Author's Note: I don't know WHY I ship this. I just have. For years. It's cute and has a lot of headcanons about Ray being an artist. I hope you like it. Feel free to leave a review!
Wingless Flight
Ray uses his sketchbook as an escape, but when the Recruits grab it, his crush on Sam gets out. Ray/Sam.
If prompted, Ray could tell a person just about everything there was to know about the Danger Room. In his first few months at the Institute, that was all he'd studied – the Danger Room. He'd struggled in class, got other people to do his homework, and copied off Roberto whenever he'd gotten the chance. School was for cheap tricks and sneaky tactics. The Danger Room required study and finesse and a boundless curiosity.
Ray wasn't exactly lacking in any of the above.
When he wasn't studying the Danger Room, he'd been drawing. Well, sketching, anyway. Ms. Munroe had taken it upon herself to give him a sketchbook, some watercolours, some artist pencils, and a nice set of coloured pencils when he'd mentioned he loved drawing.
In fact, in the last few weeks, Ray had picked up a new muse in the form of one Sam Guthrie. The way Sam's hands flew when he spoke. The way Sam's body curved impossibly quickly once he activated his powers. The way Sam smiled and laughed at every joke and comment the other recruits made. The way he tucked back his hair and ducked his head when he was embarrassed – which was often.
If prompted, Ray would deny there was anything odd about his fascination with Sam. Privately, however, and only to himself, he would admit to having a giant fucking crush on the guy. Which was becoming more and more obvious, and more and more inconvenient, as time went on. In fact, it had reached the point where Ray often wanted to bang his head off a wall whenever he saw Sam. And he had never been more grateful that his powers prevented his mind from being read.
Today, in particular, was proving to be a distraction for Ray.
All of the recruits were crowded in the media room doing their homework. Jamie and Amara were reading, Rahne and Roberto were doing math, Jubilee and Bobby were quizzing each other on Shakespeare quotes. Sam seemed to be doing Chemistry equations. And Ray? Ray was drawing Sam. Again. Though, he really should have been working on his English. But he didn't want to around the others, considering he was still working through two English classes – the one he shared with Bobby and the remedial one he did via correspondence.
It was a little embarrassing to still be struggling with words like "ludicrous" and "harassment" when the class had used them in discussions.
Sam groaned and flopped back on the couch next to Ray. Sam threw an arm over his eyes and gave a put-upon sigh.
"I hate Chemistry," said Sam, simply.
Ray couldn't help the lopsided smirk that split his face. Nor the well-meaning sarcasm that followed. "Really? I hadn't noticed."
Sam lifted his arm and squinted at Ray, lips pursed. "Ya know, you're lucky," said Sam. "You don't have Chemistry."
"Just Bio," said Ray. "And Trig."
"Shouldn't you be doing homework?" asked Sam. "Instead of drawing?" There was a drawl to his voice on the last word, like he couldn't get out the "w" sound without his accent picking back up. Ray smirked at Sam – an expression more common than a smile, for him.
"Yeah," said Ray, simply. Then, he returned to colouring in Sam's eyes. It took three of his blue coloured pencils to get the colour just right, and if he didn't blend them properly, it just turned into a mess. And that wasn't counting the little gold flecks near Sam's pupils…
"What are you drawing, anyway?" asked Jamie, looking up from his book.
Ray curled over his sketchbook protectively and tossed an arm across the picture. He glared at Jamie, who immediately returned to his reading with a squeak. Ray stayed protectively curled around his sketchbook even as he returned to drawing. He didn't want the others to realize all he drew anymore was Sam. That wouldn't end well at all.
It wasn't that he was worried about the gay thing. Professor Logan was bisexual. It was one of those things that had come up by accident, and Professor Logan had made it quite clear what his opinion on bigotry was. Ray, personally, was really happy with the reveal. And, once he was out, he'd probably talk to Professor Logan about sexuality and stuff. It'd be nice to have an adult know about this kind of thing.
"Dinner's ready," called Scott from the kitchen. The recruits scrambled to their feet and headed for the kitchen. In the rush, Ray simply closed his sketchbook and tossed it under his trig homework, figuring no one would look at it.
Ray scrambled through the media room, heedless of other belongings as he dug around for his sketchbook. But, try as he might, he couldn't find his sketchbook. It had simply disappeared.
"Damn it," hissed Ray, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Where is it? Where is it?" He tossed a couch pillow over his shoulder and felt around in the cushions.
"Dude, what's got you?" asked Bobby from behind him. Ray paid him little attention.
"Sketchbook," he said, trying to keep the panic from his voice. He thought he'd mostly succeeded. He turned to see if Bobby could help him find it, only to spot Roberto through the door as it swung shut. Roberto, who was holding his sketchbook.
