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Sometimes, Ray sort of feels like the odd one out in their little bubble.
It’s not a big thing, because he always has them around to distract himself, until he’s so absorbed in the brilliance of his partners that the world could disintegrate and he wouldn’t notice, but there are days, sometimes, when he remembers just how ordinary he is, next to the cosmic entities he shares a bed with.
Willie’s a nebula, a gorgeous mess of colours and light and divinity, planets and stars and universes tumbling out from between his fingers every time he picks up a pen or a paintbrush or a spray can or a needle and thread. She’s never-ending and ever-growing, always learning and creating and making the world a better place one doodled daffodil at a time. They curl up with their head on Ray’s chest, and it feels like Ray’s holding a young god in his arms, one new to the world and still awed by its beauty.
Bobby’s a planet, something old and weary of the state of the universe, worn down by the things he’s seen but kept alive by the hope of what he could see. He’s steady, firm, a place to make a home in. He stares at the sky like it’s a long lost lover and dances in the rain like it’s a reunion he’s waited an eternity for, and wraps his arms around Ray like he’s trying to make a safe haven out of himself, limbs like branches of a tree in the heart of a forest sewn by a deity that still sleeps somewhere there, blanketed by fallen leaves and tucked between ancient roots.
Rose is a supernova. She’s destruction and death and the prettiest thing in existence, bringing life to the farthest corners of the universe even as she tears her old self to pieces. She’s the stardust in Ray’s DNA and the author of the last line in his story, and he’s as scared of her as much as he’s hopelessly in love with her. She paints the skies of him with colours that don’t exist anywhere else and obliterates the walls he’s worked so hard to build, until he’s a masterpiece and crumbling ruins at the same time.
They lay in bed together at night, life and home and death and Ray, and he wonders sometimes what he’s there for, what part of the riddle he makes up.
——
Life and home and death walk into a bar.
Ray’s the bartender, and he serves them all a drink and watches them love each other with an intensity he doesn’t understand, and revels in the love they have for him.
It’s the love all drunk people have for a bartender, but its a bar he built himself, and the way they paint each other with the colours of the universe leaves flecks of starlight and lifeblood and royalty on the floor and the walls, and it makes the bar just a little bit theirs, too.
Makes him just a little bit theirs, too.
——
“I think I’m coming down with something,” is the first thing Ray says when Bobby gets home from school. He’s still in his stupid prep school uniform, the top button undone because Bobby hates how it feels when it’s closed, but the rest of it pristine, because Bobby likes following firm and clear instructions. He says it before he says hi, and before he asks how Bobby’s day was, because Bobby gets sick easily, and because the newest addition to Bobby’s evening routine has been cuddling up to Ray for ten minutes, until he stops feeling like every vein has been cauterised. At least that’s how he’d explained it, when he’d handed Ray a key and suggested maybe he could wait at Bobby’s, in the time between Ray’s school day ending and Bobby and Willie’s ending, while Rose is at work.
Bobby stops in his tracks, then shrugs, and hangs his bag on the banister and his blazer on the coat hook like normal, then flops onto the couch like normal. He tilts sideways until his cheek is pressed against Ray’s thigh. “Want me to make you soup?”
Ray laughs, and tries not to cry. Bobby’s never met a kitchen implement he couldn’t wreak havoc with, and the idea of him trying to make soup is hilarious at best and terrifying at worst, but the offer is also genuine and sweet, and a sort of earnest that Ray still isn’t used to from Bobby. They both know he’d ruin soup even looking at a bowl of it too hard, but he still felt the need to try and offer some form of comfort, the kind he knows Ray might even accept, if it weren’t so potentially deadly. “I think I’d rather die by common cold than food poisoning, tesoro, but thank you for offering.”
Bobby sighs. It’s not at Ray, he’s fairly sure, just a release of tension at the end of the day. “Since you won’t accept my cooking, will you pretty pretty please accept a lemsip? And stay the night? I have an electric blanket, and underfloor heating, and, and. Am I being too much?”
Ray wants to tell him that of course he isn’t, he could never be too much, but he knows Bobby won’t believe him, not after those early months of him and Rose recoiling at every display of wealth, hackles rising at anything that could be perceived as an insult or slight. Even now, the list of reasons Bobby’s place is better than Ray’s for a sick person stings, brings back memories of every time he and Rose have nursed each other back to help in their single-wide. He tries to remind himself of the awe that had crossed Bobby’s face as he’d brushed his fingers across the string of photos of Ray and Rose and the stray cat that sometimes breaks in, of how much more relaxed he is standing in a trailer he’s too tall for than sprawled out in his California king. “You’re not, I promise. Text Rosie and Will, tell them we’re here, m’kay?”
