Concentrating on falling apart

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 00:06:35 GMT

Thank you for my snowflake cookie, whoever you are!! (Sam?)
It made me happy. =)

Brandywine's 15 minute challenge

Sat, 01 Sep 2007 07:19:49 GMT

This was written for Brandywine421's 15 minute challenge. (I'm sorry, but it took me an hour. I've only reread it a couple of times and it's late, so bear with me.)

Title: Finality
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to The O.C.
Word count: 1556

Sixteen days before graduation, you beg him to go to the party with you. Bounce on his bed while he’s trying to study and plead with those big, brown eyes until he finally gives in. You knew he would. Just once, dude. Come on. We’re brothers, we’re about to graduate and move on into this ginormous world, and I’ve never even seen you drunk. How lame is that? You’ve lived with him for three years. The guilt card works every time.

Six hours before the accident, you drive up to the beach. Lurch the Rover into a parking spot in your haste to get the partying underway. This is your grad party, after all, and you’re with Ryan. The water polo team won’t think twice about you being here; they learned their lesson the year he turned up in Newport. He always saves you.

Five hours and thirty-six minutes before the accident (and two beers down), and Ryan’s still nursing his first can.

Five hours and twenty-two minutes before the accident, you drag Ryan and his single beer over to Chip and the beer bong. You go first, but he doesn’t need to watch to know how. He grew up in Chino, despite how he tries to forget it.

Four hours and forty-eight minutes before the accident, you think it’d be fun to go for a swim. You get up to your thighs in the dark, chilly ocean before he drops his beer and runs in for you. Tells you it’s stupid to swim when you’re drunk. Hauls you out by the wrist and plops you in the sand.

Three hours and fifty-six minutes before the accident, someone suggests shotgunning some beer. Ryan’s a pro. Yours gets all over your pants, so they let you try again. You’re still not much better.

Two hours and twelve minutes before the accident, and your head feels like it’s swimming. When you open your eyes you see double, so you just don’t. You lie in the cool sand and listen to his laughter, smiling to yourself. You knew it was a good idea to bring him.

Fifteen minutes before the accident, you’re feeling better. The contents of your stomach are lying in a hole you dug beside you in the sand, but you’re liking them better in there than when they were inside you. Flashing blue and red lights bring an end to the party only a little faster than Jess did, face-down in Marissa’s pool. You frantically search for Ryan, find him slumped in the sand with Chip. They’re taking alternating sips from the last beer they have (how the hell many did they bring?). You haul him up, drag him half-lying on you to the Rover. You fish for the keys and he straightens up, blurry blue eyes meeting equally blurry brown. Y’okay to drive, man? Seth? You blink. Search for the approaching cops, shove him in the car. It’s not far to go. Yeah dude, ‘m good.

Three minutes before the accident, he starts squirming in his seat. Breathing deeply through his nose. You recognize the symptoms. If you hurl in the Rover, Ryan, I swear…we only just escaped the Imax incident, I dunno if we can pull off the vomit too…

He wants you to pull over but there are eight cars riding right on your ass- anxious partiers trying to escape jail time for public intoxication and underage drinking. There’s a bag in the bag, dude. ‘S from the comic book store, I couldn’t wait till I got home to read the new… He’s undoing his seatbelt, scrambling in the back underneath the seats for the savior bag. He really doesn’t want to hurl out the window. He’s coughing now, and you fear for the Rover’s wellbeing. You take your right hand off the wheel, reach back, grope under the seat. ‘S gotta be here somewhere, bro, hang on. You’re steering with your knees now. You don’t see the four way stop or the car in the intersection until a blaring horn alerts you. And then it’s too late.

Three hours after the accident, you wake up for the first time. The lights blind you and you squint your eyes shut immediately, but your anxious parents notice your slight movement and are by your side instantly. Your mom’s face is wet, you notice as she leans over you. A tear drops onto your arm but you can’t feel it, and when you glance down you see your arm encased in plaster from the fingers to the elbow. You broke your arm, sweetie. Your dad’s smiling at you, but it’s a sad smile. His eyebrows are furrowed so far together that they almost meet. Knocked your head pretty good, too, he adds. Concussion. Your eyes flicker to the other hand, where an IV drips clear liquid straight into your vein. It’s for the pain, honey, your mom tells you. It must be good stuff, because your eyelids droop shut soon after.

