Archive of Our Own

First, Ray registers light, pulling him from sleep and reddening the back of his eyelids, too sudden and bright. Then he registers movement, touch—no, touch pulling away, the lack of weight—and then Sand's voice, low, weirdly distant to Ray's ears. Ray grumbles, reaches his hand out to Sand's side of the bed for any skin contact, of which he gets none, Sand is too far away now, but his voice becomes sharper and more clear to Ray's slow-moving brain as he says, "—tell me first and foremost that you're safe."

That wakes Ray fully. "Sand, what's going on?" Sand is pulling on underwear, hurried, his phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear. It's late, but not long after they'd gone to sleep. This type of late-night call can only mean a few things. "Is it Dot? Your mother?"

Into the phone Sand is saying, "—anywhere nearby where you can wait? I can come right now but it'll take me—"

It's Dot, Ray can tell from the severity in Sand's voice. There is a difference of panic in his voice between his mom and his daughter, and Ray is certain he's the only other person in the world who can recognize it. "Sand. Is Dot okay? Tell me what's going on."

Sand is up now, searching for more clothes. "Dot is—" and then he pauses, scaring the shit out of Ray because his own alarm bells are ringing now, but Sand is only listening to whatever she's saying on the other line. "Dot, I can't hear what you're saying, there's too many people talking—" He pulls the phone away from his ear to tell Ray, "Dot got drunk at a party and apparently the police showed up—"

"What?"

"—so she's calling for—" Sand puts the phone back to his ear as he slips on pants. "—What? No, I didn't wake him, Dot, he—"

Ray is already out of bed, doing his own haphazard search for something to wear. "Do the police have her?"

"She left before they—fuck, I can't speak to you both at the same time," Sand snaps. He tosses the phone on top of the bed covers, where it lands with a soft thump. "Here, you speak to her. I need to get ready."

As if he's leaving without Ray. Ray snatches the phone from the bed, and when he puts the speaker to his ear, he can hear a muffled conversation, Dot telling someone else, "Yeah, I'll help you in a sec, but right now my por is—"

"Dot," Ray says, cradling the phone closer so he can hear better, "what's going on? Are you okay?"

Her voice pauses. "Dad?" she says. Her voice sounds thick and watery. "What—I told por not to wake you."

"I woke up just fine on my own, I don't need Sand for that," Ray says. Behind him he hears Sand say, Ray, please, long-suffering.

"I didn't—I don't want you to see me like this."

"Focus, Dot, please. What's going on?"

In the stumbling, near-slurring drunken speech, which years of Ray's own drunken nights have given him expert fluency in, Ray gets what he thinks is most of the story: a party hosted by one of the upperclassmen, an invite by her classmate, and Dot was way drunker than she expected due to a bunch of drinking games, and then word got out that the police had been called on the party, so they escaped through the backyard and were now in a random neighborhood—

A too-loud voice in the background says, "Well, see, there's this guy at school who—" and Dot and another voice immediately shush him, and Dot adds, heated, Shut up can't you see that's not important right now? because she is nothing if not Sand's mini-me in all the most delightful ways.

Unfortunately for her, Ray recognizes that voice. "Is that Hilton?" Hilton, Mew and Top's kid. Sand turns around at his name, eyebrows raised. Ray nods at Sand, and Sand lets out a long sigh.

In the background, Hilton says cheerily, "Hi Uncle Ray! Hi Uncle Sand!"

"Shh! He's really drunk," Dot explains. "Like way drunker than us, I didn't know he was such a lightweight."

"Us?"

Sheepish, Dot says, "Ploy is here too. I was hoping you could pick us all up? And they could stay the night?" Behind her, Hilton is saying Pleeeeeeeeease Uncle Ray please don't tell my dads—

"Fine, fine." Ray, like Sand, has pulled on a random, mismatched outfit, put together out of haste more so than thought: Ray in sweats and one of Sand's soft, worn-out band tees, Sand in gym shorts and a hoodie from one of their old concert promos. "We're about to head out so you need to send me your location, okay?"

"Okay. I'm sorry," Dot says, the words choked up like she's fighting tears. "I'm really sorry." Ray meets Sand's gaze, from where he's waiting impatiently at the door, and for a moment Ray can taste whiskey strong and harsh in the back of his throat, can smell the rank sweat of a crowded bar, can hear his own voice echo dully, Sand, I'm sorry but I need you, I need you to pick me up again, please Sand—

But Ray is not twenty-two anymore. He says, "Don't be sorry. You can always call us, Dot, and we'll come get you. No matter what, okay? I love you. Send me your location."

Sand's voice, thin with concern: Don't apologize, Ray, I want you to call, I'll always come if you call—

Dot sniffles. "Okay. Love you too."

By the time Ray joins Sand in the kitchen, Sand already has the car keys in hand, his long fingers playing his worry out along the countertop. "Where is she?" he asks.

"Not sure yet. She's sending the location now."

"All that time on the phone and you didn't get her location?"

"She's sending it now." Ray offers Sand's phone back to him. "I was trying to calm her down, so don't talk to me like that."

Sand rips the phone from Ray's fingers, huffs, short, "I'll wait in the car, then," and doesn't take care to let the door close gently shut.

