Reasons Unknown, Part 2
Title: Reasons Unknown, Part 2
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Plaude
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine. At all.
Part 1
He couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to, really, except that when it came right down to it, a couple of hours with some guy he had a very good chance of never seeing again, wasn’t really worth thinking about this much.
Worth doing something about, maybe, and he was trying to.
Which is why he was there, curled up in a green that was playing at opulent comfort, some kind of synthetic silk type of covering and squishy cushioning but…but something about it felt off.
And that’s what he had to think about, instead of it. Claude. The night before.
He could steer his mind to the nice-but-cheap armchairs in the lobby of a hotel instead, but apparently nothing else. Because he really was that lame.
His mother smiled at him, dark eyes knowing. Knowing more than he did, at the moment, but that was nothing new.
Nathan looked drunk, happy, not-exactly as pristine as he had earlier and Peter felt a little less guilty about how totally trashed he must look at the moment, but hey, at least some of the pictures were going to be interesting.
And underneath that, cutting through it (because that was just Nathan) was the eagle-eyed lawyer bit, the one that had him smirking, winking, and murmuring a non-too-displeased and actually kind of proud sounding, “Someone’s been busy…” against his neck, in what he probably thought was a low enough voice not to catch their mother’s attention.
It wasn’t.
It hadn’t started off lame; in fact, it had started out great.
First off had been setting his alarm to wake up what would, actually, be just about three hours after he’d been able to get back into his own bed, but some things were worth waking up for, and this was definitely one of them. He was pretty sure.
Then having the jacket dry-cleaned as soon as possible, which was something he’d almost hated to do, and was kind of regretting now.
Because it was warm and soft and had smelled of Claude, still, of what he was pretty sure was both of them, and if he never saw Claude (which was becoming increasingly likely) it would’ve been nice to have that at least, that tiny little bit of him to come back to.
But the theory had been, if he’d been the reason it got messed up in the first place, he should’ve been the one to get it cleaned, and bringing it to Claude, that had to get him some points.
It had seemed like the right thing to do.
“Did you have a good time tonight?”
Peter blinked out of his daze, watching the lights of the city spin by the window, and glanced over to the other end of the car seat.
Sighed, because his mother was giving him that half-severe, half-concerned look, that signaled a coming awkward conversation about his relative happiness and how it couldn’t always be compatible with what brought happiness to the rest of the family.
Compromise was the word he had to look out for.
Once she started talking about compromise…all hope was lost, and he was too tired and full of residual good-feeling to bump up against hopelessness right now.
“Nathan seemed really happy,” he half-smiled, and wondered at how just about everyone in his family had mastered partial expressions.
And it was the right thing to do. He’d caused damage, and it was his job to rectify that.
Well, they’d both done the damage, but he had, if he remembered correctly, started it, so it was his fault, overall.
And he was the one who had the other one’s jacket and, supposedly, the means to deliver it to him.
Except that he’d been sitting there, in that stupid armchair, for half the afternoon, and hadn’t caught sight of the guy.
And honestly, he’d be pretty hard to miss.
But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He was easy to miss, and that’s what Peter had been doing. Missing someone he didn’t really have the right to miss.
Flipping the matchbook up into the air and catching it, remembering, no matter how hard he tried not to, the feel of warm skin and straining muscle underneath his fingers, the brush of hot breaths against his neck, and was, as a result, pretty worked up by it.
Probably blushing like crazy, for one, and he was honestly kind of shocked no one, from the concierge desk, from security, anyone hadn’t come up and asked him to leave already.
He didn’t really sleep.
Couldn’t.
He felt like he was freezing, no matter how many blankets he piled on it (it was always a lot, his body temperature tended to run cold), without the feeling of warmth he remembered from Claude’s chest.
And then he felt flushed, feverish, those memories leading to others, to the hands that had stroked along his arms, his back. Fingers brushing back his hair, lips against his neck.
Breathless, gasping words he could still just about feel against his skin, as he rolled over.
Hugged a pillow to his chest, and shut is eyes, trying in vain not to think of blue ones sparkling, playful, lustful, and real.
Real like nothing else really seemed to be.
He yawned again. Considered, again, that this might all just be a mistake.
Because yeah, he’d left him the matchbook, and the jacket.
And the address was very specific. And that all seemed to mean…what it meant.
That he wanted to see him again. That he wanted his jacket back. That he could get him there and try and kidnap him or blackmail him or…whatever. He could deal with whatever.
He couldn’t deal with this. With not seeing him.
And as much as he knew it was stupid, knew it was irrational, knew that there was so much about this that he didn’t really know, his stomach twisted a little bit, and he shifted, crossed his legs under himself, as if that would do anything, and waited.
He actually had slept a little, he realized.
If only because he woke up, to the sound of his curtains being drawn and the muffled clack of his mother’s high heels, at eight in the morning, when she’d had to have gone to bed later than him.
