Fic: The End of the Beginning
Title: The End of the Beginning
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Word Count: 3643
Summary: French Morocco, 1941: Peter's luck changed, and Claude spent the night.
Rating: R
A/N: A sequel to It's Always a Gamble. Which I'd read first, because a) short and b) otherwise this makes no sense at all. Also, use for unexpected date in Plaude schmoop bingo, y/n?
He’s dreaming.
He’s got to be.
Or he’s mistaken. His eyes are tired. He’s been drinking too much. Or he’s dead and this is either the worst version of heaven he could ever imagine or the least impressive hell.
The man currently sitting at the bar in gendarmerie uniform that somehow seems to fit him perfectly is not Claude Rains. It would be impossible.
He’s talking to the bartender in French, for one. And Peter’s not so great at being able to tell, but it sounds pretty much flawless to his ear. Claude’s was good, but nowhere near. So it couldn’t be. The man turns, just barely, and sees him.
Peter blinks. Takes a moment to lean against the wall, and then recovers, because in the same instant the other man (Claude. Because it is Claude, it’s no one else, no one else could look that simultaneously thrilled and angry at him) turns back around, his body gone tense even as his voice stays even, Peter gets it.
He does a quick scan of the room. No one seems to have noticed him, but no one ever really does. He resists the urge to shake his head, he resists the temptation to walk up to the bar, and he heads to the back room instead. No better time than now to try his luck, really.
*
“Good night,” Joshua comments with a tight-lipped smile as he takes Peter’s chips.
“Great night,” he says, conversationally, and holds in a grin. Takes about half the francs given to him, and hands the rest back. Nods toward the croupier. “Tip.”
The man raises an eyebrow, but takes it. His smile shows a few teeth, briefly, and then disappears as he turns around.
Peter pockets the rest. Feels a rough slip of paper brush against the worn bills, and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He nods at Sasha, waves at Carl, and is on the dark street, taking in the cool air.
The moon is up. The sky is clear and it’s waning, just a sliver of painfully bright white adrift in the darkness. He tips his head back to see it properly, and when he looks back down at the street, he sees a shadow move. He’s free to shake his head now, so he does, and reaches into his pocket and pulls out the scrap of paper.
What took you so long?, it reads.
He doesn’t hold back the laugh this time. Puts his hands in his pockets and walks the short distance to his hotel.
Once there, he hesitates. Glances around the seemingly deserted sidewalk. Shrugs.
It’s a quick walk to his room, only a flight of stairs and a couple of steps down a dark hallway, but he’s kind of surprised he makes it there at all. He’s even more surprised that there’s no one on the other side of the door once he opens it.
“You seem disappointed.”
From behind him. Of course. He turns around. Claude’s out of the uniform and leaning against the wall. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, his coat is draped distractedly over his arm, and his hair looks mussed. Peter doesn’t want to think about why.
“I kinda am,” he says, and waves Claude in.
“How come?” Claude tosses back, over his shoulder, as he sets about observing every article of clothing and spare sheet of paper Peter’s left crumpled around the room, and flinging his own coat over a chair. Completely ignoring Peter himself in the process, which is not a surprise at all.
Peter shuts the door and shakes his head. He’s done it so many times tonight that it’s making him dizzy. “I liked the uniform.”
“Fantastic,” Claude gives a low laugh. “One of those.”
“I thought it was…dashing,” he says, trying to keep his voice even.
“You would, Peter.”
His anger flares, sharp and rough and deep in his chest. He swallows it as Claude glances at him.
“Still with the Times?”
Peter shakes his head. Again. “Herald-Tribune, now.”
“Right. Nathan get that one for you, too?”
Like a hot, red needle to the heart and he forces it back. “No, that one was on me.”
Claude makes a vague, disinterested noise, and turns back around.
Peter clears his throat and makes another attempt. “Where’d you get the uniform?”
“Took it off a bloke.”
Claude’s back is still to him, which makes him more difficult to read. Peter chews at his bottom lip for a moment before responding.
“That wasn’t very nice.”
Claude snorts. “Neither was he.”
Ah. Peter brings a hand to the back of his neck and rubs; it doesn’t help his headache any. Gives Claude a half-smile as the man turns around again, apparently having completed his study of Peter’s living habits.
“Thought you were headin’ back to New York,” he says, perfectly casual, but there’s a hint of reproach in his eyes, and for some reason, that’s what does it.
“Yeah?” he snaps. “I thought you were meeting me at the station.”
“Pete-“
“Oh, we’re back to ‘Pete’, are we? Great. That’s rich. What, you’re concerned? You actually care? Now? Why are you even here?” Claude looks, for a moment, actually penitent. His hands are in his pockets, and his eyes are on the floor, and Peter hates it. Hates that it’s enough. His anger recedes, and he sighs. “You can’t tell me.”
