Fic - Hair - The First Move - 2/3

[zoicite]

When Claude graduated from high school he took a few years off and worked at the local grocery store a few blocks from his parents’ house. He and Lily Stevens were dating then, were together every night, though they both knew it wasn’t headed anywhere. After two years of working during the day and spending all of the rest of his time with Lily, Claude’s mother offered him his grandmother’s diamond ring.

“Lily’s a good girl,” his mother said.

Claude showed the ring to Lily and was relieved when she laughed. They broke up that night and the next morning Claude enrolled in classes at Queensborough Community College. That was where he met James. Claude’s classes were fine. He didn’t love them, but he was smart, he got by. He met James in a history class. James was wrapped in history, in politics. He cared about everything and when he talked about the country, the war, his face lit up and he was on fire. Claude would stare at him, amazed by his passion, jealous that he hadn’t found the one thing that could make him light up that way. He and James became fast friends, spending as much time together as he ever spent with Lily.

Claude wasn’t entirely surprised the night that James finally kissed him. Claude tried, he really did. It wasn’t like he was freaked out or anything. It was easy to tell that their friendship was building up to this and Claude thought that maybe when they kissed, maybe some of James’ passion would transfer to Claude. He’d feel it first hand and it would be the most amazing thing.

Claude was nervous with anticipation when it finally happened, but it only took a few moments to realize he’d been wrong. He felt nothing. There was no fire or light, and eventually Claude pulled away.

“I thought this was what you wanted,” James said, confused.

It wasn’t what Claude wanted though. It had always been what James wanted, or Lily, or his mother. Claude had just hoped that if they all wanted it so badly, eventually he might want it too.

“I don’t want any of this,” Claude said. It wasn’t long after that that he dropped out of school. It wasn’t long after that that he met Jeanie and everything started to change.

**

Claude can tell that something is different but it takes him three days to figure out what it is. When he does figure it out, it seems so obvious that Claude can’t believe he didn’t realize sooner.

It feels like Berger’s been playing his messed up game of matchmaker for forever, but that night in the park ended it. Berger has stopped pushing.

It’s been days and Berger has not brought up Claude and Sheila once. There have been no jokes, no innuendos, no scenes that leave Claude burning with embarrassment. Berger has hardly mentioned Sheila at all and when she is around, it’s like it was in the very beginning. Berger and Sheila and Claude.

Berger hasn’t tried to kiss Claude again either. Sometimes Claude catches Berger watching, thinks that maybe Berger might be thinking about it, but then Berger’s face will change, he’ll smile, laugh, and Claude becomes convinced that he imagined it all. Sometimes Claude catches himself hoping that it will happen again, hoping that Berger will kiss him again. But then Claude remembers how it was with James, how he’d tried with James and ended up hurting him anyway. He remembers how he tried to feel something even though there was nothing there. He did it with school, with Lily and Jeanie. He does it with everything. That can’t happen with Berger. Claude can’t ruin things with Berger.

He thinks that next time, if it happens, he should stop it, talk to Berger before it starts, before it messes up the only thing in Claude’s life that he’s sure about. He tries to imagine himself doing it, stopping Berger, a hand to Berger’s chest. In his mind he lets the kiss happen instead, imagines kissing Berger back, imagines what might come next.

“Claudio,” Berger says.

Claude looks up, meets Berger’s eyes.

“What do you want to do?”

Claude doesn’t know. He never knows. He shrugs and Berger mirrors him, shoulders lifting in agreement. They get high and then they walk from the upper west side downtown to Sheila’s apartment.

It’s dark when they arrive. Sheila is asleep on the couch, curled on her side. She wakes up when she hears them, smiles. Berger climbs onto the couch, over her, leans down and kisses the corner of her mouth.

Claude watches them and smiles. He remembers the way Berger’s lips felt against his own and he turns away, settles on the floor with his back against the couch and closes his eyes. Sheila shifts behind him. Berger’s leg presses against Claude’s back and Claude thinks that if he just keeps his eyes shut, plays dead, they’ll move to Sheila’s room and he can stop imagining what they look like, how it might be if they were kissing him instead. He can stop feeling every sound they make in his stomach and his heart and his toes.

Berger mumbles something and then they start to move. Berger’s foot hits Claude as he twists and swings his legs onto the floor. Claude opens his eyes.

“Claude,” Berger says, leaning over the side of the couch to rest a hand on Claude’s shoulder. “Claude, come on.” And then he’s standing, pulling at Claude until Claude is on his feet and following Berger to Sheila’s room.

