---
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 whatever because, 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 thinks fuck 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.
