Peter and Claude Holiday Exchange, Day 1, Part 2
Title: Cellular Memory
Length: Approx 7400 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's the anniversary, and somehow his body remembers, even if Peter's trying not to.
Notes: This was a great prompt, and I fear I haven't done it justice. It's been a long while since I've written fic, let alone something as long and as complicated as I made this for myself, the amount of backstory that isn't here, manalive. Hopefully there's something, dear prompt giver, you enjoy in this.
*goes to crawl under a blanket*

Prompt fulfilled: I would like to see: an AU of 5 Years Gone, where instead of Nikki being a stripper dating Peter, Peter is a stripper dating Claude. Keep him pretty, with the season 1 hair and without the scar, and basically he hasn't reacted to the past by becoming tough and gruff, he was broken by it instead.



It's the anniversary, and somehow his body remembers, even if Peter's trying not to.



---

Peter's flying.

He's with Nathan, his hand clasped securely in Nathan's fist as they soar over the city. They're above Manhattan looking down at the bridges and dots of traffic that move from the island to Brooklyn and back again. From their height the yellow cabs look like insects crawling up and down the streets running length of Manhattan.

Nathan's younger, a teenager, and Peter realises that he's wearing his school sweatshirt; he's a kid again. The sun is shining brightly above and the heat is beating into both of their backs. Peter can feel the beads of sweat on his brow, there's little wind to dry it off, and what breeze there is, is warm. It's one of those balmy hot days at the height of summer in the city.

Nathan releases his grip on Peter's hand and Peter glances above to see his older brother silhouetted against the sun, amazing and grinning from ear to ear. Peter suddenly remembers one of the stories he learnt in school the semester before, of Icarus. He shouts to Nathan, wants to tell him the story too, just in case he doesn't know it. It's important, so important that he tell Nathan. So he climbs higher against the wind and the updrafts until he's nearly by Nathan's side.

But whenever he moves up, Nathan is already moving away, higher still. Suddenly Nathan's wearing a suit rather than the jeans and a t-shirt he was in a moment before. He shouts down to Peter and points, "I'm going up there! All the way." There's glee in his voice, power and confidence. He's unstoppable. But Peter can't, no matter how hard he tries, match Nathan's assent. Nathan's faster than him, bigger and stronger, and soon he's hundreds of meters above and still moving.

Peter can't fly any more and instead he starts to tumble towards the earth. He's flailing his arms and legs, he's shouting, his voice raw trying to get Nathan to hear him. But it's no use; Nathan's too high up, too far away. He tumbles and tumbles and screws up his eyes just as he can make out the streets clearly below. And then, it's black.

He wakes feeling nothing but murky dark confusion and blur, the smell of smoke heavy in his nostrils. Gradually he opens his eyes to a startling realisation. He's impaled upon a piece of jagged metal that's dripping with his own blood.

He's alarmed by a noise that sounds like it's coming from another person nearby. And it takes a moment to realise the noise is actually coming from his own lips; a choked grief-whetted sob. It's then he remembers. Everything, in one overwhelming rush it hit's him. Sylar, Ted, Kirby Plaza and the explosion, —him— exploding. The others too; all of them dead. He gags, coughs and gasps for air, the realisation takes the oxygen from his lungs and the guilt and overwhelming sorrow follows a split-second later. When he moves his head to spit the grit, dirt and blood from his mouth utter devastation fringes the edges of his vision.

It's the kind the lucky only ever see in movies.

He takes another gurgling breath before attempting to remove himself from the metal that pins him down. The crushed cab he'd pulled himself off after Claude had thrown him like a rag off the Deveaux rooftop only weeks before was easy by comparison.

The metal protrudes too far for him to use his arms to push up and off and he falls back against the dust and rubble a few more painful times, shaking, before he even thinks to try his powers.

Telekinesis doesn't work; it takes too much concentration and focus that he just can't muster. He gradually succeeds in using brute strength, snapping the steel closer to his side and with the adrenalin still rushing through his veins he wrenches himself upwards again, and off. He lasts all of three seconds before he's on his knees, feeling his energy pooling in his chest and side, the warmth of healing.

