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“Hey Gus,” Shawn says across the Psych office. There’s a soft thump as the rubber ball he’s tossing from hand to hand lands in his palm. “You ever thought about it?”
Gus doesn’t look up from what he told Shawn was their accounting but is actually an (equally important) game of Tetris. “Thought about what?”
“You and me.” He doesn’t elaborate.
“What about us?”
“You know,” Shawn says. When Gus finally glances up over his monitor, Shawn is still leaned back in his chair insouciantly, feet propped up on the corner of the desk, but he’s waggling his eyebrows suggestively, lips curled into a smirk. “You and me, best friends for life, maybe something more than friends? You must have thought about it at least once.”
Gus is not prepared to have this conversation. He will never be prepared to have this conversation because he never wants to have this conversation, at least not at any time before his penultimate breath. He’s gone thirty years without having this conversation, and he is not about to break that streak now. He pinches the bridge of his nose, behind which a little headache named Shawn Spencer is blooming. “I’m straight, Shawn.”
Shawn makes a loud noise of disbelief and drops his feet to the floor. “Since when?”
“Since always?”
Shawn frowns. “What about that kid in eighth grade, uh, Jeremy Henderson? You said he was cute like a hundred times that year.”
“That was you, Shawn.”
“Was it? Nooo.” He pauses, reconsiders. “Okay maybe, but still. You’re telling me you’ve been immune to all this -” Shawn outlines his body with his hands, biting his lip and wiggling his hips in a way that is probably supposed to be sexy but mostly just looks ridiculous. “- our whole lives? Come on, Gus.”
Gus just shrugs. He had maybe seen where Shawn was coming from with Jeremy Henderson, but that didn’t mean anything, and anyway, Gus is not having this conversation, now or ever.
“So you never thought about kissing me in the moonlight? Under some mistletoe? Behind the bleachers in high school? Not once?”
It slips out before he can stop himself: “Well…”
“Ha!” Shawn interjects. “I knew it! No one can resist the Shawn Special, Gus, not even you. Now tell me, how often do I star in your dirty little fantasies, huh?”
“You don’t,” Gus says. Because wistfully contemplating the curve of your best friend’s cupid’s bow and how well he fills out his jeans when you’re six inadvisable shots in (Shawn’s fault, naturally; Gus will die before he admits how effective those puppy dog eyes are) isn’t the same thing at all.
“Guuuuuus,” Shawn whines. “I know you’re holding out on me.” He pushes up from his chair and walks around to lean against Gus’s desk, hip cocked invitingly. “Come on man, don’t be the first half of The Usual Suspects.” He bats his eyelashes, tilts his chin so he can look up through them. He’s employing every sultry little trick in his book, laying it on as thick as he can.
It’s not working. It’s not.
“I’m not holding out on you, Shawn,” Gus says, and then pointedly returns his attention to his laptop.
Gus is not having this conversation, but the truth is… of course he’s thought about it. Shawn is his best friend, the Cagney to his Lacey, the Dirk Benedict to his Mr. T. Shawn has been hitting on anything that moves for practically his whole life, and Gus has been right beside him for most of it. Of course he’d occasionally entertained the idea of Shawn turning all that charm on him, imagined a spark of heat in Shawn’s wheedling.
Gus likes women, always has; he prefers their company to men in a romantic sense, but he can’t help but acknowledge he prefers Shawn’s company most of all. It doesn’t mean he’s attracted to Shawn - they’re ride or die for each other, and no matter what Shawn puts him through, Gus will always pick up the phone when he calls.
It’s just that no one’s ever turned his head (and his life upside down) quite like Shawn, and that’s including Mira. Mira’s like a drug, quick and intoxicating, making him take leave of his senses until she’s the only thing he can see. Shawn is like a drug too, but he’s more like a beta blocker or an SSRI, a necessary medication he’s pretty sure he can’t live without.
When Gus looks up again, Shawn is still perched on the corner of his desk, peering at Gus with a thoughtful expression on his face. Gus knows he’s not actually psychic, but he can see right through Gus, spot his thoughts on his face just as well as an out of place hair at a crime scene. There’s something soft in Shawn’s eyes, at the corner of his mouth, and Gus can’t read people even a tenth as well as Shawn can, but he knows Shawn, knows every little eyebrow twitch like the back of his own hand.
“Alright,” Shawn says easily, startling Gus, who’d been expecting Shawn to be much more stubborn about things, into misplacing a Tetris block and screwing up his entire game.
Shawn launches himself off of Gus’s desk and gives himself a full body shake. “Man, I’m starving. Let’s go get pizza nachos.” He’s out the door before Gus can even close his Tetris game.
Gus snags his keys from the little bowl on his desk and hurries after Shawn.
-
Despite knowing full well that Shawn has never let a single thing go in his entire life, Gus kind of expects that to be the end of it. Shawn had just been looking for someone to stroke his ego, and Gus happened to be at hand. It didn’t mean anything, and if Gus’s eyes occasionally caught on Shawn’s mouth after that, well, that was no one’s business but his own.
