Author's Notes: For Dessert First's birthday. Many thanks to JS Cavalcante and Ignaz Wisdom for incredible beta work.

He dreams about touch.

Warm hands curving up over his torso and caressing his shoulder, tracing the hard shelf of his collarbone, moving downwards to rub his belly. Light fingertips, gentle and almost playful, stroke down to his genitals.

The touch of those fingers is not particularly sexual. The promise is there, of course, but Fraser knows that the owner of those hands doesn't intend to arouse him or bring him to climax. In his dreams his lover only wants to demonstrate affection, warmth. Love. And so Fraser is able to relax and open himself to that touch. He slumps backwards in the bed (a real bed, with fine cotton sheets and soft blankets, not the hard, narrow cot in his office) and watches those hands as they stroke over his body.

If they are long-fingered and slender, strong-looking but oddly jointed at the thumb, the knuckles spread from years of sparring, and a silver bracelet glints from the wrist...well, Fraser knows this is just an idle fantasy, a pleasant dream. The hands that touch him so tenderly belong to no one. They cannot.

The rational part of his brain knows that these dreams are part hazy childhood memory, inspired perhaps by the way his mother used to hold him and sing to him in the long darkness of the northern nights, and part wishful thinking. Touch and death, blissful connection and then the inevitable splintering. He wishes the two weren't so intertwined in his mind, loss wrapped up in warmth. His experience with intimacy is so limited. What little he has known of physical love has shown him that tenderness is unlikely, affection even more so. There is need and want and pain. An almost violent hunger that rises within him and makes him tremble and cry out in the echoing desolation of the Consulate. And shame. That too is a part of sex.

The bullet in his back has shown him all he needs to know of love.

And still he returns to the dream of touch, of floating disconnection from everything but the mouth that wanders over the hills and valleys of his body, the hands that seek to map the terrain of his hidden heart. How do others endure such sweetness? Even in fantasy he's almost undone by the care shown him. To encounter this in reality would bring his destruction. He is grateful he'll never be given the chance to find out.

He's grateful. He is.

*******

"Fraser? Frase?"

The tone in Ray's voice suggests that he's been repeating Fraser's name for quite a while, but Fraser can't quite bring himself to feel guilty about his inattention. The streets of Chicago feel particularly chaotic today. Bodies pour forth from the office towers and subway tunnels and swarm the sidewalks, choking traffic and slowing his and Ray's progress along Dearborn Avenue. No one makes eye contact, but Fraser can smell the acidic odor of sweat and the sweet floral scents of the women's perfume. He knows what each person consumed for lunch (the man in the grey double-breasted suit had pastrami on rye, the bike messenger a hot dog and a side of fries with ketchup ). He can track their progress through the city based on the condition of their clothing, the gum on their shoes, the dust on the women's black purses that dulls the patent leather. The July heat wave that overheated Ray's beloved GTO, forcing them to abandon it back at the garage at Ray's apartment, has made everyone slow and lazy, careless. The pedestrians walk at a snail's pace and bump into one another, dizzy with warmth and drunk on the sun.

Ray slips among them easily, dodging and weaving with his dancer's grace. Fraser tries to follow his friend's path through the crowd but the bodies close in around him like water flowing around a rock. Ray avoids them so easily, unconsciously. He has but to lay a hand upon a stranger's shoulder or back to guide them out of his way. It's not rude, exactly, but more like a complicated waltz or a tango whose steps Fraser never knew, never learned.

The Urban Foxtrot. The Chicago Shuffle. Ridiculous names spring to mind easily, but Fraser is painfully aware of his own heat-induced sluggishness as he blunders into passersby and mutters, "Please excuse me," or "Sorry," or "My apologies." His polite nothings sound like the hot wind.

With each unintentional collision, each elbow or rib or shoulder that jabs him, each accidental tread on someone else's toes, he feels the dull ache of want. For most of his life he has only stumbled into the path of others and careened away. Accidental connection, an embarrassed shuffle to one side, a muttered apology. Perhaps that's all people can reasonably expect from one another. Perhaps his sin has always lain in wanting more.

Fraser would like to reach out to the bodies that ebb and flow around him. He wants to stroke the broad shoulders of the men, to bury his fingers in the dark hair of the women. He would like to feel the hands of others on his skin. Unbidden, the old dream of touch slips past his defenses and Fraser feels himself blush in the midst of the busy sidewalk. He stands still for a moment and runs a finger underneath his collar, swaying in the heat, buffeted by the uncaring strangers who knock into him and stagger away.

