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Alan knew.
Alan knew that Ray’s lips tasted like cherries. Astringent gloss smearing over Alan’s dry lips every time they kissed.
He knew Ray’s hand trembled slightly when he lit his cigarette, one when sex was over.
Alan couldn’t take him home. Or whatever stagnant place he had been sharing with Wen.
Ray couldn’t take him home either. Alan didn’t know why. He never wondered.
Ray would drift to the balcony, his body spent from sex; and from something else, something heavier that Alan couldn't name. Didn't really want to, anyway.
Naked, he would stand shivering in the humid night air, even when the heat clung to their skin like sweat.
The smoke from his cigarette would curl back into the hotel room, tainting the sheets, the air, Alan’s skin, with that scent he despised the most. Undesirable.
Alan knew that Ray had a mole on his chest.
He knew there was a tattoo on his hip. “Beautiful”, and Alan knew that he was.
He knew that Ray’s nipples were a bit darker than his own.
Alan knew that Ray was more of a grower. He didn’t know how the information mattered, but he knew it.
He knew that Ray was six years younger than him.
Alan didn’t know if Ray was still in college.
He didn't know if he had a job. But he was almost certain he came from wealth.
He didn’t know if Ray had friends. If someone was waiting for him beyond the damp walls of the hotel room.
He didn’t know why Ray cried silently when the high finally wore off and Alan began to pull out.
He didn’t know why Ray’s body smelled like alcohol, when there was no trace of it on his breath; none in his words, none in the way he moved.
Alan knew that Ray was helpless. Because he was, too.
He knew Ray felt hollow enough to crave this routine just as much as he did.
He knew that hollowness never came from anything good.
Alan knew that Wen was cheating on him.
Saturday, 11 P.M.
Ray had called. His voice was steady; more steady than he’d probably be through the night.
“Are you free?” he asked, and Alan didn’t know if he was free by any definition.
Wen hadn’t come home. The meal Alan had made for both of them still sat on the table.
He didn’t know if the urge to throw up was simply because the food had gone cold after being left out for hours, or if it was because of the very fact that he knew how disgustingly pathetic all of this was.
He didn’t know if that kind of patheticness could be called freedom, but he knew enough to answer Ray with a quiet “yes” and leave the untouched dinner where it really belonged.
Ray enjoyed attention.
Alan thought it was clear.
Ray liked attention, and Alan needed something to avert his own just enough to distract him from the fact that his relationship of five years was shattering under something he had no control over.
“Kiss,” Ray moaned, his damp fingers rubbing at his own nipples; and Alan just gave in.
Attention. Distraction.
Ray’s lips tasted like cherries.
His mouth, though, carried the bitter taste of cigarettes; like the gloss was just a cover, hiding whatever bitterness lingered underneath.
What surprised Alan most about Ray was how naturally his body found a rhythm with him. Easier than Alan thought a stranger’s would. Easier than he thought Ray would.
Alan didn’t know much about him, but Ray and rhythm had always seemed like two parallels that would never touch.
And yet, his body moved under Alan like he knew exactly what Alan was capable of giving, and he was ready to take it.
“Lan…” Ray’s voice was hoarse, worn thin. Alan didn’t know why he called him that, but it had been this way since the very first time they slept together.
Alan might have believed Ray had forgotten his full name, if not for the quiet certainty that Ray always called him “Alan” whenever they weren’t fucking.
In those fragile moments between breaths, when they gathered themselves, and Alan made sure Ray could handle himself well enough for him to leave the hotel room without guilt.
He sometimes wondered, briefly, if it was because saying his real name made it all too real for Ray.
That it gave him a shape. A weight.
That “Lan” was just a fractured part of his name, and if Ray kept breaking it like that, maybe he could break Alan enough to forget that there was a real presence beneath it all.
“Yes?” His voice came soft. He couldn’t afford anything but softness with someone as helpless as himself.
Ray looked wrecked, sweat gathering in beads along his skin, and Alan couldn’t help but wonder if some of it was his own, mixed with Ray’s on his body.
“I want your fingers,” Ray murmured, his own trembling digits trailing over Alan’s knuckle, right where the matching ring with Wen sat.
Alan’s eyes stayed on the place where Ray’s touch met his, the cool silver suddenly carrying the weight of stone.
“Okay,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on the ring one last time before sliding it from his finger. The metal left a pale indentation on his skin.
Alan wondered how long it would take for Ray’s body to erase it.
He set the ring on the nightstand and reached for the lube.
He knew these nights by heart; Ray’s words were never a request for preparation, but a quiet line drawn in the dark: tonight, this is as far as I’ll go.
They were rare.
Mostly, they came after a call out of nowhere, when Ray arrived at the hotel looking more fractured than usual, eyes dim, shoulders caved, as if the night itself had already defeated him by the time Alan opened the door.
“Okay?” Alan murmured, his slick fingers tracing slow circles around Ray’s hole, the skin puckering under his touch, rimmed with a shadow of dark, untrimmed hair.
Ray nodded through a broken moan, the teasing sending a sharp ache up his spine, making his throat tighten as though he might cry. His thighs were spread wide, muscles straining, bent at an angle that would leave them sore come morning.
Alan worked a finger into him with patient precision, moving in steady, habitual rhythms, as though, his body had already learned Ray’s in ways his mind hadn’t.
Ray shifted beneath him, hips restless, craving more than a single finger and the thin air between them. His hand fumbled for Alan’s, catching the free one and lacing their fingers briefly before guiding it to his chest, pressing Alan’s touch to a firm, perky nipple and rubbing it there.
Alan exhaled hard, heat flaring where that hardened peak grazed his fingertip. His skin burned from the contact, and his cock gave a sharp, involuntary twitch.
As if reading it straight off Alan’s body, Ray, his eyes still half-lidded, murmured through a breathy, performative smirk, “I’ll let you hump my thighs… if you give me more fingers.”
Alan let out a slow, unsteady breath as he pushed in another finger. Ray’s body yielded around him with a hungry pull, swallowing him down in a way that made Alan briefly wonder if he’d already touched himself earlier that day.
Ray was loud. He always had been; and, if Alan was honest, he didn’t mind. The choked, uneven sounds spilling out of him were proof that Alan could still get something right. That he was still capable of giving pleasure to another body, of pulling raw, involuntary reactions from someone’s throat. A stranger's to be exact.
