Fic: Submersion
Title: Submersion
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 2721
Summary: In which Peter is passive aggressive, Claude is a codependent asshole, there is a fight and moping and also some dancing and drinking and I guess technically carousing. Basically things end well. Originally inspired by the swimming prompt on Plaude Bingo but then it got all metaphorical so. Yeah. Set post-canon.
A/N: So this was inspired by several conversations, mostly with englishmuffin2 and lotus0kid. So blame them is what I'm saying. Also by Modern Family, future!Peter's fight with Niki in "Five Years Gone", and I'm sure something else along the way. My influences are myriad. Forgive the over-writing in the first part, that just happened.
Objectively, Claude thinks, he should be enjoying this. A mostly peaceful moment. A guiltlessly early morning. A kind of intimacy that yeah, for the most part, in his life as whole, would’ve sent him running and the fact that it hasn’t is remarkable. Physical intimacy’d never been a problem, but this…this emotional variant is something entirely new. Claude’s not sure he likes entirely new things. They tend to end the same way the entirely old things they replace did. In other words, not very well at all.
The moisture in the air is suffocating, the scent of chlorine nauseating, and the lap of water on skin unnerving. The light darting off the pale blue surface damn near blinds him every time he looks up from the magazine he’s long since stopped pretending to read.
The ripples Peter’s body makes as he cuts through the water seem perpetual. Radiating from him to the edges of the pool and back, till he meets them on the return trip down the lane.
There’s an unexpected thrill in watching him. He’s not so much graceful as powerfully, surprisingly sure. It’s worth seeing from him, in any context, but in this one, mostly naked and soaking wet…well, Claude’s not about to say he doesn’t enjoy the view. Not enough to keep the thick air from clinging to his skin and clogging his lungs, but it’s enough to distract him from the fact that it is.
He wonders what Peter thinks of while launching himself through the water. Wonders what his expression will be like when he leaves it.
The pitch and roll and strain of his arms and back and shoulders are familiar enough. A struggle against something that gives him nothing to fight against, really. The harder he strokes the more the water seems to give, to somehow sag away from him and draw him under. It folds over him, covers his head, and he has to fight its pull.
He gasps for breath when he surfaces, and catches Claude’s eye as he does. Claude manages a smile, and makes another game attempt to seem interested in the magazine in his lap. Peter holds up one finger; he shrugs, then nods as Peter keeps staring at him.
Peter nods back, and sets off again; on his back this time, and when he reaches the opposite end, he rests against the edge for a bit before lifting himself out of the water. Water still clinging to his body, beads of it trailing down his chest and dripping from his dark hair. He stands, soaked trunks plastered to his thighs, and walks back toward the spot on the bleachers Claude’s claimed as his own.
“Hey,” he says, grabbing a towel and beginning to dry himself off. He sounds vaguely breathless, but his eyes are bright and his features are cheerful. “Thanks for waiting.”
Claude shrugs, and watches the fluffy age-greyed towel rub against olive skin, then up, where it ruffles over dark, wet hair. “Got an hour of you half-naked and soakin’ wet without havin’ to listen to you talk, I’ve no complaints.”
“So romantic,” Peter says, grinning as he drapes the towel over his shoulders and leans in.
Claude’s a lucky man. He knows it, appreciates the fact, fully and entirely. And he’s got no problem at all with getting kissed by Peter. Quite the opposite, really; he enjoys it, the affection and familiarity Peter brings to every contact. Most of the time, he’s pathetically willing to drown in it.
But right now, faced with the option, he ducks his head automatically. Peter’s mouth ends up connecting with his temple. Peter’s breath huffs against his skin as the young man chuckles and pulls back. He’s shaking his head as he does, and Claude doesn’t make any attempt to stop him from walking away.
*
His luck is better that afternoon. He’s off work early, and Peter’s not at the flat when he gets there. He has time to settle, time to prepare for the row he’s fairly sure is inevitable.
He ends up on the bed instead, drifting in and out of sleep. He can’t help it, really; it’s been a full day, an especially busy and early morning, and now he’s home and it’s warm and the bed is familiar and, well, there he is. Half-under when he hears the door unlock. He resist the urge to sit up in panic, and just barely lifts his head enough to see Peter come in, drop the mail and his bag onto the kitchen table, and glance at him.
