Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11669073.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Walking_Dead_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Rick_Grimes/Shane_Walsh, Lori_Grimes/Rick_Grimes, Lori_Grimes/Shane_Walsh
  Character:
      Shane_Walsh, Rick_Grimes, Lori_Grimes
  Additional Tags:
      Infidelity, High_School, Pre-Series, Alcohol, Internalized_Homophobia,
      Slurs, Underage_Drinking
  Collections:
      Rare_Male_Slash_Exchange_2017
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-31 Words: 7603
****** you got me on a bloodbuzz ******
by scorpiod
Summary
     Shane has always wanted to crawl in Rick's skin; a look at Shane and
     Rick before the end of the world.
Notes
     1. Underage warning refers to events when both participates are under
     the age of consent but both are at least 16.
     2. I tagged Lori/Rick and Shane/Lori because they are both canon
     relationships that affect the characters, but this is first and
     mainly a Shane/Rick story.
     3. Title comes from The National song Bloodbuzz Ohio.
Growing up, everyone knew Shane and Rick were best friends. It was a simple
fact of King County, same as the sky was blue and the grass was green, and the
Georgia sun might kill them all some day.
They’re just two nobody kids from King County and will stay in King County
until the day they die--Rick the leader between them, without even trying, just
naturally gifted that way,and Shane always following behind, half in love and
half desperately wanting to taste some of Rick’s shine for himself before he
even knew what it meant.
He’s good for you, they told Shane when he was barely out of diapers; he’ll
keep you out of trouble.
(looking back, Shane wishes that had stayed true)
 
*
The summers in Georgia are always scorchers.
Rick’s tank top soaked and sticking to his skin. Shane just done with his shirt
entirely, tugging it off his chest until his skin could breath finally--the air
is this awful combination of hot and moist, and it makes him feel like he might
die unless he gets his shirt off right away.
“It’s not that bad,” RIck says, chuckling, impossibly comfortable on the front
porch of his house. Rick doesn’t have a swing, but he does have a chair he
likes to tip perilously back in, giving him an air of carelessness in the
shade. Rick has lemonade in his hands, ice cold and sweet, made by his momma
who is still toiling inside in the air conditioned house. Shane has a beer he
snuck out of his daddy’s fridge, hidden in a coke bottle--whom is no doubt
gonna notice and raise hell at some point, but it didn’t matter right now,
that’s still long ways away, the way time just feels longer to the young,
endless.
“You only say that because the heat’s fried your brain, Rick,” Shane says,
dodging the twig Rick tosses at him with a laugh.
They’re fourteen and Shane is still a scrawny, crooked, and short thing, made
of knobs and jutted bone. Rick has already hit his growth spurt and he looked a
bit like weed right now, tall and narrow, but he had the face of someone who’d
grow in nicely into it, his cheekbones becoming more prominent as he loses his
baby fat.
They should head inside, watch some stupid show, maybe play with Rick’s
nintendo. Shane used to always like visiting Rick’s house; it wasn’t much
bigger than his, but it felt more open, warmer. Shane was always caught waiting
for Rick to come out from his bedroom and staring at the photographs on the
wall, of Rick’s old dead war hero grandfather, of Rick’s cop father, a family
legacy to take pride in.
(Shane thinks, factory worker as worth taking pride in as sheriff or war hero,
but that didn’t mean he had much pride in his father himself)
Rick continues to rock back and forth on the chair, balancing on two back legs.
The sweat of his shirt makes it almost translucent, and with the way it clings
to Rick’s body, Shane can make out the outline of his nipples, the shadow of
their color. It’s going to be too small for him soon, growing out of it
already.
“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” Shane warns him, taking another chug of his beer.
You’re gonna fall, Rick’s momma has told him before, but Rick just smiles and
takes another sip of his lemonade.
“I’m fine, brother,” he says, drawing out the word fine, but the way Rick says
that, brother, makes Shane shudder, his throat drying up.
(they’re both the only children of their hardworking parents, clinging to
whatever brotherhood they got)
“You want some?” He offers his beer to his brother.
Rick shakes his head. “That shit just gonna dehydrate you more, you know?”
Shane almost doesn’t hear him, not thinking of the beer. He stares at Rick, the
sweat running down his brow, his tanned skin from too much time in the sun. He
walks up closer to Rick, until he’s right in front of him, setting his fake
coke bottle down on the wooden porch. He gets down on his knees, grabbing
Rick’s chair legs and dragging that chair down to the ground.
“What the hell?” Rick asks, the laughter leaving his face, choking the words
out. A bit of lemonade splashes on the ground.
Shane responds by pulling out his pocket knife.
“What the fuck?”
“We’re brothers, right?” He looks Rick in the eyes, pocket knife gleaming
between them. Shane can’t explain what he’s thinking--maybe his mind is dulled
by the alcohol, maybe the heat has finally gotten to him, maybe he’s just
losing his mind.
