Fic: Vulnerability
Title: Vulnerability
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Word Count: 697
Summary: Paris, 1940- It was the first of May, and he counted himself lucky to be there.
Rating: PG13
A/N: Another vignette in the It's Always a Gamble-verse. Basically, a bit of flashback fluff that involves handholding, and is thus an entry for the schmoop bingo prompt "holding hands".
Peter’s lips were red, wet, and slightly parted. The corners twitched, half-way to a smile. A hint of his tongue poked out now and then.
His eyes were focused, and his eyelashes fluttered as they moved across the pages. His features were set, speaking to deep concentration, but the hints of a smile around his eyes indicated enjoyment, familiarity, even.
His head, heavy against Claude’s stomach, was warm. His hair splayed indulgently across his forehead, polished bright by the afternoon sun, the glare a stark reflection against the dark brown.
It was hot to the touch, almost painfully so, but soft as well. He ran his fingers through it and Peter smiled. His eyes closed as he leaned into the caress, and then opened. The smile remained.
One of his legs was bent, perpendicular to the ground, and he rested the book against it as he glanced over. His smile widened, and Claude couldn’t resist the urge to return it.
“I could just kiss you right now,” Peter whispered, conspiratorial, biting lightly at his lower lip and rubbing his cheek against Claude’s stomach as he did so.
“Why don’t you?”
Peter gave a quiet, almost drowsy, chuckle as he turned his head back and resumed reading. “Would you let me?”
He wouldn’t. Their position was precarious enough as it was, almost impossible to interpret in a way that wasn’t entirely accurate. They were about as far as they could be from the main paths, surrounded by hedges and watched over by a statue of a goddess with a strung bow, but the occasionally titter of voices served as a reminder of just how exposed they were.
The trees provided better cover. Or, better yet, his flat, that provided the best cover there was, with its solid door and locks and several flights of stairs announcing the arrival of anyone particularly nosey or not deterred by said locks and solidity.
But Peter preferred…this. The grass and the buzz of insects and children and fountains, and the steady hum of traffic beyond the gates. For a city boy he was remarkably fond of the outdoors, and the inconsistency made Claude tense.
Or perhaps it was the curve of his neck. The feel of his skin. The way his hair smelled after it’d been in warmed by the sun. Claude wasn’t sure why that, specifically, loomed so large in his memory, why it was quite so maddening, but it was addictive, and the part of him that didn’t know better wanted to drag Peter up against him and inhale as much of that scent as he could. Wanted to run his hands along Peter’s back, his lips along the smooth column of Peter’s throat.
Peter turned a page. Claude didn’t even know what he was reading, but it had better be worth the discomfort. He shifted to get a better look at the words. He had to move his hand in the process, to keep his balance, and Peter made a low noise of complaint, but didn’t move.
-I could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking- thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell-
Nothing he recognized, and nothing he wanted to think or ask about. He lay back, and felt Peter settle against him again. He put a hand behind his own head, and rested the other one on Peter’s chest.
Peter’s lips curved into another smile. Without so much as a glance away from his book, he reached up with the hand not supporting it. Ran his fingers along the back of Claude’s hand, slowly and surely. Claude lifted it, letting Peter’s fingers slip between his own.
Peter’s hand guided Claude’s up, until Claude felt the press of Peter’s lips against the inside of his wrist. He felt Peter’s breath brush his palm, before Peter returned both of their hands to their position on Peter’s chest.
Peter continued to read, Claude continued to watch him, and Paris continued to bustle with desperate gaiety around them. It was the first of May, and he counted himself lucky to be there.
*
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Word Count: 697
Summary: Paris, 1940- It was the first of May, and he counted himself lucky to be there.
Rating: PG13
A/N: Another vignette in the It's Always a Gamble-verse. Basically, a bit of flashback fluff that involves handholding, and is thus an entry for the schmoop bingo prompt "holding hands".
Peter’s lips were red, wet, and slightly parted. The corners twitched, half-way to a smile. A hint of his tongue poked out now and then.
His eyes were focused, and his eyelashes fluttered as they moved across the pages. His features were set, speaking to deep concentration, but the hints of a smile around his eyes indicated enjoyment, familiarity, even.
His head, heavy against Claude’s stomach, was warm. His hair splayed indulgently across his forehead, polished bright by the afternoon sun, the glare a stark reflection against the dark brown.
It was hot to the touch, almost painfully so, but soft as well. He ran his fingers through it and Peter smiled. His eyes closed as he leaned into the caress, and then opened. The smile remained.
One of his legs was bent, perpendicular to the ground, and he rested the book against it as he glanced over. His smile widened, and Claude couldn’t resist the urge to return it.
“I could just kiss you right now,” Peter whispered, conspiratorial, biting lightly at his lower lip and rubbing his cheek against Claude’s stomach as he did so.
“Why don’t you?”
Peter gave a quiet, almost drowsy, chuckle as he turned his head back and resumed reading. “Would you let me?”
He wouldn’t. Their position was precarious enough as it was, almost impossible to interpret in a way that wasn’t entirely accurate. They were about as far as they could be from the main paths, surrounded by hedges and watched over by a statue of a goddess with a strung bow, but the occasionally titter of voices served as a reminder of just how exposed they were.
The trees provided better cover. Or, better yet, his flat, that provided the best cover there was, with its solid door and locks and several flights of stairs announcing the arrival of anyone particularly nosey or not deterred by said locks and solidity.
But Peter preferred…this. The grass and the buzz of insects and children and fountains, and the steady hum of traffic beyond the gates. For a city boy he was remarkably fond of the outdoors, and the inconsistency made Claude tense.
Or perhaps it was the curve of his neck. The feel of his skin. The way his hair smelled after it’d been in warmed by the sun. Claude wasn’t sure why that, specifically, loomed so large in his memory, why it was quite so maddening, but it was addictive, and the part of him that didn’t know better wanted to drag Peter up against him and inhale as much of that scent as he could. Wanted to run his hands along Peter’s back, his lips along the smooth column of Peter’s throat.
Peter turned a page. Claude didn’t even know what he was reading, but it had better be worth the discomfort. He shifted to get a better look at the words. He had to move his hand in the process, to keep his balance, and Peter made a low noise of complaint, but didn’t move.
-I could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking- thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell-
Nothing he recognized, and nothing he wanted to think or ask about. He lay back, and felt Peter settle against him again. He put a hand behind his own head, and rested the other one on Peter’s chest.
Peter’s lips curved into another smile. Without so much as a glance away from his book, he reached up with the hand not supporting it. Ran his fingers along the back of Claude’s hand, slowly and surely. Claude lifted it, letting Peter’s fingers slip between his own.
Peter’s hand guided Claude’s up, until Claude felt the press of Peter’s lips against the inside of his wrist. He felt Peter’s breath brush his palm, before Peter returned both of their hands to their position on Peter’s chest.
Peter continued to read, Claude continued to watch him, and Paris continued to bustle with desperate gaiety around them. It was the first of May, and he counted himself lucky to be there.
*