Fic - Hair - The Lost and Found
Fandom: Hair
Pairing: Claude/Berger
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,775ish
Disclaimer: Not affiliated with the show or the production in any way. Just a fan. Don’t mean any harm, not making any money, etc.
Berger searches the city until his legs ache and his feet feel like they’ll fall off, betraying him, leaving him lying on the sidewalk somewhere still shouting Claude’s name.
“He’s gone,” Jeanie said that morning, “He always planned to go.” But Berger doesn’t want to believe her. He had the bus tickets in his back pocket, a bag with a change of clothes ready to go back at Sheila’s apartment. They should have just left right then, but Claude had promised to meet him and even though Berger’s gut told him not to, he’d believed Claude. He should never have believed Claude. It wasn’t like he didn’t know, couldn’t feel what was going on. He never should have let Claude go.
The sun is just starting to come up when Berger finally gives up, stumbles defeated and heartbroken up the stairs to Sheila’s door. He’s rounding the last flight when he sees him, a figure crumpled on the landing, hugging his knees. Berger doesn’t recognize him at first. His head is down, his hair cut short, but he looks up when he hears Berger on the stairs.
“Berger,” he breathes and Berger can hear the relief in his voice as Claude unfolds the arms that he’d wrapped so tightly around himself.
Berger stands frozen on the stairs, staring at Claude. Right before he gave up, right before he came here to get out of the snow, he sat on a bench in Washington Square and got as high as he could from the contents of his pockets. He thinks he must be hallucinating Claude now. He thinks that maybe he’s still out there, lying on the sidewalk somewhere. He’ll wake up in the morning, numb with cold, and Claude will still be gone.
Berger closes his eyes and grips the railing until his knuckles ache from the unyielding curve of the wood. He tries to ground himself, tries to clear his head, sort it out, push away the lies.
“Berger?” Claude says again. His voice is louder now, concerned, and Berger shakes his head, refuses to believe it can be true, but when he opens his eyes Claude is still there, still watching him, still scared.
“Shit,” Berger says, the word hoarse and harsh. The sound of his own voice is enough to break the spell, and he’s moving, stumbling up the remaining flight, his feet tripping on the last two steps so that he stumbles. He doesn’t bother to get up, instead crawls across the landing until finally he’s there with Claude, his hands on Claude’s face, fingers in what’s left of Claude’s hair. “Shit, I thought you were gone.”
Berger’s thumbs press against the flushed skin of Claude’s cheeks and Claude’s smile is still sad as he says, “Almost was.”
Berger wants to curse Claude, yell of the hell that Claude put him through. He has it all there, ready to explode from within him, uncurling from the knot that’s been pulling tight in his stomach all day. He opens his mouth, ready to let it all out. Claude’s dark eyes flicker, shift down to stare at Berger’s parted lips. Claude’s mouth falls open, a mirror of Berger’s own, and all the frustration, the desperation, unfolds and dissolves in Berger’s throat, replaced with relief and want and need.
Claude leans forward, straining against Berger’s hands so their open mouths are so close, so that Berger can feel Claude’s breath hot on his skin. Claude’s fingers shake as they rise up to touch Berger’s face, touch the melted snow in Berger’s hair, as though Claude needs to make sure Berger’s real too.
“I thought you -“ Berger starts to say again, but he doesn’t finish. He can’t make himself wait long enough to complete his own thought, has to kiss Claude instead. Claude collapses into Berger’s kiss, the tension rushing from him as he melts against Berger, pliant against Berger’s fingers, hands and arms wrapping around him, holding on. Berger’s done caring, done worrying. Even if this isn’t real, even if he wakes up frozen on the sidewalk, he’ll take this. He’ll still have this. Their kiss is hard and deep, tongues searching, finding each other, holding on. Berger kisses Claude as though it’s been years since the last time, years of searching the streets of New York for the ghost of the one person he’d ever bothered trying to save. The one person he’d failed. It’s only been hours, less than a day, but Claude returns the kiss as though starving.
A door slams shut on a floor below them and Claude freezes, breath heavy as he pulls away from Berger to listen.
