Crossed Wires (6/8)

[fugaziclash]

Part 6

Peter hadn’t quite known what to expect the next time he saw Carl in the harsh light of day. Perhaps he’d thought that he would be somehow different after that night in which Peter’s preconceived opinions of the boy had been so thoroughly shaken. Maybe he had even toyed with the notion that Carl would leave behind all his shallow, loutish friends now that he had bared his heart to Peter. What he hadn’t expected was for nothing at all to change.

Carl was still the centre of his little gang, surrounded at all times by adoring acolytes, still fueling the gossip of most of the university community (Peter had heard at least ten different versions of how Carl had received the rather impressive array of bruises that covered half of his face, none of them even approaching the truth). Peter wondered how many of these sniveling hangers-on would still have the time of day for Carl if they knew just how fucked up their ill-deserving hero was. They would probably run for the hills.

Not that Peter found much comfort in the knowledge that he probably knew Carl Barât better than his so-called friends. Or, well….he told himself he didn’t anyway, although part of him felt in some way…privileged? honored?...something along those lines, that he had been somehow chosen for Carl’s display of his true feelings. Although no, he didn’t really like that word ‘display’, it implied falsehood somehow, let little niggling doubts creep in to Peter’s head. Did he really know him? He had no guarantee that any of what Carl had told him that night was true, but somehow the notion that the painful emotion and desperation in those blue eyes could have been faked seemed incomprehensible to Peter. But still…if it was true….if Carl really hated himself for being the famed uni drunkard…..then why had he gone back to it? How could he still socialize with those that idolized the very thing he so despised?

Peter’s only direct interaction with Carl since that night almost a week ago had been a mumbled ‘Hi’, as they passed each other in the library. Peter had thought Carl was going to say something else, as he had caught his eye, stopping next to him, but then Johnny, Kate and Gary had walked past and Carl had virtually leapt away as if burned by his sheer proximity to Peter, chasing down the stairs after his friends. Fine then. If Carl was too ashamed to talk to Peter in front of his hangers-on then that was his problem, it wasn’t like Peter cared.

Okay, perhaps that would be more convincing if he wasn’t currently trying to drink all knowledge of Carl out his head. The sorry truth was, the boy had taken almost permanent residence in his thoughts over the past week. He found himself wondering what Carl would think of new songs he heard being played on the radio, or wondering if Carl was going to the ‘Film Noir’ night the university were holding next week. More than that, he found himself worrying about the boy, his mind all too often casting back on the vulnerable, broken soul that had been exposed to him that night. But it was stupid really, Carl obviously neither cared for nor needed his concern, was happier to run off back to his friends, unaware of the indelible impression that he had made upon Peter.

Sighing in frustration at how his thoughts had once more fixed on Carl, Peter picked up his glass, glaring at the amber liquid inside it (had to be whisky, didn’t it?), before draining it quickly, thudding the glass down on the table and refilling it immediately.

“Oy…Peter, don’t you think you should slow down a bit?”

Peter looked up to see Graham’s concerned and rather sympathetic gaze fixed on him. He bit back the sharp retort that had slipped so easily to the tip of his tongue about Graham really not being the person to reprimand anyone for drinking too much. He was only trying to be a friend after all, one that Peter wouldn’t want to risk alienating purely for spite.

So he nodded instead, taking a more refined sip from his glass as if to prove his good intentions to Graham, who gave him a warm, although still slightly concerned, smile, sitting in the seat beside him.

“You alright, Pete?” He said, leaning his elbows on the table and looking at Peter through thick-rimmed glasses. “You seem a bit….off…” Graham made a face at his lack of ability to phrase his concerns more aptly, seeming slightly nervous that Peter would take some sort of offence.

Peter forced a wide smile to his face, trying his hardest to alleviate his friend’s concerns. “I’m fine, honest. Just thinking, that’s all.”

Luckily, he was saved from having to convince Graham further as Damon suddenly appeared out of nowhere, slapping Peter on the back and then wagging a finger at him in a reprimanding fashion.

“What’s this I hear? Thinking?!” He opened his mouth in an exaggerated ‘o’ of surprise.

“Can’t have nonsense like that, it’s a party!” He winked at Peter. “Drink more, think less. It’s my new philosophy.”

