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He can still salvage this.
The door latches shut and muffles the noise of the bar to a low vibration of bass through the wood. Ray times a few steadying breaths to the rhythm, because it's not in his best interests to look angry, or--anything at all, really. Neutral is good. Calm; reasonable. As professional as one can be, in direct line of sight to a urinal.
San is rinsing his hands at the sink. He doesn't turn to look, but he sees Ray in the mirror, and he's already lifting his brows in that particular sardonic way he must reserve for Ray and all things Ray-adjacent. He says, "You gonna piss, or is this a social call?"
--and fuck neutral, actually. "It was a fair offer," Ray snaps, and shoves off the door to close their distance in an instant. "You could have been civil."
San shakes his head and huffs out an incredulous laugh. "You're an asshole, posturing for your asshole friends. You seriously thought I was gonna say yes?"
Ray had, but San is one of the only people Ray's ever met who always knows when he's bluffing. It's infuriating, but it's also what drew Ray in the first place, so that one's on him. "What's your problem with me, exactly?"
San finally turns to face him, but he just shakes the water off his hands obnoxiously, so that some of the spray lands on Ray's jacket. His hair's a little mussed, pushed back with the sweat from performing, and he still looks unfairly good, even with open disdain on his face. "Not sure how many more ways I can say 'asshole', but if you need me to keep going I will."
He's such a fucking--
Calm. Ray folds his arms over his chest. "I'm just trying to figure it out. You didn't have any problems, before. When you had my dick in you."
"Didn't have a problem with your dick," San shrugs. "Your dick didn't block me on Line."
The thing is--Ray is not actually very impulsive. Ray prides himself on sensible, methodical decision-making. But Ray had gone to see his father that morning, and Mew had never come home from seeing Top, and San had asked Ray out to lunch when he knew they both had classes afterward so nothing could escalate beyond a shared meal in broad daylight, and he'd used one of those ridiculously out-of-character kitten stickers he knew made Ray laugh, and Ray couldn't throw his phone at a wall so he'd done the next best thing.
He says, "I told you we had a no strings--"
"Ray," San cuts in, near enough to a growl that it shoots an involuntary trill of adrenalin through Ray's nerves. He's barely moved at all, yet somehow weaponises every millimetre of height advantage to loom into Ray's space. "I got it. But I don't exactly owe you any favours, so I'm not sure why we're having this conversation."
Ray can feel himself scowling and it just pisses him off even more; it's not a good look on him, and never gets him anywhere productive. He drops his arms back to his sides and forces his fists to unclench, but San never looks away from his face. San never looks away first.
"Not a favour," Ray says, painstakingly grinding the words out of the tension in his jaw. "It's a job. One that pays very well."
San's eyes flash. His glare has always been unnervingly intense, halfway between fight or fuck on a balance that could tip either way. He takes a step forward; Ray takes a step back. So he does it again, and there's nowhere to go, because Ray's back hits the ugly green tiles.
When San reaches up, Ray doesn't flinch, but he does suck in a single sharp breath. They're close enough for Ray to see the answering twitch at the corners of San's mouth.
Asshole.
San only tips Ray's chin up with his index finger--gently. "That might have made a compelling argument," he says. "If I were a whore."
Ray tries to knock the hand away. San catches his wrist with a grip just tight enough to imply he could tighten it further if Ray tries to struggle. Ray doesn't know what his face is doing anymore, but San seems to find his expression very amusing. Something--not quite anger and not quite embarrassment, but overlapping each--is melting through Ray's nerves like the warm rush at the bottom of a shot glass. He definitely wasn't light-headed when he left the table.
The click of Ray's throat feels very loud in the silence. "What do you want, then?"
San pushes Ray's wrist to the wall, then presses in close enough Ray can smell his cologne and his sweat and the faint trace of smoke in his clothes. "These your famous negotiation skills?"
It's impossible to tell if San is fucking with him or fucking with him.
"Are we negotiating?" Ray manages, through his teeth.
San's mouth lifts at only one corner. His eyes are somehow dark and hot simultaneously. "Guess that depends on you."
Ray does try to break free, even if it's more of a gesture than anything. San keeps his implicit promise: he only presses in tighter, until their hips are flush and San's face is so close to Ray's face that it's even more difficult to keep focus.
"So what about you?" he breathes, lips barely grazing Ray's jaw. "Are you a whore, Ray?"
Ray feels the words with his entire body, a hot throb of mortifying interest and the overwhelming irritation of knowing San will see the goosebumps prickle over his skin. His pulse is suddenly thundering in his chest. "Fuck off," he hisses, and flexes his wrist against San's grip with real effort. "The door's not even locked."
San only snorts and leans back, far enough to make eye contact again, but with the slowest, most deliberate roll of his hips as he moves: just enough to make clear that he's aware Ray's already hard. "Are you worried someone's gonna know you suck cock? I have some unfortunate news."
Ray rallies himself enough to roll his eyes, but it's a lot more effort than it should be, to keep his voice level. "You're pretty presumptuous for a guy who called me a spineless self-absorbed prick in front of the entire bar."
