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Ghostdancing

Summary:

Suicidal ideation doesn't just disappear. Brian Johnson learns this the hard way.

Notes:

Hello, dead-fandom. I come bearing the fruit of my labor.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Brian had missed his friend's birthday celebration because he was still grounded, a week after his little "stunt with the flare gun", as his mom called it. He had been cleaning the garage when he realized his friends would all be cutting cake around that time. He gave his friend his gift Monday at lunch, and the boy thanked him for the castle-themed Lego set but generally said little else. It wasn't out of malice, he just genuinely didn’t have much to say to Brian. Brian's friends didn't hate him, they just didn't love him either. There wasn't any dislike, there was just nothing. So, as usual, Brian sat in silence listening to his friends talk about the party the night before and the movie they watched and how great it was.

It had been a week and two days since the whole "Breakfast Club" thing happened. His friends never pressed about his destroyed locker. An accident, he told them the one time they asked, he didn’t know the flare was still in his bag after he'd gone fishing the day before. It was a bald-faced lie (who goes fishing in Chicago on a Thursday afternoon?), but they never pressed him, just shrugged and went back to their work. That was the one good thing about them, they were brains like him. They spent their free time studying instead of partying. They loved math and science like he did, worked hard for good grades like he did, but beyond that, the group had little in common. Yes, they frequented the same academic clubs, they liked physics and other geeky subjects, they did well in school, they faced the same bullies—they were friends of circumstance, that’s about it.

"She's so hot," Brian zoned back in to his friends talking about some girl. They all looked behind the boy talking. Standing by the soda fountain was Claire Standish. Brian sighed internally.

"God, her lips are so perfect, I just want to--" A friend gestured. The rest laughed. Brian pretended to join in. He had told Bender he'd had sex with her a week ago, so he couldn't judge too harshly, but the whole situation still filled him with some unspeakable dread. Probably because it reminded him she existed.

Claire had, as she promised, gone right back to the way things were the second they returned to school. It was no surprise. She had admitted she would. Brian made the mistake of not believing her, but after she laughed in his face when he said hello in the hall, he knew it was true. Brian had observed her the past week, watching the way she didn’t object to her friends' self-absorbed behaviors, the way she would glare and laugh at anyone she was supposed to consider below her. She knew she was a cut above the rest, socially, and showed it. It was almost comical, the difference between the Claire he'd met in detention and the one floating down the hallways with her posse. Her interactions lacked all of the depth they'd displayed just a few days prior. She only just acknowledged Andy, and Andy was on nearly the same social level.

When Brian had said hello to Andy, Andy's face had scrunched up in some sort of embarrassed shock, like he was surprised Brian had the balls to say hello so publicly. He'd greeted him back stiffly, his friends looking at Brian with more confusion than anything else. Wasn't that Larry Lester's friend? he'd heard them ask as he walked away. He didn't wait to hear more. Andy wouldn’t even make eye contact after that.

So Brian couldn’t help but shrink internally when he saw either of the two, some sort of deep shame coming over him at their failed friendship. He couldn’t help a tinge of fear, too, because they knew the secret of his suicide attempt, something no one -not even his parents- knew about.

The bell rang. His friends kept chattering as they cleaned up. Brian felt himself stand and follow, wandering to trigonometry, a couple of steps behind two friends who didn’t seem to notice his lackluster tumbling. He felt himself sit in the front row, next to Tom and Harry, saw himself take out the notebook and pencils. He heard the teacher begin to lecture. He dutifully began note-taking.

The suicide attempt. It felt like yesterday. It felt like a year ago. And something about even just the memory tugged a deep sense of dread in his stomach, like a thread from a knotted ball of yarn, tugging, aching, impossible to unravel.

He'd taken the flare gun from his father's closet thinking it was a real gun. It wasn't. He didn't realize until he was hauled out of class by Vernon himself and asked to explain why a firework had exploded in his locker. When he couldn't, Vernon slapped a detention on him, dragging him away to his office to talk. Carl, evaluating the mess, had said nothing, but looked at the boy with a tentatively curious expression. Brian had wanted to say something (it's a flare, for a friend, I'm holding it for him – it's not mine – it was an accident, I didn't know it was still in my bag – I went fishing--), but his throat was dry and constricted. Vernon practically screamed his head off—what were you thinking! Idiotic! Dangerous! Downright stupid!-- and called his parents to notify them of what had transpired. Vernon showered Brian with questions, none of which Brian could answer. He felt hot tears prick at his eyes, so kept his head down. Having calmed down after Carl's report it was the accidental discharge of a flare gun, Vernon had decided the whole thing was a stupid accident.

"I like to fish, too, young man. I own a flare myself," He was practically talking to himself at this point. "So I understand this was a mistake. A stupid, thoughtless, idiotic mistake, but a mistake."
When dismissed to return to class, Brian had wandered listlessly around the halls. He wanted to return to class but when he got to the door he just couldn't open it and walk in. Too many eyes. Too many silent questions, curious gazes. So he'd wandered to the back of the school, out the back stairs, sat down. There had been another guy out back, skipping too, sitting on the hood of a Camaro, smoking something, and a girl in all black curled up behind the rail. He hadn't spoken to either; they didn't seem to notice him.

The bell rang, but he didn't (couldn't?) move. His parents were going to kill him. First, an F, dropping his grade significantly, and now a detention. And not just after school for an hour, this was detention for a full Saturday! They wouldn't drive him to hang out with friends, now they had to drive him to detention? That alone could fuel a week's worth of lectures.

He had felt his breath quicken. A wave of panic had hit him so hard that he lost the air in his lungs. Shit, he was in for it now. Endless chore punishments, cleaning the garage, no TV, no more driving lessons, no new comic books—nothing, not for a long time, not until his grade was up. He could hear his mother's voice: the tight, high sound she made when she was trying not to scream in front of his little sister. His dad would shake his head, and say something along the lines of Do you even care about your future?, the unspoken word failure sitting heavy between them all. He had doubled over on the stairs. He couldn't breathe. His thoughts were racing wildly about. He could see his mother's face, scowling. Her perfect boy, perfect student, A+; gone. What a disappointment! At least we have your little sister, Brian. She seems to care about her future. She seems to put in the effort you don't anymore. Brian had felt hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He didn't know what he'd say. How could he reply to that? He had to take extra credit—did the teacher offer that? Maybe if he just—What if-- He couldn't—Brian gasped, sat up, pulling in air, trying to calm himself. He couldn't see anything through blurred eyes. God, he craved that gun. Even just the thought of it was instant relief; he'd been relying on that relief for a week at that point.

It was just a flare, but those could kill if he just aimed it right. He missed the feeling of it in his hand; cold, heavy, solid. A reliable tool. An end of life. He craved it. It made him get up, practically falling face-first down the stairs, start a frantic search for a rock big enough to bash against his head. He realized the two others out there were looking at him as he skittered about. He didn't look at them, kept his head down, tried to slow his thumping heart, forget the momentary loss of control. He settled for kicking the wall until it hurt too much to keep at it, instead.

Brian blinked, realizing his peers in trigonometry were packing up. His notebook had no notes. He stood shakily, packing up his things.

"Brian," his friend, Tom, whispered to him. "Are you ok? You spaced out for, like, the whole class."

Brian gave him a shaky smile. "Yeah, just tired. I barely slept working on that English assignment."

His friend nodded in agreement, promising to let him copy his notes later, a promise Brian knew he'd forget about. As Brian said goodbye and wandered down the halls to his next class, he couldn't help but realize nothing had changed since that day the gun went off. He still felt those waves of crashing panic, now accompanied by long periods of feeling nothing. Genuine nothing. The days passed like molasses yet in the blink of an eye. Every day he would go home and do homework for hours, and when he finished he would study physics for his club or economics for college. His mother would stop by to check every hour or so—make sure he wasn't doing anything she didn't approve of. Eventually, he'd eat dinner and try to study more. Mostly, he'd stay up until midnight or one, too exhausted to sleep, staring at some textbook until the words blurred to grey.

That was the way every day went. That was the way tonight would go. His last period was cancelled; the sub didn't show so the administration let the kids have a study hall, which meant everyone with a car left and took their car-less friends with them. So Brian was alone. He, as he figured his mother would want, went to the library to study. The physics textbook wouldn’t read itself, y'know. He went to the back. There was a little area with just one desk- way back behind all the stacks of books. No one was ever there. He could read in peace.

But the moment he opened the textbook, the near-constant pit in his stomach suddenly plummeted. He felt tears in his eyes. He hadn't cried since that day in detention, but there he was, trying to suck back sobs that threatened to tumble out. He covered his mouth with both hands, clamping down, trying not to howl, screwing his eyes shut. He couldn't even decipher what specifically he was crying about. Just, the moment he opened the textbook, dread gripped him. He couldn't understand why he felt this way. Studying was all he was. He was food and water and textbook pages. Maybe that was the problem. He didn't want to think, the tears now flowing down his face, sliding over his hands, plinking lightly onto the textbook. Ah, shit. He leaned back, trying not to get more water on the pages.

When he finally opened his eyes and shakily checked his watch it had been thirty minutes. In fifteen minutes he'd be outside, waiting for his mom to pick him up. She no longer let him ride the bus, not wanting him influenced by delinquency. She had blamed the flare gun incident on outside influence, citing some unknown troublemaker that must have influenced Brian to make such a stupid decision. No one questioned why exactly Brian had brought a gun to school, focusing on the fact it was a flare gun, so it had to be just a moment of stupidity, maybe a future prank, probably an accident.

Brian felt a sob puke up his throat, and he quickly clamped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late, someone had noticed the noise. A girl peered around the stack, staring at Brian.

"A-Allison?" Brian asked. The girl blinked at him, coming closer.

There was a long moment of silence before, "Are you crying?"

Brian wiped his eyes with a damp sleeve. "Not going to say hello? How a-are you?"

"Why are you crying?" She asked.

Brian frowned at her. "I'm n-not crying, ok?"

She just shrugged. He was grateful she gave up.

"I ne-need to study, Allison," He said, prompting her to leave, but she didn't move.

"I don't think you're gonna get any studying done." She said. She held no punches. Brian sighed. He went back to his textbook, trying not to wipe at his damp eyes, pretending she wasn't watching him. But she was right. He couldn't focus. He tried to wait her out, pretending to highlight and flip pages, but she didn't budge. She just watched.

