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They settle into the northland, true northland, spruce trees on most sides and a single, solitary road cutting through blue mountains on the other. Winter comes early up here. Ray is, of course, handling it better than Pete.
Pete is a lot of things. Ray loves all of them, even the difficult ones, the ones that left Pete sliced up tip to toe with a hundred stitches itching. Pete is a lot of things—but mostly, he's from Georgia.
Currently, Pete is wearing two jackets and trying to stuff his fingers down Ray's pants.
Further: they're inside.
"Pete, come on," Ray wheedles, trying to nudge Pete away so he can kneel down by their dead fire.
Their house, like all houses up here, has a utilitarian chimney, a fireplace, and wood stoves in two rooms. When they're all stoked, the house glows with heat, swaddles them. But they've been out walking—a short walk, not two miles, because it's good for Pete to stretch his muscles, gently rehabilitate them—and before that, they'd been in town. They snuffed their fires before leaving.
"You gonna light it soon, or we just gonna stand here and freeze our dicks off?" Pete complains. He plasters himself along Ray's back and, with a jab of humored pity, Ray realizes Pete is really shivering.
Sighing, Ray turns from the wood pile and wraps Pete in his arms, dances Pete over to their frumpy plaid couch, and tosses him down. Pete goes with a flop and a thump, collapsing onto his back and pouting up at Ray. Indulgently, Ray leans to the side and grabs the thick quilt which fell from the couch arm. He wraps Pete in it, folding the edges down, gently lifting Pete's feet and tucking him in so that no heat can escape.
"Hang tough, Pete, I'll get it going," Ray says, and turns. The pile is low, real low, and he knows he'll need to truck right back outside and start cutting, or risk Pete turning to ice before morning. Still, he generously stacks the wood in the fireplace, two sideways, two bridging across, one atop everything sideways again. Sturdy formation. He lights the old newspaper they use for kindling and feeds the flame until it's strong.
Immediately, light and heat swims through the air, and from Pete comes a deep, content sigh. When Ray turns back, he discovers Pete curling and uncurling beneath the blanket like a cat stretching. And he can't help it, doesn't want to help it: they've been here for twenty days, twenty-one tomorrow, and everything is fresh like a scraped knee still bleeding, and the sight of Pete, now…it's spring in dead winter. Flowers in Ray's chest, blooming.
"You over there givin' me eyes," Pete comments.
Ray grins. His snagged tooth catches on his lip, an accidental bite, which Pete's eyes track. To be seen by Pete, to be seen as Pete sees him, is a miracle. Pete's dark eyes go pitch and he darts his tongue out, all temptation, temptation like a story, rise before fall. Except nothing about Pete, nor anything about loving him, would ever hurt Ray. It brought him back to life.
"I might be," Ray answers, smiling wide. "You mind?"
"No, Ray," Pete says, slow, and he doesn't smile back. His face is serious, his eyes bright with firelight—he's all in shades of orange and red. "I don't mind."
And, helpless, like Pete is a siren singing him offship or a fairy beguiling him underhill, Ray stumbles forward without thinking.
He goes to his knees by Pete, before the couch, and slides his hand up Pete's neck then over his scarred cheek before leaning in close with a long exhale. Ray presses their lips together, soft, so soft, like he might crush Pete if he isn't careful, though of course Pete is bone and muscle just like Ray. But there's something about Pete, now. How gentle he looks here in the firelight. On their plaid couch, sprawled loose. He kisses Pete with long, glancing presses, sliding his lips gently down Pete's mouth. One end to the other.
Pete sighs, his hot breath puffing against Ray's face. Ray kisses him more, kisses him gentle, like snowflakes drifting endlessly and never hitting solid ground. That's how he feels. How Pete makes him feel: lighter than air and glimmering, uniquely beautiful. Softly, Ray slides his hand up and touches his thumb to Pete's eyelashes. Strokes quietly along the sweep of them. Pete's beautiful eyes.
Ray kisses him again. Kisses him straight on, their lips loose and easy. The kiss is so glancing it tickles, tingles. Ray brushes their mouths together again and again, airy touches. But slow. Not glancing. He lingers on Pete. God, does he linger on Pete. Long moments like syrup, cherry syrup, deep barrel bourbon, rich and sweet and dragging. He drinks deep of Pete. Slides his tongue along Pete's bottom lip.
"Baby," Pete says to him. "Baby. Get up here."
So Ray climbs up. He settles along Pete, pressing him into the couch cushions, and kisses him more. Kisses him for the slow joy of kissing.
Eventually, Pete slides his mouth away, down across Ray's face, over his cheeks. Lingers on the moles near his jaw, then comes back and presses his tongue between Ray's lips. But he doesn't kiss him deep. Instead, Pete traces slow and tender around Ray's snagged tooth. Gives it a fond kiss.
Ray sighs like a dog resting.
"I need to get up," he tells Pete reluctantly, their faces still close together. He feels Pete's breath on his mouth. "There's wood to handle."
"Was about to say the same thing," Pete says, his deep voice thick and slow.
Ray huffs fondly. "Got to go cut it, Pete. Or we'll freeze all night, and besides, we've got the Hintzes coming for dinner."
The Hintzes are their benefactors—a sweet middle-aged pair that met Bernie's guys at the border and shepherded him and Pete the rest of the way to safety. They put them up in this cabin with no winter rent; they don't need to pay until the upcoming fall. Plenty of time for Ray to find a labor job in town. Plenty of time for Pete to heal himself up, and make peace with the fact that Ray won't be his kept boy, despite Pete's smuggled millions—Ray won't tolerate it for himself.
