Crossed Wires (7/8)

[fugaziclash]

Part 7

Another night. Another party.

If he just closed his eyes, nothing had changed really. He couldn’t see the scathing looks that kept on being directed at him every other second, couldn’t notice the glaring absence of the boy who had for so long been the centre of attention at most of these drunken gatherings, how there was no feeling of tension in the room as everyone waited in anticipation for whatever Carl Barât would do this time. Of course there was what felt like a huge fucking hole in Peter’s heart too, that wasn’t quite as easy to ignore.

He could attempt to plug it with alcohol though, getting lost in the fuzzing of his senses. At least becoming a social reject had some advantages in that no one was likely to disturb him, or to try and pry the diminishing bottle of Tesco-value vodka from his increasingly clumsy grasp. He had changed from being a virtual unknown to being one of the student community’s most hated as soon as the tale of his and Carl’s actions at Damon’s party had been spread amongst the university populus. Of course, it wasn’t surprising that word had spread so quickly, tales of Carl’s antics had always been easy currency within the university, and there was nothing the gossip-hungry masses liked more than the opportunity to rip their chosen heroes to shreds. And they had wasted no time in doing so to Carl, the whispers of admiration and awe quickly transforming into jibes and shouted insults, usually along the lines of ‘Where’s your boyfriend Barât? Oh, wait…he didn’t actually like you did he?”

Surprisingly, the nearby hospital hadn’t been filled with beaten-up students. Carl generally ignored the comments, trying hard to hold on to his few remaining shreds of dignity, or was held back by the small group of friends that hadn’t abandoned him, Gary and two other boys that Peter had always written off as just wanting to be part of the popular set, but they must actually genuinely care for Carl, as they had stuck by their friend, attempting to shield him from the worst of the fallout. And from Peter too, managing to move Carl away or block Peter’s progress as soon as he tried to approach in an attempt to explain things.

Johnny Borrell was the only person Peter had seen come off worse for wear after taunting Carl. Carl had been sitting at a table in one of the university cafeterias, rather sullenly poking at his food, next to Gary and that tall bloke with the curly hair, who were flicking peas at each other across the table. Johnny, sitting at the adjacent table with all the ‘cool’ people who seemed to have gravitated towards him as a kind of Carl-replacement, had noticed Carl’s rather stony demeanor, calling out loudly,

“Moping over Doherty, Carl?

A wave of laughter had spread across the dining hall, then a kind of shared intake of breath as Carl had leapt to his feet, Gary and the others surprisingly made no effort to stop him as he’d launched himself at Johnny, rage personified. The mocking, hyena-like smile hadn’t slid from Johnny’s face immediately, after all, he’d been surrounded by countless friends who would surely protect him from Carl’s wrath. However, he had started to look a bit panicked when the crowds had parted to let Carl through, the vicarious thrill of seeing a fight overwhelming any compulsion any of the assembled students might have felt to aid Johnny.

And after all, there was the added excitement of motive behind this confrontation, as it had been Johnny who had been responsible for Carl (and Peter’s) disgrace. Peter had expected that Kate would spread the tale, but she hadn’t got the chance. Apparently Carl had run straight from Peter into the sanctuary of the nearest pub, where he’d met Johnny, who had bought him drinks and listened with rapt fascination when Carl had begun drunkenly spilling his sorrows, how he’d fallen for Peter Doherty, that poetic lad who had been inadvertently responsible for a boom in the wearing of trilby hats around campus, only to find out that Peter had only been using him to get to Kate.

Of course, Johnny had wasted no time whatsoever in phoning up everyone he knew with the tale, Carl’s words spoken in confidence spread gleefully, Johnny more than willing to do over his ‘friend’ if it meant that he would climb a couple of rungs on the popularity ladder. And it was common knowledge that he had done so, which was perhaps why Gary and the rest had made no attempt to stop Carl. If anyone deserved to be on the receiving end of Carl’s anger it was him, or probably from their point of view, Peter.

