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Surprisingly, as though he could reach into the depths of Shane’s brain and pull out his deepest and most secret desires, Steven is the one who makes the suggestion.
“Yeah, like, it’s a little bit farther out from the office but you’ll have each other for company on the commute,” he says with an easy shrug and takes a long sip of his ginger ale. “Maybe you’ll expend some of that nasty boy energy and give the rest of us a little, uh, reprive.”
“It is cheaper,” Ryan says, stroking his chin in that way he does, as though he thinks it makes him look more pensive. It makes him look like a fool , Shane thinks fondly.
Sara snorts quietly into her cocktail glass.
“You two wouldn’t last two weeks living together,” she says flatly, and though she’s addressing them both, she’s looking right at Shane. He furrows his brow at her.
“You don’t think we could?” he asks, and Ryan makes a soft noise next to him, almost offended.
“You’d drive each other crazy. You sit together at your office all day, and then you’d be commuting home together, eating dinner together, watching TV together, going to bed — well, not together, but you get it, right?”
It doesn’t sound so awful to Shane. There are worse people he could be spending all his hours with than Ryan Bergara.
“We have lives outside of one another,” Ryan protests, and thankfully no one points out the fact that it is a Friday night and he is pressed thigh to thigh with Shane in a booth at their local bar.
“Yeah, sure,” Sara agrees, not unkindly. “I’m just saying, don’t shit where you eat.”
It’s a little rich coming from her, Shane thinks, but any rising bitterness melts away when she winks at him over the rim of her glass, draining the last of her Long Island Iced Tea. Apart from Steven, they’re all teetering on the edge of tipsy, and Shane feels warm all the way down his chest into his belly at her implication.
“There’s— there’s no shitting happening, Sara,” Ryan argues, loudly, because he will use any excuse to steer the conversation a touch more low-brow. “And I think Steven’s right, if we look a little further out, factor in time for a commute, then we can afford a place big enough to allow ourselves some room to breathe.”
“We could look for a place with a pool,” Shane suggests, and Ryan wheels around to face him, eyes bright, gleeful.
“ Fuck , yes, I’m sold.”
“That was easy.”
“I’m easy, baby,” Ryan practically purrs with how low his voice gets, leaning back into the booth, stretching his arms out obnoxiously wide.
“Alright!” Shane laughs, and nudges Ryan’s own cocktail towards the other side of the table, “That’s enough of that for you.”
Ryan makes that offended little whine again, pouting monstrously as Sara flicks his straw out of his glass and replaces it with her own, claiming the drink as hers.
“Won’t last two weeks,” she says, shaking her head, curls bouncing.
“I’d give them at least three,” Steven says, “Have some faith. You know how determined they both are.”
“And it shall be their downfall.”
Ryan, the heathen he is, reaches over to fish Shane’s uneaten maraschino cherry from his empty glass, pops it into his mouth and does his chin-stroking bit again. His fingers are wet from the ice.
“You guys wanna shake on it or bet on it?” he asks, and the warmth in Shane’s belly turns icy cold and tight, like Ryan has reached into his gut and he’s squeezing.
“Not when the stakes are the structural integrity of both our friendships and our company,” Steven says, as though he’s once again just pulling thoughts directly from Shane’s brain.
“I can’t get over how much neither of you trust us,” Ryan grumbles, and then turns to Shane accusingly, "You got me all excited over a pool."
"We can look for a place," Shane hedges guiltily, and Ryan, predictably, lights up like a Christmas tree. "We'll browse , no commitments. If we see somewhere that's absolutely perfect , then yeah, we can put in an application."
"NASTY BOY HOUSE," Ryan exclaims, louder than necessary. Sitting opposite them, Sara puts her head in her hands, and Steven signals the bar for another ginger ale. Shane watches them shake hands and seal their bet, and can't help but feel a little bitter about it
"Don't get your hopes up," He warns, and wishes he could take his own advice.
.
Against all odds, they find the perfect place. It even has a pool. Two-and-a-half bedrooms, parking for two, a patio. It should be far more than they can even afford, but somehow it falls right into their price range, and Shane can’t even think of a real reason to say no, let’s not do this. At least, not a reason he can say to Ryan’s face.
Instead, he says okay, we’ll look at it, and they drive forty-five minutes out to the place, and Shane accidentally falls in love.
He can see it the moment he walks through the door, has visions of plants and decor, a tenuous balance between his art prints and Ryan’s move posters. The afghan from his own apartment thrown over Ryan’s couch. Both their favorite mugs in the kitchen, in the cabinet above the popcorn maker. The back yard where they can sit and drink a beer or a glass of wine after a long day. It’s all clear as day in his mind — and Shane is instantly terrified.
Ryan’s hand cups his elbow, and Shane nearly jumps out of his skin. Ryan doesn’t even seem to notice, too starry-eyed to see the way Shane’s about to fall apart.
“This is it, man,” Ryan says quietly, leaning towards Shane conspiratorially. The real estate agent is giving them space to discuss things, hovering around on in the back yard on her phone. “This is the perfect place, right?”
“Yeah,” Shane sighs, and looks around him again at the empty open space, picturing all the furniture inside, their pictures in frames littering every surface available. “It is.”
Ryan pulls back.
“So why do you look so disappointed?”
Shane pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, stalling, because he can’t exactly say I’m scared of what living with you might do to me . Not when he’s not even really sure what that means, or why he feels it. Instead, he bites his tongue, but only just barely.
“You think Sara’s right? You think we’re gonna hate each other if we live together?” he asks, and watches Ryan’s gaze turn soft.
“She didn’t mean that,” Ryan says, and there’s rare genuine concern in his eyes. His hand, still around Shane’s elbow, squeezes. “Sara knows us, and we know each other. If anyone thought this was a real mistake, they’d have stopped us. Especially Steven, because he has to deal with us the most.”
That, at least, gets a smile out of Shane. He can’t fight it, not when Ryan’s looking at him so hopefully.
“And you know what?” Ryan continues, brightly, “Not to guilt you into this or anything, but if you don’t want to live with me you have to tell me right now because Roland and Danny are moving out and I gotta find new roommates.”
