FIC: As I Push Against Gravity (Ray/Walt, PG15)
Title: As I Push Against Gravity
Author: Kali
Pairings: Ray/Walt
Rating: pg15
Summary: He can't make himself believe the lie.
Notes/Warnings: Prostitution, angst. Set in the same 'verse as In The Streets Of Shame
Disclaimer: This is based on the ficionalised HBO series, not the actual people portrayed in the book.
Ray can count on one hand the amount of good memories he has of his childhood and still have enough fingers left to lift a wallet. Mostly he doesn't think of his childhood at all, because what's the point dwelling on shit he can't change? Shit happens, it happened to him more than most people, and now he just deals with the fallout.
Besides, he figures his life maybe isn't all that bad now, not since he met Walt. In the three or four years since then, they've managed to make themselves a good life, relatively speaking. By pooling their money, they can afford a shitty apartment in a building owned by a friend of Poke's, plus a pair of second-hand cell phones, and more often than not, Ray can count on one hot meal a day. It's more than he had before he found Walt sitting on the curb like a lost little puppy.
Sure, sometimes he comes home bruised and sore as fuck (no pun intended), sometimes he has to weasel his way out of trouble he usually gets into by running his mouth. Sometimes Walt doesn't come home when he should and Ray panics until he calls to check in. Sometimes Ray has nightmares that leave him a sweating, shaky mess, huddled over the toilet as he throws up whatever they scraped together for dinner.
Tonight, the dream that jolts him awake isn't a nightmare. It's pretty much the polar opposite of nightmare and that makes it all the worse.
He's dreams of Patty, maybe the third-to-last house he ever stayed in. She was one of the good ones, one of the few, and didn't yell at him too much when he invariably got into trouble. Instead she'd just sit him down and explain where he was going wrong, what he should be doing instead. Then she'd hug him, tugging him right in close. She always smelled of jasmine and even now when Ray catches a hint of it or something similar, he thinks of her.
Jasmine and cookies, those are his two strongest memories of her, two of his favourite memories period. Every weekend, they'd spend hours in the kitchen, baking. It was her, Ray, little Marie and sometimes Devon, if he was around and in the right mood. Mostly Patty would stand back and let them do everything, even when flour got all over the floor and Ray painted his face with war tattoos made of butter. She'd put the radio on in the background, some tinny salsa-type music, and she drummed her fingers against the counter in time with it, watching them fondly.
They always made their cookies too big, heaping big dollops of mixture on to the tray, and then fought over who got to lick the spoon. Only it wasn't ever really a fight because Ray always let Marie win. Then Patty would shoo them out of the kitchen so she could clean up, snagging Ray on his way past for another hug.
“You're a good kid, Ray,” she'd murmur. “Just remember that.”
Ray slams awake, eyes snapping open and dragging in a painful breath. The dream shatters, leaving only broken fragments of memory. He glances to his side, checks that Walt is still sprawled out beside him. It's hot and with no AC, their apartment is stifling, so they've both stripped down to nothing; it's not like they have any reason for modesty. The moon casts enough light that Ray can make out the scar cutting along Walt's back, just above his ass. Ray can still remember the red-hot fury that had enveloped him when Walt had stumbled home that night, hands bloodied and legs weak, tinged with an ice-cold fear.
He reaches out, traces his fingers over the scar. Doc Bryan had stitched him up nicely and Walt hadn't gotten an infection or anything, so he tries to tell himself that it's okay, everything's good, but it won't stick. He can't make himself believe the lie.
“If you're gonna molest me in my sleep, do it quickly and leave the money on your way out,” Walt mumbles into the pillow. It's supposed to be a joke, supposed to make Ray joke back, but it doesn't. It's not funny.
Walt sighs, lifts his head to peer at Ray in the gloom. “What is it, Ray? I'm trying to sleep.”
Ray looks at him, takes in the sleep-mussed hair, the faint circles under his eyes. He remembers how Walt had looked when they met, all young and fresh and innocent. He remembers watching this life slowly eat at him, a fist clenching around his heart and smothering it, turning it into something cold and rotten. He remembers telling Walt that this life was okay.
“I'm sorry,” he breathes, and Walt frowns, pushes himself up into a sitting position.
“The fuck are you going on about?”
Ray sighs, turns away. He rests his elbows on his knees, laces his fingers together. “When I found you.... I showed you this life, taught you how to survive in it. I shouldn't have done that. I...”
“I made my choices, Ray,” Walt says quietly. “You taught me, but I chose to learn. I'm okay with that.”
Ray snorts. “You're okay with letting guys fuck you for money? Okay with living with bruises, constant checks for STDs and worrying about fucking HIV and AIDs? You're seriously okay with all that shit?”
Walt shifts, rests one hand against Ray's shoulder. “I'm okay with being with you,” he says. “I'm okay with knowing you've got my back, no matter what, that I have someone I never have to doubt or fear. I'm okay with trading the bad for the good.”
Ray flinches. “I'm not good,” he mutters brokenly. “I'm not a good kid.”
Walt moves again, this time going so far as to wrap his arms around Ray, press his cheek against Ray's back. “I think you are,” he murmurs. “And I'm the smart one in this relationship, so you should listen to me.”
Ray doesn't reply, but he knows Walt doesn't expect him to. He just sits there, phantom scent of jasmine and cookies lingering in the air making his stomach turn.
