[ficlet] 15minuteficlets challenge #127
15 minutes worth o' pete + carl nonsense for 15minuteficlets challenge #127, which is the first of these I've ever done!
So it was, you know, written in 15 minutes and not in any way edited.
flood
"How long do you figure on it raining, Biggles?" Pete is leaning out the window, letting rain drip down on his head.
"Get the fuck out of the window, Pete." Carl has his jacket pulled up over his head, more worried about his hair than potential damage to the aging black leather. He's had the jacket long enough, can always steal a new one if the situation becomes dire enough. Or he can get Pete to steal one, more like, if he just appeals to Pete's demented sense of poetic justice. Come up with a contrived enough reason and Carl could have all the leather jackets in the world if he really wanted, probably, Pete's that reliable in his insanity.
Though right now Pete's only really reliable in getting the fucking flat wet. It's a tiny little bedsit, already mildewed enough as it is, and Carl doesn't much fancy a death by black mold. He's pretty sure mold can cause pneumonia of some kind or another, saw it on some silly television show he saw a few weeks back. Their television doesn't have a license, of course not, but their next door neighbours do and that's good enough. Got to band together if you're living in a shithole like this.
"But it's raining!"
"Yeah, I can see that. That doesn't mean you have to leave the window open." The wind shifts, sending a spray of rain driving inside. "For fuck's sake, Pete, close the window already!"
"Alright, alright," Pete says, all wide-eyed hurt and befuddled innocence. Probably not even trying to make Carl feel guilty. He's quite good at it when he's trying, but better when he's not. Pete takes a couple hesitant steps back from the window, hair dripping wet -- he looks like a drowning puppy or something equally miserable and pitiable. Pulls the window down, finally, thank god.
"Oh, fuck's sake. It's been raining for five days already. It's not really that much of a novelty anymore."
"Yeah, but it doesn't rain this long usually. Think we'll drown?"
"Bit hard to do that on the fifth floor."
"There's water in the streets already. And if the rain keeps on, then there'll be more water and nowhere for it to go --"
"What about the river?"
"Rivers fill up, yeah? Flood and all that. What if there's a flood? Of fucking Biblical proportions and all that. Epic."
"What?"
"Yeah, see, it's positively apocalyptic out there."
"It's damp out there, is what it is!" Though Carl does admit to himself that, yeah, it has been raining an awfully long time, and it doesn't look much like it plans on letting up any time soon. Walking through the rain to work and back has been absolutely miserable the last few days, chilling him to the bone on a constant basis. He's still cold now, really. He shakes his jacket off before pulling it tight around himself, hoping that the water hasn't damaged -- for all he trusts Pete, he still really does rather fancy this coat, now that he thinks about it. It's a good, reliable jacket, and he's had it for years.
"That's one of the seven signs of the apocalypse, though!"
"What? Dampness?"
"No."
"What then?"
"I don't know. I hoped you knew. You'd know if anyone did." Pete smiles, angelically. He doesn't seem at all bothered by the miserable weather, or the fact that it's cold, or even much bothered by the fact that it may or may not be the end of the world. (Carl really doubts it is, but he doesn't feel like arguing the point any further.)
Carl's sitting shivering in his jacket, staring blankly at a football game on the television when Pete (in a stroke of inspiration, apparently) decides to pick up a (wet!) umbrella and head for the door. "Let's go outside, Carlos!"
"What the hell for?"
"To play in the rain!"
"What?"
"We might as well. Before there's no rain left to play in."
"But it's still raining. Here, look." Carl looks around for the remote before remembering that, yeah, it's been lost for over a month now (just a little longer than they've had the bedsit, actually), and having to lean forward to change the channel manually. Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish -- there's the weather.
Forecasts show that the rain will continue well into next week, with only intermittent ... Carl switches it off.
"See? Plenty of rain to play in later on."
"Unless the world ends." Pete sounds terribly smug, as if the weather forecast has somehow proven him right. Which it hasn't.
"Fuck the world."
"Alright." And now Pete's just grinning like some sort of -- like he's got something wrong in the head. Or like he's taken something particularly strong that's played with his already-damaged brain. (And, Carl notes resentfully, hasn't shared whatever it is with him. Pete's a wanker like that, anyway. Terribly selfish unless it suits him, which it often does, but still. Selfish whenever he's not being kind.)
"What?" Carl finally manages to think far enough to question Pete's reply, which shouldn't make sense.
"Let's!" That's enough to make the answer nonsensical, right there; Carl was sort of following along, before, and now he's just confused. Better to be confused when Pete's concerned, usually, than to know what's going on in his fucked-up head. Bad sign when Pete's train of thought seems logical.