There's already been a half-argument about it, their very first (half) argument, which didn't even devolve into shouting and was instead mostly conducted in terse, quiet tones. Nevertheless it was so terrible that Ray sobbed in the shower, fist shoved in his mouth to keep silent.
He hated disagreeing with Pete. Hated it, hated it, each contrary word felt like a live slug down his throat.
When he toweled off and left the bathroom, Pete was there waiting, looking equally torn up and sick with himself. They hadn't apologized, exactly. Mostly they'd flung themselves at each other and done their level best to burrow inside each other's skin.
Remembering this makes Ray's chest squeeze. Pete, Pete. Always taking care of him, or trying to. But Ray can't rely on Pete for everything. Just can't, and shouldn't. But Pete doesn't like that argument. Always asks: and why not? Why the Hell not? With his brow furrowed and mouth thin.
Sighing, Ray leans forward again. He presses his forehead to Pete's and tries to muster the strength to pull away. "The pile is too low," he says, mostly trying to encourage himself to standing.
Pete groans. "Makin' me go back out there…" but he trails off instead of truly digging in and complaining. He shifts Ray to the side, like he means to stand, but Ray halts him. Kisses him again.
He's so gentle with Ray; gentler than he is with anybody else. Always has been. Ray recognizes it each time. Revels in it each time. And it's not even like Pete is making a conscious effort. It's just that he loves Ray, and so he treats Ray sweet. So sweet.
"Let me do it," Ray says. "You know I don't mind. You just stay in here and put your feet up a while. It's getting dark out there, so I won't take too long. I'll be out and right back in before you even notice."
"Well now compadre, that just won't do," Pete denies. "Can't have you out in the cold alone."
"Pete," sighs Ray, but doesn't argue. He can't. Of course he wants Pete to go with. He always wants Pete with him—never wants them apart. It's unrealistic and sick, maybe, the way he wants it. But Pete never minds.
"Up," Pete orders him.
So Ray gets up. They put their boots back on and troop outside together, falling into matching step, and Ray gathers the logs while Pete hefts the ax, and between them they make quick work of everything.
Quick work, but not clean. Despite the cold Ray is sweating, drops flying off his nose and hitting the snow like comets. The hair at his temples is slick and sticking to his face. Beneath his jacket, his flannel is damp, the long-sleeve shirt beneath it even damper. He'll need to shower before the Hintzes arrive.
He starts hauling wood inside while Pete splits the last few longs. Five long trips into the heat, then back into the cold, each of them while loaded like a mule. But Ray manages. He stands for a moment on their snow-filled porch, wiping his forehead.
Above them, the dim sunset starts fading into gray, the first stars winking awake. Pete meanders over with a bundle of wood tucked under one arm.
Pete smiles when he gets close. "Look at you, red cheeks. You something real sweet to look at, Ray."
Ray laughs. "And you're a sweet talker." But when Pete comes close he reaches for the bundle of wood, tucking it under his own arm, and leans in for another kiss—his knees go wobbly. They buckle a little and he falls into Pete, who catches him easily and cradles Ray safe in his arms. Just like he always has. Always, always, from that very first day. That first night. Ray shoves his mouth against Pete's harder and, absurdly, feels his eyes prick and sting.
God, he's needy for Pete. One hour apart chopping wood feels like too long—and they weren't even apart, really. Only standing on opposite ends of the snowy field, staring at each other and pretending they weren't staring.
"Alright, Garraty, inside," Pete tells him, pulling away from the kiss. "You've got a face like ice and we've got company for dinner in two hours. We need to get cooking. Hiked all that way for chicken—can't let it go to waste. Got to impress the Hintzes."
"Right," Ray agrees, shaking himself, still feeling scraped raw and sensitive. He wants to wrap himself around Pete and not ever let him go. "Right, Pete. Inside."
He pulls away, and it's like his fingers are sewn on wrong. Like he's fumbling around numb for some reason. He tries not to let on; he walks inside, holds the door for Pete, then shuts it tight to keep out the wind. Their house is warm, glowingly warm, and burnished in yellow light. Ray hangs his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, enjoying the heat on his bare skin. Him and Pete kick their boots off and leave them on the doormat, treading in on socked feet. Ray reaches out and snags Pete's hand as they go. Pete twines their fingers together.
Ray does his best to wrap himself around Pete while Pete washes and dries the chicken. Ray considers telling him not to bother washing it, that all the germs will cook themselves off, but he stays silent. Pete washes the chicken with acid, with lemon and garlic. He lets Pete do his thing the way he's always done it, and enjoys watching him, feeling the bend of his broad back. He buries his nose in Pete's neck and, again, feels strange and overwrought.
God, Pete, he keeps thinking. Pete, Pete.
Who taught him all this? Couldn't have been his mother. Couldn't have been his piece of shit uncle. Some temporary family? A friend? A past lover, though Ray always feels tense and bitter when he considers Pete's past lovers. He wishes they'd treated him better even while he's thankful—every minute thankful—that they hadn't, because now Pete is here with him, not them.
He wishes… stupid things. He wishes for stupid, little boy things, things he knows aren't important and so he never says them out loud. But, all the same: he wishes Pete were just as green as him, when they'd met. Obviously he never says this.
