Reasons Unknown, Part 5
So...you all know how this was going to be the last bit? So totally not. Second to last chapter, though, I promise, it just...got too long, and complicated, and I hated it, and now, at least, I don't, so...yay?
Title: Reasons Unknown, Part 5 (Now with actual porn!)
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: We're back to R again! Yippee! Oh, I hate myself.
Disclaimer: How I wish it were mine. And yet...that's not how property rights work.
A/N: So yeah. I...kind of like this again. Although I'm really not sure. Boy, can Claude angst things up with the best of them.
Special thanks to lotus0kid, for...just...just being awesome. Yeah, that's about all.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
They stumble through the front door, graceless and desperate and panting against each other like a moments’ separation would kill them both.
An arm around Peter’s waist as he arches up, and Claude can feel the shift and strain of muscle, the heat radiating from smooth skin.
He struggles to think of something else, anything else, as he reaches back to try and shut the door behind them.
Tries to keep them both invisible, tries anything to keep neighbors from getting an eyeful of activities likely enough to land them both in jail.
And it’s difficult, to think of anything except for the absolutely maddening heat of Peter’s body, pressing up against him, arms around his neck, legs tangling with his as he tries to move them away from the door he’s only managed to close through a chance moment of concentration.
Laughs as Peter pushes him to the wall, rocking up against him with a strength he would’ve though that slender body incapable of, but he’s learning.
“So?” he said, watching Peter search through cabinets like he had a right to, which, till he got around to telling him otherwise, he supposed the boy did.
“So what?” dark eyes glanced back at him, for a second, before looking down.
“So have you got some sort of a plan , here? Or are you just going to be hangin’ about round here, waitin’ for me to come back?”
“Well, you know,” the boy busied himself unscrewing the lid of a jar of peanut butter Claude couldn’t remember having bought in the first place. “I didn’t really have a plan so much as-“
He snorted at that, unsurprised, as Peter glanced back up at him.
“But,” he added, confidently. “But at the bus station, there were brochures, so…”
“So you’re…just takin’ a vacation,” bitterness, even though he tried to keep the tone flat and Peter actually flinched.
“You said I could stay,” he mumbled, looking at the floor again, and Claude sighed.
Can’t merely let it pass, though; matches mock aggression with mock aggression, and pushes him back, to the opposite wall.
Drags his mouth away from those soft, swollen lips, and tastes at the slender arch of Peter’s neck, listening to the quick, almost choking breaths he takes.
“You all right?” he grins, Peter’s skin warm against his tongue.
“Fine,” Peter’s throat vibrates beneath his lips.
“You sure?” he murmurs, bites gently, slips a hand under Peter’s shirt.
“Positive,” Peter giggles pushing Claude’s jacket past his shoulders.
Pining his arms to his sides, for a moment, as Peter arches up against him again, so breathtakingly eager that Claude lets the boy get the better of him and push him to the wall again.
Peter kisses him, about as forcefully as he can probably manage, and Claude wonders if he could end up bruised from all that intensity.
Hands still awkward, though, no pretense, no calculation, from his stomach to his sides to his chest again and it’s intoxicatingly distracting, as he tries to concentrate enough to struggle out of his jacket (manages, finally, and though he knows he should be more concerned about leaving it on the floor, he really isn’t, not in the least) and do something other than throw Peter against the wall and take him right there.
An impulse that surprises him, frankly; more dramatic than he normally is, suppressed easily enough but still…unusual.
But there’s nothing else for it, for the sheer fucking rush that is the boy in his arms and the look in those brown eyes, like he’s the unquestionable center of his universe.
And they stumble further down the corridor, Peter’s arms around his neck making it about as difficult to move as his own hands on the boy’s hips do.
Graceless, both of them, stepping out of shoes, his hands brushing up Peter’s back, Peter’s across his shoulders, until he finds himself pulled to the boy with a forehead-bumping yank that has him bracing against the wall as a tense body arches up against him even tighter.
Before Peter pulls away from him, suddenly, eyes wide and strangely evasive.
“What?” he tries not to sound breathless, and isn’t exactly sure why he bothers.
