Fic: Ask
Title: Ask
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claude; appearances by Tracy, Angela, Hesam, and Noah
Word Count: 4085
Summary: Written for the schmoop bingo prompt "playing instrument", so basically that, plus several hundred words of backstory to even get it to that point. Yeah...
Rating: PG13
A/N: So clearly I have watched Stranger Than Fiction recently. That's really all I have to say for myself.
Peter doesn’t like being angry at his mother. He’s got more than enough reasons to be, and if he indulges in just one of them, he’s pretty sure he’ll never stop. And for better or worse, they’re about all each other’s got left in terms of family.
So he tries not to get angry at her. He tries to be clear-headed and not hostile to the idea she’s just proposed.
“You wanna…why?”
“Well, dear, it’s just such a big house, and it’s just me. There’s really no point to it anymore.”
But it’s where he grew up. It’s where just about every happy memory he has of his childhood or his family took place.
“I could…” he presses his lips together, because he doesn’t know what he could do. “You could get a dog or something?”
She laughs, and pats his hand.
“Peter, really. You wanted nothing more than to be out of that house since you were fourteen.”
“I know, but...” he sighs. “Where would you go?”
“Oh, I’d find somewhere,” she says, lightly, as if doing so would not be the most difficult thing she’s ever had to do. Because it wouldn’t be, obviously, and Peter has no doubt that she could handle it, but…
“Ma, I think you’re being a little impulsive about this,” Peter cringes as he hears himself, and his mother tilts her head.
“Do you, dear?” she smiles, amused. “Interesting.”
And that’s how he ends up with what feels like a thousand boxes of his things crowding his apartment.
It’s a change, definitely. In a way it’s welcome, in that he doesn’t hear his footsteps echoing around the skeleton of the life he used to have anymore. In another way, the way that results in him being unable to make it to his bedroom without tripping over a box of little-league trophies , it’s kind of a pain in the ass.
He’s working on it. He’s working on a lot of things.
*
He’s been out with Hesam and a couple of guys from the station a few times. They were nice enough, and Peter remembered that yeah, people tended to like him, even when they weren’t family or in need of something he could provide.
Then a few weeks later, he’d run into Tracy Strauss. Who was awkward with him in a way that Peter wouldn’t have figured she’d be capable of. But she was doing well for herself now, lobbying for Special rights (apparently she’d been instrumental in getting the movement rebranded, and wasn’t shy about telling him about it). She reminded him of Nathan, in a good way. She was practical and a realist and a bit of a shark herself, but she got things done and she cared enough to do them.
She also invited him to get a drink with her. He considered taking her up on it, but he was busy that night and she was leaving the next day. He got her number, and never used it.
Then there was Noah Bennet. He wasn’t too sure what that was about, but the man seemed to show up in his neck of the woods a lot, given that he was still living in DC. He was doing well, as far as Peter could tell from their bemusing conversations.
They went to dinner a couple of times. He didn’t get any kind of vibe from it, other than two guys with nothing better to do and the awareness that sitting home alone and moping was pretty pathetic and not actually very useful.
In November, following an election cycle he hadn’t really been paying attention to beyond making sure he didn’t end up legally obligated to register himself as a freak of nature, Noah gave him a call and invited him to a party.
Which was…odd. But he went, and realized, pretty quickly, that it was basically a reunion for Primatech Industries. Noah introduced him to a couple of people, all of whom seem to have heard of him, and then left him to fend for himself amidst the sea of curious onlookers who probably knew more about him, his family, and his history than he did.
And then there was Claude Rains, who he almost hadn’t recognized. He’d come up as Peter was doing his best to blend into the wallpaper of a very nice hotel banquet hall, and grabbed his shoulder without so much as saying hello.
Before Peter could complain, he found himself able to fade out of sight almost instantly, and realized that he appreciated the gesture. Claude acknowledged his silent thank you with a nod, and then moved to leave.
Peter stopped him. He was curious. He was bored. And Claude was, in that context, a welcome distraction. They ditched the party and had a couple of drinks in a bar neither of them had been to. And then dinner, because why not. Claude was doing okay himself, living in the real world like an actual person again, and Peter liked hearing that. It gave him hope.
They hung out a couple of times after that. It never felt like a chore, like he was pushing himself to be normal again. He didn’t have to act like he was. They didn’t talk much, or about anything important, and he was pretty sure Claude was not taking notes about his activities and moods and reporting back to his mother, as he’d figured Noah had been doing. So it was good.
Lots of things were, suddenly. His job was good. His life was average, and it’d been ages since it had felt that way. And then he went to breakfast with his mother, and she made her announcement, and all of the sudden he had the remnants of his childhood and teenage years crowding him out of his living room and tripping him up on the way to his bedroom.
*
It’s better now. He’s managed to get rid of some things and pile the rest into the corners, pending him having the time or the energy to be able to look through them properly. But it’s still a pain in the ass.
Claude doesn’t seem especially impressed by the spread, either. He’s been coming by the apartment these days, before they go out, and the first time he does since the boxes arrived Peter isn’t even entirely sure they’ll both fit.