Well then. Ray lets out a long breath. A faint, lack-of-sleep dryness prickles at his eyes, and he rubs them lightly, trying to get the tiredness out. The oven clock reads just past two—they'd probably only had three hours of sleep themselves. Dot told them that she was seeing a movie with friends tonight and she'd be home late, and Sand and Ray decided to use their free night wisely. At first it had almost felt like a first date again, or how it had been the first time they'd moved in together, excited and giddy just to do simple, domestic things like cook dinner together. Then they'd gone to the couch to settle in for their usual wind-down routine, either an album or an episode of TV, and they'd barely made it through two songs of an old Modern Dog album before Ray was hitching his leg over Sand's and sliding into his lap, Sand's hands already pulling him down for a deep kiss. They'd finished out the album in a post-orgasm glow, and once the record finished, Ray had taken Sand upstairs for a second round while the house was still theirs.

Ray's phone pings—Dot has finally sent the location, and he is somewhat relieved that the link opens to a late-night cafe. He rushes outside so that he can get into the idling car before Sand leaves him there.

In the car it's quiet, a little tense between them, save for the low-volume CD playing—jazz, a John Coltrane album. It would be fitting for any other late-night drive for him and Sand, just not tonight. There's too much worry in the way Sand's hands grip the wheel, the tension in his eyes and his mouth. He's developing laugh lines around his eyes—which, for Ray, who is already deeply in love with Sand's smile, is serious trouble—and they almost seem more prominent now that Sand is tired and unhappy.

This late-night drive is familiar for both of them—even more so for Sand, who is an expert at driving in the middle of the night to pick up a drunk loved-one. Ray's heartbeat thrums a little harder in his chest because he knows he's the primary reason Sand grew so accustomed to this, knows the equal worry and resignation is from one too many of Ray’s fuckups. It has been years since Sand last needed to do this for Ray, but the guilt still pricks at him, a wound with a scab that Ray can't help but dig his fingers into when he thinks on it. His mother, his partner, and now his daughter.

Sure, after this many years together, not all calls of this nature have been Ray’s fault. He’d been with Sand at home when Dot’s school called to say she, twelve years old, had broken her wrist in her physical activities class, and most of the drive over had consisted of Sand swearing every few minutes. The worst time, ever, though, had been when they were twenty-nine and the hospital called to inform Sand his mother had collapsed at work. The drive over had been deathly quiet, both of them too afraid to speak. Sand's hands shook so badly on the wheel that Ray made him pull over so they could switch seats. Thankfully it wasn't more serious than a combination of overworking and exhaustion, but nevertheless, Ray will never forget the haunted, teary-eyed look on Sand’s face when Ray said, Sand, pull over right now. In the hospital Sand’s mother joked to Ray, Just goes to show maybe his nagging has some truth to it. But Ray couldn't joke back with her, responded, Mae, you can't ever do this to him again.

A wave of sympathy rushes over Ray. Sand, his chronic, devoted worrier. Ray reaches across the seats to caress the back of Sand's hair, and leaves his hand as a reassuring weight. Sand lets out a long, audible exhale. "I'm sorry," he says. "For snapping earlier."

"Don't be," Ray responds. He rubs his thumb right under Sand's ear. "I know you're worried."

"What is she doing getting drunk like this? It isn't like her."

"She's in high school, Sand. It's normal to start going to parties and drinking."

"She's fifteen."

"So? I was already drinking at fifteen."

The look Sand shoots him is incredulous. "Your argument for our daughter calling us, drunk, in the middle of the night," says Sand, "is that you'd already started your own debilitating addiction by her age? Really, Ray?" Ray can't help but laugh. Sand shakes his head. "And after we just told her about your mother too?"

"Remind me again when you started smoking?"

Sand scoffs. "That's different."

"Ooh, is it?" Ray loves when Sand gets all hypocritical like this, because he is Ray's favorite person to detangle. He leans across the middle console to rest his chin on Sand's shoulder. "Please inform me how."

"Ai, Ray, I'm driving." Sand nudges him away with his shoulder, but his eyes have that attractive brightness to them when he likes Ray's flirting. "I was already working to support my mom, for one. And for another, she's the one who gave me my first cigarette."

"Oh? You told me if you had kids, you didn't want them to work. You said you wanted them to have the free time to focus on their interests."

"I don't want it so that Dot has to work like I did," retorts Sand. "If she told us tomorrow that she wanted to get a job, I'd support her." Ray nods slowly, but he's giving Sand his Sure, whatever you say look. Sand catches it, presses his lips together, and admits, "I don't like that Dot lied to us."

"Ah." Ray soothes his thumb behind Sand's ear again, enjoying the texture of his short hair again his fingers. "But when things went bad, she still called us to get her. She still trusts us in that regard."

Sand blows some air.

"Which also means you can't lecture her too hard, or she won't trust us again." Sand tsks his tongue, so Ray pulls a little at his ear. "I'm serious, Sand. Dot doesn't like your lectures as much as I do. She admires you too much."

"Fine, fine." Sand grabs Ray's hand to lace their fingers together. He holds Ray's hand to his mouth for a moment and then drops them to his lap.

Charmed, Ray adds, "At least Dot and Hilton trust us more than Mew and Top. That's got to matter for something."

The corners of Sand's mouth flick up. "It's not nothing," he says, and Ray laughs.

