Crossed Wires (5/8?)
Title: Crossed Wires (5/8?)
Pairing: Pete/Carl, mentions of Carl/Kate
Genre: AU/University fic
Rating: Swearing...a fair dollop of angst...
Thanks to:
rutherinahobbit, who was wonderfully helpful at beating this part into shape! ;D
Previous parts: PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4
And on with the tale...
Part 5
They somehow managed to get into Carl’s room without making any noise, still shaking with scarcely contained laughter, which erupted as soon as the door had securely closed.
“That was mean.” Peter mock-reprimanded Carl after he had recovered slightly. He had to wait a few moments as Carl wiped tears of amusement from his eyes, looking up at Peter through hair that had fallen over his face.
“Ah….he’s probably forgotten we were even there. Total nutter, that one is.” He shook his head in bewilderment at the oddity that was John, before pulling himself up from his current position on the floor with apparent effort, half sprawling himself on the bed before he was reminded of the cuts and bruises littering his back and promptly shifted into a more upright position. He then reached over to the table beside his bed, opening a drawer and pulling out an almost-full bottle of Jamesons, and a small bundle of something that Peter didn’t get the chance to see before it was flung in his direction.
He just barely managed to catch it in a rather ungainly fashion, looking at Carl in confusion.
“Why are you giving me socks, exactly?” He asked, holding them by the end as if they might bite. Okay, so he hadn’t been in London all that long, but still, he was pretty sure that throwing socks at someone was not a normal way in which to welcome them into your room. Carl just grinned at him, splashing a generous amount of Jamesons into the mug and glass he had brought through, before extracting a packet of fags from his jacket pocket, holding them up in explanation.
“Gotta’ put something over the fire alarm so it doesn’t go off.”
Peter raised his eyebrows slowly, picking up the glass and taking a gulp of whisky, making a face at the burn as the amber liquid slipped down his throat. “And why do I have to do it?”
“Well, cause you’re a lanky bastard, innit? I’d have to get up on a chair.” The insult was negated by Carl’s good-natured tone, and the slightly cheeky smile he awarded Peter alongside the words meaning that, despite his best intentions, Peter found himself placing his glass back on the table and reaching up and fixing the sock snugly over the alarm, his own response to Carl regarding his diminutive height losing its venom as it was forced out past a wide grin.
“Guess everyone must seem tall to you, eh? Midget that you are.”
When Carl simply stuck out his tongue, rather childishly, in response, Peter decided that he had won the interchange. He then looked around for a seat, but the only one in the room was piled up with clothes and books that had been dumped there after all other surfaces had been exhausted of surface space. Peter flat out refused to go and sit next to Carl on his bed though, and so he made a vain attempt to push the clothes back on the seat, perching precariously on the edge.
Carl gave him a slightly odd look and seemed about to say something, before thinking better of it and simply holding out his packet of cigarettes for Peter to take one. He could do that thing where he held the pact in just that way so that a fag slipped forward, ready to be taken, something that Peter had always tried to achieve but had always ended up either having no effect or sending cigarettes flying across the room and having to scrabble on the floor to collect them up - which usually worked in contradiction tothe refined air he had been trying for. He wondered for a moment if Carl had put any effort into learning this trick as he took the proffered cigarette, placing it almost delicately between his lips, deciding that he probably hadn’t had to - Peter wouldn’t be surprised if Carl had just been naturally gifted with the ability in some gesture from fate to spite him.
He kept this thought in mind as Carl passed him his cheap plastic lighter, using it to help him ignore the tremor that ran through him at the brush of Carl’s fingers against his own as the object changed hands. He couldn’t ignore Carl smoking however. It was practically pornographic, the way the boy would take a deep drag of the cigarette, seeming to relax all the hard lines and tension from his body as he did so, before expelling the smoke through parted lips as if he could send his worldly cares with it. Everything in his body seemed fine tuned to show the reaction to the nicotine entering his bloodstream, heavy lids almost at the point of closing as he inhaled, a relaxed smile slipping over lips that seemed even more tantalizingly red when contrasted with the whiteness of the cigarette pressed between them. Within seconds Peter was of the view that Carl could quite easily form a one-person attack on the anti-smoking campaign.
