[oc] Shadowboxing. Chapter nine.
Oh, god. Still here, yes. And by God I'm writing. Right now, it's a matter of my muses actually settling for one story -- ONE STORY -- and not trying to write every other bunny that comes my way. Really, my fickle ways! *giggles* Anyway, forget about that and enjoy the chapter!
Title: Shadowboxing.
Author: M. F. Luder
Pairing: Ryan/Seth.
Rating: NC-17.
Category: Future fic. Drama. Me being evil. *nods*
Spoilers: Up to "The End's not Near, is Here", but with selective spoilers. *g*
Challenge: From fanfic100 and 06. hours. The rest of the stories can be found at Big Damn Table.
Author's note: Betad by popmusicjunkie this time around. I love you, babe!
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*
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Shadowboxing
IX.
December passes in a blur of finals for Seth and getting used to Sam -- Seth had hoped for a more manly name for the dog, something like Draco, which Ryan had refused on the base that he was not going to have a dog named after a Harry Potter character -- for Ryan. Choosing Sam was, even if Seth doesn't want to admit it, pretty easy. They went straight to Guide Dog, and found a lovely German Sheppard, which Seth said was the one thing he was not going to back down from, only six months old, because he needed to train with Ryan and get used to him. Lovely color, black on his back and gold and white on his stomach and paws.
Ryan and Sam graduate on December 17th, after three weeks of training, and Seth takes it upon himself to feed The Monster -- pet name from Seth, after Sam destroyed one pair Nike sneakers, even though Sam's supposed to be trained Not To Do That.
They go to Newport for the holidays, of course, and Kirsten thinks Sam is perfect and Seth complains that she loves the dog more than her oldest son (Seth's birthday being on September while Ryan's is in March). Sandy gives Sam too many treats, who noses his hand, while Ryan stands back, against the divider of the kitchen and the den, and watches them, small smile on his lips, and thinks he's almost ready. Almost.
New Year's Eve falls on a Thursday, and that night, as the grandfather clock in the living room -- they choose to stay home for the night, even if Ryan insists that at least Sandy and Kristen should go -- calls midnight, Ryan reaches forward, hand taking Seth's in his, pulling him forward, pulling him close. Ryan can't see Sandy and Kristen kissing on his peripheral vision -- already lower than fifteen, so he doesn't think about it. His hand cups Seth's face, nose touching his own, and his chest is tight and he's running out of days, out of hours, he knows, so he takes what he can and kisses Seth with a grimace on his face and tears in his eyes he can't quite blink away this time.
They go back on Sunday night, January 3rd, 2010. Seth has classes at eight on Monday and Ryan still goes to the institute, too much to learn, too little time. By Friday, the headaches stops being a permanent fixture in his life, and he knows it's because his eyes are not making an effort anymore. They are giving up, and Ryan can almost feel them going down, losing the fight.
That night, he pushes Seth onto the bed, straddling him -- like he did the first time, so many days ago he can barely count them -- kissing a path from his collarbone down to his navel, feeling Seth whimper underneath him. His hands move over Seth's body with confidence, playing it as if he knows it by heart, by mind, as if his eyes are no longer needed. Soon, soon-- The words ends there, always, because soon is not now, so it should not be thought about.
And he's too desperate, there's not enough time, not enough time
it won't happen over night
even as he touches and kisses and licks and bites and nuzzles and Seth pleads under him, Ryan, Ryan, please, ohgod, please.
And he wants, how he wants. He wants to push in and be there and find himself but he's not going to last, neither is Seth, and somewhere in between Seth rapidly loses the ability to verbalize. Instead, Seth hooks one leg around the back of Ryan's thighs, dragging him closer. Ryan raises his head, kisses Seth hard, fingers tangling in his hair, hand digging into his hipbone. He moves and Seth moans, and his right hand finds Seth's left one and pulls it over Seth's head, and holds him there, and they rock against one another, breathing coming faster, bursts of pleasure sparking across their skin and racing through their bones. And it's not enough, it won't be enough, he needs more, more time, more touch more sight more more more--
He can't do this, he can't do this, he can't stand words that are mostly noises, ghosts with just voices, he can't he can't--
"Ryan--"
And Seth's coming, slick and sweet, Ryan still moving against him, coming with a sob that Seth hushes, gentles, gasps when he tilts his hips and shocks an orgasm to the surface of his skin, his mind, his lips, his eyes. He collapses, face pressed against Seth's neck, breathless and wordless.
It feels like he's breaking, again and again, even as his limbs go numb and slack and he nuzzles Seth's neck, Seth's cheek, right hand not letting go, left hand gripping Seth's shoulder tight enough to hurt. It won't ever stop, Ryan fears. This, this, creases of distant dark places, it might never stop, even when it stops. There are no keys to this, no equations, no answers, nothing he can do except wait and tell himself he'll fill the ghosts with images and colors and textures.
They spend Saturday morning in bed, in between kisses and touches and half words being spoken and a lot left unsaid.
Seth stands up sometime around one, Ryan turning around on the bed, propped on his left elbow, and watches him. He's running out of time, he knows, and maybe that's why he can almost feel the need, the rush, the hurry inside him, pouring through his veins as if mixed with his blood. He watches in nothing but dim shadows and the play of the light in his eyes, as Seth stands next to the bed, back to him, reaching for a t-shirt they threw in the general direction sometime this morning. And he watches the flex of muscles across the shoulder blades, the solid back, the narrow waist, the tan skin that used to be darker when they would spend most afternoons by the shore. The soft hair Ryan now has the unspoken permission to run his fingers through, the side of the face, the line of a jaw he has licked cleaned not even an hour ago.
Seth turns around, looks at him, smiles at him. He reaches down and kisses him soundly, breathlessly, and Ryan can't help it, his left hand moves to Seth's jaw and holds on tight, pulling him forward until he's falling on top of Ryan with a laugh. Seth laughs, but Ryan doesn't, only kisses him deeper, harsher, with tongue and teeth, and his hand pulls off the t-shirt for the second they are apart.
Seth wants to speak, Ryan can almost tell, but he silences him with a bite on his collarbone and Seth groans, arcs his back and reaches for Ryan's sides, for his back, presses and Ryan meets him moan for moan. They have a late lunch that day, and even then, Ryan can't stop kissing him in between bites, touching him in between breaths.
The next Tuesday, January 12th, Seth has classes until after five, so Ryan does the grocery shopping after the institute, certain he'll make it home before Seth. Sam walks at Ryan's own pace down the aisles he knows by memory, eyes narrowing as he tries to read the label of the milk.
to tie up loose ends
to make amends
He can't even see the large letters, he can't even tell the colors in the carton and his hand freezes and slowly, he tells himself to place it back on the rows of nothingness he can't even see and his throat closes up.
There was a time when he could have read the small lettering, when he could have picked up a penny at twenty paces. There was a time--
Sam whimpers beside him and Ryan sighs, shaking his head. "Come on," he says, tugging at the leash, turning around, thinking the groceries can fuck themselves even as he walks away from the cart with a handful of things already in it. "Let's go home."
They take a cab back home, and Ryan's hand shake as he puts the key in the lock. He pulls the body strap off Sam and lets him run to the corner, to do doggy things, closing the door with the back of his shoes and leaning against it, head tilted back, breathing ragged and harsh and horribly painful in his chest and fuck fuck fuck--
some people with retinal degeneration may become blind
And this is it, he knows. This is it. He was running out of days, right now he's running out of hours, out of fucking minutes. And he can't breathe, fuck, he can't breath and the last time he felt like this, this out of his skin, he put his hand through the mirror and Seth threatened to get them into therapy and--
fuck
I started to fall
and the silence deafened
Ryan's lying on the couch, Sam resting his head on his shins, nudging him with his nose and not even getting a word from Ryan, by the time Seth arrives. Seth doesn't say anything and if he wasn't so fucking understanding, then Ryan would have an excuse for throwing plates against the furthest wall--
and the sound would make a nice companion, wouldn't it, considering you can't even watch them crash--
"Do you want Thai?"
Ryan makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat that Seth must have taken as agreement, because the next thing he hears is Seth picking up the phone. And he can hear, he can hear everything going around him but it's not enough. He wants sight along with it but he can't have it, so he might as well--
They have dinner in terse silence, Seth making comments about his classes yet not asking about Ryan's, nor about the lack of milk or anything regarding groceries.
That night, Ryan pushes in with very little preparation and Seth hisses under him. Ryan kisses his apologies in Seth's skin and before long, Seth's moaning under him, wanting more, demanding more, and Ryan complies and crashes in a blur of white and color against his eyelids, the only way he can see color anymore.
is there a heaven a hell
and will I come back
who can tell
On January 13th, Wednesday, Ryan can see the blueprints of the apartment in his mind, making his way into the bathroom when Seth leaves to make breakfast. He showers easy and can almost feel his muscles relaxing, only tensing once again when he opens his drawers and feels the Braille tags sewn onto the fabric of almost every piece of cloth he owns. He grits his teeth so hard, he thinks he chips a tooth.
He doesn't eat, only pushes the food around in his plate. Seth doesn't say anything, and Ryan can feel his blood boiling in his veins, wanting release, wanting--
Seth touches his cheek, a familiar gesture now, a signal for a kiss, and the very touch makes Ryan want to do something, hurt something, someone, himself, before Seth's touch tilts his chin and places a soft kiss on Ryan's tense pressed lips. Seth doesn't say anything -- again, again -- and presses another kiss, pulling away, the back of curl fingers caressing his jaw.
"Lunch?"
Lunch. Lunch. They are having lunch together, here this time, because Ryan's obviously not in the mood for anything but sheer madness.
He doesn't say anything, only sits and hears and recognizes the sound of Seth opening the front door, closing it behind him. Tiredly, Ryan swats the plate away with his arm, hearing it crash on the floor with a clunk sound. Sam whimpers on his right, nudging Ryan's knee with his nose, but he moves his leg away. Get the fuck out.
the places I've been
the people I've seen
plans that I made
start to fade
He's not sure what he does after that. He must have done something, stand by the window, try to look out and see nothing but black and gray and a few lines of white. He thinks he remembered the shades of orange Newport sky would turn to, tinged in pink and yellow on the horizon, where the sky met the ocean, and on the house, on the grass, on the pool.
His face is twisted in a grimace as he lets himself fall and slide down the wall to the floor. Sam whimpers again and lies against his left leg, a comforting weight against his muscle and bone. He blinks and thinks of the map of Tahiti, of his fingers touching the state lines Seth and him were supposed to cross and belong into, inside and outside, and everything Seth was going to show him, teach him, and how they kept on pushing it back and back, thinking they had time, they had time, they had time--
And he sits on the cold ground, head titled back, hands on his lap, a cold nose against the back of his palm. He blinks and remembers his peripheral vision. Sees the way he used to glance at Seth from the corner of his eyes, Seth grinning or glaring or talking or smiling or sleeping. And it was that, it was him, it was them, and it's gone now; nothing but a memory, nothing but sheer vapor in a warm room, nothing but nothing but.
He blinks and lifts his head and knows the set of the TV and console is to his right, the center table somewhere before him and slightly to his right. The kitchen further down, with the broken plates still on the floor, the hallway to his left, the door next to the counter. He can hear cars outside, someone shouting, something happening, feet down the hallway, music somewhere above him, a honk in the park. Something and everything and he blinks and looks around his apartment and he should it, see something, see anything. It's nothing but black and black and black and this time his head aches no more, his eyes are no longer heavy, and nothing penetrates the silence.
Sometime later -- because the minutes tick by even if Ryan doesn't want them to, hopes they stop -- he can hear the door being unlocked and being pushed open and a gasp and Ryan thinks about laughing but fears it might hold a manic edge to it.
"Ryan, God. What happened? Did you hurt yourself? Are you okay? Are you--?"
Seth's hand flutter over his face and shoulders and chest and arms and hands and Ryan catches them blindly -- ha! -- and holds them tightly in fingers that shake. His face is nothing but a scowl and he hopes the tears he feels are on the inside, not the outside.
"I'm--"
The word chokes on his throat, heavy and spiteful and disgusting, tasting of blood and death. It's been over a year in the making since his first diagnose, back in early January of 2009. A year and four moths since his appointment with the optometrist. Under five years since he started using glasses. Five years and two months since his head started to hurt because he was straining his eyes. Almost twenty two years since he was born and sentenced to this, this.
"Ryan, what--?"
His hold on Seth's wrists and hands tightens and Seth gasps at the pressure, Sam nudging his hip with his head.