“Be better if I didn’t, yeah,” Claude glances up, and his tone is almost surprised. His eyes roam over Peter’s face, with a slightly tempered version of the analytical glare he’d used on the rest of Peter’s belongings. He’s trying to figure something out, and while it should make Peter uncomfortable, it doesn’t.
He just shrugs, and moves out of Claude’s line of sight. Walks around him to sit on the edge of the bed.
“How stupid do you think I am?”
“Very,” Claude says, immediately, like it’s a reflex, and he winces before Peter laughs.
“Been in and around Vichy for three months, Claude. I’ve heard a thing or two.”
“Can’t believe everything you hear, mate,” Claude scoffs, although he still seems off balance. Peter isn’t enjoying it as much as he would’ve figured he would.
“Do you hear a lot?”
Claude stares at him again. Takes a step toward the bed and hesitates, until Peter looks down and reaches over, to smooth out the threadbare sheets next to him. When he looks up Claude is a lot closer than he should be.
“No,” he says, sitting down. “More…talking. Than listening.”
“Sure.” Peter nods, and feels the light brush of Claude’s arm against his as the man reaches for something in the opposite pocket. Takes out a pack of cigarettes. Gauloises, and Peter laughs.
“What?” Claude says, offering him one. He declines it.
“You hate those.”
Claude chuckles, cigarette shaking in his mouth as he speaks. “Don’t let us carry anythin’ else.”
“So I’ve heard,” he can’t help but say, and Claude groans. Peter grins, nudging his shoulder against Claude’s, before getting up and walking to the bedside table. Grabs a box of matches, and, after a couple of seconds of thought, his last reserve pack of Marlboros.
“Here,” he says, tossing them over. Claude doesn’t catch the matches; the box lands on the floor next to his feet. Peter stoops to pick it up.
They both reach for it, and Peter thinks that that may have been the point, except that Claude pulls his hand back too quickly for their fingers to have touched. Peter looks up at him, but Claude’s opening the cigarette pack with more care than it really merits.
He pulls one out, and places it in his mouth. Peter removes a match, strikes it, reaches up.
Claude’s hand cups his. Guides the flame to the end of the cigarette. It flares red as it lights, and he lets go of Peter’s hand. Slowly, fingers uncurling from where they’d settled on his wrist. Peter stares for a moment, then drops his eyes back to the floor and to the scuffed shoes Claude is wearing.
Shakes out the flame distractedly as he stands.
“You’re smokin’ now?” Claude’s voice surprises him, and he sits down next to the man. Further away than he was before.
“No.” He answers automatically, and then reconsiders as his brain starts working again. “Sometimes. People will tell you anything if you give them a cigarette.”
“Will they, now?” Claude blows out a steady column of smoke, and Peter shrugs. Claude gives him an odd smile, quick and amused. “Where d’you get ‘em?”
“What, the-“
“American, mate, that’s got to be black market.”
“I know a guy.”
“Right,” Claude nods to himself, and takes another draw. Peter listens to the sound, the deep, rich inhale, and memories of Paris wash over him, making his hands itch. “Same guy that lets you win at roulette?”
“It’s not like that,” he says, too quickly, and Claude sniggers.
“What’s it like, then?”
“It’s kinda like a bonus.”
“For what?”
“They ask me to play the piano sometimes.”
“…really?” Claude says, his tone genuinely curious, and Peter sighs.
“Usually when they’re trying to get people to leave.”
Claude lets out a low, amused, and definitely warm snicker, and Peter blushes, remembering the last time he’d tried to play anything around Claude and had ended up barreling them both off the piano bench and onto the floor in his misplaced enthusiasm. The memory makes him smile, and it wouldn’t, normally.
He notices Claude watching him out of the corner of his eye, and looks away. Tries to think. Tries to understand this properly.
Claude wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want something. Especially if he’s blowing his cover being here, which Peter’s fairly sure he is. Whatever it is Claude wants, whatever it is he feels is worth enough to risk his safety for, is probably something Peter wouldn’t be able to refuse him. Which is what he should do. It’d be the best thing for both of them.
“It’s been more than a year,” Peter says, preemptively, and Claude seems momentarily confused. “Since Paris.”
“Seventeen months,” Claude says, quickly, and then pauses. “I think.”
“Feels like more.”
Claude gives him a long, steady look, and then turns his head away. “You’ve no idea, mate.”
“I have some idea,” Peter says, knowing just how petulant he sounds, and not carrying. Claude’s been edging closer to him, or maybe he’s been the one edging, but they’re touching, just barely. Shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm. Thigh to thigh.
Claude’s eyes are still focused straight ahead of him.
