Work Text:
You asked to walk me home, but I had to carry you
And you pushed me in
And now my feet can't touch the bottom of you
It’s another stupid party, another unnecessary gathering of youtubers under the guise of an award show and Ryan’s had about three drinks too many. It had been a slippery slope and he’d seen it coming, knowing somewhere around the fifth drink that he should’ve stopped but downing it anyway.
The waiters walking around the room made it all too easy, trays of free drinks resting on their fingertips and the giddy atmosphere of being around his coworkers only fueling the fire.
They’re holding the Streamys in late October this year and they’re only nominated for one award, some fan favourite title voted by the viewers, so their table is shoved somewhere in the back corner of the room, out of view. Not that Ryan’s complaining, he knows he wouldn’t want to see the footage of him this drunk circling the internet for years to come anyway.
To top the night off, the catering sucks. There are baskets of iced cookies in the middle of each table, customised to feature the award show’s logo but when Ryan watches Shane’s face contort as he takes a bite, he knows they’re half-stale.
And for some reason, he finds it all absolutely hilarious.
“What?” Shane says, the hint of a smile on his lips as he looks across at Ryan like he’s a madman, laughing to himself. Neither of them make any effort to stay quiet, knowing the booming speakers and endless thank-you speeches will drown them out.
“It’s just,” Ryan shakes his head, unable to put the situation into words. He’s not even sure there are words to describe tonight.
“The Bergmeister’s finally cracked.” Shane says, his words slurring together as he feigns acceptance, as though he’s been expecting Ryan’s descent into madness for some time. Ryan watches Shane’s hands as he pushes the cookie away from him, towards the centre of the table.
“No, I--” Ryan starts but then he hears the name of their award being called and promptly shuts up.
Truth be told, he doesn’t care about the awards, not really. He’s happy with what they’re doing at Watcher and the content they’re putting out, he knows the viewers are happy with it too. So he doesn’t care what some random group of voters think about their stuff.
It doesn’t even sting when the presenter doesn’t call out their name and they lose to the Try Guys. Not even a little.
They deserve it, he thinks. He knows their content is high quality and they’re good guys. Ryan’s just glad it’s them and not some vlogger, shooting out unedited and daily ten-minute videos about what they ate for lunch.
“Wanna get out of here?” Shane says as he turns to him and Ryan only vaguely registers the Try Guys doing some bit on stage. The drinks have muted the world around him, as though everything else is suddenly far away, nothing but an afterthoughts, all of his attention directed at Shane.
“Sure,” Ryan says, his voice barely loud enough over the sound of the audience applauding.
For a moment, he forgets about the rest of their company sitting beside them, almost forgets to tell them they’re leaving. When he turns to Katie, she’s engrossed in conversation with Steven and the rest of their company, who all decided to tag along for the open bar.
“We’re gonna go,” Ryan says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. He doesn’t even bother to come up with an excuse, he knows they probably wouldn’t believe it anyway.
“Okay, get home safe, alright?” Katie says, looking significantly more sober than Ryan feels. She smiles at him for a moment, glancing over his shoulder to Shane so he knows the message is directed to him, too.
“See you later, guys!” Steven calls, a little too loud and obviously a little drunk, and Ryan laughs.
“Good luck with that,” He says and Katie shakes her head, deadpan. She waves them off, both of them shouting goodbyes to the team over the music, a much-too-loud interlude between awards.
It’s been a nice night, even though they didn’t win, even though the catering sucked, even though they were in the nosebleeds. He thinks that if he came alone, it wouldn’t have been anywhere near as bearable. But to sit beside his team, his friends, and experience this madness together made it kind of fun.
And Ryan’s always thankful for an opportunity to wear a good suit.
“You wanna walk?” Shane asks, as they step out onto the pavement. The street is almost deserted now, all photographers out of sight and the red carpet already being rolled up.