There are no words. There are no words to say this. He blinks, lifts his head in the general direction of Seth -- and Ryan can imagine him squatting before him, worried look on his eyes, mouth tight and eyes narrowed a bit. He knows because this is one of the hundred and million looks of Seth he was able to memorize. That's the way Seth looks, pissed off and helpless, that's the way Seth looks, worried and heart beating against the back of his throat.
"I'm... I can't..." His mouth opens and closes, and the words are only breathed out. "I can't--"
The word doesn't make its way up his throat, out of his lips, because then Seth's mouth is on his, angry and hard and a little mean, like he's yelling at the world at large in a new way, since all the old ones don't really work. Ryan feels his fingers loosen, curl up helplessly, hit Seth's chest, Seth's shoulders and arms and break and hit once again because he can't do this, he can't do this, he thought he could but fuck he can't, he can't, he can't Seth don't make me do this alone please.
Ryan kisses back the only way he knows how, because he doesn't know what else to do to make the desperate, worried noises in the back of Seth's throat go away. He wants to say, I'm fine, it's okay, but it's not true and Seth has known him for so long, too long, and he's figured Ryan out in ways no one else ever bothered even trying, and he'll figure this out, Seth knows now, even though Ryan never got around to saying it, but Seth knows and Ryan's grateful for that.
Instead he says it all in the way that he lets Seth lick his mouth open, the way he kisses back, all teeth and lips. He flicks his tongue over Seth's teeth and then bites down with his own, scraping against Seth's lower lip, soft and flesh-sweet. He says everything he can't say -- sorry I'm so sorry I didn't want this to happen I can't fix it I can't fix it I want you to fix it but it can't be fixed and I'm broken I'm broken Seth what could you possibly want with me when I'm this broken. Ryan never knew he could kiss in English, kiss in apologies, but apparently he can because Seth holds his hands against his chest, pulls him closer and they tangle down on the floor, Sam yelping as they fall on his tail, moving away, away from them. They tangle down and Seth catches him, pulling him closer, closer, in a protective, needy way.
Ryan puts his hands on Seth's face and kisses his upper lip, his lower lip, and the corners of his mouth, wanting to say things in between but unable to do so, but Seth understands, he thinks, because then it's Seth who says the words in hot, humid breaths, "It's okay, Ryan. It's okay. We'll make it okay, we'll make it okay."
But it's not okay, of course it's not okay. Seth knows this. He knows this the same way he knows his middle name is Ezekiel and his parents have to have given him that name because they really wanted a girl and they got him. It will never be okay. And he thinks, well, they can handle that. It will never be okay, it will never be the same. Ryan will keep on learning things, small things, as simple as how to put the toothpaste on his brush without half of it falling onto the sink. And Seth will keep on learning, how to guide Ryan
Just your hand on my elbow, Seth. Just that. Like you've always done it. Just like that.
without ordering him around.
They stand up, slowly, carefully, sometime after that. Seth doesn't care about time, it's not important, it's not worth it. They have time. They have plenty of time. They have the rest of their lives, that's what they have.
Ryan knows his way around the apartment, he knows it better than Seth does. He can do it without his cane, without Sam, but that was when he wasn't freaking out, which, of course, it's not now. And he's babbling, because when something--
Seth takes in a deep breath, hand on Ryan's left elbow, and steers him right around the couch, to the hallway and down to the bedroom.
It's the middle of the afternoon, the sun still high outside, and Seth can feel the heavy set of hunger in the mouth of his stomach, and he has two classes this afternoon but none of that matter. Nothing matters, when Ryan keeps on blinking, eyes narrowing, like he wants to see but knows he can't, when his right hand gropes for Seth's arm, chest, neck, blindly and it's only then that Ryan holds on tightly.
There's no need to push down the covers, only let Ryan reach out and touch the edge of the bed with his hand before sitting down, lying down. Seth sighs, his chest tight and it won't ever let go from now on, he thinks, it won't let go because it's here, it's now, what they had feared--
Ryan scoots on the bed, to the left side, and Seth lies down on the right one, as usual, like always, and then Ryan's reaching out for his hand, searching with his palms and his fingers; touching until he has filled the sensory depravation with touch, finally Ryan sighs and sags on the bed. Seth holds him tight, pulls him to his chest, close. Seth closes his eyes, hearing everything around him and nothing at all, but opens them a second later, breathing harsh and forcing his heartbeat to slow down.
Seth doesn't know when, but Ryan falls asleep against his side, cradled carefully, Seth's arm around his shoulders, face hidden in the hollow of his neck. Seth's left hand, shaking even as it lies on the small of Ryan's back, moves to the nape of Ryan's neck, to push back the hair falling over Ryan's eyes.
"I love you," Seth whispers into the afternoon shinning brightly behind the thick dark curtains, his face troubled, something inside him broken and lost. "God, Ryan, I love you."
And he wants to scream and yell and throw things against the wall and and and-- But it doesn't matter, nothing matters. He'll have this... he'll. It's. It doesn't matter.
He takes in a deep breath that somehow ends in a sob, his right hand -- the one on Ryan's shoulder, keeping him close -- stays still and steady, even as he bites down on his left one, bites down with everything he has, until the pain on his skin catches his attention and he's not dying from the inside out.
He breathes, slowly and regularly, a conscious effort, and sometime in the next minute -- eyes on Ryan's forehead, the line of his nose, the high of his cheekbone, the light not quite catching on his sandy hair -- he falls asleep as well.
He wakes up sometime after the sun has set, the dim light from the streetlight across the street and through the curtains casting lines and curves and shadows in the rooms.
Ryan shifts in his arms and Seth tightens his touch on Ryan for a second, a breath, and then settles and sighs and closes his eyes. His limbs are lazy with the heaviness that comes from sleeping too much, but it's brings a nice buzz with it, and he can almost -- almost, almost but not quite -- forget what forced them to take refuge on the bed.
He keeps going over things, over simple things like buying more labels and having to go do the groceries because yesterday was Ryan's turn but he must have forgotten -- or decided not to -- and that he has a paper due next week that he should--
"I think..."
Seth's breath catches in his throat, the words muttered against his collarbone making his skin tingle and his stomach plummet somewhere deep and scary at the same time. He hadn't even noticed Ryan was awake.
"I think," Ryan starts once again, Seth's hand spread wide on his lower back, breath warming his throat when it leaves Ryan's lips, "I think I need therapy."
"We," Seth says after another breath, turning around to place a small kiss on the top of Ryan's head, hiding his face in Ryan's hair and breathing in. He doesn't know how, but Ryan smells of his shampoo and cotton and vanilla. "We need therapy."
Ryan sighs, placing a kiss on the hollow of Seth's throat, and doesn't say a word. Seth doesn't say a word. They don't say a word, the night crawling around them, slowly, easy, undeniably.
"Are you sure about this?"
Ryan smiles at Seth, confidence around him even though inside it's nothing but ice not quite melting in fire; he has no idea where it's coming from. It could very well be anger, he's not sure. He nods, still, because this is Seth and it's one thing to tell himself he's fine, he's dealing it with even when he breaks down in the middle of the living room -- after breaking down in the bathroom -- but it's another thing entirely to disrupt his fucking life every single day.
He has classes, Ryan, he tells himself, he has classes and he has papers and you know for a fact that he stays up until well past one to finish books because he spends a few hours every other day learning how to cope with your blind ass, that's why.
Ryan nods once again, knowing how to smile and make it look good, look real. He's got experience in this. He can't lie worth shit, sure, but he can lie without saying a word. That, he's good at.
Still, Ryan reaches forward, hand finding Seth's shoulder as if he can see it in his mind's eye even here, sitting in the waiting room of a psychologist's office, Seth's hand on the inside of his elbow, bringing north and south to Ryan when all he has is bottomless nothingness.
"Okay. Hmm. Two hours, right?"
Ryan presses his lips into a line, hearing Dr. Jackson -- Kirsten's suggestion, the best psychiatrist in the area, dealing with post traumatic disorder and anything traumatic, really -- on the other end of the line, I think two hours, to start with, three days a week? We'll see from then.
"Yeah, two hours," he says, his teeth not quite gritting, his throat not really rough.
"Good. Hmm. Just wait for me here, okay, I'll--"
"Seth," Ryan says, his tone low and careful and controlled and that shuts Seth up in a second. Ryan smirks. He might have lost his sight -- fuck -- but he hasn't lost his touch. The dangerous, either you shut the fuck up or I'm really gonna throw you out voice always works.
"Oh. Right. Okay. Going now."
There's a pause, barely a hesitation, but Ryan understands. They've never-- They aren't-- He's not sure what they are, exactly, because they would always turn to each other for comfort, because Seth had the tendency to crawl into his bed at least once a week, twice if they happened to watch a horror movie, ever since they were fifteen. It's not that much different now, not really.
And yet, a second later Seth brushes his lips against Ryan's, barely the pressure of a kiss, slowly and yet quick, saying more with that touch than Seth can with a million words. "Two hours," Seth whispers as he pulls apart, close enough that Ryan can feel Seth's breath against his nose.
Ryan nods. "Two hours."
This time, Ryan can hear Seth pulling back -- the change of pressure, the shift in the cushion; and if blindness has taught Ryan anything, is that one can learn to hear smarter -- before there's a squeeze on his elbow, the inside of his arm, and then the hand falling away.
"Okay."
Ryan smiles. Seth frets, is what he does, and somewhere in the back of Ryan's mind, it makes him feel all warm and nice and weird things he hasn't felt quite this intensely before.
"I'll be back in two hours."
Ryan chuckles, and the only reason he doesn't physically push Seth away is because Seth just might take hold of his arm and not let go. And Ryan doesn't think he could push him away a second time. "Okay."
There's another pause, and Ryan can see Seth -- see him like he used to, with light in the background and everything in three dimensions, see him like he can't see him anymore -- standing there, before him, shins not quite touching Ryan's knees, mouth pressed so tight, the lips hidden in Seth's mouth, probably running his tongue over them. Yeah, he can see it, and Ryan can't help but smile, because he might not see, but he won't ever forget.
"Take care, okay?"
Ryan smiles, nods, his right hand touching the tip of his cane as it rests on his thighs. I'm fine, he wants to say, but wonders about the words. He nods once again instead.
He breathes in even as he hears Seth's footsteps to the main door (seven) and then hears the door opening (glass door, Seth had said, glass door with wooden frames, very cool, actually, mom would like them) and then closing, slowly, and he can let out the breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding.
"Ryan Atwood?"
Ryan nods, taking his cane and unfolding it with a flick of his wrist. He stands up, taking in a deep breath, and asks, "Could you tell me--?"
"To your left, about four paces, then another left, about ten and the door on your left. We have a thing for lefts."
Ryan swallows, surprised at the detailed description. People don't do that, unless they are used to dealing with someone-- The word doesn't come to his lips, stays locked somewhere in his throat, and that's only one of the many reasons he's here. He nods. Seth did tell him about the four paces down from the waiting area to a hallway that Seth was certain would lead to the office. "Thanks."
It's easy to find the door the secretary -- Patricia Kasas -- pointed out, and he pauses for a second, taking a deep breath, wondering if he could just leave, if he could-- He closes his eyes shut before letting out his breath and knocking on the door.
"Come on in," someone says from the inside. Dr. Jonathan Jackson, probably owner of seven PhDs, a dozen awards and at least a Nobel prize. He doesn't think Kristen would qualify him as the best otherwise.
He pushes the door open, taking two steps inside before he hears the voice, once again.
"Ryan Atwood, I assume."
Ryan pauses, nodding as he does so. "Yes, I'm--"
Two hands take Ryan's right one, the one he was starting to offer, in them, shaking it. Ryan can smell the soft cologne on the man, standing right before him. "A pleasure to meet you, Ryan. I'm Jonathan Jackson, my friends call me JJ."
"Oh," Ryan says, his voice deep, not knowing--
"The couches are to your right, no more than four paces. There's one along the wall, ending on the corner table, then another against the following wall, a small center table in between, so watch your knees. On the other side of the room from where you're standing, there are wide windows. I like to let the sun in, I don't know why, I'm from Chicago so maybe it's the lack of sun over there, you know? My desk, which is to say is full of papers at the moment, in on your left, facing us right now. There are book shelves flanking my desk and behind it. I have a thing for books."
Okay, yeah. So maybe Kirsten did know what she was talking about. Ryan wonders if it'll be polite to ask him if he received a Nobel prize of some kind, or how many PhDs he has in his name. "Thank you."
"No problem. I've deal with patients with low visual fields, don't worry." He shakes Ryan's hand one more time before squeezing and then letting it drop.
