There are three soft, barely-visible scars across Shane's throat and Lori is pregnant.
The sun is high in the late afternoon and Maggie is feeding the chickens and Lori is pregnant.
Tall grass tickles Glenn's fingers as he moves through the fields and Lori is pregnant.
He closes his eyes, falls to his knees so he's hidden in the weeds, and he think of when it was simpler. When it was just gather wood, tell stories around the fire, get to know each other. Before Rick and before a dead man's guts had been spread over his face and skin and clothes. Further back, when it was get stoned and deliver pizza and watch old Dragonball reruns until four am. Simpler. No one had scars and no one fed chickens and no one was pregnant.
There's a noise behind Glenn and his shoulders tense, jaw tightens. It's Shane, stomping through to their meeting place in the weeds, not careful or inconspicuous. The way he moves is like an elephant through glass, where Glenn is like a snake through water.
"There you are," Shane grunts and Glenn's hair is pulled up in a fistful and he's brought to his feet. Their kisses are rough. Glenn can't remember how it started, when it started, if it was before Rick when things were simpler or if he was some second-rate Lori. A relationship born in guilt and shame and desperation? That feels right.
Shane digs into Glenn's mouth with his tongue. His lips are dry and coarse and with no hair there is nothing to grab onto, nothing to hold. Glenn doesn't believe he could hold Shane in any capacity. Before long Glenn is on his stomach, a big hand pinning him into the dirt at the base of his spine, another dragging clothes off.
They don't have conversations. Sometimes Shane, when he's fucking into Glenn with sharp snaps of his hips and thick cock pulsing, will whisper racist nothings. My pretty china doll, he'll hiss and Glenn buries his face into the grit of the field and his face is red like when he's drunk. He cries.
Shane likes when he cries. He smacks his face when he turns him over, limbs flailing until the big hands are pinning him again. Shane's smile is a horror show of pleasure and power. He leaves deep purple bruises on Glenn's thighs and pretty pink patches on his face. Glenn thinks maybe he only fucks him because he can't get pregnant, because he's small and pale like Lori, with pretty dark hair and a tentative, contemplative face like Lori. And he can't get pregnant. Like Lori.
When Shane cums he likes to choke Glenn, and that's when Glenn likes it. Hot, thick pumping of cum into his ass and big, big hands around his throat until his vision starts to blur and the red of his face turns purple and he thinks he might die die die. The simplest, easiest task is dying and he wishes for it as Shane bellows his roar of conquer.
They don't talk. Shane dresses Glenn again, even when he's leaking and messy, and he goes back through the field to the camp. Sometimes to the house, sometimes to take a drive. Stomps through the tall grass and the grass does not tickle Shane - only bothers him.
Glenn stares up at the high afternoon sun. The wind pushes the weeds over him, clouding his view of the sky with the tips of grass and straw? He doesn't know if it's straw.
"I'm sorry," he whispers to no one, and he gets to his feet and moves through the tall grass as it whispers back to him against his thighs and his arms and his fingertips.
The sun is going down and it's getting cold and Glenn wishes he were dead.
