Am I My Brother's Keeper?

by Shadows-Dancing-In-The-Hall

When Rick says "you did this to us" in Better Angels, there's a lot more to that "us" than just friendship. Done for a prompt at twdkinkmeme. Rick/Shane with some suggestive themes.

Alright so this is another TWD oneshot obviously :) It has nothing to do with any of my other TWD work. I actually started this months ago for a prompt at twdkinkmeme on livejournal and since I am a horrible person, I just finished it :/ Sorry about that but I did get it done! :D

Eventually.

Anyway, here is the prompt: When Rick says "you did this to us" in Better Angels, there's a lot more to that "us" than just friendship.

I hope readers enjoy and PLEASSSSSSE remember to review! :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing TWD related.

Warning: Some language and biblical as well as suggestive themes.

---

Am I My Brother's Keeper?

---

The blood burns Rick's hands. Boiling. Searing. So hot that, in the back of his mind, some distant and detached place, he wonders if there is any skin left or if only bones remain. A grotesque brand, horrible and nightmarish. His own Mark of Cain.

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

All those Sundays, sitting in that pew next to his Mama, fidgeting in his too tight, too hot suit, come screaming back now. A long forgotten priest echoes in his head, the knell of a funeral bell, his words more condemning than any death sentence ever could be.

"And the Lord said, 'What have you done? Listen! Your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground! Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother's blood from you hand. When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.'"

The words cut through him and Rick thinks, feels like, he's going to be violently, lethally, sick. His brother's blood. Rick can feel it. It's acidic, burning straight through his hands, straight through his soul. It hurts so bad. How long has it been? Years? Decades? He can't have hands anymore. Not even bones. It's too hot. Hellfire yearning for his soul.

But his hands are still there. He knows this not only because it burns God it burns but also because he can still feel the knife in his grasp, heavy and cold, and the failing beat of Shane's heart pressed against his palm.

Shane.

The name rips through him like a bolt of lightning and Rick is abruptly unable to breathe, unable to stand, stumbling as his equilibrium is thrown off balance when time hits the ground running just as he and Shane tumble to the grass.

There is dew on his knees. Rick can feel it. Cool water, even through his jeans, sizzling against the fire of his damned, burning, skin. Rick yearns for relief from this agony but he knows he can't receive it, never will be able to, not with Shane gasping for air under him, blood stark on his face and consuming Rick's heart.

"No. No. No, no, nonononononono."

It takes a moment for Rick to realize that the god awful wailing is him, broken sobs tearing, clawing their way out of his throat. Like secrets. Like sins. The sin that Rick has just committed, here past the edge of the world, because now Shane is lying below him, dying by Rick's hand.

The realization is like the breaking of a dam.

Everything that Rick is feeling, or has ever felt, everything he ever was and everything he is, comes rushing to the surface, a tidal wave of scorching lava. He's screaming and sobbing, can hear it at a distance, the shattered sounds of a shattered man. He's shaking as his fingers dig into the fabric of Shane's soaked shirt, rocking back and forth as he presses his face into Shane's chest, listening to the erratic and faint hummingbird beats of his brother's heart as he brands Shane's blood onto his forehead, so everyone will see what he has done. Who he has become. Cain. Betrayer. Murderer.

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

But no. No. Rick hadn't done this. It…it wasn't him! It was Shane! Shane who was Cain. Betrayer. Murderer. He was the one who began this, their fall from grace. Rick was Able. Always Able, just trying to help, keep their group alive, keep them safe, keep them human, in all the ways that counted. Why couldn't Shane see that? See that they needed to stick together now, here at the end of the world. Why couldn't he just listen? Just listen to Rick and help him mend their broken group! Why did he have to do this? Why did he have to ruin them?

The words start pouring out of his mouth now, indistinct wails transforming into syllables and sentences and shouts.

"You did this to us!" Rick hears himself scream, voice sharp and serrated, like broken glass, shattering to dust on the last word. His hand is moving, hitting, slapping, but he doesn't feel the impact, doesn't feel the sting or the giving of flesh. There's blood in his eyes now, smeared across his face, and it burns and he can barely see but he sees enough to take in Shane's face below him, mouth gaping, eyes accusing. "Not me!" Rick sobs. "Not me! It's wasn't me! It was you! You Shane! You!"

Blank eyes stare back at him, through him, unfocused, unseeing, and Rick is suddenly seized with the wild thought that…this wasn't Shane. He doesn't know these eyes. Shane's eyes were warm, fathomless. They squinted at the corners when he smiled and laughed and they always, always, looked straight on, right to the heart of the problem, piercing right to the seat of Rick's own heart.

This wasn't Shane. It couldn't be. A stranger had taken his place. An imposter. Rick knew Shane; had known him since they were just a couple of stupid teenagers, a couple of wild kids. Shane was Rick's best friend. Shane was Rick's brother. Blood and everything. They'd made it so years ago, in the dead of a summer much like this one, when things were wild and new but so much simpler. He can remember it, can almost feel the bite of the blade.

---

"I don't know Shane. Won't your Mama get mad?"

An eight-year-old Shane Walsh rolled his eyes at his friend's whinny and hesitant words. "Don't be sucha baby Grimes," he replied and he shuffled across the floor of his tree house, a prized possession because he was the only one on the block that had one and Dylan Michaels, the big boy next door, could go suck it, whatever that meant. "Besides, I thought you said you wanted to do this."

The boy in front of him frowned, a severe and scolding look, one that seemed to always be directed at Shane. "I'm not a baby Walsh. I'm older than you by six months," he shot back, in the dignified way children are wont to do, blue eyes bright and clear and narrowed. "And I do want to do this but…" Those blue eyes drifted to the white towel that Shane held in his left hand, opposite the gleaming knife in his right. "That's one of your Mama's good towels," he blurted out, looking for some excuse. "I heard her say so herself. I don't want to mess it up and then not be allowed over any more. Why do we even need the towel anyways?"

"We need it cuz I said so and don't you worry about my Mama. She won't even know it's gone alright?"

Rick didn't look very convinced but Shane didn't give him any more time to argue, shifting so he was kneeling right in front of him, reaching out to grasp Rick's right hand. All humor and bickering faded the second that Shane turned Rick's hand palm side up, the white skin almost glowing in the dying light of sunset. Shane set the knife down beside him and spread the towel out in the space between him and Rick with all the reverence of a priest setting an altar. When everything was set, he picked up Rick's hand again from where it had been lying still on his thigh and cradled it as he reached for the knife. Rick's breath caught as light danced off the wicked edge of Shane's dad's hunting knife and Shane paused at the hitching noise, tip barely skimming vulnerable skin.

"You ok?" he asked quietly, even though they had discussed this before hand and decided together. Decided to go through with this and make it official. Rick swallowed sharply and nodded, a quick motion, no more than a jerk of his head. Shane frowned. "Hey. Look at me."

For a second, Rick remained still and motionless, head bowed, his wild, summer long, curly hair hiding his eyes from view. But then, his shoulders bobbed with a deep breath and he looked up, those blue eyes that Shane would know anywhere catching his and there was that determined glint that Shane knew, had seen just last week when Rick had agreed to this in the first place. "Come on," Rick said, voice no longer shaky. "Do it." And with that, Rick pressed his own hand up into the edge of the knife, feeling the quick kiss of steel as it broke through skin.

Rick hadn't said anything, didn't want to seem like a baby, but he had been scared to do this. Shane's knife looked sharp as hell, a word he had just begun using but only when his Mama wasn't around to hear him, and Rick knew it was going to hurt. He had almost wanted to tell Shane to forget it, that he couldn't do it, but then, he had heard Shane's voice, a voice he knew better than his own, asking him if he was ok and suddenly, he hadn't been scared any more. This was Shane. His best friend. He wouldn't hurt him. So, Rick had taken a deep breath and lifted his head and there Shane had been, big brown eyes and coaxing half smile and Rick had felt a calmness that only the other boy could bring out in him.

Looking into Shane's face, the cut hadn't even hurt that much.

"Now me," Shane said and Rick fumbled to take the knife from him, awkwardly balancing it in his left hand as his right was steadily seeping blood. Shane's cut didn't take half as long as Rick's; the other boy wasn't hesitant at all, and within seconds, they both were bleeding; kneeling on the floor of Shane's tree house as crimson beads slid off their hands and cascaded down onto the white towel below them.

The two boys gazed down at their hands, letting the blood pool in their palms like they had talked about. It wasn't as bad as they each had thought. Just warm and kind of sticky, like the juice of a Georgia peach that had been laying out in the sun. When they could see their reflections in the twin scarlet lakes, they looked up and met each other's eyes, blue on brown. After a moment of echoing silence, the noise one heard in those big city churches, Shane gave a small nod and they moved their hands up as one, blood pouring down their wrists as they steepled their fingers and then laced them, clasping their hands together as tight at they could.

It was a solemn moment, and the boys could feel something shift in the close air of the tree house. What, they didn't quite know. All Shane knew was that it made him smile like a loon to say, "Brothers," as he and Rick sat there, clasping hands and mingling blood.

