Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The shirt is the problem.

Or maybe it’s the pants.
Or maybe it’s Ray in general, Ray with his mouth already glossed from lip balm, hair loose and curling at the ends like he’s stepped out of a magazine shoot.

Sand is leaning against the doorframe of their bedroom, arms folded, pretending not to stare as Ray finishes buttoning his black silk shirt, the deep V of it threatening to slip even lower if he moves too much. The fabric clings to his chest in that way silk always does, making it obvious how lean and sharp his body is. And the pants, slim, tailored, hugging in ways that should be illegal.

“You’re gonna cause me problems tonight,” Sand says finally.

Ray catches his eyes in the mirror and smirks, the kind of smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Why? You think I look bad?”

Sand snorts. “Bad isn’t the word.”
He pushes off the doorframe, walking up behind him, his palms settling briefly on Ray’s hips before sliding forward, thumbs pressing into the sharp lines of bone just above the waistband. “I think you look… too good. Too good for me to behave.”

Ray laughs, brushing him off lightly. “Relax. We’re just going out with friends.”

“Yeah,” Sand says, though his voice is lower, edged. “And I know how people look at you when you walk into a bar like that. They don’t care that you’re with me.”

Ray meets his gaze in the mirror, eyes soft but challenging. “So? Let them look. I’m not going anywhere.”

Sand holds that stare for a beat too long, torn between pride that Ray is his and the sharp stab of knowing that wanting to show him off also means other people will try their luck.

The bar is already half full when they arrive, warm light, low music, the familiar haze of chatter and clinking glasses. Their friends are scattered at a corner table: Mew with Top, Boston perched on the edge of his seat like he owns the place, Cheum and April laughing over something on a phone screen.

Ray slides into the seat next to April, Sand opposite him, eyes automatically scanning the room. He tells himself it’s just habit ,  the musician in him reading the crowd but it’s not. It’s the subtle edge of territorial instinct that flares every time Ray leans forward and his shirt opens a little more.

Half an hour in, Sand notices him.
Tall, lean, unfamiliar. Hanging near the bar, a glass in hand, eyes fixed on Ray like he’s deciding how to unwrap a present.

Sand keeps his expression neutral, sipping his drink, watching.

It doesn’t take long. The guy drifts over under the pretense of passing by, and then he’s leaning down toward Ray, saying something too close to his ear. Ray smiles politely, but tight and shakes his head.

“Got a boyfriend,” Sand hears him say, light but clear.

The guy doesn’t move away. Instead, he laughs low, eyes dragging down Ray’s chest before flicking up again. He says something else, too quiet for Sand to catch, and Ray’s smile falters just slightly.

That’s enough.

Sand pushes his chair back, standing up, but before he can move closer, the guy finally retreats, muttering something under his breath as he disappears into the crowd. Ray exhales, shoulders relaxing, and Sand sits back down without saying a word. He doesn’t want to make a scene here.

The tension rides home with them. The cab is quiet except for the occasional hiss of tires on wet streets. Ray scrolls through his phone, deliberately casual, while Sand stares out the window, jaw tight.

They stumble into the apartment. Ray tosses his keys on the counter with a short, distracted laugh that does nothing to break the tension. He kicks off his shoes. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong, or are we doing the silent treatment all night?”

Sand slams the door with more force than he means to. The sound echoes down the hall. “You really didn’t notice that guy wouldn’t back off?”

Ray looks up, slow, brow lifting. “Of course I noticed. I told him I have a boyfriend. What else do you want me to do?” His voice is flat; there’s a calm in it that reads like exhaustion.

“You could’ve stopped smiling at him like you didn’t mind.” Sand says it like a verdict.

Ray blinks, disbelief turning into something darker. “That wasn’t smiling, Sand. That was me trying not to turn it into a scene.”

Sand laughs, a short, humorless sound. “A scene? You’re always performing, Ray. You walk into a place and you light it up, and then you smile like it’s all nothing. Like it doesn’t mean anything to you when men leer and follow.” He takes a step closer, voice lowering until each word is a deliberate cut. “Sometimes I think you like it. That you like being looked at. Maybe you like being wanted more than you want me.”