“Uh, sorry,” he says, finally managing to get the door all the way open.
“It’s…fine…” Claude steps around him carefully, and eyes the large box of stuffed animals currently residing on his kitchen table. He picks one up, a gigantic fluffy bunny, and turns toward Peter. “You really that lonely, mate?”
Peter rolls his eyes and turns to shut the door. “I’m donating those.”
“Right,” Claude puts down the rabbit, and gazes into the living room. There isn’t much more room in there, but Peter’s at least tried to clear off the couch.
“I’m going to get my coat, you can…” Claude’s already sitting down, so finishing the sentence seems pointless. He goes back to his room to get his coat, and his scarf. The coat’s easy enough to find but the scarf takes a while, and in the meantime, he hears the sound of things being moved.
He comes back to find Claude standing over a box from Peter’s college days. It’s mostly textbooks and notebooks he keeps meaning to throw away, not that Claude’s looking at those.
No, Claude seems pretty focused on the guitar Peter’s pretty sure he hasn’t thought of for at least five years.
“Thought you played the piano?”
“I do,” he says. “That was a gift.”
Claude throws him a curious look. “From who?”
“A friend,” Peter doesn’t mean to sound evasive, because he knows that’s like a red flag to a bull with Claude, but from the spark in Claude’s eye, he realizes he might as well be wearing a montera and possibly a short cape.
“Right, well, what’s nearly $400 between friends, yeah? Although maybe with you lot, it’s like buyin’ a box o’ chocolates.”
“It wasn’t,” he says. “It was…look, I wanted to learn to play, and I didn’t want to ask my parents, and I was gonna pay him back. Okay?”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Claude smirks, and then glances back to the guitar. His expression fades into something else, something more thoughtful, and Peter’s more than a little intrigued himself.
“How about you?”
“What?”
“Do you play?”
“No,” Claude says, quickly. “Once. Ages ago.”
Peter’s about to say something when he sees Claude’s hand move. The man hesitates for a moment, his hand still in the air, and then he seems to decide. He wraps his hand around the neck of the guitar, and pulls it out of the box.
He makes a surprised sound, and smiles, but not at Peter.
“It’s a Gibson,” he says, sitting back down on the couch, and it takes Peter a moment to respond.
“Yeah. I think.”
Claude looks up at him. “Really didn’t learn a thing, did you?”
He shrugs. Claude ducks his head, smiling again, still not at him. Maneuvers the guitar into his lap with uncertain ease. His ridiculously long fingers curl around its neck. Press lightly on the strings. With his other hand, he gives an almost experimental strum.
He frowns, and lifts his head. “It’s outta tune.”
“Oh,” Peter says, embarrassed to say that he honestly couldn’t tell. Of course it would be, it hasn’t been touched in ages.
Claude lets out a none-too-disbelieving huff, and focuses back on the guitar; twists the pegs, picks at a string or two. Peter thinks he may even hum, something, and it’s only because Claude closes his eyes that Peter gets away with the way that makes him grin.
He’s managed to swallow it before Claude’s eyes open again. He glances up at Peter as he strums again, and Peter’ll admit it does sound better than it did. He nods in response to the question in Claude’s eyes. Claude smiles, at him, like it’s the right answer, and like he’s only a little surprised Peter got it.
Peter’s more than a little surprised, but he’s glad to take the praise.
Claude looks down again. His left hand has settled comfortably around the neck, and he gives another quick strum that actually sounds like a chord. It seems to surprise him. His fingers on the fretboard shift, and then there’s another one, something that Peter can recognize as higher, even if he can’t name the particular note.
“Once, huh?” Peter says, and Claude doesn’t quite jump, but he definitely winces.
“Ages ago,” Claude says, softly, before letting go of the guitar like he wants to just toss it aside but can’t quite bring himself to do it. He puts it down on couch instead and moves to stand.
“You know what, wait a sec?” Peter says, thinking fast. “I gotta…I gotta put some other stuff out of storage, you can…just wait here. I’ll be back.”
Claude gives him a dubious look, but nods and sits back down.
Peter grabs the first box that his eyes land on, and lugs it downstairs as quickly as he can. He jogs back upstairs, but once he gets to his floor, he eases the door to the hallway open and walks as quietly as he can to his apartment.
He doesn’t hear anything from outside, and once he opens the door, he finds the guitar in the same place Claude had left it, and Claude himself poking through a box of toy soldiers and model airplanes. He swallows the odd sense of disappointment, and clears his throat.
Claude puts down a badly-painted bomber of some kind, and walks back toward the kitchen.
They don’t stay out as late that night, and it takes Claude a little while to respond to anything Peter has to say.
Which is probably okay, because Peter finds himself strangely enthralled by the way Claude’s mouth moves when he does speak, and is a little slow to answer questions himself.
*
He spends the weekend getting rid of things.
The soldiers and planes and tanks go to Simon and Monty; he’s sure Heidi’s got enough of Nathan’s stuff to sift through, but he’s pretty sure they’ll appreciate them, and he can’t quite bear to give them away to anyone else.
