dirty old t plus oooh fic
ahhhhhhhhh
ooft what a weekend. would attempt to discuss it, but brain is hurting. need moar humous. which, incidentally, one can guzzle at festivals these days. didn't know that they were so great. was a risotto stand. more falafel than i could eat, too. a tea tent. was sweet as the proverbial. and i was uber grateful to the people selling roasted chesnuts for making the haufing arena smell that bit more palatable :D
but yeah t in the park rocked out, dude.
the pogues and pendulum were highlights, but oooh hot chip rolled out the hits. got a stitch from bouncing. pathetic, right?! got trampled during the chemical brothers, that was a tad less than good-natured. rage was awesome, but violent as fuck. feeder! they were lovely. fun fun fun. the prodigy were rockin' as always.
that's premuch all i can remember. ha. campers were dudes - the guys next to us got out their guitars and had acoustic sessions alllll night long. serious amounts of early greenday and stereophonics (wtf!), but also a fair number of mighty boosh covers - made me very happy. in fact, mighty boosh jokes all over the shop. passed numerous people who kept shouting "I'VE GOT A MANGINA!" also one dude who was camping next to us wandered off for a piss, crying out "coming out of me it is, like a yellow cable!". aaaah hitcher for the win.
woke up on saturday morning to the faint strains of eric clapton, tears in heaven. was fantastiche.
there was also someone who kept playing oasis on a harmonica. i don't know how to respond to that, really.
anyway. so. stabbing was pretty fucking scary, eh? just on the edge of the camping area i was in. jesus. it really sort of underlines how vulnerable you are in festival campsites - sort of relying on everyone to be as good-natured as you are. and most people are genuinely fab, makes it all the more horrifying when the bad 'uns kick off. kerrrrist.
well. onto less terrifying but still nerve-inducing matters. i have here a wee pete'n'carl fic (my opus, if you will - hah) which. er. lordy. well, i was thinking i'd post it here first, just to make it officially on the interwebz and possibly drum up the balls to then post it on albion_fic. tough stuff, in that i have been an entirely rude non-commenting lurker over there for the past few weeks (holidays = fic reading time) . so. sigh. suck it up, bitch. that is a motivational message to myself, just to clarify. and i will do. like whoa.
so let's see if this cut works...ought to...oooh i'm such a wee coward...
Hope there’s someone who’ll take care of me when I die
I know what you're doing," comes Pete's voice, and Carl can pick out that sly edge a mile off. Which might not be necessary, really - how the hell did Pete know what he was doing? Peering suspiciously around the room, Carl hurriedly finishes folding his baggier jeans around his Jame's bottles and slams the drawer shut. Annalisa'll never find 'em.
"How did you guess?" he mutters into the phone. He can hear the note of tiredness creeping in, making him wince.
"Oh, well, it looks clear enough, doesn't it?" Pete continues airily.
Carl flinches, paranoid. "Are you in my fucking flat again, Pete?" He’s still nervous from that time he caught Pete hiding in his bathtub. Last place he'd expected to find him, too, the filthy bugger. "I've told you, I like seeing you, I want to see you, you don't have to bloody stalk me out..."
"Eh?" Pete sounds properly perplexed, which is pleasing, if a touch confusing. Carl stops talking, unsure. Pete is silent. They start up again at the same time.
"You're not..."
"What are you..."
They break off again. Carl feels a small, secret smile lift his face. They ought to try this sober conversation thing more often. Not that it's getting them far, but at least they're not going backwards.
"I don't mean I know what you're doing right now," Pete is saying, talking slowly and carefully, clearly under the impression that Carl has lost what was left of his mind to the self-digestive powers of his fucking pissed off pancreas. Carl's fingers splay protectively across his abdomen, reassuring himself. Didn't really understand what the doctors had been banging on about, if he was honest, too busy clutching Annalisa's hand and reflecting in quite a deranged - and possibly vocal - way that maybe Peter had a point about opiates and wasn't he a love after all?
He realises too late that Pete has gone quiet again.
"What's that? Sorry, still a bit out of it..."
"Poor Carlos," purrs Pete, sad, sympathetic and bloody sexy all at the same time. Carl's head hurts. "I was saying, I meant I know what you're doing - or, rather, what we're doing - in a more general sense."