Within a moment he's able to stand again, balanced precariously on broken concrete that creaks and sounds dangerously unstable beneath him. There's a thin mist of dirty rain falling over the flattened city, and a layer of ash covers both him and everything as far as he can see. God knows how long he'd been lying there, long enough for the dust to settle around him. Broken buildings stagger and point into the sky like jagged teeth, making the bombsite the very jaws of hell. It's hot, but he's freezing, and far past the point of shivering; his clothes burnt away. The concrete and metal fragments cut his feet as he aimlessly takes a few steps, his vision blurred.

Something overtakes the confusion, some base instinct to flee, and he's flying upwards, using every bit of energy he can muster to get himself as far from New York as he can. He flies north, as far as Canada before falling into the milky white nothingness of a snow covered clearing.

And then it starts, all over again.

---

Peter pulled his jacket tighter about his body as he weaved, on foot, between the evening traffic. It was raining heavily by the time he made it to the club, each gust from the dark sky illuminated by the streetlamps as they fell. Peter jogged swiftly beneath each, keeping his eyes peeled for the all too familiar sight of Homeland Security checkpoints down side streets and alleyways.

The club was on a strip with other bars and restaurants, and on getting to the building Peter nodded to the two bouncers that flanked the front door. They looked like they had their hands full already, corralling a small but growing queue behind a red velvet rope. The shorter of the two sucked gleefully on his cigarette, shifting from foot to foot to keep the cold at bay, but he nodded amiably in response to Peter. They were somewhat sheltered from the unseasonably bad weather by a large awning and a single outdoor heater stood close by, but was doing a failing job of warming them.

In an attempt to avoid any more of the pelting rain, Peter ran down the harshly lit alleyway which lead to the staff entrance. His hair was getting in his eyes and he brushed a hand back through it to get it off of his face. The movement sent more droplets running uncomfortably down the back of his neck and he shivered as they slipped beneath his coat collar. He'd been feeling cold for days now, something it seemed no amount of sweatshirts or indoor heating could change. He cursed himself again for not grabbing Claude's rain jacket before he left their small shared apartment, and made a mental note to go and buy an umbrella tomorrow.

The staff entrance sat between two sets of dumpsters, with a couple of steps leading up to a single iron door. A garish florescent light perched above and cast ugly green shadows across Peter's tired face as he banged on the cold metal. Within seconds it opened, a guy with five-day stubble, also in the bouncer's uniform, peering out. The pink tie he wore against his black suit softened his steely gaze, but that minute difference was compensated by how his bulk filled the narrow door almost entirely. He looked harsh until he saw it was Peter standing in the rain.

"Oh hey, Alex." He said, brightening before stepping aside to allow Peter in. "You running late tonight?"

"Hey Mike," Peter replied before sarcastically adding, "Still saving for that Porsche, you know. Busy night?" Peter nodded in the direction of where the line was forming out front.

"God knows it will be, now the star attraction's arrived." He winked at Peter who laughed quietly,

"Yeah, sure thing Mike. Theme Night has nothing to do with it."

"Hey, don't knock it. Who doesn't love a sailor boy out of his dress whites." Mike waggled his eyebrow as he spoke.

Peter smirked, wiping the rain from his face with one hand and shrugging off his dripping jacket, holding it away from his body. Mike looked like he was about to say something else, but a phone rang in the distance and interrupted him. Peter was grateful for the excuse to escape.

"Well, duty calls. You'd better get ready. Jamel's out sick, so you're on one spot early tonight." With that, Mike disappeared into an office down the hall.

---

The Performers Lounge was a small room scattered with couches while rails of costumes and feathered accessories stood haphazardly to one side. There was a strip of mirroring along one wall surrounded by bare light bulbs, fronted with a row of tables spread with makeup and hairspray.

The sign on the door in lurid pink and silver cursive type made Peter cringe a little whenever he walked in. He hated the theatrical pretence of it, but worse were the other strippers who bought into it, and acted to match. Peter freely admitted the burlesque and bingo show Sunday nights was pretty damn theatrical, but those guys and girls were a different breed. What he did, for the most part, despite all Claude's amused insistence at the contrary, was not exactly Beckett.

He closed the door behind himself and began to strip out of his wet clothes, hanging them over the only remaining free chair. The room was unusually empty, but he figured the others must already be out by the bar, or working the room. Searching through the rails of freshly dry-cleaned costumes, he rifled past hangers filled with kinky leather gear, whips and corsets, g-strings, t-shirts, vest tops and police and sailor uniforms until he found his things at the very end.

