[oc] Shadowboxing. Chapter four.
Gotta love the fact that my livejournal is that, mine. No one in my Real Life knows about it. And I'm so happy because that means I can be here in my computer and post this story that I love instead of not, pretending that I'm out when I should be doing a group paper. More on the group paper in my following post. *nods*
That said, enjoy the story. *winks*
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 04. insides. The rest of the stories can be found at Big Damn Table.
Author's note: Betad by l_vera01 this time around, and I love her and she rocks and I love her. *nods*
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
IV.
Days start going by, one by one, and by mid April, Ryan's life is nothing but keeping up with classes. It's making sure he studies while there still is sunlight because his night vision is slowly going to hell. It's telling himself to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth and not hate the way Seth has to pick him up from classes because it has been months since he last drove. It's noticing how Seth starts to anticipate his arrivings and goings, change in light kept to minimum. He tells himself he's not bitter, he doesn't have the strength in him to be bitter, doesn't have the privilege. But truth is, his time is slowly ticking and somewhere in his mind, in that dark part he doesn't like to look at, he's pretty fucking scared.
It's not easy for Ryan to notice and acknowledge the fact that time is flying by, past him, leaving him behind, alone and lost, and he hates it, deep inside. There's time he can never get back, time which turns into his past which in turn will turn into a memory. It will be the memory of when he could see, when his eyes graced him with that gift, no longer here, in his hands.
He closes his eyes shut, tells himself that dwelling on things is not him. He moves on, he handles things. He's stable, he's fine, he's the fucking rock. But he can't. He knows he can't keep this up for long, and when he breaks -- because he knows he'll break -- he just hopes he's alone.
When he opens his eyes, his head starts to hurt and his eyes feel swollen, heavy under his eyelids. For a second he wants nothing more than to lie down in bed and forget about the tests, the studying and Mechanics of Fluids.
He blinks, and the words blur together in nothing but shades of black over white, splotches of dark that make no sense. A hand clenches around his heart. He takes in a shallow breath through his mouth, letting it out slowly, and he wants to believe that it's not time yet. He feels it inside him, it won't happen overnight.
There will be a time when his eyes won't adjust, when there won't even be white to see. There will be nothing but blackness surrounding him and he wonders how he'll cope. He wonders how he'll learn to be that man, not this one. How he'll learn to shift his priorities and move on. He wonders if he'll manage.
He'll have to. He doesn't have another choice. He'll have to.
He won't see. The words make him cold inside. He closes his eyes, unable to do anything else.
His fingers reach forward, tentatively, hesitantly, touching the edge of his pen and moving to the right, over his HP calculator, over pages he's certain are the old exams he's going over. His hand moves further down the desk to the base of a small lamp, and then to his front, touching the edge of the book he has opened there. He can feel the edges of the pages on his fingertips, fingers moving over the page he was reading only a minute ago.
There were words here, he thinks, where his fingers touch and he can no longer see. There were words here he could read, and now there's nothing in the page, not even a change in mass, nothing but blackness that his eyes can't read.
He presses his lips into a line and reminds himself that he will learn to read with his fingers.
His eyes hurt, prickle and sting. His heart races. His skin crawls with anger. His neck burns with shame. His face contours in a grimace. He bites the inside of his cheek as a groan dies in his throat.
The door opens and Ryan's eyes open in surprise with it, his right hand moving to slam close the book, breathing in through his mouth, making no sound.
"Dude?"
"Hey," Ryan says, blinking rapidly and standing up slowly. He pushes the chair back against the desk and turns to look at Seth. Seth walks into the apartment and drops his backpack next to the bookcase. It's always in the same spot, not like before when he dropped it wherever he wanted. "I thought you had classes until seven."
Seth shrugs, making his way slowly toward Ryan, head tilted to the side. "Teacher left one hour early." He blinks and he focuses so hard on Ryan that Ryan ducks his head.
His eyes are red, probably, and Seth might ask about it and Ryan has no idea what he'll say. He touches the edge of the closed book, his eyes closing at their own volition, his heart remembering the way the pages felt empty under his touch.
"Want pizza?"
Ryan nods, not saying anything. He misses a time when going out for dinner was an option. They never did go out much, but now it's nothing but a memory as it has been months -- since Seth found out -- that they went out for pizza or Thai or anything. Seth worries about the changes in light and Ryan admits that it takes too much energy to go out. They settle for companionship and their apartment and what they call their normality.
"Sure," Ryan says after a moment, his fingers closing tightly over the corner of the hardcover of the book.
If Seth sees the redness in his eyes, he doesn't say anything and Ryan's grateful for that as well. In the past couple of months, Ryan has been grateful for a lot of things, and especially for Seth.
He sighs, blinking, watching the bold letters on top of the cover of the book, and pushes it away from him, as far away as he can without the book falling and turns around to help Seth set the table.