For a beat Ray just stares, and then the color drains from his face. “Is that how you see me? As some pretty thing that needs everyone’s approval?”

Sand doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets worse. “Yes. You’re beautiful, and you know it. You wear it like armor. You let them undress you with their eyes and then come home like nothing happened. Do you ever think about what that does to me, what it lets them think they can do?” His voice goes colder. “Sometimes I wonder if you’d pick him over me if he had enough money, or a better apartment, or a job that made you famous. Maybe you’d walk.”

Ray’s face folds in a way Sand has never seen like someone’s pressed on a bruise. For a second there’s only the hum of the fridge. Then Ray snaps, sharper than Sand expected. “Don’t you dare say that.”

Sand steps forward until they’re close enough that Ray can smell the alcohol on him. “Why not? Isn’t that the truth? You like being wanted. I’m not blind.”

Ray stares at him as if struck. “Is that how you see me? Like I’m… begging for attention?” His voice wavers, raw at the edges.

Sand voice flat and cruel. “Maybe I know you better than you know yourself. Maybe I know you like to be looked at, like you need that proof.”

Ray’s laugh is a sound like glass. “You want to know what I need?” he spits. “I need not to breathe around you like I’m a thing that can be claimed and put back on a shelf. I need you to stop making me smaller so you feel safe. I need you to trust me. Is that so hard for you?”

Sand’s eyes go narrow. “Trust? You expect me to trust you while you flirt with every corner of the room and then come home like nothing happened? You think trust is unilateral?”

The apartment contracts around them. Ray’s throat moves; he’s trying to hold something in that keeps building, a pressure that turns into sound. “You know what this is?” he shouts, louder than he’s ever raised his voice. “This is control. This is you trying to prove you own me. You don’t get to dictate who I am because you’re scared. You’re not some guardian...you’re...” He breaks off, the word a raw thing. For a flash he looks furious, then exhausted. “You’re being a coward.”

Sand flinches like he’s struck. For a moment the cold satisfaction drains from his face and something harsher;shame, maybe, flickers. He swallows and the next thing out of his mouth is quieter, but it still cuts. “You always make it about you. You always have an excuse.”

Ray’s lips part, but nothing comes out at first. His chest rises too fast, eyes wide and wet. “You think I’d leave you? You think I’m that shallow?” His voice cracks, trembling now. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to fight every day not to believe I’m worthless, and then hear this from you?”

Sand’s face collapses into something ugly and small. For a second he looks like someone who’s been living on a lie and finally sniffed the truth. He spits, “Sometimes I think you’d choose how you look over what we have.”

“That’s not fair!” Ray roars, sudden and sharp, and the sound bounces off the walls. “You don’t get to hurt me like that! don’t you dare!”

He stalks toward the bathroom, shoulders shaking, and slams the door so hard the frame shudders. The sound ricochets through the apartment like a gunshot. Silence follows, but it isn’t peaceful, it’s jagged, full of shards.

Sand stands frozen, the echo of his own words still vibrating in his chest. He’d wanted proof, a confession, anything that tethered Ray to him in ways he could hold. But what he’d wrung out instead was something sour, something cruel. He can feel the bruise he’s left not on Ray’s skin, but deeper, where no apology could reach. For the first time tonight, fear coils in his gut.

From behind the locked bathroom door comes the sound of Ray breaking. At first it’s sobs raw, jagged, shaking through him until the sound warps into something worse. A frantic, uneven gasping. The panicked scrape of someone’s breath refusing to come right.

The shower crashes against tile, but it can’t muffle Ray’s voice when it fractures through the sobs. “D-don’t...” The words are torn, high, like they cost everything to say. “Don’t touch me. Don’t...don’t...”

Sand’s chest seizes. He slams his palm against the wood. “Ray! Baby, it’s me. It’s just me!” His voice cracks, the end breaking apart into something pleading.

Inside, Ray is unraveling. “Why do you s-see me like this?” The words stutter between ragged sobs, each syllable splintering. “I’m so tired… so tired of proving myself to you. I can’t—” His breathing jerks into shallow, rapid gulps. “I c-can’t breathe.”