And god help him, Peter smiles. Like he’s genuinely glad to see him, guilelessly so. Soft and sweet. He hates that about him, he truly does.
“Did you get fired?” Peter teases, walking over. “Am I going to have to support you now?”
“Is that an option?” he says, watching as Peter climbs onto the bed and crawls up until he’s covered Claude’s body with his own.
“Well…” Peter’s breath brushes against his lips as he hovers, elbows and knees braced on the mattress, body barely grazing Claude’s. “You’d still have to earn your keep somehow…”
“You got somethin’ in mind?” he leans up, till their chests touch, and Peter grins before ducking his head.
“I’m sure I’d think of something.”
“It’d be a first, then,” he says, and Peter laughs. Kisses him, lightly; the slight flicker of tongue in his mouth, the warmth of Peter’s body against his but not the weight, and when he tries to lean in, Peter pulls back.
With a smile, though. He sits up, putting him in Claude’s lap, and Claude lies back, enjoying the slight friction as Peter shifts. He runs his hands up Peter’s thighs and grins as the young man flushes and lets his head fall back.
“Mm,” Peter hums, and another quick sway of the hips has Claude’s skin tingling with anticipation. “I thought we could…go have dinner…or something…”
“You hungry?” he lets his fingers trail up to the waistband of Peter’s trousers, and Peter sighs.
“Kinda. Uh. Yeah.”
“Go order somethin’,” he says, letting him go. “Then come back. Work up more of an appetite in the meantime.”
“No, come on…” Peter sucks in a shallow breath through swollen lips. “Let’s go somewhere.”
“Ah,” Claude says, simply, and leans back against the bed.
“‘Ah’ what?” Peter’s brow furrows, and a frown starts to form, before he catches himself.
“That’s how you’re playin’ it, then?”
“I’m not playing anything,” the tone wavers between calm and snarling, and on balance, it’s defensive enough to confirm Claude’s suspicions. Peter seems to realize it. He pulls back even further, and then crawls off of Claude entirely. Crosses his legs underneath him, his arms in front of him, facing the same direction as Claude is and therefore looking away from him. He sighs. “Okay. So I want to go out with you. Sue me.”
“Like you have anythin’ worth suing for,” he says, sitting up as well. Looks over in time to see Peter roll his eyes.
“Yeah, Claude. Deflect.”
“Right, I’ll be direct then: the fact that you need constant validation and I’m the last person around who’ll give it to you? Not my problem.”
“Oh, so it’s mine?” Peter shakes his head, still frowning.
“Well, mate, I’m not the one who’s over there poutin’ about it, so-“
“And you don’t care at all.” Peter looks at him, less angry than pained, and not at all surprised. “Okay. Fine.”
“Peter…” he doesn’t know why he bothers, because he knows the lad is just going to get up and go sulk somewhere else anyway. Peter just shakes his head and gets off the bed, pulling at the sheets to erase the wrinkles he’s left.
Walks back the way he came, without looking back once. Doesn’t even slow down as he picks his wallet up off the table. The door opens and Peter disappears from sight.
The door stays open for a few seconds, and then Peter reappears again, or at least his head does.
“I’m getting dinner. I’ll be back.”
The door slams shut, which is about what Claude expects.
He considers following him. He truly does, even gets so far as heading to the window and looking out, waiting to see which direction he’ll go once he reaches the street. Figures it’d make it worse, though, going after him right now. Figures that if it gets any worse, it’ll lose the ability to get worse altogether.
He considers leaving himself. He wonders if he’s got anywhere left to go; couple of years ago, before Peter, before the shared flat and the warm bed and the periods of cozy domesticity, he’d have had easy access to at least three apartments at any one time. Failing that, he’d also had the willingness and ability to break into another and take up a nightly residence there. It’s a skill he thinks he’s lost.
So he waits. Does a fair bit of pacing. Tries to catch up on paperwork, and fails spectacularly at it. It’s almost comical, except in the way it’s not. He’s in the process of deciding between a beer and an aspirin to drown his headache with when the door creaks open again.
