Give me a reason

Chapter 1







*
Pete doesn’t really like his life at the minute.

Likes the life in his head, of course…the one where he gets to be a legend. All different sorts of legend, rolled into one - QPR football-legend, Swing-musician-to-the-stars-legend, with even fewer fingers than Django Reinhardt (and even more the legend for it). Legendary Poet Laureate. A comedic genius legend on a par with Tony Hancock…
A legend in his own mind.

And although all those titles and accolades are grand, wants to be a legend for himself, too…self-improvement, experience, free-thinking and un-tied to rules, regulations and what his mate, Daniel calls the ‘particulars.’

What makes him dislike his real, non-fantasy life in the present, is that he isn’t really any of these things. At least not as much as he’d like.
The fact that he’s barely seventeen doesn’t deter him in the slightest….never been bothered by regular conventions like age, gender or anything, any way.
What bothers him about life at the moment, is that he feels as though, despite his (blatant, if he says so himself) knack for poetry, melody (things he takes for granted and, doesn’t see that these are in any way unusual) everyone has written him off in some way or other.

Yeah, yeah, strange boy, that Pete kid…obviously a talented lad, but probably going to be a teacher, right?

Wrong, he thinks, bitterly, defiantly, with the part of his brain that isn’t pre-occupied with wondering whether these are assumptions that *everyone* actually makes about his future, or that just because his father is so bloody sure of it, it must show in his face, in his demeanor, somehow.

Should maybe stop wondering, he scolds himself, because while this is one of the many banes of his life back home (isolation, boredom and loneliness), it isn’t doing him any favors here, in the city, where he’s meant to be trying to get a bit of reputation, a few influential friends, love maybe and some inspired spiels for his beloved books of Albion (doesn’t even feel pretentious thinking it, any more).

Should really try and stop looking morose, generally resigned and not-quite paying attention to whatever fascinating diatribes Amy-Jo’s latest ‘best-friend’ is inflicting on him. One of the only things he feels even remotely cheerful about really, one of the rare things he gets to look forward to in his mundane, suburban life (save all the obvious little treats like a good NME with something Smiths-related, or his occasional - but precious - visitings to Loftus Road for Ranger’s outings) is a new face.
Or the occasional new melody. A melody that captures something of him, that doesn’t sound like something that he may (or may not) have sub-consciously re-cycled by a band that obsesses him.

And one of the two isn’t really too bad, for tonight, as things go, because Amy-Jo’s finally going to introduce him to his future band-mate. Who, in all likelihood, is probably completely unaware of this particular fate.

But Pete’s not too worried. Not really. He’s always had a bit of a knack for getting what he wants, one way or another, is a pretty confident lad and he’s sure this boy can’t or won’t be able to refuse.
Won’t have the benefit of actually knowing that Pete is going to have him twisted round his little finger very shortly.
Having said that, he doesn’t have too big a clue just what he’s *actually* like, personality-wise…nor how easily twisted he is going to be. Knows things Amy-Jo deemed important enough to tell him. That he plays in a band ‘The Riot,’ plays guitar in it….is actually “really ace at it, and a proper looker, yeah…….Carl’s well alright”
….probably a right rude, arrogant fucker too, hasn’t even once replied to one of the three (count ‘em) letters Pete’s written him asking whether he’ll try and tab a bunch of Smiths and Chas ‘n’ Dave songs for him, and which football team does he support?

Maybe this boy is his savior…his ticket away from a life dull with ritual, a probable lifetime involving paying off debt, children, a failed marriage and all the while a brilliant, wasted talent. Probably. He grins a bit, tries to act interested in whatever he’s being told, focuses on the way in which Amy-Jo’s friend ‘Emma’ laughs, perhaps to see if he’ll laugh with her, gold stud on her lower lip winking in the light.

Of course, he contemplates, there’s just as much chance that this boy turns out to be a total arsehole…a premonition that has niggled at him more and more since realizing he probably wasn’t going to get any (written) replies from this ‘Carl’…

He’s been disappointed before, it wouldn’t be the first time…it’s just as likely that their personalities will clash, that they’ll be from different worlds entirely, etc. But Pete likes to think that he’s above such barriers and divisions, that they won’t be so different…anyone Amy-Jo thinks is that interesting or rebellious must be cool…or at least alright.

At any rate, he intends to try and make a mature, equally cool impression on this bloke…wants him to see his match, even if ‘Carl’ will feel older and superior to him. He tunes in to Emma’s words for the time being, take his mind off the boy he’s not yet met. “yeah, so, bit of a shame really, he was right good in bed, too…” she reflects, flicking her spent cigarette away, and Pete fights to remember exactly what she was talking about before and how it relates to whatever bloke just finished with her.

“Ahh yeah…shame, that. Still, plenty more fish and all that…” he says friendly as possible, but avoiding her eyes, because he isn’t sure just what she wants and he doesn’t really care to have another girl to deal with at present. Trouble enough with all that, back home. Focuses his line of sight on the band playing on stage at the moment (alright, but could do with better-looking guitarists, he reckons).

