Once Had Wings (1/2)
Title: Once Had Wings (1/2)
Pairing: Claude/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3900
Spoilers: Through 1-17, "Company Man"
Warnings: Violence, language, slash
A/N: This is more Claude's perspective on things; I'm in Peter's head all the time and I thought I'd try mixing it up a little. Sequel to You're One Of Them (part 1) and Hide and Seek, Show and Tell (part 2). I always try to write short things, but then this happens. :)
Summary: Peter gets closer to Claude's way of seeing things. Claude gets closer to Peter's way of seeing things. Neither one of them likes it.
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.
Later, with the sound of rain against the windows, erasing the world outside for a while.
"Just do whatever you want." Peter, spread out on his bed, arms out, knees parted, naked and helpless as a baby bird, his pale skin almost glowing in the dark, spoke as though he were talking in his sleep. One of those weird things that Peter did when he was aroused - becoming completely passive. Aggressively passive. His openness a dare, exposing his belly, throat, wrists, groin, demanding to be taken, hurt, torn into, torn apart. "Just do it. Do whatever."
Claude couldn't bear it, this vulnerability, this fragility. Did the kid really think that he was safe, displaying himself like that? Did he trust Claude not to hurt him? How could he? Claude acted on instinct, like one of his brooding pigeons, lowering himself down onto Peter, covering him, bringing his limbs together, embracing all of him at once. Underneath him, Peter moved feebly, weakly, as though he were dying of something beautiful and tragic. Maybe consumption or something else Victorian and poetic. Would suit him and his pretty looks and his refined graces.
But then that slim body tensed into steel, his legs sliding out and wrapping around Claude's legs, trapping him in place. Not so helpless after all. "You fucking killed me," Peter whispered.
"I told you I would," Claude responded, smiling. "Feh. You weren't dead for very long, though, were you?"
They moved apart at the same time, Peter opening his legs to let Claude's free, and Claude raising himself up onto his elbow, running his hand across Peter's torso. There wasn't a scratch on the skin on his chest, even if there were still smudges of dried blood, and tiny metal fragments caught in the trail of hair leading down from his navel. Claude licked his fingers and stroked the hairs until all of the metal shavings had been wiped away, pretending not to notice Peter arching his back, biting the tip of his tongue as it emerged from his lips, humming with blatant pleasure.
It was getting harder and harder to Claude to resist reacting to him; now it was just a matter of holding out for as long as he could. The worst part was that Peter knew that Claude no longer had the upper hand; they were nearing equilibrium. How had Claude let his guard down? How could he have let the kid get to him, let the kid turn Claude's own game against him? Claude clenched his fists and shut his eyes. It was easier to manage when he didn't have to see Peter's face, didn't have to look at those lips. I want to kiss 'em until they move like normal lips do, kiss 'em straight... but Peter's lips aren't going to go straight any time soon if I've got anything to do with it, no, no... Claude chuckled at himself.
"Will you take your clothes off?" Peter murmured. "Don't you owe me that?"
"No, I don't." Claude's voice came out a bitter, distant mumble. "You don't have to see me."
"I wanna feel you." Peter opened his eyes, and asked, "Is it horrible?" Then, smiling, "Do you got wings or somethin'?"
"Yeah, and they were cut off," Claude shot back without thinking. To make sure Peter didn't ask any more questions, he bent in and kissed Peter, trying to be rough and hard, trying to be what he had been, but it didn't turn out that way at all. It was a lush and tender kiss; a Peter Petrelli kiss, not... one of his.
Not coming from what he was now; what he'd had to become. But that was being stripped away from him, worn away by the touch of that boy's smooth and clever fingers, the delicate strangeness of his lips. He felt Peter taking his clothes off, and he didn't stop him.
Still, as soon as his shirt came off, he grabbed Peter and turned him over face-down against the bed, burying his face in the skin of Peter's back, kissing him convulsively. Now that he'd given into Peter's demands to be kissed, he couldn't stop. The backs of his thighs, the round and muscled curves of his ass, the soft hair like the down of adolescent birds.
They didn't quite know how to fly at first, either. Sometimes they fell out of the nest and went splat on the pavement. But they didn't usually get back up after that, though.
Up above, Peter spoke, his voice hovering between white-hot anger and simmering lust. "You gonna fuck me? Go ahead, fuck me. It's what you do. It's what I want. You know it."
"I don't know," Claude replied softly.
"No? You sure assume I do."
"Don't you?"
It was an honest, direct question, and Peter pouted resentfully at it, giving Claude all the answer he needed. It was like dealing with a child - Do you want ice cream? Do you want a story? Do you want a nap? Claude remembered. All these Petrellis were the same underneath. "You make me do it. You just ripped away everything I had. Everything. You owe me."
