Shane stepped onto the farm to a chorus of soothing country sounds. Chickens clucked. Cows lowed, and the metal from their containment rattled. There was one barn lit up, and assuming that's where William was, he headed that direction. As he grew closer a radio playing country music began to drift through the air, layered atop the steady swish of milking machines. The noises grew louder and louder until Shane was standing anxiously in the doorway of the barn, looking into the bright interior—and right at his new boss.

William stood beside a line of cows, attaching a milker to one of them. When he was done he stepped back into full view, and Shane saw he was dressed similarly to how he'd been at the dock. Clean jeans, navy tee. Well-groomed beard and topknot.

Asshole.

Shane reached up and flattened his hair, knowing it'd probably dried funny after his shower. William hadn't noticed his arrival yet, and even with a few shots in him his stomach was doing cartwheels. He hated being this nervous. Christ. In a moment he was going to have to speak, and when had he ever been good at doing that?

Just as he finally gathered enough courage to cough—because that was easier than forming actual English syllables—the cow William was leading into support gave a hard jerk. He dodged back, narrowly avoiding the several-hundred-pound headbutt she'd thrown his way. Scowling, he cussed and swatted her on the backside before shoving her in again.

She retaliated with a vicious tail whip that smacked him in the face.

Shane leaned against the doorframe of the barn, heart pounding.

"That, uh…" He cleared his throat. "That where you learned to fight?"

William turned and midway his scowl broke into a smile. He chuckled, patting the cow on her hindquarters, then pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his hands.

"You mock, but one of these ladies knocked me on my ass a few weeks ago. They hit like a brick." He jerked his head toward the stalls. "You can help me muck out. When that's done, we'll get in the next batch." Snagging a pitchfork, he crossed over to hand it to Shane, then pointed at the wheelbarrows. "Manure goes in the back pile, and then we'll have to move it for composting."

And that was it.

That was the introduction to this whole thing? Shane waited for him to say more, but William only grabbed another pitchfork and got to work himself.

"Okay," Shane said quietly, joining him.

For the first few minutes he kept a close eye on his boss as they filled the wheelbarrow, sure he was going to start a conversation or give more instructions. But no; except for the radio, it was silent as the grave. It was too easy. After the anxiety he'd bathed in all weekend, there had to be some catch to all this. Instead, the pitchforking softened his nerves. There was even a stretch where, side-by-side in a steady peaceful rhythm, Shane forgot how much he'd wanted to throw up that morning.

The stalls took twenty minutes. Shane was moving the last load when William nodded him over.

"Marnie use electric milkers?" he asked.

Shane eyed the machines, which were similar to the ranch's. "Yeah. Might be selling her cows, though."

"Huh." William cocked his head. "I'd have thought she'd rather break off her fingers than do that. She's so proud of them."

Heat traveled up Shane's face.

Why had he said that? Marnie's personal finances at the ranch were not his business to discuss.

"Yeah," he mumbled, trying to recover. "Just, she mentioned downsizing the herd…"

William raised a brow, but didn't press.

"You'll be doing this by yourself tomorrow," he said, pointing to the other side of the line. "But I'll show you how I like it done today. Start on the end and unclip. And keep an eye out on the teat, I don't need mastitis."

Shane nodded. William demonstrated—pointlessly, as it was another task he'd done hundreds of times, but he supposed every job had at least one set of pointless instructions—and then they took to opposite ends of the row.

As they worked a new song came on the radio, and William began to sing along.

He kept below the volume of the actual singer, but he had a good voice, Shane realized. Deep and able to match pitch. Between the singing and the memorized movements of the task, Shane couldn't help but find it soothing, as if William's lack of self-consciousness made it easier to put aside his own. Just like with the rhythm of the mucking, his nerves unkinked a little bit more.

They moved from girl to girl, unclipping, and once the current group was done ushered them out and brought in the next.

"Looks good," William grunted, checking over Shane's shoulder as he attached a milker. "You've got this. I'm going to start on the coops. When you're done, come meet me."

