Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shane supposes his saving grace is that he’s always aware of when he’s dreaming. Even now, he can sense the unreality of the space surrounding him.

Turning his head, Shane considers the room he’s in. It’s almost an exact copy of his apartment living room, but the angles are off. Everything looks slightly distorted, enough to notice only if Shane focuses on a particular object long enough to see where it doesn’t meet with the rest of the room. He gets the vague feeling as though he’s going to be sea-sick, and for a moment, Shane can’t decide if the whole room is swaying or not. He feels lost.

He’s seated across Katherine, and she looks exactly the same as when he last saw her, right down to the blood-blackened collar. Shane looks at her, and she smiles. She has an impeccable smile, but parts of her teeth are flecked with dry blood. It matches the spatter across her forehead.

Shane considers smiling back, if only to be polite. He doesn’t. They sit in silence, and Shane shifts uncomfortably.

“This isn’t real,” Shane eventually says, testing his voice and taking comfort in its steadiness. He feels as though he’s speaking underwater, and he worries vaguely that his words won’t reach Katherine. He imagines his speech floating off above him, drifting into the emptiness that sits just outside the room’s reality.

He glances toward his hallway and sees the area darkened. He knows there is nothing beyond this space.

“Of course it isn’t,” Katherine replies, and her voice is pleasant and soft, filling the space of the dream immediately. Something about its disembodied quality makes Shane sick. Katherine’s smile turns further placid, and she continues, “He’s an interesting one, isn’t he?”

“Who?” But Shane already knows the answer. It hits him like a punch to the gut, dazing him in its enormity.

“Ryan,” Katherine continues, not unkindly.

Shane shouldn’t feel threatened. But his arms curl around the edge of the couch, gripping too tightly and pulling harshly at the already distorted fabric. He doesn’t want to think about Ryan here. Not in this space, not in its inherent wrongness.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Shane eventually grits out. He forces himself to relax against the sofa. Shane reminds himself that this isn’t real, that it doesn’t matter. He’s not shocked to discover that he doesn’t particularly care. Against Shane’s logic and his best intentions, Ryan is always unique in this way.

Katherine’s smile widens as if she sees his internal dialogue plainly across his face. Perhaps she does.

He’s not wearing his glasses in this dream, but he can perfectly make out the flecks of dried blood as they fall off Katherine’s forehead when she tilts her head. It’s horrifying.

Shane almost considers finding it funny. It’s all so ridiculous.

“He’s a good soul,” Katherine says after a moment. “I could see it even in those brief moments in that terrible, little house.”

Shane swallows. He doesn’t know what she’s trying to say. He doesn’t reply.

Katherine looks absolutely serene as she catches Shane’s eyes and forces him to meet her gaze and not look away. There’s a finality in her countenance, with the weight of her words aided by the horror of her appearance. Shane knows he doesn’t want to hear what Katherine will say next.

“Maybe better than you deserve,” she finally suggests.

For a moment, the whole room sways again, and Shane feels absolutely certain that he’s going to throw up. He thinks maybe the room is shrinking, and he’ll die here squeezed in between Katherine and his old sofa, begging for Ryan.

Abruptly, it stops, and Shane’s skin feels too tight for his body. An unbearable weight has been placed atop his chest. There’s an energy buzzing along his nerves and down his spine, and suddenly, Shane’s despair turns hot.

“Why don’t you just leave me alone?” Shane demands, and the words feel like oil in his mouth. He feels as though he is condemning himself. “I did it! I avenged your murder or whatever. Now go away.”

Shane’s words are punctured with a hand to his face, and he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. He looks back at Katherine, but she appears unconcerned at his outburst. She effects a perfect posture, unreactive as Shane quickly devolves further in the face of his own insecurities.

“Me?” Katherine asks, her question genuine. Shane feels as though she should be taunting him, but her cadence never changes, and he can’t find any cruelty in her disposition. Shane notices she holds a cup of tea in her hand; the saucer looks old-fashioned, delicately decorated and possibly hand-made. He can’t remember if she had it from the start or if it suddenly appeared. “You’re doing this to yourself, Shane. It’s time to wake up.”

Shane blinks expectantly, waiting for the room around to him to dissolve. After a few moments, Katherine sets down her tea cup and saucer, unperturbed. Shane doesn’t jump at the loud clink that reverberates throughout the room as the saucer hits his coffee table, but it’s a near thing.

Katherine leans forward, her movements preternaturally fluid. She considers him briefly, studying his face. Shane gets the distinct feeling of being under a microscope, and he’s not convinced Katherine finds what she’s looking for.

Katherine tilts her head, and finally her smile drops. She sighs. “It looks like you’re not sure how.”

Shane doesn’t get the chance to reply. The couch—the floor, the fragile reality of the dream—disappear beneath him, and suddenly he’s falling. He doesn’t see Katherine, and he can’t be sure if she disappeared or if she’s still somewhere above, perfectly calm and holding her tea cup. 

Shane can’t see anything around him, but he knows he’s fast approaching the ground. He closes his eyes and spreads his limps. He feels the phantom wind against his back and through his hair.

He waits.

Shane wakes up spread eagle on his bed, his sheets kicked to the floor. He’s covered in sweat and shivering. He thinks he might still need to throw up.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shane sees a vague shadow timidly move across the bedroom wall. Sighing, he rolls over and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s greeted by the sight of Katherine’s bloody smile, but he doesn’t care. They’re old friends by now.

He breathes deeply, focusing on counting his breaths and nothing else. Shane falls back asleep, and he doesn’t dream again that night.

***

In the morning, Shane feels exhaustion down to his bones. There’s a soreness in his shoulders and neck, and he thinks back to falling. Maybe he hit the ground without realizing.

He gets ready on autopilot, not taking the care to make sure his shirt matches his pants matches his shoes. He glances at the mirror once he’s done, and the dark stains under his eyes stand out stark against his pale face. He deliberates for a moment, before digging through a drawer to find some shades.

He grabs his thermos before leaving, and watches from the corner of his eye as shadows crowd around the corners near his front door. Some of them edge their way toward the door, but none of them dare go through. They’ve had no problem settling into his home without his foreknowledge or permission, but the shadows have grown a strange aversion to leaving.

Still, Shane leaves the blinds open on most days when he leaves. He assumes shadows, even these, need light; he’s not sure what else to do.

On the way to the office, Shane leans his head against the car door and momentarily closes his eyes. He feels peaceful when in transit in a way he doesn’t often experience otherwise. Shane prefers to experience it without the added mental taxation of driving.

He lets the movement of the car lull him into a light doze. Right on the precipice of sleep, Shane recalls the conversation between he and Katherine, and he suddenly again feels ill.

He opens his eyes just in time for the driver to inform him they’re here.

Once in the office, Shane settles down at his desk and stares incomprehensibly at his computer. He knows there’s things he should be doing, and can see himself in his mind’s eye sitting up, pulling up files and beginning work, but his body doesn’t follow through on the command.

He stares at the black screen in front of him and sees himself falling. Shane startles at the image, and lets out a groan of protest when the movement hurts the soreness in his back.

Eventually, he turns the monitor on and forces himself to work.

Around an hour later, Shane watches Ryan approach their collective desks, a bounce in his step that Shane can only suspect is possible in a relatively compact frame such as Ryan’s. He considers saying as much, cajoling Ryan into a friendly argument that he knows they’ll both enjoy, but there’s a look of determination on Ryan’s face that makes Shane rescind his considerations.

When Ryan finally reaches him, a closer examination of his expression reveals a layer of barely concealed excitement. Shane sees Ryan’s lips twitching with the effort not to burst into a characteristically huge smile, and he feels his own lips twitch in response. 

“Dude, you’re not gonna believe the meeting I just got out of,” Ryan begins without greeting, before grabbing Shane’s arm and hoisting him up. Even though layers of clothing, Shane feels Ryan’s touch against him like a brand.

He half-drags, half-leads Shane to an empty hallway, before dropping Shane’s arm completely. Shane resists the urge to fiddle with his sleeve. He imagines rolling it back only to find Ryan’s palm seared into his skin, marking Shane’s affliction for Ryan beyond a doubt. He imagines running his hand over the skin, unnaturally warm near the edges of scars of Ryan’s fingertips.

Shane shakes himself out of his reverie and tries to focus back on Ryan’s words from before. He gives Ryan an expectant look, but he isn’t going to tell Shane anything unless Shane plays along.

Shane voice turns teasing, and he says, “I’m sure I’ll believe it more than half the other things you try and convince me of.”

Ryan grins in response. “You’re such a dick. I’m not even sure I want to tell you now.”

Shane feigns hurt, grabbing his chest and leaning back against the wall. He feels light all over, like Ryan found the weight beneath his ribs and dug it out himself.

“And to think,” Shane says, still clutching his chest, not a hint of seriousness in his voice, “I thought we were finally starting to get along.”

Ryan laughs freely at Shane's antics, excessive and breathy, and Shane wants to capture this moment. Maybe for himself or maybe for Katherine. He could pull it out and show her the laugh lines around Ryan’s mouth, and the way his eyes crinkle easily and without hesitation as he smiles at Shane. He’d make her acknowledge the pure happiness on Ryan’s face and the brand on his own arm to match. 

He’d say, I am enough right now. And she’d smile and not reply.

Eventually, Ryan settles down and announces, “We’re going to the Talbott House!" 

Shane blinks. “That means nothing to me.”

Ryan frowns at Shane, unimpressed by his general lack of hauntings knowledge.

