[Fic] Turn the Key
Title: Turn the Key
Pairing: Pete/Carl
Genre: Hotel fic
Rating: S (but only a little bit)
Summary: Carl shows Peter the hotel for the first time.
Notes: I started this fic a couple of years ago, when the hotel news was pretty fresh, and now the place is actually (partially) open I thought I'd finally finish it off. There's some artistic licence from before some facts were established, so please accept this re-imagining! Time's just about right for a sequel after the journey of the last few years right...?
“Why are you bringing me here in the middle of the night, anyway?” Peter asks as he follows Carl up the steps.
There are several reasons, some of which Carl knows Peter is fully aware of, so he starts with one that may or may not have occurred to him.
“Because no-one’s supposed to know about it yet, are they?” He rolls his eyes even though Peter can’t see them, but he knows he must hear it in his voice anyway. “Should probably try and keep a bit of mystery about the location, at least, for now.”
Carl knew Peter would blab about the hotel. He even knew he would tell so soon after Carl let him in on it, but he didn’t mind, far from it - if Peter had thought it was a terrible, stupid idea, he wouldn’t’ve said a word, wouldn’t’ve been so keen to solidify it in publication, and that wouldn't just have been a setback, it would've been unbearably embarrassing.
But now it is out there, and that makes it real - they’re committed, no going back. And Carl likes how it feels, new and exciting and probably more than a little bit mad but so much the better.
He unlocks the door and Peter follows him inside. Carl makes sure the door is completely shut and the curtains are closed before he dares to switch the lights on in the dining room, revealing its tatty glory.
He’s glad he can see Peter’s expression as his eyes widen and a grin spreads across his face.
“This is incredible,” Peter says, with feeling. “It’s like we’ve gone back in time to when we were kids.”
Carl smiles. “Isn’t it,” he agrees. “Like it hasn’t been altered for thirty years. It instantly appealed.”
“I can see why,” Peter says, starting off around the room, poking into cruets and smoothing doilies and marvelling at horrible ornaments. “Look at all this stuff! I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I saw all this shit and thought of you,” Carl says dryly. “Not sure even charity shops would want this stuff these days. Well, maybe in Margate,” he amends as an afterthought.
Peter chuckles, examining everything with fascination. “Oh, they must’ve had a bar,” he says, scrutinising a handwritten laminated list blu-takked to the wall. “Shall we see what they have left?”
He disappears through a door and Carl follows, hearing him before he sees him again, bottles clanking and plastic rustling and Peter narrating his discoveries.
“There’s a bottle of Taboo here!” Peter says, with undisguised delight. “Want some?”
Carl only hesitates for a second. “Go on then,” he says, watching Peter gleefully unscrew the bottle and take a drink from it happily. “After all, it’s all paid for,” he deadpans.
“Yeah, there’s a lot here,” Peter says, passing him the bottle. “I thought it might be all bare and empty.”
“Going concern, innit,” says Carl, raising his eyebrows. “I suppose it was easier for the previous owners to just palm everything off on us.”
“Us,” Peter repeats, his voice softer, and the unexpectedness of it makes Carl’s heart skip a little.
“Yeah, it’s all yours too, y’know,” Carl murmurs. “So if you’re after any new tat, help yourself.”
“I might just leave it in situ,” Peter says. “For when I come back.”
Carl’s heart feels warm at how casually Peter says it, like it's a given already in his mind, and he lets himself enjoy the feeling, tries to catch hold of it and believe in it before doubts and worries start to seep in. He’s sure they will, with just so many factors involved, not least of which is Peter himself - but just for now, even just for tonight, Carl is determined to allow himself to feel pleased that Peter is so taken with the place and so enthused with the concept. That’s what makes Carl happiest, and in no small part relieved, because if Peter approves and if Peter agrees, everything else is peripheral, it’ll fall into place one way or another. And if it falls apart instead, well, at least they’ll fall apart together.
“So what’s the bedrooms like then?” asks Peter slyly, already heading towards the stairs.