Most of the stuffed animals go, too. Not the small purple dog his father gave him when he was maybe four, and he’s not 100% sure why he keeps that, but he does.
There’s pictures to go through; he hasn’t got time to organize them properly, but the boxes they’re in go under his bed. Notebooks are recycled, textbooks are arranged on shelves that are looking a little less bare every week. Clothes go to a shelter.
He mostly avoids the guitar. Finds a stand for it, one he doesn’t remember buying or being given, and leaves them both near the couch.
*
Claude comes early on Friday; Peter’s still in the midst of washing the dishes he’s been neglecting. It takes him a couple of attempts to get the door open with soapy hands, and when he does Claude looks thoroughly amused.
“What?” he says, grabbing a dishtowel as the man walks past him and into the living room.
“Nothing,” Claude calls back. “Just kinda expected to have to dig you out of a pile of somethin’.”
“Funny,” he mumbles under his breath, and figures he might as well finish up. Claude seems capable of entertaining himself for a couple of minutes.
He turns the water on again, and starts scrubbing at a cast-iron skillet he’s really hoping not to have to throw out. He’s concentrating pretty much entirely on that when he hears the first strains of music. Well, notes, really, no discernable tune or order or even rhythm to them. They seem purposefully light, as if the person playing is hoping the sound will be covered by the rush of water from the tap. Peter turns off the water, and they stop.
By the time he pokes his head into the living room, Claude is flipping through a magazine and the guitar is back in its place at the opposite end of the couch.
“You ready?” he says, and Claude shrugs.
“Been ready.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
They go to dinner this time, and Claude is about the same as normal.
Peter isn’t. He’s noticing all sorts of things he’d really rather not be noticing, like how long Claude’s legs are and how effortlessly he seems to move. How large his hands are, and how he tends to run one through his hair right before he yawns.
It makes Peter wonder just how his hair feels. It’s shorter than it was when they first met, and certainly looks softer, and cleaner. His beard is neater, too. Peter can’t believe he hadn’t noticed that before.
*
It’s drinks the next time, and Claude doesn’t come by the apartment. He calls, and gives Peter an address, and Peter takes a cab downtown. He’s surprised to find Claude standing amidst a group of people, all of them in varying states of business dress.
Coworkers, Peter figures. And he’s not sure what’s more mind-boggling, that Claude Rains would go out for drinks with coworkers, or that he’d invite Peter to go along when he did.
He starts to walk over, in order to introduce himself, but Claude meets him halfway, grabs his wrist, and drags him into a corner.
“What-“
“Don’t say anythin’.”
“Bu-“
“Anythin’, Peter.”
He nods in response, and glances over to the group of people watching him and Claude curiously.
“Right. So. I’m gonna walk you over there, you’re gonna say hello, apologize for havin’ to take me away, and then we’ll go.”
He opens his mouth to ask why, and Claude silences him with a glare. He also considers pointing out that he has no reason to go along with this. But Claude’s hand is still around his wrist. And the other man is very, very close to him at the moment. And maybe that’s making his brain work a lot more slowly than it usually does.
He nods. Claude turns around, letting go of his wrist in the process, and Peter follows him as he walks back toward the group.
“Claude!” a bubbly looking brunette with a wide smile opens her arms as if to hug him, and Peter’s surprised that he just gives an awkward smile in return and pats her on the shoulder.
“Sorry ‘bout that. This is Peter. One I told you about.”
“Ooooh,” she says, obviously fascinated. She grabs the arm of another woman in a suit, this one who’s about Peter’s age and who’s obviously having a conversation with the tall, serious man next to her. “Jenna, this is Peter.”
“Hi,” he says, with a quick wave.
Jenna gives him a polite nod, a quick glare at the brunette, and returns to her conversation.
“I’m Shirley,” the woman says, unfazed, and Peter smiles. Holds out his hand, even as he feels Claude poke him in the back.
“Nice to meet you,” he says. “And I’m really, really sorry, but I gotta borrow him for a while.”
“Oh?” she says, curiously.
“Yeah, I…need his help…with a…thing.”
She aims an entirely unsubtle look at Claude, but smiles at Peter.
“Well, good luck with your…thing.”
“Yeah, thanks, I…thanks,” he says, and feels Claude’s hand slip under his arm to guide him away.
“Thanks for invitin’ me, see you all next week,” he can hear Claude’s grin without seeing it, and only feels slightly off balance as the man whirls him around and pushes him toward the door.
They take a taxi back uptown. Claude doesn’t thank him, or explain anything, but he does sit a little closer than he needs to in the cab and he does pay the fare.
They end up in a bar a couple of blocks from his apartment, and they don’t even drink that much, but he notices that Claude becomes more physical as the night wears on. Draping his arm around Peter’s shoulders, patting him on the back, once even ruffling playfully at his hair.
This is Claude in a good mood, Peter realizes. It makes him grin, and bump his hip against Claude’s as they walk, and almost, almost consider asking him up, for coffee or another beer or something, anything, to keep the night going.
