Author's Notes: For Pearl (who also beta'd), and Estrella.

Story Notes: This follows "Band of Gold" but can be read separately.

It was just a shoe box. It was blue, white, and red -- or rather, Ben thought vaguely, red, white, and blue; that would make more sense, despite the preponderance of faded blue background -- and it said "Converse", which Ben knew to be a brand of trainers. It felt too heavy for trainers, though, and Ben opened it only to see if it was filled with something he could pack into one of the half-empty boxes Ray had left lying about.

He didn't mean to infringe upon Ray's privacy. He knew from the moment he opened it and looked inside that it wasn't something he was supposed to see. Pieces of Ray's past lay scattered inside.

But, Ben rationalized to himself, you cannot know that this is Ray's past just by looking at condoms and audio cassette tapes.

Slanted across the contents was a small black record, in a black sleeve. When Ben lifted it, he saw that the underside said, in block letters:

July 1980 - A- Anything B- Baby's on Fire (Eno cover)

Ben stared at it for a moment, then set it down. He pushed aside the small packets -- Durex, he noted; not the same brand he and Ray used now. He looked at the cassette tapes. They were labeled in a cramped hand, much like Ray's, but not. The writing was too compressed -- Ray's handwriting, although almost the same, was looser. Ben speculated that the writer probably went to the same school as Ray, might have even learned to write by the same teacher.

Catholic school. Ben had a flash of the school picture of Ray he'd seen that morning in another box -- short hair, ears that stuck out just a little too far, thick glasses. He could see that little boy struggling to learn cursive, his tongue stuck out slightly between the gap in his front teeth.

Ben closed his eyes for a moment, then put the cassette tapes down next to the condoms and the record. There was a small tube of something -- lubricant? No, hair gel. Ben smiled. Hair gel. With silver glitter. And under that, three video cassette tapes, for various types of machines. The first had a label that was written, definitely by Ray; simply "The Band, 8-80". The next was in a box, and there was a poem written in a flowing, feminine hand, in faded, smudged pencil:

To save your wild wild lives
to never your fans embitter
to cease your sad demise tonight
we toast THE DEATH OF GLITTER

Pretty. Ben thought for a moment. It sounded like something Wilde would write, maybe, but he couldn't place the verse -- and it seemed hijacked anyway, for a different purpose.

The third video cassette wasn't labelled. Ben set them all aside. Under them were crumpled papers, folded papers -- he lifted them all out. It was a thick stack. Advertisements for a band, for shows. Ben frowned as he sorted through them and smoothed them out and put them into chronological order. Why would Ray keep these?

Ah. One of the advertisements had a picture photocopied onto the bottom -- Ray. Ray had never mentioned he'd been in a band in college. No, the first show was February 1980; Ray had dropped out of college in 1979. He must have been in the band before he joined the Police Academy.... but Ray had told him that he'd worked in a garage, as a mechanic.

"Dirty, sweaty, covered in grime, shirt off..." Ray had said, grinning wickedly, the grin Ben loved more than any other smile, the wolfish, mischievous one. "Just how you like me, Fraser."

Ben smoothed out the last of the papers, and peered into the box. Was that it? Three rings, all heavy silver -- dragons, skulls, a snake. A broken neon paper wristband. Some photographs. He really shouldn't look at the photographs. This seemed to be Ray's time capsule, a year and a half of, from the looks of the photograph on the advertisement, playing guitar in a rock band.

He wanted to, though; he wanted to look at the pictures. He didn't have to tell Ray.

They were all face down, and as he lifted up each one, a band around his heart became tighter and tighter. This wasn't just a boy's flight of fancy, working days as a mechanic and spending his nights singing karaoke. Ray cared about the other men in these pictures -- there were photographs of Ray with his arms around them, photographs of them riding each others' backs and having fun with each other and -- bonding. Laughing.

Then Polaroids -- Ray on a mattress wearing only pants and boots, the smooth line of his back clear even after twenty years. Ray sitting on what looked like the same mattress, wearing the same boots and pants, his hair sticking up, bright yellowy-white, smoking a cigarette. Ray and one of the men from the other photographs, the man who wore leather and chains, arms around each other. Ray sneering at the camera, holding the neck of his guitar, hips thrust out.

