A song-fic. Yes. I am a sap.
I don't own The O.C. or any of its characters. Lyrics to I Love You This Much were written by Jimmy Wayne, Chris DuBois and Don Sampson.
Ryan poked tentatively at his older brother, casually trying to ease the sheet off his brother's body.
"Come on, Trey. Wake up – we're going to Wild Water today." Ryan pulled a little harder on the covers, but stayed on his toes, ready to spring back if Trey was in a hitting mood.
Trey grunted in exasperation, and rolled over with a jerk, wrenching the bedclothes out of his brother's fingers. He turned his back decisively to Ryan.
"Stop it."
"Trey, come on. Mom'll leave you." It was as close to a whine as Ryan allowed himself to get. He wanted Trey to be there. Everything was more fun if Trey was there.
"Pleeeeeeaaaaaaase." He reached for Trey's shoulder. "Dad's coming, too."
At that, Trey flipped over with a growl, grabbing a hold of the front of Ryan's pajama top. "Don't be such a baby, Ryan. Dad's not going to go."
Ryan slapped at Trey's hand and pulled back in his brother's grasp, stretching the thin fabric of his shirt. He scowled. "Mom said he would." Even under the petulance, Trey heard the doubt.
"Yeah. Like she hasn't said that before."
Ryan strained away from Trey even harder, this time digging his small nails into the flesh of his brother's wrist.
"Ow! Dammit!" Trey let go, and Ryan tumbled backward onto the floor, landing with a crash against a pile of grimy Legos and a battered Erector set. Both boys froze.
Ryan held his breath, listening for the sound of their parents stirring. Trey hung, motionless, over the side of the bed, arm still outstretched, eyes on the door, ears strained. There was quiet for a split second, and then "bam!" Ryan and Trey cringed at the sound of their father's feet hitting the floor. The next crash was the door to their parent's room hitting the wall as it flew open. Ryan scrambled out of the scattered toys, crawling as fast as he could across the floor toward Trey, who reached out and pulled him, panting, onto the bed.
Slam! The door to their bedroom cracked against the wall as their father slung it open.
Both boys cowered slightly on the bed, Trey shifting almost imperceptibly so that he was in front of his little brother.
"What the fucking hell is going on in here?!" Their father's rage washed over his sons.
Ryan and Trey shook their heads in tandem.
"Nothing, Daddy." Ryan whispered it first, and his father swung his head toward his younger son.
"Nothing?" He mimicked Ryan's hesitant voice contemptuously. "Nothing?" Now it was a shout. "I get one goddamned night at home and you stupid kids wake me up at fucking 6 o'clock in the morning?!" He was advancing toward the bed and the boys inched further into the corner, afraid of moving too fast for fear of making him even angrier. They'd learned that, and other lessons, the hard way.
"I'm sor..." Ryan started to apologize, his voice tight with unshed tears and terror.
"It's my fault." Trey cut across Ryan's attempt to diffuse their father's anger. Now, the hot eyes locked onto the older boy. Trey's own eyes fell. "I.... I.... pushed him."
Ryan made a small sound of distress and denial, eyes darting from his brother to his father, but Trey, with one hand behind his back, gripped Ryan's leg, willing him to be still.
"You what?" Quiet now. Always a bad sign.
Trey's chin came up. "He was being a brat, whining about the stupid trip to Wild Water." Defiance. "I told him to shut up. And pushed him."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" A large hand gripped Trey's t-shirt and yanked him off the bed. "He's smaller than you." A shake. "Why are you picking on him?" Another shake and release. Trey staggered back before he fell, hard, on his butt. Eyes stinging, Trey glared up at his father.
"Because he's such a girl! Because he's such a fucking," Trey ground it out, twisting it, reveling in the bad word, "baby!" He climbed to his feet, shaking with rage and humiliation. "He actually believes that you'd go with us to the park." His words dripped with scorn. "That we'd go have happy fun family time." His tone took on a mocking lightness. "He believes everything Mom tells him, and it's all lies!" The last word was a scream torn from the throat of a 11-year-old boy whose devastation and disappointment was every bit as sharp as his 6-year-old brother's.
