[fic] Progress; didz/carl, nc-17
Title: Progress
Pairing: Didz/Carl!
Genre: bagel-free domesticity, lighthearted fluff, and some porn.
Beta: raeofspades; tragically, we're both American, so forgive any errors along those lines, won't you?
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Wherein Carl gets used to Didz, mangles the Spanish language (!), and assists in the defilement of a kitchen.
Note: My quotation mark key was broken most of the time while I was writing this. So, er, that explains that. Also, this is all patently untrue, lies all lies, et cetera.
The thing with Didz is, he seems to have developed this weird fixation with touching Carl. It's not as if he neglects everyone else with his weird touchy-feely thing, but Carl does seem to be his primary victim. Carl is the one Didz constantly grins at, brushes up against, and punches in the shoulder at least once per conversation.
The thing with Didz is, for all that he has a fairly rubbish sense of humour, he's a nice guy, and is intent on actually being Carl's friend rather than protecting him. Protection is Anthony's thing, and is wearing thin by now, though he has to admit he's at times grateful for Anthony's presence. (Not to discount Annalisa, who's amazing, but tends to fret over him more than actually act in his behalf.) Anthony's always telling him don't do this, don't worry about that, stay away from whatever, and it's getting really fucking old since this and that and whatever are usually Pete. Maybe Carl doesn't appreciate Anthony's protection half as much as he thinks he does.
Didz keeps poking at him in the side with a guitar pick, and finally Carl takes notice long enough to turn and give him an annoyed 'What now?'
'Hello, Earth to Carl? You plan on playing that guitar again sometime in the next century, or are we done for now?'
'What? Oh, fuck, sorry.'
Didz grins. Anthony is still playing the chorus, over and fucking over again like a record player that's skipping. Carl's long since abandoned his part, and Gary's apparently wandered off somewhere else entirely. Didz's bass is leaning against the wall. Carl is pretty sure that, before he spaced out, they were playing Plan A and he doesn't want to know why Anthony is playing the chorus to Can't Stand Me Now.
'I,' Carl says with a weak shrug. 'Alright. Let's just not do this song, alright?'
'Sure,' Didz says agreeably, 'sure, that's fine. Whatever you want. Wanna have another go at Plan A, then?'
'I -- yeah.'
The thing with Didz is, he's not Pete.
---
Carl keeps thinking that, maybe if he hangs around here long enough, he'll run into Pete again, which is exactly what he doesn't want to do. That's what he tells himself, anyway. He's dragged Didz along tonight because Annalisa's at a party full of people Carl hates and Anthony's gone with her (in Carl's stead) and he can't think of anyone else he'll be able to tolerate tonight; going to a bar alone, that just seems fucking sad.
Didz, when drunk, clings to Carl more than usual. His smile and laugh and idiotic jokes are all the same, but the casual touching -- poking at Carl's chest, slinging an arm over his shoulder, ruffling his hair (which he spent a long time on, thank you), leaning up against Carl and pushing off against him whenever he goes to the bar to get more drinks -- it's more than Carl thinks is really necessary. Not that he's going to complain, of course, because that would be mean, and Didz doesn't deserve that.
Pete's not there that night, or the next, or the one after that, and Carl keeps dragging Didz to the same run-down pub anyway, not that Didz seems to mind. Carl, for his part, stops freezing up whenever Didz touches him. The whole thing becomes routine, natural, easy, this stupid ritual of ditching Annalisa to go drinking with Didz. (For what it's worth, Annalisa starts going to more parties without Carl. He can't bring himself to feel half as jealous as he should.)
'What do you like so much about this place, anyway? It's a bit, eh,' Didz trails off, waving a hand at nothing in particular.
'It used to be better,' Carl says. 'Better people, better times, better bands. Better drinks. You know. So I still come 'round, hoping some of the old crowd'll show up, hoping it'll be the same as it used to. It never is.'
'Oh,' Didz says, and he seems to have read more into that statement than Carl meant to put into it. 'Hey, you want to go somewhere else? Not tomorrow; I'm busy. But this weekend, maybe. Ring me up and we'll see, yeah?'
'Yeah,' Carl says, 'yeah, alright.'
For what it's worth, Didz walks Carl home not long after that. For what it's worth, neither of them has the money left for a cab. When they get there, Didz stops grinning at him and instead just watches him; Carl says, 'What, aren't you leaving?' and then 'You can have my bed, if you want. I'll sleep out here tonight.´
Didz doesn´t complain. For what it's worth, it only takes Carl three minutes and a shot of whiskey to convince himself he hasn't made the wrong choice.
---
Carl is more drunk than usual, maybe more drunk than he intended to be. The light here is a dim, fuzzy red that traps the place in a permanent sunset. Didz's grin is a loose lazy arc that shows off faintly yellowed teeth. He slumps down, leaning warm and heavy against Carl's side. Carl, feeling friendlier than usual, moves a hand to mess up Didz's hair and instead just lets his hand come to rest on top of Didz's head.
Didz says, so quietly that Carl thinks he's imagined it at first, 'Can we at least pretend, do you think?'
Carl looks down at him for a while, trying to sound out the depths of that question. Finally, he says, 'yeah, sure, why not,' and pretends he has no idea what he's agreed to, closes his eyes and pretends that Annalisa and Anthony and Pete don't exist. He yawns and says, 'You know, I've got a little bit of a pick-me-up. Wouldn't mind sharing, if you want.'
Carl, drunk and tired, pulls Didz to his feet and slings an arm around his shoulders and says, 'Come on, mate, we're on a mission. To the loo!'
