Interlude 2

"Why can't you just tell me the truth for once?"

Shane follows the taller man from their bedroom into the apartment's main living space; golden morning light spilling in from the old paned windows. Mornings are the only time the sun reaches into the little open-plan room, lighting up the weary paint and smoothing out the rough edges. It's not a bad apartment, not for the price they pay. Shane knows they could have afforded better — he could have afforded better — but Hunter adamantly wanted to split everything by half and the Thunder Academy wage is only modest. Obviously Bradley-stubbornness won out. It's not perfect, but it's theirs.

"Shane-" There's a patient sort of weariness colouring Hunter's tone.

"No. You lied to me, Hunter." Shane's own patience is a taught, frayed cord; Hunter's words a razor blade drawn across it.

Blue eyes blink blandly. "I didn't."

"You didn't tell me. You never tell me things. It's the same as lying."

"That's not true. I tell you things you need to know."

Shane wants to scream his frustration. Hunter makes it all sound so damn reasonable, makes him question himself, wonder if he's over-reacting. Makes him doubt himself. But this isn't normal, is it? He bites down hard on the urge to yell, forcing his tone to remain calm because if he yells he's already lost this battle.

"But you don't." The effort is a strain; measured words forced through clenched teeth. "I have to hear it from your brother, or Tori. Hell, sometimes I even think Dustin and Cam know more about you than I do. We're been living together for a year, Hunter, and I still have to find out things about my boyfriend's life — important things — from others because you won't speak to me."

"I'm late for class. We can talk about this later," the blond says, as he would to one of his younger students that's having a tantrum, like he's humouring him. He shrugs his motorcycle jacket on, leaving it loose and open as he glances around the apartment.

Shane knows what will happen next, how this will play out. Hunter will vanish. If Shane's lucky it will be only for the afternoon or the night; if not, it might be a couple of days before he returns, and the longer he's gone the more scared Shane gets that Hunter won't come back at all, and sometimes he catches himself wondering if that would be so dreadful, despite the twisting, breathless nausea that accompanies those thoughts proving the lie. But eventually Hunter does reappear as if nothing has happened, as if nothing's wrong; stealing back into their bed and Shane's arms and Shane will move on. Forgive and forget.

Until the next time, the next fight — except they're not fights because that involves two people and he gets nothing back from his boyfriend but deflection and silence. And Shane doesn't quite forget, because each new argument just reminds him of all the other times Hunter's lied through omission, or frozen him out, and he mustn't really have forgiven him because the anger comes back stronger.

And yet it never seems to be strong enough, because Shane lets him walk out and he welcomes him back over and over again; a never-ending carousel of fury and fear and amazing make-up sex and relative peace, where things are good long enough for Shane to begin to hope that this time will be different, that this time Hunter will be different.

Round and around we go.

"I want to talk about this now, Hunter."

There's a plaintive note to his voice, almost a whine and he hates it; hates how he is around Hunter now. Hates the insecurity and neediness. Hates that he's powerless. He presses his palms onto the top of their small kitchen table, leaning into the rough surface; almost trying to seek strength from the wood, but he can't. He's not Dustin.

Hunter studiously ignores him, busying himself in collecting his training gear from where it's hanging haphazardly on the dryer, shoving it carelessly into his backpack and turning to where the rest of his stuff is waiting on the table.

"Hunter-" Shane makes a grab for the thunder ninja's keys, but strong, calloused hands whisk them out of reach. The dark-haired man swallows a growl, instead asking, "Are you going to accept?"

"Are you going to leave the apartment today?"

Shane glowers at his boyfriend. "What's it to you? You're not here."

"Not all of us have the luxury of not-working."

It's said mildly, without judgement; as if Hunter's commenting on the weather. But it's a sore point for the air ninja — his parents maintaining an allowance in the hope this is all 'just a phase' — and Hunter knows it; a deliberate barb fired not out of malice but aimed to deflect, distract.

Round and around and around.

Shane breathes through the temptation to yell, jaws clamped around the response he wants to give and instead forcing himself to stick to the topic at hand. The one he actually cares about. "Are you going to join Factory Blue?"

"Why are you pushing this?"

"Why are you resisting this? It's a simple question."

"I'm late, Shane." It's sharp, a distinct edge to his words that Shane hasn't heard before. It's the closest Hunter has gotten to snapping at his boyfriend. "We can talk later." He reaches for the door.

"But we won't, will we?"

Shane sinks onto the sofa, the one they picked out together one lazy sun-drenched afternoon, laughing as they tried out all their options, stealing kisses when the sales assistant's back was turned. His head drops into his hands. There's a beat of silence, and Shane glances up to see the blond has frozen, one hand on the door handle but making no move to leave. There's a faint furrowing of his brow, a puzzlement, as if he'd been expecting fireworks and instead is faced with surrender.

Shane knows he should be angry; knows he would have been angry, once. Knows there was a time — not really even that long ago — where he'd have yelled and screamed and Hunter would have stood there and let him. Let him vent his rage and then made it up to him later. But this time… He can't.

He's exhausted.

Round and around and-

"If you walk out that door, don't come back." The frayed cord has worn through. But instead of an explosion, there's only resignation. An acknowledgement of the inevitable. "I can't do this anymore, Hunter."

"Do what?"

"This. Any of this. The not-arguing. The lies. Being the one- the one that's always the last to know." He takes a breath, forcing air past the solid weight constricting, squeezing, as he meets his lover's eyes. "You leave, you stay gone."

Hunter is still standing fixed to the spot, his hand still gripping the door handle. There's a moment, a treacherous split-second of hope swelling Shane's chest; a version of this story where Hunter stays, where he talks to him, tells him what's really the matter. Where Hunter proves he cares, that he is as invested in their relationship as Shane. Where the world doesn't end.

But Shane was wrong.