“I..uh…sorry about the…” Peter blushes, hair falling over his eyes as he looks down. “The…lamp, I didn’t…”
Claude blinks. Glances to the right, to try and take in the fact that they’d just succeeded in knocking down and quite possibly breaking the only source of light he’s had in that corridor and that he hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t even bloody noticed and...
And he laughs; doesn’t even think about it, doesn’t even bother to pitch it bitter or knowing or carefree, just does, even as Peter pouts at him, confused.
“Hated it anyway,” and Peter beams at him like it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him.
“Really?” body still panting against him, arms still around Claude’s neck.
“Such a bloody nuisance, bein’ able to see where I was going,” and he pulls Peter away from the wall.
“It’s just a movie, Claude.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he shook his head, as Peter groaned again. “Makes no bloody sense at all, mate. He’d have to have been psychic, to know-“
“Suspension of disbelief, okay?” He didn’t see Peter roll his eyes but was sure he did. “Sometimes people just want to see explosions. And people swinging through big windows just in time. There doesn’t always have to be a reason.”
“Yeah, but without any kind of explanation as to how-“
“Claude?” Peter had stopped walking and was looking up at him expectantly.
“Yeah?”
The boy gave a small smile and tucked a strand of hair back behind his ear.
“Thank you,” he seemed ready to edge closer but a glance around the not precisely empty street deterred him. “For everything.”
“Everythin’?” he couldn’t help grin back. “Oxygen? Carbon-compounds? Those horrible chocolate-covered raisins of yours?”
“You know what I mean,” Peter rolled his eyes and began to walk away, as if absolutely certain he’d follow.
“Yeah, Pete,” and he did follow, caught up with him easily enough. Mumbled a quiet, answering “Thank you,” as he did, quiet enough that had he not caught a glimpse of Peter’s answering grin he wouldn’t have been sure the boy had heard.
And into the bedroom, still so wrapped up in each other that bumping up against the bed is a bit of shock, but not an unwanted one.
Peter’s shirt is gone in an instant, struggled out of in an awkward bit of maneuvering that Claude only barely escapes injury from due to quick reflexes, and still, all he can do is smile.
Laugh, even, as he reaches to steady the boy, hands on his elbows and forehead against his.
Gets kissed again for his trouble, sweet and wet and distracting, painfully so, as Peter wavers and eases back, drops from his reach and onto the bed.
Perfect, eyes bright and focused and everything he could ever want from anyone, all the need and the devotion that he’s never had a reason to expect and long since stopped deserving.
Not that Peter, beautiful and wanting and half-naked, getting fully naked as he watches, gives him time to think, about what he deserves or expects.
Hands on his hips, gripping a little harder than would suggest full, all-out confidence and what feels like a limitless amount of smooth skin under his fingers as he’s pulled onto the bed.
Next to the boy, and not on top of him, and he makes sure of that; doesn’t know why, but doesn’t…doesn’t want to suffocate, doesn’t want to break.
Kisses the side of his neck, as Peter scrambles to pull him closer, swollen lips murmuring little blasphemies and words that don’t seem entirely comfortable there, fingers digging into his arms and tangling in his shirt and he should take it off, he knows.
Only fair, and all that, but there’s just…there’s just so much, of Peter, so much to taste and stroke and touch and remember, to discover, anything to shake the suspicion that this’ll be his last chance for any of it.
The shudder as he strokes along Peter’s stomach, the vibrations against his tongue and sound of his name on Peter’s lips, the scent and taste of Peter’s skin.
The fingers carding through his hair and the look in his eyes, and he wants to, needs to, remember every detail.
Especially, the flutter of those eyelashes, as his fingers swirl along his hip, slid carefully lower, and the accompanying, unsurprisingly loud moan.
And he expects the eyes to shut; wants them to, almost.
Wants to know that in this, in being able to give Peter this, if nothing else (because he can’t drown that out, his knowledge that he can’t give him much else) at least he won’t be able to see those eyes, won’t be able to be reminded of the disparity between what they see and what is.
“Do you ever wear a tie?”
Morning. Over coffee and waffles, because apparently the boy had, somewhere, learned to make waffles, and was of the rare breed of teenaged boy who was willing to wake up early enough to make them and provide judgment on one’s wardrobe.