Four hours after the accident, a nurse wakes you up and asks you stupid questions to make sure you’re alert. You’re more awake and aware now. Ryan? No one will answer you.

A day after the accident, they tell you that Ryan had to have surgery. He flew backwards out of the Rover on impact, bounced off the hood of the other car. Landed in the street. Broke his back. He’s in ICU and he hasn’t woken up yet. You can’t help yourself, and you cry until a doctor comes in and puts something into your IV…and then you don’t remember.

Three days after the accident, they let you go home. Your wrist’s broken, your face is swollen, and your head hurts like a bitch, but at least you’re awake. Ryan still isn’t.

A week after the accident, Ryan wakes up. Kirsten’s with him when it happens. He’s tired, confused, and sore, but he remembers what happened. The doctors say it’s a good sign. They decide it’s not a good sign when, later that day, Ryan’s legs remain motionless in the bed despite his obvious attempts to move them. No one tells Ryan that there’s something wrong yet, but he’s no idiot. He doesn’t cry when, that evening, his doctor tells him that the break in his vertebrae severed his spinal cord, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. He just doesn’t do anything. Not even speak.

One week and two days after the accident, you go to visit Ryan. He’s not in ICU anymore, but he’s still in the hospital. You cry again when you see him. You can’t help it. Because of you, your brother now has two deadweights where his functional legs used to be. He doesn’t even look at you, glazed blue eyes staring a hole in the wall opposite the door that you’re standing in. Still sobbing, you finally leave.

Two weeks, a month, two months after the accident, Ryan goes from therapist to therapist, learning how to handle his new body. Your parents go crazy incorporating wheelchair friendly appliances in the house. You spend most of your time lying on your bed.

Three months after the accident, Ryan comes home. You feel like a moron, but the first things that you notice about him are his biceps. They’re even bigger than before. He insists on wheeling himself up the new ramp into the house. It feels like a rock is forming in your throat. Physically, you’re back to normal. Ryan will never be.

Three and a half, four, four and a half months, and he still won’t speak to you. He doesn’t even make eye contact.

Five months after the accident, you’re in your room when you hear a clatter followed by a crash. You take the stairs two at a time on the way down to the kitchen, where you find Ryan sprawled awkwardly on the floor. He’s surrounded by a frying pan from a cupboard that was obviously too high for him to easily reach, and his lifeless legs are bent oddly beneath him. You fumble around, picking up the pan and reaching out to him, trying to help him back into his chair. He swats at your hand, insisting instead on pulling himself painfully back into it. Once he arranges himself, he takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes. You take a step closer. Ryan, are you… He opens his eyes, meets yours. You haven’t looked into those eyes for five long months. This, he starts, gesturing around himself, not only at the frying pan but at all the new inventions brought into the Cohen home, is why I don’t drink.

The sentence is small in words, but it carries more finality than a dictionary of words could ever possess. His blue eyes, previously so expressive and deep, are cold and dead. It seems to you that they died along with his lower half. He spins his wheelchair around, abandoning whatever endeavor he had been planning with the frying pan. And this, you think to yourself, is how I lost my best friend. You throw the pan in the lowered, easy-to-reach sink, but get no satisfaction from the resounding clang. He wheels across the deck to the pool house, and you climb the stairs to your room. Your separation has never before felt so huge.

Fic

Wed, 01 Aug 2007 04:52:39 GMT

I never thought I'd see this day. I'm not a fan of Ryan/Seth pairings, I just could never get into it. To me they'll always be brothers, not lovers. Heh. Having said that, I read an AMAZING Ryan/Seth fic a couple of days ago while I was reading some of the nominees for the Citrus Awards ( The Complete Book of Questions ). After I finished it, I couldn't get Ryan/Seth out of my mind. Seriously. They were bugging me at work, I HAD to write them.

Title: The Implications of 'Foster'
Rating: I'm not sure, but it contains swearing, gayness, and some adult themes/content, so if you don't like that, don't read it. Maybe rated R just to be safe?
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing related to The O.C. I guess I own this poorly written story, though. Yay.
A/N: Thanks for reading, guys. Comments make all the difference to me. I'm new to this sharing your writing stuff, and it feels great to have support, so thank you. This isn't betaed.

