They are in a room, alone together. Bland vertically striped wallpaper in cream and taupe, and bland pastel prints on the walls, indicate a hotel room -- a very nice hotel room. The carpet is a spotlessly clean neutral beige. Its light pile shows only the pattern of the maid's vacuum cleaner and the vague impressions of the shoes of the men in the room.
There is one sumptuous king-sized bed, with big pillows, both under a tastefully sage-colored coverlet. A table with a lamp on it is not far from the door. Two chairs are at the table, and one overstuffed chair sits in the corner. The dresser is low and very wide, on the wall oppposite the head of the bed. It has another lamp and the television on opposite ends of it, and a large, wide mirror runs the length behind it.
Two nightstands sit on either side of the bed, one with a lamp and a phone, the other with just a lamp. All the lamps are brass banker's lamps with green shades. The overhead lights are off. Only the lamp light from the table and one nightstand illuminates the room with a warm, yellow glow -- not bright, but not dim, either. Very easy on the eyes.
Ray Vecchio stands in the doorway to the bathroom, leaning against it with his left shoulder. A soft gray turtleneck drapes over his lean physique. His eyes look slowly from Fraser to Ray Kowalski, and back. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are a bit wider than they might normally be. The green coronas are thin because his pupils are dilated -- as if the light is dim or he's looking at something exciting or beloved. His hands nervously but quietly jingle keys and coins in the pockets of his black pants. His breathing is faster than it should be for a body at rest. The attitude of his physique is a relaxed wakefulness, anticipation trying to be cool.
Fraser stands, hat in hand, by the side of the bed, in his red Serge. He could be excited or scared -- it is hard to tell. He glances from one Ray to the other, blinking slowly, as if he can't quite focus those sparkling blue eyes, isn't quite sure how he got here, and doesn't know what will happen next. Once he's looked at both Ray Vecchio and then at Ray Kowalski, his eyes begin the process over again, a cautious, but wondering, expression on his face. He fidgets by stroking the hat brim repeatedly without looking at it. His body is noticeably tense and alert. His face would be pale but for the flush of his cheeks.
Ray Kowalski stands, his back against the closed door to the room. His black leather jacket is thrown carelessly over a chairback near the table to his right. A thin gray cotton T-shirt stretches over his lean frame, tucked into gray cotton pants -- chinos or khakis, gray. His arms are crossed loosely over his chest, a casual pose completely belied by the activity of his gaze. He looks from Ray to Fraser repeatedly, shifting his eyes, rather than moving his head. It is as if he can not decide where his eyes should finally rest or stay.
He looks down, then, and stands up straight, away from the door. He slowly unbuckles his belt. The sibilant sound of it being drawn from his belt loops tightens the posture of the two other men.
The wiry muscles in Ray's forearms move as he coils the belt. His biceps bunch and then lengthen as he takes the coiled belt and drops it on the seat of the chair from which his jacket hangs. No sooner does he drop it on the chair seat, than it begins uncoiling; but he does not notice.
The long fringe of his blond lashes shyly lowers over his mercurial eyes, now more slate than blue from the bland room and the gray he wears. Then he looks back up at the other two men, hands at the button of his pants, hesitating. Incapable of keeping his emotions from his face, his eyes widen and darken. His expression is open, slightly anxious... yet hungry and intent.
end