“Lan…” Ray murmured, taking the hand Alan had on his nipple and guiding it up to his jaw. He pressed Alan’s palm there, rubbing into it like it was something he needed more than he wanted, the gesture aching to watch; so vulnerable it almost hurt. Like Alan was starting at a fractured reflection of himself in someone else’s skin.
Still, his fingers never stopped. They worked Ray’s prostate with unerring precision, each press and curl measured and deliberate, practiced like muscle memory he couldn’t unlearn.
Alan didn’t know how long it lasted; how long his fingers pressed and curled inside Ray.
What he did know was that Ray’s eyes had gone glassy, his moans breaking into soft, ragged hiccups. His jaw trembled beneath Alan’s hand, and without thinking, Alan traced a slow finger along the quivering skin.
The small touch made Ray look up.
He looked up, and for the first time in three months, Alan met his eyes. The same helpless confusion stared back at him, softer maybe, kinder.
And Ray came, spilling hot across his stomach, his body shivering beneath Alan’s touch; long fingers still buried deep, still stretching him open. All of it under the gaze that had finally met his. Under the crushing weight of not knowing what it meant.
The spell broke when Alan’s fingers eased partway out of Ray’s aching hole, the emptiness rushing back in. His eyes lifted to Alan’s again, and the heat in them had already cooled, replaced by that same sorrowful gaze he always seemed to carry.
What made him truly shiver, though, was the weight of Alan’s other hand finally leaving his jaw. He let out a shaky breath, and searched for something, anything, to fill the hollow space left behind.
“Hump my thighs?” he asked, shifting onto his back and sliding his legs together in one slow, deliberate motion.
Alan didn’t answer at first. His gaze lingered on the line of Ray’s legs, pressed tight together, the smooth skin of his inner thigh barely visible in the gap near his hips. Then he moved; slow, positioning himself between Ray’s knees.
He pushed Ray’s thighs to one side just enough to slide in close, his cock already heavy.
The warmth of Ray’s skin seeped through him the moment he pressed himself there. He rolled his hips forward once, testing, his length dragging along the firm line of Ray’s closed thighs.
Ray’s breath hitched, his head tilting back into the pillow. “Like that,” he murmured, voice already uneven.
Alan’s hands gripped Ray’s hips, holding him steady as he found a rhythm. Each thrust made the muscles in Ray’s thighs tense, squeezing together around him, trapping heat. The friction was different; softer, smoother, but the pressure was enough to pull low groans from Alan’s throat.
Ray shifted slightly, angling his hips so the underside of Alan’s cock slid right against the sensitive spot where thigh met pelvis. His own breathing turned shallow, almost matching Alan’s pace.
The bed creaked quietly beneath them, the only other sound, the rough drag of skin on skin and the occasional stifled noise from Ray that made Alan’s grip tighten.
Time passed; enough for Alan to lose his steady rhythm and give in to whatever desperate pace might bring release faster.
It didn’t help that Ray curled his arms around his waist, pulling him impossibly close, like this meant something. Like they were anything more than two broken, pathetic souls who couldn’t handle their own mess like anyone else might.
With one last shuddering thrust, Alan spilled between Ray’s thighs, warm and heavy, filling the narrow space where their bodies met.
Ray’s hands loosened slightly around Alan’s waist. When sex was over, so was the softness.
Alan stayed there as shortly as he could manage, breath heavy, heart pounding in his chest.
When he finally pulled himself together, he reached for some tissues and tried to clean between Ray’s thighs; already a lost cause, since with a slow shift of Ray’s hips, Alan’s cum had begun to seep onto the sheets. He exhaled quietly and wiped between Ray’s legs.
“I need wet wipes for your stomach,” Alan murmured, glancing down at the slowly drying stain on Ray’s belly.
Ray just waved a hand in the air. “I’ll fix that later.”
Alan was just about to get out of bed when a firm hand tightened around his wrist, stopping him.
He turned, a crease of concern folding his brow.
“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, but Ray only shook his head.
“Let me light a cigarette first,” Ray murmured, his grip unwavering.
Alan met his eyes, expression unreadable.
“I don’t think me being here will make any difference,” he said flatly.
After a beat, Ray finally released his hold.
“It won’t take long,” he whispered, the desperation beneath his words barely contained.
“Na?”
It was the first time Alan had ever followed Ray out to the balcony.
He’d dressed fully before stepping outside; shirt buttoned, belt looped, collar still creased from the night.
Ray stood the way he always did. Nude. Leaning into the railing, hips slanted just slightly forward. The dimples on his lower back caught the light, faint in the mix of moonlight and the dull orange glow of the balcony fixture. Alan’s eyes lingered, on the curve of his spine, the slope of his ass, before he forced himself to look away.
The breeze moved lazily through Ray’s hair. His cigarette burned quietly between his fingers, the smoke curling in a direction Alan couldn’t avoid. No matter where he stood, it found him. Ray’s smoke always did.
Alan sighed and stepped a little closer. He washed his clothes after every visit anyway.
“Do you want one?” Ray asked, glancing back. His eyes were soft. Alan didn’t know how something that soft could burn through skin.
Alan wanted Wen back.
He wanted to undo time. To swap places. To become someone else; anyone else, if that’s what it took to have it all again.
He wanted whatever had held them together for five years, the very thing that now felt like it was falling apart, to come back.
He wanted Wen to talk. God, if only Wen were close enough for a normal conversation.
He wanted Wen to tell him what he was doing wrong, what he found in someone else’s presence that Alan couldn’t offer. So Alan could know. So he could change. So he could do anything to become.
Alan wanted Wen to stay.
“I don’t know how to inhale,” he murmured, his tone unreadable.
“Come here,” Ray said softly; like coaxing a hesitant child.
And Alan did. Because there was nothing else left to do.
Ray pulled out his pack of cigarettes and held it out toward him. Alan stepped closer, plucking one from the nearly full pack, his fingers catching briefly on the foil.
“Here,” Ray said, lighting the tip as Alan placed it between his lips.
Alan watched him in silence.
The cigarette caught, and Alan took a drag; shallow, instinctive, without inhaling.
