23

By Grace (purplemud)

Pairing: Naley and a bit of Leyton and Brucas
Summary: Nathan Scott is done playing basketball. In fact, if he's going to be honest about it, he's done with living. But one funeral just might change that. AU. Totally.
Warning: Character death. Strong language. Some sexual content in the future. Maybe.
Author's note: Ugh, I guess I should apologize in advance for killing off someone. But it had to be done. Anyway, please let me know what you guys think. Feedback is much, much appreciated. .
Disclaimers: Standard disclaimers apply. Me don't own. Borrowing the journal idea from The Beginning (OTH novelization). Please don't sue.

One

It's Saturday night, 10:44 to be exact.

And if you're from around here, from Tree Hill that is, you'd know that around this time there's a tall young man with dark hair standing at the middle of the court holding a basketball in one arm staring intently at the basket.

He stands there for five whole minutes, silent, unmoving. If you're watching him from a far, like the way you're watching now, you'd find yourself wondering if he's still breathing. You can't be sure. He's is so still that way. And then at 10:49, you know this, since you've just glance at your watch, he puts his right foot forward, twists his ankle, moves his left foot, turns in a half circle, dribbles the ball to the left and then to right. He spins and fakes, dodging an invisible opponent. He's real quick. And graceful. He makes it look like he's doing some fancy footwork, an almost aggressive kind of waltz.

He drives forward to the basket and it looks so effortless, the way he bends his knees, puts all of his weight, well somewhere, you're not exactly sure where, and then he's flying. He really is. The take-off is awesome. Amazing. He stretches his arms and slams the ball in.

There is no roar of the crowd, although inside your head, you could hear it and it's almost deafening, until you realize that it's the silence that you're actually hearing. He settles back to earth, keeps his eyes on the ground, arms akimbo, hands on his hip. He is breathing hard and from where you're standing, you wonder briefly if maybe he's crying. He takes one huge, deep breath, runs his hand through his head and quietly walks away.

It's 11:02 pm and Nathan Scott heads home.

But if you're not from around here, this is his life: He was the star basketball player of their high school. The Almighty Soaring Blue White and Black Ravens. His room is a testament to his greatness. His past greatness. There are trophies everywhere. State Championships, two years in a row; MVP awards from grade school until his college days. He was destined for greatness and then one day he gets a call.

His father, the equally legendary basketball hero of this town, Dan Scott, is dead.

And then there was just no reason to play basketball anymore.

There was a time, Nathan thinks, when he's never home at all. Or if and when he did find himself stumbling through his room, he reeked of alcohol and some girly, fruity and pricey Chanel perfume. It was a lifetime ago. He doesn't really recognize that boy anymore. Not that he recognizes himself these days. He stares around his room and decides that tomorrow, he'll finally clean it. His mother would at least be happy about that.

He's gonna have to get rid of the stuff that he would never use any more. He glances at the shelf that houses all those once shiny silver and gold medals and trophies. If he looks at them, he'd see his sniggering reflection. They're all smudged with dust now. The trophies could go. And if those were going, so should all the framed pictures of his jump shots. His lay ups. His dunks. His teams. He'd have to put them in a box and have them shipped off to somewhere far. Like China or something. He'll get rid of the jerseys too. In fact, he thinks, sitting up, since it's still too early to go to bed (not that he ever sleeps at all) maybe he should start tonight.

It takes him less than an hour to have everything all boxed up. There it is. His past life. All inside three boxes marked "This Side Up" and "Fragile"

Fragile.

There isn't anything in Nathan Scott's life that could be called fragile.

He sits down on his bed, reluctantly opens the closest box and finds a stack of old, tattered leather bound notebooks. The journals are small, it fits his one hand and it feels familiar to him. The smell of leather and paper and sweat surrounds him. Nathan remembers all those journals his father had given him. He has kept them all. Why, he isn't sure. It's a physical testament to the kind of man his father was and the kind of son he had been. He never read them again after he'd fill the pages with numbers and daily stats. He randomly picks one, absentmindedly flips through it before realizing that this one is from his senior year in high school:

Stretching: 15 minutes; sprints: 30 yards x 15; Bench press: 160; Run until you puke; shooting drills: jump shots in the morning, lay ups in the afternoon. 90 each. Start count over if it doesn't make basket.