Nerdy wasn’t the first word that came to Ryan’s mind when he met Seth. In retrospect, he figured it should have been; unruly curls, tight jeans and a game of Grand Theft Auto alone on a Saturday have a tendency to stick a bright, red, flashing NERD sign on the victim’s forehead. His reaction, though, as he walked through the glass doors into the unbelievable Cohen mansion, was simply acceptance. So this is Sandy Cohen’s son. They looked somewhat alike, minus a pair of menacing eyebrows on the kid’s part. Seth’s part, Ryan reminded himself. The kid’s name was Seth.

Seth had been anxiously awaiting the entrance of the mysterious poolhouse kid ever since his parents had casually informed him over his morning bagel that Sandy had, to put it bluntly, “brought his work home for the weekend”. His father had given him the bare facts- boy his age… ‘Ryan’…stole a car…brother in jail…mom kicked him out…staying in the poolhouse for the weekend. Kirsten had stiffly added, seemingly as an afterthought, that he “seemed polite”. Seth, however, wasn’t fooled by his mother’s comment. Teenage boys, in his opinion, were never polite. Pissing in his shoes and beating him up just didn’t qualify as such, he figured.

By the time that Ryan wandered into the main house that morning, Seth had so many imaginary Ryans conjured up in his mind that the real one was a bit of a shock. At first he had imagined Ryan as one of the water polo players with a defined six-pack, slicked hair, an expensive Abercrombie T-shirt and a cocky smirk. Then he remembered that Ryan was from Chino, so he replaced the Abercrombie attire with a ripped T-shirt and holey jeans. Even in ripped clothes, though, he couldn’t imagine a water polo player stealing a car, so he invented a new Ryan in bling, a baggy D12 hoody and jeans held up by a belt below his ass. Then it struck him that Ryan’s mom had just kicked him out- he’d have to be upset! Frantically he created a frail, thin and frightened Ryan with sad, bloodshot eyes and shaggy, unkempt hair.

Seth had eagerly glanced up when he heard the living room door open, and had gaped at the real Ryan in surprise for a moment. He wasn’t a water polo player, a gangster, or a crying weakling. He was just…Ryan. His wifebeater was the only thing that separated him from the rest of Newport- otherwise he could’ve been easily passed off as a Newpsie. His black eye was startling, but it didn’t make him stand out from any other, regular teenage boy. It just looked like it hurt, and Seth felt a pang of sympathy for the other teen before he brushed it off and invited Ryan to join in his game. The kid stole cars; it only made sense that he’d have a black eye.

Ryan knew something was wrong, something was different, on the very first night he stayed with the Cohens. Seth had just caught a drunken Summer groping Ryan and had loudly slurred an announcement to the entire party that Ryan was a car thief from Chino. He should have been angry, should have wanted to kick Seth’s ass for blowing his cover as the cousin from Seattle/Boston/Canada, but he wasn’t. And when he heard the taunts from down on the beach and saw Seth hanging upside down from the chunky fists of some cocky water polo prick, he felt his stomach flop and his heart beat faster. Jogging down to protect Seth, he passed the feeling off as adrenaline.

He’d never had a friend like Seth before. All of Ryan’s friends in Chino came with some sort of deal attached to them. Some guys you had to smoke weed with every time you hung with them, some guys let you crash at their places as long as you’d kick the ass of some other guy who was hassling them. Seth wasn’t like that. Seth was more or less a no-strings-attached friend, as long as you tolerated his constant blabber. Seth didn’t drink, do drugs, steal shit or get blown for fun, but he didn’t care that Ryan had done all of that in the past either. All that he wanted was a friend, and as time passed, Ryan discovered that was all he was looking for, too. A friend without a catch. Someone that he could be real around.

Seth had never had a real friend before, excluding Captain Oats of course, but he figured that Ryan was about the best kind of friend you could get. He tolerated Seth, something that no one else had ever done, and he let Seth discover who he really was without forcing anything on him. Ryan was a cool guy, and Seth understood that if they’d met under any other circumstance Ryan would have likely punched him in the face, but he appreciated that Ryan had yet to do that. He let Seth barge into the poolhouse at ungodly hours to whine about Summer with minimal complaining, he listened to all of Seth’s pointless rants, and he always, always, had Seth’s back. It couldn’t get much better than that, could it?