The smell of something fried and hot enters the apartment before Peter does. The look he gives Claude is uneasy, but he keeps looking even as he shuts the door behind him and leans against it.
“I, uh…” he sighs. “I wasn’t gonna bring you anything.”
“Didn’t expect you to.” It hadn’t even occurred to him, to be honest.
“But I figured you hadn’t eaten either. And sometimes you forget, and…” he gestures at the grease-speckled paper bag he’s been fiddling with, and then drops it on the counter. It’s a peace offering. He figures he should respond in kind.
“Right. Thanks.” He reaches out enough to take the bag, and then turns back. Opens the refrigerator and considers his options again. A couple of beers look back at him, of the overpriced and thoroughly pretentious variety that Peter’s taken to buying. He sighs.
When he closes the refrigerator door again, awkwardly juggling four bottles and one paper bag, Peter’s a lot closer than he expects. He doesn’t let that stop him.
“Come on, then,” he says. He tries for brisk, matter of fact, and is pretty sure it comes off brusque more than anything. Peter’s expression gets weary, and he shakes his head. Stays in Claude’s way, between him and the door, and lets out a sigh.
“I’m really not in the mood to-“
“Right, suit yourself,” he says, automatically, in the same tone as before, and the glare Peter throws at him makes it pretty clear it’s the wrong answer. He drops his gaze and clears his throat. “Please?”
Peter takes a step back, and then another. Claude hears the door unlock, and nods Peter on. Lets him go first, follows him out, and waits for him to lock up again.
“Where we going?” Peter says, with his back still to him, and there’s a hint of playful, fond Peter from earlier. He tries to respond to that in kind as well.
“You’ll see,” he says, smirks when Peter glances back at him, and to his infinite and entirely pathetic relief, Peter smiles. Barely, and it’s gone by the time he turns around fully, but he does.
*
It’s the wrong kind of weather for this sort of thing, and he knows it. Much too cold, and it’s too overcast to see anything but the reflected lights of the city, and the rain’s bound to start any second, and Peter doesn’t seem to care at all.
His head is warm on Claude’s lap, which is a welcome contrast to the large metallic vent he’s leaning back against. One of Peter’s hands holds his second bottle of beer, and the other is rummaging through the takeaway bag he’s got balance on his chest. He looks up, dark eyes shining, and frowns.
“You sure you don’t want any more?”
“Sure,” Claude says, because he is. He’s just about entirely set, actually.
“Okay,” Peter says, and smiles before bringing the remaining chips to his mouth.
“Got to tell you somethin’.”
Peter looks curious, but keeps chewing.
“I’m not ashamed of you.”
Peter makes a choked sound that sounds more like a laugh than anything, and swallows hurriedly. Claude continues before he can interrupt.
“Or us. This,” he intends to wave a hand between them but ends up resting it on Peter’s shoulder and letting it slide along his chest. “I’m not. That’s not why.”
“Okay,” Peter says, and for a moment Claude thinks that’s it, that’s all he had to say. “Why?”
“Because…” he looks up, and then across, to the rooftops of the other buildings around them. There’s two dark figures on one of them, and he has to stamp down the unease that wells up till he realizes what they’re doing. Dancing. They seem to have caught Peter’s attention as well, because he turns his head, grins, and turns back to look at Claude.
“You were saying?”
Claude sighs, and lets his head fall back against the vent. “You’re a vulnerability.”
Peter snorts, and Claude glances back, eyebrows raised.
“Romantic,” Peter says, wryly. “Also, bullshit.”
“It’s not-“
“When we’re invisible?”
“Type o’ people I’m concerned about, Pete, they’ve got ways around that.”
“We live together. One bedroom apartment. Are the type of people you’re concerned about gonna assume I’m your roommate?”
“I’m not sayin’ any of this is rational.”
Peter laughs again, and lets his bottle fall. Reaches up, grabs at Claude’s shirt, and pulls him closer.
“Listen. I’m a big boy, Claude. I can take care of myself.”
