Mister Sinister

6

Dallon wasn't sure how to feel about Brendon being gone. He felt pity for the shorter boy, that was for sure. His body was too small for his emotions and he lashed out. Dallon would have never pegged Brendon for being violent, but he also knew he wouldn't have thought he was unpopular by how vibrant his personality was.

It was loud and neon, radiating off of him at dangerously intoxicating levels. The light he projected should have held the capacity to tint the world around him whatever shade he chose, but instead his colors were muted like the dying battery in a flashlight. If Brendon was given a chance, everyone would be drunk just looking at him.

However, without his only friend there, Dallon was painfully sober and hungover, his eyes drooping and his throat gritty.

The first few hours of the day were predictably uneventful. He dragged his feet between his classes, his head sagging and his hand limply scrawling notes and answers. His text books felt like thousand pound weights that he could hardly bear, and his pounding head beat in square time with his heartbeat, a slow, pathetic, shambled polka.

Fifth hour rolled around, so slowly he thought it was being dragged uphill against its will, and he resigned himself to the math without much of a fight.

"Hey," somebody whispered.

The voice came from his right, but he thought nothing of it. People were throwing him on the same ship as Brendon- the burning, gas-soaked, leaky, mass-less ship. He didn't mind being up there with Brendon- what he did mind was that they christened the boat with a cannon ball and set their voyage to Atlantis. That was Dallons round about way of saying he's pretty sure the 'hey' wasn't for him. Cause no one talks to him.

"Hey," the voice whispered more harshly.

He tried to ignore it, until he felt a small tap on his right shoulder, and looked up. The boy on his right seemed familiar, and he was sure he had seen him in the halls. He had short brown hair, longer on the top and shaved on the sides. The tips of his were a faded green- clearly the remnants of a blue dye- and his face was gentle. Dallon noticed the Letterman draped over his shoulders, however, any warmth he may have felt for this stranger stiffened and froze.

"Hey yourself," Dallon replied.

The boy smiled, his eyes crinkling, and stuck his hand out. "I'm Ryan," He said, slightly louder than before.

Dallon took Ryan's hand- only to be polite- and smiled back, although his was less genuine and more tight-lipped. Ryan's voice was turquoise, like his hair, and trapezoidal. It wasn't too thick, but angled, loped off on one side. It rested right on his soft pallet in the back of his throat and added a slight dopey air to him. Dallon couldn't deny he liked how innocent he sounded.

"Uh, hey.. Ryan."

Ryan glanced up at the board, where the teacher was laboring over some equation Ryan deemed unimportant. "You're Dallon, right?"

Dallon internally groaned. This was about Brendon. "Yeah," he replied in defeat.

"Nice to meet you bro. How long you been going here?"

Dallon fought away his confusion- or at least, he kept it off his face so that Ryan couldn't see. This boy knew everybody there. Hes been in school with them for half of his life. He damn well knows Dallon's new. Dallon narrowed his eyes slightly- what game was this boy playing?