She gave him a distracted smile, and paced for a moment, before sitting carefully on the bed beside him.
“Your brother got off all right,” she said, clipped tone that he’d wonder about for a while, but probably chalk up to residual distaste for Heidi’s choice of a honeymoon location. Or of Heidi herself, which was probably more likely. “He wanted to say goodbye but it seemed you needed the sleep...”
She left the sentence dangling, waiting, but he just nodded.
“And Dad?”
She sighed, not quite meeting his eyes, and he gave what he felt was as pretty sardonic laugh in response.
“Vegas again, huh?” he shook his head. “Figures…”
“Peter,” she said, sharp, exasperated, and Peter gave up.
“Yeah, I know,” and he held back a yawn, smiled, carefree as he could.
She smiled back, warmer than before, and brushed some of the hair off of his forehead.
Fondly, like she hadn’t done in a while, and he had to grin, despite the empty feeling in his chest and how cold he suddenly felt.
“You really need to get this cut,” she said, standing up to leave.
He saw Claude before Claude saw him.
Didn’t even recognize his face so much as the presence out of the corner of his eye, the gait that seemed confident and cool and collected and just perfect, for wherever he was, for whatever he was doing.
What he was doing, as far as Peter could tell, was concentrating on something, head down, tongue poking out between his lips.
That was probably why didn’t see him right away, he was concentrating, or maybe just thinking, and he didn’t even notice him when Peter jumped up embarrassingly fast.
Grabbed the jacket, took a deep breath, and reminded himself not trip over his feet, because that wouldn’t exactly make the best first impression.
Not that it would be the first impression but…and there he was.
Practically behind him, and his mouth didn’t seem to want to form actual words.
Just a vague, “Um,” that wasn’t really more than a throat-clear, which the man didn’t respond to, and why would he, followed by a strained, “Claude?”
He got up a few minutes later, still yawing.
Still aching, and in places he hadn’t quite expected to ache.
Stumbled to the kitchen, to cereal and milk and fruit he didn’t really like but couldn’t bear not to eat, because it’d been set out for him.
Took a shower as quickly as he could, resisted the temptation to let his mind wander, as hot rivulets of water did, as elegant, patient fingers had.
Didn’t have time to dwell on that, and wanted much more than just memories.
Squirmed into a pair of jeans, threw on a t-shirt, and stopped for a second, to consider that.
Glanced at the mirror, and wasn’t sure what he expected to see.
Part 3
*
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Plaude
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine. At all.
Part 1
He couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to, really, except that when it came right down to it, a couple of hours with some guy he had a very good chance of never seeing again, wasn’t really worth thinking about this much.
Worth doing something about, maybe, and he was trying to.
Which is why he was there, curled up in a green that was playing at opulent comfort, some kind of synthetic silk type of covering and squishy cushioning but…but something about it felt off.
And that’s what he had to think about, instead of it. Claude. The night before.
He could steer his mind to the nice-but-cheap armchairs in the lobby of a hotel instead, but apparently nothing else. Because he really was that lame.
His mother smiled at him, dark eyes knowing. Knowing more than he did, at the moment, but that was nothing new.
Nathan looked drunk, happy, not-exactly as pristine as he had earlier and Peter felt a little less guilty about how totally trashed he must look at the moment, but hey, at least some of the pictures were going to be interesting.
And underneath that, cutting through it (because that was just Nathan) was the eagle-eyed lawyer bit, the one that had him smirking, winking, and murmuring a non-too-displeased and actually kind of proud sounding, “Someone’s been busy…” against his neck, in what he probably thought was a low enough voice not to catch their mother’s attention.
It wasn’t.
It hadn’t started off lame; in fact, it had started out great.
First off had been setting his alarm to wake up what would, actually, be just about three hours after he’d been able to get back into his own bed, but some things were worth waking up for, and this was definitely one of them. He was pretty sure.
Then having the jacket dry-cleaned as soon as possible, which was something he’d almost hated to do, and was kind of regretting now.
Because it was warm and soft and had smelled of Claude, still, of what he was pretty sure was both of them, and if he never saw Claude (which was becoming increasingly likely) it would’ve been nice to have that at least, that tiny little bit of him to come back to.
But the theory had been, if he’d been the reason it got messed up in the first place, he should’ve been the one to get it cleaned, and bringing it to Claude, that had to get him some points.
It had seemed like the right thing to do.
“Did you have a good time tonight?”
Peter blinked out of his daze, watching the lights of the city spin by the window, and glanced over to the other end of the car seat.
Sighed, because his mother was giving him that half-severe, half-concerned look, that signaled a coming awkward conversation about his relative happiness and how it couldn’t always be compatible with what brought happiness to the rest of the family.
Compromise was the word he had to look out for.
Once she started talking about compromise…all hope was lost, and he was too tired and full of residual good-feeling to bump up against hopelessness right now.
