![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fic: Empty Room (Plaude)
I don't really know why I wrote this, except that at some point a few weeks ago when I was writing an essay on caudillos somehow it got mixed up with Plaude as I was talking to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
visiblemarket and I got thinking that Arthur would be a great caudillo and this happened. So it's all her fault. :) I've never written Alternate Reality fic before. I suppose you could consider this a past life or something. It's short, too. It doesn't deal with caudillos, really. All you need to know was that they were military leaders " who dominated his local region through the use of force, economic and political ties, and the cultivation of a strong and iconic self-image" (me, my essay)in 18th century Latin America. And you don't even need to know that much.
Title: Empty Room
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Claude/Peter
Summary: An Alternate Reality fic. I'm not sure how to describe it. Peter's father is a local strongman sometime in the past and Claude works for him until one day he decides to turn turncoat.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
A room, gloomy and musty from too many days of abandonment, though Claude would venture to guess that it ran closer to months than weeks. Dilapidated wallpaper hung in tattered strips, broken flowers with their leaves torn off. The bed he lay on stank of mold, dust rising in sparkling plumes if he hit a corner not covered by the rough, wool blanket Miguel had been gracious enough to spread on the mattress before helping him atop it. A hard spot dug into his shoulder blade. Claude shifted to the left, grimacing as pain lashed through his body, centered on the bullets buried in his ribs. Miguel had hastily tied a strip of cloth around his waist in a vain attempt to stop him from emptying his veins all over the ground as he scurried him off to this abandoned house, away from the rapacious eyes of his would be murderers. If he was lucky, they’d assume that the two shots finished him off, but Claude never was. He had the proof right here as his body refused to give out, still clinging to this life, stupid, fucking life, good for nothing but misery and deceiving those he loved.
The rough scrape of wood whipped his attention towards the door. A shimmer of lamplight silhouetted Peter’s figure in the doorframe as he spoke to Miguel, his personal guard, one might even say his friend if they lived in a world where loyalties could be trusted, though thus far this man had proved himself to be one of the few exceptions. Claude hoped he continued to do so for Peter’s sake.
“Claude.”
Peter looked at him now, worry staining that beautiful face, and for no more than a lowly wretch like him. There he stood, the youngest scion of the Petrelli family, in his pressed tailored clothes, dark jacket showcasing his elegant posture, straight and regal like that of all those bred to power. He didn’t need the fancy clothes. Even down here among the muck he exemplified the ideal of wealth and distinction, but it was the fine soul shining through that made him better than any of those gobbling peacocks preening their feathers as they convinced the blind masses that they cared, that every coup and rebellion was all to guarantee their wellbeing and not so they could rule as self appointed monarchs in their opulent manor houses.
Peter rushed toward him, fear tumbling across his face in the flickering light of the lamp in his hand.
“What the fuck did you do?”
He crouched beside Claude, yanking off his jacket as he gaped at the blood oozing through the makeshift bandage. .
“Me?” Claude tried to laugh to relieve the tension, but a sharp stab inside his chest made him reconsider. “I got shot, mate. Can’t you tell?”
“Yes, I can.”
Peter’s eyes flashed in anger as he cut through the bandage and pushed his shirt away from his chest, revealing the seeping holes, one right under his left collarbone, the other further down his side. Nothing new to either of them. Peter had fixed him up a couple of times before, but those wounds hadn’t been this dire. Nor had the circumstances.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Claude said, wincing as Peter cleaned something off his chest.
“I shouldn’t be here to keep you from dying? You’re an idiot.”
“I’m not denying that.”
“Shut up and lie still. I need to get the bullets out.”
Peter’s voice shook, but his hands were steady. Claude touched his shoulder and Peter squeezed his hand, giving him a comforting smile that reassured him of nothing save for that most crucial thing.
“You’re going to ruin your clothes,” Claude said.
“The hell with my clothes. I have more. There’s only one of you.”
Peter kissed the back of his hand before placing it back on the bed and grabbed the small, leather bag he brought with him, taking out a bottle of rum and holding it out to him.
“Drink some of this.”
Claude turned away, Peter’s kindness eating away inside him.
“Don’t need it.”
“Don’t deserve it, you mean? I don’t have time for your bullshit, Claude, just please drink it.”
