#rayrose

Frowning, he takes a step closer. He knows that photo; he had it framed himself, for Rose’s birthday three years ago. Ray’s snapped countless photos of Rose on stage over the years, but that one was his absolute favorite: his girl, with the spotlights shining like stars in her glossy hair, her dark eyes glowing and her smile radiant. She’s holding her microphone high, soaking in the applause of a cheering crowd. The best way to describe Rose’s stage presence is captivating, but Ray has never managed to capture it so well as in that one perfect shot. He wanted to frame it — to hold onto that moment forever. Now, it lies shattered on the ground, like it's better off forgotten.

He doesn’t get the chance to panic. Rather than evidence of an intruder, the rest of the house has clearly survived Hurricane Rose. A pair of high heels lie shucked in the middle of the hallway; the bathroom door is wide open, light still on, stained makeup wipes littering the counter; a trail of discarded jewelry and hair pins leads straight to the bedroom, the door tightly shut.

The swell of unease in Ray’s chest has morphed to worry. He tiptoes towards the door, both hands full of Rose’s trail of breadcrumbs. He hesitates, searching out a noise from inside — nothing, dead silence — before rapping gently on the door.

“Rosa? Linda, can I come in?”

There’s no answer, which is all he really needs. If Rose was okay, she would answer. One way or the other, Rose always answers.

He pushes open the door, letting it creak in the silence. The bedroom is pitch black. As light from the hallway floods in, casting a shaft of unwelcome illumination, his heart sinks. He isn’t surprised, given all the clues leading up to this point… but the sight of his girlfriend huddled beneath the blankets, curled into a ball like a wounded animal, twists like a dagger in his ribcage nonetheless. 

“Honey,” he says softly, stepping into the room. Rose doesn’t stir to look at him. Her shoulders shudder; there’s a soft, hoarse sound, like she wants to sob, but has long since dried herself out. Ray stumbles over a pair of discarded jeans on the way to the bed; he almost falls on top of her, but it gets him to the bedside quick enough. His hand lands on her shoulder, and she doesn’t curl away. In an instant, he’s pulling her into his arms, muttering soft, soothing words against the crown of her head.

“Rosa, Rosa, mi pobre y dulce niña… what’s wrong? Talk to me, amor, I’m right here.”

Rose really doesn’t have the energy to cry anymore. The soaked-through pillowcase would prove that, if the tear tracks on her cheeks didn’t. She didn’t manage to get rid of all the mascara; it leaves a mess around her eyes, running dark trails down to the corners of her mouth. Her lips are chewed and bleeding. When Ray runs his finger over them, she shudders, ducking her head like she’s ashamed.

“Just talk to me,” he urges gently. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m here. I love you. I’m right here.”

He’s not perfectly conscious of the words spilling out of his mouth. Instead, Ray racks his brain; what could have happened? Rose’s plans for tonight were nothing unusual: working until six o’clock, then she mentioned an open mic at The Scarlet Lounge. Rose signs up for open mics all the time; it’s a routine, at this point. He’d offered to come, said he could rush through his last photo shoot… but Rose assured him he didn’t have to. “It’s nothing special,” she’d promised. “Just another performance.”

Clearly, this performance must have been outside the ordinary. Rose is mercurial on a good day — an artist’s temper, she says with pride — but after performing, she usually rides a high for hours afterwards. The shine from the stage lights clings to her; she’s always in a good mood, bubbly and vibrant. Never… never this, curled in on herself and weeping like the world’s about to end.

What happened?

Rose hiccups softly against his chest, swiping at her swollen eyes. He rubs tiny circles into her back until she’s finally able to coax her gaze up to look at him. Ray doesn’t have to ask; she sees the question in his eyes, and wilts under it.

“They didn’t —“ She pauses, breath hitching, like she’s about to sob again — but somehow she steels herself through it. “I’ve performed there before. They knew me. The audience… wasn’t into it tonight, Ray. And the other solo acts… the girls are younger, and so enthusiastic, and they cheered for them, and — and —“ She swallows a breath, like she'll shatter if she exhales it. It’s a moment before she can speak again. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Ray hesitates. “You’re… performing. Because you love it?”

That shouldn’t sound like a question. He kicks himself internally as Rose flinches.

“Do I? Do I still?”

Ray is silent for a moment too long. In all his years of knowing Rose, of loving her… this is never a question he imagined coming up. Rose is a performer. She thrives on stage… she has music in her veins. It’s a part of her, as much as her blood, as much as her beating heart. Rose has always been a musician; it’s what she’s meant to do.

But… well, even if he never anticipated it, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get it. The L.A. music scene is a harsh jungle. Rose has bigger dreams than anyone he’s ever known, enough drive to power a train, and more talent than one person can possibly possess. She has everything she needs, everything that should make her famous…

But with a string of failed bands behind her, and a solo career that’s never gotten off the ground, her dreams just haven’t been coming true.

It hurts Ray’s heart. He’s always been afraid of it breaking Rose’s… but she’s always seemed to cope so well, passionate about performing. Even if she’s never gotten an agent or won a record deal… “It's about the music,” or so she’s always said.

Of course, he knows what’s changed. He isn’t blind.

“This is about Bobby, isn’t it?” he asks softly.

Rose’s eyes are filled with shame when she looks up at him. A laugh crackles from her throat, bitter and broken. “It’s not fair,” she mutters. “He’s so… young.”

Barely twenty-one — and, in his own words, he “doesn’t have the voice to fill stadiums”. Ray also suspects he hasn’t written all of the songs on his debut album, if “My Name Is Luke” is any clue… but the newborn “Trevor Wilson” has rocketed to the top of the charts overnight.

