Work Text:
[Outside of Koko Music Hall, London, UK
November 1
10:07pm]
“Please insert credit to make a call.”
Sand sighs and digs into his pocket, pulling out a handful of weathered British pounds. He slips each coin into the slot and waits for the signal to enter the number, grateful that he’d written the Thai prefix as well as the international dialing instructions on an actual piece of paper, when he was on the plane from Bangkok. His phone was stolen a few hours ago, which is where he usually notes everything down.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
“New Beginnings Rehabilitation Centre. This is Khun Kitty, how can I help you?”
Sand looks down at the scrap of paper flapping in his hands. It’s only three degrees—probably normal for the average Brit, but freezing for the Thai, who’s used to sleeping with his AC at a balmy twenty-five. He tries to keep his voice even as he replies, “Hello, yeah, I… Khun Pakorn…” He pauses. “Room 208, please.”
He can hear the woman typing on the computer. “It’s only 5:00, ka. Khun Pakorn may not be awake yet.”
“I know, but… can you…” He bites his lip. “I was supposed to talk to him last night, but they said he…” He closes his eyes to stop the tears from forming too early. “Please. If he doesn’t answer I’ll hang up.”
“Your name please?”
“Sand.”
“Ka. Please wait a moment.”
His exhale fogs the glass of the phone box. The tinny waiting music is too much to bear, so he holds the receiver away from his ear and leans against the wall for support. To pass the time (which is probably like thirty seconds, but feels like hours in his current state), he practices his English by reading the dirty scrawls on the inside of the booth.
if u want a good time call callum 555-2039
Justice 4 Princess Di, the people’s princess 4ever <3
Becky Morrison is a SLAG!!
The last one gives him pause; he’s pretty sure he’s heard the word “slag” in an Arctic Monkeys song or two, but he can’t remember what it means. If he had his cell he’d look it up, but…
A drowsy voice slips through the phone. “Hey, Sand.”
Sand bangs his knee against the door when he straightens up, and lets out a loud curse in Thai, startling a passerby. He turns his face towards the brick wall of the building next door.
“Hi.”
“You know it’s five a.m., right?” Ray whispers, all the sleep caught in his throat. Sand wonders if he still looks the same in the morning. He used to love kissing the blush from Ray’s cheeks and running his fingers through his hair, always the first of the two of them to wake up.
He smiles even though Ray can’t see him. “I know. I just…” He inhales, preparing himself for emotion that he knows is coming. “I called you last night.”
Silence. Then, “I know.”
“They told me you weren’t well,” Sand begins delicately.
The hesitation on the other end is enough to choke him up. “I wasn’t,” Ray replies.
Seconds tick by as he waits for an explanation. He’s vaguely aware that this call time is not unlimited, and he reaches into his pocket again, fiddling with the coins to calm his nerves.
“Ray?”
His lover sighs, a combination of defeat and exhaustion. Sand can picture his hair standing on end, his pretty crescent eyes still half-shut, long lashes blinking the offending crust away.
“I had a bit of a breakdown,” Ray admits.
[New Beginnings Rehabilitation Centre, Bangkok, Thailand
August 13
6:38pm]
This isn’t how Sand pictured life post-graduation.
Admittedly, he never pictured much of anything—he’s poor, he studied music of all faculties, and he shills illegal wine just to make ends meet. He always figured adulthood would be much the same as his adolescence, marred by difficulties and hardships.
But everything changed when he met Ray, whose aura is brighter than sunshine, lighting up Sand's darkest days.
Sand’s tendency towards caregiving complemented Ray’s neediness, but Ray’s sincerity allowed the singer to soften, to become vulnerable where he didn’t think possible. They shared few common interests and yet, Ray supported Sand in all of them, gradually adopting his music taste and love of concerts. Though rocky at first, they worked through the lowest parts of their relationship. Sand forgave him for his brief tryst with Mew, and Ray put the Boeing drama behind him, made all the easier when Sand’s ex got the flight attendant job and now spends most of his time between Bangkok and Bangalore.
The hostel opened after New Years, and the couple was stronger than ever. They got matching tattoos. Moved into a shared apartment. Took little trips to Hua Hin and neighbouring Siem Reap, just for something fun and different. No, Sand had never pictured his post-grad life like this, and for those few blissful months, it had felt like it was going to last forever.
But a relationship on its own—even one as healthy as theirs—can’t heal decades of trauma from an abusive mother who had her own demons to deal with, demons that were unfortunately passed to Ray upon her death. Sand tried his best to love his boyfriend even when it was difficult, even when he pushed him away, cursed him, spent nights with a bottle in hand sobbing to an old record.