Bobby nods, but he doesn’t move. He’ll send the text later, once he’s got the faculties back to do things like move his hands and read and write all at the same time. Ray doesn’t get it, how just a day at school could wear someone down this much, but he’s familiar enough with the recovery time Bobby needs not to push him to text immediately. “You’re comfy.”
“I’m glad to be of service,” Ray jokes, or at least he hopes he jokes. Really, things like this, like being comfortable and patient and conventionally attractive and sympathetic to both Rose’s experience and Bobby and Willie’s, and self reliant enough to not constantly need them are all the things he prides himself on, the things he’s sure are what make him worth keeping around even though he pales in comparison to all three of them.
Bobby turns his head enough to kiss Ray’s thigh. It should bring up some other feeling, having his boyfriend’s mouth there, but instead it’s like watching a feral kitten finally get comfortable. “If you wanna be the cuddle-ee, y’know, ‘cause you’re sick, then we can do that.”
No they can’t.
“It’s okay, baby,” Ray promises. He doesn’t even know if he could bear it at this point, to be held like he’s anywhere near as precious as they are. “This is good.”
Bobby frowns and sits up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “No, you always hold me when I’m sick, and sing me little Spanish lullabies, and make hot chocolate even though you hate putting that much sugar in it.”
“I just like taking care of you,” Ray tries his best to soothe, tangling his fingers with Bobby’s to try and pull him back close. “I don’t need it back.”
“Well, tough.” Bobby stands up and squints at Ray, like he’s sizing him up. Ray has his mouth open to protest in seconds, already sure he knows what Bobby’s thinking, but before he can get a single syllable out, he’s cradled in Bobby’s arms like he doesn’t have a solid three inches on him, arms automatically looping around his neck. “Bedtime.”
“There’s no way you can carry me all the way to your room,” Ray says, even though he’s not so certain. Rose must weigh more than him, what with the way she’s carved from marble to look like Adonis, compared to Ray’s bird bones and gangly frame, and Bobby carries Rose everywhere he can get away with it.
“Can too,” Bobby mutters, tongue sticking out a little bit in focus as he starts carrying Ray up the stairs. He’s wobbly, and his voice sounds strained, but he makes it to his bedroom, and he’s surprisingly gentle when he places Ray down on his bed. “Do you wanna borrow pyjamas?”
Ray flushes, digging his fingers into the soft fuzzy blanket Bobby has. It’s a ridiculously complex bed, with an electric blanket and a weighted blanket and a fuzzy top blanket that often ends up being what Ray’s left with, after Bobby cocoons himself in the weighted blanket that the rest of them hate, and Willie kicks the electric blanket off the bed because he gets too warm, and Rose tries to suffocate herself in duvet. There’s about a million pillows, too. The weird solid ones that Willie forces Bobby to use because they’re good for his back, and the huge fluffy ones that always end up on the floor, and the memory foam ones that Ray wants to dedicate epic poetry to. “I think you still have some of mine from the last time you got sick.”
Bobby goes pink, pretty and delicate and the kind of thing he’d deny if asked. “They’re. They’re not clean. You can borrow them if you want, but… they’re not clean.”
Ray furrows his brow, clearing his throat. “What do you mean?”
“Um. I… I wear them. Am wearing them. At the minute.” Bobby turns to root through his chest of drawers. “Like, as my pyjamas. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I should’ve given them back once I’d washed them. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, no, it’s okay,” Ray promises, heart practically in his throat as the image of Bobby in his too-big shirt and his too-long trousers, curled up at night in his too-big bed makes his chest feel too small. “I’m glad you find them comfortable. I can borrow something else, if you want?”
Bobby nods, then throws a jumper and a pair of trousers at Ray. It’s one of his track team jumpers, Ray’s fairly sure. Willie’s got one, and Ray always tries to squash down the jealousy that bubbles up every time she wears it. “Tell me if those don’t fit.”
Ray’s got the jumper on before he even turns back around. It’s a tiny bit too small, right around the wrists, and it stops at a weird point on his torso, but it’s loose around the shoulders and says Wilson on the back, and it’s the best thing in the whole world.
