Ray didn't seem to have quite passed out, but he lay very still while Ben cleaned him up. It was only when Ben dragged him around to lie properly in the bed instead of across its width, tucking a pillow under his head and gathering him close, that Ray muttered, "Frase."

Ben did not look at the clock. He pressed his nose against the softness of Ray's hair, inhaling the smell of Ray and sex--a combination which was growing increasingly familiar and dangerously addictive--and said, "Yes?"

"What's the--what are the words really? Early t'bed..."

Ben smiled. "And early to rise, makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise."

Ray nodded. "I knew that," he murmured, and then he went still. Ben waited as long as he could, lying there with the simple comfort of Ray's skin against his, the soft sound of Ray's breathing in his ears. Still, eventually he looked at the clock, and then he sighed.

"Ray," he said softly, to no response. He sat up and shook Ray a little. "Kowalski."

Ray's eyes didn't open, but he rolled toward the space Ben had half-vacated. "Wha--"

"I have to go," he said gently. "We leave early for St. Louis tomorrow."

"Day trip, right," Ray said, without seeming appreciably more awake. "No sex on game days."

It would be game day again in less than half an hour. "Right," Ben murmured. "Sleep well." He wanted to say, "I'll call you," but that was silly--it would only be one night. They'd fly home straight after the game in St. Louis and sleep in their own beds--he'd sleep in his own bed, of course, not Ray's, nor his with Ray in it--but it was only a day in any case, and Ray was already asleep again.

Ben gently lifted Ray's hand from where it had come to rest on his thigh, and tucked it beside Ray's cheek. He covered Ray with the blanket that had been bunched at the foot of the bed before he picked up his boxers and jeans and shoes from where he'd left them on the floor. He ducked into the bathroom to clean up a bit and put his pants and shoes back on without turning on the light, then went out to the kitchen, forcing himself not to pause for a last look at Ray peacefully sleeping, sprawled alone in his bed.

He picked up Ray's dress shirt from the floor of the hallway, and took it with him to the kitchen, hanging it over the back of the chair from which he removed his own t-shirt. He stood beside the kitchen table to pull his shirt on, and when he'd gotten it over his head, Dief was sitting in front of Ray's refrigerator, staring up at the photographs so lovingly displayed. Time was ticking, but Ben went and joined him, crouching down beside the wolf and looping his arms around Dief's neck in deliberate imitation of the photo of Ray and François that smiled down at them. "Jealous?" he asked softly. "I think I have pictures of you, somewhere."

Dief gave him a disbelieving look and licked his ear before moving on to sniff ostentatiously at his clothes. "Yes, I do have to leave, actually," Ben whispered. "And it's not running away in the night if I told him I was going."

Dief sat back, pulling himself somewhat out of Ben's grip, and Ben looked back at him for a moment before he gave up and sat down on the floor, leaning against the refrigerator. "It's not the same," he said, softly. "I mean--it's happened rather quickly, I suppose that's the same--but I know Ray, Diefenbaker. Even if this ends--" he swallowed hard, and looked away from the way the thin city light that lit Ray's windows shone through Dief from this angle. "Even if this ends badly," he whispered, as if speaking it aloud would rush their fate closer, "It's not a mistake. Mistakes are unintentional, and this time--I know what I'm doing. I know how he is, I know what he's like. I know him. I know how he gets angry and I know how he sleeps around and I know how he's not comfortable with this, but it doesn't matter. I know how brave he is, how kind and honorable and honest, I know he loves his dog and his team, and I love him. I don't want to be anywhere else as long as he wants me here. I love him."

His eyes had shut as he was speaking, and when Ben opened them, Dief was lying down at his feet, watching him in mute sympathy. Ben mustered a smile. "Oh, you only want him for his hair," Ben whispered, and Dief raised his head and thumped his tail.

Ben sighed, and pushed himself to his feet. "Come on," he whispered, "Hockey vincit omnia, you know." But when Fraser turned right, heading for the front door, Dief turned left, padding toward Ray's bedroom. Ben felt a pang of abandonment, but at the doorway, Dief looked back, tilting his head in question, and Ben hadn't the heart to ask him to come away. He understood the impulse all too well.

"Don't wake him," Ben mouthed, and Dief wagged his tail and disappeared into the darkness of Ray's bedroom, leaving Ben to let himself out.

Ray heaved a sigh, switched the TV off, and dropped the remote on the floor.

The game hadn't been so bad, for what it was. The guys were playing their third game in four nights, on the road, and it showed every second they were on the ice. Denny was favoring his knees, Bernie's whole line looked like they were trying to pretend they didn't have the flu, everybody was exhausted.

Except Ray, of course, because Ray had been out of the action for two weeks now. Ray was healed up and rested up, a little jazzed right now from the adrenaline-echo of watching the game. In the privacy of his own home, he was free to have a beer during the intermissions and yell at the refs at the top of his lungs, flailing around like an idiot, like he could stop pucks, deflect shots, and knock Brett Hull's grinning mug into next week, right through the TV.

Ben tossed and turned, his body still humming with the exertions of the game and the rapid succession of bus and plane and taxi travel that had brought him home. His apartment--his bed--seemed empty and quiet after eighteen straight hours in the boisterous company of his teammates. It was a sensation not unlike his first summer back at home, after a hockey season and school year in Medicine Hat, when the familiar quiet of the North was suddenly strange and unnerving.

He knew it would pass, if he just lay still and waited it out. If he gave his body the chance to settle, his exhaustion would take over and he'd be asleep.

Ben rolled over again, and buried his face in a pillow. It wasn't the team he missed. They'd been a welcome distraction, and the game, of course, precluded all else, but now he was at home, in a bed whose fresh, clean sheets bore no sign of any sleeper's presence but his own. He flipped over again, reaching across to the place Ray had slept, three nights ago.

They'd been apart barely twenty-four hours, but Ben missed him. It was a ridiculous weakness, and, if indulged, a monstrously unfair imposition on Ray. Ben knew he tended to hold on too hard, much too hard, and Ray had, after all, conducted an entire marriage around the separations hockey imposed. Of course, Ray's marriage had... ended. And Ray, clearly, had not lacked for companionship during those separations; he had, after all, been in love with Louis during his first stint in Chicago, and Jeff must have known of Ray's habits from their time playing together in New York, years later.

Ben rolled onto his back, drawing his hands in to fold across his chest. It was ridiculous even to make comparisons; Ray might love him, but they had made no promises. This was by no means a formal arrangement, nor could he imagine that Ray expected it to last beyond the season. He had no right to jealousy, and no right to make constant demands upon Ray's time and attention, especially not in the middle of the night. Ben realized he was staring fixedly, rigidly, at the ceiling, every muscle tense, and forced himself to close his eyes and breathe deeply.

A moment later, he rolled over again and looked at the clock on his night table. The squared-off red numbers seemed jagged and meaningless. His bed was empty, and just last night, Ray had said, "I love you," and Ben had left him without even looking him in the eye as he said goodbye.

It would be a show of weakness to call; it would be a show of cowardice not to. Ben lay frozen-still for a moment, wishing for something, anything to break the deadlock for him--but Dief had always had a knack for being underfoot until one wanted him and then nowhere to be found.

Ben closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them on the lighted keypad of the phone, already in his hand. His thumb found the redial button unerringly.

The second ring was cut off abruptly, and Ben listened to the thumping and fumbling sounds as the phone was dropped and recovered. "Hlo?" Ray's voice was scratchy and warm in his ear.

Ben smiled, and felt himself relax despite the guilty twinge he felt at having woken Ray. "Ray," he said softly, "I'm sorry, go back to sleep."