Thumbing past the costumes he used for the occasional theatrical shows, he settled on one and pulled it from the hanger. He had a number of distinctive outfits, one for each of the seasons he'd been working at the club. The management liked their performers to each have special acts; it pulled in the crowds and was a gimmick the other clubs in the area had been quick to copy. Peter had a tribute to the movie Cabaret with black shorts and a waistcoat, boots, fishnet stockings, suspenders, cane and a bowler hat. It was a great outfit and the act went down an absolute storm, making him at least a week's wages in tips whenever he wore it. But he'd done it at the drag night the beginning of the month and tonight wasn't the crowd for it.

His second was a standard army fatigues getup with heavy black boots and body paint tattoos; it went down well no matter the audience. And the third was partially the result of a taunt from Claude; a real nurse's set of scrubs. At first he'd protested, it was too close to home, but a bet was a bet and he wasn't about to chicken to Claude. It wasn't like the clothes were on him all that long anyway.

He draped it over the top of the rail and slipped into some tiny black trunks. The pale blue scrubs had loose ties on the waist that allowed them to hang low on his hipbones. He tugged on a thin white long-sleeved shirt that clung to every line and curve of muscle on his torso and slipped the scrub top on over that.

Grabbing a mock stethoscope and surgical mask, he took a quick look in the mirror. It was a kinky fantasy that most didn't admit to when coming in the door, but if they didn't have it then, they certainly did on the way out.

He paused as he checked his reflection in the mirror, and for a split second he was no longer in that room, he was back looking after Charles Deveaux in New York. He was looking straight into the past; not such a stretch for him although he hadn't jumped in over three years. Loss came over him, not only for that life, but also for the person he was. A person he knew someday he'd remember but in no way recognise.

He checked his cellphone before he sat heavily on the couch. The crowd could wait. He rubbed his face with both hands, feeling unbearably tired. The three cups of filter coffee he'd drunk before leaving the apartment had yet to kick in and his mind was exhausted from a lack of unbroken sleep he'd gotten lately. He knew what day it was without looking at the calendar. It was as if his body remembered the explosion, even when his mind was trying desperately not to. Trying, but not succeeding.

One year to the day of the blast and he'd been lying low in Phoenix, Arizona. He served drinks in a dive late into each night, slept most of his days—alone—, avoided the authorities and tried to keep his face out of sight. A year of running had left him desperate for some kind of normality, and so he'd stayed in Phoenix a full month before the anniversary date hit.

Phoenix had been a city of firsts. It was there, desperate and lonely, he'd met and had a one night stand with the guy who lead to the job in Las Vegas. The night had turned into an unlikely friendship after the guy had inadvertently displayed his powers while Peter was balls deep in his ass. He'd taken it as a complement really, that he'd gotten the guy to such a state.

Peter hadn't let on he had powers. Letting anyone know was an unnecessary risk and he was deep into his cover; he was Alex, a drop out college student from New York State. He'd no family, no history and travelled around a lot working as he went. Everything he owned fit in a military surplus backpack.

He was on the way to the bar for his shift when he first felt the tingling in his fingers. Within moments the sensation had spread as far as his elbows. As he stepped towards the inside of the sidewalk to avoid the rush hour crowd the sensation spread further, the echo of sensation almost, of every atom in his body vibrating, and heat, unbearable heat just beneath his skin.

He stumbled down an alleyway and pressed his back against the rough brick wall as he stared down at his hands. He examined them intently, pushed up his jacket sleeves to look at his forearms. There was no glowing, nothing to indicate Ted's power, not anything to suggest that all he'd learnt of control in the previous year had been for nothing. He thought he was having a stroke, or a breakdown. God knew it was overdue.

He sat in that alley for half an hour until he felt somewhat normal again, normal but shaking. It was when he made it to the bar that he put two and two together. The news tracker at the bottom of the television over the shelves of liquor bottles read ‘…America: One Year On. Reports from the Bombsite. 38 Dead from Contaminated Water…'.

He was hours away from convincing himself that he'd no choice but to turn himself in to the Company, Homeland Security, or worse, when Claude had finally caught up with him.

Claude, the man who had walked so easily and vocally from his life the last time; the man who had apparently been searching for him for months; the last person he'd ever expected to see, walked into the bar that night, ordered a beer, and never left.

