Archive of Our Own

           Ray always knew that he would die like his mother someday. Everyone has always treated him like he’s just stupid and irresponsible – like he doesn’t see that his own drinking is a surefire path to self-destruction – but he’s always known better than all of them. He is the one who found her dead on the floor, bottle in hand. He sees. He’s seen.

           Despite this, he didn’t really expect it to be all that hard to quit. Ray is used to being able to do what he wants once he decides he wants to do it; he is rich, and very few people have ever cared enough to try and stop him. He expected the doctors at his fancy rehab clinic to be pleased that he was prepared to give up drinking, and he’s shocked when he does not receive the praise he’s been anticipating.

           “What do you mean I can’t just quit?” His therapist’s big turquoise couch is more comfortable than the straight-backed IKEA nonsense he’s stuck with in his doctor’s office, but the medical wing of the clinic is nice, too. The whole place is nice, and tasteful, and well-decorated, and serene. Ray still hates it, but at least he’s getting used to it. “Isn’t that the whole point of rehab?”

           His doctor has a forgettable face and the bedside manner of tofu – bland and agreeable no matter how far into the next dimension Ray rolls his eyes. “That’s the end goal, yes – but of course, we want you to do it safely. Your hepatic panel came back highly abnormal – significantly elevated GGC, mildly elevated bilirubin, an AST-to-ALT ratio I don’t often see in people your age – and your CBC results suggest potential early-stage macrocytosis. Based on this, I’d strongly suggest a medically supervised detoxification protocol. When do you graduate? Your team can work with you on a harm reduction plan until then.”

           Ray blinks as the barrage of medical terminology hits him like a strong gust of wind. “I have no idea what any of that means. But my classes end in May.”

           “It means you’re at a high risk for physical withdrawal if you quit cold turkey,” P’North explains. He is Ray’s case supervisor, but he’s surprisingly young and cool for someone with such a boring job, and he has enough fashion sense to make his dark teal uniform blazer look stylish instead of stuffy. “It means we’re going to work on drinking less for the rest of the semester, and then in March we’ll talk about whether or not to admit you for a full detox. It would be dangerous to try it by yourself.”

           “Wait.” It is only ten in the morning, and Ray came here today expecting a quick visit – lab results read, plan approved, permission given, praise received. Things have escalated far too quickly for his taste. “So why can’t I just do it now? This medical detox protocol thing, or whatever. How long does it take?”

           “On paper, about three days. In practice, you may not feel up to much for a few weeks – and you’ll need to be here everyday for the full outpatient program.” P’North explains while Dr Tofu prods at the screen of his tablet with a branded stylus. “Recovery often feels like a full-time job in and of itself. The team thinks it’s best if you finish out your degree first; you’ve only got about six weeks to go, and that will give us time to improve these lab results with some harm reduction tactics.”

           This all feels very dramatic to Ray, who wishes he could lean back farther in his stupid, straight-backed IKEA chair for a proper display of frustration. “Come on. I’m in two capstone classes, and one of them is just the hostel. I barely even have to be there.”

           P’North settles his elbows on his knees and looks Ray dead in the eye. “It’s not just about school, Ray. It’s about setting you up for the best chance of success. Even if you’d already graduated, I’d want to wait at least two weeks to admit you, and I’d be asking you to be here every day for accountability as you reduce your alcohol intake. You may feel like the average college binge drinker, but your panels say otherwise.”

           Ray stares right back at him. “Yeah, I caught that. Elevated ABCs, blah blah blah. If someone could explain what that all means in actual Thai, that would be great.”

           P’North does not blink. “It means you’re at a high risk for  cardiac problems, neurological complications, and all sorts of things we’re not dealing with in every twenty-two-year-old patient.”

           “‘Cardiac problems’ and ‘neurological complications’?” Ray feels like he is squaring up for a bar fight. “I thought you were gonna speak Thai now.”

           “Heart attacks,” P’North clarifies. “Strokes. Our biggest concern would be seizures. If you quit drinking today, no support, it’s likely you’d be in the hospital by tomorrow in the best-case scenario.”

           Ray hates these fucking chairs, and it takes all his self control not to get up and flip the one he’s sitting in. Instead he spins one of his rings around his finger, scowling down at his own hands. “Okay, great – so I’m fucked if I don’t quit drinking, but I’m also fucked if I do. This has been fun, guys. Can I go now?”

           Dr. Tofu looks like he wants to protest, but P’North nods. “Go smoke a cigarette. I’ll meet you in my office.”

           Ray smokes two cigarettes, one after the other, under the overhang in the north wing courtyard; the forecast only called for clouds today, but it’s raining steadily, and his usual bench is soaked. Traffic hisses by on the nearby street, hidden by a whitewashed privacy wall and a screen of tasteful foliage. Inside his head, it’s roughly the same – static white noise, and a numb detachment layered over the default vague anger that he feels pretty much always. It’s a similar effect as a few shots of whiskey straight to the head, which he finds ironic and a little bit amusing. He puts his final cigarette out in one of the tasteful ashtrays that populate the clinic campus – everyone in recovery seems to smoke – and makes his way back through the tinted glass doors, up some tinted glass stairs and along a tinted glass hallway to P’North’s office.

           “Okay, so what the hell was that all about?” he asks by way of a greeting. P’North has okay chairs in here – the same oversized grey armchairs as the meeting rooms – and Ray takes a seat in one of them without waiting to be invited. “If I’m a dead man walking, then what am I even doing here? There’s a really nice hospice center down the road, and I bet they at least have better furniture.”

           “You’re not a dead man walking.” P’North is unfazed by his abrupt arrival; he stops clicking on things with his mouse, and pushes his cool, square-framed reading glasses back on his head. “You’re actually a great candidate for full recovery – young, motivated, and affluent enough to access lifelong support.” He folds his hands. “You’ve also been drinking since you were in seventh grade. Your body hasn’t had a rest since puberty. The damage isn’t undoable, but it’s not negligible either.”

           “So I can’t just quit drinking.”

           “You can’t ‘just’ quit drinking, no. It would be dangerous at best, and life-threatening at worst – but that doesn’t mean you’re on death’s door. The whole team feels good about letting you finish your semester of college. If you were in immediate medical danger, we’d admit you inpatient today regardless.”

           Ray crossed his arms. “Okay, fine, so I’m only half a dead man walking. What’s all this harm reduction shit that I’m supposed to do in the meantime, then?”

           “You, me and and Miss Porjai are going to decide that together.” Miss Porjai is Ray’s therapist, an unremarkable woman in her late thirties who distinguished herself by remaining unflappable when Ray flung himself sobbing into her lap during their second meeting ever. He’s starting to like both her and P’North entirely against his own will. “Harm reduction looks different for everyone – but in your case, it will include a reduced alcohol intake.”

           Ray stares out the window; the rain is picking up instead of slowing down, even though it was supposed to stop before noon. “What the fuck,” he says, without much conviction. “I wish you guys had told me all this before I told my boyfriend that I was done drinking after this weekend. I even booked reservations for a fancy dinner Friday night. Last toasts and all that.”

           “We didn’t know,” P’North says simply. “We just got your lab results back last night. Miss Porjai and I stayed late to talk everything over with Dr. Vachirathanapong before your appointment. That’s why I offered to come with you this morning.”

           Ray turns away from the window and eyes him. “You’re not allowed to guilt trip clients,” he warns. “That’s got to be somewhere in your contract.”

           P’North cracks his signature half-smile. Ray can tell that beneath his professional demeanor lies a fellow smart ass, which as been a point in his favor since day one. “If I were guilt-tripping you, I’d tell you a sob story about our horrible delivery driver and the soggy noodles we ate over your case file. You want to talk about real professional dedication?”

           “Oh my god.” Ray rolls his eyes, but P’North can read him almost as well as Sand can. “Next time you three want to talk shit about me all night, just tell me and I’ll make you a reservation somewhere decent.”

           “Now that would be unprofessional. Working hard to set our clients up for success is just part of the job – but it’s a part we both like, and we’re happy to do it.” P’North flips his reading glasses down from his head, apparently for the express purpose of peering at Ray over the rims of them. “Your prognosis looks exceptionally good if we do this the right way.”

           Ray is ready to get off this rollercoaster, now; he feels dizzy in a way he doesn’t like, and his patience for new information is wearing thin. “Sure. Fine. Whatever. Just tell me what I have to do.”

