Fic: Men of few words are the best men.
Title: Men of few words are the best men.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Libertines. (Peter/Carlos)
“Do you think,” Pete says, taking an enormous mouthful out of an unlabelled bottle, “Do you think we were ever in love?”
It had been three minutes ago, when a rather tipsy knock (the beats slurred, the impact of hand on mock wood lazy and almost ineffectual) had roused an exhausted Carl from a restless sleep.
Two minutes since he’d answered the door to find a familiar, and only slightly unwelcome figure in his doorway. “‘Allo” He’d said.
“Hello.” Carl had replied.
Peter was still tall, and maybe he would’ve loomed in the doorway had his drunken (and probably heroin-influenced) stupor not left him slouched and heavily dependent on a prop.
It’s been a rather long time since they last spoke, and Pete’s question hits Carl with the force of a double-decker-London-tour-bus. It is not a feeling he particularly enjoys, and he wonders if he should admit himself to a hospital.
Pete looks like he’s already forgotten the question though, takes another swig from that dark bottle, and proceeds to stagger a little closer (too close) to Carl.
Carl doesn’t really know what to say, so instead he reaches out, grasps Peter’s wrist and pulls him out of the doorway and into the tiny flat.
*
The thing about winter in London, is that it is quite often very, very cold. This isn’t an over-statement, Carl is very sure, London’s winter is freezing, toe-biting, teeth-chattering cold.
And it rains. A lot.
If he tries very hard not to think about any of this, he’ll often get rather inappropriate flashbacks of one tiny, single bed and a long, lanky body sprawled over him, around him, in him. The harder he tries not to think, it seems, the more graphic the details become, so later, as opposed to a hazy memory of a warm body near his, it’s all big hands and strong outlines and so much feeling and touch that Carl is sure that if he were a lesser man, he’d be crying.
Not very pleasant really.
He’s dragging Pete inside now, and really, they’re both to old for this.
Dragging this long body and dropping him unceremoniously onto the ceramic floor of the shower.
Woosh! Goes the water from the small metal tap, woosh! Goes the blood, running races through Carl’s vessels.
They haven’t spoken in eight months.
Peter’s laughing a bit now, clutching that bottle so close to his chest that the glass top digs into his flesh, leaves angry red marks, don’t do this, you fool, drink me.
His clothes drip, drip, drip when Carl turns the tap off, and the blue fuzzy towel looks ridiculously warm as he holds it out for Pete.
Pete snatches it, the possessive bastard.
“Clothes’d be good.” Pete says, eyeing his now sopping, alcohol-stained, god-knows-what-stained shirt, jeans.
Carl doesn’t murmur a reply, just walks steadily into his own room, coming back with the longest pants he owns that he knows will still be ridiculously short on Peters ridiculously long legs.
Pete knows this too, but he puts them on anyway.
“Shirt?” He says, and Carl shrugs, shifts his feet, doesn’t say anything. This just gives Pete permission to push past, feel and grope his way to Carl’s bedroom. He’s never been to this flat, but he’ll always know where Carl’s room is, sense it, feel it. Just will. Carl was his for so long. Too long, probably.
All Carl’s shirts are comically small, tight, itchy, but Pete wears one anyway, curls onto this bed, which smells so much like Carl that it makes his nose sneezy and his eyes water. Makes sense when he thinks about it, y’know, that it wouldn’t smell like PeterandCarl anymore.
There might be fingers in his short hair now, and, he looks up, yes, there are. Carl’s standing there, all big, blue, sleepy eyes, pale flesh and clean, old pyjamas. Very pretty really, though Carl’s always been very pretty.
He’s sitting next to Pete now, one hand still in his hair, the other clutching at the side of the bed, begging for balance and maybe self-control.
“Do you think we were ever in love, Biggles?”
And it’s been so fucking long since he heard that stupid name, that Carl feels like punching something. Something tall and thin and preferably with Peter’s face attached to it.
“I don’t know, Peter.”
But Pete’s a rather forward fellow, all doe eyes and unshakable will.
“Do you think, Carlos,” he tries again, “we were ever in love?”
“Probably.” Carl says, and he doesn’t say anything else all-night.