“Yeah, buddy,” Rick says, nodding, blue eyes bright even in the shade.
Shane returns the nod, then drags the knife down palm. He does it quick and
hard, before the pain can register, before he chickens out. It bleeds more than
he thought it would, blood gushing and running down his wrist, his arm, drops
staining the porch. His vision goes blurry for a second, blood turning hazy,
before he focuses in on the cut on his hand and Rick--
“No, no, no, stop stop,” Rick gasps out in a panic, reaching for him, covering
his palm with his, putting the pressure on the wound. Blood gets all over his
fingers, under his nails, and in between both their knuckles.
Shane hands Rick the knife. Both handle and blade are stained red.
“It’s your turn,” he tells him. Rick’s eyes widen when he realizes what Shane
wants, but he doesn’t take the knife, holding on to Shane’s hand instead, palm
to palm prematurely.
Shane shakes his hand away.
“Do you want me to do it for you?” he asks.
Rick takes almost too long to answer but in the end he grabs the knife from
him. He lets go of Shane’s palm and it already looks like he cut himself,
covered in Shane’s blood. Rick hesitates more than Shane does--not drunk, or
simply not Shane with his streak for impulsivity and bad ideas--but he manages
it with gritted teeth and not flinching.
His blood is different, Shane notices right away, oozing out rather than
dripping, like he didn’t cut as deep as Shane did, but he doesn’t think about
it too much--he clasps their hands together, wrapping his fingers tight, palms
pressed together. Rick hisses when open wound meets open wound. There’s blood
on Rick’s tank now, and on Shane’s shoes. There’s blood all over this porch
now.
“See?” Shane says with a shaky grin. “We’re brothers now, for real.”
Rick looks him in the eyes, smiling softly. “We’ve always been brothers.”
*
Blood gushes from Shane’s nose and Rick is all over him, pressing and pulling,
reassuring noises that don’t sound like actual words, just soothing, warm on
his skin like his breath ghosting over him.
“It’s worse than he looks,” Shane manages to say.
You should see the other guy, Shane doesn’t say, choking laughter comes out
instead, and Rick’s gaze is all concern and bright eyes.
“Shit shit shit,” Rick says, pulling back, blood all over his hands.”You gotta
fucking stop starting fights in bars, jesus.” He trails off, not sure what to
say to make this better.
They’re nineteen and Shane keeps getting into fights, easy to anger, easy to
instigate, his buttons so goddamn easy to push.
“Hey, hey,” Shane says, paws at Rick’s face--he’s not angry anymore, purged out
of him, left with a soft kind of clarity--but his hands are weak and he can
barely lift them, not sure what’s wrong with him at a moment. “Just a broken
nose--had worse.”
Rick begins to sharpen in front of him, dialing up the colors, the sudden
intensity of him--there’s such a fierceness in his eyes when he looks at Shane
that feels better than any bandage or bottle of beer ever could--Rick’s hands
and eyes and attention all on him.
“You’re gonna be just fine,” Rick says, too close, warm all over.
Shane stares into his bright blue eyes, brighter right now even in the dark,
falling and sinking in them and then he--
--falls in Rick’s eyes as the world goes dark.
*
They’re drunk.
“You’re such a fucking lightweight,” Shane cough-laughs. It’s hypocritical on
his part, because while Rick may only have had one beer, he’s had two and
already feels buzzed, his insides alight, consumed with a heavy thick warm
feeling that spreads down from his guts to his toes via his spine. It feels
like catching fireflies in his mouth, or the aftermath of an orgasm, the warmth
making him smile down on his best friend.
It’s the summer before senior year and it feels like they’re running out of
time, all of a sudden--Shane doesn’t care much for school, but soon they’re
gonna have to figure out what to do for the rest of their lives and Shane never
much once thought of college that much.
Rick is splayed on the grass of his backyard, his eyes darkly hazy, crinkling
at the edges of his smile. Shane is on his third beer and he’s gotten used to
this by now, Rick’s happy drunk ways. Shane tries hard to be a happy drunk and
sometimes it works, but other times it’s just not in his blood.
(Momma won’t be home for another few hours, her job at the hospital keeping her
away, and she’s not expecting him, knows he’ll go over to Rick’s and sleep it
off there, sleep off another sleepless, lonely night, clinging to Rick to keep
himself from falling all the way down the rabbit hole)
“You’re a lightweight,” Rick parrots. It’s dark, the stars shining bright, and
the sweat sticks to the back of Shane’s neck, rolling down his back and chest,
making his hair stand on end. Sweat blankets him like two arms around him,
around his neck, nearly suffocating with the humidity bearing down on them.
Shane chuckles. “Oh really?” He’s cocky, full of himself and alcohol. Rick’s
cheeks are bright red. The red spreads down to his throat and Shane has a
fleeting thought wondering how low that flush goes (it’s not fleeting; it is
ever present, It is always, but shame and guilt pushes it down, but he’s drunk
and hungry now, looking past Rick’s tantalizing bare skin).
