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Ray’s never had any trouble feeling out of place walking down the filigree patterned carpet hallway of this condo in the nicer end of town, but tonight – this morning – was somehow worse.
It’s 5 am or something. Again.
As he turns the corner, he bumps shoulders against a tenant walking the other way and his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose. Earning a backwards glance that looks more like a glare to him, he scrambles to straighten them. He slows as he does to also sniff his hoodie, paranoid.
When he looks up, the door he’s aiming for isn’t so far away anymore, but rather less than a foot in front of him. Dark mahogany. Familiar, yet –
He gulps.
Shit, Ray Narvaez Jr., get your life together.
There’s always been a clear line between bad and worse, at least in Ray’s mind.
I mean, it’s a no-brainer.
Bad is grade 8, getting sick with a fever and still being forced to go to school by your Puerto Rican mother.
Worse is grade 9, sick as in really sick as in holy-shit-I’m-going-to-throw-up sick, being forced to go to school anyways, and your phys. ed. teacher hating your guts and making you run the pacer test the same morning.
Worse is sprinting pathetically for all of three seconds before bending over and puking soggy breakfast cereal onto the brand new sneakers of your biggest fucking crush (at the time).
Worse was almost certainly, by all accounts – or at least by the Google search Ray keyed in just to make sure, so maybe just by one definition – a more serious or unpleasant event or circumstance. Comparative of bad. And hey, Ray isn’t one to compare tragedies (as if stuff like that could ever be compared) but when everything as of late has been going south of alright, he needed some form of measure to keep his days in check.
Anyways. Bad and worse. Easy. Simple. Clear-cut. Right?
Wrong.
-
-
May, four months ago
Hospitals suck, Ray thought as he settled down in the chair beside Michael’s bed for the thousandth day in a row, followed in by Ryan.
“Babe, please talk to me,” Ryan said – too evenly, in Ray’s opinion – as he placed what was meant to be a comforting hand on the boy’s stiff shoulder.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Ray quipped back, eyes forward. “Whatever you say can’t be worth much of a damn if you’re picking Gavin over Michael, Ry.”
“It’s not like that.”
The monitors kept beeping without pause, but Ray felt like he was getting sucked into a vacuum as he held his breath, desperately hoping Ryan has some explanation that will make things right again. He wanted – no, needed – to not feel so much animosity towards his own boyfriend.
“But I’m worried about you. Look, you shouldn’t live alone through this.” Ryan pulled a chair up beside Ray, shutting the door behind him. He hesitated. “I know this seems fast, but given the circumstances, I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to live with me for a while.”
A look of searing betrayal flashed across Ray’s face as he faced the older man, hating the height difference that made him feel much less sure of himself.
“So I can leave my best friend the same way the rest of you did? Fuck you, Ryan.”
Ryan sucked in a breath through his teeth at Ray’s accusation, the hurt expression on his face tearing through Ray. But he was too angry at the connotations of Ryan’s words, didn’t think before he spoke –
“I hate you.”
-
-
Thing is, it all hashed together with the accident. Ray got caught up in the feeling of protecting Michael, got caught up in the role of someone actually doing something – maybe that’s why Michael left, maybe it was his ridiculous, overbearing actions – that things went to shit.
In his head, he knew that Ryan always meant well, his all-in-good-fun sadistic streak aside. But in the heat of the moment (multiple moments, actually; Ryan gave him so many goddamn chances to fix things) Ray did what Ray did best.
He effortlessly fucked his relationship up. Royally.
See, it’s hard to tell the difference between anything with any certainty when you’re making some of it up as you go. When your best friend’s lying in the hospital in a coma you’re not sure he’s going to wake from and the room is almost always empty because your other sort-of best friend is alive and therefore deserves more critical attention, you have to pick a side and swallow your doubts before the bitterness in the back of your throat swallows you whole.
