Fic - Hair - Fall at the Center of Anywhere - 2/2

[zoicite]

This time Claude disappears for a week.

“He’ll turn up,” Sheila insists, but Berger finds himself in a bit of a panic. Instead of staying put at Sheila’s suggestion, Berger checks in everywhere that he thinks that Claude might go. This time Berger even goes to Queens. Claude’s father shuts the door in Berger’s face, but not before interrogating him on Claude’s whereabouts.

“I don’t like this,” Berger tells Woof.

“Claude’s okay,” Woof says, mostly because Woof is high and everything is okay with Woof as long as Woof is high. Berger understands that.

“Claude’s great.” Woof adds. He passes his joint to Berger. Berger takes it and hopes that the drugs will make everything okay for him again too. Woof laughs and wraps an arm around Berger’s shoulders, plants a sloppy kiss on Berger’s cheek.

“I love you,” he says, and then laughs some more.

Berger turns and kisses Woof on the mouth, pats Woof’s back and then extracts himself from Woof’s embrace. He holds out a hand to pull Woof up off the ground.

“Where are we going?” Woof asks, but he takes Berger’s hand, lets Berger pull him through the city, follows on Berger’s heels for three days. They spend the first day in Grand Central Station, the second in Penn, a third in Port Authority. They see a million people, but no sign of the only one Berger’s looking for.

On the fourth day Berger gets angry, gives up.

**

When Claude finally does return, there is no real explanation. He spouts off bullshit about where he was, goes on and on about cleaning his room as though he’s really fooling anyone. He isn’t fooling Berger. Claude’s been preparing and these are the beginnings of his goodbyes.

And Berger, he’s just been sitting here wasting time. He spent three days searching for Claude instead of concentrating on a reason that will convince Claude to stay. Berger’s the one who should have been preparing, not running all over the city like a maniac.

Even Sheila sees it now. She stops trying to tell Berger that he’s worrying about nothing. Instead she holds him when he lays his head in her lap, rubs his back and watches Claude try to smile like everything is great.

Berger spends the next days dragging Claude to all of his favorite places in the city. They roam until their feet ache and their backs are sore and then Berger brings Claude back to Sheila’s, pulls off his shirt, kisses his chest. They sleep tangled together on Sheila’s couch, or spread out on a lawn in Central Park.

Jeannie comes with them one day, hangs on Claude’s arm. In the afternoon she sews the yellow shirt back together, removes the sleeves and uses them to patch the backside of Berger’s favorite jeans. Berger kisses her in thanks, then dances across the room to kiss Claude hard. The satin patch in his jeans slides along the skin of his thigh. He grabs Claude and dances him in a circle, rubs his cheek against Claude’s before releasing him, before pulling Jeannie in and kissing her again. Jeannie understands and hugs Berger tight. It’s the closest he’s ever felt to her.

When they’ve finished with all of Berger’s favorite spots, they start in on Claude’s. Claude’s favorites are all the busiest places in the city, the train stations and bus stations, Times Square and Battery Park and Ellis Island. All of the places where people come and go. Berger likes the places where people stay a while.

Claude likes to ask where people are going, find out where they’ve been. Berger loses count of the number of people they talk to, the people they hug, the people who push them away. Claude loves them all, but it isn’t enough. Berger and New York City and all of these people from everywhere. Berger can tell it won’t be enough and that even this love song is turning into a goodbye.

**

He gets the joint from Hud with a promise that it will change Claude’s perspective on life.

“You’ll see the light,” Berger promises, more to himself than to Claude. Berger doesn’t really care what it does as long as Claude has a good time. Berger’s almost done thinking he can change the future. It’s never worked for him. It’s now that matters, here and now with Claude. Berger will leave the future to Sheila.

He doesn’t know what’s in the joint, but whatever it is, Hud was right. It’s beautiful. It’s clouds and colors and clarity and love. They lie in the grass for a while, just touching, sharing breath. Berger feels like he’s flying.

He leans over Claude, their legs tangled. Claude jumps and then grips Berger’s arm, laughs.

“What?”

“I thought I was going to fall,” Claude says, shakes his head like he feels he’s being stupid.

“So fall,” Berger says. He’ll catch Claude. He’s right here, passing Claude the joint again, leaning over him farther to get a better look at his face. Sheila will catch Claude. She’s right behind him, his head in her lap, her fingers in his hair.