He excuses himself, to go and get another drink, his second double. Glowing inwardly at how this is still an act of liberty, new in many ways to him…nothing like the stolen swigs from vodka bottles in friend’s homes, back in good old suburbia.
Here, he feels more accepted…humored, but one of the gang in a lot of ways,
strange but no stranger than everyone else in this foreign environment. And his height doesn’t hurt his chances of getting served in pubs either, hasn’t once been turned away, as yet.

Downing half the double (…who says he should pace himself?) on his way to the gents.
A minute or two later, he’s leaving the bathroom, drink in hand, weaving through the punters and locals when with excruciating awkwardness, he’s sent flying, by an over-enthusiastic gesture by someone, drink skidding over the floor before his startled gaze.

He turns, his now incensed gaze backwards, finding the twat that just back-handed him (however accidentally) smirking infuriatingly down at him with a fair few others.
Calmly rising to his feet, brushing himself off as though it was this cunt that just fell face-first, and not him, he steps swiftly right into the fucker’s personal space.

“You owe me a drink, mate.”

He isn’t nervous. Most encounters with people shorter, or less rough-looking than he supposes himself to look, don’t intimidate him. And that drink was practically full, if you ask him.

“Do I fuck! Watch where you’re going in future, yeah?” the boy’s voice is irate, words almost indistinguishable, but clear enough in their tone.

The fucking cheek.

It’s got to be one of the most rubbish come-backs Pete’s ever heard. And he’s been hit with many of those in his time.
And it makes him absolutely livid. What the hell does giving him a smack in the face have to do with watching where he’s going? He can handle falling over in public. He can handle getting up, acting like he doesn’t give a shit. What he can’t handle is outright bad manners, or walking away with his tail between his legs.

Now he gets a good look at the boy, he sees they must be more or less the same age...although this boy’s face could be slightly older, despite their height difference. It’s a face more defined than his own, not as boyish, with large, hooded but presently flashing blue eyes (probably more than a bit pissed off) and a rather full, feminine mouth.
His hair is longer than Pete’s, but for some reason it doesn’t make him look any more feminine, despite the mouth and long-lashed, bedroom eyes. Pretty bastard probably gets out of most scraps this way, just by turning that semi-pornographic gaze on whoever he’s just offended. Pete’s buggered if it’s going to work with him, though. This guy’s getting a lesson in humility, one way or another.

“Watch where I’m going? You just fucking punched me, you spazz! How the fuck am I s’posed to watch where I’m going when a random geezer with tourettes decides to clobber me?”

He’s aware that that may’ve been too far, but it’s never stopped him before. Maybe a little too harsh…the guy probably genuinely didn’t *really* see him coming. But it’s still fucking rude. And for the briefest of moments, he feels a pang of regret, guilt, when strange, beautiful eyes darken a little, and the smirk disappears and lips are parted a little in hurt, as if to say ‘sorry’…and he’s regarding Pete as if he believes every word of it. That he’s everything Pete’s just said.

Doesn’t really get why this fella has failed to react like anyone else would, and hit out or told him to fuck off. He feels far too exposed here, with those searching eyes traversing his countenance and thinks maybe if things were different he’d want to know this boy, touch him, know why he seems as different a person as Pete feels.
He’s expecting an equally spiteful, snide reply, followed by/or a real punch this time,
at least from the way that the boy’s previously placid and hurt eyes have narrowed, eyelashes like threats, moth-like frames to those twin slits of violent blue, casting danger-shadows on his cheekbones.

He’s close enough to speechless when instead, he’s shoved roughly aside as the boy strides straight past him, like he isn’t even worth it.
Well….that was…unexpected.
Because in that split second before he walked away, Pete had really thought a fist was coming instead, was just starting to feel maybe more intimidated than before…
that despite the height difference, the guy definitely looked better built, even under a leather jacket and ill-fitting jeans, shoulders significantly broader, and posture that, despite heavy nonchalance, suggested physical confidence.

He’s too stunned momentarily, to go after the bloke, to even yell now about drinks being owed and such, would look silly now anyway, left it too long to go back for a repeat performance.
Instead, he makes his (slightly dazed) way back to his seat near the back of the bar, to Amy-Jo and Emma and their student-friends, who seem blissfully unaware of his little encounter just now.

“You get your drink, then?” enquires Amy-Jo, unconcernedly lighting a fag, eyeing his empty-handedness.
“Yeah, right, only this cunt made me spill it.” He says, petulant nonetheless. Maybe someone will get him another, if he harps on about it enough.
“Out-of-order arse, didn’t even offer to pay for it.” He adds, nicking Amy-Jo’s, as she listens.
“The fuck? Didn’t you tell him where to go?” she asks, disbelievingly.
“Yeah! Just shoved me though, and ran off. Arrogant little fuck.”
“Psycho” she agrees, lighting his cigarette for him.

