Fic - Hair - The First Move - 3/3

[zoicite]

The day is hot and humid. Claude doesn’t care. He’s lying across the bench of a picnic table, the toe of one shoe digging into the ground below. Berger lies across the top of the table, stares at the sky. Claude stares at the ends of Berger’s hair that hang off the edge of the table, curling down toward him, inviting him to touch.

He was surprised when Berger saw him lying there and actually approached. It’s been a long time since they’ve done this, just spend time together, lie still and share the same air.

Claude will gladly bask in this heat forever if it means not going home, not having to pretend not to notice as his parents stare at him, disapproving, wondering where he is, what he’s thinking. They won’t like what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about Berger. All week it’s been Berger. He’s thinking about Berger now, about how quiet Berger’s been all day, about how Berger’s skin must feel in this heat.

“I don’t want to go home,” Claude says when he can’t stand the silence anymore. “I don’t want to have the same fight with them night after night.”

“So don’t go home,” Berger says, pushing damp hair from his face. It’s the heat. It seeps into everyone’s pores, makes them lazy but quick to snap. Claude is irritable too.

Berger’s answer seems so easy, and for Berger it probably is. Claude doesn’t know how often Berger ever goes home. Once in a while he boards the train to Hoboken and makes an appearance at the high school, but does he go home? Does he see his mother? What does she think? What does she want for her son? Claude wonders what his mother would do if he just stopped showing up at dinner. He thinks the police might end up involved.

“I can’t not go home,” Claude concludes.

Berger turns onto his side so he can see Claude. He shrugs to indicate that it doesn’t matter to him either way.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Claude says.

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Because you don’t care about anything except yourself. You never once stop to think about what the rest of the world needs from you.”

Berger laughs and shakes his head, but he doesn’t have an answer ready. He’s quiet for a full minute and Claude thinks that maybe that’s it. Maybe Berger just has no response, but then Berger lets out a breath and says, “What do you need from me?”

“Nothing,” Claude says, too loud.

Berger nods like he expected that answer.

“What do you want from me?” Berger asks instead.

“Nothing,” Claude repeats. “I don’t know. I don’t want anything.”

“What about Sheila?”

Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s because he feels like they’ve been having this conversation again and again. Claude snaps. He sits up, his back toward Berger and his feet planted firmly on the ground.

“I don’t want - Fuck you,” Claude says. He doesn’t look at Berger. He shakes his head as he says the words to the trees. “You’re the most selfish fucking person I’ve ever met. Nothing matters to you. Not me, not Sheila, not the war. Sheila cares about everything. But you - You don’t even matter to you. Not really. People can’t live their lives like that, Berger. I’m done with it. It’s not fair.”

Berger sits up, swinging his legs around so his feet are on the bench beside Claude, so that he can stare down at Claude. Claude is still fuming a little and he turns then, stares back, his eyes hard, his mouth a frown. Berger watches him. He’s breathing heavy, as though he’s been holding it for a long time.

“What?” Claude demands.

“Fuck, Claude,” Berger breathes.

Claude opens his mouth to keep arguing, then shuts it again. He doesn’t know what to say. In the end he says, “Sheila - “ before trailing off.

Berger looks away. “Yeah,” he says. “I get it.”

Claude doesn’t get what Berger gets. Claude doesn’t think there’s anyone that really understands Berger. Not even Sheila. Claude has had enough of trying.

He stands and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, changes his mind and removes them, unsure what to do.

“I’m going,” he announces.

Claude starts walking away, makes it to the path before Berger interrupts his retreat.

“All you do is run, man,” Berger calls after him. “You just gonna keep running forever?”

Claude turns back fast, angry, ready to tell Berger off. Berger’s done more than his fair share of running in the past week, after all. Claude’s finger is raised, ready to point, but the words die on his lips. Berger is standing now too. He’s watching Claude, didn’t expect him to turn, and the look on Berger’s face is soft and sad and different than the way Claude has ever seen Berger look at him before. Berger turns quickly, but not quick enough, not before Claude sees the truth.

Berger feels things too. Berger’s just better at hiding it.

When Berger turns back toward Claude, that lost desperate look is gone, replaced by something more familiar. He doesn’t need to say anything. Claude can read all that he needs to know right there on Berger’s face.
Claude Bukowski lives in a state of indecision. Limbo. Claude Bukowski would rather lead a life of nothing than make a decision that might actually lead to something great. Claude’s afraid to live. Claude’s afraid to love.

He can see the challenge in Berger’s eyes, but there’s an escape route there too. Claude knows that if he does nothing now, leaves like he meant to, Berger will accept it and let it all fade. He and Berger will fall back into a comfortable friendship. Boundaries will be drawn and eventually Claude will forget the press of Berger’s lips against his own, forget the feel of Berger’s hands burning into his skin. They’ll never end. If Claude does nothing they’ll last forever like this and Claude will never see that look on his mother’s face, he’ll never have to know who he is, and he’ll never have to feel what he knows Berger can make him feel.

The world feels like it’s been standing still all morning, nothing moving, nothing changing. But as they stand there a slight breeze stirs, pushing Claude’s hair off his shoulders. The sky has been getting darker, clouds moving in, and Claude swallows, clears his throat, says, “It’s gonna rain.”

Berger slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “Say hi to mom for me.”