Sand pounds the door harder, panic tearing through his veins. “Open up! Please, Ray! please just let me in. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it.” His forehead slams against the frame as his fists beat helplessly at the lock. “Don’t shut me out like this. Don’t! don’t hurt yourself because of me.”

But Ray doesn’t answer. His voice has dissolved into broken cries, messy and raw, tangled with gasps that don’t quite fill his lungs. “Please… stop… please!”

Sand drags both hands through his hair, pacing the hallway in two frantic steps before slamming back against the door. His voice is wrecked now, tears burning behind his eyes. “Ray, I swear to god, I love you. I don’t care who looked at you, I don’t care! fuck, I don’t care about anything but you. Please, baby, let me in. Don’t do this alone.”

The only reply is the sound of the shower and Ray’s sobs dissolving into sharp, uneven gasps.

Sand slides down to his knees against the door, one fist still pressed to the wood as if he can anchor them both through it. He’s crying now too, broken and begging. “Don’t leave me out here. Don’t leave me.”

Chapter Text

The lock clicks like a pistol shot.

When Ray cracks the door open, he doesn’t look like the person who walked out to the cab an hour before. He staggers into the hallway as if he can’t hold himself up; his shirt is plastered to him with steam, but the wetness is from everything else, tears and the salt of him finally giving out. His face is stripped raw: eyes puffy and rimmed red, mascara streaks like black rivers, hair clinging damp to his forehead. His breath is a jagged, animal thing; he’s not sobbing so much as tearing, sound ripping out of a place that’s been trying to be brave for too long.

Sand reaches for him before he can shut the door again, hands frantic and clumsy. Ray jerks as if burned, but then collapses anyway, tumbling into Sand’s arms like gravity finally won. He makes a sound that is half howl, half plea, and everything Sand’s ever wanted, confessions and need and ownership is drowned in it.

“I can’t,” Ray keens into Sand’s shirt, voice a broken wire. “I can’t... you don’t see me. You don’t.” A sob breaks him like a struck bell. He clamps his hands over his mouth as if he can hold the sound in, but it only makes it worse. His shoulders heave so hard the air comes in staccato bursts, small gulps of life. Sand’s knees give. He folds with him to the cool tile, forcing Ray to the floor because he can’t stand to have him anywhere else. 

“I c-can’t” Ray repeats and repeats, his voice breaking apart in Sand’s arms. “I c-can’t do this if you keep seeing me like that. I’m not...” He chokes on another sob, his whole frame shaking. “I’m not what you think I am.”

The sentence lands like a physical strike. It slices the air between them, leaves Sand breathless. For one dizzy second Sand doesn’t know which part of him is breaking, the part that wanted proof, or the part that now realizes how terribly he administered it. Ray’s words echo: I’m not what you think I am. They reverberate off the steamy walls and lodge in Sand’s throat.

Ray’s nails dig into Sand’s arms until the skin blanches, then trembles. “Don’t touch me!” he squeals through tears, the words exploding out between gasps, “don’t, don’t!” then as if the panic chews through the command it turns into, “Please don’t...don’t make me like this..please...”

Ray’s breath goes thin and rapid; his ribs flutter under Sand’s hands. His hands clutch at the shirt around Sand’s neck, fingers clawing as if to anchor himself, then reptilian panic takes over and he hitches back, pressing his palms to Sand’s chest as if the world is a weight and he’s being crushed. His eyes roll wide, glossy with fear, and he repeats, over and over, words that sound like mantra and like terror both: “I can’t.I can’t. I can’t.” His voice fragments into choking noises.

Sand holds him tighter, tears spilling hot down his own face. He cradles the back of Ray’s head, rocking them both in the steam-filled air. “No, baby, no. You’re everything. I was wrong, I was cruel- fuck, I was so cruel. I didn’t mean it.” His voice cracks, raw and frantic. “You’re mine, and I don’t need you to prove a damn thing to me. Not ever.”

Ray hiccups, a wet, hollow sound. He presses his face into Sand’s shoulder as if trying to hide there, to fold into the only space that feels safe. His fingers clutch Sand’s shirt until it creases white from pressure. The panic doesn’t disappear like a switch, it eases in ragged breaths and stuttered guidance. Sand becomes methodical: exaggerated inhales and slow exhales, counting breaths out loud until Ray can follow the rhythm. “In with me. Out with me. Again. In, out, in, out.”

