Updated September 2024
Chapter 12
"His name is Merle." Seth's words slurred together slightly as he hugged the plastic bucket to his chest.
"You named your barf bucket?" Ryan plopped into the chair beside Seth's bed.
"Does this surprise you, Ryan?" Seth squinted at him. "Are you really shocked by this development?"
Ryan considered these very fair questions.
"A guy needs a little companionship around here, ya know?" Seth continued, not bothering to wait for Ryan's reply. "And they say it's important to make friends on the inside, someone to watch your back at yard time."
"Right."
It was hard to tell whether this was relatively normal-for-Seth chatter or if chemo had started to make Seth fuzzier and less coherent.
As Ryan took in just how thoroughly miserable Seth looked, and as Seth lapsed into a bleary-eyed quiet rather than starting to expound on ways to fashion a shiv from objects commonly found in hospital rooms, he figured it was some combination of the two.
"I highly do not recommend chemo." Seth closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I truly had no idea the body could produce so much vomit in so little time. And Hashem as my witness, I will never again roll my eyes when Mom complains about the terrible morning sickness I gave her." He gestured to a small bulge in the fabric of his t-shirt and shuddered. "And dude, I also highly do not recommend partaking in a chest port. It means not as many terrifying needles, but it's creepy just knowing it's there all the time. Believe it or not, I was not actually in the market for any new appendages."
The way Seth rambled, Ryan often didn't have to contribute much verbally-give it a few seconds and Seth would more than likely be on a whole different conversational track-but it still felt like a struggle to hold his own through these conversations.
What would Seth say, in his shoes?
Most likely something awkward and kind of weird that he'd then explain and possibly over-explain, but at least he'd have something to say.
"God, it's so weird here," Seth went on, seemingly unbothered by Ryan's inability to fill a silence-which, Ryan supposed that he was probably used to it by now.
"They really don't prepare you for just how many random people are going to be poking and prodding at you. Honestly, it feels more like an alien abduction than actual healthcare." Seth winced. "Minus the like, actual alien probes of course." He slid Merle onto the nightstand with a grunt. "But what's going on with you, Ryan? Any soccer games this week?"
"Thursday," Ryan answered, grateful for a question he could field. "But I'm not sure if I'm gonna stay on the team. It's kind of a lot right now, with school and..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...everything."
Seth started to sit up, then thought better of it, flopping back down, his head crashing into the pillow with a muted 'wumph'.
"No way, dude," he insisted. "You have to play, and you have to bring my parents." His eyes darted around, like he was expecting to find Sandy or Kirsten hiding behind the curtains. "Don't tell them I said this, but I'm kind of hitting my limit with all the worried hovering. And we're all getting cabin fever around here, but at least you guys can leave. Take advantage of it. Run around and chase a black and white sphere around a field. You'll look like a ninny, but you'll be getting your natural high, and you'll give everyone else a nice distraction." Seth exhaled heavily, tired out from the exertion of speaking. He took another long, slow breath, readying himself to go again. "And anyway, then maybe Summer and I can have a little more privacy when she comes by. It's kind of salting my game, my mom and dad giving us big sappy smiles before they give us the room."
Ryan snickered. "You're probably lucky your dad's willing to give you the room at all," he pointed out.
"Fair," Seth conceded reluctantly. "But still, try getting any after this..." he trailed off, adopting an earnest wide-eyed expression and clutching at his chest, looking like a mother gazing adoringly at her newborn baby. "Doesn't exactly get Summer hot, if you can imagine." He gave Ryan an imploring look. "So Thursday?"
"Thursday," Ryan agreed solemnly. It was nice to know that Seth had overcome his initial reluctance to having Summer visit him in the hospital, even if it meant continuing to get too much information about his best friend's sex life. His eyes narrowed. "But hey, who are you calling a ninny? I don't sleep on Spiderman sheets."
"Touche, Ryan. Touche." Seth lifted a finger in the air. "Although I haven't slept on Spiderman sheets for at least...a few years now. And I told you that in confidence."
Ryan was about to point out that, given that he and Seth were the only two people in the room, he hadn't exactly broken any confidences, but he was interrupted by Sandy and Kirsten's arrival.
"Dinner's here," Sandy announced. "Everybody decent in here?" He asked, his voice a smug sing-song.
Seth met Ryan's gaze and scowled.