Ryan finds the first couch very easy, careful with his knees. He sits down, placing the cane on his right.
"Kirsten told me a little bit about you."
A little bit. A little bit is never a little bit with Kirsten.
"Don't worry, nothing personal. Just the reason you were seeking therapy, where you are from, your parents' name, that sort of thing."
Did she tell you they adopted me? Did she tell you they didn't sign up for this? Did she tell you this is all Frank's fault? Dawn never mentioned anyone having this from her side of the family. It has to be Frank's fault. It has to--
He swallows, feeling his neck tight, his shoulders pulled back, his right hand closed in a fist. He wants to relax, he really does, but he wonders if he'll be able to. He wonders if it was a good idea to come here. He wonders if he'll manage to get a word out of his mouth.
He hears Jonathan walking toward him, closer, probably around the center table. The couch on his right groans under Jonathan's weight. A pause, neither of them speak, and Ryan can feel everything inside him under a tight lid.
"Okay. Ryan, tell me about yourself."
He wants to snort, he really does, but thinks that coming with that attitude is probably counterproductive.
"I'm 22," he says with a shrug, trying to find it in himself something to say, something, anything. This was a bad idea. This was a horrible bad idea. He doesn't like talking. That's why he's always understood Seth, always fit with him, because Seth can carry a conversation all by his fucking self--
"You're living in Berkeley, right?"
Ryan swallows. I used to go there. I used to-- "Yeah. Berkeley."
"You go there?"
He swallows again, his hands digging into his thighs, lowering his head. He narrows his eyes, puts so much effort, so much strain in his eyes, the headache starts to pound all the way to the base of his neck, and yet all he sees is black. "Until last July, yeah."
"What happened?"
He looks up, in the general direction of Jonathan. "I thought Kirsten--"
"I'd rather you'd tell me."
Jonathan's voice is low and understanding, like Ryan could pick up whatever is on the center table and throw it across the room and the man would stay unperturbed. "I have retinitis pigmentosa."
"When did you find out?"
His throat doesn't work, his neck burns with anger and frustration and he's nothing but a handicapped, he's nothing but-- "Last January."
Seth has classes. That's what he does. He goes to classes. That's him. Classes and books to read and papers to give in and friends to study with. That's his life. Berkeley. That's his life.
If he shoves his books into his bag the minute the bell rings and the professor sighs and waves toward the door, he thinks nothing of it. If his friends don't ask why he doesn't pick up Ryan anymore, he doesn't wonder. If sometimes he has lunch with his English friends in any of the cafeterias, they don't ask. If Seth glances down at what used to be his napkin and finds nothing but tiny squares of paper, he only swallows.
If Ryan keeps quiet and does things slowly and meticulously and stops kissing him and pulling him forward, hands over Seth's skin, on his sides and on his back, Seth doesn't miss the touch.
"Do you consider Berkeley your home?"
"What?"
"You heard me."
"I-- I don't know what you want me to answer."
"The truth. When I say home, what do you think?"
"Newport."
Seth keeps quiet, mostly. Goes home the minute his classes are done. Jennifer invites him to a party, he refuses. She says he can bring Ryan, Seth clamps up.
They don't ask why he missed afternoon classes last Wednesday. Or why he didn't go at all last Thursday. It's been two weeks, and they haven't asked. Seth hasn't offered information either.
They don't ask about Ryan. They don't even mention his name, anymore. They haven't asked about Ryan since the beginning of the school year.
Seth hasn't told them Ryan's not going this year.
"Have you told your parents, about this?"
"I told them. I went to Newport to tell them, April, last year. I-- I didn't want to tell them at first, but I had to."
"You told the Cohens?"
"Yeah."
"Do you think of them as your parents?"
"..."
"It's a reasonable question."
"They raised me. They are my legal guardians. Were. They were--"
"The Atwoods, what do you--?"
"They are the Atwoods. Frank and Dawn. That's all."
"Okay."
Lara fights with Luigi. A huge fight. Horrible fight. Seth has no idea what it was about, but Emily listens to Lara, even as she's wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. "He's an idiot. Men. They are idiots. I hope he dies."
"Here, here," Emily says with a grin.
"Fuck. At times... fuck! At times I wonder if we should break up, you know?"
Lara glances at him in that moment, a quick glance, a sad glance. "Sorry."
Seth narrows his eyes, but lowers them to the book on his hands. He doesn't even know what he's reading. He thinks he knows what Lara meant by that glance, by that sorry. He would, at least, if he gave it another minute of his attention. But he doesn't. He has to do the groceries and put the Braille tags on everything he buys.
His fingers tighten on the edges of the book and whatever it is he reads, he doesn't remember.
"How long have you known Seth?"
"I met him on my second day at the Cohens."
"Okay. That was--?"
"August 9th, 2003. I walked out of the pool house, to the kitchen, and Seth was there."
"In the kitchen?"
"In the den. He was sitting in front of the TV, controller in hand. He was playing Dynasty Warriors IV."
"What did he say to you?"
"Hey."
"Excuse me?"
"Hey. He said hey."
"What did you say to that?"
"Hey."
"Hmm. You said hey back?"
"Yeah."
"Then?"
"Seth said, do you want to play?"
"And you?"
"I shrugged. I sat down and played with him."
"Oh. Did you say anything else?"
"No. Nothing. He beat me three times in a row. It took me two weeks to finally beat him in his own game. Now, we're kinda even. Well, we were."
They sit at breakfast, quietly. Very quietly. The sound of the coffee dripping and the next door neighbor's -- Sandra -- radio, loud even through the wall. She's probably on the treadmill, early riser and all that.
Seth picks up his bagel, looking at it through dark brown eyes. Bagel. His dad. Newport. The pool house. The den. Sitting there. Sitting there, Ryan on his right, Ryan always on his right, looking back at him. looking back at him with blue eyes that can see--
He places the bagel on the table, glances at Ryan. Ryan, who touches the edge of the table before moving his hands to the center, looking for the mug and finding it after a moment. Ryan, facing his life through touch and taste and sound and smell. Ryan--
He closes his eyes for a second and wonders who he can breathe when it feels like he's dying.
"I don't want to talk today."
"Okay."
"Really. I don't want to talk."
"Okay."
"I'm not joking."
"Neither am I, Ryan. If you don't want to talk, you don't have to?"
"Hmm. You sure?"
"Yeah."
"You're not gonna trick me?"
"Into talking? I don't think I could manage that. You're not the kind of guy who talks when he doesn't want to."
"No, I'm not."
"Okay then. You can just sit there, do... something. And I'll go to my desk, sit and go over some files. What do you think?"
"Oh. Okay."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Did I-- Did I tell you that Seth and I--?"
"Yeah?"
"Hmm. We're not brothers. Not by blood."
"I know that, Ryan. You're adopted."
"Yeah. And we were fifteen when the Cohens became my guardians, so. Hmm."
"Yeah?"
"We-- We're dating. Kinda. It's not incestuous. It's not--"
"No, it's not incestuous at all. You spent a lot of time together when you were in high school, right?"
"Yeah, we did."
"And then you both moved to Berkeley."
"Seth was going to go to Brown, but he didn't get in. But he got accepted in RISD. It's a very fancy school of art."
"I've heard about it."
"Yeah, he was going to go. Seth. He was going to go there. In Providence. I was going to go to Berkeley. I wanted to stay in California."
"Close to the Cohens. I understand."
"Yeah. But Seth-- After... before the summer of 2007, Seth said he wanted to go to Berkeley with me. He said. He said he wanted to go with me."
"Oh. Well. You've been living together four years, right? It must have been difficult for him to think about moving away. From you."
"Yeah. I never... I never really asked him."
"I can see that."
"I... We're. We're dating."
"That's good."
"Yeah, I-- I think it is."
By the end of January, Ryan's barely speaking to him. If Ryan's depressed, he's not saying. And Seth isn't asking. Seth thinks the psychologist is working, has to be working, or Ryan would have put his hand through the new bathroom mirror.
But Ryan only leaves the apartment to go to the Institute, and that's only by cab. Sam's starting to look bored out of his mind. Seth has started to take him out to the park across the street from their apartment building to walk. Three days ago, Sam peed on the washer. Seth had to clean it.
Something's wrong, Seth knows. Something's wrong and he has no idea what he can do make it right.
"So, how does this work, doc?"
"Seth, Call me JJ."
"Oh. JJ. Sounds weird."
"Jonathan Jackson. I don't like John, and Jack Jackson just doesn't sound..."
"Good? Normal? Tell me about it. Seth Ezekiel. I think my mom wanted a girl."
"..."
"Are you laughing at me?"
"No. Hmm. No."
"You are! You're laughing at me!"
"You're very much like Ryan painted you."
"Ryan doesn't paint."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I do. Ryan's... he's fine?"
"I can't talk about my sessions with him."
"I though we were here to talk about him?"
"No, we're here to talk about how you're coping with Ryan's blindness."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine, Seth. You don't even sound fine. You're voice just hardened."
"I'm fine, it's Ryan the one that--"
"That's blind, yes, but it's also affecting you. You didn't sign up for this, did you, when you--?"
"Are you asking me if I'm going to leave him? Is that what this is? Do you actually think--!"
"I don't think anything, Seth. I was just asking--"
"I love him!"
"I know."
"..."
"It's okay."
"I love him."
"That's good."
It's too much. It has been too much for too long, and it all ends on February 4th, 2010. It falls on a Thursday, and they have a test on Friday for "Mayor Figures on American Literature". It's exactly three weeks and one day since Seth came home to find Ryan sitting in the living room -- the den, to them, the den because it holds a couch and the big TV and the Playstation -- back against the wall, Sam whimpering against his thigh, completely blind.
It's been too long and not long enough. It'll never be long enough. Seth will look back to that day -- January 13th, January 13th, January 13th, january13thjanuary13thjanuary13th -- and know not enough days have passed since then. Never long enough. Never--
"Fuck. Just kill me now, will you?"
Seth looks up from the book opened before him on the table. Jennifer -- her apartment, a Newpsie for a mother, very old money, goes to Berkeley and not Yale as some kind of weird rebellion thing -- shakes her head and closes her book with a loud sound.
"Fuck," she says again, "I'm tired of this. Really. I give you. I'm not--"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Lara snorts, leaning back, stretching her arms over her head and hearing more than one vertebrae pop. "You're gonna start bitching about how you don't know anything about this subject and yet you're going to ace it and make us look like a bunch of idiots."
Emily chuckles. "Sorry, babe," she says to Jennifer. "But you always do that." A shrug of slim shoulders, dark brown, almost black hair, falling onto her shoulders. In that moment, she reminds him of Summer.
Seth swallows thickly, his throat suddenly tight. He stands up. "Hmm. Can I--?" He asks, jerking his head toward the kitchen, specifically the fridge.
She nods, waving her hand in the general direction of it. "Sure. Knock yourself out."
He makes his way to the fridge, opening it and peering inside. They used to study in his apartment. It was always stocked. Ryan was a bit religious about going to the groceries, Seth thinks because he actually used to do the groceries before coming to live with them. The closest Seth ever got to doing them was the summer his mom was in rehab, and even then, it was always Ryan. Ryan hasn't gone to get the groceries since that Wednesday. Seth has realized he kinda sucks at it. He bought three boxes of Captain Crunch and only one gallon of milk and no vegetables, not like they are big on vegetables, but still. Ryan used to buy vegetables.
His hand shakes as he takes out a can of Coke. He opens it with one hand, leaning against the wall, looking out the window over his shoulder. He frowns, seeing nothing but thick trees and green expanses. The building looks out into a park. Very nice park, too. Very high class. About twenty minutes from campus, but Jen has a car, and Lara and Emily came with Seth, and he'll drop them off at campus before going home.
The sun is setting, early, not even six and he told Ryan this morning that he might be home late, staying at Jen's to study. Ryan only half grunted something.
Ryan barely talks to him anymore. They share a bed, of course, and he holds Ryan's hand in his at night, but Ryan doesn't hold his back. Ryan doesn't kiss him. Ryan--
He glances out the window, his lips pressed tight into a line before pulling them into his mouth, licking them with the tip of his tongue. The sun is setting, light blue letting orange take over before midnight blue conquers.
Everything is tinged in orange. The edge of the building, the thick trees, the grass, the cars, the people, the city. Orange sky, like the Newport sunset. Newport, sunset, the pier, the ocean, the pool, the pool house. Ryan. Ryan. Ryan.
And he's miles from the place where he first met Ryan. Ryan, standing with his hand on the doorknob. Ryan, hair tussled from sleep, cheeks rosy, head tilted to the side, eyes wide and looking at him -- looking at him, right at him, not through him, not like they always do, they always did -- and Seth sitting there, on the cold ground, and all he can think of is Hey.