Claude thinks that it must be nothing, that Berger and Sheila must be as tired as he is, that a bed is more comfortable than the couch. They wait until he’s sitting on the mattress, settled in, before they start again, before Berger pushes at Sheila’s shirt. Sheila pulls the shirt up and over her head. Claude stares at the fall of Sheila’s breasts, at Berger’s mouth when he presses his lips to them. Sheila closes her eyes and lets Berger guide her onto the bed beside Claude. She lies back against the pillows, her fingers in Berger’s hair as he kisses down her stomach.

Berger’s hand moves down to the front of Sheila’s slacks, fingers fumbling with the button. Claude sees where this is headed, opens his mouth to protest. The words won’t come, nothing but a small strangled noise that has Berger reaching for him. Berger’s large hand folds around the bend of Claude’s knee even as Berger kisses low on Sheila’s stomach, as he slides her slacks down low on her hips.

Claude can’t do this. He can’t be here for this. He isn’t a part of it. He thinks it’s the most beautiful think he’s ever seen. He thinks he should run, close his eyes, stare. His heart is beating fast and he presses his fingers into his thighs as Berger kisses back up Sheila’s stomach, his mouth finding her right breast, tongue on her nipple before he takes it in his mouth. Sheila makes a small noise and Claude turns to look at her. Her eyes are still closed and her mouth falls open as Berger shifts toward her left breast. She presses her head back into the pillows and her face turns toward Claude. The room feels too hot. Claude looks away, but it’s too late. Berger caught him watching.

Their eyes meet and Berger’s hand slides from Claude’s knee, slides a little higher on Claude’s leg. Berger kisses Sheila’s pale skin one more time and then he’s leaving her, his eyes on Claude as he leans toward him. His hand disappears from Claude’s knee, moves to wrap around his shoulder, to pull him in. Berger’s lips part, his eyes heavy as he gets closer. It’s exactly the image that has been playing out in Claude’s mind for three days.

Claude panics.

He’s thought about this so many times now. He’s fallen asleep thinking about every variation of this moment, but now that it’s here, it’s too soon, too much. He pushes Berger’s hand from his shoulder, pushes back, nearly falls as he stumbles from the bed.

“I’m gonna go,” Claude says. His throat feels dry. The words are painful, scratchy, like he hasn’t spoken in days.

Sheila’s sitting up now and Claude can’t look at her.

“Stay,” Sheila offers, but Claude is already backing toward the door.

Berger watches him. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to stop Claude. His hand rests on the bed, fingers pressed into the warm spot on the quilt where Claude sat moments before.

“I’m sorry,” Claude says, not sure why or what exactly he’s sorry for. He backs into the main room and then finally he turns away, turns away from Berger and leaves.

**

He paces around the city for hours, almost returns to Sheila’s twice. Once he gets so far as the front door before he turns and stumbles back down the stairs. It’s almost morning before he returns to Flushing, sneaking up the stairs to his bedroom. He lies awake as the sun rises, thinks about Sheila and Berger. Sheila asked him to stay and he still ran, turned away from what Berger was offering to him. Sheila’d asked him to stay. All this time he thought that it was all Berger pushing, that Sheila had no interest in any of this, couldn’t. But Sheila was lying there, inviting him, and all Claude could think about was how he’d explode, how he’d shatter into a million pieces if he let Berger kiss him again. He falls asleep imagining how it would have been if he’d just leaned in, if he’d just allowed Berger’s mouth to meet his.

The sun in his bedroom is bright when his mother knocks and then enters, not waiting for an answer.

“Claude, are you sick?” she asks.

She comes to the side of his bed and presses the cool palm of her hand to his forehead.

“I’m not sick,” Claude mumbles. He rolls away from her. He thinks he might just spend all day in bed anyway.

“You’ll miss your classes,” his mother says then, disapproving. The concern has disappeared from her voice.

There is a week left, maybe two if he counts exams. Claude isn’t sure, but it doesn’t matter. It’s close. Claude could have made it to summer no problem. No one would have to know.

Instead Claude says, “I don’t have classes. I dropped out.”

His mother is quiet. He hears her moving and eventually he rolls over to check on her. She’s picking up his laundry from the floor. She refuses to look back, but Claude can tell that she’s working it out, thinking of all the times he left early and never came home. She probably thought he’d met a girl, probably thought he was taking her to the movies, to dinner, to make out in her older brother’s car. She probably thought Claude was finally on his way, would be the dentist they’d dreamed of, would get married and give her grandkids before the end of next year.

“Mom,” Claude says.

“When?” she asks. Her fingers press into the fabric of Claude’s shirt in her arms. She stares down at it. “Where have you been going?”