In the late afternoon, when the sun has set and shadows have been cast in the room and Ryan's headache has fallen to the background as noise he's already used to, Ryan sighs. He takes out the one book he owns that hasn't finished reading, sitting on the couch, and sets it on his lap.
He touches the spine of the book, smiles at the words printed in golden before opening the hardcover, reading the title page,
TALES
OF THE
GROTESQUE AND ARABESQUE.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
and finds his place inside the perfectly conserved pages.
He reads the final paragraph of page 81,
The room in which I found myself was very large and excessively lofty. The windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from within--
even as the words catch on his throat and he blinks, the words too blurry for him to make out as his eyes go out of focus. He pinches the bridge of his nose because he needs to do this, to read this book, to finish it before it's too late, before he can't understand printed words and they are nothing but pages with words he cannot touch. Two hundred and forty three pages of one of the writers that leave him breathless and he thinks for a second about the following year. About how the book will sit in the bookshelf without anyone ever touching it again, reading it, enjoying it like he is now, even if rushed by the clicking time, but the sand making its way through the hourglass.
He thinks about lending it to a museum, perhaps, people who will enjoy it as much as Ryan does at the moment. But that will be then, and this is now. Now this is his book and he hugs it close to his chest and closes his eyes and feels a tendril of selfishness because it's his book and he doesn't want anyone else to touch it, not now, not until it's worthless to him.
He breathes in and out, then opens the book once again and read the last line he caught and understood,
The room in which I found myself was very large and excessively lofty. The windows were long, narrow, and pointed--
and imagines he can see what Poe writes and he can see and he can feel the oaken floors under his feet.
Ryan tilts his head to the side, not being able to stop the small smile from his lips. He watches with avid affection the way Kirsten moves around the small apartment, making sure everything's working, going over the take-out menus they have in the top drawer of the counter, the source of their meals. Sandy's standing by the bookcase, Seth showing him the new book he's reading for British Author's. Seth has been talking nonstop about it, obviously having fallen for the author whose name Ryan can't remember.
It's nice and comfortable and almost homey, except for the fact that they aren't in Newport, they aren't in the kitchen or the den. They are in Berkeley, stuck in this city because Ryan can't fly, not without it being so difficult and almost unmanageable that Seth figured there was no point in flying out there on a Friday if they had to get back on a Sunday. Seth was right, of course, Seth has been right too often in the past couple of weeks. Ryan could only give in, sigh and shrug as he walked out of the living room and into his bedroom, where he stayed a good three hours, sulking.
And the parents agreed so easily it felt like they were actually used to this, to accommodating him and his limitations. Limitations, he thinks, the word bitter in his tongue. Limitations alright, and this is only the beginning of a long list he doesn't want to think about, let alone face.
"Ryan?"
He feels the hand on his shoulder before he hears the voice, recognizes the tone, the tinge of worry and concern in that voice he has come to acknowledge as his mother.
He looks over his shoulder, small smile on his lips, even if it does feel a bit strained. "Hey," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say.
She smiles at him, nothing but motherly concern all around her, and takes a seat next to him on the couch. Her hand moves down from his shoulder to his hand, and taking it in both of hers. "You haven't told us how your classes are."
And isn't exactly a question, and it isn't even what she really wants to ask, but she's clouding it with natural worry about him, and Ryan lets her.
He glances at Sophie, standing before the TV in the living room, both hands pressed against it, like she can read something he can't. He sighs. "I'm fine," he says, answer the question she didn't know how to formulate. "It's... not easy, but I'm fine."
She nods, understanding, and Ryan blinks, seeing only the blue of her irises but not the small lines around the corner of her eyes, or the way her lips are being pressed into a thin line. He wishes he could see her more, know her more than this, this empty shell of who he used to be.
He shrugs after a moment. "It's only three more weeks, two of those finals. I can handle it."
He watches her swallow thickly, and he can't read her like he used, like he had learned to in the years he had lived in her house, under her care. He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he can almost taste the coppery tang of blood, and he thinks he'll keep on biting it until he can't see any more.
He's thinking about nothing but darkness and finals and having to study and knowing his head will hurt most of that time when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He blinks, turning to look at the hand on his left shoulder, clutching at him, thumb on his collarbone. He hadn't seen it coming. He hadn't seen it in his almost fucked up peripheral vision.
He smiles at her, a tight, painful smile he can imagine looks anything but reassuring, and he can't, he can't... say that things will be fine because they won't. He can't say anything, but all there is to say is that he's going blind and he can't quite mouth those words.
He's still looking at her, right at her, when she pulls him to her chest. He resists for a second and wants nothing more than to pull back and lock himself in his room. He wants to sit against the door and keep the whole world out. Just like he did the day he found out. Just like he did the whole week after that. Just like he's been wanting to do ever since.
Instead, he sighs, slowly and controlled, and rests his forehead on Kirsten's shoulder.
She doesn't say anything, only places her right hand on the back of his neck, her skin warm against his. He breathes in her perfume, the one she wears on a daily basis and Ryan has come to know and recognize.