Ryan’s tone is light and joking, that aversion to genuineness always palpable between them, but Shane can see in his eyes just how serious he really is. He folds like a house of cards, excitement fizzling in his stomach.
“Okay,” he says, quiet. “Should we ask for an application?”
.
Moving in is exactly as Shane expects it, and yet so much more. He tosses out his ratty old couch and Ryan brings his sectional. None of their dinnerware matches, and at some point, they’ll need to go shopping for a rug for the living area and maybe some furniture for the patio, but it’s not urgent.
They’re lucky enough to have a crew of close friends and family willing to help them move in exchange for an extravagant spread of takeout. There’s something about the sight of Ryan’s mom and Shane’s brother talking and eating together in the back yard, or Sara and Jake laughing in the kitchen, that makes something catch in Shane’s throat. He and Ryan sit together on the floor in the space where their dining table will go and share an eggroll. Shane’s never felt so simultaneously anxious and settled in his life.
When everyone leaves, they sit out in the grass and drink beers until it’s time for bed.
.
It’s such an easy routine to slip into that they have it nailed by day three. Ryan drives them into the city in the morning — he has a hard time getting out of bed, but Shane knows how to lure him out with the promise of breakfast, which they pick up on their drive to the office.
They still sit at their desks side-by-side, they still go over their filming schedules together, Ryan still grabs lunch with Steven in the afternoon and Shane still takes his daily walk around the block to stretch his legs.
In the evening Ryan drives home too, and Shane cooks dinner while Ryan swims laps (something he’d become increasingly excited about getting to do in the lead up to their move). There’s a couple of hours of TV or maybe a video game or a book, and then Shane runs through the neighborhood to expend the last of his energy before bed.
All of it is easy and perfect in a way Shane could never have imagined.
It lasts until day four, a Saturday, when Shane gets a call from Steven in the afternoon.
“We are, uh, in the emergency room,” Steven says, in that matter-of-fact tone of his, and Shane almost has an aneurysm.
“Wait, What? ”
“It’s fine, no one is dying!” Steven stumbles over himself to explain, unlike his usual collected self, “Ryan had a bad tumble on the court, is all. He’s getting his ankle x-rayed, but they’re pretty sure it’s broken.”
“What the fuck ,” Shane says, weakly, “Will they have to operate? Does our insurance cover that?”
“Likely yes to both, but I’m checking in about the insurance now,” Steven says, his even tone returning, and Shane has to remind himself to breathe.
“Is Ryan alright?” He asks, and when he looks down, he realizes he has a white-knuckle grip on the kitchen countertop.
“Yeah he’s here,” Steven says, with the slightest hint of a laugh in his voice. “He’s a lil bit drugged up though, you wanna talk to him?”
“Is that Shane? Can I— lemme talk to him?”
“Yeah, put me on to him,” Shane sighs because somehow he knows that if he doesn’t hear Ryan’s voice now, he’ll be a nervous wreck all the way to the hospital. There’s a slight rustle over the line, and then a soft “Hello?” and Shane feels some of the tension in his shoulders release.
“Hey, pal.”
“Shane, man, I think I’m gonna be late for lunch,” Ryan says, and it’s the deadpan tone of his voice that cracks Shane, and he laughs openly with his phone against his ear.
“No shit, Ry,” he replies, feeling fondness blooming inside his chest, not so much like a flower but more like a particularly nasty mold infestation. He feels sick with it. “Don’t worry about it. Do you want me to come over there?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan says, and Shane can practically picture his enthusiastic nodding, “My mom is on her way. Stevie has to leave soon and I need someone to stop me saying weird shit in front of my mom, I don’t want her to know I’m high.”
Shane knows Ryan well enough to know that he is in fact joking, there’s no way he’s that sauced from a little painkiller, but it doesn’t stop him from laughing anyway. “Okay. I’m gonna be there as soon as I can. Give the phone back to Steve?”
“Aye aye, Big Guy,” Ryan chirps, and the phone is passed back to where it came from.
.
Ryan doesn’t need surgery, which is a small miracle in Shane’s eyes. He does, however, require a boot, and his ankle is wrapped underneath to keep it in position.
There’s a short discussion with Linda about whether Ryan should stay with his parents while he literally gets back on his feet, but Ryan is adamant that he go home with Shane. Sure, if he’d still been living with the Rowdy Boys, then going home to his parents might have been the best option — what with the stairs and the general chaos.
“But our place is a bungalow,” Ryan shrugs, “And I trust Shane.”
Shane definitely does not almost tear up there in the hospital when Ryan grins up at him from his hospital bed.
It’s late when they get home and Ryan looks exhausted enough that they don’t bother with the crutches, Shane just stoops to get an arm around his waist and helps him hobble down to his bedroom.
In the scant week since moving in, Shane has found that his favorite thing about the house is his and Ryan’s shared bathroom, surprisingly. So far they’ve brushed their teeth together every night, and tonight is — in that aspect — no different. Ryan sits on the closed toilet seat, looking thoughtful as he brushes. The bags under his eyes are so much more pronounced than they were this morning, and when Shane looks in the mirror he notes the same about himself.
“Long day,” he says, around his toothbrush, and Ryan hums in response, eyes blinking closed. “Need me to tuck you in?”
It’s a joke, and Shane even says it with the biggest smile he can manage, but when Ryan meets his eye again he knows it’s no laughing matter.
“Maybe,” he says. “I think I’ll need a hand setting up my pillows to keep my leg elevated.”
“No problem,” Shane replies, helping Ryan to his feet so that he can spit.
.
When Monday comes around, it’s mutually agreed between Shane and Steven, and surprisingly even Ryan, that Ryan should work from home for at least the next four weeks. After that, when his ankle is a little more weight-bearing, they’ll revisit the idea.
“We can try to get you in on a Thursday when we film Weekly,” Shane says, the night before. “But other than that you’re probably better off not stuck in a car for that commute. You need to keep your leg elevated as much as possible.”
“Will you be okay to drive yourself to work?” Ryan asks, and if Shane didn’t know better, didn’t know that Ryan was about to rip the shit out of him for his Thing about driving, he’d say that Ryan maybe looks concerned?
“Legally, yes,” Shane jokes, and waits for Ryan’s punchline.
