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Chapter 9

May 14 2006

Maybe, just maybe now isn't the time to start worrying about how he's ever going to get back home. Not maybe, certainly even.

Because as much as he has no idea how he'll cope with the walk to school, the mundane, the daily grind that he's so accustomed to that he thinks he could recite it's particulars in his fucking dreams, front and back - as much as he wonders how he'll ever get back to getting up too early, and cold, uncomfortable mornings with no one holding him in his bed when he awakes, after this…he thinks everything will just be grey and indifferent from now on, if he can't be here.
So as worried as he is about how he'll ever find it in himself to get back on that train, he can't even remember if that matters now, when he is so distracted by the enigma before him, on all fucking fours in front of Pete on the bench and this freezing canal…

He watches breathlessly, as Carl tugs on his boxers gently (satisfied that this was what Pete wanted, and that no, they probably weren't going to find a convenient, brand-new condom lying around here for Pete) until Pete is exposed. Carl leans his face in closer by about an inch more,
chin accidentally nudging Pete's erection which just becomes even more strained from this subtle contact, and then finally, takes him inside, dipping his head in one swift motion, till Pete can feel the tip of his cock brushing the back of Carl's throat, causing him to buck his hips violently and force himself even further in, if that's at all possible.

Which Carl clearly wasn't expecting, since his eyes have gone quite a lot wider and Pete guiltily feels Carl's throat clench around the intrusion, trying to save him from choking.

So he re-gains some control over his impulses, and some of his conscience, and pulls out of Carl's mouth, whose eyes are watering again, and rubbing at his throat in a bitchy manner, half-glaring at Pete.

"Listen, you don't have to have it all the way inside y'know, you can just…"

"Shhh! I know what I'm doing, alright?"

Carl, clearly not one for being told how to do things, even when it's only his first time doing them, takes Pete in his mouth again sulkily - only this time, less than half way, tongue creeping out a little, beginning to explore Pete, and shutting him up pretty well by making him shudder, gasp in mouthfuls of painfully cold night air, in contrast to the burning he feels below, wondering fleetingly how the hell Carl hasn't frozen onto him…Carl, who is sleek and wet against him, tongue burning a path in the freezing cold, along skin that feels as though it's on fire.

"Fuck, Carl that feels amazin'…"

Encouraged, (and a little smug too, Pete notices) Carl tips his head so he can take another inch or two, starting to slide his tongue teasingly over the head, and suddenly licking furiously over it when he tastes the pre-come leaking out there, causing Pete to grind out a need-filled moan, and wind his hands into Carl's hair, feeling it's feather-soft tips teasing the insides of his thighs.

"fuck, yeah…..just suck a bit harder, yeah and - "

Scowling, Carl snatches his tongue away defensively, from where it had been inducing such absolute pleasure and resentfully, just holds Pete loosely in his mouth again, barely sucking at all.

Pete slightly unsurely, adds "Please, Carl? Is that better?"

Ignoring this, (verbally, at least…but then, Pete suspects that Carl can't be all that verbal now, anyway) Carl resumes a fiercer rhythm, and he does start sucking harder…a lot harder - it's beginning to verge on painful, really.

It feels like Carl's pulling him apart…like a piece, a thread come loose from knotted cloth, and Carl has him captured between his teeth, unravelling him, and he's slowly coming undone at the seams, un-knotting, the tension of the material stretching till breaking-point…
because its fucking mind-blowing, the way Carl's tongue angles against him, wonders how the hell he knows so well what he's doing with his mouth to make Pete feel so much like the word oblivion right now….

And all that Pete can think now (apart from how he needs to make Carl do this for him much, much more, maybe even every time he sees him) is that he finds it bizarrely romantic that they managed to give each other the first blowjob of each other's life in the same day - well, first blowjob for another boy, anyway…can't help but feel oddly happy that they pulled this off, when there seems to be so much pride involved with them always, since their first meeting even...

And its the last thing that does occur to him, before he begins to feel the taut pull of that unraveling that Carl is doing with his mouth, feels that thread pulling impossibly tight, as tight as his hands in Carl's hair are twisting, when Carl brings a hand to his balls and begins stroking rapidly, in time with the strokes of his tongue over Pete's straining cock…
finds himself savoring every deft move that Carl makes with that mouth…and Carl's looking up, through dark strands of hair cutting across his face, watching Pete's every reaction hungrily, eyes black as the sky above their heads, and now all Pete can feel is that he is beyond pleasure….that this is something entirely different, and that Carl just fucking must be his savior after all, and he wants to be Carl's.….

and then he's coming, with a strangled cry into his own hand, eyes shocked so tightly shut that his ears ring…

And when he finally opens them, sweat trickling down one of his temples, Carl isn't on all fours anymore. He's sitting up in front of him, and wiping at his chin somewhat.