And then Ray is at his side. He places his hand on Fraser's shoulder to help steady him. The steel bracelet on Ray's wrist is too bright where it catches the hot glare of the sun. It makes Fraser's eyes burn and his head swim. His reaction has nothing at all to do with the feel of Ray's hand on his shoulder, too hot through the layers of his thick wool uniform. Too hot.

"Frase?" he says again, and this time Fraser can answer.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, no." Ray scrunches up his face. "You're a long way from fine, buddy. `You' and `fine' been doing a long-distance thing for a while. How come?"

"I...I haven't been sleeping well. I'm tired, Ray. That's all."

Lines form at the sides of Ray's mouth, in the corners of his eyes. Fraser knows his explanation hasn't even begun to satisfy Ray, but he's bought himself some time.

"We're nearly there, and then we'll get you out of this heat, okay?"

"Okay." This time Fraser lets Ray lead him through the mass of bodies; it is Fraser's back Ray touches as he guides him around an elderly woman, Fraser's shoulder Ray nudges to avoid a sweating dog walker and her six panting charges. Finally they reach their destination: a small, expensive-looking salon wedged between a caf and a designer clothing store.

Ray holds the door open. "Only takes a second, right?" He winks broadly as Fraser shuffles past, but Fraser can only give him a small smile in return. He removes his hat the instant he's inside.

The salon is blissfully cool and dim. An air conditioner hums somewhere in the back, but Fraser can't bring himself to consider the machine's environmental impact when there are beads of sweat are trickling down his spine and he is overwhelmed by the smell of his own sweat mixed with wet wool.

"Frase, take the Mountie getup off, okay?" Ray doesn't wait for an answer as he strides over to the reception desk. The receptionist, a pretty blonde woman who bears a disturbing resemblance to Stella, smiles up at him. The nameplate on her desk reads "Blanche."

"Hi, Ray. You're a little early."

Ray flips up his sunglasses and leans over the desk. For a horrifying moment Fraser thinks Ray is surveying the woman's impressive cleavage but instead he stabs a finger at her appointment book. "This space good for Fraser? He needs a haircut."

The woman glances over to where Fraser stands awkwardly in the door, hat in his hands. He has resisted the urge to strip off his uniform coat as Ray suggested, but he contemplates loosening the Velcro collar enough to let the cool air brush against the skin of his throat. She checks the appointment book.

"He gets Kaiya, okay?"

Ray frowns and darts a quick look over his shoulder at Fraser. When he turns back to Blanche his voice is a little lower. "Uh, not Kaiya, okay? She's a little too hands-on. How about Mitch?"

Blanche shrugs and pencils something into her book. "Fine by me."

Fraser feels as though he should stammer something--a denial, perhaps, but Ray is too fast for him.

"Greatness," Ray says, as though it's settled. He flashes another one of his smiles at Blanche and begins sorting absently through a pile of magazines whose covers promise rapid weight-loss tips and tasty barbecue recipes. He doesn't look at Fraser when he says, "Coat off, Fraser. Can't get a shave and a haircut in your Superman suit."

"Ray, I really don't require--"

This draws Ray's attention and he straightens, his thin t-shirt pulling tight across his chest as he moves. "You don't require a haircut? Blanche," he says, "gimme a mirror."

Blanche places a small mirror into Ray's outstretched hand with the finesse of a nurse handing an instrument to a surgeon. A smile plays at the corners of her cupid's bow mouth but she says nothing as she settles once more behind her desk and opens a celebrity magazine across her appointment book.

"Look at yourself, Fraser. No way that hair's regulation."

Ray holds up the mirror, and for a moment Fraser doesn't recognize his own face. He's flushed and his skin shines with perspiration. His eyes look very dark, dulled by heat and the sun. And Ray is right: his hair curls over the collar of his uniform at the back and it's much too long in the front. It is still regulation, despite Ray's assertion to the contrary, but it is well beyond his customary length. He wonders why he hasn't noticed how long his hair has grown as he shaves in the morning, or when he brushes his teeth at night. It seems that he's fallen out of the practice of noticing himself. A shameful lapse in attention, if nothing else.

"Ah. A trim might be in order."

Fraser has come to expect the flash of pleasure and triumph in Ray's eyes whenever he agrees to anything Ray says. "But I don't think I require a shave."

