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“Jesus Christ,” Ryan mutters, eyes fixated on the pitch-black hallway stretching out before them. “I think I might actually die in there.”
“You’ll be fine,” Shane says cheerily, clapping one hand onto Ryan’s shoulder. Really, the place looks way scarier than it actually is; yes, it’s really, really dark, and frigidly cold, but it’s just a damn hallway, almost identical to all of the other ones they’ve walked down during their explorations of the old asylum.
The only differences are the impressive amount of fantastically ridiculous graffiti marking the walls and the fact that Ryan is insisting that he walk down this one with only the spirit box for company.
Shane’s already made the trek; it took him three and a half minutes to follow the long hallway to the end and come back, and it’d been a totally uneventful journey. He’d whistled, filmed some of the better pieces of graffiti (including an astoundingly large purple dick), gave whatever ghosts may have been listening permission to rip out his entrails if they felt so inclined, and cursed the spirit box’s very existence.
Item number one on the list of reasons he’s looking forward to filming the next season of True Crime: getting to go a few weeks without having to listen to the incessant screeching of the fucking spirit box.
The box is in Ryan’s hands now, and he’s clutching it tightly, just staring down the damn hallway. He’s trembling under Shane’s hand, which isn’t anything new, but while Shane is used to it and knows that he shouldn’t feel guilty about it (because technically, Ryan does this to himself), there’s a part of him that just wants to pull Ryan out of here and call it an early night, come up with some excuse to get them back to their hotel room so that they can crawl into bed together and maybe watch a movie.
But Ryan won’t go for it. He’s too damn stubborn, too damn dedicated to this fruitless crusade of his, and that, for some damn reason Shane can’t figure out, is one of the things Shane likes best about him.
“This was a fucking mistake,” Ryan says, a deep breath whooshing out of him. Absently, Shane rubs his thumb against the side of Ryan’s neck, and Ryan twists to look at him, smiling slightly even though his eyes are wide and bright with panic. “Does life insurance pay out if you get scared to death?”
“I’m genuinely surprised that you don’t already know the answer to that,” Shane replies. “If it helps, I’ll ensure you get a proper burial. I’ll even weep over your grave.”
“It better be real weeping. None of that fake shit.” Ryan’s smile fades away as he takes another deep breath to psych himself up, but his feet stay planted on the concrete, and Shane watches his throat bob as he swallows. He waits a little longer, hand on Ryan’s shoulder all the while, just to see if his courage will eventually summon itself, but Ryan just remains still, muttering and cursing to himself, sweat beading on his brow.
And the thing is, he’ll stay with Ryan all night if he has to, but he would like to get back to their hotel room sooner rather than later. The damp cold that seems to be seeping out of every square inch of the place has started to settle into his bones, and all he can think about is the warm shower and soft bed waiting back at the motel. This is the last big scene they have left to film, the only thing really keeping them from bidding adios to this place (which is dusty and smells like garbage and is dirty enough that he thinks he might contract some kind of flesh-eating disease if he touches anything for too long), so the quicker they can get through with it, the better.
So, clearing his throat and squeezing Ryan’s shoulder, he asks, “Want a kiss for good luck?”
Ryan laughs and turns to face him, which is the first time his feet have moved since Shane came back from his journey down the hallway. After a moment, his grin flickers slightly, and he raises an eyebrow incredulously. “Are you actually serious?”
“Why not?” Shane shrugs. “Besides, that way, even if you do die, at least you got one last kiss from yours truly.”
“Right, because that’s going to give me so much comfort when I’m being murdered by vengeful ghosts,” Ryan retorts, rolling his eyes. His grin is back in full force, Shane is relieved to see. “But whatever. Go for it.”
“Alright.” Turning back to their crew, Shane says, “Everyone, look at that wall for a minute.” With some good-natured grumbling, they all turn their cameras off and look away, and Shane pulls Ryan around a nearby support pillar, so that they’re truly out of sight.
“You know that we’re going to have to edit this out of our own cameras still,” Ryan says, leaning back against the pillar. In response, Shane reaches down to where his camera is hanging around his neck, flicks it off and then does the same to Ryan’s.
“There. Less editing to do. And you can always say our cameras turned off mysteriously. I know you need all the ‘evidence’ you can get.”
“Fuck off,” Ryan replies, reaching up and wrapping the hand that isn’t clutching the spirit box around the back of Shane’s neck. “Now give me this damn kiss so I can go walk into hell itself over there.”
“It’s seriously not that bad,” Shane says, dropping his hands to Ryan’s hips. “Honestly, if you didn’t have a total psychic break at the Sallie House, you’re not going to have one here.”
“You have way too much faith in me. Also, shut up.”
Shane does. He leans down and presses his mouth against Ryan’s, curls his fingers into his sweater, and kisses him until he can’t breathe. When he pulls away, Ryan’s eyes stay closed for a moment, inky black eyelashes fanning on his cheek. He exhales loudly before they flutter open, and his mouth quirks into a smirk.
“This was a mistake too,” he mumbles, fingers tightening on the back of Shane’s neck.
“Why?” Shane asks, and even though he knows from the look on Ryan’s face that he isn’t being serious, his stomach still drops ever so slightly.
“Because now I just want to say fuck this place and go back to our hotel.”
And honestly, there’s not much else Shane wants more than that, but he knows that if Ryan doesn’t go through with this, he’s going to regret it, and he’ll probably complain about it for the entire plane ride back to LA. So instead of going along with the idea, he quickly kisses Ryan again, steps away, and lightly shoves him away from the pillar and back towards the entrance to the hallway. The crew turns back, and once their equipment is back up and running, Shane gives him another little push that actually gets him a few feet into the hallway.
“Alright baby,” he proclaims loudly, “go show those ghosts who’s boss!”
“I fucking hate you,” Ryan calls back over his shoulder but, thankfully, he starts walking forward into the blackness, spirit box screeching and babbling. Once he’s out of sight, Shane pulls out his phone and starts a timer.
Thirty seconds later, Ryan screams, “Holy shit, what the fuck!”
Shane laughs and yells, “You’re killing it Ryan!”
“Fuck you!”
Seven and a half minutes later, Ryan stumbles back out of the hallway, drenched in sweat, eyes wide, panting for breath.
“Told you you’d be fine!” Shane says, slinging his arm around Ryan’s shaking shoulders.
“That was the worst freaking place I’ve ever been in,” Ryan responds, pivoting around and flipping off the hallway. “Fuck this place, I’m out of here.”
As they walk down the stairs leading to the ground floor, Shane leans in close to Ryan, so that the crew’s microphones won’t catch his voice, and murmurs, “Are you alright?” Ryan nods quickly and finds Shane’s hand.
“Yeah. My mind hasn’t broken yet. But I’ll be a lot better when we’re back at the motel, and you can finish what you started upstairs.” He squeezes Shane’s hand tightly, and Shane has to swallow hard because Ryan’s voice has dropped low, to the specific tone that gets Shane every goddamn time.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, returning Ryan’s squeeze and taking the stairs a little faster. “Me too.”