Hide and Seek, Show and Tell
Title: Hide and Seek, Show and Tell (1/1)
Pairing: Claude/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4300 words
Spoilers: Through 1-16, "Unexpected"
Warnings: Violence, sadomasochism, language, slash
A/N: Sequel to You're One Of Them. Takes place between "The Fix" and "Distractions" - some temporal details slightly blurred. Just a little fluff this time - and not posted as part of the Mature Heroes Quickie Challenge, because it's not exactly a quickie. :)
Summary: Peter and Claude's odd relationship develops - Peter continues the study of self-discipline, and Claude finds himself more emotionally vulnerable than he'd like.
I don't own Heroes; NBC/Universal megacorp does. No copyright infringement intended or implied; no profits of any kind generated or accepted; created for fan consumption and enjoyment only. Enjoy the show.
Sometimes, it was hard for Peter to remember why all of this was worth it.
Like being awakened by slamming down onto the hardwood floor of his bedroom after being yanked out of bed by his blankets, his ears assaulted by a nasty, half-screaming, strange-accented voice.
"I can see you, ya ponce!"
Peter sprung to his feet, instinctively grabbing a pillow off the floor and holding it in front of his crotch. "I was sleeping!" he bellowed back.
Peter, still sleep-fogged, couldn't see him clearly yet, but he could feel Claude's presence, standing back a few yards from bedside, a nice safe distance, enough room to run. "Doesn't matter! Think it matters to them? You've got abilities in your sleep; use them! One really intense wet dream, and you go Chernobyl. Your conscious mind has nowt to do wi' it." As Peter's vision cleared, Claude's face came into focus, his eyes sparkling with something that three days ago, Peter would have interpreted as rage. Now he knew it was a panicked, desperate disappointment, anger at Peter for not being capable, anger at himself for assuming that Peter could be. "I hoped to come in here to find what looked like an empty bed, not a bed with a tosser with a stiffy in it."
Peter glanced underneath the pillow; Claude had called it accurately. "I think I was dreaming about you," he lied, kidding, trying to change the subject, lighten the mood a little.
The only way Peter could tell that it was working was that Claude didn't punch him; his voice remained nasty and caustic. "Not about blowing up the city? Oh, that's nice, innit."
"Yeah, it is," Peter replied thoughtfully. He might not have been dreaming about Claude, but he also hadn't been dreaming about involuntary destruction, about losing control of an unearthly surge of power coursing through his body. About death. Instead, he hadn't dreamed of anything at all. He felt great, in fact. He wasn't even sore from yesterday's pummelings, or from last night's scary, thrilling consummation. "I got some sleep."
"The planet's bathed in joy. Now you've got a homework assignment for tonight -"
"Don't you get it?" Peter interrupted. "I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in weeks. Maybe you're the cause of that."
"Oh, ah?" Claude said airily. "How'd you reckon?"
"Well... for one thing, you fucked my brains out last night."
"I did not," Claude scoffed, looking away and waving his hand.
Peter stared at him, suddenly feeling cold and furious inside. "You deny it?"
Claude gave him a slight smirk. "Oh, no, I shagged you, but if that's what 'fucking your brains out' passes for these days, maybe the world really ought to be destroyed."
Peter couldn't resist a relieved, answering grin. He had fallen asleep wondering if he would think that he'd imagined the whole thing by morning. It was such a strange, ugly-beautiful miracle, such raw intimacy with a man who seemed to speak only the language of insults and pain. But if Peter listened closely enough, and didn't allow himself to be distracted by hurt feelings, he gathered new meanings from it. It was all part of the package; the learning of control.
And Claude had come back. He broke into Peter's apartment of his own accord, watched Peter sleeping, and didn't leave, even though he could have. Didn't kill Peter where he lay, even though he could have. Was beautiful underneath, was curious and caring underneath. It was all about the ability to see what was hidden.
"Are you going to show me what that kind of fucking's really like?" Peter raised the pillow up to his face, then back down over his loins, winked, and tossed the pillow back onto the bed, cocking his hip, his dark eyes challenging.
Claude went slackjawed and silent for a moment, his eyes locked onto Peter's erection, and Peter overheard Claude's thoughts, exactly as though he were speaking aloud. Too pretty. There ought to be a law. I could just suck him off and eat him alive right here; isn't there time? Peter put his fingertips against his suddenly aching forehead, wondering where that had come from, wondering if he could do it again. But he couldn't. It was just one stray thought, leaping across the divide between their heads.
Claude shook his head, blinked, then his scowl returned. "Enough show-and-tell, bright boy. Get your kit on and we'll hit the streets. You've got a lot to learn about basic survival."
"No," Peter said, smiling. "Let's stay here and do it."
Claude scoffed. "You've never been stupider, and that's really saying something, since you create new realms of stupid all the time. There isn't time for us to take a shag break every time you've got the horn. You're a danger, Peter. Either you get a hold on these bollocksed-up abilities you have, or else I'll kill you myself. And it won't matter then whether or not your brains stay in."
"You'd never kill me," Peter smirked, shaking his head.
The big man got right up in Peter's face, close enough for Peter to feel Claude's breath on his cheek. Claude's eyes were polar ice; his voice was colder. "Don't you fucking doubt for a second that I would. Now get your fucking kit on, or I'll bleed you out right here. I'm waiting."
"Let me..." Peter stammered, edging away, "uh... take care of this."
"No," Claude snapped, surprising Peter. "You can have a brick on all day for all I care. When you're running for your life, you don't have time to jerk off. And as of sixty seconds from now, if you're not dressed and on your way out, you are running for your life. From me."
Peter had never gotten dressed and out the door so quickly in his life.
***
"So was it really seven years since you'd had sex?" Peter asked.