“It’s basically one of the most haunted houses in the world!” Ryan gesticulates, throwing his hands up as if this will somehow make Shane remember a place he doesn’t know. Shane notices how Ryan evades giving him any actual details about the house, so committed is he to having Shane go into these investigations blind.  “It’s just across the Canadian border, so we’ll be going international too.”

That piques Shane’s interest, and he thinks longingly of weather made for long pants and thick jackets. He’s an Illinois boy constantly stuck in California weather, and he latches onto something as simple as a weather change wholeheartedly. 

“When are we leaving?”

“It’s a private residence, so the exact date is up to the owner, but we’re angling for this weekend,” Ryan replies, frowning slightly as he considers the logistics. “It’s a bit of a tight squeeze with the other locations we have planned, but they haven’t let anyone in this house for years. The boys are getting exclusives!”

Shane can’t help but smile at Ryan’s enthusiasm, even if he doesn’t completely share it. New locations are always a mix of anticipation and dread for Shane, and he suspects this will be no different.

A part of Shane looks toward each location eagerly, hoping, no matter how miniscule the possibility, that this will be the one where Ryan sees. Shane imagines sharing this moment with Ryan and has to swallow down the swell of longing that balloons up in his chest. 

He wants that moment for Ryan, for him to find the proof he so desperately seeks, but more selfishly, Shane wants it for himself. Shane wants Ryan to look at him and understand him completely, not only through faith but through the proof of sight as well. He wants companionship for his oldest secret, and he wants it desperately to be with Ryan.

But rationally, Shane knows better. Ryan has never seen a spirit, but rather walks past them or through them at each location. Sometimes they gape at Ryan, or reach out, or do nothing, but it doesn’t matter. Ryan catalogues his whispers and his noises and misses the very real phantoms right in front of him.

And Shane walks behind him, glaring at the handsy ones and pitying the lost shells. And still Ryan sees nothing. But the smallest part of him, somewhere under his ribs or stored deep in his diaphragm, can’t help but to hope.

Eventually, Shane swallows thickly before seeking out Ryan’s eyes. Carefully—so, so hesitantly—he places a hand on Ryan’s shoulder.

“This is your baby, Ry,” Shane says, almost embarrassed by the sincerity in his voice. “And look what you’ve done with it. It’s incredible.”

Ryan beams up at him, and Shane feels momentarily entranced.

Then, Ryan slips out from underneath Shane’s hand, twisting in order to elbow him in the side. He gives Shane a sly smile, but Shane can still see the radiance beneath it, and replies, “Well, no one will accuse me of having done it alone.”

Shane’s throat feels tight, but he doesn’t respond.

He thinks to himself again, I am enough right now. And he feels it.

***

Friday morning finds Shane last-minute packing for an early flight. The plan is to fly from L.A. to Montreal, and then take a rental car out to the house. They should get there around 7PM, and then they’ll stay until 6AM the next morning barring any Ryan-typical freak outs that have them running out earlier.

But Shane’s been better at aiding those as they come fewer and farther between. He’s watched as Ryan has grown in bravery at each location, and Shane thinks they’ve come a long way since their 3AM walk of shame out of the Sallie House.

Despite his best efforts, Shane hadn’t managed to squeeze any more details out of Ryan about the Talbott house, except that Ryan thought that this would finally be the one to get them the proof they need. Shane hadn’t mentioned that Ryan has believed this about all their locations, and had instead chose to bask in the glow of Ryan’s happiness, soaking some up for himself.

It’s an old habit between them, the well-practiced tennis match of skepticism and belief, but sometimes Shane wants to wrap himself in Ryan’s conviction, feel it against his skin as a tangible reality. He wants to spill his guts for Ryan, all over their shared desks or maybe the floor, and have Ryan inspect him as carefully as he would a case.

Something in Shane’s chest burns for it, the dedication Ryan holds for all these things so unlikely. He has to swallow down the heat in his lungs.

Shane shakes himself out of his thoughts and tries to return to the task of packing. Pensively, he stares down at his bag. He’s packed a flannel and a light jacket, disappointed in the incredibly mild weather forecasted for the weekend. He’s not sure what he expected from Canada in September, but he stares at the heavy coat hanging on the back of his closet door forlornly. He returns to packing.

Shane walks into his bathroom to grab his toiletries bag, only to discover it not under the sink where he knows he left it. Shane sighs and returns to his bedroom. He checks the closet, and then the drawers in the nightstand next to his bed. Nothing.

For a moment, Shane feels swallowed by his own frustration. He feels it bubble under his skin, and he forces himself not to do something rash in response. There’s no solution to these things, except to take them as they come.

Eventually, he finds the toiletries bag under his bed, the contents spilled out randomly around it. He doesn’t care what it means. He picks it all up and shoves it in his overnight bag, and pointedly doesn’t think about when it got moved and by exactly what. He repeats to himself over and over: he doesn’t care.

After a few minutes, Shane finds himself finished packing with nearly an extra half hour of time on his hands. He fiddles briefly with his overnight bag and its contents, arbitrarily rearranging things before shuffling the items all back to their original spots, before sighing and zipping the bag closed. He carries it out into the hallway and places it at the foot of his front door, where it’ll rest until Ryan arrives to drive them to the airport.

Shane frowns at his watch when he sees that Ryan still isn’t due for another several minutes, and he shuffles around his house aimlessly, checking that everything is in order for his departure. When he finds himself searching around his living room for unknown anomalies a second time, he collapses in defeat onto his couch.  He tilts his head back to close his eyes, avoiding focusing on any particular thought. Eventually, Shane senses that the room has changed. 

He waits a beat, and then he hesitantly opens his eyes, expecting Katherine’s lean frame to be sitting across from him. But the chair is empty, and Shane can’t discern any differences in his living room.

He glares hard at the edges of the walls—the spaces where the furniture meets the floor, the insignificant details in the pattern of his couch—searching for any sign of distortion. He catches a shadow in his peripheral vision, but it soon skirts out the room and toward the hallway. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, at least not the ordinary Shane’s come to expect.

Shane rests his head in his hands. He’s losing it, and these spirits are all leading him right up to the edge. He needs sleep, real sleep—deep and without delusion. He needs to open his eyes and expect nothing in front of him except the room itself. He needs to get out of his own head.

When Shane hears Ryan’s obnoxiously loud knock at the door, it comes as a relief.

He opens the door, a tired but genuine smile on his face. Ryan is nearly bouncing on the spot, barely able to contain his excitement. Shane knows from experience that as they draw nearer to the Talbott house, Ryan’s excitement will slowly morph into anxiety.

It’s a process Shane can’t help but to enjoy, if only because he knows nothing at these locations have a chance at harming Ryan. Even the more violent spirits are usually too weak to do more than paw uselessly at he or Ryan, unable to break whatever barrier exists between human and soul.

This doesn’t stop Shane from teasing Ryan about it.

As he grabs his bag, Shane observes, “You’re looking pretty chipper. Not the face I’d expect from you hours before going to, and these are your words, ‘one of the most haunted houses in the world.’”

“I’m not the one going into every ghost-infested location and asking to have my skin peeled off,” Ryan throws back, just as playful. “I think I’ll be fine.”

Shane gives Ryan a disbelieving look, before turning to shut and lock the door behind him. Just through the crack, Shane spots a few of those furtive shadows making their way back down the hallway and away from the door. He considers how they don’t inherently shy away from Ryan as they do most other guests, and he tries not to think too hard on what that could mean.

When Shane spins back around, he makes it clear from his raised eyebrows and slightly upturned lips that he’s still not buying Ryan’s newfound bravery.

Eventually, Ryan cracks under the pressure of Shane’s skepticism and admits, “I stocked back up on holy water.” He says this with a shrug, before giving Shane a mischievous look of his own. He continues, “And besides, if all else fails, I’ve always been confident in my ability to outrun you.”

“I’m like twice your size,” Shane scoffs, gesturing to his long legs to emphasize his point.

“Doesn’t matter. Your gangly clumsiness will be your downfall, and I’ll have my proof when a ghost eats you on camera,” Ryan replies, and his smile only widens. “Imagine the views!”

“A win-win situation,” Shane eventually gives in, letting the sound of Ryan’s laughter wash over him in waves.

It’s in these easy moments that Shane swears he could grab Ryan’s hand, lace their fingers together and know what it means to be content. Using their interlocked hands, he could pull Ryan close to him and feel the heat of Ryan’s body all along his side and down to his core. So close, he could see the smallest flickers of emotions across Ryan’s face; he could cup his cheek. He could lean down ever so close, feel the heat of Ryan’s breath against his own lips.  

He imagines these possibilities stretching out in front of him, a highway he only has to dare to take.

Instead, he hauls his overnight bag up onto his shoulder, and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. Ryan’s laugh follows him as he moves around the car, and Shane straddles the line between enough and desire. 

***

Shane awakens to the shaking of his shoulder and a hot breath puffing against his ear. For a moment, he almost panics, but then remembers where he is. The plane. They must have landed.

Someone is still shaking his shoulder, and Shane blearily opens his eyes.

“Hey man, we’ve touched down. We’re about to disembark,” Ryan whispers softly in his ear, and Shane feels the ghost of his breath across his neck.

He can’t help the way his pulse spikes and his breathing hitches. Ryan feels unnaturally close, and Shane knows he’d only have to tilt his head the smallest amount to bring them face to face. Shane wonders if Ryan’s eyes would look different so near.

Shane remembers Katherine’s dark green gaze in her small, dim basement and then lighter and near hazel in the unreality of his living room nightmare. Something about the comparison unnerves Shane more than he wants to admit, and a heavy sickness takes hold in his chest.

