I do not own The O.C. or any of these characters.
A/N: This story has been in my head since the finale but for some reason, it refused to come out till now.
Summary: A one-shot about Seth's sailing trip.
---
"Oi, lad, are you O.K.?" Seth heard a rich, deep voice say in a very terrible British accent. Or was it Australian? He couldn't quite place it but he was certain the speaker had attended The Lauren Reed School of style-shifting.
He tried to open his eyes but he felt like someone was squeezing his head. Really tightly. His body hurt all over and he could feel a chill travel through him. Where the fuck was he?
The last thing he remembered was lying down in his catamaran. A day into his trip, he second-guessed himself, wondering if he had been too rash in his decision to sail to Tahiti. Four days later, he'd run out of water and the sight of granola bars made him sick. Seven days into his trip, tired, cold, hungrier than he could ever imagine, he was sure he was going to die, so he simply laid face up in his boat and tried to remember every good thing that had happened in his life.
He remembered the first time his Dad had taken him surfing. He always wondered where he went in the mornings and after bugging him every day for a month, his father finally gave in. He had to promise to sit at least twenty feet from the ocean but when he saw him gliding over the waves, so free as if at that moment, nothing else mattered, he knew it was something he had to experience.
He thought of the first time their mother tried to fry eggs. Rosa had been sick and their father was so busy with a case that he left at the crack of dawn. It had been a Saturday with just the two of them so his mother decided to experiment. That was the day he learned that pouring oil into a smoking pan wasn't the best idea. When it caught fire, they ran around like headless chickens looking for things to put it out with till she grabbed his father's favorite blanket -the one he used in the living room- and covered the flames.
He reminisced about other things from the first time he kissed Summer to the time he and Ryan had spent an entire evening in the pool house playing Go Fish, till he drifted into sleep. So when he finally opened his eyes and saw the bald man with the thick beard worriedly staring at him, all he could think was that Heaven looked a lot different from what he'd imagined.
---
"Have you called your family yet?" Diane asked. He was with a group called 'The Traveling Pilgrims' that spent the summer months sailing and pretending they lived in the seventeenth century. Many were twenty-first professionals in fields as varied as party planning and law but at sea, it was all about going back in time. They'd been very kind, not asking any questions, simply nursing him to health and when he asked to sail with them further, they hadn't batted an eye.
Alex, the seventeenth century serving maid who was also a twenty-first century medical student, had spotted him floating on his boat. They thought they were reeling in a corpse and were in the process of contacting the coastguard when they heard him cough. In less than a week, he'd begun to walk on his own and was sure that by the time they embarked on their trip to Tahiti, he'd be able to fully participate in the activities.
In Hawaii, he'd sold his boat for just under five thousand dollars and after repaying the costs they'd incurred on his behalf, he was sure that he'd have enough money to return home.
The tall, slightly skinny woman handed him the phone. "Call them," she implored.
He smiled nervously and accepted it. He took a deep breath and dialed a number.
Hello, this is Seth Cohen. I'm obviously not answering my phone so take a hint. If you...
He looked up at her and shook his head. "Nobody's home."
"Leave a message."
So he did just that.
----
"You no wan stay here anymore?" Michel asked. He'd been the pilgrims' guide and two weeks after they'd left, the only person Seth knew on the Island. At least his English was much better than Seth's French so he was very glad to have someone to communicate with.
"It's getting kind of expensive."
He shook his head. "You no get money? You no get something you fit sell?"
"No. All I have are my clothes."
The short chubby boy grabbed his hand and lifted his wrist.
"You fit get good money for that."
He shook his head – he couldn't sell his watch. As he lay in the hotel room that had quickly become his home, looking at the watch that was still on California time reminded him of the life that he'd soon be returning to. He hadn't quite figured out what would be waiting for him when he returned –what his parents would think, what Summer would say, if he'd ever see Ryan again- but he knew he had to get back soon.
----
Michel knocked on the thick wooden door. "Give me the money," he said to him, holding out his hand as they waited for it to be opened. Even though the rent for Michel's sisters' room was considerably lower than the hotel's, a month and a half of living on the Island had left him with only five hundred American dollars.
