Shane remembered being fifteen and harboring his first soul-wrenching crush.
The day they met, Garrett had thrown an arm over Shane's shoulders as they walked to the bus stop together—the first in an endless string of flirtations. Straight or not, the boy was a living PDA and each one was a tiny flag waving at Shane, saying, you could have a chance. It was seeing Garrett on lunch and his stomach turning flips. Garrett winking at him and Shane obsessing over it for his next three classes, his heart racing as the clocked ticked closer to the end of the day, when he'd see him again and maybe flirt more.
Working in the field, Shane replayed his earlier conversation with William over and over, stomach flipping in ways it hadn't done since those teenage years. The hours crept by and he checked his watch with mounting anxiety: 4:00, 4:10, 4:20, 4:25.
He was going to be sick. Though, in a weird way, the nausea felt really fucking good.
At 4:28 he couldn't take it anymore. Quitting time was usually 5:00, but if he spent another minute in these fields he'd end up chickening out, going home with his tail between his legs and proving to William—once again—that his words meant jack shit.
At 4:29, he nested his gloves and tools into their proper place in the equipment barn, thinking about how William had listed that as one of the things he found most attractive about Shane.
At 4:30, he sat on an overturned crate and stared at his visibly shaking hands. The prospect of seeing William had kept his nerves in the realm of butterflies and excitement rather than frustration, but Shane was worried. How long would William want to hang? Would they share a few beers like usual, or after yesterday's stunt, was all alcohol off the table? Maybe he'd survived everything up to this point while sober, but it'd been way too long since his last drink and he wanted this stupid monkey off his back before they talked again. Especially now, with everything out in the open.
Shane slapped his cheeks, hard.
At 4:45, he finally found his balls and walked to the house.
William was on the couch, zoned out in front of a sports talk show. He had the air of a man mellowing after a cold, and seemed to be using the TV as soothing background noise more than entertainment. The house was neater than it'd been at lunch, and on the kitchen table sat one glass of whiskey.
Shane licked his lips. He slid off his shoes, staring at the lonely shot.
"This, um. This a test?" he asked, not quite joking.
"Nah." William held up a second glass, an inch of liquid on the bottom. "Just decided to get a head start. Bottle's over here."
His words took all the wind out of Shane's anxious, tattered sails.
God, he fucking needed this. Worse than he'd ever admit to William. He downed the poured whiskey, closing his eyes and basking in the burn that untied a dozen knots from his nerves.
"Harvest in the silos?" William asked, eyes on the TV.
Shane walked over to the couch and sat down, keeping a bit of distance between them. "Yeah. Full as they'll get."
The TV flashed a recap of a fumble and the announcer clapped, belting out a laugh. William nodded and swirled his whiskey.
Shane stared at the bottle on the coffee table, unsure if he should grab it and help himself. With each second that passed he grew more self-conscious of the awkward way he was sitting on the edge of the cushions, and his stomach flipped again when he realized how clean William looked compared to earlier.
Goddammit. He'd showered? Shane was nervous enough without picturing William in the shower. The asshole could be two steps from death's door, and he still had to keep the upper hand.
As if hearing his thoughts, William threw back his shot, slammed it on the table, then grabbed a pillow and dropped it against Shane's legs.
"Work's over for the day," he declared, looking up as he settled, "so you get to be my pillow."
Guess I'm done drinking.
William had lured him to this couch under false pretenses. Shane woefully eyed the bottle of whiskey, which might as well have been in Zuzu City for all he could reach it in this position.
"You, uh, feel any better?" he asked.
"Yeah. Thanks for the sandwich, by the way." William closed his eyes. "Turned on the other sports show, but they had that asshat who can't swallow his spit before he talks."
"Oh," was Shane's brilliant response.
Then silence.
This wasn't going to work. It wasn't. Where was the guy who'd rubbed Shane's neck and told him not to be afraid? The one who always made things better after Shane had ruined them? Yeah, now would be a great time to send him in—before he destroyed this friendship out of pure fucking cringe.
"I uh, put more gas in the tractor," he added.
William opened his eyes, looking up again. "You wipe the stupid off of it, or did the hose run out of water?"