           “You need to go to your next appointment with Miss Porjai and take this one step at a time.” P’North opens his laptop again and consults something on the screen. “She’s free today at eleven if you don’t want to wait until tomorrow. I’ll call her for you if you like.”

           Ray ignores the relief that floods in a warm rush through his gut and goes back to staring out the window at the sheets of rain now pelting down beyond it. “Yeah. I guess. Whatever.” The forecast for today could not have been more wrong, but he can’t change the weather. He will just have to go with the flow, and try not to drown in the process.

           Miss Porjai’s office is Ray’s favorite place on the clinic campus, and her big turquoise couch is starting to feel familiar, like his favorite seat at Yo’s. He likes being able to sit however he pleases. He likes the soft lighting in here, and the ever-rotating array of knick-knacks on her shelves. They have already changed in the short time Ray has been coming here.

           “You have a new turtle,” he points out. “The one with the hat.”

           Miss Porjai smiles her eternally serene smile. “My wife brought him home from Mexico. She made the sombrero herself.”

           “What’s your wife’s name?” Ray would rather talk about anything than himself right now.

           “Ploy. She’s an artist.”

           Ray imagines Ploy as another Miss Porjai, but dressed like Mew’s artsy mothers. “She’s good. I couldn’t make a hat like that.”

           “You could if you wanted to,” Miss Porjai offers. “You could learn how.”

           “Maybe.” Ray used to like to draw long ago, in what feels like another life now. He stares absently at the little turtle until Miss Porjai asks,

           “How did your meeting with Dr. Vachirathanapong go?”

           Ray shrugs. “You know how it went. P’North told me all about your dinner date last night. Sorry about the noodles.”

           Miss Porjai smiles. She has the kind of smile that makes Ray wish she were his aunt instead of his therapist. “You’re right. I know what you heard in the meeting. What I’d like to know is how you feel about it.”

           Therapy, Ray thinks, would be great if his therapist would just stop asking him how he feels about things. He shrugs again. “I don’t know. Pissed off. Kind of numb. I already told Sand I was quitting this weekend.” Miss Porjai has already been shoved off the deep end when it comes to Sand, and he’s the one subject Ray never minds talking about. “I don’t know what I’m going to tell him now.”

           “It sounds like you’re anxious about having that conversation. We can talk about that, if you like,” offers Miss Porjai. “Maybe it will help to think about what you want to say to him.”

           Ray snorts. “Either you’re really brave, or you managed to block what happened last time I pretended to talk to Sand in your office out of your memory.”

           Now it’s Miss Porjai’s turn to shrug. “I’m a therapist. Secret third thing. And you don’t have to role-play it out if you don’t want to; we could talk about why it feels like a hard conversation to have.”

           “Why would it be an easy one? I said I was going to quit drinking this weekend and now I’m not.” Ray suddenly wishes there was a window to stare out of in this office. “I can’t.”

           “Those are two very different things,” Miss Porjai points out. “That you’re not, and that you can’t.”

           “Yeah.” Ray doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to be here, or think about why he’s here. He wants Miss Porjai to tell him how her wife made the new turtle’s little sombrero. He wants to lie down on this couch and go to sleep, or go out and drink a fifth of good whiskey. He wants to turn back time and be twelve years old again, and put the last of his mother’s prized Suntory Yamazaki back on the shelf instead unopened. “I guess so.”

           “Does one of those things feel harder to tell Sand?” asks Miss Porjai, and things rise in Ray’s throat that he has to swallow back hard. He wishes that she would stop looking at him and write something on a notepad, but Miss Porjai doesn’t use a notepad in sessions. She listens with her whole self, and he loves that, and he hates that, and he has to say something.

           “Imagine telling the person you love most in the world – the person who argued your father out of shipping you off to some fancy clinic in Switzerland and found this place for you instead, the only person who’s ever been able to put up with your bullshit, the person you love more than anything – that you can’t keep your word and start getting healthy for him because you fucked it all up so badly already.” Ray stared hard at the little turtle in the sombrero instead of Miss Porjai. “Imagine telling Ploy that.”

           “That sounds like it would be a very hard and scary thing to do. Telling a loved one news that you’re struggling with yourself can be really difficult to navigate.” Miss Porjai leaves space for him to digest that before she adds, “I think it would help a lot to process what you’re feeling about it first.”

           “I don’t want to feel anything about it.” Ray is aware that this antithetical to the point of therapy, but at least it’s the truth. “I just want to do what I have to do, and change, and get better. I want to be the boyfriend he deserves. I really was going to stop this weekend. I made dinner reservations for us. I planned out a last toast.”

           “I can understand that. It sounds like you put a lot of time and effort into thinking your choice through. It also sounds like you were excited to show Sand how committed you are to healing.” When Ray only nods a little, Miss Porjai tilts her head and continues. “So would it be fair to say that you’re feeling disappointed by the news you got this morning?”

           Disappointment, Ray thinks, isn’t the problem here. He is used to being disappointed – in situations, in others, and mostly in himself. He is used to being frustrated, and he can’t even remember a time when he wasn’t at least a little bit angry. He is more than used to feeling lost and alone and hopeless, like there’s no point in even trying. Ray has always known that he would die like his mother someday.

           What he’s not used to is the feeling that crawled over his skin when P’North explained that he could die a different, faster way instead. The sensation seems to have pooled somewhere deep in his gut for now, hot-cold and vaguely nauseating and rising up into his throat a little whenever he thinks about it. Ray hasn’t felt real fear in a very long time – not since he picked up that long-finished bottle of Yamazaki – and he’s got no interest in starting again today.

           “Yeah,” he hears himself say. “Disappointed is one way to put it.”

           “What would be another way to put it?” Miss Porjai will wait all day for him to answer if she has to, but Ray doesn’t want to. He wants to leave. He wants a drink. He wants to—

           —Fuck that. Ray blinks back the burning sensation behind his eyes and sets his jaw hard. “I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the therapist.”

           Miss Porjai rises from her chair and retrieves a laminated sheet of paper from a small, tasteful filing cabinet in the corner. On it is a wheel full of words and colors, arranged in a beautiful rainbow gradient. “Sometimes when we’re feeling a lot of things at once, it can be hard to know where to start,” she says gently, and hands it to Ray. “This might help.”

           Ray stares down at the wheel, and a hundred ways to feel stare back at him. They are organized in concentric circles. The innermost ring holds the most familiar words; Love is a sunny yellow, Joy is a bright green, Surprise is a pale sky blue, Sadness is lavender. Anger is a bright and vivid pink. Fear, Ray discovers, is orange.

           Beyond it, the words fan out – a hundred words for a hundred emotions, or maybe more, each with their own unique hue of the core color. Disillusioned is a pale mint that reminds him of Sand’s bathroom. Regretful is a pretty shade of periwinkle. Frustrated is rose, Worried is coral, and Helpless is a sickly shade of peach. Each one feels like a slap in the face.

           To Ray’s credit, he does not fling the chart across the room. This is called impulse control, and he’s determined to prove that he has some. “I don’t even know what some of these mean,” he says instead. Its true, at least; Ray has no idea if he’s ever felt Zealous (spring green) or Enthralled (pale olive).

           “That’s all right.” Miss Porjai has settled back into her usual attentive posture in the chair across from him. “Just start with what you know.”

           What Ray knows is that he hates this stupid wheel. The sea of words in his lap feels deep enough to drown in, and all the lavender words make his throat feel tight, and the orange ones send that sick feeling in his stomach creeping back up his spine. Nevertheless, he takes a deep breath and starts with the most familiar words of all. “Angry. Exasperated. Frustrated. Agitated. All this pink stuff.”

           “Okay, good.” Miss Porjai appears to be genuinely pleased with him, and Ray hates how much he likes that. It’s annoying how much he wants this random auntie with a PhD in picking brains apart to like him. “That’s a good start. Can you tell me where you feel those things?”

           Ray blinks. “What do you mean, ‘where’?”

           Miss Porjai gestures to her physical form in general. “In your body. What does that anger feel like?”

           Like I want to fucking punch you for asking is what Ray wants to say, but he sets his jaw and takes another deep breath. At the very least, he wants her to see that he’s trying. He wants anyone but Sand – wants everyone, especially Sand – to see that he’s trying. “I don’t know. Hot? Like I want to break something? I don’t know how to answer this question.”