Carl follows him, trying not to smile. “Moth-eaten,” he says, and Peter chuckles. “Semen-stained, or so I’ve heard,” he adds, and Peter full-on laughs.
“Brilliant,” he says sincerely. “Perfect.”
“I tried to think of what you’d do, when I was looking,” Carl says. “Tried to imagine what you’d think.”
“I trust you to act on my behalf in such matters,” says Peter solemnly as they head up the stairs. “I think you’ve made a good choice.”
That’s all Carl wanted to hear all along. All the while he was coming up with bullshit justifications to do with investment, appreciation, value - all the time spent trying to pretend he was remotely interested in projections and business plans, and of course he saw the necessity of all that, but all he really wanted was to share it with Peter.
Others had sought to reassure him, back him up - it’s a good idea, an asset no matter what happens, their money is safe in bricks and mortar (including for and from Peter himself, and Carl knows he’d admit that). But those practical, steadfast, solid responses - well-intentioned and welcome as they were - only settled his mind so far. This is what he wanted, this is why he’s been wanting to bring Peter here, and the relief he feels now is greater than he even imagined.
Some of the doors are locked, and Carl hasn’t got all the keys with him, but that’s OK, because Peter can see them next time. The room at the top is open though, and Carl leads Peter up the stairs to it. He flicks the light switch inside the room but nothing happens - the bulb is gone. They stand still for a minute, waiting to be able to see better in the light from the moon and the town that comes in through the dormer window.
“I thought you might like this room,” Carl says, almost shyly. His voice feels loud in the still room, so far removed above the sound of the sea in the dark, the distant night traffic in the street.
Peter walks around slowly, carefully. There’s nothing particularly different about this room, except the feeling that Carl gets when he’s here and thinks about Peter.
“A nice garret for you,” he adds, smiling.
Peter catches his eye in the darkness and smiles back. “I like it,” he says, his voice soft like Carl’s. “I can’t believe it’s ours,” he says, and Carl’s heart skitters again.
“I know, it’s a bit surreal still, isn’t it,” Carl agrees. “Hard to envision what it’ll be like when it’s all complete.”
“I can’t wait to see, though,” Peter says, with conviction that strikes Carl all the way through.
Peter sits down on the bed and takes off his shoes and coat - settling in, thinks Carl affectionately, and does the same, reclining back against the pillows next to Peter and rather glad he can’t see the bedding too clearly. He’s still got the bottle of fucking Taboo, and they pass it between them like they really have regressed twenty years. All Carl really wants in this moment is to be close to Peter, to feel this togetherness, relish it and let it fill him up inside until the next time they have the chance to just be in each other’s company, happy, just them, together in space.
Their own space. Somewhere with their names on it, their hands in it, their design running through the fabric. Carl can’t wait either, can’t wait to find out what they’ll produce here, what this crucible might see forged. Looking around now, it’s hard to see, hard to superimpose the kind of environment it might end up, but right now Carl isn’t bothered about any of that, because if he is here, and Peter is here, that’s all they need, and the songs still within them will crystallise and materialise and make their way out no matter what surrounds them, and no matter how long it takes.
“I really appreciate this, y’know,” Peter says quietly. “I appreciate you doing all this. It wouldn’t’ve ever occurred to me that this is what we'd be up to in the year 2017, but, y’know, it feels right. It feels good.”
Carl can’t help but smile, happiness spreading through every bit of him, warm and genuine. “I’m glad you approve,” he says, turning so he can see Peter’s face in the semi-light. He hesitates for just a second before he goes on. “I wanted a place where we can be together, all of us,” he says. “But I wanted somewhere where you’d want to come, and come back to, where you’d be... comfortable.” He doesn’t want Peter to feel patronised, doesn’t want to assume he knows best what Peter wants and needs, but Carl does want him to know the truth of his thoughts and his feelings. He wants Peter to feel like this is somewhere he can be and he can have and they can share, and even when Carl isn’t here Peter will know that Carl knows where to find him. And Carl wants to know that, too.
“I will,” Peter says, that same confidence in his voice that makes something spark and light up in Carl’s chest. “I can feel it.”