They were lounging in the pool one muggy afternoon when it happened. The sun was shining on the water, reflecting back up into their faces and making it hard to see. Seth was paddling around on a blow-up shark, humming the theme from Jaws and pretending that Ryan was an unsuspecting victim. He paddled up behind Ryan, then ducked under the water and burst up from underneath, sending his ‘victim’ tumbling into the water. Ryan splashed to the surface, wiping water from his eyes and squinting to see in the glaring sun. “Seth…”, he growled, spinning around and raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare. Both boys gasped as Ryan’s hand brushed against Seth’s dripping curls briefly before Ryan jerked his hand back as if he’d been shocked.

“Oh, sorry, I couldn’t see you….the sun…”, Ryan muttered, his eyes wide. Seth stammered something about helping Kirsten with the supper before clambering out of the pool. The bright red flush that was appearing on his cheeks before he turned away, however, wasn’t lost on Ryan. It was then Ryan realized that he and Seth felt the same way towards each other.

Seth came to this realization a few weeks later due to unfortunate timing and his lack of any understanding about privacy. It was well after midnight when Seth decided that he needed to pay Ryan a late-night visit to fit a bit more Seth/Ryan time into the day. Looking out the window, he saw the faint glow of light shining through the poolhouse’s closed blinds that indicated that Ryan was still awake. Sneaking down the stairs so as to not wake his parents, he made his way to his friend’s room and walked in without knocking. “Hey dude, you still up? I just thought maybe we could….oh. OH! Oh….shit.”

Ryan was half sitting, half lying on his bed with his pants down and his dick in his hand. His eyes were closed and his body rose and fell as he rubbed his closed hand up and down it. “JESUS, Seth!” he shouted when Seth walked in, opening his eyes and gaping at his friend like a deer caught in headlights. Seth gaped right back at him, brown eyes meeting blue, for a moment too long before the brown eyes flickered downwards for a split second. Ryan’s world as he knew it fell apart right before his and Seth’s eyes at that moment. His dick, which had been limp when Seth had entered, began to stiffen in his hand. Seth stared at it for a split second, and Ryan felt his cheeks begin to burn the same colour that Seth’s had that day in the pool. Then, after what seemed like years of embarrassment, Ryan rammed his hard cock back into his pants and Seth ran out of the poolhouse, frantically whispering his apologies. And then both boys knew how they felt about each other.

These moments were never spoken of, and nothing of the sort ever happened again. Eye contact was successfully avoided until the unspeakable events were less recent in their minds. Seth took up knocking before entering, although a few critical hours too late. Nothing could happen between them, they both knew. They were brothers. Foster brothers, sure, but brothers nonetheless. Ryan couldn’t imagine what Sandy and Kirsten would do to him if they knew he was in love with their son. After all they’d done for him, he couldn’t do that to them. He couldn’t be the cause of their son’s sudden revert to gayness. He just couldn’t.

Ryan’s heart jumped every time he heard Seth’s laugh, saw his smile, listened to his ridiculous chatter. Seth’s stomach flopped whenever Ryan gave him a lopsided grin, wore a wifebeater, let Seth blabber aimlessly, had his back when he needed him…hell, Seth’s stomach never settled down. But the elephant in the room was successfully avoided. They were brothers, after all.

It stayed this way until the day that Lindsay left.

Seth, in a panic, had sped all the way to the bus station after finding Ryan’s note. Darting in an out of painfully slow traffic, Seth’s heart beat to the tune of one word. Ryan. Ryan. RyanRyanRyanRyan. Every second that he was stuck in traffic caused his heart to beat faster and faster, and the word to repeat more and more frantically. Ryanryanryanryanryanryan. He had to find him. The thought of losing his first friend, his best friend, his foster brother, the single person that he loved in this world, was too painful to even imagine. Ryanryanryan, his desperate heart pounded, as he flew into the parking lot and screeched to a halt.

The Ryan that Seth found in the bus station looked suspiciously like the Ryan that Seth had seen only twice before. This Ryan was the Ryan whose mother left him with a family she barely knew, and the Ryan that Theresa had told to leave. Slumped in the cracked plastic chair, surrounded by people with destinations and plans all of their own, this Ryan looked deserted, miserable, and completely alone. Seth felt like his heart was breaking, like it was literally splitting in two. Taking a deep breath, he blinked away tears. He had to be the strong one now. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked over to his best friend. His brother.

“Hey, man. So…you’re going to Chicago?”

Ryan stared at the ground, muttering a response that Seth couldn’t distinguish.

“Dude?”