What a thrillingly domestic world he’d bumbled into.
“Yes.”
Peter frowned at him, apparently unsatisfied, and while he should’ve just blown off the expression of his unexpected housewife he just sighed.
“When the occasion calls for it, yes, Peter, I do,” with as much clipped formality as he could, and with fresh coffee burning the back of his throat he could manage an awful lot.
“Work isn’t an occasion that calls for it?”
He’d rolled his eyes and sighed as Peter had kept watching him, surprisingly, passively stubborn.
“Tend to get in my way, if you must know.”
“Right,” Peter looked down at his plate for a moment, and Claude wasn’t sure, in that moment, why it was that he didn’t seem to believe him.
They ate in relative silence, Peter glancing up at him ever few minutes as if surprised he was still there until finally he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Anythin’ else?”
“What do they get in the way of?” rushed out through a veil of dark hair as Peter stared down at the table. “You know, at your…your job?”
And Claude…didn’t know what to say to that.
Because Noah had his own little stories, and god knows what Bishop and Thompson told people, but he’d never…never needed to say anything other than truth.
He was prepared to lie, to be sure, but…this is why he’d never brought anyone home. Why he shouldn’t have brought anyone home, and before he’d managed to get anything out Peter had just shrugged, mumbled a quick, “Never mind,” and gotten up from the table.
They don’t, though; even as he strokes, even as Peter squirms and bucks and gasps, so responsive to every touch, no struggle for the control he’s apparently never needed to learn, he still stares.
Lips stumbling over nonsense, mouthing words he’s apparently too breathless to form fully, fingers gripping tightly at Claude’s arm as his fingers slide along Peter’s erection, an extra twist sending him gripping harder.
“Peter,” and the eyes blink, focus, for a moment. “Breathe.”
He does; a deep, gasping, laughing breath as he reaches up to lay a hand on Claude’s cheek and thrusts against him once more.
Comes, across Claude’s shirt as it turns out, and finally does shut his eyes.
Doesn’t turn away, though. Perfectly still, forehead against his, hand on his cheek, breathing carefully as Claude moves to wipe his hand on his already soiled shirt and maybe, finally, get out of it.
He glances up as Peter’s eyes open again, heavy dark lashes and soft gaze.
Edges closer to kiss him, crooked lip and lazy tongue and everything about him so…so quiet. Simple, easy as he wraps his arms around Peter, and can’t help but smile as he melts against him.
And he can pretend, for a moment, that this is the only thing Peter needs to know, the only part of him that Peter needs to have.
“So do you just really love trees or what?”
The first words he heard, before he’d even managed to get the door closed, and he sighed as he caught sight of the boy curled up in an adolescent sulk.
“Peter-” he didn’t even have the time to get out.
“Just because when you come home, you don’t look like, you know, just another boring day at the…the paper factory. So unless you really love trees…”
He should’ve prepared himself for that. Should have not trusted that even if he was suspicious, and he had been, clear enough, that morning, Peter would’ve been too scared to bring it up, and coming back to him unprepared was frankly irresponsible.
Unprofessional, and he couldn’t believe he was still thinking like that, with the young man still looking at him, frowning, but seemingly unsurprised at his silence.
“You…” Peter laughed to himself a minute, but didn’t move as Claude walked closer and sat next to him. “You wouldn’t have been at my brother’s wedding, as a…as a paper salesman. I mean, I guess you’d travel but…but it’s not like…not like you’d come back home looking like you-”
“Peter…” the boy looked at him, and he almost wished he hadn’t.
“Yeah?” cold and dull, like he wouldn’t have thought him capable of, but he should’ve known better.
“I can’t-”
“You don’t work for a paper company,” Peter said, daring him to contradict it and, even with every rote line of Company protocol running through his head, warning him against it, reminding him of the consequences, he answered the only way he could.
“No,” he said, looking straight into dark eyes. “I don’t.”
And Peter sighed, sounding more relieved than anything, as he moved closer and rested his head against Claude’s shoulder.
“I can’t tell you anythin’ else, it-“
“Yeah, I know,” he felt Peter mumble, as he shifted closer. Stilled, for a moment, and pulled away to look at him. “Just, um…You…don’t work for my dad, do you?”