And he did love him, through all of it. But it wasn’t enough. The fantasy had to end somewhere, and on August 1st, when Ray checked into the three-month inpatient program at Bangkok's fanciest rehab centre, the facade of perfection came crashing down.
Sand looks at the sun and moon etched on his inner wrist in fine black, the only constant reminder he has of Ray's presence since he entered the facility nearly two weeks ago. He entwines their fingers and lets the ink of their shared tattoos kiss.
Ray squeezes his hand. “I'm sorry,” he tells Sand, his already gaunt face drooping.
He looks paler and thinner than he did even a week ago, likely due to the sleepless nights, the withdrawals, the sickness, both physical and mental. Sand sighs. “Why are you sorry?”
Everything had come at the worst time imaginable. A few days prior, Sand’s band was offered the chance to play as openers on a two-month stint in London, with the city tour starting in September. Unfortunately, the dates would coincide with Ray’s stay at New Beginnings, and his anticipated graduation from the program.
Sand hates arguing with Ray, especially now; he’s just weeks into a grueling fight against a disease that’s had an iron grip on him since his mid-teens. In retrospect, he shouldn’t have even mentioned the opportunity, but his lover has a way of knowing things, and had jumped all over Sand’s unusually-fidgety knees in the rehab centre’s common room.
After hearing the confession, he had angrily asked, “What the fuck do you mean you’re not going to do it?”
Sand shook his head. “I don’t need to, Ray. Another chance will come.”
“That’s not the point.” Ray had begun to pace between the couches, slippered feet catching on the carpet, hands curled into fists. “I know why you won’t, and it’s just the plum wine all over again. When are you going to realize I need to do this on my own? What good will it do to have you waiting outside the walls six days a week?”
Ray’s hospital, while fancier than the Ritz, is strict: no cell phone use whatsoever, one hour a day for supervised phone calls via the facility’s lines only, and a three-hour visiting window on Saturday and Sunday. Sand’s been every weekend, adjusting his schedule to pop by before playing at YOLO or packaging his orders. Nick’s been helping with that too, for which Sand is grateful, but it doesn’t make things much easier on his emotional state.
“I’m sorry for getting angry,” Ray says quietly. He curls up next to Sand on the communal couch, throwing a leg over his spread thighs. They’re not allowed to get too touchy-feely here, but the nurse on duty doesn’t say anything, so Sand wraps an arm around him and kisses his forehead.
“You don’t have to be,” Sand reassures him. “I just… it’s not that I don’t think you can do it, Ray. I know you can. But that’s the point. I want to be here to support you while you do, and to congratulate you when you’re done.”
“Sand.” Ray sits up. He looks serious despite the comfy clothes (an old Smiths t-shirt of Sand’s and a pair of sweatpants) that they’re encouraged to wear that take years off his appearance. “I know how you are. You always want to take care of me, and I love you for it. Most of the time.” He smirks, causing Sand to do the same. “But I could never forgive myself if you didn’t get to live your dream because of me.”
“Ray—”
Ray puts a finger to his boyfriend’s lips. “No. Listen, whether you’re in London or Bangkok, I’ll be here .” He gestures to the whitewashed walls of the hospital. “I’ll miss you, but if you want me to get better, you can’t stop the world for me, especially not yours. It’ll be harder if you don’t leave and do what you were born to do.”
It wasn’t the first time they discussed the issue, but Sand could see the agitation increasing every time it was brought up, even as Ray was getting better. He always left the visiting room feeling more conflicted than ever. In the end, it was Mew who convinced him (on his friend’s behalf) to go, promising to take care of Ray and to visit him as often as he could. He would share shifts with Namchueam and April, and Nick as well.
Sand had smiled and hugged Mew before he left. His boyfriend’s former crush has turned out to be a pretty good guy.
A couple weeks later, he bawls into his mother's arms when she hands him a going-away gift—his favourite flavour of Mama noodles in a bulk pack—even though it's one of the sillier things he's ever received. She presses a wad of baht into his back pocket before he can protest.
“It's not much,” she admits, fluffing her hair with red-nailed fingers. He can tell she's itching for a smoke, but they're inside the terminal, four floors from the ground. “Exchange in London, not here. It’s always a rip-off.”
“I know. Thank you.”
She sighs. “Call me as soon as you can get a SIM card. Or just send me a message, I know you might be busy…”
Sand smiles through his tears. “I'll call, mae,” he promises.
“Good. You know I'm up at all hours.”
