[oc] Shadowboxing. Chapter ten.
I knew it wouldn't take long for me to update this story. It's coming to a close. Just two more chapters! *bounces*
Title: Shadowboxing.
Author: M. F. Luder
Pairing: Ryan/Seth.
Rating: PG-13.
Category: Future fic. Drama. Me being evil. *nods*
Spoilers: Up to "The End's not Near, is Here", but with selective spoilers. *g*
Challenge: From fanfic100 and 06. hours. The rest of the stories can be found at Big Damn Table.
Author's note: Special thanks to popmusicjunkie, who I totally adore and love and she must know this, or I'll hurt her. *winks* You put up with me while I was writing this, and you nudge and pushed and threatened with bodily harm when it was mostly needed, and for that, I will love you forever. *nods*
one | two| three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve
Shadowboxing
X.
They are trying. They are both trying. It's not... easy, Ryan thinks, to do this, to try and do this, to live like this. It feels like he's breaking a little bit with every breath. Because this is his reality, this is life and he should deal with it, he should be fine, he should have moved on. He should face it and be done with it. He should--
There are many things he should have done, so many of them. He had plans. He had a life. He thought he had a life. He was going to be a Civil Engineer, he was going to get a Masters, fear a PhD but go for it because Kirsten kept telling him that the sky was the limit, he shouldn't worry about money or time, that he had the rest of his life, and truth is, he had as much time left as sand held in the crystal hourglass.
He pauses as he walks out of the elevator, Sam whimpering but standing still. Ryan takes a step to the side, getting out of the way. He pauses, breathing and thinking and seeing the hallway in his minds eyes, like he had for the two years he had lived here before going blind -- blind blind blind blind, get used to that word, blind blind -- and he can almost see it, with its wooden floors and smoke walls.
He knows his way to his house, he knows (seventeen paces, turn right, touch door and move hand to the left and down for the lock) how to do this, all this time, all these past couple of months, he's been doing nothing more but learning how to fucking move while not seeing a fucking thing--
"Hey, Ryan."
He looks -- turns, turns turns -- over his shoulder, in the general direction of the elevator, and recognizes Sandra's voice -- from 401 -- and smiles at her, tries his best to smile at her. "Hey. How are you?"
He can almost hear her shrug, and then she imagines her blushing, because she knows he can't see her anymore. "Work's being a pain in the ass," she says, recuperating quickly, her voice steady and normal, not treating him like he can't hear her, and he's thankful for that. "I have a few books to go this week that are coming out by the end of next month. The usual."
"Something you recommend?" As an editor in a well known publisher, if anyone can give him a recommendation, it's her. She even told Seth that he should give her his resume, and she'd see if she can find him an internship.
She pauses, hesitating, and he bites his lower lip and the inside of his cheek. I can read, you know, he wants to tell her. I can still fucking read, Sandra, so don't you fucking come--
"Sure. I'll give Seth the titles. There are a couple of thrillers and one detective novel that promises."
His chest, his <>throat, is so fucking tight, he can hardly breath, but he nods. "Thanks," Ryan says, and Sam stands up beside him, nudging him with his body. What are you waiting for? We need to go home, the dog seems to say with his second nudge.
"Hey, Sam." Ryan hears hesitation in her voice once again. "Can I pet him?"
Ryan blinks, taken back. He was taught in doggie boot camp (Seth's words, not his) that people should always ask to pet the guide dog, and it sounded weird at first but the more he thought about it, the more he could imagine someone trying to catch Sam's attention (in theory, Sam's trained not to be distracted even if someone offers steak to him, but he's only a dog, after all, Ryan can't ask miracles of the mutt) and Ryan kind of tripping on his own feet and falling face first.
But he learned that, he was taught that. Seth knew because Ryan told him. So either Sandra knows more stuff than Ryan ever gave her credit for or Seth has been educating their apartment building.
And something must have shown on his face, because then Sandra laughs and he can hear her voice -- light, girly, familiar -- saying, "Oh, I've been doing this editing job for years, Ryan. You'd be surprised the stuff that stays in my brain, really. I proof read a manual for blindness and deafness a couple of years back."
And that explains a lot, of course. "I didn't--" I didn't mean to say that you're supposed to be an idiot in this aspect, but he kinda had. Or at least, he thinks, he must have, with his face and expression.
"It's okay. Not everyone can know that. Hmm. Tell Seth I say hi, okay? I have at least fifty pages to go over tonight."
"Sure. Take care." He nods at her, giving her a small smile, and he hears her turn around, walk down the hallway, not once reaching for his arm and steering him like he has no idea where he's going, like he doesn't have a guide dog to do that.
Long after he hears her close the door after herself, he makes his way down the hallway and to his own apartment. He pauses by the door, one hand on Sam's harness, the other around his keys. He takes in a deep breath, feeling the anger seething underneath him, in his veins, making its way to his neck and down to the very tips of his fingers. He closes his eyes, breathes out through his mouth, then inhales once again.
He's trying, he's really trying, to be accepting and understanding, to deal with this, all his anger and frustration and despair and move on, but fuck, even four times a week with JJ is not fucking helping, not all the time, not at times like this.
He clutches the harness so tight, his knuckles start to hurt, and then pushes the key into the lock. He lets Sam free the moment the door opens, taking a step forward and closing the door with his shoulders. And then, on his next step, he hesitates, he stumbles, slightly, seeming to lose his center of gravity, his very footing, and he reaches one hand out, trying to find something to hold onto and yet hating himself for that.
"Ryan. Wait--"
But he doesn't listen to Seth. He can do this. He can fucking do this alone. He can very well walk into his house and make his way to the den, to the bedroom, because fuck.
"Let me--!"
He stumbles again, on nothing but the wooden floors, a hand taking hold of him by the forearm, the other on the elbow, and Ryan jerks his arm away, taking a step back, two quick steps and losing his direction, his north and his south.
"Ryan, dude--"
He takes another step back -- away, left, right? -- and moves forward, to the side, he's not sure. His hand reaches out and touches the edge of the wall that should be on the right side of the door that leads to the hallway, but when he takes another step, the wall is gone and he must have been putting too much pressure on his hold because he stumbles again, forward, and crashes right into the couch. He pushes himself away from it and hands fall on his shoulders, turn him around and he's pressed against a chest, one hand on his waist, the other on the back of his neck. He's still seething, anger simmering skin deep, and he growls in the back of his throat but it ends in a sob.
"I'm fine, Seth. Fuck. Let me go--" He pulls back, tries to jerk away, but Seth's hands move to his shoulder and keep him steady, keep him together, whole. "Fuck! I'm telling you--"
"To let you go," the words are whispered against his ear, breath tingling in the soft skin of his throat, making him shiver in something that tastes like anger and lust, "so you can crash against the couch, fall onto the coffee table? I don't think so."
"Seth--" Ryan plants his hands on Seth's chest and pushes, but he's tired, he's angry and desperate and sad and he's wallowing in self pity but right now doesn't give a flying fuck.
"You've already done this, you know?"
Ryan shoves, hard, against Seth's collarbone and hears him grown in pain, yet doesn't let go. "What, I can't be angry. I can't--"
The arms pull him to Seth's chest, and Ryan lets him, because he's an idiot and weak and he loves Seth's touch, his body loves Seth's touch, and he sighs against Seth's neck, hides his face and closes his eyes shut.
"Of course you can, dude." Seth breathes against the side of his face, his temple. "God, of course you can.
He shakes his head, his face in a grimace and he doesn't want to do this, he doesn't want to whimper and cry and shake and shiver, he wants Seth to be pissed off at him so Ryan can be pissed off at Seth in return, scream at him, maybe throw a plate or two.
"You deserve a life," Ryan breathes out, the words leaving his lips without intending to. But it's too late, they are out there, and he wishes the words back, against his chest, his and his alone. You should leave me. You should finish Berkeley and then get a job far away from me and leave me and--
Ryan can feel Seth's smile on his skin, against his skin, before tender lips touch under his ear, the first line of his jaw, nose against his earlobe. "I have a life."
"I mean--"
"I know what you mean." The soft touch of nose is replaced by tender lips, the tip of a tongue, and Ryan stiffens in Seth's arms, wanting to touch and be touched, but stopping himself in something close to pain. "I have a life with you, you idiot." Teeth this time, teeth against his earlobe, one hand moving down to his hip, pulling him forward, Seth's cock hard against Ryan's thigh, and this time Ryan leans into the touch, groaning in the back of his throat. "You say that again, I'm gonna have to hurt you, dude."
Ryan chuckles, the sound low and throaty and his left hand moves under Seth's shirt, the right one up to Seth's chest, touching a nipple through the cotton fabric. "Oh, really? You and what army?"
They move slowly to the bedroom, with touches in between, with words of whispered promises and love and heart. Seth curls his arm around Ryan's neck, kissing him, and Ryan makes a happy sound. They fall onto the bed, half laughing, something ending in Ryan's throat that's not quite happiness nor fear either.
They can do this slow or they can do it quick, and Ryan's hands scratch Seth's back and Seth groans. Ryan knows Seth, knows the planes and lines of his body, knows him enough to image him nodding, and Ryan lets himself show everything in his face, in his blind blue eyes, and as he arcs, head thrown back, he whimpers in the back of his throat and tells himself it is want and not loss.
Seth straddles Ryan's hips, unbuttoning his jeans and then standing up in order to push them down, get them off, off. Ryan lies there, seeing Seth's face in his mind, remembering the way his brown eyes would darken with desire and lust and impatience and he smiles and something breaks inside, cold and bitter, and his skin is warm as Seth's hand falls onto his calf, nails scratching skin and rising goose bumps and groans. Seth leans over him, slowly, carefully, and Ryan's hands touch bare skin, the bones on hips, the thin waist, the small of Seth's back, the curve of his ass. Seth groans, hiding his face in Ryan's neck and Ryan smiles, nails scratching from the center of his ass outward, over hips and then low on his stomach.
Seth takes him in his hands, mindlessly rubbing the curve of Ryan's cock with his thumb and Ryan's breath hitches, his eyes drifting closed and letting his head fall back, enjoy this, this, this thing they have, that's theirs and no one else's, theirs, theirs. Seth bites his neck, where it meets his shoulder and Ryan bucks underneath him, trying to find a rhythm in Seth's hand, against Seth's hip, Seth's hard cock, but he can't. He's too far gone, too lost, too deep. Ryan wants more and less and everything and he wants Seth under him, watching him, Ryan watching him back and his groan ends in a sob and Seth takes it from his mouth, kissing him roughly and Ryan shakes and shivers and moves and breaks under Seth's touch.
Ryan shivers, slowly, nothing but white under his eyelids, his imagination or real color, he doesn't know. His hands move to Seth's hips and press, and he hears and feels Seth groan against his skin. His hands skim inward, touching Seth's ass, thumbs still on hipbone and skin, Seth groans and rests his head forward on Ryan's shoulder and comes.