Ryan finally looked up, and the blue eyes that stared into Seth’s brown ones were filled with a sadness that Seth couldn’t begin to understand. They were the eyes of an abandoned puppy, of a child lost in a mall. The eyes of a boy who had lost everyone that he had ever loved. But how could Seth understand? His grandmother had died, but he had been so young that he couldn’t remember. Oh, and he had a fish for two days once, a sad replacement for a friend, before he found it floating in the water and had to flush it away. His losses were nothing compared to Ryan’s. For once, Seth Cohen was at a loss for words.

Seth held Ryan’s gaze. Staring into those devastated blue eyes made Seth feel like he was experiencing a part of Ryan’s past, of Ryan’s present- Ryan’s true feelings that he had never known before. His loss. They had never talked about it.

“You know I’m never gonna leave you, Ryan, right?” Seth’s proclamation surprised him almost as much as it appeared to surprise Ryan, but he didn’t regret it at all. Ryan’s eyes began to glisten, and he quickly glanced down at the ground, blinking furiously. When he brought his eyes back up to Seth’s concerned gaze, they were once again dry. The appreciation, however, was clear in them. Ryan looked completely relieved. He slumped over more in the seat, leaning towards Seth slightly.

What happened next shocked them both. Ryan looked up at Seth once more, leaned over, and kissed him gently on the lips for all of the Newport bus station to see. Seth’s eyes widened, then closed, and he leaned into Ryan’s solid grasp. Ryan pulled away slightly. “Thank-you, Seth,” he murmured. Seth pulled back, gazing once more into Ryan’s deep blue eyes. He leaned over and wrapped an arm around Ryan’s shoulders, leaning over onto his friend and sighing. “Let’s go home, man.”

The two boys stood up, but Seth never let go of Ryan, and Ryan leaned firmly into the smaller boy’s grasp. As it turns out, they discovered, the word ‘foster’ makes all the difference.

Ahhhh, here I go again.

Sun, 22 Jul 2007 03:03:15 GMT

Okay. I'm not sure how much I really like this, but I just whipped it off and I kind of wanted to share it. I don't usually write so...choppily...but it just seemed to fit for this. So please tell me what you think! I know, I know, it's pretty 'emo' (haha), and I swore I'd never write anything about Marissa's death because there's already 352311098 fics about it, buuuuut I couldn't refrain.

Rating: I have no idea how to rate things. This is SUPER angsty, and contains swearing and possibly upsetting or disturbing thoughts, so read at your own risk. (It's nothing awful though, I promise.)
Disclaimer: I don't own The O.C. or its lovely characters. I also don't own the lyrics to the song that's quoted, those belong to Brand New in a beautiful song that's called Jesus Christ. In fact, Brand New owns me (or my heart anyway).

Jesus Christ, that’s a pretty face

The kind you’d find on someone that can save

If they don’t put me away,

it’ll be a miracle

Today when work was over, he opted to take a back road home. The busy downtown streets bustled with activity at this time of night, and he couldn’t bear to see the hordes of giggling teens with their Saturday night alcohol-induced smiles. The road he took was nearly pitch black, illuminated by only his headlights and an occasional streetlight. He drove too quickly for his headlights to be of any real use.

What if I skidded in the gravel and rolled the car? What if I drove off the road into a streetlight? What if I ‘accidentally’ drove off a ledge and plunged down hundreds of feet? He had been plagued by these types of thoughts for weeks now- ever since Volchuk had turned himself in. What if, what if, what if. He wasn’t suicidal as much as he was morbidly curious. What if the knife slipped while he was cutting meat at work? What if he fell into the ocean and got caught on some rocks? What if he lost control and drove underneath a semi? What if, what if. These were the only real thoughts he had now. The rest of him was numb. He was drifting away.

He arrived at the house, parked the Jeep, said hi to Sandy and Kirsten, grabbed a snack. Everything he did took effort and consideration, but he knew how to behave. His mask had been perfected years ago, and he had been stupid to think that he wouldn’t need it anymore in this perfect new life. Faking exhaustion, he said goodnight and wandered out to the poolhouse, tossing the apple in the garbage as he went inside. He hadn’t been hungry for days.