           “That’s okay. You’re doing great, Ray.” Only when Miss Porjai leans forward a bit to meet him does Ray realize that he’s recoiled against the back of the couch. Since he’s already here, he unzips his boots and toes them off, then pulls his knees up. Miss Porjai gives him a moment to settle before she continues. “It’s not an easy question. Feelings can be hard to identify, especially if we’ve been drinking for a long time. Remember that addiction is, at its core, an attempt to cope with things that feel overwhelming. It lets us numb some of the emotions that we don’t know how to handle. In recovery, when we start to feel them again, it can be difficult to identify what those emotions are and where they’re coming from. Exercises like this are designed to help you with that, and to give you some tools to work with. You don’t have to do it all at once. It’s good that you can identify that anger and frustration, and that you’re willing to think about how they feel.”

           Ray sets the chart down and wraps his arms around his knees, settling his chin atop them. He likes that she doesn’t mind that he’s sitting like this, or care if he rolls his eyes, or make him look at her when he’s speaking. “I don’t see what feelings have to do with anything right now. Reality is reality. If I can’t quit drinking right now, fine; I’ll do what I have to do and then quit when I graduate. Feeling worried or scared or any of that other shit isn’t going to get me anywhere.”

           “So fear and worry don’t feel productive to you, but anger does.” Miss Porjai is an excellent summarizer. “Why do you think that is?”

           “Because fear and worry and loneliness and all that shit were why I started drinking.” Ray listens to himself say it rather than choosing to. “How is going back there going to help me stop? At least when I get mad, I make choices. They may be bad choices sometimes, but it’s better than sitting on my ass and letting everyone else walk all over me with their bullshit.”

           “That makes sense.” It still surprises Ray how often she says this; he is not used to making sense to anyone, ever. “I can understand how you’d feel that way. It sounds like letting yourself experience fear and worry makes you feel stuck, while letting yourself experience anger sometimes gets you tangible results. Human beings tend to do what works for them. It makes sense that you looked at that chart and focused on the emotions that have gotten you results in the past.”

           Ray tilts his head and sets his feet back on the floor. What she’s saying makes sense to him. It also has the rare bonus feature of making him not feel stupid or wrong. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re really good at your job?”

           Miss Porjai smiles. “Unless I’m mistaken, I think you just did – and that’s really all that matters here. If you feel like you’re getting the tools you need to handle the challenges in front of you, then I’m doing my job right.” She pauses a beat, then asks, “Would you say this feels like a productive conversation?”

           “Yeah.” Ray doesn’t mind admitting it nearly as much as he would have minded when he came through the door. “I guess I never really thought about anger like that.” He’s never really thought about anger at all; it’s been with him all his life, in his throat and in his fists, and he’s used to it like he’s used to his own skin.

           Miss Porjai tilts her head to match the cant of Ray’s. “Do you feel angry right now?”

           It’s a good question, and the answer surprised Ray more than it seems to surprise Miss Porjai. “Not really? No more than usual, and not at you.” Not really at himself, either, which is new and refreshing. Ray draws his legs up campfire style on the sofa.

           Miss Porjai nods her chin at the chart lying beside him on the sofa. “What would you say you’re feeling about our conversation today?”

           Ray picks it up again. The stupid wheel still feels overwhelming, but less heavy in his hands. “I don’t know. Fine, I guess? Maybe satisfied?”

           “Why ‘satisfied’?”

           “Because you’re listening to me.” Ray thinks this should be obvious, but he humors her and points it out anyway. “You’re not just telling me what I can and can’t do, or what I should or shouldn’t feel.”

           “There is no ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t’ when it comes to how we feel – just different ways to handle each emotion when it comes up. If I’m hearing what you’re saying, you’re feeling satisfied because you feel heard right now. So anger can feel productive sometimes – but so can feeling calm and supported.” Miss Porjai sits back in her chair. “Reality is reality, but talking about how you feel can help you process those emotions in productive ways.”

           Ray thinks about getting up and leaving – about thanking this sweet, wonderful lady for her time, and escaping her before he gets attached to being spoken to like this. He thinks about driving to the airport and buying a first-class ticket to some nowhere place and opening a liquor store to support himself. He thinks about quitting anyway as one last, giant, poetically ironic middle finger to everyone who’s ever told him to just do it – to stop fucking around, to stop being a burden, to get his shit together before he dies like his mother – and dying by not drinking instead. He thinks about going home and starting a fight with his father, thinks about going to the bar and starting a fight with his friends, thinks about walking out of this tasteful, well-decorated, serene clinic and onto the baking hot sidewalk beyond the tinted glass doors and starting a fight with the first stranger he sees.

           Then he thinks about Sand. He’s back at his little apartment waiting, probably studying for his finals in the living room with a Queen record on in the background and a cup of shitty coffee at his elbow. They are supposed to meet there this afternoon, and when he asks how everything went Ray is supposed to be able to say that it went fine, that it’s okay, that everything is under control and Sand doesn’t have to worry. That he’ll have a sober boyfriend by next week, and they can start planning for Coachella this summer. For maybe the first time in Ray’s entire life, this isn’t all about him.

           He is surprised when Miss Porjai sets the box of tissues beside him on the couch; he’s been looking right at her, but he didn’t even notice her get up. It takes him another beat to realize why she’s done it. “Fuck,” Ray mutters softly, and takes one to dab at his eyes. “God fucking damnit. He deserves so much better than this.”

           “Better than what?” Miss Porjai doesn’t bother to ask who he’s talking about.

           “This.” Ray sniffs and blinks hard and gestures vaguely at himself. “All this shit I always do. All these fucking complications. He’s the best person I’ve ever met, and he’s stuck loving me of all people, and now he’s going to be worried and scared and all that shit, too. It’s not just me who’s going to suffer for my mistakes.” He looks Miss Porjai in the eye; if there’s help anywhere right now – in his clinic, in this city, on planet earth - she’s it. “I have to do this,” he explains. “I can’t just die like my mother anymore. I can’t just die, period – and apparently I will if I just quit drinking, and I didn’t know that, and I would have done it this weekend. I would have been at Sand’s house. That’s the thanks he would have gotten for loving me and trying to help me get sober – a corpse on his floor, just like how I found mom. He doesn’t deserve that.”

           “Nobody ‘deserves’ that, Ray. That’s a very traumatic experience, and I understand why you wouldn’t want someone you care deeply for to go through anything similar. It sounds like the news you got today was unexpected, and it changed your view of things a lot in a very short time.” Miss Porjai makes it sound so simple – not simplified, but distilled to the point where Ray can swallow it. He nods, jaw tight, and stares hard at the shelf of knick-knacks behind her.

           “I knew she was going to die before she knew it,” he explains to the turtle in the sombrero. “My mom, I mean. I could see the changes. I didn’t know what it all meant – I was a kid – but I watched it all happen little by little. First her rings didn’t fit, then her dresses. She lost her shit at first, and dad would get everything resized for her, and then she stopped caring. She stopped dressing up. She stopped doing her makeup. She stopped going out, and then she stopped coming down. She stopped getting dressed most days. We put new lighting in at some point – the whole house, top to bottom, no idea why – and that’s when I could tell how bad her skin had gotten. She barely let me anywhere near her by that point, but I still watched for signs that she was getting better like dad said. She wasn’t. I was a kid; I wasn’t stupid. I knew she wasn’t eating what the maids brought. Then she stopped telling me to get out, get away from her, and I thought maybe dad wasn’t lying after all – but that was just because she’d stopped caring who was there and who wasn’t. There was this sickly-sweet smell about her under the booze, almost like garlic. Put me off pizza until I was in high school. She was dead within a month. She was thirty-four years old.”

           “That sounds very difficult.” He doesn’t realize he’s been waiting for Miss Porjai to speak until she does it. Her voice is very soft, and he could swear that it sounds a little tight around the edges. Her empathy feels like permission; Ray swallows hard and continues talking to the turtle on the shelf.

           “Everyone’s been acting like I don’t see it – like I don’t know what I’m doing – but I do. I did. I’ve always known that if I drink like my mother did, then someday I die like my mother did. Cause and effect. I never thought I was immune; I just thought I’d know.” Ray holds out his hand to Miss Porjai like a new bride displaying a wedding band. “If my rings didn’t fit and my clothes still did, that’s how I’d know it was getting bad.” He gives one of them a spin with his thumb. “Stupid, right?”

