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hackthis_archive) wrote2003-11-06 12:21 pm
hackthis_archive) wrote2003-11-06 12:21 pm
Entry tags:
I heart the Cohen men.
Sometimes being me sucks. However, I’m dating Josh Schwartz, so I really can’t complain. Hah! Do you really think if I was, I would announce that on my LJ?
On the upside though, last night’s O.C. was pure comedy gold. I heart Sandy. And Seth. And Ryan. Will somebody make me a Sandy icon that says “Fo’ Shizzle” or “Mad Props” because that’s SO coming next. I also wouldn’t say no to a Soccer!Ryan icon with my name on it, (or some completely inappropriate saying).
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serialkarma wanted ‘a wet story’, and since I’m still trying to dig out my HP muses for impudent_rabbit, I obliged.
The O.C. (Unbeta’d)
They’re Called Forwards, Too
The ball is a white dot that blurs between his eyelashes as he blinks the rain away.
A little water never hurt anybody, and so what if he can’t quite feel his toes anymore? It’s never really that cold down here, and what’s a little pain in the scheme of things? Not much.
Dark clouds roll in above him, but Ryan stays focused on this one thing. The goal is a tiny shoebox in the distance, and he thinks about great strikers like Owen and van Nistelrooy. Ronaldo and Beckham.
When he was little he wanted to be Pele.
He knows his life will never lead him to the World Cup, now, but sometimes, when he’s doing his drills alone, it’s nice to imagine otherwise.
He doesn’t have many dreams left.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
His hair is plastered to his forehead, and the water runs in his eyes. The sky is a strange sort of gray-brown-blue that makes Ryan think of pollution and going to L.A., but he shakes it off to focus on the ball.
The ball is an extension of the striker, and it’s not just basketball players that sleep with their favorite balls. It’s called dedication, and he’s kind of surprised that the coach called practice early. After all, it’s not as though it doesn’t rain in Newport just like the rest of the world.
Sometimes it just *seems* like Newport is another planet.
Inside.
Tap.
Outside.
Tap.
The ball rolls and he follows.
His shorts are plastered to his thighs, and he thinks he can feel his cleats through the soles of his shoes. His shirt has become another layer of skin that protects him from the outside. When he slips in the grass, he doesn’t notice the welts and dirt that find their way into odd cracks and crevices.
He doesn’t even notice his clothes making squishing sounds as the ball whizzes along, pushed by gravity, cleats, rain and wind.
He does know he’s so wet that it shouldn’t matter anymore.
It’s just water anyway.
Fake.
Trap.
Pass.
Start again.
The grass is slick and perfectly green. When the ball slips from underneath Ryan’s foot, he stumbles, but keeps going. That’s all that matters in the end.
Up the pitch, and down again.
Mud and tufts of grass are spread in his wake, and he just keeps going.
He favors his left foot, and he works on passing with the inside of his right.
Knees. Headers.
Left.
Right.
Up. Down.
Soccer is beauty and skill. It’s mind-numbing headers and penalty kicks. It’s no padding and nothing but skin protecting him from the defender on the other end.
Soccer doesn’t care if he’s from Chino. It will never matter how old he gets or if he finished reading A Prayer for Owen Meany.
When he scores, it’s something *he’s* done; not something someone gave him because his mom abandoned him, or he tested well. And when he fails, when the ball arcs too far to the left or glances off the goalpost, that’s something he’s done, too.
Soccer isn’t going to run off with a life-long crush, who hardly acknowledges him at school, or the blonde with the bad dye job.
This little white ball with black hexagons makes Ryan feel independent, even if it’s just for a little while, which perhaps is why he’s so startled when someone calls his name through the steady patter of rain.
The ball rolls away from him, and he pauses between the ball and the person on the sidelines, trying to figure out which he should pay attention to first.
“Hey,” he answers finally, before jogging over and grabbing the ball.
Mud smears on his hands and his forearms as he tucks the ball underneath his arm, and heads back over to the sidelines.
Seth rocks back and forth underneath a black umbrella, expectantly.
He smirks as he gestures to the mess that Ryan’s made. “I always took you for more of a finger-painter than a mud-pie kind of guy, but you know, I can dig the art vibe.”
