(no subject)

[wearemany]

You think you're worth your weight in gold.

The OC: Ryan/Seth. Brief mentions of Seth/Luke and Seth/Zach. AU.

Warnings: Hookers. Deflowering. Unsupervised grilling. Sequel to The Difference Between Breaking the Bank and Just Breaking Even.



Everybody's Looking Like the Color of Money

_____________________________________
It's your secret to success
That is causing such a mess

Your cell rings at noon on a Saturday. You're doing next week's reading in between sets of sit-ups, lying on your back on the living room floor with your legs propped up on the coffee table. It's in the 949. Old habits die hard, and you answer it with a grunt.

"Hi, um. I'm trying to reach Bobby?"

There's a reason you didn't disconnect this number. "You got him."

"Oh, hi, hi there, this is Seth. Cohen? We met at a party, at my mom's birthday party actually, in Newport. It was a few months ago. You know my Uncle Gary? Except he's not --"

"Seth," you say. "I remember." You remember his soft mouth and his eager hands. You remember how it's been three months.

"Oh, good. That's good." It's quiet like a museum on his end of the phone and his voice has a little echo to it.

"So what can I do for you?"

"Oh, yes, right. I was wondering if -- I know it's short notice and all but I don't know, maybe it's a slow week or something. I was wondering if you were free tonight?"

You have another two hundred pages to read before the summer session starts Monday, and tutoring tomorrow in Ontario, and you promised your roommate Johnny you'd make chimichangas for dinner. "Yeah," you answer. "Okay."

"Really?"

"You'll have to remind me how to get there from L.A." There's a notebook on the couch and a pen under the coffee table. He babbles directions and the latest traffic reports, and you try to pay attention to the freeway numbers instead of thinking about how fucking around with Seth kind of fucked you up.

"Okay, and there's one other thing," Seth says. "And I don't want you to think I'm some kind of crazy stalker or something, or that I'm sitting here with some Newport vice squad guy on the extension, but."

You realize he's waiting for you. "What?"

"When we have parties they just wave everybody through, but otherwise not so much, and lately, they've gotten real serious about security. I don't know, like somehow our houses are going to be taken over by terrorists or something? But I, uh. I have to give the guard your name. And you have to show ID."

"Oh," you say. You have a fake for Bobby in the back of your wallet but the idea of Seth saying your real name is something you never let yourself imagine. Until now.

"Or I can come down and meet you somewhere and drive us back in, which is totally okay, because I respect, you know, your need for privacy and whatever, so just --"

"Ryan," you say, and Seth shuts up. "It's Ryan. Atwood."

He repeats it back slowly, like he's memorizing it in case of emergency. Your stomach feels shaky, but you didn't do nearly enough sit-ups for that to be why. "That's nice," he says. "Nice, solid name, it's --"

You have to interrupt him. You have to get off the phone and take a shower and remember how the world works. "I need a couple hours. Around six okay?"

"Absolutely," he says. "Six is great. Hey, you're not, like, a vegetarian, are you? Because I was thinking we could grill some steaks."

You lie back on the rug, shaking your head at yourself. "No, Seth. I am not a vegetarian."

After Seth has detailed his experience in grilling chicken breasts and small vegetables and his inclination to graduate to red meat, you hang up and realize Johnny's standing in the doorway.

"If you're short on rent," he says, "I could spot you a few hundred."

"It's fine." You open your book again and read the same sentence three times in a row without understanding it.

Johnny turns to leave and then spins back around. "I thought you said --"

"It's not a big deal, man. He's just a kid."

"Yeah," Johnny says, because he's too polite to call you a liar. "You should give that a try some time."

*

A girl with cheekbones like paper cuts is standing in the driveway next to Seth's and she stares at your car as you pull up to the house. You stand on the wide stone steps and try to dust off the fuzz your car seat left on your pants. The chimes sound hollow and lost.

Seth flings open the door and then stands there, staring. You stare back. He's wearing a tight dark blue T-shirt and jeans and canvas shoes. He's fresh-shaven, and he smells sharp and sweet. "Hi," you say, and shove your hands in your pockets.

"Did the Gestapo give you any grief? Because I'm sure my dad would be happy to sue them."

"He's a lawyer?" It figures.

"Sometimes," Seth says. "Sometimes he's a beach bum." He gestures expansively at the house behind him. "Please, come into my palace."

You step inside, nodding. "Nice."

"Okay, if I'm totally telling the truth here, I guess it's my palace much in the way that Buckingham Palace is Prince William's palace. My once and future palace. My until-my-folks-get-back-from-Hawaii palace."

The ocean is a wild blue and fills the windows like an exotic cocktail. Waking up to this every day probably makes the rest of the world seem boring. "It looks bigger without the party."

"Bigger, quieter, more palatial. These are all good things, Ryan --" Seth stops and holds up a finger.

You shrug. "It's fine. It's my name." You like how he says it, like he's known you for years.

"Yeah," he says, "but I read this whole book about respecting the professional boundaries of escorts, and not writing anyone checks, and treating people with the respect you'd show any employee, and --"

"You read a book on escort etiquette?" You have never met anyone like this kid, so sure of himself even when he thinks he's not.

Seth leans against the door to the kitchen. "Well, technically it was a webpage, but I think it was adapted. And while we're on the topic, we should talk about money. Because believe me I know better than to try to get something for nothing. The book was very clear on that point."

Maybe it's being out of practice that makes the truth feel like a punch. People paid you to fuck them. This was your life. You nod and try to smile. "Yeah, sure."

"So I was doing some online comparison shopping," Seth says. "And I have to say, I think either you were just taking pity on me or there's some kind of secret beginner's special."

"I was bored," you say, but you know you're just hitting back, and it's not his fault for trying to do the right thing. "And yeah, sure, you only have one first time."

Seth scratches at his arm and shuffles his feet. "I've got all this birthday money burning a hole in my pocket, so. Um."

"How much are we talking about?" Kids up here probably get houses for presents, or sailboats or fancy cars.

"Five hundred," Seth says, and he looks embarrassed. You're not sure if it's for getting so much or offering so little. You used to make four or five times that in a night. He clears his throat. "Maybe you could stay over? If, you know, you want to, and you don't have anywhere else you have to be."

It's an awful idea. Johnny should have told you straight out that you were being an idiot, thinking this kid might be calling because he liked you and not just for kicks, not just to pay for a good time. You did this for too long not to know the difference. Your reasons for quitting were too good to pretend you've forgotten.

You were never any good at doing things because you should. "I have to be up in Ontario by eleven tomorrow. How long do you think it'll take me to get there?"

