Archive of Our Own ^beta

Buzzing. Everything is buzzing. The pulsing music vibrating in his spine, wordless and loud, thumping in counterpoint to his elevated heartbeat. His mind is fuzzy with one too many shots in that sloppy way that he hasn’t really been since college. There’s a low hum between Ryan’s ears that muffles most of what is being said to him, and a drop in his inhibition at the warm, solid weight of a hand on his thigh.

He’s not in good shape, he knows. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be out on a Thursday night when he has to work in the morning. He shouldn’t be sitting on a barstool with a knee, peeking out between rips in dark fabric, pushed up between his thighs.

The guy, who’d introduced himself before sitting down beside him and offering to buy Ryan a drink, is objectively pretty damn good looking. His hair is styled in a casually messy way that belies how long it probably took to perfect. He’s got straight, white teeth, and dark brown eyes, and makes casual mention of his courtside Lakers tickets, without actually bragging.

Ryan listens to him talk, too tipsy to contribute much to the conversation, but he laughs when he thinks he’s supposed to and accepts the drinks that are being bought for him. He wracks his brain for the guy’s name, and he thinks it started with an L.

Liam or Logan or something. Maybe Luke.

He weighs his options as the hand on his thigh creeps higher and squeezes in counterpoint to the laugh its owner lets out. Ryan waits and lets it settle, the heat and warmth of it a little too close to his dick, but he thinks he likes it. There’s a dangerously good tightening of curiosity and want in his belly that he doesn’t try to fight.

Bracing his forearm against the bar, he hooks his hand around the guy’s neck and pulls him closer. The hand on his thigh jumps up to his hip and tightens, thumb pressing into his skin where the fabric of Ryan’s shirt has bunched up around his knuckle.

Ryan swallows the lump in his throat and presses his forehead into the soft hair above the guy’s ear. “I can’t remember your fuckin’ name,” he says, huffing out the last half of the sentence on a laugh.

A hand on his chest, spread so that Ryan’s clavicle rests in the v of his thumb and forefinger, eases him back just enough that they and look one another in the eye.

“Lex,” the guy says with a grin.

“Right!” Ryan says, a little too loudly. “Like Lex Luthor.”

A puff of breath ghosts over his chin as Lex laughs, showing off his perfectly straight teeth again. The thumb on his chest rubs at his collarbone, pushing the fabric of his shirt away to touch Ryan’s heated skin.

“If that’s what gets you to remember it, then sure.”

Lex’s eyelashes are long and dark, and his nose turns up just a bit at the tip. He is seriously pretty. Ryan licks his bottom lip, and before he knows it, Lex’s hand is on his cheek, long fingers pressing against the side of his neck, and drawing him in. And then they’re kissing.

It’s been a long time since Ryan has kissed someone who isn’t Marielle or Helen and even longer since he’s kissed another guy.

The prickly drag of stubble against his lips sends sparks along his jaw, the feeling foreign and new all over again. He opens his mouth to Lex’s tongue, pressing his own against it, wet and hot and slow. Lex kisses like he has all the time in the world, like Ryan isn’t halfway off his barstool, leaning into him and sucking on his tongue in full view of a crowded bar. Lex tips his head to the side, deepening the kiss, muffling the groan Ryan lets loose against his mouth.

He fumbles his free hand up to twist in the throat of Lex’s soft, gray shirt and tugs him even closer.

The hand on his hip turns and Lex’s fingers dip in between the waist of his jeans the elastic of his boxer-briefs, knuckles rubbing at the trail of hair on his belly. There’s a question in the touch, something Ryan doesn’t know how to answer and he breaks the kiss to press their foreheads together and pant against Lex’s mouth.

A hand lands on his shoulder, suddenly, and it takes him entirely too long to realize that it doesn’t belong to the guy he’s just been kissing. Ryan turns, sitting back fully on his stool, and trails his watery gaze up to Shane. Another hand settles on his other shoulder and Shane squeezes quickly a few times before patting them, firmly.

“Time to go,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the music. Shane offers a tight-lipped smile to Lex. “We’re heading out.”

If Ryan is honest with himself, he’d completely forgotten that his pity party had started as a group outing with Shane, Sara, and Steven. The addition of Steven’s girlfriend, with her meeting them at the bar, had really driven Ryan’s mood down beyond recovery. Out with two happy couples and himself, freshly single and still aching over it, had probably directly lead to the situation he’s now found himself in.

Making out with a stranger in a bar isn’t much an odd rebound situation. But Lex is a wildcard.

Or rather Lex’s dick is the wildcard.

He doesn’t think Shane is judging him for his morality but he’s probably judging his choices, if the little squint thing his eyes are doing is telling Ryan anything. And it is, because Ryan knows Shane, drunk off his ass or not.

The hand on his belly doesn’t fall away, even as Shane’s gaze drops to meet Lex’s and the grip on his shoulders tightens.

“Time to go, buddy,” Shane repeats, quieter, this time, but still loud enough to be audible over the music pumping around them.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lex says, suddenly. He stands and no part of him is touching Ryan anymore, and Ryan’s hands flex, wanting him back. There’s a sour turn in his belly but he bites down on his lips to keep himself from saying something desperate or whiny out loud.

Lex pulls out his wallet and tucks a fifty into the shot glass with his tab sticking out of it. Then he holds out an honest-to-god business card to Ryan, matte gray with embossed, sans-serif, black lettering on it. Ryan takes it from him, curling the heavy cardstock into his palm and closing his fingers around it.

Lex leans down, a hand light at his chin, and kisses him again, with Shane standing directly behind him, still squeezing his shoulders. He doesn’t miss the self-satisfied look he gives Shane when he rights himself again.

“Nice meeting you, Ryan,” he says, brow ticking up and turning his head. It reads like a blatant your move and it makes Ryan’s head swim a little.

Shane levers him up and off the barstool, with hands under his arms, and steadies him with a tight grip around his bicep. Sara holds out his jean jacket for him, looking cute and a little bit tired, with her hair in double, sky blue, French braids down both sides of her head, errant curls sticking out in every which direction. Between her and Shane, they wrangle Ryan into his jacket even though his shirt is clinging to his low back with sweat.

There’s a Lyft waiting for them out front that Shane half-carries him to. Ryan does what he can to help but he’s more focused on holding onto Lex’s card, and the phantom, scratching tingle in his lips.

It takes a couple of seconds for him to even realize that Steven and his girlfriend aren’t with them. He doesn’t mention it, digging the corner of the business card under his fingernail and pressing down until it hurts. He wonders if Steven saw him kissing Lex. Sara must have, and Shane obviously did. He wonders if they think he’s as much of a lonely loser as he feels, right now.

Ryan lets out a sigh and slouches further down in the seat, sandwiched between Sara and Shane, his knees bumping the backs of both front seats. He’s uncomfortably warm with the two of them on either side of him and he kind of wishes one of them would crawl up into the front seat so he could spread out more. Ryan tips his head back and closes his eyes, rubbing his lips together and tasting Lex on them again.

After a few, silent minutes, Sara’s head leans against his shoulder. If he had the energy, he’d tuck his arm around her or something to make it more comfortable. As it is, he’s too fucking tired and still floating a bit on the excitement of meeting someone new. Someone who is obviously into him. He feels wanted in a completely different way than Sara leaning on him and Shane’s hand halfway on his thigh makes him feel.

It’s weird and complicated and Ryan is really too drunk to parse it right now. He isn’t usually this sloppy of a person who can’t handle his emotions like an adult.

Suddenly, he really wishes that he was sober but he blew that one about three shots ago. He holds back a bone-deep sigh and keeps his eyes closed.

--

He is vaguely aware of Shane half-walking, half-dragging him up the short front walk to his house. Sara’s ahead of them, unlocking the door and stepping inside before them. He’s practically asleep on his feet as he’s taken over to the couch, not doing much by way of helping Shane settle him down onto the worn cushions. It’s not uncomfortable but it’s old and the fabric makes him sweat whenever he sits on it for too long.

Already overly warm, Ryan immediately starts trying to kick his shoes off as Shane tips him over to lie down.

“On your side,” Shane says, pulling at his shoulder. Ryan uselessly flaps a hand at him and Shane just bats it away. “Come on.” There’s no room for argument in his tone and Ryan is too tired to try; he shifts over onto his side, pulling one of the ugly, decorative pillows under his head. Half of Shane and Sara’s stuff looks like the 60s puked it up.

Long, calloused fingers pry the bent business card from his hand and Ryan lets out an unintelligible groan as he makes a blind grab for it.

Shane shushes him and bats his hand away, gently. Ryan doesn’t see what he does with it but he’ll ask tomorrow, if he can remember. Fingers brush through his hair and Ryan pushes up into it. The warm weight of Shane’s palm settles against the back of his head for a long moment.

The tightness in his chest loosens, briefly, something behind his sternum unclenching and allowing him a deep, easy breath. He lifts his hand, reaching blindly up to touch Shane’s.

“Here,” Sara says, and Ryan cracks his eye open to peer blearily up at her. She sits on the edge of the couch cushion, just tiny enough for the impossible space Ryan has left, her hip nudging his stomach.

He shakes his head when he sees that she’s holding an uncapped bottle of water.

“Yeah. Come on,” she says. “For me?”

Ryan groans but pushes himself up onto his elbow, his stomach already twisting unpleasantly. Still, he takes a drink before handing the bottle back to Sara and lying his head down on the pillow. Fingers card through his sweaty hair, scratching through the short, buzzed hair on the back of his neck. He sighs, barely able to blink his eyes open again when Shane appears beside Sara, setting a trashcan down in front of him.

“Obi pukes on the floor enough for everyone, in this house, so aim here.”

“’m not gonna puke.” Ryan doesn’t entirely believe the statement himself, but no one contradicts him.