The last one was... The last was Ben's favorite. Ray wasn't looking at the camera. He was wearing makeup, eyeliner smudged around his eyes, black -- there were tiny spots of light in the picture that were likely made by the reflection of light off pieces of glitter. His hair stuck up, his eyebrows were drawn together, and his mouth was tight around a cigarette. The camera must have been right up in his face, Ben could see his pores, could see where his stubble was growing in. One ear was in the picture -- two small hoop earrings hung down.

Ben stared at the picture for a moment, then let out a long breath and set it to the side, far off to the side, and packed everything back into the box, shut it, and taped it closed.

He slipped the picture into his pocket, lecturing himself the whole time for invading Ray's privacy, for stealing! Stealing! A picture that was obviously Ray's to keep if he wanted to.

But Ben wanted a part of that younger Ray, punk Ray wearing steel-capped boots and army pants, and tight undershirts, his tattoo crisp and brand-new, his heart open and in living color for anyone to see.

**

Ray wanted one last night in his old apartment by himself, which left Ben alone in their apartment with the turtle -- alone in their bed with his thoughts. Diefenbaker had chosen to stay with Ray; Ben knew Dief would come tomorrow morning groaning of a stomachache. Ray always fed him whatever he wanted -- noodle soup and doughnuts and coffee with sugar and cream and grilled asparagus. Never chocolate, at least, but that didn't mean the food Ray fed Dief was healthy for him.

Ben turned onto his back and slung an arm over his eyes. The bed was far too large -- although once Ray was in it with him, it would seem far too small. Ben hadn't even wanted to buy another bed.

"What?" Ray had snorted. "You want twin beds?"

"Ray," Ben had said. "We're going to be leaving soon anyway. What good will the bed do when we're in the Yukon and it's here?"

"We get the bed," replied Ray stubbornly. "I'll pay for it."

"I don't mind paying. I just don't see --"

And Ray had cut him off by kissing him, right in the middle of the mattress store, in front of God and everyone.

Ben had paid for the whole bed, counted off the price from a thick roll of twenties, and even paid to have it delivered instead of insisting they could do it themselves. Which they could. And Ray had seen that for what it was -- a treat. Likely Ray was used to different sorts of treats -- Stella rationed out sex, Ray had told him once. He got blow jobs if he'd been a good boy, put the seat back down in the bathroom and put his clothing in the hamper; she got on top if he'd done something particularly pleasing to her, a new piece of jewelry or a Tiffany lamp.

And if he had been really -- if he'd washed the bathroom or something, taken down a rapist and filled out all his paperwork on time, whatever -- then she'd... And Ray had wiggled his eyebrows at Ben, which Ben had taken to be implying something dirty or kinky. Handcuffs maybe. Anal sex.

Ben tried to keep going, tried to shock himself, but his thoughts kept sliding away, to the photograph in his pocket. Finally he got up and walked across the room to where he'd laid his folded jeans for wearing tomorrow. In the back left pocket was the photograph, slightly crumpled from being sat upon.

The act itself, of taking out the photograph, touching it, sent a shiver of arousal through Ben. He regulated his breathing by taking long, deep breaths in through his nose, and releasing the breaths through his mouth.

Under control once more, he took the photograph back to the bed -- the room was so big, almost as big as his entire cabin -- and laid down. He put the photograph down, plumped up the pillows -- five, Ray had insisted on having at least three for himself and two for Ben, and he'd winked lewdly -- and picked up the photograph again.

On the bottom, someone -- not Ray -- had written "Ray Kick, baby!"

Ben shifted position on the bed, let his legs fall open a little more. His cock brushed against the worn material of his sweatpants as it hardened. He allowed his breathing to speed up slightly.

The hoops in Ray's ear were small enough that the barely came down past his ear lobe. Ben focused on the whirls of Ray's ear, the stubble on his cheek, the hair pulled out. Then he moved to the eye makeup. Smudged on purpose, Ben would bet -- but some of it smudged because of sweat. Glistening.

Ben pressed one hand over his cock. It was hard, and it hurt, and when Ben closed his eyes, all he could see was Ray. He pressed harder and his hips jerked up into his hand, and he thought about that young Ray, no Stella, no wedding band, hair stiff with gel, on his knees in a dirty, dingy club, mouth tasting of beer, wide around someone else's dick -- wide around Ben's dick, Ben in his flannel and denim and hiking boots, painfully out of place in a punk rock bar, in the whole scenario, in Ray's life.

