Fic: Training Exercise
So,
indyhat directed me to the latest
mature_heroes challenge, and I thought: good God, this pairing is entirely about that, I need to write something for it.
Except it turned out rather less smutty than I had thought and it didn't go straight to the sex within two paragraphs, so it doesn't really qualify for the challenge, but what the hell, I like it.
Title: Training Exercise
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: Technically? PG-13. No, I really don't know how I managed that.
Wordcount: 3583
Warnings: Well, there are probably some people out there who object to public sex.
Also:
For some reason.
So, well, yes, it was a good idea for Peter to learn how to stay invisible when Claude wasn’t around (even though that woman had beat him over the head with the purse she’d thought he’d stolen), but it didn’t really seem fair that they had to test this all the time. Claude would send him to go steal some food-which Peter wasn’t entirely okay with, but he figured his credit cards were probably being tracked at the moment, and he hadn’t thought to go to the bank for some cash before he, you know, spontaneously ran away-and then he’d have to remain unseen while he snuck into whatever grocery or other food-related store seemed like a good target for the day. (He tried not to hit the same place too often-he did retain some reservations, after all.)
Food runs generally went well, but that was only because the first one had failed miserably and he’d had to run all the way back to the Deveaux building before he finally managed to blink out of sight. It had not been an enjoyable experience. Claude really shouldn’t have laughed that much about it.
If it was just food runs, he’d be fine, but it wasn’t, and more often than not he found himself suddenly turning visible in the middle of the sidewalk, which did tend to startle people, no matter how much Claude insisted the unwashed masses weren’t good at noticing things. Claude had actually thrown him through a window of an abandoned building at one point. It hurt. It would have hurt more if the men selling drugs inside had seen him.
He’d walked away from that one, admittedly, but pulling glass shards out of your skin just isn’t fun, even if you can heal, which was still a spotty ability at best. It wasn’t always easy to focus your thoughts on one person enough to bring out their gift (Claire, Sylar, Nathan-he really couldn’t concentrate when he thought about Nathan), and whenever he couldn’t, Claude would just make it worse. The man was going to have to learn that verbally demolishing someone didn’t necessarily do much to improve their confidence in their abilities.
So it really didn’t seem fair that now Peter had to learn how to stay visible, too. Blinking out was just automatic when he was around Claude; he couldn’t help it, it was so ingrained into him that Claude = hiding that he wasn’t even sure it was possible not to. But Claude was all about pushing him-literally and figuratively-so now Peter was trying to look in a mirror with Claude standing next to him. It wasn’t really working.
“Why is it I can see me, and I can see you, but I can’t see our reflections?” Peter asked, sullenly.
“Hell if I know. Don’t bother asking that sort of stuff, the universe is a cagey bastard about it. About everything, actually, but that’s besides the point-try harder.”
Peter concentrated. If thinking about someone brought out their abilities, maybe not thinking about them would cancel them out? But, as many have noted, if you’re trying not to think about something, it is the only thing that will come to mind. It really didn’t help that Claude was standing a little too close for comfort. He abandoned that method and went for another one; he allowed his mind to drift off into whatever it felt like. The apartment was really cold today. That was the usual situation, of course, but as the year ticked down into winter, it was becoming more noticeable. Maybe he should get another coat. Except he’d have to steal that, of course, and he really didn’t want to-no, wait, that was Claude again, skip that, go for something else. He wondered how Simone was doing. Simone was-interesting might be a good word, or maybe bizarre. He did like her, he really did, but he had no idea why she was so reluctant about everything and he had a suspicion that he was really just a rebound from her breakup with Isaac-if she had broken up with Isaac, which he wasn’t entirely sure about, because Simone never actually told him about much. It was probably a good thing that he was getting a breather from her, so he could actually get a chance to think about what they would really be like, but, wait, breather = time away = getting away = Claude and this just wasn’t working.
He opened his eyes. The reflections still weren’t there. He cringed, expecting denigration or a slap or even just a disappointed snort (which didn’t hurt as much as a slap, but still hurt), but nothing came; Claude was just looking at him, thoughtfully. Well, that couldn’t be good.
“Maybe you just need the right motivation,” Claude said, still looking at him. “C’mon, we’re trying something different.” He dragged Peter out of the bathroom (did Claude really need to drag him everywhere? He could just walk), across the room, and out through the front door, pulling him into the elevator before he finally let go of him. Peter rubbed at his arm dejectedly. That hurt, too. A lot of things hurt lately. He was trying to convince himself it was all for the best.