“Got an ashtray?”
“What?”
Claude gestures at his cigarette, which isn’t even half-finished.
“Uh. I should. Let me…” he gets up to look. The absence of warmth against his side is something of a distraction, but he finds one under a pile of old newssheets.
Claude takes it out of his hand before he can sit down, and gives him a tight-lipped smile. Stubs out the cigarette, places the ashtray on the floor, and with a speed and dexterity that shouldn’t really be surprising, has a hand gripping Peter’s shirt and yanking him down.
Peter’s not quite prepared for it, but he adjusts; leans over Claude, one hand on the man’s shoulder, the other running through his hair, and opens his mouth. Claude’s lips part in response, and his tongue runs hesitantly over Peter’s before Peter twists his fingers in Claude’s hair and pulls his head back in order to kiss him more deeply.
Claude’s arm wraps around his waist and drags him closer. It makes Peter stumble, but he rights himself easily enough. Shoves one leg between both of Claude’s, and as the man shifts back further onto the bed, Peter follows. Rests his knee on the mattress, feels one of Claude’s hands mirroring his and settling in Peter’s hair.
It’s a lighter touch than he expects. Warm fingers running over his scalp, tracing from his temple to the base of his head. He almost loses himself in that touch, even with the feeling of Claude’s erection pressing against his thigh, even with Claude’s other hand already untucking his shirt from his trousers.
“Claude,” he gasps, reaching down to stop him, even as his heart beats like a hammer and his skin feels on the verge of immolation.
It takes Claude a moment to speak. Peter watches him takes a couple of quick breaths, feels his body curve away, notices that his eyes are closed. “What?”
“I don’t…” he inhales, letting the scent of the smoke and of gasoline, for some reason, flood his senses. “Don’t think this is a very good idea.”
Claude lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re right.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Claude’s hand is still warm on his chest and Peter doesn’t want it to move. “It’s a bloody awful idea.”
“Just…” he swallows. “Just as long as you realize.”
Claude nods, his eyes still closed. Peter lunges against him. Claude’s body welcomes the collision.
*
It must be morning.
It feels like it, certainly. It feels early and warm and like it’s been preceded by a very long night. One during which he didn’t get much sleep. Not that he much cares. Not that he thinks Claude does either.
He loves this. Loves feeling Claude underneath him. Loves perching on his elbows, hovering above the warm body that seems to melt against his.
He strokes Claude’s hair back. It’s longer than it used to be. He doesn’t mind it, doesn’t mind being able to run his fingers through it properly. He leans in occasionally, pressing his lips to Claude’s cheeks, and chin, and forehead. His left temple, then his right; Claude’s breath brushes against his chest as he does so, and it tickles. He’s still giggling from it as he lowers his head enough to be able to kiss the tip of Claude’s nose.
That makes Claude laugh too. Peter feels the vibration thrum straight through him, through them both, everywhere they’re touching. Which really does feel like everywhere, feels like they might as well be sharing one body.
He feels the tremble of skin and muscle against him, and he remembers Paris. Remembers how the ground shook when the tanks rumbled by.
He wants that out of his mind, so he leans in again. Claude’s mouth opens against his, and he continues stroking his hands up and down Peter’s back. There’s no purpose to it, the stroking or the kissing. There doesn’t have to be.
He doesn’t want there to be. It’s too much as it is, too much to lose and too much to think back on and know he’ll never have again.
Peter turns his head for a different angle, but Claude’s lips slip away from his. He doesn’t even care how it makes him look, he pouts. Claude grins, curves against him, and his hands continue their apparently dedicated study of Peter’s body, advancing from his back to the nape of his neck and his shoulder.
Peter hums lightly and nudges his nose against Claude’s. Claude lifts his head enough to bring their lips together again. Light, and chaste, almost, as chaste as it can be when they’re both naked and Peter’s fairly sure he can still taste himself on Claude’s mouth. It’s a goodnight kiss, a goodbye kiss, a dropping him off at the station kiss.
Peter pulls back. The thin, sweat-dampened sheet draped over the two of them feels suddenly cold against his skin.
“Claude?” he says, not making any real effort to be quiet, but it comes out soft and childish to his ear.
“Yeah?” equally soft, and Claude’s eyes are half shut. He’s twisting a couple of strands of Peter’s hair around his fingers, as if testing their strength.
“I…” he trails off and covers it with a cough. “There’s a plane. Leaving. A couple of hours from now.”
Claude’s chest rises and falls, and Peter shudders at the sudden stimulation.
“Is there?”
Peter has the presence of mind to cock his head and give him what he hopes is a thoroughly unimpressed look, but Claude’s expression remains just as thoroughly blank.