Eventually, he spoke. His voice was small. "Why haven't you sp-spoken to me since d-detention?" He didn't understand where his question came from, it just appeared before them both.

She shrugged. "I never ran into you."

"Why didn't you ever, ever come and say hi anyway?" He pressed. He regretted pushing the issue the moment it happened.

She was quiet, face thoughtful. "I don't know," came the unsatisfying answer. "I just didn't."

Brian felt like the wind had been whipped out of him. Of course. She just didn't want to. He tried not to sway in his seat. Of course. He had been right. They would forget each other after detention, move on, and pretend it never happened until they could believe it didn't.

"Why didn't you say hi to me?" She asked after a long bout of silence.

Oh. A long beat. Brian was quiet, hands fallen to his lap. "I don't know," he whispered. "I just... didn't." He couldn't believe it, because it was true. He had tried with Andy and Claire, but Allison? He had just turned away whenever he saw her. They hadn't even made eye contact. The same was true of Bender. He had almost expected they would come to him, not the other way around. "I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it.

"I am, too," Allison replied. And she meant it. The duo sat in silence, Brian staring at his textbook, Allison staring at him and biting her nails, punctuating the silence with loud, staccato clicks. It wasn't a weird silence; it was peaceful, honest. He felt a strange lightness, as if the pit in his stomach was lifted just a little.

Of course, it dropped again when the bell rang. "I have to go," he said.

"I never see you on the bus anymore." Allison stood up, watching Brian pack up his stuff.

"Yeah," He sighed. "I'm not all-allowed to ride anymore. Don’t wa-want any bad influence making me do stu-stu-stupid things again."

Allison laughed. Brian couldn't help but smile a little. It was a little funny, wasn't it? Kind of. Maybe. Not really.

Brian began to walk away but paused. He turned, holding up a waggling finger. "Don't be a stranger, Allison." He said. He tried to be commanding, but it came across as whisperish, and made her laugh again. She flashed a thumbs-up before retreating behind the bookcase from whence she came. As he left, he realized Allison must have been looking for him to notice he wasn’t on the bus. Maybe she hadn’t forgotten him so quickly. He couldn’t help a smile blush across his face.

“What are you so happy about?” His mother asked as he got in the car. His smile dropped.

“Oh, no-nothing,” He stuttered. He tried to stare straight ahead, acting unbothered.

“How are your classes coming along?”

“Better, mom. I’m do-doing good in sh-shop.” He paused, hoping she would be happy. Maybe a congratulations. She just stayed silent. “The teacher s-says I should be able to p-pull a B by the end of the semester.” He tried not to whisper the last part.

“A ‘B’.” Said his mother. Her lips pursed.

“Yea-yeah.” Brian replied. Whispered.

“That’s not good. Why not an A?”

“I- uh, it’s just, the-the elephant la-lamp was just too, uh, it was—“

“Listen, Brian.” His mother interrupted with a wave of her hand. “You need to step it up. This is ridiculous. Your grades can’t get worse. Don’t you agree it is unacceptable?” She didn’t wait for a reply. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement: this is unacceptable. You know it’s unacceptable. “Your future relies on your grades now and the college you get into. I just care, Brian, you know that.” Brian clenched his jaw at that. “Just, don’t fail again, ok? You will succeed. Failure isn’t an option.” There was an unspoken threat there. Don’t fuck up again, Brian. Brian swallowed hard. He couldn’t mess up. As the wave of panic began to crest over him, he started biting the inside of his cheek in an attempt to stave off the feeling. It hurt so badly his eyes watered. When he let go, his mouth tasted of blood. His mother was still talking. "-or you're grounded, mister. Do you understand?"

Brian nodded dutifully. He didn't even know what she said, but he knew he had to understand. Or else. As he stared out the window, radio off, silence heavy, he couldn't help but run his tongue over the bloody spot on his cheek. It stung, still. It felt almost nice, having immediately quelled the panic, replaced it with something different. Something calm.

Notes:

I always thought it was unsatisfying that his suicide attempt was brushed off so quickly. Even in the deleted scenes, there isn't a lot of serious discussion about it. I guess this makes sense (they're four kids in detention in the 80s), but I still wanted more about his thoughts. So I looked for fics discussing it and there's almost none! I've been through nearly every single fic here and on ff.net.... almost nothing! So I had to write my own.

Please, leave a comment. It inspires me (and I would really like to hear what you like/don't like... seriously, hit me, dude!)

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Summary:

For the first time, Brian is disinterested in his classes. He can't keep up. He considers his options.

Notes:

This chapter is dedicated to AnnoyingPoltergeist, MoreDadJokesAndMoreAngst (great username btw), and guestmeow who all took the time to comment on my last chapter. Thank you guys so much. Seriously.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Brian was slumped over his books. The digital clock read 11pm. He couldn't focus. He had spent the past hour distracted, organizing and reorganizing his highlighters: from lightest to darkest; from red to purple. He couldn't muster the interest and curiosity he once overflowed with. The pages of his textbook, once so engrossing, were now completely stale. When Brian was younger he had enjoyed the studying his parents made him do. He had been excited and eager to learn. Now it all had become a repetitive chore. The past week he could barely even crack the books open. He was paralyzed: stuck between the deep dread studying invoked and the equally powerful fear of bad grades. It wasn't necessarily the bad grades that froze him, it was the consequences of the bad grades: the lectures, the groundings, the achingly obvious disappointment of his parents.

 

He knew they loved him, but at times it felt like what they really loved was his academic achievement. It had reached a point, now he was 16 and a sophomore, he couldn't remember when they had last praised him for something other than his academic achievements, and even that was becoming sparse as his success came to be the expected norm. When his parents looked at him, they seemed to look through him. They rarely called him by his name unless to scold him. They were both overbearing yet not even there; his dad working long hours, coming home just to grumble about an A- or a missed club meeting; his mom constantly hovering, making sure he was studying or working on something for an academic club, only talking about school with him. It was becoming apparent to Brian that they saw him as his achievements, nothing more than a vessel for their expectations and disappointments.

 

He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, his throat constricting, but he swallowed the grief. It had been a few days since he cried in the library in front of Allison. He still felt the same. His lips were cracked and bloody from biting them. His mother had told him to get some chapstick, frowning at him. His sister had chimed in, yeah!, laughing at him, which his mother didn't acknowledge. Brian had done as he was told. The next day he was pushed against a locker for "putting on lipstick" by one of Andrew's cronies. As they walked away he saw Andrew shake his head at them, but Andrew didn't stop to ask if Brian was ok or help him, no. Not in front of the sports. Brian hoped Andrew told them off later, more than a shake of his head, but didn't hold his breath.

 

The past week had been one of the worst he had ever experienced. Nothing in particular had happened beyond the lipstick incident, but he had spent the week a husk, floating from class to class, unable to eat or sleep or speak. There was an emptiness growing inside him, slowly seeping throughout his entire body. It was more vast than the sadness he usually felt. For the first time, he was disinterested in his classes. He stopped taking notes. He spent class checking his watch, counting down seconds, trying to pass the time by drawing these big, overlapping circles in his books. He would look over at his friends diligently copying down every word the teacher said and feel disgust. He couldn't help it. Somewhere inside of him he was angry that they could keep up the act of academic perfection and he couldn't. He knew he should be doing what they were. He couldn't help that he had lost his willpower to succeed. He couldn't force himself to keep up anymore.

 

Tomorrow was a big quiz. He had stayed up late in order to study but had spent the time with his highlighters instead. He knew he was going to fail, or at least fail in his parent's eyes. He was terrified, yet couldn't bring himself to do anything about it. He knew he'd get there tomorrow and watch his friends turn in their quizzes first, just how Brian had always done. He would sit there and  take the entire twenty minutes and only write his name. The teacher would take the empty quiz from him and shake her head. His parents would scream over his next report card and he'd be grounded again.

 

He had spent so many years being the best, but it was never enough. After he was grounded for the flare gun incident, he had waited for his parents to ask why he had even brought the gun to school. They seemed to have made up their mind about what happened without even asking him. They spent the week in constant praise of his little sister for winning her elementary school's spelling bee. They rubbed it in his face. Aren't you so impressed by your sister, Brian? And Brian would nod and smile and say, yes, of course. Maybe he'd ruffle her hair. Maybe he'd give her a hug and lift her in the air.

 

His parents didn't speak to him outside of this. That was ok, though, because besides the one conversation with his mother he hadn't said a word since he spoke to Allison. No one noticed his silence. There was no change. He had always existed on the margins of conversations, spitting out a few sentences in a group's direction, hoping they would engage him. Sometimes it worked, they would humor him like Bender had when he was mumbling about the clubs he was in. Mostly it didn't. He never started conversations. He only replied to existing ones. Now that he was silent, he noticed how little his presence mattered. No one spoke to him. He was waiting for someone to say something to him, ask him his opinion, anything. Nothing happened. Once he even got up and left lunch while his friends were talking. They didn't say goodbye.

 

He was stuck behind a reflective glass wall, where he could see out and no one could see in. Whenever he walked, it felt like he was dragging a ball and chain. He lagged behind his body, as though he were walking beside a stranger he didn't want to look at. No one cared about him. His detention and flare gun stunt had alienated his parents completely. They focused more and more on his little sister. If he were to disappear they wouldn't notice. They would probably be grateful. The discipline case would be taken care of for them and they could focus on their child with promise.

 

Brian ran through his friends in his head-- who would pick up if he called? They were almost all asleep now, considering how late it was. His heart quickened. No one would pick up, whether they were awake or asleep. His parents wouldn't care, they didn't need him around. No one needed him around. He felt his throat constricting, his breath quicken. He stared at his textbook. Study, Brian! But the words were blurred and unreadable. Wet drops fell on the pages. Was there a leak? A voice in the back of his head told him he knew what he had to do. He'd known before, and he knew now, and there's no more room for error.

 

It didn't matter anymore. He whispered this over and over to himself, a quiet mantra guiding him as he stood and walked to his window. He unlocked it. When the cold air hit his face, he felt an unusual calm. The sinking feeling became one of lightness, like everything had led to this moment, here, now. He felt sick. He felt great. It was foreign. He climbed out. He crawled up the roof to where it met at a point. He sat. He carefully held on to the chimney, laying his legs along the edge of the gutter. There were so many stars, all blinking at him in the darkness. He could see the lights of Chicago in the distance. The skyscrapers had millions of windows and their light go caught on the clouds. It gave the whole city an eerie glow.

