Where is our Aquarius (1/1)
i have never written this before, but i love hair so much, and i love claude/berger so freaking much i could die with it. some of the imagery i remember of them from the play is like, deep. bone-crushing sort of love. my favorite.
you don't have to know about hair to read this; i feel it is pretty self-explanatory, and even works a little bit to relay the main themes of the play. still, downloads:
hair film soundtrack
hair 2009 revival broadway cast recording
my post where i ramble insanely about how awesome hair is
Where is our Aquarius
hair fic; claude/berger
non-au
pg-13 for language and non-explicit sexual content
claude wanders off in the dark to hide from his fate, but berger finds him, because berger always finds him.
1600 words
Berger lies with his head on Sheila’s lap, jabbing into a rickety infrastructure of tree limbs set alight with a pile of draft cards. Ash dances off the tips of flickering orange flame, floating skyward as the bright blue fades and the stars orb into being.
Sheila combs his hair back off his face, scratches against his scalp, runs fingertips over his forehead and his ears and his closed eyelids. Her touch is gentle, following the lines of him she knows so well. It’s very safe here, under her hands.
Beside them is a pile; Jeanie, Hud, Chrissy, Woof, Dionne. Tangled, weighing each other down; cradling; keeping each other warm. They breathe and hum and chatter together, a ball of lazy fumbling energy.
Berger stares at them, into them, looking for the hands and feet and hair of Claude. Distantly at first, and then picking his head up when he can’t find him. He leans forward, squinting, moving to lift up ankles and elbows in search of Claude.
“Cut it out,” Jeanie murmurs, shifting and kicking at Berger.
“You seen Bukowski? Wasn’t he just here?”
“He was just here,” she says.
“Well, where is he?”
“He is air,” Jeanie says.
Berger rolls his eyes, pulling himself up to his knees. He looks to Sheila for a moment, who searches his eyes, looking troubled. She’s trying to find a reason again; Berger’s told her it’s like asking why the sun sets in the West, instead of the East, or the North. Some things just are; and it’s a waste of time to question them.
“I’ll be right back,” Berger promises.
He doesn’t wait for an answer; simply walks off into the dark.
It’s disorienting and laced with just a moment’s worth of terror, fumbling blindly through the forest, but Berger finds where he’s going soon enough. His toes catch on roots and he stumbles, but the forest floor is soft and gives beneath his feet, gentle. The trees break just ahead, and he knows he’s right as he wades out of the dense tree trunks and into free air. Relief washes over him.
Berger starts to run, not certain of the direction, as short grass and wildflowers clip lightly at his ankles. He makes a few zags, and one zig, but he knows he’ll find the right path, and after a few moments he does. Claude is there, maybe twenty yards away, sitting alone in the grass.
He doesn’t slow down until he’s right on top of Claude, standing over him, hovering like a satellite or a magnetic field. The minutes they’ve been apart had been gathering around Berger like hard, densely packed tree rings but now they fade away, loosening the tightness of his chest. He drops down to sit in the grass beside Claude, tilts his head up to see what Claude has been so lost in.
It’s Orion, looking all-business with his belt, looking ready to lift, to carry, to grow, to fight. Berger stares silently, thoughts racing; panic swells in his throat the way it’s always been lately, whenever Claude is close.
He whistles low anyway, puts on some silly radio voice. “That there is one bee-youtiful sky, darling.”
“That it is,” Claude says softly, distracted. His legs are crossed, a knee bouncing agitated against the grass.
Berger pauses, bites his lips, hesitates in a way he never has before. Finally asks: “Whatcha think it looks like from over there? Think Orion’s standing on his head? Bet he don’t look so tough. Bet it’s a hell of a lot brighter in that there jungle.”
“Don’t, Berger,” Claude says, pulling his knees up.
Crickets swell in symphony to fill up the spaces between their words. Berger stares out, afraid of Claude, focusing instead on the bats flapping crazily and squealing off into the night. If he closes one eye, he can see the fireflies blipping in and out of existence around them. Berger thinks, they could be anywhere. Colorado, Peru, Australia, New York, anywhere.
He wants to touch so desperately it’s a physical ache. It’s so rare they don’t, but so many hours of separation have stacked up between them over the last few weeks. Berger isn’t even sure he remembers what Claude feels like anymore.
Claude shifts his hip on the grass, digs into the back pocket of his jeans. Pulls out his card, tattered on the edges, folded and worn with worry. He turns it over in his hands, reading it like a testament.
“Selective Service Number 10 05 96 32 97,” Claude recites. “Registration Certificate, like a birth certificate, and a vehicle registration, like I’m just. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m fucking nobody. What do I do? Berger.”
Berger has always responded, burn it. Has laughed wildly, hooting, gender operation! Cut off a toe! Eat wads of cotton! Be crazy! Be gay! Has snickered and yanked Claude dizzily in circles until neither of them could think straight anymore.
