Chapter Text
Ryan is fairly certain that the chaos unfolding before him is a fire hazard for more than one reason.
The fifteenth floor of the dorm has been totally taken over by students grateful that exams have finally drawn to a close. When Ryan initially stepped out of the elevator half an hour ago, the halls had already been absolutely packed from wall to wall. Some of the doors dotted along the length of the hallway had been closed, but most had been open, and each of those open rooms was also packed with people. Noises that could only be from one kind of activity had been drifting from the communal bathrooms that he’d passed, and music was blasting from half a dozen different sources, twisting and tangling together to create a discordant wall of noise that people were still somehow managing to dance to (if jumping up and down could be called dancing).
At any other time, the mere thought of so many people being packed into such a space would be enough to make waves of anxiety roll through Ryan’s body but, thankfully, him and TJ went through a rather heavy round of pre-drinking in their room down on the eighth floor before they came up and, as a result, Ryan doesn’t feel much beyond giddy; giddy that he managed to make it through a brutal year without dropping out and/or losing his mind, giddy that everyone else is so elated, giddy about life itself.
The fact that he’s managed to score a spot in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, sandwiched between the fridge (which is somehow still filled to the brim with alcohol) and a gigantic punch bowl containing a cloudy red, delicious concoction, just makes things even better.
He has no idea where TJ is; he’d disappeared mere steps out of the elevator, was dragged away into the crowd by someone he knew. Considering how he’d been talking at their pre-game, rambling on about some beautiful girl in one of his history classes that was supposed to be at the party, Ryan suspects he’s either a) getting laid or b) in the process of getting laid, in which case, good for him.
So long as they don’t fuck in Ryan’s bed, he’s totally supportive of whatever TJ wants to do. The guy’s been just about the best roommate he could have asked for.
As the minutes tick by, the party becomes even more raucous, and Ryan continues to drink steadily, alternating between a cup full of punch and a sweating beer, depending on his mood at the given moment. The air is quickly growing hazy from joints that are being passed around. For a moment, Ryan thinks about venturing out into the crowd to see if he can get a pull off one, but that would require leaving the island of alcohol that he’s become beached upon, and that just doesn’t sound ideal.
So he remains put, occasionally waves at someone he recognizes, and steadily becomes more and more drunk.
He’s thinking about maybe taking a short nap when someone emerges from the crowd and bumps into his side.
“Are you the guardian of the punch?”
Ryan glances away from the corner of the room (there are two people speaking very loudly into each other’s faces, and he’s not quite sure if they plan on fighting or making out). His eyes land on someone’s chest, and he has to look up, up, up in order to look at the person’s face.
It’s a guy that he doesn’t recognize. Whoever he is, he’s really fucking tall, and there’s a thatch of dark brown hair flopping onto his forehead, looking very much like it was cut by someone who didn’t exactly know what they were doing.
“Am I what?” Ryan asks. The guy grins and waves one hand at the punch bowl, which is about half-empty now, dotted by limp lemon slices.
“Guardian of the punch,” the guy repeats, sliding around to Ryan’s other side so that he’s standing in front of the bowl. “Like, is there a password I need to say to get some?”
Ryan laughs as he reaches up and fishes a new red solo cup from the stack on top of the fridge.
“Maybe. Give it a shot.”
Sagging against the counter, the guy’s face goes almost laughably serous, and he taps a finger to his chin as he gazes down into the depths of the bowl. He hems and haws for a few moments, and by the time he finally snaps his fingers like he’s had an epiphany, Ryan’s chest hurts from holding back laughter.
“Is the password ‘can I have some goddamn punch’?”
Ryan’s laughter spills from his chest, and he wheezes as he tosses the guy a cup.
“I suppose you’ve earned it.”
“Damn right.” Bypassing the ladle resting against one side of the bowl, the guy simply dips the entire cup inside. Punch drips down the side of the cup and onto his button-up as he raises it to his mouth. One sip in, he splutters, sending more punch flying through the air.