 

The suburbs were so vast. So many husks, sticks of wood held together with ticky-tacky and illusions of normalcy. He shuddered to think of his own home, his own family; yet another suburban dream: the loving and successful parents, the cute daughter, the smart son. It was all a carefully crafted lie. His parents were wired and on edge, too busy to see even each other except at dinner. Their idea of parental compassion was wacko. The only time they'd express love was after some academic success, otherwise he just seemed to disappoint them again and again. There was no well done son, no good jobs, no I love yous. They never sat down and talked to him earnestly, never played a game when he asked, never went out on a bike ride or to the mall together. Often he felt like a stranger in the house, passing through. He spoke when spoken to, lest he be disrespectful. He smiled for the photos, he greeted his neighbors every morning, he said yes ma'am and yes sir. He groomed and washed himself well, he wore the clothes chosen for him, he had bright white teeth and sparkling eyes. Why didn't his parents love him unconditionally?

 

Cold air ruffled his hair. He realized he hadn't brought his jacket. He didn't need it, not for where he was going. He took a deep breath, preparing himself, dropping his feet over the edge and scooting forward -- just an inch. He only noticed the tears when another gust of cold air brushed his face.

 

What would he see as he fell? He could go head first, stare at the ground, see it rush to greet him. He'd definitely snap his neck, but he didn't want to see the arrival of death like that. He could go backwards, turn around and let himself fall, maybe stop his heart from the sheer force. He imagined falling, looking up at the stars. He'd see his house last: the white siding, the green trim, the window with the pink curtains, the Madonna poster his parents barely let his little sister keep. His little sister who would look out her window the next day to see her brother's broken body in the grass below. He shuddered so hard he almost lost his grip, pulling him back to consciousness. He still felt the desire to jump, but the thought of his little sister had waned it so much he immediately descended the roof. Everything was silent and still. He slid carefully back inside his room and closed the window, doing his best to be as silent as possible. He didn't realize he had been holding his breath.

 

It was freezing inside. The textbook was where he left it, his highlighters still aligned. That would be the last rendition of his room, how his parents would've found it: meticulously clean, homework finished, textbook open, even his highlighters organized. As he looked up from his desk, he could see himself in his door's mirror: shirt tucked in, belt pristine, hair combed, shoes laced. In death as in life: a complete and utter dweeb.

 

This would have been his last impression, and Brian couldn't even argue with it. He was a dweeb. He was made of textbook pages and test anxiety. His life revolved around school, around grades, around making sure he wasn't a disappointment. He began to feel himself sinking again, the familiar currents thumping through him. He was broken from his rumination by a small voice.

 

"Brian?" His sister had opened his door and was peering in.

 

He blinked at her. "Mary?"

 

"Did you hear that, earlier?" She asked, stepping into the room. Their voices were barely a whisper, not wanting to wake their parents. "I heard something on the roof." Her mouth quivered as she spoke.

 

He pulled her into a hug. "Don't worry," he said, rubbing her back, trying to be comforting. "It was just the wind blowing the trees against the house. Don't be scared."

 

She clung to him. "Do you promise?"

 

"Yeah," Brian replied. "Do you want to sleep in here with me?"

 

She shook her head. "I'm in second grade now, Bri, I can sleep by myself."

 

The use of her nickname for him made his heart heave. He wished she was staying. "Ok," he said. He walked her back to her room, both siblings were careful not to make any noise, and tucked her into bed. He promised that if anything was wrong, he'd be there, a promise he felt uneasy making. Maybe he'd be there. Maybe he wouldn't.

 

By the time he was back in his room the sinking currents had subsided. Did his sister ever feel the pressure he did? She was only seven, Brian hadn't felt the pressure from his parents until about middle school. He worried for her, knowing what was in store, but was hopeful she'd be ok. She was stronger than Brian. Less sensitive, less easily affected. She'd be alright.

 

Brian sat on the edge of his bed, playing with the edge of his comforter. His room wasn't super big, but he liked it. He had a twin bed with a Star Wars-themed bed-spread that he'd gotten when he was ten, after The Empire Strikes Back had gotten really big. That was before anything, before the dread, before the stress, and before his first suicide attempt. 

 

When he was 13, he had a pretty alright social life, at least better than now, and he'd been gearing up for his middle school dance for months. Brian had been under pressure to succeed for a few years now as his parents believed middle school was an accurate predictor of his success in high school and as such his future. So of course Brian was doing everything he could to succeed in this regard, beginning to spend more and more time studying and anguishing over tests.

 

Unfortunately, that year he had a hard-assed English teacher who seemed hell-bent on finding something wrong with everything he turned in. Right before the spring dance this teacher had given him his first, and last, B-, and his parents had acted just as you'd suspect. He was grounded, which included the spring dance.

 

Brian had tried to justify it. He was the only guy without a date, so it would've been awkward hanging around all the couples anyway. Now he could get some studying in, which he needed with the algebra II test Monday, so it was alright. He wouldn't be missing much, anyway, and he deserved it. He had done poorly. That's what happens when you do poorly. It wasn't unexpected, per say. Brian had tried to shrug it off. He had spent the afternoon studying when he should've been getting ready for the dance.

 

Around 5 he had gotten a call from a friend. His family had just left with his little sister to get pizzas, celebrating her acceptance to an elite kindergarten. They left Brian at home. His friend asked where he was, why his mom had called and said he wasn't coming. As Brian explained the situation out loud his shaky justification crumbled. The last few words were a whisper as tried to hold in his tears. You're too old to cry, Brian, he could hear his mother's voice. When he had hung up, he had stood still for a long time, hand on the phone, staring at a crack in the wall. It felt like he was sinking, nervous currents sucking him down into the earth. His heart constricted and he was hit with the knowledge of what he had to do. He had to do it now. He couldn't keep doing this.

 

He had gone into the garage and slid into his father's car, turning the ignition on, waiting. He knew from afterschool specials how dangerous this was, he knew the potential for death. He didn't care. He knew this all and he did it anyway. He waited, and he got tired, and he leaned back in the seat and almost closed his eyes. But something strange had happened, where his body seemed to recognize what was happening and jolted him up and turned the car off. His mind had been foggy and disoriented, but he opened the garage door and all the windows and sat on the couch with the TV on static.

 

He didn't understand why he had just done what he had done, or why he had turned the car off. It just felt, in the time between hanging up the phone and turning the car on, that he had to do it, that the walls were closing in and it was now or never. That he couldn't keep on trying and trying to please his parents, failing over and over again. He didn't recognize that at the time, mind foggy from the mild carbon monoxide exposure, but he realized it years later while he was putting a flare gun in his locker.

 

When his parents had gotten home, he had been grounded an extra week for leaving every window and door open. He could barely speak. They sent him to bed with no dinner, never asking why he had done it. The whole event felt like a dream to Brian, someone else's experience he heard on one of those radio talk shows. He never told anyone about it. A year later a neighbor killed herself and, accidentally, her family after a botched suicide attempt in a similar manner. Brian shuddered to think of what could have happened to his family- his sister- had he left all the doors and windows closed. So he kept quiet about it, considered it just a blip in his past, a moment where he lost control. It was ok. It happened. It happens.

Notes:

Waking up like that during an attempted carbon monoxide poisoning is based on the real story of one of the livethroughthis.org contributors. He never explained it in detail, but I found it (morbidly) interesting. I wonder what the science behind it is. Sometimes your body has your back, I guess?

I am really surprised by (and so grateful for) the support I've gotten on this fic so far, especially because I have never written anything longer than a oneshot. I rewrote this chapter two or three times and I am working very hard to finish the whole story before my TBC hyperfixation wanes. I wish there were more brain content to inspire me! *shakes fist*
Anyway, comments are very much appreciated, seriously. They keep me writing. As the 2008 fanfickers would say, please R&R!!

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Summary:

End of days.

Notes:

TW for suicide attempt.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

A few days later, a Monday, two weeks and two days since the Breakfast Club debacle, Brian decided to spend his lunch period outside on the stairs behind the school. He couldn't stand to be around his friends. They kept talking about girls and math and physics and Latin. It had turned from noiseless gibberish to nails on a chalkboard. He had almost screamed at the twentieth mention of Claire Standish. So he made up an excuse about wanting to study for their test later that day and slunk off behind the school with his tray of slop. He had no appetite, so he set it behind him and observed the parking lot. Way off, on the bleachers by the football field, he could see some boys smoking and talking, but it was mostly empty, now. There was a noticeable deficit of cars, likely the senior class exercising their privilege for off-campus lunch to go get frosties and Big Macs.

It wasn't until she squeaked that he realized Allison was right beside him. "Brian." She greeted him with just his name.

He looked at her, silent. 

She plopped down beside him and pointed to the tray of food. "Ditched the dorks?"

Brian shrugged.

"Why's that?" She asked. He could feel her eyes on the side of his face and felt a meek pressure to face her. He just shrugged again. "Not speaking?" 

After such long silence, he felt his voice would crumble in his throat if he tried to speak. He gave another shrug. She just shrugged back, not mocking but rather seeming to agree with his vow of silence. The duo sat like that for some time. Allison was going through her peculiar lunch ritual- the pouring of cereal and sugar onto her meatless sandwich- and Brian was watching out of the corner of his eye. The way she just let him be quiet was strangely comforting. His friends let him be silent, too, but that felt different. Neglectful. With Allison it was some sort of quiet understanding.

It wasn't long before an all-too-familiar shape approached them. Brian recognized him by his shadow alone, looming over them, blocking out the sun. He squinted up to see none other than John Bender, grinning down at them. He addressed Brian: "Abandoned the geek squad today, huh?"

"Yeah, and where's your little posse, Bender?" Allison chirped, holding out a mockingly accusatory finger.

Bender shrugged and sat down on the other side of Brian. He leaned back and took Brian's tray of food. Brian almost complained, but couldn't muster the energy. Bender eyed him for a reaction with each bite, but Brian didn't even look at him, just mindlessly picked at his skin and stared at the bleachers. He didn't notice the strange look Allison and Bender exchanged.