"What?" asks Carl, pathetically confused in every sense.
"...On stage..." coos Pete, persuasive, teasing out Carl's acknowledgement.
"On stage," repeats Carl. "What, recently?" Carl thinks with a shot of half terror half blinding white hot anticipation that Pete is going to tell him off for all that microphone sharing he's been doing with anyone who cares to tongue him sweatily behind the amps of an evening. He's got a list, a stubborn list of Boys He's Kissed Who Aren't Pete, and it's been shaping up nicely, actually...
"Yes, of late, you pillock," says Pete, sounding exasperated.
"Well, you can't blame me for missing you," mutters Carl, attempting a pre-emptive manoeuvre entirely designed to convince Pete to ask Carl out for a drink before Carl has to ask Pete. Not that he can drink at all these days. Bastards. Wankers. Fucking cunts.
"You've got a bloody cheek," erupts Pete, a breathless laugh in his voice telling Carl he’s still smiling. "Music When the Fucking Lights Go Out? I thought I'd at least get something a bit less rude back, yeah, nothing too obvious, but..."
Carl cuts him off, incredulous, as Pete's words click in his head. "Are you mental, Pete? Nothing too obvious? The only lover you had who ever slept with a knife?"
Pete carries on, chattering over Carl's blushes. "Something friendly, I thought, like Breck Road Lover - 'cos that one's quite apt, I suppose - or Bangkok..."
"Are you trying to out us both, Peter? Bang-bloody-kok?"
"Now, now, Biggles," pouts Pete, petulant, grinning and entirely remorseless. "No need to bring personal fetishes in - not right now - "
"Peter!"
"Carlos, even Dilly Boys would have been nice - you could have done the actions, would've been lovely, I'd have loved that..."
"Peter," says Carl again, calm this time. Pete stops wittering, waits expectantly. "I," he pauses, suddenly inexplicably shy. "It was the tubs," he rushes, words running together. "The tubs we shared...I thought you might remember...the other week..."
"Biggles!" squeaks Pete, shocked and clearly delighted.
"Yeah, the tub," Carl ploughs on, not sure how to stop. Pete keeps quiet, still digesting this new idea. "Yeah, you...the tub...my tub. Us in a tub. I mean, rare occurrence for you, isn't it? A good...tub?"
Pete laughs. "I do enjoy a good tub."
Carl smirks. "Tart."
"Yeah," grins Pete. "Anyway, fancy a trip?"
"A trip?" Carl tries not to sound suspicious.
"An adventure," Pete continues. If he heard the trepidation in Carl's voice, he chooses to ignore it. "From Clerkenwell into the City, and then into Bethnal Green."
"Sod off. What's in Bethnal Green?"
Carl knows. Of course he does.
"Us," says Pete's soft voice, and Carl is sunk already.
So off we go, around and round and there's going to be some trouble I know...
Carl steps onto the platform at Liverpool Street and pauses, hunching his shoulders. It’s baking down here, but that doesn’t stop the chills shaking up and down Carl’s spine as he settles into the furthest corner and waits. The grin almost splits his face when he spots Pete strolling down towards him, swinging a banana in one hand.
“Hi,” he mutters when Pete is close enough to hear. Pete looks tired, but he beams at Carl as he presses the fruit into his hand and picks at the hospital bracelet still wrapping round his wrist. Carl watches those grubby fingers ghosting over his veins and struggles to think. When he looks back up at Pete, the other man has shuffled closer.
“How’re you feeling?” says Pete quietly, fingers encircling Carl’s wrist.
Carl nudges Pete’s shoulder with his head. “Better,” he sighs.
They share Carl’s banana on the tube, Pete wriggling his eyebrows suggestively and standing so that the wind in the tunnel blasts his hair about his face. Carl wraps himself around a pole next to Pete. They brush against each other as the train rocks its way forward beneath the streets, sounds and scents they both love.
They hop off together, jostling at the door. Carl wins, nipping out under Pete’s outstretched arm. He tucks the banana skin into an abandoned coffee cup and finds Pete breathing over him when he turns back. They smile at the same time, and Carl can’t help feeling like they’re floating back up from the underground.