"Everything's going to be alright," she whispers against his ear, against his cheek.
He knows she's lying, and so does she. They both know, and somehow that makes it right in a way Ryan doesn't want to look too closely at.
She lets go of his hand and rubs his back slightly instead. His hands fall to his lap, and not knowing what to do with them. He places them under her arms, telling himself he's not holding on tight to her blouse.
He can almost hear her continuing to whisper nothings into his ear, against his cheek. Nothing but lies and platitudes, attempts to assuage the pain he feels, that he's come to know, gotten used to by now. It doesn't matter, whatever it is she says, it doesn't matter. She can tell him anything and everything, and he doesn't believe, because he knows. He knows he's running out of time. He just wishes it wasn't this fast.
Blinking rapidly, he squeezes hard one last time before pulling away. I'm okay, he wants to tell her. I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me, but that's a lie and he knows it and she knows it, so he doesn't say anything.
"Dayan?"
Ryan turns around, smiling at Sophie looking back up at him with deep blue eyes, perfect shade, matching Kirsten's, almost matching his.
"Baby," he smiles at her, picking her up. She settles against his chest, thumb in her mouth, and hums in her throat. Tired from the flight, probably, and Ryan kisses the top of her head, blond hair tickling his nose.
"We want to go to Europe for the summer."
Ryan blinks, tilting his head to the side, cheek against Sophie's hair. "Good," he says, because he knows both Kirsten and Sandy deserve it. A summer without worrying about the kids, about Sophie, just about them, alone. He nods. "Yeah, cool. Seth and I can watch--"
"Seth says he finishes on the 21st," Sandy says, and it's only then that Ryan notices him making his way from the bookshelf to the living room area, Seth shrugging as he does so. Ryan glances between Sandy and Seth. "But Ryan finishes on the 22nd, right?"
Ryan frowns, turning to look at Seth. Seth grins at him and Ryan knows in that second that things are not the way he imagines them to be.
"Ryan? The 22nd, right? Structural analysis?"
Ryan glares at Seth and his questions, but nods. "Yeah, but what--?"
"Perfect," Kirsten says with a smile. "That's Friday, so, you can rest until Saturday. We can arrive on Friday afternoon, relax at the hotel. We'll meet for breakfast, let you boys have your dinner together. I'll book us on an early afternoon flight."
Ryan's frown depends, his gaze shifting from Kirsten to Sandy and then finally to Seth, who shrugs with a look that says a lot more than Ryan would have learned in mere words. Sophie shifts in his lap and he looks down at her, grinning, thumb still in her mouth. His chest grows tight in that second, telling himself that he has to save these looks, these memories, because he won't get them for long. Seth looks like he's accepted his fate even though he looks like he knows that neither of them is going to like the outcome.. He swallows, glancing back at Kirsten.
"I don't understand," he says after a moment.
Kirsten chuckles, taking his hand in hers. "Well, Sandy and I thought it was time we," she glances over her shoulder before looking back at him, "all five of us, went on a vacation. And because it'd be the first time, we thought Europe would be perfect."
He knows he could ask, and he knows they would tell him. And he can almost hear the words coming from Sandy, a sad smile on his lips. We want to see so much with you. We want to see so much with you while you can still see it.
Ryan swallows. He could ask, and they would tell him, but he doesn't really see the point in doing so.
After a moment, after a breath in which the light on his right -- somewhere on one o'clock, because he's long ago lost visual on two -- dims, the afternoon becomes night, he blinks. His eyes sting and he can feel a headache starting to form in between his eyebrows. The light is changing, and the moment Seth turns on a lamp , his eyes will sting even more and he might lose sight for a couple of seconds.
Flying will be a bitch, and his eyes will be tired from finals, and his head will probably feel like someone has taken a sledgehammer to it. He'd want nothing more than to sleep twenty hours in his bed, not in a plane, and he'll be cranky and pissed off, which means he won't say more than two words per hour, and--
But Kirsten's looking back at him with wide blue eyes, and Sandy's on his left, just on the edge of Ryan's field of vision. Sophie stands up on his lap and he places his hands on her sides just to keep her balanced. Seth takes a step forward and Ryan can see him more clearly now, and Seth looks back at him when Ryan turns to look at him.
He swallows, biting the inside of his cheek. He can almost feel the emptiness of a piece of paper under his fingers, words he will not be able to read, and he sighs, and nods.
"Yeah," he says after a moment, his lips curling upwards, "Europe would be perfect."
Kirsten smiles, and Ryan can barely see the redness in her eyes. Sandy places a hand on her shoulder, leaning forward to kiss the top of her head. Sophie gurgles and giggles and then places her wet hand on Ryan's cheek. Seth grins. Ryan sighs, smiles, and nods.
The weekend before finals, a Saturday afternoon, Ryan studies with Tatiana and Eve and Claire and Charlie for both Mechanics of Fluids and Railroads, which will be on Tuesday and Wednesday. Construction Procedure on Friday, is actually quite easy, so he'll study it on his own on Thursday.