In the toilets, Carl is too lazy to be cautious, and ends up preparing their lines -- two each -- on the counter by the sinks. His last fiver is sacrificed to the cause, rolled up tight enough that he can inhale his lines through it before passing it off to Didz. (Carl, for all his current generosity, goes first; the drugs are his, after all.) 'I don't usually, you know,' Carl says, suddenly defensive.
'Yeah, 'course not.'
'Let's go,' Carl says, grinning and awake again, 'see if anyone recognises me.' Didz laughs at that, but then, Didz laughs at a lot of things; when he's high, Didz laughs at everything. So maybe Carl isn't being as clever as he hopes he is.
'You know,' Didz says, 'you know, it's three in the afternoon over in LA? We could still get dinner there if we wanted. Take a flight and eat dinner in LA.'
'I think the flight would be a bit, eh, a bit long. You know. But that would be -- we could go to Havana. Cuuuuba,' Carl says, waggling his fingers at Didz. 'Cuba!'
'What was that about? The, the hand thing, this thing,' Didz says, imitating Carl's flailing gesture. 'What was that supposed to be?'
'It was Cuban. Yo ... yo soy Carlos.' He pauses. 'Donde esta el ... el fucking biblioteca?'
'What the hell,' Didz laughs. 'I think I need another drink, because you aren't making sense yet.'
'Next round is on you, then. I'm out of money.'
'So am I.'
'Fucking A, man,' Carl enunciates in an exaggerated American drawl. He grins, lips pulling up to show his teeth. 'Oi, so do you think I can talk some bird into paying for both of us?'
'Why yes, my good sir,' Didz says, linking his arm in Carl's as they stroll back toward the bar, 'I do believe that you just might ... could be ... yes. Yes.'
For what it's worth, Carl doesn't remember anything after that. Later, all he can remember are fuzzy red lights and kids on E and, at some point, Didz throwing up on the sidewalk (he thinks maybe he held Didz's hair back, unnecessarily).
For what it's worth, he doesn't once think of Annalisa that night.
---
The apartment was dusty, was in the past tense now because Carl's bored and has a stash of old rags, mostly made of cut-up old shirts no longer fit for wear. He's not particularly fond of dusting, but people have been complaining - and sneezing - so. So he's got a dustrag and a bandanna to keep the dust from getting at his hair. The bandanna seemed like a good idea when he put it on, and despite his present doubts about it (he secretly suspects he looks like a stupid twat with the thing on his head) he's not going to bother to take it off, as that would be like giving up. Which he's not going to do.
Didz, it seems, is now awake after spending most of the morning passed out in the bathtub. As far as Carl knows, Didz spent most of last night there too, but now he's leaning heavily against the kitchen door frame - the door itself is mysteriously missing. Didz squints at Carl, pokes his tongue out a little. He tilts his head from one side to the other.
'What?' Carl's not annoyed. Yet. He's just a little confused as to why Didz is staring at him like he's grown a new set of arms or something.
'Hola, Carlita,' Didz says, and Carl is torn between laughing and hitting something. “You the new cleaning lady?”
'Oh, shut up. It was dusty.'
'You look like a cleaning lady.' He pauses, then adds, 'French maid get-up might serve you better, eh?'
'Shut up. You're almost as bad as,' Carl says, then doesn't finish the sentence. He tries not to complete the thought, which ends in Pete, who he doesn't want to think about any more. 'I just didn't want to get my hair dusty.'
'That,' Didz says, 'is really sad. Where's Anthony?'
'Off getting something. I think bread, maybe. Or milk. Or fags. All three, possibly.'
'Ooh, class. That mean we're out?'
'It does indeed,' Carl says, poking vaguely at a cupboard with his dustrag. He swings the door open, showing off just how empty it is, before running the dirty cloth along the bare shelf. 'So no, I am not going to make breakfast for you. It's late, anyway. Must be nearly three by now.'
'Half-past, actually.' Didz points at the microwave. 'See? Right there, there's a clock. You know what clocks are for? They tell you what the time is. You look at the little numbers, and those numbers tell you just what time it is, and you don't have to guess.'
'I feel enlightened,' Carl says, allowing himself a half-smile. 'Never would have guessed what that thing was for without your infinite wisdom at my disposal.'
Didz hmms, rocking back on his heels for a second before yanking the bandanna off Carl's head. He dances back a few steps before tying it 'round his face - 'Do I look like a bandit?' he asks, laughing. 'You're the maid, eh, and I'm el bandito, here to kidnap you and steal your cigarettes.'
'You look like an asshole.'
Didz says, 'Hola, Carlos,' sort-of again. He grins, lips pulling up over his teeth. 'Hey, have you got a fag, by the way?'
'Didn't I just say we're out?' Carl pauses. 'And come on, take that thing off. Give it back. S'not yours.'
'Yeah, I thought that was just the milk and all. Can't eat cigarettes.' He pauses, shrugging before he unties the bandanna and tosses it aside. Then he steps forward, looks Carl in the eyes for a moment, and makes a weird little face before shoving his hands down Carl's pants.
Not down Carl's pants, exactly; more like down his pockets. Carl stumbles back, though, hitting Didz with the dust rag, which isn't half as useful as a weapon as he would have liked. “Oi, don't do that.”
“I was making sure you weren't lying to me,” Didz says, taking another step forward. Carl backs up and finds himself against a wall.
“Come on,” Carl says, “c'mon, I've got to do the cleaning. Clean the flat up and all; it's dirty, you know.” His breathing is too loud, mumbled words too soft. “Yeah?”
