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Ryan's going to stay with us now.
Ryan's going to stay with us now.
Ryan's going to stay with us now.
It turns out there's only so long you can repeat the same seven words to yourself before you start to feel kind of insane.
Ryan's way past that before he finally mumbles, "Fuck it," and rolls out of bed.
The clock on the night-table reads 5:08 a.m., and the reflection from the pool outside makes wavering patterns on the ceiling as he shrugs on his own white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. The sweatpants are Sandy's, who'd handed them to him with a murmured Here, to hold you over till Kirsten takes you shopping, and God be with you when she does. Ryan grins at the memory, even though the thought of going shopping with Kirsten is simultaneously terrifying and… well, terrifying, but in a different way, the way everything here is terrifying, like any second he's going to wake up and be back in Chino with the sickening stench of whiskey and stale pizza in his nose.
He barely catches himself before he slams the poolhouse door loud enough to wake the Cohens.
The fear follows him into the summer-warm air; all the way down to the beach there's tension pricking at his shoulders like he's being chased. As soon as his feet hit sand, he finds the nearest piece of driftwood and chucks it as hard as he can. Watches it splinter and spray against the rock of the cliff and breathes, breathes. When his heartbeat slows down to a something more like normal, he lets himself drop to the ground facing the water, knees pulled up in front of him and braced against the insides of his forearms.
He's always loved the ocean; his mom had brought him and Trey to the beach every once in a while when they were little, fed them peanut butter sandwiches and watched them chase each other through the surf while she sipped slowly at a water bottle. At the moment, there's not much of a view—it's foggy enough that he can't see the surfers out riding the early-morning waves, but he can hear their adrenaline-spiked shouts echoing across the beach. The mist around him is pale gold from the sunrise. The air smells like salt, like wide open spaces.
None of it seems possible.
His heart starts to pound again, and he has to reach down and grab a handful of sand, clenching his fist around it until it feels solid.
And then, behind him, there's maybe the least subtle cough Ryan's ever heard. He turns, cranes his neck up and sees Seth, standing there in shorts and a t-shirt with his bare toes curling into the sand.
"Hey," Ryan manages. Warmth floods his chest, but he's not letting anything show, not yet.
"Hey." One of Seth's hands is picking at the bottom hem of his t-shirt. "If you're, you know, having some kind of brooding self-reflective Timber Wolf moment, here, don't let me interrupt you."
Ryan just looks at him.
"Right. Let me interrupt you." Seth flops down next to him, too close as usual, sitting cross-legged so that one of his knees ends up tucked in the space below Ryan's thigh. Not quite touching, but almost, the heat building slowly in the air between them.
Seth leans back on his hands. "So… is this going to be a regular thing, this ass-crack of dawn thing? Because that's really gonna cut into my night life."
Regular thing. Ryan shrugs, looking out at the foam tumbling across the sand. "Couldn't sleep."
"Me either," Seth admits, and it turns out that all Ryan needs to do is hear Seth's grin and he's grinning, too. "Seriously, though," Seth goes on, "if you want me to—"
"Nah, man, it's cool."
Seth snorts, and now he's the one looking out toward the water. "You know, that's definitely the first and almost certainly the last time that anyone's ever applied that particular adjective to me in any way."
One side of Seth's mouth is quirked up, but his shoulders hunch a little; Ryan winces internally. The urge to go find someone to hit rises up from his gut, surprisingly strong, but instead he huffs out a laugh and nudges Seth with his shoulder, hard enough to rock him sideways.
"Hey!" Seth objects, and shoves back, and they're both laughing. Ryan squinches up his nose and peers up through the fog at the brightening sky.
Seth's got his elbows planted on his knees now, his upper arm pressed against Ryan's, the muscles loose and relaxed. "Hey, speaking of cool: important question, and when you answer it, I don't want you to be concerned at all that our budding friendship may hang in the balance, okay?"
Ryan keeps a straight face, but it takes some effort. "Okay." So far, Seth's important questions have involved Summer, bagels, Summer, the casting of the X-Men movies, Summer, MarioKart, and Summer.
"Okay," says Seth. He leans closer, lowering his voice. "The question is. Who's cooler? Superman," and there's a dramatic pause, "… or Batman?"
"Superman," Ryan echoes slowly. "Or… Batman." He can feel the words down in the bottom part of his throat, the sarcastic part, the part that's starting to be reserved for Seth, what the hell.
