One night, Ray came out to Fraser. It was pretty much an accident--they were sitting around outside the Bishop of Parkdale's office waiting for this shipment of illegal software to arrive (you don't want to know) and it was a long and boring stretch of hours in which nothing much was happening, and they had already finished all the hot chocolate and Ray had already told his story about that time when he saw Jesus on a Greyhound bus, and Fraser had already done one of his weirdo ghost-stories-that-weren't-really-ghost-stories and there was nothing left to do. Ray had a pen which he spent a few minutes trying to balance on end on his bottom lip, but then it somehow did this freak slip and hit him in the eye, and after that Fraser took it away. So then he really had nothing, which meant it was probably Fraser's fault, actually, that he got desperate enough to blurt out a stupid thing like: "I bet they're gay. The Backstreet Boys. I bet they're big flaming homos."
(And okay, this is not as out-of-nowhere as it maybe might seem, because earlier on, him and Fraser had been listening to the radio and that "As Long As You Love Me" song came on and then the two of them had had this argument about was it The Backstreet Boys or was it N'Sync, and of course Ray had won the argument, which he made Fraser admit to in writing on a piece of paper from the notebook in his breast pocket: I, Benton Fraser, hereby acknowledge that I was WRONG on this 26th day of September, 1998. So. There was some context there, is what you need to understand.)
Anyway. After Ray said the stupid thing and then closed his mouth and made a face at himself in the rear-view mirror while pretending to scope the street for the bad guys, Fraser cleared his throat. "That's a rather, ah. Derogatory phrasing."
Ray looked at him and huh: tight mouth, pink-tipped ears, that gaze aimed straight out the window. Fraser was pissed. Which was cool, because it meant that Fraser was cool, but also it was not cool, because now Fraser thought that Ray was, uh. Not cool.
"No, but." Ray sighed. "I didn't mean it like that, Fraser. I meant it like, okay, like in an affectionate way. Uh. Not that I got any particular affection for The Backstreet Boys, because I do not, I really really do not--but that isn't because I think they might be queer. I don't care about that, personally. In fact, uh, I'm a pretty open-minded guy myself, if you want to get right down to it." He stopped, glanced at Fraser (who was watching him, eyes narrowed, tongue poised on his bottom lip), then grimaced and looked away again. "Which, wow. I bet you really didn't, actually. Ha ha."
There was a moment of terrible, doomful, awkward silence. Then Fraser cleared his throat. "On the contrary, Ray. I feel honoured to have been given such a confidence." He lowered his head, scratched the back of it, nervously. "And. I also...strive for open-mindedness. Since we're already on the topic." And he lifted his gaze to Ray's, just for a second.
"...Oh," Ray said, and Fraser smiled, uncertainly. And of course just at that very moment, a white van pulled onto the street and parked in front of the Bishop's house, where its driver opened the rear doors, leaking Russian techno music into the night, and then they had to go out and catch some software bandits.
But that wasn't the end of the conversation, even though him and Fraser never actually talked about it again. Because after that night, there was a new thing between them, a new whatever buzzing in the air. Him and Fraser had always been pretty comfortable around each other, physical-wise, which Ray figured was, okay, partly due to him wanting to touch Fraser as often as possible, on account of Fraser was hot and Ray was not so ethical. But on Fraser's end, he'd thought it was just that Fraser was a Canadian, which maybe Canadians were all like that, who knew? But after that night by the Bishop's place, it started to feel different. Like maybe it meant something. Like maybe Fraser was trying to tell him something, only he was being subtle about it, and so Ray hadn't ever caught on.
And the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. And then the more sure he got, the more often it happened: Fraser's hand on his shoulder when they were working at the computer or going through files, Fraser's face a little redder than it should have been, a bit too close to his own. After a few days, it got so he started feeling like every single moment he was with Fraser could be the moment, like any second him and Fraser could be ambushed by kissing, a sneak attack of the make-outs right there in the middle of the deli aisle at the Lucky Buck, or maybe here, in the dark of a Saturday afternoon matinee, with Turnbull right there on Fraser's other side.