He doesn’t, though. He’s not sure why.
*
The next time Claude comes by, he’s still in his suit and tie from work, and he’s had a haircut. Peter doesn’t comment on it. Just invites him in, and watches him walk past and into the living room.
Claude sits down and immediately pulls the guitar into his lap. Peter watches him do it, and finds himself suddenly, inexplicably jealous. Of a freaking musical instrument. Which, really, perfect.
He turns around abruptly and heads into the kitchen. He gets a glass of water. Hears the first hints of strumming, and walks back toward the living room.
Claude is…Claude is looking at him. Peter doesn’t really know what to say. He gestures that he should continue, and Claude looks, for a moment, like he’s going to refuse.
But he drops his head instead, and starts picking distractedly at the strings. Peter sits down, in one of the armchairs. He draws his legs up, crossing them in front of him and resting his elbows on his knees.
Claude looks over at him and laughs, quietly, before plucking out a few quick notes.
“What?” Peter says, and finds himself slightly breathless.
“Nothin’, just…” another thread of notes, light ones, and it almost sounds familiar. “Look more like a teenager, mate.”
Peter chuckles. “Oh, more like a teenager? Easy.” He leans back, enough to be able to slouch, reaches up to push what’s left of his bangs into his face, and fixes the most petulant expression on his face that he can.
Claude snorts. Looks momentarily thoughtful, and then shifts the guitar until it’s balanced on his right thigh. He props that leg up, slightly, bracing his heel against the side of the couch to be able to do so.
Peter watches, entranced, as Claude pulls the guitar close to his chest, and drapes his arm over the body. He starts to play something, and it sounds more like an actual song than anything he’s heard him do before.
Like an actual song that he recognizes, although it’s not till Claude hits the chorus that he’s sure. And even then, he’s too enthralled by the way Claude’s hands move, fingers sliding and pressing into the fretboard, plucking quickly at the strings, to do anything other than stare at him. There’s no hesitation, no self-conscious tension.
His eyes are shut, but he’s smiling, and when he stops, Peter doesn’t know whether to laugh or clap or what, but just knows he has to do something other than keep staring.
Claude glances up, cautiously, and Peter swallows all sorts of urges that threaten to overtake him.
“I…wouldn’t have figured you for a Cobain guy,” he manages, and thinks his voice may have even cracked saying it. Perfect, a Peter Petrelli Teenaged Retrospective in just about every way.
Claude gives a half-shrug, and runs his thumb along the topmost string. He’s not smiling anymore, but there’s a hint of brightness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“You know anything else?”
“Coupla things,” Claude says, noncommittally, and Peter leans forward. Claude looks at him, like he’s not entirely sure of what he’s seeing, and then away. “’s a bit of a party trick.”
“What is?”
Claude’s fingers drum along the edge of the sound hole, and shrugs. “This. Takes the attention off of you. Gives your mates somethin’ to talk about. Keeps ‘em from askin’ you anything, except if you can play their favorite song.”
“Oh,” Peter says, suddenly picturing Claude young, and quiet, and keeping his head down as much as he could. The same blue eyes and careful hands. It’s not helping.
Claude smiles again, slightly, and it reminds Peter of something but he doesn’t know what. And then he’s distracted, because Claude is playing again.
Lighter, this time. Like he’s holding back, and Peter doesn’t recognize the song. He frowns. Claude looks up at him, and stops.
“No, it’s…” he says, immediately, and Claude looks surprised. “I just don’t…know it.”
Claude chuckles. “’course not, before your time.”
He starts playing again, though. It’s the same song as before, but with a faster tempo, and a bit more certainty. It’s just chords, Peter realizes, and about then, Claude starts humming. Quietly, and slightly off key, but Peter likes it.
Likes how it sounds, like it’s from low in Claude’s throat, like it’s come from a distance. And he realizes, it’s not just humming, there’s a couple mumbled words among the rest of the notes; under his breath, difficult to distinguish, mostly drowned out by the chords, but he can hear them.
Something about summer days indoors, and then there’s the chorus. Peter leans even closer to be able to catch the words, and once he does, he doesn’t need to hear the rest.
Claude doesn’t get the chance to play the rest, because Peter is on top of him within seconds. It takes a moment for him to react, but Peter doesn’t even worry about it. He’s too busy trying to keep his balance, trying to curve his body away from the guitar that’s still between them while still managing to fully cover Claude’s lips with his own.
And once Claude lets go of the guitar and slides his fingers into Peter’s hair, he’s decided to not let himself worry about anything for the rest of the night.
Except maybe for how to get the damn guitar out of his way, because it’s still pinned between them, making odd, squeaking noises as he rocks against it. Claude’s mouth opens against his, and Peter decides that that’s enough. He pulls back, grabs hold of the neck, eases it away from Claude and onto the floor, and promptly stops caring about it as Claude wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close.
*
He has breakfast with his mother again.
She tells him she’s not moving after all, but that she would appreciate some company every now and then.
Peter promises to work on it.