“You’re going to be on it?” he doesn’t mean for it to be a question, but it comes out as one. He knows why; a question has to be answered before he knows for sure, a question lets him have hope for a few more seconds.
Claude very carefully avoids his eyes as he trails his fingers, all in a row, down along Peter’s neck. And then up again, as if doing that will somehow make the words come more easily.
“Claude.”
“Right,” the man’s eyes snap up to meet his. And they’re so blue, so familiar in a way that Peter hadn’t even remembered, that he almost doesn’t want an answer. Wants to pretend it’s May and Paris and that the way his heart had felt then, so full at just the sight of him that the rest of the world didn’t matter, was something he was still capable of feeling. “Off the record?”
A burble of laughter escapes Peter, and he’s pretty sure it makes him sound hysterical.
“Claude, you’re still inside me, what do you think?”
Claude grunts. Shifts, until that’s no longer the case, and Peter’s breath catches in his throat at the loss.
He ducks his head, and shuts his eyes as he feels Claude’s palm slide up his neck and to his cheek.
“I…” his voice cracks, and he hates himself for it. Drops his forehead to Claude’s shoulder, and sinks down against his chest. The words come out in choked bursts. “Jesus. Of all the places, Claude. All of fucking Vichy. All the fucking world. You could’ve…I…”
“Pete…” Claude’s arms are around him, and his hands are gentle. He remembers how unusual that had been. How much he’d always wanted to be held after, and how rarely Claude had been able to do it. He’d always had to leave, and Peter had always been left to wonder why.
“I was so in love with you,” he murmurs, curling his arm against Claude’s chest.
“I know,” Claude’s words are warm across his forehead, and followed by a quick kiss. “That’s why.”
“Why…?”
“Why I didn’t tell you. Would’ve…would’ve had to leave you anyway, couldn’t have you…waitin’ for me. Pinin’ for me, thinkin’ I was some sort of...hero.” The last word is said so quietly that Peter almost misses it. He doesn’t, though.
He doesn’t laugh, as he would’ve done had he heard that explanation earlier. He just sighs. Shuts his eyes for a moment, knowing that if he lets it be longer than that moment, he’ll fall asleep.
“Better for me to hate you for abandoning me?”
“Or for stiffin’ you on the train fare. Either way.”
Peter snorts. Once. Claude’s fingers tap a quick three-beat rhythm against the side of his neck. It gives him time to pull himself together.
“Yeah, I was pretty much split on it,” he says, lifting his head. Claude gives him a wide grin, one that he does his best to cement in his memory.
*
Claude’s asleep, and Peter’s glad. The man deserves the rest, and Peter deserves the chance to watch him, to get a good look without the distraction that touching him provides.
The furrows in his brow; they seem almost permanent fixtures of his face now, even when he’s otherwise relaxed in sleep. Hints of grey in his hair, at the temples. A long, ugly scar above his hip. The skin around it is still red enough for Peter to know it’s the most recent, but he knows it’s not the only one, just as he knows it’s not the last.
It should hurt, Peter thinks. It should hurt to see Claude like this, changed so much in barely more than a year. He’s not sure why it doesn’t, and he’s not sure he wants to be.
He turns away. Glances back down at the piece of paper in front of him. The words don’t seem like enough, and he knows that even if they’re perfect, they’re probably a bigger risk to carry than they’re worth. But he has nothing else to give.
He signs a name that isn’t his, folds up the sheet, and tucks it into the no-longer-so-secret compartment in Claude’s coat.
*
“Claude,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Peter,” the man takes it, clasps it tighter than Peter had anticipated, but he doesn’t wince.
“Angela is my mother.”
“I…what?” Claude looks confused, for a moment, until Peter smiles, and then he just looks pained. His eyes are sharp, wide, almost desperate in their apparent need to take all of Peter in. He also doesn’t seem to want to let go of Peter’s hand. When Peter tries to ease it out of his grip, he finds himself dragged into an embrace that knocks the wind straight out of him. Claude’s mouth is somewhere above his ear, and the words are quick and low. “That really the last thing you wanna say to me, Pete?”
“Take care of yourself,” he murmurs into Claude’s shoulder. “And read the note.”
“What-”
Peter pulls back before Claude can say anything else. “I mean it,” he says, sternly as he can, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. “Don’t miss your plane.”
The intensity in Claude’s eyes flickers, and then retreats. The man nods, briskly, and turns around.
Peter watches him go. Watches him jog up to the group of figures huddled around the plane that doesn’t look nearly big enough to fit that many. He sees one of them, probably a man, given his height, clap Claude on the shoulder companionably. Claude seems to nod at him, but glances back.
Peter smiles, even though it’s impossible for Claude to be able to see it, and waves.
Claude doesn’t wave back, but Peter swears he catches sight of his grin.