And all Rick knew was that it felt more right than anything in the world to smile back, squeezing Shane's hand in his, and nod. "Brothers."

---

That is the Shane that Rick knows. The boy in that tree house, all those years ago. His friend. His brother.

His so much more.

Rick does not know this…thing underneath him. The monster that had slipped into Shane's skin, behind his eyes. He is a stranger to the man that had been living in their midst the past few weeks, the man that shot him shifty eyed glances, the man who tore open that barn, the man who slept with his wife.

The beast that tried to kill him.

No. This wasn't Shane, isn't Shane. Can't be. It's not right. Doesn't fit. Makes no sense. Shane wouldn't try to kill him, no matter what Rick's brain, Rick's heart, had been trying to tell him for days now. No matter if the other man had dragged the two of them into this empty field, with only the stars and God to witness them. Shane was his right hand man. They'd promised each other, through thick and thin. Brothers till the end. Nothing could come between them.

Rick tries to stop himself, doesn't want to think of it, not now, with this shape shifter wearing Shane's dying face beneath him, but he remembers. Even as he tries to fight it, he remembers, recalls, recollects, that night. The one they never spoke of again but, God, Rick wished more than anything now that they had.

And, suddenly, it's not just blood stinging Rick's eyes.

---

"You must be joking man." The words were said in a dismissive manner, disbelieving and unconvinced.

Rick chuckled nervously and took a swig of the pilfered can of beer in his hands. He hadn't stolen it. Shane hadn't either. Actually, now that he thought about it, Rick couldn't really remember who had gotten the beer. Or how many he has had. He thought it was his fifth.

"I'm serious Shane," he said, and he was distantly surprised that his words were slightly slurred, his tongue heavy and clumsy. "I've thought about this. It's what I want to do."

Shane snorted into his own beer, the flames of the bonfire casting his face into shadows, sharp and contrasting. Rick noticed that sweat had beaded on Shane's temples, shinning as it curled the ends of hair, strands plastered against the nape of his neck. It was a warm night, muggy and close. Rick half wished he and Shane had stayed home, lounging in one of their rooms with the AC on full blast and the TV set on nothing in particular. He was never one for these kinds of parties, parties just weren't him, but Shane loved them so Rick pretended to love them too.

"I hope you're drunk Grimes cuz, if not, you've lost your damn mind," Shane suddenly replied, drawing his friend's attention. Rick frowned and tried to bump Shane but maybe it had been his sixth beer because the movement sent him rocking on the hood of his dad's truck. Shane wrapped a hand around his wrist to keep him from tumbling to the floor.

A warm chuckled rumbled out of Shane's chest and Rick could feel it vibrate along his arm as he leaned precariously against his friend. "Oh yeah. I can see it now Officer Grimes," Shane said teasingly. "How can ya even talk about this shit when you're three sheets into the wind?"

Rick flushed and was glad for the darkness that masked his colored cheeks. And the heat of the fire to explain them away if Shane did see. "I'm only two sheets into the wind," he corrected petulantly. Shane grunted in amusement but didn't argue with him. Instead, he extracted himself from under Rick's weight and slid off the truck, only stumbling slightly when he made contact with the dry, summer grass.

"I'm gonna get another," Shane declared, waving his empty beer can in the air. "Want one?"

Rick shook his head, lips pursed tight, because, honestly, he was having more than a little trouble just sitting there. Maybe it had been his seventh beer. His head swam in confirmation. Shane shrugged, shoulders lifting up than falling down in exaggerated slowness, and slipped away, weaving into the throngs of people huddled around the bonfire. Rick instantly lost sight of him.

Not for the first time, Rick wondered why he was here but then, oh yeah, he remembered. It was the end of the year party. One last big bang before graduation. One last chance to cause mischief and get fucked up and ride that high that always came when you were doing something just on the other side legal. They were at the old Jensen farm; acres of deserted, dead, fields and a house that was half caved in on itself. There was a scorched black spot, about a hundred yards away from where Rick was, that used to be the barn. It was gone now, obviously, having been razed to the ground by Stanley Jensen, years ago when he had gone crazy at the sight of his wife, hanging from the rafters. He had doused the building in kerosene and lit it on fire, with himself still inside. Quite the scandal for their small little town. Even years later, no one had claimed that land and most folks in the area wouldn't buy it if they were paid. Superstition and all. Stan and his wife might still be haunting the place. Sensible people stayed away.

Which made it perfect for wild, unsupervised, teenage parties.

Rick sighed and finished off the beer in his hand, even though most every part of his body was protesting the action. The bitter liquid went down hard and he made a face before tossing the empty can through the open driver's side window behind him. He'd clean it out before his dad saw. He always did.

Loud music thrummed through the air, a steady, beating bass and unintelligible words. Rick let the music wash over him, too buzzed to care about the way his ears were beginning to ache or the fact that more than a few people kept jostling his truck, leaving smudges and smears, nicks and scratches. Almost the entire class was here, well over a hundred people, milling about, half drunk and half high. Well…maybe a little bit more than half. There seemed to be an endless supply of beer. Shitty beer but it got you drunk nonetheless.

"Hey Grimes!"

Blinking at the echo of his name, distorted and warped, Rick turned to his side to see someone standing next to him, backlit by the fire, their face cast in shadow. "Wanna toke?" the faceless figure asked, extending a half smoked joint towards him. Rick stared at the smoke curling off the end of it, slow and lazy, like molasses. He shook his head and felt just as slow. The figure shrugged and moved off and he still didn't know who it had been.

Rick was suddenly seized with the urge to pee. Seven beers would do that, his mind reminded him. He squirmed at the feeling and tried to suppress it. He couldn't get up now. He wasn't about to leave his truck alone, never mind the fact that he knew all these people, went to school with them, had for years. Right now, nobody seemed to really be in his or her right mind. He didn't trust a single one of them.

Well…except Shane. He always trusted Shane.

Rick wondered what was taking his friend so long. It had been a while since he slipped away. Or at least so Rick thought. Everything was kind of blurry by now, soft and hazy at the edges, dulled and muted and far away. He could feel the heat of the fire on his face, closed his eyes against the orange glow. The hood of his truck was warm beneath him, vibrating slightly with the nameless music and Rick's skin kept sliding along the metal, slick with sweat. The crush of people and their conversations flowed past him, garbled static, like he was a rock caught in the sea of them, battered and subdued.

What had he been thinking about again? Oh right. Shane.

Shaking his head, the muddled teen lifted his gaze to search for his brother. For a moment, all that met his eye was a hundred bobbing heads, a thousand, a million. Damn. That seventh beer had been a doozy. But then he saw him; ten yards away, made of shadow and flame and just blurred enough to look unworldly.

Rick wasn't unpopular. He got along with just about anyone and everyone. Teachers smiled at him in the hallways and older folks always complimented him on 'what a fine young man he had become.' He had lots of friends and, even if he didn't know someone, he still gave them a friendly nod as he passed or a small, fleeting smile. No. Rick wasn't unpopular.

But he also wasn't Shane.

It had always awed the older boy how his best friend just seemed to…Rick would say glow but Shane would have called him a pussy and given him a not so subtle shove. But there was just something about Shane, something magnetic and bright, which just seemed to draw everyone in. Rick knew it, had seen it the first day they met, at the old playground right smack in between their streets, just a gawky and shy four year old clinging to his Mama's skirt.

Rick watched his friend now, surrounded by a group of people Rick couldn't quite place in the flickering firelight. Not much had changed since that warm spring day over a decade ago. Shane still had that confident air about him, not cocky…ok yeah sometimes cocky, more than once Shane got in trouble for his smart ass comments, but there was also an…ease about him, like he was always calm, cool, and comfortable no matter where he was. He had the same warm brown eyes too, same curly and unruly hair. And that damn smile. Rick felt himself staring as Shane grinned at something that had been said, a flash of white, straight teeth. That smile had charmed off many a girl's pants in the past few years. Many. Rick couldn't blame the girls though. That smile…it was just so goddamn mesmerizing. Rick had never said anything like that to Shane, it would get the same response as the glowing comment, but it had been the other boy's smile that had won Rick over, on that piece of shit swing set, only four years old. Shane had just walked on up to him, detaching from his own Mama's side like it was nothing as he strolled right on up to Rick and introduced himself.

"Hi. I'm Shane. Wanna play?"

Easy as fucking breathing. Little four year old Rick Grimes had been floored, big eyes and gaping mouth, but then Shane had smiled, slow, bright, and coaxing, the most friendly smile Rick had ever seen, and, before either of them knew it, they were thick as thieves, the playground their kingdom, the two of them kings.

But…their reign was coming to an end; their era ending. This was it. Their last hurrah. Rick felt something twist in his chest, sharp and clear, unlike the diluted world around him, and he found himself wishing he had taken that joint. Fuck. He was getting way too sentimental here. He couldn't decide if it was because he had already had too much to drink or not enough. But really. It was stupid to think like this. They were just graduating. It wasn't like Shane was dying. Just…going somewhere else. Somewhere away from here, this small, provincial town and the empty, deserted fields, with burned down barns and ghosts. Somewhere away…from Rick.

