Seth wanted to hide under the covers and disappear.

When he was eight years old, his parents had sent him to sleep-away camp. Everything that had looked exciting in the brochure- bunk beds, campfires, swimming in a pond- lost its appeal within three days and Counselor Rick had to call his parents to take him home. On the long ride back to Newport he'd curled up in the backseat of the car, head resting on his mother's lap, his father singing softly in the front.

And Seth was eight again, ashamed of his weakness but desperate for their comfort, for a hand run through his now-missing hair or reassuring words he wouldn't believe from anybody but them.

Dr. Pearson had offered the options and Seth had jumped at the chance to call his folks without thinking twice. Now, alone in his room, all he could do was think. Think and analyze and freak out over.

Simon and Garfunkel was playing on his ipod, a true sign of his distress. His one crystal clear memory of Berkeley and his childhood in general was his head buried into his father's shoulder, his low voice singing softly, or lying in bed, the gentle strains of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" seeing him off to sleep. His musical tastes had changed over the years, but he always had their greatest hits collection on hand to get him through the hard days: fights with Summer, fights at school, fights with parents.

Seth's hands shook as he changed the song. He could only hope Ryan never discovered that particular guilty pleasure. It was embarrassing to listen to the same music as your father. Well, at least it was better than being a Journey freak, he figured, smiling slightly.

Finding his vomit tinted red had to be one of the scariest moments in Seth's life. If he hadn't been busy throwing up, he probably would have had a heart attack.

He mentally reminded himself to thank Dr. Pearson. It wasn't every guy who'd hold his shaking body still while he retched out every organ known to man. He was sure Pearson's pristine white lab coast had met its ultimate doom in the battle.

"At least I know what to buy him for Chrismukkah," Seth mumbled to the empty room. Talking to himself was not a new habit, but his almost constant solitude aggravated the issue.

The door flew open.

And there they were, looking anxious and sad and old.

They were all over him in seconds. Kirsten's warm arms were coiled around his body, her head titled and pressed lightly against his. Sandy ran his hands over Seth's head, squeezed his shoulder, and gently touched his face. They murmured nonsensical words, made quiet sounds, as much to comfort themselves as him, Seth figured.

And then he just stopped figuring, stopped agonizing over why Ryan wasn't there, why the eyes of his parents were red-rimmed. He simply closed his eyes and leaned into their love, letting everything wash away, letting everything go.

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Ryan leaned back and exhaled a cloud of smoke, feeling the tension slowly ebb out of his body.

He shifted his body slightly. The park bench wasn't the most comfortable spot in the world, but as soon as he'd bought the cigarettes, the temptation was too much for him to wait.

It wasn't hard fooling the cashier; he'd simply rolled his eyes at the obligatory request for ID and the guy had given up.

"Whatever. I'm not your father."

And he got them. He never realized how much he'd missed the old habit until he'd taken his first puff and felt the familiar release that punching a pillow just didn't quite do for him.

Suddenly antsy, he stood up and started walking, the cigarette dangling from his lips. He took a long drag before throwing it to the ground and lighting a new one.

He hated that feeling, that need to do something with his hands, throw something, hit something. He figured that's probably what Seth went through every day. He was one nervous kid, while Ryan was cool, solid. He could set his face into a blank expression at a moment's notice. He could sit still for hours with that look, never give anything away, never give himself away. And here he was freaking out, with nowhere to go.

Biting his lip, he glanced up. He was standing in front of Art's Used Comics, a store Seth frequented on occasion. Though the graphic novels inside were rarely in mint condition, Seth got a kick out of reading the water-stained Little Lottas, pointing out the finer points of the illustrations and analyzing the plots in minute detail to a clueless Ryan.

Without thinking, Ryan pulled open the door, the bells jangling beside him. Seth liked the crappy old comics about sad fat girls or heroes with names like Lightning Rod Man, a bunch of misfits to whom, it seemed, Seth could relate.

Thumbing idly through the boxes of comics, Ryan peered around the dimly lit store. His mouth twitched, and he couldn't help the uneasiness creeping over him.

"Hey! You can't smoke that in here!"

Ryan whirled around, startled. He swallowed a lump in his throat and glared directly at Art.