           Miss Porjai folds her hands and leans forward, much in the same manner that P’Chai did in Dr. Vachirathanapong’s office. Ray wishes she would take his hand, but she is a professional through and through. Nevertheless, he’s aware in a very immediate way that she is also a human being, and that she’s trying her best for him right now. “Ray, can you do something for me?”

           Ray pulls his eyes away from his own hand and forces himself to look at her. “I’ll try.” He will. It’s all he can do, now.

           “Can you tell me more about the plans you had for this weekend?” She’s being very careful with him in a way he isn’t used to – like she’s handling an expensive vase rather than a ticking time bomb, something delicate and worth preserving. “You said you had dinner reservations, and you’d planned a last toast. What were you going to do after that?”

           Ray sniffs, and straightens up, and composes himself as best he can. “Go back to Sand’s apartment. That’s where I spend most nights. We were just going to stay in this weekend; the weather is supposed to be shit, so it seemed like a good time to do it. I figured I’d probably have a headache, and be moody, and not really want to deal with anyone for a few days. Sand was going to start teaching me to play guitar and make railway friend rice for me, and when the weather cleared on Monday, we were going to go to the beach.”

           “And you were going to tell your team here about these plans?”

           “Of course. That’s why I came here this morning.”

           “Okay.” Miss Porjai sounds pleased, though Ray can’t imagine why. “So let’s imagine for a minute that things had gone how you hoped, and your bloodwork had come back normal. Even if you were in perfect health, we would have explained to you that serious medical complications can sometimes happen regardless. We would have given you a list of symptoms to watch out for, and told you to get to a hospital right away if you experienced any of them.” She pauses a beat, and then asks, “Would you have taken our advice?”

           “I take all your advice, even when I hate it.” Ray folds his arms. “I could be stuck in fucking Switzerland by now. I could be in jail. You people speak Thai, at least, and you’re actually nice to me.” He tries to will his own mouth shut, and fails, and adds, “You’re the only ones besides Sand who actually believe I can do this.”

           “So what I’m hearing is that you wouldn’t just ignore the warning signs. You’d seek medical attention if you knew you were in danger, and you’d agree to be treated.” Miss Porjai tilts her head a little. “You wouldn’t just lie down on Sand’s floor and hope for the best. Do you see how your choices – including your choice to prepare to quit drinking by coming here – would make for a very different outcome than the one you expressed your fears about earlier?”

           Ray looks down, away from her and the little turtle in the little sombrero and the rings on his own fingers. He aims his eyes at an unremarkable patch of carpet. “So you’re saying I’m going to be okay…?” He hates hearing himself ask it, hates how young and weak and stupid and uncool and unsure and tired and scared he sounds, but there’s no use in pretending that he isn’t any of those things anymore.

           “I’m saying that you’re making all the right choices for a successful recovery.” Miss Porjai’s voice is steady and calm, and her certainty sounds genuine. “I don’t want to underplay the toll that ten years of drinking have taken on your body, but I do want to emphasize that the whole team believes you can detox safely and recover completely with the right support.” She dips her head just a bit, offering him the eye contact he’s avoiding without forcing the issue. “We’re here to help you stay safe, Ray. That means making the risks clear for you, but it also means finding ways to reduce them as much as we can. In your case, with a good plan and good communication, I think we can reduce them quite a lot in the next six weeks. Okay…?”

           And a month ago – maybe even this morning – Ray would have scoffed, and rolled his eyes, and insisted to both her and to himself that he doesn’t need any of this shit. Now he just nods a little and concentrates on fighting back the burn behind his eyes.

           “You can take a minute if you need one,” Miss Porjai tells him. “You can go have a cigarette if you want.”

           Ray doesn’t want another cigarette. He doesn’t want to go back out in the rain. For the first time ever, he doesn’t want to leave this clinic and never come back. Instead he tips his head back and blinks hard to clear his eyes and asks, “can I just lie down for a minute?”

           Miss Porjai sits back in her chair. “Of course. Do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

           What would make Ray feel comfortable is drinking three fingers of excellent whisky and curling up in Sand’s arms until his mother rises from the dead and decides she loves him after all, but he settles for curling up on the couch instead, pulling his knees up and propping a pillow against the armrest. “This is a pretty nice couch. Did you choose it yourself?”

           “The clinic chooses the décor,” Miss Porjai is as patient with this detour as she is with everything else. “Those of us with private session rooms can add personal affects within reason.”

           “Like the turtle.” Lying down has changed everything; Ray had no idea how tired he was until he did it, and now it feels like he may never get up.

           “Like the turtle,” Miss Porjai confirms. Her voice is always soft, but it has gotten softer.

           “What’s Miss Ploy like? Why did she go to Mexico?”

           “She’s an art historian,” Miss Porjai offers graciously. She doesn’t owe him this, Ray knows, but she doesn’t seem to mind his questions, seems to maybe even appreciates his interest. He is a job, to her – a spoiled rich boy client who she has to listen to – but she treats him like someone worth talking to all the same. “She was in Saltillo for two weeks, attending a conference on ceremonial dress and rural identity in Northern Mexico. I promise that the turtle’s sombrero is culturally accurate.”

           Ray gazes up at the little turtle with a new appreciation. “She sounds cool. Sand’s going to travel a lot, too. He’s going to be famous someday, and play shows all over the world. I want to go with him. Maybe we’ll go to Saltillo too, and I’ll send you and Miss Ploy postcard.”

           “I’d like that.” Miss Porjai sounds like she genuinely would.

           Then she is quiet, and Ray is quiet too, just breathing for the first time in what feels like the longest day ever. He feels like he’s entered the eye of the hurricane; on every side of him lies chaos and danger and the terrifying power of his own stupid choices, but here in this office all is quiet and still, and he is not alone.

           “Okay,” he agrees after a minute or an hour, to nothing and everything all at once. “So what now? What’s all this harm reduction stuff that P’North and Dr. Tofu were talking about, and how do I do it?”

           “In the harm reduction phase of recovery, we have two goals. One is to stabilize you medically, and the other is to prepare you mentally.” Miss Porjai would make a good teacher. Ray has never been a good student, but he thinks that he could be if he tried. He could learn how. “Dr. Vachirathanapong, P’North and I have outlined some steps we’d like you to take and schedules we’d like you to stick to, and I’d like to share them with you when you’re ready.”

           “Ready or not, here I come,” Ray says in English. He doesn’t speak much of it anymore, but he remembers a time when he could talk to his cousins from Seattle in it, remembers playing hide and seek with them in some lake house on a long-ago trip. He hasn’t seen them since he started drinking. For the first time, Ray wonders what else he hasn’t seen since then. He’s not ready, not really, but he has to be now. “Just tell me what I have to do.”

           Ray pulls into Sand’s parking lot an hour later with a headache, a small pharmacy in a white plastic bag, and a glossy teal folder full of instructions for staying alive. He has been prescribed Thiamine and Hydroxyzine and four other things he can’t pronounce. He has been given a glossary, a safety guide, and a logbook to fill out with every drink he takes. He has been scheduled for a six-week regiment of medical checks and dietician’s appointments and counseling sessions and therapy, all organized and printed out on a color-coded calendar for him. He has been told what he needs to do, and when, and why, and Miss Porjai has added her own handwritten summary to the pile of official paperwork.

           He cuts the engine but leaves the window cracked, and stares at it all on the seat beside him while he finishes his cigarette. He has smoked two on the way here; the rain has temporarily tapered off to a fine but steady drizzle, but traffic was still abysmal. Ray sat through the gridlock on the expressway in no real rush; the numb detachment of the clinic courtyard has descended over him again on the drive here, but he knows the fog of it will lift as soon as he goes inside. The morning will not stay contained inside a glossy teal folder and a cheap plastic bag – it will spill out, and Ray will spill over, and Sand will be caught in the splashback whether anyone likes it or not.

           Fuck it. He can’t sit here smoking in his car all day. He can’t restart the engine and keep driving until he hits the Laotian border and then vanish into the jungle beyond. He can’t lie to Sand, or keep this from him, or give up and die like his mother. Ray snubs out his Dunhill, gathers up everything, and marches inside before the nerve fails him.

           Sand’s apartment door is unlocked. He’s got The Beatles on, not Queen, and he is on the couch instead of at the table, poring over the Advanced Sound Design textbook propped open on his knees. Ray only has a single beat to absorb him – bare feet, tousled hair, long fingers skimming across the page – before Sand looks up, and he is noticed. “There you are,” he notes cheerfully as Ray toes off his boots. “I was going to text you when I finished this chapter and see if you were still stuck on the Si Rat. How’d your appointment go?”

