ds_flashfiction | Cliche Challenge (Amnesty)

joandarck.livejournal.com posting in

This one is for the drunkenness/"two-beer queer" cliche. Um, except on rereading the challenge I see that it's supposed to include "drunken first-time sex" of which there is none. Sorry.

Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Rating: G
About 475 words

Wasted

"Fraser, you ever wonder what if you were French? Like, you always thought you were American, and then one day somebody just comes up and tells you you're French."

Ray is beginning his third beer. Normally, he doesn't drink at all around Fraser, or stops at one; he says he can't imbibe if Fraser won't join him. Fraser understands the custom, and can only apologize. Dizzy and lost isn't something that he wants to feel, now or ever again.

"And you say hey pal, you've got it bent, I'm American, but they show you the passport and the birth certificate and sure enough – there it is – France."

His eyes are a little bloodshot.

"This is a very unlikely scenario, Ray."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, just – bear with me, okay? So you start thinking, I guess I always liked French bread, and French fries, and being rude to tourists, whaddaya know, I'm French. But it's scary, right? Because you didn't think you were and somebody else can just walk up and tell you you're not who you thought, you've been wrong your whole life. Right?"

Fraser privately questions the appeal of a beverage that makes one babble like this.

"And you start thinking do I have to, like, wear a beret now, and you try talking in a French accent, and it just sounds ridiculous, because you're not French, you're American, you grew up American. And maybe you can't do the Frenchness. Except voila, you are French, and there's nothing you can do about it." He stops suddenly and slumps among the cushions.

"I'm afraid I don't really follow you," Fraser says, because Ray seems to want him to understand, even if he can't formulate his thoughts clearly.

"That figures." Ray scuffs his heel resentfully against the carpet. "You're not French. You're not even... French-Canadian." And he shoots Fraser a look, sharp, right in the eyes.

It's like hearing a twig cracking in the woods. Something has broken cover. Just now, at last, in Ray's dirty living room. Logic jumps hastily aside as hunter's instinct takes over.

"In fact, you might consider me to be so," Fraser says cautiously. Observing, stalking. "You might say I have a form of... dual citizenship."

He will forgive Ray the sour taste of beer in his mouth. He will ignore the blunted reactions, the disconnectedness. Already in his mind his hand is slipping forward over the stubble on Ray's jaw.

Ray listens and shakes his head, like Dief coming out of a sprinkler. He fixes his eyes on Fraser, but the gaze is bleary now, in a way still avoiding him. "Oh, yeah, 'sthat so? Your mom, she's from Quebec or something? I did not know that."

"I'm sorry, Ray. I believe I misunderstood you."

"Stupid question anyway." Ray goes back to peeling the label.

Fraser gets up and goes to the kitchen. He prefers Ray sober.