Sandy had been greatly enjoying making many references to Summer's brief-but-memorable stint as a candy striper in the pediatric cancer ward. He seemed to especially delight in dropping little comments with Kirsten around, and delight in making Seth squirm as he wondered whether his mom was going to put the incredibly awkward pieces together at some point. She'd already expressed confusion as to why Sandy had started to refer to Summer as 'Ole Florence.'
"He's never going to let me live that down, is he?" Seth eyed his mom and dad as they went about unpacking various styrofoam containers and laying them out on the table.
"I'm afraid not," Ryan said gravely. "It could've been worse though," he added.
"True," Seth agreed. "He could've walked in while I was-"
Ryan shot him a look.
"Sorry." Seth held up a hand. "Just trying to relive my last moments as a semi-free man." He bit back a smile, remembering the sight of his hand sliding up the back of Summer's little candy striper jumper, and the way she had wiggled her-
"Your broth, son."
Seth flinched, startled, his face flushing as Sandy set a small cup on his tray table.
"Be careful; it's still a little hot." Sandy gave Seth a puzzled look, noticing the flustered expression on his face.
"Yum," Seth drolled, looking away and hoping that his mom and dad had greatly exaggerated their oft-talked-about parental mind-reading capabilities.
"And your sandwich, Ryan."
Sandy gestured toward the table and chairs at the other end of Seth's room, giving Ryan a meaningful look.
Sandy and Kirsten had been valiantly attempting to recreate Cohen Family Dinners in the hospital setting, but there had already been a few misfires.
They'd landed on deli sandwiches for the evening's meal, after careful deliberations around what food smells would be the least offensive for Seth. The previous night's burgers and fries had been something of a disaster, the smell of the meat and grease sending Seth into an extended conference with Merle.
Ryan abandoned his chair by Seth's bedside and went to sit by Sandy and Kirsten, grabbing his BLT on the way.
"How's the broth, kiddo?" Sandy asked.
"Mmm." Seth smacked his lips in a dramatic show of approval. "You must've searched far and wide for the finest clear broth known to man. Truly, this was hand-crafted by the angels."
"Only the best for you, my darling boy," Sandy replied, a hint of a chuckle in his voice.
Ryan felt the tension in his shoulders ease as he listened to the Cohens banter back-and-forth.
The Cohens were such a family, in a way that reminded Ryan of families he'd seen on tv, but had never quite believed were real. They teased each other and talked about their days and hugged and slid bits of affection into their everyday conversation like it was nothing. Like the time Sandy threw his arm around Seth and told him he loved him when Seth had grabbed his freshly toasted bagel and put it on a plate for him. And Seth had so easily returned the affection with a "Love you too, old man," a good-naturedly exasperated smile on his lips. He'd given Ryan a sheepish little shrug as if to say "He's incredibly embarrassing, goofy, and out of his mind, but what are you going to do?"
And Ryan had been granted access to the inner sanctum, now had the privilege of giving the guys on his team the exact same sheepish shrug when Sandy was the sole fan in the crowd doing The Wave at his soccer games.
"Oh shit."
Ryan's head snapped up.
A change had passed over Seth's face, an almost tangible aura of despair surrounding him.
"I need Merle," he groaned, throwing himself towards the nightstand and scrabbling desperately for his bucket.
Sandy and Kirsten both leapt from their chairs, Sandy making it to Seth's bedside first, whipping Merle into position at the exact moment that Seth's insides successfully launched their revolt.
Sandy held Merle in place with one hand and used the other to cup the back of Seth's neck as another vicious wave of nausea hit him.
Kirsten moved to the sink, running some water over a washcloth and carefully wringing it out.
"You're okay, Seth," Sandy said gently. "Just let it happen. You're okay."
"O-okay...is...debatable," Seth sputtered between wet hacking coughs.
Kirsten came up behind Sandy with the washcloth.
Sandy moved his hand from Seth's neck and Kirsten laid the washcloth down where Sandy's hand had been.
"I-I think I'm done," Seth announced a few moments later, voice weak. He raised his head a little, the washcloth starting to slide down his back.
Kirsten snatched up the cloth and began mopping at Seth's brow while Sandy replaced Merle on the nightstand.
Sandy rubbed Seth's back and Seth's head listed to the side, slumping to a rest against Sandy's arm.
Ryan figured that Seth probably appreciated it sometimes, the worried hovering.