“You alright?”
Fuck. Peter realised that he had been staring at Carl for the last few seconds, most probably with an incredibly gormless expression on his face, unlit fag dangling forgotten from his lips.
“Oh yeah, just…ermm…thinking.”
He hurriedly lit the cigarette, tossing the lighter back to Carl as if it would burn his fingers if he held on to it for any longer, trying to ignore the other boy’s smirk of amusement at his obvious embarrassment. Peter could feel his cheeks burning in a blush and he quickly cast his gaze around the room for something to divert Carl’s attention.
“You play guitar?” He asked quickly before Carl could open his mouth to say anything further, fixing his gaze on the acoustic which rested in one corner. It wouldn’t bloody smoke provocatively and practically force Peter to adopt the expression of a lecherous old man at a strip joint. No…he could deal with a guitar far better than he could deal with the fucking enigma that was Carl fucking Barât.
Carl shrugged. “A bit. ‘m no virtuoso though.”
“Oh.” Peter sighed, slightly relieved that the images that had been swarming around his head of Carl evoking wondrous melodies from the battered instrument had now been replaced by the assumption that he just belted out three chord covers like so many of the kids Peter had met who played guitar because it was ‘cool’, with no real passion for creating music.
“You play?” came the soft question from Carl.
“Not as well as I’d like to.” Peter admitted, forced to bring his gaze back up again…and fuck…Carl was still looking far too fucking enticing. After nearly choking on the next drag of his cigarette (he thought he had got over that when he was fourteen) Peter decided that having to sit next to Carl on the bed was a necessary sacrifice to make in order to avoid this fucking…vision…in front of him.
He stood, placing his glass on the bedside table beside a book of ‘The Collected Poems of Siegfried Sassoon’, with no doubts that it was just conveniently placed there so as to make Carl seem as if he was sensitive to any girls that might see it, make it easier for him to add another notch to his bedpost. Although, reading Sassoon, when coupled with the posters of the Velvet Underground that covered the walls of the room, Lou Reed glaring out at Peter through darkened shades….well, neither were exactly uplifting stuff. It was enough to lead to all kinds of morbid thoughts.
He sat himself down on the off-white bedspread, and Carl shuffled himself round so that they were at right angles to each other, before stubbing out his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray, raising an eyebrow questioningly when Peter let out an audible sigh of relief at the action. Now that the cigarette was gone, and the leather jacket flung over the chair Peter had recently vacated, Peter couldn’t help but feel that Carl had lost some of his armour, separated himself somehow from the image Peter had held in his head.
Perhaps because of this, Peter found himself all too easily forgetting all the reasons he had to hate Carl Barât, as they struck up a conversation. Peter had at first tried to keep his responses short and noncommittal, trying his best to limit his amity towards Carl, but he quickly found himself slipping into earnest discourse with the other boy with the ease of stepping into a pair of well-worn shoes. It wasn’t that they had anything in particular in common really, to tell the truth they had rather different passions, but both found themselves interested in sharing them with the other. Peter was shocked with Carl’s lack of knowledge about music, as his listening seemed to have been thus far limited to The Velvet Underground and a few snatches of Django Reinhardt, but the other boy’s ignorance seemed not to be one borne out of closed-mindedness but rather just from a lack of experience, and he seemed genuinely interested as Peter attempted to correct this shortcoming, passionately communicating his favorite musicians and songs, quoting particularly clever or moving lyrics and playing Carl snatches of different bands on his worn personal CD player (he’d refused to give in to the ‘mp3 revolution’ - it all seemed too soulless, having all that music in a sleek, featureless square of metal).