Carl feels hope and optimism swell and bloom inside him like the bud of an unfamiliar flower. He feels excited and young, standing at the beginning of something as yet unseen and unshaped. Carl can't just keep it all to himself, and all he can do, all he wants to do, the only thing in the world it makes sense to do right now, is lean in and kiss Peter softly on the mouth.
Peter kisses him back with a little sound of happy acquiescence, like Carl has given him something he's been anticipating all along. His lips are eager against Carl's, and Carl wants to smile with the purity of it, the undisguised expression of feeling between them, from both of them.
He holds Peter loosely, relaxed, till he feels him shift and squirm in his arms, trying to get closer, to kiss him more deeply.
“It's been so long,” Peter says, almost a whine against Carl's lips.
“It's only been a few months,” murmurs Carl, remembering hurried, distracting hands in a Paris backstage toilet, but Peter's right, it does feel like a long time, and Carl responds to his needy kisses with fervour.
“Long enough,” Peter murmurs, sliding his hands under Carl's t-shirt.
Carl takes it off immediately, not wanting to wait to feel more of Peter against him, that closeness, and Peter grins and does the same, leaning swiftly in again so they can kiss some more, pressed skin to skin now, heartbeat to heartbeat. Peter’s keen hands are soon at Carl’s jeans, unfastening his belt and fly and reaching inside, rubbing Carl’s half-hard cock through his underwear till he’s all the way there, hips rocking up against the heat of Peter’s palm in no time at all.
Peter’s hand moves off him much too soon, and Carl sighs in disappointment before he can stop himself, missing his touch. Peter is undoing his own trousers, wriggling out of them without leaving the bed - he throws them onto the floor, followed by his underwear, and Carl can’t help but see it, with a certain fondness, as a sign of things to come, a habit that Peter will soon get into. Peter isn’t wearing socks, he notices, and he thinks his feet will be cold against Carl’s legs, and around his back when they fuck. He shivers just imagining, his skin goosepimpling with spiralling excitement, and he makes himself get off the bed now, before he gives in to Peter’s hands and lips again and it’ll be so much harder to break away.
He strips off his own jeans and socks and underwear and leaves them on the floor too, because if Peter's making himself at home, Carl’s going to as well. He goes to fumble in his jeans pocket for the condom and lube he decided to bring, knowing all along that this was what he wanted, and knowing Peter knew as well, and that he wouldn't pass up the chance.
Even in the near darkness, Peter can see what he has in his hands, and he looks up at Carl with wide, hungry eyes.
“I knew there was another reason you wanted to get me here under cover of darkness,” Peter says with a grin, as if he's not the one naked and waiting for Carl in bed, touching himself under the covers because he can't be patient for even half a minute.
“Well, I thought you'd be disappointed if I brought you to a hotel and you didn't even get a chance to make use of one of these luxurious beds,” Carl says, his face straight as he climbs back into bed and into Peter's arms.
Peter pulls him down so they're face to face, lying on their sides under the sheets, and he's smiling so happily that Carl almost doesn't want to spoil it by kissing him again.
“Alright?” he murmurs, so close their noses are touching, their breaths on each others’ faces.
“Alright,” Peter replies, his hand sneaking to Carl's hip, round to his arse. “You alright?”
“I'm alright,” confirms Carl, and they giggle together at the sitcomness of it.
They do kiss now, slow and indulgent, making the most of it. Peter's hands are gentle as they stroke over Carl's skin, but there's intent there, and Carl is responding to it, his hips pushing forward against Peter's, enjoying the hardness there and knowing how much Peter wants him.
Peter rolls onto his back and Carl moves over him, fitting between Peter’s spread thighs easily, relishing the way Peter arches up already, rubbing himself against Carl's belly. Carl gets some lube on his fingers, slips his hand between Peter’s legs, just rubs there for now, teasing, letting Peter want it, ask for it.
Peter looks up at him, reaches up and puts his arms around Carl’s neck. “Do it slow, yeah?” he murmurs, not with trepidation or hesitance, but just wanting to enjoy, to make the most of being together.