And then Ray cups his chin and slides his thumb across Fraser's cheek. His hands are cooler than Fraser's skin, and his thumb makes a rasping noise as calluses drag across his jaw.

"Yeah," Ray says, his voice pitched low. "You're good. But you do need that haircut."

Then his hand is gone and Fraser fights a feeling of vertigo. His body seems to have betrayed him entirely; he can think of nothing but Ray's thumb massaging against his cheek, the electric sensation surging through his body, quickening his blood to a steady, uncomfortable throb situated somewhere decidedly south of his belt buckle.

He feigns interest in the photographs of elaborately-coiffed models that line the walls of the salon until he recovers his balance and the world swims back into place.

Ray claims a chair and flips through a few more magazines. He chuckles at some of the pictures, holding them up for Fraser's anticipated amusement. Fraser can only muster a small, tight smile which Ray seems to deem satisfactory. He nods and returns to his rapid, random shuffling of the glossy magazines.

Fraser cannot possibly remove the uniform jacket now.

"Okay, Ray, you're up!" Blanche announces. Ray shakes himself out and disappears into the back. Fraser is left alone in the waiting area. He can hear the whir of the air conditioner and the strains of a tinny instrumental arrangement of "Strangers in the Night." He sighs.

A few minutes later Blanche's phone beeps and she waves Fraser into the back. "Your turn, Big Red."

A tall, thin, very handsome older man meets him just as Fraser clears the reception desk. His hair is short and graying, and a gold earring glints from his left lobe. He wears tight black jeans that make his long legs look even longer and he winks at Fraser (winks!) as he guides him into the back where sinks line pastel-colored walls.

"My name's Mitch, honey. Just relax and we'll get through this in one piece."

Fraser cannot think of a suitable reply. He simply nods and wipes his palms against his uniform pants. It is a safe moment to remove the serge, and Fraser divests himself of the tunic quickly. He shivers in the cool air as it kisses his bare arms and neck. Mitch waits politely until Fraser settles into the chair. Like a magician, Mitch unfolds a long polyester smock and drapes it over Fraser's shoulders, then unsnaps a towel with a flick of his wrist and wraps it around Fraser's neck. His movements are economical but executed with a certain flair that makes Fraser blush. He thinks of Ray dancing, Ray at rest. People who move well are so very appealing, he thinks.

"Some weather we're having, huh?"

"Pardon me?"

"Just making chit-chat." Mitch fusses with the folds of the smock. His hands linger too long on Fraser's shoulders. "You mind?"

"No." Fraser says, lamely, and swallows. He hates the heavy awkwardness in his tone, the nervousness that flutters in his chest whenever a stranger attempts to...flirt. "No, of course not."

"Good." Mitch smiles at him, and it is only then that his age becomes apparent in the lines that crease his face. He must be at least ten years Fraser's senior. "I'd hate to make you uncomfortable." He touches Fraser's shoulders again as he moves out of his line of sight. "Been in Chicago long?"

"No." He answers before considering his reply, and Fraser is horrified to discover the lie. He has been living and working in Chicago for nearly three years. By even the most generous assessment three years is a `long time.' He often wonders if it is not, in fact, a small eternity. Before he can correct his mistake, Mitch eases him backward until the base of his skull rests against the cold porcelain lip of the sink. He closes his eyes and delights in the chill that runs down his spine.

"Comfy?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

The rushing sound of water fills his ears and Mitch splashes the back of his head. "Temperature okay?"

"It's fine."

"You're sure easy to please." Mitch's voice is warm and teasing. It's perhaps his most attractive feature, apart from the easy grace of his movements, and it is certainly a good quality for a hairdresser to possess. Mitch guides his head closer to the stream of water running from the taps. The lukewarm water feels good against his scalp.

He hears a faint squirt as Mitch pumps some shampoo from a bottle by the sink, and the rich artificial mint of the shampoo teases his nostrils. Mitch's fingers rub through his hair, working the shampoo in, and Fraser cannot help the small sigh of pleasure that escapes his lips, nor can he prevent the way his body leans into the hands that massage his scalp. Mitch's fingers are strong and gentle as they stroke through his hair, and he cannot help but think of Ray. Ray's hands, also strong and gentle-looking, would feel wonderful on his skin. As would Ray's body, brushing up against him every so often, his thigh bumping Fraser's elbow, his groin wedged against Fraser's knee. The thought makes him blush and he drifts for a long moment, suspended between the heat of his fantasies and the novelty of human touch. Mitch's voice comes almost as a shock when he speaks.