Sara’s hand falls away as she stands and Shane touches his bicep, right where the cuff of his sleeve ends and his skin is bared. The uncomfortable prickle of goosebumps makes him shiver.

“You want a blanket?” Shane asks.

“No.”

Shane lets out a quiet sigh and pats Ryan’s shoulder, gently.

“Get some sleep, Ry.”

Ryan is dead to the world before Shane’s hand even falls away.

--

Friday morning is murder. Ryan actually does throw up, but he manages to do it in the bathroom and not in the middle of Shane and Sara’s living room. Or on the floor, like the cat that sits in the hallway judging him.

There’s a deep, aching, pounding in the back of his head, and a vise grip on his temples. He’s shaky and weak-kneed by the time he drags himself to his feet. Propping himself up on his elbows on the counter, he rinses his mouth out before running both hands under the tap and rubbing at his face with them.

Ryan lifts his head at the sound of bare footsteps on the hardwood floor, coming to a stop just outside the bathroom. Sara knocks lightly before pushing the door open further. Her braids are messy, now that she’s slept in them, and there are crease marks on one side of her face; she looks wide awake, however, and Ryan hates her a little for it.

“How ya feeling?” she asks, keeping her voice blessedly quiet.

“Great,” Ryan says, turning off the faucet, still leaning heavily on the countertop. “I could run a marathon.”

“Funny you should say that. We’re doing a 10k this morning.”

Ryan wants to laugh but his stomach still feels like it’s one muscle contraction away from making him heave again. He groans, dropping his head to his forearm. A hand rubs between his shoulder blades. It feels soothing, even though his shirt is stuck to his back with sweat; he feels disgusting.

“Please tell me you have a toothbrush I can use.”

“I have a toothbrush you can use.”

Ryan turns his head enough to open an eye and look at her. “A new one.”

“Good thing you specified,” she says, her hand falling away as she moves toward the hall closet. The cat scampers off when the hinges groan.

Sara is back a moment later setting a packaged toothbrush down on the counter and draping a towel around his shoulders.

“Shower,” she tells him, patting his back again. “You stink.” Ryan pushes the bathroom door shut on her, listening to her muffled laugh.

Getting undressed is a trial. Ryan hasn’t gotten flat-out drunk in a long time, and the shaky baby bird legs are like a whole new experience, all over again. He holds onto the towel bar as he kicks off his jeans and strips out of his boxers. He almost sits down on the toilet to peel off his socks but he’s not sure he’ll get back up again, so he struggles through it with what little balance he has left.

Ryan tries to hurry, half because he wants to brush his teeth and half because he knows it’d be beyond rude to use up all of the hot water before either Sara or Shane has a chance to shower. He’s also at least twenty percent afraid that he’s going to fall over and take the shower curtain down with him.

The door cracks open as he’s rinsing his hair. “Clothes for ya,” Shane says over the rush of the water.

Ryan barely has his thanks out before the door clicks shut again. He hurries through the rest, scrubbing himself down and washing his face a little harder than necessary.

Feeling marginally more functional when he gets out, he sifts through the pile of clothes that Shane has left stacked on the closed toilet lid. The shirt is one of Shane’s—from the Bigfoot museum in Willow Creek—but the boxer-briefs and jeans are his own, and not the ones he’d worn last night, either. He doesn’t remember leaving clothes here, but he’s glad that he did; he’d probably draw the line at wearing Shane’s underwear.

Brushing his teeth is a small mercy. Catching sight of his own reflection as the fog on the mirror dissipates is a fresh kind of hell that he isn’t ready for. Thankfully, his complexion doesn’t allow him to ever look too pale, but the dark circles under his eyes and the bloodshot haze certainly make him look every bit as hungover as he feels.

The stubble burn around his mouth is… different. Ryan sets his toothbrush down on the edge of the sink and touches at the reddened skin, made more prominent by the heat of the shower. He tilts his head to each side, checking his neck for hickeys; just because he doesn’t remember letting some guy suck on his neck last night, doesn’t mean he didn’t.

Fuck, he doesn’t even remember the guy’s name, let alone whether he got his number or if he even really liked him.

Someone walks down the hallway, making the floor creak outside the bathroom. Ryan stills, listening as the footsteps go onto the kitchen, and then he hears Shane and Sara speaking unintelligibly to each other. Ryan puts his hands back on the edge of the counter and looks at his reflection again. His face isn’t flushed, even though his cheeks are warm. They saw him kissing that guy.

He drops his own gaze and turns to pick up his clothes from last night, folding them haphazardly, and bundling up the towel he’d used.

Ryan knows the two of them well enough to know that they aren’t going to give a shit about the who of it. But he feels borderline guilty that he’s never told them that he kind of sometimes digs guys, too. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them, it’s just that it’s never come up, before. His stomach roils unpleasantly as he steels himself and opens the bathroom door.

Dumping his clothes on the floor beside his shoes, he heads into the kitchen with the towel. Sara is leaning against the tile countertop, picking apart a muffin, but it doesn’t look like she’s actually eating any of it. Shane is sitting at their small kitchen table, chair turned around so he’s facing Sara, holding a coffee mug that says WORLD’S BEST CAT DAD on it. They both look over when he steps into the kitchen.

“I didn’t know where to put this,” he says, holding the towel up.

“I’ll take it,” Sara says, pushing away from the counter with her hip. “There’s a load in right now.” She smiles when he meets her gaze, and then she’s gone, feet padding quietly down the hall again.

Ryan pulls out the chair beside Shane and slumps down into it. The kitchen is bright, all of the curtains open, letting in the morning sun, and Ryan’s head gives a painful throb, reminding him that he’s still suffering. He buries his face in his arms with a quiet groan.

“Please tell me you have Advil or something.”

He listens as Shane sets his mug down on the table and gets up. “I feel like I should be making a Big Advil joke, right now.” The cupboard squeaks when he opens it, and the telltale rattle of a pill bottle is like music to Ryan’s ears.

“I appreciate that you aren’t.”

Slowly, Ryan sits up again, rubbing his face with both hands, still squinting a little against the light. Shane sets a bottle of water down in front of him and holds out his palm; Ryan picks the pills out with a quiet thanks.

It’s blessedly quiet when he puts his head down again. Shane moves around the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and a drawer that sounds like it’s filled with cutlery. He doesn’t know where Sara is, and the house is otherwise silent. He wants to go lie down on the couch again but he has to at least make an appearance at work or he’ll forfeit a vacation day; and hangover or not, that’s a sacrifice he’s not willing to make.

“Here,” Shane says.

Ryan lifts his head again and Shane sets a plate down in front of him with a single piece of toast, covered in avocado, on it.

His stomach turns over and Ryan takes a slow breath. “I don’t know if I can eat anything, right now.”

“Best thing for a hangover,” Shane tells him, like he’s speaking from experience. He sits down again, this time pulling his chair up to the table so that they can see one another more easily.

“Is that ancient, old man wisdom?”

Shane nods, pulling his glasses down his nose so that he can look at Ryan over the top of the frames. “Back in my day, we had to toast the bread over an open fire.”

A breath huffs out of Ryan, and even though it ratchets up the pressure in his head another notch, it’s worth it for the little smile Shane gives him behind his coffee mug. The creases by his eyes are less prominent in the overabundance of natural light in the kitchen. His stomach twists again.

Ryan manages a couple of bites before he’s staring longingly at Shane’s coffee, more than anything else.

“Can I have coffee?”

“You know where the Keurig is.”

Ryan rubs his temple and does his best to glare. “I’m sick.”

“That’s your fault.”

“You’re a bad friend.” Shane’s face is unaffected. “Give me yours.”

“No way.”

Ryan sets his chin in his hand. “I’m dying.”

“It’s your body saying Ryan, we’re too old for this shit.”

Ryan gives him an unimpressed look, to which Shane just smiles at him. The standoff only lasts a minute before Sara comes back, still barefoot, dressed in jeans and a Disneyland shirt, her hair in two little ponytails on the back of her head. Ryan looks back at Shane and then down at the tabletop when he finds Shane already watching him.

When Sara plucks a coffee cup from the drying rack beside the sink, he perks up. “Sara,” he says, sweetly.

She turns to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Will you make me coffee?”

He ignores how loudly Shane sets down his mug, trying to keep a grin off of his face. “Sugar, no cream,” she says, not much of a question. Ryan didn’t know she paid any attention to how he makes his coffee.

“Yes, please.”

She takes another mug from the drying rack.

“Giant man-baby,” Shane mutters, reaching over to tear a piece off of his toast. Ryan is tempted to pull the plate away and hoard it for himself, just to be a dick, but there’s no way he’s going to finish the whole slice.

Sara fixes her coffee first and Ryan alternates between watching her move around the kitchen, between the refrigerator and cupboard for the sugar bowl, and watching Obi cautiously make his way further in the room. He watches Ryan suspiciously while trying to carefully get around him to where Shane occasionally snaps his fingers to get the cat’s attention.

Ryan gives a sigh of relief when Sara sets the coffee cup down in front of him.

“You’re an angel,” he says, looking up at her.

She leans down and folds an arm around him, settling over his collarbones and setting her chin on the top of his head. Ryan reaches up to hold onto her skinny forearm with one hand, letting the heat of the coffee mug permeate the other. They stay like that for a moment, Ryan reveling in the quiet comfort of it all; Shane’s foot nudged up against his own and Sara just holding onto him.

For all that it prods uncomfortably against the raw edge of his most recent failed relationship, he likes the familiarity of it. It feels good to just be with people who care about him.

Ryan pats at Sara’s arm and she lets go, but not before kissing the top of his head, like one would a child. He huffs a breath, even as he smiles. Her hand falls away and Shane reaches for it, pulling her closer to him and putting his other hand on her hip, when she’s close enough. Ryan stares into his coffee.

