Chapter Text
;;-; ☾ 𓂃𓈒 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐞𝐰: 𝐑𝐚𝐲 𓂃𓈒☾
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ✦ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
❝ too loud to think, too soft to run ❞
⚠︎ shards of words, broken calm, fists & fire ⚠︎
The steel steps beneath my feet felt like they were hardening inside my heart too. With every step I climbed, it became clearer that the wall I had built—cold and silent—was the only thing I knew as a refuge. It wasn’t a home. It wasn’t an embrace. Just an empty space I had learned to inhabit as I grew up.
My life has always been a whirlwind of dark thoughts. Ever since my mother died, a victim of alcohol, I stopped trusting my own mind. Every memory, every idea that passed through my head felt like a ridiculous excuse to justify the pain. I stopped looking for answers and, instead, started filling the silence with noise: parties, hollow laughter, nights that ended in nothing.
My father…he always preferred work. To him, I was just a distant echo. A weight he didn’t know how to carry, a voice he didn’t want to hear. So I grew up looking for support wherever I could find it. I thought I found it in those party friends, in those blurry faces that only existed in loud laughter and even louder music, never present in the quiet of my suffering. Did it matter? Maybe not. In the end, people always said there were friends for everything. And maybe they were just made for that—for drinking, for getting lost with me in the night.
Only Mew, somewhere deep down, showed me a piece of something real. A human gesture. A sincere word. But even then, it was never enough to make me truly believe in anything… until you came along.
Kant.
Your name feels like a heartbeat in my memories.
You were always there. When I fell. When they pushed me. When I was punished for my mistakes. You were the only one who showed up. Not with sweet words or grand gestures, but with that steady gaze that held me even when you didn’t say a thing.
By your side, I came to know something like care. Like a home I never knew I needed.
And so, unconsciously, I drew up a plan. A stupid and painful one: every fight, every drunken mess...it all had a secret reason—just to see you appear. To see you worry about me. To see your eyes, even when tired or full of reproach, settle on me.
To keep getting into trouble, to keep hurting myself—just to see you run toward me again and again. It didn’t matter if it was a stupid fight over a slice of lime in a cocktail, or a damn toilet paper roll in a bar bathroom. Every bit of madness, every tantrum, was a silent scream: look at me, save me, stay.
I liked looking for you in the middle of the noise. Knowing that even if sometimes you frowned or pushed me away in annoyance, you were there. And even if your presence sometimes felt weighed down by exhaustion, even if I was that stone in your shoe that wouldn’t let you walk in peace—your care…your attention…made me feel something I had never felt before.
You made me feel loved.
Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was pathetic. But in the chaos that was my life, you were the only thing that seemed to matter. Even if it meant making you angry. Even if it meant being cared for like a problem you never asked for. I didn’t care. For me, it was enough that you looked at me.
Because sometimes, one second of your gaze was worth more than all the parties and hollow laughter in the world.
And so, in the middle of this little game tonight, I knew exactly what to do. I liked the way you looked at me—I loved feeling your eyes on me. But this time, something had changed. You weren’t just another spectator, Kant. You, with all your damn stubbornness, had decided to join in. You had crossed that invisible line we always kept between us, and now you were part of this dangerous game too.
Why now? Why tonight of all nights?
I had always liked feeling your rejection, because deep down, I knew it wasn’t real. Every time you pushed me away, you were actually getting closer—even if you refused to admit it. And there you were, once again. Always present. Always inevitable.
I went back to my seat with a satisfied smile, savoring the moment. The taste of your body still burned on my tongue—I could still feel the heat of your nipples in my mouth as I took another drink. I leaned back, enjoying every second like someone savoring a forbidden treat.
Then I saw Plug return to the stage, holding a glass that looked like it had water in it. His carefree smile caught me off guard.
“Well, well…” He announced to the crowd, full of excitement. “Looks like these boys want to play for real—and the night’s just getting started!”
Wasn’t he upset? Hadn’t he noticed everything that had just happened? Apparently not. Plug just kept hyping up the crowd, and this time he brought out a colorful spinning wheel, like the kind you see at carnival games. I laughed to myself at how ridiculous it looked, but we were all too caught up in the atmosphere to care.