The thought tasted bitter and metallic, even if Rick hadn't said them aloud.

Shane was going places; college, the big city. He had big plans and even bigger dreams. Travel the world, play pro-football, become a fucking rock star. But Rick…Rick was staying here, rooted in place, like a too old tree that couldn't be uprooted; that was tied to the earth and couldn't let go. Shane was strong; he'd make it out in the real world. And Rick was strong too, thanks to Shane, thanks to their friendship. It would be hard, but he'd manage. He'd go to the police academy in the fall, take the necessary classes, perform the needed hours, and he'd come back here to his hometown, Officer Rick Grimes. He wanted to do this, had thought long and hard about his options and talked to his parents about it and he wanted to become a police officer, just like his Daddy. He wanted to help people, be the good guy, make his parents proud. He wanted this.

He just didn't understand why it hurt so badly.

Suddenly, across the distance, Shane caught Rick's eye through the shadows and the fiery night air. Rick could see someone was talking to Shane, by the back of his head Rick would guess it was Beau Jackson, but Shane wasn't listening. He looked like he was, nodding and smiling and muttering a few word answers, but his eyes were locked on Rick's and his head was titled, brow furrowed just the slightest. He might not be saying it but Rick heard it clear as day: What's wrong?

Nothing, Rick wanted to say. Everything.

It's hot as hell out here.

I'm drunk and tired.

My dad's gonna kill me for fucking up his truck.

You're leaving me and I don't know what to do.

The last thought hit him like a ton of cement and, all of the sudden, there were just too many people and too much noise and Rick needed some peace and quiet, some fresh air that didn't smell like smoke or sweat or beer. Tearing his eyes away from Shane's, not giving a sign or word of preamble, Rick slid to the ground and staggered off into the dark, feeling heat on his back that had nothing to do with the fire.

It was cooler in the fields, still muggy and close, like the air had turned into soup, but the warmth of the fire was gone and there was a slight breeze to rustle the thigh high grass. Rick stumbled towards the spot where the barn used to stand, led only by the light of the nearly full moon, the fire too far away now to help him. He tripped more than a few times, caught on stones and weeds, but soon, he was standing just outside the ring of dead earth. It was weird. It had been years since Stanley Jensen burned to death in the barn but still nothing grew on the land. The dirt remained black and infertile, defying the laws of nature and secondary succession, or whatever Rick's science teacher had babbled about during their "environmental class". Rick hadn't really been paying much attention. Shane had been sitting next to him. Never a productive design. But now, here, under the pale, white moon, Rick wondered if the reason why the blackened spot refused to grow had something with those old ghost stories, like Jensen was refusing to move on and so, refused to let anything grow in the spot both he and his wife had taken their lives. The hairs on the back of Rick's neck, along his arms, stood on end and, despite the humid night, a chill ran down his spine.

"Lookin for old man Jensen's ghost?"

The voice, suddenly loud in the previous silence, made Rick start and whirl around, drunkenly stumbling when his body reminded him that yes, he had drank seven beers tonight just in case you forgot. Shane raised an eyebrow at him, lips quirking at the side in the beginnings of a smirk.

"Tipsy?" he asked, eyes, even in the blanched light of the moon, twinkling with mirth.

Rick blinked and shook his head, surprise wearing off because, really, of course Shane would follow him out here. "Drunk. Plain ass drunk," he grumbled and Shane chuckled, low and amused, before moving towards him, right up into his personal space. Rick's head hurt and something in him was trying to say something but he was muddled and confused and leaned into Shane when the other boy wrapped an arm around his waist and let him a few feet away, lowering him gently to the ground and propping him up against the remains of a rusted out tractor.

The grass snapped and crackled underneath their combined weight, dry and twisted stalks that itched and tickled against Rick's skin. He squirmed in discomfort for a moment but then settled in, the alcohol in his veins making everything fuzzy and not so important. Rick felt very light and very heavy at the same time and let his head fall back against the tractor behind him. The stars pin wheeled overhead, winking, twirling, and the moon grew and shrunk, like the sky was a living thing and the moon was its beating heart.

Fuck. He was so drunk.

"Hey Shane?"

The words were out of his mouth before he can stop them and he didn't even know what he had meant to say after those two whispered words.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rick saw Shane flop his head to the side, staring at him. It was dark out in the fields, no fire, no lights, and Rick could barely make out the curve of Shane's jaw, the warm pools of his eyes.

"Hmm?" Shane hummed in response, low and quiet.

Rick tried to think of what he had wanted to say but he couldn't remember, the thought having passed through his head like running water, fluid and uncatchable. "Never mind," he mumbled and then he closed his eyes because he felt the earth shift under him and he felt like he was going to be sick. Shane fell silent next to him and all that was left was the distant strands of muted music, garbled words, and the whispering hot Georgia wind.

It was getting late. Rick could tell, somewhere deep in his addled brain. He and Shane had showed up sometime around nine or ten, party already in full swing, and they'd been here for hours. It was probably well past midnight. But, it wasn't like his parents would be looking for him. Or Shane's either. They had each told their parent's they were sleeping at the other's house; a lie they had used so many times it didn't even feel like one any more. They'd been sneaking out for years; it was almost too easy now.

Shane suddenly shifted next to him and Rick could feel his friend's breath on his shoulder, smell the yeasty tang of it. "Do ya remember the first time we snuck out?" he murmured and it's so close to what Rick had been thinking just seconds ago the latter boy wondered if he had said something out loud.

"Course," Rick replied, though he kept his eyes shut. "My mama grounded me for two weeks. She was fit to be fucking tied."

A laugh bubbled out of the darkness and Rick felt Shane push against him, half leaning and half shoving. "Shit man. Your mama was nothing compared to mine. My dad didn't talk to me for a month just outta fear that she'd get pissed at him by default."

Rick's lips twitched at the memory, tracing sparks of color that bloomed behind his eyelids. "I remember that. Saw ya'll at church, your mama with her pursed lips and your dad nearly flinching beside her. Took a long time to get her to like me again."

"I think that had something to do with us robbing her liquor cabinet."

The two of them abruptly burst out laughing at the memory, both seeing clear as day Shane's mama standing in the doorway of her kitchen, eyes black coals as she shouted hellfire at them. Had scared the two of them nearly shitless. Even at the age of thirteen, Shane's mama knew how to instill the fear of God in him and, by extension, Rick.

Ok…who the fuck were they kidding? They were eighteen now and they were still afraid of that woman.

Still chuckling, Rick opened his eyes and rolled his neck to find Shane looking right back at him, inches away, that half smirking smile on his lips. "If I do recall, that had been your idea Walsh. All the harebrained ideas seem to always be yours," Rick joked, words still slurred but Shane was kind of a little drunk himself so he had no trouble understanding.

Shane rolled his eyes at Rick's comment. "Oh come on! You still on about that bar? I was just talking to the chick! How was I supposed to know she was the owner's daughter?"

Few months ago, Shane had dragged Rick to the city to try and sneak into some bars, act of rebellion, one of their last. The first one they pulled in to, Shane started chatting up this pretty young thing to get them in the door, stroking her arm, her hair, leaning in all close and whispering in her ear. It had almost worked too, the girl all beguiled by Shane's charm, just like so many before her. Right up until her father, the owner and bouncer of the bar, came barreling towards Rick and Shane with a Louisville Slugger and murder in his eyes because, apparently, the girl had only been sixteen and had just stopped by to talk to her dad. The enraged father had gotten a few hits in a piece before the two of them managed a half sprint, half limp toward Rick's truck, bleeding and bruised, with their tails between their legs. Rick hadn't let his friend live the incident down yet. He didn't think he'd ever would, just for the fucking hell of it.

"Oh such the innocent party," Rick teased. "Hitting on jailbait and all that. I know you like 'em young and pretty Shane but really."

The other boy frowned at Rick's words and suddenly, the joking light seemed to go out of his eyes, a sputtering candle, leaving him blank faced and almost scowling. Confusion burned through Rick but he didn't know how to voice it, to ask the question, and Shane was turning away before he could try to collect his thoughts, muttering a quick, "Shut the hell up," before staring back at the burned down barn in front of them.

Rick didn't know what was happening but this behavior of Shane's was nothing new. It had been going on for weeks now. One moment, he'd be laughing and goofing around with Rick, like always, and then something would change and he'd get irritable and closed off, like he was PMsing or some shit. Rick had tried to find out what was wrong but Shane always shrugged him off and changed the subject. Things were…tense between them sometimes. Awkward. They didn't say anything but Rick could feel that something was off, not quite right, and he didn't know if he was doing something wrong or if Shane was pissed off for some other reason. It worried Rick…and made him sad, so explicitly sad he could barely breathe sometimes, because he couldn't help thinking, in the back of his mind, just for a millisecond after every time Shane snapped at him, glared or huffed or just became stonily silent, if this was the end of their friendship.

