Disco 2000
This is the next in my series of Different Class fics. I Spy is here and MisShapes is here. There will be a complete set, but not for a while as I'm about to launch into NaNoWriMo.
Title: Disco 2000
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Genre: Future!fic!
Beta'ed by the lovely esionnoir, looked over in detail by the inimitable lah_de_dah and helped along its way by the wonderful spikedpeaches
Rating: E, with mention of drugs.
Disco 2000
2019
It’s February, the 26th. Peter only realises this when he takes a glance at the calendar. It doesn’t seem two minutes since Christmas, since yet another year of awkwardness and juggling child access with three different women. 16 year old Astile didn’t want to come, but had been forced by his mother, and had sat sullenly in the corner watching Only Fools and Horses repeats.
January passed in a blur, a blur of court rooms and recriminations and a judge deciding access between a father and a child. February has passed much without comment, everyone trying to get into the new routine and do their best. Peter’s been listening to old albums throughout February, ones from the end of the last century and the beginning of this one. Ones that Peter had forgotten he owned, stored in boxes in the attic.
He’s brought them down, in groups of ten, and listened to them as he writes. He’s working on a novel and the music aids it. Suede, Razorlight, Franz Ferdinand, hundreds of others he’d forgotten about. One finishes and he searches through the pile to his right to find another. One falls out, one with typewriter style writing and a picture of four young men walking along a street on it. It takes Peter a moment to realise one of the four young men is himself, the second one along, looking tall and thin.
He picks up the CD and turns it over, knowing what’s on the other side. Himself, on the right, head bowed, looking at the ink on his arm. Next to him is Carl, eyes heavy, fringe over them, his lips blood red and bitten. They’re showing off their tattoos, a tattoo that Peter tries to avoid looking at. He unconsciously touches it under his shirt sleeve, and the scars above it.
He puts it into the CD player but can’t listen to more than a few bars of the first song before he has to turn it off. He looks again at the figure on the left of the cover, at a face so familiar and yet so alien. It’s a face he hasn’t seen for years, for probably a decade. Last time was at a party and it was awkward. They’d stared at each other and smiled, then made their excuses and parted again. It’s a face he hasn’t kissed in fifteen years, although he would’ve liked to.
March will bring his 40th birthday, and that makes Peter long for his old friend. There were times he thought neither of them would see forty, but here they are. Peter sent a card for Carl’s the previous year, a plainish card with a scrawled ‘Peter x’ in it. He knows Carl and Annalisa got married a few years ago. He knows they have a daughter, of about 7 or 8, but he doesn’t know her full name - Maisie, or something. He’s not sure where Carl is living but he knows who’ll be able to tell him.
Ten minutes later and he’s staring at an unfamiliar phone number, not a London one. He dials it quickly before he can lose confidence, and a few rings later he’s listening to a familiar voice say ‘hello’.
“It’s Peter.”
There’s a pause. “Hey.” The voice sounds warm and friendly. Peter smiles.
“How are you?” he asks.
“I’m good,” Carl says. “You?”
“I’m forty next month.”
Carl chuckles. “So you are. Feeling old?”
“Something like that…..” Peter swallows hard. He struggles for something to say, but Carl fills the gap. They chat idly for a minute or so, and then Peter says,
“I was wondering, do you want to meet up for lunch or something?”
“Okay,” Carl says, and everything feels right for Peter.
----------
A little over a week later and Peter’s sitting in a restaurant in London, waiting for Carl. Every time the door opens Peter jumps and looks up. The seventh time he is rewarded by a dark figure, dressed for the winter in a navy overcoat and black trousers. He sees Peter and comes over, and he’s practically at the table before Peter realises he’s got a baby sling attached to his front, with baby sleeping snugly within.
Peter laughs. “Look at you!”
Carl looks down fondly at the sleeping child. “Yeah.” He looks back up at Peter and smiles widely. Peter stands up and they hug awkwardly, around the baby. Carl takes his coat off and sits down.
“I knew you had a daughter,” Peter says softly, unable to take his eyes off the child. “I didn’t know you’d had a son, too.”
“Max. Maximilian David Peter Barat, to give him his full title…..”
Peter blinks. “You named him after me?”
“Had to, didn’t we?” Carl shrugs, and is about to say more when a waiter interrupts. They order drinks and Max starts to stir, so Carl unclips the sling and gently lifts his son out, to cradle in the crook of his arm.
