Re: Quicklog, Clem's lakehouse: Graham R/Shane A
[The three of them in zombies had been something. Survival or whatever, bare bones, hand to mouth, bullet to fucking brainpan, and that didn't leave room for much else, yeah? Shane liked it better here, with fucking TV and food you could buy or steal, but he missed the fucked up shit too, in some ways. If only because it was fucking simpler and he liked simple, and him, Clementine, and Graham had been closer. Since then, since Halloween in particular, everything had fucking come undone, dissolved like fucking sugar in water, and, yeah, whatever, Shane rolled with shit, but it didn't mean he liked it.
But, he wasn't caught up in that fucking balancing act or whatever, yeah? He knew Graham was, but watching someone juggle was different than being the one under the pressure of performance. He got that. Whatever. But he thought this might be fucking good for him—for him, Clementine, and Shane, because they were a good team.
Shane shrugged in tandem with his friend at the fucking permission thing. The way Graham said things, and after every-fucking-thing else, his dismissals of Clementine and on and on, he got why she might take offense, yeah? It felt like permission-giving to him too and the fucking baby wasn't his.
Whatever. They could talk about it later. Graham smiled and Shane figured that was good enough. He shoved off the bed with rough palms.] Wouldn't have fucking asked if I minded, dumbass, [was his gentle admonishment.—And then, because they were fucking trying or whatever, he stooped, robe open in fucking circus-peanut orange, and he kissed the idiot, a simple thing, unfettered—it could've been to fuck with him, but it wasn't. Like Shane, it just was. Preceding, of course, only a smack to the back of Graham's head, just because.] You deserved that, yeah?
[He did.
Shane smirked crooked and small, gave Joy a little wave before he left the room. Then he climbed back up that fucking ladder to go the fuck back to sleep.]