“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Claude says, even as Berger leans in to kiss his mouth between the words. “We’ve got to go.”
Berger’s hands slide from Claude’s face, down his neck and across his shoulders until he’s holding Claude’s arms. It’s just Sheila’s neighbors, some kid coming home from a night of drinking. It’s nothing and he kisses Claude once more. Claude turns his head away from Berger’s kiss, still trying to listen for any noise below them. Berger kisses the skin of Claude’s cheek instead, the curve of Claude’s ear.
“Berger,” Claude whispers.
“Okay,” Berger says, “Okay.”
He stands, pulling Claude with him. He has the bus tickets in his back pocket. He’s ready to go, but Claude is here standing in front of him. Berger spent all day imagining the worst and now Claude is here. Claude’s hands pull at the fabric of Berger’s coat, twisting in it and Berger leans into him, rests his forehead against Claude’s. He’s not ready to move yet. Not ready to pull away from Claude long enough to get out of the city.
He pushes Claude toward the door instead. He keeps one hand on Claude as the other fumbles with the lock until finally he gets the door open. He pushes them both through, not bothering to turn on the lights. One arm holds Claude to him as he shuts the door, locking them in.
“What are we doing?” Claude says.
Berger holds onto Claude in the dark. “Shh,” he says as he takes Claude’s hand. He leads them through the dark living area, through the open door into the bedroom he sometimes shares with Sheila. Sheila’s gone and it’s late and Berger is sure that she won’t be back any time soon. They’d spent the morning fighting and Sheila ended it by storming off with Dionne. She won’t be back today. He shuts the bedroom door and he feels Claude relax against him.
Berger shrugs off his coat, lets it drop to the floor. The room is dark, the curtains drawn so that they’re hidden from the first hints of the early morning sun. Berger’s vest comes off next and Claude reaches out and sets an open palm against Berger’s chest.
“We’re going to leave, right?” Claude asks. “You and me?”
“Yeah,” Berger says. “Yeah, we’re going to get out of here.” He pushes at Claude’s jacket, at Claude’s shirt.
“This first,” Claude agrees. He helps Berger with his clothes, pulling his shirt up and over his head. Berger presses his mouth to Claude’s collarbone. Claude’s skin tastes sterile, like army regulation soap. It’s unfamiliar and Berger hates it, kisses Claude again, tries to taste past the chemicals.
It’s been a long day. He’s tired and high and worn out. Shut in the bedroom everything seems less urgent, and Berger’s kisses across Claude’s chest become lazy and slow, savoring the feel of Claude’s skin beneath his lips. If they had the time, Berger could kiss Claude for days, kiss Claude until there is nowhere new for his mouth to taste, to claim. They don’t have time. An hour, maybe two before they should go. An hour, maybe two is enough.
Claude’s fingers press into Berger’s back, like he’s pressing the keys of a piano. His mouth opens against Berger’s shoulder, lips moving to spell silent words into Berger’s skin.
Eventually the kissing isn’t enough and they fumble together toward the bed. Claude is quick with his pants, unbuttoning them and sliding them down past his hips as he climbs onto the bed. Berger follows, discarding the rest of his clothing with Claude’s in a heap on the floor. Claude reaches out for him and Berger climbs onto the bed, crawling over Claude until their mouths meet in another kiss. He presses himself down against Claude so that they slide against each other, so that Claude’s breath catches in his throat and he surges up to meet Berger’s mouth.
Berger’s spent so much time worrying about what Claude wants, worrying that what Claude wants might not include him. But Claude is here now and he wants Berger. Maybe it would have been different if it was Sheila who had found Claude here. Maybe it was Sheila that Claude was waiting for, but Berger knows that it isn’t Sheila that Claude is here for now.
You and me, Claude said. They both knew that Sheila never planned to leave New York. Berger had spent the day thinking about it, thinking that maybe if Sheila had planned to leave with them, maybe Claude would have shown up at the protest, maybe they would be halfway to Canada already. But Claude’s here now. You and me, Claude said.
