metronomic
Fraser does everything on purpose. Boom boom boom, just like that. Throwing a knife, zipping a fly, shutting a door. Every motion recorded once and replayed forever. Fraser is the ATM of square-jawed, straight-backed good guy manoeuvres and Chicago just keeps pressing the button.
Something's got to give. Stands to reason, doesn't it? Doesn't it?
Fraser's one zipped up locked down walled in sandstone statue of a guard, eyes fixed north and waiting, waiting. Fraser's so turned in he moved into his own head and don't think that Ray doesn't know that. Doesn't he? Doesn't he?
Somewhere behind those eyes the wind is howling across blind snow and the sky is dancing with light. Tell the truth now, don't you see it too?
"Ray, Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray!"
Snap back into now. Time to go.
"You done guarding, Fraser?"
Fraser walks like he's reading a score and Ray's got a head full of noise, but it works, you know? Ray's a high hat. Ray's a snare, and he's light on his feet 'cause he knows it.
At home late at night Ray dances all on his own, his arms held out: just waiting.
Not dancing now. Isn't he? Isn't he? Wait for the break in the beat.
"So, are we getting pizza now? Or pizza now?"
"Ray, there aren't any pizza places between here and your apartment."
"Geez, Fraser. There is always a pizza place between here and where you're going. You just gotta walk there creatively."
Fraser's broken like a bird in a cage and it's killing him, killing him slowly. Fraser's holding it in and Ray just wants to tear up the whole town, trash the joint, throw out long over the field and yell at the sky and run, run for his life.
Red is the colour of danger. Ray turns his face from the sign.
"It's this way, Ray."
"How do you know...? No, forget I asked. Just go on. I'm coming."
Call it love, call it hate, call it who the fuck's counting but Ray's got quiet in him and it's scary. Ray's walking through woods and the birds are crying. Trailing after the mountie with a hook through his heart and it tugs when he falls far behind.
He's coming. He's coming.
Fraser's slow and deep and sweet and he bobs like a buoy in the wide sea. Grab on, hold tight, don't let it drop out of sight. Don't look away. But Ray's a light touch, a skimming stone, and he knows if he stops then he'll sink.
"So I got this case just now and you would not believe the hell Welsh is giving me. Seriously, the man was red. I think he's going through The Change."
"Oh, ah, um."
"It's a joke, Fraser. Ha ha ha? A light hearted comment not necessarily based in truth?"
"I see. Well, you know, once when I was stationed in the barren interior, which, by the way, is not nearly so barren as it sounds..."
Fraser's telling his sliced up crusts cut off segmented stories of his life and they're so uniform, you know? Bet you could time them. Stack them up straight. Frase is spinning the whole world out of his stories and Ray's hanging on to his coat tails, waiting for the punchline.
"Ray, Ray. Ray. Ray!"
"What?!"
"You're not listening. You see, Diefenbaker was, well, in one of his moods, and I had been hanging from the precipice for four hours."
Sometimes life with Fraser is so bizarre that Ray can nearly hear the end of the story whispering, a future echo, just riding on the edge of sound. Front up now, can't you hear it too?
"Please, spare me your life lessons. Can't you ever tell a story without it meaning anything?"
"I'm not quite sure what you mean."
"Not everything has to mean something, Fraser. That's all."
Fraser's walking, heel to toe, toe to heel, like the flat ground has rocks on it only he can see and Ray's flitting round him, arms flailing, mouth running, shouting over the impossible distance between them. Impossible.
Fraser stares straight ahead. Fraser looks far into the future. Ray keeps his head down and hides his eyes. Look away.
"Ray, I'm sorry if I've offended you. I really didn't intend to."
"I know, Fraser. You just rub me up the wrong way sometimes. It's probably those cultural differences or whatnot."
"Whatnot, Ray?"
For the longest time Ray thought he was playing a long game, but now he's got it down. This isn't any kind of game at all. Fraser doesn't do that and what the hell was he thinking? Thinking? He wasn't thinking.
Ray figures time is now. Ray figures time is up. Ray figures this is the break in the beat. Bam.
"Frase?"
"Yes," he says, and the catch in his throat says it too in a hundred new ways.
Fraser's holding him tight, tighter than anything, and he does it all with his eyes and it's wonderful.