james-reagan-bryne
And all those times J.R. reached out, to graze Kentās bicep or shoulder, chest even in his mind he told himself they were just close.
Close bros.
And not inā¦ Love? Love?
Jamesā hands still started to shake when he Ā thought about love. And that was now. 15 years later.
That look on his face was āoh god your wonderful oh god Iām going to pass out.ā
And in an effort not to ruin things, as James tended to do when it came to relationships, he proposed that they didnāt sleep together again.
And Kent did not take that well. Because he didnāt get it.
This was not all Jamesā fault. They could have still been friends.
And now James was angry because Kent was laughing. Laughing.
āWhat?ā
But there was no time to connect the dots in his head. Because his back was getting a taste of shopping cart.
He refused to let Kent see him wince. Was that all he got? J.R. spent his formative years getting shoved into lockers, a little metal wouldnāt make him cry.
It was the way Kent looked at him that actually infuriated James. He did not come this far to have Kent Brockman look down on him.
The expression on his face changed from shock to rage in what was a matter of seconds. And while Kentās little challenge was cute James had already made sure to take the man down to the linoleum floor. Theyād been in this position before hadnāt they? It was just the context had changed. A different sort of passion.
If there was one thing of value that James learned from his brother (his brother who spent a good amount of his youth starting bar fights in pubs,) it was how to throw a good right arm.
If his face was red he didnāt notice.
Kent was a romantic once. Briefly, for a period of all but three years of his life.
He would contend that it was not his fault in the least bit because not only did he make it clear how he felt (only for it to be flippantly shrugged off as a miscommunication), but heād also proceeded to show it. Passionately. Backbreakingly, fuck, he showed it and James compiled all the data and chose to outright reject him.
And not even in a considerate way, in an awkward I-canāt-look-you-in-the-eye way. In his actions and lack thereof. J.R. had gone from casual bicep grazes to visible recoils at the sight of Kent, and that, somehow, was supposed to be an acceptable reaction to him implying they took what they had and made it better. Different.
No, friendship wasnāt possible at the time. It might have been if James put forth the effort. But if that was the best he had, then Kent couldnāt cope with it. Wouldnāt, because it was the first time in his life someone had become so important only to shut the door in his face.
For as bright as Kent was, J.R. always had a way with making him feel like a fuckinā idiot.
So if Kent Brockman, fifteen years down the line, could see even the slightest hint of J.R.ās existence and feel genuine, visceral contempt, heād won.
Even if that meant he got a mean right hook right smack dab on his face, back meeting the linoleum.
The pain was bad, but the way his stomach churned at the idea of filth littering his body was that much worse. J.R. knew he was a fucking germaphobe. He knew, yet he took it to the floor.
All kinship was abandoned.
So Kent didnāt feel any remorse when he hocked spit right into Jamesā face, taking the manās brief moment of surprise to wrestle himself from under his grip, pinning him down to try for his own right hook.
It landed.
There were a few resounding gasps that came from passerbyās, the pasta aisle receiving quite a bit of traffic for a Tuesday afternoon. Kent figured the security guard would be called up soon, but he couldnāt think to care. There was a distinct ringing in his ear that he couldnāt shake, a burning pain that resonated in the entirety of his skull.
He pulled J.R. up from the cloth of his collar, stretching the material with reckless abandon. It was probably Faded Glory anyway.
āYou are my fucking problem.ā He sneered. āHave you ever considered that?ā