He closed the blinds. Changed out of his work clothes and into a white T-shirt and sweats. Brushed his teeth. Turned off the light. All he did these days was carry out the motions. He wouldn’t sleep tonight, he knew that, but he also knew that he had everyone else fooled. Ryan Atwood, king of the illusion. Despite the fact that the poolhouse was warm and he was wearing sweatpants, he climbed into bed and pulled the comforter up over his head. If it was up to him, if no one would ever come looking for him or wonder what had happened, he’d stay here forever. With his eyes closed under the blanket in the dark, he could almost pretend that he didn’t exist.

Jesus Christ, I’m alone again.

Of course, these moments never lasted long. He’d moved into a fucking bar, for god’s sake, and they’d found him. How could he expect them not to come looking for him when he was twenty feet away from where they slept?

“Dude, what the hell are you doing? Why are you in bed already? You don’t even work tomorrow! It’s only 12:34, the night’s still young! Whaddya say, you, me, the Playstation? Yeah? Yeah?”

And so, under the blanket, he’d have to adjust his mask yet again. Plaster on an amused glare, and finally settle in for a night of Seth blabber and ninjas. So much for solidarity.

This is how his life was, for weeks and weeks and weeks. He was fucking exhausted. Tired of not sleeping, tired of working, tired of pretending, tired of feeling nothing at all, tired of feeling like he was watching his body carry on living while he died somewhere far away, just tired. And then Taylor Townsend turned up. Taylor needed saving, from a French husband nonetheless, and Ryan was the master of heroics involving females. It required no thought at all. But Taylor wasn’t just a damsel in distress. Taylor got him, got him like no one else did. Somehow or other, crazy Taylor Townsend understood him perfectly. Maybe it was because she paid attention to him, actually looked at him, while everyone else just gave him a passing glance.

“He’s dealing well with it really, don’t you think?”

“He looks happy, he was talking and laughing with me today!”

He knew that people only saw what they wanted to see. They had their own lives; they were too busy to worry too much about his mental state. So they just didn’t take the time to look past his mask of normalcy. But Taylor did. She explained why he was feeling what he was feeling before he had even figured it out, but once she did it made perfect sense. And when she kissed him, he felt a flutter in his stomach for the first time in months. Taylor Townsend made him feel again. And as he went to sleep (on top of the comforter), he knew that he’d be alright.

Oh dear. My first ever fanfic, The Problem With Love.

Sun, 10 Jun 2007 02:45:48 GMT

Alright. This is it. After ages of reading fanfictions and writing ones in my head, I've decided to bite the bullet and actually write one down. This idea was inspired by Brandywine's Arsonist Challenge. I'll admit it, I've been creeping some of your fanfictions, guys. I can't help it, you're all amazing writers. I must confess, though, that I only discovered The O.C. this year about halfway through the season (I know, terrible), so I don't really know everything that goes on in the first half. I think I saw the first episode or two and then started watching it again a few later. I've been trying to catch up though, and I've seen the entire first two seasons (AHH, so good) as well as part of the third. So if some things in here don't make sense, it's probably because I just haven't seen it yet. I still don't know how Summer and Taylor end up living together (or whatever goes on there), so bear with me. Anyway, here it goes. Gahhh, I'm scared. I can't believe I'm doing this, you're all such good writers...okay.

The Problem With Love
Rating: Err....G?
Disclaimer: I don't own The O.C. or anything to do with it. This right here is just me wasting my weekend before I have to go back to work.

Sitting on the sandy beach, the sky the navy-blue colour that it is while remnants of the sun still linger before giving way to complete darkness, Ryan reasoned that this was partially his fault. He had to stop with these unexpected drop-in visits. He’d tried them with Marissa on more than one occasion, and the results had never been good. Marissa. He shivered at the thought of her name, then angrily wrapped his arms around his chest. Marissa was gone and he loved Taylor now, although she had just made it clear that she didn’t feel the same way about him.

It was almost ironic, Ryan thought, that this had happened. After all, it had been Taylor who so desperately wanted Ryan to say those three words to her. The three words that seemed to doom any relationship he had ever been in. I love you. He did, too. He loved her. He didn’t just say it so that she’d shut up, not that it would have worked anyway. Taylor, like Seth, had the gift of the gab and Ryan’s confession had simply seemed to add to her rambling. Shaking his head at the mere irony of the situation, Ryan let out what may have started as a sarcastic chuckle, but ended up sounding more like a choked sob.