"No, m'awake," Ray said, in a tone that belied his words. There was a soft muffled sound, as if Ray had pulled a blanket over his head, phone and all. "Unless something's gone horribly wrong, Frase, you're in Chicago. At home."

"Ah," he said, looking around the room. "Yes, so I am."

"Kay, good," Ray murmured, barely audible above the sound of covers moving as he got comfortable. "You need anything?"

"It's just that you're on my redial," Ben said, getting comfortable himself.

"Yeah, you're on mine too, Frase," Ray said, a smile audible in his voice. "Hey, you going to practice tomorrow?"

The next day's practice, after this week's rapid succession of games, was technically optional for regulars. It had never really occurred to him not to go. "Yes, of course."

"Me too." Ray yawned and then said, "We'll have breakfast, I'll be awake then. I'll pick you up, okay?"

Ben closed his eyes, and thought of Ray eating pancakes. He was half-tempted to ask Ray if that was a date, but instead he said, "That sounds fine."

"Good," Ray mumbled, and then, his words so soft and slurred that Ben could barely make them out, "Was thinking about you, earlier. Wish I was there."

Before Ben could ask whether Ray meant he wished he'd been in St. Louis, or wished he were where Ben was at that moment, Ray had hung up. Ben replaced the phone in its cradle, closed his eyes, and considered that small mystery for the few minutes it took him to sink into sleep.

Breakfast had turned out kind of weird. Ray had forgotten it was Sunday until he'd had a cup and a half of coffee and there was suddenly a nine-year-old kid wearing a white shirt and tie standing at his elbow, holding a hockey card in one hand and a Sharpie in the other. The card showed Ray in a Blackhawks jersey--not his rookie, but his second year, a common card that you could get for two bucks, hard case included, at any decently stocked card shop in the city. This one had a bent corner, though, and a 1984 Topps Ray Kowalski with a bent corner was worth exactly bupkis. No card shop would sell one, which meant that somebody had kept that card for twelve years, packed in a shoe box or tucked into a book, and then pulled it out when he got picked up this year, and given it to this kid, who hadn't even been born the last time he played for the Hawks.

Once he got past blinking in shock and staring at the young punk on the card, he'd smiled, forcing himself not to look up at Fraser sitting across the table, and took the marker from the kid's hand, signed the card, ruffled his neatly-combed-for-church hair, and sent him back to his family. The kid's mom had given him a grateful smile, and Ray had smiled back and then wrapped his hands around his coffee cup and stared fixedly at the table.

Eventually, the waitress brought their food, and a while after that Ray managed to raise his eyes far enough to watch Fraser's hands moving as he ate, but that was about it. He felt like the whole place was staring at him, like they all knew who he was and they all knew he was eating breakfast with Fraser because he'd missed the chance to jump his bones the night before. Fraser kicked him once, lightly, under the table, startling Ray into looking up, and gave him a small understanding smile. Ray grimaced back and got on with eating his pancakes and bacon, silently vowing never to eat a meal with Fraser in public again if he could help it.

But that was hours ago now; they'd had a good practice, though only half the guys were there and even the coaches seemed worn out. They were nearly done, down to Coach's assessment of their performance and announcements about the next few days. Ray wasn't exactly listening, though his eyes were fixed on Coach as he stood on the ice with the rest of the guys, shifting from skate to skate, his helmet already hanging from the butt of his stick.

He was thinking about how to get Fraser to have dinner with him, someplace with a liquor license and no hockey-card-carrying altar boys, maybe with a few of the other guys along to make it less awkward if he forgot how to talk again. That'd be easier, and it had occurred to Ray, thinking back, that you could get away with an awful lot as long as nobody thought you were queer. At the same time as he was plotting the evening, he was sort of scanning what Coach said for key points.

His attention snapped into full focus, a sensation almost like being smacked on the head, when Coach said, "Kowalski, Krivokrasov, you're both on the regular roster until further notice. That's all for today, gentlemen."

Ray stood stunned, staring blankly up at Coach, as stunned by the announcement as he'd been by that hockey card, and then he really was getting smacked on the head, the guys crowding around to congratulate him and Sergei. The kid was almost jumping up and down on the ice, babbling in his erratic English about calling his girlfriend, and Ray kept smiling and carefully didn't look around. There was no one he needed to call; everyone he wanted to tell was right here on the ice.

The guys quickly started off for the locker room, but Ray hung back, looking around the arena. The press box was distant, and the glare off the glass was, like he'd thought, impenetrable. He stared up at that spot where he wouldn't be standing for the next home game, and raised his glove to his nose to cover his smile.

He knew Fraser's hand when it landed on his back, and with most of the guys gone, he risked looking Fraser in the eye, hoping whatever was on his face would only look like his happiness to be back in the game. Fraser's smile, the look in his eyes, could almost be that--just a guy being happy for his teammate's good luck. "Whaddya say," Ray managed, "Dinner tonight? Help me celebrate?"

Fraser's smile widened, showing that one crooked tooth in his perfect mouth. "Of course, Ray."

"And, uh--" Ray wasn't sure about this part, but he'd figured there was no need bringing it up until it mattered. "Still roommates?"

Fraser's smile closed up a little, and he looked serious but not less happy. "If you'll have me."

Ray grinned his relief, scrubbed one gloved hand over Fraser's sweat-damp hair, and turned to skate over to the door with Fraser right behind him.

Ben quickly redirected a pass from Ren down to Jack, then stole a glance at Ray. He was holding down his usual position in the crease, more or less sandwiched between the Rangers' goalie and Beukeboom, the massive defenseman wearing number twenty-three. As Ben watched, Beukeboom knocked Ray to his knees, and Ray levered himself right back up to his feet with his stick, never taking his eyes off the puck.

Jack was circling down low, looking for a clear shot to pass to Tom, then sent the puck back up to Ben just before he was checked hard in the corner. Ben slapped the puck at speed down to Tom, momentarily open in the center of the zone, and checked on Ray again. He was just bouncing back to his feet, and this time he shoved back at Beukeboom, his shoulder and elbow striking Beukeboom with as much effect as if he'd hit the wall.

Beukeboom took exception, however; as Ren battled with a Rangers forward for puck possession near the blue line, Beukeboom raised his stick and swung it down on Ray's right hand, the blow landing with enough force to be heard where Ben was standing. Ray doubled over, his whole body curling around his hand, momentarily trapping Beukeboom's stick. Beukeboom jerked it free, pulling Ray off his feet, and was already screaming his protestations of innocence as the referee's whistle blew.

Ray didn't bounce up as quickly as he had before, but he got to his feet without help from Tom or Jack, who had both rushed to his side. He pushed himself up with his left hand holding his stick and his right held carefully against his stomach. His face was tight with pain, pale under the fluorescent lights, and Ben pushed down the horror that was his instinctive response. Ray was all right. This wasn't anything like before. Ray was up and moving. His right hand was in better shape than his left, more able to take the blow, and his gloves were heavily padded.

The A on his shoulder weighing heavy, Ben turned his back on Ray and skated over to the ref, who was already listening to the low-voiced arguments of the Rangers' captain. He looked at Ben and said, "You know we're not going to call an injury if he was already hurt, Fraser."

Ray lay awake in his bed in a hotel in Montreal, watching Fraser sleep the sleep of the righteously exhausted on his side of the room.