(Even if you don’t necessarily disagree with the whole Gavin-needs-love-and-attention thing, because jeez, Gavin got arguably just as fucked up in the accident as Michael did)
But there it is once more. Arguably. Comparatively, it’s hard to keep track of what’s what anymore and whose lies you’re telling after a point. It’s even harder to tell what you actually believe, and before you know it, the line between bad and worse blurs into nothing.
Then again, when bad and worse wrap up into a sum bundled up as nerves and awkward fidgeting at the door of your boyfriend's – ex-boyfriend? On-a-break-but-still-boyfriend? Something? – place at the crack of dawn, a negative is just that – negative.
Holy fuck, I’m just asking to get my ass kicked by being here, Ray thought nervously, eyeing the stairwell as a more-than-possible escape route. He’s probably asleep anyways.
But Ray knew better than that. He knew that Ryan was probably at his desk still, poring over reports and lab scheduling well into the night even if it cost him a few nights sleep just to make things were absolutely perfect.
Dumb, perfectionist TA boyfriend.
(Versus even dumber, socially inept, miscommunicating boyfriend, aka himself)
“Oh my god, I hate this,” Ray muttered to himself, his knuckles an inch away from knocking.
-
-
February, seven months ago
The clock read 4AM and it was lightly snowing outside.
“Ry, come to bed. Fuck that one student, you don’t like him anyways.” Ray set a hot mug down on the table anyways, adding to the multitude of coffee rings already staining his boyfriend’s lined notebook.
Ryan laughed softly, tiredly. “You mean you don’t like him. Thanks, babe.” He slid his wire-frame glasses off his face and flicked back his long hair, reaching for the drink. Taking a sip, he did his best to not wince at the sugary taste.
“Fuck, I put too much in again, didn’t I?” Ray’s face fell as he scrutinized the older man’s expression. But Ryan just shrugged and gave him a pointed look as he drank more.
Never mind that the older man usually liked his coffee black, it was always adorable watching Ray’s nose crinkle up when he tries to run the coffee machine, bitter smell wafting up and making him automatically reach for sugar cubes. Every time.
Ryan loves it.
“It’s fine, see?”
Ray snorted. “Yeah, right. I’m giving you diabetes. I’ll make you another –“
Ryan caught him by the waist, pulling him back. “Ray, it’s alright, really. You do more than enough by indulging me and staying up while I critique…” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “…this fucking idiot’s report.”
Face too hot to feel quite as triumphant as he should, Ray settled for nodding dumbly.
“Besides, I might as well get used to it, huh?” Ryan’s blue eyes shone with amusement as he pulled his boyfriend into his lap. His stubble lightly grazed the dark-haired boy’s jaw as he pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. Ray sighed in resignation.
Ryan grinned at the reaction. “Sorry I can’t come sleep, baby. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”
Yeah, he never really got around to telling Ray that he never really cared for sweet things. But whenever Ray helped him grocery shop, the Puerto Rican would always toss a box of sugar cubes into the cart and Ryan would just ring them through.
Even though the first package they went through when Ray and Ryan first started dating had been sitting in the pantry for years prior.
There were about five cases sitting on the shelf now.
Sugar lasted indefinitely, anyways.
“Hey, don’t fall asleep now; you’re never gonna get through that report if you do.” Ray waved a hand in front of Ryan’s face, looking completely clueless as to the reason for the softened expression gracing his boyfriend’s sharp features.
“Hey, Ray?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
-
-
Ray withdrew his hand from the door slightly, his face warm even with the cool AC blowing through the hallway.
Ryan was a great boyfriend – is a great boyfriend, Ray corrects himself, it isn’t officially anything else yet – and all Ray did was fuck all of that up by pushing the guy away. Weird shit happens in special circumstances, but that isn’t really an excuse.
You just don’t go around telling your boyfriend you hate him, goddamn it.
Yeah, negative may just be a negative, but a ridiculous conversation he remembers having with Gavin way back when suddenly pops into his mind.
“Two negatives make a positive, Ray!”
“Yeah, but ‘two wrongs don’t make a right’? How do you explain that? Don’t science at me, dude.”