It’s the escape route. All Claude has to do is follow Berger’s lead, turn and walk in the opposite direction, east, back to Flushing. He can go to England, to Manchester, and disappear. He can stay at home and grow old under his parents’ roof, stand beside his father’s dentist chair as his father shows him how to conduct a root canal, how to take out all of his frustrations on his worthless son by pulling some poor guy’s bum tooth. He’ll cut his hair and he’ll go back to Queensborough and this time he’ll study biology and chemistry and he’ll stay away from boys like James and Berger. He’ll find a nice girl like Jeanie, like Sheila.

His parents would like Jeanie. She has nice teeth and she smiles whenever she sees Claude. Jeanie could come to dinner and have a civilized conversation without looking at Claude like he’s the meal, without Claude fighting the urge to dry hump her in her chair.

He’ll meet a nice girl like Jeanie. Nicer. An old fashioned girl. She’s saving herself until she’s married and one day he’ll open the box on the top of his dresser, dust off his grandmother’s engagement ring. They’ll have two children, because Claude’s always wished he had a sibling, and they’ll purchase Old Man Clive’s house. It’s big enough, Claude knows. It’s perfect for raising a family. Claude will get good grades and he’ll go on, get his license. His father will add his name to the front door of his office. Claude will pull teeth and tighten braces. He’ll grow old with his patients. They’re kids when they first start coming to him, but they’ll grow and he’ll watch their teeth rot and die and he won’t be able to do anything about it. Not in the end.

It’ll be easy. It’s what Claude is supposed to do. Everyone knows it’s exactly what Claude’s supposed to do.

The thought of it makes Claude’s mouth dry up and his stomach twist itself into a knot.

“I don’t want to be a dentist,” Claude calls out to Berger. “I don’t want to be my father.”

Berger stops, holds up his hands and says, “Me neither.”

Berger starts to turn away again and Claude panics. He’s there before a conscious decision can be made, closing the distance between them until he’s beside Berger, hand on Berger’s shoulder, turning him back. And then their mouths collide in a fevered crush of lips, of teeth and tongues, and the only word running through Claude’s head is ‘finally’.

Berger’s mouth is hot against him, the stubble on his chin scrapes against Claude’s cheek and Claude just wants more. This, this, always. It’s the only choice for Claude. Everything leads him to Berger, to this. He kisses Berger in a rush of desperate desire. Their noses knock together and his lip scrapes against Berger’s teeth in the collision of their mouths, but Claude doesn’t care, just kisses Berger harder, his hands holding Berger’s face to his in case it’s a mistake, in case Berger hasn’t been waiting for him to finally finally stop fighting against gravity.

Berger’s been waiting. It isn’t just him. It’s never been just him, and Berger seems just as desperate for him now, just as needy. His tongue thrusts into Claude’s mouth and Claude welcomes it, moans around it, the slide of it, the promise. He sucks at Berger, moves closer when Berger’s hands grip his waist and pull, Berger’s thumbs pressing hard against his skin. The air swirls around them, wind picking up and cooling the park, but Claude can still taste the heat of the morning in the salt of Berger's skin. He can see it in the curl of Berger's hair.

Eventually Berger pulls away, not far, just far enough to say, "Fuck, I didn’t think this would happen.”

“No," Claude says, not really listening, leaning in to press his lips against the corner of Berger's mouth.

“I didn’t think you wanted this,” Berger continues. "Thought Sheila -"

“No,” Claude says again. “I think - I want this. I want this.”

It’s enough talking, too much, and Berger cuts into Claude's words, interrupting him with another kiss. He kisses Claude again and again, pulls him forward so that their hips knock together and Berger groans, low and guttural into Claude’s mouth. Berger pushes at Claude, guiding him back even as his tongue urges Claude forward. He pushes Claude back until Claude’s legs bump the edge of the picnic table and Berger wraps his hands behind Claude’s thighs and lifts, pushing Claude up and onto the edge. Claude slides back, careful not to take his hands off of Berger, not even for a second.

Berger pushes his palm against Claude’s chest and Claude complies, breaking their kiss to follow the push of Berger’s hand back until he’s lying against the wood of the table. He shuts his eyes against the haze of the gray sky as Berger kisses his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, kisses his stomach and the line of his left hip. Berger's hands slide down Claude's sides until they're at his knees, pushing them wider, fingers sliding up the inside of Claude's thighs as his open mouth presses hot against the bulge in Claude’s jeans. Berger moans then, quiet and needy. Claude's fingers grip at the table and his hips jerk up, trying to get closer, wanting more, wanting everything. Berger's fingers push harder against his thighs, holding Claude still as Berger presses his face against Claude, as his tongue traces out the shape of Claude through denim.

Claude feels the first raindrops hit his face just as Berger’s fingers dance over the zipper of his jeans before disappearing, replaced again by the hot press of Berger’s mouth.

“We should go somewhere,” Berger suggests. His voice catches in his throat a little as he says the words and Claude reaches for him, a hand sliding across Berger’s face before his fingers get lost in Berger’s hair.

“Not yet,” Claude manages, closing his eyes at the rain. He shakes his head against the table. His entire body agrees that it’s not time to move.

“We can go to Sheila’s,” Berger says again, his words more sure this time. He turns his head to kiss the inside of Claude’s wrist. His hand is back, sliding up Claude’s leg to press against him, push and knead. The backs of Claude’s knees press hard into the edge of the table as he thrusts up into Berger’s palm.