“What the hell is in that, punch guardian?” he asks, glancing from the punch bowl to Ryan and back again. “Is that poisoned?”
“How dare you insult the punch,” Ryan answers, wheezing again as the guy continues to look absolutely flabbergasted. “It’s delicious.”
“Fuck that.” Abandoning his cup on the counter, he reaches around Ryan with an impossibly lanky arm, hooks open the fridge and grabs a beer from the top shelf. “Here we go. Gotta wash out the poison.”
Ryan rolls his eyes, polishes off his own cup of punch, and snags the guy’s abandoned cup. He expects the guy to disappear back into the crowd, which would definitely be a shame, because not only is he the first person Ryan’s really talked to since TJ was swallowed up by the crowd, but he’s kind of, maybe, a little bit, cute.
In a lanky, overly tall way, of course.
But, once he’s popped the cap off the beer with a bottle opener left discarded on the cluttered counter, the guy just goes back to standing in front of the bowl, although he seems to be closer to Ryan this time.
Maybe their knees were touching before. Ryan isn’t exactly sure.
“So, punch guardian, what’s your actual name, and what brings you here?” he asks, waving one arm at the kitchenette. Ryan follows the movements of the guy’s arm with his eyes, and is pleased to note that the people in the corner of the room have decided to make out instead of fight.
“Ryan,” he answers, taking a sip of the punch. It is a little strong, and probably more sugary than strictly necessary, but he still maintains that it’s no less delicious than the beer he still needs to finish. “Came with my roommate, who has mysteriously disappeared.”
“Roommates do that sometimes,” the guy answers solemnly. “Although never when you actually want them to, it seems. I’m Shane. My room’s just downstairs. Figured if I couldn’t sleep through this, I might as well partake.”
“Nice to meet you.” When they shake hands, Ryan is not surprised to discover that Shane’s fingers are sticky from spilled punch. “I live down on eight.”
“Eighth floor? Do you know Jen? She’s like, yea high,” Shane says, holding his arm at the level of Ryan’s shoulders, “short hair, gigantic nerd.”
“She’s my neighbor,” Ryan says. Of all the people that live on his floor, Jen might be his second favorite (after TJ, of course); she’s got a great movie collection, a well-stocked drawer of snack food, and she’s always willing to let Ryan crash on her floor when TJ has a sock hanging on the doorknob. “She’s totally awesome.”
“Right?” Shane exclaims, dark eyes lighting up when he grins. “So a few weeks ago...”
&.
Ryan goes through two more bottles of beer and another cup of punch, and they talk the entire time. Eventually, after running through the typical starter conversations (what programs they’re in, favorite classes, what buildings on campus are the ugliest), they somehow end up on his favorite topic: ghosts.
He could talk about ghosts for hours; about sites he wants to visit and investigate one day, gear he wants to buy, so-called evidence that’s actually bullshit, documented apparitions that are definitely, 100% real.
However, Shane definitely, 100%, thinks that the existence of ghosts is absolute bullshit.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Ryan says. “You don’t even think that there’s a possibility that they exist?”
“Nope,” Shane answers, taking a swig from the third (or maybe it’s the fourth) beer he’s drank since they started talking. “Aliens are probably real, although they’re definitely boring little slugs and not bipedal creatures with big heads. Bigfoot is definitely real. But ghosts are bullshit.”
“I can’t believe this.” Throwing his arms in the air, Ryan continues, “You seriously think that fucking Bigfoot is real, and ghosts aren’t?”
“Hey, don’t make fun of the Foot,” Shane says, pointing a finger at Ryan in what is probably supposed to be a threatening gesture, but the giant grin plastered across his face somewhat disarms it.
“I’m not!” Ryan yells. “I think he’s real! But ghosts-”
“No evidence,” Shane interrupts. “None. At all. Nothing definitive. Don’t you dare say anything about fucking spirit boxes either.”
That’s exactly what Ryan was going to bring up next.
It feels like his head might actually explode, and not just because there seems to be music coming from eight different places now, none of it meshing together properly.