He was getting better at dodging people passing along on a busy Manhattan sidewalk, even lifting a freshly-poured cup of coffee from a street vendor, who stared around him in alarm, looking for the cup that had just vanished into thin air. Peter held it out to the Englishman. "Sorry there's nothing in it."
Claude accepted the coffee with a grumpy scowl; his daytime version of a smile. "S'all right, I never want anything in it, anyway. Cheers. And yeah."
"So what did you do?"
"Sneak into locker rooms and masturbate, what else?"
"Women's locker rooms?" Peter insinuated.
Claude rolled his eyes. "You ask too many questions."
"If I don't ask questions, how am I going to learn anything?"
"What's my sex life got to do with you learning anything?"
"I had a good night's sleep," Peter pointed out. "Did you have a good night's sleep?"
"No, I didn't, thanks very much. 'Cos I know what's at stake."
"Worried about me?"
"Oi, listen to you! Worried about the planet, mate. Worried about what might happen if I-"
"What do you care what happens to the planet? You dropped out."
Claude stopped short and whirled around, his fist stopping Peter's next step like a brick wall. Peter immediately collapsed to the sidewalk, flickering towards visibility; passing pedestrians stared and rubbed their eyes. Peter grit his teeth and struggled to reconnect with his feeling of invisibility, like a tingling film all over his skin and his clothes and everything that he was touching except for the ground he walked on, and he wisped away from view, like a message written in steam on a window. Before he stood up, though, he lashed out with his foot and caught Claude in the shin; Claude grimaced in pain, but didn't move away, and didn't make more than the faintest grunt. He didn't even spill his coffee. He waited until the sidewalk had momentarily cleared, and hissed, "You don't know fuck-all about it, mate. You don't know what I've been through."
"Then tell me," Peter begged, standing up again and rubbing his jaw.
"You're not ready to know yet." Claude stood awkwardly, as if wanting to lend Peter a hand and help him get steady on his feel again, but not allowing himself to.
"I want to be ready. I want to be."
Claude grimaced, his face twisting; he was trying so hard not to smile that it looked painful. Peter carefully did not smile, only staring into Claude's eyes as intently as he could.
Want a kiss. Right now. Worse than love, this need.
Claude gulped down the rest of the coffee and crumpled the cup in his hand. "Come 'ead," he said, tossing the cup onto a pile of garbage bags on the side of the street. "Let's go up to the rooftop and get away from the hoi polloi - I'd hate for any of them to get hurt because of your fuckups."
The pigeons were already out for the day; Claude had risen early and sent them out. Peter had barely a moment to notice the empty hutches before Claude rushed at him with his fists held together, cracking hard into Peter's back right below the kidneys. Peter wished that he didn't cry out in pain, but he did, falling onto his knees on the roof tiles. "Get up, you overbred wop fairy!" Claude shouted at him, menacing him with kicks that came too close. Peter had to roll away, his legs wobbling like he'd just had an electric shock when he stood up. "Can't you see the future? Are you deaf? Listen for it! Watch for it - use those big eyes of yours for something more than imitating sad puppy pictures! You don't need super abilities to know what I'm going to do."
Claude's shoulder had tensed to strike, but before his arm could swing out at Peter, the younger man ducked back out of the way. And sure enough, Claude smiled, a genuine pleased grin, even as he used the other arm to land a blow on Peter's side under the ribs. Peter fell to the tiles again, whimpering. "Dammit, stop hitting me for a second!"
"Stop getting in the way of my fist! You don't want to get hurt? Stop letting me hurt you."
Trying to ignore the pain in his side brought Peter an odd moment of mental clarity. "Maybe I want you to hurt me. Maybe I'm getting something out of it."
"You're mad."
"Do you like hurting me? Maybe you get something out of it."
"Yeah, I like hurting you," Claude sneered.
"Do you think I deserve it?"
Claude stared at him, a rush of conflicting emotions on his face. Alarm, shame, the last twisted fragments of energetic anger falling away. "You're... you're making this about something that it's not, at the moment," he protested.
"It's all about the same thing," Peter muttered, glaring at Claude. "You scream at me about not knowing how the world works, when you're ignoring so much of yourself. Trying to kill parts of yourself by trying to kill me. I remind you of that part of yourself and you hate me for it."
"You're fucking right, I do."
Peter shook his head, sighing impatiently. "And you don't even have the... refinement to be ashamed of it."
"You calling me common?"
"You know you're common." Peter realized too late that he'd been outmaneuvered again; once again, it wasn't about what it was really about. Now it was just ordinary arguing, ordinary fighting. Peter would have to learn to be sneakier, to not only read between the lines, but write between them, to speak the truth without ever saying what was true.
For now, anyway.
"That's it, I'm off," Claude declared, shaking his head and shambling back to the penthouse entrance. "You can bloody well teach yourself, since you're so fucking posh and brilliant. I'm going to Mexico."
"Yeah, sure," Peter shouted at his back. "Just give up. Just run away. It's all you know how to do."
With a swift, silent, powerful attack that would do a tiger proud, Claude turned back and had knocked Peter down before Peter could even think to move out of the way, and spent the next minutes having the wind knocked out of him over and over again. Peter managed a delirious, reckless smile just before he lost consciousness. It had worked. It had brought him back. A broken rib wasn't too high a price to pay to save Peter's life, to save the world.
***
Peter did not succeed in his attempt to elude or overcome Claude that day, culminating with receiving a thrashing with a bit of broken antenna Claude found in a corner on the roof. Peter felt every lash of the stiff metal whip through his jacket and shirt, the thighs of his jeans, but he risked grabbing the quivering end of the antenna with his hand, snatching it away from Claude and tossing it behind him. His palm roared with pain, but when he looked at it, the skin was miraculously unbroken underneath a light film of blood. He didn't have time to wonder at it, though, as Claude was rushing at him again, swift and furious.