A good swing from Carl had sent Johnny smashing backwards into the dining table, scattering plates and glasses to the floor. He’d managed to sweep his leg out, sending Carl to the ground, and Peter had felt a sudden surge of concern, making a move to stand up before Graham had tugged him back down. One of Carl’s friends, Didz he thought he was called, or something equally silly, had noticed Peter’s movement and glared over at him, shouting across the table,

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough Doherty?”

Peter had opened his mouth to respond, but Graham had cut him off with a quiet appeal. “Now’s not the time. And don’t worry about Carl, he’s more than a match for that twerp.” Peter had given him a thankful look, glad at least that Graham and Damon hadn’t believed the rumors, if only because they’d apparently already been convinced that Peter was slightly obsessed with Carl, saying that Peter had spent the last week adopting ‘the expression of a lovelorn puppy’ (to quote Damon) whenever a certain drunken scoundrel was mentioned, something that Peter vehemently denied. But still, even if it did hurt Peter’s pride somewhat to think that his emotions were so transparent, it meant that he at least had some allies remaining at university.

True to Graham’s word, Peter had looked up just in time to see Carl headbutt Johnny, the ‘crack’ resounding loudly and sending Johnny falling to the ground where he’d pressed a hand against his now-bleeding nose, letting out a pained whimper. Carl, seemingly unscathed from the encounter, had just shot a final disgusted look at the pathetic form at his feet before he’d turned and strode out of the cafeteria, Gary, Didz and that curly haired bloke running after him after a shocked minute had passed. Johnny hadn’t been quite as full of himself since that lunchtime, and the couple of times Peter had seen him since he couldn’t help noticing that his nose had swollen to epic proportions, despite the fact that Johnny had taken to wearing a baseball cap in an attempt to obscure his face.

Peter took another swig from the vodka bottle, before noticing that it was in fact empty. Funny thing that…could have sworn it was full a moment ago. He cast around blearily for something else to drink, eyes alighting on a quarter-full bottle of cider, which he tipped down his throat quickly before discarding the bottle and setting about his quest again.

“Peter?”

A voice cut through the noises of the party and Peter looked up in the direction of it. His brain faintly registered surprise at the identity of the person addressing him, but he wasn’t listening to his brain right now, he had more important concerns. Like finding more booze. Wait…maybe the voice had alcohol?

“Gotenythin’ t’ drink?”

Good. Well done. That was remarkably comprehensible. The voice certainly seemed to understand anyway, as a bottle was passed in his direction. He studied the label, briefly registering that it was one of those bloody terrible alcopops. Things just tasted like fizzy fruit juice, probably because their main market was the pre-teens. But still, Beggars can’t be choosers n’ all that. He took a couple of hearty gulps from the bottle, and the voice was still talking to him. Maybe they expected conversation in return for their alcohol? That seemed fair after all, and Peter tried to pay attention to what it was saying.

“…and I think you’re really romantic…” Peter smiled at that. He had always thought he was a rather romantic soul. Didn’t know why the voice would think so though, perhaps it bought into the whole romantic myth of the drunkard and had been taken by Peter sitting alone in the corner, drinking himself into a stupor. Peter tended to think it was more pathetic than romantic personally, but maybe the voice had the right idea. Maybe if Carl came here and saw that Peter was drinking himself silly over him then he would finally get this stupid concept of Peter only wanting Kate out of his pretty little head. Maybe the voice was some kind of psychic, because the next word he picked up was ‘Carl’. He turned his head in alarm, fixing his gaze on the owner of the voice, only really taking in the lips which wrapped around each word in turn. They weren’t as nice as Carl’s, not as red or with the same passionate curve to them, but still, they were full and soft-looking, with a light sheen of lip-gloss that glinted slightly in Peter’s vision. The lips suddenly stopped moving, and from the resulting expectant silence Peter deduced that the voice was awaiting a response to whatever had been said.

“Eh…Yes.”

