On Friday he dreamed that they were flying.
Not in a plane, or on any wings he could see, just them among the clouds�him and Ray and a thousand miles between them and anything.
"Don't look down, Fraser," Ray told him, and he didn't because up was so much better, all frozen blue sky and clouds that threatened to spill snow down around them at any moment.
Then they flew over the cabin, and he forgot. He looked, and he fell.
Ray didn't catch him.
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Saturday they were caught in a snowstorm on the way back from town, and then they finally stumbled into the cabin and fell into an exhausted sleep, Fraser dreamed of walking blindly through falling drifts, calling out for Ray and hearing no reply.
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Sunday night, he dreamed he was warm.
Curled up in blankets, asleep by a roaring fire with Ray sprawled out beside him and Dief resting his nose on their legs. The flames played across Ray's face and Fraser watched shadows dance in the hollows of his throat and collarbone.
When Ray opened his eyes, he stretched instead of shivering, and Fraser felt miles of bare heated skin pressing against his own. Ray smiled sleepily and wrapped an arm around Fraser's waist. They fell back asleep like that, folded together in the light of the fire.
When he woke in the morning he was alone, and he had forgotten what warmth was.
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If he dreamed at all on Monday, he didn't remember it.
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Tuesday he dreamed of Victoria, of revolving doors and falling snow and the half-remembered crack of a gunshot.
He woke trembling, with a dull pain in his spine.
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He barely slept at all on Wednesday.
Ray was sick all day, and Fraser anxiously watched him through the night, waking him every so often for water and medicine. He slept restlessly, flinging off his blankets and then shivering until Fraser covered him back up.
The fever finally broke at dawn, and it was only then that Fraser allowed himself to doze off, sitting on the floor propped up against Ray's cot.
He dreamed that the felt Ray's fingers carding through his hair, but when he woke they were gone.
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Thursday he dreamed about heated kisses, skin against skin, Ray's eyes open and watching him as Fraser ran his lips across every inch of his body.
Ray's hips arching up against his hands, head flung back, breath coming in short gasps of yes and fuck and Jesus, Fraser until he ran out of words and all Fraser heard were breathless sobs, wordlessly begging for release.
Then Ray was over him, pinning him to the bed, and they were driving against each other, hard and fast, wrenching a cry from Fraser's lips.
He came into his own hand, waking with the force of it and hearing himself gasp out Ray's name into the darkness.
Across the room, Ray was watching him, lips parted, eyes dark with arousal, hand moving steadily under the blanket.
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On Friday he dreamed of home.
And when he woke in Ray's arms he discovered that it was not a dream at all.