“I’m just gonna go ahead and ask if you want to talk about last night, or not.”

Ryan considers it but ultimately shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Shane doesn’t push, he merely nods and knocks his foot against Ryan’s ankle. Sara, though, sits herself down on Shane’s thighs and leans her forearms on the table. Ryan can’t help but look at her.

“You know we love you, right?”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, feeling weirdly uncomfortable at being the subject of her intense gaze. He sits back further in his chair, fingers tapping a nonsense rhythm against his mug. “I love you guys too.” His eyes jump from Sara’s face to Shane’s and back again. He tries to smile but it doesn’t feel like he succeeds; his head is still pounding with his heartbeat and the nausea in his stomach is returning. “Don’t make it weird. I’m fine, I promise.”

Sara puts her hand on his wrist and squeezes. “You’re weird. It’s terminal.”

Ryan sputters a laugh, looking between her and Shane again; there’s a satisfied-looking smile on his face. Ryan drops his gaze to Shane’s hand on Sara’s hip, where his fingertips are pushed up under her shirt, resting on her pale skin.

“Fuck you, both,” Ryan mumbles before he finally takes a sip of his coffee. It’s still too hot and burns his tongue but it’s better than just sitting here and letting himself think too hard about anything.

Sara smacks her hand against his forearm and gets up again. Shane’s hand falls away and he watches Ryan as she goes.

--

Things don’t immediately get better but they don’t stay terrible, either. Ryan mourns the loss of Marielle’s company in a million little ways, every day. They hadn’t known each other for too long but he’d liked her a lot. He misses her good morning texts, he misses her cuddled up against his side when he’s watching Netflix, he misses her laugh and the way her nails felt scratching through his hair.

It’s nothing like the Helen-shaped hole in his gut but it scratches at what’s newly-healed, making him feel raw, like an exposed nerve.

He thinks about the guy from the bar, whose name he cannot remember for the life of him. There’s a half-formed memory of the guy giving him a business card but Ryan can’t find it. He must have dropped it in the cab. A small, pathetic part of him wants to go back to the bar and see if he shows up again. He wants to know what it’d be like to talk to that guy while he’s sober; he wants to see if there’s something there.

The logical part of his brain tells him to just leave it alone. He isn’t in a place where he’d be good for anyone, right now. He doesn’t even like his own company, at the moment; he can’t force that on someone else.

Still, he finds himself pulling up his text conversation with Marielle, at least once a day. They haven’t spoken in over a week and Ryan knows he should leave it alone. Let it go. Just be by himself for a while. But he’s never been very good at that.

He backs out of his old texts and locks his phone, choosing instead to stare blankly at his computer screen. Every time the screen dims, he wiggles his mouse but takes no further steps toward being productive. He’s still thinking about that guy at the bar and, weirdly, Shane’s hand on Sara’s hip, the other morning.

After the third or fourth time he moves his mouse aimlessly around the screen, Shane takes off his headphones and turns to him.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low. Ryan looks at him, eyebrows raised. “You all right?”

Ryan nods. “Just tired, I guess.”

“Insominia?”

“Nah, you know me. Hard to sleep without a cuddle buddy.” Ryan says it mostly as a joke but Shane is too good at reading between his lines. He always has been and this is one of the rare times that Ryan hates it more than he likes it.

Shane inches his chair a little closer and Ryan focuses on his computer screen, clicking into his messages. His conversation with Sara is at the top of the list so he types out to her your boyfriend is about to psychoanalyze me.

Her response comes quickly. Send him over here to analyze me next.

Ryan minimizes the window and turns toward him, because Shane won’t just let things lie, and Sara isn’t giving him anything to work with to distract himself. He lifts his eyebrows, waiting.

“You can come over, you know. Obi loves to snuggle.”

“Your cat makes me sneeze, uncontrollably.”

“Take an allergy pill.”

Ryan pushes Shane by the bicep, forcing him to grip the edge of their desks to keep himself from being rolled away. He’s grinning a little, making his eyes squint up. A text notification from Sara pops up on his screen but he doesn’t check it. Shane is still watching him when he looks down at his watch.

“We should probably go.”

Shane nods, sliding his chair back and shutting down his computer. They’re recording the Postmortem in less than twenty minutes and Ryan hasn’t even looked at the questions on their facebook yet. Hopefully Shane has some picked out or this is going to take forever and Ryan just doesn’t have the energy for it, today. He’s beyond tired, just completely bone-deep exhausted.

Shane waits for him while he gathers up his stuff, moving slowly, grabbing the Unsolved cap he’s going to cover his unstyled hair, and tucking his phone into his pocket.

They head for the studio in silence, Shane matching his pace. Both he and Sara have been respectful of his choice to not talk about that night at the bar, neither one of them attempting to bring it up again since the morning after. Until they’re alone in the hallway that connects the Unsolved set and the Postmortem room.

Shane slows to a stop and takes hold of his elbow in a loose grip.

“Hey, wait a sec.”

The bottom is already plummeting out of Ryan’s stomach as he practically freezes in place, looking up at Shane. His heart races in his throat, already completely certain what this is going to be about.

“Shane—“

“Come on, Ry,” he says, letting Ryan’s elbow slip through his hand as he pulls back. Shane squeezes his forearm before dropping his hold entirely. “Just let me say my piece and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

Somehow Ryan doubts that he’s ever going to forget this conversation. He folds his arms against his chest, suddenly aware of how cold the air is down here.

“Okay,” he says, drawing his lips into his mouth to bite down on them.

Shane tucks his hands back into his pockets, hunching up a bit in a way that makes it look like he’s trying to appear smaller than he is; its a nigh impossible feat. He doesn’t say anything for a moment and Ryan has to stop himself from prompting him, biting back the impatient okay? on the tip of his tongue.

“It doesn’t have to be a thing, but I just want you to know that I’m here for you.”

“I know.”

Shane’s mouth twists, like he hasn’t said the right thing, didn’t elicit the response he’d wanted. He runs a hand through his hair and takes half a step closer to Ryan, keeping his voice low.

“I mean, I want you to know that…” he trails off, waving his hand uselessly between them.

“You don’t care about the dude thing?” Ryan suggests.

Shane points a finger at him. “That’s the one.”

Ryan smothers a half-hearted laugh with the hand he rubs against his face. “Is it really that difficult to put into words?”

“I’ve been practicing that since last Thursday.”

Ryan laughs again and this time, Shane smiles back at him, soft and—god help him—sweet. The unfamiliar pang of bitterness in his belly that not everyone would react to him, like this, is unwelcome. He shrugs it off, determined to deal with that later. Much later, if he can help it.

“I don’t really know what to say,” Ryan admits, after a moment of silence between them. He glances around but they’re still alone in the hall; he speaks quietly regardless, careful to not let his voice carry beyond the two of them. “I appreciate it, but I knew it wouldn’t be an issue.”

“It’s not.”

Ryan leans his shoulder against the wall. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

“Don’t be.”

“There’s never been a time when I felt like I should bring it up. I just haven’t met a lot of guys that I’m into.”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” Shane says. “I just wanted you to know that it doesn’t change how I see you.”

Ryan nods, feeling lighter than he has all week. There was never any doubt that Shane would accept this part of him but it’s still a relief to hear it. “Thanks,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. He clears his throat. “You know the worst part about having a sloppy bar rebound? I can’t even remember that dude’s name.”

Shane laughs, quietly. “Not sure I can help you there.”

Shrugging, Ryan pushes himself off the wall. “I’m probably not ready for anything, right now, anyway.”

They stand in silence for a moment before Shane reaches out and pulls him in by the shoulders. Ryan steps forward, until their chests are pressed together, folding both of his arms around Shane’s back. Depending on the shoes he’s wearing, he can be as little as a head shorter than Shane. The soles of his sneakers, today, are relatively flat making him just the right height to press his face against Shane’s shoulder. He can’t remember the last time someone hugged him, like this; it’s so much more comforting than it has any right to be, and he doesn’t want to move. Shane’s other hand squeezes the back of his neck and Ryan can feel Shane’s chin resting on the top of his head.

If it wasn’t for the sound of approaching footsteps and conversation, coming down the hall, Ryan might have stayed right there for an embarrassingly long time. As it is, he eases himself back and Shane lets him go, dropping his hands to tuck them into his pockets.

A moment later Devon appears from around the corner, holding her phone to her ear with one hand and waving the other around as she talks. She slows her pace as she approaches them.

“You’re not waiting on me, are you?” she asks, turning the speaker away from her mouth.

“No, we’ll be in in a second,” Ryan says, voice a little tight.

She smiles and nods at him and mouths a hey to Shane before she’s moving past them.

Ryan waits until she’s gone before looks at Shane again. “Thanks. For… all of that.”

“Any time,” Shane tells him, softly.

There’s a pulse of need inside of him that Ryan attributes to lack of physical affection and nothing more.

“Shall we?” Ryan asks, gesturing in the direction Devon just went.

“After you.”

Ryan moves and Shane follows, close behind.

--

Ryan does everything he can to make himself feel normal, again. It’s not that he doesn’t know how to be alone, it’s just that he doesn’t like it. He has his friends and coworkers but it’s not the same as coming home to someone or knowing that somebody out there is thinking about him. He likes being in a relationship, he likes having a partner, and being in love. He likes all of the things that come with being with another person. He hasn’t been single in a long time and it just feels weird to be on his own.

Even with the occasional pangs of regret over his failed relationships, the sense of loneliness is present but it’s not pervasive; it doesn’t sink into every aspect of his life, anymore. He’s doing better, even if he’s still kind of sleeping like shit.

