chapter two

 "Peter?"

Carl was rubbing his back, trying to comfort him. It was working a little, but Peter wasn't going to let him know. He was still upset, embarrassed too for making such a big deal out of it, and mad at Carl for everything. Well, it wasn't Carl's fault really...it was the bloody torch's fault, and Peter angrily threw that at the wall as well, deciding that no, of course it was Carl's fault because he had laughed. Which meant he hadn't been taking the poetry seriously in the first place.

"Fuck off!"

When Peter turned to glare at Carl with his reddened eyes, Carl drew back his hand, made a repentant face, and said humbly, "Yes, of course. Where would you like me to fuck off to, my dear?"

Peter almost giggled but stopped himself in time. "Over there," he said, sniffing and still glaring as he pointed to the furthest corner of the room. Carl swung his legs off the bed and purposely hobbled towards the corner, making out that he had a lame leg, and Carl was an excellent actor. “Weary bones,“ Carl muttered in a pirate’s voice, and winked at him roguishly. Peter was finding it impossible to stay mad with him, but still, refused to smile or laugh.

 Carl amiably settled himself against the wall and picked up the poor poetry book from where it was lying, face down and open, though more battered than usual. It was next to the torch, which ironically, was shining brightly, possibly fixed by the way it had been slammed against the wall. Peter gathered the blankets around himself, feeling a momentary satisfaction that he was now warmer than Carl.

Suffer, he thought smugly.

With only his face poking out, his eyes fixed on Carl with some measure of curiosity as he was now flicking through the book. He was illuminating the pages with the torch, which appeared to be behaving itself now that it was out of Peter‘s hands.

Peter gave it a look of complete and utter loathing.

"Ah, found it!" Carl suddenly proclaimed, still in the pirate voice. He looked up to meet Peter's eyes, and Peter quickly glanced away, pretending he'd been staring at the wall. Carl smiled inwardly, cleared his throat and started to read.

 "They were alone...“ he looked at Peter again, “but not as alone as they who shut in chambers think it loneliness, the silent ocean and the starlight bay, the twilight glow, which momently grew less,"

Carl's eyes met Peter's again, but Peter didn't look away this time. He was watching Carl wonderingly. Carl smiled warmly, went on, "The voiceless sands, and dropping caves that lay around them, made them to each other press.."

Peter listened, something quietly unfurling inside him, brushing away the hurt and irritation. He bit his lip. Carl's voice really was beautiful when he wasn‘t mumbling, and filled with an odd quality that Peter had never heard from him before, especially not when reciting poetry. Normally, when he read something from one of Peter's books, he did it in a mocking way, rolling his eyes and elongating his voice theatrically.

But Carl was reading this poem - a long time favourite of Peter's - as though he meant every word, as though it were true for him, somehow. As though it weren't about Juan and Haidee, but about them.

"as if there were no life beneath the sky save theirs, and that their life could never die...." The torch flickered, then went out for good, casting the room into darkness. But before it did, Peter saw the loving look Carl gave him, the way the final words slipped from his lips effortlessly, without mumble or disguise. Peter's lower lip quivered.

He was sitting in a shoddy hotel, freezing cold, locked out of his equally shoddy flat, with no telly, no money, no food, and yet, here was Carl, reciting a love poem to him in the near dark, and he meant it too. He started crying again. Carl got up hastily to comfort him, looking dismayed. He sat on the bed, wrapping his arms around him, blanket and all. "Come on, Peter, don't cry," he said desperately, heart sinking, "I meant it you know, I wasn't jesting, do you think I didn't mean it? Well I did -"

And Carl's fingers were dabbing at his face, trying to wipe away his tears, albeit clumsily. "Come on Bilo, how can I make it better?"

"You already did," Peter was going to say, but instead he whispered, "You can kiss me." He couldn't see Carl's expression in the dark, but he felt a hand gently cup his cheek, then slide round the back of his neck. And then Peter was feeling very happy indeed, very happy as Carl pulled him in close and kissed him.

He forgot all about the cold, and the shoddiness, and the fucking torch and all of it, because he was here with Carl, who loved him, who had just read Byron to him, had chosen a poem for him, and actually sod the poetry right now, because Peter was fucking living it.

