Un/Requited
He finds himself noticing things. Things about Peter. And not the obvious things anyone would notice about Peter, because Peter is noticeable, he's this force of nature that draws looks everywhere he goes. Other things. For instance, not his big brown eyes that manage to retain a glimpse of innocence even when every other part of his body screams mischief, but his ears. Peter sits there, retreats into his own little world, and Carl stares at the hair in his ears, thin and invisible except for where it's catching rays of sun and wonders if Peter would shiver if he ran his thumb over them. He can almost see the music flowing into his body, the vibrations as they stream from the headphones and reverberate trough Peter's skin and bones, and thinks that's intimate somehow, like putting your mouth into someone's ear and whispering a secret.
Everyone notices the way Peter scribbles furiously on that notebook he carries everywhere, but Carl wonders if he's the only one who sees when he stops ocasionally, thumb dragging back and forth on the desk or the chair like there's strength to be gained in such a small gesture, like he needs that to keep with whatever it was he was writing, except sometimes he doesn't, just shuts the book and then shuts his eyes, and Carl wants to come over and put his arms around him, but he's too afraid to do it. Until the day he's not.
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It hits him one day, while Peter raises his eyes from a book and smiles, warm and unguarded and just because, that they are probably in love.
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Peter kisses him and it's....wet. Wet and cold and anti-climatic, and there's a part of him, the one that romanticizes everything out of proportion, that's crushed over the lack of fireworks or ringing bells, but there's also a part of him that's really not surprised at all. But then Peter beams at him, smiles like Carl just gave him the moon, and there...there are his ringing bells, loud and clear and deafening and the most beautiful thing he has ever heard.
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This feels natural, Peter's warm skin on his, weight firm and reassuring, and it's just the natural progression of things that they should entwine their bodies like they have entwined their minds, every barrier between them gone except for this tragedy of not being one (it feels wrong somehow that his and Peter's existences are separate, that one could even go on without the presence of the other). And then Peter's eyes shoot up when his hand nests between Carl's legs, but Carl's eyes are already closed to avoid the hurt he knows he'll see there. Because the truth is (and it doesn't make sense, it's the wrong piece to fit in the puzzle, it's information that's out of place and out of sync with everything they know about the world) that, while Peter's body makes Carl's heart flutter, it doesn't set his skin ablaze.
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In the good days, he thinks this is enough. This discovering of places and pressures and speeds, of new ways to elicit gasps and sighs and shudders, it's like playing the most beautiful of all instruments, one that's unique and perfect and alive, and when he looks into Peter's eyes, he feels driven with purpose, because he's making Peter happy and that's his definition of being complete.
In the bad days, he hates Peter, hates him with the wounded, self-destructive fury with which you can only hate someone you love. Hates Peter for wanting to give Carl more than he wants to take, for insisting on taking from Carl more than he wants to give, for being so selfish and not knowing when to stop. As if it's not enough that, along the years, he has given Peter all of his dreams and hopes and fears, as if it's not enough that he gives Peter his heart and soul with every fucking breath. Peter, the bloody hypocrite that, with all his talk of noble feelings, seems to think the measure of Carl's love is the way he reacts to Peter's hands.
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"I can smell her on you. What was the matter, Carl? Too much time had passed since you've last been seen in public with someone with tits?"
"For fuck's sake, Peter! Can't I actually have a shag that I'll enjoy once in a while?"
It's out of his mouth before he can think of stopping it. He braces himself for the look of pain and anger in Peter's face, that look he has come to know so well (and he always thought he wanted to know all of Peter, every minor detail and secret corner, never thought he would find himself wishing there were places he had never gone to). But what he sees is the face of a man who has grown weary of hiding inside the paper-thin walls of his fortress of denial.
He can see that as much as Peter would like to pretend that it's shame that makes Carl's heartbeat stay steady and unchanged even while Peter's leaving a wet trail of kisses in his chest, as much as he would like to pretend that it's just a matter of time untill Carl's comfortable enough to let Peter touch him in all the ways he dreams of...he's known for some time now, in that dreaded part of his brain that wakes him up at night to talk of all the things that leave him cold and scared, that this is not a problem that he can work up a solution for, this is just the way things are, just one more sign that he's alone in a vast universe that doesn't care about the things he wants to, craves for, would fucking kill to have.
