“What you’re suggesting is that we have sex in the exact spot where a dude was once brutally murdered with a power drill. That is what you’re suggesting to me right now.”
Shane throws up his hands. “Well, sure, when you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“I feel like it doesn’t need to be said, except this is you we’re talking about, so—no, Shane, I am not going to have sex with you in the exact spot where a dude was once brutally murdered with a power drill. That is, shockingly, not how I want to spend my Friday night.”
Shane gestures to the area next to the bed. “What about there.”
Ryan resists what is becoming a very, very strong urge to bury his face in his hands. “I am not going to have sex with you in a spot slightly to the left of where a dude was once brutally murdered with a power drill.”
“Ryan, this is Los Angeles! Chances are, no matter where we have sex, it’s gonna be like at least a hundred yards from where some poor bastard was murdered with a power tool.”
“Thanks, that’s—great, that’s exactly the kind of mental image I wanted to be unwillingly subjected to. A montage of fucking and power tool homicide.”
Shane bats his eyelashes dramatically. “Is it turning you on, too?”
“Is it too late to get a new co-host?”
Shane throws himself onto the murder bed. “I’m like glitter on your ceiling fan, baby,” he says, sprawling out over the mattress like a long, lanky, annoying quilt. “Never getting rid of me,” he explains when Ryan raises an eyebrow. “Or, like, not for a really long time, and even then you’ll still be finding sparkly remnants of me in your underwear drawer.”
Ryan has a headache. “Please stop talking.”
“Yeah, the analogy got away from me somewhere.”
Ryan opens his mouth to fire back a response, then jumps about a foot in the air when an ominous creaking rings out. “What the hell was that.”
“It was the ghosts. They want us to bang.”
“Shut up, Shane—”
“Do you want to anger the ghosts by not making sweet, sweet love, Ryan? Is that what you want?”
“I hate you.”
“Well, sure, hate sex works, too.”
Ryan is starting to regret agreeing to spend the night here. That’s less because of the fear and more because he’s got a pretty high chance of ending up in jail for murdering Shane Madej in a justifiable rage.
Though, the fear, that’s definitely still on the table. Something hits the floor with a dull thud in the next room and Ryan lets out a sound that Shane helpfully describes as ‘so high-pitched it was probably heard only by dogs.’
Shane hauls himself off the bed and goes to investigate. Ryan stays behind and—protects the rest of the camera equipment valiantly.
“Flashlight rolled off the counter,” Shane says, poking his head back into the room.
“See?” Ryan replies, gesturing. “See! I’m telling you, there’s a presence here.”
“I mean,” Shane says, tossing the flashlight from hand to hand, “flashlights are cylindrical. They roll. That’s...a thing that happens naturally in the world.”
“You don’t blame ghosts every time your pen rolls off your desk at the office, that’s all I’m saying. But, no, you’re probably right. It’s a sign from the ghosts.” Shane widens his eyes earnestly. “They want us to do the dirty.”
“Stop talking about sex.”
Because Ryan has common sense, when it’s time to settle in for the night he ignores the bedroom in favor of rolling out his sleeping bag in the living room.
“Seriously?” Shane says, looking exasperated from where he’s leaning against the bedroom door jamb. “You’re picking your shitty sleeping bag over a nice mattress just because one guy got a tiny bit lobotomized with a power drill while sleeping in it?”
“I’m picking my expensive and very comfortable, thank you, sleeping bag over the creepy murder mattress because I don’t need you groping me in my sleep.” Also because one guy got a tiny bit lobotomized with a power drill while sleeping in it. Ryan doesn’t find this unreasonable.
“I mean, I’d prefer groping you while you’re awake,” Shane reasons, “but if you’re into that—”
“I will literally pay you to not finish that sentence.”
It’s not, for the record, that he’s not interested in sleeping with Shane. Ryan really enjoys sleeping with Shane. He’s just sure as hell not gonna do it under the creepy, ghostly gaze of Power Drill McMike, fear boners notwithstanding.
Shanes gives up eventually, retreating into the bedroom with a cheerful good night, sleep tight, don’t let the homicidal ghost bedbugs drill a general-purpose twist bit through your skull into your squishy brain! and, great, cool, that’s gonna keep Ryan awake all goddamn night.
It takes longer than usual to drift off without the steady rhythm of Shane’s slightly nasally breathing next to him. Ryan has the brief thought, just before he passes out, that it’s really annoying said sound has actually become calming to him.
What feels like half a second later, his eyes snap open in the aftermath of a thud that rings sharply through the silence of the house. Ryan sits up so fast he goes a little dizzy.
“Shane,” he whispers fiercely, “did you hear—” and then he remembers Shane’s not next to him to offer any bored, logical reassurances.
It was probably another stupid flashlight falling, his mind supplies, the voice in his head sounding not unlike Shane’s.
And that’s one possibility, except there’s another possibility that it’s a vengeful ghost and he’s gonna die, and somehow that possibility is more convincing.
Ghosts can’t pick up power drills, comes Shane’s voice again.
And, sure, except. What if they can, though. What about that, mind-Shane.
That’s a fair point, mind-Shane agrees. There’s safety in numbers. Flee.
Ryan’s standing at the foot of the murder mattress about three seconds later. “Shane,” he says quietly, if urgently.
“Shane,” Ryan says, less quietly, more urgently.
Shane shifts in his sleep, buries his face in one of the pillows.
Ryan huffs. “I’m here to have sex with you,” he deadpans.
Shane’s eyes flutter open. “Well, it’s about time,” he says, yawning.
“You’re an ass. Move over.” Ryan doesn’t wait, mostly shoves Shane aside to crawl underneath the blankets next to him. Already it’s better, Shane’s body heat and mild grumbling chasing away the worst of Ryan’s worry. There’ll be plenty of time later to have an existential crisis over sleeping in a bed somebody died in.
Shane curls around him, lanky limbs shifting as he struggles to get comfortable. “Everything okay?” he hums once he’s found a suitable position that somehow involves one sharp elbow digging into Ryan’s side.
Ryan deliberates. “Better now,” he decides.
“Something fall over and scare the shit out of you?”
Shane laughs quietly. “You’ll be fine. Three hours until sunrise.”
“I guess that’s not that bad,” Ryan allows.
“Three hours we could be spending getting busy.”
“Eat a dick, Shane.”
“Well, I’m trying to.”