Notes: Written for Stop Drop Porn. Title belongs to The Kane Brothers.
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Ray left a lot of things in Canada, including but not limited to his toothbrush, his need to shave every day, and Fraser.
The first thing he did when he got home was to stop at the store and buy a new toothbrush. The second thing he did was collapse on his bed in a jetlagged heap. The third thing, when he woke seventeen hours later, was to pointedly forget to unpack anything from his bags.
They're still sitting there, in the corner of his apartment, and he's almost gotten over the feeling that they're watching him.
Almost.
He's been living in old clothes�shirts and jeans that were too torn or too thin or too damn ugly to bring north with him�because the thought of going through his bags twists something in his stomach.
He doesn't sleep well anymore. In fact, he barely sleeps at all. Mostly it's because he gets this twitchy feeling when he's inside too long, this need to go outside and breathe real air. He's tried sleeping on his porch a few times, but usually that just ends with a rain-soaked sleeping bag and the uncomfortable feeling that Chicago has no real air left in it. So instead he sits awake and watches the lights of the city blink around him.
When he does sleep, he dreams.
The rough and unmistakable crackle of campfire, the crunch of snow beneath boots that are getting heavier by the minute. The feeling of Dief, curled around him, warm and soft, grumbling in his sleep. Howling wind, flapping tent walls, and Fraser.
Fraser sprawled out across a sleeping bag, writing by flashlight, relaxed in a way that Ray had never seen him before. Eyes catching Ray's, dark and unreadable in the dim light. His tongue, darting out to lick along his lower lip as he writes.
Vast expanses of skin, hot and pressed up against every inch of Ray, hands moving slow and careful across his chest, his legs, everywhere but where he wants them, making him writhe and squirm in Fraser's arms. Mouth made for blowjobs, lips wrapped eagerly around Ray, eyes watching him as he clings to the sheets and arches back, crying Fraser's name into the still night.
�into the empty silence of his own apartment.
Night after night, he doesn't sleep. Because when he sleeps, he dreams. And when he dreams, he wants.
Some nights he calls the airline, hangs up, calls again. He never buys a ticket.
But he still hasn't unpacked his bags.