The air is turning dusky as they climb the steps to the street. They walk close together, nudging each other as they move. Pete’s murmuring something, voice low, arms gesturing languidly, fingers drawing lazy shapes across the pavement. Carl pushes his nose into Pete’s shoulder, looks up at him from beneath his hair.
“Have you been there? I mean, since...then...”
Pete trips a bit, his mouth tightening.
“Yeah. Not for a while, though.”
“Why now?”
Pete looks down at him quickly, then peers straight ahead into the gloom. “Fancied an adventure with my Biggles, didn’t I? Biggles Looks Back, and all that.”
Carl knows Pete’s a better liar than that, knows he’s being fobbed off, but can’t resist the old game.
“Biggles Gets His Men?”
Pete smirks at him. “Biggles Takes it Rough?”
Carl’s elbow connects firmly with Pete’s ribs. “You fucking wish, sweetheart.”
“I fucking know, darling.” Pete stumbles away from him, sniggering. “Oh, hold up a sec.”
Carl stops, peeking ahead. Pete tangles their fingers together and points straight forward with his free hand. “See?” he asks. “There. Hare Row.”
Carl imagines the fingers resting against his sinking in through his skin, filling him in and holding him up, and can't breathe again as Pete gently pulls him forward. They walk in step, following the same paths they used to tread. The familiarity of it all blurs Carl’s vision, makes him hurt. He feels like he’s gliding, tipped back down to the ground when Pete stops moving and turns him to a stretch of graffiti that steals away anything he was going to say
"Here we are,” whispers Pete, leaning down so that his lips catch Carl’s hair. “Do you see?”
Carl sees their words staring back at them, crying old lines and old love. They stand together, silent. Pete moves first, his fingers starting to shake in Carl’s. Carl is suddenly, wildly aware of the slick warmth of the air, the glass crunching under his feet as he slides to face Pete. One hand slips onto Pete’s hip, an old groove he’s always rested in. The other tentatively stretches up, ‘til his palm is flat over Pete’s chest, the cotton of his t shirt rubbing over his heart.
“Bilo,” he murmurs, low and urgent. Pete’s breath catches in his throat. Carl feels Pete’s arms curving around his waist, nervous fingers heavy against his skin, and even as Carl tips his head up he knows he’s falling further and further back down and can’t bring himself to care or stop, standing on tip toes to close the old cold gap between them. He’s wrong footed as Pete’s hands clench, lifting Carl up and pressing his back into the wall of the alley. He clings on, tightening his legs around Pete’s waist and reaching around his neck, burying his fingers in Pete’s hair. Pete’s head falls back as he presses closer to Carl, boots echoing on the tarmac.
“Fuck,” Pete breathes, fingers sliding under Carl’s arse. Carl arches against the wall, dragging Pete’s head back towards him. Their foreheads meet, hair in each other’s eyes, and they pause, breathing heavily against each other’s mouths. Carl’s fingers clench at Pete’s neck. He nudges Pete’s face with his nose, aching and incapable of tearing his gaze away from Pete.
"My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,” breathes Pete. “Carl.”
Carl tilts his head up and curves his fingertips into Pete’s hair. Their mouths brush against each other, light, languid, before Pete growls into Carl and his body forces the smaller man straight against the wall. Carl is shaking, fingers clutching at Pete’s head and slipping across his back, moaning as Pete’s tongue slides against his - there must be sparks from where he’s being scraped up the bricks - firm, then teasing, on fire, then fucking Carl’s mouth in the gloam.
Pete slips away, chest heaving, his face falling into Carl’s neck. Carl reminds himself to breathe, feeling sweat trickle down his skin. His fingers are still tracing over Pete’s shoulders.
"Come back with me,” says Carl. He thinks Pete might not hear; the sounds of the city are creeping back in, cars and shouts and trains and the glass shifting beneath them.
Carl feels the lips on his neck twist and pull away. Pete’s eyes are huge, his skin so pale it’s glowing in the dusk. His mouth opens, and Carl’s heart is beating so hard he’s sure Pete can feel it hitting his chest.
"Taxi?” gasps Pete, voice cracking. “Faster, yeah?”