“Where are we going?” Peter asked, as the elevator moved mournfully downward. Did elevators have feelings? This one had never seemed very cheerful. It creaked and jerked and made alarming noises on occasion. The elevator at the Deveaux building was better-it felt useful, like it knew it had a reason for being there-but this one was just depressing.
“Out,” Claude said, simply. Peter frowned. It wasn’t like knowing where they were going would mess up the whole thing, was it? It might be. He could never tell with Claude. Maybe they were going someplace he wouldn’t want to go to. Isaac’s loft? No, that didn’t make sense. Nathan’s office? Well, er, he wasn’t actually sure if he wanted to go there or not, but that didn’t make sense either. He supposed he’d have to find out.
The elevator doors opened and Claude pulled him out into the street (again with the dragging). He finally managed to wrest his arm away; Claude didn’t seem to care, which was a relief. They walked down the sidewalk, bumping into people left and right; Peter tried to avoid it, but there just wasn’t enough room. He tried to persuade himself that the passersby would have walked around him if they had seen him, but then he remembered that this was New York, and that was not necessarily true.
After rather more walking (and a few bruises accumulated by being banged into by people carrying something heavy, but the bruises went away soon enough), they arrived at, mysteriously, Times Square. Peter wondered what made this the place to be-it was crowded and noisy and everyone was moving around very quickly; he doubted anyone would be looking at him too long to notice if he was visible or not. As he looked around, he became aware of a news crew filming something or other in the square. That wasn’t unusual, really; plenty of news shows thought it was more Engaging to have people moving around in the background. It made him a little nervous, though, since he was, you know, in hiding and all. It wouldn’t be good for Nathan to suddenly see him on TV. So why was-oh. Oh, no.
“I’m going to walk away,” Claude said, casually, “and you’re going to lean against that building they’re filming in the background, and I’m going to come back, and you’re going to try your hardest not to turn invisible on national TV. Cause quite a stir, wouldn’t it?”
“Claude, that’s really not a good idea, what if Nathan or Mohinder watches that news show, they’re going to know where I am-”
“They’re going to know you’re in New York, which they probably could have guessed, if they’re even watching, which I bet you they’re not. One random news show in the middle of the afternoon? Low odds, mate.”
“What if-if they are watching, and they have it confirmed that I’m still in New York, Nathan’ll have my apartment watched!” Probably, anyway, Peter thought. If he really wants to find me, he’d do that. He’d probably have done it already, come to think of it…
“Right, because they’d find so much if they went there. You could stay on the roof if it’d make you feel better.”
“It’s freezing on the roof,” Peter snapped.
“Bring a blanket.”
Peter threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine! Fine, I’ll go on national TV and risk everything for one lousy lesson.”
“My lessons,” Claude said, irritably, “are never lousy. Now go get ready.” He walked off into the crowd, and after a while, Peter couldn’t see him any more; he felt visibility slowly welling up inside, and he let it out, exhaling as he blinked into perceptible existence. Did anybody notice? He didn’t think anybody noticed. If anyone had noticed, they weren’t pointing at him and screaming, which was generally a good sign. He sighed and walked over to where the news crew was filming.
The building in the background was something garish and neon and mildly distressing. Peter leaned against it, watching the cameramen hover around whichever newscaster it was; whatever the piece was about, it didn’t seem to be anything particularly interesting. People were just walking right by the cameras without paying much attention at all. That was good, probably; if it was just a story about something boring or insignificant (rising stock prices, maybe, or the general downfall of our nation’s youth), then it stood less chance of Nathan watching it. He could do this. He would just need to…concentrate.
He could see Claude in the crowd again, moving towards him. He closed his eyes-his skin was starting to itch with the urge to be unseen, and that was distracting. Think about staying. Think about being around. Think about being noticed. Think about being acknowledged. Think about-
Claude was standing just a few feet away now, or at least it felt like it, considering how strongly his skin was insisting that reflecting light was for losers. Claude wasn’t saying anything, though, which helped.
“How’m I doing?” Peter whispered, eyes still shut tight.
“How would I know? I can see you either way.”
It occurred to Peter that this was very, very true. “So you brought me out here with no way of telling if I’m doing it right or not?”
He could practically feel Claude shrug. “Well, more incentive to concentrate, yeah?”