He reads the last line of definition of open channels and reads it again when he can't remember what it was he read in the first place. The words blur together and he pinches the bridge of his nose, hard, in a pathetic way to try and push back the headache he can feel in between his eyebrows.
"Ryan?"
He looks up, Tatiana looking back at him with a frown on her beautiful face. He bites the inside of his cheek, acknowledging the fact that he hasn't told them, hasn't said a word about anything regarding his eyes. They've asked about summer plans, and he's said he's going to Europe with Seth and the parents. Tatiana has begged for earrings of every mayor city in which Ryan can spare some euros, Eve wants tons of postcards and Claire wants a scarf, just one is more than enough. But he hasn't said a word about his eyes.
Charlie mentioned doing some AutoCAD work for a friend of his dad's, not quite an internship, but it's not pouring coffee for the civil engineer in charge either. Tatiana said she was hoping to find something to do during the summer, something in the general area of engineering. Ryan would have had an internship at the Newport Group. That had been the plan, actually, at the beginning of the school year. Ryan was going to work for the Newport Group this summer. That, of course, had taken second place to everything that has happened since then.
"I'm fine," he says with a tight smile. "Headache."
Tatiana nods, standing up as she does so. "God, I know. My brain is going to ooze from my eyes any second now."
"Are you sure you haven't lost it already?"
Tatiana looks over her shoulder at Claire, opening the fridge, and glaring at her. "Fuck you," she mouths, before taking out another can of coke from it. She hands it to Ryan with a smile. "Coke, that which fixes all ails."
It's not the lack of sugar, or the tiredness, that hurts his eyes. Ryan takes the can away from Tatiana, opens it and takes a long swallow. They would have gone to his place, but he was scared they would find something with RP written on it. It's his very eyes.
"Thanks," he says, taking another long swallow.
He thinks about telling them. He could tell them, right now, tell them about how he's not coming back next year, because what's the point. He could give up right this second, just give up and not give the. He sighs before he places the can back on the table. He could give up, right now, and lock himself in his room and wait until his eyes expire, but God, he doesn't think he has what it takes to do so.
Instead, he blinks furiously, pinches his nose once again. He focuses on the book in front of him, the common questions found in Mechanics of Fluids finals, and goes over them, over his book, over his notes, for as long as he humanly can.
Ryan lies on his back, eyes blinking at the darkness around him. His eyes are used to the dim light coming from the street across the apartment building. He can see the edges of his dresser, of his closet, of the hamper, the chair he has in the corner and his three suitcases already packed before the closet. He can see it all in shadows and silhouettes. He can recognize them because he's familiar with them He can't see details nor colors, and he wonders that if he could recognize them by shape alone? Because this is what his life will be come. Nothing but shapes and silhouettes, if he's lucky. It will be nothing but darkness if he's not.
He closes his eyes shut, his hands clenching on the sheets of his bed. His palms are sweaty and his breathing labored in the warm weather.
It doesn't matter, he tells himself. It doesn't matter. He'll learn. He'll adapt. That's what he does. He'll take what he's given and do the best he can with that. He forged his own future in Harbor, he fought his demons after Marissa's death. He learned to have an open mind and make friends more easily than ever in Berkeley. He can take this and learn, move on. He will learn Braille and use a cane or a dog. He'll get programs for the computer. He'll buy new books. He'll find himself another fucking career--
Ryan coughs in the back of his throat, his hands clutching the sheets until he can't breathe, closes his eyes until his head hurts. He takes a breath through his mouth and it sounds as though his chest is filled with something he can't name.
His door makes a creaking sound and he opens his eyes, turning to his left to blink at his threshold. He can see another silhouette there, and this one he recognizes as well.
Ryan watches Seth make his way into the room. He shifts on the bed, moving to his right and pushing back the covers. Seth doesn't say anything, only crawls into the bed, pulling the covers up until mid chest.
Ryan stays on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, hands loose now on top of the sheets, familiar in this, in them. Familiar in the simple act of Seth coming to his bedroom barefooted to crawl into his bed and say nothing, or very little, or a lot, and take it from there. To find answers in the short responses Ryan gives him back, or the in the silence that speaks louder than words.
He knows Seth has a lot he wants to say, just like he knows there is a lot he doesn't want to speak of. They can have this, their silence, just like they had comfortable words and safe subjects -- their finals, the stupid questions and searching for answers -- during the dinner they shared after calling the parents at their hotel room. And tomorrow they will leave with their suitcases for the hotel, have breakfast with the parents before making their way to the airport for their three pm flight.
They don't need to say anything, they don't need to do anything. Just lay here and breathe, let the darkness pull them into sleep like a lullaby, and hope for light in the morning.
Ryan feels a hand covering his left one, fingers spreading his own until they are intertwined. He breathes in shakily, his chest hurting, and then breathes out slowly. They don't need to do anything, but Ryan's grateful for Seth doing this.
