just a little lunch hour drabble
Title: If These Walls...
Rating: PG
Pairing: Seth/Ryan (who else?)
Summary: Ryan wants some answers.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Only wish they were.
*unbetaed, cause it's just a little lunch hour drabble.*
If These Walls…
Trying to find something in Seth’s room is like a giant Waldo-hunt, without the added assistance of the conspicuous glasses and striped hat. Not that Ryan ever hunted for Waldo. His childhood reading material had closely mirrored that of Homer Simpson’s: TV Guides and beer labels. Still, he had a sneaking suspicion hunting for Waldo was not far off from this.
Discarded comics were painstakingly stacked amid chaos: clothing in various states of soil, sheets of looseleaf paper covered in longhand and crumpled in frustration, two shoes (one red, one green) with no discernible mates, a worn library copy of “The Portable Beat Reader” that was far past due, a half used tube of Colgate Fresh Stripe, and at the foot of the bed, plates encrusted with melted cheese piled three high from last night’s multicultural nacho extravaganza. (“Voila! Italian Nachos! Like pizza, only crunchier!” was Seth’s piece de resistance)
Ryan can’t explain why he wants to spend all his time in Seth’s room when the luxury of the poolhouse is only yards away. Seth’s room smells like old cheese and Speed Stick, and the clutter would disarm even the most well-trained maid.
But it’s Seth’s, and that’s what keeps drawing Ryan back to it.
He lounges on the twin sized bed while he waits for Seth to get out of the shower, taking in the brief serenity of a moment when Seth isn’t trailing him like an overgrown golden retriever.
Ryan may have been a loner before, but for some reason, he doesn’t mind Seth’s puppy-like devotion to him now. And that’s more unsettling than even a botched concoction of Thai nachos could ever be.
Seth feels like candy apples and fireplaces, like the ratty stuffed Snoopy Ryan’s mom tossed out in a fit of rage and gin when he was eight. Ryan wants to wrap Seth around him like a frayed electric blanket and then pray that he isn’t electrocuted.
Of course, Seth is (as always) happily oblivious. Ryan can hear his voice belting out an off-key rendition of “Livin’ On a Prayer” from halfway down the hall and smiles at Seth’s lack of guardedness.
Seth is simple, and that makes him complicated.
If Ryan could dissect Seth’s intentions from the piles of clutter, he would. Ryan wishes that the papers he snatches off the floor and skims were as easy to read as a love letter. But Seth’s stories about being a teenage boy adrift on the land only have the faint poseur quality of a high-schooler trying to be deep without enough real world experience to do so; attempts at confessional poetry without the confession.
Ryan wants to give Seth all the real world experience he needs.
The only love letters Ryan’s left to cling to are the way Seth lets him finish the box of Cocoa Puffs in the morning or places the new Sandman book inside the door of the poolhouse for Ryan to trip over when he gets off work.
Ryan walks around the room, dodging jeans that were waylaid on the way to the closet, letting his hand trail over the purple walls as he searches for the one thing that will prove that Seth views him in a way that’s a little left of center.
His reverie is broken when Seth appears in the doorway, already dressed, head askew as he towels the water out of his ears. “Dude, I’m ready if you are.”
Ryan’s throat makes a sound of agreement as he follows Seth through the doorway and out of the room. He doesn’t think he’ll find the answers there. He doesn’t even know where to start looking.
--finis--
Rating: PG
Pairing: Seth/Ryan (who else?)
Summary: Ryan wants some answers.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Only wish they were.
*unbetaed, cause it's just a little lunch hour drabble.*
If These Walls…
Trying to find something in Seth’s room is like a giant Waldo-hunt, without the added assistance of the conspicuous glasses and striped hat. Not that Ryan ever hunted for Waldo. His childhood reading material had closely mirrored that of Homer Simpson’s: TV Guides and beer labels. Still, he had a sneaking suspicion hunting for Waldo was not far off from this.
Discarded comics were painstakingly stacked amid chaos: clothing in various states of soil, sheets of looseleaf paper covered in longhand and crumpled in frustration, two shoes (one red, one green) with no discernible mates, a worn library copy of “The Portable Beat Reader” that was far past due, a half used tube of Colgate Fresh Stripe, and at the foot of the bed, plates encrusted with melted cheese piled three high from last night’s multicultural nacho extravaganza. (“Voila! Italian Nachos! Like pizza, only crunchier!” was Seth’s piece de resistance)
Ryan can’t explain why he wants to spend all his time in Seth’s room when the luxury of the poolhouse is only yards away. Seth’s room smells like old cheese and Speed Stick, and the clutter would disarm even the most well-trained maid.
But it’s Seth’s, and that’s what keeps drawing Ryan back to it.
He lounges on the twin sized bed while he waits for Seth to get out of the shower, taking in the brief serenity of a moment when Seth isn’t trailing him like an overgrown golden retriever.
Ryan may have been a loner before, but for some reason, he doesn’t mind Seth’s puppy-like devotion to him now. And that’s more unsettling than even a botched concoction of Thai nachos could ever be.
Seth feels like candy apples and fireplaces, like the ratty stuffed Snoopy Ryan’s mom tossed out in a fit of rage and gin when he was eight. Ryan wants to wrap Seth around him like a frayed electric blanket and then pray that he isn’t electrocuted.
Of course, Seth is (as always) happily oblivious. Ryan can hear his voice belting out an off-key rendition of “Livin’ On a Prayer” from halfway down the hall and smiles at Seth’s lack of guardedness.
Seth is simple, and that makes him complicated.
If Ryan could dissect Seth’s intentions from the piles of clutter, he would. Ryan wishes that the papers he snatches off the floor and skims were as easy to read as a love letter. But Seth’s stories about being a teenage boy adrift on the land only have the faint poseur quality of a high-schooler trying to be deep without enough real world experience to do so; attempts at confessional poetry without the confession.
Ryan wants to give Seth all the real world experience he needs.
The only love letters Ryan’s left to cling to are the way Seth lets him finish the box of Cocoa Puffs in the morning or places the new Sandman book inside the door of the poolhouse for Ryan to trip over when he gets off work.
Ryan walks around the room, dodging jeans that were waylaid on the way to the closet, letting his hand trail over the purple walls as he searches for the one thing that will prove that Seth views him in a way that’s a little left of center.
His reverie is broken when Seth appears in the doorway, already dressed, head askew as he towels the water out of his ears. “Dude, I’m ready if you are.”
Ryan’s throat makes a sound of agreement as he follows Seth through the doorway and out of the room. He doesn’t think he’ll find the answers there. He doesn’t even know where to start looking.
--finis--