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schmericaYes, this is 1000 words of wallow-y F/K deathfic. YOU HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME BUT YOURSELVES.
*****
Ray Kowalski died on a Monday evening, shortly after dinner, on one of the early warm days of spring's beginning. He was sitting on a chair on the porch, with Dief by his side, resting his snout against his leg. The front door was open and the CD player on, playing one of Ray's old albums he had brought with him from Chicago. Inside, Fraser was washing dishes, drying each one carefully and replacing it in the cabinet. He was drying the last water glass when Dief began to howl: a heartbreaking noise, full of enough grief that Fraser knew what to expect even before he stepped outside and saw Ray's closed eyes and still hands.
He would have liked to have made the same noise himself, at that moment.
*****
Ray had not changed his will, not since his divorce, or the beginning of his relationship with Fraser, or even his seemingly permanent move to Canada. There were no legal bonds. He had not communicated any specific wishes for after his death, not even after he started to get sick. Fraser had asked him more than once, of course, but Ray put it off, said it was too depressing and morbid, refused to answer. He didn't tell Fraser, and he certainly had not said a word to his parents. They assumed that Ray would be with them, something Fraser only found out when he called them, to tell them and break the news. In between her wails and sobs, Mrs. Kowalski asked him when he would bring Ray's remains back to Chicago, to them.
Fraser had thought he would bury Ray near home, out on the ice. Close by the plot he had chosen for himself, for when he went as well. Instead he took Ray to the crematorium in Yellowknife, and then carried his remains in his baggage, along with Ray's personal possessions, as he flew down to Chicago. He handed over all he had left of Ray to Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski outside a trailer in Skokie, accepting their hugs and handshakes and sharing their grief. They gave to him a copy of the obituary that had appeared in the Chicago paper; it mentioned his years of service to the police force, his multiple commendations, his many friends, all the things he had brought to the world. He was survived by his parents alone; it did not mention Fraser. All the obituaries surrounding his were for people in their sixties, seventies, eighties, older people who had lived full lives.
When Fraser returned home, the house felt suddenly empty.
*****
Sometimes Fraser thought of the myth of Eurydice and Orpheus. He had read the myths as a child, out of an old and crumbling hardcover in his grandparents' library, and the things you read as a youth stuck with you, when they were as important as that. When he was eight he had imagined going down into the underworld and bargaining for his mother, rescuing her and bringing her back to life. It was a good fantasy, but as an adult, Fraser could see the flaw in it.
He would look back, too. He would always look back.
*****
The first time he saw Ray's ghost was four months after he died. Fraser had had memories or imaginings of Ray well before then, of course, but that wasn't the same, any more than his father's ghost had been the same as Fraser practicing all the conversations they had never had, after his death. The more time passed, the more Ray's voice started to sound like the inside of Fraser's own head. And Fraser was well aware of his own strong streak of sentimentality, the whitewashing and idealization that had to be affecting his perceptions of Ray.
This was different. This was the weight of a body, a firm and solid body, on the bed beside him. In the middle of the night, woken up by a noise, he opened his eyes and saw a small glint of light all the paleness of hair against the other pillow.
Fraser said, "Ray?"
"Yeah?" said Ray's voice.
Fraser blinked rapidly in the dark. "How-- that is, what are you doing here?"
"That's not a real strong welcome there, buddy. You could sound at least a little grateful to see me, make a guy feel at home, you know?" Ray was grumbling, but not his serious grumbles, the ones that led to larger outbursts. His playful ones, rather.
"I'm very glad you're here," Fraser said softly into the dark. "I hope you don't think otherwise."
There was a cool pressure against Fraser's right hand. Ray's fingers and palm were almost firm, almost real, almost like before. He laced their hands together, Fraser's flesh and Ray's spirit.
"You're getting mushy, Fraser," Ray said; there was fondness in his voice. "Go back to sleep."
"I'd rather not," Fraser said. It was, quite possibly, a dream, and if it was, he thought he would like to stay here, right here, and wallow in it as long as possible. Gifts did not come along too often.
"I'll still be here in the morning," Ray said, and the pressure increased on Fraser's hand as if Ray had squeezed it tightly. "Go to sleep."