“I don’t know,” Claude says. “Two months?”

His mother frowns, doesn’t explode at him the way he expects.

“You need a haircut,” she says, and then she turns and leaves, shuts the door behind her.

The explosion comes at dinner when Claude’s father’s fist comes down hard on the table, rattling the silverware. He talks about responsibility and growing up as though he’s the ultimate authority on the subject.

“Tomorrow,” Claude’s father says. “You don’t want to go to school? You don’t want to work with your old man? Fine. Tomorrow you’re enlisting in the army. It’s time to grow up, son.”

“We just want what is best for you, Claude,” his mother insists.

“I’m not going,” Claude says, shrugs.

“Start acting like a goddamn adult,” his father shouts.

Claude pushes his plate aside and stands fast, his chair almost falling over. He stalks out of the room, out onto the sidewalk without another word. He heads into Manhattan, finds Hud and Woof by the fountain. They stay up all night under the stars, sleep in the park, lying in the grass through the early morning.

He’s woken hours later by a foot nudging into his side.

“Get up,” a gruff voice says.

“What?” Claude asks, still half asleep. He looks up, squinting into the sun.

“I said get out of here before I have you arrested,” the voice says, apparently repeating itself.

Claude lifts a hand to shield his eyes. He expects a police officer, but it’s Berger there grinning down at him.

“Oh,” Claude sighs, lying back. “Hey.”

Berger folds into the grass beside him, leans over him until he’s blocking the sun and Claude can see him clearly.

“Claudio,” Berger says, smiling and awake. “I was wondering if you’d ever come back.”

“Why?” Claude asks.

Berger shrugs. He reaches out to press a hand to Claude’s chest and then he thinks better of it, pauses before his hand makes contact.

Claude pushes himself up on his elbows and Berger’s hand pulls back, hovering over Claude, not touching. Claude watches Berger’s hand for a moment, then looks up to find that Berger is staring at his fingers too.

Claude sits up and Berger’s hand falls back even more to compensate. Claude brings his own hand up and Berger shifts, matching his palm to Claude’s, still not coming close enough to touch.

“What are we doing?” Claude asks.

“I don’t know,” Berger breathes, his voice low, quiet. He’s not looking at his hand anymore, is watching Claude’s face instead.

Berger’s palm is an inch from Claude’s, hovering, fingertips so close, as though held there by some force, pushed apart by a magnetic field. Berger watches Claude and Claude watches their hands, holds his breath, waiting for that touch of skin that never comes. It feels like they’ve been sitting like this forever, but it’s been seconds, a moment, that’s it. He keeps his eyes on their hands, but he feels Berger getting closer. He feels Berger’s breath warm on his cheek. He thinks Berger might kiss him and his heart starts to race. He’s afraid to turn, afraid to look away from their fingertips. He can’t not look away.

When he does turn, Berger’s right there, and it’s that magnetic field all over again, but this time it’s their lips, their mouths. Berger watches him, green eyes soft and intent, and then Berger’s lips part and his eyes slide down and focus on Claude’s mouth instead.

“Are you going to?” Claude asks when nothing happens.

“Going to what?” Berger murmurs. He doesn’t take his eyes from Claude’s mouth as he says it.

“I don’t know,” Claude says. “Kiss me again?”

Berger seems to contemplate this as he watches the movement of Claude’s lips.

“No,” Berger says after a moment.

Claude lets out a breath he didn’t know he was still holding.

“Okay,” he says.

“You might leave again if I try,” Berger adds.

Claude wants to disagree, wants to protest, but he’s distracted when Berger leans in closer. Berger tilts his head so that their noses won’t knock together. Claude thinks it’s going to happen, any moment now Berger will kiss him. Berger leans in more.

Claude catches himself holding his breath again, then changes his mind, tries to breathe deep but feels like he can’t get enough air. His hand shakes and his fingers knock into Berger’s, the field, their dance, falling in a clumsy collapse, broken. Claude pulls away, holds his fingers to his chest as though burned.

He’s broken it, whatever spell they’d started. Claude can breathe again and his chest feels heavy as he pushes air in and out of his lungs. Berger’s still staring at him and Claude shuts his eyes and lies back on the lawn. He feels Berger’s fingers dance across the exposed line of skin beneath the hem of Claude’s shirt and Claude’s stomach flutters involuntarily at the touch. He’s hard and he knows that Berger can tell. Claude doesn’t care. He’s starting to think that maybe more than anything he really wants Berger to know.