“Well,” Didz says. His thumbs have somehow got themselves hooked in Carl's belt loops, and Carl can feel his hands through the heavy denim. “I don't know, I don't know, think my mind's dirtier than the flat is.” His breath is warm and soft against the skin of Carl's neck; Carl laughs, despite himself. This is stupid. They're both being stupid.
“Oh,” Carl says, “oh yeah?” and he's tilting his head back without even thinking of it, has a hand at Didz's side. (Then he finds himself thinking far too much despite himself: thinking that Annalisa's much softer than this, all curves that twist away from and press into him at turns. And Pete, Pete was a lanky sinewy mess of bones and skin and sharp angles, warm brown eyes and familiarity that never quite fit.)
There's a moment tense with arrested motion, the frantic anticipation of stillness, and for a moment Carl feels that the world (his world) is going to end if either of them breaks this moment. Then Didz is laughing as he moves one hand to the back of Carl's neck, pulling Carl closer. Carl doesn't let himself be pulled - he moves in of his own volition. Didz's fingers are cold, like a cold breeze on board a rickety ship; Carl tries hard not to think of Albion.
Carl breathes in and buries his own hands in Didz's hair (thick and dark and soft, and a tangled mess - Carl's reminded of a huge, scruffy dog). He grins to himself, and muffles Didz's “what're you smiling at, then?” with the heat and softness of lips. Didz's mouth is softer than he would have thought, somehow; his chin and upper lip are blessedly, predictably rough with stubble. Carl's grateful for that much.
There's a message on his phone, two days old and from Pete, that he hasn't listened to yet, hasn't opened his phone once in the two days since the message was left. His phone, tucked away in his back pocket, has just started beeping again. Carl closes his eyes and ignores it and kisses Didz.
Didz is, surprisingly, not a bad kisser. He is, in fact, fairly good at it; Carl was expecting him to have no style and an excess of drool, but his face stays blessedly dry and Carl considers ditching the dog comparison, which wasn't very flattering in the first place. (Some people have problems with the drool thing, he knows, with a tendency to slobber all over his face so he has to wipe the saliva off on his arm or a convenient sheet later; Pete, for example, though he got better fast.)
Carl leans back heavy against the wall as Didz presses forward, slipping a hand up under Carl's stripey vest (which has hitched up a little on its own, air cool against the upper angles of his hipbones). Didz's breath is warm against his neck before he angles his head to nibble at Didz's ear.
Someone, Carl thinks, as Didz slides a knee between his legs, turned the heat down. Probably Annalisa, in an attempt to conserve energy to help save the planet or some rubbish like that. Not that she usually does things like that, but it's the only explanation he can think of for the unreasonably cold temperature in here. The blood pouring through Carl's veins is too-hot, but apparently gives up its temperature as soon as it gets too near the surface of his skin where everything is chilled to ice. Except where Didz is touching him, and Didz needs to stop not-touching him, or needs to start touching him more, or something like that.
Didz's hands have started wandering lower again, mucking about with the stubborn zip on Carl's jeans and abandoning the back of Carl's neck and that space where his shirt has hitched up. The bastard probably wants Carl to freeze to death, that's the only thing Carl can think of, though -- oh. Maybe not.
'You want to,' Carl says, slowly, trying to even out his breathing, 'go somewhere a little more reasonable than the kitchen?'
'Not really,' Didz says, sounding too fucking cheerful, like he's going to win some sort of prize for his cheeky reply. With Carl's trousers undone, he sets to work on his own, and Carl is so not going to help, not with an attitude like that.
'We haven't exactly got anything in the kitchen that'll ...' Carl gives up trying to finish that sentence, trailing off into some vague mumbling as Didz starts rubbing at him through the fabric of his boxers. It's a bit distracting, and Carl decides the best course of action is to kiss Didz again; the only problem is that Carl can't decide if he wants his eyes open or closed, which has Didz amused as anything, like the only reason he's not laughing is the fact that they're still kissing.
Didz ends up laughing anyway, stupid and breathless and happy, and Carl doesn't mind as much as he thought he would. The laughter isn't malicious or mocking, just Didz being too damn cheerful for his own damn good and being amused by something that is admittedly a bit silly.
Carl says, 'Shut up, you wanker.' For what it's worth, he can't manage to sound annoyed. He slumps back against the wall for a moment, lazy and boneless, before getting the bright idea to take off Didz's shirt -- one of the best ideas he's had all day, probably, other than the dusting.
'Didn't say anything, did I.'
'Bedroom's a bit far, innit,' Carl observes, bemused. He tilts his head to the side as Didz turns and wanders off.
'Yeah.'
'So where the hell are you going?' Carl eventually pushes off from the wall, wrapping his arms around Didz's waist and leaning his head against Didz's back.
'The cabinet?' Didz was almost to his destination before Carl assaulted him. The kitchen isn't particularly big, and despite the added weight of Carl clinging leech-like to him, Didz still manages to make it to the cupboard, which the then starts rummaging through. Carl, through it all, refuses to let go, which is maybe childish but still seems like a good idea. 'Really, now.'
Didz nearly knocks over a few bottles -- whiskey, ages-old soy sauce that's probably older than the building, a few empty beer bottles, some random spices. 'This is some beautiful organisation.'
'Yeah, cheers,' Carl says, rolling his eyes. Impatient, he runs his hands over Didz's stomach, chest, up to his nipples. His nipples, as it turns out, aren't particularly sensitive, and Didz is doing a dismayingly good job of ignoring Carl in favour of the fucking cupboard. Nipping at the back of Didz's neck is only slightly more effective.
