Brendon enters the school gates, feeling more nervous than he has in a very long time.

He's been thinking about it all night, and he's pretty sure he can guess how the day is going to play out. Emily will have told Timothy that he blurted out Ryan's name in the middle of the kiss, and Timothy will have told the entire school. Everybody will know. It's going to pan out just like it did in his old high school, and he's not sure he'll be able to take it for the second time.

He's really late for school, as it is, because his alarm had decided not to go off. He guesses it's a good think that he's arrived fifteen minutes after everybody else; there's less chance of running into anybody before his first lesson. Rushing through the yard, he heads towards the building, wondering if his History teacher - Mrs. Terence - will be annoyed with him or not.

The corridor is fairly empty when he enters, and he rushes straight to his locker to put away the books he won't need until the afternoon. He plants his bag on the floor, and turns the dial for his code. The door swings open - revealing an empty locker - and he bends down to empty his bag of the stuff he won't need for the morning.

He freezes, however, half-way through doing so, as a cold voice jeers, "Well, well, well. If it isn't the fairy."

Brendon stands up, slowly, and turns nervously, to find - rather predictably - Timothy, with four tall, muscular football-player friends. Brendon swallows, and takes a step closer to his locker, eager to avoid the violence that he's sure is about to take place. "Um. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" Timothy asks, in a dangerous, silky voice. He glances around at his friends, and then smiles at Brendon, his eyes glinting. "I'm not in the mood for talking much right now, so I'll make this short. We don't like fags here, and I think it's about time that somebody beat that shit out of you."

"Look, don't you think it would be better if you all used your energy somewhere else?" Brendon suggests, wondering if he'll be able to talk his way out of this. He very much doubts it, however. "I don't know, you could go and play sports or something and that would be much more productive. I won't get in your way or look at you or talk to you, and then, I don't know, you could play against other schools with all the practise and win some games and trophies, and then --"

"What the fuck are you going on about?" one of Timothy's friends asks, shaking his head. "Shut up, or we'll pound your face in."

"We're going to do that anyway," Timothy dismisses, with a smirk at Brendon. Brendon looks either side of them, praying that a teacher might turn up, but the corridor is completely empty. "So, what'll it be, pillow-biter? Kicks, or punches?"

"How about neither?" Brendon asks, hating how much his voice is shaking.

Timothy laughs. "Both it is, then."

And then, five burly and strong seventeen year olds set about kicking the shit out of Brendon as best they can.

He falls to the floor as they set to work on him, their trainers beating bruises into his side, their hands pulling his hair, Timothy's fist pounding new, purple patterns into his face. His lip, that has been healing so well, splits open again, and the taste of blood is thick and copious in his mouth. He tries to struggle against it, but one of them twists his arms behind his back, hauling him to his feet, allowing Timothy better access to his face.

"Stop it!" he groans, blood spraying everywhere, as he's allowed to slump heavily back onto the floor. He's not been in this much pain for over a year, and his whole body is aching and bruised and all he can think about is the pain. Timothy stands over him, with a triumphant, deep laugh.

"We'd stop, but I really don't think you'll have learnt your lesson from a simple beating," he informs the boy, crumpled and bleeding at his feet, sounding ironically concerned. "We have to make this different, or you'll never lose your filthy habits."

"Just leave me alone," Brendon pleads, tears of pain and resignation and anger rising in his eyes. He knows that even if they do leave, he's not likely to stand up any time soon. Even the thought of movement makes his body fire up with pain in protest.

"Not likely," Timothy snorts, dismissively. "Oh, I've got an idea. How about we give you some time to think about how you need to change?"

He grabs a fistful of Brendon's dark, blood-matted hair and lifts him to his feet by it. Brendon lets of a cry of pain, and tries to push him away, but it's useless. One of the others grabs Brendon's shoulders and pushes him forward – straight into his open locker. He squirms and struggles as much as possible, but it's to no avail – in a matter of seconds he's stuffed upright in his locker, one of his arms twisted painfully behind his back, fighting to even keep his eyes open against the agony.

"I wonder how long it'll be before somebody gets you out," Timothy ponders, aloud, as though commenting on what might be served for lunch today. He smirks, then, giving Brendon one last, gleeful look. "See you later, fairy-boy."

With that, he shuts the locker with a metallic clang of the lock, and Brendon is left in the darkness.