Seth couldn't lie about how he feels if his life depended on it, and his whole face gets caught up in a wide-mouthed grin. "The 55 always sucks, man. Maybe an hour and a half?"

You step up to him, letting your thighs press against his, and kiss him lightly, like a handshake sealing the deal.

"Oh," he says, and puts his hand on your waist. "Hello." His lips are a little waxy and smell like honey, and his tongue is cool and careful. It makes you think of popsicles, of summer afternoons chasing down the ice cream truck with a handful of dirty coins bouncing in your pocket. It makes you feel young.

When you move away, his body follows yours. You edge your way into the kitchen, which looks like it's never been used. "You said something about a steak?"

"Not steak," he says. "Filet. Steak is for mere mortals."

You get it now, that when he stops talking he expects you to keep the flow going. There's a reason you never did phone sex, and no one was picking you up for your ability to engage in witty repartee, either. A few well-placed one-liners stolen from old movies and you were good to go. The way you saw it, it never stopped you from thinking whatever you wanted in your head. Seth doesn't seem to have a filter between what he thinks and what he says. You're not sure if it's the kind of thing that can be learned.

"Mere mortals," he says again.

You lean against the island as he digs in a stainless steel fridge the size of your bathroom. "And we are?"

"We are living large. We are mice taking over the house when the cats are away. We are the cat's meow." He holds up a Zip-locked bag in triumph. "Tonight we will feast as kings."

You feel your mouth curving up before you can stop it, and then you decide this is what you're getting paid for, after all, to have fun. You can do that much. "So how've you been, man?"

"Good, good," Seth says. "Had the big birthday. I'm now officially a man, or so the nice fellows at the Army recruiting office tell me. But I come from a long line of 4-F'd Jews, so there's no need to worry on that front."

"Eighteen," you say. "Feel different? You look a little older."

"Well…" Seth leans against the fridge with his expensive steaks in his arms like sandbags. "You know, I have been busy since I saw you."

You wonder what could possibly keep a guy like Seth busy, a guy whose windmill mind never seems to slow down.

"It turns out," he's saying, "that any number of young men at the Harbor School may be susceptible to my charms. Or anyway I am fast and wily and they are slow and stunned long enough for me to work my mojo."

"Your mojo?"

"Yeah, you know. You, of anyone, know. You are full of mojo. Not to mention moxie. I had to make do with a pale imitation."

You raise an eyebrow. He stacks the frozen meat on the counter behind him and says, "Okay, so, it's like this. There's this guy Luke, this water polo player. Actually they're all polo players, but this is Newport, so I figured I had to take my big beefy guys obviously dealing with some sexual overcompensation where I could find them. So we're in the locker room --"

You must be smirking, because he stops. "Sorry, sorry," you say, hands up. "You sure this wasn't on cable?"

"I only wish there was photographic evidence. So the rest of the team is gone already, and he's sitting there in a towel, just staring off into space. And I, you know." He waggles his eyebrows. You shrug a question. "You know. Just went over and, like. Got down and did it."

He looks proud, but not surprised. You're surprised. "You just sucked him right there?"

He blushes, and if you were keeping score you'd think that meant something. "Well, I started. And at first it was fine. I mean, I think he was a little shocked --"

"You think?"

"But he was into it, man. And it was fine, I was doing my thing and he was enjoying the attention, and then he thought he heard someone coming and kind of, I don't know." He frowns.

"Freaked?" You've never tried to fuck someone you didn't know for sure wanted it. Not even Seth, not really. You've done enough of this that you can spot confused desire a mile away.

"Totally freaked. Practically ran off without his pants he was so freaked. But, you know, I saw him the next day and he called me a queer and tried to trip me, so it was just like nothing ever happened."

You'd bet your bottom dollar that before you Seth had never kissed a boy, and five minutes later he's chasing future frat boys without a fear in the world. "Pretty brave," you say.

"Yeah, you think? I don't know." He shakes his head and scrunches up his nose. "It was hardly my finest hour."

"You went for what you wanted." You shrug. "That's more than most people ever do."

"Well, then I figured out that if this is what I really wanted, maybe I should, you know, offer my moxie to someone I actually like."

"Never hurts to like what you do." You've heard that advice yourself once or twice.

"So there's this guy Zach. Also a water polo player, but not in a way that makes sense to anyone, because, strangely? Not an asshole. And he also happens to be the only other member of the comic club. Other than me, of course."

"Of course." Seth seems pretty comfortable on his own. Maybe he's an only child. You haven't seen any evidence of another kid around, but then again this house seems better fit for a magazine cover than an actual family.

"He's so nice he freaks everybody else out, I think. But, I don't know, we hang out every once in a while, which is every once in a while more than I hang out with anyone else I go to school with."

"Is there a locker room in this story?"

"Very funny. You have a sense of humor!" He holds a finger to his lips and makes an evil villain face. "I had no idea you could be funny, Ryan. This adds a whole other dimension to tonight. But sadly, no. No locker room. In this quaint little tale there is merely a comic book convention and a stolen bottle of Jack Daniels and drunken making out in the back of my mom's Range Rover."

You nod approvingly. That's some kind of progress, in Seth's world.

"And, well, at least he didn't try to kick my ass."

"But..."

"Zach is kind of. Fragile. And he's so nice to everyone. There has to be something going on with that, right? He has all these pressures because of his family, being a politician's son, and the next day he came over and started, like, crying, and then told me he'd love to be my friend but there absolutely could not be any more kissing. Or sex. Definitely no sex."

"Sounds like that was his problem."

"Pretty much it all comes down to me not getting laid, though, doesn't it?"

You smile. "Pretty much. But I think you might get lucky soon."

He lights up like it's a gift, like you'd wandered into his birthday party with a cake and a stupid hat. "And believe me, that is no consolation prize, no sirree. Though all the same there's that proverb about the man and the fish and the teaching and a lifetime of making your own fun."

You consider that. "Wait, how'd you know what to do with Luke?"

He looks a little sheepish. "I just tried to do it like you had, to attack when he was least expecting it and keep asking him questions he'd want to say yes to."

You wouldn't have put it like that, but the idea of Seth on his knees in a locker room is shocking and hot. You don't think you like the idea because he's scared. You like it because he's fearless. "Show me," you say.

"Um, what?"

You're good at being dangerous, but you're never truly reckless. This is something else. "I'll tell you what to do different. Teach you."

"And you want me to --"

"Seduce me." It's the most selfish thing you've ever asked a guy. You've never wanted them to do the hard work, because you've never cared deep down how it felt. You want to feel this, to feel that sharp focus of Seth's attention, to make him be brave with you. You need to learn how to take what you want instead of just what you need to get by.

