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There’s a certain level of chaos Dylan has come to expect from, well, basically anything having to do with Ryan’s family. His family (maybe, probably, soon) he corrects himself.
Everyone’s gathered in little clusters around Sandy and Kirsten’s living room, chatting like they’ve known each other forever, because they actually have.
There’s a row of stockings lined up on the mantle so long they all barely fit. Dylan thinks about the one with his name on it folded up in the bottom of his backpack. “No pressure,” Ryan had said when he gave it to him, which was good, because he’s still not sure he belongs up there, belongs here.
Dylan has never felt more out of place or more at home in his entire life. It’s a strange dichotomy of belonging that’s taken him months to wrap his head around.
Ryan’s hand rests heavily on his shoulder, squeezes once, and releases, “You okay?” he murmurs close to Dylan’s ear.
Dylan rolls his eyes. He never knows what to do when Ryan checks in on him. It’s annoying in a strangely nice way. “Fine,” he mutters back.
“You sure?” Ryan presses, “The stitches only came out last week. You can always sit down for a minute if you need to.”
Okay, so maybe Ryan is slightly justified in his fussing given that Dylan had very nearly killed himself by stealing and crashing the car three weeks ago. But the fact that Ryan still cares if he’s okay after that fiasco is not exactly less confusing than the fact that Ryan cares if he’s okay at all.
“I’m fine,” he says again anyway, because he is actually, “I’m having fun.”
Ryan grins then, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” and he means to mean it.
***
“I get it, you know,” announces Kaitlin Cooper, leaning casually against the pillar next to him, “maybe not the way Ryan gets it, but close.”
Dylan raises his eyebrows, “Really?” he says, way beyond skeptical. He knows he’s standing at the edge of the room like a creeper, but she can’t possibly know what he’s thinking.
Kaitlin punches him in the shoulder, “Yes, you little punk, although I never did anything quite as dramatic as steal a car.”
Dylan winces, “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“Probably not,” Kaitlin admits, “but like father, like son or some shit, right?”
“Yeah, I’m still not sure I buy that story,” he insists. He’s not convinced stealing a car can possibly be the way to earn this family.
Kaitlin smiles, “Oh, it happened. Trust me, I was there. Okay, so I was like, eleven, but you’d be surprised how much you can overhear when you’re basically invisible.”
“Invisible, huh?”
Kaitlin shrugs, “I’m just saying, my family may have looked perfect from the outside, but Marissa was always the golden child, and I was just … me. So, when it all fell apart? And my parents split up and my dad almost went to jail and Marissa went off the deep end, everyone basically forgot I existed. I didn’t have a family, not like this one, not for a long time. And when my sister died, and my mom finally started got her crap together? Well, let’s just say I spent a long time being terrified that it was all going to disappear again.”
Dylan shrugs, staring out into the room again, “Okay, maybe you do get it,” he admits, eyeing her, “You’re pretty cool, Kaitlin.”
“I know, right?” she winks at him.
Dylan rolls his eyes, “You lose a couple cool points for thinking Ryan is cool, though.”
Kaitlin just punches him again, “Ryan is cool, and you know it.”
He shrugs, “He’s okay.”
***
Sandy Cohen secretly kind of scares him. And Dylan knows that Ryan wouldn’t get it, not when he talks about his dad like he’s an actual god, but honestly, that doesn’t exactly make Sandy less intimidating.
Ryan, however, has never scared him, and Dylan’s not really sure why. Objectively, the strange man on the street who offered him a meal should have been terrifying, and Dylan’s instincts should have been screaming at him to run from the moment Ryan first spoke to him. He’s still not entirely sure what made him climb off that wall and agree to get in a strangers car that day, beyond the fact that he was really hungry. He was usually a lot smarter than that.
And it had worked out, obviously. Ryan was not in fact an ax murderer and Dylan had ended up with a lot more than a hot meal. But it’s still weird.
Anyway, the point is that Sandy scares him, which has just become a problem, because Sandy walked up to him and said, “Hey, I wanted to talk to you,” and Dylan jumped.
“You okay?” Sandy says.
“Yeah,” Dylan breathes, because he is aware, logically, that Sandy doesn’t need to scare him.
Sandy’s big bushy eyebrows are raised, and he takes one, rather pointed, step back. Dylan feels his shoulders slump against his will.
“Ryan used to do that,” Sandy says casually, still keeping his distance.
Dylan blinks, “What?”
Sandy does not dignify that with a response. He obviously knows that Dylan knows exactly what he was talking about.
“Oh,” Dylan says after a minute, as it finally hits him what that means.
Sandy smiles, “If you’ll forgive me for a moment of nostalgia?”
Dylan shrugs, offering silent permission.
“You are so like him sometimes. But then, of course, you are entirely yourself as well.”
Dylan is not entirely sure what that means, but it feels important somehow. “Why’d you do it?” he says after a moment, suddenly so overwhelmed with curiously that he can’t help himself.