"Okay, all done. That wasn't so bad, huh?"

"No," Fraser agrees. "Not at all." His throat feels rough, his voice ill-used. And when he levers himself to stand Ray is there, hair dripping, a towel around his neck. He smells of peroxide, and Fraser assumes he must have been sitting in one of the other chairs down the hall, waiting for his hair to be stripped of its natural color. He must have watched Mitch and Fraser at the sink, must have seen the way Fraser closed his eyes and leaned into the other man's touch. He must have seen...everything.

Fraser feels Ray's eyes on him a long time after Mitch settles him into a chair.

**********

It is cooler when they leave the salon. The brutal afternoon heat has passed and the streets have emptied. Ray walks just ahead of Fraser and does not look at him. Every few steps Ray runs a hand through his hair as he tries to accustom himself to its new length and texture. Fraser finds the new lighter hue suits Ray very well, but the back of his newly-shorn neck looks oddly pink and vulnerable. Fraser licks his lips and looks away.

Ray doesn't pause at the curb to check for oncoming traffic on the empty street. He simply strides out into the thick of things as if challenging the cars to strike him.

They've missed the light on the other side and so they wait to cross again, silent and suspended between amber, green and red.

"You and Mitch got along okay?" Ray asks, bobbing and weaving in place as he waits for the light to change. "I mean, sometimes he's a little much. For some people."

"No, I found him most engaging."

"'S good," Ray says. "Hair looks good, too."

He pauses in his frenetic movements and slowly, carefully, ghosts a hand over the tips of Fraser's hair, much like he has done to his own over and over since they left the salon. Fraser realizes he hasn't worn his hair this short since he first came to Chicago.

"I like it better longer," Ray mutters, eyes fixed on Fraser's hair. He draws his hand back and, seemingly embarrassed, rubs at the back of his neck, staring intently at the traffic light. Fraser closes his eyes, breathing heavily. He wants this to be like his fantasy. He wants Ray to stroke long fingers through his hair and cup the back of his head and draw him closer, bring him into a kiss.

But the moment passes and the light turns green and Ray moves away with a little shake of his shoulders.

Ray strides ahead and Fraser trails along after him, making sure his Stetson sits firmly on his head despite the heat. He doesn't try to catch up to Ray. He is fluent enough in his body language--shoulders hunched, eyes on the ground--to know that Ray wants to nourish the strained silence between them until they reach Ray's apartment.

When the familiar brownstone comes into sight Ray slows down instead of darting up the stairs. He stops and frowns up at the window of his apartment.

"Ray, what--?"

"Mom's ironing," he says, digging his hands deeply into his pockets. "C'mon, let's go to the park. She'll be done soon."

"Don't you wish to say hello?"

Ray is already ten strides away and he doesn't turn around to answer. "We're not talking right now. It'll be okay," he assures Fraser quickly. "She's still doing my laundry, after all. Just need a break from each other. She said some stuff about one of the neighborhood guys last time I was over for dinner and I...never mind. Let's just go to the park, okay? I'll give her a call next week. I'll fix it."

Fraser nods, mutely, his mind working frantically to parse the meaning from Ray's halfhearted explanation. Perhaps he is just imagining things again, seeing what he wants to see, hearing what he wants to hear.

Ray chooses a bench that faces a small, pretty grove of trees. The trees offer a dark haven of privacy in the gathering shadows but Fraser waits until Ray wriggles enough to one side to make room for him on the bench. He sits then, and removes his hat, and waits. Ray can only stand silence for so long; if Fraser is patient perhaps Ray will offer a further explanation about his argument with Barbara Kowalski.

"You like guys like that?"

Fraser wonders if his hearing is starting to go along with his sanity. "Pardon me?"

"Flirty guys, like Mitch. You like that, Fraser?"

"Ray, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

His answer isn't the right one. Ray slumps, and scuffs his foot into the worn brown grass that borders the bench. "That look on your face, when he was washing your hair. You liked it."

"I--"

"You leaned back into him. I never seen you do that before."

"I didn't lean!" He tries the denial again in a less petulant tone. "I didn't lean, Ray. He was simply very skilled at his work. And..." He forces himself to finish, "and it has been a very long time since anyone has touched me."