—

In their mid-twenties, Sand would come home from an overtime shift, or another late night at the bar, drop down on the bed, and groan into Ray's shoulder, "If I ever have kids, I want to ensure they don't have to work through their prime like me." And Ray would pet his hair or his back soothingly and reply, "Good thing I'm loaded, then." Or sometimes tease, "All that fuss about dating a spoiled rich kid and now you want to raise one." It was a good running joke, for them, because Sand was still adamant about not taking Ray's money, and Ray was still adamant that he was never going to have kids.

It was an easy, obvious decision: one look at his family history—one look at Ray—and he knew he could never doom his own kid with his genes or problems. There was way too much baggage on his side. And at that age he still couldn't picture the future in that way. His career? The hostel was fine; it filled the days and his friends were there. Sand? His only obvious surety. But even then—marriage? Maybe, if Sand wanted it, and if he still wanted Ray in however many years time. Kids? Definitely not.

Besides, he and Sand were very busy with other things, such as moving in together for the first time and having all-out, blow-up fights over how much money Ray was allowed to spend on the apartment—or, more specifically, how much Sand wouldn't let him spend. It's been how many years together and you still don't fucking get it, Sand spat, and Ray, incensed, replied, Do you think my money is going away anytime soon? What the fuck does our future look like together if you can't let this go?

By the time they sorted their shit out, suddenly Top and Mew were married and discussing the different ways they might have a kid. "Already?" Ray asked, astonished, and Mew shrugged, said, "We've been together for five years, so obviously it's going to come up." Ray thought, Obviously? Was Ray doing something wrong in not talking about it? So Ray went home to breach the conversation with Sand. I just think, Ray said, after everything with my mom—

Okay, Ray, Sand said, drawing a tense Ray into his arms. Sand was in agreement either way; he was touring too much, and as Ray always accompanied him, they had neither time nor energy enough to raise a kid like Top and Mew did. Done deal. And it rather worked out—after Hilton was born, Ray discovered that it was okay for him being the fun, rich uncle, liked that he could help Mew out by babysitting for a date night, but the spitting, bawling kid would still be returned at the end of the night.

One night, Mew told him, out of the blue, "I don't know why you think you're bad with kids, because you're not. Hilton adores you."

"I buy him presents, he has to like me." Ray shook his head. "It's all Sand. He's the one who's good with kids." He always had been, Ray's known, since he helped Ray with his community service.

"Sand ruined my life," Mew said, adjusting Hilton where he was knocked out on Mew's chest. "Ever since you two babysat and Sand sang Hilton to sleep, all he does it beg Top and I to sing to him. Every night. Every nap. But he doesn't want any song, he wants the song Sand did. We had to teach it to our parents! It's driving Top crazy."

Ray couldn't say it was any one thing that moved or convinced him. Watching Hilton grow up certainly helped, and he especially liked when Hilton would accompany Mew to the hostel, aged five, and run around and talk to visitors like he owned the place. At lunch, with Hilton rabidly digging into somtam, Mew said, "You know, you don't have to do it the way Top and I did. If you don't want a baby, adopt a toddler. Fuck it, adopt a full teenager. That's what April and Cheum are thinking if they ever have kids."

Then there was Ray's dad. He put the most pressure on Ray to have children, though he mostly did this by interrogating Sand at their monthly dinner. He would pour Sand's wine and ask, "Haven't you figured out the kids thing yet?" Ray didn't know if his father did this because he got along better with Sand or because he knew Ray would feel the pressure more intensely from this angle. He was certainly kinder in his approach to Sand. To Ray alone, he said, First you don't take over the business, then you deny me a traditional wedding by eloping, and now you can't even give me an heir?

Sand was better at politely declining his interrogations, and he always used "we" statements like No sir, it's not the right time, we're not ready; no sir, we're not really thinking about it yet. Somehow it came out more believable from his mouth than Ray's. Then, at their November dinner, when Ray was thirty-four, his dad said, "Listen, I won't take any more excuses on the kids issue. Move back to the house—you won't have to worry about money or space. You'll have all the support I can offer. You can convert the rooms here to how you needs fit. If you're working, we'll have support staff here to take care of the kid. Round-the-clock care. There's no more need to delay."

And instead of giving one of his usual polite deflections, Sand shook his head and said, "I'm not letting my kid grow up in this house."

Ray's father blinked and said, "Excuse me?"

"If Ray and I ever have kids," Sand said, his jaw clenched in that stubborn way where he wasn't going to budge on anything, "I will never, ever let them be raised in this house. Not after how Ray grew up."

"Sand," Ray said, was all he could say, too surprised to say anything else.

"Excuse me?" exclaimed Ray's father, and they fell into a short spat in which Ray didn't hear a word and could only look at Sand incredulously and think, All these years and you're still trying to protect me from that? And also, crucially, You liar, you absolutely had thoughts on children this whole fucking time—

But the final straw had been only a few short months after that, when they were having dinner with Sand's mom at her place. Ray went outside to smoke with her while Sand did the dishes, and he was thinking about that fight when he said to her, "Mae, what do you think about Sand and I having kids? You've never once pressured us about that."

"That's because Sand told me not to bring it up."

"Really?" Ray frowned. "How long ago?"

"Right after you eloped, I think. He said it was a sore spot for you."

For Ray. Oh. Curious, he asked her, "Do you want grandchildren?"

She smiled. "Of course it'd be nice. But I don't need them, Ray. My life is full enough, and Sand would say the same."

