Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

when it comes down to it
everything is about ghosts
except ghosts, which are about love
- sykes

June 1992, The Suburbs of Chicago, Illinois

The front door of their new house creaks open; dust particles flutter around him, visible in late afternoon light. He walks over the threshold into what he imagines will eventually be a cozy living room after his mother has finished decorating. It’s a massive space, so much so that it feels comfortable enough to fit all six-foot-four of him without restraint. Slowly, he spins around, taking in the peeling wallpaper, the stains on the ceiling from what he thinks is the remnants of an old water leak. The hardwood floors look new in contrast.

It doesn’t smell, not like the house might suggest. The air is a little stale, fixable if they leave the windows open for a little while. A bead of sweat slithers down the back of his neck and he swivels his head trying to dry it away on the neckline of his t-shirt.

Further inside, he doesn’t do much exploring; as he makes his way to his bedroom, he finds the kitchen has a door that leads to the backyard and one to the basement. The staircase is tucked to the right, and he takes it up to the second floor.

“I’ll take the bedroom on the first floor,” his mother told him the night all the paperwork had been finalized. “There’s an extra room next to yours, too. Your brother can use it when he comes to visit, and I can set it up for guests…”

“What are you going to do with all this space, Ma? I’ll move out eventually,” Shane said, looking at her from across the kitchen table of his grandma’s house.

She smiled at him, reaching out a hand to run through his hair. “I’ll sell it and use the money to get an apartment in the city when you finish college. But remember, you don’t have to rush.”

Shane’s never been known for rushing anyway, she has nothing to worry about.

As he climbs the staircase, his footsteps echo against the bare walls. It’s too quiet in here. He knows that’ll change when his mom busts out the record player and they’ll be showered with her favorites, like Elton John, Bee Gees, Fleetwood Mac, and ABBA.

Shane would be lying if he said they weren’t some of his favorites, too.

-:-

The door to the guest room is just opposite his; the hallway feels more like a waiting room with how much space there is. Shane can imagine a bookcase for all the books that overflow from what he’ll be able to keep in his bedroom.

His bed is already pushed up against one wall inside his room. His dresser and desk are against the opposite wall, which he thinks is fine enough. There’s a large window that overlooks the backyard; he can see endless sky through the murky glass. 

Strewn about are boxes and boxes, stuff from the old house; his mom will nag at him to get things put away, but for now, he shucks off his backpack and lets it fall to the floor, throwing himself onto his bed and laying back on the naked mattress.

It’s hot; summertime has always been unbearable in the Midwest. His skin will remain sticky with sweat until late September, which will be a short break before the dynamic shifts, and he’ll be freezing his ass off. He gets up to open the window and almost gives up with the amount of effort it takes to get it open, but at the very last second, the window unsticks with a schnick; the breeze floods in, cooling his flushed and sweaty skin. Goosebumps prickle along his forearms.

Outside of the window, right in his line of sight, there’s a tree that catches his eyes. The canopy holds vibrant pink flowers leftover from spring, a sign of budding fruit. He thinks it’s kinda weird that whoever owned this house before only bothered to plant one fruit tree, but it’s pretty, and he’s already growing impatient waiting for the fruit to bloom.

He makes a note to ask his mom what kind of fruit it will be.

-:-

When he gets back downstairs, dragging his fingers over the patchy and cracking wallpaper as he descends the steps, he finds his mother in the kitchen. She’s managed to crack open the window above the sink and prop open the backdoor, so the air circulates. It feels a million times cooler than it does in his room.

“We should paint the inside,” he says, leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest.

Sherry stops stirring the pitcher of lemonade and smacks herself on the forehead. “Oh shit.”

“What?”

“I hired someone. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you.”

Shane raises his eyebrows. “You hired someone?”

Nodding, she clinks the spoon against the lip of the pitcher before lifting it to her mouth for a taste. “Yeah,” she says. “Nice guy. Responded to an ad I put in the paper.”

“Oh. I guess that frees up my summer then,” Shane jokes. Mostly. His mother gives him a deadpan look, like she knows Shane wasn’t actually offering to help paint the inside of the house.

“He said he’s from California, but he’s writing a book.”

Shane furrows his brow. “You hired a writer to paint the—”

“Well, he’s writing a book about ghosts.”

“Ma—”

“Shane—”

He can’t help but burst out laughing. “Oh, my God, are you lying to a stranger, so they’ll come paint the house?”

“I didn't lie,” she insists. “If people want to think this house is haunted, I say, let ‘em. The realtor sure thought it was a selling point,” she reminds him. “So, I thought it would be, too, when I bought a spot in the newspaper.”

Grinning, he shakes his head. “Ladies and gentlemen: my mother, the con artist.”

“Oh, hush,” she admonishes. “It’ll be fine. He’ll get to write his book, and I’ll get a fresh coat of paint. He’ll be staying for the summer, so we’ll need to get the guest room ready.”

He recoils slightly. “The whole summer? It won’t take that long to paint, Ma.”

“No,” she says, “but he agreed to fix up the roof, and other bits and bobs. I want this place to be nice. Make it a home and that.”

“Hey,” he concedes, “it’s your house.”

“Thank you, son.” She pulls a couple glasses from the box on the counter, rinsing them off in the sink. “By the way, your dad called.”

“How does he have the number here already?” Shane asks, partially surprised, mostly disgruntled.

“I gave it to him in case of emergencies,” she responds. She pours them both some lemonade, passing the glass towards him. Shane’s lost his appetite, inspecting the glass, knowing this lemonade is going to be refreshing, but even lemons can become soured in comparison to the looming figure of his father.

“I’ll call him back tomorrow,” he says quietly. “I’m kinda tired.”

She gives him a soft, pained look and puts her hand over his atop the counter.

“If you ever want to talk—“

“I’m fine,” he says, nodding his head. “You know how Dad gets.”

She nods, and he shrugs his shoulders.

“How about hot dogs for a late lunch, huh? I’ll take us on into town.”

It feels like an olive branch; the kind mothers tend to extend on behalf of fathers who lack good connections with their kids. And because he’s his mother’s child, he’s been collecting every branch since he was young, and now he has enough for a tree.

“Sounds good, Ma.”

-:-

Stomach full and body exhausted, Shane readies himself for bed; he’s shut off the main light to his room, but he plugs in the lamp he hauled up from one of the boxes in the living room. It illuminates his bedroom just enough.

Stripping from his t-shirt, he lets it fall forgotten to the floor, unfolding the fitted sheet his mother had left for him while he’d gone walking around the neighborhood. There wasn’t much to see; there was so much space between their house and the next; made for peace, serenity. If he closed his eyes he’d hear the chirping of the late-night bugs, the breeze through the canopies of the trees.

It’ll be a good summer, he tells himself. He tries to promise it’ll be a good summer, but he knows better than to set such a high expectation. It’ll be fine. Good long days, with good long books, and good long swims in the lake behind the house, or even out in the county, where last summer he’d found that creek no one else seems to know about.

It’ll be a weird summer; in the same bed he’s had for years, but this house won’t settle like the old one. It’ll groan louder, the doors will creak and whine, the wind won’t rush over his windowsill like he’s used to.

There will be a stranger living in the house.

As fast as he thinks it, his mind crafts an elaborate fantasy, where a gruff, ghost-believing, book-writing, house-painting stranger comes and sweeps his mother right off her feet, and Shane ends up with a stepfather by Christmas.

The bedsheet on and tucked around all four corners, Shane falls onto the mattress, giving into the bounce of the springs.

It doesn’t upset him—his mother deserves to be happy. It’s important that she is, considering the divorce and all. His brother isn’t around anymore, and Shane won’t be around forever.

There’s college in the fall at a university in the city. In the actual city that bustles with people, and the lights stay on after nine; where there’s life after dusk. He could make friends there, find a nice girl to marry, maybe.

For a second, he’s reminded of his father’s words, and is reminded that he’s expected to be something. Expected to be someone that marries a nice girl from a good home, and probably to have children and whatever else is detailed in the instruction manual titled American Dream.

It feels like a mold he doesn’t fit into though. It doesn’t make sense to him. Not really. Stability, sure. He likes structure in some places, but to live that life to a T? Where does music fit in? Or art? Or curiosity and questions?

He has so many questions. It isn’t like there’s an abundance of information he can fall into; what he knows about has been told to him, what he knows is what he’s witnessed, and he has so many questions about the things he hasn’t seen. He has so many questions. 

Who’s supposed to answer them?

-:-

It’s late afternoon when a cab pulls into the driveway that Saturday. Shane watches from the front porch bench as the cab idles; the rear door on the passenger side opens, and out steps a man. He’s dressed in a bluish t-shirt and jeans, nothing special, but he’s handsome, like some kind of TV star, with an interesting face, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He stands on the shorter side, but he’s muscular and strong-looking like he might know his way around fixing up a house. His biceps stretch the sleeves of his t-shirt, and so does the breadth of his chest.

Shane keeps his book open on his lap, but his attention is captured, watching as the stranger pulls luggage out of the trunk of the cab, setting a large suitcase onto the gravel. The cab drives away.

“Oh, he’s here!” his mother says from behind him, the screen door slamming shut behind her. Shane dog-ears his place in his book, closes it, and sets it down next to him.

Using one hand, the man pulls his suitcase towards the house, looking up at it, his head tipped back like it goes further up than the two stories it stands. He whistles, the sound cutting through the quiet.

“Quite the beauty you’ve got here,” he says, and Shane doesn’t roll his eyes, but he wants to.

“She just needs a little love,” his mom says, descending the steps at the end of the porch. The gravel crunches under her footsteps as she reaches the man. Shane wipes the drop of sweat that threatens to run down his temple with the back of his thumb.

“It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Ryan Bergara,” he says, holding out a hand for her to shake. Shane watches her take it.

“Sherry Madej,” she introduces. She looks over her shoulder at Shane and beckons him over with a nod of her head. Shane stands up, dusting off his shorts and descends the front steps. “This is my son, Shane. It’s just the two of us here.”

“Nice to meet you,” the man says to him. “You stop growing yet?”

A laugh stutters in Shane’s throat, the stranger surprising him. “Remains to be seen,” he answers, shrugging his shoulders. The stranger’s grin widens. “C’mon, I’ll show you to your room.”

-:-

Upstairs, Shane pushes the door to the guest bedroom wide open. It’s fixed with necessities: a bed, a dresser, a desk, a couple lamps on as many night tables. Shane stands off to the side as Ryan pulls in his suitcase, dragging it to the end of the bed. Shane opened the window earlier that morning to let the breeze in. It helps, but the sun sets at the back of the house, so sunlight pours in, leaving a block of light right on the bed.

“Hope the trip wasn’t too bad,” Shane offers.

“It was alright, thanks,” Ryan says. He makes his way to the window, peering outside. “Is that a lake?”

“Yeah. Kinda got lucky. Makes the breeze cooler.”

“I thought LA was bad, but I think I’ve met my match.” Ryan gives a small laugh, pulling off his sunglasses from where he’d perched them on his head. He looks like he’s suffering, Shane thinks, eyeing the sweat that drips down his temples, wetting the collar of his shirt, darkening the fabric. Shane leans back against the doorjamb, and Ryan takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

“You probably won’t,” Shane starts, “but if you need any extra blankets, there’s plenty in the hall closet. The bathroom is across the hall next to my room. There’s towels and stuff in there. The washer is in the basement. Ma’s got lines out back to hang up your wet clothes since we don’t have a dryer yet. If you need anything else, just ask me or my mom.” He fiddles with the edge of his t-shirt.

“Sure, thanks.” Ryan leans back against his palms, kicking out his legs. “So, do you know anything about this house? The history I mean.”

“Not really. The realtor claims it’s haunted, but we’ve been here a couple weeks, and I’m calling liar.”

“I see,” Ryan says, the corner of his mouth lifting upwards. A smirk. “So, you haven’t seen a ghost here?”

“Nope.”

“No weird sounds?”

“Have you seen this house? I’m sure our neighbors can hear the weird sounds. Doesn’t mean there’s a ghost.”

“No dark shadows in the corner?”

“Sure,” Shane says. Ryan’s eyes brighten. “When it’s dark.”

Ryan’s frown is almost comical, and it makes Shane laugh.

“Sorry man,” he relents. “I don’t think you’re gonna find anything but dust and dead bugs.”

“We’ll see about that,” Ryan stands. He stretches his arms over his head, his body noisy as joints crack and pop. Shane looks away.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he says. “I’m next door if—uh, if you need anything.”

Ryan nods, and Shane leaves through the open doorway, closing the door behind him.

Rather than go to his room like he wants to, he goes down and checks on his mom. She’s in the kitchen—still undecorated because she’s yet to pick out colors for paint—standing in front of the open door of the fridge.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks, leaning against the door jamb.

His mother turns to look at him. “Maybe we should order pizza. Would hate to burn something on the first night,” she says with a small laugh. “He sure is something, huh?” 

“You mean handsome?” he says with a raised eyebrow.

“He looks very Californian,” she corrects. “I’m still wondering how a house like this has piqued his interest this much to come out and stay here.”

“Well, at least the heat won’t get to him,” he wagers. “Besides, it’ll only be for a few months. He’ll probably get bored of whatever story he thinks he’s going to find under the floorboards.”

She hums, and closes the refrigerator, setting both hands on her hips. “It’ll be nice to have someone else around. House is too quiet with you hiding in your room at all hours of the day.”

“I’m not hiding,” he sighs. 

His mother doesn’t dignify him with a response, just reaches out and touches his shoulder. “I’m worried about you.”

“No need. I’m fine,” he insists, but she looks tired. The wrinkles around her eyes look pronounced, and she isn’t old by any means, but the greys are sprouting with fervor. She sighs, and Shane turns and leaves the kitchen before it turns into a lecture. Seeing it’s a couple hours until dinner, he makes his way back out onto the porch and sits, picking up his book and resuming where he’d last left off.

-:-

The next morning, Shane wakes stuck to his bedsheets, sweat like glue wherever his skin contacts anything. The sun is already up, beaming brightly through his bedroom window. It’s blinding; he blinks his eyes, not quite conscious enough to think of anything but chasing the tail-end of his dream. He was swimming somewhere, in cool water that seeped into his pores, andwhen he looked up, the sky was blue, framed by the green of thick, abundant tree canopies.

Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, time reads it’s well after mid-morning, bordering on noon, and he knows he’d better get up before—

“Shane, honey?”

That.

He croaks, “Yeah?” before turning onto his back, spreading his limbs out; the ceiling fan creaks noisily above him, making that much of a difference to warrant keeping it on.

“Come down, will you? I made brunch.” The creak of the floor tells him she’s walking away, and he yawns as he stretches his body. He lays there, stomach growling, allowing himself a moment to connect with consciousness, blinking his eyes as though he can get rid of the blurriness like wiping the lens of a camera clean with the hem of his tee.

When he sits up, he draws his hands over his face, yawning again into his palms, loud and shameless. He’s so tired; he spent all night finishing his book. He’s got to go to the book shop and slide another fifty cents to the store clerk, Mr. Collins, for another blind pick and disappear into a world that’s decidedly not this one.

He shoves his glasses onto his face and busies himself with dressing.

At the table, Ryan’s already sitting, a full plate in front of him. Where his mother had forfeited dinner the night before, Shane sees she’s gone all out. There’s fresh fruit, waffles, pancakes, sausage, and eggs spread out on their little dining table. Everything smells so, so good.

“Geez, Ma,” Shane mumbles, slumping into the seat across the table from Ryan. “What time’d you get up to make all this?”

“It was nothing,” she insists, giving him a kiss to his temple as she sets a pitcher of orange juice in the center of the table. He and Ryan reach for it at the same time. Their hands touch, a simple brush of their fingers, and static shocks Shane enough that he snatches his hand back.

“Sorry,” Shane apologizes, rubbing his fingers with his other hand, like he can get rid of the residual static.

“It’s okay.” Ryan smiles, a simple, genuine curve of his lips. “Go for it,” he says, picking up his fork and poking at the runny yolks of his eggs.

Shane pours himself a glass of orange juice, clearing his throat. “So, what’s going on today?” he asks the table at large as his mother sits at the end, having served her own plate of food.

Ryan perks up, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Gonna take a walk through the house and see where the problem areas are the worst, then I’ll head to the hardware store and figure out a budget.”

“You should go with him, Shane, so he doesn’t get lost,” his mother offers.

Ryan laughs. “I think I can manage on my own, but I’ll never turn down someone willing to keep me company,” he says.

“Okay,” Shane agrees. “If we’re going into town, I can at least show you the best places.”

Over the table, he and Ryan share a look; he smiles again and it’s nice, Shane thinks. Different. He has a lot of teeth, straight and white. A perfect smile, it is. Shane nods at him and looks down at his food, picking apart a waffle with his fingers, and swiping the pieces through syrup.

After breakfast, Shane runs upstairs and gets dressed, brushing his teeth, and making sure he has a couple dollars for the bookstore.

When he makes it outside, Ryan’s already standing out on the porch, leaning back against the balustrade, face tilted back towards the sky.

“Ready?” Shane asks. The screen door shuts loudly behind him as Ryan stands up straight, looking at him. He has a pleasant face, Shane thinks, as he decides Ryan really does look like California. The way they make them seem on TV, with their rolled-up sleeves and baby blue denim. Their backwards baseball caps. A tuft of Ryan’s hair peeks out through the hole. Shane can’t help but think he’s probably popular with girls, what with his everything. People just don’t look like Ryan out in the Midwest.

“Genuinely never thought there could be heat worse than California, but I think this just might be it,” Ryan complains, pushing off his ball cap and wiping his brow, pushing his fingers through inky black hair. He sets the cap back on, and Shane notices the tuft of hair is gone.

Shane wipes his own face with the hem of his t-shirt. “Ain’t worse than the snow,” he reasons.

“Can’t argue with you there,” Ryan agrees.

“My old bike is in the shed; you can use that. It’s how I usually get around.”

Ryan nods in accordance and follows him out to the side of the house. Shane’s is already perched on the side, but he goes in, pulling out an older bike with chipped blue paint Ryan takes it by the handles, dusts off the seat, and mounts it neatly, pedaling off. He waits for Shane at the end of the drive. Shane mounts his own bike and catches up. 

-:-

In the hardware store, Shane follows Ryan around as he looks at wood and paint, and whatever else he needs. Shane observes him as he keeps a list, using the yellow, wooden pencil he tucked behind his ear. He has nice hands. Clean, kept neat. Not as rough as someone with working hands would be; not like the men out here who work on farms and construction sites. Shane wonders how they would compare to his own; if his own hands would envelope them.

His forearms look strong, too. Like he busies himself lifting heavy things. And like yesterday, his biceps gently stretch the sleeve of his t-shirt. Shane can see the hint of muscles underneath Ryan’s shirt when he lifts his arm up high to reach for something. He doesn’t quite make it, and it takes a moment, after perusing the length of Ryan’s body and the way his shirt rises over the waist of his jeans to show off a strip of flesh that lights a match to Shane’s curiosity, for Shane to realize Ryan could use some help.

There’s no need to extend the stretch of his body like Ryan; Shane lifts his arm and pulls down the pint sized can of paint and hands it to Ryan, who’s smiling up at him like he’s done a trick or some crazy kind of magic. Ryan’s laugh is an exhaled breath, paired with a crooked grin.

“Thanks,” he says, before turning to the can in his hand, using the empty space on a lower shelf to write the notes he needs. When Ryan’s done, he hands the pint back to Shane, and he slides it back into place. “Guess I needed you after all.”

That makes Shane feel good. It’s a small—it’s not even anything. He does it for strangers all the time. And Ryan is a stranger, a man he doesn’t know, but his eyes are sincere, and his smile is lasting, even as he wanders away down the aisle, perusing whatever else it is that catches his attention. It was nothing, really, Shane tells himself. A small act of kindness if anything.

It’s not like Shane is doing anything else.

But it happens again, and a third time. And every time Ryan gives him some sort of comment, something that makes Shane flush and feel useful.

When they leave the hardware store, empty handed, Shane feels like he’s got his pockets full.

-:-

The town's too small for it to be bustling, but it’s Sunday, and there’s a fair amount of people out and about, dressed in tank tops and shorts, standing in line for ice cream at the local parlor. Shane takes his time pointing things out to Ryan, telling him stories about the townspeople.

“Is there a cinema here?” Ryan asks him, turning his head for just a second to look at him.

“Yeah, it’s a few blocks up the street. It’s small, but the—I really—” Shane cuts himself off with a small laugh. “I really like the popcorn.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ryan brightens. “I love popcorn. Probably my favorite thing in the world to eat. On really good days, I get to have it for breakfast.”

Shane laughs. “There’s like—Chicago style here, but that stuff’s no good.”

“Can’t imagine it could be. Popcorn should just be salt and butter,” Ryan says, with a tone like he’s been in this argument before. “No funny business.” He slows his riding, and Shane follows, scraping his sneakers on the hot pavement. “Now I’m hungry. You?” 

“I could eat,” Shane offers; they did just have breakfast not long ago. 

“Where should we go? What’s your favorite?” 

Shane grins. “I’ll take you to the best spot in the whole state.” 

“Quite the boast. I’ll believe it when I taste it,” Ryan challenges. 

Shane leads him to Tommy’s, the longest standing hot dog place in Schaumburg. Shane’s been coming here since he was old enough to chew and refuses to eat a hot dog anywhere else in town, unless it’s the Fourth of July, then he’ll pretty much eat a hot dog from anywhere. There’s a line of course, out the door, like there always is, but there’s only one thing on the menu, so it moves fast. Eventually, they’re in the shade on the sidewalk. It’s a gorgeous day, and Shane tilts his head back, closing his eyes for a moment, before they move up in the line. Ryan stands beside him with his hands in his pockets.

After they receive their orders, they sit on the sidewalk and eat their lunch. Ryan’s going on and on about ketchup and Shane can’t stop laughing. And rolling his eyes. It’s an odd combination, a weird feeling to have towards this stranger, but it’s making for a pretty alright afternoon. 

“You’re offending me,” Shane says through a mouthful of food. “And the whole state of Illinois.” 

“I’m just saying,” Ryan says after swallowing. “Most people have ketchup on their hotdogs!” 

“If you go in there and ask for ketchup, they’re going to throw you out,” Shane snickers. 

Ryan laughs and eats his hotdog without any more complaining. 

When they’re all done, Ryan’s leaning back on one elbow, rubbing his belly in big, seemingly soothing circles. “I’m so full.” 

“We should go swimming,” Shane offers. “It’s so hot.” 

“Ah, I gotta take a rain check. I wanted to take a trip to the library and see if they have anything about the people that first owned your house.”

Shane frowns. “You really believe in all that stuff?” 

Ryan glances at him, sitting up. He repositions his cap again, like he had on the porch, wiping his brow with the top of his wrist. “What’s life if you don’t believe in something?” 

Shane shrugs. “I’m eighteen, I don’t have to believe in anything,” he muses. Ryan laughs. 

“Oh, to be so young,” he sighs. 

“What are you, forty?” Shane jabs. 

Ryan stands up, and his knees give a little crack. “May as well be,” he mutters. Shane shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “I’ll see you for dinner, probably.” 

“Don’t get lost,” Shane calls behind him, and he can hear Ryan’s laugh.

-:-

There’s music playing in the living room; something he’s heard a million times before and can’t help but hum to. He gives his mom a quick hug as he passes her, climbing up two flights of stairs and closing the door behind himself when he reaches his bedroom. 

He forgot about the bookstore; should have been reminded when Ryan mentioned the library, but such is life. He looks through the books on his shelf, he’s got a healthy stack of books he hasn’t read, but those never did keep his attention for long enough. Mr. Collins, the bookstore clerk, knows what Shane needs; he can just walk inside, and Mr. Collins will have a recommendation that knocks his socks off most of the time. 

He figures he’ll try again, picking up a paperback with worn, cracked edges, pages that have begun to yellow. He reads for—five? Six?—seconds, before he’s putting the book down, looking towards the open window of his bedroom, closing his eyes when the smell of peaches comes in. It’s almost tart, just a tickle of a taste. It’s just a couple more weeks before he can sink his teeth into those fuzzy little fruits and fill himself up until he’s made of peaches. 

For a moment, he wonders about Ryan, if he’d found what he was looking for. If those old newspapers gave him something new to believe in. It amuses Shane that he believes in ghosts, in anything supernatural at all. Shane’s never seen anything that would tell him otherwise; he wonders if Ryan has, what the story is behind it if so. What made him believe it all in the first place?

Something about it makes his fingers itch, creativity and inspiration swirling in the back of his head. He glances towards his desk; none of his supplies have been unpacked. The box is probably still down in the basement with all the other stuff he hasn’t gotten around to bringing upstairs. 

He’s right; it’s in a corner, underneath some of the old kitchen packing boxes he promised his mom he’d tear down and take to the end of the driveway for pickup. Rather than do that now, he takes the box that’s marked “Shane’s art stuff” and carries it out of the basement. 

When he’s finally in his room, he sets the box on his desk and pulls apart the cardboard flaps. Inside are nubs of charcoal, dirty erasers, colored pencils, markers, some paint tubes from when he had a phase. 

His books are stacked at the very bottom. He pulls them out. 

Flipping through the pages, he sees progress, but to him, it all looks bad. No feeling. Fourteen-year-old Shane didn't know how to process the things he felt into art yet. He took up music instead, learning to play the piano in the music room during his lunch period, after school at the lessons his father paid for. He hasn’t played in a while now, not since the beginning of winter. 

Settling on a blank page, he runs his fingers over the paper, smooth and cool underneath his fingertips. He grabs one of the charcoal nubs and just starts, lines here, swirls there, until the page comes to life, and he realizes he’s been drawing the pitcher of orange juice he had at breakfast, with the distinct lines of someone’s hands around the handle.

-:-

That week barrels on, hot day after hot day, tornado watch after tornado watch, and a thunderstorm to cap off the week. That means, Saturday morning is the first day Ryan’s out in the backyard sawing away or doing whatever men with power tools get up to. It’s gotta be early as hell; he blinks at the clock on his nightstand, begging the red numbers to make shapes he can make out. 

He shoves on his glasses; it’s well after noon. 

“Jesus,” Shane mutters into his pillow, wiping the corner of his mouth where he’s gone and drooled a little. He flips over onto his back, closing his eyes, like he might be able to slip back under, but there’s the sound of the drill, a hammer—

He drags himself out of bed, pulling open his door; music. Those favorites again. His mother’s got that Rumors album on. Against his own will, the drumline of “Go Your Own Way” lifts his spirits. Marginally, but they’re lifted. 

His Mom’s in the living room, singing her whole heart out, as she sweeps. Shane stands at the bottom of the stairs, watching for a moment. It’s been a long time since she’s been like this. He remembers being ten or eleven, and it would happen like this, with different songs. There was happiness there. He’s happy now that she’s found it again. 

“Oh, honey, you’re awake!” she says, resting the broom against the wall. “Come dance with your mother.” 

“Mom, I just woke up,” he protests, but she’s reaching out for him anyway, and he lets himself be pulled into whatever dance she wants, laughing while spinning her when the guitar starts to ring, dancing with her until the song fades, and the pretty piano of “Songbird” starts up. 

“I remember when you’d play this for me,” she tells him, looking at him, like she hasn’t seen him in years. 

“I’ll play it for you again someday,” Shane promises. She smiles.

He makes his escape into the kitchen; there’s fruit cut up in a bowl, some pancakes on a plate from the breakfast she must have had with Ryan. Coffee in the pot and orange juice in the fridge. He grabs one of everything, piling it on a plate, balancing a mug and a cup in his arms as he carries it all back to the table. 

“The Chain” begins to play, and Shane’s humming through a mouthful of food. 

“Sounds like a party in here.” 

Shane turns around and finds Ryan standing in the doorway. He’s using his shirt to wipe his sweat; he’s got muscles Shane didn’t even know existed. 

“Just a regular Saturday,” Shane says, looking up at Ryan’s face as he drops the hem of his shirt. “Did you eat already?” 

“Yeah,” Ryan says, walking further into the kitchen, towards the sink. He grabs a glass from the dishrack and fills it with tap water. He downs the whole thing, little rivulets running down his chin and dripping onto his t-shirt. Shane looks away, a prickle of sweat itching at his collar. “Your mom’s a good cook.” 

“Ah, yeah. You think breakfast’s good, wait ‘til she busts out the Sunday roast. Which—you’re a guest. So don’t be surprised if it’s a whole thing tomorrow night.” 

“I’m looking forward to it.” Ryan smiles, wiping his mouth. “So, what do you do all day?”

Shane shrugs his shoulders, looking down at his food. “Nothing, really. I mostly read. Draw if I have the inspiration to. The lake is nice to cool down sometimes.”

“Seems like it. All we have are beaches.”

“Aww, poor Ryan and his beaches,” Shane teases.

“It’s the sand, okay!” Ryan protests. “It gets everywhere.”

“That’s actually the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. From a Californian, no less.”

“The water is nice, but—” Ryan shrugs. “You’d understand if you knew.”

Shane smiles as he thinks about it, being severed from his beloved cornfields and apple-pie life for someplace raucous and gaudy like California. Never, he thinks, mentally shaking his head. “Maybe one day I’ll come down for a visit. See what the fuss is about.” 

“No fuss, man,” Ryan says dreamily. “We’re all just out to have a good time.” 

-:-

After he’s finished eating, Shane goes back upstairs. The music is muted through his closed door, and through the open window, he can hear Ryan working. 

He picks up his book and continues reading through a page and then another before putting it down beside him. He gets up from his bed and heads towards the window. His intention is to peek at his tree, take a look at the peaches (he finally did get around to asking his mom); he barely glances at them. 

Shane watches as Ryan pulls off his t-shirt, brown skin like gold underneath the unforgiving midwestern heat. He blinks at the sight from his window, tilting his head to the side. He watches for a handful of moments, as Ryan continues doing whatever it is he’s doing with that wood. Shane’s eyes run down the length of his spine, the way his muscles flex and contract underneath his skin. 

It’s—different, is all. 

Different is good; to perceive the world and catalogue its intricacies. He continues to watch Ryan and tells himself if it were anyone else, he’d be watching them, too. And then he thinks that’s a little bit weird, so he pushes himself away from the window. On his way out of his bedroom, he picks up his book, the sunglasses on the edge of his dresser, covering his eyes with them. 

It’s his backyard, too. He can sit outside and enjoy the sun, just like every other American must in weather this beautiful. 

Of course, he has to do so in the shade, so he doesn’t get burnt. 

He picks a spot underneath his tree, just out of Ryan’s eyeline. He continues to read his book, peeking over the top every so often.

Ryan doesn’t pay any attention to him; sometimes Shane can hear him humming along to the music, wiggling like he’s dancing. Shane’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t give into laughing, or smiling even. He’s not even supposed to be watching. And yet, if Ryan were a book, he thinks he’d be finished by now. 

Hours later, when Ryan’s quit (he’s making new door jamb casings to replace the ones outside his mother’s room), the sun hangs fat and low in the sky, about as tired as Shane is. 

“How can you not see it, it’s right there!” Shane exclaims. 

Ryan throws his head back, laughing. “I just can’t see it!” 

“Oh, come on. It’s right at the top of the tree,” Shane says, pointing to the small bird sitting on a branch. In Ryan’s defense, it’s brown and well camouflaged, but they’re hardly looking for Waldo. 

Ryan steps in front of him. He places his hand on Shane’s arm, right over his elbow. His hand is warm, and Shane is hyper aware he’s being touched. It’s not even that big a deal, until Ryan’s standing on the tip of his toes in front of Shane, the back of his head knocking gently into Shane’s chin; his shoulder blades are pressed against Shane’s chest. 

He smells like sweat, like the oranges he was peeling earlier, like Schaumburg water, like Shane’s house. 

It’s an assault to his senses, and Shane tries to withdraw himself, pulling his arm out of Ryan’s hand—

Ryan’s grasp tightens and he doesn’t let go. “Wait, I still haven’t seen it!” 

Shane keeps pointing, and like it’s possible, Ryan seems to step just a little bit higher on the tips of his toes. 

“Do you see it now?” Shane asks quietly, swallowing hard. 

“Nope. I’m convinced you’ve made it up just to make me look stupid.” 

Ryan steps out of his grasp, but his fingers are slow to release Shane’s arm, a gentle drag of his fingertips that make Shane look down at his skin, like Ryan’s left a burn mark. 

“You do that all on your own,” Shane retorts. 

“Touché,” Ryan says, cackling. He sits back in the grass like he had been before they’d started looking for birds. Carefree. 

Ryan looks up at him, pensive. Shane realizes, embarrassingly, that he’s holding his arm, in the same place Ryan had. He drops both of his arms to his side. 

“You good?” he asks. 

Shane nods. “Yeah, just beat,” he explains. Shane takes in a breath, trying to dispel his weird energy, but he thinks he wouldn’t have to if Ryan hadn’t felt the need to press himself against him like that. 

This—what even was that?

-:-

When Shane heads inside, he finds his mother standing outside of her bedroom, looking at Ryan’s handiwork. He’d left the wood natural to match what had been there before, but it looks a million times nicer. He watches her touch the wood, smiling to herself. 

“Night, Ma,” Shane says quietly.

“Come here,” she says, holding out her hand. He makes his way over to her. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, even though he doesn't think much of it at all. 

“Just think about what it’ll look like in here after he’s done fixing the house up.” 

“Weird guy, though. Just a little,” he thinks out loud. 

Sherry laughs. “Californians.” 

“When you said you hired a guy, I was thinking—not him.”

She hums. “I thought the same. He’s nice, though. Has manners. Funny, too.” 

Shane purses his lips. 

“It’s nice that you get along with him. Was a little worried you wouldn’t.” 

“Well, the ghost bullshit aside—” 

“The house has a story, Shane! Spent all morning telling me all about it. Quite tragic, but he has a charming way of making the story nice to listen to.” She pats his shoulder. “You oughta let him tell it to you. You might find it a little interesting.” 

“Maybe,” he murmurs. 

“Go on to bed,” she says. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Shane gives her a quick hug, and mosies on up the stairs, passing Ryan’s bedroom; he can hear clicking, and then a ding! He hadn’t even noticed Ryan had a typewriter. 

Even all the way up in his bedroom, if he’s quiet enough, he can hear the typing, the eventual ding! after every line. 

When Shane drifts off to sleep, he dreams he’s on a never-ending elevator. Stopping at floor after floor. Every time the doors part and slide open, Ryan’s on the other side; he presses the button, and then the doors close, sending Shane up to the next floor where Ryan’s standing there, waiting. 

Ding!

Ding!

Ding!

-:-

When Shane comes downstairs in the morning, his mom is sitting at the table, stirring a spoon in her coffee. 

“Morning Ma,” Shane greets, beelining towards the fridge. 

“Morning, honey. Your father called again,” she tells him. “Says he wants to see you.”

Shane makes a disgruntled noise. 

“He’s still your father,” she says quietly. 

“Yeah, I know,” Shane murmurs, crouching over the fridge, not really seeing its contents, but more so remembering what life was like earlier this year, last year even, or a few years ago, when things hadn’t changed so drastically. 

His parents had divorced, which is the reason it's just him and his mom now, embarking on whatever life this leads them. Shane’s due for college in the fall; he still doesn’t understand why his mother had bought such an enormous house. 

The divorce hadn’t ended kindly. His father prioritized his political standing, and Shane knows his mother thinks there was an affair. Shane barely saw his father and when he had, it was like knowing a stranger. There was no doubt Shane loved his mother—there wasn’t a single question about it. Neither was the adoration she held for him as her child. But his father—meaningless connection forged over years of living in the same house. He didn’t know that man, and at eighteen years old, he found he didn’t care much to start. 

“I’ll call him back later,” Shane says finally. “Sara’s coming over today.” 

“Oh?” his mother says. “She’s a nice girl. Are—is she your girlfriend?” 

He laughs. “No,” he says simply. “We’re just friends.” 

“Do you like her? Does she like you?” 

He shrugs. “Dunno. I guess.”

“You guess?” she repeats with a small laugh. “Why don’t you ask her out?” 

“Maybe,” he says, closing the fridge. 

She’s looking up at him when he turns around. “Just, you know. Be careful. Not that I don’t want any grandbabies, but—” 

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Ma,” Shane says, feeling like his skin is too tight for his body. Uncomfortable doesn’t even begin to describe how hard he recoils from this conversation.

“I’m just saying, is all,” she says with a wave of her hand. 

“Say less, please. So much less.” Without eating anything, he leaves the kitchen, itching for a shower.

-:-

When Sara comes over, it’s just after two. Her hair is really curly today, and the straps of her green tank top are super thin. He thinks about the way they’ll leave a pale sliver of skin on her shoulders if she’s out in the sun for too long. She’s so small she barely comes up to his chest, leaning her head back to look at him. 

“Hey, Shane,” she says when he answers the door. 

“Hey,” he greets, widening the door so she can pass by him, closing it when she’s inside.

“It’s nice in here,” she compliments. “Empty, though. Where’s all your guys’ stuff?” 

“Mom left most of it in the old house. Said she wanted to start fresh. So, all we’ve got is the couch for now.” Shane rubs the back of his neck. It’s an old couch; has been around since Shane was in elementary school, but he wouldn’t let his mother leave it. It was the perfect spot for a midday nap and paired perfectly with summer storms. Half of Shane’s life had been spent on that couch, and despite it being a part of a home he no longer lived in, it was a gift from his grandma to his mother. 

“And the piano,” she says, nodding towards it. “Do you still play?”

“Sometimes. With the move and all, I haven’t really had time.”

“Right, well, I brought the movie over,” she announces. Sara pulls out a VHS tape from her bag. “My brother says it’s really scary, but I don’t believe him.” 

“Friday the 13th, huh?” Shane says, taking the movie from her hand and looking over the clunky plastic cover. “I guess we’ll have to see.” 

Sara gives him an excited smile. 

Shane puts the VHS into the VCR and behind him, Sara takes her seat right in the middle of the couch. Shane takes the end that’s closer to the door, but he doesn't sit far away from her. 

Their arms touch comfortably, and the movie begins. 

Throughout the film, she moves closer, and Shane lets her, enough that by the time the climax of the movie hits, she’s got her head on his shoulder. 

Just then, the front door opens, Sara gasps, and they both turn to look. It’s Ryan, carrying bags boasting the logo of the hardware store. 

“Oh, shit, sorry,” he whispers. 

Sara laughs. “You scared the shit out of me,” she says with a hand on her chest. 

Ryan grins. “Sorry, sorry. I’m leaving, I promise.” 

And he does, crossing the room behind them, and heading towards the kitchen. 

“Who’s that dreamboat?” Sara asks, waggling her eyebrows. 

“Oh, my mom hired him to fix up the house and give it some paint. He’s just staying for the summer.” Shane explains.

Sara hums. “He’s handsome.” 

“I can introduce you to him if you want,” he offers, grinning at her. She laughs.

“Don’t be such a dolt,” she insists. “Go rewind it a bit, since we missed some.” 

Shane feels...something. A little bit of giddiness, maybe. Some sort of...weird attraction. Maybe he does like her. He gets up and rewinds the tape back to the part he recognizes, and presses play on the VCR. When he sits back on the couch, she puts her head back onto his shoulder. 

When the movie is over, they go out back and hang around by the lake, and when the sun sets, she stays for dinner. 

His mom cooks enough food for an army, and it’s really nice with the four of them. He rides with Sara to her house, and then makes his way back. 

The house is quiet when he returns, most of the lights off. His mother is watching TV in the living room, and he assumes Ryan is tucked away in his room. 

When he climbs the stairs, the noisy keys of his typewriter confirms he is. 

Shane retreats to his bedroom and closes the door behind him.

-:-

It’s one of those mornings where the heat is unforgiving, bursting through his window like a flood of lava. Laying back on his bed, Shane thoughts wander around nothing of substance.

He stretches, his feet kicking the footboard of his bed (which he reminds himself he needs to take off), as his arms knock into his headboard behind him. Comfortable, he lays his palms on his stomach, closing his eyes. Maybe he’ll just drift away; it’s a Saturday after all, and there isn’t much to do today. It’s early enough that Ryan’s noise hasn’t begun yet, so sleep isn’t completely out of the question.