She pulls out a packet of Kleenex and hands it to Sand, who dabs at his watery eyes. “Now I’d love to pretend otherwise, but these tears aren't just for your mother, are they?”
Sand sniffles. “No such luck,” he confesses with a forced grin. As quickly as it appears it falls away, and he sobs into the shoulder of her green dress. “Mae, please visit him if you can. Take his calls…”
“Don't worry.” His mother tilts his chin up, then drops a glossy kiss onto his cheek. “I'll go to every check in that works with my schedule. He knows he can count on me.” She smiles. “And make sure you try to enjoy yourself too, okay, my baby?” She thumbs at his jaw. “It's what he wants you to do.”
Sand nods, gulping back a second onset of tears. “I know.” He attempts another smile, this one small, but at least genuine. “I know it is.”
He hugs her tightly once more, breathing in the scent of her pomegranate shampoo. “I love you, mae.”
“I love you too, my darling boy.” His mother steps back for the final time. “Give ‘em hell over there.”
Sand laughs and shakes his head, but he dutifully walks onto the escalator that will take him to security. He waves until he can't see her anymore and disappears around the corner.
Thankfully, he's not completely alone. His bandmates are with him, and they're leaving family, friends, and lovers behind as well. Still, when they finally board the plane and take off, Sand is overwhelmed by the unfamiliar sounds of the engine screaming and the awkward tilt of the plane. He's never been on one before, not once, and resorts to gripping the armrest with white knuckles while staring out the window.
He looks down at Bangkok, the fields all yellow and brown and green, a patchwork quilt from this height. Somewhere his lover is stitched into it, just waiting for his return. He swallows the lump in his throat.
I'll come back, Ray.
I promise.
[Outside of Koko Music Hall, London, UK
November 1
10:12pm]
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sand asks, biting back his aggression so the concern is at the forefront. It’s worry more than anything that makes him act this way, and he, too, has had to work on his patience while Ray is in rehab. But a breakdown? Last night, of all nights to have it? He runs his hands through his hair, the action at least warming his icy fingers a bit.
Ray hums, low in pitch. Sand knows what his room looks like, and he’s not allowed to have his cell, so he’s probably sitting on his bed with the coiled reception phone held up to his ear. “I didn’t want you to worry, baby.”
Sand sighs. “Ray, we talked about this. You can—”
An automated voice interrupts him. “Please insert credit to continue your call. One minute remains.”
Swearing again, Sand shoves coin after coin into the slot. “Ray? Can you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Sorry, it was asking me for money. I—”
“Money? Are you calling from a payphone?”
The amusement in Ray’s tone catches Sand off guard, and he grins sheepishly towards the street. “Yeah,” he admits. “My phone got nicked today on the Tube.”
“Ohooo.” Ray giggles. Sand doesn’t even mind that it’s over the loss of one of his most expensive assets. “I think that’s a sign you’ve officially made it in London. Good job.”
“Fuck off.” Sand can’t help but chuckle for a moment, before his smile fades and he grips the neck of the phone in anxiety. “But really. What happened last night? I thought everything… I mean tomorrow is…”
“I know,” Ray repeats. Sand hears a creak as he presumably lies down on his bed. “I was doing this self-evaluation thing, like assessing my ‘readiness’ to leave, signing stuff, packing my suitcase…” He laughs. “I might need to buy some new clothes. Rehab has a better chef than my house.”
Sand smiles. He’s always loved Ray’s figure, his soft parts, kissable stomach and thighs. “That’s okay. We can go shopping when I get back then.”
“Yeah.”
His mind wanders to one of their first dates—was that even a date? I’m calling it one—where he took Ray thrift shopping, and nearly jerked him off in the tiny store’s changing room. “You have to let me choose again, though. I know what looks good on you.”
“Mn. You do.” Ray sounds quieter, like he’s trying to stifle something escaping his mouth. “But… ah, fuck, Sand. Aren’t you playing soon? It’s almost 11:00, isn’t it? You can call me another time.”
It’s just like him to deflect, and Sand is usually a lot more patient, but he only has so many coins left. “I want to know now,” he replies.
He definitely wouldn’t be able to play his best (or maybe even at all) without knowing why Ray broke down the other night, so as much as it pains him to press his lover for details, he has to hear the truth.
Ray’s voice trembles. “Alright. I… please don’t worry, okay? I didn’t… it wasn’t like a relapse or anything, I promise, I—”
“Ray, I wouldn’t care if it was.” Sand shifts from one foot to the other in the small space. “All I care about is that you’re okay. You are, aren’t you?”