Another band are on now, greeting the crowd. Distractedly, Pete leans over and yells, over the howl of dischordant clatter, at his sister “When did you say this Carl bloke’s getting here?”
Amy-Jo’s attention snaps back briefly, “He’s here. Spoke to him when you went to the gents” she yells back, over the guitar-feedback.

“Oh” Pete feels a bit let-down. Feels like a missed opportunity. What if he’s already left?
“He’s on now.” She adds, her voice almost drowned out, even this close to his ear, head nodding to a figure on stage.
He follows her line of vision and laughs.

Of course, it can only make sense in the sick, constant stream of let-downs that is his life, that the semi-perfect, Adonis-like, guitar-god he’d imagined, would just have to be the same absolute, no-manners bastard that made a fool out of him, then ran him down in his obvious eagerness to get to the stage and wank around with some flash guitar that probably isn’t even his, that he probably couldn’t play as well as Pete could.
In his head, of course.

‘Wouldn’t be surprised if he sees me watching and makes some snarky announcement about certain people watching where they walk themselves’ he thinks bitterly as the onstage-Carl fidgets with his guitar, fiddles, re-adjusts, with his band-mate, a reed-thin boy with a crew-cut.

He decides to resign himself to just sipping everyone’s drinks, watch the show, doesn’t want Amy-Jo to know what just happened and with whom. Though she’s bound to know anyway, when she re-introduces them later. But, its not like he intends to stick around. He knows now that he doesn’t like this boy, knows once again, that predictably, the reality fails to live up to the fantasy.

Even if, for a fleeting second he had thought about knowing the chap, staring earnestly at that handsome face as he poured out his soul over dirt-cheap-spirits, writing songs that steal his life, live it for him, alongside this boy, who he’d gotten off to a bad start with but would come to know better than boys ought to ever know each other.

He’s convinced it will never happen now, though. He made an impression, alright…although ‘cool’ and ‘mature’ aren’t the words he’d use for it, and he doesn’t expect that that hurt and recognition will disappear from Carl’s eyes when Amy-Jo introduces him …’Pete, my little brother, remember?’

“Yeah” he says blankly, aloud, but the wail of un-tuned guitar means no one hears him.

He’ll just leave as soon as the band finish, before any introductions can be made. He knows his way back to his sister’s, found his way back the other day, from a pub down the road from here. He wishes he didn’t feel so strongly about things like this, wishes he didn’t over-react and hurt people more than they could ever hurt him, and not for the first time that night, feels tears prick, slight and stinging at his eyes. Doesn’t cry, of course…just gets these urges now and then. Maybe Carl will see a pair of wet, brown eyes in the crowd and realize he didn’t even mean anything by it.

He’s wrenched from his wretchedness with the start of a song and recognizes it, quickly. It’s some bizarre version of ‘Purple Haze’…dark, dirty, distressing beats shaking him from his current mourning. Might be a bad idea, he thinks, starting with a cover like that…suggests you don’t have a lot of faith and pride in what you’ve written yourself, so he’s always thought.

Smoke fills the room slowly, hypnotically, like mist…Pete wonders where it comes from. Doesn’t wonder for long though because Carl has his full attention now; he’s curious to hear and assess whether Amy-Jo was right….and he sees and hears that she was spot-on.
Carl isn’t legendary…not in the grandiose way Pete imagines about legends. He’s a genius. The way he plays reminds Pete of some fanatic mathematician, fingers scrabbling wildly to complex rhythm. Even though Pete can tell that what he’s playing isn’t terribly hard, there’s precision, elegance and artistry in the way his hands shift, re-adjust on the strings, there’s so much more than even normal emotion and transportation taking place here.

Pete’s certain he’s never seen anyone play this way before. Never felt what he’s feeling now simply from sitting and listening, watching someone play. He’s been moved by the way people play before, sure…but never this confusing, awakened, jubilant *something* that has him enthralled right now.

He envies this boy, and whatever it is that he possesses enables him to sound like this…it’s a jealousy that goes beyond obvious, surface things…like Carl’s looks,
sex appeal that Pete thinks must be blatant to everyone and not just to people that swing both ways (like him), goes far beyond his obvious cool, the fact that his sister seems to talk about him more than most other things…

He’s singing now, mouth smudged against the mic, to hide it, maybe. Pete doesn’t quite recognize him as the strange being he ran into earlier…not like this, anyway…
Soft edges, eyes shying away from the lights, gossamer lashes cast downwards more toward his feet, Pete thinks than the chord-shapes his hand’s making. Nice voice too…although it’s so quiet, hesitant Pete can barely hear or understand it.