“I’m going to spin this wheel,” Plug said into the mic. “When it stops, I’ll ask a question. First one to hit the bell gets a chance to answer. And remember—if you get it wrong, you drink!”
I glanced at Kant from the corner of my eye. He, as always, looked so serious you’d think his life depended on this. He buttoned up his shirt, covering what I had exposed just a few minutes earlier, and I couldn’t help but smirk when I saw, even for just a second, his nipples still visibly hard beneath the fabric. My little victory.
I turned my eyes back to the stage as the wheel spun round and round, the colors blending together until it finally stopped—on a soft pastel pink.
Plug read aloud:
“What is the chemical element with the symbol ‘Au’?”
My mind went blank. Damn it. I knew I’d heard that answer before, but I couldn’t remember it. I was never good at chemistry—why did I have to pay the price for my bad grades now?
I didn’t want Kant to answer. I didn’t want him to win again. But before I could even move, I heard the sound of the bell ringing through the air.
Only… it wasn’t Kant who rang it.
The wheel spun and landed on a soft pink shade, and all eyes in the room turned to Plug, who was ready to ask the next question. Before I could even process what was happening, I heard Boston—sitting right next to me—blurt out an answer without a second thought.
“Cobalt… Oops,” he said, laughing slightly as he looked at me with a gaze that felt far too challenging.
I stared at him for a few seconds, a knot beginning to form in my stomach. What the hell was he trying to pull now? His grin was mocking, like he thought he’d won something. Like he was in control. But then, just like that, his tone shifted.
“I think I got it wrong…” he said, eyes locked on mine, and that look—it was like he was waiting for me to react, like he wanted more than just to get the answer wrong.
He sighed, and before I could say anything, he added with an even more provocative tone,
“I think I should choose my own dare, don’t you think?”
He glanced around like he was the star of the show, like we were all there to watch whatever game he was playing.
The room was silent, everyone holding their breath, waiting to see what he’d do. And then, I heard her. Cheum’s voice cut through the tension.
“What are you doing, Boston? You’re ruining the moment.”
She was right. Every word out of his mouth only made my anger boil over more. But he just laughed—low and unbothered—like the whole thing was some kind of joke, like he was enjoying how pissed off I was. And then came the words—the one line I never wanted to hear.
“My dare is…to kiss Kant,” he said, eyes on Kant like he was some kind of prize he’d just claimed.
The fury hit me like a wildfire, consuming everything inside me. And yet, I was stuck in the chaos of my own mind. Watching Boston move toward Kant—that damn figure who wasn’t doing anything to stop it—it ate me alive. Every step Boston took, every inch closer he got to Kant, made it harder to breathe, like the air was getting heavier, like everything was about to crack.
What was he doing? Why wasn’t he pushing him away? Why was he letting him get so close? I couldn’t understand it.
My breath caught, my heart slammed against my chest so hard it scared me. The rage filled me, spreading like a dark shadow through every inch of my body. My hands, once still at my sides, were now shaking with fury, clenched into fists. My vision blurred, the world around me melting into nothing. All I could see were the two of them—Boston and Kant—separated by a distance that felt unbearable.
The floor creaked under Boston’s boots as he walked forward. Each step echoed in my skull like hammer strikes. But it wasn’t the sound that destroyed me—it was Kant’s expression. That calm, empty look on his face. That damn indifference that made me feel invisible. Didn’t you see, Kant? Didn’t you see what was happening? This guy was about to kiss you! And you… you were just standing there, like it didn’t matter. Is that what I was to you? Just some spectator in your life?
The thought tore through me—and I realized I couldn’t take it anymore.
Without thinking, I stood up so abruptly the chair nearly flew back. My muscles burned as I stormed toward Boston, no hesitation, no thoughts of consequences. The rage clouded everything, and before I knew it, I was on him—throwing myself at him with all the fury I’d kept buried. The punch echoed through the room like a gunshot. I saw his face twist in shock and pain.