Still, he’s not exactly surprised when Shawn brings it up again a few days later over dole whip. The question does catch Gus off guard though, so much that he nearly spits out a mouthful of frozen pineapple. He swallows. “Excuse me?”
Shawn arches an eyebrow at him. Repetition as a bid for more time is a tactic Shawn knows well, but he lets it pass. “I said, ‘What was I wearing when you thought about kissing me?’”
Gus is still not willing to entertain this conversation, especially in public and especially while sober. “I told you I don’t think about that, Shawn.” It’s not even really a lie; any thoughts Gus may or may not have had have been primarily face-focused.
Shawn just deepens the eyebrow and tilts his chin down so he can look at Gus over the top of his sunglasses. “Come on, Gus,” he says, waving a hand. “We both know that’s not true. I’m just asking you to set the scene a little bit! Y’know, how tousled is my hair, is the sun setting behind us as ocean waves crash onto the beach -”
“Clearly you’re the one that’s been thinking about it,” Gus says and eats another spoonful of dole whip.
“I never said I didn’t.”
Gus is pretty sure Shawn thinks about kissing everyone he meets, but there’s something off in his tone, like a joke he knows isn’t going to quite land. Gus pauses on the boardwalk so he can face Shawn directly. Shawn doesn’t stop until Gus catches his elbow, but then he turns, practiced nonchalance on his face. “What’s this really about, Shawn?”
“What, now a grown man can’t ask his best friend, who is also a grown man, about his hopes and dreams and fantasies without it being about something? Come on, Gus, don’t be the Cheeto dust at the bottom on the bag.”
Gus gives him a look, the one that says, man stop playin’ for five seconds. It doesn’t usually work, but sometimes he gets lucky enough to catch Shawn in the right mood. “Shawn.”
“Gus,” Shawn parrots back in the exact same tone. There’s a beat, and then he puts his hands up placatingly. “Fine. You don’t want to tell me all the sordid little details, fine. I’ll just make ‘em up myself. And let me tell you, Gus.” He leans in a little, meeting Gus’s eyes over his sunglasses. “In my version? You are filthy.”
For a moment, Gus considers pushing back. He doesn’t know what Shawn is really after, what sort of game he’s playing, but Gus knows that anything more than a gentle nudge will send Shawn running. He’ll blow Gus off and then launch into a manic ramble that Gus can barely keep track of until Gus is so confused he’s forgotten what he wanted in the first place.
Instead, he just says, “I know you know I got game, Shawn,” and starts off down the boardwalk again.
-
The third time Shawn brings it up, Gus isn’t caught off guard so much as actively regretting every decision he’d ever made in his entire life that lead to this exact point. They’re weaving through a warehouse on a stakeout gone awry, ducking between crates and trying not to get shot.
If they manage to survive this, Gus is going to kill Shawn himself.
“I’m just saying,” Shawn pants as Gus dives across an aisle and behind another crate. “If you gave me some idea of what you’re picturing, I can be better prepared for when the moment arrives.”
A bullet zings over their heads, smashing into the wall where Gus’s head had been a moment ago. “First of all,” Gus says, grabbing Shawn’s sleeve and yanking him across another gap, “I told you I’m not picturing anything. And second of all, there aren’t going to be any moments if we get shot.”
“You don’t think running for your life can be kind of romantic?” They duck around a low wall and behind a forklift. “Just imagine it - you, dying in my arms, confessing how you’ve always been in love with me, laying one on me right before you breathe your last.”
It is really, really not the time. Gus is hard pressed to think of a time less suited for this conversation. “I’m about to lay one on you, Shawn, but I’m gonna use my fist.”
“You could be a little rough; I might like that.”
Gus spots the firedoor they’d snuck in through earlier. He shoves Shawn in front of him and then makes a run for it, not slowing down until he’s behind the wheel of the Blueberry and peeling out of the parking lot.
Beside him in the passenger seat, Shawn gives him a triumphant grin. “Told you we’d be fine, Gus!” he says, still panting a little. “Sure the high of success isn’t giving you any ideas?” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Not getting shot isn’t success, Shawn, it’s the bare minimum for survival. And no.”
“No, you aren’t sure?”
“You know what I mean, Shawn.” Except as he glances over at the pink flush staining Shawn’s cheeks, the manic gleam in his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open just slightly as he catches his breath, Gus isn’t sure at all.
Because the thing is, ever since Shawn first brought it up, Gus can’t stop thinking about it. It’s not like he has a lot of Shawn-free thoughts anyway, but that number’s been reduced practically to zero. He keeps finding himself focusing on Shawn’s mouth while Shawn rambles through the solution to another case, imagines digging his fingers into that perfect coif.
It’s just curiosity, Gus tells himself. Like when someone says “don’t think about a pink elephant” and then you can’t do anything else. It doesn’t mean anything, and it definitely doesn’t mean that he wants to kiss Shawn.
Except that he does. Desperately. And maybe always has.
Before Gus came come to terms with that little revelation, or god forbid, say anything about it, Shawn swings out a hand to whack him in the shoulder. “Gus!” he cries. “I know who did it!”
