(no subject)
boys round here, they'll bring you down
awaydays: paul carty/mark 'elvis' elways. // (1.881) // R
for everyone who thought about carty/elvis but never found owt. until you find something better.
Elvis sometimes thinks there's two people inside him, constantly fighting for dominance. There's the irrational, destructive Elvis who never leaves his flat without a blade, who relishes in any fight he gets into - and if there are none, he looks for them. The Elvis who buys smack off the street and knocks around with the Pack, always disdainful, but never enough not to join them.
Then there's also the kind of person he becomes when he's with Carty.
Paul Carty. He's just like all the others: wants to spend time with the Pack like the mongs are any sort of ideal to aspire to, wants to fight all the other deluded knobheads who think they're better than them but are in fact just the same old stuff in a different fucking wrapper. He'd prove to anyone that he's harder than he looks, Carty would, and though sometimes when they're with the rest of the lads he's almost as bad as the worst of them, Elvis sees the good in Carty when it's just the two of them. The love and devotion he has for his sister, and it's that what makes Carty different from the rest of them and miles better than the lot of them - he cares. He's got the potential and the heart to leave, to drag himself out of the muck that's got them all sinking, and that's more than Elvis can say for himself. Elvis, he's already up to his eyes in it and there's no point anymore to try and struggle free.
But he always has Berlin, Berlin as the postcard on his wall, as the ships sailing away, Berlin as the images floating hazily before his eyes as he lies on his sofa, smoke from his spliff slowly uncurling from his mouth. That's another thing about Carty. He never takes the drugs Elvis offers him, not once. Elvis had thought it would be another way for them to connect, a better and more relaxed way, but he realised that Carty didn't need that - he could almost say that even he didn't need them when he was around Carty.
He is completely content with skipping stones on the Mersey, the Liver Building right across the bay and Carty at his side as they discuss music and Elvis talks about all the brilliant things they are going to do once they are out of here. It seems so much more believable, more doable when Carty is around. He brings out a side to Elvis that doesn't often show itself, that part of him he isn't completely able to pinpoint the origin of, but which makes him feel more like himself than the face he is used to putting on in front of everyone. He realises he needs Carty, needs him to assure himself there is an ounce of good in him, of something that hasn't yet been tainted, a bit of that boy he used to be before the Pack, a boy who dreamt of Berlin and new chances.
"Big sky, man," says Carty.
Elvis knows that he is bad for him, that they are probably bad for each other because nobody wants the kind of life they have - unless you are a sick cunt like Godden and live for shit like that. But Elvis can't give Carty up, he can't let him go. They are mates, and they keep each other afloat.
Before Carty, Elvis hadn't really thought about needing a friend. The best person he could ever hope to rely on was himself. But then, now, they fight and they laugh and Elvis smokes and Carty doesn't, and Carty keeps making a div out of himself and Elvis doesn't, or at least he hopes he doesn't. It's the most attention anyone's ever paid to Elvis, and the best thing is that he doesn't even have to pretend, to intimidate or to act cool to get it. It's as simple as that, it's friendship.
Friendship in this city that doesn't offer anything to him but the dole queue and a bleary future seen through a haze of alcohol and drugs that he takes to forget how shit his life has gotten. In this city of grey skies, grey waters, grey houses and grey people, where the smoke and the smog gets into your lungs and wraps around your chest and doesn't let you go. This city with its stone, glass, concrete and gravel that keep you pinned down and stop you from reaching the ships, the ships which keep sailing by as a sore reminder of all the opportunities Elvis might have had. But with Carty, with Cartypants sitting in Elvis' chair, in Elvis' clothes, in Elvis' visually offensive excuse for a flat, with Cartykins and his treasured Bowie bootleg now crackling in the record player as he fiddles with the empty sleeve like he doesn't know what else to do with his hands, and Elvis lies on the sofa, eyes half-lidded but watching Carty, Carty who makes it all bearable because he chooses to stay.
In a moment of too much faith and definitely of too much hope, Elvis tries to kiss Carty. He holds Carty in place, one hand on each side of his face, and he's as scared as he's ever been, because Carty's got a vice-grip on his upper arms, and there's nothing friendly about it. Elvis doesn't know if Carty's got a knife on him or if he's going to threaten him with it because he got this close, closer than he'd hoped: far too close than they'd ever agreed on. He stands there trying his best not to tremble, feeling like this is the most dangerous, the most stupid thing he's ever done. He doesn't close his eyes, and neither does Carty - there can't be any of that, they don't want to catch each other off guard. And then, just as Elvis starts to hope that maybe, maybe things have turned in his favour, Carty pushes him away and Elvis slams into the wall, shoulder-first, not even bothering about the pain, just marvelled that Carty let him last that long. He stumbles, straightening up, but Carty's hand is already at his neck, fingertips pushing into the skin, squeezing, choking, and there is nothing in his face but fury.