“Fall,” Sheila repeats. She’s looking at Berger when she says it. Berger leans in closer to Claude until finally Claude gives in, reaches for him, pulls him down into a kiss. It feels electric, alive, and when Claude tries to pull away, blissed out, content, Berger shifts, lowers himself so that he’s resting on Claude, so that their mouths can meet again.

He’s high, he took a pill that Walter gave him, and he’s drunk on sex and Sheila and Claude. The world is spinning a little and he closes his eyes and sucks at Claude’s skin, tries to memorize the taste.

Sheila’s hands are in his hair now too, stroking, pulling a little, petting. Berger loves her, he thinks. Berger loves Woof and Hud and Jeannie and Dionne. Berger loves Claude. He thinks he says it, tells Claude, but he can’t hear the words. Claude smiles against Berger’s mouth, pushes and shifts until Claude is the one looking down at Berger, Claude is the one in control and Berger is the one falling through fields and waterfalls and warm beach sand. He loves Claude and he says it again in case Claude couldn’t hear the words either.

“I love you, man,” he says, and he’s sure he’s said it before, a hundred times to a hundred people and he meant it every single time. “I love you.”

Claude might say he knows, he might say nothing at all. He might not even be real. Berger’s pretty sure he’s still real, still here, and he let’s Claude push his vest off of his shoulders, holds Claude’s head while Claude kisses his skin, his mouth, his eyelids. His jeans disappear, like they’d never been there in the first place, like he’s been this naked every day since the day he was born. Sheila’s disappeared with his jeans, but Claude is here and Claude’s naked too. Claude is here and his hair shines and his eyes are wet and he kisses Berger’s chest, wraps a hand around Berger’s dick, and smiles.

“Come on,” Claude says, like Berger is holding him up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” But Claude isn’t moving, seems content stroking Berger, stroking himself, stroking them both together at the same time.

“We don’t do this enough,” Berger says, and Claude laughs, kisses his mouth, sucks on Berger’s tongue.

“We should do this every day,” Berger continues, breaking the kiss just long enough to form the shape of the words against Claude’s cheek.

Berger wonders again what happened to Sheila, why she disappeared and why Claude hasn’t asked about her yet.

“Where’s Sheila?” Berger gives in, and this time Claude’s the one to tell him that it doesn’t matter.

“She’s here,” Claude says.

They’re still in the park, Berger knows that they’re still in the park, but he feels the sheets of Sheila’s bed beneath him. He reaches for Claude, kisses him, thrusts up against him. Claude’s hand starts to move, moves back until it disappears between Berger’s legs, until Berger feels the press of a single finger and he pushes back against the sheets, spreads his legs wider, and starts talking. He tells Claude how good this feels, about love and peace and fields of strawberries and daisies. He tells Claude about the homeless man in Washington Square that Berger passes on his way to the Subway, on the days when Berger can afford the Subway. He tells Claude how beautiful the man is, how anonymous, a part of the entire city while he sits on his edge of the park. He’s Berger’s best friend and Berger can’t even remember his name.

Claude pushes in, stretching Berger, connecting, and Berger moans and tells Claude to go faster, harder, tells Claude about bathing in Canadian rivers, drying off under Indian suns. They’ll dance around the fire, fall asleep naked and tangled on a hard wooden floor. It won’t be anything like Vietnam. There will be snow and there will be heat.

Berger’s hips move. He tries to meet Claude’s thrusts in a rhythm that almost matches, but doesn’t. Claude holds Berger’s hips, guides them, and when Berger reaches up to touch Claude’s face, Claude kisses the palm of his hand and Berger thinks this is it. This is the light and Claude will stay in it forever.

**

When Berger wakes up he’s back in the park, his clothes have reappeared, and Claude is shouting. Someone calls for him and Berger’s on his feet, pushing through the group that surrounds Claude. Claude’s curled up on his side, Sheila over him, shaking him, calling his name.

“Claude,” Berger joins in. “Claudio.”

Claude wakes up with a start, shouts again, pushes Berger away.

“What did you put in that joint?” Claude asks. It’s like an accusation, and it doesn’t take long for Berger to realize that Claude was somewhere else entirely. Berger was alone and Claude didn’t see any light.

