Carlisle Calling
Title: Carlisle Calling
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Genre: slashy canon
Teaser: Peter greets him with a kiss on the mouth, soft and gentle, his lips slightly chapped.
“Carlisle then,” Peter said, and Carl ummed and aahhed and let Peter press him again until he said yes like they both knew he would. Like they had both known he would ever since he’d picked up the phone and scrolled to Peter’s number.
“I do fucking keep in touch,” Carl had said by way of greeting when Peter had picked up, and Peter had laughed like that was exactly what he knew Carl would say. Which it probably was. Carl was flipping the top of a packet of cigarettes and desperately wanted to crush them, only it was cold and he couldn’t be arsed going out to buy more. But still, the laugh rankled.
“If I talk about you on the radio does it always procure you?” Peter asked coyly.
“Maybe,” Carl said. “And besides, you didn’t reply to my message at Christmas.”
“That’s because it wasn’t just for me, Jiggles. A man likes to feel special, you know.”
“Jesus,” Carl breathed, because there was no winning with him, you could never win with him.
Peter did the laugh again. “Come to Glasgow,” he said then, the short A in the word making him sound like no one else Carl knew.
“I can’t,” Carl said.
“How come?”
“Bit of this and that.” How quickly they fell back into familiar patterns, familiar speeches, Peter wanting all the info and Carl unwilling to give it. Although, Eli’s gymnastics class was hardly the most rock ‘n’ roll excuse in the world. He still couldn’t miss it though - a promise was a promise.
“Carlisle then,” Peter said, and Carl ummed and ahhed but really his brain said yes, thank you, I will join you on your tour.
Peter made it look so easy. He picked up and decided to do a few dates and that was it. He made it look like he could just take off with a guitar, a wandering minstrel he, and expect people to turn up. And what’s more, they would. A couple were already sold out, even. Carl could’ve complained about it some more, but it was late when he got off the phone and Edie was already in bed, curled up facing away from his side of the bed, half asleep.
“I’m going to Carlisle,” he said, and slipped into bed behind her, pulling the covers up over them both. “To see Peter.”
“Of course you are,” she said, turning towards him, her eyes still closed, and that was that.
*
He hadn’t been out of Euston in ages. Could remember, in the depths of his mind, once coming with the Libs and Peter saying “Euston we have a problem” repeatedly until everyone laughed, Carl despite himself, despite his bad mood over something or another.
Part of him realises that he’s wasted a lot of time by holding grudges, and part of that part will never forgive himself for that.
He’s sure he never used to be so introspective. Forty did something to him, made him maudlin. Maybe he’s middle aged now. Maybe he should stop thinking about it. He’d like a cigarette only he’s in the station and can’t.
He makes do with scalding his tongue on an Americano instead.
As the train wends north the weather turns colder; snow appears on the fields by the tracks. Carl videos it to send to Edie and uploads it to Instagram. He’s not quite sure why he likes to watch the viewer count go up so much, but it’s pleasing all the same. He takes another video and uploads that, too.
At Carlisle he has a much-needed cigarette and makes his way over icy paths to the venue, which is fortunately warm and dry.
Peter greets him with a kiss on the mouth, soft and gentle, his lips slightly chapped.
“Alright?” he says, with a smile.
“Alright,” Carl nods, as he does, smiling back. He quickly appraises Peter, finds him in fine fettle, looking well. Good. He had wondered; it’s been ages since they actually got together.
“Come through,” Peter says, ushering him into the dressing room as if it was his front parlour. The metaphor stands, too, because once in there Carl’s offered a cup of tea. There’s Jai and a few others hanging around and Carl feels out of place, because these aren’t his people, these are Peter’s people. He still feels like there are sides.
He drops into a knackered old sofa and pats the seat next to him, so Zeus jumps into it and turns round and round until he comes to rest mostly in Carl’s lap. Carl buries his fingers in the dog’s thick fur.
“Who’s a good boy,” he croons.
Zeus pants happily and Peter turns with a can in his hand and a smile on his face because a compliment for the dog is a compliment for him.
Zeus is most definitely on both sides.
Peter soundchecks at 4pm and Carl leans against the sound desk to watch. Peter stops a couple of times, fumbling, but he sounds good. Then he calls to Carl. “If you’re playing you’d best check your levels too.”
Carl nods and steps forward, ducking round two doors to come out on stage next to Peter.
“It makes me nervous when you watch me,” Peter says softly. “Especially from down there.”
