Rating: heavy PG-13 or a light R, I can't tell.
Summary: Her friend was dead. And she wasn't dealing.
Marissa's funeral was on a Monday. Seth wasn't sure if that had any special significance, and it probably didn't, there wasn't much thought thrown into all this.
Seth immediately felt bad for thinking that, but it was true, and Summer had realized it too, when she asked him yesterday why it was so soon, Marissa hadn't even been dead for four days, but he hadn't answered, and she'd looked confused for a second before going pale and emptying her stomach into her trashcan.
"Come on, Summer," he said slowly, standing by her door. She was getting a little OCD about her makeup lately, applying, and reapplying, and it always looked the same, but not to her, he supposed.
She flipped him off, and wiped off her lip gloss for the fourteenth time.
"No, come on," he said, taking hold of her arm, which she immediately wrenched roughly away.
"It has to be nice," she said, "I have to look good."
"You look fine."
"No, it needs to be perfect, and it's not!" Summer cried desperately. Seth looked at her worriedly, and she looked like she would grab onto him, but then something clicked off in her eyes, and she shook her head, rolled her eyes, and pulled back again, a snotty tone in her voice. "I'll be done in a second, don't pee yourself."
Her friend was dead. And she wasn't dealing.
For two days, she sat on his bed, not lying down, or sleeping, just sitting, balled up in the corner, against the headboard. She went to the bathroom twice, otherwise she just stared at his Death Cab poster, driving him insane, he wanted to hold onto her, force some warmth onto her translucent skin. But then she would shrink away, her eyes wide, like he was going to fucking hit her or something, so he backed off, chewing his lip.
Then on the third night she'd been in there, he felt her from his side on the bed, felt her finally lift her head from her knees, and then she was on top of him, pounding his chest with her fists, and then clawing at his shirt with her cherry-red fingernails until it tore, and she could rip it away.
She wanted to kill him, but then she wanted to fuck him, but he wouldn't, he just grabbed her arms, and waited until she took a breath, and then he flipped her onto her back, pinning her.
She made a hitched sort of moan, and pulled her arms free, pulling him down so that he would cover her.
"Mine, mine, mine," she said, in a soft whisper, digging her fingernails into his back so hard that he was sure she had just scarred him.
As if he'd forget. So now he would remember. This is his tattoo, so he can't leave her; she's marked him to stay.
Too many people have left her. Or, one too many, now.
She rolled away from him once she felt blood running down her arms, then she was satisfied. Her eyes mirrored stars into his as she smiled sadly, almost apologetic.
And the next morning, even as he gazed at his chest, black and purple, he still felt bad about the few finger-mark bruises he'd left on her arms.
She seemed to like them, though, she traced her own little marks with a small smile, kissed them, and then kissed his lips with a giggle before she ran out the door, him chasing after her, afraid she'd suddenly decide to drive herself off a cliff.
But she only smiled more at him when he sat next to her, apologized for being weird all weekend, as if they'd been having a fight. And her unrecognizable, unrecognizing eyes from the last few days turned back to normal as she drove them to the beach, save any semblance of happiness.
She pulled into an empty parking lot on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and then climbed into the backseat, motioning for him to follow with a crook of her finger, not even looking, just knowing that he would join her, he would hold her, he was there.
She told him to fuck her, demanded it, but he firmly locked his arms around her stomach, positioning them both to gaze at the waves. She kicked the seat in front of her violently for a few seconds, then turned to him, her lips turned up slightly, yet still somehow in a bit of a pout, a sly, irresistible invitation to kiss, with a gleam in her eyes like the little girl who always got what she wanted.
Her lips were dry and cut from where she'd bit down, and she smelled like sweat and blood and his bed, but still like Summer underneath, all sweet and mind numbing.
"I'm tired, Cohen," she said softly, slumping herself into his arms, her eyes and ears full of surf, every other sense preoccupied with him.
He nodded, and drove her home, and then she acted like nothing had happened.
But today they have to bury her, and Summer informed him in no uncertain terms that she would be there, because Coop was her girl, and Summer can't leave people, not even when they deserve it, not even when they hurt her, not even when Summer wants to.
Not even when they're dead, and couldn't care less.
Guilt's been tugging at her all week. She's wanted to cut Coop loose hundreds of times, but she never quite got there, because Coop was always innocent, even as she fucked randoms and snorted fat lines of coke, because she never realized who she was hurting.
Summer can't blame her for not knowing, because Summer kind of feels like she knows nothing about anything now.
Being dead is automatic forgiveness for life. Summer will never say a bad thing about her childhood best friend again. Death will give Marissa Cooper the perfection she always wanted, if only in Summer's head.
Summer can pretend that that would have been enough for Marissa. Because Marissa can't say it's not.
She had both her hands around one of Seth's as they walked into the church, and took their places with his parents and Ryan. Ryan looks kind of like Summer feels, confused and empty and maybe on the verge of throwing up. She looked at him for a second, catching his penetrating gaze, and they held the connection for awhile.
Then she started breathing funny, and she saw the floor rushing up to meet her. "I don't feel good," she murmured, but the ground never caught up with her, Seth caught her instead, and then she was out in the sun, being cradled in his arms.
"Are you okay?" he asked, trying not to drop her.
"Yeah," she said, and he set her on the ground. Seth sighed.
"We need to...we need to do something about this."
Summer nodded slowly. "I guess so."
"You can't keep going all nuts every ten minutes." Seth grabbed her hand. "Okay?"
She shrugged, digging her heel into the dirt outside the church.
"Do you want to go back in?"
Summer shook her head. "She...she doesn't need me in there." It was true. Marissa skipped every party she could, and Summer could too.
Seth nodded. "She's fine, Sum. You need to be too." He smiled at her, obviously meaning for her to return the gesture, so she grinned back slightly.
"Okay," she said in a small voice, and Seth was still holding her hand, so they started towards the car, the sun still beating down on them, but it was peaceful, and it was just them. No more Marissa, and life will be different. But Seth looks at her differently now, he holds her differently, and it all seems to say, "I'm not going anywhere."
Because they're older. More serious, more committed, closer. It's scary, but it's simple enough. It happens.
They're growing up now, and maybe Marissa was just never meant to.
"Let's go sailing," Seth said into her ear, and she shivered with the rush of heat, nodding her head a few times.
They could keep the rest of the world away a little while longer.