Ray's own throat was closing up. "Mae," with slow, dawning understanding, "has Sand ever told you that he's wanted kids?"

Sand's mother took a long drag of her cigarette, looking out over the balcony view, and the fear dislodged from Ray's throat and became full-body. "When he was younger, he said that he'd like a family," she said slowly, and then waved her hand. "But that's what he has with you already, Ray. Trust me. He only talks about how happy he is."

That's not answering my question, Ray thought, and knew why, because he knew the answer already. "So he does want kids," Ray said, "this whole time he's wanted—" and then Sand was calling for his mom through the balcony doors, and she gave Ray one last sympathetic look before stubbing her cigarette out on balcony railing and joining her son inside.

Fuck, Ray thought, and barely slept all night, wondering what he really wanted, and why Sand had to either hide this from him or protect him once again, why couldn't Ray handle it himself, why couldn't Ray ever do it himself, why couldn't Ray try for Sand one more time? He'd done it when he was twenty-two and Sand wanted him to go to rehab; he'd done it when they were thirty-one at Hammersonic Festival and in the middle of the set, Sand turned to him and said let's get married.

Sand deserved for Ray to at least try. The next morning Ray called his therapist and set up the first of what would become many appointments.

—

The four of them—Sand and Ray, Mew and Top—are lucky that their two kids get along so well. Ray knows that Mew and Top were originally going to send Hilton to an all-boys secondary school until Dot came along, and no one wanted to separate them, especially as Hilton had mostly been shy and bookish throughout his childhood and Dot had no one but Sand and Ray. Ploy has been a recent edition, to Ray's understanding, recently transferred from a different school and quickly befriended by Dot and Hilton. She plays tennis for the school team and has tried, not-so-successfully, to get Hilton and Dot to play as well.

Sand parks right in front of the cafe, and he and Ray are both half-out of the car before Sand has even turned off the ignition. Ray can see the small trio of them through the shop's brightly-lit windows, and Dot spots them as they get through the walkway, pointing to her friends and standing up from her table.

Dot doesn't seem too drunk anymore, which is good, as she nervously meets them at the door with a stuttered, "Sorry, sorry, thank you for coming." Her long hair has been pulled back, showing off the array of earrings she's started to accumulate in her teenage years: three in one ear, four in the other. Ploy seems drunker, giving the two of them an extremely wobbly wai even though she's sitting down, and Hilton the drunkest, not even lifting his head from his elbow when they approach the table.

Sand sighs and says, "I'll take Hilton to the car." Hilton says something garbled and unintelligible as Sand lowers himself to get Hilton's arm around his shoulders. They stand together and almost pitch over due to Hilton's inebriated incoordination; he's not as tall as Sand, but he is already taller than both Dot and Plot, and Ray suspects that with his fathers' genes, his growth spurt is not done.

Hilton mumbles, "I'm gonna be sick."

Ray can see the lone late-night worker eyeing them from behind the counter. "The barista won't appreciate us throwing up in here. Let's go, everyone. You can be sick at home."

"The barista was nice," Ploy says, rising unsteadily to her feet and using Dot and Ray to support herself. "He gave us water for free."

Ray makes sure the two of them can walk together before heading to the barista himself, a young twenty-something who looks unfazed by everything. Ray thanks him for the waters, asks and receives a trash bag from the young man, and then throws a tip in the small jar for the man's troubles.

Sand has already put Hilton in the back seat and is working on getting the two girls inside. "I can only imagine," he's saying to Dot as she waits for Ploy to arrange herself properly in the middle seat, "that you lost most of the drinking games you played tonight."

"Unless the goal is to get drunk, in which case you've won," Ray says. He offers up the trash bag. "For Hilton, in case he can't handle the car ride back."

"I'll be gentle," Sand replies, but he takes the trash bag and has the kids pass it along, hot-potato-style, until it reaches Hilton, who's now leaning his forehead against the car window.

Thankfully, Hilton does not throw up on the ride home, though he coughs threateningly a few times. He does take to grumbling every few minutes about how awful he feels, while Ploy keeps peppering Dot with the same worry, "Do you think my mom will figure it out? Do you think she'll be angry?"

Ray turns around from the front seat, and tries not to laugh at their various states of patheticness. "Maybe next time we come up with a better lie than the movies for something that makes all of you this inebriated?"

Sand cuts in, "The point of this isn't to learn how to lie better, Ray."

"We didn't plan to get this drunk," Dot says defensively. "We were just going to drop by the party and arrive home late. I didn't know how to play any of those games. All of us were bad at them."

"Then maybe the point is to get better at these games," says Ray.

"Ray." Disapproval radiates through every part of Sand's body. "Please."

"My por told me," Hilton says suddenly, and loudly, "that alcohol can RUIN YOUR LIFE."

"Oh?" Ray blinks at him innocently. "Which one of them said that?"

Sand coughs to cover up a laugh.

By the time they arrive home, it is obvious that everyone's energy is completely drained. Sand herds everyone through the kitchen and tells Dot to show her friends to her room. As the kids shuffle towards the living room, Ray suddenly remembers that most of his and Sand's clothes are probably still strewn around. "Uh," he says, grabbing Sand's wrist. "Why don't you help them get the extra blankets and I'll grab Hilton some clothes to change into?"