Ryan fakes tossing the ball to Seth and grins when Seth fumbles with his umbrella.
“A funny guy. I see this now,” Seth corrects. “Is the wet soccer player thing a riff on the Red Bull commercial, or just the newest Harbor fad that nobody’s told me about?”
“I was just practicing,” Ryan says, shifting the ball to his other arm. He rubs his fingers together to let the rain wash the mud off.
“Not really one for the organized sports thing,” Seth begins. “But doesn’t soccer normally require more than one person? Not that you’re not good, and not that I wasn’t enjoying the show – err, not that I was watching, because so not a stalker. Not that you’re not worth stalking if I was, which I’m not. Yeah, so. I’m getting wet, are you ready to go home or what?”
This time, Ryan’s the one smirking, and when he moves to toss the ball to Seth, it’s the real thing.
When Seth drops his umbrella and winds up with a handful of muddy soccer ball, he seems a little less than pleased. “Dude, which part of “not about organized sports” did you miss?” he yaps as the rain continues to fall, and his hair and shirt soak up the rain.
The wet look works well on him.
“The Cohen gene does not allow for hand-ball coordination, and ---“ Ryan silences Seth’s tirade by reaching out and brushing wet curls off of his forehead. His fingers trace down the side of Seth’s face before he pulls them away.
“You shouldn’t knock it until you try it,” he points out as Seth openly gapes.
Seth begins stuttering, and Ryan just grins. He takes a step closer, and when Seth’s eyes widen, he proceeds to step around Seth and grab the abandoned umbrella.
“C’mon,” he says, handing Seth the umbrella and nodding towards the school. “I’ll get changed and then we’ll discuss the finer points of soccer. You’ll like the Playstation game that FIFA made.”
Seth nods dumbly, but follows along, soccer ball under one arm and umbrella in hand.
Clearly he’s a little confused as he doesn’t actually bother to cover his head with the umbrella, and Ryan can’t help but smile to himself. Soccer *and* a wet and quiet Seth.
His life may not always be great, but sometimes it doesn’t suck.
He can feel Seth’s eyes on him as they walk through the campus. Seth’s shoes make plish-ploshing sounds in the mud as Ryan’s cleats sink in. They’re almost to the gym before Seth regains some semblance of Seth-ness.
“So, FIFA. Is that like Freaks International Federation Association? Because, you know, I’m also a member of Dorks R’Us and Comic Books United, and all kinds of...”
Seth’s words die off as Ryan pauses outside the gym doors, and it’s not Ryan’s imagination that Seth looks disappointed when he only steps closer to take the soccer ball away.
“I should probably change into something less wet,” he explains.
Seth waves the umbrella around. “Right, because, being wet is bad and dry is good, and dude, why am I doing the Mary Poppins umbrella thing?” he says as droplets of water fly all over them.
Ryan just grins as he shifts the soccer ball in his arms. His grip is tenuous at best between the mud and the water. “I’ll be out in five minutes.”
Seth nods. “That’s what I like about you, Ry, when you say you’ll take five minutes I know it’ll be five minutes, and not like a girl, who really means thirty-five minutes. Not that you’re a girl, and I’ll be quiet now.”
Seth caps his announcement by pretending to zip his lips, which is Ryan’s perfect moment to slip in and lick several drops of water from Seth’s bottom lip.
When he pulls away, Seth looks like he just got struck by lightening.
“Five minutes,” Ryan repeats.
Seth touches his mouth, his fingers sliding along wetly.
“Okay?” Ryan repeats.
This time Seth nods.
“Don’t go anywhere.”
Seth nods again.
“And use the umbrella,” he says gesturing to the forgotten umbrella in Seth’s hand.
Seth makes an incoherent noise as Ryan opens the door. The chill from the change in temperature makes Ryan shudder slightly.
“Is this a soccer thing?” Seth blurts out as Ryan’s leaving.
Ryan shrugs, but then he smiles. “They don’t call us forwards for no reason.”