But he didn’t react the way I expected. He didn’t back off. He didn’t scream or fight back. That bastard just stood there, still wearing that smug grin I hated so much. Like nothing could touch him.
What the hell is wrong with you?! Why are you still laughing?!
My thoughts tangled with every punch I landed. I didn’t care who was watching, if the room was full of people—I just wanted him to stop looking at me like that.
I wanted him gone.
I was blind with fury, striking again and again. Every blow was my answer to the question that burned inside me: Why? Why wasn’t Kant doing anything? Why was he letting this happen?
My breath was ragged, my fists numb, but I couldn’t stop. I kept hitting, driven by some animal instinct, some irrational need to claim what was mine—to scream at the world that I was here, that I wouldn’t be replaced, that I refused to be invisible. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would explode, but the rage kept me going.
Kant was still there, watching. Not moving. Not even trying to stop me.
And that hurt more than any punch I threw.
Did he not care about what I felt? What was this to him? Just another joke?
Finally, all I could hear was the ragged sound of my own breathing. My hands, now bloodied, started to tremble. The rage still burned, but the energy was gone, draining out of me until all that remained was exhaustion—raw and hollow.
In that instant, I felt it—several rough, clumsy hands gripped me urgently, pulling me back, separating me from Boston as if trying to tear me away from my own pain. The world around me dissolved into shapeless chaos, a dull roar filled my ears, drowning out every voice, every shred of reason. My mind was a crazed whirlwind, dragging me down into the depths of myself, where rage, humiliation, and hatred lived like old, gaping wounds. Everything was blurry, distorted by fury and tears that threatened to burst the dam. Each beat of my heart pounded violently inside my chest, trying to escape, trying to destroy me from within. I could barely breathe.
I could barely stand.
But in the middle of all that mess of shattered lights and cold sweat, my eyes never left Boston. His damn face, that mocking, victorious smile, that smug expression that seemed to bask in my downfall, was the only thing that existed for me in that moment. It was a dart straight to the wound, a brutal blow to a dignity already crumbling to pieces.
The fury struck me like lightning. There was no thought. No reflection. Only a blind, brutal hatred coursing through me from head to toe, demanding action, revenge, destruction. Without thinking, without caring about anything or anyone, I fought against the hands trying to hold me back.
I thrashed like a cornered animal, growling, screaming, letting every fiber of my being surrender to that violence pouring like lava through my veins. My screams—raw, broken—ripped through the air, rising from the darkest part of my soul. I don’t know if it was the savagery of my movements or the fear I glimpsed in their fleeting expressions, but I felt the exact moment those hands let me go, stepping back, terrified as if they’d touched something forbidden—as if, suddenly, they knew I was no longer someone who could be stopped with reason or pleading.
It was too late. Everything was too late.
My crazed gaze fell on the table beside me. It was loaded with glass cups, half-eaten plates, half-empty bottles. In a purely physical outburst of rage, I grabbed it with both hands and overturned it with such violence that everything—absolutely everything—exploded into deafening chaos. The sound of shattering glass was like a gunshot, dry and brutal, followed by a symphony of panicked screams, falling chairs, bodies scattering in all directions. Glasses, plates, sharp fragments flew like daggers across the room, catching the light for a second before crashing to the ground like deadly rain.
I couldn’t see anything anymore. Only the red of rage, only the black of contempt. I shoved aside anyone in my way with savage force, unable to stop the beast devouring me from within. Every shove, every step was a silent scream: I couldn’t stay. I shouldn’t stay. I didn’t want to witness my own humiliation any longer.
So I left. I crossed the threshold like a wounded ghost, like a flayed soul unable to contain its own pain. And then I heard it—Kant’s voice, broken, desperate, calling my name. Once, twice, three times. A fractured echo in the distance. A call that came too late, as always.
He didn’t run after me. He didn’t close the distance between us. He didn’t fight to reach me. He never did. He never chose me. The bitter certainty of his abandonment weighed on my shoulders like a slab crushing my chest. Every word he didn’t say, every gesture he didn’t make, every choice where I was left in the shadows—it all pierced me like invisible blades, opening old wounds that never fully healed.