Fears begin to prey upon him the moment the door is shut, and, if he had enough energy, he'd begin to hyperventilate or something. Though he knows he's battered and bruised all over, he worries mostly about his head – the threat of internal bleeding, brain damage, concussion runs through him. He's also pretty worried about the arm twisted behind his back; it's already going numb, and he can't see that changing any time soon.

"Help," he tries to say, for anybody to hear him, but his voice is merely the tiniest whisper that nobody would be able to hear from the corridor. He swears, mentally, and closes his eyes, resting his forehead on the cool metal in front of him. He knows that, however drowsy he's feeling, he has to keep himself awake. If he's concussed, he can't allow himself to pass out whilst alone and cramped in here. The thought is terrifying.

He can't believe that this has happened, again. He's never been locked in a locker before, but he's been beaten up to this extent, and it makes him feel sick and ashamed, along with the taste of blood thick in his mouth. What is his mom going to say? What will the school do? If this happens again, he knows he'll have to leave. He just can't live his life being torn to pieces anymore.

And it's all just because he's grown up being attracted to boys rather than girls.

Angry, bitter, hot tears run down his cheeks as he thinks about it, and he attempts to move, to make some kind of noise against the locker to alert somebody to what's happened, but he can't. The space around him is too tight, and anyway, he's too weak to do it. The first class won't be over for another forty minutes or so, and he's not sure if he can stay awake for that long.

He heaves a small, shaky sigh, wondering what the hell he's going to do. However, just as he thinks this, he hears footsteps in the corridor, and they stop by his locker. He tries to move or shout out or do anything that will attract the person's attention, but it's impossible. He gives up, with a heavy heart.

But then, in the small grate in front of him, with it's downward slant that stops him from seeing out, something is pushed, and it hits him square in the eye. He lets out a startled, loud sound, and whatever it is – it seems to be paper – stops, and pulls out again.

There's silence, in which Brendon hopes against hope that he's been heard, and then a curious voice asks, "Is somebody in there?"

"Yes," Brendon wheezes, weakly, and he tries to explain what's happened. His voice is small and tired, though, and before he can finish his story, the voice interrupts.

"I can't hear you," it says, and then, even more cautiously, it asks, "Brendon?"

Brendon would know that quiet, unassuming voice anywhere. He almost bursts into a smile, but has to stop himself, because his face is hurting far too much for that to happen. He licks his lips, ignoring the sting, and raises his voice as hard as he can with the new adrenaline pumping within him, "Yes. I-I've been locked in here."

"What's your code?" Ryan asks, sounding surprised.

Brendon tells him, and then hears the dial moving in the pattern. Then, making his heart swell, just a little, the door swings open, revealing a suspicious looking Ryan and lots of light. The suspicion soon slips off of Ryan's face, however, as he takes in Brendon's appearance. Then, before Brendon can even begin to offer an explanation, Ryan pulls him out of the locker by his shirt and pulls him close, hugging him.

"What the fuck?" Ryan asks, into Brendon's hair, and his voice is strangely shaky. Brendon opens his mouth to explain, but Ryan pushes him away, shaking his head. "In fact, don't speak. Save your energy. We have to get you to out of here."

Brendon makes no complaint, barely even able to form the words of gratitude and surprise at how Ryan is reacting. Ryan wraps an arm around Brendon's waist, and begins to guide him through the corridor, all the time rambling about how bad Brendon looks and how shocked he is to have found him. Brendon doesn't pay much attention, instead focusing on trying to walk properly, as they leave the building and head for the gates.

They leave the gates, and Brendon wonders for half a moment if Ryan is going to take them both to Brendon's house, and call his mom or something. However, Ryan goes the other way, heading to his house, for which Brendon is grateful. He doesn't think he can face his mother right now, especially as she'd probably bring Rodney home with her from work.

They reach the house in about ten minutes, taking longer than usual because Brendon really can't find the energy to move very fast, and Ryan ends up half-carrying him for the last few steps. In a few minutes, they're in Ryan's bedroom, and Ryan carefully helps Brendon lay back on the bed. "Right," he says, sounding nervous at all the responsibility he's brought upon himself by bringing an injured boy home, "I'll go and get some stuff to, um, clean you up, okay? Stay here, and stay awake."

Brendon nods, and Ryan rushes out of the room.