Carl feels his blood run quicker through his veins, because there's nothing he wants more. He remembers exactly how Peter likes to be touched, to be kissed, to be fucked, and no matter how much time passes they always fall back into it together so easily and naturally, familiar as a song and vivid as a photograph. Carl feels a secret sort of pride that he probably knows Peter better than anybody in all sorts of ways, still knows just where to kiss him to make him melt underneath him, knows where to stroke with his fingertips to make him shiver, knows how to make him sigh and moan and cry out with pleasure as his cock rubs against that spot inside.
"Shhh," he murmurs, nuzzling at Peter's neck below his ear. "We need to be quiet. Don't want the neighbours calling the police to report suspicious activity at the new Libertine place, do we?"
"Squatters breaking in just to have a roof to shag under," Peter whispers back breathlessly. "Sounds familiar."
Carl has to stifle a laugh, grazing Peter's throat playfully with his teeth. He doesn't really care if Peter is quiet or not, but it makes it a little easier for him to go slow, like Peter wants, if he is. Peter obviously thinks the best way to shut himself up is to reach up and press his lips firmly against Carl's, which is just fine with him.
"So, we've christened the place then," says Peter when they're done. He's lying on his side again, looking at Carl with soft, warm eyes and a smile that's perfectly contented, and Carl thinks to himself that all of this, the hotel and the vision and all the work they'll have to do to achieve it, will be worth it, if Peter could just look at him like that every day. "Can we stay here all night?" Peter asks.
There's a rare note of hopefulness in his voice, and Carl can imagine what he must have in mind. Their own place, to recapture the thing they always both wanted so much, that slipped from their grasp in pieces so many years ago. Start again, as they mean to go on.
So Carl is filled with regret that he has to say they can't, not now. Not yet. “Soon,” he promises, though he doesn’t really have any idea how soon is soon. He supposes it depends whether Peter decides to spill more details, now he’s seen the place, and he realises that actually, it doesn’t matter if he does. Let people know, let people see. See what they can do, what they can make of this unlikeliest of ventures. Because now Peter is here, and he’s happy, and they’re in it together.
Pairing: Pete/Carl
Genre: Hotel fic
Rating: S (but only a little bit)
Summary: Carl shows Peter the hotel for the first time.
Notes: I started this fic a couple of years ago, when the hotel news was pretty fresh, and now the place is actually (partially) open I thought I'd finally finish it off. There's some artistic licence from before some facts were established, so please accept this re-imagining! Time's just about right for a sequel after the journey of the last few years right...?
“Why are you bringing me here in the middle of the night, anyway?” Peter asks as he follows Carl up the steps.
There are several reasons, some of which Carl knows Peter is fully aware of, so he starts with one that may or may not have occurred to him.
“Because no-one’s supposed to know about it yet, are they?” He rolls his eyes even though Peter can’t see them, but he knows he must hear it in his voice anyway. “Should probably try and keep a bit of mystery about the location, at least, for now.”
Carl knew Peter would blab about the hotel. He even knew he would tell so soon after Carl let him in on it, but he didn’t mind, far from it - if Peter had thought it was a terrible, stupid idea, he wouldn’t’ve said a word, wouldn’t’ve been so keen to solidify it in publication, and that wouldn't just have been a setback, it would've been unbearably embarrassing.
But now it is out there, and that makes it real - they’re committed, no going back. And Carl likes how it feels, new and exciting and probably more than a little bit mad but so much the better.
He unlocks the door and Peter follows him inside. Carl makes sure the door is completely shut and the curtains are closed before he dares to switch the lights on in the dining room, revealing its tatty glory.
He’s glad he can see Peter’s expression as his eyes widen and a grin spreads across his face.
“This is incredible,” Peter says, with feeling. “It’s like we’ve gone back in time to when we were kids.”
Carl smiles. “Isn’t it,” he agrees. “Like it hasn’t been altered for thirty years. It instantly appealed.”
“I can see why,” Peter says, starting off around the room, poking into cruets and smoothing doilies and marvelling at horrible ornaments. “Look at all this stuff! I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I saw all this shit and thought of you,” Carl says dryly. “Not sure even charity shops would want this stuff these days. Well, maybe in Margate,” he amends as an afterthought.