Peter is stunned by the presence of the baby, unable to think of what to say, of why he wanted this meeting. They’re halfway through their starters, Carl eating with one hand but apparently used to it, before they start to talk.
“Is Annalisa okay?” Peter asks.
“Yeah, she’s okay.” Carl smiles. “Tired because of this one. She told me to bring him out while she sleeps.”
Peter smiles, remembering the babyhoods of his own children. “He looks like you. Only with better hair, obviously.” As soon as Peter says the last bit he cringes, remembering how Carl always hated to be teased about his hair.
Carl doesn’t appear to mind. “Oh, fuck off,” he says, good naturedly.
“No, seriously, Carl. The grey at your temples suits you.”
“It adds a touch of class, I’ll have you know,” Carl laughs, eyes crinkling. When Peter looks at him carefully he can see crows feet around those blue eyes, youthful skin turning to wrinkles. It does suit him, the bastard. Grey hair and wrinkles give Carl the air of a city gentleman, and Peter rather likes it.
They pause for a few seconds, and then Carl says,
“Besides, that son of yours is looking awfully like you these days.”
“Astile? Isn’t he?! It’s shocking!”
“How old is he now? Sixteen? He’s always in The Sun.”
“Sixteen, yeah.” Peter pulls a face. “I know. I wish they’d live him alone. He’s just a kid, you know?”
“He looks like you did when we first met,” Carl says, smiling fondly.
Peter blinks, startled that Carl has said that. “I…. Suppose he does.”
Carl smiles again.
Peter smiles back. “I never knew that you’d get married,” he says. “Thought you weren’t that type.”
“She had to make an honest man of me, didn’t she?”
Their starter plates are whisked away and main courses brought in their place. Carl struggles to eat whilst holding Max, and eventually they come to a silent arrangement where one eats and the other holds, and then vice versa, only for a few bites at a time.
Peter likes the feel of a baby in the crook of his arm. He’d forgotten - his youngest is now six, and often pulls away from her daddy’s kisses. This one is particularly lovely - partly because he’s Carl’s, of course. And partly because he has a magical effect on his dad. Fatherhood suits Carl well. He fusses over his son, and looks at him with love when he’s in Peter’s arms. This also has the effect of loosening his tongue, because he’s concentrating on Max and not on Peter. He talks and talks, and Peter listens.
When they swap over again, passing the baby like a totem between them, which they have done with everything from cigarettes to plectrums to rolled up five pound notes, it’s time for Peter to talk. He tells Carl everything and nothing, the big things, lots of the little things. By the time he finishes, they’ve bypassed dessert and have moved onto coffee.
Carl takes a big gulp with a sigh of satisfaction. “Can’t have real coffee at home, can I? Annalisa’s breastfeeding and caffeine and alcohol are banned.” He chuckles.
Peter laughs. “Is that the only narcotic you’ve ingested recently?”
Carl is visibly surprised, and then he recovers. “Yes, actually. Well, apart from nicotine. How about you?”
“I’ve been clean for nine years, mate,” Peter says, proudly grinning.
Carl grins too. “I think I knew that. When was the last time we saw you? Must’ve been before Annalisa was pregnant, yeah?”
Peter nods. “Ten years, is it? Or eleven? We saw you at Thalia’s that time, didn’t we?”
Carl thinks for a moment. “That’s right.” He smiles, and his eyes crinkle, and, for nearly the first time, meet Peter’s.
On one level, there’s no need for words. They both know, they both remember the past. They forgive each other in those three seconds, with so much left unsaid. Somehow, Peter knew it would happen like that. Years of hurt and nastiness - evaporated.
Carl looks at his watch. “I’ve got to go,” he says, apologetically.
“Okay,” Peter says, neutrally.
Carl stands up to reattach the sling to his body. He settles Max into it, and puts on his coat. He places money on the table, and Peter does the same, and stands up. They embrace again, less awkwardly, holding each other’s arms and not squashing Max. Carl pats Peter on the back, and Peter is reminded of a thousand hugs like it.
Carl smiles and says goodbye, and leaves, letting a draught of cold air in the door as he does so. Peter puts his coat on slowly, hands the money to the waitress and leaves.