*bounces, bounces* You have to know by now that I'm dying to hear what you have to say. *nods* So, say it! *g*
Now, what can I do? Read? Write? Bother Erin? *ponders*
That said, enjoy the story. *winks*
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 04. insides. The rest of the stories can be found at Big Damn Table.
Author's note: Betad by l_vera01 this time around, and I love her and she rocks and I love her. *nods*
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
IV.
Days start going by, one by one, and by mid April, Ryan's life is nothing but keeping up with classes. It's making sure he studies while there still is sunlight because his night vision is slowly going to hell. It's telling himself to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth and not hate the way Seth has to pick him up from classes because it has been months since he last drove. It's noticing how Seth starts to anticipate his arrivings and goings, change in light kept to minimum. He tells himself he's not bitter, he doesn't have the strength in him to be bitter, doesn't have the privilege. But truth is, his time is slowly ticking and somewhere in his mind, in that dark part he doesn't like to look at, he's pretty fucking scared.
It's not easy for Ryan to notice and acknowledge the fact that time is flying by, past him, leaving him behind, alone and lost, and he hates it, deep inside. There's time he can never get back, time which turns into his past which in turn will turn into a memory. It will be the memory of when he could see, when his eyes graced him with that gift, no longer here, in his hands.
He closes his eyes shut, tells himself that dwelling on things is not him. He moves on, he handles things. He's stable, he's fine, he's the fucking rock. But he can't. He knows he can't keep this up for long, and when he breaks -- because he knows he'll break -- he just hopes he's alone.
When he opens his eyes, his head starts to hurt and his eyes feel swollen, heavy under his eyelids. For a second he wants nothing more than to lie down in bed and forget about the tests, the studying and Mechanics of Fluids.
He blinks, and the words blur together in nothing but shades of black over white, splotches of dark that make no sense. A hand clenches around his heart. He takes in a shallow breath through his mouth, letting it out slowly, and he wants to believe that it's not time yet. He feels it inside him, it won't happen overnight.
There will be a time when his eyes won't adjust, when there won't even be white to see. There will be nothing but blackness surrounding him and he wonders how he'll cope. He wonders how he'll learn to be that man, not this one. How he'll learn to shift his priorities and move on. He wonders if he'll manage.
He'll have to. He doesn't have another choice. He'll have to.
He won't see. The words make him cold inside. He closes his eyes, unable to do anything else.
His fingers reach forward, tentatively, hesitantly, touching the edge of his pen and moving to the right, over his HP calculator, over pages he's certain are the old exams he's going over. His hand moves further down the desk to the base of a small lamp, and then to his front, touching the edge of the book he has opened there. He can feel the edges of the pages on his fingertips, fingers moving over the page he was reading only a minute ago.
There were words here, he thinks, where his fingers touch and he can no longer see. There were words here he could read, and now there's nothing in the page, not even a change in mass, nothing but blackness that his eyes can't read.
He presses his lips into a line and reminds himself that he will learn to read with his fingers.
His eyes hurt, prickle and sting. His heart races. His skin crawls with anger. His neck burns with shame. His face contours in a grimace. He bites the inside of his cheek as a groan dies in his throat.
The door opens and Ryan's eyes open in surprise with it, his right hand moving to slam close the book, breathing in through his mouth, making no sound.
"Dude?"
"Hey," Ryan says, blinking rapidly and standing up slowly. He pushes the chair back against the desk and turns to look at Seth. Seth walks into the apartment and drops his backpack next to the bookcase. It's always in the same spot, not like before when he dropped it wherever he wanted. "I thought you had classes until seven."
Seth shrugs, making his way slowly toward Ryan, head tilted to the side. "Teacher left one hour early." He blinks and he focuses so hard on Ryan that Ryan ducks his head.
His eyes are red, probably, and Seth might ask about it and Ryan has no idea what he'll say. He touches the edge of the closed book, his eyes closing at their own volition, his heart remembering the way the pages felt empty under his touch.
"Want pizza?"
Ryan nods, not saying anything. He misses a time when going out for dinner was an option. They never did go out much, but now it's nothing but a memory as it has been months -- since Seth found out -- that they went out for pizza or Thai or anything. Seth worries about the changes in light and Ryan admits that it takes too much energy to go out. They settle for companionship and their apartment and what they call their normality.
"Sure," Ryan says after a moment, his fingers closing tightly over the corner of the hardcover of the book.
If Seth sees the redness in his eyes, he doesn't say anything and Ryan's grateful for that as well. In the past couple of months, Ryan has been grateful for a lot of things, and especially for Seth.
He sighs, blinking, watching the bold letters on top of the cover of the book, and pushes it away from him, as far away as he can without the book falling and turns around to help Seth set the table.
In the late afternoon, when the sun has set and shadows have been cast in the room and Ryan's headache has fallen to the background as noise he's already used to, Ryan sighs. He takes out the one book he owns that hasn't finished reading, sitting on the couch, and sets it on his lap.
