Back From The Dead 5
Sorry that this took longer than normal to write. I was a bit unsure about continuing - even if I do have an ending point to reach for! - and all of my non-working hours recently have been eaten up by... reading Harry Potter.
Anyway,
Happier than the other parts, mostly.
Still innocent. Soz. A bit emotional, though.
Peter/Carl Future fic
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
It must be a day - or perhaps ten minutes - before Carl speaks again. "Your timing was pretty shit," he mumbles, obscuring half his face with his free hand.
"It's really not so good for you now, then?" Peter cocks his head so that he's almost looking at Carl, and awkwardly shuffles a cigarette from his jacket pocket.
"Yes please," Carl says to the cigarette, reaching over. The slight breeze of Peter's shoulder makes Carl's eye twitch. "Ta. And I meant when you left, but I don't suppose today was much better. Coulda been worse, I guess. Coulda been belting out my perfected wrist-slashers' version of 'I Will Survive.'"
Peter laughs softly. "Fuck, I've missed you," he smiles, eyes chasing the shadows of Carl's face.
"Then why...?"Carl starts and groans at himself. "Uh, I ... I mean I know it's not about me... Most things aren't, apparently, but we were friends again..."
"And I was wasted all the fucking time," Peter sighs, and shys behind a cloud of smoke.
"So was I," Carl counters, losing synchronicty, recalling all the practised defences of Peter he has honed over the years.
"How's that... I mean, I'm not trying to..." Peter squirms, fingers tapping anxiously upon the back of Carl's hand.
"S'alright," Carl interrupts. "I dunno. There wasn't some big turning point, but I don't really go out so much, not for a while. So there wasn't much... I wasn't getting cunted all the time. I mean, I'm not. I, er, still drink, though. Y'know, every now and then..."
Peter squeezes his hand a smirks a little. "Oh, I still drink, too. Bought a bar in Moscow. Or a third of one, anyway. Lots of vodka and playing guitar in a room on my own. Five years went by there and I ... Carl." He stares and stares until Carl as no choice but to glare back. Or he intends a glare; perhaps Carl's eyes are just too weak for it. "Carl. I never meant to run away from you. It's not like I didn't think about you. At the time it seemed ... I thought it was the best thing for everyone and maybe I shoulda told someone - told you - but... Just the nice lady who got me the visa."
"Peter..." Oh bollocks. Stupid fucking ringtone. Stupid fucking phone.
"Saved by the bell, eh?" Peter coughs nervously.
"Har har. Fuck. Lisa."
"Shit, can I answer it?" Peter straightens up, suddenly invading Carl's personal space.
"No!"
"Why not?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because she thinks you're dead?!" Carl scuttles off the bed, trying to put as much distance as possible between Peter and the phone without really wanting to move too far away from Peter himself.
"I sent our son a card!" Peter looks incredulous.
"She thought that was me!"
"What?!"
"Called me a sick cunt and everything," Carl sighs, shaking his head melodramatically.
"Why'd she think it was you?!" Peter exclaims, laughing breathlessly.
"I can't let go," Carl mimics, scrunching up his nose in some approximation of condescension. "Shit. The phone's stopped ringing."
Peter laughs harder, slumped sideways on Carl's bed now. "It stopped ringing a while ago, Carl!"
"What? Oh." There's a moment of silence, then Carl starts laughing, too, hesitantly, disbelievingly, shaking his head at himself as if trying to clear a delusion.
"Has she left a message?" Peter asks, smiling at Carl through watery eyes.
"How the fuck would I know?"
"Ha! Hahaha... That's amazing. All these fuckin' years and you still can't work your phone..."
"Leave it out, it's one of them Playstation phones, isn't it? There's too much to deal with... Oh," Carl cocks his head, feeling vaguely drunk but sure he's not imagining the noise on the other side of his bedroom door. "Oh, house phone. Come on." Carl half-walks, half-skips, to the ornate phone he spent too much money on last year. He inhales sharply, trying to contain himself, and scoops up the phone. "Lisa?"
"Carl," answers a serious voice so at odds with the mania bubbling in his ribcage. "I just wanted to apologise for having a go earlier. Me and Mick think we've figured anything out..."
"I very much doubt that you have, Lisa," Carl replies, as flatly as he can manage. His eyes flicker over to Peter, who's still shaking somewhat with laughter, slumped against the living room wall with a fresh cigarette hanging from his clean white fingers.
"Carl... You don't still think..."
"Not so much think, Lisa. More like know," Carl replies proudly, feeling twenty years younger: a schoolboy with a secret, too coy to put it into words.
"Do you want me to come over? I don't... I know... Just don't let your mind get carried away, yeah? ... Carl?"