"What - did you…?" Pete is momentarily baffled.



Pete's pretty happy really that Carl actually swallowed, and didn't just choke when Pete came into his mouth - seeing as how plenty of girls he's known have done, when they didn't realize in time....

He's actually feeling more than a bit sorry for Carl at the minute, really.
Being quite clearly a little emotionally unstable, indecently exposing himself, getting restrained from throwing himself into a canal, and then, he supposes in some ways being sexually taken advantage of when he's still a bit…mentally delicate.

And probably freezing his bollocks off too, from the way he's shivering so hard on his knees. Trembling in the dark, and steam rising gently from the parts of him that are heated flesh, as though he's just taken a bath, maybe…

And, on closer inspection, Pete realizes as well, that he's absolutely filthy.
He had no idea the ground was so muddy, but he can see dark, earthy stains all over Carl's legs, his knees, and his hands…sweat and cold condensation making the dirt stick even more, his lips practically blue from the temperature out here….

So Pete pulls him forward again, brushes some of the dirt off his body, and wraps him tight around himself, Carl's arms going round his neck, legs splaying around Pete's waist, and it's a lover's embrace this, Pete thinks - what you see girls go up and do to their boyfriends on bar stools, their faces turned into kisses, hands groping…

Not that they're kissing.

Or groping either, for a change.

It's an act of solidarity, Carl's head tucked against his shoulder, breathing weary and resigned against his collar bone, with comforting arms around him, hands rubbing at his shoulders and back, warming him.

And they stay that way for long moments, Pete wondering why no one's done this for Carl before, and he can tell that they haven't.
Haven't just held him, and stroked him with a bit of tenderness, companionship…

"Gonna need a wash, you are…" He muses into Carl's hair, softly.
He hears a faint laugh of a reply, "Haha…yeah, maybe."

And he waits silently for Carl's breath to steady against him, and maybe even for the morning to come, because if he has to, he'll stay here all night or for ever.


Eventually, Carl does look up, and he's the first one to speak too.

"Fuck me, it's cold."

And its startling, for some reason, the way that the place he looks first, is right at Pete. He can see a tiny drop of himself still shimmering, clinging to Carl's lower lip, and he leans in, kissing him gently, tracing the comforting fullness of that lip with his tongue, drawing it into his mouth, then pulling gently away, says "Come on…let me dress you, Carl?"

And nodding, Carl makes as if to get up, but not before straddling Pete a little rougher on the bench, and kissing him one more time, Pete feeling Carl's hardness all of a sudden at his belly, is about to reach out and touch him, but he's already pulling away, un-locking his knees from around Pete's middle, standing and finding his sodden jeans in the frozen grass.

Pulling them on, his breath visible in the frigid air, and rubbing his hands together vigorously, he finds his other clothes, then sits beside Pete on the bench, who does up his own jeans and prizes the t-shirt out of Carl's hands, and rubs at his chest and shoulders with it, as though it's a towel and Carl (who is giving him a strange look) is a wet dog.

"You know I didn't actually jump in the canal, Pete..."

"Yeah, don't want you to get ill, do we?"

Pete persistently rubs at his stomach with it and Carl is silent again,
jaw slack and wide-eyed, staring out at the night over London, as Pete slips the shirt up his arms and over his head, fingers brushing at his sides on the way down, coming to rest on the waistband of his jeans, then, moments later, brushing a bit of hair out from where it's caught in the collar of the jacket that Carl shrugs on.

"Look, Carl…" he finds himself saying, hopefully (when Carl curls forward to tie the laces of a shoe).

"You don't have to do this…you can get away from that place, yeah? You don't need to feel trapped, shut-up, in a position where you can't see a happy end…just…I don't know, chuck it all in, move in somewhere with me, and we'll write songs all day and night until we know them, love them so well that no one else can fucking touch us…we'll be un-stoppable...
We don't have to live this way, not all our lives, alright?

We can escape, break away from it, and go find something fucking golden. And, even if we only have it for a moment, isn't that just better than…."

Carl's looked at him sharply, and even if Pete thinks he'll say otherwise, he can see some wistfulness, agreement in his gaze.