“I am, I am,” Ray says quickly. Sand breathes a silent sigh of relief. “It was just… everything happened all at once, and I realized…”
The sob comes through before his words. “I’m scared, Sand.”
[Camden Youth Hostel, London, UK
October 12
3:15am]
Sand huddles in the kitchen of the cheap accommodation. No one is paying him much attention, and it's not as if they would understand Thai anyways, but he still feels the need to keep this conversation somewhat private. He holds his cell phone up to show his full face. “I'm here,” he whispers.
In the background of Ray's grainy video, Sand can see a nurse hovering behind him. The rich boy looks ghostly, hair disheveled, his shirt collar torn open. “Thank you,” Ray whispers back.
The call had come through while Sand was fast asleep in his bunk in the room he shares with his bandmates. Their bassist had alerted him to the incessant buzzing, and Sand's heart had nearly stopped when he saw Ray's name on the caller ID.
He's not usually allowed his phone, but the nurse standing impatiently at his side tells Sand this is a one-off.
“Did you have that dream again?” Sand asks quietly.
Ray bites his lip. “Yeah. Had to see that you were okay.” He looks to the side. “In my nightmare you… someone imitated your voice.”
Sand lifts his phone up for a full-body shot, in a gray t-shirt of Ray's that’s just a smidge too small, and his own elephant pants. “It's me,” he assures him.
The outfit gets a giggle out of Ray. “Yeah? Prove it.”
“How?”
The nurse looks exasperated. “Khun Pakorn, you have one minute.”
“Okay, okay.” He waves her off and turns back to Sand, that familiar grin lighting his sallow face up. “Hm. Sand.” He narrows his eyes. “What was the first song you ever played acoustic for me?”
Sand grins too, but it’s hollow, the playful nature of the conversation unable to fully erase what's happened here. Ray's withdrawal symptoms are lessening, but his nightmares are getting worse. This isn't the first time he's told Sand about a dream that turned deadly, where the singer was replaced with an evil copy, or outright destroyed by some unseen force. He knows it's just part of the recovery process, but he aches every time he hears the small plea on the other end for reassurance when he can't be there in person.
Still, he does his due diligence and indulges his boyfriend. “Well, I was trying to play ‘Layla’ by Eric Clapton, but I fucked it up,” he snickers. He raises a brow. “And someone kept kissing my neck so I couldn't concentrate.”
Ray appears satisfied by the answer and takes a deep breath. “You're right. It's you.”
“Always,” Sand replies. He notices the nurse's upper lip curling. “You should go, Ray. But I'm not going anywhere.” He holds the phone further away so his lover won't fret over his tears. “I love you. See you soon, okay?”
“Okay. I love you too, Sand.” Ray signals the nurse and waves at the screen, his wrist tattoo visible for a fleeting moment. “Bye.”
[Outside of Koko Music Hall, London, UK
November 1
10:20pm]
Shoppers push past each other carrying pre-Christmas gifts. Food delivery guys zoom by on bikes. Excited concertgoers wave their IDs in the bouncer’s face. Despite all the chaos, Sand can only hear Ray’s steady breathing that he’s been listening to for the last ten seconds.
“Why are you scared, baby?” He attempts to cheer his boyfriend up. “You get to go home today. In a few hours, even. You should be…” The words coming out of his mouth sound rehearsed and meaningless, like a car advert.
He doesn’t say the last one.
“I know what I should be,” Ray replies, barely audible over the din of cars speeding round the corner next to Sand. “But that’s just it. Today’s my last day. Rehab was so fucking hard… you know that more than anyone else.”
Sand nods in solidarity, and Ray continues, “But it’s nothing compared to what I’m going to have to face out there.” His voice breaks again. “W-what if I can’t do it?”
Sand’s heart clenches imagining the tears falling from Ray’s eyes. “Ray, you—”
“What if I d-don’t make it? What if I have to start all over?” He hiccups to choke back another sob, but Sand hears it anyway. “I can’t go through this again, Sand, I can’t…”
He’s spiraling, just like he did a few weeks ago when Sand’s mother had stopped in to visit him. Never one to keep anything from her son, she’d detailed Ray’s anguish and fear, how the security guards had had to physically separate him from her. She’d tried to stay longer, but the visiting hours were strict. Sand had spent the entire day in quiet contemplation before playing one of the worst shows of the tour.
“I’m going to die like her,” Ray continues. “She w-wasn’t strong enough and neither am I. Without the therapists and the restrictions and everything, I’ll fall back into the h-habits, I know it…”
“Baby, no you won’t,” Sand replies, trying to speak his words coherently, so his lover doesn’t hear the trepidation in them.
