(no subject)
Advent Day 2
A Libertines Christmas Carol 1/3
When Carl wakes, with a start, his body is mostly not under the covers, and his bum and feet are freezing. That the familiar whir of the heating has gone off is his first clue that everything is Not As It Should Be.
He pulls the covers over his feet and tries to burrow down for warmth, but there’s little to be found - and then, there is a cold, an ice cold presence unlike anything that Carl has ever felt. He yells out involuntarily and pulls back, pulling the duvet with him, huddling in it, staring at what now is quite obviously a ghost.
Lying looking like a fucking Wildean toy, one hand under his head, knee crooked, hair sticking up in all directions, staring at Carl, is Peter. Or, at least, what looks very much like him, because it can’t be him, can it? Because he’s not dead. He can’t be dead. It’s Pete. He isn’t dead. Jesus Christ, why is there a ghost of Peter in Carl’s bed?
“It’s your psyche,” the ghost says. “You’ll be thinking it can’t be me because I’m not dead, you’re worrying in case maybe I am dead, but I’m not. I’m at home, in bed. But your psyche, right, it’s got to be me.”
Carl backs further away when it starts to speak, because it sounds like Peter, has all the same mannerisms, it’s just - lifelike. Well, except for the part where it’s dead.
“I’m not dead. So it’s alright.” The figure sits up, arms resting on its knees, and grins. “It’s a bit like Dickens, this, though, innit?”
“Is it?” Carl manages to say, and finds his voice almost gone and his throat dry.
“I’ve got to take you. Come on, boy, get dressed. ‘S cold out.”
“What?”
“You’ve got to come with me.”
“Why?”
“There’ll be time for questions later. Come on, jeans and a jumper.”
“What?”
“Carlos. Get fucking dressed, ay? Questions later. They’re slowing us up.”
Carl stares, waiting for more, but the figure says nothing, just smiles expectantly. He opens his mouth to say something else but it won’t come, so instead he pulls a pair of jeans and a jumper off the chair and rams his feet into a pair of boots.
“Good lad,” Peter says. He stands up and walks over to the window, and pulls open the curtains dramatically.
“Wha-what are you doing?” Carl asks, watching befuddled as the creature opens the window, letting an icy gust into the already cold room.
Peter climbs on to the windowsill, opens his arms wide, and grins. “‘S the only way to go, Biggles,” he says - and jumps.
“Fuck-” Carl starts, darting over to look at the ground, where he’s sure Peter must be spread on the ground, maybe now most definitely actually dead.
But he isn’t there. There’s no body below, no blood seeping out on to the frosted grass. Instead, Peter is hovering outside the window, still grinning.
“I don’t-”
“Jump, Carlos.”
“Eh?”
“Jump.”
“No.” Carl steps back slightly from the window.
“You’ll hover, like me. I promise. I’ve never broken a promise, have I?”
Carl huffs a bitter laugh, but finds himself standing on the windowsill anyway, his toes on the lintel, maybe, just testing.
“Come on. Please?”
His voice is so wheedling that Carl does as he asks and jumps.
*
“Christmas past, Carlos.”
“I gathered.”
“Did you?”
“I have read Dickens, you know.”
“Ooh, excuse me. Alright, well. We’re off to Somerset.” Peter does a poor impression of Superman zooming, and there’s a flash of light and then - Somerset.
Carl’s maternal grandmother had a house in Somerset, and it was where Carl had spent many happy times as a kid; one of the only places that he had ever felt safe, or grounded. The cottage isn’t there any more, Carl knows that, only now he’s there. He can feel the snow beneath his feet, he can feel the stone of the house beneath his fingers, he can hear the wind whistling through the valley, and he can see the fire roaring and his family sitting in the living room, reading, playing chess, knitting.
“You were happy here,” Peter says, his hands tracing the patterns on the window.
“Yeah. Yeah, I was.”
