[so idk what I'm gonna do??? I think Dallon was really the only reason I stayed with panic & just thinking about it. I don't think I like.. enjoy their/Brendon's music as much as I used to?? I didn't really like the new Xmas song. I listened to it twice and I didn't finish it either time bc I really really realllllly am not a fan. I love Christmas music. I was born on Christmas I am the embodiment of festivity. But anyways I have super high hopes for idkhow I love their 2 songs already more than I love myself & I might take a longer while updating just bc I'm having a difficult time processing this all. It's weird. Idk if I'll ever like see him live ever again.]

There was no way in hell he'd caught on to my plan. I'd made it look like I was just trying to get with him, not like I was using him to pull a string of tragically hysterical jokes. Well, I was using him, but he didn't know that. Only Pete knew that, and Tyler was attempting to catch on to that, but he'd never be able to. He seemed too ditzy to figure out something so complex like that so quickly. Sometimes, I wasn't even sure he knew which way was north.

So naturally, I'd spent the entire class period staring at Dallon. I was just hoping and praying he'd look over to check I wasn't screwing around so I could glare at him or something of that nature.

But no. He never glanced over. He just kept writing, and writing, and writing. He kept scribbling nonsense about biology until the notebook page was filled out to the bottom line, then he turned it to the next one and continued. I almost cared about what he was doing.

"Brendon," my attention snapped up to the teacher, frozen halfway into her PowerPoint slide, "could you answer the question for us instead of staring into space?"

A few kids snickered and turned to watch. "Uh... can you repeat the question?"

She nodded and gestured to the screen. The label said 'neuron', but my mind said 'fuck'. "Can you explain impulse transmission across a synapse?"

Out of the corner of my eye, Dallon slowly shut his notebook and turned to watch me instead of the other way around. His paper was loaded with all the answers I needed. Mine was blank with a tiny drawing of a chicken at the bottom. The joke was on him, though. I actually understood the topic for once in my life.

"The membrane on the neuron with the impulse polarizes, ion channels open, sodium goes into the neuron and becomes depolarized, it reaches the threshold potential, hyper-polarization kicks in, and the sodium goes back to its normal spot and so does the potassium that slides in somewhere important. I think."

It was so quiet, I heard the second hand ticking on the clock. Dallon's pencil clattered to his desk, and the teacher dropped her marker.

"That's... right, more or less, in a nutshell," she muttered, "good job, Brendon."

I hated that I completely understood neurons. The one thing Pete was good at was the nervous system, and for a long period of time in my life, I hadn't gone a day without helping him either study or learn new shit about it. I wasn't complaining because I was glad he'd found something he was interested in, but I also kinda was complaining because I sincerely hated it. It had come in handy, I guess. The process has become somewhat of a second nature.

Dallon was still shooting daggers at me when I turned away from the board. Maybe they weren't necessarily daggers, but he was either incredibly confused or intimidated by my knowledge on the nervous system.

Both were good.

🖍🖍🖍

For the second time in two days, Dallon had left me alone. Neither occasions were really his fault, but I was tempted to blame the second one on him. Then he'd feel bad about Carmen Green and her friends shoving me up against the lockers in a deserted hallway by the collar of my shirt.

I couldn't tell if Carmen's shirt was stained with wine or blood, but the color of her knuckles led me to believe it was definitely blood. "Have you heard the news lately, Urie?" She smiled, flashing her chipped tooth again, "it's pretty important to your reputation."

It sounded like she was just trying to grab my attention. Honestly, I didn't care about my reputation. Compromised or not, I'd regain it soon enough. "I can't possibly give less of a shit—"

One of the larger girls behind her drove her fist into my gut. I would've said it didn't hurt, but I would've been lying straight through my teeth and the bruise that was bound to take shape in a bit.

"Word's going around," Carmen slammed her palm inches away from my shoulder, "that you're growing soft. Giving in. Giving up. Like a wuss." Murmurs of agreement backed her up.

I was, but I was purposely trying to. I wouldn't have Dallon right where I wanted him if I hadn't tried to tone down my anger and constant need to vandalize things. Granted, I never really needed to, but it was a great stress reliever.