He was starting to lose himself in the sensation of Carl's mouth, warm and passionate, those sensual, swollen lips rubbing against his own - when he suddenly drew back. "Actually," he breathed, looking straight at Carl, "Sod kissing. Make love to me, Carl. "

A momentary silence followed, during which Peter fidgeted nervously, wondering if Carl was in one of his 'I'm straight-we're not in a relationship-it's just too much drink and drugs' moods.

Then, finally Carl spoke. "So you're not mad at me, then?" His slender fingers stroked the back of Peter's neck. "You forgive me?"

Peter melted with relief and joy. So he wasn't in one of those moods, oh good, good, Peter didn't think he would be able to bear it at this moment, with his emotions as brittle as they currently were.

“Bilo?"

Peter blinked, brought out of his reverie. "Of course I forgive you,” he said automatically, but purposely made his words sound just that little bit fake.

“But?”

“But you know what they say, you forgive but you don’t forget, which means I might forever carry this searing pain of your rejection in my heart,“ Carl rolled his eyes at his melodramatic tone, Peter wrapped his arms around Carl's neck, ran his fingers slowly through Carl's hair, “But if you can make it up to me, I might just forget about it..."

Carl's mouth curved into a conspiring smile. He placed a finger against Peter’s lips. "Say no more," he said mysteriously, "For I might just have a way to make you forget." He tilted his head, drew his tongue along the curve of Peter's neck, and Peter shivered in expectant pleasure.

He was unable to believe his luck at this unusually relaxed and amiable and un-depressed, un-moody Carl. The person that he really was, underneath the many protective layers, whether it was his cocky sarcasm or the fringe that fell across his face - which normally, it took some effort from Peter to bring out.

‘Things are getting better,’ Peter decided, feeling the joy prickle under his skin, ‘Carl is getting better, and things are getting better and one day soon...’ He sighed inside, ‘One day soon he will have the contentment he deserves, and I’ll be right there to enjoy it with him.. oh Carl...’

Carl was fervently undoing the buttons on Peter's shirt, at the same time kissing him, not just on his lips, but everywhere, sloppily and lovingly, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, "I love you," Peter murmured, raising a hand to stroke Carl‘s cheek, "I love you so much."

There was a beat, a pause, and then Carl whispered back, brushing his lips against Peter's ear, "I love you more." He threw Peter’s shirt on the floor with a flourish. Peter relaxed, giggled, brushed away Carl's hand as it came up to tickle behind his ear, in a place only Carl knew he was ticklish.

"I love you more than more."

Peter lifted up Carl's shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it on the floor beside his own. He ran his pale fingers down Carl's chest, feeling the smooth muscle shift under his touch, and leaned forward to kiss him. Their tongues slid against each other, warm and passionate, then, when they reluctantly broke apart for oxygen, Carl remarked, "I love you much more than more," and he grinned, "I win."

He stood up, off the bed, and started to unzip his jeans. Peter shifted over to flick on the light switch. Carl raised an eyebrow. "Just enjoying the scenery," Peter said innocently. "Carry on, Carlos."

Carl laughed, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Happy to oblige." He proceeded to put on a bit of a show for Peter, while Peter whistled and clapped his hands. "Fuck, it's cold," Carl complained once he was out of the restrictive denim, and Peter, languidly lying back on the bed to regard him, purred, "Well why don't you come hither, handsome boy, and I'll warm you up..."

Carl chuckled. "You're no good at seduction, Peter," he commented, his fingers trailing up Peter’s legs to remove his trousers. Once he was out of them (“fuck, it is so cold!” - Peter, "So that's where all my calvin kleins have been disappearing!" - Carl) he pulled the blankets over them to keep warm, and added, "Peter, who is not very good at acting like a slag because he is one anyway, without trying - (“Oi!“ Peter tried to hit him, but Carl caught his wrist and slyly licked it, causing him to erupt in giggles again) but who I love much more than more," Peter sighed and his head fell back against the pillows as Carl started to press wet little kisses all over his neck and collarbone.

"But I love you so much more than more," Peter chortled gleefully at his own cleverness, his laughs mixed in with gasps of pleasure as Carl's mouth began moving down his chest. "Hah hah, Biggles -oh- you don't -ohh- win after all!" Carl snickered at the interruptions, planted a kiss on Peter's belly button.