"You filthy homo," Carty hisses, and Elvis knows that he's deserved it. "Never-never-" His expression falters, and Elvis would give any amount of money that he does not have to know what's going through Carty's head, just this once, but he can't focus on anything because Carty's hand is still on his throat, cutting off his airflow, even though Carty doesn't seem focused on keeping it there anymore. Elvis makes a desperate noise, croaks, and it's the only reaction he allows himself to have before his eyes roll into his head from lack of oxygen and Carty lets go of his throat.
Elvis slides down to the floor, limbs sluggish, trying to convalesce. He wheezes, not moving, waiting. He sees the shoes through half-closed eyes, the goddamn Forest Hills he helped Carty get out of the sheer kindness of his heart, his stupid, gullible heart, the Forest Hills which are probably going to kick him within an inch of his life and leave him lying there bleeding, like the fucking useless queer he is. He coughs, trying to restore normal breathing while he has the chance, waiting for the instant when Carty's shoe will connect with his stomach, his arms, his head.
The thing is, Elvis thinks trying to block out the imminent reality, he knew it was a bad idea. He was certain about exactly what was going to happen, and he went and did it anyway. It's just the way that side of him likes it - dangerous, uncertain, thoughtless and foolish.
"Come 'ead, El," says Carty, and his tone of voice is dripping with loathing - it's like Elvis is a fucking Woollyback and they're standing on opposite sides of the street, ready to fight each other until the concrete runs copper with blood. "Come 'ead, you fucking queer," Carty says, and Elvis is yanked up from the floor by his hair. It hurts so much it feels like bits of his brain are being pulled out.
He tries to resist, but freezes in horror - Carty's got a Stanley knife pressed to the arc of his throat and time slows down. Elvis doesn't want to look at Carty, doesn't want to see how much contempt he holds for him right now, the boy Elvis only seconds ago called his best friend, so he looks at the wall opposite instead, glittering in the poor light.
"Fucking look at me," spits Carty, snapping Elvis' head down. The knife presses to the tender area below his ear, and the room is silent except for Elvis' frantic heartbeat and the crackling of a needle which has run out of record to play.
"Why did you do that?" Carty asks. Elvis stays resolutely silent, glaring at him. Carty's having none of it. "Why did you do it?" he snarls, pressing the knife closer to the skin.
"Because-" Elvis splutters, "because I love you," he says, feeling incredibly small, an ache in his chest appearing that has got nothing to do with the paralysing fear that Carty might cut him. "Always have," he says, digging his grave deeper. "From the start."
Carty's grip on the knife relaxes, and Elvis looks at him to see his friend leaning away from him, sitting on the floor and looking bewildered, the anger in his features almost all gone and replaced with infinite surprise.
"But that's not how it works," says Carty. Elvis takes a look at his hands - they're balled into fists by his side, one of them still clutching the knife, although Carty looks too shocked to try to use it again.
"How does it work, then, Carty?" says Elvis exasperatedly. "Tell me how it fucking works, because I sure as fuck have no idea."
"Not like this," says Carty, and it's like he's suddenly changed his mind, like someone's flipped a switch, because he gets up from the floor, pocketing his knife. He frowns.
"I thought I was wrong when I said I was better off without you," he says. Elvis doesn't get up, there's no point - nothing he does can change Carty's mind. "I wasn't," says Carty. "I am better off without you and your shit."
"Get lost, then," says Elvis. "Get back to the Pack! You're fucking delusional, Carty, you'll never be one of them. You'll just come crawling back to me in the end!" he shouts, but the door's already slammed behind Carty.
Elvis sits there on the floor, slumped against the wall as Carty left him. He looks at the noose suspended from his ceiling, considers it, and it starts looking more appealing than ever to him - not just as a symbol of his failed existence, but as a way out.
He feels his neck, mulling over the idea - and his fingers slip against something sticky. He withdraws them to discover a tiny bead of blood on one of his fingertips. He licks it off and searches his pockets for another spliff to light.
