⟡ he gets me so high ⟡
͙͘͡★ Pairing: Ray Garraty x Pete McVries
͙͘͡★ Synopsis: Ray didn't even want to come to this party. But now he's here. And Pete has found him in a private moment, Ray's heart aching for him. Does his ache too?
͙͘͡★ Content: Fluff, dash of angst, kinda hurt/comfort-y, kissing, love confession, college au, some light sexually suggestive description, weed, mention of a strip club (ray did not have a good time…), the “slut money” story is sorta inspired by the bunny money plot in new girl (iykyk).
͙͘͡★ WC: 4.1k
A/N: so…..i’ve only ever written reader insert but these two have been gnawing at me for a while so here’s some fluff for your fav doomed by the narrative couple!! i’ve undoomed them for you:)
read it on ao3
dividers 1 | dividers 2
Ray really doesn’t know how or why he let Hank talk him into this.
His roommate must be some kind of fucking wizard the way he bends people to his will. He has this fast-talking way of convincing you to do something before you can conduct your own risk/benefit analysis.
And before you know it, you’re in the parking lot of a strip club, bathed in neon light and questioning every seemingly insignificant choice you’ve made in your life that has led you to this very moment: cashing in real American dollars for so-called “slut money”.
On second thought, maybe wizard isn’t the right word…conniving puppet master feels far more apt.
Jolting as a firm slap lands on his back, Ray looks accusingly at the culprit as he proclaims, “The night is young, Garraty! It’s too early for you to be stuck in that ginger head of yours!”
Hank had said he’ll regret not partying enough when college is over, that Ray needs to live a little and get fucked up!. Unfortunately, the only regret he has right now is not completing the outline for that 10-page paper in his popular fiction course that’s due in two days.
Ray rolls his eyes and sighs in playful annoyance, the late-autumn evening air nipping at his cheeks as fallen leaves crunch underfoot on their walk to the house party. A party which, at this very moment, Ray begrudges the existence of.
Don’t get him wrong, he isn’t some square who doesn’t know how to have a good time. But his popular fiction professor is kind of a pretentious hard-ass who loves to proclaim how few students have ever received a letter grade above C in his class. So, excuse him if his mind is a bit preoccupied tonight.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a manipulative sonovabitch, Olsen?” Ray quips.
“Indeed they have, my friend.” The shorter man grins devilishly and Ray can only snort, resigned to the night ahead. “Indeed they have.”
The bass-heavy music pumping through the house reverberates through Ray’s bones. The place is crowded with bodies and thick with the smell of weed and sweat as 20-somethings all around them dance, drink, and shout at each other over the noise. A nondescript hum fills the near-stifling warm air of the first floor.
“Be right back!” Hank shouts over the din the moment they step inside.
Ray tosses his hands up, like where the fuck are you going already, after dragging me to this godforsaken party? as he watches him expertly weave through the throng.
He glances around, staying put so Hank can find him again when (if?) he returns. Desperate to find anyone to cling to, Ray scans the faces of the party. He recognizes a handful of people from his classes, but no one he really knows.
Distantly, he thinks he hears someone shouting his name and instinctually looks around to locate the source.
It’s so goddamn loud in here, he can hardly hear himself think.
Again, another shout (definitely his name) and Ray’s eyes finally land on a familiar smiling face, arms outstretched as he descends the steps.
“Ray! Hey, man!”
His shoulders fall with a sigh of relief as Art’s kind smile greets him.
“Hey, how’s it goin’?” He replies as his friend reaches the first floor.
“Good, good,” he says nonchalantly. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight.”
“Well-” he begins, but just then Hank bursts through the crowd to his right, a wrinkled ziploc bag clutched victoriously in his fist.
Understanding creeps over Art’s features.
“Oh, I see…” Art says, as though the sight of their exultant friend is all the explanation he needs. He cracks a knowing smile, making laughter rumble through Ray’s chest.
“Hank,” Art greets, putting his hand out. Hank grabs the other man’s hand with a loud clap and shakes it vigorously.
“Good fucking evening to you too!” He replies, cheery as ever. Probably something to do with the contents of said ziploc.
“Good to see you, man,” Art laughs a little, clapping him on the back. “It’s gonna be a good night!”
“Now it is.” Hank grins, presenting the ziploc and jostling a few sloppily rolled joints around in the bag, small bits of flower clinging to the plastic on the inside.