"I mean…fuck, Carl - you're the real thing.
And so am I.
We're fucking free. If I wasn't, then I might ask you yeah, ask you to help and turn me into that...
but just so you know, I wouldn't mind you teaching me a bit on the guitar."

He grins at the small smile returning to Carl's lips, the sad shy edge of knowing.

"Well…I don't know, Pete. I mean, if you actually look at us, we spend all our time bloody fucking and fighting…." Carl smiles more, as if it's inevitable, and it's always going to be this way with them.

"Yeah, but…give it a chance. You don't have to be this way, and you don't have to be at the bottom of that Canal…have some faith."

"Well, it's either there or the top of the world and I'm not settling for a thing less."

Carl's gripping the edge of the bench so hard his knuckles are bone white in the dim light, and Pete can't tell if its because he means it so much, or just because of the bloody arctic temperature out here.


"Yeah, honestly. I'm not fucking joking Pete, it's top of the world or the bottom of that there canal."

"Well, let's do it then."

And Carl watches him now with fierce solemnity, as he continues.

"Just us two yeah, and we can stand by each other, we can take this city, not too big for us if we take it like comrades…I'll come to university in London, get a job, you keep on with the drama studies, with your job, and I'll be here and you will be too, and you won't be - "

'alone' he stops himself saying only just in time.

But it seems to have worked anyway, as he sees the last choked-up breath leave Carl's body with the intensity in Pete's voice and in his eyes.

"I mean, yeah we might not get along as well as all that, but…maybe we never will. And you can't deny it, Carl…can you honestly say right, that you don't want to be in a band with me? And you don't want to write together, and live together? And just see…"

And then Carl nods, just once and Pete's already decided that it'll be paradise…
living out a dream, and one he actually wants for once.

Even if they end up living in people's sheds for the next ten years, struggling to afford fags and milk, it'll be paradise, and it'll be free, and it'll be with Carl. Just so long as Carl and his over-sensitive idiocy and emotional baggage doesn't ruin it all.

"What?" Carl's smiling curiously, when he sees Pete's smirk.

"Nothing. Partners then, yeah?" Pete brushes a palm, warm and friendly over Carl's cheek.

Carl grins at him in answer, as if there was never any doubt, and Pete's just being silly and unsure.

So Pete lifts an arm, puts it around him, a sly finger slipping into the thigh of Carl's jeans where a forgotten hole was made long ago, and traces little patterns teasingly onto the skin there, reflecting happily that they've got purpose together now, as one, that there's something new-found and carefree in the both of them all of a sudden...and they could be invincible, or as vulnerable as the naked skin he's drawing tiny scars on with his index finger…Carl's head lazy and light against him.

And then, it's hard to remember the exact instant when they're kissing again, but Carl's hand is in his hair, keeping him there, and then suddenly, and without warning, it's practically wrenching him up off the bench, and if he ever had any room for surprise with anyone, it'd usually be now.

But then, this is Carl, and it isn't really, so he lets himself be led/dragged under the bridge that he was under not one hour ago, and Carl (probably a genius, yeah) traps Pete's hips against the stone with his own, pushing and pushing into him, enough to make Pete wonder if there'll be an imprint, a shadow of his form on the stone at his back, when they step away from it (if they ever manage to, that is)…

And Pete thinks, as his eyes close on the non-image of Carl, (so close now that he'd be out of focus if it weren't utterly pitch-black here) wouldn't it be nice to be beautiful like this…the kind of beautiful that people care about, look twice at…and able to break hearts left, right and centre, be the centre of attention in any given room full of girls (boys too, he reckons, since he can't imagine that anyone could deny this sort of beauty, not easily) in every single way…

Doesn't bear thinking about it for too long of course, when he's bent so far back against the wall his shoulders are heaving against, that his hips are roughly a meter away from the brick or something ridiculous as he pushes back into Carl, can't even really think of anything as creative as "vain wanker" or other snarl-voiced sentiments, at the minute.

All that he can come up with, muttered harsh and heated into the corner of Carl's mouth, bullet-quick, is "Home, c'mon. Now."

And he's being led fast up those steps, through the deserted streets, up the stairs, and into the house.

