[ As Anakin proceeds to pick him up, holding him close to his body, metal limbs unstraining under his weight, Claude remembers another time, getting carried by the buttocks all the way to the bedroom before they fucked the whole evening away. It feels like another lifetime. It doesn't feel foreign, just far away now - or maybe, at the heart of it all, not that far, after all. The memory is strong right now, he can almost smell them both in his nostrils. Their combined essences.
He huffs out a breathless exhale, half a laugh and tightens his arms around Anakin's neck as the other man lifts him up at a height where he's better able. He curves his fingers over the back of Anakin's head, fingertips scraping over skin grafts and scar tissue, sensitive to the notion that he might injure easily, careful with him, careful. His legs, he swings around his waist, to keep himself up.
Inhaling deeply a couple of times, he lets himself be held, holds the other man in turn, feeling both small and immensely full and happy, for the first time in years.
Anakin. Anakin, Anakin, Anakin, not all of you was lost, not all is lost...
Feeling the other man slide his lips over his cheek, he carefully turns his own face towards him, their noses bumping, lips sliding over each other for a brief, thrilling moment, though Claude doesn't push in, doesn't steal his breath, doesn't force himself on him, instead pressing their foreheads together and staring into his eyes. Blue, now. Blue.
[ His voice sounds wet, his breathing a little ragged. He can feel the other man's happiness and for a moment, as Claude presses his forehead to his and looks into his eyes, he isn't certain whose feelings belong to whom - it doesn't matter, either. Anakin loves him. He can feel that again, now, as clear as the sky above them. When he thought he'd died, he'd felt nothing for weeks on end, nothing except a seething, burning anger at the universe, at everything and everyone. At himself, more so than anyone else.
Later, there'd been emptiness.
And this, then, is after. ]
I'm glad to be. You don't know how much.
[ He doesn't lean away, looking back at Claude, feeling him pressed up against his front, all hardness and heat. It makes him think about what they come from, about Paris, about standing amidst the packed crowd wearing next to nothing, watching Claude make a speech and thinking about revolutions, about a world that could be something better. The other man has taught him to imagine an existence like that, not just the fight that'll eventually lead there but the end result, too. The part that entails living.
Perhaps, he thinks, there really might be something on the other side for them, too. Even with all his limitations, even with the odds stacked much too high against them and the darkness closing in.
Right now, whilst holding and being held, it seems possible. ]
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He huffs out a breathless exhale, half a laugh and tightens his arms around Anakin's neck as the other man lifts him up at a height where he's better able. He curves his fingers over the back of Anakin's head, fingertips scraping over skin grafts and scar tissue, sensitive to the notion that he might injure easily, careful with him, careful. His legs, he swings around his waist, to keep himself up.
Inhaling deeply a couple of times, he lets himself be held, holds the other man in turn, feeling both small and immensely full and happy, for the first time in years.
Anakin. Anakin, Anakin, Anakin, not all of you was lost, not all is lost...
Feeling the other man slide his lips over his cheek, he carefully turns his own face towards him, their noses bumping, lips sliding over each other for a brief, thrilling moment, though Claude doesn't push in, doesn't steal his breath, doesn't force himself on him, instead pressing their foreheads together and staring into his eyes. Blue, now. Blue.
He keeps his voice low. Gentle. Genuine. ]
Welcome back.
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Later, there'd been emptiness.
And this, then, is after. ]
I'm glad to be. You don't know how much.
[ He doesn't lean away, looking back at Claude, feeling him pressed up against his front, all hardness and heat. It makes him think about what they come from, about Paris, about standing amidst the packed crowd wearing next to nothing, watching Claude make a speech and thinking about revolutions, about a world that could be something better. The other man has taught him to imagine an existence like that, not just the fight that'll eventually lead there but the end result, too. The part that entails living.
Perhaps, he thinks, there really might be something on the other side for them, too. Even with all his limitations, even with the odds stacked much too high against them and the darkness closing in.
Right now, whilst holding and being held, it seems possible. ]