"Stomach cramping. Head light. Dizzy." Seth groaned.
"It's nice to see your color commentary skills haven't been affected in any way." Sandy smiled fondly at Seth, laying a hand on his chest and gently guiding him back to a lying down position.
Seth mumbled something Ryan couldn't hear.
"I know, honey. I'm sorry." Sandy ran a comforting hand through Seth's hair. He leaned down closer to Seth, trying to catch something else he was saying. "We'll see about getting you some more blankets, okay?"
Ryan looked away, yet again feeling like an interloper in a private family moment, but unsure if getting up and leaving would alleviate or only magnify the wrongness of his presence, and of what he'd already witnessed.
"Should we call a nurse?" Kirsten asked softly.
"If we call a nurse every time..." Sandy trailed off, and he and Kirsten lapsed into their creepy silent marital communication.
"No nurse," Seth insisted softly. "I'm..." he coughed loudly into his fist. "...fine. And I really need a break from everyone in and out all day."
Sandy and Kirsten's faces wrinkled into matching sympathetic frowns at that. There were the physical symptoms and the mental exhaustion, but already it seemed that a kind of fatigue with hospital life had set in. It felt strangely demanding on an almost social level, nurses and doctors and other hospital staff with all their different-but-similar roles and different-but-similar names that Seth couldn't quite retain and their brisk and repetitive questions and explanations of what was to come and checks of his vitals, and Seth never really had much of a choice about who came and went and when and why and what they were going to do to him and what they were going to ask of him.
"Maybe...clearer broth next time?" Seth suggested, strained voice somehow containing a hint of playfulness.
"I don't see how that's possible, but I guess we might have to get a little more strategic with our broth timing." Sandy's shoulders slumped.
He'd been working hard to keep things light, teasing Seth about Summer whenever possible and bouncing around with the kind of relentlessly positive energy that could overwhelm Ryan at times. Though one of Sandy's mantras continued to be that Seth's cancer was "a marathon and not a sprint," he himself seemed much more inclined to sprint, and cracks were starting to show. He looked exhausted just then, like there'd been a lot resting on making the dinner plans work.
Ryan watched as Kirsten, having crossed over to the nightstand to grab Merle, maneuvered her free hand to find one of Sandy's, interlacing their fingers for a moment.
Sandy closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling slowly before he opened them again and released Kirsten's hand.
It was hard for Ryan to imagine how his own parents would be dealing with all of this.
He'd seen his fair share of hospital rooms as a kid-once or twice as a visitor, but the normal order of things was that Trey came up with the reckless and harebrained schemes and Ryan was the one who wound up with the stitches or the broken wrist or the question of a head injury.
It had been okay when it was just his mom there, and even kind of nice when it was just his mom and whatever happened wasn't his fault, like when he had his tonsils out and his mom had brought him vanilla ice cream. When the nurse had brusquely informed her that that was just a thing they did on tv and that doctors actually recommended against ice cream after a tonsillectomy, his mom had rolled her eyes at Ryan and whipped two plastic spoons out of her purse.
But then there were those other times, when he and Trey and his mom and dad were all crowded into a tiny claustrophobic hospital room and it always seemed to devolve into a fight, Trey finding a way to blame him for whatever it was that had happened, and his mom and dad somehow finding a way to blame Trey and Ryan and each other at the same time.
Ryan could still feel the tight panicky burning in his chest as he'd watched his parents sniping at each other, hissing that some do-gooder doctor was going to call CPS because the other one couldn't look after the kids for ten goddamned minutes. He'd been constantly on edge, assuming that every knock on the door would be a social worker coming to take him away, all because he could never quite figure out how to say no to Trey.
"We'll get the hang of this family dinner thing, huh?" Sandy tried to sound cheerful, but there was more than a hint of desperation in his boisterous tone and in the beseeching look that he flashed at Ryan.
It was strange to think that it had been less than ten years since the broken wrist and the fear of CPS, and now Ryan was in a foster family of his own choosing. It had felt like the end of the world to imagine being taken away from his home and his parents, and now it felt like his world would've ended had he stayed.
"Yeah. We'll figure it out," Ryan said softly, giving Sandy what he hoped was an encouraging smile.
ooo
A few weeks into chemo, Seth's hair began its journey from his head. One day he woke up to find a few curls scattered around his head, the dark brown in stark contrast to the white pillowcase. The next day there were a few more, and it felt like every careless hand run through his hair came away with a few more.