“You know what?” he says, taking one last sip from his beer and dropping it to the counter. “Apparently, the eighteenth floor of this place is haunted by somebody that got drunk and fell out their window. I’m gonna go up there right now and catch their ghost on camera, and then I’m gonna rub it in your fucking face.”
“Obviously I need to come with you,” Shane says, polishing his beer off and dropping it into the sink, which is already crowded with bottles and crumpled up cups. “You might cheat otherwise.”
“How would I cheat at catching a ghost?” Ryan wheezes, stepping away from the counter and starting the tedious process of winding his way through the crowd. His legs are wobblier than he expects, and when he stumbles, he reaches out to steady himself on the nearest solid object, which turns out to be Shane's chest.
“I don’t know! I’m sure you’d find a way,” Shane replies, throwing his hands into the air and nearly hitting the ceiling in the process. When he lowers them back down, his left arm drops heavily around Ryan’s shoulders, which makes Ryan feel a little less guilty about the fact his hand is still twisted into the front of Shane’s shirt.
“I can’t believe you,” he mutters, letting go of Shane’s shirt and winding it around his waist instead.
For support, of course.
He definitely doesn’t have an ulterior motive.
“Believe it, baby,” Shane says, winking theatrically and pulling Ryan closer. “This is all me.”
Ryan wheezes again.
&.
They end up making it no further than the stairwell landing between the sixteenth and seventeenth floors.
“Fuck,” Ryan says, sagging against the cold concrete wall just beside the stairs leading up to the seventeenth floor. The railing, which extends slightly beyond the stairs, is hard against his back. “Do your legs feel funny?”
“No.” Shane comes to stand in front of him, one hand resting on the railing beside Ryan’s hip. “It’s okay if you’re too scared to face the super scary, totally real ghost. I understand.”
“I’m not scared!” Ryan retorts, smacking at Shane’s ribs. Shane raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m not, you dick! It’s just... walking. It’s hard.”
“Uh-huh. Sure it is.” As he says it, Shane sways slightly and drops his other hand to the part of the railing jutting out from behind Ryan’s other side. He’s very, very close to Ryan, and Ryan’s fingers, which are still resting on Shane’s side, itch with the urge to push Shane’s messy hair away from his forehead.
The thought of not succumbing to the urge doesn’t even occur to him.
“You’re really fucking tall,” he hums, craning up and pushing Shane’s hair away. It flops back onto his forehead almost immediately, but Ryan just keeps going, runs his hand over the back of Shane’s head until it’s resting on the nape of his neck.
“Sure you’re not just short?” Shane answers. Some of the bravado has gone out of his voice, and his eyes are averted, looking down at Ryan’s mouth.
Ryan grins and tightens his fingers on the back of Shane’s neck, tugging him down.
“Shut up,” he mumbles before he presses their lips together. Almost immediately, Shane gasps into his mouth, and his hands move away from the railing to curl tightly around Ryan’s hips instead. Somehow, his fingers end up under the hem of Ryan’s t-shirt, and the light feeling of them tracing around his waist and tapping over his hipbones makes him sink his teeth lightly into Shane’s bottom lip.
“Fuck,” Shane gasps into Ryan’s mouth, tongue dragging against Ryan’s bottom lip.
“Was that too hard?” Ryan asks, curling his fingers tighter into the front of Shane’s button-up, which is still sticky from the punch he spilled on it earlier. Shane just laughs and shakes his head as he presses Ryan back against the wall, kissing him fervently.
For approximately two seconds, Ryan starts wondering how TJ’s night is going.
But then Shane pulls away from his mouth and starts trailing hard kisses down over his cheek and jaw to his throat, and it becomes all Ryan can do to stay upright, let alone think about his roommate.
Eventually, when the combination of his swaying legs and the railing digging into his lower back becomes too annoying, he simply hops up onto the railing. It’s not exactly wide to sit on, not really, but it does make it easier for him to reach Shane’s mouth without craning onto his toes, and when Shane runs his his hands from Ryan’s waist to the underside of his thighs and splays his fingers there, grips him like he’s trying to hold him up, Ryan’s mind kind of white outs.