Peter grinned, but Graham hid any traces of amusement, giving Damon a disapproving look. Damon of course wasn’t to know that he had just spoken in contradiction to everything Graham had previously said, and he shrugged a ‘What?’ with an air of confused innocence. As Peter watched this silent exchange, he couldn’t help but cast Damon and Graham as the two sides of his conscience. Damon as the devil, leading him merrily down the road to ruin as Graham tried to turn him back around to face the light. Of course, there were some flaws to that image, one being that their appearances were all wrong. Graham was dark while Damon was fair, when it should really be the other way round. Plus the fact that Graham was all too prone to treading the primrose path of dalliance, he just seemed to have taken the night off tonight to be all concerned for Peter’s well-being. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate it, but it was so much easier to give in to Damon, raising his glass in a silent toast before lifting it to parted lips and swallowing the contents.

Damon’s eyes flickered over to meet Graham’s in triumph, sighing slightly when Graham refused to play along with his competitiveness, simply shrugging slightly resignedly. Damon held his gaze for a moment, before clearing his throat and speaking.

“Well, I’ve come to recruit you two to play cards. Anthony’s passed out and we can’t play with thirteen.” He shivered dramatically, “Would be most unlucky.”

“What you playing?” Peter asked, quickly emptying the rest of the bottle into his glass while Graham looked to Damon for a response.

“Oh…Snap.”

“Snap?!” Graham raised his eyebrows, equally amused and mocking.

“Well, it’s the only thing that everyone knew!” Damon proclaimed rather petulantly, gesturing in the general direction of the various teenagers sitting on a circle on the floor, in various stages of inebriation. “You try explaining Texas hold ‘em to that lot.” He shook his head. “Gary keeps on asking me the difference between clubs and spades. It is strip-Snap though!” he proclaimed enthusiastically, as if that made things better.

Graham looked like he would rather cover himself in jam and dance naked between bees nests than be involved in such a thing as ‘strip-Snap’. Peter rose slowly to his feet, swaying slightly as he felt the effect of the alcohol rising to his head why couldn’t gravity work for him just this once?

“Emm…would love to play. Just gonna’ nip to the loo now though - which way is it?”

“Second door to the left.” Graham informed him rather begrudgingly, and Peter could see the Why didn’t I think of that? pass across his face as he was forced to find another excuse to avoid playing. Peter didn’t know why he bothered really, in his short experience of the two he had learned that Damon very nearly always ended up roping Graham into his latest pursuit, albeit after much protest. Peter sometimes wondered if Graham actually thought he could escape, or if he was merely enjoyed making Damon work to convince him.

He left Damon trying to coax Graham into playing, and made his way along the corridor. Truth be told, he didn’t actually need the loo - but he couldn’t exactly wander off in another direction after using it as an excuse. He had to concentrate somewhat more than usual on his progress, his drunkenness hadn’t really had the desired effect, it was like the outside world was slightly out of focus, as if he wasn’t really an active participant in his life, just viewing it through a television with dodgy reception, while his thoughts on the other hand seemed to be spinning faster and faster inside his head. And now he was thinking about thinking, and oh god he did hate those bloody drunken spirals of logic because now that meant he was thinking about thinking about thinking and…

What was that?

Now the program that his life had become had a soundtrack apparently, other than the shouting and noises of merriment from the living room. There was definitely music. Bloody beautiful music too…just a simple melody layered over chords, and the lyrics weren’t up to much really...but the voice…that was what made Peter really listen, strain his ears and walk along the hallway to get closer to wherever it was coming from. It was like velvet, no…that was wrong, more like chocolate. The really rich dark stuff, not your regular Galaxy or Dairy Milk with its light, shallow sweetness that slipped so easily down the throat, but the chocolate that you might get a block of once in a blue moon, the proper high-cocoa stuff that was luxuriously thick and felt like silk against your tongue, just begging to be held there and savored for a moment until it would melt in the wet heat, running in rivulets down your throat, bringing that delicious richness, but also that slight bitter undertone that undercut the initial sweet taste and raised it up to a new level of sumptuousness. That was the closest comparison Peter could think of, but it was oh, much more than that, capturing him in a second with its depth, warmth and darkness that spoke of a soul disenchanted with the world, drawing Peter to the door where his fingers clasped the cold metal handle, turning it slowly and silently before pushing the door open to reveal what was inside.