“My treat!” he declares, pointedly raising his brows at Ray as he grips his shoulder and shakes.
Presumably, the weed is a consolation prize for his reluctant attendance. Though it seems like a bit of a cheap trick, Hank has deliberately selected the perfect antidote for his anxiety about his paper. He’ll take it.
“You know me too well.”
“No fucking way!” Collie scoffs.
“I fuckin’ swear on my fuckin’ mother!” Hank exclaims, crossing his heart and holding his hands up like there isn’t a single thing he can do about the reality of his story.
“You-”
But Collie is cut off as Art sucks his teeth and smacks Hank’s arm in playful admonishment. “C’mon, man.”
Ray and Collie share a glance and snort at their friend’s antics. It’s not the cussing Art abhors (though he won’t do so himself, not even so much as a quiet shit! when he stubs his toe), it’s the swearing on Hank’s own mother that he objects.
“Sorry, sorry! But it’s true,” Hank says with a note of finality, waving his hands around. Flecks of ash from the lit joint held between his fingers flutter to the floor.
Collie pipes up again, “Oh, come on. Last time you told this story there was only one security guard harassing you for your slut money.”
“There most definitely was not!” Hank has always been an eccentric guy, but get him an audience (and some good weed) and he only becomes more exuberant. “There were two and they fuckin’ cornered me at the machine!”
This is the umpteenth time he has told the strip club story. Everyone in the circle is well familiar with the excruciating details, having heard the tale at least twice. A tale which seems to be getting even taller with each iteration as Hank keeps further embellishing the story with details that Ray definitively does not remember. He should know; he was there (roped into yet another Hank escapade) and recalls every mortifying second of that evening as it is etched into his mind, like lover’s initials carved into bark.
Nonetheless, their friends humour him every time he tells the story with newfound vigour.
As playful arguing ensues amongst the group about the details of the story, Ray taps Art’s bicep with his knuckles. He’s gonna need a little assistance from the joint stuffed into his jeans pocket if he’s gonna endure yet another retelling of this story.
“Hey, I’m gonna go light up outside.”
Art nods.
Ray quietly exits the group and weaves between drunk partygoers, eventually breaking free in the foyer, where he peaks outside, finding a group of people playing a rowdy game of beer pong on the porch.
One of the men, who is at least six-and-a-half feet tall with shoulder-length blonde hair, makes the final shot, and downs the beer himself before crushing the plastic cup against his (presumably empty) skull and letting out what can only be described as an uproarious battle cry.
Nope. Ray instantly turns on his heel and heads up the stairs, hoping to (at the very least) find a quiet room with a window he can smoke out of.
As he reaches the first landing, he can see his friend group huddled together in the den, laughing at something Hank says. A fond smile creeps onto his face as he watches them and continues up the stairs.
But when he spies someone entering the group he pauses in his tracks. Ray’s breath stutters with recognition and that familiar sweet ache grasps his heart.
The group look as happy as ever to see Pete McVries as Art claps him on the back and he and Collie nod at each other. Someone must say something funny because Pete cracks a smile that wrinkles the skin by his eyes and laughs, his head thrown back in glee.
Jesus, Ray thinks.
Then, fuck me, when Hank passes Pete the joint and his lips wrap around it. He watches, rapt, as Pete’s chest expands with breath before he exhales a plume of smoke.
Heat settles low in Ray’s gut, his mouth suddenly feeling dry despite the joint sitting untouched in his pocket.
He realizes the only reason he’s at this party in the first place is because he was (seemingly very easily) talked into it by Hank, but he knows that Pete wouldn’t have to talk Ray into anything. Ray would follow him anywhere.
All he would have to do is flash that charming smile of his.
Ray had read the phrase “lights up a room” a thousand times in countless books, but it almost felt like a myth until he met Pete. When he enters a room, he floods it with his radiance and lights everyone else up.
They first met last winter, in their creative writing class. He knew immediately that his friends would love Pete (who wouldn’t?), but held off on introducing them. Selfishly, Ray had wanted to keep Pete’s light to himself for a little while longer. Bask in his warmth without having to share it.
He has this beautiful talent of making everyone in the room feel included and loved.
Because of this–because Pete makes everyone feel special–Ray can’t be sure that his feelings for Pete are reciprocated. It doesn’t matter that he knows Pete is queer, single, and looking.