His face contorts into a grimace and his hand moves to his mouth, teeth digging into soft flesh and it's not enough, it's not fucking enough--
He moves quickly, places the Coke on the table by Emily's elbow and rushes to the bathroom, with enough mind left inside him to close the door behind him. He holds himself by the hands on the sink, breathing ragged through his mouth, his chest so tight, so fucking tight--
And the worry starts to hurt and all he can do is close his eyes and think of summer, think of Newport and Ryan sitting next to him, looking at him, memorizing him so he doesn't forget, so when the years have gone by and it's been a decade since Ryan last saw him, he still won't forget.
Ryan, beautiful Ryan, and even with his eyes closed, Seth can see him, almost like a picture only not, brighter, brighter and perfect. He feels dizzy, light and free, falling gently into his very memory. Ryan, walking into the kitchen, eyes not quite open, hands groping for a cup of coffee and Seth for once having woken up first and handing it to him. Ryan lying down on the futon, on his side, Seth crawling into the bed like it's the most natural thing and Ryan accepting it like such. Ryan sitting to his right, sharing a game and so much more. Ryan under him, eyes wide and yet unseeing, arching under his touch, moaning his name, breathing his sweat.
Seth shakes his head, walking out of the memory and into where he is, standing in a bathroom, anger not quite quelling inside. There's so much he doesn't understand, yeah, but this is too much. He wants to touch Ryan and know the touch will be welcomed, he wants--
A knock on the door, Jen's voice, saying something and Emily's voice above it and Lara's on the background--
The sound of Ryan's voice, Ryan's laughter, his small smile, his shy smile, his compass to guide him home.
Questions, questions, answers, calling, words, another knock--
A touch on his shoulder, turning him around, facing Ryan and smiling at him and a cup of coffee being shoved into his hands. "There, drink that. Shower."
Someone calling him, again, and again--
"Seth!"
The word low, a warning, but Seth keeps on pushing, keeps on pushing because this is what he does, always has done, telling Ryan that he doesn't have to prove that he's strong, that they will understand, they know that he's hurting for Marissa, they know. "We know."
Ryan snorting, turning around, turning away.
Ryan, falling onto the mat, blood on his brow, on his lips, bleeding. Ryan bleeding, bare knuckles against the sandbag. Ryan bleeding, always bleeding, either on the outside or on the inside and he's going to run out of blood soon and then how is Seth going to be able to breathe if Ryan is not longer--
"You're the only thing that makes sense."
Seth saying that with a shrug of his shoulders before walking into the bedroom he chose in their new apartment in Berkeley and letting the box fall from his hands onto the bed.
Ryan, sitting perfectly on the ground, back against the couch, head leaning back, tired, a pinched look on the corner of his eyes. Ryan is, was... Ryan had been... Ryan had seen him--
don't ignore the present tense
A snort from him and he's breaking down because it's been too much too high, too low, too quickly, too soon, too everything and he has nothing left inside him. He's crumbling to the floor of the bathroom even as the door finally opens and someone gasps, and all he can think of is that at least he didn't put his hand through the mirror and he laughs just a bit manically.
"Oh, Seth. Seth. What happened? Are you okay? What happened?"
Arms around him, pulling him close and holding him in tight so he doesn't splatter on the tiled floor.
"Seth, what--?"
His eyes sting, his eyes hurt, and his hands move to cover his face and they come back wet and he shakes his head. He can't, he can't, he's breaking down, like Ryan only worse, because he's not the one that's blind but it still hurt so fucking much.
"Seth, please, talk to us."
"Is it Ryan?"
He snorts, a painful sound that ends in a sob and his hand is shoved deep into his mouth, biting it and making it hurt but it's not enough. And this isn't his secret to tell but he can't keep it inside anymore. He can't even fucking breathe how the fuck is he supposed to keep a secret like that--
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, so hard that he groans in the back of his throat.
"What do we do?"
"Call Ryan. Even if they have brok--"
"No, no, no, no," Seth says, shaking his head, pulling away from them because they are not who he wants, they are not Ryan. His throat is tight and he can barely breathe and his head throbs with each pulse of his throat and his eyes are heavy lidded and he knows he's still holding more of it inside than he's let out.
He pushes himself away on his hands, like he's afraid and they are going to attack him if he so much as breathes wrong. He pulls away until his back connects to the wall -- later he'll find out that it wasn't the wall, but the low side of the bathtub -- and sighs, leaning against it, closing his eyes.
His words come out in a rush.
"He used to look at me sideways, you know? He used to. He'd just glance at me out of the corner of his eyes and say nothing and I'd know what he was trying to tell me. Or he'd just stand there and raise an eyebrow and have this look in his eyes that would mean, Seth, you're being an idiot. More than usual. Take a shower because you're starting to stink up the house and I'd know that was what he was saying. I can't--" He shakes his head, a hard shake, and another sob doesn't quite form in his throat. "He used to say so much with his eyes because he's not exactly verbose and he thinks I say a lot with my eyes. HA! I'm mute against to him and how am I gonna know what he's thinking now if I can't see his eyes. How am I going to-- I miss his eyes. They look at me but don't see me and I miss his eyes seeing me. And I just, I just want to see him see me, just one last time, just once more, God, just once more, just once more--"
His words end there, in mid thought, in mid phrase, and he shakes his head again, noticing the pressure of his hands on his face, the wetness on his cheeks. He blinks, pulls his hands down, and looks at Emily and Jennifer and Lara, sitting on the floor of the bathroom, looking at him with eyes bloodshot and trembling lips.
"Seth, what--?"
Lara's question ends in a sigh, and Seth's face crumbles into a grimace, hand on his mouth, and he whispers, "Ryan's blind."
"Is there something wrong, Seth?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"..."
"..."
"Ryan's blind."
"Yes."
"He's blind."
"I know."
"I'm not... I don't think I'm coping very well with that."
"Why do you think so?"
After that, he doesn't remember much.
He remembers, or thinks he remembers, Emily taking his car keys and being shoved into the back seat of the Rover. It's all jumble of emotions and frustration and anger and his hands closing into fists and digging into his palms even as he pushes the door of the elevator in his apartment building and can see Emily and Lara walking out of the parking lot and to the street. They are going to call for a cab back to the campus, to their dorm. He gave them a twenty because, really, it's the least he can do for them after they had to drive him home, he was such a wreck.
His brain is filled with fog, like he's in that state between asleep and awake, when you can't quite focus on anything, when you dream of spiders and hands at your feet and then you're blinking at the light on your eyes and the next thing you see is a room you don't recognize and it's your dream and then you blink and it isn't. It feels just like that, because Seth's standing here, in front of the elevator, fingers pushing at the button and he can't quite remember Lara's face or Jen's words or the way Emily reached for him and cupped his face and cried a little bit.
Seth told them because they deserved to know, after his very spectacular nervous breakdown in the middle of the bathroom. He told them and cried and then told them so more and cried until his eyes hurt, not for the tears he was holding back but for the ones he had shed, and then he thinks he babbled something about Ryan and the ocean and the pier and a skateboard and a bike. He's not sure. It's almost like being drunk, only instead of being happy there's this hole in your chest, like a black hole, and it just keeps eating everything that's close enough to be pulled by its gravitational field. The gravitational field of Seth's black hole? Pretty fucking amazing.
He's not half himself as he walks into the elevator cart and then up to the fourth floor. He makes his way into the apartment and goes to his bedroom. He only uses to get books from; or used to, at least. He stands by the threshold and glances at Ryan over his shoulder. Ryan, sitting on his bed, book on his hands, and Seth notices the small dots where words should be printed and everything hurts anew. Ryan's right hand moves over the pages, his left one touching the top of the hourglass, leaning against his bend thigh. The crystal hourglass, the one Ryan seems to be oddly attached to, a little bit bigger than his palm, catches the light coming from the pulled curtains and it empties as Seth stands here and watches Ryan. Ryan, with an easiness and knowledge that comes from countless times having done this, turns the hourglass upside down and lets it lean against his thigh once again, fingers moving over dots that whisper words Seth can't hear.
He breathes in harshly and closes the door of his room after himself. He falls on the bed, face first, closes his eyes and lets sleep take him.
They'll have to talk about whatever it is it's not working between them. They'll have to talk, but Seth thinks it can wait until he feels half human and not entirely dead.
"Why do you think so?"
"Because..."
"..."
"I think I had a nervous breakdown."
"When?"
"Four days ago."
"Okay. What happened?"
"..."
"Seth, this doesn't work if you don't talk to me."
"..."
"Listen, if you want to wait until you feel more comfortable--"
"No, it's not that. I need to get past this."
"Okay. Why?"
"Because I'm worthless to Ryan if I don't."
They aren't living, Seth thinks one morning, a week and a half since his very personal breakdown, they are just passing time. Ryan keeps on going to the institute and Seth pretends he actually cares about what it is they try to teach him at Berkeley, and one of them always remembers to feed Sam but they aren't living. At some point, Seth's not even sure when or how, one of them stopped reaching for the other one. He doesn't even know if it was him or Ryan who didn't take the other's hand at night three days ago and they seem to have gotten too afraid, too fearful, too something, and are unable to reach the breach and find each other.
It's Monday, perfect bright day, blue sky and amazing sun making its way inside the apartment through the half pulled curtains and if Seth were to close the distance to the window, he could feel the sun on his skin. Instead, he sits across from Ryan on the kitchen table and neither of them speaks and Sam noses his knee. Sam adores Ryan, Seth knows, but Sam also seems to know that if one of them is going to reach for the other, it will be Seth, not Ryan.
He's already gone five times to Dr. Jackson's -- JJ's -- office but either he needs years of therapy or it's just not working, because right now, all he needs is to be able to look at Ryan and not feel this anger simmering underneath his very skin against the world at large and Dawn and Frank in particular.
They can do this, this horrible dance around one another, until the very end of time. Ryan can be certain Seth's going to leave the following year, when graduation comes around and a good job is offered and Seth can continue to feel himself lose his voice, wanting nothing more than to lash out first at all the things he doesn't get or understand.
He looks up at Ryan. Ryan, face down, one hand curled around the black mug of coffee -- the same one Kirsten bought for Ryan on their senior year, after the previous one cracked when she was doing the dishes -- the other hand holding onto the edge of the table
hand that have to move from the edge to the center, to the plate, find silverware by touch alone
and Seth has always known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he knows more about the stars and the sea than what goes in Ryan's head, hands not quite touching in bed.
"I'm in love with you," Seth says all of a sudden, words easy and simple and perfect in his tongue, tasting of the ocean and the sand and Ryan, fitting like nothing has ever done before.
Ryan lifts his head, blue eyes blinking blindingly -- blindingly, blindingly, blindingly, blind, blind, blindblindblind -- at him, in the general direction of him, of his voice, on Ryan's left -- always on Ryan's left -- and his hand tightness on the mug until the white knuckles shake with visible strain.
They could do this forever, until both of them ache from the inside out, until they can't remember what started this or even how to end it. They can do that, and Seth can stop breathing at will just as easy.
Ryan blinks, blue eyes electric and unseeing, two shades too clear to be the Newport ocean but just as perfect. His face crumbles into a grimace, a shake of his head, and the hand on the edge of the table, that keeps him grounded, loosens and moves to his mouth. Seth can almost see him losing North and South and Forward and Behind, before his fingers fit perfectly on the inside of Ryan's elbow and Ryan leans into his touch.
Seth turns around, slowly, the beat of his heart silencing everything around them, every sound from the outside of their lives. There's no need to prove that you're strong, he thinks, leaning forward, close, so close-- I've got you. I've--
"I've got you," Seth whispers against the slide of lips that fit on the soft dent of Ryan's mouth. It's an unexpected place to find belonging but he's discovered they fit like this, the tip of his nose brushing Ryan's cheek, his tongue flicking gently against parted lips, breath pushing greedily and brokenly into Ryan's mouth. And he breaks under Ryan's touch, under the very weight, gasping for air as Ryan breathes quick and needy into his and they're kissing, touching, hands moving slowly from nothingness to face, hip and they tumble, falling but being caught.
They aren't better, they aren't even right, but touch does wonderful things, can heal all things, and it feels like settling them together, like pieces clicking into place.
"I've got you. I have you," is gasped in between breathing of lungs, hands shift from hip and belly and thigh with no thought of anything more taxing, more urgent.
I think that's it. It's a pretty long chapter, so I'm hoping it'll do for a while. *g* Let me know what you think of it.