"Yes." Seth punctuates his point with a finger in the sand in front of him. "C'mon, dude. Alien who uses his superpowers to protect the humans around him instead of to rule them, or isolated millionaire who uses his intelligence and resources to walk the fine line between hero and criminal?"
"And the sweet car," Ryan adds, musing.
"And the sweet car."
Ryan lifts a shoulder. "I don't know, man." A few days ago, he was ducking shattered glass and trying to breathe through the wail of sirens. He isn't prepared for this.
"Aha!" says Seth triumphantly. "That's because the right answer, Ryan, is both of them. And what's really genius about the Justice League is that it doesn't require us to choose." He angles his body to face Ryan, his arm unsticking from Ryan's skin when he moves; the light that's usually lurking behind his eyes is switched on to full power. "See," he goes on, "they know that we need all different kinds of heroes. I mean, early days, good guys-bad guys, that was one thing, right? But today's reader has a more sophisticated palate, and so the complexity of the stories have to reflect—" and that's it, he's off and running. Ryan just settles in a little more comfortably and enjoys the show, letting Seth's voice drift and bounce around him, watching Seth's hands draw patterns in the air as he talks, sketching art for each panel as he writes it.
It's weirdly soothing.
It's actually really…. Yeah.
Cool.
"—And then, when you move outside the original lineup, it gets even more complicated, because—"
Because the thing is, Ryan's been to bullshit parties (inland and on the coast, now), and he's done the James Dean thing himself often enough—leaning, smoking, don’t-fuck-with-me, I-don't-need-you—to know what bullshit that is. And it fucking boggles him sometimes, that people think that comic books and a tendency to babble even matter. All those "cool" Newport kids would've been locking all their expensive toys away as soon as Ryan had walked in the door; Seth had just handed over the Playstation controller. At Holly's party, Ryan had overheard an overtanned bleach-blonde screeching about how her daddy gave her little sister a credit card with a higher limit; Sandy had basically said, hey, here's your new brother, he's a felon and Seth had faced down his own mother so Ryan could stay. And as for Chino, there had been Theresa, but there had also been Eddie and Arturo and even Trey, guys Ryan loved but didn't like, who he'd have laid down in traffic for if they hadn't been so busy throwing him under the bus.
Seth had promised to visit him when he'd left. Seth had given him a map, like he thought—no, like he expected that Ryan would use it. And sure, there had been that tiny detour where Seth had outed Ryan as a felon to most of the kids their age within a twenty-mile radius, but, well… it hadn't been a great night for either of them.
"—and you'd think that would be a problem, but no, they've anticipated you, Ryan, they know how you think, and they—"
Seth is just… open. Like it's nothing. Like it's easy. Like nobody Ryan's ever met. And it's pretty clear that most of the rest of Newport wouldn't know cool if it smacked them in their freakishly perfect faces, but Ryan knows. He may not know what to do with it, exactly, or what he did to deserve it, but he's also damn sure he's not taking it for granted.
"—and there is the whole thing with Green Arrow, which can't really be—"
And anyway, Ryan likes Seth's comic books. He likes Seth's babbling, too, which saves him from awkward silences. From silences of any kind, really, including the one that would be occurring now if he was sitting with pretty much anyone else.
"—So, I mean, really, who do you choose? Huntress or Black Canary?"
There's a pause, until Ryan figures out he's actually supposed to answer this one. "Black Canary," he says, taking a shot in the dark, and Seth leans over to tap him on the forearm with one finger.
"See, Ryan, I've always said that you were a man of taste. And I think I'd have to agree with you, because while Huntress—"
Ryan doesn't mean to smile, it just happens, and he has to duck his chin down toward his knees to hide it.
He likes Seth's comic books.
He likes Seth's babbling.
He likes Seth.
And he's really hoping that's not gonna be a problem.
"—and Ryan likes to dress up as a hot dog on the weekends, which is great because you never know—"
Ryan comes up blinking. "Hey!"
"Hey, hello, welcome back, good to see you." Seth ripples his fingers in a wave, then gives him a sheepish grin and goes back to fiddling with a seashell fragment. "Sorry. Mom always says no treatises before coffee."
Ryan chuckles. "Nah, I told you, dude, it's cool."
