For Elzed and Silverweaver.
"I don't understand."
For a nearly-grown man, Ryan could sound a lot like a whiny brat when he wanted. Which, apparently, he did. At least for the moment. Seth sighed.
It was their first full night in London -- well, their first night when Kirsten hadn't made them all go to a Medieval Banquet and eat with their hands while bored teenagers sang off-key renditions of "Greensleeves" and kept bugging them to take a souvenier photo. Alhough the five pounds had been worth it to have the Atwood glare captured forever beneath the velvet jester's cap that Kirsten had insisted he wear throughout the meal. Even on a tiny keychain, the picture was remarkably clear. Seth's own bard's cap had been much less minty.
"Dude, what's the big deal? So, the bars close a little earlier here..."
He had been a little taken aback by the shouts of "last call" right about the time that things at a Newport Beach party were getting started, but it wasn't like he'd ever had a reason to pay attention to that stuff before. Before, Seth had always been alone with his parents, who were safely asleep back in the hotel.
"Seth, it's eleven o'clock! At night! What the hell are we supposed to do now?"
Seth was chalking up at least thirty percent of Ryan's rotten mood to the fact that he'd been unable to find Seth's new keychain anywhere on his person, despite threatening to strip-search him right in front of St. Katharine's Dock and the adult Cohens. He was giving at least another twenty percent to the fact that Ryan was the worst flier he'd ever seen, and was still reeling from the wicked combination of leftover motion sickness and his first-ever bout of jet lag.
The rest of it, well, Seth wasn't sure what it was. Ryan's moods had been all over the place for the last month, richocheting from jubilation (which, for Ryan, was a broad smile and a tendency to let Seth win at Pro-Skater 3) to depression and back again. Seth had had a few weird moments himself as graduation approached, even though he'd essentially hated Harbor and all it stood for since he'd been enrolled there in the first grade, so he could see why graduation might be hard for Ryan.
With Trey back in prison, and his mother God knows where, no one from Ryan's biological family had been there to see him become the first Atwood male in three generations to graduate from high school. No one had been there to connect his first steps in faraway Fresno with his march across the stage to receive his diploma. Sandy and Kirsten had cheered so loudly when Ryan had won the math award that Seth could hear not just their voices, but every word they were saying, but he had still seen Ryan's eyes dart around the atheletic fields from his place at the podium, searching the top of the bleachers and the shadows around the edges of the field, looking to see if Dawn had come to observe, at least, from the fringes.
Later that evening, when the last of the drunken guests had departed, when Sandy had clucked for the last time over the giant USC banner the caterers had hung over the entranceway, when Summer and Marissa had departed with last good-night kisses and promises to return in the morning, Seth had finally seen something he'd never thought he'd see -- Ryan laid bare.
His parents had found them in the pool house, Ryan sprawled across his bed, already in sweatpants and a t-shirt, tracing the letters of his name on his diploma unconsciously with a fingernail as Seth babbled at him from his perch in the chair across the room and tried to land first his belt and then his tie on the ugly lamp in the corner.
They hadn't really been startled when Sandy and Kirsten came in, but it wasn't normal for the parents to interrupt post-party Seth-Ryan time, so they both had sat up, curious.
"We thought we might find you here, Seth" Sandy had said with a grin, and had sat down on the bed at Ryan's feet, pulling Kirsten to sit beside him, "We have one more little surprise left."
From his seat behind them, Ryan had shot him a funny half-grin/half-salute and settled back to watch the show.
"Hey, buddy, maybe you're getting that Prius after all," he'd said, still grinning. Seth had been desperate for a car -- any car -- before they arrived at USC in the fall and were pegged forever as pedestrians, so he'd taken to touting the environmentally-friendly hybrid car as a last resort when he hinted -- broadly -- at what he wanted as a graduation present.
"Oh, Ryan, no. This is a surprise for you, too."
As quickly as the words had left his mother's mouth, the smile had left Ryan's face. Even after more than three years with the Cohens, Ryan had never quite been convinced that surprises could be fun. Not that Seth blamed him, all things considered.
"Kirsten, I don't need anything..." he'd started, but before he could finish, she'd tugged him up to sit sandwiched between the two adults.
