Chapter Text
Nobody really warned Ray how boring touring would be.
He says this to Frank, from where he’s flopped backwards onto the first actual, real mattress he’s touched in two weeks, legs splayed and arm thrown over his eyes.
“What, and break your hopeful little heart?” Frank says. “Nah, man, you wouldn’t have believed me. Touring’s not something you can prepare for, anyway. Nobody really understands until they’re in it.”
Ray lifts his head to give Frank a side-eye from under his arm. Puts his head back down, because Frank’s wearing nothing but a towel, slung low across his hips, and Ray’s totally chill about that.
“Riiiight,” he drawls. He’s starting to think Frank mostly talks out of his ass. A year ago, it had seemed impressive that Pencey had toured all the way to Minnesota. Now they’re in Florida; Ray’s not sure Frank’s sagely delivered touring advice counts for shit when this is the first time any of them have been this far south. He wonders, not for the first time, how much of Frank’s confident bluster is even genuine.
“Dunno why you’re complaining now, anyway,” Frank says. “We’re in the fucking lap of luxury.”
He’s not kidding. They’re crashing at some guy’s house—Dan, who’d done sound tech at the little bar they’d played that night—and his place is, like, nice. Nice enough that there’s an entire spare bedroom, complete with an ensuite. Gerard had taken one for the team and is crashing on the pull-out sofa bed with Otter, which Ray appreciates because Otter’s been getting on his last fucking nerve. He’s not sure he could spend a night alone with him without bitching him out, no matter how nice the mattress might be.
“You’re right. I’m never getting up from this bed again,” he declares. “Mikey had better hurry up if he wants a spot.”
Frank scoffs. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing Mikeyway again tonight, dude.”
He’s probably right. Mikey had disappeared almost an hour ago with Dan-the-sound-guy’s girlfriend. And maybe also Dan. Ray’s trying not to think too hard about it.
“How,” Ray says, “does that kid always get laid.”
“What, you jealous?”
“No,” Ray says, too fast. “I just don’t know how he has the energy.” Frank laughs, and Ray’s cheeks flush.
“Okay, old man. You totally could have hooked up with that chick from the merch table. You know, the one in the Coheed shirt. She was into you.”
Ray grimaces, remembering the girl. She’d been nice. Cool. He’s pretty sure she’d been more interested in Gerard, anyway—Gerard’s the one with that weird magnetism, the one that seems at odds with his soft demeanor until he gets on stage and dials it up to eleven. He hums noncommittally, hoping Frank will drop it.
He should know, by now, that Frank never drops it.
“Come on, Toro,” he coaxes. “Don’t tell me I gotta be your wingman. You need me to hype you up here or something?”
“No, like…it’s just.” Ray picks at a cotton pill on his faithful Iron Maiden t-shirt. “It’s kind of not the same, you know?”
“What’s not the same?”
“When you don’t, like, know her?”
Frank laughs at him, loud and surprised, and Ray’s cheeks go warm and his stomach goes warm too, low down.
“Aww, fuck, dude.”
“I’m not sad, okay?” Ray protests, before Frank can make fun of him. “I just…I like to know what she wants.” Ray’s not always great at that, at understanding what people want from him. He appreciates the comfort of familiarity, that’s all. Of clarity.
“That’s…very Ray Toro of you.” Ray’s skin prickles with the uncomfortable sensation of being observed. He can’t tell if he’s imagining the edge to Frank’s tone, or whether it’s mocking or fond.
“Whatever, man,” he grumbles.
“You know me, though, right?” Frank says, and Ray goes very still.
The thing is, he thinks he does know Frank. Better than he knows, say, Otter, even though he’d gone to high school with the guy. Gerard aside, Ray’s always been slow to make friends, but Frank’s wormed his way under Ray’s skin with remarkable ease. Ray feels comfortable around him, even though he has a habit of yanking the rug out from under Ray’s feet, throwing him off-balance. It should be annoying; instead, it always seems to end with Ray stumbling closer to him.
“So,” Frank continues slowly, deliberately. “What do you think I want?”
Case in point. Ray swallows thickly, and tries to regain his footing. “A proper shower?”
“Sure. But I just had a proper shower.”
Ray peeks out from under his arm. Frank’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his skinny chest. He’s staring at Ray, mouth quirked.