“I’m sorry,” Carl says, and takes the proffered guitar to slip round his own neck to strum. It sounds okay; they rattle through Time for Heroes and then Carl puts the guitar down and goes back to watching.
*
The promoter has warm chicken pie and peas for everyone, around 5.30. Carl has his with a pint of some craft ale or another, but Peter just has lemonade, in a pint glass.
“Not drinking?” Carl says lightly.
“Not just yet,” Peter says.
Carl looks at him over the top of his dish. “You seem alright.”
Peter glances up at him. They both know what that’s code for. He nods. “Thanks.”
“Katia not here?”
“Nah, she’s busy.”
“But she’s okay?”
“She’s fine,” Peter nods.
“Nothing… wrong?”
“We’re touring together in two weeks, so you’d hope not, wouldn’t you?”
Carl nods once, swallows a mouthful of pasty. “What are you writing? Are you writing? - New album out, haven’t you?” Carl says, mumbling more than usual, his throat dry.
Peter nods. “Hence the tour.”
“Course.”
“Any more questions, Carlos? Feels like an interrogation.”
“Sorry,” Carl says. “Scran’s good though.”
“It is.” Peter flashes a huge smile, again, and then feeds the dogs some bits from his dish.
Carl uploads another video a half hour later, Peter strumming the guitar and widening his eyes when he catches Carl videoing. Carl feels his own eyes widening in return. It feels like an intimate gesture.
“Perfect Jiggler,” he says, and Peter laughs.
He’s started on the drinks now, something orangey pink and slushy like it’s from a machine on holiday. It looks like a low rent tequila sunrise. Carl asks for one and although he can’t taste anything other than sweetness, they go down alright and Peter asks for two more.
When Peter’s on stage Carl stands in the shadows, sure he can’t be seen from the audience. He feels - love, of course, always that, always there in the depths of his being if nothing else. But pride, too, pride in Peter’s talent, pride in the fact he’s here playing music, pride in his boy. The kids on the barrier are rapt with attention and Carl feels a little bit of jealousy too. Maybe he has the same look from people on his barriers, but he never notices them, never sees them in the same way.
He should try to look at them better.
When he steps out the reaction from the crowd is immense and Carl’s stomach turns. He’s got a lot to live up to.
He plays for more than they’d planned and he feels like he’s taken over Peter’s gig in some way, stuck his oar in where it wasn’t wanted, but at the end Peter’s arm is tight around his neck and he’s muttering ‘thank you’ in Carl’s ear. Carl squeezes his waist and shakes his head like it’s nothing although they both know it isn’t.
They walk off stage, Peter banging Carl’s shoulder. “Gis a piggy back, will you?”
He doesn’t really give Carl a chance to say no, so it’s just as well Carl manages to catch his thighs. He sets off down the corridor at top speed, the dogs running around his feet, Peter whooping and hollering the whole way.
Carl deposits him on to the sofa and the dogs land on him first and then Peter hooks his fingers into Carl’s belt loop and pulls him backwards too. He’s coldly sweaty and breathing hard but Peter leans up and kisses his mouth and Carl leans down, feeling slightly tipsy. Tipsy with Peter never leads to good things.
Well, no, they’re good things. They’re just not necessarily things Carl should be doing. It isn’t just the sex. Sex on tour is a liminal space; it exists outside of everything else and besides, everyone involved knows the deal. And Katia’s not here. And Carl’s sure Peter will have told her that he’s here, so she’ll know what’s up.
So why does Carl feel anxious about it?
He looks around, but no one’s watching them. There’s Jai loading stuff in and out, a couple of others, but no one with their beady eyes on the two of them.
“Are you staying over?” Peter asks.
“Was my hope,” Carl mumbles.
“Have to share with me and the dogs.”
“Will they have me?” Carl looks questioningly at Narco, who whines slightly at him and presses her head into his hand.
“Looks like a yes,” Peter says.
They speak to some fans outside, Carl smoking a cigarette in the doorway, Peter showing off the dogs more than anything. Peter’s got a tiny red minibus and inside it’s just as Carl expected - reeking of tobacco and weed, littered with empty cans of Red Bull and lager, half the window out in the back under which the amp is sitting.
Carl expects them to get in it when Jai does, but Peter shakes his head. “We’re only staying down the road. Fancy a walk?”
It’s freezing but Carl nods anyway. “Good job I’ve got me Dostoyevsky hat.”
“’S very dapper,” Peter says. “Suits you.”