To combat the feeling, Shane sits up quickly, almost colliding with Ryan in the process. He blinks a few times more than necessary, watching his distorted living room flicker in and out of view. He can’t stop the way it leaks into reality, and for a moment, Shane feels the soft cushions of his couch against his back.

Shane squeezes his eyes tight under the guise of rubbing sleep from his vision, and he slumps back in relief when he opens them to find rows and rows of cramped seats in front of him and nothing else.

But Shane can still picture it all perfectly in his head. The same dream again, right down to the teacup and matching saucer. Its swirling flower pattern echoes around Shane’s mind, and he thinks of the hours it must have taken to paint such a detailed bouquet. Shane shakes his head lightly, blinks again. The teacup is gone.

By the time Shane adjusts fully to his awakened state, Ryan is no longer leaning over Shane’s seat, but rather standing so he can pull their few bags from the overhead compartment. Shane stretches obnoxiously, intentionally hitting Ryan in the stomach and laughing at the indignant noise he makes in response. Shane’s so caught up in his amusement—how light it feels in comparison to everything else—that he misses what Ryan says next.

“Huh?” Shane asks, rubbing the back of his head and surreptitiously checking for some kind of bump. He knows it wasn’t real, least of all the fall, but the dream feels damning. Several nights in a row, and he still can’t decide what to make of it. But a part of him feels condemned toward whatever fate it predicts.

“You talk in your sleep,” Ryan repeats, and then adds lightly, “I wonder how much breath I’d save if you’d just start listening to me the first time around.”

For a moment, Shane can only be grateful that there weren’t enough seats for their cameraman Adam to sit with them. He’s somewhere at the front of the plane, and Shane thinks the only thing worse than this revelation would be to receive it with an audience.

He tries to play it off as a joke.

“Oh, you know,” Shane aims for flippancy. “When you have dreams as good as mine, you want to share them. I think I’m a giver at heart.”

Ryan gives him a bizarre look, scrunching his brows and frowning slightly.

“You said the walls were moving. Actually, you said they were closing in,” Ryan finally replies, and Shane hates the slight edge of concern in his voice.

Shane pauses for a moment and considers how to respond, how to get out of this conversation and never revisit it again.

“I don’t remember most of my dreams, Ryan,” he eventually lies, and Shane can tell by the way Ryan looks at him that he isn’t quite convinced.

Ryan drops it anyway, and Shane suppresses a sigh of relief.

They leave the plane in relative silence and meet up with Adam near baggage claim. Shane can tell he notices the slight awkwardness hanging between Ryan and himself, but he doesn’t comment.

As soon as they’re in the rental car, Shane leans his head against the car door and feigns further tiredness. Soon, Shane can feel actual exhaustion tugging at the edge of his mind; these dreams drain him of energy he so desperately needs.

He doesn’t dare fall sleep.

***

The Talbott house is unassuming in both size and structure. Built sometime during the 70s, the building is modern enough to be familiar in its design, but worn-down to the effect to suggests its age. Shane consider the off-beige paint and olive green trim and decides he likes it.

He tells Ryan as much just for his reaction.

“Are you crazy?” Ryan asks, already worked up. He’s fiddling with his camera and shuffling from foot to foot, trying to rid himself of his ever-increasing nervous energy. “You have a death wish. This place is giving me bad vibes from the driveway.”

“You know I don’t believe in that shit,” Shane replies, sliding on his jacket for filming. “You’re gonna have to complain about something more concrete if you want my sympathy.”

Ryan frowns at the house, and Shane watches as he tries to discern something even slightly atypical about its peeling paint or slouching roof.

“It’s... old,” he says lamely. When Shane can only laugh in response, Ryan flips him off before turning back to the house, a pensive frown on his face.

Shane can’t begin to understand it—Ryan’s fear in that which he can’t even be certain exists, but even still, when he steps up next to Ryan to get ready for filming, Shane gives him a sympathetic smile.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. They’re standing close enough that Shane can feel the body heat radiating off Ryan, and Shane stays perfectly still, trying to enjoy the closeness without wanting closer still.

“You think?” Ryan asks, and Shane can’t tell if he’s actually comforted or just humoring Shane’s platitudes.

“Of course,” Shane replies anyway, and he shifts his gaze so that he’s staring at the house too. It looks so small, he realizes, too insignificant for whatever crimes happened in its walls. Still, when he turns back to Ryan to give him another smile, it’s genuine in its warmth. “We’re old pros by now, Ry.”

Ryan returns his smile, and it calms in Shane the bare edge of nerves he didn’t even realize existed. It tightens something barely perceptible in Shane’s chest, but he feels lighter for it.

Still, Shane can’t help teasing Ryan, and right before he walks away, Shane adds, “But… just in case. You better be sure you’re as fast as you say you are.”

Shane watches as Ryan struggles between mock offense and amusement, and eventually he gives Shane an easy look of reproach, replying, “Oh, I know I am,” before stepping ahead of Shane and heading toward the house.

Before Shane follows, he gives the house one last considering look. Shane isn’t like Ryan; he doesn’t consider the mood of a room, and he’s never had a bad feeling that couldn’t be explained by a bloody spirit right in front of him. But the longer he stares the house—its off-beige walls, the green trim—the more grotesque it seems.

Shane tries to shake the feeling, ultimately looking down to follow after Ryan when it won’t quite let up.  

As they’re walking up the porch, Shane turns to Ryan, affecting the air of nonchalance that colors the majority of their on-camera interactions.

“So give me the deets, Ryan,” he starts off, and he can already see Ryan’s exasperated head shake in response. It just encourages Shane further. “I want the Talbott House’s hottest gossip.”  

Ryan refuses to rise to Shane’s bait and instead smiles magnanimously at him, before launching into the history of the house. Shane has always appreciated the manner in which Ryan conveys his stories, framing the idyllic parts of family life against the more chilling murders, and this is no different. Ryan has a knack for storytelling, and he uses all his best tricks for the Talbotts.

Shane isn’t ashamed to admit that the particulars behind the Talbott House’s haunting make his skin crawl. Due to the nature of the crime, the exact story can’t be confirmed, but the most popular theory has Mrs. Talbott drowning her own children in a bathtub. When her husband returns home to find their two kids dead at his wife’s hand, he kills her and then himself using a handgun that, considering all evidence given, Mrs. Talbott likely had no idea existed.

Peppered throughout the story are reports of ghostly activity and firsthand accounts of spirit encounters, but Shane’s mind can’t move away from the violence that brought the Talbotts to their bleak end. Younger than Katherine as spirits, and perhaps more expressive in their agony, Shane can’t help but feel a reluctance toward their eventual meeting.

By the time Ryan finishes, they’re walking through the surprisingly expansive living room, which Shane is relieved to find empty of any of the Talbotts. He’s watched Ryan give the murder speeches in front of the deceased spirits before, and it creates in him a discomfort that Shane finds nearly unbearable.

Given respite from any spirits, Shane tries to ground himself in the reality of the house; the things Ryan will see just as Shane will. For a moment, Shane thinks to imagine that’s all that is here, and he focuses on the taupe walls and matching carpet. It’s all so utterly normal. He scans around the living room, taking in the space between the couch and a bookshelf before asking, “So this is where we’ll be sleeping tonight?”

Ryan glances nervously around, and then to the space Shane gestured toward.

“Yeah, this is us,” Ryan says, trying to joke around his nerves. “Let’s set some of our stuff down, and then we can check out the basement.”

Shane shrugs in response, figuring he’ll come across the Talbotts eventually whether he wants to or not, no matter where in the house he is. “Sounds good to me.”

Ryan leads him towards the stairs, and Shane follows him down the worn, wooden steps.

The basement smells of old, dry must, but the area is free of mold or dirt, and there’s no sign of bugs or rats. A brief glance around the visible space of the basement with his flashlight reveals multiple unfinished sections, with rudimentary wooden boards and plastic dividers standing in for the basic layout. They spread out haphazardly yet intricately, to the point where Shane can’t make out any of the farther basement walls.

After a moment, Ryan futilely flicks the light switch, grinning nervously at Shane when nothing happens.

Shane gives Ryan a look and says, “It’s too early in the night to be this worked up already. Calm down, man.”

“You’re right,” Ryan concedes, exhaling his nerves in one long sigh. “You know how these old houses are. It’s probably just… bad wiring or something.”

Shane opens his mouth to reply, maybe to taunt Ryan in an attempt to actually get him to lighten up, when he sees a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He shifts his weight back, trying to expand his peripheral vision without making as much obvious to Ryan. Eventually, he says, “I think we should split up.”

Ryan doesn’t seem particularly open to the idea. “What the hell, Shane?”

“Just to get a feel for the layout!” Shane hastily adds, before continuing, “then we can come back in here and try contacting all the spooky Talbott ghosts together.”

Shane punctures his words with a cheeky smile, and Ryan makes an unhappy face in response.

“Whatever, man. Just know I hate you.”

Shane widens his smirk at Ryan's words, doing his best to be as obnoxious and otherwise unsuspecting as possible.

Ryan shoots him another displeased look, before walking through one of the plastic dividers that act as doors for the rudimentary basement sections. For a brief moment, Shane shines his light in Ryan’s direction and considers following him in spite of his previous suggestion. 

Instead, he turns toward the division where he saw the shadowy movement and follows one of the Talbott spirits deeper into the basement. 