'Ah-hah!' Didz finally manages to find and pull down a bottle of olive oil, without anything other than a paper plate and some plastic containers falling out. 'See here? If the bedroom is too far for you, there's always this.'
'Are you fucking serious?'
Didz starts to undo the zip on Carl's trousers, which seems a good enough answer. He ruins it by saying, 'No, but I hope I'm going to be fucking Carlos.'
'Idiot,' Carl mumbles as he tries to do his part in getting Didz's trousers off.
'Ow, ow, ow, shit! Pull it back, back up, up-up-up,' Didz yelps, simultaneously trying to keep Carl from helping anymore and trying to free himself from his zipper. 'Fuck, ow, that -- it got -- the zip pinched my -- ow. For the love of God.'
'Shut up.' Carl shuffles his feet a little, backing off and feeling resentful. If Didz is going to be so ungrateful, then he can deal with his own damn trousers. It's Didz's fault for being hard in the first place, which is what caused the problem anyway. Carl feels that, in this at least, he is blameless.
After some whinging and shuffling and yelping about how that fucking hurt!, Didz says 'Alright, fine, alright,' and grins as he kicks away his trousers (which he got off himself). He catches up with Carl, who has retreated to a corner, and puts his hands on his hips. 'It's fine. C'mere.'
Carl briefly considers getting rid of his jeans, throwing them somewhere across the room so they'd be out of the way, but decides he's too lazy to do it. His jeans haven't spent enough time communing with his shoes lately anyway.
So his jeans and his shoes get a bit tangled up in each other, which is awkward and soon out of mind because Carl and Didz get a bit tangled up in each other, too. One thing leads to another and Carl ends up staring at the row of ladles hanging from the wall and biting his lip as Didz slides in one, then another, oil-slicked finger.
The kitchen counter is cold, hard formica; the edges are rounded, though, so Carl can't complain about that much. 'Ah-hh,' Carl says, eyes squeezing shut so he's looking at glittery blackness instead of the wall, 'been a while, yeh?'
“Yeah? Since someone's had you like this?' Didz whispers, teeth and words grazing at Carl's neck. He grins when Carl nods. 'Thanks.'
Things are a bit uncomfortable for a moment, Carl feeling maybe too-sensitive at the way long ignored muscles are getting stretched again. He breathes in, breathes out, tries to relax. Then he gets a bit more used to it, wriggles his hips a little and starts to move a hand 'round front to touch himself. Didz stops him, goes, 'Shh, no, wait,' and his fingers are gone. Soon enough said fingers are replaced by his cock, which is another thing entirely - bigger, for one thing, and lacking in the slightly ragged edges of his fingernails. Obviously. Thankfully.
Carl winces and thinks, really, this is when he'd most like to have some attention paid to his hard-on because it would help him ignore the initial pain. And then it's not so bad, not so bad at all, because Didz is being slow and careful, and the languid friction is enough to keep him distracted.
Carl manages to ignore the sound of the door opening, mostly, right up until, 'Hey, Carl, I got the milk and stuff and I - oh, for chrissake.' Anthony doesn't actually come into the kitchen, thank god; he doesn't even poke his head in, but the man isn't deaf. So. 'So, hey, you want anything else? I'm heading back out.' Even with a wall and several meters between them, Carl can hear Anthony's eyes rolling. Figuratively. Metaphorically, maybe, and he's not going to dedicate time trying to figure out which word is more apt.
'Fuck off!'
'Sure you don't want a bagel?' There's a pause, the sound of the door swinging back open. 'Oh, or some soda? A sandwich?'
Didz echoes Carl's complaint this time, whining a little as he shouts 'Fuck off already!' The door slams shut, finally, and Didz mutters that 'the stupid cunt can't take a hint, can he.' Carl laughs a little, sound stretching itself into a half-repressed moan.
'Doesn't matter, c'mon,' Carl mumbles, and he's about to start touching himself yet again when Didz again stops him, which is getting fucking annoying - until Didz, who's being wonderfully intolerably slow, wraps a hand 'round him. And that's good, that makes things quite a bit better in fact. Carl thinks he'll be able to tolerate this. 'You can maybe go a little faster, yeah?' He wriggles his hips a little, shifts his weight and presses back - and about then Didz seems to get the idea, picking up the pace. Carl moves with it and thinks this is more than tolerable.
Didz is solid and warm and real behind him, and Carl's got his eyes squeezed shut, fingernails digging into the palm of his hand as he tries not to make too much noise other than the twitchy rasp of his breathing.
Soon enough, Didz stops being careful and for a little while lets his hand fall away from Carl's cock in favor of Carl's sides, where he can dig in his fingernails without fear of repercussion. Then he freezes up for a moment, sort of grunts and makes a strange little sigh as he comes.
For a little while longer they stay half-standing like that, Didz whispering something that Carl ignores (he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to hear it) before, not too long after, the careful touch of Didz's fingers (rough and calloused and amazing) gets Carl to close his eyes, arch his back and get off with a lazy shudder.
After some arbitrary clean-up - Didz manages to find the rag Carl was dusting with, though Carl steals it from him shortly thereafter to clean -- Didz says, 'We can go out later, if you want,' and doesn't complain when Carl wants to just lie down for a bit. (Pete, Carl thinks, would have complained. Didz just smiles faintly and lets him be.)
For what it's worth, Carl thinks he could get used to this.
x-posted at albion_fic.