Carl can’t stop smiling as he smashes their lips together again.
also. on an entirely different note. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED ON SHIPWRECKED?!?!?! the internet is failing me. i emotionally invested in that programme. char and james made me cry! i love them. nevermind. repeat on saturday, i suppose. hawks ftw!
ooft what a weekend. would attempt to discuss it, but brain is hurting. need moar humous. which, incidentally, one can guzzle at festivals these days. didn't know that they were so great. was a risotto stand. more falafel than i could eat, too. a tea tent. was sweet as the proverbial. and i was uber grateful to the people selling roasted chesnuts for making the haufing arena smell that bit more palatable :D
but yeah t in the park rocked out, dude.
the pogues and pendulum were highlights, but oooh hot chip rolled out the hits. got a stitch from bouncing. pathetic, right?! got trampled during the chemical brothers, that was a tad less than good-natured. rage was awesome, but violent as fuck. feeder! they were lovely. fun fun fun. the prodigy were rockin' as always.
that's premuch all i can remember. ha. campers were dudes - the guys next to us got out their guitars and had acoustic sessions alllll night long. serious amounts of early greenday and stereophonics (wtf!), but also a fair number of mighty boosh covers - made me very happy. in fact, mighty boosh jokes all over the shop. passed numerous people who kept shouting "I'VE GOT A MANGINA!" also one dude who was camping next to us wandered off for a piss, crying out "coming out of me it is, like a yellow cable!". aaaah hitcher for the win.
woke up on saturday morning to the faint strains of eric clapton, tears in heaven. was fantastiche.
there was also someone who kept playing oasis on a harmonica. i don't know how to respond to that, really.
anyway. so. stabbing was pretty fucking scary, eh? just on the edge of the camping area i was in. jesus. it really sort of underlines how vulnerable you are in festival campsites - sort of relying on everyone to be as good-natured as you are. and most people are genuinely fab, makes it all the more horrifying when the bad 'uns kick off. kerrrrist.
well. onto less terrifying but still nerve-inducing matters. i have here a wee pete'n'carl fic (my opus, if you will - hah) which. er. lordy. well, i was thinking i'd post it here first, just to make it officially on the interwebz and possibly drum up the balls to then post it on albion_fic. tough stuff, in that i have been an entirely rude non-commenting lurker over there for the past few weeks (holidays = fic reading time) . so. sigh. suck it up, bitch. that is a motivational message to myself, just to clarify. and i will do. like whoa.
so let's see if this cut works...ought to...oooh i'm such a wee coward...
Hope there’s someone who’ll take care of me when I die
I know what you're doing," comes Pete's voice, and Carl can pick out that sly edge a mile off. Which might not be necessary, really - how the hell did Pete know what he was doing? Peering suspiciously around the room, Carl hurriedly finishes folding his baggier jeans around his Jame's bottles and slams the drawer shut. Annalisa'll never find 'em.
"How did you guess?" he mutters into the phone. He can hear the note of tiredness creeping in, making him wince.
"Oh, well, it looks clear enough, doesn't it?" Pete continues airily.
Carl flinches, paranoid. "Are you in my fucking flat again, Pete?" He’s still nervous from that time he caught Pete hiding in his bathtub. Last place he'd expected to find him, too, the filthy bugger. "I've told you, I like seeing you, I want to see you, you don't have to bloody stalk me out..."
"Eh?" Pete sounds properly perplexed, which is pleasing, if a touch confusing. Carl stops talking, unsure. Pete is silent. They start up again at the same time.
"You're not..."
"What are you..."
They break off again. Carl feels a small, secret smile lift his face. They ought to try this sober conversation thing more often. Not that it's getting them far, but at least they're not going backwards.
"I don't mean I know what you're doing right now," Pete is saying, talking slowly and carefully, clearly under the impression that Carl has lost what was left of his mind to the self-digestive powers of his fucking pissed off pancreas. Carl's fingers splay protectively across his abdomen, reassuring himself. Didn't really understand what the doctors had been banging on about, if he was honest, too busy clutching Annalisa's hand and reflecting in quite a deranged - and possibly vocal - way that maybe Peter had a point about opiates and wasn't he a love after all?
He realises too late that Pete has gone quiet again.
"What's that? Sorry, still a bit out of it..."
"Poor Carlos," purrs Pete, sad, sympathetic and bloody sexy all at the same time. Carl's head hurts. "I was saying, I meant I know what you're doing - or, rather, what we're doing - in a more general sense."
"What?" asks Carl, pathetically confused in every sense.
