When Carmy pitches forward, Richie whoofs out a breath that's not quite feigned. His cousin is hot as fuck but the price of those muscles is the fact that he weighs a fucking ton when he decides to collapse onto his chest, dense and heavy like a dwarf star. But he lifts a hand anyway, pets it down Carmy's shoulder, stroking his back.

"I know you're trying, cousin. We can all see it. You're like a fucking.. rocket. We're all just watching the burn. And it's so, so bright. But it's amazing. And beautiful."

He turns his head a bit so he can put his face against Carmy's head, not quite nuzzling a kiss into his hair, but sort of doing that. It feels a little weirder doing it that way, less about sex, more about something else. Affection. Comfort.

"Fuck, man," he says, looking up at the ceiling and listening to the rain and feeling the weight of it, the weight in Carmy's voice and in his body. It's a lot. It's so much. "I don't know how you do it."