'I don't need anything' had been the theme of the past spring, as Ryan fought the Cohens every step of the way towards graduation. He'd been blackmailed into applying for colleges by the simple expedient of Seth refusing to apply until Ryan did, too. He'd started to make noises about attending community college and working fulltime, and Kirsten had threatened to drag him back to Suriak for more family therapy. When he'd found out he had gotten a scholarship to USC, it had turned into a blowout that had lasted nearly three days, especially after Sandy had discovered that Ryan had applied at construction sites all around the county for a summer job "to pay his living expenses" without telling anyone.
"I know," his mother had answered, taking advantage of Ryan's proximity to run a hand through his tousled hair, "That's why it's a surprise. You'd never ask us for anything, and Mr. 'A-Prius-Makes-A-Good-Environmental-Statement' over there would never stop asking if we let him."
Seth had been faintly insulted at that, but he couldn't argue with its fundamental truth.
With a little flourish and an imaginary trumpet voluntary, Sandy had withdrawn a thick packet from his inner jacket pocket.
"Gentlemen, your graduation gift," he'd said with a bow. Ryan had swivled his head back and forth from Sandy to Kirsten and back again, while Seth had tried to decipher the printing on the outside of the folder.
"But -- you already gave us our gifts. This morning," Ryan had protested softly. Which was not untrue, exactly, Seth had supposed, but did Ryan really think a pair of cufflinks was going to be it? Especially when one of said cufflinks had the Harbor crest on it, and the other the USC seal. They were not exactly big pimpin'.
"Well, now we're giving you another one," Sandy had shot back. "I keep telling you, kid, you can't get rid of us that easily -- we're like mildew, we grow on you. This is a gift for all of us, really."
Seth had had enough. With his catlike reflexes he had attempted to launch himself out of the chair and grab the packet, but he had overshot the mark slightly and landed with an oomph at Sandy's feet. Still, it had been close enough to see that the packet was from British Air.
"Are those airline tickets?" he'd demanded from his spot on the floor. "Dude! The Seth and Ryan European Vespa Tour is on!"
Sandy had laughed as he'd stood up and thrust the packet into Ryan's hands so he could help haul Seth to his feet again.
"Close but no cigar, son. The Cohen family European Tour is on."
"Dad! We just graduated! We're, like, adults now. Or adults who are still dependent on their parents for their every physical need, at least. You're going with us?"
Kirsten had laughed, too, at that, and reached out to straighten Seth's rumpled shirt.
"Okay, maybe the last two weeks are the Ryan and Seth Tour Italy with Their Girlfriends Tour, but don't say anything. Julie wants to surprise the girls. But we couldn't let Ryan take his first trip to Europe without us, right?"
She had leaned over to give Ryan a quick, one-armed hug around the shoulders, but he had been paying them no attention at all.
He had gone utterly pale, and the thick stack of tickets had vibrated slightly in his shaking hands.
"I can't, I mean . . . you don't . . .I . . ." he had seemed utterly at a loss for words.
"Sure you can, sweetie. It'll be great. We'll give you and Seth plenty of free time, we promise," Kirsten had said, but Ryan had twisted out of her half-embrace.
"No! I mean -- no. I-I graduated. Like, with a diploma and everything. And you're making me go to college, and now I can't work this summer, a-and look at those dates!" Ryan had been yelling at that point, his voice ragged and uneven as his breath started to quicken, and he had thrown the tickets back at Kirsten and started to back away.
"Look at the dates," he had repeated. "I turn eighteen two days after we're supposed to land in London. Then what am I supposed to do?" he had asked, still backing up towards the door, his arms wrapped around his waist.
Kirsten had looked completely perplexed, and Seth had been relieved, because Ryan wasn't making any sense at all to him.
"Ryan, sweetheart, it's okay. The passport will still be valid. And they do celebrate birthdays in England -- I think they might even have invented it. We can find a cake and everything."
"No, no, no," Ryan had been chanting it under his breath, still trying to escape, and Seth had realized that Ryan was shaking -- shuddering, really -- as he gasped for air.
Sandy had made it across the pool house in two strides, and Ryan had reacted like a wounded animal -- like he hadn't in nearly a year -- backing away. For the first time Seth could remember, though, Sandy had invaded Ryan's personal space -- just reached out and pulled Ryan's whole shaking body against his own. Whatever had happened, Sandy was the only one who seemed to understand.