“Thanks.” Carl shoves his hands in his pockets, glad he’s wearing several layers, and they wander off together down English Street. Peter lets the dogs off their leads, and they keep a few steps in front, investigating the kerbs and every lamppost along the way.
Jai’s already there when they pour into the hotel reception, bringing icy air in that makes the receptionist shiver as she looks up.
“Here,” Jai says, handing Peter his guitar. “Anything else?”
“No thanks,” Peter says. “See you in the morning.” He repeats this to the receptionist.
“Night,” she says when the lift dings.
None of them speak in the lift. Carl can remember a previous time when he’d done this, rode the lift to Peter’s floor, aware of Peter’s friends’ wink winks nudge nudges, feeling like he was being paid for the escapade if nothing else. If Jai is surprised or amused, he doesn’t show it. He’s on the second floor, so straightens up from the wall and says goodnight, petting Zeus on his way out.
Peter’s on the third floor, along a corridor and round a corner. He scans his keycard and lets them into the room, which is fortunately warm. Carl puts his bag down on the bed and unwraps a few layers. Peter goes over to close the curtains and then comes round as Carl bends to undo his boots, and touches Carl’s side gently with the flat of his hand as he passes by.
Carl straightens up with a smile. “Do you mind if I have a shower?” The sweat from the gig has cooled on his skin and coupled with the walk from the venue he’s now cold and sweaty, and it’s not a nice combination.
“Course not,” Peter says. “Cuppa for when you get out?”
“Ooh, please.” Carl sheds clothes and layers and stands in the bathroom in his boxers while Peter fills up the kettle.
Peter salutes him in the mirror as he leaves and Carl laughs and then steps into the shower. The water is immediately hot and Carl tilts his face into it and contemplates life with his eyes closed for a minute.
He dries off and puts a clean vest top and boxers on. He’s still slightly cold but the room is warm and as promised, Peter’s made him some tea. It’s just the perfect temperature to drink, so Carl does, taking an offered Jaffa cake too.
Peter’s in just his jeans and socks, sitting up against the headboard of the bed, his legs stretched out and feet crossed. The dogs are under the window, both completely settled down with their heads on their paws.
Carl sits down on the bed, cross legged, the pack of Jaffa cakes between him and Peter. Peter’s not looking at him. Carl considers him. Never sure really how Peter should look, but he thinks that on the balance it’s more positive than not.
“What?” Peter says softly.
Carl shakes his head just once. Doesn’t matter.
Peter smiles, ducks his head.
Carl moves the stuff between them to the floor and closes the gap. Peter slides down so they’re both on the pillows, faces only a few inches apart, so close that Carl can see the five o’clock shadow on his cheeks.
Carl kisses him deeply, fingers skimming across the warm skin of Peter’s stomach. Peter kisses like he does everything else in life - like he’s a drowning man holding on to life - a sensation that Carl’s never quite got used to but can never quite live without.
They take their time. No need to rush these days, not like so many other times when there were other pressures, both inside and out, both within them and without them. Sex with Peter is at both utterly familiar and still thrillingly new. Carl hopes it feels that way forever.
Afterwards they move around the room silently, teeth brushing, finding clothes, a bit awkward in the newness of one another again. Peter pulls back the covers.
“’S cold,” Carl says, tugging them up over him when he climbs into bed.
“Isn’t warm,” Peter agrees. He shuffles in, his fingers lacing into Carl’s.
Carl turns the light off and lets Peter hold his hand into sleep.
*
“Are you sure I can’t talk you into coming to Newcastle?” Peter asks in the morning, when Carl’s packing up his bits.
“Sorry boyo,” he says. “People to see.”
“Babies to kiss, all of that,” Peter nods. “Thanks, though.”
“I enjoyed it. Always do.”
“Next time?” Peter says hopefully.
“Next time,” Carl says. He sits down to lace his boots and then wraps himself in all his layers and looks around for his hat.
Peter is spinning it round his forefinger.
“Oi,” Carl says softly, and steals it back to jam over his ears.
“Ridiculous,” Peter says, and stands up to come to the door with him too. Kisses him goodbye, softly on the corner of Carl’s mouth, his finger touching the scar on Carl’s chin as he does it.
Carl squeezes him with his free arm. “Keep in touch.”
“I think your not doing that was the whole catalyst for this in the first place…” Peter protests.
Carl laughs, unlocks the door and steps out. “Alright, alright. See you.”
“See you later, love,” Peter says.
Carl can feel his eyes on him right to the end of the corridor. Only a small part of him wants to turn back, and he’ll squash it for now.