The songs alluded to here are Ask, which is by The Smiths, and Smells Like Teen Spirit, by Nirvana.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claude; appearances by Tracy, Angela, Hesam, and Noah
Word Count: 4085
Summary: Written for the schmoop bingo prompt "playing instrument", so basically that, plus several hundred words of backstory to even get it to that point. Yeah...
Rating: PG13
A/N: So clearly I have watched Stranger Than Fiction recently. That's really all I have to say for myself.
Peter doesn’t like being angry at his mother. He’s got more than enough reasons to be, and if he indulges in just one of them, he’s pretty sure he’ll never stop. And for better or worse, they’re about all each other’s got left in terms of family.
So he tries not to get angry at her. He tries to be clear-headed and not hostile to the idea she’s just proposed.
“You wanna…why?”
“Well, dear, it’s just such a big house, and it’s just me. There’s really no point to it anymore.”
But it’s where he grew up. It’s where just about every happy memory he has of his childhood or his family took place.
“I could…” he presses his lips together, because he doesn’t know what he could do. “You could get a dog or something?”
She laughs, and pats his hand.
“Peter, really. You wanted nothing more than to be out of that house since you were fourteen.”
“I know, but...” he sighs. “Where would you go?”
“Oh, I’d find somewhere,” she says, lightly, as if doing so would not be the most difficult thing she’s ever had to do. Because it wouldn’t be, obviously, and Peter has no doubt that she could handle it, but…
“Ma, I think you’re being a little impulsive about this,” Peter cringes as he hears himself, and his mother tilts her head.
“Do you, dear?” she smiles, amused. “Interesting.”
And that’s how he ends up with what feels like a thousand boxes of his things crowding his apartment.
It’s a change, definitely. In a way it’s welcome, in that he doesn’t hear his footsteps echoing around the skeleton of the life he used to have anymore. In another way, the way that results in him being unable to make it to his bedroom without tripping over a box of little-league trophies , it’s kind of a pain in the ass.
He’s working on it. He’s working on a lot of things.
*
He’s been out with Hesam and a couple of guys from the station a few times. They were nice enough, and Peter remembered that yeah, people tended to like him, even when they weren’t family or in need of something he could provide.
Then a few weeks later, he’d run into Tracy Strauss. Who was awkward with him in a way that Peter wouldn’t have figured she’d be capable of. But she was doing well for herself now, lobbying for Special rights (apparently she’d been instrumental in getting the movement rebranded, and wasn’t shy about telling him about it). She reminded him of Nathan, in a good way. She was practical and a realist and a bit of a shark herself, but she got things done and she cared enough to do them.
She also invited him to get a drink with her. He considered taking her up on it, but he was busy that night and she was leaving the next day. He got her number, and never used it.
Then there was Noah Bennet. He wasn’t too sure what that was about, but the man seemed to show up in his neck of the woods a lot, given that he was still living in DC. He was doing well, as far as Peter could tell from their bemusing conversations.
They went to dinner a couple of times. He didn’t get any kind of vibe from it, other than two guys with nothing better to do and the awareness that sitting home alone and moping was pretty pathetic and not actually very useful.
In November, following an election cycle he hadn’t really been paying attention to beyond making sure he didn’t end up legally obligated to register himself as a freak of nature, Noah gave him a call and invited him to a party.
Which was…odd. But he went, and realized, pretty quickly, that it was basically a reunion for Primatech Industries. Noah introduced him to a couple of people, all of whom seem to have heard of him, and then left him to fend for himself amidst the sea of curious onlookers who probably knew more about him, his family, and his history than he did.
And then there was Claude Rains, who he almost hadn’t recognized. He’d come up as Peter was doing his best to blend into the wallpaper of a very nice hotel banquet hall, and grabbed his shoulder without so much as saying hello.
Before Peter could complain, he found himself able to fade out of sight almost instantly, and realized that he appreciated the gesture. Claude acknowledged his silent thank you with a nod, and then moved to leave.
Peter stopped him. He was curious. He was bored. And Claude was, in that context, a welcome distraction. They ditched the party and had a couple of drinks in a bar neither of them had been to. And then dinner, because why not. Claude was doing okay himself, living in the real world like an actual person again, and Peter liked hearing that. It gave him hope.
They hung out a couple of times after that. It never felt like a chore, like he was pushing himself to be normal again. He didn’t have to act like he was. They didn’t talk much, or about anything important, and he was pretty sure Claude was not taking notes about his activities and moods and reporting back to his mother, as he’d figured Noah had been doing. So it was good.
Lots of things were, suddenly. His job was good. His life was average, and it’d been ages since it had felt that way. And then he went to breakfast with his mother, and she made her announcement, and all of the sudden he had the remnants of his childhood and teenage years crowding him out of his living room and tripping him up on the way to his bedroom.
*
It’s better now. He’s managed to get rid of some things and pile the rest into the corners, pending him having the time or the energy to be able to look through them properly. But it’s still a pain in the ass.
Claude doesn’t seem especially impressed by the spread, either. He’s been coming by the apartment these days, before they go out, and the first time he does since the boxes arrived Peter isn’t even entirely sure they’ll both fit.
