A/N: the long road to recovery
Shane almost forgot that a new farmer had moved in a couple of months back.
Every day had gone by like any other; wake up at the crack of dawn, work for hours on end under the scrutiny of an asshole who never had to sweat for his money, and then hide away at the saloon until he was too drunk to remember how his day had been. Well, he wasn't always that drunk - Joja would never pay him that generously. He saved his pity sessions for pay day.
So when he looked down at an empty mug in his hand, there was an odd twinge in his gut. He was unsure of what it was anymore. Disappointment? Guilt? It all felt the same at this point. He cradled the mug in his hands, as if it were some precious thing, eyes trained on the glass as he debated whether he should indulge just this one night.
Shane snorted at the thought. Just this one night, of course, because every other night is just this one night, right?
Footsteps approached him, and immediately, he looked up and was met with an oddly bright smile. The farmer he had met earlier that season stood before him, a mug in each hand, and before Shane could utter a word, he said, "I thought you'd like this. It's your favorite, right?"
While flattered, the foam that had clung desperately to the rim of the mug did everything to tempt him, yet nothing to compel him. He finally remembered that Pelican Town had a new addition that season, and with that came the memory of his lonely trek to the saloon one afternoon when he had first crossed paths with the farmer.
"Hi there!" the farmer had started, and he was far too happy for a Monday and far, far too loud for Shane's headache. "I just moved in last week. I'm -"
"Get fucked," Shane snapped, and that was that.
Nearly an entire season had passed since then, and suddenly, here the farmer was, offering him beer and a smile that shined brighter than the neon lights that flickered around the rim of the jukebox across the saloon. A few seconds passed, the silence tense and thick, almost suffocating Shane where he leaned against the wall, and he could tell by the small fidgeting that the farmer was starting to succumb to it.
Finally, Shane reached out to the beer he wanted but definitely didn't deserve, grunting lowly, "Thanks." In a solemn afterthought, he asked, "How'd you know?"
What was it, exactly? The stains on his shirt? How often he'd walk home with a pack of cheap beer from JojaMart without a care in the world who saw or who judged? The frequent glances he'd shoot over to Gus as he contemplated another drink, and then another, until he couldn't think anymore?
The farmer's chest swelled, his eyes light with something between pride and contentedness. "Lucky guess, I suppose!"
He didn't linger after that. He wished Shane well and turned on his heel to return to the pool table. Shane watched from the frigid shadow of his secluded corner as the farmer, so seamlessly intertwined with their society despite barely being here for a season, happily greeted Sam and Sebastian with the same kind of familiarity as an old friend would have. Shane's grip tightened on the mug, and when the foam had eventually slid over the edge and onto his fingers, he took a sip with a defeated sigh.
The next week, when the farmer approached him with more beer, Shane found it increasingly difficult not to slam his own empty mug against the farmer's freckled face. He gave that same toothy, disgustingly lighthearted smile as he started, "Hey, I -"
"Why are you buying me a drink?" Shane asked. The inquiry came out cold, almost deadpan, and it finally put a dent in the farmer's picture perfect smile. "I don't even know you."
The farmer opened his mouth to speak, yet naught but a helpless little noise left his lips. Shane would regret it if skepticism didn't lurk in the shadows of his mind, wondering why anyone would offer any kindness to a piteous man. Eventually, the farmer held out the beer to him again, and something in Shane fluttered with the fleeting sense of incredulous surprise.
"Well, that's exactly it, " the farmer said with a nervous little laugh. "I don't know you. But I'd like to."
The admission was so painstakingly genuine, as if he didn't already know just how big of a mess Shane really was. A giant, disappointing mess that no one had ever been interested in getting to know. Shane immediately accepted the gift; the craving for alcohol was more important than the guilt that lurked in the back of his mind.
This time, the farmer didn't immediately leave, instead asking him while he shakily took a sip, "How long have you lived in the Valley?"
How long have you been dragging Marnie down?
There was a curious little tilt in the farmer's head at the question- innocent, carefree, as if the question wasn't about something that Shane had dwelled on ever since he moved in with Marnie several months back. It was another one of those topics that he actively avoided until he had either a beer too many or laid awake long enough to brood. Several months under his aunt's roof, in a town where he promised himself a fresh start, in a valley filled with various wonders, yet still stuck in the same monotonous schedule that he had fallen into in the city. If Emily hadn't disappeared into the back room some time ago, he would've downed his drink and ordered another.
"Not as long as you think I have."
The finality of his tone got the message across; the farmer nodded slowly, visibly dissatisfied, but to Shane's relief, he didn't push. Shortly after, he started, "Well, you and rest of town already know when I moved in." He shifted from one foot to the other with a small, forced laugh. "It's scary, though, isn't it? How quickly word spreads? About everything, seriously!"
Shane would snort at the understatement if it wasn't so laborious to do anything but lift his mug to his lips. He found that it had become frighteningly empty, and still, Emily had yet to return to her spot at the bar. The farmer was still talking, so blissfully oblivious to the disaster before him, but Shane wasn't listening. He could only focus on the thirst, the need, the absolute agony that was the torturous dryness in his mouth and in his throat that water could never quench.