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Genre: slashy canon
Teaser: Peter greets him with a kiss on the mouth, soft and gentle, his lips slightly chapped.
“Carlisle then,” Peter said, and Carl ummed and aahhed and let Peter press him again until he said yes like they both knew he would. Like they had both known he would ever since he’d picked up the phone and scrolled to Peter’s number.
“I do fucking keep in touch,” Carl had said by way of greeting when Peter had picked up, and Peter had laughed like that was exactly what he knew Carl would say. Which it probably was. Carl was flipping the top of a packet of cigarettes and desperately wanted to crush them, only it was cold and he couldn’t be arsed going out to buy more. But still, the laugh rankled.
“If I talk about you on the radio does it always procure you?” Peter asked coyly.
“Maybe,” Carl said. “And besides, you didn’t reply to my message at Christmas.”
“That’s because it wasn’t just for me, Jiggles. A man likes to feel special, you know.”
“Jesus,” Carl breathed, because there was no winning with him, you could never win with him.
Peter did the laugh again. “Come to Glasgow,” he said then, the short A in the word making him sound like no one else Carl knew.
“I can’t,” Carl said.
“How come?”
“Bit of this and that.” How quickly they fell back into familiar patterns, familiar speeches, Peter wanting all the info and Carl unwilling to give it. Although, Eli’s gymnastics class was hardly the most rock ‘n’ roll excuse in the world. He still couldn’t miss it though - a promise was a promise.
“Carlisle then,” Peter said, and Carl ummed and ahhed but really his brain said yes, thank you, I will join you on your tour.
Peter made it look so easy. He picked up and decided to do a few dates and that was it. He made it look like he could just take off with a guitar, a wandering minstrel he, and expect people to turn up. And what’s more, they would. A couple were already sold out, even. Carl could’ve complained about it some more, but it was late when he got off the phone and Edie was already in bed, curled up facing away from his side of the bed, half asleep.
“I’m going to Carlisle,” he said, and slipped into bed behind her, pulling the covers up over them both. “To see Peter.”
“Of course you are,” she said, turning towards him, her eyes still closed, and that was that.
*
He hadn’t been out of Euston in ages. Could remember, in the depths of his mind, once coming with the Libs and Peter saying “Euston we have a problem” repeatedly until everyone laughed, Carl despite himself, despite his bad mood over something or another.
Part of him realises that he’s wasted a lot of time by holding grudges, and part of that part will never forgive himself for that.
He’s sure he never used to be so introspective. Forty did something to him, made him maudlin. Maybe he’s middle aged now. Maybe he should stop thinking about it. He’d like a cigarette only he’s in the station and can’t.
He makes do with scalding his tongue on an Americano instead.
As the train wends north the weather turns colder; snow appears on the fields by the tracks. Carl videos it to send to Edie and uploads it to Instagram. He’s not quite sure why he likes to watch the viewer count go up so much, but it’s pleasing all the same. He takes another video and uploads that, too.
At Carlisle he has a much-needed cigarette and makes his way over icy paths to the venue, which is fortunately warm and dry.
Peter greets him with a kiss on the mouth, soft and gentle, his lips slightly chapped.
“Alright?” he says, with a smile.
“Alright,” Carl nods, as he does, smiling back. He quickly appraises Peter, finds him in fine fettle, looking well. Good. He had wondered; it’s been ages since they actually got together.
“Come through,” Peter says, ushering him into the dressing room as if it was his front parlour. The metaphor stands, too, because once in there Carl’s offered a cup of tea. There’s Jai and a few others hanging around and Carl feels out of place, because these aren’t his people, these are Peter’s people. He still feels like there are sides.
He drops into a knackered old sofa and pats the seat next to him, so Zeus jumps into it and turns round and round until he comes to rest mostly in Carl’s lap. Carl buries his fingers in the dog’s thick fur.
“Who’s a good boy,” he croons.
Zeus pants happily and Peter turns with a can in his hand and a smile on his face because a compliment for the dog is a compliment for him.
Zeus is most definitely on both sides.
Peter soundchecks at 4pm and Carl leans against the sound desk to watch. Peter stops a couple of times, fumbling, but he sounds good. Then he calls to Carl. “If you’re playing you’d best check your levels too.”
Carl nods and steps forward, ducking round two doors to come out on stage next to Peter.
“It makes me nervous when you watch me,” Peter says softly. “Especially from down there.”
