Work Text:
Barry Wheeler sat alone in his dimly lit motel room, the darkness outside mirroring the void within. He was far away from Bright Falls, far from Alan Wake, his best friend who had vanished into the abyss of Cauldron Lake. Best friend. The words rung in his ears like a song stuck in his head.
He cared for Alan. So deeply. And, he'd be the first to admit, he was queer. But it was Alan. God, why did it have to be Alan? Alan was married, and even if he wasn't, he was.. Gone. Love was meant to bring joy, but this love had turned into a hollow ache, a reminder of what he could never have.
The clinking of ice in a nearly empty whiskey glass echoed in the silence.
He wasn't even sure when he started feeling this way. Maybe he'd always felt this way. He had known Alan for years, since they were kids. Alan had always been there, a pillar of support.
Barry poured another drink, the amber liquid spilling into the glass, the warmth momentarily distracting him from the icy grip of heartache. He remembered the way Alan's eyes would light up when they discussed writing, the conversations they'd have about life, bullshit pseudoscience. Anything and everything.
Alan had this magnetic pull, a charisma that was impossible to resist. He missed Alan terribly. He longed for their late-night conversations, for Alan's sense of humor, for the warmth of his friendship. But most of all, he yearned for something he could never have. He hated it. He hated it so fucking much.
He raised his glass in a silent toast, a bitter acknowledgment of what could never be.
Meanwhile, in the depths of Cauldron Lake, Alan Wake grappled with his own demons, both literal and metaphorical. The shadows whispered their malevolent truths, reminding him of his deepest fears. He missed Barry more than words could convey, the absence of his laughter, his guidance, and the unspoken connection they had. The world above seemed like a distant dream, and the thought of Barry, his beacon of hope, felt like a cruel taunt.
The pages of his manuscript lay scattered across the floor, blank and accusing. Words, once his refuge, were now elusive, escaping him like ghosts.
Alan was always different. Barry's mom was convinced the two of them were gay when they were teenagers. He scoffed when he remembered. He liked Barry, sure. But he was a man. He didn't, he shouldn't, like men.
He recalled their youthful adventures, their shared dreams, the way they'd laugh at each other's jokes until their sides ached. Barry had been the one who stood by him, even during those moments when he doubted himself. But now, trapped in this lake of shadows, those memories felt like cruel ironies.
As the shadows closed in, Alan tried to find solace in the thought of Barry. He imagined the warmth of his smile, the sound of his voice, the comforting presence that seemed to chase away the darkness. But the more he clung to these thoughts, the more they became a reminder of what he had lost. It felt like a curse, a punishment for being different.
The connection they had shared, the beacon of hope they had been for each other, now seemed to taunt them as a reminder of what could never be.