“It’s like breathing through your mouth,” Ray said, voice low. Patient.
Alan turned to him, gaze steady but unreadable.
“Watch,” Ray murmured, then took a slow drag of his own, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs before exhaling into the warm night air.
Alan’s attempt was clearly unpracticed. He took a drag, then opened his mouth in a clumsy effort to chase the smoke down. It slipped into his throat in the wrong way, and he coughed softly; more out of confusion than discomfort.
Ray let out a quiet chuckle, and Alan shot him a faint scowl.
“Draw the smoke into your mouth first,” Ray said, still smiling. “Don’t inhale right away. Then breathe in; like you’re just pulling in air through your throat.”
Alan tried again. This time, it caught. The smoke hit his lungs with a raw sting, unfamiliar and sharp, but real, nonetheless.
Ray watched him. “See? You’re fine,” he said gently, taking another drag of his own, the ember flaring briefly in the quiet night.
He looked at him one last time before turning back to the view, a long breath slipping from his lips like something surrendered.
“Mew never learned how to do that properly,” he said, voice stripped of warmth. There was nothing left in it but hollowness; familiar. Not because Alan knew Ray, but because that same emptiness had long since taken root in him, too.
Alan didn’t ask who Mew was. He didn’t need to. It didn’t take any great intelligence to know that Mew was probably a Wen. Or something close to it.
Ray didn’t know exactly when he made it home; only that it was late enough for Wen to already be gone.
Ray had had enough of that night to end up in a confrontation with his dad’s assistant, who carried the man’s loathing like it was bred into his bones.
Ray didn’t know if Wen’s contempt came from blindly swallowing his father’s poison, or if Ray was simply that easy to despise. If people didn’t even need a reason. If he was just born to be hated.
He was nearly at the front door when a voice snapped the quiet.
“Where have you been this late?”
Ray flinched, startled, but not surprised.
“None of your business,” he muttered through clenched teeth, brushing past him.
“You reek.” Wen’s voice followed him like bile. “You smell fucking disgusting.”
Ray froze. His jaw tightened, his fingers curled into his palms. He let out a breath; slow and cold, before turning back around.
“How much do you get paid to parrot my father’s lines?” he said, voice low but steady. “Or is it just habit by now?”
Wen blinked, caught off guard.
“Does it help?” Ray continued. “Tearing me down. does it make it easier to sleep around behind your boyfriend’s back?”
The silence hit heavier than any slap.
“Does it make you feel cleaner? Like if you humiliate me enough, maybe no one will see how fucked up you really are?”
Wen didn’t move. Ray stepped closer, the fire in his eyes no longer masked by anything soft.
“If hurting me helps you feel less pathetic, go ahead. But don’t pretend you’re any better than me.
You can’t even keep your mess quiet enough to stop the maids from gossiping.”
Without a backward glance, Ray turned and vanished into the house, leaving his words to cut through the cold night air like a sharpened blade.
Wen came home on a Monday morning. 5:23 a.m. Forty minutes before Alan usually got up for work.
The sound of keys in the lock pulled him out of sleep. He wondered if Wen had already forgotten he was a light sleeper, or if he simply didn’t care anymore.
Alan didn’t move right away. He listened; to the shuffling, the familiar creak of the closet door, the unmistakable sound of a suitcase being unzipped.
“What are you packing for?” Alan asked at last, voice low and raw from sleep; and everything else.
Wen didn’t turn around. Just kept going through their shared closet like none of this meant anything.
“I’m staying with a friend for a while,” he said flatly.
Alan pushed himself up, heart hammering. “Is that friend, Jim?”
That got Wen to pause. He turned. Even in the gray-dark room, Alan could feel the look he gave him.
“You know I hate it when you get passive-aggressive,” Wen said.
Alan let out a bitter laugh, empty and breathless. “How the fuck was that passive-aggressive?”
His voice cracked open as he stood. “You’ve been like this for five months, Wen. You said you needed space, and I gave it to you. I gave you everything. And what did I get? You fucking someone else in return.”
Wen opened his mouth, but Alan cut him off.
“And I’m the one who’s ‘not reacting normally’? You don’t even talk to me anymore. You walk past me like I’m not here. You don’t stay in the same room for more than sixty goddamn seconds, and now you’re packing a bag like we didn’t build five years together.”
His voice trembled.
“Say something. Tell me why. Tell me what I did wrong. I’m begging you—just talk to me.”
Wen looked at him; expression vacant, like there was nothing left worth saying; then let out a sigh so hollow it sounded rehearsed.
“You fucking suffocate me,” he said, barely moving his lips, like the words themselves disgusted him.
The zipper of the bag rasped through the silence as he closed it with finality.
And then he walked out, leaving Alan alone in the dim room. Bright enough for him to watch Wen’s silhouette vanish through the doorway, and dark enough that Alan couldn’t tell if he was watching someone leave, or standing in the aftermath of someone who’d already gone long ago.
That night, it was Alan who called first.
Unusual. Out of pattern. Ray was always the one who initiated; always the one who showed up before the silence stretched too long. Alan never bothered to reach out, and Ray never left it long enough for him to need to.
“Tonight?” That was all Alan said.
Ray’s answer came after a beat. “Okay.” He sounded confused, but he agreed anyway.
The fallout with Wen that morning hadn’t just settled; it lingered, coiled tight around his ribs, pressing on something he couldn’t name. The hours passed and it didn’t ease. If anything, it swelled; filling, refilling.
He couldn’t sort the feelings out. Couldn’t categorize them. But he knew they needed somewhere to land.
Ray.
Alan’s hand tightened around himself.
His breath dragged out of him; slow and heavy. He leaned in, and the head of his cock brushed against Ray’s cheek, a soft, deliberate graze of skin against skin. Ray didn’t flinch. He tilted his face slightly into it, lips parted just enough for Alan to see the gleam of wet heat behind them.
Alan moved slowly, tracing his way across Ray’s face like it was something fragile he wanted to ruin.
He dragged the weight of himself along the curve of Ray’s lips, through the slick gap where breath trembled. Then across the opposite cheek. He wasn’t hard. Not yet. But the tension in his body said more than arousal; something knotted and furious in his chest, unraveling in each careful stroke.
Ray moaned, helpless and quiet.
Alan didn’t stop.