Peter shook himself from his thoughts as he heard someone knock on the door. It was time to go. He pulled himself off the couch, grabbed a nearby towel to dry his still damp hair but he couldn't hide the shake in his hands.

---

Claude was drinking at the bar by the time Peter was due out on stage. He was nursing a longneck beer and staring at the discreet television inset to the wall. The sound was off, but the subtitles were active. Not that they were needed anyhow, Claude could make out all too well what was being reported.

Choppily edited footage spread over the screen of people being handcuffed and stuffed into large prison vans, of Homeland Security breaking down doors and raiding ordinary looking suburban houses. Neighbours stood behind yellow tape and gave reports that they'd never have believed Ms. So and So was an evolved-human. The bombastic arrogance of the spokesperson as they reported the number of evolved-humans detained and the lack of injury sustained on their side closed the report.

Claude sighed and grimaced before the newscaster moved to the next related item. It was sickening, worse with each year. Beyond any sense of taste or human decency, the majority of mainstream media turned each debasing event into prime time drama. If there were something Claude hated as much as the police state they were living in, it was the apparently non-state-controlled media.

He almost couldn't stand to watch it, considering he'd been working with his few remaining contacts at sabotaging the sweep. He'd gotten a few families to safety, but a few were never enough for him.

He closed his eyes as he tipped back the dregs of the beer bottle, motioning to the barman that he'd have the same again.

Five years on and the repercussions of that day were still being felt as strongly as ever. Life for everyone, not just those with powers and their families, had gotten darker and more complicated. Everyone had to carry papers on them at all times, checks were carried out at random by military police squadrons on the street. They even had the right to break and enter homes if they suspected, or were tipped off, that a person was genetically evolved. Claude had seen one too many people bundled into vans. Too many couples separated because of the inhumane ban against breeding. The screams of children separated from their parents never left him.

Soon after the explosion, the Linderman Act was rushed through the tarnished halls of Washington, and that had set everything in motion. The NSA were granted permission to process retained blood and DNA samples. Slowly but surely they were identifying and tracking evolved humans and their families. Every few months there were a spate of new 'disappearances' and sweeps, some publicised, some not, but with the majority of those detained moved to the Moab Federal Penitentiary where, despite claims to the contrary, they were never seen or heard from again.

Public announcements alerted the methods were for public safety of course, but it was quite the opposite, it was for the protection of the few.

Friends and neighbours informed on one another with the promise of monetary reward. People were desperate, and people were paranoid, neither of which were the basis of a healthy society. Claude had watched the aftermath of the New York explosion on Sky News in London. It wasn't long after that, filled with an uncomfortably new sensation of remorse, that he'd resolved to go back to the USA and try to set things right, or at the very least help Peter learn to control this new power before he did it again.

Central New York had been a smouldering waste ground after the explosion. The fires had burned like infernos for six months, each crater in the earth looked like an entrance to hell. The place had been so dangerous that no human set foot in the hundred mile exclusion zone the military set up for months afterwards. Whole areas of New Jersey were evacuated, and people fled on mass West and South.

Middle American towns, already swollen under the demands of population struggled to provide infrastructure as thousands of homeless arrived needing help. The ramifications were felt for hundreds of thousands of miles, like little poisoned thread veins across Northern America. Canada shut its borders after the first two million. Hospitals all over were left to deal with radiation poisoning and advanced cancers. Every night the news would be filled with new cases, new problems, new environmental issues, all sparked from that one split second on Kirby Plaza.

Claude picked at the label of his beer as he watched the ‘America Remembers' montage, but disgusted he turned away from the screen and swivelled about on his stool to face the interior of the club. The six months maximum he thought he'd hang about to help Peter turned into a year. And then, well, a few misjudged drunken tumbles between the sheets turned into a few more well-judged ones and four years later, despite his better judgment, he was still around.

The plush venue buzzed with heat and chatter. The club had filled up since he'd arrived. The two long bars were crowded with men, and there were no spaces left at any of the stage side tables. Friday night was the most popular night in Stags, the most risqué gay strip night in the city. Art nouveau light fixtures were set low above the crowd, and smaller lamps lit oversized booths with leather seats and mahogany tables. The music pulsated at a level and beat that Claude could only describe as A Slow Fuck Over A Table, and had done to Peter, numerous times. There was a bubble of excited chatter when the announcer's voice growled out over the din.