Peter chuckles, examining everything with fascination. “Oh, they must’ve had a bar,” he says, scrutinising a handwritten laminated list blu-takked to the wall. “Shall we see what they have left?”
He disappears through a door and Carl follows, hearing him before he sees him again, bottles clanking and plastic rustling and Peter narrating his discoveries.
“There’s a bottle of Taboo here!” Peter says, with undisguised delight. “Want some?”
Carl only hesitates for a second. “Go on then,” he says, watching Peter gleefully unscrew the bottle and take a drink from it happily. “After all, it’s all paid for,” he deadpans.
“Yeah, there’s a lot here,” Peter says, passing him the bottle. “I thought it might be all bare and empty.”
“Going concern, innit,” says Carl, raising his eyebrows. “I suppose it was easier for the previous owners to just palm everything off on us.”
“Us,” Peter repeats, his voice softer, and the unexpectedness of it makes Carl’s heart skip a little.
“Yeah, it’s all yours too, y’know,” Carl murmurs. “So if you’re after any new tat, help yourself.”
“I might just leave it in situ,” Peter says. “For when I come back.”
Carl’s heart feels warm at how casually Peter says it, like it's a given already in his mind, and he lets himself enjoy the feeling, tries to catch hold of it and believe in it before doubts and worries start to seep in. He’s sure they will, with just so many factors involved, not least of which is Peter himself - but just for now, even just for tonight, Carl is determined to allow himself to feel pleased that Peter is so taken with the place and so enthused with the concept. That’s what makes Carl happiest, and in no small part relieved, because if Peter approves and if Peter agrees, everything else is peripheral, it’ll fall into place one way or another. And if it falls apart instead, well, at least they’ll fall apart together.
“So what’s the bedrooms like then?” asks Peter slyly, already heading towards the stairs.
Carl follows him, trying not to smile. “Moth-eaten,” he says, and Peter chuckles. “Semen-stained, or so I’ve heard,” he adds, and Peter full-on laughs.
“Brilliant,” he says sincerely. “Perfect.”
“I tried to think of what you’d do, when I was looking,” Carl says. “Tried to imagine what you’d think.”
“I trust you to act on my behalf in such matters,” says Peter solemnly as they head up the stairs. “I think you’ve made a good choice.”
That’s all Carl wanted to hear all along. All the while he was coming up with bullshit justifications to do with investment, appreciation, value - all the time spent trying to pretend he was remotely interested in projections and business plans, and of course he saw the necessity of all that, but all he really wanted was to share it with Peter.
Others had sought to reassure him, back him up - it’s a good idea, an asset no matter what happens, their money is safe in bricks and mortar (including for and from Peter himself, and Carl knows he’d admit that). But those practical, steadfast, solid responses - well-intentioned and welcome as they were - only settled his mind so far. This is what he wanted, this is why he’s been wanting to bring Peter here, and the relief he feels now is greater than he even imagined.
Some of the doors are locked, and Carl hasn’t got all the keys with him, but that’s OK, because Peter can see them next time. The room at the top is open though, and Carl leads Peter up the stairs to it. He flicks the light switch inside the room but nothing happens - the bulb is gone. They stand still for a minute, waiting to be able to see better in the light from the moon and the town that comes in through the dormer window.
“I thought you might like this room,” Carl says, almost shyly. His voice feels loud in the still room, so far removed above the sound of the sea in the dark, the distant night traffic in the street.
Peter walks around slowly, carefully. There’s nothing particularly different about this room, except the feeling that Carl gets when he’s here and thinks about Peter.
“A nice garret for you,” he adds, smiling.
Peter catches his eye in the darkness and smiles back. “I like it,” he says, his voice soft like Carl’s. “I can’t believe it’s ours,” he says, and Carl’s heart skitters again.
“I know, it’s a bit surreal still, isn’t it,” Carl agrees. “Hard to envision what it’ll be like when it’s all complete.”
