Disclaimer: I do not own The OC.
Notes: Fluffy, little one-shot.
His grandfather was the first one to learn how to sign.
Seth remembers sitting in a fire truck red swing, kicking himself back and forth, trying to hold back little trickling tears brought by another round of torture from the soon-to-be-super-stars of Newport Beach. His pale, eight-year-old fingers grasped the swing like it was something safe, something comforting, and his crooked baby teeth bit down on his chapped lips. Then there was a hand, strong and solid, on his shoulder, halting his self-pitying swings. When he looked up, there he was; Caleb Nichol. Caleb's hair wasn't quiet so white then, quite so thin, and his eyes didn't have as many lines crinkling the skin. Seth remembers feeling self-conscious. He remembers being ashamed that his grandfather, someone fierce and brave, found him crying on a swing set. And then, just like that, Caleb's hands were moving. The actions were slow and steady, and gentle somehow, making Seth's almost-tears leave him and his mouth quirk up into the slightly lopsided grin he still can't lose. Seth doesn't even remember what exactly Caleb said. It was something like, 'Your mom's worried about you' or 'It's time to go home now', but the words weren't important; the words were the farthest thing from his mind, because really words don't mean a thing. The fact was that Caleb Nichol, the man who, even at eight-years-old, Seth knew was cold and ruthless and respected by a great many people and feared by a great many more, learned how to sign. For him.
His mother and his father caught onto to learning to sign quickly. His father more so, however, because his mother seemed to think that the longer she kept using her words instead of her hands, her voice instead of her motions, that Seth was still her little boy; the little boy who hadn't nearly died, the little boy who could still say 'I love you' in a dark room at night.
Seth never told them that his grandfather learned to speak his language before them, but he always remembered, and a little part of him always felt closer to his grandfather. The gesture made him feel important and loved and cared for, and it made all the more impact because his grandfather, was, well, his grandfather.
The Nana learned a lot of signs, and could speak in full, clear sentences the first time she came to visit after an accident. Rosa learned, too, and Seth remembers days that he would follow her around the house while she did her chores, communicating with her, keeping livid conversations as his hands moved wildly throughout the air.
Luke learned to sign. Luke learned to sign so that when they were in American History, he could make lewd comments and scream at him without ever saying a word. Seth remembers thinking up intricate scenarios about how some small, random country, say Lithuania or Sri Lanka or Togo maybe, would rise to power and destroy the United States, just so he wouldn't have to sit behind Luke and watch him spell out things like 'queer' and 'bitch' and 'faggot'.
When Ryan moved in, Ryan learned. Seth was absolutely enamored with the fact that Ryan gave so much time and effort to learning how to speak his language, learning how to communicate with him. Seth didn't know how to sum up the gratefulness, the genuine feeling and total adoration he had for Ryan. He knew that Ryan would sit down, three hours a day, with his dad or his mom or Rosa, learning every kind of phrase, every kind of sentence, and he didn't understand how to show Ryan how much it made him feel.
Seth wanted to tell Ryan 'thank you'. Seth wanted to tell him 'you are the best person I have ever known.' Seth wanted to tell him 'I don't know why you're bothering with me, why you want to talk to me and play video games with me and go sailing with me, but I hope you don't ever stop.'
But Seth didn't want to sound juvenile. He didn't want to tell Ryan 'thanks for being such an awesome dude' and then go back to playing Halo. He wanted Ryan to understand, to just get the way he felt.
Because he didn't know how to put into words the kind of feeling of thinking he could do anything, just because of Ryan's smile. And he didn't know how to make the motions that would show Ryan how it almost brought him to tears when he thought about how much Ryan was doing for him. And he didn't understand how to make Ryan realize that he didn't want to go back to the before, to a time without Ryan and without feeling like he belonged somewhere and without waking up in the morning and knowing he had something, he had someone.
Seth still wants to tell Ryan. Seth wants to let Ryan know that he is the only person who can make Seth relax, feel like it's okay to take a breath and not be afraid or nervous or ready to run at a moments notice.
And he still doesn't get how.
Ryan is beating him at Zelda, but Seth's mind isn't really on the game. He's lost somewhere in the back of his mind, and it's hard for him to realize that he's blurring the reality lines again. But it's not really his fault. Because, you see, when you're not able to use your voice, make yourself known with words or sounds or anything defining, it's easy for people to mistake you as part of the background. And when all you are to the rest of the world is just an forgotten extra, like Zombie #3 or some shrubbery in the corner, it's easy to do the same; to forget you're really there. You get lost in your own little world of make believe, and so often people just leave you there.
Seth is used to being left in his own mind.
But Ryan won't have it, and he pauses the game. He waves a hand in front of Seth's face and snaps his fingers. He says Seth's name once, and once Seth has turned his attention to him, Ryan starts moving his hands, asking him 'Where did you go, man' with his movements and his words. Seth feels himself smiling, because Ryan's one of the only people besides his grandfather that still talks with his voice when he signs.
Seth keeps starring at Ryan, because he isn't sure what to say.
He can feel something, in the very back of his mind, building up in between his eyes, and this is it. This has got to be it. He needs this to be it, because if it's not, then he'll keep having to sit in his room, conversing with Captain Oats on how exactly he can express his gratitude towards Ryan. Which is not a simple task, because Captain Oats is more the strong silent type, who never really says anything to help Seth out with his problems because he feels that Seth should learn how to fix things himself. Or, it could be just because Captain Oats is a plastic horse.
