Archive of Our Own ^beta

Shane's bedroom smells like old, flat beer and stale pizza, its crust lithified from days spent on his bedside table. He doesn't open his window and his curtains remain closed. The daylight hurts his head in the morning. There are muddy tracks on the hardwood floor from slogging into the house at night, shoes on, back aching and vision fuzzy from one too many drinks at the Saloon. 

He lies in his bed, alone and suffocating on the stench of his own misery. Restless. Every time he tosses and turns his mattress feels more uncomfortable, his mind more unsettled. Thoughts racing like a hamster on a wheel.

His bedsheets are a sickly grey-blue, the same colour he imagines his bloated corpse might be if he ever grew the balls to ‘take the plunge’ — that liberating leap off of the cliffside into the cold, welcoming waves below. The pillows are flat and a little lumpy. Limp from years of his sweaty, restless dreaming, in addition to never being washed. They have the cheap, synthetic sort of stuffing that never fluffs back up, no matter how many times you try to beat some life into it. 

Lately, when Shane finds himself riddled with insomnia and too sober to pass out, he's been thinking, embarrassingly, about Elliott. The writer seems to have taken a shine to him — for whatever reason Shane can hardly imagine — and is making it his mission to be perpetually, obnoxiously friendly to the town's most sour resident. 

Shane goes to the bar after work. Elliott is there, prying, “Tell me about your labours today.” All warm and jovial, grinning and slapping him on the shoulder as if they'd known each other for decades. As if Shane's answer would ever be anything but, “It was shit,” followed by a staunch refusal to elaborate and final grunting of, “Leave me alone.”

Elliott stops by the house to pick up duck feathers from Marnie. Catches sight of Shane in the kitchen, dolefully microwaving a frozen pizza, and proceeds to regale him with dramatic exposition about how, “Making quills by hand, from the exquisite plumage of locally raised animals, makes a man feel more in tune with his community.” Shane blinks as the microwave timer goes off, blaring impudently over the writer's attempt at conversation. Takes his unevenly cooked lunch out of the appliance and in hand before shuffling away. 

Shane is at the beach with Jas, miserably hungover and hiding it behind a gaudy pair of sunglasses as he helps her assemble a sand kingdom. ‘Help’ is a particularly kind word for his contributions — most of his structures crumble into dust, taking out other buildings in their wake. Jas says it's because the sand Shane's using is too dry. Shane says it shouldn't be this damn hard to make a sandcastle. Their good-natured bickering is interrupted by a shadow cast across their section of the beach. Of course it's Elliott. The man is seemingly everywhere, although Shane supposes he does live about ten feet away in this instance. 

“Hello there!” the redhead smiles, ostensibly charmed by their sad, lopsided sculptures. “You two look quite industrious over here. Might I be of any assistance?”

Shane frowns. Jas clutches her bucket to her chest, lips sealed. Stares up at the man with big, wary brown eyes. Before Shane can get a word in, Elliott continues. 

“I might have a friend who would enjoy such marvelous amenities. Let me check.” 

He plops down next to the pair cross-legged in the sand and fishes around in his lapel pocket. “Yep, there he is.”

Elliott pulls out a small purple crab from his shirt and displays it in his palm, nimble fingers spread flat. Shane gawks. Jas squeals. 

“I’ve named him Edward, but truthfully I am unsure if it is the same crab who returns to my wardrobe so relentlessly. For all I know there is a conga line of crustaceans making themselves comfortable in my vestments.”

Jas, now completely unperturbed by the wordy stranger who moments ago was considered an intruder on their sacred space, shimmies forward on her knees to get a better look at the creature. 

“I love him! Why isn’t he pinching you, though? Aren’t you scared?” she continues, fists clenched in the fabric of her pants as though physically restraining her excitement. “Why’d you name him Edward? He’s so cute! Can I hold him, too?”

Shane sighs. Well, there’s no getting rid of the other man now. If he’s making Jas happy, Elliott is begrudgingly welcome to join their outing. Shane leans back, putting his weight on his palms and stretching his legs out languidly. The sand is warm and pleasant under his bare calves, tickling the backs of his knees as sweat pools in the dip of his spine. Elliott lets the crab crawl from one hand to the other as Jas bombards him with questions. Shane watches, hidden behind his reflective lenses.

“The trick is to ensure that he’s not scared of you. You’re much bigger than him, so you must handle him gently,” Elliott glances at Shane over his goddaughter’s shoulder, “or he’ll become frightened. That’s when they pinch you.”

