The Escalator - Day 1 of 8
Title: The Escalator
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Genre: Romance. Blending angst and fluff. In slow motion. Or something to that effect. Interspersed with RL elements.
Rating: E for everyone, cause this ep is very innocent apart from the odd swearword, which might have slipped in while I wasn't looking.
Beta: The ever-encouraging genius that is dreams579, who told me: "you're posting this whether you like it or not!" And who could argue with that?!
Notes: This is my first-ever fic. It is dedicated to elajones. Hope you're enjoying your present, darling!
Current music: Jeff Buckley - So Real
Monday
If he makes it across the street before the pigeon sitting on the traffic light on the other side of the road takes wing, it means he is not going to be late for work. He squints at the bird, his crystal blue eyes narrowing in an attempt to concentrate all his mental energies on the task of fixing the animal in its current position. As usual in the morning, the streets are crowded with people on their way to work, tourists on their way to sightseeing trips and children on their way to school, but Carl Barât doesn't register any of them. All he can see right now is the pigeon.
“Don't fly away, don't fly away, don't fly away, my friend.”
He repeats the words over and over in his head like a mantra, sings them like a little melody, and when the light finally changes, he starts walking as fast as he can without actually running. He never runs in public; after all, grown men don't run to catch the tube that takes them to their work place. And maybe they don't even believe in the little mind games Carl is playing every day, like the one with the pigeon right now, but those games are only played inside his head and with him being the only participant so nobody could possibly know what he is doing. He likes that thought and a trace of a smile flits over his face. Maybe it is this little slip in concentration that does it - just at the precise moment when his right foot is about to step to the safety of the sidewalk again, the pigeon spreads its wings and soars into the morning light of the grey London sky.
Carl involuntarily shakes his head in annoyance. ‘Stupid little fucker,’ the voice in his head grumbles while his eyes follow the bird's flight for a second, before he tears himself away from the sight and quickly starts to walk down the stairs of the underground station, not wanting to waste any more precious seconds. After all, he has already been late twice this month, which is a bad record for him considering that Carl is a thoroughly reliable person. It's just that recently, he is having problems getting out of bed in the mornings, a circumstance he likes to blame on the particularly dark and dreary winter weather, even though he never fully believes himself.
Inside the station it is even more crowded than usual and people have to queue up to get on the escalator. Carl can feel how a thin sheen of sweat slowly begins to cover his hands, his back and his forehead, even though his skin remains rather cold, belying the way his body is feeling. Carl doesn't like crowds, doesn't feel comfortable being surrounded by people on all sides, and he tries to avoid touching anybody as he starts to feel increasingly edgy as more and more people shove him to the side in order to reach the escalator. Then he suddenly realizes what all the commotion is about: none of the escalators are working. He sighs and nervously tucks a stray strand of hair behind his right ear, a strand that regularly falls into his eyes but even more so recently since he just couldn't be bothered to get his hair cut to a decent length. Gingerly Carl places his foot on the first step. If there is one kind of movement that is potentially even more humiliating to him than running in public, it is walking down a non-operational escalator, especially one that is as long as the one in front of him now. He forces himself not to look down, but his head already feels slightly dizzy and he holds onto the handle of his old battered leather bag a little more tightly than strictly necessary.
Since he was a little child, Carl has always been afraid of things: of heights, of deep water, of darkness, of barking dogs, of other people. He can't remember a time when he felt completely safe and at ease. It had nothing, or little, to do with his parents and the way they treated him, or if it did he can't remember it anymore. He doesn't know if other people experience their life in the same way, if it scares them as much as it scares him, but most of the time he doubts they do. Only when he is at home, by himself, strumming his guitar, watching one of his favorite movies or lying on the cheap blue sofa in the living room reading and re-reading his collection of old dog-eared novels and volumes of poetry does he feel at peace with himself and his own little world that he has created within the tiny flat he has rented for almost ten years now. The flat is his sanctuary, his haven, and it is one of the reasons that over the last couple of years, Carl has become much better in handling his fear, in keeping it under control, but he always knows it is there, buried inside him, a dirty little secret that must be hidden and protected and that lies in wait, ready to battle its way back to the surface, often when he least expects it to.