Ray’s belly feels, suddenly, very exposed. Stretched out on the mattress as he is, he’s aware of all the places his shirt’s riding up, revealing soft flesh. Which is fucking stupid, anyway, because Frank’s the one with his pubes hanging out. Still, he pushes up onto his elbows, curving his spine inwards.
Frank’s stomach flexes and his hipbones shift as he pushes himself off from the wall, approaching the bed in what Ray can only describe as a saunter. The mattress shifts as Frank settles on the edge of it, and Ray’s knee tips open, almost close enough to touch the bare skin at the base of his spine.
Ray realizes, first, that he’s staring and, second, that Frank’s noticed, if his smirk is anything to go by.
“What?” Ray asks flatly.
“What?’ Frank mimics, and Ray’s definitely sure he’s being mocked this time. He narrows his eyes.
He can’t quite pinpoint the moment intent turns to motion and carries him over the edge of the mattress—hadn’t even fully formed the thought in his mind. If he had, he undoubtedly would have lost his nerve. As it is, one moment he’s on his back on the bed, the next he’s dropping to his knees in front of Frank, one hand splayed on either of his thighs.
Something about Frank makes Ray want to be bold. Besides, the way his mouth has gone from a sharp smirk to slack and a little stunned, the way his hand clenches reflexively to draw the towel tighter around his waist, is stupidly gratifying.
“You wanted this, last time,” Ray says, and that’s when his heart really starts racing, his sudden bravado wavering. This is the first time either of them has properly acknowledged that night in the studio, when everything was smoke-hazy and soft with newness, besides Frank making innuendos or lewd gestures—even then, always in company, always under a plausible guise of banter.
“Whoa,” Frank says, and Ray hopes the breathy quality to his voice is a good thing and not a very, very bad thing. “Okay. Right into it. You’re full of surprises, Toro.”
Ray’s not, really. It’s just that he doesn’t like leaving things half-finished, and the things he does, he wants to do well. With a little more practice, Frank had said, after the last time. Well, Ray’s going to call his bluff.
“Do you want your dick sucked or not, dude?” Ray snipes, and Frank exhales a shaky laugh.
“Fuck. I mean, if I ever say no to that question, assume I’ve been replaced by some kind of imposter. A really evil, sick imposter.”
“Right,” Ray says. Frank’s flippancy is reassuring. This isn’t a big deal—just a couple of guys helping each other get off, because getting off is pretty nice.
Ray glances up at Frank’s face. He hadn’t been prepared for how fucking weird, jarring, it feels to kneel in front of him, to be forced to crane his neck to make eye contact. It makes his throat go dry and his mouth go wet at the same time, and his thumbs start rubbing little circles on Frank’s thighs, just above the insides of his knees, of their own accord. Frank’s skin is smooth and slightly damp from his shower, lacking most of the fuzz Ray has on his own. Even from this angle, his jaw looks sharp, and his eyes are big and dark in anticipation. He sits still, though, like he wants Ray to make the first move.
Fine.
Ray firms his grip on Frank’s thighs a little, pushing them outwards, and they fall apart readily. The towel slits up to the crease of his hip, and Frank lets the edges slip from his fist, and just like that, he’s naked.
It’s. A lot of skin. Last time, they hadn’t even gotten out of their jeans. Now, Ray can see the tickle of goosebumps on his thighs, the dusting of dark hair up to his bellybutton, the rise and fall of his ribs under his flat chest. He’s a little guy, but undeniable masculine—in a lot of the ways Ray isn’t. He’s almost elven, all sharp angles and flat planes, so little softness to him. Ray wrinkles his nose at that observation. He’s been spending way too much time with Gerard.
“Okay?” Frank asks, and there’s a little undercurrent of tension to his voice, and Ray realizes he’s just sitting there, staring at Frank’s mostly-soft dick.
“Yeah,” Ray says, and licks his lips, and before he can think about it any longer, leans forward and takes Frank into his mouth.
It’s weird, different from last time—not just because his movements are unimpeded by the haze of weed, the lights bright and exposing on Frank’s skin—but because the softness of Frank’s cock feels oddly intimate, surprisingly heavy on his tongue. He’s warm, a little salty-tasting, and smells of vanilla and coconut, presumably from whoever’s bodywash he’d helped himself to in the shower.