“I know you hate traffic,” Ryan says, “I just— don’t want you any more stressed than you have to be.”
Ah—
So no punchline?
“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” Shane asks, and he’s not trying to be mean, just realistic. Ryan’s furrowed brow tells him he’s not exactly being successful. “I’m serious Ryan. I wanna be in the office to work, and I want to come home and hang out with you. If that means I have to drive for the foreseeable future, I’m okay with that.”
Silently, Ryan nods in a defeated sort of agreement. He’s sitting in the corner of the sectional, his leg propped up on a throw pillow. Shane doesn’t need to look directly at him to know he’s stewing; he can feel it.
“Do you think this is what Sara meant when she said we wouldn’t last two weeks?” Ryan asks, and when Shane turns his head, Ryan doesn’t seem to want to look at him either.
“She’s not psychic, Ryan, this isn’t some kind of prophecy to be fulfilled.”
“I know,” Ryan sighs, almost snappish about it. “I’m just— sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Shane says, “This isn’t your fault, it was an accident. It’s just a hurdle, and when you’ve healed you’ll jump over it and be on your way.”
Ryan is quiet, doesn’t answer but instead drops his gaze to his lap, brows knit together in thought.
“Do you want to pick a place to order dinner from?” Shane asks, when he can see Ryan starting to spiral, “I don’t feel like cooking.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Ryan says, and it’s the funniest thing Shane’s heard all day.
.
One routine quickly becomes another.
They discover Ryan is pretty adept at getting himself around the house without putting weight on his foot. He’s got crutches and the upper body strength to use them, and the house isn’t so big that it’s a pain for him to hop over to the bathroom if he needs to. Shane doesn’t feel as guilty as he thought he would, leaving in the morning to drive to the Watcher office.
The first week is hard.
Ryan is obviously lonely at home, and spends long hours of the day facetiming into the office, sometimes just to listen to the commotion of other people working, murmured conversations, clicking and typing. It must be frustrating for him, to be such a people-person and have his social contact reduced so drastically and so suddenly.
The driving exhausts Shane more than he thought it would. Before, when Ryan had been driving, he was often drained after evening traffic, and Shane had taken on the mantel of House Chef. Now, after anxiously driving his hour-long commute home, he doesn’t much feel like cooking. Luckily they have a hefty stack of restaurant menus on hand at all times.
“I probably shouldn’t be eating this much takeout,” Ryan says, sitting patiently at the dining table as Shane sets out their plates. Shane doesn’t see it as such a big problem. They’re ordering smart, ordering healthy — sushi tonight because he hadn’t felt like anything heavy — but he guesses he can see where Ryan’s coming from. The guy has been stuck on the couch for most of the week; it’s hard to stay active when you can’t fall into your default of going for a walk or jog around the block. Ryan seems to be missing his daily swim more than anything else, and Shane often finds him staring out into their backyard, looking vaguely disappointed at his own circumstances.
“I’ll try to cook more next week,” He offers, apologetic. “I’m just— still getting used to that drive.”
“I know, I—” Ryan sighs, face pinched. “I didn’t mean— I don’t want you to get burned out trying to take care of me.”
“It’s just for a couple of months, Ryan,” Shane protests, “Honestly I think I was more exhausted when we first started the company. This is easy in comparison.”
Ryan scoffs as he pulls the paper wrapping off his chopsticks, snapping them apart, and Shane thinks about how he hasn’t heard Ryan really laugh in over a week now.
.
The first night Shane comes home to the smell of cooking in the kitchen, he’s both confused and concerned, even more so when he finds Ryan hovering by the stove.
“Hey, I’m home… are you cooking?”
Ryan startles slightly, wobbling on one foot, and Shane grabs a nearby dining chair for him before he topples over.
“Uh yeah,” Ryan huffs, looking faintly embarrassed as he sits. “ Blue Apron, a better way to cook. ”
“Oh my god,” Shane laughs, getting to his feet to get a look at what it is that Ryan has been slaving over.
“Uh, it’s a spicy chipotle tofu bowl. It said took like a half-hour, so I figured it couldn’t be too hard.”
He’s not as much of a failure in the kitchen as he likes to pretend , Shane thinks.
Ryan wobbles to his feet and hops over to join Shane at the counter, picking up a wooden spatula to stir what Shane now realizes are chunks of tofu, in some kind of sauce.
“I guess I just— want to be able to do something for you here at home,” Ryan says into the pan, because it’s likely easier than saying it to Shane’s face.
“You should be resting,” Shane argues, gentle, “We miss you at the office, and the sooner you get better the sooner you can start coming more often.”
“I can’t just sit around all day looking at my laptop screen,” Ryan sighs, and nudges Shane aside so he can get to the rice cooker. “I figured maybe I could learn to cook. I need to— I need to do things, y’know?”
“Alright, alright,” Shane placates, “Why don’t you sit down and I can plate all this? It smells fuckin’ amazing and I am starving.”
Ryan scratches the side of his face with a finger. He looks tired. “Can you set the table?” He asks.
Even just a half-hour is hard when you’re spending your time balancing on one foot.
“Yeah of course,” Shane says, emphatically. “Go sit.”
The cooking instructions are still on the counter, and Shane gives it a final read-through to make sure everything is done, and from what he can tell Ryan has followed the instructions to a tee. Everything looks perfect.
Ryan’s always been good at that.
.
Three weeks into living together and two and a half into Ryan’s recovery, Shane brings home a roll of cling wrap. Ryan, preparing the evening’s meal of pork lo mein, shoots him a curious glance as he tosses the long rectangular box onto the counter.
“Okay?”
“It’s for your foot,” Shane explains, “to keep your boot dry.”
Ryan blinks at him. “I already have that doohickey for the shower, the thing with the rubber seal?”
Ryan does indeed have a protective covering for his foot, but it’s definitely not suited for what Shane is thinking of.
“Not for the shower, bud, for the pool,” Shane chirps, and watches Ryan’s face split wide into a grin like Shane hasn’t seen in days .
“We have to eat,” Ryan says, through his smile, like just the thought alone is enough to make him happy. “And then I can’t swim for an hour after eating, we’ll be too tired.”
“Well, then, dinner can wait,” Shane shrugs. “We have a microwave, I heard those things are pretty good at reheating.”