The section he ends up in has multiple smaller subsections that he ducks through randomly and without thought. As Shane makes his through the maze of the Talbott basement, he considers what he could even do for a dead family wrought in their own violence. It seems deeply personal in a way that makes Shane uncomfortable. Even more so than usual, he feels out of his depth. Shane again considers turning around and sticking to Ryan the entire night, removing the burden of interaction from himself altogether.

Instead, he continues forward. He’s in a small space with several possible exits, and after a brief moment of consideration, he chooses the one farthest left. All these subsections look the same; he’s starting to feel as though he’s going in circles. He’s starting to think he’s wasting his time.  

Shane ducks under another arbitrary plastic divider and comes face to face with Angela Talbott. He releases a quick breath of shock, and then Shane turns off his mic.

Shane’s somewhere close to a foot taller than her, but she stops him in his tracks. She’s dressed in the understated way of the suburban 70s, with loose, beige capris and a light blue polka dot sweater. She looks nearly pristine in death. There’s a perfectly round bullet hole through the center of her forehead.

“Have you seen my children?” Mrs. Talbott asks, a hint of something high and frightened in her voice. She grabs Shane’s arm, and Shane can’t suppress a shiver at her inky touch. Something about her grip feels only half formed. She continues urgently, “Please tell me you’ve seen them.”  

Shane hesitates, and considers all the awful things she could mean by that. Shane isn’t going to lead this woman to her dead children only so she can try and drown them again.

“I’m not—” He’s not sure what he’s going to say, but she cuts him off before he can decide.

“My husband—He's going to hurt them,” she continues, and she’s grabbing both of Shane’s shoulders now. Mrs. Talbott is near tears, begging, “Please tell me where they are. Please.”

Shane’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back. Mrs. Talbott follows him, and they both crash into the banister behind him. Shane watches as she slips carelessly through the wooden frame, and then he looks back to the very solid grip she still holds on his arms. He trembles, completely unnerved.

Closer together, Shane can look directly down on Mrs. Talbott, and the small bullet hole in her forehead only acts as a misleading front for the devastation wrecked on the back of her skull. There’s hair and debris matted in the wound, but there’s no mistaking her exposed cranium and the fragmented bone. He shudders again and feels bile in his throat.

“I don’t know.” Shane is shaking his head, trying to back up farther with nowhere to go. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen them. I don’t know if they’re here.”

“Please, he’s going to hurt them!”

Mrs. Talbott flickers in and out as she begins to sob, and somewhere far off Shane hears a startled yelp that’s unmistakably Ryan’s. He knows Mrs. Talbott can’t hurt Ryan; the emotions she’s expending are enough to drain her fragile existence, but something tightens in his chest anyways. Their separation was his idea, and Shane couldn’t have expected this.

Shane feels around behind him, searching for the plastic divider. When his hand crashes through, he begins edging his way towards it, while Mrs. Talbott clutches onto him, begging for her children.

“You don’t understand!” She cries, and Shane resists the urge to cover his ears at her volume. “He wants to punish me. He’s going to hurt them!”

“I’m sorry,” Shane apologizes, and feels something terrible lodge itself high in his throat. He repeats it endlessly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. Please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He reaches the plastic divider. He falls through backwards without hesitation, crash landing on the floor.

Mrs. Talbott doesn’t follow him.

Shane sits on the cold concrete for a moment, hanging his head between his knees. He counts his breaths and tries to keep from throwing up or passing out or both.

He doesn’t hear her crying anymore, but it reverberates around his head and grows increasingly louder until his ears are ringing with it. He can’t shake the look on her face, the terrible fear in her voice. He thinks about the pristine bullet hole in her head—its awful exit wound—and Shane knows Mrs. Talbott doesn’t realize she’s dead. She doesn’t realize her kids are dead. 

She’s spent the last 40 years futilely trying to protect her kids while the world blamed her for their deaths. And Shane knows she’ll be stuck in this pattern of desperation and anguish until she fades out completely. There’s nothing he can do for her.

The thought brings him closer to vomiting than he wants to admit. She just looked so afraid, petrified for the sake of her children. 

And there’s nothing he can do for her.

Shane counts his breaths. He rubs the sweat off his forehead, and then stares at his hands until they’re not shaking. He stands up, turns his mic back on, and heads in the direction he heard Ryan’s yell.  

Chapter Text

As Shane navigates though the complex basement layout, he gets the uneasy feeling that he’s only leading himself deeper into the basement and farther from Ryan. Most of the subsections are similar in size and shape, with several plastic dividers leading in and out of identical looking sections. He can’t be sure exactly how many divisions compromise the entire basement, only that Ryan mentioned the area expanded under the entire first floor of the house. 

Each new section offers the relief of Ryan and the agony of Mrs. Talbott in equal measures, and Shane forces himself not to hesitate each time he passes from one area to the next. It’s not something that requires even the smallest amount of debate in Shane’s mind; he confronts the horrors of these spirits again and again at the barest hopes of closeness. Even now—even as Shane continues to force his hands to steady, even as Mrs. Talbott’s begging echoes in his mind clearly and endlessly—this is no different.

Eventually, as some fucked-up act of déjà vu, Shane stoops to pass through one of the plastic dividers, only to run bodily into Ryan. The other man is breathing high and heavy, and Shane instinctively grabs Ryan’s shoulders as they fall back and hit another wooden partition.  

One look at Ryan’s face and Shane can tell he’s edging towards panic outside even Shane’s ability to settle, and he rubs Ryan’s shoulders thoughtlessly as comfort. Shane feels the way Ryan relaxes minutely at the touch, and it calms his own racing pulse in response.

Still, Ryan eyes are shining with fear, pupils widened with his terror, and Shane tries not to think of how Mrs. Talbott’s tormented wails must have sounded to Ryan. It’s pitiful, the way Ryan shakes in his arms, and sometimes Shane thinks he must have it worse through virtue of knowing nothing at all.

Very quickly, things have all managed to fall out of Shane’s control.

“Shane, what the fuck is going on?” Ryan hisses, and he pushes himself closer toward Shane in an effort to get farther away from whatever it is he’s running from. He slips himself out from under Shane’s arms, only to press fully against his side and wave his flashlight frantically into the darkness before them. “What the fuck was that… crying? Screaming?” 

“I don’t—It’s not—” Shane stutters over his words for a moment, and he admits to himself that he’s maybe not as collected from his encounter with Mrs. Talbott as he thought. He searches desperately for something to comfort Ryan with. “There’s nothing in here that can hurt us.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Ryan again jerks his flashlight around, revealing nothing in the small subsection they’re huddled together in. He buries himself closer into Shane’s side, and Shane can’t deny the way the touch burns. In any other situation, Shane might feel elated. Ryan is so solid in the tactile ways he expresses himself, and Shane finds it so easy to get lost in. Ryan is so undeniably real. It’s nothing like the oily half-touch of Mrs. Talbott, and the comparison is all it takes to shatter the illusion.  

This isn’t about him, and it’s all the wrong context—the touch made ugly by the Mrs. Tablott’s screams and her disturbing head wound. The knowledge ignites in Shane in such an insidious way, eating at his insides until Shane feels hollow with the truth.  These situations are the ones where Shane is allowed closest, not through Ryan’s desire for contact but through his fear of the unknown.

There’s so much about Shane that Ryan will never know.

“I don’t know, Ryan!” Shane can’t help his rising agitation. Ryan doesn’t understand, and there’s nothing Shane can do to make him. Not the way he needs to. “But it’s not a ghost! You heard something, and your mind’s playing tricks on you, and you overreacted again. It’s nothing new.”

The words are out of Shane’s mouth, and he knows he’s taken it too far. Not in the words themselves, but the very manner in which he said them. He’s condemned Ryan, and in doing so, created his own punishment.

Ryan stiffens besides him, before removing himself from Shane’s side completely. Despite his fear, he begins walking forward, pointedly not looking back at Shane. Flatly, he says, “Let’s just check upstairs.”

Shane tastes regret bitterly on his tongue, and he considers calling out to Ryan. Maybe to apologize or maybe to grab his hand and pull him closer. Shane’s constantly aware of the distance between them, but he feels it acutely now, widened perceptibly by his own actions. 

But still, he follows Ryan.

In the living room, they meet back up with Adam; Shane notices he once again picks up on some of their latent tension, and thankfully again chooses not to comment. Instead, he talks logistics of standing cams and remaining time. Somehow, they spent far longer in that in shadowy basement than either of them realized.

Ryan eventually suggests sit-down secessions in the upstairs bedrooms with each of them taking their own room. Both rooms are rife with supposed paranormal experiences, and covering them separately will allow them to make up for lost time wandering around the basement. It seems perfectly logical. 

But Shane also thinks of the necessary distance that will create between the two of them, and he knows Ryan is too smart not to have considered it himself. It makes Shane’s head swim, dizzying him in how easily things seem to be falling apart in front of him.

For a moment, the room looks distorted, misplaced, and Shane finds himself trapped in the wrongness between unpleasant reality and his repeat nightmare. Such a grotesque way for the two to merge, and Shane becomes lost in it. He misses Ryan’s next words. 

“I’m—” Shane starts, and he wants his next word to be sorry. Instead, he asks, “What?” 

Shane doesn’t miss the way Ryan discreetly glares at him for his absentmindedness, and it’s stark compared to his light joking from the plane. The room shifts again, and Shane feels almost fully back in that nightmare, as if he’s drifting, lost at sea.  

But Shane also notices the way Ryan hides his anger and hurt for the camera, still dedicated to doing a proper investigation regardless of his current feelings toward Shane. If anything, it makes Shane feel even guiltier, but it grounds him in the moment. He briefly closes his eyes and shakes his head minutely. The room returns to normal.