It's just that Pete knows what he's missing, what's all out there in the world, the sea of possibility that he's stopped swimming in order to pair off with Ray. He's shut himself away in a cabin, away from the wide beautiful world he's always loved to wander. Ray should be flattered by this. He isn't. It's his own fault; he's imagining people and places Pete has never, not once, brought up, and measuring himself by them. Finding himself wanting, though he's comparing himself to nothing real.
He just…he doesn't want Pete to feel stuck with him, is all. He's so scared Pete will feel trapped. Like Ray is a responsibility, not a partner or lover. Someone bound to Pete by duty. How do you break up with someone who came back from the dead for you? Ray feels a little like he's got a gun to Pete's head. Love me or I'll die. I really will, I'm not just saying that.
It's sick. Ray feels dirty just thinking about it. But it's also…
God, to be tied to Pete. To be Pete's forever, forever, never cut loose. Well, if it were just Ray all bound up in it, he thinks he'd be content to live his life this way. More than content. Happy, joyful, lighter than sunshine. His heart beating on the force of Pete's love. But Pete.
Pete.
What the Hell kind of life is that? People fall out of love. It happens natural, it's not a crime. They're both so young. If Pete falls out of love with him, will Ray just die over it? What if Pete forces himself to remain in love long after the easy feeling fades, just because he knows Ray is dependent on it? On that love. That wish hidden in Pete's heart.
It just all feels like uneven ground. Like they're standing on cracking ice. And so, all this being considered: Ray can't add another disparity between them. He can't depend on Pete's money, too. He needs to ask the Hintzes about work, when they're here.
Pete finishes cleaning the chicken and twists in Ray's arms, putting the carcass down and washing his hands. He pulls out the vegetables they had chopped together yesterday, flicking the carrot peels and onion skins at each other and giggling in the late sunlight, and piles them around the chicken. They'll cook up nice, everything mixed together.
Ray wraps his arms tighter around Pete's waist and puts his cheek to Pete's shoulder. He slides his hands up Pete's ribs, back down to his belly. Feels his taut muscle, his smooth skin, the one raised line of his long scar.
I love you, Pete, I love you, Ray thinks. And it feels like it did the first time he said it: desperate, clinging. Bleeding all over the place and gut-shot.
Pete puts the chicken in the oven. He turns around and puts his arms over Ray's shoulders.
"We need to shower," he says, then grins. His cheeks bend, his scar curves, and his white teeth flash like lightning. Pete has such a beautiful smile. Brilliant.
Ray tries to smile back. Mostly, he thinks it works. It's easy to smile when Pete is smiling. He tries to push aside his strange, sensitive mood. Decides that, really, it's easy to shove aside with Pete looking at him like this. He's pushed away worse pain for Pete. That's for sure and certain. Way, way worse.
"Alright, Pete," Ray says. "Let's shower."
So Pete takes him by the hand and leads him out, through the living room, to their bathroom—the cabin is all arranged on the main floor, except for the loft, where their bed and many blankets live. He pulls Ray inside and starts the water running.
Ray steps away and begins shucking his clothes. He feels like pale corn, knobby and exposed, bulging in strange places and patterns.
"Get in here where it's warm, baby," Pete tells him. "Get in here and tell me why you've got that face on your face."
And of course. Of course Pete noticed. Ray sighs, shakes his head, and then has to laugh at himself. He steps to Pete and takes his hand, lets Pete tug him beneath the warm water. Hazy white steam starts to billow up, the pipes rattling comfortingly, and Ray tucks himself against Pete's naked body, all their skin pushing together, slick and familiar, like home, just like home.
Ray doesn't know where to start. Well, that's not true. He does.
"You don't like the cold," he mutters against Pete's neck.
Pete pauses. "True enough," he allows, cautiously, like he's not sure what that's got to do with anything.
"No, Pete, I mean you really don't like the cold. You hate it."
"Hate? No, I wouldn't say hate. Couldn't. Not when it's so beautiful, too."
Ray shakes his head. He gnaws on his own lip, then pivots and gnaws nervously on Pete's collarbone instead. He huffs wetly against Pete's skin, drools a little, feels the water wash down and wipe his spit away. Pete shifts, wraps his arms firmly around Ray's waist. Their soft, bare skin is pressed together. Ray can feel the wiry hairs on Pete's shins. The bush of hair under his arms.
"Pete, I just…" Ray pauses. He thinks. "Jesus, Pete, I just don't want you to regret all this. I guess that's what I want to say. I know…" But he doesn't know what he knows.
"Ray," Pete says, the word punching out of him. "You been worrying about me regretting this?"
"Why'd you say it like that?" Ray asks, pulling away slightly. He frowns, staring at Pete's face. "Yes, you. You're…Jesus, Pete. You were home free. Acquitted by the jury and everything. You could have done anything in the world, gone anywhere in the world. Been anyone inside of it. And now you're hiding here in the middle of all this snow with me. God damn near trapped here."
"That's how you feel about it?" Pete presses. "Trapped here?"
"No," Ray blinks, surprised.
Because—no. That's not how he feels at all. They've been in this cabin twenty days and already it feels like the safest place in the world. They keep it tidy; they've made it home. There's a bundle of spruce leaves by the windowsill because Ray likes the scent. They scavenged little tea towels and hung them on the oven handle, faded pink flowers on the fabric like a parody of domesticity, but every time Ray sees them his mouth twitches happily. They sweep the floor every morning and night, because of the ashes, but Ray likes the ritual of it. He likes the big blue sky and the big blue mountains and the big, big feeling that comes every time he sees Pete backlit by it all.