The bed his comfortable beneath him, and, though his body feels like it's on fire, Brendon begins to feel a bit calmer. He'll let Ryan tend to his wounds – and he's beyond happy that Ryan feels like he has to, especially after all of the arguments they've had – and, if Ryan lets him, stay here for a few hours to gather strength, and then go home and wrap up in as many clothes possible to hide the extent of his injuries from his mom.

He knows the plan probably won't work, but he has to have some hope, or he'll end up a sobbing mess.

Ryan returns, carrying the same goods as the last time; the bowl of water, the antiseptic cream and a few towels, but this time he also has a few band aids and bandages. He puts it all down onto the floor, and, once more, kneels next to the bed, biting his lip. He smoothes Brendon's hair from his forehead, gently, and sighs.

"I'll sort out your lip, first, because that might be the only open wound," Ryan murmurs, setting about dipping a towel into the warm water. As he dabs the blood away, Brendon winces and resists the urge to squirm too much. He applies the cream this time, rather than Brendon, and as Brendon lets out a hiss of pained breath, Ryan's hand finds his and squeezes it, tightly.

"It's nearly done," he says, a low, reassuring voice. He keeps holding Brendon's hand, the other tracing the cream gently onto the cut, and then he pulls back, fingers still entwined with Brendon's. "There. That's that one done."

"Thanks," Brendon replies, weakly. He closes his eyes, hoping to just be able to lie there, but Ryan's hand tightens around his, almost sharply.

"Sit up," he orders, and Brendon opens his eyes again. He looks at Ryan, questioningly, and Ryan fixes him with a stern look. "Come on. Up."

Brendon sighs, and somehow manages to sit up, Ryan's hand slipping from his as he does so. He gets a horrible head rush, and grimaces, and so Ryan quickly unzips his school bag and pulls out a bottle of water, holding it out. Brendon takes it, with a small, grateful smile, and takes a large gulp.

Once it's set down on the bedside table, he looks expectantly at Ryan, who is still kneeling in front of him. Ryan's eyes move across his body, taking in his injuries, and then looks up into his eyes, with a strangely intense gaze. "Take your shirt off," he says, quietly.

Brendon shakes his head. He can barely move his arms. In a small voice, his chest aching as he speaks, he replies, "I c-can't. Too weak."

"Take it off," Ryan repeats, more firmly. "You're usually full of energy. Don't let them beat the life out of you."

The words, oddly enough, give Brendon some adrenaline, and he somehow manages to pull his t-shirt awkwardly over his head. Ryan lets out a hiss of breath, biting his lip. "The fuckers," he mutters, examining him. "The absolute fuckers."

Brendon can barely dare to look at the damage. Ryan reaches out a hand and presses his warm palm against Brendon's ribs, causing the boy to wince and let out a whimper of pain. Ryan looks up into his eyes, face filled with anger and concern. "You're purple and blue and black," he explains, tracing a down Brendon's stomach, slowly. Brendon shivers. "You'll be bruised for weeks."

"Nobody is going to see my body, so it's alright," Brendon shrugs, trying to sound more like his usual, hopeful self. Ryan shakes his head at the optimism.

"They'll see your face, and that's damaged, too."

Brendon looks down at his knees. Why the hell can't this school be different to the last? He's got no idea why he's such a magnet for ridicule; he does his best to be friendly and polite and kind, and it's not as if he came to the school with a huge ego, or anything. He just wants to be liked.

Suddenly, there's a warmth on his hand and he realises that, once more, Ryan has slipped his hand onto Brendon's. He moves it further, smoothing over a large bruise on Brendon's forearm, and his other hand slips around Brendon's hip and comes to rest there, fingers curling slightly, almost protectively.

"I'll kill them," Ryan murmurs, face suddenly much, much closer to Brendon's, and Brendon's breath catches in his throat. "Why would they do this to you?"

Brendon daren't pull back or move, or do anything that could ruin this. He swallows, hard, and gives a nervous laugh. "Because I'm weird. You said that yourself."

Ryan winces. "You're weird, yeah, but they're bastards. You don't deserve this, at all. Anyway, loads of kids are weird. Why did they pick you out?"

Brendon decides, for the first time in his life, to be completely honest - with himself, and another. "I guess," he begins, and then pauses, licking his lips nervously. "I guess it's because I'm gay."

