(no subject)
Lost in the Supermarket
Pairing:
Pete/Carl
Genre:
pre-fame fluff
Wordcount: 2600
Really, Carl considered, he
should never have let Peter talk him into going into that bloody supermarket.
Of course, there were all sorts
of excuses he could give. One being the fact that the Tube had broken
down, meaning that they had had to walk through seemingly endless streets,
the slush that the sky had delivered instead of snow trickling through
holes in boots, turning their socks sodden and causing them to cling
to their feet uncomfortably. And of course, when they got home they
wouldn’t be able to hang their wringing clothes on the radiator to
dry. The letter from the utility company had arrived early last week,
informing them in aggravatingly civil tones that ‘due to your failure
to keep up to date with payments, we regret to inform you that your
central heating shall be cut off indefinitely, starting from date 20th
December’. No Christmas charity for them then, Carl had thought grimly,
scrunching up the paper in a fit of pique after reading the closing
‘Hope you have a Merry Christmas,” and flinging it into the bin,
which was already overflowing with various crumpled bills, letters and
pages torn out of Peter’s many journals.
They had set out today, he
and Peter, for a spot of busking, hoping to take advantage of Christmas
goodwill, perhaps scrape enough together for a couple of celebratory
drinks, maybe even a cut-price turkey from the back of the supermarket
shelves. But maybe their refusal to play the old, tired Christmas jingles
expected had counted against them, as what they had emptied out of Peter’s
old, battered trilby hat at the end of the day had barely amounted to
enough for them to buy a much needed tea from the stall along the street.
Still, they had walked to the tube station fairly merrily, passing the
precious warmth of the Styrofoam cup between them, the hot liquid warming
their insides. Carl had smiled fondly as the steam from the cup removed
some of the red tint that the coldness had caused from Peter’s nose,
not able to restrain himself from pressing a quick touch of his lips
to it, which prompted a warm, if slightly confused smile from Peter,
along with a slight blush that could have been from the cold.
However, once the empty coffee
cup had been dispensed with into a bin stuffed to the brim with wrapping
paper and bags from various toy shops and they had spent quarter of
an hour crammed into an overfull underground carriage, trying hard to
safeguard their guitars from being pressed into sweaty backs and the
hard corners of boxes containing expensive gifts, most often being borne
by solemn faced fathers who looked like they were trying to mentally
re-align their family savings, their good spirit had faded. Having to
pile off at Victoria Station when the Tube had ceased to function had
been the last straw and Carl had stalked homeward in his own personal
cloud of melancholy, barely noticing the crowds of last-minute Christmas
shoppers or Peter, who had struggled to keep up with him despite his
longer stride.
“Carl! Look at this!”
Carl had whirled around, a
frustrated “What?!” on the verge of spilling over his lips, however,
it was transformed into more of an affectionate query upon catching
sight of Peter, all wide eyes and wonder, standing transfixed outside
a shop window.
“Just look at it!” Peter
had enthused with all the excitement of a five year old in a chocolate
factory. “The tree, and the lights and….” he had turned to Carl,
brown eyes pleading. “ Can we go in Carlos? Just for a bit..”
Ah fuck.. Carl had thought,
knowing that he had never been able to say no to Peter, especially not
when the other boy pulled that whole adorably pathetic puppy-dog eyes
routine. He wouldn’t actually mind going in either actually, he had
decided, taking in the huge tree that dominated the window display,
surrounded by fake snow and pile upon pile of brightly wrapped parcels,
and adorned with enough lights that Carl had had the feeling that some
small family in Scunthorpe would be without electricity for the next
three years in order to readdress the balance. It had been like seeing
what a real Christmas was supposed to be like, far flung from the highly
understated celebrations he had experienced with his family, which had
usually entailed a load of depressed people gathering as if to spite
the intended merriment of the event before spending most of the night
complaining about how hard-up they were and getting pissed on cheap
wine. That was if he had been at his dads…when he had been staying
with his mum it was uncommon for anyone to even notice that it was Christmas.
It had just blurred past, lost to a drug-induced stupor like so much
time spent at the gypsy communes.
So Carl had understood Peter’s
delight at the idea of a proper Christmas, although Peter’s was born
more out of happy memories of Christmas’s with his family rather than
the lack of them. But still, Carl had hidden his enthusiasm, feigning
reluctance.
“I dunno Pete….we only
have ten p between us. This place costs a fuckin’ fortune.”
Peter nodded at the truth of
the statement, but none of the pleading quality left his eyes.