Ray never slept well in hotels in Montreal; it reminded him too much of his first year of junior, when his French still sucked and everywhere in Quebec was Montreal in his mind, even--especially--the cities where they played away games and spent the nights packed four in a room. It put him on edge and always had, whenever he'd come back to Montreal to play away games. His time playing for the Nordiques had been great, even though they played lots of away games against Montreal, because he'd nearly always managed to just go home after, home to Stella and François and his own bed.

This wasn't so bad, though. It was just a hotel room, and Montreal was just a city, and Fraser hadn't seemed to want to do anything, so Ray had just gotten into his bed and let Fraser get into his.

Fraser had gone right to sleep and left Ray lying awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to find something to think about that wasn't tomorrow's game. Today's game, now, and had been for an hour and a half. Ray closed his eyes and tried to forget what city he was in.

Fraser shifted in his sleep, muttering something unhappy that Ray couldn't make out. Ray shifted up onto one elbow, squinting for a better look at Fraser, and as he did, his movement was mirrored by a white dog, popping up from the far side of Fraser's bed to look back. Ray froze, and the dog--no, the wolf--backed away from Fraser's bed, moving to pace back and forth at the far wall, his tail low but wagging a little.

Ray pinched himself. He closed and opened his eyes. He looked at the clock and at Fraser. It didn't matter what he did; when he looked back, the wolf was still there, keeping his distance like Ray figured a wild animal would, but watching Ray all the time. "Okay," Ray said, softly, "Okay. So you really did come back. That wasn't a dream either."

He saw the wolf bark, but there was no sound. Well, why not? He was a ghost, right? Ray thought for a split second about waking Fraser up, but there was no need for both of them to lose sleep, and if he was going crazy, well, Fraser didn't really need to know that right now. It would make this whole roommates thing even more awkward than being in Montreal already had.

Ray sat up on the edge of his bed. "You're Diefenbaker?" he whispered, and the wolf silently barked again, wagging his tail more enthusiastically. "Right. Right. Because what other ghost wolf is going to appear in our hotel room?"

Diefenbaker looked smug, and Ray tried to glare at him, but it was hard to be mad at a ghost, especially one he could barely see, in a dim room with no glasses. If the wolf hadn't been white, Ray probably never would have known he was there.

He ran his hands through his hair. "You wanna come here? Come? Diefenbaker, come." He beckoned with his hand, but the wolf flattened himself against the wall. Diefenbaker knew what he was saying, but he wasn't having any of it. "Okay, okay, stay there, then." At that, the wolf took a step forward from the wall and wagged his tail, and Ray rolled his eyes. Mind of his own, that one, just like Fraser.

"So," Ray said, after a moment spent squinting across the room at the wolf. "You don't wanna come over here. But you're here. And I'm sorry, but I don't think I'm gonna be able to sleep with a dead wolf staring at me." Diefenbaker laid down and put one paw over his nose, and Ray smiled but shook his head. "Nah, I know how this works. You're a ghost. If you didn't wanna bother me, you'd just--poof--not bother me. You wanna bother me. But quietly, huh? We don't wanna wake Fraser."

Diefenbaker wagged his tail and Ray knew there was one offer no dog could refuse. He just hoped it worked on wolves, too. "Hey, boy, you wanna take a walk?" Diefenbaker's tail came up, waved like a banner, and then he bolted to the door and vanished.

Ray sat still a minute, blinking, and looked around his suddenly normal hotel room. Fraser was resting peacefully again on the other bed, bad dream over, undisturbed by Ray talking to ghosts. "Right," Ray whispered. "Right." He got up and got dressed, shoes and all. He even put his jacket on. He was just patting his pocket to make sure he had his wallet and his room key when the wolf's head reappeared, sticking right through the door, and Ray whispered, "I'm coming, I'm coming."

The wolf disappeared again, and Ray hesitated at the foot of Fraser's bed. Finally, he whispered, "If I'm unhinged, it's your fault," and then headed off after the wolf.

Ray stepped outside into the dazzling brightness of the anonymous hotel hallway, just like every other hallway in every other hotel he'd ever stayed in, except for Diefenbaker, waiting by the door to the stairs. He barked without sound, and Ray nodded. "Sure, you don't like elevators either, why am I not surprised?"

Diefenbaker disappeared through the door just when Ray got close enough to see a flash of silver in the wolf's fur, and then he stayed a flight ahead all the way down to the lobby. When they got there, Ray hesitated. He could see through the windows that it was pouring down rain, so an actual walk was out. If he caught the flu now, Coach would probably kill him.

The desk clerk was staring at him, and Ray sighed and walked over, Diefenbaker trailing after him. He was here with an Anglais team, he reminded himself. He ought to speak English. "Hey," he said, when the desk clerk met him at the counter. "Uh..."

"Is there anything you need, sir?" His English was accented but good, so Ray didn't have to feel guilty.

Ray smiled, as charmingly as he could manage at one-thirty in the morning. "I was just wondering," he said, turning to lean sideways against the counter, so that he could see the wolf sitting attentively six feet away, his tail thumping against the polished floor, "what the hotel policy on dogs is."

"Dogs," the clerk repeated, looking right through Diefenbaker as he tried to figure out whether to piss off the NHL player or his boss, which did make Ray feel guilty.

"I mean," Ray said, waving his hands around, making sure the clerk was looking toward where Diefenbaker was sitting. "Hypo--hypomanically. See, the thing is, I've been drinking." The clerk nodded cautiously to that, and Ray pushed on. "And we had a bet going, and one of the guys was sure you allowed pets. I thought it was just leader dogs."

"Ah, yes. You are correct. Only service dogs are permitted in the hotel, and they must be with their owners at all times."

Ray nodded. "So, uh, no exceptions for wolves or anything?"

The clerk blinked, and Ray could actually see the guy deciding to just humor him, because he was harmless. "No sir. No exceptions for wolves."

"Right," Ray said, and made sure to stumble a little as he stepped away from the counter. "Well, thanks. I'm just gonna sit down now."

The clerk nodded slowly, and Ray headed over to the tasteful comfy chairs and sat down. The wolf sat down in front of him, still about six feet away. Ray felt like he was dreaming, white ghost wolf almost glowing under the bright lobby lights, but he was too tired now not to be awake. "Okay," he said softly, after glancing around to make sure nobody was going to hear him talking to a wolf they couldn't see. "So what's up?"

Diefenbaker tilted his ears toward Ray, his tongue hanging out, and Ray ran his hands through his hair and wished for cigarettes. Among other things, he'd look like slightly less of a freak, sitting here smoking. "Come on, what is this, Lassie? I know Fraser's okay. I just saw him. You just saw him, and you didn't wake him up. So you wanna talk to me, is that it?"

Diefenbaker wagged his tail. "Okay, we're communicating, this is good, we can do this. Yes or no questions. Do you want me to leave Fraser alone?"

Diefenbaker went down into a crouch and bared his teeth, and Ray quickly put up his hands, palms out, placating. "Okay, so no, good, no. I don't wanna leave him alone either, all right? So you're okay with me, huh?" Dief straightened up and wagged his tail a little, uncertainly. "But you won't come near me, even though you can walk through walls." Dief wagged his tail for sure at that, but Ray didn't need to be told. He could see it.

"So that's, what, a habit left over from when you were alive? You don't like people too close. Makes sense, right? You're a wolf."

Diefenbaker shook himself at that, and at first Ray thought he was just shaking his head, but then he heard the jingle of tags, and saw the flash of silver. "Not all wolf, huh? A wolf wouldn't wear tags. And you like Fraser all right, because you were right by his bed and you're taking an interest in his love life. So it's just me you don't like?"