           And Ray wants to tell him everything – wants to explain and apologize and promise and fix all of this before it falls apart under him – but a hundred words jam up in his throat at once, compacting into thick mud that he can neither spit out nor swallow. The bag and the folder in his hands feel like anchors, too heavy to carry any farther on his own. He wants nothing more than to drop them and go to Sand, fling himself into his arms and cry for all he’s worth and then sleep until tomorrow morning.

           He doesn’t have to do any of it. Sand knows him, and sees him, and knows what he sees now; he pushes the textbook off his lap, page unmarked, and in the next beat he’s on his feet and coming to him instead. “Ray…? What’s wrong?”

           Ray swallows hard around the lump in his throat, and a few words jar loose from it. “A lot,” he chokes out. “There’s a lot of things wrong with me, and I didn’t know…” He looks up at Sand as the tears spill over.

           “Hey. Shh. Come here.” Sand is already gathering him up before he begins to crumble in earnest, pulling Ray into the safety of his arms before he has to ask and holding him together. “Whatever it is, I’m right here, okay? I’ll help you. Just tell me what’s going on.”

           I don’t want to tell you, Ray wants to tell him. I want you to fix all this first, and put me back together. Instead he takes a deep breath and lets himself lean against Sand’s chest. His heartbeat is steady and calm, just like the rest of him, and he’s rubbing Ray’s back in a soothing rhythm that feels more like instinct than choice. Ray can't leave him to manage this on his own. He can’t just spin out the way he did with his car and expect Sand to save him again and again; he has to meet him halfway here, and be the boyfriend he deserves. Ray shuts his eyes.

           “I can’t quit drinking this weekend,” he tells Sand in a voice that he wishes wasn’t his. “It’s not safe. Everyone was right, and I was wrong, and it’s worse than I thought, and I’m so sorry…”

           “Okay…it’s okay…” Sand’s voice is low and steady, the parachute Ray needs to slow him down before he free-falls face first into the raw truth of the day. “So your lab results weren’t good, is what I’m hearing…?”

           Ray shakes his head against Sand’s shoulder, wiping tears away in the process. “They’re not. They suck, and if I quit drinking cold turkey I’m basically fucked – but I’m not giving up, Sand. I promise. My whole team thinks I can do it, and I’m going to try.”

           “I think you can do it, too.” Sand doesn’t sound surprised by any of this. He doesn’t sound shaken or flustered or scared, and his heartbeat is as steady as ever under Ray’s ear. “Especially if you follow their advice. That’s a good clinic, Ray. I researched the hell out of that place. I went there myself, and I met some of the people you’re working with. I knew you’d like them if you just gave them a chance.” He kisses the crown of Ray’s head. “So how long do they want you to wait?”

           “Six weeks.” Sand’s tee shirt is going to be drenched, but the tears are as steady as his heart, not the sobbing flood Ray expected. “I’m supposed to track everything. Drink on a schedule, then start cutting back slowly. Take a million things to help stabilize a million things. The whole plan is in the folder. They say I’ll be okay if I follow it.”

           “Then we’ll follow it.” Sand kisses his hair again. “We’ll go through everything together and make sure we know exactly what we have to do.” The calm reassurance in his voice softens into gentle empathy. “Just breathe deep, baby. I know you didn’t see this coming.”

           “You saw it coming.” Ray presses in, and Sand does what he wants, pulling him in tighter against his chest. “You tried to warn me.”

           “And you listened,” Sand says simply. “You didn’t want to believe me, but you listened anyway.” He leans his cheek against Ray’s hair. “I wondered if they’d let you quit cold turkey, or if they’d want you to taper down first. Do they want to admit you when you detox?”

           “They said we’d wait and see.” Ray sniffs hard and shuts his eyes again. “If I stick with the plan, maybe I can still try it at home. It all depends on the medical checks.”

           Sand is still rubbing his back in that slow, easy rhythm that seems to be steadying both of them. “Okay. Then we stick with the plan. I’ll help. I’m right here with you.”

           “You shouldn’t have to be.” Ray grits his teeth; he wants to hit something, wants to fight someone, but this is the last person in the world who he’s willing to hurt right now. He grips onto Sand’s tee shirt instead, white knuckled, balling some of it up in the fist holding the bag. “It’s so fucking unfair to you that you have to be. I’ve put you through so much bullshit already – and this is going to be a lot more bullshit, Sand. There’s an encyclopedia of shit in this folder, and a pharmacy of shit in this bag, and even if I do everything right and don’t die just trying to get sober I’m going to be such a pain in your ass until—”

           “—Woah. Hey. Take a deep breath and come up here for a second, okay?” Sand steadies him by one shoulder and coaxes Ray up from his chest to meet his eyes. The are still and calm, the true eye of the storm. “You being sick is not, and never will be, a ‘pain in my ass’, Ray. You stealing the blankets at night is a pain in my ass. You being too stubborn to consider that you were sick was a pain in my ass. You trying your best – at this, at anything – is exactly the opposite. You have no idea how proud of you I am, and nothing in the world could convince me to be anywhere but right here beside you for this.”

           Ray stares up at him, face pressed into his hand. He wonders if there is a word on Miss Porjai’s stupid wheel for this. He wonders if there is a word in any language for everything he’s never had, all at once, so fast and real and absolute that his first instinct is to run from it. He has starved for this kind of love all his life, snatched crumbs of understanding off of any plate he can reach, but nothing he’s ever experienced has prepared him for the full flavor of it. He still doesn’t know what to do in the face of it, doesn’t know what he can do now to be worthy of it, doesn’t know—

           —Sand leans in and kisses him, so softly that it is barely a kiss at all. There is no lust in it. There is no demand, no contract. He has watched it all play out behind Ray’s eyes, and he meets it all as Sand meets everything – head on, with a gentleness that remains unyielding in the face of everything Ray has thrown at him. It is the quietest kiss he has ever known, and it stills things in him that have been moving all day, grinding against each other like tectonic plates and popping loose pockets of old pain. He goes quiet with it, and some part of him collapses like dominoes while another part of him rebuilds itself in real time. He breathes, and Sand breathes with him, closes on the kiss and draws back just enough to look at him. “Come on. Come sit with me. You need to put all these things down and rest.”

           Ray nods. He is ready to rest. He is ready to collapse on the couch, but Sand collects him up and brings him into the bedroom instead. All the curtains are drawn, and it is nearly dark in here, something he’s been craving all day without realizing it until this moment. Sand sits him down on the edge of the bed, takes the folder and the bag from him and sets them aside who-cares-where for now, and when Ray reaches for him, he’s right there to gather him back up again.

           “There we go,” he says softly, as though Ray has somehow done something right, as though he has made any choices at all since Sand kissed him. “What we both need right now is for you to relax, okay? We’re going to take this one step at a time, and I’m going to be with you the whole way, but nothing that lasts was ever built in a day.”

           “Okay.” It is all he can say. Ray feels as though he will desolidify any second in Sand’s arms, melt into the shape of him and be held together rather than falling apart and scattering into the wind. He tries to accelerate the process with a deep breath, and Sand does his part by stroking his hair.

           “This really scared the shit out of you.” It is simply a statement, an observation that Sand does them both the favor of making aloud. Had Dr. Tofu made it, Ray would have scoffed. Had P’North made it, he would have deflected. Had Miss Porjai said it directly, he would have broken down like a lost kid in the mall. He hasn’t even been able to say it himself, and he doesn’t know how Sand knew to say it for him, but the relief of hearing it aloud is palpable. Ray nods in confirmation against Sand’s shoulder, staring idly at the edge of the desk.

           “I didn’t see that coming, either,” he explains. “I’ve never been scared of dying before.”

           “I know.” Sand does.

           “Did I ever tell you that I’ve tried to kill myself?” Ray’s own voice sounds foreign, as though he’s listening to a recording of himself.

           “No.” Sand’s voice is soft and steady, but there is a profound empathy in that single word. “You never told me that.”

           “I’m so bad at it that it’s almost funny. I’ve managed to fuck it up a different way every time. Last time was a couple years back, and that’s how I ended up thinking I was in love with Mew – I called him, and he saved me, and my fucked-up, starving brain decided that he was the only person who was ever going to love me even a little bit, so I locked in like a shark on him and wouldn’t let it go, and it was all so stupid that I almost couldn’t see you…”

           He trails off, uncertain, and Sand kisses his hair. “I’m right here,” he assures Ray. “I’m listening. There’s nothing off limits here, baby.”