Shane really thinks that Elliott should stop being so kind to him. It’s a dangerous game he’s playing by giving Shane hope. Like petting a mangy dog that slinks around back alleys — pay it enough attention and you risk it following you home. And God, Shane wants to. Wants to lean into Elliott’s warm touches and rub up against his long legs. To take whatever generosity the other man is willing to give him and ask for more. Unfortunately, Shane has a habit of biting the hand that feeds him. It’s easier that way, when you hurt someone before they can hurt you. And they always do hurt you, with time.

Jas reaches out for the crustacean and Shane cuts in.

“Not a chance. We’re not risking any booboos today, kiddo,” he shoots her down.

Jas pouts, huffing angrily. 

Turns to Elliott and declares, “Aunt Marnie says that Shane is crabby! That’s why he’s no fun, sometimes. Maybe you should’ve named Edward after Uncle Shane instead.”

It’s not meant to be cutting, only the blathering of a disappointed child, but it is. It cuts him deep and to the core knowing that Marnie has to come up with excuses for his lackluster behavior as a father-figure. God, he’s an asshole.

Their outing came to an end shortly thereafter. Shane couldn’t stop thinking about getting a drink. More than one. Enough to forget how stupendously he’s failing at the only thing that matters to him anymore — raising Jas. He knows the liquor is a contributing factor to that failure, but fuck. He’s a weak man. 

Presently, in his bedroom, Shane is buzzed and horny enough to push the memory of his fatherly crisis away. Instead, he thinks about Elliott’s easy smile. There was something practiced about it, a little performative, but that didn’t make it any less charming. Smooth, pink lips — not chapped and pale like his own — drawn wide across his sunkissed square jaw. A sharp, masculine appearance that has its edges smoothed out by flowing auburn hair and accentuated by a strong Roman nose. 

He could’ve been a model, Shane is certain. Elliott’s beauty serves only to amplify Shane’s insecurity every time they interact. Makes him want to shrink into himself, recoil like a turtle and not come out again until the other man leaves. It’s probably why Shane’s so rude to him all the time. Trapped in his own head by a mantra of, Go away, go away, don’t look at me, fuck.

Despite the fact that Elliott is objectively a dreamboat, many of his physical charms tend to be overlooked on account of his odd demeanor. Unfortunately, Shane is starting to feel equally as enamoured by his dramatics as he is his face. Elliott’s quirks bring a levity to situations that Shane practically never feels, himself. To Shane, life feels like one long slog through the mud until you finally fall down and don’t get back up. Elliott, on the other hand, acts as though life is nothing but a series of adventures to be had and friends to be made. As if every minute detail of the day could be distilled into poetry with enough time and consideration. Shane finds the longer he considers his days, the more they look like one big pile of shit. Not a lot of poetry in that.

The times where Shane feels the least shitty are when he’s drunk, getting off, or both. Even touching himself, he doesn’t think of it as an act of pleasure or self-indulgence so much as a feeble attempt to experience a brief flood of a serotonin. Chasing after relief that’s always out of reach. 

A chase he’s going to partake in right now.

Shane knows, on some level, why he's jerking off to Elliott. The man has been kind to him. He talks to Shane like he's worthwhile, and smiles at him as if he's the sun and not the heavy clouds that block it out. Elliott was good with Jas. He's gentle, and warm, and charmingly ridiculous, and fuck if Shane doesn't like him a little more every time they meet. 

When Shane closes his eyes and thinks about the writer, he's ashamed to admit he imagines what it would be like to kiss him. Not aggressively, burning with lust and overcome by base desire, but tenderly. He imagines kissing Elliott like he imagines reuniting with Jas’ parents in the afterlife, or unearthing a dusty, forgotten letter from his own mother, apologizing for everything she'd put him through. Nostalgia, fantasy, the desperate longing for something good to keep his head above the water. Thoughts like a temporary balm to his old, infected wounds. 

Yeah, that's what he imagines kissing Elliott would feel like. Healing. 

Warm, supple lips against his own rough, chapped ones. The smell of Elliott's airy cologne. Shane would press into those lips with all the desperation of a man with nothing to lose, trying to build a home for himself on that one fragile olive branch of tenderness. Elliott would pull back and laugh at him, a deep velvet baritone. Then he'd press in again, the first kiss hardly more than a whisper of air against his lips, an exchange of breath. The second all reassuring pressure and affection.

It makes his chest ache and his cock pulse. The bittersweet agony of the impossible. 

He strokes himself slowly, rolling his foreskin up and down as he pumps his length in a lazy, contemplative way. Hard but not fully erect. 

He thinks he'd like to run his fingers through Elliott's hair. It's a little ridiculous, that flowing auburn curtain the other man must spend so much effort taming, but unmistakably beautiful nonetheless. He would ghost his calloused fingers along the other man's hairline, feeling the baby hairs there tickle his skin, and then push it back from Elliott's forehead. Bury his hand in it just to see if it's as silky as it looks. Tug a little to expose the column of his thick neck, all square jaw and smiling eyes. 