A joke. If Shane were a normal person, he might try to laugh, or say something playful in retort, or do anything beyond his current imitation of an ironing board. Instead:
"Ran the hose over it. Should be clean."
Clever. Good one. A-fucking-plus.
William raised an eyebrow. As if finally realizing Shane was a pathetic creature who needed to be put out of his misery, he rolled up and reached for his empty glass. "Gonna get another?"
Shane's shoulders dipped in relief. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be good."
Not that one more shot was enough, but it was something.
"So," said William, lying down again after they'd thrown them back. "Ingrid is getting really fat. Vet said she was going to have three kittens."
"Yeah. I, uh, told Jas she could have one."
"Dude, that kid? Totally got me in trouble with Kent and Jodi."
Shane bit his lip. "You walked her home that night."
William nodded. "It was on my way. She's a smart kid. Nice too. Gave me a brownie." His eyes flickered to Shane's. "Hope I didn't step on any toes. We didn't ask you if it was okay."
Shane thought back to that night, to the righteous anger that had bloomed like a fireball in his chest, to all the how dare he thoughts.
Was it okay? He wasn't sure, but it didn't seem the right time to discuss his fathering insecurities.
"You hang out with them a lot?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "Kent and his family?"
"Didn't have a washer or dryer when I first moved here, and Jodi and I worked out a trade. Veggies for laundry help. Kent was a captain. POW, got released after the war. Came back…" William shrugged. "He'd seen some shit. So every few weeks I pop in on him and his family. It helps sometimes to know you're not the only one, that other people were over there too."
It was a kind thing to do, Shane thought. William genuinely cared for his neighbors, and it'd be selfish to wish he were any different. Yet that didn't stop the tendril of jealousy weaving through his veins.
Shane knew Kent was a vet, but hadn't known the details.
POW. Seen some shit.
Kent surely understood William on a level Shane never would. The closest Shane had been to war was managing not to murder all the elderly people who joked, "No price? Must be free!" at JojaMart. He'd spent his whole pathetic existence in a cushy life of retail and drunkenness. Unambitious, lazy, too stuck in his own mental issues to do unto others.
How could he compete with a war bond? How could William fall in love with him once he realized how little Shane had done with his life? He'd called Shane deep, but apparently his only frame of reference was a rain puddle.
"Kind of you," Shane said, gruff.
"Thanks."
A stretch of silence followed, William looking tense. Maybe he realized he'd rather be with Kent, where the conversation didn't constantly flow back to a plugged drain.
"Look," Shane said, rubbing his eyes. "Maybe I should just go. Then you don't have to sit here and pretend I'm not really fucking bad at this. Tomorrow you can tell me if you changed your mind, or whatever."
William sat up, folding his knee in. He rested against the back of the couch to face him. "Stupid and nosy-as-fuck question. Am I your first trial-basis boyfriend?"
Shane wished the cushions would suck him into their folds.
"Well, obviously I haven't done this before. Fucking look at me."
"I am looking at you. I look at you all the time, dumbass." William leaned forward, rubbing his back. "The first time you kicked a ball, were you amazing at it?"
Shane looked up in disbelief. "Are you seeing this shit, too? Or is it just me? Who the fuck needs a pep talk to date someone?"
William stared back, unflinching. "Kiss me."
Shane's heart almost stopped. Then, as if to make up for lost time, it booted into high-gear.
"You…you're in a lot of pain…"
"Kissing makes ouchies better. Everyone knows that. Now kiss me."
Of course; he wanted Shane to lead it. Why not hand over a full tray of fine china to the guy whose hands were shaking?
Feeling like he was about to take a pop quiz that would determine the pass or fail of this trial run, Shane shifted inch by clumsy inch to face William.
He closed his eyes, then kissed him.
Immediately, William cupped his cheek, darting his tongue into his mouth. He took control, steering the pressure, the need, and Shane sank into it with skin-tingling relief. He chased the kiss as long as William let them, until at last he pulled back.
"Kick that ball real damn good, Shane," he said, voice rough.
Shane lingered in the space, not ready for it to be over.