He touches the spine of the book, smiles at the words printed in golden before opening the hardcover, reading the title page,
TALES
OF THE
GROTESQUE AND ARABESQUE.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
and finds his place inside the perfectly conserved pages.
He reads the final paragraph of page 81,
The room in which I found myself was very large and excessively lofty. The windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from within--
even as the words catch on his throat and he blinks, the words too blurry for him to make out as his eyes go out of focus. He pinches the bridge of his nose because he needs to do this, to read this book, to finish it before it's too late, before he can't understand printed words and they are nothing but pages with words he cannot touch. Two hundred and forty three pages of one of the writers that leave him breathless and he thinks for a second about the following year. About how the book will sit in the bookshelf without anyone ever touching it again, reading it, enjoying it like he is now, even if rushed by the clicking time, but the sand making its way through the hourglass.
He thinks about lending it to a museum, perhaps, people who will enjoy it as much as Ryan does at the moment. But that will be then, and this is now. Now this is his book and he hugs it close to his chest and closes his eyes and feels a tendril of selfishness because it's his book and he doesn't want anyone else to touch it, not now, not until it's worthless to him.
He breathes in and out, then opens the book once again and read the last line he caught and understood,
The room in which I found myself was very large and excessively lofty. The windows were long, narrow, and pointed--
and imagines he can see what Poe writes and he can see and he can feel the oaken floors under his feet.
Ryan tilts his head to the side, not being able to stop the small smile from his lips. He watches with avid affection the way Kirsten moves around the small apartment, making sure everything's working, going over the take-out menus they have in the top drawer of the counter, the source of their meals. Sandy's standing by the bookcase, Seth showing him the new book he's reading for British Author's. Seth has been talking nonstop about it, obviously having fallen for the author whose name Ryan can't remember.
It's nice and comfortable and almost homey, except for the fact that they aren't in Newport, they aren't in the kitchen or the den. They are in Berkeley, stuck in this city because Ryan can't fly, not without it being so difficult and almost unmanageable that Seth figured there was no point in flying out there on a Friday if they had to get back on a Sunday. Seth was right, of course, Seth has been right too often in the past couple of weeks. Ryan could only give in, sigh and shrug as he walked out of the living room and into his bedroom, where he stayed a good three hours, sulking.
And the parents agreed so easily it felt like they were actually used to this, to accommodating him and his limitations. Limitations, he thinks, the word bitter in his tongue. Limitations alright, and this is only the beginning of a long list he doesn't want to think about, let alone face.
"Ryan?"
He feels the hand on his shoulder before he hears the voice, recognizes the tone, the tinge of worry and concern in that voice he has come to acknowledge as his mother.
He looks over his shoulder, small smile on his lips, even if it does feel a bit strained. "Hey," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say.
She smiles at him, nothing but motherly concern all around her, and takes a seat next to him on the couch. Her hand moves down from his shoulder to his hand, and taking it in both of hers. "You haven't told us how your classes are."
And isn't exactly a question, and it isn't even what she really wants to ask, but she's clouding it with natural worry about him, and Ryan lets her.
He glances at Sophie, standing before the TV in the living room, both hands pressed against it, like she can read something he can't. He sighs. "I'm fine," he says, answer the question she didn't know how to formulate. "It's... not easy, but I'm fine."
She nods, understanding, and Ryan blinks, seeing only the blue of her irises but not the small lines around the corner of her eyes, or the way her lips are being pressed into a thin line. He wishes he could see her more, know her more than this, this empty shell of who he used to be.
He shrugs after a moment. "It's only three more weeks, two of those finals. I can handle it."
He watches her swallow thickly, and he can't read her like he used, like he had learned to in the years he had lived in her house, under her care. He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he can almost taste the coppery tang of blood, and he thinks he'll keep on biting it until he can't see any more.
He's thinking about nothing but darkness and finals and having to study and knowing his head will hurt most of that time when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He blinks, turning to look at the hand on his left shoulder, clutching at him, thumb on his collarbone. He hadn't seen it coming. He hadn't seen it in his almost fucked up peripheral vision.
He smiles at her, a tight, painful smile he can imagine looks anything but reassuring, and he can't, he can't... say that things will be fine because they won't. He can't say anything, but all there is to say is that he's going blind and he can't quite mouth those words.
He's still looking at her, right at her, when she pulls him to her chest. He resists for a second and wants nothing more than to pull back and lock himself in his room. He wants to sit against the door and keep the whole world out. Just like he did the day he found out. Just like he did the whole week after that. Just like he's been wanting to do ever since.
Instead, he sighs, slowly and controlled, and rests his forehead on Kirsten's shoulder.
She doesn't say anything, only places her right hand on the back of his neck, her skin warm against his. He breathes in her perfume, the one she wears on a daily basis and Ryan has come to know and recognize.
"Everything's going to be alright," she whispers against his ear, against his cheek.
He knows she's lying, and so does she. They both know, and somehow that makes it right in a way Ryan doesn't want to look too closely at.