They lie in a tangle of arms and legs, Seth settling in between Ryan's legs, and Ryan hooks his on top of Seth's, and it's comfortable and natural and Ryan wonders for a second how he slept before this, before the weight on top of his body, the skin under his hands.
Seth's shifts, easing his weight to Ryan's left, arm curled across Ryan's body and burrows his face in the hollow between arm and shoulder. Ryan's fingertips touch Seth's temple tentatively before sinking into hair, through curls and down to the strong line of jaw and chin, stilling as it falls on the pulse of his throat.
He used to do this, Ryan thinks with a small smile, with a sigh and a curl against the warm body next to his. He used to touch Seth's hair -- tentatively, unfamiliar territory -- when Seth would crawl into the futon at night, for one reason or the other. Fear of the dark, one too many horror stories, or just because he wanted to. Seth used to crawl into bed with him; that should have given him a clue.
He sighs, turning around, kissing forehead and temple, nuzzling cheekbone with nose. His throat turns tight and in a second, even with the laziness around him, a feeling of sleepiness and tranquility, it's all brushed away as he blinks and lifts his gaze and sees nothing but blankness and it's painful inside him.
"I'm still angry," Ryan says with a sigh, with the close of his eyes, cheek rubbing against Seth's hair. I can't stop... I can't stop being angry. It's here. It's in me. I thought I had it covered, I thought I could control it. I can't.
The arm around him, the hand sprawled on his chest, curls around his ribs and holds on tightly. Ryan can almost hear Seth swallowing. "I know."
He could do this, just lay here with Seth and not talk, not say a word, but it's not like that. They are not like that. It's Seth the one who begins with a word and ends with an essay, but he can say this as well. He can be strong, if only this once. "It feels like..." It feels like he's pulling skin by his teeth, that's what it feels like, to open his mouth and say this. He sighs, rubbing his eyes against Seth's hair and seeing Seth, sitting next to him, to his left, controller in hand, and he can breathe. "It feels like I'll never stop being angry. It's--"
And he can't say anymore because there are no words for this. He's trying to deal with it, he's trying. He's been trying for over a year and still, there are times -- earlier today, running into Sandra and then wanting to kick something in the house, yesterday, two days ago, three days ago, once a day, every day -- when it feels like crashing and all he can think of is anger and blood and black and red and he consciously opens his mouth, feeling his jaw aching from the tight grind.
"It'll..." Seth trails off even as he kisses Ryan's chest, collarbone, the hollow where the bones meet. "It'll pass. I'm angry too, Ryan. But I gotta believe we'll get past this at some point."
Ryan's pushing himself up on one elbow before the words have finished leaving Seth's mouth. "You're angry? You're-- You're angry?"
And he's known Seth too long to know that the moment Seth's cheek pulls away from his side, Seth's biting his lower lip and pushing himself up on a shoulder as well. "I mean, yeah. Not at you, of course. Just. You know. At the world at large."
At Dawn and Frank, Ryan thinks he can hear Seth thinking, yet not saying.
"It's like..."
It's like they've lost something and they can't get it back. They can't get it back now, and Ryan hates the world for this, and he gets why Seth hates it just as fiercely.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Ryan asks, his voice low, his throat tight. He snorts, shaking his head once, then letting himself fall back down on the pillow. He throws his right arm over his eyes and he can almost feel the futon underneath him, the sun never quite being held at bay by the cream colored curtains on the glass panels of the pool house, hear the ocean around him.
"Dude," Seth whispers, shifting, and then there's a kiss on Ryan's chest, in between ribs, a nose touching still sensitive skin. Another kiss, the rub of a cheek against his skin and Ryan grimaces even as he falls in love with that touch all over again. His right hand curls into a fist and he presses his arm tighter over his eyes, but loves the touch all the same. "I don't have the right to be angry."
"What?" Ryan lifts his arm, turns his head to the left, and he's never wanted to see Seth more than this moment, this second. Seth's face, perfect brown eyes and dark curls and-- "Of course--"
"No, no," Seth's hands on his sides, pushing him down on the bed and Ryan hadn't even realized he was starting to sit up. Seth's cheek against Ryan's chest and Ryan hadn't known he loved that as well. "Listen to me. I don't... I don't have the right..." Seth sighs, mouth wide open, lips moist against Ryan's side and ribs. He can feel the fluttering of Seth's eyes and when they pause, Ryan can imagine him with eyes closed. "I don't have the right because I've got you, okay? I've got you and you are alive and somewhere in the back of my, I don't know, brain? I fear that if I stay angry at the world, at the very karma of this, then God will go all, "well, you were angry then? Let me give you this so you can be angry with reason," and take you away from me. You could d--"
Seth's throat closes up on that word and Ryan sighs, left arm moving to Seth's back, to his shoulders, pulling Seth closer to his side, so he can hide his face in the hollow of Ryan's throat. His hand sinks Seth's hair and holds him there. There's a grimace on his skin, in between collarbone and shoulder, a grimace and a sob and a mouth wide open in a silent scream.
"Seth," Ryan whispers against hair and skin because he can't not do so.
"I'm so... so--" Seth's voice cracks, and he shakes his head and then he just presses his forehead against the expanse of muscle and stays there.
Ryan sighs, breathing in and out, trying to keep a pattern even as his chest is so tight, it's actually fucking painful to breathe. His other hand moves to Seth's shoulder, to his back and up to the nape of his neck and holds.
"I thought I was the only one not dealing with this," Ryan says with a snort, not quite laughter that sounds bitter in his throat, and tastes even worse.
Seth chuckles as well, a throaty sound, a humid sound in his throat and in his eyes. "I'm not dealing with this, Ryan. Fuck. I'm not dealing with this by a long shot." Seth shakes his head once again, rubbing the side of his face against Ryan's breastbone and he fears Seth might be wiping his eyes on his skin, damn it. "I had a break down in Jen's apartment."
Ryan could get angry. He could. But he doesn't see the point, not when he's getting angry on a regular basis over things he can't control. He sighs, pulling the short hair at the base of Seth's head, and chuckles when Seth yelps. "Why didn't you tell me?
Seth huffs, breath warm against Ryan's skin, making him tingle even as he presses his lips into a line. "Because you don't need this, okay? Not on top of everything else."
"I don't need this?" And this is Seth alright, getting it wrong in two words and still trying his best, making Ryan angry and feeling cared for in the same sentence. "Seth, I-- fuck." He groans, tilting his head back on the pillow. "Fuck, Seth. You actually think I don't need to know that I'm not actually alone in freaking out over something I can't fucking change? You think--?"
"Hey, hey, Ryan," the words are whispered against his lips, hands on either side of his face, and then he's being kissed. Lips harsh and soft and hungry against his own and Ryan whimpers and his hands touch Seth's temples, down his cheekbones to rest on his neck, thumbs caressing throat and pulse points. "It's okay. It's--"
"It's not okay, Seth," Ryan grits through his teeth, and as he sighs, Seth nods, forehead touching his, Seth's weight leaving him without breath and a sting in the back of his eyes.
"No, you're right," Seth whispers, a shrug of his shoulders that dig an elbow on Ryan's breastbone, and then Seth kisses him once again, soft and tender and familiar and home, firm grip on the back of his neck, coming up with words Ryan never though he'd say. "It's not okay," he breathes out, lips against his own, words eaten by Ryan's intake of breath.
Ryan snorts, but this time it doesn't taste like bile on his tongue. It tastes like the sun on his cheek, like the ocean breeze on his nose, and he sighs, he nods, his nose grazing Seth's cheek, his eyes closed tight. And then Seth's kissing him with words, with half spoken answers to questions Ryan doesn't really ask. Seth licks his mouth open, an expression on Seth's face that Ryan can feel through the very heat of his skin, the way he slips his tongue and flicks it over his teeth, bites down at his own and -- it's not okay, it's not okay. but we'll make it okay. we'll make it okay. God, Ryan, I swear to you, we'll make it okay. I'll make it work. I'm here, Ryan, and I swear to you, we'll make it work.
And Ryan nods because this is Seth, pining his body to the mattress with his own, grounding him to Berkeley, to California, to the country and the planet with nothing but kisses that speak English as easy as Ryan used to read hands and eyes and lines on lips and eyebrows. Seth pulls him closer, one hand on hip, the other on chest, pulling him closer in a protective, needy way. And Ryan nods and nods, hands on Seth's neck, up to his cheeks and kisses him back, the corner of his lips, saying in between humid breaths, "yeah, yeah, we'll make it okay. I know. We'll make it okay. I believe you."
Seth answers back, "I've got you," with his nose against Ryan's, Ryan whimpers and whispers back, "I know."
They stay quiet for a minute, a breath, and then Ryan touches the edge of Seth's hair, his hand falling on the back of Seth's neck, and he leans forward, mouth against Seth's forehead and whispers before stopping himself, "can you lie on your back?"
He can almost, almost, see Seth blinking, confused, taken back, because all the previous times, it was always Seth offering and Ryan never asking, but he's asking now. He's asking now.
Seth doesn't answer, only shifts and moves, and pulls Ryan along with him, and then Seth's kissing Ryan's throat and cheek and mouth and jaw. Ryan sighs and finds the body under him, knows the body under him with the touch of his hands and the touch of his lips. He slides a little lower, low enough that he can place his head on Seth's chest, hands on either side of Seth's body, and the beat of a heart is loud under layers of skin and muscle and blood, and yet Ryan can recognize it. Seth's heart is familiar to him like Seth's voice, like Seth's laughter, the way he used to smile, the way he smiles.
He swallows and clutches at Seth's sides even as Seth's hand move down his shoulders to his back, as far as they can reach, going up and down. Ryan nods, kisses the skin under his lips and closes his eyes shut. Seth's chest is smooth with a few strands of hair, and his heart is loud under Ryan's ear -- thud thud, thud thud -- and then Seth shifts, and Ryan feels the muscles tensing before Seth kisses the top of his head, nuzzles his hair and lies back down.
Ryan nods, and smiles against Seth's skin, and kisses Seth's collarbone once again, and then closes his eyes and counts heartbeats.
Seth shifts and sighs and when he tries to kiss the skin under his mouth, he comes up with a mouth full of 800 thread Egyptian cotton sheets. He frowns for a second, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes. He looks around the room and Ryan's not there and Seth can feel his heart beating loudly in his ears because he lived through this once already. He woke up to find Ryan gone and went to the living room, where Ryan was looking out the window and when he tried reaching for him, Ryan jerked back so fast, it was like Seth had burned him, and like Ryan had slapped him.