Claude’s talking about the future and it’s dark and final and not anything like the way Berger’s envisioned it for him. He brushes Claude’s words aside, covers them with his own, tries to force light into the dark, to drown the truth. But this is it and Berger’s out of ideas.

It hurts to look at Claude and he turns to find Sheila, buries himself in her arms. He listens to Claude talk about snow. He listens to Woof proposition Crissy, then Dionne. He listens to them all make plans like it’s any night, every night, and Berger thinks he might hate them in that moment, doesn’t understand how it’s possible that he’s the only one to see this for what it is.

“Will you marry me?” Claude asks then and Berger looks up. He’s lost track of the conversation happening around him, is unsure of who Claude’s talking to. Claude’s standing over them, hands open in front of him. He’s talking to Sheila, of course. Berger sees their children with Sheila’s hair and Claude’s eyes. He sees them all, together, old and shaggy, and suddenly the night doesn’t seem so dark. It all makes sense.

He should have known it would be Sheila all along.

Berger can’t stop Claude going, but Sheila can. Sheila can stop time and change the weather. Sheila can save lives and end wars. Sheila is Claude’s light and all this time Berger’s been standing there blocking the sun.

Sheila touches Claude’s face and kisses Claude’s cheek. She’s saying something, but Berger can’t hear her. He’s not even trying to listen. Berger knows what has to happen next.

He wraps himself around Claude. He’ll stay like this forever. He’ll stay like this until Claude’s draft notice rots and turns to dust and they’re still here in the park. It’ll rain on them and snow and birds will nest in Berger’s hair, build their homes, teach baby birds to fly, and Berger won’t fucking care. He won’t fucking care as long as it keeps Claude out of Vietnam.

Sheila talks about saving the world, makes plans. They’ll go to Whitehall Street, they’ll raise their voices. It won’t do anything. It won’t save anyone. Sheila’s the only one who might be able to help him now.

“Tonight is the last night of the world,” Claude says, and Berger believes him.

**

It takes some time, but eventually Berger succeeds in maneuvering them away from the group, his right hand wrapped around Sheila’s, his left pulling Claude. They’re on the subway before Sheila catches on, gets why Berger has gone from desperate defeat straight to buzzing anticipation, why he insists on sitting on the opposite side of the car. Her eyebrows rise, but she doesn’t fight him, just nods and slides closer to Claude, sets a hand on his knee. Claude stares at her hand for a moment, then looks up and meets Berger’s eyes. Berger smiles, as close to a grin as he can manage.

When the train stops, Sheila releases Claude, follows Berger out of the car, pushes him against the nearest wall, and kisses him. He grabs her, lifts so that she’s straddling him, and opens his mouth for her. It’s a thank you and it isn’t enough, but he means it, he puts his heart into it, and he can tell that Sheila knows. She holds on to him tight for a moment longer and then untangles herself, turns back toward Claude.

Claude’s smiling sheepishly at them, just taking it in in that way that Claude always does. His eyelids droop a little and he ducks his head like they’ve just caught him spying on a private moment.

Berger throws an arm across Claude’s shoulders, pulls him along. Sheila closes in on Claude’s other side, slides her arm around his waist. They stumble down the sidewalk, three people pressed together into one. Claude laughs as he trips over their feet and Berger closes his eyes, lets them guide him through the city. With his eyes shut, it feels like any other night, no more important, no less beautiful. With his eyes shut, Berger can see that it will all work out, that Sheila will put Claude under her spell, that she’ll save him the way she’s always tried to save Berger. With his eyes shut, Berger can see outside New York, north to the snowy hills, past them to anonymity, to freedom.

When Berger opens his eyes again they’re in Washington Square Park. The man is there in his spot across from Sullivan. Berger’s best friend.

Berger stops on the sidewalk and Claude’s foot catches around his ankle so they nearly topple over. Berger untangles himself, pulls himself into a single person again.

“Hey, man,” he says, approaches.

“Hey,” the guy responds. He’s old, like fifty at least, and his gray hair curls around his shoulders.

“Where’d you come from?” Berger asks.

“Berger,” Claude urges, but Berger waves them on, says he’ll be up in a minute. This night isn’t about him. He shouldn’t witness it. Sheila knows, she always understands him when it counts the most, and she pulls at Claude’s arm. Claude waits there another moment before letting Sheila pull him on down the sidewalk.