And, bloody hell, it had to be him didn’t it? Carl…wound round a guitar, fingers moving naturally and smoothly over the fret board (he told me he was crap, the liar), dark hair falling over to hang in front of his eyes, unheeded by Carl, who seemed completely lost in the sound of the guitar and the emotion of the words spilling over his lips. Peter watched for a lifetime, or perhaps it was but a second, from the no-mans land of the doorway, unable to enter the room or step away, until a loud laugh sounded from the hall and Carl looked up from his playing, setting the guitar down silently when he spotted Peter standing silent in the doorway.

“Peter..”

Oh no no no…Carl Barât did not get to whisper his name like that, a soft exhalation ghosting over those too-red lips. He didn’t get to look at Peter with eyes full of warmth, like he was pleased to see him, when he had avoided Peter like the plague since ‘that night’. He didn’t…oh fuck. Peter suddenly realised that he wasn’t just thinking all this in the safety of his own head, he was saying it too, gesturing angrily at Carl with one arm as he did so.

“Where d’you get off, fucking changing every two seconds? First you’re a bloody drunken idiot, starting fights, getting pissed, just being a general tosser, being even more aggravating by the fact that I can’t tear my bloody eyes off you…even though I know you’re fucking enemy no.1….and that’s annoying in itself, don’t deserve to be that fucking captivating if you’re going to waste it being an arse. But then…then you’re the most real person I’ve met…and that’s worse because now you don’t even have to be there, looking thoroughly fuckable, to be constantly in my head…just…thoughts…and dreams, y’know?…and perhaps I maybe thought that you might be someone more than the rest…better. But…oh no, ‘cos then you’re back, bloody avoiding me ‘cause I’m not good enough for you and your friends…then playing, making it so I’m sure you must have, I dunno…a beautiful soul…and I wish I could bloody stop thi-”

Peter was cut off by the soft press of lips against his, unsure and barely there before they were gone again, blue eyes staring at him nervously. Peter sputtered…unable to continue with his rant….it was possible that Carl had done the only thing that would actually confuse Peter more. And how had he even got to be so close? He’d been a safe distance away just seconds ago….you weren’t supposed to kiss people when they were shouting at you for being a confusing bastard, it was uncalled for….but Peter couldn’t deny that it had been nice, brought a warm tingle to his lips and he half wanted to do it again, but not before Carl had explained himself.

“Wha’?” Fucking hell…sleeping beauty I ain’t…one little kiss and I lose my grasp of the English language.

Carl looked down at his feet, chewing on his bottom lip nervously. “’Wasn’t avoiding you.” Peter gave him a disbelieving look and he nodded his head slightly. “Well…’kay...I was…but only because I thought you’d hate me after…” He gestured uselessly with one arm. “It was easier to go on not knowing than to talk to you and find out that you thought I was some kind of freak.”

“Oh...” Peter was speechless for a moment. He hadn’t for a second thought that Carl might be avoiding him because he thought he wasn’t good enough to be friends with Peter, not the other way round. “And…you kissed me?” Peter asked, wanting confirmation that he hadn’t imagined that soft brush of lips against his, so brief it had been.

Carl scuffed one boot across the floor, before raising his gaze rather timidly to meet Peter’s. “Well, yeah….been wanting to do that for a while actually…”

Peter could feel a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. He didn’t quite know why, because things had just got a whole load more confusing, because Carl Barât was far too popular, too good looking, too straight by all appearances, to have any possible interest in wanting to kiss one Peter Doherty. The fact that that Peter Doherty was him took a bit of getting used to as well, although he’d been Peter Doherty for ages and it hadn’t ever confused him before now, but suddenly he found himself thinking that he must have somehow stepped into the body of some leggy blonde and it was she that Carl was interested in because that would be so much more understandable. But not half as much fun.

Bringing his hand up to mess up the back of his hair (only really an excuse to make sure that it was his hand, as his imagination was rather getting the better of him, and it was, which made reality a bit less disorienting but kept Carl his title of most-befuddling bastard) he spoke, grin inflecting his voice with warmth as he decided to press Carl a bit further for confirmation. “Yeah?” And Carl was grinning at him now too, nervousness dissipated after having seen Peter’s positive reaction.

