Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own the O.C. or Death Cab for Cutie. But the main title, the chapter titles, and the beginning quote are all lyrics from Marching Bands of Manhattan by Death Cab for Cutie.
Sorrow Drips Into Your Heart Through a Pinhole
"I wish we could open our eyes to see in all directions at the same time.
Oh, what a beautiful view, if you were never aware of what was around you."
- Death Cab for Cutie
Chapter One: If I Could Open My Arms
My index finger robotically pushes the play button on the CD player as I enter the poolhouse. By now, this is routine. Two weeks ago, you lent me one of your Death Cab for Cutie albums, and I've been hooked ever since. Now, I drop my backpack into a chair and begin shrugging off my jacket as Marching Bands of Manhattan starts to envelop the room. This is my favorite song. It reminds me of you. I let my jacket fall to the floor and crack a day's worth of stress from my neck. I let my body fall back onto the bed. I close my eyes. The lyrics wash over me and I start to regret the fact that this song reminds me that I don't have you.
Ben Gibbard's voice becomes nothing but background noise as I start thinking about you. About how I can't have you. About how I'll never be able to. Because I have that unfair position of being your best friend. Of being a guy. Of not being Summer, or Anna, or even Alex. And now I start thinking about how bad I just want you. About how I have for a long time. And how when I first saw you on the floor of your living room, I silently prayed that you liked guys too. That ever day that's passed since then has just intensified this feeling and made it harder and harder for me to accept the truth. Damn you, Seth Cohen. Damn you for making me fall for you. Damn you for not sharing my feelings. Just damn you.
And somehow I think you always can sense when I'm annoyed, because that's when you always burst into the poolhouse. This time is no exception. You are inside and sitting in the chair where my backpack had been (despite the fact that there are empty chairs in the room) before I even have my eyes open. "Death Cab, huh?" you grin. "I knew you'd like them. I can't believe I finally got you to borrow one of their CDs."
I sit up and look at you, getting more annoyed as you just sit there and deny this tension between us. "Do you want it back? I've had it for a couple weeks now," I say, uncomfortable through the tension. This is something new; I've never felt uncomfortable with you before. This is getting out of hand. I sit up as if to go get the CD from the player.
"Nah, keep it. I'll get a new one." Your grin morphs into a full smile and my annoyance builds up even more. I hate when you do this, you know. I don't understand why you would give me something of yours and buy another one when I could give it back and buy one of my own. Or burn the CD, for fuck's sake; it is the twenty-first century. And then it's like you can read my mind (and you do this often) when you answer the rhetorical question in my head. "I want you to have it. I'm just glad I got you into them. And I want to be able to say that Ryan Atwood got his first indie CD from me." You smirk again.
And you annoy me more. Because we're so alike now that you almost know what I'm thinking, and this is more than best friendship, Seth, and I don't know why you don't see it. But somehow you're the only person that's ever been able to annoy me this much without me flipping out, and realizing this helps me calm down. Damn you, Seth Cohen.
You're talking about how the radio over-commercialized Soul Meets Body and ruined it, and I'm distracted by your lips, and I want to kiss you so bad that this secret of mine really is starting to hurt. I try to avoid these thoughts because they're not getting me anywhere, and they're making me more depressed, and these fantasies won't extend any further than they already do.
You're partway through explaining why Gibbard's cosmic genius paired with his amazing authorial skills on Marching Bands of Manhattan and I Will Follow You Into the Dark could possibly make Plans one of the best (but not the best) Death Cab albums when you stop talking and just look at me. You cock your head slightly to the left and I swear I see your eyes shift down to my lips, too. This all happens in probably two or three seconds and I almost don't catch it before you start talking again.
You resume your infamous Seth Cohen Ramble and I put on my infamous Ryan Atwood Silent Look as an exciting thought hits me. What if you share my feelings, but I haven't been able to see it? What if you see me the way I see you, but you don't know how I feel, so you don't show it? I bite the corner of my lip. Fuck, Seth. Maybe I was wrong about you. I hope I'm not just getting carried away with wishful thinking.
I decide to try it. Because I guess I can't keep complaining if I don't do anything. I did see that look you gave me. I hope I'm right about it... You don't even stop talking as I stand up and walk over to the CD player. I skip back to Marching Bands of Manhattan and go to you, kneel down before you, grab one of your hands in mine. And you still keep talking as I look into your eyes. At first you look to the side, up at the ceiling, anywhere but at me. Now you revert your eyes back onto mine and you being rambling faster and faster. I take this as a good sign and move my face closer to yours. You talk faster ad faster yet. I continue nearing you and you're saying "and they're good too but I think maybe you'd like–" and that's when I'm kissing you and you're not kissing back but you're not pulling away either so I think it's okay. And this is such a headrush that my thought process is becoming jumbled and that makes me feel closer to you.
And fuck this feels so good, kissing you, after all this time of wanting to. I turn the kiss into something more, into making out, and still you don't resist, and I feel a little bit of pressure from your side so I must have been right. But then I feel you gently start to pull away and fuck fuck fuck I hope this isn't just a delayed reaction. You unstick yourself completely and lean as far back into the chair as you can and look me square in the eye. "Ryan, we can't/" I don't know if you mean we really can't, or you can't, or maybe you don't want to, but I feel awkward now, and broken now. I don't move and you don't have a way out of the chair but we're still holding hands and you give mind a squeeze. I don't know if maybe this is for reassurance or apology or if it means get off of me you faggot freak. You carefully manage to get away after squeezing my hand and you seem to be moving in slow motion as you head for the door. You don't look back when your silhouette escapes through the threshold.