"I don't owe you shite. I don't make you do anythin', remember? This was your idea. All of it." Claude, raised up onto his hands, met Peter's eyes. Peter's eyes were vast pools of darkness, his pupils dilated from low light and desire, accusing, glinting with psychic pain. "You came to me."
Peter broke the gaze, his expression blurring as he felt Claude's hands massaging his buttocks, manipulating them, spreading them, kneading them like dough. "You met me halfway," Peter murmured.
"I had to. And I wanted to." And I wanted you. Tragic old me, and tragic little you. "Who doesn't want to save lives if they've the chance?"
Peter sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Just..." Peter never bothered to finish the thought; he raised himself up on hands and knees and turned around to face Claude, tucking his long, dirty black hair behind his ear, and going down on Claude. Claude moaned louder than he had in years; he just couldn't keep it inside anymore. Peter's greedy mouth sucked him in, spit him out, rolled Claude's cockhead back and forth across his tongue relentlessly, saliva dripping down to cover him.
It was so good, Claude almost felt like singing. "God! You cocksucking whore."
Peter paused and stared up at him with that same expression, that terrible, hollow, cold steel rage, that he'd been wearing since sunset. Since Peter'd seen that girl he fancied, embracing that painter bloke with the easy familiarity of long-time lovers. The look on Peter's face scared Claude and filled him with dismay. That's what he'd been trying to achieve? Yes, it was. And now that it was here, Claude wished he could take it back. But there was no other way. "I wasn't before I met you," Peter hissed.
"No?" Claude blinked dizzily. "Well, welcome to the land of the queer, and the home of the shamed."
The kid wasn't in the mood for puns. "I don't know about you, but I ain't ashamed of a fucking thing. Guess this is better now, anyway, huh? No more chicks. We can... go be Greek warriors together." Peter shook his head a little, even smiling faintly, and slurped Claude's cock a bit more. "Die on the battlefield. Ganymede - isn't that what you call me?"
Claude was just coming then, and Peter's question broke his concentration, making his orgasm into a reflex about as pleasurable as a half-stifled sneeze. "I've never - I've never called you that," Claude stammered. Peter looked instantly guilty and embarrassed. "Not to your face. Did you - did you..."
"I... overheard your thought. Sorry."
"You overheard...? Fuck." Claude immediately pulled away, stood up, walked a few steps. "Anything else you're not telling me, Boy Wonder?" he snapped.
"Whatever it is," Peter shot back, "it's not even a tenth as much, or as important, as what you're not telling me. Okay?" He waited until Claude's eyes were on him again, then wiped spilled semen off his chin, and licked his finger and thumb. Claude stared at him for a long time, forgetting what they were arguing about, and Peter quirked him a fragment of a smile. "Tastes terrible," he said with a wink.
Claude sighed heavily, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, cradling himself. Not in the mood for jokes, either; not in the mood to fall for cute and dirty. He felt violated and paranoid. "I should have killed you. I should have."
Peter stared at him. "C'mere. Please. I'm sorry. I should've... I should've told you, I guess." The kid was seeing him for real now, seeing all the scars, all that shit Claude had tried so hard to hide. He hadn't done a very good job, though, had he? - what had it been, three days and four nights? Peter won. Claude lost. That was that.
He could practically feel Peter's eyes taking in the lumpy bullet impact sites, chunky railroad tracks of where he'd had his skin stapled back together along his stomach, glaring pink-white lightning across his back where he'd landed on, been ripped open by jagged Texas rocks. "You did have wings," Peter murmured.
"I told you."
"Those are ... bullet wounds, aren't they? I remember seeing that in school. Jesus, how many times have you been shot?"
Claude sighed. "Six. But only half of them came from people who were my friends. So fuck you, all right? Fuck you!" The outburst startled Claude, even as it was coming out of him. "You don't know shite, okay? Fuck friends and fuck you. It's all a... crock of bullshit." He grabbed his clothes from the floor and the bed, jerked them on with shaking hands, and collapsed into the chair opposite the bed. Be nice to cry, but that was Peter's gig. Claude wasn't allowed. He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers until he found the half-crushed packet of cigarettes that he hadn't touched in days, lit one up. How to say "fuck you" when he didn't trust himself to speak.
Peter silently rose from the bed, and got dressed himself before approaching Claude with the empty beer bottle that Claude had drained the day before, and had remained on the mantelpiece since. "I didn't know you smoked," Peter murmured.
"Well, you can't when you're invisible in public, can you." And I forgot all about it. You were my only compulsive behavior these last few. Claude snatched the bottle from Peter and dropped the cigarette down into it, swirling it out in the drops left at the bottom. He expected Peter to sink to the floor and put his head into Claude's lap, but Peter remained standing, one hand hovering above Claude's shoulder, not daring to make contact now. Scared again. Put back in his place. Again, not what Claude wanted; it was just what he did.