Ray swore and dove passed Bobby to the door. He shoved it open and ran after Roberto's retreating figure. Ray managed to get to the kitchen only a few seconds after Roberto, but by then the damage was done. The sketchbook was open to a particularly… compromising picture of Sam, and half the recruits, plus Scott and Kitty, were staring at it.
"Oh my god," breathed Kitty. And Ray cursed inwardly as he tried to control his breathing. He knew what that picture was, even only catching a glimpse.
It was a picture of Sam, shirtless and dripping water, wearing a pair of jeans, with this thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He was leaning against a wall, wearing a half-smirk half-grin that Ray had only seen once or twice, and his hair was slicked back and dripping water down his chest and across his shoulders.
And of course, standing in the middle of the crowd around the table, staring at the picture with wide eyes and a face as red as a tomato, was Sam.
Ray started backing out of the kitchen silently, only to hit the counter and send a bunch of silverware clattering into itself. Immediately, all eyes were on him.
If there was ever a time Ray wished he had the ability to open up the ground beneath his feet and allow it to swallow him whole, it was now. As it was, he didn't have that power. And so he was forced to stand there, frozen half from embarrassment and half from shock, as everyone stared at him.
Sam was the first to break the silence. "Is that how you see me?"
Ray swallowed hard. His lips were very dry. He wanted to lick them. He couldn't, because that would have looked really incriminating in the face of that picture. And he didn't even know how to place Sam's tone. Was it curious? Disgusted? Embarrassed? All of the above? He just didn't know. Couldn't tell above the roaring in his ears.
"Sometimes," managed Ray, keeping his tone neutral. It might have been a little higher than normal. But he hoped no one would notice.
Roberto snickered. "Sam, dude, that's not the only way he sees you, have you seen the rest of this book?" Roberto flipped to another page. One of Sam and Bobby hunched over a book together. Ray had spent special attention to Sam's eyes in that picture – they were the only coloured thing in them. That had been the day he'd perfected Sam's eye colour. It had taken three blue coloured pencils and one metallic gold.
"It's all you," said Kitty. "Like it's almost all you." There was a sense of awe in her voice that made Ray want to hide. Of course she'd like it. She was the type.
"You guys done?" asked Ray, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "Or do you wanna mock me some more?"
Roberto grinned. "This is prime mocking material."
"Assholes," spat Ray, letting his face curl into a sneer. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could shake the hurt out of his eyes. Could shake the way he felt with every look Sam gave him. Still indecipherable, or maybe he was just choosing not to understand them.
He turned and walked out of the room. Pretended not to feel the way everyone stared at him as he left. Squared his shoulders anyway and blinked back tears he didn't dare let gather.
Whatever. He didn't need the book anyway. Even if it did have his only notes on Sam's eye colour. And Amara's flames. And Scott's glasses. It wasn't like he'd ever want to draw again after this fiasco.
Hours later, Ray found himself on the roof of the Institute. He laid on his back with his arms folded behind his head and stared up at the stars. There were dozens of constellations he could name. His mother had taught him most of them before she'd died, and Calypso had taught him the rest when he'd lived with the Morlocks. Sometimes they'd surface at night to hunt for food or clothes together. She'd taught him the stars while they hid on rooftops and waited for the police officers and the gang members of the lower east side to stop looking for them.
A book dropped into his lap. Ray jumped. Sat up and grabbed the book. It was his sketchbook, just as worn around the edges as it had been when he'd lost it.
Ray looked up to see Sam staring down at him, hands stuffed in his pockets. Even with the knowledge that Sam knew how he felt. Even with the knowledge that Sam hadn't said anything. That the Institute had laughed at him. He couldn't shake his feelings for Sam. Couldn't shake the way his heart rose to his throat whenever Sam looked at him. Couldn't shake the way his breath caught when Sam tipped his head just so and the golden flecks in his eyes lit up like the summer sky on a clear day.
"Thanks," said Ray, and he was impressed by how calm he sounded. Disinterested, even.
Sam sat down on the rooftop next to him. "You okay?" asked Sam.
Ray wanted to laugh. Was he okay? The guy he'd had a crush on for months was sitting next to him, with the knowledge that Ray had been drawing him for who knows how long (two months, one week, three days. But who was counting?) without his consent, and the guy asked him if he was okay. God, this was part of why Ray liked Sam so much. Even with Sam probably facing the same awful jokes and looks Ray had been dodging all night, Sam was still focused on other people.
Ray wanted to laugh. In fact, he did laugh. Loudly.
"I'll take that as a no," said Sam, his own voice quiet. A stark contrast to Ray.
Ray stopped laughing. "No, just…. Are you okay?" he asked.
"Why wouldn't I be?" asked Sam, tilting his head.
"You saw the sketchbook, right?" asked Ray. He raised an eyebrow at Sam.