“Nah, Pete,” he managed to smile, because was true enough, for the moment.
“What do you…” Peter pulls back for a moment, pouting in concentration, and he almost can’t resist the urge to kiss him again. Does, because he, for one, has a sense of control. “Can I…” fingers brushing against his chest, stumbling along the buttons, suddenly hesitant.
“Yeah, Pete,” he whispers, and Peter smiles again, darts back up to kiss him, before slipping away.
Fingers unsteady at his chest and eyes that won’t meet his, and he moves to help, to unfasten troublesome buttons.
But has his hand pushed away; sure, gentle, as Peter glances back up at him, dark eyes wide with sudden, wavering confidence. “Let me, okay?”
And he suppresses a chuckle; has to, in the face of such vehemence. Reaches out to stroke back Peter’s hair instead, damp silk against his palm, and Peter blushes and looks down again.
The accidental brush of light fingers against his skin followed by deliberate exploration, lips and tongue, along his neck, up against his shoulder for a moment and Peter does notice.
Glances up, dark eyes questioning but not asking, and kisses him again, pushes, and he lets himself be pushed.
Onto his back, as Peter kisses lower, fingers dropping to his waist and…pausing. Glancing up at him again, then away, and then back and-
“What should I…do…what do you want me to…” blushing, of course. Mumbling and blushing and straddling him, naked and eager and beautiful.
So fucking beautiful and…You don’t even realize, he can’t bring himself to say. Don’t even realize how much you make me want what I can’t take.
“Claude?” breathless. Needing. Always so much needing and it’s all he can do to just nod.
The boy had fallen asleep in his lap, again. Dark hair smooth under his fingers and features peaceful, slight smile twitching at the corner of his lips as he curled closer.
And he could’ve left him on the couch, sure, and finally have had the chance to reclaim his own bed.
But he didn’t; had picked him up, arm under the boy’s legs and another around his back.
And Peter was heavier than he’d expected him to be, curled against his chest, completely at ease with being carried to the bed Claude hadn’t been able to bring himself to go back to for the past two days.
Still didn’t; merely laid down the quiet body amongst soft sheets and watched him settle against too many pillow.
Didn’t think of him looking perfect there, or anything, but…he was quiet, at the least.
Still, even if it was only in that moment, before he rolled over, nestled into dark sheets and away from him.
“Come here,” he murmurs, waving him closer.
Body melting against him again, skin slick with sweat, mouth wet and welcoming.
Hand uneasy, though, and he can’t help but notice that.
Can’t help but notice the hesitance in the glancing strokes and he struggles against the need to thrust, to move, to guide, anything to relieve the tension.
Lets out a labored breath, tries not to sound as pained as he feels, and the boy glances up.
“Peter,” he murmurs, as the fingers pick up speed, the palm curling a little tighter, as Peter’s eyes find his own, questioning, but still…trusting. Always so very trusting. “Faster.”
“Okay,” Peter giggles, breathless, cheeks flushing again, and complies. Surer rhythm, firmer grip. Each stroke bringing him closer, tension building and burning and Peter’s eyes, his slight smile, the wonder in his expression almost makes Claude laugh.
But he comes instead, a blinding rush, a moment of simplicity he doesn’t think he’ll have again, and it’s over before he wants it to be.
Even if he does come back to Peter, and that crooked, nervously triumphant smile, hovering over him.
Forehead pressed to his, lips almost against his own, but not quite, and he sighs. Feels Peter twitch, relax against him, before he leans up to close the distance.
Another round of lazy kisses, along his jaw, down his neck, fingers stroking at arms and chest and brushing against old scars and new bruises, before Peter finally settles.
Rolls to his side and nestles alongside him, arm draped along his waist and nose pressed against his neck.
And he’s not used to it, he’ll admit that much.
It’s not…not unpleasant, the closeness, Peter, everything, but it’s not routine.
The need of Peter’s to kiss at his shoulder from time and whisper soft words he doesn’t quite catch as he drifts off to sleep, and he struggles to keep from moving.
To give in to an abrasive nature that seeks to challenge the boy a bit, to push him away instead of gathering that beautiful body against his and drifting off to sleep himself, which is what the ends up doing.