Always good to be positive. Negativity got you nowhere in life. And this seemed to be the response that the voice wanted, as those lips stretched wide over teeth, before they seemed to move so that they filled Pete’s whole field of vision, and then they were pressing against his own. And these lips were different from Carl’s when kissing too, there was none of the almost desperate passion, these lips were controlled, schooled, moving cleverly against his own. He was kissing back before he’d even really realised what he was doing, even though to his mind it seemed a bit like treachery. But it wasn’t. It was Carl that had got the wrong idea into his head, it wasn’t Peter’s fault, and it didn’t look like he was ever going to get near enough to explain, not while Carl practically had an armed friggin’ guard making sure that Peter never got close. It could be good too, a bit of no-frills fun could be just what he needed to take his mind off of Carl, better than alcohol even. Or it would be if he could just stop making constant comparisons in his head as his hands skittered over the other body.

Not as nice an arse…but then again, it was never going to be was it?

More delicate fingers tracing up under his shirt, none of the slight roughness of fingertips hardened by guitar-playing...

Somewhere along the line he stopped comparing though, preferring instead to close his eyes and kid himself on that it was Carl, an image of the boy painted onto the insides of his eyelids, his brain converting the high feminine gasps from the girl below him into lower moans. After what seemed like hardly anytime at all , he was forced to snap his eyes open, to reassert reality over fantasy before a gasped ‘Carl’ escaped his lips. His eyes opened impossibly wide when he took in his hand wrapped in long blonde hair, brown eyes that met his own as he let out a harsh cry of release mingled with shock.

“…Fuck!”

He sunk his head down into the fabric of the sofa, taking a few deep breaths before daring to meet those eyes again. Maybe he’d been wrong, maybe it wasn’t. It couldn’t be…he hadn’t been that out of it not to notice, had he? Although he had thought the voice was familiar…but fuck it, it couldn’t be. He gulped harshly before somewhat reluctantly moving his head back up. It was. Oh bloody frickin’ hell. Had he really just shagged Kate Moss?

* * * * *

It was odd what becoming the boyfriend of the most attractive girl in university could do to your popularity. Peter had never been this admired, never had as many people nod respectfully at him or wave as he waked to class. Seeing people nudge their friends and whisper “That’s Pete’ Doherty, Kate Moss’s boyfriend.” was beginning to seem like a common occurrence and this was only after two days. Even the animosity that had been felt towards him for his apparent deceit of Carl had disappeared. Kate thought that having a boy go to all the lengths of seducing her boyfriend in order to get to her was a great romantic act, and so naturally, the rest of the university agreed.

It was quite a turnaround. He’d gone from being hated by all save two of the student population to suddenly being adored by all, save Graham and Damon, their faith in him finally shattered by this proof of his deception, and Carl’s little gang, who had started giving him death-glares whenever they spotted him in the corridor, probably blaming him for the fact that Carl hadn’t been seen on campus all week, the only knowledge of him being a rumor that he’d been spotted last night being chucked out of one of the city’s most sleazy bars, looking like he’d been in a fair few scraps. But that was only the word from Drew, a talkative Irish chap in Pete’s English Lit lecture, and he’d been quick to add that he might have been wrong, seeing as he was rather drunk himself at the time, before asking Peter why he wanted to know what Carl was up to, as surely he’d be the last to care? Peter had just stammered something about having no hard feelings and quickly walked away from the oddly knowing smile on the other boy’s face.

Because he shouldn’t be still thinking about Carl, not when he had Kate now. Even if sleeping with her had been a drunken mistake, perhaps it hadn’t been all that terrible a one. She was nice…simpler than Carl certainly, but perhaps merely because he didn’t care as much. Of course now any chance he had ever had to explain Carl’s error to him had been lost, but he’d been kidding himself if he’d thought there was any hope to start with. Much better to cast Carl Barât out of his mind and appease himself with a life of popularity. Any part of him that wasn’t pleased with this state of affairs was firmly locked up, along with the part of his brain that kept on shouting ‘Hypocrite’ and ‘Arsehole’ at frequent intervals.