Sam shrugged. His ears went red. He was trying to play casual, but the ears gave him away. Now Ray was interested. What on Earth could make Sam this nervous? Not in the run-away kind of way, but in the want-to-know-more kind of way. Ray's sketchbook? But that would mean…
Ray shook off the thought before it finished forming. He wasn't getting his hopes up over nothing.
"Some of it," said Sam. "You're… really good." The red spread from Sam's ears to across his cheeks. It dusted Sam's nose and cheeks, highlighting the light freckles across the bridge of Sam's nose.
"Doesn't it… bother you?" asked Ray, slowly.
"No," said Sam. "You're good. And yeah, maybe you should have asked, but you did, when you first got it, and I never thought about what you'd draw." That was true, Ray had purposely asked everyone if they'd be okay with him drawing them in his book, just so he didn't have to worry about it. But some of the ways he'd drawn Sam – asleep, shirtless and dripping, that coy smile Sam only got when he was scheming – those were the kind of things you ask special permission for. At least he'd stopped before he'd seen Sam in… less clothing than that shirtless picture.
Not that he would have drawn it. That would have been supremely shitty of him. But the temptation would have been there. The temptation to draw. To ask. To know.
"You make me look really good," said Sam, pulling Ray from his less than appropriate thoughts.
"Nothing to it, really," said Ray, feeling bold. "I just draw what I see."
"That really how you see me then?" asked Sam. And his accent was getting thicker with each word, until he sounded a bit like a deeper, less hoarse version of Rogue. And there was an interesting mental image.
"Yeah, basically," said Ray.
Sam was silent for a minute. Then, turning as red as Scott's glasses, he said, "I really like that one of me in the jeans. That the others saw."
Ray flushed as well. "Yeah?" he asked in a tight voice.
"Yeah," said Sam. "I know I'm clumsy and awkward and gangly. And girls don't really like me – and neither do guys – but like…" He trailed off. Bit his lip. Started again. "You made me look cool, look good. Like I could flirt with anyone in the world and get them."
"You could get at least one," said Ray, without thinking. Sam looked at him, biting his lip in a way that Ray totally wouldn't describe as adorable.
"You really think so?" asked Sam, quietly.
And this was the moment of truth. Ray felt that in his bones. He felt his lungs shut down, felt his heart jackhammer in his chest until it ached. Felt himself go pale and then flush red in a singular, continuous instant. He scooted just a little bit closer to Sam.
"Yeah," said Ray. His breath ghosted close to Sam. "I do."
Sam stared at Ray, biting his lip. "Look, Ray."
Ray pulled back to a more reasonable distance and said nothing. Of course it was too much to ask for. He could be such an idiot some times. He pressed his hands onto the cover of the sketchbook, then picked it up and tossed it next to him. Tried not to look too upset.
"Ray…" Sam's voice was hesitant and soft. It was a thinking kind of voice. The kind that made Ray's heart clench because those voices always meant trouble when directed at him.
"Look, I… I want…" Sam sighed and put his head in his hands. "Why is this so hard?" mumbled Sam, obviously mostly to himself.
Ray watched Sam with his own pained expression.
"South," said Ray, pulling up a nickname he hadn't used in days. "Talk to me."
"I like you," said Sam, quietly. Ray stopped breathing. "And I always thought you were out of my league, but now I learn you like me back, and I don't know what to do with that. I ain't out to anyone but my Mama, and she's fine with it." His accent got thicker with every word. "But the guys are all laughin' it up down stairs, and I don' wanna be part of that."
Sam looked at him then, and Ray remembered to breathe again. "They'll lay off when Logan gets home, you know how he gets about that shit."
"Yeah," said Sam. He snorted. "You know he dated a god?"
"Seriously?" asked Ray, raising his eyebrows.
"Yeah, Hercules," replied Sam.
Ray laughed. "Shit." And then the two fell silent again, neither one quite sure what to say.
"We don't have to be anything," said Ray. "Nothing has to change."
"It's already changed," replied Sam, not looking at him.
Ray nodded, even though he wasn't sure Sam could see him. "Yeah." He couldn't argue that.
"I wanna be together," said Sam. "I just don't know how. I've never dated before."
Ray reached out and hesitantly entwined one of his hands with one of Sam's. He gave Sam a small, hesitant smile and let the warmth of his feelings flood his eyes.
"We can do slow," said Ray, surprised by how gentle his tone was. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to."
Sam tightened his hand in Ray's and smiled.
"Okay?" asked Ray.
"Okay," said Sam. And Ray pulled Sam closer and kissed his cheek. Sam blushed. Ray didn't try anything else. He rested his head on Sam's shoulder and pointed out the constellations that he knew. Sam filled in the blanks, and they swapped stories for hours about who had taught them the constellations.
And the entire time, their hands remained entwined, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.