*
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Word Count: 3643
Summary: French Morocco, 1941: Peter's luck changed, and Claude spent the night.
Rating: R
A/N: A sequel to It's Always a Gamble. Which I'd read first, because a) short and b) otherwise this makes no sense at all. Also, use for unexpected date in Plaude schmoop bingo, y/n?
He’s dreaming.
He’s got to be.
Or he’s mistaken. His eyes are tired. He’s been drinking too much. Or he’s dead and this is either the worst version of heaven he could ever imagine or the least impressive hell.
The man currently sitting at the bar in gendarmerie uniform that somehow seems to fit him perfectly is not Claude Rains. It would be impossible.
He’s talking to the bartender in French, for one. And Peter’s not so great at being able to tell, but it sounds pretty much flawless to his ear. Claude’s was good, but nowhere near. So it couldn’t be. The man turns, just barely, and sees him.
Peter blinks. Takes a moment to lean against the wall, and then recovers, because in the same instant the other man (Claude. Because it is Claude, it’s no one else, no one else could look that simultaneously thrilled and angry at him) turns back around, his body gone tense even as his voice stays even, Peter gets it.
He does a quick scan of the room. No one seems to have noticed him, but no one ever really does. He resists the urge to shake his head, he resists the temptation to walk up to the bar, and he heads to the back room instead. No better time than now to try his luck, really.
*
“Good night,” Joshua comments with a tight-lipped smile as he takes Peter’s chips.
“Great night,” he says, conversationally, and holds in a grin. Takes about half the francs given to him, and hands the rest back. Nods toward the croupier. “Tip.”
The man raises an eyebrow, but takes it. His smile shows a few teeth, briefly, and then disappears as he turns around.
Peter pockets the rest. Feels a rough slip of paper brush against the worn bills, and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He nods at Sasha, waves at Carl, and is on the dark street, taking in the cool air.
The moon is up. The sky is clear and it’s waning, just a sliver of painfully bright white adrift in the darkness. He tips his head back to see it properly, and when he looks back down at the street, he sees a shadow move. He’s free to shake his head now, so he does, and reaches into his pocket and pulls out the scrap of paper.
What took you so long?, it reads.
He doesn’t hold back the laugh this time. Puts his hands in his pockets and walks the short distance to his hotel.
Once there, he hesitates. Glances around the seemingly deserted sidewalk. Shrugs.
It’s a quick walk to his room, only a flight of stairs and a couple of steps down a dark hallway, but he’s kind of surprised he makes it there at all. He’s even more surprised that there’s no one on the other side of the door once he opens it.
“You seem disappointed.”
From behind him. Of course. He turns around. Claude’s out of the uniform and leaning against the wall. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, his coat is draped distractedly over his arm, and his hair looks mussed. Peter doesn’t want to think about why.
“I kinda am,” he says, and waves Claude in.
“How come?” Claude tosses back, over his shoulder, as he sets about observing every article of clothing and spare sheet of paper Peter’s left crumpled around the room, and flinging his own coat over a chair. Completely ignoring Peter himself in the process, which is not a surprise at all.
Peter shuts the door and shakes his head. He’s done it so many times tonight that it’s making him dizzy. “I liked the uniform.”
“Fantastic,” Claude gives a low laugh. “One of those.”
“I thought it was…dashing,” he says, trying to keep his voice even.
“You would, Peter.”
His anger flares, sharp and rough and deep in his chest. He swallows it as Claude glances at him.
“Still with the Times?”
Peter shakes his head. Again. “Herald-Tribune, now.”
“Right. Nathan get that one for you, too?”
Like a hot, red needle to the heart and he forces it back. “No, that one was on me.”
Claude makes a vague, disinterested noise, and turns back around.
Peter clears his throat and makes another attempt. “Where’d you get the uniform?”
“Took it off a bloke.”
Claude’s back is still to him, which makes him more difficult to read. Peter chews at his bottom lip for a moment before responding.
“That wasn’t very nice.”
Claude snorts. “Neither was he.”
Ah. Peter brings a hand to the back of his neck and rubs; it doesn’t help his headache any. Gives Claude a half-smile as the man turns around again, apparently having completed his study of Peter’s living habits.
“Thought you were headin’ back to New York,” he says, perfectly casual, but there’s a hint of reproach in his eyes, and for some reason, that’s what does it.
“Yeah?” he snaps. “I thought you were meeting me at the station.”
“Pete-“
“Oh, we’re back to ‘Pete’, are we? Great. That’s rich. What, you’re concerned? You actually care? Now? Why are you even here?” Claude looks, for a moment, actually penitent. His hands are in his pockets, and his eyes are on the floor, and Peter hates it. Hates that it’s enough. His anger recedes, and he sighs. “You can’t tell me.”