Carl feels a sudden pull of gravity that causes him to blink at Peter repeatedly. Peter finally stops laughing at stares over quizzically. Carl beckons him abruptly with a jerk of his free hand, letting it reach out and grasp at the man before him. His touch lingers over an arm now larger than Carl's own, falters on the bold cut of a jawline.
"It's alright, Carl. I am actually here." Peter says quietly, ducking his head into Carl's curious fingers.
"Carl? Carl? Who was that?" Lisa's voice interrupts their moment, their strange connection reminiscent of how Peter's return always seemed in Carl's dreams. He offers the phone to Peter with a flick of his eyebrow, and Peter accepts the gesture silently, his other hand grasping Carl's in an unexpressed question.
"Lisa, it's Peter," he says firmly, in a way that the capricious Peter of another lifetime could not have managed. "It is," Peter insists in response to a shrill exclamation that Carl can't make out. "I know, I ... Lisa ... OK, go ahead ... Jesus, Lisa. It was at that Stoke Newington party, wasn't it? I think so. I was never much of gentleman ... Yeah, I know ... Oh, I - Come round if you ... Ok, Ok, I remember. I cried myself to fucking sleep. Now do you believe me? ... No, Lisa, I'm not expecting anything ... Alright." Peter turns his face back to Carl, and in the full glare of his weeping eyes, Carl sees a young boy crawling under his skin. "Carl," he whispers, offering the phone.
"Lisa?" Carl ventures nervously. He doesn't want to be doing this now. He wants to sit on his bed with Peter and talk about vodka and not have to worry about how he should be far more angry than he actually is.
"What is going on, Carl?" Oh God, she's crying. He can tell. He looks at Peter and feels like disintegrating. "What is he...? I mean, why? How?"
"I don't know exactly," Carl says quietly. "He, er, went and got clean and it took a while... Just... disappeared?" Carl looks to the other man for reassurance. A world-weary Peter offers him a wry smile in return. "He had a rare moment of courage?" Carl chokes. "I, um... I found him on my doorstep." He feels Peter's hand squeeze his own and moves closer, closer, so their bodies press together and Carl is not alone.
"I suppose you welcomed him back with open arms," Lisa says, somehow not accusatory; just tired, and Carl understands that.
"I punched him in the face actually," Carl replies, and shivers as Peter laughs quietly into his hair.
"That's something, I suppose." Carl hopes he can hear a smile in Lisa's voice. A sliver of appreciation, at least, at how ridiculous their lives have always been. "I'll speak to Astile," Lisa says, and sounds like she's surprising even herself.
"Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously, Carl. If that stupid wanker speaks to his mother," Lisa snaps.
"Peter," Carl blabbers into Peter's shoulder, "Have you contacted your mum?"
"Mumble-mumble-letter-mumble," Peter says shamefully into the top of Carl's head, his arms shaking restlessly.
"Fucksake," Carl replies, strangely affectionately. "He's sent a letter," Carl tells Lisa. "I'll get him to call her."
"Alright, Carl, I'm gonna go. Look after yourself, please."
"'Bye Lisa."
Carl and Peter slip away from each other as Carl hangs up.
"Awright?" Peter asks curiously.
"You need to call your mum. I have her number, if you haven't stalked that out somehow." Carl lifts his eyes from their heavy hold on the floor. Peter apparently still can't stop crying, overwhelmed as ever by his conflicting passions. "Lisa's going to speak to Astile. About you, I presume."
Peter makes a sound akin to a death rattle. "Fuck," he exhales, like the word has been plucked from the clouds. "Fuck. I'm still so fucking scared."
"You're such a fool," Carl says, fingering the lapel of Peter's jacket. "Never... Always fuckin' one wrong step ahead of what everyone wants..."
Peter touches his hair in a glimmer. Carl feels his blood rise in delayed amazement. "I never thought there'd be a place," Peter whispers. "For me, I mean. Not now, if ever."
"Fool," Carl scolds again. "I should hate you, you fucking fool." Peter's eyes are a siren's call from days gone by. Older, yes. Probably not much wiser. Darker, with a taste of pain carried alone. "I waited eighteen years the first time, for you."
Peter's hand trickles to the small of Carl's back, holding strong. Like when they first met, Carl imagines. A desire stronger than his mind can contain seizes him. Peter draws even closer, enveloping Carl in a promise of belonging. "I want to know about you. Everything I missed." He chuckles softly. "Everything I haven't stalked out somehow, that is."
"There is a lot to say," Carl replies, but neither of them venture an elaboration. Carl rests his head on a warm shoulder and feels his mind acquiesce. Smothered into the skin of another, Carl says softly: "We have time."
