and there were no dragging sighs as he tried to muster the energy to speak. Rather, his words had the same hard curve, the same bite, the bold defiance and unmistakable irony that were so recognisable to me. He sounded the way that he did when he had first moved back in, before he became tangled in another prolonged episode of misery. He was not making a confession as much as an accusation.