"Sorry to ruin your short lived victory," he whispered against Peter's stomach, making him shiver, "but I love you oh so much more than more."

"I believe you," Peter whispered, and as Carl lifted his head, and their eyes met, he recited, "..and that their life could never die.. do you think that's true, Biggles?"

"Of course," Carl said instantly, his fingers caressing Peter's thighs, "because Carlos loves Peter forever."

"Does he really?" asked Peter eagerly, "Forever and ever?"

"As long as forever can possibly be," Carl proclaimed passionately. "And more than that!"

Peter wriggled out from underneath him, and abruptly pulled the blanket away. Carl yelped as the cold air of the room hit his skin.

"Fuck - Pete!" he howled, trying to grab at the blanket, but Peter laughed, wrapping it around him as he scuttled off the bed, and headed towards Carl's discarded jeans.

"What are you doing?" Carl glared at him as he wrapped his arms around himself, "Argh - you spanner!”

"Aw, come on," Peter pouted. "Don't be cross with me, I'll be back in a minute, and then you'll have me to keep warm, but," and Peter found the flick knife at last, "I've got something to do first."

Carl sighed as he watched Peter carve into the old dresser. "You've suddenly decided to vandalise the furniture?"

Peter seemed immersed in whatever he was doing, with such careful concentration on his face, sticking his tongue out a little, and looking so adorable that Carl smiled and shifted towards him, craning his neck to see what was of such importance that it simply couldn't wait.

"Carlos loves Peter forever," he read out loud.

"Set in stone," Peter added in a whisper, placing the knife down and reverently rubbing his fingers over what he'd etched.

"You silly sod," said Carl, reaching for him, pulling him into his arms, "You don't need to write it down."

"I want to see it in the morning."

"I'll tell you in the morning."

**

Peter didn’t realise he was crying until he felt something wet trickling down his cheeks, and it occurred to him that it must be what he was doing, though he didn't know when it'd started.

Wolfman was grunting above him, eyes closed and too caught up in his own pleasure now to notice Peter, and though Peter himself wasn’t feeling any pleasure, the pain had mostly dulled. At least the physical pain had, the pain in his heart was unbearable.

He couldn’t stand this room. He couldn’t bear to look up at the ceiling, where he and Carl had found the same picture in the cracks, when they’d lain on the bed, smoking fags in each other’s arms, and Peter had fallen asleep dreaming of Arcadia.

“Wolfie,” he whispered, his voice dry and cracked, and he suddenly realised that he wasn’t hard anymore either, “please..”

 Wolfman glanced at him then, and he must have thought that Peter was asking if he could get him off, because he looked at his limp cock and muttered, “Fuck - sorry,” and Peter struggled to say, that no, he didn’t care about that, he just wanted him to stop, or at least to get it over and done with, because Peter couldn’t stand being in this room anymore.

But then Wolfman was touching him, trying to get him hard again, but it wasn’t working, and he was looking at Peter with furrowed brows. “Are you-” “Fine,” Peter managed to say. “Just -” he swallowed, and closed his eyes, trying not to show his distress. “just need the brown.. feel sick..” Trying to make it out that he was only feeling this way because he needed a fix. Wolfman seemed convinced enough, because he stopped trying to pleasure him, went about his own release. He was moaning Peter’s name amidst a string of dirty words, thrusting faster inside him and jerking him up and down on the protesting bedsprings.

Peter didn’t want to touch Wolfman in any way right now, so he clutched the mattress for support, pushing his hips up and trying to concentrate on the fact that it would all be over in a few seconds and then he could leave. And then he could pour the brown into his suffering veins and have it reach his splintered mind, make everything melt away.. especially this memory...Carl and him.. together, in this very room, possibly in this very bed...it seemed old enough...oh god...

"Peter," Wolfman groaned, "You're so fucking tight.." and he thrust harder inside him, fingers digging into Peter's hips, "so beautiful, boy, so fucking..." And he was close now, and Peter was silently begging time to please go a little faster. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, didn’t want to glimpse the corner where Carl had been sitting when he’d read that poem for him, because he was afraid that he really would see Carl, looking straight at Peter, with that rarely seen smile...

A sob escaped Peter’s lips. Carl, he thought bitterly, what the fuck happened to forever?