“Yeah,” Ryan laughs almost as full and bright as he used to, and rubs at his forehead beneath the fringe of hair falling over it. “Okay, fuck it, lemme put on some trunks.”
In his own bedroom, Shane digs out his swim trunks, shrugging out of his work clothes. The realization that this will be the first time he swims with Ryan in their pool gives him pause as he pulls the waistband up over his hips. It feels like — something . He’s not sure what.
Ryan is waiting for him in the kitchen when he returns, and it’s the fastest he’s moved in nearly a fortnight. He’s holding the plastic wrap and turning it over curiously in his hands.
“Are you sure this will work?” he asks.
“No,” Shane replies, even though he researched the topic thoroughly. Ryan doesn’t have a plaster cast underneath, so the stakes are lower. And right now, Shane would do just about anything to cheer Ryan up. “Are you willing to risk it?”
“Yes,” Ryan says, instantly, unfazed.
Shane sits in one of the kitchen chairs and Ryan in another, carefully lifting his foot into Shane’s lap so that they can wrap him up and tape up the ends. Shane uses the entire roll, just to be sure.
“This is so dumb,” Ryan says, quietly, biting back a smile. Shane shakes his head, smoothing down the last piece of tape over Ryan’s skin. It’s gonna be hell for him to peel away later, and will definitely rip out some chunks of leg hair. He doubts Ryan will care.
“It’s not dumb if it makes you happy,” he says, and Ryan’s answering smile is blinding.
The sun is starting to set when they finally get outside, so Shane preemptively turns the outdoor and pool lights on as they step out. Without even discussing it first, he offers his arm right as Ryan reaches for him, the two of them slowly making their way across the patio down to the pool.
Getting into the water is another ordeal entirely, and Shane gets his arms around Ryan’s waist to help him lower himself into the shallow end, sitting on the steps beneath the surface. The water is cool, but Ryan feels warm from a long day cooped up inside, tacky under Shane’s fingers. He doesn’t hate it.
“How’s the foot?” he asks.
“Dry,” Ryan replies, surprised. “I don’t think I can move much though, I don’t want to agitate it.”
“Probably the best idea,” Shane says, and lowers himself to sit on the next step down from Ryan, submerging himself up to the top of his chest. From here they can hear cars passing on the street, birds in the trees, and a faint siren in the distance. It’s quieter out here, but still so full of life, and Shane finds himself loving it more and more each day.
“God,” Ryan says, and his voice is thick enough, choked enough, that Shane turns his head. Ryan is glassy-eyed, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looks close to tears, and it startles Shane. He can count the number of times he’s seen Ryan cry on one hand.
“Ry?”
“Sorry,” Ryan says, sniffs deeply with his head tipped back, “I’m just thinking about how much of a dumbass I am and how I still have six weeks left to go.”
“Don’t think about it like that, Ryan,” Shane says, turning the rest of his body to Ryan, wading ever so slightly closer. “It’s gonna go by fast than you think!”
“But it’s still six weeks where I’m making life harder on not just myself, but you too.”
“ God , Ryan, it was a freak accident. You had a bad fall, and it could’ve been so much worse. What if you’d hit your head or something?”
“I know,” Ryan says, pitifully, and to his credit, he’s still not crying. Just whining , which is so incredibly Ryan of him. “I just hate that— this was supposed to be fun, y’know? Nasty Boy House. And instead, you come home every day and I’m there like a sad sack of potatoes waiting for attention.”
“If you’re bored here at home, we can buy you a telescope,” Shane offers, and he knows he’s bypassing the point entirely, but it’s worth it for the way Ryan glares at him, a mixture of fury and amusement.
“That’s your one and only Rear Window reference,” Ryan warns him, “You don’t get another.”
“Okay,” Shane smiles, and lets himself drift closer until they’re shoulder to shoulder. “It was a good one though, right?”
“No comment,” Ryan replies, visibly fighting back a smile.
They only spend about twenty minutes lounging, the occasional playful splash and snicker between them until Ryan says “Okay, I think the water is starting to, uh, seep in through the layers of the wrap,” and they both climb out of the pool, wrapping up in towels and shuffling back inside.
Shane reheats their food while Ryan curls up on the sofa as best as he can, and then Shane joins, him, sitting close despite the fact that they definitely have more than enough room to spread out.
“I could start working from home a few days of the week,” he says.
“You don’t have to do that,” Ryan mumbles around a mouthful of noodles.
“I mean, I really do hate driving,” Shane says, breezily. “Give me an excuse to stay at home with you all day, and I’m going to take it.”
It’s maybe a little more than he wants to admit, but Ryan doesn’t rebuff him, and it makes him brave.
.
Finally, Shane starts to feel a little more comfortable in his life. Mondays through Wednesday he works in the office. On Thursday, Ryan travels with him to the office to film Watcher Weekly, after which they leave early and spend the rest of the day working at home. Fridays see Shane waking up early to cook breakfast for two, watching from the window as Ryan does what exercise he can manage in the back yard (shirtless more often than not). Shane will work in their office while Ryan works from the couch; it’s enough distance that they don’t spend their time distracting one another, but close enough that they can shout to each other when needed.
Ryan becomes confident in his cooking ability in a very short space of time, and it’s terribly attractive and somewhat devastating. On the days between their meal delivery service, Shane will find Ryan peering into the fridge and cabinets, muttering to himself about what he can make and whether he needs to look up a recipe. He still can’t put much weight on his ankle, but he can zip around pretty quickly on just one crutch.
It starts to feel like home.
It’s been a long time since Shane has lived with another person, the last time being the year he and Sara lived together, before she moved in with her partners and he’d found his shitty one-bed. And while living with a friend is always nice, it’s never felt this domestic before. It’s never felt this good .
On a Friday, Shane asks “Are you coming out for drinks tonight?” because it’s been almost a month, and while Ryan has progressed to car journeys and trips to the grocery store, he hasn’t joined the gang for drinks.
Ryan, on the sofa again, grimaces. “Nah, you go on again, I wouldn’t be able to stick it out for the whole night.”
Shane frowns, but tries to nip his disappointment at the bud. “Well, maybe I’ll stay home and we can crack open a bottle of wine, watch a movie?”