“Always felt a bit jealous, you know. You had this massive family and Christmas was just a huge excuse for a piss up for you all, you were always all happy and friendly.”
“Fuck off, you never did.”
“No, I did. My family, we were always just so uptight, forced into jollity, you know.”
“Drama queen.”
Peter nudges him in the ribs. “Look, there’s you. Christ, you had bad hair.”
“It was the 90s. We all looked like that.”
“I didn’t, I never did.”
“You had curtains, mate, I’ve seen the photos.”
Peter laughs. “You’re all raging hormones and masturbation, look at you.”
“Cheers,” Carl says, but he can’t take his eyes off the young man who throws himself to the sofa next to his mother, and who then accepts her offer of half a blanket to snuggle under. He was 16 or 17 here, and probably Peter is right on all counts; he was raging hormones here and the year hadn’t been easy, but he also had been the happiest he’s maybe ever been. Everything wound down for the family at Christmas; everyone packed themselves into the car and helped his mum navigate the tricky roads to Gran’s, and then there were hugs and mulled wine and the tree to decorate. His Gran had always waited for them to arrive to do that. He and Lucy always used to fight over who got to put the angel on the top. Even this year, when he was too cool to even be civil half the time, he still argued with her.
“Happy, that’s all,” he says to himself.
“What?” Peter asks.
“Nothing.”
“You were happy, yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“You could be again.”
“I’m older now.”
“A bit wiser, eh?” Peter turns to look at him.
“Yeah. Less idealistic.”
“Idealism has its place, you know.”
Carl snorts.
“It does. Especially at Christmas.”
Carl’s Gran is pinning up the stockings over the fireplace. Carl feels a lump in his throat because she’s not now able to live by herself; she lives in a home in Bath that she hates.
Peter leans across and kisses his temple. “Come on, mate, we’ve got two more to do tonight.”
“Hmm?”
“Thought you’d read your Dickens.”
“Oh, right, that. Yeah.”
“Come on, then.”
“Where next?”
“Back to London, darling, lickety split.”
A Libertines Christmas Carol 1/3
When Carl wakes, with a start, his body is mostly not under the covers, and his bum and feet are freezing. That the familiar whir of the heating has gone off is his first clue that everything is Not As It Should Be.
He pulls the covers over his feet and tries to burrow down for warmth, but there’s little to be found - and then, there is a cold, an ice cold presence unlike anything that Carl has ever felt. He yells out involuntarily and pulls back, pulling the duvet with him, huddling in it, staring at what now is quite obviously a ghost.
Lying looking like a fucking Wildean toy, one hand under his head, knee crooked, hair sticking up in all directions, staring at Carl, is Peter. Or, at least, what looks very much like him, because it can’t be him, can it? Because he’s not dead. He can’t be dead. It’s Pete. He isn’t dead. Jesus Christ, why is there a ghost of Peter in Carl’s bed?
“It’s your psyche,” the ghost says. “You’ll be thinking it can’t be me because I’m not dead, you’re worrying in case maybe I am dead, but I’m not. I’m at home, in bed. But your psyche, right, it’s got to be me.”
Carl backs further away when it starts to speak, because it sounds like Peter, has all the same mannerisms, it’s just - lifelike. Well, except for the part where it’s dead.
“I’m not dead. So it’s alright.” The figure sits up, arms resting on its knees, and grins. “It’s a bit like Dickens, this, though, innit?”
“Is it?” Carl manages to say, and finds his voice almost gone and his throat dry.
“I’ve got to take you. Come on, boy, get dressed. ‘S cold out.”
“What?”
“You’ve got to come with me.”
“Why?”
“There’ll be time for questions later. Come on, jeans and a jumper.”
“What?”
“Carlos. Get fucking dressed, ay? Questions later. They’re slowing us up.”
Carl stares, waiting for more, but the figure says nothing, just smiles expectantly. He opens his mouth to say something else but it won’t come, so instead he pulls a pair of jeans and a jumper off the chair and rams his feet into a pair of boots.
