Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not Ryan, Marissa, Seth, not the song lyrics, nothing. You all know who owns what.
AN: First fic, just had inspiration smack me upside the head this morning. Shout out to all the Ryan-addicted TWoPers – hope you guys approve. Comments/critiques always welcome.
***********
Don't stay
Forget our memories
Forget our possibilities
What you were changing me into
Just give me myself back and
Don't stay
- Linkin Park
Ryan stretched out on his bed, staring absently through the pitch black at the poolhouse ceiling. The bags under his eyes notwithstanding, he appeared the way he did on any other night he couldn't sleep – stoic, emotionless, even. But the outward appearances and the inner workings of Ryan Atwood were rarely, if ever, compatible. The small veins behind his eyes pulsed as thoughts raced through his mind, cascading off one another and fragmenting and evaporating in an almost undecipherable flurry…"You know that motherfucker is lying"…"How the hell is your girlfriend taking some random guy's side instead of yours"…"When did your brother become so blind that he can't even see that this guy's trouble"…"Could it be that you're so insecure that you've created all of this in your own fucked-up head"…but at the end of it all, a single image played as the backdrop to this mental cavalcade: Marissa Cooper turning her back on him, walking into Oliver Trask's bedroom, and shutting the door.
She actually chose him. Chose to spend the night with him.
Ryan squeezed his eyes tightly and shook his head once sharply, as if the sudden motion would somehow expel the entire mess out of his mind. Rising slowly from the bed, he shuffled over to the bookcase where his books were aligned neatly in rows by author, genre, and era. He ran a hand along the bindings of the volumes as he reached behind the small crevice between the back of the shelf and the wall, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and his silver Zippo. After sliding on a pair of jeans he slipped out of the poolhouse and walked around to the back, knowing that Sandy and Kirsten's window looked right out at the front: the last thing he needed was to have Kirsten get all Truth-ad on him right now. He settled onto a small patch of grass just before the edge of the bluff, sitting Indian-style as he drew out a cigarette and lit the end quickly. Just hearing the familiar "click-scratch-click" of the Zippo calmed his mind a little. He inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke filling his throat before he exhaled slowly through his nose, the gray wisps floating in front of his eyes as his gaze settled on the shoreline of the Pacific Ocean. He sat and smoked in no hurry, trying to focus the wild buzzing of his thoughts.
A soft crack broke him out his trance-like state: whipping his head around, Ryan expected to see the worst – Kirsten standing there, arms folded, scowl firmly in place. What he saw was nothing. Nothing but a darkened mansion and a poolhouse. He shook his head and growled softly, subconsciously saying what he was thinking, "Jesus. When the fuck did this happen to me?"
What the hell was this, he thought to himself. Here I am, hiding behind a poolhouse to have a smoke, obsessing over some prissy little blue-blood with a codependent complex and an apparent inability for commitment. Mulling over how best to deal with some shady kid that can't seem to pry himself away from my girlfriend. He smirked as he lit another cigarette, his mind harkening back to a party over 2 years ago, back in Chino.
"Yo Ry, I know you saw Anton over there trying to talk to Theresa."
"So what, Trey. They've got English together. They're friends."
"Are you serious? 'Friends' my ass. I thought you were the smart one, baby brother."
"Please man, that little punk wouldn't have the balls. He knows she's with me"
"Oh really. Then why don't you go outside and take a look for yourself."
"Whatever, I'll bet…what the…that son of a bitch…"
"He sure looks real friendly, doesn't he?"
"Hey Anton! Come here for a sec, man!"
Ryan flexed his right hand, which had unwittingly closed into a fist as the memory replayed in his mind. He had broken two knuckles that night, but it was worth every bit of pain for the damage he and Trey had inflicted on that asshole. He looked to his other hand, the forgotten cigarette burned almost all the way to the filter. He flicked it aside, closing his eyes as a familiar sensation began coursing through his veins – the slow, cold rage that he had lived with for as long as he could remember before Newport. That he had made a concerted effort to bury when the Cohens had taken legal custody over him. It washed over him completely, reminding him that while life in Chino was wretched, the person he was in Chino was above this wishy-washy, overwrought garbage. The old Ryan may have been rough around the edges, and inside the edges, but at least he had the fucking stones to make a judgment, make a decision, and act on it. The harsh, unblinking clarity the feeling provided was almost refreshing after months of seemingly wandering through the mist of life among the rich and privileged. In an instant his mind was calmed from its beehive of questions.
Ryan knew all he had to about Oliver.
He knew that Oliver was a fraud, was nothing but bad news for Marissa, and by extension himself.
He knew that Oliver was smart enough to keep up the blinders on Marissa, Seth, and all the other Newport silver-spooners, who clearly had no skills in seeing through bullshit veneers, and that it was up to him to expose the truth.
He also knew that it was going to take a superhuman amount of restraint for him not to level that smarmy little twit the next time their paths crossed.
He saw Marissa in much clearer terms, too.
He saw that Marissa was clearly projecting her own downward spiral onto Oliver, or the front that Oliver was putting forth.
He saw that Marissa's issues were not resolved, and she was finding her comfort in sharing with someone she believed had had a kindred experience.
He saw that while he certainly had feelings for Marissa, her neuroses were causing him almost as much hassle as her company provided happiness.
He also saw that he could no longer allow Marissa to manipulate control over their relationship – as much of an anchor in the Newport morass as she may have been initially, caving in to her over and over was not-so-slowly deadening his own sense of self.
Ryan took a deep breath, feeling the cool ocean breeze brushing over his bare arms and shoulders, and opened his eyes as he let the breath out. His face reflected the newly re-steeled core of his being as he rose from his seat, flicking the cigarette butts over the bluff and grounding the ashes with his shoe. He walked quietly back into the poolhouse, putting the pack back into its place and taking off his jeans before settling onto the bed again. As almost second nature, he leaned over to the side and checked the phone for messages, more than likely from Marissa. Nothing. He then blinked hard, realizing what he was doing. Shaking his head and growling he lay back, closing his eyes as the small voice whispered in his mind…"It's time to be yourself, Ryan…your real self…"