Of course all of this was a huge load of crap, as he wouldn’t be sitting, across from his stunningly beautiful girlfriend, writing overly sentimental poetry about boys with golden skin and bright blue eyes if he really viewed Kate as any kind of fit substitute for Carl. But he had found that if he bled out enough of his feelings on to the page then he was able to maintain some hollow kind of happiness with Kate, as much as he might yearn for the other. His pen scrawled out words, before he paused for a second, scratching his head in contemplation of the next line. Kate, perhaps hearing the pause in the scratching of the fountain pen across the rough paper, broke the silence.

“Can you think of what I could write for my bit in the student paper Pete?”

Peter looked up and met her gaze. “What’s it to be about?”

“It’s the cultural review.” Kate sighed dramatically, twirling her pen idly a couple of inches above a blank sheet of paper, watching the pink fluffy tassel on the end sway slightly with the movement. All of the stationary in Kate’s flat seemed to have be pink, or covered in glitter…some even had feathers on them. It was a risk to your health to be quite honest - Pete’ had lost track of the times he’d absentmindedly sucked on the end of the pen he was using only to find his mouth filled with pink fluff and Kate giving him a ‘not again’ look.

“It was supposed to be about the production of ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ that the drama students were putting on. But Carl was meant to be playing Algernon, and he didn’t bother to turn up to the performance last night. Terrible of him really to let everyone down like that, even if I can’t help but feel a bit honored to know that the loss of me has hit him so hard.” Peter had to bite his tongue to stop him from correcting Kate on this point, which inflamed him, coming as it after her words which had cast up memories of Carl reciting Wilde with glee in the kitchen of his flat. Kate didn’t seem to notice anything though and continued matter-of-factly. “It was a bit of a mess really as a result, so I have to find something else to write about.”

Peter was still stuck in his recollections of Carl, recalling the lopsided smile he had awarded Peter after his Wilde-quotage, the way those blue eyes had sparkled with a pure, untainted mirth that had seemed so natural despite its unfamiliarity on that face. Struck by sudden inspiration, he jotted down a few more lines in his notebook, before realising that he should probably give Kate some kind of response.

“Eh…been to any gigs recently?”

“No good ones.” Kate replied as she moved around to sit beside Peter, trying to peer over his shoulder at whatever he was writing, sighing when Peter hurriedly covered the words. “Oh come on….what are you writing that I can’t see?”

Peter kept his hand firmly down in the page, not giving in to Kate’s attempts to remove it. “It’s just bad poetry, you wouldn’t want to read it anyway.” If he had hoped that this would put Kate off he had been sorely mistaken, as it caused to redouble her efforts to snatch the book away, letting out a girly squeal of excitement.

“Oh! Is it about me? Is that why you don’t want me to see it?”

Peter spotted a way out. “Yeah, it’s about you.” he lied, watching rather guiltily how Kate’s eyes lit up at the confirmation of what her narcissism had already assumed. “But it’s not finished…so you can’t see it yet.”

That seemed to work, and Kate stopped trying to pry the notebook from Peter’s hands. “You promise to show it to me when you’re finished though?” She asked Peter, big eyes demanding a positive answer. Peter grinned, glad that he seemed to have managed to evade trouble for the time being, even if it did mean that he would now have to write something to appease Kate.

“Course I will. Even serenade you with it if y’like.”

Kate smiled and flicked her hair in a flirtatious fashion. “I’d like that.” Peter thought for a moment that she might kiss him, but instead she just sat back in her seat, switching back to the previous conversation now that she was satisfied that she would eventually get to read Peter’s poetry.

“So…do you think I could write it on the Chanel exhibition that was on last week? Or do you think it has to be a university-type thing…”

Peter set his notebook down on the table besides him, removing it from scrutiny, before involving himself more fully in the conversation. Well, he nodded when there was a lull, and occasionally made a suggestion, but these were usually promptly veto-ed by Kate. An hour later and Kate still hadn’t decided on what she was going to write her article on, and Peter was beginning to get a cramp in his neck. He wondered briefly if Kate would notice if he replaced himself with one of those nodding dogs you saw in the back of car windows. Probably not for a good while anyway.