Taylor had rambled tonight, too. Sitting in the cold, wet, sand, Ryan’s mind reeled as he remembered his night. After having a delicious meal with the Cohens (thanks to a take-out menu, not to Kirsten’s cooking), Ryan had decided to stop over at Taylor’s house to see if she wanted to go out for ice cream. It was a beautiful spring night- perfect, Ryan had supposed, for a sunset walk along the boardwalk. Recalling the pure shock and horror that Taylor had expressed when Ryan had confessed two nights ago that he had never had an ice cream cone from the Crab Shack (“Oh my god, Ryan, they are absolutely delectable! You haven’t lived until you’ve had one, I’m not even kidding! How have you lived here for four long years without ever experiencing it?!”), he decided that tonight would be the perfect night to try it out. Hopping in the Range Rover, he had innocently driven over to Taylor’s house.

What he found when he got there, however, was not what he had been expecting at all. After letting himself into Taylor’s house, he climbed the staircase and knocked excitedly on her door. He heard a flustered giggle and then Taylor hissing, “Mom! Now’s not a good time!”

“No, Taylor, it’s me,” Ryan stated, already opening the door to his girlfriend’s room. Shock, anger, pain, and disappointment all flooded though his body simultaneously as he stood in the doorway, staring at his girlfriend as she frantically trying to cover up her naked body while lying beside a muscular, and also naked, man. Ryan opened his mouth to speak, but no words came to him. Taylor, it seemed, had the opposite problem.

“Oh my God. Oh my GOD! Ryan, this isn’t what it looks like. Vince was just teaching me the art of massage therapy. I swear! It’s just less restricting when you don’t have clothes on…Ryan, wait!”

Ryan had heard enough. Whipping around, he stalked out of Taylor’s house, punching a wall on his way out of the door. He wanted more than anything to punch in that bastard Vince’s smirking face. Shaking, he stumbled to the beach, where he sat now.

Glancing down at his hands, Ryan realized they were shaking as he clenched and unclenched them. The old Ryan Atwood would have punched that asshole into next week. The old Ryan Atwood wouldn’t be wallowing on a beach in Newport, he’d quite literally take matters into his own hands. But he was the new Ryan Atwood now. The new Ryan Atwood went to school and behaved himself and went to charity events with the Cohens without shoving Newpsies into pools. As he sat alone in the almost-blackness, though, Ryan wasn’t sure which Ryan Atwood he was anymore. It seemed to him that both Ryan Atwoods, the old and the new, were really the same. Was he not sitting here positively shaking with the desire to punch someone? Had everyone that he had grown to love in Newport not left him, just like they had left the old Ryan Atwood in Chino? His dad left. His mom left. Lindsay, Trey, Marissa, they had all left. Evidentally Taylor had left him, or at least chosen to be with someone else along with him. All that he had left was the Cohens, and who knew what might happen with them once he turned eighteen and was no longer their responsibility.

Horrified, Ryan realized that there were hot tears streaming down his face. Frustrated and angry, he swiped an arm across his face and stood up. He wanted to punch something, anything. Raising his eyes to the now black sky, he inhaled and exhaled deeply. The Cohens had saved him from cage fighting in a bar. They had brought him home and he had made a silent promise to them that he would reform himself yet again. And so, at that moment, Ryan started to run. His blue jeans and button up T-shirt were restricting and not proper athletic attire at all, but he didn’t care. At this point, any sort of physical release was welcome. He would not punch Vince. He would not punch Taylor. He would not go looking for a fight in a bar and go back to the pool house with bloody knuckles, facing once again the disappointment of Kirsten and Sandy. No, he would run. And so he did. He sprinted through the heavy sand and down the beach until his checkered shirt was drenched with sweat and his sandy-blonde bangs clung to his forehead. He thought of Marissa, of Taylor, of Taylor and Vince, of Dawn, of Trey. Every time he thought of them leaving, he ran faster. He had no idea how long he ran for, but eventually he found himself running up the street to the Cohen’s mansion, back to the people who were sure to leave him next. At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if he found that they were gone when he opened the door.

Seth was sitting in the pool house. He had been there for the last two hours. Ryan had to come back at some point, he knew. Ryan always did. He had never spent the night with Lindsay, or with Marissa. No matter how late it was, he always came back.