“Yeah.” he confirmed, warmth infecting his voice, stepping in closer to Peter again. Or maybe it was Peter that had stepped forward, he wasn’t sure, but they were certainly closer now than they had been a second ago, he could practically feel the warmth of the air exhaled from Carl’s lips across his skin, and those eyes were mere inches away, burning into his own.

“Good.” he breathed softly, before tilting his lips down to meet Carl’s once more, and this time their lips lingered against each other for more than the briefest of moments, caressing, teasing presses of contact, Peter’s tongue pressing against Carl’s lips, which parted willingly, Carl’s hand coming up to tangle in Peter’s hair, pressing them closer together. Why he had ever thought that Carl kissing him made things more complicated Peter didn’t know, because now, lips tugging against Carl’s, hands feeling the heat of the other boy’s body through his t-shirt from where they had come to rest on his back, now nothing seemed complicated at all, as long as the future held more of this Peter was sure it would be alright.

More than alright, really, if Carl’s hand kept wandering there, just at the bottom of Peter’s polo shirt, sending little tingles racing across Peter’s skin at the patterns being traced through the rough fabric. And fuck it if he hadn’t just moaned, pressing Carl closer to him in what was probably a wanton fashion but damnit if he cared now. He didn’t even care about breathing, but that was going to be an issue soon if they didn’t stop and…

“Oh My God...”

Was that Carl? No….couldn’t be…he would need his lips for that, and those words had been spoken in shock, horror…and in a fucking feminine voice.

Oh shit, shit, shit.. He pulled away, looking over to the doorway where his eyes met those of Kate, standing there with a disbelieving expression on her face before she quickly swept round and ran off down the hall. And he wished he could say that that moment of seeing her, open-mouthed in the doorway had stretched on for what seemed like an age, he really did, because then he would have had infinite time to try and figure out how the hell they were going to fix this. But as it was, all he had was a non consequential snatch of seconds, just enough for him to think We’ve really bollocksed it up this time before she had been gone. He looked at Carl, who seemed rather dazed by the whole situation, his gaze still focused on the now-empty doorway, lips parted slightly in shock.

“Carl...” Peter prompted, tentatively placing a hand on Carl’s arm, wanting to know what they were going to do, now that Kate had probably run off into the next room, tearfully proclaiming that she had just walked in on her boyfriend getting off with that Peter Doherty bloke. Carl’s gaze when it met his held no more comprehension of the situation and he shook his head slowly, hair swinging slightly with the motion, exhaling a frustrated breath.

“How could I forget she was here?”

“You knew?!”

“Well, not that she was at the door obviously, wouldn’t ‘ave kissed you then.” Peter felt a slight sting at that, although he tried to take the statement at face value, not as an indication that Carl would pick Kate over him. “But yeah, knew she was at the party. Came with her di’n I?

“Oh.” Peter couldn’t help but being slightly bitter at the reminder that Kate had fucking first dibs on the boy standing in front of him, and his mouth curved into a rather humorless grin. “Guess wherever you are she’s bound to be close behind. Can pretty much count on that.” He added, almost to himself, thinking back to all those times he had seen Kate and Carl’s very public shows of affection with clenched fists.

Perhaps he should have phrased things differently, made it clear that he was talking in general terms, because Carl gave him a piercing gaze, stepping away from him slightly. “What d’you mean you can count on it?” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You planned this?”

If Carl hadn’t looked so serious Peter might have laughed at the absurdity of his suggestion, and as it was, he could hardly keep the exasperation out of his voice as he dismissed the accusation with a wave of his hand. “Course I didn’t.” He smiled, trying to lighten the tone slightly, to dispense the last of the suspicion from the air and get back to figuring out how to control the fallout from Kate spotting them, or perhaps they could go back to kissing instead, seeing as it seemed certain that the whole university population would know overnight anyway…yeah, he wouldn’t mind kissing Carl again, and reputations were so over-rated anyway. “You kissed me anyway….not like you can say I stole you from Kate.”

Carl didn’t lighten at the teasing like he’d hoped he would, if anything his expression darkened at Peter’s last words, and Pete could practically see the cogs turning away as some dim realization was sharpened to a point inside Carl’s brain. And whatever it was, Peter doubted he’d like it, as Carl’s features flickered from being furrowed in deep thought, to seeming to kind of deflate slightly with some kind of loss, and it had better not be the loss of Kate, because Peter had never thought he actually felt anything for her, and if he had…then Peter was a bit of an arsehole really, with all his trying so hard to fuck the relationship up. But he couldn’t truthfully say that he would have left Carl alone if he’d thought he genuinely cared for Kate, he didn’t know if he could, it would have been like giving up an addiction.

