Fic: Deus Ex Machina (1/1)
Title: Deus Ex Machina
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Peter/Gabriel
Word Count: 1,077
Summary: He lives his life by the clock. For viole2xta at demonqueen666’s Sweet Drabblethon; Prompt “Peter/Gabriel: they meet in college before show events.” General Series Spoilers for Heroes.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For viole2xta - I am a firm believer that Gabriel Gray is quintessentially one big angst-fest, and this little ficlet is very, very representative of that. I really hope that’s okay by you. Also - it ended up being considerably longer than 100 words. Hope you’re alright with that, too.
Deus Ex Machina
He lives his life by the clock.
“What class is that for?” It takes four-point-seven seconds for those long fingers to flip deftly through the pages of his book, catching it at the corners, the soft breeze it sends landing cool against Gabriel’s forehead, and his eyes drift closed for the briefest of instants, savoring the singularity of it all; he knows the clock well enough to know that it lies, to see in its face that, while it forces him to repeat his world twice a day, every day - the same minute and hour and second ad infinitum - this moment will never again be his to hold. So he cherishes it accordingly.
There is never enough time.
At five minutes and three seconds past four in the afternoon, Peter leans down to press soft lips to his temple, and Gabriel can feel the way his pulse thrums hard and fast against that mouth; still unsure of this, still nervous and raucous and fearful and eager, still beating exactly one-hundred-and-seventeen times per minute.
“None,” he murmurs, sitting up and setting the book atop the bedside table, next to the clock that runs five seconds, four seconds, five seconds fast - robbing them of precious moments, drop by drop like the soft spill of rain. “Just a bit of pleasure reading.”
Peter’s weight dips against the mattress, disturbs the sheets, and his fingertips against the peeling lettering of the book where it sits upon the nightstand, tracing what’s left of the author’s name - ‘T O PSON’ - as if it means something; it makes Gabriel feel anxious, somehow; unsteady.
“Seriously?” And Peter’s raised eyebrow, the humor that dances behind his eyes - and that nameless something, hot and stormy and true that burns around the irises, something that Gabriel comes close to calling affection, but isn’t willing to risk the mistake just yet; that warmth grounds him, anchors him. Keeps him from toppling over.
“I like clocks.”
He hates clocks.
“Why?”
The sigh that shudders outward from his soul is sudden, and it tastes of formaldehyde and ginger and blood and it’s Peter that rushes out between his lips with his breath, Peter that lingers on his tongue when he can’t meet those honey eyes, can’t speak through their shine. “Why do you like medicine?”
“I like helping people. It makes sense.” It takes Peter all of three seconds to formulate the reply - his answer as close to his tongue as it is to his hear - and Gabriel admires that about him. Deeply, desperately admires that.
“Same reason I like clocks.” Semantics. S’always been his strongest ally.
The chuckle that follows is soft, frustrated yet full, and it settles awkwardly in the pit of Gabriel’s stomach as Peter stretches to fit the length of the bed; their toes brush, and it’s oddly intimate, the shudder that shoots through him at the contact setting him off balance, making him run half-a-second behind.
“You’re a fucking riddle, Gabe,” Peter whispers as he sweeps a stray lock of Gabriel’s hair behind his ear, letting his fingers trail delicately across the shell, playing at the lobe before lingering at the nape of his neck, drawing him close like gravity. “Don’t think I’ll ever be able to figure you out.”
“Why would you ever want to?” Nose to nose, he stares at Peter as if he’s never seen the man before, as if those lips don’t haunt his dreams, don’t break his falls. He’s never been able to imagine the type of person who would willingly desire to slip beneath his skin, to see his soul. He’s spent his whole life trying to envision the type of person who could love him. Just another failure, though; another dead end.
Five-oh-seven, and counting; his chest hurts, and he’s read enough of Peter’s anatomy texts to know quite intimately that the human heart shouldn’t beat this hard, this fast, so swift and jarring, rattling at his ribs until the ticking clock at the core of him seems to blur, seems to shift; until a minute is a second is an hour is a year, and Gabriel is only just gasping through his birth in the very same instant that he breathes his last, and his flesh turns cold and everything fades to black against the first light of his universe; and it’s wrong, so very wrong, and yet so fucking perfect that it nearly destroys him. Between blinks, his world is shattered like the face of a watch - the quartz sending shards through his world and fragmenting everything he’d ever thought was real.
They’re so close, now, and he knows that Peter feels it; knows that Peter can feel the way he ticks, the way his second hand is spinning out of his control. The way his breath comes sharp and fast under Peter’s hand, fogging on his glasses; the way his blood rushes hard beneath Peter’s thumb, the jump of every beat in his throat seen and known as a tongue licks against it, as a mouth closes around it like a sacred song, and Gabriel breathes; fuck, but he breathes.
This doesn’t make any sense.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Peter murmurs against his lips - and he cannot tell Peter all of the reasons that he shouldn’t, all the reasons that he should run, that he should get the hell out now before Gabriel poisons every good thing about him, before he hardens his edges and smothers his hope; he can’t tell Peter anything, because Peter is sucking all of the words from him, drinking them in as he deepens the kiss, swallowing the protests and the doubts and the ache, the ache, and making everything light, just for the moment. Making everything whole, if only in Gabriel’s dreams.
He wants to know him. He wants to figure him out. He wants to.