"Now, gentlemen and gents, gents and gentlemen, we have our favourite medic on our main stage. He'll make your hearts race, and then help you out with that. It's… Alex."

---

From the side of the stage Peter looked out at the clientele. A hush fell over the crowd as the music started up, a slow saucy beat. Counting his cue, Peter pushed back the black curtains. He was still shrouded in darkness, and took a moment to close his eyes and rotate his hips. He took the move up his spine, loosening his back and shoulders and felt warmth invade his tired muscles. He took a breath, and stepped into the spotlight to an appreciative roar from the crowd.

Peter found it surprisingly easy to adapt himself to the job, to even enjoy it. The late nights, the act he had to put on. Not only did it come surprisingly easily, but it was also an escape he enjoyed. When he thought about it, it wasn't that surprising. As an empath he could read people and as a Petrelli he'd bent and moulded himself for years into the various roles required of him by his family; the dutiful brother and loyal son.

He moved smoothly, drawing out every touch, every glance out into the crowd to the point of unbearable tease before moving to the next. He liked to start slowly before gathering momentum. He quirked the corner of his mouth, a knowing half smirk, as he ran his hands down his torso over the thin fabric scrubs, then over his slim hips and thighs. He jumped, spreading his legs and bent forwards, letting his fringe hang down as he grabbed his ankles. He smiled to himself again as he tilted his head up, looking at a brunette in the front row from behind his heavy lashes, hair in his eyes.

With fluid steps he turned his back to the crowd. He swung the stethoscope in a loop before he took it between two hands and pulled it taught. Keeping it that way, he raised his arms above his head, standing spread-eagled for a split second before keeping his hands up and slowly rotating his hips.

Dropping the prop then, he tugged the hem of his thin shirt exposing clean lines of hip and lower back. He moved his hands further, leaving them flush against the bare skin of his torso, more man than boy now, the difference of five years. The scrub shirt bunched around his wrists before with one graceful move he whipped it over his head and away.

He dropped to his side in time to the music and within moments he turned again, facing the crowd and dropping to his knees at the front of the stage. The light from above cast shadows over his body and captured every curve and line of solid muscle. He leant backwards, his thighs straining against the weight of his upper body as he gyrated into the air.

Catcalls were shouted from the back of the room and the crowd roared with enjoyment as Peter opened himself up to them. He could feel their need and desire, even without looking at them he knew instinctively what each of them wanted. He bent for them this way, touched himself that. Night after night he gave them exactly what they wanted, and they came back for more every time.

The spotlight dulled and pulsed in time to the music as he once again rubbed his thighs and moved one hand upwards across his collarbone towards his neck and then his mouth. He sucked on two fingers to the knuckles, lingered and sucked them in further. He could see the reaction this was having on the front few rows and closed his eyes to add to the effect. He opened them only as he tilted his head back, looking directly above as he pulled the fingers out slowly, letting the light burn into his eyes.

He was deciding on his next move when he found himself choking back a sharp flash of memory, raw and red, and gasped. Clutching his side, he faltered, his smooth rhythmic movement interrupted.

He saw Claude moving toward the stage from his usual spot by the bar, pushing past the crowd with a strange panicked expression in his eyes. Peter looked over with what he hoped was a reassuring glance, and for good measure planted "It's nothing, I'm okay, really." as hard as he could into Claude's mind. Claude stilled his approach, he looked less than happy, and there was already a muttering of curiosity amongst those who noticed. Peter pushed the feeling back, the same technique Claude had taught him to use with Ted's powers.

Focus, silence, calm.

Then he picked himself up smoothly and continued the act. Soon enough he had the crowd once again in the palm of his hand, their dollars and twenties falling to the stage edge. But the white imprint of the light repeated every time he blinked.

---

Peter clocked out early, changed and left the club quickly. He was glad Claude hadn't hung around. He needed some air and some time to clear his head before the inevitable questions came. He stuffed his damp t-shirt and pants into a backpack and, wearing the change of clothes he kept there, let himself out the staff door. The street outside the club was mostly empty, the revellers still drinking inside. The rain had stopped, but Peter still felt a deep chill in his bones and pulled his coat around himself tighter.

Claude was in the apartment and still awake by the time Peter made it home. He closed the door, making sure the two locks were bolted and the chains were pulled across before he dropped his stuff on the ground. He could hear Claude in the kitchen pottering about, putting the kettle on, clinking mugs and spoons. No doubt he was making tea, one habit Peter had been happy to pick up from him.