           It’s the breath of wind in his sails that he needs to continue. Ray isn’t sure how to do this, how to put the pieces together for Sand in a way that makes sense. He’s never had anyone to talk to like this before, or space made for him to do it. Miss Porjai’s couch is a good start, but the safest place he’s ever known is right here in Sand’s arms. If Ray is going to get this out anywhere, ever, it’s here and now. It has to be. There’s no other path that’s fair to Sand anymore.

           “I’m not even sure if I’ve ever really wanted to die.” It sounds as absurd out loud as he thought it would. “That’s the stupidest part. Sometimes – a lot of the time – it just seemed like the best option I had. But it’s never scared me.” Ray shuts his eyes for the extra bit of dark and quiet it affords him. “And now there’s you.

           “There is,” Sand confirms.

           “You changed things. You changed me. You showed up and saw right through my shit and called me out and loved me anyway, and I still don’t know why you do – but you do, and you’re here, and now everything is different.” Ray opens his eyes again; everything is blurry, and it’s only once he blinks the tears free that he realizes why. He lets them go, feeling very much like a sponge that is nearly wrung dry and ready to refill with fresh air. “For the first time ever, I’ve got something to lose.”

           “Me too.” Sand says softly. “It’s different for me, but also the same. I’ve always lived for myself. That’s how my mom raised me. That’s what I’ve always known – and now there’s you, and I can’t imagine life without you. Part of me still can’t believe that you’re doing this, because part of me still can’t believe that I’d be enough to make anyone want to change. We’re both in new territory here, Ray.”

           “You’re enough.” It’s the first thing Ray has been sure of all day, and the first time he hasn’t hated the sound of his own voice in hours, and saying it solidifies something inside his chest.

           “I’m faking it.” It is Sand’s trademark honesty, stripped of all defenses and wrapped instead in the love he no longer hesitates to share with Ray. “I’ve been faking it my whole life – but if I’m enough for you, then that’s enough for me right now.”

           Ray nuzzles in and kisses his collarbone, the easiest part of Sand to reach right now. “I’m going to do this,” he promises both of them. “I’m not going to die like my mother. I changed my mind. You changed my mind.”

           “Then I’m going to do this with you.” Sand ducks in and kisses his forehead, which is quickly becoming one of the gestures that Ray loves most in this world. “Let’s fake it ‘till we make it, baby. Coachella can wait until next year.”

           “Next year,” Ray agrees. He lifts his chin for a kiss and gets one, warm and steady. He can feel it steady Sand, too, settle him into the pillows and against the headboard. He presses in for more, opens to it, asks Sand to steer and gets the reward of callused fingers feather-light against his face, guiding him up and into it.

           “Can we…?” He asks on a breath as the kiss breaks. “Please…?”

           Sand’s answer is to kiss him again, gather him up and ease him over and settle Ray gently beneath him on the bed without ever letting go of him. Slim and light as he is, the weight of him is an anchor, the pressure Ray needs on all the old wounds that have been torn open today. He sinks into the sheets as the rain picks up again, spattering in light gusts against the window above the bed. The Beatles have gone silent in the living room, and it is the only sound now save a soft whine of want that Ray cannot help.

           “Easy,” Sand soothes between kisses. “It’s all right.”

           And maybe it is all right. Maybe it will be. For the first time all day, Ray can believe it. He tips his head back as Sand kisses his way under his jaw, mouths the pulse just under the point of it. He has fought his way through nearly everything in life, but maybe now is the time to give up, give in, give himself over to the reality that tore his worldview open today the way he gives himself over to Sand in these moments. Maybe it’s all right to want Miss Porjai to like him, to trust her and P’North and Dr. Tofu in earnest. Sand is the one who found them for him, after all. These are the people he’s chosen to save Ray’s life. Maybe he really is safe in their care.

           Sand’s hands are warm and eager on him, deftly working their way into his clothes. Their urgency is a surefire tell that he needs this every bit as much as Ray does right now. It still feels like a fever dream that he is the one to draw this out of Sand, that he has been given access to everything behind his smooth social walls and cool exterior, that all the care and compassion and bravery and gentleness and fire and softness and love that they guard is for him, now. God knows he hasn’t done enough to earn it yet, but he’s far too selfish to give it up now. The only thing he can do is try, and keep trying, until someday he is worthy of this patient, perfect creature who chooses each day to put up with his shit.

           Ray arches up, opens up, melts into the mattress and urges him on. He does not have to ask Sand outright to take over, take this body that has been declared sick and unsafe and already starting to falter and wring something good out of it today; he can say it without words, and be understood more clearly than he ever dreamed he’d be. He can lift his shoulders up, then his hips, yield and flow and help peel away fabric until he’s got the skin-on-skin contact he’s been craving.

           “Please…” Ray isn’t even sure what he’s begging for, or why, but Sand seems to know well enough for both of them. It felt, that first night, as though he already had every inch of Ray’s body mapped out. Now Ray knows that that was just the beginning; Sand has learned volumes since then, tuned into things in him that no lover has ever cared about before and nurtured them in ways he never imagined.

           “I’ve got you,” Sand promises, breath hot against his sternum. He will take his time with this unless Ray pushes, plan out a weaving trail of kisses down his body that hits all the right spots with foresight and care. His fingers ease over Ray’s sides, slotting between his ribs when he stretches as though they were made to fit there. His mouth is patient, seeking out sensitive spots in the wake of his hands, easing down to the soft plane of his stomach.

           Ray shuts his eyes, bites down on his lip. He wants more, faster – but he always wants more, faster, and he also never wants this to stop. He loved this when Sand did it the first night, spread him out like melted butter on his own couch and devoured him whole. It was the thirst of a beautiful stranger, then. Now it is worship, a well-practiced ritual, and he loves it a thousand times more. He is still a meal to be devoured – but Sand knows his way around this kitchen now, and takes his time laying out the spread with care. He takes his time in kissing all the spots he knows Ray likes best, and never has to be told twice where to go easy. In this, if in nothing else, Ray has learned to be patient.

           Sand presses a kiss to one hipbone, then the other, then nuzzles against Ray’s abdomen, hand sliding gently around the base of his cock. “You want me to finish you, or fuck you?” he asks before he even begins.

           “Fuck me,” Ray breathes. “Turn me the fuck inside out.” He wants to be opened up and rearranged and put back together right this time. He wants Sand to take him apart and reassemble him into someone who is whole, with something to give the world other than a headache. He wants to burn up in the heat of this and rise like a phoenix from the ashes of his old life.

           Just for now, right now, it feels like he can. He knots his fingers up in two handfuls of crow-black hair as Sand licks at him, tastes him, then swallows him whole. Ray digs a heel into the mattress and locks up as the heat of his mouth drags slowly back up the length of him, tongue massaging the underside of his cock. He doesn’t care about science, doesn’t care about endorphins or dopamine or chemical reactions; what Sand does to him is magic, plain and simple.

           Sand, for his part, is in his element. This isn’t just for Ray’s benefit; Sand gives head the way he plays guitar, with talent and style and the confident enthusiasm of a true rockstar taking the spotlight for their solo. One hand molds to Ray’s hipbone, steadying him against the mattress, while the other augments the magic his mouth is doing. He gets lost in this just as easily as Ray does, and many a night this detour has led them so far off course that they never make it to their intended destination.

           “Careful…” Ray wants to look, wants to watch this, picks up his head a bit and finds warm brown eyes staring up his body back at him. “You’re so good at this, and I want to come with you…”

           Sand pulls off him with a hot, wet pop, and kisses the head of his cock. “Don’t worry. I know when to stop. You’re getting turned the fuck inside out, just like you asked.”

           ”Good. I need this. I hate every fucking thing that’s happened today except for this.”

           “Shhh.” Sand presses a kiss to the tender joint of Ray’s hip. “Everything else that happened today is already over. I’m just getting started here.”

           Then his hand picks up where his mouth left off, and Ray drops back against the mattress with a groan as a heavy gust of rain batters the window above them. The storm is back in earnest, but it cannot touch him here in Sand’s bed. There is shelter here, and safety, and when he reaches out Sand comes to him, sliding adroitly back up his body.

           “I’m here.” He presses a gentle kiss to the corner of Ray’s mouth that is entirely at odds with the heated urgency of the work his hand is doing. “I’ve got you, baby.”

