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And Ponch turns to his partner to see if he overheard the joke, hands loose in his pockets and laughter on his lips, only to find the other missing, vanished from his side without him noticing.
He looks around, confused, and spots Jon a few steps away. His partner is standing by the line of bikes, not paying attention to him at all; in fact, he's ignoring Ponch and the others entirely, instead clicking his helmet in place and pulling on the new regulation gloves handed out by the department this morning.
And as Ponch stands there and watches, Jon, oblivious to an audience, casually flexes his hands, swinging them open and shut, trying to break out the stiffness that new gloves always seem to carry, and he pauses to fold the cuffs up like he always does, to keep his wrists from chafing while he's on his bike. He then picks up the radio one-handed and signals to dispatch that he and Ponch are ready for patrol, not even sparing a glance his partner’s way, simply trusting that he’s just a step behind him like always.
And the causal show of certainty that Jon radiates outwards effortlessly, like a star, catches Ponch deep in his chest, a familiar heat bubbling in his core and up his spine, even as he trips off the curb in the middle of his next step.
The ground rushes up to meet him before he can grasp what's happening, his leg twisting underneath him and laughter long forgotten as heat blooms cherry-pink across his neck and face.
And as he lays on the ground, back to the pavement and face to the sky, Jon's wide grin appears in his vision, blue eyes sparkling even as they're tucked behind aviators, overtaking Ponch's higher processes and saying something that he can't catch.
And Ponch looks up in that moment and thinks that Jon looks like something out of a dream, fuzzy, and just out of reach, unattainable — even as his brain laser-focuses on the brightness of Jon's smile, and the curve of his mouth.
Oh, and he feels a twisted ball of longing make itself at home in his gut, ratcheting tighter like a screw the longer he stares, and that's a feeling he's only used to experiencing when he sees a pretty girl in heels walking by, hair curling over her shoulder; or when he watches his favorite action star on tv, flipping and pulling stunts for an captivated audience.
And he's never noticed it before, but he looks at Jon like he looks at a pretty girl — watches him when he walks by, like he's a headliner or bombshell in one of Ponch's favorite films — and something warm blossoms into recognition in his chest, settling in peacefully like it's always had a home there.
Jon's smile fades away from Ponch's line of sight, but a deep, throaty chuckle sounds from the other side of his bike, breaking through the haze of Ponch's ill-timed, self-induced breakdown, as Jon's laughter rumbles through him like an earthquake; and he pauses for a second to put his hands over his face and silently scream.
He's in love with his best friend, and it's burning him from the inside out, with wide sunshine honey smiles, tousled hair, and pride laced in a voice that etches itself around the syllables of the word partner; and Ponch's heart pounds in his chest as he realizes there was probably never another outcome -- not to them, to this.
And ultimately, he thinks he doesn't mind, because to regret this would be to regret Jon; and it's too late in his life, his career, his two year friendship, and his newfound sexuality crisis to even start considering that as an option.
"There's worse things to be than in love," his abuela quotes in his head, like he's only just spoken to her yesterday, and damn. He should probably tell her, because she'll have seen this coming for a long time — and he knows that she'll be happy for him, no matter what.
He takes his hands off his face and stares at the sky, his hands shaking just a little, and he thinks absentmindedly that the blue is close to the shade of Jon's eyes. And it slams into him again just a little bit harder, because how did he not notice his feelings for his best friend.
He shakes his head once, twice, tries to blink away the image of Jon's smile making a home behind his eyelids, and grabs onto the curb as he props himself up, dusting off his pants in a daze.
He grabs his helmet, buckling it in place as he mounts his bike, and he turns to his partner and grins shakily, praying to whichever saint is nearby and listening that Jon doesn't notice how off he looks. And as they take off, side by side like always, he tries valiantly not to stare at the sun resting on the curve of Jon's shoulders as the station fades away behind them.