Ryan's lips part a little, looking soft and inviting, and a look of comprehension comes across his features. He tightens his grip around Brendon, and gently pushes him back across the bed. Brendon doesn't resist as he comes to rest in the soft covers. Ryan climbs over him, tentatively straddling him, and Brendon just has time to think ohfuckwhathefuckishappening, before Ryan leans down, and kisses him.

Brendon lets out a moan, feeling a mixture of absolute pleasure, and quite some pain, too. Ryan pulls back, licking his lips as he kneels over Brendon, looking more vulnerable than Brendon has ever seen him. His eyes are wide, his expression almost innocent, and he's biting his lower lip, and fuck, he looks amazing.

"Ryan," Brendon breathes, summoning the energy to slip his arms comfortably around the boy's waist. "Ryan, fuck, kiss me again?"

Ryan laughs, the sound vibrant and colourful. "You don't need to ask. I was going to, anyway."

He does, too, his tongue running over the stinging cut on Brendon's bottom lip. Then, his tongue slips inside Brendon's mouth and Brendon can't believe what's happening, but his heart is swelling, and he doesn't want to have to stop to work anything out. He kisses back, as passionately as he can, ignoring the fire lighting painfully over his body at all the contact.

One of Ryan's hands slides down Brendon's side, and, clumsily, unbuckles his belt, never breaking the kiss. He has to, however, as he uses both hands to pull Brendon's jeans half-way down his legs. His fingers trail over the top of Brendon's boxers, and he gazes at the boy, with a small, shy smile.

"Is this okay?" he asks, quietly, and Brendon can do nothing but nod.

Ryan's smile widens, and he leans over to press another, lingering kiss upon Brendon's lips. Then, he pulls Brendon's boxers down, shifting slightly down the bed - and before Brendon can even think about what's happening, Ryan lowers his head and plants a small, delicate kiss on the base of Brendon's cock.

He hardens, immediately, with a groan. Ryan takes his hand, entwining their fingers together, and then, without anymore hesitation, takes Brendon full in his mouth. Brendon's free hand twists in the sheets, as a tremble runs up his pained body. He can't get his head around what is happening; Ryan is actually giving him a blow job, and, God it feels amazing when he quickens the pace.

"J-Jesus," he manages to say, in a shaky voice, as Ryan takes him even deeper into his mouth. He's not been touched like this in about a year, and it was never like this with his ex-boyfriend, and he never felt so damn much, like he does now. His free hand runs shakily through Ryan's dark hair, the other grasping Ryan's hand, tightly.

As a couple of minutes fall past them, Brendon can feel an odd tightening deep in his stomach, and he lets out a long, throaty growl, vaguely wondering if he should give Ryan some warning, but knowing that he can't form a sentence right now because God he's in a place he's never been to before.

"R-Ryan, I-I'm, oh G-God --" he whimpers, as his entire body tenses, his stomach twisting hotly, and a long shudder runs through it. He comes, a loud moan escaping his lips, and then falls back, breathing heavily and wincing as the pain of the beating returns to him. Ryan slowly sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and licking his lips, looking beyond shy.

Brendon suddenly forgets all about the pain, sits half-way up, pulls Ryan close against him, and lays back down again.

Ryan makes a small, pleased sound in the back of his throat, resting his head against Brendon's bare chest, his breathing still slightly erratic from what he's just done. He plants a small kiss on Brendon's chest, with a heavy, satisfied sigh. "This is - this is, just. I don't know."

"Me neither," Brendon replies, with a slight laugh. He really doesn't know. All he does know is that he's never felt better within himself, even if his outer self is practically purple. "You're just. I. I really don't know."

Ryan crawls further up the bed, resting his head on the pillow next to Brendon's, and draping one of his arms across Brendon's chest. Into Brendon's ear, he murmurs, "You can go to sleep now. I'll be here when you wake up, and I'll make sure you're okay."

Brendon doesn't really think he'll be able to sleep, not when his mind is so alight.

But he finds that sleep rushes over him quicker than he could have expected, with the sunlight of the late morning washing over them. As his eyes close, a few minutes after Ryan's promise, he lets out the tiniest of sighs. Ryan kisses his cheek, and then nestles his head back into the pillow, stroking small circles into Brendon's side with a finger.

Brendon's last thought before his dreams is that he could definitely get used to this.

He just hopes that when he wakes, Ryan will still be wrapped around him, because if he is, everything might just be okay.