When this happens in porn, the guy’s almost always already hard. Ray’s been…watching. More specifically, been paying attention to the girl—not just to how pretty she is, but to what she does, how she reacts. He’s always felt kind of bad when girls have done this for him in the past; he couldn’t really see what they’d get out of it. He thinks he understands now, as he feels Frank slowly harden inside his mouth, responding to the movement of Ray’s tongue and lips. Ray has to concentrate, focus on all the tiny ways Frank reacts to his attention, while trying not to choke on him or scrape him with his teeth. A little shiver of satisfaction slinks down his spine every time Frank’s breath hitches. It feels like fiddling with the level and gain on an amp, twisting until it sings out just right.
Ray doesn’t lean back until Frank’s fully hard, until he can taste precome salty and heady on his tongue. He’s breathing heavily himself, lips slick with spit, mouth watering. It’s—fuck, he already misses the weight on his tongue, the feeling of fullness in his mouth. He takes a moment to catch his breath, nodding distractedly when Frank asks if he’s okay. He wants to try something.
He leans back in and closes his lips around just the tip of Frank’s cock, sucking gently, then pointing his tongue and circling the way his ex used to like on her clit. Frank rewards him with a sharp little, “Fuck, yes, that’s good.” Ray waits until he sounds breathless, then flattens his tongue and bears down until Frank’s cock nudges at the back of his throat. He’d tried this, last time, and now he wants to get it right. He chokes; he can’t help the instinctive flash of panic at his air being cut off, at his gag reflex spasming.
Frank groans, hands coming up to rest on Ray’s head. His fingers scritch against Ray’s scalp, and it sends icy-hot sparks tumbling down the back of his neck. Frank starts to say something, but Ray cuts him off by bobbing his head again. His cheeks burn with embarrassment—he probably looks fucking ridiculous—but he’s determined to figure this shit out. Porn stars make it look easy.
He sounds ridiculous, too—the noises are undeniably obscene. Those wet noises are coming from his throat, choked and involuntary and utterly exposing. It makes this, somehow, very real and very immediate, the fact that Ray’s on his knees with his bandmate’s cock down his throat. The painful pressure of the zipper of his jeans is undeniable evidence that he’s into it.
His hands are on Frank’s hips, his thumbs running circles over the sharp jut of Frank’s hipbones, grounding him. Frank’s stomach tenses and releases spasmodically in time with his stuttered breath; it sends Ray’s head spinning, the effect he’s having on him. He works up a rhythm; if he flattens his tongue just so and swallows at the right time, he can draw pretty sighs out of Frank. If he times his breathing right, holds his breath then hums on the exhale, he can get Frank’s hands clenching in his hair. His head feels foggy and clear all at once, like the best kind of high.
It’s almost a shock when Frank tenses up and spills into Ray’s mouth, groaning his name. Ray’s gut pangs with disappointment even as he chokes; he’s not ready for it to be over. The taste of Frank is hot and rich where it breaks across his tongue, but in his surprise Ray pulls back, so his gag reflex doesn’t betray him. He doesn’t go far. Just tilts his head and lets Frank’s cock rest on the corner of his mouth, so the rest of his load lands across his cheek. Frank makes this choked-off whimpering noise that twists Ray’s stomach up, then curls in on himself and strokes himself through the last of it, gasping.
It takes a moment for it to catch up to Ray. That he just let his buddy come on his face. His breath feels sharp in his chest, charged. He’s so hard it kind of hurts.
“Fuck,” Frank pants, eventually. His hand creeps down and cups Ray’s jaw. His thumb swipes across the mess on Ray’s cheek, then across his lips. They feel all puffy and swollen, tingly but almost numb, and he closes them around Frank’s thumb and sucks. He likes the pressure on his tongue. He likes the taste. He likes the soft, stunned look on Frank’s face.
“Your mouth,” Frank says. He sounds a little incredulous. “God. You look…”
Ray realizes he’s still stroking Frank’s hips. He rocks back to sit on his heels, swiping his forearm across his face. He just kind of smears it.
“Dan’s carpet,” Ray croaks, shocked at how strange it feels to speak around a raw throat. Frank blinks, then laughs.
“Right. Wouldn’t want to make a mess.” He’s staring heatedly at Ray’s face as he says it, and Ray starts to squirm beneath his gaze. Frank shakes himself, then pats the mattress. “Jesus, okay. Get up here, it’s your turn.”
