Simple//Tradley:Jonnor

If you want something done...

Btw guys, I'm so sorry that my chapter formatting is really shit... I'm gonna work it out at some point :')

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Connor didn't like isolation. He always felt he couldn't breathe whilst stuck in one of those cell-like rooms, like he had to hold the oxygen in his body for fear something bad would happen if he upset the eerie silence which suffocated him. Connor's thoughts always managed to beat him up as well, he could never escape the negativity for himself when all he had to focus on was the colour white and his melancholy facial expression which reflected in the shiny wall tiles. These white wall tiles and the plain linoleum flooring tiles were uncomfortable and cold, so he couldn't even sleep to pass the time. It reminded him of the time his bully locked him in the boys toilets at school and he was stuck in there for the whole weekend. When he was found by the cleaner on that Sunday afternoon, his voice was hoarse from shouting and sobbing and his fingertips were covered in dry blood from scraping at the edge of the door and the windows, trying to wrench them open.
There weren't any windows in isolation, though. Just a big, thick metal door with a hatch which people on the outside could open and close as they saw fit, using it to stare in at Connor like he was some sort of zoo animal. He probably looked like one, too - curled up in the corner of the room, hugging his body to himself as his eyes shot around the cell, as if bouncing from tile to tile, a wild look in the blue of his eye which warned whoever should try to interact with him that he was not going to be calm and he would not cooperate with whatever they tried to make him do.

There was only one thing which could make Connor feel better about isolation, and that was if James was also in isolation. Quite a lot of the time, the older boy would act up and get put into isolation so he could comfort Connor... if he got put in the cell opposite, anyway.
For some reason, the sound carried under the doors of the cells, probably part of the dodgy design of the building, so Connor and James could whisper back and forth to each other when they lay on the floor with their ears next to the crack under the door. Well, so James could whisper and Connor could listen, anyway.
James wasn't awake yet, though. James was still knocked out from the sedative the nurses had given him. Connor knew James was there - he had heard the older boy's muscular body hit the floor like a sack of potatoes when the guards threw him in - but he still felt alone. Too alone. His negative thoughts were bouncing off the walls of the eerie room and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
He needed James. James. He needed James right then and there, because James anchored him when he felt like he was about to float out into limbo.
Connor's breathing was heavy now, but he didn't care that he'd broken the eerie silence; his mind was on James. His palms slapped against the linoleum tiles as he dragged himself quickly over to the door from his place where he was huddled in the corner of the room.
Reaching out a clammy hand, Connor slapped it against the floor by the crack under the door, quickly three times, then twice slowly - the code they had made up. Connor waited eagerly for a reply, but didn't hear James' soothing voice slip under the door.
Connor tapped the code again.
And again.
And again.
Then he just started hitting the ground loads, making as much noise as he could to try and attract James' attention, not caring if any of the stupid nurses happened to hear. He just wanted to hear James' voice. But James wasn't speaking. He was alone.

Brad was sitting in the middle of his cell, staring at the door, legs crossed, arms by his sides, hands on his thighs. Waiting. What for? Well, he wasn't too sure. He half expected Tristan to burst into the room and pummel him for a) giving away the plan to Miller and b) not saving him. But Brad also expected Tristan to be dead. He was stabbed. Bleeding. Dying. He was probably dead by now. Brad felt weird. He didn't like it.
Brad could hear Connor banging on the floor. He assumed it was Connor - isolation had looked empty when he was taken there by one of the two hefty looking guards he had seen with Miller and the nurses. He hadn't been carried, like James and Connor, but the guard had kept a hand on his shoulder at all times.
He had been sitting in the same spot of his cell since then. He estimated it had been about three hours, but it was difficult to accurately guess time. Tristan was probably dead.
"James." Brad heard the sound of a broken voice whisper, and closed his eyes. It was Connor's voice, he was the only person who it could have been. Brad had never heard his voice like this. It was always in a loud Scottish accent, not quiet and broken like this. It occurred to Brad that if he had just kept his mouth shut and let them escape, then he would never have had to hear Connor sounding so vulnerable. It was all Brad's fault. He felt weird.
"James!" Connor cried out again, whining like a pained dog. Brad wondered the boy was so desperate to talk to James.
"Please."