Allison was the first to speak. "So, have you guys spoken to Andy or Claire?" She looked between the two boys.

Bender scoffed. "No," he huffed.

"Unsurprising," Allison said. "Me neither."

"So sporto dumped you?" Bender gave her a dry smile.

"So Claire dumped you?" An equally dry smile from Allison. They both looked at the ground.

"Did you like, you know, like, like her?" Allison questioned Bender, breaking the silence. Bender scrunched his face and scowled at her.

"No way," He growled, looking at the ground. "Whatever." Emphasis, some sort of barrier.

Allison pursed her lips. "You so did," She paused, as if deciding something, before leaning towards bender, playful but goading, "Did you, you know, do it?"

Bender immediately lifted his head, giving Allison wide, faux-innocent eyes. "What do you mean, do it? Do what?" A group of passing girls looked over, alarmed.

"You know what, idiot. Did you or didn't you? You're oddly defensive." Allison accused.

Bender just rolled his eyes and leaned back. Taking a bite of Brian's burger he shrugged, "What do you think?" Allison shook her head. Brian stared, awed he was actually answering. "You're about right," He stuffed down some fries, waved a hand. "Kind of. We almost got there, once, in the dark room, but some photography faggot walked in right when I was putting my hands down her skirt." Brian flushed pink, the image bright in his mind. Allison was grinning, a blush on her face, too. "And she never let me back to her place because her dad threw a fucking hissy since she gave me that diamond earring-- she asked for it back, by the way. I don't blame her. It must've cost a fortune." He takes another bite, gazing across the parking lot. "I can't believe I fucking gave it back to her." He's silent for a moment. More seniors are returning from their off-campus lunch breaks, cars and trucks rumbling into the parking lot, chittering conversations wafting by with the wind. Bender continues, "Whatever. She came to my place once, when my dad was out of town and my mom was god knows where, and we got pretty far there, too, but every time the train came by my entire house would fuckin' shake and it scared the shit out of her. She'd never lived by the tracks before, I guess." He rolled his eyes, finishing off the sandwich.

Allison sighed softly, shaking her head. "She just liked the thrill of it, I guess. Of you."

Bender was mindlessly picking at Brian's burger. His voice was low. "She took the diamond earring back. She stopped me in the hall and pulled me aside and asked for it back." He lifted his head, flipping hair out of his face. His face was creased, words halting and stumbling. "That's low enough, but now she just doesn't even look at me." He scowled. "What a bitch."

"She's too image obsessed," Allison whispered softly. "To do that."

"To look at me?"

"To even be seen with you, to be associated with you. I mean, once her dad freaked out-- that's what she wanted, right? Once that happened, shit, man, you're not needed any more." Allison sighed. "It seems so obvious, now."

 Bender shrugged. "I knew it was going to happen." He relaxed his shoulders, drew up a big, lazy smile. The act was convincing. "I knew sporto was gonna ditch you, too, even with his little speech about regret, even when he got so pissed at Claire. Fuckin' phony."

"We didn't even make it past the first time his teammates laughed about us." She sliced her hand through the air. "And that was that. It was just over." She shrugged. "Yeah, he was a phony. I knew it, and I trusted him anyway."

"Stupid." Bender.

"I don’t understand it," Allison was thoughtfully chewing a fingernail, ignoring Bender's comment. "Why can't they just talk like we are now, like our social castes, or whatever, don't matter?"

"They're fuckin' pussies," Bender yawned, waving a hand. "Whatever."

Brian watched the two sitting in comfortable silence and began to realize they had spoken at length since detention. It was odd, how out of the loop he was, even amongst the rejects, the outcasts. He still hadn't said a word, just watched them. He hadn’t even nodded. But here were Bender and Allison, sitting with him of their own choice, talking to him. He felt oddly grateful that Bender was even speaking to him, even if it had been two weeks of willful neglect, purposeful avoidance of eye contact, brushing his shoulder in the hall and sending him stumbling backward with that familiar humorous glint.

"Brian?" The sound of Bender's voice snapped him back to reality. They were both staring at him. The bell had rung, they were standing to go to class. "Playing hooky for the first time?"

Brian stood, shook dust from his pants. He gave a nod, which the duo returned, and left for class, hopeful but apprehensive. Hope was a miserable, misleading thing, he reminded himself. When he turned to look back, the two were gone.

---

Brian sat next to his friends in trigonometry, staring down at the quiz in front of him. It was four questions, each with four subsections. The paper was so white it burned his eyes, sending a little shiver down his spine. Each subsection left enough room for scratch work. He blinked. His peers scribbled furiously as the teacher walked through the rows. Brian tried not to turn and look at his neighbor's quiz. He forced his hand to move, pushing it up the paper and scrawling out his name. B-R-I-A-N. It wouldn't write anything else no matter how hard he tried to will it.

Breaths came shallow and slow. The scratching of his peers' pencils became waves of white noise. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself sitting on the roof again, with the wind running through the trees. In this fantasy, he was on the very edge of the roof, leaning forward, ready to go.

When he opened his eyes, the page was still blank. His friends had left. The class had emptied, but there was still the scratchy sound of a pencil behind him. He turned to look, finding Bender in the back row, scribbling on the sole of his shoe with a furrowed brow. Brian stared for a long time. Since when was Bender in trigonometry? When he turned back around, his quiz was still blank. His name was written in big, capital letters across the top. He couldn't bring himself to write anything more. He closed his eyes again, hearing Bender's scratching, trying to focus on the roof. It felt safe there, where he could jump at any ti-

"Mister Johnson," A voice broke his daydream. He looked up to the pursed lips of his teacher. "Are you done here?" She pointed to his paper. Her face softened when she realized it was blank. "The bell rang, Brian. Pencils down." As Brian gathered his things, he could feel her eyes on him. She kept staring even as he left the class. He didn't bother to see if Bender was still there.

He struggled with his locker combination, leaning his head against the metal door and flipping the numbers over and over. He could already hear his mother screaming at him, could taste the isolation of his future grounding. He finally got his locker open, the new one they gave him after his incident, and traded out his books. He had a clipping in his door, the article of the woman who had died after letting her car run in the garage. He kept it as some sort of morbid reminder, a little slip of paper he'd held on to for years. It felt appropriate to have it in his locker, to see it every day.

The bell rang, but he found it difficult to move. Leaning against the lockers, he fingered the article. He wasn't abused, he wasn't neglected. His parents did love him, and in the end, they were a million times better than people like Bender's parents. No beatings, no cigar burns, no violent encounters. He had it better than Allison, too. His parents didn't neglect him; Brian ate a healthy dinner every night, slept in a nice bed, was always provided with nice school supplies and new books. Hell, he didn't even have to ride the shitty bus every day because his mom took the time to pick him up. So why did he feel this way? Why did he sometimes read that article and wish it was him instead? He crinkled his nose in disgust, slammed the metal door.

"Christ, Brain, what's up your ass?" Brian spun around to find Bender leaning against the lockers right behind him. He was giving that shit-eating grin of his. Brian stared at him. "I hate that class," Bender began. He waited for Brian's reply, and when none came he prompted: "Took you a while to do that quiz."

Brian stared at him. Bender stared back. Bender flipped his hair, rolled his eyes, and turned away. Brian left for class. Late.

---

Brian trailed the hallway behind his friends, who were chittering about something he couldn't focus on enough to hear. The trio stopped outside Ted's final class of the day, ready to part ways, but before Brian could walk off, Ted grabbed his sleeve.

"Brian," he said, taking a quick glance into the classroom and letting Brian's arm drop. "Where were you yesterday?"

Brian blinked. Yesterday? What does he mean, yesterday?

Ted stared at him, expecting an answer, but when none came, he whispered, "Physics club, dude. You're kidding me, right? No way you forgot." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "We have a big project to do and you bailed." His eyes were squinting in frustration, eye contact unrelenting. Brian squirmed. He had completely forgotten about all of it. He gave Ted a shrug, and the boy rolled his eyes. "Ok, whatever, just be there next time, okay?" And Brian nodded.

Ted hesitated a moment, opening his mouth to speak, before the bell rang and Brian fled to his last class of the day. Ted stared after him. "We need your help, Bri," He mumbled, before turning in to class.

Again Brian's final class was cancelled, so he took to wandering the halls. He avoided the library to dodge the potential for another awkward cry around Allison. He had a pit in his stomach, dragging him down, and his eyes blurred with tears. He closed his eyes, leaning against a locker, and tried to think of being on the roof, again. It was so calm: the wind soft and cool, the height no longer daunting. He could just slip off and be done with it all.

Brian pushed himself off the locker. He felt his legs moving, propelling him towards the stairs to the roof. He knew, logically, there was no way the door would be unlocked, but some strange intensity forced him forward. Something possessed him. His mind was a web of cotton, the sole mission to get to the roof, to get to his calming fantasy, to make it real. He raced up the stairs, taking two at a time, not caring how he looked.

Of course, he had been right: the door was locked. He thrashed the handle, energy coursing through him, face flush with despair. The door wouldn’t budge. He swallowed a scream as he fell against it, pounding a fist against the door despite the way it lit up with pain. He ended up on the floor, backpack tossed awkwardly aside, trying to bite down sobs. He couldn't even understand what had just happened, just that he felt everything and nothing at the same time. His mind raced yet stood perfectly still.

At the sound of footsteps, he shot up, grabbed his bag. He passed the confused Carl, ignoring his questioning, skittering down the stairs and out to the parking lot where he would wait for his mother to pick him up and their silent drive home. He voided thoughts of the quiz or his physics club or the Latin meeting he was missing. He tried to focus on Bender and Allison. He tried to focus on standing very still.

 —

Everything seemed to deteriorate after a certain time of night. Brian had spent the last ten minutes with one leg out his window, deciding whether or not to try again. Every time he moved, he remembered Mary asking about the footsteps and shrunk back inside. He stood in her doorway for some time, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept. She was so small. His insides soured, and he had to step away, nauseous.

How does one write their final words? How do you decide what to say? He'd been toying with it since he took his father's flare gun all those weeks ago, but it had become a mission since his meltdown at the roof.

There was a strange banality to it all. What he was doing was so final, so monumental, but the world passed him by like any other night. His parents were asleep. The front door was locked. The crickets out the window chirped and sang. He could hear the distant sound of the train, the hum of electricity, the quiet rush of wind through the trees. He wasn't supposed to have the window open. It lets bugs in. He almost closed it before remembering it didn't matter anymore. He could break any rule he wanted now. This was it.

