Chapter Text
Only Friends Stay (★★★★½ of 1,279 reviews)
A hip, happening hostel in the heart of the greatest city on Earth! Come see why everyone who passes through becomes a friend for life at Only Friends Stay.
The exterior photo shows an older-looking mansion, like any residential home. But the inside is bright, airy, and colourful, with a world map on one wall and a bar built right into the common area. Sand likes it immediately.
“Hmm, almost five stars,” he comments. “Not bad.” He leans closer to the laptop screen and reads on.
Originally dreamed up as part of a business class final project (for which we totally got an A by the way), Only Friends Stay is run by a group of young locals who can offer you everything, from advice on hidden gems and undiscovered neighbourhoods to the most delicious restaurants and access to the hottest clubs in Sukhumvit! We’re centrally located in Watthana only minutes from the BTS. Both dorm-style and private rooms are available.
“They have a parking lot too,” Ten adds, pointing to the amenities list. Sand’s close friend and fellow band member grins up at him. “And a basement that can be rented by the hour during the day, so we can practice.”
That is certainly going to be necessary. After bumming around their hometown of Phuket for years playing bar gigs for tipsy expats, Sand’s band has finally gotten their semi-big break—a summer contract as openers for more well-known bands in Bangkok. It’s no Glastonbury, but Sand’s fantasized about playing on a proper stage ever since he first visited Bangkok on an overnight school trip. Even as an underage teen sneaking into Decommune bar with some friends, Sand had felt more alive than he ever had screaming along with the crowd, and he knew from that moment that he wanted to be the one they were screaming for someday.
Special note: We are a PARTY hostel! You don’t have to join us, but we are LOUD and PROUD, so this is not the place to stay if you’re looking for a quiet experience or a good night’s sleep. There’s a reason our neighbours sold the land next door! Come party with us and be our friend today. We’re waiting for you ♥
Sand figures they’ll be out most nights playing gigs, and wouldn’t be looking to sleep until 3 or 4 in the morning anyways, when hostel parties are sure to have died down. Besides, it looks like fun—the pictures show mostly twenty-somethings downing drinks, swimming in a backyard pool, and doing karaoke in what he guesses is the basement. The rooms look spacious enough, and there’s a four-bunk one available for their dates that will fit the entire band and their luggage. Most importantly, the price is right; they're doing this more for the exposure than the pay, and their meagre budget won’t allow them to spring for a more practical AirBnB.
“Ford, what do you think?” Sand asks their drummer, who’s seated on Sand’s bean bag chair scrolling through Tinder.
Ford barely lifts his head. “Anywhere that has a bar is fine with me.”
Ten laughs. “Moji?”
Their second guitarist (Sand is the first, along with providing lead vocals of course) is the shyest of the group. If anyone is going to be against the idea of a “party hostel,” it’s Moji. But he surprises the other three by grinning wildly, showing off his bright blue braces. “Sounds good. This is going to kick so much ass!”
Sand high-fives him. “Sick. Book it, Ten.”
He stretches and eyes the calendar pinned to their kitchen wall. Only two more weeks until they spend two months in the city. Of course they won’t be playing every night; the schedule is designed to maximize customers, so it’s mostly Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday gigs, with the occasional holiday one squeezed in. During the week, they’ll have plenty of time to explore or rest, the latter of which Sand is sure they’re going to need.
Unlike Ford, Sand has no interest in finding romance. A one-night stand maybe—he’s good looking and charismatic, necessary frontman qualities after all—but after his recent messy breakup with his longtime boyfriend Boeing, he doesn’t want to go further than sex. Thankfully, the opportunities are endless in a city like Bangkok, and being bisexual, Sand all but has his pick.
In the end, the music is what’s most important. The exposure could land them permanent gigs, or maybe even a slot opening at a local festival like Big Mountain or Summer Sonic Bangkok. There’s no telling where they might take off from there: Fuji Rock, South by Southwest… Sand imagines himself bumping elbows with Julian Casablancas at Leeds Music Festival, or Win Butler at Osheaga.
It’s a someday sort of dream, but it will start with this.
