Fic - Hair - When We Were Caught (1/2)
Fandom: Hair
Pairing: Claude/Berger
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~17,200
Summary: Berger smuggles Claude off to Canada, eh.
Notes: Overlaps with The Lost and Found, though both stories can stand alone (and this is written in a different tense than its counterpart, oops).
When We Were Caught (1/2)
Claude’s mother was the first to realize what was going on. They didn’t see eye to eye on most things, Claude and his mother, avoided each other most of the time ever since Claude dropped out of school, but when Claude’s mother put two and two together, she stopped him in the kitchen, cupped his chin with the palm of her hand, and said, “What’s her name?”
“What?” Claude asked. He was about to walk out the door and he reached up instinctively and knocked his mother’s hand away.
“Don’t try to lie to me,” his mother said. She lightly slapped his cheek. When he moved to swat her again she caught his hand in hers, squeezed it, and Claude started to actually listen.
“A mother knows when her son is in love.”
“Oh,” Claude said. “I’m -“
“Well?” Claude’s mother asked again, cutting in before Claude could deny it.
His parents didn’t approve of his friends, of his tribe. They’d made that perfectly clear. They thought that the group was a negative influence on their son, that if not for this tangle of hippies Claude would be excelling in college or proudly serving his country in the war. The fact that his mother was asking about someone that she had every reason to assume she’d dislike touched Claude, made him want to please her in that moment.
“Her name is Sheila,” Claude told her. “She’s a student at NYU.”
Claude watched his mother’s face light up just a little before she caught herself and tried to hide it. “You should bring her home for dinner.”
“Maybe,” Claude said. He leaned in and kissed his mother’s forehead before he slipped out the back door.
**
Claude sat on the bus with his eyes squeezed shut and tried to will himself to stop feeling. Just because his mother thought she could read him didn’t make it true.
“A mother knows when her son is in love.” It didn’t have to mean that he really was.
He tried to convince himself. He’d been trying to convince himself for the last two months. He thought it was working, that he was sure it was something else. Friendship, sex, belonging. He was sure he had himself convinced but now he could feel that his mother’s acknowledgment was transforming it into something real. The feeling in Claude’s gut that Claude had been ignoring, that he hadn’t been able to put words to, undeniably had a name.
Claude’s mother was right. Claude was in love, but it wasn’t with Sheila. Of all the people in New York, Claude had gone and fallen in love with George Berger.
**
He’d get over it.
He could get over it, he promised himself as Berger kissed him in the shade of a huge tree. The leaves were turning orange and yellow and one of them fell into Berger’s hair as they kissed. Claude reached up to brush it aside and his fingers got caught in Berger’s curls.
Claude would get over this and he and Berger would stay friends, good friends for the rest of their lives. They’d grow out of this and they’d get married and they’d have children and every summer they’d take their families on joint camping trips upstate. Claude and Berger, old and wrinkled and still together in this small way.
Berger slid his hand down Claude’s stomach, palm flat as it inched its way beneath the waist of Claude’s jeans.
Claude reached up a hand, traced a finger over the line of Berger’s eyebrows. He kissed Berger’s hairline when Berger ducked his head to watch the slide of his own hand into Claude’s jeans.
Claude had one small problem. He didn’t want to get over this. He didn’t want to be neighbors or friends. Claude didn’t want joint family camping trips. He just wanted Berger.
Claude was in love and he was pretty sure it was going to ruin his life.
Berger wasn’t - jerking each other off in the shade of a tree in Central Park was one thing. It was freedom and love and sex, but it wasn’t the same as the thoughts that set Claude’s stomach to a boil, his heart thudding in his chest. It was something, sexual friendship, Claude didn’t know. All Claude knew was that it wasn’t enough. Claude wanted more and he knew Berger well enough to know that Berger wouldn’t return that. Couldn’t. Berger had Claude, yeah, but he also had Lily and Dionne and Woof. Claude wasn’t special. Claude wasn’t Sheila.
Someday they would have to get on with their lives and Claude wasn’t stupid enough to believe that getting on would ever mean getting on with their lives together. Berger lived in the moment and Claude tried, but all Claude could see was the future.
In their future Berger would eventually get Sheila knocked up and would then, Claude hoped, marry her and - Claude couldn’t even imagine what would come next for them. Claude couldn’t imagine Berger ever changing, couldn’t imagine him any way than how he was. He didn’t want Berger to change. Claude loved Berger just as he was now, spontaneous and infuriating.
Claude watched Berger kiss Sheila on the street and he couldn’t look away. No one else seemed to notice. No one else reacted. Not even when Berger’s hands slipped down from the curve of Sheila’s ass, fingers curling in behind her thighs to lift and pull her closer. Sheila surged into the kiss and wrapped her legs around Berger’s waist. Once Claude gasped and an older woman eyed him, offended that he would make that kind of noise in public. No one noticed Berger’s tongue down Sheila’s throat.
When Berger kissed Claude on the street, and he did sometimes, there were glances, whispers. Berger didn’t notice because Berger didn’t care what anyone else thought. Claude pretended he didn’t care either, but he always always noticed. The glances and whispers spoke to him. They said “It’ll never last. Get over it. Enjoy it while you can.”
He’d get over it.
Claude knew that Berger believed that Claude was in love with Sheila. Claude let him believe it because it was better than Berger figuring out the truth. And Claude was just a little, but it was a love so mixed up in his love of Berger that Claude couldn’t untangle it, couldn’t figure out how much of it was real and how much of it was transferred.
Claude closed his eyes and groaned as he spilled over Berger’s hand. He could hear people shouting somewhere in the park, but right here it was just the two of them, Claude breathing heavy into Berger’s mouth. Berger’s kiss slid into a grin, teeth pressed to Claude’s parted lips.
Next week, Claude thought. I’ll get over it. Next week we have to end this. Next week or it’ll make me crazy.
**
He wasn’t getting over it.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew that they were young, that maybe it was naïve to think that this was it for him. It didn’t matter. He knew.
He sat in front of the television with his parents and he lied about Sheila, about how busy she was with school, and he thought about telling them the truth.
“I’m a homosexual,” he would say, because it was true, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just messing around anymore. It wasn’t just tribal love. It was love and that could only mean one thing. One day he would have to say it and he’d watch his father turn red, his mother go pale. One day he’d have to say it and where would he end up then?
He lay in bed at night and thought about telling Berger, thought about how Berger might laugh and turn away from him. He thought about how Berger might go to someone else instead, someone who didn’t want everything, someone who wasn’t asking for too much.
“The army will make a man out of you,” his father said again and again. Claude shrugged it off, but when Berger was snoring beside him and Claude caught himself pressing his mouth to Berger’s shoulder just to remind himself of the taste of Berger’s skin, Claude thought maybe. Maybe.
“You could come with me,” Claude said late one night. He wasn’t serious. He’d never seriously suggest that Berger enlist in the war just so that Claude wouldn’t have to let him go.
Berger rolled over then, climbed over Claude so that he was straddling Claude’s thighs. His groin pressed against Claude’s through the layers of their clothes.
“I’ll come with you,” Berger promised with a leer, twisting Claude’s words into innuendo so that Claude would never have to actually hear Berger say no.
Claude turned his head to the side, felt Berger’s mouth on his jaw and thought, this was it. This was the only way.
**
Claude answered questions, watched as the paperwork was filled out. His fingers traced circles into the collar of the stiff army regulation shirt. Earlier he’d been able to hear them outside, their chants leaking in under the doors, around the windows and through the walls. That was hours ago. It was quiet now. Quiet except for the monotonous chorus of questions and answers.
“Are you married?” The officer asked.
“No,” Claude said. He’d asked Sheila to marry him the night before. He’d asked Sheila to marry him and he’d watched as Berger’s face fell even further as he said the words. Berger. Claude’s mouth felt dry suddenly, his tongue, and he tried to clear his throat, coughed.
“You all right?” The officer asked. He was staring.
“It’s nothing,” Claude said. “I’ll get over it.”
“I asked if you’re engaged,” the officer prodded. He was frowning and Claude suspected this was probably the third or fourth time he’d repeated the question.
“Yes.”
“Yes, you are engaged?”
“No,” Claude said and shook his head for emphasis. The officer stared at him hard for a moment and then he nodded and checked a box on the form.
Sheila had kissed him and Claude stored the kisses in his heart, promised to remember them forever. It might have been the last time for all of it. His last time with her and with Berger. His last time feeling Berger’s hands on his waist, on his neck. The last time he’d taste Berger’s tongue against his. He’d never see them again. If he made it home, they might not even remember him. Berger would kill him for this if he could. Berger would forget him.
Claude stood too fast, nearly knocked over the chair.
“Where are you going?” The officer asked, surprised by Claude’s sudden movement.
“Nowhere,” Claude said. “The bathroom.” He fumbled with his uniform, dropped the pile on the floor then picked it up and set it on the chair. “I’ll be right - “ he trailed off and then he started walking and as soon as he reached the hallway he ran, pushed past two soldiers talking by the door. They were young, younger than Claude. They shouted after him but they didn’t follow.
It was late in the day now and Whitehall Street was deserted but the walls of the buildings still echoed with the tribe’s words, with their energy.
He was halfway to the subway before he realized that no one was following him. They knew where he lived. They could track him down. Claude stopped to catch his breath, change his course. There was nothing for him in Flushing. Not anymore. Even if they weren’t waiting there to pull him back in, what would his father say? It would be better to be brought home dead, a hero, than to face his parents the way he was now. They’d been so proud, so happy that their son was finally growing up, finally taking some responsibility.
Claude wasn’t ever going home again.
He couldn’t go to Berger, couldn’t see Sheila. He didn’t know what he’d do if they looked at him with disappointment, or worse, with anger.
He found himself in front of her building anyway. He rang up, but no one answered. It was snowing and Claude had left his coat behind, left it sitting on the back of the uncomfortable wooden chair. The army could keep it.
**
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Eventually an older woman stepped past him to let herself in. She stopped at the top step and said, “Christopher?”
“Claude,” Claude corrected, squinted up at her. It was Mrs. Mackey from the first floor. Sheila walked her dog sometimes. Claude had gone with her once or twice.
