Um, yeah, updating shouldn't be allowed after this long. Without dwelling on excuses, I would like to thank everyone who has stuck with this story, continued to read, favorite, review and whatever else after so long-it amazes me.

I sat down, wrote (finally) and published. Forgive me for unediting. Enjoy :)

I felt as the all the anger I had been trying to repress for the past few weeks came rushing back with a vengeance, felt as it tore through my body and across my shoulders, wringing them with tension. While the still rational part of my mind knew that a lot of this anger was misplaced, the more immediate part of me was still mad at Chloe, hurt that she had betrayed the trust I had put in her (which was more than I cared to admit), and betrayed whatever relationship we had by going behind, my back to find things out about me, things I had wanted to keep from her for a reason. She should have respected me enough to respect the boundaries of our friendship, which she so flagrantly disregarded.

And plus, being mad at her, right her, right now, was easy. She wasn't shrinking under the intensity of the glare I could feel myself giving her. On the contrary, with each passing second, her gaze grew increasingly defiant, her chin jutting out infinitesimally as the moments passed, and I was feeding off of it, letting her anger fuel mine.

"What do you want," I finally asked, growing impatient with the stare down.

"The silent treatment's getting a little old, Derek," she said evenly, narrowing her eyes.

As it always seemed to be with Chloe, unfortunately, I acted without much thought, and my hands went up to the table in front of me, gripping it so tightly as I pushed away that they turned white; five seconds into the conversation, I was already defensive.

"Is there a reason you've cornered me," I snapped, unable to regret the harshness of my tone as she stood there, still glaring. At another time, I would have laughed at the sight of little, blonde Chloe blocking my way, her five foot nothing stature the only thing between me and exit. Now, though, it made me feel trapped.

"I want to know why the hell I've become nonexistent to you, why you started to ignore me," she replied, tone just as harsh. I barked out a humourless laugh at the sheer incredulity of her question.

"Chloe, I know you're terrible at math, but you're not a dumb blonde. I think you can figure it out all by yourself." It was condescending and mean and a total pot shot, but in that moment, as destructive as I knew it was, I wanted to hurt her.

She threw her hands up in the air and moved away from the door, approaching me and ignoring my childish retort, letting the insult roll off of her. Irrationally, it made me angrier; angry that the source of my weeks of frustration and mental turmoil knew me well enough to know when I meant what I said and when I was just being an ass, the difference between when I was being serious and when I was trying to deflect. It seemed cruel and unfair that she had that knowledge.

"What is it about me knowing the truth about what happened that made you so mad, Derek," she asked. I could hear the exasperation in her tone—she was getting frustrated, which sickly satisfied me. At the same time, it shattered what self-possession I had left. She was frustrated? She was frustrated? That was fresh. I had felt frustration and more almost constantly for weeks, and after five minutes, she was frustrated? How could she ask such an inane question, and so callously, too?

I pushed out of my chair, not even giving second thought to the fact that it banged against the wall with a solid thud. Tension held me upright and rigid; I was no longer calm enough to sit.

This would be good, though. I had given her exact question quite a bit of thought, and I knew I would be able to verbalize it concisely. If she had any argument left in her afterwards, she was more stubborn than I originally believed:

"That is the stupidest question I've ever heard," I started, purposefully provoking her a little bit. "How can you ask me why I'm mad, Chloe? How could I not be angry? You went behind my back—to my brother of all people—to find out about something that was purposefully kept hidden, that I didn't want you to know."

I had unknowingly moved away from the table and closer to her, and unconsciously let my voice rise. While I knew I had to reign it in, that I should be concerned about the task force they were most likely calling in at this very moment to calm me down and escort me from the premises, saving the poor girl they probably thought I was assaulting, I once again couldn't seem to muster up the mental clarity and rationality necessary for a little self-possession—as it so often seemed to happen, it seemed, to me, that Chloe was the only other person in the world.

"Well I do know, so there's really nothing to be done about that," she said, pointing out the obviously true, which annoyed me—both that she made the statement and that it was true, for I would admit to more than once whishing she could somehow un-know what I had done. But that was impossible, considering how she had gone about things, and thus landing us in the situation we were in, the situation she was clearly so riled up about. I was about to point out her responsibility in the animosity between us, but she beat me to the punch:

"And honestly, Derek, what else was I supposed to do? I knew about it vaguely and the more I got to know you, the more the quirks in your behavior became evident. Whenever something serious happened, something that threatened to bring us closer, you immediately backed off, pulled away. I thought the accident must have had some merit in an explanation and it wasn't as if I could have asked you." I could detect accusation in her voice, and I fought against the guilt that rose up at the accuracy of her inference.