Suddenly, he’s everywhere. He has no time for Ray and Rose, between interviews and concerts and press tours. Forget the countless evenings he spent crashing on their couch, because he couldn’t stand to return home… the movie nights and dinners, the violent nightmares Ray and Rose soothes him through. Forget that Rose was the one to coax him back into performing, two years after the night that changed his life — standing on stage with him at an open mic, singing while he played. Forget the drinking problem that’s definitely gotten worse now that they’re not keeping an eye on it; forget the trappings of rockstardom, and how dangerous it can be for someone so young, so broken.

Bobby hasn’t had time to take their calls.

If anything’s capable of breaking Rose’s heart, it’s losing someone she cares so much about.

And… they would be lying to themselves if they ignored the obvious feelings his success has brought up.

“I know, I know,” Rose murmurs into his shirt. “I’m a horrible person. He’s… got what it takes. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t, but I am. Mierda, puta de —“ She knots her hands in her hair, breathing unsteady. “He’s got the whole world ahead of him! And I — I’m washed up, and burnt out, and a failure, and I’m not even twenty-eight!”

Something twists in Ray’s chest, harsh and unforgiving. He hates Bobby in that moment, as unfair as it makes him. He hates himself for not seeing how Rose has been struggling. He hates the rest of L.A., the rest of the world, for not seeing how incredible she is.

Then, because Ray Molina is not the sort of man who hates, the fire in his chest slowly shoulders, leaving his insides scorched and painful.

“Never,” he exhales into the crown of Rose’s head. “You will never be a failure, mi amor.”

Rose lifts her face from his chest to look up at him. Her eyes are large and dark, glossy with unshed tears. When he cups the side of her face, adoration heavy in his caress, she leans into his touch with a shaky exhale.

“You amaze me every day,” he murmurs, speaking slow so every word has the chance to resonate. “Your passion… your talent… your strength. Everything about you glows, Rosa. You have the greatest heart of anyone I’ve known, and you’re so generous with your love… but somehow you never run out. You amaze me.” His lips brush over her brow like a sigh. “Eres la estrella más brillante de mi cielo. Every day, you shine even brighter. And if those  ---  those talent scouts and superstars can’t see that, it’s their loss… not yours. There are a thousand other paths you could take where you’d shine, because you bring all of yourself to everything you do. Passionate… talented…” His voice dips low and worshipful. “Extraordinaria. You will never burn out, Rosa… you’re going to live forever.”

Rose’s eyes flutter. She exhales against his lips. Ray can’t remember when they got so close.

“You,” she says softly, “are too easy to fall in love with.”

His lips twitch. “Because I compliment you a lot, huh?”

“Because you’re you,” she says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “My missing piece. You could heal the world just by caring, Ray Molina. I don’t know how you do it.”

Heat rushes to his face. It’s so easy to compliment Rose — one of his favorite hobbies, actually — but he can never take it in return.

“If you asked me to marry you tomorrow,” Rose says softly, “I’d say yes in a heartbeat.”

Ray exhales. “What about today?”

He’s barely aware of the words that have left his mouth… until Rose’s eyes widen, and she goes suddenly tense underneath him. His heart soars up into his throat, and he chokes on it as he scrambles back. 

“I — I — I mean—”

“Ray,” Rose says, “was that a proposal?”

“No!”

“It sounded like a proposal.” Her voice is skeptical.

And okay, yeah, maybe Ray’s been thinking about it — more than thinking about it, he’s had a ring buried in the paperwork drawer of his desk for weeks now — but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this! He had plans! Plans involving flowers, and romantic dinners, and long walks around a moonlit garden, maybe with fireworks…

It was supposed to be romantic, is the thing. And Rose is wearing mascara-stains like a raccoon, and Ray has a spaghetti stain on his shirt. Their air conditioner is broken, so the apartment air is stale and stifling; his stomach is rumbling from a skipped dinner; she’s still crying, ay dios mio, why is she still crying —

“Rosa, Rosa, please.” He cups her cheek, desperate. “Don’t cry, I’m sorry!”

“Sorry for proposing?” The words come out as a gasp. She’s not sobbing, not even trembling, but tears roll down her cheeks nonetheless. Ray thumbs them away with painstaking tenderness.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says softly. “You deserve better than that.”

Her gaze meets his, solemn. “But you meant it.”

It’s not a question. Ray’s exhale shudders.

“Of course I did.”

Something goes solid in Rose’s expression; something seems to crystallize. Tears still glimmer on her cheeks, but he’s just aware enough to realize she’s not crying anymore. Her gaze is intense, shimmering not with pain, but love.

“There’s no one better than you, Ray Molina,” she says, and surges up to kiss him.

His lips catch her, and she swallows up his sound of surprise. For a moment, he loses himself in the her warmth, in the fingers combing through his hair and the teeth grazing his mouth. Her body is a familiar instrument, and Ray has learned to handle it by now; he keeps both hands on her hips, guiding her closer without ever pulling. There’s no need. Rose is eager enough.

When they finally pull apart, she exhales a laugh against his lips. Her eyes glitter like diamonds; when she speaks, her soft voice dances. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do with my future… I don’t know where I’m gonna go. And that should scare me, but… it doesn’t. Not as long as you’re in it.”

Ray grips her tighter. Now he’s the one who feels like crying.

“I’ll be there,” he whispers. “For as long as you’ll have me. Rosa…” His voice nearly breaks. “I can’t imagine my life without you.”

Her gaze bores into him. She leans forward, finding his lips again… but her eyes are wide open, and he can’t look away. He’s being drawn in, losing himself in her… and he loves her, he loves her, and he feels in the tenderness of her touch that she loves him too.

“Whatever happens,” she breathes, “we'll make it through together.”

His heart is hammering in his chest, beating in time with her own. They’re pressed so close, they practically share a heartbeat.

“Always,” he agrees. “Today, tomorrow… forever.”