Seth's next words, whatever they are, will show Ryan exactly how he feels. His next actions will portray ever bit of appreciation and friendship and love and all the other emotions he feels so strongly but doesn't know how to show. What he does next will be burned forever into his mind, and if he does it right, it will be burned into Ryan's, too.
And that will be the final factor, Seth decides. If whatever he does or says or doesn't do or doesn't say next can stay with them both, a memory that will connect them deeper than the action itself, then he'll know that Ryan understands, that Ryan gets how much Seth feels and can't say.
Seth breathes in and makes sure he has Ryan's gaze, because all the pressure is there and if he doesn't say it all soon then it will just explode somewhere in his head, and then it won't be there anymore. And that would be the worst feeling in the world, just to let all of this emotion slip away to a place Seth couldn't reach it, couldn't give any of this, however small it might be, to Ryan. Ryan, who really deserves it more than anyone else.
And Seth chokes.
Because there's nothing he can say. There aren't enough signs in creation to tell Ryan how much Seth needs him and feels for him and cares about him and worries about him and depends on him and is willing to be there for him and…and…
He looks down and closes his eyes and feels like screaming because there's nothing he can do to take that back.
He chickened out, and he panicked, and he let himself think too much instead of just going for it, whatever 'it' was.
The worst part is, Ryan won't remember it. Fifteen years from now, Ryan will not be able to give details about that moment and Seth will be able to recall it all, down from the way the carpet smells like Fabreeze and the ceiling fan is on low.
Seth just needs Ryan to understand that Ryan learning to sign, Ryan being his friend, Ryan watching out for him, Ryan hanging out with him, isn't just something that Seth counts himself lucky for. He just needs Ryan to understand that he feels everything Ryan has ever done for him, and it means more to him than anything.
He's never wished for his voice more than this very moment. Never, even when he goes to Burger King and finds himself unable to let the cashier know that he doesn't like mustard; never, even when he got lost one time just a week after he almost burned to a crisp in the fire and had no way to get home; never, even when he was twelve-years-old and couldn't ask Summer to the dance because whenever he tried to sign something to her, she gave him weird looks and just walked away.
If he could talk, he could just say, 'thank you', but Ryan would understand. Would hear all the weakness and strength and affection laced into those two words, and Ryan would know, and Seth would feel like, a million times better.
Seth's never really been bitter about losing his voice, because he knows that there are other, more precious things he could have lost. His life, for one. An arm or a leg or some very important part of his brain or nerves.
But right now, sitting in the pool house playing Zelda with Ryan, losing his voice is the worst punishment he can think of. The cruelest, most horrible thing that could ever happen to anyone in the history of the world, and it just had to happen to him.
He's feeling sorry and ashamed and angry, at himself and at the world, when Ryan taps him on the shoulder to get his attention. When he looks up, Ryan doesn't say a word. Ryan just stares at him. And Seth thinks, 'wow'. Because he's never noticed, never really noticed, how blue and clear and, well, pretty, Ryan's eyes are. But right now, it's all he can see. Blues of a thousand different shades swirling around pitch black pupils and Seth realizes that the reason he's never realized this is because he's never starred into Ryan's eyes this long, is because Ryan's eyes have never seemed this close before.
And Seth gets it.
Because he doesn't words, he doesn't need a voice to let Ryan know how much Seth cares about him.
He just needs this.
He just needs this moment, when by some miracle, their faces are inches apart, their eyes are glued to each other. He just needs this little piece of time when Ryan is smiling, the most carefree, innocent, knowing smile he's ever seen on anyone, let alone Ryan.
He just needs a few more inches.
And there it is.
Seth's lips are on Ryan's, light and barely there, but close enough to feel Ryan's smile against his mouth. And it's a nice feeling, being able to see Ryan's smile in his head and feel it on his lips. His heart is pounding but the building up in his head is going away, coming down and Seth feels tension draining from his shoulders. He releases a breath he wasn't exactly aware he was holding and Ryan is smiling even wider, and suddenly all the white behind his eyelids comes back at an almost unfathomable speed and explodes.
Now Seth's smile matches Ryan's exactly, and they can both feel it, because neither of them are pulling back and there's no pressure to, because there is not one reason in the entire world why Seth and Ryan should not be putting their mouths together and feeling each other grin.
This will stay. Seth won't forget this, won't let Ryan's smile or Ryan's warmth or the first thoughts of how blue Ryan's eyes are escape from his memory. And he knows, he knows Ryan won't either. What details exactly Ryan will remember, he's not for sure, but he knows Ryan won't forget it, and everything is okay.
Ryan doesn't even bother to move back when he starts talking. Seth's forehead is resting on Ryan's, and his eyes are closed, and he can't make out anything from Ryan's lips moving in a light fashion against his own. But he feels Ryan's hand moving on his chest, and he doesn't have to look to tell that Ryan is slowly signing out onto his chest.
'Your welcome,' Ryan says, and he repeats it, with his mouth and his hands, because Ryan does get it, and Seth gets it too.
Because he knows what he knew years ago, when he was eight-years-old on a swing set and his grandfather told him it was time to go home.
Because really, words don't mean a thing.