Peter left the room, took a shower, then walked past Claude to the other room. Claude brooded, lighting another cigarette. Before long Peter returned with two coffee mugs, handing one to Claude. Claude took a sip - black coffee, with a surprising, strong, sweet-sharp tang of whiskey. He glanced up at Peter, who sat down on his bed opposite, tucking his legs under him. When Claude had finished his cup, Peter got up and brought him a fresh one, repeating the same pattern as the night wore on.
Claude sat silently, lost in thought. He didn't know if Peter could "overhear" it; a part of him hoped that Peter could. Easier than speaking aloud.
***
"Nobody sees me!"
But he had been seen.
"Don't follow me."
But he had been followed.
So hard to walk away from Peter, for so many reasons. Most of him wanted to run away, run fast, get lost, get out of town, try to disappear into a new city. But New York needed Claude, and Claude needed New York, with its density and its continuous, unrelenting speed, where no one had the time to notice missing things or disembodied voices, where he could be surrounded by people without any of them being able to take notice of him. As long as he stayed hidden - and he did, instinctively - he could keep an eye on things without having to get mixed up in them again, without putting himself at risk again. Staying one step ahead.
But he'd gotten soft, hadn't he? Otherwise, the Petrelli kid would never have run across him. He should have taken more notice of the Petrelli younger son, but it was so much more fun to dislike the older one, to be amused by his rise to political power. And all the while, there was this freaky empath walking around, this Roman statue of a demigod wearing the costume of a downtown trust fund kid, ready to rip Claude out of his comfortable anonymity.
The week before, Claude had stolen the key to an empty third-floor apartment within easy walking distance of his pigeons. It wasn't a very nice place, but it did have a door that he could lock, and a bedroll he had tucked in the closet for situations like these. He spread it out and lay on it, fully clothed and with his boots still on, and the key tucked into a zipper pocket of his coat; there were folks out there who could phase through walls, and he wanted to be prepared to run at a moment's notice.
That little fucker had seen him. That shockingly beautiful, clueless, desperate little fucker with the great big eyes and the skin like thin white velvet that Claude crushed in his hand. Saw him. Looked into him. Tried to follow him home like an abandoned puppy.
He knew he shouldn't be wasting the time, the energy, or the mental effort, but Claude's thoughts had completely run away with him, and he decided to follow it. He'd never be able to get the kid out of his mind if he didn't deal with it right away. He was just horny; the Petrelli kid was just sexy. A wank wouldn't kill him.
Ah, the trouble I could get into, with a boy like that. Ahhh... trouble. Trouble. He probably doesn't even realize, does he? But I could tell by the way he looked at me. Yeah, I could bend him over and eat him until my jaw got a cramp.
Claude came so fast and so hard that it took him by surprise, and he almost gave an ecstatic cry at the top of his lungs, only to trap it behind his closed lips at the last second. He still couldn't be silent, though; he sounded to himself like a lion coughing, muffling his voice with a fist pressed against his mouth. It wouldn't be loud enough to be heard in any of the adjoining apartments, probably, and that was all that mattered.
He fell asleep almost instantly, even forgetting to do up his trousers again. When he woke up just before dawn, he found himself face down on the bedroll with his keks around his ankles. He was halfway to the bathroom before he remembered the dream he'd been having.
The trouble kid. Peter. Staring at him from across an empty street, his face almost comically serious. Claude crossed the street to Peter, then held out his hand, and led Peter across to where Claude had been standing. Peter turned and looked back, then back at Claude, and nodded, saying, "It's you." Then everything repeated all over from the beginning, but each time Peter spoke to Claude, he was closer, closer, until their faces were inches away from each other, and Claude could feel Peter's breath.
Erotic, all right. But there were pigeons to tend.
When Claude opened the apartment door, he made out a big dark lump on the threshold in the unlighted hallway. A Petrelli-sized lump. Black jacket wadded under his head for a pillow, his ear near the crack of the door. Listening. Waiting. Completely unconscious. Peter didn't stir; he was frowning hard in his sleep, as though it were hard work. Claude grinned at him, flattered and fascinated. But not too much; there were pigeons to tend, and if this boy was serious, he'd figure it out. Specials were particularly keen on finding each other, even when trouble usually resulted from their being near one another. Especially for this one. He was just lying there in the hallway, not even invisible. "Stupid pretty poodle," he whispered, stepping over Peter, locking the door behind him as quietly as possible.
In his head, Claude chanted over and over, Find me, Petrelli. Find me.
It didn't take Peter long to do just that, tailing him back to the rooftop. But, after Peter told him a load of incoherencies about his powers and his lack of control over them, Claude tossed him back out to sea. The kid needed to find some clarity, and figure out what exactly he needed to do, exactly what he was asking of Claude. It wasn't until after Claude walked away a second time that he realized that Peter had nowhere else to turn, and that he probably was going to blow up and wreck the city if somebody didn't step up and help. At least keep him from spilling his information all over the place. He wouldn't survive long, if the wrong people knew about Peter's strange ability.