"I don't know what to do!" Peter cried in panic.
"Just do something!"
This continued until the sun went down, and the pigeons returned. Claude immediately calmed and quieted, taking a head count of the birds and scattering feed into their bins. Peter was too exhausted to pay attention at first, but as he got his breath back, he came closer and watched Claude attend to the pigeons. "Do they have names?" Peter asked.
"Yeah, sure, they're all named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. No, they don't have fucking names; they're pigeons."
"How do you tell them apart?"
"I know them," Claude murmured. "I've known them since they were hatchlings; I knew their parents when they were hatchlings. See, that bloke there, with the bandy leg. He's a nestmate with that one there, with the white flecks on the throat. See, they've both got round chests; they're good distance fliers, whereas that geezer there, with the shaggy feathers, has a much harder, more rectilinear breast. That means speed."
Peter cocked his head. "He looks like a Tupac to me."
"I was thinking Michael Caine in The Italian Job. Though you wouldn't know that film, would ya, pilgrim?"
"You called me a wop. That's so not cool."
Claude grinned. The pigeons visibly relaxed him. "You don't mind being called a fairy though, do ya?"
Peter was quiet for a moment. "Can we go back to my place now?"
"Yeah," Claude replied, a little distant, a little matter-of-fact; accepting, not making too big a deal out of it. The truth too bright to look at directly. "Stop for food first; slapping a bitch around really burns the calories."
And I have some more special slapping you around to do once we're home, pretty Ganymede. Last night's bruises are already gone; time to make some new ones.
It was eerie, hearing Claude's thoughts; Peter once again said nothing about it, knowing that it was really happening, that he had absorbed that ability from the cop he had spoken to down in Texas. Either Claude already knew, or he shouldn't know. Peter already knew more about Claude than anyone else had known, for a long time, and he didn't want to exploit that.
Back in the cool, pleasant, safe-seeming darkness of Peter's apartment, Peter closed and locked the door behind them, and immediately he felt Claude's fingers close around his neck. Not much pressure; Claude wasn't trying to hurt him, just draw them close together, pulling Peter in close to his chest. Hearts beating hard and fast, even though the fighting was long over.
"Kiss?" Peter whispered.
"You know better."
"What'll you, punch me in the nuts?"
"Don't tempt me."
His rib couldn't be broken after all, because his fast, shallow breaths would be stabbing him right now; instead, Peter felt a mounting, transcendent bliss, Claude's fingers around his throat, their faces so close. "I feel like... like when you're rafting. When you get caught up in the current, and it's so terrifying... exhilarating, but terrifying. You could get smashed up against the rocks any minute, you could capsize any minute..."
"Control, mate. Only you can do that; no one's gonna do it for you anymore."
Peter gripped the sides of Claude's head in his palms and brought their mouths together, hard, uncompromising. Claude opened his mouth and reciprocated the kiss tenfold, stealing the breath from Peter's lungs, then tightened his grip on Peter's throat until Peter had no choice but to give ground, and separate their lips. Claude's cock felt like a pistol against Peter's belly - but a recently-fired pistol, the muzzle still hot to the touch. Peter's hands were drawn to it like they were magnetic.
"Naked," he gasped a demand.
"No fear. My shirt stays on."
"Why?" Peter asked, half-quizzical, half-annoyed.
"Because I make the fucking rules, that's why. Now you take off your clothes. I want to see if I marked you."
Peter went to his bedroom, not looking behind him to see if Claude was following. He stripped off all his clothes, then turned back to the doorway, seeing Claude slouching against the door frame, his jacket off, his hand down the front of his unfastened trousers.
"Face the wall," Claude said. "Bend over."
This way, he couldn't see Claude's expression, and Peter would have given anything to have seen it. Instead, he felt the sure, firm touch of Claude's fingertips on his back, his ribs, the hollows and swells of his hips. "Hmm," Claude mused. "Not a scratch. How d'you reckon that?"
"Workwear jacket," Peter said with a shrug. "Industrial clothes. Designed to take a beating."
"Yeah," Claude replied. "I'm sure they are." His hands traveled down Peter's body, over the sides, from his armpits to the backs of his knees; Peter carefully didn't shiver or obviously betray his arousal, or how much it almost tickled. Almost, but not quite. "You're doing quite well. Making progress. Faster than I thought you would."
"I learn," Peter said, and immediately regretted having spoken; there was no way to disguise the husky, shaky, wavery tone of his voice. "I'm good - I'm trying to be good."
"You've got a long ways to go." Claude reached between Peter's spread thighs - Peter hadn't even realized before that he had parted his legs on being commanded to bend over - and gave his cock a hard squeeze. "You're dripping."
"Like I'm supposed to control that. C'mon." Peter let his own hands drift toward his cock, anticipating the punishment, loving the anticipation, loving the inevitability of it as Claude slapped his hands out of the way and squeezed his dick even harder, enough to make Peter gasp.
"Don't touch. It's mine."
Peter dared to glance behind him; Claude didn't notice, his gaze completely focused on Peter's ass as if mesmerized. Peter brought his stinging hands up to his chest, circling his nipples with his fingertips, but making no sudden moves. He asked softly, "Do I ever get to be on top?"
"When you've earned it."
"How can I earn it?"
"I'll let you know. For now, do what you're told. You're good at that, aren't you, pet?" The squeezing turned to stroking, dry palm against dry penis; Claude's hand swept over Peter's cockhead and returned warm and slippery. Peter really was leaking all over the place. "You do whatever big brother tells you. Does he ever tell you to do this?"
"No... no, it's not like that between us."
"Oh, no? So what's it like? I saw you speaking to him. To that Indian bloke, too."
"M-Mohinder."
"'M-Mohinder.'" Claude mocked Peter's breathy voice. "God. You fancy him, don't you?"
