lean
by Pares

He likes the back of Ray's neck the best. Of all the man's smooth, naked spaces, it's the one he's seen the most often, and coveted the longest.

He has longed to rest his forehead against it as he pushed into Ray, his thickness pressing into Ray's narrowness. He has stopped himself from cupping a hand around it as he's walked beside his friend several times a day since they first met.

He has wanted to breathe on it, the stuttering gasp of climax, the heavy panting rush of sorrow. He has wanted to graze his lips there to test the texture and the taste.

He has imagined, countless times, the day when he finally makes some irrevocable action, the final motion that decides his future.

Their future.

He will see Ray, with his palms spread against a wall with flaking paint. Ray will be shivering with strong emotion, possibly anger, more often, grief. His breath will be noisy and irregular, his shoulders tensed, his chest heaving.

And Fraser, seeking to gentle him, to soothe, to comfort, will stand behind him, and lean forward, and softly rest his cheek against the back of Ray's neck, always freshly shorn from his frequent trips to the barber.

He will rest his cheek there, and say nothing, only keeping still, waiting for the violence of Ray's shocked refusal, or the soft yielding of a man who is also weary of being alone.

END