She lets go of his hand and rubs his back slightly instead. His hands fall to his lap, and not knowing what to do with them. He places them under her arms, telling himself he's not holding on tight to her blouse.
He can almost hear her continuing to whisper nothings into his ear, against his cheek. Nothing but lies and platitudes, attempts to assuage the pain he feels, that he's come to know, gotten used to by now. It doesn't matter, whatever it is she says, it doesn't matter. She can tell him anything and everything, and he doesn't believe, because he knows. He knows he's running out of time. He just wishes it wasn't this fast.
Blinking rapidly, he squeezes hard one last time before pulling away. I'm okay, he wants to tell her. I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me, but that's a lie and he knows it and she knows it, so he doesn't say anything.
"Dayan?"
Ryan turns around, smiling at Sophie looking back up at him with deep blue eyes, perfect shade, matching Kirsten's, almost matching his.
"Baby," he smiles at her, picking her up. She settles against his chest, thumb in her mouth, and hums in her throat. Tired from the flight, probably, and Ryan kisses the top of her head, blond hair tickling his nose.
"We want to go to Europe for the summer."
Ryan blinks, tilting his head to the side, cheek against Sophie's hair. "Good," he says, because he knows both Kirsten and Sandy deserve it. A summer without worrying about the kids, about Sophie, just about them, alone. He nods. "Yeah, cool. Seth and I can watch--"
"Seth says he finishes on the 21st," Sandy says, and it's only then that Ryan notices him making his way from the bookshelf to the living room area, Seth shrugging as he does so. Ryan glances between Sandy and Seth. "But Ryan finishes on the 22nd, right?"
Ryan frowns, turning to look at Seth. Seth grins at him and Ryan knows in that second that things are not the way he imagines them to be.
"Ryan? The 22nd, right? Structural analysis?"
Ryan glares at Seth and his questions, but nods. "Yeah, but what--?"
"Perfect," Kirsten says with a smile. "That's Friday, so, you can rest until Saturday. We can arrive on Friday afternoon, relax at the hotel. We'll meet for breakfast, let you boys have your dinner together. I'll book us on an early afternoon flight."
Ryan's frown depends, his gaze shifting from Kirsten to Sandy and then finally to Seth, who shrugs with a look that says a lot more than Ryan would have learned in mere words. Sophie shifts in his lap and he looks down at her, grinning, thumb still in her mouth. His chest grows tight in that second, telling himself that he has to save these looks, these memories, because he won't get them for long. Seth looks like he's accepted his fate even though he looks like he knows that neither of them is going to like the outcome.. He swallows, glancing back at Kirsten.
"I don't understand," he says after a moment.
Kirsten chuckles, taking his hand in hers. "Well, Sandy and I thought it was time we," she glances over her shoulder before looking back at him, "all five of us, went on a vacation. And because it'd be the first time, we thought Europe would be perfect."
He knows he could ask, and he knows they would tell him. And he can almost hear the words coming from Sandy, a sad smile on his lips. We want to see so much with you. We want to see so much with you while you can still see it.
Ryan swallows. He could ask, and they would tell him, but he doesn't really see the point in doing so.
After a moment, after a breath in which the light on his right -- somewhere on one o'clock, because he's long ago lost visual on two -- dims, the afternoon becomes night, he blinks. His eyes sting and he can feel a headache starting to form in between his eyebrows. The light is changing, and the moment Seth turns on a lamp , his eyes will sting even more and he might lose sight for a couple of seconds.
Flying will be a bitch, and his eyes will be tired from finals, and his head will probably feel like someone has taken a sledgehammer to it. He'd want nothing more than to sleep twenty hours in his bed, not in a plane, and he'll be cranky and pissed off, which means he won't say more than two words per hour, and--
But Kirsten's looking back at him with wide blue eyes, and Sandy's on his left, just on the edge of Ryan's field of vision. Sophie stands up on his lap and he places his hands on her sides just to keep her balanced. Seth takes a step forward and Ryan can see him more clearly now, and Seth looks back at him when Ryan turns to look at him.
He swallows, biting the inside of his cheek. He can almost feel the emptiness of a piece of paper under his fingers, words he will not be able to read, and he sighs, and nods.
"Yeah," he says after a moment, his lips curling upwards, "Europe would be perfect."
Kirsten smiles, and Ryan can barely see the redness in her eyes. Sandy places a hand on her shoulder, leaning forward to kiss the top of her head. Sophie gurgles and giggles and then places her wet hand on Ryan's cheek. Seth grins. Ryan sighs, smiles, and nods.
The weekend before finals, a Saturday afternoon, Ryan studies with Tatiana and Eve and Claire and Charlie for both Mechanics of Fluids and Railroads, which will be on Tuesday and Wednesday. Construction Procedure on Friday, is actually quite easy, so he'll study it on his own on Thursday.
He reads the last line of definition of open channels and reads it again when he can't remember what it was he read in the first place. The words blur together and he pinches the bridge of his nose, hard, in a pathetic way to try and push back the headache he can feel in between his eyebrows.