The rain keeps falling, ready to finally cool New York. It can’t cool Claude. He wouldn’t be surprised if the drops evaporated as soon as they hit his skin. He wants to reach for Berger, one hand already lost in Berger’s hair and now the other itching to slide down, curl around the back of Berger’s neck. He wants to hold him there, Berger’s open mouth pressed against him so that he can feel that heat, that wetness, even through the worn fabric of his jeans. He moves against Berger’s hand, doesn’t want to pull away long enough to get out of his clothes.

His hand slides down to cover Berger’s, his fingers curling around Berger’s wrist as he thrusts into Berger’s palm. Berger bites at the inside of Claude’s right leg, his knee. Berger’s fingers hook into the waist of Claude’s jeans and pull so that Claude slides across the wood of the table, closer to Berger. He pushes at Claude’s leg until it’s propped up on Berger’s shoulder and then Berger’s fingers are at the button of Claude’s jeans, opening them here in the middle of everything, at the center of the world. Claude’s head knocks back against the table as the rain hits the exposed skin at his stomach, as air rushes in against him. Finally, finally.

Thunder rumbles in the sky and Berger pauses, still against Claude.

“Don’t stop,” Claude pleads. The storm isn't here yet. The storm will wait for them. “Jesus, Berger, don’t stop.”

He props himself on an elbow so that he can watch as Berger leans in and kisses Claude’s stomach, just below Claude’s naval. He’s beautiful with the rain caught in his hair, his eyes dark as he stares up at Claude. His chin bumps against Claude and Claude gasps and lies back. He turns to his side and looks out from the trees toward the rain hitting the path, the grass beyond. The park is empty, and Claude turns his head back just as he feels the press of Berger’s tongue, only the thin fabric of his underwear separating them now. He says something, incoherent, his voice strange in his own ears as he thrusts up against Berger’s mouth, his leg pressing hard over Berger’s shoulder, his heel digging into Berger’s back.

It feels so good, so close now without the barrier of his jeans, and Claude squeezes his eyes shut and imagines the next step, his underwear pushed down around his hips, Berger’s beautiful mouth wrapped around him. He imagines someone walking by, seeing them like this, seeing how gorgeous Berger is, how crazy he’s driven Claude, how crazy Claude’s been about him for weeks, since they met. Berger finds the head of his dick and he takes it into his mouth, tongue wetting the fabric so that it slides across Claude, just rough enough, just enough.

It’s too much. Claude feels like he’s been flirting around this his entire life. He can’t last like this, not with the friction of the fabric, the wet heat of Berger’s mouth. Berger pushes Claude over the edge in a rush of bright sweet light that courses through Claude’s veins, curls his toes as they press against Berger’s back, as he explodes against his underwear, against Berger’s tongue.

Afterward he lies there on the table, his entire body thrumming with release and love and desire. Berger shifts between his legs. Claude’s knee slides off Berger's shoulder to rest against the table. Claude comes easily when Berger pulls at his arm, pliant as he curls down into Berger's kiss. His hair falls forward, hiding this moment from the rest of the world, just them, together, alone. He feels the rain, cool on the back of his neck before it warms.

"Claude," Berger starts, breathing the words into Claude's mouth so that Claude can swallow them, savor the tone, the desire that weaves through one syllable, then three. "Claudio."

Berger is too far away, kneeling on the ground between Claude’s knees. Claude needs to be closer, needs to feel Berger. He pushes himself forward, sliding off the edge of the table until he’s on the ground with Berger, straddling his legs, their knees pressing into the dust that’s quickly becoming mud. He leans in and kisses Berger’s neck, the line of his hair. He tastes the skin at Berger’s jaw, rough against his tongue. Berger’s eyes squeeze shut and his mouth falls open. The rain comes down harder and Claude tastes the water in their kiss, wipes drops of rain from Berger’s face with the pad of his thumb.

Thunder rumbles overhead, louder now, closer.

Claude ignores it. His hands are on Berger’s thighs and he slides up now, fingers at the zipper of Berger’s jeans. Berger doesn’t expect it. He surges forward into Claude’s hand, into Claude’s kiss. Their teeth knock against each other with the thrust.

“Shit,” Claude says, pulling his mouth away from Berger’s. His teeth ache and he rests his head on Berger’s shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry,” Berger says, his mouth against Claude’s neck now.

Claude’s knees are soaked and muddy and Berger’s shoulder is wet against his cheek. His shirt sticks to his back. Everything seems a little broken suddenly, sitting here in the rain, and Claude starts to panic, picks his head up from Berger’s shoulder, takes a moment to really look at Berger.

Berger’s hair hangs into his face. Water drips from his eyelashes and the end of his nose. Claude reaches up to press a finger to the flushed line of Berger’s mouth. Berger kisses Claude’s fingertip, lips soft against the pad of Claude’s finger. When Berger smiles, Claude feels everything fall back into place. He lets out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and leans in close until their noses bump against each other. His other hand is still on Berger, unmoving, and when he leans in, Berger closes the rest of the distance, kisses him, rocks against his palm.

“Let’s get out of here,” Berger suggests, his mouth only inches from Claude’s. Berger thrusts into Claude’s hand again. His voice shakes as he says, “God, I want - Claude.”