“Be better if I didn’t, yeah,” Claude glances up, and his tone is almost surprised. His eyes roam over Peter’s face, with a slightly tempered version of the analytical glare he’d used on the rest of Peter’s belongings. He’s trying to figure something out, and while it should make Peter uncomfortable, it doesn’t.
He just shrugs, and moves out of Claude’s line of sight. Walks around him to sit on the edge of the bed.
“How stupid do you think I am?”
“Very,” Claude says, immediately, like it’s a reflex, and he winces before Peter laughs.
“Been in and around Vichy for three months, Claude. I’ve heard a thing or two.”
“Can’t believe everything you hear, mate,” Claude scoffs, although he still seems off balance. Peter isn’t enjoying it as much as he would’ve figured he would.
“Do you hear a lot?”
Claude stares at him again. Takes a step toward the bed and hesitates, until Peter looks down and reaches over, to smooth out the threadbare sheets next to him. When he looks up Claude is a lot closer than he should be.
“No,” he says, sitting down. “More…talking. Than listening.”
“Sure.” Peter nods, and feels the light brush of Claude’s arm against his as the man reaches for something in the opposite pocket. Takes out a pack of cigarettes. Gauloises, and Peter laughs.
“What?” Claude says, offering him one. He declines it.
“You hate those.”
Claude chuckles, cigarette shaking in his mouth as he speaks. “Don’t let us carry anythin’ else.”
“So I’ve heard,” he can’t help but say, and Claude groans. Peter grins, nudging his shoulder against Claude’s, before getting up and walking to the bedside table. Grabs a box of matches, and, after a couple of seconds of thought, his last reserve pack of Marlboros.
“Here,” he says, tossing them over. Claude doesn’t catch the matches; the box lands on the floor next to his feet. Peter stoops to pick it up.
They both reach for it, and Peter thinks that that may have been the point, except that Claude pulls his hand back too quickly for their fingers to have touched. Peter looks up at him, but Claude’s opening the cigarette pack with more care than it really merits.
He pulls one out, and places it in his mouth. Peter removes a match, strikes it, reaches up.
Claude’s hand cups his. Guides the flame to the end of the cigarette. It flares red as it lights, and he lets go of Peter’s hand. Slowly, fingers uncurling from where they’d settled on his wrist. Peter stares for a moment, then drops his eyes back to the floor and to the scuffed shoes Claude is wearing.
Shakes out the flame distractedly as he stands.
“You’re smokin’ now?” Claude’s voice surprises him, and he sits down next to the man. Further away than he was before.
“No.” He answers automatically, and then reconsiders as his brain starts working again. “Sometimes. People will tell you anything if you give them a cigarette.”
“Will they, now?” Claude blows out a steady column of smoke, and Peter shrugs. Claude gives him an odd smile, quick and amused. “Where d’you get ‘em?”
“What, the-“
“American, mate, that’s got to be black market.”
“I know a guy.”
“Right,” Claude nods to himself, and takes another draw. Peter listens to the sound, the deep, rich inhale, and memories of Paris wash over him, making his hands itch. “Same guy that lets you win at roulette?”
“It’s not like that,” he says, too quickly, and Claude sniggers.
“What’s it like, then?”
“It’s kinda like a bonus.”
“For what?”
“They ask me to play the piano sometimes.”
“…really?” Claude says, his tone genuinely curious, and Peter sighs.
“Usually when they’re trying to get people to leave.”
Claude lets out a low, amused, and definitely warm snicker, and Peter blushes, remembering the last time he’d tried to play anything around Claude and had ended up barreling them both off the piano bench and onto the floor in his misplaced enthusiasm. The memory makes him smile, and it wouldn’t, normally.
He notices Claude watching him out of the corner of his eye, and looks away. Tries to think. Tries to understand this properly.
Claude wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want something. Especially if he’s blowing his cover being here, which Peter’s fairly sure he is. Whatever it is Claude wants, whatever it is he feels is worth enough to risk his safety for, is probably something Peter wouldn’t be able to refuse him. Which is what he should do. It’d be the best thing for both of them.
“It’s been more than a year,” Peter says, preemptively, and Claude seems momentarily confused. “Since Paris.”
“Seventeen months,” Claude says, quickly, and then pauses. “I think.”
“Feels like more.”
Claude gives him a long, steady look, and then turns his head away. “You’ve no idea, mate.”
“I have some idea,” Peter says, knowing just how petulant he sounds, and not carrying. Claude’s been edging closer to him, or maybe he’s been the one edging, but they’re touching, just barely. Shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm. Thigh to thigh.
Claude’s eyes are still focused straight ahead of him.
“Got an ashtray?”