Claude can’t help it, he gives him the very best look he can manage, and Peter sighs.
“Okay, I am better at taking care of myself than I was when I met you.”
“Mate, you’d have to be, or else you’d be dead by now. Most days, I am frankly astounded that you’ve lasted as long as you have without blunderin’ into a death as pointless as it is tragic.”
Peter grins, lets go of his shirt, and lies back down, but not before giving him a quick shove. “Yeah, well, what would you do without me?”
“Nothing.” It comes out before he can think to stop it. And naturally, it keeps coming. “Wouldn’t be able to-” his mouth belatedly regains the ability to clamp shut, and does, narrowly missing his tongue. He’s too stunned to be grateful.
It shocks the hell out of him, the fact that he’s said it, the fact that he meant it, and he can’t imagine what it’s done to Peter. Not that he has to; Peter’s staring up at him as though he’s done something entirely, breathtakingly, stupid, and Claude can’t say he’s exactly wrong.
“Don’t say that.” His voice is low, almost panicked, and entirely not what Claude would expect. “I don’t want you to-“
“I-“
Peter scrambles up, enough to take Claude’s face in his hands and kiss him. Quickly, as if he’s trying to shut him up more than anything, and it’s something of a relief. Even once Peter pulls his mouth back, slowly, with one knee braced on the ground between Claude’s legs and the other outside them, he’s willing to let it go.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Peter says, simply, clearly. His hands are still on Claude’s cheeks and he’s not letting him look away. “Okay? And the only thing I want is for you to be happy. No matter what. Got it?”
“Got it,” he says, voice suddenly hoarse. He grabs at Peter's shirt, and pulls him close again. Peter kisses him, warmly, and he slips his hands up along Peter’s back.
They stay like that for a long time.
It’s colder once they separate. It’d have to be, because they’ve actually started feeling it. Peter holds out a hand to help him up. He takes it. Keeps hold of it, even once he’s standing.
Across the street, the other couple is heading in as well. One of them waves. Peter, obviously startled, waves back. He catches Claude’s eye, and Claude nods. Peter smiles and squeezes his hand. Claude smiles back.
*
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 2721
Summary: In which Peter is passive aggressive, Claude is a codependent asshole, there is a fight and moping and also some dancing and drinking and I guess technically carousing. Basically things end well. Originally inspired by the swimming prompt on Plaude Bingo but then it got all metaphorical so. Yeah. Set post-canon.
A/N: So this was inspired by several conversations, mostly with englishmuffin2 and lotus0kid. So blame them is what I'm saying. Also by Modern Family, future!Peter's fight with Niki in "Five Years Gone", and I'm sure something else along the way. My influences are myriad. Forgive the over-writing in the first part, that just happened.
Objectively, Claude thinks, he should be enjoying this. A mostly peaceful moment. A guiltlessly early morning. A kind of intimacy that yeah, for the most part, in his life as whole, would’ve sent him running and the fact that it hasn’t is remarkable. Physical intimacy’d never been a problem, but this…this emotional variant is something entirely new. Claude’s not sure he likes entirely new things. They tend to end the same way the entirely old things they replace did. In other words, not very well at all.
The moisture in the air is suffocating, the scent of chlorine nauseating, and the lap of water on skin unnerving. The light darting off the pale blue surface damn near blinds him every time he looks up from the magazine he’s long since stopped pretending to read.
The ripples Peter’s body makes as he cuts through the water seem perpetual. Radiating from him to the edges of the pool and back, till he meets them on the return trip down the lane.
There’s an unexpected thrill in watching him. He’s not so much graceful as powerfully, surprisingly sure. It’s worth seeing from him, in any context, but in this one, mostly naked and soaking wet…well, Claude’s not about to say he doesn’t enjoy the view. Not enough to keep the thick air from clinging to his skin and clogging his lungs, but it’s enough to distract him from the fact that it is.
He wonders what Peter thinks of while launching himself through the water. Wonders what his expression will be like when he leaves it.
The pitch and roll and strain of his arms and back and shoulders are familiar enough. A struggle against something that gives him nothing to fight against, really. The harder he strokes the more the water seems to give, to somehow sag away from him and draw him under. It folds over him, covers his head, and he has to fight its pull.