It's not like he didn't love basketball. He did. The journals were like his daily love letters for basketball. He loved it because it was the only thing he was actually good at. Because it was the one thing that made his father proud; it was the very thing that drove them together and apart.

It was complicated, his relationship with his father. He wants to be like him and he desperately does not want to end up like him. Dan Scott was both a glowing hero and a much hated villain. He drove Nathan to all those championships, all those trophies and medals, opened up the possibilities of a future so great, so overwhelming, it swallowed up every other aspect of Nathan's life and when his father died, well, the drive to prove he was his father's son, that he wasn't just his father's son died with it. Complicated.

He works at his mom's bar. At least right now that's what he's doing. He just finished college and he's trying to dodge all the coaches and agents calling up, visiting and asking him if he's ready to play again. He lets them talk for an hour, lets them shower him with praises, lets them treat him for lunch, dinner, drinks, women but then after all that, he tells them no and he walks away. He was that good that even after quitting basketball for almost a year since his father died, they're still asking for him, still giving him the talk.

Of course losing a father is harsh, hard, a real fucking blow, son. But the best way to cope, and not to get over it, mind you - I have a father too, he's a real bastard, but if he died, I wouldn't want to get over that quickly, you know - is to play again. Play real fucking hard. Turn pro.

He plays with his friends and it doesn't really do anything to him anymore. It isn't the same as it used to be. He still enjoys the game, but it's become just that to him: a game. He isn't depressed or anything like that. And even if he sometimes catches his mom looking worriedly at him, he doesn't feel like there's a real need to worry about him.

They say grief comes in stages and he's wondering what stage he is in right now. If there was a blank almost emotionless, dreamless stage, then that's where he is right now. That's likely where he'll be spending the rest of his life. And what was wrong with that? He's accepted everything that had happened. He's settled. He likes his life this way. It's normal and quiet and it's exactly the way he wants it to be. After all, there is nothing else to be had.

It's another Sunday morning. Like all the rest of the Sunday mornings he's had ever since Dan's death. He's meeting up Tim Smith and Jake Jagelski at a local café. Hang out there. For the whole morning probably since Tric, his mom's bar, doesn't open up until seven tonight. He's got a lot of free time of doing absolutely nothing.

Jake and Tim has been his friends ever since he could remember. Friends and team mates. They did the getting drunk, hooking up and then getting drunk again thing when they were in high school. They were the demigods of their school. It was a given right. They had brought glory and accolades to the school and they were treated not just as athletes but as royalty.

After high school, they all decided to go to the same college but for different reasons: He was going to play ball, conquer the NCCA and then turn pro. That was the plan. At least that was Dan's plan. Tim wanted to be an artist. Draw stuff. Comics. Whatever. Jake had to get a business degree, get serious and provide for his daughter. They figured they could do all that in the same college and while playing ball. Although in the end, Tim and Jake couldn't cut it on the varsity team. There was very little resentment over that. They all knew it was bound to happen.

Anyway, all those plans ended up just as that. Plans.

These days, Tim's somewhat of a freelance graphic artist. Or so he'd like to say. He draws a lot of scathingly (un)funny comics for some music magazine. Thud. It was the lamest name Nathan had ever heard and he doesn't let Tim forget about this particular opinion. Tim doesn't care. He says it's temporary and he's really targeting MTV. Maybe make those logo-commercials and CGI shit. Jake is nowhere near the business man he had plan to be but he's a damn good assistant coach at their old high school.

Nathan thinks that no one seems to be where they want to be, but it's not like they have any choice. You gotta deal with what life gives you.

He parks the car and takes his time walking towards the café. He's always loved Sundays. Sunday is the only free day he has. He does absolutely nothing on Sundays. He hangs out with friends. Plays a bit at the Rivercourt. Stay in his bedroom, do some NBA live, watch old games. Sometimes his games, sometimes his dad's games. If he hooked up with a girl Friday night at Tric, then sometimes he'd call her and they could hang or talk or sometimes do more or less than talk. He realizes with a start that it has been months since he'd actually done that.

