Recollection
Title: Recollection
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Claude/a lot of people. But not all at once. Because he's not that kind of guy.
Rating: PG13, at most
Disclaimer: Not mine, ever.
A/N: This is what I do with my time instead of finishing the smut I started. Or outlining for my paper. Or anything productive. *sigh*
The first time isn’t…what he expects it to be.
She hadn’t seemed delicate, before (and she won’t, after), but his hands in her hair and her body trembling underneath him, her eyes shut and her breaths shallow…he thinks, he worries, that he might break her. Hurt her, and that’s the last thing he wants.
He doesn’t think he loves her and he knows she doesn’t love him, because she’s told him as much, but she does trust him, and that seems, in that moment, to be enough.
But after…after is awkward.
And it’s not that he didn’t like her, or the moment, but it’s over so fast and he blushes madly and she tells him not to bother, not to worry, not to stay.
She says that it doesn’t change anything and he’s stupid enough to believe it, act on it, treat her like he always has until she respects herself too much for that, as she tells him, and then they’re…not.
They’re not them, anymore, just her, him, and he isn’t sure whether or not he regrets it, but it’s a lesson learned, either way.
And he’s got the chance, soon enough, to be part of a lot more thems, and there’s no harm in that at all.
Different kinds of thems, too, and that’s another kind of first.
Lanky body and neatly combed hair and that’s how it starts, really, wanting to muss those red curls.
Because the other boy’s clever, cleverer than just about anyone he’s ever met, and even though he realizes that’s hardly high praise, and even though he’d rather live the rest of his life in the rain they’ve gotten themselves caught in than tell him that, he doesn’t mind having him around.
Which is why, when dark brown eyes narrow in shrewd calculation and strong hands push him awkwardly into a darkened doorway, his only reaction is to mirror the gesture, eyes focusing and fingers grabbing at the soaked jacket.
Which is why, even after the other boy kisses him with an arrogant sureness that has his hands curling into fists, even after he pulls back and punches him, then hesitates, knuckles sore and reflexes warring, he regrets it.
Regrets it enough to apologize, even if it is without words.
Fingers…stroking, there’s no other word for it, at the bruised jaw and the split lip.
Fingers that begin to tremble, as breaths steam and cheeks flush, before he stuffs his hands into his pockets and replaces them with awkward, forceful lips.
And it takes longer to get there, to the empty house and an unmade bed, and quickly, because parents, but it’s just as breathless, desperate, and panicked.
In a way, it’s actually worse, what with the two sets of gangly limbs and rough, uncoordinated hands, and it’s over before it’s really begun, again.
As are they, really; too different, in the end, and he’s off to bigger and better and greater and he…isn’t.
And again, he wonders, if this is something he can get right, or if it even gets better than this.
It does, of course; it doesn’t even take him that long to learn that it does, doesn’t even take him that long to learn that it’s just a matter of taking control and of not letting it go, not loosing focus, not getting distracted.
Because all the sudden there’s more important things than sex to worry about, although there’s a woman he meets, all rolling eyes and smirking laughter, dark hair and red fingernails, who tells him that even in the worst of moments, it’s still all anybody’s thinking about.
Tells him, then shows him, and he thinks he may have to love her, a little, because she knows better than to let him.
She teaches him how to shoot a gun and when not to, and that’s the most important thing, according to her.
And he’s not sure if he believes it, but he listens and nods, because he does, maybe, sort of, love her.
But they’re not partners and they don’t see each other, much, and then she’s gone.
Disappeared and she would’ve said it was ironic, that of the two of them…but he doesn’t think about it much.
Because he knows better than to let himself.
Five or six years of knowing better; a different kind of company, weekends and overnights, nothing permanent, and he knows better, and they know better, and it’s all very civil, very simple.
Transparent and of course, he needs more of that in his life.
It’s nothing with Bennet until it’s over.
He falls in love without realizing it; the proximity must’ve gotten the better of him, the prospect of normalcy and family and maybe it isn’t so much Bennet he wants as his life.
But either way, he ignores it.
Successfully, for the most part; he isn’t the type of person to pine or brood or wonder, because it never comes to anything, and he’s got enough to think about.