“…Now she’s like fool’s gold, I’m sorry to report…
Now he’s crossing the road, picking up his daily sport…”

Right, that’s the only bit he’s heard sung clearly. All the same, Pete’s totally re-considered leaving as soon as the last song’s over, knows now that he’s going to have to *make* this bloke talk to him ….he’s just impossibly certain all of a sudden, that he’s the one. The last few songs go over his head, white and shining, he’s too wrapped up in Carl’s playing, the impossible tricks that seem to bloom at his fingertips, to notice when everyone else has stopped playing and Carl’s alone on stage, finishing solo.


And then he is gone.




Chapter 2




Snapping out of the (good) stupor he’d somehow managed to drift into in the course of the gig, Pete casts wildly around, eyes searching the faces in the room…Carl hadn’t re-appeared.
He’d just sort of melted into the backdrop behind the stage, if that was possible. Pete blames the two other doubles (whisky, this time) Amy-Jo had brought him that he had downed, eyes un-moving from the guitarist/arsehole he was utterly captivated by on-stage. Pete leapt off his stool, ignoring Amy-Jo’s yelled “Oi! Pete! Lee’s here!”
Pete did not want to talk to Lee. He was irritating and felt more like a stalker than an ‘acquaintance’ any day. He didn’t want to talk to the rest of the band either (he thought them pretty dire, anyway). Right now he just wanted to get to Carl.

And wish granted, Carl was standing just out of the double doors, dragging on a stolen (slightly limp) cigarette. There was a young-ish girl chatting to him , with a perm…she was maybe a few years younger. ‘Probably fucking fourteen, just looks sixteen’ Pete didn’t really surprise himself when he thought things like this. He was infinitely more worth Carl’s time than this little slag. Carl just didn’t know it, yet.

“S’cuse, mate, could I have a word?” Pete lazily swaggered on up. He was met with hostile eyes. The girl seemed to be on her way anyway, so Carl couldn’t really use her as an escape, much to Pete’s satisfaction.

“Yeah?” Carl’s tone is accusative and curious, if that’s possible.
Pete takes a step closer and Carl flinches a little. “Just wanted to apologize ‘bout earlier, really. Yeah, temper’s a bit….” Pete gestures vaguely, hands striking the air, smiling.
Carl looks absolutely baffled at this personality change and not as if he trusts Pete at all. “Look, Pete,” he sticks out his hand. Carl doesn’t take it. At least, not straight away.
“Er, yeah, I'm Amy-Jo’s brother” he adds. It’s still better, less awkward than Amy-Jo introducing them, he thinks, despite the earlier encounter.

Carl looks a tad shocked. Then he nods, says simply “Right, Pleasure.”
Taking his hand back, Carl looks about them. They stand in silence for a moment, regarding each other quietly. Pete’s doesn’t feel the slightest compulsion to look away from Carl’s eyes (looking for the first time, with some tiny spark of old recognition straight into Pete’s own, and he wonders what’s caused it? Did Carl read Pete’s letters with confusion? Or see some of himself in the crazy, bored, idealistic youth writing to him?).

Other people are starting to leave through the double doors. Wordlessly, Carl breaks the eye-contact, (Pete was beginning to wonder if he could go blind just from staring so intensely into those blue mirrors of his own eyes) turns and walks away, but not in a way that suggests he wants Pete to leave him be.
So persistently, Pete follows. He’s surprised when Carl speaks “Yeah, I remember now, Amy mentioned you might be coming down this way soon.”

Pete’s flattered, a little re-assured even, that Carl’s now at least (verbally) acknowledging him. That he’s remembered him from letters and things, perhaps. Carl’s a brisk walker, they’re already nearly a block away from those doors Pete had located Carl by. Pete catches Carl’s eye again, in a sideways glance and Carl casts frightened, determined eyes away. It makes Pete want to laugh, that. He knows now, then. Carl had no trouble meeting his gaze a second ago.

“Where you off to now, then?” Pete asks conversationally, realizing he’s pretty much un-invited, but not really caring.
“Bar”
“Right. Need company?”
“Not really, no.”
Pete realizes they’ve traveled several streets into an area with more tenements, graffiti and fewer cars. Bit more like home this, the area surrounding his school, his friend’s homes…but nothing like the barren, isolated environment of army barracks that he calls a home.

“Wanted a chat…” he presses.
“Did you now…”
A hush descends on them. This clearly isn’t going as smoothly as he’d planned, nor as well. So how less smooth or well could it possibly go if he throws caution to the winds?
Without warning, wrenching Carl by the collar of his jacket, ignoring the surprised yell, the choked “the fuck you think you’re-“
and he has him trapped against a shop-front,
tongue cutting off the rest of Carl’s question, one hand pressed tight to his shoulder, pinning him to the glass behind, and one hand screwed just as tight into that long, raven-soft hair, so that if he has any sense he won’t try to rip his mouth away from Pete’s, for fear of being scalped.

