Hold The Pose (Ryden, Joncer) [by zarah5]

Part 5

Jon’s watching TV when Brendon barges back into their apartment, slamming the door, trying to calm his restlessness with an extra dose of loudness. He tosses his keys onto the sideboard with a heavy, metallic clank, and then he stands motionless for a moment before kicking his wet shoes off. They land against the wall with twin thuds, one after the other.

“Bad day at work, honey?” Jon asks. He’s striving for a light tone, but when Brendon glances over, Jon’s face is set into this carefully nonchalant expression Brendon recognizes from the few times he’s seen Jon nervous. It makes Brendon’s throat close up.

“My life sucks,” he mutters.

He expects Jon to reply along the lines of your mom sucks. Instead, Jon pats the couch beside him, his eyes hopeful. Brendon almost throws himself into the spot, curling up against the armrest of the couch with his toes poking Jon’s thighs. His clothes are uncomfortably damp. “Seriously,” he says. “Sucks. I’m not even exaggerating.”

Jon nods seriously. “Hug?” He doesn’t sound particularly confident of his offer. Brendon exhales in a rush.

“Please.”

A moment later, he’s enveloped in one of Jon’s trademark hugs, tight and perfect. He sinks into it as if it’s been months when really, it’s been only a couple of days. Jon isn’t stingy with his hugs, and he doesn’t seem to care about Brendon’s recent rain shower, either. “Hey,” Jon says into Brendon’s hair. “Hey, are we good?”

“Yeah.” Brendon exhales. “Just, don’t lie to me, Jon Walker. I don’t like it.”

Jon’s nod is quick, very decisive. “Sorry, I know. Shouldn’t have taken the easy way. Next time, we’ll fight over it until you let me help.”

Brendon swallows down his protest. He’s not weak; he can deal with shit on his own, there’s no need for Jon to rescue him like a stray kitten. They just made up, though, and the startled brown of Ryan’s eyes is still too immediate a memory in Brendon’s head. He shifts into a more comfortable position, squinting down at the familiar, astonishingly ugly orange-brown pattern of Jon’s couch, and allows himself to relax, at least for the moment. He doesn’t want to think about Ryan telling Spencer, about consequences.

Bubbles made of ignorance are wonderful, wonderful things.

“You’re back early,” Jon comments over the TV show host enthusiastically congratulating a candidate on her knowledge that Chewie is the only name out of Huey, Dewey, Chewie and Louie that doesn’t belong to one of Donald’s nephews.

“Yeah, well. Decided I’ll make my money as a TV quiz candidate instead.” Brendon pulls back a little and nods at the screen. “I could have answered that.”

“Dude, everyone who didn’t waste their childhood could.”

Brendon is suddenly, sharply uncertain if Ryan would have known the answer. Well, he probably does now, but from what Spencer mentioned, there probably weren’t a lot of Disney cartoons in Ryan’s life before the Smiths took him in. Not that Brendon cares, of course. Because he doesn’t. Ryan and his stupid large eyes and sharp hipbones can just go to hell, along with his stupid words and, just, everything. Brendon couldn’t care less if he tried.

He sighs and leans his head back against the couch, looking at the TV from underneath lowered lids. “Ryan was there.”

“What? But.” Jon shakes his head, tightening his hand on Brendon’s shoulder. “I thought he’s never there when you come in?”

“He thought today was Tuesday.” Brendon laughs without much humor.

“Well, shit.”

As far as Brendon’s concerned, that pretty much sums it up. He lifts one shoulder, then the other, and then they sit in silence, half-watching TV with their shoulders pressed together. “Wanna get high?” Jon asks after a while. On screen, the audience claps at a smart remark from the host.