a/n Oh, believe me, the last chapter wasn't supposed to be a cliffhanger or anything. (I don't do cliffhangers mostly!) It's just that this one needed its own rhythm, so I decided to end there. The formatting of this chapter is distinctly different, but it should be obvious why :)

You thought I'd end at the kiss? I gave you 12 chapters of unrelenting angst...you deserve more!

Song to Listen To While Reading: Honey and the Moon- Joseph Arthur

Disclaimer: Naah. Neither do I own 'That Day' by Natalie Imbruglia

(She'd always thought she'd remember every bit of it.

She'd remember the time breaking down into tiny seconds and each feeling as it came by. She'd remember each word, each sound, each sigh. And beneath closed eye-lids her world would burst into glorious technicolor and she'd finally understand what it was all about.

She'd never thought it'd be like this).

She doesn't exist in the moment. And it almost feels like someone's torn the timeline into tiny fragments and scattered them around her because she can only see flashes and pieces. And she's trying to forget each second as it passes by because tomorrow this will never have happened. The way it (should have been) will be.

(And she doesn't think. And maybe if she had been, she'd have thought it ironic that this one time she's actually stopped thinking and started…feeling is because of him).

And all she can feel is his experienced hands trembling against the buttons of her (his) shirt. And maybe she'll laugh later because he was supposed to be the master at this and he can't even unbutton her (his) shirt.

It's so funny…it's almost (achingly sweet and she can't take it. Not now).

(And maybe someday she'll look at him and not recall how it… feels.

Someday.

Maybe).

And she won't remember. She won't remember her hand on his, guiding for once. She won't remember the feel of his mouth against her skin. She won't remember his close-mouthed kisses which make her stomach drop. She won't remember the way he says 'Please, Case' and she won't remember how it tastes like apology and regret and… something else, just a little sweeter (sadder). And she won't remember how…she won't…

(No, she won't. Goddamn you, she won't.)

And his head is at her throat and maybe he'll mark her (he won't, he doesn't need to, he never did) but those marks will disappear and his words are sinking deeper into her skin till she's not sure she'll be able to scrub them away, no matter how much she tries, no matter how raw her skin gets. His words (his touch) will always be flowing through her bloodstream (and she hates him for it).

And he's whispering (or maybe she is) wrong and mistake and it doesn't matter because on every word their breathing gets more labored and then he (she) has to stop for a while to get the pronunciation right. Or maybe to remember the word at all. But they're saying it again and again till she can't remember what it meant in the first place. And maybe (maybe) it never did mean anything. A bunch of meaningless letters combined, just another unwritten rule to float her to the grave.

She doesn't believe in destiny or the guiding hand of fate. She believes in free will and choices. She believes…and she should walk away because the stars are too far away (too small) to take the blame that she so desperately (desperately) wants to share. Walk away and not come back. Because this isn't the beginning. And it's not the end. And no, no she's not afraid. Not afraid that this is just a little digression from the actual plot. A cheap, crowd-pulling tactic. Because even if it is (as it is) she won't care simply because…she…she…doesn't…care.

(Fuck you. She doesn't. She never did. Never. Ever).

And she'll have a lot more to laugh at. She had thought there'd be music, and satin sheets and silk lingerie and chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne and they'd make love.

(And she's lying on a coarse, cheap sheet burning into her back and the rain drowns out the other sounds and there's nothing but him and his harsh breathing in her ear and it's desperate and want like she's never felt before and it's more. And it's tawdry and inelegant and perfect. It's him and it's enough).

And she wishes she had alcohol. That would burn and break down barriers and she could blame it. Because she would blame it and this wouldn't mean anything. This would be another mistake and she'd vow never to drink again. It would be a clinical statistic and she'd read up on the drawbacks of too much alcohol and feel good knowing that it wasn't her, it was the intoxicant. She was under the influence. But all she has are her traitorous hands and his sweat-slicked body against hers and no alcohol, no stars, no excuse.

And he's saying things which make her breath catch hard and her heart beat faster (stop beating) because he's never called her beautiful and he's fumbling and he's uncoordinated and ungraceful (and Derek) and she thinks she might love him.