But first, he decides to help himself get there, sliding a hand downwards, underneath the waistband of his underwear. He turns his head just lightly and looks out of the window as he touches himself, staring out at the expanse of blue sky, the very tops of the trees in the backyard. 

When the wind breezes in, he can smell the fruit, can tell they’re coming; they’ll be ready for picking soon, and it’ll be all he eats for the rest of the summer. 

He thinks about sticky hands, about someone else having those hands, the sweet peachy nectar on greedy fingertips. 

Touching him. 

His eyes flutter closed. 

He’s hard now, fully, hot in his own palm. He strokes slowly, lazily, knowing he has the whole morning if he wants to. He tightens his grip.

There’s a booming knock at his door, just before it opens and Shane all but jumps out of his skin, pulling his hand out of his pants and twisting his hips, pulling his knees up to hide himself from—

Ryan. 

“Jesus Christ,” Shane huffs. 

“Hey, man. You up for some swimming?” Ryan asks, waltzing in like he’s been invited inside, like Shane’s heart isn’t trying to escape his chest. He’s wearing patterned-blue swim shorts and there’s a towel around his neck. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Thought I would read some more today.” The nonchalance comes out wobbly, unconvincing, and Ryan sniffs him out like a shark with blood in the water.

“Aww, come on. It’s boring swimming alone,” Ryan pleads. He rounds Shane’s bed and pulls on his arm, trying to drag him out of bed. When Shane tugs back, Ryan looks back at him, and then lower, because of course. Shane can feel his face burst into flames and tugs his arm again like he’s pleading. 

“I just need a second,” Shane says quietly, avoiding Ryan’s eyes, their hands still clasped around each other’s arms. 

“Right, yeah,” Ryan agrees. “I’ll be downstairs if you still want to go.” He drops his hold on Shane’s arm and leaves the room without saying anything else, and when the door closes, Shane flops back onto his bed, pulling a pillow from underneath his head and covering his face, hoping to suffocate himself.

-:-

It’s hotter than fuck outside, the air sticking to his skin. Being naked in heat like this wouldn’t make a difference; he’d want to rip off his flesh, let the breeze cool his bones. They’re at the lake behind the house. He thinks about this morning, entertaining the intrusive, virgin fantasy of what it would have been like to have laid back against his mattress and slide his hand back into his underwear while Ryan was still in the room.

It makes a shiver hit every vertebra on its way down his spine, like a slinky.

“It’s nice out here,” Ryan says, spinning around slowly, like he’s trying to get a panoramic view, store it for later. Shane looks around, but this spot doesn't do it for him. Not like the hidden solace of the creek. 

“It’s alright,” Shane says, letting his bike fall to the ground. “There are better lakes.” 

“The air is different out here,” Ryan decides, kicking off his sandals and throwing his towel to the ground. “Smells clean.”

The flash of the chiseled muscles of Ryan’s stomach reminds him of the ripples in the lake, making his fingers itch to skip stones. Ryan’s still talking, but Shane’s lost the thread; he pulls off his t-shirt, lets it flutter to the ground as he dives headfirst into the water. Underneath the surface, the world is muted, cloudy, moving with the motion of the waves he’s created. As he swims back up to shore, he can see Ryan peering into the water, like he’s searching for him. Shane breaks the surface and then dives back under again. 

Not yet , he thinks. 

-:-

Shane’s jolted awake by Ryan calling out to him. Through bleary eyes, he finds the shape of him. They’re still at the lake, hidden underneath the shade of the trees.

“Are you sleeping?” 

“I was,” Shane mutters, stretching his arms over his head. He was dreaming. Whatever it was doesn’t seem to be important, not enough to recollect. 

“Sorry,” Ryan apologizes. “I was just reading back what I’d written last night, and I sound nuts.” 

“Let me hear it,” Shane says. 

Ryan reads through a paragraph; the sentences are stilted, they don’t connect, Shane isn’t quite sure he knows what it’s even about. “Does it make sense to you? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

Shane shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe it did when you wrote it.” He holds his hand out for the pages, but Ryan doesn’t hand them over; he looks over at him with brown eyes like amber, like whiskey, like impossibility, and gives him a gentle smile. 

“You think so?” Ryan says. Shane shrugs again, stretching his arms over his head. He understands, in that moment, what it feels like to be a fish out of water; he’s out of words to say, out of sentiments; he’d rather go swimming, but when he looks out towards the lake, all he sees is cooling blue, disappointed, like he was expecting the waters to be brown, like coffee, like warmth, like something else. 

Shane rolls over onto his belly. The grass pricks at his flesh, but he ignores it, leaning up on his elbows and looking at Ryan where he’s sitting cross-legged, staring down at the pages on his lap. 

For a moment, he observes Ryan, watching him flip through the pages as he makes his notes, referencing other pages. Sometimes, he taps the tip of his yellow pen against his temple, like it might spark an idea. 

“What exactly is your book about?” Shane asks. 

Ryan looks up at him, but it’s the motion of his head that tells him as much; his eyes are hidden behind sunglasses now. “Haunted places I’ve visited,” Ryan says. “Houses, jails, bars—any place that doesn’t mind me poking around, really.” 

Shane hums. “So, it doesn’t scare you?” 

“Honestly? It freaks me out like nothing else. But even then, proving that it’s real makes it all worth it.”

“Words aren’t proof.”

“No, but I might get something on camera. I’m a pretty quick when I need to be.” 

Shane hums. “So, what’s the deal with the house?” he asks, picking at the grass and letting the blades flutter back down to the ground. 

“Your house?” 

“Yeah. Tell me the story.” He rolls onto his side, keeping his head up on a hand as he leans against an elbow. 

“Well, there were two sisters, Anne and Mary Foster. The house was left to the two of them by their father. The oldest sister, Mary, got married to a rich man, and the Anne was jealous—she poisoned her sister, and back in those days, it was a lot easier to cover up a murder.” 

“How far back we talkin’?” 

“Great Depression.” 

“A lot more recent than I was expecting,” Shane murmurs.

Ryan nods. “So, of course—the baby sister, Anne, marries the husband, because that’s what you do, I guess. They’re in financial ruin—he’s lost all his money, all they’ve got is the house, and Anne keeps begging to sell it, but it’s the last thing the husband has of his late wife, so he keeps telling her no. She ends up killing him, too, for the insurance, you know, but she’s so overcome with grief at leaving herself alone in the house, that she—” Ryan frowns and shrugs his shoulders. “She takes her own life.”

“It’s hard to feel bad for her. She sounds selfish.” 

“I’ll say. There’re some reports that Anne had snagged the husband’s attention before he’d gotten with the older sister. There’s even an account of Anne being pregnant, and Mary forcing her to get rid of it, so they didn’t ruin the wedding.” 

“Yeesh. That’s not good.” Shane frowns, and his eyes widen. 

Ryan laughs. “No, it’s not.” 

“So, which sister are you looking for?” 

“I don’t know. They’re both—the descriptions of them are so similar they could have been the same person. Petite, blonde, beautiful.” 

“Okay, okay—playing into it here, I mean none of this sincerely, because there’s no such thing as ghosts but—it’s the oldest sister. Poisoned,” Shane counts on his fingers. “Husband stolen—“ 

“Well, no,” Ryan interjects, “because it could be Anne. Child taken away from her, husband doesn’t love her, murders the only two people she had, and loses herself—maybe they’ve passed on, but she’s stuck here.” 

“Well, I guess that’s what happens when you murder your sister and her husband.” Shane shakes his head. “No wonder Ma got this place for cheap.”

Ryan nods. “It’s certainly part of it. It’s a nice house, though. Your mom has good taste.” 

Shane hums. “But just because people were brutally murdered, doesn’t mean there’s a ghost roaming around,” Shane shrugs. “Just means people got murdered.” 

It makes Ryan laugh, and Shane feels good about that. “Certainly makes the possibility greater. Besides, even the realtor said she saw the woman.” 

“Oh, I’ll bet she saw something. Dollar signs, probably. An elaborate scheme.” 

Ryan laughs louder. “You’re too young to be this cynical.” 

“I’m not cynical,” Shane says with a wave of his hand. “I just don’t believe in all this crap.” 

Ryan shakes his head. “When something happens to you, maybe then you’ll understand.” 

“Oh, sure, yeah. I’ll just sit pretty until that happens.” 

Ryan’s mouth twitches with a smile. 

“So, I suppose then, you have a story,” Shane muses. “About something you’ve seen. Lay it on me.” 

“I’m so glad you asked.”

Shane erupts into laughter, shaking his head. “Well, go on.” 

“So, I’m on this ship, right?” Ryan gives him a bright grin, one that makes Shane’s stomach sink like he’s afraid. Or sick, or anxious, or something. He’s feeling something as Ryan goes on about soft whispers in his ear and levitating toothpaste, stuff Shane immediately writes off, and if Ryan weren’t Ryan, if he were anyone else, if he weren’t handsome or kind, with a grin this bright, then maybe, maybe Shane would be properly annoyed. As it happens, he feels like—he can’t name it right now, but it makes him reach out, pulling on Ryan’s sunglasses in the middle of his bullshit story, just so he can put the sunglasses on over his own eyes. Playful, maybe? But even that doesn’t feel quite right. 

“Are you even listening?” Ryan exclaims, and Shane shakes his head. 

“Nope,” he answers, and Ryan grumbles, but it’s too lighthearted, too gentle to make Shane think that Ryan is actually upset. 

“How rude,” Ryan mutters, but he leans back against his palms, legs crossed at the ankle and tilts his head back, so he faces the sun. 

There’s that itch to create again. To write a story, a song, to draw. Instead, Shane’s glad for the cover over his eyes, so Ryan can’t see that he’s watching, that he’s staring. So, Ryan couldn’t possibly discern that Shane feels like studying him for inspiration’s sake, so later when he sits down to draw something his fingers won’t stutter.

-:-

That night he touches himself, thinking about Ryan’s body, bringing back that fantasy of Ryan watching him. Coming through the door unannounced like he did, standing like a shadow at the edge of his bed. He touches himself, grasping, stroking slowly as he keeps his eyes closed, imagines how Ryan might sit on the edge of the mattress and Shane’s ankle will slide where the mattress top has dipped, how his toes will touch Ryan's hip. Maybe Ryan will reach out for him, to him, touch him with a gentle hand. Start from his shin and up over his knees, soft fingertips along the inside of his thigh. Maybe Ryan will crawl over the bed, between the splay of his open legs, his eyes heavy, intense as they watch, pupils following the slow drag of Shane's hand over himself. 

He takes a shuddery breath, pure want scorching through his body like a drug.  

He thinks about the color of Ryan’s eyes. Can see them in detail when he closes his own. There’s no way he can describe them because there isn’t a color that exists.

Merely knowing they’ve looked back at him is enough to whimper when he comes.

-:-

There’s a knock at Shane’s door; it’s the middle of the afternoon. The sun is softer today, like it’s tired of radiating so much. Shane looks up from his book. 

“Come in,” he calls. He keeps watching the door, trying to figure out if it’s Ryan whose come knocking, or his mother, before the door opens to reveal the former. 

He’s dressed in blue jeans, a white t-shirt tight around his chest, his arms. His hair is slick back, different from the Ryan Shane’s seen all summer. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, leaning against the door jamb. Shane doesn’t like his energy. He feels too...too cool. 

“Same thing I’m always doing,” Shane mutters, raising his book for Ryan to look at.

“Don’t you ever get bored?” 

“You know I don’t.” 

“Come watch a movie with me.” 

Shane raises his eyebrows. “What movie?” 

“Batman Returns.” Ryan pushes himself off the doorjamb, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “How about it?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now,” he says with a gentle laugh.

“I—okay,” Shane says, flipping his book closed. “I just gotta change.” 

“I’ll meet you out front,” Ryan says, righting himself and leaving Shane’s bedroom, closing the door behind himself. 

It only takes a few minutes for Shane to get dressed. Part of him wishes Ryan would have asked earlier so he’d have time to shower. He chooses a nicer t-shirt than what he’d normally wear. Shorts that aren’t shredded or stained. When he looks in the mirror, he picks at his hair. Dissatisfied, he descends the stairs. 

“Hey, honey, your father called again. Said you haven’t called him back,” Sherry says, poking her head out from the kitchen. Shane sighs. 

“Sorry Ma, I’m going to see a movie with Ryan. And it’s Tuesday so I won’t be back until late. I’ll call him tomorrow.” 

The look on her face tells him she knows he’s lying, and the worry is there again. But he can’t help it; he doesn’t want to talk to his dad. There isn’t really anything to talk about. 

The screen door slams behind Shane as he steps outside, and Ryan’s sitting on the steps of the porch, elbows on his knees. He twists to look back at him. “Ready?” 

Shane nods, walking past Ryan and picking up his bike from where he’d left it in the grass. Ryan mounts his, and side by side, they ride into town, the handful of minutes spent quietly pedaling on the side of gravelly streets. 

Ryan locks their bikes up on the rack outside the theatre. He also pays for both of their tickets despite Shane having his own spending money. And when they grab popcorn, Shane’s the first to slam down a couple of bills to cover the charge without saying anything to Ryan. 

Ryan doesn’t seem bothered by it. If anything, it’s like he doesn’t notice. 

Which confuses Shane.

Because one minute—

One minute, it feels like Ryan’s looking at him, with burrowing, curious eyes. And the next minute, it’s like that first day, simple strangers with nothing in common, other than the fact that they’re both alive at the very same time.

-:-

When the movie is over, they can’t shut up about it, practically retelling the entire thing to each other. It’s only when Ryan excuses himself to the restroom that Shane has a chance to breathe, to enjoy the buzz of the first watch of a good film. 

He checks his watch and realizes it’s almost time to meet his friends down at the diner. 

Ryan comes back and joins him on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. 

“Ready to go home?” he asks. 

“Actually,” Shane starts. “It’s Tuesday, and my friends and I are doing this thing. You can come if you want.”

“What exactly are you doing? I’m too old to be hanging around with a bunch of delinquents,” Ryan jokes. 

“Ha ha,” Shane mutters dryly. “It’s just a late dinner at the diner. Well, just pie really.” 

“Pie, huh?” 

“You don’t have to—“ 

“I’m in,” he decides, unlocking their bicycles. 

“Honestly, you really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Ryan says with a shrug. “Introduce me to your friends.” 

Shane hums, pulling his bike from the rack. 

“Unless you think I’m lame, which—if you do, don’t tell me,” Ryan says, with a look on his face that’s mostly joking, but there’s a touch of sincerity there. 

“Don’t worry,” Shane eases. “I’ve been keeping it to myself this whole time.” 

When Ryan laughs, Shane feels like he’s watching Ryan push his insecurity off a cliff. How someone like Ryan could be insecure at all is almost riveting. It makes him want to spend an afternoon in his mind, go poking through his thoughts to see how he thinks, how he comprehends. A guy like Ryan can’t be insecure when he looks the way he does and he’s from the place he’s from and walks the way he walks. It feels impossible. And yet, Ryan glances over at him, with eyes so warm Shane feels like he’s catching a fever.

-:-

By the time they arrive, Shane sees his friends have already gotten a table in the back of the dining room. There’s a fair amount of them, enough that they have to grab a smaller table to fit him and Ryan at the end. 

Sara is here, and she gives Shane a wave when she sees him. He waves back, and something compels him to look over at Ryan—he isn’t paying attention, already introducing himself to Matt who’s sitting on the edge. Sara waves him over this time, and he manages to wedge himself between her and someone else. 

“Hey,” she says. “I’m glad you made it.” 

“Yeah, me too,” he says, giving her a smile. 

He tells her about the movie they went to see, and Shane finds he’s disappointed in her level of excitement. Talking about this with Ryan was—easier, he thinks. His responses were livelier. 

“That sounds like fun,” she says, her tone honest. “I haven’t been to the movies in ages.”

“Oh, well, you should go one of these days.” 

Sara blinks at him, gives him a look he can’t quite decipher. “Yeah…always better to go with someone else, I think.” 

“Maybe your brother would like to,” Shane offers, shrugging his shoulders. “Or your mom?” 

Sara laughs. “You’re right, they probably would.” She reaches out and pats his chest. “I’m glad you had a good time. Now, help me order. I’ve been agonizing over whether to get the Key Lime, or Triple Chocolate.” 

Shane looks at the end of the table, finds Ryan sitting relaxed, one arm slung over the back of his chair as he looks up, talking with the waitress. She’s got her notepad out, but the tip of her pen is settled against her bottom lip, and she’s grinning much too widely for Shane to think their conversation is about pie. 

She has crinkles by her eyes, and her hair is a mixture of a deep rich brown and gold, spun into curls that look soft to the touch. When Ryan makes her laugh, Shane can hear it from his end of the table, watching the way she effortlessly reaches out a hand and sets it on his shoulder. Her thumb rubs into his collar bone. 

Eventually, she makes it around the table, taking everyone’s orders, but Shane feels like every so often, she looks over her shoulder, back towards Ryan, and he’s already looking at her. Shane watches him wink at her, and it’s too clumsy to look anything but silly, but she giggles. 

Shane reads her nametag: Marielle. He wonders if she’s new. 

By the time she makes it to them, Shane helps Sara decide on which slice of pie. Apple, they agree. 

Marielle makes her way down the table, double checks her notepad, and then walks away, but not before brushing her fingers over Ryan’s shoulder. 

Somehow, the tips of Shane’s fingers are burning.

-:-

The table is roaring with laughter. Sara has her head thrown back, and Shane can’t help laughing, too. It’s what happens at two in the morning; delirium has settled in and made itself a home in all of them. 

It takes a while for the laughter to quiet, and conversation emerges, broken off in groups, in pairs. Shane doesn’t tie himself to anyone; he’s starting to feel the exhaustion from the day trickle through his veins, weighing him down with a lead-saturated bloodstream. 

Looking around the table, he notices they’re short a person; Ryan’s face is missing from the group. Shane hadn’t even noticed that Ryan had left them. He’s probably in the bathroom, he thinks, glancing over at the clock on the wall across the room, the big hand on the eleven as the small hand creeps towards the two. 

He tries to pay attention to someone's voice, letting it draw him back to the table, but his thoughts carry on, thinking about Ryan, how long it's been. The big hand crosses the twelve, and then the one, and Shane tries to leave it be, but when the big hand reaches the three, he excuses himself from the table. 

He heads first towards the bathroom, but it’s empty when he pushes the door. Not a breath of a sound other than the rustling of his own clothes, the echo of his own footsteps. 

He leaves after relieving himself. 

Shane wonders if Ryan’s with the waitress, if they’ve found themselves in some nonsense conversation adults tend to find themselves in, passing the time talking about the weather and shit about bills and taxes or whatever. Or maybe he’s telling her about the movie they saw, and how much he enjoyed it, and maybe she’s excited for him, like Shane had been after watching it. 

Still, even that doesn’t appease his curiosity. If anything, it makes the desire to find them burn a little hotter. 

She’s pretty, with her hair, and her eyes like stained church glass, teeny tiny waist with legs a mile long despite the fact that she stands somewhere around five and a half feet. She’s certainly worth a daydream or two, could inspire someone to write about her, draw her even. 

And Ryan. Ryan probably took a liking to her. He’s probably chatting her up some now, in however ways men with penchants for believing in ghosts can. 

He hears the giggling first, and then a noise like someone is…distressed. 

They don’t see Shane, or even notice him when he stands in the hallway, peering towards the kitchen; it must be the shock that keeps him stock still, standing there.

One of her thighs is hiked up around Ryan’s hip; he’s fucking her hard, at least that’s what Shane imagines it feels like with the way she gasps these soft little moans, like it surprises her. The counter she’s sitting on shudders, and dishes clatter gently. Both of her hands grip his back. She could tear his shirt with the talon-like curve of her fingers. Shane flexes his own hands, like it might offer her some relief. 

One of her hands moves as she grips the counter; a cup falls over and skitters along the tile. Both of them laugh, but the momentum doesn’t stop, Ryan doesn’t stop, and then, she’s louder, for just a moment, before he grunts, his thrusting slower now before he stops completely. 

Shane forces himself to turn away and walk back towards the table. 

He wishes he would have said something, had actually caught them, sending them into a flutter to become as modest as possible. He wishes he would have made a noise, so they’d be embarrassed that they’d been witnessed. 

Moreover, more than that, he wishes Ryan would have seen him watching, just so he could have felt the striking heat of—

Something rancid boils in Shane’s stomach, clawing up his esophagus and sitting nasty at the back of his throat. 

His gentle curiosity to find Ryan has turned into this, something mean inside that makes him sit silent when he reaches the table again, feeling much too hot in his skin. 

Sara leans into him, a sweet nudge of her shoulder, and Shane looks over at her, down at the soft features of her face. 

“Who pissed in your cheerios?” she asks. 

“I’m fine,” he responds, fighting himself and offering her a smile. “Just tired.”

“Sure,” she says, but it’s so sarcastic, it makes him laugh. 

“Can I walk you home tonight?” he asks her, out of the blue. He thinks it and says it, and regrets it some, because he’s so tired, but the light in her eyes is brighter than he’s ever seen it. 

“Sure can,” she says, but his stomach still hurts, and the gentle curve of her smile doesn’t make it feel any better. She moves closer to him, though, so their arms touch, for just ten more minutes until the table calls it quits and Ryan returns, and Marielle is clearing off the table, like nothing had ever happened. 

The flush on her face is unmistakable, and when she catches his eye, she holds his gaze steady.  

And then, she winks at him.

-:-

They leave the diner, all their friends heading in all sorts of different directions. Shane gets on his bike, and Sara hops on the handlebars. He swerves them fast just to be funny, and he’s rewarded with a delightful shriek as she leans back, resting her head on his shoulder. 

“You’re gonna make us tip over!” she exclaims through her laugh. 

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks her. 

She’s quiet for a brief moment before she says, “I do. And that’s the problem.” 

“Why is that a problem?” he asks. 

“You’re a little thick, aren’t you?” 

“Huh?”

They’ve reached Sara’s house. All the lights are off except for the one on the porch that struggles to stay lit. Shane lets his bike fall to the grass; Sara leads him by hand up the rickety steps and onto the landing. She doesn’t go inside yet, so for a few still, quiet moments, Shane’s hand is cradled in hers. 

“I would invite you inside, but my mom would have a fit since it’s so late,” she says, looking up at him. She’s so small; he wants to step even closer, reach out and touch her. He thinks back to the conversation at the beginning of the night, realizing she had been vaguely making herself available as a movie date. 

“Oh, my God,” he says. “I really am the world’s biggest idiot.” 

She laughs and it sounds different now, softer. It’s an invitation, coupled with her pulling him in a hell of a lot closer now. 

“You are,” she agrees. “But it’s cute.” 

A nervous breath of laughter falls out of his throat. He wants to kiss her, curious about the shape of her mouth, the way her top lip dips in the center. He wonders if he’d be able to taste the sugar from the pie they’d eaten if he did.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly. 

“Yeah,” she whispers. 

Shane drops her hand, and reaches out for the curve of her waist, fingers laying along the line of her spine. 

Even with her as high on the tips of her toes as she can manage, he has to lean down quite a way to touch his lips to hers. He doesn’t mind at all. 

It’s soft, sweet, and Sara keeps him pulled to her with her hands on his shoulders. It breaks naturally, and she moves, stepping away, tugging the hem of his shirt to pull him along. 

She sits on the bench, and he follows, sitting next to her, close to her. “Kiss me again,” she says. Shane’s all too happy to fall into her again. 

They kiss for a while, long enough to make him think about what it would be like to touch her like Ryan had touched Marielle, barely naked, but still wrapped around each other. 

The front door creaks open, though, and Sara’s mom finds them as they shuffle away from each other. Shane’s face feels hot, like he’s been caught.

“Hi, Mom,” Sara says, taking a step forward. “I was just coming inside.” 

Sara’s mother’s smile is knowing. “Alright. Shouldn't you be getting on home, Shane?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry we’re back so late.” 

“That’s alright. You have a good night, dear.” 

Shane nods and Sara gets up from the bench, following her mom into her house, with a quick glance backwards. 

“Goodnight, Shane,” she says. 

“Night, Sara.” 

The door closes behind her, and he walks down the steps, and the door opens behind him—he turns, expecting to see Sara’s father, receive a warning, but it’s only Sara, rushing over to him. 

“Meet me at the lake tomorrow night?” she asks him. 

“Yeah—yeah, sure.” 

“At eleven, okay?” 

He nods. “Eleven.” 

She presses a hand to his chest and sends him away. The door closes behind her again. 

He’s grinning when he picks up his bike and rides away, a wild, giddy feeling clogging up his system.

-:-

For the Fourth of July, the city is decorated in an assortment of stars, flags, balloons, and streamers. It’s Shane’s favorite holiday, most notably because of the hot dogs, which he puts away like he’s dying. 

This time around, Ryan doesn’t bother asking for ketchup. 

He’s slopped sunscreen on his face in an effort not to burn underneath the shade; every year they underestimate how early people will show up to shit like this just to get a good spot. But every year, it’s worth the drive out to the city. 

In the field, they set out a blanket, rotating through to walk around, at least one of them staying behind so some asshole doesn’t go and take their spot. 

It’s late afternoon and Shane is craving shaved ice, and he invites Ryan down to the street side where all the vendor booths are set up.

He looks over at Ryan; his hair is messy over his forehead. The sun does wonders for his skin, saturating him in light. The tank top he’s wearing shows off his arms. Shane thinks the socks he wears are going to give him a gnarly tan. 

When they step in line for one of the booths selling ice cream, a group of girls—Shane’s age, he decides when he turns back to look—queue up behind them. There’s some fervent whispering, some giggling. 

Ryan doesn’t pay them any mind, even though it’s obvious the girls are giggling about him. Shane’s too gangly to be gossiped about. 

“How was your night with Sara?” Ryan asks. “You two a thing now?”

Shane shrugs. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, have you asked her?” 

“No.” He glances at Ryan. “Do you like her?”

“Who, Sara? Sure—” 

“No, the waitress.” 

Ryan gives him a quizzical look. “From the restaurant?”

“Yeah. She’s cute, huh?” 

Ryan purses his lips. “You and me gonna talk about women?” 

“I’m just saying. She’s got great legs.” 

“Great legs?” Ryan laughs, but it's wry, like Shane doesn’t know the half of it. “What do you know about great legs?” 

Shane shrugs. He’s walking a precarious line. Can't just come out and say he’d seen them, how he knows the picture it makes when she wraps those legs around him. 

“What do you know? You’re not that much older than I am,” Shane retorts. He stoops down to retie the laces of his right shoe. 

Ryan has the audacity to ruffle Shane’s hair. “A few years can make all the difference.” Shane ducks out of Ryan’s condescending touch. 

Defiant, Shane looks up at him. “Do you want to fuck her, Ryan?” 

He raises his eyebrows, surprised. It pleases him. “Sure. Who wouldn’t want to?” 

“So, you're going to ask her out?” 

“That’s definitely not what I said.”

“So, what then? You're just not going to do anything?” He stands up, and they move up in the line. 

“I didn’t plan to spend my whole summer dating a pretty waitress just for the chance to fuck her,” Ryan says pointedly. “I have a book to write.” 

“Every book needs a love story,” Shane reasons. 

“Sex doesn’t mean love,” Ryan says. “Sometimes two people meet each other, click, and it’s all or nothing. Other people need time, years and years of will-they-won't-they before the spark becomes a fire. It was all or nothing with her. And I don't have years. I'm only here for the summer.” 

“Some people are worth a summer,” Shane says wistfully. 

“Some people are worth a summer,” Ryan repeats. “Ever met someone worth a summer?” 

Shane takes a long, hard look at Ryan’s face, watching him intently. “Not yet.”

-:-

The fireworks display is better than last year’s. Shane tilts his head back and watches it all unfold, big and beautiful. It’s mesmerizing, makes him feel so little, so miniscule. So terrible, and frighteningly unimportant. Every year it happens; he gets this rush, feeling the booming cracks of the fireworks exploding. The sulfur in the air tickles his nose. It makes him sneeze. 

He’s broken the moment open, becomes aware of himself again. He looks around while everyone else looks up. 

Except Ryan, who’s looking at him already. 

Ryan, who’s strolled in this summer and is turning the world onto its head. Upside down, really, holding it by the legs and shaking it, like he’s a bully on the hunt for lunch money. 

Ryan, who’s already looking at him. 

The fireworks illuminate the side of his face, bright blues and reds, golden light, white light; it makes him look like a film. 

Shane opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Instead, Ryan bumps his shoulder with his own, and he leaves it at that. 

There are fireworks inside his chest, which is just a dramatic way to say his heart is thumping like the baseline in a really good fucking song. 

It makes him want to throw up. It makes him want to jump. It makes him want to scream as loud as he can until someone hears him over the fireworks.

-:-

Shane’s folding a blanket when he remembers Sara. “Shit, shit,” he mutters. 

“What’s up, man?” Ryan asks, picking up the ice chest and holding it to himself. 

“Nothing.” Shane looks at his watch; he won’t make it in time. It's ten thirty now, and they have an hour’s worth of a drive. And they still have to get out of the city, which will take forever. 

She’s going to be upset. 

When they get back to town, Shane doesn't even wait for the car to stop before he opens the door, rushing out and nearly tripping over himself despite the exclamations coming from the car. 

He grabs his bike and leaves, knowing it’s a lost cause. Knowing she isn't going to be there. Knowing that part of him doesn't want her to be. 

The ride feels long, and his legs are burning, lungs breathless as he skids to a stop. 

“Sara?” he calls. 

She, of course, doesn’t respond. 

When Shane gets back home, the house is quiet. There’s the quiet sound of a ding! that lets Shane know Ryan is still awake. 

In the living room, the answering machine’s indicator light flashes red. There’s a message. 

He hits play. 

“Hi, it’s Sara. I totally forgot today was the Fourth, and I know it’s your favorite holiday, so I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay? Hope you liked the fireworks. Can’t wait for you to tell me about them.”

He doesn’t know what he’s feeling as he listens to her voice. He wants to call her, but it’s almost midnight, and he has a feeling her parents won’t like that much. 

Either way, he makes his way up to his room, kicking off his shoes and falling onto his bed. 

How can he tell her about the fireworks if the best part was seeing them splash like paint onto Ryan’s face?

-:-

Shane unscrews the peanut butter jar and stabs the peanut butter with a butter knife. It stays upright in the peanut butter as he unscrews the jelly. 

The phone rings. Shane stares at it, like it’s called him a nasty name, offended him. It could be his father on the other end of the line. But it could also be someone else. The probability is low, low enough that Shane takes the chance that it might be Sara, or maybe someone for his mom—

He answers, holding the receiver to his ear. “Hello?” 

“Shane?” 

“Scott?”

His brother laughs on the other end, and Shane smiles, leaning against the counter. 

“How’ve you been, man?” 

Immediately, he’s glad his brother can’t see the way he glances into the living room, where Ryan’s busy painting the walls. He’s wearing a shirt today, but Shane’s watching when Ryan sets the roller brush down and wipes his face with the hem of his shirt and the cut of his hips is displayed over the line of his shorts. 

“I’m good,” he says. “You?”

“Good, yeah. Mom around?” 

“Nah, she’s working. I’ll tell her to call you back.” 

“Yeah.” Scott shuffles on the other end, and then his voice sounds clearer. 

“Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?” 

“Thinking about it. Mom’s dying for me to see the house. Told me the whole story about how she hired a guy.” 

Shane huffs a breathy laugh. “Ah, yeah. He’s nice though.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.” Shane pauses. “Why are you being weird?” 

“I’m not. I was just asking a question, and you got all Shane about it.” 

“I—“ he glances towards Ryan again, back to painting. With his shirt off, his body looks like it’s wet from how much he’s sweating. “I did not.” 

Scott laughs. “You forget I know you, little brother,” he says, and it feels like a jab, like he’s standing in the kitchen, watching Shane watch Ryan. Ryan turns and glances at him, gives him a smile that’s much too bright when catching someone staring at you. Shane smiles back, albeit a little strained before he looks away. 

“Well, I have to go,” Shane says. 

“And do what?” 

“Nothing,” Shane says simply.

“What’s he look like?” 

“Who?” 

“The guy mom hired.”

“He looks like a guy,” Shane answers, slightly exasperated, a hand on his hip. “Arms and legs, a head even.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Eyes.” 

“What color?” 

“Brown.” 

“Mud brown? Coffee brown? Shit brown—“ 

“Don’t be rude—“ 

Scott laughs. “Come on, Shanie. Paint me a picture here. Mom says he’s hot.” 

“He’s—“ Shane clears his throat. “He’s fine.” 

His brother hums knowingly. 

“Did mom—say anything else?” 

“Why would she say anything? What would she even say?” 

“I don’t know!” Shane mutters. “It’s the first time I’ve talked to you in months, and you’re—being weird.” 

“Again, not weird for me to want to know what a man looks like.”

Shane can see the judgmental raise of Scott’s brow. His eyes shut, and he wipes his forehead with his hand. “That’s not what I meant—“ he mutters. He sighs, feeling frustrated with the conversation. He remembers the look Ryan had given him just a couple nights ago, eyes backlit by the fireworks. “That’s not what I meant,” Shane insists, softer this time. 

“I know, I know.” 

They’re quiet over the line, and Shane feels like with every passing second, his insides are melting. Eviscerated, like Scott might be able to peer into his mind, sifting through fantasies, through desperate desires. He feels like the silence is answering a question Scott asked in a roundabout way—his brother had a way of doing that, of talking about something, but only at the edges, and letting Shane give himself up, because he can’t say it with his words. 

Yes, he does forget his brother knows him. 

“I think I’m dating Sara,” he blurts out. 

“You think?” Scott says. 

“Yeah.”

“And how’s that going?” 

“She’s nice.” 

“And?” 

“And what?” 

“There’s gotta be more than ‘she’s nice’.” 

“Well, she is.” 

“Shane—“ his brother sighs. “Don’t get lost, okay?” 

“Lost?” 

“Yes. In other people’s expectations of you. In yourself.” 

“What does that—“ Shane clenches his jaw. “You always do this when I tell you something. Like it’s the wrong answer.” 

“It’s not the wrong answer for me. If you like her and she’s ‘nice’, then by all means, I expect an invitation to the wedding. But don’t settle to be safe.” 

“Settle,” Shane echoes. “I’m eighteen. I’m not settling. And I’m sure as shit not getting married.” 

“I just mean,” Scott says, with his at-ease, completely calm tone, “there’s more to life than safe. Bottom line, I want you to be happy, little brother.”

“I am.”

“Are you?”

“Yes!” 

“Then, tell me what he looks like, Shane.” 

“I—“ Shane glances towards Ryan again. “I have to go.” 

“Alright. Tell mom to call me.” 

Scott hangs up before Shane has to struggle to do so. 

He finds he isn’t hungry anymore, but he makes the sandwich anyway, wrapping it in a paper towel. He walks into the living room and taps Ryan on the shoulder. He sets down the paint roller and shucks off one side of his headphones. 

“Hungry?” 

“Starving actually,” he says with a smile. Shane holds out the sandwich. “This for me?”

“Peanut butter and jelly. Real fancy stuff.” 

“You even cut the crusts off,” Ryan marvels. “Exactly the way I like.”

Shane looks down at the sandwich in Ryan’s hand. Huh. He did, didn’t he?

-:-

He goes out to the lake and goes swimming by himself, thinking about what his brother said, about Ryan in his house, about what that makes him, how he wouldn’t mind if the water swept him away and he stopped existing just to walk the line of confusion and understanding, wobbling back and forth 

As he floats in the water, looking up at the skies, the vast expanse of the universe farther than he can see, he wonders if he’d been obvious in his attraction. Was he so clumsy about his silly little crush that everyone around him knew? Was he holding up a sign? Was it written on his face? 

More tragically, was it obvious to people like Scott, or his mom, but not to Ryan? Or Sara? Did she have the slightest clue about Shane liking his housemate? 

He feels fucked in the head, like someone’s come up behind him and done his head in with a baseball bat. And here he is, trying to pick up fragments of his cranium, hoping to put them back together before people start to notice. 

No, he doesn’t think Sara can see that he has a thing for Ryan. Shane still has something of a thing for her. He likes her. She really is nice, and her skin is soft and kissing her makes him want to be closer to her. But it doesn’t rush through him the way it does when Ryan looks at him. She doesn’t make him nervous. She doesn’t make him feel small. She feels safe, like home base. And Ryan’s—Ryan isn’t even in the stadium. He’s—he’s—

Shane doesn’t know enough about sports to care about crafting the analogy correctly. 

But Ryan is, simply put, something else.  

Something else, and Shane is half-parts elated and terrified, but like a moth to Ryan’s warm, incandescent flame, Shane’s drawn in, finds himself desperate to be closer.

-:-

That night, Ryan’s sitting in the backyard, looking up at the house. Shane can see him from his window. He wonders if maybe Ryan had fallen asleep, the sunset taking him into slumber. Shane thinks about throwing something, but he doesn’t want to hurt him—he settles for watching instead, just taking him in, staring outside his window at Ryan on the lawn chair, legs crossed at the ankle, hands tucked behind his head, sunglasses over his eyes.

Shane decides to go downstairs and wake him. When he makes it outside, Ryan’s sitting up, fully, with his sunglasses off. 

“Were you watching me?” Ryan asks, grinning. 

“What? No,” Shane refuses. “I just happened to look outside my window and thought you were sleeping.”

Ryan is still grinning, wide like a shark. Dangerous. 

“I was gonna wake you up, so you don’t get a stupid crick in your neck,” Shane mutters. “That’s the last time I ever do anything nice for you.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

Ryan laughs, throws his head back and splays his whole body over the lawn chair. “You’re so funny.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. “Anyway, goodnight.” 

“Hang on, I’ll go up with you,” Ryan says, standing from the chair, leaving his sunglasses behind, but he collects his empties, and trashes them in the bin at the edge of the house. 

As they climb the stairs, Ryan is quiet behind him. But rather than walk into his bedroom and close the door behind himself, he sits at the top of the stairs. Shane’s nearly through the doorway of his own room when he turns and looks down at Ryan. 

“What are you doing?” he whispers. 

Ryan cranes his neck to look at Shane. “Maybe if I sit here, I’ll see her.”

“See who?”

“The ghost!” 

There’s a sudden tightness in Shane’s chest—fondness maybe—and rather than retreat into his nightly solitary confinement, he gives into his desire to be close to Ryan and sits next to him. Ryan folds his arms over the tops of his knees and rests his cheek on his forearm. He’s looking at Shane, with the prettiest eyes Shane’s ever seen, and Shane ignores the way he knows he isn't supposed to find Ryan’s eyes pretty. Or any part of him pretty.

But here, in the dark, at the top of the stairs, Shane feels like it’s okay.

Here he isn’t settling; he feels safe. 

“They’re gonna cart you away if you keep talking all this nonsense about ghosts, Ryan,” Shane teases knocking his knees gently into Ryan’s. Ryan shakes his head. 

“You are very annoying,” Ryan huffs. 

“So, I’ve been told.” Shane leans against the wall, stretching out his legs on the steps below. 

They’re quiet for a little while, talking about bits from movies—they somehow end up there—and when Shane starts to get tired and his eyes start to droop, he just makes himself comfortable on the landing lying on his side. He doesn’t quite want to—he doesn’t want to go yet. 

“Tell me about California,” Shane whispers. “What’s it really like?” 

Rolling over onto his stomach next to him, Ryan leans up on his elbows. His mouth shapes into a crooked smile. “California, huh?”

“Describe it for me,” he pleads softly.

With a gentle inhale, Ryan takes his time and tells him everything he can. About the lights at night in Los Angeles, about the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean, his friends in bars, his dorm in college, how he was very particular about his studies, but joined a fraternity so he could socialize. He tells Shane about his graduation, the odd jobs he’d had afterwards. About his family—like his own, with a brother, but his parents are still together and grossly in love. About his bedroom in his parents’ house that feels a little like a shrine but makes him feel nine years old every time he stays the night there. About his apartment in the city, all the movies he’s collected, how he doesn’t know what he wants to be when he grows up, despite being a grown up. 

