It was well into summer when Shane saw the farmer outside of the saloon. It was one of those nights, and he tried to resist, truly, but the effort fell apart the longer the night dragged on. Jas, Marnie, the promise he made to himself long ago to get himself together - all melting away as the night crawled by with the shaking, the itching, the consistent agitated pacing as he eventually wondered longingly, blind to his effort altogether, why he should endure such torture.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, perhaps) for him, he had a pack of beers waiting for him in the back of Marnie's fridge. He hid it some time ago, knowing full well that he was setting himself up for failure, knowing with everything he was that the bottle and shot glass under his bed would never last him the full day. Even so, he had set it aside, put another careless dent in his wallet, because he realized with a sharp twist in his stomach that trying never mattered, anyways.

Try, they'd say, try for me. Try for them, but never himself - as if they knew, deep down, that he wouldn't care if it was only for himself, and that in itself was a painful and pitiful truth.

He snuck out to the silo and seated himself against the hay stacks, the cold touch of the beer can on his skin the only relief from the thick heat. He'd stay inside, but one look down the hallway at Jas' door made him reconsider.

There was still a slight tremor in his hands as he moved on to his second beer when he heard footsteps approaching. Emerging from the road next to Marnie's ranch was the farmer. If it weren't for the moonlight that illuminated the night, the farmer likely would've walked right past him; he abruptly stopped in his tracks, a small noise leaving him, before he sighed, "Oh. Shane. What're you doing out here?"

"Couldn't sleep." Shane scanned him briefly, his eyes lingering a bit too long at the muscle shirt that clung tightly to the farmer's torso. He looked back up to the moon that loomed over the trees, saying quickly, "I'm guessing you couldn't either. Right?"

The farmer shrugged. ". . . Yeah. It's been a long night."

Shane recognized the tone - tired, defeated, small. Everything the farmer wasn't, couldn't be.

"Here. Have a drink with me."

The farmer settled down next to him. There was a comfortable silence, calm despite how thick the air was and how clammy Shane's hands had become. Eventually, amongst the croaking and chirping of wildlife, Shane heard the farmer ask, "What're you thinking about?"

He stared down at the bottle in his hand. How many times had he come home to a clean bedroom when he knew damn well that he left a shameful stack of these exact bottles at his bedside? How many times had he caught Marnie staring at him while he was in the kitchen, searching with numb limbs and dead eyes for the bottle of aspirin, with something so painfully close to pity on her countenance?

"You've never. . . ." Shane trailed off, unsure of how to speak over the lump in his throat. He tried again, and his voice was calm, collected, not once revealing the abhorrent sinking in his heart as he continued lowly, "You've never been so upset . . . that it physically hurt you?" Both hands clasped the neck of the bottle, perfect and still, ever so still, while everything in his mind trembled. "Have you ever felt like no matter what you did or how hard you tried, you were always meant to fail? That you weren't enough? That you were stuck in an abyss and will always be too weak and stupid to climb out and see the light of day again?"

He didn't realize how tightly his hands had clung to the bottle until the farmer's hand grasped his wrist. Shane let go, a tremulous breath leaving his lips. The farmer's grip was gentle, yet firm, and it acted as the anchor that Shane didn't know could be so comforting, so grounding.

"A long time ago, you said you weren't really good with words. And you know what? I'm not really good with words, either," the farmer admitted. His voice was softer than Shane had ever heard at the saloon. "But if it means anything, I'm here for you."

For how long?

The farmer withdrew his hand. Shane glanced down at the empty bottle that the farmer held loosely. "Hmph. Fast drinker even outside the saloon, huh? Man after my own heart." The rest of the bottles that glared at him urged him to murmur grimly, "Just don't make it a habit. You've still got a future ahead of you."

"You do too, Shane." Shane assumed his disbelief showed on his face, because the farmer said, "That's why I left Zuzu City. You know? Because I felt so hopeless. Because Joja took everything out of me."