**

Berger knows what he’s doing to Claude. There’s no way that Berger doesn’t know. Berger spends his entire life doing. Claude has always dwelled on everything, weighed the pros and the cons trying to decide if he really even wants the things he thinks he wants, but Berger skips all of that, knows what he wants and takes it. But Berger isn’t doing anything. He’s been staying away from Claude, keeping his distance.

Claude hasn’t seen Sheila in days, thinks she must be out of the city, visiting her parents or friends. Sheila’s gone, but Berger still stays away. He stays away and he watches. Claude feels Berger’s eyes on him all the time, as he’s walking with Crissy or laughing at Woof. Sometimes he’ll turn and catch Berger watching him and his heart will skip and his throat will dry up as warmth curls its way through him. Berger’s under his skin and Claude spends every minute waiting for something to happen. Nothing ever does.

“What’s going on, man?” Claude asks finally, not able to stand it anymore.

Berger’s eyes are all over him in the moment before they actually meet Claude’s and he says, “Nothing’s going on. We’re good, right?”

Claude swallows and says, “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good.”

“Good,” Berger grins and then he’s grabbing Woof and running off down the path, running away from Claude.

Claude has never been more frustrated, more confused. He stares after Berger and Woof and then he turns away, finds Jeanie. He goes to her and takes her hand.

“Claude,” Jeanie smiles. She leans in and kisses his mouth. He folds in against her, craving contact, any contact. He kisses her again, his arms wrapping around her. Eventually she pulls away and looks up at him, expectant and waiting.

He looks down at her, at the curl of her hair and her eyelashes, at the warm way she looks back. Jeanie has never confused him. Everything with Jeanie is always so clear.

“We’re friends, you and me?” Claude asks.

“Of course we are,” Jeanie says. She squeezes Claude’s hand in hers, brings it to her mouth. Her lips are warm on his skin.

“Something’s happening,” Claude says. “With Berger.”

“Did you fight?” Jeanie asks, worried.

“No,” Claude says. “No, not fighting. It’s - I don’t know what it is. Never mind.”

Jeanie pulls him aside, leads him to a bench. He sits down and she folds herself in beside him, leans her head on his shoulder.

“Come home with me,” Claude suggests. It’s been a long time since they’ve spent time together, a long time since Claude’s spent time with anyone but Berger. He remembers how it always was with Jeanie, soft and warm. He thinks they fit together, they work together. Claude wishes it was Jeanie that made his heart stop and his hands shake, Jeanie that could make him curl with lust after just one look. Claude wishes he could love Jeanie.

“Oh, Claude,” Jeanie says, her voice sad. “I can’t tonight. Harvey is meeting me here in an hour. I promised.”

Claude hates Harvey. He met the guy once and he seemed nice enough. He’s good to Jeanie from what Claude can tell, but tonight Claude hates him.

“You can see Harvey tomorrow,” Claude suggests.

Jeanie reaches up to lay her palm on Claude’s cheek. She turns his face toward her and then she leans in and kisses him, warm and slow and perfect.

“Come with me,” Claude says again. He takes her hand in his as he leans his forehead against hers, as he kisses the end of her nose.

“You and Berger will work things out,” Jeanie promises. She pulls away from him, only their hands connecting them now.

He stares at Jeanie’s hands in his. They’re small like Lily’s, like Sheila’s. Her hold on his hand is firm, unwavering.

“How do you know?” Claude asks.

Berger is so casual about everything. One moment his hand is shaking as he reaches for Claude. The next he is laughing and kissing Lily or Dionne as though there was nothing between them. Everything is so easy for Berger that Claude thinks that if he wanted this, ever really wanted Claude, it all would have happened days ago. But then there’s that tremor again as their fingers meet, that shallow breathing when they’re so close. Claude doesn’t know what to think.

Jeanie always means the things she says. It’s never a guessing game with Jeanie.

“I just know,” Jeanie insists. She reaches out to touch his face again, her movements sure and smooth as she combs her fingers through his hair. “You and Berger. The air between you is like gravity, Claude. You’re always trying, but you can’t fight gravity.”

**

Claude’s father is through yelling. He talks calmly about the Vietnam War over dinner, tries to casually slip it in every couple sentences.

Claude tries not to listen. He thinks of the things he’s seen on television. Tries to picture himself in Vietnam, fighting for something he doesn’t believe in. He imagines what Sheila would say. He pushes the potatoes around on his plate and he thinks about dentistry. He thinks of himself in twenty hears hunched over in his father’s chair picking at Old Man Clive (now the oldest old man in the world)’s rotting teeth.

“You haven’t been hanging around with that James boy, have you?” his father asks. Claude doesn’t expect it, looks up from his plate.