"I'm not growing soft—"

"—Some people have been saying that you're falling in l-o-v-e. We all know that's not true though," she paused to examine her fingernails, "right?"

Instead of responding immediately with a good sarcastic comeback, I reached for the floor with my toes and the second I was able to hold myself up, I swung my leg up as high as I could and kneed her square in the chin.

My victory was short lived, and also totally not worth it. A black eye was not a good swap for kneeing Carmen Green in the face, but it was the best I'd gotten.

They'd all scattered by the time Dallon came back. He said he was going to the bathroom, but he might as well have repainted every stall and replaced the mirrors, because I'd gotten killed while he presumably took a shit and played some time consuming game with cats.

"Okay, I was thinking we get home and order pizza, and then we can like, go get ice cream or—" he froze just as the door swung shut, and in half a second he was on the floor right beside me, cupping me face in his hands. They were dripping wet. "Oh my god, what in the world happened? Did you walk into a locker? I thought you were too short and it wouldn't be a problem!"

"Look, Carmen Green and her ugly friends were walking by and — wait a hot second, are you calling me short?!"

He shrugged and pulled me to my feet, slinging my backpack over his shoulder and shoving his binder into my hands while he carried me out to the parking lot. It was vacant for the most part, spare a teacher or two I hadn't recognized. "I leave you alone for about five minutes, and you get beat up by a literal gang of girls. I don't have any ice packs, but we have a frozen bag of peas in the freezer at home that's going to have to do for now."

I was halfway into a cartoon. Holding a steak to my face sounded like a photo that would haunt me until I'd die. "No, no, I'll be fine," I pushed him away and collapsed into the passenger seat myself, hanging on to the seatbelt for dear life while he insisted on clicking it in for me, "like, it's just a bruise. And I look badass. That's basically all that matters. It'll look awesome if I ever find my leather jacket."

Dallon didn't say a word. He kept quiet and paced in front of his car with his hands in his hair, repeating words incoherently to himself. He looked insane. I'd bet a dollar those two teachers standing out front were staring at him and debating whether or not to call a mental hospital or not. I know I was. I had them on speed dial.

After a couple minutes of pacing, he flung open the door and quickly sat down, clutching the steering wheel with white knuckles. I would've laughed if he didn't look like he was about half a second away from tearing someone's head off their shoulders. Not that he seemed pissed, but the eerie wave of calm was enough to make me back off and shut up while he seethed in unexpressed anger.

"What do you do when you're mad, Brendon?"

"What?"

"I said," his voice faltered, "what do you do when you're mad? Where do you go? What happens?"

I never really got mad often. Sure I'd grow upset from time to time, but I was never as ticked off as he was. He was on a new level. "I don't really get mad."

"Well get mad, damn it! I'm mad!"

The last time I'd gotten mad was like, kindergarten. And that was because I'd come to the conclusion that the snack break was too short. I got ticked off a lot, annoyed, yeah. But never the type of mad he was experiencing. "I said, I don't get mad. There isn't any reason for me to ever get super mad, and I don't, okay? Quit asking me."

"What about when you punched Carmen—"

"Defense and annoyance. I wasn't necessarily mad, just defensive."

He let out a frustrated groan and pushed his back against the seat, holding his palms over his eyes like my mom did whenever she had to pick me up from the police station. Needless to say, I recognized the look.

"Why're you disappointed? I thought you were mad. Pick your emotions for fucks sake. I can't keep up with moody people, and I swear to —"

He stopped me.

With his lips.

I could never find the right words to express that one moment. Out of every vocabulary sheet I'd been forced to read through, every complex novel, every word I'd ever learned would never be enough to describe the feeling in my bones.

I thought I was exploding, caving in on myself, and for a moment, nothing hurt. The dull pain in my head I hadn't bothered to pay much attention to was nonexistent, my eye was fine, the bruises on my body didn't exist. Everything was perfectly fine. The car could've exploded into a zillion pieces and would I have cared? Never in a zillion years.

And I hated that I felt that way. That meant the plan had worked its magic too well, and there was no easy way out of love. I'd brought that upon myself. I'd fucked the plan up, backwards, upside down, and sideways. Because I'd actually grown fond of him. I'd probably be sad if I never saw him again.

Gross.