He tapped the head against Ray’s cheek again; once, twice, watching the way his lips twitched in response. Then he pressed the tip to Ray’s lower lip and pushed just slightly, forcing it down. Ray’s breath hitched, mouth falling open wider.
That was enough.
Alan shifted his grip, angled himself, and slapped the soft weight of his cock against Ray’s tongue. Once. Then again. The sound obscene. Ray’s tongue flexed beneath it like he couldn’t help it, eyes fluttering shut as if the taste alone overwhelmed him.
Alan’s jaw clenched. His cock was still thickening, slowly now, with each slap, each glide over that open mouth.
He dragged himself slowly across Ray’s tongue, the tip gliding teasingly over the softness, each motion igniting heat within him until the tension in his grip became unbearable.
His hand tightened in Ray’s hair, the strands tangled between his fingers as he stared down at him; at those lips, wet and parted, catching every breath as if they didn’t know what else to do.
“You want this?” His voice was low, hoarse; barely a question.
Ray nodded, slow, eyes heavy with want and something else Alan didn’t have the strength to name.
That was all it took. Alan thrust forward, the motion rough and desperate. His body pulsed with a restless energy, a savage need to punish and plead all at once.
Ray gasped around him, fingers digging into Alan’s thigh.
Another thrust. Then another.
His hips found their rhythm not from control, but from something else entirely. A fractured need to release, to forget.
Ray took him without hesitation, letting himself be filled over and over until Alan’s movements turned uneven, hips bucking with something wild and nearly unrecognizable.
“Fuck…” Alan hissed as a spasm tore through him; a shuddering wave of pleasure he couldn’t hold back. A sharp gasp escaped him as he released just enough to startle himself, warmth hitting Ray’s mouth, sudden and unplanned. His breath caught, chest heaving.
He pulled back instinctively, but not far. Not away.
With one hand, he gripped himself, rough and relentless, and with the other, he tilted Ray’s face up, fingers spread across his jaw like he couldn’t stand not touching him. Ray’s lips were parted, slick and swollen, eyes glazed with something Alan didn’t want to name but couldn’t stop staring at.
“Keep looking at me.”
And Ray did. Open. Unblinking.
Alan came with a broken groan, the sound of it scraping from somewhere raw. He spilled across Ray’s face; cheek, lips, chin; streaking the flushed skin like something too personal to be undone.
He didn’t stop. Not with those glassy crescents locked on him; shining and wrecked.
He let out a breath that trembled in his throat and reached down, fingers dragging through the mess across Ray’s lips. Slow. Purposeful. He smeared the cum over the curve of Ray’s mouth, painting him with it like he was branding him. Claiming him because he needed something to claim.
Ray gasped; barely a sound, more breath than voice. His lips parted, eyes fluttering for a beat like the sensation alone unraveled something inside him.
And then Alan saw it—
The way Ray’s thighs clenched tight, muscles trembling under skin that barely held him together. The subtle shudders that ran through his body like silent screams.
He came. Untouched. Ripped open by nothing but the weight of Alan’s cock on his tongue, the scorching heat of Alan’s release spilling over him, marking Ray like a brand. Like he finally fucking belonged to somebody.
Alan’s breath caught, ragged and harsh. “Fuck—”
Ray’s whole body shook, eyes fluttering shut, drowning in the rawness of it all. He looked… beautiful.
Too beautiful.
Something sharp twisted in Alan’s stomach, burning hotter with every shallow breath Ray took. Before he could think, his hand shot up, fingers locking around the back of Ray’s neck.
He yanked him forward, their mouths colliding with bruising force; nothing gentle. It was hunger sharpened to a blade, and Ray took every bit of it.
Ray’s hand slid around Alan’s body, clutching hard like he was anchoring himself. Alan didn’t slow. His tongue drove into Ray’s mouth, tasting him, claiming him, swallowing every breath he tried to take.
Ray gave it back; heat for heat, desperation for desperation, until it was impossible to tell whose gasp was whose. It was messy, furious, and so consuming that Alan felt like if he stopped, the world might split open.
“Do you wanna stay a bit?” Ray’s voice was hesitant, almost too soft to reach Alan over the steady hum of their breathing.
They lay sprawled across the covers, both of them worn and loose-limbed from minutes of breathless, unrelenting kissing. Alan’s pulse was only just beginning to slow.
He exhaled, long and heavy, his finger idly tracing a crease in the hotel bedsheet. A stray thought flickered:
did they change them after every guest?
He didn’t let it linger.
“I have work tomorrow,” he murmured, almost apologetically, eyes fixed anywhere but on Ray’s.
“What do you do?” Ray asked. His voice was frayed around the edges, but the question carried no sharpness; just genuine curiosity.
Alan considered deflecting. Swallowing the instinct, he said, “I work in a bank.”
Ray’s lips curved into a small chuckle. The sound was warm, unguarded, and it made Alan glance over despite himself. There was nothing mocking in Ray’s expression, only something quietly amused.
“What?” Alan asked, a faint crease forming between his brows.
Ray shook his head, still smiling. “It just… makes sense.” He gestured vaguely in the air, as if the explanation was obvious.
Alan almost asked what he meant, but Ray went on before he could.
“You look like the type who’d go insane without a structured system. A bank suits you.”
Alan turned his gaze back to the ceiling. “It’s better when you know what to expect,” he said, the words slipping out soft, as if admitting something private.
Ray hummed thoughtfully. A moment passed. Then, with a voice low and unreadable, he said, “You can control systems. But you can’t do that with people.”
Silence hung between them until Ray turned his head, eyes finding Alan’s. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here. Lying next to a broken piece like me.” His lips curved into a bitter smile, never reaching his eyes. Of course.
Broken. The word rooted itself in Alan’s mind, lodged deep and unwelcome.
He shut his eyes, willing it away, but all he could see were the sad crescents of Ray’s eyes when he’d said it; like the word wasn’t a confession, but a fact he’d long since accepted.
Something had shifted, and Alan couldn’t name it. Couldn’t pin down the exact moment, only feel the imbalance it left in its wake.
Two weeks had passed, yet the look in Ray’s eyes still haunted him. That silent plea, like he was daring Alan to prove him wrong. To rebuild a belief that had rotted in him for years. Like Ray wanted him to see something inside him, even if he didn’t believe it was there. Like he wanted Alan to catch it. To hold it. To hand it over.