And now, I have a million and one stories to try and finish, specially the one for the Sentence Challenge. *sighs* Talk about long! With that, I'm off!
Title: Shadowboxing.
Author: M. F. Luder
Pairing: Ryan/Seth.
Rating: NC-17.
Category: Future fic. Drama. Me being evil. *nods*
Spoilers: Up to "The End's not Near, is Here", but with selective spoilers. *g*
Challenge: From fanfic100 and 06. hours. The rest of the stories can be found at Big Damn Table.
Author's note: Betad by popmusicjunkie this time around. I love you, babe!
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*
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Shadowboxing
IX.
December passes in a blur of finals for Seth and getting used to Sam -- Seth had hoped for a more manly name for the dog, something like Draco, which Ryan had refused on the base that he was not going to have a dog named after a Harry Potter character -- for Ryan. Choosing Sam was, even if Seth doesn't want to admit it, pretty easy. They went straight to Guide Dog, and found a lovely German Sheppard, which Seth said was the one thing he was not going to back down from, only six months old, because he needed to train with Ryan and get used to him. Lovely color, black on his back and gold and white on his stomach and paws.
Ryan and Sam graduate on December 17th, after three weeks of training, and Seth takes it upon himself to feed The Monster -- pet name from Seth, after Sam destroyed one pair Nike sneakers, even though Sam's supposed to be trained Not To Do That.
They go to Newport for the holidays, of course, and Kirsten thinks Sam is perfect and Seth complains that she loves the dog more than her oldest son (Seth's birthday being on September while Ryan's is in March). Sandy gives Sam too many treats, who noses his hand, while Ryan stands back, against the divider of the kitchen and the den, and watches them, small smile on his lips, and thinks he's almost ready. Almost.
New Year's Eve falls on a Thursday, and that night, as the grandfather clock in the living room -- they choose to stay home for the night, even if Ryan insists that at least Sandy and Kristen should go -- calls midnight, Ryan reaches forward, hand taking Seth's in his, pulling him forward, pulling him close. Ryan can't see Sandy and Kristen kissing on his peripheral vision -- already lower than fifteen, so he doesn't think about it. His hand cups Seth's face, nose touching his own, and his chest is tight and he's running out of days, out of hours, he knows, so he takes what he can and kisses Seth with a grimace on his face and tears in his eyes he can't quite blink away this time.
They go back on Sunday night, January 3rd, 2010. Seth has classes at eight on Monday and Ryan still goes to the institute, too much to learn, too little time. By Friday, the headaches stops being a permanent fixture in his life, and he knows it's because his eyes are not making an effort anymore. They are giving up, and Ryan can almost feel them going down, losing the fight.
That night, he pushes Seth onto the bed, straddling him -- like he did the first time, so many days ago he can barely count them -- kissing a path from his collarbone down to his navel, feeling Seth whimper underneath him. His hands move over Seth's body with confidence, playing it as if he knows it by heart, by mind, as if his eyes are no longer needed. Soon, soon-- The words ends there, always, because soon is not now, so it should not be thought about.
And he's too desperate, there's not enough time, not enough time
it won't happen over night
even as he touches and kisses and licks and bites and nuzzles and Seth pleads under him, Ryan, Ryan, please, ohgod, please.
And he wants, how he wants. He wants to push in and be there and find himself but he's not going to last, neither is Seth, and somewhere in between Seth rapidly loses the ability to verbalize. Instead, Seth hooks one leg around the back of Ryan's thighs, dragging him closer. Ryan raises his head, kisses Seth hard, fingers tangling in his hair, hand digging into his hipbone. He moves and Seth moans, and his right hand finds Seth's left one and pulls it over Seth's head, and holds him there, and they rock against one another, breathing coming faster, bursts of pleasure sparking across their skin and racing through their bones. And it's not enough, it won't be enough, he needs more, more time, more touch more sight more more more--
He can't do this, he can't do this, he can't stand words that are mostly noises, ghosts with just voices, he can't he can't--
"Ryan--"
And Seth's coming, slick and sweet, Ryan still moving against him, coming with a sob that Seth hushes, gentles, gasps when he tilts his hips and shocks an orgasm to the surface of his skin, his mind, his lips, his eyes. He collapses, face pressed against Seth's neck, breathless and wordless.
It feels like he's breaking, again and again, even as his limbs go numb and slack and he nuzzles Seth's neck, Seth's cheek, right hand not letting go, left hand gripping Seth's shoulder tight enough to hurt. It won't ever stop, Ryan fears. This, this, creases of distant dark places, it might never stop, even when it stops. There are no keys to this, no equations, no answers, nothing he can do except wait and tell himself he'll fill the ghosts with images and colors and textures.
They spend Saturday morning in bed, in between kisses and touches and half words being spoken and a lot left unsaid.
Seth stands up sometime around one, Ryan turning around on the bed, propped on his left elbow, and watches him. He's running out of time, he knows, and maybe that's why he can almost feel the need, the rush, the hurry inside him, pouring through his veins as if mixed with his blood. He watches in nothing but dim shadows and the play of the light in his eyes, as Seth stands next to the bed, back to him, reaching for a t-shirt they threw in the general direction sometime this morning. And he watches the flex of muscles across the shoulder blades, the solid back, the narrow waist, the tan skin that used to be darker when they would spend most afternoons by the shore. The soft hair Ryan now has the unspoken permission to run his fingers through, the side of the face, the line of a jaw he has licked cleaned not even an hour ago.
Seth turns around, looks at him, smiles at him. He reaches down and kisses him soundly, breathlessly, and Ryan can't help it, his left hand moves to Seth's jaw and holds on tight, pulling him forward until he's falling on top of Ryan with a laugh. Seth laughs, but Ryan doesn't, only kisses him deeper, harsher, with tongue and teeth, and his hand pulls off the t-shirt for the second they are apart.
Seth wants to speak, Ryan can almost tell, but he silences him with a bite on his collarbone and Seth groans, arcs his back and reaches for Ryan's sides, for his back, presses and Ryan meets him moan for moan. They have a late lunch that day, and even then, Ryan can't stop kissing him in between bites, touching him in between breaths.
The next Tuesday, January 12th, Seth has classes until after five, so Ryan does the grocery shopping after the institute, certain he'll make it home before Seth. Sam walks at Ryan's own pace down the aisles he knows by memory, eyes narrowing as he tries to read the label of the milk.
to tie up loose ends
to make amends
He can't even see the large letters, he can't even tell the colors in the carton and his hand freezes and slowly, he tells himself to place it back on the rows of nothingness he can't even see and his throat closes up.
There was a time when he could have read the small lettering, when he could have picked up a penny at twenty paces. There was a time--
Sam whimpers beside him and Ryan sighs, shaking his head. "Come on," he says, tugging at the leash, turning around, thinking the groceries can fuck themselves even as he walks away from the cart with a handful of things already in it. "Let's go home."
They take a cab back home, and Ryan's hand shake as he puts the key in the lock. He pulls the body strap off Sam and lets him run to the corner, to do doggy things, closing the door with the back of his shoes and leaning against it, head tilted back, breathing ragged and harsh and horribly painful in his chest and fuck fuck fuck--
some people with retinal degeneration may become blind
And this is it, he knows. This is it. He was running out of days, right now he's running out of hours, out of fucking minutes. And he can't breathe, fuck, he can't breath and the last time he felt like this, this out of his skin, he put his hand through the mirror and Seth threatened to get them into therapy and--
fuck
I started to fall
and the silence deafened
Ryan's lying on the couch, Sam resting his head on his shins, nudging him with his nose and not even getting a word from Ryan, by the time Seth arrives. Seth doesn't say anything and if he wasn't so fucking understanding, then Ryan would have an excuse for throwing plates against the furthest wall--
and the sound would make a nice companion, wouldn't it, considering you can't even watch them crash--
"Do you want Thai?"
Ryan makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat that Seth must have taken as agreement, because the next thing he hears is Seth picking up the phone. And he can hear, he can hear everything going around him but it's not enough. He wants sight along with it but he can't have it, so he might as well--
They have dinner in terse silence, Seth making comments about his classes yet not asking about Ryan's, nor about the lack of milk or anything regarding groceries.
That night, Ryan pushes in with very little preparation and Seth hisses under him. Ryan kisses his apologies in Seth's skin and before long, Seth's moaning under him, wanting more, demanding more, and Ryan complies and crashes in a blur of white and color against his eyelids, the only way he can see color anymore.
is there a heaven a hell
and will I come back
who can tell
On January 13th, Wednesday, Ryan can see the blueprints of the apartment in his mind, making his way into the bathroom when Seth leaves to make breakfast. He showers easy and can almost feel his muscles relaxing, only tensing once again when he opens his drawers and feels the Braille tags sewn onto the fabric of almost every piece of cloth he owns. He grits his teeth so hard, he thinks he chips a tooth.
He doesn't eat, only pushes the food around in his plate. Seth doesn't say anything, and Ryan can feel his blood boiling in his veins, wanting release, wanting--
Seth touches his cheek, a familiar gesture now, a signal for a kiss, and the very touch makes Ryan want to do something, hurt something, someone, himself, before Seth's touch tilts his chin and places a soft kiss on Ryan's tense pressed lips. Seth doesn't say anything -- again, again -- and presses another kiss, pulling away, the back of curl fingers caressing his jaw.
"Lunch?"
Lunch. Lunch. They are having lunch together, here this time, because Ryan's obviously not in the mood for anything but sheer madness.
He doesn't say anything, only sits and hears and recognizes the sound of Seth opening the front door, closing it behind him. Tiredly, Ryan swats the plate away with his arm, hearing it crash on the floor with a clunk sound. Sam whimpers on his right, nudging Ryan's knee with his nose, but he moves his leg away. Get the fuck out.
the places I've been
the people I've seen
plans that I made
start to fade
He's not sure what he does after that. He must have done something, stand by the window, try to look out and see nothing but black and gray and a few lines of white. He thinks he remembered the shades of orange Newport sky would turn to, tinged in pink and yellow on the horizon, where the sky met the ocean, and on the house, on the grass, on the pool.
His face is twisted in a grimace as he lets himself fall and slide down the wall to the floor. Sam whimpers again and lies against his left leg, a comforting weight against his muscle and bone. He blinks and thinks of the map of Tahiti, of his fingers touching the state lines Seth and him were supposed to cross and belong into, inside and outside, and everything Seth was going to show him, teach him, and how they kept on pushing it back and back, thinking they had time, they had time, they had time--
And he sits on the cold ground, head titled back, hands on his lap, a cold nose against the back of his palm. He blinks and remembers his peripheral vision. Sees the way he used to glance at Seth from the corner of his eyes, Seth grinning or glaring or talking or smiling or sleeping. And it was that, it was him, it was them, and it's gone now; nothing but a memory, nothing but sheer vapor in a warm room, nothing but nothing but.
He blinks and lifts his head and knows the set of the TV and console is to his right, the center table somewhere before him and slightly to his right. The kitchen further down, with the broken plates still on the floor, the hallway to his left, the door next to the counter. He can hear cars outside, someone shouting, something happening, feet down the hallway, music somewhere above him, a honk in the park. Something and everything and he blinks and looks around his apartment and he should it, see something, see anything. It's nothing but black and black and black and this time his head aches no more, his eyes are no longer heavy, and nothing penetrates the silence.
Sometime later -- because the minutes tick by even if Ryan doesn't want them to, hopes they stop -- he can hear the door being unlocked and being pushed open and a gasp and Ryan thinks about laughing but fears it might hold a manic edge to it.
"Ryan, God. What happened? Did you hurt yourself? Are you okay? Are you--?"
Seth's hand flutter over his face and shoulders and chest and arms and hands and Ryan catches them blindly -- ha! -- and holds them tightly in fingers that shake. His face is nothing but a scowl and he hopes the tears he feels are on the inside, not the outside.
"I'm--"
The word chokes on his throat, heavy and spiteful and disgusting, tasting of blood and death. It's been over a year in the making since his first diagnose, back in early January of 2009. A year and four moths since his appointment with the optometrist. Under five years since he started using glasses. Five years and two months since his head started to hurt because he was straining his eyes. Almost twenty two years since he was born and sentenced to this, this.
"Ryan, what--?"
His hold on Seth's wrists and hands tightens and Seth gasps at the pressure, Sam nudging his hip with his head.
There are no words. There are no words to say this. He blinks, lifts his head in the general direction of Seth -- and Ryan can imagine him squatting before him, worried look on his eyes, mouth tight and eyes narrowed a bit. He knows because this is one of the hundred and million looks of Seth he was able to memorize. That's the way Seth looks, pissed off and helpless, that's the way Seth looks, worried and heart beating against the back of his throat.