I swallowed hard, struggling against the knot in my throat, against the burning tears threatening to spill. My hands trembled. My legs weakened. But I kept walking, pushed only by the weight of the rage and sorrow consuming me.
Every step was a titanic effort, every stride took me further away from that place, from those people, from that love that would never be mine. I walked under the city’s dim lights, feeling the cold sink into my bones, dragging with me the shattered pieces of something I once dreamed could have been different. The echo of his voice faded behind me, like destiny’s last cruel taunt.
And as I walked—alone, defeated, with my soul in ruins—one question burned, incandescent, like pure poison in my chest:
Why do you always choose others? Why was I never enough for you? What was it about me that wasn’t worth fighting for? How much more did I have to break for you to look at me the way I always looked at you?
I don’t know how I got there—but I sat slumped on the sidewalk, unable to move forward, my head down, my body trembling slightly from the cold. My tears, no longer bothering to hide, fell freely, sliding down my cheeks like raindrops foretelling a storm far more violent inside me.
The sudden sound of rain hitting the asphalt briefly pulled me out of my daze. I felt the water run down my face, as if trying to cleanse me, as if nature itself were attempting to comfort me with a human warmth that, somehow, still felt insufficient.
I was alone. Alone and broken in a world that seemed determined to remind me of it.
That’s when I saw him. A man approaching, his silhouette outlined against the glow of the streetlights. Without saying a word, he extended his umbrella over me, shielding me from the rain without asking for anything in return. Such a simple gesture—and yet so devastatingly kind—it made me look up slowly, as if I didn’t believe I deserved it.
Clumsily, I began to stand, not quite sure how to interpret this act of mercy. Was it compassion? Just simple kindness? I didn’t know.
“Thank you…” I muttered, my voice barely a whisper amid the downpour, accompanied by a faint, almost childlike smile.
But the stranger didn’t leave. On the contrary, he stepped closer, closing the distance between us.
“Why are you alone?” he asked, his voice a low, gentle murmur that ran down my spine.
I blinked several times, trying to focus, confused. In a brief moment of naïvety , I thought maybe the alcohol had left my system—but the sticky taste on my tongue, the trembling in my legs, and the haze in my eyes reminded me I was still intoxicated. Still completely vulnerable.
Instinctively, I reached out with a trembling hand and placed it on his chest, leaning in slightly, seeking some kind of anchor in the storm inside my head.
He stood firm—warm, solid—and for one heart-wrenching second, my broken thoughts betrayed me. Was it Kant? Was he the one who had come looking for me? Had he crossed the city to find me—lost, wrecked—on some random street?
My heart twisted painfully. I wanted to believe it. I desperately wanted to believe it.
But the closeness turned dangerous when I felt his hand slide down my waist with slow, deliberate pressure, pulling me tightly against him. His face, still blurry to me, leaned down toward my ear. His breath, warm against the cold rain, carried words that slithered across my skin like snakes.
“You shouldn’t be alone… someone should take care of you…”
I swallowed hard. My mind, foggy and aching with longing, still refused to see the truth.
It wasn’t Kant.
It wasn’t his voice.
It wasn’t his warmth.
Something inside me screamed—but before I could act, my stomach twisted violently. I vomited uncontrollably, collapsing forward. The man stepped back with a barely audible curse, disgusted.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, shaking even harder now. My legs were like jelly, my head spinning. The stranger returned, this time more aggressive. He grabbed my arms, forcing me to my feet. His face, though still blurry, was no longer kind. He wasn’t Kant.
He was a stranger. A threat.
“I’m…I’m waiting for someone,” I lied, desperately trying to shake him off.
“I don’t see anyone,” he replied with a crooked smile, pushing me hard against the nearest wall.
My back hit the wet concrete, and panic flooded my lungs. I struggled, hitting him with all the strength I had, enough to make him flinch—but his reaction was immediate. He raised a hand, ready to strike.
He never got the chance.
A firm hand stopped his in midair, gripping it with undeniable strength.
A voice—familiar like a happy memory—echoed in my ears.
"He said no."
My heart froze for a second. That voice… I knew it. It was Kant.