Claude reaches for the rickety old table beside Sheila’s bed. His fingers fumble against bottles until he finds the one he needs. He presses it into Berger’s hand. Berger squeezes the contents onto his fingers, his tongue sliding into Claude’s mouth as his finger slides across Claude’s skin, presses inside. Claude moves against him, hands holding onto Berger as they kiss, as Claude’s legs spread wider, knees pressed to Berger’s sides. He sucks at Berger’s tongue as Berger’s fingers push and stretch, as Berger’s hips thrust against him.
“Come on,” Claude says, impatient now, worked up. The time for lazy kisses has passed and Claude’s hand slides from Berger’s back, grips Berger, guides him. His long leg wraps around Berger as Berger pushes inside.
‘You and me,’ Berger thinks as he’s surrounded by Claude, tight and hot and wanting. He presses his forehead to Claude’s chest as he starts to movie, Claude guiding his hips with his hands, with the leg pressed tight against Berger’s back.
They don’t say anything, don’t need to. Berger knows that he starts to screw things up when he opens his mouth, even now when the words in his head drip with sap and sugar, when just thinking them makes him flush with embarrassment. He keeps quiet, tells Claude as much as he can with the movement of his hips, with the trace of his tongue across Claude’s skin. The soap is still there, but Berger can taste Claude underneath. He can taste Claude everywhere.
Claude’s fingers are in Berger’s hair and they pull a little, guiding Berger back to Claude’s mouth. Claude closes his eyes as he kisses Berger, wet open mouthed kisses, panting hot against Berger’s skin. Berger’s hand slides down between them, fingers wrapping around Claude. His hips push against Claude, into Claude, forcing Claude up through the circle of Berger’s hand. After a moment, he releases Claude’s dick and lets his hand slide down to feel the weight of Claude’s balls, then further, sliding over slick skin until they’re touching the tender place where their bodies meet, sliding over the muscle as it stretches around him.
“Fuck,” Claude groans, surprised, when Berger presses in with the tip of a finger, his dick sliding in past the back of his own hand.
Claude says something else, but the words are lost in their next kiss, devolving into a moan as Berger presses his finger in deeper, thrusts harder, urged forward by the new sensation, by the heat of Claude’s reaction. Claude’s hand leaves Berger’s hair, pulling a little as he untangles his fingers and reaches down. He thrusts into his own palm as Berger’s finger slides in as far as he can go, pressing Claude open as he thrusts deep inside.
Claude’s eyes squeeze shut and his head falls back as he comes over his hand, as his chin knocks against Berger’s cheek. Berger presses his mouth to Claude’s neck, sucking at Claude’s skin. He presses forward, the tip of a second finger pushing against the first.
Claude moans quietly, shaking his head even as his hands find their way to Berger’s ass, pulling him closer against Claude, trying to get more. Claude is impossibly tight around him now, but his fingers continue to press in, impossibly tighter. Claude says his name, the syllables hoarse and raw in his throat. Berger feels the vibration of the word against his tongue, his lips, and it’s all too much. He cries out as his body breaks open in bursts of white light. Claude feels so hot against him, burns his skin, but he can’t let go. He’s tied to Claude, shaking, and as his arm folds in and he lowers himself down to lie on Claude’s chest, his fingers slide out of Claude and the world shivers around them, threatens to break.
“Fuck,” Berger breathes, wishes he had better words. Claude’s skin is salty against his lips, finally all Claude there on his tongue.
They lie there, their bodies tangled in the sheets of Sheila’s unmade bed. Berger is tired, but he’s afraid to sleep. Afraid that he’ll wake up to find that Claude is gone, that the drugs have gifted him the best hallucination of his life, but that afterward all that’s left is emptiness and snow. Still, Berger longs to sleep, to wrap himself around Claude and stay here for days. The bus tickets are waiting. The bus tickets or the end of his dream.
He props himself on his elbow to look down at Claude. Claude’s eyes are closed but he smiles when he feels Berger watching him, reaches up to brush a hand across Berger’s cheek.
Claude’s hair is so short. Berger touches the sides of it, soft on his fingers. He runs his hand through it and it sticks up in strange tufts. Claude opens his eyes, watches Berger examine him. Berger slides his thumb across Claude’s left eyebrow, his right eyelid, and then into the short hair at Claude’s temple. Claude’s smiling as he shrugs and reaches for Berger’s hand. He pulls it from his hair, holds it in his own, presses it to his chest.