Berger sits in Washington Square Park and smokes a joint with his friend. It’s cold. It’s only going to get colder. It might even snow.

He waits. He’s not sure how long. Long enough to find out that his friend’s name is Martin, that he’s lived all over New York. Martin is New York. Berger wouldn’t mind being Martin one day. Free like Martin.

Maybe if Debbie doesn’t return, Martin can have Debbie’s room. Not for forever, Martin wouldn’t want that. Who would? Debbie’s room is fucking depressing, but it’s a room and it’s there and Martin might want it sometime. It’s not like Claude would need his own room anyway. He’d never sleep there. Berger wouldn’t let him.

“Your girl’s fucking that boy,” Martin points out after a long stretch of quiet. Martin knows, of course. Martin is the city and he spends his days watching them come and go.

Berger laughs and takes the joint back from Martin.

“You’re gonna let that boy have your girl like that?”

“That’s the idea, yeah,” Berger says.

Martin shakes his head and Berger thinks that maybe Martin’s just too old to understand. He rolls the joint between his fingers, watches the smoke spiral off the end. He closes his eyes and breathes deep and he can see it now. He can see them together, their naked bodies sliding against each other in a beautiful rhythm. He can see the awe on Claude’s face as he kisses Sheila’s breast, surrounds himself in Sheila’s warmth. He can see Sheila, the way she bites her lip to keep from crying out too loudly as her fingernails leave red marks on Claude’s arms, his shoulders. Berger can see it and it’s gorgeous and it’s perfect. And it doesn’t belong to him.

“She’s not really my girl,” Berger says finally, opening his eyes.

Martin frowns at him. “I’ve seen you two,” he says. “That girl’s crazy about you.”

Berger laughs, loud and short, and then shrugs, doesn’t really want to get into it. Martin doesn’t need to know that Berger’s dreamt the future and Claude and Sheila are it. He doesn’t need to know that Berger was just a placeholder, that this is Berger finally getting out of the way.

Martin shakes his head again, looks up at the night sky.

“This isn’t about her anyway, man,” Berger says.

“It’s about that boy,” Martin supplies.

“It’s about that boy,” Berger agrees. “Yeah.”

Martin huffs a little, sick of Berger’s company now, but Berger doesn’t care. He hands the joint off to Martin, who isn’t sick enough of Berger to turn it away.

He used to think Sheila was the center of it all, the most important piece in their puzzle, their glue. It isn’t true. It’s Claude. Without Claude they’ll fall apart. Without Claude they probably should. Claude is the center, Claude is his light.

Berger might still be losing Claude tonight, but it’s far better to lose him to Sheila than to the war.

Berger stands and turns toward the direction of Sheila’s apartment.

“Where are you going?” Martin asks.

Berger answers him with a wave as he leaves the square. He doesn’t know how much time has passed. He doesn’t think it’s been that long, but this is Claude and this is Sheila. Berger smiles to himself. Claude’s been waiting a year for this moment. It shouldn’t take long.

He takes the steps two at a time. The door is unlocked and the cluttered living area is dark, empty. He kicks off his shoes and pads across the floor. He passes Sheila’s shirt, discarded beside the couch.

Sheila’s laughter floats out of the bedroom and Berger stops, thinks now that coming up was a mistake. He should have let them have their space. This is their night, not his. Berger’s unchained them from him, he’s let them go and he has no right to them now. He’s here just waiting to be turned away. He should go now, save himself the scene, but when Sheila says, “Berger, baby, that you?” he crosses the last few steps to the door and nudges it open with hardly a moment’s hesitation.

They’re as wonderful together as he imagined, perfect and golden, and Berger’s breath catches in his throat. He coughs and turns away. Their fingers are intertwined, Claude’s head resting comfortably on the pillow of Sheila’s breast. Her free hand combs through Claude’s hair. Claude smiles at Berger and the smile reaches all the way up into his eyes. He sits up, pulls away from Sheila now that Berger is here.

”We weren’t sure if you were coming back,” Sheila says. “Thought you might sit out there all night.”