Before I could react, Kant pulled me away from the stranger, stepping between us like an impenetrable wall. My eyes, still blurry with tears, searched desperately for his face. The straight dark hair, the unmistakable tattoo on his arm… yes, it was him. It was really him.
But the rage and confusion collided inside me like a ticking bomb. I shoved him hard, nearly losing my balance.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I shouted, my voice torn apart by fear
and resentment.
"Ray, I couldn’t come earlier—I was working, fuck! Why did you leave like that?" Kant fired back, his voice full of anguish and frustration. He didn’t let me answer, stepping closer, like he was afraid I’d run again.
"The streets are dangerous at 3 a.m., how could you walk around alone like this?" His voice cracked for a second, but Kant didn’t get to finish his sentence—because without warning, I vomited again, collapsing to my knees on the soaked sidewalk.
Kant didn’t hesitate for even a second. He crouched beside me, his big warm hands stroking my back in gentle, almost desperate circles.
"Shh, Ray, it’s okay… I’m here, I’m sorry…" he whispered. His voice was like a balm.
He spoke to me like I was something fragile, something he was terrified of breaking even more.
"We need to go home, okay? Please?" Kant added, lowering his voice into a quiet, pleading pout. His lips formed that soft expression—so uniquely his—that it stabbed something inside my chest. How could he look so beautiful, so damn sexy, even in the middle of all this?
I didn’t think too much. My body, worn out and aching, reacted on instinct. I clung to him, resting my forehead against his chest. Kant smiled, almost relieved.
What was happening? Why was he doing this? Was I dreaming?
I didn’t get the chance to figure it out. My body—betrayed by exhaustion, alcohol, and emotional chaos—finally gave in. I fell asleep in his arms, letting him be the one to hold me, to protect me from everything I no longer had the strength to face.
🍑🍰 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝑷𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒘: 𝑲𝒂𝒏𝒕 ❀ 🍑🍰
︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶
✧₊ 🍑 Between peaches, stolen cakes, and the sweetness of a secret laugh, lips soak up the melody of an innocent moment. 🍰 ₊˚✧
︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶
The worry had accompanied me all night, like a shadow I couldn't shake off. I couldn't stop thinking about Ray, about what he had done, about what he was feeling. I wanted to be by his side, to make sure he was okay, that he wasn't alone. But obligations kept pulling me back, work kept calling, and even though my mind and heart only wanted to go after him, my body was forced to return to my routine. I tried to get everything done quickly, focusing on what I needed to finish.
As always, my friend was there to cover for me, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. I didn't want to get fired, or have my hours of absence become a problem. The unease in my chest kept building as I tried to concentrate, but thoughts of Ray kept flooding my mind without end.
As soon as I got the all clear I went searching for him. I took him home out of the rain . The first thing I did was give him a warm bath, just the way he liked it. I knew he needed it. Then I changed his clothes, tucked him in, and gently settled him in his room, as if he were the most fragile thing I owned.
Ray was so particular, with his rules about water, about everything. Cold water “damaged his skin,” hot water “burned him.” Only warm water was acceptable, and even though his attitude annoyed me a little, I knew that these small things were part of what made him, him. So, without complaining, I did it, changing the water, adjusting it, as if it were the most important thing in the world. With every action, with every bit of care, I felt something inside me relax, the weight of worry beginning to fade away.
I went back and forth, washing his clothes, cleaning, taking care of every little detail. The clock read 4 a.m., and after much effort, the washer was ready to do its job. I didn't sleep much, just a few hours, until the smell of food woke me up. The daylight was already filtering through the windows when I got up, the exhaustion of work still weighing on me, but a delicious scent made it all disappear.
I got up, curious, and went straight to the kitchen, where, to my surprise, I found Ray already awake, but with what seemed like a small culinary war in progress.
The table was full of scattered ingredients: strawberries, peaches, cake batter, colorful icing... and, of course, an organized mess that Ray had created. I let out a small sigh, I’m not sure whether of exasperation or amusement, and walked over, observing the chaos.
"What's going on here?" I asked, confusion clear in my voice, but a curious smile was starting to form on my lips.