Sand sufficiently distracts them with the blankets in the hallway closet, and Ray hurries around the living room, grabbing their shirts and underwear from the floor. He manages to make it upstairs just before them, dumping their clothes in their bedroom hamper, and then searches for some clean clothes for Hilton and Ploy. He carries them over to Dot's room, the door already open, with Ploy and Hilton both lying down on the rug.

"I've got clean clothes," Ray says, putting them on Dot's desk. "Ploy, if these are too big, I'm sure Dot has something for you."

She presses her hands together and dips her head. "Thank you. Seriously. My mom would have killed me if she saw me drunk like this. Thank you so much."

From the floor, Hilton says, "Uncle Ray, why do I feel more drunk lying down than sitting?"

"All I know is you're gonna have a huge hangover tomorrow, kid," Ray says with a snort. "Ploy, you might be in the clear."

"I hope so," she grumbles, while Hilton makes a drawn-out, despairing noise into the rug. "Dot went to go get us some water, so maybe that will help."

"Sure. I'll leave so you can change."

Ray and Sand meet on the staircase, Sand coming up, Ray going down. Downstairs, the kitchen light is still on. Sand touches his elbow and says, "I'm turning in, 'kay?" and Ray nods, says, "I'll be there in a minute." He waits until Sand's back has fully retreated, and then he sighs, goes to find Dot.

When Ray walks into the kitchen, Dot has indeed collected three bottles of water, but she stands at the counter with her head in her hands. Ray winces, thinking, Oh, Sand. Sand, who refuses to believe in any type of favoritism, even though Dot started learning the guitar because of him, and she joined her secondary school's band, and she made him promise to take her on tour when she turns eighteen.

Ray approaches her and puts his hand on her shoulder, gentle. "So, how bad was the lecture?"

Dot doesn't remove her hands, so her voice is muffled when she says, distraught, "He is so disappointed in me."

"Trust me, I've been there plenty of times before. He's only worried." Dot sniffles into her palms. Ray rubs her back. "And now that he's gotten it out of his system, he won't say anything else. I guarantee by tomorrow morning, he's gonna be making you breakfast and fussing over you."

"That makes me feel worse," Dot says, because she's Ray's daughter too. "I promise I tried to think of other options before I called you."

"I believe you."

"I would've asked Aunt Cheum because she told me to call her or Aunt April if Hilton or I were in any trouble. But they're both away at that film festival, so I had to call you." Dot rubs her eyes. "Are you mad at me?"

Ray certainly had no idea that Cheum had made that offer to Dot; he wonders if Sand—or even Mew—knows. "Why would I be mad? I'm glad you're safe."

"Because I was drinking!" She stands up abruptly, brushing Ray's hand from her shoulder, her eyes and cheeks wet with tears. "Only a few weeks ago you and Por told me about everything you went through—"

Ray sighs. "Oh, Dot."

"—plus everything that happened with your mom, and I still went to this party and got—went overboard, and I let you down, I let you both down."

His breath is shallow in his throat. His chest suddenly feels as though it has caved in and punctured a lung. "Where did you get this idea?" he demands. "Is this what Sand said to you?"

"No! No." She wipes furiously at her cheeks. "But I should know better, shouldn't I?"

Ray says, "Come here," thickly, blinking back tears of his own, and pulls Dot into his arms. She's just tall enough to rest her head against his chest, tucked under his chin. He strokes her hair until he finds his voice. "Dot, I didn't tell you about my alcoholism to guilt you, or to scare you. Sand and I both agreed you were old enough to understand, and we wanted you know the truth because you're our daughter. We don't want to keep things from you."

"But considering my own biological parents, I should know better," Dot cried.

Dot's biological father had left when she young, before Dot could form a memory of him; her mother, as the adoption agency told Sand and Ray, had died in a car crash when drunk. It was that fact, told to them in a hushed, secretive tone, that made Ray quiet on the drive home, until Sand said, It's her, isn't it? and Ray said yes. And it had made them careful in their approach when telling her about Ray's own past. But in this moment something shatters in Ray—the hope that he'd be able to shield Dot from the hang-ups his own parents had given him, that he could protect his own child from the path on which he'd found himself, all the while failing to see how steering so heavily against one direction just create a new entrenched path. Perhaps that's what the broken feeling in his chest is: the illusion fully fallen before him.

Ray pulls away so he can look Dot in her face, even though she tries to avoid it by wiping the rest of her tears with the collar of her shirt. "Listen to me," he says, trying to keep the emotion from his voice. "I don't want you to make your decisions out of fear. You're young—incredibly young. I want you to experience all that life has to offer. If you want to drink, or go to parties, I want you to do so, and I don't care if you need to call us after." She nods. Ray pokes her shoulder. "And don't worry about me. I promise I'm going to be fine. I've got Sand to keep a watchful eye on me, so I don't need you as well."

That promise probably doesn't sound the strongest with Ray fighting back a lump in his throat, but Dot thankfully doesn't notice. She finishes dabbing her face and says, "I'll try."

"Good." Ray leans against the counter, taps his fingers on the marble, and says, "So . . . tell me about the boy at this party."

Dot freezes. "There is no boy."

"No?"

"No!" If she's blushing, Ray can't tell due to how pink her cheeks are from crying. "Do you really think I'd go to a party for some guy? I'm not that stupid."

Ray laughs. "Why not? Your por and I have done stupider things than that to get each other's attention."

"Well, I didn't. Okay?"