Brian was nervous about hurting his family, but he had reached a point where his bad days outnumbered his good ten to one. No matter how he tried, he couldn't see a happy future for himself. He saw his fate all around him, every day. The silent sighs of his parents, the glossed-over look in their eyes. The two weeks of vacation a year spent on sick days, the meager pay for your life's hours, the constant backaches and headaches. Every time his parents argued, every time they complained, every moment they wasted away: he saw his fate. The dread inside him was all-consuming. He knew this was his lot in life, as one knows innately to cry when sad. Why bother, when you know it will be like this forever? Why not just stop now?

Ripping the paper out of his notebook, he crumpled it into a ball and threw it into his trash. He started anew. How does one write their final words?

Perhaps just one word at a time.

'Goodbye,' He began.

Afraid of his little sister finding it, he tried to make it hopeful: 'I'm in a better place, now."

He rolled his eyes. A better place. You don't go to heaven if you kill yourself, he heard himself mutter, the years of church service speaking for him. He erased it, but the eraser tore through the paper, so he threw it out and started again.

'I can no longer handle the pressure.'

He almost laughed aloud. The pressure? His parents would laugh, too. He erased pressure and wrote sadness, but it didn't feel right. He added, 'and pressure'. He crumpled up the paper and started again. How does one write their last words?

'I'm sorry. You couldn't have stopped this. My decision is my own-'

Brian sighed, lowering his head to the table and crumpling the paper. No note. Nothing felt right, and it wouldn't matter, anyway. Nothing he could say would make what he was about to do any easier. His parents would get over it quickly enough, and his sister was too young to care. He shrugged, throwing the note out. Here today, gone tomorrow. Just a blip, really, in the grand scheme of it all. The thought wasn't as comforting as he hoped it would be.

He closed his eyes. He was on the roof again, his legs over the edge. All he had to do was take a little scoot forward. The fantasy gave him such a calm determination that he couldn't ignore the peace that settled over him. He eased himself out of his chair. His parents were asleep. He had checked three times in the past hour. He'd have to leave something so they would know where to find his body, right? Not last words just… directions. 'I went out to the tracks.' He paused for a long moment, pen hovering. He added: I love you. He put down the pen. He pushed in his chair. He changed his mind and pulled the chair out.

Taking his coat in his arm, he tried to make no sound as he eased out the window. He would crawl along the roof of the house, avoiding the section over his sister's room, to the trellis in the back. He figured he could climb down it, but when he got there and crouched on the edge of the roof two stories up, he decided against it. He'd never snuck out before, so the whole ordeal was foreign.

Climbing back inside, he made as little noise as possible. Years of silent journeys downstairs for glasses of water had perfected his noiseless walk. He knew if he got caught, his parents would tighten security. His father had been looking for an excuse to get a home alarm system, and this would be perfect. The mere potential of a lecture and grounding made the hair on his neck stand. It was now or never, Brian.  He faltered at the sight of the framed family photo in the entryway. Now or never. It would be okay. It was better for them if he weren't around.

He wished he'd brought his scarf. The walk was surprisingly frigid for an April night. It didn't matter. After forty minutes of walking, he found an empty lot backed against the tracks. The fence was broken, a human-sized hole cut in the wire. Toying idly with the hem of his jacket, he noted he was a twenty-minute walk from school. He should have joined track, he could've made it farther than this. He had too many academic extracurriculars to join a sport. Plus his parents would never let him. It didn't matter.

As he slipped through the opening, he could see the distant light of an oncoming train. It was going slow, but not so slow it could stop if it saw him. He thought he would feel something transcendent in his last moment: maybe some deep enlightenment or peace. But really, he felt nothing. Even the calm diligence that had propelled him this far had faded. As he walked up to the tracks, to his final resting place, it was as if he was walking down the hall to the bathroom or from one class to another; no different from any other time he'd walked. One foot in front of another.

The light was getting bigger, churning towards him. As if muffled, he heard the faraway screech of a train, the rush of its engine. He took his place in the middle of the tracks. His head felt like it was filled with cotton balls. There were no final words, no magnificent or profound final realization. There was just nothing. The light was getting bigger. It was a sun about to explode. It was bright. It went dark.

Notes:

All the comments are so, so appreciated. I'm sorry this took two months to get out. I re-wrote it a million times. Seriously though... thank you for all the comments. Your support does not go unnoticed. I read them over and over again when I got discouraged.

This isn't the last chapter! One more to go.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4 (AKA Deja Vu)

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Or rather, it went rolling around, and he met the ground with a grunt that wasn't his. He heard something that wasn't the engine or the horn. It was a voice. A man's voice, and it sounded angry. Brian almost smiled. He'd hate to be on the receiving end of that.

Was this Hell?

He blinked. The ground was like Earth. The same little pale rocks, the same shy grass peeking out. The wood and metal of the tracks was barely a stone's throw away. He tried to sit up. Some weight was on him, he couldn't move. The train was howling past. He could feel his feet, his fingers, his whole body -- all together. Just heavy. He blinked.

"-an!" The man was yelling. At him? "Brian!" Bender? "What the fuck were you doing? What the fuck was that?" Brian just stared at him, mouth agape. Now that the train had passed, Bender was sitting up. He had his legs on Brian's still, but his arms gestured wildly. "Are you fucking dumb? What were you doing?" Brian couldn't answer. His mouth was dry. He watched the train as it disappeared behind a curve of houses. He couldn't help leaning towards it, willing it to come back, to give him another chance. Bender was still talking, "-trying to die, or something?" Brian said nothing, squirming out from under Bender's legs. He dusted off his pants. Old habits, or something.

Bender wasn't done, but Brian found he didn't care. He walked away, back towards the tracks. Bender followed. "I lost my last fucking cigarette doing that." He yelled. "Saving your ass! What were you thinking?!" He caught up to Brian, grabbing his shoulder. Brian tried to squirm out of his grasp. "Are you going to answer me?!" Bender jerked him backwards. For what was likely the first time, Brian glared. He wanted to speak but could find no words, so he ripped himself free from Bender's grasp and continued to stalk off.

"Brian?" Bender called after him. "Hey! You owe me a cigarette, dork." Bender gave a faltering smile with the insult. Brian, now at least fifty yards from Bender, sat back on the tracks. He held his chin in his hands, waiting. Bender was beside him a minute later, lifting him by his shirt and hauling him into the grass beside the tracks. Silent, Brian stood, walked further down the track, sat. Again, Bender threw him off. He stood over him, scowling. "So you're doing the suicide thing again?" His voice was laced with a disgust that pierced Brian to his core. Yeah. He was doing the suicide thing again.

Brian tried to stand once more, but Bender held him down. "I am asking this question so seriously, Brian. Are you an idiot? Seriously. Not a joke. Because you'd have to be fucking stupid to do this shit. You especially." Brian looked past Bender, watching as another train approached. He tried to use the element of surprise to buck Bender off, but Bender was too strong. The train passed as Brian remained silent, only craning his head to watch it go. Bender kept speaking. "Me? Whatever. My life fucking sucks, so what. But you? You have it fucking made." He practically spit the last word, making Brian cringe. "Your life is perfect, asshole. You have two parents who love you and good food on the table every single night. You get socks and a motherfucking Nintendo for Christmas. I get a burn scar and a pack of cigarettes, if I'm lucky.

"You know why I'm out here? In the freezing fucking cold, smoking my last cigarette?!" Brian just stared. Bender kept on, voice intensifying. "Because my dad is drunk as fuck, throwing shit, threatening me." Bender sat up, sneering. "You can go home any time. You can go home and get in your nice warm bed. I have to be out here in the fucking cold! You have it made, Johnson! You have it--"

Brian couldn't help it. All the anger, the pain, the angst that had been broiling inside him for months, for years, finally erupted. "I know!" It came out as a scream. He kicked and punched wildly, forcing Bender off, standing up, scowling, face red. He couldn't feel the cold. "I know that! You seriously think I don't know that? You really think I haven't already thought of all of this? Haven't said it to myself a million times? It's true. Is that what you want to hear? Do you want me to tell you you're right and I'm wrong and I'm such a spoiled brat?" Brian stumbled backwards, exhausted by the effort. He sat back on the tracks. Bender stared in a shocked silence, seated on his knees a couple feet away. He had never heard Brian speak like that, let alone raise his voice. He'd never seen the dork that angry. But Brian didn't look angry anymore. His face was blank, partially covered by long thin fingers. His eyes were half closed, staring down at his shoes. Bender couldn't speak.

Finally, Brian broke the silence. "I'm out here, too, Bender. I'm here in the cold, alone, too." He stood, shaking. "It's not… It's not rational, I guess. But it's, I mean. I know what I feel… I just-" Brian looked down at Bender, who stared back with mouth slightly ajar, brows knit. He couldn't find the words. "Everything's perfect, and I'm out here anyways, right?" He turned back to the empty lot to begin the long walk home, leaving Bender silently perched along the tracks, watching, wide-eyed.

----

Sleep caught in the corners of Brian's eyes as they cracked open. The sun was just beginning to crest the windowsill into his room, soft lines of light falling gently across his bed. His alarm was two minutes from going off. Even with four hours of sleep, old habits die hard.

He crawled out of bed, struggled to button his khakis, and missed the hole for his head three times before slumping to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He looked like shit: bags under his eyes, cracked lips, the whole nine yards. Attempts at smoothing down his frizzed, blonde hair were almost useless, but he kept at it until his little sister quite literally pushed him out of the bathroom. "I need to get ready, Brian! I have a big day!" She slammed the door in his face.

Breakfast wasn't any more or less exciting than it had ever been. Toast, cereal, two eggs (scrambled). A little salt and pepper, maybe, and if he was really desperate, some jam for his toast. His sister was shining when she finally took her place at the table, grin so wide it could have split her face in two. He blinked. "Why are you so happy?" The words croaked from his throat before he could stop them, leaving him shocked that he actually spoke. Last night rotated some internal compass for him, releasing his tied tongue, allowing him to speak again. Maybe all that humiliating screaming was good for something after all.

"Brian, don't take that tone with your sister." His father chided, shooting a glare. Brian gave a dutiful yes, sir.

