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Sand shoves open the door to his apartment with a quiet sigh, shoulders slumping under the weight of another never-ending day.
Their show had dragged late into the night, just past midnight, and while Sand had felt alive and energetic in the moment, the comedown has been brutal. He barely made it home without falling asleep on the seat of his bike, grounding himself through a vice grip on his handlebars. There are probably still patterned indents on his palms. Once inside, he spins his motorcycle helmet on his first two fingers, then hangs it on a hook above the entryway. He shrugs off his leather jacket and does the same with it.
He finds the thermostat set a couple degrees higher than he likes it, the way it always is now that he shares his space with a spoiled prince. A prince who had been conspicuously absent from his set, another reason for Sand’s uncharacteristic exhaustion. He can usually count on the pick-me-up of Ray cheering him on in the audience, eyes locked on him like he’s the hottest thing in the room. It’s hard to feel tired when Ray flings himself at him the second he steps off stage, when he clings to Sand’s back on his motorcycle, talking his ear off all the way home.
But Ray had texted him halfway through the day, a simple: I’m finishing early today, see you at home!
Sand took it in stride. He let Ray know he’d be home later than usual, telling him not to wait up. He knows, as he shuffles across the wooden floor, all the way to the bedroom, that there’s no way Ray listened. He’s proven right when he sees yellow light spilling out from the gap under the door.
He turns the handle and enters their room quietly, to find Ray peering up at him from a cocoon of blankets on their bed. He’s wrapped himself thoroughly, so only his tousled hair and face peek out. He blinks at Sand. “You’re back.”
To anyone else, Ray would seem unusually subdued. Sand knows him better than that, knows some days Ray’s mood dips low, something that’s out of both of their control. It’s part of Ray’s temperament, one of the many changes brought by his sobriety, and with time, Sand has learned not to over-react. These quieter days have become fewer and far between, which is all he can really ask for.
“I’m back,” Sand says warmly.
While it always pains Sand a little to see Ray looking so down, the way his eyes noticeably brighten at Sand’s entrance more than makes up for it. Ray frees his arms from the confines of his blankets, and spreads them wide, demanding affection, like a flower seeking out the sun.
Sand walks along the bed and leans down, letting Ray sling his arms around his neck, wrapping his own arms around Ray’s back. He tucks his nose against Ray’s shoulder and takes a steadying breath. Already, he feels the exhaustion dissipating, fought off by the electric rush of Ray’s presence.
“What took you so long?” Ray demands.
“I told you I’d be late, didn’t I?”
Ray hums, petulant, but doesn’t say anything else. Sand holds him a second longer, rocking them back and forth, then lets go. He pulls back to look at Ray’s face. “Did you eat?”
Ray blinks owlishly. He doesn’t have to say, eat what? His eyes do it for him.
A year ago, Sand might have asked him, how about some rice? Now, he simply leaves the bedroom behind and steps into the kitchen, retrieving the food he’d half-prepared before leaving. There’s no point in asking Ray for his preferences. From Sand’s hand, Ray will eat anything. Sand knows that well by now. Stir-frying the rice only takes a few minutes, and Sand hums to himself as he does it, reliving his favorite part of tonight’s set.
When he returns, he finds that Ray has emerged from his nest, sitting up against the headboard. Sand joins him, plate in hand, and Ray sidles up to him, loosely grabbing his sleeve. He looks down at the food, eyes wide in awe like he’s being served a Michelin star dish.
Sand bites back his grin. “Open your mouth,” he says, as he fills a spoon with rice. Ray does, delighted, and Sand feeds him, waiting for him to swallow before he serves him another spoonful.
Usually cooking for Ray is more than enough on Sand’s part. But today, he looked so helpless curled up in bed that Sand just couldn't help himself.
Once the plate is empty, Sand wipes Ray’s bottom lip clean with his thumb and offers him some water. Ray drinks it down to the last drop.
“Enough?” he asks.
Ray nods, wearing a pleased smile.
Then: “Do you wanna brush your teeth?”
Sand half-expects Ray to ask him to help him with that as well, but he finds the strength to extract himself from his pile of bedding and pad to the bathroom. Sand joins him, and the two of them brush their teeth side by side, a domestic routine that Sand gets an embarrassing amount of enjoyment out of. Sand beams at Ray through a mouthful of foam, and gets to hear his favorite twinkling laugh, a little more restrained than it usually is.
Once they’re back in bed, both smelling like mint toothpaste, Ray comes back online. “How was your day?” he asks, tipping his head to rest against Sand’s shoulder.
“Good,” Sand tells him. “There was a producer asking about us after the show. He seemed like a big deal.”
Ray exhales a little huff of annoyance. Sand expects him to gripe. Ray’s been begging him to take his help in finding a producer. It would be so easy, Sand, he keeps saying. But Sand doesn’t want to rely on Ray’s connections, especially not after working his ass off for years. He wants to do it himself.
To his relief, Ray leaves it alone this time. There’s a tiny crease between his brows, the effort of holding back. Sand pokes at it. “What about you? How was your day?”
“Fine. It was a little slow at the hostel today. I finished early and just came back here.”
“You didn’t come see me,” Sand says.
“I was a little tired.” It’s a code Sand is familiar with by now. He’d assumed as much when he read Ray’s message. He’s just glad Ray looks alright. A run-of-the-mill bad day is easy enough to deal with. He doesn’t have to worry.
“I missed you, though,” Ray adds, tucking his head even closer.
Sand smooths down his hair. “I’m here now.”
It’s quiet for a moment. Sand listens to the sound of Ray breathing, slow and at ease, and wonders if he should turn off the lights.
“Sand?”
“Yeah?”
Ray swallows. “You know I love you, right?”
Sand tilts his head to look down at him. He can’t see Ray’s face clearly when he’s buried in the crook of his neck like this. “I know,” he says softly.
“So much,” Ray says, dragging out each word obnoxiously long.
Sand’s hand keeps moving along Ray’s hair, his chest warm and full of affection. “I know.”
Ray sounds frustrated, like Sand isn’t getting his point. “More than anyone else does,” he insists, and Sand can’t help but chuckle.
“You’ll have to take that up with Mae.”
Sand can feel Ray pouting against him. He’s glad Ray can’t see his face either from down there. He’s sure he’s making a nauseatingly fond expression.