He swallows, pushes himself up and makes his way out of the bedroom. Fuck, he runs a hand through his hair, walking bare foot down the hallway and this is just like last time, and last time he watched Ryan walk back to the bed and he stood there, just rooted to the spot where Ryan left him, for so long his feet started to hurt from the coldness. By the time he had walked back to the bedroom, Ryan was fast asleep, curled in on himself, and Seth had taken one page from Ryan's book and done the same.
Reaching the juncture of the hallway and living room, he glances around and finds Ryan sitting by the table instead of standing by the window. He sighs softly under his breath and knows Ryan's aware of him, like he always is.
Seth takes in a deep breath, watching the way Ryan sits by the table, book laid out before him and Seth can't recognize it from here, not in the dim light. He approaches Ryan without saying a word -- there are no words, nothing to say, nothing that can even being to make sense at this point. They've been treading on thin ice for weeks now, but they are going to Newport for Ryan's birthday in one week, so for now Seth will count his blessings and keep it at that.
He takes one final step, standing next to Ryan's chair and Ryan closes the book shut, pulls it closer to himself. Seth swallows but says nothing, and this time, he doesn't dare reach out and touch Ryan.
Ryan nods, standing up after a second, making his way around the table and to the bookcase. Seth stands where he is, watching Ryan place the book in between others. He counts the book's place, second shelf from the bottom, fifth from the left, and tells himself he'll figure out which book it is in the morning.
Seth watches Ryan's finger caress the spine of the book, touching the top edge, making its way slowly down, as if reading the name by touch alone, before falling into thin air and sighing as he does so. Seth watches all this and something inside him cracks, but holds, and he stands there, waiting for Ryan.
Ryan moves away from bookshelf and to the corner that leads to the hallway, and waits there for a breath. Seth follows him, and they walk back to the bedroom without a word being spoken. Seth half expects Ryan to curl in on himself, like last time, but now he only lies down and waits for Seth. Seth sighs, running a hand through his hair and crawls into bed, half sprawled over Ryan, left hand on Ryan's right hip, face hidden in Ryan's neck.
Ryan's hands seem to hesitate for a moment before falling on Seth's shoulders, down his back, to rest on his hips and Seth breathes in and sighs, and closes his eyes. The next morning, he'll go to the bookshelf and count the third shelf from the bottom, the fifth book from the left and come up with Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, Volume I, by Edgar Allan Poe and he'll hate Tatiana a little bit in the back of his mind, where rationale ends and instinct begins.
But that's tomorrow. Today, tonight, he holds Ryan tighter, kisses the skin under his lip and presses his face deeper on Ryan's collarbone and holds Ryan, and holds him, and holds him.
This year, they go to Newport for Ryan's birthday. March 19th falls on a Friday, so they are standing at the airport on Wednesday afternoon, planning to arrive right before dinner, eat, and then probably head right to bed. Seth has classes on both Thursday and Friday, but he told Jen to lend him her notes, and after the small breakdown he had two months ago, all his friends have been going out on a limb to be there and talk to him or let him be when he needed that.
It is Ryan's idea that they go to Newport, and not the other way around. Seth knows that the parents wouldn't have minded doing the trip, and Seth doesn't mind either. It's just... it's difficult, Seth tells himself, Ryan on his right, always in his peripheral vision. It's difficult, to stand here and watch Ryan go through a hundred and one obstacles to do something as simple as board a plane. He swallows, seeing Ryan's arms folded over his chest, fingers sinking into the soft skin on his forearms and head hanging low.
He reaches out before stopping himself, hand on the inside of Ryan's forearm, Ryan turning around to look at him in his general direction. Ryan's wearing his sunglasses and Seth thinks he looks very attractive in them. He gives Ryan a small smile, not quite caring that Ryan can't see it.
"Hey."
Ryan gives him another small smile, leaning slightly into the touch, forward, closer to Seth and yet not too close. "Hey."
Seth opens his mouth, not sure what he wants to say, and then the voice in the speakers announces their flight. "That's us," he says with a shrug, hand lowering to the inside of Ryan's elbow, comfortable in the familiarity of leading Ryan.
"Good. Is it--?"
"Three paces to the right," he says, and moves with Ryan as the line they are in starts moving faster. He squeezes Ryan's forearm for a second, closing his eyes as he places a small peck on Ryan's lips, barely the brush of his own. Ryan smiles back at him, and if Seth sees a woman his mother's age giving them the evil eye, he pretends he doesn't.
"Hmm," Ryan half purrs, low on his throat, and Seth chuckles, ducking his head, feeling his cheeks heating up.
"Ryan," Seth says with a half a laugh, squeezing the forearm and Ryan takes another step forward, closer to the counter, their tickets in Seth's left hand.
Ryan makes his way down the stairs -- fourteen, fifteen, sixteen -- and pauses for a second when he reaches the ground floor. His hand is closed tight around the edge of the banister, and he takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his mouth. He can hear Sam barking, probably out in the backyard, with Sandy or Kirsten or both, and Sophie, who's screaming her head off in laughter, and he could call Sam, he knows that if he were to call Sam, he'd come back in a second. But Ryan doesn't want to. This is his house, as much his house as his apartment in Berkeley. He knows this place, knows it like the back of his hand, spent a whole weekend mapping it in his mind, making blueprints and counts and sizes and learning them until he could count them backwards from one edge of the property to the next. He knows this place, this is home. He shouldn't need his dog.
He takes another deep breath, turning his head to the left, looking over his shoulder and snorting at the pun. Seth's still in bed, Ryan left him there. He just lifted Seth's arm from over his chest, made his way to the bathroom with a tentative hand out, took a shower and changed -- he's pretty sure he's wearing the dark green t-shirt, but it could very well be one of Seth's and he wouldn't know -- before counting his way down the hallway and stairs. He can almost imagine Seth standing there, at the top of the stairs, smiling down at him. He can imagine Seth, because he's seen him do that so many times.
He smiles at the cognitive memory before taking a step forward -- two o'clock, the door leading to the kitchen is across the living room, two o'clock from the bottom of the stairs, always remember that Ryan, because there will come a time when you won't see and you have to know that the door is two o'clock from the bottom of the stairs. He swallows, takes in another breath and counts his paces -- four, five, six -- and reaches a hand out, coming up with nothing but air. He can feel his throat tight, panic settling in the pit of his stomach, making its way up to the mouth of the same. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It's supposed to be right here. It's supposed-- six paces from the bottom of the stairs at two o'clock, it's fucking supposed to be-- he takes a small step forward and his hand collides with the edge of the frame, grasping at it as if it's the one thing grounding him to the Earth and his throat is tight and breath is coming out of him in hard pants and his heart is racing and his knuckles ache as they clutch at the concrete and cement and paint and his face is twisted in a scowl and he can't fucking breathe--
Ryan stands up straight, counts his breaths until they don't come hollow from his throat and pats the side of the wall, the corner that leads to the inside of the kitchen and takes another step forward. One step forward, one step to the left. The edge of the counter digs into his hip and he remembers, he remembers. One step forward, and then around, the stove another forward, two more and the corner, turn around, two more forward and there's the sink, another one and the coffeemaker on the corner that's against the high cupboards, around to his left, the windows right before him. If the does a 180 degree turn, there's the wood block, the bagel cutter, the smaller sink. The knives on his right, one o'clock if he reaches forward. A pace to his left, the corner of the kitchen island, the two chairs -- high chairs, Seth used to joke because they are not your usual table high chair -- where he and Seth used to sit for breakfast.
He closes his eyes, seeing the kitchen in his mind. Clear cream colored tiles on the kitchen, green painted walls -- that only seemed to change shades over the years, Kirsten apparently has a thing for her kitchen being green -- further into it, around the kitchen table they only seemed to use for dinner and doing their homework, green wicker chairs -- again, shades changing shades to match the walls. If he takes two steps forward from the edge of the kitchen island, he'll run into the table, and then to his right in 90, three more steps, the French doors. The back yard, the barbeque, the pool house, the pool, the Jacuzzi, the ocean.
He takes another deep breath, one step forward, then turns around, makes his way around the kitchen island until he's standing before the coffee maker. His hand reaches out, hesitantly, half afraid, and his finger touch the glass surface and he lets out a sigh of relief he hadn't known he'd been holding. His fingers brush the Braille tags, coffee maker in a language the pads of his fingers can understand, and he reaches forward with this right hand, for the high cupboards until he finds he handle and pulls it open. Careful now, mugs and glasses. His used to be the one in the top left corner. So he -- very, very slowly -- searches for it (yellow coffee mug chipped on the handle but he's really fond of it and always said no when Kristen asked him if she should buy him a new one) with the tips of the fingers. He can feel the soft touch of glass instead of ceramic and moves his hand further to the left until they fall on a Braille tag (Ryan's mug) and he smiles. He finds the handle (it should be way discolored by now, and his fingers find the chipped bottom of the handle and at least Kirsten didn't replaced it with a new one just because he can't see it) and picks it up, closing the cupboard door as he does so.
He pours himself a cup of coffee -- finger tipped inside of the mug, to feel when the coffee is close to the brim -- and places the pot back on the coffeemaker and licks his scalded finger. He walks to the French doors, gaining confidence with each step, and he reaches out, touching the frame of the glass panel, the doors opened, and walks outside. He counts his paces to his left -- to his left, because four paces forward is the bottom of the set of five steps that lead to the pool house -- twelve in total, and just after five, he hears Kirsten's, "Hey, Ryan!"
He smiles at her, halting his step for a second, and hoping she won't come running to lead him. She doesn't, but he hears Sam barking and running his way toward Ryan until he feels a doggy head nudging his knee and Ryan smiles, leaning down to pet Sam on the head without really spilling his coffee.
"It's okay," he tells Sam, scratching him behind the ears and the mutt nuzzles his hands even more. He chuckles. "It's okay. Go back to them. I know my way around this place." And he must have sounded really certain, because Sam kind of whines in the back of his doggy throat, nuzzling his hand one last time before pulling away.
A moment later Ryan hears small sneakers clad feet running down five steps and toward him. "Dayan!"
"Sophie!"
Kirsten calls out for her, but Ryan shakes his head. It's okay, he wants to say, because he knew she would do this, he expected Sophie to do this. She throws herself against Ryan's legs, and had Ryan not been waiting for her, he might have had trouble with his footing. Instead, he bends forward and places one arm on her back, hugging her clumsily. "Hello, sweetie."
Sophie pulls back, slightly, and Ryan can feel her hands on the back of his knees and he can imagine, see her in the back of his mind, perfect picture, leaning back, head thrown back, grinning up at him. "Dayan! You're here and now we can play and we can--"
"Before we have to have breakfast, huh? How about you go ahead, and I'll catch up with you in a second?"
"Need help?"
"Sophie!"
Ryan smiles at Sophie's question, at Kirsten's outrage. "I'm fine, baby. Really. Just go and I'll be right behind you."
