Going to a Town, Chapter 9
WOOO-HOOO! Almost done. With this cycle, at least. And hopefully, hopefully this'll answer more questions than it raises.
Title: Encounters
Characters: Peter, Claude, mentions of others.
Warnings: Two flashbacks in this one...wow, why can't I stick to the present? Oh, and it's long.
Rating: HEHE! Finally something that wouldn't occur in a PG13 movie, let's say.
Disclaimer: I don't actually plan on owning anything, ever.
Special Thanks: As always, indyhat. Love her. And all of you, really. And hopefully it'll all make sense very, very soon. If not now. Oh, and also to Annie Proulx; I pretty much stole one of her lines, so it's the least I can do. And Noel Coward, who's Brief Encounter kind of inspired this. Or the flashbacks, at least. It's a good movie, watch it.
Oh, and hopefully I've made it clear, but in case not, this takes place right after Chapter Six.
“In the tent!” He tells Peter the next night, throwing a blanket at him.
“What?” The boy looks over at him, bemused.
“Yer sleeping in the tent tonight,” he clarifies. The boy can be slow when he wants to be.
“What happened to a poodle’s proper place being outdoors?”
“What happened is the poodle deciding that stargazing is more important than sleeping.”
And you can’t function on two hours of sleep for much longer, no matter how young you are, he doesn’t say.
“Both of us aren’t going to fit in the tent,” Peter informs him.
“I know that, ya git,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be sleeping outside.”
***
Half an hour later, Claude hears footsteps.
“For the love of…” He starts.
“I know, I know…I just can’t get to sleep.”
Claude sighs. Of course not. The boy’s body has a routine now.
“Fetch,” he says, tossing the flask at his head.
Peter catches it with surprising ease, takes an experimental swig. Chokes on it anyway.
“What was that, whiskey?” The boy looks scandalized, and Claude has to laugh.
“What’d ya think it was going to be, lemonade?” He grins. “It’ll get ya to sleep, anyway.”
“Right,” the boy says, sipping a little more cautiously.
They sit together for a while, on a log they’d dragged to the side of the fire. Well, a log Claude had made him drag to the side of the fire, anyway.
“Me and Nathan used to do this,” Peter says.
“Oh?” He responds, trying not to look interested. If the boy gets started now…
“Camping, I mean. Well, in the living room, at least.”
Oh, well.
“New York not a big camping town?” He says, hoping sarcasm will do what palpable disinterest didn’t.
“No, I mean we have parks but not…not where you’d want to be at night.”
“Well, sure.”
Silence descends again.
“What’s London like?”
Claude rolls his eyes. “I’m not from London, mate.”
“I know, but you’ve been, right? Claire told me.”
Of course she had.
***
London is a ghost town the first time he sees it. Sad strangers turn to him, pat his shoulder, offer to buy him drinks.
No better than home, really, where everyone he encountered, every face that smiled at him, every hand that shook his was looking for someone else, sons, husbands, brothers, lovers, lost. Childhood friends gone off to war together and he’s all that remains of any of them.
He thought London would be different, but it’s worse; even without the uniform, he’s a reminder of someone else, someone crushed in the debris of a home, a store, a place of safety and routine turned to dust.
Every body he clings to is searching for another, rejecting his scars and nursing their own. The country is torn, and he can’t stand it anymore.
“If you’re ever in the States,” he had said, softly. Packing his bag for the last time. Claude had punched his arm in a mockery of affection, hoping it would leave a bruise that matched his own.
This was the only contact they could manage in front of the others. He'd learned that anything else, any other touch, would earn them both catcalls and words that meant something all together different in England, and if cultural misunderstandings were the only problem he wouldn’t have cared, but he’d heard the rumors and wasn't about to put him at risk.
“If you’re ever in the States”, he remembers, as he arrives in Texas for the first time.
***
It’s Peter’s fault, really. He tells himself that, later, but…it’s not, it couldn’t be.
The boy is smiling at him, eyes slightly hazy from the affects of alcohol on someone who hasn’t had much exposure to it, his cheeks stealing a rosy hue from glowing embers.