See, dumbass? All that fucking worry for nothing. He's giving you chores you can do in your sleep, and you barely even have to talk.

Shane finished up, and then as instructed headed to the coops. A few of the more curious chickens strutted over to peck near his boots and he bent down to scratch them, knowing Marnie's birds liked that. One in particular seemed to love it, pushing her way through the clucking crowd, and Shane scooped her up.

William stood in the back of the coop, packing eggs into cartons.

"Figures you'd like that one," he said, rolling his eyes. "She's mean as sin."

The little feathered head sank into Shane's scratch, as if it had a tranquilizing effect. He shrugged. "Seems alright to me."

"Yeah, tell that to the fingers she's tried to eat."

Shane held his finger in front of the chicken's beak. She opened her red-rimmed eyes and blinked blearily at him.

Yep. Downright satanic.

William closed a box and pulled a clipboard down, jotting numbers for the eggs. "You clean the coop. Let the chickens out. Feed 'em. After I get these eggs dealt with I'm going to be in the north field, as one of my fences seems to have grown a hole." He made a final note, then rehung the clipboard and nodded toward the wall. "Tools are over there. Hose is behind the coop."

"Okay." Shane set the mean-as-sin chicken free and stood, biting his lip. "Your, um. Your feed order. Should be ready by ten. Brought Marnie's truck, so I can go pick it up or whatever."

William nodded. "Silo's on the south side of the farm, closest to the ranch. Makes unloading easy. Holler at me and I'll help you with it." He patted Shane on the back as he passed. "Good job so far, Daniels."

The pat sent up another faint whiff of that warm scent Shane had first smelled at the docks.

Cologne to do farm work?

He shoved the thought out of his head.

The morning passed, busy but uneventful, and at a few minutes to ten Shane wrapped up and headed to the truck.

If Marnie could've afforded to pay someone full-time on the ranch, she'd have hired Shane long ago. As it stood, Shane helped out where he could, taking care of the coops each morning, on the weekends letting the horses run and cleaning their stable. But out of sheer necessity she had to keep at least part-time help around, and two days out of the week her fresh-out-of-high-school hire, Hunter, came by. He'd just finished loading the hay bales onto a trailer when Shane arrived.

He hooked it to the pick-up, trying not to think about how when he returned, William was going to be working side-by-side with him again.

Stop being a fucking pussy. You survived the morning. It went well.

He drove back with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the center console where the whiskey was hidden. He pulled in next to the silo and peered around for any sign of William.

Jesus.

Across the field, his new boss was standing with his head under the water pump. Shirtless, because why the fuck not. Even with the distance Shane could see that the tattoos he'd thought were sleeves actually covered William's whole torso, an entire shirt of colorful ink. He was running blue-stained hands through his hair, and there were fifteen bushels of blueberries lining the fence next to him.

Shane was supposed to call him over like that?

Ducking his head below the dash, he pulled out his whiskey and downed three more shots. He stowed the bottle and sat back up, staring at the steering wheel for several seconds.

Taking a deep breath, he laid a hand on the horn.

William looked up at the honk. He shook his wet head like a dog, wiped his hands on his jeans, and started walking over.

Shane had removed his hoodie at the ranch, the mid-morning sun too hot, but as he slipped out of the truck he regretted it. His old gridball tee was damp and spotted with sweat, and he felt terribly self-conscious climbing onto the trailer.

William got within throwing distance and held up his arms. "Toss 'em."

Straightforward, same as before. Just because he'd wandered over like a wet shirtless dog didn't mean this had to be any different than the previous work together, Shane told himself, grabbing a bale and throwing it down.

William caught it, dropped it on the conveyor belt that rose up the silo, and kicked the machine into gear. Once again there was no pressure of small talk, and the job became like clockwork: Shane tossing, William catching, the belt carrying a steady supply of feed to the top. He'd ordered several hundred bales and it was sweaty, itchy, tiring work, constant bending and lifting.

Shane leaned down to grab one of the bales at his feet, hefting it up with a grunt—and when he twisted around William was watching.

Of course he's watching, dumbass. He's waiting on the hay.

