"What the fuck are you doing?" the question is spat in my direction a second before I'm slammed against the wall in Bryant's bedroom.

My dad decided I'd be cleaning Bryant's room tonight. For whatever reason, my dad's always had an aversion to bossing Bryant around, one that clearly doesn't extend to me. For the past hour, I've been taking advantage of Bryant's normal, Tuesday night mystery absence, hoping I'd have his room cleaned by the time he got home. That clearly didn't happen.

His forearm cuts off my oxygen, and I struggle against the entire weight of his body. He's always been able to best me physically, and it pisses me off. I glare at him, as I struggle against him, needing air.

He applies even more pressure to my throat before releasing it and causing me to bend over coughing.

"Get out," he snaps.

I'd love to leave the room, but if that were an option, I would've taken it earlier.

"I have to clean your room up. Dad says we're having company tomorrow," I tell Bryant, forcing myself to stand upright.

Bryant narrows his eyes at me.

"If Holland has an issue with the state of my room, Holland can talk to me," Bryant says.

"Believe me, I agree with you on this one, but I was given an ultimatum, so here I am," I tell Bryant, fully expecting him to take my words poorly.

Pain explodes through my lip as his fist collides with my face. My head snaps backwards with the force of it, and I have to force myself to remain on two feet.

"Like ultimatums? Get out, or I'll hit you again," he says shaking his hand where it must hurt and is likely broken.

I reach up and touch my lip, and when I pull my fingers away, there's blood on them.

"You're an asshole," I seethe, but I don't bother punching him back because I'm not trying to get punched in the face a second time.

"Because you'd so likely come home to find me cleaning your room without permission to even be in it?" he asks, which is fair, except—

"I keep my room clean," I argue.

"My patience is crumbling around us right now, Kyle. Leave," he's angry, but he isn't alone.

I run through my options again. My dad was clear about me being the one to clean the room. He refuses to tell Bryant what to do because he says he has no interest in being a father to a grown kid. In my dad's twisted point of view, being a father means giving orders, and in this case, it means insisting I clean up Bryant's room.

"I can't leave. If I could, I wouldn't be here in the first place. Dad's insisting," I tell him, hoping like hell he'll understand, yet knowing he won't.

He shoves me against the wall again, cutting off my oxygen. His red, angry face is an inch away from mine.

"You come in here again while I'm gone, and your dad is going to be the least of your worries," he threatens.

I fight against the restraint, but this time, he doesn't let up until I see the edges of the room start to blur. When he finally releases me, I'm drained, I have no choice but to give into my body's demands and to slide down the wall onto the floor while I catch my breath. Asthma is a constant struggle for me and having my air supply cut off isn't as minor a threat as Bryant thinks it is. An attack could kill me, and something as minor as this could trigger one.

"The fuck's wrong with you?" he snaps at me from his vantage point hovering over the top of me.

I open my mouth to speak, but I realize it'll take more air to answer him than I can afford to sacrifice, so I shake my head while I take a deep breath, hoping it's enough to pacify him enough that he won't fucking choke me again.

"Kyle?" he asks, sounding more concerned for me than I thought he was capable of.

For good reason too. I'm struggling to get air to my lungs. Despite not wanting him to see the weakness for what it is, I have little choice than to pull my inhaler out of my pocket and take a hit off of it. He shocks the ever-loving piss out of me by crouching down to my level and taking my face in his hand.

"Are you all right?" he asks me, barely above a whisper.

I'm sweating all over my body, and every time I try to take a breath, I fail. I wait a few more minutes, and when I can't resist any longer, I take another hit off of my inhaler. Having Bryant so close to me isn't helping my air issues, so I shove his shoulders with the little energy I have in my weak arms.

Bryant takes the hint, and he stands back up.

"Should I call someone?" he asks me.

I shake my head vehemently. I don't need anyone to come here. I really am fine, and if he calls an ambulance, my dad will come to the hospital and after the fight we had over me cleaning Bryant's room, I don't want to see him.

"Just give me a minute," I plead with him through my wheezing.

I tilt my head backwards against the wall behind it, and I close my eyes, focusing on trying to breathe. I can't think about how concerned Bryant looks. I never thought he would be capable of being concerned for me. He's probably more concerned about murder charges than me dying in his bedroom anyway.

It takes nearly a half an hour of silence for me to regain my ability to breathe semi normally. I feel tired, but I can at least get air to my lungs without having to fight my body. When I crack my eyes open, I find Bryant staring at me with what can only be described as fear in his eyes.

"What the fuck was that?" he asks, but he doesn't sound angry.

I give him a small smile, happier that I nearly had an attack than I ever thought I would be. Truth be told, my asthma scares me. I'll be fine one minute, and the next, I'll be struggling for air. Most of the time, it only impacts me to a real degree when I'm triggered by dust or physical activity, but apparently choking me does the trick too. And I'd be more upset about it if Bryant didn't look like he was about to come unglued.

"I have asthma. Choking affects me more than it affects most," I admit, somewhat reluctantly.

I want him to feel like an asshole, but I also don't want to admit my weakness in front of him. Though, judging by the remorseful look on his face, he won't be using this against me. He shocks me again by offering me his hand for leverage when I attempt to climb to my feet. I accept it because I need the help, but he doesn't need to know that.

"You should sit," he mumbles the suggestion before jerking his head in the direction of his bed.

I have to clean his room. This incident changed nothing. Even if it stirs up dust and lands me in the hospital, my dad said it was either clean the room or go to every event he has this month with him, and me being around my dad for an extended amount of time sounds worse than an asthma attack. When Bryant follows my gaze to the trash bag I was filling before this incident, he curses.

"You can't be serious," he groans.

"I don't have a choice," my voice even sounds hoarse to me.

"You're not cleaning my room. I may feel guilty about triggering that, but you cleaning my mess isn't happening," he snaps.

I take a deep breath, thankful I'm successful in my endeavor, but cranky because he's still fighting me on this.

"It has to be cleaned, Bryant," I sound as impatient with him as I feel.

I'm not thrilled about the scare I had. Had it been any worse, I would've had to go to the hospital, and that's the last thing I'd want. Bryant's an asshole for even making that a possibility. The least he could do is allow me to clean his fucking room.

"Why? Why do you do everything Holland says without question?" Bryant asks.

He sounds genuinely angry with me for it, and I feel my pulse rising.

"He's my dad," I snap.

"So you have to do whatever he says all the time?" Bryant questions, "It's not a normal father son relationship, and you know it. He says 'jump', you say 'how high'. I've never heard you so much as talk back to him. What's the deal with that?" Bryant asks me.

I glare at him, and I lay back on his bed, feeling my breaths come out more restricted than a second ago. I close my eyes, and I try to even out my breathing.

"Are you okay?" he asks me.

"I just can't deal with fighting with you right now, okay?" I ask him.

It's the truth, but it's true because he makes me take more breaths when he's around than average. It's a fact, we breath more heavily when we're angry, and the guy makes me angry.

"Okay, how about you lay there while I clean?" he offers.

I crack my eye open.

"I'm supposed to do it," I tell him, even though laying here sounds fine by me.

"You're not doing it, Kyle. It wasn't going to happen before, but it sure as shit's not going to happen when you can't even breathe normally," he sounds impatient as always, but there's something softer about his tone I'm not used to.

I close my eyes, and let my exhaustion have a minute.

"Fine," I mumble, thinking I'll just rest my eyes for a few minutes until I feel rested enough to argue with him.