Summer had prepared him well for the situation. Though neither of them directly talked about what it was for, Summer had previously made a grumbling Seth try on a variety of different hats before declaring a forest green beanie to be the winner.
The hair loss was a gradual process, and one Seth didn't exactly announce to anyone. One afternoon, Ryan and the Cohens showed up at his hospital room and found Seth with his forest green beanie pulled down low on his forehead.
He couldn't quite look up at any of them, not right away, and that might have been what did it, made Kirsten's eyes well up as she quickly moved to the opposite end of the room, fastidiously rearranging the flowers and trinkets decorating the windowsill, made Sandy's jaw tense, made him remember that he'd left something for Seth in the car and he'd be right back with it, somehow leaving Ryan to be the one to sit down and start filling Seth in about school and soccer and Marissa's attempts to patch things up with him, anything to break up the tension in the room.
It wasn't unexpected, Seth losing his hair, but it still turned out to be a thing they hadn't really been able to brace themselves for.
And maybe Sandy and Kirsten, like Ryan, had expected Seth to meet the whole thing with his usual wry humor and seeming lack of genuine emotion, not mute self-consciousness and a sense of grief heavy in the air.
Nobody said anything about it, and Seth didn't offer any real acknowledgement of the situation, except when his parents had left to go get dinner and he'd warned Ryan that he'd better not be planning to shave his own head in solidarity.
"Now Ryan, I know you're going to think it's the noble thing to do, but with all the wife beaters and the scowling and your overall bad boy thing, I think you'd be giving off more of an American History X vibe than a supportive best friend vibe, and I don't want to feel responsible for what that does for your dating prospects around here." He paused thoughtfully. "Although who knows? There could be an untapped market of hot white supremacist babes in Newport, just brimming with potential." He frowned. "On the other hand, you probably couldn't invite them to Chrismukkah, so that might put a damper on the festivities."
There were those jarring moments, shifts that felt heavy and significant, and then those moments passed and things somehow continued to fall into a kind of uneasy day-to-day routine. It became a regular sight: Seth never without a knit cap on his head, the amount of brown curly hair poking out of the bottom gradually diminishing to none at all as the days passed.
And as those days passed, Anna and/or Summer visited after school or on the weekends, Ryan joining after soccer practice and before the hospital staff kicked him out. Luke tagged along every now and then after practice, and even Marissa joined them once or twice, having managed to tentatively mend things with both Summer and Ryan.
The Cohens were in and out of the room throughout, though Sandy was more the constant presence, with Kirsten frequently called away for one Newport Group crisis or another.
It was weird to think of Seth's cancer as a thing that they had all adjusted to, but there was a kind of a rhythm to it, school and work and their outside lives continuing in some fashion as Seth's treatment marched forward, days with chemo and days with recovery from chemo, days when all he seemed to do was throw up and sleep and days when he had a little more energy to pump Ryan for information about what was going on with Marissa. The answer there wasn't much more than a few stilted phone calls and the awkward hospital visits that Seth had obviously been present for, but Ryan tried to make it sound a little more exciting, for Seth's sake.
For the most part and thankfully, nobody outside of their small family and social circle really acknowledged Seth's sickness with Ryan, although his soccer coach had made a go of it one day, approaching him in the locker room and stumbling through a few heartfelt lines about how it was probably good, what Ryan was doing, putting his head down and focusing on what he could focus on, those things he could control, soccer and his schoolwork. He'd praised Ryan for channeling it all into the game and leaving it all out on the field, whatever that meant exactly.
Ryan had blinked at him, trying to smile or nod or give him some kind of expected response, but he wasn't sure any of it quite landed on his face. He'd closed his locker and walked away, not sure what a person was supposed to say to that, though he was again certain that Seth would've been able to come up with something good, or at least something inappropriate but funny.
It all seemed kind of stupid and surreal and wrong somehow, that Seth was so sick, that he could die, and that they all kept living their normal lives and the Newport Group dared have crises demanding attention and Ryan kept running out onto the soccer field every day after school, like all of that was somehow still important, channeling it all into the game and leaving it all out on the field.
ooo
"Ryan?"
Startled out of his Chemistry test trance, Ryan looked up from his paper.
Mr. Jenkins was at his desk, holding out a blue office pass and peering at Ryan over his glasses.
