[ The thing is, he can't even remember the last time he threw up like this. He'd drunk bad tea and eaten bad meat and forced himself to vomit now and again, but he'd sat in dead animals and seen truly dreadful things - no end of them - and still maintained that limit of control. Neither of the last times he'd drunk - and he'd drunk considerably more than he had today - had made him blow chunks into innocent lavender bushes, and if it was nerves that had him so rattled then what made this so different? He'd watched Louis Gardino blown to pieces twenty feet away from where he stood, seen the man smiling at the front of the church shoot two of Armando Langoustini's thugs in the back from close range, watched a mother wail as her child was taken away from her--and nothing. Hell, the only time he'd so much as flinched was through the sight of his rifle as he prepared to put down his only friend. Not from close up, not looking into his eyes, as it was said such betrayal should be dealt, but from half a mile away.
And yet nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. God, he was a monster.
He kept his hands flat against the cool stone wall, then after he'd finished lay his head flat against it too, just trying to recover some sense of normality. Capillaries under his eyes had burst in red pinpricks, making his cheeks burn; it was one of the perils of being far too pale. He felt terrible, couldn't smell or taste anything but vomit, but he slowly straightened up anyway at the sound of Ray's voice, raising his head to look over toward him.
Then changing his mind and spitting up a last mouthful of bile.
Okay. Okay, Ray. Ray who was...who at last didn't seem to be about to come off the tracks with shaking, and that was surely because of the nicotine, because he was busy smoking another one even now. Fraser watched, moving away from the mess and the wall and taking out his hankerchief to dab at his forehead, then his nose and mouth. He wanted to ask when Ray had left, where he'd been, but it didn't seem to matter any more. He'd needed to leave - Fraser could understand that- needed to get out before he did something he'd regretted.
There were the stains of tears in his partner's eyes, bloodshot as they were, his cheeks a mess, his hair worse. He looked worse than Fraser could have guessed, and he regretted goading him into bringing him here. What kind of sadistic fool was he to bring this kind of suffering on a man he loved? But there it was--Ray was suffering, and Fraser felt like it was wholly his fault. Maybe... ]
Maybe if I hadn't come in, that night. I could have apprehended him in the hallway, caught him by surprise, and you...
[ Back up a second: loved? He loved Ray? Well of course he loved Ray, but loved loved? Maybe it had been all that talk of what it meant to belong to another person taking its own toll on him. And yes, he knew that he'd had sexual feelings for him, but the two of those things combined into something very different. That was what this feeling was. And damn, he was slow, because this was why he got as much of a selfish thrill of pleasure out of knowing Stella was out of the picture as he was agonized over the loss of his friend.
God, he actually was a monster. Looking back into Ray's tearstricken face, at his agony, and wanting him, full in the knowledge that that wasn't ever something that could happen. Ray had been married - to a woman, and had pursued half a dozen more since - and he wasn't interested in that. Wholesome manly adventures into the wilderness, yes, with all necessary cuddling, but heterosexual strictly hands off adventures none the less, and Fraser...Fraser was selfish enough, repressed enough, to suck the situation stone dry of familiar contact without ever crossing a line and be satisfied with that. Hell, when he closed his eyes he could still feel Ray's mouth on his own underwater, the feel of his body reinvigorating with life giving oxygen, Fraser's arms wrapping around his pale slim body as he pulled him up to the surface. If he squinted hard enough then despite the freezing cold water it had almost been sexual. And suddenly those purely sexual thoughts made him feel filthy, like he'd wronged Ray by having them.
He dropped his eyes away, humiliated by his own thoughts, and saw instead the damage Ray had done to his hand. Quietly he edged closer. His fingers slid for the other man's wrist, though this time when he touched him he felt like he'd been electrified by his own shame. Could it be possible he'd deliberately thrown Stella under a bus? He hadn't been a good friend. He could have tried harder to help Ray win her back.
Well no more. What kind of partner was he to put himself before Ray--it should be Ray first, always Ray first, and he was never going to lose sight of that again.