He took his hand off his cock, feeling sick in his stomach, horrible vertigo, and he stood up unsteadily, put the picture back into his pocket. When he laid back down, he forced himself to not think of Ray, to not think of anything. He recited Milton -- but the verse on the video cassette intruded.

Tonight we toast the death of glitter, he thought.

When all else failed, he recited to himself the RCMP administration manual:

It is the duty of all members who are peace officers, subject to the orders of the commissioner, to perform those duties that are assigned to them as peace officers in relation to the preservation of peace, the prevention of crime and of offenses against the laws of Canada...

**

Ray showed up before dawn, almost before Ben was awake. But not quite. Ben heard Ray's key in the lock at the front door, Diefenbaker's claws clicking on the floor.

They'd picked a smaller apartment with bad acoustics over a few bigger ones because it was on the ground floor, had large windows, and the bedroom got the eastern sun in the mornings, right over the bed, and the windows looked out onto the back yard of the building. It wasn't tundra, it wasn't that spot right below the treeline where suddenly everything was green -- but it was grass, and it was enough. It was Ray genuinely wanting Ben to be happy. It was more than enough.

When Ray came into the bedroom, Ben was laying on his side, pretending to be asleep, facing the wall.

"Shhh," said Ray to Diefenbaker, and Dief made a throat-noise. Ben heard the crumple of paper, and then: "Git." Dief's claws on the hardwood floor again. Ray closing the door, stripping out of his clothes. The zipper was obscenely loud. The shuffle as Ray dropped his jeans onto the floor and stepped out of them, pulled his shirt off. The clink of the beads of his bracelet.

Ben took a deep breath -- coffee, chocolate, Earl Grey tea, chocolate doughnuts, jelly? Maybe. A scone with raisins and slightly too much butter.

Ray, musky -- he must not have showered. He must have been up early, to beat the sun into their bedroom.

Their bedroom.

Ben stretched as Ray slid under the sheet.

"You're a faker," said Ray, but he didn't sound angry. Ben opened his eyes. Ray was staring down at him, no teenager in glitter and makeup with a cigarette clamped between his teeth. This Ray had wrinkles, his eyes were deeper-set, his skin redder. No stubble; he stopped to shave.

Ray slid a hand onto Ben's hip.

Ben still had the sick feeling in his stomach from the night before. Ray leaned down to kiss him, slowly -- Ben wanted to warn him: I have morning breath, I didn't sleep well, I am so worried I'll never be able to sleep without you again, but of course I will, but what if I can't?, I stole your photograph --

Ray tasted of his electric blue shaving gel, coffee and chocolate and a doughnut's powdered sugar and strawberry jam. There was a bit of sugar on the corner of his mouth; Ben licked it off, licked Ray's teeth, licked the caps on his upper centrals and laterals. He licked Ray's bicuspids and tongued the fillings -- one in each molar on the top. The scars from where his wisdom teeth were removed. He focused on Ray, ignored his sick feelings, ignored his betrayal. He stole Ray's past from him, didn't tell him, he --

"Hey, hey, hey." Ray pulled away, pulled his hand off Ben's hip. "What's going on here?"

"What?" Ben blinked up at him. The light was beginning to slant in, turning Ray's hair and skin golden yellow.

"You okay?" Ray squinted at him, ran his hand over Ben's cheek, the wrong way, so all the stubble tingled.

"Ah..." Ben turned his face into Ray's hand, smelled coffee and tea and Diefenbaker on it, sweat, Ray. "Yes, Ray."

"Liar. Faker and liar." Ben opened his eyes. Ray was smiling at him, just a little, one corner of his mouth turned up. "Okay, I gotta fix you. I can do this." Ray leaned forward and nipped Ben's mouth, but when Ben tried to follow his lips into a kiss, he pulled away. "Nuh-uh, Ben, I don't think so."

Ben let himself sit back, and felt Ray's hand, hot, hot, hot, untie the string of his sweatpants, push them down, and Ray bent his head to Ben's cock, which pushed its way into his mouth, uninvited, but Ray didn't seem upset about it, just opened his lips and throat, and Ben moaned.

"Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray," he chanted. "Ray --" His stomach turned over, his vertigo returned. He sank one hand into Ray's hair -- soft, short -- to steady himself, to pull Ray off, but Ray twisted his head so that Ben pulled his hair harder. And Ray didn't stop, his mouth hot, wet, and Ben was sure it still tasted of coffee, was sure that if he could taste Ray's mouth as Ray was sucking him, he could taste the salt of his own sweat and the sweetness of the chocolate Ray put into his coffee and --

Ben cried out and his hips jerked up. Ray put a finger behind his balls and pushed, rubbed, ran his finger down and into Ben, only spit and sweat easing the way -- but too much lubricant tickled. Too little hurt, hurt like this, and Ben came in Ray's mouth.

Ray sat up and wiped his face off with the back of his hand. "Oh yeah," he said. "Breakfast of champions!" and he grinned, and Ben grinned, but still felt sick, and to make it up to Ray, he gave Ray a long blow job, on his knees on the floor, so the wood dug into his skin, so that he only touched Ray with his mouth. Ray touched him all over, ran his hands over Ben's back and neck and twisted his fingers in Ben's hair and reached down to pinch his nipples.

Ben made him lean back and pulled him to the edge of the bed and lifted his balls out of the way to stab his tongue inside Ray, lick all around, suck at the skin of his buttocks and then pulled back to take both his balls into his mouth at the same time.

The bedroom was bright when Ray came -- one long spurt into Ben's throat, and then two more onto his face, and Ben jacked him slowly through the orgasm, until he'd stopped groaning and was taking deep breaths.

Ben wiped his face with his hand, licked his fingers -- salt, bitter, Ray should drink less coffee, more juice.

**

They showered together, Ray running his hands everywhere over Ben's skin, Ben taking charge of doing the actual washing, rubbing soap into Ray's hair. He was distracted by what Ray's hair must have felt like when it was longer, and full of gel instead of mousse. His tea was cold when they finally reached the kitchen table, and so was Ray's coffee, but they drank anyway.

"We should unpack," said Ben, stretching in his chair. The scone did, in fact, have too much butter, but he ate it anyway, and dropped bits down to Dief, who was, in fact, laying under the table and complaining of a stomachache. Of course, that did not stop him from eating the bits of scone.

"Nah," said Ray. "We should watch the game, drink some beer, and relax. It's our apartment! It is our first day in our apartment."

"We should start as we mean to go on," replied Ben reprovingly, and then, embarrassingly, he felt his ears grow warm with extra blood when Ray leered at him and said, "I think we did that already."

Ben won, and they unpacked the rest of Ray's boxes. The box of Ray's four pairs of steel-toed boots, in various stages of decay, with the shoe box on top and two pairs of holey jeans that Ray refused to let Ben either throw out or patch, was in a corner. Ben could feel the photograph in his pocket poking him every time he leaned down to grab something. Ray's two suits hung in the closet next to his own suit and three separate red serge uniforms, and the two brown uniforms. Their shoes and boots lined up next to each other. Ben's hat on the small shelf. Ties. Dress shirts, and Ben's neatly folded, ironed, and hung jeans.

Ray sniggered at Ben's jeans. Ben was going to snap at him, something mean about organization and neatness, but felt the photograph dig into him, move in his pocket, and instead he pushed Ray to the back of the closet and kissed him hard, pushing his tongue into Ray's mouth, his fingers twisted in the unused belt loops of Ray's jeans.

"Jeez, Ben," he said, pulling his head away -- but not too far away, Ben noted; Ray was still close enough that he was breathing in the air Ben exhaled. "What the fuck got into you today?"

Ben stepped back, untangled his fingers from Ray's belt loops. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and his chest felt heavy.

**

Ray wanted to go to bed early -- and he wriggled his eyebrows at Ben when he said that, just like when he talked about Stella and her reward system. Ben rinsed out all their beer bottles and lined them up at the sink, wiped down the table and threw away the crumbs, and when Diefenbaker whuffed at him, turned with his hands on his waist.

"I am not putting it off because I'm afraid of our commitment. Now you're just being silly."

Diefenbaker just glared at him.