“Uh, sorry,” he says, finally managing to get the door all the way open.
“It’s…fine…” Claude steps around him carefully, and eyes the large box of stuffed animals currently residing on his kitchen table. He picks one up, a gigantic fluffy bunny, and turns toward Peter. “You really that lonely, mate?”
Peter rolls his eyes and turns to shut the door. “I’m donating those.”
“Right,” Claude puts down the rabbit, and gazes into the living room. There isn’t much more room in there, but Peter’s at least tried to clear off the couch.
“I’m going to get my coat, you can…” Claude’s already sitting down, so finishing the sentence seems pointless. He goes back to his room to get his coat, and his scarf. The coat’s easy enough to find but the scarf takes a while, and in the meantime, he hears the sound of things being moved.
He comes back to find Claude standing over a box from Peter’s college days. It’s mostly textbooks and notebooks he keeps meaning to throw away, not that Claude’s looking at those.
No, Claude seems pretty focused on the guitar Peter’s pretty sure he hasn’t thought of for at least five years.
“Thought you played the piano?”
“I do,” he says. “That was a gift.”
Claude throws him a curious look. “From who?”
“A friend,” Peter doesn’t mean to sound evasive, because he knows that’s like a red flag to a bull with Claude, but from the spark in Claude’s eye, he realizes he might as well be wearing a montera and possibly a short cape.
“Right, well, what’s nearly $400 between friends, yeah? Although maybe with you lot, it’s like buyin’ a box o’ chocolates.”
“It wasn’t,” he says. “It was…look, I wanted to learn to play, and I didn’t want to ask my parents, and I was gonna pay him back. Okay?”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Claude smirks, and then glances back to the guitar. His expression fades into something else, something more thoughtful, and Peter’s more than a little intrigued himself.
“How about you?”
“What?”
“Do you play?”
“No,” Claude says, quickly. “Once. Ages ago.”
Peter’s about to say something when he sees Claude’s hand move. The man hesitates for a moment, his hand still in the air, and then he seems to decide. He wraps his hand around the neck of the guitar, and pulls it out of the box.
He makes a surprised sound, and smiles, but not at Peter.
“It’s a Gibson,” he says, sitting back down on the couch, and it takes Peter a moment to respond.
“Yeah. I think.”
Claude looks up at him. “Really didn’t learn a thing, did you?”
He shrugs. Claude ducks his head, smiling again, still not at him. Maneuvers the guitar into his lap with uncertain ease. His ridiculously long fingers curl around its neck. Press lightly on the strings. With his other hand, he gives an almost experimental strum.
He frowns, and lifts his head. “It’s outta tune.”
“Oh,” Peter says, embarrassed to say that he honestly couldn’t tell. Of course it would be, it hasn’t been touched in ages.
Claude lets out a none-too-disbelieving huff, and focuses back on the guitar; twists the pegs, picks at a string or two. Peter thinks he may even hum, something, and it’s only because Claude closes his eyes that Peter gets away with the way that makes him grin.
He’s managed to swallow it before Claude’s eyes open again. He glances up at Peter as he strums again, and Peter’ll admit it does sound better than it did. He nods in response to the question in Claude’s eyes. Claude smiles, at him, like it’s the right answer, and like he’s only a little surprised Peter got it.
Peter’s more than a little surprised, but he’s glad to take the praise.
Claude looks down again. His left hand has settled comfortably around the neck, and he gives another quick strum that actually sounds like a chord. It seems to surprise him. His fingers on the fretboard shift, and then there’s another one, something that Peter can recognize as higher, even if he can’t name the particular note.
“Once, huh?” Peter says, and Claude doesn’t quite jump, but he definitely winces.
“Ages ago,” Claude says, softly, before letting go of the guitar like he wants to just toss it aside but can’t quite bring himself to do it. He puts it down on couch instead and moves to stand.
“You know what, wait a sec?” Peter says, thinking fast. “I gotta…I gotta put some other stuff out of storage, you can…just wait here. I’ll be back.”
Claude gives him a dubious look, but nods and sits back down.
Peter grabs the first box that his eyes land on, and lugs it downstairs as quickly as he can. He jogs back upstairs, but once he gets to his floor, he eases the door to the hallway open and walks as quietly as he can to his apartment.
He doesn’t hear anything from outside, and once he opens the door, he finds the guitar in the same place Claude had left it, and Claude himself poking through a box of toy soldiers and model airplanes. He swallows the odd sense of disappointment, and clears his throat.
Claude puts down a badly-painted bomber of some kind, and walks back toward the kitchen.
They don’t stay out as late that night, and it takes Claude a little while to respond to anything Peter has to say.
Which is probably okay, because Peter finds himself strangely enthralled by the way Claude’s mouth moves when he does speak, and is a little slow to answer questions himself.
*
He spends the weekend getting rid of things.
The soldiers and planes and tanks go to Simon and Monty; he’s sure Heidi’s got enough of Nathan’s stuff to sift through, but he’s pretty sure they’ll appreciate them, and he can’t quite bear to give them away to anyone else.