He laughs and covers his mouth and shakes his head like he won the lottery, and then he says, "Okay," and boxes you in against the island with his arms on either side. "I really like you," he says, two inches from your mouth, and then he tilts his head and kisses you. You forget to close your eyes at first, and then he wraps one arm around your back, like you're dancing, and kisses you until you forget you can see.

He snakes down your body, hands before mouth so your pants are down around your ankles before he licks your hipbone, and when he swallows you down you a noise pushes out of your throat that you've never heard before. It ricochets through the huge empty house and you should be embarrassed but Seth is squeezing your ass with both hands and, god, he must have been practicing on something because you're deep inside and he takes it all this time, slippery and smooth and he's kneeling on the goddamned kitchen floor sucking you like the two of you have been doing this forever.

You know you yell because you can almost still hear it when your ears stop ringing. He sits back on his heels, and guys have been doing this for you for two years, sometimes three or four in a night, but you've never wanted to pet their hair or run a finger over their mouth or get down on your knees and kiss them.

You don't. You just can't want that, that much, this soon. You yank him up, harder than you'd meant to, and push him against the refrigerator. You have his pants down before he's even thought to reach for his fly, and you jerk him hard and fast, your spine tingling as he pushes up to you every time you pull, because this is a guy who doesn't know he's supposed to be afraid of you.

He doesn't know you're usually the rough take-no-shit top, he doesn't care what movie star you look like or what porn scene you did that he could try for himself. He just wants to get off. He wants you to get him off, and he wants it now, he wants it however you want it even if you've got no idea what that is because you've never fucked just for the fun of it, not like this. You bite his collarbone and he comes in your hand.

He slings an arm around your shoulder and you hold him up as his body slumps. "Wow," he says, because of course he can't just be quiet. You kiss him for a while until you feel capable of speech.

"That was good," you say.

"Riiiight." His sigh blows in your ear and your legs get shaky. "Any tips? Tricks of the trade?"

You don't really have any idea what you're doing, but you don't know how to say that, either. "You could talk more."

"During? Guys like talkers? And how am I supposed to do that with my mouth full?"

"Before. You didn't get much out before."

"Wait, you want me to talk more? Have you met me? Talking has never gotten me anywhere."

"Seduction's about the brain, Seth, not just the body."

That shuts him up for a while. Then he touches his forehead to yours and says, "Hey, Ryan? Can I ask you something?"

You'd nod but you don't want to stop feeling his skin. "Yeah, sure."

"You really like this?"

"Yeah, of course."

"No, I mean." He's speaking softly and you lean left a little to catch the words. "You seemed really into it. Your body did, at least."

It's kind of embarrassing to realize other people have seen you wanting something so much. "I like sex?" you say, but you don't mean it to sound like such a question.

"Well, yeah," Seth says. "Obviously. But." You tuck your nose into his neck and listen to the sound of his pulse thudding against his throat. "I mean, you've done this before. A lot. Right? And, I don't know. Is it just that it's always that cool? I can see how sex is just always pretty much the coolest thing in your life, because that's why people do it, right? Even when they know they shouldn't, or it'll mess up their lives or whatever. Is that why?"

His words vibrate against your lips, lulling you like the steady hum of wheels on the road.

"Ryan?" He rubs the back of your neck.

"I don't know," you say. You should tell Seth he's the one who makes you like it so much. It's the easy answer, and maybe it's even accurate. But it isn't really the truth.

The truth is you didn't quit hustling because of Seth. It wasn't even about the money, though you just about had enough saved up that you knew you could live cheap and finish school without slipping back in for some easy cash. You walked away before you'd planned to because of a studio head named Mike. Mike had fine white blond hair and a glass-walled living room overhanging the beach, and liked you to fuck him with his face pressed up against the windows, and one day he wanted you to tell him how much you liked it.

But you didn't like it. You thought it was a little weird and, after the fifth time in a month, really boring. It wasn't anywhere near the worst thing someone had wanted from you, or the worst thing you'd done, but you just couldn't pretend it was your fantasy, too. You put on your clothes and walked out, leaving the envelope full of hundreds on the front table and Mike screaming and yelling after you.

Seth traces the bones in your shoulder and squeezes your arm gently. "Sex is complicated," you say, and he nods. "And hard work. And aren't we supposed to eat something soon?"

"Like kings," Seth agrees, and he bends down for his pants. "If you want, I'll even let you light the grill. How's that for cool?"

*

After dinner, after Seth had checked the steak temperature with a meat thermometer thirty-seven times and then invented a game where you alternated feeding each other slices of meat, you stand up and stretch your arms over your head. "That hot tub is looking pretty good right now," you say, toeing off your shoes.

"Well, please, be my guest. I mean, you are my guest, and you should absolutely enjoy every amenity Chez Cohen has to offer. Though I guess technically you're more like an employee than a guest, and --"

"Seth?" You pull your shirt off, and he shuts up. You wonder if it can be that easy, if you can just tell him and he'll stop. "It's bad form to remind the help they're hired. Maybe you missed that chapter."

His shoulders curl in on his chest. "Oh, yeah, man, that's. I'm sorry, that's totally not cool."

Your jeans are button-fly and you pop them out one by one, slow and deliberately sexy. Seth seems stuck to his patio furniture, and you shrug the denim down over your bare ass and kick the pants off. Seth's mouth is open, and you run a hand through your hair and smile, glad there's still something you can do that he hasn't seen yet. You let him stare for a while, and when he swallows and looks like he's going to start talking again, you turn around and step down into the water, feeling the heat creep up your calves, around your thighs, over your dick and stomach and chest. You sink down onto the bench and prop your arms up behind you.

"Seth," you say. You like saying his name, how the end makes your tongue touch the roof of your mouth.

"Uh, yeah?" He still hasn't moved.

"Seth, come here."

He stands up, finally, and shuffles over towards the edge.

"Take your clothes off."

"Oh," he says, and his eyes are huge and maybe a little wet. One of the kids you tutor broke the head off his sister's favorite doll by mistake, and he looked a lot like this, like he'd ruined something he hadn't realized he could hurt.

"Hey, it's okay," you say. "Come on, it's no fun in here by myself." He won't meet your eye, and you stand up and rest your hands flat on the ground near his feet. "Look," you say, "I'm not mad." You touch the ankle of his pants with a wet hand, and he squats down.

"That was shitty, what I said."

"You didn't know. It's okay, really." You reach up and hold his chin so you can kiss him. "C'mon. Don't make me pull you in here with your clothes on. Besides, I want to see you strip."