She doesn't seem to believe him, but she knows he's blind now. She knows because he told her himself days after it happened, and yesterday before dinner, he let her touch his face and make sure he wasn't playing tricks on her.
She nods, he assumes, because then she's letting go of his legs and he hears her making her way back to his parents. He smiles at her, at the image of her back in his mind, and turns in the general direction of the large expanses of green grass, and blinks for a second.
"Ryan?" Sandy, his tone worried, and a beat later, there's Kirsten's maternal voice, "Sweetie? Should I--?"
"No, no, I'm fine. I'm fine." He smiles at her, at where he can almost imagine her standing, and picks up his counting where he left off -- six, seven, eight.
He keeps on counting until he reaches the bottom of the five set of stairs, up them, and then feels the change on the ground, grass where ceramic tiles used to be.
"Sweetie," Kirsten says, somewhere to his left, and he turns slightly, expecting her touch on his shoulder and he tilts his face to the side, and she kisses him on the cheek. "Oh, sweetie," she says again, placing her arms around him, and Ryan turns his wrist, careful not to spill the coffee.
He smiles against her, her hair against his cheek, his cheekbone, his face. She smells like lilies and softness, just like she always does, just like he remembers. He can imagine the way the sun hits her hair, the side of her face, the highness of her cheekbone, her soft makeup, the pearl white color of her skin. He smiles and nods and sighs and he remembers, he remembers her.
He pulls away after a breath, and she touches his cheek with the palm of her hand and lean forward to kiss him where his cheek meets his nose.
Sophie giggles somewhere in the back, probably around the lounge chairs, and Sam barks and Sophie giggles once again. Sam seems to think Sophie is his to play with, and Sophie thinks the same thing about Sam.
"Good morning, son," Sandy, his voice normal and confident, and he places a hand on Ryan's forearm, squeezes before letting go. "Where's Seth?"
He swallows, feeling his cheeks reddening at the question, and at his following answer. "Still in bed. I thought I'd see what you're doing."
"Nothing much," Kirsten, and Ryan can almost hear her shrug, "we were thinking about taking Sam out for a walk but we weren't sure--"
If Ryan needed him here, if Ryan depended that much on Sam that he couldn't be without him for a whole morning. He shakes his head. "Seth usually walks him before breakfast, though he complains before leaving and the second he arrives," he says with a smile.
"He's been stretching his legs," Sandy says with a chuckle, and Ryan hears Sam barking, and Sandy laughs, then Sam trots somewhere, away from him. "Chewing a bone. We bought him a couple last time we went to the market."
Sam loves those. Seth wonders why Sam needs them, when the mutt seems to have a preference for Seth's sneakers. Ryan smiles. "No wonder I can hear him running around."
"Sophie's keeping Sam entertained," Kirsten says with a chuckle, "but he's a bit big for her, so your father and Sam are playing fetch," she says, and Ryan closes his eyes for a second. Kristen's eyes, the perfect shade of blue that match the sky as its darkening, looking at him, smile on her face, her hair falling over her shoulder.
"Don't."
Seth's voice, and Ryan can't help but smile at the sound of it. Ryan turns around, over his shoulder, to his left. He can barely hear Seth's steps, but he knows Seth's making his way to him. "Why?"
"Because then the mutt is going to think I have to play fetch with him and when I don't, he'll take it out on my sneakers. Brand new, because he ate the last pair! Or worse, on my shirts. Or even worse, on my jeans."
"And how can the dog run into your clothes?"
Kristen's motherly voice, and Ryan smirks, seeing her with her arms folded on her chest, one eyebrow raised.
"Floor," Ryan says in his cough, and Sandy chuckles, and Ryan thinks Kirsten shakes her head.
"Traitor," Seth snorts, and then a hand falls on the inside of his elbow, the other on the edge of his collarbone, where it meets the shoulder, and Ryan tilts his face to accept the kiss that falls on his cheek. He smiles, at the warmth of Seth's touch, at the fingertips touching the sensitive skin near his collar and forearm.
"Hey," Seth says when he pulls away, and Ryan smiles at him, looking in the general direction of him, and can see brown eyes and planes and lines he knows by touch, by lips and kisses and sighs.
"Hey," Ryan says back, smiling, and Seth takes the cup of coffee from Ryan's lazy fingers. "Hey! Get your own!"
Seth chuckles, handing him back the mug. Ryan feels Seth stumble a step back, and Ryan chuckles, knowing that was Sophie The Storm Cohen, throwing herself at Seth.
"Hey, those are attached, you know?"
"What is attached?"
Ryan shrugs, taking a step away from them, but then there's Seth's hand on his elbow and he grins, chuckles, Sophie apparently letting go of Seth because Ryan's legs are more comfy.
"What's attached?" She asks again, but this time to Ryan and not Seth.
"Attached, and it means you have to be careful with how you throw yourself at your brother Seth because he's delicate. He could break," Ryan says with a smile, looking down at her, and wonders what she sees when she looks at him.
"Hey!"
"I can break him?"
Ryan nods. "Yep. You can break him. That'd be very, very bad."
"Well, of course that'd be bad. I'm very important to the safety and sanity of this household, what do you think--?"
"Can I break you, Dayan?"
Ryan chuckles at her question over Seth's whining, bending as much as he can and not dripping the coffee in his hands. He shakes his head, ruffling her hair, cupping her face. "No, baby, you can't break me."
"Good, I don't wanna you broken."
Ryan smiles and when she lets go a bit of his legs, he places an awkward kiss on the top of her head that leaves his back hurting, and reminding him he's not so young anymore.
"So, did anyone make breakfast or have you forgotten about your children for favoring a dark colored mutt?"
A huff from Sam, and Ryan chuckles, standing up, hearing Sophie going over to wherever Sam is barking from. "I think he's insulting your lineage."
"He wouldn't," Seth says, his fingers staying on the inside of Ryan's elbow. "He loves mom and dad too much. He's probably just badmouthing the grandpa."
"There are bagels inside."
Ryan smiles at Sandy's voice, and at the way he can almost feel Seth bouncing on his feet. "Perfect. I'm starving."
Ryan blushes to the tips of his ears, because they might not have done anything last night -- Sandy and Kirsten were only down the hallway, there was no way he was getting hard with them down the hallway, two doors from them -- but that doesn't mean they know they didn't do anything.
A nudge from Seth, his elbow to Ryan's side, and a chuckle from his throat. "You're making the eggs."
Silence from the parents, and they don't know that Ryan and Seth are fighting tooth and nail for some semblance of normalcy in their home. Ryan snorts. "Oh, please. Then you'll be bitching about them being burned."
"They were!"
"I couldn't tell," Ryan says haughtily, a grin on his lips.
A snort from Seth. "I'm rolling my eyes at you, just so you know. Come on," another nudge at his side, and he can almost hear the smile on Seth's voice. "I'm making the eggs, but you're cutting the bagels."
He nods, smiling, and a beat later Sandy and Kirsten are talking and the awkwardness of a second ago is long gone. Ryan grins, his hand tightening around his mug, Seth's hand on his arm, and Sam trotting past them and into the kitchen, Sophie running behind him.
Lunch in Berkeley had always been a couple of sandwiches -- in the cafeterias, when they were both at school; at a small restaurant, somewhere in between the campus and the Braille institute when Ryan wasn't anymore -- but Ryan remembers how unusual it was for the four of them to have lunch together at the house. Maybe that was the reason Kirsten always tried her best for each of them to eat something they wanted. It usually meant either him or Seth making something, Sandy arriving just in time for him to grab a bite and then rush out, while Kirsten complained that if they all were trying, the least Sandy could do was stay for more than ten minutes.
Ryan and Seth used to make the sandwiches, and then Kirsten developed that thing for cooking, and she started making the sandwiches. And he remembers, he thinks with a small smile, standing against the counter, hip on the edge, hearing her moving around the kitchen. He closes his eyes briefly, the sound of the bag of bread being opened, slices being pulled, and his chest is tight and he remembers, he remembers, perfect images and colors and the soft pinkness of her lips curling up, the way her eyes seem to change shades.
He thinks he remembers details that time has blurred and tinted in yellow and browns. The lines on her face, the wrinkles she didn't use to have when she was younger, five years younger, so beautiful it was stunning and breathtaking. The way the shade of blue would change, would shift, from ocean to sky and back again in a blink. He doesn't know if he remembers it right, or if his mind is playing tricks on him and at this point in his life, he'll never know, so he chooses to believe his memory. Blue, blue, perfect blue and golden hair, and white skin and soft touch and warm voice and--
"Sweetie?"
His smile stays on his lips but it feels sad on his tongue for a second. He used to be able to see her, to watch her, and there was a point not so long ago when he knew he wouldn't see her ever again, not like that moment, not in that perfect light, and he can't now, not anymore. It hit him then like a knife to his chest and he couldn't breathe, and now it's no different.
He breathes out through his mouth, and it ends in pain and ache but he smiles at her.
I remember you, he thinks, his eyes prickling even as he blinks, blindly, owlishly, I remember you, Kirsten, you have to know that. I remember you.
"Ryan?"
He swallows past the colors and shades and light and memory and waves it away with his right hand, turning around, making his way around the kitchen island. He's careful with the stools -- two, three, four -- and reaches out a hand and he sighs in relief as it lands on the fridge. He opens the right door and leans closer, frowning, trying to remember the way Kirsten used to store the perishables.
"Sammmy!!!" Sophie screams as she makes her way into the kitchen, and Ryan laughs, looking over his shoulder even if he can't see anything, and then Sophie's rushing past his legs, bumping into him, and Sam is following her, barking at the top of his lungs, having the time of his life.
Ryan chuckles, and then leans toward the fridge once again. He tries the second shelf, to the left, and his hand falls on something he's pretty sure it's the jam. "Jam and cream cheese, or just jam, or--?"
"The cheese is a little to your left, just behind the gallon of milk."
Ryan nods, thankful for the directions and grasps the cheese easy in his hands. He turns around, closes the fridge with his elbow, and takes a step forward. He stretches his arm, slightly, and his forearm touches the edge of the kitchen counter. He places both the jam and the cream cheese on it. He could very easily make the slices himself, but he doesn't think either he or Kirsten are ready for that.
"Thanks," Kirsten says.
Ryan smiles at her, hearing her reaching for the knife, the soft slide of blade against cheese and jam and he closes his eyes. He smiles at her, and the taste on his tongue is not as bitter as before.
So turns out I write too much. Nothing new there, but my chapters are too long and I figured, well, I can just divide them in more chapters, right? *giggles* There are now twelve chapters. Once upon a time, there were ten but chapter "nine" was HUGE so now it's three different chapters. God, I'm weird.
That said, and having read the story, you must leave feedback. Yes, yes, you must. Otherwise I stare at my Outlook and my inbox and then sigh in longing and that's not a pretty sight. You must leave feedback. Right here. Click right under here. *giggles* Too much sugar, I think.