“It suits you,” Bobby says quietly, holding a packet of lemsip pills and a glass of water. Ray’s not sure if he remembered that Ray hates the sachets or if he just happened to have the pills on hand, but Ray chooses to believe it’s the former, and revels in it for a moment. “You can keep it, if you’d like. If, um, I can keep your pyjamas. I mean, obviously you can keep the hoodie and have the pjs back if you don’t want me to keep them, that’s totally fine I’m not holding them hostage, but I’d like to. If that’s okay. And I’d like you to have the jumper.”
Ray tries not to smile too brightly, or bury his nose in the collar in the neck too obviously. “I’d love to keep it, baby, thank you. And of course you can have the pjs.”
Bobby smiles shyly and sits cross legged on the bed next to Ray. “So, uh. You just need to take two of these - with the water.”
“I remember, lindo.” Ray holds his hand out for the packet, but instead Bobby pops the pills out into his palm, then holds them up to Ray’s mouth. “What are you-”
The tips of Bobby’s ears go red, but he places the pills on Ray’s tongue carefully and holds the glass of water up for him to take a sip. “I’m taking care of you. This is what you always do for me, so. I’m taking care of you.”
Ray tries to think of something to say, to argue, to convince Bobby that he doesn’t have to do this. He must pause for too long, though, because Bobby wraps the electric blanket around the pair of them, and awkwardly eases Ray down until he’s laying with his head on Bobby’s chest.
“What songs do you like?” Bobby asks, carding his fingers through Ray’s hair. “I don’t really know any Spanish. I could probably manage one in Tagalog, but it’s the only lullaby my dad knows which means it’s weird and creepy, because he’s weird and creepy.”
“Whatever you want,” Ray mumbles, the exhaustion of a day of fighting through the awful thick feeling in his chest and the ache in his head finally hitting, with all the force of a sledgehammer. “Whatever you want.”
“Okay, sweetheart.” The term of endearment is so soft Ray’s barely sure he heard it, but he doesn’t have time to think on it too hard before Bobby’s singing the start of In Your Starlight. It wasn’t really intended for acapella, but it still sounds nice, soft and sweet and vibrating through Bobby’s chest. He’s somewhere near asleep when Bobby stops, too close really to trust what he hears, but he’d swear on his life that when Bobby kisses his forehead, he whispers “I love you.”
——
Life and home and death and Ray are in a hot air balloon.
The hot air starts failing, and the balloon starts to sink.
Life says they need to throw things overboard to reduce the weight and slow their descent, and home and death immediately start assessing things to see if they’ll be heavy enough to have any effect.
Ray knows that eventually, they’ll have to sacrifice him, but he lets himself bask in the warmth of the clear sign that they’d rather avoid that eventuality until they have no other choice, bargaining and thinking of things they can throw out as though Ray isn’t the obvious option.
——
“Oh, Ray, sweetheart,” Willie’s voice is hushed, but still enough to fully wake Ray up. It’s gotta be mid evening, if Willie’s home but Rose isn’t yet, but he feels like he’s been sleeping forever.
“Hi, Will. How’as work?”
“It was good,” Willie says absently, pressing the back of her hand against Ray’s forehead. “Aw, honey, you’re burning up. Did you take anything?”
Ray nods, untangling his hands from where they’d been fisted in Bobby’s shirt. The kid’s still spark out, wrapped around Ray like he was trying to protect him, even in sleep. “Bobby gave me lemsip when he got home.”
“I think that would’ve been long enough ago to give you another,” Willie decides. “Have you got a cough? Headache? Have you eaten anything?”
Ray forces himself to try and focus on one question at a time, even though all the words sort of jumble together into an incoherent mishmash. “Yes, yes… and no. Bobby offered me soup, but I didn’t wanna chance it.”
Willie snorts and grabs the lemsip off the bedside table, doing the same thing as Bobby had earlier, popping them out himself and placing them on Ray’s tongue. “I picked up a tub of soup from the grocery store on the way home, I figured you wouldn’t want me cooking either.”
“Damn right,” Ray mumbles. He adores Bobby and Willie, loves them with his whole heart, but he’d feel a hell of a lot safer if they never stepped in a kitchen again. “What kinda soup?”