"I'm going home."
A lie, of course, but the shame of lying was overshadowed by the shame of admitting to returning to JojaMart for alcohol. He realized that he had cut the farmer off, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He already started walking, and behind him, he heard the farmer murmur, "Oh. . . ."
Later that night, all Shane could focus on was the farmer. How bright that smile was, how happy and stupidly pleased he seemed when Shane accepted his gift - then how undeniably disappointed the farmer sounded in the end after such a nice attempt at pleasant conversation. It didn't matter why Shane left anymore; all that mattered was that small, pitifully defeated sound once the farmer realized that his efforts had gone to waste. As expected, it didn't take long for Shane to disappoint him.
And how long will it take Marnie to realize that she's wasting her time, too?
His only relief was his seventh beer, but by that point, he couldn't remember what, exactly, he was trying to relieve himself of.
The sudden flourish of life in the Valley marked the beginning of summer. Shane found that the only enjoyable part of his day, besides his trek to the saloon, were his early morning walks to JojaMart. The town was peaceful so early in the morning, with naught but the sounds of bird calls and his own methodical footsteps. There typically weren't people out and about in the morning, which left him to sulk in his own thoughts in peace as he walked in the pleasant chill of the morning, but this time, he came across the farmer on his way out of the forest from Marnie's ranch.
Shane almost couldn't meet the farmer's eye, but he forced himself to. Surprisingly enough, the farmer offered him a gentle smile, as if Shane didn't rudely interrupt him to go drink, as if Shane hadn't been actively avoiding him at the saloon. Resting on his shoulder was a fishing rod, and in his other hand, a small cooler. The farmer's voice was soft, gravelly with the remnants of sleep as he greeted, "Morning."
"Morning," Shane responded, deadpan, lifeless like any other morning, as if he hadn't been brooding over their last encounter.
The farmer didn't bother stopped for small talk like he would with any other; his smile faltered, and as they passed, Shane could see the dark bags that weighed heavily under his eyes. A few steps further, Shane stopped - he didn't know what compelled him, exactly, to call back to the farmer, "Hey. You got a second?"
"Huh?" The farmer's sleep-laden eyes widened a bit. "Oh. Yeah, definitely." He wandered over, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip. "What's up?"
Shane held his breath. Almost a week had passed of him contemplating on and off what to say, but still, he didn't know what to say, only that he wanted to say it. Yet what was there to say anymore? Sorry for being an unlikable asshole? Sorry for being rude when you bought me a drink? Sorry for being ungrateful?
"About last week. . . ."
His voice faltered. The farmer shrugged as if to feign insouciance, but the tension was evident in his voice when he said, "It's okay. I knew I was bothering you."
"No, that's not -" Shane hissed out a sigh. "Look. I'm not good with words." I'm not good with anything. "I just want to apologize for being a jerk to you." I'm just shitty like that. "I just - I don't know you well and I got defensive." I don't know why I'm like this. "But it's not your fault."
Whatever had weighed on the farmer's shoulder had visibly dissipated at the admission. "Apology accepted!" The lethargic droop in the farmer's eyes were gone, now replaced with the odd sort of light that they held when he spoke to Shane at the saloon. It was alluring, how breathtakingly expressive they were, far more alluring than any drink that Gus could offer him. "I guess I'll be seeing you around, then."
"Yeah."
It was a small success, but a success nonetheless, and that in itself was enough to make Shane's chest feel light and airy. It was foreign, almost frightening with its sharp contrast to his usual cold, nearly lifeless demeanor, but for now, he relished in it. For now, he'll enjoy the small victory that was salvaging whatever possibility there was of a friendship in this town.
The next time they talked, they were, of course, at the saloon. Except this time, Shane had barely arrived; he was still sitting at the bar, waiting for either Emily or Gus to tend to him, when the farmer suddenly slunk over the bar stool next to him.
When Emily neared, the farmer said, "Hey, Emily! Mind pouring us a few drinks?"
"Gotcha," she cheerfully hummed, and off she went to retrieve the beer.
Sitting so close to him now, under the bright lights of the bar, Shane could see the forest green of the farmer's eyes. They were bright, strong, and when the farmer offered him a shy smile, his stomach flipped.
He murmured incredulously, "Buying me a drink? Again?"
The farmer's smile widened. That smile, initially annoying and disgusting in how fake Shane assumed it to be, helped melt the tension in a way Shane didn't know was possible. "Yeah, I know! Mom always told me how stubborn I was."
A silence followed. The farmer had yet to meet his eye again, oddly antsy compared to how he typically held himself with the other patrons. Then again, no one else was as unpleasant as Shane had been when they first met. That thought would've burrowed further into his chest and poisoned him with its malice if the farmer didn't turn to him again.
"Do you think we could start over?"
Emily returned with their drinks. Shane pulled his own mug closer to him, but he didn't feel the immediate urge to drink. Not yet, anyways. He pondered it for a moment, then said, "Sure."