At least he was going back home for the weekend, could escape all this for a bit. Actually… he checked his watch….shit! He was supposed to be getting picked up outside his flat, oh, about five minutes ago. He just hoped it wasn’t his dad. Placed too much stock in punctuality that man did. He quickly made his apologies and said goodbye to a slightly shocked Kate, before racing across campus, pulling his coat on as he went.

It was only half way into the journey home that he realised he’d left his notebook in Kate’s flat.

* * * * *

Peter was no longer Kate’s boyfriend. On the bright side though, Kate had found something to put in her article in the school paper. And the article was popular too, if the number of people quoting it around campus was anything to go by. Peter himself had been one of the first people to be able to read it, as he had been greeted as he strode into his first lecture on Monday morning by Kate, who had rather succinctly said, “You’re dumped.” and then passed Peter a copy of the paper before he could manage much more than a stunned “Wha’?”.

“Page 6” she’d directed, before walking away back to her crowd of friends, seeming thoroughly unaffected. Peter had just stared after her dumfounded for a while, before suddenly coming to his senses and flicking frantically through the first few pages of the paper before he reached the right one, his eyes widening immediately upon seeing the page.

Uh oh.

It was his poetry. That in itself was bad enough, even if it had just been one of his musings on life, Englishness or love in general. But no, Kate had made sure to pick a poem that was pretty bloody specific in its subject, with its over-romanticised descriptions of blue eyes, golden skin, red lips. It would be pretty damn obvious that it wasn’t about Kate, and if you were to put more than a couple of seconds of thought into it, it would be a pretty simple task to notice that the descriptions in the poem seemed to align awful closely with the features of Carl Barât.

Kate had obviously figured it out, and she had aided anyone else to slow too work it out for themselves by submitting her own, rather foul-mouthed analysis underneath, helpfully also supplying the identity of the poet. Just brilliant.

He sat down in a seat near the back of the lecture theatre, and couldn’t help but notice that an awfully large percentage of the students that entered the room were clutching copies of the paper in their hands. He tried to hide himself as much as he could, huddling himself down inside his coat, trying to ignore the hubbub that filled the room as students passed copies of the paper between them, the noise of pages being hurriedly flicked through until the appropriate one was found, which usually prompted sniggers, mocking quoting and hushed discussion, not to mention quite a few people who knew that Pete’ Doherty took this English lit’ class, who looked around the lecture theatre in an attempt to spot him. Peter tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, pushing himself lowdown in his chair, but it still wasn’t long until he was spotted.

“Well if it isn’t Byron!”

“Are you going to manage to focus on the lecture Doherty? Not going to be too preoccupied with thoughts of..” there was a pause, presumably whilst the boy tried to find a suitably embarrassing quote “.. ‘golden skin, red lips and a godlike arse’” Yep…that one’ll do the trick. Peter tried to keep his face blank, to not react to the taunts. Maybe they’ll get bored.

They didn’t though, and by the time Peter was exiting his last lecture he just felt like running back to his flat and locking himself in there until this had all blown over. A year…that should just about do it. Getting lunch had been the worst, a constant barrage of ridicule and taunting that had only been lightened somewhat by the presence of Damon and Graham, who had spotted him and sat down beside him, making no reference to the reasons they had had for falling out with Peter, or why things had changed, but simply striking up a conversation as if nothing had happened, point-blank ignoring the insults and jibes directed at Peter from all directions and lightening his mood somewhat with their good-natured bickering. Although, Peter couldn’t help but noticing that the rest of Damon and Graham’s friends obviously hadn’t decided to forgive him, as when Alex, Jarvis and Brett had walked in they had started to head over to the table at Damon’s calls, before noticing Peter and diverting to a table across the hall. Alex had come up and explained that Brett had a headache and so they wanted to sit next to the window, but he had stared at the table as he said it, hiding under his fringe, and as soon of the words were out of his mouth he quickly ran off to rejoin the other table, leaving Peter, Damon and Graham in shocked silence.

After a moment, Damon had flung his cutlery dramatically down on the table. “I can’t believe them! They…” he’d trailed off, blushing slightly, perhaps remembering that he too had been avoiding Peter up until now.