He likes their tight bed with its layers of quilts and flannel sheets. He likes the plaid couch, how it slumps in the middle so they always wind up sliding together, pressed hip to hip. The walk into town is only two miles, so they won't be cut off from people and food when the truck randomly dies. Besides, it's a beautiful walk, even now in winter. Snow glimmering in the sun, everything white and clean. Squirrels to watch scurry. Deer tracks to point at.
Ray wants to get Pete a dog. He wants to light the fire every morning and watch the light flicker on Pete's precious face. He wants to hide with Pete through all the long cold nights and keep him warm, and happy, and moaning.
No, Ray doesn't feel trapped by the cabin.
"No, Pete," Ray repeats. "I'm happy here."
"Because you can tell me, Ray," Pete continues, tilting his head back and pressing his mouth into a flat line. His eyes are shadowed and serious. "I know I—you were hard-up on choices. Backed into a corner and all. So—"
"What?" Ray interrupts with genuine confusion.
"God damn it, Ray," Pete says, like he thinks Ray is playing dumb.
"No, hey," Ray says, reaching for Pete, wrapping gentle fingers around his hip. He pulls Pete back until they're embracing again and standing under the water together. "Tell me."
He thinks Pete will hesitate, choose his words carefully in silence for a while. He doesn't. The words burst free and run away, wild, circling them in the warm wet air.
"It's my fucking fault you're here, thinking about the cold, and the money, and—and all these earthly fuckin' things. You coulda been up on your white cloud with the boys, I know that. I dragged you back. And so you're—you're mine to take care of, I wish you'd just let me—I don't want to force you back here and then make you miserable. Jesus, that's the last thing I want."
Pete grasps at him, fingers tight enough to bruise, but Ray embraces the feeling. Wants Pete to leave marks all over him, forever. Ray tilts forward and examines Pete: he's frowning, brows furrowed, tense all down his abdomen and thighs, calves, like he's ready to haul Ray over his shoulder and start running.
"Do I seem miserable?" Ray asks.
"Not yet," Pete answers tightly. "I'd like to keep it that way."
Ray opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it. Doesn't quite know how to say that of course he's happy: he's with Pete. Being with Pete is the only thing he'll want for the whole rest of his life. He loves this cabin. He loves that it's close and warm, and feels closer and warmer for how cold it is outside, like a haven in the middle of winter, a bright place for them to be with each other.
But he would love a different place just as much. Because it's not about the cabin, not about the winter woods and mountains. It's just Pete. He'd be happy anywhere, if Pete were there with him.
He opens his mouth to tell Pete this, but Pete cuts him off.
Pete's words are fast, rough, and forceful. "I just know you didn't get to choose. I dragged you back out the grave like I had you on a chain. I've got you all tied up and I didn't mean to, Ray, but I do, and so I oughta—Ray, I dragged you back here so you could be alive, not—not working bad jobs for no money."
Already shaking his head, Ray says, "that's not how it happened, Pete."
"Isn't it?" Pete presses.
"No," Ray answers. "It's not. I told you I walked back to you. Another three hundred miles. What the Hell do you think that means?"
"I don't know, Ray!" Pete explodes. He tosses his hands up but Ray catches them, clasps his fingers, presses Pete's hands to his own bare chest with the water still raining down.
"Means I lost three toes, Pete," Ray says. "Means I slept standing and cried and threw up and wanted to die for real. Means all my clothes were sweated through four times and I almost pissed myself, and my gut wounds opened and I bled like a shot deer. I wasn't some zombie, I could think straight, had all my memories. I could've stopped. But I came back to you. Didn't regret a single moment of it—I still don't. Jesus, baby, I would've crawled if I had to. You didn't drag me here, Pete."
When Ray finishes, his chest is heaving, and Pete is staring at him with a fragile, little boy expression, like he might burst into tears.
"I want to be here, Pete," Ray finishes softly. "I want to be here with you. We could be anywhere, doing anything, and I'd be happy because you were with me. I felt like that on the Walk, you know? It was Hell on Earth and I never wanted it to stop. Because that way I could stay with you. And so—so being here, like this. God, Pete. Pete. I don't have words that are enough. I'm just so thankful. I just love you."
Pete makes a low, tight noise and drags Ray forward into his chest. He wraps around Ray entirely, their knees locking, legs squeezing, arms grappling together. Pete fists his hair and bands his other arm around Ray's waist. He breathes heavily on the side of Ray's face; Ray feels it, his hot breath.
Turning, Ray catches his mouth. Kisses him long.
Before he's ready, Pete pulls away and announces, "then what the Hell were you talking about, Ray? What's this mood for?" He stares at him, unlatches one arm to grip Ray by the chin and tilts his head back and forth, like the answer might be written on Ray's forehead.
So, Ray just says it plain, even though he is feeling, creepingly, like the biggest idiot in all of Canada, if not the entire world.
"I just don't want you to feel stuck with me," Ray says, wincing at Pete's expression, which rolls over his face like thunder. "Like, I don't want you to…" Need to take care of me, resent taking care of me, he tries to finish, except Pete looks so furious his tongue freezes in his mouth and he can't speak.
Instead, Ray winces.
Words explode out of Pete like glass shattering.
"Stuck with you?" Pete repeats. "Stuck with you? Boy, out of all the damn stupid things you've ever said—stuck with you? I carried you fifty miles while you slept. I killed a man for you. I God damn wished you back to life. Stuck with you?"
"Alright, Pete," Ray tries, but Pete barrels over him.