But when he wakes up to that, the closeness and tenderness, the beautiful body and all, he feels trapped again.
Part 6: The End
*
Title: Reasons Unknown, Part 5 (Now with actual porn!)
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: We're back to R again! Yippee! Oh, I hate myself.
Disclaimer: How I wish it were mine. And yet...that's not how property rights work.
A/N: So yeah. I...kind of like this again. Although I'm really not sure. Boy, can Claude angst things up with the best of them.
Special thanks to lotus0kid, for...just...just being awesome. Yeah, that's about all.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
They stumble through the front door, graceless and desperate and panting against each other like a moments’ separation would kill them both.
An arm around Peter’s waist as he arches up, and Claude can feel the shift and strain of muscle, the heat radiating from smooth skin.
He struggles to think of something else, anything else, as he reaches back to try and shut the door behind them.
Tries to keep them both invisible, tries anything to keep neighbors from getting an eyeful of activities likely enough to land them both in jail.
And it’s difficult, to think of anything except for the absolutely maddening heat of Peter’s body, pressing up against him, arms around his neck, legs tangling with his as he tries to move them away from the door he’s only managed to close through a chance moment of concentration.
Laughs as Peter pushes him to the wall, rocking up against him with a strength he would’ve though that slender body incapable of, but he’s learning.
“So?” he said, watching Peter search through cabinets like he had a right to, which, till he got around to telling him otherwise, he supposed the boy did.
“So what?” dark eyes glanced back at him, for a second, before looking down.
“So have you got some sort of a plan , here? Or are you just going to be hangin’ about round here, waitin’ for me to come back?”
“Well, you know,” the boy busied himself unscrewing the lid of a jar of peanut butter Claude couldn’t remember having bought in the first place. “I didn’t really have a plan so much as-“
He snorted at that, unsurprised, as Peter glanced back up at him.
“But,” he added, confidently. “But at the bus station, there were brochures, so…”
“So you’re…just takin’ a vacation,” bitterness, even though he tried to keep the tone flat and Peter actually flinched.
“You said I could stay,” he mumbled, looking at the floor again, and Claude sighed.
Can’t merely let it pass, though; matches mock aggression with mock aggression, and pushes him back, to the opposite wall.
Drags his mouth away from those soft, swollen lips, and tastes at the slender arch of Peter’s neck, listening to the quick, almost choking breaths he takes.
“You all right?” he grins, Peter’s skin warm against his tongue.
“Fine,” Peter’s throat vibrates beneath his lips.
“You sure?” he murmurs, bites gently, slips a hand under Peter’s shirt.
“Positive,” Peter giggles pushing Claude’s jacket past his shoulders.
Pining his arms to his sides, for a moment, as Peter arches up against him again, so breathtakingly eager that Claude lets the boy get the better of him and push him to the wall again.
Peter kisses him, about as forcefully as he can probably manage, and Claude wonders if he could end up bruised from all that intensity.
Hands still awkward, though, no pretense, no calculation, from his stomach to his sides to his chest again and it’s intoxicatingly distracting, as he tries to concentrate enough to struggle out of his jacket (manages, finally, and though he knows he should be more concerned about leaving it on the floor, he really isn’t, not in the least) and do something other than throw Peter against the wall and take him right there.
An impulse that surprises him, frankly; more dramatic than he normally is, suppressed easily enough but still…unusual.
But there’s nothing else for it, for the sheer fucking rush that is the boy in his arms and the look in those brown eyes, like he’s the unquestionable center of his universe.
And they stumble further down the corridor, Peter’s arms around his neck making it about as difficult to move as his own hands on the boy’s hips do.
Graceless, both of them, stepping out of shoes, his hands brushing up Peter’s back, Peter’s across his shoulders, until he finds himself pulled to the boy with a forehead-bumping yank that has him bracing against the wall as a tense body arches up against him even tighter.
Before Peter pulls away from him, suddenly, eyes wide and strangely evasive.
“What?” he tries not to sound breathless, and isn’t exactly sure why he bothers.
“I..uh…sorry about the…” Peter blushes, hair falling over his eyes as he looks down. “The…lamp, I didn’t…”
Claude blinks. Glances to the right, to try and take in the fact that they’d just succeeded in knocking down and quite possibly breaking the only source of light he’s had in that corridor and that he hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t even bloody noticed and...