It was, you know, disconcerting. Ray kept having to sneak glances at Fraser out of the corner of his eye, to make sure Fraser wasn't coming in for a kiss. Which was stupid, because making out in a movie theatre was probably illegal, and Fraser would never do it, not in a million years. But nobody ever said that Ray's head was a place that made any kind of sense. And it wasn't like the movie was holding his interest.
He scowled and then took another sip of coke, to distract himself. Up on the big screen, Drew Barrymore was making some kind of speech, but Ray had no idea what it was actually about. He looked around for the popcorn, but of course there wasn't any left because Fraser was one of those guys who said "Oh no, thank you kindly, but I really couldn't possibly," and then when you accordingly only got a small sized bucket, just went ahead and ate most of it anyway. Ray sighed and shifted around, then sighed again, and crossed his arms, and then gave up and let his knee start jiggling.
Down the row, some lady tched, pissily. Ray ignored her. She did it again, and also leaned forward in her seat to glare at him in the dark, and Ray was all set to keep on ignoring her but then out of nowhere, Fraser reached over and put his hand on Ray's knee.
Ray sucked in a breath and went absolutely still.
Fraser's hand squeezed Ray, once, gently. And then it stayed there, right above his knee, the blunt tips of Fraser's fingers brushing the inside of Ray's thigh, that thumb stroking the denim. Ray let out his breath, sucked in another one. Risked a glance at Fraser's face.
Fraser had his eyes on the screen like nothing was going on, but his chest was moving, up and down, up and down, like he was trying not to hyperventilate. Experimentally, Ray shifted a little closer, let his knee press into Fraser's in the dark. Fraser's hand went still, then slowly slid a little higher on Ray's leg.
And yeah, okay: enough. Ray squeezed his eyes closed, opened them, leaned forward in his seat so he could talk right into Fraser's ear. "Bathroom," he said. "Now. Come on."
Fraser opened his mouth, slid his eyes sideways to look at Ray, then closed his mouth again and nodded. They got up and Fraser had to convince Turnbull that there wasn't an emergency, and the pissy lady looked like she might have shot them if she'd had a gun, but eventually they were out of there, hurrying down the plushy carpet to the restrooms at the end of the hall and halle-fucking-lujia if there wasn't a separate disability bathroom with a latch on the door.
Ray pushed Fraser in there and slapped on the lights. Fraser stood in front of the sink looking scared and flushed, squinting a little in the sudden brightness, and for once in his life, he didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. He stuck them in the pockets of his jeans, then took them out and wiped them on his thighs. "Ray," he said. "I, ah. I'm sorry."
Ray locked the door. "Yeah, right," he said.
"No, I am. I don't know what--"
But then he stopped talking because Ray had his hands on Fraser's face and he was pulling Fraser close and they were kissing.
It started out soft and weird and uncertain, but then it got wetter and hotter and hard. Ray pushed his tongue into Fraser's mouth and Fraser moaned and slid his hands around to grab Ray's ass, and Ray pushed closer, fuck, as close as he could get, crowding Fraser against the sink. Fraser let Ray shove him down onto the edge of the counter there and he spread his legs, pulled Ray in between them and Ray's knees got dangerously wobbly because god, that was Fraser's dick pushing against his right there, and those were Fraser's hands on his ass, fingers digging into his flesh, pushing him close, close, grinding them together.
Ray gasped and shoved his hands deeper into Fraser's hair, and then kissed him again, licking into Fraser's mouth. Fraser slid his hands up, under the hem of Ray's t-shirt, and his fingers were rough and careful on Ray's back, and his mouth tasted like popcorn and a little like coca-cola, and Ray could not fucking believe that they were doing this.