He gasps for breath when he surfaces, and catches Claude’s eye as he does. Claude manages a smile, and makes another game attempt to seem interested in the magazine in his lap. Peter holds up one finger; he shrugs, then nods as Peter keeps staring at him.
Peter nods back, and sets off again; on his back this time, and when he reaches the opposite end, he rests against the edge for a bit before lifting himself out of the water. Water still clinging to his body, beads of it trailing down his chest and dripping from his dark hair. He stands, soaked trunks plastered to his thighs, and walks back toward the spot on the bleachers Claude’s claimed as his own.
“Hey,” he says, grabbing a towel and beginning to dry himself off. He sounds vaguely breathless, but his eyes are bright and his features are cheerful. “Thanks for waiting.”
Claude shrugs, and watches the fluffy age-greyed towel rub against olive skin, then up, where it ruffles over dark, wet hair. “Got an hour of you half-naked and soakin’ wet without havin’ to listen to you talk, I’ve no complaints.”
“So romantic,” Peter says, grinning as he drapes the towel over his shoulders and leans in.
Claude’s a lucky man. He knows it, appreciates the fact, fully and entirely. And he’s got no problem at all with getting kissed by Peter. Quite the opposite, really; he enjoys it, the affection and familiarity Peter brings to every contact. Most of the time, he’s pathetically willing to drown in it.
But right now, faced with the option, he ducks his head automatically. Peter’s mouth ends up connecting with his temple. Peter’s breath huffs against his skin as the young man chuckles and pulls back. He’s shaking his head as he does, and Claude doesn’t make any attempt to stop him from walking away.
*
His luck is better that afternoon. He’s off work early, and Peter’s not at the flat when he gets there. He has time to settle, time to prepare for the row he’s fairly sure is inevitable.
He ends up on the bed instead, drifting in and out of sleep. He can’t help it, really; it’s been a full day, an especially busy and early morning, and now he’s home and it’s warm and the bed is familiar and, well, there he is. Half-under when he hears the door unlock. He resist the urge to sit up in panic, and just barely lifts his head enough to see Peter come in, drop the mail and his bag onto the kitchen table, and glance at him.
And god help him, Peter smiles. Like he’s genuinely glad to see him, guilelessly so. Soft and sweet. He hates that about him, he truly does.
“Did you get fired?” Peter teases, walking over. “Am I going to have to support you now?”
“Is that an option?” he says, watching as Peter climbs onto the bed and crawls up until he’s covered Claude’s body with his own.
“Well…” Peter’s breath brushes against his lips as he hovers, elbows and knees braced on the mattress, body barely grazing Claude’s. “You’d still have to earn your keep somehow…”
“You got somethin’ in mind?” he leans up, till their chests touch, and Peter grins before ducking his head.
“I’m sure I’d think of something.”
“It’d be a first, then,” he says, and Peter laughs. Kisses him, lightly; the slight flicker of tongue in his mouth, the warmth of Peter’s body against his but not the weight, and when he tries to lean in, Peter pulls back.
With a smile, though. He sits up, putting him in Claude’s lap, and Claude lies back, enjoying the slight friction as Peter shifts. He runs his hands up Peter’s thighs and grins as the young man flushes and lets his head fall back.
“Mm,” Peter hums, and another quick sway of the hips has Claude’s skin tingling with anticipation. “I thought we could…go have dinner…or something…”
“You hungry?” he lets his fingers trail up to the waistband of Peter’s trousers, and Peter sighs.
“Kinda. Uh. Yeah.”
“Go order somethin’,” he says, letting him go. “Then come back. Work up more of an appetite in the meantime.”
“No, come on…” Peter sucks in a shallow breath through swollen lips. “Let’s go somewhere.”
“Ah,” Claude says, simply, and leans back against the bed.
“‘Ah’ what?” Peter’s brow furrows, and a frown starts to form, before he catches himself.
“That’s how you’re playin’ it, then?”