More incentive it might have been, but Peter certainly wasn’t finding it any easier to concentrate on it now; it felt like every cell in his body was trying to contract, hide, vanish. Very distracting.
It got even stronger, almost bursting through his skin, and Peter realized that Claude must be standing right next to him, leaning against the same wall. “Are you trying to make me fail?” he whispered, through clenched teeth. Claude considered the matter. “Yup.”
“Great,” Peter said, exasperated. “Only way I’ll learn, right?” He tried to focus his mind on one concept-be part of the world-and it sort of worked.
“Best way to teach a kid how to swim is to push him into the water,” Claude said, wryly.
“Or off a thirty-story building.” Be part of the world, be part of the world, be part of the world
“Or against a wall.” Be part of the world, be part of the world, be part of the wait what now?
Claude must have stepped in front of him, because his nerves were clanging now, actively rebelling against visibility, and it was starting to hurt. So it really didn’t help when Claude leaned in and ran a finger along his jawline.
“You’re sweating,” Claude observed. “It really takes that much effort?”
“It does when you’re distracting me,” Peter hissed. His skull was pounding so hard he felt sure it was going to explode (and wouldn’t that be ironic)
“Distracting?” Claude murmured, tracing Peter’s face. “Not really, mate. This-” and he leaned in even further and lightly licked Peter’s cheek “-is distracting.”
Peter, almost too busy to think about anything other than keeping his body from collapsing in on itself, really had to agree on that.
Claude ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of Peter’s mouth, just slightly slipping in, and Peter couldn’t tell if it was the effort of visibility or that that was making his breathing fast and shallow. Could be both, really.
“If you vanished now,” Claude said, low-voiced, not even inches away from Peter’s mouth, as far as Peter could tell, “the video would be broadcast live all across the country…and sooner or later every person around would know about it, including that brother of yours you worry about so much. Good thing you’re not vanishing, innit?”
“…think I don’t know that?” Peter managed, barely fighting off the splitting pain in his head. Can’t move-can’t think-talking probably not a good idea-why won’t Claude stop-
Claude’s voice turned harsh. “No, you don’t. You have no bloody idea what you and your silly little abilities can do to the world. You’re learning how to use’em, yeah, but you need to know how to avoid using’em. What you need…” His tongue flickered between the edges of Peter’s lips. “…is control.”
Peter’s heart was about to break through his chest and his head was splitting in two and his skin was on fire and how was he supposed to concentrate at all and
“Incidentally, the cameras moved away about five minutes ago.”
It was really entirely understandable for Peter to collapse invisibly into Claude’s arms.
Groggily, he woke up to find himself on what was almost assuredly a bench of some kind. Claude was sitting next to him, watching. He winced at the sudden influx of sunlight-having his eyes closed tight for so long had left spots in his vision, and the sun wasn’t making it any easier to adjust. At least the unbearable pain was gone. That was usually a good sign.
“Well,” Claude said, stretching, “you lasted longer than I thought you would. Under all that pressure, even.”
Peter looked up at him, unbelieving. “You licked me.”
Claude shrugged. “All in the name of duty. What, don’t tell me you feel violated or something?”
“No, not-really-it’s just-” Peter searched in vain for a word. He settled, lamely, on “-it was just strange.”
“Could’ve been stranger. I could’ve kissed you, but you’d have looked a bit odd to the cameras.” Claude reflected on it. “Actually, you probably looked a little odd as it was…”
Peter rubbed his eyes. “You genuinely mean that you would’ve-”
“Testing you properly wasn’t much of a great hardship on my part, no. But when was the last time you showered?”
“Not that long ago!” Peter snapped. Something occurred to him. “How’d you even get the idea, anyway?”
Claude leaned back on the bench. “How d’ye think?”
Oh.
…well.
A long silence stretched out between them. Not around them, though; around them there were dogs barking and people talking and the sound of cars whizzing by. After a while, it all blurred together into one big noise filed under City. Peter had lived in New York all his life, and he hardly paid attention to the background racket any more. He wondered if Claude was the same way. How long had Claude lived here, anyhow? He realized he didn’t know. He didn’t know much of anything about the man he’d been essentially living with for the past week. Except, apparently, that Claude didn’t mind licking him, which really was not a great insight into his character. It was certainly interesting, though.
“So,” Peter said, trying to fill in the silence, “you think about that sort of thing pretty often?”