He has these freckles, dark little beauty marks that dot his tanned skin like flecks of watercolor paint. Shane wants to lick them. His skin would taste salty, like ocean spray from the time Elliott spends at the docks or writing with the cabin windows open. Shane knows. He passes the little house sometimes. Looks at it, wonders what it's like inside. It seems quaint. It seems lonely. 

In a world where Shane wasn't himself, Elliott would never have to be lonely again. As it is, Shane's hardly worth the time the writer spends speaking with him. Sometimes he resents that Elliott speaks to him at all. Wasting both of their time. Setting himself up for failure. Because that's what Shane always brings to the table — failure. Unmet expectations. Disappointment. The world's greatest letdown. Watch him take his potential and squander it like an Olympic athlete. 

It's hard to imagine that tenderness, the warmth he truly craves, without his cock wilting in hand. It only reminds him how fruitless it all is. It hurts. A self-inflicted pain, sharp like a knife to the gut. 

He rolls over. Rubs his hand on the bedsheets, can't stand the feeling of his own skin in hand all of the sudden. It's gross. He's fucking gross. Shane buries his face in the pillows, muffling a frustrated sound in the plastic stuffing. Squirms, rutting his hips into the sheets like a pent up animal.  

He pivots away from his romantic delusions. Swallows back the thickness in his throat and imagines something that hurts less. Turns his fantasies into something harsh and cruel, something he actually deserves. 

He thinks about what Elliott might say if he knew what Shane was doing. The disgust and shock that would paint his regal features, twisting them into something more gruesome, if he'd walked through the door and saw Shane groping his unwashed dick in his filthy bedroom.

That works. That's working. Shane pulls a pillow down between his legs, something to find proper friction on, and ruts against it. Once, twice. Slow rolls of his hips.

Reflects on the time he'd seen Elliott eating a pomegranate, red juice staining his fingers and lips like some sort of Renaissance painting, blood turned sugary sweet. Pictures the writer shoving those long, elegant fingers into Shane’s mouth, painting his tongue red, pressing down on the muscle to make him drool like a dog.

“You're pathetic,” Elliott would tell him with a sneer. The kind of arrogance in his voice that you'd expect from someone who dresses like an aristocrat, but in reality, Shane has never heard him convey.

Shane feels himself growing harder, the friction of his sheets — cheap, low thread count — burning against his sensitive head. It's still good. The pain is good. He feels humiliated, humping his pillow like this. It's embarrassing in the best way.

“I'd sooner let you lick my shoes than kiss you. You're disgusting. You're beneath me. Just look at yourself.”

Shane would. He would polish Elliott's pratty dress shoes with his tongue, tasting shoe shine and expensive leather. Maybe Elliott would kick him, just a little, a gentle boot in the chest for missing a spot. Or maybe, if Shane was good enough, he'd let him work his way higher. Pressing open mouthed kisses to defined ankles, where his skin is paler and softer. Strawberry blonde hair dusting toned calves.

Shane ruts down harder, voice cracking around quiet, breathy moans. The bedframe creaks. 

That's where he belongs. On his knees below Elliott. Below everyone. Just low. It's where he's learned to survive. Taking whatever he can get, living off of scraps of warmth.

“That's it,” he pretends he can hear Elliott speaking into his ear, that lilting voice taunting him. “Harder. A couple sweet words and you're all worked up like this. You think I can't smell it every time I speak to you? How fucking desperate you are?”

Shane's breath hitches. He claws at the bedsheets with one hand, bites his fist with the other. There's a stickiness building on his cotton pillowcase. A tightening in his stomach and balls, a slow building of pressure like a cresting wave. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and he clenches them shut in retaliation.

“It's repulsive.”

Shane cums with stuttering hips and his face buried in his only remaining pillow. He moans, a whiny, sad thing that sounds more like a wounded animal than a man getting off. Tears spill over his lashline against his will. They soak into the sheets along with his other bodily fluids. Finally, his whole body goes limp, tension draining from his limbs like a marionette with its strings cut. 

His mattress feels sticky and disgusting and everything about the situation feels awful, abruptly. Irrational anger burns in his chest, flushing his cheeks red against the tears that keep on coming. Fuck. He hates crying. Shane scrubs at his cheeks with harsh hands. Grimaces as he rolls off his tacky, soiled pillow. Revolting. Fucking horrible.

This doesn't feel like relief. It doesn't feel like the flood of serotonin he'd been hoping for.

It feels like rock bottom. And it feels deserved.