While his feet continue to walk and his thoughts continue to spin in directions he desperately wants to avoid, Carl realizes in a sudden moment of clarity that he is in urgent need of something that will distract him from himself, maybe another mind game that will keep him occupied and guide him safely to the platform below. By now he is feeling so lightheaded that he is almost sure he will miss one of the next steps and stumble, or worse, fall down the remaining stairs. His face is very pale and he is acutely aware of the way his heart hurts a little in his chest, making it difficult to breathe.
And then something changes.
At first he can't put his finger on it, can't say what makes the difference, but suddenly there is another feeling inside him, a glowing feeling that causes the fear and tension cursing through his veins to subside to a bearable level.
“Take me out tonight, where there's music and there's people who are young and alive...”
His body instinctively reacts to the song, even before his mind registers the words and melody that are suddenly filling the stale air of the station with beauty. Music has always been a dear friend to Carl, his favorite escape from the confusion and hurt of a world in which he has never developed a real sense of belonging. His muscles relax, his ears tune into the sound and for a moment he is so lost in the song that he doesn't even wonder where the music comes from, he simply lets the warm voice and acoustic guitar sounds wash over him. Then he raises his head, suddenly feeling the urge to see the person who, however unknowingly, has reached out to him. His eyes scan the platform not too far below him now, and amid all the thousands of nondescript people and things Carl passes every day, all the things that exist and yet never feel real to him, he suddenly sees another face.
Or to be precise, not directly a face at first, but rather a mess of fluffy brown hair, a slightly darker shade than his own, sticking out in all sorts of angles from the boy's head which is currently bowed down to the old wooden guitar he is holding in his hands as if in deep conversation with his instrument. Carl guesses that the boy might be in his early twenties, a couple of years younger than him, but he can't be sure as long as he hasn't seen his face.
“Driving in your car, oh please don't drop me home...”
In the back of his mind Carl realizes he is beginning to study the young man a little too intensely; his unruly hair, his lanky figure, the way his long, slender fingers move up and down on the guitar's neck, the soft, dreamlike voice that sometimes turns sharp and demanding in the space of only a second. Carl knows it is something that goes beyond mere curiosity that makes him shiver slightly and stop dead in his tracks a couple of steps above ground level, mesmerized by the sound and sight of the first person who has captured his imagination in a long time.
He really wants to know the colour of the boy's eyes. The thought comes into his head like an uninvited guest, but he knows it will stay there and mock him all day long if he denies himself the chance to find out. Nervously, Carl fidgets with the loose button on the sleeve of his coat, keeping his eyes fixed on the person below him.
“To die by your side, such a heavenly way to die...”
Judging from the way he dresses, Carl suspects the boy is either a non-conformist by choice or someone who hasn't had money to spend on new clothes for quite a while. He is wearing a very tight black jacket, a red t-shirt with a ripped collar that is at least a couple of inches too short for him and faded jeans, covered in what looks like paint and various people's handwriting. For an instant Carl feels a hint of jealousy. Because despite the poor state of his clothes and the obvious messiness of his whole appearance, there is something innately graceful about this man, a dignity and self-assurance that Carl feels he could never muster, no matter his looks and choice of clothes. For a second Carl tries to remember what he himself is wearing today, but his mind draws a blank. He assumes it is probably one of the generally slightly crumpled designer suits he usually wears at work, one of those that he buys at second hand stores because he can't afford to buy them new. Secretly he always hopes those suits make him look like a gentleman, but still interesting enough to pass for an artist.
“Oh take me anywhere, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care...”
The boy is completely lost in his playing, gripping the clearly beloved guitar with a mixture of force and gentleness that reflects the very heart of the song, seemingly oblivious to the world around him. A few people, mostly tourists, extend their hands to put spare coins in the hat he has placed in front of him, but most people hurry by without taking notice and others look slightly annoyed, as if the music offends their very being.
“I thought: Oh God, my chance had come at last...”