“Leek and potato,” Willie says, smoothing Ray’s hair out of his face. “And some shredded chicken to mix in. I called Rose, she said that’s your favourite.”
“It is,” Ray agrees, warmth flooding his chest at the idea that Willie had called Rose to make sure they got his favourite soup, instead of just grabbing one that seemed okay. It’s weird, to know objectively just how damn loved he is, but to still be so surprised and overwhelmed by every fucking display of it. “‘S good texture.”
Willie smiles and stands up. Ray misses the warmth of her already, but tries his best not to let it show on his face. “Hell yeah it is, baby. Want me to bring it back up for you, or can you come down?”
“I can come down,” Ray decides after a moment. “I don’t wanna get soup on Bobby’s bed.”
“I don’t think he’d mind, love.” Willie helps him up anyway, wrapping an arm around his waist. “How’s that?”
“It’s a cold, I’m not dying,” Ray says, even though he can’t help but press as closely to Willie as possible, just to leech a bit of warmth off of him now that he’s lost the electric blanket. “It’s good, I’m good, thank you.”
“Of course, man.” Willie helps him down the stairs, but forces him to sit in one of the kitchen chairs once they make it, waving Ray off when he says he can help. “How was school?”
Ray shrugs, tracing his finger over the B carved into the table. Apparently Bobby’s dad nearly killed him for it, although he doesn’t know how Trevor Wilson is home nearly often enough to notice something like that. “Okay? I had algebra last, which sucked. But my art teacher approved my project, so I can start getting on with that.”
“Tell me about it again?” Willie asks, pouring the soup from the little plastic tub it came in into one of the ridiculously ornate soup bowls. “You said it was about street art, right?”
Ray nods, propping his head up on his hand. “The project as a whole is about reclamation. The example was this series of paintings of flowers growing over ruins, but I’m gonna do it on street art in areas that have become all rich.”
“That sounds awesome,” they say, and even though Ray always feels a little stupid talking about his photography when his partners create things from nothing, he can tell they mean it. “You gonna put some of Rosie’s work in there?”
“Duh.” Ray shoots him a grin, even though it makes the muscles in his face ache. “I was thinking the mural near Highland Park, and maybe the thingy near the 105 turnoff in Crenshaw.”
“Those are both great options.” Willie smiles back, huge and bright and gorgeous as the sunrise. It doesn’t matter that he’s still wearing his school uniform, or that they’re shredding chicken to make the weird soup Ray’s been craving when he’s sick since he was seven, or that they can navigate Bobby’s kitchen blindfolded. He’s Willie, and he’s perfect, and he’s Ray’s. “What about the huge daffodils near our school?”
Ray shakes his head as best he can in the position he’s in. “They’re pretty but your school and the area around it’s been wealthy for, like, ever. Not quite the vibe, y’know?”
“I getcha,” Willie promises, tipping the chicken into the soup before putting it in the microwave. “Are you gonna do it like the last project? With all the cool doodles and framing and annotations?”
Ray nods. He’s already mapped out in his head how he’s gonna present the piece in his sketchbook - with little doodles in the style of Rose’s artwork, with those awesome spray paint pens Bobby got Rose for their last birthday. There’ll be little notes from news articles about gentrification and graffiti and the combination of the two, along with more in depth analysis because for some awful reason, studying art doesn’t just start and end with making it. “Somethin’ like that.”
“That’s gonna look so cool,” Willie says, almost breathless, almost in awe, as though she thinks the dumb little doodles Ray does to present his class work are anywhere near as cool as the wonders she creates with just a pencil and a blank piece of paper. “ You’re so cool.”
“No, I-”
“No fighting, babe,” Willie declares, kissing Ray’s temple. “You’re the coolest of any of us, mister three art school scholarships.”
Ray flushes, and he’s sure it’s ruddy and awkward and looks more like a medical condition than the delicate way pink blooms in Bobby’s cheeks. “I don’t even know if I’m gonna take any of ‘em.”
“That’s okay.” Willie shrugs, as though turning down college scholarships means nothing to them. “Whatever you decide to do with your future will be incredible, and I just hope I’m there to see it. But it’s still super cool that you got offered them.”
“Why wouldn’t you be there to see it?” Ray asks, headache and fever and lemsip loosening his tongue, even though he’s sure he doesn’t wanna hear an answer.