"That's not true. You could have asked me," I said, regardless. She could have—asked me, that is. I just wouldn't have answered the question.

"That's a lie and you know it," she rebutted strongly, confidently. "Are you saying I could have asked you and you would have told me without qualms, no questions asked?" I snorted, "We both know that wouldn't be how it would have gone. You either would have gotten mad and dismissed me—just like you're doing now—or you would have told me but left out important details that would completely change the tone of the story."

"And what important details are you talking about, Chloe, since you apparently are more knowledgeable about what happened than I am," I asked, my tone seeping with unadulterated acid.

Her self-assurance in her beliefs ebbed at a different anger, one buried deeper, but never forgotten. And she only thought the way she did because Simon had told her the story. But no one seemed to get it—I didn't know what was so hard to comprehend; I had accepted the way it was a long time ago, but everyone's reassurances and contradictions made it all the harder to live with, made me feel all the worse because they were so fervently ready to believe that I was better than I was. And it infuriated me that I actually couldn't be—better. I had put dad and Simon and Tori through so much crap, and yet they still leapt to my defense, and it would be so much easier if they stopped trying to ease my guilt, because it was there, it was merited, and it wasn't going anywhere—I wasn't being a martyr; those were just the facts—and it bothered me that they doubted what I knew.

"You think it's your fault. And that feeling would have transferred into the telling of what happened," she said certainly, almost smugly.

And here she was, not getting it either. Are we not impressed with the principle that we should take responsibility for our actions? Well, that's what I was doing, and it seemed like those closest to me, those whose opinion actually mattered, couldn't see it. The entire situation was shitty, and the remorse and guilt and self-hatred came rushing back, fresh as if it had just happened, and for one terrifying moment, I hated her, hated her for bringing it back up, opening an old wound and prodding it, making it bigger and more painful for she was the one doing it, Chloe, who was the last person I ever wanted to rehash this with.

"It was my fault." There was no questioning that—the kid didn't bash his own head against the ground.

"No, it wasn't," I said quietly. "It was an accident, a terrible accident, but an accident nonetheless," she answered softly.

"You weren't there." It would be so easy, so nice and such a relief to believe what she was saying; endorse her sincerity and relish in the simple way she saw the situation. She saw as better in her eyes, and I wanted so badly to be better for her, but I couldn't delude myself into believing what would be a concealment of the facts.

For a moment, I forgot about my anger, overcome instead by the curiosity that often came with interactions with her. At my response, she bore a pained expression, her eyes filling with sadness, which I didn't understand.

"Did you mean to hurt him," she asked directly, reaffirming her strong set of the jaw.

"No." It came quickly, without thought. Of course I hadn't meant to hurt him.

"You just contradicted yourself," she said matter of factly, seemingly quite proud of herself.

"Just because I didn't intend on hurting him doesn't change the fact that I did and that it's still my fault." The logicality behind the reasoning was sound and indisputable.

"You're impossible," she muttered, because she knew I was right and she had nothing else to say.

"And you betrayed me," I countered, figuring that we were calling the other out.

Continuing, ignoring her opened mouth, I asked, "Is there a reason you're here besides wanting to discuss something Simon already told you all about." Their encounter still made my fist curl.

"Derek, I know you think that I went behind your back and discussed your personal matters with Simon, but that's not how it is. I needed to know what happened and Simon was the one person I could go to who would give me the unabridged, unbiased version. I was going to tell you," she said, nothing but the truth in her tone. I knew she wasn't lying, but things seemed rather black and white at this point, and a part of me thought that maybe, things would be better this way, for the both of us, in the long run.

"I can't trust you anymore," I lied coolly and collectedly. It was bizarre; I was without question made at her. But I knew she wasn't malicious, knew in some inexplicable way that, if she had known the way this all would have played out, she wouldn't have gone to Simon in the first place. And because of these unquestionable realities, I still trusted her. She was, at the same time, the last and only person I wanted to see—yes, I was being stubborn about this and gripping onto my anger for reasons I didn't have the energy to analyze, but I also knew, though would never admit, that a large factor in my consistently black mood was the fact that I wasn't talking to her.

"Well then, I can't trust you," she said simply.

What? I almost felt like laughing—almost.

"You're ridiculous. How is it that you've turned this around and suddenly, I'm the untrustworthy one? I've done nothing to justify that."

She stepped closer, now almost right under me, and narrowed her eyes. Her proximity caused a momentary break from reality as, in my mind, one hand went down to her waist as the other smoothed out her brow. Her words, however, snapped me back into reality.