Dief laid down, curling up small, and hid his head under his paw again. "Yeah," he said, "Well, I get that. François only really trusted me for a long time, maybe you only really trust Fraser."

Ray had been behaving strangely all day--since the night before, in fact. He'd seemed shy of Ben all evening, almost skittish, but when he considered how Ray had ended their last night as roommates, Ben didn't find it surprising at all. He'd let Ray alone and gone to bed alone, but the strained atmosphere had invaded his sleep. He'd been restless all night, half-waking between jumbled dark dreams.

One had been particularly vivid. He'd dreamt of waking to find Ray gone, and that dream and the rest to follow had been filled with lurid, fantastical images of what Ray might have been doing. Ben had awoken frustrated and shamefully aroused, but the morning light had revealed the room in exactly the same state it had been when he'd gone to sleep, Ray sleeping blamelessly in the next bed, curled tight around a pillow with the covers drawn up to his ears. Ben had hurried off to shower, and only when he'd dressed and felt more in control of himself had he gone to Ray's bed to wake him. He'd been hesitant even to touch Ray to wake him and tugged on the covers instead. Ray had startled violently awake, and then bolted to the shower, babbling about running late though they were, in fact, in plenty of time.

The strained and wary distance between them had persisted all day. Ray had been watching him constantly, apparently too deep in thought to notice when Ben caught him at it. He only looked away when Ben said his name, and then shook his head mutely when Ben asked if something was the matter. Ben, for his part, had spent the entire day fighting the phantom recollection of Ray's empty bed in their dark hotel room, the ridiculous fears conjured by his subconscious mind.

All day, through morning skate and warmups and the interminable waiting-around time of a game day on the road, Ray had been keeping a watchful distance, and Ben had exhausted the benign possibilities for what he was thinking by ten in the morning. He'd been dwelling on other-than-benign possibilities ever since, starting with "Ray can't stand to be roommates after all" and working up from there to increasingly morbid heights.

By the end of the second period, when Welsh caught Ray coming into the tunnel and said, "Denny's getting iced, you'll have to do the French interview," the flash of panic Ben glimpsed on Ray's face was actually a welcome change from the day's pensive impenetrability.

Ray recovered quickly, nodding to Coach and proceeding down the corridor, past the locker room door, to the area designated for intermission interviews. The French reporter and cameraman were already there, and Ray removed his helmet as he walked, calling out "Âllo!" in a bright voice.

Ben hung back as the rest of the team filed into the locker room, and lingered at the doors, watching Ray get set up. Ray glanced back toward the locker room just then, and gave Ben a not-uninviting nod. After a day of alternating stares and evasions, it seemed like a hopeful sign, and Ben gave up all pretense of being on his way into the locker room, leaning against the wall and watching Ray.

He didn't look in Ben's direction again, focused wholly on the reporter. They were speaking softly, and Ben wasn't quite near enough to hear what they were saying, but it was clear that the reporter was going over the questions he'd be asking. Ray was nodding rapidly, mouthing words to himself, and then the cameraman was counting down and Ray was smiling gamely into the camera.

The first few questions went off without a hitch; even in Ray's rapid Joual, Ben could make out the cadences of rote answers--we've just got to play our system, we've got to get more shots on net, Eddie's playing great for us and we've got to back him up--and then the rhythm broke. Ray stumbled over his words and fell silent, and this time Ben couldn't do anything but watch. The reporter jumped in, made a joke of it, but Ben could hear the hollowness of Ray's answering laugh.

Another moment and the interview was over. The cameraman turned his light off. Ray murmured something polite to the reporter and turned away blinking, walking further down the corridor. Ben watched until the reporter had departed in the opposite direction, and then followed Ray. He found him around a corner in an empty alcove, leaning with his bare head against a painted cinder block wall. Ray didn't move as Ben approached him, though he stepped heavily enough to be audible. After a moment spent staring at the sweat dripping down Ray's neck, the flush slowly receding from his skin, Ben gently punched Ray's padded shoulder.

Ray turned toward him then, looking grimly ashamed, and tilted forward enough to lean himself against Ben instead of the wall, his face against Ben's plastic-padded shoulder. Ben raised one arm and wrapped it awkwardly around Ray. They weren't even touching, really, with the bulk of their equipment between them, but this was as near as they'd been all day. They both stank of sweat, and Ray's hair was wet against his cheek when Ben moved his head, but Ben didn't pull away. Ray's hand settled against his side, pressing against his jersey between the bottom of his pads and the top of his pants.

Ray started grimly on the beer in front of him, and thought that he should have known that Fraser asking him to come out for a drink after the game was an offer too good to be true. He'd had the same stale smile on his face ever since Smithbauer had greeted him with a backslap dead-center on the cross-checking bruises and a, "Hey, Kowie, long time no see." No use pointing out that Smithbauer had just seen him on the ice an hour ago, because Fraser was already going on about how he'd forgotten that they'd played together for those two years in the Eighties, and Ray was smiling and nodding on autopilot.

Luckily, nobody seemed to need him to say anything. Fraser occasionally made an attempt to include Ray in the conversation, but Ray didn't try very hard to get a word in edgewise past Smithbauer, and Smithbauer didn't make it easy. If he'd been up against Smithbauer while he was controlling the puck as tightly as he was holding on to Fraser, Ray would've been risking a concussion to get it away from him. As it was, he didn't think a punch to the head was completely out of the question, so he just kept quiet and matched Smithbauer drink for drink even after he lost track of how many he'd had, and waited for the end of the night, when he'd go back to the hotel with Fraser.

Ray shifted in his seat. It was getting harder to wait for that. Smithbauer kept looking at him, and Ray was starting to feel the beers he'd been putting away, and he was absolutely not going to take a piss anywhere Smithbauer could follow him, which meant he was just stuck sitting there squirming. Smithbauer, the fucker, knew it too. The instant Ray's empty glass hit the table, he said, "Another round?"

Fraser decided it was his turn to buy, even though he'd stopped drinking at two, and headed off to the bar, leaving Ray with Smithbauer. Ray was just wondering if there were enough innocent bystanders in the world to get Smithbauer to let him alone in the john when Smithbauer leaned into him. His hand under the table landed high on Ray's thigh, gripping him hard enough to nearly hurt, and he said, "Long time no see, Cup."

Stanley Cup Kowalski, Smithbauer had screamed once, wasted out of his mind, the only Stanley we'll see this year, so we'd better enjoy him. The other guys had laughed, and Ray had laughed too, because he'd had no fucking clue what else to do. God, he'd been glad to leave Winnipeg. "Yeah," he said, smiling the best he could with Smithbauer breathing on his face. "Long time."

"Listen, Kowie baby," Smithbauer said, and his hand slid up to the crease of Ray's hip. His fingers pressed so hard on the tendon that Ray's leg jerked under the table, and his breath went all uneven from the pain. "Bent is my best friend, so you'd better be making him happy, am I clear? I know exactly--" and suddenly his fingers loosened, and Ray's head fell back at the release of pressure, and he swallowed hard as Mark's hand slid down to the inside of his thigh. "--exactly how happy you can make a guy. And I want Bent to be happy. Understood?"

Ray licked his lips and said, "He's fucking happy, Smithbauer."

Mark's hand tightened again, just for a second, and then it was off his leg. Mark touched his thumb to the corner of Ray's mouth, knowingly, and Ray was too close to drunk to hide the way it made him shake. Mark laughed in his ear, and Ray smiled, because he could not punch Fraser's best friend in the middle of a Winnipeg hockey bar, and he still, eleven years later, had no fucking clue what else to do.

