Silent Snow

by Colleen

ficspace: http://members.nerve.com/colleen_kane/

disclaimer: rule number one never ever sue poor people

notes: post-series PWP with a presumed F/Kship and the usual abuse of the present tense.

beta'd by Becca & Brad, I love you both.

for Cipher Muse, because I promised her messy sheets,

and,

for my brother Channing, because he taught me to snowshoe, because he let me steal his red plaid hunting

jacket, and because this story was his suggestion.

rated: NC17. There's sex. Between men. Shocking.

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November 1998

At a one-room cabin near the Yukon border, it is snowing. Thick, heavy snow; good packing snow. A man looks out the window and muses that the stuff is just right for igloo blocks. A second man steals up behind the first and joins the watch for a moment; he thinks that it looks just right for snowballs.

A great many miles to the south, the final boarding for a flight is being called: a flight to Chicago. People are settling in with their carry-ons and briefcases and laptops; they are going home, on business, leaving Canada. An oblivious older woman bashes four people in the head as she goes down the aisle swinging her enormous purse. Just behind the curtain separating the classes, a colicky baby has begun to scream.

Ray Kowalski is unaware of these events, unaware that there was such a flight tonight. Somewhere along the way he stopped worrying about ever getting back there. He's stopped worrying that People Will Know why he didn't come back. Ray is a man who once tried to be shallow and wasn't good at it. The man he is now, tonight, is someone who embraces his feelings, acts on them. He likes how it's worked so far.

They are relatively new to this, only 5 months gone. March and April (and a bit of May) were spent figuring things out. Every moment still carries the tang of strange fruit; they have to keep tasting, to continually prove it isn't poisonous. Tomatoes were once thought to be deadly, you know. Be brave, spit out the seeds, and you might find you can't live without it.

The snow has been falling for hours now, blanketing the Territories, and Ben knows they'll probably have to do some digging in the morning. He doesn't mention this to Ray. If he's wise, he'll keep his mouth shut and enjoy Ray's elation at his first real Arctic storm.

Ray makes cocoa and stokes up the pot bellied stove not as romantic as a fireplace, but rather more practical. He digs in the chest at the foot of the bed for their heavy quilt and shakes it out. Maggie's mother had made it, bright triangles of cloth flying in vees down its expanse. With the exception of the Uniform, it is the gaudiest thing his partner owns, and that is part of why he loves it so. That, and it's damn warm.

Ben is still at the window, his cocoa in one hand, idly scratching Diefenbaker's ruff with the other. Snowflakes sparkle through the moonlit sky like a blizzard of falling stars. He is only vaguely aware of his partner's purposeful scurryings. As always, nature's beauty captures, captivates him. They had planned to do some sledding with this bit of vacation time, but being snowed in with his lover isn't something Ben is going to complain about.

On cue Ray sidles up behind him again, hands on his hips, kissing the back of his neck. He shivers at the touch, and again when Ray repeats the kiss open-mouthed. Ben turns into the embrace and realizes that Ray has put out all the lamps save the one hanging near the stove. In the low, tawny light, he allows himself to be led to bed.

Ben puts his cup down on the bedside table and climbs in, kneeling astride his lover, who keeps inching back bit-by-bit. Ben follows on his knees, his smile almost matching Ray's, only substituting tenderness for mischief.

He opens his mouth to tell Ray that he loves him, but again, Ray has other ideas. Grabs Ben by his shirtfront and hauls that open mouth down to his; tastes chocolaty sweet, feels meltingly hot. Their tongues slide and slither, hands roaming everywhere. Nipples are pinched through flannel and cotton; cocks are stroked through heavy denim.

Their touches are languid, gentle and smooth, as they undress each other. Each bit of skin bared gets a kiss or a stroke, maybe a lick. Ray finds himself naked on his stomach, Ben's tongue tracing a warm wet line down his back. He knows where it's going, what's next: his favorite little kink. Sure enough, a few breathless moments later, Ben is nipping lightly at his lover's buttocks, parting them first with fingers, then tongue.

Ray gasps, moans into the thick down of the quilts. Ben tongues the entrance to his body with a single-minded thoroughness, and Ray can't keep himself from humping the bed, wriggling and writhing, can't keep the loud sounds of his pleasure inside. He's hoping his partner's talented tongue will find its way deeper.

Yes. Ray moans again, takes a mouthful of quilt trying to stifle it, when Ben's tongue penetrates his body, moving with agile flicks. Only a hand thrust hurriedly beneath him, to grab himself hard, keeps him from coming then and there.

Ben soothes his partner with soft noises and gentle touches, planting a conciliatory kiss in the small of his back. It's time, already, yes. When Ray takes the passive role, it's always fairly quick. But he will make it up to Ben in the cool hours when they awake, moving with nearly infuriating deliberation. He knows he should have suspected that Ray was such a sensualist, but that fact had come as a pleasant surprise. Pleasant, and more.

He helps Ray shift to his knees, reaching for the bottle of lubricant on the nightstand. Nearly tips over his now-cold mug; Ray chuckles richly at the sudden impatience and hands him the bottle. Ben is plenty hard, aching, he loves this. The synchronicity, the connection, the smooth hot glide of flesh on flesh, in flesh. He stokes some lube on, strokes some in, loves the sounds Ray makes when he touches him so intimately.

Even though it's expected, anticipated, Ray sucks in a deep breath at the first press of Ben's cock. Keeps breathing deep, steady now, in about twelve seconds it's going to be sweeter than he can stand. Ben pushes again and Ray opens to him, and he was right, it is so sweet, so good. Ben thrusts slow, steady, hitting that place that feels like heaven. Turns out maybe this isn't poisonous after all.

Ray's body is so reactive; he holds nothing back in his response. Ben doesn't suppose he's going to last very long, he can tell his lover is in the same place. So he tries to move slower, deeper, but it's really in vain when Ray is gasping out his pleasure with those broken, choked off sounds; when they are so closely joined that it feels like he was born this way.

He closes his eyes as he starts to come, not sure if he's seeing snowflakes or stars.

***

Morning, such as it is, arrives in soft silence; the wind has died, the cabin wrapped in a mantle of white. There will be some gray light for a few hours around midday, but it's nothing really impressive. Ray yawns and stretches, accidentally nudging Ben, who blinks rapidly, then reaches for him. Ray wriggles just out of reach, teasing glint in his eyes. Ben shakes his head, holds his hand out again, so Ray takes it, gives his palm a little kiss.

No words are necessary.

02-22-01