Work Text:
They get no warning. Just, one day when they're led to the chaplain's office, the old man isn't there. A dark-haired, slim man is searching one of the shelves instead, and the guard doesn't look perturbed in the slightest as he closes the door behind them. It’s a double shock when this stranger turns around and he looks younger than either Pete or Carl.
Good looking too, big dark eyes - Carl can't decide whether they're brown or hazel - and pale skin, almost translucent. Pete's looking far too interested in this young man for Carl's liking, and it's only the fact that he's wearing the collar marking him as a man of God that makes Carl breathe a sigh of relief.
Carl's been too distracted by Pete's reaction to properly take in what the young man is saying, but just about picks up on him introducing himself as Patrick in curiously accentless tones. He snaps back to attention just as Patrick says, "I'm afraid Alan is ill, so I am taking over his duties for the time being."
He freezes at that- selfishly, he realises to his shame. His first thought was to the guitar, not the chaplain's health.
"For how long?"
Pete, not him, blurting it out like he's nervous, and why is that anyway? They could take this Patrick, the two of them, without breaking a sweat. And neither of them have spent any time in the weight room. Carl looks sharply over at Pete, who's licking his lips, and fidgeting.
"I'm not too sure. He's not very well, it might be some time. We can pray for him, if you like."
Before Pete can do something daft (like agree, good little Catholic boy that he is) Carl interjects.
"No, we'll leave that to you… Father." He trips over the word; this person in front of him one of the least likely Fathers Carl's ever seen. "We'd just like to have our guitar, if you don't mind?" And it only occurs to him then that maybe their time is up, and the guitar is gone. The thought is utterly terrifying.
"Patrick, please. I'm hardly old enough to be anyone's father, surely. And by all means. I expect it's where you've left it...?" He points to the case in the corner and Carl moves straight to the guitar, opens the case and pulls it out. Pete, though, stays where he is.
"How'd you know about it?" he hears Pete ask, and Carl knows that tone all too well. That's Pete's 'charming' tone. Cheeky git's got some nerve, trying it on with a chaplain.
"Father McGee told me about it when he was filling me in on the basics. Didn’t want to break his promise to your mother, Carl."
Carl turns at that, but Patrick is still looking at Pete, must assume he's Carl. Well, with Pete hanging back like that, all innocent eyes and residually religious keenness, Carl can't really blame him. Pete corrects Patrick with a smile before turning to glance at Carl and the guitar (but only for a moment) and saying "Could do with some new strings on that, eh Carl?"
Carl frowns slightly- is that what this is about? New strings? Sure didn't seem like it.
"I did have a look, I must admit, you're probably right... I can restring it for you, if you'd like?"
He's still not looking at Carl, still looking at Pete, and there are two small bright spots of colour, high on his cheeks. Fuck, it's working, Pete is charming him, and even though Carl has no particular respect for the Catholic church, he's still slightly disturbed.
"They're fine. Pete, we've only got an hour, yeah?"
"You can restring it? You play, Patrick?" And fuck if Pete isn't utterly ignoring him now. Stupid git, Carl thinks while clenching his jaw until his teeth ache. Stupid cunting twat, they've got work to do, and he won't quit flirting with the chaplain.
"Well, I do play the guitar a little... play the violin and piano more though. But I can restring it for you for next time, no problem."
Patrick's still staring at Pete, twisting his hands a little in nerves, and Carl should probably stop Pete. Has no idea how though, and he just hopes Pete doesn't ask Patrick to play for him. Pete's staring at Patrick's hands in fascination, probably examining them for little telltale calluses or something. Carl feels as though he may as well not be in the room, and fuck it if he's not feeling a little jealous of Patrick and the attention he's getting from Pete.
A lot jealous now, as he notices Pete's a little flushed too when he looks up, and says "Yeah? You could join us sometime, maybe... maybe bring the violin, something a bit different, aye? Or you could join us now too?" He sees Pete's looking up at Patrick through his eyelashes (and Christ, how tall is this guy, if Pete's looking up at him) and wants to smack him one. Though he does think Pete is actually attracted to him, and not just wanting to wind Carl up. Not that that's any consolation.
No. No no, it's fine, let Pete be enamoured by this... interloper. Maybe then Carl won't need to worry anymore, won't need to have any discussions with himself about how it's only because they're in prison that he doesn't mind Pete's touches, why it's alright to not hit him when he says I love you. It's just Pete, being Pete, that's all. Which is fine logic, even if it doesn't make the sick feeling in his gut go away.