"You want a bite to eat?" Claude asked, his voice tinny in the small space, unreadable.

"No, thanks." Peter replied.

"You sure?" Claude asked again, "I can nuke those leftovers."

"No, really." Peter answered, his tone final.

Claude entered the living room with two steaming mugs of tea and set both down on the cluttered coffee table. There were scraps of paper, blueprints and photographs littering the chair and floor. Claude must have been going through the latest received Intel and making notes on the next raid he could sabotage. He was still fighting the war that Peter had given up on a long time before. Claude cleared a spot for himself on the couch and sat down, keeping his eyes on Peter.

"So. What was that?" Claude asked finally after it became clear Peter wasn't going to speak first, "On stage earlier." He clarified.

Peter caught his face in the mirror hanging to his left. There was no way he could put this off. Claude had a way of getting things out of him, whether through persistence or persuasion.

"I, I'm not sure. It hasn't happened like that before—not even in Phoenix." Peter began, rubbing his eyes. He knew Claude would remember. Claude remembered everything. "It feels like," He glanced up, Claude looked sad and still a little angry, before he continued, "like it's happening again, but it's not the same."

"Well of course it bloody isn't," Claude half interrupted, "otherwise we'd all be nuclear roasts by now."

Peter didn't say anything.

Claude softened slightly; hoping to circumvent Peter's automatic stubborn front. He knew shouting Peter down wouldn't do either of them any good despite the fact he felt like throttling something.

"I thought it was just the nightmares." He said falsely calm.

"So did I." Peter replied.

"But it's not, eh?"

"Looks that way."

Claude took a sip from his mug of tea before speaking again, "Look, we'll deal with it, yeah? Maybe I can find up some contacts that are still breathing, see what information I get on this kind of thing. There must be something."

"You can't fix this, Claude." The words came out with more force than Peter intended, but he wasn't sorry. "I still have control. You don't need to— you can't—" he trailed off. "I don't want you taking any more risks because of me."

Fire raged in Claude's eyes as he spoke low and dangerous. "Pull your head out of your arse. You go boom, we all go boom."

"Is that why you're still here then?" Peter asked, testing.

Claude ignored the tone in Peter's voice, looking into his cup as if he'd find guidance within the dregs of tea leaves, "Remember when you used to talk about saving the world? Jesus, start with yourself." He said quietly, "Start with letting me help."

Peter raised his head and the words he spoke came out less shaky than he felt. "The war is over, Claude. We lost, remember?"

"The war's never over." Claude replied, speaking with a dark intensity Peter thought he'd never fully get used to.

Peter picked up his mug and downed the hot liquid in one before he headed toward the bedroom. It burnt his tongue and the back of his throat but he relished the feeling. He could feel Claude's eyes on his back, following him out of the room. Ever since Claude had stuck around, ever since he'd taught Peter what he had known about the nature of empaths, or Naval Gazing Power Sponges as he'd taken to calling them, it seemed to Peter he tried to do it for everything. Their options were limited, and so long as he wasn't about to blow Nevada to kingdom come, he was okay with walking the tightrope. And he was afraid, more than ever, that Claude would walk out of his life again, and never be able to walk back.

He felt Claude's presence behind him as he flipped the bedroom's light switch and relaxed as Claude touched the back of his neck, rubbed his fingers over the fine dark hair at the nape and let his hand settle and rest. It was calming and reassuring, better than any words Claude could have offered, any discussions they could have gotten into that couldn't wait for daylight. Peter could feel the tension and fear that had been keeping him going seep from his bones. He didn't move, but exhaled instead. He hoped Claude knew, understood. He figured that since Claude was still around after all this time, he understood Peter more than most had ever done.

Looking about the small room Peter noticed that Claude had changed the sheets and made the bed. Fresh corners were tucked precisely at military right angles even though the rest of the room was a bit of a mess. The cotton was crisp and cool beneath him as he sat on the edge. Spreading his fingers out over the fabric he flexed them and revelled in the sensation of his nails catching on the fibres.

He watched silently as Claude turned on the smaller lamp in the corner, and turned off the bare bulb that served as the room's main light. It softened the atmosphere immediately. Then he removed his over-sized jacket and set it carefully over the back of a nearby chair. His pullover was next, the one that had been hand knit from heavy woollen yarn. Claude didn't seem to feel the Nevada heat. It was unravelling at the cuffs and a little at the neck, but he wouldn't let Peter get him a new one, a lighter one.