"...On stage..." coos Pete, persuasive, teasing out Carl's acknowledgement.
"On stage," repeats Carl. "What, recently?" Carl thinks with a shot of half terror half blinding white hot anticipation that Pete is going to tell him off for all that microphone sharing he's been doing with anyone who cares to tongue him sweatily behind the amps of an evening. He's got a list, a stubborn list of Boys He's Kissed Who Aren't Pete, and it's been shaping up nicely, actually...
"Yes, of late, you pillock," says Pete, sounding exasperated.
"Well, you can't blame me for missing you," mutters Carl, attempting a pre-emptive manoeuvre entirely designed to convince Pete to ask Carl out for a drink before Carl has to ask Pete. Not that he can drink at all these days. Bastards. Wankers. Fucking cunts.
"You've got a bloody cheek," erupts Pete, a breathless laugh in his voice telling Carl he’s still smiling. "Music When the Fucking Lights Go Out? I thought I'd at least get something a bit less rude back, yeah, nothing too obvious, but..."
Carl cuts him off, incredulous, as Pete's words click in his head. "Are you mental, Pete? Nothing too obvious? The only lover you had who ever slept with a knife?"
Pete carries on, chattering over Carl's blushes. "Something friendly, I thought, like Breck Road Lover - 'cos that one's quite apt, I suppose - or Bangkok..."
"Are you trying to out us both, Peter? Bang-bloody-kok?"
"Now, now, Biggles," pouts Pete, petulant, grinning and entirely remorseless. "No need to bring personal fetishes in - not right now - "
"Peter!"
"Carlos, even Dilly Boys would have been nice - you could have done the actions, would've been lovely, I'd have loved that..."
"Peter," says Carl again, calm this time. Pete stops wittering, waits expectantly. "I," he pauses, suddenly inexplicably shy. "It was the tubs," he rushes, words running together. "The tubs we shared...I thought you might remember...the other week..."
"Biggles!" squeaks Pete, shocked and clearly delighted.
"Yeah, the tub," Carl ploughs on, not sure how to stop. Pete keeps quiet, still digesting this new idea. "Yeah, you...the tub...my tub. Us in a tub. I mean, rare occurrence for you, isn't it? A good...tub?"
Pete laughs. "I do enjoy a good tub."
Carl smirks. "Tart."
"Yeah," grins Pete. "Anyway, fancy a trip?"
"A trip?" Carl tries not to sound suspicious.
"An adventure," Pete continues. If he heard the trepidation in Carl's voice, he chooses to ignore it. "From Clerkenwell into the City, and then into Bethnal Green."
"Sod off. What's in Bethnal Green?"
Carl knows. Of course he does.
"Us," says Pete's soft voice, and Carl is sunk already.
So off we go, around and round and there's going to be some trouble I know...
Carl steps onto the platform at Liverpool Street and pauses, hunching his shoulders. It’s baking down here, but that doesn’t stop the chills shaking up and down Carl’s spine as he settles into the furthest corner and waits. The grin almost splits his face when he spots Pete strolling down towards him, swinging a banana in one hand.
“Hi,” he mutters when Pete is close enough to hear. Pete looks tired, but he beams at Carl as he presses the fruit into his hand and picks at the hospital bracelet still wrapping round his wrist. Carl watches those grubby fingers ghosting over his veins and struggles to think. When he looks back up at Pete, the other man has shuffled closer.
“How’re you feeling?” says Pete quietly, fingers encircling Carl’s wrist.
Carl nudges Pete’s shoulder with his head. “Better,” he sighs.
They share Carl’s banana on the tube, Pete wriggling his eyebrows suggestively and standing so that the wind in the tunnel blasts his hair about his face. Carl wraps himself around a pole next to Pete. They brush against each other as the train rocks its way forward beneath the streets, sounds and scents they both love.
They hop off together, jostling at the door. Carl wins, nipping out under Pete’s outstretched arm. He tucks the banana skin into an abandoned coffee cup and finds Pete breathing over him when he turns back. They smile at the same time, and Carl can’t help feeling like they’re floating back up from the underground.
The air is turning dusky as they climb the steps to the street. They walk close together, nudging each other as they move. Pete’s murmuring something, voice low, arms gesturing languidly, fingers drawing lazy shapes across the pavement. Carl pushes his nose into Pete’s shoulder, looks up at him from beneath his hair.