"I'm... I can't..." His mouth opens and closes, and the words are only breathed out. "I can't--"
The word doesn't make its way up his throat, out of his lips, because then Seth's mouth is on his, angry and hard and a little mean, like he's yelling at the world at large in a new way, since all the old ones don't really work. Ryan feels his fingers loosen, curl up helplessly, hit Seth's chest, Seth's shoulders and arms and break and hit once again because he can't do this, he can't do this, he thought he could but fuck he can't, he can't, he can't Seth don't make me do this alone please.
Ryan kisses back the only way he knows how, because he doesn't know what else to do to make the desperate, worried noises in the back of Seth's throat go away. He wants to say, I'm fine, it's okay, but it's not true and Seth has known him for so long, too long, and he's figured Ryan out in ways no one else ever bothered even trying, and he'll figure this out, Seth knows now, even though Ryan never got around to saying it, but Seth knows and Ryan's grateful for that.
Instead he says it all in the way that he lets Seth lick his mouth open, the way he kisses back, all teeth and lips. He flicks his tongue over Seth's teeth and then bites down with his own, scraping against Seth's lower lip, soft and flesh-sweet. He says everything he can't say -- sorry I'm so sorry I didn't want this to happen I can't fix it I can't fix it I want you to fix it but it can't be fixed and I'm broken I'm broken Seth what could you possibly want with me when I'm this broken. Ryan never knew he could kiss in English, kiss in apologies, but apparently he can because Seth holds his hands against his chest, pulls him closer and they tangle down on the floor, Sam yelping as they fall on his tail, moving away, away from them. They tangle down and Seth catches him, pulling him closer, closer, in a protective, needy way.
Ryan puts his hands on Seth's face and kisses his upper lip, his lower lip, and the corners of his mouth, wanting to say things in between but unable to do so, but Seth understands, he thinks, because then it's Seth who says the words in hot, humid breaths, "It's okay, Ryan. It's okay. We'll make it okay, we'll make it okay."
But it's not okay, of course it's not okay. Seth knows this. He knows this the same way he knows his middle name is Ezekiel and his parents have to have given him that name because they really wanted a girl and they got him. It will never be okay. And he thinks, well, they can handle that. It will never be okay, it will never be the same. Ryan will keep on learning things, small things, as simple as how to put the toothpaste on his brush without half of it falling onto the sink. And Seth will keep on learning, how to guide Ryan
Just your hand on my elbow, Seth. Just that. Like you've always done it. Just like that.
without ordering him around.
They stand up, slowly, carefully, sometime after that. Seth doesn't care about time, it's not important, it's not worth it. They have time. They have plenty of time. They have the rest of their lives, that's what they have.
Ryan knows his way around the apartment, he knows it better than Seth does. He can do it without his cane, without Sam, but that was when he wasn't freaking out, which, of course, it's not now. And he's babbling, because when something--
Seth takes in a deep breath, hand on Ryan's left elbow, and steers him right around the couch, to the hallway and down to the bedroom.
It's the middle of the afternoon, the sun still high outside, and Seth can feel the heavy set of hunger in the mouth of his stomach, and he has two classes this afternoon but none of that matter. Nothing matters, when Ryan keeps on blinking, eyes narrowing, like he wants to see but knows he can't, when his right hand gropes for Seth's arm, chest, neck, blindly and it's only then that Ryan holds on tightly.
There's no need to push down the covers, only let Ryan reach out and touch the edge of the bed with his hand before sitting down, lying down. Seth sighs, his chest tight and it won't ever let go from now on, he thinks, it won't let go because it's here, it's now, what they had feared--
Ryan scoots on the bed, to the left side, and Seth lies down on the right one, as usual, like always, and then Ryan's reaching out for his hand, searching with his palms and his fingers; touching until he has filled the sensory depravation with touch, finally Ryan sighs and sags on the bed. Seth holds him tight, pulls him to his chest, close. Seth closes his eyes, hearing everything around him and nothing at all, but opens them a second later, breathing harsh and forcing his heartbeat to slow down.
Seth doesn't know when, but Ryan falls asleep against his side, cradled carefully, Seth's arm around his shoulders, face hidden in the hollow of his neck. Seth's left hand, shaking even as it lies on the small of Ryan's back, moves to the nape of Ryan's neck, to push back the hair falling over Ryan's eyes.
"I love you," Seth whispers into the afternoon shinning brightly behind the thick dark curtains, his face troubled, something inside him broken and lost. "God, Ryan, I love you."
And he wants to scream and yell and throw things against the wall and and and-- But it doesn't matter, nothing matters. He'll have this... he'll. It's. It doesn't matter.
He takes in a deep breath that somehow ends in a sob, his right hand -- the one on Ryan's shoulder, keeping him close -- stays still and steady, even as he bites down on his left one, bites down with everything he has, until the pain on his skin catches his attention and he's not dying from the inside out.
He breathes, slowly and regularly, a conscious effort, and sometime in the next minute -- eyes on Ryan's forehead, the line of his nose, the high of his cheekbone, the light not quite catching on his sandy hair -- he falls asleep as well.
He wakes up sometime after the sun has set, the dim light from the streetlight across the street and through the curtains casting lines and curves and shadows in the rooms.
Ryan shifts in his arms and Seth tightens his touch on Ryan for a second, a breath, and then settles and sighs and closes his eyes. His limbs are lazy with the heaviness that comes from sleeping too much, but it's brings a nice buzz with it, and he can almost -- almost, almost but not quite -- forget what forced them to take refuge on the bed.
He keeps going over things, over simple things like buying more labels and having to go do the groceries because yesterday was Ryan's turn but he must have forgotten -- or decided not to -- and that he has a paper due next week that he should--
"I think..."
Seth's breath catches in his throat, the words muttered against his collarbone making his skin tingle and his stomach plummet somewhere deep and scary at the same time. He hadn't even noticed Ryan was awake.
"I think," Ryan starts once again, Seth's hand spread wide on his lower back, breath warming his throat when it leaves Ryan's lips, "I think I need therapy."
"We," Seth says after another breath, turning around to place a small kiss on the top of Ryan's head, hiding his face in Ryan's hair and breathing in. He doesn't know how, but Ryan smells of his shampoo and cotton and vanilla. "We need therapy."
Ryan sighs, placing a kiss on the hollow of Seth's throat, and doesn't say a word. Seth doesn't say a word. They don't say a word, the night crawling around them, slowly, easy, undeniably.
"Are you sure about this?"
Ryan smiles at Seth, confidence around him even though inside it's nothing but ice not quite melting in fire; he has no idea where it's coming from. It could very well be anger, he's not sure. He nods, still, because this is Seth and it's one thing to tell himself he's fine, he's dealing it with even when he breaks down in the middle of the living room -- after breaking down in the bathroom -- but it's another thing entirely to disrupt his fucking life every single day.
He has classes, Ryan, he tells himself, he has classes and he has papers and you know for a fact that he stays up until well past one to finish books because he spends a few hours every other day learning how to cope with your blind ass, that's why.
Ryan nods once again, knowing how to smile and make it look good, look real. He's got experience in this. He can't lie worth shit, sure, but he can lie without saying a word. That, he's good at.
Still, Ryan reaches forward, hand finding Seth's shoulder as if he can see it in his mind's eye even here, sitting in the waiting room of a psychologist's office, Seth's hand on the inside of his elbow, bringing north and south to Ryan when all he has is bottomless nothingness.
"Okay. Hmm. Two hours, right?"
Ryan presses his lips into a line, hearing Dr. Jackson -- Kirsten's suggestion, the best psychiatrist in the area, dealing with post traumatic disorder and anything traumatic, really -- on the other end of the line, I think two hours, to start with, three days a week? We'll see from then.
"Yeah, two hours," he says, his teeth not quite gritting, his throat not really rough.
"Good. Hmm. Just wait for me here, okay, I'll--"
"Seth," Ryan says, his tone low and careful and controlled and that shuts Seth up in a second. Ryan smirks. He might have lost his sight -- fuck -- but he hasn't lost his touch. The dangerous, either you shut the fuck up or I'm really gonna throw you out voice always works.
"Oh. Right. Okay. Going now."
There's a pause, barely a hesitation, but Ryan understands. They've never-- They aren't-- He's not sure what they are, exactly, because they would always turn to each other for comfort, because Seth had the tendency to crawl into his bed at least once a week, twice if they happened to watch a horror movie, ever since they were fifteen. It's not that much different now, not really.
And yet, a second later Seth brushes his lips against Ryan's, barely the pressure of a kiss, slowly and yet quick, saying more with that touch than Seth can with a million words. "Two hours," Seth whispers as he pulls apart, close enough that Ryan can feel Seth's breath against his nose.
Ryan nods. "Two hours."
This time, Ryan can hear Seth pulling back -- the change of pressure, the shift in the cushion; and if blindness has taught Ryan anything, is that one can learn to hear smarter -- before there's a squeeze on his elbow, the inside of his arm, and then the hand falling away.
"Okay."
Ryan smiles. Seth frets, is what he does, and somewhere in the back of Ryan's mind, it makes him feel all warm and nice and weird things he hasn't felt quite this intensely before.
"I'll be back in two hours."
Ryan chuckles, and the only reason he doesn't physically push Seth away is because Seth just might take hold of his arm and not let go. And Ryan doesn't think he could push him away a second time. "Okay."
There's another pause, and Ryan can see Seth -- see him like he used to, with light in the background and everything in three dimensions, see him like he can't see him anymore -- standing there, before him, shins not quite touching Ryan's knees, mouth pressed so tight, the lips hidden in Seth's mouth, probably running his tongue over them. Yeah, he can see it, and Ryan can't help but smile, because he might not see, but he won't ever forget.
"Take care, okay?"
Ryan smiles, nods, his right hand touching the tip of his cane as it rests on his thighs. I'm fine, he wants to say, but wonders about the words. He nods once again instead.
He breathes in even as he hears Seth's footsteps to the main door (seven) and then hears the door opening (glass door, Seth had said, glass door with wooden frames, very cool, actually, mom would like them) and then closing, slowly, and he can let out the breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding.
"Ryan Atwood?"
Ryan nods, taking his cane and unfolding it with a flick of his wrist. He stands up, taking in a deep breath, and asks, "Could you tell me--?"
"To your left, about four paces, then another left, about ten and the door on your left. We have a thing for lefts."
Ryan swallows, surprised at the detailed description. People don't do that, unless they are used to dealing with someone-- The word doesn't come to his lips, stays locked somewhere in his throat, and that's only one of the many reasons he's here. He nods. Seth did tell him about the four paces down from the waiting area to a hallway that Seth was certain would lead to the office. "Thanks."
It's easy to find the door the secretary -- Patricia Kasas -- pointed out, and he pauses for a second, taking a deep breath, wondering if he could just leave, if he could-- He closes his eyes shut before letting out his breath and knocking on the door.
"Come on in," someone says from the inside. Dr. Jonathan Jackson, probably owner of seven PhDs, a dozen awards and at least a Nobel prize. He doesn't think Kristen would qualify him as the best otherwise.
He pushes the door open, taking two steps inside before he hears the voice, once again.
"Ryan Atwood, I assume."
Ryan pauses, nodding as he does so. "Yes, I'm--"
Two hands take Ryan's right one, the one he was starting to offer, in them, shaking it. Ryan can smell the soft cologne on the man, standing right before him. "A pleasure to meet you, Ryan. I'm Jonathan Jackson, my friends call me JJ."
"Oh," Ryan says, his voice deep, not knowing--
"The couches are to your right, no more than four paces. There's one along the wall, ending on the corner table, then another against the following wall, a small center table in between, so watch your knees. On the other side of the room from where you're standing, there are wide windows. I like to let the sun in, I don't know why, I'm from Chicago so maybe it's the lack of sun over there, you know? My desk, which is to say is full of papers at the moment, in on your left, facing us right now. There are book shelves flanking my desk and behind it. I have a thing for books."
Okay, yeah. So maybe Kirsten did know what she was talking about. Ryan wonders if it'll be polite to ask him if he received a Nobel prize of some kind, or how many PhDs he has in his name. "Thank you."
"No problem. I've deal with patients with low visual fields, don't worry." He shakes Ryan's hand one more time before squeezing and then letting it drop.
Ryan finds the first couch very easy, careful with his knees. He sits down, placing the cane on his right.
"Kirsten told me a little bit about you."
A little bit. A little bit is never a little bit with Kirsten.