Peter blushed painfully. "Yeah," he confessed, suddenly realizing it himself.
Claude gathered saliva inside his mouth, spat it onto his fingers, and penetrated Peter. Peter managed his breathing carefully, and didn't curl his toes, didn't moan. "You fancy your brother too, dunnya?"
"...Yes."
"Explains a lot." Instead of elaborating, Claude turned Peter around to face him, keeping his fingers socketed into Peter's ass, and took Peter's cock into his mouth. Peter was silent and still with astonishment, gazing down at Claude's tangled hair, feeling that wide mouth taking him in. He didn't dare to smooth Claude's hair, to stroke his ears, any of the things that he would have done with someone else; with a woman. He let his arms hang free at his sides, his body aching now, thrumming with need. He allowed himself deep, audible, measured breaths; that was acceptably disciplined, wasn't it?
"I'm gonna come," Peter warned.
"Doesn't matter to me," Claude said.
"Yes, it does," Peter protested. "Claude. Yes, it does. It matters. I know it does. You want me to get off, otherwise-"
"I said I don't care. I'm not sucking your cock for you; I'm doing it for me."
"You're such a liar," Peter said, but he didn't know for sure. Maybe Claude really didn't care what went on between Peter's legs, except for the eroticism that Claude himself got out of it. Oddly enough, the thought that Claude didn't care was just enough for Peter's arousal to wane slightly, just enough for him to get control of it. And then Claude looked up at him, noting that subtle change in Peter's body, and smiled a clever, affectionate smile.
Peter took Claude's hand, pulling the fingers free from him, and backed down onto his bed, pulling Claude along with him. Claude didn't resist at all, kicking away his trousers and settling down onto the unmade bed with Peter. Peter wanted nothing more than to collapse into hard and passionate mouth-kisses, but he knew that he shouldn't push it. Instead he went to Claude's cock with his own mouth, affording Claude access to his.
He waited until he heard the first involuntary moan from Claude before he asked, "Are you going to actually fuck my brains out tonight? You know, for you."
"I will," Claude replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "and you can pretend it's your brother."
Peter quivered all over, struggling to maintain his control. "Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please," he mumbled, babbling, unable to say what he wanted to say, knowing that whatever it was, he didn't have permission, hadn't earned it. Claude knew, though. He understood. He pushed Peter face down on the bed, hiding himself; he could be anybody. He could be anybody Peter wanted.
This way, you don't have to look at my ugly mug.
"You're beautiful," Peter whispered, clenching his fists as he felt himself violated again, opened up, much easier this time, but still overwhelming, still almost unbearably intense.
"'Specially when you can't see me. Now shut up and dream of incest and let me fuck you."
"No-" Peter began to protest, which earned him Claude's hand over his mouth and an uncompromising, unrelenting pressure inside him, Claude pulling them tightly together, as deep as he could go, and deeper. Peter began to feel dizzy and he went limp in Claude's arms; Claude took back the hand that had silenced Peter's protests and used it to rake Peter's hair forward over his face, thrusting now, more gently than Peter had anticipated. Peter's defenses and coping mechanisms had been shattered; he moaned helplessly, repetitively, giving up breath for every stroke.
"Can I see you? Please? Let me hold you. Please? Please, I'm begging you."
"Just be quiet, for God's sake!"
"Does it embarrass you? Does it feel good?"
"Less talk, or I'll pull out and cock-slap you. No, no, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Claude dissolved into helpless laughter, pausing the rhythm of his hips momentarily, but the vibration of his laughing transmitted throughout his body and into Peter, and the next move he made tipped Peter over the edge to an obliterating ecstasy.
And Peter was silent through it, somehow.
Claude fastened his teeth on a spot on Peter's shoulder, right by the neck, on the left side. He wasn't exactly biting it, just worrying it with his teeth, kissing it, rubbing his tongue against it in sync with his thrusting. As he felt Peter spasm and then go limp in his arms, he increased his speed, holding Peter still, kissing the back of his neck, returning to the spot on his shoulder again and again. When Claude came, his teeth fastened on the spot, digging in deep, crushing the skin slightly, leaving four wine-purple marks, like equals-signs, on Peter's flesh. Now you've got one. If Claude's mouth hadn't been pressed against Peter's skin, Peter would have thought he'd spoken out loud, but Peter was too tired and blissed to do more than wonder what it meant.
"Ow," Peter sighed. He reached up to touch his shoulder.
"Never mind," said Claude. He sounded sad and resigned, and made no move to stop Peter from rolling over and facing him, his eyes examining Claude's face. Under the tangled hair and the beard, Claude wore a melancholy expression.
"Do I still have brains?" Peter asked, concerned.
Claude looked momentarily confused, then he broke into a smile. "I'm afraid I might have left you some brains, yeah," he said. "Sorry, I'm getting older. It takes lot more to fuck someone's brains completely out than it used to."
"You're just leaving some to fuck out later."
"Now you're just talking nonsense, mate."
Peter chuckled, "It's called pillow talk, asshole," and unthinkingly pressed his lips against Claude's. Claude returned the kiss, gentle, almost chaste, except for the silken presence of Peter's tongue peeking in.
"Thank you," Peter whispered.
"You'd do better to hate me."
"Yeah, well... I can't."
"If I hear you say those two words one more time-"
"You'll what? You'll what? Leave? Kill me yourself?" Peter sighed. "Let it go, okay. Sleep in a bed. It won't kill you."
"I better not see you when I wake up," Claude threatened, only able to hold the stern expression for a moment before he dissolved into a smile, and when Peter kissed him again, he didn't resist.
THE END
Additional note: It is plain that Peter has Claire's regenerative ability, but doesn't yet know that he has it. Claude suspects, though, which justifies him throwing Peter off the roof the next night. Kinky!
