In Case The Scene Gets Nastier

Part 5

  The rest of the week gets steadily worse; Brendon's getting hardly any shifts, because the management have gone and hired a bunch of Christmas casuals, who'll get fired after the holidays are done and for now work more and get paid less than Brendon, and he's already regretting splurging on Sunday for the take out food (and then wasting some of it on Ryan fucking Ross). He's slipped from an A to a B in physics, which isn't going to look good on college applications and means he's going to have to work harder over the Christmas break to get back up to date on that, his apartment refuses to retain any heat whatsoever, and to top it all off, Jason and all his friends from Brendon's old church corner him again and start talking earnestly about forgiveness and Christmas spirit and coming home. It's still a cold shock to realize that he's actually sort of looking forward to detention.

But Friday afternoon comes, and Ryan isn't there.

The other Mr. Way is, though, the principal's kind of spacey brother who works in the admin office, and he looks blankly at Brendon and then says, "Oh, hello. Time to get started?"

"Where's Ryan?" Brendon demands, folding his arms. "I won't do it if he doesn't."

"Sick," Way says, looking absently down at his notes. "His father called in this morning. You're still expected to do your work."

Brendon slams his hand against the wall uselessly as he goes in, furious and skin itching for something, for anything. "Fuck this," he mumbles, but starts sorting anyway, because he doesn't have a choice, because it's the last day of semester and the last detention and the work is almost done, because he doesn't have anything better to do.

When he comes out, the older Mr. Way has joined his brother, and smiles at Brendon. "All done?" he asks, and smiles when Brendon nods. "Nice work then, Brendon. I'm sorry you had to finish up today on your own, but there shouldn't have been much left."

"It was alright," Brendon mumbles, staring at the floor. "It was kinda unfair."

"We can't help Ryan being sick," Mr. Way says. "Hopefully next term you two will be able to control yourselves a bit better."

"Sure," Brendon says, shifting his bag from shoulder to shoulder, and resists the urge to add whateverbecause, really. He doesn't think their principal is that naïve. (He thinks about Ryan's mouth, Ryan's hands, and swallows hard.)

"Okay, then, Brendon," Mr. Way sighs, looking kind of regretful. "I'll see you next semester, then. Have a good vacation."

"Yeah, thanks," Brendon says, sidling out past him. "You too. Bye!"

---

He walks into his apartment, drops his schoolbag, looks around, and then walks out. It's too fucking – he doesn't want to be home tonight, not when he feels jittery and cheated out of something. He considers the show Haley told him about, a pop-punk college band playing close to where he works, and then he thinksfuck it and hops on a bus heading back towards the inner city.

The show is five dollars at the door and Brendon thinks, this is a waste and pays it anyway. He hasn't been to see live music in ages, and the first band is already on, so he shoves his way through, up to the front. It's not particularly good music, but it's loud and right there in front of him and the drummer is pretty awesome, so Brendon catches the beat in his bones and moves with the crowd.

It's been way too long, he thinks, pushing his face up to the lights, jumping to get a mouthful of air, wincing when someone's elbow glances off the side of his face. He even starts to like the music a little, in the same inevitable way he always does, because the lead singer is really charismatic and even manages a little bit of funny patter between songs, out of breath and sweating. Brendon thinks, yeah, this was a good waste of five bucks.

Someone shoves up hard against him from behind, harder than usual, and when Brendon turns his head they grin a little sheepishly and shout an apology. Brendon smiles at them and then, out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of dark hair and eyeliner and a mouth he knows too well. He moves before he's even aware of thinking, elbowing his way through to the side and throwing a punch. It's badly balanced and off-centre in the rush of the crowd, but it slams against Ryan's mouth hard enough, and Ryan stumbles backward. Brendon thinks grimly that he's got Ryan's attention now, at least.

Ryan looks at him, hard and angry, and he shoves back at Brendon, and the middle of a semi-hardcore mosh is definitely not the place to do this; when Brendon attempts to punch him again, the crowd shifts and they tumble out towards the edge, badly aimed fists connecting just often enough for Brendon to feel dizzy, vision a little blurry when Ryan's fist thumps awkwardly at his temple.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Ryan shouts, baring his teeth. "Fucking little psycho!"

"Yeah?" Brendon yells back, throat feeling raw, voice harsher even than he means it. "Where the fuck were you today? I had to finish the whole goddamn thing by myself!"

"Oh, have a cry," Ryan snarls, and Brendon swings out blindly against him again.

A big, burly guy shoves at him in an annoyed kind of way and says, "Leave it, you two," and Brendon turns on his heel and walks away, towards the wall, away from the heaving crowd and Ryan.

"Hey!" Ryan yells, and then he's up next to Brendon again, face twisted in fury. "Don't you fucking walk away from me—"

Brendon swings around and grabs at Ryan's shirt, tugs him in close and bites at his mouth. He's already really sweaty from the crowd, his shirt damp and sticking to his skin, but Ryan isn't at all; his skin is just hot to the touch, feeling like it's burning against Brendon's hands. Brendon wonders stupidly if maybe Ryan only just got here, but then Ryan's shoving him backwards, letting Brendon bump into people who jump out of the way, annoyed, until Brendon's pinned up against the wall, Ryan's hands on either side of him, trapping him in the tiny space.

They kiss hard, biting and licking, and Ryan is pressed up so tight against him that Brendon can't even worm a hand in between to grope at Ryan's dick, which he supposes is probably a good thing – this venue is pretty dodgy, but there's still only so much that they can get away with. Ryan bites his lower lip hard enough that Brendon gasps, back arching up even closer towards him, if that's possible, and Ryan takes one hand away from the wall, smoothes it over Brendon's side, and sucks slowly at his lip, almost conciliatory. Brendon doesn't know what to do with that, so he just hooks one leg out and around Ryan's, balancing a little awkwardly, breathing hard into Ryan's mouth.

Something buzzes unexpectedly against Brendon's thigh and he jolts, almost falling when Ryan pulls back suddenly and tugs his phone out from a too tight pocket. He answers and says immediately, shouting above the noise, "Sorry, sorry, where are you—" and then, "I'll be there in a sec."

He looks at Brendon and then leans in close, mouth hot on Brendon's ear. "I have to go," he says, clearly. "I have to – I'm meeting friends here, I can't just pull out on them—"

"Sure, whatever," Brendon says. His mouth tastes strange to him; he pushes out and away from Ryan's body warm against his and walks away, too conscious of Ryan's eyes on him. He doesn't feel like dancing to the band anymore, and when he looks up once he sees someone else watching him, heading towards him, and Brendon turns sharply for the door. Instead, he goes outside, out into the cold, fresh night, and walks a few paces before he stumbles and sits down heavily on the edge of the pavement, tapping his feet in the gutter.

Fucking waste of five dollars, he thinks dully, and ignores the ache in his throat, his gut, the lingering feeling of Spencer Smith's eyes burning into him.