Then: “I just want you to be happy, you know?”
“Of course I know.”
Ray finally withdraws himself from Sand’s shoulder, looking up through tender, upturned eyes. Sand’s breath catches in his throat. He’ll never tire of that look. “No matter what happens,” Ray says, gaze unflinching. “I need you to be happy. Always.”
It’s a sweet sentiment but it lands like ice water. Sand sits up, the drowsiness immediately leaving him, a pit opening up in his stomach. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ray squints at him, confused. “It’s not a riddle. I don’t think I have to explain.”
Sand shakes his head. “You do,” he says sternly. “What do you mean, no matter what happens?”
Understanding finally dawns on Ray and he reaches for Sand’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it,” he assures him. “I was being general. I promise.”
Sand looks over at him carefully. He scans every inch of Ray’s face, takes in his earnest expression and his steady gaze. Once he determines he’s being sincere, Sand lets the tension bleed out of him.
“You can’t talk like that, Ray,” he chides. “You know it makes me…” Crazy. “Upset. When you talk like that.”
Ray blinks at him, apologetic. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Sand waves it off, sinking back into bed with a sigh. “What’s all this about me being happy anyway? Do I look sad to you?”
Ray’s voice is small when he says, “You just look so tired.”
Sand doesn’t say anything in response. He can’t deny it outright but he won’t like where the conversation will lead if he acquiesces.
“You should have just gone to bed,” Ray’s saying now, with a little shake of his head.
“And left you hungry?”
“I’m not a dog.”
Sand quirks a brow in disbelief, a teasing are you sure, in an attempt to lighten the mood, but Ray just smacks his shoulder in frustration. “I’m being serious. I’m worried about you.”
And now Sand is the one feeling frustrated. This line of questioning, of concern, always leaves him uncomfortable and a little annoyed. He’s heard it before, that he works too hard, that he spends too much time taking care of people, of his mother, of Ray. He’s heard some variation of it from Nick, from Mae, and even from Mew, which left him gritting his teeth in something like resentment.
But hearing it from Ray feels like a particularly unfunny joke.
“You’ve never worried about this before,” Sand says. “Now, you’re gonna pretend to be considerate of my time?” It comes out harsher than Sand meant it, but Ray takes it in stride. He knows how Sand expresses himself well enough. He just sits straighter, a challenge burning in his eyes.
“Well, maybe I want to be better.”
“Don’t,” Sand says bluntly. “You’re fine.”
“But are you?” Ray fires back at him. “You spend all your time looking after me.”
Sand’s eyes drift to Ray’s thighs. His boxers have ridden up, exposing the soft skin that only Sand gets to see. He swallows, wishing Ray would just drop this. “That’s my choice,” he finally says.
It’s a choice Sand has been making since he first met Ray, since he carried him, drunk and stumbling, into his apartment and into his life. He’s only doubled down on it with time. Every time they’ve tried pulling away, they’ve crashed back into each other, tectonic plates destined for collision. Sand’s already made up his mind, decided that this could be, will be, the rest of his life. There’s fear—he can’t deny that it lurks beneath, a fear that has him live-wire attuned to every change in Ray’s tone. But there’s also just plain love.
Eight months into Ray’s recovery, they’d had a fight.
That wasn’t unusual for them then. They’d been going through a rough patch, seeing each other less and less, and arguing more and more whenever they had the chance to meet. Ray almost always instigated, determined to tear apart every good thing in his life with his own two hands. Sand tried to stand firm, be reasonable, but got swept up into it anyway. He’s never been as easy-going as he’d like to believe.
The fight Sand is thinking of now had been by far the worst, and Sand hadn’t even needed to say a word. It started over something stupid. In hindsight, all their fights back then were stupid, each a desperate, misguided bid for connection. This particular fight was about money, as many of their conflicts were—the ever-present elephant in the room that they each took turns dragging out into the open.
Sand can’t even remember now what Ray had said to set him off so badly. Something about Sand’s refusal to accept Ray’s money, or any help at all. His stubbornness, his ego, how his mother might have been better off if he’d just swallow his pride. It was phrased in the crudest, most cutting way possible, loaded with the knowledge of her latest hospital stay, and Ray’s firsthand view of the worry that drove Sand to tears.
It was mean for the sake of being mean. It was a provocation. Sand had seen it in Ray’s eyes. He was daring Sand to yell something back, something cruel, something that would knock the wind out of him. He wanted Sand to balance the scales. He wanted a fight.
Sand didn’t give him the satisfaction.
He swallowed whatever words he wanted to spit back, let everything in the room—Ray especially—go, and then made for the door.
“Where are you going?” Ray demanded, eyes wild and angry.
Away, Sand thought. Anywhere but here. He didn’t want to look at Ray. He didn’t want to answer him. So he just continued like he hadn’t heard him.
“Hey! Sand, where the fuck are you going?”
Sand’s fists clenched at his sides. He shook his head in disbelief, thinking, seriously, Ray? He could barely recognize him, so twisted up in destructive anger.
But halfway out the room, Sand felt a frantic tug on his sleeve.
“Wait,” Ray had said, voice suddenly small and stilted. Against his better judgement, Sand turned to look at him.
“I didn’t mean it.”
And the thing was, Sand knew that. He knew Ray was firing off missiles at random, that his aim was to blindly hurt Sand in the hopes of being hurt in return. Wasn’t that even more fucked up?
Sand had been right by his side through all of it, the withdrawals, the night terrors, the mood swings. He’d excused every one of Ray’s stumbles under the pretense of recovery. He’d been walking on egg shells to keep Ray happy, to treat him well. And this is what he got in return?
He had nothing to say to Ray. Nothing at all.
“Sand, don’t go,” Ray had the nerve to say, fingers tight on Sand’s sleeve.
Sand exhaled, and still said nothing.
“Sand. Don’t. Please.” Ray sounded increasingly desperate. The panic had each word rising in pitch, and had Ray rocking in place, raw and unsteady. “Please.”
Sand ignored his scrunched up face and the tears beading along his waterline. It went against his instincts to tune out that word, please. He’d always been weak when hearing it from Ray’s lips. But there was a twisted feeling like disgust tangled up in his chest, and he didn’t want to direct it at Ray any longer than he had to. He had no choice but to leave. It was for both of their sakes. Even hurt, Sand was fighting for them. Why couldn’t Ray see that?