"it's my spelling bee today," She flashed a smile at Brian, almost gloating, though she'd yet to actually win anything. "And I feel pretty great about it."

Before Brian could reply, his parents were aloud with praise and their brand of high-expectation encouragement. His mother put a plate of eggs before her daughter, smiling. "Those other kids won't know what hit them."

Mary smiled. "It's gonna be a piece of cake. P-i-e-c-e, piece!" She grinned, their mother grinned, their father grinned, and Brian stared with a slack jaw. Confidence. C-o-n-f-i-d-e-n-c-e.

----

Brian felt himself inch along to class after lunch, again trailing behind his friends who had spent lunch shooting him tight-lipped glares. They had opened their mouths, turning to him, as if to say something, before tightening their cheeks and turning away. He pretended not to notice, focusing entirely on the cafeteria "chicken" nuggets and fries. His mind felt stuffed with cotton. He looked around for Bender a few times but failed to find him. Something in him was telling him to get up, go find Bender, apologize for yelling at him, but his body was too heavy to move. He followed the rhythm created by his peers, reluctant to break off for fear of floating away completely.

His classes had passed with practiced boredom. He stared at the teacher and copied what she wrote on the blackboard. He followed his classmates from class to class. He felt no lighter, no further improved, but felt no worse, either. The events of last night were a distant memory, something he had heard someone tell him about but never experienced himself.

Before class, the trio stopped at their lockers. They had gone out of their way before the year began to request lockers all next to each other so they could loiter together between classes and still get their stuff. Brian's hand noticed it was missing before his eyes did, slowly drifting up to where the clipping should have been and finding nothing. His eyes just confirmed the bad news. He stepped back, scanned the floor, tried to act nonchalant so as to not arise suspicion from his peers. Nothing. It must have fallen out, but this was the first time he had used the locker all day, and he knew it was still in there yesterday when he had last opened it. He pulled his books out, desperation welling in his chest, throat clogging.

"Brian, did you lose something?" Came a voice from behind him.

He stopped, stuttered. "Uh, no I, I mean, I just can't find my pencil." He looked between each of his stacked books, checked the creases in the metal, ran a finger down the edge just to see if it had slipped. Nothing. It was gone.

"You can borrow mine," Ted held a number 2 out for him. "C'mon, I wanna be early to get my spot."

Brian swallowed, taking the pencil. "Thank you."

"Sure." Ted gave him a smile. "It's nice to hear you talk again."

Brian stood shakily, picking up his backpack to follow his friends. He hadn't thought they had noticed his silence. They never asked, anyhow. But apparently, they had noticed, and Ted was happy to hear him talk. He didn't have much time to think about it as they walked through the door of the empty classroom.

Before Brian could take his seat, the teacher called him over. She was young, with a full face and bright eyes and an enthusiasm for her subject. She hadn't yet lost the ideal so many young teachers hold that they can change their students' lives. "Brian," Her voice was soft, he had to lean in to hear her. "I saw you didn't finish your quiz yesterday." Brian opened his mouth to provide an excuse, but she kept on. "You only wrote your name, and not even your full name like you usually do. I don't want to pry, but if you had a bad day and need to talk to someone, this school does have a counselor. He can't fix your problems, but he can listen." Brian nodded, throat thick. Being caught giving a less than perfect performance set a cold shiver of fear through his body. "I'm going to let you come in tomorrow and retake the quiz, okay? After or before school, whenever is more convenient for you. What do you think?"

Stuttering, Brian nodded. "Yes, thank you, ma'am, thank- tomorrow afternoon would be perfect." He stumbled a few steps back. The classroom was starting to fill with people. Bender wasn't there yet he noticed, catching himself looking around for him. He turned back. "Thank you."

"And Brian, I want to warn you, I did call your parents and speak to them."

Brian froze. His body went cold, rigid. An unfamiliar flame of anger licked at his insides. "Wh-, you what?" His voice was soft, a lilting quiver shaking across the table.

"I only told them I was worried. I didn't say anything about the quiz or the grade." Aware she had overstepped, she shifted in her seat. The smile was faltering a bit. "And I am worried, Brian, but we're here for you. Me, your parents, even the counselor," She was saying more, but Brian had stopped listening. His stomach felt like a black hole, his legs weak. All he could do was stare at her. Call his parents? Tell them she was concerned? There was no telling how they'd interpret that. He went through a laundry list of excuses: tired, not enough protein, up late studying-- okay. Okay.

Noticing she had stopped speaking, he nodded his head and turned back to his seat, coming face to face with Bender's profile walking past. "Watch it, dork." Bender said, but it had no malice. It was just a formality, like a handshake amongst coworkers or a nod to an acquaintance on the street.

Brian spent the class time drawing loops in his notebook. He ran the pencil over and over again, little loops for eyes and eyebrows, for a nose, a big loop for the face, the hair. When he was done it looked a lot like himself, so he crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into the bottom of his bag. He spent the rest of class trying not to break into a nervous sweat. She called his parents, and he didn't have his clipping. Little cracks became bigger. Why couldn't he have just played along? Just participated in class? All he had to do was say one thing, that’s it. All he had to do was write his last name, just finish the quiz. He wouldn't be here, cracking, shattering, sweating buckets in his trigonometry class.

When the bell rang, he practically ran to his locker. He took everything out, one by one, optimistic but diligent, searching carefully. Again he ran his fingers along the folded metal edges of the box. By the time the second bell rang, he was sure the clipping was gone, and some last shred of safety crumbled inside him: he fell forward, head thunking against the stack of books in his locker. Before it could speak, Brian felt the presence behind him.

"Brian," It's Bender, of course. "What are you doing?"

Brian shrugs. "Pencil," he said. "I lost my favorite pencil."

He heard Bender laugh. "God, I'm not even surprised." A pause. "Do you need one? 'Cuz I'd give you one if I had an extra, but I don't."

Brian lifted his body, turned around, squinted at Bender. When he blinked, he was back at the train tracks, staring up at Bender, clawing at the rocks and little blades of grass and the last shreds of his dignity.

But Bender had a wary smile on his face now, something cautious but not disgusted. They stared at each other, silent.

"You have to retake the quiz?" Bender asked.

"We're late for class." Brian replied.

"So? That hasn't concerned you the past week or so."

"I'm choosing to." He eyed Bender. "Retake it, I mean. I don't have to." It wasn't a complete lie.

A pause. Bender looked as though he was literally chewing the words he's about to say. "Oh," His voice was slow. "Okay." Bender was giving him a careful look. It was the same look he gave when he heard about Brian's attempt during detention, the same look he gave when Andy was going on about his dad. He was obviously unsure of what to say, the event at the tracks clearly resting on his mind.

Brian shrugged.

"Do you usually retake quizzes or was yesterday just particularly, uh, bad?"

Brian shrugged again. His mouth moved before he could stop it: "Yesterday was particularly bad." Brian realized he had never said anything so bluntly. There was something in it that he tried to grasp at blindly, tried to hold on to, to understand, but it escaped him. Bender seemed to catch it, though, with the little quirk of the corner of his mouth, the twitch of his finger. He shrugged as if to say, it sure was.

Bender shifted, sighed, rolled his eyes. He heaved out "Are you gonna try'n kill yourself again, tonight?" like it hurt to care.

"I don't think so." Brian said. A pause. "I have a cool down period." He tried to joke. The corners of Bender's eyes lifted only slightly.

"Uh, huh," Bender huffed, seemingly satisfied. "It's your choice, I guess. Go to class, dweeb." He turned to leave before pausing. "And let me know if you, y'know, need something. No dope, no cigarettes, and I won't share my booze, but--" He took a deep breath. "--And don't take this too liberally, I guess, and I mean I guess, you can come over if you need some company. Now that you know where I live, I guess." Another pause. "'Cuz I wouldn't want to hang out with your friends, either."

Brian shrugged a thank you, a softness spreading in his chest. There was some safe feeling there, something he hadn't felt in a long time. He rolled it in his hands, eyed it, tasted its unfamiliar sweetness. Friendship, or something as close to it as Bender and he could have, maybe. At least Bender held no ill will for the night before. He didn't realize he had been so worried about that.

--------

The drive home was strange, to say the least. The most glaring abnormality was that both his parents were there to pick him up: his mother driving, his dad sitting in the passenger seat. He had rolled down the window as they pulled up, waving Brian over. Brian sat in the back.

Second, it was silent. Well, it was silent for the first half of it, before his parents stopped giving each other pensive looks and finally spoke.

"Brian," began his mother, a cautious tone he had never heard before. Everyone was being so cautious around him, like he was some porcelain cup they were afraid of dropping. "Your teacher called us." Great. This.

"Your trigonometry teacher." His dad added in an attempt to be helpful.

"She said you haven't been yourself lately. Do you know about this?"

"She told me she called," Brian replied, choosing his words carefully. "But I didn't understand why."

"You must understand why."

"I mean, I've been tired lately, what with my physics club project, and the Latin club presentation is coming up." He felt his throat constrict as he listed what he had to do. He hadn't attended a meeting in weeks. "I've been staying up late, I know it's bad, but I've had to get it done."

His father shook his head. "That's what it was. I knew it wasn't serious."

"Serious?"

"Just our Brian being Brian." His mother let out a happy sigh.

"You need to chin up a little, Brian." His dad turned around to face him, a well-intentioned smile on his face. He pointed at his son, as if to say, 'get it together, you.' "No one needs to think you're out here suffering!"

Brian stared. For a moment, there was a flash of anger, like he'd felt at the tracks and in class earlier, but in the same way it melted into something less aggressive. Why couldn't he just do what he was supposed to? Why couldn't he just stand up for himself? He opened his mouth to speak, maybe to defend himself, or to speak the truth, but it died on the tip of his tongue, and his parents spent the rest of the car ride chirping about Mary's success at the spelling bee. She came in first. Of course.

------

Brian was sitting cross-legged outside his teacher's room, waiting for her class to get out. The substitute teacher had let his class out early, as usual, so he had about ten minutes. He was picking out a pencil (he still had his lucky one, despite the lie he'd crafted the day before) when he heard the familiar plodding of converse clad feet.

Brian gave Allison a tight smile as he turned to face her, trying to follow his dad's advice and keep up some kind of appearance. She sat next to him, leaning against the lockers, only holding out the snippet of his article and cocking her head at him. He opened his mouth to ask how did you get that, but closed it, seeing no point. She wiggled it under his nose.

