Hello, friends! This is my second cautious step into DPS fanfiction, and my first attempt at a multi-chapter DPS fic.

Instead of watching you struggle, I'm going to tell you that this is taking place from Neil's point of view. It's a bit confusing, but please bear with me.

The closet door latches with a satisfying click, and I hear myself giggle drunkenly. I try to turn swiftly on my heel, but I end up stumbling over my own feet and into his arms. "Hey there," I whisper.

He responds with several clumsy kisses to my neck, and I feel his fingertips brush my chest as he unbuttons my shirt. I haven't even told him my name, and he's already undressing me. But I can't muster the desire to claw through the fog blanketing my mind to question myself. I lace my fingers into the thick, glossy hair at the nape of his neck and moan softly.

With a muffled chuckle, he places his hands on my waist. I can feel his breath on my collarbone- I'm guessing that he's shorter than I am- but I can barely see for the darkness and the alcohol fog.

I gasp quietly against his mouth as it smashes into my own. The kiss is violent and brief, and then he latches onto my neck.

It's a feeling I've never experienced before. He bites into my skin with just the right combination of pain and pressure, and his tongue expertly caresses my windpipe. Groaning inwardly, I let my hands slide down to his waist.

In response, he clamps down and sucks vigorously on my skin. I would be concerned about the mark he's leaving behind, but I'm preoccupied with his belt buckle. My fingers refuse to cooperate with my brain.

Sensing my struggle, he gives my neck one last nibble and reaches down to help me. His belt buckle falls to the floor with a muffled clunk. And even in pitch blackness, I can tell that it was his pants that broke its fall.

This is the point of no return. This is the edge of the cliff.

I could turn around right now, find my way back to my dorm, and fall into Todd's arms. And I'll be damned if he isn't ready to forgive and forget by now. Because I've already done both.

Or I could jump off the edge.

He eagerly peels off my shirt and throws it to the floor. With strong, calloused hands, he gingerly traces the contours of my abdomen. Then he abruptly grabs my shoulders and pushes me onto my knees. Probably with more force than he intended.

I abruptly collapse onto the floor, smacking my head sharply. The impact clears the fog in my mind, if only for a moment, and the situation crystallizes. What the hell am I doing? The first rational thought I've formulated all evening.

I hold fast to his leg and pull myself up. The blood rushes rapidly out of my head, and the fog returns. There's no opportunity to escape, even if I wanted to. I'm not sure if I ever wanted to in the first place.

My brain can only piece together one coherent notion. That handful of words that Mr. Keating spoke so long ago ring so clearly:

"No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world."

And then I jump.

~Two Months Later~

Even without a trace of alcohol in my bloodstream, I only have two clear memories of that night.

I can recall all 13 minutes of my time in the closet with crystal clarity. It's almost as if my brain reprocessed each breath, each shadow, for the sole purpose of replaying later on. During the first couple of weeks, I had to get creative with shirt collars and double-Windsor knots to hide the welt on my collarbone. Now, it's nothing but a lavender smudge of an unnecessary reminder.

My other recollection happened only moments before. A bleary-eyed blond girl, draped haphazardly over the sofa, placed her red plastic cup on the cluttered coffee table and propped herself up on the nearest partygoer. "Anyone up for Seven Minutes in Heaven?"

And I know now why Mr. Keating's words echoed in my ears in the closet. Because that girl's words, her idea, had changed the world. Namely my world. I suppose I should consider myself pretty damn lucky that they didn't remember to get throw out of the closet after Minute Seven. It's anybody's guess why guys started stumbling into the closet with one another; Even the most unexplainable events can be explained by the antics of intoxicated teenagers, I suppose.

I wipe the perspiration from my forehead with a shaking hand and pull my knees closer to my chest. I can feel my ribs brush against my bare thighs, but I'm not overly worried about weight loss. I've always been rather gangly, so I must be thinning out from a growth spurt.

What does worry me is the puffy pink sore that stings whenever the pad of my thumb brushes it, ironically adjacent to the mark he left. I wrap my sheets around my shoulders as another chill washes over me. This is the third night in a row.

Normally, I would nudge Todd awake and take solace in his comforting, if slightly awkward, embrace. I rest my head against the wall and I can almost feel his arms around me, almost hear his stream of affectionate words in my ear.

But I know that I can't wake Todd tonight. Not after what I've done to him. Because I know in my gut that this is all connected to my 13 minutes in the closet. Which I haven't so much as mentioned to him yet. I can't just pass my burden down the line and expect Todd to kiss my forehead and make it all better.

Especially because I have no idea who I cheated on him with.

Come on, hit me with your best shot. Love? Flames? OOC complaints? I can take it. Just click on that tiny speech bubble and knock yourself out.

Not literally, of course. Because you won't be able to review if you're unconscious.

~JD