"Okay, that's twice now," Seth points out, tilting his head to the side. "Does that word mean something different in Chino than it does here in Stepford? Because if we're not careful here, Ryan, I might start developing some self-esteem, which is going to be a severe blow to the retirement plans of the army of therapists who just can't wait to get their hands on—"
Seth is smiling, and the sea air is all around them, and want overflows in Ryan's chest so fast it almost chokes him. Without thinking, he tangles one hand in Seth's collar and pulls Seth's moving mouth to his.
Just for a few seconds, just long enough that he can feel Seth's lips go hard and then slack against him. As soon as he can, he forces himself to pull back, panic hammering in his veins. Jesus, there are serious disadvantages to having things to lose.
Seth's eyes are still closed, like he's been frozen in place. One of his hands is splayed out to the side, fingers sunk deep into the sand. Panicked, maybe.
Oh, fuck.
"Sorry," Ryan mumbles, letting Seth's shirt slip out of his fingers, leaning back, wondering whether he should just drown himself right now or if he should let Kirsten do it for him—
Seth catches his wrist with one hand. "Hey." His eyes snap open, wide and dark and shocked, no question. His grip on Ryan's wrist is strong, though, and every time Ryan tries to back off, Seth pulls him right back.
"Seth, I—"
"Wow." Seth's mouth forms a wide O around the word, but the corners of it are curved. Ryan thinks. Ryan hopes. "I… wow."
Oh, now he's tongue-tied. "Seth," Ryan bursts out, agonized.
"Sorry," Seth tells him on a breathless laugh. "Sorry, I just… never figured my first kiss would be with a guy, you know?"
"Your first kiss?" Oh, fuck. "Jesus, Seth, you should have—I should have—"
"I'm thinking, though," Seth goes on, his cheeks starting to redden, "that I'm pretty sure my second kiss is going to be with a guy."
Relief feels like getting dunked in the warm ocean after all, and Ryan sags forward, his hand falling to rest against Seth's collarbone. "Yeah?" he says. He looks up at Seth through his eyelashes, which is part genuine shyness and part, well, not.
"Yeah," Seth agrees. This time, he's the one who leans in.
It's not the smoothest kiss in the world, which isn't surprising, considering, though it's a little strange, since everything else with Seth has been so easy. But Seth's mouth is soft and warm, and all it takes is Ryan licking once at his upper lip and Seth moans, opening up eagerly against him. He tastes like sugar, and Ryan almost laughs because, hell, the last thing Seth needs is sugar, and then Seth makes a hungry noise low in his throat and his fingers bite hard into Ryan's tricep and suddenly Ryan really doesn't feel like laughing anymore.
And it turns out that once he gets going, Seth kisses with the same relentless drive that he usually saves for Tekken 4. He puts one rope-callused hand on Ryan's ankle, and by the time it slides up to his knee, Ryan's gone from half-hard to aching.
"C'mere," Ryan mutters, "c'mere," pushing Seth down into the sand. Seth goes willingly, neck straining so he doesn't have to separate his mouth from Ryan's. Though, of course, even that doesn't stop him from talking.
"Oh my God, Ryan, oh fucking Jesus Moses Mary and Abraham—"
"Seth," Ryan laughs against Seth's tongue, even though sodomy is probably worse than blasphemy, and oh, fuck, even thinking that word with Seth panting under him is enough to shut down whatever brain cells he still had functioning. Seth's body is hot and solid, and Seth's hand is fisted tight in the back of Ryan's shirt, and Ryan can't help it, he sinks his own hand underneath the waistband of Seth's shorts, and when he touches Seth's cock, ohgodhardhot, Seth arches up and damn near yells into his mouth—
—which is probably why Ryan doesn't hear the surfers until they're practically right on top of them.
"Dude!"
”Duuude!"
"Duuuuuude!"
Ryan's eyes jolt open. The mist is still heavy enough that all he can see are dude-shaped blurs a few dozen feet away, but he freezes anyway, his hand still down Seth's shorts. When he looks down at Seth's face, he can practically see the gears spinning as Seth tries to get his brain back online. No help there. Ryan's laugh comes out half groan, and his body comes extremely close to full-scale revolt when he pulls away from Seth's warmth and retreats to his earlier position, facing the water with his knees drawn up in front of him. For an entirely different reason this time.
The surfer dudes move off through the fog, oblivious, backslapping and laughing the whole way. Then there's nothing but the sound of the waves rolling in and Seth's ragged breathing.
"That wasn't my dad, was it?" Seth asks eventually, his voice rough. He's still flat on his back. "Please tell me that wasn't my dad."