Sand didn’t say anything more. He wrenched his sleeve away from Ray, pulse thudding in his ears, and refused to look at him. He turned on his heel and walked toward the door, and this time, Ray didn’t stop him. He was quiet. Dead quiet.
Sand made his way down the winding stairs of Ray’s mansion, unlatched the heavy door up front, and didn’t come across a single person the entire time, as if the staff knew better than to linger. No sound came from upstairs. It felt like there was no one in the house at all. Like Sand was its last living occupant.
He shook off his unease and stepped into the light outside, where the air was cleaner. Where it was warmer.
He picked a direction at random and started walking.
Two hours and half a pack of cigarettes later, Sand gathered the strength to return to Ray's too-big, and all but uninhabited house. The two of them rarely spent time there anymore, both much preferring the comfort of Sand’s shoebox apartment, with its postered walls and a bed made for overlapping limbs.
If he’d really wanted to clear his head, he would’ve just headed home. A night alone in his own bed, away from Ray’s chaos, might have done him some good. But Sand had long since stopped knowing or caring what was good for him.
With his thoughts finally in order, the idea of Ray alone in this house all night, the house that drove him straight to the bottle, turned Sand’s stomach. He couldn’t stop hearing Ray’s last plea for him to stay. His face felt hot with shame.
He knew he wasn’t in the wrong, but his body, his being, protested. It wasn’t in his nature to ignore a cry for help, especially one coming from Ray. Because that’s what that was. That was what Sand walked away from. It was nasty and unpleasant but Sand knew what he signed up for. Ray had said it himself. Being with him wasn’t easy, and Sand didn’t want easy. He just wanted Ray, the rotten mess that he was.
He found his resolve then. Ray had seemed apologetic when he was leaving. If he was willing to call a truce, Sand would take it. If he tried to pick another fight, he would just leave. For the night, if not longer. Sand didn’t know how to be away for long. He wondered if he could even learn.
Sand found the house as silent as he left it, and shrouded in darkness. The sun had set outside, and no one had turned on any lights. He climbed back up the same stairs he’d practically run down, and again, encountered no one on his way. In front of the closed door to Ray’s bedroom, Sand paused, palms sweating.
He couldn’t hear any noise coming from inside. He hoped that was a good thing. He inhaled deeply, and smelled nothing except the lingering scent of smoke, which could very well be coming off of his own body. He wondered if he’d need to get closer to smell alcohol. He wondered if he was wrong for anticipating it.
Sand pushed open the door in one go, deciding against announcing his entrance.
He spotted Ray immediately, tucked under his down-filled comforter, a lit cigarette in one hand, flushed pink, dazed, and so so surprised to see him. Sand immediately zeroed in on his puffy, red-rimmed eyes. There was an ash-tray on the bedside table, freshly used, and no bottles in sight.
“Sand?” Ray’s voice came out barely a whisper.
“Hey,” Sand said, for lack of anything better.
Ray turned his gaze away. He looked small, curled up in bed, with a blanket drawn up to his chest. Sand didn’t know how to approach him. He settled for casually asking, “Can I join you?” like it was any other day.
For a moment, he thought Ray hadn’t heard him or was choosing to return the silent treatment Sand had given him. Then, Ray nodded, reaching over and tapping his cigarette against the silver tray. He looked down at it briefly, then chose to extinguish it entirely. He was stiff when Sand crawled up next to him. He kept a tight hold on the blanket the whole time like he was afraid of it being dislodged.
A terrible suspicion crossed Sand’s mind then. It wasn’t entirely unfounded, but his stomach turned with guilt anyway.
“It’s too hot for this blanket,” Sand said carefully. “I’ll get us something lighter.”
Ray shook his head. “I’ll do it.” The words were flat, missing his usual brightness, his lilting inflection. He sounded miles away. Both of them were practiced in the art of pretending nothing had happened, like they weren’t at each others’ throats only moments earlier, but Sand, conflict-averse to the fullest, had the upper hand.
Ray rolled off the bed smoothly, gathering the blanket in his arms. Sand’s suspicions were alleviated as he folded it up. No way could he have been hiding a bottle in there.
Sand waited for Ray to return, shifting in place. He thought of what to say. He wouldn’t apologize, not when Ray had yet to, not when he’d done nothing wrong, but the urge to console Ray was near irresistible. It was woven into him.
What happened earlier, would be like playing dumb. Why would you say that, would undoubtedly lead them right where they started. How did we get here, was simply a no-go. Can you please just—
Ray had been gone an awfully long time.
Sand let another second, then another minute pass by, before pushing off the bed and searching for his wayward boyfriend. There was still a restlessness churning through him, a worry that wouldn’t let him sit on his heels and wait. Ray’s house was big, but not big enough to get lost in.
He didn’t have to look far. Down the hallway, the bathroom door stood firmly shut, light pouring out from the cracks along all sides. When Sand approached, he was unsurprised to find it locked. He knocked.
“Ray?”
There was no answer.
Now Sand was panicking. What could Ray be doing in there? Was Sand right about him drinking? Was he pouring a liquor bottle down the sink? Was he throwing up in secret? Did he just want to hide away from Sand? Did Sand hurt his feelings that badly by leaving?
“Ray,” Sand called, a little louder. “Can you open the door?”
Before he could consider breaking down the wooden barrier keeping them apart, he heard a tiny sigh of resignation—a sign of life. Then, the lock clicked open.
Still, the door remained shut. Sand had to push it forward and bridge the gap himself. It was then he realized that there were worse things for Ray to be hiding.
At first, he didn’t understand what to look for. Ray was sitting on his knees on the tile, likely posed the way he was before Sand asked to be let in. There was a seldom used first aid box lying open next to him. Ray was looking down, his lovely dark hair obscuring his face. Sand scanned him from head to toe, eyes jumping from his slumped shoulders to his folded hands to his bent legs—and caught a flash of dark red.
Sand lowered himself to Ray’s level, leaning closer to get a better look, and then froze. His stomach dropped to the floor.