Shane’s never met anyone more fascinating, hanging onto every word, asking questions about his favorite spots and if he has something for himself, a place where he gets away when the word is too noisy, and he can’t think straight.  

“I have every other city in the continental United States. I just do a little research and pack a bag and head out until my heads a little clearer. And then I go back home, to my apartment, and everything is shiny again.”

“Do you miss home right now?”

“Right now?” Ryan asks. Shane nods. “Right now…hmm.”

“It’s okay if you do,” Shane murmurs. “I would miss home if I was away for this long.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. “But—”

Shane waits for Ryan to continue, but he doesn’t. He makes himself comfortable, lying on the floor next to Shane as he folds his arms in front of himself and lays his head down. He faces Shane, looking at him for a moment, and then Shane forgets he was waiting for Ryan to say anything at all. He keeps looking into Ryan’s eyes until they flutter closed, like he can’t put up a fight anymore.  

It’s too dark to see his eyelashes, but he can imagine them, soft and resting against the very tops of his cheeks. Shane tilts his head towards the ceiling, looking upwards. 

He could fall asleep right here, but he knows better than that. He wants to, though, and their bodies will gravitate towards one another in search of heat on the cold hardwood. He’ll reach out the same way Ryan will instinctively reach out, and in the morning, when the sun shines a spotlight on them, maybe it’ll burn away the shame he feels thinking about being that close.

“Ryan, go to bed,” Shane says softly. 

“Just leave me here,” Ryan says through a yawn. Shane smiles to himself, but he gets up, reaching down for Ryan’s arm. Ryan doesn’t resist when Shane yanks him up, but the momentum makes them stumble, and Ryan catches himself as Shane bumps back into the wall.

Ryan’s body is as close as his mind fantasized for it to be. He’s right there, solid and real, hot in a way only flesh seems to be.

Shane doesn’t know how long they stand like that, but Ryan looks up at him, more sober and awake than Shane’s ever seen him, eyes clear when they ask their question. Except Shane doesn’t know what the question is. 

“You smell like peaches,” Ryan says quietly, leaning in closer; their knees knock together, and Shane’s aware of each of his fingers, where they sit clasped around Ryan’s forearm. Ryan’s skin is so warm, feverish almost. 

“I'm locally grown,” he jokes, like it might diffuse whatever tension they’ve built. It doesn’t. It’s still there when Ryan laughs, breathy, exasperated. 

He doesn’t move any closer, but it feels like he does somehow, like the air between them is dissolving. 

It must be enough. This. Standing with each other in the hallway, in the dark, with the night outside for light, which isn’t much, but Shane can see Ryan’s face, can see when he blinks. 

“What are you thinking about?” Ryan whispers. 

Shane shakes his head. Mostly because he’s thinking about nothing—nothing he can share with Ryan anyway, even though he wants to. Pitch forward and taste his mouth, lick his lips, his tongue, the insides of his cheeks and dip his tongue against his soft palate. He wants to put his fingers through Ryan’s hair, and hold onto his shoulders, and let his fingers dig into the muscled grooves of his back. He wants to test the weight of Ryan’s body on his own, wondering if he’s heavy enough to knock the breath out of him. 

Shane’s still got a hold on Ryan’s arm, but with his other hand, his right hand, Ryan presses his fingers to Shane’s chest, right against his sternum. Shane is painfully aware that his heart is being dramatic again. Ryan doesn’t move his hand; he keeps it there for some insane, perverse reason, like he’s keeping tabs on Shane’s heartbeat. 

“What are you thinking about?” Shane whispers back. 

“Shh, I’m counting,” Ryan admonishes. 

Shane thinks there’s no way, no way if he were to kiss Ryan right now that Ryan would push him away. He’s moved closer, and Shane hadn’t even realized. Their thighs are touching. 

“How many you got?” Shane tries again, his voice shaky despite his willingness to keep calm.  

Ryan glances up at him, looking through his dark eyelashes. “Not enough,” he says, and his smile is so sad, so sad that Shane feels his heart fracture from it, but Ryan collects himself, putting space between the both of them. Shane lets go of Ryan’s hand and grieves the loss of Ryan’s fingers against his chest. 

“Goodnight, Shane,” he whispers, and Shane feels like his body is in slow motion, because he echoes the sentiment just fine, but Ryan’s already in his room, door closed, when Shane’s arm finally reaches out to keep Ryan close, keeping their bodies almost pressed against each other. 

So many almosts in such a tiny space, such a short timeframe—it makes Shane feel elated, sick at the same time, like he’s free-falling ready to dive into sharp, icy waters. He doesn’t know what he feels, except that it takes him a minute to finally go to his room, to finally close his door behind him, and slip underneath the covers of his sheets. 

He can’t sleep, as tired as he’d been, turning onto his side and imagining Ryan here, laying like they were in the hallway, with his pretty eyes gazing back at him. He thinks about it all night, and it seeps into his dreams, and he dreams of California, and the beach, and hot sand underneath him, and waves crashing over his toes, and he’s lying next to Ryan, and Ryan has sunlight in his eyes.

-:-

It’s early afternoon when he wakes. 

There are notes on the fridge—Ryan’s at the library in town all day. Mom’s with her book club until dinner. 

Shane's alone in the house. 

Curious, he goes into Ryan's bedroom, looking carefully at the things he’s set out. Books, cassettes, letters peeking out of envelopes. The stack of pages that make up the first draft of the script. At night, Shane can hear the typewriter. It doesn't keep him up, but he looks forward to the dings, the way Ryan seems to be on a roll some nights, spewing words onto the paper faster than he can think of them. He wonders if Ryan will ever let him read it when it’s finished. He continues to look, pressing his fingers over Ryan's clothes, a dirty t-shirt draped over the footboard of the bed. Something compels Shane to grab it, fisting cotton in his hand.

The window is open, and just then, a breeze comes through and envelopes him; papers rustle and Shane takes a deep breath, dropping the t-shirt onto the mattress, climbing into Ryan's bed. He can smell Ryan all over the pillows, even more when he rolls over and presses his face into the dirty t-shirt that smells like sweat and sawdust. Shane inhales deeply, feeling the tickle of heat low in his belly, a rush of adrenaline through his body at the realization that he’s lying on Ryan's bed, a place where Ryan sleeps, where he lies on his back and maybe bites back his own desperate sounds when he touches himself.

With a tight grip on the t-shirt, Shane closes his eyes and lets his mind wander. Lets his mind paint the image of what Ryan might look like at night when he’s alone, when he’s lying in the summer heat, a hand around himself, thinking about someone else’s body.

It affects his body deeply, hardening in his shorts, pressed up against the bed. Without a second thought, he tests the pressure, rolling his hips into the mattress, clenching his fingers of his other hand into the messy, bunched up blankets, keeping a tight hold on Ryan’s t-shirt.

It isn’t enough, no. It's only a hint; a taste. 

As he shifts his hips, he breathes in, rough and shuddery, thinking about what would happen if he finished, what it would be like if he fucked himself into an orgasm and came right on Ryan’s bed and leave it for Ryan to find when he’s back.

Imagine the surprise the—the invitation it would make. 

For a moment, Shane thinks about it, about hoisting himself onto his knees, fishing his dick out of his shorts and just doing it. 

Instead, he reaches with a hand to grab one of the pillows, pull it away from where it’s stacked against the headboard, bring it down, down, down between his legs, underneath his hips. When he rolls his hips again, he quietly sighs, but the sound echoes throughout the otherwise silent of the bedroom. It feels like relief, even as the sweat prickles along his shoulders, and the heat burns along his skin; he inhales the shirt again, consuming this unmistakable scent like he’s hungry for it, and imagines what Ryan would do if Shane were caught like this, his face pressed into Ryan’s t-shirt, on Ryan’s sheets, humping Ryan’s pillow as he thinks about that devastating smile and those capable hands, and how terrifying it would be to let Ryan touch him and tear him apart. 

Shane gasps, air caught in his windpipe as he rocks forward; it’s so much on his nervous system, so much strain in his veins, his heart beating on overdrive—it feels better than it should, probably because he knows he could be caught. It’s unlikely because he’s home alone, but Ryan could be slinking up the stairs, ready to walk in and see what a mess he is. That question in Ryan’s eyes—maybe it was this. Maybe he was asking about this, for this, for Shane to settle his limbs underneath the sheets of Ryan’s bed, to warm his bones with Ryan’s body heat. He rushes, like he can’t get enough of it, his dick rubbing against the fabric of his underwear, the pressure of the pillow as his shorts drag, bunching at the top of his thighs.

He makes a strangled, garbled noise as he comes, muffled by fabric. He feels lifeless, like jelly. 

Shame should burn relentlessly, he knows that, but he doesn’t have the capacity for it, even with this kind of clarity. It’s mostly sadness that trickles in as he opens his eyes, rubbing his cheek on Ryan’s shirt to wipe away the sweat.

He flips over onto his back, the breeze cooling the sheen of sweat on his skin. 

He could fall asleep here, and for a moment, he thinks about it, crafting an excuse for Ryan, when he’s inevitably found, as his eyes droop closed. 

“Shane!” 

He nearly jumps out of his skin, his heart racing in his chest at the sound of his mother’s footsteps on the stairs. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, and gets up quickly to make it look like he was doing anything different. He looks down to check the front of his pants; dark enough to hide. He rushes over and grabs a book in his hand, putting Ryan’s pillow back.

“Honey?” She calls again, and Shane opens the door to Ryan’s bedroom, just as Sherry reaches the door to his own room. She looks confused. 

“Hey Ma,” he says, trying to keep himself calm, to keep the fear from showing on his face. 

“Hey, I’m making lunch, are you hungry?” 

“Starving actually,” Shane says, giving her a soft smile. 

“What are you doing in Ryan’s room?” 

“Just borrowing a book,” Shane says, holding up the book in question. She eyes him carefully before she grins up at him. “Don’t worry, I got permission first,” he lies. 

“He’s got you reading ghost stories now?” she says teasingly. 

“I thought I would see what the fuss is about,” Shane says easily, shrugging his shoulders. 

Sherry laughs, but it peters out too quickly. “Are you alright? You look flushed.”

She puts a hand to his forehead, but Shane shies away, retreating to his bedroom. “Yeah, just hot,” he mumbles. 

“Okay, well come downstairs and eat,” she says, and he hears her walk away. He rests his forehead on his door, before heading towards the bathroom for a shower.

-:-

There’s a thunderstorm so bad, it knocks out the power. This time, it’s for hours, all afternoon. Shane keeps his mom company as the water pours over their little corner of the earth. She picks up her knitting, another scarf, surely, for his winter collection. 

A particularly loud crackle of thunder breaks across the sky, so loud the walls of the house are shaking. Shane looks up from his book to his mother, her eyes wide as she waggles her eyebrows. It makes Shane laugh, stretching out across the couch, his feet up on the armrest, his head resting on the other. With his arms overhead, his bones feel like they straighten and realign; his book slides off his stomach and thumps against the hardwood. 

He leaves it there, closing his eyes as thunder breaks again. 

When it’s quiet again, Shane hears the stairs creak; Ryan walks towards them, rubbing his hands with his eyes. He’s in a cropped t-shirt and sleep pants. Shane feels his face heat up, for no explicable reason, looking away towards the television that plays nothing. He makes a big deal about getting his book. 

“Oh hi, Ryan,” Shane’s mother greets. Ryan sits in the second armchair, pulling his feet up so he sits cross-legged. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “The thunder was so loud it woke me up. For a second, I thought it was an earthquake.” 

“Oh no, just a good summer storm. When Shane was little, he’d sleep right through them,” she explains. 

Ryan hums, and when Shane looks over, he’s smiling. “I always did like the rain. Cools everything down for a little while.” 

“I’ll say. We were overdue for a little break.”

Shane turns his attention back to his book while Ryan and his mother fill the space with warm conversation. Shane doesn’t turn the page once, as he listens to everything Ryan tells her, packing it away so he doesn’t forget these little details. 

Eventually, quiet falls again, and the storm lets up just enough that it continues to rain, but there isn’t much thunder. 

Shane’s teetering on the edge of sleep, until his mother starts to speak again. 

“You know, in my book club we’re reading quite the story. Occasionally, we pick a lighter read before we get back into the heavier stuff, just so the book club doesn’t get bogged down. Anyway,” she says, the clicking of her knitting needles prominent in the quiet. “The book we’re reading is somewhat fantastical, with a princess and a prince. Except in this one, it isn’t the prince the princess is after. It’s the knight.” 

Shane smiles as his mother’s voice takes the tone of excitement, like she can’t believe such a plot twist. 

“And this knight is so in love with her, of course. She’s the quintessential princess. But how can he say such a thing? He’s a knight, and there are boundaries to these things. But in an act of bravery, he asks the princess, ‘Is it better to speak, or to die?’”

The clicking of the knitting needles pierces through Shane’s mind, feels like a metronome, or a timer maybe. It so very suddenly feels like he’s out of time. 

“She tells him, ‘It is better to speak’. She tells him that there aren’t many things a person can say that can’t be fixed, but there are no second chances for the dead.” 

Shane glances over to where Ryan is sitting, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he keeps his head turned towards his mother. Shane lets himself look freely. His hair is messy from sleep, and there’s a line across his cheek left by a pillow or a bunched-up section of his blanket. He looks warm. 

“Does he?” Ryan asks. 

Shane glances towards his mother, and he finds she’s already looking at him, gentle eyes pinning him down. 

“He doesn’t,” she says. “And what a shame, to take a confession to the grave. Such beautiful words they would have been had he told her what he would have liked to tell her.”

Shane looks away and shifts on the couch uncomfortably, lying on his side, drawing his legs up and curling in on himself. 

“What happens in the end?” Ryan asks. “Does he die?” 

“Maybe,” she says. “We haven’t finished it quite yet. But it looks like it might lean that way.” 

“That doesn’t seem like a lighthearted story,” Ryan argues. “It seems like a tragedy.” 

“I think you might be right,” Sherry says with a laugh. 

“The knight, though. He has a point in not speaking. It might be better to, but it is always the hardest thing to do. Especially, especially when trying to tell someone how you feel about them.”

“Better to ask the question than live forever without the answer.” 

Shane thinks, maybe the knight does have a point. He looks over at Ryan and thinks of the million things he could say to him, how he could say just one of those things, and Ryan would choose to leave, choose to hate him. 

That doesn’t feel like a probable outcome, not when they had been so close to tripping into each other a few nights ago, when Ryan had busied himself collecting the counts of Shane’s heartbeats. Not when Ryan told him he didn’t have enough. That doesn’t seem like someone who would push him away. Why not stay and keep collecting under there were enough?

Shane doesn’t really think the question is if Ryan will push him away. He hasn’t so far. It seems like gravity has been tilting them towards each other, quite possibly into each other. No, Shane doesn’t think that’s the question at all. 

They’re already in the car, he thinks. He can’t tell who’s driving—he thinks it might be Ryan, hands on the steering wheel, only the sound of their breaths in the cab. Shane’s sitting in the passenger seat, looking over the center console, tracing his eyes over Ryan’s profile, the bridge of his nose, the careful cut of his lips, the dark hair on his chin; they’re already in the car, and he thinks Ryan is driving, and Shane might need to be the navigator and show Ryan where to go. 

The question is whether Ryan will let him or not.

-:-

The power comes back on, just in time for dinner. Ma makes them all some soup with warm bread toasted from the oven. They sit at the dinner table and eat in companionable silence. 

Shane leaves when he’s finished, dishes in the sink, but Ryan stays behind and helps Ma get them washed and put away. He stands at the top of the stairs and listens to their quiet chatter, their gentle laughing. Another person might be jealous—Shane isn’t an only child, but sometimes, the age gap between his brother and himself lent for moments where it felt like it. And Shane’s never really been good at sharing, but this isn’t whatever that is. 

Come some weeks, Ryan will be gone, and the house will be quieter, is all. He reminds himself to enjoy what he has.

-:-

It’s only a little while later when there’s a knock at his door. He half-expects it to be his mother, but it’s Ryan instead, poking his head around the door. 

“Hey,” he greets. It should be impossible for a person to look like heat. To feel like they might be warm to the touch, but somehow, in the low, golden light of Shane’s bedroom, hugged by shadows where the light doesn’t quite reach, Shane feels like he could rest his hand against Ryan’s skin and risk burning himself.

“Hey.” Shane puts down his book, pulling his knees up to his chest. 

“I thought I’d say goodnight,” he says quietly, and it feels clumsy and uneasy, a complete 180 from the Ryan who’d sauntered in here and invited him to the cinema. 

He wonders if Ma’s story affected Ryan like it affected him. Like maybe he was still thinking about the knight and his secret, unspoken words, too. 

Or maybe, it was all in Shane’s head, and he’d been reading too far into Ryan’s body language. 

“Oh, goodnight,” Shane murmurs. 

“You alright?” 

Shane nods. “Just tired. Storms really do a number on me,” he explains with a smile. 

“Seems like it.” 

“You can come in if you want,” he offers, and then feels stupid for doing so, because Ryan had only come by to tell him goodnight. But had he? Really? Or was it an excuse? 

“Oh, sure.” Ryan keeps the door open, just a crack, and crosses the space. He hesitates; Shane can see it in Ryan’s stilted body language before he gingerly sits at the very edge of Shane’s bed. Ryan looks around; Shane doesn’t think he’s been in here for more than a few moments at a time, usually attempting to drag Shane out somewhere. But Ryan looks around, tilting his head this way and that, and Shane lets him. The quiet is nice, anyway, gently nudging Shane into a realm of comfort he’s come to know with Ryan in these delicate, breakable moments. Breathing feels like too much. So, for a handful of seconds, he holds his breath, exhaling when Ryan’s eyes find his, framed by those long, dark lashes. 

He remembers the feeling he had when he wanted to kiss Sara on her porch. Whatever this is, it’s so much more than that. Whatever gentle moment he’d experienced with Ryan in those quietly passing minutes had ruptured; he wanted so badly to lean across his bed, touch his palms to Ryan’s cheeks and kiss him, really kiss him. Until the air rushed out of his lungs and his limbs tingle from the lack of oxygen. Until his lips were numb. 

Right then, all he wanted was to fit their lips together, aching and quiet. It was a desperate, tragic wish, because looking at Ryan right now, they’d never felt farther apart. 

“What are you reading?” Ryan asks, and his voice is so soft it’s like a whisper. 

“Some poems,” Shane answers. “A collection.” 

“Oh, yeah? Will you read one to me?” 

Shane clears his throat, looking down at his bedsheets for his book. He picks it back up, and then he puts it back down. “I don’t—I don’t want to bore you.” 

“You won’t,” Ryan says. He reclines across the foot of Shane’s bed. “Besides, it’s not like you wrote them.” 

Shane hums. “But what if I read you my favorite one, and you hate it?” 

“Then,” Ryan says, “I’ll let you explain all the reasons why it’s your favorite, until it’s my favorite, too.” 

In that moment, Shane wishes he did have a favorite, so he can spend all night reading it to Ryan, until he’s lost his voice explaining every word and why it means so much. 

Instead, all he can do is pick up where he’s left off.

-:-

When he wakes, his bedroom is still lit by the lamp on his bedside table. Ryan’s at the foot of his bed, asleep, his head pillowed on his arms, breathing softly into the bunched-up corner of Shane’s comforter. 

Shane has half a mind to just turn the light out, and fall asleep, but he’d rather not wake to the ghost of Ryan’s body at the edge of his bed, feel whatever sadness might come then. He reaches over, jostling Ryan’s shoulder gently, watching as his eyes blink open, recognition settling in, the sweep of happiness that curls Ryan’s mouth into a surprised smile as his eyes steal all the light from the room and glow back at him.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he whispers, and the magic is gone, Ryan frowning like he’d done something wrong. Shane shakes his head sitting back.

“It’s okay,” he insists. “You didn’t look very comfortable.” 

“I’m fine. If you didn’t need the space for your long-as-hell legs, I’d say just leave me here,” Ryan yawns, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt was so small to begin with, but Shane sees the way Ryan’s body curves, his back arching like a bridge, failing to find the words to tell him that there was space in this bed for him.

Ryan sits up, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, laying back down and stretching out his legs. The door closes behind Ryan, and Shane can hear the click of Ryan’s door, too.

-:-

Shane spends the morning on the phone with Sara.

There’s something building between them, solid and tangible, when he teases her and she laughs, teasing him in return. He enjoys talking with her, sitting on the kitchen counter; his mother is working, and Ryan is elsewhere, and it’s nice.

Maybe he’s just confused, is all. Maybe he’s a little wobbly on his feet, and he’s mixed-up receiving attention for attraction and—and maybe this thing with Sara could work. They’re going to the same school in the fall; a lot of people meet their significant others in college. He has the advantage of knowing her already, of kissing her. Of talking to her like this, for a couple hours, even though their houses aren’t that far apart, and he could go see her.

Maybe this will be good for him. Maybe she’s exactly what he needs.

-:-

“Where are you off to?” Shane asks, watching Ryan cross the living room with his backpack slung over his shoulder. The TV plays with the volume on low; his mother is baking in the kitchen and the whole house smells like sugar.

“The cemetery just outside of town. There’s a reported haunting,” Ryan says with a smile.

Shane raises his eyebrows.

“Wanna come?” he asks.

“Me?”

“No, the guy behind you.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but he shrugs his shoulders. “Not like I had any other plans.”

“There’s a bus that’ll take us back into town at ten-thirty, so we won’t be back too late,” Ryan says. “Besides, maybe it’s a chance for you to start believing in something.”

“Yeah, right.” Shane turns off the TV with the remote and makes his way into the kitchen.

“Hey, I’m going with Ryan to the cemetery,” he advises her, pausing for a moment. “Which is something I never thought I’d say.”

She laughs, pressing a cookie cutter into the dough. “Have fun, honey. You boys be careful.”

“We will, Ma,” Shane calls, and he walks back towards the living room. Ryan’s still waiting for him by the doorway, one hand in his pocket and another on the strap of his backpack.

“Should I bring something?”

“Nah, I got my camera, a flashlight, and my notebook, so that’s all we need I think.”

On the walk to the bus stop, Ryan relays the story of the reported haunting; a little girl named Inez was struck by lightning, and people have said they can see her roaming the cemetery grounds at night.

“We’re not breaking in, are we?” Shane asks when they arrive, and the gate looks to be locked.

“Nope,” he says, pushing the gate open. The chains were just for show it seems.

-:-

“Maybe the flash is scaring them away,” Ryan says with a frown. 

“Or there’s nothing out here but us two,” Shane mutters, waving the flashlight. 

Ryan doesn’t say anything to him, but he keeps the camera up, one eye squinted as he snaps another photo. 

“What were you hoping to find? Like, what does proving ghosts exist do for you?” 

“It proves there’s an afterlife, Shane. Don’t you want to know what happens when you die?” 

“I already know what happens. Nothing.”  

“Yeah, well, I’m not taking that for an answer.”

“Of course, not.” Shane sighs. “But maybe you might have to. After all, you’ve visited all those places, and what has that gotten you? If ghosts were real, you’d’ve seen something by now.” 

Shane watches Ryan ignore him as he checks his watch. He curses. “I lost track of time. We missed the last bus.” 

“Oh, well that’s not good.” 

For the first time in what seems like the whole night, Ryan laughs. “I agree.” He spins in something like a circle, looking around, like a bed is going to pop out from the ground. 

“Well, Mr. Stevens here is looking pretty comfy. You wanna take ol’ Smith?” 

“We can’t sleep on top of graves, are you nuts?” He looks part scandalized and part terrified, which, on Ryan’s face are the same thing; his eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs open. 

“Nothing spooky is going to get you, Ryan,” Shane insists, snickering. 

“Maybe! You never know.” 

“I do know,” Shane huffs. “We’re a long way away from anything. It’ll take us forever to get to somewhere with a phone, and even then, it would take my mom forever to come get us. It’s probably easier to just find a plot of grass and call it a night.” 

“I’m not sleeping here, you’re crazy.” 

“Aww come on. It’s your chance to—to see something,” Shane urges. “Might even get a picture.” 

“I’ll show you a picture,” Ryan grumbles. “Shane, get up.” 

“No, I’m tired, and I’m going to snuggle up with—uh—” he looks behind himself, reading the name on the tombstone. There’s too much moss to properly read it, so he makes up a name. “Sir Giles.”

“I hate you.”

“You do not.”

“Can we at least—not on the graves, Shane.” 

“Fine, fine.” 

He gets up and follows Ryan, where he picks a spot underneath a tree. The grass is soft here. He lays on his back. Ryan follows and lays beside him. 

“Do you really believe in the afterlife?” 

“I think there’s the miracle of humans, of life itself. Why couldn’t there be a possibility where people move onto somewhere different? Somewhere infinite?” 

“Because,” Shane says. “That’s asking too much.” 

Ryan laughs. “Maybe. But it’s—there’s something romantic about it. I think—people hope for something like that because in the end, the people they love are still—you know?”

“I guess. I don’t understand it, but I see what you mean. You just want forever.” 

“Maybe. Who wouldn’t?” 

Shane turns his head and looks at Ryan’s profile, illuminated by a faraway light. He can see the line of his profile, the slope of his nose, his brow, the part of his lips. He hums and then he laughs. 

“Don’t laugh!” Ryan exclaims. He reaches out and whacks Shane with a gentle hand. It doesn’t hurt, but he huffs ow anyway. 

“It’s just that you said it was romantic! None of that is romantic!”

“Clearly you’ve never been in love,” Ryan huffs. 

“So, being in love will make me believe in ghosts?” Shane retorts.

“It’ll certainly make you want to find a way to have forever if you love a person enough.”

“But why can’t the beauty of love just be for a little while? People aren’t meant for forever. In fact, it makes the whole thing a little cheap, if you ask me. Humans get bored, and they’ll find something else, something that seems like it might be better. And if forever exists, then it’s just an endless cycle.” 

“So, you don't think there’s a person meant just for you out there?” 

Shane shakes his head. “A soulmate? No.” 

Ryan sighs. “One day you’ll understand,” he says, like he’s seventy years old. 

“Hey, if you think there’s some perfect woman out there, made just for you, and you find infinity within her, that’s good for you. From what I’ve seen, it doesn’t quite work like that,” Shane reasons. 

“It could, is the thing.” 

Shane turns his head, looking at Ryan intently. “I don’t know how it is that we oppose each other on so many things.” It’s charming just as much as it is annoying. Shane revels in that awful feeling, knowing he could spend hours talking to Ryan like this, remembering that night in the hallway, the Fourth of July, last night when Shane had fallen asleep reading to him. 

“I think you just like being a contrarian about things. Won’t let anyone have their cake and eat it, too.” 

“People are greedy, Ryan. People are—they’re barbaric and rude. I don’t romanticize life. It would only lead to disappointment.” 

“Like I said, Shane. You haven’t been in love yet.” 

“Maybe I don’t want to be.” 

Ryan hums, but he’s smiling. “You are fascinating, actually.” 

“Somehow, that sounds like an insult,” Shane mutters. 

“I mean that genuinely,” Ryan insists. 

Shane looks away, towards the dark of the sky. “Well, thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.”

-:-

Shane wakes up to Ryan shoving his shoulder. He opens his eyes, looking up at a gruff man with a craggy face. He looks like he’s in his late sixties, maybe his seventies, wearing a dirt-stained navy-blue jumpsuit. 

“You kids gotta get on out of here,” he says in a deep voice. 

“Actually,” Ryan says, sitting up like he’s been shocked awake. “I have a few questions if you don’t mind me asking.”

The groundskeeper eyes Ryan like he’s trying his last nerve. 

“Go on,” he says, and Shane smiles into his hand. 

“Have you seen anything weird happen around—“

“Nope. Now go on, I’ve got a job to do.” 

“No ghosts? Ghouls? Something eerily knocked out of place?” 

“Just a couple o’ delinquents as far as I can see,” the groundskeeper pointedly says. Ryan’s frown is heartbreaking as much as it’s hilarious. Shane tries to stifle his laughter. 

“Nothing? How long have you worked here?” Ryan presses. 

“Twenty-seven years in November.” 

“And you haven’t seen one unexplainable thing happen. At night. In a graveyard.” 

“Listen kid. Don’t know what you’re after, but I can say for damn sure that what’s dead is dead, and the dead ain’t movin’.” 

“I tried to tell him,” Shane butts in, and Ryan elbows him, hard enough that it makes Shane laugh even more. 

“I guess that’s it,” Ryan says, and it’s a little bit like he’s dejected, saddened, and the groundskeeper shrugs. 

“Might wanna try the graves in the next town over. I hear they get up to no good when the moon’s out.” 

It makes Ryan smile, and he closes his notebook and tucks it into his backpack. 

“Well, thanks for your help. Don’t suppose you could give us a ride back into town, would you?” 

“If it gets you outta here, I’m happy to.” 

The car ride is relatively short and quiet. The three of them are in the front seat of the groundskeeper’s truck, Ryan in the middle. Something Shane doesn’t recognize plays on the radio, filling the quiet. 

It’s a quick goodbye, and the groundskeeper heads off. 

They are dirty and exhausted. Shane knows this road, and it’ll take them a bit before they get to town; for now, all that surrounds them are grassy plains, fenced off. The road is paved, a two-way lane, but no cars drive by them. The sky is still dark; when Shane looks at his watch, it’s still an hour until sunrise. 

The air is cool, fresh, almost wet against his skin. He takes a deep breath, tilting his head back, looking at the sky.

Whenever his mom bumps into someone at the grocery store, she always goes, “My, my! What a small world!”

The world feels too big for him now. The sun hasn’t creeped over the horizon yet, but it will, and the light will make everything look like it usually does in the daytime. Open. Honest. Not a shadow around to keep a secret. But right now, he feels so small, miniscule in a way he isn’t used to. Small like he doesn’t matter. Small like he’s got seventy or eighty years of his life left, and that might feel like a long time to his eighteen little, know-nothing years, but maybe—

Thinking about being so small, makes everything feel like it doesn’t matter that much. In twenty years, he won’t even remember last night, or even the night before. He’ll be doing something else, and the mind will have recorded over these summer nights, and they will have lost their meaning.

But when Shane digs a little deeper, he thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to forget the night at the top of the stairs, sitting so safely tucked away in his shadows, where it was okay to look at a man, and it was okay to have every single feeling that shifted inside of him, fighting so violently underneath the frosted ice of the lake inside of him, burying life underneath an unbreakable surface.

Maybe—

Maybe, he’d said those things to Ryan. Maybe he’d said with his whole chest that he didn’t want to be in love. But he thinks about last night, about the warm light of his bedside lamp, and the way Ryan’s breathing was the backing track underneath the sound of his voice tripping over words because he was nervous, reading poem after poem, word after word while Ryan listened to him like it was all he wanted to do.

Ryan had said “another?” and Shane would peek over the top of his book to look at Ryan and his warm brown eyes that looked like he was begging for the moment to be broken open, violently shattered. Like he was begging to be safe in those shadows for a little while longer, too.

And who was Shane to deny him? He read another, and another, until he didn’t even remember when he’d stopped or what word he left Ryan hanging on. Until he was asleep in his bed, in their shadowed safety, and Ryan was there, too.

“So, about last night—“ Shane starts, and Ryan immediately interrupts him. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I got carried away and—and we were having fun—“

Shane shakes his head. “No—not that. I don’t care that we missed the bus.”

“Oh—uh?” Ryan purses his lips. “Okay, so?”

Shane clears his throat. “What if it’s me?” 

“You, what?” 

“What if there isn’t someone made for me. After all, it’s impossible to create that many pairs, and even if it were, to think they would all be alive in the same lifetime is ridiculous; never mind that they couldn’t possibly find each other considering the size of the earth. Probability would write pairs thousands of miles apart; luck would write them as next-door neighbors. But all of that aside, what if I slipped through the cracks and didn't, in this hyperbolic, preposterous world where all this occurs, and I didn't get stamped with the right—“ he waves his hands, looking for the right word, but he comes up empty. “It feels like it could drive you mad.”

“I don't think you’re coming at it from the right angle,” Ryan counters gently. “This isn’t—it’s not a hunt or a mission. It’s just being open to the possibility that you could find someone who’s jagged edges match up to yours the best.” 

“It sounds fantastical. There are too many variables for it to be a possibility. Maybe not for you, but I don’t think it’s—“ Shane shrugs. “To think there’s someone out there that could possibly like me to the point of obsession—“ 

“It’s not obsession—“ 

“But it is, isn’t it?” he argues, exhaling roughly. “What you’re describing isn’t calm or—or gentle—right?” 

“I suppose it depends on the scenario,” Ryan says with a laugh. “Shane, it’s—“ 

“No, no, because if this is what you think, then someone out there wholeheartedly believes the sun shines out of your ass.” He inhales sharply. “And that maybe you’re always right even if you’re wrong, and that you’re smarter than anyone they know, and more beautiful than anyone they’ve ever seen. I—I am having a hard time believing that there’s someone on the face of this earth that would look at me and have all those feelings.” 

Ryan is quiet for a moment. “You’re always putting yourself down. Why do you do that?” he asks, catching him with an elbow. Shane shrugs again. 

“Probably no one else has the chance to. So , no one expects better of me, and then they aren’t let down when I’m not what they expect.” 

“That feels loaded,” Ryan tells him. He can feel his eyes on the side of his face, but Shane doesn’t give in, doesn’t look back. 

It’s because it is loaded, he wants to say. It’s because there are expectations for him, the kind that his mother is protecting him from. But it’s not a conversation for today. Or ever, maybe.

“You’re smart,” Ryan insists. “Smarter than most people I meet on any given day. You’re cynical, sure, but you know things, crazy things—and—” 

“I don’t really know anything,” Shane promises. “It’s just a collection of things I’ve read. Interesting things that pique my interest. It’s not like it’s critical thinking, Ryan. I read something, retain it, repeat it. I don’t know anything about—like, things that matter.” Shane shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“What things that matter?” he asks. 

Shane stops.

Ryan stops beside him.

Standing in the middle of a quiet road, moments before sunrise, Shane’s fascinated that the world keeps turning in times like these; that time doesn’t just stop so he has a second to take a breath and feel the way his life is changing, how this decision is impacting him in real time. He’ll only be left with the consequences, he knows, and yet, he’s run out of fucks to give. Looking at Ryan right now—watching Ryan watch him back—Shane takes in a cool breath, and shrugs his shoulders. 

“You know what things,” Shane says, and his voice feels sticky at the back of his throat, like his body is trying to protect him from saying too much.

Ryan blinks, but he doesn’t look away. “What are you saying, Shane?” 

“You know what I’m saying, Ryan.”

Ryan tips his head back, like he’s collecting himself. The sight of his bare throat makes Shane want to reach out and press his thumb right in the center, feel Ryan swallow. “Do I?”

“Ryan—”

“Why are you telling me this?” he tilts his head forward, looking at Shane again with curious eyes. 

“I thought you should know?” he sounds so uncertain, and part of him wants to take it back. He wants to rewind the hands and go back five minutes and bury down whatever misguided courage he’d had that led him to this moment. He feels like he’s taken a blade to cut down the center of his chest, and he’s seconds away from cracking open his sternum and letting Ryan feel the raw heartbeats his heart is so desperate for Ryan to feel.

“You thought I should know?” Ryan says, incredulous. “Shane—”

“Because I wanted you to know.” Shane shakes his head, and turns on his heel, and starts walking again.

Feels like running, and he actually thinks about it, taking off ahead of Ryan—there’s no way Ryan could ever reach him if he did.

“Shane, slow down for a second,” Ryan calls after him. “What do you mean you wanted me to know?”

“Don’t you get it?” he says, a little explosive, passionate, willing Ryan to read what he’s saying, for him to deeply understand that he’d wait all day, all night, for every night, for Ryan to collect enough of whatever it is he needs collecting. He stops again, dropping his hands at his sides, resigning.

“I don’t understand,” he says, shaking his head like he’s trying to collect his thoughts. “You just—we were talking about—“ 

“I don’t really know what I was talking about,” Shane admits. “But it’s just like you said. Being open to the possibility. My edges are pretty jagged, Ryan. What do yours look like?”

Ryan doesn’t say anything, and Shane wishes he could tell what he was thinking. He could still run, but he takes a deep breath instead. “Are you mad? I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’m not mad, Shane,” Ryan says earnestly. “I’m not, I promise. It’s—we—these are the kinds of things we can’t talk about.” 

What is the point of learning a language, Shane thinks, if he can’t use it? “Can I take you somewhere?”

“We should go home,” Ryan tells him. “We had a really long night and—” He looks dejected. A lock of hair falls over his forehead. 

“Please?” Shane insists. “Please?” 

Ryan sighs, eyeing him carefully. Shane’s never seen someone build up walls so fast. “Lead the way.”

-:-

It’s a long walk out to the creek. Well, Shane always thinks it’s long, but the time it takes for them to get there seems to fly by them. 

The sun is barely making its way over the horizon. The sunlight is at its most blinding, covering everything in deep oranges and tangerine light. Of course, when he looks over his shoulder to find Ryan, it’s like the sun has been waiting to see him. He’s golden, too. 

Shane kicks off his shoes, peels off his socks and hurries towards the water; the city calls it a creek, but it feels more like a river. Deep enough to reach Shane’s knees, wide enough to float in. 

The water is freezing; it always is, even in the summer. Shane enjoys shocking himself with it. Waking him up. 

“Ah!” Ryan exclaims behind him. Shane laughs. “Jesus fuck, it’s so cold.” 

“I pretend I’m the only person who knows this exists,” Shane says quietly. “Some days, I come out here and read, until it’s too dark, and then I go home and read some more, but it doesn’t feel the same. Like somehow, when I’m out here, I can understand everything better.” 

Shane turns around in the water.

“Understand myself better. Maybe.”

Ryan stuffs his hands in his pockets; he’s listening intently. Shane doesn’t like that; not right now. It feels like it’s too soon for such vulnerabilities, for Ryan to peer inside of him. 

Instead of elaborating, instead of inviting Ryan farther into his consciousness, Shane kicks the water, splashing Ryan, and he flinches backwards, his balance disappearing as he knocks himself over with the momentum right into the water. Shane is howling with laughter when he breaks through the surface. 

“You little fucker,” Ryan mutters, but he’s grinning. Shane expects it when it happens, but it's no less surprising. Ryan tackles him and Shane goes back, falling into the water with a splash. 

Shane remembers that first day at the lake, looking through the water and seeing Ryan, blurred. He remembers wanting to get away, wanting so badly to shove all the distance he could between them. He remembers Before. 

Before everything became so confusing. Before Ryan had shown up with a smile that seemed to melt even the coldest parts of Shane. 

Warmer now, he realizes, and it isn’t from the sun. It isn’t the weather. It’s a feeling, brand new, carving into him with precious fingers, handling him so delicately it’s almost rude. 

It lends him the same safety he found in those shadows, holding him by the hand and coaxing him to be as vulnerable as he’d like.

When Shane comes up for air, Ryan’s already above the surface, wiping water from his face. He doesn't look cool anymore. He looks real. Natural. Genuine. His eyelashes are clumped together; the water looks like chunky glitter. 

It wasn’t Shane’s plan to watch the sun rise, but they do. Lying back in the grass, arms behind their heads. Shane’s seen it a million times, it feels like. So instead, he watches Ryan. 

Ryan who looks like he’s never seen anything like it, soaking up gold and orange and pink rays of light like he’s saving them for tonight’s sunset. Unfair that someone could be this beautiful in passing. Or maybe—maybe he’s lucky that he’s witnessing it at all. 

“All the plans I made for this summer, and God knows I didn’t plan on you,” Ryan says quietly, un-disturbing to the peace surrounding them, leaning back on his palms, legs crossed at the ankle. Shane hears Ryan’s voice, he does. He hears each word, individually, so they mean nothing. Because stringing those words together is dangerous. 

Ryan’s t-shirt is stuck to his skin. Shane wants to unstick it. Peel it from his flesh like the old wallpaper Ryan’s been peeling from the walls in the hallway. 