"Sometimes I should just shut up," he mumbled.
"If shutting up means getting more of that taste? Then hell yeah, shut up anytime." William kissed his forehead, then stroked his flushing cheek. "I'm really glad you came back today."
Me too.
Shane knew there was something else he had to do. Even a few minutes ago it would've been impossible, but this reassurance…those rough, bandaged fingers still on his face…
With difficulty, he met William's eyes.
"I've been a fucking dick. I'm sorry."
He wasn't sure what he was expecting—but it wasn't for William to lean in and brush his lips a second time.
"Okay. Forgiven."
Shane blinked, waiting for the catch. That was it? That was too easy. He'd been a dick for weeks, and with one sentence it was over?
"Okay," he replied, not trusting that his sins were forgiven in full.
Perhaps enough to move on, though.
It wasn't late compared to their usual happy hours, but William was clearly beat. There were heavy bags below his eyes, and despite moving more, it wasn't with ease. Shane knew he should let him nap longer. More selfishly, he knew there was a full bottle in his drawer at home that he could chug without counting shots. William needed rest, and Shane needed whiskey—and they both needed to process the day.
"Do you need anything else before I go?" Shane asked.
"Nah. Just gonna heat up some leftovers and go to bed. I'll be up and around in time for work tomorrow." William dropped his hand reluctantly. "Look, I'm not easy either. I've got my demons. I've got my skeletons and baggage. No one who's tried to be with me sticks around long. So I understand it, Shane. And I meant it. We're cool."
Maybe this wasn't doomed.
Shane nodded, trying to solder those words inside him as strength to face the rest of the night. "Should probably go now."
"Alright." William pushed to his feet with a heavy sigh. "Thanks for everything today."
Shane set his glass in the sink and put his shoes on. At the door, he paused.
"You deserved that medal at the fair," he said earnestly. "Didn't get to say it, but…you did."
Then he rushed out before William could answer.
It wasn't everyday someone convinced a wild creature to be friends. Even rarer was to have scared that creature multiple times and get another chance. Somehow, William had stumbled into the land of do-overs and thus far managed not to fuck it up.
The day after his overworking idiocy was the easiest he and Shane had had all week, and though he was still a sore knot their progress was gratifying. The afternoon milking was done, the ripe crops pulled, and they'd put fresh labels on the finished preserve jars. Once the casks had finished aging, his fall brews would be ready for mass distribution. No fights. No glaring. No tension. The peace was balm to the spirit, no matter how slowly his body was recovering.
They sat in their respective chairs on the porch after work, one beer apiece.
"Good work today," William said.
"Thanks." Shane wiped his hands with a rag before cracking the cap off his beer with a thumb, as usual eschewing the use of a bottle opener. William smiled despite the low throb in his head.
"How you holding up?"
"Probably better than you," said Shane. "How's the back?"
"The sins of yesterday are taking their pound of flesh."
Flesh that was hot despite the cool weather, and while his body wasn't in the best of shape, at least the farm was better off. William looked out at honey-colored fields that were dappled in stretching shadows, each one long, like a finger caressing the waving crops.
He sank into the waves of pain. The cramping was the worse part. He needed a hot shower, or a taste of something stronger. He could picture how easy it would be to swing by the good doctor's office and ask for a ten day supply of muscle relaxers, something to ease the overwork. They were so far from Zuzu there was no way Harvey would know his history.
Could he do it?
No, that's a rabbit hole that has no exit.
"I can do double again tomorrow," Shane offered.
"I'll just go to the spa this weekend and soak it out," William muttered. "Won't take me long to get back on my feet."
As soon as he said the words he could've kicked himself. The spa? Smooth, when the last time had turned into a shit-show.
Shane checked his watch. "What's wrong with today?"
"Can barely walk to my room without busting my ass," William said.
"Thought that was in the job description though. You know, making sure you don't die on the way up."
William met his eyes. Something...something was different.
"Guess you're right." He stood as straight as he could manage, then tossed the empty beer bottle into the bucket. "Might switch to something stronger. For medicinal purposes."
Once he was moving he went inside and gathered the towels, managing not to trip or knock into anything. He glanced back at the door and called, "You need to borrow some clothes?"