“We better get going, huh?” Berger asks. They’d better get going. It won’t feel real until they’re pressed into the cramped bus, the tires hitting each pothole as they head north. He’ll fall asleep with Claude on his shoulder, his nose pressed into Claude’s cropped hair.
“Yeah,” Claude agrees. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
They dress in silence. Berger slides the tickets from his back pocket, just to make sure that he still has them. He slips them back in and then pats the pocket twice to confirm.
“What about - should we leave Sheila a note or something?” Claude asks. “Let her know where you are?”
“We’ll call,” Berger says. “She’ll know.”
Claude picks up Berger’s coat from the floor. He slides his arms into it, pushes it down onto his own shoulders. The coat looks big on Claude, though Claude is an inch taller than Berger. Berger grabs Claude’s jacket and the bag he’d stuffed with random clothes that morning.
Once they’re back on the landing Claude watches nervously as Berger locks Sheila’s door. He reaches out, a hand on Berger’s arm and says “I told them I couldn’t sleep without you.”
Berger stares at Claude’s fingers on his skin for a moment and then he looks up at Claude. Claude’s eyes are soft, searching, scared.
“Really?” Berger asks.
They stare at each other a minute longer and then Claude looks away, releases Berger and shakes his head.
“No,” Claude admits. “No, I just left.”
Berger nods. He bends to slide Sheila’s key in the crack beneath the door. He won’t need it anymore. Claude’s hand is back, resting on Berger’s shoulder. It slides down Berger’s arm as Berger stands. Claude’s fingers knock against the back of Berger’s hand. Not holding, just touching, resting against him.
“We better go,” Berger says, impatient now to get moving. Impatient to wake up in Albany or farther, somewhere that he can finally believe it’s real. You and me. He turns his palm and takes Claude’s hand in his, fingers wrapping around, grip tight.
“Okay,” Claude says. His thumb slides across Berger’s wrist and he smiles. “Let’s go.”
Pairing: Claude/Berger
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,775ish
Disclaimer: Not affiliated with the show or the production in any way. Just a fan. Don’t mean any harm, not making any money, etc.
Berger searches the city until his legs ache and his feet feel like they’ll fall off, betraying him, leaving him lying on the sidewalk somewhere still shouting Claude’s name.
“He’s gone,” Jeanie said that morning, “He always planned to go.” But Berger doesn’t want to believe her. He had the bus tickets in his back pocket, a bag with a change of clothes ready to go back at Sheila’s apartment. They should have just left right then, but Claude had promised to meet him and even though Berger’s gut told him not to, he’d believed Claude. He should never have believed Claude. It wasn’t like he didn’t know, couldn’t feel what was going on. He never should have let Claude go.
The sun is just starting to come up when Berger finally gives up, stumbles defeated and heartbroken up the stairs to Sheila’s door. He’s rounding the last flight when he sees him, a figure crumpled on the landing, hugging his knees. Berger doesn’t recognize him at first. His head is down, his hair cut short, but he looks up when he hears Berger on the stairs.
“Berger,” he breathes and Berger can hear the relief in his voice as Claude unfolds the arms that he’d wrapped so tightly around himself.
Berger stands frozen on the stairs, staring at Claude. Right before he gave up, right before he came here to get out of the snow, he sat on a bench in Washington Square and got as high as he could from the contents of his pockets. He thinks he must be hallucinating Claude now. He thinks that maybe he’s still out there, lying on the sidewalk somewhere. He’ll wake up in the morning, numb with cold, and Claude will still be gone.
Berger closes his eyes and grips the railing until his knuckles ache from the unyielding curve of the wood. He tries to ground himself, tries to clear his head, sort it out, push away the lies.
“Berger?” Claude says again. His voice is louder now, concerned, and Berger shakes his head, refuses to believe it can be true, but when he opens his eyes Claude is still there, still watching him, still scared.