As long as Peter had known him, he'd remembered Claude wearing it. He loved to feel it, scratching like Claude's stubble, against his naked skin; cold nights when the power would cut out, when neither could wait, and both stripped only as far as was necessary. They'd fuck quickly before conserving heat beneath the blankets, their coats spread out atop of the covers for the extra warmth. Peter liked this dance, this ritual of watching Claude undress. Claude had watched him do it a hundred times in as many guises, but this, this was a show all for Peter and one he didn't need any mask for.

"Let me. Please."

He pulled Claude toward him, planted kisses on Claude's clasped hands at his waist where he unconsciously held them to hide the scars on his torso. He moved Claude's hands aside and kissed over the marks, feeling his chest tighten protectively. Claude never told him the whole story, but Peter could fill in the gaps well enough. He stretched his hands about Claude's legs, resting them comfortably at the back of Claude's thighs. He left more kisses on the dark hairs that trailed from Claude's bellybutton down over soft flesh until his lips hit fabric waistband.

He allowed Claude to take liberties with him like no one else, let him barge into and out of his life, rearranging the furniture and trashing the place, challenging him, supporting and destroying him in equal measure. He was a main protagonist in the movie of Peter's life, and even though he stumbled on his lines and missed a lot of his cues, Peter mostly forgave them as he knew he was forgiven in return.

He felt Claude's hands on his shoulders, fingertips cold before those fingers were in Peter's hair, massaging his scalp, then cupping his cheeks and raising his face to meet Claude's. He took in all the heat Claude offered, leaving kisses in return, and stood to press his lips to Claude's neck, his ear and jaw. Claude made small noises in the back of his throat, along with tiny sighs of pleasure before he found Peter's lips with his own, and kissed them slowly. Peter closed his eyes, smelt the grease and sweat on Claude's skin, the sensation of Claude's lips moving to his shoulder, kissing though the thin cotton of his shirt made him shiver. He felt Claude's arms wind themselves about his waist, dip suggestively beneath the belt of his jeans.

Peter looked over to the old tape deck in the corner, concentrated, and the power button flipped on. The music was unfamiliar, Claude must have found something new, but it was good and pulsed through the speakers at just the right volume.

"Bloody show off, you are." Claude muttered into the pale skin of Peter's neck.

"You love it." Peter finally laughed, and it was the release he'd been waiting for.

He worked his fingers into Claude's belt, tugging the leather through the metal buckle and loosening the buttons on the pants beneath. Claude was hard already, and he groaned low as Peter slipped his hand down to press against Claude's cock. He pulled away, stepped out of his boxers and stared at Peter's near fully clothed state.

"No, this won't do at all." He said with a glint in his eye, tugging on Peter's shirt. Peter pulled it above his head, flinging it on the floor while Claude flipped the button fly on Peter's jeans open with dextrous ease. They toppled back on the bed, Peter moving his knees apart, making room for Claude as he bent over Peter, kissing and licking up the unscarred skin of Peter's torso.

Peter felt himself getting harder, harder still when Claude's tongue crossed his nipple, his cock pressed against Peter's thigh. At every moan that slipped from between Claude's moist lips he relaxed more, wanted and needed more. Desperately.

Claude looked to Peter for affirmation, resting his hands on Peter's chest. Peter's eyes were dark, his pupils blown in the low bedroom light. His hair was splayed messily over the sheets, a dark spiderweb tangle against the off-white. Strands clung to his forehead, the sweat of the club still on his skin. Claude heard him say yes, but Peter's lips didn't move. A light pressure moved up and down Claude's back, like little sparks across his skin, down the knobbly line of vertebrae until it came to a teasing stop.

Claude dipped his head down and pressed his hands against the inside of Peter's legs, guiding them apart. Peter closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of Claude's stubble against his skin as he teased, kissed and bit up his thigh.

Small, contented noises filled the room as Claude wrapped his lips unexpectedly around Peter's cock. Peter jerked his hips upwards toward the sensation and his eyes flew open.

His groans grew louder as Claude moved his hands suggestively under Peter's thighs and toward his ass. He felt Claude's mouth leave his cock, the air chill, and Claude nosed at his balls, tongued them.