Ray sighs. “You always say that. But how do you know? I’ve been—”
“Because I know you,” Sand interjects. “And I know what a resilient person you are, even if I’ve been away for a while.”
“But Sand—”
“Ray, listen to me.” The musician grips the phone so hard his knuckle bones are primed to burst through the skin. “You’re done there. You won’t ever have to go back. Everyone is cheering for you and wants you to succeed. Your dad, my mum, Mew, Nick, Boston, Chueam, April, P’Yo… and me most of all.”
Ray hums again. “Mn. I guess. But it’s going to be really hard.”
“Did I say it wouldn’t be?”
“No.”
“Well then.” Sand relaxes his shoulders. “I’ll be there for you every step of the way, even if you stumble sometimes. I don’t care if we have to spend the rest of our life making sure of it, but we will. I promise.”
There’s a pause on the other end, quiet little sniffs, while Ray contemplates Sand’s words. “We will?”
Sand smiles. “Yeah. We will.” He watches the audience for tonight’s show slowly file into the music hall. “Besides, you have to get out of there so I can spoil you again like I used to. When I get home I’m going to make you the most delicious English breakfast ever.”
“Breakfast?” Ray muses. “Sounds like something we do after waking up from an incredible night of steamy sex, hm?”
Sand laughs. “You said you might not be up for that right away,” he reminds him, knowing how the medications Ray’s on can affect sexual performance in the first few weeks.
“Pfft. I’m sure one look at you after all these months will get me hard in no time,” Ray says casually.
“Ray!” Sand laughs again. “Fine, fine, we’ll see how it goes. I look the same, you know.”
“I don’t believe that,” Ray scoffs. “There’s something about being a rock star that changes your like… essence. I told you before: when you’re in your element, you just get hotter. I bet you’re ten times as sexy as when you left.” He sighs. “I wish I could see you play.”
Sand nods to himself. “I wish you could too. But people have been tagging us in their videos on IG, and I’ve saved them all to show you when I see you next.” He smiles. “I’m playing one of your favourites tonight.”
“Oh?” Ray’s curiosity is piqued. “What song?”
“‘I Wanna Be Yours.’”
Over and over they’d listened to the Arctic Monkeys on a long drive to the border of Cambodia, and Ray had grown to like them, his preferred band of Sand’s ongoing mission in post-punk conversion. The lyrics, Ray said, were spot-on to his feelings, and Sand had blushed the first time they ever sang along to them together.
Secrets I have held in my heart
Are harder to hide than I thought
Maybe I just wanna be yours
I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours
Sand can’t see him, obviously, but he knows Ray must be smiling; he can tell by the lilt of his voice. “Mn. You already are,” the rich boy says cheekily.
“You’re so sappy,” Sand manages to reply, shaking his head.
Ray laughs. “Yeah, but you like it.”
Something about the softness of his words has Sand tearing up again. It’s a bittersweet feeling, because naturally he can celebrate how close Ray is to tasting his freedom… but he’s still almost 10,000 kilometres away, shivering in his leather jacket that definitely wasn’t built to withstand this kind of chill. He wants to be there, to watch Ray walk out of the centre with his head held high, a smile on his face that only grows when he sees his lover waiting for him with a cake or a newly purchased record (Sand already has one from Camden, but it’s buried somewhere in his suitcase). The only thing that’s been missing from this tour is Ray, and Sand is feeling his absence tonight more than ever.
“Please insert credit to continue your call. One minute remains.”
Sand reaches into his pocket and finds it empty. “Fuck.” He pokes his tongue into the side of his mouth in frustration. “Ray, I have to go soon. I’m sorry.”
A bit of melancholy remains in Ray’s reply, but he murmurs, “It’s okay. I have to get up in an hour or so anyway for room inspection. My last one ever.” He snickers. “It’s probably a good thing you woke me up, actually. I usually sleep in and the roving nurse always gets mad.”
“I’m sure you sweet-talk your way out of that like everything else, hm?” Sand teases him.
“Of course not!” Ray sounds like he’s throwing his head back. “I only have eyes for you, even when you’re not on the same continent as me.”
“Suuuuuure.” Sand shakes his head again. “I’ll be with you soon enough, baby, I promise. Only another week. Tomorrow’s the last show.”
Ray makes a contented sound. “I know, I know. But Sand…”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure you enjoy the last few days of your time there.”
Sand sighs. “You know I have been.”