And he laughs; doesn’t even think about it, doesn’t even bother to pitch it bitter or knowing or carefree, just does, even as Peter pouts at him, confused.
“Hated it anyway,” and Peter beams at him like it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him.
“Really?” body still panting against him, arms still around Claude’s neck.
“Such a bloody nuisance, bein’ able to see where I was going,” and he pulls Peter away from the wall.
“It’s just a movie, Claude.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he shook his head, as Peter groaned again. “Makes no bloody sense at all, mate. He’d have to have been psychic, to know-“
“Suspension of disbelief, okay?” He didn’t see Peter roll his eyes but was sure he did. “Sometimes people just want to see explosions. And people swinging through big windows just in time. There doesn’t always have to be a reason.”
“Yeah, but without any kind of explanation as to how-“
“Claude?” Peter had stopped walking and was looking up at him expectantly.
“Yeah?”
The boy gave a small smile and tucked a strand of hair back behind his ear.
“Thank you,” he seemed ready to edge closer but a glance around the not precisely empty street deterred him. “For everything.”
“Everythin’?” he couldn’t help grin back. “Oxygen? Carbon-compounds? Those horrible chocolate-covered raisins of yours?”
“You know what I mean,” Peter rolled his eyes and began to walk away, as if absolutely certain he’d follow.
“Yeah, Pete,” and he did follow, caught up with him easily enough. Mumbled a quiet, answering “Thank you,” as he did, quiet enough that had he not caught a glimpse of Peter’s answering grin he wouldn’t have been sure the boy had heard.
And into the bedroom, still so wrapped up in each other that bumping up against the bed is a bit of shock, but not an unwanted one.
Peter’s shirt is gone in an instant, struggled out of in an awkward bit of maneuvering that Claude only barely escapes injury from due to quick reflexes, and still, all he can do is smile.
Laugh, even, as he reaches to steady the boy, hands on his elbows and forehead against his.
Gets kissed again for his trouble, sweet and wet and distracting, painfully so, as Peter wavers and eases back, drops from his reach and onto the bed.
Perfect, eyes bright and focused and everything he could ever want from anyone, all the need and the devotion that he’s never had a reason to expect and long since stopped deserving.
Not that Peter, beautiful and wanting and half-naked, getting fully naked as he watches, gives him time to think, about what he deserves or expects.
Hands on his hips, gripping a little harder than would suggest full, all-out confidence and what feels like a limitless amount of smooth skin under his fingers as he’s pulled onto the bed.
Next to the boy, and not on top of him, and he makes sure of that; doesn’t know why, but doesn’t…doesn’t want to suffocate, doesn’t want to break.
Kisses the side of his neck, as Peter scrambles to pull him closer, swollen lips murmuring little blasphemies and words that don’t seem entirely comfortable there, fingers digging into his arms and tangling in his shirt and he should take it off, he knows.
Only fair, and all that, but there’s just…there’s just so much, of Peter, so much to taste and stroke and touch and remember, to discover, anything to shake the suspicion that this’ll be his last chance for any of it.
The shudder as he strokes along Peter’s stomach, the vibrations against his tongue and sound of his name on Peter’s lips, the scent and taste of Peter’s skin.
The fingers carding through his hair and the look in his eyes, and he wants to, needs to, remember every detail.
Especially, the flutter of those eyelashes, as his fingers swirl along his hip, slid carefully lower, and the accompanying, unsurprisingly loud moan.
And he expects the eyes to shut; wants them to, almost.
Wants to know that in this, in being able to give Peter this, if nothing else (because he can’t drown that out, his knowledge that he can’t give him much else) at least he won’t be able to see those eyes, won’t be able to be reminded of the disparity between what they see and what is.
“Do you ever wear a tie?”
Morning. Over coffee and waffles, because apparently the boy had, somewhere, learned to make waffles, and was of the rare breed of teenaged boy who was willing to wake up early enough to make them and provide judgment on one’s wardrobe.
What a thrillingly domestic world he’d bumbled into.
“Yes.”