“No, no,” Ryan protests, “No, you said Kelsey D is coming and I know she loves watching you get white girl wasted.”
“I—” Shane cuts himself off, because he does love the rare occasion where he allows Kelsey to get him trashed, even if she no longer drinks herself, “I resent you calling it that.”
Ryan laughs, shaking his head and turning back around to the TV.
“Go have fun, I’ll be mad if you’re not suffering tomorrow.”
“You’ll be okay?”
“I’m not a toddler, Shane,” Ryan says, and starts to sound a little sharp with it. “I can be alone for periods of time. I do it for most of the week.”
Shane doesn’t argue with him after that and instead shuffles away to get showered and changed, having spent the day in his Work At Home clothes (aka, sweatpants).
As he’s ordering a Lyft, Ryan offhandedly tells him he looks nice, and despite the fact that he barely looks up from the television when says it, Shane feels good about it.
It takes an awful lot of Shane’s will and energy not to press a kiss to the top of Ryan’s head as he passes by to walk out the door. He’s in the backseat of his ride and halfway to the bar when he finally understands what that urge really means.
.
Steven and TJ cancel, which isn’t unusual — they rarely have the entire gang present for weekend drinks, it’s just the nature of a busy life. It does, however, mean that Shane finds himself at a table with Kelsey, Sara, and Annie, just listening to them talk while steadily making his way through one Sidecar and then another.
“Are you pacing yourself, Shane?” Kelsey asks, and looks vaguely concerned about it. She’s sipping a diet coke with a straw, and Sara and Annie are still both on their first drink.
“Um,” he says, and pushes his empty glass away from him. “I should.” He doesn’t want to.
“You doing okay?” Sara asks, “Tell us about life with Ryan.”
And Shane suddenly wishes he had another drink in front of him. When he doesn’t answer, and looks at his empty hands on the table, Annie quietly says “Uh oh,” and Sara tugs dramatically at the collar of her shirt.
“No,” Shane grimaces, shaking his head. “It’s not bad— it’s very, it’s good. We have a lot of fun!”
“But?” Kelsey presses, leaning in with her hand on her chin.
“But I wanted to kiss him today,” Shane says, because what is a filter when you’ve had this much brandy?
“Uh oh,” Kelsey says, echoing Annie’s statement, while Sara just grins at him across the table, chewing on her paper straw.
“So what’s the problem?” she asks.
“Uhhhhh, I do not think he wants to kiss me,” Shane replies, because isn’t it the most obvious thing in the world? Sara on the other hand, rolls her eyes at him, leaning back in her chair.
“You fool,” she says, “You gigantic, huge, intolerable fool.”
“Wai-wait,” Kelsey injects, “I need the full story here! All I know is you’re living with Ryan now. Since when did you want to kiss him?”
“Today,” Shane replies, as Sara simultaneously says, “ Always .”
“No, not since always ,” Shane sneers, because that’s just factually incorrect. He hasn’t even known Ryan since always, just a very long time.
“Yes, you have!” Sara laughs, “You’ve always had a crush on him, and I knew living with him was gonna make it worse for you!”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh I literally told you, Shane,” she jabs the straw in his direction. “As much as I could with him sitting right there with us. I said don’t shit where you eat.”
“That’s literally not the same as ‘don’t live with Ryan or you’ll fall in love with him even more’. It doesn’t mean anything close to that.”
“So you admit you were already a little bit in love with him?” Annie interrupts, and Kelsey just starts cackling , her head thrown back in delight.
“I’m feeling a little ganged up on here, I think I need another drink,” Shane mumbles, slouching back in his seat to match Sara’s posture.
“Do you wanna talk about it, Shane?” Kelsey asks him, reaching out to squeeze his wrist in her hand. “You might figure out some things if you just… talk.”
“I’m gonna need to be more drunk for that,” Shane says, and Sara laughs as Kelsey flags down a waitress to order Shane another drink.
And then suddenly, in the space of an hour or so, Shane is too drunk to go home and finds himself in the back of an Uber with Kelsey, half-asleep on her shoulder.
“Can you text Ryan and tell him I won’t be home?” he asks, and feels Kelsey pat his cheek affectionately.
“Already did, remember? You said goodnight to him on the phone.”
Shane does not remember, but it’s okay.
The next thing he remembers is waking up on Kelsey’s couch, draped in a large soft blanket that he is far too sweaty to enjoy. There are two bottles of water and an aspirin on the coffee table, and Shane chugs one bottle with the pill before he lays down again. Hangovers after thirty are no fun but at least they’re not the puking-in-the-shower variety anymore.
Kelsey shoots him a sympathetic look when she comes down the stairs and finds him where he’s moved from the couch to starfish out on the floor.
“You want breakfast, big boy?” she asks, and Shane stomach turns very quickly. So maybe he’s not past puking in the shower just yet.
“God no, thank you,” he gasps, “I’m just gonna call a ride home.”
Kelsey sends him on his way with another water and a kiss on the cheek. If she has any words of advice, she doesn’t offer them, and Shane is deeply grateful.
.
The front door opens as Shane is making his way up the driveway, and in the space of a split second, Shane starts to prepare himself for the way Ryan is absolutely about to tear him apart for his ‘walk of shame’, even if he has nothing to be ashamed about.
It’s not Ryan at the door though, it’s Marielle, in leggings and an oversized hoodie, backpack slung over one shoulder and her hair tied into a puff at the top of her head. She’s leaving, laughing ar Ryan appears behind her, looking like a wreck but in the worst way possible.
Mari’s eyes widen and she grins as she catches sight of Shane loping up towards her.
“Here he is!” she says, and Ryan peers over her shoulder to beam down at Shane, who notes that Ryan’s smile is even bigger than his face. He looks... happy. He looks flushed .
There’s something roiling in Shane’s stomach, and he doesn’t think it’s the hangover tugging at him again.
“Hey you guys,” he says. “You look like you had fun.”
“Lots of fun,” Mari agrees, “I’m just about to head out, got some errands to run this afternoon. Catch you again, Shane?”
“For sure,” he says, and she squeezes his arm as she slips past him. Ryan steps back from the door to let Shane through and then closes it behind him. He’s using his crutch and follows Shane easily to the kitchen, where he’s pouring himself another glass of water.