Pairing: Claude/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4300 words
Spoilers: Through 1-16, "Unexpected"
Warnings: Violence, sadomasochism, language, slash
A/N: Sequel to You're One Of Them. Takes place between "The Fix" and "Distractions" - some temporal details slightly blurred. Just a little fluff this time - and not posted as part of the Mature Heroes Quickie Challenge, because it's not exactly a quickie. :)
Summary: Peter and Claude's odd relationship develops - Peter continues the study of self-discipline, and Claude finds himself more emotionally vulnerable than he'd like.
I don't own Heroes; NBC/Universal megacorp does. No copyright infringement intended or implied; no profits of any kind generated or accepted; created for fan consumption and enjoyment only. Enjoy the show.
Sometimes, it was hard for Peter to remember why all of this was worth it.
Like being awakened by slamming down onto the hardwood floor of his bedroom after being yanked out of bed by his blankets, his ears assaulted by a nasty, half-screaming, strange-accented voice.
"I can see you, ya ponce!"
Peter sprung to his feet, instinctively grabbing a pillow off the floor and holding it in front of his crotch. "I was sleeping!" he bellowed back.
Peter, still sleep-fogged, couldn't see him clearly yet, but he could feel Claude's presence, standing back a few yards from bedside, a nice safe distance, enough room to run. "Doesn't matter! Think it matters to them? You've got abilities in your sleep; use them! One really intense wet dream, and you go Chernobyl. Your conscious mind has nowt to do wi' it." As Peter's vision cleared, Claude's face came into focus, his eyes sparkling with something that three days ago, Peter would have interpreted as rage. Now he knew it was a panicked, desperate disappointment, anger at Peter for not being capable, anger at himself for assuming that Peter could be. "I hoped to come in here to find what looked like an empty bed, not a bed with a tosser with a stiffy in it."
Peter glanced underneath the pillow; Claude had called it accurately. "I think I was dreaming about you," he lied, kidding, trying to change the subject, lighten the mood a little.
The only way Peter could tell that it was working was that Claude didn't punch him; his voice remained nasty and caustic. "Not about blowing up the city? Oh, that's nice, innit."
"Yeah, it is," Peter replied thoughtfully. He might not have been dreaming about Claude, but he also hadn't been dreaming about involuntary destruction, about losing control of an unearthly surge of power coursing through his body. About death. Instead, he hadn't dreamed of anything at all. He felt great, in fact. He wasn't even sore from yesterday's pummelings, or from last night's scary, thrilling consummation. "I got some sleep."
"The planet's bathed in joy. Now you've got a homework assignment for tonight -"
"Don't you get it?" Peter interrupted. "I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in weeks. Maybe you're the cause of that."
"Oh, ah?" Claude said airily. "How'd you reckon?"
"Well... for one thing, you fucked my brains out last night."
"I did not," Claude scoffed, looking away and waving his hand.
Peter stared at him, suddenly feeling cold and furious inside. "You deny it?"
Claude gave him a slight smirk. "Oh, no, I shagged you, but if that's what 'fucking your brains out' passes for these days, maybe the world really ought to be destroyed."
Peter couldn't resist a relieved, answering grin. He had fallen asleep wondering if he would think that he'd imagined the whole thing by morning. It was such a strange, ugly-beautiful miracle, such raw intimacy with a man who seemed to speak only the language of insults and pain. But if Peter listened closely enough, and didn't allow himself to be distracted by hurt feelings, he gathered new meanings from it. It was all part of the package; the learning of control.
And Claude had come back. He broke into Peter's apartment of his own accord, watched Peter sleeping, and didn't leave, even though he could have. Didn't kill Peter where he lay, even though he could have. Was beautiful underneath, was curious and caring underneath. It was all about the ability to see what was hidden.
"Are you going to show me what that kind of fucking's really like?" Peter raised the pillow up to his face, then back down over his loins, winked, and tossed the pillow back onto the bed, cocking his hip, his dark eyes challenging.
Claude went slackjawed and silent for a moment, his eyes locked onto Peter's erection, and Peter overheard Claude's thoughts, exactly as though he were speaking aloud. Too pretty. There ought to be a law. I could just suck him off and eat him alive right here; isn't there time? Peter put his fingertips against his suddenly aching forehead, wondering where that had come from, wondering if he could do it again. But he couldn't. It was just one stray thought, leaping across the divide between their heads.
Claude shook his head, blinked, then his scowl returned. "Enough show-and-tell, bright boy. Get your kit on and we'll hit the streets. You've got a lot to learn about basic survival."
"No," Peter said, smiling. "Let's stay here and do it."
Claude scoffed. "You've never been stupider, and that's really saying something, since you create new realms of stupid all the time. There isn't time for us to take a shag break every time you've got the horn. You're a danger, Peter. Either you get a hold on these bollocksed-up abilities you have, or else I'll kill you myself. And it won't matter then whether or not your brains stay in."
"You'd never kill me," Peter smirked, shaking his head.
The big man got right up in Peter's face, close enough for Peter to feel Claude's breath on his cheek. Claude's eyes were polar ice; his voice was colder. "Don't you fucking doubt for a second that I would. Now get your fucking kit on, or I'll bleed you out right here. I'm waiting."
"Let me..." Peter stammered, edging away, "uh... take care of this."
"No," Claude snapped, surprising Peter. "You can have a brick on all day for all I care. When you're running for your life, you don't have time to jerk off. And as of sixty seconds from now, if you're not dressed and on your way out, you are running for your life. From me."
Peter had never gotten dressed and out the door so quickly in his life.
***
"So was it really seven years since you'd had sex?" Peter asked.