“Nathan seemed really happy,” he half-smiled, and wondered at how just about everyone in his family had mastered partial expressions.
And it was the right thing to do. He’d caused damage, and it was his job to rectify that.
Well, they’d both done the damage, but he had, if he remembered correctly, started it, so it was his fault, overall.
And he was the one who had the other one’s jacket and, supposedly, the means to deliver it to him.
Except that he’d been sitting there, in that stupid armchair, for half the afternoon, and hadn’t caught sight of the guy.
And honestly, he’d be pretty hard to miss.
But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He was easy to miss, and that’s what Peter had been doing. Missing someone he didn’t really have the right to miss.
Flipping the matchbook up into the air and catching it, remembering, no matter how hard he tried not to, the feel of warm skin and straining muscle underneath his fingers, the brush of hot breaths against his neck, and was, as a result, pretty worked up by it.
Probably blushing like crazy, for one, and he was honestly kind of shocked no one, from the concierge desk, from security, anyone hadn’t come up and asked him to leave already.
He didn’t really sleep.
Couldn’t.
He felt like he was freezing, no matter how many blankets he piled on it (it was always a lot, his body temperature tended to run cold), without the feeling of warmth he remembered from Claude’s chest.
And then he felt flushed, feverish, those memories leading to others, to the hands that had stroked along his arms, his back. Fingers brushing back his hair, lips against his neck.
Breathless, gasping words he could still just about feel against his skin, as he rolled over.
Hugged a pillow to his chest, and shut is eyes, trying in vain not to think of blue ones sparkling, playful, lustful, and real.
Real like nothing else really seemed to be.
He yawned again. Considered, again, that this might all just be a mistake.
Because yeah, he’d left him the matchbook, and the jacket.
And the address was very specific. And that all seemed to mean…what it meant.
That he wanted to see him again. That he wanted his jacket back. That he could get him there and try and kidnap him or blackmail him or…whatever. He could deal with whatever.
He couldn’t deal with this. With not seeing him.
And as much as he knew it was stupid, knew it was irrational, knew that there was so much about this that he didn’t really know, his stomach twisted a little bit, and he shifted, crossed his legs under himself, as if that would do anything, and waited.
He actually had slept a little, he realized.
If only because he woke up, to the sound of his curtains being drawn and the muffled clack of his mother’s high heels, at eight in the morning, when she’d had to have gone to bed later than him.
She gave him a distracted smile, and paced for a moment, before sitting carefully on the bed beside him.
“Your brother got off all right,” she said, clipped tone that he’d wonder about for a while, but probably chalk up to residual distaste for Heidi’s choice of a honeymoon location. Or of Heidi herself, which was probably more likely. “He wanted to say goodbye but it seemed you needed the sleep...”
She left the sentence dangling, waiting, but he just nodded.
“And Dad?”
She sighed, not quite meeting his eyes, and he gave what he felt was as pretty sardonic laugh in response.
“Vegas again, huh?” he shook his head. “Figures…”
“Peter,” she said, sharp, exasperated, and Peter gave up.
“Yeah, I know,” and he held back a yawn, smiled, carefree as he could.
She smiled back, warmer than before, and brushed some of the hair off of his forehead.
Fondly, like she hadn’t done in a while, and he had to grin, despite the empty feeling in his chest and how cold he suddenly felt.
“You really need to get this cut,” she said, standing up to leave.
He saw Claude before Claude saw him.
Didn’t even recognize his face so much as the presence out of the corner of his eye, the gait that seemed confident and cool and collected and just perfect, for wherever he was, for whatever he was doing.
What he was doing, as far as Peter could tell, was concentrating on something, head down, tongue poking out between his lips.
That was probably why didn’t see him right away, he was concentrating, or maybe just thinking, and he didn’t even notice him when Peter jumped up embarrassingly fast.
Grabbed the jacket, took a deep breath, and reminded himself not trip over his feet, because that wouldn’t exactly make the best first impression.
Not that it would be the first impression but…and there he was.
Practically behind him, and his mouth didn’t seem to want to form actual words.
Just a vague, “Um,” that wasn’t really more than a throat-clear, which the man didn’t respond to, and why would he, followed by a strained, “Claude?”
He got up a few minutes later, still yawing.
Still aching, and in places he hadn’t quite expected to ache.
Stumbled to the kitchen, to cereal and milk and fruit he didn’t really like but couldn’t bear not to eat, because it’d been set out for him.
Took a shower as quickly as he could, resisted the temptation to let his mind wander, as hot rivulets of water did, as elegant, patient fingers had.
Didn’t have time to dwell on that, and wanted much more than just memories.
Squirmed into a pair of jeans, threw on a t-shirt, and stopped for a second, to consider that.
Glanced at the mirror, and wasn’t sure what he expected to see.
Part 3
*