Rick smirks at him and then he is dragging Shane down to the ground by the
hand, grabbing his wrist and tugging Shane off his balance until he topples
over. It happens so quickly that Shane can’t even react until he lets out a
gasp, a muted shout, a rather undignified yelp--and then he can’t speak because
he lands right on top of Rick, face pressed against his chest, limbs splayed
out wildly like they were scrambling for purchase, but found none. HIs beer
falls to the wayside, next to them both, can spilling out on the glass, surely
emptying what was left of his drink.
“You spilled my beer, motherfucker,” Shane says, but Rick is laughing silently-
-mouth making the movements like he’s cackling, but no sound but some wheezing
comes out, and Shane doesn’t really care if his can of beer is currently
watering the grass, he wants to stay here in this moment, can’t resist laughing
with him either.
“Are you proud of yourself?” Shane asks in between laughs, smiling stupidly,
“you happy now that you spilled my beer?”
“You spilled your beer,” Rick says, shifting under him, as he tries to get
comfortable--and not buck Shane off--and it shudders through Shane, a rippling
undercurrent throughout his body, under his skin, that he doesn’t want to think
about too deeply (except that’s what he does, all the time--PE class and
watching Rick’s shirt ride up, licking his lips and imagining the bare skin of
his naked body, never seen it full in the face, not even in the showers where
he made himself not stare).
Shane reaches for the beer--mostly empty, but just enough so he can turn the
can over and dump the remains all over Rick.
Rick gasps, warm amber liquid dripping over his face, getting his shirt wet,
droplets running down his neck. Shane wishes he had more beer, the hunger in
his guts growing, wants to drench Rick and lick it all off.
His mouth goes dry--he blames the dehydration, but he knows it’s something else
entirely, his cock chubbing up in his pants and he can’t be fucked to move now,
even though he should, he needs too, Rick is right below him--
“Oh you motherfucker,” Rick says, mouth open like a gasping fish, like he can’t
catch his breath even though there’s no reason to be winded.
“You spilled my beer,” Shane says with a smirk, still not moving away, watching
the alcohol drip down Rick’s throat, pool up in his collarbone. It’s a
fascinating sight, it’s too much for him. He blames the dehydration, the
alcohol in his veins, the heat that’s frying his brain right now, but he leans
down and takes a lick, warm beer against warmer skin, cock hard against his
best buddy.
Time stands still--everything freezes for a moment, and there’s nothing, but
Rick’s skin and Shane’s hungry mouth on him, just this one moment before it all
crashes down on him, savoring the taste not of the beer, but Rick’s skin under
it, trying so, so hard, not to hump his leg right now.
Rick barks a laugh and the moment breaks, shatters, Shane pulling away like he
burned himself licking him, Shane trying to stand up like he’s going to die if
he doesn’t get off right now, scrambling and moving too quickly, too clumsy.
Rick grabs him, hard, by the back of his neck, blunt nails digging in, and
pulls him down to kiss him on the mouth, and Shane’s world goes away, until
he’s back on the ground here with Rick, nothing but their mouths sliding
together.
*
It’d be so much easier hating Lori.
Lori comes into their lives (Rick’s life, really--get that straight, Shane,
it’s not about you) both entirely too quickly while being there all along--
Lori’s been a kid Shane’s known since the third grade, and Rick’s known her all
throughout school, and yet she’s never really mattered all that much to him--
floating, periphery, on the outside--barely makes a dent. Doesn’t pierce the
RickShane around them both.
She’s always been there, and didn’t even matter until senior year, this fucking
close to graduating together when she saddles up to Rick and kisses him, and
then suddenly, it’s not Shane and Rick anymore, it’s Rick and Lori.
Rick and Lori going bowling together and with Shane there (Shane the third
fucking wheel), they can’t go one and one anymore.
It’s okay,” Lori says with a smirk that goes all way to her eyes, grabbing a
ball that looked almost too big for her delicate hands, but she had a hard
strong grip. “You two be a team and I’ll beat you two up.”
She doesn’t win, but it’s damn close, and it doesn’t really matter with the way
Rick constantly kisses her every time it’s her turn--for good luck he says.
"Bullshit,” Lori told him after. “He was trying to distract me. It worked.”
It’s impossible to hate her--even as she soaks up all of Rick’s attention and
time, a flower to his sun--not even when Rick knocks her up at eighteen and
makes her a part of their lives forever.
*
That was not the first time the two of them kissed.
The first time he kisses Rick, it’s a goddamn accident, thirteen and the both
of them shitfaced drunk, far too young to be this drunk, but it doesn’t matter,
Shane always liked pushing lines and Rick liked being with Shane even if he
didn’t care for the alcohol that much--tastes like piss, he always said (it was
about more than that anyway--Rick liked knowing he could be bad with Shane,
flirting with danger and being a delinquent, and still come home and be his
momma’s good boy, still be the responsible one while Shane takes all the
blame), both of them are drunk on his daddy’s liquor, stronger stuff than beer.