“I’m sorry,” Carl says, and takes the proffered guitar to slip round his own neck to strum. It sounds okay; they rattle through Time for Heroes and then Carl puts the guitar down and goes back to watching.
*
The promoter has warm chicken pie and peas for everyone, around 5.30. Carl has his with a pint of some craft ale or another, but Peter just has lemonade, in a pint glass.
“Not drinking?” Carl says lightly.
“Not just yet,” Peter says.
Carl looks at him over the top of his dish. “You seem alright.”
Peter glances up at him. They both know what that’s code for. He nods. “Thanks.”
“Katia not here?”
“Nah, she’s busy.”
“But she’s okay?”
“She’s fine,” Peter nods.
“Nothing… wrong?”
“We’re touring together in two weeks, so you’d hope not, wouldn’t you?”
Carl nods once, swallows a mouthful of pasty. “What are you writing? Are you writing? - New album out, haven’t you?” Carl says, mumbling more than usual, his throat dry.
Peter nods. “Hence the tour.”
“Course.”
“Any more questions, Carlos? Feels like an interrogation.”
“Sorry,” Carl says. “Scran’s good though.”
“It is.” Peter flashes a huge smile, again, and then feeds the dogs some bits from his dish.
Carl uploads another video a half hour later, Peter strumming the guitar and widening his eyes when he catches Carl videoing. Carl feels his own eyes widening in return. It feels like an intimate gesture.
“Perfect Jiggler,” he says, and Peter laughs.
He’s started on the drinks now, something orangey pink and slushy like it’s from a machine on holiday. It looks like a low rent tequila sunrise. Carl asks for one and although he can’t taste anything other than sweetness, they go down alright and Peter asks for two more.
When Peter’s on stage Carl stands in the shadows, sure he can’t be seen from the audience. He feels - love, of course, always that, always there in the depths of his being if nothing else. But pride, too, pride in Peter’s talent, pride in the fact he’s here playing music, pride in his boy. The kids on the barrier are rapt with attention and Carl feels a little bit of jealousy too. Maybe he has the same look from people on his barriers, but he never notices them, never sees them in the same way.
He should try to look at them better.
When he steps out the reaction from the crowd is immense and Carl’s stomach turns. He’s got a lot to live up to.
He plays for more than they’d planned and he feels like he’s taken over Peter’s gig in some way, stuck his oar in where it wasn’t wanted, but at the end Peter’s arm is tight around his neck and he’s muttering ‘thank you’ in Carl’s ear. Carl squeezes his waist and shakes his head like it’s nothing although they both know it isn’t.
They walk off stage, Peter banging Carl’s shoulder. “Gis a piggy back, will you?”
He doesn’t really give Carl a chance to say no, so it’s just as well Carl manages to catch his thighs. He sets off down the corridor at top speed, the dogs running around his feet, Peter whooping and hollering the whole way.
Carl deposits him on to the sofa and the dogs land on him first and then Peter hooks his fingers into Carl’s belt loop and pulls him backwards too. He’s coldly sweaty and breathing hard but Peter leans up and kisses his mouth and Carl leans down, feeling slightly tipsy. Tipsy with Peter never leads to good things.
Well, no, they’re good things. They’re just not necessarily things Carl should be doing. It isn’t just the sex. Sex on tour is a liminal space; it exists outside of everything else and besides, everyone involved knows the deal. And Katia’s not here. And Carl’s sure Peter will have told her that he’s here, so she’ll know what’s up.
So why does Carl feel anxious about it?
He looks around, but no one’s watching them. There’s Jai loading stuff in and out, a couple of others, but no one with their beady eyes on the two of them.
“Are you staying over?” Peter asks.
“Was my hope,” Carl mumbles.
“Have to share with me and the dogs.”
“Will they have me?” Carl looks questioningly at Narco, who whines slightly at him and presses her head into his hand.
“Looks like a yes,” Peter says.
They speak to some fans outside, Carl smoking a cigarette in the doorway, Peter showing off the dogs more than anything. Peter’s got a tiny red minibus and inside it’s just as Carl expected - reeking of tobacco and weed, littered with empty cans of Red Bull and lager, half the window out in the back under which the amp is sitting.
Carl expects them to get in it when Jai does, but Peter shakes his head. “We’re only staying down the road. Fancy a walk?”
It’s freezing but Carl nods anyway. “Good job I’ve got me Dostoyevsky hat.”
“’S very dapper,” Peter says. “Suits you.”