Ray, with his adorable attitude, walked up to me, never letting his smile fade for a second. With his hands on my shoulders, he looked at me, his eyes sparkling with something between innocence and mischief.
"I wanted to thank you for yesterday." He said, with a sincerity that completely dumbfounded me. But it was when he smiled again, with a small pout forming on his face, that my resistance began to crumble.
"Are you talking about...?" I couldn't finish the question. That look of his, that expression that seemed so pure and full of tenderness, was my undoing. How could I resist a guy who knew how to melt my patience in just a few seconds?
"You're talking about me cooking everything, right?" I said, unable to stop smiling, but I decided it was time to take control. I straightened up, adopting a more serious posture, although my expression showed the opposite.
"The answer is no," I said, giving him a small tap on the forehead, not mean-spirited, just a reminder that not everything should come so easily for him.
Ray stepped back, his face full of discomfort, like a scolded puppy, his eyes huge and bright, almost apologizing for his little mischief.
"No, you never let me speak and assume the worst," He said with a playful tone, and my smile grew wider.
"It's so we can both cook," Ray continued, with a palpable joy in his voice. As if he were willing to share his "culinary curse" with me, as a way of compensating for everything I had done for him.
But, of course, I couldn't help but add, "What you mean is that I cook, but with you. That's not an apology or a thank you. You should cook for me." I stepped aside, took a spoon in my hand, and looked at it for a moment.
"Cook for me," I said whimsically, feeling a bit of fun taking over me.
Ray shook his head, but not seriously. In the blink of an eye, he grabbed my arm and led me toward the fruits, as if he had everything planned out. As if the kitchen were his little territory, and I, his accomplice in this madness he had created. But, in that moment, I felt something more. Maybe it was his energy, his contagious joy, or maybe the fact that in his presence everything seemed simpler, lighter.
But that relief lasted only an instant, because Ray, in an unexpected move, sat me on the table. My heart skipped a beat. What was he doing? Why was he acting like this? He moved even closer, so close that I could feel his breath, and my eyes instinctively drifted toward his lips, tempted to close that distance. However, Ray didn’t do anything. For a few seconds, we just stared at each other, caught in a heavy silence filled with something I couldn’t name. Until he suddenly pulled a slip of pink fabric from behind me.Without saying a word, Ray gently placed it over my eyes, covering them, as his mouth brushed my ear, so close that I shivered.
"You like to be tied up, don’t you?" He whispered, with a mischievous voice that sent chills down my spine. "But this time it won’t be like that."
Ray slowly stepped back, and although I smiled at the idea, that smile quickly faded, confused.
"What's all this about?" I asked, not hiding my curiosity.
Ray didn’t answer. He simply put a finger to my lips, a clear gesture that I should stay silent. A second later, his voice, playful and sweet, broke the brief silence:
"The game starts now. You’re going to be blindfolded while I give you instructions to make a cake... and some other desserts. You have to follow my orders, Kant."
I heard him move a little away, although I couldn’t see him. I wasn’t sure if he was looking at me at that moment, but instinctively, I bit my lower lip, a nervous gesture I couldn’t control, because his words, simple and playful, had stirred something in me that I had never
felt before.
"It says here that...to make cookies, we need 200 grams of butter...how much is 200 grams? I think..." He trailed off, with that insecurity of his that made me smile, though it also worried me a little.
I didn’t let him finish. I knew that if I let him keep improvising, we'd end up ruining everything, and I was too hungry to take that risk.
"We need a cup...let’s measure it in grams," I said, feeling around for something useful. With the blindfold over my eyes, I moved clumsily, bumping into things, and at one point, by sheer bad luck, I spilled some viscous liquid that felt unpleasantly greasy between my fingers. I grimaced. "This must look awful," I thought, but kept searching until I finally found what I hoped was a measuring cup
"Ohhh, you're so wise!" Ray exclaimed, suddenly hugging me from behind.
His embrace was warm and enthusiastic, and although I reflexively pulled away gently, I couldn’t help but smile. I turned a little, trying to hide it, because I didn’t want him to notice how much I liked his excitement.