And suddenly - in a moment that is so short that it leaves Carl no time to react - the boy turns towards him and lifts his head, his eyes instantly aligning with Carl's.
For a second the world is reduced to a single gaze.
Maybe it has stopped turning as well, or at least this is how it feels to Carl while the boy looks at him with impossibly wide eyes, curious, unblinking and without hesitation. And maybe it is not only Carl's heart but time itself that skips a beat when there is a little smile forming on the boy's lips, spreading over his face and lighting up his eyes too, until they are shining, looking bright and dark at the same time. Carl doesn't realize he has been standing still for quite a while now, until a large woman angrily pushes him to the side of the escalator.
“If you want to dream, go back to bed,” she hisses as she squeezes past him and hurries down the last remaining steps.
Carl feels his cheeks flush and the world once again begins to rotate on its axis. He straightens his posture and quickly resumes walking. When he reaches ground level, he doesn't dare to glance sideways, not wanting to risk a second eye contact that could either break the magic of the first or else intensify it. Instead, Carl steps onto the platform just in time to catch the next tube, while the last notes of the song slowly fade away.
“There's a light and it never goes out...”
He smiles to himself. Now he knows the boy's eyes are brown.
---------
There’s a light that never goes out / The Smiths
Take me out tonight
Where there’s music and there’s people
And they’re young and alive
Driving in your car
I never never want to go home
Because I haven’t got one
Anymore
Take me out tonight
Because I want to see people and I
Want to see life
Driving in your car
Oh, please don’t drop me home
Because it’s not my home, it’s their
Home, and I’m welcome no more
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten-ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine
Take me out tonight
Take me anywhere, I don’t care
I don’t care, I don’t care
And in the darkened underpass
I thought oh God, my chance has come at last
(But then a strange fear gripped me and I
Just couldn’t ask)
Take me out tonight
Oh, take me anywhere, I don’t care
I don’t care, I don’t care
Driving in your car
I never never want to go home
Because I haven’t got one
Oh, I haven’t got one
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten-ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine
Oh, there is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out
---------
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Genre: Romance. Blending angst and fluff. In slow motion. Or something to that effect. Interspersed with RL elements.
Rating: E for everyone, cause this ep is very innocent apart from the odd swearword, which might have slipped in while I wasn't looking.
Beta: The ever-encouraging genius that is dreams579, who told me: "you're posting this whether you like it or not!" And who could argue with that?!
Notes: This is my first-ever fic. It is dedicated to elajones. Hope you're enjoying your present, darling!
Current music: Jeff Buckley - So Real
Monday
If he makes it across the street before the pigeon sitting on the traffic light on the other side of the road takes wing, it means he is not going to be late for work. He squints at the bird, his crystal blue eyes narrowing in an attempt to concentrate all his mental energies on the task of fixing the animal in its current position. As usual in the morning, the streets are crowded with people on their way to work, tourists on their way to sightseeing trips and children on their way to school, but Carl Barât doesn't register any of them. All he can see right now is the pigeon.
“Don't fly away, don't fly away, don't fly away, my friend.”
He repeats the words over and over in his head like a mantra, sings them like a little melody, and when the light finally changes, he starts walking as fast as he can without actually running. He never runs in public; after all, grown men don't run to catch the tube that takes them to their work place. And maybe they don't even believe in the little mind games Carl is playing every day, like the one with the pigeon right now, but those games are only played inside his head and with him being the only participant so nobody could possibly know what he is doing. He likes that thought and a trace of a smile flits over his face. Maybe it is this little slip in concentration that does it - just at the precise moment when his right foot is about to step to the safety of the sidewalk again, the pigeon spreads its wings and soars into the morning light of the grey London sky.
Carl involuntarily shakes his head in annoyance. ‘Stupid little fucker,’ the voice in his head grumbles while his eyes follow the bird's flight for a second, before he tears himself away from the sight and quickly starts to walk down the stairs of the underground station, not wanting to waste any more precious seconds. After all, he has already been late twice this month, which is a bad record for him considering that Carl is a thoroughly reliable person. It's just that recently, he is having problems getting out of bed in the mornings, a circumstance he likes to blame on the particularly dark and dreary winter weather, even though he never fully believes himself.
