Chapter Text
Drunk Brock was a mess.
An emotional, horny, affectionate mess.
He was an event. A production. Jose’s favorite television show. At least he was when they were together.
After the breakup, the emotional, horny, affectionate mess became Jose’s least favorite reality show. And Jose was starring as the jilted ex-lover.
Brock would hold his hand and dance like he wasn’t breaking Jose’s heart with every step to the beat. He would pull Jose close and tell him things he didn’t dare say when they shared the same bed.
He would miss him in a way that made Jose sure they would never have closure.
…
Angry Brock didn’t care much for nuance. When he appeared, he made an entrance. Throwing down his bags or slamming a door.
He lashed out. He got loud.
He was… normal.
It was rare to see Angry Brock in full force. Most of the little hiccups brought out Annoyed Brock or Frustrated Brock.
Angry Brock was an entirely different animal.
No amount of reason or logic, things he held dear, could placate him. Nothing could placate him really.
Jose had to learn the hard way that yelling himself was the only thing that made it worse. If he yelled or made a fuss or fought back, which was his nature, Angry Brock would only become more so. He would yell louder, make more of a fuss, fight harder.
Jose, for all his knowledge, was never good at walking away from a fight, but he learned eventually that was what had to be done.
He would let Brock rant and rave and say things he didn’t mean. He would let Brock come down from his high.
He would hold him and tell him that everything was fine and he understood, better than most people. They lead crazy lives. They dealt with a lot of frustration. They were bound to lash out eventually.
His Brock would apologize.
Jose never needed him too.
…
Tired Brock was a mixed bag.
Sometimes he was irritated. Sometimes he was kind.
Mostly he was just sleepy.
He would make any flat surface in the room into a makeshift bed, even if his long limbs dangled precariously over the sides of whatever furniture would do.
He would smile bleary-eyed at Jose like he was the sun.
Jose learned that energy drinks only masked Tired Brock for half an hour. Within that time, Tired Brock would be back in full force, making quiet snarky remarks, or holding Jose’s hand too tight.
The best remedy was sleep, or a few well-placed kisses usually did the trick.
Jose smiled softly at him in a way that conveyed everything he couldn’t say. Brock smiled obliviously back at him. They would curl up in a bed or a bunk or a couch and fall asleep to the sound of their shared heartbeat.
And it would be peaceful.
…
Past Brock was a distant memory.
A ghost in Brock’s own head. But he resurfaced every now and then. When a dance picture came up, or a church bell rang too loudly, or a friend that fell out of touch reached out.
He was… nostalgia personified.
He was the body in the closet, the monster under the bed. Something every person fears meeting.
Past Brock was a part of him, but not what he was made up of.
When Past Brock started flipping through photo albums or pulling up performances of a time long past, Jose would watch him silently. Let Past Brock weave tales of perfection and drugs and dance. He told them like he hadn’t lived them. Told Jose of times he had thought the pressure and the weight of his life was going to crush him. Past Brock would smile at his own jokes and tear up at lost opportunities.
Jose would tell him that he wasn’t that person anymore.
Past Brock would just shake his head and say he would always be that person.
Jose wouldn’t argue back, but he knew in his heart it wasn’t true.
Brock was who he was because of Past Brock. Because he had lived on, even when he may have not wanted to.
Past Brock would always be there, a part of Brock’s story, but he wasn’t the ending, not by a long shot.
…
Brock, as he was, was a collection of himself. An amalgamation of all that humanity could and would be.
He masked his pain with perfection.
Masked it pretty well, too.
He covered his imperfections with brick and concrete and an inability to love.
But he had trusted Jose. Trusted that not only would Jose accept him for his flaws and broken parts, but love him in spite of his shortcomings.
And he had been right.
In all the ways Jose could love Brock, he did. In all the ways he was allowed to.
He assuaged Worried Brock’s fears.
He smiled cordially at Professional Brock.
He let Scared Brock self-destruct.
He held Happy Brock’s hand.
He loved His Brock.
He tolerated Drunk Brock.
He met Angry Brock in the middle
He got Tired Brock to bed.
He reminisced with Past Brock.
He loved them all.
Some more than others, he admits that freely.
But you can love someone regardless of their flaws or in spite of their flaws.
Jose did neither, he loved Brock, all of him, because of his flaws. Because he wasn’t the perfect person he pretended to be.
There was no cosmic explanation. No supernatural force at work.
Jose loved Brock because he did.
And that was enough for him.