Berger breaks off, doesn’t finish, but his palms slide down Claude’s wet back, down past the edge of Claude’s jeans, hands finding their way to Claude’s ass, gripping as he pulls Claude closer against him. Claude closes his eyes for a moment, lets Berger move them both and when Berger stops moving and says, “You’ve done this before?” Claude understands exactly what Berger wants.

He doesn’t even think about it, just says, “Yeah, okay. Yes.”

The thunder comes again with lightening close behind it, flashing through the dark clouds.

“Not here,” Berger says and Claude nods against him, releases Berger and stands. He reaches for Berger’s hand, pulls him up and off the ground. Berger’s fingers slide from Claude’s grip, slip down to hook underneath the band of Claude’s underwear, pull at the edge. Claude laughs and steps back so that the band snaps back against his hip. He reaches down to zip his jeans, then stops.

“Turn around,” Claude says, suddenly self conscious, worried that someone might catch them. “Cover for me for a minute, okay? I gotta take these off.”

“What?” Berger asks.

Claude reaches for Berger’s shoulders, turns him so that he’s facing out toward the open area of the park. It’s pouring, there is no one there to see them. Once Berger’s back is turned, Claude slides out of his wet jeans, setting them on the picnic table as he slips off his underwear and uses them to wipe himself off. He’s wet and muddy and uncomfortable anyway, but this helps. When he looks up, reaches for the jeans again, Berger has turned and is watching him. Claude’s been naked in front of Berger before, but never like this, never with Berger staring. He feels a little silly, standing there in no pants, his shirt sticking to him. He shivers in the rain and reaches for his jeans. Berger’s hand covers his as he grabs for his clothes. He’s not stopping him, just touching, fingers running over the back of Claude’s hand. Claude lingers before pulling away, before he slides his jeans back on. He pulls his belt into place and tosses his underwear into the woods.

They stand apart for a moment, awkward and unsure, and then Berger reaches for Claude, grips his arm and says, “Ready?”

They stumble through the park, through the storm. Claude’s feet slip on the mud of the path and Berger grips his arms to steady him. Claude laughs at his clumsiness, pulls Berger in to kiss before they continue down the path.

Berger’s thin shirt is soaked through and Claude watches the way it sticks and clings to Berger. When Claude reaches out to touch Berger, Berger stops, pulling them both to a halt again as he brings Claude in against him. Claude presses his fingers to the lines of Berger’s chest as they kiss, as Berger advances toward Claude, pushing Claude until his back hits a rock outcrop along the edge of the path.

Berger’s tongue pushes into Claude’s mouth and Claude’s forgotten the rain again, ignores everything but the slide of Berger’s mouth against his, the press of his fingers at Berger’s sides and the green of Berger’s eyes. Berger presses his forehead to Claude’s, takes a moment to stand in the rain, soak in the moment as the water drips from their limbs. And then Berger is moving again, his hand pulling Claude away from the outcrop, propelling them toward the edge of the park. Claude quickens his pace and passes Berger. Berger reaches out to grab him, pulls back until his hips hit Claude, pushing purposely against him. He holds Claude close and does it again. Claude leans back into Berger, lets Berger wrap one arm around his waist as he uses the other to brush Claude’s hair aside, pushing it up onto his shoulder. He kisses the exposed skin at the back of Claude’s neck, the releases him back to the path.

Claude stumbles forward. He’s thinking about it now, what will happen when they reach Sheila’s. He remembers all of his dreams, pictures Berger thrusting into her, hair falling in his face, the ends curling against her pale skin as he pushes in, leaning low over Sheila to kiss her throat. It’ll be his now. Berger’s lips on his throat. Berger’s hands on Claude’s skin. He imagines what it must feel like, Berger in him, a part of him.

“Claude?” Berger asks.

Claude starts, doesn’t realize he’d stopped walking until Berger’s hand touches his shoulder. Claude shivers at the touch, burns with it. He slides his hand over Berger’s, folds his fingers around Berger’s palm.

“Let’s go,” Claude says. “I’m ready.”

**

Claude he hates himself for holding back for so long, hates Berger for doing nothing when Berger is always so good at going with his gut. Most of all Claude hates that they need to wait twenty more minutes, wet and dirty and hard, in a crowded subway car before they can get back to what is really important. The train stops in Times Square and more people flood into the car, their umbrellas dripping on the floor.

A woman pushes her bag into Claude's back so that he's forced to shift forward against Berger. Berger hasn't stopped watching him since they entered the car. His hand comes up to steady Claude, an anchor at Claude's side. Claude presses even closer until their hips bump against each other and Claude can feel Berger's erection, has to fight the urge to press closer still. The car stops and the woman behind him loses her balance, lurching forward into Claude. Claude falls into Berger. Berger's eyes squeeze shut and his hand slides back to press at the small of Claude's back, holding him there even as the woman apologizes and regains her balance.

They're standing so close now, shielded by crowded passengers. Claude watches Berger watch him, watches as the corner of Berger's mouth twitches suddenly, threatening to curve into a smile.

"What?" Claude hisses. He misses the rain and the park. He misses having Berger to himself.

Berger doesn't say anything, instead slides his thigh between Claude's legs, rubbing against him.

Claude's knees feel like rubber and he brings his hands up to rest at Berger's waist. It’s too much. Everything is too much. Berger shifts against him and Claude's mouth falls open in a silent moan. He presses his face into Berger's shoulder, his nose against Berger's neck, his rain wet curls. The hand at Claude's back and the press of the crowd are the only things keeping Claude standing as he holds onto Berger, rocks against Berger's thigh with the motion of the subway car.