There’s a sudden hand on the back of his neck, massaging gentle circles on sunburned skin.
Claude refuses to wear a hat, he’s told the boy he looks ridiculous in one, but just as for every choice he makes, there are consequences.
Another hand finds his thigh.
This isn’t happening, he thinks to himself. Remains perfectly still.
And the boy, (Peter, his mind whispers), is kissing him.
Is that not happening, either? his mind titters.
It’s a sloppy kiss, inexperienced and hindered by the inebriate state of one participant and the refusal of the other to respond.
I’m dreaming, he thinks. It’ll do me no good to encourage dreams.
The boy (Peter, his brain reminds him, Peter) makes a noise of frustration, swings a leg over Claude’s lap, presses into him, desperate for contact.
Presses a little too hard, apparently, because Claude loses his already precarious balance. Tumbles off the log, pulling Peter on top of him. Hitting the back of his own head, hard.
Hard enough to concuss, he reasons, because it is at that moment that his mind suddenly becomes a lot foggier, and his body starts making the decisions.
He pushes Peter off of him, shoves his face into the grass.
He hasn’t done this in a while, hasn’t done it freely in even longer, and he’s not about to refuse a bargain, willingly offered.
It’s all about instinct, memory, with very little preparation but apparently…apparently just like riding a bicycle, his mind, still fuzzy, chimes in.
The crudeness of the thought makes him laugh, and he’s struck by how harsh it sounds. And by how differently Peter’s breathing, choking, almost.
The moment he’s done, the clarity returns.
He scrambles away. Tries to pull himself up and pull himself together.
His fingers stumble on his fly, trying to force buttons through too-small holes.
Didn’t have such trouble getting them out, now, did you? His mind chides him.
He pulls a nervous hand through his hair, and his mind reels.
The boy is all of the sudden besides him, the boy, he thinks, that’s what he is, a child.
Reaching for him, trying to…well, he doesn’t bother to figure out what he’s trying to do. He pulls away, might have pushed, but for whatever reason the boy falls.
When Claude gets the courage to look down, evaluate the damage, he looks into eyes turned almost grey, an odd mix of their natural green and the glow of the fading fire and the shadows of a starless night.
He’s reminded of rough waves, mocking the soldier’s rations he shared with them, lapping at the sides of small boats on their way to beaches stained red.
He pulls away, further, and disappears into the darkness left by dying flames.
It’s only then that it feels like a betrayal.
***
“So you’re just going to do it, then? You're going to fucking marry her?” He says, his voice shaking, his body shaking. He runs a hand through his hair, nervously, displacing his need to hit something. He wants to punch him but he can’t, can’t touch him.
Hates him for having ruined violence.
“I love her,” he is told, simply, and it must be true. He wouldn’t lie to him…he can’t.
“So this is nothing, then?” Claude murmurs at the horribly patterned hotel room carpet, as he starts to walk toward the door.
See ya later, Pal, he wants to say, is going to say, but fierce hands are on his shoulders, pushing him, back against the door, and he can’t say anything at all, on account of warm lips stealing the words from his mouth.
“It’s not…” he hears, as rough hands (a new development, his mind notes, it must be the job) pull at his shirt, searching for familiar wounds, and hot breaths by his ear make his neck tingle. “It’s not nothing.”
And it’s not, he comes to realize, it’s not what he came looking for but it’s not nothing, either.
It’s hotel rooms that reek of sweat and semen and cheap alcohol.
It’s dishonest smiles at bright blue eyes and blond curls and going to dinners that result in him being assaulted against barn doors, out of sight, out of mind (out of her sight, out of their minds).
It’s desperate memories of youth, warding off boredom and responsibility and the passage of time.
It’s not nothing for five years, until the hospital, and the soft pink blanket, and the new blue eyes.
Happy Father's Day he writes on the note he leaves at the front desk, as he's checking out.
A/N: For clarity's sake, let's just say that all of the Claude flashbacks (which are in italics) starting from Chapter 7 and going to Chapter 10 can be lined up in order and could probably form their own story. They happen chronologically. And it's circa WWII. And hopefully you've all figured out who it is, in the flashbacks, if I haven't been too darned vague.