"Let's what?"
"Fuck the world!"
So it was, you know, written in 15 minutes and not in any way edited.
flood
"How long do you figure on it raining, Biggles?" Pete is leaning out the window, letting rain drip down on his head.
"Get the fuck out of the window, Pete." Carl has his jacket pulled up over his head, more worried about his hair than potential damage to the aging black leather. He's had the jacket long enough, can always steal a new one if the situation becomes dire enough. Or he can get Pete to steal one, more like, if he just appeals to Pete's demented sense of poetic justice. Come up with a contrived enough reason and Carl could have all the leather jackets in the world if he really wanted, probably, Pete's that reliable in his insanity.
Though right now Pete's only really reliable in getting the fucking flat wet. It's a tiny little bedsit, already mildewed enough as it is, and Carl doesn't much fancy a death by black mold. He's pretty sure mold can cause pneumonia of some kind or another, saw it on some silly television show he saw a few weeks back. Their television doesn't have a license, of course not, but their next door neighbours do and that's good enough. Got to band together if you're living in a shithole like this.
"But it's raining!"
"Yeah, I can see that. That doesn't mean you have to leave the window open." The wind shifts, sending a spray of rain driving inside. "For fuck's sake, Pete, close the window already!"
"Alright, alright," Pete says, all wide-eyed hurt and befuddled innocence. Probably not even trying to make Carl feel guilty. He's quite good at it when he's trying, but better when he's not. Pete takes a couple hesitant steps back from the window, hair dripping wet -- he looks like a drowning puppy or something equally miserable and pitiable. Pulls the window down, finally, thank god.
"Oh, fuck's sake. It's been raining for five days already. It's not really that much of a novelty anymore."
"Yeah, but it doesn't rain this long usually. Think we'll drown?"
"Bit hard to do that on the fifth floor."
"There's water in the streets already. And if the rain keeps on, then there'll be more water and nowhere for it to go --"
"What about the river?"
"Rivers fill up, yeah? Flood and all that. What if there's a flood? Of fucking Biblical proportions and all that. Epic."
"What?"
"Yeah, see, it's positively apocalyptic out there."
"It's damp out there, is what it is!" Though Carl does admit to himself that, yeah, it has been raining an awfully long time, and it doesn't look much like it plans on letting up any time soon. Walking through the rain to work and back has been absolutely miserable the last few days, chilling him to the bone on a constant basis. He's still cold now, really. He shakes his jacket off before pulling it tight around himself, hoping that the water hasn't damaged -- for all he trusts Pete, he still really does rather fancy this coat, now that he thinks about it. It's a good, reliable jacket, and he's had it for years.
"That's one of the seven signs of the apocalypse, though!"
"What? Dampness?"
"No."
"What then?"
"I don't know. I hoped you knew. You'd know if anyone did." Pete smiles, angelically. He doesn't seem at all bothered by the miserable weather, or the fact that it's cold, or even much bothered by the fact that it may or may not be the end of the world. (Carl really doubts it is, but he doesn't feel like arguing the point any further.)
Carl's sitting shivering in his jacket, staring blankly at a football game on the television when Pete (in a stroke of inspiration, apparently) decides to pick up a (wet!) umbrella and head for the door. "Let's go outside, Carlos!"
"What the hell for?"
"To play in the rain!"
"What?"
"We might as well. Before there's no rain left to play in."
"But it's still raining. Here, look." Carl looks around for the remote before remembering that, yeah, it's been lost for over a month now (just a little longer than they've had the bedsit, actually), and having to lean forward to change the channel manually. Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish -- there's the weather.
Forecasts show that the rain will continue well into next week, with only intermittent ... Carl switches it off.
"See? Plenty of rain to play in later on."
"Unless the world ends." Pete sounds terribly smug, as if the weather forecast has somehow proven him right. Which it hasn't.
"Fuck the world."
"Alright." And now Pete's just grinning like some sort of -- like he's got something wrong in the head. Or like he's taken something particularly strong that's played with his already-damaged brain. (And, Carl notes resentfully, hasn't shared whatever it is with him. Pete's a wanker like that, anyway. Terribly selfish unless it suits him, which it often does, but still. Selfish whenever he's not being kind.)
"What?" Carl finally manages to think far enough to question Pete's reply, which shouldn't make sense.
"Let's!" That's enough to make the answer nonsensical, right there; Carl was sort of following along, before, and now he's just confused. Better to be confused when Pete's concerned, usually, than to know what's going on in his fucked-up head. Bad sign when Pete's train of thought seems logical.
"Let's what?"
"Fuck the world!"