They might not meet again. Neither of them suggested it, and Peter’s not even sure he wants to. It’s strange, now they’re all fully grown.
Title: Disco 2000
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Genre: Future!fic!
Beta'ed by the lovely esionnoir, looked over in detail by the inimitable lah_de_dah and helped along its way by the wonderful spikedpeaches
Rating: E, with mention of drugs.
Disco 2000
2019
It’s February, the 26th. Peter only realises this when he takes a glance at the calendar. It doesn’t seem two minutes since Christmas, since yet another year of awkwardness and juggling child access with three different women. 16 year old Astile didn’t want to come, but had been forced by his mother, and had sat sullenly in the corner watching Only Fools and Horses repeats.
January passed in a blur, a blur of court rooms and recriminations and a judge deciding access between a father and a child. February has passed much without comment, everyone trying to get into the new routine and do their best. Peter’s been listening to old albums throughout February, ones from the end of the last century and the beginning of this one. Ones that Peter had forgotten he owned, stored in boxes in the attic.
He’s brought them down, in groups of ten, and listened to them as he writes. He’s working on a novel and the music aids it. Suede, Razorlight, Franz Ferdinand, hundreds of others he’d forgotten about. One finishes and he searches through the pile to his right to find another. One falls out, one with typewriter style writing and a picture of four young men walking along a street on it. It takes Peter a moment to realise one of the four young men is himself, the second one along, looking tall and thin.
He picks up the CD and turns it over, knowing what’s on the other side. Himself, on the right, head bowed, looking at the ink on his arm. Next to him is Carl, eyes heavy, fringe over them, his lips blood red and bitten. They’re showing off their tattoos, a tattoo that Peter tries to avoid looking at. He unconsciously touches it under his shirt sleeve, and the scars above it.
He puts it into the CD player but can’t listen to more than a few bars of the first song before he has to turn it off. He looks again at the figure on the left of the cover, at a face so familiar and yet so alien. It’s a face he hasn’t seen for years, for probably a decade. Last time was at a party and it was awkward. They’d stared at each other and smiled, then made their excuses and parted again. It’s a face he hasn’t kissed in fifteen years, although he would’ve liked to.
March will bring his 40th birthday, and that makes Peter long for his old friend. There were times he thought neither of them would see forty, but here they are. Peter sent a card for Carl’s the previous year, a plainish card with a scrawled ‘Peter x’ in it. He knows Carl and Annalisa got married a few years ago. He knows they have a daughter, of about 7 or 8, but he doesn’t know her full name - Maisie, or something. He’s not sure where Carl is living but he knows who’ll be able to tell him.
Ten minutes later and he’s staring at an unfamiliar phone number, not a London one. He dials it quickly before he can lose confidence, and a few rings later he’s listening to a familiar voice say ‘hello’.
“It’s Peter.”
There’s a pause. “Hey.” The voice sounds warm and friendly. Peter smiles.
“How are you?” he asks.
“I’m good,” Carl says. “You?”
“I’m forty next month.”
Carl chuckles. “So you are. Feeling old?”
“Something like that…..” Peter swallows hard. He struggles for something to say, but Carl fills the gap. They chat idly for a minute or so, and then Peter says,
“I was wondering, do you want to meet up for lunch or something?”
“Okay,” Carl says, and everything feels right for Peter.
----------
A little over a week later and Peter’s sitting in a restaurant in London, waiting for Carl. Every time the door opens Peter jumps and looks up. The seventh time he is rewarded by a dark figure, dressed for the winter in a navy overcoat and black trousers. He sees Peter and comes over, and he’s practically at the table before Peter realises he’s got a baby sling attached to his front, with baby sleeping snugly within.
Peter laughs. “Look at you!”
Carl looks down fondly at the sleeping child. “Yeah.” He looks back up at Peter and smiles widely. Peter stands up and they hug awkwardly, around the baby. Carl takes his coat off and sits down.
“I knew you had a daughter,” Peter says softly, unable to take his eyes off the child. “I didn’t know you’d had a son, too.”
“Max. Maximilian David Peter Barat, to give him his full title…..”
Peter blinks. “You named him after me?”
“Had to, didn’t we?” Carl shrugs, and is about to say more when a waiter interrupts. They order drinks and Max starts to stir, so Carl unclips the sling and gently lifts his son out, to cradle in the crook of his arm.