“I’m not playing anything,” the tone wavers between calm and snarling, and on balance, it’s defensive enough to confirm Claude’s suspicions. Peter seems to realize it. He pulls back even further, and then crawls off of Claude entirely. Crosses his legs underneath him, his arms in front of him, facing the same direction as Claude is and therefore looking away from him. He sighs. “Okay. So I want to go out with you. Sue me.”
“Like you have anythin’ worth suing for,” he says, sitting up as well. Looks over in time to see Peter roll his eyes.
“Yeah, Claude. Deflect.”
“Right, I’ll be direct then: the fact that you need constant validation and I’m the last person around who’ll give it to you? Not my problem.”
“Oh, so it’s mine?” Peter shakes his head, still frowning.
“Well, mate, I’m not the one who’s over there poutin’ about it, so-“
“And you don’t care at all.” Peter looks at him, less angry than pained, and not at all surprised. “Okay. Fine.”
“Peter…” he doesn’t know why he bothers, because he knows the lad is just going to get up and go sulk somewhere else anyway. Peter just shakes his head and gets off the bed, pulling at the sheets to erase the wrinkles he’s left.
Walks back the way he came, without looking back once. Doesn’t even slow down as he picks his wallet up off the table. The door opens and Peter disappears from sight.
The door stays open for a few seconds, and then Peter reappears again, or at least his head does.
“I’m getting dinner. I’ll be back.”
The door slams shut, which is about what Claude expects.
He considers following him. He truly does, even gets so far as heading to the window and looking out, waiting to see which direction he’ll go once he reaches the street. Figures it’d make it worse, though, going after him right now. Figures that if it gets any worse, it’ll lose the ability to get worse altogether.
He considers leaving himself. He wonders if he’s got anywhere left to go; couple of years ago, before Peter, before the shared flat and the warm bed and the periods of cozy domesticity, he’d have had easy access to at least three apartments at any one time. Failing that, he’d also had the willingness and ability to break into another and take up a nightly residence there. It’s a skill he thinks he’s lost.
So he waits. Does a fair bit of pacing. Tries to catch up on paperwork, and fails spectacularly at it. It’s almost comical, except in the way it’s not. He’s in the process of deciding between a beer and an aspirin to drown his headache with when the door creaks open again.
The smell of something fried and hot enters the apartment before Peter does. The look he gives Claude is uneasy, but he keeps looking even as he shuts the door behind him and leans against it.
“I, uh…” he sighs. “I wasn’t gonna bring you anything.”
“Didn’t expect you to.” It hadn’t even occurred to him, to be honest.
“But I figured you hadn’t eaten either. And sometimes you forget, and…” he gestures at the grease-speckled paper bag he’s been fiddling with, and then drops it on the counter. It’s a peace offering. He figures he should respond in kind.
“Right. Thanks.” He reaches out enough to take the bag, and then turns back. Opens the refrigerator and considers his options again. A couple of beers look back at him, of the overpriced and thoroughly pretentious variety that Peter’s taken to buying. He sighs.
When he closes the refrigerator door again, awkwardly juggling four bottles and one paper bag, Peter’s a lot closer than he expects. He doesn’t let that stop him.
“Come on, then,” he says. He tries for brisk, matter of fact, and is pretty sure it comes off brusque more than anything. Peter’s expression gets weary, and he shakes his head. Stays in Claude’s way, between him and the door, and lets out a sigh.
“I’m really not in the mood to-“
“Right, suit yourself,” he says, automatically, in the same tone as before, and the glare Peter throws at him makes it pretty clear it’s the wrong answer. He drops his gaze and clears his throat. “Please?”
Peter takes a step back, and then another. Claude hears the door unlock, and nods Peter on. Lets him go first, follows him out, and waits for him to lock up again.
“Where we going?” Peter says, with his back still to him, and there’s a hint of playful, fond Peter from earlier. He tries to respond to that in kind as well.
“You’ll see,” he says, smirks when Peter glances back at him, and to his infinite and entirely pathetic relief, Peter smiles. Barely, and it’s gone by the time he turns around fully, but he does.
*
It’s the wrong kind of weather for this sort of thing, and he knows it. Much too cold, and it’s too overcast to see anything but the reflected lights of the city, and the rain’s bound to start any second, and Peter doesn’t seem to care at all.