"I remember when this happened." She said. Brian shrugged. "It was really sad. My dad knew her. They grew up together." She pulled the clipping back, moved her eyes against the grooves of the words. Brian wiped the sweat of his palms on his pants, bit the inside of his cheek. What was she playing at? He wanted the clipping back, or maybe the relief it brought. Any moment of panic, of that deep sinking fear, he knew he could run to his locker and read it, hold it, know it, though by now he had every crook of every letter memorized. He wanted to reach out and snatch it back, but his hands stayed glued to his pants.

"You weren't speaking," she said it with no curiosity, just as a fact, as an impartial observation. Brian didn't move. "For a while." He felt his mouth pop open with surprise. So his silence had been noticed by her, too. "Bender gave me the clipping, and now you can have it back." She was speaking in a slow, measured way, but wasn't unkind or accusatory. Her words were just there, objective. "You forgot to push the lock closed the other day." She leaned down, holding it out to him. When he didn't take it, she put it on his lap. "If you ever want to hang out, just let me know."

He bit a lip. "I'm retaking a quiz right now."

"Bender said something about that. He says good luck." Allison waggled her pinky finger at him. "And I say good luck, too." She grinned.

"Thank you." He shook her pinky with his own.

When the door opened and kids started flooding out from the math classroom, Allison stood. She pointed to the clipping. "Seriously, call me. I'm bored as fuck, and I don't ever have to ask to go anywhere." Brian watched her join the sea of teenagers crowding the halls. When he picked up the clipping to put in his pocket, he saw her number written in the margins. He blinked at it, unable to help the soft smile spreading across his features.

------

He was pretty sure he'd bombed that quiz. He'd gone in ready, feeling confident, and left just as confused and nervous as the first time. Maybe more so. So, there he was, at his desk, trying to remember the questions and check in his textbook. He definitely got the second half of the first one wrong, which didn't bode well because he knew she always put the easiest questions first.

At least he had written his full name this time.

So, even with second chances he failed. If he failed this quiz, his already struggling A-average would plummet--- God forbid--- into A- territory, something his parents would verbally wring his neck for. Standing at the top of the stairs, he could hear his parents cleaning up the dishes. They were whispering, voices rushed and urgent in a way he'd never heard before. Did they already have the grade? It had only been a couple days. They couldn't have it yet.

That gnawing feeling bit against his insides. Of course, the teacher would have given him the grade first, right? He faltered, taking a step back, returning to his room. Digging through his pants pockets, he finally found the clipping. He traced the familiar lettering over and over, craving the comfort it usually brought, the knowledge if he really needed to he could---

His eyes caught at the scribble in the corner. Numbers. He blinked. Maybe...? Allison? He put the clipping down, repeating the numbers with the tip of his tongue, plucking each one with the rotary dial until the phone was ringing, ringing--

"Hello?" Allison's voice. He let out a strangled breath, having not been fully aware of what he was doing. "This better not be another prank call, because I'm getting si-"

"Allison," The words were flying out of his throat before he could stop them. "Are you-- are you free?"

"Brian?"

"Yeah, Brian."

A pause, before, "Holy shit! Brian!" He heard a voice in the background, a male repeating his name, questioning it. "It's Brian!"

"It's Brian." Brian repeated.

"Sorry, Bender's here, and yes, we are free. Want us to come over?"

"Yeah," He was gripping the phone like it was a lifeline, like he was overboard, and this was all that could keep him afloat. He gave them his address.

"Hey we live really close! We're leaving right now. Five minutes. Not even." She chirped. "Watch for Bender's hot rod, an El Camino." Bender said something in the background. "Apparently her name is Bernice, and you need to know that. Five minutes!"

Brian barely had time to process the call before his parents walked through the door, their expressions tight. But when his father opened his mouth to speak, it wasn't about the quiz. "Brian," he began. "You know we-- we, uh, clean out your trash pretty routinely. Which should be your job, really, but that's, uh, that can wait, I suppose."

Brian felt the floor falling out from under him. The stuttering was something he'd never seen from his father.

"And you know we love you very much, right?" Came his mother's voice.

Brian nodded slowly, unsure. He was entering unfamiliar territory. There was no study guide for this, no way he could have planned. His knuckles were whitening on the phone, but he was more shocked they hadn't asked who he was calling.

"Then why, uh, why did we find these in your trashcan?" And from his fist Mr. Johnson revealed the crumpled pieces of notebook paper from earlier that week. Brian stared. His notes. He made a move to take them, but his father pulled back. "What do these mean?"

Brian was staring at them. "What do they mean?"

"What are you-- what are you saying, here? With these?" His father shook them. "Is it some kind of joke?"

Brian blinked. "Uh, yes," he nodded.

"It's a joke? How is this funny?"

"Like it's a-- A creative writing assignment. For English." His parents stared. "It's n-- I mean, it's not serious." Brian felt a twist in his gut, shifting uneasily.

"Oh, thank God," His dad exhaled, tension visibly leaving his shoulders. "For a moment there… well, it's ok. I'm just glad it wasn't what I was thinking."

They turned to leave, but Brian couldn't help it: "What do you mean?"

"Brian," His mom lowered her voice, discomfort evident. "What your father is trying to say is that we were worried about you."

"And worried about your college applications, especially after that teacher calling and telling us she was concerned for you. We can't afford any distractions right now, Brian. You understand?"

"Right." Brian gave a nod. "Don't worry."

"Well, we're not worried now. I'm just glad you're not actually having problems." His mother sighed, relief evident in her voice.

He knew he couldn't stay there, not in the house, not even in his room, for another minute. He'd wait outside if he had to. "I'm going out," He rocked on his feet. The need to escape was growing stronger with each second. "I made plans. I meant to tell you earlier and forgot." His head ached.

"Plans?" His father shook his head. "Brian, you should be studying."

"The friends I know would never be out this late." added his mother.

"I already called them--" Brian squeezed past his parents, leaving his room. "--and made plans."

"Brian!" His father yelled after his son, and when he received no response, he kept on. "Hell, maybe you are a mental case, because you're sure acting like one."

Brian paused, hand on the banister.

"Brian! It's not like you to forget to tell us something as disruptive as this."

"Well, I forgot." He paused. "I'm sorry I forgot."

His parents were hovering at the top of the stairs, and when he turned to look at them, their faces were brushed with confusion. His father was holding the notes in a fist at his side, but he didn't seem angry. Just lost.

His mother stepped forward. "This isn't like you. What's going on?"

Brian's voice was small. "You're missing it…" It came out as more of a question, faltering halfway out of his mouth.

His mothers voice wavered between concern and frustration. "What do you mean missing it, Brian?"

Brian's voice cracked. "This! You don't-- you haven't--" He shrugged.

"Then explain it to us," His father. "Because right now, you're acting completely irrational."

His mother. "Does this have to do with that teacher? Did something happen in her class?"

He took a deep breath, shoulders slumping. "I guess I just-- I had, I had a-- a moment in her class? She must have noticed." Brian could hear the sound of Bender and Allison pulling into the driveway, headlights illuminating the living room before them. "It didn't mean anything, she, she's--" He licked his lips. "She shouldn't have called, I mean."

"A moment?" His father questioned, faltering on the edge of anger and concern. "What do you mean, a moment?"

"I just zoned out. It's okay. It doesn't matter." He motioned towards the door, stepping to open it. "I gotta go, dad."

"You zoned out?" Mr. Johnson stepped closer. He was shooting between confusion, concern, and frustration like a pinball. "You weren't paying attention?"

"No, I mean," Brian shuffled. "Not really. It just-- you know." His palms were slick with sweat. He wasn't sure what to say. He'd already gone too far (zoned out? How could he even begin to explain that to his parents?). He had to do some kind of damage control so they didn't keep him from leaving, but some small part of him was almost begging to tell them the truth, to get this weight off his shoulders, to ask them for help. He loathed the thought. "I'm just-- Tired. From school." He stared at his shoes, unable to even lift his head. At least it wasn't a complete lie.

"Is this a regular thing? Are your grades slipping?" His father asked. "Is that why your teacher called?"

"No, no." Brian grabbed his coat. "My grades are fine-- I just, I-- I don't know how to explain it."

"You have to try to explain it," his mother's voice was soft. His parents stood before him with matching expressions of confusion and concern. "We need to understand."

"You won't understand."

"Try us," His father said, his voice softening. "We just want to understand. Help us understand." A heavy silence fell over the room. "Please."

Holding his scarf in his hands, Brian stared at it. "I just wasn't paying attention for a bit because I've been so tired, and then I was. And she overreacted. That's it." It came out almost monotone: like some script rehearsed a million times. It almost was. That practiced ease of lying came with the territory of such overbearing parents, but it didn't make him feel any better. That small part of him, the one that knew he couldn't keep doing this alone, bubbled at the surface. His parents said nothing, just stared, sharing a glance.

The silence was broken by a shrieking honk-- Bender was leaning out the window of his El Camino, shouting, "Hey, Brian, are you coming?"

Brian jumped. He shouted to Bender, "Give me a minute!" before turning back to his parents.

"I know you're worried," Brian said, meeting his parents' gazes. "But I need some time to figure it out on my own first. I want to come back and talk to you, but right now, I'm going out." He shifted on his feet, gripped the doorknob with white knuckles, this level of assertiveness being unfamiliar territory. His mother opened her mouth to protest, but Brian cut her off. "Please. I'm asking you to let me go. I'll be back before curfew, I swear."

His parents exchanged a look, uncertainty etched on their brows. Finally, his father sighed heavily. "Alright. But you better be back by 9 o'clock, you hear? And we'll talk about this. "

"I will be." Brian nodded. "I will."

---

They got into the school through the unlocked window in the boy's locker room. Apparently kids used it to smoke out of since coaches weren't allowed in the showers, so it was always kept propped open with an empty roll of toilet paper. Of course, this information came from Bender, so "kids" probably meant "me", and coaches being "not allowed" probably just meant he'd never been caught.

"I can't believe I'm here voluntarily outside of school hours." Bender held the door to the library open. They'd done a quick survey of the building and neither Carl nor his staff were anywhere to be found, so they figured they could use the library's generous sound system without trepidation. Allison had brought her Prince record and was busy finagling the player in the music enclave.