He is too aware of Ray's intent study of his face, of the heat of Ray's knee pressing against his thigh. This whole conversation is so very dangerous. It feels very much like walking on an ice field. Was that the wrong thing to say? Would Ray now leave? Or, worse, pity him? Fraser hadn't meant to complain--if his life lacked intimacy or romantic affection perhaps that was for the best, considering that the last time he'd had it he'd betrayed everything he held dear.

"Hey," Ray said, moving closer. "People touch you. Women can't keep their hands off you. Frannie--"

"I know." Fraser stands, fighting against the desire to tear off into the safety of the trees and run among the anonymous shadows there. "You're right. Of course you're right. People touch me all the time. But there's no real meaning to any of it, Ray. Those people don't know me, and frankly...frankly if they did, they probably wouldn't wish to pursue any further relationship."

He takes a deep breath. Ray looks slightly shocked, but Fraser can't bear to be silent about this for another moment. "I'm not what they want. They're after an idea, and I don't...I don't know how to be that. I don't have it in me."

Fraser will not look at Ray. He will not. Now that he's had his childish tantrum, perhaps Ray will let the subject drop and they can continue on as they have before. Discussions of loneliness are best confined to baffling conversations with his father. He shouldn't inflict his emotional burdens on the living.

Ray has been quiet for too long. Fraser expected at least a fervent denial, perhaps a list of circumstances in which women (and men) had expressed a definite interest in seeing more of him than what he kept in his jodhpurs. He is being irrational and more than a little self-pitying. He needs Ray to point this out to him.

But Ray isn't even looking in his direction. He is focused on the ground instead, squinting at the worn earth myopically. His glasses hang from the collar of his t-shirt.

"I get that," Ray says, still not looking up at him. "It's what I miss most about being married. Just reaching out any time and knowing Stella would be there. You should have had that," he tells Fraser. "At least once. Just somebody to be there, rub your back, give you a hug when you were down. We all need that."

He thinks of the way Ray's hand felt on his face as he tested to see if Fraser needed a shave. And Ray's steady palm on his back as he guided him through the busy city streets. But that was practical contact, as formal in its way as a handshake, if perhaps not quite as conventional.

"Yes, well...in my experience the world rarely supplies everything we need," he says, surprised by the bitterness in his own tone. "I...you asked why I've been quiet lately."

"Yeah," Ray says, his head still hung low. "You gonna tell me something real this time, or just give me another song and dance?"

"I'm sorry," Fraser says, his voice quiet. He pauses and takes a deep breath. "It's been thirty-two years to the day since my mother died, Ray. And in all that time I don't think I've ever felt close to anyone. You said we all need...touch. I don't think I've ever had it, except when my mother was alive. And that was a very long time ago."

He looks up to find Ray watching him, but the pity he'd expected to find isn't there. Ray looks as though he understands. As though he knows the kind of aching loneliness that has been Fraser's constant companion for so many years. And he wonders if he has ever understood Ray at all.

"Perhaps we should go back. It's getting dark."

"Yeah," Ray says. "Yeah, it is."

*********

Like the salon Ray's apartment is cool and dim, a refuge from the hot, noisy city streets outside. Barbara's brief occupation of Ray's cluttered bachelor's apartment visible only in the neat piles of laundry folded on the bed. Fraser pointedly looks away from Ray's open bedroom door. Ray leaves the lights off and goes immediately to the refrigerator for beer and water, and directs Fraser to the living room.

"It's hot. Go sit down, okay? Turn on the A/C."

Fraser sits. This is Ray at his most direct; he recognizes the tone from a thousand interrogations. Ray wants something from him. Fraser can't begin to guess what further admissions Ray expects or wants him to make. He is lonely: Ray must have known that. He is starved for contact: perhaps Ray hadn't guessed but surely a detective of Ray's caliber would have at least suspected that even Fraser required more from life than solitary release and a few friendly pats on the back.

"Why don't you date?" Ray asks him from the kitchen. It is a logical question, phrased the way Ray would put it in an interrogation room. Unfortunately it's a question Fraser is completely unable to answer.

"I don't think it would be appropriate to pursue a relationship at this stage in my life," he says. His answer sounds as just carefully rehearsed as it does when he practices it in the mirror before a night out at dinner with Ray. "I wouldn't want to mislead any...interested parties. Or encourage false pretenses."

