Darien
He'd put it off.

Derek knew that. It didn't make him feel good or better, but it hadn't exactly eaten away at him. If the decision had been his, no one beside he and Dianna would know. Not because of the shame, or that it was privileged information, or any such thing—simply because the more one talked about it, the more real it became. For every person he told, it was one more dreaded pinch from reality, an affirmation that this was not the worst nightmare he couldn't wake up from, but something he was living.

But Dianna, of all people, had reasoned with him in that chillingly serene and unflappable manner she'd adopted. All it had taken was hinting at how Derek would feel in a reversal of the circumstances… if it had been his little brother who'd found out, and then never saw fit to tell him. Then he knew, it was time to come to terms with reality, with the gravity of the situation, if only because it was what she wanted. Dianna had to come first in every respect.

He contemplated the door to Darien's residence. Derek had been distant with him, but no more so than normal, he'd thought. More than one person had commented on his increased anger and aggression on the field, however, and he'd spent far more time than necessary on the clock, because it meant avoiding home, his sister, his roommate, and that swirling pit of guilt that he was undoubtedly responsible for what had happened to her. Derek stood outside, striving for composure. How to begin? Where to begin? But composure never came. So he raised his hand and knocked.

"Darien? It's Derek."