After a slight pause in which Shane watches Ryan fully compose himself, the shift so subtle as to be nearly phantom in its change, Ryan repeats, “I think I’m gonna take the kids’ room if you wanna set up in the parents’.”

“I—Sure,” Shane stumbles, before he forces himself to get it together. He puts on a grin for Ryan, aiming for teasing, but it feels elastic and false. “You know me. I don’t give a shit. I’ll harass a ghost anywhere.”

Ryan smiles in response, but Shane can tell it’s empty, existing merely for the camera. The specific painful weight Shane’s come to associate with Ryan is lodged deep in his chest, and it only intensifies when Shane searches out Ryan’s eyes only to have him turn away.

Shane feels heavy, tired; he wants to rest his head, if only for a moment. Collect himself in the privacy of his own mind.

But the desperation in Mrs. Talbott to protect her children is seared in Shane’s head, her screams looping and mingling with Shane’s own turmoil. He doesn’t know if confronting Ryan or not is the selfish choice anymore, and he wonders what he owes to a broken family stifled from existence before he was even born.

Shane tries to shake himself out of his circling thoughts, and he realizes Ryan has already begun to climb the stairs to the Talbott home’s second floor.

Shane feels stuck between two paths hidden in their destinations, and choosing one could cut him off from the possibility of the other forever. But he needs to help these children, and he needs Ryan to look at him, and Shane’s certain if he gets one, he’ll have to give up the other. 

Shane eyes glance briefly back toward the basement, and then he follows Ryan up the stairs.

They stop before the first door on their right, and Shane painfully allows his and Ryan’s paths to divulge at the entrance to the parents’ old bedroom. There’s nothing permanent in such an insignificant separation, but still, as Shane hears Ryan’s footfalls, down the hall and away from Shane, he can’t stop himself from looking back. He glances down the darkened hall, struck by something worse than desperation, but Ryan has already disappeared into the other room. Something about it feel irreparably final.

Shane steps back into the parents' room, trying to keep the sense of loss he feels from showing so acutely on his face. He almost laughs at himself; he feels so pathetic. It’s almost as though he’s given up a limb, but Ryan is just down the hall, a distance Shane could cross if only he was willing. 

Adam lags behind momentarily, helping Shane set up a standing camera and then leaving to do the same for Ryan. He pauses briefly at the door, giving Shane a concerned look but remaining silent. Shane gives his a false smile in response, but whatever Adam’s looking for, he doesn’t look convinced.  

When he leaves, Shane sags down onto the trunk sitting at the end of the master bed, all but groaning in his frustration. He considers the camera placed directly in front of him, and he straightens slightly, attempting to look less defeated. 

He glances around the room, a part of him expecting the Talbott husband to appear before him, drawn merely by Shane’s presence. Shane knows he carries ghosts like smoke with a flame. They seem inseparable.

Instead, he finds an ornate wooden dresser that matches the bedpost and the two night stands. There’s also a large vanity near the corner of the room, and Shane only needs to turn his head to find his own reflection staring back. He thinks he looks tired. 

But the room stays still, quiet except for Shane’s breathing. No apparitions appear to force their horrors onto Shane, and he begins to actually relax. At the very least, Shane thinks he should put on some sort of show for the camera. 

“Ryan is convinced this place is haunted as hell,” Shane talks to room, trying to find the normal timber and pitch of his own voice. He still feels strung out, wrung through an emotional coil he couldn’t have expected or prepared for. But this—this give and take between nonchalance and horror—Shane feels the familiarity of it down to his bones. It feels like a second breath. “But I’m not convinced. You’ll have to do more than flutter the wind to get anything out of me.”

Shane almost finds it calming, talking to an empty room. He knows taunting could eventually bring out Mr. Talbott, especially given his violent nature, but Shane has no sympathy for vicious souls. A part of him feels vindictive on Mrs. Talbott’s behalf.

“Come on!” Shane nearly yells, and he smirks at the camera as though it’s all in good fun. But his skin feels overheated, and he’s not sure if what he wants is justice or for Ryan to hear him and come running. His anger feels selfish. “Show yourself! Toss me across the room! Throttle me! Anything! I’m waiting!”

Despite its elaborate furniture, the room gives off the impression of being barren, for the longer Shane speaks—the more ridiculous his insults become—the more apparent the absence of Mr. Talbott or any other spirit becomes. 

Shane sighs in frustration, before glancing around the room one last time. He catches his own reflection in the large vanity mirror again, and he’s taken aback by the paleness in his own face, like a specter alighting his own countenance. He quickly looks away.

He then stands and walks swiftly over to the camera to turn it off. Although the room remains unchanged, Shane allows for one more spiteful comment before he goes to find Ryan.

“Guess you’re just a coward.” The words are spoken softly, out of character for Shane’s usual taunts. They ring with an air of honesty, so unlike every derision Shane speaks for show. 

The heated anger has receded, but there’s still a spark of that vindictiveness under it all. Mrs. Talbott is not soon likely to leave his mind, and Shane feels restless to see the face of who causes her so much agony. It’s not something he’ll ever understand—it’s not even something he wants to—but Shane thinks if he sees Mr. Talbott, looks into the remains of his visage, he’ll find closure for the cries that haunt him.

Instead, when his words again find no response, he begins to break down the camera and its stand, returning the pieces to their bag. It’s methodical and almost mindless, and Shane feels like he’s working his way toward the end of a much longer night than he anticipated.

After he finished packing the camera, Shane picks up the small bag and leaves the room, entering the hallway. Ryan forewent turning on the lights, knowing it would add to the ambiance of the episode, and it creates an illusion in the hall, as though it doesn’t end.

Shane thinks to the hallway of his nightmare, its own darkened walls. But that’s a different sort of trick, and Shane shakes it from his thoughts. 

Despite the deception, the hallway isn’t long, and Shane finds himself nearing the outside of the other bedroom in only a few steps. But he hovers for a moment a step back from the entrance, nervous in a way that has nothing to do with the Talbotts or their forsaken spirits. Shane can’t bear to walk into that room only to have Ryan turn away from him once again.

But Shane hears only silence on the other side of the door, and it makes him curious enough to forego his anxiety. He finds Ryan sitting on a rocking chair in the corner of the room, silent and unblinking as he stares at a small inflatable ball, the kind that has to be blown up every few days as it naturally loses air. 

Next to the ball are two small children, soaked to the bone and watching it curiously themselves. It’s unnerving, how nearly alive they look, with only the remnants of their deaths, dripping off their body in tiny translucent drops but never reaching the floor, suggesting their ghostly state. For a moment, Shane takes Ryan’s concentration to mean something more than it does, and his chest tightens almost to the point of suffocation. 

But before Shane can compose himself enough to say anything, Ryan speaks up, softer than his usual fear or exuberance, a near whisper, saying, “It moves.”

Shane swallows his disappointment, and he turns from Ryan to the ball as if this could hold his interest, as if it matters at all. “The ball?”

“Across the floor,” Ryan continues, as though Shane hadn’t spoken at all. “Just wait.”

Shane stares at the ball and does his best to appear as though he’s looking directly at the toy, rather than the space around it. But Shane can’t help but notice that whatever comfort the children felt in Ryan’s presence has been lost with his arrival, as their eyes shift between Shane and the ball almost imperceptibly, before they ultimately back away from it completely.

Shane approaches the ball, and he crouches next to it without touching it. He addresses his question toward Ryan, but his words are aimed at the children, as they shuffle even farther toward the opposite corner of the room. 

“You think the Talbott kids were playing with it? Moving it around?” Shane asks, pitching his voice so that Ryan knows this isn’t stemming from anything but curiosity. There’s no room for taunts between them now, not with the tension that fills the air, almost palatable in its expansion.

“Maybe,” Ryan says, and he still sound unenthusiastic. When Shane looks back, there’s something in Ryan’s eyes. Something almost wild, barely concealed as though Ryan’s putting everything he has into suppressing it. Ryan continues, “Or maybe there’s a draft in the room. You know how these old houses are.”

It’s the same sentiment as earlier, but the tone is all wrong. There’s nothing nervous behind it, no undercurrent of excitement at the possibly of something other. Shane sighs, and the movement is draining. This whole night has been draining.

“Ryan—” Shane begins, but Ryan cuts him off effortlessly.

“I think we should go back downstairs. We can set up the cameras for the night, and Adam’ll come pick us up in the morning.”

There’s something in Ryan’s tone that stops Shane from arguing, from pressing Ryan back into the chair and forcing him to look at Shane. 

He’d say, I believe you, all of it, but I need more than just belief from you. And then, That’s why this is so hard for us. It’s always going to be hard for us.

But Shane doesn’t; he never does. It’s not something he has to justify to himself anymore, these risks that Shane never considers even the possibility of taking. It’s just fantasy, Shane’s guiltiest pleasure.  

Ryan begins packing his own camera, carefully and deliberately so that it belies the slight tremble Shane can see in his hand. Shane watches silently, not commenting as Ryan turns the lens multiple times, unable to get the piece to fit in the case despite the familiarity of the actions.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shane watches the Talbott children, doesn’t know what to make of their silence, so different from the cries of their mother. Do they know the agony she suffers over them? Is it even something they could comprehend?

So often Shane never has answers for these things. He knows it’s something he has to let go, otherwise it holds him down, suffocating him, driving him crazier than he already feels.

But still, Shane keeps his attention on the children, and there’s some relief in noticing that they’re not scared; they don’t appear to be in pain. They just look like… children, wary of some strangers, and Shane thinks, given everything, maybe this is their best possible outcome.