“Sure,” Ryan says. The venue is only about twenty-five minutes walk from his apartment and an extra five or ten minutes to Shane’s. Besides, it’s not like it’s cold. It’s the middle of the night but the air only feels a little cooler than it did hours ago, as they stood on the red carpet, smiling for pictures.
“I think I know the way,” Shane says, sounding unsure. It’s not convincing.
“You think ?” Ryan laughs but he makes no effort to pull out his phone and look up the route. And he still follows Shane as he sets off down the street and turns left, even though he’s half-sure they should be going right.
“Do you have any idea where we are?” Ryan chuckles. He nearly falls over his own feet but recovers at the last minute, saving himself from a faceplant. Maybe he’s still a little drunk. But judging by the way Shane’s walking, more of a slanted saunter, like he’s trying his hardest to look not-drunk, Shane’s just as bad.
“No idea,” Shane admits, shrugging. He throws an arm around Ryan’s shoulders, “But we’ve lived here for years, we’ll figure it out! That’s part of the fun, right?”
You couldn't have, you couldn't have
Stuck your tongue down the throat of somebody
Who loves you more
It takes them nearly an hour to make it to Ryan’s apartment and it takes nearly that long, stumbling through the dimly-lit streets of LA, for Ryan to realise that he didn’t have any idea where they were going either.
He presses the elevator button, a little harder than necessary, and waits. He can see Shane out of the corner of his eye, rocking back and forth onto the balls of his feet beside him.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Ryan asks, amusement lacing his words.
“Waiting,” Shane says, like that explains everything. “I thought you didn’t like elevators?” Shane asks and Ryan’s confused, how did he even know that? He squints at Shane, eyebrows furrowed. “You told me a few years ago on that Unsolved trip in that definitely-not-haunted hotel.”
“Oh,” Ryan says and his heart does something funny, jumping a little at the idea that Shane remembered such a small and insignificant detail for so long. “Well, it beats twelve flights of stairs.” He slurs, each word leading into the next without pause, as though written in cursive.
As if on cue, the elevator pings and opens, revealing an empty box. Shane follows him over the borderline, watches as he presses the button for the twelfth floor. Silence falls but it’s not uncomfortable, the only sound being the beeping of the elevator as it passes each floor.
Ryan leans back against the wall, relishing in the cold of the metal against his back.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Shane says in some weird accent, somewhere between Cockney and Australian.
“Just thinking,” Ryan says, almost forgetting to elaborate as he watches the little arrow on the wall climb towards eight and focuses on trying to stay upright.
“Well that makes a change,” Shane jokes.
“Shut up, Shane,” Ryan says but there’s no heat behind the words.
If someone tallied up all the times he’s said that phrase and traded it for money, Ryan’s certain he’d be a millionaire.
“I was just thinking about those cookies. And how I should’ve ordered pizza.” He lies, not wanting to go all serious and sentimental. Not wanting to tell him that he was really thinking about how ridiculous this all is, how it’s still not really sunk in that they did it, their little business did it.
“Those cookies were so bad,” Shane laughs and it reaches his eyes, as he shakes his head. “I can’t believe I ate three of ‘em.”
“You ate three? Shane, I think they were made with rat poison!” Ryan gasps, folding over at the waist from laughing a little too hard.
“At least we’ll have a good video,” Shane says, almost giddy.
“Storytime: the Streamys killed Shane Madej, question mark, exclamation mark,” Ryan says, as he pushes off of the wall and turns to Shane, arms presenting the title like it’s laid out on a marquee in front of them.
“Asterisk, very emotional, no clickbait,” Shane says, unable to keep a straight face. Ryan throws his head back laughing, missing the ping of the elevator as it reaches his floor. It takes them both a second for the laughter to calm long enough for them to realise the elevator has stopped.
They step out into the hallway and Ryan turns to Shane with a shushing gesture, very aware of the fact that it’s almost one in the morning and the rest of the floor is probably asleep. But it does nothing, if anything it makes things worse, because then they’re both trying not to laugh and therefore, laughing even more.