“Don’t go,” Berger says now, brutally, surprising himself. “Don’t go. I’ll do anything.”
“I have to go. I have to, that’s the point. This is it, this is what it means to be American. I got called, picked, chosen. Honor my family with my service. This is my chance to be something.”
“To be dead,” Berger says.
“Better than being fucking invisible!” Claude snaps. “Better than being nothing, wanting nothing, better than lying around getting high with a bunch of hippie stoners every day. I’m no one, Berger. I’ve got nothing.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Claude doesn’t answer, and Berger’s stomach claws itself up. His fingers tighten against his thighs and he breathes through the fear.
“I’ll run to Canada with you,” Berger says. “Let’s go tonight. I won’t even tell anyone. I won’t even tell Sheila.”
“Oh, God. Sheila,” Claude says. He buries his face in his knees. His shoulders are so thin, and shift silently, the line of them lost on a late night skyline.
“Claude, please. Please don’t. Do you have any idea? Do you have any idea what happens to boys over there? We’re boys, Claude, we’re boys. We run, is what we do. We run and no one ever follows, no one ever finds us.”
“Goddamnit, Berger.”
“We won’t even tell your parents. It’ll be like we died, like we fell off, but we’ll have each other. Claude, look at me.”
Claude picks his head up. His face is messy and wet, even in the dark, even melted invisible against the tree line. Berger scrambles to his knees and leans in, palms against the line of Claude’s smooth young jaw. His thumbs drag over Claude’s wet cheeks with their dim freckles. He lingers there, feeling his heart throb dull and hard and broken in his chest while Claude looks on vacantly.
“I’m sorry,” Berger says. “I’m sorry it’s so hard. I’m sorry you’re so hurt. I love you.”
That, at least, makes Claude smile.
The firelight deep in the trees is puttering out, but the voices of their friends wafts gently to the meadow. Berger hears, where is our Aquarius? Where is our Aquarius? It makes Claude laugh for a moment, face tilted to the stars, and then his face crumbles and the tears come again.
Berger falls forward, circling Claude’s shoulders and lying his face in Claude’s hair. Using what feels like the rest of his strength, Claude grips at Berger’s arms and pulls him. They tumble to the grass in a heap, tucking in, arms wrapped, legs slung, chests tight, faces close. Berger’s heart pounds both at the feeling of having this back, and at the reality that it could be gone in a few hours.
Berger begs with his mouth full of Claude’s hair, and feels Claude’s quaking breaths against his neck, and Claude’s fingers gripping at his back. Berger wraps him tighter, hands gentle as they run up and down Claude’s back, feeling it tremble with fear.
Berger has this instinct to say, Sheila loves you. Because this feels like cheating. The three of them have become so tightly woven it’s been impossible to separate them. And Sheila does love Claude. But Berger doesn’t say it, because Claude has always, always been his, no matter what, and now’s not the time for that point to be made.
Claude shifts his thigh high up on Berger’s waist and they’re closer, and Berger feels him, and then Claude kisses him, wet eyes closed, chin tilted up, lips soft and light, opening his mouth. And Berger tightens, feels him, and his breath is lost. And Berger cries, and Berger never cries, but this hurts so, so badly.
The sky leaves a cold shadow over them, and the grass is frigid beneath them. Berger lets his hands drift over the softness of Claude’s face and into his hair. He lets his tongue touch into Claude’s mouth, encourages a hard, deep, begging affirmation. Claude whimpers beneath him, opens, and rolls hips hard and mindless into Berger.
Berger breaks off, swearing, face damp. He wipes it on Claude’s shirt.
“I love you so, so much,” Berger says helplessly. “I will fall apart without you.”
“Stay with me here,” Claude whispers. “Right now, as long as you can. Lay with me, keep me warm, it’s cold out.”
“Wild horses, Bukowski,” Berger grins, touching Claude’s cheeks lightly.
Claude laughs as much as he can, and Berger noses him softly, feeling the chuckles that rub against his throat on escape. He lets his mouth drag up Claude’s neck, along the strong line of his jaw, to his mouth where he presses in again softly. Claude hums quietly and welcomes it.
Berger likes that it’s just the two of them, likes that they can feel this hurt alone together, and do something about it. Berger’s keeping mental count of the hours, and figures it’s plenty of time to convince Claude not to enlist. It has to be enough time. It has to be.
[ end ]
aquarius goodnights / ain't got no / yip up
the track this story is mainly based off of is this one in which claude enlists. later, through a repetitive series of loud, piercing raps on a snare drum, and claude singing, "ain't got no - ain't got no -" we find that he dies in the vietnam war. in the play he becomes lost in the protest movement of sheila and the others; the cast moves through "let the sun shine in" while clustered in the center of the stage. slowly they file off the stage, into the crowd, and out of the theatre. claude lies alone in the center of the stage on a black sheet with his arms crossed over his chest.