Sandy doesn’t ask what he means, just says, “I’d always taken pride in being a bit of a bleeding heart, but the system had broken me, I think, before Ryan, I’d learned to look away. But, that day, when I saw him, really saw him, I simply couldn’t do it anymore.”
Dylan blinks, “That’s kind of like what Ryan said,” he says slowly, “about me.”
“Yeah?” Sandy says, “Well, Ryan? He’s never learned to look away and nothing has ever made me prouder.”
Dylan swallows hard. He wants Ryan to be this proud of him someday.
“He already is,” Sandy says, almost as if he’s read Dylan’s mind.
***
“Stop,” he pleads, ducking away from Taylor’s hand. She’s been trying to fix his hair for the past five minutes, insisting it not look so messy for the picture they’re about to take, “It’s fine,” Dylan insists, twisting away from her.
Across the room, his eyes catch on Ryan, having what appears to be the same battle with Kirsten. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters under his breath.
“What?” Taylor asks, spinning around to follow his gaze. Dylan sags with relief. This is a good distraction at least, because in an instant Taylor’s eyes have gone all gooey, “Aww,” she coos.
Dylan thinks he might throw up.
“Mom,” Ryan whines loud enough to be heard across the room, “oh my god.” Seth, somewhere in the room, is laughing. “Shut up, dude, you’re next,” Ryan warns darkly.
Suddenly, Taylor’s fingers are in his hair, and Dylan jerks, “Seriously?” he asks, squirming uncomfortably.
Taylor just smiles at him, shrugging, “It’s what moms do,” she informs him, stepping back to admire her handy work, she hesitates, “At least I think it is. My mom wasn’t exactly a shining example.”
For a moment, Dylan is frozen. Oh, oh.
Then, a tiny smile playing on his lips, he locks eyes with Taylor, and shakes his head, his hair falling back into his face.
Taylor shakes her head at him, “Fine,” she teases, her voice light, “be that way.”
Dylan just grins back, triumphant.
***
“I can take her,” Ryan offers.
Dylan hesitates, looking down at the top of the blonde head tucked under his chin. Sophie Rose Cohen is asleep in his lap. “Nah, it’s okay,” he murmurs.
Ryan raises his eyebrows, “You sure? She’s pretty heavy these days.”
And okay, so Dylan’s legs are kind of numb. He shakes his head anyway, “The movie’s almost over anyway. I’ll be fine.”
Ryan looks pleased by this, his fingers ghosting over Sophie’s back, “My little snuggle bug,” he murmurs.
Dylan rolls his eyes, “You are so lame,” he complains.
“She’s my baby sister,” Ryan shrugs, “I’m allowed.”
***
Dylan sneaks down the stairs in the middle of the night that night and hangs his stocking on the mantel. He feels a little ridiculous right up until the moment he finds an empty hook, snuggled between Ryan and Taylor’s, waiting patiently, and then he feels ridiculous for a completely different reason.
When he comes downstairs in the morning, rubbing groggily at his eyes, Sophie tugging impatiently on his hand, his stocking filled to the brim. Ryan squeezes his shoulder extra tight as he slides a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of him, but he doesn't say a word.
***
“So, I hear you’re interested in art,” Seth says, sliding a stack of wrapped items into his hands, “So may I present to you, a Seth Cohen Starter Pack: Art Edition, patent pending,” he winks.
Dylan blinks, “Uh, thanks?”
“He’s making it sound much more dramatic than it is,” Ryan promises from behind them.
“Um, excuse me,” Seth interrupts, clutching his chest, “that’s my whole brand.”
“We know,” Summer assures him, rolling her eyes, “just open it,” she tells Dylan, “before his head explodes,” nudging her husband’s shoulder playfully.
So, Dylan does. There’s colored pencils and fancy looking erasers and markers that probably cost more than anything else he’s owned in his life. There’s a stack of sketchbooks made from the kind of paper that is so thick it doesn’t even bend. In the bottom box, however there’s a stack of old comic book drawings, yellowed with age, “What-” he starts before Ryan sucks in a loud breath in his ear.
“Is that-” Ryan breathes.
“May-be,” Seth singsongs. Ryan just raises his eyebrows, “Okay, fine, yes,” Seth admits, “but I may have added a little something.”
There’s another one of those moments then, where the three adults end up locked in some kind of moment of understanding rooted in their complicated shared history or whatever. Dylan maintains that they are weird.
Dylan puts his hand up, “I’m confused.”
“I know,” Ryan says, hand heavy on his shoulder again, “read the story, then we can talk about it, okay?”
Dylan looks back down at the pages, studying them more carefully, “Wait a second,” he says, looking up at Ryan, “is that you?”
“Yeah,” Ryan says sheepishly, crooked grin on his face.
Seth, looking overly pleased with himself, leans forward to shift through the pages, coming up with a drawing on newer, whiter paper, “And this,” he says, pressing it into Dylan’s hands, “is you.”
Dylan blinks, once, twice, “Oh,” he says. Oh.