Shane threw it into the waiting arms, his pulse hammering in his throat.

"So this," he said, determined to change the invisible subject. "It's all you?" He jerked his head toward the fields. "Seriously got no other help?"

William nodded. "Not a lot of people around here are good at this kind of thing. And this season sort of snuck up on me."

As he turned to drop the bale on the belt, Shane caught sight of the fading bruises on his back, between the ink of the tattoos.

It felt strange to know they'd been put there by his fists. The fight had been less than a week and a half ago, but if it weren't for his own bruises—and the twinges of leftover pain in his shoulder—Shane would've sworn it'd been another lifetime.

"Not judging," he said, bending to pick up another. "Just saying, you're cracked."

"Cracked?" William chuckled. "Like in the head?"

"Yup."

"Not the first time I've been accused of that. Still. Glass houses, Sadsack."

Shane slowed as he stood.

That stupid nickname.

That stupid. Fucking. Nickname.

He chucked the next bale with a lot more force.

William caught it with a step back, smirking. "Looks like you're recovering from our last discussion."

"Slipped out of my hands," said Shane.

"I'm sure." He cocked his head, looking toward the fields. "You know, with your help I'll be done before dark today. Been a few months since that happened."

Shane paused to look at the fields too. They were damn impressive, honestly. He reached slowly for the next bale. "So this is like, all you do."

"What? Throw hay?"

"Just wake up, work till dark, sleep?"

William shrugged. "Yup. It's a boring-ass life, but it's mine."

Shane closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn't meant it like that. Not as an insult. He'd meant to point out the dude's obvious dedication to his land, but of course—of course he'd fuck up a basic compliment.

"Not judging, man," he mumbled, throwing the hay. "Better than what I do."

"Well," said William, catching it. "Sometimes I like to go into town and pick fights with the locals."

Shane grunted. "Swear it fucking blew Marnie's mind, learning it was you."

"What, her poor nephew, beaten up by the big, bad, gay?"

Shane hoped he was already flushed enough from the sun and exercise that William wouldn't notice the new heat in his face.

"Nah," he said, throwing the next bale too hard again. "Just, she kinda worships you. Acted like I was telling her some sick joke, learning it was you."

"For someone who worships me, she sure did give me an earful Friday about it."

Shane felt his face darken, drowning out the previous flush.

"I'll fucking bet," he muttered.

Just like Marnie, spinning the truth of a story to fit her own goddamn narrative. All that talk of William wanting to make sure there was no bad blood…Shane would've bet his whole first paycheck Marnie had given him the earful first.

"It's fine," said William. "I'm used to it. Ever since that shit went down with Morris a couple years back…ain't like I'm not stupid enough to bring it on myself."

At hearing Morris's name, Shane's mood grew even darker. "Yeah. Thanks for the reminder that me and my old fuckwad of a boss got our ass kicked by the same guy." He grunted, bending for another bale. "Feel good shit right there."

William chuckled. "That piss you off?"

Shane said nothing, chucking it at him and turning to pick up the next one.

"Damn," said William slowly. "It really does. Well, lemme tell you this. It won't happen again, okay?" He dropped the bale on the belt. "And what about you? Without the town bruiser to let off steam, how you gonna blow off that mess of fuckshit you've got going on?"

"Same as always." Shane snorted. "Except Gus banned us, so now I gotta buy Joja's pisswater."

"Aw, now you're hurting my feelings sweetheart. I thought you liked my home brew."

Shane ignored the endearment. "If you ever sell your stuff to Pierre, I'd fucking buy it. Right now he only gets that fruity shit in."

William laughed, wiping his brow. "He just ordered four cases of my blueberry shit once it's fermented."

Shane's eyes flickered to the fence lined with berry bushels, then back to William's stained hands. "Figures," he muttered, realizing he'd probably just insulted him.

"I make it. Doesn't mean I drink it. It's fucking girl beer."

"It's fucking Marnie beer."

"Well maybe I should send you home with some then. She might forgive me for your black eye."

Shane shook his head. "She has a drink at the saloon sometimes, but she doesn't bring shit home."