Graham had shrugged, picking up the slack. “Don’t worry….they’ll come round eventually.” Damon still hadn’t looked too happy, and he’d opened his mouth again but Graham had quickly cut him off with a comment about a gig they’d been to recently, leading Damon into a scathing diatribe on the band’s ‘fucking appalling music’ and how the singer had looked like he had ‘all the intelligence of an ape’, proclaiming energetically that he, Graham, Alex and that computery bloke Dave that he’d heard played the drums could do better if they tried, which had been met with a quickly smothered laugh from Graham and Peter when they’d realized he was being serious.

Peter had wondered at the sudden subject change until he’d seen Graham give him a slightly concerned glance and had suddenly realised that his friend had been trying to save him from any guilt he might have felt at separating the gang of friends. He appreciated it, he really did, but he couldn’t deny that he found it hard to reinvolve himself in the friendly banter, and had spent most of the remainder of his lunch staring over at the table where Alex and the others sat chatting amiably amongst themselves, hearing the varied abuse that was directed at him from other diners ringing in his ears. He’d felt a great deal better when he’d been able to head off to his next lecture, where at least he got a temporary reprieve whilst the lecturer spoke.

All in all, it had been the longest day he had ever experienced, the minutes seeming to drag by at snails pace, and now he was just glad to be able to escape the mocking masses for a while. Perhaps he would even be lucky and wouldn’t be subject to any further taunting as he made his way off campus. Or maybe not…

Annoyance and humiliation rose once more within him as he heard a deep, warm voice beginning to sound out his poem, stumbling slightly over the first few lines before the speaker found the natural flow of the words and the recital became more of a performance, the emotion of the poem being conveyed, each word seemingly weighed and measured as it crossed the tongue, not simply quickly cast aside in a quest for the phrase that would provoke the most embarrassment. Peter, who had been walking hurriedly towards the reader, ready to tear the paper away and punch the face it currently concealed, slowed his steps, for the first time today wanting to hear the words that he had rued writing many a time today.

“You’re drowning yourself, in liquor, sorrow, hate.

Pulling me in with you.

Watching me drown in blue eyes and memories of a kiss.

You dull down your corners,

Trying to hide a beauty you feel you don’t deserve

But it’s clear to me still.

Physical beauty, yes, you have that.

I would care less if I could say

That I’d simply been enraptured

By golden skin, red lips and a godlike arse,

But it is worse than that…”

Peter suddenly realized that he knew this voice, knew exactly who it was that was reading his poem like it was meant to be read, like they too knew the emotions that lay behind it. His feet stilled, bringing him to a halt just less than a meter away from the figure that leant against the wall, the paper hiding his face no longer concealing his identity, which was now blatantly apparent to Peter, from the way he held himself against the wall, a too-straight bracing leg belying his apparent non-concerned pose, underlying it with tension, to the beaten-up leather jacket he wore. Even the hands that held the paper were known to Peter, he knew the way the tips of those fingers would be slightly calloused, knew how they felt brushing across his back. Peter swallowed, unable to move any nearer as Carl spoke the last couple of lines into the air.

“My heart is tethered to a soul plucked out over guitar strings

And try as I might I can’t cut myself free.”

The paper was lifted down, and Peter felt a shiver of trepidation pass through him, unsure of what reaction he would be subject to. Would Carl be angry that such a portrait of him had been pored over by so many hungry eyes? Would he feel violated in some way at having been picked apart by Peter’s words? No….the expression that met Peter’s was…honored. During the course of today, Peter had lost sight of what had been originally meant by the poem, but it all came back to him now, and he knew that Carl understood too, could see it in the other boy’s eyes. And perhaps this was how they communicated best, as feelings unspoken could not be misunderstood or misinterpreted, and Peter would be glad to just bask in this feeling of absolute understanding, of forgiveness, forever. But he did realise that there were things that needed to be said. Carl might now know that Peter did care for him, but that was only the first step in repairing the damage done over the last few weeks. Perhaps Carl understood this too, as he broke the silence that stretched between them, raising one eyebrow and letting a slow, amused grin slide over his face.

“A ‘godlike arse’, eh?”