“Claude,” Mrs. Mackey said. “Of course. You’re Sheila Frankin’s young man.”
“No, I - “
“You don’t have to explain. You’re nicer, you know, than that ruffian she calls a boyfriend. She’ll come around.” Mrs. Mackey reached out to set a hand on Claude’s head in support. It was then that she seemed to notice that he was shivering.
“How long have you been - you’ll catch your death,” she insisted. “Come in, come in.”
She tried to get him inside her first floor apartment, offered soup and tea, but Claude refused her and took the stairs up two at a time until he was outside of Sheila’s door. He hoped that Sheila would come back alone, knew that she would understand why he’d done it. He wasn’t ready to face Berger.
Claude fell in and out of sleep as he leaned against Sheila’s door. He dreamed of his parents finding him here, dreamed about Vietnam, about Berger there chasing him through the jungle. When he wasn’t sleeping he stared at the braided fabric of the welcome mat outside Sheila’s door, touched his fingers to his short tufts of hair. He checked beneath the mat, remembered Berger doing that so many times in the past, but there was no key. Claude wasn’t sure how long he sat there before he heard the sound of the front door followed by footsteps, slow and heavy on the stairs.
Sheila, he thought, relieved. Sheila finally home. But it wasn’t Sheila who came around the curve of the landing. It was Berger and Claude felt the whole world freeze as he sat there holding his breath.
**
Claude could see in Berger’s eyes that Berger was high. He could feel it in his kisses and smell it saturating Berger’s skin. Claude had always loved Berger this way, when the drugs could convince them that this really was love, that it was okay and right and eternal. Claude could feel it radiating from Berger and he pushed closer, tried to envelope himself in the feeling.
Berger was going to help him. Berger wasn’t angry and Berger hadn’t forgotten him, not yet. Berger was pulling him back in, marking him, branding him as one of the tribe. His fingers brushed the government from Claude’s hair, from the skin of his chest, his stomach.
I love you, Claude thought a hundred times. He tried to say it as Berger led him into Sheila’s bedroom, again when Berger kissed him, when Berger kneeled over him and pushed inside. He wanted to chant it in time with Berger’s thrusts, he wanted to shout it when Berger took it a little further, slid a finger inside, pushed until Claude thought he might burst with it, split apart, and didn’t care as long as Berger gave him more. He said it silently into the warmth of Berger’s shoulder afterward, a rehearsal of words. He thought he could see them sinking in until they entered Berger’s blood stream, coursing through Berger’s veins until Berger would know, had to know, and Claude could stop pretending.
Still, when Claude tried to say it out loud, he felt the words dry up on his tongue in terror.
He imagined how Berger might pull away, might brush it off, choose to ignore it entirely. He imagined Berger walking away from him. Easier just to leave Claude here on Sheila’s bed, alone with this ridiculous love.
I love you, Claude thought, but he didn’t say it. Instead he waited and when they were about to leave, standing there on Sheila’s landing wrapped in Berger’s old coat, he said, “I told them that I couldn’t sleep without you.” In his heart it was almost the same thing.
“Really?” Berger asked, his eyes dark, soft.
Claude could feel it ready to slip off his tongue and he bit the inside of his cheek and looked away. He imagined the soft look in Berger’s eyes as it hardened, closed itself to Claude.
“No,” Claude said, admitted the truth. “I just left.”
**
Port Authority was quiet as they climbed up out of the subway. It was early still, Saturday. Berger walked fast ahead of Claude. He was nearly running and Claude picked up his pace in an attempt to keep up. No one had ever been fast enough to keep up with Berger and when Claude inevitably lagged behind, Berger reached back to take Claude’s hand, pulled him along.
Berger didn’t stop until they were standing in front of the Greyhound terminal and even then his fingers stayed wrapped tight as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out the bus tickets.
Claude stopped listening as Berger explained to the clerk that they’d missed their bus, that the tickets were paid for and if they could just get on the next one - The clerk was eyeing Claude, eyeing the haircut, the coat, Berger’s bag, Berger. He’d probably guessed what was going on. He could probably see it on Claude’s face, could probably tell that Claude could still feel Berger’s hands on him, still missed Berger inside of him. It didn’t matter what the clerk guessed. Berger would convince him somehow, Claude knew. Berger always did.
Claude stared at the two tickets that Berger pressed to the counter. He wondered how Berger had found the money to pay for them, if he’d panhandled, stolen it, just asked Sheila. He wondered where Sheila was and then Berger squeezed his hand and Claude looked up just as Berger said, “Thanks, man. I owe you,” to the bored looking clerk.
Berger pulled Claude away, toward a door at the far end of the floor. The sign above said Albany and there was already a bus sitting outside.
“I can’t do this,” Claude said abruptly. Claude wasn’t the exception to any rule. He couldn’t make his own way the way that Berger could. He had an obligation. He didn’t deserve this. He was just prolonging the inevitable. “I have to go back.”
“No,” Berger said. His grip on Claude’s hand was tight. “No way.”
“If I go back now maybe they -“ Claude started, but he stopped when Berger shook his head. Berger refused to look at Claude, knew that if he did, Claude would continue talking.
“Berger,” Claude said, and when he reached up to turn Berger’s face toward him, Berger’s hand met his midway. He had both of Claude’s hands now and he used them to pull Claude close, used his position to pull Claude against him. He pressed his forehead to Claude’s, his nose nudging against Claude’s cheek before he turned and placed a kiss on Claude’s lips.
“I’m gonna get us out of here,” Berger said, voice hard, resolute.
Berger released one of Claude’s hands, pulled a little with the other, and Claude gave in the way that he always did, followed Berger out of the terminal and onto the bus. The bus driver eyed them, clearly saw the display of affection through the door, but he didn’t say anything, just took the tickets from Berger and waved them back.
Berger pushed his bag in under the first set of empty seats he found, slid in after, pulled until Claude fell in beside him.
“Later, when it’s over, you can tell them that I kidnapped you,” Berger offered.
When it’s over, Claude heard. When they’re over.
“No one would believe that,” Claude said. Berger could try to take responsibility, but it was Claude who followed Berger onto this bus, Claude who, he was pretty sure, would follow Berger anywhere that Berger asked. Claude used to think that they had people fooled. Now though, now that he was here, skin still tingling a little from Berger’s touch, from their reunion, Berger’s hand still wrapped tightly around his, now Claude was pretty sure that everyone had always seen right through them.
“They’ll believe it if they want to,” Berger said.
Claude shrugged, didn’t respond.
The bus pulled away from the door, turning between the aisles until it was driving up the ramp and away from Port Authority. One more minute and they’d be in the Lincoln Tunnel. They’d be out of New York.
Berger was staring out the window. There was a woman walking her dog on 40th Street. Her shirt was tight and her breasts swelled against the polyester.
“I think I was a woman in a past life,” Berger said.
Claude snorted. “What?” He’d been waiting for this, the subject change. The air had felt heavy between them and Berger could always be counted on to divert when things got a little heavy.
“A woman,” Berger repeated. “With wide hips and huge breasts, giant dark nipples.”
“What about me?” Claude asked, sure that Berger was going to say that Claude was the little dog the woman had been walking outside their bus window, sure that it was true.
“You were probably in love with me,” Berger said.
Claude laughed and turned away.
**
He woke up with his head on Berger’s shoulder. He turned his face just a little, pushed his nose into the curls at Berger’s neck. Berger smelled damp like the melted snow, a little like sweat, and a little like sex. Claude breathed deep, sighed, resisted the urge to lean in further to place a kiss on Berger’s skin. Instead he yawned, rubbed at his eyes, and sat up to squint out the window.
“Where are we?” he asked. The sun was high now and it was warm beneath the coats they’d removed to use as blankets.
“You missed it. We just passed Coxsackie,” Berger told him, a gleam in his eye that suggested he’d been tempted to wake Claude for the event.
“Where’s Coxsackie?” Claude asked.
Berger stared back at him, seemingly unable to answer. Claude could almost see Berger’s brain working, sifting through every possible response, and Claude tried not to smile, tried not to encourage him. Claude knew, as soon as the question left his lips that if they weren’t on this bus, if Berger didn’t know that causing a scene might get them tossed out onto the side of the highway, he would show Claude exactly where he thought Coxsackie was.
And then Claude felt Berger’s hand beneath the coats as it moved in to settle high on Claude’s thigh, fingers curling in toward Claude’s crotch. Claude narrowed his eyes a little, held Berger’s gaze. They both knew that it was a contest now. Berger was testing boundaries, testing to see just how far Claude might let him go before Claude let his self consciousness stop this.
“Really though,” Claude said. His eyes on Berger, his voice was steady. Berger’s mouth twitched but he didn’t remove his hand. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know,” Berger admitted. “I fell asleep too. I think we’re almost to Albany.”
Claude looked past Berger then to watch the trees as they passed outside the window. He could feel that Berger’s eyes were still on him, watching. Berger’s hand moved just a little, just enough to bring Claude’s attention back to Berger.
They were speeding down the highway, surrounded by nothing but grass and trees and rocks. Not a skyscraper in sight. Claude felt like he could breathe again for the first time in weeks and he closed his eyes and drew the stale bus air deep into his lungs. He felt a lump in the seat beneath him, shifted to get more comfortable. For a quick moment Claude could tell that Berger thought that maybe that was the end of the contest, that maybe he’d won. He could almost feel Berger’s grin as his hand inched closer to Claude’s dick.
“Wait,” Claude said. “Wait, I’m just sitting on something.” He reached back and realized that the lump was in the back pocket of his jeans, that he’d put it there before they cut his hair. Berger was having fun with this anyway, his hand abandoning Claude’s thigh to cup Claude’s dick as Claude pushed his hips up from the seat and pulled the band from his pocket.
When Berger saw what it was, his hand disappeared entirely, emerging from beneath their coats to pluck it from Claude’s fingers. Claude’s headband, removed before he’d entered the induction center.
Berger ran the headband between his fingers, smoothing the elastic as he pulled at it. Eventually he slid the band over his head, pulled most of his hair up and through it so that when the hair fell back to his shoulders, most of the band was covered by brown curls.
Claude thought then that he should thank Berger for this. Berger didn’t have to do any of it, the bus tickets, everything. Berger didn’t have to run. He was afraid that if he said anything Berger would brush it off, say something that Claude didn’t want to hear.