Shane, for the life of him, cannot remember why he put his mouth on Rick’s,
only that it seemed like a good idea at the time, a curiosity, and Rick held it
for a whole minute. Shane wishes the memory weren’t so goddamn blurred, can’t
remember if Rick’s lips were dry or soft, only that his heart was pounding and
he suddenly felt stone cold sober for the duration of the whole kiss, and he
wants to pull away and apologize immediately and--
--and Rick coughs, pulls away and pukes on Shane’s shoes. Rick doesn’t remember
the kiss the next day (it always made him feel sick inside, dirty, like a
monster--like he took something from Rick without even asking)--or maybe he
just didn’t wanna talk about it.
This time, though, Rick kisses him and Shane doesn’t know how long it lasts--
hours, minutes, he loses track of time, focused on devouring Rick’s mouth as
long as he’d let him.
Rick doesn’t know how to kiss--either the two girls he’s dated taught him
nothing, or he’s too drunk to do it right--but he keeps a hand steady on
Shane’s neck, pushes his mouth into him, pushes his tongue in, eager and
enthusiastic. Shane’s kissed before, seven minutes in heaven, but this feels
like hours and seconds all at once, and he forgets what to do with his tongue,
forgets how to move his lips, forgets everything except licking Rick’s lips and
biting down, harder than he should, but Rick just moans and then--
Shame comes all over himself, hips thrusting suddenly against Rick’s leg,
straddling his thigh now, can’t help himself, can’t stop himself from moving--
suddenly, unexpected, and should have seen it fucking coming. He has a blissful
moment of whiting out, melting into Rick’s kiss, sucking on his lower lip, and
then being horribly sober and awake and sticky, pulling away.
“Oh my god,” Rick gasps out, blinking rapidly, “oh my god.”
Shane’s not one to embarrass easily, flushed with heat from the alcohol but he
feels it in his chest too, in his stomach, muttering an uncharacteristic
“sorry, sorry,” at Rick and trying to get up. His voice is like gravel and his
tongue feels like sandpaper, all together too heavy in every body part--but
Rick grabs him by the arm and tugs him back down--landing on him, on top of
him, splayed out.
For a minute, Shane is a little kid--, he whines, trying to pull away, go lick
his wounds elsewhere, but Rick must still be dead drunk because he reaches for
Shane’s oversensitive dick.
“Holy shit,” Shane gasps out.
Reaches through his jeans, of course--Rick doesn’t have the coordination to
unbutton and zip down, but it still strikes Shane like white lightning through
his body, letting out a loud ragged gasp, meeting Rick’s bright blue hazy eyes
as Rick palms him through his pants, like he just realized Shane had dick and
that he liked it.
“Oh fuck,” Shane whimpers--because it fucking hurts, not enough time to
recover, hurts in this strange painful-good way he doesn’t quite know if he
likes.
“I already came, Rick,” he manages out, panting, hating that he wants to put a
stop to this.
“Oh,” Rick says, pulling away. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. He lets Shane go
then and finally falls back flat on the ground, and it’s then when Shane
finally notices his hard cock, the tent in his jeans.
Shane stares at it for a moment--his mind racing and yet unable to pick out a
single coherent thought.
It’s not as if he’s never seen Rick hard, it’s not as if he’s never even seen
Rick’s naked dick before, years and years of living inside each other’s houses
had exposed them both to each other, Shane ribbing Rick for the hard-on’s he’s
gotten in class, at school, in church while his best friend blushed with easy
embarrassment, but he keeps staring, watching the rise and fall of Rick’s
chest, watching Rick raise himself on his elbows and just look at Shane, eyes
meeting and everything is impossibly warm.
Shane should ask, before he takes, before he acts--that would be the right
thing to do, but he can’t stand the thought of voicing it out loud, can’t make
his mouth form the words, so he just expects Rick to stop him if he crosses a
line when he reaches out not for his dick, but his belt.
It takes an agonizingly long time to get it off, uncoordinated, fumbling and
struggling with the belt. Rick starts to help and their hands brush up against
each other, knuckles bumping, whispered I got it, I got it from Rick when he
finally gets it off, letting the belt fall to the side. Shane shoves down his
pants and underwear rapidly, not thinking and--
Rick’s cock is shorter than his, and the head of it feel soft and slick,
fingers coming away wet with clear fluid, and touching his dick draws a sharp
gasp out of Rick’s throat that fills Shane with heat and a kind of bursting
excitement, pooling in his guts and warming his chest--thinks he might get hard
again soon, just touching Rick’s dick like this.
“Shane,” Richie breathes, the edge of a whine in his voice, and that snaps
something in Shane--
He leans down and before he can talk himself out of it, takes Rick’s cock in
his mouth.