Inside the station it is even more crowded than usual and people have to queue up to get on the escalator. Carl can feel how a thin sheen of sweat slowly begins to cover his hands, his back and his forehead, even though his skin remains rather cold, belying the way his body is feeling. Carl doesn't like crowds, doesn't feel comfortable being surrounded by people on all sides, and he tries to avoid touching anybody as he starts to feel increasingly edgy as more and more people shove him to the side in order to reach the escalator. Then he suddenly realizes what all the commotion is about: none of the escalators are working. He sighs and nervously tucks a stray strand of hair behind his right ear, a strand that regularly falls into his eyes but even more so recently since he just couldn't be bothered to get his hair cut to a decent length. Gingerly Carl places his foot on the first step. If there is one kind of movement that is potentially even more humiliating to him than running in public, it is walking down a non-operational escalator, especially one that is as long as the one in front of him now. He forces himself not to look down, but his head already feels slightly dizzy and he holds onto the handle of his old battered leather bag a little more tightly than strictly necessary.
Since he was a little child, Carl has always been afraid of things: of heights, of deep water, of darkness, of barking dogs, of other people. He can't remember a time when he felt completely safe and at ease. It had nothing, or little, to do with his parents and the way they treated him, or if it did he can't remember it anymore. He doesn't know if other people experience their life in the same way, if it scares them as much as it scares him, but most of the time he doubts they do. Only when he is at home, by himself, strumming his guitar, watching one of his favorite movies or lying on the cheap blue sofa in the living room reading and re-reading his collection of old dog-eared novels and volumes of poetry does he feel at peace with himself and his own little world that he has created within the tiny flat he has rented for almost ten years now. The flat is his sanctuary, his haven, and it is one of the reasons that over the last couple of years, Carl has become much better in handling his fear, in keeping it under control, but he always knows it is there, buried inside him, a dirty little secret that must be hidden and protected and that lies in wait, ready to battle its way back to the surface, often when he least expects it to.
While his feet continue to walk and his thoughts continue to spin in directions he desperately wants to avoid, Carl realizes in a sudden moment of clarity that he is in urgent need of something that will distract him from himself, maybe another mind game that will keep him occupied and guide him safely to the platform below. By now he is feeling so lightheaded that he is almost sure he will miss one of the next steps and stumble, or worse, fall down the remaining stairs. His face is very pale and he is acutely aware of the way his heart hurts a little in his chest, making it difficult to breathe.
And then something changes.
At first he can't put his finger on it, can't say what makes the difference, but suddenly there is another feeling inside him, a glowing feeling that causes the fear and tension cursing through his veins to subside to a bearable level.
“Take me out tonight, where there's music and there's people who are young and alive...”
His body instinctively reacts to the song, even before his mind registers the words and melody that are suddenly filling the stale air of the station with beauty. Music has always been a dear friend to Carl, his favorite escape from the confusion and hurt of a world in which he has never developed a real sense of belonging. His muscles relax, his ears tune into the sound and for a moment he is so lost in the song that he doesn't even wonder where the music comes from, he simply lets the warm voice and acoustic guitar sounds wash over him. Then he raises his head, suddenly feeling the urge to see the person who, however unknowingly, has reached out to him. His eyes scan the platform not too far below him now, and amid all the thousands of nondescript people and things Carl passes every day, all the things that exist and yet never feel real to him, he suddenly sees another face.
Or to be precise, not directly a face at first, but rather a mess of fluffy brown hair, a slightly darker shade than his own, sticking out in all sorts of angles from the boy's head which is currently bowed down to the old wooden guitar he is holding in his hands as if in deep conversation with his instrument. Carl guesses that the boy might be in his early twenties, a couple of years younger than him, but he can't be sure as long as he hasn't seen his face.
“Driving in your car, oh please don't drop me home...”