“What?”
Claude gestures at his cigarette, which isn’t even half-finished.
“Uh. I should. Let me…” he gets up to look. The absence of warmth against his side is something of a distraction, but he finds one under a pile of old newssheets.
Claude takes it out of his hand before he can sit down, and gives him a tight-lipped smile. Stubs out the cigarette, places the ashtray on the floor, and with a speed and dexterity that shouldn’t really be surprising, has a hand gripping Peter’s shirt and yanking him down.
Peter’s not quite prepared for it, but he adjusts; leans over Claude, one hand on the man’s shoulder, the other running through his hair, and opens his mouth. Claude’s lips part in response, and his tongue runs hesitantly over Peter’s before Peter twists his fingers in Claude’s hair and pulls his head back in order to kiss him more deeply.
Claude’s arm wraps around his waist and drags him closer. It makes Peter stumble, but he rights himself easily enough. Shoves one leg between both of Claude’s, and as the man shifts back further onto the bed, Peter follows. Rests his knee on the mattress, feels one of Claude’s hands mirroring his and settling in Peter’s hair.
It’s a lighter touch than he expects. Warm fingers running over his scalp, tracing from his temple to the base of his head. He almost loses himself in that touch, even with the feeling of Claude’s erection pressing against his thigh, even with Claude’s other hand already untucking his shirt from his trousers.
“Claude,” he gasps, reaching down to stop him, even as his heart beats like a hammer and his skin feels on the verge of immolation.
It takes Claude a moment to speak. Peter watches him takes a couple of quick breaths, feels his body curve away, notices that his eyes are closed. “What?”
“I don’t…” he inhales, letting the scent of the smoke and of gasoline, for some reason, flood his senses. “Don’t think this is a very good idea.”
Claude lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re right.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Claude’s hand is still warm on his chest and Peter doesn’t want it to move. “It’s a bloody awful idea.”
“Just…” he swallows. “Just as long as you realize.”
Claude nods, his eyes still closed. Peter lunges against him. Claude’s body welcomes the collision.
*
It must be morning.
It feels like it, certainly. It feels early and warm and like it’s been preceded by a very long night. One during which he didn’t get much sleep. Not that he much cares. Not that he thinks Claude does either.
He loves this. Loves feeling Claude underneath him. Loves perching on his elbows, hovering above the warm body that seems to melt against his.
He strokes Claude’s hair back. It’s longer than it used to be. He doesn’t mind it, doesn’t mind being able to run his fingers through it properly. He leans in occasionally, pressing his lips to Claude’s cheeks, and chin, and forehead. His left temple, then his right; Claude’s breath brushes against his chest as he does so, and it tickles. He’s still giggling from it as he lowers his head enough to be able to kiss the tip of Claude’s nose.
That makes Claude laugh too. Peter feels the vibration thrum straight through him, through them both, everywhere they’re touching. Which really does feel like everywhere, feels like they might as well be sharing one body.
He feels the tremble of skin and muscle against him, and he remembers Paris. Remembers how the ground shook when the tanks rumbled by.
He wants that out of his mind, so he leans in again. Claude’s mouth opens against his, and he continues stroking his hands up and down Peter’s back. There’s no purpose to it, the stroking or the kissing. There doesn’t have to be.
He doesn’t want there to be. It’s too much as it is, too much to lose and too much to think back on and know he’ll never have again.
Peter turns his head for a different angle, but Claude’s lips slip away from his. He doesn’t even care how it makes him look, he pouts. Claude grins, curves against him, and his hands continue their apparently dedicated study of Peter’s body, advancing from his back to the nape of his neck and his shoulder.
Peter hums lightly and nudges his nose against Claude’s. Claude lifts his head enough to bring their lips together again. Light, and chaste, almost, as chaste as it can be when they’re both naked and Peter’s fairly sure he can still taste himself on Claude’s mouth. It’s a goodnight kiss, a goodbye kiss, a dropping him off at the station kiss.
Peter pulls back. The thin, sweat-dampened sheet draped over the two of them feels suddenly cold against his skin.
“Claude?” he says, not making any real effort to be quiet, but it comes out soft and childish to his ear.
“Yeah?” equally soft, and Claude’s eyes are half shut. He’s twisting a couple of strands of Peter’s hair around his fingers, as if testing their strength.
“I…” he trails off and covers it with a cough. “There’s a plane. Leaving. A couple of hours from now.”
Claude’s chest rises and falls, and Peter shudders at the sudden stimulation.
“Is there?”
Peter has the presence of mind to cock his head and give him what he hopes is a thoroughly unimpressed look, but Claude’s expression remains just as thoroughly blank.