"Ryan?"
He looks up, Tatiana looking back at him with a frown on her beautiful face. He bites the inside of his cheek, acknowledging the fact that he hasn't told them, hasn't said a word about anything regarding his eyes. They've asked about summer plans, and he's said he's going to Europe with Seth and the parents. Tatiana has begged for earrings of every mayor city in which Ryan can spare some euros, Eve wants tons of postcards and Claire wants a scarf, just one is more than enough. But he hasn't said a word about his eyes.
Charlie mentioned doing some AutoCAD work for a friend of his dad's, not quite an internship, but it's not pouring coffee for the civil engineer in charge either. Tatiana said she was hoping to find something to do during the summer, something in the general area of engineering. Ryan would have had an internship at the Newport Group. That had been the plan, actually, at the beginning of the school year. Ryan was going to work for the Newport Group this summer. That, of course, had taken second place to everything that has happened since then.
"I'm fine," he says with a tight smile. "Headache."
Tatiana nods, standing up as she does so. "God, I know. My brain is going to ooze from my eyes any second now."
"Are you sure you haven't lost it already?"
Tatiana looks over her shoulder at Claire, opening the fridge, and glaring at her. "Fuck you," she mouths, before taking out another can of coke from it. She hands it to Ryan with a smile. "Coke, that which fixes all ails."
It's not the lack of sugar, or the tiredness, that hurts his eyes. Ryan takes the can away from Tatiana, opens it and takes a long swallow. They would have gone to his place, but he was scared they would find something with RP written on it. It's his very eyes.
"Thanks," he says, taking another long swallow.
He thinks about telling them. He could tell them, right now, tell them about how he's not coming back next year, because what's the point. He could give up right this second, just give up and not give the. He sighs before he places the can back on the table. He could give up, right now, and lock himself in his room and wait until his eyes expire, but God, he doesn't think he has what it takes to do so.
Instead, he blinks furiously, pinches his nose once again. He focuses on the book in front of him, the common questions found in Mechanics of Fluids finals, and goes over them, over his book, over his notes, for as long as he humanly can.
Ryan lies on his back, eyes blinking at the darkness around him. His eyes are used to the dim light coming from the street across the apartment building. He can see the edges of his dresser, of his closet, of the hamper, the chair he has in the corner and his three suitcases already packed before the closet. He can see it all in shadows and silhouettes. He can recognize them because he's familiar with them He can't see details nor colors, and he wonders that if he could recognize them by shape alone? Because this is what his life will be come. Nothing but shapes and silhouettes, if he's lucky. It will be nothing but darkness if he's not.
He closes his eyes shut, his hands clenching on the sheets of his bed. His palms are sweaty and his breathing labored in the warm weather.
It doesn't matter, he tells himself. It doesn't matter. He'll learn. He'll adapt. That's what he does. He'll take what he's given and do the best he can with that. He forged his own future in Harbor, he fought his demons after Marissa's death. He learned to have an open mind and make friends more easily than ever in Berkeley. He can take this and learn, move on. He will learn Braille and use a cane or a dog. He'll get programs for the computer. He'll buy new books. He'll find himself another fucking career--
Ryan coughs in the back of his throat, his hands clutching the sheets until he can't breathe, closes his eyes until his head hurts. He takes a breath through his mouth and it sounds as though his chest is filled with something he can't name.
His door makes a creaking sound and he opens his eyes, turning to his left to blink at his threshold. He can see another silhouette there, and this one he recognizes as well.
Ryan watches Seth make his way into the room. He shifts on the bed, moving to his right and pushing back the covers. Seth doesn't say anything, only crawls into the bed, pulling the covers up until mid chest.
Ryan stays on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, hands loose now on top of the sheets, familiar in this, in them. Familiar in the simple act of Seth coming to his bedroom barefooted to crawl into his bed and say nothing, or very little, or a lot, and take it from there. To find answers in the short responses Ryan gives him back, or the in the silence that speaks louder than words.
He knows Seth has a lot he wants to say, just like he knows there is a lot he doesn't want to speak of. They can have this, their silence, just like they had comfortable words and safe subjects -- their finals, the stupid questions and searching for answers -- during the dinner they shared after calling the parents at their hotel room. And tomorrow they will leave with their suitcases for the hotel, have breakfast with the parents before making their way to the airport for their three pm flight.
They don't need to say anything, they don't need to do anything. Just lay here and breathe, let the darkness pull them into sleep like a lullaby, and hope for light in the morning.
Ryan feels a hand covering his left one, fingers spreading his own until they are intertwined. He breathes in shakily, his chest hurting, and then breathes out slowly. They don't need to do anything, but Ryan's grateful for Seth doing this.
*bounces, bounces* You have to know by now that I'm dying to hear what you have to say. *nods* So, say it! *g*
Now, what can I do? Read? Write? Bother Erin? *ponders*