Notes: Written for Get Fraser Laid, based on a prompt by monroe_nell. Apologies to C.S. Lewis, and thanks to my betas, thehousekeeper and the_antichris.
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When he was young, he dreamed of a lamppost in the middle of a snowy forest, and when he told his grandmother about it, she said that it was only a dream.
It wasn't.
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Are you lost? he heard from behind him, and the logical answer was yes, because he was wandering aimlessly through a land he didn't know, but he found himself shaking his head.
"No," he said. "I don't think I am," and he stood looking at the lamppost for a long time while behind him a horse stamped impatiently.
"Are you a visitor, then?"
"I was looking for my father," he said. But I'm not anymore went unspoken.
"You won't find him here." There was a jingle and a thump as the man dismounted, and Fraser could sense him just beside him.
"No," he agreed. "I won't." He blinked a few times, turned his gaze from the lamp to the man at his side. "What is this place?"
"This is the land of Narnia," replied the man, turning to look at him more closely. "You have travelled a long way indeed if you don't know that."
"Narnia," he repeated, and for a moment he was a young child again, lost in a mystery he could not begin to understand. Then the moment passed, and the man was eyeing him with concern.
"Are you ill?" he asked, and Fraser shook his head quickly.
"No, I'm just�I know this." He waved a hand at the lamppost, the trees which bowed around it, their leaves fluttering in the wind. "I've been here before."
"Ah." The man's face brightened. "Then you are not lost at all."
"No," Fraser agreed. "Maybe I'm not."
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They lay on the grass in the shadow of the trees that grew along the riverbank, and learned each other by touch. It was familiar; this place, this feeling, even this man, and each brush of their skin together brought with it a wisp of memory curling at the edges of Fraser's mind.
"You're thinking too hard," the man said, his finger drawing a careful line down Fraser's chest, and Fraser turned his head, watched the water flowing beside them.
"I don't even�" he said, and a finger across his lips stopped him from saying know your name.
"Peter," said the man, with only the slightest hint of hesitation. "My name is Peter," and he leaned in to kiss Fraser, slow and deep and tasting of berries and river water. Fraser let it wash over him, this painful sweet nostalgia, and he listened to the trickle of stream across stones as he pressed a hand to Peter's back, bringing them more fully together.
Peter's skin was warm and soft, but his fingertips were worn with the calluses of work, of experience. Fraser imagined that he could feel each year of Peter's life through them as they traced light patterns across his chest, his arms, his legs, each moment that had left its mark on him. He opened his eyes and watched the sun cast dancing phantoms on the trees above him, and after some time, Peter followed his gaze.
"You've been here before," he said, and this time it was not a question.
"Yes," Fraser said, though he could not remember when or why, and Peter nodded as if satisfied, then leaned in to kiss him again, more urgent this time, his hands finding their grip on Fraser's waist and pulling him up, in, against him in a dizzying rhythm.
"Please," Fraser heard himself whisper, and closed his eyes, ashamed at the need in his voice. But when he opened them again, there was a tiny smile, almost shy, curving at the corners of Peter's mouth, and he leaned in to press a kiss to Fraser's temple, his throat, his collarbone, working slowly downward, tasting each inch of him. Fraser arched up into his touch, let one hand drift across Peter's back, shoulders, up into his hair, tangling there and tightening suddenly as Peter's mouth closed around him.
He was lost. Head flung back, gasping for breath, pressing upwards into that soft warm heat, desperate and wanting. Then Peter was breathing against his neck, every inch of them pressing together, his hand hot and tight around both of them, moving together in a dance they both knew from far too long ago.
"Do you remember?" Peter asked beside his ear, his voice urgent, breathless, and for a moment, he did.
"Peter," he whispered, the name like a prayer against warm skin, and then he was coming, his fingers clenching tight against fragile hipbones as his eyes prickled with tears he didn't understand.
They sagged together and breathed in time to each other as the breeze cooled their heated skin, until they both fell asleep, wrapped in the warm afternoon sunshine.
When Fraser woke, he had forgotten.
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Peter watched him go from the shelter of the riverbank, seeing him disappear into the stand of trees from which he had emerged.
Just before he vanished from view, he turned and raised a hand in farewell.
Peter couldn't bring himself to return it. He watched instead, and hoped that his eyes said what he could not. Only when the branches had fallen back into place behind him did he allow himself to lift his own hand in a mirroring gesture.
"Goodbye, Benton," he whispered, and this time he knew it was forever.