Pairing: Didz/Carl!
Genre: bagel-free domesticity, lighthearted fluff, and some porn.
Beta: raeofspades; tragically, we're both American, so forgive any errors along those lines, won't you?
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Wherein Carl gets used to Didz, mangles the Spanish language (!), and assists in the defilement of a kitchen.
Note: My quotation mark key was broken most of the time while I was writing this. So, er, that explains that. Also, this is all patently untrue, lies all lies, et cetera.
The thing with Didz is, he seems to have developed this weird fixation with touching Carl. It's not as if he neglects everyone else with his weird touchy-feely thing, but Carl does seem to be his primary victim. Carl is the one Didz constantly grins at, brushes up against, and punches in the shoulder at least once per conversation.
The thing with Didz is, for all that he has a fairly rubbish sense of humour, he's a nice guy, and is intent on actually being Carl's friend rather than protecting him. Protection is Anthony's thing, and is wearing thin by now, though he has to admit he's at times grateful for Anthony's presence. (Not to discount Annalisa, who's amazing, but tends to fret over him more than actually act in his behalf.) Anthony's always telling him don't do this, don't worry about that, stay away from whatever, and it's getting really fucking old since this and that and whatever are usually Pete. Maybe Carl doesn't appreciate Anthony's protection half as much as he thinks he does.
Didz keeps poking at him in the side with a guitar pick, and finally Carl takes notice long enough to turn and give him an annoyed 'What now?'
'Hello, Earth to Carl? You plan on playing that guitar again sometime in the next century, or are we done for now?'
'What? Oh, fuck, sorry.'
Didz grins. Anthony is still playing the chorus, over and fucking over again like a record player that's skipping. Carl's long since abandoned his part, and Gary's apparently wandered off somewhere else entirely. Didz's bass is leaning against the wall. Carl is pretty sure that, before he spaced out, they were playing Plan A and he doesn't want to know why Anthony is playing the chorus to Can't Stand Me Now.
'I,' Carl says with a weak shrug. 'Alright. Let's just not do this song, alright?'
'Sure,' Didz says agreeably, 'sure, that's fine. Whatever you want. Wanna have another go at Plan A, then?'
'I -- yeah.'
The thing with Didz is, he's not Pete.
---
Carl keeps thinking that, maybe if he hangs around here long enough, he'll run into Pete again, which is exactly what he doesn't want to do. That's what he tells himself, anyway. He's dragged Didz along tonight because Annalisa's at a party full of people Carl hates and Anthony's gone with her (in Carl's stead) and he can't think of anyone else he'll be able to tolerate tonight; going to a bar alone, that just seems fucking sad.
Didz, when drunk, clings to Carl more than usual. His smile and laugh and idiotic jokes are all the same, but the casual touching -- poking at Carl's chest, slinging an arm over his shoulder, ruffling his hair (which he spent a long time on, thank you), leaning up against Carl and pushing off against him whenever he goes to the bar to get more drinks -- it's more than Carl thinks is really necessary. Not that he's going to complain, of course, because that would be mean, and Didz doesn't deserve that.
Pete's not there that night, or the next, or the one after that, and Carl keeps dragging Didz to the same run-down pub anyway, not that Didz seems to mind. Carl, for his part, stops freezing up whenever Didz touches him. The whole thing becomes routine, natural, easy, this stupid ritual of ditching Annalisa to go drinking with Didz. (For what it's worth, Annalisa starts going to more parties without Carl. He can't bring himself to feel half as jealous as he should.)
'What do you like so much about this place, anyway? It's a bit, eh,' Didz trails off, waving a hand at nothing in particular.
'It used to be better,' Carl says. 'Better people, better times, better bands. Better drinks. You know. So I still come 'round, hoping some of the old crowd'll show up, hoping it'll be the same as it used to. It never is.'
'Oh,' Didz says, and he seems to have read more into that statement than Carl meant to put into it. 'Hey, you want to go somewhere else? Not tomorrow; I'm busy. But this weekend, maybe. Ring me up and we'll see, yeah?'
'Yeah,' Carl says, 'yeah, alright.'
For what it's worth, Didz walks Carl home not long after that. For what it's worth, neither of them has the money left for a cab. When they get there, Didz stops grinning at him and instead just watches him; Carl says, 'What, aren't you leaving?' and then 'You can have my bed, if you want. I'll sleep out here tonight.´
Didz doesn´t complain. For what it's worth, it only takes Carl three minutes and a shot of whiskey to convince himself he hasn't made the wrong choice.
---
Carl is more drunk than usual, maybe more drunk than he intended to be. The light here is a dim, fuzzy red that traps the place in a permanent sunset. Didz's grin is a loose lazy arc that shows off faintly yellowed teeth. He slumps down, leaning warm and heavy against Carl's side. Carl, feeling friendlier than usual, moves a hand to mess up Didz's hair and instead just lets his hand come to rest on top of Didz's head.
Didz says, so quietly that Carl thinks he's imagined it at first, 'Can we at least pretend, do you think?'
Carl looks down at him for a while, trying to sound out the depths of that question. Finally, he says, 'yeah, sure, why not,' and pretends he has no idea what he's agreed to, closes his eyes and pretends that Annalisa and Anthony and Pete don't exist. He yawns and says, 'You know, I've got a little bit of a pick-me-up. Wouldn't mind sharing, if you want.'
Carl, drunk and tired, pulls Didz to his feet and slings an arm around his shoulders and says, 'Come on, mate, we're on a mission. To the loo!'