Ryan pads down the hallway, silent chuckles racking his body, muffled by his hand against his mouth. He doesn’t need to check behind him to know that Shane’s following him, he hears the footsteps.
When they reach Ryan’s apartment, he fumbles with the keys, his vision swimming as he tries to find the right one. Shane leans against the doorframe, watching Ryan struggle in amusement.
“Forget which key it is?” He whispers, unsteady on his feet. Ryan rolls his eyes, but the smile he’s wearing softens the blow.
Door open, Ryan expects Shane to say goodbye and walk away, to head back to his own apartment to sober up and recover.
What he doesn’t expect is for Shane to step dangerously close, crowding into his space on the borderline of Ryan’s apartment.
“Tell me to stop,” He says, barely above a hush as he inches closer, the laughter from moments before abandoned. Eyes dark and hair falling in his face. Ryan’s gaze flickers to Shane’s mouth, leans into him like a sailor going down with a sinking ship, before he’s even realised he’s doing it.
He should tell Shane to go. He should stop this right now before it escalates. He should hit the brakes before they reach the hairpin turn, before the car goes flying over the precipice and they’re left in a wreckage of burning metal and spilled gasoline.
This can only end one way and Ryan knows it won’t end well.
“Don’t stop,” Ryan says. Hands placed at the nape of Shane’s neck and tugging, until they crash together. Messy. Needy. An afterthought, Ryan pulls the key out of the door without pulling away, kicks the door shut behind them.
This is a bad idea, he thinks, as he presses Shane up against the front door, fingers running through his hair and thigh between Shane’s legs. As Ryan’s blazer is pushed off of his shoulders, as Shane undoes the top button of his shirt.
This is a terrible idea, he thinks, as Ryan kisses a wonky and invisible line down his neck. As he hears the thump of Shane’s head against the door. As Shane guides their lips back together once more.
This is, he thinks, as Shane pushes off the wall, leading Ryan to the bedroom. As Ryan pulls away for a moment, lungs burning from lack of breath. As he takes off Shane’s blazer and closes the bedroom door behind them.
So I will wait for the next time you want me
Like a dog with a bird at your door
When Ryan wakes the next morning, Shane’s gone. It takes him a moment to remember what happened the night before, for the blurriness around his memory to fade. But he suspects Shane’s been gone for a while, the bed beside him cold and the imprints from where he lay now invisible.
Ryan runs a hand through his hair and sighs. Okay.
He pops two painkillers and drinks a glass of water.
When he gets out the door, everything’s normal. Too normal. Part of him had been expecting the world to be up in flames, for the sky to be falling, caving in on them. It had felt like an apocalyptic risk, putting their years of friendship aside and not bothering to mitigate the damage. He half-expected everyone to be staring at him, like he was at fault.
But when he steps outside and it’s completely normal, Ryan almost wonders if he imagined the whole thing. But the purplish gold spots just beneath his collar serve as evidence.
A little too roughly, he shoves his headphones into his ears and presses play on his favourite movie score.
He’s fine with this being a one night thing, he really is. Maybe it would’ve been nice to know that at the time. Maybe it would’ve saved some of this anxiety now, some of the uncertainty that he feels as he walks up the stairs to the office, unsure what awaits him inside.
Shane would never tell. He knows that. There’s no way the rest of the office will know. But Ryan knows that, if by some chance, they see the bruises that litter his neckline, he won’t be able to tell a convincing lie.
Just past nine in the morning. He pushes open the door to the office to find it mostly deserted, apart from Steven and Shane, who sit at their desks but don’t do any work. They chatter over the tops of their computers, half-hearted and mindless.
“Hey,” Ryan says, as he slides into his chair, throws his bag on the floor. “Where is everyone?”
“Oh, they’re only getting here at eleven, thought they should have some time to recover.” Steven explains, taking a sip from his water bottle. He’s always been the best at managing these kind of things, it hadn’t even occurred to Ryan to give them a few hours off the morning after.