Rick makes a noise like a dying animal, but sweet instead of alarming, low and
groaning, and it ripples through Shane, feels it around his throat and chest
and at the base of his spine. Shane can only take his dick about halfway,
awkwardly putting his hand down around Rick’s balls. He’s not actually sure
what to do with his tongue and mouth while down here, only thought about step
one and nothing beyond that (he’s never done this before, never actually
thought about this before even, but he’s thought about Rick for longer than
he’s wanted to, and all he wants is to dig into him and get inside as far as he
can).
But thankfully, Rick is sensitive, making constant noises that sound like
enjoyment and Shane manages to just hold Rick’s cock in his mouth, while
licking around the head and under it. Rick doesn’t really taste like anything
except warm and slightly salty, but not as nasty as Shane worried it’d be, with
the musky thick scent of his cock and balls stronger than the taste, making his
head spin with his own renewed arousal. He almost chokes when Rick bucks up,
catching him off guard, but he manages to ride it through, even when Rick grabs
onto his hair, clinging and pulling just a little too tight, as his hips bucks
and he moans uncontrollably. He comes fast, spunk hitting his tongue then the
back of his throat. Shane pulls off coughing and some of it gets down over his
lips and face.
The taste is saltier and bitter, but he likes it, Shane realizes, the way mixes
it up with the aftertaste of his beer on his lips and with the way his own cock
is throbbing again in his pants.
“Sorry,” Rick mutters, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. “You got some...” Rick
says, trailing off, wiping his own come off Shane’s lips.
Now that it’s over, Shane feels embarrassed and stupid, wanting to pull away
and wash his mouth out, but Rick leans over and kisses him right on the lips,
sweet and almost chaste, and Shane has no choice but to cling on and hope Rick
doesn’t let him go.
*
“I’m not a fag,” Shane insists a little while after, remembering shit his dead
father said, remembering shit everyone around him has said since he could be
lectured.
Rick frowns at him. “Don’t say that,” he admonishes him, ever the fucking
stalwart, junior baby sheriff before he joined the department.
“I’m just saying it, I’m not gay or anything,” he says. He spits the words out
harshly, but he’s running out of ways to say it, doesn’t have the words for
what he wants to say and everything comes out wrong and ugly. “We’re not
boyfriends or some shit.”
He can feel the tensing in Rick’s shoulders, without even looking at him, and
Shane wants to take it back immediately, apologize, something, do something,
but he knows he couldn’t ever say it.
(if he’s thought about other men and their dicks, it doesn’t matter, Rick’s
always been the only one that matters)
“I didn’t say you were or we were and just--calm the fuck down, okay, Shane?”
“I am calm,” he says, but there’s a strange ire in Rick’s voice that makes
Shane want to crawl in a hole, like he fucked up while trying so hard not to
fuck up.
(it’s his fault then--everything that happens from here on out is his fault)
*
They are seventeen years old, in the front seat of Shane’s daddy’s truck, the
happy inheritance he got over his death, and they are sticky with each other
now--Shane greedy and hungry as he kisses Rick’s lips, but it’s Rick that
jumped over the console and got in his lap--
(Oh, but we’re not fags, remember? Rick told him with a bite to his voice even
as he smirked at him and Shane just shook his head--we’re not, I just wanna
fuck you, he said and nothing else mattered after that, not with the way Rick’s
eyes rolled back, the full body shudder he did as it dawned on Shane that Rick
wanted that too)
--Rick got in his lap and sucked on his neck like he might die if he didn’t,
inexpert kisses, but Shane still feels a bit like a monster--starving and
taking too much, stealing some of Rick’s golden boy shine for himself, like he
could drink it all up with every kiss Rick gave him--but Rick has always been
bold and bright, shoving his hands in Shane’s jeans, this time squeezing.
“Goddamn,” Shane moans and Rick pulls back, a bright smirk on his face as his
eyes gleam, and Shane shudders, can’t goddamn cope with this.
He comes too quickly, the two of them, shaking apart, always a little too fast,
too eager, too much.
(it’s okay, Rick tells him, rubbing his back, soothing him gently, words that
don’t really belong in Shane’s vocabulary but he’ll take it, accept it)
*
Rick smashes his fist against some asshole’s nose just outside a bar at one in
the morning--it makes sickening crunch and Shane can’t tell if it’s Rick’s fist
or the other man’s nose, but he all he sees is blood splattering, pooling,
spurting and another fist directed at Rick’s eye.
Shane didn’t see it coming.
Blood has always been a part of life--a broken nose, a split lip, the scars on
their palms from their blood bond oath that feels silly now as an adult--but
Rick can’t start the fights, Rick is supposed to drag him away from a fight.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Shane asked him later, patching up his wounds.
“You can’t do shit like that, that’s my job.”
It sounds like a joke, but it’s truly not--if Rick isn’t the golden boy then
Shane doesn’t know who the fuck he is. He sure as fuck can’t be Rick though,
much as he would like to--he can’t put on his skin and pretend to be him, even
if they did split their palms and shared blood a long time ago.