“I told Sheila I’d be back next week.” Or “North of Albany, you’re on your own. It’s practically Canada anyway, eh?” Claude didn’t think he wanted to know exactly what Berger might be thinking.
“Looks good,” Claude said instead. He reached out and pulled at Berger’s hair, thought how naked his own head felt. Berger curled a hand around the back of Claude’s neck. His fingers rubbed against the short hairs there. After a moment Berger’s hand slid down to Claude’s shoulder, pulled until Claude shifted and settled against him again, his nose pressed back into Berger’s hair.
They stared out the window and when they passed the next sign, Berger read it aloud.
“Fourteen miles to Albany. That’s - what? We’re practically halfway there.”
Claude closed his eyes and wondered if getting over Berger alone in Canada would really be any better than getting over Berger in Vietnam.
**
By the time Claude returned from the bathroom at the Albany bus station, Berger was impatient and jumpy. More importantly Berger had their next step all figured out.
“Jesus, man. What the hell took you so long?” Berger asked. He grabbed for Claude’s arm, about to take his hand, then seemed to think better of it and released Claude entirely, shoved his hands into his pockets, then removed them to adjust the bag on his shoulder.
“What’s wrong with you?” Claude asked. He looked down at his own hands and said, “I wasn’t gone that long. Did you call Sheila?”
“Yeah,” Berger said. “No. But I got us a ride.” He slapped Claude’s shoulder and then pointed back over his own. Claude looked past him to the two men standing by the door. They were older, looked a little worn. One of them nodded when he saw Claude looking.
“This guy Larry’s picking up his brother,” Berger explained. “They’re gonna get us as far as Rutland.”
“Rutland,” Claude repeated.
“Yeah,” Berger said. “It’s in Vermont.”
“Why? Why don’t we just keep going north?”
“Rutland is north,” Berger said. He grabbed Claude’s shoulders, shook him a little, then tapped him lightly on the cheek. “You don’t want to cross over in New York, man. Everyone does. You want to cross over in Vermont.”
“Okay,” Claude said. He looked into Berger’s eyes, searching as Berger raised his eyebrows and waited. Finally Claude just came out and asked. “Are you on something? What have you got in that bag?”
“Clothes,” Berger said, dismissive. He pressed his hand to Claude’s mouth and said, “Listen, listen. Susannah’s got a cousin who’ll meet up with us in Burlington. He works in some town across the border. He does this.”
“Oh,” Claude said from behind Berger’s fingers, surprised to discover that all this time Berger had an actual plan. That Berger, who spent life flying by the seat of his pants, had apparently researched this.
“You boys ready to hit the road?” one of the men asked then, approaching them. Claude knocked Berger’s hand from his mouth and Berger turned, smiling.
“I always wanted to go to Vermont,” he said.
**
Larry had a pickup truck and he apologized for the weather, the pile of wood and the tires that he stored in the back. He pulled three blankets from the cab and handed them to Claude as Berger climbed up onto the back.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t meet up last week,” Larry’s brother Frank said. “You two would have turned into a block of ice back here. Not that cold now.”
“It’s cool, man,” Berger assured him, then promised, “We can find ways to stay warm.”
Claude could hear the suggestion in Berger’s voice, felt his face burn a little with the words. He turned away from Larry and tossed the blankets hard at Berger before he stepped onto the wheel and scrambled up onto the truck.
Alone in the back Berger bunched up an old canvas tarp and then leaned against it. The wind in Claude’s face was making his eyes water and he let Berger pull him back until he was lying in the curve of Berger’s shoulder, Berger’s arm pressed firm around him. The sun was setting and Claude shook out the wool blankets, covered them in their layers.
As the sun slipped behind the trees Claude turned beneath the blankets, pressed his face to Berger’s coat and wrapped an arm around Berger’s waist.
“What am I going to do?” Claude asked against the wind. They nearly had to yell to hear over it.
“What do you mean?” Berger asked. He’d been quiet since they left Albany, apparently coming down from whatever momentary high he’d found in the bus station.
“I mean, what am I going to do?”
“Who cares,” Berger said. And Claude understood the unspoken rest. Who cares, you’re going to live. Who cares, for this short trip we’re together. For this short trip I love you more than anything. But what happened after this? Berger was going to have to go back. He had family and Sheila and the tribe. Berger was going to have to leave him and then what the hell was Claude going to do with the rest of his life?
“We can do whatever the hell we want,” Berger said as though he’d read it from Claude’s mind. He tilted his head up, raised a hand and shouted, “They’ll never get us now!”
Claude pressed his fingers into Berger’s side, walked them down to Berger’s hip. Whatever the hell we want, he thought. It always sounded so true when Berger said it, so simple. Claude wanted Berger, but other than that, did it really matter? Did it really matter if you couldn’t keep the one thing you knew you wanted?
“What are you doing?” Berger laughed and Claude realized that he’d been unbuckling Berger’s belt, that he’d already undone the button on Berger’s jeans. He pulled his hand away and Berger laughed harder, reached for him, leaned close so that Claude could hear him and said, “No. No no no no. Don’t stop, Claude, baby. Don’t stop now.”
It was dark now, mostly, and Claude glanced up through the back window of the cab. Larry and Frank were looking ahead, their eyes on the road. Claude and Berger were covered in blankets and in the dark Larry and Frank might not be able to make out what they were doing even if they weren’t.
How long did they have left? One more night? Maybe two until they crossed the border and Claude was on his own for good. We can do whatever we want, Berger said. Berger really believed that, always had, and this was exactly what Claude wanted right now.
“We’ve gotta be quiet,” Claude said, a condition, but it didn’t matter, he’d already resumed unfastening Berger’s jeans, had Berger in his hand by the time the sentence was finished.
“I’m always quiet,” Berger assured him. “You’re the one that gets loud.” What came next was an imitation that could only be what Claude sounded like during sex, low and breathy. It actually seemed pretty accurate to Claude’s ears.
Claude snorted anyway. Quiet and Berger had never gone hand in hand. Never.
Claude slid his thumb along the underside of Berger’s dick, wrapped his hand around it. That shut Berger up pretty quickly and Claude smiled, turned until he was over Berger, and kissed him. He released Berger, just long enough to unfasten his own jeans, push them down low on his hips, push his underwear down with them. He straddled Berger beneath the blankets, buried his face in Berger’s neck and felt Berger’s dick slide against his.
It wasn’t subtle, what they were doing. It wasn’t subtle the way that Claude moved against Berger. Claude didn’t care. Let Larry and Frank see. Let them kick Claude and Berger out, leave them on the side of the road. They’d find their way. They’d get lost. They’d have more time.
They’d driven through a small town earlier but now they were back on winding forested roads, the cold wind whipping past them as they kept each other warm the best way they’d ever found. Claude opened his mouth against Berger’s shoulder, a silent moan against the thick material of Berger’s coat. He turned his face to press his mouth instead to the exposed skin of Berger’s neck, pressed his tongue, hot to Berger’s warm skin.
Berger’s exhale was sharp and he craned his neck, turned and tried to kiss Claude. He couldn’t get the angle right, kissed Claude’s cheek, and Claude shifted so that their mouths could meet, so that he could suck at Berger’s lips, slide his tongue between them, feel the slide of Berger’s in return.
Berger was trying to push up against him and Claude reached a hand between them, wrapped it around them both, jerked them off as one. Berger moaned into Claude’s mouth and Claude stored it, remembered it so that he could bring it up later even though he’d swallowed the noise, even though the rest of it had been carried away, lost in the sound of the barreling wind.
Berger broke their kiss, turned his head away and hissed into the wind as he came across Claude’s palm. Claude’s hand was wet with it, his dick sliding smooth against Berger’s and Berger squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head. Claude released him, propped himself up on his elbow, his other hand working himself hard now, fast, until finally, too soon, he spilled over his fingers. He lowered himself back over Berger, let out the quietest of moans as he settled himself against him, pressed his lips to the hair by Berger’s ear.
“Quiet,” Berger reminded him, not because they were loud, just because Berger was being smart.
Claude wiped his hand on one of the blankets then slid it into Berger’s coat, his palm coming to rest on Berger’s chest. Their pants were still open, but cleaning up, zipping up, seemed like too much work to Claude. They had time, he was sure.
Finally Berger was the one to move. He wiped himself off, then Claude. He pulled Claude's underwear, Claude’s jeans, back up his hips, zipping and buttoning them as he kissed across Claude’s jaw. He left Claude’s belt hanging open though he buckled his own.
“Rutting to Rutland,” Claude said and Berger laughed, a loud bark of a laugh right in Claude’s ear.
“Larry’s gonna wanna wash this,” Berger noted, plucking at the blanket as he settled back against the tarp.
Claude laughed now too and leaned into Berger’s arm. The sky was clear. They were somewhere between towns still and the woods around them were dark. Claude stared up at thousands of stars in the sky above them.
“You never see this in New York,” he said.
“Bet they’ve got a lot of stars where we’re going,” Berger said.
“Yeah,” Claude said. “I bet.”
**
Claude must have dozed off because the next thing he knew Berger was pushing at his shoulder and Larry was announcing that they’d arrived. Claude sat up abruptly, looked around. They were in the driveway of a nice looking home in a suburban neighborhood. Claude remembered his belt and quickly fastened it beneath the blankets.
“It’s late,” Larry said. “I’ve got a room over the garage. Not much up there, but there’s a bed. Why don’t you boys come inside. I’ll get you something to eat, you can get cleaned up. You’ll stay in my extra room tonight and you can be on your way tomorrow.”
“Thank, Larry,” Claude said. “This means a lot.”
“Don’t mention it,” Larry assured him. ‘
Claude sat at Larry’s kitchen table. He’d excused himself right away, had used the bathroom and tried to clean up, just a little. Larry made them sandwiches while Frank told them about his trip. Frank was a farmer, lived forty minutes outside of Rutland, had gone down to New Jersey to visit a sick friend.
“She your sweetheart?” Berger asked. He looked at Claude when he said it.
“Something like that,” Frank agreed. He looked sad and Claude looked back at Berger, felt a little of what it must be like for Frank, living so far away from someone he loved.