"It's not you", Carl says. That's as helpful as it sounds.
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He's not surprised when he gets the call. He's been waiting for something like this, for some grand gesture in Peter's escalating quest to invade Carl's space. It had become more and more unbearable lately, as it seemed Peter had decided that, if he couldn't have Carl's body, then he would demand every inch of Carl's heart, mind and soul. As if there was anything left to take.
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He stares in disgust at the man in front of him. This man he once thought he knew so well now seems a complete stranger. This man has brought him here, to this point where he can't even trace his steps to find out where he went wrong, what was the turn that took him so far from any path that wouldn't end in tears and heartbreak. Hate seeps trough his veins till he can't stand to stare anymore. He tears his eyes away from the mirror and starts bashing his head in the sink.
He doesn't know why he's doing this more than he knows why he does anything these days, but there's a voice inside his head that keeps screaming that Peter needs to see, listen, understand, he needs to know that Carl's suffering too, this thing is eating him alive, clawing at his guts, and while this is not the healthiest way of saying it, he thinks a message that vital deserves a blood sacrifice.
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He's never stood so far from Peter in a stage. He itches to edge closer, mingle their breaths while they share a mic, but he doesn't know where the boundaries are anymore, doesn't know where he stands in this new and uncharted territory born of all the ways they have hurt and loved each other trough all those years. He knows it's still there, though, the foundation of this thing that made the two of them together be so much more than the mere sum of its parts. It feels so right to play their songs like this again, to look Peter in the eye while they bring to life these pieces of their souls, crafted from their hurt and hope and love. "Why can't this be enough?" he tries to tell Peter with every note he plays. "Please, let this be enough."
==============================================================================================
He's not surprised when he gets the call. He's been waiting for something like this, some grand gesture in Peter's escalating quest to be welcome in Carl's space. As if, since Peter had accepted he couldn't have Carl's body, he would cherish every inch of Carl's mind, heart and soul. And there was always more for him to take.
==============================================================================================
It hits him one day while Peter raises his eyes from the guitar and smiles, warm and unguarded and just because, that Peter knows that he's loved.
Everyone notices the way Peter scribbles furiously on that notebook he carries everywhere, but Carl wonders if he's the only one who sees when he stops ocasionally, thumb dragging back and forth on the desk or the chair like there's strength to be gained in such a small gesture, like he needs that to keep with whatever it was he was writing, except sometimes he doesn't, just shuts the book and then shuts his eyes, and Carl wants to come over and put his arms around him, but he's too afraid to do it. Until the day he's not.
=============================================================================================
It hits him one day, while Peter raises his eyes from a book and smiles, warm and unguarded and just because, that they are probably in love.
=============================================================================================
Peter kisses him and it's....wet. Wet and cold and anti-climatic, and there's a part of him, the one that romanticizes everything out of proportion, that's crushed over the lack of fireworks or ringing bells, but there's also a part of him that's really not surprised at all. But then Peter beams at him, smiles like Carl just gave him the moon, and there...there are his ringing bells, loud and clear and deafening and the most beautiful thing he has ever heard.
==============================================================================================
This feels natural, Peter's warm skin on his, weight firm and reassuring, and it's just the natural progression of things that they should entwine their bodies like they have entwined their minds, every barrier between them gone except for this tragedy of not being one (it feels wrong somehow that his and Peter's existences are separate, that one could even go on without the presence of the other). And then Peter's eyes shoot up when his hand nests between Carl's legs, but Carl's eyes are already closed to avoid the hurt he knows he'll see there. Because the truth is (and it doesn't make sense, it's the wrong piece to fit in the puzzle, it's information that's out of place and out of sync with everything they know about the world) that, while Peter's body makes Carl's heart flutter, it doesn't set his skin ablaze.