Shane lingered near the entrance. "Yeah. Hadn't really planned on..."
William grabbed two sets of clothes. On his way out, he snatched a full fifth of whiskey from his cabinet.
Medicinal, he thought. Not a damn thing to do with your nerves.
"You ready?"
"Yeah." Shane shifted his weight from side to side, eyes on the duffle. "You, um, want me to carry that?"
William handed him the bag, their fingers brushing at the exchange.
They stepped out onto the path and William kept his gaze on the sky. The sun was going down faster than the last time they'd done this. He moved steady until they reached the curve of the path, when his back spasmed. The pain shot down his hip and forced him to stop. He stood still, sucking in air while a rainbow of aches flared from the cramp.
"Looks like you're making your money today," he said, the words working around the spasms. It'd been five years; one would think his muscles would have gotten with the program and knocked off the pain game by now.
Shane didn't comment or complain about William leaning on him. He focused on the dirt road, holding William's arm.
"I know what I said earlier. But this…" Shane hesitated. "It's off the clock, okay?"
William soaked that in.
"Good to know."
The spa was warmer than the autumn chill, the constant blow of fans humming and echoing in the tiled rooms. When they made it to the lockers, William sank onto the bench.
"Thanks," he grunted, kicking off his boots, "for talking me into this."
Shane took his time untying his shoelaces. "Wouldn't be like that in the first place if it weren't for me."
William snorted. "Not your fault that I've got a body full of issues."
He pulled his shirt over his head and rolled it into a ball, then slid his jeans off to reveal snug shorts.
"Meet you in there," he said, grabbing the whiskey. He used the wall to keep upright on his way inside.
Just like before, there were echoing clicks from the spa's large clock. William leaned against the back of the pool, muscles already easing as the heat soaked through flesh and down to bone. This time, he didn't have to wait nearly as long. Shane slipped into the water, close enough to touch, the steam rising up around them in a heavy cloud. The only sounds were the fans, and water lapping at filters along the pool walls. William opened the whiskey bottle with a squeak and took a long swig. The liquor burned his throat, opening a groove into his mental boxes and bleeding out thoughts across his mind. Mutely, he offered the bottle to Shane.
They passed it back and forth. The atmosphere loosened knots and William sank into the tranquility, welcome from the brittle rubber band tension that had been between them since last week.
Shane lowered the bottle. He stared at the label, turning it slowly from side to side.
"Shit always feels really easy with you," he said, offering it back with a sigh. "Until it doesn't."
"I'm not an easy man, Shane. But. Neither are you." William met his eyes and capped the bottle, stowing it behind them. "I meant what I said. Whether you'd set me off or not, my body being fucked up isn't your fault."
"Whose fault is it? Because you wouldn't have busted your ass like that if I hadn't been a dick to you."
The question was meant as sarcasm. Another self-flagellation.
But Shane didn't know.
"Gotoro soldiers," William said. "It's a messy story. I don't think you really want to know."
"I don't want to know, or you don't want to say?"
He was too damn sharp at this.
"Might as well find out how fucked up the boyfriend model is before you decide to keep it," William muttered, sinking deeper into the pool.
Shane's fingers found his under the water. "Fucked model doesn't mean I don't want it."
"You sure you want to know?"
Shane's voice dropped quieter. "I'm sure."
His affirmation pulled off the scab of the wound, blood seeping along the rend in William's mind. Names formed in the viscous ooze. Manny. Walls. Yancey. Roch, Tommy, Bane, Greenie, Jake, Kodes, Justin. Max. Eleven faces that he took and carried with him.
The clock on the far wall ticked a few seconds off. William wanted something to fidget with, something for his hands to do while he unwrapped crusted and bloody bandages away from the story. He sorted the tale, searching for the beginning.
The steam in the spa melted into muggy nights. The buzzing fans turned into mosquitoes. The potted ferns that framed the edges of the skylight reminded him of waxy-thick leaves that hid the sun, creating confusing shadows on a swampy jungle floor.
"C'mere," he finally said, pointing to his left side where a cascade of bullets was inked into his arm, under a rotting peach.