“James?”

“I don’t like the way he was always looking at you,” Claude’s mother says.

“You better not have dropped out of school to hang around with those damn homosexuals,” Claude’s father grumbles.

Claude shakes his head, tries not to think the things he hasn’t been able to stop himself from thinking. He tries not to think about Berger.

If Berger was here he’d laugh at Claude’s father. He’d smile and say, “I dig it,” or “it’s just love, man.”

If Berger was here he’d stare at Claude from the empty chair across the table. He wouldn’t eat anything. Berger hasn’t been hungry for real food in days. Berger spends all of his time staring at Claude like Claude is the meal. He’d watch Claude eat, his lips parting as Claude brings the fork to his own mouth.

Claude ignores his parents and thinks about what he would do if Berger was at dinner. Claude wouldn’t be able to hold back anymore. He’d climb across the table, push the pot roast to the floor so that he could get at Berger, so that he could finally kiss him. They’d ignore the gasp from Claude’s mother, ignore Claude’s father when he shouts for them to stop. He drops the milk he’s holding and the glass shatters as it hits the floor. Claude can’t stop, not now that they’ve finally started. He climbs off the table, into Berger’s lap, straddling him. He tries to get as close to Berger as he can and Berger helps him, holds on. He wants Claude close too.

Claude knows that if it happens, it won’t be anything like it was with James. Claude can’t feel nothing around Berger. It’s been days and Claude has done nothing but feel things about Berger.

“Claude,” his father says. “Your mother is speaking to you.”

“Aren’t you listening?” his mother adds.

“No,” Claude says. “No, I’m not.”

He picks up his plate and dumps it into the kitchen sink, takes the stairs two at a time up to his room and locks himself in. He smokes a joint and ignores his mother when she calls to him from the stairs. The joint doesn’t help and Claude shuts the window and climbs into bed.

Claude used to dream about Lily Stevens. She lives next door, her bedroom window facing Claude’s. She used to change there, used to make sure Claude would see, and she haunted his dreams. Claude used to dream about Sheila. Her golden hair cascades over her bare breasts and her skin tastes like honey.

Now Claude dreams about Berger. Once in a while Sheila still appears, but now it almost always revolves around Berger.

Claude hates him for it. He hates that nothing is as easy or as simple as it was when he was ten. He hates that every decision he makes feels so wrong that the thought of making any decision at all paralyzes him. He hates that he stands around and just waits for everything to take action around him.

Claude’s never known exactly what he wants, but he’s pretty sure he wants Berger. It should be easy, but Claude sees it all going wrong, sees it all falling apart. So he does nothing. He lies here in his dark room, the smell of the joint still lingering in the air. He lies here and he remembers the shape of Berger’s mouth, the feel of the electricity passing between their fingertips. He remembers the feel of that one kiss, the taste of it, and he closes his eyes, unbuttons his jeans.

Claude knows that Berger isn’t using him to make a boring summer afternoon more interesting. Claude can tell by the look in Berger’s eyes, by the way that Berger’s hand shakes just a little when he holds it up against Claude’s. Berger covers awkwardness with laughter, but Claude thinks that Berger might be just as messed up as he is. Claude thinks that maybe Berger is just holding back, waiting, seeing if Claude has the balls to make the next move.

But this, his jeans pushed down his hips and his hand wrapped around his dick like he’s fourteen again, this is the only move Claude’s been able to decide on so far.

He pulls at his dick as he closes his eyes and pictures himself doing it, walking right up to Berger and kissing him hard, the way he’s tried not to imagine every night since it first happened. He imagines the noise that Berger will make, a growl deep in his throat. He imagines himself wrapped around Berger the way he’s seen Sheila wrap herself around him. Sure, Claude’s twice Sheila’s size, but Berger’s a big guy, Berger can support him. Claude imagines himself pushing at Berger’s clothes while Berger smiles against Claude’s mouth. Even in Claude’s fantasy he knows how smug Berger will be.

His hand strokes faster and he thinks how unfair it is that Berger has Sheila to release this tension. Claude could have someone too, but all he can think of is Berger, the thrust of Berger’s hips into Sheila, the sweat beaded on Berger’s shoulders. Sheila licks it from his skin and Claude imagines the taste of it on his tongue. Berger opens his mouth to say her name, but it’s his own name that he hears falling from Berger’s lips, long and low like a groan, like a song. Berger says it again and Claude can feel Berger over him, on him, and that’s all Claude needs. It’s exactly what Claude needs and he bites his lip hard as he spills over his own hand.

Part 3/3