"Okay, okay." Ray brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear, her earrings twinkling in the light. "What I said about not doing anything out of fear—that especially applies to love. We're romantics in this family. And kind of crazy. Don't forget that." Dot nods, grabbing one of the water bottles to re-hydrate herself, and Ray finally decides to let her get some rest. "Come on, it's late. Let's get to bed."

Dot gathers the bottles of water, and they head upstairs together, Ray following. As Dot opens the door to her room, Ray can hear Hilton and Ploy giggling together, and Ploy asks Dot, "Did you get in trouble?" The door shuts before Ray can hear her answer.

The door to his and Sand's room is cracked, warm, dim light peeking out into the hallway—probably Sand's bedside lamp. Before Ray enters, he stands outside and takes a few long breaths, collecting himself before Sand sees him. His chest still feels cracked open, but nothing will make him feel better like Sand's embrace, so he composes himself and enters, shutting the door gently behind him.

Sand is already in bed, looking at something on his phone. He glances up at Ray as he approaches the bed. "I didn't give her any punishments, so you can admire my restraint," Sand says. Then he puts his phone down. "Ray, what's wrong?"

As if Ray stood a chance of keeping his emotions from Sand. Ray sighs, discards his sweats and socks, and crawls into Sand's open arms. He is already so warm from waiting under the blankets, so Ray hitches his leg over Sand's thighs to get more skin contact. He buries his face in Sand's chest. "Our daughter is breaking my heart," Ray confesses into Sand's collarbone. He repeats the conversation he'd had with Dot in the kitchen, Sand stroking his hair while he listens. "This is everything I was scared of," Ray says. "Or worse, because I didn't even imagine she would think like this."

Sand hums. "She loves you. She's worried about you, and she wants to protect you."

"I'm the parent. She's the child. I'm supposed to take care of her."

Sand's quiet huffs of laughter rumble in his chest under Ray's cheek. "You don't get to choose how people love you, Ray."

Something about that phrase rings like an echo to the past, another time in which Sand told him the same sentiment. Ray can't place when. Maybe he'd been drunk; maybe it's been so many years together that some things just slide away. Still, Ray mutters, "You've told me that before."

"Really? Then why didn't you listen to me the first time?"

"You asshole, can't you be helpful?" Ray pushes up onto one elbow so he can look Sand in the eyes. Sand looks tired; his eyebags are a little darker than normal, his lids lower, but the brown of his eyes are still warm and attentive on Ray's face. Ray continues, "Seriously, Sand. If I've given her even a quarter of my family's issues with alcohol, I would never forgive myself."

"So if she over-drinks, it's completely on you, and now that she's trying to moderate herself, it's also something to blame you for?"

"She was so worried about me seeing her drunk that she almost didn't call us for her own safety! That's my concern. She wouldn't never hesitated if I hadn't—"

"Ray, with love. Your ego is so big right now it could occupy the whole house."

Ray narrows his eyes at Sand. "Excuse me?"

"What did we talk about before deciding to adopt? Even if you avoided everything related to alcohol, you could still give her a complex about money, about family, about school. Besides, you're not the only person raising her. Leave some room for me to pass on my issues, too. It's not all you."

"Sand, that's not funny."

"It's a little—ai, okay, Ray. She's still learning, and in trying to do so, she's taking what you say to heart." Sand's hand is warm on his lower back. "Give her time."

"Ugh." Ray hides his face in Sand's collarbone again. "But it hurts."

Sand uses their entanglement to tilt Ray onto his back and lean over him, press a few kisses along his throat. As Ray's leg is still hooked around Sand's thigh, the transition is seamless, lining their bodies together, and Sand's hand on his lower back naturally runs down the length of Ray's thigh to hold him there. "When Dot had that sudden panic about her academics," Sand says, "do you know what my mom said when I told her?" In Dot's first year of secondary school, she pushed herself so hard academically—through no input from either Sand or Ray—that she'd had a breakdown at home. When they'd gently pried to ask why she was doing so, Dot had cried, I have to prove that you made the right choice adopting me! "When I told my mom how heartbroken I was to hear that, she laughed in my face."

"Really?"

"Laughed until she cried." Sand rubs his thumb along Ray's jaw. "Told me, 'Sand, when you first started working to support me, you were a teenager. It broke my heart to see you work yourself to the bone over my debts. But you were stubborn, and you refused to listen to me. Now look at you.' " Sand shakes his head, a flash of his smile on the corner of his mouth. "Then she told me to get used to it. Said it wouldn't be the last time my kid broke my heart."

Ray jostles Sand with his hooked leg. "And you didn't want to tell me this?" He pushes up a little. "Your mother didn't want to tell me this?"

Sand rolls his eyes, but his fingers run soothingly over the back of Ray's knee. "She's my mother, Ray. I'm still allowed to have personal conversations with her."

"Uh, no you're not. You chose to marry me, so she's ours now."

Sand bites his jaw playfully. "Don't annoy me."

"You're still her son, but I'm her favorite."

"Please." Sand kisses the same spot on his jaw. His hand is so warm on Ray's thigh; Ray's breath hitches. "You were replaced the moment Mae met Dot."

"But I'm still your favorite, right?" Ray tilts Sand's mouth to his, the kiss starting chaste and teasing, no hurry, and then deepening when Sand groans and pressed Ray against the bed. "Right?" whispers Ray, hitching his leg up higher to wrap around Sand's hip.