It’s unsurprising to him that he finds himself spending more and more time with Shane and Sara. But between work and the increasing amount of borderline dates that he’s third-wheeled on, he starts to worry that he’s overstepping his bounds. The last thing he wants to do is horn in so much that they start to push him away. So he gives them space, even when they don’t ask for it.

He’s wandering around Venice Beach, one Saturday morning, after a run that’s left him absolutely soaking in sweat. Usually, Saturday mornings are when he joins Shane and Sara for brunch at their place and it feels a little weird to not be there. He hadn’t told them he wasn’t coming but he’s never told them he would be, either. Normally, he just shows up with a bottle of champagne—his contribution for mimosas.

The sidewalks are crowded with residents of the surrounding area and tourists who couldn’t look more out of place if they tried, with big SLR cameras around their necks and some with actual, legit maps in hand. He weaves his way further and further from the water, the groups of people thinning a bit as he goes. It’s still too hot, summer heat clinging onto the late-September morning, and Ryan forgot his sunglasses.

He’s more than ready to go home but he forces himself to stay out longer, knowing that the good weather won’t last much longer and wanting to enjoy it while he can.

As he walks by the rows of shops, one catches his eye. He draws to a stop, as far out of the way of pedestrian traffic as he can, and looks into the window of what looks like a pop-up art gallery. There are paintings in a window display on stands of varying height. One in particular catches his eye: a disjointed portrait of a woman with wild, purple hair, done in an abstract style that leaves her with only one of her eyes actually on her face

He takes his phone from his armband and brings up snapchat. He sends the picture to Sara with the comment, ever wonder how you’d look if Picasso designed u?.

He’s just moved on when his phone pings with a notification. Sara’s text is three crying laughing emojis; Ryan grins. Her next text comes quickly. It’s a picture of Obi sitting on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, the one that Ryan usually sits in.

The boy wants to know where his mimosas are.

Ryan texts as he walks. The boy is too young for champagne.

He’s older than all of us in cat years. Then, Are you coming?

He hesitates, unsure of how to respond. He wants to go, that’s not even a question, really. The quiet, little worry that he’s inserting himself into too much of their free time is what holds him up. Ryan doesn’t want them to get sick of him.

Of course, he can’t tell them that because if he is annoying them, they probably won’t be upfront with him about it. It feels like a double-edged sword and he doesn’t know what to say.

His phone buzzes again. It’s another text from Sara that is just a bunch of question marks.

Sorry I owe you guys extra champagne next week, he sends back before sliding his phone back into his armband.

Suddenly he feels like he could run another couple of miles, though the fatigue in his thighs tells him he’d better think twice about that. His phone vibrates again but he ignores it, this time. He’s hot and tired, sweat still clinging to his brow and soaking his hair. All he wants right now is a shower and to sprawl on his couch and play 2K with his roommates.

The thrilling life of a single guy in LA.

He’s just reached the sidewalk of the main strip, trying to decide if he wants to walk back to his place or take a Lyft, when his phone starts ringing. Somehow he knows it’s going to be Shane before he even sees the name on the screen. Ryan debates even answering it because he doesn’t know what he’s going to say.

Still, ignoring Shane isn’t going to help anything. He slides his phone back out and presses it to his ear.

“What’s up?”

“Are you not coming, today?”

“Ahh… no,” Ryan breathes, watching traffic slow to a stop at the light, nearby. “Sorry.”

Shane is quiet a beat. “You all right?”

“I’m good,” Ryan says, the words feeling bitter in his mouth. “Just needed to get a run in. Do some stuff around the house.”

Shane makes a sounds that doesn’t seem convinced. “All right. You wanna do dinner later? Sara keeps talking about kebobs and it’s making me want them, too.” Ryan hesitates. They’re making it really difficult to give them space when they’re not acting like they want any. “Ryan?”

He jumps a bit when Shane says his name. “Yeah,” comes the knee-jerk response, “yeah, sure. I’ll be there.”

There’s silence on the line for a moment, and Ryan almost checks to see if they’re still connected, but then Shane lets out a breath and says, “Okay. Six-thirty?”

“Sure.”

“Bring beer. Sara feels slighted about the mimosas.”

Ryan huffs a laugh. “Shouldn’t I bring champagne, then?”

“Champagne and kabobs? Who raised you?”

“Fine, beer it is.” Ryan only realizes that he’s smiling to himself when his cheeks start to hurt. “Text me requests. I’ve gotta get home and shower, though; I’m sweating like a pig, out here.”

Shane snorts. “Oh, baby, just what I like to hear.”

“Fuck off,” Ryan says, still grinning. “I’ll see you guys tonight.”

After Shane hangs up, Ryan stands on the curb for a moment, stomach twisting anxiously and he doesn’t know why. Determined to not think too much about it, he calls for a Lyft and sets everything else aside. He’s overthinking things, making them more complicated than they need to be.

Ryan runs a hand over his face, groaning into his palm. He doesn’t know when he became this person who reads too much into every single, little thing; whether it’s spending too much time with his friends or not enough, or mistakes he’s made with his exes. He wants out of his own head for a little while.

--

Neither of Ryan’s roommates are home when Ryan makes it back to the house. It gives him the opportunity to take an overly-long shower and jerk off, while he’s in there. He wastes hot water, letting himself indulge for entirely too long, until his fingers are pruney and he comes so hard his knees almost give out. His legs are already shaky enough from over-exertion and the orgasm almost does him in; he has to grip the towel bar when he steps out to keep his legs under him.

It’s weird but he can’t really remember the last time he got himself off. After the last breakup, he’d gone through a bit of a dry-spell, where he didn’t really care enough or think about it too much. It’s always more fun to do it with someone else, and whenever he’d tried, he’d just felt like a sad, lonely fuck. It was enough to keep his hands out of his pants, for a while.

Not even the guy at the bar had had the ability to get him going again.

Ryan spends the rest of the afternoon doing the shit around the house that he doesn’t really want to do. He strips his bed and changes the sheets, does the rest of his laundry and makes sure it’s all hung up and put away. The shirt Shane had loaned him a couple of weeks ago sits on top of his dresser, folded and ready to be returned to its owner—Ryan just hasn’t gotten around to giving it back, yet. He runs the dishwasher and cleans the stove, because it’s beginning to look like a science experiment at this point. After he swiffers all of the downstairs wood floors, he goes upstairs and calls his mom (about the only thing he needs to do that he actually wants to do).

He ends up falling asleep without meaning to, only waking up when Sara texts him a video of Obi drinking from the bathroom faucet.

There’s barely enough time for him to get dressed and fingercomb his hair into something presentable, before he’s out the door. Jogging the couple of blocks to the nearest corner store isn’t the best idea, considering it’s still humid as fuck outside, but he’s already committed to it so he suffers the consequences.

He calls a ride while he’s browsing the walk-in beer cooler. Try as he might, he can’t actually remember ever seeing Sara drink beer, before. He doesn’t have time to call her so he grabs one of the build-your-own six pack carriers and grabs at random.

The strange feeling of overstepping his bounds stays with him the entire ride to their house, though now it’s mixed with a hit of anxiety that he’s possibly screwed something up.

Problem is, he doesn’t know what he’s so worried that he’s screwed up.

--

Shane and Sara’s house is small but comfortable. It’s got the construction a lot of older LA homes have: exposed beams in the ceiling, rounded doorways, and stucco everything. They kept the paintjob the previous owners had done, including palm fronds on the walls of their living room, a guest bathroom wherein absolutely everything is pink, and a pale yellow kitchen. If it belonged to anyone else, it’d be a garish mess, but they’ve made it their own, little touches of their personalities spread all over the place. It’s organized chaos at its finest.

Ryan knocks on the front door before pushing it open and Obi bolts past, running for their bedroom. “Hey to you too, cat,” Ryan says, bending over to unlace his shoes.

The house smells good, like soy sauce and spices. Sara peeks her head around the corner, from the kitchen.

“Did you bring my—“ Ryan holds the six pack aloft, bottles clinking together as he steps out of his sneakers.

“Am I forgiven?” he asks as he comes into the kitchen.

Shane is spearing pepper slices onto skewers, over a cutting board. He glances over at Ryan. “Remains to be seen.” He lifts his elbow in Ryan’s direction. “Present your wares.”

Sara takes the carrier from him and digs through it, assessing each beer with Shane.

“Not bad, not bad,” she says, pulling open the equivalent of a junk drawer and shifting the contents around. Ryan takes the beer from her hand and pries the cap off of it with his teeth. Sara makes an appropriately impressed noise as she takes the bottle back from him.

Shane points at him with an empty skewer. “Your parents are gonna blow a fuse if you mar that orthodontic perfection doing frat house crap like that.”

Ryan flicks the cap at him, pinging off the side of his head and sliding off across the tile floor, under the refrigerator. Ryan tosses his arms up. “Field goal, baby.”

“We don’t allow that kind of talk in this house,” Shane says, turning back to the pan of chicken marinating in soy sauce.

Sara squeezes him with one arm. “I’m impressed.”

Ryan puts his arm around her and squeezes back, letting his hand rest on her shoulder. “All I gotta impress is the ladies.”

Shane rolls his eyes but he’s still got a relaxed smile on his face. “Why don’t you go impress us all by lighting the grill?”

“Lighter?” he asks.

Sara opens that same junk drawer to dig around inside of it again. It takes a bit of shuffling but she comes up with it, after a moment, handing it to him triumphantly.

That weird pit is in his stomach again as he opens up the back door and steps out onto the patio. Their back yard is small, barely room for the grill, let alone the hot tub and a failing tomato plant that Sara can’t seem to keep alive, no matter what she tries. The area is fenced on all sides and multi-colored Christmas lights are strung around the entirety of the space. There’s a citronella candle on a low-sitting table, nearby, that he lights before he gets to work on the grill.

He can’t get around the nervousness that’s pumping through him, right now, and he has no idea why.