Shane realized how dark the farmer's eyes were, even under the moonlight, and just under them, an exquisitely gentle smile. It was a smile Shane had seen many times before, but somehow, it was different. It held more meaning, more feeling, much deeper than the smiles he'd flash to the many friends he's made around Pelican Town. He had leaned in close despite how uncomfortably muggy the atmosphere was, and something about the way he spoke and the way those eyes captured everything within them made Shane inexplicably breathless.

"I'm not going to talk like I know your life or like I know your problems, but I can tell you one thing that I do know is true: this will pass." The farmer leaned back, and Shane might have followed desperately after him if it weren't for the hand that came up to squeeze his shoulder. "I mean, it might pass like a kidney stone, but it will pass. And . . . I'll be here. Always." He added quietly, "If you'll let me."

Always, came the echo in Shane's head. Always, always, always. It was different than never, but he found that it was much more pleasant.

A lot of things were more pleasant with the farmer.

Shane was used to hiding in the corner of the saloon. It was quiet, solitary, everything that he needed when it got particularly bad - but now the farmer was there, visiting more often than he used to, and Shane couldn't quite pinpoint what the weight in his gut was. The farmer always came bearing gifts - beer, of course, because what else would Shane want? - but this time, he came empty handed. The farmer seemed giddy, with an impatient bounce in his heels, and Shane quirked a brow in question.

"Hey. You wanna play pool with us?" the farmer asked.

Those eyes were wide, hopeful, and Shane almost couldn't say no. But a lurking suspicion had him glancing at the pool table, and he realized dimly that Sam and Sebastian were watching they exchange. They returned back to their game in a heartbeat, perhaps nonchalant, but to Shane, it felt guilty. Like the many other times back in Zuzu City when his coworkers, although initially well-meaning, had tried their hardest to get him out of the bar and into a broader social setting.

You need friends, they'd say, how else are you going to get better?

But were they friends if they made no effort to keep in touch? Were they friends if they didn't even realize you moved out of the city until a few months had passed?

"I don't need your pity," Shane snapped. The farmer's brow furrowed at the accusation, and maybe Shane shouldn't have been so deadpan, so frighteningly cold. "If this is about the other night -"

"What? No! What're you talking about?" The farmer almost seemed scandalized at the thought; he crossed his arms and huffed, "If I pitied you, I'd tell you to find a therapist. It's not about pity, okay? It never was. I just. . . ." Whatever confidence there was melted as quickly as the ice in Shane's drink; his teeth worried at his lower lip, as if he had something to say, and the sight of such a simple mannerism made Shane yearn to reach out and touch. The farmer didn't quite meet his eye when he said, "I just want to hang out with you. Have some fun. And I thought you'd like to play a few games with us, or something."

Without a second thought, Shane purred, "I can think of a few things we can do that are a little more fun than pool, but I guess."

Shane didn't catch himself until it was too late, but to his surprise, the risk was worth it; it was dark in his corner, but even so, Shane can see just how beautifully the farmer's face burned crimson at the implication. The sight was lovelier than he was prepared for, and he idly bit his own lip, the drink in his hand suddenly too cold and the sweater he wore too hot to wear in the saloon anymore.

The farmer spluttered, "I - well - so that's - that's a yes, right?" He collected himself, his eyes considerably bright and bold despite the ridiculous blush as he stated, "I'm taking that as a yes. Come on."

Shane eventually found that he didn't like playing pool all that much. He joined Abigail on the couch some time later, where he soon drowned out whatever story she had been telling to the group to watch the game, and then, gradually, the farmer. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned skin and muscles toned from hard work around the farm, no doubt. Higher up, the fabric of his sleeves clung tightly to his biceps, and eventually, Shane glanced up to meet the farmer's eye.

There was a small grin on the farmer's lips, one that was as sly and sinuous as the fire that burned in those magnificent eyes. He asked, "What do you think, Shane?"

