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No one says it out loud in fear of what he might do, but it was a commonly known fact that Ray was pretty. A kind of beauty that was, somehow, unique to him. It wasn't the kind of beauty that was often commercialized, but the kind that was almost innocent– despite Ray's frequently foul expressions– in its subtly.
The young ones would always be patting his cheeks and they– the girls especially– would ask things like, "could we braid your hair?" while entangling flowers into his raven strands. When Ray was holding one of their smallest siblings, arms filled with the blanket wrapped around the infant, the precious child would always be owlishly blinking at him, eyes never leaving his face.
During a time when survival wasn't even a thought, Emma was tempted to say that Ray was beautiful in the same way Mama was. But that wasn't completely right. Mama's elegant smile and the methodical twinkle in her eyes made her seem unattainable. Ray wasn't like that; he was always close enough to pull into a hug or to whisper whatever Emma wanted in his ear.
She recalls a small Ray, looking above at that skies, book forgotten in his hands. Back then, his eyes were soft and he would always stare into oblivion like he was doing that very day. There was, without a doubt, a melody stuck in his head. The Ray who used to be open and tell her his thoughts with little probing told her that there was a song he could hear. She didn't understand and told him so. He looked at her, then, something happening behind that heavy, entrancing gaze and said that he didn't quite get it either.
Soon after, as if he encountered something wrong, his eyes were no longer soft.
Not that Emma knew that.
But even as they grew older and Ray started to twist up his face into scowls and half-hearted smirks or when he would gain a dark look in his eyes that made him look cold, he only became more pretty. Beauty laced with deep-rooted sadness.
Not that Emma knew that.
She only realized when it was far too late; when Ray was talking, spitting venom with perfect lips– usually merely mild-mannered– pulled into a hysterical grin and pouring gasoline on himself. Everything about him was so desperate and tired and even though Norman said that Ray was planning to burn himself to the ground, she never knew how badly Ray was pushed to that point. She was horrified.
In that single instance, an image of Ray, young, staring without truly seeing flashed into her mind. She saw the chubby cheeks, the not-quite-a-pout on his face and the naturally tousled hair that didn't look as if frustrated and stressed hands ran through them night after night.
She saw a boy who was stuck in his own head with thoughts that left him confused.
And then she saw the same boy, who she realized was never a boy but wasn't quite a man just yet, baffled and off-balanced at the concept of living– of being given the permission to live. Pretty features screwed up and mouth gaping. The two images blurred in her head and despite it being about the same person experiencing bewilderment, they couldn't have been more different.
She doesn't know how she feels about that.
"Ray," She says, out of the blue, wanting to release some of the sudden heaviness in her chest, and Ray merely hums in acknowledgment.
She nudges him but he still doesn't look up from the book on his lap. She thinks for a second about the words he told her with a match in his hand– "You know Emma, I never liked studying or reading, to begin with."
"What are you reading?" She asks. Ray flips the book to its front, title displayed for all to see. "... Harry Potter? I didn't peg you to be the type." She's pretty sure they had that series in the orphanage. It was a fantasy book if she remembers correctly.
Ray shrugs. "Guess I just miss it, even if there are some inconsistencies." His voice was carefully neutral, not revealing anything more than necessary. And for a second, Emma fully immerses herself in the sound that was undeniably Ray. She remembers how often that voice would rise and scold her, she remembers the low calculating tone it held as they were planning their escape– and then it occurs to her how she doesn't often hear Ray speak with lightness. Rather, it was always with worry.
Heck, he couldn't even talk about a book he was reading without some form of caution.
Emma purses her lips and nods in response with a small "hm."
"Something is bothering you," Ray says, knowingly, not even bothering to look away from the pages. Something about how easily he reads her makes Emma want to pout.
Ah, well, she's used to it by now. Ray is brilliant like that, after all.
"I was just thinking," she begins and ignores Ray's mutter of 'oh god help us all' with a glare sent to his direction. "Shush. You're terrible."
Here, Ray rolls his eyes with a fond smile and immediately Emma's eyes are drawn to his lips before imagining herself tracing every feature on that face. Feeling the small curve of a smile, the leftover youthful suppleness of his cheeks, the fluttering of those eyelashes.
Then she thinks of fire and how the person in front of her could have easily become ash.
Without any conscious thought, she lifts a hand and brushes away that lock of hair that covered half his face. With his hair swept away a tiny bit like that, with the odd strands framing his face, Ray almost looks... delicate, full features in view. And that wasn't exactly a word Emma would use to describe Ray because Ray is a survivor— Skillful, resourceful and cunning. He isn't soft, round edges and flowers growing by the stream during summer.
But for just a split second, she couldn't find any other word more appropriate.
Ray finally looks up at her, a confused furrow settling between his brows. But he doesn't say anything. Emma wonders what she looks like to make Ray shut his mouth up like that.
"There's something wrong," Ray says, voice barely above a whisper. Something wraps the two of them into a little bubble, closing them off from the outside world. All she sees is the not-quite-black color of his eyes. Why had she not noticed that before?
"Nothing's wrong," she says before the silence became too much.
Ray gives her a pointed look.
"Fine, fine," Emma says, inching away from Ray once she realized how close she had gotten. Yikes. "Look, nothing is wrong. I'm just... glad you're here." Like magic, once Ray's hair has gone back in place, it made him look more closed off. Perhaps that's why it's styled the way it is.
He stares at her for a while, blankly. "...Okay," he replies and Emma couldn't help but smile. Ever since their home went up in flames, that was it— everything of their old life was over and there was no need for masks. Emma, with the aid of Norman, had seen all there was to see about Ray. There was no need to hide anymore.
And she could tell that sometimes made Ray uncomfortable. He was just so used to carrying some sort of burden— alone.
So whenever she's like this ("mushy-whatever" she's sure Ray would call it), he's always subtly dumbfounded. It was as endearing as it was sad.
"Mm-mm." Emma hums knowingly.
Ray carefully closes his book. He's probably going to escape now and pretend that something else has caught his attention. He might end up preparing dinner a bit earlier than usual. He's all about efficiency, after all. When does Ray ever rest, really?
"Do you think Norman is joining us tonight?" She asks just because she can and perhaps she isn't quite ready for Ray to disappear just yet.
He sends a considering look before saying lightly, "Probably."
And then he's gone.
She thinks of pretty features and unspoken thoughts and emotions festering inside a boy like a parasite, even with the feeling of closeness, sometimes Emma wonders whether she ever had him in the first place.
Unattainable was a distant word she used to associate Mama. She never thought she had to do the same for Ray.