In the toilets, Carl is too lazy to be cautious, and ends up preparing their lines -- two each -- on the counter by the sinks. His last fiver is sacrificed to the cause, rolled up tight enough that he can inhale his lines through it before passing it off to Didz. (Carl, for all his current generosity, goes first; the drugs are his, after all.) 'I don't usually, you know,' Carl says, suddenly defensive.
'Yeah, 'course not.'
'Let's go,' Carl says, grinning and awake again, 'see if anyone recognises me.' Didz laughs at that, but then, Didz laughs at a lot of things; when he's high, Didz laughs at everything. So maybe Carl isn't being as clever as he hopes he is.
'You know,' Didz says, 'you know, it's three in the afternoon over in LA? We could still get dinner there if we wanted. Take a flight and eat dinner in LA.'
'I think the flight would be a bit, eh, a bit long. You know. But that would be -- we could go to Havana. Cuuuuba,' Carl says, waggling his fingers at Didz. 'Cuba!'
'What was that about? The, the hand thing, this thing,' Didz says, imitating Carl's flailing gesture. 'What was that supposed to be?'
'It was Cuban. Yo ... yo soy Carlos.' He pauses. 'Donde esta el ... el fucking biblioteca?'
'What the hell,' Didz laughs. 'I think I need another drink, because you aren't making sense yet.'
'Next round is on you, then. I'm out of money.'
'So am I.'
'Fucking A, man,' Carl enunciates in an exaggerated American drawl. He grins, lips pulling up to show his teeth. 'Oi, so do you think I can talk some bird into paying for both of us?'
'Why yes, my good sir,' Didz says, linking his arm in Carl's as they stroll back toward the bar, 'I do believe that you just might ... could be ... yes. Yes.'
For what it's worth, Carl doesn't remember anything after that. Later, all he can remember are fuzzy red lights and kids on E and, at some point, Didz throwing up on the sidewalk (he thinks maybe he held Didz's hair back, unnecessarily).
For what it's worth, he doesn't once think of Annalisa that night.
---
The apartment was dusty, was in the past tense now because Carl's bored and has a stash of old rags, mostly made of cut-up old shirts no longer fit for wear. He's not particularly fond of dusting, but people have been complaining - and sneezing - so. So he's got a dustrag and a bandanna to keep the dust from getting at his hair. The bandanna seemed like a good idea when he put it on, and despite his present doubts about it (he secretly suspects he looks like a stupid twat with the thing on his head) he's not going to bother to take it off, as that would be like giving up. Which he's not going to do.
Didz, it seems, is now awake after spending most of the morning passed out in the bathtub. As far as Carl knows, Didz spent most of last night there too, but now he's leaning heavily against the kitchen door frame - the door itself is mysteriously missing. Didz squints at Carl, pokes his tongue out a little. He tilts his head from one side to the other.
'What?' Carl's not annoyed. Yet. He's just a little confused as to why Didz is staring at him like he's grown a new set of arms or something.
'Hola, Carlita,' Didz says, and Carl is torn between laughing and hitting something. “You the new cleaning lady?”
'Oh, shut up. It was dusty.'
'You look like a cleaning lady.' He pauses, then adds, 'French maid get-up might serve you better, eh?'
'Shut up. You're almost as bad as,' Carl says, then doesn't finish the sentence. He tries not to complete the thought, which ends in Pete, who he doesn't want to think about any more. 'I just didn't want to get my hair dusty.'
'That,' Didz says, 'is really sad. Where's Anthony?'
'Off getting something. I think bread, maybe. Or milk. Or fags. All three, possibly.'
'Ooh, class. That mean we're out?'
'It does indeed,' Carl says, poking vaguely at a cupboard with his dustrag. He swings the door open, showing off just how empty it is, before running the dirty cloth along the bare shelf. 'So no, I am not going to make breakfast for you. It's late, anyway. Must be nearly three by now.'
'Half-past, actually.' Didz points at the microwave. 'See? Right there, there's a clock. You know what clocks are for? They tell you what the time is. You look at the little numbers, and those numbers tell you just what time it is, and you don't have to guess.'
'I feel enlightened,' Carl says, allowing himself a half-smile. 'Never would have guessed what that thing was for without your infinite wisdom at my disposal.'
Didz hmms, rocking back on his heels for a second before yanking the bandanna off Carl's head. He dances back a few steps before tying it 'round his face - 'Do I look like a bandit?' he asks, laughing. 'You're the maid, eh, and I'm el bandito, here to kidnap you and steal your cigarettes.'
'You look like an asshole.'
Didz says, 'Hola, Carlos,' sort-of again. He grins, lips pulling up over his teeth. 'Hey, have you got a fag, by the way?'
'Didn't I just say we're out?' Carl pauses. 'And come on, take that thing off. Give it back. S'not yours.'
'Yeah, I thought that was just the milk and all. Can't eat cigarettes.' He pauses, shrugging before he unties the bandanna and tosses it aside. Then he steps forward, looks Carl in the eyes for a moment, and makes a weird little face before shoving his hands down Carl's pants.
Not down Carl's pants, exactly; more like down his pockets. Carl stumbles back, though, hitting Didz with the dust rag, which isn't half as useful as a weapon as he would have liked. “Oi, don't do that.”
“I was making sure you weren't lying to me,” Didz says, taking another step forward. Carl backs up and finds himself against a wall.
“Come on,” Carl says, “c'mon, I've got to do the cleaning. Clean the flat up and all; it's dirty, you know.” His breathing is too loud, mumbled words too soft. “Yeah?”