=============================================================================================
In the good days, he thinks this is enough. This discovering of places and pressures and speeds, of new ways to elicit gasps and sighs and shudders, it's like playing the most beautiful of all instruments, one that's unique and perfect and alive, and when he looks into Peter's eyes, he feels driven with purpose, because he's making Peter happy and that's his definition of being complete.
In the bad days, he hates Peter, hates him with the wounded, self-destructive fury with which you can only hate someone you love. Hates Peter for wanting to give Carl more than he wants to take, for insisting on taking from Carl more than he wants to give, for being so selfish and not knowing when to stop. As if it's not enough that, along the years, he has given Peter all of his dreams and hopes and fears, as if it's not enough that he gives Peter his heart and soul with every fucking breath. Peter, the bloody hypocrite that, with all his talk of noble feelings, seems to think the measure of Carl's love is the way he reacts to Peter's hands.
==============================================================================================
"I can smell her on you. What was the matter, Carl? Too much time had passed since you've last been seen in public with someone with tits?"
"For fuck's sake, Peter! Can't I actually have a shag that I'll enjoy once in a while?"
It's out of his mouth before he can think of stopping it. He braces himself for the look of pain and anger in Peter's face, that look he has come to know so well (and he always thought he wanted to know all of Peter, every minor detail and secret corner, never thought he would find himself wishing there were places he had never gone to). But what he sees is the face of a man who has grown weary of hiding inside the paper-thin walls of his fortress of denial.
He can see that as much as Peter would like to pretend that it's shame that makes Carl's heartbeat stay steady and unchanged even while Peter's leaving a wet trail of kisses in his chest, as much as he would like to pretend that it's just a matter of time untill Carl's comfortable enough to let Peter touch him in all the ways he dreams of...he's known for some time now, in that dreaded part of his brain that wakes him up at night to talk of all the things that leave him cold and scared, that this is not a problem that he can work up a solution for, this is just the way things are, just one more sign that he's alone in a vast universe that doesn't care about the things he wants to, craves for, would fucking kill to have.
"It's not you", Carl says. That's as helpful as it sounds.
==============================================================================================
He's not surprised when he gets the call. He's been waiting for something like this, for some grand gesture in Peter's escalating quest to invade Carl's space. It had become more and more unbearable lately, as it seemed Peter had decided that, if he couldn't have Carl's body, then he would demand every inch of Carl's heart, mind and soul. As if there was anything left to take.
=============================================================================================
He stares in disgust at the man in front of him. This man he once thought he knew so well now seems a complete stranger. This man has brought him here, to this point where he can't even trace his steps to find out where he went wrong, what was the turn that took him so far from any path that wouldn't end in tears and heartbreak. Hate seeps trough his veins till he can't stand to stare anymore. He tears his eyes away from the mirror and starts bashing his head in the sink.
He doesn't know why he's doing this more than he knows why he does anything these days, but there's a voice inside his head that keeps screaming that Peter needs to see, listen, understand, he needs to know that Carl's suffering too, this thing is eating him alive, clawing at his guts, and while this is not the healthiest way of saying it, he thinks a message that vital deserves a blood sacrifice.
==============================================================================================
He's never stood so far from Peter in a stage. He itches to edge closer, mingle their breaths while they share a mic, but he doesn't know where the boundaries are anymore, doesn't know where he stands in this new and uncharted territory born of all the ways they have hurt and loved each other trough all those years. He knows it's still there, though, the foundation of this thing that made the two of them together be so much more than the mere sum of its parts. It feels so right to play their songs like this again, to look Peter in the eye while they bring to life these pieces of their souls, crafted from their hurt and hope and love. "Why can't this be enough?" he tries to tell Peter with every note he plays. "Please, let this be enough."
==============================================================================================
He's not surprised when he gets the call. He's been waiting for something like this, some grand gesture in Peter's escalating quest to be welcome in Carl's space. As if, since Peter had accepted he couldn't have Carl's body, he would cherish every inch of Carl's mind, heart and soul. And there was always more for him to take.
==============================================================================================
It hits him one day while Peter raises his eyes from the guitar and smiles, warm and unguarded and just because, that Peter knows that he's loved.