(He tastes a little like bitter honey and she removes the word 'might' from her vocabulary).

It's dark (so dark) and maybe she can pretend. Just this once. Make it what it was supposed to be. Pretend he isn't who he is. Just make-believe. And maybe sometime she'll start to believe it and this won't be what it is. And they won't be who they are. Maybe he has blond hair. And grey eyes. And he's toughsoft and has a deep voice and he helps his opponents when they're down and believes in Karl Marx's Literary Theory.

And it's thunder and lightning and he's lit up and all she can see is him. (He's goddamn beautiful). And he has reddish-brown hair and brown eyes and he's no one but Derek. Derek, who doesn't know who Karl Marx is and calls her 'princess' and fixes her every single damn time. Derek, her almost brother (and it even sounds like almost lover, and it's so hilarious she can almost cry). And as she traces his face beneath her fingertips, she has a sickening feeling it wasn't anyone but Derek anyway.

He's staring and she's blushing and (don'tlookatmelikethat). And so she shuts herself and maybe now it'll be easier. Someone else. Someone without his face and a way of saying her name three times.

"Don't close your eyes."

His voice breaks on every word and she opens them again and he's so close (too close) and she never realized his eyes had tinges of hazel too. Tantalizing hints and glimpses and she's looking at him. And she's in his eyes and she's beautiful.

(She'll never be able to imagine again).

"Not tonight", his breathing is harsh in her ear, "Please Casey, not tonight. Just…not tonight."

And he's touching her, so it's unfair and she wants to say it but she's living in a world of sounds and glimpses and (she can't say it, not tonight) the words remain unspoken. And maybe it's softer…melting into a world of need and want and please and you.

(And maybe it's harder this way).

And maybe if this was a book, like those books she reads, she'd have realized. The harsh sound of the condom wrapper in the enclosure of their thundering stillness would have broken her trance. And she'd have stopped him (because this is wrong. Wrong. And beautiful).

(But maybe the sound gets drowned out by a loud roll of thunder. Maybe).

And maybe she should have read more because she doesn't know what's happening and (ithurtsithurts) and was it supposed to feel like this. Maybe you can't feel love till it is love (which it isn't. It isn't), because she only feels dirty and hurt and ohgodsobadly. And she doesn't classify the fierce satisfaction which makes her (almost) shut her eyes and cry out, simply because she doesn't have a category for that yet. And she has nothing to find. And nothing to lose.

Through half-shut, feverish eyes she watches the comprehension blaze in his and it's too late to stop. And she continues with blind insistence. Because it's too late to stop (and maybe it was too late three years ago). She clamps her mouth and doesn't say them. Words that threaten to spill over and escape and mean. And she won't. She won't say it and mean it. Not now. Not when...

And then he touches her and it's awkward and strange and not like she imagined it would be. And the exploration is sheer delight. Learning and remembering and finding out and ohgodtouching (...and her world reduces to heat and light and it's love. It has to be. It can't feel like this and not be love. It can't).

And he's whispering; 'I'm so sorry. Oh God, Casey, I'm so, so sorry' and she wants to tell him something and she thinks she should tell him something. Anything to make him stop looking like that. And there's this moment of glaring lightning and the clash of the elements, when his hand is entwined in hers and she thinks she just might and then the darkness shrouds them again and she can only touch and hope he understands as she kisses away his whispered apologies. (She doesn't close her eyes).

Yes, they're a marvelous mess. And it's hard and it's sweet and it's supposed to be like this.

Strangely enough it's the only thing she can think of. They're going to be more than just step-siblings. They're going to be linked by more than just a piece of paper. They're going to be…more. But right now. Just right now, he's just the boy with the pretty eyes. And she…she's just a girl. A silly, broken girl who's so smart and intelligent and just so stupid.

And right now, as the fragmented pieces of her (life?) time float around her blown about by the wind and rain; tomorrow doesn't exist.

(Not tonight).

"Derek, you are the most annoying brother…"

"…Step-brother"

(Same difference?)