To Pete’s astonishment, he isn’t being fought on this; if he’d been anticipating being hit before, back inside, he DEFINITELY expected it now.
But not this…yielding hips against his own, the lax, un-restraining hand on his arm, not this depraved mixture of dizziness, intoxication (not just the alcohol in his bloodstream), hungry excitement taking over his body and soul…so what if Carl isn’t really reciprocating the kiss? He isn’t exactly pushing him off, either.

But Pete has *some* boundaries (occasionally, anyway) and doesn’t really want this bloke to think he’s just some totally over-eager, lovesick schoolboy. He pulls back, affecting his cockiest grin, swipes a hand quickly over the collar of the leather jacket, smooths down any undue ruffling he may have caused.

Carl is slightly breathless, flushed, but doesn’t look wholly surprised. Just lazily swipes a tongue along that hypnotic lower lip, sullying Pete’s noble efforts to look insouciant and detached. Damn.
“Erm - ok…” Carl claps two hands chummily together and looks expectantly at him.

Ok?

“Ok?”

“Yeah…do you wanna have this chat, then?”

What?

Pete stares at this strange creature, jawslack, blinking dumbly in the street/milky moon-light. Pete isn’t used to this in the slightest. How can Carl just resume that nonchalant air as though nothing just happened? He’s used to leaving people high and dry, speechless, not the other way around.

The strange creature is still, then shrugs, not waiting for an answer and begins to walk again. Pete follows, and a benign air of companionship settles over them. Pete thinks it’s probably just because of Carl’s ‘yeah, so what?’ reaction, that their now walking in silence. Not really chatting, is it? He smiles a little smile to himself. Carl catches it and suddenly looks irritated.

“What?”

“Nothing?”

Pete recognizes the street they’ve come to. Because it’s the one Amy-Jo’s place is on. The place he knows that she shares with Carl.
“Where’s this bar, then?” he says uncertain, a little hope gnawing at him, hand twisting in his trouser pocket.

“Not going to one.”

“But you said…”

“Changed my mind.”

At this, Pete feels his heartbeat quicken, tries to hide any look of hope or anticipation on his face as Carl jams his key in the lock and steps inside.

“Coming?”

“Yeah, ‘course”

They climb the decrepit stairs (too slowly, in Pete’s opinion) and Carl lets them into a cramped and careworn bed-sit place. Does Amy-Jo really share this place with Carl?
He can’t imagine any privacy here…paper-thin walls, a door removed from it’s hinges...it’s a far cry from the acres of open land at home, surrounded by wire and no-trespassing signs. He doesn’t see how you couldn’t not trespass, here.

“Amy-Jo said it was en-suite! Said she had her own bath an’ everything…” he says, pulling his burburry-pattern jacket off.

“Haha! Cobblers, all of it!”

“So, which is your room, then?”

Carl motions at a door to the left, poster of Nico and the Velvets plastered across it. Pete goes boldly in, without asking, sits on the bed and takes his Nike sweater off too. Carl comes in a second later, whiskey bottle in hand, hands it to Pete and shakes off his own leather jacket, throws it on the bed. Pete swigs from the bottle, watches Carl roll a joint, dropping off-white powder onto the rizzla.

Lighting it, Carl takes a deep toke, hands it to Pete. Putting the bottle aside, he tries to drag on it as long as Carl just did. Carl looks more relaxed now, he’s noticed…doesn’t seem as likely to bite his head off, punch him if he tries anything again, a little smirk playing loosely at the corners of his mouth. So Pete brushes nearly-but-not-quite accidental fingers over Carl’s wrist as he hands the joint back.

Looking unfazed, Carl puts an old cassette on. Pete’s starting to feel light-headed, more confident. He actually laughs aloud, un-self consciously as Michael Jackson starts singing.

“Oh Carl!” he howls.

Carl is agitatedly fiddling with the stereo, fast-forwarding, muttering “It’s Amy-Jo’s, not mine”

They pass the joint back and forth as the tape machine whirs softly. Pete sticks the spent joint into a nearby mug, his hand shaking a little, Carl hits play and Lou Reed’s voice fills the room.

“I’m waiting for my man, Here he comes, he’s all dressed in black…”

Carl pulls his shirt over his head, throws it on the bed too, and pulls a packet of woodbines out of his faded jean pocket, lights one and offers it to Pete.
The ‘chat’ might have to wait, Pete thinks, suppressing a shudder as he regards the shirtless boy reclining in an old, splintered chair, like something from Transylvania, skin the color of tea, he thinks, the most breath-taking, half-naked body he’s seen of any boy that he’s known …bright, black hair in waves, tendrils all too easy to wind around his hands…

“He’s never early, he’s always late
First thing you learn is you always gotta wait
I’m waiting for my man
Up to a brownstone, up three flights of stairs…”

Dragging on the cigarette, Pete regards the obsidian tangle of cotton shirt crumpled next to the leather sprawled in similar disarray on the covers next to him and feels like giggling. Thinks they resemble two fallen, charred, twisted blackbirds …although that might be the Charlie and the drink talking. And probably his stupid mind needing to find other, more poetic ways of seeing (even when this inebriated). Doesn’t do to stop and contemplate why it feels, momentarily like some metaphorical premonition or other…

“He’s got the works, gives you sweet taste
Ah then you gotta split because you got no time to waste
I’m waiting for my man”

Carl doesn’t look any easier to decipher, to undo, than earlier this night…still the strange creature from before. Stranger still, how with fewer clothes on, simplified somewhat, he’s still no closer to unraveling a single thing about him. So, Pete stretches back on the bed, with the whiskey bottle in the grip of one hand, fag in the other.
“’ere, don’t have it all, give us some…” Carl scolds, reaches over for it. His bed, his drugs, his drink, after all….