Going now. Yet more stories to write! *giggles*
Title: Shadowboxing.
Author: M. F. Luder
Pairing: Ryan/Seth.
Rating: PG-13.
Category: Future fic. Drama. Me being evil. *nods*
Spoilers: Up to "The End's not Near, is Here", but with selective spoilers. *g*
Challenge: From fanfic100 and 06. hours. The rest of the stories can be found at Big Damn Table.
Author's note: Special thanks to popmusicjunkie, who I totally adore and love and she must know this, or I'll hurt her. *winks* You put up with me while I was writing this, and you nudge and pushed and threatened with bodily harm when it was mostly needed, and for that, I will love you forever. *nods*
one | two| three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve
Shadowboxing
X.
They are trying. They are both trying. It's not... easy, Ryan thinks, to do this, to try and do this, to live like this. It feels like he's breaking a little bit with every breath. Because this is his reality, this is life and he should deal with it, he should be fine, he should have moved on. He should face it and be done with it. He should--
There are many things he should have done, so many of them. He had plans. He had a life. He thought he had a life. He was going to be a Civil Engineer, he was going to get a Masters, fear a PhD but go for it because Kirsten kept telling him that the sky was the limit, he shouldn't worry about money or time, that he had the rest of his life, and truth is, he had as much time left as sand held in the crystal hourglass.
He pauses as he walks out of the elevator, Sam whimpering but standing still. Ryan takes a step to the side, getting out of the way. He pauses, breathing and thinking and seeing the hallway in his minds eyes, like he had for the two years he had lived here before going blind -- blind blind blind blind, get used to that word, blind blind -- and he can almost see it, with its wooden floors and smoke walls.
He knows his way to his house, he knows (seventeen paces, turn right, touch door and move hand to the left and down for the lock) how to do this, all this time, all these past couple of months, he's been doing nothing more but learning how to fucking move while not seeing a fucking thing--
"Hey, Ryan."
He looks -- turns, turns turns -- over his shoulder, in the general direction of the elevator, and recognizes Sandra's voice -- from 401 -- and smiles at her, tries his best to smile at her. "Hey. How are you?"
He can almost hear her shrug, and then she imagines her blushing, because she knows he can't see her anymore. "Work's being a pain in the ass," she says, recuperating quickly, her voice steady and normal, not treating him like he can't hear her, and he's thankful for that. "I have a few books to go this week that are coming out by the end of next month. The usual."
"Something you recommend?" As an editor in a well known publisher, if anyone can give him a recommendation, it's her. She even told Seth that he should give her his resume, and she'd see if she can find him an internship.
She pauses, hesitating, and he bites his lower lip and the inside of his cheek. I can read, you know, he wants to tell her. I can still fucking read, Sandra, so don't you fucking come--
"Sure. I'll give Seth the titles. There are a couple of thrillers and one detective novel that promises."
His chest, his <>throat, is so fucking tight, he can hardly breath, but he nods. "Thanks," Ryan says, and Sam stands up beside him, nudging him with his body. What are you waiting for? We need to go home, the dog seems to say with his second nudge.
"Hey, Sam." Ryan hears hesitation in her voice once again. "Can I pet him?"
Ryan blinks, taken back. He was taught in doggie boot camp (Seth's words, not his) that people should always ask to pet the guide dog, and it sounded weird at first but the more he thought about it, the more he could imagine someone trying to catch Sam's attention (in theory, Sam's trained not to be distracted even if someone offers steak to him, but he's only a dog, after all, Ryan can't ask miracles of the mutt) and Ryan kind of tripping on his own feet and falling face first.
But he learned that, he was taught that. Seth knew because Ryan told him. So either Sandra knows more stuff than Ryan ever gave her credit for or Seth has been educating their apartment building.
And something must have shown on his face, because then Sandra laughs and he can hear her voice -- light, girly, familiar -- saying, "Oh, I've been doing this editing job for years, Ryan. You'd be surprised the stuff that stays in my brain, really. I proof read a manual for blindness and deafness a couple of years back."
And that explains a lot, of course. "I didn't--" I didn't mean to say that you're supposed to be an idiot in this aspect, but he kinda had. Or at least, he thinks, he must have, with his face and expression.
"It's okay. Not everyone can know that. Hmm. Tell Seth I say hi, okay? I have at least fifty pages to go over tonight."
"Sure. Take care." He nods at her, giving her a small smile, and he hears her turn around, walk down the hallway, not once reaching for his arm and steering him like he has no idea where he's going, like he doesn't have a guide dog to do that.
Long after he hears her close the door after herself, he makes his way down the hallway and to his own apartment. He pauses by the door, one hand on Sam's harness, the other around his keys. He takes in a deep breath, feeling the anger seething underneath him, in his veins, making its way to his neck and down to the very tips of his fingers. He closes his eyes, breathes out through his mouth, then inhales once again.
He's trying, he's really trying, to be accepting and understanding, to deal with this, all his anger and frustration and despair and move on, but fuck, even four times a week with JJ is not fucking helping, not all the time, not at times like this.
He clutches the harness so tight, his knuckles start to hurt, and then pushes the key into the lock. He lets Sam free the moment the door opens, taking a step forward and closing the door with his shoulders. And then, on his next step, he hesitates, he stumbles, slightly, seeming to lose his center of gravity, his very footing, and he reaches one hand out, trying to find something to hold onto and yet hating himself for that.
"Ryan. Wait--"
But he doesn't listen to Seth. He can do this. He can fucking do this alone. He can very well walk into his house and make his way to the den, to the bedroom, because fuck.
"Let me--!"
He stumbles again, on nothing but the wooden floors, a hand taking hold of him by the forearm, the other on the elbow, and Ryan jerks his arm away, taking a step back, two quick steps and losing his direction, his north and his south.
"Ryan, dude--"
He takes another step back -- away, left, right? -- and moves forward, to the side, he's not sure. His hand reaches out and touches the edge of the wall that should be on the right side of the door that leads to the hallway, but when he takes another step, the wall is gone and he must have been putting too much pressure on his hold because he stumbles again, forward, and crashes right into the couch. He pushes himself away from it and hands fall on his shoulders, turn him around and he's pressed against a chest, one hand on his waist, the other on the back of his neck. He's still seething, anger simmering skin deep, and he growls in the back of his throat but it ends in a sob.
"I'm fine, Seth. Fuck. Let me go--" He pulls back, tries to jerk away, but Seth's hands move to his shoulder and keep him steady, keep him together, whole. "Fuck! I'm telling you--"
"To let you go," the words are whispered against his ear, breath tingling in the soft skin of his throat, making him shiver in something that tastes like anger and lust, "so you can crash against the couch, fall onto the coffee table? I don't think so."
"Seth--" Ryan plants his hands on Seth's chest and pushes, but he's tired, he's angry and desperate and sad and he's wallowing in self pity but right now doesn't give a flying fuck.
"You've already done this, you know?"
Ryan shoves, hard, against Seth's collarbone and hears him grown in pain, yet doesn't let go. "What, I can't be angry. I can't--"
The arms pull him to Seth's chest, and Ryan lets him, because he's an idiot and weak and he loves Seth's touch, his body loves Seth's touch, and he sighs against Seth's neck, hides his face and closes his eyes shut.
"Of course you can, dude." Seth breathes against the side of his face, his temple. "God, of course you can.
He shakes his head, his face in a grimace and he doesn't want to do this, he doesn't want to whimper and cry and shake and shiver, he wants Seth to be pissed off at him so Ryan can be pissed off at Seth in return, scream at him, maybe throw a plate or two.
"You deserve a life," Ryan breathes out, the words leaving his lips without intending to. But it's too late, they are out there, and he wishes the words back, against his chest, his and his alone. You should leave me. You should finish Berkeley and then get a job far away from me and leave me and--
Ryan can feel Seth's smile on his skin, against his skin, before tender lips touch under his ear, the first line of his jaw, nose against his earlobe. "I have a life."
"I mean--"
"I know what you mean." The soft touch of nose is replaced by tender lips, the tip of a tongue, and Ryan stiffens in Seth's arms, wanting to touch and be touched, but stopping himself in something close to pain. "I have a life with you, you idiot." Teeth this time, teeth against his earlobe, one hand moving down to his hip, pulling him forward, Seth's cock hard against Ryan's thigh, and this time Ryan leans into the touch, groaning in the back of his throat. "You say that again, I'm gonna have to hurt you, dude."
Ryan chuckles, the sound low and throaty and his left hand moves under Seth's shirt, the right one up to Seth's chest, touching a nipple through the cotton fabric. "Oh, really? You and what army?"
They move slowly to the bedroom, with touches in between, with words of whispered promises and love and heart. Seth curls his arm around Ryan's neck, kissing him, and Ryan makes a happy sound. They fall onto the bed, half laughing, something ending in Ryan's throat that's not quite happiness nor fear either.
They can do this slow or they can do it quick, and Ryan's hands scratch Seth's back and Seth groans. Ryan knows Seth, knows the planes and lines of his body, knows him enough to image him nodding, and Ryan lets himself show everything in his face, in his blind blue eyes, and as he arcs, head thrown back, he whimpers in the back of his throat and tells himself it is want and not loss.
Seth straddles Ryan's hips, unbuttoning his jeans and then standing up in order to push them down, get them off, off. Ryan lies there, seeing Seth's face in his mind, remembering the way his brown eyes would darken with desire and lust and impatience and he smiles and something breaks inside, cold and bitter, and his skin is warm as Seth's hand falls onto his calf, nails scratching skin and rising goose bumps and groans. Seth leans over him, slowly, carefully, and Ryan's hands touch bare skin, the bones on hips, the thin waist, the small of Seth's back, the curve of his ass. Seth groans, hiding his face in Ryan's neck and Ryan smiles, nails scratching from the center of his ass outward, over hips and then low on his stomach.
Seth takes him in his hands, mindlessly rubbing the curve of Ryan's cock with his thumb and Ryan's breath hitches, his eyes drifting closed and letting his head fall back, enjoy this, this, this thing they have, that's theirs and no one else's, theirs, theirs. Seth bites his neck, where it meets his shoulder and Ryan bucks underneath him, trying to find a rhythm in Seth's hand, against Seth's hip, Seth's hard cock, but he can't. He's too far gone, too lost, too deep. Ryan wants more and less and everything and he wants Seth under him, watching him, Ryan watching him back and his groan ends in a sob and Seth takes it from his mouth, kissing him roughly and Ryan shakes and shivers and moves and breaks under Seth's touch.
Ryan shivers, slowly, nothing but white under his eyelids, his imagination or real color, he doesn't know. His hands move to Seth's hips and press, and he hears and feels Seth groan against his skin. His hands skim inward, touching Seth's ass, thumbs still on hipbone and skin, Seth groans and rests his head forward on Ryan's shoulder and comes.