Ben was listening, all the way to the bar, for a fight to break out at the table behind him. Dief had been huddling under his seat nearly since they arrived, and his distress had finally become too palpable for Ben to ignore, so he'd fled the table with the wolf at his heels.

It had seemed, beforehand, like a good idea, or at least not a tremendously bad one. He customarily met Mark after the game when they played against each other, and often enough over the years he or Mark had brought along a few teammates who were also acquainted. Ray had played with Mark for two years, and Ben hadn't been aware of any particular animosity between them that had sprung up since then.

He reached the bar without hearing anything untoward, pressed through the crush and called out his order. He felt a weight on his feet and looked down to see Dief, curled up impossibly small and looking up at him reproachfully. Ben grimaced.

It was true; he'd had an ulterior motive. He and Ray had been in this relationship--precise nature still unspecified--for a couple of weeks now. Things seemed to be going well enough, but Ben had no faith in his own judgement in these matters. He hadn't told Mark about him and Ray, but he knew that Mark knew him well enough to grasp the situation quickly once they met.

Mark hadn't, in that respect, disappointed him, but the tension between him and Ray had been instantly apparent. Ray, usually almost frantically good-natured and talkative in the company of others, had gone virtually mute; Mark, never much of a conversationalist, had talked non-stop. Ben had played along, waiting with a sick sense of dread for one of them to issue a challenge and take it outside.

Waiting for the beers he'd ordered, Ben dared to look back toward the table, not hoping for more than that the hostilities there had remained in a stalemate. Instead, he saw Mark leaning bodily against Ray, his hand on Ray somewhere under the table. Ray's head was tilted back, his lips parted as he gasped for breath, his hands fisted on the table. Before the sight had even quite registered, Ben looked away, staring blindly at the bar, and the two full glasses awaiting him.

His wife had had the distinction of being one of few women--if not the only one--he'd ever been involved with who Mark had not contrived to steal away from him. Ben hadn't minded the others; it had saved him awkward departures from passionless liaisons, dutiful attempts to live up to the expectations of all around him. His wife had been the only woman he ever loved, and Mark had respected that distinction. He might not realize that Ben did not wish to be rescued from Ray.

Ben closed his hands around the drinks and looked down to his feet, but Dief was gone. As he turned back, he saw that Ray and Mark had subsided into their earlier poses, Ray staring fixedly at the table, Mark looking supremely pleased with himself. Perhaps it was simpler than that; they had played together for those two years in Winnipeg, after all. Ray would have been freshly separated from Louis, and Mark had always been Mark. It suddenly seemed obvious, inevitable, that they had been lovers once. Viewed from that perspective, Ben was more an interloper here than Mark was.

He had nearly reached the table. Ben pasted a smile on his face and set down the drinks. Ray took his quickly, and Ben pretended not to notice the slight unsteadiness of his hand. Mark said something cheerful, his words half-laughed, and Ben responded in kind, though he had no idea what either of them said. He couldn't take his eyes off Ray, but Ray never looked back at him, only raising his eyes from his drink to take brief furtive looks at Mark as he shifted restlessly in his seat.

The levels in their glasses dropped slowly as Ben watched; his throat grew dry with constant talking, and he could have wished for another drink of his own, to ease him along. He was starting to entertain fantasies of bodily dragging Ray out of the bar and back to their hotel before another round could be ordered when Mark finished off his beer and stood up. "Well, boys, I think it's about time to get out of here."

For one terrible moment, Ben thought that Mark would, as he sometimes had in the past, suggest retiring back to his place. Instead he winked at Ben, and gave Ray a familiar, knowing look that made Ben's guts twist. "You guys have a good night, huh? Don't miss your bus in the morning."

Ben mouthed some inanity, watching the blatant way Ray's eyes followed Mark out of the bar. Ray drained his glass and finally met Ben's eyes. "Okay," Ray said, "Let's go."

Just that. Nothing more. Ben felt a surge of frustration, even anger, but he fought it down. He had no reason to expect Ray to say more; Ray had no idea that he'd seen anything, that there was anything to explain. Ben nodded and stood, and Ray got up and shrugged into his jacket. They headed out the door to the street. Ray was walking very quickly, and Ben fell a little behind as they pushed through the crush of patrons. Out on the sidewalk, it became clear that Ray's quick stride was merely a means of keeping his balance. He stumbled badly, coming to a stop near the curb, and Ben took two quick strides to catch up with him, throwing his arms around Ray with no particular concern for how it looked, so long as he didn't go tumbling into the street.

He felt Ray startle at the touch, and he was barely steadied on his feet before he was fighting free of Ben's grip. Ben took a quick step back, spreading his hands, and caught an odd hunted look in Ray's eyes as they scanned the sidewalk. Did he fear exposure, here? It wasn't altogether unreasonable, and Ray was obviously worse off for drink than had been apparent as they sat at the table.

"Ray," he said softly, "Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray."

Ray's eyes only slowly tracked back to him, still searching for something or someone else on the sidewalk. "Frase."

Ben closed a little of the distance between them, but Ray swayed away and took a short step back, wrapping his arms around himself as the breeze picked up. The temperature was slightly below freezing, and Ray's head and hands were bare, his body's systems depressed by the rapid intake of alcohol and the cumulative exhaustion of a long day and a long road trip. His jacket might be adequate if it were zipped up, but Ben doubted that Ray could manage that at the moment; it seemed even less likely that he would allow Ben to get close enough to do it for him. Ray started to shiver visibly as Ben watched. Ben was struck with the ridiculousness of their position; had they been only teammates, Ben could have tucked his intoxicated companion close to his body, zipped his jacket for him, warmed his hands. As it was, he could only look around for a cab and hope his desperation didn't show on his face.

Thankfully, one appeared in short order, and Ben managed to resist the impulse to bodily tuck Ray inside. Their ride to the hotel was shorter than their wait on the sidewalk. Ray sat the whole time hunched forward, and despite the warmth of the car's interior, he was still shivering as Ben paid the driver. "Ray," he said softly, and Ray looked up at him without comprehension for a moment, then slid down the seat and made his way without serious mishap out onto the sidewalk.

The hotel lobby was quiet, and they got an elevator to themselves. Ray stood in one corner, watching the numbers changing, shifting rapidly from foot to foot, and Ben leaned in the opposite corner and watched Ray. When the doors opened, Ray all but bolted, but went left--the direction their room in Ottawa had been from the elevator--instead of right. "Ray, Ray, Ray--" Ben caught up with him and caught him by one arm, pulling him around, and as he had outside the bar, Ray startled at the touch and quickly jerked free.

They stood facing each other in silence for a moment, Ray breathing rapidly and still shivering, and then Ben said, "This way," and led off toward their room. Ray followed close on his heels.

Ray kept his distance as Ben unlocked the door, and Ben moved quickly inside, going to his bed and turning on the light there. He heard the double slam of doors as Ray shut their room door behind him and bolted into the bathroom. Ben shrugged out of his jacket and toed off his shoes, and then went to the bathroom door and listened for any sign that Ray was in distress, but what he heard was perfectly normal.

It did explain the squirming.

The sound of the toilet flushing was followed by the sound of the sink running, and then the door burst open, showing Ray silhouetted by the bright light of the bathroom. He hesitated in the doorway long enough for Ben to notice that he'd shed his jacket, and that he was smiling for the first time in hours, and then Ray stumbled forward, coming to a halt a breath away from Ben and kissing him.

Ray's mouth was coolly wet, the metallic taste of tap water overlaying the flavor of the beer he'd been drinking. Ray's hands, running quickly over Ben's chest and sides in rather frantic caresses, still felt cold. Ben pulled back enough to say, "Shhh," and then he caught Ray's face between his hands.