Blood brothers. What an idiot he's been.
awaydays: paul carty/mark 'elvis' elways. // (1.881) // R
for everyone who thought about carty/elvis but never found owt. until you find something better.
Elvis sometimes thinks there's two people inside him, constantly fighting for dominance. There's the irrational, destructive Elvis who never leaves his flat without a blade, who relishes in any fight he gets into - and if there are none, he looks for them. The Elvis who buys smack off the street and knocks around with the Pack, always disdainful, but never enough not to join them.
Then there's also the kind of person he becomes when he's with Carty.
Paul Carty. He's just like all the others: wants to spend time with the Pack like the mongs are any sort of ideal to aspire to, wants to fight all the other deluded knobheads who think they're better than them but are in fact just the same old stuff in a different fucking wrapper. He'd prove to anyone that he's harder than he looks, Carty would, and though sometimes when they're with the rest of the lads he's almost as bad as the worst of them, Elvis sees the good in Carty when it's just the two of them. The love and devotion he has for his sister, and it's that what makes Carty different from the rest of them and miles better than the lot of them - he cares. He's got the potential and the heart to leave, to drag himself out of the muck that's got them all sinking, and that's more than Elvis can say for himself. Elvis, he's already up to his eyes in it and there's no point anymore to try and struggle free.
But he always has Berlin, Berlin as the postcard on his wall, as the ships sailing away, Berlin as the images floating hazily before his eyes as he lies on his sofa, smoke from his spliff slowly uncurling from his mouth. That's another thing about Carty. He never takes the drugs Elvis offers him, not once. Elvis had thought it would be another way for them to connect, a better and more relaxed way, but he realised that Carty didn't need that - he could almost say that even he didn't need them when he was around Carty.
He is completely content with skipping stones on the Mersey, the Liver Building right across the bay and Carty at his side as they discuss music and Elvis talks about all the brilliant things they are going to do once they are out of here. It seems so much more believable, more doable when Carty is around. He brings out a side to Elvis that doesn't often show itself, that part of him he isn't completely able to pinpoint the origin of, but which makes him feel more like himself than the face he is used to putting on in front of everyone. He realises he needs Carty, needs him to assure himself there is an ounce of good in him, of something that hasn't yet been tainted, a bit of that boy he used to be before the Pack, a boy who dreamt of Berlin and new chances.
"Big sky, man," says Carty.
Elvis knows that he is bad for him, that they are probably bad for each other because nobody wants the kind of life they have - unless you are a sick cunt like Godden and live for shit like that. But Elvis can't give Carty up, he can't let him go. They are mates, and they keep each other afloat.
Before Carty, Elvis hadn't really thought about needing a friend. The best person he could ever hope to rely on was himself. But then, now, they fight and they laugh and Elvis smokes and Carty doesn't, and Carty keeps making a div out of himself and Elvis doesn't, or at least he hopes he doesn't. It's the most attention anyone's ever paid to Elvis, and the best thing is that he doesn't even have to pretend, to intimidate or to act cool to get it. It's as simple as that, it's friendship.
Friendship in this city that doesn't offer anything to him but the dole queue and a bleary future seen through a haze of alcohol and drugs that he takes to forget how shit his life has gotten. In this city of grey skies, grey waters, grey houses and grey people, where the smoke and the smog gets into your lungs and wraps around your chest and doesn't let you go. This city with its stone, glass, concrete and gravel that keep you pinned down and stop you from reaching the ships, the ships which keep sailing by as a sore reminder of all the opportunities Elvis might have had. But with Carty, with Cartypants sitting in Elvis' chair, in Elvis' clothes, in Elvis' visually offensive excuse for a flat, with Cartykins and his treasured Bowie bootleg now crackling in the record player as he fiddles with the empty sleeve like he doesn't know what else to do with his hands, and Elvis lies on the sofa, eyes half-lidded but watching Carty, Carty who makes it all bearable because he chooses to stay.
In a moment of too much faith and definitely of too much hope, Elvis tries to kiss Carty. He holds Carty in place, one hand on each side of his face, and he's as scared as he's ever been, because Carty's got a vice-grip on his upper arms, and there's nothing friendly about it. Elvis doesn't know if Carty's got a knife on him or if he's going to threaten him with it because he got this close, closer than he'd hoped: far too close than they'd ever agreed on. He stands there trying his best not to tremble, feeling like this is the most dangerous, the most stupid thing he's ever done. He doesn't close his eyes, and neither does Carty - there can't be any of that, they don't want to catch each other off guard. And then, just as Elvis starts to hope that maybe, maybe things have turned in his favour, Carty pushes him away and Elvis slams into the wall, shoulder-first, not even bothering about the pain, just marvelled that Carty let him last that long. He stumbles, straightening up, but Carty's hand is already at his neck, fingertips pushing into the skin, squeezing, choking, and there is nothing in his face but fury.