Somehow, though Ray had been perfectly whole last Sand had seen him, there were now stark circular burns marring the pale flesh of his right upper leg, peeking out from under the hem of his boxer shorts. Each wound was raw and angry red at the edges, and white and blistering at the center. They were painfully distinct in shape. Sand didn’t have to look back at the embossed ash tray by Ray’s bedside to know how they’d come about.
Almost worse than the burns themselves was the way Ray presented himself. Thighs exposed, chin tucked to his chest, like he wanted intensely to be looked at, and simultaneously ignored. It was just like Ray to blatantly show Sand his worst, his tenderest, most exposed self, an offer for Sand to take him or leave. It was less like him to look away from Sand, like he was too afraid to watch him make the choice.
“Ray…” Sand managed to say, choked and uneven.
He isn’t proud of how he reacted then, but the mounting panic, horror, worry, frustration—it all coalesced in a coarse, “What—what the fuck, Ray? What did you do?”
His hands hovered uselessly over Ray’s legs, too scared to touch, while Ray said nothing. Ray still refused to look at him. He just kept kneeling there stiffly, though the cold tile couldn’t have been pleasant on his knees. Sand was on the verge of vibrating out of his skin, and Ray was a statue.
“Ray,” Sand tried again, pleading this time.
There was a long silence, during which Sand could only hear the rapid one-two pulse of his own heart. The AC in Ray’s home was nothing like Sand’s shoddy, perpetually-humming unit. The mansion was quieter than a graveyard.
Then, Ray, uncharacteristically meek, said, “I thought you weren’t coming back.”
There was nothing Sand could possibly say to that.
Instead, his hands found the first aid kit Ray had yet to properly sort through, busying themselves in search for ointment and bandages. He held up each tube he found to the harsh overhead light, uselessly weighing the merits of secondary ingredients like aloe vera and honey. All the while, Ray stayed put, head hanging low, like a man at the gallows.
Sand fell into his favored role with ease, squeezing clear gel onto his fingers and swiping it, oh-so carefully, over the mess Ray had made of his thigh. He tended to each wound in silence, trembling, until—
“Are you mad?” Ray had asked, finally daring to look at him, now that Sand’s focus was elsewhere.
Sand wet his lips and paused what he was doing. He nodded, slow. “Furious.”
Before Ray could flinch away from him, Sand had looked up, meeting Ray’s uncertain eyes, revealing the wet shine of tears on his face. “I didn’t know it was this bad,” Sand said, voice breaking around the words.
He swallowed once, twice, futilely. How did I not know? “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ray shook his head, lost for words again. “I don’t…” he started. Stopped. Helpless, he shrugged. “What was I supposed to say?”
“Anything.” Sand wanted to reach out and shake him. He thought better of it. Instead his hands moved to Ray’s knees, squeezing, then letting go. “Anything at all,” he told him, throat constricting around the plea.
“Just tell me when you’re miserable,” Sand demanded. “Don’t fight me. Don’t…” More tears broke loose, scalding his cheeks. Sand swiped his eyes roughly. “Just don’t do this.”
It was quiet again. Ray was back to winning a one-sided staring contest against the tiled floor. Sand started unspooling a roll of gauze, securing each strip of non-stick dressing in place, close to the skin, but loose enough to accommodate swelling. Each awful burn covered in white brought with it a wave of relief.
Then Ray said, in a tone so gentle it could belong to someone else, “It’s not your fault.”
A pause. “You’re not my keeper.”
Sand shook his head.
“Don’t give me that,” he said, hands trembling again. The audacity of Ray to say that, when: “I’m the one who takes care of you, aren’t I?”
Ray finally met his eyes then, looking like he’d been stabbed in the chest. Shock, disbelief, and heartbreak played out on his face, each expression more pitiful than the last. His mouth parted, but nothing came out. A blink, and suddenly Ray was the one in tears.
Sand just kept watching him carefully. Intentionally. He wanted the words to sink in. He wanted Ray to know he meant them. He’d never been told that before, Sand knew. No one else had ever claimed responsibility for Ray. No one else had ever wanted it.
The tears kept pouring down Ray’s cheeks, gluing his lashes together, and wetting the icy floor beneath them. Sand shushed him, cupping his face and using his thumbs to wipe the stickiness clean. Ray’s eyes were so wide, so guileless, and Sand couldn’t stop looking at him. He looked nothing like the man spitting vitriol at Sand mere hours ago. He looked lost, and incredulous, and tentatively hopeful. Sand’s heart squeezed in his chest.
All he could think was, I want him for the rest of my life.
Later, with Ray curled up in his embrace, and his face tucked against his unwashed black hair, Sand let himself shake off the yoke of keeper. His body felt cold. He shivered, even with Ray pressed up against him like a furnace. He closed his eyes and buried his nose deeper in Ray’s hair, taking a slow and full-chested breath to ground himself. There was still a tightness in his throat, and he swallowed around it, crushing Ray against himself. Ray made a sleepy sound of confusion, but didn’t stir.
It wasn’t comparable, it wasn’t, it was fucked up for Sand to even think it, but he wondered if this was how his own mother felt. The weight of her responsibility as the sole person in Sand’s life, as the only person that could provide for him—how wasn't she crushed by it? Somehow holding Ray in his arms left him feeling infinitely appreciative of her, missteps and failures included.
That night was a turning point. For anyone else, that would have been a moment to step away. To enforce distance, to draw boundaries, to bring in help. To recognize that Ray’s dependence was all-consuming, unhealthy, and far too big for one man to carry.
Instead, it was Sand’s point of no return. There were burns on Ray’s thigh from the mere thought of Sand leaving him. Ray needed him in a way that surpassed anything else, in a way no one else could possibly come close to. And Sand? Sand would flagellate himself in service of Ray’s need. Fuck clothes, he’d give him the skin off of his back. The worst part was that Sand thrived in it, that need, that desperation. He dedicated himself to it.
It didn’t make him terrible, did it? That he found Ray sweetest when he was hurting, when he was needy? Wasn’t it only natural? Wouldn't the sight of his sad, wet eyes tap into anyone’s biological instincts to step in and help and love and care? Sand couldn’t help himself. He’d been gone on Ray from the very first time he leaned on his shoulder, drunk and helpless.