The thought of Sandy wandering by while Ryan is busy molesting the only real Cohen son is enough to send Ryan's erection running for cover. He drops his forehead to his crossed arms. "Oh, God. Your dad. That could have been your dad." It's suddenly playing out in his mind in nauseating, vivid color: accusations, shouting, disappointment, maybe even just quiet regret, but it all ends in the same place. "Seth, we can't do this."
"What?"
Ryan turns his head enough to see Seth propped up on his elbows, sand in his curly hair and clearly having no problems whatsoever in the hardon-maintenance department. Ryan has to close his eyes again.
"No, seriously, Ryan. Did you say we can't do this? Because I think this is an excellent thing to be doing. In fact, I would argue that of all the things I can think of to be doing with the rest of my summer, I have to put this pretty near the top of the list."
"Pretty near?" Ryan can't help asking, though he keeps his face buried in his forearms.
"Yes." Seth sounds like he's smiling. "Top of the list would be sailing to Tahiti while also making out with you."
Ryan snickers in spite of himself. But. "Seth. Your parents. They're trusting me. I can't—"
"Dude, are you kidding me? For one thing, I'm not planning on hanging a big banner in the kitchen that says 'Please join me in my celebration of being gay for Ryan,' and for another thing, my parents are going to be psyched to find out that I might not actually be celibate for the rest of my life."
"Yeah, right. Just like your mom was psyched about us just being friends. Right?" Ryan asks miserably. The more he thinks about it, the more it sucks. God. What was he thinking?
Seth hesitates, but then, "Yeah, but she got over it. She's the one who said you could stay."
"Seth, I..." Ryan looks over at him, and Seth's expression softens instantly, which just makes it even harder to say what he has to say. "I just… I can't risk it, okay? Not right now. If your parents kicked me out, I don't even… I can't. I'm sorry."
And he knows what happens next, the part where Seth shuts him down, or stops talking to him, or at the very least decides—as the awkward settles in—that being alone with Ryan for any reason is something he's pretty much done with. Ryan's stomach is churning. Someday he's gonna figure out how to make his brain work faster than his body, and then he's not gonna always end up—
Then Seth sits up, crosses his legs in front of him again, and digs another shell fragment out of the sand. "Okay."
Ryan blinks. "Okay?" he repeats, stupidly.
"Yeah. Okay." Seth keeps his eyes on the shell in his hands, but his mouth is curving. "See, the thing is, we're friends. And that's not really going to change just because you decide you don't think we should make out. Of course, I'd be much happier if you did think we should make out, because that was pretty awesome and I really got the feeling we were just getting to the good part, but. Either way, you're not getting rid of me that easily."
Ryan scratches the back of his head, though what he's really looking for is a way to rearrange his brain so that what Seth is saying makes any sense at all in the real world. How can he—
"And the other part is," Seth goes on, "you live with us now. And don't let my spindly frame deceive you, because when motivated, I can be pretty determined in getting what I want."
"You can, huh?" Ryan raises an eyebrow.
"Oh, yeah." Seth nods firmly. "Hey, do you think it's easy to find the original first appearance of the Joker and Catwoman? And yet. There it is, in my very room. In an undisclosed location. Which I will probably end up disclosing to you the next time I get drunk. But the point is, I've got my methods, Ryan, and I can be patient."
"You can." And dammit, he's smiling again.
"Yep, I sure can. And since you're staying, I've got all the time in the world." Seth's smile is obvious now, wide and smug.
Ryan's going to stay with us now.
It's a few seconds before he can force words past the tightness in his chest. "Yeah." He clears his throat. "Yeah. I guess you do."
Silence. The waves tumble onto the sand, then back out again. Further down the beach, a seagull squawks.
"… So have you changed your mind yet?"
Ryan bites one side of his bottom lip. Straight face. Straight face. God, it almost hurts, being this happy. "No."
"Okay. …How 'bout now?"
"Hmmm… no."
"Okay. Now?"
And Ryan breaks: he chuckles. Dammit. He is so screwed. "Seth."
"No, I'm just asking, because—"
"Seth!"
"All right, all right, I get it. Your resolve is strong. You're impervious. You're like Colossus without the accent. Fine." He sighs. "If that's really how it's going to be, then I just want to tell you that…" A long, dramatic pause, then, "…last one to the water has to do the dishes tonight, readysetgo—"
—and Ryan laughs all the way out to the waterline.