“C’mere and get it yourself, I ain’t sitting waiting for you to finish it…” he pats the covers beside him.
Sighing irritatedly, Carl gets up, comes and stretches out next to him on the bed, settles shoulder to shoulder with him so that neither of them have to get up to pass the bottle back and forth. Plucks it from Pete’s grasp too, and drinks deeply. Pete watches in silent adoration as Carl’s neck stretches back, Adam’s apple shifting under fragile skin, eyes feathering shut as the whiskey burns his insides.
Carl’s eyes are still closed when he hands the bottle back, arms behind his head, sublime chest fluttering as he breathes…maybe from the amphetamines rushing behind closed eyes or maybe from……

Pete sets the bottle on the floor, and without waiting for permission, leans over, brushing his lips across Carl’s throat. “You won’t even try and give me a reason…” is bitten from the throat being kissed so worshipfully, the skin beneath Pete’s lips humming with the words, as previously resting eyes snap open accusatively and Pete flinches a little, lost for a split-second in those twin pools of hurt…as if this is another agenda of Pete’s, that doesn’t include letting Carl know what his role in it is. No words are forth-coming, however, and a hesitant hand drifts up his spine, over the cloth of his polo-shirt, but rests itself demandingly on the back of his neck. And come on, Carl knows how alluring he can be, is even, didn’t really need to take any clothes off to prove that…

He has to bloody know, anyway, Pete thinks…all this coy, tentative shit is just to cover up the fact that he’s secretly full of it…...right?
Pete looks searchingly into Carl’s eyes once more, where some of the hurt has been replaced with lust, playfulness and no little chemical-induced recklessness.
Which, if he’s honest, is just the sort of situation Pete likes to take advantage of. It’s debauched, its drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, all the things that he spends lonely minutes at home praying, searching vainly for.
But there’s still a stubborn veil of insecurity there when Pete tries to tear his eyes away from Carl’s and just concentrate on everywhere else.
Wishes it was enough to make him take notice, and leave; leave this boy for someone else to hurt instead….
but he knows it’ll be him. Knew tonight, the first time that he met Carl’s eyes, when they were still utterly unknown to each other, of the awful easiness with which he could hurt him.

But he can’t (can’t even try to) ignore the insistent palm pressing at his thigh when he looks down, or the shift of Carl’s hips as he lies flatter into the mattress, under him, as Pete locks a knee either side of his waist…

And suddenly Pete is struck by the (pretty ridiculous) notion that he doesn’t want anyone else to hurt this boy. This is the last thing he decides to say on the matter (to himself), as he dips his head, leans down and kisses Carl harsh and deliberate, smoke clouding the taste of him, and sucks until Carl’s mouth opens properly for him this time, more sensual in its ministrations, doesn’t feel forced open, which, (to be fair) it was before. He’s proving to Peter, to be someone just as sensitive physically as he is emotionally, and it only makes Pete want him more.

Gasping from the close heat and the absence of air (that seemed to have settled for finding sly ways to convince him that all the air he really needed, he could extract through Carl’s mouth), Pete broke the kiss and sat back on Carl’s legs.
Still not saying a word, Carl stares gaminely up at him, eyes lazy in their teasing travels of the boy sat before him, all inviting lines and blatant arousal…

The cocaine still humming through his nerve endings, Pete pulled his own shirt off, to cast it onto the bed beside them, next to his two crumpled blackbird premonitions of earlier…and moving forward, straddling Carl, locking their hips together and tries to figure out how to rip apart Carl’s jeans without him getting too upset about it, as he sucks possessively at the willing lips between his own…






























Chapter 3





Hands are trying to rip his head off by the roots of his fucking hair.
This isn’t terribly unexpected, to be fair, since he’s got one of his own hands fisted in that ebony silk (probably just good old-fashioned retaliation, then), has Carl’s head wrenched back so he has better access to that neck and jaw he had been *trying* to keep still for one minute, with little success…maybe the excessive hair ripping has more to do with his remaining hand finding it’s way into the front of Carl’s trousers, teasingly gripping through boxer material at the bulge growing there, then shying away to tease and stroke breath-soft at the skin above instead.