Willie shrugs, and it’s light hearted but carefully so. Ray knows him too well not to see that kind of thing now, and the knowledge burns. “Maybe you’ll get sick of me, I don’t know. I’m sure Bobster’s just waiting on the day he can tell me to stop stealing all his fries.”
Ray frowns. “I won’t get sick of you.”
“Baby-”
“No, I won’t,” he insists, eyebrows drawn together. Even the idea that Willie could think that of him makes him feel weird, somehow. All near tears and angry-but-not. “You’re incredible, Wills, there’s no way I could ever get sick of you. You’re, like, changing all the time, it would be impossible. If anyone should be worrying about others getting sick of them it’s me, not you. You’re just… you’re amazing.”
“Ray,” Willie breathes, soft and shocked, and almost hurt. “God, Ray, please tell me you don’t think we’ll ever get sick of you.”
“It’s not a big deal.” Ray shrugs, checks the microwave to see if his soup can save him. “I just know if it’s anyone it’s gonna be me, right? It’s not like I think it’s right around the corner, just… if it happens. It’ll be me.”
“Nobody’s getting sick of anybody,” Willie says, voice tight with conviction in a way Ray’s never heard it, hands coming up to cradle Ray’s jaw. “Okay? I love you, we love you, and nobody’s going anywhere.”
“Okay,” Ray says, because his soup’s ready and because Willie looks ready to cry, and because he wants to believe it so bad it hurts. He wants to believe that this is forever, this sitting in Bobby’s kitchen while he sleeps upstairs, this Willie holding Ray’s face between his hands like he thinks Ray’s a work of art in himself. “Okay. I believe you. I love you too.”
“Good.” Willie doesn’t let go for a moment, and even though Ray knows he must look like hell, they lean forward and kiss him, firm, steady, everything Willie is. “Now eat your damn soup.”
——
Life and home and death want to know which of them represents real peace.
Life argues that they contain every aspect of experience, and therefore must contain peace.
Home argues that they’re a shelter from the horrors of the world, a port in a storm, an eye in a hurricane, and therefore must be peace.
Death argues that she allows everything else to be left at the doorway to the beyond, pain and suffering and worry all set down, and that all that can be left is peace.
Ray knows real peace is found curled up amongst the three of them, with life tracing patterns on his stomach, and home playing with his hair, and death singing an old Spanish lullaby, but he doesn’t dare say it, in case they don't agree.
——
“Ay, mi amor.” Rose sets her bags down in Bobby’s bedroom doorway so she can crawl in between Ray and Willie, pressing her hand against his forehead just like Willie had earlier. “Mi corazón, are you okay? Have these two been taking good care of you?”
Ray smiles, still sleepy and warm and snuggled between his favourite people in the whole world. “Hi, Rosie.”
“Hi, Ray,” she presses her cheek against his, because Ray’s partners are all horrible and don’t care that they’re probably all gonna catch this bug and he loves them so much. “Are you okay?”
“Mhm.” Ray closes his eyes for a moment, and reaches out blindly until he can grab Bobby’s hand where it’s resting on his hip while Rose shuffles down so she can rest her ear over his heart, like they always love to do. “They’ve been taking good care of me. Will made soup.”
“Please tell me it was store bought,” Rose pleads, even though the look she sends Willie’s way is filled with the kind of love people write fairytales about. “There’s a lot of things I’d like to kill Trevor Wilson for, but I think burning his house down may be a bit dramatic.”
Ray snorts and hugs them as close to his chest as he can get them. “Yeah, it was store bought. Fancy store, though. Rich people groceries. I bet they have little mist machines over the fruit and veg section and all.”
Rose rolls their eyes. “That’s not a thing, tesoro.”
“I bet it is where Wills got this soup,” Ray insists, cutting himself off to yawn. “It tasted so fresh. The potatoes probably got grown with fertiliser that had real gold in it.”
“I love you so much, you fucking dork.” Rose kisses his chest lightly, then cranes her neck up until she can smack one against his jaw. “Did you get your art project approved?”
Ray tries to sift through his memories to find the conversation with his art teacher, even though it feels like a million years ago, now. “Mhm. My teacher said she really likes the sound of it. She told me if I make enough of a statement I could try and get it in the school paper.”
“That’s amazing, cariño,” she says, and just like with Willie, he believes that she means it. “Look at you, Mr Social Justice Warrior.”
“Excuse you,” he sniffs indignantly. “It’s Mr Mrs Social Justice Warrior.”
