Story Notes: Written June 2007. Prompts: tent, wet.

Ray was used to waking up with, you know, a pup tent under the sheets. Hadn't ever done him much good, because Stella hated morning sex. She'd been amused by the reflex the first few years---she'd grin, give it a little pat, say "Hope schwings eternal," but toward the end she acted like it was just one more demand, one more thing he wanted that she didn't have to give, and he didn't know how to make his body stop asking.

And post-Stella? Still happened. But usually went away after he glared down at his cock and spoke to it sternly, like, "Do you SEE anybody else in this bed?"

But the past few weeks, with this freaky new partner, this freaky-hot partner he'd inherited. Not a pup tent anymore. A full-grown Everest-expedition tent. You could fit sherpas under there. Fuck.

And those weren't even the worst mornings. The worst ones were when he woke up untented, because those were the mornings he woke up in a wet spot. And he'd never been able to remember much of his dreams before, but now when he really, really didn't want to, there they were in color and surround-sound and smell-o-vision, Fraser Fraser Fraser.

He was losing his fucking mind. But he was never going to say anything, because he'd figured out that Fraser was maybe the one guy in Chicago lonelier than him, and he wasn't going to fuck things up and leave both of them with nobody.

He was doing pretty good at keeping his mouth shut. Until Fraser walked up to his desk, beaming, and asked him did he have weekend plans and did he want to go camping.

He was never going to be able to explain why he put his face in his hands and whimpered.