-
It’s late, well past midnight; they’re in the Psych office, poring over crime scene photos, empty pizza boxes scattered across the table. Gus has drifted into a cheese- and exhaustion-induced stupor, staring vaguely into the middle distance and trying not to wonder how good Shawn is with his tongue. What he really wants is a long hot shower and nine uninterrupted hours of sleep, but he knows that if he leaves Shawn to it, Shawn will stay up all night staring at these photos. He’s especially insufferable hopped up on adrenaline and no sleep, and Gus would really rather avoid that if he can.
He’s just about to bring it up, suggest they reconvene with clearer heads in the morning, when he dimly registers Shawn’s voice. Shawn has been rambling continuously over the last several hours, but it’s actually directed at Gus this time as opposed to merely filling the silence. “...so have you given it any thought, Gus?”
Exhaustion and lactose are clearly making Gus crazy, because instead of asking for clarification, he just says, “Yes.”
Shawn tilts his head, brow furrowing in confusion. “Yes what?”
“Yes, I’ve thought about it.” Gus turns his chair to face Shawn properly, meets his eyes across the table. “I do think about it. Not, y’know, all the time or anything but not... Not never.” And nothing’s really changed since the first time Shawn asked - Gus still goes out with women, still flirts and smiles and winks at anyone who catches his eye. It’s just that, between all that, he can’t get Shawn’s stupid mouth out of his head.
Shawn is probably a really good kisser given all the practice he’s had, and Gus is no slouch himself. From an objectively scientific, non-romantic point of view, it would almost have to be an amazing kiss. Maybe not quite Princess Bride, but top marks in technical execution.
“Gus -” Shawn starts, but Gus cuts him off.
“No, Shawn, let me finish.” Because if he’s finally going to say this thing, this giant, unspoken, terrifying thing that’s been lingering between them for years and years and years, he’s going to say all of it. “There may have been a beach or two or maybe some moonlight, but mostly, it’s just you and your stupid hair.”
Shawn gives an outraged gasp that is not entirely feigned. “My hair is perfect and you know it.”
Gus makes a skeptical noise, but he won’t let Shawn distract him or goad him into some silly argument to break the tension and change the subject. “So… yes. Yes, I’ve thought about kissing you, and now I can’t stop thinking about kissing you, and so help me god, Shawn, if this is all some big stupid joke at my expense, I will put my foot so far up your ass, you’ll be eating shoelace spaghetti.”
There is a long, pregnant pause. And then, to Gus’s horror, Shawn starts laughing. Not a little titter either, a full-belly guffaw that has Shawn clutching at his gut, eyes squeezed closed. Gus is pretty sure there are tears. Shawn’s laughing so hard he’s nearly breathless with it.
Gus shoots to his feet, prepared to stomp out of the office, change his name, and flee the country so he never has to speak to or even look at Shawn Spencer again, but Shawn catches his arm before he can pass. Gus yanks his arm back, so Shawn transfers his grip to the front of Gus’s shirt and then tugs, knocking Gus into his lap and their mouths together.
It is, from an objective, scientific point of view, an awful kiss. Gus isn’t prepared for it so their teeth clack together, and Gus’s bottom lip gets caught in a painful crossfire. Shawn’s lips are too dry and he’s still laughing, and Gus’s mouth is half open on a surprised shout.
Then Shawn tilts his head just so and Gus grips Shawn’s shoulders for purchase, and suddenly Shawn is kissing him. Really kissing him, like it’s an Olympic sport and Shawn is going for gold. His hand slides around to cradle Gus’s jaw, the pads of his fingers catching on stubble. The kiss is hot and slick and Shawn is doing something very clever with his tongue. It’s easily in the top ten kisses of Gus’s life, just as he always thought it would be.
Shawn pulls away first, shifting to better accommodate Gus in his lap. He’s still touching Gus’s face, and there’s a warm smile on his face. Not a smirk or a grin, not his usual lackadaisical mask, but an honest smile, one that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
“You know,” Shawn says. “I was asking if you’d thought about the murder weapon, Gus.”
Which is exactly why Gus had never wanted to have the conversation in the first place, even if Shawn did kiss him first. He swats at Shawn’s arm and tries to extricate himself from Shawn’s grasp, face hot.
Shawn just tugs him back down, slinging an arm around his waist. “No, no, this is better,” he says, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice.
In lieu of a response, Gus just kisses him again. He slides his fingers into Shawn’s hair indulgently, gives it an inelegant tousle. “I can’t believe you, Shawn.”
“Me?” Shawn says. “I knew you wanted to be lovers in the nighttime, Gus.”
“I do not,” Gus says, although he will admit to a bit of curiosity. “And if you’re gonna be like that, I’m not gonna do it again.”
It’s an empty threat, and they both know it. “You do so,” Shawn says. “You wanna hold me; you wanna kiss me; you wanna love me -”
“I am not Benjamin Bratt, Shawn, and you are definitely not Sandra Bullock.”
“I am Sandra Bullock, and you’re Heather Burns.”
“I’d rather be Benjamin Bratt. Cheryl didn’t even end up with anyone at the end of that movie.”
“Yeah, but she definitely had a thing for Hart.”
Gus is willing to concede that particular point. “You know that’s right,” he says, and leans in for another kiss.