Months. That ought to be some sort of record. Maybe he is just a little bit depressed enough to not actively search for meaningless hook ups with women he didn't care about. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? He decides he doesn't really care right now.

He enters the café and immediately spots Jake and Tim, huddled together over the newspaper. Nathan casually slides into the empty seat next to Jake.

"It's just you know, so high school." Tim complains, sounding deeply offended.

Nathan guesses that Tim is being his usual asinine self, criticizing the local paper's comics section. Again. "Nate, man, isn't this just lame?"

"He's getting worked up over Archie and Veronica and Betty and the whole sordid love triangle thing." Jake said bringing him up to speed.

Nathan watches with amusement as Jake starts rolling his eyes, sounding exasperated. Jake and Tim had probably been debating this particular topic for a while now. "Tim, don't." Nathan warns, "Archie is like, classic."

"It's lame." Tim insists. "Why can't Archie decide? I mean, if it was me, I'd go for Veronica. Definitely."

Nathan frowns and shakes his head. Why were they having conversations that they should have had during middle school? But then again, what else should they be talking about? The past glories? Certainly not the best topic of discussion. Their current problems? The constant pressure and stress of adulthood? No thanks.

Well, Betty or Veronica, then.

He likes blondes better. He'd always liked them better. Plus, Betty had always been way cooler than Veronica, who was spoiled and rich and was like every other girl who had thrown themselves at him, latching on even when he started acting like the world's biggest jackass. "You'd choose her, of course." He quips, raising a knowing eyebrow at his friend.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tim asks, frowning.

"I like Betty," Jake says, thoughtfully nodding his head ignoring Tim's question. "She's hot."

"Well," Tim starts with a huff, "Archie's a dickhead. Don't you hate guys who just can't fucking decide? They're like girls."

"Not like Timmy Boy huh?" Jake smirks as Tim throws him a dirty look.

They always tease Tim for naming his main comic character after himself. Jake used to say that the last thing Tim needed was a venue for his inane ramblings and narcissistic tendencies.

"Yeah, didn't he have a group jerk-off last issue?" Nathan adds with a chuckle.

"It's called realism." Tim glowers at them.

Jake and Nathan pauses for a whole second before dissolving into fits of (rather unmanly) giggles. "Smith," Nathan chokes out, "who in holy hell did you have a group jerk-off with?"

Tim suddenly turns beet red before sucking in a deep breath and then choking on that same breath, "It was in high school, ok. Everyone was doing it." He retorts defensively, crossing his arms against his chest. "The cool kids at least." He adds when Nathan and Jake shares a knowing look.

"Right. Okay, moving along." Jake says with a sigh, snapping the page shut and tossing the offensive comic section to the next table. He looks around the café for a few seconds before letting out a low whistle, "Hey, Gattina, some actual service here would be appreciated."

The red haired lounging by the counter, absentmindedly, busily twirling her hair pauses, shoots them a glare and then flips them the bird before sauntering over to the kitchen.

"Such a charmer." Nathan comments, shaking his head.

"There used to be a girl here who was really efficient, plus she was fucking gorgeous." Tim says. "She worked here for like a year, but she moved or something. I never talked to her. Wish I did. She could've been, you know, the one that got away."

Jake and Nathan roll their eyes at the same time. Every girl to Tim was the 'one who got away' just like every girl in high school used to be 'crazy for The Tim' and wanted some 'Tim Time'.

"Yeah, what's she like?" Jake challenges.

"Dark hair. Real sassy. Incredibly hot. And funny too. Like silly funny. The kind of girl who snorts when she laughs." Tim sighs almost dreamily. "She always made sure that my coffees were refilled. She called everyone 'Babe'. But she says it differently when she's talking to me."

Of course she does, Nathan thinks as he slouches lower on his chair, raising his eyebrow and jutting his chin out. "And she worked here?"

"Yeah." Tim answers in the same challenging tone.

Jake snorts. "In your dreams."

"It's true. I swear! You were so busy being in love with your girlfriend back in college, what was her name? P-something."

Nathan has to think hard who Tim was referring to. He doesn't remember being in love with any of the girls he dated. He listens as Tim ticked off a few descriptions and when he said 'always breaking up with you but getting back again the next day,' Nathan finally remembers her. "Peyton."