“I hope everything works out for the best,” Claude offered just as Larry offered Berger the first turn in the shower.
**
Claude was nearly done with his shower when he heard the bathroom door creak open.
“I brought you some clean clothes, dear,” a high pitched voice sing-songed in a perfect imitation of anyone’s mother but Claude’s and Claude immediately rolled his eyes and stuck his head around the curtain.
“What are you doing in here?” he hissed at Berger.
Berger actually was holding a folded pile of clothes. He set them on the sink.
“What are you doing in here?” Berger countered. He took a step forward and reached for the shower curtain, pulled it aside to peak behind.
“Not that,” Claude said and snatched the curtain back.
“Bummer,” Berger said. His hair was still wet from his own shower. He had Claude’s headband wrapped around his wrist. He gestured toward the clothes. “Larry sent me in here with those. Says he has daughters. Guess he didn’t like me walking around in that towel.”
“Thought you brought clothes,” Claude said, eyeing the denim shirt that Berger was wearing, the corduroy pants.
“I did,” Berger shrugged, lifted his arms and turned in a wide circle for Claude. “But Larry’s giving us new old ones.” The clothes were too big on Berger, which meant they were definitely going to be too big for Claude, but Berger was right. He wasn’t going to get very far in the clothes on his back. Never look a gift horse in the mouth. All that.
“Thank you,” Claude conceded. He waved his hand at Berger, shooing him out of the room.
Berger made a face. He turned, seemingly willing to follow Claude’s orders, but before he managed to take one step, he turned back around and said, “Wait, there was something else.”
“What?” Claude asked. He caught on as soon as Berger wrapped a hand around the back of Claude’s neck and pulled him forward. Claude nearly lost his balance as he released the shower curtain and grabbed onto Berger’s shoulder instead. Berger kissed him, tongue licking Claude’s mouth open, then pushing in. Sheila hated it when Berger did this, started a kiss this way. She made faces and pushed Berger away and wiped at her mouth. Claude couldn’t even think about pushing Berger away at this moment. Not even if the tub overflowed and the bathroom flooded. Not even if Larry walked in with a shot gun. When Berger pulled away, Claude tried to follow, almost tripped out of the bathtub, would have if Berger didn’t reach out to stop him.
“That wasn’t what I had to say,” Berger admitted.
“It wasn’t?”
“Nope,” Berger said. He pushed a hand through his hair, looked like he was trying to remember. Eventually he smiled up at Claude, held up a finger in a pause gesture before reaching into his back pocket. From the pocket he pulled a joint, neatly wrapped. He waved it under Claude’s wet nose.
“Where’d you get that?”
“I met Larry’s oldest daughter,” Berger said. "Julie. Wait till you meet Julie. She’s groovy, man. Gorgeous. You better get clean and get dressed before me and Julie start getting undressed and dirty,”
And then Berger backed out of the bathroom, eyebrows raised, and shut the door behind him.
Claude rinsed one last time and shut off the water.
**
“I can’t believe my father is helping you run off to Canada to escape the draft,” Julie said. She shook her head, her blonde hair shaking with the gesture as she passed the joint to Berger. “He pretends to be so by the book, but I always knew he wasn’t as perfect as all of that. Helping a couple of hippies escape the draft. Perfect!”
Berger laughed in that high easy way of his. Berger’d been laughing at everything they said for the last five minutes.
“Do you know I have a 9:30 curfew?” Julie asked. “9:30! I’m eighteen years old.”
Berger laughed again and said, “So don’t come home at 9:30. We aren’t.”
Claude slapped his arm, stole the joint from between his fingers.
Julie’s hair was a mass of blonde curls that fell recklessly around her face. Her features were small and pretty. She reminded Claude of Jeanie and when Julie reached out to touch his hair, Claude wanted to kiss her.
“I bet you were beautiful with long hair,” Julie said.
Claude didn’t know how to respond. It didn’t matter though because Julie wasn’t through. “You’re beautiful now.”
Berger was still giggling just a little as he nodded in agreement with Julie.
“Can I kiss you?” Julie asked and Berger said, “Yes,” immediately.
“Yes,” Claude echoed. He closed his eyes as Julie leaned in.
**
At first glance Julie had reminded Claude of Jeanie, but now, the three of them tangled together in the room above Julie’s father’s garage, she’d transformed herself into Sheila. She stroked Claude’s hair as Berger kissed her small breasts. She clung to Claude, kissed him, moaned against his lips as Berger fucked her. She came against Claude’s fingers and then she held him as Claude followed into Berger’s mouth.
Afterward Berger dozed, exhausted, his head resting on Claude’s stomach, fingers curled around Claude’s side.
“You going away to school next year?” Claude asked. Even his voice sounded lazy. His fingers pulled lightly at the curls of Berger’s hair.
Julie’s lips danced on Claude’s shoulder and she said, “Yeah, I got into Middlebury. It isn’t that far. Just an hour away so I can come home on the weekends if I need to.”
“That’s great,” Claude said and he turned his head to smile at her.
“I’m going to be a writer,” Julie said, and then her own conviction seemed to fluster her and she ducked her head and said, “Well, I want to be a writer anyway.”
“You’ll be a great writer,” Claude said even though he hadn’t read a thing that Julie had ever written.
“He must love you a lot,” Julie said. “He must love you to be doing this with you.”
Claude smiled, shrugged his shoulder against Julie’s chin.
“Berger loves everyone,” Claude said. It wasn’t the same.
Julie shrugged. “Either way, it’s nice to have friends like that, right?”
“Yeah,” Claude said. “Yeah, it is.”
Julie smiled, rolled away from Claude to grin up at the ceiling.
“What?” Claude asked, smiling now too.
“I bring my boyfriends up here,” Julie said. “You know, after my curfew. I sneak back downstairs when my father goes to bed and we slip up here.”
“What do you do?” Claude asked, smiled, already knew.
“Smoke a joint,” she said. Her smile grew wider as she added, “have sex.”
“So you’re saying me and Berger are your new boyfriends then?” Claude asked.
Julie laughed, rolled back in and kissed him on the mouth. “Just for tonight,” she said. “Sure. You want to be my boyfriend tonight, Claude?”
“Yeah,” Claude said. He reached for her cheek, his thumb sliding against the soft skin of her face as he kissed into her mouth. He wished it was this easy all the time. He wished that this, this sweet girl in front of him, was all that he wanted from life. He’d fight for her in Vietnam, he’d fight to protect her, and then he’d come home a hero and they’d settle down. He’d find a job and they’d have children together, raise a family. Claude kissed her and imagined his life, imagined Julie in his mother’s housecoats, his father’s pipe in his own mouth. He imagined Berger coming over every Sunday to listen to the game. Every week Julie would ask him to stay for dinner. Every week he would.
“Oh, you can still be Berger’s boyfriend tonight too,” Julie assured him, pulling him from his thoughts as she smiled against his lips. “Don’t worry, I’m not the jealous kind.”
“I’m not Berger’s boyfriend,” Claude said, shook his head.
Julie rolled her eyes. “It’s okay, you know. You can say it in front of me.”
“I’m not,” Claude said. “We’re just - I don’t know. We’re just whatever we are, I guess.”
Claude pulled her back in toward him, kissed her eyelids when she smiled and closed her eyes, kissed the corner of her upturned mouth. Berger was warm spread around him, holding on. He snored a little as Claude kissed Julie and Julie giggled into their kiss, shushed Claude even though he hadn’t made a sound.
“Shh,” she said again and then she sat up fast, her small breasts swaying with the sudden movement.
“What?” Claude asked. He shifted and Berger grunted and wrapped his arm tighter around Claude’s waist.
“What is it?” Claude asked, and then he heard it, footsteps hard on the stairs.
“Jules?” Larry boomed and Julie gasped, jumped out of the bed, started throwing clothes at Claude.
“My dad,” Julie said. “Get up. Get up!”
Berger was awake now, confused, and Claude pushed at his shoulder until he sat up, started pulling on the shirt that Claude tossed toward him.
“Come on,” Julie said, her clothes on, her hair a mess of curls wildly springing out from her head.
“It’s okay,” Berger said, but Julie pushed at his chest, pushed him toward the window.
“Climb down,” Julie ordered and Berger pulled her in, kissed her deep, then did as he was told, pushing his leg out the window and then disappearing out the other side. Claude stuck his head out, saw that Berger was climbing down a rose trellis, now empty except for a tangle of old vines. He stepped out onto it, then stopped to grab Julie’s arm, pull her out the window and hugged her to him tight. If Julie really was his, this would have been sweet, he would have thought of Shakespeare, compared Julie to Juliet. If Julie was really his, Claude might even have braved her father, thought that the rest of the evening had shown that he had the capacity to be reasonable, thought that he’d liked Claude, just a little.
“Come with us,” Claude said without really thinking. If she came with them, came with them all the way to Canada, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to lose Berger if Claude had Julie.
“I can’t,” Julie said, pushed at his shoulders. He could hear her father knocking at the door, fumbling with the knob. “I can’t. But I have this friend. She can borrow her brother’s truck - we might be able to - Meet us at the bus stop on Maple and Orchard tomorrow morning. You said you needed to get up to Burlington, right?”
“Okay,” Claude said. He laughed when Julie pushed at him again, her hands on his shoulders, his head. “Okay, okay.” He began to climb down.
Berger grabbed onto his arm as soon as Claude reached the ground. His face was bright now, awake and alive, enjoying this adventure, and he pulled at Claude, kissed him there on Larry’s lawn.
“Go,” Julie hissed at them. She shut the window and then she was gone.
“Come on,” Claude said, and that was all it took to spring Berger into action. He ran across the lawn, jumped the fence into the neighbor’s yard. Claude followed and finally a few blocks from Larry’s home they stopped, breathing heavy, Berger still smiling, high. He kissed Claude again, wrapped his arms tight around Claude and leaned back, lifted Claude a foot off the ground in the hug. Claude made a noise of protest into their kiss, laughed, held on.
Berger set Claude back down, released him, and after a moment Claude realized that he was still holding onto Berger and he let go too.
“Where to now?” Berger asked for the first time since they’d started this trip.
“Orchard and Maple,” Claude said. “She’s got us a ride.”