Because the man’s married and not enough a bastard for that not to matter, but enough of one to make him worth liking, and he thinks he might’ve told him that, maybe even more than once.
It’s still nothing, and he doesn’t even bother telling himself that anymore.
And then it’s not nothing, apparently, forcefully not nothing, but it’s also not enough.
It’s really the least of his problems, what could’ve been and wasn’t, what won’t be, but she was right: it’s still all he’s thinking about.
Seven years later and it’s not all he thinks about (eating and sleeping in someplace dry and safe and relatively warm take precedence), it’s rarely what he thinks about, having seen more of what people did to themselves and each other than any man ever had need to and become the filthy old man he can’t even see in the mirror.
There’s moments, sure; of wanting, needing, connections he’d rather ignore but there are some that refuse to let him.
Some that push and flail and stare; personally affronted at being found resistible, and he’d apologize, comfort the boy with the assurance that he’s spent more lifetimes than he can imagine learning how to.
How to keep his distance, and when to shoot, and when not to.
He would, though, apologize, except that he is the complete, selfish bastard that education has forged him into, and he has no real need to be otherwise.
And the boy doesn’t learn the way he needs to, the way he’s had to; doesn’t learn the futility of those sidelong glances through heavy eyelashes, the fact that his bright smiles and brilliant moments of optimism are unwelcome and unhelpful.
Unwelcome and unhelpful, and yet…and yet persistent.
Persistent to the point of exhaustion, and he almost, almost breaks.
Almost forgets what they’re both capable of, if he does; almost forgets about it not being nothing, between them; almost forgets about brutal honesty and basic pragmatism; almost forgets about knowing better.
Almost forgets the desperation of youth, the awkwardness of first.
Almost, but not quite.
And before he knows it, there’s just pain and fear and falling, again.
Beautiful brown eyes that need so much more than what he can give anymore, when he’s pulled closer, when crooked lips beg him to stay, and if there was a time for him to break, to not know better, to not be selfish, to be a them, this is it.
But he doesn’t, and it’s exactly what he expects.
*
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Claude/a lot of people. But not all at once. Because he's not that kind of guy.
Rating: PG13, at most
Disclaimer: Not mine, ever.
A/N: This is what I do with my time instead of finishing the smut I started. Or outlining for my paper. Or anything productive. *sigh*
The first time isn’t…what he expects it to be.
She hadn’t seemed delicate, before (and she won’t, after), but his hands in her hair and her body trembling underneath him, her eyes shut and her breaths shallow…he thinks, he worries, that he might break her. Hurt her, and that’s the last thing he wants.
He doesn’t think he loves her and he knows she doesn’t love him, because she’s told him as much, but she does trust him, and that seems, in that moment, to be enough.
But after…after is awkward.
And it’s not that he didn’t like her, or the moment, but it’s over so fast and he blushes madly and she tells him not to bother, not to worry, not to stay.
She says that it doesn’t change anything and he’s stupid enough to believe it, act on it, treat her like he always has until she respects herself too much for that, as she tells him, and then they’re…not.
They’re not them, anymore, just her, him, and he isn’t sure whether or not he regrets it, but it’s a lesson learned, either way.
And he’s got the chance, soon enough, to be part of a lot more thems, and there’s no harm in that at all.
Different kinds of thems, too, and that’s another kind of first.
Lanky body and neatly combed hair and that’s how it starts, really, wanting to muss those red curls.
Because the other boy’s clever, cleverer than just about anyone he’s ever met, and even though he realizes that’s hardly high praise, and even though he’d rather live the rest of his life in the rain they’ve gotten themselves caught in than tell him that, he doesn’t mind having him around.
Which is why, when dark brown eyes narrow in shrewd calculation and strong hands push him awkwardly into a darkened doorway, his only reaction is to mirror the gesture, eyes focusing and fingers grabbing at the soaked jacket.
Which is why, even after the other boy kisses him with an arrogant sureness that has his hands curling into fists, even after he pulls back and punches him, then hesitates, knuckles sore and reflexes warring, he regrets it.
Regrets it enough to apologize, even if it is without words.