He’s sure that others have mistaken Pete’s kindness and warmth for romantic or sexual interest. And, well, if Ray let his true feelings slip and was wrong in assuming that Pete shares them too, he’d probably have to walk into oncoming traffic.
He’d let Pete hit him with a car if he smiled at him first. And if Pete’s face was the last he saw, Ray would die happy.
With that completely insane thought he pulls himself away from the sight and explores the second floor.
After a few tries, he cracks open a door near the end of the hall to find a small laundry room. And blissfully: a single French door within the room, leading to a quaint balcony that looks out into the forest behind the yard. “Fucking finally.”
A chill zips up his spine when he steps outside and he instinctually pulls his shoulders up to his ears as the breeze tousles his hair. Closing the door behind him, the music and chatter from the party dampens, bringing into focus the sound of the wind whistling through bare trees.
Reaching into his jeans pocket, he pulls out the joint and then fumbles around in his jacket pocket for the lighter he knows is there.
Hank fucking hates it when he fiddles with the thing, flipping the top open and shut, open and shut with a satisfying metallic clink. Sometimes he doesn’t even know he’s doing it until Hank abruptly snatches it out of his hands and temporarily takes custody of it.
Ray cups his hand around the joint held between his lips and flicks the lighter open. The cherry glows bright red, the same colour as some of the tiny bulbs of Christmas lights wrapped around the wrought iron railing. After a few tokes, Ray finally feels the stress of his essay melting away. His mind quiets and calm washes over his body, relaxing previously tensed muscles.
Watching the thick smoke blow away with the wind on an exhale, he leans over the railing and looks up into the clear night sky.
He came out here with every intention of returning to the party once he was good and floaty. But this blissful wave of softness cresting over him is keeping him rooted here. And he can’t deny how nice the silence is, how beautiful the twinkling stars look.
Ray is well aware that these are all just excuses to avoid going back inside because he wasn’t exactly in the partying mood in the first place. But now he’s found this splendid corner of the night that’s all his to enjoy, how can he deny himself?
And, strangely, he doesn’t really feel alone, because looking up at the stars feels like staring into Pete’s soul: bright and beautiful.
He subconsciously finds himself looking for constellations Pete’s mentioned. Ursa Major is easy enough to find, but he fails to locate Andromeda without Pete. Ray wonders how many constellations Pete could name. If he would be willing to point them all out to him. If he could-
“Hey, Ray.” That low, drawling timbre warms Ray’s face despite the chill.
Turning to see Pete step out onto the balcony, Ray straightens up and absently fiddles with the sleeve of his jacket. Pete’s smiling at the sight of him and Ray wills the blush away, prays it’s not creeping up his neck and tinging his cheeks an embarrassing pink.
“Oh,” he starts softly and with far too much fondness warming his tone. Then in an attempt to sound more casual, he clears his throat. “Hey, Pete. What’re you doing out here?”
“The guys said you’d been gone awhile…” Pete joins him at the railing and meets his eyes. “But I could ask you the same thing.”
“Uh…” He falters. Pete came looking for him?
For a moment, he’s forgotten what Pete had said, distracted by the thought and his deep brown eyes. The intensity in them warms Ray from the inside out, like hot tea settling in his stomach.
He tries to hold his gaze, but finds it difficult to be examined with such sweet sincerity. “I dunno. I guess it’s just nicer out here.”
Pete smiles mildly.
“Nicer?” His tone is a far cry from judgmental or mean. It drips with genuine curiosity. A drive to understand.
Though Ray feels what he’s said is quite benign and not deep enough to deserve understanding. He looks away, back up into the sky.
Still, he explains simply, “Can see the stars tonight.”
It’s all he can think of. Because Pete–who’s been known to wax poetic about the cosmos on occasion–is all he can think of. This habit, of course, makes Ray melt.
But before Pete had even stepped out here, he was thinking of him. Of how his soul is made up of the stars. But now he’s here, warmth radiating from his body, smelling of vanilla and smoke. And Ray can’t get enough.
When Pete looks up into the inky sky at the millions, trillions of winking stars, Ray gives in and glances at him. His eyes trace the lines of his face, from that scar running across his cheekbone (which somehow makes him even more handsome), to his strong nose and full lips.
Then, in that impossibly casual, yet intense way of his, Pete recites smoothly: “Till rising and gliding out, I wandered off by myself, In the mystical night-air, and from time to time, Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.”