"You filthy homo," Carty hisses, and Elvis knows that he's deserved it. "Never-never-" His expression falters, and Elvis would give any amount of money that he does not have to know what's going through Carty's head, just this once, but he can't focus on anything because Carty's hand is still on his throat, cutting off his airflow, even though Carty doesn't seem focused on keeping it there anymore. Elvis makes a desperate noise, croaks, and it's the only reaction he allows himself to have before his eyes roll into his head from lack of oxygen and Carty lets go of his throat.
Elvis slides down to the floor, limbs sluggish, trying to convalesce. He wheezes, not moving, waiting. He sees the shoes through half-closed eyes, the goddamn Forest Hills he helped Carty get out of the sheer kindness of his heart, his stupid, gullible heart, the Forest Hills which are probably going to kick him within an inch of his life and leave him lying there bleeding, like the fucking useless queer he is. He coughs, trying to restore normal breathing while he has the chance, waiting for the instant when Carty's shoe will connect with his stomach, his arms, his head.
The thing is, Elvis thinks trying to block out the imminent reality, he knew it was a bad idea. He was certain about exactly what was going to happen, and he went and did it anyway. It's just the way that side of him likes it - dangerous, uncertain, thoughtless and foolish.
"Come 'ead, El," says Carty, and his tone of voice is dripping with loathing - it's like Elvis is a fucking Woollyback and they're standing on opposite sides of the street, ready to fight each other until the concrete runs copper with blood. "Come 'ead, you fucking queer," Carty says, and Elvis is yanked up from the floor by his hair. It hurts so much it feels like bits of his brain are being pulled out.
He tries to resist, but freezes in horror - Carty's got a Stanley knife pressed to the arc of his throat and time slows down. Elvis doesn't want to look at Carty, doesn't want to see how much contempt he holds for him right now, the boy Elvis only seconds ago called his best friend, so he looks at the wall opposite instead, glittering in the poor light.
"Fucking look at me," spits Carty, snapping Elvis' head down. The knife presses to the tender area below his ear, and the room is silent except for Elvis' frantic heartbeat and the crackling of a needle which has run out of record to play.
"Why did you do that?" Carty asks. Elvis stays resolutely silent, glaring at him. Carty's having none of it. "Why did you do it?" he snarls, pressing the knife closer to the skin.
"Because-" Elvis splutters, "because I love you," he says, feeling incredibly small, an ache in his chest appearing that has got nothing to do with the paralysing fear that Carty might cut him. "Always have," he says, digging his grave deeper. "From the start."
Carty's grip on the knife relaxes, and Elvis looks at him to see his friend leaning away from him, sitting on the floor and looking bewildered, the anger in his features almost all gone and replaced with infinite surprise.
"But that's not how it works," says Carty. Elvis takes a look at his hands - they're balled into fists by his side, one of them still clutching the knife, although Carty looks too shocked to try to use it again.
"How does it work, then, Carty?" says Elvis exasperatedly. "Tell me how it fucking works, because I sure as fuck have no idea."
"Not like this," says Carty, and it's like he's suddenly changed his mind, like someone's flipped a switch, because he gets up from the floor, pocketing his knife. He frowns.
"I thought I was wrong when I said I was better off without you," he says. Elvis doesn't get up, there's no point - nothing he does can change Carty's mind. "I wasn't," says Carty. "I am better off without you and your shit."
"Get lost, then," says Elvis. "Get back to the Pack! You're fucking delusional, Carty, you'll never be one of them. You'll just come crawling back to me in the end!" he shouts, but the door's already slammed behind Carty.
Elvis sits there on the floor, slumped against the wall as Carty left him. He looks at the noose suspended from his ceiling, considers it, and it starts looking more appealing than ever to him - not just as a symbol of his failed existence, but as a way out.
He feels his neck, mulling over the idea - and his fingers slip against something sticky. He withdraws them to discover a tiny bead of blood on one of his fingertips. He licks it off and searches his pockets for another spliff to light.
Blood brothers. What an idiot he's been.