“You don’t have to…” Ray says weakly, and Frank rolls his eyes at him, already sliding off the bed to the floor.
“Hey, fuck you. I’m not a total dick.”
Ray gets to his feet, wincing as the pressure from his jeans changes angle.
“I haven’t showered yet,” he blurts out, as Frank reaches for his belt.
“Dude,” Frank groans, tugging Ray’s jeans down over his hips and past his knees. “You’re fine. I’ve seen so much worse.”
Ray wonders, as Frank nudges him until he sits down on the spot Frank just vacated, if this is something Frank does with a lot of people. It would make more sense that way, if Frank just makes a habit of fooling around with whoever’s nearby on tour. He wonders how he compares to Frank’s old bandmates.
Then he stops wondering about anything for a moment, because Frank spits into his palm and wraps a hand around his cock, pumping him lazily. Ray twists his fingers into the sheets and bites down on a moan, desperate for more now that he’s finally been touched.
“Don’t expect me to do any deepthroating,” Frank says, emphasizing his words with a twist of his fist. “You’re a fucking freak.”
Ray laughs, suddenly very grateful for Frank, for how easy he makes things. His blasé impulsiveness can be irritating, but times like this, it’s a reassurance. It soothes that nasty twist of self-consciousness in Ray’s chest.
Frank sucks him off shallow and sloppy—what he lacks in finesse he makes up for in enthusiasm. There’s a lot of slurping, a lot of spit, and he bobs his head in time with his pumping fist, working up a swift rhythm that steals the air from Ray’s lungs. Ray watches him, transfixed; he keeps glancing up at Ray, and his eyes look so fucking pretty like this, all dark and hooded, with his lips stretched around Ray’s cock beneath them.
Frank catches his eyes for a long moment, then pulls off with a slick noise. “See, look,” he says, and does something with his hand that makes Ray’s stomach swoop. He smirks. “You can get creative with your fingers, too.”
When he takes Ray back into his mouth, his hand shifts to fondle Ray’s balls. The heat building in Ray’s stomach flares at the added sensation, and he’s usually good at keeping quiet, but he stutters Frank’s name like it’s been punched from his chest. Then Frank’s fingers creep back a little further and brush over that sensitive patch of skin back there, and it sends this giddy spike of pleasure right up into Ray’s gut and out to the tips of his fingers, and panic curls in his chest for a second because the stab of want want want is too unfamiliar, too much, to confront right now.
His hands shoot out and grab Frank’s shoulders, bracing. Frank rocks back and gazes up at Ray with those big fucking eyes, and Ray misses the heat of his mouth but at least his hand’s stopped inching back now, because instead he takes one of Ray’s hands and puts it in his hair.
“Don’t be shy,” he says, licking his lips. “You can pull.”
Ray’s trying to be polite, up here. Also, Frank’s glue dreads are kind of fucking gross. They’ve started to grow out though, and no matter how much Frank idly fiddles with his hair, the roots aren’t matted up like the tips. As Frank goes back down on him, Ray works his fingers in and rubs at his scalp, because that felt nice when Frank did it to him. Frank’s eyes flutter shut and he presses back into Ray’s touch, catlike.
Ray does tug, eventually, when he’s close, gasping out a warning, and Frank hums and leans back to grin wickedly. He makes a little show of it, looking Ray directly in the eyes as he pumps him slow and firm, and the heat builds and builds to a crest, and Ray’s chest is burning, too, with something hotter than arousal. He comes with a bitten-off noise, burying his teeth in his lower lip to muffle himself, and Frank swallows dutifully, sucking on the head of Ray’s cock until Ray whimpers.
Ray feels like he should say something, but his throat’s gone all tight. He feels hollowed-out and shaky, post-orgasm fatigue barreling into him immediately. He ends up, somehow, with a hand on Frank’s cheek. He’s probably imagining the way Frank nuzzles against it, before he rocks back on his heels, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
“There we go,” Frank says, dusting his hands off like he’s proud of a job well done. “Who says Mikeyway has to have all the fun?”
Ray laughs hollowly, and wonders what they would have done if Mikey or anyone else had walked in on them. This is the second time he and Frank have done this in someone else’s house, now. Ray wonders if he should ask what exactly they’re doing, or if that would make things weird.