He wants to find Mrs. Talbott again, give her this one relief. He’s not sure it would matter; she’s been stuck in the same loop so long. Still, there’s so little he can do here. It’s so insignificant, but it’s all he has.

Once Ryan finishes packing, they leave the room. Before stepping through the door, Shane casts one last look toward the children. Shane has to stifle a gasp when, right as he turns to look away, the boy looks back. His eyes are clear, free of the burden of his reality.

Shane lets Ryan guide him downstairs, remaining silent as he tries to ignore the increasing strain in the air between them. Shane doesn’t believe in curses, knows there’s nothing more to this house than the walls that compose it, but he hates the feeling of repeated history, as if these very walls will break he and Ryan apart is it did the Talbotts. 

When they reach the space where they left their sleeping bags, Shane watches as Ryan contemplates the floor in front of him. Sometimes Ryan feels so easy to read, as though he’s written everything about himself on his hands and across his heart in plain writing, and one only has to look to understand his deepest thoughts. 

And it makes Shane nervous, the way he can see two options in front of Ryan that he appears to deliberate over carefully. There’s something in his expression that almost suggests regret.

“Maybe we should sleep in separate rooms,” Ryan finally says, and Shane feels as though he’s been struck in the face. “For evidence, or whatever. We can set up both cameras.”

“I—What?” Shane forces himself to let out a slow breath. It comes out stuttering, and Shane shoves his hands into his jacket pocket. The relief of the Talbott children is gone. Shane is soaked in cold dread. “Ryan, no. Listen.”

Ryan finally turns to look at Shane, but he gets the impression as though he’s being looked through. As if Ryan sees Shane and does his best to comprehend none of him. It’s a horrid sort of irony, and it flares the pain in Shane’s chest to a point he almost can’t bear.

“Hey,” Shane says, trying to focus Ryan, to make him realize the gravity this situation now holds. Shane feels like he’s at the edge of it all, and he isn’t ready to fall. “Ryan, come on. This isn’t—We’re in this together. You know that, right?”

Something in Ryan seems to deflate at Shane’s words, and his shoulders sag from their previously tense posture. Ryan doesn’t respond immediately, and when he does, he seems to have shifted topics completely. 

 “I don’t like it here, Shane. At all. There’s something… going on. More than usual,” Ryan finally gets out, rubbing his arms in self-comfort as he speaks. Shane wants to reach out, place his own hands over Ryan’s, aid in Ryan’s comfort as he so often needs. He doesn’t. When Ryan’s eyes finally return to his, Shane knows Ryan’s about to confess something that’s hard for him to say, even if he won’t admit as much. Ryan continues, “And I know you don’t care about this shit, but I do! I know this doesn’t…. mean anything to you, and it bores you sometimes… but I want this to mean something. I want you to care. Even if it—even if you don’t—can’t care the way I do.”

There’s something Ryan isn’t saying, as though he’s only worked his way around his point, circling it in red ink but refusing to read it aloud. Shane doesn’t know what to make of Ryan’s ultimate evasion, the way his voice shakes as if Ryan’s on some kind of edge too.

Maybe they stand on this cliff together. It’s almost a comforting thought.

“I—” Shane begins, and doesn’t know how to continue. He’s knows this is his opportunity, laid out in front of him as the best one he’s going to get. But he knows he’s a coward, too. At least with this. He can’t betray himself for anything less than absolute proof. “Ryan…”

Ryan stares at him expectantly, and Shane can’t confess it all. But there are some truths that will belong to Ryan despite any attempts on Shane’s part to hide them. He steps forward toward Ryan, ignoring the slight tremble in his hand as he goes to place it delicately against Ryan’s shoulder. This is all he will allow himself.

“You can’t honestly think this means nothing to me,” Shane finally continues. The words are hard to get out, harder than he expected. It’s the most brutal sort of honesty, but Shane knows it needs to be said. If not for Ryan, then for himself; he has other truths, Shane reminds himself, more than his oldest one and just as important. “That this doesn’t matter to me. Just because I can’t—don’t believe the way you do. That—it doesn’t make this not important. We’re what makes this important. More than anything. Us. That’s always gonna matter, Ry. Skeptics or believers, ghosts or not.”

Ryan’s eyes finally soften, and the distance in his posture somehow lessens. It feels like they’ve taken a step back closer together, maybe even closer than where they started. Still, Shane can’t deny the slight edge of disappointment buried under Ryan’s relief, as though Shane answered correctly but not enough, acknowledging Ryan’s unvoiced confession but leaving it unaddressed himself.

But when Ryan finally speaks, it’s lighter than he’s been since the basement, perhaps the barest trace of humor evident under clear exhaustion. It’s closer to something Shane recognizes, and he moves back from his own edge, that unknown precipice, unsure if he wants Ryan to move back too.

“I think we should just go to bed. It’s been a longer night than either of us expected,” Ryan decides, grasping his sleeping bag and laying it across the floor. Shane sags in relief when Ryan makes no efforts to take it to another room.

It appears to be an actual concession against their strange tension, and something eases in Shane as he spreads his own sleeping bag near Ryan’s, close enough for comfort, but far enough not to mean anything.

When they’ve both settled in for the night, Shane is sprawled out on his stomach, while Ryan is rolled on his side away from Shane, attempting to shield him from the light of his phone. It’s a nice sentiment, and Shane uses it for selfish reasons, stretching out his hand in the space between them. He inches his fingers forward until they’re only a minuscule distance from Ryan, not touching but close enough that Shane can feel the ever-present heat that Ryan gives off, the smallest instance of proof that Shane uses to cling to reality.

He closes his eyes and, against his own efforts, falls asleep almost immediately.

***

When Shane becomes aware of himself again, the first thing he notices is the tea cup and saucer sitting on his coffee table, conspicuously absent of their owner. The seat across from him is empty, and an uneasy feeling begins to worm its way into Shane’s chest—something is wrong.

He shifts his focus from the teacup and realizes the distortion of his living room has grown worse—the angles sharper, the gaps between right and malformed harsher than before. The emptiness that had overtaken his hall has grown, creeping closer to the inner reality of the room.

The uneasiness in his chest grows stronger, and his eyes drift back to the teacup, its glaring solitude somehow worst of all.

A high pitched noise begins to fill the room, a slight squeaking in two tones. There isn’t any menace behind the noise, but it sets Shane’s teeth on edge regardless. He doesn’t know how to respond to the unfamiliar change that marks this new dream; this isn’t the script he’s been forced to learn.

Shane glances around a second time, eventually tilting his head to look at the floor behind his couch.

The two Talbott children sit together, a red firetruck between them. Shane can’t remember if he saw the toy during his brief time in the children’s bedroom, or if it’s a figment of the dream, just as the teacup is. The two children push the firetruck back and forth between them, and Shane realize the two-toned squeak comes from the plastic tires of the toy; it’s probably older than it looks.

“Where’s Katherine?” Shane asks, and something in him dreads the answer. But neither of the children look up, and they remain focused on the firetruck in front of them. It moves back and forth across his carpet, the repetition colliding jaggedly with the distortion of the room. Shane stares for a long moment, and he begins to feel dizzy. The impossible juxtaposition is almost painful to try to comprehend. 

“Michael,” Shane eventually says, remembering the little boy’s name. Michael tilts his head in response and finally turns to look at Shane. Water rolls down his forehead and drips off his chin, and it’s almost mundane. Shane tries not to think about the circumstances of its existence. Shane repeats, “Michael, where’s Katherine?”

Michael turns to look at Shane fully, staring at him placidly. His eyes are as clear as before, empty of any discernible emotion, even Katherine’s distant politeness.

“Gone,” Michael eventually replies. Although the word is spoken softly, it fills the between them immediately, louder in the shrinking space of the living room than Shane expects.

“What do you mean? Gone? Where?” Shane feels almost frantic, and he knows he has no right to the emotion. He’s spent the last several nights screaming at Katherine to leave.

Michael sighs, and it sounds too weary for such a young age. He’s already returned back to his firetruck, whispering things to his sister that Shane can’t seem to make out. The words drift off before they can reach Shane, and what he does catch sounds closer to static. 

Still, Michael pauses in his attention for a moment. He doesn’t turn back to Shane, but Shane thinks he can sense the disappointed expression, too mature for a child’s face, regardless.

“This isn’t real, Shane,” Michael replies, a reversal of all Shane’s previous nightmares. “You know this.”

Shane does. He does, but he still needs to ask. “And what about Ryan?”

“Ryan,” the sister, Amanda, finally speaks up. “He doesn’t see us.”

“No,” Shane agrees, and he swallows something heavy. “He doesn’t.”

“Pretty soon he won’t see you either,” Amanda continues, unconcerned at Shane’s sharp intake of breath. “You’re fading, Shane. You’re disappearing.”

“Soon you’ll be a shadow on the wall,” Michael finishes.

Shane feels panicked, and he notices the walls have begun to move again, closing in more rapidly than they ever did before. He looks down at his hands and they appear translucent, and he knows if the walls catch him then he’ll be stuck, forever a shadow like the lost figures of his apartment.

Michael and Amanda appeared unbothered, and they return their focus entirely back to their bright red firetruck. The awful squeaking noise continues, and only seems to get louder as the walls draw closer.

Shane grasps onto the fabric of his couch, and he thinks he’s calling for Ryan but he can’t be sure. He can’t be sure of anything.

Everything is closing in at once, and Michael turns to give him one last look.

“End it, Shane,” he says, his voice almost preternaturally empty. “Just wake up.”