***
“Alright, that’s the last of it,” Moji reports. “I think we’re good to go.”
It’s 7:30am on a Wednesday, and Sand and his friends are loading up their stuff. Most people fly between Phuket and Bangkok since it’s barely an hour, but because of all the gear they need to bring, they’ll be taking the van nearly twelve hours on the AH2 and up the 35. Sand doesn’t mind driving so he’s volunteered to take the wheel, with the tradeoff that he gets the aux for the duration of the journey.
Moji is the most organized of the four of them and acts as the unofficial band manager. He even has a checklist he’d printed out and affixed to a clipboard, his glasses pushed up his nose, a golf pencil in hand. Sand musses his hair and hands him the keys. “Thanks man. Get the AC going and I’ll be there in a minute.”
Sand’s mother, who had scored them the deal on the van thanks to some guy she knows from work, stands in front of him in a hibiscus patterned dress. “My baby,” she coos at him, planting a noisy, lipstick-smearing kiss on his cheek. “Please text me as soon as you get there, okay?” She narrows her eyes. “Don’t forget, or I’ll book the next flight out and hunt you down.”
Sand laughs and rolls his eyes at the same time. “Mae, we’re going to Bangkok, not London,” he replies. “We’ll be fine.”
“I know, I know.” She fusses with the collar of his brown corduroy jacket. “Just make sure you eat well. Don’t assume you can survive on beer and gai yang for two months.” She lights up a cigarette and says, as an afterthought, “And try to cut back on smoking.”
Sand grins. He knows she means well; she’s always been a do as I say, not as I do kind of mother and he wouldn’t have it any other way. It takes a special woman to raise a child as a single parent, doubly so when Sand has no idea who his father even is.
“I promise I’ll try,” he assures her. “Don’t worry. The hostel has a kitchen where we can cook, and I’m too broke to get drunk every weekend anyways.”
She nods. “I’ll try to send a few thousand when I get paid next.”
Sand shakes his head. “Don’t.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’m 24, mae. I’m the one who should be taking care of you.”
He already does, bringing his mother to her doctor’s appointments and making sure she takes her vitamins. He lives with his friends while she lives in a studio close to work, but he stops by nearly every day just to check in on her, after a health scare last year where she’d fainted from high blood pressure. Their dual schedules as bar-workers make it easy.
“No, no,” she scolds him. “Your job is having fun and living your best life as a young man!” She butts her smoke out and crushes it under her black heel, then leans in for a hug. “I slipped some condoms into your bag, by the way.”
“Mae!” Sand pulls away and swats her playfully.
“What? I know what you’re like.” She winks at him. “Enjoy yourself, but be the kind, respectful boy I raised. And please… protect your heart.”
As one of his best friends (no, it’s not weird, okay?) Sand's mother has heard all about his breakup woes. She never liked Boeing, finding him too condescending and fake. It turned out that his attitude wasn’t exactly the problem, but more so his habit of sticking his dick in other guys while Sand was out playing at the bar. But either way, she knows Sand’s not after anything but fun, and she can hardly discourage him when she works at a gogo bar herself.
“I will.” He tugs her in for another hug and kisses the top of her head. “I love you, mae. We’ll probably get there around 7 or 8.”
She nods. “Keep me posted. I love you too, my baby.”
Sand opens the driver’s side door and settles in. Moji is fiddling with the AC in the passenger seat, while Ford plays a game on his phone in the back and Ten is already napping. He leans out the window and blows one last kiss towards his mum, before he backs out of the parking garage and onto the soi.
Having grown up in Phuket, he knows most people north of the province probably envy him, imagining that residents wake up, eat mangos right off the trees, and relax on the beach all day. However, it’s only a paradise for those who can afford it. With rising prices due to tourism and a lack of decent jobs, this journey to the city feels like a turning point in his otherwise dull life. He’s never even been outside the country.
900 kilometres is a long, long drive, the longest Sand’s ever done, but the scenery along the highway makes it worth it. He plays the music at a reasonable volume with one hand out the window, a slight breeze blowing his hair back from his forehead.