“Oh, cool.” Ryan smiles and switches on his computer. “How you feeling?”
“Not bad, bit of a headache, you?” Steven says, eyes on his computer, only half-focused on the conversation now.
“Same here,” Ryan says.
He’s acutely aware that Shane hasn’t spoken since he got there, but Ryan hasn’t even looked at him, so it’s a two way street. Something in him, some thread of stubbornness that runs through his DNA, tells him not to be the one to take the first step. But he does.
“How about you?” He asks, looking in Shane’s direction at last. It’s anything but subtle, but it doesn’t matter. Shane’s already looking at him, already listening to the conversation.
“Doing good,” Shane says, nonchalant tone and neutral expression. For a moment, Ryan wonders if Shane even remembers, whether he’s the only one plagued with these memories, whether Shane’s convinced himself it’s a dream. Although Ryan doesn’t know whether Shane would consider it a good one or a nightmare.
But Ryan doesn’t miss the way his gaze drops down ever so slightly, catching on the shades of purple and yellow that peek over Ryan’s collar. His eyes linger before he looks away, like a weight on the crook where Ryan’s neck meets his shoulders.
He remembers.
Ryan doesn’t know if that’s better or worse.
He turns back to his computer.
We hate Tears in Heaven
But it's sad that his baby died
And we fought about John Lennon until I cried
And then went to bed upset
The rest of the day is normal. Painfully normal. Meetings followed by editing sessions followed by location scouting. And the pair of them work well as a team, bouncing ideas off of each other and sorting out a shoot schedule in record time. It’s like absolutely nothing changed.
And Ryan hates it.
Every time he tries to speak to Shane alone, it’s all surface level, like Shane is trying to keep him at arm's reach. All Ryan wants to do is talk this through, for it to be acknowledged.
By the end of the workday, it feels a little like he’s going insane and one polite, but withdrawn, goodbye from Shane later sends him spiralling.
Anger crawls up his throat, threatening to spill from his lips, poisonous words he knows he could never take back. He had been managing to keep a lid on it all by himself. He never even wanted this. Shane started it. And now? Now what? He wasn’t going to be brave enough to talk to him about it?
“ Shane, ” Ryan says, following Shane to his car. He knows he heard him, that he’s just ignoring him, avoiding the confrontation, the inevitable fallout. Shane goes to get in the car, fingers on the door handle but Ryan covers his hand with his own, stopping Shane in his tracks. “Talk to me.”
Shane sighs, looks down, gaze falling to where their hands meet.
“Get in,” He says, climbing into the driver’s seat. Ryan walks round to the passenger side and climbs in. Without a word, Shane starts driving, not explaining a thing, not even telling Ryan where they’re going. Part of Ryan wonders whether Shane even knows where he’s going.
They drive in silence for what feels like forever, passing countless drive-thrus and at least two Targets.
“Look, Shane, if you regret it that’s fine, just—“
“I don’t regret it,” Shane says, eyes snapping to Ryan, as though he’s said something so incredulous that he can’t quite believe his ears. There’s a honk and Shane diverts his attention back to the road, an ignored green light staring back at them.
Shane sighs.
“I don’t regret it. You?” Shane says. Without his eyes on him, Ryan finds it easier to speak. It reminds him of when he was a kid, scared of the shadows in the corner of his rooms, piled clothes and toys that looked too much like people. The peace he would find when he pulled the covers over his head, the shadows still there but out of sight.
Like maybe, if Shane isn’t looking at him, if Ryan’s eyes are straight ahead, he can forget what they’re talking about for a minute.
“No,” He decides, as though answering in any other way was ever an option. As though he hasn’t been hung up on Shane since God-knows-when.
“Good.” Shane nods once and Ryan knows that’s an end to it. Instantly, Ryan feels the strings pulling up his shoulders, tense and anxious, loosen. It feels almost too easy, but Ryan’s nothing but glad.
“Good.” Ryan says. A beat. “You wanna go get Chipotle?”