But the walls continue to move inward, and Shane feels like he’s suffocating. Something feels like it’s shaking Shane, rocking him back and forth in this endless nightmare. He thinks he’s choking, and the shaking grows worse.

He hears his name.

“Shane. Shane! Come on, Shane. Wake up! Shane. Wake up!”

Shane’s eyes snap open, and he finds he’s staring into Ryan’s panicked gaze.

“Shane,” Ryan repeats again. “Something—Something’s going on. We need to—”

His words are cut off as a vase flies only inches above his head, shattering into the wall behind them.

Shane eyes widen in shock, and he turns toward the direction the vase came from. The ghostly visage of Jackson Talbott stands at the end of living room, near the shelf where the vase once resided. He’s around Shane’s height and probably twice as broad. Half his skull is missing, blown out by the same gun he used to murder Mrs. Talbott. There’s none of the pristine of his wife or the calm of children located in his presence.

He looks wrecked, furious. He looks unmistakably dead and completely unaware of it. Shane couldn’t give less of a fuck. For all Shane cares, Jackson Talbott should rot.

As though sensing Shane’s thoughts, or perhaps on a loop of mindless anger, Mr. Talbott picks up a book from the same shelf as the vase, and it sails across the room toward them, missing by an even smaller distance than before. It dents the wall at the far end of the living room.   

This isn’t something Shane could have accounted for. 

“Ryan,” Shane says, before grabbing Ryan’s hand and pulling them both up. “We need to leave. Right now.”

Ryan doesn’t immediately move at Shane’s words, and he looks somewhere between shocked and terrified, staring at the cavity where the book hit the wall.

“Ryan!” Shane repeats, tugging on Ryan to force him to follow Shane. “Come on!”

Another unknown item soars over their heads, and Shane ducks the two of them behind a couch. The door leading to the first floor hallway is on the other side of the room, and Shane isn’t sure how he can guide Ryan safely across without risking the danger of Mr. Talbott’s attention.

Shane peaks his head over the edge of the couch, notices the seething Talbott father is unsure where to direct his wrath without a definitive target before him. Shane considers how to use this, thinks that maybe he can convince Ryan to run from the room while Shane distracts Mr. Talbott.  

Ryan is plastered against Shane’s side, shaking minutely but otherwise appearing calmer than Shane could hope to expect. He again checks over the edge of the couch, and Shane curses lightly as he watches another item sail across the room and hit the far wall. Mr. Talbott isn’t losing energy like he should be.

“Shane…” Ryan begins, and there’s a tremor in his voice that Shane feels compelled to smooth, to fix instantly in this moment. But Ryan’s next words turn him to ice. “You can see it, can’t you? The ghost. You know what’s going on.”

“Ryan—I,” Shane stumbles, before he again notices Ryan’s trembling frame. There’s raw fear in his eyes. It’s not directed at Shane, but Shane can protect Ryan from this. He can keep Ryan safe. “Ryan, I need you to trust me. I need you to do as I say.”

“Tell me the fucking truth, Shane!” Ryan almost yells, and Shane clamps a hand over his mouth instinctively. 

“You’re gonna catch his attention. Be quiet!” Shane whispers harshly, only removing his hand from Ryan’s mouth once he’s nodded in response. “I’ll… explain everything, alright? All of it. But we have to get out of here.” 

Ryan nods again, even though there’s nothing keeping him from speaking. He appears almost shocked beyond speech itself. Shane thinks, maybe more than anything, Ryan didn’t expect Shane's confirmation. Not of something like this. 

“Okay,” Shane says, and then he repeats, “Okay. Ryan, I need you to leave the house, and I’m gonna tell you how to get out. But you’re gonna have to go alone.” 

“What the fuck, Shane?” Ryan demands. “You want me to fucking leave you here?”

“I just… I have to do something. But you need to get out of here. I don’t… I’m not sure if I can protect you from him,” Shane elaborates, suddenly feeling as though he’s said too much.

Ryan gives Shane a look of disbelief, almost near disgust.   

“You stupid, goddamn asshole! You said it yourself: We’re in the shit together,” Ryan asserts, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. For a moment, Shane feels struck by the statement, that maybe Ryan is as bound to Shane as Shane is to Ryan. But Ryan continues, “Now… what exactly do we need to do?”

“We need to get to the basement,” Shane says immediately, and he knows he’s being stupid. Unreasonable. He knows he shouldn’t prioritize this, especially if Ryan is unwilling to let him do it alone.

But Ryan, for all his usual complaining and his obvious terror, only replies, “Okay. Let’s go.”

Shane considers the living room layout, before motioning for Ryan to follow him as he crawls behind the length of the couch. It’s a risk no matter how they do it, and Shane decides their best chance is to run for it and hope Mr. Tablott’s aim remains shoddy. 

“Okay, on my word, we run,” Shane says, and he takes a deep breath. Ryan is staring at him, and it’s more determined than afraid. It looks like trust, and Shane isn't sure he deserves that right now. Shane inhales deeply again. “Alright, go.”

He and Ryan both shoot up, and somehow Shane refrains from sparing a glance in Mr. Talbott’s direction. He feels something rush pass his head, barely missing, before it shatters against the opposite wall.

“Oh shit,” Ryan voice comes out as high squeak, but it’s near, and he doesn’t sound hurt. Another unknown item crashes against the wall behind them, and Shane swears it’s closer than before.

They make it to the stairwell, and Shane hurdles himself down with Ryan close on his heels. 

“I just want you to know,” Ryan begins, his voice closer to a normal pitch as they take the stairs two at a time. Shane doesn’t think Mr. Talbott will follow them, but he doesn’t want to take the chance anyway. “That however calm I might seem right now, like if I seem even the least bit calm, I’m definitely one hundred percent not.”

A burst of air rushes past Shane’s lips, not light enough to be considered a laugh. “That’s fair.” 

“And I want to get the fuck out of this house.”

Shane doesn’t reply, but something in him smirks at the sentiment, even if nothing about this is worth a smile. It’s the same words as always, but there’s real heat behind them now. Ryan’s fear validated, and Shane can’t help but consider how it’s pushed them together.

His oldest secret, and he’s been forced to jump. Unknowingly, and unprepared, Ryan’s jumped with him.

“Okay,” Shane says, forcing himself to focus. He repeats. “Okay, we need to find Mrs. Tablott.”

“What?”

“That crying you heard earlier? That’s her. She’s down here,” Shane tries to explain as succinctly as possible. “She didn’t kill her kids; her husband did. She needs to know they’re okay.” 

“They’re dead,” Ryan reminds Shane, as if he could ever forget. Then something in Ryan’s head clicks, and he look suddenly close to furious. “You fucking asshole! You called me crazy, but you knew exactly what the hell I was talking about, didn’t you? What the fuck?”

“We don’t have time for this!” Shane nearly yells, before ducking under a plastic divider and motioning for Ryan to follow. “I told you I would explain. Later. Now come on.”

He doesn't look happy, but Ryan quiets himself and follows Shane as he retraces his steps from earlier. Shane navigates through the maze of the basement haphazardly, feeling as though he’s living this night on repeat. To the basement. Mrs. Talbott. Back upstairs. Fight with Ryan. Back to the basement.

Again and again, over and over. 

Eventually, Shane ducks under a divider only to find Mrs. Talbott seated on the floor, her perfect calm an almost violent juxtaposition against her earlier wailing. She’s staring off at a wall, almost unseeing in her stillness. 

Shane spares a brief glance in Ryan’s direction, and he can see that Ryan feels the change in the room, even if he’s unable to distinguish it with his eyes.

“She’s here, isn’t she?” Ryan asks, a noticeable tremble entering his voice. “It’s cold.”

“Yeah,” Shane replies, and his voice has suddenly gone quiet, out of deference to the unspoken somber of the circumstance. 

Mrs. Talbott’s eyes snap up to meet his.

“My children…” She trails off, before eventually settling her gaze back on the opposite wall. Another phase in her endless cycle, and it hits Shane almost worse than before. She sounds so defeated.

Shane crouches before her, tries to ignore the very obvious holes Ryan’s stare digs into his back. He suddenly feels self-conscious, and he’s unsure if he can do this with Ryan in the room.

“I—” He pauses to collect himself, before he levels his eyes with Mrs. Talbott’s, waiting for a sign of recognition in her vacant stare. It almost reminds Shane of Katherine, but he doesn't want to think about that, can't separate their only meeting from her phantom appearances in his dreams. And then her disappearance, all the more painful for its falseness. Nothing of that living room was room, but it still sits heavy like failure in Shane's chest. 

Lost in thought, Shane’s own gaze wanders upwards, and he can’t stop himself from staring at the bullet hole in Mrs. Talbott's head. Perfectly round, as presentable as the rest of her.

“Please,” Mrs. Talbott whispers, and she finally locks eyes with Shane. Any pain she refrains from voicing his evident in her gaze, and Shane forces himself not to look away.

This is all he can do to help.

“I found your children, Mrs. Talbott,” he says, and the words feel too immense for the small, artificial room. Shane hears Ryan gasp behind him, but he ignores it. He places a hand on her shoulder, and the touch is just as disquieting as before. Somewhere between reality and a shadow. “They’re not in pain. They’re upstairs, playing together in their room. Waiting for you.”

Mrs. Talbott makes a choked noise, a mix of horror and relief. Ryan lets out another shocked breath behind him, and Shane thinks maybe he heard her too.

“My husband…” Mrs. Talbott trails off, still unable to finish her thoughts.