Last night she said
Oh, baby, I feel so down
Oh, it turns me off when I feel left out
So I, I turned 'round
Oh, baby, don't care no more
I know this for sure
I'm walking out that door
Sand had only recently moved in with Ten and Moji. Up until a year ago, he lived with Boeing in the type of condo that likely enters people’s heads when they think of Phuket: white stucco walls, marble countertops, a wide balcony overlooking a sleepy beach. Boeing was a local tour guide and aspiring flight attendant, but his father’s investments meant he didn’t have to worry much about money. They’d met at a shop and Boeing came to one of Sand's shows. Sand had fallen for him instantly, and they were inseparable from that night.
It wasn’t his wealth Sand enjoyed, but spending every evening with him watching cheesy movies on the couch, or tenderly making love in their cozy bedroom decorated with posters of their shared favourite bands. But their three years together had been ruined by nameless tourists that Boeing couldn’t resist; the relationship had gotten stale for him and instead of breaking up with Sand, he’d tried to use sex as a bandaid. When the singer found out, he was devastated.
Sand moved in with his friends as soon as he could, but unfortunately, he still sees his ex around town—yet another reason to be excited about this tour.
And see, people, they don't understand
Your girlfriends, they can't understand
Your grandsons, they won't understand
On top of this, I ain't ever gonna understand
They stop at a PTT for lunch and discuss the upcoming first set, which will be on Saturday, a couple days after they arrive. It had been Moji’s idea to give themselves time to acclimate and practice. They’ve all been friends since high school and have a slew of original songs they can play, as well as covers of their idols like The Libertines, Arctic Monkeys, The Strokes, and Joy Division.
Their own band is called Snow in Phuket, which started as a joke between them and evolved into a working name because they couldn’t think of anything else. Sand finds it goofy, but until they can drum up something better, it’ll have to do.
“I think we should start with a cover,” Ford suggests. “People who don’t know us won’t want to listen to our original stuff until we show them that we can keep up with the best.”
Ten shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me. We’re just the openers anyways.” He takes a sip of water and looks at Sand. “What do you think, frontman?”
Sand chuckles. “It probably depends where we play as well,” he muses. “Or who we open for. ‘I Bet That You Look Good On The Dancefloor’ will work at Speakerbox, for example, but Rock Pub doesn’t even have one.”
“Good point.” Moji, ever type-A, writes it down on his clipboard, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth. “Well, our first is Decommune, so what do you guys want to do?”
They iron out the plan over khao soi and chips before piling back into the van. Ten offers to drive but Sand shakes his head. He likes doing it, and it keeps him distracted from the nerves growing in his stomach. Playing in front of a bunch of drunks at a makeshift beach bar is one thing, but these shows might actually mean something. Every bit has to go smoothly.
Sand is yawning by the time they reach their destination. It’s closer to 9:00pm than 8:00 thanks to the traffic—he had Ford text his mother a while ago from his phone just to keep her from panicking—and he’s following the GPS onto a tiny soi lit only by the lights of a 7-Eleven. Stray dogs bark, car horns shriek, and motorcycle taxis roar from all sides.
Sand grins to himself. This is the city alright.
True to the writeup on the hostel-booking website, Only Friends Stay has a dirt parking lot right next to the building. Sand shifts the gear and parks the van. All three of his friends have dozed off.
“Wake up, dipshits,” he calls, smacking each of them on the shoulder. It takes a few hits to rouse Ford, but soon the foursome are standing at the front door of the place, which looks more like some mafia honcho’s summer home than a hard-partying hostel. They can hear the music playing from the backyard and the voices of people chatting and laughing.
It’s keycard entry only, so Sand rings the doorbell, duffle in hand. They’ve left the instruments in the van for now; someone named Mew had emailed them saying they could keep them in the basement storage area for an extra 100 baht a week.
When the door opens, Sand, Ford, Ten, and Moji are face to face with what feels like a dozen smiles, although on closer inspection it’s only five or so. The excited staff cry out in unison, “Welcome to Only Friends Stay!” and clap loudly.