But now I am dreaming
And you're singing at my birthday
And I've never seen you smiling so big
Ryan hadn’t planned anything special for his birthday.
He thinks, once you start getting to your late twenties, the numbers get less important. The birthdays are less of an excuse to go out drinking with friends. At least, this year. Ryan’s just not feeling it.
Until he gets a knock on the door.
“Surprise!” Shane says, a box in his hands, wrapped in red wrapping paper with little stars on it. There’s a smile on his lips so wide that his cheeks are probably aching and Ryan nearly passes out.
“I thought you were in Chicago?” Ryan stutters, still processing the fact that Shane is standing in front of him, very much real and very much in California. He’s never been here for Ryan’s birthday before. It’s too close to Thanksgiving, too much of a close call for him to fly across the country to his family.
“Not this year, I changed my flight to tomorrow.” Shane explains, extending the gift out towards Ryan. “Happy birthday, Ry.” Ryan takes the box and steps to the side, leaving room for Shane to squeeze past into his apartment.
Cursing himself for not cleaning his apartment, Ryan shuts the door, carrying the gift through to the living room. He glances at Shane, an unasked question and Shane nods. So they both sit on the couch, Shane watching as Ryan tears away the wrapping paper.
“You didn’t,” Ryan gasps, holding the gift in his hands. The Back to the Future sneakers by Nike, so rare that only a few thousand were made, so rare that Ryan’s been trying to get a hold of them for ages and hasn’t been able to. “How did you? Shane. ”
“I know someone,” Shane shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. Like it’s not the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever got him. A shy smile tugs at his lips. “You obviously don’t have enough sneakers as it is.” Shane jokes, gesturing to the wall of boxes, a shoes collection piled high. “How do you even wear them all? Are you an octopus?”
“Hey, man, that’s rich coming from Mr. Long Legs here,” Ryan laughs and only speaks again once it’s diminished to a small smile. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Shane says, smiling back at him.
They spend the rest of the night playing video games and joking around. It’s hilarious how bad Shane is at it, even the tiny monsters almost kill him and he spends far too long stuck facing a corner, not knowing how to turn around. Ryan wins every game and by the end of the night, he’s certain Shane’s letting him win. Either that or he’s the world’s worst gamer.
“It’s getting late, I should be going,” Shane says, sometime after midnight, when the too-many boxes of pizza on the table are long cold and the console pops up with a ‘take a break’ message.
“You don’t have to, if,” Ryan murmurs, as Shane pulls one arm through his coat. He’s swimming in uncharted territory because one time is a mistake, an accident, but two times would definitely not be. “If you don’t want to.”
“What?” Shane says, genuinely clueless.
“I mean,” Ryan says but as he racks his brain, he can’t find the words to explain himself. After a few seconds of trying, he gets frustrated and presses his lips to Shane, a little harder than he meant to.
But Shane doesn’t hesitate, not even for a split second, kissing back and changing the pace, softening it around the edges like a vignette. It’s less rushed, less rough, less of a scurry.
Ryan rubs little circles on Shane’s cheekbone, hand on the side of his face, and notes where stubble means skin. It’s only when Shane plants two gentle, short kisses on Ryan’s lips that he realises just how fucked he is. He couldn’t be any more far gone if he tried. Like a lone survivor on a lifeboat with no paddle, he’s out at sea and stuck there, these feelings showing no sign of relenting.
“Ryan, are you sure?” Shane asks, pulling back, gaze flickering from one eye to the other. There’s no excuses this time, no scapegoats, no alcohol flowing through them to impair their decision making.
But Ryan nods anyway.
“Yeah, are you?” Ryan says. He waits for the verbal confirmation, for the explicit yes, before tugging Shane close again. Ryan nudges the coat, only covering one of Shane’s arms, just a little, enough to send it falling to the ground.