Rick’s blood is on his hands now again and his lip is busted, bleeding--Shane
is seized by a horrible urge to lick it off, take some more of Rick’s blood for
himself, into himself (he can’t though--they stopped doing that shit, they
aren’t kids anymore and Rick’s got himself a girlfriend now).
Rick’s smile is smug and hard. “He called you a fag, so I beat his face in.”
Shane’s blood chills. He feels the wind knocked out of him, without even being
touched. Rick is smiling but his eyes are hard. It’s not a look he’s used to.
“Then let me take care of it myself then,” Shane snaps at him, can’t find it in
himself to be thankful.
“Someone has to look out for your sorry ass.”
(Shane wonders if Rick knows, if he knows Shane drives to the city every now
and then find someone to fuck him, touch him, suck his cock and then return the
favor, trying to see if he’d enjoy this without Rick--the answer is a solid
maybe, but Rick still eclipses everything)
*
(the first time they fuck and the last time they do are the same--seems
fitting)
*
When Lori gets pregnant, Rick’s whole world stops.
Rick comes to his house, not drunk, and he was the kind of upset that alcohol
wouldn’t help.
What do I do, Shane? he asks, like he’s his big brother now, like he’s supposed
to be able to guide him--Rick is the good one, he doesn’t fuck up like this,
and fuck if Shane knows what someone should do in this situation.
“Offer to pay for the abortion?” Shane suggests. Rick glares, but it’s not a
joke--it’s the sort of thing he wished his father had done.
“Fuck you, Shane, this is serious, this is my life,” Rick insists, as if Shane
didn’t get it, as if Shane’s whole world was crashing down as well.
He was never fucking stupid enough to have any childhood fantasies about being
with Rick, never pushed more for handjobs and blowjobs in empty back yards or
in dark trucks--but he can feel all that slipping away from him now, faster
than he ever thought it would slip away--barely nineteen and barely out of
school, and it makes his chest tighten up, his heart squeeze and constrict in
his chest. He blames that for what happens next.
He kisses Rick mid-sentence, shoving him hard backwards on Shane’s truck--he
kisses him hard, forcing his tongue in his mouth, trying to feel for Rick every
way he can, licking and sucking at his lips and tongue. He expects Rick to push
him off, punch him even, tell him what an asshole he is, I have a girlfriend
you piece of shit.
Instead he grabs him by the hair, pulls him closer and kisses him back just as
hard, Rick’s legs opening up for Shane, making room for him. Rick’s gotten
better at kissing, getting Shane hard with just his tongue, moaning into
Shane’s mouth. He grinds up against him, hips already moving towards Shane’s
rhythmically, like he can’t help himself, horny and desperate for it.
Shane’s thinking you have a pregnant girlfriend, asshole, but what he says
instead is fuck me and Rick nods in agreement.
*
They take it inside--don’t want the neighbors seeing too much, already given
them too much of a show, but they don’t even make it to Shane’s bed, just the
goddamn couch--still at home with his mom, mom still out being a nurse for
another five hours.
Shane lost his shirt near the front door and now Rick has Shane bent over on
the couch, Shane’s elbows on the seat, hips resting uncomfortably over the seat
rest, and his ass sticking out as Rick’s fingers fumble with his belt then his
jeans until suddenly, Shane’s ass is cold, evening breeze hitting it. Rick
isn’t moving to do anything, just staring at it, his hand on Shane’s lower back
as if to hold him down like this. The thought makes his mouth goes dry, exposed
to Rick like he’s never have been for and he’s not sure he can do this.
Shane makes a noise low in his throat. “Just do it already,” he tells Rick,
being stared at making him antsy, the buildup and anticipation making him crawl
inside his skin to get out.
“You, um, got anything?” Rick asks, his voice rough and low, gravel in Shane’s
ears.
“There’s lube in my back pocket,” Shane tells him. He’s shaking on the couch
and Rick notices, rubbing a hand up and down his spine before reaching for
Shane’s discarded jeans.
(Rick doesn’t ask about why Shane has lube and he’s thankful for that; he
doesn’t ask about why he spreads so easily for him, why Shane offers no
resistance, and he’s thankful for that, too)
Rick takes his time--the first cold, slick finger inside him is painfully slow,
Rick working it in at a careful pace, going past that ring of muscle. “Jesus,”
Rick breathes as he does so, even when it’s Shane that’s the one being stripped
and taken apart. “Does it hurt?”
Only a little, he thinks, but he’s not gonna tell Rick that, he can’t take this
any slower than it already going. Shane whines, pushes back against Rick
suddenly and it hits him then, Rick’s finger curled up deeper inside, and warm
pleasure shaking down his spine.
It doesn’t take long then, Rick growing bolder, two fingers now, then three,
teasing him open with growing confidence, like he just realized this was a new
way to press Shane’s buttons. “You’re so goddamn warm,” he says, and the raw
lust in Rick’s voice is new and different--they’ve come on each other before
and in each other’s mouths, and Rick’s kissed him and grinded down on him until
they both came, but this felt more intense, like both of them were gonna fall
apart the closer and close Rick gets inside him.