"You was gone and it felt like every good thing went with you. No beauty anywhere, no light, no love. Everything went dark, like I was there on that road forever, rain coming down. I ate and couldn't taste any of it. Drank and didn't even feel it burn. Fuckin' stuck with you. I didn't sacrifice a single God damn thing for you, Ray. I gained everything, you understand? You came back and the entire world came back with you."
Ray's heart shakes and trembles in his chest. Tightens then grows warm with love, love, God he loves Pete.
"And so no more of this job discussion, either," Pete continues passionately. "'Cause you're only tryna get away from me, it ain't about the money at all. You're afraid I'm gonna get sick of you. Well, I'm not. I'm not, baby, and it's—it's damn cruel, you leaving me here in this house by myself for no reason. No reason. I want you here. I want you here. What, you got a sudden passion for logging? Bagging groceries, cashiering? Bullshit. You don't want those fucking jobs. Be here with me and let me love you."
"What would we even do all day, Pete," Ray tries weakly, knowing already that he's going to give in. God, of course he'd rather be here with Pete. But, pridefully, he tries to delay his inevitable capitulation.
"What would I do all day without you?" Pete counters. "I'd just sit here and wait for you to get back. Like a housewife. But if you were here—Ray, baby, if you were here." Pete shakes his head, overcome. "I'd talk to you all day. Sing to you. Write you a song, write you some poems. Tuck you under my arm on the porch and read 'em all to you. Kiss you in the snow. Kiss you in our bed. Feed you off my fork. And, fine, maybe we get sick of that. Maybe later we both get jobs, at least part time. But right now? Just be here with me. Let me enjoy you being here."
Ray sighs, enchanted and feeling warm all over. "Alright, Pete." And then, obviously, because he's got to say it or die all over again: "I love you."
"Good, got that settled," Pete says firmly, nodding once, and then wraps Ray in his arms again and soaps him efficiently.
Not for the first time, Ray enjoys Pete's brisk, firm touch, the way it glides all over his body, leaving no crease or crack untouched, unloved. The suds wash down in the water spray and Ray doesn't wait for them all to go, instead impatiently uncapping the soap and turning Pete, putting his hands all over Pete.
Suddenly, he feels frantic for Pete's heartbeat under his hand. He wants to feel Pete's warm skin all over. He wants to climb inside Pete and soap Pete clean with their shared hands, their shared nerves and veins, because touching Pete isn't close enough.
He slides his slick hands all over Pete's chest, under Pete's arms, soaps the hair there then twirls it between his fingers and tugs. Pete grunts; Ray sighs; he slides his hands down Pete's arms, his strong arms, the second thing about Pete that Ray had noticed and admired. The first being of course his face, his gorgeous face.
Down his hands go, to Pete's hands, and he locks their fingers together. He cracks Pete's knuckles for him. From there, he puts his hands on Pete's waist and slides them down to the crease where his thighs cradle his balls. Ray gently massages into that crease with his fingers, but doesn't touch Pete anywhere other than the very edge of his thigh. Still, Pete shudders and sighs anyway, because Ray's got his fucking number about that, and all at once Ray is frantic. He soaps the rest of Pete urgently, then slams the shower off.
They careen out into the cold air, grasping at each other, blindly groping for towels, and as soon as Ray's fist hits fabric Pete gives up and tumbles mouth-first into Ray's neck. He bites and sucks there, downright vampiric, and Ray shakes and moans and is thankful that it's so cold, because Pete can do this every night and Ray will just wear scarves and turtlenecks without suspicion, no restraint needed on Pete's part.
With determination Ray tilts his head back and enjoys Pete's lips, his tongue, his spit sliding slick down his neck, and manages to pull the towel forward and scrub Pete with it. Down Pete's shoulders, his back, around to his stomach, the hair above his dick. Dry, and therefore warm, and therefore kept safe and healthy up here in the northland. Ray feels viciously satisfied at this small act and Pete grapples his arms around Ray, puts his hips to Ray's side, and hitches up. Pantomimes fucking.
Pete's always got such good ideas, Ray thinks hazily.
"Bed, Pete, come on," Ray coaches, clutching Pete's waist and pulling him forward.
They stumble across the tiny cabin, scrambling up to the loft clumsily. Ray flings himself down onto the bed, flops and bounces on his back, and Pete launches on top of him, wrestling him down eagerly. Then it's all kissing again, the important kind of kissing, the kind that really feels like fucking with mouths. Ray loves all Pete's kisses; he loves these best. To be wanted by Pete is a kind of miracle. Every time it happens Ray thinks, Jesus, I'm just me, and feels like he's staring up at a clear night sky, everything made of stars.
Pete presses him down with his whole body. Rests all his weight right on top of Ray, all their naked skin touching and sticking. In a quick, jerking motion, Pete dives down to Ray's chest and starts biting the pale soft skin there, sharp nips that make Ray jerk and scrabble at Pete. Push then clutch at him, not sure how the feeling will settle—pain or pleasure, or both, but it settles on the right side of pleasure and suddenly Ray is gasping.
"Pete, Pete," he says. "Come on. Come on, Pete, get on me. Get on me."
Without pulling away, Pete fumbles for their bottle of cooking oil, catches it, but then obviously can't unscrew the cap. Needs both hands for that. But instead of pulling away Pete presses closer, his hips and chest rolling against Ray's own, and throws the bottle by Ray's hip. Abandons it. Kisses Ray ferociously for a while longer, kisses like eating a steak dinner, hungry and tearing, blood coming forward but the good kind of blood, the kind meant for consumption.