“Shit,” Berger says, the word hoarse and harsh. The sound of his own voice is enough to break the spell, and he’s moving, stumbling up the remaining flight, his feet tripping on the last two steps so that he stumbles. He doesn’t bother to get up, instead crawls across the landing until finally he’s there with Claude, his hands on Claude’s face, fingers in what’s left of Claude’s hair. “Shit, I thought you were gone.”
Berger’s thumbs press against the flushed skin of Claude’s cheeks and Claude’s smile is still sad as he says, “Almost was.”
Berger wants to curse Claude, yell of the hell that Claude put him through. He has it all there, ready to explode from within him, uncurling from the knot that’s been pulling tight in his stomach all day. He opens his mouth, ready to let it all out. Claude’s dark eyes flicker, shift down to stare at Berger’s parted lips. Claude’s mouth falls open, a mirror of Berger’s own, and all the frustration, the desperation, unfolds and dissolves in Berger’s throat, replaced with relief and want and need.
Claude leans forward, straining against Berger’s hands so their open mouths are so close, so that Berger can feel Claude’s breath hot on his skin. Claude’s fingers shake as they rise up to touch Berger’s face, touch the melted snow in Berger’s hair, as though Claude needs to make sure Berger’s real too.
“I thought you -“ Berger starts to say again, but he doesn’t finish. He can’t make himself wait long enough to complete his own thought, has to kiss Claude instead. Claude collapses into Berger’s kiss, the tension rushing from him as he melts against Berger, pliant against Berger’s fingers, hands and arms wrapping around him, holding on. Berger’s done caring, done worrying. Even if this isn’t real, even if he wakes up frozen on the sidewalk, he’ll take this. He’ll still have this. Their kiss is hard and deep, tongues searching, finding each other, holding on. Berger kisses Claude as though it’s been years since the last time, years of searching the streets of New York for the ghost of the one person he’d ever bothered trying to save. The one person he’d failed. It’s only been hours, less than a day, but Claude returns the kiss as though starving.
A door slams shut on a floor below them and Claude freezes, breath heavy as he pulls away from Berger to listen.
“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Claude says, even as Berger leans in to kiss his mouth between the words. “We’ve got to go.”
Berger’s hands slide from Claude’s face, down his neck and across his shoulders until he’s holding Claude’s arms. It’s just Sheila’s neighbors, some kid coming home from a night of drinking. It’s nothing and he kisses Claude once more. Claude turns his head away from Berger’s kiss, still trying to listen for any noise below them. Berger kisses the skin of Claude’s cheek instead, the curve of Claude’s ear.
“Berger,” Claude whispers.
“Okay,” Berger says, “Okay.”
He stands, pulling Claude with him. He has the bus tickets in his back pocket. He’s ready to go, but Claude is here standing in front of him. Berger spent all day imagining the worst and now Claude is here. Claude’s hands pull at the fabric of Berger’s coat, twisting in it and Berger leans into him, rests his forehead against Claude’s. He’s not ready to move yet. Not ready to pull away from Claude long enough to get out of the city.
He pushes Claude toward the door instead. He keeps one hand on Claude as the other fumbles with the lock until finally he gets the door open. He pushes them both through, not bothering to turn on the lights. One arm holds Claude to him as he shuts the door, locking them in.
“What are we doing?” Claude says.
Berger holds onto Claude in the dark. “Shh,” he says as he takes Claude’s hand. He leads them through the dark living area, through the open door into the bedroom he sometimes shares with Sheila. Sheila’s gone and it’s late and Berger is sure that she won’t be back any time soon. They’d spent the morning fighting and Sheila ended it by storming off with Dionne. She won’t be back today. He shuts the bedroom door and he feels Claude relax against him.
Berger shrugs off his coat, lets it drop to the floor. The room is dark, the curtains drawn so that they’re hidden from the first hints of the early morning sun. Berger’s vest comes off next and Claude reaches out and sets an open palm against Berger’s chest.
“We’re going to leave, right?” Claude asks. “You and me?”
“Yeah,” Berger says. “Yeah, we’re going to get out of here.” He pushes at Claude’s jacket, at Claude’s shirt.