"What pretenses?" Ray asks, tossing him a bottle of water. "You meet someone, you like them, you fuck, you see how it goes. Easy-peasy."

"If it's so easy then why are you still unattached?"

Ray pops the cap off his beer. "I'm interested in somebody who doesn't like complications."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Ray says, sinking down beside him on the couch. He takes a long pull from his beer and Fraser feels his hopes rise and sink in time with the motion of Ray's throat.

"I know this guy from work," Ray says, speaking slowly at first. Like an avalanche his words gather strength and speed as they roll from his mouth. "He's a really good guy, good friend, decent human being. They don't make people like him anymore. But the thing is, this guy's got a problem. He doesn't like change, doesn't like people to get too close. He's got exactly one friend--two, I guess, if you count the wolf--and he lives in his office, and he blushes and stammers and goes all formal when people try to let him know they're interested." Ray smiles fondly, but then he frowns and sets his beer down on the coffee table. "This guy I know, he's real good at coming up with reasons why he can't have the things he wants."

Fraser is surprised to discover that the death of all his half-recognized hopes hurts so much. He'd thought he'd been prepared. "Ah."

"Yeah, forgot that one. He says, `ah' all the time, too, and it bugs me." Ray takes a final sip from his beer and licks his lips. The movement of his tongue is positively sinful.

"Ray," Fraser smoothes an invisible crease in the leg of his uniform pants. His hands are shaking. "Are you saying that-"

"I'm saying that I'm a lonely guy, you're a lonely guy, and I like you a lot. But I wonder how we could ever--" He breaks off with a sigh. Ray slumps against the couch. "I just wonder, is all. I think about it too much. It's not good."

"No." Fraser murmurs in agreement without fully processing what Ray has said. He thinks he might be in shock. To know that Ray feels the same way and has obsessed over this...attraction, but has reached the inevitable conclusion that it could never work, is unbearable.

Perhaps they are both very good at coming up with reasons why they cannot have the very thing they desire most.

"You're wrong," Fraser tells him, twisting on the couch. His back twinges but he ignores the faint pain and presses on. He will not let Stanley Raymond Kowalski suggest that he--that they--are in any way unsuitable as partners. That has never been their problem.

"Then what is our problem?" Ray asks. Fraser didn't realize he'd said that last part aloud.

"I don't know how to do this, Ray," Fraser says. He puts his hand on Ray's thigh. "Or this." His other hand goes to Ray's shoulder, and he bites the inside of his cheek to will himself not to tremble. "I'm not comfortable with certain forms of intimacy."

Ray's breath is hot on his face. "You're doing okay so far."

His smile is so gentle that Fraser has to close his eyes.

There is a pause of a few moments, blood rushing loud in Fraser's ears. It sounds faintly like the rumble of train wheels. He squeezes his eyes shut, half-hoping, half-terrified. He was so right to dread this moment.

But Ray's mouth is soft and warm and sweet when it finally touches his. Gentle. Ray kisses with a lazy, unexpected languor. He moves well in this, too.

"So that's you," Ray says, kissing the corner of his mouth, trailing down his jaw to nibble at the base of his throat. "What's wrong with me?"

Nothing, Fraser wants to say. Ray tugs at his collar and the Velcro gives way with a loud rrrrrip. He feels the wet heat of Ray's tongue on his clavicle. What could possibly be wrong with this man?

"You make me feel...dangerous," he says, tipping his head back to allow Ray better access to his throat. His tunic is already half undone, and Ray works the fastening of the uniform open so quickly that Fraser knows he must have given a great deal of thought to the exact process of divesting him of his serge. "I don't know who I am when I...when I want you."

"Mmmm," Ray murmurs, easing the long strap of the Sam Browne off his shoulder. "That's not good. I don't want to, huh, confuse you," he says. He grunts a bit as he reaches around Fraser to work his belt off.

The Sam Browne is on the floor, and his tunic hangs open. Ray has tugged his Henley up and is...stroking, at his stomach. He can probably feel the tremors that begin there. Fraser can't control himself, and the shivers increase as Ray eases his trousers open. Ray pauses and looks up at his face.

"Is this...is it okay if I touch you? You want this?"

"Yes," Fraser huffs out, closing his eyes in pleasure, in relief. In ecstasy. He had never expected, never even hoped that Ray might return his affections. Ray's hands are so very gentle, his voice low and sweet. Just as it has always been in his dreams.