Likewise, Carl had told Peter of his love for films, a medium that Peter usually found himself forsaking, preferring the scope for the imagination given by novels and poetry, but Carl’s enthusiasm was contagious and Peter found himself mentally noting down the names of the films that Carl enthused over for later viewing. Perhaps he was just enticed by the way Carl’s whole countenance changed when he spoke about the films that he loved, somehow seeming to light up from within with a kind of naïve joy, casting aside the darkness that usually seemed to fester just beneath the surface of the lighthearted front that Carl projected. Generally, his momentary elation at whatever joke or witticism had been uttered was all too fleeting, smiles seeming like a precious wonder, somehow unnatural on lips more often set into a solemn line or curled in a bitter sneer. Perhaps that was why Carl seemed at his most alive when in the middle of a brawl like on that first night Peter had spotted him, allowed to unleash that bitterness, revel in it instead of hide it away.But that same darkness seemed banished when he spoke of those old Ealing comedies, classic films and even a few romances and Peter suddenly realised that he didn’t just want to watch these films, he wanted to watch them with Carl sat beside him, in the same way that he found himself wanting to be there when Carl listened to the Clash for the first time, or any one of those albums that Peter had found life changing, inspiring. Fuck it, had it gone so far that he was yearning for friendship, proper ‘share your hopes and your dreams’ friendship, with Carl Barât?
Even when Carl asked the question, “What d’you want to do….you know…after university’s over?” which had been one of those that Peter had grown to hate during the beginnings of his university life, it failed to provoke any ire in Peter, as he got the feeling that Carl actually wanted to know. He wasn’t just asking the question to eat up an awkward silence, or because it was expected, there was genuine interest in those shining blue eyes that made Peter want to respond.
“I used to want to play for QPR…gave up on that one a few years back though. Think I’ll be a poet….or a songwriter maybe.” He noticed that Carl was giving him a rather amused look and couldn’t help being a touch annoyed…you weren’t supposed to laugh at other people’s aspirations. “What?!”
Carl gave him a smile, which Peter was glad to see was a touch apologetic. “Sorry…s’just…they don’t really go together do they? I mean, how many minstrel leftfielders have you heard of?”
Peter rolled his eyes, holding back a grin. Football was another thing that Carl obviously didn’t know too much about. “That would be midfielder, Mr Barât.” he corrected, adopting a tone of utmost wisdom. “And I’ll have you know that Paul McCartney was a striker for Everton for a year before the Beatles got famous.”
“Really?!” came Carl’s astounded response, eyebrows raised in obvious surprise. Peter nodded earnestly, and Carl looked convinced for a few seconds before the idiocy of the claim dawned on him. “Fuck off…he wasn’t….”
“All right.” Peter admitted with a grin. “But Rod Stewart did try out for Brentford, that counts…sort of.” At Carl’s disbelieving look he decided to move on, passing the initial question back to the other boy. “So what about you…what you gonna do?”
Carl shrugged rather unenthusiastically, taking a healthy gulp from his mug before replying. “I dunno….I’ll probably get out of here with the bare minimum for my degree…end up working in some shitty office job most likely..” He gave Peter a tight grin, “..I’ll end up making fucking sculptures out of paperclips to save me from dying of boredom.”
Peter grinned weakly in response, although unsettled by the rather pessimistic future that Carl seemed to have resigned himself to. This boy was what? Eighteen…maybe nineteen and he’d all ready given up? So much for youthful idealism… Peter couldn’t pretend that similar thoughts hadn’t occurred to him in his darkest moments, knowing as he did the relatively small percentage of people who actually made it in his chosen field. But these had always been fleeting moments of doubt, cast quickly aside by confidence in his own talent and belief that he would succeed in his aspirations. Did Carl have no such belief? Did he really believe that this was the only future available to him? Just the thought of Carl sitting tamed behind a desk, the fire and passion in those blue eyes extinguished by the day-to-day monotony of being just a drone in some commercial machine made Peter feel sick to his stomach. Desperate to find some sort of silver lining, he rephrased his question. “But you must have something you want to do?”
Once again he was answered by a non-committal shrug. “Not really thought about it….no point really if you know it’s not going to happen.” Peter’s heart sunk, and for a moment he wished he could gift Carl with his own ambitions, as he had none of his own. However, Carl seemed to sense the disquiet his pessimistic outlook was having on Peter, and he attempted to lighten the tone. “Would’ve liked to be a proper dandy I think, tailcoats, tophats n’ all that. Might be a bit late for it though.”