"Don't worry, nothing personal. Just the reason you were seeking therapy, where you are from, your parents' name, that sort of thing."
Did she tell you they adopted me? Did she tell you they didn't sign up for this? Did she tell you this is all Frank's fault? Dawn never mentioned anyone having this from her side of the family. It has to be Frank's fault. It has to--
He swallows, feeling his neck tight, his shoulders pulled back, his right hand closed in a fist. He wants to relax, he really does, but he wonders if he'll be able to. He wonders if it was a good idea to come here. He wonders if he'll manage to get a word out of his mouth.
He hears Jonathan walking toward him, closer, probably around the center table. The couch on his right groans under Jonathan's weight. A pause, neither of them speak, and Ryan can feel everything inside him under a tight lid.
"Okay. Ryan, tell me about yourself."
He wants to snort, he really does, but thinks that coming with that attitude is probably counterproductive.
"I'm 22," he says with a shrug, trying to find it in himself something to say, something, anything. This was a bad idea. This was a horrible bad idea. He doesn't like talking. That's why he's always understood Seth, always fit with him, because Seth can carry a conversation all by his fucking self--
"You're living in Berkeley, right?"
Ryan swallows. I used to go there. I used to-- "Yeah. Berkeley."
"You go there?"
He swallows again, his hands digging into his thighs, lowering his head. He narrows his eyes, puts so much effort, so much strain in his eyes, the headache starts to pound all the way to the base of his neck, and yet all he sees is black. "Until last July, yeah."
"What happened?"
He looks up, in the general direction of Jonathan. "I thought Kirsten--"
"I'd rather you'd tell me."
Jonathan's voice is low and understanding, like Ryan could pick up whatever is on the center table and throw it across the room and the man would stay unperturbed. "I have retinitis pigmentosa."
"When did you find out?"
His throat doesn't work, his neck burns with anger and frustration and he's nothing but a handicapped, he's nothing but-- "Last January."
Seth has classes. That's what he does. He goes to classes. That's him. Classes and books to read and papers to give in and friends to study with. That's his life. Berkeley. That's his life.
If he shoves his books into his bag the minute the bell rings and the professor sighs and waves toward the door, he thinks nothing of it. If his friends don't ask why he doesn't pick up Ryan anymore, he doesn't wonder. If sometimes he has lunch with his English friends in any of the cafeterias, they don't ask. If Seth glances down at what used to be his napkin and finds nothing but tiny squares of paper, he only swallows.
If Ryan keeps quiet and does things slowly and meticulously and stops kissing him and pulling him forward, hands over Seth's skin, on his sides and on his back, Seth doesn't miss the touch.
"Do you consider Berkeley your home?"
"What?"
"You heard me."
"I-- I don't know what you want me to answer."
"The truth. When I say home, what do you think?"
"Newport."
Seth keeps quiet, mostly. Goes home the minute his classes are done. Jennifer invites him to a party, he refuses. She says he can bring Ryan, Seth clamps up.
They don't ask why he missed afternoon classes last Wednesday. Or why he didn't go at all last Thursday. It's been two weeks, and they haven't asked. Seth hasn't offered information either.
They don't ask about Ryan. They don't even mention his name, anymore. They haven't asked about Ryan since the beginning of the school year.
Seth hasn't told them Ryan's not going this year.
"Have you told your parents, about this?"
"I told them. I went to Newport to tell them, April, last year. I-- I didn't want to tell them at first, but I had to."
"You told the Cohens?"
"Yeah."
"Do you think of them as your parents?"
"..."
"It's a reasonable question."
"They raised me. They are my legal guardians. Were. They were--"
"The Atwoods, what do you--?"
"They are the Atwoods. Frank and Dawn. That's all."
"Okay."
Lara fights with Luigi. A huge fight. Horrible fight. Seth has no idea what it was about, but Emily listens to Lara, even as she's wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. "He's an idiot. Men. They are idiots. I hope he dies."
"Here, here," Emily says with a grin.
"Fuck. At times... fuck! At times I wonder if we should break up, you know?"
Lara glances at him in that moment, a quick glance, a sad glance. "Sorry."
Seth narrows his eyes, but lowers them to the book on his hands. He doesn't even know what he's reading. He thinks he knows what Lara meant by that glance, by that sorry. He would, at least, if he gave it another minute of his attention. But he doesn't. He has to do the groceries and put the Braille tags on everything he buys.
His fingers tighten on the edges of the book and whatever it is he reads, he doesn't remember.
"How long have you known Seth?"
"I met him on my second day at the Cohens."
"Okay. That was--?"
"August 9th, 2003. I walked out of the pool house, to the kitchen, and Seth was there."
"In the kitchen?"
"In the den. He was sitting in front of the TV, controller in hand. He was playing Dynasty Warriors IV."
"What did he say to you?"
"Hey."
"Excuse me?"
"Hey. He said hey."
"What did you say to that?"
"Hey."
"Hmm. You said hey back?"
"Yeah."
"Then?"
"Seth said, do you want to play?"
"And you?"
"I shrugged. I sat down and played with him."
"Oh. Did you say anything else?"
"No. Nothing. He beat me three times in a row. It took me two weeks to finally beat him in his own game. Now, we're kinda even. Well, we were."
They sit at breakfast, quietly. Very quietly. The sound of the coffee dripping and the next door neighbor's -- Sandra -- radio, loud even through the wall. She's probably on the treadmill, early riser and all that.
Seth picks up his bagel, looking at it through dark brown eyes. Bagel. His dad. Newport. The pool house. The den. Sitting there. Sitting there, Ryan on his right, Ryan always on his right, looking back at him. looking back at him with blue eyes that can see--
He places the bagel on the table, glances at Ryan. Ryan, who touches the edge of the table before moving his hands to the center, looking for the mug and finding it after a moment. Ryan, facing his life through touch and taste and sound and smell. Ryan--
He closes his eyes for a second and wonders who he can breathe when it feels like he's dying.
"I don't want to talk today."
"Okay."
"Really. I don't want to talk."
"Okay."
"I'm not joking."
"Neither am I, Ryan. If you don't want to talk, you don't have to?"
"Hmm. You sure?"
"Yeah."
"You're not gonna trick me?"
"Into talking? I don't think I could manage that. You're not the kind of guy who talks when he doesn't want to."
"No, I'm not."
"Okay then. You can just sit there, do... something. And I'll go to my desk, sit and go over some files. What do you think?"
"Oh. Okay."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Did I-- Did I tell you that Seth and I--?"
"Yeah?"
"Hmm. We're not brothers. Not by blood."
"I know that, Ryan. You're adopted."
"Yeah. And we were fifteen when the Cohens became my guardians, so. Hmm."
"Yeah?"
"We-- We're dating. Kinda. It's not incestuous. It's not--"
"No, it's not incestuous at all. You spent a lot of time together when you were in high school, right?"
"Yeah, we did."
"And then you both moved to Berkeley."
"Seth was going to go to Brown, but he didn't get in. But he got accepted in RISD. It's a very fancy school of art."
"I've heard about it."
"Yeah, he was going to go. Seth. He was going to go there. In Providence. I was going to go to Berkeley. I wanted to stay in California."
"Close to the Cohens. I understand."
"Yeah. But Seth-- After... before the summer of 2007, Seth said he wanted to go to Berkeley with me. He said. He said he wanted to go with me."
"Oh. Well. You've been living together four years, right? It must have been difficult for him to think about moving away. From you."
"Yeah. I never... I never really asked him."
"I can see that."
"I... We're. We're dating."
"That's good."
"Yeah, I-- I think it is."
By the end of January, Ryan's barely speaking to him. If Ryan's depressed, he's not saying. And Seth isn't asking. Seth thinks the psychologist is working, has to be working, or Ryan would have put his hand through the new bathroom mirror.
But Ryan only leaves the apartment to go to the Institute, and that's only by cab. Sam's starting to look bored out of his mind. Seth has started to take him out to the park across the street from their apartment building to walk. Three days ago, Sam peed on the washer. Seth had to clean it.
Something's wrong, Seth knows. Something's wrong and he has no idea what he can do make it right.
"So, how does this work, doc?"
"Seth, Call me JJ."
"Oh. JJ. Sounds weird."
"Jonathan Jackson. I don't like John, and Jack Jackson just doesn't sound..."
"Good? Normal? Tell me about it. Seth Ezekiel. I think my mom wanted a girl."
"..."
"Are you laughing at me?"
"No. Hmm. No."
"You are! You're laughing at me!"
"You're very much like Ryan painted you."
"Ryan doesn't paint."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I do. Ryan's... he's fine?"
"I can't talk about my sessions with him."
"I though we were here to talk about him?"
"No, we're here to talk about how you're coping with Ryan's blindness."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine, Seth. You don't even sound fine. You're voice just hardened."
"I'm fine, it's Ryan the one that--"
"That's blind, yes, but it's also affecting you. You didn't sign up for this, did you, when you--?"
"Are you asking me if I'm going to leave him? Is that what this is? Do you actually think--!"
"I don't think anything, Seth. I was just asking--"
"I love him!"
"I know."
"..."
"It's okay."
"I love him."
"That's good."
It's too much. It has been too much for too long, and it all ends on February 4th, 2010. It falls on a Thursday, and they have a test on Friday for "Mayor Figures on American Literature". It's exactly three weeks and one day since Seth came home to find Ryan sitting in the living room -- the den, to them, the den because it holds a couch and the big TV and the Playstation -- back against the wall, Sam whimpering against his thigh, completely blind.
It's been too long and not long enough. It'll never be long enough. Seth will look back to that day -- January 13th, January 13th, January 13th, january13thjanuary13thjanuary13th -- and know not enough days have passed since then. Never long enough. Never--
"Fuck. Just kill me now, will you?"
Seth looks up from the book opened before him on the table. Jennifer -- her apartment, a Newpsie for a mother, very old money, goes to Berkeley and not Yale as some kind of weird rebellion thing -- shakes her head and closes her book with a loud sound.
"Fuck," she says again, "I'm tired of this. Really. I give you. I'm not--"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Lara snorts, leaning back, stretching her arms over her head and hearing more than one vertebrae pop. "You're gonna start bitching about how you don't know anything about this subject and yet you're going to ace it and make us look like a bunch of idiots."
Emily chuckles. "Sorry, babe," she says to Jennifer. "But you always do that." A shrug of slim shoulders, dark brown, almost black hair, falling onto her shoulders. In that moment, she reminds him of Summer.
Seth swallows thickly, his throat suddenly tight. He stands up. "Hmm. Can I--?" He asks, jerking his head toward the kitchen, specifically the fridge.
She nods, waving her hand in the general direction of it. "Sure. Knock yourself out."
He makes his way to the fridge, opening it and peering inside. They used to study in his apartment. It was always stocked. Ryan was a bit religious about going to the groceries, Seth thinks because he actually used to do the groceries before coming to live with them. The closest Seth ever got to doing them was the summer his mom was in rehab, and even then, it was always Ryan. Ryan hasn't gone to get the groceries since that Wednesday. Seth has realized he kinda sucks at it. He bought three boxes of Captain Crunch and only one gallon of milk and no vegetables, not like they are big on vegetables, but still. Ryan used to buy vegetables.
His hand shakes as he takes out a can of Coke. He opens it with one hand, leaning against the wall, looking out the window over his shoulder. He frowns, seeing nothing but thick trees and green expanses. The building looks out into a park. Very nice park, too. Very high class. About twenty minutes from campus, but Jen has a car, and Lara and Emily came with Seth, and he'll drop them off at campus before going home.
The sun is setting, early, not even six and he told Ryan this morning that he might be home late, staying at Jen's to study. Ryan only half grunted something.
Ryan barely talks to him anymore. They share a bed, of course, and he holds Ryan's hand in his at night, but Ryan doesn't hold his back. Ryan doesn't kiss him. Ryan--
He glances out the window, his lips pressed tight into a line before pulling them into his mouth, licking them with the tip of his tongue. The sun is setting, light blue letting orange take over before midnight blue conquers.
Everything is tinged in orange. The edge of the building, the thick trees, the grass, the cars, the people, the city. Orange sky, like the Newport sunset. Newport, sunset, the pier, the ocean, the pool, the pool house. Ryan. Ryan. Ryan.
And he's miles from the place where he first met Ryan. Ryan, standing with his hand on the doorknob. Ryan, hair tussled from sleep, cheeks rosy, head tilted to the side, eyes wide and looking at him -- looking at him, right at him, not through him, not like they always do, they always did -- and Seth sitting there, on the cold ground, and all he can think of is Hey.
