Getting It
Disclaimer: I don't own anything associated with The OC.
A/N: I'm a huge Sethummer Slut, and I usually dislike Ryan/Summer fics. Sometimes they're really good, but Idon't likethem anyways just because they just have Ryan and Summer hooking up because they're both hot. Not exactly the best relationship, right? Not trying to rant here. I decided to write them under the two conditions that Seth isn't an asshole about it (hence the little amount of him) and that they're together for more than physical reasons. And out popped this, and now I see myself writing more in the future. But, sorry, no shipping. Seth/Summer fo' life, yo. I'm ranting again. And I'm trying to convince you that a certain pairing's good. Bad, me, bad! Disregard that, then. )
Summer doesn't get it. She doesn't get how she went from finally being with Seth Cohen again to breaking up with him in a mutual way.
She doesn't get how she could feel nothing but friendship with him when they talked, no butterflies when they touched.
She doesn't get it how she fell into his best friend's arms when they barely speak. She doesn't understand what draws them to each other. Yeah, Chino's hot and she knows she is too, but is that enough to keep them together?
She's almost their entire conversation, but she knows for once that someone's listening, staring intently into her eyes and his never wandering, and it makes her want to kick and scream and giggle and squeal all at the same time. And she doesn't get what that feeling is, she doesn't get it.
She walks into the pool house, prepared to have another make-out-and-talk session, when Ryan's not in his normal study-mode. He's resting his elbows on his knees, his hands in his hair, looking down at the floor. He's breathing in and out sharply, sniffing as if he's choking. He looks up suddenly and can't even mutter a, "Hey," Summer gets it. He's crying. Chino has never cried in front of her.
They talked about Theresa and the baby, his dad, his abandonment, Marissa, every fucking thing and he hasn't gotten a little teary-eyed. Then she realizes it. The one thing he dodged – his mom.
"Chi – " she begins, but bites her lip. She hates calling him that. It's her friendly little nickname for him, but she knows he hates it.
"Ryan. What..." she doesn't finish her sentence because it's not necessary. With Cohen, it was always necessary. She had to tell him flat out. With Ryan, specifics don't matter. She silently curses herself for comparing her relationship with Cohen to the one with Ryan. They're different. The one with Cohen was complicated, tangled, too much. The one with Ryan is...The one with Ryan just is. There's no "what is this" or "where are we going".
"My mom," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, "committed suicide. She didn't even leave a note."
Summer walks over to the bed slowly, her face soft with sympathy. She slips off her shoes and slowly pushes down his shoulders so he's laying on his side. She wraps her arms around his waist and then lets him rest his head on her shoulder. She cradles him and doesn't bother to say a word. There's nothing for her to say.
She could say how she knows how it is to be motherless. She could, but she isn't, because he knows, and holding him is telling him. He's held her so many times as she's poured herself out to him, and now he's pouring himself out to her.
He falls asleep quickly, the skin under his eyes dark. Summer can tell he's tired. She would be too. And she knows he would hold her.
She continues to tightly keep him near her until she too, drifts off to sleep. Summer awakes first and the sky has turned dark. The fluttering of her eyelashes against his cheek wake him up – he's a light sleeper – and he bores his heartbroken eyes into her comforting ones. Summer realizes that recently, it's been the other way around, but she doesn't mind the role reversal. And neither does he.
They share something, a subtle understanding of sorts. Summer's sick of taking care of other people and Ryan's sick of trying to be cared for when he can't tell if it's real or not. But he lets Summer take care of him.
Ryan brushes his lips over her forehead slightly. It's not hot or heavy, but it's passionate. If forehead kisses can be passionate, her conscience adds.
He looks down at her a mutters, "Thanks," and he doesn't stop staring into her chocolate eyes for a second.
That's all they need.
And Summer's starting to get it.