For the second time tonight, the thought of losing Shane, his friend and brother for over ten years, made Rick feel nauseous and bewildered and he couldn't control his mouth any more.

"I miss you," he blurted, staring at the side of Shane's face, the clenching muscle of his jaw. Shane whipped around to stare at him, his eyes wide but narrowed at the same time, like he was surprised and confused. Rick tried to backtrack, wade through the drunken maze of his mind.

"I…I mean I'm gonna miss you. In…in the fall," he stammered and slurred. "Y…you're going to state right? That's a few hours away."

Shane was silent for a moment, just gazing back at Rick and breathing slow and deep. "I know." He looked like he wanted to say more, mouth working, so Rick kept quiet and waited. But Shane remained quiet, jaw wired shut, and just shook his head, eyes skittering off Rick's face and to the left. "You'll be fine though. Make some new cop buddies at the academy." He reached down between them and wove his fingers in the long, dead grass, tearing and uprooting. "Get your little badge and I know how you've envied your daddy's old sheriff's hat. You'll get caught up in all that shit and won't even know I'm gone."

The final words were a whispered admission and if Rick wasn't mere inches away from Shane's mouth, he knew he would have missed them. There was a bitterness to the words too and some kind of resignation and Rick was just so confused, head pounding and spinning because what is Shane talking about? Forget him? Rick would sooner forget his own damn name.

And suddenly, Rick was having some kind of drunken epiphany. He didn't know where it came from, the realization, but some how, at the same time, he didn't know how he had missed it before.

Before he could fully think about what he was doing, Rick was shifting in his spot, turning so he could face Shane almost fully. The other boy refused to look at him though, staring out adamantly towards the remains of the Jensen family's barn, the remains of their life, blackened and charred and seared into the earth.

"Shane," Rick said, trying to get his friend to look at him. The darker haired teen ignored him so Rick reached out and slipped a hand behind his neck, fumbling only slightly as he turned Shane's face towards him, ignoring the resistance of the other boy, as he brought their foreheads together softly. Their breaths fanned over each other and everything smelled like sweat and beer but Rick closed his eyes and clung to the back of Shane's neck, feeling rather than seeing when Shane mimicked his movement, nails digging into his skin.

They sat like that in silence for an eternity and, sitting in the shadow of the rusted out tractor, the light of the washed out moon, with only ghosts and God as their witnesses, Rick felt like they were the only two people in the world.

"You're such an idiot," Rick muttered suddenly and Shane tensed but he pressed forward. "Thinkin I'd forget 'bout you." His voice was hoarse and his words slurred together, making his accent more pronounced.

Shane shuddered out a breath. "But," he began and, for the first time that Rick could ever remember, in all their years, all their conversations, he didn't sound confident, cool, collected. He sounded…kind of lost, voice wavering so slightly that, unless you were Rick, you would have missed it.

Rick felt a sudden fierceness flare in him and he snapped open his eyes, tightening his grip on Shane's neck, staring into the dark orbs inches from his own light blue ones. "But nothing," he said adamantly. "Shane…you're my best friend. We've known each other almost all our lives. You think I'd just up and forget about you brother?"

Shane swallowed harshly, Rick could feel the muscles flex under his palm, and exhaled shakily. "Nah man," he whispered into the air they were sharing. "It's just…well things are different. Ya know. We're different."

The world spun for a moment and Shane slipped in and out of focus and it took Rick a slow moment to realize it was because he was shaking his head vehemently. "No. No we're not. We're exactly the same," he muttered, entreated, tried to make Shane understand. "The same as we've always been. Rick and Shane. Same people. Best friends. Brothers."

Or at least that's how Rick saw them. He felt nothing less for Shane than that boy he first met on those swings, toothy grin and wild ass hair. Nothing had waned for him. Not a goddamn thing.

The other boy had closed his eyes against Rick's words, clenched tight and screwed shut, as if in pain. His breathing was coming out in ragged puffs of air, fanning across Rick's cheeks as his pulse thundered under Rick's fingers.

"Is that all?"

Rick blinked at the words, barely breathed out, softer than a sigh.

"What?" he asked, puzzled and thrown for a loop because he thought he might of missed some crucial part of a conversation that he didn't remember having. He should never have taken that seventh beer. But Shane had offered and Rick could do nothing but accept.

Shane didn't respond right away, refusing to meet Rick's eyes, his own fingers curled tightly in Rick's hair, against his neck. For a moment, Rick thought he might have fallen asleep except his pulse was still fast and his breathing still ragged and now Shane's eyes were open and they were bright and piercing and fierce.

"I said," he repeated, words low but steady and Rick felt them vibrate all the way through him. "Is that all? All we are?"

And despite his muddled brain, despite the fact that Rick could barely remember his own fucking address or what day it was or what he had had for breakfast…he knew what Shane was talking about.

The first time…it had scared the shit out of Rick. Made him feel sick, disgusted, fucked up. It had been a normal day, right before their senior year had started and Shane and he were down by the river, lounging on the banks, shirtless and shit faced and roasting in the sun. Shane had been mumbling about some girl he had just nailed a few nights before, not sparing Rick any of the details, just like usual. Rick had been staring at him through one eye, the other shut in drunken drowsiness but Shane didn't seem to mind. He just kept on talking and Rick kept on listening and staring. It was just a fucking normal day. Rick didn't know what happened, what had snapped in his brain, if it was heatstroke or the beer or the joint they had shared, but all of the sudden, he was looking at Shane. It was casual at first, just letting his gaze sweep over the muscles of his friend's arms, the dips of his chest, the stubble on his jaw, mind half online and half dead. It was nothing Rick hadn't seen before because, to be honest, he almost knew Shane's body better than his own. Ten years of familiarity had done that to him.

But then…it changed. He started following individual beads of sweat as they slid down Shane's tanned skin; started really listening to the warm tenor of Shane's voice as he continued to tell a story Rick had long ago lost track of; started to see the freckles on the side of Shane's nose and how, in the face of the such a masculine person, they looked down right boyish and cute. Rick had thought, in that moment, that he wanted nothing more than to kiss every single freckle and see if he could count them with his tongue.

The thought had been like a sucker punch to his solar plexus and Rick felt like the air had been ripped out of him. He stomach had rolled, head spun, bile rising in the back of his throat that had nothing to do with the beer or the weed because this was fucking Shane and Rick was looking at him like…like…

Rick had ran, vaulting off the grass and grabbing his clothes and shoes and throwing a half hearted, half-cocked excuse over his shoulder about his Mama needing him home for dinner. Shane had lifted himself onto his elbows, mouth open, brow pinched, expression screaming confusion but Rick couldn't look at him because he saw fathomless brown eyes and a strong chin and a boxer's nose that he just wanted to kiss and fuck, he had never ran so fast in his life. He had made it home in fifteen minutes flat, balls to the wall sprinting and not giving a fuck who saw and what they might think.

He hadn't understood why his view of Shane changed, altered, got fucked up. He had tried to forget about it. Play it off as being drunk and horny because, really, he was still a virgin and his hand was becoming a little old. And for a while, it worked. He saw Shane like he was supposed to see him, his best friend and brother. Everything was normal.

And then it wasn't.

It had started out small, nothing like that day by the river, but Rick began to notice things. Like the way Shane threw back his head to laugh when he found something particularly funny. Or that mischievous ass smirk he wore when he was up to something and how it lit up his whole face. Or the way he smelled when he was close, cheap ass cologne masking his real smell of woods and sun and sweat. Or the strength of his fingers, his hands, when they touched Rick, just as always except now Rick broke out in a cold sweat every time their skin touched. It drove Rick insane. He couldn't eat; couldn't sleep. There was something wrong with him, something sick and he was scared to death that someone would notice, see the illness in him. All Rick could think about, every second, when he wasn't think about Shane, was Richard Collins, a boy who had been a senior when Rick was a freshman. He had had the same sickness in him and people had found out. Over Christmas break that year, he had been beaten almost to death, left in a snowy field. He had run away after that and no one knew where he was but his parents still received those sidelong glances, the whispers that weren't really whispers.

That couldn't happen to Rick; wouldn't. He promised himself he would never put his family through that but, more than that, he promised himself he would never put Shane through that. Shane was his best friend but if Rick hated himself this much, he could never expect for Shane to hate him any less. To curl his lip in disgust and spit on him and push him away. Rick even had nightmares where he was in a field, just like Richard Collins, and boys from school would come and beat him, over and over, and Shane was there and sometimes he just watched, eyes full of hate and revulsion, as Rick was kicked and hit again and again until the earth was soaked in his blood. And sometimes, on those horribly bad nights, Shane pitched in and shouted words of hatred at him as Rick's skin bruised and broke beneath his hands.