There's no sign of Amy-Jo, but Pete thinks he remembers her mentioning her and Mike going to someone's party tonight - probably he reflects, the only true convenience of today - that they won't be disturbed, that he won't have to remember to press a hand to his own face when he comes inside Carl…

And maybe never will, when (and if) they're living and working together, if they have all that time and just one another…

And they've made it into Carl's room, onto the bed, sitting nose to nose, kissing ravenously, heads locked together, panting as though their hearts are giving in, and Pete thinks that if he didn't have this already, and hadn't had (more than) a taste of this already, then he'd sell his soul for it…give every thing he's ever possessed all away, including (and he doesn't care) all the things people say they like about him, that makes him him, when he could have this, instead…
urgent kisses that make him fucking blush, make him feel wanted, needed, lusted for, feel that these moments could never come again because there's too much truth and intensity in them now, and can't help feeling that the future will somehow only serve to make them more calculated, cynical…

And fuck that, he decides, he wants now and fucking here, on this bed, for ever, among the ashtrays and the vinyl, the scattered clothes, the un-important, material things that make up Carl's existence, things that don't really matter…

Tears his eager lips from Carl's own and shoves a hand desperately into the front of Carl's jeans, into his boxers, causing Carl to growl low and needy, and reach in too, clasp his hand over Pete's, until all Pete can feel between them is friction - fucking rapid hand movements, two thumbs, eight fingers rubbing rushed and careless at white-hot velvet skin, until Carl lets out a frustrated whine, and casts Pete onto his back on the bed, corners him till his back's flat against the head-board, Carl ripping his jeans down, and thrusting forward into Pete's almost-shocked mouth, shudder-sighing with the sudden relief, his heavy eyes snapping shut in pleasure.

Pete quickly un-tenses his jaw from the initial surprise, taking Carl as far inside as he can, lets his tongue drift up the underside, which induces a loud, throaty moan from above, Carl's hips shuddering restlessly forwards, and Pete gingerly brings a hand around to his arse, steadies Carl's violent thrusting some, (since he would actually rather that this ended without a throbbing head-ache) then ghosts that hand back down his thigh, to pull him in too-close at just-the-right-second, his tongue harsh against the exact right place, and feels Carl stiffen, grind to a halt almost, and then the heat flooding his throat again, his nose buried in the skin just underneath Carl's stomach.

Feeling Carl relax in his mouth, pull shakily out and just as shakily pull his underwear up, (doesn't seem to have enough energy to bother pulling the rest up too) Carl collapses backward on the bed, jeans undone, panting in short gasping breaths, that Pete thinks he could get off listening to, if he closed his eyes…

And Carl eventually turns onto his side a little, curls up silently on the edge of the bed, and Pete crawls over to and on to him, head resting on the side of his waist, pulls Carl's shirt up to his neck gently, his hand seeking out Carl's hip, stroking gently and soothingly, begins to kiss up from the skin by his mouth, along Carl's ribs persistently, until Carl finally looks down at him, and suddenly laughs affectionately, and Pete murmurs "mm'fucking love you…" warm and wet into the skin of Carl's throat now, hands tangled in the cotton up around Carl's neck.

And obediently, when Pete's hand sneaks back under the waistband of his boxers, gripping tightly at Carl's arse, and then strokes, starts sucking the skin of his shoulder bright red, Carl shifts under him, till he's lying face up, and Pete sits up, then cages Carl under him with long limbs, and Carl's pulling urgently at the hem of his shirt, both their hands seeking out the few buttons at the collar to make pulling it over his head less excruciating, and Carl's t-shirt is gone again, Pete fisting his hands in the material of his jeans, pulling until Carl's state of undress is identical to that of earlier, by the canal, (Pete forgets when they kicked their shoes away, maybe before they even got to the bed) and now he's working at the button of his own jeans, Carl's hands tangling with his, when they both reach for the zip, and settling instead for pulling patiently at the material, as Pete deals with the zip.
Carl's hair is an utter disgrace, loops and tangles all over his forehead, in his eyes, sticking to the sweat-drenched sides of his neck.
It really just does makes Pete love him all the more…as if there's something oddly normal and heterosexual in wanting to fuck a boy who's countenance (at the minute) resembles the disheveled head of a female prostitute, eyelashes like some sort of burlesque pornography all their own, swept dramatically downward like fans by heavy eyelids above, lips a riot-red floorshow, too dark and wet and artificial-looking to be male, but then, all brought into disarming masculinity by the nose, the stubble, the taut stretch of his Adam's apple …

He's staring again, knows he is, and Carl looks reprovingly up from under him, casts an infuriatingly nonchalant look down at the ludicrous strain at the front of Pete's boxers.

And so, with deft deliberation, he tugs roughly at Carl's own boxers, smiling coyly into Carl's mouth when he feels the erection renewing itself under his hands, and lifts up so that he can rid them of the remaining (distracting, irritating) material left between them…

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