“C’mon, c’mon, more, I’m not gonna break,” Shane tells him, shaking all over,
and Rick shushes him, of all things, one hand up and down his back like he
could soothe him that way.
“Easy,” he says, gentle, the ragged desperation from outside seems to have
tempered down. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Shane bucks up, then back into Rick, onto his fingers until he warm pleasure-
sparks all over his body. “Just fuck me before I lose my nerve,” he gasps out.
“I--” Rick pauses. “You got a rubber?”
“You don’t?” Shane asks and Rick doesn’t say anything--the heavy weight of
shame falling over them both, Shane trying not to say what he’s thinking,
that’s what got you in this fucking mess in the first place.
“I’m clean,” he tells him and it’s god’s honest truth. Shane flings his head
back, trying to look at Rick. He’s gotten clothes off when he wasn’t looking
and he’s good to look at--still on the thin side, but muscle in his chest, in
his abs, and biceps--strong and well defined and covered in sweat. “Is that
okay?”
Rick nods, flashing a stupid goddamn smile at him. He kisses him then, as Shane
turns back to face the couch--fingers still inside him, mouthing at the base of
his spine. Shane feels teeth there--a fucking nip, before his mouth travels
upwards his spine, taking gentle nips, until he’s blanketing his body, mouth
sucking at his neck, all with his fingers still deep inside Shane.
“Jesus, Rick,” Shane says.
“I didn’t think you could feel so good,” Rick tells him, awed. “I didn’t think
it’d be like this.”
Shane is going to protest--fuck you fuck me just fuck me already--but it seems
like Rick is done waiting, removing his fingers and lining up his cock at the
base of Shane’s stretched out hole and Shane expects Rick to hold it there for
a second but it catches him off guard, how fast it happens. He gasps raggedly,
Rick’s cock teasing his hole then stretching it further open in one fell thrust
as he pushes in.
“Fuck!” Rick cries out above him. His hands grab Shane’s hips, digging his
fingers in, holding him in place against Shane’s knee-jerk bucks and jerks.
“Fuck, I’m sorry--”
“Feels good,” Shane says. It actually hurts a bit, the burn of the stretch
mixing with the warm pleasure in his belly, aching inside, but he doesn’t want
to tell Rick that. He takes deep breathes, trying to gather himself, but it’s
impossible like this, being held down by Rick, Rick’s cock buried to the hilt
and he can’t feel much more than this. “Feels good, god, please.”
He can feel the strain in Rick’s arms, trying to be careful, the slow drag as
he pulls out his dick just enough to slam back in.
Shane cries out--he knew it was coming, but it still shakes something loose
inside him. “Please,” he begs when he hears Rick start to apologize--he can’t
handle that anymore, doesn’t wanna feel his sorrys, doesn’t wanna think about
Rick’s pregnant girlfriend. “Please, I wanna feel you.”
Rick stops being careful then. He leans down closer, and properly grabs Shane’s
hips, holding on to him and the next thrust draws a moan out of them both at
once, and there’s no recovery time, Rick doesn’t let Shane catch his breath, no
stop to apologize--just his cock pistoning in and then out, faster now, seeking
Shane’s warmth.
Shane whines like an animal while Rick grunts above him, Rick pulling noises
and sounds from him that Shane’s never let anyone else do. He pushes back,
trying to meet Rick’s thrusts and roll his hips--the angle is just right so
Rick hits his sweet spot every time, and he doesn’t really think he can last
that long, but the pain and burn of it help temper down the white hot
electricity running throughout his whole body.
“You’re so good, you feel so fucking good,” Shane manages to moan out, arching
into him, trying to spread his legs wider for him, welcoming Rick inside him.
Rick moans, nods above him, but he’s not saying anything more, fucking him hard
and deeper with each thrust, leaving bruises on his hips. Shane’s never seen
Rick like this, this wild abandon, like he can’t restrain himself at all with
Shane under him. Shane wishes he could look at him, but he can’t think straight
either, his mind turning into a white hot mess of pleasure and Rick.
He feels Rick come first--feels Rick whisper another apology into his skin,
feels the hot warmth pooling inside him first, then dribble out to his thighs,
feels Rick cry out and bite down into his skin when it happens--gonna leave a
mark like he’s his, like he belongs to him, like he’s going steady with him and
not Lori. Rick fucks his through his orgasm, thrusts getting unsteady and
ragged, no rhythm to it, and Rick’s hands snake around to Shane’s dick,
grabbing it and not really jerking him off, just rubbing his cock without any
coordination.
Shane comes all over Rick’s hands, on his momma’s couch, vision going dark for
a second as his orgasm tears through him, moaning out his pleasure and humping
Rick’s hand until he’s spent.