[ Part 2]
Pairing: Claude/Berger
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~17,200
Summary: Berger smuggles Claude off to Canada, eh.
Notes: Overlaps with The Lost and Found, though both stories can stand alone (and this is written in a different tense than its counterpart, oops).
When We Were Caught (1/2)
Claude’s mother was the first to realize what was going on. They didn’t see eye to eye on most things, Claude and his mother, avoided each other most of the time ever since Claude dropped out of school, but when Claude’s mother put two and two together, she stopped him in the kitchen, cupped his chin with the palm of her hand, and said, “What’s her name?”
“What?” Claude asked. He was about to walk out the door and he reached up instinctively and knocked his mother’s hand away.
“Don’t try to lie to me,” his mother said. She lightly slapped his cheek. When he moved to swat her again she caught his hand in hers, squeezed it, and Claude started to actually listen.
“A mother knows when her son is in love.”
“Oh,” Claude said. “I’m -“
“Well?” Claude’s mother asked again, cutting in before Claude could deny it.
His parents didn’t approve of his friends, of his tribe. They’d made that perfectly clear. They thought that the group was a negative influence on their son, that if not for this tangle of hippies Claude would be excelling in college or proudly serving his country in the war. The fact that his mother was asking about someone that she had every reason to assume she’d dislike touched Claude, made him want to please her in that moment.
“Her name is Sheila,” Claude told her. “She’s a student at NYU.”
Claude watched his mother’s face light up just a little before she caught herself and tried to hide it. “You should bring her home for dinner.”
“Maybe,” Claude said. He leaned in and kissed his mother’s forehead before he slipped out the back door.
**
Claude sat on the bus with his eyes squeezed shut and tried to will himself to stop feeling. Just because his mother thought she could read him didn’t make it true.
“A mother knows when her son is in love.” It didn’t have to mean that he really was.
He tried to convince himself. He’d been trying to convince himself for the last two months. He thought it was working, that he was sure it was something else. Friendship, sex, belonging. He was sure he had himself convinced but now he could feel that his mother’s acknowledgment was transforming it into something real. The feeling in Claude’s gut that Claude had been ignoring, that he hadn’t been able to put words to, undeniably had a name.
Claude’s mother was right. Claude was in love, but it wasn’t with Sheila. Of all the people in New York, Claude had gone and fallen in love with George Berger.
**
He’d get over it.
He could get over it, he promised himself as Berger kissed him in the shade of a huge tree. The leaves were turning orange and yellow and one of them fell into Berger’s hair as they kissed. Claude reached up to brush it aside and his fingers got caught in Berger’s curls.
Claude would get over this and he and Berger would stay friends, good friends for the rest of their lives. They’d grow out of this and they’d get married and they’d have children and every summer they’d take their families on joint camping trips upstate. Claude and Berger, old and wrinkled and still together in this small way.
Berger slid his hand down Claude’s stomach, palm flat as it inched its way beneath the waist of Claude’s jeans.
Claude reached up a hand, traced a finger over the line of Berger’s eyebrows. He kissed Berger’s hairline when Berger ducked his head to watch the slide of his own hand into Claude’s jeans.
Claude had one small problem. He didn’t want to get over this. He didn’t want to be neighbors or friends. Claude didn’t want joint family camping trips. He just wanted Berger.
Claude was in love and he was pretty sure it was going to ruin his life.
Berger wasn’t - jerking each other off in the shade of a tree in Central Park was one thing. It was freedom and love and sex, but it wasn’t the same as the thoughts that set Claude’s stomach to a boil, his heart thudding in his chest. It was something, sexual friendship, Claude didn’t know. All Claude knew was that it wasn’t enough. Claude wanted more and he knew Berger well enough to know that Berger wouldn’t return that. Couldn’t. Berger had Claude, yeah, but he also had Lily and Dionne and Woof. Claude wasn’t special. Claude wasn’t Sheila.
Someday they would have to get on with their lives and Claude wasn’t stupid enough to believe that getting on would ever mean getting on with their lives together. Berger lived in the moment and Claude tried, but all Claude could see was the future.
In their future Berger would eventually get Sheila knocked up and would then, Claude hoped, marry her and - Claude couldn’t even imagine what would come next for them. Claude couldn’t imagine Berger ever changing, couldn’t imagine him any way than how he was. He didn’t want Berger to change. Claude loved Berger just as he was now, spontaneous and infuriating.
Claude watched Berger kiss Sheila on the street and he couldn’t look away. No one else seemed to notice. No one else reacted. Not even when Berger’s hands slipped down from the curve of Sheila’s ass, fingers curling in behind her thighs to lift and pull her closer. Sheila surged into the kiss and wrapped her legs around Berger’s waist. Once Claude gasped and an older woman eyed him, offended that he would make that kind of noise in public. No one noticed Berger’s tongue down Sheila’s throat.
When Berger kissed Claude on the street, and he did sometimes, there were glances, whispers. Berger didn’t notice because Berger didn’t care what anyone else thought. Claude pretended he didn’t care either, but he always always noticed. The glances and whispers spoke to him. They said “It’ll never last. Get over it. Enjoy it while you can.”
He’d get over it.
Claude knew that Berger believed that Claude was in love with Sheila. Claude let him believe it because it was better than Berger figuring out the truth. And Claude was just a little, but it was a love so mixed up in his love of Berger that Claude couldn’t untangle it, couldn’t figure out how much of it was real and how much of it was transferred.
Claude closed his eyes and groaned as he spilled over Berger’s hand. He could hear people shouting somewhere in the park, but right here it was just the two of them, Claude breathing heavy into Berger’s mouth. Berger’s kiss slid into a grin, teeth pressed to Claude’s parted lips.
Next week, Claude thought. I’ll get over it. Next week we have to end this. Next week or it’ll make me crazy.
**
He wasn’t getting over it.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew that they were young, that maybe it was naïve to think that this was it for him. It didn’t matter. He knew.
He sat in front of the television with his parents and he lied about Sheila, about how busy she was with school, and he thought about telling them the truth.
“I’m a homosexual,” he would say, because it was true, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just messing around anymore. It wasn’t just tribal love. It was love and that could only mean one thing. One day he would have to say it and he’d watch his father turn red, his mother go pale. One day he’d have to say it and where would he end up then?
He lay in bed at night and thought about telling Berger, thought about how Berger might laugh and turn away from him. He thought about how Berger might go to someone else instead, someone who didn’t want everything, someone who wasn’t asking for too much.
“The army will make a man out of you,” his father said again and again. Claude shrugged it off, but when Berger was snoring beside him and Claude caught himself pressing his mouth to Berger’s shoulder just to remind himself of the taste of Berger’s skin, Claude thought maybe. Maybe.
“You could come with me,” Claude said late one night. He wasn’t serious. He’d never seriously suggest that Berger enlist in the war just so that Claude wouldn’t have to let him go.
Berger rolled over then, climbed over Claude so that he was straddling Claude’s thighs. His groin pressed against Claude’s through the layers of their clothes.
“I’ll come with you,” Berger promised with a leer, twisting Claude’s words into innuendo so that Claude would never have to actually hear Berger say no.
Claude turned his head to the side, felt Berger’s mouth on his jaw and thought, this was it. This was the only way.
**
Claude answered questions, watched as the paperwork was filled out. His fingers traced circles into the collar of the stiff army regulation shirt. Earlier he’d been able to hear them outside, their chants leaking in under the doors, around the windows and through the walls. That was hours ago. It was quiet now. Quiet except for the monotonous chorus of questions and answers.
“Are you married?” The officer asked.
“No,” Claude said. He’d asked Sheila to marry him the night before. He’d asked Sheila to marry him and he’d watched as Berger’s face fell even further as he said the words. Berger. Claude’s mouth felt dry suddenly, his tongue, and he tried to clear his throat, coughed.
“You all right?” The officer asked. He was staring.
“It’s nothing,” Claude said. “I’ll get over it.”
“I asked if you’re engaged,” the officer prodded. He was frowning and Claude suspected this was probably the third or fourth time he’d repeated the question.
“Yes.”
“Yes, you are engaged?”
“No,” Claude said and shook his head for emphasis. The officer stared at him hard for a moment and then he nodded and checked a box on the form.
Sheila had kissed him and Claude stored the kisses in his heart, promised to remember them forever. It might have been the last time for all of it. His last time with her and with Berger. His last time feeling Berger’s hands on his waist, on his neck. The last time he’d taste Berger’s tongue against his. He’d never see them again. If he made it home, they might not even remember him. Berger would kill him for this if he could. Berger would forget him.
Claude stood too fast, nearly knocked over the chair.
“Where are you going?” The officer asked, surprised by Claude’s sudden movement.
“Nowhere,” Claude said. “The bathroom.” He fumbled with his uniform, dropped the pile on the floor then picked it up and set it on the chair. “I’ll be right - “ he trailed off and then he started walking and as soon as he reached the hallway he ran, pushed past two soldiers talking by the door. They were young, younger than Claude. They shouted after him but they didn’t follow.
It was late in the day now and Whitehall Street was deserted but the walls of the buildings still echoed with the tribe’s words, with their energy.
He was halfway to the subway before he realized that no one was following him. They knew where he lived. They could track him down. Claude stopped to catch his breath, change his course. There was nothing for him in Flushing. Not anymore. Even if they weren’t waiting there to pull him back in, what would his father say? It would be better to be brought home dead, a hero, than to face his parents the way he was now. They’d been so proud, so happy that their son was finally growing up, finally taking some responsibility.
Claude wasn’t ever going home again.
He couldn’t go to Berger, couldn’t see Sheila. He didn’t know what he’d do if they looked at him with disappointment, or worse, with anger.
He found himself in front of her building anyway. He rang up, but no one answered. It was snowing and Claude had left his coat behind, left it sitting on the back of the uncomfortable wooden chair. The army could keep it.
**
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Eventually an older woman stepped past him to let herself in. She stopped at the top step and said, “Christopher?”
“Claude,” Claude corrected, squinted up at her. It was Mrs. Mackey from the first floor. Sheila walked her dog sometimes. Claude had gone with her once or twice.
“Claude,” Mrs. Mackey said. “Of course. You’re Sheila Frankin’s young man.”