This was simply the natural continuation of where they had begun. Where it would lead them, Sand had no idea.
He found out later that Ray had been fighting with his father, on and off for a month. That the anniversary of his mother’s death had just passed. That Sand had been busy working extra shifts and Ray had nowhere else to go. That without his tried and truest method of relief, he hadn’t known what to do with the enormity of his feelings.
Sand had been terrified then. Terrified that Ray might trade one addiction for another, one Sand absolutely wasn’t equipped to deal with. He spent a day going through Ray’s house, and another going through his own apartment, hiding or plainly disposing of everything that could hurt him—Sand himself not included. He couldn’t tell anyone without betraying Ray’s trust, but he was sure Nick got some sense of what was happening. He’d put away some of his own things, without saying anything, just casually shrugging when Sand asked about it, and Sand had nearly cried out of gratitude.
Thankfully, his fears were unfounded. That was the only time. Whether it was Ray’s dislike of pain, his vanity, or his memory of Sand’s devastated tears—whatever it was that stopped him—Sand was relieved. He didn’t need to know why. He just didn’t want to see it happen again. And he realized, then, that the two of them were beyond saving. Because Sand wouldn’t have been mad even if Ray had done it just to spite him.
In their bedroom, right now, Ray looks about ready to wave a hand in front of his face. “Sand?” He follows Sand’s gaze to his thighs, freezes, and tugs his boxers down with a huff. There’s an incredulous look on his face, like he can’t believe Sand’s lack of focus.
Sand doesn’t bother defending himself. He’d rather Ray think he’s turned on than reliving the mess of last year.
“Hm?” Sand meets Ray’s eyes, round and curved at the edges, and takes in the surety that lives inside them now, something Sand worked so hard to put there. He’s proud, most of all, that Ray allowed it.
“I’m just saying,” Ray says, stubbornly rehashing an argument that Sand thought they could leave behind. “You don’t have to do all of this.”
Sand almost laughs at that. “And then what would you do?”
“I’d take care of myself.”
Now, Sand has to laugh. “You wouldn’t last a day.”
Ray’s lips pull into an annoyed frown. “Fuck off,” he says, crossing his arms with a glare that Sand really shouldn’t find so endearing.
It might make him angrier, but Sand can’t resist the urge to grab his face, forcing Ray to meet his eyes. His cheeks fit perfectly in Sand’s palms, round and puffy when he presses harder. “You think this is all out of the goodness of my heart?” Sand asks him, unblinking. “You think I’m some kind of saint?”
“I never said you were a saint,” Ray murmurs. There’s a sudden glint in his eyes when he says, “I know you get off on it.”
A flicker of heat skims across the bottom of Sand’s stomach. “Do you?” Sand’s voice comes out low. Ragged. Ray’s eyes widen a fraction.
“You have no idea what I think about,” Sand says, letting his face go. The words are a challenge and a warning all at once. “No idea at all.”
Ray takes it as a challenge, of course. He sits up in bed, loose-limbed and eager. “Then tell me.”
Sand studies Ray for a moment. When he reaches out, Ray’s eyes flutter shut. Sand just strokes back his hair, measured and slow. “We need to get you a haircut,” he says, absently.
“Sand,” Ray whines, eyes opening in disappointment. “C’mon.”
Sand could keep denying him, is awfully good at it, in fact, but he much prefers this to the discussion they were having before. So, he gives in, training dark, intent eyes on Ray. Ray shivers under his gaze.
So much for sleeping. Sand doesn’t think he’d be capable of it now, even if pulled on Ray’s silk sleeping mask and played the rain sounds Ray’s last therapist recommended to him.
“I wanna tie you down,” he tells Ray simply. “Can I?”
Ray swallows, then nods. There’s an anticipatory twist to his mouth, a gleam in his eyes. “Will you tell me what you think about?”
When Sand relents, Ray offers him both wrists, easy as ever.
Sand kicks the blanket off their legs, certain they won’t be needing it anymore. Then he reaches for their nightstand, sliding the top drawer open and withdrawing a half-empty bottle of lube and a silk tie. It’s not like they haven’t done this before. They don’t always have the patience to draw it out like this, preferring things quick and messy, but sometimes one of them gets into the mood for something headier.
Sand blindly tosses the lube somewhere to his left, and holds up his prize. The silk tie is more symbolic than a restraint. Rope would be too rough on Ray’s delicate skin, and handcuffs too impersonal. Sand relishes the act of tying him down, lives for the slow wrap-around and the quickness of Ray’s breath.
He makes short work of binding Ray’s wrists, a little impatient today, and kisses over the tie when he’s done. Then he guides Ray’s arms back, so they’re draped on the pillow, resting above his head. He doesn’t need to tell Ray to keep them there. Ray knows how Sand likes to play. Sand’s not worried about that.
Sand looks at Ray then, hair mussed, arms up, dressed in only a form-fitting tank and boxers. A vision. Sand’s already straining in the tight pants he hadn’t had a chance to change out of.
“I think about you like this,” Sand starts, leaning in and putting his mouth to Ray’s neck. “Tied to my bed.”
“That’s not so crazy,” Ray says with a little laugh, flinching away when Sand noses a ticklish spot.
Sand kisses up his neck, closed-mouth, barely-there presses. Then: “I think about keeping you here. All the time.”
He feels Ray tilt his head, curious.
Sand says the next words directly into Ray’s skin. “I’d take care of you.” A nuzzle. “I’d feed you.” A lick. “Bathe you. Change you.” The slightest hint of teeth. “You wouldn’t have to move.”
“You wouldn’t let me?” Ray asks, breathy and expectant.
Sand bites down, and Ray hisses through his teeth. Then he extracts himself from the crook of Ray’s neck. He looks at Ray, stares at him. There’s a spot of redness on his neck, a splash of it across his face. Sand’s eyes find his mouth, sweet and neglected.
He brings a hand to it, thumbing at Ray’s lip like he did earlier. It drops open, as willing as the rest of him.
Sand wants to moan. He wants to mess him up.
He pushes his thumb into Ray’s mouth. Ray lets him, immediately applying soft, sucking pressure. Sand has no choice but to follow up with his index finger, then his middle. Ray accepts them with ease, tongue flitting across each of them.
Sand spreads each finger slightly, prying Ray’s mouth open wider.