Not that Claude knew why he cared so much.
So Claude followed Peter home, and saved him from his brother and his security goon, and that South Asian with the scarf. And staring down at Peter, their bodies pressed together again, Claude saw that look. Fear. Trust. Longing. Desperation. Help me. I'll do whatever you want if you help me. I am willing. I am yours.
Should have killed him then, and saved himself the trouble. Problem was, Claude wasn't a killer, but he was curious. Bored. Egotistical, probably. Lonely. And so horny he wondered some days if he wasn't going mad.
And there was Peter the Willing. How could he-? Why would he-? The kid had to be stupid. It was impossible not to hurt him, impossible not to take pleasure in hurting him. Impossible that Peter would take it, more impossible that Peter would like it. Would demand more.
Had said he was beautiful.
***
"Time to tend the birds."
Peter blinked and shook his head; he'd been zoning out, essentially sleeping with his eyes open. Instantly, though, he was completely awake. The room was still dark. "How can you tell?" he asked, already pulling on his boots.
"Instinct. Wake with the birds long enough, you'll be able to tell too. Or you can always just stand next to someone who can always tell what time it is. I'm sure there's somebody out there like that." Claude stretched in the chair, then stood up and stretched a bit more. "At least we don't have to stop for coffee, eh? I don't know how you managed to sleep."
"I wasn't sleeping." Peter was already at the door, waiting for Claude to go out first.
"Save your lies for something important."
"All right. How 'bout the truth, then?" Peter paused in the hallway outside his apartment, locking the door, not looking at Claude, giving him his space. "If it wasn't for the pigeons, I'd really love to fuck you right now."
Claude couldn't resist smiling a little, turning Peter's face toward his, giving it a good look. Peter hadn't shaved when he showered, only washed the blood out of his hair, his angular cheeks and jaw made more so by the dark shadow of stubble. Claude lightly kissed Peter on the lips, and said quietly, "The pigeons thank you, and I'm sad. Let's go."
Somehow they made it to the rooftop by the time the sun rose over the cloud-obscured horizon, and Claude opened most of the hutches and let the birds flap out and into the sky. He stood looking up at them, his heart soaring up with them as it did every morning (it was usually the highlight of his day), and thus didn't notice Peter coming at him with the broken metal antenna until it was too late. Peter got in two good, hard strokes with the antenna on Claude's legs before Claude was able to react, snatching the antenna away, and shoving Peter down onto the rain-puddled ground. "Ya little shit!" Claude yelled.
Peter laughed. "How's it feel, huh?"
Claude boiled. "You oughtn't to have done that, mate - now I'm going to fucking kill you."
"Huh! It's not like you've never done it before."
"You'll wish it took!"
Peter's cockiness ran out fairly quickly as sleep deprivation caught up with him, and he seemed to be completely unable to access his abilities. After a depressingly short time, he was mostly just running away from Claude, when he was able to stand up and use his legs at all. Claude felt no ill effects from the late night. "What are you waiting for, poodle? Not so clever now, are ya? Eh?" He swung the antenna at Peter's ankles, and the thin metal bent hopelessly against the hard top of Peter's boots. It still stung, though, judging by Peter's hopping dance of agony. Claude tossed the useless thing away. "How does that feel, huh, bright boy?"
"Dammit... I was just beginning to like you."
"That's a mistake. What we do at night has nothing whatsoever to do with what we're doing now, and it'd serve you well to remember that-" Claude grabbed a nice, thick, solid wooden pole from the side of the pigeon hutch, and swung it hard at Peter. He had three more stashed up here on the roof, just in case, and nine years of kendo training to help him know what to do with big sticks. The pole caught Peter square in the shoulder blade, and the kid emitted a satisfyingly dire howl. "Keep your mind on what you're doing or else none of this means anything!"
"It hurts! I can't think!"
"No, you bloody well can't, can you! You're a waste of my fucking time!"
Claude chased him around for a while longer, getting in some good licks. He didn't have to be careful; even if Claude snapped his spine, Peter would only need a minute or so to heal up.
And sure enough, as soon as Peter truly got sick of it, he made it stop.
Claude almost collapsed with relief himself. It was working; he had finally made a difference in Peter, and only had to kill him a little bit to do it. Only had to sacrifice a little of himself to do it. There was hope after all.
Then Claude wondered how long it would be before Peter's inevitable betrayal. Of course Peter would betray him; he had to. It was the way of things. And it wouldn't do for Claude to get too broken up about it. Too much more broken up about it, anyway. He'd lose Peter, one way or the other.
Maybe the betrayal wouldn't happen for a while. Maybe he'd helped Peter enough to prevent the apocalypse and they could continue their lives together -
Maybe he was just daft.
