TAHITIAN DREAMS
Author: donnatellaMarks
Character: Seth Cohen
Spoilers: Season finale
Timeline: finale Broken Hallelujah montage
Feedback: Is much appreciated. Sundevil009@yahoo.com
Summary: Seth Cohen needs to get out of Newport.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine at all. If they were, there wouldn't be any stupid Theresa'sbabyisitRyan's? plot contrivance. Do I have finale issues? Yes.
A/N- I wrote this because I love Setheleh. He is my imaginary lover. My life dream is to marry him and have little children who listen to Bright Eyes and the Cure, while living in the California sunshine. There's a convertible in the dream to, also a beach and nakedness, but you guys don't really need to know about that stuff. ;)
So it begins…
**
He wrote them notes.
His hands shook. The pen smudged when he rubbed his fingers across the paper, turning them black, mixing with the sweat on his fingertips.
Dear Mom and Dad, he wrote them. I hope you understand. He did. He hoped they knew why he had to do this.
Dear Summer, he wrote her. I hope you understand. She probably did, he thought. She probably understood, she probably understood everything. She was his, she was perfect, she knew everything. Didn't mean she had to like it.
He put them in separate envelopes, placing them carefully on his nightstand.
He packed a bag, just clothes, a swimsuit, his shiny new map of Tahiti. He couldn't stay here, here in the house, in this life, in this hell.
He remembered when he was thirteen, just after his Bar Mitzvah, when he invited the whole class to his party in the hopes of making some friends. They all came of course- it was a chance to dress up and eat catered food and get wasted behind the dinner hall. It was a time to listen to bad music, like the latest Britney Spears when he really wanted to listen to the Cure or the Ramones or anything that had a point. But he listened to the synthesized crap that came out of the DJ's speakers. Maybe they would stay, maybe someone would say, "Hey Seth, awesome party!" or "Hey Seth, wanna come to the beach with us on Monday?" Maybe, maybe, maybes.
But no one ever did.
He thinks that's when he realized that Newport hated him as much as he hated it.
He stuffed clothes into the bag more quickly now, without even a glance. He opened his drawer and shoveled them in, tearing his room apart. But he didn't care.
This was bullshit, and he didn't care.
Maybe Ryan's throwing away his life, what did he care? What did he care about the only friend he'd ever had? It was Ryan's life, it was his to waste.
He wanted to scream, to shout, to kick and scream like he had done when he was four and his parents told him they were moving from Berkeley. From Berkeley, the only place he ever really felt at home until Ryan showed up, with a black eye and a charge of grand theft auto.
A lot's changed in a year, huh?
Yes, Summer, it had. He had her and Ryan, and Marissa even though she annoyed him sometimes, and his parents were starting to care and his life was starting to fall into place and now it was all falling apart.
A lot changed in a year, huh.
He left the room without looking back. He was getting out of here, at least for a little while. He couldn't stay. This place was slowly reverting back to the way it was, and he couldn't ever take that again.
He remember when he was 14 and his parents bought him the Summer Breeze to get him out of the house. He needed sun, they said, it wasn't healthy for him to be staying indoor. Why didn't he play with Marissa next door, I'm sure she'd love to hang out. Poor Mom, he thought, always deluding herself.
He thought about Summer when he walked to the pier, quickly, as unassumingly as he could. No one would stop him, not this day, not ever. He was tired of being pushed around, tired of being hit and pissed on. No one had done anything like that literally for a while now, but he felt it ever day.
Ryan leaving just about equated to Luke pissing in his shoes. He chuckled mirthfully, and said, "Thanks, Ryan," without a hint of thankfulness in his voice. Leaving him, leaving him here was just as bad as the football team calling him a queer in seventh grade, and him having to go to the nurse to complain of allergies when tears started to fall.
He hated himself a lot back then. He wasn't good enough for the Newpsies and their crew. He wasn't good enough to be here at all.
He didn't know when he stopped blaming himself and when he started blaming fate. It was a lot easier, blaming fate, because it meant less weight on him. It meant that he didn't have to sleep during the day or listen to Conor Oberst round the clock or slit his damn writs when he felt like this life wasn't worth living.
Because it was.
He would show them. He'd planned his escape, he'd planned it well. He'd leave and never come back. Of course, he held no illusions; he knew he'd never be able to completely pull it off. This was his life, his lifestyle—Newport was him and no matter how much he hated himself it wasn't making it any better.
But he liked to delude himself; he liked to believe that he could get out of here. It was the only thing that kept him sane most of the time.
He ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Which was, in fact, quite fast. Coach Charles was always asking him to try out for the track team. But why run when there was no one chasing you?
Maybe if he ran fast enough, the world would clear through the choking fog that was engulfing him. Maybe if he ran fast enough, the wind would dry the threat of tears.
He came to the pier, sweating from his run. He hoped they'd understand; he hoped they knew…. He had been planning this for years; it was only now finally coming into fruition. He was doing what he had to, what always was, what was only delayed a year by the realization that there could be people out there who actually cared about him.
The sun beat down on the wooden docks, and he stepped out to his boat. The Summer Breeze, the only thing he'd ever really need. The boat couldn't talk back, the boat couldn't scream when he hit its side in frustration. The boat couldn't leave for its own contrived sense of nobility. The boat couldn't be emotionally blackmailed by an ex-girlfriend. The boat couldn't leave its only chance for a better life for a kid that most likely wasn't his.
He untied the rope, threw his bag in, and hoped that the waters carried him to Tahiti, where the ocean was warm and the days were long and island girls in coconut bikini's were on call 24 hours a day.
Of course, he knew that Summer would look better in a coconut bikini than any of them, and he knew that he wouldn't even think about anyone else. Not Ryan, not Mom, not Dad, not Marissa, not Theresa, not Luke, not Oliver, not Mr. Roberts, not Grandpa, not Julie, not Hailey, not Jimmy, not Caitlyn, not anyone else he had ever met.
Summer would take over his thoughts, and well, that was okay with him. Because when he returned, they'd have their tearful reunion on a sunlit beach. He'd be tanner, older, more muscled and she'd be beautiful as ever. And they'd kiss and kiss and 'sex on the beach' would become more than just vodka, peach Schnapps, orange and cranberry juice.
Of course, he knew that the reunion would probably consist of him getting hit in the shoulder repeatedly, and her withholding sex for more than a little while.
But he had to go, consequences aside.
He hopped into the boat. He held the boom steady as he pushed off, the light wind blowing through his unruly hair.
He was not going back to the way it used to be.
He pulled the sail.
**
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