“This first,” Claude agrees. He helps Berger with his clothes, pulling his shirt up and over his head. Berger presses his mouth to Claude’s collarbone. Claude’s skin tastes sterile, like army regulation soap. It’s unfamiliar and Berger hates it, kisses Claude again, tries to taste past the chemicals.
It’s been a long day. He’s tired and high and worn out. Shut in the bedroom everything seems less urgent, and Berger’s kisses across Claude’s chest become lazy and slow, savoring the feel of Claude’s skin beneath his lips. If they had the time, Berger could kiss Claude for days, kiss Claude until there is nowhere new for his mouth to taste, to claim. They don’t have time. An hour, maybe two before they should go. An hour, maybe two is enough.
Claude’s fingers press into Berger’s back, like he’s pressing the keys of a piano. His mouth opens against Berger’s shoulder, lips moving to spell silent words into Berger’s skin.
Eventually the kissing isn’t enough and they fumble together toward the bed. Claude is quick with his pants, unbuttoning them and sliding them down past his hips as he climbs onto the bed. Berger follows, discarding the rest of his clothing with Claude’s in a heap on the floor. Claude reaches out for him and Berger climbs onto the bed, crawling over Claude until their mouths meet in another kiss. He presses himself down against Claude so that they slide against each other, so that Claude’s breath catches in his throat and he surges up to meet Berger’s mouth.
Berger’s spent so much time worrying about what Claude wants, worrying that what Claude wants might not include him. But Claude is here now and he wants Berger. Maybe it would have been different if it was Sheila who had found Claude here. Maybe it was Sheila that Claude was waiting for, but Berger knows that it isn’t Sheila that Claude is here for now.
You and me, Claude said. They both knew that Sheila never planned to leave New York. Berger had spent the day thinking about it, thinking that maybe if Sheila had planned to leave with them, maybe Claude would have shown up at the protest, maybe they would be halfway to Canada already. But Claude’s here now. You and me, Claude said.
Claude reaches for the rickety old table beside Sheila’s bed. His fingers fumble against bottles until he finds the one he needs. He presses it into Berger’s hand. Berger squeezes the contents onto his fingers, his tongue sliding into Claude’s mouth as his finger slides across Claude’s skin, presses inside. Claude moves against him, hands holding onto Berger as they kiss, as Claude’s legs spread wider, knees pressed to Berger’s sides. He sucks at Berger’s tongue as Berger’s fingers push and stretch, as Berger’s hips thrust against him.
“Come on,” Claude says, impatient now, worked up. The time for lazy kisses has passed and Claude’s hand slides from Berger’s back, grips Berger, guides him. His long leg wraps around Berger as Berger pushes inside.
‘You and me,’ Berger thinks as he’s surrounded by Claude, tight and hot and wanting. He presses his forehead to Claude’s chest as he starts to movie, Claude guiding his hips with his hands, with the leg pressed tight against Berger’s back.
They don’t say anything, don’t need to. Berger knows that he starts to screw things up when he opens his mouth, even now when the words in his head drip with sap and sugar, when just thinking them makes him flush with embarrassment. He keeps quiet, tells Claude as much as he can with the movement of his hips, with the trace of his tongue across Claude’s skin. The soap is still there, but Berger can taste Claude underneath. He can taste Claude everywhere.
Claude’s fingers are in Berger’s hair and they pull a little, guiding Berger back to Claude’s mouth. Claude closes his eyes as he kisses Berger, wet open mouthed kisses, panting hot against Berger’s skin. Berger’s hand slides down between them, fingers wrapping around Claude. His hips push against Claude, into Claude, forcing Claude up through the circle of Berger’s hand. After a moment, he releases Claude’s dick and lets his hand slide down to feel the weight of Claude’s balls, then further, sliding over slick skin until they’re touching the tender place where their bodies meet, sliding over the muscle as it stretches around him.
“Fuck,” Claude groans, surprised, when Berger presses in with the tip of a finger, his dick sliding in past the back of his own hand.
Claude says something else, but the words are lost in their next kiss, devolving into a moan as Berger presses his finger in deeper, thrusts harder, urged forward by the new sensation, by the heat of Claude’s reaction. Claude’s hand leaves Berger’s hair, pulling a little as he untangles his fingers and reaches down. He thrusts into his own palm as Berger’s finger slides in as far as he can go, pressing Claude open as he thrusts deep inside.