“Two wrongs make a right when you feel guilty enough about it that you apologize and fix it.”
Ryan’s look of hurt flashed through his mind.
“Fuuuuuuck,” Ray groans, hands flying up to his face. The last thing he needed was weirdly reasoned out (yet bizarrely completely plausible) advice coming from an amnesiac British boy who he hasn’t talked to in half a year, echoing in his head.
But Gavin had a point.
Some things can’t be fixed. Like the crumbling relationship between Michael and Gavin, apparently. But it’s not like this was any easier.
Apologizing is hard. And shit, people say that apologizing is harder when you’re not in the wrong, but that is such a goddamn lie because Ray knows he was a little bitch about everything and the problem was never in apologizing. The problem was always about confrontation.
It was always about talking. Ray’s absolute worst field of expertise.
Now, bad was ignoring your boyfriend because you’re worried about your dying friend.
Worse was declaring you hate your boyfriend and telling him to fuck off because you’re melodramatic, ignoring your boyfriend well after your best friend is out of the hospital, moving in with the best friend (knowing full well that your boyfriend/ex-boyfriend was jealous as fuck but is too good-natured to say anything about it) –
Worse was ignoring all his phone calls and texts, worse was refusing to see him even after there was no reason not to anymore.
Worse was also how the calls stopped a few days into lectures starting up again.
Ray wants to weep at his own stupidity. Partially for everything before this, but also partially for showing up here in the first place.
He should have brought something as a peace offering.
Like a white flag.
Oh, or one of those cakes with iced writing on top. Like the ones you see on Tumblr, Pinterest, whatever. It would probably read something in all caps along the lines of “HOLY SHIT DUDE I WAS REALLY DUMB AND SAID TERRIBLE THINGS”, or “I’M A SHIT BOYFRIEND AND YOU DESERVE TO THROW THIS CAKE IN MY FACE”, or “PLEASE FORGIVE ME, I LOVE YOU”, or maybe just “I’M SO FUCKING SORRY”?
Ray reflects that the gesture probably wouldn’t be well-received no matter what it said.
So he guesses it’s a good thing that he’s standing here cakeless.
-
-
December, nine months ago
“Hi, you’re Ray, right? Ryan’s boyfriend?”
Ray stared at the pretty woman apparently addressing him in the middle of the computer science atrium. He recognized her as a certain faculty associate. A colleague of Ryan’s, maybe?
I’m about to get in some shit, Ray panicked, furtively looking for somewhere to dash off to.
“Woah, wait – you’re not in any trouble!” She said loudly. Her eyes widened and she turned to check over her shoulder before dragging Ray off into some empty room in the building.
She was quieter this time. “What does Ryan Haywood like?”
“Excuse me?” If Ray wasn’t so flabbergasted, he would have immediately blurted out “me, what the fuck?” But upon thinking it through, the woman did say what, not who.
“I got him for the staff gift exchange and holy sh– that man is a blank slate. Does he even have interests?”
Ray was offended.
But that’s when he learned that Ryan was more than a little well-known in the computer science program as “that really attractive but mysterious TA who lives alone and isn’t much for small talk”.
It was true, though, mostly; Ryan was only polite all the time because “it’s that Georgian upbringing, I swear I can’t help it, Ray –“ but it’s kind of similar to the way he couldn’t help how forgiving his genes were.
That Christmas, Ryan received a box of cupcakes from his Secret Santa despite Ray’s clear recommendation for them to “just buy him some coffee or a new mug or something”. Clearly, the woman thought she was doing Ryan a solid.
Ryan frowned at the box and never touched it. Ray was scared his boyfriend just hated presents in general, but the man took the new pens and coffee gift set Ray gave him without complaint.
He even grudgingly ate a (sickly sweet) cupcake at Ray’s request.
“Come on, don’t be rude, Ry. She worked really hard to find something you’d like.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Uhhh…”
-
-
Ray grimaces at the memory. Right, Ryan isn’t really a fan of cake anyways. Scratch that idea. Completely.