           Ray turns his head and seals the kiss in earnest “Make me feel it.” He isn’t sure himself if it’s a demand or a plea; it sounds like both.

           Sand kisses him again, and his hand slides lower, deeper between his legs. “Lube,” he demands. “You can reach, and I’m busy.”

           “Got it,” Ray gasps. He shifts beneath Sand, hitching his knees up and stretching for the bedside drawer. Before Sand sex was always a competition, a chance to prove himself to lovers by besting everyone who came before him and earning the affection he craves. Being wanted, he thought, was the best he could hope for.

           Being loved, he now knows, is different. Sex with Sand is not performative, or a test he has to pass for the chance at being chosen. He does not have to prove his worth; Sand loves him for what little he has, and he is dead-set on growing his own value. Ray is used to being able to do what he wants once he decides he wants to do it, and some part of himself that he cannot even name has decided to change – for better, forever, and without reservation. He can be as scared as he wants, or any other thing on that stupid wheel. He’s still going to get sober. He’s still going to try.

           His trembling fingers search the cluttered little bedside drawer until they close on the item that feels right. Ray shoves it at Sand without looking at it, kissing along his jugular as he does so. “Here. Make sure this isn’t sunscreen or something.”

           “Not sunscreen,” Sand confirms from somewhere above him. He is starting to sound as choked up and blown out as Ray does. “Fuck it,” he mutters, fumbling with the bottle until Ray helps him. Nothing about this will be neat or pretty, but nothing about today has been. “I’m gonna have to wash the sheets anyway.”

           “Show me how.” Ray gets ahold of Sand’s lower lip with his teeth and worries it gently, the prelude to another deep kiss. “Teach me to do laundry. Teach me to do everything. I’m ready to learn.”

           “Later,” Sand promises. “Stay with me right now.” His hand is back, in a place that sends shivers through Ray head to toe, fingers teasing gently for permission to slip inside him. “Tell me when you’re ready, baby.”

           “Ready.” Ray feels like he was born ready for this, and he breathes the word without hesitation.

           Sand is careful with him nevertheless, so gentle that Ray almost wants to cry. He is used to people wanting to fuck him, to hard and needy hands, to a rushed desperation that he always took as a compliment. Sand touches him like he can feel everything that Ray is feeling, works him open one slender finger at a time instead of pushing ahead for his own pleasure. Ray still isn’t used to being handled with this sort of care, but he knows for sure that he never wants to go back. He would give up every luxury he’s ever known for this. He relaxes for Sand, breathing deep.

           “Very good.” Ray’s cock jumps at the words; he thrives on praise, and Sand knows it. “How’s that feel?”

           “Perfect.” Ray is not exaggerating. He hangs on to Sand, nuzzling against his jaw. “You could get me off with one finger if you tried.”

           “How about two?” Sand purrs the suggestion into the shell of his ear.

           Ray angles his hips in invitation. “Mmm hmm.” There is no reason to rush this slow, sweet warmup, but he already wants the pressure of it, wants Sand to find that spot and—

           —He does, and Ray chokes on a breath with a full-body shudder of pleasure, and Sand breathes the ghost of a small, satisfied chuckle. “Right there?”

           Ray whimpers his assent, grasping at the sheets for purchase and balling them up in his fist. No other lover has ever made him feel like this. No other lover has ever really had the chance; he has always been a little too bossy, a little too demanding, a little too intent on proving his worth and getting his way to abandon himself to the process. Sand has had him squirming like a worm on a hook since day one; he honed right in on this loose thread in Ray, and has been unraveling him with a guitarist’s skill and dexterity ever since. It has gone from a necessary prelude to sex to something he craves for the sake of itself.

           Sand grounds him through it with a series of slow, deep kisses. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay? Don’t fade out on me completely until I’ve got my cock in you.” He scissors his fingers a little, testing carefully, and Ray lets himself be molded by the motion.

           “All good,” he manages to gasp out, nails digging hard into Sand’s shoulder. “Love you.”

           “I love you too.” The way that Sand says it makes it sound like an easy thing to do, when Ray knows that it is anything but.

           “Again.” He grinds down on Sand’s fingers, asking for more. “Say it again.”

           Sand crooks his fingers and catches him in an open kiss. “I love you,” he murmurs into it. “I’d stop the world for you.” He is resettling himself over Ray, rubbing against him. “Are you ready?”

           “Ready...” Ray tosses his head with a whine as Sand’s fingers withdraw, spreads out and settles beneath him like liquid. “Go deep. Make sure I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

           Sand is reaching for the lube again, preparing himself in earnest even as he kisses his way along Ray’s jaw and up to his temple. “Anything you want, baby. Deep breath out.”

           And Ray breathes, and Sand pushes, and it’s too much and not enough and everything he’s wanted all day, all his life, ever since the beginning of time. It feels like they are made to fit together like this on every level, from the anatomical to the spiritual. He relaxes into the wave of pleasure, lets himself be filled to the hilt and sighs when Sand’s hips settle against his.

           “Look at me.” Ray follows the gentle command and blinks his eyes open to find Sand gazing down at him. Every bit of shadow the dim, stormy afternoon has afforded them has gathered under the sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw. His eyes are made of midnight, alive with a bright sheen of want and love. He stokes Ray’s hair covetously, molds his hand to his cheek and lifts his jaw a little for a simple, gentle kiss. “I love you. I don’t care how hard this gets; I’m with you. Okay?”

           “Okay…” Ray feels dizzy, lighter than air, rooted in his body only by the pressure of Sand above and inside him. All the spare light the stormy afternoon has afforded them has gathered in the nightscape of his eyes, and they shine down on Ray like stars. He swallows hard, lips swollen, body still. “I believe you.”

           Sand leans in and kisses him, sugar sweet, and his hips roll back like a tide. The friction is impeccable; Ray moans into the kiss, following the motion. “Good,” Sand murmurs on the tail end of it. “You have no idea how good you are, Ray…”

           And Ray knows he isn’t good, not really, but something about the way Sand says it makes him feel like he can be. “I’m trying…” The tail end of the word trails away on a whine as Sand rocks forward again, and the heat of him pries things loose in Ray that he doesn’t want to tighten again. “I wanna be good for you…”

           “You are,” Sand insists. His voice is falling apart at the seams too, all ragged edges. He kisses his way up and under Ray’s chin, pausing deep within him and waiting for his body to relax in earnest before he draws back again. Ray is getting what he wants already; it is slow, and sweet, but the power of every stroke fills him to the brim. His own cock jerks hard with every thrust, caught in the friction of their bodies. This isn’t just sex – this is a detox of another kind, a visceral reset of all the crossed wires and blown fuses in him.

           Outside the wind and rain are picking up again; the forecast has officially been steamrolled into oblivion by this unexpected storm, but why should the weather be predictable on a day when nothing else has been, or maybe ever will be again? A sheet of rain douses the window above the bed in a strong gust, and somewhere in the apartment lights flicker like lightening through the clouded windows that top the walls in Sand’s room. Ray’s mansion on the high ground never loses power, but this district is old and low and prone to flooding, and everyone is used to outages here.

           Ray doesn’t care if the whole city goes dark today. He doesn’t care if Bangkok collapses around them and aliens take over the planet. He doesn’t care if Sand snaps his spine or dislocates his hips or puts him in a coma doing this; he wants everything he can get out of these precious minutes when nothing else matters, and the world around them seems to synch to the rhythm they’ve set. Maybe the heat of this will finally fry all the stupid impulses and bad decisions out of his head forever, burn off all the stubbornness in him and leave him pliant and calm and ready for what’s coming. Maybe Sand can actually fuck some sense into him. It’s worth a try at least.

           “Harder.” Ray nips at Sand’s earlobe, trying not to bite too hard. “I won’t break. Fuck me through this mattress.”

           Sand obliges him, doubling down and picking up the pace, breath hot against his throat. “Fuck, Ray…” He loves it when this happens; Sand is almost never at a loss for words, save for when Ray is blowing his mind like this. He leans in even more, folding Ray like origami beneath him and shifting his angle just a little.

           Ray sees stars. The minute adjustment puts the perfect pressure on that sweet spot inside of him with every thrust and drag. The sharp shocks of pleasure come hard and fast, and each one wrenches a keening breath out of him.

           Sand shifts a little more, onto one elbow, and wedges a hand between them. Long, skilled fingers wrap around Ray’s cock.