He wants to make it to Sheila's apartment, needs to get out of his jeans this time, but he won't even make it to Washington Square, not if they keep going this way. Not with Berger's hand sliding down from Claude's back to grip his ass, easing Claude's movement on his thigh, the friction of the fabric driving Claude insane, pushing him closer to the edge. He can't last that long. There's no way.

As though the subway can read Claude’s mind, it jerks to an abrupt stop, throwing Berger off balance so that he has to take a step back and away from Claude to keep from falling. Claude reaches for him, pulls him back, but they keep some space now, neither one of them wanting this to end here. Their breathing is heavy as they wait for the car to arrive at their stop. Berger shifts uncomfortably, pulls at his jeans, trying to adjust them.

Claude reaches out, hooks a finger through Berger’s belt loop, lets it hang there and feels better that he is still connected to Berger in this tiny insignificant way. When the car turns, bumping along the track, Claude uses the opportunity to swipe his thumb once, twice, over the bulge of Berger’s dick. Berger’s breath shakes and he tries to cover it with a short laugh.

Finally the car stops and they are pushing their way out into the station, nearly running the few blocks to Sheila's building. Berger kisses Claude on the stairs, stopping on the landing to push Claude against the rail. They reach Sheila's door and Berger turns the knob, ready to burst through. It's locked and Berger's shoulder hits the wood with a loud thud.

"Shit," Berger says. He rubs his arm as he turns back toward Claude.

Claude feels his breath catch. The apartment is locked. Claude’s already been waiting to touch Berger for so long, his entire life. He doesn’t want to wait any longer. He won't. Not long enough to find somewhere new. The landing will have to be it.

"Here," Claude says. "Here is good."

He reaches for Berger, already pushing Berger's shirt up toward his shoulders. Berger pushes back at Claude until Claude's back is to the door and then his tongue is in Claude's mouth, his lips pressing to Claude’s, already sore and red.

Claude pushes at Berger’s shirt until his hands find their way up and under the fabric, until his palms are free to touch Berger’s hot skin. He kisses Berger again, his fingers sliding from Berger’s skin to the front of Berger’s jeans.

The hallway is quiet except for their breathing, except for their mouths moving against each other. Claude’s fingers fumble with the button on Berger’s jeans, nervous, excited. Claude is hard again, has been since the subway, before, but he ignores it, focused on Berger now, on finally getting Berger out of his jeans.

“Wait,” Berger says, hands moving to stop Claude. “Wait, hold on.”

Claude pulls back, surprised that Berger would want to stop now, worried that maybe he’s done something wrong.

“What is it?” Claude asks.

“The key,” Berger says in a rush. “It’s under the mat.”

Claude releases Berger, stands aside as Berger bends to pull up the edge of the frayed mat.

“Is it there?” Claude asks, impatient. He feels exposed in the hallway now, just wants to get inside, just wants to move forward. When Berger holds up a small key, mouth stretched into a triumphant grin, Claude is quick to pluck it from his fingers, even quicker to slide it into the lock.

Berger’s hands are on his hips, pushing him into the apartment as soon as Claude pulls the door open. Once they’re inside, Berger locks it behind him. He’s done wasting time. Berger pulls his shirt over his head, drops it to the floor. His jeans are next as he moves quickly to unfasten his belt. They fold into a heap at his feet and Berger kicks them off with his wet shoes.

Claude’s damp shirt is uncomfortable where it clings to his skin. He doesn’t care. Claude stares at Berger, unmoving. He’s always known that Berger was beautiful. He’d noticed as soon as they met. But standing here, naked and aroused, his hair wet and his eyes dark, Claude thinks that Berger has to be the most amazingly beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Claude raises an arm, fingers stretching out to touch Berger, but he’s too far away, can only trace the line of Berger’s hip through the air. He steps forward and Berger reaches to meet Claude’s outstretched hand with his own, guides Claude’s fingers to his skin. Berger feels hot to the touch. The muscles in his stomach move as Claude touches him there, flutter in sync with Berger’s intake of breath. Claude leans in and kisses Berger’s mouth, then the freckles on his shoulder, then his chest.

He remembers how it was when they first met. He remembers the way he used to stare at Berger’s mouth, how even his teeth attracted Claude. He remembers staring at the bands of leather wrapped around Berger’s wrist for hours. Claude lifts Berger’s wrist to his mouth now, kisses the inside of it and tastes the leather strapped to Berger’s skin.

He presses his mouth to Berger’s chest, covers Berger’s right nipple with his tongue. He kisses Berger’s stomach, his hip. He’s on his knees in front of Berger, his hands on Berger’s sides. Berger watches, staring down at Claude. His hand floats above Claude for a moment, as though Berger is unsure what to do with it. It settles on Claude’s head, fingers scratching against Claude’s scalp before Berger’s hand falls away and comes to rest on Claude’s left shoulder.

Claude looks up at Berger and wonders how it could have taken him so long to realize this, wonders how he could have ever thought he might not want it. It seems laughable now, but Claude doesn’t feel like laughing. Claude’s hand slides down Berger’s side, his fingers press against Berger’s thigh. He leans in, his mouth high on Berger’s leg. He feels the hair there against his tongue.

Berger moans, quiet and low, the tables turned now so that Berger is the one frustrated and waiting.