His smile blooms and you push off from the side, floating until your back hits the bench. "I don't really work out or anything," he says, but he's dutifully yanking off his shirt.

"Go slow. Tease me a little."

"Dude, we've already --"

"I haven't seen you naked yet." His breath catches. "Seth, come on. Strip for me. I want to see you naked."

He unbuttons his pants and you are mesmerized by his fingers, nimble and sure as he pushes his the fabric down. He forgot to take his shoes off and he kicks at the dead weight until he breaks loose, rolling his eyes at himself and laughing. "I'd like to pretend I'm cooler than this, but I have to say this is exactly just how suave I am. I have special mojo powers, and this is what they get me."

He looks especially tall from this angle, standing above you, lit only by the lamps in the pool. His skin is light but not pale, soft tan lines on his arms and neck, dark hair in a stripe down his chest into his boxers. He is slender but not totally without muscle, just a lean undeveloped physique still a year or two from how it'll look when he's really done growing.

You always stay aware of a guy's body, of how much work it looks like he's used to doing, of which muscles he's clearly polished and expects to be worshipped, but you've never just looked at a body and wondered how it fits with the personality. You wonder what Seth will be like in college as he fills out his frame, whether he'll stop staring at his feet when he walks, whether he'll grow a beard that covers his dimples because he's too lazy to shave every day for class.

He's biting his bottom lip and maybe waiting for instructions. "Slowly," you say. "Just --"

He slides his boxers over his hips and it's nothing you haven't already seen, haven't tasted, but still his dick looks different like this, slowly unveiled for you. He looks like he wants to cup himself but he fists his hands at his sides instead and you stare at him, at his cock. It's flushed with blood, ruddy against pale thighs, a little long but not too thick. The hair is nearly straight there, somehow darker, and the overall effect is more adult, more grown-up than you remember from having it in your hand, in your mouth.

You want him to fuck you.

The thought rushes up on you, swift and sure like an unexpected punch to the gut. There are probably things you've never done in bed, but that's not one of them, adaptability eventually being every hustler's most marketable skill. And yet somehow you don't remember ever looking at a guy and wanting it like this, this fierce, demanding desire to feel his hands gripping your hips and his cock thrusting inside you.

"Get in," you say, and your voice sounds rough. He slides half under the surface, skin shimmering in the rippling aqua light. You reach out and pull him into your lap, pinning his hips down against the buoy of the water. His knees are bent up against your ribs, his ass softly brushing your thighs. He puts his arms around your neck and sucks on your ear, and you trail your hands up and down his smooth back, over and under the water, your throat thickening with want.

You hold his lower back until he understands he can let go, and then he uses his hands to trace patterns on your shoulders and chest. He rubs your nipples, pinches them, twists them and bends to suck them. You keep him down with a strong arm around his waist and let your right hand wander over the curve of his ass, moving from his hip inwards until your fingers are brushing the crack.

He shifts suddenly and you pull away, but he's just rearranging his legs so he can kneel. He rests his forehead against your chest and holds onto one shoulder, arching his back and settling over your lap again. You know an invitation when you see one, and you use both hands this time, squeezing and rubbing from his tailbone down to the fold of flesh where his ass meets his thighs.

When you slide your middle finger between his cheeks, he moans and rubs his forehead against your chest. You push in, gently, and his hand clamps down on your shoulder. "Breathe out," you whisper, and he does. You shudder a little from the power of it, of this boy in your hands who will do whatever you say. You just have to show him how, and then maybe he can do it to you.

He breathes in and out again and you push a little more, stroking his back gently, and then a little bit more, and he blurts out, "Oh my god," and kisses your jaw.

"You okay?"

"Uh-huh." He pushes himself back into your hand and you fuck him a little with it, loosening your grip on his back so he can move with you. "I --" He gets distracted chewing on your neck for a while and then, when the rhythm's evened out, manages to say, "I thought maybe they were kidding."

You catch his mouth for a long kiss. "Who?"

"The -- the people. Online. With the sex. Guides."

He's barely coherent now and you stop long enough to work in a second finger. He whimpers and reaches down, squeezing his dick. You lick his earlobe and say, "You kind of have to do it to really understand."

He braces himself on your leg. "Okay," he says. "Okay, stop, stop then."

"What?" You pull your fingers out slowly and he sits back on your thighs.

"I want --" He's breathing heavy, and blinking a lot. "There's --" He points at the poolhouse, only a few steps away, and takes a gulping breath. "I want us to do it in the bed."

You hold him tight, let him feel your cock pressed up against his, and kiss him softly, shallowly, until his heart has stopped pounding. You hold him by the arms and look him in the eye. "You want me to fuck you?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Yes. Yes. I'm sure."

Something inside you snaps, loosens inside your chest, and you make a soft groan. You close your eyes and press your cheek to his, fingers tracing the back of his neck. "Okay," you say, lips to his ear. "I have some stuff in my car. I'll be right back. Yeah?"

"Yeah, okay."

You rise and his body unfolds along yours until you're both standing. There's a cool breeze that wraps around your wet skin and you both shiver. "Where are the towels?"

"Poolhouse," he says, and smiles.

You climb out and track chlorine all over the floor, coming back with two fluffy bath sheets. You hand one to Seth and wrap the other around your waist, but it's so big that it hangs down like a wedding train. You nudge him towards the building. "Go ahead," you say.

When you come back from the car, he's lying on deep purple sheets, towel hanging down around his hips. There's a light on in the corner, just enough that you're not in complete darkness. He looks nervous again, like the first time you saw him here.

"Seth, we can --"

"What took you so long?" he says, and his mouth curves into a wry smile. "You know, I actually did buy stuff myself. I may not be butch enough to be a boy scout but I'm not totally unprepared."

"And you were so stunned and quiet when I left," you say, and stop trying to hold the towel up. He bites his lip and pulls his off, too.

"I thought you said I should talk more."

You kneel down beside him. "Yeah, I do like it when you talk."

He grins and leans up to kiss you. "So what's in the bag?"

"Not all lube is created equal."

"Okay, okay." He nods. "Should I be taking notes?"

"I'm serious, man. Don't buy cheap shit off a shelf at Walgreens."

"Okay, check, no cheap lube." He examines your bottle of Eros as if he's memorizing the ingredients.

You toss a box of imported Japanese condoms at him.

"Um, how do you read the directions on these? Do you maybe have a dictionary in that bag? 'Cause I can't even read my manga without the scanlations."

You push him back onto the pillows, knocking the condoms and lube out of his hands onto the bed, and lay on top of him. He smiles and reaches up to kiss you.