"Baby, baby," Pete says, pulling Ray's bottom lip with his teeth then releasing it. He pulls away and scrapes his open mouth down Ray's cheek, his jaw, then does sit back on his knees and open the bottle.
Ray pulls his knees up. Pete abandons the bottle again and grabs the base of his own dick, hand flying down, hips pushing up.
Helpless, filled with affection which accumulates more each day, Ray laughs. He reaches out and strokes down Pete's chest, his flanks.
"Jesus, Pete, you feeling pent up?" He teases. "How? Fucked me in the kitchen yesterday. I blew you on the porch the day before that."
"Almost gave your poor knees frostbite," Pete says, his head falling back, his neck becoming a long brown line and Ray almost does something crazy, like cries, because Pete looks so beautiful. And then Pete continues, "if it were up to me, I'd be havin' you twice every day."
Ray sits up immediately. He frowns, then presses his frown to Pete's scarred cheek in a wet kiss. "If it were up to you—Pete, what the hell are you talking about? Have me twice, have me three times. Morning, noon, and night, baby, what the hell do you mean, if it were up to you?"
"Was thinkin' that might be too much," Pete answers. "Don't want to wear out my welcome."
"Wear out your welcome," Ray repeats incredulously. "There's nothing in the world you could do to make that happen. I really mean that, too, Pete, alright? Have me any time. I want you to. I want you."
And, here, a tumble of fresh, never thought of fantasies barrel through Ray's head like a fullspeed train. They come out his mouth immediately, stream of consciousness, but he means every word.
"You wake up in the middle of the night and want me—take me. Jesus, Pete, just have me while I'm asleep. I wouldn't mind. Or—or maybe I'm, I don't know, making dinner, and you just come up behind me and—and start touching. Get yourself off on me. I'm yours, Pete, all yours, come in the bathroom while I shower and jerk off while I soap my hair. Use my hand while I'm reading on the couch, just grab it and use me. I'll never be mad, I always want you, I want you so bad I feel sick sometimes. Have me whenever you want. Any time at all, really, I really mean that."
By the end of his speech he's gasping, so hot all over his skin feels sunburned. His nipples are hard and prickling, his dick standing between them, straight up and wet. Fuck, he wants Pete to do it. He wants Pete to want him. He always, always wants Pete to touch him, nothing is ever enough. And now—to find out Pete feels the same?
"You gonna make me crazy," Pete tells him, squirming on Ray's lap, his hips twisting a figure-eight before he makes himself stop. "Ray, God, you always—you shoulda been a carpenter, baby, always hittin' the nail on the head. Don't know how you do it. You'd let me? Let me just—"
"More than let you, more than," Ray gasps, feeling crazy. He slams himself into Pete, or maybe Pete into him; either way they collide together in a sitting hug, Pete's legs wrapped around his waist, Ray's knees on either side of him. Ray presses animal kisses to Pete's mouth, entirely tongue, no lip at all. "Want you to, need you to, need it so bad, Pete."
Pete bounces on his lap, a frantic little bounce, and then performs another, another, and it's not like how Pete usually is at all. Usually, Pete's restrained until they're in the middle of everything, and then he dissolves, but now—Ray doesn't know what did it. Maybe their strange half-fight, or the making up, or the way Ray is running his mouth right now.
Ray likes it, though. Oh, God, he likes it, he likes it in a way that makes him feel crazy, the way he's turning Pete into putty, melting him between his hands, and the noises Pete is making—God, the noises. His voice is so deep, grunting and rasping, but there's a breathy tone to it, now. And the way he's moving.
Holy shit, the way Pete is moving.
Up and down on his lap, up and down, dick sliding up Ray's stomach, hard against soft, dark against light, all contrasts imaginable working together to make them both feel so fucking good. It feels so good, having Pete all on him, having Pete in his arms like this.
Ray thrusts back but doesn't manage anything special. He's sitting beneath Pete with his ass to the bed—there's really no leverage—but Pete gasps and then lets out this noise, this big noise, and all Ray can say is, "holy shit."
And then, because it's all he can think about, "Pete you've gotta fuck me."
Pete nods, more bobbing than anything, and says, words coming out like moaning, "I do, I've got to. Fuck, baby, I need it."
"Oh, fuck," Ray says, and collapses backward, laying beneath Pete again, and this time Pete fumbles open the oil and gets it all over his fingers, all over, until he shines and glistens in the yellow light coming from the living room.
Frantically, Ray twists to turn the bedside lamp on, too, just to see Pete better.
"You look so fuckin' good," Pete tells him, and then with emphasis, "Ray."
"Get in me, get in me, get in me," Ray chants at him, hooking a hand beneath his knee and opening further for Pete, trying to tempt him, and it must work because Pete's hips jolt, and then his whole body jolts, and his fingers are sliding down Ray's crack, then inside his ass, and then they're connected.
Together entirely, suddenly one endless line, the two of them, and if it doesn't feel good yet then it doesn't matter, it doesn't, because it's Pete inside of him and Ray would share organs with him if he could.
Normally, Pete takes this slow. The first time Ray had been so nervous, so tight, that Pete had played with him for an hour, hour and a half, made him come twice, Ray shaking all over while Pete grinned like quicksilver. Wearing nothing but happiness, naked as daylight. And that first slow time had informed all the times after, though of course once he wasn't nervous Ray loosened like taffy, trained up and eager to let Pete inside.