“I can’t wait to see, though,” Peter says, with conviction that strikes Carl all the way through.
Peter sits down on the bed and takes off his shoes and coat - settling in, thinks Carl affectionately, and does the same, reclining back against the pillows next to Peter and rather glad he can’t see the bedding too clearly. He’s still got the bottle of fucking Taboo, and they pass it between them like they really have regressed twenty years. All Carl really wants in this moment is to be close to Peter, to feel this togetherness, relish it and let it fill him up inside until the next time they have the chance to just be in each other’s company, happy, just them, together in space.
Their own space. Somewhere with their names on it, their hands in it, their design running through the fabric. Carl can’t wait either, can’t wait to find out what they’ll produce here, what this crucible might see forged. Looking around now, it’s hard to see, hard to superimpose the kind of environment it might end up, but right now Carl isn’t bothered about any of that, because if he is here, and Peter is here, that’s all they need, and the songs still within them will crystallise and materialise and make their way out no matter what surrounds them, and no matter how long it takes.
“I really appreciate this, y’know,” Peter says quietly. “I appreciate you doing all this. It wouldn’t’ve ever occurred to me that this is what we'd be up to in the year 2017, but, y’know, it feels right. It feels good.”
Carl can’t help but smile, happiness spreading through every bit of him, warm and genuine. “I’m glad you approve,” he says, turning so he can see Peter’s face in the semi-light. He hesitates for just a second before he goes on. “I wanted a place where we can be together, all of us,” he says. “But I wanted somewhere where you’d want to come, and come back to, where you’d be... comfortable.” He doesn’t want Peter to feel patronised, doesn’t want to assume he knows best what Peter wants and needs, but Carl does want him to know the truth of his thoughts and his feelings. He wants Peter to feel like this is somewhere he can be and he can have and they can share, and even when Carl isn’t here Peter will know that Carl knows where to find him. And Carl wants to know that, too.
“I will,” Peter says, that same confidence in his voice that makes something spark and light up in Carl’s chest. “I can feel it.”
Carl feels hope and optimism swell and bloom inside him like the bud of an unfamiliar flower. He feels excited and young, standing at the beginning of something as yet unseen and unshaped. Carl can't just keep it all to himself, and all he can do, all he wants to do, the only thing in the world it makes sense to do right now, is lean in and kiss Peter softly on the mouth.
Peter kisses him back with a little sound of happy acquiescence, like Carl has given him something he's been anticipating all along. His lips are eager against Carl's, and Carl wants to smile with the purity of it, the undisguised expression of feeling between them, from both of them.
He holds Peter loosely, relaxed, till he feels him shift and squirm in his arms, trying to get closer, to kiss him more deeply.
“It's been so long,” Peter says, almost a whine against Carl's lips.
“It's only been a few months,” murmurs Carl, remembering hurried, distracting hands in a Paris backstage toilet, but Peter's right, it does feel like a long time, and Carl responds to his needy kisses with fervour.
“Long enough,” Peter murmurs, sliding his hands under Carl's t-shirt.
Carl takes it off immediately, not wanting to wait to feel more of Peter against him, that closeness, and Peter grins and does the same, leaning swiftly in again so they can kiss some more, pressed skin to skin now, heartbeat to heartbeat. Peter’s keen hands are soon at Carl’s jeans, unfastening his belt and fly and reaching inside, rubbing Carl’s half-hard cock through his underwear till he’s all the way there, hips rocking up against the heat of Peter’s palm in no time at all.
Peter’s hand moves off him much too soon, and Carl sighs in disappointment before he can stop himself, missing his touch. Peter is undoing his own trousers, wriggling out of them without leaving the bed - he throws them onto the floor, followed by his underwear, and Carl can’t help but see it, with a certain fondness, as a sign of things to come, a habit that Peter will soon get into. Peter isn’t wearing socks, he notices, and he thinks his feet will be cold against Carl’s legs, and around his back when they fuck. He shivers just imagining, his skin goosepimpling with spiralling excitement, and he makes himself get off the bed now, before he gives in to Peter’s hands and lips again and it’ll be so much harder to break away.