His head is warm on Claude’s lap, which is a welcome contrast to the large metallic vent he’s leaning back against. One of Peter’s hands holds his second bottle of beer, and the other is rummaging through the takeaway bag he’s got balance on his chest. He looks up, dark eyes shining, and frowns.
“You sure you don’t want any more?”
“Sure,” Claude says, because he is. He’s just about entirely set, actually.
“Okay,” Peter says, and smiles before bringing the remaining chips to his mouth.
“Got to tell you somethin’.”
Peter looks curious, but keeps chewing.
“I’m not ashamed of you.”
Peter makes a choked sound that sounds more like a laugh than anything, and swallows hurriedly. Claude continues before he can interrupt.
“Or us. This,” he intends to wave a hand between them but ends up resting it on Peter’s shoulder and letting it slide along his chest. “I’m not. That’s not why.”
“Okay,” Peter says, and for a moment Claude thinks that’s it, that’s all he had to say. “Why?”
“Because…” he looks up, and then across, to the rooftops of the other buildings around them. There’s two dark figures on one of them, and he has to stamp down the unease that wells up till he realizes what they’re doing. Dancing. They seem to have caught Peter’s attention as well, because he turns his head, grins, and turns back to look at Claude.
“You were saying?”
Claude sighs, and lets his head fall back against the vent. “You’re a vulnerability.”
Peter snorts, and Claude glances back, eyebrows raised.
“Romantic,” Peter says, wryly. “Also, bullshit.”
“It’s not-“
“When we’re invisible?”
“Type o’ people I’m concerned about, Pete, they’ve got ways around that.”
“We live together. One bedroom apartment. Are the type of people you’re concerned about gonna assume I’m your roommate?”
“I’m not sayin’ any of this is rational.”
Peter laughs again, and lets his bottle fall. Reaches up, grabs at Claude’s shirt, and pulls him closer.
“Listen. I’m a big boy, Claude. I can take care of myself.”
Claude can’t help it, he gives him the very best look he can manage, and Peter sighs.
“Okay, I am better at taking care of myself than I was when I met you.”
“Mate, you’d have to be, or else you’d be dead by now. Most days, I am frankly astounded that you’ve lasted as long as you have without blunderin’ into a death as pointless as it is tragic.”
Peter grins, lets go of his shirt, and lies back down, but not before giving him a quick shove. “Yeah, well, what would you do without me?”
“Nothing.” It comes out before he can think to stop it. And naturally, it keeps coming. “Wouldn’t be able to-” his mouth belatedly regains the ability to clamp shut, and does, narrowly missing his tongue. He’s too stunned to be grateful.
It shocks the hell out of him, the fact that he’s said it, the fact that he meant it, and he can’t imagine what it’s done to Peter. Not that he has to; Peter’s staring up at him as though he’s done something entirely, breathtakingly, stupid, and Claude can’t say he’s exactly wrong.
“Don’t say that.” His voice is low, almost panicked, and entirely not what Claude would expect. “I don’t want you to-“
“I-“
Peter scrambles up, enough to take Claude’s face in his hands and kiss him. Quickly, as if he’s trying to shut him up more than anything, and it’s something of a relief. Even once Peter pulls his mouth back, slowly, with one knee braced on the ground between Claude’s legs and the other outside them, he’s willing to let it go.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Peter says, simply, clearly. His hands are still on Claude’s cheeks and he’s not letting him look away. “Okay? And the only thing I want is for you to be happy. No matter what. Got it?”
“Got it,” he says, voice suddenly hoarse. He grabs at Peter's shirt, and pulls him close again. Peter kisses him, warmly, and he slips his hands up along Peter’s back.
They stay like that for a long time.
It’s colder once they separate. It’d have to be, because they’ve actually started feeling it. Peter holds out a hand to help him up. He takes it. Keeps hold of it, even once he’s standing.
Across the street, the other couple is heading in as well. One of them waves. Peter, obviously startled, waves back. He catches Claude’s eye, and Claude nods. Peter smiles and squeezes his hand. Claude smiles back.
*