"God, yes." Peter said out loud, and Claude stopped what he was doing, raised his head up and with a mischievous glint in his eyes replied.

"God has nothing to do with it, Peter. Pass me the lube, would ya?"

Peter reached across and grabbed the tube and condoms from the chair by the bed. He tossed them to Claude who placed them next to him and began to suck Peter's cock once again, scraping his nails down Peter's belly.

Claude loosened Peter up with the expert ease of familiarity, with his tongue, with his fingers. Just like Peter did he too knew just where to stroke to make Peter buck against his hand and groan loudly. He knew the places to stimulate, lube slippery fingers pressing and teasing, until Peter bit his lip. He couldn't read Peter's mind like Peter could his, but he could bring Peter, begging, right to the edge before giving him what he asked for, what they both needed.

He fucked Peter slow and steady, setting the rhythm, and it didn't take long until they both came sweating and exhausted; Peter first, his gasps muffled where his face was pressed against the sheets between his forearms; Claude soon after, heart thumping in chest, clutching at Peter's shoulders, stomach flush against Peter's ass and his arched lower back. Peter never needed much, the sound of Claude's gasping moans, the feel of his cock never got old, or less gratifying.

They settled with the music on in the background, the occasional wail of police siren beyond the windows. The storm of Peter's thoughts calmed enough that he heard, without consciously accessing them, Claude's. They were like tendrils of smoke that whispered through the air between them; snippets delicate enough that they would disappear as soon as they were touched. Peter tried not to concentrate on them, knowing that if he did, he'd unintentionally hear inside Claude's mind. He didn't want that.

But then he heard Claude speaking to him, shifting so that he could lay alongside Peter's body.

"I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right?" Claude said. It was almost a whisper. As if he were uncomfortable having to say it at all.

Peter swallowed, "I know." He remembered the look in Claude's eyes back in the club and for a moment he didn't think he needed to convince himself half as hard as he usually did. He felt an immense warm weight pooling in his chest, heavy and important and closed his eyes hard, trying to burn the feeling into his memory. Claude's cheek was hot and scratchy where he rested on Peter's cooling skin and Peter's hand moved to Claude's hair, absently running his fingers through it.

"And for the record," Claude continued, "I'm not here as a fucking babysitter either, right." Peter laughed. He could feel Claude grinning against his skin.

The clock flickered 04.14 when Peter finally slipped into an exhausted sleep. Claude's voice was the last thing he heard before he closed his eyes. Awake on and off most of what was left of the night, Peter was almost relieved when light began to press against the blinds. The morning sun was golden, the slivers of sky he could see, brilliant blue.

He slipped his arm over Claude's waist and felt Claude shift toward him slightly. Peter had given up questioning why about a lot of things during that first year. By the time Claude found him in Phoenix, Peter was more like the Claude he remembered than the man standing in front of him insisting that Peter listen. He was isolated, bitter and broken, and more than anything he was ashamed. He was angry at his lack of control and ashamed that he ran instead of fighting in those early months when it had mattered most. Being chased by the company, by his own brother added to his seclusion in ways he didn't even understand. The one person he'd thought he could always rely on turned out to be the most dangerous of them all.

Peter wondered if he'd ever know how much of himself he'd lost lying like humpty-dumpty on a tangled mess of radioactive concrete and steel. A lot of things still didn't make any sense to him. He worked out afterwards that he had laid there, alone, his world a smouldering mass, for no longer than a few hours. What he didn't know was how long it took for his muscles and skin to grow back. He was sure it was his mind that must have taken the longest. Flesh, muscle and bone were nothing compared to the complexities of cellular memory, electrical impulses and the knowledge of everything and everyone he lost. Sometimes he wondered if he managed to put himself back together at all.

He had to hold on to the glimmer of faith and hope that hadn't been extinguished by the explosion. Claude was right, this time anyway. He closed his eyes and rested his head back on Claude's shoulder as he mimicked Claude's invisibility. Each cell in his body changing minutely as he remembered the first time he'd realised who and what that laughing man in his vision was. Peter smiled sadly at the thought that if anyone walked into their bedroom right at that moment, all they'd see were the messy imprints of two bodies in the sheets. Only air where they laid together. There was almost a part of him that believed someday, they wouldn't have to hide.

Two of the loneliest people alive, keeping each other company.

He closed his eyes.

Fin.