Then he traces the soft pink of Ray’s tongue, following its ridges up toward Ray’s throat until he gags, spit pooling in his mouth and wetting Sand’s fingers. Sand keeps them there, watching Ray’s eyes gloss over with reflexive tears.
“Shh,” he says, when Ray gags again. Ray blinks up at him rapidly, a tear slipping down the slant of his cheekbone, and Sand finally relents, pulling his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop. A trail of saliva follows them, but Sand pays it no mind, cupping the back of Ray’s neck and leaning in to kiss the spit off of his lips. Ray lets him do it, parting his mouth obediently when Sand deepens the kiss and feeds him his tongue.
Inside, Ray is warm. Sand tastes every inch of him, feeling Ray shiver whenever he finds a sensitive spot. He could kiss, has kissed, Ray for hours, drunk off the hitch in his breath and the way he tilts his head up for more, baby-bird sweet. It’s agonizing to stop.
Sand swallows the gasp Ray makes when he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, memorizes it, then pulls away. He shakes his head to clear it, soothing Ray’s nape with his thumb when he looks up at him, eyes wide and still wanting.
“Enough,” Sand tells him. “That’s enough for now, Ray.”
Ray looks like he disagrees, but he doesn’t fight him, not this time. He just slumps back into the pillow, languid and slow, the way Sand likes him. Good. It’s not about what Ray thinks he wants, or god forbid, what he thinks he deserves. It's about what he needs, what only Sand can give to him.
Sand’s hands find the hem of Ray’s cotton tank, lifting the fabric to expose the creamy white skin of his stomach, and the line of dark hair that disappears into his boxers. It’s too much effort to pull it over Ray’s bound hands so he hikes it up to Ray’s armpits. Then he feels him up slowly, touching the delicate tattoo above his hip, his stomach, his chest. He doesn’t say anything, just watches Ray squirm.
Ray’s silver chain gleams against his collarbones, and Sand can’t even explain the way it always sends his blood racing, sitting dainty and expensive. Pretty, like Ray is all over, and somehow within his reach.
Once every inch of Ray’s exposed skin has been warmed by Sand’s calloused hands, he leans in and laves his tongue over the valley of Ray’s chest. He blows cool air over each nipple before digging in with his teeth, tugging until they’re puffy and flushed with blood. Sand waits until Ray tries to grind against his body, panting, his stomach rising and falling rapidly, before he breaks the silence and continues.
“It would be just you and me in here.” It takes Ray a second to register what he’s talking about, before his eyes round in an effort to focus. “I’d decide who gets to see you.” He brings his hands up Ray’s sides again, squeezing at his pectoral muscles, before he drops his head against Ray’s shoulder and looks up at him.
“I’d keep you safe.” The words are at odds with his lecherous tone.
“That’s so fucked up,” Ray breathes into his ear. Sand might have been bothered by the words if he hadn’t chosen that moment to dip his hand into Ray’s soaked boxers, finding him hard and wanting. Ray hisses as Sand wraps a hand around him. “Tell me more,” Ray demands.
“No one would be able to talk to you without me there.” Sand strokes him, just shy of hard enough, feeling Ray shudder beneath him. “Not Mew, not Cheum, not Nick, not even your father.”
Ray’s hitching breath at the last word assures Sand he hadn’t gone too far. Ray’s just as gone as he is. His perfect match.
“What if I wanted to go for a walk? Get some air?” Ray asks, teasing. “Would you put me on a leash?”
Sand shakes his head. “No, sweetheart.”
When he takes his hand away, Ray’s hips jump up, begging for friction. Sand takes in the frustrated furrow of Ray’s brow with deep satisfaction, and can’t help but laugh fondly when Ray levels a glare at him.
“I wouldn’t let you walk,” Sand says, grinning, as he pulls at Ray's hips, slinging his thighs around his waist. When he grinds down, letting Ray feel how affected he is, Ray keens. “I’d carry you wherever you wanted to go.”
Sand keeps rocking his hips, and Ray meets him frantically, mouth dropping open. “You wouldn’t have to lift a finger,” Sand rasps. Ray’s eyes roll back.
Sand teases him like that for a while, until the ache between his own legs becomes too much to bear. He pushes one of Ray’s legs aside then, and tugs the boxers off of him. He moves back a little, squeezes Ray’s thighs firmly.
He’s weak to this part of Ray’s body especially. He runs his thumb along the tattoo encircling Ray’s leg. Then he leans in and presses his mouth to the faint white circles still visible on Ray’s right thigh, the marks of his dependence on Sand. Ray doesn’t even have scrapes on his knees from playing as a kid. He’s perfectly unblemished apart from what Sand did to him.
The sight invokes a strange jumble of feelings in Sand, some of which he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
Thankfully, Ray chooses to knock him with his ankle then, whining the way he does whenever Sand is too slow. “Get a move on,” he orders, and while Sand would love to take even longer just to spite him, his own patience is nearing its end.
He sits up and tugs off his own clothes rapidly. They stick to him unpleasantly, and really, he should have removed them earlier, but he’d been too caught up in Ray to even register his own body. He tosses them to the floor carelessly, thinking he’ll take care of them later and knowing he won’t bother until tomorrow. He fishes for the lube he’d flung aside earlier, and presents it to Ray upon finding it, adoring the way his pupils dilate on command.
He lifts Ray’s hips up and props a pillow under them, giving himself ample room to work. Then he uncaps the bottle and squeezes, letting cold lube drip out and pool between Ray’s legs. Ray inhales sharply when it makes contact, mouth twitching in annoyance when Sand bites back another grin.
Ray can’t stay annoyed for long. Sand starts with one finger, circling, rubbing, and smearing wetness, until it glides in, butter smooth. Ray’s body parts around him, yielding under slight pressure, but still clinging devastatingly tight. Sand opens Ray up slowly, one hand holding up his trembling thigh, crooking the fingers of the other up inside of him and watching the flutter of his lashes every time he moves up a digit. He gets three fingers deep, spreading them languidly to the sound of Ray’s hiccuping breaths.