But who was Alan to do that? He was nothing more than a polished illusion of control, a figure carved from routine and order. He only knew how to dress the fractures well enough to keep them hidden. Ray’s cracks were visible. Alan’s were buried, and that made his worse. Shamefully worse.
Ray texted on a Friday night.
It was unusual; he almost always called, but Alan didn’t think much of it. He probably should have.
He wasn’t prepared for what he found outside the room they’d reserved: Ray, curled in on himself against the wall, head bowed, shoulders trembling like the air was too heavy to hold.
“Ray.”
The name left Alan’s mouth for the first time; low and steady, but threaded with something he couldn’t disguise.
Ray lifted his head. Cheeks wet. Eyes glassy, rimmed red. Breath hitching unevenly. The sharp, stale burn of alcohol hit Alan the moment he stepped closer.
“I’m sorry,” Ray rasped, the words breaking halfway out.
Alan shook his head once, and reached for him. Ray’s body was warm but unsteady under his hands, his weight tipping subtly into Alan’s hold as though he’d been waiting for someone to catch him. Without a word, Alan guided him inside.
“Don’t go,” Ray begged, his hands clutching the fabric of Alan’s freshly ironed shirt as Alan helped him sit on the bed.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Alan murmured; the words he had longed to hear from Wen but never did. Anything else would have sounded cruel now.
Ray’s eyes flickered up, pupils trembling just like his voice. “I killed my mom,” he whispered, his grip tightening on Alan’s shirt. Alan froze, stunned, but said nothing. The chance of Ray being a murderer was lower than Alan’s urge to stay. It was terrifying.
“I killed my mom,” Ray repeated, voice rising, his hands trembling as they shook Alan’s body, desperate to be understood. “Do you hear me? I killed my mom.” His brow furrowed in pain. “I’ll kill Mew too,” he breathed. “I’ll kill you.” His face twisted with something raw and ugly, but Alan didn’t flinch. His hands moved over Ray’s trembling frame, soothing, though it only seemed to make Ray shake more.
Ray’s eyes widened, startled by Alan’s steady presence. “Doesn’t it scare you?” he asked, voice trembling with fear and self-loathing. “Don’t I scare you, Alan?”
Alan swallowed the lump in his throat. He was never good at comforting people. Probably worse with people like Ray. So he spoke the only truth he had left.
“I’m killing myself, Ray,” he whispered, reaching up hesitantly to brush a tear from the corner of Ray’s eye. “There’s no way you could do it better than me.”
That strange confession seemed to still him, just enough for his ragged breaths to slow and even out.
“My dad hates me,” Ray said suddenly, voice flat but breaking through the silence like a raw wound. Alan looked up, caught off guard.
“He hates me because my mom hated me,” he continued, his fingers drifting slowly to rest on Alan’s knee, the touch fragile, like he was clinging to something solid.
“Or maybe… maybe he hates me because I killed her,” he added, voice barely above a breath. Alan met his gaze, steady and patient.
But the weight of those words “I killed my mom.” hung between them, still vague and terrifying.
“His assistant bullies me,” Ray’s voice cracked, eyes glistening with fresh tears. “It’s one thing if my dad hates me,” he swallowed hard, fighting the lump in his throat, “but when someone who has nothing to do with this…”
His voice caught in a sob, and his whole body shook. “It makes me feel like maybe they’re right.”
Tears blurred his vision. “If my mom hated me, maybe it’s true. If my dad hates me, maybe it’s true.” His brows knitted tightly in anguish. “But why… why does everyone hate me?”
Alan had nothing to offer. No sweet words could mend this; at least, not from him. So he simply traced his fingers along Ray’s knee, just like Ray did seconds before.
“Because I think about it,” Ray’s voice finally cracked, shame spilling through the break, “and I can’t be that bad.”
The fragile confession broke something inside Alan. Without hesitation, he pulled Ray’s trembling body into an embrace. An awkward hug, but still a hug.
“I don’t think you’re bad,” he whispered softly against Ray’s hair, catching the sharp, fresh scent of kaffir lime.
He knew his words were clumsy, almost useless. But words were never his strength.
“And if I don’t think you’re bad,” he murmured, fingers threading gently through Ray’s hair, “then there have to be others who think the same.”
A faint smile touched his lips, and Alan added softly, “You smell like kaffir lime.”
Ray didn’t move, only exhaled; a soft, shuddering breath.
“That’s my shampoo,” he murmured, voice rough with vulnerability.
“I have to go home tonight,” Ray’s voice barely broke the silence, fragile as a fading ember. “Tomorrow… it’s my mom’s death anniversary. I have to be there.”
Alan’s eyes stayed locked on him, searching for the right words that never came.
Ray drew in a shaky breath, lifting his gaze with a vulnerability so raw it unsettled Alan. “Can you… drop me home tonight?” His voice cracked under the weight of the plea. “Stay with me, just for a little while. I can’t face my dad and his assistant alone.”
Alan swallowed hard, fighting the sharp rush of breath threatening to escape. Staying over.. that wasn’t part of their fractured script. And Alan wasn’t sure he could survive the tension that space seemingly held. But Ray’s eyes, heavy with unshed tears and desperate hope, pinned him there. Helpless, laid bare.
Alan felt every inch of that helplessness mirrored back at him.
“Okay,” Alan said, the word slipping out softer than a confession.
Ray’s eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face, as if he’d already prepared himself for rejection, only to find mercy instead.
Ray’s mansion, his father’s, to be exact, was far more luxurious than Alan had expected. Which, in hindsight, was a little foolish. Everything about Ray’s life, tangled and fractured as it was, suddenly made sense.
Ray led him carefully through the vast halls, each step measured, as if one wrong move could ignite the entire house.
They finally reached Ray’s room.
“Can I kiss you?” Ray asked softly, and Alan shivered beneath the weight of it.
“You’re drunk,” Alan murmured, though he knew it wasn’t quite true. Hours had passed since the hotel room, but something about this, kissing Ray here, in his own fragile, guarded space, felt different.
Not like a careless moment stolen in a faceless hotel somewhere in Bangkok, but something raw, intimate, and terrifyingly real.
