Do you promise to
Characters: Peter/Claude
Rating: PG-13 for my usual vague slash
Word count: 800
Summary: see below.
A/N: Written in 90 minutes to kill two birds with one stone: the heroes_flashfic Wedding challenge, and the peterandclaude Shave the beard, save the world challenge. Expect unbridled (as opposed to unbridal-ed) sentimentality, and smut.
When he thinks about what "forever" means, he's surprised that it's not actually frightening.
*
Claude shuts the door behind him and steps into the room. Peter's shoving his feet into a pair of new, black, very shiny shoes. The shoebox, matte and off-black like the chalkboards Claude remembers from school, lies on the bed in a drift of tissue-paper.
"What do you think?" Peter frowns, points a toe.
"I think they're shoes, mate."
Peter shoots him a pained look. "C'mon. I dropped, like, a hundred and twenty bucks on these." He holds out his hands, appealing to Claude's pity. "Validate me, okay?"
He snorts. "All right." Looks at the shoes. "They're very ..." he shrugs "...shiny?"
This pronouncement is greeted with a roll of Peter's eyes. "Forget it. I like them."
"Good." And Claude settles onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard. "They go well with that suit."
"I thought you didn't care what I looked like?"
"Never said that." He appraises the slim, handsome man before him. "You look fantastic, by the way."
Peter's grin is instant and contagious. "Really?"
"Yeah." Claude beckons him closer with a sideways nod. Pulls Peter down onto the bed and against his mouth.
He expects the boy to fidget and say something about how the suit is getting creased, but Peter settles against him and sighs, happily, and they end up just resting there for several minutes. Breathing, and thinking about tomorrow.
"Claude?"
"What?"
"Are you scared?"
"Nah, mate." And, weirdly, he's not.
*
To have and to hold, he thinks, staring into the bathroom mirror, lather on his cheeks, elbow dripping suds onto his feet.
Impatient hands tug at too-new fabric; the urgent whisper of "Careful," as pink satin suit-lining slides off over immaculate shirtsleeves. Hands pick at shirt-buttons and then he's reaching lower to fumble with Peter's belt, unexpectedly slim and smooth against his fingers.
Claude pushes him back against the dark wood of the Vancouver hotel room's writing-desk; presses insistent kisses against Peter's mouth, letting them bloom and become hot things, warm and wet and possessive.
Meagre daylight diffuses through floor-length net curtains that drape against the desk. Illuminates them in soft grey as they sprawl in slow, deliberate tension on the bed, Peter's hands flickering against Claude's hips, his eyes and hair shining the colour of polished wood.
Just once more. Because next time-
Next time, everything will be different. Better different, but still different. And he wants to capture this, now; remember it as the last time before.
He wants to make as many memories after as possible. But you need a reference-point, for that.
He sweeps a hand slowly across Peter's thigh, and the noise it draws from the boy ties a knot of fire in his chest.
"I love you."
A transition of muscles, and the shapes drawn by skin sway and change beside him as Peter shifts; blinks.
"Wanted to say it before- you know. Didn't want not to have said it." Unfamiliar language, and he can feel warmth in his cheeks. But no regret - not for this.
A slow, gentle smile forms. "You tell me all the time."
"What?" Because these are some of the hardest words he's ever had to speak, and-
"Every time we say goodbye, every time we make love; every time you tell me I'm daft."
"But-"
Peter shakes his head, still smiling. "It doesn't have to be spoken. I hear it anyway. I hear you." He raises their hands, fingers intertwined, and kisses Claude's wrist.
But the words, now given oxygen, are branded on him, setting him aflame. Love you. Love you. Peter. Love you. You. They burn through him until he's an orange cinder, emitting heat and light with every urgent breath as he combusts, sparks the long fall up into black.
"Love you-"
*
"Claude? You've been in there forever." Peter's voice hovers anxiously outside.
"Yeah." He pulls the plug out of the sink. "I'll be out in a minute."
And it's worth every single nick of the damn razor, every sting of the astringent lotion he smoothed onto tender skin, to see the expression on Peter's face as he opens the door.
"So - what d'you reckon?"
There's a long and, he thinks, satisfying period during which Peter just doesn't say anything at all. Lips fallen open form half-questions, never voiced.
And then a door bangs, somewhere down the corridor outside, and the moment breaks, shakes them back into themselves on this surreal day.
"Well?" he demands.
"You look ... beautiful." Peter swallows. "Marry me."
He grins. "All right, mate. Tell you what - why don't we go and do that now?"
*
The officiant smiles at them both, but Peter's face is all that Claude sees. Dark eyes shining love, and his hands in Claude's hands.