“Oh of course, my mistake.” She shifts to get comfy, hair tickling Ray’s neck. “Our haribo ring marriage is sacred.”
“Damn right it is.” Ray leans down to kiss her temple. “I still have our vows in my underwear drawer. They’re super sacred.”
“I love you,” she whispers, and it’s not teasing or jokingly insulting all. Just honest and earnest, like she felt it was vital to tell him right now.
“I love you too,” he says, because he does, and because he delights in telling them. They’ve been together for… longer than most high schoolers tend to be, and yet she still flushes every time he says it, glancing away like they need a moment to gather themself after the reminder. “Bobby gave me his track hoodie.”
“I hate you” they say instantly, but they hug him even tighter as she says it. “Motherfucker, I wanted one.”
“Ask him, idiot,” Ray tells her, even though he never would’ve dreamed of asking Bobby. It feels weird, sometimes, with Willie and Bobby. They’re so comfortable with each other that sometimes they worry they’re too comfortable with the other two, and it makes gauging situations like this hard. He has no idea if they’ve been together long enough to ask for that kind of thing.
Rose laughs, and Ray’s fairly sure he’d burn the world down if watching it would get her to keep laughing like that. “Absolutely not. I’m just gonna wait for him to give me one. It worked for you.”
“He already had my pyjamas,” Ray admits, winding a coil of her hair around his finger before letting it spring back. “And I’m sorry, querida, but I don’t think anything of yours will fit him.”
“Guess I’m just fucked, then,” they joke, sighing dramatically. “No track hoodies for me. Do you reckon I could get one of Willie’s model UN T-shirt’s instead?”
Ray can’t help the sharp laughter that bursts out of him. “Mi amor, they fucking hate model UN. She’d probably sooner burn those t-shirts than ever let you wear one.”
“All my dreams are being crushed,” Rose complains, sticking her lower lip out like a pouty little kid. “How could you do this to me?”
“Hey, you still have my leather jacket,” Ray reminds her, having to fight to keep his eyes open as exhaustion begins to creep back in, the headache that had briefly subsided returning full force. “That’s special.”
Rose hums. “That’s true… I guess I’ll take that.”
Ray makes a vague sound in response, unable to think of much else to add now that his brain’s gone to being mush.
Rose props herself up so she can look at him properly. “Is it getting bad again?”
“‘S not awful,” Ray promises, even though he can hear the raspy quality to his voice, and the nasally edge that suggests he’s not gonna be able to breathe out of his nose again soon. “Just not great.”
“I’m gonna make you some tea and bring you the hot water bottle, okay?” They say, climbing back out of bed. Ray misses her instantly, but it’s soothed by Willie immediately rolling over in search of warmth, so his forehead is on Ray’s collarbone.
He’d protest, but he’s so comfortable, and Bobby’s arm is slung over his middle now, tugging him back into his chest, and the weight of Willie on top of him makes it feel like trying to actually move right now would be impossible. “Okay. Thank you, Rosie.”
“Of course, mi Vida.” She smiles at him, wry and stunning. “It’s about time the universe forced you to take a damn break and let us take care of you anyway. You work too hard, and you’re far too good to us.”
‘You deserve it,” he protests, unsure of what to do with what they’re telling him. “I like looking after you all, and nobody else is gonna do it.”
Rose’s smile turns a little sad at the edges. “I know we deserve it, love, but so do you. You shouldn’t have to be doing this all by yourself, and it was wrong of us to let you shoulder it all for so long. So shut up, get some damn sleep, and let us look after you. We love you, and we want you to get better so we can spoil you rotten.”
“You already spoil me,” he argues, even though he knows it’s a losing battle. Rose always gets her way. “I get to spend all my time with all of you, that’s all I want.”
“Zip it, mister,’ they threaten, but they blow him a kiss on their way out of the room. “And let us take care of you, you stubborn idiot.”
——
Life and home and death walk into a bar.
Ray’s the bartender, but it’s the end of his shift, and life grabs his hand before he can get glasses to start serving them drinks.
“Hometime,” home says simply, but he holds his arms out for Ray to step into, while life grabs a rag to finish closing up, though she’s quick to join the rest of them once it’s done.
“We missed you while you were working,” death adds as they guide him outside, towards the car, towards a warm bed and arms around him and lips against his forehead, and she closes the door behind them.