The repetition coats them both with a thin varnish of normalcy. Ray’s body trembles less violently. The heaving sobs become hiccups. He opens his eyes, wet and furious and small, and looks at Sand like someone who has just seen a loved one wield a weapon without intending to. “Why would you say I’d leave?” he whispers, voice raw. “Why would you make me prove myself like I’m… disposable?”

Sand swallows until he tastes metal. He cups Ray’s face with shaking hands, wipes salt with thumbs he doesn’t trust, and whispers confessions that have the weight of a vow. “Because I’m scared. Because I’m stupid. Because I tried to claim you instead of trusting you and I said the worst thing I could think of. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much it makes me clumsy and cruel sometimes. Please believe me.”

Ray’s laugh is a brittle thing. “Belief doesn’t come out of nowhere,” he says, breath hitching. “You don’t get to write it and expect it to be true.” He presses his forehead to Sand’s, eyes raw and searching. “Don’t say that again. Don’t ever tell me you think I’d leave.”

“I won’t,” Sand promises, and he means it with every splinter of himself. He folds himself around Ray like armor that is finally sincere, hands steadying where they had been accusatory. “I won’t. I swear I won’t.”

They stay kneeling on the tile for a long time, wrapped in each other and in a silence that is not empty but full of new, cautious things: apologies, grief, fear, and a trembling determination to do better. Ray breathes with Sand’s chest against his back, the panic receding to a dull, residual ache. The wound is there, raw and recent; the bandage is Sand’s humility and the slow, patient work he will have to do to heal it.

Sand gathers Ray into his arms like he’s made of glass, terrified of breaking him further. The damp fabric of his shirt sticks cold to Ray’s face, but Ray doesn’t move, doesn’t complain, doesn’t even try to shift away. He just clings, shaking, each sob a jagged tear through the silence.

Sand rocks them gently on the bathroom floor, back pressed against the cabinet, knees pulled up awkwardly to cradle Ray’s curled body. The steam from the shower has cooled, leaving the air heavy and damp, like grief that has seeped into every corner of the room.

“I’m sorry,” Sand whispers again, lips pressed into Ray’s hairline. He keeps saying it because it’s all he has. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I don’t think those things, not really. I was angry, I was ugly, I was, fuck, I was cruel.” His throat works, words breaking apart on a sob. “And you didn’t deserve a single bit of it.”

Ray’s breath hitches against his chest, the kind of sharp intake that sounds more like pain than oxygen. His voice comes out ragged, almost too soft to hear. “Then why’d you hurt me like this? After all we've been through”

The question slays Sand. He shuts his eyes, forehead pressing hard to Ray’s temple, like he can push the guilt deeper into his skull until it crushes him whole. “Because I’m a coward. Because I get scared and I don’t know how to hold it. And instead of just telling you I was scared, I hurt you.” His hands tremble as they stroke Ray’s back, following the ridges of his spine. “I hate myself for it.”

Ray doesn’t answer. Or maybe he can’t. His body shakes, not as violently now, but in shivering waves, each one softer than the last. His fingers loosen against Sand’s shirt, curl again, loosen once more, like he can’t quite decide whether to hold on.

Sand cups the back of his neck, thumb brushing damp hair aside. “I need you to know… you don’t have to prove anything to me. Not ever. You’re not what my fear painted you as. You’re....” His voice cracks wide open. “You’re everything, Ray. You’re the only thing.”

The sobs taper, slowing into broken little gulps of air. Ray’s lashes flutter heavy, cheeks still wet, but his body has reached that bone-deep exhaustion where grief turns into weight. His chest rises against Sand’s in uneven rhythm, hitching still, but softening, fading.

When his eyes finally slip shut, it isn’t peace that settles over his face. It’s weariness. Defeat. His features are blotchy, red, lips parted as though words wanted to form but didn’t make it out. He sags fully into Sand, like he doesn’t have the energy to carry himself anymore.