Ray swears he doesn’t look as sheepish as he feels, still standing here in the same spot a whole half-hour after arriving, but some random headed for the garbage chute with a plastic bag passes him and Ray can almost see the look in his eyes that says “I’m going to call the cops on you”.
Maybe it’s just because he’s Puerto Rican. Or maybe it’s because he smells like weed.
Or both.
Ray internally groans, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he started to pace. Nervous that the resident would actually go through with his silent threat, Ray really didn’t want his reunion with Ryan to take place as he’s getting dragged out the front door by a security officer at six in the morning.
He’d probably get arrested for stalking or something, knowing his luck.
“But it’s not like it’s my fault Michael left all his stuff around and I had to clean up after him,” Ray said under his breath. “Shit, I would make a good housewife, fuck the college boy stereotype – but wait, I’m Puerto Rican, fuck –“
He saw Michael on campus grounds the other day and he knows Michael saw him too, because his once-best friend stiffened before quickly turning and leaving the way he came.
It’s not like Ray’s frazzled by that or anything.
Yet when he resigned himself to finally clearing out the bedroom with the said ex-best friend’s things collecting dust, it felt somehow worse than it did when he was clumsily signing rent papers not knowing what the fuck was going on – why the heck didn’t they teach me these things in school, aren’t these important life-lessons, knowing how to file taxes and shit? – , carrying boxes way too heavy for himself and waiting for Michael to get better from the hospital.
It was somehow worse; it went all backwards.
Bad became worse became being, somehow, even less certain Michael would come back this time around. Even though it’s not like the dude’s dead or anything.
In any case, simply put, Ray packed up Michael’s things and found a joint tucked away in his dresser. Probably courtesy of Gavin, a lifetime ago.
Ray smokes it. He coughs, but he finishes it anyways. He mopes.
And that’s how Ray wound up at Ryan’s doorstep, feeling like he’s lost control of his life. Not that he’s ever claimed it’s ever made any sense to start.
Because on a scale of bad to worse, showing up at your sort-of-boyfriend’s apartment unannounced in the early morning to apologize, kiss, and make-up definitely lands on the bad side of things.
Showing up at your TA’s apartment when you had no clear connection to the guy except he marks your work in coding seminars and ok, so what if you banged him once over the summer, you’re in your pyjamas standing in this fancy hallway with no plan whatsoever – that. That is, comparatively definitely, definitely worse.
But against all logic, it’s more nerve-wracking this time and running through test sentences, Ray’s brain feels nothing short of fried.
He wistfully reaches for the door handle, wishing it could be as easy as him just walking in. And without thinking – or maybe in some insane burst of hazy courage conjured up by a lack of sleep and shock over Michael up and leaving – Ray tries the door.
It opens.
Ryan is sitting there at the table, coffee mug in hand, looking as he always did.
If Ray wasn’t so horrified at the door swinging ajar, small figure poised to run, he would have died right then and there just from seeing the man again.
Ryan didn’t even lift his head at the slight creak of the hinges, didn’t need to; he was already staring right at Ray with eyes behind wire-frame glasses on the bridge of his nose that were tired, but warm. Familiar. Locks of hair were messily pulled into a small ponytail, some loose strands framing his face. His favourite pen is tucked behind an ear.
And sure enough, slews of papers were stacked on the chair opposite him and scattered about on the kitchen countertop, Ray having guessed correctly that Ryan is up all night working again, but the pre-dawn glow filtering through the thin curtains was everything – it illuminates Ryan’s smooth features and set Ray’s insides alight.
Every practiced syllable he had promptly flew from his mind just as quickly as regret washed in.
“I’ve been an idiot,” Ray spills, still unmoving, and he’s devastated to see no change of expression on Ryan’s face marking any indication of surprise, save for a single raised eyebrow a few beats later. He clams up.