Rick kept his sickness hidden. All year he had worked, as hard as he could, so that no one would see. He didn't know if it should disgust him that it got easier as time went on. He still had the same feelings, God he wished he didn't, but it became easier and easier to push them aside. To just revel in Shane's friendship because without it, Rick felt like he would die. So, Rick lived as if nothing was wrong, nothing was different. He acted the same way around Shane; listened to him talk about his latest exploits; helped him cause mayhem; be the friend, and the brother, he was meant to be. It was easier than Rick had first thought because the thought that Shane as just a friend was better than no Shane at all kept him in line and in check.

But now they're sitting here, in this empty ass field, with no one around, and Shane was inches away from him, looking at him, looking into him, and Rick knew he knew. Shane knew about his sickness, his disease, and has taken him out here and holy fuck Rick could no longer breathe because they were in this field, just like Richard Collins, and Rick wondered if Shane had somehow planned this all along.

"S…shane," he stuttered, voice high and breaking over every letter. "I…I…" He couldn't breathe, couldn't think of the excuses, the lies he had practiced in case his worst nightmare came true. He was dying, heart stopping, lungs collapsing, and suddenly, he was struggling, jerking back and trying to get away because he didn't want to see the hate he knew had to be in Shane's eyes.

He couldn't get away though. Shane had an iron grip on the back of his neck and one of his wrists. Rick was trapped and he knew it and the fight went out of him, like a deflated balloon, muscles going limp like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

"I'm sorry," he croaked out brokenly, the words forced out, eyes clenched shut, waiting for the hit and the even more painful words. But that was all he could say because he couldn't lie, Shane knew, and why had he come to this goddamn field, this goddamn party? Why did he feel like this?

When had everything gone so wrong? Where was the fire? Where were the endless beer and the music? Where were the people? Where was the safety and the buzz and the high and the mindless fun, celebrating the end of the year?

It was gone. Gone because he had stumbled away and now he was here and his head was swimming, faster and faster, like that ride at the old country fair and he and Shane used to go to every summer. His heart was in his throat and his stomach in his shoes and he felt like he was going to fly out of his body and Rick was drunk, ten sheets into the wind and higher than a Georgia pine…but he must also be dead now too because instead of Shane's fist against his mouth, breaking teeth and splitting skin, it was Shane's own lips, hard and insistent but soft at the same time.

Rick gasped, sucking in air into his shredded lungs, and his eyes flew open but all he could see was Shane, Shane, Shane. Shane's hair falling across his forehead. Shane's eyelashes, dusting across his cheeks. And those freckles, a hundred of them, a million, splattered across his skin, like stars scattered across the sky.

He didn't understand; couldn't comprehend. Shane was supposed to hate him, revile him, beat him and leave him to die in this field, with only the ghosts of Jensen and his wife for company. He wasn't supposed to be doing this. He wasn't supposed to be…kissing him.

But he was. There were chapped lips against Rick's own, dry and tasting like beer and smoke, yielding and forceful at the same time. They were moving, small and harsh movements, frantic, like Shane was running out of time and trying to remember the shape of Rick's mouth, the taste of it. And then, he was pulling away, and they weren't kissing, and Rick couldn't think, half formed thoughts of Richard Collins and dead fields and first kisses, because Shane had unknowingly just stolen his first, flickering sporadically through his mind, a broken TV with bad reception.

"Rick."

Shane said his name and it was like a gunshot in the silence but he wasn't looking at Rick like he was supposed to, like he was expected too. Instead, there was something dark in his eyes but it was dark and warm and soft, like melted chocolate, with something more underneath, sharp and fiery, like a shot of whiskey mixed in.

Rick didn't understand, couldn't even begin to, but, unbeknownst to him, he hadn't been the only one seeing his brother differently. Shane felt the same way, had fought with himself in the same manner that Rick had in these past months. But Shane couldn't hide it any more; not knowing that now, Rick was leaving and putting himself in the goddamn police academy, in danger, and one day he could die, just get shot and leave him, and Shane couldn't handle it and needed to taste him, feel him, if only just once.

And Rick was still reeling, thrown off the axis of the world because, out of all the times he dreamed and feared this would happen, he had never let himself even begin to think to hope for such a response. He opened his mouth, to ask, to question, to plead and beg and cry because he was so confused and his head hurt so much but Shane didn't let him breathe, just pulled him in close again, inhaling his air, whispering, "It's alright. I got ya man. It's ok Rick. It's ok," right before he sealed their mouths together again.

And Rick let him because this was Shane and Shane was his best friend and Shane would never hurt him. All his fears didn't matter; all these months of nightmares and anxiety fell away. Shane was his best friend and Shane would never hurt him.

Everything lost all meaning after that; Rick was lost, cast adrift, in the diamond stars pin wheeling above and the millions of freckles spinning across Shane's face. It was like some God had hit the fast forward button and yet the slow mo at the same time. Everything was happening too fast and yet Rick was knocked for a loop by the intensity of it. He felt like he should say something, anything, but he couldn't use his tongue because Shane was sucking on it.

There was grass underneath him, thick and cracking and itching at his ear. There were teeth and lips and Shane's tongue in his mouth, mapping out every crevice, trailing over every tooth, like he was staking his claim, like he was trying to imprint his name on every part of Rick. Like every inch of Rick wasn't Shane's already. There were hands too, so many hands, warm and calloused, soft and hard, skimming across his skin, cradling his face, tugging at his shirt. Rick gasped and writhed and whimpered, hazy brain uncomprehending, but Shane's voice was always at his ear, murmuring the words Rick had never let himself want because he thought they were impossible, muttering endearments and encouragements as Rick burned from the inside out. Everything was so intense, too intense, hurting Rick but Rick never wanted to let this feeling go; he reveled in it; begged for more.

"It's ok Rick," Shane kept repeating, breathing into his mouth, into his lungs, kissing the life out of his heart. "I'm here. Shh. I'm right here."

Rick whimpered and moaned and clung to Shane, his shoulders, his hair, and the bottom fell out from underneath the world because he couldn't distinguish what happened next, everything blurring and meshing and twining until all the colors ran together. There was a fever searing in his blood, pleasure coursing through his veins and then a sharp, paralyzing pain, and Shane's voice groaning, "God. Rick. God. I love you. Love you so fucking much." It was all one feeling and a million at once and Rick had never felt so amazing, even if he was slipping into oblivion.

And there, before the Jensen's old barn, with their friends a hundred yards away, under the waning moon and the warm muggy air of the beginning of summer, Rick came apart at the seams and flew into the stars.

---

Rick sobs at the memory of that night, tears like acid stripping the skin from his cheeks, leaving bone to glisten in the moonlight. It has been years since he had let himself go down this road again, this road that only led to a dead end and a dead heart. There is nothing left for him in this memory; nothing but regret and bitterness over a road not taken.

Or rather, a road blocked off because Rick had tried to take it, had even started down it, momentarily optimistic, before it blew up in his face and left shrapnel in his heart, piercing and serrated.

---

The next morning, Rick woke up in his bed with a hangover from hell and no idea how he got home. It felt like someone was driving railroad spikes through his eye sockets, crucifying him to the pillows, as sulfuric acid churned in his stomach, his throat, his mouth and before he knew it, he was bent over the toilet, heaving his guts out, tears slipping down his cheeks with the intensity of it.

The bout of sickness felt like it lasted an eternity but it eventually ended and Rick was left gasping, lying limp against the rim, vision blurred, head swimming and stomach still roiling even when he had nothing left to give. Even with the agony in his skull, Rick's eyes slipped closed, exhausted and praying that he would just pass out again, anything to escape this hell. When he only moaned and whimpered in pain for years and years, realizing he wasn't going to be granted the blissful reprieve of sleep, Rick almost cried, curled up there on the cold tile floor of his bathroom.

That was the last time he let Shane convince him to—

And it was like God kicked Rick in the teeth.

Because he suddenly remembered. And he remembered everything.

The party. The beers. And Shane, Shane, Shane.

Just the thought of the other boy had Rick heaving into the toilet again, only bile and pieces of his sanity trailing past his lips.

Collapsing back onto the cold tile, Rick could do nothing but watch the nightmare and horror film of last nights events play back behind his eyes. The memories were hazy, all smoke tinted and beer flavored, but they were there, just like the bruises on Rick's wrists, the pulsing throbs on his neck, the deep seated ache in his ass.

Rick couldn't think past a horrified oh god oh god ohgodohgodohgod. Couldn't get past the broken notions of Richard Collins and dead fields and a sickfuckedupdisgusting disease.

He…Shane…he and Shane…

The thought just wouldn't compute and suddenly, mercifully, Rick's eyes rolled into the back of his skull and he lost consciousness.

When he woke up again, Rick was still on the bathroom floor and his mother was slapping his face none too gently, calling his name over and over again. Groggily, he pried open his mouth and made some kind of conscious noise because the physical assault stopped and it was only his mother's voice that tortured him.

