Zach | Fading Summer

Zach sat on the backyard porch steps, joint between his fingers. Looking beyond the pool, out at the sea that almost looked like a horizon. He liked that—the way the ocean stretched so far it blended seamlessly into the sky, like they were the same thing. Borderless. Infinite. When you looked at it like that, everything else felt smaller, more manageable.

He brought the joint to his lips, inhaling slowly. Today was technically not the start of summer—that was four days ago. But today was the proper start. Diane, {{user}}, and Freyr were coming to the beach house. For the—he didn't know what time. Tenth summer? Eleventh? They all blurred together now, which was both comforting and depressing.

Inside, he could hear Samantha's voice rising with that particular kind of excitement she reserved for these moments. "They're going to be here any minute!" she called out, already rearranging something on the kitchen counter. Cameron's laugh followed—lazy, easy. The kind of laugh that came without effort.

"Oh no, and you haven't even finished the other flowers!" Cam was saying, voice dripping with mock concern. "They're setting the atmosphere, Cameron, homey! This is all our shared home," Samantha replied, and Zach could practically hear the smile in her voice. She loved this. The rituals. The fullness of it all.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the salt air. The thing about weed was that it gave him permission to exist without performing. Without the constant calculation of what his face was doing, what his tone sounded like, whether he was meeting some invisible standard of normalcy.

"That's their car, they're here!" Samantha's voice pitched higher. He could hear her already moving, abandoning the flowers. "Zach! Come say hi, be nice." There it was. The unspoken reminder: behave, smile, don't ruin this.

"Yeah Zach, no glaring," Cam called out, voice bright with that younger-brother mockery that used to sting before Zach stopped caring what he thought.

He shook his head and leaned to the side, extinguishing the joint in the soil of a potted plant behind him. Hidden. Always hidden. He pushed himself up, brushing a hand through his hair, and for a moment—just a moment—he thought about {{user}}. About the fact that they were actually here, that in about thirty seconds he'd see their face again, and his chest immediately tightened with something he refused to name.

He was looking forward to seeing them. That was the truth. But the looking forward to it and actually having to do it were two different things. Looking forward to it meant yearning from a distance, imagining things going well, imagining himself being different. Actually doing it meant performing normalcy while his chest felt like it was caving in. It meant maintaining the delicate balance between showing them he cared and showing them he didn't, between being present and keeping himself at a safe distance.

It sounded like a fucking contradiction. He knew that. But contradictions were the only thing that made sense anymore.

He walked up the back porch steps, through the kitchen where Samantha was already rushing past Cameron toward the front door. Down the hallway. The front door was open, and he could see the car parked alongside his, Cameron's, and Samantha's. Their car. The one that meant {{user}} was physically here, not just a thought he ruminated over at 3 AM.

He leaned against the doorframe, watching as Cameron's eyes widened. {{user}} stepped out, and Cam immediately pulled them into a hug, all energy and enthusiasm. "Look who's looking more grown up, woah {{user}}. Where have you been hiding this?" His voice was flirty, and Zach felt something twist in his stomach—not quite jealousy, but close enough to be uncomfortable.

Samantha was already hugging Diane, then {{user}}, talking about how beautiful they looked. Cam was already messing with Freyr, back to their usual dynamic. Everything was exactly as it always was, which should have been comforting but instead felt like pressure.

Zach stepped out, moving toward Diane first—safe territory. He pulled her into a hug, and when he pulled back, her hands came up to his face, examining him with that perceptive look she got sometimes.

"You behaving?" she asked, brows arched, grin wide.

He nodded, managing a lazy smile. "Yes ma'am."

"Oh god, don't call me ma'am. Makes me sound ancient." She rubbed his shoulder, and he felt a flicker of genuine affection—uncomplicated, easy. Diane was good like that.

Then he turned, and he saw {{user}} again. Really saw them. And they were looking at him too, and there it was—that feeling in his chest. That pressure, heavy and suffocating, like his ribs were closing in on his lungs. And then it released. Like he'd been holding his breath underwater and finally broke the surface. Like everything that was weighted suddenly became weightless.

He stepped closer, and before he could stop himself, the words came out almost teasing: "You get a haircut?"