Sand keeps adding lube, more than he probably needs. It drips onto the bedsheets, and squelches lewdly between his fingers. He works Ray open longer than he has to, just to make sure he’s soft and wet and easy to sink into. He savors how fever-warm Ray is inside, basks in the firm clench of his body every time he pushes deep. The way Ray’s throaty moans rise in pitch the longer he stretches him is a welcome bonus.
This is his favorite part. What can he say? Sand’s always liked using his hands.
Afterwards, when Ray is leaking lube and Sand is content with a job well done, he hooks his thumbs inside of him and stops to take a look. He burns the view into the back of his eyelids, while Ray hides his face against his own shoulder, burning in mortification. “What are you doing?” he asks, practically squeaking. “Stop it.”
“Just looking,” Sand says, voice like gravel. Then he leans in and kisses Ray there too, lingering and open-mouthed. Once, twice. Ray huffs an amused breath, but doesn’t issue another complaint.
Then, finally. They’ve forgone condoms for a while now, so all Sand needs to do is add more lube and line himself up.
He does just that, pressing against where Ray is slick and undoubtedly aching. He’s gripping himself tight, rubbing circles into Ray’s hot skin, but he doesn’t push in. Not yet. Ray tries to rock down, desperate and impatient, but Sand grabs his hips and holds firm.
Sand leans over Ray’s body, taking in his ruddy cheeks and the sweat-soaked hair clinging to his temples. Ray’s forehead scrunches in confusion. Sand shakes his head, overcome with overwhelming fondness. He leans even closer and mouths at Ray’s ear.
“Can I?” His voice comes out a rasp, a near whisper. Ray shudders at the sound of it, at Sand’s hot breath on his sensitized skin. “Ray, can I have it?”
Ray expects him to just take it, which is exactly why Sand asks. He wants to hear it from Ray’s mouth. He wants to hear him plead.
Ray nods frantically, but when Sand doesn’t move, he tips his head back, looking up at him with imploring eyes. “Yeah, yes. Please.”
Sand raises a brow, absently drawing circles on Ray’s hips. “Yeah?”
“C’mon,” Ray whines. “Please, Sand. It’s yours.”
The words send a pulse of heat racing down Sand’s spine. He doesn’t draw it out any longer. He can’t. He moves his hands to Ray’s thighs to spread him a little wider, nudging even closer, and without wasting another moment, he sinks inside. He doesn’t stop until the insides of his thighs are flush against Ray’s ass, groaning as Ray spasms around him, as sparks light up behind his eyes.
He’s still for a moment, for his own sake more than Ray’s, distracting himself by gripping Ray’s soft thighs hard enough to bruise. He’s hovering over him, panting, while Ray bites his bottom lip, already dazed. His brows are furrowed, his face is pink. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils dark and blown out, and Sand could fucking eat him whole.
He settles for pulling out and shoving back inside, hard enough to push Ray up the bed. Ray’s mouth drops open, a surprised moan breaking loose from his chest. Sand does it again, and then again, reveling in the way Ray’s legs tighten around him every time he thrusts inside.
He sets an even pace, slowly dragging against Ray’s insides every time he pulls out, then forcing himself back in like he’s trying to break him. Ray takes each thrust with practiced ease, arching his back and letting out stuttering gasps. His toes curl against Sand’s back, his hands flex in their binds, but he stays put, even as his body rocks under the force of Sand’s onslaught.
Sweat pours off Sand’s forehead and drips onto Ray beneath him. He leans in and licks Ray’s face clean, tasting salt from both of their skin. Ray shuts his eyes in bliss, cheeks curving in a satisfied smile. Sand kisses his open mouth, hands moving from Ray’s thighs to his waist to his chest. He tweaks Ray’s nipples, sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, and is rewarded with a, “Uh—Sand,” breathed straight into his mouth. It goes right to Sand’s head, makes him dizzy.
He wants to get closer still. He settles for lifting Ray’s hips off the bed, pressing his knees as close to his chest as he can, stopping only when Ray starts shaking from the strain. When he thrusts back inside, he feels himself sinking even deeper, and Ray makes a sound like he’s dying.
Sand keeps at it, keeps splitting Ray open, even as his own legs start trembling from exertion. The bedframe creaks under their combined weight, and Sand is once again grateful that the two of them live alone now.
On his next thrust, Sand’s hand finds Ray’s throat, softly resting against it to feel the way Ray swallows when he says, “I’m the only one who gets to take care of you like this.”
Ray looks up at Sand in awe, through teary brown eyes.
“Do you get it, Ray?” Sand asks him.
Ray nods, but he’d agree to anything Sand says when he’s buried inside him like this. Sand has to drive the point home.
“You still think I’m doing you a favor?” He grabs Ray’s jaw, making sure his eyes are on Sand. He won’t let him look anywhere else. “You think I get nothing out of this?”
“No,” Ray whimpers, shaking his head.
“You think I can’t handle you?”
Ray shakes his head again, bangs spilling over his forehead. Sand pushes them back as Ray swears, “No, you can. You’re—You’re the only one. The only one who can.”
Sand’s hips stutter, eyes fluttering shut as Ray’s words fill him with white-hot electricity. His blood sings with it.
A wicked grin flickers across Ray’s face as he takes in Sand’s reaction. “You take care of me so well,” he coos, low and breathless.
Sand moans, despite himself. His hips are moving of their own accord now, slamming into Ray with relentless urgency. The sound of skin on skin is filthy, further escalated by Ray’s desperate keens and Sand’s huffing breaths.
“Will you come inside of me? Please?” Ray begs him.
Sand tries to ignore him. He doesn’t want to come yet. He wants Ray to finish first.
“Na, Sand?”
Ray’s tilting his head, looking up at him through his damp lashes, and Sand has to close his eyes to get a hold of himself.
“I need it,” Ray tells him. His voice is hoarse from crying out.
“Shut up,” Sand says. He squeezes Ray’s jaw, and simultaneously digs his fingers into the flesh of his thigh. Anything to last a moment longer, to stop himself—
“I need you.”
It’s Sand’s last straw. He bites down on Ray’s ear, hard, and to his relief, that does it. Ray’s hips jerk helplessly, and he sobs as his whole body tenses, legs trembling, head pressing back into the pillow in search of relief. He tightens around Sand, again and again, an on-and-off unyielding pressure, and Sand has no choice but to follow him over the edge.