The fist that landed on the side of Trey's head lifted him off the ground, flinging him into the wall above the bed.
Ryan heard the crack of bones breaking as he crouched on the bed, arms over his head. Trey slid down the wall landing heavily beside Ryan, almost slipping between the mattress and the wall to the floor. Ryan reached out quickly, grabbing a small fistful of Trey's pajamas, trying to hold him on the bed. Trey groaned at the rough grip, but Ryan didn't let go. Tucked into a ball, Ryan held tightly onto Trey, and waited for the feel of his father's hand on his neck, on his arm, on his shoulder; waited for his turn.
Long seconds passed, and Ryan risked a frightened glance in his father's direction. He was staring at the boys in a way that made the skin all over Ryan's body try to crawl into his hair. Breathless with terror, Ryan braced himself.
"What in the hell is going on?" Dawn Atwood stumbled blearily into the room. A night of hard partying with her husband had given her the mother of all hangovers. She'd been dimly aware of the commotion in her morning stupor, but it had been the deafening silence that had finally roused her out of bed.
She pushed past her husband and threw herself at the bed and her terrified children.
"What have you done?" she cried, pulling Trey to her. "Baby? Baby!" She cradled Trey in her arms and he moaned softly, turning into her, and started to sob.
"GET OUT!" She shrieked it at her husband. "Get out!" She put Trey back on the bed and flung herself at the father of her children. "Don't you ever touch them again! Ever!"
Ryan watched as his father easily fended off Dawn's blows, his face a mask, his eyes blank. Finally, he'd managed to capture both of her wrists as she'd flailed at him, and she'd collapsed sobbing at his feet.
His father released his hold on Dawn and stepped away from her. As he'd turned to leave, he'd looked into the eyes of his younger son. Ryan felt the chill down to his toes. Then he was gone.
Ryan wondered if he'd ever be warm again.
xxxx
Ryan slid into the house through the front door. He'd tried his bedroom window first, but found it locked. He was sure he'd unlocked it before he'd left the house this morning. He shook his head slightly trying to clear it. He and Theresa had split a 40 of Schlitz after Mass and the world was a fuzzy place right now. Maybe he'd unlocked it yesterday morning.
He always liked Christmas Eve Mass with Theresa's family. He was ashamed of himself for letting Arturo and Trey convince him to drink on Christmas Eve. But it was even harder to say "no" to Trey now that he'd moved out of the house. Ryan missed his older brother more than he would have thought possible 3 months ago when Trey had slammed out the front door, screaming that he'd never be back. At first, Ryan had thought the quiet would be nice – no more Mom yelling, Trey yelling, Brad yelling. But things had gotten exponentially worse since Trey had moved out. He hated being in the house by himself or even with his mom. And he did all he could to avoid Brad when he was around. When Trey had been there, it hadn't seemed so empty, so desperate; there had just always been Trey. Trey had meant companionship and safety and home – and Ryan hadn't realized it until he was gone. So, now, whenever Trey wanted to hang out, Ryan was willing to do almost anything to make Trey want him around more.
Ryan leaned against the doorjamb, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and the room to stop spinning. When he could make out the dim shapes of the furniture around the room, Ryan pushed the door the final few centimeters until it latched. Moving carefully, if unsteadily, through the cluttered room, Ryan picked his way toward the relative safety of the room he now had to himself. Ryan had his back to the room as he closed the door, sighing in relief that he'd made it undetected.
"Nice night?"
Ryan jumped and whirled around. The lamp next to his bed switched on, flooding the room with light. Heart pounding, Ryan confronted Dawn's latest boyfriend.
Brad got off the bed and moved toward him. Ryan spun around, clutching at the doorknob, desperate to get out, but the older man was too fast. Looming over the 13-year-old, Brad crowded into Ryan's space.