“He’s in the living room. You have to face him,” Shane tells her, and he hates himself when he recognizes the fear in her expression. “You have to get to your children.”

Mrs. Talbott nods in response, and Shane backs away from her as she begins to stand. He watches quietly as she walks toward the false entrance of the room, drifting through it, unconcerned by the solid structure.

After she disappears, Shane lets out an exhausted sigh. Then, he turns to Ryan.

“It’s time to leave.”

“What?” Ryan sounds incredulous, almost angry. “That’s it? We make her confront her abusive husband and then we leave her?”

“What’s he gonna do, Ryan? Kill her again?” Shane knows he’s being cruel, but it isn’t Ryan’s place to criticize him here. Ryan shouldn’t even know, not like this. “This is the one chance she has of moving on. This is the one chance her children have of moving on. It’s all we can do.”

“It’s not enough,” Ryan continues to argue, taking a step closer to Shane and placing an accusing hand against his chest.

“It’s never enough!” Shane finally explodes, pushing Ryan away from him. “Don’t you get it! It’s been forty fucking years for her, Ryan! What the hell do you think we can do in one night? How do you think we fix this? Any of this?”

His words silence Ryan, and he steps farther back from Shane on his own vocation. His shoulders sag, and the defeat in his posture evaporates any victory Shane feels in being right.

Shane sighs and resists the urge to apologize.

“Let’s just get out of here,” he finally says. Ryan doesn’t reply, but he follows Shane as he begins to navigate his way back to the basement stairs. They walk in bruised silence, and Ryan’s chill never leaves the air.

Ryan hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, but Shane nods his in head in encouragement, almost certain they’ll find something far different from the chaos they left behind. Still, they take the stairs slowly, close together and nearly touching.

As Shane suspected, the living room is a different scene than the one they left only minutes before. More items are strewn or broken across the floor, but somehow both their cameras have been left unharmed. Shane motions for Ryan to follow him, and they both hastily collect their equipment in silence. 

Standing near the stairs leading to the second floor are Mrs. Talbott and her husband. There’s a near vulnerability on Mr. Talbott’s face, something almost close to regret. But Mrs. Talbott appears unwavering, her expression a hard line of pain and righteous fury. They’re not speaking, but as Shane quietly flees the living room and into the hallway, he hopes she finds her justice. 

Shane and Ryan burst outside, quickly taking the steps down the porch before stopping in the neatly cut grass of the front lawn. They continue in their silence as they both take a few moments process the last several minutes, everything that's now changed between them.

Shane shivers slightly in the crisp night air. It’s only 4AM, but Shane is in no hurry to face anyone else yet. He’s fine with waiting the remainder of the night out for their ride, and he breathes deeply, counting his breaths, releasing his emotions regarding the Talbotts with each exhale.

Ryan has walked ahead to the end of the driveway, seating himself on the curb and staring hard at the line of trees across the street. His shoulders are hunched, and Shane thinks he should know better than to disturb Ryan right now.

Still, Shane tentatively follows him, sitting a greater distance away than he would prefer. Ryan won’t look at him. 

“I—” Shane begins and doesn’t know where to start. He follows Ryan’s gaze to the trees, and he tries to find some way to explain. “The only person who has ever known is my dad.”

“Were you ever gonna tell me?” Ryan asks in reply, and he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds almost too tired for angry. 

“I wanted to,” Shane almost whispers, and it feels like a confession even if it isn’t one. “But I needed you to see, too. I couldn’t do it without that.”

“I didn’t see anything tonight.” Ryan’s tapping his finger against the curb, soft and quick. Shane wants to put his own hand over Ryan’s and steady it. Eventually, Ryan’s hand stills on its own. “Not anything that anyone else wouldn’t see.”

“I know,” Shane replies, and doesn’t say anything else. He swallows a different type of confession, knows this isn’t the time for it. As if there ever will be.

“So you… what?” Ryan asks Shane's continued silence, and a spark of something fierce enters his voice. Underneath his ire, he sounds almost disappointed, as if Shane again failed to say something Ryan needed to hear. “You thought I’d what? Call you crazy and dismiss you? Tell you to get a grip and shut up?” 

Shane opens his mouth to reply, but Ryan cuts him off by standing. He finally turns to look at Shane, and Shane expects Ryan’s anger. He knows he deserves it. But he’s almost stunned by Ryan’s obvious pain, what appears the driving force behind Ryan’s increasing volume.  He continues, almost shouting, “No, man. That’s what you do! You don’t get to put that on me.” 

Shane finds himself on his feet before he realizes what he’s doing. He feels hot, burning in the worst way.

“It’s not the same!” Shane yells back, and for a moment, he sees crimson. He thinks he’s never been this furious in his life. “You know it’s not the same! This isn’t—I’m not just hearing footsteps, Ryan! These aren’t just some whispers. This is my life! It’s all the time!”

Shane takes a deep breath, pausing in an attempt to calm down. “It’s just not the same.”

“Why not?” Ryan demands. “You know that wouldn’t matter to me. You know I believed anyway. Why would this be different?” 

“Because I’m not like you!” Shane seethes, and it comes out accusing, condemning Ryan in so few words. “I need more than belief! I needed you to know it was true. I needed you to really understand, not just think you did.”

Ryan’s expression quickly crumbles from fury to unmask his barely concealed hurt, though he attempts to hide it just as quickly. When he speaks his voice is low, nearly defeated. He doesn’t reproach the way Shane does.

“I’m not like you either, Shane. I’m built on belief.” He emphasizes his words by sitting back down and forcing his gaze away from Shane's. Ryan wraps his arms around himself, and Shane feel momentarily pained as Ryan feels the need to protect himself from Shane. But Ryan continues, seemingly determined to salt his own wounds, “It would have been enough for me. It’s enough for me now.”

Ryan shifts his gaze upwards, and he looks so close to lost. “Can it be enough for you?”

Shane returns to his seat, releasing a long breath as he lowers himself to the curb. Every emotion feels drained out him, leaving only a directionless desperation. Shane shifts to face Ryan.

“It has to be. Don’t you think?” Shane replies, but he feels as though he’s asking a very different question.

Ryan says nothing for what feels like a very long time. Then, “You wanted to tell me?”

Shane stares down at his hands, and he smiles almost bitterly at his interlocked fingers. Shane returns to earlier thought from before. Some truths will always belong to Ryan.

“It was always going to be you, Ryan,” Shane confesses, and this feels almost easy to let go of. Easier than anything else. “If it was going to be anyone, it was going to be you.”

Shane’s words seem to satisfy some question that Ryan was unable to voice, and his shoulders finally relax and his eyes lose their hard edge. He lets out a long breath, and Shane watches it fog out into the night air. 

“And the dreams?” Ryan asks, and Shane almost startles at their mention.

He so desperately wants to comfort Ryan, to lay himself bare and show Ryan his loyalty in every mark on his skin. But this, Shane isn’t ready to discuss. He remembers their haunting predictions, and in his and Ryan's fragile state, it feels too close to possible. Liable to come true if Shane speaks it into this reality.

“I’m not sure—”

“Back on the plane, when you were talking in your sleep,” Ryan hesitates, maybe to give Shane the opportunity to tell him to shut the hell up. But Shane doesn’t and tries not to regret it. Ryan gives Shane a meaningful look, and it catches Shane's breath, how close it is to hope. Then, he continues, “And again, in the Talbott house before I woke you up. You called my name. You sounded desperate.”

For a moment, all the air leaves Shane’s lungs, and he thinks he might suffocate on this curb in front of Ryan, a twisted fate Shane’s certain he deserves. He darts his eyes from Ryan's and stares toward the horizon, the barest hint of light reaching over its edge. Shane doesn't say anything. 

But then Shane feels a warm hand settle over his, a glaring contrast to the cold roughness of the concrete against his palm. Shane sucks in a breath so sharp, he feels dizzy, drunk on the smallest contact.

Shane shifts his gaze back to find Ryan’s, and his eyes reflect the light of the barely risen sun. It feels like a promise, unspoken like the palm against Shane’s skin. Like everything else Ryan dared to hint at but never spoke.

Something awakens in Shane, the oldest hope inside him that never once ventured beyond the furthest hypotheticals. For a brief moment, Shane’s back in that mirrored nightmare of his living room, watching the distorted walls shift and groan as they slowly inch back to rightness. He feels the couch soft against the back of his neck, but he also feels Ryan’s hand against his.

He’s grounded, secure. The living room, finally restored, disappears.

Shane feels lightened, emboldened.

“Maybe I was desperate,” Shane finally replies, before flipping his hand over to have his palm meet Ryan’s, clasping their hands together and lacing their fingers. He squeezes lightly. “Maybe I’m more scared than I like to let on."

Shane hears a short rush of air from Ryan, something close to laugh but with little force behind it. He says nothing, but Shane understands. 

The shortest pause, and Shane then feels Ryan scoot closer to him, continuing his silence but comforting Shane regardless. Ryan draws their clasped hands into his lap, wrapping his free hand around their linked fingers while he delicately lays his head against Shane’s shoulder.

Shane swallows thickly, temporality overwhelmed. Just as gently, he leans back against Ryan, and the pressure releases slowly from his chest. His breath ghosts out in front him, carrying his fears away with it. 

He sags against Ryan in exhaustion.

Slowly, the sun rises over the houses and trees, and Shane feels content to watch it in silence. 

He considers Ryan’s relaxed form against his own, feels him breathe deep in a way that suggests he’s maybe fallen asleep. 

Following Ryan’s lead, as Shane often feels so compelled to do, Shane closes his eyes. He feels warm.