Ray gets what he asked for as Sand empties himself inside of him, gripping Ray’s thighs for dear life as his vision blurs. Ray’s moaning wanton in his ear, twitching with each kick of Sand’s hips, and Sand feels like he’ll never come down, like there’s no end to the unbearable rush coursing through him.
Seconds that feel like hours pass, and Sand is finally spent. He collapses onto Ray, ignoring the sticky mess on his stomach. Ray makes a tiny sound in response, but doesn’t complain, letting Sand catch his breath.
It’s quiet for a long moment, the room occupied only by the sound of their ragged breathing. Ray’s heart thrums under Sand’s ear, rabbit-quick and in sync with Sand’s own. Or so he dreams. Sand swallows, finding his throat painfully dry.
Wordless, he pushes himself up, reaching for Ray’s arms. His fingers find the silk knotted around Ray’s wrists, undoing the tie with a practiced ease. When he’s finished, he takes hold of each wrist one by one, rolling and stretching the joints like they’re his own. Ray doesn’t move his head from the pillow, watching Sand’s ministrations through bleary eyes.
Once Sand is satisfied, he brings Ray’s hands to his mouth, kissing the center of his palms and all along the curve of his wrists, flushed where the silk was snug, but unmarked. Sand was careful with him. He doesn’t know how not to be.
Ray’s fond chuckle sounds like music to Sand’s ears. He playfully nips at Ray’s wrist in response, smiling widely when he gasps in mock outrage. “Good?” he murmurs into Ray’s arm when he feels steady enough to speak.
“The best,” Ray says, always happy to stroke Sand’s ego.
Sand is fully intending to join Ray where he’s lying against their overly padded pillows, but when he lifts his head, the exhaustion that he’d been pushing aside hits him full-force. His vision blurs, and his head falls of its own volition. Sand manages to catch himself against Ray’s leg, cheek to his thigh, and looks up at him, dopey and fucked out.
“I’ll clean us up in a second,” he promises, slurring his words. Ray’s mess is smeared over his stomach and chest. Sand’s is leaking out from between his thighs, a sight he can’t pay close attention to, not if he actually wants to get some rest tonight. God, and they’ll definitely have to change the sheets.
“It’s okay,” Ray soothes, lifting an arm to stroke Sand’s hair. He ever so gently scratches at Sand’s scalp with his nails, and Sand’s never felt anything better. “Just rest.”
“Do you need anything?” Sand asks. His eyes are closed in contentment, his brain is mush, but it’s hardwired in him to ask.
Ray pinches his ear. “What did I say?”
Finally, Sand relents. He lets the world fade out, forgets everything but the softness of Ray’s skin touching his own, and the warmth of his gaze on his face. He knows Ray is staring at him, the way he does when he thinks Sand is asleep, all wide-eyed wonder. It doesn’t feel unnerving. It’s comfortable.
Sand may have fallen asleep. Or he may just be flitting in and out of consciousness, one foot on either side of the divide. Whichever it is, the next time he regains lucidity, he remembers to say, “You know that was just a fantasy, right? I wasn’t being serious.”
Ray’s hand pauses in his hair. “You weren’t?” Sand would assume Ray was joking if it wasn’t for the genuine disappointment in his voice. He blinks his eyes open to find Ray pouting, radiating displeasure while leaning back against his pillow like an angel in a painting. Sand has no choice then but to unstick himself from Ray’s thigh and join him up there, pulling him to his side and burying his face in his neck.
“Don’t start.” Sand noses against his pulse.
“C’mon.” Ray’s fingers return to mussing Sand’s hair, absentminded. “It wouldn’t be so hard to do. We’re already halfway there.”
“Our friends will call the cops on me.”
Ray shivers at that, little deviant that he is.
“And I still have work, you know,” Sand adds. “I can’t actually look after you twenty-four seven.”
He can actually feel Ray deflate, sighing with his whole body. Drama queen. Sand just breathes him in—the salt, sweat, and faded-spearmint smell of him.
“Well, we can still do some of it,” Ray says after a pause, tugging lightly on Sand’s hair. He hums in contemplation. “I know. You can start by picking out what I wear.”
Sand thinks of the carefully pressed silk Ray likes to wear, each shirt fresh off the rack and fitted perfectly to his tastes. He thinks of his own second-hand wardrobe, and the way Ray can’t quite hide the way his nose wrinkles in distaste when Sand brags about a clearance sale. “You’d hate that.”
“I would,” Ray agrees gleefully. “You should do it anyway.”
Sand squints at him. “I’m the one who’s fucked up?”
Ray uses his grip on Sand’s hair to force him to meet his gaze. “Please, Sand? Na?”
Sand can only shake his head, his dissent contradicted by the grin he can’t bite down on. His body is loose, his defenses chipped away, and all he can do is level Ray with his fondest stare. “You’re a nightmare,” he tells him, like it’s a prestigious award and Ray holds the crown.
Already, Sand is mentally flipping through his closet, imagining what Ray might look good in. Ray has a propensity for stealing his clothes when he’s lounging around at home, so it isn’t too hard to picture. In the morning, maybe he’ll lay something out for him. He imagines the token protest Ray might raise, before Sand offers to dress him himself. He imagines putting Ray in his clothes, an outfit of his choosing, and then inevitably tearing them all off
They’ll have ample time. Sand has already taken the morning off, the only way he can stomach taking a late shift on a day Ray is feeling low. Tomorrow, he’ll have hours to pull Ray apart, all so he can put him back together. Sand’s done it over and over. He can’t imagine ever stopping.
Ray jokes sometimes, wry and self-deprecating, about being Sand’s third job. Sand can only ever respond with a quip about overtime and a loud kiss to the crown of Ray’s head. He's not entirely wrong. Sand’s being compensated after all. Every bat of Ray’s lashes, every honey-toned please, every warm breath against Sand’s collarbone—it’s the little things that make it worth his while.
Ray’s his focal point, after all. The axis his world revolves around, for better or worse, but it’s Ray, so how could it be anything but for the better?
Sand’s no good at putting it into words, but Ray must get the picture. He knows how precious he is. How cared for. He’s everything—Sand’s spoiled brat, his prince in a tower, his porcelain doll. So much and yet so easy to handle.
Sand wouldn’t have him any other way.