coffee

part six

It's two days later, and Brendon's woken by Jon's yelling from the kitchen. Startled, he slips out of bed, poking his head out of his room. Ryan's standing in the hallway, watching Jon yell into the phone.

"He was sick," Jon insists, looking distressed. "No," he says. "No, no. You can't do that. Mrs. Perkins, please -"

"Perkins?" Ryan says in a low voice, his arms crossed over his chest. He leans against the nearest wall, but doesn't look at Brendon. Jon glances at Ryan, his eyes wide with worry, and Ryan stalks out into the kitchen. Brendon looks on helplessly as Ryan takes the phone from Jon's hand. "This is Ryan Ross," Ryan says. "Yes, Mrs. U- Yes, I understand. Of course, but please realize - no. No. Do you really think that's a wise decision?" Ryan's voice has a sharp edge to it, and it makes Brendon nervous. "Mrs. Perkins," Ryan pleads. "No," he says. "Okay. Yeah." Ryan hangs up the phone.

Jon collapses onto the couch, and curls into himself. He takes his head into his hands, curling fistfuls of his hair between his fingers, and bites back a sob. Ryan doesn't look at him, doesn't look at Brendon.

"This isn't happening," Ryan says finally, setting the phone back into its cradle.

"What isn't happening?" Brendon asks.

"They can't do this, can they Jon?" Ryan ignores the younger boy. "They can't, right? He can live on his own now, so they can't -"

"Can't what?" Brendon says.

"Bren," Jon murmurs.

"No," Brendon snaps. "No way, Jon Walker, don't pull this bullshit with me. You're going on about how I'm an adult, so treat me like one."

Jon and Ryan share a look, one of their looks. It's like their own secret language, one of tiny touches and full eyes. Brendon will see them, sitting next to each other on the couch, or across the room, and they'll just be looking at each other, discussing fucking Nietzsche or something.

"Stop!" Brendon shouts. "Stop with the looks, and just lay it out. I'm a big boy, you know."

"Bren," Ryan says. "Your parents called the school."

"My - really?" Brendon says. He feels like he should be elated, fucking overjoyed that his parents actually give a shit. "Why?"

"Perkins has been talking to them," Jon says. "Giving them updates, that kind of shit. She 'let it slip' that you were living here, and-"

"Naturally your parents didn't approve," Ryan scoffs.

"But they're the one that threw me out!" Brendon cries.

"Apparently they weren't anticipating you having your own mind," Ryan says dryly. "They expected you to go crawling back the same night."

"But I didn't," Brendon says.

"But you didn't," Ryan agrees. "You hung around in the fucking YMCA or wherever, and then you came here."

"The Orphanage For Refugees of Bad Adolescence," Jon pipes up.

"Right," Ryan says. "And, you know, as messengers of Satan, we're obviously going to corrupt you."

"You talked to my mom?" Brendon says, and Ryan can't help but laugh. "Oh man. She actually called you that? She hasn't called anyone that since I stopped hanging out with Brent Wilson in, like, ninth grade."

"Your mom hates us," Ryan says.

"My mom hates everyone," Brendon tells him. "It's very... un-Moron of her."

"It's very bitchtastic of her," Jon replies, then fixes Brendon with the most ridiculously serious look that the younger boy has ever seen. Brendon realizes for the first time that Jon's not a kid, and neither is Ryan. They're adults, for real, true-blue adults that have to deal with serious shit like this everyday. "Brendon," Jon says. "Your parents, they want you to come back home."