desireearmfeldt

1. 

The heavy bag doesn’t fight back; it just hangs there, barely responding, absorbing everything Ray throws at it. 

Perverts who rape kids—Thud!

The disdain in Stella’s eyes—Wham!

Ray’s freakish, pig-headed, infuriating, perfect, untouchable partner—Thump!

All his fuck-ups, everything he wants and can’t have, all the ways in which he’ll never measure up, his empty bed, beer cans and bills to pay and rage and humiliation—Pow, pow, pow!

His fists ache, his body aches, the adrenaline burns through his body until he shakes like a junkie.  But there’s sweet exhaustion waiting for him on the other side.

2.

Some days, Fraser’s neck is an iron rod and his head pounds like he’s being beaten.

He leans back in his chair, digging his fingers into the base of his skull, and grunts as the worst of the tension starts to ebb.

On days like these, he misses the soothing hands of a card sharp.  (He cannot think about other hands he misses.  That would lay him open to the bone.)

Ray’s hands are equally fine.

His own fingers know where to touch, how hard to push, when to release.  He groans in relief, knowing no one can hear him.

3.

Ray sprawls with his hand down his shorts, wishing it felt good.  Long time since getting off did anything for him except calm him down enough to get some fucking sleep, which he needs right now, because he’s wound up so tight and it’s three in the fucking morning and he has to be on his game tomorrow.  He chases the memory of Stella’s legs parting for him, eyes shining at him, but he can’t raise her ghost, all he’s got is an ache like an old bullet under the ribs, and his own hand wrenching him over the edge.

4.

Fraser composes himself on his cot.  Back straight, hands folded over his sternum.  Muscles relaxed.  He takes a breath and exhales slowly, letting his eyelids drift shut.  For a moment, he can feel the sides of the coffin pressing around him, the lid lowering to shut him in.

Not relevant.  He takes another breath, lets it go, and the image with it.

Under his mind’s firm control, his heartbeat slows, his blood cools a degree or two, his breath becomes a whisper.

Now, let go.  Obedient to its own command, his mind unmoors itself and slips gently into dreamless sleep.

5.

Vodka scours his mouth, burns its way down. 

Ray knows better than this.  Your sorrows never really drown, you just wake up with all the same problems plus a hangover and people looking pity at you.

But alcohol puts the ugly crap into soft focus, and blunts Ray’s own edges, which need it. 

It’s not his sorrows, it’s himself he’s drowning.  But Ray can never just let the water close over him.  Can’t swim, but instinct brings him up kicking.

Contrary, says the Canadian in his head.

Ray sets the bottle aside, picks up the phone, and dials Fraser’s number.