“Thanks.” Carl shoves his hands in his pockets, glad he’s wearing several layers, and they wander off together down English Street. Peter lets the dogs off their leads, and they keep a few steps in front, investigating the kerbs and every lamppost along the way.
Jai’s already there when they pour into the hotel reception, bringing icy air in that makes the receptionist shiver as she looks up.
“Here,” Jai says, handing Peter his guitar. “Anything else?”
“No thanks,” Peter says. “See you in the morning.” He repeats this to the receptionist.
“Night,” she says when the lift dings.
None of them speak in the lift. Carl can remember a previous time when he’d done this, rode the lift to Peter’s floor, aware of Peter’s friends’ wink winks nudge nudges, feeling like he was being paid for the escapade if nothing else. If Jai is surprised or amused, he doesn’t show it. He’s on the second floor, so straightens up from the wall and says goodnight, petting Zeus on his way out.
Peter’s on the third floor, along a corridor and round a corner. He scans his keycard and lets them into the room, which is fortunately warm. Carl puts his bag down on the bed and unwraps a few layers. Peter goes over to close the curtains and then comes round as Carl bends to undo his boots, and touches Carl’s side gently with the flat of his hand as he passes by.
Carl straightens up with a smile. “Do you mind if I have a shower?” The sweat from the gig has cooled on his skin and coupled with the walk from the venue he’s now cold and sweaty, and it’s not a nice combination.
“Course not,” Peter says. “Cuppa for when you get out?”
“Ooh, please.” Carl sheds clothes and layers and stands in the bathroom in his boxers while Peter fills up the kettle.
Peter salutes him in the mirror as he leaves and Carl laughs and then steps into the shower. The water is immediately hot and Carl tilts his face into it and contemplates life with his eyes closed for a minute.
He dries off and puts a clean vest top and boxers on. He’s still slightly cold but the room is warm and as promised, Peter’s made him some tea. It’s just the perfect temperature to drink, so Carl does, taking an offered Jaffa cake too.
Peter’s in just his jeans and socks, sitting up against the headboard of the bed, his legs stretched out and feet crossed. The dogs are under the window, both completely settled down with their heads on their paws.
Carl sits down on the bed, cross legged, the pack of Jaffa cakes between him and Peter. Peter’s not looking at him. Carl considers him. Never sure really how Peter should look, but he thinks that on the balance it’s more positive than not.
“What?” Peter says softly.
Carl shakes his head just once. Doesn’t matter.
Peter smiles, ducks his head.
Carl moves the stuff between them to the floor and closes the gap. Peter slides down so they’re both on the pillows, faces only a few inches apart, so close that Carl can see the five o’clock shadow on his cheeks.
Carl kisses him deeply, fingers skimming across the warm skin of Peter’s stomach. Peter kisses like he does everything else in life - like he’s a drowning man holding on to life - a sensation that Carl’s never quite got used to but can never quite live without.
They take their time. No need to rush these days, not like so many other times when there were other pressures, both inside and out, both within them and without them. Sex with Peter is at both utterly familiar and still thrillingly new. Carl hopes it feels that way forever.
Afterwards they move around the room silently, teeth brushing, finding clothes, a bit awkward in the newness of one another again. Peter pulls back the covers.
“’S cold,” Carl says, tugging them up over him when he climbs into bed.
“Isn’t warm,” Peter agrees. He shuffles in, his fingers lacing into Carl’s.
Carl turns the light off and lets Peter hold his hand into sleep.
*
“Are you sure I can’t talk you into coming to Newcastle?” Peter asks in the morning, when Carl’s packing up his bits.
“Sorry boyo,” he says. “People to see.”
“Babies to kiss, all of that,” Peter nods. “Thanks, though.”
“I enjoyed it. Always do.”
“Next time?” Peter says hopefully.
“Next time,” Carl says. He sits down to lace his boots and then wraps himself in all his layers and looks around for his hat.
Peter is spinning it round his forefinger.
“Oi,” Carl says softly, and steals it back to jam over his ears.
“Ridiculous,” Peter says, and stands up to come to the door with him too. Kisses him goodbye, softly on the corner of Carl’s mouth, his finger touching the scar on Carl’s chin as he does it.
Carl squeezes him with his free arm. “Keep in touch.”
“I think your not doing that was the whole catalyst for this in the first place…” Peter protests.
Carl laughs, unlocks the door and steps out. “Alright, alright. See you.”
“See you later, love,” Peter says.
Carl can feel his eyes on him right to the end of the corridor. Only a small part of him wants to turn back, and he’ll squash it for now.