*
Hmmmm. I did flirt with the idea of making Peter a product of Carl's imagination. But I didn't want to. Vague fluff will probably follow...
Anyway,
Happier than the other parts, mostly.
Still innocent. Soz. A bit emotional, though.
Peter/Carl Future fic
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
It must be a day - or perhaps ten minutes - before Carl speaks again. "Your timing was pretty shit," he mumbles, obscuring half his face with his free hand.
"It's really not so good for you now, then?" Peter cocks his head so that he's almost looking at Carl, and awkwardly shuffles a cigarette from his jacket pocket.
"Yes please," Carl says to the cigarette, reaching over. The slight breeze of Peter's shoulder makes Carl's eye twitch. "Ta. And I meant when you left, but I don't suppose today was much better. Coulda been worse, I guess. Coulda been belting out my perfected wrist-slashers' version of 'I Will Survive.'"
Peter laughs softly. "Fuck, I've missed you," he smiles, eyes chasing the shadows of Carl's face.
"Then why...?"Carl starts and groans at himself. "Uh, I ... I mean I know it's not about me... Most things aren't, apparently, but we were friends again..."
"And I was wasted all the fucking time," Peter sighs, and shys behind a cloud of smoke.
"So was I," Carl counters, losing synchronicty, recalling all the practised defences of Peter he has honed over the years.
"How's that... I mean, I'm not trying to..." Peter squirms, fingers tapping anxiously upon the back of Carl's hand.
"S'alright," Carl interrupts. "I dunno. There wasn't some big turning point, but I don't really go out so much, not for a while. So there wasn't much... I wasn't getting cunted all the time. I mean, I'm not. I, er, still drink, though. Y'know, every now and then..."
Peter squeezes his hand a smirks a little. "Oh, I still drink, too. Bought a bar in Moscow. Or a third of one, anyway. Lots of vodka and playing guitar in a room on my own. Five years went by there and I ... Carl." He stares and stares until Carl as no choice but to glare back. Or he intends a glare; perhaps Carl's eyes are just too weak for it. "Carl. I never meant to run away from you. It's not like I didn't think about you. At the time it seemed ... I thought it was the best thing for everyone and maybe I shoulda told someone - told you - but... Just the nice lady who got me the visa."
"Peter..." Oh bollocks. Stupid fucking ringtone. Stupid fucking phone.
"Saved by the bell, eh?" Peter coughs nervously.
"Har har. Fuck. Lisa."
"Shit, can I answer it?" Peter straightens up, suddenly invading Carl's personal space.
"No!"
"Why not?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because she thinks you're dead?!" Carl scuttles off the bed, trying to put as much distance as possible between Peter and the phone without really wanting to move too far away from Peter himself.
"I sent our son a card!" Peter looks incredulous.
"She thought that was me!"
"What?!"
"Called me a sick cunt and everything," Carl sighs, shaking his head melodramatically.
"Why'd she think it was you?!" Peter exclaims, laughing breathlessly.
"I can't let go," Carl mimics, scrunching up his nose in some approximation of condescension. "Shit. The phone's stopped ringing."
Peter laughs harder, slumped sideways on Carl's bed now. "It stopped ringing a while ago, Carl!"
"What? Oh." There's a moment of silence, then Carl starts laughing, too, hesitantly, disbelievingly, shaking his head at himself as if trying to clear a delusion.
"Has she left a message?" Peter asks, smiling at Carl through watery eyes.
"How the fuck would I know?"
"Ha! Hahaha... That's amazing. All these fuckin' years and you still can't work your phone..."
"Leave it out, it's one of them Playstation phones, isn't it? There's too much to deal with... Oh," Carl cocks his head, feeling vaguely drunk but sure he's not imagining the noise on the other side of his bedroom door. "Oh, house phone. Come on." Carl half-walks, half-skips, to the ornate phone he spent too much money on last year. He inhales sharply, trying to contain himself, and scoops up the phone. "Lisa?"
"Carl," answers a serious voice so at odds with the mania bubbling in his ribcage. "I just wanted to apologise for having a go earlier. Me and Mick think we've figured anything out..."
"I very much doubt that you have, Lisa," Carl replies, as flatly as he can manage. His eyes flicker over to Peter, who's still shaking somewhat with laughter, slumped against the living room wall with a fresh cigarette hanging from his clean white fingers.
"Carl... You don't still think..."
"Not so much think, Lisa. More like know," Carl replies proudly, feeling twenty years younger: a schoolboy with a secret, too coy to put it into words.
"Do you want me to come over? I don't... I know... Just don't let your mind get carried away, yeah? ... Carl?"