Shane slid over. His eyes followed the spent casings, each marked with different birthdays, all with the same death date. One finger tentatively traced the outline of a bullet.
"Twelve of us. My unit." William swallowed back bile that rose from the memory, but now that he'd begun, his words were a stone rolling downhill. "It was raining. It rained every day out there, nonstop. Constant, clinging, confining drench. We'd been out for ten days, waiting for our relief troops to rendezvous." He shot a glance at Shane, his body a rod of tension. "But it was a shit assignment on shit intel."
Shane drew back the hand tracing the tattoos. His face was still with deep, silent attention.
"That's why...your t-shirts and stuff. That's why you can't stand the wet?"
William nodded. "Yeah."
He licked his lips. How could he accurately portray the way heavy, damp fabric brought out the confining claustrophobia? He trusted the whiskey, which oiled down the burrs of his unease, and plunged ahead.
"So, there we were. Twelve men, waiting for a supposed sneak attack that intel assured us was coming. We were the fifth team out of ten. They didn't know which team was going to intercept, mind you. Who cared if we were eaten up by mosquitoes or foot rot? The border was our priority."
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, dampening the strands. "It was an ambush. Six of us were asleep, six of us were on watch. Didn't hear 'em. Above us but we never knew. Grenade, right in the hole. Those Gotoros shot us like goddamn fish in a barrel."
He could see it as he spoke, the way the shadowed boy had glared down at them with hatred, his hand open with the terrible explosive falling in slow motion. That moment of stillness before the collateral aftermath replayed in his nightmares. The smell of the mud and the blood. He could feel phantom pain as his skin had ruptured underneath shrapnel, and remembered screaming, not hearing the sound over the ringing in his ears.
"William," Shane whispered.
His voice pulled William out of hot jungle and into the warm pool. He floated, feeling as though he'd poured out his own weight in memories. Shane's eyes prodded him on, and he continued, the words too heavy to stop.
"I got up, and my face? Felt like it was on fire. Arms hurt. Couldn't hear. And there was Justin's arm...right there. With no Justin. I started yelling, saw my people get up. Saw my best friend Max moving. He was still alive, but his legs were pouring blood."
His eyes stung from the steam. Max had been reading a letter. Fiftieth time he'd read that paper. The folds were soft, and the picture of his daughter had been pinned on his log book.
"Max was a father. Had a little girl about Jas's age. I picked him up first. We had to get out of there, and Max had the comm's box. I tell him, 'Hit the mayday.' I tell him 'We're going home.' I tell him 'It's going to be okay.' Got my feet underneath us. Got less than a few inches of progress."
He stared up at the glass ceiling and in the reflective panes saw rustling trees, then heard the whistle, like it was that day all over again.
"That's when the second bomb hit."
Because it hadn't been enough to drop one, not when half the target survived. So instead of letting his men fight back, the enemy had come again, finishing the job with a shrapnel double tap.
He'd heard things as he'd lain broken and dying. Gotoro voices speaking in raucous tones, ears working even as the rest of him refused to move. For an hour he'd memorized their conversations; words and phrases that would mean something later to commanders and generals. In feverish dreams, he'd replayed them over and over, crushed underneath Max's corpse, his blood turning cold in the endless rain, clinging to the knowledge as a lifeline for revenge. As the insects came and crawled over him, he'd breathed. He couldn't feel his legs. He'd lost too much blood to reach for anything. All he could do was breathe, in and out, in and out, knowing if he ever made it out of the jungle, he'd never let himself be trapped again.
He shook out of the memory. That was a long time ago. He'd been different then, too fever-sick and injured to think beyond survival.
"And that was it?" Shane asked quietly.
It was as much as William could convey without dragging them through the darkest reaches of his memories. He nodded.
"Took them two days to find me. My back was eaten up with parasites. My spine was damaged." He reached behind him for the whiskey, then took a long drink. "Sole survivor."