He strips off his own jeans and socks and underwear and leaves them on the floor too, because if Peter's making himself at home, Carl’s going to as well. He goes to fumble in his jeans pocket for the condom and lube he decided to bring, knowing all along that this was what he wanted, and knowing Peter knew as well, and that he wouldn't pass up the chance.
Even in the near darkness, Peter can see what he has in his hands, and he looks up at Carl with wide, hungry eyes.
“I knew there was another reason you wanted to get me here under cover of darkness,” Peter says with a grin, as if he's not the one naked and waiting for Carl in bed, touching himself under the covers because he can't be patient for even half a minute.
“Well, I thought you'd be disappointed if I brought you to a hotel and you didn't even get a chance to make use of one of these luxurious beds,” Carl says, his face straight as he climbs back into bed and into Peter's arms.
Peter pulls him down so they're face to face, lying on their sides under the sheets, and he's smiling so happily that Carl almost doesn't want to spoil it by kissing him again.
“Alright?” he murmurs, so close their noses are touching, their breaths on each others’ faces.
“Alright,” Peter replies, his hand sneaking to Carl's hip, round to his arse. “You alright?”
“I'm alright,” confirms Carl, and they giggle together at the sitcomness of it.
They do kiss now, slow and indulgent, making the most of it. Peter's hands are gentle as they stroke over Carl's skin, but there's intent there, and Carl is responding to it, his hips pushing forward against Peter's, enjoying the hardness there and knowing how much Peter wants him.
Peter rolls onto his back and Carl moves over him, fitting between Peter’s spread thighs easily, relishing the way Peter arches up already, rubbing himself against Carl's belly. Carl gets some lube on his fingers, slips his hand between Peter’s legs, just rubs there for now, teasing, letting Peter want it, ask for it.
Peter looks up at him, reaches up and puts his arms around Carl’s neck. “Do it slow, yeah?” he murmurs, not with trepidation or hesitance, but just wanting to enjoy, to make the most of being together.
Carl feels his blood run quicker through his veins, because there's nothing he wants more. He remembers exactly how Peter likes to be touched, to be kissed, to be fucked, and no matter how much time passes they always fall back into it together so easily and naturally, familiar as a song and vivid as a photograph. Carl feels a secret sort of pride that he probably knows Peter better than anybody in all sorts of ways, still knows just where to kiss him to make him melt underneath him, knows where to stroke with his fingertips to make him shiver, knows how to make him sigh and moan and cry out with pleasure as his cock rubs against that spot inside.
"Shhh," he murmurs, nuzzling at Peter's neck below his ear. "We need to be quiet. Don't want the neighbours calling the police to report suspicious activity at the new Libertine place, do we?"
"Squatters breaking in just to have a roof to shag under," Peter whispers back breathlessly. "Sounds familiar."
Carl has to stifle a laugh, grazing Peter's throat playfully with his teeth. He doesn't really care if Peter is quiet or not, but it makes it a little easier for him to go slow, like Peter wants, if he is. Peter obviously thinks the best way to shut himself up is to reach up and press his lips firmly against Carl's, which is just fine with him.
"So, we've christened the place then," says Peter when they're done. He's lying on his side again, looking at Carl with soft, warm eyes and a smile that's perfectly contented, and Carl thinks to himself that all of this, the hotel and the vision and all the work they'll have to do to achieve it, will be worth it, if Peter could just look at him like that every day. "Can we stay here all night?" Peter asks.
There's a rare note of hopefulness in his voice, and Carl can imagine what he must have in mind. Their own place, to recapture the thing they always both wanted so much, that slipped from their grasp in pieces so many years ago. Start again, as they mean to go on.
So Carl is filled with regret that he has to say they can't, not now. Not yet. “Soon,” he promises, though he doesn’t really have any idea how soon is soon. He supposes it depends whether Peter decides to spill more details, now he’s seen the place, and he realises that actually, it doesn’t matter if he does. Let people know, let people see. See what they can do, what they can make of this unlikeliest of ventures. Because now Peter is here, and he’s happy, and they’re in it together.