The room smelled of dried tomatoes and burnt wood and as the old lady dialed the number, Seth wondered how she made a living from owning the only phone on that side of town.
"Hello?" he heard his mother say. She sounded like she'd aged twenty years.
He parted his lips but no words came out. For the second time in two weeks, he hung up the phone and handed it back to the bored lady.
"You waste money," Michel said disapprovingly as they walked back to their house. "If you no wan talk, why you dey call like that? Next time, say something. You hear?"
Seth nodded. He'll say something when he knew what to say.
---
"Bonjour, je suis votre professeur Monsieur Seth Cohen. Parce que this is English Class, we shall only speak in English. Tu comprends?"
"Yes, sir!" they replied in a chorus.
The local school hadn't had an English teacher in a few years so the village didn't have an issue with turning a blind eye to the absence of a work permit as long as he taught them informally. He didn't have a classroom or a real curriculum, instead, at 4pm every weekday, he was scheduled to teach students of varying ages the basics of speaking and writing English.
After class, he took his weekly trip to the old lady in the wood hut and as usual, after hanging up, he wondered if he'd ever find the right words to say.
---
"J'arrive," she said, walking out of his room.
It was a Saturday and as usual, Aimee stayed over. She was a small, thin girl with short dark hair, breasts like half-pears and the flexibility of an acrobat. He was teaching her to speak a little English as she taught him French but they both knew they didn't really need to – it wasn't that kind of relationship. He was a little taken aback when she asked for money after their first night together but Michel had explained that that was how things were done so since then, he gave her a little envelope every week. The watch had gone as the memories of Harbor High faded and he often wondered if it had all been a dream. Taiohae felt like home to him –he knew who he was, and the purpose he served and even his neighbors had started to refer to him as Monsieur Cohen instead of 'l'entranger.'
He was putting on his shirt when she walked back into the room. "You come with me?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Not today. I have somewhere else to be."
It didn't take long for him to walk down the bush path that led to the wooden hut and the dried tomatoes. As he heard her aged voice speak at the other end, he said, "Don't worry about me, Mom. I'm fine, but I'm not coming back."
A/N: This story has been in my head since the finale but for some reason, it refused to come out till now.
Summary: A one-shot about Seth's sailing trip.
---
"Oi, lad, are you O.K.?" Seth heard a rich, deep voice say in a very terrible British accent. Or was it Australian? He couldn't quite place it but he was certain the speaker had attended The Lauren Reed School of style-shifting.
He tried to open his eyes but he felt like someone was squeezing his head. Really tightly. His body hurt all over and he could feel a chill travel through him. Where the fuck was he?
The last thing he remembered was lying down in his catamaran. A day into his trip, he second-guessed himself, wondering if he had been too rash in his decision to sail to Tahiti. Four days later, he'd run out of water and the sight of granola bars made him sick. Seven days into his trip, tired, cold, hungrier than he could ever imagine, he was sure he was going to die, so he simply laid face up in his boat and tried to remember every good thing that had happened in his life.
He remembered the first time his Dad had taken him surfing. He always wondered where he went in the mornings and after bugging him every day for a month, his father finally gave in. He had to promise to sit at least twenty feet from the ocean but when he saw him gliding over the waves, so free as if at that moment, nothing else mattered, he knew it was something he had to experience.
He thought of the first time their mother tried to fry eggs. Rosa had been sick and their father was so busy with a case that he left at the crack of dawn. It had been a Saturday with just the two of them so his mother decided to experiment. That was the day he learned that pouring oil into a smoking pan wasn't the best idea. When it caught fire, they ran around like headless chickens looking for things to put it out with till she grabbed his father's favorite blanket -the one he used in the living room- and covered the flames.
He reminisced about other things from the first time he kissed Summer to the time he and Ryan had spent an entire evening in the pool house playing Go Fish, till he drifted into sleep. So when he finally opened his eyes and saw the bald man with the thick beard worriedly staring at him, all he could think was that Heaven looked a lot different from what he'd imagined.