Sand shifts carefully, sliding an arm beneath Ray’s knees, lifting him from the tile. He carries him out into the living room, every step feeling like punishment, each breath weighted with the memory of his words. On the couch, he sits down slowly, keeping Ray curled in his lap, refusing to let go.

Ray whimpers once in his sleep, lashes twitching. Sand hushes him instantly, stroking his cheek with shaking fingers. “It’s okay, baby. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” His own tears fall freely now, trailing down to wet Ray’s hair. “I’ll never forgive myself for tonight. I’ll never forgive myself for making you cry like that. I’ll do better. I swear I’ll do better.”

Ray doesn’t stir. His breathing is uneven, tear-choked, but steady enough that sleep has taken him. His body is slack in Sand’s hold, still trembling faintly, like even dreams can’t shake off the pain.

Sand just holds him. Holds him and whispers apologies into the dark until his voice is raw. The clock ticks somewhere in the apartment, loud in the silence, marking every second Sand spends wide awake with Ray collapsed against him.

And when Ray shifts in his sleep, murmuring something that sounds like don’t leave even unconscious, Sand breaks all over again. He presses his lips to Ray’s hair and swears into the quiet, not to the world, not to anyone else, but to Ray alone.

“I’ll never leave you. Even when I don’t deserve you, I’ll never leave. You’re mine, and I’ll spend forever proving I can be worthy of you.”

But Ray doesn’t hear him. He’s too far gone, pulled into exhausted sleep, tears still damp on his cheeks.

So Sand keeps whispering anyway. Keeps rocking him, keeps apologizing, keeps crying silently into the crown of his hair. He cradles Ray tighter. “God, I’m so sorry,” he whispers into the quiet, words meant for ears too tired to hear them.

Hours passby, carefully, painfully, Sand shifts his arms under Ray, lifting him against his chest. His muscles strain under the weight, but he doesn’t falter. He won’t. Ray’s head lolls against his shoulder, lips parted, his tear-stained face pressed into Sand’s neck.

Sand carries him through the apartment, each step heavy, his own tears dripping down to stain Ray’s hair. He nudges open the bedroom door with his foot, then lowers him gently onto the bed. Ray curls instinctively, like a child, into the blankets. Sand smooths the hair from his face, his heart splintering at the sight of his swollen eyes and tear-streaked cheeks even in sleep.

He presses a kiss to Ray’s temple, lingering there as his chest trembles with the effort of holding himself together. “I’ll stay right here,” he whispers into the dark. “Even if you hate me tomorrow. Even if you never forgive me. I’ll stay.”

Sliding under the covers, Sand wraps himself around Ray from behind, holding him like something fragile, like something he knows he doesn’t deserve but can’t bear to let go of. He buries his face in Ray’s shoulder, letting silent tears soak into his skin.

Ray doesn’t stir. His breathing steadies, soft and deep, while Sand lies awake beside him, clutching him as though he can keep the whole world from touching him ever again.

Sand lies curled around Ray, arms tight as though if he loosens them even an inch, Ray will vanish. But sleep doesn’t come. His eyes burn, his chest aches with every shallow breath. Ray’s tears still feel warm against his skin, and the sound of his broken sobs replays in Sand’s head like a needle scratching over the same line of a record.

“I’m not what you think I am.”

Sand squeezes his eyes shut, but it only makes the words echo louder. He feels them slice through him, guilt sharp enough to draw blood. He’d done this. He’d pushed too far, said too much, let his own fear and jealousy twist into a blade....and Ray had been the one to bleed for it.

His hand trembles as he brushes it through Ray’s hair, trying to soothe, though Ray’s already lost to the heavy pull of exhaustion. His face is blotchy, lashes clumped together with dried tears. He looks small, too small, like he’s been hollowed out.

Sand swallows against the lump in his throat, whispering into the still air. “You shouldn’t have to fall asleep like this. Not because of me.” His voice wavers, breaking on the last word.

The thought that won’t leave him claws at his chest, what if next time Ray doesn’t unlock the door? What if one day Ray gets tired of forgiving him, tired of carrying the weight of being loved wrong? What if he leaves?