Sand quickly takes stock. Tall, cute guy with glasses? Check. Taller, hot guy with a polo shirt and muscular arms that could probably choke him? Check. Two pretty girls, one with long, waist-length hair and the other with a short bob and stylish shirt? Check. All of them are wearing name tags that indicate they work here, which means Sand can get to know them over the next couple of months.
Jackpot. I’ve entered a bisexual’s dream.
“Welcome!” The long-haired girl grabs Sand’s arm and tugs him towards a counter. “I’m Namcheuam, but you can call me Cheuam.” Her name tag is decorated with flower stickers and glitter. “I do PR for the hostel. You guys must be Snow in Phuket, right?”
Sand blushes. The band name sounds a lot less cool when someone says it out loud. “Yeah. I’m Sand, and this is Ford, Ten, and Moji.” He motions to his bandmates who all smile shyly. Moji has a girlfriend back home, but Ten and Ford are as single as Sand is, and they both like women exclusively. Sand is the only one open to everyone.
He remembers corresponding with Cheuam actually; she’d been more than excited to welcome the band, and had repeatedly asked if they could do some kind of promo-trade, with the band advertising the hostel on IG and vice-versa. They’d worked out a deal to do it a few weeks after settling in, as long as both were satisfied with the arrangement.
“Cool.” She slips behind the counter where another cute guy—this one shorter, with deep brown eyes and thick black hair—is typing something into a laptop. “Nick will sort you out with your room keys, and then we can give you a tour!”
As Nick checks their IDs, Sand looks at the photos that hang behind the reception desk. They serve as a sort of time-capsule, showing the group of friends in their university uniforms all the way up to the ribbon-cutting on the hostel’s first day. Various months and years are affixed below each photo to show the progress they’ve made. Sand smiles when he sees a wall of text labeled “First five-star review!” dated nearly three years prior.
“Mew, did you get a hold of Ray?” The short haired girl asks the guy with glasses. Sand tries to commit their names to memory.
“No, I didn’t.” Mew rests his arm on the counter next to Sand. “I think he passed out already. All my messages are unread.”
“Do you want me to swing by his place?” The other tall guy throws an arm around Mew with a look of disdain on his face. “He’s supposed to take the German tourists on the pub crawl in fifteen minutes.”
The short haired girl sighs. “Yeah, maybe. Would you mind?”
The tall guy shakes his head. “It’s no problem,” he responds, in a tone that indicates it absolutely is. “Can you take the group if he doesn’t show, Cheuam?”
“Yeah, April and I will go.” She shakes her head as well. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with him!”
Mew looks more forthcoming. “I’m sure he’s just taking a nap. The pub crawls always go until late anyways.” He turns to Sand and his friends. “Are you guys interested? We have a tuk-tuk leaving here at 10:00 for the first stop.”
Sand smiles. “I don’t know about these guys, but we just drove from Phuket, and all I want to do is shower and sleep.” Mew is adorable, so he adds pleasantly, “Maybe next time.”
“Sure, I understand.” Mew tugs the sleeve of the other tall guy. “Come on, Top. Let’s go get Ray.”
Mew. Cheuam. Top. April. Nick.
“Okay, here you guys go.” The cutie behind the counter—Nick, Sand just said it inwardly—hands them each a keycard. “Doors are open from 8:00am to 7:00pm, but after that we lock them, so please bring your keycard with you when you leave. It works for your room and the back door as well.” He points to the back of the card. “WiFi password is here and it’s also on the desk in your room. I handle all the tech stuff, so if there’s any problem, please text the Line group with your room number and I’ll sort you out.” He taps a printed QR code on the back wall. “Scan this to join; all staff are part of it.”
Cheuam takes them to their room, which is modest and clean, if not anything special. There’s a private bathroom just for them and two bunk beds, one against each wall. Sand has done enough summer-camping to know that as an adult, the lower bunk is superior. He shoves his bag underneath the bed and cries out, “I get first shower! Driver privileges.”
Ford laughs. “Whatever. I slept like five hours. I'm going to go check out the pool. You guys coming?”
Moji opts to read his book, but Ten joins Ford, promising to bring back snacks from the convenience store later. Sand can’t even think about food; his eyes are drooping shut against his will. He may not even make it to the shower at this point.