Once he'd been conscious, the information he'd gleaned had been given to the higher-ups. What he'd said must have checked out. They'd questioned him before releasing him back into medical care, sore and tired. Later, there had been more visits, more questions—this time from generals with stars on their hats. After he'd returned home, some jackass in a suit awarded him a medal for honor, courage, and valor. It was on his mother's mantle. He'd not been able to look at it without being sick.
Hero? What was so heroic about hiding underneath your best friend's body to survive?
"Relive it a lot, I bet," Shane said, plucking the whiskey from William's fingers.
The truth was, not if he could help it. But Shane deserved to know. Cameron had known. Hell, he'd been there the day they'd brought his sack of a would-be corpse into the OR. He wanted Shane to have that knowledge, too. No point in taking him on without being completely clear about the monsters in his closet.
As fucked a story as it was, Shane would understand.
William stretched his back, one elbow against the pool wall. The booze was hitting him hard, loosening his tongue. "You ever lose anyone?"
Shane's eyes flickered over the lip of the bottle.
"Not the same," he muttered, taking a drink. "But yeah."
"Jas's parents?"
A darkness crossed Shane's face. "If they were still here, I wouldn't be."
The truth of that struck William deep. If they hadn't died, then maybe Shane wouldn't have moved down to live with Marnie. He'd be out in Zuzu with his friends. With his family. He would be somewhere else.
The world was full of fucked up ripples like that. If Garrett had been in this world, he and Shane would have never met. If Max had made it through the war, his own life would have been totally different. Each of those events, tragic and pointless, had brought them to one another, crashing like two stars in a universe that was so wide, neither of them should have crossed.
"I know how that feels. Max...was like family. We were drill instructors together. And yet, I couldn't save him."
Shane glared at the water. "You don't want a fucking award for surviving. You just want them alive."
Simple words. But they made all the difference.
"Yeah," William said, taking back the whiskey and capping it. "Think I'm a PTSD basket case now?"
There was a beat of silence.
"That day you gave yourself stitches," Shane said, lifting his head to meet William's eyes. "I saw your back. Bumps and stuff. You have surgeries?
Shane had noticed. Shouldn't have been surprising. He was like a little ghost, acting as though he heard or cared for nothing, when the truth was he didn't miss a thing.
"Broke my back out there and it got died a few times. Lots of surgeries. Lots of rehab. Lots of doctors. I..." William swallowed. "I'm as good as I've ever been now, but still have bad days."
Bad days that people didn't usually see. Not like yesterday.
When Shane looked at him, William could feel it along his scars, the hidden ones. It was like he had x-ray vision, as though he couldn't fool him with his posturing. Then again, William wasn't afraid of Shane's past. Maybe what Shane saw didn't scare him either.
"Be good to have help on those days," Shane said, sliding closer, the heat radiating off his skin. "Maybe help that doesn't make you overdo it."
"Help would be there if I didn't keep chasing it off. Didn't keep losing my damn temper." William reached out, running his thumb over Shane's temple. The bruise was gone, but he could still see it in his mind's eye as he traced the brow bone.
"Won't do that again," he said softly. "Hurt you so bad like that in anger. You don't have a reason to believe me, but I mean it. Never again, Shane."
Shane leaned into the touch.
"Been hit in anger, Will. Was never like that with you. Not even the first time."
"Still not right." William's hand stroked Shane's cheek, the five o'clock permashadow like velvet against his calluses. "You don't deserve it."
"Yeah I do," Shane murmured. "Other times...I didn't like it. But with you, it always feels really good. Afterwards, it's like I can finally think and don't have a million voices in my head."
"Are you a masochist, Shane?" William asked curiously.
Despite their drinking, Shane's eyes were steady. "You like hurting me?"
It was a trap because there was no right answer. If he said yes, would Shane think him a monster? A horrible person who enjoyed hurting people? But if he said no, he'd be lying—ruining the trust they'd built.
He nodded.
"Does that scare you?"
"I think it turns me on," Shane said, cheeks flushed.
William moved closer.
"It's got a name," he said, pulling him in. "Masochism. But it can be dangerous. If you want that from me, we gotta be smarter."
"I do want it," Shane said. "All of it. I've been such a fucking idiot. I've got issues, okay? But I'm done with them. You said yesterday that it's not okay to let being scared hold you back. And I can't keep working for you if we have to pretend we aren't—that we aren't like this. It's fucking exhausting."