Shane will save those words for later. In the dark quiet of his bedroom, as he hears the typewriter from Ryan’s bedroom right next to his. 

“That’s on you for having a plan at all,” Shane tells him. Ryan laughs, but it’s almost—pensive. Just a noise, an acknowledgement of Shane’s joke, but Shane doesn’t believe there’s any real humor there. He doesn’t think Ryan finds this funny in the least bit. 

Ryan falls back in the grass, his arms by his side. This time, Shane closes his eyes. 

He listens to the world around him, the bugs, the water, the sounds Ryan makes because he can’t keep still. Too much energy for too little limbs. 

He could fall asleep here, knowing Ryan’s right next to him. There’s something comforting in that, in the need to be close to someone. To want to sleep next to them. 

“Am I ruining your plans?” Shane asks. He turns his head to face Ryan, opening his eyes. Ryan does the same, turning to look at him. They share the moment, and Shane’s heart starts beating fast in his chest, because he’s nervous Ryan will say yes. He’s also nervous if Ryan says no. 

“Not ruining,” Ryan tells him. “Just changing them.” He lifts himself up onto an elbow.

From his periphery, Shane can see him turn and reach out with his hand; he traces his finger over the bridge of Shane’s nose, tapping the point before touching Shane’s lips. Shane stays as still as he can, parting his lips and trying not to shiver with the pure adrenaline he’s mainlining. Ryan withdraws his hand, but Shane follows, picking himself up so he’s face to face with him, looking at him, daring himself to move even closer. Before he does, he’s compelled to draw the tip of his tongue over Ryan’s lips, like he needs to taste him first. Ryan smiles, putting his fingers under Shane's chin, closing the space between their mouths. 

It's a soft kiss, chaste even, but Shane's heart is merciless inside his ribcage, threatening to break through skin and bone. Ryan kisses him slowly, and when Shane gets greedy, Ryan pushes him away, grinning at him. 

“Cool it,” he says, and Shane rolls his eyes, flopping back down into the grass, his body tingling like it’s been numb all his life and it’s finally starting to wake. 

“No,” Shane says, just before he jolts up, and climbs over Ryan, kissing him hard, with meaning, with feeling, with urgency. 

Ryan indulges him, hands on his waist, his chest. For a moment, Shane thinks he could be greedier, kiss him more, kiss him everywhere. Ryan pushes him away with a stern look in his eyes, his mouth downturned just slightly, indicating whatever is going on isn't going to happen anymore. 

“What? What’s wrong?” Shane asks. “I just want to kiss you.” 

Ryan gives him a deadpan look, and then he sighs. “You’re so—” his head falls back, and he groans, like he’s upset, like he’s frustrated. “I don’t want to get carried away. We haven't done anything to be ashamed of, so let’s keep it that way.” 

“That,” he starts, staring out at the water, “is so stupid.” 

“Maybe so,” Ryan shrugs. “But it is what it is, Shane. I know myself. I know when to stop.” 

“Oh, you do? Is that part of being all grown up?” Shane jabs, right before he realizes that it says more about his own adolescence that he has to mock Ryan's maturity. 

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Listen here you little shit—“ he pushes Shane's chest and Shane goes down against the grass and Ryan has him pinned down, haloed by sunlight, eyes like the coffee he drinks, his mouth so delicious. 

Sweet. Beckoning.

“I'm listening,” Shane insists, but Ryan doesn't say anything. No, instead, he dips forward, and presses his mouth softly to Shane’s. Whatever Ryan’s really saying, Shane’s heard it loud and clear. 

It makes him shiver, breathing through his nose, trying to control his body so it doesn't react so recklessly when Ryan is this close. 

When Ryan breaks the kiss, he says, “Be good.” 

“No,” Shane retorts, drawing one hand down Ryan's chest, over the front of his pants. He's soft now, but Shane keeps his hand there. “I'm serious, Ryan.”

Ryan closes his eyes, presses his hips forward; even over his pants, Shane can feel him twitch. “I know. I know you are.” He leans forward, kisses Shane’s temple, his cheek, before he finds Shane’s mouth again. Shane draws his hand away, wraps both of his arms around Ryan’s shoulders. 

They kiss for a long time, until Shane’s lungs are fighting to breathe, until Shane knows what it feels like to have Ryan’s hands on his skin, underneath his t-shirt, burning fingertips scorching his flesh wherever he touches. 

It would be so easy to rush forward; to pull off the fabric of Ryan’s T-shirt and dip his fingertips into the muscled grooves of his back. Ryan’s making work of his neck, has been for a while as Shane tries to catch his breath. Shane drags his fingers down Ryan’s back, where his spine dips, and then presses both of his palms onto Ryan’s ass and squeezes. 

Ryan laughs into his neck, picking himself up to look down at Shane. “It’s time to go.” 

“What?” Shane says. “I don’t want to go yet.” 

“If we don’t go now, whatever self-control I have is going to disappear, and then I’ll—” 

Shane’s stomach lurches. “You’ll what?” 

Ryan shakes his head, grinning, rolling off Shane and into the grass. Shane climbs on top of him, knees in the grass as he straddles Ryan’s hips, sitting back. “You’ll what?” he presses. 

Carefully, gently, Ryan reaches up, touches his thumb to Shane’s bottom lip. “I’ll ruin you.” 

Shane doesn’t bother telling Ryan he already has. Instead, Shane leans down, pressing his forehead to Ryan’s. Ryan cards his fingers through Shane’s hair, scratching at the nape of his neck, and Shane groans. “We could just stay out here all day,” Shane whispers. “We could sleep right here tonight.” 

“We could,” Ryan whispers back. “But we shouldn’t. And that’s the difference.” 

Shane sighs, pulling away from Ryan, laying on his back. He looks out towards the lake. He must have stars in his eyes; the water sparkles.

Next to him, Ryan stands, holding out a hand to haul Shane up.

-:-

The next afternoon, Shane feels like cutting up some peaches to top off his vanilla ice cream.

After coming home, he spent all day thinking about Ryan. Lying in bed, spread out over his sheets, he just laid there, thinking about ghosts and the way he could still feel Ryan on his skin. He thought about this new Ryan he knows, that kisses the way he does, with conviction, with a certainty that made him want to peel off his clothes and feel the hot, wet slide of his mouth all over his body. He thought about jagged edges, and the way somehow, they’d broken themselves down so they could fit perfectly, carving away the confusion, the exhaustion, the hesitation until they clicked together, magnetized, and unwilling to let go. Because even when Ryan tried to push him away, he’d glued the both of them together. His mind is a disaster, the aftermath of a tornado tearing through him like a small town.

And that night, Ryan typed so much. The ding of each line he’d written felt like a shock to Shane’s nervous system. He wondered what he was writing. Wondered if the creek had inspired him. Wondered if—

The knife slices through his palm, and Shane is more surprised when he feels it; it doesn’t hurt, not immediately, until he looks down, and sees all the blood pouring from his hand. 

“Fuck,” Shane mutters, cradling his hand, rushing it over to the sink, running the faucet on cool to clean it off. The water runs pink at the bottom of the empty sink. He pats his skin dry with a paper towel, but the blood rushes back to the surface. It’s bad enough he thinks he might need stitches, but it’s such a hassle to have to go all the way to the emergency room for something like this.

Rather, he’s enjoying the feeling, the way it hurts. He isn’t a masochist—at least he doesn’t think he is—but it’s nice to feel life in such a way. A stark reminder of all the body’s intricacies. The way it keeps itself upright.

Through the window over the sink, Shane can peer into the backyard. He can see Ryan from here, reclining in the grass. Maybe he’s sleeping.

Holding the paper towel, he searches the cupboards for the Band-Aids he knows his mom keeps, grabs the whole box and ventures outside.

When he reaches Ryan, he sits himself in the grass right next to him.

Ryan turns to look at him, peeking at him through one eye.

“I cut my hand,” Shane announces. Ryan sits up.

“Here, let me see it,” Ryan instructs, and Shane offers his hand, showing him the wound he’s given himself. “Jesus.” 

“It’s just a little nick,” Shane sighs; his heartbeat is throbbing where the flesh is split. 

“A bit more than that,” Ryan says. He sounds concerned, looks it, too, with his brow furrowed and his eyes scrutinizing the wound like looking at it can heal it. With his other hand, Shane reaches across the space between them, just for something to do, and fiddles with the stretched-out collar of Ryan’s T-shirt. He scrapes his fingers over Ryan’s bare chest, dragging a solitary finger along his collarbone, up the side of his neck. 

“It’ll be fine. There’s been worse,” Shane says, but he can’t think of anything off the top of his head. Ryan takes the box of Band-Aids, picks one out and peels it open. “There will be worse. Right now, I have you to play doctor with me.” 

“Oh yeah?” he says, covering Shane’s wound with the bandage, smoothing down the adhesive ends with such care it makes the pain worth it.

“Yep,” Shane assures.

“In that case, come here,” Ryan says, letting go of his hand, and looking up through his lashes. “I need to listen to your lungs.” 

Shane thinks he’s joking, but he isn’t. Not even in the slightest. 

Underneath the sun, in weather much too hot to be this close, Ryan directs Shane to lay back in the grass with a gentle pressure at his shoulder. They’re alone enough that Ryan feels like he can reach out; it’s like Ryan’s only desire is to wrap his fingers around Shane’s heart, shake it like a soda can, and pop it open. Shane feels like he’s fizzing all over the place when Ryan lays his head on Shane’s chest. 

The wind blows strong; it makes everything quiet around them, just the rustle of the leaves, like the whole world is inhaling to hold its breath.

“Deep breath for me,” Ryan says to him. 

Closing his eyes, Shane fills his lungs as much as he can, with as deep a breath as his lungs will allow, and exhales. It’s a breath so big it makes him feel dizzy. Or maybe it’s the fact that when he opens his eyes and looks down at his chest, Ryan’s staring right at him. 

“Your heart is racing,” Ryan says. 

Fizzy, fizzy, heart. “It happens,” Shane mutters. “I’m all better now.” 

“Oh yeah? Didn’t even get to kiss it.” 

Shane grins, tiling his head forward, batting his eyelashes. “You were gonna kiss me?” 

“Thought about it. But you’re all better now, so.” Ryan shrugs, like it’s out of his hands, like there isn’t anything he could possibly do. 

Shane fakes a cough into his fist. Sniffles. “I think I’m gonna need that kiss.” 

“There’s cough medicine in the cabinet,” Ryan says, standing up and walking away. Shane turns his head as far as he can, watching him, each stride in slow motion. He keeps thinking Ryan’s gonna look back at him. He keeps thinking that Ryan’s going to turn around and come steal a kiss. He keeps thinking—

Ryan disappears into the house.

-:-

Shane wastes the afternoon in the backyard with a book, reclining against the trunk of his favorite peach tree. Well after dinner, he makes his way inside, shutting off lights as he goes. 

On the second floor, the glow of light from Ryan’s cracked door makes Shane slow his pace. 

Shane’s curiosity leads him to peer inside, looking through the crack in the door. He finds Ryan facing away from him; he’s naked. All of his skin is right there, out in the open. His shoulders, down to the curve of his ass, the back of his thighs—

He’s dripping wet, just out of the shower. There’s a single water droplet that falls along the line of his spine. Shane’s immediately obsessed with it, looking for far too long. 

Ryan looks over his shoulder, catches Shane’s eyes. He smiles up through his lashes. He uses the towel in his hand to cover himself because modesty is necessary now. 

It’s a few slow paces—Ryan keeps his gaze—and then the door closes, right in Shane’s face without a word.

-:-

“People who read are hiding themselves,” Sara tells him. “What are you hiding, Shane Madej?” 

Shane thinks for a moment, before he claps his hand together. “Well, that’s all the time we have today, folks! Tune in next week to find out if that dastardly Shane Madej is hiding anything.” 

Sara elbows him, shaking her head. “You ass.” 

Shane smiles. “Why do you think I’m hiding something? Can’t I just be this? I think the mistake is people think I’m a six-hundred-page book, when really, I’m just a paragraph on a single loose-leaf sheet of paper.” 

Sara rests back on the palms of her hand. “See, that’s your problem. The fact of the matter is,” she tells him. “You’ve peeled off the book jacket, and you think that’s all there is to yourself.”

“What about you, Sara Rubin? What are you hiding?” 

“Nothing. And unlike you,” she says with a soft hand on his thigh. “That’s the honest truth. I am exactly who I am with you, mister.” 

He leans over, knocking his head into hers. “Maybe we’ll fuse together, and I can learn to be honest,” he says quietly. 

“Well, I don’t think science has figured that out yet, so let’s go swimming,” she assures him lightly, patting his knee. 

When the sun goes down and night properly falls, they wade out of the lake, soaking wet. Shane shakes the water out of his hair, splashing Sara with stray droplets she defends herself from with her hands raised. 

“Stop, you big oaf!” she laughs, and Shane grins, feeling a surge of bravery to reach out for her and grab her by the waist. She’s laughing, and her body becomes pliant, willing as he brings her close. She's as tall as she can possibly be, so he has to lean down all the way to kiss her, and she kisses him back, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Her skin warms right in his hands, and her soft fingers touch his face, keeping him close like he might pull away. 

It’s her who does, breaking the kiss with a noisy wet smack, looking up at him with big eyes. 

“Hey,” she says quietly. “I've been thinking.” She manages to leave his grasp, lowering herself to sit on the grass. She pats the space next to her. He goes. 

“I've been thinking,” she starts again, touching her hand to his chest, “about that night a few weeks ago. When you walked me home? I thought something might happen.”

Shane looks at her, grasping the rope of this particular conversation. He tugs. “Did you want something to happen?” 

“Well, yeah,” she says. “Didn’t you?”

He's always waiting for something to happen, waiting until it happens to him. And—

And he looks at Sara, who has skin so pale she’s luminescent underneath this midwestern moon, wet hair dripping onto her shoulders. The water droplets drip down her arm and he watches them, reaching out a hand to stop them, wiping them away. He looks at her and tries to focus. It’s so dark out here, he wishes there was proper light so he can really see her, from the fan of her eyelashes to the bow of her top lip. Instead, he leans in and kisses her cheek, her jaw, then her mouth, and she comes to him, stretching out underneath him as she invites him to lay on top of her.

“Hang on,” he says, breaking the kiss.

“What—what’s wrong?” she asks as he disentangles himself from her. He doesn’t answer her, only finds the t-shirt he’d been wearing earlier and spreads it out. She’s small enough that it makes a difference, so she isn’t lying on the prickly grass. He nods her over, so she’ll come lay on it. She grants him a small smile, one that lights a match in the center of his chest.

“Well, aren’t you a sweetie,” she tells him, situating herself closer to him. She lays back against the t-shirt and he lays next to her, hovering over her for a quick moment before he leans in to kiss her, pressing his hand on her waist.

He kisses her slowly, softly, because he doesn’t quite know how to lead her further. It’s lovely, this exploration, when she opens her mouth and touches her tongue to his and he can lick inside of her mouth. She takes his hand from where it sits carefully on her hip, and she draws it higher, over the cage of her ribs, over her chest, her breast.

“It’s okay to touch me,” she breathes between them. “You can touch me however you want.”

“Okay,” he says, and he’s mesmerized by the light pressure of her nipple against the center of his palm, even through her bathing suit top.

With her fingers in his hair, she brings him down for a kiss. It’s more intense this time, with his hands on her body, and his own body reacting to the way she seems to want him. It’s all feverish flesh now, burning from the inside out, wanting to get closer and closer. She guides him once again, pushing that same hand that had been holding her breast to slip down the soft skin of her belly, underneath the elastic of her bathing suit bottoms. They’re still so wet, but when she presses his hand down farther, his fingers almost burn with how hot she is. He looks down, but even then, he can’t see much; even so, he hardens underneath the cover of his shorts embarrassingly quickly. His mind is all over the place, but mostly, he sort of wishes they were in a room. On a bed. Where he can really see her, even though he’d probably be too nervous to do anything but stare at her naked. 

Maybe it is better that they’re in the dark, among the trees as the warm breeze takes away the sound of Sara’s heavy breathing.

“Does it feel good?” he whispers to her, and she nods.

“Uh huh,” she answers, placing a hand on his cheek, looking up at him with dark eyes. He can feel her hips move underneath his touch, and her hand keeps his in place, encouraging his motions.

It's beautiful the way she shakes when she orgasms. He watches her face, the way her eyes shut tight, and her head tips back, her mouth drops open; she makes a sound that makes the tightness in his belly burn white hot. Her legs snap closed, holding his hand hostage; he keeps up the movement of his fingertips. “Oh my God,” she whines, her fingers pulling the hair at the back of his head.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, his dick throbbing in his pants, and he feels like he’s on fire, wanting so badly to do it again, just so he can watch her come over and over. He thinks next time, there’d better be some fucking lights.

“Wow,” she says, laughing softly. “Whew.”

“You alright, there?” he asks her, laughing himself, and she nods, leaning up so she can kiss him, all over his face. He withdraws his hand slowly; she gifts a soft little moan right into his mouth, and her body shivers underneath his.

“Better than ever, I think,” she tells him.

“That was—wow. You looked incredible,” he tells her.

“Oh, hush,” she murmurs. “No one has a good orgasm face.”

“I liked yours.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, I’m all wet now, so you can—you know.”  

“I—” He doesn’t know what to say, clearing his throat, thinking about how badly he wants exactly that, to lay his body on top of her and discover what it feels like to be inside someone else’s body, her body specifically, how she’d burned the tips of his fingers, and how she might turn the rest of him to ash.

“Are you sure?” he asks her, and yeah, maybe he should have asked earlier; she levels him with a deadpan look. It melts away into a smile. 

“Of course, I am,” she says, scratching her fingers at the nape of his neck like she’s coaxing him. 

“I don’t have a condom,” he blurts out. 

She laughs. “I do, hang on.” She picks up her jeans, pulls out a foil wrapped disk and presses it into his hand. He stares at it, before he closes his hand around it.

“Are you sure?” she asks. He glances up at her. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Do you want to have sex with me?” 

“Of course, I do,” he tells her. “Just—you know.”

“Hey,” she says softly to him. “It’s my first time, too. But if you don’t want to—”

“No—I mean, yes, I want to.”

“Are you nervous?” she says with a soft smile. “It’s okay if you are.”

“A little bit,” he admits quietly. “Did you know—did you know we were going to tonight?”

“I didn’t know,” she says, “but I’d hoped. Preparation is key, after all.”

“You hoped?”

She nods, wringing her fingers together. “Shane—I’ve liked you for a while. And when you kissed me on my front porch, I—well. I thought it’d be nice to share myself with you like this. I’m not like—some girls are precious about this kind of thing, but it doesn’t have to be—it’s not a ceremony, you know? I like you, and I think you like me, and so—I thought—”

Shane laughs, shaking his head. “Of course, I like you, Sara.” He says it as sincerely as he can, with as much meaning as he can possibly give those words. He looks at her and tells her because he does. Because whatever else is going on, whatever confusion he’s parsing through, he knows it to be a fact. He really does like her. She’s pretty, with kind brown eyes and hands that create drawings that intrigue him. She’s gentle with him, patient. Just like she is now, unearthing his own desires when he wasn’t sure he’d even get to engage with her like this in the first place.

“Okay,” she says, ducking her head down, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Okay,” he repeats after her.

And really, this is how the movies said it would be. Losing virginities in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night, with just the moon for light.

For a moment, they share laughter, nervous but exciting, knowing neither of them have gone this far makes him feel a little bit special. For all the other boys in their class, she could have liked someone else, but she likes him.

So, he leans in to kiss her, and even that feels different, like the world has cracked open, and every second he spends touching her makes him feel brand new. He tucks his fingers underneath the elastic of her bathing suit bottoms and tugs them down; she lifts her hips and with a little bit of help from her, they slide down her skin, stuttering over her thighs, over her ankles and then off completely. He drops them with the rest of their clothes. She busies herself with her bathing suit top, and he kneels to take off his own swim shorts, and just like that, they’re naked in the middle of the woods. She leans her weight back against her hands, and it’s marvelous how she looks; seeing her with her legs spread open makes him flush; it’s obscene, indecent, and he wants to drown in this feeling of seeing her like this for the first time. 

He looks at her, and she lets him, seemingly confident in her skin as he takes in the complete sight of her. She looks at him too, and he’s thankful for the darkness because he knows his face has to be redder than all hell, but he tries not to shy away from the way her eyes drop from his face to lower, where surely, she’s taking in the sight of his nakedness and arousal, too.

“You’re really—” Shane takes in a breath. “You look nice like this.”

“Nice?” she asks, and he can hear the humor in her tone.

“You know what I mean,” he says to her, feeling the rush of blood in his face again as she giggles.

Putting the condom on takes him a moment but once he’s done, she lays back and spreads her legs wider. He’s so nervous he’s shaking, and he feels embarrassed that he is when he grasps himself in his hand. She helps direct him, and with a curt, cut off moan, he slides inside of her.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, and his whole body feels like it’s caught fire. Sara makes a less than favorable noise, soft and small in his ear. He panics, lifting himself up the full length of his arms. 

“Am I hurting you?” 

“It’s fine,” she promises, her hands touching his face. “I’m fine. Keep going.” 

He’s uncoordinated, but when he figures it out, it feels mind-blowing. She’s all around him, hot and soft and wet and—and she feels incredible. It’s nothing like he’s ever felt before. He watches as she closes her eyes, tilting her head back. 

“There you go,” she whispers. “Yeah, that feels good.” She moans softly underneath him; it reminds him of that night in the diner, the sounds he heard the waitress making.

For a fleeting second, he thinks about Ryan; shrouded in the shadows of the tree, watching Shane like Shane had watched him please that woman.

That second bursts into a flurry of fragmented thoughts, thinking about Ryan catching him, wondering if Ryan would be jealous that he’s inside someone else.

The way Shane realizes, now, that he had been in that moment.

It’s a rush; the feeling of his body with Sara’s, the way her fingers grip the back of his neck, tugging on his hair, coupled with the notion that Ryan would give a shit that he’s fucking someone else makes him lose it.

He comes, right inside of her, without even the smallest hint of a warning. His hips press forward once, and again, trembling as he hits his climax and it ricochets through his body, tingling up and down his spine, tight in his balls.

“Oh, my God,” he says. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”  

Sara starts to giggle underneath him.

Shane feels shame, but a rush of something else he can't name. Her laughing gains momentum, and it’s heartier; Shane can’t help but laugh with her.

He rolls off her body and falls into the grass, star-fishing with his dick out, feeling like—like he’s outside of his body, watching himself experience the euphoria of an orgasm that wasn’t given to him by himself.

“Oh, God, are you mad? Please don’t be mad, I’m so sorry.”

“It's alright,” she promises. “We’ll figure it out.” 

“I guess we just need some practice.” 

“Oh, yeah,” she teases him. “I’m sure Sherry would love knowing you’re sneaking around having sex with wild girls.” 

“One girl,” Shane corrects. “And my mom likes you, you nutcase.” 

She shifts onto her side, looking down at him; her hair has dried some, and the curls are wild and ruthless. In another life, he thinks he’d beg for the chance for her to be his life partner. In another life, he’d live with her, dedicate songs to her, buy her books and art supplies. Love her. He would love her so fully and deeply he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. He could do all of that now, he knows, looking at her in the dark, this one moment for themselves, but it’s overcast, shadowed by something—someone else, and while he enjoys this temporary bliss, it had an expiration date before it even began.

“It was nice,” she tells him honestly.

“Yeah?” She nods, leaning in for a kiss he indulges in, the soft kind, the sweet kind, slow and enchanting. Nothing to rush for; everything to enjoy.

When she pulls back, she sits up, stretching her arms over her head. Shane peels off the condom and ties the end, like a deflated balloon. 

He digs a hole in the ground, and buries it, covering the hole back up with the displaced dirt. 

“Rest in peace, virginity,” Shane says quietly. He bows his head. Sara laughs louder than he’s ever heard her. 

“You are so stupid,” she says pushing at his shoulder. Shane stands up and grabs her by the waist. Her shrieking laughter fills his heart to the brim.

Chapter Text

When Shane gets home, all the lights are off. His mother’s door is shut, and so is Ryan’s, even though he wants to barge in, sit on his bed and tell him what he’s done with Sara, so Ryan will sit with the fact that he can’t be Shane’s first anymore since he wants to be so goddamn unashamed. The spot’s been taken now. 

He pauses, touching the wooden door with careful fingertips, so he doesn’t accidentally knock against it, and just sighs, closing his eyes. 

You should know I’m standing right here , he thinks, loudly, screaming almost like Ryan might jolt awake when he hears him. Open the door for me. 

No such thing happens. Shane didn't believe, really, that it would happen anyway. He walks across the hall, into his bedroom, quietly closing the door. 

He lays across his bed. It’s not that he’s never been interested in sex; the urge was always there, simmering, and his teenaged body fell victim to that urge, so much so that he’s gotten creative hiding a hard-on here and there. It wasn’t that he thought he’d never have sex either, because he figured at some point during the potentially long line of his life, someone would think he was something enough to lay with him. It would probably have been college, instead of tonight. Instead of Sara. But part of him thinks, if not Sara, then maybe—maybe it could have been Ryan. 

It could have been, but he hasn’t seen Ryan in four days. 

He must be busy. Because he kissed Shane in the field of grass in Shane’s spot by the creek. He kissed him for a long time, so much so that time started to feel malleable; like it wasn’t real. Where minutes and hours meant the same, and days lasted a millennium. 

It could have been Ryan underneath him, and despite the unconventional fit of their bodies, they would have figured it out. Or maybe Ryan would be in the driver’s seat of the car, and rather than be the passenger, Shane is the car itself. Or maybe he’s the road, and Ryan’s just running over him and he’s in the rearview mirror instead. 

Maybe Ryan isn’t busy, or maybe he is busy, creating chasms of space between them, avoiding Shane. Maybe he takes it back. Maybe he regrets it. 

Maybe he hasn’t seen Ryan in days because Ryan changed his mind. 

And wouldn’t that just dig a hole for Shane to lie in? 

Shane rolls onto his side; he should really shower and change his clothes. He feels different. His limbs feel like they don’t belong to him, and his body is too fragile. His body spent the night with Sara, but Shane’s been spending so much time with Ryan in his head that he feels his body and brain have just reunited and don’t know how to piece itself together to be one cohesive being. Is he two people? Will he always be two people? 

A public being for the consumption of the general populace, whomever that may be, and a private being for himself and someone else, someone secret, someone—someone like him. 

He shoves his face into his pillow, and for a second, he can smell lake water, but it’s like a forked road the way the scent brings him two memories, two people. 

He’s never been a greedy person, but he wants to have them both. He wants it all. Whatever it is that will make him happy with A Sara, and A Ryan. Mostly because while Shane’s never been a greedy person, he’s certainly never been someone decisive. 

It makes him sad a little bit, that he’s comparing both of them when he spent the night with Sara, and all he can really think about is how he hasn’t seen Ryan in four days. 

When he wakes up, he changes his clothes and decides to go for a run. It’s been a while, so it’s a stretch for his legs, but it feels good, like he’s filtering himself out with each deep breath, like the heat is burning away the bits of him that don’t belong anymore. With the thump-thump-thump of his footfall against the pavement, it feels like he’s running with direction, with a destination. 

He ends up on Sara’s street. 

He still hasn’t showered from the night before and he’s covered in sweat. Gross, but he doesn’t shy away from walking down the sidewalk, gulping down deep breaths. 

The thing about Sara’s neighborhood is that it’s like the movies. Carbon copy houses with neatly manicured lawns, sturdy mailboxes, and driveways without oil stains. Some people have the sprinklers on, watering the grass. There are some kids playing jump rope in the empty street. 

Sara hates this neighborhood. It’s too happy—if she had it her way, she’d live in a cabin in the woods. 

It’s one of his favorite things about her. 

Up on the porch, Shane raises his hand and rings the doorbell. He takes a step back and leans against the balustrade, glancing over at the bench where they’d kissed. It looks so normal now, an innocuous place to sit, but now he knows what Sara was thinking—which is the same thing he was thinking but—

“Shane? Hi honey.”

It’s Sara’s mom at the door. “Good morning, Mrs. Rubin. Uh, is Sara home?” 

“Yeah, I’ll let her know you’re here,” she says with a warm smile. He always liked Sara’s mom. She’s always been nice to him, and she’s pretty, too. Sara looks exactly like her. 

“Thanks.”

He can hear her call for Sara, and then Sara’s muted voice answering, and then the patter of her feet on the stairs. And then she’s in the doorway, wearing a tank top and teeny tiny shorts. She looks great.

“Hi,” she greets him. “What are you doing here? Not that—not that I don’t want you here or anything.” 

Shane laughs, feels the burn of it in his chest. “I don’t…know. I went for a run this morning, and then I thought it would be nice to see if—would—do you want to take a walk with me?” 

“Yeah,” she answers without hesitation, nodding her head like maybe he hadn’t heard her. “Just let me grab my shoes.” He doesn’t have even a second to say Okay before she goes back into the house. Her second shoe is barely on her foot when she’s back in the doorway, reaching behind her to pull up the strap over her heel. Shane holds his hand out, palm facing upwards, and she reaches out with her own hand, joining their fingers together. 

The sun beams down strong; he can feel it underneath his t-shirt, stuck to him with the sweat that gathers on his skin. Maybe it’s just him though, because when he looks at Sara, she looks more like she glows. And maybe that’s just his brain, warping reality because the intensity of his feelings demands as much. So, there’s sunlight in her curls and over the bridge of her nose, and over the smooth, freckled skin of her shoulders. 

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” she says. 

“Why not?” 

“You know why,” she says, bumping her shoulder into his arm. “I did some drawing to try to make myself tired.”

“Oh, yeah? Anything good?” 

“I don’t think so. Just some sketching. Nothing material that I’d show anyone.” 

“I’d like to see them anyway,” he tells her sincerely. 

“Why? You never show me yours.” 

“That’s because you’re miles better than I could ever hope to be. Besides, I haven’t really drawn anything lately.” 

“Too busy reading your books, huh?” 

“Yes. In fact, I need a new one. Come with me to pick one out,” he offers, turning his head to look over at her. She smiles up at him. 

“Yeah, okay.”

-:-

They spend an hour in the bookstore, reading each other small passages of this book and that book, sometimes laughing at absurd writing, making faces when they’ve chosen passages that don’t quite make sense without context. They grab picture books and show each other illustrations that amuse them. 

Eventually, Sara helps him pick out another collection of poetry. It's a thin book, a hundred pages or so. 

It makes his stomach hurt when he thinks about when he’ll have the chance to read Ryan the contents of this book that Sara picked out for him. 

“Ah,” Mr. Collins says behind the counter. “I do enjoy this one quite a bit, Shane. Good choice.” 

“That was Sara’s doing.” Shane looks behind him and finds Sara standing by a bookshelf, far enough that she’s out of earshot.

“Sara, huh?” he wonders. “You two going steady?” Mr. Collins looks at Shane over the brim of his eyeglasses; he grins knowingly, teasingly even. 

“I don’t know,” Shane says, honestly. “It’s a new thing, but maybe we will be. We’ll be going to the same college in the fall.”

“That’s where I met my wife,” Mr. Collins says. “And here we are forty years later.”

“That’s such a long time,” Shane muses. 

“I’ll say. But it feels just like yesterday.” Mr. Collins slides the book back over the counter towards Shane, and he picks it up. “I hope you enjoy this one. Come back some more before you go off to that school of yours. It’s like I haven’t seen you all summer.” 

Shane smiles. “Yeah, sorry, sir. It’s been—it’s been busy.” 

“How’s the house coming along? I saw Sherry at the grocery store a while back and she seemed thrilled.” 

Shane clears his throat, thinking about Ryan painting, or building, or fixing. “Yeah, it’s coming along. Barely looks anything like it used to.” 

Mr. Collins laughs. “That’s either the sign of good work or terrible work.” 

Shane smiles. “Good work, sir. I’ll bet when Ma goes to sell it, she’ll have a hard time picking a buyer. Anyways, I should get Sara home. I’ll see you soon, Mr. Collins.” 

He nods and Shane turns, holding his book and finding Sara crouched down, perusing the shelf of secondhand books without covers. 

“You ready, or did you want to pick something out, too?” Shane asks her. 

“No, I’m good. Let’s get some ice cream, huh? It’s hotter’n shit outside.” 

He holds out a hand for her again, and she takes it, hauling herself up onto her feet. He leads her out of the bookstore.

-:-

When he gets home, the first thing he does is shower. He sets the water to lukewarm and soaps up his hands, washing off last night, this morning, the afternoon, and lets it circle the drain and wash away. 

Ryan isn’t home. His mother is still out, either working or with her book club, he isn’t sure. It’s early evening, and he should eat something for dinner, but he goes outside, into the backyard, picks a couple of peaches, and sits with his book of poems on a lawn chair and reads until the sun goes down. 

And when the sun’s left him in the dusk, only the back porch lamp and the moon for light, he thinks. 

And thinking gets him into trouble sometimes because his mind over-exaggerates and sometimes underwhelms. He had a really nice day with Sara today, catapulted from the night they had together, and he thinks about college in the fall, and how Mr. Collins had thought Sara was comparable to a forty-year marriage. 

It’s a nice thought. It is. And since he hasn’t seen Ryan in days, it’s starting to grate at him, cementing his suspicion that Ryan is avoiding him, even though he hadn’t done anything to Ryan, at least he thinks so, that would warrant this blanket of silence. It’s annoying, firstly, and a little aggravating, and irritating. But underneath all of that, Shane feels like he should have known better. Too good to be true that he could find himself in Ryan, figure himself out even.

The hot and cold of their interactions has simply frozen over. 

When he hears the screen door slam shut, he hopes that it’s Ryan. He hopes and hopes, and it picks him up off his feet and takes him inside and by the time he’s walking through the back door and into the kitchen, he finds his mother standing at the counter, pouring herself a glass of water. The hope falls and shatters at his feet and he’s—

Sad . 

“Hey, hon,” she greets him. “You have a good day today?” 

Shane swallows his disappointment and offers her a smile. “Yeah. I took Sara to the bookshop, and she helped me pick one out.” 

“A lot of Sara these days, huh,” she says, knowingly, almost teasingly, just like Mr. Collins. 

“Just friends,” he reminds her, even though he doesn’t think friends go around losing their virginities to each other in the middle of the woods. 

“Alright, alright. If you say so, son.” She drinks her water. “Have you called your father?” 

“Nope,” he says simply. “And I’m going to bed, so.” 

She sighs. “Shane, just call him back.” 

“I don’t want to. What does he have to say now? Why try this hard? He had plenty of time to talk to me when we were all one happy little family.” 

“Shane—” 

“Ma—it’s just—I don’t want to talk to him.” Shane huffs. “I really don’t.” 

She looks at him, really looks at him, and Shane feels like he’s ten years old again, petulant and whiny. “He’s still—” 

“My father,” he completes. “I know that. But that doesn’t change anything.” 

Done with the conversation, Shane leaves the kitchen, up the stairs and heads straight to his bedroom. 

He tosses his book onto his bed and looks around; it’s been a while since he’s sat at his desk. A while since he’s written anything. 

But he starts, tearing out the pages of his notebook, crumpling them when his messages become too melodramatic. His youth, his inexperience; it bleeds through each word, saturating the page. He hates it, hates himself maybe, for how much he feels, how many things he feels for. Life was easier when he didn't care at all. 

He settles for simplicity. Why are you ignoring me? I want to talk to you. 

He folds up the sheet of paper and leaves his bedroom, sliding the paper underneath Ryan’s door. He tiptoes back upstairs, shutting off the lights and climbing into bed. 

When Shane comes back from his shower in the morning, he finds there’s a note on his pillow. 

You're so dramatic . It reads. Come see me at midnight. 

Shane touches each letter of Ryan’s handwriting with his fingertips, sighing. His heart is beating so fast, and he feels like he shouldn’t have written the note at all, but he couldn’t help himself. When did he get so impulsive? 

He’s still grinning to himself when he lays the note on his desk and gets dressed.

-:-

Downstairs, he waltzes into the kitchen. His mother is baking. 

He uses the phone in the living room instead, calls down to Sara’s house and invites her over. 

They go swimming in the lake behind the house. It’s nice, intimate, the way she lets him touch her, bring her in closer. The way she reaches for a kiss, and he indulges her. 

After a while, they bore of swimming, and trudge the walk back to Shane’s house, sneaking into the backyard and through the back door. His mother isn’t in the kitchen, so Shane leads her upstairs, quickly, quietly, closing his door behind himself. 

Sara circles around his bedroom; he reminds himself that she hasn't been in here before as she peruses the bookshelves, his desk, and his top drawer of his dresser where all his underwear is. 

She turns around and looks at him; he leans back against his desk, crossing his arms loosely across his chest. Her curly hair falls from where she’s tied it up. The tendrils barely brush her shoulders. 

“You nervous again?” she asks. He shakes his head, moving towards her so their bodies are close together. She has to tilt her head back to look up at him. When she reaches up, she’s gentle with the slide of her hand over his chest. “You’re a little burnt,” she says quietly. 

It makes him smile, this small observation. She presses her hand against where she must be able to see the irritation in his skin. It doesn’t hurt. 

For a handful of expanding moments, Shane lets her touch him. Her hands are warm and soft, gentle as they move along his shoulders, down the upper parts of his arms. She presses her thumbs into the crevices of his elbows; he feels like she might be able to tell that his heart has picked up its pace, that it’s beating so much harder now.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks her in a quiet voice, looking down at her face where she seems to be studying his skin. When she looks up at him, the fan of her eyelashes shadows her eyes; she smiles.

“I’m waiting for you to kiss me,” she says, just as quietly.

So, he does, leaning in as he curls his arms around his waist, and her hands sweep back up his shoulders until they’re in his hair. When their mouths touch, it’s nice, a slow, pressure-less press of their lips. That initiating push and pull, until it blooms into something bigger, like that night on her front porch, like that night by the lake, where he can taste the warmth inside of her mouth, press his hands along her naked back. His fingers get caught in the string of her bikini top. In the middle of their kiss, he tugs on it playfully, and she laughs for him, a soft breathy little sound that he wants to consume, so it lives in his lungs.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, pulling her body along with his own, until they reach his bed. She lets him sit her down, lying back against the messy blankets he hadn’t made up. She’s marvelous against his sheets, and a part of his brain constructs a place, somewhere unfamiliar, where they are together, and she’s lying back on bedsheets like she is now, but the body he imagines is the one from the lake, naked, his view unobstructed by the yellow fabric of her bathing suit. Maybe that will be them in college. They’ll have a bed somewhere. Shane will lay in it with her, kissing her until the sun rises, until the sun sets. Until the alarms break and let them know they’re late for a class and they’ll leave each other and reunite afterward, on top of bedsheets, where he’ll learn her body, each limb and stretch of skin, until he knows it like his own.

When he leans down to kiss her, her whole body invites him forward; her legs spread the width of his hips and he lays in between them. Stomach to stomach, chest to chest, with the heel of her foot at the back of his thigh.

Sara’s fingers rake through his hair when he kisses her harder, and she breathes his name when they pull apart, just so he can kiss the underside of her jaw, her neck, the sturdiness of her collarbones. He wants to bite, he wants to sink his teeth into the give of her body, leave behind the shape of his mouth like a wine-stain.

She doesn’t stop him.

He picks a spot, right there on her throat and she moans so quietly as he purses his lips, shifts his mouth to drag his teeth along her skin. His body unfurls with heat, and between them, he’s hardening, right against the warmest part of her. Slowly, almost like he’s unsure, he moves his hips forward, just a little, and Sara’s hand drops against his back, her fingers digging into his shoulder blades.

“Yes,” she whispers, and it encourages him to slide his hand down the length of her waist, to the bend of her hip, as he rocks into her that much more.

When he meets her for a kiss again, it’s less of a kiss; the open parts of their mouths meet, and her tongue touches his, but they only breathe into each other as the feeling inside of him bursts, heightening as the rhythm he’s started gains momentum, and she’s moving underneath him, too, the heels of both her feet pressing in hard at the backs of his thighs. He curses into her mouth, and when he pulls back to look down at her, she’s looking up at him.