He's still crouched down, ankles aching from the awkwardness, guitar in his lap but no plans to play it. Maybe he can get out, get past the starry-eyed looks those two are giving each other, and just go back to the cell. Some quiet time, anyway, though it's nothing like what this afternoon's plans had been.
Not at all.
"Carl, the notebook, pass it here, ay?" Directive, from Peter who isn't even looking at him, just gesturing with one hand outstretched. "I've got a few poems we haven't got songs for yet, here, let me show you..." Only then does he look down, and see Carl still unmoving. And not moving anytime soon, not participating in his own redundancy.
Not a fucking chance.
"No."
Bare minimum to communicate his unwillingness to participate in this stupidity, though he thinks it'll probably be more effective for him to take the step back Pete's just taken as the opportunity to push past, and get out of this claustrophobic room.
Pete just glances at him for the briefest moment, mild irritation on his face. Only mild though, Carl must not be important enough to Pete now to make him feel anything more than that. He leans over Carl, not really bothering to stop himself from brushing against him and knocking him slightly with his elbows.
Pete moves away from Carl again quickly, right back to Patrick, opening the notebook to whatever scribbling he's enthusiastic about today. And yeah, Carl isn't religious, but he can't help but feel that what Pete's doing here is wrong. Immoral, not right, Pete should not be doing this. And yet he can't move away, just finds himself staring at the pair of them in numb dismay.
They're leaning in, bent round the book, murmuring so that even in the stillness of this closed off room he can't quite make out all the words. All along their sides, all the way from knee to shoulder, they're touching, black and blue, black and (used to be) white showing contrast when there's none in their intent gazes, whether it be towards the page or towards each other. Carl can feel the rage building up, pressing out in the nails digging into his palm, vibrating through his limbs, clenching in his jaw until his head is aching long before it usually is in this room.
Fuck it. He stands up, legs tingling with returned blood flow, and means to push his way through them (maybe grab Pete by the back of the neck, snog him so there's no doubt in Patrick's mind what they do when the lights go out), but the motion distracts them, and Patrick is looking right at him now.
"I'm sorry, Carl, we got a little caught up there." He glances at Pete regretfully (who the fuck does he think he is?) and continues, "I've got some things that need doing out of the office. You two just carry on, and I do believe the guard will escort you back to your cell." One last lingering glance between the two of them and Patrick nods in farewell.
Pete keeps staring at him as he leaves, and even at the shut door as Patrick closes behind him. Carl is so angry, doesn't know what to do. He's quite tempted to smack Pete one, but knows that will just lead to trouble, and trouble only for him most likely. He's torn between saying something, telling Pete what an absolute fucker he's being, or just leaving. Or just brush it off, ignore it. Maybe it means nothing, after all.
"Nice bloke. Too bad about McGee, but we're lucky to have a musician, eh Carl?" Looking at him, finally, and being deliberately obtuse. Knows perfectly well (can see it on his face too, because Carl can certainly feel it there) that Carl is in a right strop, and yet he's still pushing, pushing and pushing.
"Fuck off Peter, you want to suck his dick so bad, don't let me stop you."
Shit. He's pissed off, but that's not what he meant to say. Shit shit shit. Not because he doesn't want that to happen (though he doesn't) but because he's not supposed to care. Not supposed to care, especially so soon after having seen his mother, and assuring her that he's fine, and yes Charlize is still writing to him (she isn't, never was).
And Pete, fucking twat, is just staring at him like he's utterly mad, and fuck, maybe starting to smile, just a bit?
"Carl, he's a chaplain." Pete speaks calmly, slight inflexion to imply Carl is the crazy one here, that Carl's seeing things which aren't there. His eyes are far from innocent though, glittering with that spark that Carl knows by now means he's up to something. "Besides, why would you care if I did?"
Fucker, he's always able to read Carl just enough to ask the question he really doesn't want to hear from Pete, and as Carl watches him his mouth twists in a faint smile.
"Because he's a fucking chaplain, Peter! You can't go around trying it on with members of the bloody clergy! It's not right." He stares back at Pete defiantly, and just hopes that sounded convincing.
"Not right? As if right and wrong matters here. And you didn't answer the question, Carlos. I can't imagine you've suddenly sprouted sensibilities or anything equally daft."
Carl looks at the ground, then away, then at the guitar he's still holding. He wants to deny everything, but he's not even sure why he's so angry, and that's just serving to make him that much more so. Pete gets his attention, though, with the laugh and his next sentence.