“I guess we both had a fun night,” Shane says, as breezily as he can manage. Ryan comes to stop in the middle of the kitchen.
“Wh— wait, huh?”
“Oh I just— you’re all... sweaty and glowy and I literally just arrived as you were saying goodbye to a girl you used to date on our doorstep, so—”
“Oh!” Ryan exclaims, and suddenly starts laughing, “Oh Jesus, no dude. Mari came over to help me work out this morning. Her brother broke his ankle last year so she knew some stuff that could help me out.”
“Oh, oh , okay,” Shane says, flustered all of a sudden.
“I didn’t sleep with her.”
“No yeah, I get it,” Shane says, rumbled, “Sorry I assumed.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ryan shrugs. “Wait, does that mean you got some action last night? You said—”
“No-no, I went home with Kelsey,” Shane says, shaking his head. “I slept on her couch. I just meant, I got very drunk last night and I guess I had fun, because I don’t remember most of it.”
That elicits a smile from Ryan, at least.
“You called at like 1am to say goodnight,” he teases. “You don’t remember.”
“Nope,” Shane shrugs, and if he said something embarrassing he’s sure he can blame it on the cocktails. Ryan seems to be grinning at him though, so maybe whatever he said wasn’t too incriminating. Embarrassing and earnest, he can handle, but anything more than that, anything encroaching into emotional territory is something Shane would rather stay in the dark about.
“Okay,” Ryan says, in a soft-spoken tone that Shane can’t quite place the meaning behind. “Do you wanna watch some TV with me? I’m just gonna veg on the couch.”
Shane winces. “I’ve been dreaming about a sandwich, shower, and a long nap.”
Ryan chuckles, nodding in understanding, and Shane must be imagining things because Ryan somehow now looks even more flushed than before.
“Cool, I’m gonna jump in the shower first while you eat if that’s okay?”
“Fire ahead,” Shane says, already heading towards the fridge to pick out his fixins.
It’s an hour later when Shane is crawling into his bed, belly full, freshly showered, curtains drawn, that he recognizes that the pit in his stomach as he’d come face to face with Ryan and Mari that morning was not in fact just a hangover, but hard disappointment, and just a hint of jealousy.
.
Shane stubbornly decides to stop letting himself get his hopes up.
The problem is that being around Ryan lends itself to that naturally, and it’s not Shane’s fault at all when Ryan has those eyes that look at him the way they do, and that smile that lights up his entire face, and those hands that give affection and attention so easily — Ryan is a wildly different man now than the one Shane met in 2014. It’s hard to stay out of Ryan’s reach when he will go out of his way to find you and poke your face for no goddamn reason.
Shared meals at the dining table suddenly feel too intimate, so Shane will mutter something about eating on the couch, because it’s easier to look at the TV than look at Ryan across the table from him. Occasionally he’ll leave to eat in his room and Ryan is so visibly disappointed, yet so obviously trying not to be, when he sits down alone to eat.
It hurts, but not as much as it would hurt to let himself have this and know it can go nowhere. Shane makes a stupid decision and starts staying later at work, not showing up for dinner at all , because it’s easier.
So Ryan stops cooking.
.
Shane doesn’t notice right away, because Ryan will leave a plate for him in the microwave for whatever time he gets home at, usually some time between eight and nine-thirty. It takes four days in a row of takeout leftovers, and a fifth day of an empty fridge for Shane to realize what’s happened. And it’s fine, he doesn’t expect Ryan to make dinner and he’s not upset that there’s nothing waiting for him when he gets home. The whole point of Shane staying late at work was to get some distance, and get some independence.
When Friday comes around again, he doesn’t go out with the gang and instead, he orders a large pizza, half mushroom for himself and half pepperoni for Ryan.
He finds Ryan in his bed, the door of his room cracked while he watches something on his TV and simultaneously dicks around on his laptop.
“Hey,” he says, knocking on the doorframe. Ryan looks up at him, and for the first time he almost looks guarded. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever been on the receiving end of that look before. There’s a firm set to Ryan’s mouth, no trace of a smile in sight.
“Hey, you’re home,” Ryan says, flatly, because Shane had made a split decision to go into the office that morning and spent the entire day regretting it.
“Yeah, I ordered pizza,” he says, and watches some of that light return to Ryan’s gaze. “You wanna play some video games?”
“I dunno, I’m kind of tired,” Ryan replies, fidgeting with his blanket between his hands.
“Well, just come out and eat then,” Shane says. “We’ll watch some TV.”
Ryan does the De Niro mouth shrug, and carefully starts to extract himself from the bed, grabbing his crutch so that he can follow Shane out into the livingroom.
For a short while, it’s fine. It feels normal to sit with Ryan, throw on an old episode of Seinfeld, and scarf down some pizza. He ignores the fact that they’re sitting on opposite ends of the sofa. It’s fine. It’s good , even, until Shane opens his big fat mouth.
“I noticed you stopped cooking,” he says. Ryan turns his head, and Shane can feel the sharp energy barely contained within him.
“You noticed?” Ryan asks, and he sounds calm but Shane knows better and realizes what a mistake he’s made.
“Yeah, I—” Shane sighs, “I’m just— just checking in with you.”
“So I stop making dinner for you and you finally notice how unhappy I am,” Ryan says, and the sharp energy is suddenly gone, replaced by — nothing. There’s no emotion in Ryan’s voice, and that scares Shane more than his anger ever could.
“That’s not— I just thought it was something that was making you happy, that’s all. You were learning new recipes and all kinds of stuff.”
“Yeah, but when you didn’t come home to enjoy them with me…” Ryan uses his good foot to kick their empty pizza box off the coffee table and it skids across the floor, “...I didn’t see the point. It was for you, but you weren’t there.”
It hits him like a sucker punch.
“You didn’t have to do that for me,” Shane says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. The rest of him, the rational part, is paralyzed with fear.
“I know that!” Ryan exclaims, and his fury comes flooding in, hot and raging like a river of lava. “I wanted to! I liked when you would come home to our house and have dinner with me and tell me about your day! And not just after I broke my fucking foot, but those first few days when everything was good with us.”
