Title: Don't Call Me Logan - X-Men reference, of course.

Rating: R - Just a bit of swearing

Author's Note: First try at The O.C. fanfic. Anna-centric, based on this week's episode, The Homecoming. Not real spoilers for it, but slightly implied.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but I think Anna is pretty cool.

She stalked outside to her favourite tree and sprawled beneath it on the grass, staring at the forever blue sky.

Anna sort of hated Newport.

Not that Pittsburgh had been much better; but back home (yes, home) it had been more difficult to live in a bubble. On the way to school, once in a while you'd see a car that was more than two years old, and sometimes you'd even catch sight of someone sleeping on a bench, covered in tattered clothing to keep off the chill. No, in Pittsburgh you couldn't ignore that there was another chunk of humanity out there, that your life and lifestyle comprised a tiny fraction of the world. It wasn't as easy to maintain that oblivious aura when confronted with actual flesh-and-blood reminders putting things into perspective.

Not a cloud in sight for miles. Did it even rain in this fucking place?

It snowed in Pittsburgh. No matter what part of the city you lived in, it snowed, beautiful, white and pure, a sight for all. And everyone had to deal with the slush, too, no one exempt from the city's taint on winter, from salt stains on the bottom of your jeans and black ice waiting to land you on your ass or in a ditch. It was a common misery, one that couldn't be lessened or magnified by your social status, by the size of your bank account. But that wasn't how they did it in the O.C. No, here there were pools and AC units for the wealthy, luxurious breezes afforded by a house on the hill and manicured lawns immune to temperature. And in Chino and Riverside and Corona, there was a sweltering and stagnant air that melted the smooth edges off everything, angles sharp and raw and gritty, grass burnt away by the heat that seemed to emanate from it all.

Was that a—nope, a butterfly. A butterfly. Where was she, in a goddamn fairy tale? Turning over onto her stomach, she plucked idly at the grass.

She hadn't expected things to be different here, and they weren't, really. The same shallow events and concerns providing a crutch of importance in otherwise meaningless lives; the same cars and designer clothes; the same guys and the same girls. It was ironic that the supposed elite were actually generic—

—her hand stopped in mid-air, a stalk of grass dangling from her fingers—

—the guys weren't all the same. Ryan was different, of course, but that was a given. And then there was Seth.

Letting her piece of grass flutter to the ground, she rolled onto her back again, eyes now fixed on the swaying leaves above. Maybe gravity would be stronger than heartbreak.

At first, he'd been refreshing. He had reminded her of Nadia, whom she'd left behind, her sole ally in the hallowed halls of Ellis Prep and amongst the glitter of Pittsburgh's social obligations. They'd talked comic books and movies and video games, and he hadn't found it unappealing; in fact, he was fascinated. And she'd been intrigued by his quick wit, his pathetically sweet devotion to a girl who had no use for him and his self-deprecating charm. A bond had formed, predictably, and she'd even offered to give him a hand with the girl. It'd be a lark, right?

She blinked rapidly.

Wrong. In the classic tale of platonic friendships, she'd fallen for him. How could she help it? Not like he had any competition and he really was pretty amazing. After all, back home, most of the guys who bothered with her were after the Stern fortune, or a pretty face to showcase on their arm and laugh at their jokes and eventually birth their heirs and host their parties and decorate their ridiculously large homes. The idea of Seth being like that was absurd. No, she hadn't stood a chance. And she'd been silly enough to think that maybe, just possibly, he was different enough to realize it too, to see beyond the aura of his first (supposed) love.

A single tear breached her defences, gathering in the corner of her eye. She froze, willing it to freeze as well.

Yeah right. For all that he professed to hate Newport and its social scene and its kings and queens, he was as blinded by it as a boy infatuated could be. The irony was harsh: his girl represented everything he had rejected and that had rejected him, and he wanted it more than anything. Apparently.

The tear gained momentum, edging over; gravity was winning. She sat up abruptly and swiped at it, steeling herself with a deep breath. Damned if she'd pine for him.

He wanted it more than anything, did he?

His fucking loss.