Archive of Our Own

Sand watches the girl tug her tank top over her head and fluff her hair back into place. The belt she's threading through the loops of her jean skirt is cool actually. Vintage leather. If they were a couple, he'd probably steal it.

But they're not a couple. Sand doesn't do that anymore.

She catches him staring. "I'm putting my clothes back on,” she reminds him, and it makes him laugh.

"Mn." He sits up, the blanket still tangled around his legs in a heap. "You sure you don't need a lift?"

"I've already called a Grab." She waves the screen of her phone in his face, then leans in as if for a kiss. But instead, she bends down further and grabs her purse from the floor. It was hastily discarded next to Sand's bed a few hours before, as they stumbled backward into the room, clothes flying off, lips chasing each other's.

“Alright. Text me when you get back safe.”

She smiles. “Okay. See you," she says softly, and walks out of Sand's bedroom in heels meant for bars only.

Sand watches her go. "See you."

He sighs and stretches, wincing when his back cracks, a consequence of trying to show off by fucking her against the wall. He's too slight for it, doesn't quite have the strength in his lanky arms despite lifting weights when he can find the time. His meagre finances don’t allow for much protein in his diet either, so his party trick had lasted all but a minute before he had to usher her into his bed, just to let his muscles cool off.

With an audible groan, he throws the blanket off his lower half and tugs his boxers back on, then reaches for the pack of Marlboros on his bedside table, lighter already tucked inside. He strolls with great effort out the door that his bedmate for the evening left half-open and into the hallway, slowly making his way towards the balcony. 

When he finally arrives, alone at 1:30am on a Saturday morning, he lights up a cigarette and blows his frustrations into the wind. 

The girl, Amm, was cool. He's seen her before; long dark hair and a cute smile, always mouthing along with the songs he plays. The sex was good too, no complaints, and she hadn't even tried to feign interest in staying over. Sand's earth-potent bedroom probably didn't help.

And he's grateful. He wouldn't have refused her, obviously, because he's nice like that, and driving someone home takes gas money that he just doesn’t have. But it would have been impossible for him to pretend he wanted her to fall asleep nestled in his aching arms, especially because he's still thinking about the last person to do so just a week prior.

Ray.

The singer doesn't know his full name, where he lives, the names of his friends (apart from Boston and Nick), his favourite foods or colours or TV shows. He doesn't know if Ray is bi like him, if he's slept with other guys that hang out at Y.O.L.O. He doesn't even know if they're the same age, although he's pretty sure they are since Ray told him he was a fourth year too. 

All Sand knows for sure is that despite his best efforts, he hasn't been able to get the wealthy business student off his mind since the night they came back to this very apartment together.

The sex had been more than good, more than just a one-night stand Sand could write off as a notch in his bedpost. Ray took to his touch like a flame to gasoline, burning up beneath his fingers, smouldering under his gaze. Sand likes to take the lead, but even though he’d been the one to fuck Ray, the other man was in control whether he liked it or not. Just one little “na?” and Sand's mouth was all over him in the shower; another, and he was cooking him breakfast. 

Now, he’s even considering seeing him again. 

An ambulance wails from somewhere off the main road. Sand can hear a few girls giggling in the apartment next door, not unusual on a Friday night. Sucking in the drag of his smoke, he thinks back to Ray's cheeky words when he dropped him off at P'Yo's the previous week. 

My mum has a recording of Queen’s Live Aid set. You can come over and listen to it sometime.

Don't blame me if I end up on your lap.

I'm not trying to be the rockstar's groupie.

Last week wasn't the first time he saw Ray. The business student and his group of friends are regulars at Y.O.L.O, although Sand’s had more run-ins with Nick's squeeze, Boston, than any of the others. 

He’ll never tell his roommate, but Boston has tried to get with him on several occasions, an opportunity that Sand’s always declined. He’s hot, sure, but something about his attitude rubs the singer the wrong way. Besides, he's not keen to get involved with someone that he knows has fucked Top (at least according to P'Yo’s gossip).

Ray has caught his attention from the stage more than once, but the shorter man was always hiding behind glassy eyes and a tipsy stumble, or shouting something incoherent at his friends as the night wore on, far too drunk for Sand to approach even if he wanted to.

And he wanted to. Earlier in the night, before the alcohol hit, Ray would be laughing with his head thrown back, or singing with his arms around a much taller friend with glasses. He looked like so much fun. Sand was intrigued by his antics, not to mention how uncontestedly gorgeous he always is. 

It’s obvious that Ray comes from money—everything from his fancy Mercedes to his shiny Tom Ford boots screams wealth. Even so, Sand admires someone who can dress, who can weave zany patterns together like Ray does, unafraid of experimenting. He’d love to get him into a thrift store, though he doubts the rich boy would even step through the door. 

You’re not going to get Ray anywhere, he tells himself. 

He sighs, huffing out another frustrated plume of smoke into the balmy night air before crushing the butt into the ashtray Nick insists he use. 

His protective instincts are on high alert. This is how it started with Boeing, fantasies about day dates after one night together. Ray is even more volatile than Sand’s relatively predictable ex, who was all polo shirts and plant care guides. He’s a wild card. Sand doesn’t want to play games.

He crawls back into a bed damp with sweat and hints of Victoria’s Secret Tease perfume. It’s not the worst smell in the world, but he falls asleep to the memory of Ray’s Hugo Boss cologne permeating his senses, those sharp brown eyes piercing into his dreams.

***

The next night is nothing special. No events, no traffic lights. Sand’s done a Thursday-Friday-Saturday circuit with the band at Y.O.L.O for a few years now, and it’s decent money, plus free food whenever Ms. Tim is around—or when P’Yo takes pity on him. As a starving student, he can’t ask for a better gig than that.  

He sits on the edge of the stage in a white Savage Garden t-shirt (worn ironically, he’ll tell anyone who asks) and his dark jeans and boots combo. His bandmates are setting up around him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Ray and his posse in their usual booth near the back exit. Ray grins back at him and winks. He averts his gaze.

“Ready?” Their bassist asks, tapping Sand on the shoulder. 

He nods, trying to put Ray out of his mind, but it’s nearly impossible with the way the rich boy is staring at him. He’s barely blinking now, eyes following Sand like a hungry animal. Sand stands up and throws his leather jacket back on, then taps the mic.

“Hey,” he greets the audience, and gets a few half-hearted woos for his effort.

Tonight’s crowd is sparse thanks to an event at the university. He plucks a string on his guitar. “Thanks for coming out tonight. You guys aren’t desperate enough to go speed dating, is that it?”

More woos, and a couple laughs. Sand’s always had charisma, although he doesn’t consider himself particularly funny, unless sarcasm is someone’s humour. 

He turns up the charm. “Well, if you wish you were there instead, I’d advise you to hold off. Your dream person might just be somewhere in this bar.” He deliberately avoids Ray’s sticky eyes, not wanting to insinuate anything. “And this song will give you a few lines to start off with. This is The Doors. One, two, three, four!

“Hello,
I love you
Won't you tell me your name?”

The song is groovy enough to bob his head to, and his hair falls into his eyes, obstructing him from seeing anything through the dark brown strands. But he can still feel Ray watching him, and when he nods again on a loud hello, their gazes lock at last.

“Hello
I love you
Let me jump in your game…”

Ray chuckles, taking a sip of whatever drink he has. God, he’s so mesmerizing, even the way his hand wraps around the glass, fingers dainty and delicate. His tongue darts out from between his plush lips and Sand fights the urge to jump off the stage and sink his teeth into him. 

“Sidewalk crouches at her feet
Like a dog that begs for somethin' sweet
Do you hope to make her see, you fool…?”

He uses most of his vocal strength to scream the last few words, more of a distraction than a means to show off, then begins the next song after a breathless, “Thank you.” 

The rest of the evening passes with mellow songs. He briefly spots Amm in the audience chatting with a friend. She tosses a few glances in his direction, but she’s always done that, and has always sung along to the band’s tunes with a smile on her face. It’s admirable in a way, how few fucks she gives. Sand plays at the same kind of nonchalance, but the truth is, he gets attached quicker than a bur to wool.

Not to her though. 

He strums the final chords of Norgaard by The Vaccines. The drums crash the song to a close and Sand leans into the mic again, grinning. “Thanks again. Enjoy your night everyone. Last call is at 12:45.”

Barely five seconds pass before Ray is in front of the stage. A ridiculously fluffy black cardigan hangs off his shoulder despite the 30-degree temps outside, but it looks good on him, showing off his graceful neck. A cross necklace sits like a taunt on his slender collarbones. He holds his hands behind his back, chin tilted up. 

“Hey, Sand.”

“Hey.” Sand lifts his guitar and places it into the case, then zips it shut. “What’s up?”

Ray snickers. “You ask like you weren't watching me for your entire set.”

“That means you were watching me too, if you noticed that.”

Sand can’t help it; Ray’s flirtation brings out his natural tendency to flirt back, as much as he’s trying to dig his heels into the stage and ground himself back to reality. 

“Of course. You were literally playing. What else was I supposed to look at?” 

“Touché.” 

Ray gives him a once-over, undeterred. “Didn’t take you for a Savage Garden fan. A little mainstream for you, no?”

Sand reddens. “It’s ironic.”

“Sure it is.” Ray moves in for the kill, stepping closer until he’s just a breath away from Sand’s mouth. “Why don’t you come over? We can play music you actually like. Unironically.” He grins and blinks intentionally. “Na? I’ll dust the Queen record off.”

The singer had prepared himself all week for this moment, knowing Ray was likely to be at Y.O.L.O. this weekend. He was strangely absent the night before, when Sand took Amm home instead. But he, too, looks as though he’s been anticipating Sand’s answer since he first planted the idea. Lips glossed. Not a hair out of place. 

He dressed to see Sand tonight, and it’s obvious he wants the musician to take the clothes back off him.

Sand practiced his excuses in his head, but for some reason, as he hauls his guitar case back onto his shoulder, all he can mumble is, “Yourgotokeepwanme.”

Ray cocks his head to the side. “Hm?” He cups his hand over his ear. “Can you say that again? I think I’ve gone deaf from your loud dad rock.”

Sand rolls his eyes and shoves him, albeit gently. “Fuck off.” He folds his arms across his chest. “I said, ‘You’re going to keep wanting me.’”

Ray scoffs. “And?” He mirrors Sand’s stance, furrowing his brow in a mocking way. “Ohooo, I’m Sand, I’m so hot and good at sex that people want to fuck me more than once! Poor me!” He stomps his foot. “See how silly that sounds? Just come over. I like talking to you.”

His terrible imitation gets a laugh out of Sand. He hasn’t been called silly since he was nine or so. Even as a kid he was rough around the edges, serious, not at all a jokester. 

He sighs. “Fine. You’re nothing if not a tryer.”

“Exactly.” Ray misreads the dig as a compliment and holds his head high. “You drive?”

Sand falters. “You’re drunk?” He hadn’t noticed redness in Ray’s eyes, but then again, he may just be used to it by now.

Ray shakes his head vigorously, like there’s a wasp near his ear. “No, no. Promise.” He holds up two fingers. “I’m just too lazy to drive. Besides, you look sexy doing it.”

Typical. Sand has to laugh again. He follows Ray to the parking lot, where the other man hands him a cigarette before opening the car doors with his fob. Once inside, he leans into the driver’s side with an unlit smoke between his shiny pink lips and raises his eyebrows. Sand lights his own, then lets it touch the tip of Ray’s, the spark between them igniting once again.

Ray programs the GPS to his home. Sand stares at the screen. 

“Soi 5 in Watcharapol?” he asks incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah. What’s wrong with it?”

Nothing is wrong with the neighbourhood. Far from it. But Sand is hit with a sudden wave of insecurity. He knows Watcharapol because of an ex of the band’s drummer, who once hosted a pool party at her house in the same area. It’s an old money district, somewhere Sand can’t imagine being invited to casually, let alone hope to live. He swallows hard.

“Let’s just go.” He turns the key in the ignition. “Can I put some music on?”

“Be my guest.”

It’s a bit of a longer drive than it is back to Sand’s from Y.O.L.O, but not by much. Sand taps nervously on the steering wheel. Making casual conversation is somewhat of a talent of his because of how often he interacts with bar patrons, but with someone he’s already slept with… and swore he wouldn’t sleep with again…

Luckily, Ray never shuts the fuck up, so he doesn’t have to think of a conversation topic. The rich boy draws circles on his knee as he prattles on about his music collection.

“I have a few Micro records, some from Chatree, Carabao… Asanee-Wasan too, but I don’t know where it is. We can listen to The Beatles after Queen, if you want.”

Sand perks up at that one. “Oh. You like the Beatles?”

“My mum did. She used to play The White Album a lot. I like Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band the best though.”

“Which song?”

“Strawberry Fields I think. We have a version of the album that includes it.”

Sand smiles, ignoring that Ray’s wandering hand has reached his thigh. “I like that song too.”

“We have a lot in common then.”

The road in front of them is nearly empty, odd for a Saturday. Sand changes lanes. “So your mum has quite the music taste, hm?” He takes a drag from his smoke. “Too bad she stopped exploring new bands in the 80s. Or at least it seems that way."

“I’m sure she was just too fucked up to appreciate them,” Ray says bluntly.

Sand turns to look at him. He’s staring straight ahead, a neutral expression on his face. “You mean drunk?”

Ray nods. “Yeah.” He takes his gaze off the road, looking back at Sand. “She’s dead. I should probably get that out of the way.” 

Oh.

It all makes sense now, the way Ray’s been referring to her in the past tense. Sand didn’t want to assume. He clenches his jaw. “Sorry.”

“Mn.” Ray takes a deep hit of his cigarette. “It was a long time ago. At least she left me with some good records, right?” He attempts a smile that’s thinner than usual. “Don’t worry. I don’t even think about her anymore.”

Sand doubts that, but he’s already toeing the line of his comfort zone by going to Ray’s in the first place—he doesn’t want to get even more tangled up in the poor little rich boy’s messy life. He takes another drag. “That’s good.”

“Mhmm.” Ray squeezes his knee and he jerks it under the dash. “What does your mum do?”

“Manager of a gogo bar,” Sand answers, straight-faced. He’s had years to come to terms with his mother’s place of work, and he stopped being ashamed in his late teens. Her no-nonsense attitude didn’t allow for it. “She used to be a dancer. Had me after a one-night stand with some musician she met at the club. Now she’s running the joint.”

Ray laughs. “That’s kind of cool, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, why not? It makes a good story.” 

Sand is comforted by Ray's candor. Most of his old friends—and Boeing—used to balk when he mentioned his bastard status. “I'll one-up it,” he adds. “My nickname is Sand because they did it on the beach.”

Ray's jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Sand grins. “I swear.”

“Wow.” Ray seems impressed. “Guess you were born for one-night stands, hm? I bet you have them a lot.” He grins too. “I mean, you’re a musician at a club too.”

Sand shrugs. “That's normal, isn't it?” He merges onto the exit towards Ray's neighbourhood. “I'm not ugly, and I'm pretty charming.”

“Definitely not ugly,” Ray agrees. “Charming… I don't know. I think you're mean sometimes.” 

“Mean?” Sand ashes his smoke out and pushes him playfully. “I made you breakfast last time. Eggs aren't fucking cheap.”

Ray snickers. “Fine, fine, that was nice. But you said you won't fuck me again and that's just rude.” He tiptoes his fingers up Sand's jacket sleeve. “Unless you're horny tonight. Hm?” 

Unfazed by his seatbelt, he leers into Sand's shoulder, lips just barely touching the shell of his ear. “Are you? Are you horny, Sand?”

“Ray, fuck off.” Sand nudges him again, a bit harder this time. “I swear to God you want me to kill us both.”

Ray settles after that, singing off-key to a Tilly Birds song playing from the radio. Sand pretends to clean his ear out. It's kind of fun being with Ray when he's not out of his mind drunk, but it also reminds him of the long drives he used to take in Boeing's Audi, both of them singing along to Arctic Monkeys, his hand on Boe's while they drove…

“It's this house,” Ray says suddenly, pointing. Sand snaps back to life. “308. The white fountain.”

He taps a flat little box fixed to the visor of the driver's side, which turns out to be some kind of sensor that opens the towering wrought-iron gate to their left. Cautiously, Sand pulls the car into the driveway and stops a few feet from steps that look carved from marble.

“Let's go.” Ray takes his keys from Sand and heads towards the front door. 

Sand follows, craning his neck like an owl to see every nook and cranny of the mansion's exterior. Three storeys, CCTV cameras, a manicured lawn (in Bangkok heat?), Roman columns…

“Sand. Come on.”

The inside of the house is even more impressive. Ray leads him down a narrow hallway that opens up into a grand foyer, complete with a spiraling staircase and a massive chandelier. Ray strolls underneath it as if it's costume jewelry and opens a set of French doors to their left.

“Here it is.”

Immediately, the sense of unease lifts away from Sand's shoulders. A lumpy brown couch sits in the middle of the room. It's not unlike the one his dealer has in his basement, scuffed and stained, upholstery poking out in some places. The walls are trimmed in a gaudy green and gold, and a vintage record player leans against one of them, between two shelves teeming with dusty vinyls. Sand chuckles at the picture of a record player hung right above the real thing. 

“Do you have pictures of forks and spoons in your kitchen too?” he asks, lifting his chin towards the art.

Ray snickers. “Ha ha. An interior decorator my mum was not, that's for sure.” He reaches for a decanter of whisky on a nearby table. “Want a drink?”

“Just a little.”

As promised, Ray takes the Queen record out after handing Sand a glass. He lifts the cover of the player and lovingly places the vinyl down, then drops the needle. 

Here we stand or here we fall
History won't care at all
Make the bed, light the light, yeah
Lady Mercy won't be home tonight, yeah

He joins Sand on the couch, thigh to thigh, and pulls out his pack of smokes. “Want another?”

“Sure.”

The only sound is the record for about a minute. Ray is warm next to him, his skin sheathed in a thin layer of sweat. It must be the cardigan. 

You don't waste no time at all
Don't hear the bell, but you answer the call
It comes to you, as to us all
Yeah, we're just waiting
For the hammer to fall

“I think Freddie Mercury is one of the best singers we've ever had in music,” Sand murmurs. He takes a sip of the whisky, wincing at the harshness of it. “There will never be anyone like him.”

“Yeah, I agree.” Ray taps his ashes into a clay ashtray that says gitanes on the side. “He was amazing.”

“He was. And he was bi, too. Like me.” Sand glances sideways at Ray. “I always found that inspiring, especially back then.”

Ray smiles. “It is. He was fearless.”

Sand's question lingers on his tongue. It doesn't matter, but he's curious, and dancing around the topic doesn't seem to be working on the oblivious rich boy.

“Are you gay?” he blurts out. 

Ray laughs, his ears turning slightly pink. “Mn. No. I'm bi too.” He shrugs. “Been with a lot more guys lately, but I think it's just a numbers game.” He puts his glass onto the table and takes Sand's hand, tracing the lines of his palm like a fortune teller. “Or maybe a handsome bar singer keeps hitting on the girls before I can.”

Sand smirks. “That doesn't bother you, does it?” He leans back and throws an arm onto the spine of the couch. “Don't be greedy. You had your turn.”

“What are you, a merry-go-round?” Ray pokes him. “Do I have to insert tickets? I must be this tall to ride?” He pats the top of his own head. “It's actually funny how hard you're trying to pretend you don't want me. Like I'm almost fooled.”

Sand's gut does a backflip. “And what makes you think I want a spoiled brat like you a second time?”

The question is genuine, because in spite of his words, he does want Ray. How could he not? His outfit, his hair, his cologne, his eyes… every inch of him screams fuck me, and every voice in Sand's head is screaming at him to follow through. 

But how does Ray know? Is there a flaw in Sand's carefully curated indifference, making him susceptible to scrutiny? Or is it just Ray's sensual energy that lowers his defenses, leaving him powerless to his puppy eyes and pleading?

Ray smiles. “Because you're here,” he explains. He blows smoke into the empty space around them. “You, of all people, have never heard a recording of Queen’s Live Aid set? One of the most famous performances of all time?” He shakes his head. “Clearly I'm interesting enough to interest you. So come on, Sand.” He butts the cigarette out. “Friends can have sex. There's no rule against it.”

Of course there isn't, but Sand has rules, and he keeps to them like an honour code, mostly to protect his own heart. Like yeah, it sucks to miss out on good experiences because of his one-and-done thing, and he's sure romance could blossom with the right person if he gave himself time to plant the seed. 

But it could also lead to heartbreak, and Sand would rather die than go through that again. 

“I told you,” he insists. “I never sleep with anyone who's not my lover more than once.”

Ray laughs. “Fine. Then let's be lovers.” He slides closer until he can drape one leg over Sand's, letting it dangle between the singer’s spread thighs. “Just at night. We don't have to make this more than it is.” 

Sand butts his cigarette out too. The leftover smoke lingers between them, and Ray’s face is shrouded in grey. He shakes his head. “No.”

“Why not?” Ray whines. He kicks his feet. “What, you think I want you as my boyfriend?” The resulting chuckle chips at Sand’s heart, just a tiny bit. “Please. I just like teasing you.” He pinches Sand’s cheek. “Your stupid reactions are so cute.”

Sand wants to say fuck off again, but it hasn’t stopped Ray so far. On the contrary, it seems to encourage his boldness. As if to prove a point, Ray steadies himself with a hand on the back of the couch and turns his body 180 degrees, sitting squarely on Sand’s lap. 

This thing called love
I just can't handle it
This thing called love
I must get 'round to it, I ain't ready
Crazy little thing called love

“I’ll stop,” he wheedles, eyes betraying his words. “I will. But I promise I just want to have fun. You’re fun.” He drags his thumb across Sand’s lower lip. “Na? Tell me one more time, to my face. That you don’t want me again.”

I gotta be cool, relax, get hip
And get on my tracks
Take a back seat, hitch-hike
And take a long ride
On my motorbike until I'm ready
Crazy little thing called love

Sand cracks.

He kisses first this time, nipping at Ray’s bottom lip. Ray responds by slipping his arms around Sand’s neck and Sand does the same to Ray’s waist, under his cardigan. His body is already overheating.

Just like the last time, the kiss is electric from the start. Ray doesn’t build up to anything, but instead slips his tongue into Sand’s mouth, hot and wet with the taste of whisky and ash. Sand drinks him down, teeth clashing. His free hand claws into Ray’s hair and tugs on the soft strands. 

The record continues to play, but Sand can only hear the guttural moans coming from Ray’s throat, can only feel his hard cock straining against his zipper. He can pretend he doesn’t want this, but his body will always betray him. He lets out a hushed moan that's barely audible over the music.

Ray pulls away just to shed his cardigan, letting it pool onto the floor. He smiles, lip gloss smeared all the way to the tip of his nose. “Knew it.”

“Don’t push me.” 

Sand fights the urge to roll his eyes again and yanks Ray back towards his mouth, his big hand on the back of his neck. Everything about him is warm, from his hands clumsily unbuckling Sand’s belt to the skin of his lower back, where Sand’s fingers are digging in under his singlet.

“You were horny,” Ray confirms. He palms the growing bulge in Sand’s jeans, whispering as he slows the kisses down. “Told you, na? I’m always right.”  

Sand hums. “Yeah, maybe.” His eyes are on Ray’s thighs, seated on his own. Ray kisses his chin. “I’m not desperate like you though.”

“Maybe not yet, but I’ll get you there. Don’t worry.” 

The kisses taper off, softer but no less intense. Ray abandons Sand’s lips to trail his sloppy pecks up his jaw, leaving a film of spit in his wake. 

“You want to fuck me on the couch?” Ray purrs into his ear, nibbling on the shell without letting his tongue graze the skin. “No one’s home.”

Sand laughs. “You never stop, do you?”

“I mean, you’re not saying no.” Ray pulls back and shakes his hair out, the long strands at the front settling on his rosy cheeks. He gazes into Sand’s bewildered eyes. “Na, Sand? Break your rule for once. Let’s have sex. I know you like me.”

If it were anyone else, Sand would swiftly correct them with something biting and sarcastic, something like, no, I like fucking you, don’t get it twisted.  

But Ray’s right. Sand likes him. 

He likes his silly jokes, his abhorrent music taste (apart from Queen, and maybe Micro), his dark eyes and silver tongue and the way his nose scrunches up when he laughs. He likes the pleading (mostly for the ego boost), the na na that melts him like warm sugar. Ray makes him sweet. Sand hasn’t been sweet in a long time. 

“Fine,” he resigns, as if the chance to fuck Ray again is a chore and not something he's been craving since last weekend. “Take off your clothes.”

“No.” Ray reaches for the hem of Sand's t-shirt. “You do it. I'll do yours.” His fingers are graceful on Sand's skin as he inches the fabric upwards. “Let's take it slow. I like having you here.”

The sincerity of his words has Sand's stomach in knots. Most people are too cool these days, too aloof, always afraid to show true interest or let a feeling surface from its hiding place. Sand can admit he's one of them. 

Ray, in contrast, says whatever is on his mind, and his refreshing honesty is endearing to the musician, as much as it also leaves him unnerved.  

“Mn,” is all he replies. Ray's lips find his again, eliminating the need to speak at all.

His shirt joins Ray’s on the floor in a matter of seconds. Ray climbs further up his thighs, practically sitting on his navel now, as Sand returns the favour and pushes his white tank top up and over his chest. Ray discards it and smiles, his skin already flushed from exertion. 

“That’s better, isn’t it?” he coos. “It’s so hot in here.” His eyelids drop as he scans Sand’s naked top half, lower lip between his teeth.

Sand shifts uncomfortably. He knows he's on the thinner side, bony and angular, sharp enough to cut. Not like Boeing, who was solid rock, or…

He grits his molars thinking of Top, and how effortlessly he'd swooped into his relationship, stealing his boyfriend from under his nose. Handsome, clearly a regular at the gym, something Sand and Boeing never had in common. 

But Sand also knows it wasn't about muscle or wealth or whatever else his brain tried to convince him of. Boeing didn't want him anymore, and he left him for someone new. 

Ray wants him. It's clear by the way his tongue darts out from between his candy-pink lips, raking his eyes shamelessly over Sand's light brown nipples and small waist. It's nice to be appreciated for what he is and not what he could be, another refrain his ex had drilled into his psyche. 

“You're cute,” Ray tells him. He thumbs Sand's chest, draws a circle around the reluctant bud.  

Sand snorts. He's never been good at taking compliments that aren't about his sex appeal, and cute is almost unfathomable. Sand isn't cute. He's a hurricane. He doesn't allow himself to be anything close to cute, or adorable, or—God forbid—vulnerable.

Still, it’s sincere coming from Ray. The rich boy is also far from ripped, soft in his warmest places. Sand likes that about him, that there's so much of Ray to touch and kiss and knead with the pads of his fingers. 

Ray is cute, but sexy at the same time, feline and dangerous. He inches forward, forcing Sand to maneuver them so he’s horizontal on the couch, kissing from his collarbone to the line between his pecs. He drags his tongue from there to Sand's nipple and takes it into his mouth, smiling playfully up at him. Sand swallows hard. 

“Cute,” Ray repeats. He tugs with his teeth, causing a whimper from Sand. “You're different in my house.”

Sand lets out a low groan. “Whatever your maids use to scrub the floor… It's giving me a migraine.”

“Ohooo.” Ray bites down again, harder this time, teasing Sand's other nipple with his nimble fingers. “You don't make any sense to me.”

“Do I have to?”

Ray lifts his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “Mn. I guess not.” He stops playing with Sand and sits back on his thighs, grinning with a slight shrug. “But it'd be nice to figure you out, mystery man.”

Sand flips them over and wraps his hand lightly around Ray's throat. He won't really hurt him, but he'd picked up on the manhandling last time, and it's plain as day how hard Ray gets just from some rough fantasy. 

“What's the mystery?” he asks. He uses his other hand to unbutton Ray's jeans and slips his fingers inside, finding him predictably wet. He strokes him and bites his ear. “I'm just here to fuck you.”

“That's—fuck.” Ray moans, squeezing Sand's arm. “That's the point. You said you wouldn't come back after last time, but here you are. You said you wouldn’t fuck me, and yet…”

Sand removes his hand from Ray's neck and sits up, still stroking him. “Mhmm. And do you remember what I told you last time?”

Ray shrugs. “Remind me.”

“You talk too much.”

Sand silences him with more kisses. He rids him of the rest of his clothing, tossing his jeans and belt down to the hardwood with a thunk. He keeps his own pants on for now. Ray and his presumptuous blabbering have him feeling self-conscious; staying half-clothed evens the playing field.

At least in his eyes. Ray just grins, confident in his pretty smile, his glowing skin. “You going to put your mouth on me again?” he asks. He takes Sand’s hand and moves it between his thighs. 

Sand chuckles. “You liked that, hm?”

“Mhmhmmmmm.” Ray draws out the final syllable as Sand circles his rim with the tips of his fingers. “It was priceless. Just like everything else we did.”

“Then I’ll do it.” Sand taps his knee. “Move up a bit. Put your head on the armrest.”

Ray follows his orders. Sand pushes his legs up, one resting on the back cushion of the couch, the other dangling off the side. It’s not the best angle, but he can work with it. He teases him with a few lovebites to his inner thigh before licking across his entrance.

He was going to do it anyways, even before Ray asked. Going down on someone is always fun, and Ray is enthusiastic in his reactions, far more expressive than Sand ever is during sex (another thing he owes to his deep-seated confidence issues). Sand can’t see him, but he can hear his whimpers. He fights to hold Ray down as he squirms beneath his tongue.

“Fuck, Sand.” His fingers are in Sand’s hair. “You’re so… mn.”

Lost for words is Sand’s favourite reaction. He bites the skin of Ray’s groin, not to scar, but to sting. Ray hisses and Sand soothes him with more soft licks to his hole, tracing the puckered rim with his tongue. When he presses further in, Ray moans and grips his hair hard enough to hurt.

“Mn. Don’t pull,” Sand murmurs against his skin. 

“Sorry.” Ray loosens his hold. “I’m… fuck, you drive me insane. Keep going. Please.”

Sand continues for a little while before sneaking a bottle of lube from his back pocket and squirting it onto his fingers. It gives Ray a moment to catch his breath. He sits up, chest heaving. “Jesus Christ, Sand.”

“You asked me to do that,” Sand reminds him.

“Yeah, but I almost came.”

Sand shrugs. “I would have still fucked you.” He curls a lubed finger towards himself. “Come here.”

Ray shakes his head. “Take your pants off first.”

Sand obliges. He’s feeling less guarded than before, though already painfully hard, dripping with desire on the tip of his cock. Ray notices and hunches down without a word, licking the precum away.

“Delicious,” he comments. His eyes are bright with amusement. “We can switch this up sometime, if you want. I bet you’d be good at riding me.”

Blush floods Sand’s cheeks. “I don’t…” 

He pauses. It’s not that he doesn’t bottom, because he definitely does, and he has no reservations about it. But he’s always been shy to ride someone, and Ray has the most definitive stare of anyone he’s ever fucked, impossible to look away from. 

“Just get up here.” He takes Ray’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Before I change my mind.”

“Sure.”

Ray clambers back into his lap and grinds down on Sand’s finger, just one to start. He takes him well, kissing him wet, no rhythm to the movements of his tongue. Sand doesn’t mind. Ray is still warm against him, and the cologne he’d dreamt of is creeping into his nostrils, lulling him into the rich boy’s effortless seduction.

One finger becomes two, then three, Sand twisting and prodding against Ray’s sweet spot until he’s dribbling incoherently into his mouth. He rocks his hips, forcing Sand’s fingers further inside him, while his lips latch to Sand’s neck and suck a large purple love bite into the thin skin.

“You ready?” Sand asks.

Ray pulls away and nods, looking satisfied with the mark he’s left on Sand. “Of course. I’ve been waiting all week for you.”

Again, his straightforward admission stirs the singer, who just sighs and fishes a condom from the pocket of his jeans, a difficult maneuver with Ray still sitting on his lap. 

“Ohoo, look who was prepared,” Ray grins. “I knew you didn’t just come here to listen to Queen.”

Sand reddens. “Fuck off. I always—”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck off, you’ve said that a hundred times. You're soooo mean.” Ray takes the condom from him and tears it open. He slides it over Sand's cock while maintaining that same eye contact that drives the singer wild. “Be nicer, na?” He leans in towards Sand's ear. “I'll be nice back. Promise."

Before Sand can respond, Ray sinks down onto him, ass to his thighs quicker than he can blink. His arms slink back around Sand’s neck. 

“Gonna move?” he asks playfully.

Sand snickers. “You know I'm just mean because you're annoying as hell,” he replies. He nudges Ray's nose with his own. “You're on top of me. You move.” He smirks. “Or is that too much work for you, khun nu?”

“Saaaaaand. You said you’d fuck me. I’m tired.” He pouts. “Next time, na? I’ll pay you back.”

As much as he wants to insist there won’t be a next time, Sand can’t really argue when he’s already inside Ray, his primal instinct urging him on. He forgets his rules and locks his arms around his waist, tipping them over so the rich boy is once again on his back. He slips out for a minute and they both laugh. 

“Come on,” Ray goads him. He strokes himself, staring up at Sand. “Get in me. I’ve asked nicely.”

Sand pushes his legs up and plows into him, one hand bearing down on Ray’s collarbone, close enough to his throat to feel like a threat even when it’s not. Ray can’t find anything to grab on the couch, so he places his hand on top of Sand’s instead. His eyes are closed as he grips his fingers. 

“Mn. Fuck.” He feebly attempts to match Sand’s strokes, but with little success. “Harder. I can take it.”

Sand won’t admit it, but he doesn’t have much energy either, having packed three boxes of plum wine in the afternoon and then headed to Y.O.L.O to play the full set. Despite his exhaustion, he gives in and tries his best on the limited space of the couch. The cracked leather squeaks under his movements.

He bends down to kiss Ray, something he rarely does in the moment. Ray reciprocates and bites his lip, nearly drawing blood. He hisses. Ray just grins, opening his eyes and sucking in a deep breath. Neither of them can form words, so sighs will have to do.

Sand smiles back. Ray is so fucking pretty.

Before he can stop himself, he comes with a gasp, far earlier than he predicted. Ray’s teasing had him on edge before he was even inside him. 

Ray comes just a minute later. He draws circles on Sand’s back, his cock pressed between their stomachs and leaking arousal all over the couch.

Sand licks his neck. “Your maids are going to hate us.”

Ray chuckles. “Believe me, it’s not the worst mess they’ve had to clean up. I’ll get most of it.” He squeezes Sand’s shoulder. “Let’s go upstairs and take a shower. We can fuck again in my bed if you want.”

Suddenly, the reality of what’s just happened comes crashing down on the singer. He not only came over to Ray’s when he said he wouldn’t, but he had sex with him again, and on his couch no less. And now he’s being offered a bed for the night? 

He shakes his head, the cage around his heart clanking shut. “Nah, I should go.” He gingerly pulls out and peels the condom off. “You got a trash can in here?”

“In the bathroom over there.” Ray motions with his chin. “Can you grab one of the hand towels too?”

When he returns, Sand takes the initiative to clean Ray up. He wipes the excess cum from the couch too, then reaches for his boxers on the floor and begins to pull them on. Ray puts a hand on his arm. 

“Don’t go,” he says. His eyes are full of longing, even now. “We don’t have to have sex again, but stay over at least. My bed is king-size. It’s too big for just me.” He smiles. “ Na? I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.”

Sand raises a brow. “You will?”

“Okay, the chef will,” Ray admits, and Sand snickers. “But it’ll be delicious. Please stay.” He blinks again, lashes sticky with sweat. “Na na na na— ”

“Fine. Enough with the shitty puppy dog eyes.” Sand gathers his clothes in a heap and stands up. He peers around the corner of the hallway. “You swear no one’s home?”

“I swear.”

Once upstairs, it’s not long before they’re kissing again, in the shower this time, and much more slowly. Sand sinks to his knees just as Ray had done for him, taking him in as water runs down his back. They both finish and trade soft kisses as they wash the sweat and sex away.

Ray hadn’t been exaggerating—his bed is massive, bigger than any bed Sand’s ever slept in, including hotels. He dives head first onto the mattress and makes a face. “What the fuck are these pillows?”

“Cashmere,” Ray answers, a smirk playing at his lips. “Like them?”

“No.” Sand slinks down the bed, his head barely touching the fluffy material. “They look uncomfortable.”

“Now who’s spoiled, hm? I didn’t complain that your bedroom smells like a greenhouse.” Ray slides in, tugging the covers up. “You’ll live.”

The sheets are nice at least, silky on their damp skin. Ray’s air conditioner makes it possible for them to snuggle even under the heavy blanket. Sand pats the space next to him.

Ray nuzzles into his chest. “That was fun.”

“Yeah.” 

Sand has one hand behind his head, the other flitting absently through Ray's hair. His eyes are fixed on the ornate pattern of the mansion's ceiling. 

Ray must still have a buzz, because he's tracing zigzags across Sand's chest with his cheek pressed to his shoulder. “Is this the first time you've slept with someone more than once?” He pauses, then adds, “Who wasn't your lover, I mean.”

Sand has to laugh a bit at how obvious Ray is being, but it's another example of that honesty that he likes so much, and he relaxes, allowing Ray to continue to touch him. “Mn. Yeah, I guess so.” He turns his head to face the other man, their noses centimetres apart. “Don't read into it.”

“I'm not the one who's weirdly cryptic all the time,” Ray answers. His tone is playful, but a callout hides somewhere underneath, and Sand can sense it. 

“What's that supposed to mean?” he asks defensively.

Ray props himself up on one arm and gives him a soft kiss. “I like you. You like me.” His eyes tell Sand there's no room for debate on that one. “I told you, na? We don't have to be boyfriends to hang out.” He grins. “Or to have sex.”

“We're not boyfriends.”

“I know. I just said that.” Ray smiles wider. “Why is it so hard for you to believe me? I know I have a reputation, but it's not for being a liar.” He presses his lips together, forming that pout that drives Sand mad. “Ask anyone. Scout’s honour or whatever.”

Sand sighs. “It's not that,” he replies. “I believe you. I just…” He shrugs. “I guess I've known a few liars.”

“Hm. Exes?” 

“None of your business.”

“Still so mean.” Ray snickers, patting Sand on his bright red cheek. “Fine. It doesn't matter to me anyways. We're just friends, right? Friends who have sex. There's no way for us to become lying, cheating exes if we don't date in the first place.”

Sand laughs. “You've got it all figured out, haven't you, Ray?” 

His eyes flutter half-shut in fondness, voice lowered to whisper. Before he can stop himself, he's kissing Ray again, warm and cozy in a king sized bed that could fit three of him.

Ray pulls away, looking equally as drowsy. “Mhmm,” he responds, taking Sand's chin in his hand. “We don’t have to label it. We can be… what’s that song by Sabrina Carpenter? Bed friends?”

“Bed Chem,” Sand corrects him automatically, then blushes scarlet at admitting to knowing Sabrina Carpenter. 

“Right. We have that.” Ray smiles. “Might as well take advantage of it.” He kisses Sand on his beauty mark and then taps the brown spot. “This is cute, by the way. Everything about you is fucking cute.”

Sand huffs. “You’re cute. I’m not. Don’t make me regret staying here.”

“Mn. Got you to admit it anyways.” Ray giggles. “And yes, you’re cute. I don’t make the rules.”

He curls up onto Sand’s chest, just as he’d done when he spent the night in the singer's dingy apartment. This time though, in his own bed, he’s a lot bolder, wiggling around to carve his space under Sand’s arm. 

“Are you okay? Is the AC cold enough?”

It’s not really, but Sand’s already fighting drowsiness. He could probably sleep in a cauldron of hot soup at this point. “Yeah. Fine.” 

“I don’t know if I’ll live up to your superhosting, but I can try,” Ray muses.

He pulls the string of the lamp and the room goes dark. No traffic, no animals, no rowdy student parties… just Ray and his smile that shines even in the dim light of the moon.

“Mn. No one can outdo me,” Sand replies, too tired for another sarcastic comment. It would just be insincere at this point anyways—tonight’s been fun, and he enjoyed himself. He needs to start taking things at face value. 

Starting with the benefits of hanging out with Ray.

“Remember what I said,” he murmurs, kissing the top of Ray’s head.

“What? ‘Fuck off’?” Ray chuckles. “I don’t think I’ll forget.”

Sand makes a sound. “Not that. I mean…” He taps Ray’s nose. “This is just sex to you, right?”

“Mm. Yeah.” 

“Good.”

There’s a pause, and Ray adds, “But I mean, you can come hang out whenever, if you just want to shoot the shit.”

“Ray…”

“I like talking to you,” Ray continues. He rubs Sand’s arm. “And you should bring your records. I saw them at your place, but I didn’t see a player.”

Sand sighs. It’s true (he can’t afford it), and he’s wanted to spin some of those platters for a while now, especially The Smiths. But it all sounds so… romantic. He can’t imagine listening to Morrissey’s mournful lyrics while trying to avoid Ray’s advances.

Or not avoid them. It still doesn’t fit.

“I don’t know.”

Ray is succumbing to his exhaustion as well. “Well, remember what I told you.” Sand cocks his head to the side. “You’ve got the green light. So think about it.” He stifles a yawn. “And think about what you want for breakfast too. The chef will make us whatever.”

“Spoiled little brat, hm?”

“You know it turns you on.”

Silence. Sand counts the breaths Ray takes, feels the electric buzz of his fingers on his bare skin. Hesitantly, he asks, “This isn’t some bait and switch thing, is it?”

“Hm?”

Sand chuckles. “I mean, you’re not going to suddenly start asking me on dates and shit, are you?”

“Full of yourself,” Ray replies, laughing too. “You’re the one who came over here to listen to one of the most popular records out there and tried to convince me you weren’t going to fuck me. So sue me for liking your company. I told you I’d end up on your lap.”

Sand has to give him that one. “Yeah, you did.”

“See? I’m not a liar.” Ray yawns again, more drawn out this time. His lashes flutter shut. “Anyways, goodnight Sand. Thanks for coming over.” 

Sand watches him burrow further into his underarm. “Goodnight.”

And you’re welcome.

He lies awake, unaccustomed to sleeping without some kind of chaotic background noise, even if it’s his neighbours across the hall who seem to livestream 24/7. Ray is heavy on him, nearly half his body lolled over Sand’s like a koala. He considers the events of the past few hours.

The thing is, he knows Ray isn’t a liar. He knew it from the first moment they met, when the rich boy had approached him unapologetically, using the traffic light night as an in. Everything that comes out of his mouth is the whole, honest truth; the story about his mum's death, his straightforward admission of wanting to sleep with Sand again. He wouldn’t expect anything less.

But Sand… Sand is a liar.

Not chronically, not pathologically. Not even habitually. He never lies to his mother, his friends, his bandmates, his professors, or the people he takes to bed.

But every sarcastic retort to a sincere word is a lie, when he wishes he could respond in kind. Every refusal of another night with someone who gave him a good time sidesteps the truth about how he really feels. And sometimes, the outright lies are directed to only one person: himself. Like tonight.

This is just sex to you, right?

(Like it is to me.)

(It is, to me.)

Isn’t it?