-the end-
Notes:Soccer Football strikers are also referred to as forwards, and you’re dead lucky I didn’t call this story 4-4-2. Or maybe, 3-5-2. Formation, baby! Do you understand how happy Ryan playing soccer footie has made me? *Dude*
Somewhat inspired by the video for ‘Everybody Here Wants You.’
100% Gratuitous.
On the upside though, last night’s O.C. was pure comedy gold. I heart Sandy. And Seth. And Ryan. Will somebody make me a Sandy icon that says “Fo’ Shizzle” or “Mad Props” because that’s SO coming next. I also wouldn’t say no to a Soccer!Ryan icon with my name on it, (or some completely inappropriate saying).
serialkarma wanted ‘a wet story’, and since I’m still trying to dig out my HP muses for impudent_rabbit, I obliged. The O.C. (Unbeta’d)
They’re Called Forwards, Too
The ball is a white dot that blurs between his eyelashes as he blinks the rain away.
A little water never hurt anybody, and so what if he can’t quite feel his toes anymore? It’s never really that cold down here, and what’s a little pain in the scheme of things? Not much.
Dark clouds roll in above him, but Ryan stays focused on this one thing. The goal is a tiny shoebox in the distance, and he thinks about great strikers like Owen and van Nistelrooy. Ronaldo and Beckham.
When he was little he wanted to be Pele.
He knows his life will never lead him to the World Cup, now, but sometimes, when he’s doing his drills alone, it’s nice to imagine otherwise.
He doesn’t have many dreams left.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
His hair is plastered to his forehead, and the water runs in his eyes. The sky is a strange sort of gray-brown-blue that makes Ryan think of pollution and going to L.A., but he shakes it off to focus on the ball.
The ball is an extension of the striker, and it’s not just basketball players that sleep with their favorite balls. It’s called dedication, and he’s kind of surprised that the coach called practice early. After all, it’s not as though it doesn’t rain in Newport just like the rest of the world.
Sometimes it just *seems* like Newport is another planet.
Inside.
Tap.
Outside.
Tap.
The ball rolls and he follows.
His shorts are plastered to his thighs, and he thinks he can feel his cleats through the soles of his shoes. His shirt has become another layer of skin that protects him from the outside. When he slips in the grass, he doesn’t notice the welts and dirt that find their way into odd cracks and crevices.
He doesn’t even notice his clothes making squishing sounds as the ball whizzes along, pushed by gravity, cleats, rain and wind.
He does know he’s so wet that it shouldn’t matter anymore.
It’s just water anyway.
Fake.
Trap.
Pass.
Start again.
The grass is slick and perfectly green. When the ball slips from underneath Ryan’s foot, he stumbles, but keeps going. That’s all that matters in the end.
Up the pitch, and down again.
Mud and tufts of grass are spread in his wake, and he just keeps going.
He favors his left foot, and he works on passing with the inside of his right.
Knees. Headers.
Left.
Right.
Up. Down.
Soccer is beauty and skill. It’s mind-numbing headers and penalty kicks. It’s no padding and nothing but skin protecting him from the defender on the other end.
Soccer doesn’t care if he’s from Chino. It will never matter how old he gets or if he finished reading A Prayer for Owen Meany.
When he scores, it’s something *he’s* done; not something someone gave him because his mom abandoned him, or he tested well. And when he fails, when the ball arcs too far to the left or glances off the goalpost, that’s something he’s done, too.
Soccer isn’t going to run off with a life-long crush, who hardly acknowledges him at school, or the blonde with the bad dye job.
This little white ball with black hexagons makes Ryan feel independent, even if it’s just for a little while, which perhaps is why he’s so startled when someone calls his name through the steady patter of rain.
The ball rolls away from him, and he pauses between the ball and the person on the sidelines, trying to figure out which he should pay attention to first.
“Hey,” he answers finally, before jogging over and grabbing the ball.
Mud smears on his hands and his forearms as he tucks the ball underneath his arm, and heads back over to the sidelines.
Seth rocks back and forth underneath a black umbrella, expectantly.
He smirks as he gestures to the mess that Ryan’s made. “I always took you for more of a finger-painter than a mud-pie kind of guy, but you know, I can dig the art vibe.”