Which Carl just isn’t having any of, apparently…maybe he isn’t the right sort of person to tease… something Pete has started strongly to suspect, if the vicious hands in his hair are anything to go by.
So Carl might be a little over-sensitive or whatever, nerves probably hyper-aware of the fucking air moving around them even, but still……he’s starting to wish he could just open his eyes, (screwed shut from the near-unbearable pain of Carl’s hand snarled in his hair) and find Carl magically bound and gagged, (or on some sort of strong sedative, at this stage...) so he can just have his way with him.
He glares down at the stretch of exposed neck before him, and thinks that Carl’s pretty lucky that he’s ended up with someone tonight who isn’t going to rough him up, rape him and tell him to STOP FUCKING SQUIRMING AND BEING SUCH A VIOLENT LITTLE SLAG. Honestly.

Doesn’t stop him leaning in though, and sucking harshly on the heated skin where he can see Carl’s pulse fluttering, almost biting too (fatally) hard when Carl’s other hand relinquishes it’s vice-grip in his hair and pulls Pete’s hips in so close that for a moment there’s nothing but a violent stab of pleasure, a little compression in his head, and the loss of doubts he had been having about how easy it was going to be to get here….into Carl’s bed, kissing him over and over and over (and over) again, totally uncaring about their mutual dislike for each other (is that all it can be and nothing more complicated, though?) and when or if Pete’s sister gets back.

One thing he, personally isn’t uncaring about however, is that Carl’s little maneuver has trapped his hand between their bodies, crushed against Carl’s stomach now, and he’d like to be able to feel his fingertips, thinks they’d probably quite like to be able to feel softness and warmth again, when tangled in Carl’s hair. Carl didn’t seem to be minding this at all really, pupils dilated, looking cheerfully up at him, and grinning somewhat.
This was probably Carl’s little version of rebellion or something, Pete smiles unpleasantly to himself…..like payback for stomach-caressing, and *not* place-where-hand-is-actually-needed-caressing.

“Aghhh - fuck - " he yanks his hand out from between them, Carl smirking infuriatingly smugly, under him.

“sorry”

He isn’t sorry at all, is he, immature little bastard…. And perhaps Carl is making this so difficult because he actually doesn’t *really* want it…probably just wants for Pete to suck him off, get it over with, and leave him alone….he doesn’t know how, but he’s starting to strongly suspect that Carl hasn’t actually gotten very far with other blokes before.

“Carl, Carl…”

No response.

He rubs again, teasingly at the front of Carl’s jeans, eliciting a violent shudder.

“What?”

Pete smirks, now that he has Carl’s attention again.

“Got a condom?”

There. That should bring it all home. If Carl’s never gone that far with his own gender before, then it should become a bit more obvious. If Carl just doesn’t want to go that far with him well, that should be clearer too. Not like they’re actually going to be mature and sit and have a sensitive talk about their first time together, or anything. That stuff’s for girls. Obviously.

Carl doesn’t answer. This is getting irritating. It isn’t mysterious, or a turn-on, it’s just conceited and boring.
They’re both of them impossibly hard, and Carl’s delaying tactics are starting to get tiresome. Pete raises himself up a bit, regards Carl with his best searching look, pleading with wide-eyed sincerity for some sort of encouragement.
Carl isn’t looking at him. He’s just looking blankly down past his own hips, to where Pete’s knees are clamped either side of them.

“Fine, I’ll get it my fucking self…” he says, sulkily, clambering off Carl to go in search of an aid.
But not wanting to completely fuck up the atmosphere, (hard task, aye) he grins suggestively down at Carl, before giving an ‘oh come on, you moody sod’ departing squeeze to his crotch.

“FOR FUCKS SAKE!!” Carl explodes, suddenly shocked into life, bursting up, enraged, from under him, right up into his face, eyes mere fucking millimeters from his own, freezing and stunning him with their exasperation and distress.

“WHAT!!!?” he almost screams back, his own initial shock utterly infuriating him.

“JUST FUCKING STOP, ALRIGHT?” Carl looks like he’s about cry. He really does.

Pete smothers his impulse to hug him, this stupid, confused boy, hold him and tell him there isn’t any need to get upset, not ever, that he’s the most beautiful person Pete’s ever been angry with or even met, that he can play guitar just as sublimely as he did in all Pete’s wildest fantasies…..and then some.

Instead, he just stands in dazed frustration, helpless, as Carl rakes a hand through his hair, but doesn’t turn away from him (thank god). Just stands looking shamelessly back, pleading (but what the fuck for?).
Several seconds or minutes pass as they simply stand and stare (clearly, he’s lost his capacity for estimating how long a moment can last, since meeting this boy tonight) and it isn’t like anything.
It really isn’t, because Pete can’t remember ever having done this so comfortably/uncomfortably, and so often with anyone in his life until now…..sharing so many intimidating, feverish gazes, in the course of less than half an evening, never saying a word… And maybe….