Pete catches Ray’s eye and he feels his face flush at being caught staring. Pete doesn’t seem to mind–if he notices at all–so he asks, “What’s that from?”
Pete smiles softly. “It’s, uh…Whitman. On how the stars, the universe, are too big and beautiful to comprehend through science. That our own silent reflection of ‘em is a more profound experience.”
Oh, God. How this man reaches past his ivory bones with such ease to squeeze Ray’s heart in his bare hands.
“I like that,” he replies, his voice quiet like he’s almost scared to admit it. Because maybe what he’s really saying is I like you.
“Me too, Ray.” His name sounds like poetry on Pete’s tongue. It makes him breathless.
Ray takes another deep pull from the joint, letting the smoke fill his lungs before slowly exhaling, disguising his need for a deep breath with the weed.
A few moments of silence pass easily between them before Ray feels the effects of his last puff, his head feeling like it’s slowly being filled with cotton. He takes another drag to calm his racing heart.
“How do you do that?” he blurts out, his voice thick with smoke and tone full of awe.
“Do what?”
How does everything sound so unpretentious and pleasing from your lips? Can you say my name again? Can you tell me you want me with the same casual confidence with which you recite poetry? Write sonnets about the way my skin feels when it's pressed against yours?
Pete’s eyes search Ray’s face with careful curiosity. Trying to find the answers there.
How do you make me want you this much?
“Um, forget it,” he waves it off before bringing the joint to his lips again, looking up into the sky.
His skin heats at the idea of spilling his guts to him right here and now, of tearing through flesh to free his heart from its cage of bones and handing it off so cavalierly.
Pete leans in closer, and when Ray looks back at him (because how can he not?) Pete is giving him this meaningful look that he can’t quite decipher. That makes every part of him ache.
“C’mon,” he prompts, gently bumping his shoulder with Ray’s. Warmth explodes at the point of contact. If he wasn’t blushing before, he certainly is now. Red as the Christmas lights at their waists, red as the glowing ash at the end of Ray’s joint on an inhale. “How do I do what, Ray?”
It’s like a haiku spilling from his perfect mouth.
Ray watches him for a moment, the way he squints a little at the breeze. His warm, curious eyes searching his.
“You-” Ray sighs, carefully determining how to phrase his thoughts. Figuring out the best way to work around the real question. “You make it sound so simple…easy.”
“The poem?”
No. Not the poem, Pete.
The yearning.
If Pete feels it too, why doesn’t it seem like it’s a burning ache for him? Because for Ray, it feels like his heart is ablaze whenever Pete’s eyes are on him.
“Yeah,” Ray replies heavily, resting his elbows on the freezing railing and looking away again.
Try as he might to stop the disappointment from marring his tone, it’s impossible. But it isn’t Pete’s fault for being unable to decode what Ray is asking.
He’s having this silent conversation with himself and quietly coming to conclusions about how Pete must feel without actually asking. It’s essentially impossible to stop him spiraling.
Pete, as empathetic as he is, must recognize the shift in his demeanor instantly as he prompts, “Hey.”
Mortifyingly, there’s a lump forming in Ray’s throat and tears dotting his lash line just at the sound of his voice. He blames the stinging wind.
In the same way that he instinctually knows he shouldn’t look into an eclipse, he knows he can’t look back at Pete. Terrified he might see everything Ray is thinking and feeling–everything he’s ever thought and felt–all over his face. Ray isn't fearless like him. It isn’t easy for him to reveal his heart.
“Ray,” Pete calls softly, a note of pleading present in his tone that Ray has never heard before.
But he can’t. Shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders, like It’s fine, I’m fine.
Then there are gentle fingers holding his chin, tilting his face toward Pete without any resistance. The sensitive skin there tingles, like thousands of tiny stars exploding across his skin all at once.
The world’s sharp edges soften. Ray’s breathing becomes shallow as Pete’s eyes find his, and everything becomes completely quiet and totally still–except for Ray’s heart which beats so fast he swears it’ll burst from his chest and leap right into Pete’s waiting palms.
Pete takes him in. Ray watches him do this, the moment feeling fragile. Like it could shatter as easily as glass.
“What are you thinking?” Pete asks, his voice barely above a whisper as he slides his hand to cup Ray’s cheek. Like a soothing balm to his private misery. Satiating that deep ache. Dousing his blazing heart with tenderness.