“No, I - “
“You don’t have to explain. You’re nicer, you know, than that ruffian she calls a boyfriend. She’ll come around.” Mrs. Mackey reached out to set a hand on Claude’s head in support. It was then that she seemed to notice that he was shivering.
“How long have you been - you’ll catch your death,” she insisted. “Come in, come in.”
She tried to get him inside her first floor apartment, offered soup and tea, but Claude refused her and took the stairs up two at a time until he was outside of Sheila’s door. He hoped that Sheila would come back alone, knew that she would understand why he’d done it. He wasn’t ready to face Berger.
Claude fell in and out of sleep as he leaned against Sheila’s door. He dreamed of his parents finding him here, dreamed about Vietnam, about Berger there chasing him through the jungle. When he wasn’t sleeping he stared at the braided fabric of the welcome mat outside Sheila’s door, touched his fingers to his short tufts of hair. He checked beneath the mat, remembered Berger doing that so many times in the past, but there was no key. Claude wasn’t sure how long he sat there before he heard the sound of the front door followed by footsteps, slow and heavy on the stairs.
Sheila, he thought, relieved. Sheila finally home. But it wasn’t Sheila who came around the curve of the landing. It was Berger and Claude felt the whole world freeze as he sat there holding his breath.
**
Claude could see in Berger’s eyes that Berger was high. He could feel it in his kisses and smell it saturating Berger’s skin. Claude had always loved Berger this way, when the drugs could convince them that this really was love, that it was okay and right and eternal. Claude could feel it radiating from Berger and he pushed closer, tried to envelope himself in the feeling.
Berger was going to help him. Berger wasn’t angry and Berger hadn’t forgotten him, not yet. Berger was pulling him back in, marking him, branding him as one of the tribe. His fingers brushed the government from Claude’s hair, from the skin of his chest, his stomach.
I love you, Claude thought a hundred times. He tried to say it as Berger led him into Sheila’s bedroom, again when Berger kissed him, when Berger kneeled over him and pushed inside. He wanted to chant it in time with Berger’s thrusts, he wanted to shout it when Berger took it a little further, slid a finger inside, pushed until Claude thought he might burst with it, split apart, and didn’t care as long as Berger gave him more. He said it silently into the warmth of Berger’s shoulder afterward, a rehearsal of words. He thought he could see them sinking in until they entered Berger’s blood stream, coursing through Berger’s veins until Berger would know, had to know, and Claude could stop pretending.
Still, when Claude tried to say it out loud, he felt the words dry up on his tongue in terror.
He imagined how Berger might pull away, might brush it off, choose to ignore it entirely. He imagined Berger walking away from him. Easier just to leave Claude here on Sheila’s bed, alone with this ridiculous love.
I love you, Claude thought, but he didn’t say it. Instead he waited and when they were about to leave, standing there on Sheila’s landing wrapped in Berger’s old coat, he said, “I told them that I couldn’t sleep without you.” In his heart it was almost the same thing.
“Really?” Berger asked, his eyes dark, soft.
Claude could feel it ready to slip off his tongue and he bit the inside of his cheek and looked away. He imagined the soft look in Berger’s eyes as it hardened, closed itself to Claude.
“No,” Claude said, admitted the truth. “I just left.”
**
Port Authority was quiet as they climbed up out of the subway. It was early still, Saturday. Berger walked fast ahead of Claude. He was nearly running and Claude picked up his pace in an attempt to keep up. No one had ever been fast enough to keep up with Berger and when Claude inevitably lagged behind, Berger reached back to take Claude’s hand, pulled him along.
Berger didn’t stop until they were standing in front of the Greyhound terminal and even then his fingers stayed wrapped tight as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out the bus tickets.
Claude stopped listening as Berger explained to the clerk that they’d missed their bus, that the tickets were paid for and if they could just get on the next one - The clerk was eyeing Claude, eyeing the haircut, the coat, Berger’s bag, Berger. He’d probably guessed what was going on. He could probably see it on Claude’s face, could probably tell that Claude could still feel Berger’s hands on him, still missed Berger inside of him. It didn’t matter what the clerk guessed. Berger would convince him somehow, Claude knew. Berger always did.
Claude stared at the two tickets that Berger pressed to the counter. He wondered how Berger had found the money to pay for them, if he’d panhandled, stolen it, just asked Sheila. He wondered where Sheila was and then Berger squeezed his hand and Claude looked up just as Berger said, “Thanks, man. I owe you,” to the bored looking clerk.
Berger pulled Claude away, toward a door at the far end of the floor. The sign above said Albany and there was already a bus sitting outside.
“I can’t do this,” Claude said abruptly. Claude wasn’t the exception to any rule. He couldn’t make his own way the way that Berger could. He had an obligation. He didn’t deserve this. He was just prolonging the inevitable. “I have to go back.”
“No,” Berger said. His grip on Claude’s hand was tight. “No way.”
“If I go back now maybe they -“ Claude started, but he stopped when Berger shook his head. Berger refused to look at Claude, knew that if he did, Claude would continue talking.
“Berger,” Claude said, and when he reached up to turn Berger’s face toward him, Berger’s hand met his midway. He had both of Claude’s hands now and he used them to pull Claude close, used his position to pull Claude against him. He pressed his forehead to Claude’s, his nose nudging against Claude’s cheek before he turned and placed a kiss on Claude’s lips.
“I’m gonna get us out of here,” Berger said, voice hard, resolute.
Berger released one of Claude’s hands, pulled a little with the other, and Claude gave in the way that he always did, followed Berger out of the terminal and onto the bus. The bus driver eyed them, clearly saw the display of affection through the door, but he didn’t say anything, just took the tickets from Berger and waved them back.
Berger pushed his bag in under the first set of empty seats he found, slid in after, pulled until Claude fell in beside him.
“Later, when it’s over, you can tell them that I kidnapped you,” Berger offered.
When it’s over, Claude heard. When they’re over.
“No one would believe that,” Claude said. Berger could try to take responsibility, but it was Claude who followed Berger onto this bus, Claude who, he was pretty sure, would follow Berger anywhere that Berger asked. Claude used to think that they had people fooled. Now though, now that he was here, skin still tingling a little from Berger’s touch, from their reunion, Berger’s hand still wrapped tightly around his, now Claude was pretty sure that everyone had always seen right through them.
“They’ll believe it if they want to,” Berger said.
Claude shrugged, didn’t respond.
The bus pulled away from the door, turning between the aisles until it was driving up the ramp and away from Port Authority. One more minute and they’d be in the Lincoln Tunnel. They’d be out of New York.
Berger was staring out the window. There was a woman walking her dog on 40th Street. Her shirt was tight and her breasts swelled against the polyester.
“I think I was a woman in a past life,” Berger said.
Claude snorted. “What?” He’d been waiting for this, the subject change. The air had felt heavy between them and Berger could always be counted on to divert when things got a little heavy.
“A woman,” Berger repeated. “With wide hips and huge breasts, giant dark nipples.”
“What about me?” Claude asked, sure that Berger was going to say that Claude was the little dog the woman had been walking outside their bus window, sure that it was true.
“You were probably in love with me,” Berger said.
Claude laughed and turned away.
**
He woke up with his head on Berger’s shoulder. He turned his face just a little, pushed his nose into the curls at Berger’s neck. Berger smelled damp like the melted snow, a little like sweat, and a little like sex. Claude breathed deep, sighed, resisted the urge to lean in further to place a kiss on Berger’s skin. Instead he yawned, rubbed at his eyes, and sat up to squint out the window.
“Where are we?” he asked. The sun was high now and it was warm beneath the coats they’d removed to use as blankets.
“You missed it. We just passed Coxsackie,” Berger told him, a gleam in his eye that suggested he’d been tempted to wake Claude for the event.
“Where’s Coxsackie?” Claude asked.
Berger stared back at him, seemingly unable to answer. Claude could almost see Berger’s brain working, sifting through every possible response, and Claude tried not to smile, tried not to encourage him. Claude knew, as soon as the question left his lips that if they weren’t on this bus, if Berger didn’t know that causing a scene might get them tossed out onto the side of the highway, he would show Claude exactly where he thought Coxsackie was.
And then Claude felt Berger’s hand beneath the coats as it moved in to settle high on Claude’s thigh, fingers curling in toward Claude’s crotch. Claude narrowed his eyes a little, held Berger’s gaze. They both knew that it was a contest now. Berger was testing boundaries, testing to see just how far Claude might let him go before Claude let his self consciousness stop this.
“Really though,” Claude said. His eyes on Berger, his voice was steady. Berger’s mouth twitched but he didn’t remove his hand. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know,” Berger admitted. “I fell asleep too. I think we’re almost to Albany.”
Claude looked past Berger then to watch the trees as they passed outside the window. He could feel that Berger’s eyes were still on him, watching. Berger’s hand moved just a little, just enough to bring Claude’s attention back to Berger.
They were speeding down the highway, surrounded by nothing but grass and trees and rocks. Not a skyscraper in sight. Claude felt like he could breathe again for the first time in weeks and he closed his eyes and drew the stale bus air deep into his lungs. He felt a lump in the seat beneath him, shifted to get more comfortable. For a quick moment Claude could tell that Berger thought that maybe that was the end of the contest, that maybe he’d won. He could almost feel Berger’s grin as his hand inched closer to Claude’s dick.
“Wait,” Claude said. “Wait, I’m just sitting on something.” He reached back and realized that the lump was in the back pocket of his jeans, that he’d put it there before they cut his hair. Berger was having fun with this anyway, his hand abandoning Claude’s thigh to cup Claude’s dick as Claude pushed his hips up from the seat and pulled the band from his pocket.
When Berger saw what it was, his hand disappeared entirely, emerging from beneath their coats to pluck it from Claude’s fingers. Claude’s headband, removed before he’d entered the induction center.
Berger ran the headband between his fingers, smoothing the elastic as he pulled at it. Eventually he slid the band over his head, pulled most of his hair up and through it so that when the hair fell back to his shoulders, most of the band was covered by brown curls.
Claude thought then that he should thank Berger for this. Berger didn’t have to do any of it, the bus tickets, everything. Berger didn’t have to run. He was afraid that if he said anything Berger would brush it off, say something that Claude didn’t want to hear.