"Good, we're done with the school supplies," he says, mouth teasing and dodging yours. "I was afraid maybe we were losing our momentum, because sometimes that can happen with a change of venue. The kids graduate from high school, go off to college, and the show never recovers."

You hold yourself up a few inches and slide your hand down, skating past his dick, brushing his balls and pressing your thumb against the hole. "Lube," you say, and he even manages to get it open and pour some into your hand. You shift over a little, onto your side, and go back to where you left off.

When he seems ready, you slide back up to eye-level and kiss him some more. "How do you want to do this?"

He giggles, high and soft and a little hysterical. "Uh, I think maybe you should decide that, given that you've actually, you know. Had sex."

"If you turn over, it's --"

"No," he says. "I mean -- I'd rather, like, see you. If that works."

You push one of his knees up as far as it can bend and lean your weight into it, settling over him. "Works for me."

He nods, quick like a twitching rabbit, and his eyes track every move you make, reaching for the condom, tearing it open, unrolling it, slicking it up.

"Don't forget to breathe."

"Right," he says, stuttering slightly. "Breathing is key."

You were careful the first few times you fucked someone, mostly out of nerves and an overdeveloped sense of displacement, like you were watching yourself from outside your body. You've never gone slow since unless it was a carefully orchestrated tease.

When he seems to have the breathing down, in and out, slow and calm, you push in. His other leg is around your waist and you rub your palm up his ribs and down his chest, reminding him to breathe in and out, in and out, and he does. He starts moving with you after a while, without seeming to notice he's doing it, that he's used to the feel of you inside him.

His eyes are closed and his eyelids are fluttering, but his hips are sliding against yours and when you go a little deeper he cries out and thrusts up hard. "Yeah, okay," you say, "just like that," and on the next pass down of your hand you grab his dick.

That makes his eyes fly open, large and crazy, and he pants breathlessly. "Ryan, that feels sooo..." You twist your hand and he trails off, open-mouthed.

You just want this to be good for him, to be worth remembering, to be useful the next time. But you keep getting a little lost, too, in the feel of his shin bone tucked against your chest, his heel in your back, the perfect rhythm where your hand and his dick and your dick and his ass are all moving together like a smooth machine. It's like all the fucking you've ever done was just practice to make this possible.

He whines and digs his fingernails into anything he can reach, which turns out to be your right forearm and your left nipple, and you speed up just a fraction until he comes, clenching around you and crying out your name. Your real name, over and over like it's the only word he still knows.

You let his legs drop around your sides and slide back, carefully pulling out. You dump the condom on the floor beside the futon and sit up on your knees, pressing your legs into the insides of his thighs and jerking yourself off. Usually you close your eyes for this part, or stare at the headboard, but you can't stop staring at Seth, who's possibly passed out under you, his arms and legs slack and his lips parted, like maybe he's died and gone to sex heaven. You want to make him look like that again, to have him make you lose yourself so completely in sex that you forget you've ever even done it before.

Seth blinks back into consciousness, his wide-eyed fascination burning into your brain, and you come, shooting over your fist and onto his chest, feeling dizzy and dumb with lust. He makes this low, guttural noise as you sit back on your heels, and then he bumps you with his thigh and kicks his foot into your back until you fall forward. You prop yourself up on your elbows and adjust your bodies until they seem to fit, in a sticky, bruised sort of way.

He runs his hands through your hair, which feels a little strange, and then really soothing. When his fingers brush the skin behind your ears, you feel it at the base of your spine, like a lazy giant waking up from a sunny afternoon nap. You remember you want more from tonight.

"There's a shower here, right?" you say into his neck.

"Yeah, but -- oh, yeah. You should see the one in the parents' bedroom. It's like a small nation of showers."

You slowly peel your skin apart from his and sit on the edge of the futon, feet flat on the floor.

"I think your pants are out by the pool," Seth says, like he can read your mind. You're not ready for that yet.

As you stand up, his eyes track your body, lingering south of your waist. "There some reason I need them?"

He sits up, rubbing his eyes and cracking his neck. "Hey, man, while this house is not necessarily zoned for a nudist colony, you certainly won't catch me complaining." He pulls the purple sheet around his waist and slowly stands, wrapping himself in its folds. "Cool," he says. "Toga."

"Shower?"

"Yes," he says, and leads the way. You scoop up your clothes in one hand and then keep the other on his back, through the living room, the kitchen, the foyer, up a handful of stairs and through a master suite that's bigger than your entire apartment.

You've been in big, luxurious showers, before. Gay men spend money on a few consistent things in their expensive houses, and after sturdy enormous beds, showers are a priority. But this wasn't made for play-along-at-home porn. It's sexy in a real world way, two showerheads face to face and a long tiled bench set into the wall.

Seth leaves the sheet draped over a sink and turns on both sets of faucets. "Mild, medium or spicy?" he asks, hand on the hot water valve. You shrug. Whichever. "I have sensitive skin," he explains, and when you step beneath the water it's like a baby's bath, lukewarm water drizzling down your chest. There's no door to pull shut, just gently sloping cool stone beneath your feet and an aluminum-grate drain.

"This is nice," you say, because it is, all these mild temperatures and Seth's curls dripping and hanging heavy on his forehead.

Seth looks down at himself. "Do you think maybe I should start working out? Do guys like that?"

"Maybe they just like hanging out in the locker room."

He spits water at your chest but gets some in your eye, and when you squeeze it shut for a minute his hands come up to your face, stroking your cheekbones, tracing your lips. When your eyes are safely open again he trails his hand down your body.

You turn around, resting a cheek on the cool tile. His fingers are light, nervous on the ridges of your spine, pressing harder when they reach the flesh of your hips. He kneels down, first brushing his palms against your ass, then rubbing harder, then bending his head and making soft bites along the curve.

You look back over your shoulder and he glances up just long enough to get water up his nose. He coughs, steadying himself with a hand around your waist. "This isn't as easy as it looks in the porn," he says.

"Believe me, it's not easy there, either."

Seth stands up fast and presses his body against your back. He's hard again, slick and wet against your ass and you want him just to push in, you want him to fuck you right now, right here, except you remember that wasn't your plan. Not some fumbling fuck. Just because he's never done it before doesn't mean he can't do you right. Seth clears his throat noisily and coughs again. "You did porn?"

"It was good money."

"That is so hot. You're a porn star."

You laugh and the sound echoes back in your face. "Hardly." You did six films, and only got your name in the credits twice. It put cash in the bank, though, and that was always the only point.

"I had sex with a porn star." He kisses the side of your neck. "That explains why the sex was so good the first time, huh?"

