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The clock strikes twelve, and all Avery can find in himself is anger.
It sits in his chest coldly, like some kind of horrible, long-spoiled meal stuck in a freezer. Raw and ugly and gross and horribly, horribly cold.
Gods, he wants to punch something. He wants to punch someone. Preferably a certain knight but of course that's—
…Not doable.
Of course. Of course.
He stews in his anger, even as he finds the letter and reads it and sees through it, ultimately.
At the crossroads. Keep going forward.
He reads it and he sees through it and he sees through the reassurance and the comfort and the affection cradling every perfect, beautiful word and he grabs the sides of the screen and he crushes it in between his hands. Glass shatters, plastic breaks. Blood is leaking from his palms, but he's so, so angry. He's so hateful.
He hates Derek. He hates those words.
Keep going forward. Keep going forward? "Keep going forward."
What a fucking joke.
He wants him to keep going forward? After that?
After fucking up his life forever?
Avery feels stupid. So, so fucking stupid.
He can't believe himself, he can't believe he'd let himself get tangled and roped in and attached all for the sake of… What. Curiosity? He should've stopped then, and he should've stopped when that curiosity became a need to know, and he should've stopped when that curiosity became desperation and he should've never cared as much as he did and
Fuck him. Or— Or no, he should—
He should be burning in Hell right now, because.
Because.
Damn him.
That's it.
DAMN him.
Why couldn't Derek have just— Let him be damned too? If nothing else? If not only Avery? If it had to be both of them. It should've been both of them. Why did it have to be him, why did it have to be him who faced Hell, why did…
Whatever.
Whatever, and now, Avery has to live with himself anyway, despite that. Despite the fact he's a walking failure. Whatever.
It feels like hours before the seething, freezing rage takes its leave and he's left feeling…
. . .
Still cold.
But empty.
Like someone took that meal out of his chest and spared him the suffering of consuming it. Or letting it consume him.
He knows why it's gone, and he knows the person that took it, and he doesn't hate the person, and he's not angry with him anymore, but he owes him a thank you. Naturally.
He thinks he started crying, at some point. His face feels wet. Not just damp. He's been crying for a while and he doubts it will stop anytime soon.
He flexes his hands out in front of him, pulling them from the wreckage that is Derek's old laptop. He can't tell if they've stopped bleeding, but they're stained with dried blood. (Fitting, he guesses.)
He takes his hands and rubs them down the length of his face. Blood mixes with tears. Iron mixes with salt.
Gods, he probably looks like a mess right now. In every sense, in every way. He should care but he doesn't. He should get up and fix himself but he doesn't.
He should get up, and throw away the laptop—or burn it, maybe. Along with the memory of him ever knowing a Minecraft player named d3rlord3.
The memory of knowing a person, once, named Derek.
He should forget about him, and think of him only when the moment calls for it, and he should live. If nothing else—and it is nothing else—he needs to live for Derek's sake.
He should go forward.
He's never been good at following directions.