It was the “please” that made Claude relent. He grabbed the bottle and took a burning gulp. It wouldn’t do much to stop the pain, but if it gave Peter comfort, he’d do it. Such was the nature of their relationship. Peter led him on a string, though he’d never phrase it like that to the lad, for there was nothing domineering or possessive about it. The boy was simply his flame, bright and true and ever so loving, and Claude could never make himself stay away, even if it meant dissembling every time a night of drinking with the mates turned into a lurid touting of their latest romantic conquests and living in constant alert of spies who might wish to hurt Peter by informing his father of their stolen moments of intimacy, for it was Peter he worried about, not himself. Shoot him, throw him in a ditch, what did it matter? But Peter would mourn and that he couldn’t take. Which is what made his latest failure, the one that placed him in this had him on this bed a gasp away from the Grim Reaper’s steel grin, extra grievous.
“Hold still,” Peter said as he lifted a pair of surgical tongs, kneeling so he could get a better angle, and Claude clutched the sheets, bracing himself. Peter paused, gazing at Claude with a pained frown.
“Maybe I should call Miguel to hold you down.”
Claude’s pride rankled.
“I’m not so bad off that I need someone to babysit me. Now get those things out already.”
Reluctantly, Peter placed the tongs against his chest. Fuck, that hurt! He gritted his teeth, twisting the blankets in his hands as Peter groped inside him, harsh metal solid fire inside his flesh. He screamed. Hadn’t meant to, but the agony was shrieking through him. Peter pushed down on his shoulder, grimacing himself as he struggled to find the bullet and Claude focused on his face, latching onto him as his anchor to keep from passing out. Please, Pete, stop mucking around and get that thing out of me.
“It’s out.”
The crimson ball swam before his teary vision before Peter dropped it on the floor.
“One more.”
Claude shut his eyes in despair. Peter stroked his cheek, kissing his temple.
“I’ll be quicker with this one, okay?”
Claude didn’t believe him, but he appreciated the gesture. In the end, he had no idea which extraction was the faster one, for the pain made his brain numb and he relinquished himself to Peter’s hands, too drained to do anything but lie there, his eyes closed, swimming in a mire of guilt and fear. Finally done, Peter secured some proper bandages on his chest, forcing him to sit up to wrap them around his torso and Claude clung to him like a baby to his mother, head buried against Peter’s neck, drinking in the comfort of his scent, the strength of his heartbeat. He never wanted to be parted form him ever again. In those few moments of helplessness, he lied to himself that he wouldn’t have to.
Peter laid him back down, checked his bandages to make sure that he wouldn’t start spurting blood all over the place, and slipped into the bed beside him. Claude sank into him, lifting his left arm to cup Peter’s neck as they kissed, a chaste nuzzling of lips. Gently wrapping his arm around Claude’s waist, Peter and looked at him more deeply than Claude had allowed anyone to.
“Why did you do it?” Peter asked the question Claude spent weeks justifying to himself, obsessing over the pros and cons, the shoulds and shouldn’ts, the hurt and the bitterness.
“He needs to be eliminated.”
“There are other ways of doing that. You didn’t have to turn assassin.”
“He’s too popular here. The people venerate him. He’s got the landowners and the Church in his pocket and his opponents are too weak. Not even your brother can counter him as long as he remains alive.”
“He’s my father.”
Desperate denial fought in Peter’s eyes, making Claude-s already beaten heart clench, but no lies could save them now.
“Don’t think that means a thing him. Especially if he saw you like this with me.”
Peter looked away, but his arm tightened.
“You should have told me.”
“You would have stopped me. I couldn’t let you sway me.”
“Did you not care that you might die, then?”
“Don’t be daft. I’m not ripping at these bandages, am I?”
“Were you going to run?”
Claude hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Without telling me?”
His voice didn’t shake this time. Brave boy.
“It would have been too risky. Your face is well known, but mine... I couldn’t involve you in this. If your father even suspected you were in on it, it wouldn’t just be me bleeding half to death.”
“I—“
“You know it’s true.”
Peter shut his eyes, suddenly grabbing Claude’s hand.
“I know.”
The somber resignation in Peter’s voice broke his heart.
||||
“Claude.”
Peter’s gentle murmur awoke Claude from his slumber.
“Claude, wake up.”
He opened his eyes and looked up at Peter, readying his judgment in his lover’s sorrow.
“You have to go.”
His voice is rougher than he meant it to be. Peter nodded.
“Yes. It’s nearly light out. I can’t—It’s too risky for me to stay any longer.”