The sun is starting to creep toward the horizon and the sky is already changing colors. He tips his head back, taking a breath in and letting it out as slowly as he can.

When the back door opens, and Shane steps out, his heart lurches in his chest. This is going to be a long night.

--

They sit outside while they eat and watch the sky turn brilliant shades of purple and orange, before going dark enough to be dotted with stars. Ryan leans back with his hands on the deck and stares upward. Shane takes their plates inside to rinse them off, and Sara scoots a little closer on his right.

So close that her thigh is touching his.

When he looks at her, she’s already looking at him, knees drawn up and arms folded between her thighs and her chest. She’s resting her cheek on them, and she looks so tiny, it’s unreal. The barely-there breeze ruffles the loose curls at her temple and she tries in vain to tuck them back behind her ear, but they’re too short to stay put.

He doesn’t know what she’s waiting for so he speaks first. “Sorry about this morning.”

She shrugs, the stretched neck of her shirt slipping down her pale shoulder. “You’ve gotta show up. Shane won’t eat my experimental omelettes anymore.”

“Some of them have been a little sketchy, lately.”

Sara smacks his shoulder with the back of her hand, smiling when he does, looking tired. Ryan sits up fully and suddenly they’re a lot closer than he’d really realized. It’d be weird to move away, though, so he just stays where he is. Sara’s eyes are darker than usual, in the fading evening light and Ryan feels an unwelcome, familiar pang behind his ribs.

Fuck.

He clears his throat and looks skyward again. What is taking Shane so long?

Sara’s arm loops through his and she tips her head over onto his shoulder. Ryan tries not to freeze in place. Reaching over, he pats her hand with his, listening to her quiet breathing. He doesn’t know how long it is before she speaks again.

“Why didn’t you come? And don’t lie, either. You suck at lying so I’ll know.”

There’s no real denying that; Ryan has never been fast enough on his feet to be a good liar. He swallows to wet his throat. “I just feel like I’ve been third wheeling a lot.”

Sara makes a grumpy sound. “You know if we didn’t want you around, we’d tell you to go away, right?”

“I don’t know,” Ryan says, letting out a breath that feels like it’s deflating his chest. Sara squeezes his arm harder. “I’ve been such a sad sack, lately, I thought maybe you didn’t have the heart to say it.”

“Trust me, I always have the heart to tell people to get out of my house.”

Ryan laughs and tips his head to the side, bumping hers with his chin. “I appreciate that, I guess.”

“You should. Don’t go away.”

“I’m not.”

Neither of them says anything or moves again until Shane opens the back door and calls them inside.

--

Ryan settles on one end of the couch, as far away as he can get from Obi, who is sleeping on the opposite end. Sara and Shane are in the kitchen, under the guise of making popcorn, but Ryan has a sneaking suspicion that they’re talking about him. There’s not a whole lot that he can do about it, though, so he distracts himself by looking for a movie for them to watch.

With fall just around the corner, there’s no shortage of creepy shows on Netflix. He goes with Stranger Things because he’s watched every season enough times that he doesn’t have to put any effort into watching to understand what’s going on.

Shane and Sara both come in from the kitchen at the same time, only furthering his belief that he was the topic of conversation, in there. Sara stops on his end of the couch and makes a shooing motion with one hand, holding a bowl of popcorn against her chest with the other.

“That’s my spot,” she says, flapping her hand at him. He makes a show of sizing her tiny little self up, but pushes himself over onto the middle cushion, anyway. She plops down beside him, bouncing a bit as she settles. She’s right up against his side again, and he shifts, trying not to jab her with his elbow.

On his other side, Shane is gently moving Obi from the couch to the floor. The cat isn’t quiet about being forced to move, meowing loudly as Shane sets him down. He crawls under the coffee table, a low-sitting giant, made from repurposed wood and painted teal. Shane takes the vacated spot to his right, and they hedge him in on both ends.

Ryan slumps down into the pillows, putting his feet up on the table and crossing them at the ankles, folding his fingers against his stomach. Shane is close enough that he feels hot, almost uncomfortably so, but Ryan doesn’t have any way of putting distance between them, with Sara bracketing his other side.

Counting his breaths helps him relax and slow his breathing. It won’t do him any good to start acting like a weirdo. These are his friends and this isn’t anything they haven’t done before.

It doesn’t take long for Ryan to relax. He slouches deeper into the cushions, picking at the popcorn that Sara has mostly demolished on her own. Shane mirrors his pose, putting his long legs up on the coffee table and sinking down beside him, their elbows touching. They don’t talk much, content to watch the show in silence, aside from the occasional comment on something in the show. Eventually, Sara abandons the popcorn, setting the bowl aside, on the floor, and turning to curl up against Ryan’s side.

“I’m freezing,” she says, bracing her hand against his chest to pull the blanket from the back of the couch over to her. She wraps herself up in it, pulling her legs up onto the couch, leaving only her head visible, nudging at Ryan until he lifts his arm and lets her nestle up under it.

Ryan glances sidelong at Shane, but there’s no outward reaction from him. If he doesn’t mind his girlfriend and best friend snuggling right beside him, then Ryan isn’t going to make something out of nothing. He adjusts his grip and pulls her in closer. She settles with her head on his shoulder, her curly hair just barely snagging on his stubble as she makes tiny adjustments, getting comfortable. Ryan can feel when her breathing slows, only a few minutes later, and he knows that she’s fallen asleep.

It’s barely ten o’clock.

Not long after, Ryan moves his feet back to the floor, flexing his toes against the pins and needles sensation coming on. Without warning, Obi attacks his foot. Ryan barely keeps himself from jostling Sara or kicking the cat out of reflex. Shane lifts his head to look down and stage-whispers a hey! that has Obi bolting off toward the kitchen. Ryan turns his unamused gaze on Shane when their eyes meet. Shane just smiles at him, then leans over further to look at Sara; only her head is visible above the blanket and her face is mostly obscured by her own hair.

Whatever is going through Shane’s head, he still doesn’t have any sort of visible reaction, resettling himself next to Ryan without a word. This time, though, he puts his arm along the back of the couch. It’s not around Ryan’s shoulders, exactly, but he brings his hand up until his fingers are scratching through Ryan’s hair. At first he thinks Shane meant to touch Sara’s hair, but he repeats the motion, over and over, light little strokes against his scalp, tugging gently at small tufts of his hair.

Ryan’s heart starts to beat a little faster. He licks his bottom lip and tells himself not to look away from the screen; if he does, Shane might stop and then, worse, they’ll have to talk about it.

Minutes pass and Shane doesn’t stop, and Ryan starts to breathe easier. The tightness in his chest begins to release, bleeding out of him as he relaxes under the borderline hypnotic motion of Shane’s fingers in his hair. Sara sniffs and rubs her nose before going still again; Ryan tightens his arm, rubbing absentminded circles around the ball of her shoulder.

Shane cards his fingers in Ryan’s hair and goes still. When he doesn’t start up again, Ryan waits a beat before finally looking at him.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, careful and quiet.

Ryan holds his gaze in the flickering light of the television.

He probably doesn’t think about it enough before he answers with an honest, “No.”

Shane’s eyes move across his face, like he’s looking for something. He must find whatever he’s searching for because he turns his attention back to the tv without another word. His fingers resume the gentle pull at Ryan’s hair.

The weird feeling in Ryan’s chest is morphing, solidifying into something more easily identifiable and it only serves to worry him. He doesn’t know if he can handle much more of this. The cold comfort of having had pointless crushes in the past, and knowing that they eventually go away, is all that Ryan has right now. He’s never had one like this before. Never on two people who are already together. Never on his friends.

He’s too afraid to hope that their casual affection is anything other than friendship, no matter how it looks or what it feels like.

He’s too selfish to wish it away entirely.

--

The shift between the three of them is so subtle, just a shade different from the way things usually are, that if he wasn’t so hyper aware of it, Ryan isn’t sure that he’d notice the change at all. He’s always been a tactile person, never one to shy away from casual affection with his friends. He likes being close to the people that he cares about, and he’s always cared about Shane and Sara.

After that Saturday night on their couch, with Sara bundled up against him and Shane stroking his hair, he knows he’s not imagining the change on their part, either. He just doesn’t know what it means and he’s too afraid to ask, too unsure of what their aim is.

Still, Ryan can’t help himself. He’s got a soft heart (and an even softer head, apparently) and he knows that he’s got himself tripped up over the two of them.

They don’t make it easy on him to ignore, either. It’s impossible to try to let things lie when every day they keep pulling him in closer and closer to them. And, like an idiot, Ryan goes willingly.

“Watch it,” Ryan says, taking Sara by the elbow to steer her around a jogger and her dog coming the other direction. She’s got her gaze down, buried in her phone, not paying attention to their surroundings. They’re down at the beach, walking near the boardwalk, enjoying the last flares of residual summer heat before things start to cool off.

Or cool off as much as they ever do, in SoCal.

Shane is a few steps behind them, talking to his mom on the phone. She’d called him right after they’d left the restaurant they’d grabbed dinner at, and Ryan has been left in charge of making sure that Sara doesn’t tumble down a rock wall and break her legs.

He puts both hands on her waist and guides her to walk in front of him. “What are you even doing?”

“Pokémon Go,” she says without looking up.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Ryan glances over his shoulder at Shane who smiles and holds up an index finger before going back to the conversation he’s having with his mother. Ryan hooks his fingers in the belt loop at the back of her jeans and tugs her over in front of him when she starts to stray to the side again.

“You’re gonna break your neck over a fuckin’ pikachu,” he grumbles, not without amusement.

“A pikachu in a cute little hat,” she corrects.

Ryan leans over her shoulder to look down at her phone and she lifts it to show him the screen. “Fuckin’ Pokémon master.”