“Take your pants off,” she tells him with a cheeky little smile and Shane laughs, pushing himself to do as he’s told. His fingers fumble with the drawstring for a half a second before they come loose. She sits up and touches the length of him through his shorts, and his brain short circuits, falling into that good, really good feeling of someone else touching his dick.

“Shane—”

It takes him too long to register the knock at the door, and then subsequently the door opening, and then the look on his mother’s face before the door slams shut.

“Oh fuck,” he says, at the same time Sara curses, too, but she’s moving faster than him, rolling away from him and standing up like the whole bed has burned her. Shane, feeling the sickening roil of embarrassment climb its way up his throat falls forward onto the mattress.

“Just kill me right now,” he says, and Sara curses.

“Both of you come downstairs right now,” he hears his mother say, muffled through the closed door.

“Come on,” Sara urges, tugging on his arm.

“Excuse me,” he huffs. “I need about half a second more than you do. Confronting my mother with a hard-on was not on my bucket list.”

And then Sara laughs, and it’s genuine, easy. He peers over at her.

“I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s like I forgot where I was,” he says to her.

“It’s okay,” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I did, too.” She combs her fingers through his hair, and he sits up so he can kiss her again, but quickly, so he doesn’t forget where he is again.

When his body has calmed, he stands up, picks up a shirt from the floor and pulls it over his head. He picks a shirt from the second drawer of his dresser and gives it to Sara. It falls to her thighs, makes her look even more petite, and there’s something about it that nearly puts him right back at square one. Most notably, the mark he left on her throat, staring back at him like a taunt.

She pushes him away when he tries to go in for another kiss, and he groans, going, walking towards the door.

Down in the kitchen, his mother is standing at the island, buttering a cake pan.

“Are you two hungry?” she asks without looking at them. Shane looks down at Sara.

“Sure,” Sara says, moving farther into the kitchen, and taking a seat at the dining table. Shane copies her movements, sitting opposite of her.

“Listen, I get it,” his mother starts, regarding both of them with a tired expression that looks halfway spooked. “But the doors stay open in this house.”

“Ma—”

“Don’t Ma me,” she says briskly, wielding a whisk, pointing it at him like she means business. “If Sara’s coming over, and you both are—together in some capacity, the door stays open, Shane.”

Shane sighs. He’s but I’m eighteen’ed his way out of a lot of things, but he doesn’t think that’s going to work here.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sara says smoothly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“No need for apologies, honey,” his mother says, sighing, breaking into a soft smile. “It’s—it’s a thing—God. It’s fine. It’s not fine, but it’s fine. You don’t need to apologize, and neither of you are in trouble, of course, but—please understand.”

“No worries, Mrs. Madej,” Sara says. “I understand.”

Both women look pointedly at Shane when he’s quiet for too long. Heat rises in his face. “I understand,” he mutters.

“Good, good. How about some sandwiches?”

“I should get going, actually,” Sara says, standing up from the table. “Thank you for having me over.”

“Of course, honey, you’re welcome anytime,” she says. Shane doesn’t want her to leave yet, but he doesn’t ask her to stay. Sara crosses the small space and touches Shane’s shoulder.

“Call me, okay?” she says. Shane nods and Sara leaves the kitchen, and there’s a suffocating silence left behind that seems to threaten his life as soon as he hears the front door closing.

“Are you mad?” Shane asks.

“I’m not mad,” she says. “I just—you have to be responsible.”

“I—we weren’t doing anything.”

She gives him a deadpan look. “You don’t have two children without knowing a thing or two.”

Shane groans, but it comes out as something like a laugh.

“Shane—I’m not mad. Sara’s a nice girl, and I’m happy that you two like each other. But—not in my house, okay? I don’t want to be the irresponsible parent that let someone else’s daughter get pregnant—”

“Mom,” he interjects, but it doesn’t stop her.

“And I thought you said the two of you were friends?”

“We were. Are. But we might be dating now? I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” she laughs, and Shane shrugs his shoulders.

“It’s just all—I don’t know. Anyways, doors open, no knocking up nice girls, etcetera, etcetera.”

“I mean it, Shane,” she says, looking at him sternly.

“Okay, okay,” he relents. “I’m going back upstairs now to die from this conversation.”

“Okay, honey, have fun,” she teases him, and Shane leaves the kitchen, loping up the stairs.

He stops in the middle of the hallway and looks at Ryan’s door. It’s closed. He really had forgotten. About this, the proximity, the note—

The note he’d left on his desk where Sara was poking around.

He doesn’t think she saw it. He certainly hopes she didn’t. And if she did, she would have asked—she’s too forthright not to ask about the things that make her curious.

He goes into his room and beelines for his desk. It’s right there. Unfolded and facing him, looking right at him. Ryan’s invitation in his messy scrawl, blue ink so bright on a white sheet of paper.

You’re so dramatic. Come see me at midnight.

God, what is he doing? It really does feel like he’s two people. Morphing into and out of someone depending on who he’s with. He was with Sara, and this time, he hadn’t even thought of Ryan at all. It was just him and her, just the two of them and his little fantasy of the future. Of the college-self he thinks will have his shit together. But now she’s gone, and he’s hyper aware of the note she may or may not have seen, of the fact that his body has become a clock and his heart is ticking away seconds at a time, knowing that as the sun gets lower, the closer it becomes to—

He’s so different with Sara. He’s a little more certain of himself. But now that she’s gone, she’s taken the façade with her, and he’s left with this fumbling desperation. He’s left with the raw realness of himself.

The parts of himself that still confuse him.

He could just—

He could just forget about Ryan’s note. He could forget about their planned meeting. He could just go to bed and read his books and pretend like maybe he’d never gotten the note in the first place. Maybe Ryan putting space between them was the right—

No. No, his body rejects that idea. Because he’s thinking of that night in the hallway, and the night out in the backyard, and the night at the cemetery, and that bright, beautiful morning in his tucked away creek, when Ryan had kissed him like there was no one else he’d rather be kissing.

It isn’t a crime to like two people at the same time. He knows that. But it feels like trickery, like when the night breaks into the dusky morning, he tucks Ryan away and pulls out Sara. And when night falls, Sara’s hidden by shadows, and he’s wishing for Ryan.

But that’s not quite true, because some days are overcast with shadows and Ryan and Sara both share the daytime. And some nights are too brightly lit, the moon and stars sharing the darkened sky, casting light onto obscurities.

He is one person. One person with two different desires, both of which he wants too badly to forfeit the other.

And because there isn’t a gun to his head forcing him to pick, he changes out of his swim shorts and pulls on underwear and a pair of jeans and lays across his mattress, picking up a book and continuing where he’s left off.

-:-

Later that night, the house is full of middle-aged women, all sitting in the living room, chatting about their club, shouting and laughing about books and his mother’s recipes. There are several empty bottles of wine in the kitchen.

His mother convinces him to stay for a while, and Shane lets himself be doted upon by all of these older women, touching his hair and cupping his cheek, telling him how tall he’s gotten, how they’ve known him since he was a baby.

It’s weird, but inevitably, his mother has him sit at the piano and he clumsily plays a few songs for them, songs they know and sing along to. He makes sure to play Songbird for his mother. He enjoys himself and feels good when they applaud his talent.

Ryan sneaks in; Shane would have missed it if he wasn’t so goddamn hyperaware of the time, of what tonight is, of the fact that he hasn’t talked to Ryan in days, and he’s fucking missed him.

Odd to live in the same house as someone, slowly reverting to strangers. Shane can’t let that happen.

He yawns. Big and loud, and the women are sympathetic. Like he’s gotta be put down for a nap now.

“I’m sorry, it’s just been a really long day. I’d play some more if I wasn’t so tired,” he says.

“That’s alright, honey. You go on up to bed,” Sherry says. Shane gives her a hug and announces goodnight to the room at large.

Shane goes up to his room first. It’s only eleven. He still has to wait out the rest of the hour. Or maybe he’s just overthinking it.

It seems Shane’s goodnight has caused a ripple effect. The noise outside his bedroom door quiets, and eventually stills. It happens so fast, midnight encroaches, and the house falls deathly quiet. His mom must still be up; she’s too much of a busy body to leave the house in distress.

Still, Shane feels anxious about sneaking into Ryan’s room, with the intent of—of what? Of talking? He’s hoping Ryan will kiss him again. He’s hoping Ryan will—

He’s hoping Ryan will want to kiss him. He’s wishing that, in just the few days they’d fallen silent, Ryan had missed him, too.

But that couldn’t possibly be right either. Because if Ryan had missed him, then there wouldn’t have been silence.

It’s a minute past midnight when he leaves his bedroom.

Just like he’d thought, he can hear his mom moving about downstairs. She’s never paid any mind to him this late, so it’s highly unlikely she’d come looking for him. And she’s said so herself; she’s happy they’re getting along.

He doesn’t knock when he reaches Ryan’s room; he should be expecting Shane anyway.

The door doesn’t creak open anymore either; that’s all Ryan’s doing. It eases his worry, only slightly.  

He’s standing near the window. The curtains are tied up on either side, and the pane is pushed up as far as it will go. Ryan glances over his shoulder; he looks tired, like he hasn’t been getting much rest.

“Hey,” Shane says, but it’s more of a whisper. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Hey,” Ryan says easily, pushing off the wall and crossing the room. He doesn’t close in on Shane, but maybe he would have preferred he had. Maybe it would have eased the nerves threatening to choke him.

“Why were you ignoring me?” Shane asks him, outright, looking at Ryan.

“I wasn’t,” he answers. It’s so simple it feels like a lie.

“Yes, you were. Was it because—why?”

“I really wasn’t, Shane,” Ryan says, and he’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Shane frowns.

“It felt like it,” he says. “Did I do something wrong?”

“I meant what I said.” Ryan sits on the edge of his bed, reclining back onto his palms. “About self-control. I don’t have much of it, and the little bit I do have—it’s important I keep it.”

“Important you keep it,” Shane repeats. “You’ve already kissed me.”

“We could just leave it there,” Ryan suggests, shrugging his shoulders. “We could keep everything exactly where it is.”

“That can’t be an option,” he insists. “That’s not—I don’t—“ he groans into his hands, frustrated.

“What do you want me to do, Shane?” Ryan asks him. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “But I didn’t come here for you to—put more space between us.”

Ryan sighs, standing up. “Shane—”

“Just—"

Shane doesn't know what to do with his body. He's standing in Ryan's room, while Ryan stands at the edge of his bed with his hands in his pockets. Shane paces. He paces and paces, wearing a hole into the floor until he stops in front of Ryan. 

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quiet, concerned. 

Shane nods slowly. “Fine.” He takes a step forward, and then another, standing close enough to Ryan that he has to look down at him. Shane wraps his arms around Ryan's shoulders and slumps, so Ryan has to hold him up. 

“What are you doing?” Ryan whispers, humoring him. 

“Trying to be the same height as you,'' Shane teases, and Ryan laughs, a little louder than he should have, but even then, he doesn't think his mom can hear so far down. 

“You're such a little shit, you know that?” 

“Yeah.” Shane stands on his own this time. Shane wonders if there’s ever going to be a time where it doesn’t feel like this. Maybe when he’s old. Maybe when Ryan becomes familiar—if Ryan will ever let that happen—it’ll feel like just another Tuesday in August. Maybe it won’t feel like he’s going to burst at the seams. Maybe he won’t be so goddamn nervous.

Shane pulls away from Ryan and walks towards the window. The moon is full and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. The air is cooler here, smells clear and fresh. It cools Shane’s overheated flesh.

Ryan steps further away, putting things away, messing around with the things on his desk, shelving books and putting papers together.

“Hey, I—can I ask you something?” 

Ryan gives him one nod, and Shane looks into his eyes and tries to find the answer but comes up empty. 

“Are you nervous?” 

“About what? This? Us?” 

Shane nods. 

“Do I need to be nervous?”

Shane shakes his head. “I’m—I was just wondering.” 

“What’s there to be nervous about?” Ryan challenges. “You weren't nervous when you had your hand on my cock—”

Shane balks. “That was different. Also, it garnered the exact results I was hoping for.” 

“And how is that any different than this?” 

“You weren’t expecting me to touch you. You are now, and frankly, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay. No one does their first time.” 

“It’s not my first time,” Shane counters. 

“Oh?” Ryan says, smiling. 

“It’s not. Sara and I—we’re—“ 

Ryan’s eyebrows raise, and then he laughs. “That’s miles different than anything I can show you.”

“It really isn't,” Shane says, petulant, but his stomach flips. He knows better. He knows Ryan will wound him. And what a beautiful thing, to know he’ll be utterly destroyed when Ryan’s gone; he’s a natural disaster, as devastating as a hurricane. Shane will take this time, though, and enjoy the way it feels; the dents of Ryan’s fingertips will scar him, but at the very least, he won’t be empty handed. 

“Would you rather talk about the sex you’re having with Sara, or can I kiss you now?” 

Shane rolls his eyes to keep up false pretenses, but he nods.

Ryan takes his time crossing the room, walking slowly towards him, like he’s in slow motion. But then, Ryan’s hands are on his face, and his mouth is on Shane’s, and Shane sees a burst of light behind his eyelids, like fireworks, like the fourth of July, like the sun in the summer. He kisses Ryan, too, and for a while, it’s this hot, hot, heat, flooding his veins, pumping through his heart, flooding his body with concentrated arousal. He grabs for Ryan’s waist, pushing his hands underneath his shirt, pressing his fingers into his hot flesh. He drags his hands lower, down the arch of his spine and over the curve of his ass to squeeze; it makes Ryan moan into his mouth. Shane’s knees feel like they’re going to give out.

“Ryan,” Shane breathes, breaking the kiss for a moment so he can put out the fire in his lungs.

“You okay?” Ryan asks him, smoothing his thumbs along Shane’s cheeks. Shane nods. “C’mere.” He takes Shane’s hand and leads him to the side of the bed where he makes Shane sit with him. Side by side, Shane can catch his breath—rude of Ryan to be such a thief—and in doing so, he takes Ryan’s hand in his own, palm facing upwards. He drags his thumb over his palm, the center of it, where his hand is the softest, not yet marred by his hard work. 

He raises Ryan’s hand and presses it to his cheek, and then kisses the inside of his wrist. 

“What was that for?” Ryan asks, looking up at him with gentle, pensive eyes. 

“Everything,” Shane replies. He looks at Ryan, at his beautiful face, and wonders how Ryan sees him, if he’s beautiful to Ryan, too. 

“Come here.” Ryan grips him by the waist and Shane's swinging a leg over Ryan's lap and sitting on his thighs. 

They don't go in for the kiss, not yet. It’s more than that right now, where Shane wraps his arms around Ryan’s shoulders, holding him for a moment, putting his nose into Ryan’s hair and inhaling the scent of him, living in the feeling of Ryan’s hands all over him, dragging up his thighs and his back, gripping his hips when Shane rubs his hands down Ryan’s chest and on his face, touching him anywhere, everywhere, building it up and up and up, until the roof of all the sensuality and desire sways tall into the stratosphere—

It topples over with urgency, with the need to rush. In an instant, they are scrambling to get each other out of each other’s clothes. Ryan’s fingers tug his shirt off, and Shane does the same, scraping fingertips along Ryan's back, throwing the shirt to the floor. With Shane half naked, Ryan kisses where he can reach, his stomach, his chest, hot and open-mouthed, making Shane moan into the hot air of the bedroom.

Ryan curls an arm around Shane’s waist, turning him over and laying him on the bed. Shane immediately busies himself with his pants, shoving them down, kicking them off, just as Ryan unbuckles his belt and pries his jeans open. 

And just like that, Ryan’s very naked in front of him, hard between his thighs, kneeling before him. Shane’s panting as he stares at Ryan’s cock. He’s so beautiful like this, bathed in the little bit of moonlight allowed; the contours of his muscle, the sharp cut of his hips, the shadow of pubic hair right at the base. It makes his mouth go dry.

Ryan takes his hand from where it lays on the bed and brings it towards him. Shane pretends like his hand isn’t slightly trembling in Ryan’s. 

“Do you want to touch me?” he asks quietly; Shane glances up at Ryan’s face, nods his head slowly; Ryan takes Shane’s hand and presses it right to the side of his cock. Shane sits up as he wraps his fingers around it, keeping his eyes on Ryan. His eyes flutter closed, and Shane knows that feeling, that first touch, and he isn’t totally clueless; he strokes downward, and when he does, the skin follows, and the head of Ryan’s cock peeks out, shiny with precome. 

The muscles in his stomach contract, flex, and Ryan’s breaths are labored. Shane feels like he’s stumbled upon actual treasure. Ryan guides him, keeps the pace slow, tilts his head back. Shane’s dick twitches where it lays against the top of his thigh. 

Ryan bends forward, kissing over Shane’s forehead, his temple, and Shane draws his hand back, but only so he can touch Ryan’s waist as he lowers his body, using his knees to push apart Shane’s legs.

He’s so hard it’s dizzying. Ryan kisses him, touching his hand to his chest, his stomach, pressing their bodies so close together that Shane’s mind becomes a foggy haze, like early morning air over the lake. He grunts into Ryan’s mouth, shifting his hips when Ryan moves on top of him. 

“Oh my God,” Shane huffs, winding both of his arms around Ryan’s shoulders, rolling his hips underneath Ryan’s body as he grinds into him. “Oh—Ryan, Ryan.” 

When Ryan’s hand presses over his mouth, he moans against the skin of his palm, breathing harshly through his nose. He curls his legs around Ryan’s hips, his heels digging into the backs of Ryan’s thighs. His eyes focus on Ryan’s, right above him, in front of him, the furrow of his brow and the open O of his mouth as he breathes out Shane’s name so quietly Shane almost misses it underneath the rustling of the bedsheets and the gentle creaking of Ryan’s bed frame. Shane’s body winds up so tightly, he feels like he shatters when he comes.

There isn’t even a moment where he can catch his breath; Ryan lifts his body up and turns Shane over onto his stomach, hauling up him onto his knees. When he lowers himself, his cock is nestled between the cheeks of his ass, rubbing slowly against him. Shane thought Ryan would be frantic like this, like he might not be able to wait to use Shane’s body to get off; instead, as Shane breathes heavily into his pillows, he realizes that it was just him. The desperation only burned underneath his skin. He doesn't know whether to praise Ryan’s self-control, or hate that he isn’t rabid with want, the same way Shane was. 

But when Ryan reaches his climax, and bites into the soft give of Shane’s right shoulder, groaning Shane’s name, it makes Shane’s heart fill with something incredible, something fantastic and unnamable. 

Out of all the bodies in the Midwest, Ryan needed his self-control for Shane. Because he was so worried he would ruin Shane. 

And here Shane is, so very, very ruined. Ruined with a capital R. Ruined for everything, everyone, spoiled rotten with the way Ryan covers his body with his own, with the way he grunts into Shane’s ear, with the way his fingers grip the very top of Shane’s hip as he grinds out his release. Shane can feel the warmth of Ryan’s come spill all over him, onto the lower part of his back, between his ass cheeks, dripping further down his perineum. Maybe even his balls, because he can’t quite separate the feeling of his sweat and the feeling of Ryan’s come marking him up, claiming him, like some animal in the wild. 

Ryan kisses the back of Shane’s neck, his shoulder where he’d bitten. Sweet kisses that make Shane close his eyes and revel in them, sticky and sweaty, still breathing so hard. 

He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what to say. There’s the stark, startling desire to thank Ryan. 

“I love your body,” Ryan whispers quietly, still moving against him, smearing the mess of his come like he can embed it into Shane’s skin. Shane can feel him softening; he shivers. 

“You do?” Shane asks, like he doesn’t know. Because mostly, he doesn’t. How could he?

“I do.” 

With a hand on Shane’s cheek, Ryan turns his head so Shane is looking at him over his shoulder, and then Ryan kisses him, deeply, so deeply Shane feels it in his toes, in his dick, already getting hard again. He wonders if Ryan will do this to him again. He wonders if the self-control is broken, so irrevocably and irreparably, that they’re both confined to this bed, for the rest of the summer, days bleeding into autumn and winter, only warming each other with their heat of their bodies, whispering and pleading into each other’s skin, like it could stop time from ticking along. 

He wonders if Ryan would like to fuck him again. He wants Ryan to fuck him again.

Ryan gets up from the bed, leaving Shane to feel the draft of the cool night’s breeze coming through the window. He keeps his face pressed into the pillow underneath his head, letting his eyes close.

-:-

“What’s the difference?” Shane asks. “Between me and her?” 

“You and who?” Ryan murmurs sleepily.

“The waitress. Marielle.”

Ryan looks over at him. “You’re in my bed. You tell me.” 

Shane stretches his arms over his head, knocking them into the wall. “I’m serious.” 

“You’re always so serious, Shane,” Ryan mumbles into the flesh of his neck. 

“Ryan.” 

Ryan lifts his head, makes eye contact and smiles. “What do you want me to say?” 

“I want to know why she wasn’t worth the summer.”

“Or,” Ryan says, nosing over his cheek. “Why I think you are.”

“That’s not it,” Shane says. It couldn't possibly be. “But you could tell me that if you want to.” 

“I just showed you.” 

Shane huffs. “You're so irritating.” 

“I know,” Ryan snickers. 

“I saw you,” Shane says, prodding at Ryan with his words, bringing forth a secret memory. 

Ryan hums like he’s asking a question. 

“Fucking her,” Shane clarifies.

“Oh yeah?” he peers down at Shane, eyebrows raised. 

Shane nods. 

“And?” 

“And I still don’t get it,” he whispers. 

“It isn’t your business to get,” Ryan says simply. 

Shane pretends like it doesn’t bother him. He pretends that Ryan’s kisses over his skin soothe the sore of knowing Ryan can fuck someone and leave them when he’s done. 

“Maybe not,” Shane says. “But that’s—but you—“ 

“Sweetheart,” Ryan says. “You worry too much.” 

“I’m not worrying,” Shane mutters. 

“Okay,” Ryan says, laughing like he doesn’t believe him. Shane rolls into him, arms around his shoulders.

-:-

The rest of the night is spent in discovery; Shane touches Ryan wherever he wants however he wants to, gaining gentle whispers of praise and encouragement when he does something Ryan likes especially. He kisses his way down Ryan’s chest, his stomach, licking around the circle of his belly button because something compels him to. He kisses the sharp V line of Ryan’s hips, the crease of his thigh. Kisses the tip of his cock and licks a line down his shaft, wraps his lips around a testicle before kissing the soft, plush insides of his thighs. Ryan sighs, and when Shane looks up, he can see Ryan’s eyes are on him, watching him. 

“Can I suck you?” Shane whispers into flesh, and Ryan nods, pushing himself to lean back on his elbows. “You’ll tell me if I’m doing it wrong?” 

“No such thing as wrong,” Ryan says with a laugh. “Just don’t bite.” 

Shane snaps his teeth at Ryan, and Ryan’s laugh is sweet and breathy. But he’s still watching Shane, eyes so intense—all the funny jokes drain out of Shane. He looks down, Ryan’s cock thick where it rests against his stomach. He wraps his fingers around it, strokes it; Ryan’s breath goes shuddery. 

He takes it into his mouth. It tastes bitter, a little salty like skin sometimes is, but it’s hot and heavy flesh against his tongue; he’s mindful about his teeth, and then, like a popsicle, like a lollipop, he sucks when he lifts his head, until the very tip is cradled between his lips. And he takes Ryan all the way back in, further, and back up, and further, until Ryan’s cock is pressed against his soft palate, and all Shane can do is keep going, encouraged by the weight of Ryan’s hand in his hair, until Ryan is muttering that he’s going to come. Shane pulls off at the very last second; come splatters onto his lips, his chin, and Shane’s eyes are glued to Ryan’s cock standing in his hand, throbbing and twitching as he spills over his fingers. 

Shane licks his lips, tastes it, savors it even. Deciding he likes it, strangely, he swipes his tongue over the rest, what’s on his fingers, on Ryan’s cock, the bits in his pubic hair. 

“Hungry?” Ryan teases, but there’s glitter in his eyes, even in the dark. 

“I can’t explain it,” Shane murmurs, licking the last of it from the crease in Ryan’s thigh. He could spend hours like this, his hand wrapped around Ryan’s cock, jerking him off and licking him clean. 

Shane moves up Ryan’s body, sitting across his stomach. 

“Missed a spot,” Ryan says, pressing his lips to Shane’s chin; he can feel the way Ryan’s tongue licks over his skin. 

When he kisses him, Shane does his best to lick it out of his mouth. 

He shifts his hips, rubbing his dick against the hard planes of Ryan’s stomach, breathing harsh into his mouth. He presses his hands to Ryan’s face as he moves, groaning when Ryan presses a palm to his ass and grabs, helping along the rocking of his hips. It feels incredible, indescribable, staring at Ryan while Ryan stares back. Shane knows if he's not careful, God, if he isn't careful, he could become obsessed with this, just this. Ryan’s body with his own, the weight of his hands the soft encouragement of his words, the heat of his breath—

When Shane comes, he realizes it might be too late.

-:-

They only sleep for a handful of hours. When Shane wakes up, the sun has barely tipped over the horizon; the light in the room is grey, and Shane know he should be happy, elated—

It was everything he’d been begging the world to give him. And Ryan’s lying right next to him, holding him; it’s so hot being pressed against Ryan’s chest, Shane feels like he’s suffocating.

He is happy, at the surface, at the very top, but it crumbles away and Shane’s left with the kind of emptiness he’s never known before. If someone knocked on his chest, the sound would be hollow.

Shane shifts, turning his head to look behind Ryan’s shoulder at the clock on his nightstand. It’s barely seven in the morning. He knows his mother isn't even awake yet, but Ryan is; he pulls back, looking down at Shane with sleep soft eyes. There’s a twinge inside of him, an echo of whatever last night had made him feel but it dissipates quicker than he can grab onto it.

“Hi baby,” Ryan whispers. 

Shane’s mouth twitches, because he likes the sentiment, likes that it’s the first thing out of his mouth, likes the way Ryan looks at him when he says it, but there's something like acid, wringing his stomach like a wet towel. “Hi.” 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“No,” Shane tells him honestly. “I mean, I don’t know. I don’t—I don’t know.” 

“Talk to me,” Ryan coaxes, holding Shane tighter, but Shane wiggles out of his grasp.

“Let’s go swimming.” He gets up from the bed; he realizes he’s naked, exposed, all of his skin out in the open. When he looks behind him, Ryan’s sitting up, looking every bit like he thinks he’s messed up the whole thing. There’s a pinch between his eyebrows and his mouth is downturned, a frown that twists Shane’s insides even more. “I’m gonna go get dressed.”

Instead of fixing it, or finding out how to fix it, he finds his clothes and pulls on his underwear and leaves Ryan’s bedroom.

-:-

They do go swimming. Well, Shane gets into the water, but Ryan stays on the shore, sitting with his weight back on the palms of his hands, his legs crossed at the ankle.

Every time Shane breaks the surface of the water, he finds Ryan’s looking at him. So, of course, Shane ducks back down until he can’t breathe. And repeats, and repeats, and repeats.

He wonders what Ryan is thinking. He knows what he’s doing. It’s the same thing he always does—runs.

It could be as simple as asking Ryan. He could ask him what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling, if he’s as sideways inside as Shane is. But Shane keeps swimming, like he’s soaking in the courage from the lake water, and by the time he’s pulling himself out and onto shore, he’s lost his nerve. Ryan’s face isn’t like this morning’s. He looks pensive, like he’s thinking.

Maybe Ryan isn’t hurt at all. Maybe it’s just Shane, and Shane just pressed too hard, and now that he’s gotten what he wanted and doesn’t know what to do with it, that’s—that’s it.

Maybe it’ll be over now, and Ryan will go back to putting in space between them. He’ll leave for days at a time, only coming in after Shane’s gone to bed, and the sound of the typewriter will be all he hears of Ryan. And then, summer will end, and Ryan will be gone, and Shane will just tuck this broken fragment of his life somewhere else, hide it until he forgets he’s hidden it, and then life will carry on, and Ryan will be a memory that pops up every now and again, and it’ll make Shane smile and think, Whatever happened to Ryan Bergara? And he’ll look Ryan up and find out Ryan’s published a million spooky books and lives in California still, with a pretty waitress he’s married and managed to have children with, and maybe Ryan will be too busy to remember Shane at all.

“Shane?” Ryan’s voice seems so loud amongst the blanketed quiet that it makes Shane jump.

“Hmm?”

“I—” Ryan clears his throat, eyeing him carefully. “Are you upset?” he tries. Shane shakes his head. 

“No, I’m—I’m not anything.”

“Hey—”

“We should go home,” he interrupts. “I’m so tired.”

He hears Ryan sigh, and Shane pulls on his t-shirt, sliding his feet into his sandals, and he walks past Ryan standing up on the shore.

They ride their bikes in silence. And when they get home, there’s more silence. Shane rushes up the stairs and closes himself in his bedroom.

He can blame Ryan all he wants, but the only one putting space between them is him. It’s Shane, Shane and his doubts, and his inability to ask questions, and his resistance to deep conversation.

Part of him thinks how dare he stumble through that whole conversation about soulmates and beg Ryan to kiss him. How dare he beg for Ryan to talk to him again.

How dare he go into Ryan’s bedroom at midnight, for it all to peak here. Silence. And more silence. So loud it feels like his eardrums have ruptured.

How dare he fight, just to give up in the end.

And now that he’s resigned himself to giving up, he wishes he wouldn’t.

He changes out of his clothes, into something better to sleep in, a clean pair of underwear, and he sits on the edge of his bed.

Part of him is glad that there’s only a memory of Sara in this bed, and the rest, the Ryan of it all is in a bedroom he never has to go inside of again.

The door to his room opens and he looks up. It’s Ryan, and he doesn’t stop just at the door; he walks into Shane’s room, right to him, right to where he’s sitting on the edge of his bed. He’s taller as he’s standing. Shane lets himself look at Ryan, really look at him as Ryan uses his fingers, soft underneath his chin to tilt his head back, and lean forward to kiss him.

Shane closes his eyes, and lets himself be kissed, until he’s kissing back, too, opening himself open for Ryan, carving himself out so Ryan can fit in this space again. Shane reaches for Ryan’s waist, fingers gripping at flesh through a layer of cotton. He tries to pull Ryan on top of him, so Ryan can bracket him in, hide away like Ryan might be able to hide Shane from himself.

But Ryan doesn’t come with him, just looks at him with soft, pleading eyes.  

When Ryan leaves, Shane feels like every nerve is on fire, and he stares at the closed door, wondering how it’s possible that Ryan could make him feel like this.

-:-

It’s difficult to want something so much, have it, and internally war with himself about it. He’s walking a fine line, a tightrope, and he can’t make sense of it in his mind. Because when he’s submerged and surrounded by it, it feels good, he feels like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. But when he breaks the surface and drags himself out of it—the illusion of safety bends so far it breaks, cracks right in half, and cuts him up with those sharp, serrated edges. 

So, where does that leave him?

-:-

After Shane wakes up from a nap, he crosses the hallway to Ryan’s room. There’s no answer to his knock, and when he pushes the door open, the room is empty.

Downstairs, there’s a note on the fridge that says he’s gone into town for more supplies. Quickly, he gets dressed and rides his bike into town, and Shane finds him as he’s coming outside the hardware store. 

“What are you doing here?” Ryan asks, looking up at him. 

“I—“ Shane clears his throat. “I just wanted to be with you. I guess.” 

“Oh,” Ryan says, and Shane can’t tell if that’s good or bad.

“Sorry—“ Shane laughs, turning on his heel. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I’m gonna go home.” 

Ryan catches his arm. “Hang on a second, Jesus.” 

“Ryan—“

“Shane, you gotta talk to me, man.” 

Shane wishes Ryan would have called him baby instead. Even the thought of it makes heat gather under his skin, warming him in the parts the sun can’t reach. 

Man feels distant. And that’s Shane’s own fault for putting that distance between them, but he’s changed his mind and he’s trying to get closer.

“And say what? I don’t—I told you I don't know what I'm doing.”

Ryan looks at him, but his gaze is calculating. “I wish—do you know how good it felt waking up to you?” he wonders aloud. 

“Can’t be all that great. I wake up to myself every day,” he blurts out on instinct, cracking a smile. 

Ryan rolls his eyes, but he smiles, too. “The last thing I want is you to feel negatively about what we’re doing, Shane. If you have doubts or—or second thoughts—or if you start to feel like—like—” he sighs. “I don’t want you to regret it.” 

“Regret? You think I regret—“ Shane heaves a frustrated groan. “I don’t regret it, Ryan. That’s the thing. It isn’t regret at all.” It’s more like, Shane’s protecting himself, from the inevitable moment when Ryan is the one that regrets it. Of course, Shane says nothing about this because he doesn’t know how to.

Ryan levels him with a look.

“Are you happy I came to see you?” Shane asks instead.

“So happy I could kiss you,” Ryan says, without hesitation. Shane’s heart does a complicated, exaggerated little flip in his chest, and Shane’s stomach drops like he’s scared. But it’s exhilarating, delightful, when Ryan gives him a smile, and Shane looks around like they could be caught. He doesn’t take the chance—there’s no way he could, but Ryan reaches out between them, dragging his knuckles over Shane’s belly for just a second. A secret kiss, Shane thinks. 

“Why don’t we go to that spot you took me?” Ryan suggests. 

Shane nods. “Okay.”

They ride there together on their bikes, still quiet, but the space between them feels like it’s been upended by a jack hammer.

When they get to Shane’s creek, they let their bikes fall into the grass. Shane looks at the water, thinks about floating into it, but instead, he lies in the grass.

Ryan lays next to him, close enough that their arms touch. Shane wants to roll on top of him, hide himself underneath the weight of Ryan’s flesh and bones. Maybe they’ll fuse together, and Shane won’t exist like this anymore, but he’ll live underneath Ryan’s skin for the rest of his life.

“I liked everything you did to me,” he whispers. “Everything we did together. I’m thinking about all of it right now.” 

Ryan smiles at him. “So, what’s wrong?” 

“I feel like I don't know who I am.” He traipses his fingers down the length of Ryan’s forearm, touching his fingertips to the delicate inside of Ryan’s wrist.

“I didn’t,” Ryan says after a long, quiet moment. “I was a wreck after my first time with another man.” 

Shane feels like a hypocrite; your first time was with me, he thinks. He can’t even think of Ryan with another man, a man with limbs and a face and a heart. A whole body that took the time to learn Ryan with their fingers and thumbs, a whole being that probably obsessed about him the same way Shane does.

He thinks about that night at the lake with Sara, the way he’d come home and walked up the stairs, the way he stood outside of Ryan’s bedroom door and willed him to know that Shane had given his first away to Sara instead of him.

“Were you really?” 

“When you’re told your whole life that something is wrong, and then you like that something or become that something—it’s hard to tell yourself that you are good. But he—he made me feel okay. It took a lot of talking, a lot of—it took a long time.” 

“How old were you?” 

Ryan laughs. “Twenty-two.” 

“What is that, like a year and a half ago? I knew you didn't know anything about great legs,” Shane teases. Ryan laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs. 

“Oh, shut up,” Ryan wheezes. 

“Vindication!” 

Ryan playfully whacks Shane with the back of his hand.  “Idiot.”

“I can’t believe you had me thinking you were so grown up.”

“I’ll tell you a secret about grownups, sweetheart,” Ryan tells him. “We’re all just faking it. And you are—“ Ryan shakes his head. “Whatever you are feeling—just feel it. It’s normal. And one day, hopefully, it won’t hurt. Won’t feel so confusing.”

“A million years from now,” Shane muses. 

“Maybe. Maybe even sooner than you think,” Ryan says. 

Shane turns onto his side, resting his hand on Ryan’s chest. “Will you kiss me?”

“Come here.” 

Ryan kisses him. For a good long time, until Shane’s panting into his mouth, and he closes his eyes and thinks about a future like Ryan’s said. He thinks about what the possibility could give him, where he’s free to love Ryan the way he knows he wants to let himself. 

-:-

Ryan’s story helped. 

Shane is still out of sorts, like he was outside his body again, watching himself go through these human motions. He liked watching himself kiss Ryan. Touch him. Talk to him. It was a part of him that didn't make sense and made all the sense in the world. 

After all, his brother is queer. Gay. He likes men the way Shane seems to. Shane thinks, though, that his fascination stops at Ryan. Thinks that maybe, there isn’t another man on the planet that could touch him and make him bloom the way Ryan does. 

Maybe that’s the easy way out. 

Admitting to this, even to himself, seems like he’s committing a crime. It feels dirty and dangerous. It feels like his mother will hate him. 

Which is stupid, considering she’s done all she can to understand his brother. She calls him every other day. He only answers on Sundays. She loves him and Shane knows that. It doesn't make sense that she wouldn't love Shane, too. But he is himself, and his brother is—different. 

Maybe it will break her heart that both of her children defy the social norm, bent sideways. Born wrong. Defective. 

It just doesn't feel like that, though, when Ryan’s touching him. Or even when Sara touches him. It makes sense that he would like people at large; no specific taste. Except those with the capacity to surprise him. To make him laugh. 

Surely his mother could understand that. Surely, she could see that Ryan was different. That he was special. Spectacular. Made Shane feel special and spectacular, too.

-:-

Over the next few days, things seem easier. The quiet remains, but it doesn’t suffocate. It’s peaceful, in fact.

Ryan works on the house; he’s done so much it feels unrecognizable. The kitchen, the living room, his mother’s bedroom. And when he isn’t working on the house, he’s writing his book. All his little mysteries. Shane asks to read it, and Ryan always tells him he can when he’s done. It feels like Ryan will never be done.

And when Ryan’s busy, Shane is—well, he’s inspired. He’s traded in his books for the piano, fingers dancing on the keys until he’s got the handle of a song, a small wordless bridge. And when he bores of music, Shane decides to fall back into drawing. He’s graduated from his charcoal and pencils and had gone fully into using the acrylics he hadn’t used much of. He has plenty of brushes, but he doesn’t use any of them. His hands work just fine here, painting over discount canvases he gets from the art store, using his fingers to wield colors over the white background, until what looks back at him only makes sense to him. And maybe someone else can interpret it, say that he used yellow because he was happy, or red because he was feeling passionate, or orange because it’s sweet, it’s tangy, like summer. Green because green meant peace. Deep blue to represent shadows and uncertainty.

Shane won’t tell anyone he used the yellow because of the pen Ryan used to scrawl his notes into the margins of the pages he worked on during swimming breaks. Or red because it was the color of his blood when he’d cut his hand thinking about Ryan that afternoon in the kitchen. Orange because it’s the color of late afternoon as the sun struggles to stay awake as gravity tilts the earth away from the warmth glow of daytime as they sit in the backyard talking to each other. Orange like the monarch butterflies in his stomach he wishes he could capture in a jar, and show them to Ryan; show how unruly they are, their excitement when Shane’s thinking about someone he likes so much it feels like insanity. Green because of the earth, because of life, because the only time Shane ever felt every molecule, every atom in the construction of his body was when Ryan kissed him for the first time. Deep blue because it was the color of that stupid shirt Ryan had worn his first day here.

-:-

It's a very hot afternoon; the noise of his mom and her friends in the kitchen is too much for him, so he steps out into the backyard and picks a couple of peaches. They’re plump, softer than they were at the start of the summer. He slips through the kitchen unnoticed, leaving a roar of laughter behind him as he climbs up the stairs. He drags his fingers across Ryan’s door, cracked open; Shane knows he isn’t home, probably hanging out with the pretty librarian in town, conversing passionately about dead people. 

He quietly closes the door and continues across the hall towards his bedroom. It’s scorching, but it’s quiet and he’s alone here. He flops onto his bed, setting the peaches down next to him, picking up the book he’s nearly finished with off the side table. He opens it, flips the folded corner, and reads, concentrating on word after word, until his mind wanders, thinking about something else, thinking about ghosts, about love and soulmates. About the preposterousness of the afterlife and wondering if he’s going to start begging for forever despite its nonexistence.