Claude’s eyes squeeze shut and his head falls back as he comes over his hand, as his chin knocks against Berger’s cheek. Berger presses his mouth to Claude’s neck, sucking at Claude’s skin. He presses forward, the tip of a second finger pushing against the first.
Claude moans quietly, shaking his head even as his hands find their way to Berger’s ass, pulling him closer against Claude, trying to get more. Claude is impossibly tight around him now, but his fingers continue to press in, impossibly tighter. Claude says his name, the syllables hoarse and raw in his throat. Berger feels the vibration of the word against his tongue, his lips, and it’s all too much. He cries out as his body breaks open in bursts of white light. Claude feels so hot against him, burns his skin, but he can’t let go. He’s tied to Claude, shaking, and as his arm folds in and he lowers himself down to lie on Claude’s chest, his fingers slide out of Claude and the world shivers around them, threatens to break.
“Fuck,” Berger breathes, wishes he had better words. Claude’s skin is salty against his lips, finally all Claude there on his tongue.
They lie there, their bodies tangled in the sheets of Sheila’s unmade bed. Berger is tired, but he’s afraid to sleep. Afraid that he’ll wake up to find that Claude is gone, that the drugs have gifted him the best hallucination of his life, but that afterward all that’s left is emptiness and snow. Still, Berger longs to sleep, to wrap himself around Claude and stay here for days. The bus tickets are waiting. The bus tickets or the end of his dream.
He props himself on his elbow to look down at Claude. Claude’s eyes are closed but he smiles when he feels Berger watching him, reaches up to brush a hand across Berger’s cheek.
Claude’s hair is so short. Berger touches the sides of it, soft on his fingers. He runs his hand through it and it sticks up in strange tufts. Claude opens his eyes, watches Berger examine him. Berger slides his thumb across Claude’s left eyebrow, his right eyelid, and then into the short hair at Claude’s temple. Claude’s smiling as he shrugs and reaches for Berger’s hand. He pulls it from his hair, holds it in his own, presses it to his chest.
“We better get going, huh?” Berger asks. They’d better get going. It won’t feel real until they’re pressed into the cramped bus, the tires hitting each pothole as they head north. He’ll fall asleep with Claude on his shoulder, his nose pressed into Claude’s cropped hair.
“Yeah,” Claude agrees. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
They dress in silence. Berger slides the tickets from his back pocket, just to make sure that he still has them. He slips them back in and then pats the pocket twice to confirm.
“What about - should we leave Sheila a note or something?” Claude asks. “Let her know where you are?”
“We’ll call,” Berger says. “She’ll know.”
Claude picks up Berger’s coat from the floor. He slides his arms into it, pushes it down onto his own shoulders. The coat looks big on Claude, though Claude is an inch taller than Berger. Berger grabs Claude’s jacket and the bag he’d stuffed with random clothes that morning.
Once they’re back on the landing Claude watches nervously as Berger locks Sheila’s door. He reaches out, a hand on Berger’s arm and says “I told them I couldn’t sleep without you.”
Berger stares at Claude’s fingers on his skin for a moment and then he looks up at Claude. Claude’s eyes are soft, searching, scared.
“Really?” Berger asks.
They stare at each other a minute longer and then Claude looks away, releases Berger and shakes his head.
“No,” Claude admits. “No, I just left.”
Berger nods. He bends to slide Sheila’s key in the crack beneath the door. He won’t need it anymore. Claude’s hand is back, resting on Berger’s shoulder. It slides down Berger’s arm as Berger stands. Claude’s fingers knock against the back of Berger’s hand. Not holding, just touching, resting against him.
“We better go,” Berger says, impatient now to get moving. Impatient to wake up in Albany or farther, somewhere that he can finally believe it’s real. You and me. He turns his palm and takes Claude’s hand in his, fingers wrapping around, grip tight.
“Okay,” Claude says. His thumb slides across Berger’s wrist and he smiles. “Let’s go.”