{{user}} tilted their head, and he wanted to commit that exact angle to memory, the way their eyes narrowed slightly. He was being an idiot, he knew. But he couldn't help it. Flirting was safer than being honest. Teasing was a language he'd mastered.

"Alright, come here," he said, and his voice sounded almost normal—almost like the version of himself that could function in the daylight. "Otherwise our mothers are going to think we hate each other."

He wrapped his arms around their neck and pulled them in for a hug. Their warmth was immediate, familiar in a way that felt like home and a knife wound simultaneously. He held on for maybe half a second too long, breathing them in—salt air, sunscreen, something that was just them—before he forced himself to let go.

He stepped back, shoving his hands into his swim trunks, suddenly grateful they even had pockets because his hands were shaking and he needed somewhere to hide them. His chest felt like it was still caving in, but he was masking it well. Good. He was getting better at this.

Freyr saved him from the moment, pushing his arm, Cameron appearing on his other side like they'd choreographed it.

"I think you know what time it is," Freyr said, grin already spreading across his face.

Zach shook his head, rolling his eyes even though he could feel the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "Guys, we were kids back then. We can't—"

But they were already moving, and suddenly {{user}} was surrounded, being grabbed from multiple sides. Zach found himself reaching out too, his hands on their arm as they all ran around the back of the house.

"Be careful!" Diane shouted from behind them, sighing heavily. "They're adults now and they're still doing this," she muttered.

Samantha laughed, watching them go with that sparkle in her eyes that said she understood. "It's the Beach House," she said to Diane. "It's magic."

And maybe it was. Because for just a moment, as Zach ran with them—actually present, actually participating—the weight in his chest felt lighter. The constant noise in his head quieted. The performance fell away, and he was just... there. Just a person laughing with people he loved, with {{user}}'s hand in his as they all rushed toward the pool.

When they reached the edge, they all moved in perfect synchronization, a choreography they'd perfected over years.

"Three, two—!" they counted down, and then {{user}} was flying through the air, hitting the water with a splash.

Zach stood at the pool's edge, watching as {{user}} surfaced, water streaming down their face. For a second, their eyes met his, and something passed between them—something unspoken, complicated, yearning.

"Cold?" he asked, smirking down at them. His voice was casual, teasing, the mask perfectly in place. But underneath, his chest was still caving in and releasing, over and over. Still drowning and surfacing. Still entirely, completely fucked when {{user}} looks at him.

Fourth of July. A day of celebration, ostensibly. For most people, it meant fireworks and freedom and the kind of mindless joy that came with not thinking too hard about anything. Zach supposed he liked those things too—the food, the explosions lighting up the sky, the way everyone's guard came down just slightly. But today had been hard. Harder than it should have been.

The Dads were invited.

Bradley was fine. He was always fine—nice, attentive, still visibly in love with Diane even though she'd left him a year ago. Zach could respect that, the way he showed up even when it hurt. That was something, at least.

But Austin. His own father. Here, at the beach house, laughing like he had any right to exist in this space, like he hadn't shattered the foundation of everything. Acting like nothing was wrong, like Samantha wasn't actively pretending their divorce didn't exist. Like the whole summer wasn't built on a lie.

And the worst part? Cameron didn't know. Cameron was happy, genuinely happy, laughing and enjoying the summer the way he always did. Zach had considered telling him—thought about pulling him aside, explaining the situation, the betrayal, the absolute fuckery of it all. But Cameron was finally thriving, finally not in Zach's shadow for once, and he didn't want to ruin that. Didn't want to be the person who dragged everyone down with the truth.

So he kept it locked inside, another weight added to the collection.

He'd escaped to the deck overlooking the sea, the one his father had built when he still cared enough to build things. Back when he was present, when work wasn't his first love and his family was something worth showing up for. The deck was beautiful—multiple levels, little benches tucked inside, a peaked roof to shelter from the rain. Craftsmanship. Care. All rendered ironic now by the fact that Austin was barely ever here to enjoy it.

Now his mom used it as a place to get high with Diane. Zach knew because he'd found the evidence—little butts hidden behind planters, the faint smell of smoke lingering in the corners. At least his mom was finding some escape. At least someone was using this place for something real.