Blonde, curly haired, green eyed Peyton Sawyer. The girl who could match his anger. He had been fucking crazy in lust over her. And every time it became apparent that they had nothing in common - the girl listens to whiny music all the time, smokes like a chimney and paints distorted objects - they could not seem to let each other go. The first time they broke up and got back together it had been sad and wistful and maybe even promising. It was accompanied by a million apologies and a gazillion more promises.

Nathan promised to treat her better, stop being a dick, stop flirting with anyone wearing a skirt (Peyton's exact words). Peyton promised to stop being such a bitch and being so emotionally aloof (again, Peyton's words). But the succeeding break ups and getting back together again - despite the many obvious reasons why they shouldn't have: more broken promises, more disappointments - had been more like a way to punish each other.

Nathan would always end up doing something that'll disappoint her and Peyton always would break up with him. For the nth time. And Nathan would get back with her again, still furious at himself for breaking his promises and for being dumped. And to get back at him for every pain and suffering he had put her through (yep, still Peyton's words) she'd agree to give their relationship just another, one more last last chance.

It was never just a "last chance" thing. It was a vicious cycle and one that, as the time progressed, became less and less about love and more about pride and just damn stubbornness.

It was true. Love is lovelier the second time around but the third and the fourth and the fifth and the sixth and so on, well, it just sucked ass. It took them a year to finally admit that they were just not meant to be and that they were never meant to be in the first place.

"Yeah her. You were so hung up over her, totally whipped." Tim makes the universal 'how could you?' look whenever guys start accusing each other of letting a girl get her way with them, especially if it's a girl you're having a serious relationship with. If it was just some random hook up, it's totally okay to act like a lovesick idiot, but if you're actually in love with the girl, it's a bad thing.

Nathan is certain that he had not been Peyton's whipping boy. "I was not."

"You were, man or at least you were with the whole drama of it." Jake agrees, backing Tim up. He raises his hand in feeble defense as Nathan shakes his head in disbelief. "Sorry, but it was like you thrived on it."

"Whatever."

"Nate, you're like so totally into Peyton. That was the year no other girl existed in the planet. It was all Peyton this, Peyton that." Tim reminds him.

"For about the first three months," Jake adds with a sneer.

"Just goes to show how far up your head had been in your ass." Nathan mutters to himself, thinking of the many girls and women he had managed to flirt with all while dating Peyton Sawyer. He was such an unbelievable jerk (his words, not Peyton).

"What ever happened to her?" Jake asks, forehead creasing as though trying to remember how Peyton looked like.

Tim lets out a sullen sigh. "I dunno man, I told you I never talked to her."

Jake makes a face and shakes his head, "Not the phantom waitress Dim, I meant Peyton."

Nathan pauses and thinks about it then realizes that he has no idea how Peyton's been doing, or where she is right now. They had dated for over a year and it had been intense to say the least. Although, in retrospect, the intensity was more from all those arguments, the adrenaline high of shouting matches that would sometimes very nearly end with him slamming a fist on a wall. He didn't of course. He had a basketball career to protect.

And ok, maybe even sex too. A lot of sex. When they broke up, finally for good, miraculously, despite everything that had happened to them, they managed to part as friends and she had even told him to keep in touch. But he never really called her figuring that if he did, they might just go through another round of break ups and hook ups. Peyton must have felt that way too, since she didn't bother calling him as well. Besides, it's over when it's over. Why hang on to things that were not meant to be yours in the first place?

"Nate?" Jake prods, lifting an eyebrow at him.

"Dunno." He finally answers with a shrug. "Don't care."

"Well, that's just fucking romantic, Nate."

"Tim, shut up."

Rachel hovers over them and they're suddenly all silent, watching her. She smiles all sugary, syrupy sweet before slamming a cup of coffee in front of Nathan before wordlessly handing him the menu.

"Thank you." Nathan says with as much sarcasm as he could muster but Rachel has already turned her head, stalking off to plop herself on the same spot earlier, twirling her hair once again.

The girls here in Tree Hill, sometimes, Nathan wishes he had done what his bastard half-brother did: moved away and never returned.