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It doesn’t happen often but every now and again, Pete wakes up in the morning, and the world is clear. He isn’t high, he isn’t coming down, and he doesn’t need anything. He’s sober, and it’s not (too) painful. Even the sun is shining. So when he rolls over and sees Carl at the sink in the corner, blade in hand, he’s a little confused. There’s no reason for Carl to be upset, not this morning, not with the sky blue and Pete not fucked.
He watches for a few seconds, watches Carl examine himself in the opaque shine of the stainless steel which serves as makeshift mirror. The memory of the last time Pete tried to touch Carl, tried to intervene in this ritual, nearly keeps him from moving. But the morning is bright, and so is Pete, and he wants Carl bright with him. Then he’s up out of bed and leaning against the wall beside the sink, casually half-smiling. "Good morning, Biggles. Isn’t it a glorious day?"
At first, Pete wonders if Carl will even acknowledge him. Pete’s never lucid before noon, especially if he’s still awake from the night before. But Carl tips his head back, and his hair falls away from his eyes so Pete can see his incredulous expression. There’s a pause where things could go either way, but Pete is impatient, and shifts his weight at the wrong moment, and Carl’s looking away. "Fuck off, Peter. Just-- fuck off and get yourself some junk and leave me the fuck alone, alright?"
That’s his fairly obvious cue to bugger off, but Pete isn’t in the mood to go off and sulk. Though that’s usually what happens when Carl treats him like he’s just one of the other inmates, Pete is determined that’s not going to happen today. He’d rather play with Carl, so he shifts away from the wall and jostles Carl with his shoulder, and he’s maybe a bit flip, a bit cruel. "I don’t want to, Biggles, my dear. Let’s go write songs, songs about beautiful girls and golden sunsets and the sound of the waves against the shore."
Carl moves away, ducking his head to allow his hair to fall screen-like in front of his face. Pete’s become quite good at deciphering Carl-mumble, and so even though it’s very quiet, and half the syllables are swallowed before they touch air, he still understands Carl’s words. "We don’t write songs like that, you cunt. Now will you sod off, already?”
Pete runs his fingers down Carl’s arm, tip tapping down to his wrist and resting them there. He can feel the trembling shake of tension in the tendons allowing Carl’s fingers to grip and hold the knife in his hand. This is all not-how-it-should-be, so Pete frowns, and asks the obvious question he's never bothered to ask before.
"Why, Carlos? Why now, why ever?"
Except that's clearly the wrong one, because there's metal clattering against metal and Carl pushing, until Pete tips over the end of Carl's bed, falling back full length in surprise. He lies there, breath caught, while Carl clenches and unclenches his hands and looks like he's prepared to tear into him. Pete’s mouth is open, and he’s trying to figure out what’s gone wrong.
That’s not how this is supposed to go. Carl isn’t supposed to be angry with him; they’re supposed to be happy today.
Shining.
Like the knife.
"Show me," he says suddenly. "Show me why." And he's lifting his arms, wrists out, to Carl.
The look he gets from Carl makes him shiver, and he flinches, nearly tucking his arms away defensively. He feels both hot and cold at the venom he sees there, but he locks his elbow and moves one bared arm closer. Carl shoves it away.
"Do you think this is some kind of fucking joke, you fucking wanker? Do you think you can just--" The words seem to strangle themselves and Pete is actually a little bit frightened. Carl has never looked this angry, not at Pete. Still, Pete feels like there's a point to be made now, and so he offers his arm again, tattoo of their identity outstretched between them.
Carl looks at the name (libertine) for a long moment, before taking Pete's wrist roughly in hand and pulling him, up off the bed, close. He's mumbling under his breath, and Pete only catches half-fragments of phrases (you already forget and this is mine) and Carl's hand is shaking as he lines up his blade with Pete's unlined skin.
Pete bites his lips and closes his eyes, and waits for what he knows will hurt. It will bring him and Carl closer together, though, so he’s willing to bear it. Maybe they can share this, like they haven’t shared any of the chemicals Pete tries to forget he’s dependent on. Maybe this will be better, this letting out instead of taking in.
Except the cut doesn't come. Instead, when Pete feels Carl's grip loosen from around his wrist, he opens his eyes. That’s when he sees that while his own arm is unmarked, Carl's is not.
And there's blood, blood everywhere.