But now. Jesus, this thing Pete is doing can't be called anything other than efficient, blunt, desperate. Like dodging spoon strikes to get at cookie dough—so eager for the good part it's impossible to wait.
Ray likes it. Oh my God, to have Pete McVries this way. To make him like this. It's like being drunk, absolutely drunk, it's like champagne, the way Pete looks and sounds, the feeling bubbling and popping all over Ray's skin. Ray tosses a hand up to his own hair and pulls, because it feels good, but also mostly to give Pete something else to stare at.
"God, God, fuck, Ray," Pete says, fingers inside him going still before they start pushing, stretching, no finesse at all when normally they're so nimble, so slickly smart. Pete's hips mimic his hand: each time he thrusts his fingers forward his hips follow, up and down, in and out of air.
Shoving his head back against the bed, Ray arches up, collapses down, arches up again. Fucks himself against Pete's fingers, and it's not good, it's too fast and too big and Pete isn't curling them, doesn't have his usual angle—and it's because of that, because Pete isn't thinking straight, wanting Ray so bad, that it becomes good.
"Enough, it's enough, come here, Pete, come here," Ray demands.
Other times, Pete would protest.
Today, Pete collapses and crawls forward, shoves himself inside almost before Ray is done speaking.
"Uhn," Ray grunts, the same time Pete does. Pete gasps above him and Ray says, "give it to me, give it to me," and so Pete thrusts forward, deep inside, then pulls out. It's faster than usual but still slower than Ray expected; Pete goes deep, steady, consistent and smooth, like there's a metronome ticking in his brain. Maybe there is. But instead of normal 4/4 time it's going faster, just slightly faster, 6/4 maybe.
Ray pulls Pete down by the shoulders until Pete is pressed against him, mouth to mouth the way they both like. They stretch their jaws open and huff each other's air, tongues sometimes touching. Pete's hips flex, his ass raising up and down over Ray, and Ray cranes his head over Pete's shoulder to watch. God, fuck, the flex of Pete's ass. The little dimples that appear and disappear by his spine. The dark flash of Pete's balls, mostly hidden, swinging down but sometimes up with Pete's motion.
It's too damn tempting. It really is. All of it is so damn tempting: the way Pete looks, the way he sounds. The way Ray knows, knows, how much he likes it when—if Ray could just—
Shifting slightly, Ray frees one arm from beneath Pete's and then reaches down Pete's back, to Pete's ass. He palms it, squeezes it, pushes Pete forward and guides his strokes. Pete gasps and moans. Ray moans back, then Pete moans because Ray is moaning, and suddenly they're winding each other up so fast it feels a little crazy. Sparks tingle down Ray's dick, which is trapped between their bodies, being rubbed by Pete's hot skin.
Focusing, feeling like he's flying a plane when really he's just moving his own hands, Ray slides his palm down and then strokes his fingers down Pete's crack. Up and down, then over Pete's hole a few times, feeling it clench and flex even though he doesn't press inside at all. For a moment, Pete stops thrusting while buried deep inside Ray and just starts flexing his ass muscles, clenching and unclenching, humping like he's green, completely new at fucking.
And then he explodes into motion again, deep strong thrusts, and Ray slides his fingers down further, to that space before Pete's balls and then finally to Pete's sack, which Ray pets over fondly. Pete does what he always does: loses it a little.
Pete's the only man Ray's ever had sex with. But still, he suspects that not many other men like this the way Pete likes it. Ray, personally, could take or leave it for himself. But Pete? God. He'd do anything to make Pete feel good, and this is easy, more than easy—it's fucking hot, makes Ray feel like coming just looking at Pete's face.
He holds Pete, pets him, occasionally leaving his balls to play upward for a while but always returning, always making Pete's hips falter and stutter and grind.
The feeling starts to build in Ray. That perfect feeling.
"Fuck, fuck, Pete, uhn," Ray starts saying, or maybe was already saying, but now he notices his mouth moving even if his ears are ringing and he's not really hearing his own voice.
"Ray, oh God," Pete says, and then starts grunting every time he moves his hips, long and rhythmic, so beautiful, like a song: uh, ah, ah, ah. Uh, uh!
And then, all at once, Pete finds the good spot, that real good spot, and Ray is jerking Pete forward, other hand slamming down on Pete's ass, almost a spank except he doesn't lift it again, instead pulling Pete's hips into him with every thrust, so that Pete is now fucking him hard, at that perfect angle.
"There, there," Ray says, the words punched out with Pete's thrusts. "Need it there, need it there, don't move Pete holy shit don't move—"
Ray gasps for air, clutches Pete tight, pulls him in, and then forces Pete to stay there, frozen in that perfect spot, while Ray fucks himself down, his hips working in waves on Pete. Pete holds still, arms trembling, moaning rhythmically as Ray uses his dick, and it feels so good, it feels so good, he twists his hips and hooks Pete's dick on that—spot—right there, right there, right there—
And all of a sudden Ray is bursting open, geysering between their bodies, coming so hard he sees white then red then black, his fingers going numb. Spurt after spurt streaks up Pete's chest, and Ray jerks and thrashes.
Halfway through, Pete gasps a noise like a sob, stays frozen but clenches his ass, those tiny thrusts again, and Ray feels his dick go hard, harder, and throb, throb, before Pete starts coming too, moaning out, "Ray I can't it's gonna—"
Pete's hand flies down to Ray's back and lifts his hips up, letting Pete slide that centimeter deeper, and Pete curls his toes into the bed, his legs straightening up, up, his whole body a desperate line, and then he jitters his hips for a long time, hot pulses of his come flooding Ray over and over and over, and over, it's crazy how many times.