Peter frowned at him, apparently unsatisfied, and while he should’ve just blown off the expression of his unexpected housewife he just sighed.
“When the occasion calls for it, yes, Peter, I do,” with as much clipped formality as he could, and with fresh coffee burning the back of his throat he could manage an awful lot.
“Work isn’t an occasion that calls for it?”
He’d rolled his eyes and sighed as Peter had kept watching him, surprisingly, passively stubborn.
“Tend to get in my way, if you must know.”
“Right,” Peter looked down at his plate for a moment, and Claude wasn’t sure, in that moment, why it was that he didn’t seem to believe him.
They ate in relative silence, Peter glancing up at him ever few minutes as if surprised he was still there until finally he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Anythin’ else?”
“What do they get in the way of?” rushed out through a veil of dark hair as Peter stared down at the table. “You know, at your…your job?”
And Claude…didn’t know what to say to that.
Because Noah had his own little stories, and god knows what Bishop and Thompson told people, but he’d never…never needed to say anything other than truth.
He was prepared to lie, to be sure, but…this is why he’d never brought anyone home. Why he shouldn’t have brought anyone home, and before he’d managed to get anything out Peter had just shrugged, mumbled a quick, “Never mind,” and gotten up from the table.
They don’t, though; even as he strokes, even as Peter squirms and bucks and gasps, so responsive to every touch, no struggle for the control he’s apparently never needed to learn, he still stares.
Lips stumbling over nonsense, mouthing words he’s apparently too breathless to form fully, fingers gripping tightly at Claude’s arm as his fingers slide along Peter’s erection, an extra twist sending him gripping harder.
“Peter,” and the eyes blink, focus, for a moment. “Breathe.”
He does; a deep, gasping, laughing breath as he reaches up to lay a hand on Claude’s cheek and thrusts against him once more.
Comes, across Claude’s shirt as it turns out, and finally does shut his eyes.
Doesn’t turn away, though. Perfectly still, forehead against his, hand on his cheek, breathing carefully as Claude moves to wipe his hand on his already soiled shirt and maybe, finally, get out of it.
He glances up as Peter’s eyes open again, heavy dark lashes and soft gaze.
Edges closer to kiss him, crooked lip and lazy tongue and everything about him so…so quiet. Simple, easy as he wraps his arms around Peter, and can’t help but smile as he melts against him.
And he can pretend, for a moment, that this is the only thing Peter needs to know, the only part of him that Peter needs to have.
“So do you just really love trees or what?”
The first words he heard, before he’d even managed to get the door closed, and he sighed as he caught sight of the boy curled up in an adolescent sulk.
“Peter-” he didn’t even have the time to get out.
“Just because when you come home, you don’t look like, you know, just another boring day at the…the paper factory. So unless you really love trees…”
He should’ve prepared himself for that. Should have not trusted that even if he was suspicious, and he had been, clear enough, that morning, Peter would’ve been too scared to bring it up, and coming back to him unprepared was frankly irresponsible.
Unprofessional, and he couldn’t believe he was still thinking like that, with the young man still looking at him, frowning, but seemingly unsurprised at his silence.
“You…” Peter laughed to himself a minute, but didn’t move as Claude walked closer and sat next to him. “You wouldn’t have been at my brother’s wedding, as a…as a paper salesman. I mean, I guess you’d travel but…but it’s not like…not like you’d come back home looking like you-”
“Peter…” the boy looked at him, and he almost wished he hadn’t.
“Yeah?” cold and dull, like he wouldn’t have thought him capable of, but he should’ve known better.
“I can’t-”
“You don’t work for a paper company,” Peter said, daring him to contradict it and, even with every rote line of Company protocol running through his head, warning him against it, reminding him of the consequences, he answered the only way he could.
“No,” he said, looking straight into dark eyes. “I don’t.”
And Peter sighed, sounding more relieved than anything, as he moved closer and rested his head against Claude’s shoulder.
“I can’t tell you anythin’ else, it-“
“Yeah, I know,” he felt Peter mumble, as he shifted closer. Stilled, for a moment, and pulled away to look at him. “Just, um…You…don’t work for my dad, do you?”
“Nah, Pete,” he managed to smile, because was true enough, for the moment.