The panic gnaws at him until his stomach turns. He presses his face into Ray’s shoulder, breathing him in like oxygen, like the only proof that Ray’s still here, still his. “I’m not good enough for you,” he confesses in a broken whisper, words he’d never dare let Ray hear awake. “But I don’t know how to stop needing you.”

Ray shifts faintly in his sleep, a soft sound slipping from his throat, and Sand’s heart cracks all over again. He presses frantic kisses along Ray’s temple, his jaw, the damp tracks left by tears. His own tears fall faster, hot and endless, dripping onto Ray’s skin.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises the silence, though the words feel hollow, desperate. “I’ll do better. I’ll never let you hurt like that again. Even if it kills me. Even if I have to tear myself apart to keep you safe.”

But doubt coils in his gut. Because hadn’t he already promised that once before? Hadn’t he already failed?

Sand lies there wide awake, choking on guilt, while Ray breathes softly against him, unaware. He keeps his arms wrapped around him, tighter and tighter, as though sheer force might keep the world and Sand himself, from breaking him again.

And somewhere in the quiet, with the weight of Ray’s fragile body in his hold, Sand realizes he’s never been so afraid of himself.

Chapter Text

The apartment feels different in the morning.
Not quieter, because silence still throbs between them but thinner, as if the walls themselves remember the night before and are holding their breath.

Ray sits at the edge of the bed for a long time, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He looks wrung out, like the crying has left him hollow. Sand watches from behind, every instinct screaming to reach for him, but guilt keeps his fingers twisted in the sheets instead.

He just sits there, hunched, pulling the blanket tighter around himself like a shield. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Maybe I should go back to my dad’s place. Just…for a while.”

The words land like a punch. Sand goes still, every nerve ending screaming. His vision blurs with fresh tears, but he forces his voice to stay calm, steady, even as his insides collapse.

“If that’s what you need,” Sand says softly. His jaw trembles as he forces the words out. “If you need space, if you need safety then I’ll drive you there myself.”

Ray’s eyes snap up, startled. He must hear the quiet devastation under Sand’s voice, because his own eyes glisten with fresh tears.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Ray whispers.

Sand shakes his head, tears spilling unchecked down his cheeks. “You won’t. You can’t. Baby, I’m already hurting because of what I did to you. If leaving makes you breathe easier, then I’ll let you go.”

Ray’s face crumples, and he presses his fists to his eyes, shaking his head. “Why do you have to say it like that? Like you’re already letting me go?”

“Because I love you,” Sand says, voice breaking. “And love isn’t supposed to trap you. Even if it kills me, I won’t be the reason you feel small.”

Ray’s shoulders shake. His hands drop just enough for Sand to see the tears streaking down his face. He looks at Sand like he’s trying to memorize him, and it breaks Sand’s heart all over again.

“I don’t want to go,” Ray admits, whisper-thin. “But I don’t know how to stay if it means feeling like last night again.”

“Then let me prove it to you,” Sand murmurs. “Not with words, not with jealousy. With everything I am. Please, Ray. Let me show you that you’re safe with me.”

Ray doesn’t respond, just stares blankly.

When Ray finally stands, his steps are slow, dragging. He pulls on one of Sand’s hoodies without asking, the hem hanging low on his thighs. Something about the sight nearly undoes Sand because Ray looks so small in it, so unguarded, like he’s clinging to something of Sand’s even when he can’t quite bear to touch Sand himself.

They move through the kitchen in silence at first, bodies brushing past each other in the narrow space. Ray starts the coffee machine; Sand pulls eggs and bread from the fridge. It feels mechanical, like muscle memory, but beneath every movement lies a question neither of them knows how to ask: Are we okay?

Sand cracks an egg, and his hand shakes so badly that some of the shell crumbles into the pan. He curses under his breath, too sharp, then freezes. The sound seems to echo. He glances at Ray, half-afraid of seeing fear or distance in his eyes.

But Ray only stands there, arms wrapped around himself, whispering, “You don’t have to be perfect. Not for me.”

The words gut him. Sand grips the counter until his knuckles ache. His throat works around something thick and unspeakable. “Last night….” His voice breaks. He forces it out anyway. “Last night I made you think you weren’t enough. That’s the one thing I never wanted to do.”