"Fine, I'm going. I'm sorry, I didn't realize you treasured your sleep that much -- but I highly doubt I'm bothering the turtle!" Diefenbaker turned away and walked into the living room.

Ben rinsed out the sponge and left it next to the sink, and left the room. As he closed the door to the bedroom, he heard the television click on -- surely he and Ray would eventually rue the day Dief learned how to use the remote control. Ben considered going back into the living room to remind Dief that he wasn't allowed to buy the pay-per-view movies, but gave it up as a lost cause.

Ray was splayed out on the bed, a finger inside himself, stroking his cock. Ben stopped in the doorway. The light on the nightstand on Ray's side of the bed was on, but not the overhead or Ben's, and Ray was half in shadow.

"Finally," said Ray. He moved his finger and gasped a little, worked another finger in. "You took fucking forever in there. Pitter patter, Ben, come on, get those clothes off."

Ben stripped as fast as he could, hung his jeans over the back of the small chair, even left his shirt on the floor. Ray had already used the lubricant on himself, had already readied himself. Ben's mouth watered. He kissed Ray, a long kiss, tangled their tongues together, and then pulled away to run his mouth over Ray's chest. He gnawed on Ray's nipples. Ray stroked himself faster and faster, and Ben closed his eyes to listen to the wet slap of Ray's fist on his own cock, and when he slid a condom on, rubbed lubricant over it, and moved to tilt Ray's hips up, Ray pulled one of the pillows out from behind his head and slid it under his hips, folded.

"Told you they'd come in handy," said Ray, and he smirked at Ben, and Ben slid into him faster than he'd wanted to. Ray went still, and groaned, and Ben started to fuck him, long strokes, hard strokes, pushing in fast. He let one leg fall to the side of the bed to brace himself, one hand on the bed and the other over Ray, grabbing the headboard, leaning forward. They were almost the same height, almost face to face, but Ray's face was turned away, and his throat was bared to Ben's mouth.

**

Ray had thought of everything, had put the garbage pail from the bathroom next to the bed, and a wet towel over it. Ben cleaned them up and settled down next to Ray, who was asleep almost as soon as he'd come, all over himself and Ben. Ben stripped the pillowcase off the pillow and thought about rubber sheets.

When Ben moved close to Ray, Ray turned in his sleep, turned right into Ben's arms. "Love you," he murmured. In his sleep. He loved Ben even in his sleep.

Ben stared at the ceiling until morning, reciting the RCMP administrative manual over and over again.

**

"Up and at 'em, up and at 'em, up and at 'em," chanted Ray. Ben barely spared a glance for him as he folded his jeans, put them away, tossed his shirt and boxers into the laundry, pulled out his uniform. Ray was still in bed, clinging to the bed -- his morning ritual of talking himself into waking up in full swing.

Ben hit the shower, dressed, tried to tame his hair, frowned at himself in the mirror.

As he walked through the bedroom he said automatically, "Let's go, Ray," and then glanced over at the bed -- but Ray, who would normally, on a Monday morning, take at least another five minutes to crawl across the floor, into whatever bathroom was handy, was not there.

"Ah, Ray?" Ben looked round the room, then turned, and Ray was behind him, on the small chair near the closet.

"Ah, Ben." Ray waved the picture at him. "You found this?"

Suddenly Ben's throat was very tight and his chest was heavy again. "Ah..."

"Ah," said Ray, and laughed. Laughed. "Whaddaya think? Could I pull this off now? Huh?" He tilted his head and ran his hand over his hair. "Gotta let the hair grow. Man, I forgot about this. I wonder if I got the other pictures somewhere, too. They were in a shoebox... You see one?"

"Several, Ray," Ben said, prevaricating.

"Red, white, blue -- Converse sneakers?" He raised his eyebrows at Ben, and looked rather hopeful. Ben nodded.

"Yeah, I still got that? Stella never threw it out? I guess not." He studied the picture, his bottom lip sticking out a little, legs spread. Naked. "I was hot stuff, huh?" Ben cleared his throat. Ray sighed. "Yeah, I know, work work work, gotta keep the mean street of Chicago safe for kittens and puppies."

Ray stood up and walked into the bathroom, scratching his back and yawning. He left the picture on the chair. Ben stared at it for a moment, then turned on his heel and left the room.