Ryan fakes tossing the ball to Seth and grins when Seth fumbles with his umbrella.
“A funny guy. I see this now,” Seth corrects. “Is the wet soccer player thing a riff on the Red Bull commercial, or just the newest Harbor fad that nobody’s told me about?”
“I was just practicing,” Ryan says, shifting the ball to his other arm. He rubs his fingers together to let the rain wash the mud off.
“Not really one for the organized sports thing,” Seth begins. “But doesn’t soccer normally require more than one person? Not that you’re not good, and not that I wasn’t enjoying the show – err, not that I was watching, because so not a stalker. Not that you’re not worth stalking if I was, which I’m not. Yeah, so. I’m getting wet, are you ready to go home or what?”
This time, Ryan’s the one smirking, and when he moves to toss the ball to Seth, it’s the real thing.
When Seth drops his umbrella and winds up with a handful of muddy soccer ball, he seems a little less than pleased. “Dude, which part of “not about organized sports” did you miss?” he yaps as the rain continues to fall, and his hair and shirt soak up the rain.
The wet look works well on him.
“The Cohen gene does not allow for hand-ball coordination, and ---“ Ryan silences Seth’s tirade by reaching out and brushing wet curls off of his forehead. His fingers trace down the side of Seth’s face before he pulls them away.
“You shouldn’t knock it until you try it,” he points out as Seth openly gapes.
Seth begins stuttering, and Ryan just grins. He takes a step closer, and when Seth’s eyes widen, he proceeds to step around Seth and grab the abandoned umbrella.
“C’mon,” he says, handing Seth the umbrella and nodding towards the school. “I’ll get changed and then we’ll discuss the finer points of soccer. You’ll like the Playstation game that FIFA made.”
Seth nods dumbly, but follows along, soccer ball under one arm and umbrella in hand.
Clearly he’s a little confused as he doesn’t actually bother to cover his head with the umbrella, and Ryan can’t help but smile to himself. Soccer *and* a wet and quiet Seth.
His life may not always be great, but sometimes it doesn’t suck.
He can feel Seth’s eyes on him as they walk through the campus. Seth’s shoes make plish-ploshing sounds in the mud as Ryan’s cleats sink in. They’re almost to the gym before Seth regains some semblance of Seth-ness.
“So, FIFA. Is that like Freaks International Federation Association? Because, you know, I’m also a member of Dorks R’Us and Comic Books United, and all kinds of...”
Seth’s words die off as Ryan pauses outside the gym doors, and it’s not Ryan’s imagination that Seth looks disappointed when he only steps closer to take the soccer ball away.
“I should probably change into something less wet,” he explains.
Seth waves the umbrella around. “Right, because, being wet is bad and dry is good, and dude, why am I doing the Mary Poppins umbrella thing?” he says as droplets of water fly all over them.
Ryan just grins as he shifts the soccer ball in his arms. His grip is tenuous at best between the mud and the water. “I’ll be out in five minutes.”
Seth nods. “That’s what I like about you, Ry, when you say you’ll take five minutes I know it’ll be five minutes, and not like a girl, who really means thirty-five minutes. Not that you’re a girl, and I’ll be quiet now.”
Seth caps his announcement by pretending to zip his lips, which is Ryan’s perfect moment to slip in and lick several drops of water from Seth’s bottom lip.
When he pulls away, Seth looks like he just got struck by lightening.
“Five minutes,” Ryan repeats.
Seth touches his mouth, his fingers sliding along wetly.
“Okay?” Ryan repeats.
This time Seth nods.
“Don’t go anywhere.”
Seth nods again.
“And use the umbrella,” he says gesturing to the forgotten umbrella in Seth’s hand.
Seth makes an incoherent noise as Ryan opens the door. The chill from the change in temperature makes Ryan shudder slightly.
“Is this a soccer thing?” Seth blurts out as Ryan’s leaving.
Ryan shrugs, but then he smiles. “They don’t call us forwards for no reason.”
-the end-
Notes:
Somewhat inspired by the video for ‘Everybody Here Wants You.’
100% Gratuitous.
no subject
From alteration of assoc., abbreviation of association football.
Huh. Who knew? And who called it that?