Shit, get back together my ass, Michael, the Puerto Rican boy thought morosely in the silence that takes over the small apartment. He almost considers throwing himself out the window. (Except they’re only three storeys up)
Ray flinches at the scraping sound that Ryan’s chair suddenly cuts out of the air, and he quickly averts his gaze as he hears heavy footsteps approach ominously. “I’m fucking dead, aren’t I?” He muttered, more to himself than anything. But when he finally looks up to meet Ryan’s eye, instead of the dark, intimidating glower he expected to blanket the older man’s expression, he got an indecipherable something for a brief second. Then –
Ryan’s mouth pulls into a mild smile and he goes, “coffee?”
Ray is so overwhelmed by the strong wave of déjà vu that abruptly hits him that he rocks back on his feet.
He said it like –
Like he was expecting Ray and nothing happened short of alright between them and everything was normal.
He’s still so stunned by Ryan’s reaction that when he’s nudged gently and asked again, he stutters out an agreement and allows Ryan to gently tug him in from the doorway, taking a seat in Ryan’s spot at the table without a second thought.
Ryan brushes the loose papers off the other chair and wordlessly turns to glance at Ray amusedly before turning to the kitchen counter, the sound of a spoon clinking against ceramic and the smell of coffee quickly filling the air between them.
He hands Ray a mug and Ray takes it, smaller hands brushing over larger ones and making Ryan almost spill it. He coughs, eyeing the younger boy.
But Ray doesn’t react – he’s too frozen stiff to, but he’s screaming inside – and takes a sip of the coffee instead to prevent himself from yelling at the skin-to-skin contact before he remembers he doesn’t even like coffee. The taste lingers on his tongue, but he realizes he doesn’t hate it.
He looks up in surprise. “T-this is sweet?”
Ryan nods slowly, taking his glasses off to stare at Ray with soft blue eyes.
“Yeah, I guess I missed it.” He sighs, tugging his fair hair out of the elastic and leaning over the table to brush a hand against the other boy’s face.
Ray’s heart skips a beat, dangerously close to bursting.
-
-
June, three months ago
The landline rang, the sound pissing Ray off to no end. It had such an annoying tone – a nasally quality to it, somehow – but listening to it ring on and on was still better than the alternative.
Bad rather than worse.
“Jesus, Ray. Why don’t you just pick up?” Michael yelled from his room, sounding vaguely cross.
Ray crossed his arms and left the living room, not wanting to be there when voice mail picked up for him. But the walls were thin and he could still make out the words, more or less.
…Please leave a message after the beep.
“…Hey Ray, or Michael – whoever.” The voice was exasperated, but still…nice. Ray felt his stomach do a funny little flip. “Man, it would be nice to get any sort of reply. Geoff better not be pulling my leg – I wouldn’t put it past him to give me a fake number – but that’s beside the point.”
“Yo, is that Ryan?” Michael emerged, curious. His face split into a smile as he headed for the phone.
Ray panicked. “DON’T PICK UP, FUC–“
“Hey, Ryan!”
Oh god, oh god, oh god. He fucking did it. He picked up the phone.
He dragged a hand down his face, making his glasses sit crooked. Nine missed calls and fifteen texts sat unread in Ray’s cell, but he never anticipated Ryan finding out what their apartment number was. Shit.
“…What? Yeah, I was wondering about that. You guys need to get your shit together, really – look, I’m not blaming you for anything, dude. Ray’s been moping so fucking hard and I’m sick of it – yeah, I’m doing fine, thanks! Give me a sec, I can get Ray on the line –”
Ray froze.
Nope, no. You’ll do no such thing.
He was out the door before Michael could blink.
-
-
Ray is most definitely frazzled.
“Y-you missed me?” He stammers, but it’s a stupid question, really – it’s obvious that he did – daily calls and updates through Michael right up until he left – even if Ray had no clue why. The same way that he doesn’t know why the fuck Ryan’s treating him so well, after all the shit he said to him.
Ryan takes the coffee from Ray’s trembling fingers and hums, thumbing over where Ray’s lips touched the mug. “Making it this way made me miss you less,” he admits. He smiles again, more embarrassed this time.