“What do you…” Peter pulls back for a moment, pouting in concentration, and he almost can’t resist the urge to kiss him again. Does, because he, for one, has a sense of control. “Can I…” fingers brushing against his chest, stumbling along the buttons, suddenly hesitant.
“Yeah, Pete,” he whispers, and Peter smiles again, darts back up to kiss him, before slipping away.
Fingers unsteady at his chest and eyes that won’t meet his, and he moves to help, to unfasten troublesome buttons.
But has his hand pushed away; sure, gentle, as Peter glances back up at him, dark eyes wide with sudden, wavering confidence. “Let me, okay?”
And he suppresses a chuckle; has to, in the face of such vehemence. Reaches out to stroke back Peter’s hair instead, damp silk against his palm, and Peter blushes and looks down again.
The accidental brush of light fingers against his skin followed by deliberate exploration, lips and tongue, along his neck, up against his shoulder for a moment and Peter does notice.
Glances up, dark eyes questioning but not asking, and kisses him again, pushes, and he lets himself be pushed.
Onto his back, as Peter kisses lower, fingers dropping to his waist and…pausing. Glancing up at him again, then away, and then back and-
“What should I…do…what do you want me to…” blushing, of course. Mumbling and blushing and straddling him, naked and eager and beautiful.
So fucking beautiful and…You don’t even realize, he can’t bring himself to say. Don’t even realize how much you make me want what I can’t take.
“Claude?” breathless. Needing. Always so much needing and it’s all he can do to just nod.
The boy had fallen asleep in his lap, again. Dark hair smooth under his fingers and features peaceful, slight smile twitching at the corner of his lips as he curled closer.
And he could’ve left him on the couch, sure, and finally have had the chance to reclaim his own bed.
But he didn’t; had picked him up, arm under the boy’s legs and another around his back.
And Peter was heavier than he’d expected him to be, curled against his chest, completely at ease with being carried to the bed Claude hadn’t been able to bring himself to go back to for the past two days.
Still didn’t; merely laid down the quiet body amongst soft sheets and watched him settle against too many pillow.
Didn’t think of him looking perfect there, or anything, but…he was quiet, at the least.
Still, even if it was only in that moment, before he rolled over, nestled into dark sheets and away from him.
“Come here,” he murmurs, waving him closer.
Body melting against him again, skin slick with sweat, mouth wet and welcoming.
Hand uneasy, though, and he can’t help but notice that.
Can’t help but notice the hesitance in the glancing strokes and he struggles against the need to thrust, to move, to guide, anything to relieve the tension.
Lets out a labored breath, tries not to sound as pained as he feels, and the boy glances up.
“Peter,” he murmurs, as the fingers pick up speed, the palm curling a little tighter, as Peter’s eyes find his own, questioning, but still…trusting. Always so very trusting. “Faster.”
“Okay,” Peter giggles, breathless, cheeks flushing again, and complies. Surer rhythm, firmer grip. Each stroke bringing him closer, tension building and burning and Peter’s eyes, his slight smile, the wonder in his expression almost makes Claude laugh.
But he comes instead, a blinding rush, a moment of simplicity he doesn’t think he’ll have again, and it’s over before he wants it to be.
Even if he does come back to Peter, and that crooked, nervously triumphant smile, hovering over him.
Forehead pressed to his, lips almost against his own, but not quite, and he sighs. Feels Peter twitch, relax against him, before he leans up to close the distance.
Another round of lazy kisses, along his jaw, down his neck, fingers stroking at arms and chest and brushing against old scars and new bruises, before Peter finally settles.
Rolls to his side and nestles alongside him, arm draped along his waist and nose pressed against his neck.
And he’s not used to it, he’ll admit that much.
It’s not…not unpleasant, the closeness, Peter, everything, but it’s not routine.
The need of Peter’s to kiss at his shoulder from time and whisper soft words he doesn’t quite catch as he drifts off to sleep, and he struggles to keep from moving.
To give in to an abrasive nature that seeks to challenge the boy a bit, to push him away instead of gathering that beautiful body against his and drifting off to sleep himself, which is what the ends up doing.
But when he wakes up to that, the closeness and tenderness, the beautiful body and all, he feels trapped again.
Part 6: The End
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