Work Text:
I sit on the edge of the bed, head down, lost in thought, my fingers trailing over the collar of the discoloured white fabric of his t-shirt. It smells of him. Wash worn, the cotton soft, the collar stretched.
Ray walks into the room, without looking up I sense him pause, “whatcha doing?”
“Oh,” I drag myself out of reverie, “nothing.” I hesitate to look up.
“Frase, are you-”
I’m supposed to be helping him pack. His plane leaves tomorrow morning. I finally draw myself up, turn and stare down blankly once more at his duffel bag. I can’t seem to let go; he wore it the last two days, but instead it continues to loosely wrap itself about my knuckles.
“Do you... do you like that shirt? ‘Cause you can have it if you want.”
I pause still looking downward, “it’s not the shirt I want,” I half stifle a sigh and before I can even think I find the words tumbling out, “it’s the man who wears the shirt-”
There’s a sharp inhale at my side as I quickly grasp what I’ve said out loud.
He suddenly grabs the shirt, pulling me forward with it, and kisses me.