Ray turned his head so that Ben's thumb was just at the corner of his mouth, shuddered and then went still, his hands knotting in Ben's shirt. Ben kissed him slowly, thoroughly, sliding his hands down Ray's throat, over his shoulders and down his back, pulling him at last into full-body contact. As though that were an awaited signal, Ray began to move, his mouth skidding down to Ben's throat, his hands resuming their frenetic motions. Ben slid his hands down from the small of Ray's back to his hips, pulling him closer, thrusting reflexively.

His own burgeoning erection met no answering hardness, and he went still, his hands resting lightly on Ray's body. Ray's hands were under his shirt, Ray's mouth at the edge of his t-shirt collar, and Ben pulled back a half-step. "Ray," he said, but he followed doggedly.

"Please," Ray whispered, "C'mon, Fraser, please, anything--"

"Ray--" Ben repeated, at a loss, as Ray breathed, "Fuck me," against his skin.

Ben slid one hand around to the front of Ray's jeans, still unfastened from his trip to the bathroom. Under his hand, Ray's penis remained unresponsive, while Ray's whispers and touches grew only more desperate. "Whatever you want, Frase--"

"Ray." Ben got a hand around each of Ray's arms and bodily pushed him back, and Ray went rigidly still, his biceps hard under Ben's hands and his fists clenching quickly, then relaxing. A small tremor shook him, though he ought to have warmed up by now. He met Ben's eyes for a moment, then looked away, but he didn't free himself from Ben's grip as he had earlier.

Ben felt well out of his depth, unequal to dealing with whatever was driving Ray tonight. "I'm tired," he said finally, honestly. "I just want to go to sleep."

He felt Ray's flinch as much as saw it, and then Ray did pull away, shoulders slumping. Ben caught him before he'd gone a step, laying one hand lightly on his shoulder. When Ray looked at him again he clarified, "Together. Please."

Ray blinked at him. They hadn't yet shared a bed all night in a hotel. It had seemed simpler not to; Ray had seemed to expect to sleep separately, whatever else they did, and they hadn't made a habit of sleeping over at home. "Yeah," Ray said, sounding as weary as Ben felt, turning away again as he pulled his shirt off, "Yeah, okay."

Ben let him go. He made his own quick visit to the bathroom and shut off the light as he came out. Ray's clothes were in a heap on the floor, and Ben dropped his own on top of them before crawling into the bed Ray was already lying in. He was stretched out well to one side, his eyes closed, perfectly still. Ben leaned across him to shut off the light, and then, with as much impunity as if he had actually believed Ray to be asleep, he dragged Ray into his arms, tangling their legs together, and tucked the blankets around them both.

Ray kept up the act for a moment, and then shifted around and raised one hand cautiously, feeling his way to Ben's face. His thumb found the corner of Ben's mouth, and Ben's lips parted at the touch, a moment before Ray's mouth found his. Ray kissed him carefully, only his mouth moving against Ben's while he held otherwise perfectly still, as though one of them were in danger of breaking. Ben returned every kiss until Ray fell asleep in his arms between one breath and the next.

"Fraser," Ray said, not bothering to hide his grin, "how is it possible for you to suck this much at pool?"

Fraser looked up from considering his shot--he had three options, Ray could see, and all of them were pretty hopeless--and said patiently, as if Ray were particularly slow, "I play hockey for a living, Ray. Not pool, although I grant you the two are very easily confused." He leaned back down over the table, lining up the most hopeless of all his hopeless shots.

Ray rolled his eyes. "Fraser, don't. Go for the six, for God's sake, that way at least you won't sink the eight ball." Normally, he'd just let someone make a mistake like that, let them put themselves out of their misery--but he got to play pool with Fraser about as often as Coach gave them a day off. He wanted to stretch both out as much as he could.

Fraser didn't straighten up, just looked up at Ray from where he was bent over the table, and Ray had to look away and take a swig of his mostly-warm American beer before he could keep talking. "And I know they're different, but--hockey and pool, it's all shots and angles."

Fraser took the slightly-less-hopeless shot, completely missed the six, but also managed not to sink either of the two balls Ray still had on the table. He sunk the cue ball instead. "Ah," Fraser said, straightening up, "Another bite."

"Scratch, Fraser," Ray corrected, squinting at him, trying to see some sign that he was sandbagging. He couldn't possibly be this bad at pool. Maybe he had some kind of special Canadian jet lag, from coming back over the border from Winnipeg this morning. "Another scratch." Ray fished the cue ball out and glanced back toward the door to the ladies room, which was just opening on a couple of women coming out. "And heads up."

Fraser looked over in that direction and smiled, all game face. They had figured out, without really discussing it, that they could play pool at the bar together if they also remembered to flirt with girls at the same time. Fraser had found probably the only chick in all of Chicago who really just wanted to hear nonstop stories about playing for the Oilers and exchange shy smiles with Fraser while he bought her endless Shirley Temples.

Ray's was a little more forward-thinking. He was just getting set up when she grabbed his ass, and his shot went wild. He sunk the eight and the cue ball both, and Fraser's girl giggled. Ray glared at Fraser, who smiled, blinking innocently, and said, "Ah. I believe I win, then?"

"No," Ray said sharply, "You do not win, Fraser. I lose."

Fraser tilted his head to one side. "Well, Ray, that's an interesting philosophical--"

Ray glared harder, and Fraser shut his mouth abruptly with a tiny smile. Ray turned away fast, before he completely forgot that he was standing in a sports bar in Chicago with at least half a dozen members of his team--not to mention a hundred innocent bystanders--looking on.

That put him face to face with the girl. He was halfway certain her name was Laura. She'd had three drinks in the last hour. She bit her lip and smiled at him, and Ray just knew she was a heartbeat away from saying something about being a bad, bad girl. He remembered to smile, and leaned back against the table. "Well, I guess I'm not playing pool anymore."

Behind him, he heard Fraser getting towed toward the bar, launching into yet another story about hockey up north, and in front of him, probably-Laura licked her lips. "Guess we'll have to find some other way to keep you entertained," she said. Ray wondered, idly, if she was actually a hooker, or just did a really great impression when she was drunk.

"Yeah," he said, and looked around the bar. The other guys were busy with the chicks they'd picked up, and not just for show. Nobody was paying attention to him, except probably Fraser, so now would be as good a time to ditch her as any. "You wanna take this outside?"

She smiled wider and led the way to the door, pulling Ray along by the hand. It was chilly outside but not as cold as it had been in Winnipeg, and the wind wasn't so bad close to the building. She pulled him away from the door, around a corner and into the alley. He didn't know exactly what she was expecting--he'd never picked up hockey groupies while he was with Stella, because that would've been cheating--but he had to make this look good. She'd be back here next week, picking up one of his teammates, and he didn't need her telling the wrong kind of stories. She turned around just at the edge of the pool of streetlight, slid her arms up around his neck and kissed him.

She tasted like the fruity drinks he'd been buying her, plus mint gum and cigarettes, and her lips slid on his, slick with gloss. He had to duck his head to kiss her, and when he slid his arms around her she was small, smaller than Stella even. He pulled her closer, right up against him, let her think his dick was half-hard for some reason other than that he'd been playing pool with Fraser for close to an hour. She mmmed against his mouth and then broke the kiss, and Ray instantly stretched his neck back and took a clear breath of cold night air. She was kissing his throat--right where Fraser liked to kiss him, and it wasn't fucking fair that she could kiss him right here on the street like this, while Fraser had to pretend to be halfway interested in that girl inside--and her breath was hot and cold on his skin.