“No one even plays that, anymore,” he says, making a half-hearted grab for her phone.

Sara transfers it to her other hand and holds it away from him, sticking her tongue out as she does. Ryan acts like he’s going to pinch it and she lets out a little squeal, pushing his face away with the palm of her hand while he laughs.

Taking hold of her free hand, he pulls her back until her hip bumps his. “All right, fine, go back to being a nerd. I’ll make sure you don’t trample any small children.”

Sara gives him a suspicious, narrow-eyed look before lowering her gaze to her phone again. Her hand slips in his and he loosens his grip, but instead of letting go, she snags his fingers with hers. Ryan feels the prickling urge to look back at Shane again, but he doesn’t. They continue on for a bit, like that, Sara playing on her phone and trusting Ryan to not let her run headlong into anything or anyone, and Shane following close behind.

They approach a rock wall, at the end of which is a set of steps that lead down to the beach. Sara locks her phone and sticks it into her back pocket, dragging Ryan closer to the flat-topped rocks so that she can climb up and walk along them. Ryan holds her hand, letting her use him for balance, even though she doesn’t really need it.

Although a strong wind could probably blow her over the edge. He holds on tight, just in case.

They don’t have any solid plans for the evening and it’s nice to just hang out without any expectations.

Sara hops down, when the rock wall starts to slant downward, and leads them toward the beach.

Aside from the no-winter aspect of things, the ocean has always been Ryan’s favorite part about living on the coast. He’s experienced enough of what the mid and eastern states have to offer, as far as shitty weather goes, and he’ll take sunshine and unseasonable heat any day. Shane likes to rib him about how soft he is, any time they’re knee-deep in snow, in some haunted, frozen hellscape, but it’s a fair trade for not having had to grow up in Illinois.

Sara steps out of her sandals and wanders toward the ocean, phone out, probably looking for fucking water Pokémon or some shit. Ryan stops beside her discarded sandals and folds his arms, squinting a little as he stares out at the horizon. Someone is parasailing in the distance and Ryan can’t think of anything he’d like to do less.

Cold fingers worm their way under the collar of his shirt, making his neck prickle instantly with goosebumps, and Ryan jumps, listening to Shane’s wheezy laugh. He comes to stand beside Ryan, holding up a hand to shade his eyes as he watches Sara wander back and forth through the damp sand at the shoreline.

“What’s she doing?”

“Catching Pokémon, isn’t it obvious?”

“Ahh, of course.”

In the silence that falls between them, Ryan is nearly overcome with the need to ask Shane about this thing. But again, he’s overpowered by the fear of hearing the truth, whatever it may be. He tightens his grip on his own forearms and keeps his mouth shut.

“I had a meeting today,” Shane says after a minute or so of comfortable silence.

Ryan looks at him. “About what?”

“Ruining History.”

“Yeah?” Ryan doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way Shane looked when he told him that BuzzFeed wasn’t going to fund another season of the show. That look of bitter disappointment made Ryan feel even guiltier when Unsolved had been given the go-ahead for another season. And pretty much however many seasons they want to do.

“I talked them into four more episodes.”

“Seriously?” Ryan asks, quietly.

Shane nods, looking over at him.

“That’s awesome.” Ryan claps him on the shoulder, squeezing before letting his hand drop, fingers trailing down Shane’s side until they fall away almost entirely. He swears that his heart skips a beat when Shane catches his hand and holds it.

“Will you be on the panel?”

“For your show?” Shane nods. “Yeah, obviously, asshole. I thought I was a permanent fixture.”

Shane looks at him, squeezing Ryan’s fingers in his own before letting go to stick his hands in his front pockets. “You are.” Ryan looks away, flexing his hand before folding his arms again. “Asshole,” Shane adds, almost as an afterthought.

Ryan snorts.

Sara comes running toward them, in a way that can only be described as frolicking. She holds out her arms and leaps at Shane, forcing him to catch her with a quiet oof when she collides with his chest. Still, he doesn’t drop her, squeezing her with both arms and lifting her off her feet, swinging her slightly from side to side. She holds onto Shane and hitches her legs up around his waist; Ryan feels an anxious sort of pang in his chest and he forces himself to look away.

Ryan’s almost pulled off his feet when Sara leans over and hooks an arm around his neck, tugging him in until his shoulder knocks against Shane’s. He barely manages to stay on his feet, catching himself on Shane’s bony hip.

“Jesus christ—“ he’s cut off, half-laughing when Sara draws him in, her knee digging into his side. She’s freakishly strong for being as tiny as she is. “Goddamn She-Hulk, over here.”

Ryan puts his hand on her back, his last two fingers overlapping with Shane’s, and Sara plants a loud, exaggerated kiss on the top of his head. She keeps her arms around them, elbows hooked behind each of their necks, holding them what should be uncomfortably close. But Ryan just feels warm.

He’s content not to move, uncaring of the sight they must make, standing ankle-deep in the sand, huddled up together, with this tiny girl holding them both in a headlock. Closing his eyes, for a moment, Ryan just breathes.

For the first time, he’s not thinking of all the ways that this thing taking shape between them could go wrong.

--

Ryan isn’t used to nice things just falling into his lap. Everything he has, he’s worked his ass off for. His job, his house, Unsolved, he’s poured his heart and soul into making his life in LA work. He doesn’t have connections, people don’t owe him special favors, he doesn’t usually get the hook-up in regard to practically anything. So when his roommate comes into the kitchen, one Friday morning, and slides an envelope across the island countertop to him, he’s really not expecting two lower bowl Kings tickets to be inside.

“How much?” he asks, checking the season ticket holder price.

Daniel shrugs. “Free. Got ‘em through work and I can’t go.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I’ve got my parents’ anniversary dinner tonight. They’re yours if you want ‘em.”

Hockey isn’t his usual thing but there’s no way Ryan’s turning down the opportunity to sit twelve rows from center ice at the Staples Center.

Daniel hops up on the counter, digging into a cereal box with his hand. Ryan refrains from making a comment, lest he piss him off and lose the tickets. He tucks them into his back pocket, just to be safe.

“Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

“Just remember this the next time I need someone to drive my car home from the bar.”

“You’re looking at your personal chauffeur.”

“I also get to sit in the back and order you around. You may be required to wear a little hat.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Ryan says, standing up and dumping his plate into the sink.

Daniel just grins at him around a mouthful of Lucky Charms, like the gross asshole that he is. And Ryan loves him and his Kings tickets all the same.

--

Ryan has a plan.

He tracks Sara down, as soon as she gets to the office. She’s sequestered away, pretty much by herself, because she gets distracted easily and says she’ll never get anything done, otherwise. She smiles at him when he comes into the room, pausing whatever it is that she’s watching and sliding her headphones down around her neck. The flutter in his stomach isn’t easy to ignore but it’s familiar enough now that it doesn’t take his feet out from under him, anymore, either.

He puts his hands on her shoulders and she tips her head back to smile up at him.

“Hey.”

“Morning,” she says.

“What would you say if I told you I had two tickets to the Kings game, tonight?”

“I’d say ‘ask Shane’.” Ryan laughs, squeezing both hands. “Do that again,” she says quickly, tipping her head forward. “I slept weird and everything hurts."

Ryan does as he’s told and digs in with his thumbs. “So you don’t mind if I snag Shane tonight?”

She shakes her head, still drooping between her shoulders. “If I can’t ice skate, I don’t wanna watch other people do it.”

“Fair enough.”

He rubs Sara’s shoulders until she sits upright again and reaches over to pat one of Ryan’s hands. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He squeezes her shoulders again, for good measure, and lets go. “You’re the best!” Ryan calls, pointing at her with both hands as he backs out of the room.

“I know!”

She’s already got her headphones back on and video playing again by the time he clears the doorway.

Shane is still unpacking his stuff when Ryan gets to their shared desk space, his laptop still shut and his desktop monitor in sleep mode. He’s digging in his bag for something, hair looking a fucking mess and his glasses shoved up into it.

“Those work better if they’re actually on your face,” Ryan says, helpfully as he drops down into his chair and wheels himself closer with the toes of his shoes.

Shane gives him a flat look. “Wow, thank you.”

Ryan lifts his hips to pull the tickets from his back pocket, pressing them against his thigh to smooth the creases out. He’s got to find a better place for them, so they don’t end up torn all to shit before tonight. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“What would you say to an evening with the two-time Stanley Cup Champion LA Kings and yours truly?”

Shane lifts an eyebrow and stops rooting around his bag. “Are you asking me to do a sports-related thing?”

“Yeah,” he says, holding the tickets up between them.

Narrowing his gaze, Shane pulls his glasses down to rest on his nose and give the tickets a once-over.

“Seriously?”

“I’ll even buy you a ten-dollar hot dog.”

“Ten dollars?”

“Okay, exaggerating, but not by much.”

Shane reseats his glasses on top of his head, looking at Ryan, again. “I didn’t think you liked hockey.”

“It’s fun,” he says with a shrug. “Besides, the Staples Center is pretty cool. Like, literally, it’s fucking freezing in there.”

“Well, it is filled with ice.”

Ryan swats him with the tickets. “Come on, will you go with me?”

Shane must hear something that Ryan isn’t saying, but is written between the lines because he reaches over and puts his hand on Ryan’s knee, for a moment. “I’m just giving you shit. I’ll go,” he says, his voice oddly soft.

The back of Ryan’s neck heats as he tries not to smile as widely as he wants to. “Cool.”

“I’m not wearing anything purple, though.”

“The fact that you know that the throwback jerseys are purple says enough.” Shane doesn’t have a reply to that, turning back to whatever he was looking for in his bag. Ryan pats him sympathetically on the shoulder. “I’ll buy you a shersey.”

“A what?”