“Have you been there? I mean, since...then...”
Pete trips a bit, his mouth tightening.
“Yeah. Not for a while, though.”
“Why now?”
Pete looks down at him quickly, then peers straight ahead into the gloom. “Fancied an adventure with my Biggles, didn’t I? Biggles Looks Back, and all that.”
Carl knows Pete’s a better liar than that, knows he’s being fobbed off, but can’t resist the old game.
“Biggles Gets His Men?”
Pete smirks at him. “Biggles Takes it Rough?”
Carl’s elbow connects firmly with Pete’s ribs. “You fucking wish, sweetheart.”
“I fucking know, darling.” Pete stumbles away from him, sniggering. “Oh, hold up a sec.”
Carl stops, peeking ahead. Pete tangles their fingers together and points straight forward with his free hand. “See?” he asks. “There. Hare Row.”
Carl imagines the fingers resting against his sinking in through his skin, filling him in and holding him up, and can't breathe again as Pete gently pulls him forward. They walk in step, following the same paths they used to tread. The familiarity of it all blurs Carl’s vision, makes him hurt. He feels like he’s gliding, tipped back down to the ground when Pete stops moving and turns him to a stretch of graffiti that steals away anything he was going to say
"Here we are,” whispers Pete, leaning down so that his lips catch Carl’s hair. “Do you see?”
Carl sees their words staring back at them, crying old lines and old love. They stand together, silent. Pete moves first, his fingers starting to shake in Carl’s. Carl is suddenly, wildly aware of the slick warmth of the air, the glass crunching under his feet as he slides to face Pete. One hand slips onto Pete’s hip, an old groove he’s always rested in. The other tentatively stretches up, ‘til his palm is flat over Pete’s chest, the cotton of his t shirt rubbing over his heart.
“Bilo,” he murmurs, low and urgent. Pete’s breath catches in his throat. Carl feels Pete’s arms curving around his waist, nervous fingers heavy against his skin, and even as Carl tips his head up he knows he’s falling further and further back down and can’t bring himself to care or stop, standing on tip toes to close the old cold gap between them. He’s wrong footed as Pete’s hands clench, lifting Carl up and pressing his back into the wall of the alley. He clings on, tightening his legs around Pete’s waist and reaching around his neck, burying his fingers in Pete’s hair. Pete’s head falls back as he presses closer to Carl, boots echoing on the tarmac.
“Fuck,” Pete breathes, fingers sliding under Carl’s arse. Carl arches against the wall, dragging Pete’s head back towards him. Their foreheads meet, hair in each other’s eyes, and they pause, breathing heavily against each other’s mouths. Carl’s fingers clench at Pete’s neck. He nudges Pete’s face with his nose, aching and incapable of tearing his gaze away from Pete.
"My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,” breathes Pete. “Carl.”
Carl tilts his head up and curves his fingertips into Pete’s hair. Their mouths brush against each other, light, languid, before Pete growls into Carl and his body forces the smaller man straight against the wall. Carl is shaking, fingers clutching at Pete’s head and slipping across his back, moaning as Pete’s tongue slides against his - there must be sparks from where he’s being scraped up the bricks - firm, then teasing, on fire, then fucking Carl’s mouth in the gloam.
Pete slips away, chest heaving, his face falling into Carl’s neck. Carl reminds himself to breathe, feeling sweat trickle down his skin. His fingers are still tracing over Pete’s shoulders.
"Come back with me,” says Carl. He thinks Pete might not hear; the sounds of the city are creeping back in, cars and shouts and trains and the glass shifting beneath them.
Carl feels the lips on his neck twist and pull away. Pete’s eyes are huge, his skin so pale it’s glowing in the dusk. His mouth opens, and Carl’s heart is beating so hard he’s sure Pete can feel it hitting his chest.
"Taxi?” gasps Pete, voice cracking. “Faster, yeah?”
Carl can’t stop smiling as he smashes their lips together again.
also. on an entirely different note. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED ON SHIPWRECKED?!?!?! the internet is failing me. i emotionally invested in that programme. char and james made me cry! i love them. nevermind. repeat on saturday, i suppose. hawks ftw!