They lie in a tangle of arms and legs, Seth settling in between Ryan's legs, and Ryan hooks his on top of Seth's, and it's comfortable and natural and Ryan wonders for a second how he slept before this, before the weight on top of his body, the skin under his hands.
Seth's shifts, easing his weight to Ryan's left, arm curled across Ryan's body and burrows his face in the hollow between arm and shoulder. Ryan's fingertips touch Seth's temple tentatively before sinking into hair, through curls and down to the strong line of jaw and chin, stilling as it falls on the pulse of his throat.
He used to do this, Ryan thinks with a small smile, with a sigh and a curl against the warm body next to his. He used to touch Seth's hair -- tentatively, unfamiliar territory -- when Seth would crawl into the futon at night, for one reason or the other. Fear of the dark, one too many horror stories, or just because he wanted to. Seth used to crawl into bed with him; that should have given him a clue.
He sighs, turning around, kissing forehead and temple, nuzzling cheekbone with nose. His throat turns tight and in a second, even with the laziness around him, a feeling of sleepiness and tranquility, it's all brushed away as he blinks and lifts his gaze and sees nothing but blankness and it's painful inside him.
"I'm still angry," Ryan says with a sigh, with the close of his eyes, cheek rubbing against Seth's hair. I can't stop... I can't stop being angry. It's here. It's in me. I thought I had it covered, I thought I could control it. I can't.
The arm around him, the hand sprawled on his chest, curls around his ribs and holds on tightly. Ryan can almost hear Seth swallowing. "I know."
He could do this, just lay here with Seth and not talk, not say a word, but it's not like that. They are not like that. It's Seth the one who begins with a word and ends with an essay, but he can say this as well. He can be strong, if only this once. "It feels like..." It feels like he's pulling skin by his teeth, that's what it feels like, to open his mouth and say this. He sighs, rubbing his eyes against Seth's hair and seeing Seth, sitting next to him, to his left, controller in hand, and he can breathe. "It feels like I'll never stop being angry. It's--"
And he can't say anymore because there are no words for this. He's trying to deal with it, he's trying. He's been trying for over a year and still, there are times -- earlier today, running into Sandra and then wanting to kick something in the house, yesterday, two days ago, three days ago, once a day, every day -- when it feels like crashing and all he can think of is anger and blood and black and red and he consciously opens his mouth, feeling his jaw aching from the tight grind.
"It'll..." Seth trails off even as he kisses Ryan's chest, collarbone, the hollow where the bones meet. "It'll pass. I'm angry too, Ryan. But I gotta believe we'll get past this at some point."
Ryan's pushing himself up on one elbow before the words have finished leaving Seth's mouth. "You're angry? You're-- You're angry?"
And he's known Seth too long to know that the moment Seth's cheek pulls away from his side, Seth's biting his lower lip and pushing himself up on a shoulder as well. "I mean, yeah. Not at you, of course. Just. You know. At the world at large."
At Dawn and Frank, Ryan thinks he can hear Seth thinking, yet not saying.
"It's like..."
It's like they've lost something and they can't get it back. They can't get it back now, and Ryan hates the world for this, and he gets why Seth hates it just as fiercely.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Ryan asks, his voice low, his throat tight. He snorts, shaking his head once, then letting himself fall back down on the pillow. He throws his right arm over his eyes and he can almost feel the futon underneath him, the sun never quite being held at bay by the cream colored curtains on the glass panels of the pool house, hear the ocean around him.
"Dude," Seth whispers, shifting, and then there's a kiss on Ryan's chest, in between ribs, a nose touching still sensitive skin. Another kiss, the rub of a cheek against his skin and Ryan grimaces even as he falls in love with that touch all over again. His right hand curls into a fist and he presses his arm tighter over his eyes, but loves the touch all the same. "I don't have the right to be angry."
"What?" Ryan lifts his arm, turns his head to the left, and he's never wanted to see Seth more than this moment, this second. Seth's face, perfect brown eyes and dark curls and-- "Of course--"
"No, no," Seth's hands on his sides, pushing him down on the bed and Ryan hadn't even realized he was starting to sit up. Seth's cheek against Ryan's chest and Ryan hadn't known he loved that as well. "Listen to me. I don't... I don't have the right..." Seth sighs, mouth wide open, lips moist against Ryan's side and ribs. He can feel the fluttering of Seth's eyes and when they pause, Ryan can imagine him with eyes closed. "I don't have the right because I've got you, okay? I've got you and you are alive and somewhere in the back of my, I don't know, brain? I fear that if I stay angry at the world, at the very karma of this, then God will go all, "well, you were angry then? Let me give you this so you can be angry with reason," and take you away from me. You could d--"
Seth's throat closes up on that word and Ryan sighs, left arm moving to Seth's back, to his shoulders, pulling Seth closer to his side, so he can hide his face in the hollow of Ryan's throat. His hand sinks Seth's hair and holds him there. There's a grimace on his skin, in between collarbone and shoulder, a grimace and a sob and a mouth wide open in a silent scream.
"Seth," Ryan whispers against hair and skin because he can't not do so.
"I'm so... so--" Seth's voice cracks, and he shakes his head and then he just presses his forehead against the expanse of muscle and stays there.
Ryan sighs, breathing in and out, trying to keep a pattern even as his chest is so tight, it's actually fucking painful to breathe. His other hand moves to Seth's shoulder, to his back and up to the nape of his neck and holds.
"I thought I was the only one not dealing with this," Ryan says with a snort, not quite laughter that sounds bitter in his throat, and tastes even worse.
Seth chuckles as well, a throaty sound, a humid sound in his throat and in his eyes. "I'm not dealing with this, Ryan. Fuck. I'm not dealing with this by a long shot." Seth shakes his head once again, rubbing the side of his face against Ryan's breastbone and he fears Seth might be wiping his eyes on his skin, damn it. "I had a break down in Jen's apartment."
Ryan could get angry. He could. But he doesn't see the point, not when he's getting angry on a regular basis over things he can't control. He sighs, pulling the short hair at the base of Seth's head, and chuckles when Seth yelps. "Why didn't you tell me?
Seth huffs, breath warm against Ryan's skin, making him tingle even as he presses his lips into a line. "Because you don't need this, okay? Not on top of everything else."
"I don't need this?" And this is Seth alright, getting it wrong in two words and still trying his best, making Ryan angry and feeling cared for in the same sentence. "Seth, I-- fuck." He groans, tilting his head back on the pillow. "Fuck, Seth. You actually think I don't need to know that I'm not actually alone in freaking out over something I can't fucking change? You think--?"
"Hey, hey, Ryan," the words are whispered against his lips, hands on either side of his face, and then he's being kissed. Lips harsh and soft and hungry against his own and Ryan whimpers and his hands touch Seth's temples, down his cheekbones to rest on his neck, thumbs caressing throat and pulse points. "It's okay. It's--"
"It's not okay, Seth," Ryan grits through his teeth, and as he sighs, Seth nods, forehead touching his, Seth's weight leaving him without breath and a sting in the back of his eyes.
"No, you're right," Seth whispers, a shrug of his shoulders that dig an elbow on Ryan's breastbone, and then Seth kisses him once again, soft and tender and familiar and home, firm grip on the back of his neck, coming up with words Ryan never though he'd say. "It's not okay," he breathes out, lips against his own, words eaten by Ryan's intake of breath.
Ryan snorts, but this time it doesn't taste like bile on his tongue. It tastes like the sun on his cheek, like the ocean breeze on his nose, and he sighs, he nods, his nose grazing Seth's cheek, his eyes closed tight. And then Seth's kissing him with words, with half spoken answers to questions Ryan doesn't really ask. Seth licks his mouth open, an expression on Seth's face that Ryan can feel through the very heat of his skin, the way he slips his tongue and flicks it over his teeth, bites down at his own and -- it's not okay, it's not okay. but we'll make it okay. we'll make it okay. God, Ryan, I swear to you, we'll make it okay. I'll make it work. I'm here, Ryan, and I swear to you, we'll make it work.
And Ryan nods because this is Seth, pining his body to the mattress with his own, grounding him to Berkeley, to California, to the country and the planet with nothing but kisses that speak English as easy as Ryan used to read hands and eyes and lines on lips and eyebrows. Seth pulls him closer, one hand on hip, the other on chest, pulling him closer in a protective, needy way. And Ryan nods and nods, hands on Seth's neck, up to his cheeks and kisses him back, the corner of his lips, saying in between humid breaths, "yeah, yeah, we'll make it okay. I know. We'll make it okay. I believe you."
Seth answers back, "I've got you," with his nose against Ryan's, Ryan whimpers and whispers back, "I know."
They stay quiet for a minute, a breath, and then Ryan touches the edge of Seth's hair, his hand falling on the back of Seth's neck, and he leans forward, mouth against Seth's forehead and whispers before stopping himself, "can you lie on your back?"
He can almost, almost, see Seth blinking, confused, taken back, because all the previous times, it was always Seth offering and Ryan never asking, but he's asking now. He's asking now.
Seth doesn't answer, only shifts and moves, and pulls Ryan along with him, and then Seth's kissing Ryan's throat and cheek and mouth and jaw. Ryan sighs and finds the body under him, knows the body under him with the touch of his hands and the touch of his lips. He slides a little lower, low enough that he can place his head on Seth's chest, hands on either side of Seth's body, and the beat of a heart is loud under layers of skin and muscle and blood, and yet Ryan can recognize it. Seth's heart is familiar to him like Seth's voice, like Seth's laughter, the way he used to smile, the way he smiles.
He swallows and clutches at Seth's sides even as Seth's hand move down his shoulders to his back, as far as they can reach, going up and down. Ryan nods, kisses the skin under his lips and closes his eyes shut. Seth's chest is smooth with a few strands of hair, and his heart is loud under Ryan's ear -- thud thud, thud thud -- and then Seth shifts, and Ryan feels the muscles tensing before Seth kisses the top of his head, nuzzles his hair and lies back down.
Ryan nods, and smiles against Seth's skin, and kisses Seth's collarbone once again, and then closes his eyes and counts heartbeats.
Seth shifts and sighs and when he tries to kiss the skin under his mouth, he comes up with a mouth full of 800 thread Egyptian cotton sheets. He frowns for a second, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes. He looks around the room and Ryan's not there and Seth can feel his heart beating loudly in his ears because he lived through this once already. He woke up to find Ryan gone and went to the living room, where Ryan was looking out the window and when he tried reaching for him, Ryan jerked back so fast, it was like Seth had burned him, and like Ryan had slapped him.
He swallows, pushes himself up and makes his way out of the bedroom. Fuck, he runs a hand through his hair, walking bare foot down the hallway and this is just like last time, and last time he watched Ryan walk back to the bed and he stood there, just rooted to the spot where Ryan left him, for so long his feet started to hurt from the coldness. By the time he had walked back to the bedroom, Ryan was fast asleep, curled in on himself, and Seth had taken one page from Ryan's book and done the same.