Ryan stood up and approached Mr. Jenkins' desk warily.
"Trade ya," Mr. Jenkins offered with a friendly smile, reaching for Ryan's test with one hand and offering him the office pass with the other.
"I was done anyway," Ryan said. "Just uh, checking my work," he added.
Mr. Jenkins gave him a little nod and Ryan nearly bolted for the door, feeling his heart rapidly picking up speed in his chest.
Phones made him nervous. So did doorbells, Sandy and Kirsten abruptly stopping their conversation when he walked in the room, and mysterious passes to the office.
Some years ago, it was through an office pass that he came to learn that his dad had been arrested again, this time for a more serious offense than the last few, this time warranting his mother sitting in the principal's office, gritting out "Your fucking father's in jail," as Ryan stood in the doorway, hand still on the doorknob, absently wondering if his mom's tear-streaked face meant she was sadder or angrier or more scared about whatever it was his dad had done this time.
Ryan paused in front of Dr. Kim's door, unable to fully banish the mental image of a tearful Kirsten and Sandy sitting beyond, his foster father hitting him with an "I'm so sorry, kiddo" as Kirsten cried gently into a tissue.
What he saw upon finally opening the door was Mr. Gundy, the perpetually chipper guidance counselor looking decidedly uneasy, a more subtly frazzled Dr. Kim, and one pissed off Summer Roberts.
Ryan blinked.
Of all the scenarios he'd managed to come up with in the short trek to the office, this was definitely not one of them.
"They finally fucking found you, Chino?" Summer spat, wiping tears from her eyes. She glared at Mr. Gundy. "How hard was that, huh?"
"Miss Roberts will not explain her actions to either myself or Mr. Gundy," Dr. Kim said, voice calm and precise. "She has demanded to speak with 'Chino,' which we presumed to be you, Mr. Atwood."
"Alone," Summer cut in. "I want to talk to Chino alone."
"Summer," Mr. Gundy began, his voice low and gentle. He leaned forward and touched her arm lightly. "Why don't we talk about Seth? I know this has been hard for you..."
"Hands off, perv." Summer jerked away from his touch. "I think I've made it pretty clear that I have nothing to say to you."
"Miss Roberts, may I suggest you tone down your attitude and language immediately?" Dr. Kim's stony expression softened just a fraction. "I know this has been an extremely difficult time for both of you, but we still do not tolerate this kind of disrespect at Harbor."
"Uh, I can talk to her," Ryan blurted out. "I mean, it's fine. I can uh, handle it."
"Thanks, Chino." Summer sniffed. "But don't say handled like I'm Marissa or something. I'm no dependent."
"Why don't we give you a few minutes of privacy?" Dr. Gundy suggested. "I can see it's important for you to check in with someone you trust." He paused, gamely ignoring Summer's rolling eyes. "Seth is a wonderful kid."
Summer snorted. "Like either of you even know him," she muttered.
"Five minutes," Dr. Kim said firmly, giving Ryan a pointed look. "And this will not happen again."
Ryan bit his lip as he listened to the door closing behind him.
Summer's arms were crossed tightly across her chest, tears spilling down her flushed cheeks.
"You're uh, calling me Chino again," Ryan pointed out.
Summer snickered and shook her head. "Don't tell Cohen. He'll need to spend fifteen minutes unpacking why I revert to your hood nickname when I'm about to have a rage blackout."
Ryan laughed a little, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He shuffled forward slowly, dropping himself into the chair beside Summer.
He was contemplating the best way to ask Summer what had happened when she beat him to the punch.
"I fucking hate Derek Johnson."
"Who's Derek Johnson?" It seemed like a question as good as any.
"Some fucking new kid," Summer spat, sinking lower in her chair. "Porter's such an ass. He gave him Cohen's desk like he's never coming back or something."
Ryan swallowed.
"They never think about him." Summer wiped at her eyes. "He's like a second of their conversation and then it's like 'Hey, remember Cotillion' and 'Hey, this guy banged two cheerleaders at once."
They sat in silence for a minute.