Judging by the expectant looks he received from the other three, he assumed it was related to Abigail's story. Bastard. Shane licked his lips, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth had inexplicably gotten, and he responded lowly, "Nice."

Abigail triumphed at the response. Something about Journey of the Prairie King, another thing about Abigail's apparent victory (and to Sam, a nonevent) after months of trial and error, but Shane didn't care enough to bother listening.

"Would you do me a favor, dear?"

Shane almost didn't register that Marnie had addressed him. There was no blatant displeasure in her tone, no traces of pity or sorrow upon her countenance, only innocent consideration that he hadn't seen in a long time. It was foreign, perhaps even wrong with the way it sat in Shane's chest and started to fester, but nevertheless, he hummed in response.

Marnie gestured to the carrier that was placed by the front door. "Take these chicks down to the farmer boy, will you?"

The didn't realize the farmer had stopped by earlier to purchase any animals - but then again, he did hide away in his room, laying on his back to stare up blankly at the ceiling for hours when he should have been doing his laundry. He was trying to convince himself to get up, but in the end, the low rumble in his stomach was the only thing that compelled him to move. He may have felt guilty if there wasn't a hollow that had gradually seared itself into the center of his chest the longer that he stared at the ceiling.

The walk up the road to the old farm was longer than he expected it to be. He'd never set foot on the farm before then, but he's heard whispers in town about the time when the old farmer was still there - trees, weeds, and debris filled the land, enough so that Abigail had taken a liking to adventuring through the wild mess. But when he stepped into the farm, he found that there were only a few trees that lined the outskirts and a sizable fenced-in patch of blueberry plants. Not a very impressive farm, but a farm nonetheless, and certainly a vast improvement from whatever had been there at the first day of spring.

The stairs creaked as he stepped up to the front door. He knocked on the door, and after a few agonizing moments, the farmer answered. He was still pulling on his flannel when he paused and, with a blush steadily creeping up his neck, asked numbly, "Uh . . . Shane?"

"Hey." Shane realized how blatantly he had been staring, lingering far too long on the way the farmer's shirt had clung to his chest, and shakily cleared his throat. He gestured awkwardly to the carrier. "The chicks you ordered."

"What? Oh!" The farmer let out a small laugh. "I almost forgot about them. Here, I'll show you where their coop is."

Shane followed after him, past the patch of blueberries and the wrecked remnants of what he assumed was once a greenhouse. They entered the coop, where Shane set the carrier down and released the latch. With some gentle coaxing, Shane managed to get them to hop out one after the other, and gave the final one an encouraging scratch to the head before he closed carrier and stood.

He turned and met the farmer's eye. His eyes were unfathomably soft, filled with something Shane could never put his finger on, and it carried to his voice as he asked quietly, "You're good with animals, aren't you?"

Shane's chest felt light, airy, and it took everything in him not to laugh. It was an odd feeling - something like joy, something like wonder, coalescing to create something sweet and perfect. He finally found the strength to respond, "I guess. I like chickens. A lot. You take care of them, you hear me?"

"I will! I promise." The farmer stepped closer, his voice dropping low as he asked, "If anything ever happens, though, can I come to you for advice?"

The way the question had sounded so close to a croon made Shane's head spin. There was nothing more he wanted at that exact moment than to lean forward, closer until they finally met, to feel the farmer's lips slotted against his until they were breathless. It was a different kind of yearning that manifested slowly over the weeks as they talked. He didn't recognize it until he was already in too deep.

It was vehement, it was overwhelming, it was everything, swelling in his chest until he couldn't take it anymore, yet in the end, when he took green eyes and a perfect smile into consideration, he realized that, like all other good things, he didn't deserve it.

"Of course. But I think they'll be just fine here."

The response came out colder than Shane intended. The farmer gave him a small smile that didn't quite meet his eyes, and the strong, vicious craving for a drink or two became too vehement to ignore.

"Thanks, Shane."

There was a different kind of pain then, one that stung and throbbed and left him wondering why, why, why does it have to be the farmer, of all people?