[ At least he wasn't the only one. Clingy was Fraser through and through; he had trouble letting go of anything, and Ray was just the latest in the subjects of his affection to be exposed to that madness. But that was okay; obsession was good in Fraser-land. It translated into dedication, determination, trust, into a hundred other things that meant that he would give his life, both every day of it and in the mortal fashion to the object of those affections.
He couldn't help himself, he was just wired that way, and maybe it had been his father's fault for treating his mother the way he did, but Fraser had developed in the total opposite fashion to that. He loved with passion, with burning, as though no power on earth could extinguish it from him, not even the cold ice of hatred. He loved with the desire to see all the strengths and weaknesses of his desired, and treasure them for all of them. He'd loved Ray even in his weakest moments, with a gun in his hand, or in the moments after his partner had hit him; loved him so hard that it made him feel physically ill.
It would be problem, maybe, if Victoria were still in the picture, but Fraser was half convinced she was dead. He hadn't heard anything of her, or from her, since she'd vanished, and yet he'd had to wonder whether she'd pursued news of him after he was shot. Maybe not. Maybe she'd thought that was it for him, as he lay sprawled on the concrete, and the thought that her revenge might not be completely settled simply didn't occur to her. Maybe she was still alive; maybe she'd come back just in time to ruin this wonderful thing he had with Ray, try to destroy them both the way she had before and perhaps succeed. But that would mean Fraser letting her succeed, and it wouldn't be that way. Not now. Not this time. Not now he had this--the irreplaceable this.
No. No, that was just a fear; a Fraser fear. Extravagant and imaginative and impossible, because the idea that everything could actually be perfect was hard to grasp. Everything that could go wrong would, if it meant robbing him of his happiness, right? That was just his bad luck.
And yet this was Ray. This was Ray, who he'd felt consistently happy with for longer than he could remember. Ray who'd come to Canada with him, who was coming again; Ray who had leant into this kiss himself, and Ray who loved him like a brother, and now hopefully not like a brother. They were partners, and there was just no...there was nothing purer than that; nothing more honest. Partners, friends, lovers. Ray.
This soft mouth was Ray's, and he could have never have dreamed - never - that it would be on his own. The bristle of his stubble, the slick heat of his tongue, the tight fingers pressing bruises into his ass. God, he could melt himself in this kiss forever and be content. They could eat their buffet and enjoy their dancing, and he would still be out here consuming his own meal but never sufficiently sated, dancing to the tune of the other man's body against his own. It didn't ever have to be anything more than this, he thought, and he'd be content.
But he had to stop.
God. God, he didn't want to. He didn't want to stop. Don't stop. It wasn't enough.
He was drawing away even as he begged himself not to, his eyelashes sinking, a trail of moisture joining them for a moment before Fraser licked his lips, breaking it. He was still caught up in trying to breathe, and now there was the necessity of using actual words to fill the space, but now he was in the moment he literally couldn't fathom what combination of syllables could ever explain how he felt better than the kiss had. So he huffed out one last breath and said: ]
I'd like to continue this conversation. [ Words drowning with promise. ] Later.
no subject
He couldn't help himself, he was just wired that way, and maybe it had been his father's fault for treating his mother the way he did, but Fraser had developed in the total opposite fashion to that. He loved with passion, with burning, as though no power on earth could extinguish it from him, not even the cold ice of hatred. He loved with the desire to see all the strengths and weaknesses of his desired, and treasure them for all of them. He'd loved Ray even in his weakest moments, with a gun in his hand, or in the moments after his partner had hit him; loved him so hard that it made him feel physically ill.
It would be problem, maybe, if Victoria were still in the picture, but Fraser was half convinced she was dead. He hadn't heard anything of her, or from her, since she'd vanished, and yet he'd had to wonder whether she'd pursued news of him after he was shot. Maybe not. Maybe she'd thought that was it for him, as he lay sprawled on the concrete, and the thought that her revenge might not be completely settled simply didn't occur to her. Maybe she was still alive; maybe she'd come back just in time to ruin this wonderful thing he had with Ray, try to destroy them both the way she had before and perhaps succeed. But that would mean Fraser letting her succeed, and it wouldn't be that way. Not now. Not this time. Not now he had this--the irreplaceable this.
No. No, that was just a fear; a Fraser fear. Extravagant and imaginative and impossible, because the idea that everything could actually be perfect was hard to grasp. Everything that could go wrong would, if it meant robbing him of his happiness, right? That was just his bad luck.
And yet this was Ray. This was Ray, who he'd felt consistently happy with for longer than he could remember. Ray who'd come to Canada with him, who was coming again; Ray who had leant into this kiss himself, and Ray who loved him like a brother, and now hopefully not like a brother. They were partners, and there was just no...there was nothing purer than that; nothing more honest. Partners, friends, lovers. Ray.
This soft mouth was Ray's, and he could have never have dreamed - never - that it would be on his own. The bristle of his stubble, the slick heat of his tongue, the tight fingers pressing bruises into his ass. God, he could melt himself in this kiss forever and be content. They could eat their buffet and enjoy their dancing, and he would still be out here consuming his own meal but never sufficiently sated, dancing to the tune of the other man's body against his own. It didn't ever have to be anything more than this, he thought, and he'd be content.
But he had to stop.
God. God, he didn't want to. He didn't want to stop. Don't stop. It wasn't enough.
He was drawing away even as he begged himself not to, his eyelashes sinking, a trail of moisture joining them for a moment before Fraser licked his lips, breaking it. He was still caught up in trying to breathe, and now there was the necessity of using actual words to fill the space, but now he was in the moment he literally couldn't fathom what combination of syllables could ever explain how he felt better than the kiss had. So he huffed out one last breath and said: ]
I'd like to continue this conversation. [ Words drowning with promise. ] Later.