Seven Years

by Speranza

1998

"Don't stop," Ray gasped. "You stop and I'll kill you—"

"I...ohhh. Ray." Fraser couldn't get close enough. He reached out blindly and shoved Ray's coffee table back a foot, vaguely hearing their empty beer bottles rattle and fall over.

To hell with it—he just had to get closer, and Ray's sofa was narrow enough as it was without the table bearing down on them.

"Please," Ray was moaning. "Please—" and Fraser turned himself half around on Ray's body, maneuvering himself now that he had room to maneuver. He tightened his hand on Ray's erection before pulling the exquisitely soft head into his mouth, basking in the sound this ripped from Ray, a desperate keening like nothing he'd ever heard.

He sucked gently, rhythmically, rubbing Ray's leg with his other hand, enjoying the tickle of hair against his palm. Ray's keening grew louder and then Ray's hips were bucking erratically and Ray was thrusting into his mouth, against the back of his throat, spilling and spilling. Fraser was aware suddenly of his own aching erection, his own painful lust—and as if Ray were reading his mind, Ray groped for him and began to suck him with fierce desperation. Tears welled up in Fraser's eyes.

Later they collapsed onto each other and dozed awkwardly, Ray's face buried on Fraser's hip, Fraser's cheek pressed to Ray's thigh. When Fraser woke and lifted his head, he saw that the television was still flickering in the darkness beyond the beer bottles and the leftover enchiladas.

"Hey," Ray said groggily from somewhere down between his legs. "So who d'ya think won?"  

2005

"Ray?"

"Yeah?" Ray called back to him.

"I'm having an affair with David Duchovny."

"Okay."

"I just thought you should know that."

"Okay. Yeah. In a minute!"

Fraser sighed, put his elbow on the kitchen table, and rested his head on his hand. Dief took the opportunity to sit up and make eyes at that night's leftovers. "Oh, all right," Fraser said and set his plate down on the floor. Dief gratefully leapt toward the plate, tail wagging enthusiastically, and began to eat with gusto.

Hmm, Fraser thought. Perhaps a little more gusto was what was required.

"Ray..." Fraser said slowly, and stood up. Ray didn't spare him a glance, but maintained his position, crouched at the edge of the sofa, hands dangling between his legs, eyes glued to the television set. Fraser began to unbutton his flannel shirt. "Ray..." he repeated, and began to walk toward the sofa.

"Yeah." Ray glanced at him for a single second before turning back to the screen.

And then...slowly...Ray turned back to look at him. "Uh."

Gratified, Fraser parked his hip against the back of the sofa, licked his fingertip, and touched his nipple, which hardened instantly, providing him with a little stab of pleasure.

Ray stared at him and swallowed hard.

"Hello," Fraser said gently, showing Ray a quick smile.

Ray's face was a classic portrait of regret and confusion as he looked from Fraser to the screen to Fraser to the screen to Fraser again. "But there's hockey," Ray said, his voice breaking pathetically.

"Yes. Yes. I know there's hockey," Fraser said, and slid his shirt off his shoulders.

Ray looked at him, licked his lips, and was turning around on the sofa, rising onto his knees for a kiss—-when the announcer suddenly yelled something and Ray's head jerked around again, eyes helplessly drawn back to the screen. Fraser reached out, took Ray's chin between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled his head back around.

"But there's hockey," Ray pleaded, as if Fraser hadn't heard him the first time. "It's a power play—the first power play of the—"

Fraser lost his temper. "You know, nobody asked you to become so bloody Canadian!"

"I'm sorry." Ray sounded sincere enough, but he was still glancing helplessly between Fraser, who was half naked, and the Toronto Maple Leafs, who were all fully clothed.

"Look at you!" Fraser said, gesturing wildly at Ray, who was a portrait of confusion as he glanced back and forth, a deeply divided soul. "Sex. Hockey. Sex. You can't make up your mind, can you?"

"No," Ray confessed; he looked totally distressed, and really, Fraser could almost feel sorry for him.

"Congratulations, Ray," Fraser said, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. "You've become a Canadian cliche. I'll inform immigration."

"...'m sorry," Ray said again, though his eyes were inexorably drawn back to the screen, where Barazov tried a shot at the net and missed. "Can't you wait till the—"

Fraser sighed and abruptly gave up. "The eternal conflict," he mused, bending to swipe his shirt off the floor. "Sex and hockey. Hockey and sex—"

"Sex and hockey?" Ray asked, apparently intrigued by the thought.

Fraser rolled his eyes at this. "I wouldn't try them simultaneously," he said, sliding his arms back into his shirt sleeves. "I suspect the ice would be cold."

But now Ray was smiling at him, his eyes glittering. "Hey, come on," he said softly, "we used to. That's how we used to do it. On the sofa, during games..."

"We were younger then," Fraser objected. "Or the sofa was bigger. Or something."

But Ray was grinning wolfishly now, and he was up, off the sofa, and grabbing Fraser in a way that still made his heart pound. "Come on," Ray murmured, sliding his fingers into the belt loop of Fraser's jeans and tugging gently. "We used to do it. Let's do like we used to..." and Ray dragged Fraser onto the sofa, and slowly climbed on top of him, and damn if that coffee table wasn't still in the way.  

The End

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