Claude picked up one of his spare sticks, and hit Peter in the face.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO...
Pairing: Claude/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3900
Spoilers: Through 1-17, "Company Man"
Warnings: Violence, language, slash
A/N: This is more Claude's perspective on things; I'm in Peter's head all the time and I thought I'd try mixing it up a little. Sequel to You're One Of Them (part 1) and Hide and Seek, Show and Tell (part 2). I always try to write short things, but then this happens. :)
Summary: Peter gets closer to Claude's way of seeing things. Claude gets closer to Peter's way of seeing things. Neither one of them likes it.
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.
Later, with the sound of rain against the windows, erasing the world outside for a while.
"Just do whatever you want." Peter, spread out on his bed, arms out, knees parted, naked and helpless as a baby bird, his pale skin almost glowing in the dark, spoke as though he were talking in his sleep. One of those weird things that Peter did when he was aroused - becoming completely passive. Aggressively passive. His openness a dare, exposing his belly, throat, wrists, groin, demanding to be taken, hurt, torn into, torn apart. "Just do it. Do whatever."
Claude couldn't bear it, this vulnerability, this fragility. Did the kid really think that he was safe, displaying himself like that? Did he trust Claude not to hurt him? How could he? Claude acted on instinct, like one of his brooding pigeons, lowering himself down onto Peter, covering him, bringing his limbs together, embracing all of him at once. Underneath him, Peter moved feebly, weakly, as though he were dying of something beautiful and tragic. Maybe consumption or something else Victorian and poetic. Would suit him and his pretty looks and his refined graces.
But then that slim body tensed into steel, his legs sliding out and wrapping around Claude's legs, trapping him in place. Not so helpless after all. "You fucking killed me," Peter whispered.
"I told you I would," Claude responded, smiling. "Feh. You weren't dead for very long, though, were you?"
They moved apart at the same time, Peter opening his legs to let Claude's free, and Claude raising himself up onto his elbow, running his hand across Peter's torso. There wasn't a scratch on the skin on his chest, even if there were still smudges of dried blood, and tiny metal fragments caught in the trail of hair leading down from his navel. Claude licked his fingers and stroked the hairs until all of the metal shavings had been wiped away, pretending not to notice Peter arching his back, biting the tip of his tongue as it emerged from his lips, humming with blatant pleasure.
It was getting harder and harder to Claude to resist reacting to him; now it was just a matter of holding out for as long as he could. The worst part was that Peter knew that Claude no longer had the upper hand; they were nearing equilibrium. How had Claude let his guard down? How could he have let the kid get to him, let the kid turn Claude's own game against him? Claude clenched his fists and shut his eyes. It was easier to manage when he didn't have to see Peter's face, didn't have to look at those lips. I want to kiss 'em until they move like normal lips do, kiss 'em straight... but Peter's lips aren't going to go straight any time soon if I've got anything to do with it, no, no... Claude chuckled at himself.
"Will you take your clothes off?" Peter murmured. "Don't you owe me that?"
"No, I don't." Claude's voice came out a bitter, distant mumble. "You don't have to see me."
"I wanna feel you." Peter opened his eyes, and asked, "Is it horrible?" Then, smiling, "Do you got wings or somethin'?"
"Yeah, and they were cut off," Claude shot back without thinking. To make sure Peter didn't ask any more questions, he bent in and kissed Peter, trying to be rough and hard, trying to be what he had been, but it didn't turn out that way at all. It was a lush and tender kiss; a Peter Petrelli kiss, not... one of his.
Not coming from what he was now; what he'd had to become. But that was being stripped away from him, worn away by the touch of that boy's smooth and clever fingers, the delicate strangeness of his lips. He felt Peter taking his clothes off, and he didn't stop him.
Still, as soon as his shirt came off, he grabbed Peter and turned him over face-down against the bed, burying his face in the skin of Peter's back, kissing him convulsively. Now that he'd given into Peter's demands to be kissed, he couldn't stop. The backs of his thighs, the round and muscled curves of his ass, the soft hair like the down of adolescent birds.
They didn't quite know how to fly at first, either. Sometimes they fell out of the nest and went splat on the pavement. But they didn't usually get back up after that, though.
Up above, Peter spoke, his voice hovering between white-hot anger and simmering lust. "You gonna fuck me? Go ahead, fuck me. It's what you do. It's what I want. You know it."
"I don't know," Claude replied softly.
"No? You sure assume I do."
"Don't you?"
It was an honest, direct question, and Peter pouted resentfully at it, giving Claude all the answer he needed. It was like dealing with a child - Do you want ice cream? Do you want a story? Do you want a nap? Claude remembered. All these Petrellis were the same underneath. "You make me do it. You just ripped away everything I had. Everything. You owe me."
"I don't owe you shite. I don't make you do anythin', remember? This was your idea. All of it." Claude, raised up onto his hands, met Peter's eyes. Peter's eyes were vast pools of darkness, his pupils dilated from low light and desire, accusing, glinting with psychic pain. "You came to me."