Most of the stuffed animals go, too. Not the small purple dog his father gave him when he was maybe four, and he’s not 100% sure why he keeps that, but he does.
There’s pictures to go through; he hasn’t got time to organize them properly, but the boxes they’re in go under his bed. Notebooks are recycled, textbooks are arranged on shelves that are looking a little less bare every week. Clothes go to a shelter.
He mostly avoids the guitar. Finds a stand for it, one he doesn’t remember buying or being given, and leaves them both near the couch.
*
Claude comes early on Friday; Peter’s still in the midst of washing the dishes he’s been neglecting. It takes him a couple of attempts to get the door open with soapy hands, and when he does Claude looks thoroughly amused.
“What?” he says, grabbing a dishtowel as the man walks past him and into the living room.
“Nothing,” Claude calls back. “Just kinda expected to have to dig you out of a pile of somethin’.”
“Funny,” he mumbles under his breath, and figures he might as well finish up. Claude seems capable of entertaining himself for a couple of minutes.
He turns the water on again, and starts scrubbing at a cast-iron skillet he’s really hoping not to have to throw out. He’s concentrating pretty much entirely on that when he hears the first strains of music. Well, notes, really, no discernable tune or order or even rhythm to them. They seem purposefully light, as if the person playing is hoping the sound will be covered by the rush of water from the tap. Peter turns off the water, and they stop.
By the time he pokes his head into the living room, Claude is flipping through a magazine and the guitar is back in its place at the opposite end of the couch.
“You ready?” he says, and Claude shrugs.
“Been ready.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
They go to dinner this time, and Claude is about the same as normal.
Peter isn’t. He’s noticing all sorts of things he’d really rather not be noticing, like how long Claude’s legs are and how effortlessly he seems to move. How large his hands are, and how he tends to run one through his hair right before he yawns.
It makes Peter wonder just how his hair feels. It’s shorter than it was when they first met, and certainly looks softer, and cleaner. His beard is neater, too. Peter can’t believe he hadn’t noticed that before.
*
It’s drinks the next time, and Claude doesn’t come by the apartment. He calls, and gives Peter an address, and Peter takes a cab downtown. He’s surprised to find Claude standing amidst a group of people, all of them in varying states of business dress.
Coworkers, Peter figures. And he’s not sure what’s more mind-boggling, that Claude Rains would go out for drinks with coworkers, or that he’d invite Peter to go along when he did.
He starts to walk over, in order to introduce himself, but Claude meets him halfway, grabs his wrist, and drags him into a corner.
“What-“
“Don’t say anythin’.”
“Bu-“
“Anythin’, Peter.”
He nods in response, and glances over to the group of people watching him and Claude curiously.
“Right. So. I’m gonna walk you over there, you’re gonna say hello, apologize for havin’ to take me away, and then we’ll go.”
He opens his mouth to ask why, and Claude silences him with a glare. He also considers pointing out that he has no reason to go along with this. But Claude’s hand is still around his wrist. And the other man is very, very close to him at the moment. And maybe that’s making his brain work a lot more slowly than it usually does.
He nods. Claude turns around, letting go of his wrist in the process, and Peter follows him as he walks back toward the group.
“Claude!” a bubbly looking brunette with a wide smile opens her arms as if to hug him, and Peter’s surprised that he just gives an awkward smile in return and pats her on the shoulder.
“Sorry ‘bout that. This is Peter. One I told you about.”
“Ooooh,” she says, obviously fascinated. She grabs the arm of another woman in a suit, this one who’s about Peter’s age and who’s obviously having a conversation with the tall, serious man next to her. “Jenna, this is Peter.”
“Hi,” he says, with a quick wave.
Jenna gives him a polite nod, a quick glare at the brunette, and returns to her conversation.
“I’m Shirley,” the woman says, unfazed, and Peter smiles. Holds out his hand, even as he feels Claude poke him in the back.
“Nice to meet you,” he says. “And I’m really, really sorry, but I gotta borrow him for a while.”
“Oh?” she says, curiously.
“Yeah, I…need his help…with a…thing.”
She aims an entirely unsubtle look at Claude, but smiles at Peter.
“Well, good luck with your…thing.”
“Yeah, thanks, I…thanks,” he says, and feels Claude’s hand slip under his arm to guide him away.
“Thanks for invitin’ me, see you all next week,” he can hear Claude’s grin without seeing it, and only feels slightly off balance as the man whirls him around and pushes him toward the door.
They take a taxi back uptown. Claude doesn’t thank him, or explain anything, but he does sit a little closer than he needs to in the cab and he does pay the fare.
They end up in a bar a couple of blocks from his apartment, and they don’t even drink that much, but he notices that Claude becomes more physical as the night wears on. Draping his arm around Peter’s shoulders, patting him on the back, once even ruffling playfully at his hair.
This is Claude in a good mood, Peter realizes. It makes him grin, and bump his hip against Claude’s as they walk, and almost, almost consider asking him up, for coffee or another beer or something, anything, to keep the night going.
He doesn’t, though. He’s not sure why.