"And the worst thing is," Summer continued, voice breaking a little, "a few months ago, I wouldn't have thought about him either." She sniffed. "Like, 'Oh sad about that dorky kid, but whatever.'" She accepted the tissue that Ryan held out to her and dabbed at her nose. "He spent so long with no one caring about him except, like, his parents." She smiled a wobbly smile at Ryan. "And then you. It just feels so fucked up. Like what if we'd never-"
"But we did," Ryan interjected. "You did. And you dressed up like a candy striper for him." He gave her a little half-smile. "A guy doesn't forget a thing like that."
"Ohmygod." Summer smacked Ryan's arm playfully. "Thank you for reminding me of the single most mortifying moment of my life." She hid her face in her hands. "I am never going to be able to look Mr. Cohen in the eye again," she groaned.
There was a comfortable beat of quiet between them.
"But like, maybe the actual worst thing," Summer said softly, "is that sometimes I wish I didn't have to think about him, that we never-." She broke off, crumpling up the tissue in her fist. "And I know, that makes me horrible. It's just like...I think about him all the time, and then I try not to, and then I do anyway, and then I feel bad for even trying not to think about him." She threw up her hands. "And what am I supposed to do when they try to give up his seat?"
"Let everyone know he'll be coming back, apparently," Ryan answered with a little smile. "Save his seat for him. You know how he gets attached to his seating arrangements." He paused. "And I don't think you're horrible." He paused. "I get it, you know, wishing you could take a break from it sometime. It doesn't mean you really wish-
"I know," Summer cut in quietly. "Thanks, Chino." She snuck a look over at him, her wobbly smile shifting into a little smirk. "Knocking over desks and rage blackouts aren't exactly the Welcome Wagon this Derek kid was expecting."
"Welcome to The OC, bitch," Ryan deadpanned.
Summer laughed, which made Ryan laugh with her.
ooo
"Mom?"
"Uh, no."
Groaning, Seth managed to open his eyes and squint towards the deep male voice that definitely didn't belong to his mother, unless a lot had changed since yesterday.
"Hey, man." Luke stood in the doorway to Seth's room, shifting uneasily on his feet.
"Hey," Seth said. "Uh, sorry for calling you my mom and all."
"Dude, no problem. None at all. It's cool. Really." Luke's response came out in a rapid jumble of nerves that had a slightly dizzying effect on Seth.
Seth closed his eyes, reaching up to adjust his beanie.
He wished he had a cup of ice chips, for his dry mouth.
He wished it were almost anyone else standing in the doorway, for his absolute exhaustion with talking to anyone he didn't really want to see.
"Where's Ryan?" he asked. It perhaps wasn't the most polite question, but again, actual exhaustion with talking to anyone he didn't really want to see.
"Coach let me cut out of practice a few minutes early today," Luke explained. "I, uh, wanted to get here first, I guess."
"Oh."
Ever since the whole Luke Has a Gay Dad Thing had become a thing, Luke had been hanging out with them sometimes. It wasn't the first time he'd come to visit Seth at the hospital, but he'd always been with Ryan before, meaning Seth hadn't yet had to spend any real alone time with him.
Which meant that, when he thought about it, they hadn't yet, in the history of knowing each other, had a single one-on-one conversation that hadn't been punctuated by some kind of blatantly homophobic or vaguely antisemitic or just kind of dickish insult.
And now here they were: Seth on the bald side of balding and cranky and finally sporting that comically inflated ballsack he'd been told so much about and the rest of his entire body feeling like a decomposing heap of flesh and bones, and Luke standing in the doorway, looking vital and tan and mildly terrified to be there.
Seth eyed his former tormentor warily.
"Listen, man." Luke walked into the room, head hung low. "I just wanted to say I'm really sorry-"
"You don't have to do that," Seth interjected quickly.
So that was it; Luke was there to make amends, don the ole sackcloth and ashes and mourn his misspent youth as a hulking neanderthal.
Seth had sort of figured that Luke was going for the approach where they just sort of hung out around each other and quietly pretended like he hadn't spent his entire school career trying to make his life a living hell until they developed a kind of wary tolerance of each other, if never an actual friendship.
He'd been kind of hoping for that approach, frankly, but maybe the whole cancer thing had sent Luke into some kind of soul-searching tailspin.
"I was a real-"
"I know." Seth snickered. "I mean, obviously." He chewed on his lower lip, letting the awkward silence stretch between them. "I used to think about cancer a lot," he admitted.
Luke didn't say anything to that.