Peter broke the gaze, his expression blurring as he felt Claude's hands massaging his buttocks, manipulating them, spreading them, kneading them like dough. "You met me halfway," Peter murmured.
"I had to. And I wanted to." And I wanted you. Tragic old me, and tragic little you. "Who doesn't want to save lives if they've the chance?"
Peter sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Just..." Peter never bothered to finish the thought; he raised himself up on hands and knees and turned around to face Claude, tucking his long, dirty black hair behind his ear, and going down on Claude. Claude moaned louder than he had in years; he just couldn't keep it inside anymore. Peter's greedy mouth sucked him in, spit him out, rolled Claude's cockhead back and forth across his tongue relentlessly, saliva dripping down to cover him.
It was so good, Claude almost felt like singing. "God! You cocksucking whore."
Peter paused and stared up at him with that same expression, that terrible, hollow, cold steel rage, that he'd been wearing since sunset. Since Peter'd seen that girl he fancied, embracing that painter bloke with the easy familiarity of long-time lovers. The look on Peter's face scared Claude and filled him with dismay. That's what he'd been trying to achieve? Yes, it was. And now that it was here, Claude wished he could take it back. But there was no other way. "I wasn't before I met you," Peter hissed.
"No?" Claude blinked dizzily. "Well, welcome to the land of the queer, and the home of the shamed."
The kid wasn't in the mood for puns. "I don't know about you, but I ain't ashamed of a fucking thing. Guess this is better now, anyway, huh? No more chicks. We can... go be Greek warriors together." Peter shook his head a little, even smiling faintly, and slurped Claude's cock a bit more. "Die on the battlefield. Ganymede - isn't that what you call me?"
Claude was just coming then, and Peter's question broke his concentration, making his orgasm into a reflex about as pleasurable as a half-stifled sneeze. "I've never - I've never called you that," Claude stammered. Peter looked instantly guilty and embarrassed. "Not to your face. Did you - did you..."
"I... overheard your thought. Sorry."
"You overheard...? Fuck." Claude immediately pulled away, stood up, walked a few steps. "Anything else you're not telling me, Boy Wonder?" he snapped.
"Whatever it is," Peter shot back, "it's not even a tenth as much, or as important, as what you're not telling me. Okay?" He waited until Claude's eyes were on him again, then wiped spilled semen off his chin, and licked his finger and thumb. Claude stared at him for a long time, forgetting what they were arguing about, and Peter quirked him a fragment of a smile. "Tastes terrible," he said with a wink.
Claude sighed heavily, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, cradling himself. Not in the mood for jokes, either; not in the mood to fall for cute and dirty. He felt violated and paranoid. "I should have killed you. I should have."
Peter stared at him. "C'mere. Please. I'm sorry. I should've... I should've told you, I guess." The kid was seeing him for real now, seeing all the scars, all that shit Claude had tried so hard to hide. He hadn't done a very good job, though, had he? - what had it been, three days and four nights? Peter won. Claude lost. That was that.
He could practically feel Peter's eyes taking in the lumpy bullet impact sites, chunky railroad tracks of where he'd had his skin stapled back together along his stomach, glaring pink-white lightning across his back where he'd landed on, been ripped open by jagged Texas rocks. "You did have wings," Peter murmured.
"I told you."
"Those are ... bullet wounds, aren't they? I remember seeing that in school. Jesus, how many times have you been shot?"
Claude sighed. "Six. But only half of them came from people who were my friends. So fuck you, all right? Fuck you!" The outburst startled Claude, even as it was coming out of him. "You don't know shite, okay? Fuck friends and fuck you. It's all a... crock of bullshit." He grabbed his clothes from the floor and the bed, jerked them on with shaking hands, and collapsed into the chair opposite the bed. Be nice to cry, but that was Peter's gig. Claude wasn't allowed. He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers until he found the half-crushed packet of cigarettes that he hadn't touched in days, lit one up. How to say "fuck you" when he didn't trust himself to speak.
Peter silently rose from the bed, and got dressed himself before approaching Claude with the empty beer bottle that Claude had drained the day before, and had remained on the mantelpiece since. "I didn't know you smoked," Peter murmured.
"Well, you can't when you're invisible in public, can you." And I forgot all about it. You were my only compulsive behavior these last few. Claude snatched the bottle from Peter and dropped the cigarette down into it, swirling it out in the drops left at the bottom. He expected Peter to sink to the floor and put his head into Claude's lap, but Peter remained standing, one hand hovering above Claude's shoulder, not daring to make contact now. Scared again. Put back in his place. Again, not what Claude wanted; it was just what he did.