He’s just at the point where he thinks that they should maybe move things to one of their rooms when a very loud beeping sound starts emanating from the back pocket of Shane’s jeans.
“Goddamn it,” Shane mutters, pulling away with one last kiss to Ryan’s neck. Ryan tries his best not to groan at the lost contact, but doesn’t entirely succeed.
“Is it past your bedtime or something?” he teases, knocking his knee against Shane’s hip as Shane pulls his phone out of his pocket.
“Very funny,” Shane answers, poking Ryan’s thigh in retaliation as he silences the incessant beeping. “No, I still need to pack. I’m heading home for the summer tomorrow.”
“Where’s home?” Ryan asks, sliding off the railing onto legs that are, thankfully, a little less wobbly. As far as he can remember, they didn’t discuss their hometowns earlier.
“Illinois,” Shane answers and, just like that, Ryan’s stomach drops straight to the floor. It’s not that he was banking on this becoming a serious thing, but he’s had fun talking to Shane (even if he doesn’t believe in ghosts, like a moron), and he’s had even more fun making out with him.
“Illinois. Wow,” he says, and it sounds so unenthused coming from his mouth that he mentally hits himself. “That’s quite the trip.”
“Yep. Have to be out of here at seven to catch my flight.” Shane slides his phone back into his pocket and rubs at the back of his neck. His hair is a disheveled mess, and there’s a faint hickey at the base of his throat, a hickey that Ryan put there, and for some reason, it’s that little detail that makes him blurt out his next words.
“Can I get your number?” The sentence falls out of his mouth in a jumbled mess, and he’s not even sure if Shane understood him. “I mean, I still need to convince you that ghosts are real.”
Shane snorts, but his mouth curls into a smile as he pulls his phone back out of his pocket.
“Here.” He drops it into Ryan’s palm. “Add yours. I can’t actually remember what mine is right now.”
“You’re drunk,” Ryan says absently as he brings up the new contact screen.
“If anyone’s drunk, it’s you, because you drank way more of the punch than I did. You’re a terrible punch guardian.”
Ryan wheezes and flips Shane off as he punches his number in with his thumb. After a moment of consideration, instead of inputting his name, he enters two ghost emojis, with a raised middle finger in between. After he presses save, he passes the phone back over, and Shane glances down at the screen and laughs.
“Wow, Ryan, real mature. And to think I was going to offer to walk you back to your dorm room like a gentleman. Unless you wanted to go back to the party, I mean.”
Ryan’s stomach swoops a little.
“I’m think I’m done with the party,” he says. “Guess I’ll just have to walk myself home.”
“Guess so,” Shane agrees, throwing his arm around Ryan’s shoulders and steering him towards the stairs. “Although I’m sure I could be persuaded to change my mind. Somehow.”
After a moment of thought, Ryan pauses on the steps, leans up, and presses his mouth hard to the hickey at the base of Shane’s throat.
“That’s the best apology you’re getting,” he says, dropping back to his flat feet. “Take it or leave it.”
Shane’s cheeks are flushed, and even though Ryan has known him for all of a few hours, he is inordinately pleased with himself.
“You win this time,” he says, squeezing Ryan’s shoulder. “But that’s only going to work once.”
“Uh-huh,” Ryan says, poking Shane in the cheek. “Whatever you say.”
They take the elevator from the sixteenth floor to the eighth. Faint music is echoing down the stairwells, and Ryan can hear someone watching television in the common room, but there are no sex noises drifting from the bathrooms, which is a marked improvement from the fifteenth floor.
The place does smell like stale alcohol, but it’s been that way since the second week of first semester. Truth be told, the smell is almost comforting now.
“Here we are,” Ryan says, stopping in front of his door. There’s no sock hanging from the knob but, just in case, he knocks loudly. When TJ doesn’t emerge after a few seconds, he slides out from underneath Shane’s arm and turns to face him, back to the door. They’d chattered incessantly the whole way down, but now, Ryan isn’t exactly sure what to say. I had a nice night sounds too formal, almost like they were on a date, while see you around sounds way too casual.