He tried again to take Ray's hand, bringing it up for inspection with a shudder. He'd split the knuckles; they were raw and red, bleeding and already swollen. ]
We should get you back to the hotel, find some ice and a first aid kit. [ Fraser was supposed to be standing for photographs now. He'd be missed, he knew, but he couldn't bear to leave when Ray needed him, not when he'd already failed him so dreadfully. He kept hold of his hand, gently tugging like a child asking its mother to follow, the innocent curl of fingers around fingers. He felt hollowed out like a canoe, drained of all emotion. There was nothing there. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Monster, monster, monster. But he could do this one thing. He could make it up to him, one gesture at a time. ] Come on.
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And yet nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. God, he was a monster.
He kept his hands flat against the cool stone wall, then after he'd finished lay his head flat against it too, just trying to recover some sense of normality. Capillaries under his eyes had burst in red pinpricks, making his cheeks burn; it was one of the perils of being far too pale. He felt terrible, couldn't smell or taste anything but vomit, but he slowly straightened up anyway at the sound of Ray's voice, raising his head to look over toward him.
Then changing his mind and spitting up a last mouthful of bile.
Okay. Okay, Ray. Ray who was...who at last didn't seem to be about to come off the tracks with shaking, and that was surely because of the nicotine, because he was busy smoking another one even now. Fraser watched, moving away from the mess and the wall and taking out his hankerchief to dab at his forehead, then his nose and mouth. He wanted to ask when Ray had left, where he'd been, but it didn't seem to matter any more. He'd needed to leave - Fraser could understand that- needed to get out before he did something he'd regretted.
There were the stains of tears in his partner's eyes, bloodshot as they were, his cheeks a mess, his hair worse. He looked worse than Fraser could have guessed, and he regretted goading him into bringing him here. What kind of sadistic fool was he to bring this kind of suffering on a man he loved? But there it was--Ray was suffering, and Fraser felt like it was wholly his fault. Maybe... ]
Maybe if I hadn't come in, that night. I could have apprehended him in the hallway, caught him by surprise, and you...
[ Back up a second: loved? He loved Ray? Well of course he loved Ray, but loved loved? Maybe it had been all that talk of what it meant to belong to another person taking its own toll on him. And yes, he knew that he'd had sexual feelings for him, but the two of those things combined into something very different. That was what this feeling was. And damn, he was slow, because this was why he got as much of a selfish thrill of pleasure out of knowing Stella was out of the picture as he was agonized over the loss of his friend.
God, he actually was a monster. Looking back into Ray's tearstricken face, at his agony, and wanting him, full in the knowledge that that wasn't ever something that could happen. Ray had been married - to a woman, and had pursued half a dozen more since - and he wasn't interested in that. Wholesome manly adventures into the wilderness, yes, with all necessary cuddling, but heterosexual strictly hands off adventures none the less, and Fraser...Fraser was selfish enough, repressed enough, to suck the situation stone dry of familiar contact without ever crossing a line and be satisfied with that. Hell, when he closed his eyes he could still feel Ray's mouth on his own underwater, the feel of his body reinvigorating with life giving oxygen, Fraser's arms wrapping around his pale slim body as he pulled him up to the surface. If he squinted hard enough then despite the freezing cold water it had almost been sexual. And suddenly those purely sexual thoughts made him feel filthy, like he'd wronged Ray by having them.
He dropped his eyes away, humiliated by his own thoughts, and saw instead the damage Ray had done to his hand. Quietly he edged closer. His fingers slid for the other man's wrist, though this time when he touched him he felt like he'd been electrified by his own shame. Could it be possible he'd deliberately thrown Stella under a bus? He hadn't been a good friend. He could have tried harder to help Ray win her back.
Well no more. What kind of partner was he to put himself before Ray--it should be Ray first, always Ray first, and he was never going to lose sight of that again.
He tried again to take Ray's hand, bringing it up for inspection with a shudder. He'd split the knuckles; they were raw and red, bleeding and already swollen. ]
We should get you back to the hotel, find some ice and a first aid kit. [ Fraser was supposed to be standing for photographs now. He'd be missed, he knew, but he couldn't bear to leave when Ray needed him, not when he'd already failed him so dreadfully. He kept hold of his hand, gently tugging like a child asking its mother to follow, the innocent curl of fingers around fingers. He felt hollowed out like a canoe, drained of all emotion. There was nothing there. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Monster, monster, monster. But he could do this one thing. He could make it up to him, one gesture at a time. ] Come on.