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If it's just the wind...
Shane's hand lingers at the small of his back. Guiding, grounding, claiming. It's a warm, solid presence and Ryan doesn't fight it even if he's not sure why it's there. It doesn't stray, never dipping lower where Ryan might crave it. It's just there, resolute as Ryan shuffles forward and Shane ducks below a low beam.
If it's just the wind...
Shane's gaze is always soft. Tired eyes sparkling with mirth but never mocking. They follow him and Ryan feels his neck heat from where his gaze is always on him, watching, observing. He always seems to see so much, look so closely. When panic sets in it is always Shane's clear and steady gaze he meets with his own wide eyes. He looks at him like a startled animal. There's no fear reflected back at him and it soothes him somewhat, if Shane isn't scared maybe he shouldn't be.
If it's just the wind...
Shane always stoops, ducking and hunching. Most of the time it’s out of necessity. These decrepit manor houses, mortuaries and monasteries were never built for him, ceilings low, doorways lower still. Most of the time but not all. He ducks his head to hold Ryan’s gaze, words and smile sweet and just for him. He’ll kneel, at the foot of a bed, on the floor beside a chair and Ryan’s breath never fails to hitch at the sight of those brown eyes looking up at him. He knows at these times it’s to make himself seem smaller, less threatening. Ryan doesn’t tell him that he likes it when he towers, a solid oak sheltering him from the storm, sturdy, strong, reliable.
If it’s just the wind...
Shane’s voice is like a lilting lullaby or the joyful tune of a jack-in-a-box, buoyant and chaotic one minute and soft and soothing the next. The narrative of his words twists and turns, syllables falling just so, sonorous and scattered. Ryan’s anxieties lose their hold at the sound of Shane’s laughter, breathy and bursting out of him like the joke has taken him by surprise. The shadows fade at just a calming hum, the gentle sound of breathing, the peaceful echo of a snore.
If it’s just the wind...
Shane’s hand finds its way into his, fingers tangled, gripping tight, the connection like a tether, a rope around his waist as he fumbles further into the blinding dark. His thumb rubs against the back of his hand, tracing knuckles, a rhythmic back and forth. Ryan can sync his breathing to it, sync his heartbeat to it until it thrums in time. Sometimes Shane grabs his hand, frantic with worry, forcing him back to the ground. It is rough but he’s thankful for it, holds on tight with a vice-like grip. So scared, with Shane so vital, afraid to ever let go.
If it’s just the wind...
Shane leaves the lamp on, wends an arm around his waist as they sleep. Ryan never mentions it, afraid he’ll stop if he does. He couldn’t live without this line of defence, like Shane’s arm is the barrier between him and the shapeless things lurking in the corner of the room. His warmth along his back keeps the cold chill from his bones, the numbness that comes from trawling through histories of death and heartache and despair. The warm breath on the back of his neck reminds him what it’s like to feel alive, that they’re alive but not for long.
Sometimes Ryan will turn into him, press the cold tip of his nose to Shane’s rumbling throat and squeeze his aching eyes shut, tired and dry from staring unseeingly at the shadows dancing along the mottled walls, trapped in the tattered curtains. Shane pulls him closer, squeezes tighter. Ryan feels himself slot into place, safe and alive and maybe even loved.
“If it’s just the wind, why do you do all this?”
“It is just the wind. But it isn't to you.” He says, steady and sure. Ryan had thought maybe his perspective was changing, that he was starting to believe. But it’s only wishful thinking, a way to validate fears that definitely don’t need it. Shane has always known it's not the wind, at least not to Ryan, and if it's real to Ryan what is he to do but act like it’s real to him too.
“If it's real to you that means the danger is real to you and I'm just trying to...” He trails off.
“Protect me.” Ryan says in awe. Shane shrugs and looks away.
“I know you don't need it...”
“But I want it.” Ryan says and he feels fearful nausea roll through him. “And fuck I'd probably shit myself at so much as a mouse squeak if you didn't.”
“I'm doing us all a favour with that one.”
“Do me another favour?”
“You only get three. They’re like wishes.”
“Well I’m trading them all for you to kiss me right now.”
He does.
If it’s just the wind...
It always is. As long as Shane’s around. It’s just the wind. Even if it isn’t. It’s just the wind.