“Everything is still good, Ryan,” Shane says, and tries to get closer to Ryan, leaning forward but too nervous that he might scare him off.
“Then why are you being like this? Why can’t I figure out what I did wrong?” Ryan cries, voice going hoarse and tight and then silent.
“Fuck,” Shane says, under his breath, leans forward into the palms of his hands, elbows on his knees. “ Fuck .”
Ryan doesn’t say anything, and Shane doesn’t know what to say.
Because he can’t say it, right? He can’t say ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to scare you’ or ‘sorry, I didn’t want to disappoint myself’ because either of those would require a hefty explanation.
And Shane can’t lie to Ryan.
“Do you hate me?” Ryan asks, quietly, and it breaks Shane’s heart.
“Never, Ry,” he replies, plaintive.
“Then why don’t you wanna be around me?”
Shane stands up, folding his arms over his chest, because he feels like he might fall apart. He walks to the patio door, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, feeling Ryan’s eyes on him the whole time.
Time to be honest.
“I didn’t want to move in with you,” he says, to the glass.
“ What ?” Ryan shouts, and Shane can hear a clatter behind him as Ryan gets to his feet with the help of his crutch, his disjointed footsteps clunking across the floor. “I fucking asked you! I asked you right here in this room if you wanted to, and you—”
“Yeah, I know , I said yes ,” Shane shouts back and turns around. “Because I would literally do anything for you—”
“You spent weeks entertaining every fucking apartment and house listing I sent to you— ”
“You were so excited, Ryan—”
“Excited to be with you every day! I don’t understand how you could go through with this and not feel the same way!” Ryan yells, voice increasing in volume with each word.
“I do want to be with you every day! And I was fucking scared that I would—” he cuts himself off mid-shout when he sees the look on Ryan’s face, the wide eyes and the raised brows, mouth parted in shock.
This is it, the thing he was afraid of.
“What could you possibly be scared of, Shane?” Ryan asks, voice thick, and Shane adds a one to the number of times he’s seen Ryan cry.
“Fuck, Ryan ,” he whispers, hoarse as fuck, exhausted. “I’m afraid of fucking up our friendship. On account of how I’m in love with you, and everything.”
Ryan seems to freeze on the spot, eyes glistening but his gaze unwavering.
It feels like an eternity before either of them move again.
“Oh, oh god ,” Ryan says, and Shane almost chokes on an inhale. The relief of saying those words aloud, allowing himself to admit it not just to himself but to Ryan too. The fear of how Ryan will react.
“Yeah,” he croaks, and Ryan wavers on the spot, leaning heavily into his crutch.
“Oh my god. You idiot. You fucking idiot, Shane, I can’t believe—”
“Okay, you don’t have to be rude about it.”
“Yes I do!” Ryan exclaims, “I do because, guess what, asshole? I’ve been in love with you the entire goddamn time!”
And well, none of that makes sense, does it?
“What? No you haven’t, you’re straight.”
“ You’re straight,” Ryan fires back, petulant, “ And , you’re missing the point, as usual.”
The knot in Shane’s belly loosens. Hope, maybe? Excitement? Nah, closer to anxiety for sure. Definitely somewhere in the vicinity of earth-shaking-panic-attack.
“I don’t understand,” he says, quiet. “I never thought you— there’s no way you would ever be interested.”
“I wanted to buy a house with you, Shane,” Ryan laughs, incredulous.
“We’re renting,” Shane points out, and Ryan just scoffs louder, tossing his head.
“Okay, pedant. Missing the point, still.”
And now Shane is the one frozen.
He looks around and it’s exactly how he pictured it, months ago. Ryan’s couch and his afghan. The movie posters, the art prints. The plants that Ryan forgets to water, their shoes by the door, pictures in frames and stuck to the fridge. It’s almost everything he’s ever wanted. Almost.
He wants Ryan too.
“I, uh,” Shane sniffs hard, because he’s never been a crier and he’s sure not gonna start now. “I spent so long trying not to look at you that I didn’t see you at all.”
“Yeah, well,” Ryan sighs, “start now. Start seeing me.”
“I really want to kiss you right now,” Shane whispers. “I know it’s not an apology. I’ll find some way to make it up to you.”
“Just get over here,” Ryan says, and there’s a hint of a smile on his lips for the first time that night — maybe even all week. Shane pushes himself away from the counter, and they’re barely five feet apart anyway but it feels like closing a canyon. He doesn’t even go into the kiss right away, just wants to put his arms around Ryan, just wants to touch him . Ryan melts into him in a way he has only ever felt him do at closing time in a bar, or a particularly bad night out shooting, when Ryan’s guard is at its lowest. He’s only ever this vulnerable for Shane.
“Hey, Ry?” Shane asks, and feels Ryan’s arms squeeze around him. “I’m so stupid. I hope you’re prepared for that.”
“Yeah, baby, I know,” Ryan says, tipping his head back to look up at Shane. “We’re two peas in a pod.”
And that’s when Shane goes in for the kiss.
.
It feels like too much for the first night, maybe, but once Shane gets his hands on Ryan he just can’t take them off.
Ryan says “Hey we should talk about this right?” like every cliche sitcom, and Shane nods with full intentions to do exactly that, but then he urge hits him again, kiss him kiss him kiss him , and — well, he’s been denying himself so long anyway that he can’t resist, now that he’s sure he’s allowed.
Ryan doesn’t push him away at all.
It’s a sweet, gentle kiss, but it turns filthy in the blink of an eye and Shane can barely stand it. How it feels to have Ryan against him like this, pressing close like he wants to climb inside.
“Or we could do this,” Ryan corrects. “It’s okay, right?”
“I’m tired of wasting time,” Shane says, and he feels Ryan shudder.
“You wanna?”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “My room?”
“Mine’s closer,” Ryan argues, and Shane can’t help but agree that he makes a good point. It’s a bit of a shuffle to get to Ryan’s room, especially with the boot (crutch forgotten on the kitchen tile), and especially when they both seem so determined to keep hands on one another.
“I’m— I’m not gonna be very helpful,” Ryan says, and sounds bashful about it in a way Shane hasn’t heard before. “I’m not the most mobile right now.”