Peter is stunned by the presence of the baby, unable to think of what to say, of why he wanted this meeting. They’re halfway through their starters, Carl eating with one hand but apparently used to it, before they start to talk.
“Is Annalisa okay?” Peter asks.
“Yeah, she’s okay.” Carl smiles. “Tired because of this one. She told me to bring him out while she sleeps.”
Peter smiles, remembering the babyhoods of his own children. “He looks like you. Only with better hair, obviously.” As soon as Peter says the last bit he cringes, remembering how Carl always hated to be teased about his hair.
Carl doesn’t appear to mind. “Oh, fuck off,” he says, good naturedly.
“No, seriously, Carl. The grey at your temples suits you.”
“It adds a touch of class, I’ll have you know,” Carl laughs, eyes crinkling. When Peter looks at him carefully he can see crows feet around those blue eyes, youthful skin turning to wrinkles. It does suit him, the bastard. Grey hair and wrinkles give Carl the air of a city gentleman, and Peter rather likes it.
They pause for a few seconds, and then Carl says,
“Besides, that son of yours is looking awfully like you these days.”
“Astile? Isn’t he?! It’s shocking!”
“How old is he now? Sixteen? He’s always in The Sun.”
“Sixteen, yeah.” Peter pulls a face. “I know. I wish they’d live him alone. He’s just a kid, you know?”
“He looks like you did when we first met,” Carl says, smiling fondly.
Peter blinks, startled that Carl has said that. “I…. Suppose he does.”
Carl smiles again.
Peter smiles back. “I never knew that you’d get married,” he says. “Thought you weren’t that type.”
“She had to make an honest man of me, didn’t she?”
Their starter plates are whisked away and main courses brought in their place. Carl struggles to eat whilst holding Max, and eventually they come to a silent arrangement where one eats and the other holds, and then vice versa, only for a few bites at a time.
Peter likes the feel of a baby in the crook of his arm. He’d forgotten - his youngest is now six, and often pulls away from her daddy’s kisses. This one is particularly lovely - partly because he’s Carl’s, of course. And partly because he has a magical effect on his dad. Fatherhood suits Carl well. He fusses over his son, and looks at him with love when he’s in Peter’s arms. This also has the effect of loosening his tongue, because he’s concentrating on Max and not on Peter. He talks and talks, and Peter listens.
When they swap over again, passing the baby like a totem between them, which they have done with everything from cigarettes to plectrums to rolled up five pound notes, it’s time for Peter to talk. He tells Carl everything and nothing, the big things, lots of the little things. By the time he finishes, they’ve bypassed dessert and have moved onto coffee.
Carl takes a big gulp with a sigh of satisfaction. “Can’t have real coffee at home, can I? Annalisa’s breastfeeding and caffeine and alcohol are banned.” He chuckles.
Peter laughs. “Is that the only narcotic you’ve ingested recently?”
Carl is visibly surprised, and then he recovers. “Yes, actually. Well, apart from nicotine. How about you?”
“I’ve been clean for nine years, mate,” Peter says, proudly grinning.
Carl grins too. “I think I knew that. When was the last time we saw you? Must’ve been before Annalisa was pregnant, yeah?”
Peter nods. “Ten years, is it? Or eleven? We saw you at Thalia’s that time, didn’t we?”
Carl thinks for a moment. “That’s right.” He smiles, and his eyes crinkle, and, for nearly the first time, meet Peter’s.
On one level, there’s no need for words. They both know, they both remember the past. They forgive each other in those three seconds, with so much left unsaid. Somehow, Peter knew it would happen like that. Years of hurt and nastiness - evaporated.
Carl looks at his watch. “I’ve got to go,” he says, apologetically.
“Okay,” Peter says, neutrally.
Carl stands up to reattach the sling to his body. He settles Max into it, and puts on his coat. He places money on the table, and Peter does the same, and stands up. They embrace again, less awkwardly, holding each other’s arms and not squashing Max. Carl pats Peter on the back, and Peter is reminded of a thousand hugs like it.
Carl smiles and says goodbye, and leaves, letting a draught of cold air in the door as he does so. Peter puts his coat on slowly, hands the money to the waitress and leaves.
They might not meet again. Neither of them suggested it, and Peter’s not even sure he wants to. It’s strange, now they’re all fully grown.