She pushed up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, dragging herself up against his body--she was warm, and another body, and he rocked against her for that much, but it was all wrong. He was already trying to figure out how to scare her off when she whispered against his ear, "Hey, Ray-Kay, I'm a big fan, baby. Whatever you want--"

Ray pulled away quickly, his heart pounding suddenly, his face flushing. Whatever you want-- "What the hell kind of thing is that to say?" he snapped. She was staring at him like he'd just grown a second--third?--head, but fuck it, he'd done his bit, and he had to get rid of her somehow. "Do you just go around saying that to people? I'm a total fucking stranger, kid, you shouldn't go offering that--"

She rolled her eyes. "You're a total fucking freak is what you are. Jeez."

In the confined spaces of the car and the elevator, Ben could smell her on Ray. In the bright lights of the corridor, he could see that Ray's lips were reddened with kissing, and that there was a faint but jarring smear of pink on Ray's throat. When he looked down to unlock the door, Ray stood at his side, hips rocking as he shifted restlessly from foot-to-foot, and Ben couldn't help but see the bulge in his jeans. Inspired by her, perhaps, but Ray was here now, with him.

Ben ushered Ray in ahead of him, and turned immediately to lock the door, so he needn't be distracted later. He was taking off his coat and toeing off his shoes as he turned around, and Ray was doing the same, one hand flat against the wall for balance. Ben managed to keep himself still until Ray straightened up, and then he was in motion, pressing Ray up against the wall, catching both his hands and pressing them against the wall above his head. Ray's hands jerked against his, but Ben pushed back hard and they went still.

He kissed Ray fiercely, hungrily, thrusting his tongue into Ray's mouth, chasing down the taste of her, which gave way quickly to the familiar invitation of Ray's tongue and lips and teeth. He tore his mouth away when he had to breathe, and shifted his grip on Ray's hands to one hand, though only a token pressure was required to keep them against the wall now.

His free hand slid down Ray's arm, down his side, to the place where his shirt, pulled up by the position of his arms, bared a line of skin above his jeans. Ray shuddered as Ben dragged his knuckles along that narrow nakedness, his breath stuttering and then catching as Ben's hand slid down to the front of Ray's jeans, cupping him through the rough cloth. Ray's eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the wall as his hips jerked against Ben's palm.

Ben pressed his tongue hard at the pulse point just under his jaw, and felt Ray's heartbeat hammering just beneath the skin. He mouthed lower, licking away the waxy residue of lipstick on Ray's throat, listening to the quick rasp of Ray's shallow breath. When his tongue found only the clean taste of Ray's sweat, he kissed the spot, sucking at Ray's skin hard enough to mark him. He stroked Ray's cock roughly through denim, sweat-damp from both sides, ignoring the throb of his own erection. Ray's fingers closed spasmodically around his hand, and Ben pulled back, gave the already-darkening mark on Ray's throat a last lick, and shifted his grip to Ray's wrist, turning to tow him down the hall to the bedroom.

The room was neat as always, and Ben grabbed a handful of the quilt and yanked it down to the foot of the bed, hauling Ray forward and swinging him onto the bed. Ben stood still, just for a second, staring down at Ray's wide eyes staring up at him, and then Ray fell back onto his elbows, spread out before him, and Ben was moving again.

He knelt between Ray's thighs, reaching out to jerk his shirt off over his head, and as Ray was falling back to the mattress Ben was already unbuttoning Ray's pants, pulling them quickly down and off. Two impatient tugs disposed of Ray's socks, and then he was naked on the bed, his cock standing while the rest of him lay pliant, arms flung out, feet dangling off the edge of the bed. His head was tipped back, his eyes closed, and he was biting his lip, breathing rapidly through his nose. Ben undressed quickly and moved over him, catching Ray's hands where they lay and pinning them. Ray bucked beneath him, turning his head as he did, but Ben held him easily. Sweat slicked the space between their palms, but Ben's grip was sure. His mouth found Ray's again, and he licked at the juncture of teeth and lip until Ray opened to him. Ben pushed his tongue inside, shoving his hips against Ray's at the same time, his cock skidding across the soft skin of Ray's belly, muscle tight and hard beneath. Ray moved in echo beneath him, the heat of his erection moving erratically against Ben's hip.

Ben squeezed tight with his right hand and then let go, reaching down between their bodies to stroke Ray's cock in quick hard movements. He pulled his mouth from Ray's to hear him gasping in time to Ben's touch, and then Ben let go of him altogether, kneeling up, gasping for breath himself.

Ray's eyes stayed closed and his hands stayed still on the bed as though Ben still held him there, and Ben couldn't wait anymore. He set one hand on Ray's side and the other on his hip and flipped him, in one forceful motion, onto his stomach. Ray's hips rocked minutely against the bed, and Ben left him to it for a moment, moving up to the night stand for supplies.

He leaned over Ray, catching his wrists together in one hand. Ray bucked up against his grip, his back bowing as his forehead pressed down against the mattress, and Ben lowered himself closer, thrusting against the cleft of his buttocks, licking hard at the edge of a faded bruise on Ray's back.

He kneed Ray's legs further apart, and Ray spread himself, his breath coming faster. Ben slicked two fingers and eased them into him, and Ray shivered beneath him as his fingers worked. He pulled them free, and used his teeth to tear open the condom, spitting a strip of foil down onto Ray's back, placing a little more of his weight on the hand holding Ray's wrists as he worked one-handed to ready himself. Ray was still beneath him, except for the quick rise and fall of his back as he breathed, and the minute metronome rocking of his hips.

Ben entered him quickly, roughly, and Ray gave a quickly-muffled moan. He knew he ought to be more careful, but it was a remote sort of knowledge, far from the frantic motion of his hips, his cock gripped tight inside Ray's body.

Ray twisted his face free of the mattress and took a long shuddering gasp just as Ben felt him come. He moved more slowly as Ray's body shuddered around him, his hands clenching hard on Ray's wrists and hip, gritting his teeth against the enticement of Ray's orgasm. He thrust slowly into Ray as Ray went still, trying to be gentler now and failing. Ben's climax rushed in on him, his hips jerking raggedly, his cock sliding quickly in the shuddering heat of Ray's body. He held himself still above Ray for a long suspended moment, trying desperately to catch his breath, and then he pulled free and rolled away. His eyes slid shut even as his hands went through the motions of dealing with the condom, his brain already fogging with sleep. He felt a sudden flurry of motion and turned his head, blinking his eyes open to see Ray lying on the far edge of the bed on his side, facing away, his shoulders hunched.

Ray's posture was like a punch in the gut, and adrenaline flooded his system. Ben was suddenly coldly awake. "Ray?" he said, and reached across the space between them, not quite touching Ray's back.

Ray shook his head quickly, a short sharp motion against the pillow, and raised one hand, fingers spread, in a painfully clear gesture of stop. Ben barely breathed, waiting for the explosion, the fingers of his extended hand curling in.

But Ray's voice, when it came, sometime after Ben had counted a hundred, was small and strained. "Don't, uh, don't do that again." He was silent for the space of a few visibly deep breaths. "Don't hold me down like that, okay? I don't--" Ray took another breath, and held it this time. The movement of his shoulders suggested that he was rubbing his wrists.

"Ray, why didn't you say something?" Ben's panic was fading rapidly into guilt and a little frustration. This needn't have happened. He would have stopped--he would have slowed down--if Ray had simply said something.