--

The first order of business, once they get inside the arena is to get Shane a Kings shirt. He absolutely refuses to spend money on anything sports-related, but Ryan has no intention of making him pay for it himself. Shane goes for a shirt without a player’s name and number on the back, instead opting for an early 90s callback shirt in black and gray. He poses dutifully for a picture, looking as unamused as humanly possible, holding the stuffed Bailey that Ryan bought for Sara.

Ryan instagrams it before they even get to their seats, leading Shane through the concourse, toward their section, on memory alone.

He captions it: The big guy’s first NHL game! adding a couple of shocked emoji faces for good measure, and tags Shane, right in the middle of his face.

Shane huffs a laugh and likes the picture before sitting back in his seat. His long legs fold up awkwardly, shins pressed to the seatback in front of him, and his thigh snug up against Ryan’s.

“I’m pretty sure this is the coldest place in the state of California.” Shane says, about five minutes into the first period. He rubs his hands together, like he’s been stranded in the Arctic Circle, or something equally dramatic. Ryan just shakes his head, tracking the puck as it moves up the ice.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Is this how you indoctrinate people as sports fans? Give them hypothermia and then they’ll do anything you want in order to keep all of their appendages?”

Without looking away from the ice, Ryan reaches over and clasps his fingers around Shane’s wrist, wiggling until he gets his hand between both of Shane’s. It’s so much easier to fold their fingers together when he’s not hyper-focused on what he’s doing or Shane’s potential reaction.

It’s so simple and sickeningly sweet to feel Shane’s fingers tighten around his own. Their hands rest on his thigh, and Ryan rubs his thumb over the chilled skin of Shane’s knuckles. He doesn’t pull back, not even when their palms start to sweat. Ryan only jerks out of his grasp when he jumps up to celebrate a goal. Shane gets to his feet more slowly, clapping without any real enthusiasm, but when Ryan looks back, Shane is watching him, the corner of his mouth pulled up into a smile.

--

“You wanna come in for a while?” Shane asks when Ryan pulls up outside of his and Sara’s house. “I think I deserve some time in the hot tub, after the igloo you just made me sit in for the last four hours.”

There’s a rush of nervousness in his belly but it’s muted, dulled by the twist of excitement mixed up in it.

“Sure.”

Following Shane up to the front door feels a little bit like the awkward end of a date, except for the fact that he’s completely at ease. And that Sara is asleep on the couch, with Obi curled up around her head. When the door closes, she blinks awake, pushing herself up on her elbow and dislodging the cat, who meows his disappointment at having been moved.

“How was it?” Sara asks around a yawn.

“They did the sports,” Shane tells her as he finishes unlacing his boots and steps out of them.

She nods. “Good to hear,”

Ryan nudges his Nikes out of the way and pads over to lean against the back of the couch, sitting the little, stuffed Bailey on the cushion near her head

“I got you a friend.”

“Aww,” Sara says, sitting up fully, crossing her legs as she does; she takes the lion from him and hugs it to her chest. “I love him.”

Ryan’s cheeks feel a little warm as he smiles at her, just a little too close. She surprises him when she leans in and kisses his cheek.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, uhh…” he trails off, looking at her face, fabric creases on her cheek and hair coming out of the tiny ponytail she’s pulled it into. He swallows.

Shane’s hands land on his shoulders, pulling him upright again; his knees feel wobbly.

“Hot tub?” he asks.

Ryan nods, swallowing the lump forming in the back of his throat.

“Sounds good.” Sara gets to her feet, stretching, holding the stuffed lion in one hand, and her shirt riding up her pale, flat belly as she does. When she comes around the side of the couch, she puts her free hand on Ryan’s arm and leans up to kiss Shane.

Ryan has to bite the inside of his bottom lip.

“I didn’t bring anything to wear,” he says, once Shane’s grip loosens and falls away.

“Just wear your boxers. We’re not gonna judge.”

Ryan huffs a breath through his nose. “The chlorine is going to totally ruin the fabric.”

“Then go naked,” Shane says, laughing when Ryan blinks at him. “I’m gonna change. We’ll be out in a second.”

He turns and heads down the dark hallway to where their bedroom door is partially opened, casting a cone of light onto the opposing wall. Obi is sitting just outside, rolling over to expose his belly when Shane steps over him, into the room.

The whole house is dark, most of the curtains drawn, so Ryan moves into the kitchen and strips off his shirt and jeans, haphazardly folding them over the back of a chair. He feels a little awkward, standing around in their kitchen in his boxer-briefs and nothing else, so he opens the back door and pads out to the hot tub.

The cover is off already, so he climbs the steps and brushes off the bottoms of his feet before sliding in. There are a few stay leaves floating on the water that he takes the time to pluck out and flick over the side. The weather is still decent, even for October, but he’s a California baby at heart and the fall and winter months absolutely kill him. The water feels so good on his chilled skin and the jets feel even better on his back.

He sinks in until his knees are on the bottom; holding his breath, he submerges himself until just his eyes are above the waterline. He stays like that until his lungs are absolutely bursting, then he ducks under to wet his hair, combing it back with his fingers as he settles into one of the seats.

His skin steams when he settles his arms along the side of the hot tub, and he tips his head back, closing his eyes while he waits for Shane and Sara.

Before long, the back door opens and closes, and then Sara’s bare feet come pounding along the deck before she’s practically hurling herself into the hot tub, water splashing everywhere. Ryan splutters as she pops back up, hair sticking to her face.

“What the fuck was that?” Ryan asks, half laughing as he wipes water from his eyes.

“It’s cold out there.”

“You’re all soft,” Shane calls to them. He drops a stack of folded towels on the edge of the deck before he makes the short trek across the grass and climbs in as well. He splashes significantly less than Sara did.

“I think you like being from the Midwest solely because it lets you brag about fucking snowmen or whatever it is you losers do out there.”

Sara laughs while she does her best to drift on her back in the minimal space she has. Shane grabs one of her arms and pulls her over until she sits upright on his lap.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve fucked a snowbank,” Shane tells him, over Sara’s shoulder.

“I’ll pass.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

The words ring oddly in Ryan’s head, like they’re meant for a different conversation. He tips his head back again, staring up at the cloudless night sky, and takes a deep breath. They’re all quiet for a moment, only the churning of the water disturbing the stillness around them.

Sara’s foot nudges his chest and Ryan looks down at it before he meets her gaze.

“Rub my feet.”

“No way,” Ryan says, pushing them both away when the other drifts up to join it.

They come right back, lifted slightly out of the water, toes wiggling. “Please?”

“No, make Shane rub ‘em.”

Sara heaves a heavy sigh, like she’s never been so put out in her life. “Fine,” she groans, turning and pushing off of Shane until her back hits Ryan’s chest; his hands automatically come up to hold onto her waist. She holds her foot up at Shane, smiling widely at him in a silent plea, toes still wiggling.

He gives her a flat look but he takes her foot in his hands and starts rubbing.

Sara sighs, leaning back against Ryan in a way that is far from uncomfortable but also probably more than a little inappropriate, considering. She leans her head back against his shoulder and sighs as Shane works at her foot. Ryan doesn’t move, keeping his hands where they are, spread over her sides, and watching Shane.

There isn’t anything to suggest that Shane is unhappy with the current situation. And there shouldn’t be, Ryan reminds himself. Shane is looking right at him. Everything is heavy, weighing down on him and making him feel like he should be struggling to breathe. But he’s not. Something is fundamentally different, now, and Ryan knows that the turning point is rapidly approaching, if they haven’t passed it already.

Shane’s leg slides forward, rubbing up against his own, heat coiling in his belly as Sara lets out another, breathier sigh, right beside his ear.

Ryan bites his lips. He wants this. He wants them.

Taking a slow breath through his nose, Ryan carefully runs his hands up Sara’s sides, feeling her inhale where his fingers settle into the divots of her ribs. He stops with the tips of his fingers just barely pressed up under her bikini top, on the soft, wet swell of her breasts.

Sara’s breath catches when Ryan stops. His thumbs press and rub, hard enough to be felt, to be deliberate.

“Ryan.” He meets Shane’s steady gaze.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want this?”

And there it is. Ryan closes his eyes for a moment. Finally. Finally.

“I hope you mean more than just a threesome,” he says, his voice hoarse.

Sara’s wet fingers reach up to trace the tip of his ear, before moving back to cradle his neck. Her chest arches and Ryan pushes his hands up further, cupping the underside of her breasts. Sara lets out soft sigh, nails digging into the back of his neck, making Ryan’s dick twitch with interest; he spreads his legs a little.

The water shifts as Shane moves closer, sitting down beside him and taking hold of his chin in one hand. He pushes Ryan’s hair back with the other and Ryan nearly melts under the gentle touch.

He closes his eyes when Shane leans in and kisses him, soft and wet, lighting him up inside. It lingers, Shane’s tongue just barely touching his, lips a little chapped but so good against his own. It feels like Ryan has been waiting for this since the moment he met Shane. It feels so good.

He doesn’t want it to stop. He leans after Shane when he pulls away, but he’s stopped by the hand on his chin. His eyes open halfway again and Shane is still close, his breath puffing over Ryan’s mouth. A thumb brushes over his bottom lip.

“Yeah, Ry.”

“What?” Ryan asks, eyes opening fully.

“It’s more than just threesomes.”

Sara puts her hand on the back of his and pushes it up under the fabric of her bathing suit top, until he’s cupping her breast in his hand. He squeezes lightly and she lets out another breathy sound.

“Jesus,” Ryan whispers, turning toward her.

She kisses him, harder than Shane had, sucking at his tongue when he pushes into her mouth. It’s hot and deep and his dick is definitely starting to take an interest in things. He kisses her until he’s breathing heavily from his nose, pressed against her cheek. Shane wraps an arm around his neck, fingers carding into his hair, and puts his other hand on Ryan’s, squeezing Sara’s breast again.

