Title: Pictures
Author: Devil's Archangel
Pairing: Seth/Ryan, Seth/Zach
Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine. (Damn it!)
There's a guy on your floor that you kind of know. He's quiet, introverted, nearly antisocial, but, that's okay, because he's, like, seven kinds of hot. It's not that he's secretive—it's just that he has a tendency to keep things to himself. But, if you're honest, you only know that because Lupe from twelfth told you so.
You get the courage to talk to him one day. He only kind of smiles as a greeting and only nods to answer most of your questions, but that's fine because you talk enough to fill the space between the gaps of conversation so it goes unnoticed.
You make jokes and after a while he says he thinks you're funny and that you remind him of…someone. You blush and say thanks, and would have asked who because that's you and you're curious by nature, but, by the look on his face, you think it's kind of personal so you let it go and talk some more.
A couple days later, during one of your talking sessions, you notice the propped up photo album he has on his desk. There're three of them, the pictures, but it's the one furthest to the left that you see first. It's vivid, clear, and obviously taken by one of those expensive photographers magazines sometimes use instead of their own; the colors just pop out making the white dress the golden-brown haired girl's wearing just stand out that much more.
You smile and lightly point in it's direction, ask who the girl is, how she's related to him, and you see his face momentarily light up and glaze over and you think that you must be going crazy because a sliver of jealousy cuts into you when he sighs and says, "the love of my life," and you realize you don't know how to deal with that.
You want to ask him more about her, about the other pictures, but then your phone rings shocking you both and you have to stop yourself from slamming it against his desk because you completely forgot that you were supposed to meet Nina and Leena to plan for Gale's party the next day.
For a second, your brain shuts down and you invite him to come for a couple of drinks, but then his face falls and he freezes before he tells you he doesn't drink.
The silence that follows isn't that bad, but it's still awkward so you tell a joke and the tension is broken. You excuse yourself, though, after offering again—this time alcohol free—and he still says no, and just bite your tongue as you flash him your fake smile. You don't sweat it because you know there's no way in hell for him to know that yet.
The next time you talk to him, it's funny because he's come for you and he's standing in your office so it's not, like, a big deal or anything.
Right.
You just offer him a seat and make a lot of small talk--even though it's surprisingly talk and not your babbling--until he invites you to lunch and you freeze, eyes rolling inward, and you scream on the inside, because "YES!!! You are the MAN!!!...er, woman…whatever, it doesn't matter because he asked you out!"
You blink and silently pray that you didn't just scream that last part out, because, really, how embarrassing would that be? And it's not like you ever needed any help in making yourself look like an idiot.
You grab your purse and your coat, and, when he opens the door for you and puts his hand on the small of your back, you remember thinking how sweet that is. He takes you to a nice Chinese place…er, um...possibly Thai. It's not that you weren't paying attention, really,it's just that…him eating is just so…gah. But, you know, like, in the nice way. The heart-racing, drool-inducing, kiss-me-you-idiot kind of way.
You had fun.
The next time you talk, you're at his desk again. You've been talking about anything and everything: childhood stories on your part, his high school life on his. You say a joke and both of you are suddenly laughing hysterically—well, you're laughing hysterically, he's chuckling—but, then the conversation hits a lull.
Your eyes fall on those pictures again and your eyebrows scrunch up in concentration. You smile as you make out the blonde hair and blue eyes of a little girl in the second picture and you ask him who she is.
His breath catches and his smile is goofy. "She's…she's my world," he says and a part of you melts despite the low burn in your stomach. You ask who her mother is and his eyes flicker towards the first picture, the one with the girl in the white dress—Marissa—and you think it was only fitting, but then he tells you that she…uh…she passed a way four years ago.
There's a silence between you for a minute or two, and when your conversation starts again, you find that the air has become stale and awkward. You smile almost sincerely, randomly picking an excuse to get away, and leave feeling like a complete ass.
You don't talk to him for a while after that.
The next time you talk to him, it's at a party and it's been awhile. A week or so. If he thinks that's suspicious, he doesn't say anything, and that's fine, because you think it's completely fine.
Right.
He thinks it's too stuffy in the lobby and you suggest they go up to your floor because you wanted to pick up some documents to take home during the holidays anyway. He nods and follows you into the elevator.
When you come out of your office and go into his, you find him staring out over the view of the city, and for once you don't feel jealous that he has a better view.
You come closer, but your dress catches on a candlehol—menorah—and you thank the gods for being able to catch it in time. He turns around worriedly, but sees that you caught and, for a second, looks relieved, but then his face changes, and, if you didn't know any better, you think that the light in his eyes just got dimmer. You know that isn't possible because there hasn't been any light in them for weeks.
You step closer, guarded and wary, hand slightly outstretched, as if to comfort his hunched form, but then you chicken out and let it fall.
You stay like that, quiet and strange and…and painful, a real struggle for you; someone who's never sat still in her life.
You take a seat in one the chairs and your eyes reexamine the room simply because they have nothing else to do. They eventually fall on the picture frame again, and you look at the third one, the last one. It's old and slightly yellowing, and its creased with white edges on some parts of it like its obviously been accidentally and recklessly folded.
It's a picture of a boy; someone a little over seventeen. He's smiling wearing a light pink button up—you're not really sure due to the age coloration—and black pants with converse. He's hugging himself as he smiles, brown eyes hiding behind black curls, and resting against what looks like a post on a dock, skateboard propped against the railing.
You think he's adorable and you wonder how he's related to Ryan because they don't look like each other at all.
When you ask, he takes in a deep breath and freezes. The hand on his hip moves to the back of his neck and the one in his hair is rubbing his eyes and you think that you might have heard a sob.
"He's my—"
He's about to finish, but—being the klutz you are—you drop the pen you've been playing with on his desk and it causes a chain reaction when it tips over the the mug he uses to hold his other pens and pencils until finally it hits his phone and a message plays.
"Ry—"
Abreath.
"Ryan?"
Apause.
"It's, uh, it's…it's me. I guess you forgot that, um, I was gonna come and pick up Morgan today so I, uh…I was just calling you to tell you not to worry. I paid the babysitter for the rest of the night, and told her that you said it was okay, and she left."
A pause.
"I'm not even going to say anything to that."
A breath.
"I stopped by Mom and Dad's and they, uh, they—they want to hear from you. They—they still don't know anything about…what happened."
You stop staring at the machine like it was alive and you stare at him, studying him, but it doesn't matter because it's like he can't even tell you're there.
"I'll, uh…I'll send my and Zach's present to their house, so…"
His breath hitches and there are tears in his eyes.
"Just…I…Have a good Chrismukkah, man. Bye."
The sound of a phone clicking fills the room and nothing happens. You feel strange and still so you get up and fight the urge to sprint out of there.
Both of you are just standing there and the phone is blinking with a new message, but he doesn't notice it. You turn around and just when you're about to walk out the door, you think you should say something, but you don't know what to say and the silence is deafening so you throw caution to the wind and just ask anyway.
"What, uh…what happened between you and, uh…?"
You don't finish, but that's fine, because he answers anyway, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, lips thin and white and you think he's only turned away from you so he can save face. His voice is so soft, it's like a whisper and you have to strain to hear it.
"I got angry and drunk and I, uh…I rap—beat him."
…
You turn around and walk out.
You don't talk to him again.
Author's note: This is actually a epilogue or, like, a side story from a different pov for a story I'm currently writing. I hope you like it.