“Well,” Didz says. His thumbs have somehow got themselves hooked in Carl's belt loops, and Carl can feel his hands through the heavy denim. “I don't know, I don't know, think my mind's dirtier than the flat is.” His breath is warm and soft against the skin of Carl's neck; Carl laughs, despite himself. This is stupid. They're both being stupid.
“Oh,” Carl says, “oh yeah?” and he's tilting his head back without even thinking of it, has a hand at Didz's side. (Then he finds himself thinking far too much despite himself: thinking that Annalisa's much softer than this, all curves that twist away from and press into him at turns. And Pete, Pete was a lanky sinewy mess of bones and skin and sharp angles, warm brown eyes and familiarity that never quite fit.)
There's a moment tense with arrested motion, the frantic anticipation of stillness, and for a moment Carl feels that the world (his world) is going to end if either of them breaks this moment. Then Didz is laughing as he moves one hand to the back of Carl's neck, pulling Carl closer. Carl doesn't let himself be pulled - he moves in of his own volition. Didz's fingers are cold, like a cold breeze on board a rickety ship; Carl tries hard not to think of Albion.
Carl breathes in and buries his own hands in Didz's hair (thick and dark and soft, and a tangled mess - Carl's reminded of a huge, scruffy dog). He grins to himself, and muffles Didz's “what're you smiling at, then?” with the heat and softness of lips. Didz's mouth is softer than he would have thought, somehow; his chin and upper lip are blessedly, predictably rough with stubble. Carl's grateful for that much.
There's a message on his phone, two days old and from Pete, that he hasn't listened to yet, hasn't opened his phone once in the two days since the message was left. His phone, tucked away in his back pocket, has just started beeping again. Carl closes his eyes and ignores it and kisses Didz.
Didz is, surprisingly, not a bad kisser. He is, in fact, fairly good at it; Carl was expecting him to have no style and an excess of drool, but his face stays blessedly dry and Carl considers ditching the dog comparison, which wasn't very flattering in the first place. (Some people have problems with the drool thing, he knows, with a tendency to slobber all over his face so he has to wipe the saliva off on his arm or a convenient sheet later; Pete, for example, though he got better fast.)
Carl leans back heavy against the wall as Didz presses forward, slipping a hand up under Carl's stripey vest (which has hitched up a little on its own, air cool against the upper angles of his hipbones). Didz's breath is warm against his neck before he angles his head to nibble at Didz's ear.
Someone, Carl thinks, as Didz slides a knee between his legs, turned the heat down. Probably Annalisa, in an attempt to conserve energy to help save the planet or some rubbish like that. Not that she usually does things like that, but it's the only explanation he can think of for the unreasonably cold temperature in here. The blood pouring through Carl's veins is too-hot, but apparently gives up its temperature as soon as it gets too near the surface of his skin where everything is chilled to ice. Except where Didz is touching him, and Didz needs to stop not-touching him, or needs to start touching him more, or something like that.
Didz's hands have started wandering lower again, mucking about with the stubborn zip on Carl's jeans and abandoning the back of Carl's neck and that space where his shirt has hitched up. The bastard probably wants Carl to freeze to death, that's the only thing Carl can think of, though -- oh. Maybe not.
'You want to,' Carl says, slowly, trying to even out his breathing, 'go somewhere a little more reasonable than the kitchen?'
'Not really,' Didz says, sounding too fucking cheerful, like he's going to win some sort of prize for his cheeky reply. With Carl's trousers undone, he sets to work on his own, and Carl is so not going to help, not with an attitude like that.
'We haven't exactly got anything in the kitchen that'll ...' Carl gives up trying to finish that sentence, trailing off into some vague mumbling as Didz starts rubbing at him through the fabric of his boxers. It's a bit distracting, and Carl decides the best course of action is to kiss Didz again; the only problem is that Carl can't decide if he wants his eyes open or closed, which has Didz amused as anything, like the only reason he's not laughing is the fact that they're still kissing.
Didz ends up laughing anyway, stupid and breathless and happy, and Carl doesn't mind as much as he thought he would. The laughter isn't malicious or mocking, just Didz being too damn cheerful for his own damn good and being amused by something that is admittedly a bit silly.
Carl says, 'Shut up, you wanker.' For what it's worth, he can't manage to sound annoyed. He slumps back against the wall for a moment, lazy and boneless, before getting the bright idea to take off Didz's shirt -- one of the best ideas he's had all day, probably, other than the dusting.
'Didn't say anything, did I.'
'Bedroom's a bit far, innit,' Carl observes, bemused. He tilts his head to the side as Didz turns and wanders off.
'Yeah.'
'So where the hell are you going?' Carl eventually pushes off from the wall, wrapping his arms around Didz's waist and leaning his head against Didz's back.
'The cabinet?' Didz was almost to his destination before Carl assaulted him. The kitchen isn't particularly big, and despite the added weight of Carl clinging leech-like to him, Didz still manages to make it to the cupboard, which the then starts rummaging through. Carl, through it all, refuses to let go, which is maybe childish but still seems like a good idea. 'Really, now.'
Didz nearly knocks over a few bottles -- whiskey, ages-old soy sauce that's probably older than the building, a few empty beer bottles, some random spices. 'This is some beautiful organisation.'
'Yeah, cheers,' Carl says, rolling his eyes. Impatient, he runs his hands over Didz's stomach, chest, up to his nipples. His nipples, as it turns out, aren't particularly sensitive, and Didz is doing a dismayingly good job of ignoring Carl in favour of the fucking cupboard. Nipping at the back of Didz's neck is only slightly more effective.