In the back of his mind Carl realizes he is beginning to study the young man a little too intensely; his unruly hair, his lanky figure, the way his long, slender fingers move up and down on the guitar's neck, the soft, dreamlike voice that sometimes turns sharp and demanding in the space of only a second. Carl knows it is something that goes beyond mere curiosity that makes him shiver slightly and stop dead in his tracks a couple of steps above ground level, mesmerized by the sound and sight of the first person who has captured his imagination in a long time.
He really wants to know the colour of the boy's eyes. The thought comes into his head like an uninvited guest, but he knows it will stay there and mock him all day long if he denies himself the chance to find out. Nervously, Carl fidgets with the loose button on the sleeve of his coat, keeping his eyes fixed on the person below him.
“To die by your side, such a heavenly way to die...”
Judging from the way he dresses, Carl suspects the boy is either a non-conformist by choice or someone who hasn't had money to spend on new clothes for quite a while. He is wearing a very tight black jacket, a red t-shirt with a ripped collar that is at least a couple of inches too short for him and faded jeans, covered in what looks like paint and various people's handwriting. For an instant Carl feels a hint of jealousy. Because despite the poor state of his clothes and the obvious messiness of his whole appearance, there is something innately graceful about this man, a dignity and self-assurance that Carl feels he could never muster, no matter his looks and choice of clothes. For a second Carl tries to remember what he himself is wearing today, but his mind draws a blank. He assumes it is probably one of the generally slightly crumpled designer suits he usually wears at work, one of those that he buys at second hand stores because he can't afford to buy them new. Secretly he always hopes those suits make him look like a gentleman, but still interesting enough to pass for an artist.
“Oh take me anywhere, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care...”
The boy is completely lost in his playing, gripping the clearly beloved guitar with a mixture of force and gentleness that reflects the very heart of the song, seemingly oblivious to the world around him. A few people, mostly tourists, extend their hands to put spare coins in the hat he has placed in front of him, but most people hurry by without taking notice and others look slightly annoyed, as if the music offends their very being.
“I thought: Oh God, my chance had come at last...”
And suddenly - in a moment that is so short that it leaves Carl no time to react - the boy turns towards him and lifts his head, his eyes instantly aligning with Carl's.
For a second the world is reduced to a single gaze.
Maybe it has stopped turning as well, or at least this is how it feels to Carl while the boy looks at him with impossibly wide eyes, curious, unblinking and without hesitation. And maybe it is not only Carl's heart but time itself that skips a beat when there is a little smile forming on the boy's lips, spreading over his face and lighting up his eyes too, until they are shining, looking bright and dark at the same time. Carl doesn't realize he has been standing still for quite a while now, until a large woman angrily pushes him to the side of the escalator.
“If you want to dream, go back to bed,” she hisses as she squeezes past him and hurries down the last remaining steps.
Carl feels his cheeks flush and the world once again begins to rotate on its axis. He straightens his posture and quickly resumes walking. When he reaches ground level, he doesn't dare to glance sideways, not wanting to risk a second eye contact that could either break the magic of the first or else intensify it. Instead, Carl steps onto the platform just in time to catch the next tube, while the last notes of the song slowly fade away.
“There's a light and it never goes out...”
He smiles to himself. Now he knows the boy's eyes are brown.
---------
There’s a light that never goes out / The Smiths
Take me out tonight
Where there’s music and there’s people
And they’re young and alive
Driving in your car
I never never want to go home
Because I haven’t got one
Anymore
Take me out tonight
Because I want to see people and I
Want to see life
Driving in your car
Oh, please don’t drop me home
Because it’s not my home, it’s their
Home, and I’m welcome no more
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten-ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine
Take me out tonight
Take me anywhere, I don’t care
I don’t care, I don’t care
And in the darkened underpass
I thought oh God, my chance has come at last
(But then a strange fear gripped me and I
Just couldn’t ask)
Take me out tonight
Oh, take me anywhere, I don’t care
I don’t care, I don’t care
Driving in your car
I never never want to go home
Because I haven’t got one
Oh, I haven’t got one
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten-ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine
Oh, there is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out
---------