A/N: This story is purely fictional. One hundred percent. I don't even wish this happened, unlike most of my stories. The title is from 'Fidelity' by Regina Spektor, which is a brilliant song. The title isn't mine, then. But the story is.

He couldn’t breathe, could barely think; his heart was pounding in his ears, blood rushing through his body, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He stumbled over the sand, away from the beach house, and the bonfire, and all the people, and he collapsed onto his knees, just metres from the waterline, just inside the markings in the sand showing how far the waves had come in, before being pulled inexorably back to the ocean.

He heard her footsteps in the sand behind him, but he ignored them, instead focusing on the water, on the waves, on his own heartbeat. Anything, anything in the world, the universe, but her.

“Hey!” she shouted, running towards him.

He didn’t answer, even as a fresh wave came in, sweeping right on over the old markings, and across the sand, swamping the lower three or so centimetres of his knees, soaking through his jeans.

He got wet, but he didn’t care.

“Hey!” she repeated, and he could tell she was purposely hanging back from the water’s edge.

He didn’t answer, even as he stood, and went to remove his t-shirt. Flinging it onto the sand, he watched as the water went back out. His hands went to the button of his jeans. He fumbled with it, shaking uncontrollably, before it came loose. He undid the zipper, letting the jeans fall, before stepping out of them, running a hand through his hand.

He stood in his boxers, now, and she was coming closer.

“Hey,” she said, more quietly, just a half a metre away.

He cast a glance over his shoulder, saw her standing there in all her glory, and he realised he didn’t care. He took a few, shuffling steps forward, towards the water, and plunged in, submerged up to his ankles, leaving her standing there, watching him.

He went deeper, as a wave came in, over his kneecaps.

“Stop!” she cried from the shoreline, but he kept going, until he was up to his waist. Another wave was coming in, the first in a group of three.

Taking a deep breath, he dove into the foam, and let the cold water take him, sweep him away.

He was underwater for less than thirty seconds before he burst into the night air, taking a deep gulp of oxygen, steadying himself. It felt so good, so perfect, as if he was finally free. Free of her, free of his feelings for her. Emancipated, set loose; he had been liberated, if for the briefest of moments.

Wiping water from his eyes, he turned back to the shoreline, where she stood, having saved his clothes from the water.

She shook her head, slowly, sadly, as though trying to speak.

He didn’t want to hear it.

He shouted to her, so angry, so fed-up. So resigned. “Him! Of all the people at all the parties in all the world, and you have to make out with him!”

She just shook her head still, her mouth flapping like a fish’s.

“And to add injury to insult, I think I cut my toe on a rock while I was running down here!” he said, still shouting, a white-hot fury burning through him as spoke. “I mean, really! Him! Jesus Christ. Was that some sort of personal attack against me?”

“No!” she shouted back. “It wasn’t!”

She started to wade in, and he knew the gentlemanly thing to do would be to go to her, stop her from getting wet. But he didn’t want to. He wanted her to get wet and cold. She deserved it, for doing this to him. Again.

“I never meant to hurt you like this!” she said, as another wave came in.

It was small, but it had got some power behind it; it brushed past him, no problem, but it made her stumble and splash through the water as she tumbled into the sea.

He hesitated, not wanting to help her, not even wanting to be near her, let alone touch her.

But still he waded back towards shore, as she sat up in the water, spluttering, spitting out a mouthful of stuff. He put his arms through her armpits, and hauled her to her feet. She coughed, and opened her eyes, brushing aside strands of wet hair that had been plastered to her cheeks and forehead.

She swallowed, as they looked at each other.

He was so mad at her, in that moment; mad at her for kissing the other guy, mad at her for still caring for him after all that time. Mad at her for stringing him along, using him as ballast.

“Go back to shore,” he grunted. “I can’t talk to you now.”

“You don’t really want me to.”

“You’re right. You know what I really want you to do?” he bit off the question like a demand, full of bitterness, and resignation, and downright anger. “You really want to know?”

She swallowed again, unsure, but she nodded

“I want you to go back in time, and make it so that I never met you.” He spoke with such harsh conviction that she could tell there is nothing but sincerity there. Angry sincerity, yes, but sincerity just the same. “I want you to make it so that I never kissed you, and that you never kissed him tonight. Most of all, I want you to make it so that I never fell in love with you. Can you do that, huh?”

The sea water on her cheeks was joined by her tears. She shook her head, disbelieving. “I’m sorry... but I thought we decided it wasn’t going to work.”