Title: Encounters
Characters: Peter, Claude, mentions of others.
Warnings: Two flashbacks in this one...wow, why can't I stick to the present? Oh, and it's long.
Rating: HEHE! Finally something that wouldn't occur in a PG13 movie, let's say.
Disclaimer: I don't actually plan on owning anything, ever.
Special Thanks: As always, indyhat. Love her. And all of you, really. And hopefully it'll all make sense very, very soon. If not now. Oh, and also to Annie Proulx; I pretty much stole one of her lines, so it's the least I can do. And Noel Coward, who's Brief Encounter kind of inspired this. Or the flashbacks, at least. It's a good movie, watch it.
Oh, and hopefully I've made it clear, but in case not, this takes place right after Chapter Six.
“In the tent!” He tells Peter the next night, throwing a blanket at him.
“What?” The boy looks over at him, bemused.
“Yer sleeping in the tent tonight,” he clarifies. The boy can be slow when he wants to be.
“What happened to a poodle’s proper place being outdoors?”
“What happened is the poodle deciding that stargazing is more important than sleeping.”
And you can’t function on two hours of sleep for much longer, no matter how young you are, he doesn’t say.
“Both of us aren’t going to fit in the tent,” Peter informs him.
“I know that, ya git,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be sleeping outside.”
***
Half an hour later, Claude hears footsteps.
“For the love of…” He starts.
“I know, I know…I just can’t get to sleep.”
Claude sighs. Of course not. The boy’s body has a routine now.
“Fetch,” he says, tossing the flask at his head.
Peter catches it with surprising ease, takes an experimental swig. Chokes on it anyway.
“What was that, whiskey?” The boy looks scandalized, and Claude has to laugh.
“What’d ya think it was going to be, lemonade?” He grins. “It’ll get ya to sleep, anyway.”
“Right,” the boy says, sipping a little more cautiously.
They sit together for a while, on a log they’d dragged to the side of the fire. Well, a log Claude had made him drag to the side of the fire, anyway.
“Me and Nathan used to do this,” Peter says.
“Oh?” He responds, trying not to look interested. If the boy gets started now…
“Camping, I mean. Well, in the living room, at least.”
Oh, well.
“New York not a big camping town?” He says, hoping sarcasm will do what palpable disinterest didn’t.
“No, I mean we have parks but not…not where you’d want to be at night.”
“Well, sure.”
Silence descends again.
“What’s London like?”
Claude rolls his eyes. “I’m not from London, mate.”
“I know, but you’ve been, right? Claire told me.”
Of course she had.
***
London is a ghost town the first time he sees it. Sad strangers turn to him, pat his shoulder, offer to buy him drinks.
No better than home, really, where everyone he encountered, every face that smiled at him, every hand that shook his was looking for someone else, sons, husbands, brothers, lovers, lost. Childhood friends gone off to war together and he’s all that remains of any of them.
He thought London would be different, but it’s worse; even without the uniform, he’s a reminder of someone else, someone crushed in the debris of a home, a store, a place of safety and routine turned to dust.
Every body he clings to is searching for another, rejecting his scars and nursing their own. The country is torn, and he can’t stand it anymore.
“If you’re ever in the States,” he had said, softly. Packing his bag for the last time. Claude had punched his arm in a mockery of affection, hoping it would leave a bruise that matched his own.
This was the only contact they could manage in front of the others. He'd learned that anything else, any other touch, would earn them both catcalls and words that meant something all together different in England, and if cultural misunderstandings were the only problem he wouldn’t have cared, but he’d heard the rumors and wasn't about to put him at risk.
“If you’re ever in the States”, he remembers, as he arrives in Texas for the first time.
***
It’s Peter’s fault, really. He tells himself that, later, but…it’s not, it couldn’t be.
The boy is smiling at him, eyes slightly hazy from the affects of alcohol on someone who hasn’t had much exposure to it, his cheeks stealing a rosy hue from glowing embers.
There’s a sudden hand on the back of his neck, massaging gentle circles on sunburned skin.