Maybe this *is* really what Carl wants, Pete realises, focus suddenly sharpening on the way Carl’s mouth seems to sit sullen, determined, as if daring him to make it form more words.
He *does* want it…..it was just that he doesn’t want anything (touches, hisses, the hitching of breath) being tainted by the touch of their words, things that are capable of lying, being misinterpreted.

And the more he picks this theory apart, the more likely it seems to be…
The worst moments between them tonight, he realises, have come whenever he’s said something wrong or insensitive (not that it’s that hard to do with Carl, anyway, he thinks childishly) and perhaps that’s done more damage than he first thought…
Either way, Carl hasn’t actually told him, up front to piss off for good, so far……hasn’t even tried to throw him out after that heated instant just now, nor during this strange other-worldly moment they seem to be sharing…
Which means he must want something…he’s just guessing that it probably isn’t the ‘chat’ that Pete had in store for him, initially. And maybe Carl just doesn’t want to risk that any more tonight, the damage they could do to each other if they used words in this moment that is unfolding gradually…

And Pete never realized how much a look could tell him until now, how right it could prove to be in it’s implication and challenge, as he steps in, closes the distance between them to a gap of mere centimeters…and Carl doesn’t look infuriated, threatening or about to cry, (or any of the other things that he had looked like before) now.
Just softer, more beautiful, but at the same time, more intense and on-edge…as if he’s not sure Pete’s understood any of these silent pleas……

‘JUST FUCKING STOP, ALRIGHT?’

In answer to that, (that plea that felt like it had been uttered hours ago, now) instead of just coming out with a “No” or “Ohhh, I get ya…yeah, you meant stop talking, Pete…not stop touching me” - instead, he brings a hand, softer this time, up to snare in the tips of Carl’s hair, and whispers (so close to Carl that he must be able to taste these last words on his lips)
“You give me a reason, Carl, and I will…”

Which he doesn’t of course.

Does the exact opposite in fact, and swallows the pathetic, nothing space between them and brings their lips together, soft and sweet. Pete silently pledges not to say another word until this ends in one way or another.
Winding his other hand (the one not in Carl’s hair, again) possessively around the back of Carl’s neck, he tugs him back down onto the bed, and Carl’s hands go up to his shoulders and begin to scratch lightly at the skin there, growing more frantic, as Pete licks hungrily up and down repeatedly, from Carl’s collar bone to his ribs, dips his tongue into the hollow where Carl’s hip juts from lying so flat for him, such a single-purpose position, he thinks, as Carl’s hands go to his head once more.

Sitting up, he brings both hands to the sides of Carl’s thighs and looks quietly at the boy beneath him, for approbation, reciprocation.

Carl looks back, for the first time, with nothing but the fiercest desire,
pupils so impossibly big and black that it just can’t be the chemicals from earlier, legs parted in submission.
So, Pete leans down, strokes and fucking properly touches him, and actually feels him, grips the bones and solid flesh he can feel beneath the denim on Carl’s hips, and a little pleasured hiss escapes the other-wise silent mouth before him. Pete’s never felt more appreciative of someone so finely tuned to physical touches…it actually just speeds up his actions, more than anything, makes him want them both to have nothing but skin, nothing else in the way, just to see what it will do to Carl.

He’s already unzipping Carl’s much-abused jeans and pulling them off, boxers too, and finds himself just *staring*

Can’t help himself, he’s never actually seen another boy this exposed to him before. He’s had sex with another bloke before, but it was completely different anyway, since he couldn’t see much of what was going on, being on the receiving end mostly, and they always seemed to be half-clothed, furtive little encounters, hurried, behind a tree in the woods, or desperate and quick-before-we-fucking-get-caught ones in his bedroom.

Finds himself inspired to write (bloody stupid, when he should be ravishing every bit of skin he sees before him) volumes of prose, about everything that he can see right now. And touch if he wants.

Carl isn’t playing the wallflower though, doesn’t just lie and let Pete stare as much as he feels like, he’s already unbuckling Pete’s belt, pulling eagerly at trouser fastenings until they’re undone and with practiced fingers, Carl’s pulling the stupid things off.

And so, with nothing left to hide them from one another, visually or otherwise (treacherous words that can scar easier than Pete ever knew until now…) they’re level on the bed, face to face, clothes scattered around them, and Pete bobs nervously as Carl takes in everything about him, and wonders fleetingly, if this is as new a sight (in the flesh) to Carl, as it is to him…and wants to be as close as he possibly can, wants to press his mouth to Carl’s face and everywhere else too, when he sees that Carl isn’t even looking at him in the way he suspects that he was gawping at Carl, himself earlier (probably not the best thing to do to someone who already seemed to have major insecurities about themselves)…
is just looking at him with the same lust and predatory want as he was moments before, when they were both half-dressed…
As if in a dream, Pete moves forward, as Carl lies back and then shivers violently at the first touch…



...to be continued