The book falls out of his hand; it bounces from the bed to the floor with a light thud. He finishes one peach quickly, like he’s starving. 

The second one is heavy in his palm. The ceiling fan whirrs; it works better now that Ryan’s fixed it for him. A torn wire that hadn’t been making the proper connection. Shane laughed to himself because it felt like a metaphor.

With the breeze cool on his flesh, he closes his eyes and thinks about bodies. About arms and legs and hot flesh; it didn’t matter who it belonged to, if it was Sara, with her sweet, soft skin, tiny breasts the size of his palm, her hot, wet pussy he could slide his fingers into. Or Ryan, with skin so flushed he felt like fire underneath Shane’s hands, hard and angled muscles, his cock so heavy inside the clasp of Shane’s fingers, dripping from the tip nearly covered by foreskin. 

Shane looks down at his hands, at the shape of the fruit he holds. It reminds him of both of them. Of neither of them. 

With his middle and first fingers, he touches the suture, drawing his fingers slowly over the fuzzy skin, soft underneath his touch. He reaches the stem end pauses, pushing inwards with gentle pressure. 

Fervently, he digs into it. Juice bursts around his fingers, dripping down the skin until it splashes against his chest. He doesn’t pay any mind to it as it soaks through his t-shirt, leaving cool spots as the breeze from the fan circulates. It runs down the inside of his wrist, down the length of his forearm, pooling at the crease of his elbow. 

With determination, he claws into the fruit, reaching the pit and forcing it out. He puts it in his mouth, biting off the flesh until there isn’t anymore, and throws it to the ground beside him; it knocks against the floorboards like a pebble skipping water. 

He slips his fingers back into the hole he’s carved, and his body blooms with radiant heat, sharp in his belly. With his right hand, he drifts his touch downwards, drawing up the hem of his t-shirt, dipping underneath the waistband of his shorts. He’s hyper aware of the fabric over his knuckles. Soft. He palms himself, already so hard. He wraps his fingers around his dick, tugging slowly as he brings the peach to his mouth with his other hand, licking around the torn edges of the hole he created, dipping in the tip of his tongue inside of it. His eyes close and he keeps his right hand at the base of himself. With his left hand, still holding the peach, he pushes it underneath the waistband of his shorts. 

He takes in a shuddery breath when he aligns the peach with the tip of his dick and pushes the fruit as far down as he can, gasping, using it the same way he would use his hand, stroking himself. It feels so good, his toes curl. He almost wants to shy away from how good it feels, reminiscent of that moment he’d had with Sara, the night he’d spent with Ryan, and it’s too much for his body to handle, too much for his mind to dwell on, almost fascinating how quickly it does him in, how he comes into the peach without a second thought, his breath knocked out of his lungs. 

He pulls his hands away from himself, he inspects the peach, setting the defiled fruit onto his night table. He’s a mess, sticky fingers from the peaches juice, his own come; he wipes his hands on the fabric of his t-shirt, not bothering to get up. An acidic shame weighs him down heavy enough that it makes him burrow into his mattress, even though the heat is suffocating him. 

He’s miles away from who he used to be, spending his time writing and reading, strolling through tall grass, and swimming through summer-warm waters. He used to be different, he used to be something else. Something decidedly not this, masturbating into fruit as he lays in his bed with people on the next floor down. He used to think of no one, and now he’s thinking of Sara. Now he’s thinking of Ryan; he’s thinking of Ryan and his hands and his mouth and his cock, and the way it all makes him feel right after. It’s nothing like this, this pit in his stomach that feels torturous, disgusting, making him sick. 

He’s still thinking about Ryan as he closes his eyes, drifting off to sleep, a mess atop bedsheets, wondering and wondering and wondering how Ryan sees him. How Ryan chooses to see him at all when all Shane has done is hide.

-:-

It’s dark when he wakes; the creak of the door opening is what does it for him. He looks over his shoulder, groggy and confused, finding Ryan walking towards him, a white tank top showing off his ridiculous arms. He sits on the edge of the bed and Shane rolls onto his back, running his fingers into Ryan’s hair. He closes his eyes, enjoys the feeling of Ryan’s mouth on his neck, over his chest, pushing up his t-shirt and kissing some more. 

“You’re so sticky,” Ryan whispers with a small laugh. Shane barely hears it, doesn’t quite register his words, even as Ryan dips lower, using demanding fingers to pull down the waistband of his shorts, exposing him to air that’s cooler now. Shane opens his eyes now, looking down the length of his body, just to watch the way Ryan’s tongue drags over the tip of him, soft still but quickly filling, hardening, thrilled. 

Ryan lifts his head and licks his lips; his brow furrows. “What—” 

“Wait—” 

“What did you do?” Ryan asks him, his mouth curling into a grin that Shane would find sexy any other time, but right now, it feels mean. 

“Nothing—” Shane makes the mistake of looking over to his side, to his night table where the peach sits pathetically, hollowed out and glazed. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ryan says, whispered but so delighted. He reaches for the peach, cradling it in his hands, looking down at it, and then to Shane. 

“It’s—I’m—” the words all catch in Shane’s throat as he watches Ryan touch it so reverently. That sickness threatens again, bubbling back up and Shane reaches for Ryan’s wrist, curling his fingers around it to yank his hand back, but Ryan is so much stronger than him. “I’m so fucked up.” 

“I think it’s beautiful,” Ryan says, biting down on his lip. “I can show you something real fucked up—” 

“Ryan don’t—” 

Ryan’s hand still holds Shane down, but Shane powers through that, fighting against Ryan to grab for the peach as Ryan moves it closer to his open mouth. 

“Ryan, please,” he pleads, his voice raw, broken, but Ryan keeps pushing, using his strength to keep Shane down even though Shane is desperate for him to stop. 

Ryan bites into the peach.  

It’s a quick moment, it happens so fast; Ryan’s teeth in the flesh of the peach he came inside, and Shane can see the splash of juice, the way it drips down his chin, his hand. The noise of it rents the air, and Shane feels like he’s frozen, watching Ryan eat his peach, looking serene, and peaceful. 

Shane doesn’t think anyone could ever—

There isn’t anyone else that would—

It’s grossly intimate, isn’t it? To watch this man humorlessly eat this fruit, this man he enjoys the company of so much that it tiptoes that line of obsession—soulmates aren’t real, but maybe, maybe there will never be another person with edges like Ryan’s that fit his own edges so perfectly because they created the edges, carved themselves just right so when they fit together, they locked into place.

It feels like he’s watching Ryan eat him, tearing through his flesh with sharp teeth. Part of him wants Ryan to eat more of it, to consume it in its entirety, so it’ll be like Shane is inside Ryan now, while the enzymes of Ryan’s body break him down, like he’s become sustenance for him.

Ryan swallows the bite of the peach and sets the fruit back down onto the nightstand. He looks at Shane, removing his hand from his chest. He wipes the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t take his eyes away from him at all. Underneath the heaviness of his gaze, Shane—not knowing what else to do, just curls into himself, falling into Ryan’s chest, his stomach, inhaling the scent of sawdust and parchment paper as gentle sobs spew from his mouth. 

“Oh, hey, hey,” Ryan gentles, and he moves, and both arms come around Shane as he cries. He didn’t expect to cry; he feels like he’s drowning, standing above ground with water in his lungs. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” 

Shane pulls back and looks at Ryan, who sets his hands on Shane’s face, wiping the tears from underneath his eyes. Shane pitches forward, finding Ryan’s mouth with his own, begging Ryan to kiss him better and heal these wounds he’s so hellbent on creating. Some internal self-harm that he keeps coming back to, even when everything feels stable, when he’s okay. Because it’s too much for him to be okay, to feel okay, to feel like this body covered by this skin is a good body. Because that can’t be right, can it?

For a handful of stolen moments, Ryan does just that, kissing his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, and his neck, until Shane’s calmed, until he feels hollow but safe. He leans against Ryan’s chest, letting Ryan hold him up. Shane doesn’t think he can wrap his arms any tighter around him.

-:-

“My brother’s a queer,” Shane says quietly, lying back against Ryan’s chest. “My dad—“ Shane stops himself before going further, turning his head so he can look over his shoulder. He thought maybe Ryan had fallen asleep, but Ryan looks back at him instead, his eyes awake and alert, but still so soft in the wake of their intimacy. 

“What about him?” 

“He's the reason my brother packed up and left. Why my mom took me and left. He's not a good man.” 

Ryan kisses his shoulder once and then again, humming. “Most men aren’t.”

-:-

Ryan tells Shane to close his eyes and spends his time kissing over the length of his limbs, from his ankles to his neck, from his wrists to his shoulders, the hollow of his throat. Shane is shaking, but behind his eyelids, a film plays, over exposed, saturation too high, all of it just pieces of the summer he’s spent with Ryan, the longing he already feels even though Ryan is close, he’s here now, touching him with hands that speak louder that Ryan’s voice could ever hope to. There’s something so powerful in those touches—a promise maybe—but he can feel the emotions crawl up his throat, cutting him open, until he’s crying again, tears bleeding through his eyelids and falling off the sides of his face. 

“Oh, baby,” Ryan whispers, and still Shane keeps his eyes closed, even as he feels the feather soft touch of Ryan's lips against his temple, down over his cheek, against his mouth. 

Shane can taste the salt of his tears on Ryan's lips. 

“Look at me,” Ryan says. Shane opens his eyes, blinking the weight of his tears from his eyelashes. “Are you okay?” 

Shane shakes his head, shifts his body so he turns on his side. “I don't know how to explain it,” he starts. “But I don’t think I’m ever going to be.”

“Might feel like that now,” Ryan eases, fingers through Shane's hair, gentle and sweet. 

“Just touch me,'' Shane whispers. “And don't stop.” 

Ryan regards him with dark, tired eyes, and then he moves in, taking up Shane’s space with his frame, pressing his body closer before Shane feels the satisfaction of Ryan’s kiss, achingly slow, one that steals his breath from the very bottom of his lungs, spins him in circles and leaves him dizzy. Ryan takes him in hand, and ruins him slowly, pushing him off the edge of the world and into stardust. 

“That shirt you wore the first day here. The blue one. Can I keep it?” Shane asks when it’s over, sweat cooling on his skin. 

Ryan laughs into Shane’s chest, gives him a kiss for an answer.

Sleep takes Ryan quickly, but Shane stays up, thinking about the beginning of summer, when he hadn't thought, hadn't realized that he’d been on the precipice of change. To think that Ryan is changing him, that he will be different when Ryan leaves, that the inside of him is so much rawer now that he’s experiencing what it is to want to be so close with someone it doesn't even make sense. He wants to pull back flesh and live tucked into the marrow of Ryan’s bones, free fall through the air in his lungs, swim in the warmth of his bloodstream, sleep in the curve of his heart. Close doesn't even begin to describe how badly Shane just wants to be a part of Ryan, inside of him, safe and sound as he tiptoes through the maze of his grey matter. 

It's a violent feeling, one that rips through him unapologetically, demanding that he finds a way. He settles though, for Ryan’s arm around his waist, pressed together from shoulders to knees, even in this heat. He would rather die, than push Ryan away from him. 

Eventually, he falls asleep too, fingers through Ryan's as he brings Ryan's hand up to his mouth and kisses his palm.

-:-

When Shane wakes, he feels groggy, exhausted, heavy. He blinks his eyes open, squinting in the bright light of the morning. He reaches out a hand, expecting to find Ryan’s body beside his, but the space is empty, and the mattress is cool. It doesn’t make him sad; it’s better that they don’t get used to sharing long nights, even though, one day, he thinks they will; they might be able to. Wake up to each other and waste away the daylight with sluggish movements, lazy motions as they pull each other closer. One day, maybe they won’t have to sneak around.

When he rolls onto his belly, he snuggles into Ryan’s pillow, and paper comes into contact with his cheek. He lifts himself up and finds the t-shirt he’d asked Ryan for folded up, and a note right on top:

It’s only fair that I get to have one of yours. Don’t worry, I’ve already picked it out. Meet me at the diner at 7 .

Shane grins, looking around his room, imagining Ryan’s soft tiptoeing as he goes through Shane’s closet, his dresser, to find a shirt he liked enough to steal. It makes his skin warm, and he sets aside the note, and presses his face into the worn cotton of Ryan’s shirt. It smells like him, clean and fresh, and Shane wants to wear it as much as he wants to preserve it, put it behind glass like sports fanatics do player jerseys.

After he showers, he doesn’t hesitate at all, pulls the fabric over his head, pushes his arms through the holes. It doesn’t fit him like it fits Ryan, but it’s soft, comfortable, and he knows, in no time, it’ll smell more like himself than it will like Ryan. Maybe he can get Ryan to wear it one last time for him.

With his bad mood chipped away and his soul at ease, he picks up a book from his nightstand. The collection of poems he’d read to Ryan that night. He hasn’t touched the book he and Sara had picked out together since he’d bought it, since the night Ryan had taken him to bed.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get to finish that one, sadly.

He puts his book in his backpack and shoves a towel in as well, thinking a day by the lake will be good for him.

It’s early enough that the sun hasn’t reached its hottest, and he’ll get to enjoy the heat as he floats in the cool waters. He’s fighting to let himself be happy today. He’s fighting to be okay with who he is and what he likes and who he loves.

It’s a funny word. It’s an even funnier feeling. It’s a realization that comes with a hazy pink tint to everything, little floating hearts in the corners of his eyes like a cartoon.

Out on the porch, he slings his backpack onto his shoulders and heads for the yard to upright his bike from where he left it the last time. Ryan's is gone from its usual spot, and he knows Ryan is at the library, doing his library things, and while Shane would rather spend time with him, there isn’t that desperate need right now. Whatever rope that ties them together hangs loose, gives a little for unrestricted range of motion. He knows later in the day, the give will lessen and lessen, until the sun sets, and the moon is up high, and he’s underneath Ryan again, and the rope will wind around their bodies and keep them close.

Besides, he’s got a date tonight.

“Shane!”

He looks around, looking for the voice and finds Sara on her bike, riding to the end of the driveway. He freezes. She comes to a stop, both feet on the ground, her hands on the handlebars.

“Hey, Sara,” he says, biting the inside of his lip. She looks at him, furrowing her brow.

There’s a quiet moment between them as they look at each other, like neither of them want to speak first. He knows what’s coming, he does, but he feels like if he’s quiet, maybe it won’t come at all.

“You haven’t called,” Sara says finally.

“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “I’ve—I’ve been busy.”

She grimaces. “With what?”

He shrugs. “Stuff.”

“Okay,” she says, but it comes out like two words as she pushes her curly hair behind her ear. “Are you busy now?”

“I’m—” Shane looks away from her, out past her shoulder as he thinks about his answer. “Yeah.”

“Shane—what are you—what are you doing with me, huh?”

“Nothing, I’m—”

“Nothing?” her tone is shocked, almost shrill. Like she’s in disbelief. “What do you mean nothing?”

“That’s not what I meant, Sar.” He shakes his head, and climbs off his bike, letting it fall to the ground. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What do you mean, then?” she asks, tilting her head, like she might be able to see him better. See all six foot four of his height, and all the lies that keep him upright.

“I don’t know. I—”

“Do you want to be with me? Because—because I didn’t think we were just messing around for the summer, Shane. I really like you.”

Shane inhales deeply, and gives her a long, hard look. When he opens his mouth to say—

He doesn’t even know what he wants to say, so nothing comes out. He closes his mouth, and shrugs.

“I can’t believe you,” she accuses.

“I’m sorry—please—”

“Please? You’re in no position to be asking for things, Shane. Much less begging for them.” She looks down and he can see the way her hands tighten around the handlebars of her bike. She looks back up at him and her eyes are ruthless the way they burrow into him, burning him with the heat of her angry gaze. He takes a step back like she’s pushed him.

Sara’s face softens. The furrow in her brow is gone and her eyes pull back their daggers, and all that’s left is the curve of her frown. “You said you liked me, too.”

“I did,” Shane insists. “I did, Sara, I promise.”

“But you don’t now? Is that it?”

“What do you want me to say to you?” he asks her. 

“I just want you to be honest, Shane! Just fucking—be honest.” 

He opens his mouth again, and so many things come rushing to the forefront of his mind. The jealousy that pushed him closer to her, the feelings he did have for her, the way she touched him and looked at him and laughed into his shoulder and kissed ice cream out of the corner of his mouth. The shit they did that made it feel like he was—like he was the kind of person she deserved.

But just as quickly, everything circles around and comes back to the reason he stepped closer to her in the first place.

Shane rubs his face with his hand.

“Is it because you like someone else? I saw the note on your desk. The one where someone wrote to you to come see them at midnight. Did you go?”

It feels like his heart stops in his chest; his stomach falls, and he feels nauseated. “Sara—Sara, that’s not—I—”

“What was the point, Shane? What was the goddamn point of dragging me into this if you were already tangled up in someone else?” She asks him.

He shrugs again. “Because.”

“Just because? You fucked me just because?” 

It’s another stab at him and he feels like he’s been wounded, even though he has no right to feel like this. “Don’t say it like that!” 

“That’s what you’re telling me!” she shakes her head. “I thought you were difficult, Shane, but I never thought you were an asshole.” 

“Sara, please.”

“Whatever,” she mutters, mounting her bike and riding away. Shane watches her go, doesn’t make the effort to go after her. 

He lets his bike drop to the grass, dropping his backpack with it. Feeling. Feeling like the world has been pulled out from underneath his feet. 

He should have gone after her. So, he could explain himself. Because—because there was something to explain. Surely, he could make it make sense to her, but how could he, when it still doesn’t make much sense to him?

He trudges back into the house, and the door slams shut behind him. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, standing in the middle of the living room. He looks around, and feels like crying, or yelling maybe, punching a hole in the drywall.

It’s his fault—he knows that. He’d hidden himself from her, and didn’t think her eyes would catch him, but they have, and it burns, like acid all throughout his body, atrophying his muscles, and making his skin feel too heavy for his bones. He’s disintegrating, right there in the middle of the living room.

He’d already admitted it to himself. He likes her. He likes her, but Ryan—and no, it’s not fair, how could it be? His greediness had caught up to him, and Shane had been running for so long, now that it’s captured him, he feels—

He doesn’t know who he is anymore.

Defeat weighing his bones, he trudges up the stairs to his room, and lays across his bed. He can smell Ryan on his sheets, and he remembers Sara in this bed with him, that fantasy his mind had conjured, and—

A part of him feels weightless, like he was unmoored, and free, sailing oceans without a tether. Because in the end, what he really wanted, what he was truly after was still his. He still had Ryan. At the expense of Sara, yes, but if it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t have known the difference. He may not have gotten this far.

The knock at his door surprises him, and he merely grunts to let whoever it is on the other side know that it’s okay to come in.

“Shane?”

It’s his mother.

“Honey, you have to get up, you can’t be sleeping all day,” she tells him.

“I’m not sleeping,” he grumbles into a pillow, turning his head to look at her. And there’s something about seeing her in his doorway that makes his entire body crumble and his throat burn and his eyes are fucking wet, and he shoves his face into his pillow.

He knows what it is; it’s the horrifying realization that his father had been so obsessed with Shane being like his brother, that Shane never stopped at any point and realized that as much as he didn’t mind being like Scott, he’d become more like his father. It’s painful as this thought cuts through him, looking at his mother’s face and remembering what her own pain looked like when his father didn’t come home at night.

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t committed to Sara like his father had to his mother. It didn’t matter that they weren’t married, because the look on Sara’s face had been just like the look of his mother’s, and as far as good men went, his father wasn’t one of them, and it gutted him to think that he himself could ever be someone like him.

It’s not even seconds before his mother is already sitting on the edge of the bed. She presses her hand to his back. “Oh, honey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, hmm?”

He clears his throat and turns his head to look at her again. “I messed up.” He sighs. “I messed up and I hurt Sara and—” he shrugs his shoulders.

“Tell me what happened,” she coaxes. “Maybe I can help.”

“I don’t—I don’t know. I just messed up, Ma.”

“It’s a part of growing up, unfortunately,” she laments, slowly rubbing his back. “Now, come help me bring in the groceries. I promise to leave you alone after.”

Shane huffs a laugh into his pillow. “Yeah, alright.”

-:-

Shane hangs out in the kitchen with his mother instead. He feels torn on the inside, but putting away canned goods, and hauling in the heavier groceries takes his mind off things. He listens as she tells him about work, stories about her coworkers, before she tells him about a new soap she’s been watching, and then the knitting project she’s started for his grandma, and—

And it dawns on him that he’s been so wrapped up in himself all summer it feels like he’s barely seen her. Or talked to her. Or just—spent time with her.

When they’ve put away all the groceries, Shane sticks around and helps her put up picture frames, and the giant mirror that hangs above the couch, along with other various decorations she says she’s been meaning to get up around the house. And in one afternoon, it looks so much better. There’re pictures of Scott on the wall, his cousins from his mother’s side, the faces of his aunts and uncles in messy collages. Some art she got from a yard sale a few weekends ago with her girlfriends. Elementary school trophies he and Scott won for participating in various activities. It looks like home, but different, not at all like home used to look.

There aren’t any photos of his father.

When he looks up at the clock, it’s already six, and his stomach growls.

“I’ll get started on dinner,” his mom says with a pat to his shoulder.

“Actually, I was going to get a bite to eat with Ryan later, if that’s okay.”

There’s a flash of a look on his mother’s face, one that scares him. It’s just—acknowledgement maybe. Curiosity? Something in the lift of her brows and the curve of her mouth that feels like—

He doesn’t know. Just something that jolts him on the inside, fear that doesn’t quite encapsulate, but it certainly nudges at him.

“Of course,” she says. “Just be careful if you boys stay out late, alright?”

“I know, Ma,” he tells her. And then she’s off to the kitchen, and Shane follows behind her, climbing up the stairs.

With the door of his bedroom closed, he decides to pick out something to wear. Under normal circumstances, he’d throw on whatever was closest, but even with the morning he had, it still doesn’t take away from the night before, from all the nights he’s shared with Ryan. And it’s just the diner, so it’s not like—

It isn’t a big deal, but he wants to look nice. There’s no crime in wearing a shirt with a collar for once. There’s no crime in wearing pants instead of shorts, and making sure his hair is—

It’s okay to look nice, he tells himself. And it’s okay to want to look nice for Ryan.

It feels like a lie, but he wouldn’t have thought twice if he’d been dressing up for Sara. Or for any other woman on the face of the planet.

So, he picks out a short-sleeved button down, one that’s got thin red and white stripes, reminding him slightly of checkered picnic blankets. The pants he chooses are tan, without holes or stains or—

They’re his nice pants, the ones he wears to see extended family on holidays.

He combs his hair and stares at himself in the mirror in the bathroom, but he doesn’t hate the presentation. Because that’s what it is. A presentation of himself to Ryan, for him.

And that’s okay, he decides.  

When he’s all dressed up, he’s almost nervous to leave, though, stuttering through the doorway of his bedroom before descending down the stairs.

His mom is on the phone when he tries to walk by without looking at her.

“You look nice,” she calls out to him. “Who’re you trying to impress?”

“I just—can’t a guy wear a nice shirt?” he says, trying to make a joke, and it feels warped and insecure when he does, but even so, his mother gives him a smile.

He beelines for the door because that flash of something is back on her face. And it’s probably just his nerves that are doing him in, grabbing him by the throat and forcing him to read into it, but he can’t help but overthink.

For a second, he thinks about his brother, that conversation they had on the phone. The way Shane thought his mother had slipped some misinformation to Scott. And now, maybe that thought wasn’t so out of place.

When he opens the front door to step outside, he’s surprised to find someone else on the other side of it.

“Shane,” his father says, hand raised like he was ready to knock. He lowers his hand to his side. “You’re a hard man to get a hold of.” 

“Dad—what are you doing here?” he asks, suddenly feeling so small. Because the gut punch of this morning wasn’t enough, the day is like boomerang and hits him a second time.

“I’ve been calling for weeks. Your mother says you’re always out.” 

“I—sorry,” he murmurs. “It’s been a busy summer with friends.”  

“I’ll bet,” his father says. “Come on a ride with your old man? We’ll get some ice cream like we used to.” 

Shane doesn’t remind him that the last time that had happened was when he was ten, maybe eleven, on some birthday he barely remembers. 

“I was—sorry, I was going to meet someone,” he says, knowing Ryan will be sitting in that diner, like they planned. 

“Come on, Shane, I’m sure your friends will understand,” his father insists, and it feels like Shane doesn't have a choice. He sighs, dejected, and closes the front door behind him. 

He gets into his father’s car.

-:-

They pass the diner on the way to the ice cream shop. From the passenger side window, Shane can make Ryan out, sitting with his elbows on the tabletop, hands folded underneath his chin. He can’t tell the expression on his face, but Shane imagines him patient, just sitting there waiting. He wishes he could send him a message, a signal, an SOS even. As it happens, he turns to face the windshield, watching the town pass.

“You all signed up for school in the fall?” his dad asks, calling over his attention. Shane doesn’t look at him. 

“Yeah.” 

“Business, right? You know a business degree will get you through any door. You’re a smart kid.”

“Yeah, I know. I was thinking about doing something different, though, maybe,” he says, tentatively, rubbing his sweaty palms of the legs of his pants.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m pretty good with art. And they’re doing cool things with computers these days, maybe—”

“Shane, it’s better this way. With a business degree, you’ll have more opportunities to choose from. Art is—art isn’t serious.”

“I—I know. But. Times are changing, and people—”

“Shane, this isn’t really up for discussion,” his father says, in that tone that states the conversation is over.

Shane sighs, leaning his head against the window glass.

“When you have your own kids, and they come to you with dreams of art and music, you’ll understand, Shane. You’ll understand that you’re going to have to make the hard decision of guiding them the right way. After all, no sense in paying for what will inevitably be an education for people who end up with broken dreams.”

“Jesus, Dad.” He looks over the center console. “You don’t have to pay for my school. I can get a job and pay for it myself if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried about anything, because you’re going to be studying business, like we agreed, so you don’t waste your future.”

“It’s not a waste. It wouldn’t be a waste.” Shane makes a dissatisfied noise.

“What now, Shane? There’s always something with you,” his father said, like Shane’s picked a nerve.

“Nothing. Can you just take me back home, please?”

“You’re acting like a child, Shane. Because I told you not to study art? If that’s what you want to do in your free time, then do it. But if you’re going to a school for an education I’ve already paid for, then you’re going to do something that creates financial stability. ‘Starving artist’ isn’t a made-up term.”

Rather than dignify his father with a response, he keeps quiet in the passenger seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

“And if your mother knew how to handle you boys, you wouldn’t be heading down the same road your brother—”

“You keep saying stuff like that. You keep saying I’m not like my brother. What does—what do you mean?”

His father’s silence is booming in the quiet air of the car, deafening, even over all the road noise. 

“You know, it began with art for him, too,” he starts. “The—the sexual proclivity for men.” 

“And what’s so wrong about that?” Shane tests, pushing against his father in a way he never has before. In a way that scares him, sitting in the passenger seat of a car. He watches his father grip the steering wheel. His knuckles flush and whiten.

“Shane, the Bible says—“ 

“The Bible? When have you read the Bible?” Shane retorts. “I’m sure the Bible says you shouldn’t be unfaithful to your wife—“ 

“Shane Alexander!” 

“Well, Dad, we’re talking about the Bible here. You can’t condemn one sin and excuse another.” 

“Shane—“ 

“And you know what? So, what if I’m like my brother? Far as I know, he’s a better man than—“ 

Shane’s father stops the car, right in the middle of the street, and doesn’t move when other cars honk at them. 

“What are you telling me, Shane? You like men, too?” His father stares at him, eyes like fire. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever seen his father so mad.

“Maybe! I don’t know. I don’t know! Maybe I don’t like anyone!” 

“Son of a bitch,” his father hisses, words like venom, stinging Shane. He feels dizzy with how hard his heart is beating. “I tried to tell your mother not to baby the two of you and look what it’s gotten us. Two—” His father shakes his head. “Get out of the car.” 

Shane can’t find the door handle fast enough. As he pushes the door open, he can’t help but look at his father, square in the face, and say, “I’ve been sleeping with a man all summer. Every time you’ve called, I’ve been with him. I want you to know that and live with the fact that I would rather be with him than speak to you.” 

Shane steps out of the car, calmly, easily, and shuts the door behind him. It isn’t necessary to slam it. He knows his words did what they needed to.

-:-

With his hands shoved into his pockets, he makes it back the few blocks it takes to get to the diner. Thankfully, even though he’s almost thirty minutes late, Ryan is still sitting at the table. He looks like he’s about ready to call it, but Shane slips into the booth across from him. 

Ryan’s face changes from elation to the deepest of concerns in the span of a second. 

It’s then Shane realizes his face is wet. 

“Fuck—“ 

“What happened?” Ryan asks. “Are you okay?” 

Shane shakes his head. And laughs. “No—no!”

Ryan looks like he wants to move closer, but he can’t, and Shane hates this world, hates this society, hates that Ryan can’t sit next to him and wrap his arms around his body, because that is what Shane desperately wants right now. 

“Let’s get out of here, come on,” Ryan says quietly. Shane nods and gets out of the booth, walking closely behind Ryan. They walk down the sidewalk, close enough that it could look suspicious, but Shane doesn’t care. 

“What do you want? What can I do for you?” 

“I just—I want to kiss you, so bad,” he says, through his sniffles, and Ryan laughs, so sweet, so charming. 

“I can make that happen,” he says. They’re street side so Shane doesn’t know how he could possibly do something like that. But then Ryan’s hand slides around his wrist, and Shane’s being pulled down the alleyway.

“Okay?” Ryan asks him, and Shane nods as Ryan rises onto the tip of his toes, and his hand is on the back of Shane’s neck. Their noses brush, and Shane feels startled, feels like crying, feels like flying. 

And then Ryan is kissing him, really kissing him, and maybe Shane is flying. He certainly feels like he’s soaring, up above buildings taller than he can imagine in his wildest dreams. 

“Better now?” Ryan whispers, and Shane nods. 

“Much.” 

“Did you get dressed up for me?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, wiping his face, smiling sheepishly. 

“You look good. I like this shirt on you.” Ryan reaches between them and presses his finger into the button that’s right in the middle of his chest. It feels like Ryan can reach inside him right now and poke his heart.

“Well, I’m glad that didn’t go to waste.” Shane takes in a deep breath. “I don’t want to go home yet. My mom’s there, and she’s going to ask questions, and I just—”

“Let’s go to the spot. We can just hang out for a little while.”

Shane nods, and Ryan reaches up to give him a kiss for the road.

-:-

In the morning, Shane wakes with his body tucked underneath Ryan’s, like Ryan is shielding him from the world. He enjoys it, the feeling of being protected, hoping that Ryan, when he’s at his most vulnerable, feels like he is protected by Shane, too. 

Shane curls his hand into Ryan’s hair, brushing through the soft curls slowly. It wakes him after a bit if the neck kissing is any indicator. 

Ryan crosses his arms over Shane’s chest, looking down at him with bleary eyes, sluggish blinks like Ryan might fall back to sleep at any second. 

“I came out to my dad last night,” Shane whispers. 

Ryan hums. 

“He didn’t take it well,” he continues, like it might not have been painfully obvious. “But that’s okay.” 

“You think?” 

“I told you he wasn’t a good man.” 

“But don’t think, even for a second, that you aren’t,” Ryan whispers. “Because you’re pretty fuckin’ great.” 

“Easy for you to say. I’m the one sucking your dick.” 

Ryan guffaws, loud and noisy, and Shane snickers, letting himself giggle with Ryan in the soft light of the morning, where the sun hasn’t even come up yet. 

“Even then, even before that, I knew you were special.” 

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I’m an excellent judge of character.” 

“You’re full of shit is what you are.” 

Ryan sighs. “Maybe, but I’m right,” he decides. “Wouldn’t have bothered otherwise.” 

Shane feels tickled, warm, and cozy. 

“It’ll sit with you for the rest of your life,” Ryan says quietly. “But it doesn’t have to define you. You are wonderful. You are good.” 

“Says you.”

“One day, you’ll believe me.” 

Shane sighs, but Ryan curls around him, thighs interlocked, arms around each other, both of them facing the window. 

“Can we spend the whole day like this?” Shane asks when the sun has well risen, glows like neon yellow in the sky. Ryan, half asleep, nods against his chest. 

“What about your mom?” Ryan wonders. 

“I don’t think she cares,” Shane murmurs. “She knows about my brother, and she calls him every day.” 

Ryan looks up at him. “She’ll call you every day, too. Something about mothers, hmm? She carried you, how could she not love you the way you are?” 

“Do your parents know about you?” 

Ryan nods. “Yes, but it took some getting used to.” 

Shane hums, running his fingers through his hair. “I feel sick.” 

“It’ll pass. Are you hungry?” 

Shane nods. 

“Alright. Pancakes or waffles?”

-:-

When Ryan comes back, Shane’s on the verge of sleeping, his face pressed into his pillow. He can chase Ryan’s scent on the pillowcase. 

Ryan comes in with a tray, saying, “I had your mom’s help,” as he sets it down on the bed. There’s fruit, waffles, potatoes, and eggs. On the waffles, there are blueberries arranged into the picture of a smiley face. It does its job. 

“You didn’t have to do all this!” Shane exclaims, but Ryan sits on the edge of the bed, stealing a blueberry, leaving the smiley face with a toothless grin. 

“I know,” he says, popping the blueberry into his mouth.

-:-

The last place Ryan has to paint is the hallway, and Shane’s bedroom. 

Shane helps Ryan move all the furniture to the center of the room, and it isn’t until Ryan starts to tape around all of the electrical sockets, that Shane realizes the summer is almost over. 

“When do you leave?” 

Ryan looks over his shoulder at Shane, twisting his body from where he’s kneeling on the floor. “What?”

“When do you have to go back home?” 

Ryan cocks his head to the side. “A week,” he says. “I leave for Chicago on Thursday for a few days before I go home.” 

“Thursday?” 

“…Shane—“ 

“It’s fine,” Shane rushes to say. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked. Summer was starting to feel infinite.” 

“Oh, baby,” Shane hears Ryan say, like he pities him. Ryan stands up and crosses the room and pulls Shane in by the waist. “Snuck up on you, huh?” 

Shane nods and looks around his bedroom. “Thursday?” 

Ryan drags his knuckle along Shane’s stomach, and it makes the butterflies unruly. 

“It’s not enough days.” 

“There never are.” 

Shane sighs, and Ryan gets back to work, and for a while, he watches Ryan as he covers the walls in the cream-colored paint his mom had picked out, that matches the rest of the house. 

In the middle of the last wall, right next to the window, there’s a square left unpainted. It’s not a very big square, maybe the size of a sticky note. Ryan beckons Shane over. 

“Here,” he says, and hands Shane a pencil. “This is… the secret square.”

“The secret square? Ryan—“ 

“Shut up, don’t laugh!” 

But Shane can’t help it. He’s got a million frogs in his throat because he just found out he has four days left in the summer and he wasn’t prepared, and he doesn’t want Ryan to leave. He’s feeling a little hysterical. 

“You can write whatever you want here. And then I’ll cover it with paint, and only you and I will know the truth.” 

Shane purses his lips and tries to think of a secret worth sharing. It isn’t like Shane hadn’t divulged all of his own to Ryan already. What could he possibly say that Ryan didn't already know? 

“I’ll go first,” Ryan says. With his own pencil, in the messiest scrawl Shane’s ever seen, Ryan scribbles a note. It takes up half the space. And Shane stares at the words. 

“I don’t think this was a secret,” Shane says, a little breathless when he reaches out, touching over the letters. They smear, and Shane snatches his hand back like he’s been burned. 

A simple declaration: Ryan loves Shane. 

“No?” Ryan asks. “Well shit!” 

Shane laughs, pressing his hand against Ryan’s waist, backing him up against the windowsill, ignoring his protests about wet paint, because he wants to kiss him. So, he does, and Ryan’s arms come around his shoulders, and Shane pulls him in close, until their bodies are pressed as close as possible, and Shane’s kissed all of the lemonade out of Ryan’s mouth. 

“You can’t paint over that.”

“What, you worried you’ll forget?” Ryan asks, wry grin and all, smug, like he knows what he’s done, waltzing into Shane’s tiny town, and teaching him the woeful pleasure of a first love.

Shane doesn’t answer him. Because he knows Ryan knows that he won’t ever forget Ryan, not for as long as he lives. 

Shane doesn’t let him paint over it. He keeps those letters there, in that secret square. 

Later that afternoon, he finds his mom’s old polaroid camera and asks her to take a picture of them. Far enough apart that it’s just a photo for friends. 

Shane shakes it, watches it develop.

-:-

Ryan’s grilled them all burgers, and his mom made homemade French fries. Sherry lets Shane drink a beer along with herself and Ryan. 

“Ryan, we’ve been so lucky to have you. The house hardly looks haunted anymore!” 

It makes Ryan laugh. “Sadly, I have to agree. Not a ghost in sight.” 

“When do you leave?”

“Thursday morning! Train gets to Chicago and I’m there for a few days before I fly back to California.”

“Oh! We visited there when Shane was just a baby!” 

Ryan looks over at Shane, sparkling eyes. 

“Don’t—“ Shane tries to protest, but he knows it's futile. 

“Do you have pictures, Sherry?”

“Of my littlest baby boy? You betcha!” 

“Ryan, do not be disillusioned by my current beauty. I was an ugly baby.” 

Ryan’s still laughing.

-:-

Later that night, when they’re tucked in bed, Shane uses the camera again, snapping photo after photo of Ryan in various stages of undress. He’ll keep them underneath his mattress. 

He tapes the backyard photo over Ryan’s handwritten words. 

Keeps them secret, so only he and Ryan know what’s there, but not so secret that anyone who went looking couldn’t find it.

-:-

The next few days pass by quicker than Shane can register them. The house looks different now, newer and cleaner and brighter. In the daytime, Shane and Ryan spend all their time at the lake, at Shane’s creek where it’s secluded enough to take breaks from splashing in the water and lay out in the grass.

Shane kisses Ryan every chance he can get. Until Ryan’s pushing him away calling him some nonsense like “horny teenager”. It always makes Shane laugh, and it always makes Shane go in for just one more kiss. 

As hot as it is, sometimes they just lay in the grass together, tucked into each other, like just their bodies touching is enough to suspend time and slow the clock. It works, a little, until Shane realizes the sunlight has changed, and time has flown by and suddenly it’s morning. The next day has arrived. 

During those nights though, they’re nights Shane doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. 

Wednesday afternoon, after they’ve come back from the lake, Ryan’s showered, and he can hear his mom making dinner downstairs. 

Ryan’s suitcase lays open on the bed, and Shane sits cross-legged on the floor, watching as Ryan moves and collects his things and packs them away. He’s meticulous with the way he organizes his things. 

Shane notices they don’t talk that much, but they share a glance here and there, like they’re both afraid to break the silence. He thinks if they don’t talk about it, maybe it’ll go away. Maybe the universe will spare them a few more days. 

He’s never been good at ripping off the Band-Aid, and he knows it’ll still hurt when the Band-Aid comes off, more so than if he’d just been quick about it, but he can’t help it. 

“What if I made myself really small, and you packed me in there, too?” 

Ryan laughs, and then he falls over, face-first into his shirts and jeans, and he just keeps laughing. It’s manic laughter, the kind that makes Shane’s skin feel too tight; when Ryan picks himself up and looks over at Shane, his eyes are glassy. 

“You know—“ Ryan clears his throat. “You know I would if I could.” He moves around Shane but bends over to kiss Shane’s temple before he busies himself at his desk. Shane stands, and gathers Ryan in at the waist, and just brings him close to his chest. Ryan’s arms loop around his neck, and they steal this moment, just for themselves. 

Footsteps on the stairs break the moment, and they separate quickly, Shane sitting on the edge of Ryan’s bed, and Ryan piling the books on his desk. 

“You boys alright in here?” Ma asks from the doorway, both hands on her hips. “Ryan, you have to know you’re welcome here anytime. I hope you’ll visit us again.” 