Art shrugged and averted his eyes. "Whatever. But you burn it, you buy it, got it kid?"

"Fine," Ryan snarled, not in the mood for common courtesy.

He flicked through the titles, wondering why Newport even had a used comic store. It stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the trendy clothing stores that lined the area. It stuck out like Seth Cohen.

"Ten dollars," Art announced as Ryan plopped five titles onto the counter.

Ryan tossed a crumpled up bill on the counter, watching Art intently as he considered Ryan's purchase.

"Interesting choices."

Ryan grunted. He'd picked the most pathetic batch he could find, the crappier the better he figured.

Art eyed him as he punched the buttons on the cash register. "You come in here all the time with that other kid. Haven't seen him around in awhile."

"He's in the hospital," Ryan said quietly, not quite sure why he felt the need to tell the man anything.

"Oh." Art's eyes softened. "I'm sorry."

"S'okay." Ryan shrugged, uncomfortable.

"Here." Art shoved the ten dollar bill at his hand. "He's my best customer."

Ryan shoved the man's hand away. "No problem. You keep it."

"All right kid." Art shoved the comics into a small black bag. "You have a good night, huh? Tell the other one I said hi."

"Seth," Ryan said. "His name is Seth."

Two steps outside, he tossed the bag into a cracked trash barrel and hurried down the pier.

It was a stupid idea. Seth didn't need comics. Ryan didn't know what he needed. He could figure it out for everybody else, but not the one who mattered the most.

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Twenty minutes later, Ryan found himself in the Cohen's kitchen staring at the blinking red light of the answering machine.

One message. He didn't have to guess who it was. The question was: did he want to hear what Sandy and Kirsten had to say?

Only one way to find out.

"Hey, Ryan. Sandy. It's nine o'clock. Where are you? Umm..Seth's doing okay. The doctor said he just has a throat infection. They'll take him off chemo for a little while, but they said not to worry….Kirsten's.."

Ryan silenced Sandy's rumbling voice. He couldn't listen to another word. Not when his body was shaking and his anger was building. This couldn't happen. Sandy's voice couldn't be as beaten and depressed and lost as Ryan heard.

Ryan pressed his hands to his eyes and took a shuddery breath. His mind swam.

"Fuck," he whispered. Grabbing the first object that touched his hands, one of Kirsten's vases, he hurled it at the wall.

"Shit." Ryan's knees buckled beneath him and he was on the floor. He looked at the shards of glass littered across the floor. It was Kirsten's. He broke something of Kirsten's. They took him in and this is how he repaid them. He buried his head in his hands and took a shuddery breath.

It was Kirsten's favorite vase. She filled it with the fresh-cut flowers the florist delivered every week. Kirsten liked nice things, no matter what she said. And Ryan was ruining them. Ruining every one.

He couldn't be alone. He couldn't handle this. Fumbling for the phone, he dialed the only familiar number in Newport.

The ringing pissed him off. He couldn't wait, not when his body was shaking and his eye was twitching.

On the third ring, someone picked up.

"Hello?"

"Marissa," he said, voice cracking. "Can you come over?"

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Kirsten dug through her purse, searching for her house key. She took a deep breath, attempting to compose herself for Ryan, assuming Ryan was actually there. Sandy had tried to call earlier, but no one was home.

She tried to shake off the memories of the hospital. Halfway into Dr. Pearson's speech about new medications and treatments, Seth took a turn for the worse again. Hearing about her son's symptoms and seeing cough up seemingly massive amounts of blood were two very different things.

Thank God for Sandy. Thank God for his stupid jokes whispered into Seth's ear while he vomited, for his arms around her waist, for his strength when she was crumbling. Thank God he forced her to go home and stay with Ryan.

He was good with these kinds of things. When Kirsten's mother was in the hospital, he took care of everything, took care of Seth while she was grieving, explaining what was happening to Grandma when she couldn't. He cooked dinner, did the laundry, slept in Seth's bed with him every night she spent at the hospital. He bought her flowers and hugged her and took her out when she spent all her time in the various waiting rooms at various hospitals. She wished she could be the same for me.

Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it and closed her eyes. Things were going to be okay. And they had to be.

Her ears perked up at the sound a high-pitched, female giggle from the living room. Was Summer over?