In spite of his exhaustion, he smiles. We made it. They’d gotten a discount on this room because they’re staying so long, and everyone who works here is smoking hot, not to mention the guests who will be checking in in the months to come. Sand is young, sexy, and single, and in one of the best cities to party. He finally understands what social media has been saying.
It’s hot boy summer.
***
Their first couple days go by in a blur. After passing out on Wednesday evening, Sand and his friends bring their gig gear into the basement, aided by Top and Mew. It turns out they’re a couple (to Sand’s disappointment), as are Namcheuam and April (to everyone’s). But a trio of pretty Australian girls check in on Thursday afternoon, so Sand isn’t short on potentials, and there’s certainly more to come.
The band meets the managers of Decommune bar where their first gig will be and go over the setlist that they hope to play. True to their word, the Only Friends Stay staff lets them practice in the basement as long as they clean up afterwards and don’t touch anything. It’s only in the evenings that it’s used for other activities, like karaoke.
Oh, but didn't you always say
There's gonna to be a better way
Oh oh oh
And I'm still lying in the muck
Mucking down with you
Lying in the muck now
Mucking down baby with you
Sand says the last words in barely a whisper, keeping true to the original singer’s voice. They’ve decided to start and end with covers so they can gauge the audience’s reaction to their own songs in between, and possibly play them as encores.
“Sick.” Ten taps the neck of Sand’s ancient guitar. He really needs a new one, but… well, in what universe? “You’re a bit out of tune, Sand.”
“I have been for years,” Sand jokes. He twists one of the pegs and strums at the same time. “I’ll try to have it good for tomorrow, but there are lots of good shops here too. Maybe I can see a pro.”
Moji nods. “My cousin knows a guy who works at a shop in Din Daeng. I can ask him for his contact info.”
“Sure.”
It’s Friday afternoon and the hostel is quiet. Most tourists are out during the day and come back for dinner, before either retiring to their rooms or going out again to experience the nightlife. The band will do that eventually, but Sand has been adamant that they prepare meticulously for their first show, if for no other reason than to set the tone for the rest of the season.
“We need to discuss the most important thing.” Ford sits on the stool behind his drum kit and cocks his head thoughtfully. “What are you guys wearing tomorrow night? We’re opening for a post-punk band.”
Moji nods. “Probably my Smiths t-shirt and jeans. You?”
“Something similar, yeah. Or maybe the black button-down.” Ford eyes Sand with a smirk. “And you, Alex Turner?”
Ten drops to his knees in front of Sand and grabs his thighs, looking up at him in mock-frustration. “Not the leather jacket, Sand. Anything but the leather jacket.” He sniffs back his fake-tears. “Please, leave a crumb of pussy for the rest of us.”
Sand laughs and shoves him. “Don’t be an idiot, man.”
He can be humble about it, but he knows exactly what they mean. Guys, girls, and everyone else go crazy for Sand when he wears any sort of jacket, but the leather one is a standout, and makes him look the part of the rockstar he always feels like onstage. It doesn’t help that it was a thrift-store find and is worn in to perfection; Sand will wear it until it falls apart.
He rolls his eyes. “I can wear what I want. It’s not my fault none of you have any fucking game.” He crosses his arms. “Also, no one is stopping you from wearing one too.”
“Ouch.” Ten rises to his feet and puts a hand over his heart. “I’m hurt, Sand, I really am. I haven’t had sex in so long I’m practically a virgin again. It’s a real thing, look it up. I think like three months?”
Sand laughs. “Then I’m one too, so I have just as much right to the buffet as you.” He carefully puts his guitar back into its case. “We’ll see. I haven’t even unpacked my stuff yet. My outfit for tomorrow isn’t exactly high on my list of priorities.”
“Just remember us plebs while you’re swimming in dick, my guy.” Ten salutes him. “I’m going to go take a nap.”
Once the instruments are safely put away in the adjacent storage room, Sand calls his mother and then walks to 7-Eleven for a snack. He thinks about downloading Tinder or something, but it’s almost overwhelming thinking about the thirteen million people that live in this city. Sand’s not full of himself, but he’s nothing if not a realist. He knows he’s hot. He could have someone in his bed in a heartbeat.