It’s so much different now, now that they’re not drunk, now that they’ve done this before, now that Ryan knows this could be the last time. He hopes not. He hopes he’s not alone in this, that Shane is thinking the same thoughts as him, like two parallel lines heading to the same destination, instead of two roads heading to opposite sides of the country.
Ryan knows he shouldn’t, but he hopes.
“Bed?” He asks, relishing in the way Shane chases his lips as he pulls away. Shane nods.
There’s a tension that settles on the air as they walk to the bedroom together, an anticipation, thick like a fog on a winter’s morning, as Shane follows Ryan, a half-step behind as though he doesn’t know the way. As though he doesn’t know Ryan’s apartment like the back of his hand. Ryan tallies it as another thing that’s different.
Waiting as Ryan shuts the door, Shane sits on the edge of Ryan’s bed. In his little bedroom - curse LA rent prices - it takes him three steps to stand in front of Shane, to put one hand on his chest and push him onto his back, to climb into his lap.
He halts, for a moment, just to look down at Shane. Shane, who’s looking at him like he hung both the moon and the stars in the sky. Like he just found the answer to one of the world’s forever unknown questions. Like he couldn’t imagine doing anything else with his night, like he’d be content to stay here for the rest of his life.
“Hi,” Shane says, as Ryan hovers over him, lips barely a centimetre apart. It’s so awkward and so Shane that Ryan can’t help but chuckle, leaning his forehead against the side of Shane’s neck. They both just laugh for a moment and that’s something else that’s different. Ryan’s never had this before, he’s not used to being able to dispel the tension with a laugh, to not having to keep a serious, straight face throughout it all.
It’s nice. Ryan thinks. And as he kisses Shane once more, long arms winding around his back, each slight move changing the angle and sending sparks right down to Ryan’s toes. As he pulls his shirt over his head, fingers fumbling with the buttons of Shane’s jeans, he thinks he could get used to it.
It’s nautical themed
And there's something I'm supposed to say
But can't for the life of me remember what it is
Shane stays.
For the life of him, Ryan can’t figure out why but Shane stays.
He’s there a few hours later when Ryan wakes up to go to the bathroom. And he’s there when his alarm goes off, one arm draped over Ryan’s bare torso and face nuzzled into Ryan’s neck in a way that cannot be explained away as platonic.
“Shit,” Shane mutters under his breath, turning off the alarm and racing out of bed. He pulls his clothes on in record time, runs his fingers through his hair to get rid of the knots. “I’m sorry, I've gotta go but happy birthday,”
“Shane, wait, I,” He says, as Shane has one foot out the door. Shane with his messy hair and patient gaze, even though Ryan’s making him late for his flight. Shane with his arm around his waist as he sleeps and his boots under Ryan’s bed. Shane with his stupid jokes and weirdly-good impressions and ridiculously catchy songs for his silly puppets and--
Shane. Just Shane.
The words are on the tip of his tongue, he can feel them resting there, just behind his teeth, but he can’t quite voice them.
“I’ll see you later.” Ryan says, chickening out.
“Okay, little guy, we’ll talk when I get back,” Shane replies, a hint of confusion in his tone but overpowered by amusement. And Ryan swears to himself that he’ll tell him the moment he gets back, the very instance Shane steps back into California. He will. He knows he will. “See you later, alligator.”
He watches the door shut behind Shane as he leaves.
And if I could give you the moon
I would give you the moon
They never end up talking about it. When Shane gets back the week after, any of the courage Ryan had gathered is nowhere to be seen and he can’t bring himself to mention it, to start that conversation.
Shane must sense it, because he doesn’t either.
It’s the second week of December when Shane gets a girlfriend.
“Tell me about her, what’s she like?” Ryan asks one lunchtime, as they’re walking to a sandwich shop around the corner. It’s like they’re two giddy, teenage girls discussing how the best friend’s new crush glanced at her across the hallway for a half-second and how that means they’re destined to be together.