He was getting better at dodging people passing along on a busy Manhattan sidewalk, even lifting a freshly-poured cup of coffee from a street vendor, who stared around him in alarm, looking for the cup that had just vanished into thin air. Peter held it out to the Englishman. "Sorry there's nothing in it."
Claude accepted the coffee with a grumpy scowl; his daytime version of a smile. "S'all right, I never want anything in it, anyway. Cheers. And yeah."
"So what did you do?"
"Sneak into locker rooms and masturbate, what else?"
"Women's locker rooms?" Peter insinuated.
Claude rolled his eyes. "You ask too many questions."
"If I don't ask questions, how am I going to learn anything?"
"What's my sex life got to do with you learning anything?"
"I had a good night's sleep," Peter pointed out. "Did you have a good night's sleep?"
"No, I didn't, thanks very much. 'Cos I know what's at stake."
"Worried about me?"
"Oi, listen to you! Worried about the planet, mate. Worried about what might happen if I-"
"What do you care what happens to the planet? You dropped out."
Claude stopped short and whirled around, his fist stopping Peter's next step like a brick wall. Peter immediately collapsed to the sidewalk, flickering towards visibility; passing pedestrians stared and rubbed their eyes. Peter grit his teeth and struggled to reconnect with his feeling of invisibility, like a tingling film all over his skin and his clothes and everything that he was touching except for the ground he walked on, and he wisped away from view, like a message written in steam on a window. Before he stood up, though, he lashed out with his foot and caught Claude in the shin; Claude grimaced in pain, but didn't move away, and didn't make more than the faintest grunt. He didn't even spill his coffee. He waited until the sidewalk had momentarily cleared, and hissed, "You don't know fuck-all about it, mate. You don't know what I've been through."
"Then tell me," Peter begged, standing up again and rubbing his jaw.
"You're not ready to know yet." Claude stood awkwardly, as if wanting to lend Peter a hand and help him get steady on his feel again, but not allowing himself to.
"I want to be ready. I want to be."
Claude grimaced, his face twisting; he was trying so hard not to smile that it looked painful. Peter carefully did not smile, only staring into Claude's eyes as intently as he could.
Want a kiss. Right now. Worse than love, this need.
Claude gulped down the rest of the coffee and crumpled the cup in his hand. "Come 'ead," he said, tossing the cup onto a pile of garbage bags on the side of the street. "Let's go up to the rooftop and get away from the hoi polloi - I'd hate for any of them to get hurt because of your fuckups."
The pigeons were already out for the day; Claude had risen early and sent them out. Peter had barely a moment to notice the empty hutches before Claude rushed at him with his fists held together, cracking hard into Peter's back right below the kidneys. Peter wished that he didn't cry out in pain, but he did, falling onto his knees on the roof tiles. "Get up, you overbred wop fairy!" Claude shouted at him, menacing him with kicks that came too close. Peter had to roll away, his legs wobbling like he'd just had an electric shock when he stood up. "Can't you see the future? Are you deaf? Listen for it! Watch for it - use those big eyes of yours for something more than imitating sad puppy pictures! You don't need super abilities to know what I'm going to do."
Claude's shoulder had tensed to strike, but before his arm could swing out at Peter, the younger man ducked back out of the way. And sure enough, Claude smiled, a genuine pleased grin, even as he used the other arm to land a blow on Peter's side under the ribs. Peter fell to the tiles again, whimpering. "Dammit, stop hitting me for a second!"
"Stop getting in the way of my fist! You don't want to get hurt? Stop letting me hurt you."
Trying to ignore the pain in his side brought Peter an odd moment of mental clarity. "Maybe I want you to hurt me. Maybe I'm getting something out of it."
"You're mad."
"Do you like hurting me? Maybe you get something out of it."
"Yeah, I like hurting you," Claude sneered.
"Do you think I deserve it?"
Claude stared at him, a rush of conflicting emotions on his face. Alarm, shame, the last twisted fragments of energetic anger falling away. "You're... you're making this about something that it's not, at the moment," he protested.
"It's all about the same thing," Peter muttered, glaring at Claude. "You scream at me about not knowing how the world works, when you're ignoring so much of yourself. Trying to kill parts of yourself by trying to kill me. I remind you of that part of yourself and you hate me for it."
"You're fucking right, I do."
Peter shook his head, sighing impatiently. "And you don't even have the... refinement to be ashamed of it."
"You calling me common?"
"You know you're common." Peter realized too late that he'd been outmaneuvered again; once again, it wasn't about what it was really about. Now it was just ordinary arguing, ordinary fighting. Peter would have to learn to be sneakier, to not only read between the lines, but write between them, to speak the truth without ever saying what was true.
For now, anyway.
"That's it, I'm off," Claude declared, shaking his head and shambling back to the penthouse entrance. "You can bloody well teach yourself, since you're so fucking posh and brilliant. I'm going to Mexico."
"Yeah, sure," Peter shouted at his back. "Just give up. Just run away. It's all you know how to do."
With a swift, silent, powerful attack that would do a tiger proud, Claude turned back and had knocked Peter down before Peter could even think to move out of the way, and spent the next minutes having the wind knocked out of him over and over again. Peter managed a delirious, reckless smile just before he lost consciousness. It had worked. It had brought him back. A broken rib wasn't too high a price to pay to save Peter's life, to save the world.
***
Peter did not succeed in his attempt to elude or overcome Claude that day, culminating with receiving a thrashing with a bit of broken antenna Claude found in a corner on the roof. Peter felt every lash of the stiff metal whip through his jacket and shirt, the thighs of his jeans, but he risked grabbing the quivering end of the antenna with his hand, snatching it away from Claude and tossing it behind him. His palm roared with pain, but when he looked at it, the skin was miraculously unbroken underneath a light film of blood. He didn't have time to wonder at it, though, as Claude was rushing at him again, swift and furious.