She pulls back, nails dug into his neck, breathing hard. Ryan presses his forehead to her temple, nose touching her cheek.

“Fuck, you guys have no idea…” Ryan trails off, turning his head to kiss Shane again.

The heat of the water and the press of their bodies against his is rapidly making Ryan feel lightheaded. He pulls back to suck in a breath, his exhale rattling out of him, against Shane’s mouth.

“Wait, wait,” he says, pulling his hand from under Sara’s top and sliding it down to rest on her belly, thumb in the indent of her navel.

“You okay?” she asks, her voice quiet and breathy.

“I’m good. I’m really good.” He fumbles around for Shane’s hand in the water, squeezing tightly when he finds it. “I just—we should probably talk about this. A lot.”

Fingers slot through his own and squeeze back. “It’s weird when you’re the voice of reason.”

Ryan wheezes a little. “Yeah, fuck you. Why am I the only one hot and bothered, here?”

Sara hooks her arm around his neck, turning until she can lay her legs across Shane’s lap. She pinches Ryan’s cheek.

“You’re not, you’re just the cutest one, when your face is all red.”

“Whatever,” he mumbles, letting his head thump back against the edge of the hot tub. He closes his eyes, fighting down the heat in his face. “You guys’ve had each other to talk to about this. I’ve been on my own.”

“To be fair, we have been flirting with you for about a month and a half, now.”

Ryan only opens his eyes to pin Shane with an unamused look. Shane just smiles at him, running the tips of his fingers over Ryan’s hairline, the touch gentle and sweet.

“I was flirting back,” Ryan says, curling his fingers in the hip-tie of Sara’s bikini bottoms. “I just… I don’t know. It’s… are we really doing this? I mean, the dude at the bar was the first guy I’ve kissed in years.”

“I have faith that you know where everything is and how it works.”

Ryan laughs, still feeling a bit lightheaded but less overwhelmed than he was a few minutes ago. It’s still just Shane and Sara; these are still his friends. They can talk about this because it’s what adults do.

“I’m really afraid we’re gonna fuck this up.” He looks between them; Sara unusually quiet and Shane weirdly serious.

“You wanna think about it?” Sara asks.

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Saucy,” she says, lifting her eyebrow and wiggling her shoulders.

Shane laughs, his fingers still running through Ryan’s hair, soothing and slow.

“Okay,” Shane says, “how about we sleep on it and continue this tomorrow when we’re not tired and not in a hot tub?”

“Yeah that’s—yeah.” Ryan nods.

Shane climbs out first, taking a couple giant strides to the deck to get one of the towels. He holds it open for Sara who practically sprints over to him, lifting her arms so he can wrap it around her. Ryan has one foot on the steps and one on the grass when Shane unfolds another towel and holds it out. He stares at Ryan, shaking it at him like he’s tempting a bull into charging at him.

“Who says chivalry is dead?” Ryan asks, crossing the short distance to the deck and reaching out for the towel; but Shane tosses it around his shoulders instead. When Ryan takes hold of the ends, pulling it tighter around him, Shane rubs his arms briefly before picking up the remaining towel for himself.

“I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you that your biceps really do it for me.”

Ryan blinks, letting out a surprised laugh. “All those hours at the gym are worth it, then.”

“I’ll say.” Shane gestures to the open door, that Sara has disappeared through. “After you,”

Ryan goes into the guest bathroom to change into a pair of sweats that are long enough to pool over his feet, and a well-worn BuzzFeed t-shirt that Shane gives him. He quickly dries off his hair and tosses the damp towel over the shower rod before stepping out into the hallway again.

For a moment, he feels incredibly awkward, unsure of what he should be doing. Should he go home and give everyone the space to really think about whether or not this is something they all want? Probably. Should he stay over and spend the night on the couch, with the cat? Maybe.

The bedroom door opens, the soft light from the bedside table lamps pouring out into the hallway. Shane steps out, behind him Ryan can see Sara pulling on a t-shirt, her back turned to the both of them. He moves toward Shane, meeting him in the middle of the hall.

“You don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to,” Shane tells him quietly.

“I want to.” There’s no hesitation when he says it. It’s the truth. “And I don’t wanna sleep on the couch, with the cat, if I don’t have to.”

Shane laughs quietly and shakes his head. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch. But fair warning, you’re gonna have to sleep in the middle, and Sara likes to be the big spoon.”

Ryan reaches for his hand and squeezes it, leaning back against the wall. He gives himself a moment to just look at Shane’s stupidly-handsome face.

“Is this really a good idea?” Ryan’s voice is almost a whisper.

“Do you want it?” Shane asks, keeping his voice quiet to match Ryan’s.

If he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t have to think about that question at all. He knows that he wants everything that they’re offering to him. It’s not one or the other, it’s both and he can’t believe that it’s actually something that he can have. That they want him back.

He nods, swallowing to wet his dry throat. “Yeah. I do.”

Shane brings both hands up to hold his head, tipping it back, and then leaning down to kiss him, chaste but lingering. Ryan holds onto his elbows and tries not to push up onto his tiptoes to even out the height difference. This must be how Sara feels all the time.

When Shane pulls back, Ryan leans into him, putting his forehead down on Shane’s shoulder. Arms wrap around him, warm and heavy, holding him there.

“We’ll figure it out, Ry,” Shane tells him, quiet but confident.

Ryan nods, opening his mouth to respond, when Sara clears her throat, obnoxiously loud, from the bedroom doorway. Both of them turn their heads to look. Sara is standing there in a pair of sleep shorts and a too-big t-shirt, a hand on either side of the doorframe.

“First of all, why am I not being included in the cuddling? Second of all, it’s bedtime, boys.” She claps her hands together as if to hurry them along, and then turns and makes her way over to the bed.

“We better listen,” Shane tells him. “She gets feisty if she doesn’t go to bed on time.”

“I didn’t realize she was ninety years old.”

“I can hear you!”

Ryan snorts, letting Shane lead him into the bedroom.

It should be weird, kissing two people goodnight and watching them kiss each other, but it’s not. It should feel uncomfortable, sleeping in the same bed as two other people, but it just makes Ryan feel warm. It should probably feel awkward, getting absorbed into someone else’s long-standing relationship, but it doesn’t.

Sara really does fit herself behind him, nudging right up against his back. Shane lies on his back on Ryan’s other side. He mouths a silent told you at Ryan, eyes squinting up when he smiles.

It shouldn’t be this easy, but it is.

Maybe it’s because he knows them so well, or maybe it’s because he’s so completely exhausted, but Ryan falls asleep faster than he thinks should be possible.

--

The next morning isn’t at all awkward, which Ryan thinks is a good start. He’s sure that’s something a lot of people who wake up with an extra person (or two) in their bed can’t say with any confidence.

Ryan makes coffee while Sara showers. Shane runs out to a nearby restaurant that makes a mean brunch burrito (Shane’s words, not his). Ryan decides to reserve his judgment until he has one in front of him.

Being relatively alone in their house doesn’t make him feel out of place. The terracotta kitchen floor is cold under his bare feet, but the window over the sink looks out into the backyard, and Ryan doesn’t feel like moving. He sips his coffee there, until Sara comes out in jeans and a sweatshirt that is speckled with a multitude of different colors of paint. He lifts his arm and Sara leans heavily against him, reaching over and taking his coffee mug out of his hand.

“Good morning to you, too.”

Sara grumbles wordlessly.

Ryan rolls his eyes, a fond smile tugging at his mouth as he stretches to put another k-cup in without letting go of her. Sara’s curls smell like mint and Ryan doesn’t even mind where her hair is dampening the shoulder of his shirt with an increasingly wider blue stain. It’s Shane’s anyway.

They don’t really move or speak until Shane comes back, carrying a brown paper bag in each hand.

“Finally,” Ryan says, following Sara toward the table, new coffee mug in hand.

“Fuck you,” Shane says, tossing one of the bags at him.

Sara takes the other as Shane presses a kiss to her forehead. Ryan puckers up exaggeratedly as he passes, and Shane grabs him around the waist and kisses him hard and loud, making Ryan groan.

“I think you cut my lip,” he says, setting the bag and his coffee down on the table.

“You’ll get used to my aggressive kissing technique.”

“And stubble burn,” Sara says, peeling the foil off of her burrito. “You two are gonna start a wildfire, if you’re not careful.”

Shane sucks in a breath through his teeth as he takes his coffee mug off the Keurig. “Forgot about that.”

“Now you’ll know my pain,” Sara says, darkly.

“And you’ll know it double.”

Sara kicks Ryan under the table. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Ryan holds up his hands. “Go easy on me, it’s my first day.”

“Second.” Shane pulls out the chair across from Ryan and sits down, coffee mug steaming in his hand. “Ain’t no JV days, here. It’s varsity or nothin’.”

“Oh my god,” Ryan says, rubbing his face with both hands. “We’re gonna work on the sports thing.”

Shane waves a dismissive hand around. “Sports are forbidden, in this house.”

“I want a divorce,” Ryan says, seriously.

Shane and Sara look at one another and they both shake their heads. “Out-voted.”

“Oh so that’s how it is.”

Leaning back in his seat, Shane’s legs slide around one of his, trapping it between them. Ryan hides his smile behind his coffee mug.

Fuck, this should be weird. It should be difficult. There should be hesitation or nerves, or some part of him that says he needs to think about this more. But there isn’t. Ryan knows enough; he knows them. The ache behind his ribs is all but gone, replaced with this Shane-Sara thing that has started to warm him from the inside out.

He’s happy, he realizes.

It’s not exactly normal but if it means getting to be with the two of them, then Ryan is willing to do whatever he has to in order to make this work.

Ryan is ready to go all in. And he does.