“Well, I mean,” Shane chuckles, looking down, nervous under the scrutiny. When he looks back up, Ryan swears he sees the hint of a blush colouring his cheeks. “She’s great, Ryan. Really. She’s got a great taste in music, she’s funny and she’s beautiful . Oh, she’s actually from Illinois, just a few towns over!”
“She sounds great, Shane.” Ryan says and it sounds so goddamn sincere that it’s even surprising to his own ears.
It’s even more surprising that when he examines further, he finds he’s truly happy for Shane.
He deserves to be happy. He deserves someone who will make his cup of coffee in the morning just the way he likes it, someone who would lasso the moon and pull it closer to Earth, just so Shane could get a bit more light. Someone whose heart lifts whenever they make him laugh, who wipes away his tears before they have a chance to fall whenever tragedy strikes.
And that’s not you, he thinks, a niggling voice at the back of his head that refuses to back down and cease its interruptions. Not anymore.
He can’t even be mad, because it’s right. Ryan knows he fumbled the ball. He had a chance, a window of opportunity, and he squandered it. It’s not even like he took the shot too far away from the net, too soon, forced to watch the ball circle the rim and crash back to the ground the way it came.
Instead, it’s like he chose to sit on the bench the whole game. Like he didn’t even try.
He claps a hand on Shane’s shoulder and ignores the heaviness that settles on his chest, like a fist clenching around his heart, squeezing so tight the circulation cuts off.
“I’m happy for you, man,” Ryan says, smiling wide. There’s a flash of an emotion that Ryan isn’t quick enough to name that passes across Shane’s features, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it fast, before he smiles back. Ryan could’ve sworn it was disappointment, like Ryan had failed a test or had done something he shouldn’t have.
He doesn’t question it.
You are sick and you're married
And you might be dying
But you're holding me like water in your hands
Moments stand out to Ryan, more than days. Like life is just a collection of moments he remembers, with gaps in between.
He remembers Shane’s hand on his thigh as he told an anecdote, two drinks away from passing out and Ryan’s the only one listening. It didn’t even make sense, it was only half-funny and Ryan was pretty sure he’d heard it before, but he laughed anyway. He couldn’t help it, he loved the spark that ignites behind Shane’s eyes whenever he laughed at anything he said.
He remembers nearly knocking himself out with a particularly heavy tripod one afternoon at the office, setting up for an episode of Puppet History . Shane swearing, his hands cradling Ryan’s face as he searched for telltale signs of a concussion, for blood, for injury, for anything that shows Ryan might’ve been hurt . Holding him like he was precious cargo, like he was water, like he was the only thing that mattered in that moment.
He remembers hugging Shane goodbye at the airport, wishing him good luck with the family over the holidays. Driving Shane to the airport so he didn’t have to pay for parking and joking about how light he travels, with only one suitcase for two weeks away. He remembers lingering hands on his shoulders, lingering fingertips on Shane’s lapel.
It would’ve been so easy to say it. It would’ve been so easy, but he couldn’t.
He remembers beating himself up every night he didn’t, lying awake and imagining all the ways he could’ve said it, which words he would’ve strung together as a plan and then abandoned anyway.
He sees Shane post a picture on his Instagram, two smiling faces and a ring on the fourth finger.
And then, one night in the middle of May, he shows up on Shane’s doorstep.
When you saw the dead little bird, you started crying
But you know the killer doesn't understand
As soon as he sees him, Shane steps aside, ushers him in. It’s long past three in the morning, the hours when they make most of their mistakes, when they overstep most of their boundaries. Nobody awake after three o’clock is up by choice.
“Are you--” Shane goes to ask, but Ryan cuts him off.
“I’m in love with you.” Ryan blurts and although it’s not the phrase he would’ve chosen to go with, it does the job. He holds his heart out on a silver platter, like a waiter at a fancy get together with their trays of canapés , for the guests to eat or discard, to refuse. Ryan waits, holding out his tray.
“ Oh ,” Shane breathes, his mouth staying open after he speaks, too dumbstruck to close it. He looks down, away, anywhere else.