Claude can tell Peter’s been chanting these words to himself for the past few minutes.
“Go, then. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”
“Too late. I—“
Peter stopped abruptly, swallowing hard, but he didn’t need to continue. Claude already knew.
“You can’t come back.”
“My father could track me. I got away from him this once, but—“
“I know.”
“But we could meet. Not soon, but after you heal. If you go north and my father thinks you‘re dead. He doesn’t want me around. I could say I’m going to Europe to study. He’d buy that.”
The odds seem far too long to Claude, but there’s so much hope in Peter’s eyes struggling against the harsh agony of reality. He couldn’t kill it.
“All right.”
“Miguel will look after you. Tell him your plans once you’ve decided.”
“Are you so sure you can trust him?”
“We’re not the only ones with a secret. He’d be worse off than me if it came to it.”
A helpless smile jerked on Claude’s lips.
“You’d never rat him out.”
Peter returned his smile, doing a better job at controlling himself than Claude.
“I know. I just have to make him believe I would.”
They sat in silence, hands twined, softly stroking each other’s fingers.
“We always got the short straw, didn’t we?” Peter said.
“That we did.”
Peter leaned in and Claude clutched his shoulders as they kissed, pouring every spoken and unspoken emotion into each other and Claude cursed Arthur Petrelli for denying him this, for preventing him from holding on to Peter until his flesh rotted from his bones.
“Go,” he whispered, pulling back, unwilling, but he must.
“No.”
Peter clutched him so hard that his wounds began to ache.
“You have to.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“Pete.”
A crooked laugh twitched on Peter’s mouth.
“You’re the only one who calls me that.”
His eyes shone as he gazed at Claude, who braved a smile he didn’t feel.
“Something to remember me by.”
Peter squeezed his hand so tightly Claude feared his fingers might break, then he stood up, smoothing his hands down his trousers just to have something to do with his hands.
“I’ll say farewell, but not for forever. My father won’t stop me from seeing you again.”
Much too soon, Peter ambled towards the door, gait unsteady yet rushing to finish the unwelcome task of leaving Claude alone in this empty room. He looked back as he touched the doorknob, giving him one last lopsided smile.
“Take care.”
Then he was gone. And the quiet of the room closed in on him.
visiblemarket and I got thinking that Arthur would be a great caudillo and this happened. So it's all her fault. :) I've never written Alternate Reality fic before. I suppose you could consider this a past life or something. It's short, too. It doesn't deal with caudillos, really. All you need to know was that they were military leaders " who dominated his local region through the use of force, economic and political ties, and the cultivation of a strong and iconic self-image" (me, my essay)in 18th century Latin America. And you don't even need to know that much.Title: Empty Room
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Claude/Peter
Summary: An Alternate Reality fic. I'm not sure how to describe it. Peter's father is a local strongman sometime in the past and Claude works for him until one day he decides to turn turncoat.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
A room, gloomy and musty from too many days of abandonment, though Claude would venture to guess that it ran closer to months than weeks. Dilapidated wallpaper hung in tattered strips, broken flowers with their leaves torn off. The bed he lay on stank of mold, dust rising in sparkling plumes if he hit a corner not covered by the rough, wool blanket Miguel had been gracious enough to spread on the mattress before helping him atop it. A hard spot dug into his shoulder blade. Claude shifted to the left, grimacing as pain lashed through his body, centered on the bullets buried in his ribs. Miguel had hastily tied a strip of cloth around his waist in a vain attempt to stop him from emptying his veins all over the ground as he scurried him off to this abandoned house, away from the rapacious eyes of his would be murderers. If he was lucky, they’d assume that the two shots finished him off, but Claude never was. He had the proof right here as his body refused to give out, still clinging to this life, stupid, fucking life, good for nothing but misery and deceiving those he loved.
The rough scrape of wood whipped his attention towards the door. A shimmer of lamplight silhouetted Peter’s figure in the doorframe as he spoke to Miguel, his personal guard, one might even say his friend if they lived in a world where loyalties could be trusted, though thus far this man had proved himself to be one of the few exceptions. Claude hoped he continued to do so for Peter’s sake.
“Claude.”