“Feel any better?” Frank asks.
“Huh?”
“You said you were bored.”
“Right!” Ray says. “Right. That’s, uh, one way to pass the time, for sure.”
“Hell yeah, dude.” Frank holds out his arm for a fist bump, and Ray gives him one automatically. He’s not sure he’s ever fist bumped someone this soon after coming before. He wonders if this is Frank’s way of talking about what they’re doing. Passing time on a tedious tour, making the most of a private room with a shower. Nothing more.
Frank wanders back into the ensuite now, and rinses his mouth out in the sink. He seems totally unabashed by his nudity. Ray tears his eyes away from him and, once he can trust his knees to take his weight, gets up to root around in his bag for his pyjama pants. He feels sleepy and lead-limbed, like he always does after sex. After an orgasm, that is. It would be weird, right, to say he had sex with Frank.
Ray showers perfunctorily once Frank’s finished with the bathroom. Usually, he’d be making the most of the little window of privacy, but. Well. He needs to wash Frank’s come off his face.
Once he’s dressed, he winds up staring at his face in the mirror. He looks tired, heavy bags under his eyes—no surprise, after a week of sleeping in the van, and playing an intense show earlier. His hair droops a little, droplets clinging to the edges of the frizz. It’s getting longer—long enough that his mom would tut and tell him he looks scruffy. His lips are reddened, puffier than usual, although not as much as he feels they should be. He touches them, remembering how they felt around Frank’s cock. Frank’s taste still lingers on his tongue.
He brushes his teeth with his eyes closed.
Frank’s in bed when Ray re-emerges from the bathroom, lying on his side facing the wall. It looks like he might already be asleep, even though that would be weird, since Ray knows it usually takes him ages to pass out. Still, he climbs onto the other side of the mattress gingerly, so he doesn’t disturb him.
It’s weird, having enough space to stretch his legs out without touching a wall or another body. He watches Frank’s chest rise and fall in the gloom, and resists the impulse to scoot closer and tuck himself around the curve of his back. It’s not like they haven’t slept like that before, but here, on a spacious mattress, that kind of thing requires intent. It would be…weird. Ray blames the recent orgasm for making him cuddly.
After a long moment, he rolls over and faces the other wall. He falls asleep quickly, and he doesn’t dream of anything.
It kind of becomes a thing. Not a Thing thing, just…a thing. There’s not much privacy to be had on tour, but what he and Frank are doing—hands wriggled into each other’s jeans, blowjobs exchanged hastily—doesn’t require much time. By the time they’ve clawed their way across western Europe in a van somehow even shittier than their one back in the States, Ray and Frank have gotten each other off in four different countries. He’s pretty sure this is easier than finding time alone to jerk off; Frank’s crafty, got an eye for spotting private storerooms and empty bathrooms. Besides, Ray thinks it should be in the unspoken touring rulebook that whoever actually sticks around to finish reloading the trailer after a show is entitled to a sloppy blowjob behind the van. It’s only fair. It’s also the only time they can really guarantee they’re not going to be interrupted by their other bandmates for at least half an hour.
Those times are Ray’s favourite—when he’s light-headed with post-show adrenaline and Frank is too keyed-up to tease, and Frank blows him all wanton and desperate, and then the bite of the concrete into Ray’s knees and the drag of Frank’s cock at the back of his throat pull him back down to earth. He’s figuring out what Frank likes, how to move his tongue and when to suck or hum that gets him choking on Ray’s name, and he’s figuring out what he likes—taking Frank deep, until he can’t breathe, until everything narrows down to touch and taste and taking Frank apart. It’s satisfying; no point in committing to something if you’re not going to try to perfect it. Beyond that, though, it’s fun—and Frank’s a fun guy to do it with. A fun guy to be around, in general.
If he thinks about it that way, Ray can ignore the fact that he’s never really done anything like this before. Never been into the casual sex thing, let alone the friends with benefits thing, if that’s what he and Frank even are. It’s not like it really changes much; all it does is let Ray and Frank blow off some steam. “A good mutual orgasm every now and then,” Frank tells him at least three times, each time with the air of a man delivering a pearl of previously undiscovered wisdom, “is the secret to harmony on the road.”
