A/N: This is from a dream I had, sort of. Something about a library, three friends who were very close, and one more who wasn't. I took the idea and was actually able to make something less than novel-length out of it. Naturally, I had to get this dream when I'm supposed to be working on NaNoWriMo.

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Derek was always kind of background. Very much in our lives, but background. Until he wasn't in our lives anymore.

The twins and I were always very close, Derek more distant. We played all sorts of games, ran races, played pranks on people...stuff like that. He was almost always somewhere near, sitting on a rock or something with a book open on his lap.

Now I remember all the times he wasn't just sitting there. I mean, mostly he was, but often he would say things to us. Useful things. Interesting things. Not 'the average rainfall of such-and-such is...' things, but more like how some older people used to think rock groups were able to make it so the listeners could hear Satan talking to them if they played the records backwards. Or the fact that ponds have to turn over, one layer after another rising to the top until the one that was at the bottom is now the surface, before they can start freezing.

Things like that.

His favorite place was the library. Sometimes it was ours too, but mostly when we were together we preferred being outside. We had a healthy respect for books and the people who took care of them, and didn't want to mess either of them up with our games. One day, after he left, I went back to that library. It seemed so empty and still without him there.

Leaning against a wall with my eyes closed, I remembered one book I'd seen him reading. Did they have a good book on Latin, I asked the librarian at the desk.

“Of course,” she answered. Rising up out of her chair, bones creaking, she showed me to the Languages section. There were a few Latin dictionaries, most huge, and a few other books. I picked up the one I'd seen him reading once and opened it.

It was about how Latin and Greek had influenced English. While the librarian went back to her post, I read a few pages then squeezed my eyes closed. Oh Derek, I thought. Where are you?

A picture of him slowly fizzled into being in my mind. Dark, wavy hair. Most-definitely-not-pale skin, the opposite of what you'd expect from someone who spent all their time reading. Jeans, a tshirt with some witty saying on it, platform shoes that gave suprisingly good grip. And the bracelets. Ah, the bracelets. He always wore at least four, on his left arm. Once he told me it was to ward of spirits, and the reason there were four rather than two was because humans have a tendency to divide everything into four. Why just good, evil, and neutral then? Wasn't it time to think up one more?

And why ward against less things that you think there are.

His face. A thin mouth, that grew much wider when he smiled or relaxed his face. The only time it truly relaxed was when he was telling us something intriguing – even in sleep his face was tense. A crooked nose, which Maxie asked of once if it'd been broken. Derek smiled and laughed, replied that no, it was just always like that. Dark eyes, with long lashes framed by glasses with silver frames.

I stood there, breathing hard for a moment. Then I checked the book out and plucked a rose from in front of the library, humming a song he taught us years ago.

---

They told us he ran away, left a note and everything. But I know he didn't leave willingly. Apart from the fact that the note didn't sound like him (and why would he need to run away, anyway?) one of his bracelets was on the floor of his room. He never takes them off. I picked it up and started wearing it, eventually picking up three others to go with. It's a little bit of him that never goes away.

His parents and the twins kept his room just as it was left, hoping he'd come back. I did something I've never done before, and picked up the notebook left on the table. The police searched the room, of course, including the books, but I know him better then they do. Perhaps there was something I'd notice here.

I sat down on his still-rumpled-after-all-this-time bed, and sat down to flip through the book. It contained mostly disjointed words, meant to stir memories in his mind rather than spell out his thoughts. A few words recalled my own memories of him lounging on sun-warmed rock, a book open in front of him, and his voice speaking of wonders.

Where are you now, Derek?

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Today, I decided to go to the rock concert a local band was holding. It was free, so no worries there. I tucked Derek's notebook into the crook of my arm, holding my place with a finger of the other hand. When I got there, I was pushed around and ended up only a few yards from the band. Then the music started, and everything else stopped. Not really – but people stopped shoving and got quiet.

The music was truly beautiful, the most beautiful thing I've ever heard apart from Derek's voice so long ago. When the concert was finally over the audience began grumbling that the band wouldn't be back for ages, and began pushing again to get out. One voice yelled “Move it bitch!” and caused my head to flick around. I couldn't make out who had shouted, but I could definitely see who they were shouting at.

Yup. Derek was drifting along, gently(okay, not gently. Slowly) moved along by the crowd motion, but not really moving himself, clutching a book to his chest with a blank expression on his face. He didn't look as I remembered him – longer hair, different glasses, taller, less thin – but it was most certainly him. By the time I got to where he had been I could no longer see him, but I think he saw me.

I smiled. I know where to start looking now. Someday I will hear your voice again, Derek, and that day may not be as far off as I thought.

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A/N: I picture the nameless character who cares about and longs for Derek so much to be male. But since gender is not specifically mentioned for him/her, he can be a she if you want. I'm very proud of myself for writing a short story, even if I did do it in the middle of NaNoWriMo.