“I suppose you planned this.” Came Carl’s quiet words, sounding more like a statement he had resigned himself to than any kind of real accusation. Peter opened his mouth to reiterate his denial, finding it hard to believe that Carl could possibly still think that, but Carl gave him a look, continuing in the same bleak tone. “ I remember. Thought it was a dream but it all makes sense now….just hearing you say you didn’t steal me from Kate…made me realise..” he took a breath, repeating Peter’s confession from the other night, his voice turning the words into something bitter, something altogether different from how they had originally been meant, transforming them into a statement of cruel intent rather than a casting aside of previous prejudices. “I hated you, you know. Was going to try and steal Kate from you.” Carl looked at Peter, a thin sheath of disgust just barely managing to cover up the hurt in his eyes as he gave a joyless grin, voice still bereft of any fire or real anger. “Guess you’ve got what you wanted now, haven’t you?” His shoulders seemed to slump slightly as he turned away, and there was something so wrong with this. Carl was meant to shout, or beat him to a pulp. He could deal with that, but not this bitter resignation, this acceptance that Peter had deceived him. Perhaps it was perverse, but Peter wanted to know that he mattered enough to provoke proper anger, that he was worth more than all those trivial things that Carl got in brawls about every other night. But maybe that was it, he realised, perhaps Carl’s feelings ran deeper than anything that could be resolved by beating them out of someone. If they did…..well, he couldn’t let this…him…escape because of some stupid misunderstanding.

He had to explain, to tell Carl that yes, he had hated him, but that was before he’d really known him, to explain that Kate walking in was just an unlucky coincidence, that it was Carl Peter wanted, not her. He reached out to him, but his fingers had barely touched Carl’s shoulder before his arm was grasped in an iron grip and Peter was dragged towards Carl in a violent mockery of their embrace minutes before, and now Peter could see that the anger was there, being held restrained just below the surface. It was the first time that being fucking manhandled had constituted a kind of victory for Peter, but some part of him rejoiced that Carl really did care, to know that he’d provoked some kind of reaction. Even if now he couldn’t help being slightly scared as to what Carl might do now that Peter seemed to have broken the hold he had had on his anger.

“Leave me alone.” Carl demanded, his voice holding an imploring tone within the harshness, eyes almost begging…for what? That Peter would leave him alone? Because he wasn’t sure he could now. Or was it for an explanation? A way back to the way things had been minutes ago? The necessary words were there, milling about his brain ready to escape and put things right, but they sat heavy on the tip of his non-cooperative tongue, refusing to materialize. He was left hoping that Carl could read his thoughts as well as he could identify the myriad emotions burning in Carl’s gaze, and for a moment he thought it had worked, as Carl’s grasp on his arm slackened slightly, no longer gripping, but still holding him close, and he hadn’t spoken again, was just staring into Peter’s eyes intently. But then Peter moved, just a fraction of an inch closer, and Carl suddenly seemed to snap out of it, to realise that they had somehow moved from being on the verge of violence back into something bordering on intimacy and he shoved Peter away from him, backing away as if scared that his body would betray him further if he remained in close proximity to the other boy. “Just….leave me alone.” He repeated, the words sounding sickeningly hollow as they stretched across the silence between them. He then turned and almost stumbled out of the room, hesitating slightly at the doorway, his back to Peter, and Peter wished that he could summon some kind of words to draw him back but they were too slow coming, opening his mouth finally only to find the cold empty doorway taunting him. He let the now pointless words fall away, replaced by curses that fell past his lips, cursing Kate for walking in on them, Carl for making him feel like this, himself for not being able to explain that stupid innocent confession that had come between them.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Feeling all the aggravation and hurt boil up inside him, he kicked and punched the wall beside him in frustration, feeling the welcome pain in his knuckles before biting back a sob as he realized that he couldn’t even do this without the violence being some cold reminder of Carl. Defeated, he slid down the wall slowly, glad that no-one was there to witness the hot tears leak down his face as he sunk to the floor.

How on earth could it all go so wrong?