They lie there for a while, Shane not wanting to move, wanting to just feel the
aftermath--his come and Rick’s come on him and Rick still buried in him,
getting soft--and stay here in this moment. Rick stays still with him, neither
of them wanting to go back to their lives.
(you should marry her, Shane tells him afterwards, pulling his clothes back on,
his back to Rick.
“What?” Rick asks, half naked on the couch, the good side, the one without come
stains.
“Marry her,” Shane tells him. It’s almost an order, but more than anything, he
just doesn’t want to be the monster in this story. “If you like her, then marry
her. Take care of your fucking kid.”)
A couple of months later, they’re married, and Shane is the best man, joking
about giving him away to Lori the way Lori’s father gave her away.
Lori laughs with him, smiling. Shane thinks there’s an edge to her smile, and
sometimes he thinks she knows.
Sometimes he thinks he wants her to know, to get it all out in the open, but he
doesn’t think it’ll help anything, make things worse--but Shane can’t help the
part inside him that wants to wreck it all, see who Rick chooses.
The fact he already knows the answer holds him back, keeps his mouth shut, jaw
tightening down on all his and Rick’s secrets as he tries to smile for photos.
*
“Thanks for fixing the sink,” Lori tells him--Shane is under still, just pulled
his head out from under her bathroom sink pipes, and looking up at Lori, tall
and towering over him now. Her belly has just barely starting showing. Her
mouth quirks up, her features soften. “I don’t know what I would have done
without you.”
Rick’s gone for long hours now and Shane worries he’s going to miss the birth
of his child like this--keeps coming over to find him gone and Lori asking for
company. He doesn’t mind like he thought he would, spending time with Rick’s
new bride. He feels a little closer to him in their new house, even with Rick
gone until the early hours of the morning, Shane asleep on the couch while Lori
sleeps upstairs.
“Hire a plumber,” Shane says slyly, and her laugh is unladylike and loud and so
familiar, and something aches in him.
Lori smiles at him and ruffles his hair when he finally gets up, and her
fingers warm against his scalp.
“But you’re so much cheaper,” she says. “All I gotta do is get you free beer.”
“Well, it’s true, there’s not much I wouldn’t do for free beer,” he says with a
smile.
Lori’s laugh is low and warm, somewhat husky in his ear, and Shane isn’t
thinking about much at all, isn’t even drunk to justify it, but he leans over
and kisses her lips, soft, gently, like he’s just trying to grasp a bit of what
Rick’s already carved out for himself, and she doesn’t tell him to stop. She
parts her lips and tastes a bit like sweet lemonade and her chapstick, and her
hair smells nice too. She lets out a soft sigh, gentle and releasing.
Shane just keeps doing things he shouldn’t--he places his hand on her belly,
like he’s trying to feel for their kid, the heartbeat, see what Rick and Lori
made together and--
“Shane, no,” Lori says, pushing him away and immediately shame crawls in his
belly like a snake that never left, thinking about Rick, thinking about Lori
and their child and everything he could have fucked up. “Shane, I can’t,” she
tells him and she walks away, and closes her bedroom door, leaves him standing
out in the cold like he deserves.
He slumps there under the bathroom sink like he belongs there, trying to make
sense of it. Not sure why he did that.
(Lori kisses him again, when the world ends and Rick gets left behind in a
coma, both of them trying to taste Rick on each other’s tongues and he thinks,
she knows of course she fucking knows and he feels like a goddamn bastard for
it, how much he likes it--playing Rick, playing the father and husband, thinks
he can’t get as close to Rick as this, thinks is the best he'll get now with
Rick dead and the world overrun with monsters)
*
When they’re twenty-three and not drunk, not really--sipping a couple of beers,
sitting on the porch, Lori passed out with Carl inside, Rick and Shane
unwinding from work--
Shane kisses him, again, leaning in for a taste, and Rick doesn’t shove him
away even when he should.
It doesn’t mean anything, not really--it’s just two mouths against each other,
and it doesn’t last for longer than a few seconds, just enough for Shane to
taste what he’s missing (what's rightfully his, he still thinks, in the darkest
part of his mind).
“Shane,” Rick starts.
“Don’t,” Shane cuts him off. “It’s nothing.”
(he does not tell him, I kissed your wife)
(he does not tell him, I really wanna fuck you too)
Maybe he will if Rick pushes it, asks for more, the way he did when they were
kids--but he’s a grown man now with responsibilities and Rick just lets it lie.
This is the last time he puts his mouth on Rick.
*
The world ends, not like anyone thought it would end, and Shane kisses him
again still, grabs him and shoves him against a tree--doesn’t tell him about
how he fucked his wife, how he was him for a few months, got to play the role
of father and husband that he never would have gotten otherwise.
He just kisses Rick and takes what little sweet tastes of him that he can get,
thinking about how that’s the best he’s ever gonna get now, a couple of minutes
of this before he gets pushed away.
The world ended a long time ago, really, and all Shane is left with is just
pieces.
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