Author: Kali
Pairings: Ray/Walt
Rating: pg15
Summary: He can't make himself believe the lie.
Notes/Warnings: Prostitution, angst. Set in the same 'verse as In The Streets Of Shame
Disclaimer: This is based on the ficionalised HBO series, not the actual people portrayed in the book.
Ray can count on one hand the amount of good memories he has of his childhood and still have enough fingers left to lift a wallet. Mostly he doesn't think of his childhood at all, because what's the point dwelling on shit he can't change? Shit happens, it happened to him more than most people, and now he just deals with the fallout.
Besides, he figures his life maybe isn't all that bad now, not since he met Walt. In the three or four years since then, they've managed to make themselves a good life, relatively speaking. By pooling their money, they can afford a shitty apartment in a building owned by a friend of Poke's, plus a pair of second-hand cell phones, and more often than not, Ray can count on one hot meal a day. It's more than he had before he found Walt sitting on the curb like a lost little puppy.
Sure, sometimes he comes home bruised and sore as fuck (no pun intended), sometimes he has to weasel his way out of trouble he usually gets into by running his mouth. Sometimes Walt doesn't come home when he should and Ray panics until he calls to check in. Sometimes Ray has nightmares that leave him a sweating, shaky mess, huddled over the toilet as he throws up whatever they scraped together for dinner.
Tonight, the dream that jolts him awake isn't a nightmare. It's pretty much the polar opposite of nightmare and that makes it all the worse.
He's dreams of Patty, maybe the third-to-last house he ever stayed in. She was one of the good ones, one of the few, and didn't yell at him too much when he invariably got into trouble. Instead she'd just sit him down and explain where he was going wrong, what he should be doing instead. Then she'd hug him, tugging him right in close. She always smelled of jasmine and even now when Ray catches a hint of it or something similar, he thinks of her.
Jasmine and cookies, those are his two strongest memories of her, two of his favourite memories period. Every weekend, they'd spend hours in the kitchen, baking. It was her, Ray, little Marie and sometimes Devon, if he was around and in the right mood. Mostly Patty would stand back and let them do everything, even when flour got all over the floor and Ray painted his face with war tattoos made of butter. She'd put the radio on in the background, some tinny salsa-type music, and she drummed her fingers against the counter in time with it, watching them fondly.
They always made their cookies too big, heaping big dollops of mixture on to the tray, and then fought over who got to lick the spoon. Only it wasn't ever really a fight because Ray always let Marie win. Then Patty would shoo them out of the kitchen so she could clean up, snagging Ray on his way past for another hug.
“You're a good kid, Ray,” she'd murmur. “Just remember that.”
Ray slams awake, eyes snapping open and dragging in a painful breath. The dream shatters, leaving only broken fragments of memory. He glances to his side, checks that Walt is still sprawled out beside him. It's hot and with no AC, their apartment is stifling, so they've both stripped down to nothing; it's not like they have any reason for modesty. The moon casts enough light that Ray can make out the scar cutting along Walt's back, just above his ass. Ray can still remember the red-hot fury that had enveloped him when Walt had stumbled home that night, hands bloodied and legs weak, tinged with an ice-cold fear.
He reaches out, traces his fingers over the scar. Doc Bryan had stitched him up nicely and Walt hadn't gotten an infection or anything, so he tries to tell himself that it's okay, everything's good, but it won't stick. He can't make himself believe the lie.
“If you're gonna molest me in my sleep, do it quickly and leave the money on your way out,” Walt mumbles into the pillow. It's supposed to be a joke, supposed to make Ray joke back, but it doesn't. It's not funny.
Walt sighs, lifts his head to peer at Ray in the gloom. “What is it, Ray? I'm trying to sleep.”
Ray looks at him, takes in the sleep-mussed hair, the faint circles under his eyes. He remembers how Walt had looked when they met, all young and fresh and innocent. He remembers watching this life slowly eat at him, a fist clenching around his heart and smothering it, turning it into something cold and rotten. He remembers telling Walt that this life was okay.
“I'm sorry,” he breathes, and Walt frowns, pushes himself up into a sitting position.
“The fuck are you going on about?”
Ray sighs, turns away. He rests his elbows on his knees, laces his fingers together. “When I found you.... I showed you this life, taught you how to survive in it. I shouldn't have done that. I...”
“I made my choices, Ray,” Walt says quietly. “You taught me, but I chose to learn. I'm okay with that.”
Ray snorts. “You're okay with letting guys fuck you for money? Okay with living with bruises, constant checks for STDs and worrying about fucking HIV and AIDs? You're seriously okay with all that shit?”
Walt shifts, rests one hand against Ray's shoulder. “I'm okay with being with you,” he says. “I'm okay with knowing you've got my back, no matter what, that I have someone I never have to doubt or fear. I'm okay with trading the bad for the good.”
Ray flinches. “I'm not good,” he mutters brokenly. “I'm not a good kid.”
Walt moves again, this time going so far as to wrap his arms around Ray, press his cheek against Ray's back. “I think you are,” he murmurs. “And I'm the smart one in this relationship, so you should listen to me.”
Ray doesn't reply, but he knows Walt doesn't expect him to. He just sits there, phantom scent of jasmine and cookies lingering in the air making his stomach turn.