But which bed? He’s sharing a cramped hostel bedroom with three other guys; it’s not exactly the most inviting place to bring a person back to. He could do the old ‘sock on the door’ thing, which he’s sure his bandmates would respect, but it feels kind of slimy.
Besides, he has two months. Something’s bound to come up.
The boys eat dinner with a traveling couple from Canada, practicing their English and talking about different bands. Sand likes some from that part of the world, like The Tragically Hip and The Trews, so the conversation flows well. The food Ford cooks isn’t bad either. The couple promise to come see them one night and then head out to Chatuchak Market.
Sand’s been trying so hard to be a good boy, but after finishing his dessert, he’s absolutely jonesing for a smoke. Up until now he’s only had one, in the alley outside Decommune. He slips the pack from his back pocket and walks towards the front door.
Mew appears out of nowhere like a watchdog. “Oh, hi there. Sand, right?”
“Yeah?”
“We have a smoking area on the roof. Do you mind? It’s easier to keep track of the butts that way.” He politely but firmly points to a set of stairs Sand hadn’t noticed.
Sand shrugs. “Yeah, no problem.” He still thinks Mew is cute, but even after two days here, he’s picked up on the quiet menace that emanates from the nerdy man’s eyes. It’s probably best not to cross him.
He obediently walks up the three flights of stairs and pushes out the steel door that says ROOF ACCESS: ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK in bright red letters.
Sand locates the smoking area, where two flimsy chairs are set up, an old table in the middle and an ashtray on top. He doesn’t bother sitting, but instead leans over the railing of the roof and takes in the sparkling lights of downtown. It’s only eight o’clock at night; Bangkok isn’t even awake yet. He flicks his prized orange Bic a few times so the spark will catch.
He’s nervous about all the little details. Will his voice last for more than an hour of songs? Will his guitar string break from playing too hard? He worries about clamming up in front of a crowd of hundreds, of coming across as lame or uncoordinated or just plain bad. It’s not easy to get objective opinions on his skills from the drunken frat boys who usually listen to them… or worse, his mother. He loves her, but she pretty much has to tell him he’s talented; it’s like in the Mum’s Handbook or something. Sand inhales the smoke with a deep breath and tries to exhale his anxiety into the balmy night air.
“Hey.”
A voice interrupts his rumination, sounding louder in the silence of the empty area. Sand slowly turns his body towards the source and spots a lone figure half-hidden in the shadow of the central air conditioning unit next to the door.
“Hey,” he says back with a wave.
The person walks towards him. “Are you a guest here?”
Sand is taken aback by his demanding tone and straightens up, one hand on his hip. “No, I broke into your mansion just to smoke on the roof. Nice view.”
His sarcastic response earns him a low-throated chuckle from the stranger, who ambles under the floodlight. “Touché. Don’t worry, I work here. I’m just doing my due diligence.”
Sand bites his lip when his full face becomes visible.
The man looks to be around his age, with tousled hair held in place by subtle gel, a pair of silver earrings in his ears. His eyes are unlike any Sand’s ever seen, dark and curved like a clef into their sharp corners. He, too, fishes a pack of smokes from his pocket as he reaches the set of chairs, and his face relaxes into a pretty smile, teeth white and lips pouty-pink.
Hanging haphazardly from his garishly-patterned lapel is a name tag that reads Ray, with a sticker of a sun stuck to it.
Fuck, he's hot.
So far, Sand’s met every staff member of Only Friends Stay apart from two. The first missing person is Boston, a photographer who works part-time at the hostel and is supposed to take photos of Sand and the band for their promo agreement. Sand has his email but nothing more; he figures it doesn’t really matter yet.
The second missing person is standing in front of him with a cigarette in his mouth and his eyebrows raised. “Got a light?” he asks, eyes wide and inquisitive.
Sand laughs. “You smoke but don’t carry a lighter?” He takes his own from his jeans and flicks the flame out.