You turn your head far enough to catch half his mouth with yours. "It gets better," you say, and he gasps, pushing you flat against the tile wall. You tilt your forehead so you can move your lips and grunt: "Bed."

"Oh, yeah," he says. You turn off the water. He steps out onto the thick bathmat and pulls you along behind him. When you're back in the foyer, dripping shower water all over the floor, he pushes you towards the stairs. "Second door on the left," he says. "I'll be right there."

You've never seen a room like this, straddling adolescence and a Silverlake record store. Maybe this is what the rooms of all guys your age who grow up with money and don't have to leave home look like. You're not sure what it says about you that the lifestyle of a reasonably normal eighteen-year-old feels more unfamiliar than that of a forty-year-old millionaire.

His sheets are dark blue and expensive but that makes sense, you guess, because it's not like he has to pay for them out of his allowance. He probably has no idea what a fifty-fifty poly blend would feel like, but you don't particularly care, because the smooth cotton is crisp and clean and the shimmering thread makes your arms look honeyed and golden. You fold all the covers on the carpet at the foot of the bed and get comfortable.

"Wow," Seth says, and you twist your neck around.

He's wearing this crazy striped robe and is standing in the door, a bottle of water in one hand and your clothes tucked under the other elbow. He drops the lube and condoms on the mattress and your clothes on the floor and takes a long, hysterical swallow of water.

"Are you, um, thirsty?" He starts laughing halfway through the sentence. "Like, from being so hot?"

"No," you say. "I'm not thirsty."

"I just wanted to put the sheets in the, you know. The thing that gets them clean." He screws the cap back on the water. "The washer! Yeah."

"Seth."

"Um, yeah? I'm babbling. I know. I just --"

You turn onto your side. "I want you to fuck me, okay?"

"I -- uh." He sits down on the bed heavily. "Yeah, okay, definitely okay. Though I'm a little sure I might not last longer than, like, another thirty seconds or so."

You reach out, pushing the robe off his shoulders and sliding your arm around his waist. "Then we'll just wait for you to be ready again. It's not a test. There's not a right answer."

"I'm pretty sure there's a wrong answer, though." He sighs and seems to be trying to collect himself. You breathe in time with him and when you're inhaling and exhaling nice and easy, he says, "I don't know, I think maybe I thought you didn't do that. I thought most guys didn't do both."

Pushing up on one arm, you kiss him, stroking the back of his neck with your fingers. "I don't all the time," you say. "Just when I really want to."

He grins slowly. "You really want to?"

"I really want you to."

He bites your neck, quick and light, and shrugs his robe the rest of the way off. "Well, why didn't you say so?" He pushes you back onto the bed, and this is different, this is good, him on top of you, his legs on either side of your thighs. It's good but not quite what you want the most.

"Hey," you say. "Move up a little." He does what you tell him, and you turn over onto your stomach.

He freezes, and then slowly lowers himself back down, letting his full weight rest on your back, his knees now between yours. He rubs his hands up your sides and kisses your neck. "Like this?"

"Yeah." You slide your legs apart a little more, settling your chin into the pillow. "Like before. In the shower."

He lets out a shaky breath into your hair and then slides down your body, mouth and hands drawing on your skin. You keep your eyes open because you don’t want to be anywhere else. You want to be right here, in this chaotic, mismatched bedroom of a boy your own age, his body growing more sure against yours with each touch.

He sits up and the small breeze the motion creates is cool against the tracks his tongue left. "Um," he says, and you smile. "Lube, right?"

"Definitely." You don't think you're making fun of him, but it sounds like how he'd say it, mocking and fond.

You forgot to tell him how to warm it up between his palms, so the first smooth push of his finger is cold. You don't really care, because his palms are so soft against your ass and his finger is long and curious. Two is better, and three makes you huff out all your breath in one hard push. It's textbook prep and it's clear he's been doing more than schoolwork on his computer, but you're grateful not to have to explain every step and mostly you're very, very glad he's practicing this on you.

You don't know why you should care, why you're feeling fiercely glad it's you here in his bed and not that Zach or Luke or any other wandering water polo player who wouldn't know exactly how amazing this was, how fucking astounding Seth was when he really went for what he wanted.

When he pulls his hand away, you lift your hips up far enough to shove a pillow under your stomach. "Oh," he says, softly like he's talking to himself and just fully realized what's about to happen. "Okay, yeah."

You can feel him shifting his weight behind you, getting into place, and you push your ass back a little more before he can reach out. His hands fall gently onto your hips, and you rest your cheek on the pillow so you can speak clearly. "Use your hand. Line yourself up."

"Okay," he breathes out, and does it.

"Go on." He pushes slow and steady and doesn't stop until he's pressed tight against your ass. Jesus. You have no idea what it's like to fuck somebody so easily the first time. Maybe it really does come down to wanting it enough. You thrust back enough to let him know you're ready, and he stutters at first, shallow, uneven jerks, but then he steadies out, slides into the rhythm.

He's humming something, you realize, after you're sure it's not you making that noise. Something sweet and soft in time with how he's fucking you, and you love that he's fucking you and singing at the same time, you love that people fuck and sing and not because they're being paid to, just because they're that happy.

You're happy, the smell of Seth's hair gel and damp cotton in your nose, in your mouth, your hip brushing lightly against the sheets every time he pushes in and pushes you down. His hand skates across your back, the nails grazing flesh as he moans your name, losing his rhythm again, fucking you frantically until he comes with a shocked gasp and slumps over you.

You want to stay right there, maybe forever, maybe at least like that through the night, but he pulls out, not quite as easily as he went in, but he's turning you over, hands on your hips like he's rolling out dough, a gentle lift and fold and before you've got any idea how to finish things off his lips are around your dick, his mouth so much warmer and wetter than any friction you'd managed to build up against the bed. You don't know how he's got any air left to do this because you, you are dying for a nice deep breath, for a full head of oxygen so you can fully appreciate Seth and his flexible, creative quick mind.

He slides his hand back around your ass as he swallows you deeper and when his finger skates into the slick hole, barely even touching you, smooth like water down the back of a dolphin, every ounce of air you've got left slams out of your lungs at once. You come, feeling kicked in the chest, like you got the wind knocked out of you in a hard, fair fight, the kind that's a little exciting because you don't know what will happen.

Seth is wriggling back up your body, mouth skimming along your arm like a sailboat on the edge of a wave, and you finally close your eyes for a while, letting his flushed skin keep you warm, letting him hold you.

*

You cross your wrists, propping up your chin so you can stare at the posters on Seth's walls, strange arty prints with nonsense words in bold block letters. "Are those for bands?"