"Oh, kid," he'd said softly, and kissed Ryan's forehead gently. Seth had startled. It was the same gesture he'd used on Seth that morning in his bedroom, the same reason Seth was still wearing his decidedly minty cufflinks hours after the party was over. It had felt like a brush of air, and then like a brand across his forehead.
"Oh, Ryan. Don't you know by now, kid? That's just a page in a calendar. It doesn't mean a thing. Not a single thing. Well, it means cake, but who doesn't love cake?" Sandy had tried to lighten the mood, but Ryan was too far gone.
"Why?" he'd demanded. "Why? Why? Why?..."
It was like something inside him had snapped. Seth had tried to sneak at glance at his mother, but she was already up and rushing to Ryan's side.
"Don't you know, Ryan? We love you, we always will," Sandy had continued, his voice low and crooning. And by then, Kirsten had joined him, hanging onto Ryan, pulling him back towards the bed, peppering his hair with kisses as she echoed Sandy's words.
The two of them had manouvered Ryan back onto the bed, and Seth had caught a glimpse of his face. His eyes were screwed shut, and he was crying -- no, sobbing -- into Sandy's shoulder, still chanting, "why, why, why" brokenly.
Seth hadn't known what to do. It had seemed wrong to stay and watch; it had seemed more wrong to go. He hadn't imagined that Ryan could even do that -- break down -- and then the penny dropped. Two days after they landed in London, Ryan would turn 18. Ryan would be an adult, no longer a ward of the state, no longer a child in need of a guardian. Had he thought they would leave him flat at Paddington Station with a sign around his neck that said "Please look after this Ryan. Thank you."?
He had watched as his parents cradled Ryan between them, rocking him gently back and forth, answering his every query.
"Why?"
"We love you, kid."
"Why?"
"Sweetheart, you're a part of this family."
Of course Ryan had thought they would leave him -- in Ryan's world, that's what people did. Even after all this time, he still couldn't quite allow himself to believe that the Cohens were a permanent deal. That had been the source of the stubborn fights, of the scrambling for scholarships, of the need for the high-paying summer job. When the Cohens finally abandoned him, Ryan wanted to have a back-up plan.
By the time that Seth had figured that all out, Ryan had quieted. He was still murmuring into Sandy's shoulder, but now the words were varied, strung together in stuttered sentences. Seth had heard "Dawn" and "Trey" and "Theresa" and then had decided to stop listening. After a few more minutes, the rocking had stopped, and Ryan had gathered himself together.
Kirsten had looked up and smiled sadly at Seth, holding out her hand to him. After a moment, he had knelt at her feet like a little boy again, and let her wrap an arm around him, even as she kept the other tightly around Ryan. She had given him a little squeeze, and jerked her head in Ryan's direction. It had taken him a minute, but Seth had finally understood. He had a purpose in this family, too, something he was good at.
"Dude," he had said softly, and to his surprise Ryan had swiveled his head to look at him through swollen, stranger's eyes, "What would you have done if we'd gotten the car?"
For a second there had been silence, and then Ryan had started to laugh, and Seth had recognized him once again.
He and his mother had left Sandy behind in the pool house several minutes later, and Seth wasn't sure what happened, but by the next morning, Ryan had been normal -- if quieter than usual -- and by the afternoon had signed his passport application with a nervous grin.
Two weeks later, the pool house had looked like an extension office of The Lonely Planet as Ryan plowed his way through the guidebooks of Europe, and by the time they had left California, nearly three days ago, he'd been back to nervous and excited.
They'd settled into their seats behind Sandy and Kirsten in first class, and Seth had watched in hidden amusement as Ryan had craned his neck around, trying to take it all in.
"Are you kidding me with this?" he'd demanded, but he was still grinning, so Seth had taken it as a good sign. They'd flown from Portland in coach, and to visit the Nana that way, too -- the last-minute planning meant that's all that had been available -- so it had been Ryan's first time in first class. He was so fascinated by all the information in the seat back, and the seats that folded all the way down, that Seth had hoped he might be so engrossed he missed their actual takeoff.