Claude’s hand slides in. His fingers move to circle Berger’s erection. Berger shifts against him. His grip on Claude’s shoulder tightens and Claude presses his face to the warm crease where Berger’s leg meets his torso. He slides his thumb along the length of Berger’s dick, is surprised at how good it feels in his hand, by how turned on he is. His other arm slides around Berger’s back, holding Berger close against him.

Claude thought he couldn’t want this, but now Claude is sure he’s never wanted anything so badly. Claude has never been this sure about anything in his life before now. He turns his face in toward Berger and presses his tongue flat on the underside of Berger’s cock. He doesn’t know how to do this, not really. He tries to remember what’s been done to him, tries to remember how it always goes. He can taste Berger, salty and human and somehow familiar. When he slides the head between his lips, he feels Berger twitch against his tongue.

“Shit, Claude,” Berger says, but the words sound a million miles away from Claude, muffled by the sound of his heart beating in his own ears.

Claude doesn’t know what he’s doing, can’t seem to work a rhythm between his hand and his mouth at first. Once he goes too fast and accidentally gags, but Claude is determined and Berger is patient. Berger gasps when Claude slides his tongue across the head of his dick, curses when Claude becomes more confident and takes more in his mouth. Just went Claude thinks he’s getting the feel for it, thinks he might really love what this does to Berger, Berger stops him with a hand to his shoulder.

“Not yet,” Berger says. He folds down so that he’s kneeling on the floor beside Claude. Claude feels lost, wants to follow Berger down, wants his mouth back on Berger. He wasn’t finished, but Berger is pushing Claude’s shirt up and over his head. Berger leans in and kisses the exposed skin at Claude’s throat. He hums against Claude’s adam’s apple, his collar bone.

Berger pushes at Claude’s chest and Claude leans back, laughs when Berger purses his lips and blows a line of air straight down from Claude’s chest to his naval. Berger ends by kissing Claude’s stomach before he begins making his way back up toward Claude’s mouth. His fingers work to unfasten Claude’s belt and by the time he’s reached Claude’s lips, Claude’s jeans are unzipped and Berger is pushing them down Claude’s hips. Claude helps, unfolding his legs and sliding them past his knees so that Berger can pull them off at Claude’s ankles.

Berger leans in over Claude until their chests meet, until his hips slide against Claude’s.

“Thought we’d never get to this,” Berger says. “Man, I got off thinking about this so many times.”

Claude wants to say “Me too,” but Berger chooses that moment to wrap a hand around Claude’s dick and Claude loses the words. They weren’t important.

“I’ve gotta,” Berger starts, then let’s the sentence trail off. He reaches up and touches Claude’s face. He touches Claude’s eyelids, his cheeks, his jaw, and then Berger’s fingers press against Claude’s lips and Claude opens for them, sucks at them, tries to follow when Berger pulls them away.

Claude watches as Berger’s fingers disappear between their bodies, loses track until seconds later when Berger presses them back between Claude’s legs, sliding them across Claude. It feels good, Claude’s dick in Berger’s hand, Berger’s fingers massaging him there. It feels too good and Claude tries to squirm away, then changes his mind and tries to move closer instead.

Berger laughs at Claude’s indecision, at the gasp that Claude makes when Berger’s fingers press against him. Claude doesn’t care, just makes another pathetic sounding whimper instead.

Berger’s hand releases Claude and he pulls at him until Claude sits up, his mouth meeting Berger’s in a kiss. He lets Berger’s hands guide him until he’s turned around, bent over on his hands and knees. He feels a little strange bent over like this, but Berger’s placing open mouthed kisses down his spine, his mouth hot on Claude’s skin, and Claude pushes aside any apprehension and forces himself back into the moment.

Berger’s fingers return, massaging again and then the tip of one finger presses in and Claude closes his eyes, tries to relax. Berger’s finger slides in deeper and Claude can feel it pushing past the muscle, can feel it pressing inside of him. Berger slides his finger out, then back in again, farther still, and Claude reminds himself to breath.

Berger moves in with a second finger, sliding it in beside the first, stretching Claude, pressing as deep as they’ll go, then sliding back out. Berger kisses Claude’s left buttock, teeth scraping just a little at Claude’s skin, and then Berger leans in and kisses the spot where his fingers disappear inside Claude, his tongue on Claude’s sensitive skin.

Claude’s arms buckle under his weight and he curses, tries to turn and see Berger, tries to see what it looks like. He can only see Berger’s face pressed against him. Berger’s hair brushes the backs of Claude’s thighs as Claude watches Berger stroke his own dick. It’s so much larger than the fingers that Berger has inside Claude now.

Claude stares until Berger’s tongue presses against him again, teasing. He can picture it if he closes his eyes. He can imagine what it must look like, Berger’s fingers disappearing into his body, Berger’s tongue on his skin. Claude resists the urge to reach down and wrap his hand around himself. He knows it’ll be over for him if he gives in, and Claude wants to wait for this. Berger stretches his fingers and slides his tongue between them for just a moment before he pulls away, pulls out, and everything is gone.

“Hold on,” Berger says. He’s on his feet and across the floor before Claude has a chance to process what is happening. Claude feels exposed and empty, more than a little silly kneeling like this alone on the floor. He hears Berger rummaging around in the other room.

“Berger,” Claude calls. “Fuck, man. Come on.”