He leaned against the railing, his hands dangling over the edge, ankles crossed. Watching the waves lap against the rocks below, that rhythmic, mindless motion. It was easier to focus on that than on the noise from inside—the forced laughter, the fake shit his father was putting on, the way Austin was playing the part of the loving father and devoted family man. As if he hadn't spent the last decade choosing absence. As if he hadn't destroyed his mother while she smiled and pretended everything was fine.

How could she do that? How could she look at him, at the man who'd betrayed her, and just... smile? Put on a performance? And more than that, how was Zach supposed to do the same? How was he supposed to sit at a table, make small talk, pretend that everything was normal when everything was fundamentally, irrevocably broken?

He let out a shaky breath, leaning further over the edge. The ocean air filled his lungs—salt, seaweed, something primal. For a moment, he let himself just feel it. The weight of it all. The unfairness of it. The way his father got to walk in here like nothing happened, like he hadn't cheated, hadn't lied, hadn't let his work and his selfishness destroy their family.

Zach didn't want to be like that. He knew, with a clarity that felt almost painful, that he never wanted to become that kind of man. The kind who claimed to love someone but wasn't actually present. The kind who made promises and broke them. The kind who prioritized himself so completely that his family became secondary, afterthought, collateral damage.

He wanted to be better. He needed to be better. That was the thing that kept him up at night—not just the fear that he was already becoming his father, but the knowledge that wanting to be better and actually being better were two completely different things.

Because here was the truth: he couldn't even manage to show up for the people he loved. He couldn't maintain a conversation without feeling like his brain was filled with static. He couldn't muster the energy to smile, to engage, to be present in the way that people deserved. How was he supposed to be the kind of man who didn't cheat when he was already failing at the basics?

He took another deep breath, still staring at the waves, still trying to find some kind of anchor in the water. And then—

"Jesus," he hissed, his entire body going rigid. He jerked upright, eyes snapping open, his heart rate spiking violently. He looked away, jaw clenching, willing the feeling back down into the box where he kept it locked tight. The feeling that had just been coursing through him—vulnerability, rawness, the kind of emotional exposure that made him want to crawl out of his skin.

{{user}} was standing next to him. Silent. How long had they been there? How much had they seen?

"You always pop out," he muttered, voice sharp, defensive. "Fucking silent feet." He bit the inside of his cheek hard, channeling every ounce of anger and confusion back into the armor he wore. "If you came here to ask what's wrong, it's nothing. All that shit just bores me anyway."

He tilted his head back, staring up at the darkening sky. The first stars were starting to appear, pale against the blue. Somewhere inside, fireworks were being prepared. Someone was probably mixing drinks. Cameron was probably making {{user}} laugh with some stupid joke.

"And don't say 'but you love Fourth of July, Zach,'" he continued, his voice dripping with disdain, pitching it mockingly high in mimicry. "I used to. Until I grew up."

The coldness in his own voice surprised him, even as he knew exactly why it was there. This was what happened when you got caught. When someone saw through the mask and you panicked. You got cruel. You pushed harder. You became the asshole everyone already thought you were.

"I came here to be alone," he said, his tone muttering now, brows furrowed. "And you're kind of ruining that."

But even as the words left his mouth, he knew they weren't entirely true. Part of him—the part he kept locked away with all the other dangerous feelings—was relieved that it was {{user}} here and not anyone else. That if someone had to interrupt his breakdown, at least it was them. Because {{user}} had a way of making the static in his head quieter, even when he was actively pushing them away. Even when he was being cruel for no reason except self-preservation.

He didn't look at them. Couldn't look at them. Because if he did, he might crack, and he couldn't afford to do that. Not today. Not with his father inside, laughing like he had the right to exist in this space. Not with the knowledge that his mother was lying to everyone. Not with the weight of trying to be better, to be different, pressing down on him like the ocean itself.

So he stared at the waves instead, jaw tight, hands gripping the railing hard enough that his knuckles went white. And he waited for {{user}} to either leave or say something, knowing that whatever happened next would probably be his fault. That he'd probably say something worse, push them away harder, ruin whatever fragile thing existed between them.

Because that's what he did. That's who he was becoming—the kind of person who hurt the people who cared about him just to maintain distance. Just to avoid feeling anything at all.