In the end, he goes with, “I hope you get home okay. Tomorrow, I mean.”
Shane grins again and drops one hand to Ryan’s cheek.
“Thanks, man. Hope you aren’t too hungover tomorrow.”
“I’ll be fine,” Ryan shrugs, even though, based on the way his head is already starting to pound, he is probably not going to be fine, at all. “You better actually text me, you dick.”
Shane mock-gasps, drops his hand from Ryan’s cheek (Ryan immediately misses its warmth) and yanks his phone from his pocket. He types something rapidly, and moments later, Ryan’s phone vibrates in his pocket, but Shane stops him by lightly grabbing his wrist before he can pull it out.
“Read it in a minute. If you read it now, we’re going to debate until sunrise and I’ll never get any packing done.”
“Mark me down as intrigued,” Ryan says. Shane is standing very close to him again, and it would be so damn easy to lean up and kiss him again. Instead, even though it pains him in so many different ways to say it, Ryan continues, “If we start making out again, you might not pack either.”
“Fair,” Shane concedes. He leans down and presses his mouth to the corner of Ryan’s lips, but he steps backwards before Ryan can pull him closer. “Goodnight, Ryan.”
“Night.” With one last smile, Shane turns and heads back towards the elevators, swaying slightly on his feet. Ryan waits until he’s out of sight before he lets himself into his room, cheeks aching with the force of the smile burgeoning on his face.
The room is dark, and TJ’s bed is empty, still just as messy as it was when they left for the party. Ryan tosses his phone onto his bed, changes into the first pair of sweatpants he finds on the floor, and tromps down the hallway to brush his teeth and take his contacts out. When he makes it back to his room, he flicks the light off and collapses onto his bed, face first in the pillow. His headache is only getting worse, and he suspects that he might actually die if he doesn’t sleep soon, but before he forgets, he grabs his phone and looks at the message Shane sent him.
Unknown number: thunderdome match with mothman vs. bigfoot. who wins? discuss.
The answer seems obvious to Ryan, but before he can start planning out his arguments, he falls asleep with his phone clutched in his hand.
&.
When he wakes up, the inside of his mouth tastes like a putrid dumpster, there’s sun pouring through the thin curtains, and his head feels like a grenade has just gone off it in.
Slowly, he manages to roll onto his back and sit up. TJ is sitting across the room on his bed, watching something on his laptop and rapidly spooning cereal into his mouth, but after a moment, he glances up and pulls one earbud out.
“How you doing buddy?”
“I think my head is going to explode. What time did you get back?”
“Just after two. You were out like a light. Good night though?”
Even through his pounding headache, Ryan can vividly remember Shane and the stairwell and the kiss he’d pressed to Ryan’s mouth before he left. Before he can stop himself, he grins, and TJ sits up even straighter and yanks his other earbud out.
“Wait a second. Did you actually hook up with someone? I need the deets, Bergara. Don’t hold out on me.”
“I promise I will tell you everything if you go find me some ibuprofen,” Ryan answers, slowly sliding down the wall and pulling a pillow over his head. Across the room, TJ’s spoon clatters against his bowl, and Ryan hears his feet hit the ground as he hops off his bed.
“I’ll be back in five minutes.” Before Ryan can tell him that he’s joking, the door opens and closes, and he sags back against the mattress. The thought of getting up for any reason is not one he relishes, so he rummages through the sheets until he finds his phone and brings it under the pillow, holding it mere inches from his face. It’s almost dead, and he has a few notifications lined up at the top of the screen, but the first thing he sees is Shane’s message, sitting there under the Unknown number header. Before he answers it, he adds the number to his contacts and, after a few moments of thought, inputs Shane’s name as bigfoot groupie. Once it’s saved, he returns to the message and starts typing rapidly, hoping to finish it off before his phone dies.
mothman would obviously win...