No such luck. As soon as the engines started to hum, Ryan had dropped the menu card he'd been reading and grabbed the arm of the seat. With one hand holding on, white-knuckled, he'd quickly checked his seatbelt.
"Um, do you think we could get, like, a beer or something?" Seth had asked the flight attendent as she wandered by, and she had smiled not unsympathetically at them.
"Sorry, boys. You have to be 21. First time flying?" she had inquired, looking at Ryan's ashen face.
To Seth's surprise, Ryan had answered quickly, through clenched teeth.
"No. Third. First time overseas, though."
Ryan had sounded so proud. Seth had tried to remember his first overseas trip, but he was pretty sure he'd still been a baby then.
"Not a good flier?"
"Not really," Ryan had admitted sheepishly, and the flight attendent had reached over Seth to pat him on the arm.
"Well, you'll be happy to know our layover at JFK is long enough for you to get out and stretch your legs, then."
When the flight attendent had walked away, Seth had been startled again by Ryan's strangely enthusiastic conversation.
"We're stopping at JFK? In New York? Um, do you think it counts if we're just in the airport?" he'd asked, and Seth had been confused.
"If what counts? The flight?"
"No," Ryan had answered with a flush in his cheeks. He was blushing! "The state. If we're only in the airport, can we count New York?"
"Count it for what?"
"Well, if it counts, that means that by the end of the trip, I'll have been in four states -- five if you include California -- and . . ." he had paused a moment to do a little mental arithmetic, then continued, "Eight -- no, nine -- Nine countries by the end of this trip. In three years! Before that, the furthest I'd ever gone was Reno."
"Well then, sure, I think New York should count."
"Good, man. Maybe I'll write Theresa a postcard from the airport. She'd like that."
The rest of the trip had been like that -- Ryan weirdly enthusiastic and agreeable -- even when the flight attendent had found them an hour into their transatlantic leg, once they had hit international waters,and quietly deposited a miniature bottle of whiskey and a Seven-Up on Ryan's tray table on Sandy's orders because he was afraid Ryan might actually hyperventilate from the stress.
But Ryan had been Tourist Guy since they'd landed -- he hadn't even crashed the first bleary morning on the way from Heathrow into the city, instead badgering Seth until he'd agreed to forgo a nap and take a quick walk through Hyde Park. Yesterday had been a blur, too, filled with Sandy and Seth trailing after Kirsten and Ryan, who had been, he was pretty sure, bent on seeing every single old building in London in one afternoon.
After dinner tonight, though, Kirsten and Sandy had decided to return for an early night at the hotel, and Seth and Ryan had gone off in search of some authentic British culture -- which meant, to them, an authentic British pub where they could legally drink. Seth had noticed Ryan quiet down, but he hadn't noticed the return of the brood until just now.
"The guy that was puking by the Tardis said that there's a private club around the corner."
"The what?"
"The telephone box. The phone booth? You know, from Dr. Who . . . you know what, nevermind. The important thing here is that we don't have to go home yet."
Seth could actually feel Ryan's glare on the back of his head.
"And why is that? It's a private club. So, what -- we're going to crash the party?"
"No, dude, welcome to Jolly Old England. They call it a private club, but like, you pay the "dues" at the door, and you're a member for the night. And can drink. Legally, I might add, or at least some of us can -- hey, wait a second -- you're going to be 18 in an hour, aren't you?"
There was total silence as they picked their way through the crowd of aggressively drunk guys in rugby jerseys that thronged the streets. That was another weird thing. Maybe it was the weather, but here, even the drunken athletes seemed to leave Ryan alone.
When they turned the corner, Seth saw the entrance to the club, lit up in the foggy night with a small line of "members" waiting to get in. He and Ryan joined the queue with Ryan still having said not another word. They went in, and it less like a nightclub and more like a giant VFW post. It was brightly lit, with a bar in either corner, and lots of stark metal tables packed around with folding chairs. One wall was dominated by a huge wide-screen television, which was showing a soccer game that had, Seth thought, been over hours ago.
"Hey, birthday boy, you go find us some seats. I'll buy the first round, since I'm still the only one who's legal for, what, another forty-five minutes?"
Ryan had simply nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
It took Seth ten minutes to weave his way through the cheering crowd and another fifteen to find Ryan, tucked away at a table off to the side with a woman on either side of him. The three of them were staring intently at the screen, sending up a cheer every time the guys in the dark-blue jerseys took the ball.