He makes a mumbling noise that sounds like yes. Then he rearranges the pillow until his head's half hanging off of it and says, "What kind of music do you like?"

Some guys really liked to fuck with the stereo on, but they never played anything near what you might have chosen. "I don't know," you say, but Seth looks so confused by your answer that you add more truth to it. "My parents weren't really into music."

"Oh, lucky you. No, really, you have no idea what it's like being the son of a guy whose childhood dream was to be the next, like, John Travolta. It was crazy, my dad would sing musicals in the car --"

"I used to do musicals," you say, and even mumbled into the back of your hand you can hear the surprise in your voice. You had a life before this, a life with a high school locker with a broken handle and a shitty two-bedroom house and an old Slip'n'Slide you and Trey would drag to the park on the corner when the sprinklers broke. You were a kid once, even when you were trying so hard to be grown up, to be able to do more than sit and cry in the corner with a bloody nose and watch your mom get the shit beat out of her.

You have a single clear memory from before your dad got locked up and one asshole after another tried to take his place: You fell down a fresh-cut hill and got grass up your nose. It's a good memory, running with your arms flailing and your mom laughing and Trey telling you a lawn would grow in your stomach if you swallowed the dirt. Whatever fun you had after that, dressed up for a school play or playing soccer in the abandoned lot behind the grocery store, you always knew you were gonna have to go home, and once you got there you couldn't risk being a dumb kid. You had to be smart, and cunning, and fast.

Seth touches your arm gently. "Ryan?" You wonder if he's been talking this whole time.

"My childhood kind of sucked," you say, and it's the truth but you've never bothered to share it with anyone who couldn't take one look at your bruised face or your twice-broken arm and figure it out for themselves.

Seth doesn't seem to know what to say, and you wish you'd kept your mouth shut. But then he slides his hand under the sheet and up your side, over your ribs and around your back. He rubs between your shoulder blades like he's calming a crying baby and says, "I'm sorry," and you don't know why but you feel better.

*

When you wake up, you're curled around his body, his feet tucked between your calves, his stomach warm under your arm. You do this sometimes, when you're not paying enough attention. You get lost in your sleep, forget where you are and more importantly who you are. Except who you are was a lot more obvious a few months ago. You're not sure yet who this guy is.

Seth mumbles in his sleep and you tilt your neck up so you can see down the smooth plane of his cheekbone. Then his eyes fly open, fast like he's had a shot of adrenalin, but the rest of his body just moves back closer to yours, burrowing into your chest. "Ryan," he says, but with a slur on the front of it, something like an M, like morning or mine or maybe, probably just mmm.

You kiss him under the back of his ear, where there's a dark freckle on the pale smooth skin. He smiles and groans, low down, right under his solar plexus. You try to trace the location with your fingers and he tilts his head back on your shoulder, his lips grazing your chin. It's not something you think out, but your arms close tighter around him, a long, hard hug, something more serious than you'd intended.

Your mouth is open, too, and you watch him track its movement with his peripheral vision, still tilted back. You say, "I don't want you to pay me." You shut up right away, because you've never said anything like that before.

"You -- you don't?"

You try not to move, like if you don't blink or breathe or acknowledge that moment it will just go away, you can go back to being a guy who never said anything by accident, who never made mistakes because those kinds of slips were how a guy like you in a business like this got himself hurt.

Seth slips around in your arms, wriggling until he's facing you. "Was I that bad?"

It's possible he's joking, so you wait it out, let a couple moments come and go while you wait for him to take it back. He's wide awake, a crease down the side of his forehead from where the sheet was folded underneath, his lips pressed tight together under his knuckles, which are apparently holding whatever he has to say hostage.

You shrug free, out from under the covers, absurdly grateful to Seth for bringing your clothes upstairs even though you mostly hate him right now, because you think being naked on top of everything would be painful, would feel like a sunburn.

"I'm taking a shower," you announce, and Seth sits up in bed, holding a pillow over his lap.

"What? I don't understand."

"Nothing." You stop at the door to the bathroom, a whining rage boiling up inside you like you're back on a playground, like you still give a fuck what anyone thinks about you or says behind your back.

Seth is staring after you with this screwed-up face, equal parts perplexed and full of pity. You're not at all sure who he's feeling sorry for, but you sure as shit don't want it to be you.

"You could have just called," you say, and slam the door behind you.

*

Seth opens the door just as you've wrapped the towel around your waist, so you stay standing in the tub and wait for him to start talking.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?"

The bathroom is full of steam and he gets flushed easily, a thin line of sweat along his forehead.

"I'm an asshole. Like, obviously. But I didn't know -- I didn't know I could just call you. I just knew that I wanted to see you again, and last time I gave you money and you took it and everything I read anywhere made it pretty clear that it's totally uncool to expect freebies."

You just want to go home. You want to forget last night, and pretend you're not still capable of making such stupid mistakes, and put on clean clothes and just get on with your life. You can't, because there are fifteen ten-year-olds waiting for you in a rec center lunchroom, and also because Seth is standing between you and the door. "Yeah, okay," you say, and wait for him to move.

"No," he says. "You're not -- you don't understand."

You cross your arms and lean back against the tiled wall. You know he won't let you leave until he thinks he's explained.

"I hate Newport. This place is hell for me. Me and the OC are a truly unbeatable bad combination. I hate the kids I go to school with, and believe me, they hate me right back. I have spent my entire life counting down until I could leave here and go have a real life."

He's trembling, you realize, hands shaking in mid-air even as he waves them in some complicated pattern of apologies.

"And then I met you, Ryan." His eyebrows are crumpled together, his face like a kicked puppy's. "You are probably the best thing that's ever happened to me. Which, I don't know, maybe makes me incredibly lame or naïve or really lucky. And I just wanted to see you again, and I waited to call because -- well, because, I wanted to have enough money for more than a blowjob. Because I knew that even if I never talked to you after that, even if I went away to school and magically my life stopped sucking, that you would still be the best thing that ever happened to me."

He steps onto the bathmat, and then climbs into the tub. He's wearing plaid flannel pants and a white t-shirt and he presses himself up against you. You try to look down, shake your head, but he nudges your cheek with his nose until you're staring right into each other's eyes.

"I really like you," he says. "Really. A lot." He kisses you then, sure but soft, and he hangs his arms around your neck. When your mouth opens he snakes his tongue inside, familiar like an old friend.

Seth likes you. You feel scared and weak and completely confused by everything that's happened, but you remember the feel of his hands on your back as he fucked you and him saying your name like a song. He likes you. You slide your hands up under his T-shirt and he smiles against your lips, kissing you until you lose track of time.