“I’m not anymore,” Ray murmured, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate lines down Alan’s bicep, igniting a fire beneath his skin.
“You didn’t come all this way just to soothe some restless child,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous, hungry for something more than comfort.
His hand slipped boldly to the front of Alan’s jeans, fingertips pressing through fabric.
“Inside me?” The words were soft, teasing, yet edged with raw need, his lashes fluttering like a challenge.
Alan rubbed his eyes, and sighed. The whole night felt like a fever dream; his whole life had been feeling like one for the past few months.
“Na?” Ray tilted his head, a crooked smile playing at the corners of his mouth, relentless.
“Na, Lan? I’m broken tonight. Don’t you want to fix me?” His fingers traced slow, maddening circles on Alan’s shoulder, as if daring him to resist.
Alan’s patience snapped. He yanked Ray close, lips crashing against his in a brutal, desperate kiss; raw hunger, exhaustion, and anger pouring out with every gasp and shudder.
Ray’s hands fought with Alan’s zipper, desperate to pull him in, their mouths battling for dominance, neither willing to give ground.
Alan didn’t know when he started feeling comfortable enough to casually grab Ray’s ass over his boxers, but he’d been out of his mind all night, and the ass grab was one of the least out-of-character things he’d done.
“Lan…” Ray moaned as Alan slid the side of his underwear enough to get the fabric caught between Ray’s ass.
Alan hummed and kept moving the fabric, when a sudden sound of the door opening startled them both.
“Alan.”
Alan was sure this was a fever dream, cause there was no way Wen was standing there; framed in the doorway of Ray’s room, like some cruel hallucination.
“Get the hell out, Wen,” Ray snarled, teeth clenched. Alan shivered in place.
But Wen didn’t move. He stood rooted, his gaze burning straight through Alan’s skin like wildfire.
A hysterical laugh slipped from Wen’s lips, sharp and unsettling. Alan’s shiver deepened.
“Is this your little way of getting back at me?” Wen sneered, eyes wild with disbelief.
Ray glanced between them, confusion twisting into something raw and unsettled deep in his stomach.
“When did you get that stupid Alan?” Wen’s eyes darted between them, venom lacing his voice.
Alan took a step forward, unsure if he was trying to hide Ray or shield him.
“Did you think sleeping with my boss’s fucked-up son would affect me?” Wen taunted.
Ray looked at Alan, still lost in confusion.
“Ray isn’t fucked,” Alan’s voice cut sharper than he intended, louder than he ever had.
Suddenly, it all clicked.
Wen was the assistant Ray was running from, and now Alan could see why.
Ray’s gaze softened painfully, as if the idea of someone standing up for him was a foreign concept.
“Fucked is you, and everything you do,” Alan spat, teeth clenched. His brows furrowed in a scowl as his fingers brushed gently over Ray’s skin.
Ray’s quiet eyes never wavered.
“And do you think I’m so pathetic that I’d sleep with someone just for revenge?” Alan stepped closer, voice low and fierce.
“I should feel sorry for you,” he said, pointing a finger at Wen, “but I can’t.”
“I can’t love someone I don’t even recognize anymore.”
Wen was furious. Alan knew he was furious. He could see it in every sharp word, every burning glance.
He didn't know how much he, himself meant what he had said but what he did know was that as much as he could let Wen’s anger land on himself, he couldn't let it touch Ray, or anyone else.
Wen stormed out, footsteps sharp against the floor, and Alan finally turned back to Ray.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his hands moving with careful precision as he fixed Ray’s pants.
“I am.”
Ray’s voice was calmer than it had been all night; unnervingly steady. It made Alan glance up. His eyes were lit, softened in a way that almost resembled a smile, but his lips didn’t move.
Alan searched his face, unsettled, as he zipped up his own jeans.
“I don’t think staying here is a good idea,” he said quietly.
“For you or for me?” Ray’s tone was light, almost detached, and it made no sense in the aftermath of what had just happened.
“For both of us.” Alan didn’t want to be here, but the thought of leaving Ray like this felt worse. Still, they meant nothing to each other. It shouldn’t have mattered.
“Wen’s probably already gone,” Alan murmured. “And I think your father isn’t here right now.” He watched the light in Ray’s eyes dim.
“I’m sorry—I should go.” The words left too fast, his feet already moving toward the door. He couldn’t stand the way Ray was looking at him
Wen showed up two days later, this time for a bigger suitcase, methodically packing the last of his things from the house.
“I called a truck to come get my stuff,” he said without looking up.
“You can finally bring him home, I guess,” Wen added after a moment, his voice low but edged. “Though I’m not sure if that spoiled brat would love it here.”
Alan just watched him, hollow and bone-tired from months of hearing the same bitter tone, over and over.
“So you’re finally moving in with Jim,” he said, only because he could.
Wen’s lips curled into a smile. Something between hysteria and mockery.
“Yes.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out their matching ring, and held it out.
Alan didn’t take it. Wen set it on the table.
“Turns out I’m allergic to silver,” Wen muttered, then went back to folding his shirts.
And, strangely, Alan realized he no longer cared. This whole situation had stretched on so long, dragged him through so many cycles of feeling, that he’d grown numb. It had all been too much for too long. Somewhere along the way, he’d simply stopped.
Alan cast him one last glance, then turned and walked to his own room. He wanted to sleep. He’d take the day off.
Pathetic.
Ray’s patheticness had never really changed, it just shifted from one cycle to another.
The memory of that night, still clung to him. The way Alan’s fingers brushed his skin, how he’d stood between Ray and Wen as if shielding him from something, even when there was nothing physical to shield him from.
And before that, back in the hotel room;
how Alan had held him through the ugly breakdown. How he’d talked about the scent of kaffir lime in Ray’s hair. How Ray had pathetically held the shampoo bottle to his nose later, trying to understand how Alan felt when he smelled him.
And before. And before.
Ray had no idea how long he’d been feeling this way. When Alan’s touch had started to feel like something more than a stranger’s. When he no longer craved touch in general, but Alan’s specifically.
How Alan seemed to steady him without saying much. How he never really stayed long enough to be anything, and yet it still was.
How none of it probably meant anything to Alan. How, to him, this was likely just another way to get back at Wen.