“I told Sheila I’d be back next week.” Or “North of Albany, you’re on your own. It’s practically Canada anyway, eh?” Claude didn’t think he wanted to know exactly what Berger might be thinking.
“Looks good,” Claude said instead. He reached out and pulled at Berger’s hair, thought how naked his own head felt. Berger curled a hand around the back of Claude’s neck. His fingers rubbed against the short hairs there. After a moment Berger’s hand slid down to Claude’s shoulder, pulled until Claude shifted and settled against him again, his nose pressed back into Berger’s hair.
They stared out the window and when they passed the next sign, Berger read it aloud.
“Fourteen miles to Albany. That’s - what? We’re practically halfway there.”
Claude closed his eyes and wondered if getting over Berger alone in Canada would really be any better than getting over Berger in Vietnam.
**
By the time Claude returned from the bathroom at the Albany bus station, Berger was impatient and jumpy. More importantly Berger had their next step all figured out.
“Jesus, man. What the hell took you so long?” Berger asked. He grabbed for Claude’s arm, about to take his hand, then seemed to think better of it and released Claude entirely, shoved his hands into his pockets, then removed them to adjust the bag on his shoulder.
“What’s wrong with you?” Claude asked. He looked down at his own hands and said, “I wasn’t gone that long. Did you call Sheila?”
“Yeah,” Berger said. “No. But I got us a ride.” He slapped Claude’s shoulder and then pointed back over his own. Claude looked past him to the two men standing by the door. They were older, looked a little worn. One of them nodded when he saw Claude looking.
“This guy Larry’s picking up his brother,” Berger explained. “They’re gonna get us as far as Rutland.”
“Rutland,” Claude repeated.
“Yeah,” Berger said. “It’s in Vermont.”
“Why? Why don’t we just keep going north?”
“Rutland is north,” Berger said. He grabbed Claude’s shoulders, shook him a little, then tapped him lightly on the cheek. “You don’t want to cross over in New York, man. Everyone does. You want to cross over in Vermont.”
“Okay,” Claude said. He looked into Berger’s eyes, searching as Berger raised his eyebrows and waited. Finally Claude just came out and asked. “Are you on something? What have you got in that bag?”
“Clothes,” Berger said, dismissive. He pressed his hand to Claude’s mouth and said, “Listen, listen. Susannah’s got a cousin who’ll meet up with us in Burlington. He works in some town across the border. He does this.”
“Oh,” Claude said from behind Berger’s fingers, surprised to discover that all this time Berger had an actual plan. That Berger, who spent life flying by the seat of his pants, had apparently researched this.
“You boys ready to hit the road?” one of the men asked then, approaching them. Claude knocked Berger’s hand from his mouth and Berger turned, smiling.
“I always wanted to go to Vermont,” he said.
**
Larry had a pickup truck and he apologized for the weather, the pile of wood and the tires that he stored in the back. He pulled three blankets from the cab and handed them to Claude as Berger climbed up onto the back.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t meet up last week,” Larry’s brother Frank said. “You two would have turned into a block of ice back here. Not that cold now.”
“It’s cool, man,” Berger assured him, then promised, “We can find ways to stay warm.”
Claude could hear the suggestion in Berger’s voice, felt his face burn a little with the words. He turned away from Larry and tossed the blankets hard at Berger before he stepped onto the wheel and scrambled up onto the truck.
Alone in the back Berger bunched up an old canvas tarp and then leaned against it. The wind in Claude’s face was making his eyes water and he let Berger pull him back until he was lying in the curve of Berger’s shoulder, Berger’s arm pressed firm around him. The sun was setting and Claude shook out the wool blankets, covered them in their layers.
As the sun slipped behind the trees Claude turned beneath the blankets, pressed his face to Berger’s coat and wrapped an arm around Berger’s waist.
“What am I going to do?” Claude asked against the wind. They nearly had to yell to hear over it.
“What do you mean?” Berger asked. He’d been quiet since they left Albany, apparently coming down from whatever momentary high he’d found in the bus station.
“I mean, what am I going to do?”
“Who cares,” Berger said. And Claude understood the unspoken rest. Who cares, you’re going to live. Who cares, for this short trip we’re together. For this short trip I love you more than anything. But what happened after this? Berger was going to have to go back. He had family and Sheila and the tribe. Berger was going to have to leave him and then what the hell was Claude going to do with the rest of his life?
“We can do whatever the hell we want,” Berger said as though he’d read it from Claude’s mind. He tilted his head up, raised a hand and shouted, “They’ll never get us now!”
Claude pressed his fingers into Berger’s side, walked them down to Berger’s hip. Whatever the hell we want, he thought. It always sounded so true when Berger said it, so simple. Claude wanted Berger, but other than that, did it really matter? Did it really matter if you couldn’t keep the one thing you knew you wanted?
“What are you doing?” Berger laughed and Claude realized that he’d been unbuckling Berger’s belt, that he’d already undone the button on Berger’s jeans. He pulled his hand away and Berger laughed harder, reached for him, leaned close so that Claude could hear him and said, “No. No no no no. Don’t stop, Claude, baby. Don’t stop now.”
It was dark now, mostly, and Claude glanced up through the back window of the cab. Larry and Frank were looking ahead, their eyes on the road. Claude and Berger were covered in blankets and in the dark Larry and Frank might not be able to make out what they were doing even if they weren’t.
How long did they have left? One more night? Maybe two until they crossed the border and Claude was on his own for good. We can do whatever we want, Berger said. Berger really believed that, always had, and this was exactly what Claude wanted right now.
“We’ve gotta be quiet,” Claude said, a condition, but it didn’t matter, he’d already resumed unfastening Berger’s jeans, had Berger in his hand by the time the sentence was finished.
“I’m always quiet,” Berger assured him. “You’re the one that gets loud.” What came next was an imitation that could only be what Claude sounded like during sex, low and breathy. It actually seemed pretty accurate to Claude’s ears.
Claude snorted anyway. Quiet and Berger had never gone hand in hand. Never.
Claude slid his thumb along the underside of Berger’s dick, wrapped his hand around it. That shut Berger up pretty quickly and Claude smiled, turned until he was over Berger, and kissed him. He released Berger, just long enough to unfasten his own jeans, push them down low on his hips, push his underwear down with them. He straddled Berger beneath the blankets, buried his face in Berger’s neck and felt Berger’s dick slide against his.
It wasn’t subtle, what they were doing. It wasn’t subtle the way that Claude moved against Berger. Claude didn’t care. Let Larry and Frank see. Let them kick Claude and Berger out, leave them on the side of the road. They’d find their way. They’d get lost. They’d have more time.
They’d driven through a small town earlier but now they were back on winding forested roads, the cold wind whipping past them as they kept each other warm the best way they’d ever found. Claude opened his mouth against Berger’s shoulder, a silent moan against the thick material of Berger’s coat. He turned his face to press his mouth instead to the exposed skin of Berger’s neck, pressed his tongue, hot to Berger’s warm skin.
Berger’s exhale was sharp and he craned his neck, turned and tried to kiss Claude. He couldn’t get the angle right, kissed Claude’s cheek, and Claude shifted so that their mouths could meet, so that he could suck at Berger’s lips, slide his tongue between them, feel the slide of Berger’s in return.
Berger was trying to push up against him and Claude reached a hand between them, wrapped it around them both, jerked them off as one. Berger moaned into Claude’s mouth and Claude stored it, remembered it so that he could bring it up later even though he’d swallowed the noise, even though the rest of it had been carried away, lost in the sound of the barreling wind.
Berger broke their kiss, turned his head away and hissed into the wind as he came across Claude’s palm. Claude’s hand was wet with it, his dick sliding smooth against Berger’s and Berger squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head. Claude released him, propped himself up on his elbow, his other hand working himself hard now, fast, until finally, too soon, he spilled over his fingers. He lowered himself back over Berger, let out the quietest of moans as he settled himself against him, pressed his lips to the hair by Berger’s ear.
“Quiet,” Berger reminded him, not because they were loud, just because Berger was being smart.
Claude wiped his hand on one of the blankets then slid it into Berger’s coat, his palm coming to rest on Berger’s chest. Their pants were still open, but cleaning up, zipping up, seemed like too much work to Claude. They had time, he was sure.
Finally Berger was the one to move. He wiped himself off, then Claude. He pulled Claude's underwear, Claude’s jeans, back up his hips, zipping and buttoning them as he kissed across Claude’s jaw. He left Claude’s belt hanging open though he buckled his own.
“Rutting to Rutland,” Claude said and Berger laughed, a loud bark of a laugh right in Claude’s ear.
“Larry’s gonna wanna wash this,” Berger noted, plucking at the blanket as he settled back against the tarp.
Claude laughed now too and leaned into Berger’s arm. The sky was clear. They were somewhere between towns still and the woods around them were dark. Claude stared up at thousands of stars in the sky above them.
“You never see this in New York,” he said.
“Bet they’ve got a lot of stars where we’re going,” Berger said.
“Yeah,” Claude said. “I bet.”
**
Claude must have dozed off because the next thing he knew Berger was pushing at his shoulder and Larry was announcing that they’d arrived. Claude sat up abruptly, looked around. They were in the driveway of a nice looking home in a suburban neighborhood. Claude remembered his belt and quickly fastened it beneath the blankets.
“It’s late,” Larry said. “I’ve got a room over the garage. Not much up there, but there’s a bed. Why don’t you boys come inside. I’ll get you something to eat, you can get cleaned up. You’ll stay in my extra room tonight and you can be on your way tomorrow.”
“Thank, Larry,” Claude said. “This means a lot.”
“Don’t mention it,” Larry assured him. ‘
Claude sat at Larry’s kitchen table. He’d excused himself right away, had used the bathroom and tried to clean up, just a little. Larry made them sandwiches while Frank told them about his trip. Frank was a farmer, lived forty minutes outside of Rutland, had gone down to New Jersey to visit a sick friend.
“She your sweetheart?” Berger asked. He looked at Claude when he said it.
“Something like that,” Frank agreed. He looked sad and Claude looked back at Berger, felt a little of what it must be like for Frank, living so far away from someone he loved.