"I don't know what to do!" Peter cried in panic.
"Just do something!"
This continued until the sun went down, and the pigeons returned. Claude immediately calmed and quieted, taking a head count of the birds and scattering feed into their bins. Peter was too exhausted to pay attention at first, but as he got his breath back, he came closer and watched Claude attend to the pigeons. "Do they have names?" Peter asked.
"Yeah, sure, they're all named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. No, they don't have fucking names; they're pigeons."
"How do you tell them apart?"
"I know them," Claude murmured. "I've known them since they were hatchlings; I knew their parents when they were hatchlings. See, that bloke there, with the bandy leg. He's a nestmate with that one there, with the white flecks on the throat. See, they've both got round chests; they're good distance fliers, whereas that geezer there, with the shaggy feathers, has a much harder, more rectilinear breast. That means speed."
Peter cocked his head. "He looks like a Tupac to me."
"I was thinking Michael Caine in The Italian Job. Though you wouldn't know that film, would ya, pilgrim?"
"You called me a wop. That's so not cool."
Claude grinned. The pigeons visibly relaxed him. "You don't mind being called a fairy though, do ya?"
Peter was quiet for a moment. "Can we go back to my place now?"
"Yeah," Claude replied, a little distant, a little matter-of-fact; accepting, not making too big a deal out of it. The truth too bright to look at directly. "Stop for food first; slapping a bitch around really burns the calories."
And I have some more special slapping you around to do once we're home, pretty Ganymede. Last night's bruises are already gone; time to make some new ones.
It was eerie, hearing Claude's thoughts; Peter once again said nothing about it, knowing that it was really happening, that he had absorbed that ability from the cop he had spoken to down in Texas. Either Claude already knew, or he shouldn't know. Peter already knew more about Claude than anyone else had known, for a long time, and he didn't want to exploit that.
Back in the cool, pleasant, safe-seeming darkness of Peter's apartment, Peter closed and locked the door behind them, and immediately he felt Claude's fingers close around his neck. Not much pressure; Claude wasn't trying to hurt him, just draw them close together, pulling Peter in close to his chest. Hearts beating hard and fast, even though the fighting was long over.
"Kiss?" Peter whispered.
"You know better."
"What'll you, punch me in the nuts?"
"Don't tempt me."
His rib couldn't be broken after all, because his fast, shallow breaths would be stabbing him right now; instead, Peter felt a mounting, transcendent bliss, Claude's fingers around his throat, their faces so close. "I feel like... like when you're rafting. When you get caught up in the current, and it's so terrifying... exhilarating, but terrifying. You could get smashed up against the rocks any minute, you could capsize any minute..."
"Control, mate. Only you can do that; no one's gonna do it for you anymore."
Peter gripped the sides of Claude's head in his palms and brought their mouths together, hard, uncompromising. Claude opened his mouth and reciprocated the kiss tenfold, stealing the breath from Peter's lungs, then tightened his grip on Peter's throat until Peter had no choice but to give ground, and separate their lips. Claude's cock felt like a pistol against Peter's belly - but a recently-fired pistol, the muzzle still hot to the touch. Peter's hands were drawn to it like they were magnetic.
"Naked," he gasped a demand.
"No fear. My shirt stays on."
"Why?" Peter asked, half-quizzical, half-annoyed.
"Because I make the fucking rules, that's why. Now you take off your clothes. I want to see if I marked you."
Peter went to his bedroom, not looking behind him to see if Claude was following. He stripped off all his clothes, then turned back to the doorway, seeing Claude slouching against the door frame, his jacket off, his hand down the front of his unfastened trousers.
"Face the wall," Claude said. "Bend over."
This way, he couldn't see Claude's expression, and Peter would have given anything to have seen it. Instead, he felt the sure, firm touch of Claude's fingertips on his back, his ribs, the hollows and swells of his hips. "Hmm," Claude mused. "Not a scratch. How d'you reckon that?"
"Workwear jacket," Peter said with a shrug. "Industrial clothes. Designed to take a beating."
"Yeah," Claude replied. "I'm sure they are." His hands traveled down Peter's body, over the sides, from his armpits to the backs of his knees; Peter carefully didn't shiver or obviously betray his arousal, or how much it almost tickled. Almost, but not quite. "You're doing quite well. Making progress. Faster than I thought you would."
"I learn," Peter said, and immediately regretted having spoken; there was no way to disguise the husky, shaky, wavery tone of his voice. "I'm good - I'm trying to be good."
"You've got a long ways to go." Claude reached between Peter's spread thighs - Peter hadn't even realized before that he had parted his legs on being commanded to bend over - and gave his cock a hard squeeze. "You're dripping."
"Like I'm supposed to control that. C'mon." Peter let his own hands drift toward his cock, anticipating the punishment, loving the anticipation, loving the inevitability of it as Claude slapped his hands out of the way and squeezed his dick even harder, enough to make Peter gasp.
"Don't touch. It's mine."
Peter dared to glance behind him; Claude didn't notice, his gaze completely focused on Peter's ass as if mesmerized. Peter brought his stinging hands up to his chest, circling his nipples with his fingertips, but making no sudden moves. He asked softly, "Do I ever get to be on top?"
"When you've earned it."
"How can I earn it?"
"I'll let you know. For now, do what you're told. You're good at that, aren't you, pet?" The squeezing turned to stroking, dry palm against dry penis; Claude's hand swept over Peter's cockhead and returned warm and slippery. Peter really was leaking all over the place. "You do whatever big brother tells you. Does he ever tell you to do this?"
"No... no, it's not like that between us."
"Oh, no? So what's it like? I saw you speaking to him. To that Indian bloke, too."
"M-Mohinder."
"'M-Mohinder.'" Claude mocked Peter's breathy voice. "God. You fancy him, don't you?"