For a brief moment, Ray had thought he was going to take his hand away as he’d moved it.
Ray would do anything to keep Pete right here. And that thought scares him the most. More than his perceived inadequacies. More than the thought of revealing his heart to Pete. Because it means he’s just going to have to excavate his own heart, unsure whether Pete will claim it.
The entire universe is narrowed down to this–to Pete. And Ray’s stomach is flipping as the words are on his tongue. But he feels them too deeply to swallow them.
How does Pete make Ray want him this much? It’s simple, really: “You make everything more beautiful.”
Pete’s lips part softly in surprise, perhaps stunned by this rare vulnerability.
Ray knows what he’s said is quite loaded. But it’s what he is thinking. And the moment the words are set free, he feels suddenly lighter. Like a single helium balloon tied to his wrist could make him float.
But as the seconds stretch on in silence, Ray begins to regret his words. He swallows roughly, pulls away, and pushes off from the railing to stand at his full height. He immediately misses the feeling of Pete’s hand and takes one last toke to still his trembling ones.
“S-sorry,” he stutters humiliatingly as he snuffs out the joint, shaking his head in admonishment at himself. “It’s the pot, it makes me-”
“Ray,” he says, tone full of confident conviction. Pete carefully lifts his hand to Ray’s cheek, warmth seeping through his skin. Ray’s lashes flutter ever so slightly and he can’t help but lean into his touch, making Pete’s brow wrinkle with raw emotion.
“Pete…I’m s-”
“Nah, just-” he shakes his head.
“But-”
“Stop.” Pete’s demand is tender as he brings his other hand to Ray’s face. Grounding him.
Ray’s breath hitches and he allows his eyes to flutter shut. To feel how Pete’s strong hands slow his heartbeat. He places his own hand atop Pete’s, soaking up the feeling of the other man’s skin pressed against his. Knowing then that even Ray himself could write sonnets about it.
“I want you too, Ray.”
His eyes fly open.
Ray can’t be sure the statement is real. That those words truly spilled from Pete’s lips. That the ‘too’ tagged on the end means that Pete has known all along how Ray feels about him. And of course he would. Of course he does.
“I want you,” Pete confirms.
As Ray watches the words roll off his poet’s tongue, he finally sees it in Pete’s eyes. A reflection of his own longing. Another heart set ablaze. A fire there, burning out of control.
If he’s honest, Ray doesn’t think very much of himself. Knows for a fact he lacks the light Pete exudes, as well as attractiveness. He doesn’t think he’s ugly, necessarily. Just pale, pudgy, and freckled.
How could someone like Pete, who is so beautiful, so confident in himself, want Ray?
“I thought-”
Ray’s never seen Pete lose his composure. He’s calm and cool, wears his heart on his sleeve.
But he’s exasperated when he tells Ray, Don’t think, and kisses him with a gentle ferocity. It halts any apprehension he had, making him dizzy.
And he grabs Pete’s arms, pulling him close because he can, feeling his strength and letting it pour into him. Giving him the courage to slide his tongue into Pete’s mouth, making the both of them moan.
One of Pete’s hands slides around to cradle the back of Ray’s head, trailing down to his neck. Feeling him. Exploring. Every nerve ending at the back of his neck lights up at the touch.
Pete’s mouth is warm and soft, his tongue licking poetry into Ray’s mouth.
He knew it would be good–kissing Pete. But this–this–is so good. And so very right. Ray feels his heart ache pleasantly, the fire blazing there spreading through his entire body.
When they pull away, breathless, Pete smiles brightly, his eyes shining. Ray grins right back because he simply cannot help it, incredulous laughter bubbling past his lips.
He thumbs the soft skin above Pete’s lip, grazing the marred skin where his scar ends and then his mouth.
“What are you thinking?” Ray practically whispers, throwing Pete’s question right back at him.
Pete smiles again, amused.
“I’m thinking…” he starts, grabbing Ray’s waist. If it were anyone else touching him there he might shy away. But he can see the heat in Pete’s soulful eyes as his hands squeeze the flesh there wantonly.
“...That I want to kiss you again…and again…and again.” Pete punctuates each again with chaste kisses that leave him warm and wanting, before tugging Ray against his hips and kissing him hard.
Even the impossible beauty of the stars is magnified when he’s in Pete’s arms.
Thank you so much for reading! Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)
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