Peter left the room, took a shower, then walked past Claude to the other room. Claude brooded, lighting another cigarette. Before long Peter returned with two coffee mugs, handing one to Claude. Claude took a sip - black coffee, with a surprising, strong, sweet-sharp tang of whiskey. He glanced up at Peter, who sat down on his bed opposite, tucking his legs under him. When Claude had finished his cup, Peter got up and brought him a fresh one, repeating the same pattern as the night wore on.
Claude sat silently, lost in thought. He didn't know if Peter could "overhear" it; a part of him hoped that Peter could. Easier than speaking aloud.
***
"Nobody sees me!"
But he had been seen.
"Don't follow me."
But he had been followed.
So hard to walk away from Peter, for so many reasons. Most of him wanted to run away, run fast, get lost, get out of town, try to disappear into a new city. But New York needed Claude, and Claude needed New York, with its density and its continuous, unrelenting speed, where no one had the time to notice missing things or disembodied voices, where he could be surrounded by people without any of them being able to take notice of him. As long as he stayed hidden - and he did, instinctively - he could keep an eye on things without having to get mixed up in them again, without putting himself at risk again. Staying one step ahead.
But he'd gotten soft, hadn't he? Otherwise, the Petrelli kid would never have run across him. He should have taken more notice of the Petrelli younger son, but it was so much more fun to dislike the older one, to be amused by his rise to political power. And all the while, there was this freaky empath walking around, this Roman statue of a demigod wearing the costume of a downtown trust fund kid, ready to rip Claude out of his comfortable anonymity.
The week before, Claude had stolen the key to an empty third-floor apartment within easy walking distance of his pigeons. It wasn't a very nice place, but it did have a door that he could lock, and a bedroll he had tucked in the closet for situations like these. He spread it out and lay on it, fully clothed and with his boots still on, and the key tucked into a zipper pocket of his coat; there were folks out there who could phase through walls, and he wanted to be prepared to run at a moment's notice.
That little fucker had seen him. That shockingly beautiful, clueless, desperate little fucker with the great big eyes and the skin like thin white velvet that Claude crushed in his hand. Saw him. Looked into him. Tried to follow him home like an abandoned puppy.
He knew he shouldn't be wasting the time, the energy, or the mental effort, but Claude's thoughts had completely run away with him, and he decided to follow it. He'd never be able to get the kid out of his mind if he didn't deal with it right away. He was just horny; the Petrelli kid was just sexy. A wank wouldn't kill him.
Ah, the trouble I could get into, with a boy like that. Ahhh... trouble. Trouble. He probably doesn't even realize, does he? But I could tell by the way he looked at me. Yeah, I could bend him over and eat him until my jaw got a cramp.
Claude came so fast and so hard that it took him by surprise, and he almost gave an ecstatic cry at the top of his lungs, only to trap it behind his closed lips at the last second. He still couldn't be silent, though; he sounded to himself like a lion coughing, muffling his voice with a fist pressed against his mouth. It wouldn't be loud enough to be heard in any of the adjoining apartments, probably, and that was all that mattered.
He fell asleep almost instantly, even forgetting to do up his trousers again. When he woke up just before dawn, he found himself face down on the bedroll with his keks around his ankles. He was halfway to the bathroom before he remembered the dream he'd been having.
The trouble kid. Peter. Staring at him from across an empty street, his face almost comically serious. Claude crossed the street to Peter, then held out his hand, and led Peter across to where Claude had been standing. Peter turned and looked back, then back at Claude, and nodded, saying, "It's you." Then everything repeated all over from the beginning, but each time Peter spoke to Claude, he was closer, closer, until their faces were inches away from each other, and Claude could feel Peter's breath.
Erotic, all right. But there were pigeons to tend.
When Claude opened the apartment door, he made out a big dark lump on the threshold in the unlighted hallway. A Petrelli-sized lump. Black jacket wadded under his head for a pillow, his ear near the crack of the door. Listening. Waiting. Completely unconscious. Peter didn't stir; he was frowning hard in his sleep, as though it were hard work. Claude grinned at him, flattered and fascinated. But not too much; there were pigeons to tend, and if this boy was serious, he'd figure it out. Specials were particularly keen on finding each other, even when trouble usually resulted from their being near one another. Especially for this one. He was just lying there in the hallway, not even invisible. "Stupid pretty poodle," he whispered, stepping over Peter, locking the door behind him as quietly as possible.
In his head, Claude chanted over and over, Find me, Petrelli. Find me.
It didn't take Peter long to do just that, tailing him back to the rooftop. But, after Peter told him a load of incoherencies about his powers and his lack of control over them, Claude tossed him back out to sea. The kid needed to find some clarity, and figure out what exactly he needed to do, exactly what he was asking of Claude. It wasn't until after Claude walked away a second time that he realized that Peter had nowhere else to turn, and that he probably was going to blow up and wreck the city if somebody didn't step up and help. At least keep him from spilling his information all over the place. He wouldn't survive long, if the wrong people knew about Peter's strange ability.
