Work Text:
There is one time, when the odds are wrong, when there are three, four, five of them and one of Pete, and even though Pete's eyes are clear, and his hands firm on the guitar he's using as shield, Carl steps in front.
Even with two, it's not fair odds, and though Carl tries, he's not really made for countering this much aggression. His lips cut against his teeth, and his nose oozes blood to match. It's the only thing that matches, because a fist to his middle sends him coughing to the floor, and though they do the same to Pete, in repayment for the cheek of resistance, they god, thank god, thank fucking god leave them both there, choking on their own fear.
Pete, lucidity gone, can say nothing but "Carl, Carl, Carl, Carl, Carl..." in pained refrain. Carl ignores his stabbing breathlessness, blinks blood away, swallows more. He has to get to Pete, Pete needs him, hands and knees smearing with residual terror, though not for himself. Pete never sounds this broken sober, and oh god, oh god Carl drags him in, giving Pete's grasping fingers something to clutch onto, infant-like.
Carl, Carl, Carl is on repeat, and Carl pets him with bloodied fingers, smearing their blood together, blood brothers, but even closer than that.
Carl longs for the freedom to take the edge off this painful reality, but there's only room in this partnership for one person escaping reality. Pete has jumped the queue so many times now Carl has given up it ever being his turn.