Peter looked at him now, worry staining that beautiful face, and for no more than a lowly wretch like him. There he stood, the youngest scion of the Petrelli family, in his pressed tailored clothes, dark jacket showcasing his elegant posture, straight and regal like that of all those bred to power. He didn’t need the fancy clothes. Even down here among the muck he exemplified the ideal of wealth and distinction, but it was the fine soul shining through that made him better than any of those gobbling peacocks preening their feathers as they convinced the blind masses that they cared, that every coup and rebellion was all to guarantee their wellbeing and not so they could rule as self appointed monarchs in their opulent manor houses.
Peter rushed toward him, fear tumbling across his face in the flickering light of the lamp in his hand.
“What the fuck did you do?”
He crouched beside Claude, yanking off his jacket as he gaped at the blood oozing through the makeshift bandage. .
“Me?” Claude tried to laugh to relieve the tension, but a sharp stab inside his chest made him reconsider. “I got shot, mate. Can’t you tell?”
“Yes, I can.”
Peter’s eyes flashed in anger as he cut through the bandage and pushed his shirt away from his chest, revealing the seeping holes, one right under his left collarbone, the other further down his side. Nothing new to either of them. Peter had fixed him up a couple of times before, but those wounds hadn’t been this dire. Nor had the circumstances.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Claude said, wincing as Peter cleaned something off his chest.
“I shouldn’t be here to keep you from dying? You’re an idiot.”
“I’m not denying that.”
“Shut up and lie still. I need to get the bullets out.”
Peter’s voice shook, but his hands were steady. Claude touched his shoulder and Peter squeezed his hand, giving him a comforting smile that reassured him of nothing save for that most crucial thing.
“You’re going to ruin your clothes,” Claude said.
“The hell with my clothes. I have more. There’s only one of you.”
Peter kissed the back of his hand before placing it back on the bed and grabbed the small, leather bag he brought with him, taking out a bottle of rum and holding it out to him.
“Drink some of this.”
Claude turned away, Peter’s kindness eating away inside him.
“Don’t need it.”
“Don’t deserve it, you mean? I don’t have time for your bullshit, Claude, just please drink it.”
It was the “please” that made Claude relent. He grabbed the bottle and took a burning gulp. It wouldn’t do much to stop the pain, but if it gave Peter comfort, he’d do it. Such was the nature of their relationship. Peter led him on a string, though he’d never phrase it like that to the lad, for there was nothing domineering or possessive about it. The boy was simply his flame, bright and true and ever so loving, and Claude could never make himself stay away, even if it meant dissembling every time a night of drinking with the mates turned into a lurid touting of their latest romantic conquests and living in constant alert of spies who might wish to hurt Peter by informing his father of their stolen moments of intimacy, for it was Peter he worried about, not himself. Shoot him, throw him in a ditch, what did it matter? But Peter would mourn and that he couldn’t take. Which is what made his latest failure, the one that placed him in this had him on this bed a gasp away from the Grim Reaper’s steel grin, extra grievous.
“Hold still,” Peter said as he lifted a pair of surgical tongs, kneeling so he could get a better angle, and Claude clutched the sheets, bracing himself. Peter paused, gazing at Claude with a pained frown.
“Maybe I should call Miguel to hold you down.”
Claude’s pride rankled.
“I’m not so bad off that I need someone to babysit me. Now get those things out already.”
Reluctantly, Peter placed the tongs against his chest. Fuck, that hurt! He gritted his teeth, twisting the blankets in his hands as Peter groped inside him, harsh metal solid fire inside his flesh. He screamed. Hadn’t meant to, but the agony was shrieking through him. Peter pushed down on his shoulder, grimacing himself as he struggled to find the bullet and Claude focused on his face, latching onto him as his anchor to keep from passing out. Please, Pete, stop mucking around and get that thing out of me.
“It’s out.”
The crimson ball swam before his teary vision before Peter dropped it on the floor.
“One more.”
Claude shut his eyes in despair. Peter stroked his cheek, kissing his temple.
“I’ll be quicker with this one, okay?”
Claude didn’t believe him, but he appreciated the gesture. In the end, he had no idea which extraction was the faster one, for the pain made his brain numb and he relinquished himself to Peter’s hands, too drained to do anything but lie there, his eyes closed, swimming in a mire of guilt and fear. Finally done, Peter secured some proper bandages on his chest, forcing him to sit up to wrap them around his torso and Claude clung to him like a baby to his mother, head buried against Peter’s neck, drinking in the comfort of his scent, the strength of his heartbeat. He never wanted to be parted form him ever again. In those few moments of helplessness, he lied to himself that he wouldn’t have to.