And he has, but it hasn’t been the same experience that he’d like to have with Ray someday… wandering the old haunts that Pete Doherty and Alex Turner got their big breaks in, finding cool vintage clothes, trying fish n’chips from every corner of the city. Sand’s done those things with his band, but Ray is the sunshine that brightens even the rainiest of London days, or at least he would if he were by Sand’s side.
“I mean it,” Ray insists. “This is your dream. I want you to see and do everything that you want to. Make the most of it. Go to the top of the London Eye and tell me how the view is. Act like Mick Jagger onstage and make everyone fall in love with you.” He pauses, then adds, “Not offstage though. You’re mine to flirt with.”
Sand wipes another tear from the corner of his eye, further smudging the makeup he’s been experimenting with since starting this tour. “I am,” he confirms. “And I can’t even afford the London Eye, so you’ll just have to imagine the view for now.”
“Please insert credit to continue your call. Thirty seconds remain.”
Sand desperately looks on the floor for a discarded pound or even 50p, but there's nothing. He kicks the flimsy wall.
“Shit. I… Ray, I have like thirty seconds, fuck…” He wipes his hand on his distressed jeans. “Listen. I’m getting a loaner phone first thing tomorrow from one of the roadie guys. I’ll log in to my Line from there and message you, okay?”
Ray chuckles. “Of course. Don’t worry, babe. I’m counting down the hours until I see you again.” He takes a sharp breath. “And thank you for calling me. I feel a lot better now.”
Sand can’t help but laugh too, even as tears stream down his face yet again. It’s a wonder he has any left. “Okay. Okay, okay, I miss you Ray, and I’m so proud of you, and I…” He heaves a breath so deep his lungs feel as if they’ve filled with ice, but it’s necessary so he can ramble out his feelings before the phone runs out of time. “I love you. So much. I love you more than anyone or anything else on this whole fucking planet Ray, I swear to God…”
“Connection will terminate in three… two…
Sand sobs audibly without a care for who might be walking by. Several patrons in line for the club eye him curiously. Only one thing will make it all better, give him the strength to play, and hold out until he sees Ray again in a week’s time.
“I love you too, Sand.”
Click.
[Koko Music Hall, London, UK
November 2 - Final Show Day
12:51am]
“Encore again! You guys have ten minutes, okay?”
Sand nods at the stage assistant. He adjusts his guitar strap so the instrument hangs at the right angle, over his favourite Rolling Stones t-shirt. Another encore. They’re just openers on this little tour, but there have been a lot of repeat-viewers of the show, to the band’s delight. Sand certainly never pictured post-grad life like this.
They’ve not only gotten to know the city of London and some cool people within it, but the promotion from the various venues has had offers pouring in from ones in Thailand and abroad. Sand even met Kele Okereke from Bloc Party in a pub one night. In spite of the bumps along the way—visa headaches, language barriers, getting robbed, everything with Ray—it’s been an incredible journey, one Sand is happy he was convinced to embark on.
But he’s ready to go home.
He’d sent a Line message on the clunky loaner phone earlier in the day, its dismal data package slowing everything down. Ray wasn’t busy; he had dinner with his father when he came home from rehab, then a small get-together (sans alcohol, of course) at Mew’s with Top, Chueam, and April. Sand’s mother ended up making a little breakfast for him at her modest apartment the next day. Ray sent a photo of the two of them, which Sand revisits as he waits for their drummer to come back from the bathroom.
Ray: she says im her favourite son now
Sand laughs aloud, tears predictably rushing to his eyes at the image of his mum and Ray smiling next to each other. Two of the best people in his life getting along and benefitting from each other’s presence is all he could ever ask for.
Sand: watch it, ill be home in less than a week
Ray: i know. counting the hours baby <3
After a quick debrief, the band returns to the stage and performs a fast-paced rendition of “Hard to Explain” by The Strokes. They have their own original songs, of course, but they always open and close with a cover. Ray likes it too; Sand secretly plays at least one of his favourites every night as a way of keeping his lover at the forefront.
The crowd cheers when they finish. Sand beams, his chest heaving with the effort he’d put into it all. He takes a sip from his water bottle and looks at his watch.
Five more minutes.
“Thank you so much,” he says into the mic. The hall quiets down a bit. “I think maybe… since it’s the last night, I would like to play something for you that I wrote. If you’ve seen us before then you know what’s coming.”
He switches from his electric guitar to the acoustic, handing the former to a stage tech. “I’ve been working on my English,” he says sheepishly to the audience, who whoop their approval at his slightly accented pronunciation. “But this song is in Thai, so I hope you don’t mind.”