“Yeah, I know….just to
look though yeah?”
This time Carl couldn’t prevent
an indulgent smile from spreading across his face.
“Yeah, alright then. If -
”
Carl had been cut off then,
Peter having grabbed his hand as soon as he heard the acquiescence and
set off at great speed, nearly pulling Carl’s arm out of the socket
as he was tugged forcefully into the shop. When they’d reached the
central hall Peter had stopped abruptly, causing Carl to run into the
back of him.
“Oy, watch where you’re
going!”
Carl had shot Peter an incredulous
look, “How’m I meant to if you’re bloody tugging me along like
a fucking Jack Russell?” This was not met by the apology he had been
looking for, instead Peter had tilted his head to one side, looking
at Carl with a thoughtful expression.
“Jack Russell….that works
actually….small’n angry.” He had then met Carl’s fuming expression
with an innocent grin, not giving him the chance to retaliate before
bombarding him with excited questions, eyes darting round all the different
displays.
“So what first Biggles? Santa’s
grotto?” Carl had followed Peter’s gaze, taking in the large queue
of children heading into a brightly coloured hut, the ‘elves’ standing
outside, admirable grins on their faces. Bloody hell, Carl had
thought, if he had to do that job he’d be swearing at the kids
in no time, he was sure. You were always going to get one snotty
little brat that would demand a horse, or perhaps a smart arse who had
decided to uncover ‘Santa’ and his ‘elves’ for the fraudsters
they were by asking them bloody impossible questions, trying to pull
off the fake ears and beard.
He had given Peter a sceptical
look. “Santa’s grotto’s for kids innit? Think you might be a bit
old Pete..” then, looking once again at the line of children and back
at Peter, he’d added with a grin “…not to mention that you’re
about five times the right height.”
This hadn’t seemed to quell
Peter’s joy in the slightest, in fact, it had seemed to improve his
mood if anything, and he had shrugged before smiling enthusiastically
at Carl “Ah, but you my dear Carlos are the perfect stature.”
Then, to add to it all, he had patted Carl on the head in the most patronising
of fashions, causing Carl to hit his hand away, scowling,
“Fuck off! They’re about
two foot!”
Peter had raised his eyebrows
in apparent confusion. “Yeah? Your point being…?”
Carl had just stared at Peter,
mouth falling open slightly in indignation….Bloody infuriating
bastard. He’d had half a mind to push him into the towering display
of soft toys that was balanced nearby, but to Peter’s good fortune,
his attention had then been diverted by a sign on a table nearby and
it had been his turn to drag Peter along as he took off across the shop
towards it, boots skidding slightly on the highly polished floor.
When he’d reached the table
he stood stock still, eyes ravenously devouring the sight of the edibles
displayed upon it. Cakes and pastries in abundance, Christmas puddings
all wrapped up in red paper and oh, mince pies! Carl had felt his mouth
watering at the sight, not to mention the smell of them. He always had
been rather fond of mince pies, and he hadn’t had one since….ah…it
must have been ages ago. He could remember his mum making them, one
of the few cakes that seemingly didn’t suit the addition of hash,
and he and Lucie had always had bets with each other over who could
be the first to steal one from on top of the oven. He’d won most of
the time too, he remembered proudly, although not without a few scalded
fingers.
His stomach, protesting at
the sight of all this food when the only thing he had eaten today was
a couple of handfuls of cocopops (never trust Peter to do the shopping)
which was all that remained in their bare cupboards, had then given
out a loud rumble. Peter, who had moved along the aisle, eyeing up turkeys
and other assorted meats hungrily, had turned at the noise, giving Carl
a conspiratory wink before Carl had seen one of his hands sneaking out,
surreptitiously shifting a small package of chipolata sausages into
his pocket.
Carl’s brows had shot up
in alarm, and he’d sidled up closer to Peter so that he could hiss
slightly panicked words into his ear, “What d’you think you’re
doing?!” He’d tried to reach for the packet, intending to replace
it, but Peter had gripped his hand in his own, halting its progress.
“Come on Carlos…just think....we
could have a proper Christmas. A little taste of Arcadia. I mean, if
we don’t take it, it’ll probably end up being fed to the cat of
some rich spinster who bought the full works to kid herself on that
she has someone to cook it all for.” As he spoke, the hand that had
captured Carl’s had started moving, tracing light lines on the sensitive
skin on the inside of Carl’s wrist, and he’d moved closer, so that
the last few words had been almost exhaled, warm air tingling across
the redness of Carl’s lips, which had caused him to be drawn forward
through the slither of air separating them to press his lips against
Peter’s gently.