Finally, he collapses down on top of Ray, his hips still going a little, and then lets out a long, delayed moan, high-pitched, and another rush of come hits against Ray.
"God, Pete," Ray says, heaving for air.
Pete just gasps and shakes.
Ray lays under him and, after a minute, finds the strength to release Pete's ass. He slides his hands up Pete's bare back, slow, tracing each muscle and bone under his skin tenderly. He tips his head to the side and puts his nose against Pete's ear, kisses the lobe then sticks his tongue inside, licks Pete's earwax just because he wants to. It's nasty. It's not good.
Ray does it again.
"Don't, don't," Pete gasps, then laughs. "Jesus, baby, gonna get me goin' again. My dick fuckin' hurts. I'm fuckin' sore, I came so hard. God. Didn't even know that could happen."
"I love you," Ray explodes, because sometimes those words just fly out of him, he just needs to say them to Pete so bad. "I love you, Pete, I love you so much. I really do."
"Love you right back," Pete tells him. "Love you like nothing on Earth, Ray, love you so bad."
And then Pete slides forward, trembling, and kisses him with his dick still inside Ray, half-hard but softening slowly, real slow, like despite Pete's complaining his dick isn't so sure it wants to be done.
But, eventually, Pete does go all the way soft, and slips out, and they both gasp when it happens. Ray's heart clenches, already missing him, missing their shared body, but Pete comes up and thrusts his tongue further inside Ray's mouth, which soothes some of the ache.
They fall asleep with their mouths open and touching, Pete's spit drooling into Ray's mouth, their foreheads pressed together.
They wake up because the phone rings.
"Oh fuck," Ray says immediately, flying upright, remembering all at once that they've got chicken in the oven and the fucking Hintzes coming over for dinner, and he's got no clue what time it is, no clue at all, and they're completely naked with roughly one gallon of jizz dried all over their skin.
He falls out one side of the bed while Pete falls out the other, both of them scrambling around, frantic. They try to go down the ladder at the same time, but Ray pushes Pete out of the way and descends first. Ray darts for the kitchen and Pete darts for the bathroom, running the sink and grabbing a washcloth.
Ray picks up the phone on the last ring. He rests his forearm up on the wall and presses his forehead to it, trying hard not to sound out of breath. "Hello," he greets.
"Ray!" Mrs. Hintz says, sounding frazzled. "Honey, we were just calling to tell you—we know it's last minute, but our battery died, so we're going to be a little late. Davis is coming over to jump the car for us, so don't you worry about that, but we'll be an hour or so."
"No worries, Mrs. Hintz," Ray says, as Pete flies out of the bathroom still naked to check on the cooking chicken. "That stuff happens, it's no problem at all. We'll keep the food warm."
"You're sweet, Ray, thank you," Mrs. Hintz tells him. "We'll bring another bottle of wine for the trouble."
"Really, it's no trouble at all," Ray reassures, watching Pete hop around the kitchen, frantically pulling down various bowls and knives that Ray has no clue what he'll do with. On the other end of the phone, Mr. Hintz yells something indecipherable. Mrs. Hintz puts her hand over the speaker and yells back.
After a moment, she removes her hand, noise returning with a staticky burst. "Alright, honey, see you soon," Mrs. Hintz says abruptly, yells something indecipherable again, then hangs up.
Ray puts the phone back in its cradle, hangs his head, and starts laughing.
"Pete," he says, lifting his eyes, still laughing so hard his stomach starts hurting, muscles aching, "go get your clothes on if you're gonna be handling the food. You'll get hot oil on your dick."
"That is some divine intervention, I'll tell you what," Pete says, ignoring him, grabbing their oven mitts still entirely nude and pulling the tray from the oven. "They woulda been here in ten minutes, and we woulda been fucked over. Come here and tell me if this tastes alright."
"Pete," Ray sighs, feeling indescribably fond, just completely adoring.
"Ray," Pete says impatiently, rolling his hand at him, like come on, man.
God, Pete is his best friend. The most beautiful person in the whole world. He's never going to be sick of him.
He meanders over. Pete plucks a fork from their drawer, stabs it down, cups his hand beneath it, and offers it to Ray. Ray puts it in his mouth, teeth clicking against the metal tines, and lets Pete feed him, both of them still buck ass naked. Behind Pete, the blue winter light shines on the snow, and the moon is full, and, yeah, the chicken is pretty good. When Ray informs Pete of this, Pete's smile stretches across his face, beautiful and valuable as polished silver.
This time, when they climb in the shower, they're giggling. They don't fight, not even half way. Pete puts on a collared shirt for dinner; Ray wears a sweater. When the Hintzes finally knock, they step forward together, fire roaring behind, and Ray sees the pair of them as if floating outside of his body: the orange cabin windows glowing out into the blue night, the swept floor, the knotted rug, two pairs of boots by the door, two pairs of socked feet. Perfect. Everything perfect; exactly like Ray had wished for, in a secret corner of his heart, as he walked back to Pete.
Before he answers the door Pete turns to stare at him. His black eyes cut through the air, and Ray feels them like a gentle stroke. There's love in them. An ocean hiding there. Deep and strong. And permanent, too, Ray suddenly realizes. How about that. Love as deep and constant as the ocean. Enough to live on forever.
Jesus. How about that.
Pete opens the door. Welcomes their guests inside. Ray jolts himself awake and, of course, as ever, follows Pete's lead.