More whoops, so Sand continues, “I wrote it for someone I love a lot, and today is a day I’d really like to be with him. I feel close to him when I sing this song.”
He nods at his bandmates, who give him a soft accompaniment, but it’s mostly him and his acoustic guitar, soul bared to the world. He wrote the song after Ray entered rehab, and though he hasn’t yet had a chance to perform it for him in person, he’s played it over the phone before, sour with the notion that he couldn’t see Ray’s reaction to it. Even so, the lyrics speak to how much he loves him, no matter how far apart they are.
The audience sways along with their phones lit up, despite the fact that absolutely none of them understand a single thing he’s saying. It’s what he’d hoped for, that the desire he feels for Ray would come across in the emotion that he sings the song with, not just in the words.
Of course he starts crying, and the shiny lights above the stage begin to blur in his vision. He strums the final few chords. “Thank you,” he says again in English, wiping his eyes.
Some women in the crowd begin to coo and aww , while the rest clap in solidarity. Who hasn’t been in love, or been missing someone special? Sand nods his head and looks out at the sea of people, imagining—like always—that Ray is here with him.
He squints. There’s a guy who… No, it can’t be him. He shakes his head and rubs his eyes again, blaming the illusion on the combo of crying and a lack of sleep.
When he refocuses, the man is still there, albeit hidden by a taller person to his left, somewhere in the middle of the crowd.
Sand shades his eyes. The man looks to be wearing a black cardigan similar to the one Ray owns, the fluffy one he’d seduced Sand in the very first night they ever slept together. He can see a flash of silver in the stranger’s ear and a bright smile on his face before the lights dim.
Ray?
He steps closer to the edge of the stage. Behind him, his bandmates share a look he doesn’t catch. The man is moving towards the front, elbowing others, his face clearer and clearer in Sand’s vision.
Ray.
“Ray!” he cries out.
“Sand!”
It is Ray, and the crowd seems to realize it too, because they part far enough that Ray can shimmy his way to the barrier that separates the spectators from the stage. Sand jumps into the pit and waits. When Ray finally makes it, he struggles to hop the metal barricade, but one of the security guards gives Sand a knowing look and helps to heave him over. He falls into Sand’s waiting arms.
All around them, the crowd cheers, but Sand’s senses are shut off to anything but Ray’s warmth against him. He smells the same; his hair is styled to perfection and his cardigan wafts pleasing notes of Hugo Boss into the air. Sand breathes him in, squeezes him tighter than he ever thought possible. Ray’s arms are equally as locked around his neck, fingers drifting through Sand’s slightly-longer hair.
They stay embraced for almost a full minute, and when they part at last, both have tears streaming down their faces. But this time they’re the happy kind. The two men smile at each other while the audience shouts for Sand to kiss him.
Sand has too many questions to do it right away, so he breathlessly asks, “What are you doing here?”
Ray laughs. “Didn’t you miss me?”
“Of course I did.” Sand lets his fingers wander beneath Ray’s white tank top. He still feels as soft as ever, light to Sand’s touch. “But how did you… I literally just…”
“I told you I was counting the hours,” Ray replies mischievously. He winks. “I booked a ticket as soon as I got home. Got on the plane the next day, and here I am. I couldn’t miss your final show.”
Sand starts to cry again, thinking of what he’s missed, in pursuit of his own selfish exploits. He shakes his head. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against Ray’s.
“You’re wrong,” Ray whispers back. He wraps his arms around Sand’s neck again and nuzzles him with his nose. “I love you.”
Before Sand can return the declaration, Ray surges forward and kisses him. It’s full of so much emotion that he’s almost knocked backwards, but he steadies himself enough to kiss his lover back, and the crowd erupts behind them in a deafening roar.
They separate and he grins, dropping another quick kiss on Ray’s cheek before murmuring the sentence he’s been wanting to say for weeks now.
“Welcome home.”
[South Bank, London, UK
November 7
6:40pm]
There’s an audible lurching sound as the pod rounds the bend, leaving the relative safety of its hover over the murky Thames River. Sand’s clammy hand finds Ray’s, and his boyfriend squeezes it reassuringly, giving him a small smile. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here.”
Sand’s never done well with heights; he avoids even the tenth floor-balcony of the apartment he and Ray share, and he never, ever rides ferris wheels. But like always, he’d given in to Ray’s silly puppy eyes when the rich boy surprised him with tickets to one of London’s most famous attractions on their last night in the city.
“I’m fine,” he says through gritted teeth.
Ray laughs. “Don’t worry. I promise it’ll be worth it once we get to the top.”