Ray nods to himself and continues to kiss Fraser, to work on the fastenings of his pants. "You're wrong, Fraser," Ray whispers against his neck. "You always know who you are."

"Who am I?"

"My partner," Ray says. He places so much easy confidence in this simple fact. "And a guy who's about five seconds away from getting the world's worst amateur blowjob."

He groans. His penis is painfully hard now, and Ray's fingers feel like they are trailing fire over his belly, his chest, his neck. This is like his dream and yet it so very different: the thin excuse of fantasy has finally been stripped away and he is suddenly confronted with the knowledge that he can touch back.

The thought is kindling tossed on an open flame.

He pushes Ray away and flips them both over. Ray is beneath him now, his thin frame and long legs pinned beneath Fraser's heavier bulk. But Ray doesn't struggle or try to regain dominance: he wiggles, his body sliding and grinding against Fraser's, shifting his hips until Fraser can feel his erection pressing up against his thigh.

He captures Ray's mouth in a long, hot, hard kiss. Ray tastes of the heat and rush of the city and Fraser cannot stop himself from teasing out faint hints of spearmint gum and the hazelnut cappuccino Ray drank in the salon. Ray doesn't taste anything like snow, or betrayal. Fraser is faintly surprised by this knowledge.

Ray thrusts his hips up, and Fraser bites the side of his cheek. The pain distracts him from the insistent, primal urge to thrust back and he pulls away, breathing heavily. He presses his forehead to Ray's shoulder.

"Are you sure, Ray?"

With a lazy smile Ray slips his hands between their bodies and works his jeans open. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

Fraser watches as he frees his erect penis--it is large and hard and beautiful--and then he closes his eyes and groans as Ray does the same for him.

"Feels good?" Ray asks, wrapping his hand around Fraser. He nods, and Ray lets go to clutch his back.

"Good. C'mon." He kisses Fraser awkwardly, his mouth catching only Fraser's bottom lip in a wet, messy meeting of mouths, and then Fraser begins to move, his thrusts slow as the startling pleasure of their penises rubbing against one another hits him. He hadn't thought something so simple and...and so elementary could feel so good. There seem to be a great many things he hadn't considered.

"Fuuuuck," Ray groans, arching up against him. He tugs Fraser's tunic out of the way to look down at their bodies as they move together. The sight is apparently too much for him because Ray closes his eyes and lies back against the couch. He pulls Fraser closer and digs his fingers into his back, encouraging him to pick up the pace.

"This is...fuck, better than--"

But his words are lost at Fraser's next thrust. Fraser cannot listen, anyway--he too is overcome, distracted, dizzy with pleasure. Ray is so beautiful laid out beneath him, eyes closed, his long lashes brushing his cheeks. Fraser stops the slow movements of his hips to kiss Ray, and Ray smiles.

"I'm almost, I'm almost--" Ray heaves, and then he stills and warmth pools between them. The knowledge of what has just happened drives Fraser over the edge; he comes in long, hot spurts that make him forget himself all over again. He can remember only one thought, and that is "Ray."

The power of his orgasm makes the world gray out. When consciousness returns he lifts his head to find Ray looking at him, and this time Fraser doesn't turn away from the tenderness he sees in Ray's face.

He presses a soft kiss to Ray's mouth and sighs as he runs his fingers through Fraser's hair. Fraser drowses against his shoulder, stirringly slightly when he feels Ray press a soft kiss to his temple.

"Hey, don't. We're not sleeping on the couch. Go clean up. I'll get rid of the laundry and we can sleep, okay?"

Fraser nods and moves to the bathroom. His legs feel rubbery, much as they do after a long hard run in the park along the water. He smiles at himself in the bathroom mirror, feeling as though the fist around his heart has eased. He can breathe again.

Ray is already in bed when he wobbles back into the bedroom. The laundry basket has been banished to the closet. He hesitates for a moment and Ray sits up, patting the bed beside him. "C'mere." When his arms slide around his neck Fraser blinks and buries his face in Ray's shoulder. One of them tastes like salt. He's never felt so close to anyone.

"You don't need to worry you'll forget who you are," Ray whispers. "I'll remember for you. Okay? I know who you are. I won't let you get lost." He repeats it over and over again, his voice strong in the dark. "Won't let you get lost. You're safe, okay? You're safe."

Fraser's eyes drift closed. Ray's voice fills his head and wraps around his body, his heart. He sleeps.

He dreams about touch.