"And difficult," he added, jokingly, "but well...it says here that we should add water to the cup. then, the flour."
I let out a sigh, amused and resigned at the same time. This was going to be a disaster... but for some reason, I was dying to be a part of it.
"Okay, just a second..." I murmured as I fumbled around, searching for the cup.My hand swept across the countertop without success, as if the object had vanished by magic. Something inside me told me it wasn’t a coincidence, that Ray had something to do with it.
I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him, his vibrant presence, the little spark of mischief that always accompanied his silences. Then, without thinking too much, I let out a soft, almost resigned, "Ray, stop.".
A soft, uncontrollable laugh escaped him, as if he'd just been caught in the middle of his mischief. I heard the faint clink of the cup being placed back in its spot, as if he’d suddenly decided to show mercy. But that wasn’t the only time. No, that was just the first sign that Ray was having one of his days, those days when his way of dealing with everything was to provoke little pranks, like someone who needed to laugh to keep from falling apart.
I carried on as best I could. I added the egg and vanilla to the bowl, whisking carefully, focusing on not making a mess...but of course, it was at that moment when, without really knowing how, a clumsy move tipped part of the mixture over.Splattering the table, the floor, and my shirt. I huffed in frustration, while beside me, I heard a soft, contained gasp—Ray struggling not to burst into laughter. And as if that wasn’t enough, his real attack began; hiding objects and food as if it were part of a twisted treasure hunt.
"Ray, where are the chocolate chips?" I asked, already suspicious.
He didn’t answer right away. I felt him move around me, his silent laughter vibrating in the air, until I heard a mock cough. Then, with a theatrically solemn tone, he proclaimed:
"If you want the chocolate chips, you'll have to kneel and kiss my hand."
His sweet words pulled me back to the moment:
"Then you won’t get the chocolate chips," he hummed, pretending to be sad, though his voice vibrated with a playful joy that almost, almost tricked me.
I sighed theatrically, pretending to be resigned, and clumsily knelt on the cold floor. I stretched my hands into the air, groping for his, hearing his muffled laughter with each movement. Finally, I found his hand—it was warm, slightly trembling from holding back his laughter. I leaned in... but instead of kissing it like a submissive gentleman, I playfully nipped at the back of it.
Ray’s laughter was immediate, an explosive burst that filled the kitchen with an almost tangible warmth. Before I could sit up, I felt something thick and cold fall on my head. The liquid slid sticky across my forehead, forcing me to touch it cautiously. I frowned. Flour? Water? A strange mixture specially prepared for this impromptu revenge?
"Ray!" I exclaimed, my voice full of false indignation that barely managed to hide the laughter starting to bubble up inside me.
I heard his footsteps retreating hurriedly, the sound of his slippers sliding on the floor, and his laughter—so alive, so pure—swept me away like a current. I stood up as best I could, still blindfolded, stumbling forward, chasing the sound of his fun.
It didn’t matter how sticky it was, or the mess around us; at that moment, all that existed was Ray’s laughter and that awkward joy he seemed to spill without measure. Each prank, each little joke, was like a spark igniting inside my chest, burning away any trace of annoyance, lighting everything up with a disordered, impulsive warmth... and so human that it hurt how real it was.
Maybe Ray was hiding his pain behind flour and absurd games, but even through his masks, that laughter felt real—a fragile, honest part of him. I knew he wasn’t joking, even if others believed it. His jokes, his exaggerated cheerfulness, were just another silent way of protecting himself. I’d seen it before—how he could shift from raw pain to laughter in a heartbeat.
I thought of that morning. The fight. The broken bottle. His father’s voice, sharp and cruel, demanding and belittling. And Ray, yelling back, furious and desperate, like he wanted to burn everything down.
Now he laughed, as if none of that had happened. As if the tears and screams hadn’t left a mark. But I could feel it—the weight he still carried. I didn’t believe he was lying to me. Not really. It was a hiding place. A fragile armor of jokes and clumsy touches to keep the world from seeing the wounds still bleeding beneath his skin.
And I... I couldn’t help but love him a little more for it.