"Ray." Sand's breath is hot on Ray's mouth, his voice low in his throat. "It's late."

"Exactly. Since we're already up, we may as well use the best of our time."

Sand laughs into Ray's jaw. "And the kid is home."

"Three of them," Ray says in agreement, humming when Sand's fingers slip under his boxers.

Sand pauses, raises his eyes to Ray's, his thumb stroking Ray's skin. "Bet you never thought you'd say that in your life," he says, happiness spreading through his face, and he finally gives in and gives Ray what he wants.

—

Sand was right, of course, because the thing that really broke Ray happened long before this night. Eight months into adopting Dot, a week after her tenth birthday, she'd fallen badly ill. Maybe she'd even caught the flu at her birthday, celebrating with classmates—but that was besides the point. Sand had obligations at work, a contract to record rhythm guitar for a visiting musician, so it was Ray who bended and called off work. Mew said, "Of course, Ray, I hope Dot feels better. Let me know if you need any support."

Ray was grateful, because his father had only said, I'll send one of the maids over, and Ray rejected the offer. He'd taken care of Sand when he was sick before, but there was something worse about a child—his child—being under his care, and under the type of pain Ray couldn't help with. Dot spent most of her days huddled under the blankets in her bed, all the window blinds closed and lights off, because on top of her sore throat and congestion, she suffered from stabbing migraines. Ray could only give her so many pain relievers and medicine before he'd reached the prescribed limit, but it didn't do enough to abate her pain, and she would cry out in frustration or whimper when the migraine stabbed at her again. Each noise bled at Ray's heart. She couldn't watch TV or read or even listen to one of Sand's albums from the pain, could only try to sleep through most of it.

Ray did not want to call Sand in a panic—he could handle it, he wanted to show he could handle it. He sat by her pillow and tried to help her fall asleep by stroking her hair, the way he did with Sand when neither of them slept well. Then, after she'd napped for a brief period, he read to her from one of her bookshelves, keeping his voice gentle, trying to help her pass the time without stressing her eyes or her migraine. As the sun fell lower and dimmer through the blinds, Ray contemplated cooking something for her until he thought, Fuck it. He could at least order some comfort food. Ray said, "Why don't I order one of your favorites for you? I can order tom yum kung from the corner restaurant we went to a few weeks ago." The top of Dot's head, the only thing visible under her blankets, moved with her assent.

He went downstairs to order, and then after he called for delivery, he called back immediately to change it: two orders of tom yum kung, since it was her favorite, and she could have it for more than one night, and some sweet roti to make her feel better, and then an order of kaeng phet for when Sand got home late and no doubt needed something to eat.

Dot wolfed her meal down, excited by her favorite dish and because the spice partially cleared the congestion in one nostril. The lack of pressure on one side helped alleviate the headache. "Go shower," Ray suggested. "Stay in there and let the steam and humidity help." While she showered he cleared out the tissues and switched out her bed covers for something fresh. She was able to fall asleep much faster after that, and Ray collected the dishes and took them down to the kitchen, where he bowed his head over the counter and started crying.

It was easy. That's what broke him: it was easy to take care of your kid, it was easy to remember her favorite food, and easy to check on her while she was sick, and easy to spend the day watching over her instead of having the staff do it, and easy to call off his job so he could do so, because he was worried, sick with worry. It was actually easy to give a shit. This whole time he'd been afraid of parenting—decades worth of fear—because he'd seen how his parents raised him and thought, It must be really fucking hard. And for a while he'd laid that difficulty on himself—that there was something about Ray, and in Ray, that made it difficult to love him. But his friends, and Sand, and Sand's mother, and even after some failure Ray himself, had now spent years showing him otherwise. So he'd done the next logical thought, that parenting itself was hard, life-changing in all the wrong ways, self-effacing, doomed if you're from a family like Ray's and not from a family like Mew's.

But it was easy. It had been a choice, this whole time, every step of the way, and Ray was relieved to be on the other side, and devasted for himself all over again.

When his therapist first asked him why he'd returned to talk through his childhood more, he'd told her, I think my partner wants kids, and I need to know if I can do it. Then, after a moment's pause, he'd added, Honestly, I'm tired. I'm tired of my mother dictating my actions.

—

Ray wakes when Sand gets out of bed, and his internal clock tells him that it's still way too early, or that the middle-of-the-night-disruption has fucked too much of his sleep. Ray groans and rolls over to find the warm spot Sand leaves behind. A hand passes over Ray's hair, light and lingering, and Ray falls back asleep.

He wakes with a twinge in his shoulder that he blames on Sand last night or sleeping incorrectly or his age. He rolls out his shoulder gently, cautiously, testing the muscle. If not for all the witnesses, and a few of his own hazy memories, Ray almost couldn't believe he would do night after night of drinking, bender after bender, blackout after blackout, during his college years. Most weeks, if he skips one of his yoga sessions—which he did this week, with Cheum, his yoga partner, absent—it throws his whole body out of whack.

Ray makes himself get up, shower quickly, and get dressed. As he heads downstairs, he considers texting Mew about Hilton, decides against it, and opens his texts with Cheum: I know about your pact with Dot, he writes.

Cheum immediately pings him back: Because I'm the best auntie ever, you can thank me now.