“Every now and then,” Claude replied, evenly. “Why, you ever thought about it?”
Peter hesitated. No would be the most correct answer, but it didn’t feel like the one he ought to actually say, although none of the other answers sounded right. He settled on, “Would it make a difference if I had?”
“All the difference in the world. One way you haven’t and nothing happens except you feel awkward for a while, which ain’t going to help much; one way you have and then it’s a whole new ball game. So which is it?”
Peter mulled it over. On one hand, Claude was a semi-sadistic bastard with a tendency to throw him off and/or into things. On the other hand, he wasn’t used to not having anyone to rely on. Simone was out of the picture for now, and Nathan, well, it sort of hurt to think about Nathan. He remembered, though, something his brother had said to him once: You always need someone to cling to, don’t you? You’re going to have to learn how to handle things on your own, Peter. He didn’t want to do that. Being connected to people made everything make sense, somehow. And he really wanted his life to make sense right now. So that was why, instead of actually answering Claude’s question, he leaned over and kissed him.
To his credit, Claude didn’t actually make a startled noise or jump back or push him away and punch him, all of which Peter considered to be good signs. Instead, after the initial moment of surprise had passed, Claude was kissing him back, sliding his tongue between Peter’s lips properly this time, grabbing at his shoulders and pulling him down and, okay, being pressed onto a park bench was kind of uncomfortable, but Peter really didn’t care that much. It was still cold, but Claude pressing against him was warm and solid and distracting enough to make him forget there even was weather, or a city buzzing all around them, or anything other than what he had decided was the best bench ever.
Kissing Claude was kind of scratchy. Peter briefly wondered how Claude would look without a beard, but he got sidetracked by the way Claude’s hand was sliding down his stomach and oh, hey, really? Really? Right now? He wanted to say something, but Claude’s hand had already gotten past the zipper and dear god, okay, saying something would be good.
He managed to wrest his mouth away. “We’re on a park bench,” he whispered, desperately.
“Is that what it is? I thought it was a conveniently-shaped rock.” Claude looked more annoyed than anything, which was probably understandable, but still.
“There are people right over there,” Peter hissed.
“Ain’t like they’ll notice anything, will they?” Claude said, irritably.
Peter had to admit that this was true. “I just-can’t really believe we’re-”
“It’s easier if you stop talking,” Claude muttered.
“What, you mean you’ve done this befommmmfh,” Peter started, before Claude blocked his mouth with his tongue. He decided to stop protesting.
Claude’s fingers had become increasingly interesting. Peter dimly registered the fact that he should probably be doing something too, so he moved his hand over and there and clearly he was doing something right, because Claude inhaled sharply and then Peter had to bite back a moan (people might not be able to see them, but they could still hear them, and he really didn’t want anyone to get curious). Claude’s other hand was on the side of Peter’s head, clenched in his hair, which on one hand hurt a bit but on the other felt strangely romantic. I thought he didn’t like my hair. All things considered, he couldn’t think of any reason to object to this any more. And then Claude did something really good with his fingers and gnn. No objections at all.
Eventually, Peter couldn’t hold back a strangled gasp and maybe a few passersby got confused but he really, really didn’t care. He slumped his head against the seat of the bench. Claude followed shortly, if not as loudly, but then there was that whole more-used-to-it thing and he was really going to have to ask him about that some time. Not now, though, because now seemed like a better time for lying back dizzily.
Claude pulled himself off him, which was vaguely disappointing but probably to be expected. After some effort, Peter managed to pull himself up too. They looked at each other.
“Probably we should get cleaned up,” Claude observed. Oh. Right. Yes. Good idea. Adjusting clothes, they stood up and were starting to walk away when Peter realized his skin was prickling. That was odd, because he didn’t think that happened unless his body was trying to be…invisi…oh what the-
“Claude,” Peter said, slowly, “we were invisible, right?”
Claude didn’t say anything. He just grinned. Oh god.
Peter opened his mouth. Peter closed his mouth. Peter swallowed. He wanted to say something, but he was pretty sure all that would come out were incoherent noises.
“If it’s any consolation,” Claude said, cheerfully, “we’re invisible now.”
It really isn’t, Peter thought, wildly.
“Well, come on,” Claude said, putting his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “Back to the apartment, and all that.”
As they walked away, Peter’s head reeling, he managed one more coherent thought:
That’ s not a good incentive to stay visible at all.