Peter had drawn away slightly
reluctantly after the briefest of moments, regarding Carl with a small
lopsided grin and warmth sparkling in his eyes. “So can we?” he
asked softly. Carl had looked at him in confusion for a second before
his brain caught up with Peter’s question. He’d nodded, Peter and
Christmas food seeming so much more appealing than morals at this point
in time, and had been rewarded with a beaming smile from Peter.
They had spent the next five
minutes trying to stash as many consumable items as possible about their
persons, managing fairly well until they had come to a standstill, at
a loss to figure out how to conceal a turkey, which they both agreed
was an absolute necessity.
Peter had run a hand through
his already messy hair in contemplation before he’d finally seemed
to come up with an idea. “I know! I could stick it up my jumper, say
I’m pregnant. ‘m sure I saw that done on tv once.”
“Don’t think that would
work Pete.” Carl had replied with a grin, presuming that Peter was
joking. He didn’t seem to have been however, as his expression had
fallen at Carl’s veto of his plan.
“Why not?”
“Well, sorry to break it
to you, but you are a bloke.”
“Oh..” Peter had seemed
defeated for a moment, looking at the turkey longingly. “Guess you’d
better do it then…” He’d then ducked away, laughing, as Carl moved
to cuff him round the head. “Ah - don’t be like that Carl,”
he’d said in a reconciliatory tone when he’d recovered from his
fits of giggles, causing Carl to come out of his huff slightly, awaiting
Peter’s apology. Peter had raised a hand to softly brush against Carl’s
cheek, drawing his gaze in to emotion filled brown eyes. “I still
love you Biggles…” Carl had felt a pleasant warm burn inside of
him at Peter’s words, but then of course the other boy had had to
ruin it, face cracking into a look of pure mischief as he added “….even
if you are a woman..” before descending once more into hysterics at
the look on Carl’s face.
As punishment, Peter had got
to attempt to disguise the turkey.
And perhaps that was how they
had been caught upon their exit from the store, although Peter had put
on quite the dramatic performance when asked if he had something hidden
up his jumper, emotionally accusing the shop assistant of calling him
fat. Unfortunately the burly and altogether too intelligent man had
failed to fall for Pete’s routine about how it was abuse like that
that had lead to his bulimia in high school and had promptly demanded
to search Peter and Carl for stolen goods.
Carl wasn’t quite sure how
they’d ended up in a police cell overnight though, although he presumed
that it was due either to the silver cutlery Peter had half-inched or
the fact that he had decked one of the shop assistants when they had
attempted to take his guitar to search inside it. A fine way to spend
Christmas bloody eve he thought bitterly, glaring gloomily at the
wall.
The bunk (Carl refused to call
it a bed, a bed implied softness) sunk down slightly as Peter sat down
awkwardly beside him, eyes fixed on his feet as they swung forwards
and backwards under the suspended pallet.
“ ’m sorry” he mumbled
softly, taking Carl aback slightly. He was the one who mumbled, Peter
spoke with confidence, fluidity. “It’s my fault we’re here.”
He paused for a moment, and Carl looked over at him, eyebrows raising
in alarm when he saw that he was close to tears. “I ruined Christmas.”
The bitterness in Carl’s
heart dissipated at the dejected tone in his friend’s voice, and he
drew Peter to him, lifting up his downturned chin with the fingers of
one hand, and giving a slight, tender smile. “Rubbish. We’ve got
each other don’t we? Sounds like a bloody great Christmas to me.”
he held Peter’s gaze in the hope that his eyes would communicate the
truth of his words, and it seemed to have the desired effect as a small,
tentative smile wavered around Peter’s mouth before his lips moved
to claim Carl’s tenderly, soft, sweet brushes turning progressively
more lingering as they both tried to convey to the other their desire,
attraction, love.
They drew apart finally for
air, Peter resting his head gently against Carl’s forehead before
he seemed to remember something and dug his hand into one pocket, gently
removing something from within.
“I managed to save something.”
He revealed, before opening his palm to show a small mince pie, looking
slightly worse for wear but still like heaven to Carl’s eyes. And
later that night, when Big Ben had rung out twelve across London, Carl
had wrapped himself tighter round Peter in the small bunk, the taste
of mince pie and Peter lingering on his lips, and he had had to admit
that perhaps this hadn’t been such a terrible Christmas after all.
END