His face contorts into a grimace and his hand moves to his mouth, teeth digging into soft flesh and it's not enough, it's not fucking enough--
He moves quickly, places the Coke on the table by Emily's elbow and rushes to the bathroom, with enough mind left inside him to close the door behind him. He holds himself by the hands on the sink, breathing ragged through his mouth, his chest so tight, so fucking tight--
And the worry starts to hurt and all he can do is close his eyes and think of summer, think of Newport and Ryan sitting next to him, looking at him, memorizing him so he doesn't forget, so when the years have gone by and it's been a decade since Ryan last saw him, he still won't forget.
Ryan, beautiful Ryan, and even with his eyes closed, Seth can see him, almost like a picture only not, brighter, brighter and perfect. He feels dizzy, light and free, falling gently into his very memory. Ryan, walking into the kitchen, eyes not quite open, hands groping for a cup of coffee and Seth for once having woken up first and handing it to him. Ryan lying down on the futon, on his side, Seth crawling into the bed like it's the most natural thing and Ryan accepting it like such. Ryan sitting to his right, sharing a game and so much more. Ryan under him, eyes wide and yet unseeing, arching under his touch, moaning his name, breathing his sweat.
Seth shakes his head, walking out of the memory and into where he is, standing in a bathroom, anger not quite quelling inside. There's so much he doesn't understand, yeah, but this is too much. He wants to touch Ryan and know the touch will be welcomed, he wants--
A knock on the door, Jen's voice, saying something and Emily's voice above it and Lara's on the background--
The sound of Ryan's voice, Ryan's laughter, his small smile, his shy smile, his compass to guide him home.
Questions, questions, answers, calling, words, another knock--
A touch on his shoulder, turning him around, facing Ryan and smiling at him and a cup of coffee being shoved into his hands. "There, drink that. Shower."
Someone calling him, again, and again--
"Seth!"
The word low, a warning, but Seth keeps on pushing, keeps on pushing because this is what he does, always has done, telling Ryan that he doesn't have to prove that he's strong, that they will understand, they know that he's hurting for Marissa, they know. "We know."
Ryan snorting, turning around, turning away.
Ryan, falling onto the mat, blood on his brow, on his lips, bleeding. Ryan bleeding, bare knuckles against the sandbag. Ryan bleeding, always bleeding, either on the outside or on the inside and he's going to run out of blood soon and then how is Seth going to be able to breathe if Ryan is not longer--
"You're the only thing that makes sense."
Seth saying that with a shrug of his shoulders before walking into the bedroom he chose in their new apartment in Berkeley and letting the box fall from his hands onto the bed.
Ryan, sitting perfectly on the ground, back against the couch, head leaning back, tired, a pinched look on the corner of his eyes. Ryan is, was... Ryan had been... Ryan had seen him--
don't ignore the present tense
A snort from him and he's breaking down because it's been too much too high, too low, too quickly, too soon, too everything and he has nothing left inside him. He's crumbling to the floor of the bathroom even as the door finally opens and someone gasps, and all he can think of is that at least he didn't put his hand through the mirror and he laughs just a bit manically.
"Oh, Seth. Seth. What happened? Are you okay? What happened?"
Arms around him, pulling him close and holding him in tight so he doesn't splatter on the tiled floor.
"Seth, what--?"
His eyes sting, his eyes hurt, and his hands move to cover his face and they come back wet and he shakes his head. He can't, he can't, he's breaking down, like Ryan only worse, because he's not the one that's blind but it still hurt so fucking much.
"Seth, please, talk to us."
"Is it Ryan?"
He snorts, a painful sound that ends in a sob and his hand is shoved deep into his mouth, biting it and making it hurt but it's not enough. And this isn't his secret to tell but he can't keep it inside anymore. He can't even fucking breathe how the fuck is he supposed to keep a secret like that--
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, so hard that he groans in the back of his throat.
"What do we do?"
"Call Ryan. Even if they have brok--"
"No, no, no, no," Seth says, shaking his head, pulling away from them because they are not who he wants, they are not Ryan. His throat is tight and he can barely breathe and his head throbs with each pulse of his throat and his eyes are heavy lidded and he knows he's still holding more of it inside than he's let out.
He pushes himself away on his hands, like he's afraid and they are going to attack him if he so much as breathes wrong. He pulls away until his back connects to the wall -- later he'll find out that it wasn't the wall, but the low side of the bathtub -- and sighs, leaning against it, closing his eyes.
His words come out in a rush.
"He used to look at me sideways, you know? He used to. He'd just glance at me out of the corner of his eyes and say nothing and I'd know what he was trying to tell me. Or he'd just stand there and raise an eyebrow and have this look in his eyes that would mean, Seth, you're being an idiot. More than usual. Take a shower because you're starting to stink up the house and I'd know that was what he was saying. I can't--" He shakes his head, a hard shake, and another sob doesn't quite form in his throat. "He used to say so much with his eyes because he's not exactly verbose and he thinks I say a lot with my eyes. HA! I'm mute against to him and how am I gonna know what he's thinking now if I can't see his eyes. How am I going to-- I miss his eyes. They look at me but don't see me and I miss his eyes seeing me. And I just, I just want to see him see me, just one last time, just once more, God, just once more, just once more--"
His words end there, in mid thought, in mid phrase, and he shakes his head again, noticing the pressure of his hands on his face, the wetness on his cheeks. He blinks, pulls his hands down, and looks at Emily and Jennifer and Lara, sitting on the floor of the bathroom, looking at him with eyes bloodshot and trembling lips.
"Seth, what--?"
Lara's question ends in a sigh, and Seth's face crumbles into a grimace, hand on his mouth, and he whispers, "Ryan's blind."
"Is there something wrong, Seth?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"..."
"..."
"Ryan's blind."
"Yes."
"He's blind."
"I know."
"I'm not... I don't think I'm coping very well with that."
"Why do you think so?"
After that, he doesn't remember much.
He remembers, or thinks he remembers, Emily taking his car keys and being shoved into the back seat of the Rover. It's all jumble of emotions and frustration and anger and his hands closing into fists and digging into his palms even as he pushes the door of the elevator in his apartment building and can see Emily and Lara walking out of the parking lot and to the street. They are going to call for a cab back to the campus, to their dorm. He gave them a twenty because, really, it's the least he can do for them after they had to drive him home, he was such a wreck.
His brain is filled with fog, like he's in that state between asleep and awake, when you can't quite focus on anything, when you dream of spiders and hands at your feet and then you're blinking at the light on your eyes and the next thing you see is a room you don't recognize and it's your dream and then you blink and it isn't. It feels just like that, because Seth's standing here, in front of the elevator, fingers pushing at the button and he can't quite remember Lara's face or Jen's words or the way Emily reached for him and cupped his face and cried a little bit.
Seth told them because they deserved to know, after his very spectacular nervous breakdown in the middle of the bathroom. He told them and cried and then told them so more and cried until his eyes hurt, not for the tears he was holding back but for the ones he had shed, and then he thinks he babbled something about Ryan and the ocean and the pier and a skateboard and a bike. He's not sure. It's almost like being drunk, only instead of being happy there's this hole in your chest, like a black hole, and it just keeps eating everything that's close enough to be pulled by its gravitational field. The gravitational field of Seth's black hole? Pretty fucking amazing.
He's not half himself as he walks into the elevator cart and then up to the fourth floor. He makes his way into the apartment and goes to his bedroom. He only uses to get books from; or used to, at least. He stands by the threshold and glances at Ryan over his shoulder. Ryan, sitting on his bed, book on his hands, and Seth notices the small dots where words should be printed and everything hurts anew. Ryan's right hand moves over the pages, his left one touching the top of the hourglass, leaning against his bend thigh. The crystal hourglass, the one Ryan seems to be oddly attached to, a little bit bigger than his palm, catches the light coming from the pulled curtains and it empties as Seth stands here and watches Ryan. Ryan, with an easiness and knowledge that comes from countless times having done this, turns the hourglass upside down and lets it lean against his thigh once again, fingers moving over dots that whisper words Seth can't hear.
He breathes in harshly and closes the door of his room after himself. He falls on the bed, face first, closes his eyes and lets sleep take him.
They'll have to talk about whatever it is it's not working between them. They'll have to talk, but Seth thinks it can wait until he feels half human and not entirely dead.
"Why do you think so?"
"Because..."
"..."
"I think I had a nervous breakdown."
"When?"
"Four days ago."
"Okay. What happened?"
"..."
"Seth, this doesn't work if you don't talk to me."
"..."
"Listen, if you want to wait until you feel more comfortable--"
"No, it's not that. I need to get past this."
"Okay. Why?"
"Because I'm worthless to Ryan if I don't."
They aren't living, Seth thinks one morning, a week and a half since his very personal breakdown, they are just passing time. Ryan keeps on going to the institute and Seth pretends he actually cares about what it is they try to teach him at Berkeley, and one of them always remembers to feed Sam but they aren't living. At some point, Seth's not even sure when or how, one of them stopped reaching for the other one. He doesn't even know if it was him or Ryan who didn't take the other's hand at night three days ago and they seem to have gotten too afraid, too fearful, too something, and are unable to reach the breach and find each other.
It's Monday, perfect bright day, blue sky and amazing sun making its way inside the apartment through the half pulled curtains and if Seth were to close the distance to the window, he could feel the sun on his skin. Instead, he sits across from Ryan on the kitchen table and neither of them speaks and Sam noses his knee. Sam adores Ryan, Seth knows, but Sam also seems to know that if one of them is going to reach for the other, it will be Seth, not Ryan.
He's already gone five times to Dr. Jackson's -- JJ's -- office but either he needs years of therapy or it's just not working, because right now, all he needs is to be able to look at Ryan and not feel this anger simmering underneath his very skin against the world at large and Dawn and Frank in particular.
They can do this, this horrible dance around one another, until the very end of time. Ryan can be certain Seth's going to leave the following year, when graduation comes around and a good job is offered and Seth can continue to feel himself lose his voice, wanting nothing more than to lash out first at all the things he doesn't get or understand.
He looks up at Ryan. Ryan, face down, one hand curled around the black mug of coffee -- the same one Kirsten bought for Ryan on their senior year, after the previous one cracked when she was doing the dishes -- the other hand holding onto the edge of the table
hand that have to move from the edge to the center, to the plate, find silverware by touch alone
and Seth has always known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he knows more about the stars and the sea than what goes in Ryan's head, hands not quite touching in bed.
"I'm in love with you," Seth says all of a sudden, words easy and simple and perfect in his tongue, tasting of the ocean and the sand and Ryan, fitting like nothing has ever done before.
Ryan lifts his head, blue eyes blinking blindingly -- blindingly, blindingly, blindingly, blind, blind, blindblindblind -- at him, in the general direction of him, of his voice, on Ryan's left -- always on Ryan's left -- and his hand tightness on the mug until the white knuckles shake with visible strain.
They could do this forever, until both of them ache from the inside out, until they can't remember what started this or even how to end it. They can do that, and Seth can stop breathing at will just as easy.
Ryan blinks, blue eyes electric and unseeing, two shades too clear to be the Newport ocean but just as perfect. His face crumbles into a grimace, a shake of his head, and the hand on the edge of the table, that keeps him grounded, loosens and moves to his mouth. Seth can almost see him losing North and South and Forward and Behind, before his fingers fit perfectly on the inside of Ryan's elbow and Ryan leans into his touch.
Seth turns around, slowly, the beat of his heart silencing everything around them, every sound from the outside of their lives. There's no need to prove that you're strong, he thinks, leaning forward, close, so close-- I've got you. I've--
"I've got you," Seth whispers against the slide of lips that fit on the soft dent of Ryan's mouth. It's an unexpected place to find belonging but he's discovered they fit like this, the tip of his nose brushing Ryan's cheek, his tongue flicking gently against parted lips, breath pushing greedily and brokenly into Ryan's mouth. And he breaks under Ryan's touch, under the very weight, gasping for air as Ryan breathes quick and needy into his and they're kissing, touching, hands moving slowly from nothingness to face, hip and they tumble, falling but being caught.
They aren't better, they aren't even right, but touch does wonderful things, can heal all things, and it feels like settling them together, like pieces clicking into place.
"I've got you. I have you," is gasped in between breathing of lungs, hands shift from hip and belly and thigh with no thought of anything more taxing, more urgent.
I think that's it. It's a pretty long chapter, so I'm hoping it'll do for a while. *g* Let me know what you think of it.
And now, I have a million and one stories to try and finish, specially the one for the Sentence Challenge. *sighs* Talk about long! With that, I'm off!