Chapter Text
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October came with crisp air and a kind of quiet that felt like permission.
Permission to rest. To breathe. To live in small, soft ways.
Pete had been through four full infusions now. The fog in his head was a little lighter. The nausea a little less frequent. He still had rough days, when fatigue sank into his bones and didn’t lift for hours, but he could laugh again without coughing. He could stand for longer than ten minutes. He even gained two pounds back.
And they both understood it wasn’t a cure. But it was something. And that something looked promising.
Ray made pumpkin pancakes that Sunday. Burned half of them, naturally. Pete still ate every bite. Spaghetti stole one and dragged it under the couch like a goblin with a gold coin.
Later, they carved pumpkins on the living room floor.
Pete’s was a crude, wobbly vampire with lopsided fangs. Ray’s was supposed to be a cat but looked more like a bat with mange.
“Masterpieces,” Pete declared. “We should sell them. You’re the Frank O’Hara to my Larry Rivers.” Ray smiled and kissed him on the jaw.
Ray wiped a smear of pumpkin off Pete’s cheek. “At the very least, Spaghetti's going to worship them like pagan idols.” Spaghetti barked once, unbothered.
The apartment smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like they were racing a clock.
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Two days later, Ray drove Pete to get his port flushed.
It was a quick appointment, routine, necessary, dull. Pete hated it. Called it his “bi-weekly boob plumbing.”
The nurse liked Ray. Asked him if they were “partners” with a smile that was just a little too knowing.
Ray didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.” Pete looked over at him with quiet surprise.
Ray held his gaze, calm and certain.
And Pete, pale, tired, fighting like hell, smiled like he hadn’t in weeks.
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That night, they didn’t go anywhere. They stayed home. No music. No movies.
Just Spaghetti curled up on his bed in the corner, and the soft buzz of a candle warmer in the kitchen.
Ray leaned against the arm of the couch, legs parted, thighs bare under a long, soft hoodie. Pete sat between them, forehead resting against Ray’s stomach.
He looked up, slow and warm-eyed. “You’re so good to me.”
Ray brushed his fingers through Pete’s hair. “You let me be.”
Pete leaned up, kissed just below his bellybutton, then higher. “Want you tonight Bambi.”
Ray nodded, already breathless.
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They kissed slowly.
Pete moved over him, careful but sure, his weight familiar, grounding. His mouth dragged down Ray’s neck, across his collarbones, down the soft slope of his chest. He kissed each freckle like it was a sacred spot, hands slipping beneath the hem of Ray’s hoodie.
“Lift your hips,” he whispered.
Ray did. Pete tugged his boxers down, smiling as Ray’s cock sprang free, already hard, already leaking.
“Fuck,” Pete whispered, thumbing over the tip.
Ray gasped, head dropping back. “You gonna take care of me?”
Pete kissed his hip. “Every time sweetheart."
He didn’t rush.
He slicked his fingers first—Ray was already loose from the plug he wore sometimes when he wanted to be ready fast—and slipped one inside, then two, curling just right. Ray moaned, thighs twitching.
“I love how you open up for me,” Pete murmured. “Like you need me.”
“I do,” Ray whispered, back arching. “Need you so bad.”
Pete rolled on the condom, lubed himself up, and nudged against Ray’s rim, spooning behind him as they sank into the couch cushions.
Ray cried out when he slid in slow, deep, hot.
Pete didn’t move right away. Just wrapped his arm around Ray’s waist and kissed the back of his neck.
“I could die like this,” he murmured.
“Don’t say that,” Ray breathed, even as his cock throbbed.
“I mean it in a good way baby.” Then Pete started to move.
Long, slow thrusts, careful but relentless. Ray whimpered, grinding back against him, body trembling with how full he felt. Pete’s arm held him tight, the other hand gripping Ray’s thigh to keep him still.
“You take me so well,” Pete whispered. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”
Ray reached back, fingers tangling in Pete’s hair.
Pete nipped at his ear. “Gonna come like this?”
Ray moaned. “Y-yeah—fuck—I’m close—”
Pete’s hand wrapped around his cock, stroking in rhythm. “Then come. Make a mess for me.”
Ray cried out as he came, hips stuttering, cum spilling over Pete’s hand, his body pulsing around him.
Pete groaned, buried himself deep, and came with a low, ragged sound, breath hot against Ray’s neck.
They lay there after—sweaty, messy, tangled together on the couch with a throw pillow beneath Ray’s hip.
Pete kissed the back of Ray’s neck. “I’m not afraid when I’m with you.”
Ray turned, kissed his lips. “Then stay as long as you can.”
“I’m trying,” Pete whispered.
And for once, it felt like enough.
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