---
School the next day kind of sucks, and by 'kind of', Brendon means 'totally'. He sleeps through most of his classes, occasionally rousing himself enough to give an incorrect answer to a disapproving teacher. He doesn't even rise to Ryan's deliberate comments during Biology about how, wow, someone's a little slow today, guess the little science genius was just faking it, huh. Brent looks at him with mild concern but when Brendon tells him that he's fine, Brent doesn't push it, just nods.
"Lots of homework," Brendon says weakly, voice rough and sore, and Brent nods. Brendon sort of wants to cry.
Between three and four he goes and sits in the library and attempts to get some homework done, throat still too sore for the idea of eating anything to be appealing. Kara texts him a bit before four, telling him she's got him an appointment at the doctor's for Thursday after school, which Brendon both appreciates and is annoyed by – going to get checked out is probably a good idea, but it's during a shift, and he's going to have to switch around the times. Maybe the new girl will swap with him, he thinks hopefully. Anyway, the prospect of feeling better is still a good one, and that and finishing a set of Chemistry problems (actually ahead of time, for once) is enough to put him in a slightly cheerful mood, and he's not quite at the wanting-to-die point when he heads to the little filing office.
Ryan is already there, sitting inside and stubbornly refusing to do anything until Brendon shows up, and Brendon rolls his eyes before flopping down in front of his current pile of sorting. Ryan is avoiding looking at him even more than usual, and Brendon's almost curious about it until he remembers suddenly, with a spike of embarrassment in his stomach, the last detention they had, Ryan's weight warm above his. It seems like a long time ago, his sickness blurring the passage of time and making the event itself almost dreamlike, but it's clear that Ryan is still furious or disgusted or both about it, and Brendon feels the helplessness crawling up his throat again.
He's not used to having passive kind of emotions around the other guy, or at least ones that make him more upset than furious, and it's an unpleasant feeling. Brendon ducks his head and they don't speak for the whole time, even though the air feels hot and thick, stifling. By the time detention's almost over Brendon feels angry and ugly, mouth twisting every time he happens to look at Ryan.
Once, he looks up to find Ryan watching him. Ryan goes to duck his head and then apparently thinks better of it, mouth curling into a sneer, and Brendon meets his gaze levelly, chin jutting out. God, Brendon hates him.
Eventually, Beckett (supervising today) comes in and tells them they can go and Brendon gets up, slamming his shoulder into Ryan's hard in a childish attempt to get out the door first. Ryan takes a step back, hissing an obscenity, and Brendon grants him an unpleasant grin over his shoulder.
Outside, he spots his bus at the bottom of the hill and goes to hurry for it, only to have Ryan somehow sneak in front of him and curl his foot around Brendon's ankle, twisting out and sending Brendon tripping forward. Brendon's head is fuzzy and sick, still, the world bright in front of him and his head throbbing, and he isn't in time to catch himself. Instead, he falls straight to the ground, grazing the heels of his hands hard along the concrete. He draws himself up into a sitting position and takes in a shuddering breath, about to pull out the (nonexistent; fuck, his head hurts) strength to launch himself upwards and into a fight, but Ryan isn't even looking at him.
A car pulls over to the curb and the Jon guy sticks his head out of the window, waving Ryan over. "Come on," he shouts, "Spence's already at the diner," and Ryan's face just, brightens. It's like he's forgotten that Brendon's there, grinning broadly, and he almost jogs to the car, jumping in.
Brendon hauls himself to his feet and watches the car drive off, despite himself. Ryan looked happy, he thinks, something small and tired and numb stuck in his throat, and he curls his fingers in the hem of his shirt before he turns and sets off in the direction of home. Who gives a fuck, he thinks, who needs people like Walker and Smith. Brendon's doing fine.