Ray looks down at the floor, shoulders trembling. His voice is so soft it barely makes it over the hum of the coffee machine. “It wasn’t just last night.”

Sand’s chest caves in. He abandons the stove, steps close enough that his shadow covers Ray but not daring to touch him yet. His voice is hoarse. “Then tell me how to stop. Tell me what I can do, and I’ll do it. I’ll burn this whole part of myself out if I have to.”

Finally, Ray lifts his head. His cheeks are still swollen, his eyes bloodshot, but there’s a glimmer of raw honesty there, fierce in its vulnerability. “I just need you to believe me. When I say I love you. When I say I don’t want anyone else. Don’t twist it. Don’t turn it into something ugly.” His voice cracks, but he pushes on. “Because every time you do, Sand, it makes me feel like I’m disappearing in front of you.”

Sand’s breath stutters. He closes the distance then, tentative, lifting trembling hands to cup Ray’s face. This time Ray doesn’t flinch. Tears blur Sand’s vision as he presses his forehead to Ray’s. “You’re not disappearing. You’re all I see. All I want. I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel invisible again.”

Ray exhales shakily, like he’s been holding his breath for hours. He leans into Sand’s touch, finally, though his voice is still cracked when he whispers, “Don’t promise me the rest of your life. Just… promise me today.”

Sand’s heart breaks open. He presses a kiss to Ray’s damp lashes, to his cheek. “Today,” he vows. “And then tomorrow. And then the day after that. One day at a time, if that’s what it takes.”

They don’t eat right away. The eggs burn in the pan, forgotten. The coffee goes cold. Instead they stand there in the kitchen, clinging to each other in whispers and half-sobs, fragile and bruised but still reaching, still wanting.

By the time they finally sit with plates between them, the food is tasteless. But Ray is wearing Sand’s hoodie, curled into the chair beside him, and when their knees brush under the table, Ray doesn’t pull away.

Ray pushes his fork through his food without eating, hoodie sleeves slipping past his wrists. His eyes are puffy, rimmed red, but quieter now, calmer in the stillness. Sand watches him with a weight in his chest that feels unbearable like if he looks away, he’ll lose him.

After a long pause, Sand reaches out, picks up a piece of toast, and tears it in half. His hand trembles as he holds the piece out across the table. “Eat something, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough, careful, as if afraid it might break them both.

Ray stares at the offering, lips parting. Slowly, hesitantly, he leans forward and takes the bite straight from Sand’s fingers. Crumbs scatter, but Sand doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, until Ray chews and swallows.

“Good,” Sand whispers, like he’s talking to someone fragile and feverish. His thumb brushes Ray’s lower lip before he can stop himself, catching a fleck of toast. Ray doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t push him away. The relief that crashes through Sand is enough to bring tears stinging his eyes again.

Ray lowers his gaze, cheeks colouring faintly. “You’re treating me like I’m breakable.”

Sand’s throat tightens. He cups Ray’s hand where it rests on the table, folding their fingers together gently. “You are,” he says softly. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll let you shatter.”

Ray’s breath wavers, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t speak, just lets Sand lift his hand to his lips. Sand presses a kiss to each knuckle, lingering, whispering between them. “I’m sorry.” Another kiss. “I love you.” Another. “I’ll do better.”

Ray’s eyes shimmer again, fresh tears clinging to his lashes. But he doesn’t pull away. He watches Sand with that raw, wounded tenderness that cuts deeper than any anger could.

Finally, Ray exhales, so quiet it’s almost a sigh. “Just don’t let me disappear.”

Sand presses their joined hands against his chest, right over his heart, voice breaking. “Never. I’d stop breathing first.”

For a while they eat like that, not properly, not neatly stealing bites off each other’s plates, Ray leaning in to take another piece of toast from Sand’s hand, Sand brushing crumbs from the corner of his mouth with trembling fingers. It feels more like holding each other together than sharing a meal.

The food remains mostly untouched. But when Ray leans into Sand’s shoulder at the end, quiet and exhausted, Sand dares to let himself believe that maybe this is what healing looks like not a sudden fix, but small, fragile intimacies stitched together in the ruins.

It isn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it’s a start.