“I hope everything works out for the best,” Claude offered just as Larry offered Berger the first turn in the shower.
**
Claude was nearly done with his shower when he heard the bathroom door creak open.
“I brought you some clean clothes, dear,” a high pitched voice sing-songed in a perfect imitation of anyone’s mother but Claude’s and Claude immediately rolled his eyes and stuck his head around the curtain.
“What are you doing in here?” he hissed at Berger.
Berger actually was holding a folded pile of clothes. He set them on the sink.
“What are you doing in here?” Berger countered. He took a step forward and reached for the shower curtain, pulled it aside to peak behind.
“Not that,” Claude said and snatched the curtain back.
“Bummer,” Berger said. His hair was still wet from his own shower. He had Claude’s headband wrapped around his wrist. He gestured toward the clothes. “Larry sent me in here with those. Says he has daughters. Guess he didn’t like me walking around in that towel.”
“Thought you brought clothes,” Claude said, eyeing the denim shirt that Berger was wearing, the corduroy pants.
“I did,” Berger shrugged, lifted his arms and turned in a wide circle for Claude. “But Larry’s giving us new old ones.” The clothes were too big on Berger, which meant they were definitely going to be too big for Claude, but Berger was right. He wasn’t going to get very far in the clothes on his back. Never look a gift horse in the mouth. All that.
“Thank you,” Claude conceded. He waved his hand at Berger, shooing him out of the room.
Berger made a face. He turned, seemingly willing to follow Claude’s orders, but before he managed to take one step, he turned back around and said, “Wait, there was something else.”
“What?” Claude asked. He caught on as soon as Berger wrapped a hand around the back of Claude’s neck and pulled him forward. Claude nearly lost his balance as he released the shower curtain and grabbed onto Berger’s shoulder instead. Berger kissed him, tongue licking Claude’s mouth open, then pushing in. Sheila hated it when Berger did this, started a kiss this way. She made faces and pushed Berger away and wiped at her mouth. Claude couldn’t even think about pushing Berger away at this moment. Not even if the tub overflowed and the bathroom flooded. Not even if Larry walked in with a shot gun. When Berger pulled away, Claude tried to follow, almost tripped out of the bathtub, would have if Berger didn’t reach out to stop him.
“That wasn’t what I had to say,” Berger admitted.
“It wasn’t?”
“Nope,” Berger said. He pushed a hand through his hair, looked like he was trying to remember. Eventually he smiled up at Claude, held up a finger in a pause gesture before reaching into his back pocket. From the pocket he pulled a joint, neatly wrapped. He waved it under Claude’s wet nose.
“Where’d you get that?”
“I met Larry’s oldest daughter,” Berger said. "Julie. Wait till you meet Julie. She’s groovy, man. Gorgeous. You better get clean and get dressed before me and Julie start getting undressed and dirty,”
And then Berger backed out of the bathroom, eyebrows raised, and shut the door behind him.
Claude rinsed one last time and shut off the water.
**
“I can’t believe my father is helping you run off to Canada to escape the draft,” Julie said. She shook her head, her blonde hair shaking with the gesture as she passed the joint to Berger. “He pretends to be so by the book, but I always knew he wasn’t as perfect as all of that. Helping a couple of hippies escape the draft. Perfect!”
Berger laughed in that high easy way of his. Berger’d been laughing at everything they said for the last five minutes.
“Do you know I have a 9:30 curfew?” Julie asked. “9:30! I’m eighteen years old.”
Berger laughed again and said, “So don’t come home at 9:30. We aren’t.”
Claude slapped his arm, stole the joint from between his fingers.
Julie’s hair was a mass of blonde curls that fell recklessly around her face. Her features were small and pretty. She reminded Claude of Jeanie and when Julie reached out to touch his hair, Claude wanted to kiss her.
“I bet you were beautiful with long hair,” Julie said.
Claude didn’t know how to respond. It didn’t matter though because Julie wasn’t through. “You’re beautiful now.”
Berger was still giggling just a little as he nodded in agreement with Julie.
“Can I kiss you?” Julie asked and Berger said, “Yes,” immediately.
“Yes,” Claude echoed. He closed his eyes as Julie leaned in.
**
At first glance Julie had reminded Claude of Jeanie, but now, the three of them tangled together in the room above Julie’s father’s garage, she’d transformed herself into Sheila. She stroked Claude’s hair as Berger kissed her small breasts. She clung to Claude, kissed him, moaned against his lips as Berger fucked her. She came against Claude’s fingers and then she held him as Claude followed into Berger’s mouth.
Afterward Berger dozed, exhausted, his head resting on Claude’s stomach, fingers curled around Claude’s side.
“You going away to school next year?” Claude asked. Even his voice sounded lazy. His fingers pulled lightly at the curls of Berger’s hair.
Julie’s lips danced on Claude’s shoulder and she said, “Yeah, I got into Middlebury. It isn’t that far. Just an hour away so I can come home on the weekends if I need to.”
“That’s great,” Claude said and he turned his head to smile at her.
“I’m going to be a writer,” Julie said, and then her own conviction seemed to fluster her and she ducked her head and said, “Well, I want to be a writer anyway.”
“You’ll be a great writer,” Claude said even though he hadn’t read a thing that Julie had ever written.
“He must love you a lot,” Julie said. “He must love you to be doing this with you.”
Claude smiled, shrugged his shoulder against Julie’s chin.
“Berger loves everyone,” Claude said. It wasn’t the same.
Julie shrugged. “Either way, it’s nice to have friends like that, right?”
“Yeah,” Claude said. “Yeah, it is.”
Julie smiled, rolled away from Claude to grin up at the ceiling.
“What?” Claude asked, smiling now too.
“I bring my boyfriends up here,” Julie said. “You know, after my curfew. I sneak back downstairs when my father goes to bed and we slip up here.”
“What do you do?” Claude asked, smiled, already knew.
“Smoke a joint,” she said. Her smile grew wider as she added, “have sex.”
“So you’re saying me and Berger are your new boyfriends then?” Claude asked.
Julie laughed, rolled back in and kissed him on the mouth. “Just for tonight,” she said. “Sure. You want to be my boyfriend tonight, Claude?”
“Yeah,” Claude said. He reached for her cheek, his thumb sliding against the soft skin of her face as he kissed into her mouth. He wished it was this easy all the time. He wished that this, this sweet girl in front of him, was all that he wanted from life. He’d fight for her in Vietnam, he’d fight to protect her, and then he’d come home a hero and they’d settle down. He’d find a job and they’d have children together, raise a family. Claude kissed her and imagined his life, imagined Julie in his mother’s housecoats, his father’s pipe in his own mouth. He imagined Berger coming over every Sunday to listen to the game. Every week Julie would ask him to stay for dinner. Every week he would.
“Oh, you can still be Berger’s boyfriend tonight too,” Julie assured him, pulling him from his thoughts as she smiled against his lips. “Don’t worry, I’m not the jealous kind.”
“I’m not Berger’s boyfriend,” Claude said, shook his head.
Julie rolled her eyes. “It’s okay, you know. You can say it in front of me.”
“I’m not,” Claude said. “We’re just - I don’t know. We’re just whatever we are, I guess.”
Claude pulled her back in toward him, kissed her eyelids when she smiled and closed her eyes, kissed the corner of her upturned mouth. Berger was warm spread around him, holding on. He snored a little as Claude kissed Julie and Julie giggled into their kiss, shushed Claude even though he hadn’t made a sound.
“Shh,” she said again and then she sat up fast, her small breasts swaying with the sudden movement.
“What?” Claude asked. He shifted and Berger grunted and wrapped his arm tighter around Claude’s waist.
“What is it?” Claude asked, and then he heard it, footsteps hard on the stairs.
“Jules?” Larry boomed and Julie gasped, jumped out of the bed, started throwing clothes at Claude.
“My dad,” Julie said. “Get up. Get up!”
Berger was awake now, confused, and Claude pushed at his shoulder until he sat up, started pulling on the shirt that Claude tossed toward him.
“Come on,” Julie said, her clothes on, her hair a mess of curls wildly springing out from her head.
“It’s okay,” Berger said, but Julie pushed at his chest, pushed him toward the window.
“Climb down,” Julie ordered and Berger pulled her in, kissed her deep, then did as he was told, pushing his leg out the window and then disappearing out the other side. Claude stuck his head out, saw that Berger was climbing down a rose trellis, now empty except for a tangle of old vines. He stepped out onto it, then stopped to grab Julie’s arm, pull her out the window and hugged her to him tight. If Julie really was his, this would have been sweet, he would have thought of Shakespeare, compared Julie to Juliet. If Julie was really his, Claude might even have braved her father, thought that the rest of the evening had shown that he had the capacity to be reasonable, thought that he’d liked Claude, just a little.
“Come with us,” Claude said without really thinking. If she came with them, came with them all the way to Canada, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to lose Berger if Claude had Julie.
“I can’t,” Julie said, pushed at his shoulders. He could hear her father knocking at the door, fumbling with the knob. “I can’t. But I have this friend. She can borrow her brother’s truck - we might be able to - Meet us at the bus stop on Maple and Orchard tomorrow morning. You said you needed to get up to Burlington, right?”
“Okay,” Claude said. He laughed when Julie pushed at him again, her hands on his shoulders, his head. “Okay, okay.” He began to climb down.
Berger grabbed onto his arm as soon as Claude reached the ground. His face was bright now, awake and alive, enjoying this adventure, and he pulled at Claude, kissed him there on Larry’s lawn.
“Go,” Julie hissed at them. She shut the window and then she was gone.
“Come on,” Claude said, and that was all it took to spring Berger into action. He ran across the lawn, jumped the fence into the neighbor’s yard. Claude followed and finally a few blocks from Larry’s home they stopped, breathing heavy, Berger still smiling, high. He kissed Claude again, wrapped his arms tight around Claude and leaned back, lifted Claude a foot off the ground in the hug. Claude made a noise of protest into their kiss, laughed, held on.
Berger set Claude back down, released him, and after a moment Claude realized that he was still holding onto Berger and he let go too.
“Where to now?” Berger asked for the first time since they’d started this trip.
“Orchard and Maple,” Claude said. “She’s got us a ride.”
[ Part 2]