"Do you promise to ..."
x-posted to peterandclaude
Rating: PG-13 for my usual vague slash
Word count: 800
Summary: see below.
A/N: Written in 90 minutes to kill two birds with one stone: the heroes_flashfic Wedding challenge, and the peterandclaude Shave the beard, save the world challenge. Expect unbridled (as opposed to unbridal-ed) sentimentality, and smut.
When he thinks about what "forever" means, he's surprised that it's not actually frightening.
*
Claude shuts the door behind him and steps into the room. Peter's shoving his feet into a pair of new, black, very shiny shoes. The shoebox, matte and off-black like the chalkboards Claude remembers from school, lies on the bed in a drift of tissue-paper.
"What do you think?" Peter frowns, points a toe.
"I think they're shoes, mate."
Peter shoots him a pained look. "C'mon. I dropped, like, a hundred and twenty bucks on these." He holds out his hands, appealing to Claude's pity. "Validate me, okay?"
He snorts. "All right." Looks at the shoes. "They're very ..." he shrugs "...shiny?"
This pronouncement is greeted with a roll of Peter's eyes. "Forget it. I like them."
"Good." And Claude settles onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard. "They go well with that suit."
"I thought you didn't care what I looked like?"
"Never said that." He appraises the slim, handsome man before him. "You look fantastic, by the way."
Peter's grin is instant and contagious. "Really?"
"Yeah." Claude beckons him closer with a sideways nod. Pulls Peter down onto the bed and against his mouth.
He expects the boy to fidget and say something about how the suit is getting creased, but Peter settles against him and sighs, happily, and they end up just resting there for several minutes. Breathing, and thinking about tomorrow.
"Claude?"
"What?"
"Are you scared?"
"Nah, mate." And, weirdly, he's not.
*
To have and to hold, he thinks, staring into the bathroom mirror, lather on his cheeks, elbow dripping suds onto his feet.
Impatient hands tug at too-new fabric; the urgent whisper of "Careful," as pink satin suit-lining slides off over immaculate shirtsleeves. Hands pick at shirt-buttons and then he's reaching lower to fumble with Peter's belt, unexpectedly slim and smooth against his fingers.
Claude pushes him back against the dark wood of the Vancouver hotel room's writing-desk; presses insistent kisses against Peter's mouth, letting them bloom and become hot things, warm and wet and possessive.
Meagre daylight diffuses through floor-length net curtains that drape against the desk. Illuminates them in soft grey as they sprawl in slow, deliberate tension on the bed, Peter's hands flickering against Claude's hips, his eyes and hair shining the colour of polished wood.
Just once more. Because next time-
Next time, everything will be different. Better different, but still different. And he wants to capture this, now; remember it as the last time before.
He wants to make as many memories after as possible. But you need a reference-point, for that.
He sweeps a hand slowly across Peter's thigh, and the noise it draws from the boy ties a knot of fire in his chest.
"I love you."
A transition of muscles, and the shapes drawn by skin sway and change beside him as Peter shifts; blinks.
"Wanted to say it before- you know. Didn't want not to have said it." Unfamiliar language, and he can feel warmth in his cheeks. But no regret - not for this.
A slow, gentle smile forms. "You tell me all the time."
"What?" Because these are some of the hardest words he's ever had to speak, and-
"Every time we say goodbye, every time we make love; every time you tell me I'm daft."
"But-"
Peter shakes his head, still smiling. "It doesn't have to be spoken. I hear it anyway. I hear you." He raises their hands, fingers intertwined, and kisses Claude's wrist.
But the words, now given oxygen, are branded on him, setting him aflame. Love you. Love you. Peter. Love you. You. They burn through him until he's an orange cinder, emitting heat and light with every urgent breath as he combusts, sparks the long fall up into black.
"Love you-"
*
"Claude? You've been in there forever." Peter's voice hovers anxiously outside.
"Yeah." He pulls the plug out of the sink. "I'll be out in a minute."
And it's worth every single nick of the damn razor, every sting of the astringent lotion he smoothed onto tender skin, to see the expression on Peter's face as he opens the door.
"So - what d'you reckon?"
There's a long and, he thinks, satisfying period during which Peter just doesn't say anything at all. Lips fallen open form half-questions, never voiced.
And then a door bangs, somewhere down the corridor outside, and the moment breaks, shakes them back into themselves on this surreal day.
"Well?" he demands.
"You look ... beautiful." Peter swallows. "Marry me."
He grins. "All right, mate. Tell you what - why don't we go and do that now?"
*
The officiant smiles at them both, but Peter's face is all that Claude sees. Dark eyes shining love, and his hands in Claude's hands.
"Do you promise to ..."
x-posted to peterandclaude