San inclines his head with teeth in his bottom lip, biting off a smile. "You can lock the door if you need to," he offers, but there's something obscurely insulting about it that scrapes right under Ray's skin.
Ray finally shoves San away, and this time San goes with it, lets go and staggers back with a sharp little bark of a laugh. Ray has never understood him better than in this moment: the competing urge to fuck someone raw or punch them right in their fucking mouth. He licks his teeth and swallows the phantom taste of blood.
"Fuck you," Ray re-iterates, uselessly. He's not sure what he's trying to salvage, anymore.
Ray unclenches his fingers and smoothes out his clothes, brushing away the lingering droplets of water. He edges toward the door nearly sideways, to keep San in his line of sight, but San just takes Ray's place against the wall. He rolls his shoulders, adjusts himself a little in his jeans, then tosses Ray a wave and a distinctly feral grin.
Asshole.
Ray is absolutely certain he's going to leave, until he's actually face to face with the door. Knowing San is still laughing at him, with a visible hard-on because he's exactly that contrary; knowing that Ray's friends will have a lot of uncomfortable questions, if he doesn't smooth this over. That San can always tell when Ray's bluffing, but usually lets him win anyway; that he has long callused fingers and a secret sweet tooth and the most beautiful eyelashes Ray has ever seen on a man.
Knowing he'd actually liked San, right up until San liked him back.
Ray turns the lock, and then turns around. San isn't laughing anymore, but he's definitely smug where he leans back on the tiles, watching Ray from under his stupid thick lashes with the smile that quirks only one side of his mouth. The first step is the hardest, but everything feels simpler when he can smell San again, see the glitter of sweat in the hollow of his throat.
"Look," Ray sighs, with what he can only hope is an air of noble compromise. "We can get out of here. I like to think I have slightly higher standards than a club toilet."
San slants a pointed look at the newly-locked door. "You like to think a lot in general," he says, with a voice so low and soft that it shivers down Ray's spine. "But you're gonna do it anyway."
Ray swallows whatever retort rises half-formed in his throat, because it's pointless to lie to someone who always seems to know.
San moves slowly--slow enough they both know Ray has plenty of time to step back, and doesn't. San's stare follows his own hands where they're drawing fingertips over Ray's necklace, then across the mark at his clavicle--deliberately vague, assessing touches, like someone browsing before they buy. His palms slide up Ray's arms, then push Ray's jacket off his shoulders, past his elbows, to a pile on the floor at his feet. He's never had a high opinion of Ray's wardrobe. Ray's skin prickles from the sudden exposure, but he still doesn't move. Ray only tears his gaze away from San's face when he realises San is unbuckling his belt, and then he has no time to react before San drops his palms back onto Ray's shoulders, heavy.
Ray almost hates how easily he goes to his knees.
"You really want to do this here," Ray breathes, like he hadn't believed it before this exact moment--vaguely horrified by the filthy floor and a lot less vaguely hard in his own jeans. The noise of the bar is still just bass and the occasional screech of chairs, but it's impossible to pretend this is anything but incredibly, illegally public.
San pushes his thumb onto Ray's bottom lip. He says, "No more talking," then starts to unbutton, to unzip.
Ray reaches to help without even thinking, which is a fact he prefers not to examine--but San only brushes him off anyway. "Hands to yourself," San grunts, and then he's pushing his jeans down only just enough to free his cock, half-hard and barely a breath away from Ray's face.
San doesn't bluff as a general rule. He strokes himself without any trace of shame, lazy and slow as his smile, and Ray's mouth is already watering; his fingers tingle with the aborted need to touch. He keeps them balled in loose fists on his thighs, because he is absolutely not afraid to play this San's way. Ray is good at this; this he knows how to do.
Ray tips his face up, and opens his mouth, and lets San guide his cock between his lips.
San doesn't make a sound, but he's never been loud. There's something vindictively gratifying about knowing how to work him, how to make it good. Ray tightens his lips and keeps it shallow to start: to map out the contours in little circles of tongue, a light teasing rhythm, something to build on. This may be harder without his hands, but Ray can definitely get him there.
He has very little time to indulge before San's palm curves around his neck and pulls him forward, forcing him to take in more of the shaft.
Ray's eyes snap wide despite himself. Ray knows he gives good head; San's always let him pace this, before. He pulls back and shoots an indignant glare upward, but whatever nasty remark he might have made instantly dissolves on his tongue: San is waiting. San holds Ray's gaze without expression, just dark eyes boring into him, and even with his dick out in the open he's so intense Ray's heart hammers hard in his chest.
This is a question. San expects an answer.
Ray relaxes his jaw, and bends forward, and takes San back into his mouth.
Almost immediately, San pushes too far, too fast for Ray to adjust to the intrusion, and he holds Ray there for a long stretching moment, like he's still proving some fucking point. Ray's eyes burn and his chest seizes in a stuttered little cough, but he takes it. He digs his nails into his palms and doesn't even try to free his own aching dick, because he knows with a bone-deep certainty that San doesn't want him to do it.
That makes it easier, somehow.