He couldn’t help scoffing at that suggestion. “We? Let’s get one thing straight, there was no ‘we’ in any of that. It was all you, because you were so hung up on him that you couldn’t even see that I was laying my heart and my soul on the line for you. Well, you know what, I’ve had enough of it. Of you, of him, of all this ridiculous shit. So why don’t you go back up to that party, and keep making out with him, or whatever is you want to do? Because, honestly? I don’t care anymore. I really, truly don’t. I’ve wasted too many hours trying to get you to understand the way I feel. And you know what? You’re too blind to see it! You’re just too blind to understand!”

She shook her head, unsure of what to say. “I value your friendship more than anything...”

He laughed, then, so bitterly it almost killed them both. “Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that, because it’s a lie! Since the beginning, I was here to get you back together with him, wasn’t I? All along!”

She shook her head, still, but slower, more resigned, all the more pleading. “No... no, I didn’t...”

“You didn’t what?” he barked, angrier at her than he had been at anyone in his life. “You didn’t use me? Or you didn’t mean to use me? Because either way, I was used. You know, only you could make me feel like a complete and utter tool.”

She swallowed again, and he turned away, her body racked with sobs.

He made his way back towards the beach, ignoring the tears, and the sobs, and the crying, as she let the waves wash over her, again and again and again.

He left footprints on the sand as he made his way up the beach, where she had left his clothing. He pulled his shirt on, and roughed up his wet hair, stepping into his jeans, and pulling them up, ignoring the water still dripping off him.

He turned back to the water, where she stood, still fully clothed, sopping wet.

She watched him with those big, expressive eyes, and he only looked back, his face an expressionless mask, completely neutral.

“Stop!” she yelled as he turned to leave.

He hesitated for a moment, but he shook his head, and set off up the beach, towards the bonfire, where at least he’d see some friendly faces.

“Please!”

It was a cry of desperation, a plea for mercy, so raw and emotional it tore him apart just to hear it. Part of him wanted to stay, to scoop her into his arms, like he’d fantasised about all year. But the rest of him just wanted to leave her there, in her misery, as retribution for kissing him again, as payback for the year he’d wasted trying to get her to notice his feelings for him.

The first half won. He turned back to her, not knowing what to say, how to move, what to do. So, he barked a simple, “What?”

Her mouth worked soundlessly; standing there as she was, thigh-deep in the ocean, she looked quite pathetic. But as beautiful, as soulful, as perfect as ever.

“What do you want me to say?” she shouted, in desperation. “What can I say to you?”

“You could start with sorry.”

“Sorry? What do you want me to be sorry for?” she says, taking a few steps through the water.

“I don’t actually want you to be sorry.” He answered, truthfully. “I don’t care. I tried so hard to help. All this year, I did everything I could to make you happy again. To be the person you were before him, and all this time, you were still in love with him, weren’t you?”

“No,” she said, casting her eyes into the water.

“Lie to me if you have to,” he said, noticing the cliché in his own words. “But don’t lie to yourself. You’ve never been anything but in love with him. Desperate for another opportunity to get yourself back in his arms. Well, bully for you, because now you can go right ahead. I’m leaving. I’m done with you, and trying to get you to notice me.”

He left.

He didn’t wait to hear her reply, he simply wasn’t interested. He stalked across the beach, through the bonfire gathering, ignoring the shouts of his name. He swept into the house, unperturbed by the pounding beat of the music, or the flash of the strobe lights. He pushed open the front door, and hopped down the front steps, walking right past the couple making out on the ratty old couch in the front yard.

“Hey,” came a familiar voice.

He spun about, to find himself looking at him; the one that had kissed his girl, sitting on a couch with some other girl’s lipstick around his mouth. He had a self-satisfied smirk on his face, and an arm draped around the hussy who sat beside him.

“You leaving, mate?” the bastard asked, as though genuinely interested.

“Yeah, I am.” He paused, though, almost at the front gate. He spun back, to see the guy who had made out with two completely different girls in less than ten minutes, who had stomped once again on the heart of his best friend, of the girl he loved.

He was standing, an arm around this new girl, muttering about how they should find a free bedroom.

He was on the ground the next second; a fist had struck his cheek at what must have been good fraction of terminal velocity, knocking him onto the floor.

His assailant was gone, running off down the street, laughing uncontrollably to himself, for a short while, at least, truly, purely elated. But, beneath the whole running away thing, beneath the happiness, was a yawning chasm. Because, the truth was, he still loved her.

He always would.