Wen, who had once told Ray that Alan had only fucked him because they looked alike. That Ray was close enough to Wen in physique, to be a convenient outlet for Alan’s exhaustion, his anger, his attention.
Wen had resigned as his father’s assistant a week ago.
Ray and Alan hadn’t seen each other in three weeks. Alan hadn’t reached out, and Ray was terrified to.
Because now he knew exactly how he felt. And he had no idea what to do with it.
Weird.
Alan felt strangely weird about how, as time passed, his feelings for Wen had faded into something else entirely. As if, for a while, he hadn’t truly loved Wen at all; just echoed whatever feeling was left from the past.
Wen had become a stranger. His cruelty never softened, never felt normal, no matter how many times it surfaced.
This was not the man he had lived with for five years. That man was gone; layer by layer, replaced by someone harder, sharper, and unrecognizable.
Alan’s feelings had stayed behind, clinging to a version of Wen that no longer existed, buried under the thick, impenetrable skin of this new one.
And Ray.
Ray… A month had passed since Alan had last seen him, and he still didn’t know how he had managed without losing his mind.
As the whole situation began to make sense, something else came into focus; something Alan couldn’t explain. How he could still feel this way after just leaving behind five years of his life.
It was a Saturday when the spell finally broke.
Alan was carrying in the new decorations he’d ordered, trying to fill the hollow spaces Wen’s things had left behind. His phone rang, and Ray’s name lit up the screen. Alan reached for it faster than he’d ever reached for anything.
“Hi?” Ray’s voice was soft, faintly nasal.
“Hi.” Alan’s reply carried the same softness, but it trembled.
“Um—I don’t wanna be an inconvenience, but my car just broke down in the middle of the street. It’s late, traffic’s heavy, and no one’s accepting my Grab.” A beat of silence. Then, in a whisper:
“I lied. My car’s fine. I just… wanted to see you.”
The words caught Alan off guard, pulling a small, unsteady chuckle from him. On the other end, Ray’s breath came heavier.
“Can I send you my location?” Alan asked, his tone gentle.
“Okay,” Ray murmured, breath still uneven.
Alan wasn’t sure if giving Ray his address was a good idea. He preferred not to have people around where he was fractured; where the cracks were jagged and raw, unrefined and unromanticized; mere scars, ugly and broken.
Yet he wondered how it might feel to see Ray in the place where Wen once was, and not see him as a temporary solution. If he truly could, or if his mind, still muddled after all these months, was only playing tricks on him.
Ray showed up an hour later, a pack of food clutched in his hands.
“Hi,” he said, eyes searching Alan’s with a quiet hope. “I brought us dinner.”
Alan smiled softly. Ray looked small like that; his hair falling loose around his face, tired eyes, and lips bare of their usual gloss.
“Thank you. Come in,” Alan murmured, stepping aside and opening the door. His chest tightened with a sharp, bittersweet ache, a quiet anticipation that unsettled him; though he couldn’t name what exactly he was anticipating.
They ate in silence, and somehow, it felt… nice. It was the first time they’d shared a meal like this. Side by side.
Ray would occasionally glance up, as if searching for proof that Alan was still there, was real in the first place.
Alan caught those tentative glances but looked away, uncertain how to meet the vulnerability in Ray’s gaze without breaking them both.
Then, suddenly, Ray’s hand reached for a scented candle resting on the coffee table.
“What’s this?” he asked, studying it with quiet focus, as if trying to unravel a secret hidden within its glass walls.
“Scented candle,” Alan said, the explanation hanging in the air like something obvious but fragile.
Ray looked up then, eyes catching Alan’s, shining with that same fragile hope he’d carried the night in his father’s mansion; now heavier, rawer, stirring something fierce and terrifying inside Alan.
“It’s kaffir lime,” Ray murmured, fingers brushing the glass gently, as if tracing a memory.
“It is,” Alan said softly, offering no denial.
Ray fell silent again, his gaze fixed on the candle as if it held answers he couldn’t find anywhere else.
“I want to eat next to you,” Ray finally whispered, lifting his eyes from the glass.
Alan blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of the request.
“I don’t want to have sex with you to forget how miserable my life is,” Ray said, his voice trembling but steady, holding Alan’s gaze like a lifeline.
“I just want to eat next to you.”
He shifted closer on the couch, small and raw, while Alan stayed still; uncertain, but anchored by the desire to be exactly where he was.
“Lan,” Ray murmured, his voice fragile, eyes glassy. His finger traced a trembling line along Alan’s knee, and Alan’s gaze followed the touch instinctively.
“I love you.”
The words hit Alan like a breath caught deep in his lungs. Desperate to return them, he found himself tangled in the weight of his own confusion; unable to speak the truth he felt but couldn’t name.
So instead, he offered what he could: a soft, tentative kiss. A chaste press of lips that reminded him how much he had missed this.
Ray pulled back just enough to search Alan’s face, then kissed him again; deeper this time. His mouth tasted faintly of sweetness and garlic, remnants of their shared meal.
His hand gripped Alan’s shirt in desperate clutches, his body trembling, before he suddenly pulled away.
“Is it because I look like him?” Ray’s voice cracked, a tear tracing a silent path down his cheek.
“What?” Alan asked, genuinely confused.
Ray’s hand gestured vaguely between them.
His eyes were filled with such raw sadness that Alan felt like he might break just by looking at it.
“Do you think you look like Wen?” Alan asked quietly, because Ray and Wen shared nothing, nothing except this shadow looming between them.
“I don’t know,” Ray whispered, fingers nervously twisting a loose thread on his shirt.
The question felt almost out of place. The reason Alan started sleeping with Ray wasn’t because he looked like Wen, it was precisely because he didn’t.
Ray was everything Wen was not, such a stark contrast that being with him physically didn’t unmoor Alan the way he expected it to.
“You don’t look anything like him,” Alan whispered. Ray’s eyes flickered, uncertain if that was a comfort or a curse.
Seeing the hesitation, Alan reached up and gently brushed his hand through Ray’s soft hair.
“You smell like kaffir lime,” Alan said with a small, soft smile.
Ray met his gaze, pupils shaky but holding on.
Alan’s fingers traced slowly down Ray’s body, steady and sure.