Another record plays in the living room, volume loud enough for Sand to hear in the kitchen and also low and respectful to the late-sleepers—older rock in English with a seventies sound, a collection of harmonies and guitar solos. Ray could probably place it if he tried. In the kitchen Sand is fussing over the rice cooker, a set of knives and cutting boards and pans laid out. Ray says, "Morning," kisses Sand's shoulder through the fabric of his tee, then asks, "Should I make coffee?"

"Please."

Ray puts together a quick pot, and while adding the grounds he says, "I've been thinking about messaging Mew that Hilton stayed over, but I don't want to tattle on Hilton if Mew starts asking questions. Which he will."

Sand, from where he's working on a mango skin, puts down his knife, pulls his phone out, and then finally shows Ray the screen: his text messages with Top, where Sand had texted, at 3:24 am, Hilton is staying at our place tonight. At six in the morning, Top replied, Thanks for the heads up.

Ray gapes at the message, and then he gapes at the man who's supposed to be his husband. "You betrayed me to Top? Out of everyone, Top?"

"If I'd messaged Mew, that would've been the real betrayal." Sand returns to the knife and the mango. "Besides, if it were Dot—I would rather know."

He's seriously the most caring person Ray knows. Ray plasters himself to Sand's side, pretends like he's really thinking about it, and says, "Fine, you're forgiven. This time."

Sand lets Ray bombard him with a few cheek kisses, then says, "Help me finish slicing this, will you?"

They finish the rest of the food prep together, then grab their coffees to sit on the couch, no conversation mostly, just finishing their coffees through the back half of the album. Ray sits perpendicular to Sand, facing him, his feet pressed against Sand's thigh. Sand is frowning over his phone—probably something work-related—and absentmindedly caressing Ray's calf with his free hand. Ray sips his coffee and admires Sand's profile, the slope of his nose and the way his jaw works as he reads. Sand looks up and catches Ray's gaze. "What?"

"You're mine to look at, aren't you?"

"Yes, but I don't trust you."

"Me?" Ray looks up at Sand through his lashes, takes an innocent sip from his mug. "But I made you coffee this morning."

"Uh-huh." Chattering floats down from the staircase, cutting off Sand's next sentence, as Dot, Hilton, and Ploy stumble downstairs together, in various states of exhaustion and hangover levels. Hilton is groaning softly, complaining about his head, while Dot exclaims, "I love this album!"

"I know," Sand says, his hand coming to rest on Ray's ankle. "Anyone hungry? I'll make food."

"Please, I'm starving," says Ploy, right as Hilton declares, "I'm gonna throw up." They all stare at him. He hastily amends, "If I eat anything, I'm gonna throw up. I'm fine. Well, except my head, do you have—?"

Everyone shuffles into the kitchen. Ray gets the kids settled at the table, and more importantly, grabs some pain medication and water for whatever is brewing in their heads. Sand pulls out eggs and says, "I'm doing simple eggs over rice, if you think your stomach can handle more, I'll add more."

Hilton, a mirror of last night, is back to having his head in his arms on the table. Ploy shakes her head at him and says, "Why do people enjoy drinking? This is awful." Dot lets out a strangled noise, her eyes darting between Ploy and Ray, but Ray just laughs.

"You have to figure out your limit first," Ray says.

"I found mine," Hilton says from under his own arms.

"Or find the best way to prevent or cure a hangover. For me, the best method was—"

"Ray." Sand puts two bowls down on the table for Dot and Ploy, both of whom take up their utensils with trepidation. "You are not telling them that."

"I was going to say, for me the best thing was to stop entirely." Ray raises his eyebrow. "Why, what did you think I was going to say?" When Sand passes by his shoulder, his mutters Behave into Ray's ear, which makes Ray grin.

The morning settles gently over everyone as the kids hunker down and eat. Ray puts the board of sliced mango in front of them, and eventually Hilton raises his head to sip some water and pick gingerly at the slices. For Ray, Sand fries some eggs and rice with some vegetables and leftover pork, and Ray murmurs a quiet Thank you. The utensils clinking against the dishes are the loudest sound in the room; in the background the record in the living room putters through its last song, blue-green colors flashing, I would be your only dream. The kids start chattering to each other again now that they have energy, and Ray watches Sand watch them, the fondness transparent in his small smile. Ray finishes his plate and then moves over to the sink to gather the dirty dishes and start washing them.

"Por," Dot says to Sand, "I was telling Hilton and Ploy about the thrift shops you've taken me to—" Ray lets their voices wash over him, Sand's lower tone now pulled into their chorus. Through the soap and water, Ray's wedding band flashes at him. The dishes had been gifted to them by Ray's father, a beautiful set of porcelain dishware, once he'd gotten over his anger at them eloping. It had taken months, close to a full year, before he'd come around.

"Ray," Sand's voice calls him back to the present. Everyone is looking at expectantly. Sand exchanges a little knowing glance with Dot—clearly at Ray's expense, how dare they—and repeats the question, "The kids want to go thrifting after breakfast. Do you want to come?"

The night before he and Sand eloped, Ray had been struck by terrible insomnia, fueled by anxiety and dread, until he'd shaken Sand awake and demanded, Are you really sure you want to marry me? Confused and still-blinking-away-sleep, Sand asked, Why wouldn't I be?

Because, Ray cried, then you have to spend the rest of your life with me.

Sand said, If we're lucky. 

"Yes," Ray told them, "I want to come along."