Reaching the juncture of the hallway and living room, he glances around and finds Ryan sitting by the table instead of standing by the window. He sighs softly under his breath and knows Ryan's aware of him, like he always is.
Seth takes in a deep breath, watching the way Ryan sits by the table, book laid out before him and Seth can't recognize it from here, not in the dim light. He approaches Ryan without saying a word -- there are no words, nothing to say, nothing that can even being to make sense at this point. They've been treading on thin ice for weeks now, but they are going to Newport for Ryan's birthday in one week, so for now Seth will count his blessings and keep it at that.
He takes one final step, standing next to Ryan's chair and Ryan closes the book shut, pulls it closer to himself. Seth swallows but says nothing, and this time, he doesn't dare reach out and touch Ryan.
Ryan nods, standing up after a second, making his way around the table and to the bookcase. Seth stands where he is, watching Ryan place the book in between others. He counts the book's place, second shelf from the bottom, fifth from the left, and tells himself he'll figure out which book it is in the morning.
Seth watches Ryan's finger caress the spine of the book, touching the top edge, making its way slowly down, as if reading the name by touch alone, before falling into thin air and sighing as he does so. Seth watches all this and something inside him cracks, but holds, and he stands there, waiting for Ryan.
Ryan moves away from bookshelf and to the corner that leads to the hallway, and waits there for a breath. Seth follows him, and they walk back to the bedroom without a word being spoken. Seth half expects Ryan to curl in on himself, like last time, but now he only lies down and waits for Seth. Seth sighs, running a hand through his hair and crawls into bed, half sprawled over Ryan, left hand on Ryan's right hip, face hidden in Ryan's neck.
Ryan's hands seem to hesitate for a moment before falling on Seth's shoulders, down his back, to rest on his hips and Seth breathes in and sighs, and closes his eyes. The next morning, he'll go to the bookshelf and count the third shelf from the bottom, the fifth book from the left and come up with Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, Volume I, by Edgar Allan Poe and he'll hate Tatiana a little bit in the back of his mind, where rationale ends and instinct begins.
But that's tomorrow. Today, tonight, he holds Ryan tighter, kisses the skin under his lip and presses his face deeper on Ryan's collarbone and holds Ryan, and holds him, and holds him.
This year, they go to Newport for Ryan's birthday. March 19th falls on a Friday, so they are standing at the airport on Wednesday afternoon, planning to arrive right before dinner, eat, and then probably head right to bed. Seth has classes on both Thursday and Friday, but he told Jen to lend him her notes, and after the small breakdown he had two months ago, all his friends have been going out on a limb to be there and talk to him or let him be when he needed that.
It is Ryan's idea that they go to Newport, and not the other way around. Seth knows that the parents wouldn't have minded doing the trip, and Seth doesn't mind either. It's just... it's difficult, Seth tells himself, Ryan on his right, always in his peripheral vision. It's difficult, to stand here and watch Ryan go through a hundred and one obstacles to do something as simple as board a plane. He swallows, seeing Ryan's arms folded over his chest, fingers sinking into the soft skin on his forearms and head hanging low.
He reaches out before stopping himself, hand on the inside of Ryan's forearm, Ryan turning around to look at him in his general direction. Ryan's wearing his sunglasses and Seth thinks he looks very attractive in them. He gives Ryan a small smile, not quite caring that Ryan can't see it.
"Hey."
Ryan gives him another small smile, leaning slightly into the touch, forward, closer to Seth and yet not too close. "Hey."
Seth opens his mouth, not sure what he wants to say, and then the voice in the speakers announces their flight. "That's us," he says with a shrug, hand lowering to the inside of Ryan's elbow, comfortable in the familiarity of leading Ryan.
"Good. Is it--?"
"Three paces to the right," he says, and moves with Ryan as the line they are in starts moving faster. He squeezes Ryan's forearm for a second, closing his eyes as he places a small peck on Ryan's lips, barely the brush of his own. Ryan smiles back at him, and if Seth sees a woman his mother's age giving them the evil eye, he pretends he doesn't.
"Hmm," Ryan half purrs, low on his throat, and Seth chuckles, ducking his head, feeling his cheeks heating up.
"Ryan," Seth says with a half a laugh, squeezing the forearm and Ryan takes another step forward, closer to the counter, their tickets in Seth's left hand.
Ryan makes his way down the stairs -- fourteen, fifteen, sixteen -- and pauses for a second when he reaches the ground floor. His hand is closed tight around the edge of the banister, and he takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his mouth. He can hear Sam barking, probably out in the backyard, with Sandy or Kirsten or both, and Sophie, who's screaming her head off in laughter, and he could call Sam, he knows that if he were to call Sam, he'd come back in a second. But Ryan doesn't want to. This is his house, as much his house as his apartment in Berkeley. He knows this place, knows it like the back of his hand, spent a whole weekend mapping it in his mind, making blueprints and counts and sizes and learning them until he could count them backwards from one edge of the property to the next. He knows this place, this is home. He shouldn't need his dog.
He takes another deep breath, turning his head to the left, looking over his shoulder and snorting at the pun. Seth's still in bed, Ryan left him there. He just lifted Seth's arm from over his chest, made his way to the bathroom with a tentative hand out, took a shower and changed -- he's pretty sure he's wearing the dark green t-shirt, but it could very well be one of Seth's and he wouldn't know -- before counting his way down the hallway and stairs. He can almost imagine Seth standing there, at the top of the stairs, smiling down at him. He can imagine Seth, because he's seen him do that so many times.
He smiles at the cognitive memory before taking a step forward -- two o'clock, the door leading to the kitchen is across the living room, two o'clock from the bottom of the stairs, always remember that Ryan, because there will come a time when you won't see and you have to know that the door is two o'clock from the bottom of the stairs. He swallows, takes in another breath and counts his paces -- four, five, six -- and reaches a hand out, coming up with nothing but air. He can feel his throat tight, panic settling in the pit of his stomach, making its way up to the mouth of the same. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It's supposed to be right here. It's supposed-- six paces from the bottom of the stairs at two o'clock, it's fucking supposed to be-- he takes a small step forward and his hand collides with the edge of the frame, grasping at it as if it's the one thing grounding him to the Earth and his throat is tight and breath is coming out of him in hard pants and his heart is racing and his knuckles ache as they clutch at the concrete and cement and paint and his face is twisted in a scowl and he can't fucking breathe--
Ryan stands up straight, counts his breaths until they don't come hollow from his throat and pats the side of the wall, the corner that leads to the inside of the kitchen and takes another step forward. One step forward, one step to the left. The edge of the counter digs into his hip and he remembers, he remembers. One step forward, and then around, the stove another forward, two more and the corner, turn around, two more forward and there's the sink, another one and the coffeemaker on the corner that's against the high cupboards, around to his left, the windows right before him. If the does a 180 degree turn, there's the wood block, the bagel cutter, the smaller sink. The knives on his right, one o'clock if he reaches forward. A pace to his left, the corner of the kitchen island, the two chairs -- high chairs, Seth used to joke because they are not your usual table high chair -- where he and Seth used to sit for breakfast.
He closes his eyes, seeing the kitchen in his mind. Clear cream colored tiles on the kitchen, green painted walls -- that only seemed to change shades over the years, Kirsten apparently has a thing for her kitchen being green -- further into it, around the kitchen table they only seemed to use for dinner and doing their homework, green wicker chairs -- again, shades changing shades to match the walls. If he takes two steps forward from the edge of the kitchen island, he'll run into the table, and then to his right in 90, three more steps, the French doors. The back yard, the barbeque, the pool house, the pool, the Jacuzzi, the ocean.
He takes another deep breath, one step forward, then turns around, makes his way around the kitchen island until he's standing before the coffee maker. His hand reaches out, hesitantly, half afraid, and his finger touch the glass surface and he lets out a sigh of relief he hadn't known he'd been holding. His fingers brush the Braille tags, coffee maker in a language the pads of his fingers can understand, and he reaches forward with this right hand, for the high cupboards until he finds he handle and pulls it open. Careful now, mugs and glasses. His used to be the one in the top left corner. So he -- very, very slowly -- searches for it (yellow coffee mug chipped on the handle but he's really fond of it and always said no when Kristen asked him if she should buy him a new one) with the tips of the fingers. He can feel the soft touch of glass instead of ceramic and moves his hand further to the left until they fall on a Braille tag (Ryan's mug) and he smiles. He finds the handle (it should be way discolored by now, and his fingers find the chipped bottom of the handle and at least Kirsten didn't replaced it with a new one just because he can't see it) and picks it up, closing the cupboard door as he does so.
He pours himself a cup of coffee -- finger tipped inside of the mug, to feel when the coffee is close to the brim -- and places the pot back on the coffeemaker and licks his scalded finger. He walks to the French doors, gaining confidence with each step, and he reaches out, touching the frame of the glass panel, the doors opened, and walks outside. He counts his paces to his left -- to his left, because four paces forward is the bottom of the set of five steps that lead to the pool house -- twelve in total, and just after five, he hears Kirsten's, "Hey, Ryan!"
He smiles at her, halting his step for a second, and hoping she won't come running to lead him. She doesn't, but he hears Sam barking and running his way toward Ryan until he feels a doggy head nudging his knee and Ryan smiles, leaning down to pet Sam on the head without really spilling his coffee.
"It's okay," he tells Sam, scratching him behind the ears and the mutt nuzzles his hands even more. He chuckles. "It's okay. Go back to them. I know my way around this place." And he must have sounded really certain, because Sam kind of whines in the back of his doggy throat, nuzzling his hand one last time before pulling away.
A moment later Ryan hears small sneakers clad feet running down five steps and toward him. "Dayan!"
"Sophie!"
Kirsten calls out for her, but Ryan shakes his head. It's okay, he wants to say, because he knew she would do this, he expected Sophie to do this. She throws herself against Ryan's legs, and had Ryan not been waiting for her, he might have had trouble with his footing. Instead, he bends forward and places one arm on her back, hugging her clumsily. "Hello, sweetie."
Sophie pulls back, slightly, and Ryan can feel her hands on the back of his knees and he can imagine, see her in the back of his mind, perfect picture, leaning back, head thrown back, grinning up at him. "Dayan! You're here and now we can play and we can--"
"Before we have to have breakfast, huh? How about you go ahead, and I'll catch up with you in a second?"
"Need help?"
"Sophie!"
Ryan smiles at Sophie's question, at Kirsten's outrage. "I'm fine, baby. Really. Just go and I'll be right behind you."
She doesn't seem to believe him, but she knows he's blind now. She knows because he told her himself days after it happened, and yesterday before dinner, he let her touch his face and make sure he wasn't playing tricks on her.