“My life’s in a strangely tangled place right now,” Alan murmured, but his touch never faltered. Ray simply listened.
“But there’s one thing I know; true enough to say it out loud.” Alan lowered his hand, brushing it softly against Ray’s cheek.
“I want to eat next to you, too, Ray.”
Ray’s eyes shone, still half convinced but hopeful.
“Really?” he whispered, voice tentative.
Alan nodded, a gentle smile curving his lips.
“Really,” he confirmed softly.
That was all it took. Ray pulled him into a tight hug, burying his face in Alan’s shirt.
“Did you buy the candle because of me?” Ray murmured, his voice muffled. Alan’s fingers traced soothing circles over Ray’s hair.
“Yes,” he replied simply, heart quietly full.
Four months later.
Ray had been restless from the moment they sat down for dinner until the quiet car ride back to Alan’s apartment. Alan tried to read him but found nothing; just a restless energy that gnawed at his own nerves.
He didn’t catch on until they were finally home, their mouths crashing together fiercely before they even reached the bedroom. His hands roamed over Ray’s body as they always did; starting with the dark, perked nipples that rose under his touch, then drifting lower to the soft swell of Ray’s belly, every inch alive beneath his fingers.
When his hand reached for Ray’s jeans, they were already in the bedroom; breath heavy, pulse pounding deep. Alan slid down the zipper, tugging the jeans just enough to reach the familiar curve of Ray’s ass, and then froze.
His fingers met bare skin where fabric should have been.
Ray was wearing a thong.
Alan’s hands moved instinctively, kneading the smooth, exposed flesh, sending a rush of heat straight through him.
A soft voice broke the tension, a sly smirk tugging at Ray’s lips.
“Like what you see?”
Alan didn’t answer; he simply traced a finger slowly along the gap between Ray’s lips, tasting the tension there.
“Turn around,” Alan murmured.
Without hesitation, Ray obeyed, exposing himself fully to Alan’s hungry gaze.
Alan didn’t know what he expected exactly, but it wasn’t the slick heat of lube, warm and slick, seeping through the narrow strip of thong fabric pressed between Ray’s cheeks. A low growl slipped from his throat as his hand moved instinctively, tugging the thong higher, wedging it deeper between Ray’s ass. The firm pressure drew a ragged moan from Ray.
“Again,” Ray gasped, breath hitching as Alan’s hand pushed harder, grinding the fabric between those soft, willing cheeks, over and over. The remnants of lube spilled messily, slick and wet, making Alan’s skin flush with hunger.
Alan leaned in, breath hot against the thin fabric. He inhaled sharply; Ray’s scent was intoxicating, mingled with something musky and faintly powdery from the thong itself. The smell rooted Alan deeper into the moment, raw and impossibly electric.
“Fuck,” Alan muttered, eyes darkening as his hands roamed, tracing the taut muscles beneath the thin fabric.
“Fuck me with it on?” Ray’s voice was low, breathless, and Alan swore he could come right then.
His fingers slid over the waistband of the thong, then he slowly peeled off his own clothes, urgency rising with every shallow breath. He slicked himself with lube, hands trembling slightly, before settling between Ray’s legs; careful not to disturb the delicate fabric stretched so intimately over his skin.
A guttural groan tore from Alan as he pressed forward, the narrow strip of thong sliding and rubbing against him with every inch he buried deep inside Ray. Fire and need tangled with restraint; raw, filthy, and impossible to resist.
“God, you’re so full… even with this,” Alan growled, voice thick with lust. “I’m never taking it off.”
Alan’s hands gripped Ray’s hips tightly, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above the thong’s thin band. The fabric stretched taut, slick with their wetness, clinging to the curve of Ray’s ass, teasing every nerve ending as Alan moved.
He thrust deep, slow at first, savoring the sensation of the thong’s narrow strip rubbing hotly against him; friction that drove him wild.
Alan hissed, fingers digging harder into Ray’s skin as his hips snapped forward harder, the thong sliding deeper between Ray’s cheeks with a wet, slick sound.
Ray’s breath hitched, a soft moan breaking free as Alan’s cock dragged along that tight, forbidden line of fabric, every movement both a tease and a claim.
“Lan.. harder,” Ray gasped, voice raw and trembling with need.
Alan’s breath hitched. The command was a spark, igniting the last thread of control he had left. He slammed into Ray relentlessly, each thrust driving deeper, faster; his body hungry, desperate.
The thong was a wicked, tantalizing barrier, soaked through with slick heat, the wetness dripping in slow, sticky trails down the curve of Ray’s ass. Every inch pressed against the fabric sent shivers through Alan, pushing him further into a frantic madness.
“Mine,” Alan growled, voice thick with hunger and possessiveness. His hands yanked Ray’s hips back hard, pulling him flush, skin against skin.
Slowly, deliberately, Alan’s hand drifted around to the front, fingers ghosting over the thin fabric stretched tight across Ray’s cock. Just a featherlight brush, no strokes; an electric tease that made Ray shiver against him.
“I’m close, baby,” Alan murmured low, breath hot against Ray’s ear.
Ray’s whole body tensed, trembling on the edge, hips pressing back instinctively as heat coiled tight inside him. Alan’s thrusts grew ragged, deeper and harder, every movement driving them closer.
“Fuck—” Alan growled, voice thick with hunger and madness, hips pistoning harder, faster. His control snapped.
With a guttural cry, Alan’s release crashed through him, hot and thick, flooding deep inside Ray’s slick heat. The cum seeped past the fabric, soaking the thong, running down Ray’s ass in a messy, wet trail.
Ray shuddered violently under him, trembling with the force of his own climax, breath hitching, eyes squeezed shut.
Alan’s breath came ragged, his hands wandering, tracing heated patterns across Ray’s trembling body as he collapsed against his shoulder, every muscle still trembling from the intensity.
After a moment, Alan steadied himself, slowly turning Ray to face him. His eyes softened, fingers brushing tenderly over Ray’s cheek, fingertips memorizing the warmth beneath his skin.
“I love you,” Alan murmured, voice low and vulnerable.
Ray laughed softly; an unguarded, breathless sound born of relief and something tender. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Alan’s lips.
“I love you too,” he whispered, eyes shining with quiet certainty.
“Lan,”
Alan knew he did.