Peter couldn’t help but laugh at the image of Carl in late 19th century London, strolling the streets with hat and cane, moving from music hall to theatre, perhaps stopping for a quick dram in a pub filled with smoke from pipes, and youths discussing Baudelaire, Tennyson, Coleridge……actually, Peter was beginning to think that he wouldn’t have half minded living back then either. This image of Carl, inaccurate as it was, certainly seemed to suit the boy in front of him more than the riotous character Peter had gleamed from university rumors and his first glimpse of Carl on that night in the pub that seemed years ago now. He couldn’t help but try and ascertain the veracity of the tales that had cultivated his initial hatred of the boy sitting across from him.
“So, all that stuff that everyone says you’ve done, all the rumours…they true?”
Carl gave a slightly embarrassed grin. “Think so.”
Peter’s reply was in a tone of complete bewilderment. “What do you mean you think so? Surely you’d know?”
His question seemed to spark something in Carl and the friendly, relaxed air of the previous conversation dissipated in an instant, blue eyes snapping up to meet his, seeming to bore right into him. “I’m usually too fucking pissed to remember, okay?” Carl’s voice sounded harsh in the silence of the room, a stark contrast against his usual honeyed mumble, and he was suddenly all tension and anger again, for the first time tonight resembling the dark form of violent passion that Peter had seen that first night in the bar. Part of Peter was wary, remembering Carl flinging punches every which way that night, but he had the feeling that this anger wasn’t directed at him, but rather in on Carl himself.
Some part of Peter gave a wry, self-congratulating smile, reveling in the knowledge that Carl had just proved himself to be the drunken lout that Peter had originally deemed him to be, but that originally small, niggling voice inside of him that had started of as a whisper but had grown to deafening levels over the course of tonight as they had slipped into a kind of easy companionship that in Peter’s experience usually took years, not hours to form seemed to shrivel up inside him. It was as if he had been holding out a hope that Carl was better than his first estimation, someone unique and worthy of the sharing of his thoughts and dreams, a hope that he hadn’t even known he had until it had been dashed to pieces in that moment of realization. His curiosity made him push on further though, questioning Carl again.
“But that one rumour, about you chucking that fag onto Alex Kapranos’s head from the roof of the library….that’s not true is it?”
Peter waited for a reply, but none seemed forthcoming. Carl had retreated into himself, staring fixedly into the depths of his mug, tension seeming to seep from him into the air where it swirled angrily. Peter cleared his throat, about to change the subject in an attempt to fill the heavy silence when Carl spoke, his voice coming out in a soft mumble that Peter was unable to decipher.
“What?” he prompted.
Eyes filled with self loathing swept up to meet his own, almost forcing him to look away with the sheer power of the gaze, and Carl spoke again, voice almost a snarl. “I said I was trying to off myself.” Peter choked on the sip of whisky he had been taking, eyes widening with alarm. Shit…why could he possibly want to fucking…bloody hell… Peter couldn’t even get his head around the concept. Carl got drunk, Carl started fights, Carl quoted Oscar fucking Wilde, made Peter laugh more in one night that he had in the past week….Carl did not fucking try to kill himself. He thought for a moment that it must be some sort of cruel joke, that in a second he’d smile and announce to Peter “Got you there, didn’t I?” but he didn’t, he just continued with words Peter didn’t want to hear, a bitter smile curling his lips. “Couldn’t even do that. Bloody lost my nerve when I dropped that fag and saw how far it had to go.” Peter’s bewilderment must have shown on his face and Carl seemed to seize upon it with a kind of twisted pleasure. “You think that’s bad? I wanted that guy to beat me up tonight.”