"I'm saying something," Ray said. "Right now. It's not a big deal--" Ben could see every muscle in Ray's back and shoulders, tensed as though he were awaiting a blow, as though he were bracing to run. "I just don't like it."

"Ray, all you had to say was no." His voice was rising sharply, in tandem with his anger. Of all the stupid things. "Why on Earth did you let me--"

"Fraser, just--" Ray's voice sounded stronger now, closer to anger himself, and that was better, anything was better than Ray small and quiet and broken--if Ben could just get him talking...

"Honestly, Ray, I don't understand. Why would you let me upset you? That's not--not buddies, Ray--"

Ray woke up with a hard dick pressed against his ass, and his stomach clenched with dread--this was how it started, half the time, having to share beds on the road, half-fucked before you even knew what was happening and then aww, hey, be a good sport. At almost the same instant he realized that he was--shitfuckidiotneverdrinkingagain--naked, and that he was--okay, okay, everything's okay--sleeping with Fraser. He couldn't stop himself from tensing, his heart racing with the panic he didn't need. He forced himself to relax, hoping he hadn't woken Fraser.

Fraser's arm over his waist tightened, and Fraser hmmed softly a few inches from Ray's ear, but he didn't wake up. Ray shifted back against him as his heart eased down from that wake-up jolt of adrenaline. Fraser was warm and solid at his back, and Ray burrowed his face into the pillow and yawned, pressing closer.

A stray twinge reminded him, from the ass up, of exactly how the night before had gone, and Ray made himself lie still again. It had been dumb to say anything--he'd half expected Fraser to point out the wet spot on the bed that proved he must like it at least a little--but, all things considered, it hadn't gone so badly. Dumb to get scared like that anyway, after it was over, when it was Fraser, and he knew--he did know--that Fraser wouldn't really hurt him. Afterward, Fraser had stayed perfectly still under him, like he thought one wrong move would send Ray screaming into the night.

So Fraser had spooked him, and he'd spooked Fraser right back, and odds were good that Fraser was going to try to back off on him again, once he woke up. He'd be all careful and considerate and probably downright gentlemanly and Ray wouldn't get laid for days.

Except Fraser wasn't feeling too considerate right now, was he? Right now, Fraser was exactly where Ray wanted him. All he had to do was figure out a way to keep him there. Ray reached back and slid a hand over the hot smooth skin of Fraser's hip to his ass, and pulled them a little tighter together. Fraser made a half-awake sound, and Ray felt the muscle under his hand tighten as Fraser's hips rocked against him, his hard-on sliding against Ray's ass. Fraser's hand slid down Ray's belly, maddeningly close to Ray's dick, Ray's own morning hard-on. It was definitely time to wake him up.

Ray twisted, ignoring the cold air that snuck down his shoulder blades when he moved away from Fraser, until he could see Fraser's face. "Hey," he whispered, flexing his ass back against Fraser's cock, "Fraser. Frase."

He saw Fraser's eyes flash open--a wide blur of blue in Ray's peripheral vision--and felt him go completely rigid. Ray twisted back into place, his back hard against Fraser's chest, and caught Fraser's wrist before he could pull his arm off Ray. Before Fraser could respond, Ray dragged his hand down--to his dick, this time, while he was calling the shots. Fraser's palm barely touched him, but he couldn't choke back a groan, his hand on Fraser's wrist tightening hard, then relaxing as he realized what he was doing. Not fair. Fraser's hand closed slowly, carefully, around his dick, like Fraser had never done this before, and Ray thrust into his loose grip. "C'mon," Ray whispered, sliding his hand up and down Fraser's forearm.

But Fraser's hand on his dick was still, and behind him, Fraser stayed frozen as Ray ground back against him. Still hard, though, and that was something. "Ray," Fraser said, his voice strangled and confused.

Ray ducked his head to be sure of hiding his face, and kept his hand sliding back and forth on Fraser's arm. "Come on, Frase, this is a series, isn't it? Gimme best two out of three, at least." No single elimination here, no one bad game was going to be the end of them, Fraser would understand him when he said it like that.

Fraser did relax a little, then, enough to close his hand properly on Ray's cock, and when he spoke, Ray could feel the words against the back of his neck. It was so distracting that it took him a minute to realize that Fraser had said, quietly but straight out, "You could fuck me."

His heart skipped, and his cock jumped. God, that would be... But his brain--and his mouth--raced ahead of his dick, for once, and Ray said, "What, like paybacks?"

Fraser didn't say anything, didn't move a muscle, his arm hard under Ray's hand. Ray took a deep, steadying breath and then shook his head. "Not now, Fraser, not because you think you owe me something. I want you to fuck me, because I like it when you fuck me."

Still nothing from Fraser, except the steady beat of his breath against the back of Ray's neck. Ray swallowed hard and wished he'd had coffee before he had to deal with this and said, "Come on, Frase, don't make me beg, that's not--"

He ran out of words, then, because Fraser was kissing the back of his neck, just at the tickly spot where the hair stopped, and his hand on Ray's dick tightened and stroked, one, two, three times. Ray gasped at the sudden rush of sensation, his eyes clenching shut, his toes curling. Then Fraser was leaning over him--Ray rolled half onto his stomach, drawing up his right knee to prop himself--to the bedside table, grabbing the stuff that was still out from the night before.

Ray shivered a little as the cool air touched him where Fraser knocked the blanket off. It was almost too hot under the covers, sharing heat with Fraser, and the contrast was startling. Fraser tugged the covers up over them both as he settled into place against Ray's back, his cock hot and hard against Ray's hip. He ran one big warm hand over Ray's shoulder, like an apology to his skin, and then lower, fingers ghosting over the bruises on his back. He stroked down Ray's lower back to his ass, spreading him more, and Ray pulled his leg up higher to hold the position.

Fraser's hand kept moving, though, down to his hip, his fingertips just hooking over Ray's hipbone, and then his hand was climbing. He pressed just hard enough against Ray's belly to keep from tickling, and then Fraser reached out to Ray's hand and covered it, twining their fingers together as he kissed the point of Ray's jaw, just under his ear, breath hot on Ray's face. Ray closed his eyes and tightened his fingers against Fraser's, and then Fraser tugged their hands down and down, to wrap around Ray's cock. Ray thrust shallowly into that pressure, Fraser's fingers hard against his, and then Fraser, still kissing him, his cock pressing in tiny motions against Ray's hip, pulled his hand away. He did it slowly, stroking Ray's hand, pressing it into place, and Ray understood. They only had two hands free between them; Fraser needed him to do this part.

Fraser's hand left him for a moment, and then Ray heard the muffled pop of the lube being opened under the covers. He stilled his hand on his dick and pressed his face into the pillow, barely breathing as he waited, and Fraser's breath against his neck sped up. One finger, sloppy-slick, pressed into him slowly. Ray remembered to breathe, remembered to relax, and it only ached a little--he'd be sore, later, but he'd played through worse for less cause. Fraser's finger moved in him, and Ray couldn't hold back a little startled sound. Fraser kissed him again on the back of his neck as he eased another slippery finger inside. He was moving them around and that was--oh, that was better. Ray had to take his face out of the pillow to breathe now, gasping cold air, his hand moving on his dick slowly, so slowly, his whole arm tensed so hard with control that it almost hurt. Fraser added another finger, and a twisting motion, and Ray bit his lip hard, forcing himself to be still, be patient.

Then, finally, Fraser's fingers slid free of him. Fraser pressed the heel of his hand against the back of Ray's thigh and his cock against Ray's ass and pushed in, slow and steady. Ray held his breath and kept his head ducked down, because