Fraser pulled his mouth away from Ray's so he could gasp against Ray's cheek and lick his jaw and bite the lobe of his ear. Those hands slid down again, under the waistband of Ray's jeans and underwear, brushing the curve of Ray's bare ass. Ray's hips jerked hard and he grabbed Fraser's shoulders, shut his eyes tight and buried his face in Fraser's hair. Fraser was reaching between them now, was tugging the button of Ray's jeans open and jerking down his fly, and then god, fuck, that was Fraser's hand on Ray's dick, pulling him free of his shorts.
Ray opened his mouth on Fraser's neck, sucked weakly as Fraser slicked pre-come down his cock and jerked him, slow and just hard enough, one time, two times, three. Fraser's other hand found its way to the side of Ray's face, pulling his head up and out of the hollow of Fraser's neck, and Fraser was kissing Ray's cheeks, his mouth, his jaw, his neck; was saying something there, his lips tickling and wet. Ray made fists in Fraser's sweater and did his best not to fall down. "Huh?" he managed, eventually.
Fraser kissed his way up to Ray's ear. "I said, can you be quiet if I, ah--" He swallowed. "Use my mouth?"
Jesus fucking Christ. Ray nodded--like, a lot, in case Fraser needed convincing--then let Fraser move him so their positions were reversed. His jeans were pushed down a ways, so the edge of the sink was cold against his bare ass, but then Fraser was kissing him, hot and nasty, his tongue deep in Ray's mouth, his whole body pressed hard against Ray's, and Ray forgot about whatever that was. He buried one hand in Fraser's hair and used the other one to prop himself up against the sink, and Fraser kissed him one more time, then sank to his knees. Ray breathed out. Lips, open and wet, cold before they were hot; that fucking tongue sliding down the length of him. Fraser had one hand on his hip, fingertips kneading his ass, thumb stroking the sensitive skin just on the near side of the bone. He had the other hand wrapped around the base of Ray's cock, and Ray made the mistake of looking down at him just in time to watch him close his eyes and suck the head of it into his mouth.
Holy fuck. Ray panted hard and let his head fall back, and Fraser's lips slid down and then up, and he was doing this thing with the flat of his tongue, and his mouth was, fuck, really big, and normally that was a thing Ray might complain about but this was, this was, Jesus. He could hear himself gasping too loud, but he couldn't make it stop, it was like his body wasn't entirely his anymore, so he put a hand over his face and bit his lip, did his best to muffle the hoarse sound that managed to work its way out of him. Fraser wasn't exactly Mr. Discreet either, though--Ray heard him moan, in sympathy, kind of, and he sucked Ray's dick a little deeper, moved his head a little faster, slid his free hand all the way around to stroke the cleft of Ray's ass. Ray's mouth fell open and he had to slide his arm up, bury his face in the crook of his own elbow, and Christ, he couldn't, he had to do something, had to move or talk or, fuck, anything, it was so impossibly, painfully hot.
But then Fraser moaned again, softly, and worked his hand on Ray's dick, bringing it up to meet his own lips, and so Ray just fell forward and grabbed his shoulder and came into his mouth instead.
Fraser sucked him through it, then let go of him, kissed his belly, caught him around the ribs when his knees gave out. There was this slow slide thing, then, and when it was over, Ray was straddling Fraser's lap, and Fraser had Ray's head between his hands and was kissing him, slowly and deep.
"Fraser," Ray said, after a while. "You, uh. That was. Wow."
Fraser smiled and looked embarrassed, which meant Ray had to ruffle his messed-up hair, had to kiss him again until neither of them could breathe. Then he dropped his face into Fraser's neck and let Fraser stroke his back for a while, until the movie in the closest theatre went BOOM. Both of them jumped. Ray lifted his head and Fraser smiled at him, touched his cheek. "We should probably go," he said.
Ray nodded. "But I'm not sitting through the rest of that movie. I want to, uh. Get you home, so I can do that to you. Only nakeder. Okay?"
Fraser laughed, a little breathless, and kissed Ray again. "Hm," he said. "All right. I suppose Turnbull is capable of finding his own way home."
(Which turned out to be completely wrong, actually, but you don't want to know about that, either.)