She nods, he assumes, because then she's letting go of his legs and he hears her making her way back to his parents. He smiles at her, at the image of her back in his mind, and turns in the general direction of the large expanses of green grass, and blinks for a second.
"Ryan?" Sandy, his tone worried, and a beat later, there's Kirsten's maternal voice, "Sweetie? Should I--?"
"No, no, I'm fine. I'm fine." He smiles at her, at where he can almost imagine her standing, and picks up his counting where he left off -- six, seven, eight.
He keeps on counting until he reaches the bottom of the five set of stairs, up them, and then feels the change on the ground, grass where ceramic tiles used to be.
"Sweetie," Kirsten says, somewhere to his left, and he turns slightly, expecting her touch on his shoulder and he tilts his face to the side, and she kisses him on the cheek. "Oh, sweetie," she says again, placing her arms around him, and Ryan turns his wrist, careful not to spill the coffee.
He smiles against her, her hair against his cheek, his cheekbone, his face. She smells like lilies and softness, just like she always does, just like he remembers. He can imagine the way the sun hits her hair, the side of her face, the highness of her cheekbone, her soft makeup, the pearl white color of her skin. He smiles and nods and sighs and he remembers, he remembers her.
He pulls away after a breath, and she touches his cheek with the palm of her hand and lean forward to kiss him where his cheek meets his nose.
Sophie giggles somewhere in the back, probably around the lounge chairs, and Sam barks and Sophie giggles once again. Sam seems to think Sophie is his to play with, and Sophie thinks the same thing about Sam.
"Good morning, son," Sandy, his voice normal and confident, and he places a hand on Ryan's forearm, squeezes before letting go. "Where's Seth?"
He swallows, feeling his cheeks reddening at the question, and at his following answer. "Still in bed. I thought I'd see what you're doing."
"Nothing much," Kirsten, and Ryan can almost hear her shrug, "we were thinking about taking Sam out for a walk but we weren't sure--"
If Ryan needed him here, if Ryan depended that much on Sam that he couldn't be without him for a whole morning. He shakes his head. "Seth usually walks him before breakfast, though he complains before leaving and the second he arrives," he says with a smile.
"He's been stretching his legs," Sandy says with a chuckle, and Ryan hears Sam barking, and Sandy laughs, then Sam trots somewhere, away from him. "Chewing a bone. We bought him a couple last time we went to the market."
Sam loves those. Seth wonders why Sam needs them, when the mutt seems to have a preference for Seth's sneakers. Ryan smiles. "No wonder I can hear him running around."
"Sophie's keeping Sam entertained," Kirsten says with a chuckle, "but he's a bit big for her, so your father and Sam are playing fetch," she says, and Ryan closes his eyes for a second. Kristen's eyes, the perfect shade of blue that match the sky as its darkening, looking at him, smile on her face, her hair falling over her shoulder.
"Don't."
Seth's voice, and Ryan can't help but smile at the sound of it. Ryan turns around, over his shoulder, to his left. He can barely hear Seth's steps, but he knows Seth's making his way to him. "Why?"
"Because then the mutt is going to think I have to play fetch with him and when I don't, he'll take it out on my sneakers. Brand new, because he ate the last pair! Or worse, on my shirts. Or even worse, on my jeans."
"And how can the dog run into your clothes?"
Kristen's motherly voice, and Ryan smirks, seeing her with her arms folded on her chest, one eyebrow raised.
"Floor," Ryan says in his cough, and Sandy chuckles, and Ryan thinks Kirsten shakes her head.
"Traitor," Seth snorts, and then a hand falls on the inside of his elbow, the other on the edge of his collarbone, where it meets the shoulder, and Ryan tilts his face to accept the kiss that falls on his cheek. He smiles, at the warmth of Seth's touch, at the fingertips touching the sensitive skin near his collar and forearm.
"Hey," Seth says when he pulls away, and Ryan smiles at him, looking in the general direction of him, and can see brown eyes and planes and lines he knows by touch, by lips and kisses and sighs.
"Hey," Ryan says back, smiling, and Seth takes the cup of coffee from Ryan's lazy fingers. "Hey! Get your own!"
Seth chuckles, handing him back the mug. Ryan feels Seth stumble a step back, and Ryan chuckles, knowing that was Sophie The Storm Cohen, throwing herself at Seth.
"Hey, those are attached, you know?"
"What is attached?"
Ryan shrugs, taking a step away from them, but then there's Seth's hand on his elbow and he grins, chuckles, Sophie apparently letting go of Seth because Ryan's legs are more comfy.
"What's attached?" She asks again, but this time to Ryan and not Seth.
"Attached, and it means you have to be careful with how you throw yourself at your brother Seth because he's delicate. He could break," Ryan says with a smile, looking down at her, and wonders what she sees when she looks at him.
"Hey!"
"I can break him?"
Ryan nods. "Yep. You can break him. That'd be very, very bad."
"Well, of course that'd be bad. I'm very important to the safety and sanity of this household, what do you think--?"
"Can I break you, Dayan?"
Ryan chuckles at her question over Seth's whining, bending as much as he can and not dripping the coffee in his hands. He shakes his head, ruffling her hair, cupping her face. "No, baby, you can't break me."
"Good, I don't wanna you broken."
Ryan smiles and when she lets go a bit of his legs, he places an awkward kiss on the top of her head that leaves his back hurting, and reminding him he's not so young anymore.
"So, did anyone make breakfast or have you forgotten about your children for favoring a dark colored mutt?"
A huff from Sam, and Ryan chuckles, standing up, hearing Sophie going over to wherever Sam is barking from. "I think he's insulting your lineage."
"He wouldn't," Seth says, his fingers staying on the inside of Ryan's elbow. "He loves mom and dad too much. He's probably just badmouthing the grandpa."
"There are bagels inside."
Ryan smiles at Sandy's voice, and at the way he can almost feel Seth bouncing on his feet. "Perfect. I'm starving."
Ryan blushes to the tips of his ears, because they might not have done anything last night -- Sandy and Kirsten were only down the hallway, there was no way he was getting hard with them down the hallway, two doors from them -- but that doesn't mean they know they didn't do anything.
A nudge from Seth, his elbow to Ryan's side, and a chuckle from his throat. "You're making the eggs."
Silence from the parents, and they don't know that Ryan and Seth are fighting tooth and nail for some semblance of normalcy in their home. Ryan snorts. "Oh, please. Then you'll be bitching about them being burned."
"They were!"
"I couldn't tell," Ryan says haughtily, a grin on his lips.
A snort from Seth. "I'm rolling my eyes at you, just so you know. Come on," another nudge at his side, and he can almost hear the smile on Seth's voice. "I'm making the eggs, but you're cutting the bagels."
He nods, smiling, and a beat later Sandy and Kirsten are talking and the awkwardness of a second ago is long gone. Ryan grins, his hand tightening around his mug, Seth's hand on his arm, and Sam trotting past them and into the kitchen, Sophie running behind him.
Lunch in Berkeley had always been a couple of sandwiches -- in the cafeterias, when they were both at school; at a small restaurant, somewhere in between the campus and the Braille institute when Ryan wasn't anymore -- but Ryan remembers how unusual it was for the four of them to have lunch together at the house. Maybe that was the reason Kirsten always tried her best for each of them to eat something they wanted. It usually meant either him or Seth making something, Sandy arriving just in time for him to grab a bite and then rush out, while Kirsten complained that if they all were trying, the least Sandy could do was stay for more than ten minutes.
Ryan and Seth used to make the sandwiches, and then Kirsten developed that thing for cooking, and she started making the sandwiches. And he remembers, he thinks with a small smile, standing against the counter, hip on the edge, hearing her moving around the kitchen. He closes his eyes briefly, the sound of the bag of bread being opened, slices being pulled, and his chest is tight and he remembers, he remembers, perfect images and colors and the soft pinkness of her lips curling up, the way her eyes seem to change shades.
He thinks he remembers details that time has blurred and tinted in yellow and browns. The lines on her face, the wrinkles she didn't use to have when she was younger, five years younger, so beautiful it was stunning and breathtaking. The way the shade of blue would change, would shift, from ocean to sky and back again in a blink. He doesn't know if he remembers it right, or if his mind is playing tricks on him and at this point in his life, he'll never know, so he chooses to believe his memory. Blue, blue, perfect blue and golden hair, and white skin and soft touch and warm voice and--
"Sweetie?"
His smile stays on his lips but it feels sad on his tongue for a second. He used to be able to see her, to watch her, and there was a point not so long ago when he knew he wouldn't see her ever again, not like that moment, not in that perfect light, and he can't now, not anymore. It hit him then like a knife to his chest and he couldn't breathe, and now it's no different.
He breathes out through his mouth, and it ends in pain and ache but he smiles at her.
I remember you, he thinks, his eyes prickling even as he blinks, blindly, owlishly, I remember you, Kirsten, you have to know that. I remember you.
"Ryan?"
He swallows past the colors and shades and light and memory and waves it away with his right hand, turning around, making his way around the kitchen island. He's careful with the stools -- two, three, four -- and reaches out a hand and he sighs in relief as it lands on the fridge. He opens the right door and leans closer, frowning, trying to remember the way Kirsten used to store the perishables.
"Sammmy!!!" Sophie screams as she makes her way into the kitchen, and Ryan laughs, looking over his shoulder even if he can't see anything, and then Sophie's rushing past his legs, bumping into him, and Sam is following her, barking at the top of his lungs, having the time of his life.
Ryan chuckles, and then leans toward the fridge once again. He tries the second shelf, to the left, and his hand falls on something he's pretty sure it's the jam. "Jam and cream cheese, or just jam, or--?"
"The cheese is a little to your left, just behind the gallon of milk."
Ryan nods, thankful for the directions and grasps the cheese easy in his hands. He turns around, closes the fridge with his elbow, and takes a step forward. He stretches his arm, slightly, and his forearm touches the edge of the kitchen counter. He places both the jam and the cream cheese on it. He could very easily make the slices himself, but he doesn't think either he or Kirsten are ready for that.
"Thanks," Kirsten says.
Ryan smiles at her, hearing her reaching for the knife, the soft slide of blade against cheese and jam and he closes his eyes. He smiles at her, and the taste on his tongue is not as bitter as before.
So turns out I write too much. Nothing new there, but my chapters are too long and I figured, well, I can just divide them in more chapters, right? *giggles* There are now twelve chapters. Once upon a time, there were ten but chapter "nine" was HUGE so now it's three different chapters. God, I'm weird.
That said, and having read the story, you must leave feedback. Yes, yes, you must. Otherwise I stare at my Outlook and my inbox and then sigh in longing and that's not a pretty sight. You must leave feedback. Right here. Click right under here. *giggles* Too much sugar, I think.
Going now. Yet more stories to write! *giggles*