Gabriel doesn’t know what time it is, or how long it takes him to draw in a breath, and gloriously, incongruously - inexplicably, unacceptably, undeniably; it doesn’t even seem to matter.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Peter/Gabriel
Word Count: 1,077
Summary: He lives his life by the clock. For viole2xta at demonqueen666’s Sweet Drabblethon; Prompt “Peter/Gabriel: they meet in college before show events.” General Series Spoilers for Heroes.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For viole2xta - I am a firm believer that Gabriel Gray is quintessentially one big angst-fest, and this little ficlet is very, very representative of that. I really hope that’s okay by you. Also - it ended up being considerably longer than 100 words. Hope you’re alright with that, too.
Deus Ex Machina
He lives his life by the clock.
“What class is that for?” It takes four-point-seven seconds for those long fingers to flip deftly through the pages of his book, catching it at the corners, the soft breeze it sends landing cool against Gabriel’s forehead, and his eyes drift closed for the briefest of instants, savoring the singularity of it all; he knows the clock well enough to know that it lies, to see in its face that, while it forces him to repeat his world twice a day, every day - the same minute and hour and second ad infinitum - this moment will never again be his to hold. So he cherishes it accordingly.
There is never enough time.
At five minutes and three seconds past four in the afternoon, Peter leans down to press soft lips to his temple, and Gabriel can feel the way his pulse thrums hard and fast against that mouth; still unsure of this, still nervous and raucous and fearful and eager, still beating exactly one-hundred-and-seventeen times per minute.
“None,” he murmurs, sitting up and setting the book atop the bedside table, next to the clock that runs five seconds, four seconds, five seconds fast - robbing them of precious moments, drop by drop like the soft spill of rain. “Just a bit of pleasure reading.”
Peter’s weight dips against the mattress, disturbs the sheets, and his fingertips against the peeling lettering of the book where it sits upon the nightstand, tracing what’s left of the author’s name - ‘T O PSON’ - as if it means something; it makes Gabriel feel anxious, somehow; unsteady.
“Seriously?” And Peter’s raised eyebrow, the humor that dances behind his eyes - and that nameless something, hot and stormy and true that burns around the irises, something that Gabriel comes close to calling affection, but isn’t willing to risk the mistake just yet; that warmth grounds him, anchors him. Keeps him from toppling over.
“I like clocks.”
He hates clocks.
“Why?”
The sigh that shudders outward from his soul is sudden, and it tastes of formaldehyde and ginger and blood and it’s Peter that rushes out between his lips with his breath, Peter that lingers on his tongue when he can’t meet those honey eyes, can’t speak through their shine. “Why do you like medicine?”
“I like helping people. It makes sense.” It takes Peter all of three seconds to formulate the reply - his answer as close to his tongue as it is to his hear - and Gabriel admires that about him. Deeply, desperately admires that.
“Same reason I like clocks.” Semantics. S’always been his strongest ally.
The chuckle that follows is soft, frustrated yet full, and it settles awkwardly in the pit of Gabriel’s stomach as Peter stretches to fit the length of the bed; their toes brush, and it’s oddly intimate, the shudder that shoots through him at the contact setting him off balance, making him run half-a-second behind.
“You’re a fucking riddle, Gabe,” Peter whispers as he sweeps a stray lock of Gabriel’s hair behind his ear, letting his fingers trail delicately across the shell, playing at the lobe before lingering at the nape of his neck, drawing him close like gravity. “Don’t think I’ll ever be able to figure you out.”
“Why would you ever want to?” Nose to nose, he stares at Peter as if he’s never seen the man before, as if those lips don’t haunt his dreams, don’t break his falls. He’s never been able to imagine the type of person who would willingly desire to slip beneath his skin, to see his soul. He’s spent his whole life trying to envision the type of person who could love him. Just another failure, though; another dead end.
Five-oh-seven, and counting; his chest hurts, and he’s read enough of Peter’s anatomy texts to know quite intimately that the human heart shouldn’t beat this hard, this fast, so swift and jarring, rattling at his ribs until the ticking clock at the core of him seems to blur, seems to shift; until a minute is a second is an hour is a year, and Gabriel is only just gasping through his birth in the very same instant that he breathes his last, and his flesh turns cold and everything fades to black against the first light of his universe; and it’s wrong, so very wrong, and yet so fucking perfect that it nearly destroys him. Between blinks, his world is shattered like the face of a watch - the quartz sending shards through his world and fragmenting everything he’d ever thought was real.
They’re so close, now, and he knows that Peter feels it; knows that Peter can feel the way he ticks, the way his second hand is spinning out of his control. The way his breath comes sharp and fast under Peter’s hand, fogging on his glasses; the way his blood rushes hard beneath Peter’s thumb, the jump of every beat in his throat seen and known as a tongue licks against it, as a mouth closes around it like a sacred song, and Gabriel breathes; fuck, but he breathes.
This doesn’t make any sense.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Peter murmurs against his lips - and he cannot tell Peter all of the reasons that he shouldn’t, all the reasons that he should run, that he should get the hell out now before Gabriel poisons every good thing about him, before he hardens his edges and smothers his hope; he can’t tell Peter anything, because Peter is sucking all of the words from him, drinking them in as he deepens the kiss, swallowing the protests and the doubts and the ache, the ache, and making everything light, just for the moment. Making everything whole, if only in Gabriel’s dreams.
He wants to know him. He wants to figure him out. He wants to.
Gabriel doesn’t know what time it is, or how long it takes him to draw in a breath, and gloriously, incongruously - inexplicably, unacceptably, undeniably; it doesn’t even seem to matter.