William became oddly quiet. Three bales later he said, "It's, uh…'cause of that kid, right? Jas? Don't want her around that shit."

Yeah. Nothing to do with the fact that her entire fucking family is raging alcoholics.

"Something like that," said Shane, even quieter.

He stopped to stretch, his shoulder practically screaming now. William took the opportunity to stretch too, placing a hand on his lower back and leaning into it. They watched the bales creep up the conveyor belt, one by one.

When they'd been working and talking Shane hadn't noticed his buzz much, but at a standstill, the softness of the liquor sank in. The summer day deepened around them, the sun's heat beating down on his exhausted body and making him sleepy. Eventually his gaze was drawn back to William, who faced the belt.

Shane pulled his shoulder across his chest in a gentle stretch, eyes settling onto the colorful skin. For the first time he realized how much of the ink was military-themed. Across his back, bombs and fire went off above a verdant green field, and on his chest was an eagle with its wings spread, just two parts of the tapestry covering his whole torso. Some designs even crept into the waist of his jeans. The artwork was vibrant and detailed, with clear thought behind the placement of each piece. Rather than feeling like patchwork, the images flowed.

There was a trail of bullet casings raining down one bicep, and as Shane stared at them he heard Marnie's words from dinner.

Poor Kent. Hasn't been the same since he returned home.

He wondered how old William had been when he joined the military. They had to be close to the same age, though Shane was pretty sure William was a few years older than him. He wondered what he'd been like going in; whether he'd changed a lot. Whether he'd been on the home front, or sent out to Gotoro.

Then Shane saw them again, on a section of uninked skin between the sky and field of William's back piece: the purple bruises he'd put there.

His stomach twisted in a knot.

"Damn animals eat too much," William muttered, hand still rubbing his lower back in slow circles.

Shane determinedly refocused his gaze, reaching for the next hay bale. "Your, um. Your back okay?"

William turned, that easy, predatory smile sliding over his face. "Recovering nicely."

He pulled down the bale Shane had moved forward and hauled it onto the belt.

The work resumed in the same sweaty, steady rhythm as before. There was no more small talk. No more stretching or staring. Just heavy breathing on top of silence. Shane forced himself back to the present, back to the task at hand—away from the danger of everything that played in the background.

The day had, William decided, gone better than he'd had any right to expect. His silo was full. His animals were cared for and handled by seven that morning, and Shane had cleaned out the auto-milker with the same quiet efficiency he had in everything William asked of him. Now here they were, before dark, looking at the beginnings of the fence repair that had been necessary since he'd first inherited the trash pile of a farm.

This…is going to work.

He looked at his watch. Five-thirty. Shane was pounding a mallet on a post, its bright wood looking like gold against the grey weathered ones. When he finished he stepped back, wiping a brow.

William pushed to his feet. The effort brought a stab of pain through his lumbar, his spine protesting the prolonged bending required to attach the connecting rails between the posts.

"I'm bushwhacked, Daniels," he said, slipping the hammer into his tool belt.

Shane looked at his watch too. "Early day for you, isn't it?"

"Well, looks like my new farmhand was a damn fine investment."

William glanced sideways as he stacked the posts in the wheelbarrow. Shane's shirt was soaked with sweat, patches down his neck and sides, and his hair was plastered against red cheeks. William appreciated the look. He liked men. He'd never made a secret of that to anyone who knew him past the age of coming out. The military had taught him that not only did he like men, he liked men who knew how to work. Seeing Shane all sweaty was a brand new flavor he wanted to try, even if he knew he didn't dare.

As he gathered the tools, he cast around for something to say that might, just might, tempt Shane to stay longer than the average work day.

"Since it's my fault Gus threw you out of the Stardrop, why don't you stay for a beer before you go home?"

Shane, who was putting away tools in the same way they'd been taken out, paused for a moment.

William found that he liked that. He'd noticed it all day, Shane's eye for detail. He copied William's moves and instructions, like he had a diagram in his head that let him replace things exactly the way that he'd found them.