"Oh Carlos, you're not jealous are you?"
"No! Fuck off, why would I be jealous of him?"
Pete's eyes widen in surprise before crinkling up with a wide grin. "I didn't say him."
And that's just really bloody confusing. "Shut up. What are you talking about?"
Pete's always an infuriating bastard, but he's reaching new levels now, just staring at Carl with a smug, gleeful expression that just screams 'I got one over on you’. And fuck, Pete isn't taking that as an admission of something, is he?
Because it isn't. Means nothing, he's not interested in Pete that way. He just assumed Pete meant that Carl wanted him. Would be typical of the arrogant bastard. It's clear Pete isn't going to answer him, just carry on staring at him with that bloody annoying look on his face, so Carl turns back the guitar and tries strumming a few random chords.
He should expect it, but he still flinches. He actually flinches when Pete touches him, hand on his shoulder in no way violent or suggestive. It's just his best mate touching him, and Carl can't help but react like it's... something else.
"Don't touch me."
His tone of voice matches the flinch, quick snap away from the source, and Carl regrets it immediately. Not enough to apologize, not yet, he's too unbalanced as it is. Achieves the desired effect in the short term, though. Pete moves his hand, but doesn't sit down, just moves as far away as it's possible to get in this closet of a room.
"You don't have to be such a cunt. What the fuck's your problem anyway?"
Angry words from Pete, but spoken away from Carl, so they're bouncing off first one wall then another before they reach him. Carl doesn't say anything, just sits there, fingers still on the strings, not a note of song, not a word in his head, trying to suppress confusion and fear. The latter is dangerous in here. Not this room, he corrects, but the building, the institution. It's weakness, and Carl can't afford to be weak, not if he means to survive (and he does, he does mean to get out, get out and forget this place even if it seems so long to wait).
So he sits and practices not-flinching, and thinks of nothing at all.
And this is all wrong, shouldn't be like this. This is their escape from pain and coldness and the grey empty silence of their cell. It shouldn't be the cause of it. Pete's half-turned back towards Carl now, sneaking little glances towards him. He looks confused and hurt more than angry, and Carl realises that Pete really doesn't know why Carl's angry, why he's upset. But then, he's not even sure why himself, is he? The first suspicion that he may not be being entirely fair here slides into Carl's mind.
"Pete…" He doesn't know what comes next, but the sound of his voice is already enough to cut through the tension, enough that he can turn as well, look at his mate.
"Yeah?" Pete doesn't sound himself, a little quiet and uncertain, unlike his usual brashness when they're making songs together. He sounds like he does when he's gone off to get what he needs, like when he comes back and isn't sure of his welcome. (Not like when he's limping, though, not as bad as that.)
Not ever like that, not when Carl can help it, and he can taste I'm sorry on his tongue, even though he doesn't know what he's sorry for, even though he's fairly sure he's done nothing wrong. He manages to choke the words back, but he still wants to give Pete some reassurance. He hasn't done anything wrong, sure, but has Pete done anything wrong either? Carl feels as though he has, but he can't explain what. And really, is it fair of him to expect Pete to understand, if he doesn't himself?
Better to patch things up, blow off this silly argument. He's still feeling oddly hurt, but he doesn't know what else to do. So he gives Pete a slight smile and asks, "Aren't you going to come over and join me, then?"
Pete doesn't turn, still standing with some tract in his hands (like he's the religious type) and doesn't answer Carl. Doesn't answer long enough that Carl can regret making the attempt. Fucksake, he can't always be the one… and then Pete diffuses it all with a sigh and a curl of his shoulders, like he's given something up.
"I'm tired, Carl. Can't we- tomorrow, or, I don't know…"
He turns, and almost shuffles to where Carl's sitting, folding down to sit like a paper shade collapsing. He rests his cheek against Carl's thigh, and closes his eyes. Carl has pretty much no choice but to pet him soothingly. It's safe to show that kind of tenderness here, where there are no eyes.
"Yeah, alright."
It doesn't really matter whether Pete is actually tired, or whether he's just dissembling. They're not arguing, and even if Carl hasn't got the relief of playing from their time in this room (even if he's spent the majority of the time getting more and more aggravated instead) he's not going to do anything to jeopardize the peace. Not when they're about to go back to the coldness of their cell.
Doesn’t matter what else changes here, they really only have one another at the end of the day.