"Hey, man, where were you? I couldn't find us a table, but these nice ladies said we could share."
Ryan seemed a lot jollier than the last time Seth had seen him.
"Sorry, I only brought two pints. I didn't know we had company," he apologized generally, but the three at the table were laughing already.
The woman to Ryan's right, who had short auburn hair brushed off her forhead, put an exaggerated finger to her lips and quickly showed Seth a glimpse of a clear bottle tucked into her enormous handbag.
"You'll have to catch up," she whispered in a soft accent Seth couldn't quite place -- could it be French? -- and gestured for him to sit down.
Seth sat, sliding a beer over to Ryan as he noticed the three "sodas" sitting prominently on the table. He also noticed that there were two small, woolly dolls propped betwen them, each with a shock of yellow hair.
"Um, ladies, not offense, but you know that there are dolls on the table and -- oh my God! What are they doing?"
He'd just realized that both dolls were in quite compromising positions.
"Aw, bloody hell," the girl on Ryan's right cried at the screen, then looked in Seth's direction. "Bloody offsides again. Leeds can't catch a break to save our lives tonight."
"Um, wasn't this game over, like, hours ago?" Seth asked.
Ryan shot him a look from under his bangs, and Seth realized that he was well on his way to being drunk.
"Seth! Don't be rude. It's a match, and doesn't make it any easier to watch knowing they're going to lose," he said sternly. The French girl giggled merrily as the other one -- the blond-ish girl with the love of all things Leeds -- let loose a string of profanity Seth only half-recognized.
"Ryan, are you drunk?" he demanded.
"Little bit," Ryan answered with a lazy grin, "I'm celebrating my birthday in style."
"Your birthday?" the French woman with the enormous handbag said, "Well, then, we'd better get a proper celebration going."
That was the last thing Seth remembered clearly for quite some time. Next thing he knew, the lovely ladies were buying them a round. Then the guys at the next table did. Then the girl in the corner with the bangs the color of watermelon. At some point Seth had stopped drinking, figuring that someone ought to know how to get back to the hotel, but Ryan was keeping up with the best of them. And Seth had to admit, if drinking were ever to become an Olympic sport, the Yanks were going down hard to Team UK.
He had asked the doorman to call them a taxi around three o'clock in the morning, and while it had taken a few minutes to break Ryan loose of the grip of the gaggle of women that had surrounded him in the end, he'd finally gotten them both into the back of the big, comforting black cab.
The driver had done a double take when he'd asked him to take them to The Dorchester, but Seth had flashed a room key, and the guy had finally nodded.
Ryan was slumped in his seat, his head resting against the window as he gazed out into the London night.
"Hey, man," Seth said softly.
Ryan turned and focused on him with effort, his eyes blinking heavily.
"Hey."
"You know what? It's been your birthday for three whole hours now, and your know what else? You're still here," he said.
Ryan shook his head slowly.
"No," he said solemly.
"No what, buddy?"
"No, it's not my birthday. Born at 4:10 am. Still okay, still seventeen," he said emphatically.
The driver pulled the taxi to a careful stop at the curb, and before Seth could even reach for the handle, the door was opened by one of the hotel's ubiquitous liverymen.
He saw Ryan's door open, and he staggered to his feet on the pavement while Seth was still paying the driver.
The doorman nodded sympathetically to him as he attempted to steer a wavering Ryan through the oppulent lobby and to an elevator as inconspicuously as possible. The kinds of hotels his parents favored didn't exactly do drunken outbursts. But Ryan was both quiet and cooperative as they boarded the elevator to their shared room on the eighth floor.
Kirsten had complained that their adjoining rooms were too close to the bank of elevators, but Seth was grateful, as Ryan had become little more than pliant deadweight on his arm.
There was a large clock facing the elevator whose hands were pointed just past four as they exited.
"Not long now," Ryan muttered, and Seth was struck by how sad he sounded.
He propped Ryan against the wall, where he stayed, slumped, as Seth fumbled with the key. He opened the door and pushed Ryan in ahead of him, but the other boy had stopped dead, just inside the entrance. Seth banged into his broad back, pushing them both, stumbling, into the room.