Leaning down, he sniffed. "Have you been drinking?"
Ryan tried, without success, to back away from the man, but there was no where to go. "No," he said, trying to bluff his way out. "That's not me you smell," he said, recklessly deciding on belligerence as a cover. "You're the one who drinks all day."
"Punk." Brad grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him up against the wall. Pulling the door open, Brad pushed Ryan out into the hall. Ryan struggled, but Brad shifted his grip from the boy's shoulder to the base of his neck, his large hand almost encircling the slim throat. He squeezed roughly, jerking Ryan back toward him.
"I thought we'd taken care of this smart mouth awhile ago," he gritted into Ryan's ear, shaking the boy hard. "Let's go talk to the belt again." Ryan felt the fear lurch painfully into his stomach and he started to fight in earnest, trying to wrench free of the powerful man.
"No!" Ryan tried to twist out of Brad's work roughened hands. "Please! I'm sorry!" He reached back awkwardly, scrabbling for a hold. "Please don't." Ryan hated the tears in his voice, but he didn't want the belt again. He'd never been beaten as badly as he had the first and last time Brad went at him with the belt. Mom had kept him home from school three days and he'd still had to wear long sleeves for a week to cover the welts and broken skin. That had been when he'd learned to sleep on his stomach.
There was no placating Brad, though, and he shoved Ryan toward the closet where he kept the belt.
Ryan dug in his heels, but he was too small to make Brad even break his stride. He didn't bother to call for his mother. It had never done any good in the past; he had no reason to think it would tonight.
Slamming Ryan, back to the wall, into the space between the closet and the door into the hall, his hand now wrapped around the boy's throat, Brad opened the door to the closet, reached in and pulled out the belt he kept hanging on a peg. Ryan tugged ineffectually at the thick fingers that were pinning him to the wall.
Ryan's eyes went frantically from the belt to Brad. "Please, don't. I'm sorry."
"Turn around." Ryan saw no mercy in Brad's eyes. He hung his head in defeat.
Trembling, Ryan obeyed, putting his hands on the wall, and, closing his eyes, pressed his flushed cheek against the cool, chipped sheet rock.
"Brad?" Ryan turned at the sound of his mother's voice. She was slurring, hesitant.
"What, babe?" Brad put a hand on Ryan's shoulder to keep him in place.
"What are you doing?"
"The boy here's been drinking. On Christmas Eve. Seems to me he needs an attitude adjustment." He flicked his wrist causing the belt to jump to life, making it writhe briefly.
Dawn's eyes went from the belt to Ryan to Brad and back to Ryan.
"Is that true, Ryan?"
Desperate enough to take a risk that his mother might help him, Ryan said urgently, "No, Mom! I swear...." He'd gotten no more out when Brad backhanded him, knocking him to the floor.
"And he's a liar to boot." He looked at Dawn, who had taken an uncertain step toward her son. "Take a whiff of him." He nudged Ryan with his foot as the boy struggled to his knees. "He reeks of malt liquor."
Ryan squirmed away from Brad, focused on his mother. Maybe, this time.
"Mom, please." He staggered to his feet, sidling toward her. "Mom."
But Dawn's eyes were on Brad.
"He's a liar, Dawn."
Her eyes went to Ryan, pleading with him.
And he knew it was hopeless.
When Brad got a hold of him again, Ryan didn't struggle. And Dawn turned and walked out of the room.
He can't remember the times that he
thought:
"Does my daddy love me? Probably not."
But
that didn't stop him from wishing that he did,
Didn't keep him
from wanting or worshipping him.
He guesses he saw him 'bout once a year.
He
could still feel the way he felt, standing in tears,
Stretching
his arms out as far as they'd go,
An' whispering: "Daddy, I
want you to know,
"I love you this much and I'm waiting on
you,
"To make up your mind: do you love me too?
"However
long it takes, I'm never giving up.
"No matter what, I love
you this much."