Claude pushes up on his hands, settles back on his knees and twists to see the door that Berger disappeared through. He strokes himself, once, twice, then reaches a hand back to touch himself the way that Berger was touching him.

Berger returns just as the tip of Claude’s finger slips inside. He stares down at Claude for a moment, mouth open as though maybe he’d been about to speak but forgot the words. He’s at Claude’s side in a second, on his knees, hand on Claude’s neck as he pulls him in to kiss. His other hand finds Claude’s and then Berger is pushing his finger in beside Claude’s, slick now with more than just spit. He wraps his palm around Claude’s hand, and when he pushes, their fingers slide deeper and Claude moans into Berger’s mouth. His body holds them tight together and Claude can feel his heart beating as Berger’s finger slides against his, pushing farther still.

Claude nearly loses it then. His hand releases his cock and he slides his finger out and away from Berger’s hand, takes a deep breath, tries to regain control.

“Okay,” Claude says. “I’m not gonna last if we don’t do this now.”

“Yeah,” Berger agrees. “Okay.” He kisses Claude one more time and then he pushes at Claude’s back until Claude takes the hint and leans forward, resumes his previous position.

There is a moment when it feels like nothing might happen. Claude is about to turn to make sure Berger is all right when Berger’s hands return, fingers sliding in easily this time, stretching, testing. And then the fingers are gone and Berger’s dick is there instead. It feels impossibly large as it presses against him, presses in, and Claude’s fingers grip the edge of the rug. It hurts, but the last thing that Claude ever wants is for Berger to stop. He feels stretched out and full. He feels connected to Berger, to life, in a way that he never has before.

Berger stops once he’s all the way in.

“Why are - you can move,” Claude says, nearly choking as he tries to articulate words. “This is good. I’m good.”

Berger starts to move then and Claude is more than good. His entire body aches with this, burns with it, and his heart is strumming Berger’s name. Finally Berger, finally this. Claude reaches his hand back to hold Berger’s thigh, urge him closer. Berger’s thrusts are deeper now, quicker, and Claude grunts with the force of the movement, ignores the burn of his knees against the rug.

Berger releases his hold on Claude’s hip. His hand reaches back to slide over Claude’s own where it pushes at Berger’s leg. Berger knocks Claude’s hand forward so that it returns to supporting Claude and then Berger leans over him. His folds his hands over Claude’s, intertwines their fingers, holding on to Claude as he moves inside him. Claude grips at Berger’s fingers where they slide between his. He holds on, pushes back, pushes Berger deeper. He wants more, wants all of it. Berger presses his face to Claude’s back. When he groans it vibrates against Claude’s skin.

It’s too soon when Berger comes, Claude’s name on his lips and his entire body tensing against Claude with release.

“Wait,” Claude manages to say, but the word comes too late.

Berger takes a moment to recover, his body heavy against Claude. As soon as he releases Claude’s hands, Claude reaches for him, tries to hold him in place. Berger gives Claude one last thrust before he slides out, leaving Claude empty and wanting more. Claude protests. He’s painfully hard. He needs Berger, needs to finish this.

“Shh, shh,” Berger says. He reaches for Claude, hands on Claude’s shoulders.

“Wait,” Claude says again, but he lets Berger guide him down onto his back, lifts his knees when Berger pushes at them. Claude reaches to grab hold of his erection and Berger knocks his hand away, wraps his own hand around Claude instead. Then Berger’s fingers are back, sliding into Claude without warning, three this time, and Claude open and slick and ready for him.

“Yes,” Claude hisses. He pushes down on Berger’s fingers, thrusts up into Berger’s hand. It feels like it’s been years since his last orgasm, years since the picnic table in the park. He just needs to get off, just needs Berger to bring him over the edge. Berger’s watching him. He licks his lips and Claude wishes that Berger would kiss him, misses Berger’s mouth on his. Claude’s lips part, waiting, but Berger doesn’t move in. Instead his eyes shift down, watching his hands as they work Claude, watching Claude’s dick slide through the circle of his palm.

“Berger,” Claude says when Berger starts to lean in. Claude can tell what’s coming, knows he won’t be able to survive it. He watches as Berger’s lips part, as Berger slides the end of Claude’s cock into his mouth. It’s hot and soft and everything Claude needs from Berger. Berger’s fingers push hard and deep as Berger’s tongue presses and slides over him, as Berger’s mouth works him.

Claude can’t last, doesn’t want to, and his head bangs back against the floor as he finally finds his release in Berger’s mouth. The orgasm bursts through him, curls its way from his groin through his chest, along his arms and down his spine, pulses as it echoes between his limbs. Berger’s fingers slide from Claude’s body, but his mouth isn’t finished, sliding soft over Claude as Claude’s entire body twitches and strums.

“Jesus,” Berger says as he pulls away from Claude. He crawls up Claude’s body to collapse on the rug beside him.

Claude grunts in agreement. He’s exhausted, worn out and used in the best possible way. He turns his head toward Berger, watches the rise and fall of Berger’s chest as he breathes. His heart swells and threatens to burst when Berger turns toward Claude and smiles, Berger’s head resting on Claude’s outstretched arm. Claude lifts his free arm, traces his finger across Berger’s smiling mouth. Berger nips at it with an exaggerated growl and then surprises himself with a yawn. He turns into Claude, tries to stifle it against Claude’s side, his open palm falling to rest against Claude’s chest, fingers tracing patterns into Claude’s skin.

