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He felt stupid. Ray Garraty felt stupid, and he wanted to scream. His entire day, start to finish, was a disaster. Breakfast on the floor, late to class, caught in the rain, twisted his ankle– he considers for a moment just going to bed forever and never getting out from under the blanket– threw up his lunch, almost missed the bus back to his dorm, and then realized he owed some disgusting sum of money for books. Little things, yes, but too many of them.
Gripping his arms through his sleeves and rocking himself back and forth on the floor at the foot of his bed, he realizes in some foggy and distant way that he's never been all that great at consoling himself. His mother used to sing to him– he grips his arms tighter, so tight he fears his nails might tear through his sleeves– and when he was alone he'd throw a baseball. Toss it up, down. Against the wall, watch it bounce back to him. His ball is out of reach. He's too caught up in himself to make the effort of getting it.
Something needs to move, he thinks. Biting back tears, teeth gnawing his lip. Shaking. The boy is shaking, brows furrowed and jaw tight and legs crossed. Around him is nothing. Inside him is nothing. He feels so lost, so distant, so far from everything. Needing to feel anything, any sensation at all– he rocks back hard enough to slam his head against the painted brick wall of the dorm, and immediately groans like a dying hound. It hurt so badly, and he thinks distantly of the baseball, thumping over and over against the floor, the wall, the ceiling. Thunk. Again. He reels this time, leaning forward onto himself while his lips hang open. Eyes still puffy and red, nose and mouth dripping down his face. Ray Garraty is miserable, and he wishes that he were anywhere else but here. He's dizzy, he thinks. He's hurting.
The front door opens, closes. He hears boots squeak on the floor, hears Pete whistle as he drops off his bag. The delay in his reaction would worry him later, taking nearly a minute to sit up and panic. What would he do, if Pete saw him like this? If he walked into something so pathetic, embarrassing? Firing off at a million miles a minute, every doubt in the world seems to cascade down Ray's mind and leave him fumbling to even uncross his legs.
But then Pete calls out, “Ray?” and all Ray can reply is–
“Here.”
And it's broken, small. He is broken and small. Within seconds the bedroom door is open and Pete is down on one knee at his side, arm braced over that bent leg and expression more guilty than anything else. He flexes his hand for a moment before reaching out, taking Ray's own away from his bicep. Oh, he thinks, I forgot I was holding that.
“Ray, hey, what's going on?” Pete asks, and the anchor he provides with his voice alone is heavy and real. Already, Ray feels awake. Present. He shows this by squeezing Pete's hand.
“Pete,” Ray sniffles, and realizes just how miserable he sounds. The tears push their way out, even though he begs them not to. “I just–” he feels ashamed, turns his head away, “–today was hard.”
Pete sits down proper, scoots himself closer to Ray and runs his thumb over Ray's knuckles. They're flushed red from the meltdown, freckled flesh irritated and worn.
“I know, baby. Must've been.” Pete soothes.
“My head hurts, Pete.” Ray cries.
“Why's that? You got a migraine?”
Ray shakes his head and looks away again, lip quivering. He shuts his mouth. This heavy shame, the disappointment that must come with it, that blanket suffocates him. It happens every time. The whole world will decide against him, for one horrible day, and it'll crush him. Getting to college, he'd hoped he'd gotten better, but—
“Oh, Ray.” Pete sighs.
– apparently not.
Hand brushing up through his hair, Pete presses his palm flat and gentle against Ray's temple and guides his head over to rest on his chest. Ray flinches at first, just the anticipation of his head moving from where it was before. Nothing comes. Nothing hits. No wall, only Pete, his heartbeat and breaths. Nothing but Pete, his soft lips leaning down to grant Ray a chaste kiss against his hair.
“You're alright now, baby,” Pete murmurs to him, quiet and low. He feels his eyes drift shut. “Ain't no shame here, it's just us. When have we been scared of a little shame, hm?”
He's right. Ray knows he is. All he can do is nod against his chest some more, nestle into his hold and make himself comfortable all tucked into his side.
“Wasn't a person who made you upset, right?” Pete asks after a pause of silence, a certain edge in his tone that makes Ray feel faint.
“No. Not– no, not really. No.” Ray answers, fumbling around with the words in his head before they can reach his mouth. “It's just. It's everything, Pete. Everything is so fucked, I just–”
“I know, baby.” He pets back Ray's hair once again. Ray shudders.
“–The whole world's trying to fuckin’ get me, Pete. All of it. I'm tired.”
“Feels like that, sometimes.” Fingers drag idly through auburn, blunt nails scratching underneath as they glide. “But Ray? You're gonna wake up tomorrow a happier man.”
“You sound so sure.”
“It's ‘cause I am, Ray. I am sure.” without even an ounce of hesitation. “Nowhere from here but up, baby. Nowhere to go but that greener grass.”
“Doesn't feel that way.” Ray mumbles, face now turned in a way that hides him in Pete's shirt. He can feel it when Pete laughs. That vibration, that jump. Safety. Home. That knot all tied up in his chest begins to untangle.
“You don't believe me?”
Ray can't argue with that one. Trust is something he very well may only be able to find in Pete these days. Curling his legs up to his body and turning his head far enough to obscure his vision entirely, he distantly wonders how many more times he'd have hit himself if Pete didn't come home. A baseball, back and forth, bouncing without end.
“You're too good to me, Pete.” It's a dry laugh, a sort of sad and indifferent sound. Makes it worse, coming from Ray.
“Quit talkin’ like that, I'm serious.”
“No, you are. You are.” he almost whispers into Pete's chest, bringing his own arms up, curling them between their bodies. He hasn't opened his eyes back up. “Too good to be real, Pete.”
“Now come on, Garraty, you can't be sweet on me. I'm trying to be sweet on you. Doesn't go both ways.” he chuckles. Smiling, Ray thinks, he's smiling. He can hear it. It makes him grin. When Pete feels it through his shirt, he blesses the side of Ray's face with another kiss, presses his lips there like he means to say much more. With every movement, he does. All of his fingertips are full of love. All of his words, lyrics, are dedicated to Ray and his comfort.
For a while, that's the whole world. Cradling him, comforting him, kissing him and whispering sweet nothings for only his ears. Nothing is out to get him– nothing that can't be fixed. Nobody wants him gone, some people just aren't concerned with what they might make a stranger feel.
Ray Garraty felt content. Maybe the back of his skull still ached, a dull sensation shrinking down by the minute. Maybe there would come harsh realities and ugly moments. “But you've got me,” Pete had said, and it was true. He knew that much. Everything would be okay– he had someone on his side. Someone more important than the whole world out to get him.