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Ray doesn't sleep around.
Well, he hasn't slept around in a great while. A couple of years ago he liked going out, and coming home with any man that gave him some attention, just because he needed it—because the emptiness of his house haunted him even into his sleep. It was an outlet, and a way to bring life into halls that hold nothing but expensive furniture, mostly unused.
After the seventh time a man called him a girl, just because of his body, he decided to put an end to it. The sex never was that good anyway.
That's how he went back to the bottles, drinking more and more every time he went out with friends.
Of course they’re supportive. They have been from the start. It was Namcheum who encouraged him to just pay for the surgery, just cut his hair, and just go for it. Then, it was Mew who comforted him after the explosive argument with his father. They were still pretty young at the time. Still, they didn't leave his side, because that's just who they are. Who they all are.
When Ray met Yo, it felt a little like life was sending him some kind of mentor. Perhaps not one that could help in the right ways, but someone nonetheless.
So, after a long journey, Ray doesn't sleep around.
Boston still likes to make jokes about him, how they're both still whores, in a way. However, he stopped quite a while ago. For good reasons.
There's no explanation for the ache Ray feels when he's with Sand. At first, he brushed it off as surface level attraction—something he's very good at ignoring—but it's something else. Something deeper. A strange sensation in his chest; warm, a little clumsy. Perhaps something dangerous.
This inability to discern what he's dealing with is what makes him ask. “Have you ever been hit on by a guy?”
If Ray was someone with even less self-respect, he wouldn't care. He'd use Sand's attraction to women to his advantage—make it simply about bodies. However, the thought alone makes something ugly twist inside of Ray. A part that wants to be recognised, a part that wants to be seen as something that very few people see in him.
Sand replies quickly.
“Of course. I get hit on by all genders,” he says, casual, conversational. Anything but ashamed. “I’m open.”
It's almost an invitation. Almost flirtation, just barely scraping the chance of maybe. Ray lets out an amused hum, taking another swing of his whiskey. The one he always drinks when he's drowning in self-pity in this damned house.
Simply, Sand continues: “I focus more on an individual's personality. If we click, then I'm ready to open up.”
Such a simple concept. Yet, Ray feels a little astounded. He's never met someone so gentle about their love life—or sex life. And it is gentle: The readiness to accept anyone, as long as they're someone to have fun with, to be comfortable with.
Ray feels very comfortable.
It's the first time in a long time that he actually thinks he might want to get physical with someone again.
With another hum, and a gentle nod, he moves towards the couch, and sits down. His fingers toy with his glass a little as he sets it down on the table, watching the golden liquid dance in the small crystal container. Beautiful, if it wasn't so deadly. There's a smile on his lips, distant, not quite realising he's wearing it in the first place. Something unintentional, and genuine. Vulnerable.
His hand reaches out, and Sand looks at him for a moment. The other seems a little caught off guard by the conversation topic, but not uncomfortable with it. A cigarette settles between Ray's fingers, and his smile widens as he places it between his lips instead, leaning forward.
Without needing to be prompted, Sand's eyes gleam a little with something that almost looks like fondness, and then he's leaning in to light Ray's cigarette with his own.
The first inhale of smoke burns his lungs in an unpleasant way that makes him feel alive. It's always like coming back from the dead, just a little. Opening one eye in the morning, still half-asleep—still half-dead. When they pull away, Ray can see on Sand's gentle face that he's amused, curious where this conversation will lead them. However, before he can say anything, Ray beats him to it: He leans in a little again, and looks the other in the eye, expression flickering between danger, and trust.
“Have you ever been hit on by a guy in the wrong body?”
The question settles between them for a second, in which Sand stares at him with a quiet sort of interest. A gentle curiosity.
His head tilts, and he shakes it softly. “No. Never,” Sand replies genuinely, all amusement leaving his expression. “What do you mean ‘in the wrong body’?”
Ray keeps eye contact for a long moment before he sits up straight, and turns away a little.
“Someone who's locked away into a body that doesn't fit quite right.” He takes a deep drag of his cigarette, staring at his glass again, a tight smile on his lips. “A man who grew up a woman, who had to put in effort and money to become who he is today, and couldn't erase all of the traces anyway,” he explains quietly, trying to keep his tone light. However, he can't help the bitterness creeping into his voice as he speaks. “An actor, who's just playing the role of a man from the cage of his own body.”
After taking another drag of his cigarette, Ray lets out a stiff chuckle into the silence. “Or something like that?”
The silence drags on anyway. It makes him nervous, not being able to see Sand's expression, so he finally turns his head again. Immediately, his eyes lock onto the other man's face.
Surprise fills his chest, and with it, a gentle warmth. Something he's never felt before, something that makes him want to talk to Sand more, because—because.
Because Sand is looking at him with wide, curious eyes that show nothing but gentleness, his lips tugged into a small smile. A genuine expression, not the fake one his father eventually made when he pretended to understand, not the one Cheum makes when she acts like she knows what Ray is talking about. No. The way Sand is looking at him is different.
It's not condescending, or pitying, not even confused.
All Ray can see in the other's eyes is a readiness to understand, a readiness to listen. It makes his throat close up with emotions he's too embarrassed to let out.
“I already told you I'm open,” Sand says, entirely serious, even with that smile on his lips. “If we click, then I'm ready to be with them. I don't care about someone's body, or the way they look.”
Suddenly, there's a strange blurriness in Ray's vision, and he takes a deep breath, letting out a soft laugh.
That strange sensation is back. The one he can't place, the one he's trying to put a name to. It doesn't come to him—it’s still too fresh, too gentle. Like the fire of a cigarette, easy to put out, easy to use up, and yet so addictive.
Ray huffs, and leans in, and that's that.
They have sex on the couch, and then again in his bedroom. Sand doesn't make any comments, and doesn't call him any strange things. He treats him with gentleness, but not out of derogation, but rather out of care. They clean up together, and Sand calls him a horny jackass in the shower, where Ray gets on his knees again with a smug grin.
When he wakes up the next morning, he expects it all to be too good to be true.
That it was all just the alcohol haze.
However, even though Sand leaves in a hurry, he doesn't treat Ray any differently. There's nothing shifted in his gaze, and the only comment he makes is that they'll stay friends.
Ray finds himself not wanting to be just friends anymore.
Even after the second, third, and fourth time, after they break all the rules Ray set up, and after they stumble into bed together again and again—nothing changes.
Sand still calls him names, still shoves at him when he laughs at stupid things, doesn't bring up Ray's gender unless contextually appropriate, and doesn't awkwardly stop calling him cute or pretty (“to be considerate of him being a man,” fuck you, Boston).
The only thing that changes is Ray himself.
Day for day, the agonising feeling in his chest grows. It grows, and grows, and grows. He feels the warmth not only when he's by Sand's side, but even just when he thinks of him.
Bitterly, Ray knows this is his own fault. He should've just left it unexplored. Maybe then he wouldn't have gotten so attached—so dependant.
Because that's what it is. Of course he knows now. Or at least he's started understanding. Slowly. This feeling isn't just arousal, or want. It's something worse.
More vulnerable.
Ray would like to bully himself for falling for the next man who shows him kindness and attention. First Mew, now this.