"I thought about cancer and car accidents and fires and a few other pretty creative ways to maim myself so that people would, I dunno, feel bad and maybe stop treating me like shit." Seth snorted. "Maybe I'd even score a few pity friendships out of the deal. Pathetic, I know, but my choices were pretty limited." He tugged his beanie down lower on his forehead. "Guess the whole grave bodily illness thing came a little too late, when I finally stopped needing it."
Luke swallowed heavily and licked his lips. "Cohen, man, I mean it-"
"It's fine," Seth cut in. "I'm not really trying to make you feel guilty or anything, although it's a little fun to watch you suffering right now, if I'm honest."
"Totally fair, dude."
"It's just kind of exhausting trying to shield everyone from how badly this all sucks, and I don't feel the need to protect you from any of it. So, I mean, if I can give you the bottom line?" Seth asked.
Luke nodded eagerly.
"I'm pissed, I'm tired, I threw up eight times today alone. When I can eat, the food is horrific, there's no privacy, no one asks before getting way too intimate with my body in ways I truly never want to go into detail about, my balls are like giant swollen grapefruits that I'm painfully aware of at all times, and every single other part of my body hurts like a bitch." Seth exhaled heavily, slightly more exhausted for having expelled so many words from his mouth in so short a time, but also pleasantly surprised to see that it had felt as good as he was hoping it would to get all that out.
It wasn't like he hadn't released some version of that to his parents or to Ryan in drips and drabs over the past few weeks, but it was a relief to not feel like he had to put a joking spin on things, that he didn't have to adjust his tone to lose the dread and the anger and the self-pity, that he was free to shake his fist and spit on the ground and curse Hashem if he felt like it, that he could just take it all and dump it on Luke and not give a single shit if it kept him up at night.
He grudgingly supposed he could add Luke to the list of people he'd actually want to see.
Sometimes, anyway.
Luke looked a bit panicked as his mouth opened and closed many times in rapid succession, fumbling to respond, perhaps extra flustered by the mental image of Seth's balls, which Seth hadn't really needed to go into detail about, but once he'd gotten rolling, it was hard to pump the brakes, especially since he'd be mortified to explain to his parents or to Ryan or to-Hashem forbid-Summer, that he was in a state of dull-but-persistent sack-ache.
"Dude..."
"Sit down," Seth said softly. "Tell me what's going on at school." He gestured to the chair by his bed. "Believe it or not, Ryan is not the best at relating all of the Harbor High gossip."
Luke didn't move.
"We're cool, okay? I don't hate you." Seth shrugged. "For what it's worth, I can kind of appreciate the whole redemption arc thing you've got going on, having a gay dad and finally learning the true meaning of Christmas or whatever."
Luke laughed a little at that. He gave Seth a nervous smile. "So...we're cool?"
"Yeah, we're cool."
14-year-old Seth never would've believed it.
oooooooooooooooooo
Sandy crept into Seth's room, slowly easing the door closed behind him.
Seth was snoring softly, body scrunched to one side of the bed, covers askew across his body, one sock-clad foot poking out of the side of the haphazardly arranged blankets.
Sandy smiled a little at the familiar and chaotic way his son tended to sprawl out in his sleep, smile faltering slightly as his eyes gravitated towards the now-constant presence of his green cap, standing out against the white of the sheets and the jarringly pale pallor of Seth's skin.
He noticed a new tchotchke on Seth's nightstand, a little ceramic figure of some superhero Sandy didn't recognize, a squat cactus poking out of its head. That got another smile from Sandy, figuring he must have just missed Anna.
He wondered idly if it had been purely a social call, or if they'd been working on schoolwork.
Sandy had stumbled upon an Anna/Seth study session one afternoon, Anna patiently talking a half-awake Seth through something having to do with Russian Literature. Anna's brow had been furrowed, fingernails tapping as she'd typed something out on Seth's laptop.
"I think what you meant to say here," she'd started, then proceeded to launch into some kind of analysis that Sandy could barely comprehend.
"What I meant to say is that like, every guy in this stupid Russian book has the same stupid Russian name," Seth had replied, struggling to keep his eyes open.
After Seth had drifted off mid-sentence, Sandy, feeling equally like he didn't really want to know and like there was some kind of parental duty required of him, tentatively asked how much work Seth was doing and how much work was being done for him, in Anna's process of "peer editing."
Not fazed for a moment, Anna had smiled indulgently.