She berated him for his unbecoming behavior and lectured him on the principles of appearance and what the neighbors will say. Distantly, Rick wanted to tell her that their neighbor's kids were Ron Shipley to their right and Donna Minton to their left and that neither of their families could say shit about him cuz Ron and Donna are most likely expecting their first child after the way they were going at it last night, tucked into the back of Ron's pick up. But he didn't say that because this was his mother for one.

And two…he really didn't remember how to use his tongue.

His mother went on for some time about how Rick disappointed her and how his father was upset at the state of his truck and Rick was all too fine with the idea of slipping back into oblivion, right here on the bathroom floor, his mother still talking, when a stray sentence of hers hit him with the force a speeding freight train.

"Oh and Shane's here to see ya," she drawled out. There was a hint of exasperation in her tone, the worst she could really conjure up because really, Shane was like a second son to her. "So wash up and brush your teeth. Oh and ya better thank him for bringing you home last night Rick Grimes. That's really the only reason your daddy let him in this house again is because he probably saved your life."

Not saying another word, his mother slipped at of the bathroom and down the hall. Rick could hear her heels clacking on the worn wood until she reached the carpet in the living room. There was a murmur of hushed voices and Rick could clearly distinguish the rumbling gravel of his father's voice to the smooth cadence of Shane's.

Fear paralyzed him. Stayed the beating of his heart and froze the very air in his lungs to ice. He couldn't breathe; couldn't think. Because this couldn't be happening. It was some horrible dream. Rick had worked so hard to keep his sickness at bay. There was no way Shane could see it. It…it couldn't have happened. Rick passed out and the disease in him made some fantasy up in his head. That's all.

The bruises on his skin were just a figment of his imagination. That's all. That's all.

Rick shuddered in an uneven breath, glass shards that ripped through his throat, as he repeated that mantra to himself. That's all; that's all; that's all. He repeated it as he got up and stumbled into the shower. He repeated it as he washed the dirt off his skin, refusing to look at his own body. He repeated it and left no room in his mind for any other thoughts or any other words as he stepped out of the water—hot or cold he couldn't tell—and staggered into his room, blindly pulling on clothes.

That's all; that's all; that's all.

Not knowing how he got there, Rick found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor between his bare feet, water trickling down the back of his neck. He was hot and cold and the world spun around him, slow, fast, slow, fast, pulsing colors and flashing lights all attuned to the thrumming of his heart, beating itself to death. He tasted smoke on his tongue and the bitter taste of yeast, beer, as the ghostly memory of fire licked across his skin. He inhaled sharply, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He prayed to any god that would listen and tried to ignore the deep-seated ache in his lower back, his hips, his ass. He prayed and prayed and prayed and knew all his prayers went unanswered.

There was a knock at his door. It vibrated in his very bones. Rick held his breath and thought that maybe, if he didn't make a sound, whoever was on the other side would just go away. A stretched out moment passed, Rick exhaled shakily, and then his doorknob turned, the old metal squeaking reproachfully, and the door swung open.

Rick's mind screamed for him to shut his eyes, turn away, dive under the covers and wake from this grating nightmare. But Rick's body wasn't listening. The second the door was open, Rick was lifting his head, heart and bile fighting each other to rush into his mouth, and locking eyes with the person hovering in the no man's land between the hallway and his room.

Shane flashed him a bright smile and Rick half wondered what would happen if he looked down and saw his heart on the floor, twitching feebly in the throes of death. Rick had never been squeamish. He thought it would be interesting to see a real, live, beating heart; even if it was his own; even if it meant he was dying, dying, dead.

He could do nothing but stare as Shane slipped into his room and shut the door behind him. A wild panic clawed under Rick's skin and he stopped breathing as he realized how small his room was, how close Shane was to him, only feet away, and how there can't be enough oxygen in the room, there can't, there can't, there can't because Rick's vision was swimming and he was suddenly drowning, down into the darkness, the spots dancing in front of his, the shadows in front of the Jensen barn, whispering horrible secrets to him.

He thought he was dying. He thanked God for small mercies.

If Shane noticed that Rick was dying, he didn't say anything. He just sauntered over to Rick's desk and collapsed in the worn chair there, more familiar to him than his own bed. It was his usual perch in Rick's room and Rick distantly thought, wild and random, that if he looked close enough, the cushion would probably bear the imprint of Shane's ass, carved deep, right into the very fabric because Shane was in every part of Rick's life. What was Rick's was Shane's and vise versa. His mother often teased that they were like an old, married couple, the way they acted, the way they were intertwined.

The thought made Rick's stomach flip, there's a flash of long grass, a wan moon, and the sensation of warm breath at his ear, and he was afraid he was going to hurl right at Shane's feet. He just wished God would kill him already. He had suffered enough he thought.

Shane sighed as he leant back in Rick's chair, unsuspecting of the turmoil raging in the other boy. "Man," he moaned and Rick heard groans of oh god, fuck, yes, in his head and he had trouble keeping his heart beating as Shane kept talking. "Remind me why we drink again? I could of sworn we swore off the shit the last time we got this hung over." He cracked open an eye and peered blearily at Rick through a bloodshot iris. Rick knew he was waiting for a response, a wisecrack, but Rick couldn't even think enough to breathe properly, inhales and exhales stucco and uneven, so silence stretched between them.

A frown marred Shane's frown and Rick seized up, thought this is it, but then Shane just snorted and rolled his eyes, head thudding back against the chair's headrest as he swiveled on squeaky wheels. "I take it ya haven't had your morning dose of caffeine yet," he grumbled. "Ya even awake yet Grimes?"

Rick prayed he wasn't, even though he knew it was useless. He prayed this was just a horrible nightmare induced by liquor and the disease in him. He prayed this wasn't real.

When Rick still didn't answer, Shane must have finally realized something was off with his friend because he opened his eyes fully and turned to face the bed. Even with bloodshot rims and purple half moons under his eyes, Shane's eyes pinned Rick to his sheets and Rick couldn't look away. Shane's eyes were dark and bright despite his haggard appearance, stubble on his cheeks and chin, and his freckles were stark in his pale face. Rick's eyes zeroed in on the small dots of color and there's a memory in his head, a dream, of his fingers skimming across them, tracing stars and mapping galaxies.

"Hey man," Shane said slowly. There was a tinge of concern painted in his words. "You all right?"

No, Rick wanted to say. No, no, no, no, no. He wanted to scream it, brand the word in Shane's skin because there are bruises on Rick's and he couldn't comprehend how they got there. He looked into Shane's eyes because there was nowhere else to look, nowhere else to run, the door was shut and even if it wasn't, Rick couldn't run from these images in his head. And with each passing moment, Rick wondered at how fake they really were, how much of it could be a dream, because he's suddenly realizing the dark spots on Shane's own skin, bright along his neck, the sharp curve of his jaw. Something in Rick's head whispered that if he put his lips against the marks, his teeth would fit into every grove indented into Shane's flesh. The thought had him reeling and he had to slam his eyes shut, reveling in the darkness it brought.

He didn't know where he found the energy, the presence of mind, or the air to answer but suddenly Rick's heard his own voice floating across his room and he was awed beyond belief at the coherency and the steadiness of his words.

"Yeah. Fine. Just…just a hell of a hangover brother."

The endearment that Rick has always used for Shane tasted like a lie on his tongue and it made him feel even worse. His skin felt stretched too tight, his bones too sharp beneath it. He had the errant thought that he was just gonna burst at the seams.

Shane hummed wordlessly and then cocked his head at Rick, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Rick hated that look, always had, because he swore that Shane could always see straight through him and with last night brushing teasingly against the back of his mind, with that disease burning all the hotter beneath his skin, Rick felt dirty and disgusting and he feared that Shane could see it.

The two of them stared at each other for a wordless eternity and Rick was just about to come out of his bones when Shane finally said, "So…about last night."

Those four words were the most complex, complicated, and condemning that Rick had ever heard. They burrowed beneath his skin and sunk into his veins, a bitter elixir that swirled through Rick's body and he wondered if it would kill him before Shane could continue, quick and easy and much more than he deserved.

"Yeah?" Rick chocked out. He had no idea how.

For a year, Rick had tried every minute of every day to hide the feelings inside of him. Every breath and smile was measured so Shane wouldn't see, so no one else would tell, so something like last night would not happen. He told himself he would die before he earned Shane's hatred like that. But it seemed promises didn't mean much if you introduced enough liquor into the equation. Rick thought once more this is it; the moment he'd been dreading since he first opened his eyes and realized his life was over. His mind supplied a million scenarios of how the next few moments would play out, the next one worse than it's predecessor.

Shane would sneer at him, call him a faggot, spit in his face and end their friendship before walking out of Rick's room, Rick's life, forever.

Shane would punch him in the mouth, spill his diseased blood all over the floor, before running out and telling everyone in town how sick Rick was, starting with Rick's parents so they knew the abomination that was their son.

Shane would do what he should of done last night: beat Rick and leave him broken enough to die; just like Richard Collins. But Rick wouldn't be like the Collins boy. He wouldn't get up; he wouldn't run. He'd just wait until all the blood drained out of his body while he kept on repeating apologies, to Shane, to his family, for what he had put them through, all until he ran out of breath, out of heartbeats.