Peter tried to summon some kind of response, but his mind was overwhelmed and his mouth just flapped open pointlessly. Carl seemed to hear all the accusations and revulsion that he wanted in Peter’s silence though, and he continued, spilling his self-hatred into some kind of perverse confession. “I’d heard he was a fucking psycho…..that he was always in an’ out of the nick for beating the shit outa’ some poor sod, was gonna’ kill someone one of these days..” he paused as if drawing out the bitterness, making it sting, before continuing, “Well, I thought if I didn’t have the balls to off myself then he might do it for me.” That dark, unpleasant grin returned. “So I tracked him down, made sure to make an arse of him in the pub in front of all his mates…then I made sure that he overheard me telling Drew where my flat was so that he’d know how I’d be getting back. Even went as far as mentioning loudly how I was slightly wary of walking down that one street as it’d be perfect for muggers.”
Peter was almost scared by the maniacal gleam in Carl’s eyes as he relayed his story, the desperation in his voice, as if he needed Peter to hate him for this, to view him as he viewed himself, as twisted, worthless. Part of Peter just wanted the wall to suck him in, to take him away from this individual that seemed so set on carving out the bitterness in his heart in an attempt to goad Peter into revulsion, or more, that he had never asked the question that seemed to have set of some kind of trigger inside of Carl, that they could go back to the light banter of minutes before. Carl was almost frantic now, pulling off his t-shirt and glaring at the angry welts and bruises that covered his stomach as if they were insufficient. “Not that it matters….I’m still here…” his breath hitched and he was forced to take a deep breath, the oxygen seeming to wash all the hysterical fury from him, the maddened look in his eyes fading, slowly filtering through confusion, shame, pain. His whole posture, which had been tense, ready to leap into conflict at a second’s notice, relaxed, violent energy dissipating and leaving him looking small and broken looking. The gaze that lifted up to meet Peter’s was almost pleading, begging for some kind of explanation. “…why’m I still here?…”
Fuck…Peter had a feeling that his brain had switched off, unable to keep up with the last few minutes. He felt like his world had been flipped on end and he knew that he would have to decipher how his feelings towards Carl had altered with this new information at some later time, but for now his body acted without him, prising the now-empty mug from Carl’s tight grasp and placing it next to the exhausted bottle of Jamesons (where had it gone? He hadn’t noticed Carl refilling his mug but he could have sworn it had been almost full before) on the bedside table before gathering Carl into a gentle embrace, feeling the boy tense against him for a moment before seeming to relax, allowing Peter to pass his fingers comfortingly through his hair and to murmur soft assurances into the air by his ear. He was glad that some part of his brain was operating, telling Carl that everything would be alright, when he wasn’t really sure if it would be. It wasn’t what he’d imagined his first proper meeting with Carl to end like. Peter was supposed to be striding off into the distance with Kate, maybe getting into a fight with an aggrieved (although Peter doubted he would be seriously hurt by the loss of Kate) Carl, not holding the other boy to him as he shed warm tears that soaked into the thin cotton of his shirt, sobbing like his heart was breaking. Even if Peter had had the intention of hurting Carl, getting even with him, he hadn’t meant it to be like this. It seemed that he had inadvertently caused more pain through his kindness and curiosity than he could have ever inflicted with a lifetime’s worth of scheming. For a moment he wished that he had left Carl when he had seen him lying there battered on the street…but then again...who knows what he would have done then? Probably dragged himself after the bloke demanding that he finish the job. Carl gradually stilled against him, and Peter looked down, only to find that Carl had apparently fallen asleep, head pressed into the space between Peter’s neck and shoulder. At this sight Peter was somehow compelled to utter his own confession into the air.
“I hated you, you know. Was going to try and steal Kate from you.”
Peter held his breath for a split second after the words escaped his lips, half expecting Carl’s eyes to snap open, accusing and hostile, but nothing happened and Peter let out a sigh of relief. He then delicately extracted himself from the bed, laying Carl delicately on top of the cover before backing slowly away. He moved away a step, before something drew him back, making him slowly untie the laces of Carl’s shoes, removing them gently before casting his gaze around the room, spotting a spare bedsheet on the top of the wardrobe, which he tugged down, using it to cover the sleeping boy. After ghosting the lightest of touches across Carl’s cheek, fingertips barely brushing damp skin, he tore himself away, heading out of the flat and homewards, head reeling with thoughts of this troubled, bewildering boy.