Shane carefully closed the toolbox. "You, uh…you sure we should be drinking together?"

Oh no you don't, you nervous fucker.

William stacked a bag of nails and screws on top of the closed lid. Cocking his head to the side, his words came out in an almost purr of taunting. "Afraid you're gonna catch cooties, sweetheart?"

"Fuck off." Shane wouldn't look at him, shifting the posts so that none would fall when they pushed the wheelbarrow inside. "Just don't need a fresh black eye to explain."

William snorted in disbelief. "Oh, so now you're scared? Here I am, offering you the finest of alcoholic ambrosias and you're turning me down?"

Shane hesitated.

William waited.

Finally, each word looking as though it cost him something, Shane muttered, "Only cause the saloon is dead to me right now."

"Yeah. Sure. Uh huh. Go put those in the shed for me, and latch the door. I'll meet you at the porch."

William didn't wait for him to change his mind. He turned back towards the house, reaching up to unfasten his hair tie and rub fingers through the sweaty strands, then scratched the buzzed parts all the way to the longer top section. Once up the stairs he made quick work of kicking off his boots and fetching a towel. Giving himself a quick wipe-down, he cast a look around the room. He wanted to change his shirt. The fabric was just this side of uncomfortable, clinging and sticking to his chest, and worse, his back.

For a moment he debated leaving the front door open, but that seemed too intimate.

You can hold off on a dry shirt for a half hour, he told himself.

He grabbed a second towel, then a bucket, a bag of ice, and a twelve pack. He stuck the bottles in the ice, little metallic caps sprouting from the snowy white stuff like boozy daisies. Once outside he set the bucket on the porch, popping the tops and dropping them in a smaller one kept for recycling.

It didn't take Shane long to walk up. William tossed him the towel, watching as he rubbed his face and arms. When he was done he draped it on the rail and William handed him a beer.

"Good work today, Daniels. It's more than I can usually get done."

Shane shrugged, taking a long, hard swallow. William felt a twinge of satisfaction; it was deeply satisfying to watch someone enjoy something he'd made.

After coming up from his drink Shane said, "Didn't do that much."

Humble? Or just oblivious to how much help he was?

"Yeah, okay. Whatever." William leaned on the porch rail, sipping his own bottle. He rolled his neck and stared out at the fields, shifting his weight between knees and hips. The new fence looked like a golden line of progress on the horizon.

Not that much my ass.

He looked at Shane, who was absently pulling on the collar of his shirt, fanning the fabric.

William felt a pang of sympathy. He couldn't stand to be stuck under wet clothes. He probably had about fifty more t-shirts than any man needed in his lifetime, but he couldn't help it—sometimes they got changed out three or four times a day.

"You know, if you want," he offered, "I've got some spare sweats. We could go to the bathhouse down the road and get cleaned up. Least I could do after working you so hard is send you home smelling fresh."

And damn, would a soak be good on my back.

Shane took another hard swallow. He shook his head, rubbing his neck. "Nah, man. I'm good."

"Suit yourself. Offer stands."

Watching Shane rub his neck made William suddenly conscious of the way his own shirt was plastered to him. It was like the reminder made it all the worse, and he put his beer down to pull off the damp thing.

His heart rate slowed, relief as the sweat began to cool his skin instead of cling to it.

"I swear I go through more shirts in a day than most people go through Kleenex," he said, draping the shirt next to Shane's towel. "I just fucking hate that sticky-ass feeling. Fabric all wet and shit? Ugh."

Being near dead in the middle of a jungle will do that to you.

"Picked a good job then," Shane said.

"I got fucking luckier than I deserve is what happened."

William turned back to the field, just as Ingrid, his orange cat, came onto the porch and stalked over to Shane. The little traitor body-bumped into his ankles, and Shane leaned down to scratch under her chin, right where she liked best. He was good with the monster; Ingrid's languid purr was long and soft as she settled next to him.

Took near a month to let me touch you without trying to take off a hand, he thought, amused.

He took that moment, where Shane seemed to relax a bit, to sink next to him on the porch step.