*
The next time Claude comes by, he’s still in his suit and tie from work, and he’s had a haircut. Peter doesn’t comment on it. Just invites him in, and watches him walk past and into the living room.
Claude sits down and immediately pulls the guitar into his lap. Peter watches him do it, and finds himself suddenly, inexplicably jealous. Of a freaking musical instrument. Which, really, perfect.
He turns around abruptly and heads into the kitchen. He gets a glass of water. Hears the first hints of strumming, and walks back toward the living room.
Claude is…Claude is looking at him. Peter doesn’t really know what to say. He gestures that he should continue, and Claude looks, for a moment, like he’s going to refuse.
But he drops his head instead, and starts picking distractedly at the strings. Peter sits down, in one of the armchairs. He draws his legs up, crossing them in front of him and resting his elbows on his knees.
Claude looks over at him and laughs, quietly, before plucking out a few quick notes.
“What?” Peter says, and finds himself slightly breathless.
“Nothin’, just…” another thread of notes, light ones, and it almost sounds familiar. “Look more like a teenager, mate.”
Peter chuckles. “Oh, more like a teenager? Easy.” He leans back, enough to be able to slouch, reaches up to push what’s left of his bangs into his face, and fixes the most petulant expression on his face that he can.
Claude snorts. Looks momentarily thoughtful, and then shifts the guitar until it’s balanced on his right thigh. He props that leg up, slightly, bracing his heel against the side of the couch to be able to do so.
Peter watches, entranced, as Claude pulls the guitar close to his chest, and drapes his arm over the body. He starts to play something, and it sounds more like an actual song than anything he’s heard him do before.
Like an actual song that he recognizes, although it’s not till Claude hits the chorus that he’s sure. And even then, he’s too enthralled by the way Claude’s hands move, fingers sliding and pressing into the fretboard, plucking quickly at the strings, to do anything other than stare at him. There’s no hesitation, no self-conscious tension.
His eyes are shut, but he’s smiling, and when he stops, Peter doesn’t know whether to laugh or clap or what, but just knows he has to do something other than keep staring.
Claude glances up, cautiously, and Peter swallows all sorts of urges that threaten to overtake him.
“I…wouldn’t have figured you for a Cobain guy,” he manages, and thinks his voice may have even cracked saying it. Perfect, a Peter Petrelli Teenaged Retrospective in just about every way.
Claude gives a half-shrug, and runs his thumb along the topmost string. He’s not smiling anymore, but there’s a hint of brightness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“You know anything else?”
“Coupla things,” Claude says, noncommittally, and Peter leans forward. Claude looks at him, like he’s not entirely sure of what he’s seeing, and then away. “’s a bit of a party trick.”
“What is?”
Claude’s fingers drum along the edge of the sound hole, and shrugs. “This. Takes the attention off of you. Gives your mates somethin’ to talk about. Keeps ‘em from askin’ you anything, except if you can play their favorite song.”
“Oh,” Peter says, suddenly picturing Claude young, and quiet, and keeping his head down as much as he could. The same blue eyes and careful hands. It’s not helping.
Claude smiles again, slightly, and it reminds Peter of something but he doesn’t know what. And then he’s distracted, because Claude is playing again.
Lighter, this time. Like he’s holding back, and Peter doesn’t recognize the song. He frowns. Claude looks up at him, and stops.
“No, it’s…” he says, immediately, and Claude looks surprised. “I just don’t…know it.”
Claude chuckles. “’course not, before your time.”
He starts playing again, though. It’s the same song as before, but with a faster tempo, and a bit more certainty. It’s just chords, Peter realizes, and about then, Claude starts humming. Quietly, and slightly off key, but Peter likes it.
Likes how it sounds, like it’s from low in Claude’s throat, like it’s come from a distance. And he realizes, it’s not just humming, there’s a couple mumbled words among the rest of the notes; under his breath, difficult to distinguish, mostly drowned out by the chords, but he can hear them.
Something about summer days indoors, and then there’s the chorus. Peter leans even closer to be able to catch the words, and once he does, he doesn’t need to hear the rest.
Claude doesn’t get the chance to play the rest, because Peter is on top of him within seconds. It takes a moment for him to react, but Peter doesn’t even worry about it. He’s too busy trying to keep his balance, trying to curve his body away from the guitar that’s still between them while still managing to fully cover Claude’s lips with his own.
And once Claude lets go of the guitar and slides his fingers into Peter’s hair, he’s decided to not let himself worry about anything for the rest of the night.
Except maybe for how to get the damn guitar out of his way, because it’s still pinned between them, making odd, squeaking noises as he rocks against it. Claude’s mouth opens against his, and Peter decides that that’s enough. He pulls back, grabs hold of the neck, eases it away from Claude and onto the floor, and promptly stops caring about it as Claude wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close.
*
He has breakfast with his mother again.
She tells him she’s not moving after all, but that she would appreciate some company every now and then.
Peter promises to work on it.
The songs alluded to here are Ask, which is by The Smiths, and Smells Like Teen Spirit, by Nirvana.