But the sneer that Rick was waiting for never twisted Shane's lips. The punch that he was expecting never landed. The death that he had resigned himself to never took him.

Instead, Shane suddenly stood up and moved across the small space separating Rick and him. Without a second's hesitation, not a moment's pause, he flopped down beside Rick on the bed, like he had done a million times before, calm and at ease and at home. Rick bounced with the sudden extra weight and he went rigid, staring down in terrified shock at Shane's prone form stretched out beside him. The other boy had his eyes closed but when Rick inhaled sharply, passed the thick knot in his throat, he blinked open his eyes and stared right into Rick's own blue orbs.

He smiled and all of Rick's thoughts went out the window because this was Shane and he always managed to get Rick to do things he normally wouldn't. Like smiling back. It was tentative and shaky, faulty along the edges where it threatened to collapse but it was there nonetheless and Shane smiled all the brighter.

"About last night," Shane repeated and Rick noticed, for the first time, that his voice was warm and soft, liquid honey where Rick had expected ice and steel and serrated edges. And suddenly, though the memories were blurred and hazy at best, blending together, meshed into one long mess of sensations, Rick remembered a string of words in the dark, whispered and frantic and so surreal, Rick hadn't dared to believe them even as he heard them.

"God. Rick. God. I love you. Love you so fucking much."

Rick never even let himself think to dream to hope for those words. He had thought, down to his very bones, that if Shane were to ever find out about his sordid secret, he would never live to tell the tale and, if he did, he would regret it for the rest of his miserable life.

But…what if.

What if Rick had been wrong?

What if Shane wasn't disgusted with Rick for the disease in his blood?

What…what if Shane had the same…what if Shane felt the same way?

Rick couldn't fathom it but something in his head kept whispering, pointing out the bright spots of color on Shane's neck, his jaw, the warmth in his eyes and the slow, easy smile on his lips. It was the same smile Shane had been giving him since before forever: wide as the never ending fields of south Georgia, inviting as a cold glass of lemonade on a sunny day, soothing as his mama's cooking and kisses on the forehead. It was the smile Rick had come to know as home and no matter how confused he was, how worried, how sick to his stomach with fear, Rick couldn't stop himself from taking his first deep breath in what felt like years, from actually feeling a seed of hope bloom in him.

There was a voice at the back of his mind that dared to hope that Shane would say those three little words to him once more.

However, what Shane said then Rick couldn't possibly have predicted. Not in his dreams. Not in his nightmares. They didn't even seem real and Rick had to prompt Shane to say them again because he had to have heard wrong.

He had to.

"Wh…what? What did you say?"

"I said do you think the police academy has room for one more recruit?" Shane smiled like he was giving Rick the world and the latter boy had to wonder why it felt like there was no longer any ground below his feet, any air in his lungs.

Rick blinked. And then he breathed. But Shane's smile didn't change and Rick realized he wasn't hallucinating so he stuttered into a response. "I…I don't understand," he stammered. His voice was gravelly with the scar of beer and hoarse with the burn of bile. "You…I…" He couldn't even get a coherent reply out. This…but what about…Rick thought…

Shane's grin widened and he laughed up at Rick. The sound wasn't mean or teasing. It was happy and joyful and full-bodied. Rick's bed shook with the intensity of it. "Well ya got me thinkin last night man," he said and Rick flinched because Shane wasn't talking about what Rick was thinking about. "State's hours away and I don't even know what I wanna do. The way I see it, that's a lot of wasted time and money trying to figure out what degree I'm gonna get." He shrugged and tucked his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. The dark curls of his hair spilled across Rick's sheets and Rick forced himself not to think about the texture of it and the way Shane growled when it was tugged with just enough pressure to hurt.

"The academy doesn't seem half bad," Shane continued and Rick had to anchor himself in the patterns of Shane's freckles so he didn't drift away, disembodied and dead to the world. "The two of us are already in shape from football. And your pa's been takin us shooting since your twelfth birthday. Sounds like a piece of cake."

Shane's eyes shifted to Rick's again and there was a teasing light in them as he said, "So what do ya say brother? Think ya can put up with me for a few more years?"

Rick didn't respond right away. He couldn't. There was something caught in his throat and it tasted rotten, like death and decay, reminded him of that coon Shane and he had found in his backyard when they were ten, the animal already halfway decomposed. And it took him a moment to realize, to connect the dots of the lump restricting his airways and the broken, strained feeling in his chest…that it was hope. That small kernel of hope that Rick had allowed to unfurl in him was now withered and dead and stuck somewhere in Rick's esophagus because when he looked in Shane's eyes…he saw nothing. Not hate. Not love. Nothing more than the familiar warmth of friendship and brotherhood that Rick's seen for the past decade and a half.

Shane didn't remember; didn't remember any of it: the charred field in front of the Jensen's barn, Rick's drunken confession, the heat between them that was hotter than any fire, than a dying, burning star, the clash of teeth and the way Shane had dug under Rick's skin and carved himself out a home there. He didn't remember a lick of it.

Or…or he did…and he was choosing to ignore it. Rick didn't know which was worse.

But, either way, as Rick stared into Shane's eyes, he realized that last night was nothing more than a dream, no matter what the memories in his mind said or what the bruises indented in his skin screamed. His heart shuddered in his chest, threatened to skip a beat, to just fucking stop, but Rick forced himself to keep breathing. He forced his heart to keep beating and he forced a smile on his face, bright as could be.

And when he looked down at Shane, when he reached out and shoved his shoulder and locked away the memories of mouthing at the mole that he knew was just below his palm, when he said, "Sure brother. The more the merrier. But I'm still gettin my daddy's hat even if you do become sheriff," he tried to remind himself of his old mantra that having Shane as a friend was better than having him as nothing at all.

---

They never mentioned that night again. And over the years, Rick had just convinced himself that it was a drunken mistake that Shane didn't remember. He bore the burden of that night alone and with each year that passed, the burden became easier to bear.

But Rick never forgot. Not when he met Lori the fall of his first year in the academy. Not when Shane went through a slew of young ladies as they trained and learned and earned their badges, their guns, as Rick earned his daddy's hat. That night was always in the back of Rick's mind, a feeble, fragile thing that whispered in the dead of night what it felt like to be wrapped in Shane's arms and what his soul tasted like when he sucked Rick's right out of his mouth. There was also this vestige of hope that lingered in the depths of his mind, no more than the flicker of a shadow, but every time Shane broke up with yet another leggy blonde or busty brunette, it writhed in Rick's brain and pathetically thought, "Is this it? Will he come back to me?" But Shane never did. He just went onto the next girl, the next fling, and the cycle went on and on and on.

Rick had Lori to keep him sane though. She was beautiful and bright with a contagious smile and a laugh that made the world seem livable again. He grew to love her, with almost all of himself, and three years after they met, he proposed. He said almost all of himself because, though he wanted to, he never could. There was still a part of Rick's heart, Rick's soul, which had Shane Tyler Walsh branded across it and, no matter how hard he tried, he never could erase it. But he loved Lori enough to promise her to death due us part, to make her Lori Grimes, and he told himself that was enough.

Their wedding was held in the fall, in the small chapel of Rick's hometown. Lori's dress was a simple, white, lace number with a modest veil that had belonged to her mother. Her smile was brighter than the diamonds adorning her neck as her father led her into the church and Rick had thought her one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

Rick had nearly sweated out of his tux as his bride to be did her slow march up the aisle, measured steps timed to the traditional music. He had already been on the edge of hyperventilation when a hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed, a breathless laugh sounding in his ear as some one murmured, "It's alright. I got ya man. It's ok Rick. It's ok."

Casting a grateful look over his shoulder, Rick had come face to face with a grinning Shane. He was all decked out in his own suit, black tie crisp and new, normally untamed hair slicked back and groomed. He looked devilishly handsome standing at the alter with Rick.

There was never a doubt in anyone's mind that Shane Walsh would be his best man.

With Shane at his back, hand reassuringly on his shoulder until Lori reached his side, Rick was able to breathe just enough to say his vows. To promise to have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer of poorer, in sickness or in health, to death due us part. He and Lori exchange rings and the priest announced them man and wife. He leaned forward and placed his lips on Lori's to make it official and feeling her mouth curve into a smile beneath his made a joy burst in his chest and he had picked her up off the ground, swinging her around still locked in a kiss. Lori had pulled back with a laugh and then wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck.

Rick had pulled her close and buried his face in her hair, breathing in the smell of lavender and lilacs. When he lifted his head, Shane's eyes had met his over Lori's shoulder and it was in that moment, the split second between one breath and another, that Rick realized…he was giving Shane up. Not completely, not forever, but he was Lori Grimes' husband now and no matter what that stubborn part of him that refused to die wanted, he would never be anything more. Shane was his best man, his best friend, his brother. He would later become his partner on the police force, his deputy when Rick proved himself worthy of his daddy's sheriff hat and badge, and finally the godfather of his son: Carl Tyler Grimes.

