A/N: Well! I didn't realize it had been so long since I posted a fanfiction. And I certainly wasn't expecting my next fanfiction to be this. I read A Separate Peace almost a year ago and, although I did like it, didn't think much of it after finishing it. However, recently I became interested in it again and started rereading bits and pieces of it, and...this happened. Once I figured out my next fic was probably going to be for A Separate Peace, I actually thought it was going to be a lighthearted AU. Which may or may not be the next thing coming up. Oh well, we'll see. But this angsty thing came out of me first. I have mixed feelings about it, but I finished it, so I decided to post it. ^-^'

I just wanted to warn you guys that this is written in second person, which I know annoys some people. Also, depending on the reception I get (and my motivation), I may make a second part to this regarding Phineas and his thoughts before the surgery happens and he...well. You know.

(By the way, I think the picture I put for this fic is the lyrics to a song. I don't know what song it is; I just found the quote online and felt that it fit.)

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, and...here we go.

G E N E

You have gentle visions when you're waking up and falling asleep. They come like salt-scented breezes—the kinds you cherished so on the rare occasions you visited the beach with him—and they go like the wave that came on one of those occasions and swept you off your feet with all the viciousness nature holds.

These visions are your everything. They are what tell you there will be a tomorrow, and that yesterday was real. They are what keep you living. They are what keep you dying.

When you open your eyes in the morning and close them at night, these are the things that haunt you. They are everything that could have been yours, if only you weren't so afraid.

So afraid of everything.

You were afraid of being the valedictorian; you were afraid of not being the valedictorian. You were afraid of being a good athlete; you were afraid of being an awful one. You were afraid of following the rules; you were afraid of breaking them.

You were afraid—terrified—of loving him the way you did. But you were afraid of hating him the way you did, too.

The one thing you were not afraid to do was put yourself before him. And now, you have something much more prominent to say for yourself than being either valedictorian, or athlete, or rebel.

You are a murderer.

You didn't strangle him. You didn't plunge a knife through his chest or shoot a bullet through his head. You didn't kill him in a way anybody could see in an instant. But—

He died because of you.

If only you hadn't made him lose his balance that day. If only you hadn't made him fall from that tree. If only you hadn't made him break his leg (twice).

Then he would not have died, and you wouldn't be a murderer, and everything in life would be fine because yes, there was a war going on, and yes, you would both have to enlist, but he would be there with you, and you would be there with him.

(You know that's not true, but it's nice to think it is.)

You were jealous. You wanted everything he had, everything he was. You wanted confidence and popularity and good looks and athleticism. You wanted the ability to convince anybody to do anything, just by being yourself. You wanted to be capable of loving everybody and everything, and saying there was no war, and seeing sports as nothing more than an intriguing game where everyone competes but nobody wins.

If you look at it like that, life is a lot like sports, you muse solemnly.

You know now that he was just a boy looking desperately for his place in the world when every door he'd been counting on his whole life was closing around him.

Funny how you only understand that after you killed him.

You thought he hated you. You needed him to hate you so that you could have a reason for all these sick feelings. But he didn't hate you, and you were just a fool.

He loved you. He loved you enough to forgive you, even after you ruined everything.

And then he died. (You should have known he would—he's no good in a world this cruel.)

Because forgiveness was too good an outcome, wasn't it? Too happy an ending. Justice hadn't been served; karma hadn't come after you. You needed to be reminded that you had done and thought horrible things, inexcusable things, and that you could never take those things back for as long as you lived.

Yet somehow, amidst all the filth, all the malice and envy and selfishness, you had loved him back.

You still love him, even though he's not here anymore because of you.

You didn't want to love him. Loving him because he was your best friend—that would have been fine. But that wasn't why you loved him. That wasn't how you loved him.

A boatload full of denial wasn't enough for you to ignore how the way you loved him could only be explained by one very specific thing.

You are from the South, so there are northern customs you became aware of at Devon that seem odd to you. But you're fairly certain—entirely certain—that homosexuality isn't permissible anywhere.

You couldn't call it that when you felt it; you couldn't bear it, even within the confines of your mind, which were supposedly safe despite how you were positive one of the other boys would be able to tap into them now that they contained something so unforgivable.

You didn't want to imagine what the other boys would do if they found out—and you were sure they would, somehow. The school grounds would turn into one massive riot where everyone was your enemy. And you got the feeling that the teachers wouldn't help.

You know the things they say about people like you. Simply daring to present yourself outside of your home would be seen as an opportunity for public ridicule. And your parents—oh dear God, your parents—

You couldn't tell anyone. (You can't tell anyone.) You will shamefully carry this secret with you to the grave, and you have always known this, since you realized the way you felt about him was unacceptable. He refused to judge anything as long as he lacked a sensible reason to do so, and there were so many things about him you still, in retrospect, don't understand. But he was a human being, an American boy in the prime of his youth, and nobody escapes the things they are taught so quickly. He would not have accepted you. Perhaps a long time ago you would have thought otherwise, although you never would have gained the courage to confess. However, you once called him too good to be true. You learned your lesson.

Yes, he loved you, but you were in love, and the distinction between the two will forever remain crucial.

Those visions are a beautiful dreamland, impossible to be replicated by reality. When they dissolve and leave you with nothing, the only things you can comprehend are guilt, and regret, and a type of torturous desire that makes you want to cry. It creates an inexhaustible hole in your stomach, and it's the emptiest thing you've ever felt, so empty you want to weep—but alas, you are a man. You cannot.

In those visions, he is still with you, and all of your sins are forgiven. You do not care so much if they are forgiven by God; you are not even sure if you believe in God. But your sins have been forgiven by him, and that is the best thing you can possibly ask for. He loves you the way you love him, but in this wild, magnificent world, it is not a sin, it is not something despicable. There is no contempt. All the ugly emotions you once felt are dead, gone. There is only the powerful undercurrent of mutual adoration, belonging to you and him.

But in the end, he is still dead, and you still killed him.

But in the end, you still love him.

Is he watching you from above? Does he belong in heaven? (If any person ever belonged in heaven, it was him, and every teacher and student at Devon knows it.) Does he forgive you? Is he waiting to bring you up there with him, when it's your time? (You don't belong in heaven. You don't feel as though you belong anywhere anymore.) Does he love you?

Even thinking of him is a struggle, an agonizing struggle. Because this is admitting he's dead. This is admitting he's never coming back. You still refuse to use the past tense when speaking aloud about him, but on the inside, you know. You know he's gone.

(But he'll never really be gone. Not to you.)

(Phineas, I—)