Not that Claude knew why he cared so much.
So Claude followed Peter home, and saved him from his brother and his security goon, and that South Asian with the scarf. And staring down at Peter, their bodies pressed together again, Claude saw that look. Fear. Trust. Longing. Desperation. Help me. I'll do whatever you want if you help me. I am willing. I am yours.
Should have killed him then, and saved himself the trouble. Problem was, Claude wasn't a killer, but he was curious. Bored. Egotistical, probably. Lonely. And so horny he wondered some days if he wasn't going mad.
And there was Peter the Willing. How could he-? Why would he-? The kid had to be stupid. It was impossible not to hurt him, impossible not to take pleasure in hurting him. Impossible that Peter would take it, more impossible that Peter would like it. Would demand more.
Had said he was beautiful.
***
"Time to tend the birds."
Peter blinked and shook his head; he'd been zoning out, essentially sleeping with his eyes open. Instantly, though, he was completely awake. The room was still dark. "How can you tell?" he asked, already pulling on his boots.
"Instinct. Wake with the birds long enough, you'll be able to tell too. Or you can always just stand next to someone who can always tell what time it is. I'm sure there's somebody out there like that." Claude stretched in the chair, then stood up and stretched a bit more. "At least we don't have to stop for coffee, eh? I don't know how you managed to sleep."
"I wasn't sleeping." Peter was already at the door, waiting for Claude to go out first.
"Save your lies for something important."
"All right. How 'bout the truth, then?" Peter paused in the hallway outside his apartment, locking the door, not looking at Claude, giving him his space. "If it wasn't for the pigeons, I'd really love to fuck you right now."
Claude couldn't resist smiling a little, turning Peter's face toward his, giving it a good look. Peter hadn't shaved when he showered, only washed the blood out of his hair, his angular cheeks and jaw made more so by the dark shadow of stubble. Claude lightly kissed Peter on the lips, and said quietly, "The pigeons thank you, and I'm sad. Let's go."
Somehow they made it to the rooftop by the time the sun rose over the cloud-obscured horizon, and Claude opened most of the hutches and let the birds flap out and into the sky. He stood looking up at them, his heart soaring up with them as it did every morning (it was usually the highlight of his day), and thus didn't notice Peter coming at him with the broken metal antenna until it was too late. Peter got in two good, hard strokes with the antenna on Claude's legs before Claude was able to react, snatching the antenna away, and shoving Peter down onto the rain-puddled ground. "Ya little shit!" Claude yelled.
Peter laughed. "How's it feel, huh?"
Claude boiled. "You oughtn't to have done that, mate - now I'm going to fucking kill you."
"Huh! It's not like you've never done it before."
"You'll wish it took!"
Peter's cockiness ran out fairly quickly as sleep deprivation caught up with him, and he seemed to be completely unable to access his abilities. After a depressingly short time, he was mostly just running away from Claude, when he was able to stand up and use his legs at all. Claude felt no ill effects from the late night. "What are you waiting for, poodle? Not so clever now, are ya? Eh?" He swung the antenna at Peter's ankles, and the thin metal bent hopelessly against the hard top of Peter's boots. It still stung, though, judging by Peter's hopping dance of agony. Claude tossed the useless thing away. "How does that feel, huh, bright boy?"
"Dammit... I was just beginning to like you."
"That's a mistake. What we do at night has nothing whatsoever to do with what we're doing now, and it'd serve you well to remember that-" Claude grabbed a nice, thick, solid wooden pole from the side of the pigeon hutch, and swung it hard at Peter. He had three more stashed up here on the roof, just in case, and nine years of kendo training to help him know what to do with big sticks. The pole caught Peter square in the shoulder blade, and the kid emitted a satisfyingly dire howl. "Keep your mind on what you're doing or else none of this means anything!"
"It hurts! I can't think!"
"No, you bloody well can't, can you! You're a waste of my fucking time!"
Claude chased him around for a while longer, getting in some good licks. He didn't have to be careful; even if Claude snapped his spine, Peter would only need a minute or so to heal up.
And sure enough, as soon as Peter truly got sick of it, he made it stop.
Claude almost collapsed with relief himself. It was working; he had finally made a difference in Peter, and only had to kill him a little bit to do it. Only had to sacrifice a little of himself to do it. There was hope after all.
Then Claude wondered how long it would be before Peter's inevitable betrayal. Of course Peter would betray him; he had to. It was the way of things. And it wouldn't do for Claude to get too broken up about it. Too much more broken up about it, anyway. He'd lose Peter, one way or the other.
Maybe the betrayal wouldn't happen for a while. Maybe he'd helped Peter enough to prevent the apocalypse and they could continue their lives together -
Maybe he was just daft.
Claude picked up one of his spare sticks, and hit Peter in the face.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO...