Chapter Text
Sitting on the edge of the plush down mattress, Pete ran his hand over the edge of the hand-carved footboard, down to the well-loved patchwork quilt which would keep its occupants warm for many long Maine winters to come.
It had been a gift from Mrs. Garraty, passed down from Ray’s grandmother to his mother and now to them. She had given it to Pete without fuss, without needing to acknowledge what it represented.
For the bed, she’d said. There was only one. It was the only way they could conceive of being together. Pete had never considered any other option, and when he’d spread the double wedding ring masterpiece over the mattress, it had been final.
There was some irony in the fact that the longest time they had spent apart was in Pete preparing their new home to be settled, the night before Ray was to leave his mother’s house for good. They had asked her to come with them, but she could no more leave the house where she had made her home and her life, where her son had taken his first steps, where her husband had been executed in the street like a lame dog, than Ray could stay.
The house had been in the first stages of rotting when Pete had found it, a squat, unassuming structure tucked away in a grove of tall maples several miles off the main road. It was about an hour’s drive from the Garraty’s, just far enough outside of civilization that they wouldn’t feel like eyes were on them all the time. That was more important than anything else.
And the fact that the converted farmhouse was a single story. No stairs.
It had taken several months for Pete to make the farmhouse close to habitable, but he was grateful for it. Pete’s pet project had kept him sane during the bulk of Ray’s recovery. Long days were spent replacing hardwood floors, knocking down rotted-out walls, and installing indoor plumbing, with Pete coming home at night to a warm-cooked meal courtesy of Mrs. Garraty. Her den had been converted into a room for them, two twin beds pushed side-by-side. It never felt like enough. If Pete could have fit into one of the twins with Ray, he would have.
Many nights, Pete found himself awake, listening to the call of the birds outside the window and Ray tossing and turning next to him. Pete would hear his breath catch and quicken, and then the rustle of sheets as Ray turned over, his eyes shining coins in the dark.
Often, Pete could see the reflection of tears on his moonlit face, and he would push a pillow down to cover the miniscule gap between their beds so he could move over. Ray was physically larger than him, but he felt small when Pete held Ray to his chest, moisture making his t-shirt cling to his chest. Pete’s own tears soaked into Ray’s hair.
Those nights they clung together like an abandoned life raft floating out to sea were the closest they got to talking about the Walk. Pete spoke enough for the both of them. The interviews left him drained and exhausted, and on those days, Pete never came out for dinner. Mrs. Garraty would leave him a sandwich and a glass of milk on the bedside table while he pretended to sleep, but Pete always felt the soft caress of her hand over his head. Pete wished he could put on a braver face for her, but he gave it all away in plastic smiles and pre-scripted moments.
That military lawyer had been right on the first day.
It was easier knowing he had already gotten the story straight.
The more Pete tried to remember, the faster those memories slipped through his hands like running water, until he was certain they must have happened to someone else. The faces of the other Walkers blurred in his mind, reduced to floating symbols: Harkness’s glasses, Baker’s necklace, Parker’s flowing hair. Had Hank Olson’s denim hat been blue, or a faded gray? Pete thought he should know. He had stared at the back of Hank’s head for four days straight.
Or had it been three?
Had there been a boy named Hank at all, who had a big mouth to make up for his short stature, and a stumbling walk that spoke of his crumbling mind far before he broke down? One with a wife who had curly, looping handwriting, who might’ve smelled like the fruit she was named after, who felt like a dream when Pete tried to picture her?
Had he been murdered at all– or perhaps Hank Olson had never been real. Maybe he existed only in the darkest corners of Pete’s mind where the rest of them were, the boys who were alive and weren’t, who walked alongside Pete and then lay splattered on the concrete.
They walked with Pete, and then they didn’t.
Pete kept walking.
Oh God, how could he have just kept walking?
The answer lay in the twin bed next to Pete. He couldn’t tell that to the thousands of good, compliant American citizens, so instead he spoke of patriotism and bravery, of things he no longer believed in. The interviewers asked Pete what he would do with the prize money, what he wanted now that he was one of the richest men in the entire country.
Pete had thought of his farmhouse, with its rotting floors painstakingly patched; its drooping, torn wallpaper; its sagging porch and chipped front door and dirty windows.
If he was honest with himself, even that had felt like too much.
Not for a single second on the Walk had Pete wanted more than this: to be side-by-side with Ray Garraty, in life or beyond.
They were still alive, and now, they had to figure out what that meant.
So Pete fixed up the farmhouse, and Ray grew stronger day by day, until he could come home to the place that Pete had made for them.
The sound of Mrs. Garraty’s spluttering engine on the long gravel driveway alerted Pete to their arrival. It was funny that even though Pete had already promised the Garratys anything they could ever wish for, it hadn’t crossed any of their minds to get the car fixed, or even purchase a new one. Pete’s work boots were ten years old. Mrs. Garraty cooked with a skillet older than she was. Ray wore the same sweatpants with stretched-out elastic in the waistband every single day.
Pete didn’t know how to be a very good Winner. None of them knew how to be anything but themselves, so that was what they kept doing, in absence of any other idea.
By the time Pete made it out to the driveway, Mrs. Garraty had already parked and had come around the other side to open the passenger door. Pete heard Ray before he saw him, making more of a fuss than she was fawning over him.
“—okay, Mom, I’m okay. Promise. Okay.”
Ray slid out of the seat onto his own two feet with the support of the door on one side, and his polished cane on the other. Just a few weeks prior, he had graduated from forward-leaning crutches to the cane, though there was still hope Ray might someday not need any aid at all. His right side was weaker than his left, an imbalance that had come out in physical therapy.
It hadn’t escaped Pete that the left side was where he had lived on the Walk, his right shoulder tucked under Ray’s left arm, Ray’s weight resting on him. Pete had noticed that the bone-deep aches and joint pain that cropped up on some days usually persisted on the right side more than the left.
Their bodies were puzzle pieces, and Pete resisted the urge to slot himself there now, under Ray’s left arm. Though it was slow going, Ray was encouraged when he saw Pete, and his gait quickened until Ray was back in Pete’s arms.
“Missed you.”
It was only one night, Pete could have said, but that would be denying how fiercely he had missed Ray in return.
When they parted, Mrs. Garraty pulled Pete into an embrace that was nearly as strong and just as heartfelt as her son’s. This was the first time she was seeing the modest farmhouse, but she gazed upon it like it was the most wondrous mansion she had ever laid eyes on. Pete hadn’t realized how much he subconsciously craved her approval until she squeezed his arm tenderly, her eyes misty and her mouth upturned gratefully.
“Would you like to come inside, Ginnie?”
It was a long drive back, and Pete knew she would soak up every extra minute she spent with her son. When Ray started forward, both she and Pete automatically moved to his left side, sharing their amusement in a knowing glance. Ray waved them both off, limping forward to the creaking porch that had a leaky roof and a few floorboards missing from the sides.
The brilliant shine of fresh pine boards, sanded, nailed, and painted, stood out among the rotting wood where the stairs had once been. The slope of the ramp was gentle, such that Ray didn’t have to pick up his feet much as he shuffled up to the door. Pete had felt for every bump and weak spot with his hands and smoothed them all out, until he was certain there was no possible way for a boot or the rubber tip of a cane to catch.
The ramp was far from perfect, more of a bandaid over an open wound, but Pete liked that it was a work in progress. Like them. If the floors creaked, Pete would replace the wood. If the ceiling leaked, he would patch every hole. If the walls fell down around them, Pete would shore up the rafters with new lumber. He would hold up the roof with his own two hands if he needed to.
It would be imperfect, but it would be theirs.
Any flaws and defects melted away the moment Ray stepped foot over the threshold. If they had been alone, Pete would have swept Ray off his feet and carried him over like a newlywed bride. Maybe Ray would agree to that later.
Pete stepped in after mother and son, closing the door behind them, letting the two of them take it in. He wasn’t a carpenter or plumber or painter by trade, but he thought he’d done alright.
What was once a dank, dark living area had been swept and aired out until it became a homey centerpiece. The windows had been scrubbed until they sparkled to let in natural light, framed by the curtains made of old bedsheets that Mrs. Garraty had generously donated.
The furniture was secondhand, but Pete had taken the time to restore the old wood, and every fixture gleamed. Pete had torn down the old wallpaper to let the wood paneling shine. A fresh coat of paint made everything feel new. The piece Pete was most proud of framed the wall opposite the front door, tucked into the corner alongside an overstuffed armchair and an ottoman where Ray could prop up his bum leg.
The bookcase had been rescued from an antique shop, along with the battered collection of tattered paperbacks and worn hardcovers that the owner had squirreled away in a backroom. Pete had bought her out, scarcely bothering to look at the titles, but knowing each would be a new adventure on which he and Ray would embark together.
Pete might have been nervous about having a floor-to-ceiling display overflowing with banned books so prominent in the front room, but when he and Ray were already living a life prohibited by established society in more ways than one, he couldn’t find it in him to be fussed by the impropriety.
The way Ray’s face lit up when he spotted the reading corner betrayed that he wanted to explore it right away. When he glanced at Pete in wonder, all Pete could do was smile. Pete watched Ray run his fingertips over the spines as he made his way around the room, savoring the details. Mrs. Garraty had stopped to admire the photo Pete had hung over the fireplace, a framed still of the entire Garraty family which was one of the few Ray owned. She covered her mouth when her lips began to quiver, and Pete knew she thought no one was watching, so he looked away from the oddly intimate moment.
Ray finished his tour of the living area and entered the breezy kitchen, opened up by knocking down a few non-essential walls for ease of mobility. Pete knew he would be spending the most time here, seeing as Ray hadn’t picked up his mother’s affinity for cooking and baking. Still, Pete knew Ray would hate the idea of depending on him, and here too, he had constructed the space with care.
Unable to find a piece that suited his needs, Pete had spent the better part of several long days cutting, sanding, and staining a brand new, counter-height stool so Ray wouldn’t have to lean on his cane to cook at the stove. Perhaps selfishly, Pete had thought of Ray sitting at the sink to scrub dishes; but deep down, he knew he had done it because he did everything for Ray, and this was no different.
“What d’you think?”
Pete leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, arms propped across his chest and legs crossed at the ankle. Ray had stopped leaning on his cane to sit gingerly on the stool, testing his weight on it. It was just a smidge too high for Pete because Ray was taller than him. Ray thumbed the oddly-shaped scrap of wood that curved out from the top rung of the stool’s supporting legs, seemingly confused by the out of place contraption, until he realized the body of his cane fit snugly around the loop.
Ray’s chin wobbled, his lips drawn up tight, and the moment his arms opened up in desperate longing, Pete had already closed the space between them to gather Ray against his chest.
“Fuck,” Ray sniffled against Pete’s neck, his wet eyes pressed there as his nails dug into the meat of Pete’s back. He said it again: “Fuck,” and Pete heard the emotion he couldn’t convey, even if his brain knew how to make his mouth work as simply as it had before.
Pete’s chin was tucked over Ray’s head, and he inhaled there, breathing in the scent of Ray’s shampoo and his musk and the pine smell that still permeated the space. Through his journey of renovating the old place for them, Pete had consistently felt a nagging at the back of his mind that it wasn’t complete, no matter how many details he added: the framed photo, the bookcase, the quilt on their bed. They had left him with a sense of satisfaction, but a troubling feeling that there was a deep hole somewhere that hadn’t yet been filled.
Standing here in the kitchen with Ray in his arms, Pete knew what it was that had been missing all along, because their home was finally complete.
“It’s ours, Ray,” Pete said to the window over the sink, overlooking the miles of grassland that stretched out over their property. “Nobody here but us and the wind and the stars.”
Pete pulled back just enough to look Ray in the eyes, to see his flushed face and curved lips and every freckle that danced in the bright light of the kitchen.
“Couldn’t ask for more than that.”
Ray’s eyes fluttered closed when their lips met, a habit that Pete had picked up on that made him smile every time it happened. It was like somebody had told Ray he couldn’t keep his eyes open when he kissed, and he had never thought to question it, hadn’t kissed enough to even think of doing it another way. Ray held onto Pete like a lifeline, desperate fingers slipping into Pete’s belt loops to pull him closer, a little eager noise slipping from deep in his throat. Uses for the stool danced in Pete’s mind that hadn’t cropped up when he had been making it, but which he filed away for later use, some time when Ray’s mother wasn’t ten feet away separated by a hardly soundproof wall.
When Pete pulled back, Ray stubbornly nudged their foreheads together before parting, a small pout on his lips that Pete fought the urge to kiss away. One of them had to have some restraint, and it wasn’t going to be Ray. Pete’s grin was mocking, the flash of his teeth playful and a little scheming.
“Now, now, Ray. Your mother’s in the next room. You gotta be a good boy.”
Ray’s mouth dropped open a little, his eyes wide in disbelief and something more. His little “fuck” held an entirely different emotion than the last time he’d let it slip.
Pete and Ray were decent by the time Mrs. Garraty wandered in, her eyes red but her smile encouraging. Though Pete had asked her to stay for dinner, he knew she wouldn’t, seeing as she had a long drive ahead of her and a shift in the morning. With the amount of money Pete had bestowed upon her, she would never be forced to work again in her life, yet she continued on as she always had.
Pete got the feeling that she didn’t know what she would do if she didn’t, and he related to that more than he wanted to admit.
Mrs. Garraty gave Ray a big squeeze before she left, and she had one for Pete too when he showed her to the door. He watched through the window as she climbed into the driver’s side of her old beat up car, looking back only once.
She knew Ray would be taken care of here.
More importantly, he would be happy. Ray had not been happy in a long, long time, far before the Walk.
Pete had a theory that that was why they had all signed up, knowing what they were getting themselves into. This time, what they were signing up for wasn’t a fight to the death, but a promise to live.
Somehow, the years stretching out in front of them were more terrifying than the countdown of their final days and hours. Pete couldn’t be certain of much in the future, but he did know that even if he had won, he wouldn’t have survived without Ray.
Pete closed the curtains in the front room and found Ray still in the kitchen, running his hands over the laminate countertops and the brand new gas stove Pete had installed. Ray turned when he heard Pete’s footsteps, and Pete didn’t waste a second.
“Pete—!”
Ray yelped when Pete’s strong arms looped around his body, one around Ray’s back and the other gathering him up by the crook of the knee. To keep from falling backwards, Ray was forced to throw his arm around Pete’s neck, the other clutching Pete’s slightly sweaty tank top. Pete shifted Ray’s weight in his arms, ensuring he could carry him, though the bulging muscles in his arms left no doubt. He took his time walking them to the bedroom, ignoring Ray’s reddened ears and embarrassed squawking.
Without giving Ray even a moment to take in his surroundings, Pete dumped him on the bed. Ray’s complaints were silenced when Pete crawled forward, slinking up the bed like a panther hunting its prey. Pete’s body came to rest over Ray’s, his weight pinning Ray down. Ray hadn’t even thought to move, his arms still splayed out at his sides, walled in by Pete’s hands resting on either side of his head.
“I wanted to carry you over the threshold,” Pete said, “but I thought you’d like this better anyway.”
Pete went down on his elbows to kiss Ray, letting his fingers tangle in Ray’s soft hair as they pressed against one another like they wanted to meld their bodies. They complemented one another perfectly; where Ray was soft and pliable, Pete was hard and smooth. Ray had lost some muscle and filled out a little on account of being practically bedbound, but Pete didn’t mind one bit. The more there was of Ray to grab, the more of him there was to drive wild.
“Slow down, baby, I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Pete murmured when Ray’s kisses grew frantic, his teeth drawing at Pete’s lips. Ray’s hair was a little wild now, and Pete found himself mussing it up more with his fingers. It was a good look on him.
“Just… need you,” Ray panted, each word slow and forceful, but Pete waited patiently for every precious one. Pete knew his desperation intimately. Sometimes he felt it so strongly he woke up at night with an ache in his chest that could only be filled by looking into the bed next to him to see the rise and fall of Ray’s chest.
“You have me. You have it all,” Pete said. Later, he whispered those same words into Ray’s ear as their bodies rocked together like the rise and fall of the tide, the two of them separate but acting as one.