“I can go,” Berger suggests. Woof is in the park, Berger’s sure. Finding him should be easy. He can catch up with Claude and Sheila on Whitehall Street tomorrow morning. It’s really what he should do, what he should have done before he came up the stairs. He takes a step back into the dark living room, but Claude is up, reaching for him before Berger can leave.

“Don’t,” Claude says.

Berger opens his mouth to protest, looks past Claude to Sheila. She’s smiling. She hugs her bare knees to her chest and nods at Berger.

Claude stops in front of him, suddenly apprehensive. He reaches out to pluck at Berger’s shirt. Berger lifts an arm and pushes at Claude’s shoulder with two fingers.

Claude snorts, shakes his head, and then he’s grabbing Berger’s arm, pulling Berger in, hugging him. Claude holds him tight and Berger kisses his shoulder, tastes Sheila on Claude’s skin. She’s still smiling and as he watches her she leans back against the pillows and closes her eyes, sated and happy. It’s a good sign and Berger feels his heart speed up in his chest, feels relief flooding through his veins. He isn’t enough of a reason for Claude, but it’s okay. Berger has Sheila and Sheila just might be reason enough for all of them.

Berger feels like he’s been holding on to Claude forever, and for the first time in weeks it’s safe to loosen his grip. Claude is safe, he’s with Sheila, and they won’t be needing him anymore, not really, but they might let him stay anyway. He lets go a little, just enough to run his hands down Claude’s naked back, fingertips sliding across Claude’s skin.

Claude pushes at Berger’s shirt, pulling it up so that the fabric slides up past the press of their chests. Berger reluctantly releases Claude, helps him with the shirt. When Berger’s free of it, Claude kisses the base of his neck, slides his hands down Berger’s sides, runs his fingers along the line of Berger’s ribs.

“I wanted to wait for you,” Claude admits. Berger thinks it’s probably a lie, but it doesn’t matter.

“Martin’s more interesting than the two of you,” Berger shrugs. Another lie.

“Who’s Martin?” Claude asks.

“No one,” Berger says. “I didn’t want you to wait.”

“Yeah,” Claude nods. “I know.” He pulls Berger toward the bed, pausing only to help Berger remove his jeans. Berger follows Claude’s hands with his eyes, then covers them with his own.

Claude leans in and kisses him and Berger sighs. They’ll let him stay. Berger won’t have to lose anyone just yet.

When he’s good and naked, Berger climbs onto the bed, crawls across the sheets until he’s leaning over Sheila. He kisses her neck, right below her ear. He feels Claude’s mouth on his back and he smiles against Sheila’s skin, says, “Sheila, baby. I think you did it. You saved the world.”

Sheila opens her eyes and Berger is surprised by the love he sees there. For him and for Claude. He turns toward Claude and sees the same thing mirrored in Claude’s eyes.

Berger lies back against the pillows. He closes his eyes and sees Claude and Sheila sprawled out in front of a fire while snow falls outside. Sheila’s belly is big and round like Jeannie’s and she glows in the red light. He thinks about India, bright fabrics and warm sun. They’ll dance and they’ll sing and stay high forever. He thinks about New York, about Martin, and he sees himself on that corner, graying hair, Sheila’s children hanging out with him there on warm afternoons.

Sheila shifts against him, turning toward the fire. Claude’s hand at his side is like the flames licking his skin. Claude’s mouth is just as hot on Berger’s neck and Berger pulls himself back to the present. Claude is watching him. He feels Sheila's breath, soft and steady, warm against his arm. When Claude leans back and smiles, his eyes sparkle with it.

“You’re coming with us to the protest on Whitehall Street,” Berger says. He wraps an arm around Claude, pulls him in close. “And then we’ll smuggle you off to Canada.” Canada, India, where they go doesn’t matter as long as they’re gone. Berger doesn’t care. He’s never cared.

Claude kisses Berger’s shoulder, rests his head against it so that his hair tickles against Berger's neck.

“They won’t get us,” Berger adds. Claude doesn’t respond, doesn't have to, just holds Berger closer.

Berger doesn't think about the future often. Now is what matters. But when Berger does think about it, thinks about where he wants to be, he always ends up in the same place. In ten years, Berger wants to be right here, just like this between Claude and Sheila. Older, hairier, but just like this.

It can happen. He tells Claude so as he drifts off to sleep.