Seth knew that he and Ryan had drifted apart after Marissa’s death. Ryan secluded himself one way or another, whether it was by moving into a bar or simply spending most of his free time in the pool house. He was drifting further and further away, and it scared Seth. The empty look in Ryan’s eyes and the significant effort it took the boy to laugh were not lost on his curly haired friend. Seth, usually a man of many words, had no clue what to say to Ryan anymore. He wanted to say, “Gee Ryan, I’ve noticed you seem really down lately. I know your life sucks and your sort-of girlfriend just died, but have you considered anti-depressants? Because I think you might need some.” Clearly though, that sort of comment wouldn’t go over well with Ryan. So when Ryan stumbled into the pool house at two in the morning completely drenched in sweat while still wearing his favourite pair of jeans, Seth was rendered speechless. There stood his first and best friend, looking devastated despite his guarded eyes, and Seth had no idea what to do. He wanted to hug Ryan like he hugged Summer, wanted to tell him that everything was going to be alright. He wanted Ryan to lie down on the bed and tell Seth everything that was horrible in his life so Seth could play psychologist and fix it, but Ryan Atwood didn’t work that way. So Seth chose his next best option.

Trying to look nonchalant, Seth stretched in the chair and then looked at his friend with a raised eyebrow. “Dude, I can’t believe you’ve taken up jogging now. What about our pact?” Then Seth found that he was holding his breath and his heart was pounding in his chest as he waited for Ryan’s response. He wanted more than anything for things to go back to normal between them, but he wasn’t sure that was even possible.

Ryan stared at Seth, almost in disbelief. His friend had obviously been waiting for him, for God knows how long, and it had to be clear because of Ryan’s appearance that his ‘date’ with Taylor hadn’t gone well at all. But Seth wasn’t going to talk about it. Seth could read him, he realized, like no one else could. And now, glancing at Seth, he realized that he could read Seth too. Seth was perched on the end of the chair in complete silence, which was a miracle in itself. His hair was skewed in every direction and Ryan concluded that he had probably dozed off during his wait. The biggest miracle of all, however, was what Ryan witnessed in Seth’s eyes while the smaller boy waited for him to respond. There was hope. There was concern. And, Ryan realized with a start, there was compassion. He and Seth weren’t blood brothers, but Seth was more of a brother to him than Trey had ever been. And Ryan knew in that moment that Seth would never be like Trey or anyone else in his life. Seth was not going to leave him. The Cohens were never going to leave him. Ryan felt his body droop with relief and exhaustion and he walked towards the bed, slumping on his back on it.

Seth felt himself begin to breathe again when he saw his friend walk into the pool house instead of leaving it. Glancing at Ryan, he noticed that the boy looked relieved, although he was still puffing slightly and was obviously upset. Seth started when Ryan spoke, breaking the silence between the two boys. “People really suck, Seth.”

Swallowing, Seth quickly considered what the right approach was to take. Ryan had just made a statement, although general, that related in some way to his awful night. The question was whether or not to continue this conversation now. Looking at his brother, soaking wet from either attempting to run off his anger or to run away from something that was bothering him, Seth knew that now was not the time to talk about this. This wasn’t just about whatever had or had not happened with Taylor tonight, Seth thought wisely. This was about everything. Sneaking another glance at Ryan, who was staring up at the ceiling, Seth knew that Ryan trusted him now. He could feel it. Ryan had entered the pool house, had commented on his own about the suckiness of people in general. For whatever reason, Ryan had developed a trust in Seth that had been missing for the many months after the accident. And since he had, Seth knew that this conversation would come up again soon. When it did, Ryan would have had time to think about it (because brooding was what Ryan did best), and he wouldn’t be so easily upsettable or fragile. Then they would talk about it. Until then, it was Seth’s job to do what he did best- provide comic relief.

“Yes they do, my friend,” Seth began. He felt Ryan’s eyes on him. “People really suck. But do you know two people who don’t suck? Hmm? Kid Chino and the Ironist. Yes, that’s right. Because together, they’re unstoppable. Divided, however…” Seth paused for what he hoped was suspense. Ryan was sitting up now. “…The Ironist kicks Kid Chino’s ass at Playstation every time. So what do you say, bro? Shall we see if that’s true?”

Ryan loved Seth, he realized. He had always thought that Seth just babbled aimlessly, but he realized now that that wasn’t true. There was a method behind Seth’s babbling, and he had it perfected. Allowing himself to smile the first real smile he had expressed in much too long, he whipped a pillow at his newfound brother’s face and picked up a controller. “Game on, bro.”

Seth beamed at Ryan, picking up a controller of his own. “Game on.”