Kirsten walked slowly to the living room, putting on her happy face for the kids.

She certainly wasn't expecting to see a shirtless Ryan on top of an almost equally naked Marissa.

Marissa's eyes found Kirsten and she pushed Ryan away.

"Oh my God." Marissa grabbed her shirt from the coffee table and hastily threw it over her head. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry."

Ryan was slower to stand up and, with a careless air, snatched his wife beater from its place over the lampshade and pulled it on.

"Oh my God." Marissa scurried toward the door, hair mussed, face flushed and flustered. She paused by Kirsten. "I'm sorry Mrs. Cohen. I-I hope Seth's okay."

"Thank you Marissa," Kirsten replied, shock not overcoming her bad manners.

"Umm..bye Ryan. Bye Mrs. Cohen."

With her exit came the arrival of silence.

Ryan's jaw set challengingly. He stared directly into Kirsten's eyes.

"Do you want me to apologize?" he asked, eyebrow twitching.

"Ryan, I-"

"Because I didn't do anything wrong, okay?"

"Ryan, I know this is hard for you. It's hard for all of us. Don't feel you can't talk to me…"

"Kirsten, I love you very much, but don't tell me how to feel. I don't want to talk, okay? I don't want to talk to you or Sandy or Ms. Fischer or anyone."

"Ryan, please.."

Tears welled up in Ryan's eyes. "I-I gotta get out of her. I'm leaving." He ran a hand through his hair. "I have to go."

His attempts to walk past Kirsten were foiled as she threw her arms around him in a tight hug.

"Kirsten, I swear to God, don't try to stop me," Ryan growled softly, trying to push through her.

Kirsten held on tight, not letting Ryan's squirming body out of her arms.

"Shhhh….shhhhhh…" Kirsten pressed her lips to Ryan's temple. "Shhhhhh….shh…baby, it's okay."

Ryan's fight died. He buried his head in Kirsten's shoulder, his body wracked with sobs. He didn't know what to do. He'd fucked things up. He'd messed it all up.

He couldn't be good anymore.

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Sandy awoke with a start, his breath a loud gasp. Pressing a hand to his chest, he inhaled sharply.

He couldn't recall the offending dream, save a few jumbled images of pain and danger. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed shut his eyes.

Sure he wouldn't be able to sleep, Sandy stood up. His breath caught in his throat again. Seth wasn't in his bed. The bathroom door was wide open, the other room empty as well. Before the panic could multiply, his rational brain told him to investigate before he had a coronary.

He padded slowly down the hallway, peering into every corner. Where could Seth have gone?

The oncology floor was still at night. The on-duty nurses were probably on break or napping or covering the emergency room. He wondered how Seth could survive the lonely nights.

Sandy caught sight of Seth, his back to Sandy, curled up in a ball, body tucked under the check-in counter and staring at the mural of the sky.

Quietly, Sandy sat down behind him, not sure what to do. Seth's body was trembling violently.

"Seth?" Sandy squeezed his son's shoulder. "Seth, kiddo, come back to bed." He didn't add that he wasn't supposed to be out of his room without his wheelchair. His legs were weakened and shaky from cancer and infection.

"Heaven," Seth whispered, pointing to the wall. He rested his chin on his crossed arms, his shoulders bobbing up and down.

Wrapping his arms around Seth's mid-section, he pulled his body tightly to his, Seth's back resting against Sandy's chest.

"Dad…don't…I just…look it's.."

Seth was at a loss for words.

"Hey, it's fine. It's okay." Sandy pushed Seth's head gently onto his shoulder. "Let's just sit awhile, huh?"

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sandy rocking his son back and forth gently.

"It hurts," Seth said finally. "Constantly."

"I know," Sandy replied, rubbing Seth's arm. "God, I know."

"I could die," Seth added, voice choked, but no tears fell from his eyes.

"I know," Sandy repeated, tightening his arms around Seth. "But you remember what I told you, don't you? You run away from me, I'm coming with you, got that?"

Seth's snicker was soft, but audible.

"Okay," he whispered, eyes glazed over but focused on the wall in front of him. He no longer cared that his father was holding him like he was a little kid. For awhile, maybe he could be the little kid.

"I mean it, kid." Sandy paused, considering his next words carefully. "You're not alone."

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