“Okay,” he says, trailing his thumb over Ryan’s cheek, rubbing against the grain of stubble. “Let me do all the work.”
He swears that Ryan gulps , though Ryan would never admit it himself, but he nods, scooting backward onto the bed, pulling Shane with him by the hand.
They’re borderline chaste to start, easing back into the kissing, getting breathy when Shane lowers himself into the cradle of Ryan’s hips. But then Shane can’t resist sneaking a hand down to cop a feel when he feels Ryan getting hard in his shorts, gasping into Shane’s kisses and pushing up into the touch.
Maybe it’s been a while for them both. Maybe Ryan wants this even more than Shane does. It feels good, too good, even with all of their clothes on.
He reaches for the hem of Ryan’s t-shirt, tugging until Ryan breaks away long enough to pull it over his head. Ryan’s a little thicker in the middle than he used to be, but there’s still muscle beneath it. It just means there’s more softness for Shane to grab. He rubs his thumb softly over Ryan’s nipple and then laughs when Ryan gasps out into his mouth, goosebumps pebbling his arms instantly.
“I always wondered whether you actually liked this or if it was just a bit,” Shane says, and feels Ryan chuckling, still squirming. “I always wondered how far I could take it.”
“Buddy, it’s been just me and my hand for a while now, you won’t have to do much.”
“But I want to,” Shane argues, and Ryan bucks up beneath him, rubbing the hard line of his cock against Shane’s — all those layers and it still feels like heaven. “Could you come like this?”
“Mm,” Ryan sighs, “Feels like a waste of a good orgasm, especially when those hands of yours are right here.”
Shane takes it as a go-ahead and slips his hand down the front of Ryan’s shorts, unsurprised to find him not wearing underwear. Ryan looks at him, as though daring him to make a comment, but Shane knows better than that. It doesn’t matter anyway, because the instant Shane gets a hand around him, Ryan’s moaning and arching up into the touch, chasing the pressure of Shane’s hand.
“Oh that’s it,” he says, softly, “ Shane .”
“Let’s see what you’re working with, hmm?” Shane asks, and pulls away (much to Ryan’s audible disappointment) to remove his basketball shorts. Luckily they’re easy to slip over his boot. Shane yanks off Ryan’s lone sock from his good foot while he’s down there, and laughs at the way Ryan yelps.
“Suddenly feeling very naked here,” he says, and Shane lets himself look. Arms, belly, thighs, the parts of Ryan he sees when Ryan’s swimming or lounging or puttering around shirtless on a Saturday morning. And then his cock, thick and uncut, curving up towards his stomach now that it’s been freed.
“You are very naked here,” Shane says, and he’s grinning because he can’t believe he gets to see this. He loves all of it.
“Well, I showed you mine...” Ryan tilts his head, giving Shane a once over, but there’s still something shy about him. As though he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop — much like Shane himself.
He starts to unbutton his shirt, and Ryan sits up farther on the bed to watch, a stray hand ghosting over his chest and down his stomach, hovering as though he wants to touch himself — but he waits, and doesn’t take his eyes off of Shane, who just keeps stripping off until there’s nothing left.
He’s been naked before, but he can’t remember the last time it felt like bearing his soul.
“Stay right there,” Shane says, “I wanna suck you, is that okay?”
“More than okay,” Ryan exhales, and he has never looked more compromised. His legs spread as he leans back, as though inviting Shane to crawl between them; he does so gladly.
He takes Ryan in hand, leaning down to lick around the head, listening to the way Ryan holds his breath, the way his body goes still. He groans, loud when Shane finally puts his mouth around him fully.
“God, Shane,” Ryan sighs, sounding utterly broken, this time in the best way possible. He uses his hand around the shaft, slowly tugging, and tries to take as much as he can in his mouth but, god , there’s a lot to take.
Ryan gets very close very quickly, obvious in the way his thighs start to tense, the way he tries to follow the motion of Shane’s mouth when he pulls back, and his fast and ragged breaths.
“Fuckin— fuck, Shane, I’m right there,” he says, and Shane pulls up after a few more daring bobs of his head, right as Ryan starts to come. It gets all over his face, but Shane doesn’t really seem to care and if the noises Ryan makes are any indication, he fucking loves it .
Ryan catches his breath, and Shane grabs a discarded t-shirt off the floor to wipe off his face.
He can’t wait any longer, he’s needy, he wants to come and he wants Ryan more than he’s wanted anything in the world.
“C’mere,” Ryan sighs, and Shane crawls up to kneel beside him as Ryan gets a hand around him, already wet where he’d licked his hand, already sticky from Shane’s own pre-come.
When he comes, he shoots right over Ryan’s chest, and it’s an image he’s never going to forget.
Shane slumps against the headboard, spent. Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally.
“Are you falling asleep already?” Ryan asks, sounding as drowsy as Shane feels. The fighting and the fucking — it really takes it out of you.
“No,” Shane lies.
“Good,” Ryan replies, “Because it’d be pretty shitty of you not to clean me off first.”
Shane snorts and pulls himself upright anyway. He leans down to kiss Ryan’s bare shoulder, pausing to savor the moment, savor the fact that he’s allowed to.
“What kind of friend would I be if I left you there to dry,” he says, and Ryan huffs out a tiny laugh, his hand coming around to cup Shane’s head, tugging affectionately at his hair.
“You’d still be my best friend,” Ryan says, so unexpectedly soft that Shane can’t help but lean in and steal another kiss.
.
Another Friday rolls around, another night at the bar with the gang.
Ryan, freshly out of his boot and back in his sneakers, joins them at their usual booth and tucks himself into the corner next to Shane, happily sipping a rum and coke. He’s been smiling all night, listening to their friends questioning Shane, just looking generally delighted to be out of the house, and also to be comfortable, at that.
“And you’re still living together?” TJ asks, “Even though you just started dating?”
“It’s not a lot different to our usual thing,” Shane admits.
“Except for the sex,” Ryan grins, to the groans of all around them. “Which there is approximately a hundred percent more of.”
“I don’t think that’s how percentage works,” Steven says, eyes narrowed.
If anything, their friends seem happy for them, and while Shane understands their concerns, he’s not worried.
There are worse people he could be spending all his hours with than Ryan Bergara.