Peter blushed painfully. "Yeah," he confessed, suddenly realizing it himself.
Claude gathered saliva inside his mouth, spat it onto his fingers, and penetrated Peter. Peter managed his breathing carefully, and didn't curl his toes, didn't moan. "You fancy your brother too, dunnya?"
"...Yes."
"Explains a lot." Instead of elaborating, Claude turned Peter around to face him, keeping his fingers socketed into Peter's ass, and took Peter's cock into his mouth. Peter was silent and still with astonishment, gazing down at Claude's tangled hair, feeling that wide mouth taking him in. He didn't dare to smooth Claude's hair, to stroke his ears, any of the things that he would have done with someone else; with a woman. He let his arms hang free at his sides, his body aching now, thrumming with need. He allowed himself deep, audible, measured breaths; that was acceptably disciplined, wasn't it?
"I'm gonna come," Peter warned.
"Doesn't matter to me," Claude said.
"Yes, it does," Peter protested. "Claude. Yes, it does. It matters. I know it does. You want me to get off, otherwise-"
"I said I don't care. I'm not sucking your cock for you; I'm doing it for me."
"You're such a liar," Peter said, but he didn't know for sure. Maybe Claude really didn't care what went on between Peter's legs, except for the eroticism that Claude himself got out of it. Oddly enough, the thought that Claude didn't care was just enough for Peter's arousal to wane slightly, just enough for him to get control of it. And then Claude looked up at him, noting that subtle change in Peter's body, and smiled a clever, affectionate smile.
Peter took Claude's hand, pulling the fingers free from him, and backed down onto his bed, pulling Claude along with him. Claude didn't resist at all, kicking away his trousers and settling down onto the unmade bed with Peter. Peter wanted nothing more than to collapse into hard and passionate mouth-kisses, but he knew that he shouldn't push it. Instead he went to Claude's cock with his own mouth, affording Claude access to his.
He waited until he heard the first involuntary moan from Claude before he asked, "Are you going to actually fuck my brains out tonight? You know, for you."
"I will," Claude replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "and you can pretend it's your brother."
Peter quivered all over, struggling to maintain his control. "Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please," he mumbled, babbling, unable to say what he wanted to say, knowing that whatever it was, he didn't have permission, hadn't earned it. Claude knew, though. He understood. He pushed Peter face down on the bed, hiding himself; he could be anybody. He could be anybody Peter wanted.
This way, you don't have to look at my ugly mug.
"You're beautiful," Peter whispered, clenching his fists as he felt himself violated again, opened up, much easier this time, but still overwhelming, still almost unbearably intense.
"'Specially when you can't see me. Now shut up and dream of incest and let me fuck you."
"No-" Peter began to protest, which earned him Claude's hand over his mouth and an uncompromising, unrelenting pressure inside him, Claude pulling them tightly together, as deep as he could go, and deeper. Peter began to feel dizzy and he went limp in Claude's arms; Claude took back the hand that had silenced Peter's protests and used it to rake Peter's hair forward over his face, thrusting now, more gently than Peter had anticipated. Peter's defenses and coping mechanisms had been shattered; he moaned helplessly, repetitively, giving up breath for every stroke.
"Can I see you? Please? Let me hold you. Please? Please, I'm begging you."
"Just be quiet, for God's sake!"
"Does it embarrass you? Does it feel good?"
"Less talk, or I'll pull out and cock-slap you. No, no, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Claude dissolved into helpless laughter, pausing the rhythm of his hips momentarily, but the vibration of his laughing transmitted throughout his body and into Peter, and the next move he made tipped Peter over the edge to an obliterating ecstasy.
And Peter was silent through it, somehow.
Claude fastened his teeth on a spot on Peter's shoulder, right by the neck, on the left side. He wasn't exactly biting it, just worrying it with his teeth, kissing it, rubbing his tongue against it in sync with his thrusting. As he felt Peter spasm and then go limp in his arms, he increased his speed, holding Peter still, kissing the back of his neck, returning to the spot on his shoulder again and again. When Claude came, his teeth fastened on the spot, digging in deep, crushing the skin slightly, leaving four wine-purple marks, like equals-signs, on Peter's flesh. Now you've got one. If Claude's mouth hadn't been pressed against Peter's skin, Peter would have thought he'd spoken out loud, but Peter was too tired and blissed to do more than wonder what it meant.
"Ow," Peter sighed. He reached up to touch his shoulder.
"Never mind," said Claude. He sounded sad and resigned, and made no move to stop Peter from rolling over and facing him, his eyes examining Claude's face. Under the tangled hair and the beard, Claude wore a melancholy expression.
"Do I still have brains?" Peter asked, concerned.
Claude looked momentarily confused, then he broke into a smile. "I'm afraid I might have left you some brains, yeah," he said. "Sorry, I'm getting older. It takes lot more to fuck someone's brains completely out than it used to."
"You're just leaving some to fuck out later."
"Now you're just talking nonsense, mate."
Peter chuckled, "It's called pillow talk, asshole," and unthinkingly pressed his lips against Claude's. Claude returned the kiss, gentle, almost chaste, except for the silken presence of Peter's tongue peeking in.
"Thank you," Peter whispered.
"You'd do better to hate me."
"Yeah, well... I can't."
"If I hear you say those two words one more time-"
"You'll what? You'll what? Leave? Kill me yourself?" Peter sighed. "Let it go, okay. Sleep in a bed. It won't kill you."
"I better not see you when I wake up," Claude threatened, only able to hold the stern expression for a moment before he dissolved into a smile, and when Peter kissed him again, he didn't resist.
THE END
Additional note: It is plain that Peter has Claire's regenerative ability, but doesn't yet know that he has it. Claude suspects, though, which justifies him throwing Peter off the roof the next night. Kinky!