---
"Have you called your family yet?" Diane asked. He was with a group called 'The Traveling Pilgrims' that spent the summer months sailing and pretending they lived in the seventeenth century. Many were twenty-first professionals in fields as varied as party planning and law but at sea, it was all about going back in time. They'd been very kind, not asking any questions, simply nursing him to health and when he asked to sail with them further, they hadn't batted an eye.
Alex, the seventeenth century serving maid who was also a twenty-first century medical student, had spotted him floating on his boat. They thought they were reeling in a corpse and were in the process of contacting the coastguard when they heard him cough. In less than a week, he'd begun to walk on his own and was sure that by the time they embarked on their trip to Tahiti, he'd be able to fully participate in the activities.
In Hawaii, he'd sold his boat for just under five thousand dollars and after repaying the costs they'd incurred on his behalf, he was sure that he'd have enough money to return home.
The tall, slightly skinny woman handed him the phone. "Call them," she implored.
He smiled nervously and accepted it. He took a deep breath and dialed a number.
Hello, this is Seth Cohen. I'm obviously not answering my phone so take a hint. If you...
He looked up at her and shook his head. "Nobody's home."
"Leave a message."
So he did just that.
----
"You no wan stay here anymore?" Michel asked. He'd been the pilgrims' guide and two weeks after they'd left, the only person Seth knew on the Island. At least his English was much better than Seth's French so he was very glad to have someone to communicate with.
"It's getting kind of expensive."
He shook his head. "You no get money? You no get something you fit sell?"
"No. All I have are my clothes."
The short chubby boy grabbed his hand and lifted his wrist.
"You fit get good money for that."
He shook his head – he couldn't sell his watch. As he lay in the hotel room that had quickly become his home, looking at the watch that was still on California time reminded him of the life that he'd soon be returning to. He hadn't quite figured out what would be waiting for him when he returned –what his parents would think, what Summer would say, if he'd ever see Ryan again- but he knew he had to get back soon.
----
Michel knocked on the thick wooden door. "Give me the money," he said to him, holding out his hand as they waited for it to be opened. Even though the rent for Michel's sisters' room was considerably lower than the hotel's, a month and a half of living on the Island had left him with only five hundred American dollars.
The room smelled of dried tomatoes and burnt wood and as the old lady dialed the number, Seth wondered how she made a living from owning the only phone on that side of town.
"Hello?" he heard his mother say. She sounded like she'd aged twenty years.
He parted his lips but no words came out. For the second time in two weeks, he hung up the phone and handed it back to the bored lady.
"You waste money," Michel said disapprovingly as they walked back to their house. "If you no wan talk, why you dey call like that? Next time, say something. You hear?"
Seth nodded. He'll say something when he knew what to say.
---
"Bonjour, je suis votre professeur Monsieur Seth Cohen. Parce que this is English Class, we shall only speak in English. Tu comprends?"
"Yes, sir!" they replied in a chorus.
The local school hadn't had an English teacher in a few years so the village didn't have an issue with turning a blind eye to the absence of a work permit as long as he taught them informally. He didn't have a classroom or a real curriculum, instead, at 4pm every weekday, he was scheduled to teach students of varying ages the basics of speaking and writing English.
After class, he took his weekly trip to the old lady in the wood hut and as usual, after hanging up, he wondered if he'd ever find the right words to say.
---
"J'arrive," she said, walking out of his room.
It was a Saturday and as usual, Aimee stayed over. She was a small, thin girl with short dark hair, breasts like half-pears and the flexibility of an acrobat. He was teaching her to speak a little English as she taught him French but they both knew they didn't really need to – it wasn't that kind of relationship. He was a little taken aback when she asked for money after their first night together but Michel had explained that that was how things were done so since then, he gave her a little envelope every week. The watch had gone as the memories of Harbor High faded and he often wondered if it had all been a dream. Taiohae felt like home to him –he knew who he was, and the purpose he served and even his neighbors had started to refer to him as Monsieur Cohen instead of 'l'entranger.'
He was putting on his shirt when she walked back into the room. "You come with me?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Not today. I have somewhere else to be."
It didn't take long for him to walk down the bush path that led to the wooden hut and the dried tomatoes. As he heard her aged voice speak at the other end, he said, "Don't worry about me, Mom. I'm fine, but I'm not coming back."