**

Mondays were, of course, Inspector Pompous Ass's day for going over inventory. That was Ray's name for Inspector William Jones-Kimmirut. Privately, Ben thought he was, indeed, a pompous ass, but he was far better than Inspector Thatcher, in that he could be relied upon to always allow Ben to liaise with Ray whenever he needed or wanted to, the exception being Mondays. A fair enough system, acknowledged as such by all except Ray, who wanted Ben at the 27th every day.

And Diefenbaker, for Mondays were, unfortunately, Francesca's day to bring in the doughnuts, and she was partial, in her state of enceinte, to the expensive French ones from a bakery across town.

Ben went over the inventory of letterhead, various office supplies, the status of the printers and photocopiers, checked the hinges on all the doors to make sure none were squeaky, aired the Queen's bedroom, and explained to seven students from the University of Chicago that they could not claim political asylum in Canada because if their selected candidate for the American presidency was not voted into office.

Ben related the story to Ray over supper that evening, and Ray snorted and said, "Kids these days, huh?" and winked.

Then Ben ate the green beans that Ray didn't want, and the salad that Ray didn't want, and watched as Ray mashed all his potatoes together and piled them on top of the pot roast, and put that between two slices of white bread, and ate it like a sandwich.

Even Diefenbaker was rather taken aback.

**

"Okay, Ben, I gotta show you --" Ray was digging in boxes. "Where's the thing? I gotta get the thing -- come on, where is it --"

Ben had a sinking feeling in his stomach that he knew what Ray was about to pull out. "Look, Ray," he murmured. "Turtles." Then he sighed when Ray turned around holding the shoebox. Ray sat down on the armchair.

"Okay, okay, okay," said Ray. "Ready?"

"Ray," said Ben. "I already looked in the box."

"Huh? But it's taped."

"I taped it."

Ray looked from the box to Ben and back again, and Ben opened his mouth to say something, anything, apologize for overstepping, and --

"Did ya watch the tapes? Listen to em?" Ray peeled the tape off the box carefully, and pulled out the record. "I bet these condoms are dust by now, yeah?" He pulled them out and tossed them across the living room, into the trash can in the bathroom. "He shoots! He scores! I'm not even wearing my glasses, nice, right?"

"Right," said Ben. "Ray --"

"Chronological order?" Ray laughed. "Yeah, okay. Oh, the pictures. I was pretty hot, huh? I don't got any eyeliner anymore... Man, Ben, what I never told you about my --"

"Misspent youth?" Ben sat down on the couch. Ray's leg was slung over one of the living room chairs.

"Nah, I had a good time. I was just stupid." Ray stared at the pictures.

"I like you better now," Ben blurted.

"Yeah?" Ray looked up, pulled his lips away from his teeth. Ben almost expected him to growl. "I'm all --"

"You're you," said Ben, and immediately felt silly.

"Hah," said Ray, and went back to the pictures. "Man, look, Johnny Roses, Mike Rock -- we were something. A year and a half, Ben -- that was when me and Stella broke up, she walked in on me and a groupie." Ray looked up with a quick smile. "At least it wasn't a guy groupie."

"You had groupies?" Ben could see it -- young Ray, eyeliner, glitter, tight jeans, in a bathroom in a grimy bar, just like he'd pictured, with a young blonde girl on her knees in front of him. Ben shifted a little, wished he'd put on sweatpants instead of his jeans when he'd come home.

"Lots of 'em. I played guitar, you know, I was the quiet guy in the back with the tattoo and all the earrings." Ray's hand strayed up to his ear. "Yeah, earrings."

Ben shifted again. "Earrings."

"Yeah," said Ray, and looked up. "Are you getting hot?"

Ben blushed a little, even though he tried not to, and that was all the answer Ray needed.

"You are totally getting off on thinking about me with groupies!" said Ray accusingly, and Ben hesitated, then nodded. "Oh, ha. Oh, ha!" Ray slid off the chair and onto his knees. "Oh, ha!" he said again, and rubbed his face against Ben's erection, which had started to press into his zipper. Ray made it painful, made it hurt, and Ben took a sharp breath.