'Ah-hah!' Didz finally manages to find and pull down a bottle of olive oil, without anything other than a paper plate and some plastic containers falling out. 'See here? If the bedroom is too far for you, there's always this.'
'Are you fucking serious?'
Didz starts to undo the zip on Carl's trousers, which seems a good enough answer. He ruins it by saying, 'No, but I hope I'm going to be fucking Carlos.'
'Idiot,' Carl mumbles as he tries to do his part in getting Didz's trousers off.
'Ow, ow, ow, shit! Pull it back, back up, up-up-up,' Didz yelps, simultaneously trying to keep Carl from helping anymore and trying to free himself from his zipper. 'Fuck, ow, that -- it got -- the zip pinched my -- ow. For the love of God.'
'Shut up.' Carl shuffles his feet a little, backing off and feeling resentful. If Didz is going to be so ungrateful, then he can deal with his own damn trousers. It's Didz's fault for being hard in the first place, which is what caused the problem anyway. Carl feels that, in this at least, he is blameless.
After some whinging and shuffling and yelping about how that fucking hurt!, Didz says 'Alright, fine, alright,' and grins as he kicks away his trousers (which he got off himself). He catches up with Carl, who has retreated to a corner, and puts his hands on his hips. 'It's fine. C'mere.'
Carl briefly considers getting rid of his jeans, throwing them somewhere across the room so they'd be out of the way, but decides he's too lazy to do it. His jeans haven't spent enough time communing with his shoes lately anyway.
So his jeans and his shoes get a bit tangled up in each other, which is awkward and soon out of mind because Carl and Didz get a bit tangled up in each other, too. One thing leads to another and Carl ends up staring at the row of ladles hanging from the wall and biting his lip as Didz slides in one, then another, oil-slicked finger.
The kitchen counter is cold, hard formica; the edges are rounded, though, so Carl can't complain about that much. 'Ah-hh,' Carl says, eyes squeezing shut so he's looking at glittery blackness instead of the wall, 'been a while, yeh?'
“Yeah? Since someone's had you like this?' Didz whispers, teeth and words grazing at Carl's neck. He grins when Carl nods. 'Thanks.'
Things are a bit uncomfortable for a moment, Carl feeling maybe too-sensitive at the way long ignored muscles are getting stretched again. He breathes in, breathes out, tries to relax. Then he gets a bit more used to it, wriggles his hips a little and starts to move a hand 'round front to touch himself. Didz stops him, goes, 'Shh, no, wait,' and his fingers are gone. Soon enough said fingers are replaced by his cock, which is another thing entirely - bigger, for one thing, and lacking in the slightly ragged edges of his fingernails. Obviously. Thankfully.
Carl winces and thinks, really, this is when he'd most like to have some attention paid to his hard-on because it would help him ignore the initial pain. And then it's not so bad, not so bad at all, because Didz is being slow and careful, and the languid friction is enough to keep him distracted.
Carl manages to ignore the sound of the door opening, mostly, right up until, 'Hey, Carl, I got the milk and stuff and I - oh, for chrissake.' Anthony doesn't actually come into the kitchen, thank god; he doesn't even poke his head in, but the man isn't deaf. So. 'So, hey, you want anything else? I'm heading back out.' Even with a wall and several meters between them, Carl can hear Anthony's eyes rolling. Figuratively. Metaphorically, maybe, and he's not going to dedicate time trying to figure out which word is more apt.
'Fuck off!'
'Sure you don't want a bagel?' There's a pause, the sound of the door swinging back open. 'Oh, or some soda? A sandwich?'
Didz echoes Carl's complaint this time, whining a little as he shouts 'Fuck off already!' The door slams shut, finally, and Didz mutters that 'the stupid cunt can't take a hint, can he.' Carl laughs a little, sound stretching itself into a half-repressed moan.
'Doesn't matter, c'mon,' Carl mumbles, and he's about to start touching himself yet again when Didz again stops him, which is getting fucking annoying - until Didz, who's being wonderfully intolerably slow, wraps a hand 'round him. And that's good, that makes things quite a bit better in fact. Carl thinks he'll be able to tolerate this. 'You can maybe go a little faster, yeah?' He wriggles his hips a little, shifts his weight and presses back - and about then Didz seems to get the idea, picking up the pace. Carl moves with it and thinks this is more than tolerable.
Didz is solid and warm and real behind him, and Carl's got his eyes squeezed shut, fingernails digging into the palm of his hand as he tries not to make too much noise other than the twitchy rasp of his breathing.
Soon enough, Didz stops being careful and for a little while lets his hand fall away from Carl's cock in favor of Carl's sides, where he can dig in his fingernails without fear of repercussion. Then he freezes up for a moment, sort of grunts and makes a strange little sigh as he comes.
For a little while longer they stay half-standing like that, Didz whispering something that Carl ignores (he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to hear it) before, not too long after, the careful touch of Didz's fingers (rough and calloused and amazing) gets Carl to close his eyes, arch his back and get off with a lazy shudder.
After some arbitrary clean-up - Didz manages to find the rag Carl was dusting with, though Carl steals it from him shortly thereafter to clean -- Didz says, 'We can go out later, if you want,' and doesn't complain when Carl wants to just lie down for a bit. (Pete, Carl thinks, would have complained. Didz just smiles faintly and lets him be.)
For what it's worth, Carl thinks he could get used to this.
x-posted at albion_fic.