For a moment, he had the horrifying feeling that he'd somehow managed to open the door to his parents' room, but there was his familiar black suitcase on the luggage stand, Ryan's backpack leaning against it, there was the Gameboy he'd discarded on the table before going out so much earlier that night. There also, though, were his parents, sitting slumped against each other, half-awake, on the couch that Seth was sure they'd left unoccupied.
"Sandy? Kirsten? What's wrong?" Ryan asked, and suddenly, he sounded a lot more sober than he had a minute before.
"Not a thing, sweetie," Kirsten said, and stood up, her robe trailing behind her as Sandy bent over the coffe table. For a second, his head obscured what he was doing, then Seth saw a flicker of light. There was a cake on the table, exquisitely iced, with a 18 candles stuck into it far less expertly.
"Happy birthday, Ryan," Kirsten said as she moved forward to embrace him. Ryan blinked owlishly in the candlelight. Seth knew that feeling. He wasn't sure this wasn't all some alcohol-fueled dream.
"Boys! Have you been drinking?"
Nope, not a dream after all.
"Little bit," Ryan repeated, and dropped his face in shame, but Kirsten reached out and hugged him anyway as Sandy stood up.
"Kirsten, they are legal here, both of them, and they're not driving. Let's let it go on this special occassion, okay?"
Seth sighed with relief, and helped his mother steer Ryan around the table and into a seat on the couch.
"Okay, then, who wants cake?" Kirsten asked with a grin. Seth felt his stomach flip, and Ryan's face in the dim light took on an eerie green cast. Without another word, he stumbled to his feet and raced for the bathroom.
"Dude, you better make it! I think it's, like, illegal to horck at the Dorchester," Seth called over Ryan's moans. His father cuffed him lightly on the head before he left to check on Ryan.
"That's enough, Seth."
His mother was gazing at him steadily as he attempted to slump into his seat.
"You know you can't be doing this every night, right?" she asked. Seth nodded.
"Tonight just got a little -- away from us. There were these weird English ladies -- or one of them was French, maybe -- and they had Ryan voodoo dolls, and they were toasting Leeds. It was very strange."
He heard the noise his mother made in the back of her throat.
"I'm not that drunk. Really. I stopped hours ago. I figured one of us should remember the way home, at least. That's really what happened."
Kirsten regarded him skeptically.
"Everything's okay, then? Ryan's not upset?"
"Not too upset anymore, I don't think" Seth answered truthfully. "This was cool of your guys, though."
"Well, we had planned to wake him up with the cake, but then when we got here, there was nobody home. Don't do that again, okay?" she scolded, and brushed a kiss over his forehead. "Oh, my boys are getting so big."
Ordinarily, he would have shied away at her touch, but he was still drunk enough to just lay his head on her shoulder, craving her touch. After a moment, Sandy emerged from the bathroom, followed by a much straighter, much paler Ryan.
"Hey," he said in a hoarse voice, "Any of that cake for me? I could really use something to take away the taste of the . . ."
"Ryan, don't say vomit!" Seth and his mother chorused together, and Ryan chuckled, lazily.
"I was going to say toothpaste."
With a shaky grin he sat down next to Seth on the couch, and after a moment, Sandy crowded him over, squeezing them all in together.
Kirsten gave them each big slices of cake, but Seth wasn't really hungry. He flopped his head back on the couch, and look sideways at the boy whom he would always regard as his brother. Ryan seemed intent on the chocolate slice on his plate, but when he saw Seth's gaze he leaned back himself and turned towards him.
"Hey," Seth said softly, "You know what?"
"What?"
"Now it really is your birthday."
Ryan smiled at him through half-lidded eyes.
"Yeah, it is."
"You know what that means, don't you, dude?"
"Yeah," he muttered sleepily, "Cohens, mildew, stuck with you..."
"And self-doubt, buddy, don't forget the paralyzing self-doubt."
But Ryan's eyes were already closed. Sandy reached around and rescued his plate, which was tipping precariously, then pulled the sleeping boy's head towards his shoulder with a smile at Seth. Seth smiled back, then turned to his mother and snuggled his own head against her shoulder. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he didn't wake again until the housekeeper opened the door to find them still crowded on the couch together the next morning.