Claude refuses to wear a hat, he’s told the boy he looks ridiculous in one, but just as for every choice he makes, there are consequences.
Another hand finds his thigh.
This isn’t happening, he thinks to himself. Remains perfectly still.
And the boy, (Peter, his mind whispers), is kissing him.
Is that not happening, either? his mind titters.
It’s a sloppy kiss, inexperienced and hindered by the inebriate state of one participant and the refusal of the other to respond.
I’m dreaming, he thinks. It’ll do me no good to encourage dreams.
The boy (Peter, his brain reminds him, Peter) makes a noise of frustration, swings a leg over Claude’s lap, presses into him, desperate for contact.
Presses a little too hard, apparently, because Claude loses his already precarious balance. Tumbles off the log, pulling Peter on top of him. Hitting the back of his own head, hard.
Hard enough to concuss, he reasons, because it is at that moment that his mind suddenly becomes a lot foggier, and his body starts making the decisions.
He pushes Peter off of him, shoves his face into the grass.
He hasn’t done this in a while, hasn’t done it freely in even longer, and he’s not about to refuse a bargain, willingly offered.
It’s all about instinct, memory, with very little preparation but apparently…apparently just like riding a bicycle, his mind, still fuzzy, chimes in.
The crudeness of the thought makes him laugh, and he’s struck by how harsh it sounds. And by how differently Peter’s breathing, choking, almost.
The moment he’s done, the clarity returns.
He scrambles away. Tries to pull himself up and pull himself together.
His fingers stumble on his fly, trying to force buttons through too-small holes.
Didn’t have such trouble getting them out, now, did you? His mind chides him.
He pulls a nervous hand through his hair, and his mind reels.
The boy is all of the sudden besides him, the boy, he thinks, that’s what he is, a child.
Reaching for him, trying to…well, he doesn’t bother to figure out what he’s trying to do. He pulls away, might have pushed, but for whatever reason the boy falls.
When Claude gets the courage to look down, evaluate the damage, he looks into eyes turned almost grey, an odd mix of their natural green and the glow of the fading fire and the shadows of a starless night.
He’s reminded of rough waves, mocking the soldier’s rations he shared with them, lapping at the sides of small boats on their way to beaches stained red.
He pulls away, further, and disappears into the darkness left by dying flames.
It’s only then that it feels like a betrayal.
***
“So you’re just going to do it, then? You're going to fucking marry her?” He says, his voice shaking, his body shaking. He runs a hand through his hair, nervously, displacing his need to hit something. He wants to punch him but he can’t, can’t touch him.
Hates him for having ruined violence.
“I love her,” he is told, simply, and it must be true. He wouldn’t lie to him…he can’t.
“So this is nothing, then?” Claude murmurs at the horribly patterned hotel room carpet, as he starts to walk toward the door.
See ya later, Pal, he wants to say, is going to say, but fierce hands are on his shoulders, pushing him, back against the door, and he can’t say anything at all, on account of warm lips stealing the words from his mouth.
“It’s not…” he hears, as rough hands (a new development, his mind notes, it must be the job) pull at his shirt, searching for familiar wounds, and hot breaths by his ear make his neck tingle. “It’s not nothing.”
And it’s not, he comes to realize, it’s not what he came looking for but it’s not nothing, either.
It’s hotel rooms that reek of sweat and semen and cheap alcohol.
It’s dishonest smiles at bright blue eyes and blond curls and going to dinners that result in him being assaulted against barn doors, out of sight, out of mind (out of her sight, out of their minds).
It’s desperate memories of youth, warding off boredom and responsibility and the passage of time.
It’s not nothing for five years, until the hospital, and the soft pink blanket, and the new blue eyes.
Happy Father's Day he writes on the note he leaves at the front desk, as he's checking out.
A/N: For clarity's sake, let's just say that all of the Claude flashbacks (which are in italics) starting from Chapter 7 and going to Chapter 10 can be lined up in order and could probably form their own story. They happen chronologically. And it's circa WWII. And hopefully you've all figured out who it is, in the flashbacks, if I haven't been too darned vague.