"So," he said, leaning back on an elbow and stretching out the lower lumbar. "You always live in Pelican Town?"

Shane stiffened at the closeness. He focused on Ingrid, petting in slow, careful strokes. "During our fight you called me a Townie, but I only moved here a few months before you. I'm from Zuzu."

William sat straighter. "No shit? What brought you out here then?"

Shane shrugged. "My goddaughter. Long story."

"Yeah?" William leaned over, sliding the bucket of beers between them. " Well. What if I told you I liked stories, Daniels?"

After a long, final scratch, Shane let Ingrid be. He sat up, pulling out a second bottle and popping it open with his thumb trick. "Not good at telling them."

Wouldn't mind listening to you try.

"You know, you're not what I thought you'd be," William said.

Shane sighed, then leaned an elbow on his knee and rubbed his forehead. "Look. What I said, in the bar? I was drunk and pissed off, but like...that was low of me. Don't actually care, what people do on their own. Doesn't fucking affect me." He looked into his beer. "So yeah, a week late, but there's that apology."

William paused, his beer halfway to his mouth. He frowned.

"It's whatever, man. I was being an asshole on purpose. I wasn't having a good night last week either." Not that it was an excuse, but it was true. He turned the bottle up, finishing it with a long pull, then tossed it in the bucket where it made a satisfying crack. He reached for a third without hesitation. "Nights like that I shouldn't be around people. You got caught up in it."

"I know those kinda nights," Shane said, eyes on the horizon.

Why do people always say that? No. No you fucking don't.

"Yeah, no. I don't think you do," William muttered, his grip tightening on the bottle.

Shane shrugged. "You know yourself," he said quietly. "I know me."

The response was mellow, not rising to the bait of his defensiveness.

Don't pick a fight, Bauer. You promised to behave.

William took a swig of the fresh beer, icy and sharp against his tongue. "What does anyone really know, man?"

Shane looked at him. "So you're one of those philosophical fucks when you drink."

The guy was level, despite William's undercurrent of agitation. It was calming, and he let out a breath.

What was he like when he drank? Usually a fucking idiot. It's why when he decided to let himself get shitfaced, he stayed the fuck home or went into the city.

"I'd rather be one of those busy fucks when I drink," he said, "but this pissant town is a bit short on my preferred methods of entertainment."

No clubs. No real LGBT community to speak of. Just a sea of heteronormativity that weighed like a heavy blanket over everything he said or did.

Shane nodded. "This pissant town's short on everything."

"Some days," William said wistfully, "I really miss Zuzu."

He missed the people he knew. Missed being able to walk down the corner and get different flavors of food, instead of relying on the Stardrop for his pre-cooked dinners. If it wasn't for his mother packing his truck full of leftovers every Sunday, William might actually have to learn how to cook something that didn't come in a box. And wouldn't that just add one more thing to his to-do list?

"Me too," said Shane. He kicked his feet out on the porch, and nodded vaguely at the farm. "Some of it's okay though."

He was definitely mellowing. Instead of the shifting eyes and tense posture he'd held all day, he was looking out at William's land, contemplative. William wondered what he saw when he gazed over the long stretch of blueberry fields and melon patches. Yet, the way he said it…he appreciated the view.

"Like, fucking peace and quiet sometimes," Shane added slowly. "If I could live in Zuzu for the most part, but step in my backyard to this…"

So that was the trick to this guy, William decided. Give him space to talk, and if you were patient enough he'd give you his words.

It felt surreal, how less than ten days ago they'd been at each other's throats, aggression and bullshit all roiled up into a spilled-over boiling pot. Yet, in that one moment against the tree, face to face, eyes meeting…the silence of that look felt like this. Like somehow they understood each other.

William shook the thought and pulled himself up to lean on the rail, creating space between them again.

"I guess I haven't fucked it up too bad," he said, looking back at the fields.

They drank in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Shane's relaxation, in a way, made it easier for William to relax too, reaching that good spot where his mind slowed enough to appreciate the aches in his shoulders and back. Not just as flairs of his chronic pain, but as signs he'd gotten a lot of work done that day.

Shane tossed his third beer and reached for a fourth. It was an improvement on the stilted way he'd drank with him at the dock over the weekend, and William risked probing some more. He wanted to know his new farmhand. If today was any indication on how well they worked together, they'd be spending a lot of time around one another. Maybe they had more in common than he'd initially thought.

"So what are you doing with yourself outside of the daily money grind?" he asked.

Shane shrugged. "Don't do shit worth noting."

"C'mon, Daniels. What kind of shit ain't worth noting? What are you doing at home, just fucking watching paint dry all day?"

Shane rubbed a hand on his eyebrow. "I hang out with my goddaughter. I piss off on my console. I get wasted. It's a full fucking life and you should be jealous."

William crossed an arm over his chest, resting the fingers inside the elbow of his beer hand. "Sounds like a rollercoaster. You know what? I think I am jealous. No one I know would let me raise their kid. That's a pretty deep fucking gift, man."

He knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say.

Shane's back stiffened and he held himself as though he'd been punched. His fingers tightened over the glass bottle, whites showing against the stark half-moon of dirt under his nails. He lifted the beer and drained it, then chucked it with William's empties.

The clatter of glass cracked across the silence that had fallen between them.

"Look," he said, punctuating the word by snapping off the top of his next drink. "I shouldn't be raising a kid either. Those fucking lunatics that handed her over to me should be shot."

William watched Shane's lips lock on the bottle, like it held the magic potion to deal with this problem of life. He retrieved another beer to match him, and sat back down on the steps, leaving only three or four inches of space between them.

"Life is fucking wild, man. Never thought I'd be here either." He nudged Shane. "Look at me." He waved a hand over himself in the most sarcastic manner possible. "Boss man William Bauer. Farmer of Farms. Drinker of beers."

Shane stared at him for an indiscernible moment.

"The fuck is with the Farmer Bill shit?" he asked. "Nobody's going around saying Bartender Gus. Grocer Pierre. Suicidal fucking Stockboy Shane."

The laugh burst out of William and he leaned back. "It's that goddamned Willie, man! That fisherman who lives on the docks?" He shook his head. "Gus said, 'Oh we can't call you Will. We already got a Willie.'" William waved a hand, then shrugged. "So here I am. Fucking Bill."

Shane shook his head at the stupidity of the nickname, and William reached for a fifth beer. After popping the top with his bottle opener, he caught Shane's eye.

"And don't you go off and kill yourself before like, winter, at least. I've got to get some work done around here."

Shane looked away from the gaze, into the distant fields.

"Winter's probably better," he grunted at last. "Shit won't stink as bad when they find you."

At least the motherfucker has a plan.

"Joking," Shane added flatly.

It was a tone that told William not only was he not joking, but he'd probably had the thought multiple times.

William nodded seriously. "Yeah. Sure you are," he said, then paused. "I tried to before. I don't recommend it. People get all wigged out 'n shit."

He held his hand out, turning it towards Shane so he could view the underside of the arm. It was wrapped with a barbed wire tattoo, the spokes creating an almost three-dimensional illusion that he was bleeding out around the little digs. Each metallic twist had been carefully placed to cover the scars from his copious and reckless use of heroin four years ago.

"Hard to see, but you can feel 'em," William said. "Go ahead."

Shane looked at the arm, hesitant. Slowly he lifted his hand and ran one callused thumb over the first barb, along the most prominent bulge of scar tissue.

His fingers were cool from holding the beer, and when he stroked over the braille map of marks William's heart began to race. He held his breath while Shane touched the skin, and watched his face. It was gentle in a way one wouldn't expect when first looking at him. There was empathy there, and solidarity in his caress. He lingered longer on some scars than others, following his own fingers, as lost in the touch as William.

Then, realizing what he'd been doing, he drew his hand back sharp.

Silence dropped.

"I almost did too," Shane said at last, quietly. "Never that far though. Too chickenshit."

William's hair fell over the side of his face and he left it there, a curtain to half-shield himself.

It was a raw confession. He was sure Shane rarely spoke so casually with anyone about the time he'd considered checking out. William let his eyes drop to his arm, to the places he'd soaked with ink.

"I took almost 100 mg of heroin one night, after being out for two weeks. My tolerance had dropped. I knew the risks, but I'd gotten a big score. I remember mixing it and thinking, 'No one gives a fuck.'" He let his arm drop, and took a drink of beer. "I was a fuckwit."

Shane paused. "How long you into that shit?"

The question hit William hard. It wasn't a response he was used to getting when he told people about his stupid near-death attempt. Shane didn't say 'Well of course they cared' or 'You know it's never that bad, man' or even 'It gets better!' Not that those things weren't true, but no—Shane cut right to the heart of the issue.

How long were you on the H.

"Too fucking long," William said. "And not long enough."

Shane nodded as if he understood.

William had never hidden his past. The motto was Head On. But as he closed his fist, he felt weirdly…vulnerable. He crossed the barbed arm against his chest and leaned forward, eyes on the sky.

What was he doing? He and the guy were supposed to work together, and here he was, unloading his closet of dirty fucking laundry like Shane was the new dry cleaner.

Fix your face Bauer, he told himself. Reel it back in.

"Been clean over four years," William said. He shook his beer slightly. "Substitution helps."

Shane turned his bottle, watching it spin for a long time before speaking.

"Got sober once too," he said, then shrugged. "But beer ain't heroin."

Sober? Huh.

So his poison was booze. Fair enough. A weakness for a weakness.

William tapped his beer against Shane's. "To Sobriety."

They drank. The sun was setting, shadows falling across the porch. The colors of summer evening were rich and welcoming. Shane stretched his legs out, his knees falling languidly open.

William was struck with a lightning hot bolt of desire.

It was so fast he bit the inside of his cheek to hold it in. He drank in the sight of the man beside him. When he'd first looked at Shane in the bar, he hadn't thought he was particularly good looking, what with his red-flushed face, sunken eyes, and hunched shoulders. And he'd been so closed off, uninterested in speaking. Normally that would've killed any spark of interest before William could think twice about it. Yet now he let his control slip for a moment and stared, fixated.

Shane's shoulders were broad and the old grid ball t-shirt pulled as he rested. William could picture his hands over those shoulders, Shane's back flexing and moving if the shirt were stripped away. He'd thought about it briefly today, when they were filling the silo. Thought about what Shane would feel like bent over the tailgate of his aunt's truck. Thought about the grunts of exertion he'd made when tossing hay bales, and how they would translate to having that ass on the spit of his cock.

He works for you. You sick. Perverted. Fuck.

The thought snapped a leash on his fantasies.

William let his arm brush against Shane's, and in a soft voice, one full of dark promises said, "Probably you want to head home. Before I do something stupid."

Shane blinked hard. William watched as he came to focus—and as understanding slammed into him like a fucking train.

Immediately he scattered in his limbs.

"Yeah," he said, scooting down the porch, looking around as if making sure he had everything. "I—I gotta go. I gotta go."

William smiled and closed his eyes at the not-at-all subtle escape, feeling bitter.

Congrats, you dickhead. You scared him.

He pulled himself up, unsteady, the fifth beer in less than an hour starting to hit. "I'll see you in the morning, Daniels," he drawled, and dropped his empty in the bucket.

Shane slowly stood. He dug in his pocket and clumsily drew out a set of keys. Then he paused, looking back and forth between them and Marnie's pick-up. His fist closed and he shoved them back in his jeans.

"Leaving the truck here," he mumbled. "I'll get it tomorrow."

He turned and began walking home with his head hung, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

William couldn't help himself. He licked his lips, watching him go.

With slow, relaxed movements he closed the cooler and gathered the draped towel and shirt. It occurred to him, as he cleared this evidence of their happy hour off the porch, that he might've gone too far.

In fact, he might have borked things completely.

William stared down at his arm. His fingers curled into a fist, and when they did he could see the tattoos flex.

He'd button it down, he decided.

He'd be better so the next time, Shane might not run away.