Re: Quicklog, Clem's lakehouse: Graham R/Shane A
[Graham was a fucking moron, there was no fucking doubt about that, yeah? He was. Fucking antisocial (in a way less purposeful than Shane) and clueless. He could be an asshole, fucking apologizing to Clementine like he did. Just an idiot. But everyone was at one time or another, and it was whatever. Twenty years and Shane and him fucking operated—until recently—in tandem, yeah?—cogs, gears, whatever fucking metaphor you wanted to use, teeth finding their places and moving with the propulsion of one another. But, they were family, Graham was right about that. Shane couldn't fucking hate the man if he tried—and unlike some of his siblings—notably Sam—he did have it in him to hate, it was just a fucking rarity.
The man on the bed could feel the appraisal of his friend's gaze, like somehow he'd never fucking considered the option of Shane and Clementine doing shit. The small 'oh' got a lift of eyebrows in response and Shane was back on his side or whatever, because he could see Graham fucking working it out in his head, telling himself to be okay with it, even while he imagined fucking Lorelei fucking doing whatever the fuck, yeah? He said he didn't fucking care, maybe he told himself he didn't feel shit, but it was a lie—man could be as fucking careful as he wanted with expression and still, and Shane would see through it as easy as fucking glass.
He sniffed, rubbing the tips of his fingers together, wet with spit, as he sat up, the hair on the back of his head sticking straight up. Shane's feet found the floor cold, and he crossed the small fucking space to join Graham cribside.] She just wants to fucking know you like her, yeah? Just say it. Easy. No one fucking wants to hear you're fucking sorry, yeah?—about this shit, about any of it—[Shane's fingers spread as he gestured to the baby, low-lidded blue eyes reproachful on his friend.
They were shoulder to shoulder and Shane reeked of slept-in-smoke, clinging to his skin and his hair. He put a hand up, to squeeze Graham's shoulder where it sloped from his neck, just a pinch of fucking affection, easy as a fucking shrug. Shane wasn't big on mindless affection the way some people were, but it didn't mean he wasn't fucking affectionate. He hugged, he gave pats on the back, shit like that. He just didn't go the fuck around holding hands and skipping. He showed his shit usually more by fucking sitting next to someone and letting their knees touch than anything else.]
I like her or whatever, yeah? [He said of Clementine, ashy voice quiet. He picked at his nails again with his teeth, and you could blame it the fuck on whatever, on his recent talks with the girl, on the heart-shaped loom of Valentine's Day, on something as fucking integral as goddamn impatience, especially after a fucking forced isolation, but Shane didn't shy the fuck away, he went like a moth to the flame.] You too. I don't know why the fuck we can't just all three do whatever. [Shane moved away now, gone back to the bed. There was no fucking jangle of nerves. He just sighed.] Yeah?