"Don't you think it's a little arbitrary, Mr. Cohen, the standards for graduating high school, the way that school systems gatekeep diplomas based on whether or not you've fully engaged with a curriculum created by a single individual teacher and how *they* determine said level of engagement and how *they* determine readiness to graduate?" She'd cocked her head at Sandy, looking thoughtful. "Now, you got your GED, didn't you, Mr. Cohen?"
Sandy had had to bite back a smile at that.
He knew Seth bemoaned that The Cancer had seemingly poor timing, coming as it did at a time when he finally had friends and a life that he enjoyed. Privately, watching the way that Seth's friends supported him and protected him and boldly invoked his dad's history of dropping out of high school to make a point, Sandy was grateful that Seth had been able to develop the village around him that he had. He had to imagine it would've been a helluva lot lonelier for Seth, being hospitalized with no company except his parents and the other kids and families on the ward.
To be honest, it seemed lonely enough already, everyone else with their freedom to come and go, everyone else's lives moving forward while Seth was stuck in one place.
Perching himself on the edge of Seth's bed, Sandy closed his eyes and sighed softly. He tried to remind himself that things would be better soon, that it was still early into Seth's treatment, that he couldn't expect things to have progressed much yet.
With Seth hugging one side of the bed, Sandy realized that he had a little more room than he'd previously thought. He scooted a little closer to Seth, bringing both of his tired legs up and giving them a much needed stretch. He flicked open the file folder in his hand, figuring he'd get a little work done while he stayed with Seth.
Sandy had elected to take a partial medical leave to allow him to be with Seth as much as possible, while maintaining a few cases and helping Jimmy with the restaurant. He couldn't let go of work entirely, certain as he was that he'd lose his mind if he didn't have at least a few things to occupy himself with that were unrelated to his son's cancer. It even helped to have something to work on while he was in the hospital. Sometimes Seth slept through most of his time there, and sometimes Sandy only got a few minutes to talk with him before he dropped off to sleep.
Selfishly, Sandy hoped this would be one of the longer visits, that he'd be treated to a Seth monologue on something; he needed to hear his son speak, a tiny blessing that he hadn't realized he used to take for granted.
"M-Mom?" Seth stirred a little, groaning as he began the laborious process of turning over in bed.
"Sorry, kiddo. Just me."
Seth squinted at Sandy, eyes just barely open to two slits.
"Damn. I'm 0-2 today on that one," he mumbled, eyes drooping closed again.
Sandy wasn't quite sure what that meant.
"Mom will be by later," Sandy assured him.
He hoped it was true.
There'd been something simmering with Kirsten of late, maybe since the day they'd walked in to Seth's embarrassed and downcast expression and his new hat jammed far down on his head. She seemed restless when she came to see Seth, and she made what Sandy suspected were excuses for shorter and shorter visits, needing to be somewhere else, needing to take care of Seth-related things that placed her outside of the hospital, or needing to tend to some vague crisis at the Newport Group, the exact nature and veracity of which Sandy had started to question.
He was trying to be patient and trying to be understanding and trying to ignore the lingering something-other-than-coffee smell coming from her coffee mug in the morning. He reminded himself over and over again that, just as it was hard for him, it was hard for Kirsten, and maybe made that much harder by the brutal way she'd lost her mother, a little bit at a time and then quickly and all at once. Maybe she needed to power through this situation, through Seth's treatment, in whatever way she could.
Still, despite his concern for Kirsten, there was his concern about what Seth was thinking and feeling each time his mom didn't show up when she was supposed to, or took a call and then hurried away, whether it wounded him or whether he got it, how much it was hurting her to be there, or whether he had some kind of teenage-not a child anymore but not quite a grown man either-mix of hurt feelings and understanding.
"She just, uh, had to take care of a few things for your grandfather," Sandy added.
"'kay," Seth mumbled into his pillow. "Night night."
Sandy frowned, wishing he could talk more with Seth, but knowing that he couldn't force it.
You kind of had to take Seth as he was, from moment-to-moment.
"Mmmff." Seth groaned again, one long arm plopping across Sandy's legs. With a considerable grunt, Seth lifted his head and laid it on Sandy's lap, pulling his father closer to him. He sighed a long sigh and settled back to sleep.
One hand managing the file folder, one hand lightly rubbing Seth's back, and tears slowly building in Sandy's eyes, he recognized that there were some things that could be more therapeutic than hearing Seth's voice.