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Sand minds his own business.
It's a good quality to have, especially for him - it’s better he doesn’t know who his customers are most of the time. And to be honest, he doesn't particularly care about others' issues, and he's too tired to bother most of the time. He's learned it's just better to stay out of things.
He doesn’t know why it’s so different with one particular person.
"Hey, handsome. You look lonely." The guy sitting at the bar flirting with some poor soul gives off creepy vibes immediately, and Sand looks away. Eye contact means trouble. Instead, he goes back to tuning his guitar - the bar is always a bit humid, which loosens his strings and makes it a pain to keep in tune.
And Sand is minding his own business, he really is, but over the low thrum of Yo's bar he hears -
"Me?"
He tenses, fingers pausing over the fretboard. He knows exactly what he's going to find without even looking - Ray, slumped forward, squinting at the creep. It’s late enough that he’s probably close to being blackout drunk (why Sand knows Ray’s alcohol tolerance is nobody’s business but his), and he’s in no position to consent to anything of any sort.
And Sand doesn’t care, he does not, Ray has his friends who will take care of him and that’s none of his business and -
“Wanna go on a ride, baby?” Snaking out a hand to rest on Ray’s thigh, the guy leans forward, grinning - almost leering - at Ray, and his friends are nowhere and Sand -
It takes him all of five seconds to slip off his guitar and stride across the club, yanking the guy’s hand off of Ray. “Get out.”
The guy reels back, looking disgusted. “What the hell’s your problem?” he spits. He glances at Ray, then snorts. “What, he your boyfriend or something?” He squints. "Or boytoy?"
Sand swallows down the response that wants to crawl out of his throat. “Get out,” he repeats, and takes full advantage of his height to loom over the guy. He’s learned there’s no point in reasoning with idiots like this one - intimidation and violence are the only things that’ll get through their thick skulls.
The guy looks back at Ray, then up at Sand, and promptly decides it isn’t worth the trouble. “You’re insane,” he shoots, before standing up and ducking out of the bar.
As soon as he’s gone, Sand turns to Ray, who's blinking up at him, pupils dilated. “Mew?” He sways, like he’s preparing to lean into Sand’s chest, before abruptly pulling himself back. “Wh…?”
(Sand can't quite ignore the pang when he hears Mew's name instead of his. It’s none of his business. But still.)
Closing his eyes, he breathes out slowly. Ray’s completely wasted. “Not Mew. Get up, come on.”
Ray clutches his empty glass protectively, whining a complaint, but Sand ignores him and grabs him by the arm to haul him up. He may be a babysitter, but he's not paid by the minute. “No, don’t - ‘m not - drunk,” Ray manages to string together, pouting up at Sand.
Sighing again, Sand flips him off. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Ray stares at the proffered hand for a few seconds before giving up, slumping.
"Let’s go, I have to play soon."
—
Sand minds his own business.
It's second nature at this point to duck his head and keep walking. He can barely keep himself afloat, he’s in no position to go looking for trouble. He's learned it's just better to stay out of things.
He doesn't know why he keeps saying yes to Ray, who is nothing but problems.
Sand glances at the record player, running some unfamiliar track, before looking back at the owner of this room - Ray, sprawled on the floor staring at the ceiling. He sighs.
He takes the glass of wine away from Ray, changes out the song for a more familiar one and cleans off the table littered with bottles before slumping onto the fancy sofa. The rush of sitting on a couch that costs more than Sand's entire apartment has worn off quite a bit, but it still makes his aching back sigh in relief.
Still, he'd give up the plush seat in exchange for a slightly more sober Ray.
"You’re still alive?" Sand nudges Ray's calf with his foot.
Humming vaguely, Ray sits up on his elbows and squints. "Sand? Y're here?"
Sand snorts. "Who else. Where are your friends, huh? They're the ones supposed to stop you from dying of alcohol poisoning, not me," Sand says - and it’s a joke, mostly, but Ray tenses.
Sand pauses, then leans down to look at him. "What?"
Ray slumps back onto the floor, suddenly deflated. “They don't care,” he says after a beat.
“What?” Sand repeats, furrowing his brows in confusion. He's not drunk yet, but he's tipsy enough that the words don't quite register.
Ignoring him, Ray lolls his head forward and laughs. “I wouldn’t care about me if I was them either.” He reaches out, fiddles with the handle of the drawer next to him before giving up, instead tilting his head sideways to look at Sand. "Know what's in there?"
It's not accusing, but Sand bristles anyway. "Why would I know? I don't go through people's things without permission."
Ray squints for a moment, like he's trying to figure something out, before giving up. "Pills," he says. He repeats it, and starts giggling. "Was g'nna die."
Sand freezes.
"Didn't think anyone would care," Ray continues, smiling like he's talking about anything but this. "Would you?"
He laughs, self deprecating and small, and Sand feels full of lead and uncertainty. He doesn't know how to respond - he doesn't know how to move, suddenly.
Then Ray frowns, squinting. "Ugh, I feel -" He turns to the side and throws up, retching all over the carpet that costs more than Sand's existence.
Sand almost wants to throw up too. Instead, he hands Ray a tissue and rubs his back, wincing at the smell.
(The worst part is this - Ray doesn’t remember the conversation afterwards. But Sand does.)
—
Sand minds his own business.
It's a good quality to have - there are some things people are better off not knowing. He can't fix everything for everyone, so he doesn't even try.
But Ray pouts up at him, asks and begs and Sand is utterly helpless against him. He loses his sense of time, blurring into something too close to caring, and it’s - fine, right?
He lets him come over, cooks for him, and somewhere in the process loses his heart or maybe his head. And he swallows down the ache every time he remembers he’s not Ray’s priority, not the way he is Sand’s. It's fine.
"Can I stay over?" Ray asks, and Sand relents - always, too easy, too weak. He gives in because it's what he wanted to do anyway. It feels a little bit like ticking down to something inevitable.
(The worst part is this - caring hurts. But Sand does anyway.)
—
Sand minds his own business.
It's a good quality to have - he wishes more people had it. He's learned it's just better to stay out of things, because that way it hurts less.
He doesn’t know why he expected it to be different with Ray.
“Ray is in love with Mew - they even screwed,” Boston says, loud and cutting. “It’s a good thing you came along, Sand. He needs to get over Mew.”
And Sand - turns to Ray, tries to read his expression, find something that will make his throat unstick. He’s met with rage and apprehension and something he can’t name. He’s too drunk to parse what that means.
But he does understand this much - Boston isn’t lying.
And that -
Ray reaches down to grab the bottle, hands shaking as he unscrews it, and Sand -
Sand doesn't know what to do except watch, Ray's words echoing in his head.
(The worst part is this - he expected this. He knew it was coming. But still he'd hoped.)