Fingers…stroking, there’s no other word for it, at the bruised jaw and the split lip.
Fingers that begin to tremble, as breaths steam and cheeks flush, before he stuffs his hands into his pockets and replaces them with awkward, forceful lips.
And it takes longer to get there, to the empty house and an unmade bed, and quickly, because parents, but it’s just as breathless, desperate, and panicked.
In a way, it’s actually worse, what with the two sets of gangly limbs and rough, uncoordinated hands, and it’s over before it’s really begun, again.
As are they, really; too different, in the end, and he’s off to bigger and better and greater and he…isn’t.
And again, he wonders, if this is something he can get right, or if it even gets better than this.
It does, of course; it doesn’t even take him that long to learn that it does, doesn’t even take him that long to learn that it’s just a matter of taking control and of not letting it go, not loosing focus, not getting distracted.
Because all the sudden there’s more important things than sex to worry about, although there’s a woman he meets, all rolling eyes and smirking laughter, dark hair and red fingernails, who tells him that even in the worst of moments, it’s still all anybody’s thinking about.
Tells him, then shows him, and he thinks he may have to love her, a little, because she knows better than to let him.
She teaches him how to shoot a gun and when not to, and that’s the most important thing, according to her.
And he’s not sure if he believes it, but he listens and nods, because he does, maybe, sort of, love her.
But they’re not partners and they don’t see each other, much, and then she’s gone.
Disappeared and she would’ve said it was ironic, that of the two of them…but he doesn’t think about it much.
Because he knows better than to let himself.
Five or six years of knowing better; a different kind of company, weekends and overnights, nothing permanent, and he knows better, and they know better, and it’s all very civil, very simple.
Transparent and of course, he needs more of that in his life.
It’s nothing with Bennet until it’s over.
He falls in love without realizing it; the proximity must’ve gotten the better of him, the prospect of normalcy and family and maybe it isn’t so much Bennet he wants as his life.
But either way, he ignores it.
Successfully, for the most part; he isn’t the type of person to pine or brood or wonder, because it never comes to anything, and he’s got enough to think about.
Because the man’s married and not enough a bastard for that not to matter, but enough of one to make him worth liking, and he thinks he might’ve told him that, maybe even more than once.
It’s still nothing, and he doesn’t even bother telling himself that anymore.
And then it’s not nothing, apparently, forcefully not nothing, but it’s also not enough.
It’s really the least of his problems, what could’ve been and wasn’t, what won’t be, but she was right: it’s still all he’s thinking about.
Seven years later and it’s not all he thinks about (eating and sleeping in someplace dry and safe and relatively warm take precedence), it’s rarely what he thinks about, having seen more of what people did to themselves and each other than any man ever had need to and become the filthy old man he can’t even see in the mirror.
There’s moments, sure; of wanting, needing, connections he’d rather ignore but there are some that refuse to let him.
Some that push and flail and stare; personally affronted at being found resistible, and he’d apologize, comfort the boy with the assurance that he’s spent more lifetimes than he can imagine learning how to.
How to keep his distance, and when to shoot, and when not to.
He would, though, apologize, except that he is the complete, selfish bastard that education has forged him into, and he has no real need to be otherwise.
And the boy doesn’t learn the way he needs to, the way he’s had to; doesn’t learn the futility of those sidelong glances through heavy eyelashes, the fact that his bright smiles and brilliant moments of optimism are unwelcome and unhelpful.
Unwelcome and unhelpful, and yet…and yet persistent.
Persistent to the point of exhaustion, and he almost, almost breaks.
Almost forgets what they’re both capable of, if he does; almost forgets about it not being nothing, between them; almost forgets about brutal honesty and basic pragmatism; almost forgets about knowing better.
Almost forgets the desperation of youth, the awkwardness of first.
Almost, but not quite.
And before he knows it, there’s just pain and fear and falling, again.
Beautiful brown eyes that need so much more than what he can give anymore, when he’s pulled closer, when crooked lips beg him to stay, and if there was a time for him to break, to not know better, to not be selfish, to be a them, this is it.
But he doesn’t, and it’s exactly what he expects.
*