           “Hold on,” he warns.

           Ray heeds it, locking his heels behind Sand’s back and wrapping an arm around his neck and muffling an animal noise into his shoulder. The sensation runs unbroken from the root of pleasure inside of him to the sensitive head of his cock, which Sand is paying special attention to with his thumb. He will not last long like this, and Sand knows it, but the stimulation is unrelenting.

           “Come on, baby,” he urges, kissing Ray’s hair. “I’m right here with you.”

           “I’m coming…” Ray pulls his face out of the crook of Sand’s neck and arches back, tightens up, pulls Sand down tight with his heels. “I—fuck—ohgodSand—” The words lose their shape, trail away into incoherent noises that Ray can’t even hear; he’s too lost to this, and the rising wave is so much, too much, and all he wants is to drown in it—

           Orgasm hits like a meteor, burning hot, with enough power to shake the earth beneath them with its impact. Ray can feel Sand in his bones, in every nerve, feel the moment when the wave hits him too and sucks them both under like a riptide – and then they are molten, fused, and it’s impossible to tell whose heartbeat is whose. The bed shakes – or maybe it’s just Ray – and the world darkens and fades until all his senses are awash in a sea of pleasure.

           Time stills. The sea calms. Ray floats just beneath the surface of it, and little aftershocks wash over him, lapping at fired-up nerves. Sand is nothing but liquid warmth – above him, inside him, all around him – and there is no clear boundary where one of them ends and the other begins. Somewhere there is a bed, an apartment, a glossy teal folder full of instructions for something, but all these things feel far away, inconsequential to the moment. He drifts, free of it all, content to float away on the tide.

           A gentle kiss from Sand drops the anchor, and Ray coalesces just enough to return it. There is a swell of white noise – the rain, he realizes, battering steadily against the window. The apartment is still standing around them. Time restarts itself lazily, like it has nowhere to be.

           “Welcome back.” Sand’s voice is soft and hoarse, barely louder than the rain.

           Ray opens his eyes. “Hmm?

           Sand is almost too close up to see, peering down at him with a blissful half-smile and looking every bit the angel that he is. He pushes Ray’s hair back from his forehead, unglues sweaty strands of it from his temple. “You faded out on me for minute there.”

           “Hmm.” Ray wraps his arms tighter around Sand’s shoulders, pulls him back down and nuzzles in to kiss his cheek. Most of him is still offline, and he isn’t interested in rebooting any unnecessary systems just yet.

           Sand chuckles softly, and his fingers card through Ray’s hair, cradling him in close. “That inside-out enough for you?”

           “Mmm hmm.” Ray will be shocked if walking is a smooth affair tomorrow. He’s not even sure he has bones anymore to attempt it, and has no idea why he’d want to anyway. There’s nowhere in the world he wants to be save for here in this bed, basking in the afterglow. “Love you.” It feels important to add, the only two words worth putting together.

           “Love you too.” Sand shifts a bit, sliding an arm beneath him. “Think you could sleep for a while?”

           “Mmm hmm.” It is not even a question. Ray could drift off in minutes just as he is. He wouldn’t mind staying like this forever, and can’t help a little whimper as Sand pulls out of him; his body is still desperately sensitive, and his soul isn’t ready for complete separation just yet.

           Sand understands, and keeps him close, shifting them both until Ray is resettled in his favorite comfortable sprawl across him. There is no real chill in the air, but they both have some cooling down to do, and he is grateful when Sand flips a light sheet over both of them. Callused fingers run up and down his back beneath it, shoulder to hip, with warm, deep pressure.

           “Just rest, baby.” Sand presses a kiss into his hair. “You’ve had a long day.”

           Ray has. He has no idea what time it is now, or how long he’s been drifting in the ether, and it would take more energy than he has left to care. He settles his ear over Sand’s heart, and counts the beats of it instead of sheep.

           He is asleep before he reaches sixty.

           Three hours, two paracetamol and one very thorough shower later, Ray stands in the doorway of the balcony and smokes a cigarette. Dusk is approaching, and the rain is still falling. Beyond the balcony, the neighborhood is unusually quiet, and even the high rise offices in the distance have gone dark.

           “Nobody else has power either,” he tells Sand over his shoulder. “It looks like more than one district is out.”

           “I’m not surprised.” Sand’s voice comes from the kitchen, where he’s digging more candles out of a drawer. The living room is already lit with a soft glow, but it won’t be enough to read by. “Hundred baht says it won’t be back on until sometime tomorrow. If one breaker goes out uptown, we’re on the back burner.”

           Ray takes a deep drag and leans against the doorframe, listening to traffic hiss by in the street below. “Is it weird that I’d still rather be here than back at my house tonight?”

           “You mean is it weird that my rich diamond mogul of a boyfriend is starting to like my shitty apartment?” Sand emerges from the kitchen with half a dozen taper candles and two glasses of his homemade plum wine. “I don’t know. You tell me.” He comes up behind Ray and kisses his shoulder, then hands him one of the glasses. “Here you go, baby. Hundred and fifty milliliters on the dot.”

           Ray takes the glass, takes a sip, and leans back against Sand. “I could buy this place and put in a generator. It wouldn’t cost that much.”

           “Or you could drink your wine and enjoy the romantic candlelight,” Sand suggests, winding an arm around his waist. He’s still holding the unlit candles, and he pokes Ray gently in the ribs with them. “Maybe help your poor, destitute charity case of a boyfriend light these so we can see what we’re doing. That’s even cheaper.”

           “You are most definitely not the charity case here,” Ray assures him. “I may be rich, but apparently I need an instruction manual just to stay alive.”

           “That’s why we’re a perfect match.” Sand cranes his neck over Ray’s shoulder in a familiar request, and Ray obliges him, holding up the cigarette so he can take a drag. “I may be poor, but I’m great with instruction manuals. It’s in the genes. Wait till you see.”

           Ray turns into him and steals a quick, smokey kiss. “Why wait? Let’s do this.”

           Dinner is already set out and waiting – leftover fried rice, fished out of the fridge and served cold in the bag, and two ham sandwiches Sand threw together with the help of Ray’s cellphone flashlight. They are at the larger table that serves as Sand’s bar tonight; there’s more space here, and it will be easier if they can sit side by side. Together they light the pillar candles, adding them to the array of half-burned votives and citronella tea lights already collected and burning there. The glossy teal folder sits centered in the light.

           “Let’s see Mezzaluna compete with this,” Sand teases, pulling out a worn vintage barstool for him.

           Ray takes a seat. It is, by far, the least comfortable chair he has been offered all day, but it is the best seat in the house tonight, and maybe the world. “I didn’t just pick it for the Michelin stars, you know. The food there really is good. I’ll take you in six weeks when we’ve got something to celebrate.”

           “Speak for yourself. I’ve already got something to celebrate.” Sand takes his own seat, settling in shoulder to shoulder beside him. “Today was a big milestone for my boyfriend, you know.”

           Ray raises an eyebrow with a little snort of laughter. “Oh yeah? How many days sober is he?”

           “Zero.” Sand pushes a strand of Ray’s hair back. “But he’s trying. He went to rehab this morning determined to get sober, and came home determined to recover.”

           Ray leans into the touch. “Your boyfriend can’t see the difference.”

           “That’s okay.” The way that Sand says, Ray can believe that it is. “I can, and he will too.” He raises his glass of plum wine. “For now he’ll just have to trust me that it deserves a toast.”

           That much, he can do. Ray will have to learn to trust a lot of people whether he likes it or not now, but trusting Sand already feels like the most natural thing in the world. It’s gotten him here. Who knows how much farther it can get him?

           “To zero days sober, then.” He touches the rim of his glass to Sand’s, and savors a full but measured sip before he gestures to the folder in the center of the table. “Now help me find that log thingamajig in all this shit. How many milliliters is this glass again?”

           “One-fifty.” Sand reaches for the folder with one hand and a slice of his sandwich with the other. “Don’t worry; I’ll remember for now. Let’s just start from the top here.”

           And it could be worse, Ray thinks, as he reaches across the folder for a spoonful of cold rice and Sand reads over Miss Porjai’s summary. He’s not drinking alone in a mansion tonight, or picking a fight in some dive bar. He has a team behind him, and a boyfriend who loves him, and a future that he wants to see. If nothing else, he’s not going to die like his mother someday.

           Together they eat, and sort, and move forward, and Ray never even notices when the rain finally stops.