Carl feels a sudden pull of gravity that causes him to blink at Peter repeatedly. Peter finally stops laughing at stares over quizzically. Carl beckons him abruptly with a jerk of his free hand, letting it reach out and grasp at the man before him. His touch lingers over an arm now larger than Carl's own, falters on the bold cut of a jawline.
"It's alright, Carl. I am actually here." Peter says quietly, ducking his head into Carl's curious fingers.
"Carl? Carl? Who was that?" Lisa's voice interrupts their moment, their strange connection reminiscent of how Peter's return always seemed in Carl's dreams. He offers the phone to Peter with a flick of his eyebrow, and Peter accepts the gesture silently, his other hand grasping Carl's in an unexpressed question.
"Lisa, it's Peter," he says firmly, in a way that the capricious Peter of another lifetime could not have managed. "It is," Peter insists in response to a shrill exclamation that Carl can't make out. "I know, I ... Lisa ... OK, go ahead ... Jesus, Lisa. It was at that Stoke Newington party, wasn't it? I think so. I was never much of gentleman ... Yeah, I know ... Oh, I - Come round if you ... Ok, Ok, I remember. I cried myself to fucking sleep. Now do you believe me? ... No, Lisa, I'm not expecting anything ... Alright." Peter turns his face back to Carl, and in the full glare of his weeping eyes, Carl sees a young boy crawling under his skin. "Carl," he whispers, offering the phone.
"Lisa?" Carl ventures nervously. He doesn't want to be doing this now. He wants to sit on his bed with Peter and talk about vodka and not have to worry about how he should be far more angry than he actually is.
"What is going on, Carl?" Oh God, she's crying. He can tell. He looks at Peter and feels like disintegrating. "What is he...? I mean, why? How?"
"I don't know exactly," Carl says quietly. "He, er, went and got clean and it took a while... Just... disappeared?" Carl looks to the other man for reassurance. A world-weary Peter offers him a wry smile in return. "He had a rare moment of courage?" Carl chokes. "I, um... I found him on my doorstep." He feels Peter's hand squeeze his own and moves closer, closer, so their bodies press together and Carl is not alone.
"I suppose you welcomed him back with open arms," Lisa says, somehow not accusatory; just tired, and Carl understands that.
"I punched him in the face actually," Carl replies, and shivers as Peter laughs quietly into his hair.
"That's something, I suppose." Carl hopes he can hear a smile in Lisa's voice. A sliver of appreciation, at least, at how ridiculous their lives have always been. "I'll speak to Astile," Lisa says, and sounds like she's surprising even herself.
"Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously, Carl. If that stupid wanker speaks to his mother," Lisa snaps.
"Peter," Carl blabbers into Peter's shoulder, "Have you contacted your mum?"
"Mumble-mumble-letter-mumble," Peter says shamefully into the top of Carl's head, his arms shaking restlessly.
"Fucksake," Carl replies, strangely affectionately. "He's sent a letter," Carl tells Lisa. "I'll get him to call her."
"Alright, Carl, I'm gonna go. Look after yourself, please."
"'Bye Lisa."
Carl and Peter slip away from each other as Carl hangs up.
"Awright?" Peter asks curiously.
"You need to call your mum. I have her number, if you haven't stalked that out somehow." Carl lifts his eyes from their heavy hold on the floor. Peter apparently still can't stop crying, overwhelmed as ever by his conflicting passions. "Lisa's going to speak to Astile. About you, I presume."
Peter makes a sound akin to a death rattle. "Fuck," he exhales, like the word has been plucked from the clouds. "Fuck. I'm still so fucking scared."
"You're such a fool," Carl says, fingering the lapel of Peter's jacket. "Never... Always fuckin' one wrong step ahead of what everyone wants..."
Peter touches his hair in a glimmer. Carl feels his blood rise in delayed amazement. "I never thought there'd be a place," Peter whispers. "For me, I mean. Not now, if ever."
"Fool," Carl scolds again. "I should hate you, you fucking fool." Peter's eyes are a siren's call from days gone by. Older, yes. Probably not much wiser. Darker, with a taste of pain carried alone. "I waited eighteen years the first time, for you."
Peter's hand trickles to the small of Carl's back, holding strong. Like when they first met, Carl imagines. A desire stronger than his mind can contain seizes him. Peter draws even closer, enveloping Carl in a promise of belonging. "I want to know about you. Everything I missed." He chuckles softly. "Everything I haven't stalked out somehow, that is."
"There is a lot to say," Carl replies, but neither of them venture an elaboration. Carl rests his head on a warm shoulder and feels his mind acquiesce. Smothered into the skin of another, Carl says softly: "We have time."
*
Hmmmm. I did flirt with the idea of making Peter a product of Carl's imagination. But I didn't want to. Vague fluff will probably follow...