Loyalty (JoshxBrendonxTyler)

1. Sickness

"Hey, Lu." He walked over to the woman named Lucy, waiting for her to give him the visitor clip on his shirt.

"Lunch is going to be served in about ten minutes, you bringing her down today?" The woman asked, shuffling through some drawers to find that specific thing she needed to clip on his clothes.

"Hopefully. You know how stubborn she gets, so I don't really know." Brendon sighed a bit after the statement, taking off his glasses to wipe the rain off of them. He watched her finally pull out the small visitor name badge, snipping it onto his shirt. "I'll see you soon."

"Okay, darling." She ended with, turning back around and walking over to someone else who walked in.

Brendon takes the stairs, the steps creaked with each step and it made him weary.

His eyes drifted to the small diamond shapes on the floor, making sure his feet fell in the middle of each one he passed. If he stepped on the line, he'd step back and continue in the center.

Brendon looked up from his shoes after he counts twenty-two diamonds, watching one of the caretakers help an elderly lady onto her wheelchair. She was sitting in the game room, which consisted of boardgames and a pool table; she was just finishing playing chess.

The man cowards away with a sip of coffee to cover his face when the much younger lady, who had been helping the old woman into her chair, made eye contact with him.

Again, he's horrible with people.

His feet moved one in front of the other. He knew exactly where he was going, he'd been here every weekend for three years now.

Brendon doesn't bother knocking once he finally reaches the room, a sigh of hell erupting from his chest as he turned the door knob and walked into the room. It smelt like cinnamon spice as usual.

Brendon fucking hated cinnamon spice.

After closing the door, he walks further in, setting his drink on the table.

"Mom?"

She wasn't in the living room as she usually is, watching America's Funniest Home Videos or Cash Cab, his eyebrows furrow.

"Mom?" He asks again, opening the door to her bedroom.

There she lay with hair curling into her flushed, sweaty face, covered in blankets and too many pillows. She must have gone to sleep later last night.

"Mom, get up." Brendon says, not whispering but just above that. His patience runs thin around her, he tries to keep it steady always, though. "Lunch is going to be served soon, we should get you down there. Wanna see Carina?" Her eyes fly open at the name. Carina was the daughter of one of the ladies in the homes, sweeter than candy and couldn't be rude to a soul.

Brendon was quite fond of her.

She was really the only person he could call a friend.

"Get me my shoes." Grace says, sitting up on her own.

Brendon's glad she remembers at least one person, and he's happy it's Carina. She's hard to forget though, it's not an every day thing to see a walking angel.

Well, heavenly.

The son walks at the edge of her bed and grabs some lavender tennis shoes.

She sticks her feet out and Brendon breathes, already irritated and it hasn't even started. He puts her shoes on with much difficulty, tying them enough for her liking.

He helps her up and soon enough they're out of her revolting apartment.

Although it may sound heartless, Brendon's glad the trauma isn't done to her physically. He doesn't think he'd be able to push a wheel chair constantly or have to help her with every move she made. Maybe it's better or worse, he can't tell. Being physically helpless was one thing, but not being able to remember your own daughter's name is a whole different kind of mental poison.

Brendon's pliant.

"Mom, use the stairs." He mutters when she heads for the elevevator. There's people in greater need who use that.

Grace rolls her eyes, reluctant at first but follows.

She's like a child.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, he scans around the dining room with plenty of chairs and tables, to find that striking blue hair.

He smiles once seeing it, grabbing his mother's hand and guiding her over to sit down. He pulls out her chair, making sure she was comfortable or else she'd complain about it the entirety of lunch.

"Hey," he says, sitting down beside Carina. She grins widely.

"Hi! I'm so glad you two came down today."

"Me too, sweetheart." Grace says, employees going around asking people what they'd like for lunch. "What are we having today?"

Brendon grabs the small paper which was supposed to be a menu, reading through it thoroughly, already knowing his mom would hate it. He silently prepares himself for her small fit, clearing his throat. "Chicken panini, turkey sandwich or mushroom soup."

Grace sighs. "They always serve the worst things on Sundays."

There it is.

Brendon bites the inside of his cheek, foot tapping on the floor.

"What seems best?"

"None."

"Mom,"

She crosses her arms, eyes shifting to her son, who was more of a parent than she was.

"Turkey sandwich. . ." She mutters.

Brendon nods, leaning back into his chair. He's lucky his mother wasn't being too rowdy as she usually is, this isn't that bad, he can deal with it, he'll be okay.

Carina purses her lips in a small frown, grabbing Brendon's hand in empathy. He's told her multiple times how hard it is to be around his mother, not just because of how difficult she makes it, but what it does to him mentally. He isn't able to process that this is how it really is; his mother depends on others to live and there's nothing he can do to change that.

Brendon wants his mom back.

He'll have to deal, though.