In February, Hambone finally triumphs over Frank’s dreads, which Mikey reckons had gained full sentience somewhere between Philadelphia and Cleveland, and sets them loose on the streets of Chicago. Frank bitches over his stupid cone-shaped skull and takes to wearing his hoodies pulled up, but Ray thinks the buzzcut makes him look disarmingly pretty. Makes his jawline stand out, accentuates the dramatic curve of his eyebrows. He looks sharper, like he fits into his own skin better.
Ray watches him stare out the van window, his fingers curved loosely around a cigarette, the evening sun casting stark shadows over his exposed cheekbones, and thinks of all the girls at shows who clamor for his attention. Guys, too, which Ray only noticed recently and now can’t un-notice. Frank wouldn’t have trouble finding a partner, for a night or for longer, is the thing. He wonders if it’s laziness that keeps Frank returning to him; a hand is a hand, a mouth is a mouth, and Ray’s always within arm’s reach on tour. A deeper, quieter part of him wonders, with a guilty twist of pride, if it’s because he’s enough to keep Frank satisfied.
Gerard and Mikey and Frank often disappear in the time between soundcheck (on the occasions they have one) and stage call (if whichever skinny guy with baggy pants who does the bookings for the venue they’re playing drawling, “Alright, dudes, you’re on,” can be called a stage call). Ray assumes they’re off getting drunk; whatever it takes to hype themselves up to perform. He trusts Frank to look out for the brothers before the show, and it’ll be his turn to do it afterwards, and the next morning. Ray joins them on occasion, but doing nothing makes him nervous, so he usually hovers around the stage or—on the really upscale nights—the sound booth, trying to make busy.
Ray wants to learn everything he can, so he bugs the shit out of techies, and Otter’s a bull-headed bastard, so he bugs different kinds of shit out of the techies, and Ray and Otter bug the shit out of each other, both of them control freaks in ways that don’t quite align. In the close quarters of tour, they grind painfully against each other. All that nervous energy comes to a head the moment the other three rematerialize, always at the last possible minute, hair standing on end and smelling of smoke like cheap party magicians.
The real magic comes just afterwards. The moment Ray and Frank meet eyes across stage, and Gerard nods at them, and they kick in with twin feedback, and then comes the release—their set, unleashed in a barrage of relentless energy.
That half an hour every night, everything else melts away. It doesn’t matter that Otter can’t keep time and Mikey sometimes plays in the wrong key and Frank’s playing shit he didn’t write. It doesn’t matter that Ray’s usually doing the job of the rhythm and the melody section all at once, and it doesn’t matter that they’ll be living off peanut butter on bread for the rest of the week because everything they make tonight will go straight towards buying gas. It doesn’t matter. Not when the gas they buy will take them to the next town so they can do this all again. Not when he’s playing music, and doing it with the best friends he’s ever had.
He remembers those first few live shows, back when the band had been some bright delicate thing, teetering on the edge of taking off. When Gerard Way approaches you with an idea, you can’t help but believe wholeheartedly in it. It wasn’t the first time Ray had worked with him, though; he was familiar with Gerard’s tendency to court a concept with dizzying intensity for a couple of months, only to drift away once its shine wore off. He’d half-expected this band to be the same. Then he saw Gerard perform for the first time, saw him shed all those layers of soft shuffling awkwardness and became something bigger than himself, something unrestrained and unapologetic. Ray had never moved around on stage before, but now it was impossible not to, like he was being swept along by a force too strong to resist. He was suddenly, breathlessly aware that he’d just been coasting along his entire life, and now, for the first time, he was accelerating.
They would have tripped over their own momentum if they hadn’t invited Frank. He’s the shot of energy they needed to sustain them. He brought with him a certain danger when he joined, a recklessness born of sheer-bull-headed passion—the same thing that possesses him as he thrashes and spits on stage, wheeling into amps and monitors and supporting beams. Tonight, he spins into Ray, guitar-first, and Ray’s vision goes white-yellow-red for a moment, and Ray doesn’t realize he’s bleeding until it drips down his chin and Gerard turns to him, bug-eyed.
Ray doesn’t falter, so neither do the others. Tomorrow morning it will hurt and Frank will be all prickly with guilt, but for now Mikey grins breathlessly at Ray from across the stage and Gerard whips the crowd up into a frenzy and it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.
Ray, bruised and bleeding and beaming, thinks maybe they’re invincible.