"I can't depend on you. I can't trust you to always be—to be accountable."

"Are you calling me unreliable," I asked in clarification.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," she replied without hesitation. And for the first time, there wasn't just frustration and exasperation in her voice. She was mad.

"Please, enlighten me." I couldn't help the sarcasm; I was consistent, I knew.

"What happened between Friday night's game and Monday, when you started avoiding me, which wasn't the first instance of you doing so? Friday night, was Friday night," she went on after a slight hesitation. My own mind went back to the night she was referring to, and I fought against another mental glitch.

"And Monday, I no longer existed." My heart rate accelerated slightly as I grew mildly nervous. I had no defense—at least none that I wanted to share—against that.

"And now, because of one mistake, because, according to your twisted standards, I've put one foot out of line, we're not friends anymore. You completely cut me out of your life without any warning."

That was explicable, but she forged on: "And the way you did it too. Honestly, Derek, I thought at least you had a little more integrity than that. But apparently, I was wrong."

I just looked at her.

I didn't want to be mad at her; hated not talking to her. But I was terrified of how things would change now that she knew. I'd rather have things end shittily now than to let her back in only to be met with the reality that she couldn't move past it. That would be infinitely worse.

Sighing tiredly, she looked away from me, squeezing her eyes shut and rubbing her temples.

Taking a deep breath, she said, "If you—if you hate me, if you're not able to forgive me, fine. I am sorry that you found out the way you did, that I had to find out the way I did, but there was no other way. I screwed up, but forgive me for having believed that I shouldn't be condemned for it. Just know that you're not allowed to do this though, Derek. You're not allowed to be the one who controls the relationship, who can adjust it to his every mood. That's not how it works—not with friends. But if we're not friends anymore, then at least I know I tried."

Her words tore through me, actually paining me. I could see the tears in her eyes, see how badly she wanted me to contradict her, to jump in and say anything. And I wanted to, wanted to so badly. And when she turned away, defeated, it took everything I had not to grab for her and stop her from leaving.

But it would be better this way. I wasn't who she thought I was, and I wouldn't be able to bear her realizing that.

I stood there for a good three minutes, one hundred and eighty seconds, hating everything, my black mood coming back with full force.

I couldn't believe I had let things go so far, get so complicated, and yet I had. And where had that gotten us? Both hurt, thanks to me.

But she couldn't think I hated her. She had to know.

On the other hand, I hadn't contradicted her, and, maybe just for one more chance to have one last peaceful interaction with her, I decided I had to at least make sure she knew she was wrong about that.

Quickly gathering my things, I left the study room and made my way out of the library, pushing through the solid doors.

And then, as if knowing something wasn't right, I slowly looked to left, registering the horrible situation that was playing out in front of me.

The doors finally shut behind me, and both of their heads snapped towards the sound, both of them taking me in at the same time.

Through her tears, I could see the relief.

Liam—who would have been too close were he on the other side of the country—smiled maliciously, looking quite pleased with the turn of events.

I'm pretty sure we all knew I was trying to telepathically drive Liam into the ground.

He laughed harshly, and then bent in towards Chloe, whispering something to her. I felt myself stiffen and my fists clench.

He straightened, said something else to her, threw another sick grin my way, and then ambled down the corridor, leaving the two of us alone.

She was rightfully scared, but as my eyes snapped to her, I was beyond relieved that I was here, that she was okay.

She regarded me for a long moment, looking spent, worn-out and exhausted, before she turn and ran down the hall, leaving me alone to regret my idiocy and how big of an ass I was. And as much as I wanted to run after her, there was something more important I had to do first.


Walking through the locker room, I was on a mission. I wanted to be in and out. I did not play games.

Seeing him, thankful no one else was around, I went up to his locker, and, without giving him time to even glance my way, grabbed him by the collar and pushed him up against it. His eyes widened momentarily at my uncharacteristic behaviour: I did not rise to provocation, and he knew that. But he needed to be set straight. And I wasn't afraid of what I would do—I knew what I was here for, knew my strength and my limits in the situation.

"Stay. Away. From her," I murmured, glaring into his soulless dark eyes.

He said nothing, only stared back defiantly, but I could see that I had shaken him up, and he broke our eye contact first. He knew who was in control here, what his chances were.

I let him go, not looking back, and made my way to my car.

My heart was racing, and my nails had left marks on the palms of my hand.

I hit the steering wheel, afraid I would have to replace it after these past couple of weeks, before sagging against it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I was at a complete loss for what to do.

Even though I don't deserve it, I appreciate some R&R :)