Fraser closed his eyes.
*****
Ray Kowalski died on a Monday evening, shortly after dinner, on one of the early warm days of spring's beginning. He was sitting on a chair on the porch, with Dief by his side, resting his snout against his leg. The front door was open and the CD player on, playing one of Ray's old albums he had brought with him from Chicago. Inside, Fraser was washing dishes, drying each one carefully and replacing it in the cabinet. He was drying the last water glass when Dief began to howl: a heartbreaking noise, full of enough grief that Fraser knew what to expect even before he stepped outside and saw Ray's closed eyes and still hands.
He would have liked to have made the same noise himself, at that moment.
*****
Ray had not changed his will, not since his divorce, or the beginning of his relationship with Fraser, or even his seemingly permanent move to Canada. There were no legal bonds. He had not communicated any specific wishes for after his death, not even after he started to get sick. Fraser had asked him more than once, of course, but Ray put it off, said it was too depressing and morbid, refused to answer. He didn't tell Fraser, and he certainly had not said a word to his parents. They assumed that Ray would be with them, something Fraser only found out when he called them, to tell them and break the news. In between her wails and sobs, Mrs. Kowalski asked him when he would bring Ray's remains back to Chicago, to them.
Fraser had thought he would bury Ray near home, out on the ice. Close by the plot he had chosen for himself, for when he went as well. Instead he took Ray to the crematorium in Yellowknife, and then carried his remains in his baggage, along with Ray's personal possessions, as he flew down to Chicago. He handed over all he had left of Ray to Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski outside a trailer in Skokie, accepting their hugs and handshakes and sharing their grief. They gave to him a copy of the obituary that had appeared in the Chicago paper; it mentioned his years of service to the police force, his multiple commendations, his many friends, all the things he had brought to the world. He was survived by his parents alone; it did not mention Fraser. All the obituaries surrounding his were for people in their sixties, seventies, eighties, older people who had lived full lives.
When Fraser returned home, the house felt suddenly empty.
*****
Sometimes Fraser thought of the myth of Eurydice and Orpheus. He had read the myths as a child, out of an old and crumbling hardcover in his grandparents' library, and the things you read as a youth stuck with you, when they were as important as that. When he was eight he had imagined going down into the underworld and bargaining for his mother, rescuing her and bringing her back to life. It was a good fantasy, but as an adult, Fraser could see the flaw in it.
He would look back, too. He would always look back.
*****
The first time he saw Ray's ghost was four months after he died. Fraser had had memories or imaginings of Ray well before then, of course, but that wasn't the same, any more than his father's ghost had been the same as Fraser practicing all the conversations they had never had, after his death. The more time passed, the more Ray's voice started to sound like the inside of Fraser's own head. And Fraser was well aware of his own strong streak of sentimentality, the whitewashing and idealization that had to be affecting his perceptions of Ray.
This was different. This was the weight of a body, a firm and solid body, on the bed beside him. In the middle of the night, woken up by a noise, he opened his eyes and saw a small glint of light all the paleness of hair against the other pillow.
Fraser said, "Ray?"
"Yeah?" said Ray's voice.
Fraser blinked rapidly in the dark. "How-- that is, what are you doing here?"
"That's not a real strong welcome there, buddy. You could sound at least a little grateful to see me, make a guy feel at home, you know?" Ray was grumbling, but not his serious grumbles, the ones that led to larger outbursts. His playful ones, rather.
"I'm very glad you're here," Fraser said softly into the dark. "I hope you don't think otherwise."
There was a cool pressure against Fraser's right hand. Ray's fingers and palm were almost firm, almost real, almost like before. He laced their hands together, Fraser's flesh and Ray's spirit.
"You're getting mushy, Fraser," Ray said; there was fondness in his voice. "Go back to sleep."
"I'd rather not," Fraser said. It was, quite possibly, a dream, and if it was, he thought he would like to stay here, right here, and wallow in it as long as possible. Gifts did not come along too often.
"I'll still be here in the morning," Ray said, and the pressure increased on Fraser's hand as if Ray had squeezed it tightly. "Go to sleep."
Fraser closed his eyes.
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12/3/07 23:10 (UTC)FRASER.