“You’re going to be on it?” he doesn’t mean for it to be a question, but it comes out as one. He knows why; a question has to be answered before he knows for sure, a question lets him have hope for a few more seconds.
Claude very carefully avoids his eyes as he trails his fingers, all in a row, down along Peter’s neck. And then up again, as if doing that will somehow make the words come more easily.
“Claude.”
“Right,” the man’s eyes snap up to meet his. And they’re so blue, so familiar in a way that Peter hadn’t even remembered, that he almost doesn’t want an answer. Wants to pretend it’s May and Paris and that the way his heart had felt then, so full at just the sight of him that the rest of the world didn’t matter, was something he was still capable of feeling. “Off the record?”
A burble of laughter escapes Peter, and he’s pretty sure it makes him sound hysterical.
“Claude, you’re still inside me, what do you think?”
Claude grunts. Shifts, until that’s no longer the case, and Peter’s breath catches in his throat at the loss.
He ducks his head, and shuts his eyes as he feels Claude’s palm slide up his neck and to his cheek.
“I…” his voice cracks, and he hates himself for it. Drops his forehead to Claude’s shoulder, and sinks down against his chest. The words come out in choked bursts. “Jesus. Of all the places, Claude. All of fucking Vichy. All the fucking world. You could’ve…I…”
“Pete…” Claude’s arms are around him, and his hands are gentle. He remembers how unusual that had been. How much he’d always wanted to be held after, and how rarely Claude had been able to do it. He’d always had to leave, and Peter had always been left to wonder why.
“I was so in love with you,” he murmurs, curling his arm against Claude’s chest.
“I know,” Claude’s words are warm across his forehead, and followed by a quick kiss. “That’s why.”
“Why…?”
“Why I didn’t tell you. Would’ve…would’ve had to leave you anyway, couldn’t have you…waitin’ for me. Pinin’ for me, thinkin’ I was some sort of...hero.” The last word is said so quietly that Peter almost misses it. He doesn’t, though.
He doesn’t laugh, as he would’ve done had he heard that explanation earlier. He just sighs. Shuts his eyes for a moment, knowing that if he lets it be longer than that moment, he’ll fall asleep.
“Better for me to hate you for abandoning me?”
“Or for stiffin’ you on the train fare. Either way.”
Peter snorts. Once. Claude’s fingers tap a quick three-beat rhythm against the side of his neck. It gives him time to pull himself together.
“Yeah, I was pretty much split on it,” he says, lifting his head. Claude gives him a wide grin, one that he does his best to cement in his memory.
*
Claude’s asleep, and Peter’s glad. The man deserves the rest, and Peter deserves the chance to watch him, to get a good look without the distraction that touching him provides.
The furrows in his brow; they seem almost permanent fixtures of his face now, even when he’s otherwise relaxed in sleep. Hints of grey in his hair, at the temples. A long, ugly scar above his hip. The skin around it is still red enough for Peter to know it’s the most recent, but he knows it’s not the only one, just as he knows it’s not the last.
It should hurt, Peter thinks. It should hurt to see Claude like this, changed so much in barely more than a year. He’s not sure why it doesn’t, and he’s not sure he wants to be.
He turns away. Glances back down at the piece of paper in front of him. The words don’t seem like enough, and he knows that even if they’re perfect, they’re probably a bigger risk to carry than they’re worth. But he has nothing else to give.
He signs a name that isn’t his, folds up the sheet, and tucks it into the no-longer-so-secret compartment in Claude’s coat.
*
“Claude,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Peter,” the man takes it, clasps it tighter than Peter had anticipated, but he doesn’t wince.
“Angela is my mother.”
“I…what?” Claude looks confused, for a moment, until Peter smiles, and then he just looks pained. His eyes are sharp, wide, almost desperate in their apparent need to take all of Peter in. He also doesn’t seem to want to let go of Peter’s hand. When Peter tries to ease it out of his grip, he finds himself dragged into an embrace that knocks the wind straight out of him. Claude’s mouth is somewhere above his ear, and the words are quick and low. “That really the last thing you wanna say to me, Pete?”
“Take care of yourself,” he murmurs into Claude’s shoulder. “And read the note.”
“What-”
Peter pulls back before Claude can say anything else. “I mean it,” he says, sternly as he can, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. “Don’t miss your plane.”
The intensity in Claude’s eyes flickers, and then retreats. The man nods, briskly, and turns around.
Peter watches him go. Watches him jog up to the group of figures huddled around the plane that doesn’t look nearly big enough to fit that many. He sees one of them, probably a man, given his height, clap Claude on the shoulder companionably. Claude seems to nod at him, but glances back.
Peter smiles, even though it’s impossible for Claude to be able to see it, and waves.
Claude doesn’t wave back, but Peter swears he catches sight of his grin.
*