In the morning though, he makes breakfast for two.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Libertines. (Peter/Carlos)
“Do you think,” Pete says, taking an enormous mouthful out of an unlabelled bottle, “Do you think we were ever in love?”
It had been three minutes ago, when a rather tipsy knock (the beats slurred, the impact of hand on mock wood lazy and almost ineffectual) had roused an exhausted Carl from a restless sleep.
Two minutes since he’d answered the door to find a familiar, and only slightly unwelcome figure in his doorway. “‘Allo” He’d said.
“Hello.” Carl had replied.
Peter was still tall, and maybe he would’ve loomed in the doorway had his drunken (and probably heroin-influenced) stupor not left him slouched and heavily dependent on a prop.
It’s been a rather long time since they last spoke, and Pete’s question hits Carl with the force of a double-decker-London-tour-bus. It is not a feeling he particularly enjoys, and he wonders if he should admit himself to a hospital.
Pete looks like he’s already forgotten the question though, takes another swig from that dark bottle, and proceeds to stagger a little closer (too close) to Carl.
Carl doesn’t really know what to say, so instead he reaches out, grasps Peter’s wrist and pulls him out of the doorway and into the tiny flat.
*
The thing about winter in London, is that it is quite often very, very cold. This isn’t an over-statement, Carl is very sure, London’s winter is freezing, toe-biting, teeth-chattering cold.
And it rains. A lot.
If he tries very hard not to think about any of this, he’ll often get rather inappropriate flashbacks of one tiny, single bed and a long, lanky body sprawled over him, around him, in him. The harder he tries not to think, it seems, the more graphic the details become, so later, as opposed to a hazy memory of a warm body near his, it’s all big hands and strong outlines and so much feeling and touch that Carl is sure that if he were a lesser man, he’d be crying.
Not very pleasant really.
He’s dragging Pete inside now, and really, they’re both to old for this.
Dragging this long body and dropping him unceremoniously onto the ceramic floor of the shower.
Woosh! Goes the water from the small metal tap, woosh! Goes the blood, running races through Carl’s vessels.
They haven’t spoken in eight months.
Peter’s laughing a bit now, clutching that bottle so close to his chest that the glass top digs into his flesh, leaves angry red marks, don’t do this, you fool, drink me.
His clothes drip, drip, drip when Carl turns the tap off, and the blue fuzzy towel looks ridiculously warm as he holds it out for Pete.
Pete snatches it, the possessive bastard.
“Clothes’d be good.” Pete says, eyeing his now sopping, alcohol-stained, god-knows-what-stained shirt, jeans.
Carl doesn’t murmur a reply, just walks steadily into his own room, coming back with the longest pants he owns that he knows will still be ridiculously short on Peters ridiculously long legs.
Pete knows this too, but he puts them on anyway.
“Shirt?” He says, and Carl shrugs, shifts his feet, doesn’t say anything. This just gives Pete permission to push past, feel and grope his way to Carl’s bedroom. He’s never been to this flat, but he’ll always know where Carl’s room is, sense it, feel it. Just will. Carl was his for so long. Too long, probably.
All Carl’s shirts are comically small, tight, itchy, but Pete wears one anyway, curls onto this bed, which smells so much like Carl that it makes his nose sneezy and his eyes water. Makes sense when he thinks about it, y’know, that it wouldn’t smell like PeterandCarl anymore.
There might be fingers in his short hair now, and, he looks up, yes, there are. Carl’s standing there, all big, blue, sleepy eyes, pale flesh and clean, old pyjamas. Very pretty really, though Carl’s always been very pretty.
He’s sitting next to Pete now, one hand still in his hair, the other clutching at the side of the bed, begging for balance and maybe self-control.
“Do you think we were ever in love, Biggles?”
And it’s been so fucking long since he heard that stupid name, that Carl feels like punching something. Something tall and thin and preferably with Peter’s face attached to it.
“I don’t know, Peter.”
But Pete’s a rather forward fellow, all doe eyes and unshakable will.
“Do you think, Carlos,” he tries again, “we were ever in love?”
“Probably.” Carl says, and he doesn’t say anything else all-night.
In the morning though, he makes breakfast for two.