"Let me tell you," said Ray, and unbuttoned Ben's jeans. "Let me tell you about this one girl, she was so hot, right? And I thought she wanted Johnny Roses -- he was the singer, I lived in his garage." Unzip. "She was all over him, all fucking over him, her hands down his jeans and everything. Lift your hips."

Ben held his breath and did as Ray said, lifting his hips so Ray could work his jeans down over his hips. Diefenbaker whuffed from across the room, and padded out, probably going to jump onto the fire escape and take himself for a walk, but Ben couldn't, didn't want to stop Ray.

"So we're all in the green room at this club, okay, and it's actually painted fucking green, and I can't believe it. We're almost into Missouri, too, we're not even in Chicago anymore, and this fucking girl, I never even knew her name, she pulls out a bag of coke, a giant bag, more than I ever seen before." Ray spits into his hand and runs it over the head of Ben's cock. "Ah, look at that, I fucking love that right here," he said, and he lowered his head and swirled his tongue around the head, took him right into his throat, and then came up again. "Fuck yeah. Where was I?"

"The bag of coke?" said Ben.

"Right." Ray sat back on his knees, and jerked Ben's cock slowly, so slowly, too slowly. "I'm thinking, no way am I gonna do blow if I don't know where it came from, okay? So Johnny and the girl do it, do so fucking much, and the girl takes off her top -- which, this was 1980, so you gotta picture that she wasn't wearing much to start with. And she's not wearing panties, and she smells a little like Stella, so I'm hooked."

Ben leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt that sickness, that vertigo start, as though he was spying, watching something he wasn't supposed to see, taking something he wasn't supposed to have. Maybe this was a part of Ray's life that he was never supposed to know about -- something that made Ray the person he was at that moment, but something that should have stayed secret, like Ben's assignations in Regina, and his trip to a leather club in Chicago's gay district his first month in the city, and --

"Pay attention," Ray said sharply, and squeezed Ben's cock until he cried out. It hurt, actually hurt, and Ben's head snapped up and his eyes opened. His fingers dug into the couch on either side of his legs.

"I'm listening," he said hoarsely. Ray's eyes glittered -- glittered -- and Ben stared at them as Ray talked, his hand still stroking Ben's cock. Not wet enough -- and Ray clearly thought the same thing, because he bent his head again, took Ben's cock all the way into his throat, and when he pulled up, there was enough wet.

"Johnny is fucking passed out, man, most guys can't fuck on coke, can't keep it up, right, so the girl is wriggling on him, trying to get him to fuck her, and he's out of it, gone -- blown --" Ray paused to snigger at his own pun. "Yeah, blown. So she comes over to me, and I'm smoking --" Ray lifted two fingers up to his mouth and made a hissing, breathing in noise, as though Ben wouldn't have been able to guess that he'd been smoking marijuana. "She's all, god, I'm so hot, I'm so hot, do me now, and I play it real cool, tell her, hey, baby, calm the fuck down, calm down, I ain't gonna fuck Johnny's girl, and she tells me, she ain't Johnny's girl, she's nobody's girl --"

Ben would have laughed, but Ray had sucked him in again, hot and wet and tight in the back of his throat, humming a little, then coughing, spitting him out. "-- and she gets on top of me and I don't got to do anything but lie there, and I look over and Johnny's awake, a little, and watching us, and jacking off through his jeans, he don't even have a hard on and he's jacking himself -- but when you're on coke, everything feels good, it's all too much, kinda like E --" Down again, up again, cough, a little, then down again, and it's too much, because Ben's picturing himself as Johnny, sitting on a ratty couch, everything like a dream, drugs a buffer against reality, Ray's skinny twenty-year-old body fucking into a strange girl --

Ray swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed around Ben's cock, but Ben just kept coming, and coming, and when he finally slumped back against the couch, Ray turned and coughed onto some of the advertisements that he'd pulled out of the box, spit come out of his throat.

"I -- uh -- ah -- sorry --"

"S'okay, I shoulda known better," said Ray, and waved a hand limply at Ben. "You were really into that."

"I find it..." Ben trailed off. When he closed his eyes, he saw fireworks, sparklers, glitter. "I found it extremely..." He took a deep breath, then let it out. "Arousing."

"Yeah, I got that memo," said Ray. Ben heard him stand up. "Ben. You okay?"