Ray leans over it and inhales, then breathes a cool plume over the tabletop. “It gives me an excuse to talk to people.”
"That's... not a bad idea," Sand approves.
Ray grins. “It works most of the time. But honestly, I lost it the other night at Neon. Speaking of…” He steps closer. “You coming? The pub crawl ticket gets you a free drink at each bar, and going out with me guarantees you a good time.” He cocks his head to the side, mouth moving a mile a minute. “Na? Interested? What’s your name by the way?”
Sand’s already heard whispers about Ray from both the other guests and the friends Ray runs this place with, although the latter group mostly speaks about him with annoyance. The night they’d checked in, Ray really had passed out, and April and Cheuam had to take over the babysitting of the group. But despite his flighty nature, it sounds like he’s good at the job—the Canadians had told Sand and the others about Ray dancing on tables and singing karaoke all night. The man in front of him is buzzing with that same energy, eyes eager for Sand’s reply.
“Sand.” He holds out his hand and Ray shakes it. “And I’m not sure about tonight. We have our first gig tomorrow evening and I’d rather not be hungover for it.”
Ray laughs. “Isn’t that what true rock stars do?” He pauses, then without waiting for an answer, blurts out, “Wait, a gig? Are you the one who’s here with a band?” He scrunches up his face and looks to the side, his free hand waving about. “Snow in Phuket, right?”
Sand winces; even from the mouth of someone as pretty as Ray, their band name still sounds lame as hell. “Yeah, that’s us.”
“Excellent. Hey, maybe I can pull a few strings to take our pub crawl to one of your shows sometime. Would you like that?”
Ray is being exceedingly nice to him, and Sand has a fleeting, hopeful thought that it’s because he’s into him. Stop, he scolds himself. You met him like five seconds ago, and it’s his job to be friendly. He literally works here.
But he can’t deny that Ray is gorgeous; he’d love to see him in a crowd watching him play, those beautiful eyes fixed on him. “Yeah, that’d be cool,” he says, trying to act nonchalant while his stomach gurgles with excitement.
Ray takes a quick drag. “What kind of music?”
“Post-punk, Britrock. We do originals and covers.”
Ray’s eyes light up. “No way! I love that shit. The Strokes are my favourite band. Well, besides Micro.”
“Really?” Sand wouldn’t have taken Ray for an alt fan, but he smiles all the same. “Well then yeah, come see us. We’re lined up at Decommune this weekend and Speakerbox the next. It’s a summer booking kind of thing, for two months.”
“Hmm.” Ray nods. “You must be pretty talented, if you’re going to be sticking around for such a long time.”
Sand takes the opportunity to be a little cocky. “I am.”
“And I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” Ray ashes his smoke into the tray, his delicate fingers adorned with shiny rings. He looks up at Sand through his thick eyelashes and grins.
Don’t flirt Sand don’t flirt Sand don’t—
“A lot,” is all he says back, but he can’t resist adding a smirk.
Ray runs a hand through his hair. “Well if you’re not going to come out with us, at least come downstairs.” Sand raises an eyebrow and Ray continues, “We do pre-drinking games before every pub crawl, and if you play, you get 50% off your drink at our basement bar.” He pokes Sand on his bare arm. “Na? Na? Come join us. It’ll be fuuuuuuuun.” He sticks his lower lip out and blinks a few times, eyes like a puppy. “Please, Sand?”
Sand would normally be put off by such blatant begging, but there’s something about this man that has his curiosity piqued. "What kind of games?"
Ray smirks back at him. "You won't know unless you come."
It’s harmless, isn’t it? Ray’s cute and inviting, and Sand isn’t looking for anything serious. If chatting him up means he might have a chance to kiss the pout right off his doll face—or possibly more—that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?
“Sure,” he agrees, ashing out his own smoke. He sticks the butt firmly into the sand and follows Ray across the roof, back to the steel door.
The other man looks behind him and winks. His expression tells Sand he’s nothing but trouble. “We’re famous for these,” he tosses out casually. "It's always a good way to make new friends."
On his way down the stairs, the singer texts his bandmates.
Sand: guys, is it too late to change our name?