Peter laid him back down, checked his bandages to make sure that he wouldn’t start spurting blood all over the place, and slipped into the bed beside him. Claude sank into him, lifting his left arm to cup Peter’s neck as they kissed, a chaste nuzzling of lips. Gently wrapping his arm around Claude’s waist, Peter and looked at him more deeply than Claude had allowed anyone to.
“Why did you do it?” Peter asked the question Claude spent weeks justifying to himself, obsessing over the pros and cons, the shoulds and shouldn’ts, the hurt and the bitterness.
“He needs to be eliminated.”
“There are other ways of doing that. You didn’t have to turn assassin.”
“He’s too popular here. The people venerate him. He’s got the landowners and the Church in his pocket and his opponents are too weak. Not even your brother can counter him as long as he remains alive.”
“He’s my father.”
Desperate denial fought in Peter’s eyes, making Claude-s already beaten heart clench, but no lies could save them now.
“Don’t think that means a thing him. Especially if he saw you like this with me.”
Peter looked away, but his arm tightened.
“You should have told me.”
“You would have stopped me. I couldn’t let you sway me.”
“Did you not care that you might die, then?”
“Don’t be daft. I’m not ripping at these bandages, am I?”
“Were you going to run?”
Claude hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Without telling me?”
His voice didn’t shake this time. Brave boy.
“It would have been too risky. Your face is well known, but mine... I couldn’t involve you in this. If your father even suspected you were in on it, it wouldn’t just be me bleeding half to death.”
“I—“
“You know it’s true.”
Peter shut his eyes, suddenly grabbing Claude’s hand.
“I know.”
The somber resignation in Peter’s voice broke his heart.
||||
“Claude.”
Peter’s gentle murmur awoke Claude from his slumber.
“Claude, wake up.”
He opened his eyes and looked up at Peter, readying his judgment in his lover’s sorrow.
“You have to go.”
His voice is rougher than he meant it to be. Peter nodded.
“Yes. It’s nearly light out. I can’t—It’s too risky for me to stay any longer.”
Claude can tell Peter’s been chanting these words to himself for the past few minutes.
“Go, then. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”
“Too late. I—“
Peter stopped abruptly, swallowing hard, but he didn’t need to continue. Claude already knew.
“You can’t come back.”
“My father could track me. I got away from him this once, but—“
“I know.”
“But we could meet. Not soon, but after you heal. If you go north and my father thinks you‘re dead. He doesn’t want me around. I could say I’m going to Europe to study. He’d buy that.”
The odds seem far too long to Claude, but there’s so much hope in Peter’s eyes struggling against the harsh agony of reality. He couldn’t kill it.
“All right.”
“Miguel will look after you. Tell him your plans once you’ve decided.”
“Are you so sure you can trust him?”
“We’re not the only ones with a secret. He’d be worse off than me if it came to it.”
A helpless smile jerked on Claude’s lips.
“You’d never rat him out.”
Peter returned his smile, doing a better job at controlling himself than Claude.
“I know. I just have to make him believe I would.”
They sat in silence, hands twined, softly stroking each other’s fingers.
“We always got the short straw, didn’t we?” Peter said.
“That we did.”
Peter leaned in and Claude clutched his shoulders as they kissed, pouring every spoken and unspoken emotion into each other and Claude cursed Arthur Petrelli for denying him this, for preventing him from holding on to Peter until his flesh rotted from his bones.
“Go,” he whispered, pulling back, unwilling, but he must.
“No.”
Peter clutched him so hard that his wounds began to ache.
“You have to.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“Pete.”
A crooked laugh twitched on Peter’s mouth.
“You’re the only one who calls me that.”
His eyes shone as he gazed at Claude, who braved a smile he didn’t feel.
“Something to remember me by.”
Peter squeezed his hand so tightly Claude feared his fingers might break, then he stood up, smoothing his hands down his trousers just to have something to do with his hands.
“I’ll say farewell, but not for forever. My father won’t stop me from seeing you again.”
Much too soon, Peter ambled towards the door, gait unsteady yet rushing to finish the unwelcome task of leaving Claude alone in this empty room. He looked back as he touched the doorknob, giving him one last lopsided smile.
“Take care.”
Then he was gone. And the quiet of the room closed in on him.
no subject
Keep writing stuff like this and I will. I love this. You always bring some of the very best Plaude.
no subject
Thank you so much! That's so nice to hear, really.