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“I could definitely lift you off the ground.”
Shane has to look down at Ryan after he says it, which does not bode well for his case. “No, I’m serious!” Ryan says. He’s nursing his third beer sprawled out next to Shane on Shane’s living room floor.
Shane’s couch is currently housing a family of termites. Shane spent $700 on fumigating his apartment, only to learn his couch was irrevocably fucked, and also that he’ll probably have dreams about termites for the rest of his life. Ryan, of course, decided the best remedy for this was getting hammered on Shane’s living room floor after work.
Shane scrunches his nose after he takes another swig of the frankly awful beer. Ryan has money , but he still drinks like a frat boy. “You’re like, a foot tall,” Shane says.
“I’m 5’10,” Ryan defends. Shane raises an eyebrow at him. “Okay, 5’9. Whatever. Not my fault you’re freakishly long.”
Shane laughs. “Exactly. It’d be like a muscly baby attempting to pick up one of those inflatable guys outside of car dealerships.” He lifts one arm over his head and waves it to demonstrate, laughing as Ryan reaches up to smack his arm down.
“No, fuck you!” Ryan says, even though now he’s giggling as well. He abandons his beer somewhere on the floor, stands, and drops his hands to his hips. “Alright, come here.”
Shane snorts at the image of Ryan hovering above him, hands on his hips like a pissed off middle school teacher. “Yeah, no thanks,” Shane says as he takes another long sip of the truly terrible alcohol.
Ryan doesn’t say anything, but he does tilt his head at Shane expectantly. Shane sighs. He’s known Ryan for eight years, and in that time, he’s never known Ryan to drop something when he’s attempting to prove a point. “Fine!” Shane says finally, standing up and abandoning his beer on the leftover side table next to the prior final resting place of his now termite infested couch. “But don’t expect me to comfort you when you take a massive ego blow.”
Ryan makes a big show of stretching his arms up over his head, twisting from one side to the next like he thinks he’s in Rocky. Shane rolls his eyes. “Alright, Sylvester Stallone,” he says. “Let’s get on with it so I can continue mourning the loss of my couch.”
Ryan crosses the room, standing to Shane’s side. He brings his leg between Shane’s, close enough that Shane can feel Ryan’s breath on his neck, which makes his skin tingle with goosebumps. He takes Shane’s arm and drapes it across his neck, grabs his right knee, and easily hoists Shane up like he weighs nothing.
“See?” Ryan says when he stands, Shane draped over his shoulder. “Told you I could lift you.”
Shane tries to ignore the way his cheeks have flushed red, and the way Ryan’s fingers are pressed just a little too firmly against his leg. “Alright, tough guy,” Shane says, blasé attitude carefully put on. “You proved your point. Now let me go.”
Ryan acquiesces, gently putting Shane back on his feet. Unfortunately, apparently the presence of Ryan’s breath on his neck and Ryan’s hand on his leg is enough to make Shane unsteady, meaning as soon as Ryan puts him down, Shane trips. Ryan grabs onto Shane’s arm in an attempt to keep him upright, but it’s too late. The backwards momentum takes Ryan down with him, Shane landing on the hardwood floor with a sharp thud as Ryan ends up in his lap.
There’s a half second where neither of them reacts. Then, Ryan is all over Shane. “Oh my god, are you okay?” Ryan asks. He grabs Shane’s face with two strong hands to tilt Shane’s head, looking for signs of injury. “Did you hit your head?”
Shane swallows hard. “I’m fine, Ry,” he says, though he sounds less than convinced.
“Are you sure?” Ryan asks. He manhandles Shane’s face so their eyes lock. Ryan’s eyes are wide with anxiety. “Because your pupils are blown out, and your face is all red, and-”
“Ry,” Shane interrupts. Ryan’s mouth snaps shut. “I promise I am … physically fine.”
Ryan seems to take this information in. “Oh,” he says.
Shane nods. “Yup.”
Ryan tilts his head, his hands not leaving Shane’s cheeks. “Well then,” he says, and he leans forward to kiss Shane.
Shane’s hands go scrambling as his brain plays catch-up to the fact that Ryan Bergara is kissing him. When it finally catches up, Shane puts one hand on the dip of Ryan’s waist, and the other on Ryan’s neck, fingers curling into the wispy hairs on the back of his neck.
It is, objectively, not a great location to kiss. Shane’s floor is hard, and his skin still crawls a little at the memory of termites. But it’s Ryan’s weight in his lap, and Ryan’s hands burning brands into his cheeks, and Ryan kissing him so deeply Shane thinks they might morph into one person soon.
Ryan pulls away from the kiss slowly, his eyelids fluttering open. He’s so pretty all flushed, his lips kiss-bruised. Shane kind of wants to keep him like this forever.
“Tomorrow,” Ryan breathes, pressing another long kiss to Shane’s lips that leaves Shane feeling a little dizzy. “We are going to Bob’s Discount Furniture and replacing that fucking termite couch.”
Shane can’t help but lean up to kiss Ryan again before speaking. “And tonight?” Shane breathes against Ryan’s lips.
Ryan smiles at him, biting his bottom lip. “For tonight,” Ryan says, his eyes sparkling. “You have a bed.”
-
The next morning, Shane blinks awake to sunlight streaming through his blinds, casting the room in a golden hue that immediately makes Shane’s head throb. There’s a reason people shouldn’t drink like frat boys in their 30s.
Ryan, tucked into Shane’s side, groans. Ryan’s curls are a mess on top of his head, face flushed and hair sticking to his skin with sweat, and at some point during the night he lost his shirt. Ryan is shirtless, flushed, and like a mini space heater curled up to Shane. Shane immediately feels himself sober up.
“Morning,” Shane says quietly, his voice rough with sleep. He feels like someone shoved cotton down his throat in his sleep.
“Ugh,” Ryan replies in lieu of greeting. He tucks his face into Shane’s shoulder, his hair tickling the skin of Shane’s neck. “Are you pissed about your couch?” Ryan mutters into Shane’s shirt.
Shane probably should be. Couches aren’t cheap, and he’s out $700 already.
But he has Ryan in his bed, flushed and sleep heavy, cast in rays of sunshine that coat the muscles in his back in honey, and somehow he can’t bring himself to care about the couch anymore.
“No,” he answers honestly. “I’m really not.”
END