San starts to thrust, a shallow drag on Ray's palate, then deep enough for involuntary tears to sting on Ray's cheeks, mingling with spit Ray can't swallow, can't stop from dribbling down his chin. His whole face feels sticky and it's sloppy and disgusting and he really should hate it, but he can't. The longer it goes on, the more Ray's head swells with static. There's no room for anything else.
San's mostly just a dark blur, but Ray can still feel his fingers tighten, hear clipped off groans when he drives his cock deep into Ray's throat. Ray doesn't think about catching his breath, because San determines when it's too much, when to pull out, giving Ray enough space for a few wet gasps of air while San jerks himself with Ray's spit dripping over his knuckles. Ray knows he's not quiet because he can feel the friction of his own vocal cords, but he's beyond separating San's noises from his own, from the obscene sucking sounds or the roar of his blood in his ears.
He doesn't know when San's close. He doesn't think about that either, because he doesn't have to do anything but breathe when he's allowed and then let San use him, take what he wants from the wet mess of Ray's mouth. He sinks into it, light-headed and humming with some strange slurred euphoria, just lets San fuck into him without resistance until San's hips finally shudder against him, and he comes.
Some amount of time must pass. Sensation floods into the vacuum of San's absence. Ray's jaw aches. San is panting. Ray can hear his soft staccato breaths and the metallic scrape of his belt buckle when he collapses back against the wall.
Ray stares down at his hands, flexing his cramped fingers open from their fists. He counts to ten, a moment for each digit, and then he finally brings them up to his face. He wipes his nose and scrubs the saliva from his chin with the backs of his wrists. He coughs, but he can't really clear the scratching sensation from his throat. His eyes were shut for so long that the buzzing fluorescent lights make him feel a little dizzy.
There's a rustling noise--San fixing his clothes--and then San lifts Ray by the elbows, helps him to stand up from the floor. San keeps one hand on Ray's bare arm, which is annoying and also probably necessary given his joints still feel liquefied. Ray doesn't really want to see the expression on San's face, so he concentrates on normal rhythms of respiration while he digs his thumbs into his own palms to massage away the tension there.
He breathes, for a while, long enough for his heartrate to slow, and then San starts to dab at the corners of Ray's eyes with a tissue.
San is, evidently, the kind of guy who carries a packet of tissues in his pockets. For allergies? Sweat? Because he does this often enough to prepare? The stab of resentment sears back some clarity, and Ray finally drags a glare up to San's face.
San is not glaring. He looks--softer, with a flush at the crests of his cheeks, bitten lips swollen red. He's still breathing heavier than usual; his temples are damp with sweat. He's so stupidly beautiful Ray wants to break something.
Ray shoves away, straight into a mortifying stumble over his forgotten jacket. San catches him with his whole body, lets his chest take Ray's weight. Ray's brow falls into the warm damp space between San's neck and his shoulder and for just one single brittle moment, he thinks about staying there.
"Good," San is murmuring into his hair. His voice is so low and close that Ray can feel the vibration in his chest, and it's absurd that this of all things should bring that prickling sensation back to his eyes. "You did good."
Something catches in Ray's throat. "Let go of me," he tries to say, but his voice rasps, barely scraped out of him, weak even in his own ears.
San's hand curves around Ray's cheek, cool fingertips pressed light on his pulse. San brushes his lips across Ray's ear, then his chin, and Ray wants. He wants--
He's disgusting, he hasn't even washed when he's just been face-fucked on the floor of a bar restroom, but San kisses him anyway. San licks into his mouth and Ray feels himself whimper into their shared air, feels San's hand tremble a little at his jaw, long fingers slipping over his cheekbones, through his hair. Ray's eyes slide shut and it's so easy like this, to just chase the sensation down deep, to scrape his teeth over San's bitten mouth and leave his own bruises there. They're good at this, they've always been so good at this, and San is so slack and easy now, melting warm and liquid against him like he's exactly where he wants to be.
San has one arm around Ray's waist and a thigh against Ray's groin and he shifts against Ray, searching. Ray's been hard for so long the pressure was almost an after-thought, but now San slides against him deliberately, sends a shiver of electricity down his whole spine, enough for Ray to tear apart their mouths and turn his face away.
There are two things Ray knows with razor-edged certainty: that he will jerk off to this night for possibly the rest of his life, and that there is nothing in the world more dangerous to Ray, personally, than to let San touch him right now.
He moves slower, this time, so San doesn't tighten his hold. He carefully peels himself back from San's body. He clears his throat, but his voice breaks anyway. He says, "I have to go."
"Ray--"
"My--I never told anyone I was leaving, I have to--"
Ray has no intention of returning to the table; if he takes the back exit he might reach the car park without being seen. He shifts his weight, and his knees hold; he doesn't sway. He doesn't want to finish his sentences right now, even if the obvious gaps are deafening, humiliating. He doesn't have the energy to rake any bullshit from the shreds of his throat. San always knows anyway.
San drops his hands to his sides, and he sighs, but he doesn't follow. Ray's mouth is still tingling from his loss.
He's turning the lock before San finally speaks.
"Unblock my number," San says, but Ray doesn't have to answer, because the door slams shut at his back.