“Sure, yeah,” Ryan says with a bright grin, one that makes him look like he hadn’t been caught in a hurricane of emotion just a minute ago. “Maybe during the winter sometime. I’ll get to see some real snow.” 

Shane laughs. “You wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“Shane, be nice,” his mother admonishes. “It looks like you’re almost all ready to go. Are you sure you’ll be okay out there by yourself? Maybe you should take Shane with you, just in case. Of course, if that doesn’t ruin any plans. Just so you know someone while you’re walking around the city.” 

For a moment, Shane freezes, but he thaws so fast, whipping his head to look at Ryan and then to his mother. 

“Really?” Shane asks her. 

“If it’s alright with Ryan, sure. Besides, it might be nice for you to see something this summer that isn’t your room, hmm?” 

It takes all the strength he can muster to look at Ryan and not get down on his knees and beg him to let him come. 

“Oh, shoot, I gotta check on dinner,” Ma says, before skipping away and leaving Ryan and Shane alone in Ryan’s room. 

“Please?” Shane asks, and Ryan grins. “Please, please, please let me come with you. I don’t care if it ruins your plans.”

Ryan shakes his head, pressing his mouth into a line. “The hotel room only has one bed, Shane,” Ryan says, like it could potentially be an issue. “I don’t think I can change my reservation that quickly.”

“Ryan.”

Ryan bursts into laughter as he crosses the small space between the bed and the desk. He leans forward, just enough to catch Shane’s lips as he says, “Not ruin. Only change them.”

-:-

When they get off the train, Shane takes a deep breath, looking over his shoulders to find Ryan. He knocks his knuckles into Shane’s back, a small gesture, hidden away from the other people that stand around them, busy with their own lives. It fills Shane with a gooey, warm heat he’s grown accustomed to as of late, sitting on the edge of his seat waiting for the next time Ryan will reach out and touch him again, even something as simple as the drag of his fingertips over Shane’s arm. The skin-to-skin contact is a drug now, and Shane doesn’t like that he’s found himself an addiction.

With their bags on their shoulders, they make it to the small hotel and check in. Ryan takes care of all the details; Shane stands off to the side, perusing the old and dusty mystery prize vending machines. He remembers being a kid, being excited when his dad gave him a coin and he got something new to play with. 

It’s such a chilling memory, one that makes him uncomfortable. 

He thinks about that kid, small and wide-eyed, tall for his age. Confused and wondering, looking up at his brother and thinking he knows everything, all the answers. 

It was somewhat of a bummer to find out he didn’t, but knowing that it didn’t matter for his brother, makes it easier for Shane not to know anything, too.

-:-

The hotel room is so small; there’s only one bed in the room, a small table with two chairs. A dresser with a television. Shane thinks about the man at the counter so many floors down, and wonders if he knows what they’re going to get up to here. If he thinks they’re just friends. If he thinks Shane couldn’t possibly be burning with the absolutely indescribable need to get Ryan out of his clothes and on top of him. 

He wonders if the man at the counter could ever even understand what it’s like to want this much, so much it hurts and delights and intoxicates and sobers all at the same time. He wonders if that man knows what it’s like to be looked at the way Ryan looks at him right now, reaching out with a steady hand and pulling Shane close by his waist. He wonders and wonders and wonders, until Ryan is kissing him, and Shane couldn’t give less of a shit about that man downstairs, or any other men who don’t know what it’s like to feel like this.

-:-

After some reckless kissing that has Shane keyed up like nothing else, Ryan convinces him they should have dinner.

“I promised your mom I wouldn’t send you home any skinnier than you are now,” Ryan teases, poking him in the ribs. Shane tries to defend himself, curling his body as he grabs Ryan’s wrist, to stop him, but it only makes Ryan more persistent, jabbing fingers into his sides and making him laugh so hard it hurts. They scramble on the bed, their laughter much too loud, but there’s all kinds of chemicals bursting inside of Shane’s brain, making his body flood with the wish that he could preserve this moment, where he’s looking up at Ryan, and Ryan’s smile is as wide as he’s never seen it, eyes shining with happiness that’s so electric Shane feels the shocks in his veins. 

It’s so stupid, is what it is, but Shane doesn’t care. 

“Stop, Ryan!” 

He relents, falling onto the bed beside him, his laughter petering out into heavy breathing. 

They do leave to get food, even though Shane tries to keep Ryan in bed with him. They have a whole city to explore, but Shane is much more content to spend the days laying across this mattress every which way, with his mouth anywhere he can fit it on Ryan’s body; he’s become obsessed with the jutting bone of his hip as of late. Ryan’s got the nastiest hickey there, barely hidden by the hem of his t-shirt. If Ryan stretches his arms over the top of his head, it peeks out and gazes at Shane, like it’s beckoning him. 

The diner they choose is reminiscent of the diner in Schaumburg, but Shane thinks all the diners must look similar if not the same. Some sort of template they all share, traded by this owner and that, going through small renovations to keep up with the times. 

While they eat, Shane asks Ryan what his plans were for Chicago. “What are we gonna do the whole time?”

“We can do whatever. But Saturday night, there’s a haunted ghost tour I want to see. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to,” Ryan says, swirling a French fry in his milkshake.

“Like one of those fake attractions?” Shane asks through a mouthful of burger.

Ryan nods, popping the French fry into his mouth. “It’s supposed to be fun.”

“I guess,” Shane says with a laugh. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“Is there something you want to do while we’re here?”

Shane gives him a look. “I just wanted to stay in the hotel, but you’re the one who dragged me out.”

“I’ll be sad to see the day you aren’t this goddamn horny all the time,” Ryan says, biting down on another fry.

Shane ignores him. “I did see a flier about an art exhibit at the University in the hotel lobby. But it ends tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll go tomorrow. You can tell me all about Picasso and Monet.”

“No, they won’t be there. I’m pretty sure those guys are in New York. Or somewhere in Europe. The one’s you’d recognize anyways. Besides, the artists they’re displaying will be alive.”

“The only thing I have to do tomorrow is drop off my chapter for my editor. After that, I’m all yours.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Shane admonishes.

“I would never,” Ryan promises.

-:-

After dinner, they hit the streets; the night bursts with light and color like Shane’s never seen it. Chicago is quite the city, no stars for a backdrop, but there’s no need when there are streetlights and marquises, and Ryan’s eyes of course, flashing like he’s hidden all the stars in them. 

They pass by plenty of buildings, and if Shane had thought to bring his mom’s polaroid, Shane would have stopped Ryan every chance he could, just to paint him forever in the lens of a camera, wait a little while to develop all the film reels and relive these moments like he’d forgotten them. 

He’s certain, Ryan’s image is safe within the confines of his mind. His youth is on his side, allowing him to remember the way the light of the streetlamp made Ryan’s hair illuminate like he’s haloed, made his grin sparkle. 

“You look like you’re so far away,” Ryan says, looking up at him. 

Shane shrugs. “I’m just thinking, I guess.” 

“About what?” 

“About how good my memory is. Do you think you’ll forget about all this one day?” 

“Maybe,” Ryan says gently with a shrug. “Some things are uncontrollable. But don’t worry about that. Live in the moment with me. We’re here right now. Don’t head so far away it becomes morbid.” 

“It’s hard not to,” Shane murmurs, especially knowing that in a few days he’s going to have ghostly memories to keep him company. Phantom touches that’ll make his throat well up with how badly it hurts to miss someone. 

“I know.” Ryan knocks an elbow into Shane’s arm. “But how about, instead, we lie about how old you are and have a couple beers?” 

Shane laughs, grinning. “Yeah, okay.” 

Turns out, they don’t even have to lie. The bar is seedy enough that the bartender really doesn’t give a shit about who’s asking for a drink. 

They start off with a beer each; Shane doesn't really like the taste of beer, but he doesn’t hate it. It’s better than the straight alcohol he sees people throw back. Ryan tries to convince him that bourbon is good to drink. 

“It tastes like gasoline,” Shane mutters. “How can you enjoy it?” 

“It’s an acquired taste. You drink enough of it, and it changes your mind.”

Shane shakes his head. “Conditioning yourself to like something doesn’t seem like fun.” 

“Could be.” Ryan shrugs. “I’m drinking it now. You’ll get to taste it later on when I kiss you.” 

Shane clears his throat, thinking of something to say, but he comes up empty. Ryan’s smile is a slow, creeping bloom that sends a shiver down Shane’s back. 

“And I’ll bet you’ll like the taste of it then.” 

“That feels like cheating,” Shane murmurs. 

“Not even. It’s no different than salt and lime with a shot of tequila.” 

Shane continues drinking his beer, and the taste does get better, especially when he gets a second, and the buzz settles in, and he feels like his limbs have loosened and whatever stress had settled along his shoulders has diminished. 

“Can you play pool?” Ryan asks, tossing back the rest of his drink as the bartender sets another one in front of him. Shane shakes his head. “Do you want me to teach you?”

“Okay,” Shane agrees. 

They pick up their drinks and head to the one of four tables that’s unoccupied. Two of them have groups of men surrounding them. The other only has two players; a woman and a man, and the man is crowded in behind her, positioning her hands as he helps her make the shot. 

Shane glances over at Ryan, where he’s puddled the balls into the triangle shaped bracket. 

No chance they’ll make the same picture, with Ryan huddled up behind him, hands over his own, laughing into his neck and making Shane laugh as they pocket a ball together. 

No, the entire night leaves them on opposite sides of the table, Ryan explaining between sips of his bourbon what Shane is meant to do. Not that it matters any, because Shane’s terrible at coordination games, and loses miserably. 

“It’s a good thing we weren’t playing for money,” Ryan tells him with a cocky grin. Shane laughs, shaking the desire to tell him the only currency he has are kisses. 

They set the table again, and Shane loses again, and Ryan’s laughing again. 

As Shane fixes the balls into the bracket, Ryan leaves to grab them another round of drinks. Shane watches from the pool table as a pretty blonde woman in a mini skirt sidles up to Ryan. They converse, and Shane wishes he could hear, and it looks like the woman is pouting, and Ryan must give in, because she takes his hand—

And leads him over to the makeshift dance floor. 

Leaning against the table, hugging a pool stick, Shane watches the way Ryan dances with that woman, the way the music that plays has dirty lyrics. Shane tries to watch objectively; it’s not like Ryan is going to leave with her. It’s not like he’s going to kiss her, or sleep with her, or fuck her. 

Still, the jealousy creeps up, seeping in, like shattered glass through his bloodstream, tearing him slowly to shreds. 

He leaves the table, putting back his pool stick and leaving the racked balls in the center of the table, and heads for the bar. Their drinks are sitting there, collecting condensation on the outside of their glasses. Rather than drink the beer he’d ordered, he drinks from Ryan’s glass, his bourbon, and revels in the burn of the alcohol this time, wincing only minimally. When Ryan comes back, two songs later, he’s sweaty and smiling, and he gives Shane a surprised look. 

“Did you drink my drink?” Ryan asks. 

“Did you have fun?” Shane asks. 

“I did,” Ryan says, nodding. He takes Shane’s beer from the counter and chugs it, until there isn’t anything left when he sets the glass back down. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Jealous?” 

“No,” Shane insists, but it comes out defensive, and of course, Ryan’s grinning, because Ryan likes to push his buttons. 

“Okay.” Ryan takes one step closer, and it’s a step too close, but Shane refrains from looking around to see if anyone’s watching them. “It’s okay if you are.” 

“I’m not,” he presses. “Do you want to keep playing, or should we go?” 

“Let’s—“ 

“Just—no more of that, okay?” Shane says, rushed and hushed, looking down at Ryan’s empty glass of bourbon in front of him. 

“Of what?” 

“The girl. Just—with me.” 

“I can’t dance with you,” Ryan says. 

“I don’t want to dance, Ry. I just want to spend time with you.” 

He takes a long look at Shane, like he’s trying to decipher him and says, “Okay.” 

-:-

Several beers later, and too many games of pool lost, Shane follows Ryan out of the bar. The world is spinning, brightly lit and beautiful, chaotic and harmful and wondrous, and—everything seems to sparkle through these new eyes, these drunk eyes, these eyes that find Ryan walking in front of him, walking backwards, talking about nonsense. 

The sidewalk empties of other people, and for a long stretch of time, it’s just Shane following Ryan down the side of the street, passing underneath streetlamps that flicker. Cars don’t pass by this road as much. Shane can’t remember the last time he’d seen the flash of headlights. It’s all big apartment buildings with fire escapes; one or two people out having a smoke.

When Shane turns his attention back to Ryan, he’s spinning in the middle of the street with his arms stretched out by his side.

He’s so beautiful, Shane feels sick. He’s so beautiful, Shane wants to care for him, protect him, hide him. Run away with him. 

Shane tells him as much. 

“Where would we go?” Ryan asks him, entertaining the idea. 

“Anywhere.” 

“No, no! You have to paint me a picture,” Ryan admonishes. “Tell me a story.” 

“I don’t know places, Ryan! I’ve only been here!” 

“Lie to me if you have to,” Ryan invites wistfully. “You’re a reader. You’ve been to plenty of places, even without leaving. Tell me where we’d go.”

“The water. We can just sail the ocean.” 

“Not sustainable enough,” Ryan says with a laugh. 

“No, but it’s hot enough that you’ll be naked all the time.” 

Ryan cackles in the middle of the street. “Try again.” 

“Italy.” 

“Italy!” Ryan gasps. “What’ll we do in Italy?” 

“We’ll—we’ll eat noodles and look at art and—and—” Shane shrugs his shoulders. “We’ll be together.” 

Ryan stumbles, nearly tripping, but he rights himself quick enough. “Together, huh? That’s enough for you?” His arms hang by his side, and he looks so still, like a photograph.

“It is,” Shane says, with a smile, despite feeling so sad. “Isn’t it enough for you?” 

“What about money?” 

“Who cares?” 

“Me! I’m always hungry, Shane! Doesn’t work out so well if there’s no money!” 

Shane laughs, throwing his head back. When he looks at Ryan, his grin is wide, and his hands are on his hips like he’s waiting for an answer. “Then I’ll work. I’ll write or—paint or—whatever. I’ll do whatever.” 

“And what will I do, then?” he asks, rubbing his chin pensively. 

Shane reaches him then, standing in front of him, looking down. “You’ll be with me. Probably look for a ghost in your free time, charm the waitresses, make all the local boys fall in love with you and your stupid jokes.” 

Ryan hums, blinking his eyes, the sweep of his eyelashes in slow motion. “But I’ll be with you.” 

Shane nods. “Yeah, let’s go. Please?” 

“Come on,” Ryan says to him. He reaches out and takes Shane’s wrist in his fingers. They’re tucked in an alley, between two buildings, dark enough that they’re secured, hidden away. 

Shane’s heart is beating so fast in his chest, wild and chaotic, so noisy in his ears. It makes his hands shake. Ryan doesn’t worry about his hands, but he places his palms so gently to Shane’s cheeks and brings him down, close, kissing him fully on the mouth. He tastes like beer, and talk about forever, sunny fantasies, noodles, and nude bodies. He tastes like a dream and feels like it, too. Ephemeral, until Ryan’s hands are pressed against his chest, and Shane’s got his arms around Ryan’s waist. Shane walks them forwards, pins Ryan to the brick wall of a building, and Shane feels like it could be real, like they could go, fade away from this present where time expires and find some door into infinity and close it behind themselves, tuck themselves away into the in-between, where nothing ends.

“You see it?” Ryan whispers to him, lips light against his own. 

Shane’s eyes stay closed, but he nods his head, brushing his nose against Ryan’s. “Yeah,” he whispers.

-:-

Shane throws up when they get back to the hotel. Gratefully, he makes it to the bathroom just in time. 

They found another bar along the way, and Shane had more drinks, even though he shouldn’t have. But they did and he’s paying for it now. The world's spinning, but he’s spinning with it, and his vision won’t unblur and the heave of his stomach is painful, as he retches up stomach acid, alcohol, French fries. 

“Aww, baby,” Ryan whispers to him, kneeling beside him, rubbing his back as his stomach continues to reject everything inside of him. “Get it all out, it’s okay.” 

When it’s over, Ryan cradles Shane against his chest, lips against Shane’s temple, both hands rubbing up and down. 

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Shane mumbles, drunk and tired. “Doesn’t it hurt?” 

He wonders how Ryan sees him. A kid maybe. A moment. Something to pass the time. Shane is hanging onto every word Ryan says, and Ryan’s not even looking at him. 

“Does what hurt?” Ryan mumbles. 

“You know what,” he urges, fingers tight in Ryan’s shirt. 

“Of course, it does,” he murmurs. Shane can feel the vibration of his words in his skull. “Come on, let’s get your teeth brushed and into bed, hmm?” He runs his fingers through Shane’s hair, gentle and soothing, but Shane just keeps his hold, thinks that maybe, he’s holding tight enough to keep Ryan right here, in this tiny little bathroom, in a city that’s miles away from home, in a world, where Shane just wishes and wishes and wants and wishes some more that he could have his way with things for once.

-:-

The morning comes with a gorgeous force; the sunlight is bright, unforgivingly so. He’s alone in the bed, rolling over into Ryan’s space and flopping onto cool sheets. There’s a pounding in his head, and he’d already thrown up everything he had to offer the night before so there isn’t any nausea, but he feels like absolute death. Slowly, he sits up to survey the room, expecting to find Ryan somewhere around him, but he’s nowhere, and there isn’t any noise coming from the bathroom. 

Maybe he’s already gone, and Shane’s forgotten, and this is what every morning will be like; waking up and expecting to roll over into Ryan’s sleep-warm flesh and remembering he’s already all the way across the United States, living his life and forgetting about this summer. 

He flips over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling through blurry eyes. He blinks and blinks and blinks. 

There’s a muted jingle at the door just before it swings open. Ryan steps through, tiptoeing like he’s trying to be quiet, and when he looks over at the bed, Shane blinks at him, too. 

“Oh, you’re awake! I thought for sure you’d sleep all morning after the night you had,” he says, much too cheery. But he looks sun kissed and shower-fresh and Shane wants to put his face in the crook of his elbow, his neck, make Ryan come back to bed and be his blanket. 

“Just woke up,” Shane whispers; his throat feels like sandpaper. 

“I brought you some coffee and orange juice. I also got some food; you’re gonna need to eat to help your stomach feel better before we leave,” Ryan says, bringing his stash over and sitting it on the edge of the bed, laying out everything he’s bought. What Shane wants is a kiss, and it’s even better that when he sits up and kisses his way up Ryan’s arm to his mouth, Ryan indulges him and doesn’t complain at all about atrocious morning breath. 

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” he murmurs. “Can we just stay here all day?” 

“You’re gonna be mad if we miss that exhibit you wanted to see so badly.” 

Shane hums. Art. Paintings. Statues. Inspiration. Yeah, he will be sad if he misses it. “Okay,” Shane whispers. “But I want to sleep for some more.” 

“Eat first,” Ryan instructs.

Shane listens, munching on bread and fruits, some peaches and strawberries, and orange slices after Ryan peels them. Shane takes Ryan’s hand and licks the juice from his fingers before finishing his coffee. Ryan laughs, leaning in and kissing his temple. 

“Did you already go see your editor?”

“Mhm. You were out cold.”

“I feel better, though.” He stretches his arms over his head, sliding down the bed. “Come here.”

Quickly, Ryan cleans up the mess of their breakfast out of the way, before crawling over to him. Ryan lays with him. Shane doesn’t know if he falls asleep, too, but the rhythm of his heartbeat accompanies Shane’s dreams, soft drumming underneath the simple piano of a song filled to the brim with hope. He dances with Ryan in his dream. Spinning in circles and circles and circles. Somewhere in his subconscious, Shane thinks if there were ever an afterlife, this would do just fine.

-:-

The exhibit at the museum is better than Shane thought it would be. The art is incomparable, inspiring. Beautiful. Before they’d gotten to the museum, they stopped by a convenience store, and Shane picked up a disposable camera. The afternoon is filled with the flash of the film. 

He isn’t a good photographer by any means, but he thinks he’s figured out how to capture it, capture him. He’s already giddied to take the camera to the store and drop it off, giddy to get these photos back, decide whether to hide them with the polaroids or tape them to his wall. 

He wants to sit in here for a long, long time. Staring at the sculptures, reading their stories. He wants Ryan to sit next to him, until the lights go out and the air goes cold from the night, and they can stare at the sculptures, and then stare at each other. 

He’s never wanted so badly to make something. To create something out of all the emotions that rush through him. He wonders if Ryan would like it. He wonders if Ryan would care. 

“You like this one?” Ryan asks him quietly. He’s been staring at the same gold wave; it looks like a waist, the exaggerated curve from chest to hip. 

Shane nods, but he doesn’t take his eyes away from it. Ryan doesn’t ask him anymore questions, but he doesn’t move either. Shane decides he wants this piece. Maybe he can carve something like it himself, first out of clay so he can perfect the lines, dig out the curve of Ryan’s pectoral, detail his oblique, the deadly V of his hip, accentuate his ass. He’ll make it a point, spend the autumn studying those photos hidden underneath his mattress, as if he hasn’t memorized them at all, and carve the clay with his eyes closed, truly create without the bias of his eyes. 

“I feel like drawing,” Shane says, turning to Ryan. “I didn’t bring my book, though.” 

“We’ll just have to get you one, don’t we?” 

There’s a fluttering in his stomach, the heavy flapping of butterfly wings. 

When Shane is satisfied he’s enjoyed the exhibit, they do leave, to an art store recommended by someone on the University staff. 

The store smells like paper and wood, a hint of paint thinner, but Shane finds what he needs easily, Ryan hot on his tail, looking over his shoulder. He asks questions when Shane compares the touch of paper. 

When Shane’s got a book and his charcoal, they sit in the city park, and Shane loses himself in black lines, in the smudges the heel of his hand creates, the deepness of the black when Shane presses the charcoal onto the paper so hard that it breaks. 

Ryan falls asleep in the grass next to him, and after giving his hand a warmup with the trees and ducks in the lake, he does begin on Ryan’s likeness. The sharp shape of his jawline, the scruff of his beard, the way his bottom lip is just a little bit bigger than his top lip. 

Shane thinks he’s lucky Ryan’s eyes are closed because he doesn’t think he’d get them right. Too much life in them to shade with charcoal. 

When Ryan wakes up, he pries Shane’s book away from him, not that Shane puts up a fight and Ryan looks through the few pages Shane has worked on. 

“You are so talented.” 

“It’s nothing,” Shane insists, but Ryan rolls his eyes. 

“Just take the compliment, Shane.” He looks back down at the drawing book, and his fingers hover over the page like he might touch it, smudge it. He doesn’t. “No one’s ever drawn me before.” 

“A shame,” Shane laments. “Truly a goddamn shame.” 

That night, with inspiration bursting at his fingertips, when they lay in bed together, underneath the sheets, Shane draws his hands over every curve, his fingers over every groove, his palm over every flexing muscle of Ryan’s body, until he feels like he’d know this body blind. Sex is quiet with Shane in between Ryan’s thighs, moving against him while Ryan clutches at the pillows underneath his head.

He’s so beautiful he has to tell him. Tell him, and tell him again, until Ryan’s kissing all over Shane’s face, his neck, his shoulders. 

When it’s over, it’s Ryan who sleeps on Shane’s chest, breathing warm into the crook of Shane’s neck, their thighs between one another’s, and toes knocking into shins.

-:-

The next day, they spend most of the morning talking. Shane asks question after question; Ryan answers him without any hint of hesitation. It reminds him so much of that night in the hallway, where Ryan sat at the top of the stairs, and told Shane about his life.

Eventually, they get dressed for the day and go walking in the city. They get hot dogs for lunch, and ice cream right after, and get tickets to a foreign movie just so they can say they made out in the backseat of a movie theatre. There wasn’t anyone else in the theatre anyway.

When it comes time for dinner, they get pizza (which of course Shane boasts is better than anything he can find in Los Angeles). Next to the pizza spot is a bar that’s playing live music, a guitar-heavy band with a fair amount of drums. He can’t understand any of the words, but he decides he doesn’t hate it. When he looks at Ryan, the grimace on his face makes Shane laugh.

Somewhere around nine o’clock, Ryan leads him to the hotel for the ghost tour. Ryan’s excited—Shane doesn’t understand how he stomachs this nonsense. It’s all just a curated experience, and it’s not like there’s going to be any possibility of seeing anything.

“But it’s fun,” Ryan tells him when Shane says as much, waiting in line as they wait to pay for their tickets.

“It’s not even Halloween yet.”

“Doesn’t have to be. Ghosts are year-round.”

Shane chuckles anyway, mostly because it’s charming, a little bit, to see Ryan so excited to pay to see something akin to men wearing sheets with holes for eyes.

When they finally get inside, they’re grouped together with about thirty other people. Couples and families surrounding the tour guide, a woman with short black hair and olive skin.

She gives them a nice little introduction to the hotel; Shane only half listens as he looks around and takes in his surroundings. It’s like the hotel has been preserved; there’s even a particular film of dust over the tables and chairs on the other side of the ropes. The spines of the books on the myriad of bookshelves are illegible. The lamps on the end tables have broken spiderwebs. Whatever mood they were looking to set, they’ve set it. The atmosphere is spooky, perfect for what they advertise.

“Come on,” Ryan says, nudging him, bringing his attention back. He gives Shane a disapproving look, like he knows Shane hadn’t bothered to pay any mind to the hostess’ performance. Shane shrugs, following Ryan. He wonders how long Ryan’s fingers will stay wrapped around his wrist; they could get away with it for a little while longer, it’s dark enough on this tour that Ryan could slip his fingers into the spaces between Shane’s and press their palms together.

It turns out, it’s only for a few more seconds. Shane can feel when he starts to pull away. His mind catches this moment, and he experiences it in slow motion; Ryan’s fingers loosen, draping around his wrist and the drag of each one of his fingers feels like it’s an abrasive scrape against Shane’s flesh, like if he looks down, his hand will be bloody. And then there’s the lingering feeling of Ryan’s fingertips, so gentle it makes his heart flutter, until it’s gone, and Shane is just imagining the feel of Ryan’s touch, his hand clasped around tight like it had been at the start.

When a person ages, does it allow for them to learn and understand how to let go?

The hotel tour isn’t very long. Forty-five minutes has them on various floors, listening to tragedies of people ending the lives of others, or even their own. He doesn’t feel like there’s anything in the hotel, and whatever burst of coolness the hostess claims to be ghosts is just the draft coming in through the windows. There are no spooky footsteps that resonate from the floor above them, no knocking in the walls, no whispering.

The only ghost Shane can feel the entire night is the one that continues to hold him around his wrist.

The tour is over before he even knows it. The hostess must have cracked a joke; Shane misses it, but their group of people erupt into laughter, Ryan most notably, leaning back into Shane, like Shane will have to hold him up.

When they leave the hotel, they don’t walk a block away before they find a group of people surrounding a man on the sidewalk; he’s doing magic.

And of course, Ryan wants to see.

“It’s fun,” Ryan tells him. “Suspend your disbelief for just a little while and just watch. Don’t try to figure anything out or—“

“I won’t,” Shane promises.

So, they stand on the sidewalk and watch a man in a suit and a top hat do tricks with cards, pull quarters out of people’s ears, and pretend to mess up a trick just to amaze the crowd by having a bystander pull a flower out of her purse.

It is fun, and Shane wonders if this magic man could teach him a thing or two about making summers longer than they ought to be.

Eventually, as the crowd disperses, Ryan gets chosen for a trick. The magic man asks him to pick a card, write his initials on it. He shows Shane the card. An ace of hearts.

And when he hands the card back to the magic man, he shuffles his cards, over and over again. And the asking begins.

“Is this your card?”

“No,” Ryan answers.

And again, “Is this your card?”

And again, “No.”

And the magic man shuffles his deck and makes a pensive face. He looks up at Shane.

“You mind checking your pockets, young man?” he asks.

Shane smiles, and with his right hand, he reaches into his pocket. It’s empty. With his left hand, he comes up empty as well.

The magician taps his chin. “Oh, did you check your shirt?”

Shane looks down at his chest, and in the pocket of his t-shirt, he reaches in with his fingers, and pulls out the card. An ace of hearts with Ryan’s initials.

“Huh,” the magician says. “I thought the deck felt a little light.”

Ryan laughs, gleeful, snatching the card out of Shane’s hand and inspecting it, turning it over this way and that, and Shane doesn’t have the heart to tell him it was just a trick.

“You can keep it,” the magician tells Ryan. “Something tells me you’ll need it more than I do.”

And the remaining people standing around give a round of applause and the magic man is on his way, and Ryan’s clutching this card in his hand like it’s a lifeline.

“That was fun,” Shane admits. I didn't even see him get close enough to put it in my shirt.”

“Because he’s magic, Shane,” Ryan informs him, waving the card in front of his face. Shane rolls his eyes. “Ace of hearts is a good card.”

“How so?”

Ryan shrugs. “Just feels like it is.”  

The whole night seems to be filled with Ryan’s favorite things; Shane has never seen him look so happy, his face alight with wonder and amusement. Haunted attractions, magic tricks; Shane likes to think that he’s included in the group, especially when Ryan’s always so quick to look behind him, like he’s making sure Shane is enjoying himself, too. And he is, blooming with the sensation like he’s floating mid-air, like his feet might never touch the ground and his head will be accompanied by the ephemeral shape of the clouds. 

They walk aimlessly; Shane itches to hold Ryan, just tuck him close against his chest. There’s a ticking timer, and each tick becomes louder and louder, booming in Shane’s ears. It’s a miracle no one else can hear it. 

It isn’t that late; eleven something. 

“We should go to that bar again,” Ryan suggests, bumping his elbow into Shane’s arm. “That was fun. I can beat you at pool until you beg me to stop.”

Shane grins, shaking his head. He thinks about it. It’s their last night together, with each other, and even though that would lend for a good time, Shane doesn’t want to share Ryan with any other dancing girls. He’s selfish and he wants Ryan to himself. 

“We should go back to the hotel,” Shane counters. 

“I’m not ready for bed yet,” Ryan pouts. “Are you tired?”

“I didn't say I wanted to go to bed.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and it makes Ryan laugh. He clears his throat. “I just—it’s our last night together, and I wanted—want. The whole—you know.” 

Ryan blinks at him. “What do you mean?” 

Shane looks up at a convenience store sign as he tries to collect his thoughts, string them along so Ryan will understand. “I mean, there’s more to what we can do, right? Like—” Shane swallows, feeling the heat rise in his face as he remembers their first night together. “Like the time—that time you flipped me over.” 

Ryan’s mouth spreads into a slow, easy grin. Shane’s skin tingles. “Oh,” he says. “You want me to fuck you.” 

The curse sounds so crisp when Ryan says it. It’s a statement, not a question. Precise. Absolute. Shane flushes, feeling warm up to the roots of his hair. Between his toes. Wholly aware of his body, every inch of flesh and bone. 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “If you want.” He’s always been pretty good at being nonchalant, but Ryan’s looking at him differently, too intense not to feel like he wants to crawl out of his skin. 

“No, you gotta say it,” he insists. “Tell me what you want, Shane.” 

Shane looks around, and there are too many people around, too many possible spectators, too many nosy people that could overhear Shane. So, he wraps his hand around Ryan’s wrist and yanks him in an alleyway, far enough away from the opening that people passing won’t notice. Shane leans up against the side of the building, letting his head fall back as he looks up at the sky. 

“Shane,” he sighs. 

“Ryan, look at me,” Shane says, tilting his head down to find Ryan’s eyes. “I want that. I want you to fuck me.” 

“Okay, so let’s go back to the hotel,” Ryan urges him, stepping into his space. 

“It feels like too much. We should have done it sooner. Now it feels like goodbye.” 

Ryan purses his lips, touching his hand to Shane’s stomach, sliding his touch upwards, until he’s fitting his hand against his chest. Counting heartbeats, surely. Shane wonders if there’s enough this time. 

“It’s goodbye if we do, and also if we don’t,” he reasons finally. “What’s going on in your head?” Ryan asks him. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Ryan gives him a pointed look. 

“Nothing, I just—want to be closer to you,” he says quietly. “That’s as close as two people can be, right?” He looks down picking at the hem of Ryan’s t-shirt with his fingers, rolling the fabric, pretending like his hands aren’t shaking. 

“If that’s how you define it, sure.” Ryan slides his hand higher, fingers at the back of Shane’s neck, as his thumb rubs against his jaw in a comforting back and forth motion. He sighs. 

“I don’t know how to define anything,” Shane murmurs. “I just know that this is what I want.” 

“Okay, then.” Ryan hooks his fingers into the collar of Shane’s t-shirt, yanking gently, touching his fingers so reverently against Shane’s throat. He swallows against the featherlight pressure of Ryan’s fingertips and listens as Ryan tells him, in ugly, very unsexy words, exactly what he’s meant to do when he gets back to the hotel room and showers.

Shane wrinkles his nose, and it makes Ryan grin through his explanation, his tone playful, even as they discuss something that maybe should feel more serious. 

“And when you’re ready, I’ll do whatever you want to you.”

“Wow,” Shane breathes. 

“Do you want to go anywhere else before we head back?” 

Shane shakes his head. “I want you too badly to concentrate on anything else.” 

Ryan laughs. “Get going then. I’ll be there when you’re ready.” Ryan reaches out with a hand, drags his knuckles along Shane’s rib cage. It makes Shane’s flesh burn hot, and he has to think it’s evident on his face, but Ryan doesn’t say anything to him. Shane leans forward and kisses him; Ryan’s arms come around his neck and Shane winds his arms around his waist, and for a breathless, timeless moment, they control the hands of the clock and stop time for just a little while. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Shane whispers before he leaves, heading back towards the direction of the motel. When he looks behind him, Ryan gives him a smile that feels encouraging, but right there at the edges, Shane can see the break of his facade; he’s sad, too.

-:-

When Shane gets to the room, it’s quiet, stuffy. He opens a window, standing in the middle of the room. He looks toward the bed; the messy sheets from the night before, the mess they’ll make tonight. 

He strips out of his clothes and heads towards the bathroom. 

He takes his time like Ryan told him, lathering up the bar of soap and washing down his body, washing his hair. 

When he’s all rinsed off, he lathers his hands up again, sets one foot on the lip of the tub. He starts with one finger, and immediately, writes it off, because it isn’t the life changing feeling he’d been expecting. He manages to get a second finger, and that makes him hard, if only because his body is expecting Ryan to touch him like this. Maybe it’ll feel better. Maybe he’s doing it wrong. Either way, he isn't backing out of it;  he would rather wade through the water of bad sex with Ryan than forgo the feeling of him entirely. Which sounds stupid when he really thinks about it, but the entire night could just be like that first night. That curiosity that burned through Shane’s skin the first time he touched Ryan’s body, listened to him moan because whatever Shane did with his hands made him feel good. Tonight could be like that first night, where he discovered why people were obsessed with the idea of sex, why people wanted it so badly. With how much he felt for Ryan, he was amazed he was still this put together, and not a sex-obsessed human.

-:-

Ryan is in the room when Shane gets out of the shower, water bottle in hand as he stands by the window and peers out. Shane didn’t think he needed to wear clothes, so he’s only dressed in a towel. Ryan looks back at him. 

“Come here,” Ryan says. “Let me kiss you.” 

Shane’s feet carry him forward, stepping into Ryan’s space as he takes Shane’s hips in his hands. Ryan looks up at him, one of those especially charged gazes that makes Shane feel huffy. It’s the attention he asked for, he supposes, so he lets Ryan look at him. 

Ryan touches his waist, with fingers so delicate they convince even Shane he’s breakable. And maybe that’s what he needs for the moment, something tentative, something careful, something that Shane can feel every single part of. It scares him, just enough to be excited, enticed, entirely riveted, when Ryan rises to meet him for a kiss. His fingers dig into Shane’s flesh, and that delicate moment is gone, and that’s fine, because Shane would rather live here, where Ryan’s tongue is inside his mouth, and Shane can breathe the air right from his lungs. 

He’s so hard it’s dizzying, and he can feel Ryan, too, right against the very top of his thigh. Shane grinds against him, whining softly into Ryan’s kiss. 

“Well, you’re certainly raring to go.” 

“Let’s not go calling kettles black when we’re walking pots,” Shane mutters, but it makes Ryan laugh, and it makes his eyes sparkle. 

“I’m not going to apologize for wanting you,” he says simply. He trades his grip on Shane’s waist for Shane’s hand and leads him back towards the bed. Ryan sits on the edge and pulls Shane in by his hips. He loosens the towel around Shane’s waist, and it goes falling around Shane’s feet, leaving him naked. 

Ryan looks upwards, even as he pitches forward to kiss Shane’s belly; lower and lower until the tip of Shane’s dick knocks against his chin. It leaves a smear of precome in Ryan’s scruff. 

“Did you come in the shower?”

He shakes his head. 

Ryan hums, and then takes Shane into his mouth. He lets his head fall back and enjoys the feeling of Ryan sucking him, taking him all the way down, deep enough that when Shane returns his attention, Ryan’s nose is pressed against his pubic bone. 

“Holy shit,” Shane breathes, curling his fingers through Ryan’s hair as the feeling crawls up and along the length of his spine, crashing somewhere along the breadth of his shoulders. 

He cards his fingers through Ryan’s hair, keeping him close, like Ryan could swallow him down anymore; looking at the expanse of his own body, he watches the way Ryan sucks him down, the way his lips stretch around the width of him. His mouth is soft, and he can feel the insides of Ryan’s cheeks when he hollows them. 

There’s more he’s going to experience tonight, but the intense feeling of it might be Shane’s favorite; the way his balls tighten up and his muscles clench, like Ryan is actively sucking his soul out of him. He doesn’t want to come yet, even though that’s Ryan’s point—explicitly expressed when he wraps one hand around the base of him and the other slips between Shane’s thighs, rubbing against his perineum and then a simple pressure at his—

“Oh, fuck—“ his curse is bitten off as his climax surprises him. Ryan’s still got his mouth around Shane’s dick when he comes, and it bursts from his mouth, out of the corners of his lips. It’s a marvelous sight when he looks down at Ryan and sees him a mess, come all over his mouth, slipping down his chin. 

Another polaroid he wishes he could snap. 

“Jesus, Jesus,” he huffs, and the sensitivity steps in, billowing through him like a breeze as Ryan licks him clean. 

“Good, huh?” Ryan asks him, looking up at him through his inky black lashes, wet with tears maybe. Shane reaches out and wipes the wetness from underneath his eyes. 

“I couldn’t describe it, even if it would save my life.” 

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not in any danger,” Ryan reasons, with little kisses against the flesh of his stomach that make the butterflies restless. 

“A captor can’t decide if their hostage is in danger or not,” Shane says, his hand underneath Ryan’s chin to tilt his head back as he bends forward, brushing their noses together. 

“Oh, I’m holding you hostage now?” 

“You have been, the whole time.” 

Ryan hums, and maybe he’s preparing to respond, but Shane presses their mouths together, hot and open at first, and Shane doesn’t wait to lick the taste of himself out of Ryan’s mouth. 

He helps Ryan out of his clothes. First his shirt, so he can press his mouth over the hot flex of his shoulders, tongue the line of his clavicle, hear the soft, rushing exhale when Ryan moans quietly. Between their bodies, Shane unclasps the buckle of his belt, pulling it from the loops in his pants before dropping it to the floor behind him. Before it even clangs to the ground, Shane rubs his hand over Ryan’s crotch, the hard line of his cock pressed against his palm, thick and hot, even through the fabric of his pants, his underwear. 

“I want to tie you up,” Shane murmurs into the air; Ryan’s lips assault his neck with the kind of fervor that ignites his body, a small candle catching the curtains aflame, burning the whole house down. “And I’ll keep you here.” 

“Oh yeah?” Ryan’s voice reverberates in his bones, a vibration that feels seismic, like an earthquake. “That would make you the captor then.”

“Not if you’re willing. Would you let me keep you?” Shane asks him as he draws Ryan’s pants open, the zipper slipping down as Shane pushes his hand underneath the waistband of Ryan’s underwear, curling his hand around him. “Would you?” 