Which is a ludicrous concept, Ryan Haywood acting abashed of all things in this situation, because where’s the hurt, the resentment? The Ray-I’ll-Never-Forgive-You, You-Said-Horrible-Things-To-Me, I’m-Officially-Breaking-Up-With-You level of righteous anger? Instead, Ryan’s staring at him with those sincere eyes that go from hard to soft in a nanosecond and Ray, like in almost all instances of his life, except this was somehow worse, doesn’t know what to reply with.
Except he knows he has to apologize.
“Im so–“
“It’s fine,” Ryan cuts in gently, sitting back in his seat, clearly at ease. But Ray is still worried, maybe even a little more than he was before. He buzzes in place anxiously, not sure if it’s the weed or the Red Bull he had around midnight or the abnormally strong coffee Ryan likes to make or –
“Fine as in fine, or fine as in I hate you now?” He asks, voice slightly shaking. Because if there’s one thing Ray can’t bear, even more so than a bad break-up or what seemed like a strong friendship falling apart with someone leaving, it’s faked friendliness. “Ry, look, I’m sorry for the things I said to you, but please, please don’t pretend yo–“
"Oh, Ray."
Next thing Ray knew, Ryan’s chair falls backwards and its frame crashes to the ground.
Next next thing he knew, he’s wrapped up in a warm embrace, Ryan’s strong arms and familiar scent enveloping him. Oh. Ray exhales noisily out of surprise. He didn’t realize how much he missed this until now, but the emotions swept into him all at once and he was, all of a sudden, practically brimming with relief.
(Oh, and tears. But mostly relief, he swears)
He leans into the hug, squeezing Ryan’s torso. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I was so stupid.” The words tumble out of Ray, his eyes stinging, and they’re almost incomprehensible but he hopes Ryan understands.
And he does. Of course he does.
Ryan kisses Ray on the top of his head with care, breath tickling him. “I’m sorry, too, I could’ve handled things better. Sorry I wasn’t clear enough either; I need to work on that.” Ray starts to protest, but Ryan only hugs him tighter as if he didn’t, the boy would disappear on him again.
He hesitates to keep going, because it’s sappy and dumb and Ray blushes at these things pretending to hate them, but he’s just so glad Ray came – after standing at his doorstep making all kinds of noise on the other side for the longest time, no less; he didn’t even hear Ryan unlock the door for him – that he says it anyways.
“Fine as in fine,” Ryan murmurs, smiling into Ray’s dark hair. “Fine as in fine as in thank you for coming back, you have no idea how much I missed you the past few months and thought I lost you. Fine as in you’re important to me, as in I love you, Ray. I really love you.”
What looks like a tear rolls down Ray’s cheek and he wipes at it furiously, muttering something sounding like “stop being such a little bitch, Ray Narvaez Jr.”
(Bad became worse became messed up somehow, but messed up became fine, fine as in I love you –)
“W-we’re still going out, right? I really love you too, Ry.”
And oh man, oh man, oh man, the elated, adoring expression that immediately colours Ryan’s face in response – Ray swears that expression could illuminate an entire century of his life.
Predictably, Ray ruins the moment by starting to sniffle just as Ryan leans down to kiss him, but the dawn actually breaks just then and they’re suddenly bathed in rich hues of pink, orange, purple – the backdrop is the worst cliché Ray has ever experienced in his life but he secretly loves it, and Ryan doesn’t really mind that Ray is on the verge of bawling.
Nor does he mention his sneaking suspicion that Ray is more or less high for the first time in his life, or that there’s probably snot and tears all over his own shirt.
He’s had worse things staining his clothes, honestly.
They fall asleep tangled in bed together less than an hour later even with the caffeine buzzing through their veins, Ray’s hands bunched against Ryan’s chest and Ryan’s fingers in Ray’s hair, and Ryan misses a faculty meeting for the first time in his life, but nobody will guilt him for that.
(And they’re okay. They’ve always been okay)