While speaking, Shane grabbed the whiskey. The steam created a veil, blocking out the rest of the room. In that close bubble he had to tilt the bottle at an angle to fit between them as he drank. He set it down after, the glass clinking hard against tile.
"I've never fucking done any of this. I've never been with a guy, Will. I've never been with anyone. After that time—in your bed—I didn't know if it was supposed to feel like that, you know? I mean, it felt good. Of course it felt good. But I didn't know what it meant, and then I started thinking too hard. It's why you need to fucking hit me. I'm an idiot. I start thinking, and my head won't fucking shut up..."
He trailed off.
During the entire outburst, it was all William could do not to let his mouth drop open, each word bringing clarity and understanding.
When William couldn't talk about what he was thinking, it was because he focused on what he was doing. Touching up details. Problem solving. Accounting or calculating balance. Worse came to worse and he was in The Nothing Box. All this time when Shane was silent, William thought it was because he too was blocking out the bad shit he couldn't handle. But that wasn't the case at all.
Shane's face shone with drunken honesty. His shoulders relaxed and he exhaled, as though by sharing all of that, he'd removed a weight he'd been holding for too long.
William leaned forward and kissed him, pressing in acceptance and pride. After, he eased against the hot tile, the final tightness in his lumber loosening. He pulled Shane to straddle his lap so he could look up at him.
"Is that what it's like in that spaghetti warehouse of a brain of yours?"
Shane, already ruddy, flushed deeper across the apples of his cheeks.
"It's a fucking mess."
William kissed him again, slow and hungry, rewarding him for the upfront answer. The soreness of the day was gone, leaving only languid stillness.
"After our fights, it was better?"
"Yes." Shane adjusted on his lap, his cock semi-hard against William's stomach. "I don't understand why I can't just be like this. All the time."
William ran his fingers up Shane's neck and down his spine. He was beautiful, green eyes soft and head raised without shame. The man in his lap was nothing like the angry creature he'd antagonized weeks before.
"You said you've never done it before," he pointed out. "So it makes sense that it's not easy. New things are hard."
The hope William had felt earlier grew as he ran his thumbs down Shane's chest.
"I can...hurt you, if you want. But no more fights. We do it on my terms. Controlled." He brought Shane's knuckles to his lips, kissing the fist. "And you don't hurt yourself. Not if you want me to do it for you."
"Been hitting myself more than I used to," Shane confessed.
William pulled him closer and kissed his collarbone, taking the hand he was holding and resting it on his shoulder.
"Let's go back to my house," he said in his ear, kissing the shell. "Lay down. Talk more before you go home." He kissed his neck, hands resting on his hips. "I've been moving too recklessly, Shane. Show me how you need me."
Shane blinked slowly, pulling back and wiping his hair from his face.
"Yeah. Yeah, we should go..."
Between the two of them they'd finished half the bottle, and together they moved drunkenly to the locker room. They got dressed and as Shane put on his watch, William laid his hand over the wrist and turned it, fastening the band. They didn't speak as he locked the buckle into place.
He wanted that submission. He wanted to test the limit of what was allowed. Shane needed him to take control? It made it so clear. He hadn't been pushing too hard. He'd not been pushing hard enough.
The walk back was easier, if unsteady. William leaned against Shane, who carried the duffle. The sun was down and the katydids and crickets hummed through the evening, softening the darkness with the shushing creak and flow. The wind blew above their heads, dry leaves crunching as the insects sang. The moon was out, the stars a blanket bursting over the dark sky. The Bowery's path-lights made a golden glow leading them home.
On the porch William braced himself against the railing, kicking off his boots before going inside. Shane did the same.
"Marnie knows we've got shit to catch up on, after the fair," he said, walking to William's bedroom. He leaned against the doorframe, head resting nonchalantly. "Could be a late night again."
William turned off the porch light, letting the front door swing closed. He crossed over and rested his hands on Shane's hips, looking down.
"I'm okay with a late night."
Shane wrapped his hand around the back of William's neck and kissed him.