Ryan doesn’t answer him, and how could he, when there’s a flight to catch in the morning, and the phone is on the bedside table, the receiver still in its cradle, and Ryan hasn’t ever reached out to cancel it. 

“One day, you’ll get everything you want,” Ryan tells him, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist to flip their bodies over, depositing him into the center of the bed. “One day, you won’t even remember the feeling of wishing,” he continues. “You’ll know what it’ll be like to be so content.” 

Shane looks up at him as he kneels, pushing his pants down the tanned lengths of his thighs, kicking them off when he gets them past his knees. He’s content now when he gets his fill of Ryan’s body; it’s as though someone painstakingly put him together just for Shane to enjoy. Took the time to craft his body and create a mind so beautiful. He’s content now, but it’ll fade, and the hunger will return, and he’ll know the feeling of wishing again. 

A naked Ryan is—incomparable to any other body he’s ever seen, which means nothing since Ryan is second to a woman, but the bar has been set so high. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his skin and the bedside lamp makes him glow. He looks angelic, even in the middle of sinning, like he’s made of bronzes and golds. He’s delicately carved, like Michelangelo made his lovers’ likenesses out of marble, immortalized for the whole world to see. Maybe one day Shane will have the strength to, to chisel away at stone until the sharp line of Ryan’s jaw cuts through, and the sturdy curve of his shoulders shows itself, and his chest, his stomach, the curls of his pubic hair, and his cock; maybe Shane would spend time getting it perfect, from the veins on either side, to the delicate way his foreskin stretches over the head, wet and slippery from how badly he wants— 

“Come here,” Shane says, drawing Ryan close with a hand on his waist, and he lowers himself between the part of Shane’s thighs, so their cocks touch; Shane shivers underneath the heavy weight of his body, accompanied by these slow, aching kisses, the kind he’d imagined before, when Ryan was laying in his bed, listening to Shane read poetry. He can’t remember a single line of what he’d read that night, but here, he could make his own, write each line into Ryan’s flesh, carve the curve of each letter into Shane’s skin. You are my world and brightest light and deepest desires embedded into him. If he had a pen, and if Ryan were willing, he’d never stop writing. 

So, the lovers Ryan will inevitably take when Ryan leaves him will know that Shane had already been here. 

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks him, pulling back to regard him with kind eyes, sincerity across his eyebrows, his cheeks. The curve of his smile. 

“Yeah.” He curls his arms around Ryan’s shoulders, fingers at the back of his head, combing through soft curls. 

Ryan’s hand squeezes his waist, his hip, sliding down to grip his thigh. 

“Turn over for me?” 

He nods, leaning up first to kiss Ryan again, and then Ryan’s pulling his body away, standing and heading over to the small table where a black plastic bag sits. 

“What is that?” He leans up on his elbows, craning his neck like he might be able to see better. 

“Magic,” Ryan says, but all he’s holding is some sort of bottle of liquid, and condoms. “You won’t get wet like women do, so that’s what this is for.” Shane feels his face warm, no doubtedly with a blush at Ryan’s words as he tosses both items on the bed. Shane sits up, reaching for them. He inspects the bottle; he happens to be familiar with condoms. 

“You don’t have to use them,” Shane says, looking up at Ryan as he climbs onto the bed. “The condoms, I mean.” 

Ryan tilts his head like he’s confused. 

“I said I wanted to feel you. It’s—it’s not like anything bad can happen.” 

Ryan laughs, shaking his head. “Of course, bad things can happen, Shane. Especially with strangers.” 

“You’re not a stranger,” Shane murmurs, throwing the condom at Ryan’s chest. He catches it easily with his left hand, tossing it to the mattress. 

“Strange to think I used to be,” Ryan says, crawling closer to Shane, kneeling in front of him so Ryan has to crowd over him, tilt his head forward as Shane reaches up. 

“I know you and all your secrets,” Shane says, so matter-of-factly it surprises him, just as much as it amuses Ryan. 

“You’ve figured me out, huh?” Ryan’s lips brush against his own. Shane nods, opening his mouth, waiting for that electrifying feeling of Ryan’s tongue licking over his own. He holds onto the backs of Ryan’s thighs, and Ryan cradles his head in both hands as the kiss deepens, open and slow and vulnerable; it would be disgusting to witness, but in it, in the middle of it, participating in it, Shane enjoys the click of their teeth, the way his bottom lip is wet from their saliva mixed together. It’s so hard to breathe through his nose and his lungs are burning, but he’d rather suffocate than give up this kiss. 

Shane moves his hands, up the backs of Ryan’s thighs, over his ass and then his hips. His left stays, but his right travels frontwards, so he can cup Ryan’s scrotum in his palm, touch the base of his cock as he wraps his fingers around his shaft. The kiss breaks so suddenly, and Ryan moans against his lips, exhaling hard as Shane strokes him slowly. His eyes are closed when Shane opens his own, brow furrowed and his mouth hanging open. Shane glances down at his hand, watches the way the head of his cock peeks through the circle of his forefinger and thumb.

“Shane—”

“Hmm?”

Ryan doesn’t say anything, even as Shane looks up at him expectantly, waiting for his thought. Instead, Ryan gently pushes his hand away. “Come on, let me get you ready.”

“It’s not going to hurt, right?” Shane wonders aloud.

“Not unless you rush me,” Ryan teases. Shane huffs a small laugh as he flops back on the bed. He turns over like Ryan’s asked him, one cheek against the pillow and his hands by his side. Since all Shane can see is the white paint of the wall, he closes his eyes and allows himself to thoughtlessly enjoy this time with Ryan.

First, he feels the slow touch of Ryan’s hands on his back. It’s almost pressure-less as Ryan sits on the backs of his thighs, his gentle hands sliding down the length of his spine and then back up to smooth over his shoulders. When Ryan leans forward to kiss his cheek, Shane smiles, shifting his hips back just enough to tease when he feels the length of Ryan lay against his ass, right on the crevice.

He can feel Ryan lift himself off, shuffle to the side Shane isn’t facing. He turns his head so he can see the bend of Ryan’s waist, the way he sits back on his heels. Shane watches as Ryan takes the bottle of liquid and peels the plastic off the top, revealing the cap which he flips open. Ryan’s liberal with it, wetting his first two fingers, enough that they drip down onto his knee. It looks like water, but it makes Ryan’s skin shiny like oil. 

With his left hand, Ryan combs his fingers through Shane’s hair, and Shane leans into it, feeling so, so calm, even as he takes his hand away and drags it down Shane’s back, over the flesh of his ass to pull him apart. Ryan’s fingers dip between his ass cheeks and rub against his opening. 

Shane makes a soft noise of surprise, and he widens the spread of his legs, his thigh knocking into Ryan’s knees. He watches Ryan’s face, this devout look of concentration as the first finger slides slowly in. Shane’s fingers bunch in the blankets, and he takes a staggering breath. 

“Okay?” Ryan asks him and Shane nods vehemently. 

“It doesn’t feel like when I did it in the shower,” Shane murmurs, his eyes fluttering closed as Ryan’s finger slips in and out of him, slowly, like he’s savoring it. 

“It’s always better when someone else does it for you,” Ryan says, the corner of his mouth curving into something like a smirk. “How does it feel?” 

Shane tries to think of how he can describe it to Ryan; he doesn’t think there’s a way to tell him about the electric currents or the ocean waves or the tingling in his fingertips. “Like I want more.” 

Ryan grins this time, fully, with his teeth glimmering. He withdraws his hand and wets his fingers again. It leaves a weird feeling when Ryan’s hand is gone, and Shane clenches and doesn’t like that he knows what it’s like to feel empty. 

This time though, when Ryan touches him again, and slides his fingers inside, his heart rate picks up and his skin flushes and his dick twitches between his hips and the mattress, like it’s curious to know what Shane is letting someone do to his body. 

“Oh, hnn—“ 

“Does it feel good?” Ryan asks him, bending forward to drag his lips over Shane’s shoulder, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth. Shane nods, rocking his hips back into the push of Ryan’s hand. It does feel good, especially when Ryan quickens the pace and presses in at an angle— 

“Ryan—!” Shane clenches his eyes closed, gasping into the pillows, feeling that same electric current shocking every vein in his body. “Oh—God.” He doesn’t let up, and Shane feels like there are tiny little wildfires all over his body, prickling until they all connect and engulf him in flames. His face rushes with heat and his breath stutters in his throat. He can’t help but shift his hips, rocking against the thrusting of Ryan’s fingers, rubbing his dick against the bedsheets. It’s so much feeling all at once, pulsing underneath his skin like his flesh has obtained the unrelenting beat of his heart. 

“You’re gonna make me come,” Shane whines into the pillows. 

He can hear Ryan’s laugh underneath the blood pumping in his ears. “That’s sorta the point.” 

“Not before you’re inside me. Besides I don’t like that—hmmh—I don’t like that I can’t see your face,” Shane sighs into the pillows.

Ryan stops, pressed in so deep it clouds Shane’s mind, makes his eyes flutter as he grasps whatever fabric he can bunch his fingers into. 

“You mean you aren’t sick of it yet?” Ryan murmurs into the skin of Shane’s shoulder.

“How could I be?” Shane turns his face to look at Ryan over his shoulder. He makes a point to make direct eye contact. “I already miss seeing you.”

When Ryan pulls his hands away, the slide of his fingers leaving him sends a shiver up his spine, bursting like bubbles from a champagne bottle on New Year’s Eve. He helps him turn over, not that he needs it, but the caress of Ryan’s hand on his thigh, against his hip, over his knee—maybe he does need it. Of course, he needs it. If he could have it his way, Ryan would touch him like this all the time, separate from sex; it would just be Ryan’s body existing with his own.

On his back, he stretches out his body, legs on either side of Ryan’s knees. He rests his left hand on his stomach, uses his right to circle his dick, stroking it as Ryan watches him.

“Christ,” Ryan huffs. And he raises his hands to his face and makes a rectangle with his forefingers and thumbs, flicking one index finger like he’s taking a photograph.

Shane grins, laughs even, sitting up so he can reach Ryan, grab him by the back of his neck so he can kiss him.

Ryan uses the weight of his body to ease Shane back; he lays against the pillows, fingers on Ryan’s cheek, keeping him close for another kiss. 

“Are you okay?” Shane asks him. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Ryan says with a shrug. “Come on, knees up, sweetheart.” Ryan won’t look at him, not directly, not in his eyes. It’s been all summer thinking he could never tell, behind that brave face, he’s sad, too. 

Shane can feel it in the extra-care; the oh so softness of Ryan’s mouth when he kisses down Shane’s chest, his belly, the front of his hips. Like a feather over his skin, Shane barely feels it, but it scars, and Shane feels like if he looks down, he’ll see he’s become spotted. 

With his knees bent and his thighs spread apart, Ryan wets his fingers, wrapping them around his cock for a few quick strokes and then touches Shane again, slips back inside him. Shane arches his back, his hands grasping the blankets, trading that to reach down and comb his fingers through Ryan’s hair as he bends over and licks a stripe up his dick. 

“Oh, my God,” Shane breathes, moving his hips, rocking them just slightly; his whole body flushes from the combination of Ryan’s fingers and his mouth, the way it’s so easy for him to take Shane into his throat. 

“Ryan,” Shane murmurs, clasping a hand around Ryan’s wrist. Ryan looks up at him, lifts his mouth from the nasty bruise like mark he’s left on the inside of Shane’s thigh. “Please.” 

Ryan laughs a little, pulling his fingers free and wiping them off on the sheets as Shane whimpers.

“Ready?” 

Shane nods his head, sliding his feet down the mattress, so his toes knock into Ryan’s thighs. Ryan crawls up the length of his body until he lays on Shane; with the two of them this hard, Shane knows it won’t take long until it’s all over. 

“Will you go slow?” Shane whispers. 

“Mhm,” Ryan hums, kissing the corner of his lips before he’s kneeling between Shane’s thighs, looking down at him. “Relax, okay?”

In a quick motion that startles a noise out of Shane, Ryan takes Shane by the hips and pulls him towards the middle of the bed. It makes Ryan laugh, which spills over and onto Shane, so he’s laughing, too. 

There’s a weightlessness in this moment, where Ryan looks down at him, eyes shining with amusement, his grin big and happiness etched in the high rise of his eyebrows and the apples of his cheeks. Shane brings him forward with the hand still at the back of his neck, touches their foreheads together, and Ryan’s smile fades but it doesn’t disappear. From this close, he can see Ryan blinking, keeping his eyes closed as he hums. 

“It does feel like goodbye, huh?” Ryan whispers. 

“Told ya,” Shane answers him, because if they can’t joke about this, then Shane will disintegrate out of existence. He’ll wither away. 

“Do you have any rope?” 

Shane laughs this time, and Ryan leans down to kiss him, and Shane wraps his arms around Ryan’s shoulders, curling his legs high around his waist. With the echo laughter still renting the air, he can feel Ryan adjusting himself between their bodies, and then the first feeling of Ryan against him. 

The kiss only breaks when Ryan begins to press inside, and Shane opens his mouth to cry out.  

It feels like he breaks open, wide open. It’s impossible to keep quiet, impossible to bite back the moan that echoes in the room, much too loud; Ryan slides in so slowly Shane feels the pressure of it in his spine, the strain in the back of thighs, the exhilarating thrill of it pumping through his heart. He closes his eyes and lets himself lose it, lets himself feel every bit of Ryan inside him, on him, all around him. It fills his lungs, his stomach, his heart.

All he can say is Ryan’s name; it’s the only thing he remembers how to say, his mouth curving around the consonants, his breath dragging over the vowels. He feels the caress of Ryan’s mouth over his skin, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. He keeps at his pulse, like he’s guarding it, but Ryan’s tongue is sharp, mean, and wicked, like his teeth when he bites at Shane’s skin, sucking on his neck like he can taste how much Shane needed this, needed him.

“Ryan, I don’t know what to do,” Shane huffs, opening his eyes. He runs his fingers through Ryan’s hair, pulling when Ryan shifts and he’s moving. “Oh—my God.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Ryan says so sweetly, the tone of his voice will haunt him. “Just let me make you feel good.” 

“Okay, okay,” Shane gasps. 

When Ryan moves, a gentle push of his hips forward, Shane grips his fingers into his skin, holding him close. It gains momentum, Ryan deep inside of him, moving slowly but so deliberately, calculated thrusts of his hips that have Shane crying out—this time it doesn’t seem to matter who could be listening to him. To them, to the sound of their lovemaking, their fucking, the way they are as close as two beings could be, wrapped around each other, inside each other, moving through each other.

Shane shuts his eyes, and his head tilts back, and for how badly he wants to concentrate to remember every part of this night, he doesn’t need to try too hard; he’ll remember this feeling, of Ryan’s body so heavy, and the part of his own legs so wide it strains the back of his thighs, the hot rush of Ryan’s breath on his throat, the feeling of Ryan fucking him with such a smooth rhythm in his hips that makes their skin smack together. 

“So much for wanting to see my face,” Ryan says, shifting so he’s lifted off of Shane some, enough that he can feel a burst of air over his sweaty chest. “You’ve had your eyes closed the whole time.”

“I can’t help it,” Shane retorts, finding Ryan’s shoulders with his hands, drifting downwards to touch his chest. “You feel so good.” 

“Try to keep your eyes on me, hmm?” Ryan coaxes. “Can you do that for me?” 

There’s something about Ryan’s voice that makes Shane think he’ll use his hands if he has to. Shane nods, and Ryan leans in to give him a kiss, and then Shane has a thought that for as long as Ryan makes him feel this good, Shane will do whatever he wants. 

He keeps his eyes on Ryan just as Ryan asked him to; he looks beautiful, the furrow of his brow, the part of his mouth, the way he breathes in so harsh every time he thrusts his hips forward. Shane’s never felt like his body could become a place to house someone else, and he’s spent all summer wanting to be inside of Ryan, but right now, he can’t imagine anything else but this feeling, of sharing his body with Ryan.

“Tell me you love me.” 

A thrill shoots through Shane’s stomach, tightening his gut. He’s so suddenly aware of every single place they touch. “Ryan,” he murmurs, his breath stuck in his throat, stalled in his lungs when Ryan moves, hovering over him, thrusting harder. Shane clenches his eyes shut, and he opens them, vision blurry until it focuses on Ryan, the shape of him, the color of him, the way he moves so beautifully above him. 

“I know you do,” Ryan murmurs, his tone gentle, almost playful, like he’s teasing, but Shane still feels the cutting edge of his accusation. Ryan leans in close, so Shane can feel his breath on his cheek, over his lips; Ryan’s palm cradles Shane’s face, his cheek, his thumb brushing the very top of his cheek. “Tell me I’m wrong.” 

“I can’t,” Shane moans, digging the heels of his feet into Ryan’s hips, grinding to meet every one of Ryan’s thrusts. “I can’t, I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” Ryan whispers, and Shane almost feels crazy, watching Ryan smile. “Seeing you like this is enough for me.” 

Shane bows into Ryan, wrapping his arms around his neck, breathing harsh into Ryan’s collarbone when his thrusts become harder, slower, the kind that jostle Shane, shaking his insides like Ryan’s rummaging for the words Shane won’t give him. And it almost works. They’re on the tip of his tongue, up until Ryan mumbles he’s close, and a hand slips in between their bodies, and Shane almost wants to make him stop because he’s not ready for it to be over yet, even though Shane’s on his own precipice, right at the edge of the world, peering over and finding the entirety of the universe right around the corner. 

“Ryan,” he sobs, gasping as he strokes Shane quickly, winding and winding and winding, until Shane snaps, like a frail little twig, his fingers digging into Ryan’s back, scraping at his flesh as his climax burst through him, from the center of his body outwards, rolling like electricity through every vein. He’s certain his heart gives out and restarts all in the same second, toes curling so hard as his legs shake around Ryan’s hips. 

“Jesus Christ, Shane,” Ryan murmurs, still moving against him, grinding, like he’s working Shane through it. He barely has the wherewithal to pull back and face Ryan, lean in to kiss him; Ryan’s breathing gets shorter, and his thrusting quickens, and Ryan doesn’t kiss him anymore, just pants into his mouth, until he groans, low, really low. Shane cradles his face with both hands, the thumb of his right smoothing over Ryan’s bottom lip and then in, pressing against Ryan’s tongue. Ryan’s lips wrap around his finger, and Shane pulls it out, smearing the wetness against his bottom lip. 

Shane cards his fingers through Ryan’s hair, pushing all those curls back over his sweaty forehead. At the very last moment, Ryan crowds in close, pressing his face in against Shane’s collarbone as he grunts, groaning when he comes, his cock so deep inside Shane, it makes him shiver. Ryan grinds against him, moaning softly, and Shane holds him through it, sighing contentedly at the warm, wet feeling of Ryan’s release. 

For a while, that’s how they lay. Shane combing his fingers through Ryan’s hair as Ryan kisses over his shoulder, and tells him, without a breath of hesitation, how much he loves him. 

Seeing it written had been one thing; he will have that to look back on, but it’s in the sound of Ryan’s voice; the ease of which he admits such a strong emotion, like the future doesn’t matter, or maybe the next ten minutes don’t even matter. This is right now, and right now Ryan loves him and felt safe enough to tell him so. 

Ryan rolls off Shane's body and lays on his back, and Shane feels like he’s lost something. like a limb maybe, too much weight gone so quickly. like if he isn't careful, he’ll float away, hover so high he reaches space, lightyears away from this moment his mind immediately frames like a renowned painting. 

He turns his head to look at Ryan, still fighting to catch his breath, and finds Ryan already looking at him, a little bit like he’s seen a ghost. 

“What?” Shane asks. 

Ryan shakes his head. “I just wanna look at you.” 

Shane scoffs, shifting onto his side facing Ryan. “Well, here’s a better look then,” he says, waving his hand, pushing himself up onto an elbow.

Ryan laughs, and Shane feels that familiar flush of happiness, the same one he always gets when he’s found himself the absolute pleasure of enjoying Ryan's joy. 

“Could look at you all day. If I were an artist, I’d carve you out of marble, make you into a statue. If I were a landscaper, I’d make you a garden.” Ryan pauses, reaching out a hand, brushing Shane's long hair from where it’s dropped into his eyes. “If I could, I would give you anything you want.” 

“I want you to stay,” Shane says, before he can keep the thought to himself. Ryan draws the pad of his thumb over Shane's lips, over and over again.  

“I know you do,” Ryan says. 

Shane doesn't press harder, and Ryan doesn't offer, and Shane feels his heart break in real time, right here, naked in bed with this man he loves more than he thinks he even realizes. Right here, where the minutes keep dripping through his fingers while he keeps grasping for hours he knows aren't available. 

“Ryan—" Shane starts, looking at him and then somewhere else. The window across the room. The desk in front of the bed. Ryan pulls him closer, and for the first time since the first time, Shane feels his nakedness, is aware of what they've done, the mess they made, but there’s nowhere he’d rather go. 

“I promise I'll write to you,” Ryan says.

“Until one day you don’t.” 

“I promise to call.” 

“Sentiment remains.”

“I promise to visit, then.” 

Shane laughs. “Next summer. I’ll be waiting on the front porch.” 

“Not even a ride from the airport?” 

“Nope.” 

“I want you to be happy, Shane,” Ryan says after a quiet moment. “Even if it’s not with me.” 

“Don’t be such a fuckin’ martyr,” Shane says rolling his eyes. 

“I'm serious! If someone comes along—“

“Shut up.” Shane kisses him, hard and pointedly, and Ryan's body relaxes and tenses against Shane's like he might fight Shane off to finish whatever heartfelt, beautiful, poetic, self-sacrificial, confession of love he was going to say. But it seems Ryan likes this better, because he relaxes all the way, and Shane gets to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, until the sun comes up and they’re stuck together, prying themselves apart underneath the hot spray of shower water.

-:-

The airport is bustling, but Shane can only pay attention to Ryan. The whole world around them seems to give them the last bit of peace they’re allowed.

At the last moment, Ryan reaches into his bag, and pulls out a rough looking stack of papers, held together with a rubber band. 

“Here,” Ryan tells him. “You've been asking me to read it all summer. This’ll carry you through the autumn, I think.” 

Shane takes the haphazard book; what he wants instead is a hug, another kiss. This morning in the hotel only made it worse; they shouldn't have spent so much time touching. Shane regrets that it took them so long to touch in the first place. 

But all they can share is a look, much too long for anyone with eyes to think they’re just two men, separate, when really, Shane feels like he’s being ripped apart.

He touches his palm, the jagged scar that’s formed where he’d sliced his palm. He remembers the way he thought pain could ever be something he enjoyed feeling. If the world swallowed him whole, it wouldn’t be quick enough.

“Have a safe flight,” Shane says, scrubbing his face with his hands, doing his best not to flat-out cry. Ryan laughs. And for a sharp, poignant moment, he feels Ryan’s knuckles drag across his stomach. A secret kiss.

“I’ll call you when I get home. You can tell me how you like the book.”

“Yeah, okay,” Shane agrees. They shake hands, like strangers. And then he watches Ryan turn, drag his suitcase along the carpeted floors of the airport.

-:-

For a little while, the rumble of the highway underneath the car is the only sound that fills the cab. 

Shane’s mother had been waiting for him outside of the airport, and when Shane had gotten in the car, he’d broken down in a way he’d never had before. Perhaps it was seeing her that made him realize it was really over; not even the sight of Ryan disappearing into the tunnel that led into the airplane really allowed it to settle in. But seeing his mom waiting for him, leaning up against the hood of her car—he held it together for a few seconds before the door shut behind him and he folded into himself. 

She rubbed his back until the worst of it was over. 

It wasn’t too long of a ride. Just over a half an hour of cutting silence. At some point, Sherry had reached over to turn the radio on, but Shane shut it off. She didn’t protest. 

When they reached town and Shane recognized the traffic lights on the main road, Sherry clears her throat and reaches over to pat Shane’s knee.

“You had quite the summer, didn’t you?” she says, and Shane doesn’t really want to talk about it right now, but his eyes start to well up again. He wipes his face with the bottom of his t-shirt. 

Silence bleeds into the car like it’s suffering from hemorrhaging. Shane sniffles.

“I think I’ll miss that boy,” she says, taking her hand back. “Somehow made the house feel like home, and since the two of you have been gone, it feels so empty and big.” 

“Oh yeah?” Shane says, just to entertain her. She sighs. 

“You guys had a really nice friendship. I was happy to see the two of you get along so well. And he finally finished his book! Isn’t that exciting? I made him promise to come back and visit us, and he said he would. Christmastime, he said.”

Shane stares out the window, wishing for snow in that case, wondering if Ryan would keep his promises. He’d made so many. 

“Shane—” 

“What, Mom? What do you want me to say?” 

“You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to tell anyone anything. But I would like to let you know that it doesn’t matter who you love, honey. As long as they respect and love you in return, that’s all that matters to me.” She breathes in deeply, enough that Shane glances at her. And when she turns to level him with a look, he glances away, staring back out of the windshield. “You are safe here, and you can be happy here at home. You will always have a place here. I didn't fight hard enough for Scott, and I will always regret that. That boy was braver than I was ready to be, and because of that, things won’t be the same, won’t be like they used to be. But with you—I had to try.” 

She says it with conviction. Like this brand new start she sold to him at the beginning of summer really was for the both of them. And he hadn’t realized that she was picking up the pieces of herself after the divorce, and Shane was trying to deal with his dad, but it hadn’t occurred to him that this was her chance to support him in ways he hadn’t even known he could be supported. 

That sticky feeling in his throat returns, sharp and prickly, and his eyes start to water again. He presses his knuckles against his eyelids, until colors start to bloom and when he opens his eyes again, there are spots in his vision. He hears what she’s saying, and it’s painful to hear, as much as it is a relief. He sniffles again, wiping his nose. 

He should have known better. 

“So, just know that whatever you’re feeling right now, it will get easier. You’ll get to remember him in happiness rather than hurt, but it has to hurt first. It shapes us to be who we are as people, and affects how we show kindness, how we show mercy, how we can continue to show compassion. 

“When you’re my age, or maybe even older, and you’ve long past healed from the hurt you’re feeling now, you’ll be all the wiser for it.”

“I don’t want to be wise,” Shane mutters, sniffling again. “I—I don’t want to be anything.” 

Sherry pulls into the driveway and kills the engine. Neither of them make a move to get out of the car yet. Shane knows this conversation isn’t over, and as much as he’s shied away from these important lessons his mother fights to give him, he isn’t ready to go inside yet. 

“I know, honey,” she says, turning to him. “But I think you know just as well as I do, that if it didn't hurt like this, then how can we measure the good?” The keys jingle when she takes them out of the ignition. Shane turns to look at her, watches the way she combs her fingers through her hair, like she’s collecting herself. “The way you two were—sneaking around, looking at each other, looking for each other—not even the most talented person on the face of the earth could write about the look on Ryan’s face as he sat next to me on the couch and told me how smart he thought you were. How funny. How talented. Talked about your music and your art, complimented you like it was the only thing he knew how to do. Stars in his eyes, all because of you.” She reaches out to poke his shoulder and against every torturous, hard, heartbreaking feeling he’s enduring, it makes him crack a smile. 

“Ma—“ He tries to dodge her, but it’s too late. She pats his cheek, and he can see the tears in her eyes, too. 

“I know, I know. I think you should know that whatever you felt about him, there isn’t a single question on how he feels about you. And I’ll bet, come December, he’ll be sitting at the dinner table trying to figure out how to sneak you back to California.” 

“Would you be sad?” 

She laughs, but the sound is watery, like she might already miss him. “Every mother is sad when her babies leave. But it’s just like I said, Shane. Most hurt comes with happiness. It all depends on how the future falls. Come here.” 

She opens her arms and reaches for him, and Shane moves in, hugs her as tight as he can. He feels every bit of eighteen. Not in the way where he’s a grown-up—he’s far from that—but in the way where he’s seventeen again. Sixteen, fifteen, ten and five. He feels like a kid again, and instead of a scraped-up elbow, he’s got a fractured heart, and he supposes it doesn’t matter how old he gets. Moms still fix stuff like that up. 

“You have to let yourself feel it, Shane. Don’t close yourself off because it’s hard. And I know talking to your mom isn’t hip with the kids these days, but I will always be here for you, no matter what.” 

When she pulls away, she gives him a quick kiss to his cheek. “I love you so much.” 

“Love you, too, Ma.” 

Sherry pulls away and gets out of the car. He watches her walk into the house. Shane stares at it for a handful of moments, his fingers clutching the door handle. 

He spent all summer talking about ghosts; he never thought there would actually be one in the house, but when he walks inside after leaving Ryan at the airport, that’s what it feels like. His voice and his laugh are gone, his solid body; Shane’s gonna go mad thinking he can see Ryan out of the corner of his eye.

-:-

Later that night, after he’s all cried out, a skeleton on bedsheets, he grabs Ryan’s book, and starts to read it. 

This is Ryan’s draft. All of his notes in the margins. Between the lines. Shane sees himself in Ryan’s scrawl, terrible handwriting, but it’s legible, and lovely. It’s the same handwriting on his wall, hidden behind the picture. 

The last chapter, titled “Illinois” is different from the first six. It starts similarly; the tone is the same, and he can hear Ryan’s voice, like he’s talking to a stranger. At the beginning he’s the stranger. But as Shane continues to read, his voice changes. The tone changes. This house that Ryan has written about, the frame of it, the foundation, the walls, and windows—

It’s beautiful when Ryan writes the realization that the house wasn’t haunted, not even a little bit. There are bits about the cemetery, but even that bit is devoid of spiritual restlessness. All the other chapters left off with some sort of hope, some wistfulness that made the reader choose, with what Ryan presented, whether or not the place was filled to the brim with ghosts.

But this house, Shane’s house, it’s definitive. There isn’t a question about it. It isn’t haunted.

It makes Shane sad, as he flips the book closed, that Ryan still hasn’t found what he’s looking for.

-:-

It’s only been a week, and Shane thought Ryan would have called by now. He’s getting ready for school in the fall now; whatever getting ready means. Steeling himself, mentally preparing.

When he does start school, the first thing he does is switch his major from Business to Fine Arts. He trades a few classes, enrolling into art history and Brush Technique 101. He hasn’t talked to Sara since that day, and he never really expected to talk to her again after that day, but she’s in his Art History class, and she sits next to him, and gives him a look.

“How are you?” she asks him, like they’re strangers. She’s pretty and feels grown up in a way the hallways of their high school muted. Her skin is tanned, and her hair is pulled back, messy, with curly tendrils all along her hairline. Her t-shirt is torn stylishly at her collar.

“Good,” he says, taking a deep breath.

“Yeah? Who’re you trying to lie to?”

Shane cracks a smile, shaking his head. “Sara, I really—I don’t know what I was doing, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. You gotta know that.”

She inhales, shrugging her shoulders. She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I know. But it doesn’t change the fact that you did.” She looks up at him then, earnest brown eyes, so sweet in their casual honesty. He could love her, he thinks, right there in the middle of the classroom, as the professor begins his lecture. He could love her, he thinks, and it’s so sad he doesn’t.

“How can I make it up to you?” he asks quietly.

“Just tell me the truth,” she says simply.

Shane swallows thickly, turns his head towards the front of the class as Sara flips open her notebook, and begins note taking.

Sara talks him into lunch on campus, where they get sandwiches and sweet lemonade, and she gently urges him. And with enough pressure, Shane finds he bursts. He starts talking, from the second he saw Ryan pull up in the driveway to the moment he left, he spills out the details of their summer together.

At some point, Sara’s got tears in her eyes, and when she wipes them away, she’s laughing. Shane asks her why.

“Because,” she says to him. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy like this, Shane. Not ever. And I’ve known you for a long, long time. You deserve to be happy.”

“Even though—even though he’s a man?”

“Even then.”

“I’d be happy if—”

“If what?”

“He hasn’t called. Said he would, but. I haven’t heard from him.”

“It happens. Maybe it wasn’t real to him like it was for you,” she reasons, sipping her drink.

“That—” Shane refuses to believe that. Even if it’s the most weighted of explanations, it seems stupid to think that Ryan didn’t feel the same, that he didn’t carry the same ache Shane did.

“Don’t you have his number?”

The question poses an image in his mind, ten digits at the top corner of the book Ryan had written. He does have Ryan’s number, and at no point had Shane ever picked up the phone and dialed them. Shane nods.

“So why haven’t you called?” She asks. “Are you afraid?”

Shane nods.

“Then maybe,” she says, with a gentle pat to his hand, “maybe he is, too.”

She gives him a small smile, one that Shane reciprocates.

Shane picks up the bill and hurries to his next class, thinking about Sara, about the night on her porch, when they shared that kiss, when she called about the fireworks, the night at the lake. He thinks about all of it in a hazy supercut that makes his body grow warm. He did love her—but it wasn’t like—it wasn’t the same.

It makes his thoughts wander towards the night at the cemetery, when Ryan rattled on and on about soulmates, and Shane knew, immediately, that it wasn’t something calm that he would have with Ryan. It would wreck through him, destroy him. He knew, looking at Ryan, asking him the question about what he meant by finding someone, and somehow, he knew, he knew Ryan was supposed to be that someone for him. However wrong; however forbidden. He knew he would obsess, that it would become obsession, that he would need Ryan. And now he’s gone, and he hasn’t called, and Shane knows, he knows, there isn’t ever going to be a person that loves him that could compare to the way Ryan made him feel.

-:-

Shane goes home the first weekend he can; it’s been a month or so since he’d started school, almost a month and a half since Ryan left.

His mom welcomes him with the biggest dinner he’d ever seen; autumn trickles in, turning the colors of the leaves, cooling the air.

After dinner, Shane goes upstairs to his bedroom, still mostly intact with whatever he hadn’t taken with him to college.

Shane walks over to the window, touches the polaroid taped to the wall. He lifts it, so the tape tears and releases. Ryan’s words are still there, protected by a photograph of them. Shane wants to, but he doesn’t dig out the others he’d hidden underneath his mattress. He should really move those.

Lying back on his bed, he closes his eyes, and does what he knows best. Relives it all. From the moment at the lake where Ryan had kissed him for the first time; he can still feel the sweet softness of Ryan’s mouth underneath his, the prickle of his beard, the weight of his hips between Shane’s thighs. He can feel the whole thing again, like he’s gone back in time, where the sun had just woken up and Shane’s body was made of pure electricity.

Shane turns onto his side, sighing, before picking himself up off the mattress and heading towards the window, looking outward, spotting memories.

Ghost spots.

Ryan shirtless, Ryan stretching, Ryan laying back, Ryan sitting, Ryan, Ryan, Ryan.

He wonders if they’ll be forgotten, and one day, Shane might be able to look out of the window without thinking about Ryan. Of this summer. Of Ryan’s fingerprints still so freshly dug into his skin. He wonders if those imprints will fade.   

There’s a knock on his door, and Shane calls, “Yeah.”

His mother comes in, leaning against the doorway. “There’s someone on the phone for you,” she says gently.

Shane follows her out of his bedroom and down into the kitchen. She doesn’t stay to overhear the conversation. Shane perches himself up on top of the counter, picking up the receiver where his mom had left it.

“Hello?” he asks, and then comes a breathy laugh.

“Shane?”

“Ryan—” Shane finds himself grinning, looking down at his bare knees. “—how did you know I would be home?”

“I called a few days ago and your mom told me you would be. I figured I would wait until after dinner tonight.”

“I—oh. It’s—it’s good to hear from you. How’s everything?”

“Good—good. I’m in Florida,” Ryan says. “I just got done touring a lighthouse down in St. Augustine.”

“Oh yeah? Tell me about it.”

Ryan seems to hesitate. “I don’t want to bore you,” he says, unsure.

“You’re not. I’ve been waiting—” Shane shakes his head. “Please. I just—I want to know.”

Ryan starts his story, slowly at first, and gaining momentum, laughing when Shane makes a joke, asking Shane questions about his theories. It’s the most fun he’s had in a long time.

When Shane looks up, he sees an hour has passed by.

“Where are you off to next?” Shane asks him.

“Probably back home now. I got sidetracked—didn’t even mean to stay this long.”

“Oh, no,” Shane says, his tone lofty. “Did a waitress hold you hostage?”

“What is it with you and the waitress?” Ryan asks him.

“You know what it is with me and the waitress,” Shane grumbles, twirling the phone cord around his finger.

Ryan sighs, but it’s short and curt. “Shane—”

“What took you so long to call?” Shane interrupts. “You don’t—you don’t have to call if you don’t want to.”

“But I did—I do.” Ryan clears his throat. “It’s not like I forgot about you.”

“Felt like it. A little bit.”

“Well, I didn’t—”

“It’s been almost two months—”

“I needed some time to process. Feel what things were gonna be like without seeing you every day. It was hard.”

“Do you miss me?”

“Every day,” he says, without a hint of hesitation, without trepidation. Full honesty and sincerity in two words. “From the second I wake up.”

“That’s disgusting, actually.”

Ryan laughs, and it tangles through the wires in Shane’s brain, connects into the motherboard for his serotonin, makes his fingertips tingle. After a quiet moment, Shane asks, “Do you really?”

“Of course, I do,” Ryan says seriously.

Shane clears his throat, pulls his legs up so his heels rest on the edge of the countertop. He wraps his arm around his shins. “Will you still come back during winter? Maybe during my Christmas break.”

“I—I don’t know if I can make it for Christmas,” Ryan murmurs.

“Oh.”

“Don’t—I’m almost done with my book. I can probably make it in the springtime.”

That’s so far away, Shane wants to say. He wants to complain, he wants to whine, he wants to beg and plead for Ryan to come back sooner.

“Please don’t be upset,” Ryan asks.

“I’m not,” Shane says. “I’m not upset. I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

Shane shrugs his shoulders, even though Ryan can’t see. They’re quiet for a long while, and Shane closes his eyes, remembers that night in the hallway, when they laid with each other, Ryan telling him all about California, not a ghost in sight then, but Shane knows when he goes upstairs, he’ll see the shadow of Ryan’s body strewn along the hardwood floors, shimmery and cloudy, the way memories tend to be.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Shane says. “I should let you go. It’s late for both of us.”

Ryan hums into the receiver, and then says, “Tell me you love me first.”

Shane feels something rise in his chest. Anger, abandonment, sadness, fear. It’s an amalgamation of all the things he can feel, concentrated in the center of his body, sitting thick. He wishes he could reach inside himself and show Ryan all the reasons he can’t bring himself to say it, despite having thought it over and over again, since the fourth of July, when Shane felt like he was a speck of meaningless dust, and all Ryan had been looking at was him. 

“Isn’t it enough to feel it?” Shane asks, begging. 

“No,” Ryan says. “Better if you said it.”

“Ryan—“

“Would you tell me if I asked you to come home with me? If I asked you to leave everything there, and make something new with me in California? Would you say it if I promised you would have space in my home, in my bed, in my heart, for God's sake—would you say it then?” 

Shane clears his throat, feeling like he’s standing on tightrope, like one wrong move will send him falling. 

“I’ll pick you up on my way back, because if I see you again, Shane, I swear to God if I see you again, it’s for keeps. I’m not letting you go.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane huffs. “Ryan—"

“It isn’t Italy,” Ryan says, “but it could be the next best thing. You’ll be with me.” 

“I’ll be with you,” Shane echoes, water in his throat.

Ryan laughs. “Yes,” he murmurs, Shane closes his eyes and imagines Ryan wrapping his arms around his shoulders, looking up at him with bright eyes. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Shane,” Ryan says abruptly, quietly, enough that it knocks Shane out of his warm reverie. He blinks his eyes open, looking around the empty kitchen. It felt like Ryan was standing right in front of him. “That’s the difference. You demanded to be worth the whole summer. Worth a lifetime of summers, actually.”

Shane feels like his brain shuts down, attempting to process the information but it feels impossible. “Me?”

“You say that like you didn’t know,” Ryan teases with a gentle laugh. “Will you say it now?” he asks softly. 

He hesitates, and Ryan waits for him.

Through the crackle of the phone line and the soft sound of Ryan’s breathing, he decides the princess was right. 

It is better to speak.