"At least we're not stuck here for a whole Saturday this time." Allison finally got the speakers to work, turning them up just enough to fill the entire space.

"And we don't have to write any shitty essays." Grinned Bender.

Tapping along to the music, Brian looked at his new friends. "Thank you for picking me up."

Bender shrugged. "I'm always happy to take Bernice out on the town."

"I can't believe you named your car that. Why a woman's name?" Allison asked.

Bender shrugged. "Anything you can ride is a woman."

Shaking her head, Allison laughed. "That doesn't even make sense!"

"It does make sense, and you should know that, nympho!"

"Hey, I already said that was a lie." Allison feigned offence, but her smile gave her away. She turned to Brian. "So, why the meet up?"

Brian blinked. He stuttered, "Well, I mean, you, uh, you gave me your number so-- I called." He left out the part about the walls closing in on him, about the potentially failed quiz, about how he'd been clawing for the clipping when he saw her number.

"I'm surprised your parents let you out." Like a cat, Allison quirked her head at Brian.

"Well," Brian grinned. "All they care about is if I finish my homework." He tried a laugh, and Allison cracked a confused grin. "I-- I was, uh, joking." He paused. "I mean, I did finish my homework."

Bender rolled his eyes. "I don't doubt it, Brainiac."

The group moved out of the music enclave, meandering around the benches and books. They settled where they'd last sat, between the two columns on the second floor. Unconsciously, they sat in the same spots. "God, it's weird to be here."

"You're telling me," Bender rolled his eyes. "I'm here every weekend. I mean, it beats being at home but not by much."

"It beats your house by about one cigar burn." Allison joked.

"Half a cigar burn, at most." Bender grinned, leaning into the banter.

Brian watched his new friends, a small smile playing on his lips. "I never thought I'd be back, honestly." He clarifies: "I mean here, literally, sitting here. Especially not with you guys."

Bender shrugged. "Me neither."

"I mean, I knew Claire and Andy would break off, but I kind of thought you guys would, too. I'm just-- I'm just surprised."

Allison gave him a grin, still shimmying a bit to the music. "Good surprised or bad surprised?"

"Good." Brian smiled back. "Definitely good."

"Not feeling the need to have any more late-night rendezvous with a train?" Bender.

Brian tensed up. "What? No, I.. I don't think so."

Allison's gaze was flitting between the two. Bender spoke before she could ask: "I caught him trying to get hit by a train a week ago, on Monday."

Allison gave a sympathetic frown. "Brian…" She looked at him. "That doesn't surprise me, I figured something was up with the way you were acting."

Brian's hands were wet with sweat as he wiped them on him khakis. He cleared his throat to say something, but couldn’t find the words, so he just stared at his shoes instead.

"Look, about it…" Bender seemed similarly at a loss. 

Quiet, Brian spoke before Bender could continue. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry about all the yelling, I don't-"

"Forget the yelling. I'm talking about the other stuff. The whole thing."

They were all silent then, the only noise the gentle sound of Prince's singing. Brian cleared his throat. That little voice in the back of his head, the one that pleaded with him to tell the truth, was louder than it had ever been. "It was just a lot of little things." He paused. "You were right, what you said about-- about everything, about my life and how lucky I am and all that--" He swallowed. "I'm just as confused as you are. I don't, I mean I have an idea but-- it feels like I just react so extremely, like, I don't know." He was wringing his hat in his hands, tightening the fabric and letting it go limp. He could feel Bender and Allison's eyes on him.

Allison spoke first. "And you've just been holding this all inside?"

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't… told anyone? At all, about how you're feeling?"

"Who would I tell?"

Shrugging, Allison replied, "The counselor is alright. I mean, he's a crook, but it's nice to have someone who'll listen to you. Maybe even your parents, but that doesn't work with everyone, and I know yours are…" She waved a hand, thinking. "…intense."

"I was actually, I mean, when I get home, I told my parents I'd tell them what was up, I mean, not the whole-- you know, dancing with a train, whatever-- but I mean, some of it. Some of it." He let his hat fall into his lap. "They actually seemed sort of concerned, earlier."

"That's a good idea." Allison nodded her approval.

Bender jumped in, straightening himself to look Brian in the eyes. "Okay. I have another question. What the hell was that news article? I saw it in your locker a few times--"

"You opened my locker more than once?" Brian blinked.

"I saw it in the door when you opened it, brain. Now c'mon, tell me." He wasn't angry, at most frustrated, and inklings of concern peeked through his tightened exterior.

Brian stared at them. He knew he had opened this can of worms himself, so he spoke. "I just kept it. I remember when it happened, it was weird."

"That's it? Really?" Bender scoffed. "I don't believe it was just that. I remember you looking for that 'lost pencil'--" Bender mimed quotation marks. "--after I took it. You were like a junkie looking for a fix, man."

Brian felt his face redden at the memory. "Oh," he began, unsure of what to say. Again, that voice, begging him to tell the truth was clawing at the inside of his mind. He took a deep breath, and before he could stop himself: "I mean, ok, really? I guess I just related to it. It was comforting-- I mean, to know I'm not-- I'm not alone, y'know? Someone else was like me, felt like me," he took a breath. "Acted like me."

With that, Brian eased warily up to the edge of the truth, the raw truth that he had done exactly what she had and failed at it. He was still unsure of how much he could tell them, tell anyone, really, but he stood astounded at the fact he said anything so close to the truth at all. If any of his other friends had asked, he would have shot out some excuse he had prepared, whatever unbelievable bullshit he knew they wouldn't pay attention enough to see through. But with Allison and Bender, for some reason, he knew he could say something at least born from the truth.

And it was confirmed when he looked up to see Allison nodding along, fingers resting on her chin. "That makes sense." She said, and Brian released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Even Bender was nodding a little, muttering agreement to Allison. He felt a little lighter on his feet, and while he wasn't ready just then, he decided he would tell them the full truth some day, when it wasn't so raw. "So this has been going on for a while? That clipping is like, three years old."

Brian shrugged. He hadn't realized how long he'd had that article. "I guess, I guess so."

Allison paused, before taking out a notebook and pen from her bag. She scribbled something down and handed it to Brian. "Here, take this." It was her number, re-written on a plain scrap of paper. "When you get home, throw that article out, and keep this instead."

Brian took it, stared at the purple scrawl of numbers. He smiled. "Hold on." He stood, rummaging in his pocket until he produced the clipping, holding it out to Allison. A tremor ran through him as he did it, and he almost retracted, took it back, wallowed in its safety-- but Allison grabbed it too fast. He watched her rip it into tiny pieces, before he could even try to stop her. Proud, she flashed a grin at him.

"There," She let the pieces drop over the edge of the balcony, like tiny slivers of yellowed confetti. "All taken care of."

Brian must have made a face, because Bender erupted into laughter. "Didn't expect that, did you?" And when Allison joined in the giggling, even Brian had to crack a smile.

He turned to look at Bender, an unfamiliar column of confidence propelling him: "Bender," The older boy looked at him. "Thanks for… you know. Being there. At the tracks." He swallowed. "Seriously."

Bender smirked. "Hey, don't get all mushy on me. I just didn't want to explain to the cops why their honor roll student decided to turn himself into ground beef."

Allison scrunched her nose. "Gross."

But Brian couldn't help a smile. "Right." Some weight had lifted in Brian's chest, some chain that coiled within him loosened, and, for just a moment, with the sound of Allison and Bender's playful banter, Brian relaxed. Leaning against the railing, closing his eyes, the smile still present, he was alright. For the first time in years, he wasn't nervous to go home, wasn't despondent about school, wasn't stressing about some extracurricular-- the endlessly churning wheels in the back of his mind quieted. It was unfamiliar but he welcomed it, unafraid.

With a grunt, Bender stood. "Shouldn't we get you home, Mr. Curfew?"

"Yeah, it's that time."

"You're gonna talk to them?" Picking up her Prince album, Allison slid it into its cover and put it back in her bag.

"My parents?" Brian asked.

"Yeah. About, about how you've been feeling?"

"I will. I'm gonna start out slow. I don't want to give them a heart attack or anything." The trio went back out the way they came in, down the familiar white hallways, past the familiar painted posters. Claire had made prom queen, unsurprisingly. Allison stopped to point and make a face at her framed picture while Bender rolled his eyes and sauntered past.

"I can't believe she won!" Allison was laughing at Bender's feigned nonchalance.

"I can," Brian was still looking at her photo. "You don't even know what my friends have said about her." He was surprised by the smile the memory gave him.

"Ew," Allison scrunched her nose. "God you geeks are freaks!"

"We're freaks?" Brian laughed, and Allison bowed her head in admission, smiling. He stopped, holding the door to the locker room open. The question escaped his lip before he could even consider the déjà vu. "Are we going to hang out like this again?"

Bender laughed. "Brian, the next time we hang out, we're gonna go someplace much cooler than the fucking school library."

Crawling out the window, careful to replace the toilet paper roll so the window didn't lock, the trio made their way across the football field and back to Bernice. Bender had his arms outstretched, grinning, talking about something to do with Vernon and how he made every Saturday living hell for that man. Allison was grinning, nodding, offering outrageous suggestions that even Bender shook his head at. Brian stopped for a moment, letting the two walk a little ahead. He framed them in his mind, just like that: their dark silhouettes against the purple of the night sky, grinning, laughing, talking. There was proof of life here, proof it was worth it, proof it would be ok. Proof he could be hopeful, could have something to enjoy. Proof life was worth living, even if it was hard, even if it took everything. Because at the end of the day, his friends, his friends, were a phone call away. They cared, and finally he cared, too. 

Notes:

God... I can't believe it's finished! This is the first multi-chapter anything I have ever written. I have appreciated and leaned on every comment posted to this fic. Thank you so much. I legitimately would not have finished this without you. I seriously love you guys!!

I focused a lot on dialogue this chapter as I usually don't write it, so critiques on that are invited. Critiques on everything are invited. Please let me know what you think/how I could improve/etc.

And if you are passively or continuously suicidal, I have been reading this book "How Not to Kill Yourself" by Clancy Martin. I'm only about 100 pages in, but so far, it's a scientific yet personal look at suicide, why people do it, why people desire it, and how to avoid it. I don't know if it would help anyone, but if you're curious, it's out there.