But that night, the night under the stars, under the moon, with smoke in the air and the dead grass soaked in the Jensen family tragedy, was nothing more than a memory steeped in a dream set in a different world, a never land, second star to the right and straight on till morning. Rick learned to accept that and the mantra that he had began for himself years ago, Shane as his friend or nothing at all, became etched in his bones, became part of his DNA, as steady as a heartbeat and just as thoughtless. He didn't even have to think the words any longer, they just were, and Rick was able to live peacefully.

He still loved Shane, in all the acceptable ways. The years passed and the other man was there through all of them. He was there for all the family dinners, all the Sunday football games, all the ups and downs of Rick and Lori's marriage and every moment in between. It was fitting, Rick thinks, in some distant, far away, part of his mind that Shane was the one to get Lori out of harm's way when the world ended because Shane was his blood, by their design and decision. And it was horribly ironic, painfully so, a fucking cosmic joke, that Lori was the one that got to have Shane in the one way that Rick never could.

Rick wanted to hate her for it; he wanted to hate Shane for it. But he couldn't. He didn't. Even now. Now with Shane laying here in yet another dead field, ghosts and the moon their only witnesses once more, bleeding into the ground and taking Rick with him. Rick hadn't wanted this, wanted to die instead, and selfishly, he almost let himself. When Shane first pointed the gun at him, he almost let him pull the trigger because Shane was the only person worthy to take Rick's life because he was as much a part of Rick as blood or flesh or bone.

But then Rick had glanced at the band of gold on his left hand and he had thought of Lori in her beautiful wedding dress, laugh big enough to fill the whole world; he thought of the vow he had made to her.

For better or worse, for richer of poorer, in sickness or in health, to death due us part.

He realized he couldn't abandon her; he made a promise. And what about Carl? The unborn baby in Lori's womb? He couldn't leave them either. He had to survive; he just had to, if only for them. That was what he told himself when he slid the knife into his hand, between Shane's ribs, right into his brother's heart. He told himself he had to; it was for Lori, for Carl, for his family.

But now…Rick doesn't think it's worth it. Because what is family without Shane? Shane's been a part of his life since before Rick even lost all of his teeth. He's in every memory Rick has, every thought, every breath since he was four years old. He doesn't know what to do without Shane, he can't be without Shane, but he had made his choice and now he has to live with what he's done.

All the words that had been said between them in this field, all the hate filled sentences and terrible insults, fade from Rick's mind. He doesn't see the man that slept with his wife; he doesn't see the man that unleashed the walkers from that dilapidated barn; he doesn't see the man that led him to this field to kill him.

Rick sees Shane. Shane as he was all those years ago, four years old with wild ass hair and a smile that went for miles.

"Hi. I'm Shane. Wanna play?"

Rick sees the Shane that sat beside him on the hood of his daddy's truck, getting drunk on any old weekend, mischief like sparks in his fathomless brown eyes.

"Oh yeah. I can see it now Officer Grimes. How can ya even talk about this shit when you're three sheets into the wind?"

Rick sees the Shane that followed him to the police academy and never left his side.

"Do you think the police academy has room for one more recruit?"

"Of course I'll be your best man brother!"

"Hot damn would you look at us now Grimes? Couple of America's finest. I hope you grow into your daddy's hat cuz it looks damn ridiculous on you now!"

"You…you want me to be Carl's godfather? I…Jesus man. Yes. Yes, I'd be honored Rick."

But, above all else, Rick sees the Shane that was in Jensen's field that night, the Shane that he's been in love with for years and never let the other man know it.

"God. Rick. God. I love you. Love you so fucking much."

Tears blind Rick and he can see nothing beyond the watery film. He gasps and shudders and cries and before he knows it, he has his forehead pressed tight against Shane's and he's breathing in his brother's final breaths. He scrambles for words but they are lost to him and in the end he can only settle on one thing.

"Shane," he moans, each letter bittersweet poison on his tongue. "Shane, Shane, Shane, Shane, Shane."

A gurgle answers him and Rick jerks back, wiping aggressively at his eyes, ignoring the way he smears blood in them. His gaze wildly tries to focus on Shane's face because, even though he could draw it in his sleep, even though it's more familiar to him than his own, Rick needs to see Shane's face.

One last time.

His skin is pale, deathly white even as he still draws breath. There's blood dribbling out of the corners of his mouth, stark and thick and burning, and the normally warm pools of his eyes are glazed over and unfocused. Rick hears a whimpering sound all of the sudden and he doesn't even know if it's from him or Shane.

The gurgle repeats itself and more blood pours out of Shane's mouth. Rick wants to scream at the sight, scream until his head bursts, but all he can manage are more moans of the dying man's names and those too soon become intelligible. Shane opens his mouth as Rick looses control of his and amidst the blood something else tries to escape. It's faint and quiet and, still sobbing incoherently, Rick can't hear it.

Not until Shane weakly scrabbles at his chest; not until he manages to latch onto his jacket; not until he actually pulls Rick's ear to his mouth and repeats what he's been trying to say for what feels like years now.

"I…I'm…s..sor…sor…ry."

The words hurt more than anything Rick has ever experienced and he's sure he'll die here too, side by side with Shane, because no man can live through this much agony. But Shane's not done yet. He still has one last thing to say and one last breath to say it with.

His strength starts to leave him; his hand slips from Rick's chest. Before it can fall to the ground, however, Rick catches it and clamps it tight between his own, having let go of the knife still protruding from Shane's chest. The dying man clings to the contact and finds enough energy to look up into Rick's eyes, enough energy to part his lips one last time.

"L…l…lo…love…y…you…R…ick."

And Rick suddenly sees in Shane's gaze the truth behind what he's saying. He isn't just sorry about recent events; he isn't just sorry about tonight.

He's been sorry for years, since that night they never mentioned. The night that Shane did remember but was never man enough to admit it.

But he's admitting it now. Because he didn't call Rick brother. He didn't say man or Grimes. He said Rick. And in those four letters is every ounce of love that he ever felt for the other man, for years and years and years.

In those four letters…is the forgiveness Rick doesn't deserve.

Rick inhales so sharply it's a scream and he suddenly can't see again and he's squeezing Shane's hand tight, hitting him with his other hand, shrieking whywhywhywhywhy and metoometooGodShaneIloveyoutoo.

When Rick looks down, Shane's smiling up at him, that smile that only Rick has ever seen. That smile of home and love and every good thing in the world. But Shane's eyes are flat and blank, no light in them, no spark, and they stare blankly past Rick's head, out at the stars and the moon beyond. It's only then that Rick realizes the hummingbird's heartbeat has stopped beneath his palm; that Shane's chest no longer moves with labored breaths; that the only gurgling noises are the ones Rick himself is making as he starts to shake uncontrollably, a scream renting his throat in two as he leans forward and digs his face in Shane's chest, wanting nothing more than to compress himself into something heart shaped and beat for him, bring him back, keep him with him, because Rick was never anything more than a shy four year old little boy who didn't know how to make friends until this brightly burning sun had exploded into his universe and taken him along for the ride.

Beneath the blood searing into Rick's skin, there's a cool press of metal on his cheek, biting into the tear-streaked flesh. It's small and thin and Rick won't notice it till later, when Carl shows up, when they leave and Rick snares it to just keep one last thing of Shane even though he deserves nothing.

It's Shane's necklace. A small, silver charm on a thin, silver chain. The 22 is nothing special; nothing fancy or flourished. The numbers are blocky but clean cut and they shine dully in the moonlight. The necklace had been a gift. Originally a gag gift but Shane kept it, all theses years, just the same.

It was his eighteenth birthday. There was a party and hundreds of kids, gallons of alcohol and no inhibitions. Rick had pulled him aside sometime during the night and pressed a hastily wrapped gift into his hand. Drunk and fumbling, Shane dropped it the second he got it out of the box. But when he retrieved it off the floor, before he or anyone else could step on it, Shane had dangled it in front of his face, the silver 22 glinting dimly in the party lights.

"What?" he had slurred around a laugh. "Ya saying I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't Grimes?"

Rick had grinned at him and shrugged. "If I had to come up with a motto for ya brother, that would be it."

Shane had rolled his eyes and bitched at the other boy but he clamped the chain around his neck nonetheless and he never took it off, not even for a moment, since the 22 first rested against his heart.

And later, with Shane's blood still burning a mark on his forehead, a mark for all to see, with the flames of Herschel's farm at his back and a cruel, dangerous road stretched out endlessly before him, Rick will finger the silver chain around his neck and lay the cool charm along his chest.

Because Shane's life might have always been a Catch 22 but…Rick?

Rick's just plain damned.

Am I my brother's keeper?

---

The End.

So? What did you guys think? :) Please let me know by leaving a review below! ^^ Seriously though. Please review.

And if the OP of this prompt is reading this, I really am sorry about the wait :/ I still hope you enjoyed though!

Until next time!

~Shadows