Ryan feels his heart drop to his stomach. He’s left scrambling and searching for a way to take the words back, to fix this before it all goes wrong. But all of a sudden, every word flies out of his head, every possible apology, every excuse, every way he could twist this into some kind of weird joke. All thoughts that were there before vanish into thin air.
“Ryan.” Shane whispers. Ryan didn’t know there could be so much pity in one word.
“I thought,” Ryan starts but cuts himself off, not quite sure where he was going once he’d opened his mouth.
He can’t even look at Shane right now. It feels a little like he’s on the brink and one look at Shane’s face would send him tumbling over the edge, he just doesn’t know what would happen then.
“I don’t know what I thought.”
“I’m, Ryan, fuck , why now?” Shane mutters, sounding torn up. “I got engaged two weeks ago .”
“I don’t know, I just figured it out, I--” Ryan rambles but then Shane’s words hit him, like a sucker punch to the chest. “Wait, are you saying it would’ve been different if--”
“Ryan, I thought you didn’t, I thought we were on the same page.” Shane says, an air of finality to his words that Ryan doesn’t like.
“What?”
“Before? Yeah, maybe this could’ve worked. But you weren’t picking up what I was laying down and I didn’t even know you liked guys and then, just when I’d got over it, the Streamys and November and,” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head, afraid he’s said too much. A shaky sigh racks through his body, runs a hand through his hair roughly, leaving all the strands standing on end.
Silence falls and this time, it’s not comfortable, it’s unbearable. It’s suffocating and Ryan can barely breathe.
He tries hard not to read between the lines, not to feel the weight of all the implications Shane is making. That maybe, years ago, if he’d acted on this, they would’ve been together. That maybe, his little crush at Buzzfeed wasn’t quite as unrequited as he thought.
Any other scenario, he knows his heart would be soaring to find out his feelings were returned but instead, his heart feels like it’s made of lead, replaced with a metal replica, cold and heavy.
“I’m engaged, Ryan. I love her.” Shane says and even though Ryan had known that, even though it wasn’t a secret in any sense of the word, Ryan’s chest still pangs.
“I know, Jesus ,” Ryan breathes. “I’m sorry, Shane.” He says because he can’t help how he feels, but he can help keeping his mouth shut.
It feels like he’s ripping open old wounds, undoing the stitches that Shane’s so carefully sewn up over the years. It’s unfair for him to waltz in here and confess everything the instance Shane’s unavailable. But then, it’s also unfair of Shane not to say anything all these years, to clue Ryan in on a secret that everyone but him knew.
It’s all so fucking unfair.
“I think you should go,” Shane says, looking him in the eyes for the first time since everything came into the open. Part of Ryan wants to refuse, to talk this into the ground until they find a solution, until they fix the possibly irreparable damage to their relationship.
But he doesn’t. He just nods, feeling the prickling of unshed tears behind his eyes and avoids looking Shane in the eye.
Shane doesn’t follow him to the door, Ryan knows the way. In fact, Ryan’s pretty sure Shane doesn’t move from the spot he found him in, not until Ryan’s closing the door behind him. He wouldn’t know for certain, he doesn’t look back to check.
Only when he’s two streets away, taking a shortcut through an alley where he knows he won’t be recognised or bothered, does Ryan let the first tears fall. And once he’s started crying, once he’s opened those floodgates, it feels like he doesn’t know how to stop.
He walks until his feet hurt, until the soles of his sneakers are probably wearing down, until the sun sets behind the buildings and the street lights flicker on. He takes every back street, every turning, just looking for a way to avoid going home. He doesn’t know how long he walks for.
His phone rings. Steven. There’s no way he could know, right? There’s no way Shane would say anything, Ryan’s sure of it. He declines the call.
Only when it starts to rain does Ryan head home, pulling his hoodie over his head and yanking the strings a little too tight. He fucked up. Big time.
He takes the stairs to his apartment. All twelve flights.
Ryan doesn’t get drunk around Shane anymore.