Fic: A Hole in Stone
Rating: PG, mostly
Word Count: 409
Disclaimer: Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: For a superior reading experience, open this link in another window/tab/what have you.
Summary: The first morning after doesn't go how Claude might've imagined, and not for the reason he might've thought.
Claude emerges from sleep, gradually feeling the weight of himself return. Becoming aware of the air on his face, the sheets around him, a mattress softer than anything he’s had the privilege to lie on in a very long time. Get up, let’s go. He flinches away from the good advice that has kept him alive and that right there should be enough to force him to his feet. But it’s not.
The sound of rain has crept into his awareness, pattering against the window. He cracks open an eye and sees silver rivulets running down in front of a blank gray sky. There’s a flash of lightning, followed after a few seconds by the distant rumble of thunder. Claude thinks about a bench in Central Park, and how very soaked it must be at this moment. He shifts into a more comfortable position on his stomach.
There’s a nearly silent hum, and then a hand on his back, accompanied by the press of a rough cheek and soft hair. Claude stops breathing for a second. Come on, before this gets any more complicated.
He stares at the rain, and listens. Other sounds rise and sink through it- a siren, car horns, birds. They all give way to the simple rain. Once it’s done. Can’t last much longer. Go then. This is sensible, so he relaxes. When the hand slides up to his shoulder, he wraps his own around it and closes his eyes.
And when Peter shifts, and brings his mouth to Claude’s ear, asks if he wants breakfast- the rain still falls and thunder still rolls. So Claude says yes.
As they sit at the table with blackened toast and runny eggs, conversation passes much too easily, though they have to speak up over the drops that splash the window.
After the meal, Claude feels a protest begin to build. But rain still drips off the window sill and darker clouds sail beyond. And Peter is holding his hands, walking backwards toward the bedroom with the same look on his face that got Claude into this particular mess in the first place. He’s no better at resisting it now.
When jagged bolts of lightning cut through the air and thunder clatters down on the city, the digital face of Peter’s bedside clock goes out. Neither of the men notices.
After dark the rain tapers off into a cool, empty silence. Claude sniffs and frowns, pulling Peter closer.
Word Count: 409
Disclaimer: Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: For a superior reading experience, open this link in another window/tab/what have you.
Summary: The first morning after doesn't go how Claude might've imagined, and not for the reason he might've thought.
Claude emerges from sleep, gradually feeling the weight of himself return. Becoming aware of the air on his face, the sheets around him, a mattress softer than anything he’s had the privilege to lie on in a very long time. Get up, let’s go. He flinches away from the good advice that has kept him alive and that right there should be enough to force him to his feet. But it’s not.
The sound of rain has crept into his awareness, pattering against the window. He cracks open an eye and sees silver rivulets running down in front of a blank gray sky. There’s a flash of lightning, followed after a few seconds by the distant rumble of thunder. Claude thinks about a bench in Central Park, and how very soaked it must be at this moment. He shifts into a more comfortable position on his stomach.
There’s a nearly silent hum, and then a hand on his back, accompanied by the press of a rough cheek and soft hair. Claude stops breathing for a second. Come on, before this gets any more complicated.
He stares at the rain, and listens. Other sounds rise and sink through it- a siren, car horns, birds. They all give way to the simple rain. Once it’s done. Can’t last much longer. Go then. This is sensible, so he relaxes. When the hand slides up to his shoulder, he wraps his own around it and closes his eyes.
And when Peter shifts, and brings his mouth to Claude’s ear, asks if he wants breakfast- the rain still falls and thunder still rolls. So Claude says yes.
As they sit at the table with blackened toast and runny eggs, conversation passes much too easily, though they have to speak up over the drops that splash the window.
After the meal, Claude feels a protest begin to build. But rain still drips off the window sill and darker clouds sail beyond. And Peter is holding his hands, walking backwards toward the bedroom with the same look on his face that got Claude into this particular mess in the first place. He’s no better at resisting it now.
When jagged bolts of lightning cut through the air and thunder clatters down on the city, the digital face of Peter’s bedside clock goes out. Neither of the men notices.
After dark the rain tapers off into a cool, empty silence. Claude sniffs and frowns, pulling Peter closer.