When he finally scoots back, just enough that you can stand up straight in the tub, you feel strangely calm and steady, even if your pulse is skittering and your head feels really full. You have no idea what comes next. "I've never --"

"Had a boyfriend?" Seth interrupts. You don't think that was what you were going to say, if only because you've never once thought that word had a place in your life. "Yeah, well, me neither," he says. "But what are you doing Friday?"

You blink.

"Got any kids to tutor? Tests to take? Got, I don't know, a second job as a rocket scientist you forgot to mention?"

You shake your head.

"So let's go out. Have, um. Dinner? I'll even drive up to L.A. and we can do whatever guys do on Friday nights. Do you know what guys do on Friday nights?" You shrug. "Well, okay, we will be forced to make our own fun. I'll even make you pay, how's that?" He raises an eyebrow and tries to tickle your ribs.

You bat his fingers away. "Okay, okay."

"Okay," he says. "Now. Shower?"

You look down at yourself. You've spent a lot of time in the last day wearing a towel. "Had one," you say.

"No, me. Because this is all about me, remember?"

"Right." You hold onto his shoulder and step out of the tub. Before you let go all of the way, you twist around and turn the water on full-blast, drenching him and his clothes. He shrieks and promises revenge and you close the door on his empty threats.

When you stick your head back in to ask if you can borrow a clean shirt, he throws a washcloth at you. "Only if you make us some coffee, man. Sex is fun but my body wanted sleeeep." You stick your head back around the shower curtain and kiss him and say yes.

*

You've got half a banana stuck in your mouth when Seth's parents walk in the front door. Seth is yelling and clomping down from his room. "Hey, Ryan, do you want a Cohen special bagel before you leave? Maybe a little shmear to take the edge off the drive?"

Seth's mom raises an eyebrow. Seth's dad just stares. You are very aware of your wet hair brushing your forehead and Seth's too-small t-shirt stretched across your chest and how you're holding half a banana. You look exactly like the kind of trouble you are.

At least you long ago conquered your gag reflex, which allows you to swallow and say, "Hi, I'm Ryan," before things have a chance to get even more awkward. Seth is standing at the bottom of the stairs, silently pointing at his parents and looking confused. His hair is curly and damp, too.

His dad holds out a hand. "Sandy Cohen." His grip is strong but not painful, and for no reason you really understand, he is smiling. He's also wearing an aqua Hawaiian flowered shirt and bright purple board shorts, and he slings an arm around Seth's mom. "This is some hot blonde I picked up on the beach."

"We met at your birthday," you say, watching her put the pieces together. She is vaguely smiling but you can see her cool assessment of the situation underneath.

"For some reason, I thought your name was Bobby." She flips through mail on the counter and then looks back up, clearly waiting for an explanation.

You're only going to get one chance to get this right, and no matter how cool Seth thinks his parents are, you know you can't tell them the truth. It's been a long time since you cared whether people liked you, especially if they weren't paying, but you want to be on good terms with these people. You want them to keep helping Seth be himself instead of some unhappy boy waiting for his life to start.

You nod and look right at them and say, "Gary thought it was a better screen name."

"I thought you guys were coming back tomorrow," Seth blurts out, just as Sandy says, "So you're an actor! And you know Gary! This is great, Kirsten, don't you think?"

Sandy raises his huge eyebrows at Kirsten and gives her a meaningful stare, full of their own secret language and a lifetime together. She presses her lips tightly together and then nods. He kisses her cheek.

"We left you a message last night, Seth," Sandy says. "I'm telling you, your grandfather is just unbelievable. That man --"

"Sandy," Kirsten says, and jabs him in the ribs with her elbow. "I have to do some work tomorrow," she says to Seth, and when she looks at you this time it's with a softer smile. "So how's the acting going, Ryan?"

"He's --" Seth stops, which is good because you're too far away to kick him and make him shut up.

"I'm going to school right now," you say.

"Working his way through L.A. City College, Dad, whaddya think about that?" Seth says. He winks at his father and nods emphatically. "And he tutors kids on the weekend. Out in Ontario."

"I work in San Bernardino!" Sandy says, throwing up his hands.

"I'm from Chino." You haven't told anyone that in a long while, and you're not sure why you just did.

Sandy nods and you've barely had one conversation, but you think he has some idea what that was like for you. "You know anybody from the neighborhood who needs a good public defender?"

"Not anymore," you say, and catch yourself grinning.

Kirsten is smiling at Sandy. Sandy is beaming at Seth. Seth is looking at you like this makes sense, and also like he might never let you leave.

"Actually, I've got to get out there by eleven."

Sandy opens the fridge and rummages through a few shelves. "Traffic this morning was awful, just awful," he says. "I may never leave the house again. I may --" He pauses and holds up a tub of cream cheese, and Seth gives him a thumbs up. "I may buy a bike. Or a motorcycle. Say, is that your sweet Camaro out there in the driveway, Ryan?"

"Dad, you are so embarrassing when you try to talk like a cool person."

"What? I am totally a cool person. I'm wearing shorts!"

You dig your keys out of your pocket and jingle them a little. "I really gotta --"

"Seth, don't you want to walk Ryan out?" Kirsten tilts her head and stares at her son.

"Oh," Seth says, and then folds his mouth in on itself and smiles just like his mom. "Yes, that is a brilliant suggestion. Ryan?" He waves his arm towards the door. "After you."

"Come back and stay for breakfast sometime," Sandy says, and shakes your hand again. You wave at Kirsten and follow Seth through the foyer and out into the driveway. You have absolutely no idea what just happened.

Seth stands on the bottom step, squinting into the sun. "So, you're gonna call me, right? This isn't going to be one of those things where all this happens and we make big plans and then we never see each other again. Right? Because, I mean, if it is, you should just tell me. Not that that's what I want, but then I can, like, prepare myself. Because, Ryan? I think I would have to prepare myself for that."

You dart a glance at the side of the house, but all the windows seem to be on the other side, facing the ocean, so you kiss him, standing up on your toes because on the step he's like a foot taller.

He falls down off the step and onto you, his arms coming around your neck like you're slow dancing at a school prom. You hold your arms tight around his back and tuck your nose against his neck. When you finally let go he's smiling and you're smiling back and the bright morning is washing over both of you.

"You're gonna call me," you say, and when you walk away backwards, when you look over your shoulder on the way down the drive, when you check the rearview mirror as you pull onto the street, he's still standing there, one hand up in a wave.

END.

Credits: Punk. Phantom Planet. People on the internet who talk about how to hire hookers.