“So, what do you want to do now?” Berger asks after a moment, laughs at the stupidity of the question. Berger doesn’t look like he plans to move anytime soon. Claude’s not sure he can move. He certainly doesn’t plan to. But Claude has an answer. For once Claude cares how they spend their afternoons and their evenings. For once every answer will be the same.

“This,” Claude says. “I want to do this. Every day.”

**

When Claude wakes up the sky is dark and Sheila is standing over them, their clothes folded over her arm.

“Hey, sleepy,” Sheila says, smiling down at him.

Claude should probably feel embarrassed, should feel guilty or ashamed, but Sheila’s expression is soft and comforting. Claude can’t see any hurt or betrayal in her face. And Claude is too exhausted for more than mild embarrassment at being caught naked on the floor of Sheila’s apartment, her boyfriend sprawled across him.

“Hey, Sheila,” is about all he can manage.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Sheila says, her voice low. Claude looks down at the arm draped across his chest, follows it to a freckled shoulder and then up to Berger’s face, still pressed against Claude’s side. Berger is sound asleep.

“Do you want to move to the bed?” Sheila asks.

Sheila’s bed. Claude’s dreamt about it, about what it might be like, to be invited to Sheila’s bed and not to run from it. Berger and Sheila, together. He shifts and his limbs ache from sex and from sleeping on the hard wood of the floor. He shakes Berger’s arm. Berger moves against Claude, shifts onto his side so that his leg folds over Claude’s and his dick is pressed against Claude’s hip. Once Berger finds comfort in his new position, he stops moving and his mouth opens to a soft snore.

“He sleeps like the dead,” Sheila explains with a smile. “Try shouting in his ear. Or grabbing his dick. That usually works.”

Claude thinks about it, reaching down and grabbing Berger in front of Sheila. He thinks about where it might lead. He’s surprised at himself to realize that he doesn’t want to do it. He isn’t ready to share this. It’s too new. Sheila is a genius, sexy and inspiring. And Berger isn’t Claude’s. He’s Sheila’s first and Claude is lucky enough that Sheila is giving in everything. But Claude isn’t ready for her to be a part of this.

“I think we’ll just stay here,” Claude says.

Sheila nods, unsurprised by his response. She sets their clothes on the arm of the couch and reaches for the blanket that’s folded along the back. . It isn’t cold in the apartment, not yet, but she’s opened the windows. Claude can hear people on the sidewalk below. The rain has stopped and a cool breeze wafts into the room. Sheila lays the blanket over them and then leans down beside Berger and kisses the top of his head. She catches Claude watching and she smiles and leans forward to kiss his cheek as well. She smells like rain and incense.

“Good night,” she says.

Claude watches as she retreats toward her bedroom. He thinks that he should stop her, say something, tell her that he won’t change anything, that he won’t take anything from her, that he loves her.

She’s about to shut the bedroom door when Claude finally finds the voice to stop her.

“Yeah?” Sheila asks.

He opens her mouth to tell her. Just ‘I love you’. It’s simple enough, but he can’t say the words. He does still love her, but he can see now how that love has always been tangled up with what he feels about Berger. He can see that right now all of it comes back to Berger, that he loves Sheila for her ideas and her voice and her soul, but he also loves her because she’s Berger’s love. He’s wanted her for herself, but also because Berger wants her, because loving Sheila always felt a little like letting himself love Berger. Saying it now, with Berger asleep beside him, not listening, feels like a lie. It’s never been just Sheila. It’s always been Berger too.

“Claude?”

“Nothing,” Claude says. “Good night, Sheila.”

Sheila smiles and picks at the paint peeling from the edge of the door as she watches him. He doesn’t expect her to say anything back. He thinks she knows. He thinks saying it all probably isn’t that important.

“I’m glad you and Berger finally worked things out,” Sheila says. It sounds just as sincere as everything she’s ever said to Claude and Claude thinks he was right. Sheila’s always known, even before Claude knew himself. Explanations were never necessary. Sheila smiles and blows Claude a kiss before she shuts her bedroom door.

Claude stares at her closed door. He loves them. He loves how different they are and how somehow they work together despite that. He could listen to Sheila talk for hours, could kiss Berger forever. Claude lies back, turns his head to stare at the ceiling of Sheila’s living room. Berger’s breathing is slow and steady beside him.

Claude doesn’t care about people’s teeth or the law or college. He doesn’t care about getting married or having children. He doesn’t care that his father thinks the army would do him good. Right now all that Claude cares about is on this floor and in this apartment, watching clouds move overhead as they lounge in groups in Central Park. For the first time in his life Claude’s pretty sure he knows exactly what he wants, and it isn’t a circus or England. It might not last forever and it might die out and fade.

Berger sighs against him. Claude reaches up a hand to brush the hair from Berger’s face. He looks different when he’s sleeping, his expression soft and relaxed, quiet. Claude wonders how this will work, how long it will last, how badly it will end.

If Berger was awake he’d say that Claude thinks about tomorrow too much. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that it might be awkward in the morning, that the end might be messy. What matters is that when the awkwardness comes Berger will make a joke, push it aside, and then they’ll move forward and it’ll be better than it was before. What matters is that right now Claude is here with Berger, with Sheila. Berger’s arm is around his waist and Berger’s mouth rests on his skin. What matters is that Claude knows where he wants to be tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. Claude’s found a place where he feels like he belongs. He was pulled here by gravity.