"I just... I..." Ben shook his head, lifted up his arm, buried his eyes in the crook of his elbow. "I feel like a voyeur."

"Why?" said Ray. "Cause you got fantasies? Everybody's got fantasies, Ben. Come on, you know that one about me and the handcuffs and the --"

Ben cut him off. "But I violated your privacy."

"Priv-ah-see," said Ray and snorted. Ben opened his eyes. Ray was grinning, almost laughing, sitting at Ben's feet. "You know, sometimes I think about you in all your hockey gear when I'm in the shower. Like what if you were some big hockey star, playing for the Hawks, and I go to a home game, and I sneak into the locker room after your big win and -- you know, what's the difference?"

"It's different," said Ben. "It is. I stole your picture!"

"Cause you thought it was hot," said Ray, and ran his hands up Ben's thighs. "But if you really wanna make it up to me, I got some ideas."

"Anything," said Ben instantly. The pressure in his chest eased a little. Ray's fingers were long, and slim, and under his nails was always clean, which Ben appreciated -- except for when he was working on the GTO, and then his nails always had oil and grime on them, which Ben also appreciated.

"Okay, well, for starters, it's my turn to do laundry this week, and I don't wanna," said Ray. "And then after that, you could clean the bathroom for me. And maybe bring me cookies tomorrow. And, you know, if you still feel guilty, I gotta let you massage that guilt --"

"Assuage," corrected Ben.

"Oh no," said Ray. "Massage that guilt. I like massages. A foot massage, right?"

Ben smiled. "Of course, Ray. Anything you say, Ray. Perhaps while I'm at it, I could wear a maid's uniform, Ray?" Ben wiggled slightly to pull his shorts up, then his jeans, and carefully zipped and buttoned them, then changed his mind and thought to remove his clothes. But Ray leaned back and unbuttoned his own jeans, worked his cock out. It was hard and beautiful.

"Oh yeah, Benton Fraser in a skirt, I like that," said Ray. "We can start your servitude with a blow job, how's that? You ever get tired of sucking my dick, Ben?"

A shiver went through Ben, and he slid off the couch, crouched between Ray's spread legs, and then knelt. "Never," he said fervently, and bent his head to Ray, the lump in his throat gone.

"Maybe," said Ray in a whisper, "if you blow me real good tonight, tomorrow I'll buy some of that black eyeliner, maybe some glitter. Dress up for you. Want that? Huh?"

"Yes," said Ben, and took Ray's cock deep into his throat, tried to work his hand into Ray's jeans to play with his balls, but couldn't, the jeans were too tight, so he reached up, under Ray's t-shirt, to pluck at Ray's nipples instead. His own cock hardened, pressed against his jeans, the floor, the side of Ray's foot where it was propped on his thigh. Ray writhed under him, wriggling.

"This floor is fucking hard," Ray complained, but didn't move except to jerk his hips into Ben's mouth. His hand grabbed at Ben's hair. "So what else? You want me to find my old t-shirts, get out that Maxwell Demon record? Fuck yeah, like that --" He jerked into Ben's mouth harder, hit the back of Ben's throat, and Ben choked a little, but Ray's fist held his hair tight, held him pressed into Ray's groin. Ben pulled off as much as he could and breathed through his nose -- sweat and musk and bitter salt -- and then let Ray pull him back down.

**

Later that night, wrapped around each other in bed, Dief in the corner, Ray muttered something into Ben's ear.

"What?" asked Ben, waking up from his doze.

"I said, it's hot. It's hot that you thought I was hot," said Ray. "It's hot. That's all."

"Okay," said Ben.

"You gotta tell me," said Ray.

"I love you," said Ben.

"Yeah, I know, but you gotta tell me --"

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me about the Depot." Ben felt Ray smile into his neck. "Hot wannabe-Mountie ass?"

Ben laughed a little. "Not exactly."

"What exactly, then?" Ray pushed his erection into Ben's thigh. It was soft, not hard, but still there, and Ben pushed back. "I wanna know all about the orgies young Ben Fraser started. I'm gonna violate your priv-ah-see like you never been violated before, Ben." He nipped Ben's throat, then sucked on the spot he'd bitten, and Ben shuddered against him.