Notes: Written for the Highway Miles challenge.
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Summer afternoon, ninety degrees in the shade, and he's lying in the back seat with Stella pressed up against him, fast asleep.
Their skin's starting to stick together in all the wrong places, and the windows are down but it's not making any difference. She's still got her bra on, but nothing else, and he's naked against the upholstery, feeling her breath brush across his chest, cooling the sweat that's still clinging to him.
"It's never going to be like this again," she whispered to him just before she fell asleep, and he thought she was being melodramatic, but now he's not so sure.
Because the summer's almost over, and soon they'll be married, and he'll be a cop, and she'll be a lawyer, and maybe they'll have a couple of kids, and that'll be the end of this. No more teenage summer afternoons, lying naked together in the backseat after a round of cramped and sweaty car sex.
He wraps his arm tighter around her and leans his head back against the door, closing his eyes.
When he sleeps, he dreams that it lasts forever.
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"Billy?" the guy asks as he leans down to look in the passenger window, and Ray's already regretting pulling over.
By the time they're halfway to the city, Ray hasn't learned anything about the guy except that his name is Joe and he desperately wants to suck some cock. Well, ok, he hasn't said that, but it's one of those things a guy can tell, and Ray feels Joe's eyes on him as he drives, raking across his skin as if he's seeing him naked.
As if he likes what he sees.
"Pull over," he finally says, and they're still far enough out of town that a few turns off the highway can take you to a dead end that's probably been used for a thousand teenage makeout sessions. Ray turns off the engine and Joe watches him for a long moment, then laughs like there's some big cosmic joke that Ray's missing.
"You're a real fucker, you know that?" he says conversationally, and Ray knows that, because Stella's at home waiting for him and he's here on some dusty side road with a hitchhiker undoing his pants and sucking his dick.
Then Joe's mouth is on him, and his fingers are digging into Ray's thigh, and thinking is suddenly way down on his list of priorities. He's got one hand buried in Joe's hair and the other one clutching at the steering wheel when he comes.
When he can breathe again, he reaches for Joe's pants, but Joe brushes his hand away and reaches out to pull him in to kiss him instead, a rough bruising kiss that Ray's sure is going to leave marks. "Want to fuck you," Joe says in his ear, and he shivers, nods, and then he's climbing out of the car while Joe's rummaging through his bag. It's been a long time, too long, but then he feels rough callused fingers wrapping around his waist, pushing him down onto the hood of the car, and it doesn't matter how long it's been, because Joe's pushing into him, slick and hard, and they're both gasping for breath, and it's good, it's so fucking good.
Joe says someone else's name when he gets off, and neither of them says another word on the ride back to the city.
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Ray's not sitting outside the consulate and masturbating.
What Ray is doing is sitting in an abandoned parking lot and masturbating. The fact that the parking lot in question happens to be directly across the street from the consulate is completely coincidental.
He's really doing Chicago a public service, the way he thinks about it, because driving with a raging hard on? That's dangerous. And Ray, well, he doesn't really feel like being the guy whose dick gets people killed.
So here he is, three in the morning behind the wheel of the GTO with his hand down his pants, and he's not thinking about Fraser.
He's not thinking about how those broad hands would feel around him, or how the pale skin of that neck would taste, slick with sweat. And he's definitely not imagining Fraser kneeling in front of him, eyes open, watching him as he sucks, and licks, and�
"Oh god, Fraser," he doesn't whisper as he comes.
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He's not entirely sure how they progressed from his hands being all over the engine to Vecchio's hands being all over him, but he's not exactly complaining. His fingers are leaving streaks of grease across the back of Vecchio's jacket, and he's pretty sure that he'll get hell for that later, but for now Vecchio hasn't noticed and Ray sure as hell isn't going to tell him.
Vecchio's preoccupied with dancing his tongue along Ray's, using his hands to press Ray's hips back against the driver's side door. And it's crazy, even after all these months, feeling the soft stubble of Vecchio's hair under his hands, smelling the aftershave clinging to the skin of his neck, expensive but not as expensive as he'd like you to believe. Crazy because they shouldn't have this, shouldn't want this, but they do and it's better than anything�better than Fraser, better than Stella, better than anyone they've ever lost�because it's easy. There's no worrying about one of them leaving in the end because they know they're both going to. It's only a matter of time, no heartbreak involved.
But right now there's just the hum of the GTO's engine against his back, the cool metal brushing his legs through the rips in his jeans, the press of warmth all along the front of him that's solid and male and wanting him.
"Get you hot, Vecchio?" he asks against his neck, feeling him shiver a little at the heat of Ray's breath. "Seeing me all bent over the engine like that?"
Vecchio pulls back a little, eyes snapping a challenge at him. "Bite me, Stanley," he says.
So Ray does.
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My plane gets in at 6:35, the machine tells him, and Ray's out the door before he even hears the end of the message.
He's leaning on the hood of the car, watching the sliding doors to the terminal open and close, and wondering if maybe he's lost his mind, but then he sees him. He's out of uniform for some reason, wearing jeans and one of those horrible flannel shirts, and when he sees Ray he stops, right in the middle of the doorway, and there's this split second when about fifty things flash across his face before it settles into that polite hello, nice to see you look that he uses on strangers.
"Don't you dare, Fraser," Ray tells him as he crosses the sidewalk to the car, and Fraser freezes again, eyes flickering with alarm. "Don't you dare fly all the way down here from East Buttfuck and then put on that face like you don't even know me." That's enough to get Fraser's eyes to soften a little and his face to relax into something that's almost�but not quite�a smile.
"It's good to see you, Ray," he says, and it's still polite, but at least he sounds like he means it.
"What're you doing here, Frase?" he asks, taking Fraser's suitcase from him and depositing it in the backseat.
"I shouldn't have sent you away," Fraser replies, which isn't really an answer at all.
"No, you shouldn't have," Ray agrees, reclaiming his spot against the hood and crossing his arms. "You flew all the way down here to tell me that? 'Cause, see, there's this miraculous new invention, Frase, it's called a telephone, and maybe you haven't heard of it up there in the Arctic circle�"
"Ray," Fraser says, and then his lips are against Ray's, and Ray can feel the heat of his hands resting on the car beside his legs. Then he's got his own hands sliding up Fraser's back, feeling the flannel warm and soft under his fingers and the smooth heated skin underneath, just begging to be touched.
"Oh," Ray says when they finally pull apart. "Well, I guess I can see how that would be difficult to say over the phone."
"I'm glad you understand that, Ray, because there are a few other things I would like to tell you which may be�difficult to say in public," Fraser says, and there's this wicked little glint in his eye that Ray's never seen before and it turns him on so bad that all he can think about is getting Fraser naked.
He reaches up to wrap his fingers into Fraser's hair and pull him in for another kiss. Then Fraser's lips are sliding down his neck and Ray's head is falling back, staring up at the sky while the sun goes down.
"Missed you, Frase," he tells the clouds, and he feels Fraser's lips curve into a smile against his skin.