“Good lad,” Peter says. He stands up and walks over to the window, and pulls open the curtains dramatically.
“Wha-what are you doing?” Carl asks, watching befuddled as the creature opens the window, letting an icy gust into the already cold room.
Peter climbs on to the windowsill, opens his arms wide, and grins. “‘S the only way to go, Biggles,” he says - and jumps.
“Fuck-” Carl starts, darting over to look at the ground, where he’s sure Peter must be spread on the ground, maybe now most definitely actually dead.
But he isn’t there. There’s no body below, no blood seeping out on to the frosted grass. Instead, Peter is hovering outside the window, still grinning.
“I don’t-”
“Jump, Carlos.”
“Eh?”
“Jump.”
“No.” Carl steps back slightly from the window.
“You’ll hover, like me. I promise. I’ve never broken a promise, have I?”
Carl huffs a bitter laugh, but finds himself standing on the windowsill anyway, his toes on the lintel, maybe, just testing.
“Come on. Please?”
His voice is so wheedling that Carl does as he asks and jumps.
*
“Christmas past, Carlos.”
“I gathered.”
“Did you?”
“I have read Dickens, you know.”
“Ooh, excuse me. Alright, well. We’re off to Somerset.” Peter does a poor impression of Superman zooming, and there’s a flash of light and then - Somerset.
Carl’s maternal grandmother had a house in Somerset, and it was where Carl had spent many happy times as a kid; one of the only places that he had ever felt safe, or grounded. The cottage isn’t there any more, Carl knows that, only now he’s there. He can feel the snow beneath his feet, he can feel the stone of the house beneath his fingers, he can hear the wind whistling through the valley, and he can see the fire roaring and his family sitting in the living room, reading, playing chess, knitting.
“You were happy here,” Peter says, his hands tracing the patterns on the window.
“Yeah. Yeah, I was.”
“Always felt a bit jealous, you know. You had this massive family and Christmas was just a huge excuse for a piss up for you all, you were always all happy and friendly.”
“Fuck off, you never did.”
“No, I did. My family, we were always just so uptight, forced into jollity, you know.”
“Drama queen.”
Peter nudges him in the ribs. “Look, there’s you. Christ, you had bad hair.”
“It was the 90s. We all looked like that.”
“I didn’t, I never did.”
“You had curtains, mate, I’ve seen the photos.”
Peter laughs. “You’re all raging hormones and masturbation, look at you.”
“Cheers,” Carl says, but he can’t take his eyes off the young man who throws himself to the sofa next to his mother, and who then accepts her offer of half a blanket to snuggle under. He was 16 or 17 here, and probably Peter is right on all counts; he was raging hormones here and the year hadn’t been easy, but he also had been the happiest he’s maybe ever been. Everything wound down for the family at Christmas; everyone packed themselves into the car and helped his mum navigate the tricky roads to Gran’s, and then there were hugs and mulled wine and the tree to decorate. His Gran had always waited for them to arrive to do that. He and Lucy always used to fight over who got to put the angel on the top. Even this year, when he was too cool to even be civil half the time, he still argued with her.
“Happy, that’s all,” he says to himself.
“What?” Peter asks.
“Nothing.”
“You were happy, yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“You could be again.”
“I’m older now.”
“A bit wiser, eh?” Peter turns to look at him.
“Yeah. Less idealistic.”
“Idealism has its place, you know.”
Carl snorts.
“It does. Especially at Christmas.”
Carl’s Gran is pinning up the stockings over the fireplace. Carl feels a lump in his throat because she’s not now able to live by herself; she lives in a home in Bath that she hates.
Peter leans across and kisses his temple. “Come on, mate, we’ve got two more to do tonight.”
“Hmm?”
“Thought you’d read your Dickens.”
“Oh, right, that. Yeah.”
“Come on, then.”
“Where next?”
“Back to London, darling, lickety split.”