Ray is the same in many ways—still cheeky, still whiny, still eager to dote on Sand as often as he can, with money or affection. But he’s grown too. He’s much more patient than before, a bit subdued, and chooses his words more carefully than he had in the past. Little things like late trains or tangled-up headphones don’t bother him as much as they used to. He takes everything in stride and has a more mellow approach to most things.
And Sand has enjoyed every minute of it. In the past week, they’ve visited all of the places he’d wanted to go with Ray, apart from any that are strictly pubs, despite Ray’s insistence that he can handle it. Beer is difficult to avoid in the bustling metropolis, but Ray’s been strong so far. Whether it was posing for pictures atop a double-decker bus, or marveling at the architecture of Westminster Abbey, London has been a lot more fun with Ray here.
It turned out that Sand’s bandmates knew all along about Ray’s sneaky plan, and as soon as he’d arrived, Ray had whisked him off to a guest flat he’d rented the entirety of near St. James Park. All of them will return home tomorrow, albeit on separate flights; Ray had helped Sand with the fee for changing his to a first-class one—on the rich boy’s dime of course.
Ray rubs Sand’s thumb with his own. “Look, there’s Big Ben,” he points out. Sand forces himself to raise his head, the height giving him vertigo.
“Cool,” he replies, and Ray flashes him another reassuring smile before giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
When not out exploring, they’ve been spending countless hours in bed, just talking, cuddling, and keeping each other warm. As they’d both anticipated, sex has been slow, with Sand hesitant to push Ray too far with his new medications, and Ray frustrated by his lack of libido when it comes to making love.
Intimacy, however, hasn’t been in short supply at all. They’ve woken each other up with kisses and gentle caresses with no other motive than to just feel, to touch one another after so much time apart. They rarely let go of each other’s hands in public, and Ray likes to give Sand little kisses on his neck, arm—anywhere he can reach really—when he’s cooking or getting dressed or choosing an outfit for the day. Sand returns the favour by holding Ray in his lap while they watch movies on the couch, or in the king-sized bed of the suite.
The other night they’d finally managed to get to a point where they were both comfortable. It had started off lazy, kisses moving from lips to collarbones, shirts already off, trousers following shortly after. They took their time; Sand wanted Ray to be as relaxed as possible and spent ages just licking him open, softening him to the point of his usual begging. The rich boy reached for him with desperate hands and kissed him, no coordination whatsoever.
How could he not give in?
Sand had collapsed after finishing into him, covered in sweat and arousal and the leftover cologne he’d put on before they left that morning. Ray tugged him onto his equally damp chest and kissed him until his mouth was dry.
“I fucking love you,” he’d told Sand, wrapping his arms around him.
“I love you too, Ray,” Sand had replied. They fell asleep without even cleaning up, so satisfied were they with finally reaching peak.
The ferris wheel carries them higher and higher, and Sand has to admit that it’s pretty neat from this far up. Every building he can spot is one they’ve visited together on foot, and yet they look so small, so insignificant.
“Want to get closer?” Ray asks. He lifts his chin towards a gap in the crowd near the window.
Sand nods. “Okay,” he agrees, trying to sound braver than his jellied insides are.
Ray had confessed to him that he wanted to book a private pod with dinner and everything, but he didn’t want to indirectly pressure Sand to say yes if he was really scared. Sand had just smiled. Ray is so goddamn thoughtful, always considering what Sand needs even before Sand himself will do it.
He presses his nose against the glass, fogging it up, and writes their initials in Thai before wiping it away with a snicker. They’re nearly at the top now.
Ray stands next to him and places his hand over his. “So now you can tell me.”
Distracted, Sand murmurs back, “Mn. Tell you what?”
“How’s the view from the London Eye?”
The sparkling lights of the city below them are a true marvel, better than anything Sand’s ever seen even from the rooftop of Bangkok’s tallest building. Something about London this high up makes it feel magical, like he could accomplish anything here.
But it wouldn’t be like this if Ray weren’t by his side, hand in his, the only person he has eyes for despite the press of the other passengers around them.
He tugs Ray closer to him and brushes his wispy hair away from his adoring gaze. “The view, hm?”
Ray giggles, his hands clasping behind Sand’s neck as per usual. “Yeah. What do you think?”
The singer leans down and gives him a deep kiss, the kind that says thank you and I’ll never leave you again. He hopes Ray can feel it, and it seems like he does, because his eyes are closed in contentment even with the luxurious surroundings. When he opens them again, they’re brighter than ever, the lights of London reflecting their dazzling colours.
Sand pulls away and smiles. “It’s perfect.”