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Chapter Three

9 April 2006

Hands are trying to rip his head off by the roots of his fucking hair.
This isn't terribly unexpected, to be fair, since he's got one of his own hands fisted in that ebony silk (probably just good old-fashioned retaliation, then), has Carl's head wrenched back so he has better access to that neck and jaw he had been *trying* to keep still for one minute, with little success…maybe the excessive hair ripping has more to do with his remaining hand finding it's way into the front of Carl's trousers, teasingly gripping through boxer material at the bulge growing there, then shying away to tease and stroke breath-soft at the skin above instead.

Which Carl just isn't having any of, apparently…maybe he isn't the right sort of person to tease… something Pete has started strongly to suspect, if the vicious hands in his hair are anything to go by.
So Carl might be a little over-sensitive or whatever, nerves probably hyper-aware of the fucking air moving around them even, but still……he's starting to wish he could just open his eyes, (screwed shut from the near-unbearable pain of Carl's hand snarled in his hair) and find Carl magically bound and gagged, (or on some sort of strong sedative, at this stage...) so he can just have his way with him.
He glares down at the stretch of exposed neck before him, and thinks that Carl's pretty lucky that he's ended up with someone tonight who isn't going to rough him up, rape him and tell him to STOP FUCKING SQUIRMING AND BEING SUCH A VIOLENT liTTLE SLAG. Honestly.

Doesn't stop him leaning in though, and sucking harshly on the heated skin where he can see Carl's pulse fluttering, almost biting too (fatally) hard when Carl's other hand relinquishes it's vice-grip in his hair and pulls Pete's hips in so close that for a moment there's nothing but a violent stab of pleasure, a little compression in his head, and the loss of doubts he had been having about how easy it was going to be to get here….into Carl's bed, kissing him over and over and over (and over) again, totally uncaring about their mutual dislike for each other (is that all it can be and nothing more complicated, though?) and when or if Pete's sister gets back.

One thing he, personally isn't uncaring about however, is that Carl's little maneuver has trapped his hand between their bodies, crushed against Carl's stomach now, and he'd like to be able to feel his fingertips, thinks they'd probably quite like to be able to feel softness and warmth again, when tangled in Carl's hair. Carl didn't seem to be minding this at all really, pupils dilated, looking cheerfully up at him, and grinning somewhat.
This was probably Carl's little version of rebellion or something, Pete smiles unpleasantly to himself…..like payback for stomach-caressing, and *not* place-where-hand-is-actually-needed-caressing.

"Aghhh - fuck - " he yanks his hand out from between them, Carl smirking infuriatingly smugly, under him.

"sorry"

He isn't sorry at all, is he, immature little bastard…. And perhaps Carl is making this so difficult because he actually doesn't *really* want it…probably just wants for Pete to suck him off, get it over with, and leave him alone….he doesn't know how, but he's starting to strongly suspect that Carl hasn't actually gotten very far with other blokes before.

"Carl, Carl…"

No response.

He rubs again, teasingly at the front of Carl's jeans, eliciting a violent shudder.

"What?"

Pete smirks, now that he has Carl's attention again.

"Got a condom?"

There. That should bring it all home. If Carl's never gone that far with his own gender before, then it should become a bit more obvious. If Carl just doesn't want to go that far with him well, that should be clearer too. Not like they're actually going to be mature and sit and have a sensitive talk about their first time together, or anything. That stuff's for girls. Obviously.

Carl doesn't answer. This is getting irritating. It isn't mysterious, or a turn-on, it's just conceited and boring.
They're both of them impossibly hard, and Carl's delaying tactics are starting to get tiresome. Pete raises himself up a bit, regards Carl with his best searching look, pleading with wide-eyed sincerity for some sort of encouragement.
Carl isn't looking at him. He's just looking blankly down past his own hips, to where Pete's knees are clamped either side of them.

"Fine, I'll get it my fucking self…" he says, sulkily, clambering off Carl to go in search of an aid.
But not wanting to completely fuck up the atmosphere, (hard task, aye) he grins suggestively down at Carl, before giving an 'oh come on, you moody sod' departing squeeze to his crotch.

"FOR FUCKS SAKE!!" Carl explodes, suddenly shocked into life, bursting up, enraged, from under him, right up into his face, eyes mere fucking millimeters from his own, freezing and stunning him with their exasperation and distress.

"WHAT!!!?" he almost screams back, his own initial shock utterly infuriating him.

"JUST FUCKING STOP, ALRIGHT?" Carl looks like he's about cry. He really does.

Pete smothers his impulse to hug him, this stupid, confused boy, hold him and tell him there isn't any need to get upset, not ever, that he's the most beautiful person Pete's ever been angry with or even met, that he can play guitar just as sublimely as he did in all Pete's wildest fantasies…..and then some.

Instead, he just stands in dazed frustration, helpless, as Carl rakes a hand through his hair, but doesn't turn away from him (thank god). Just stands looking shamelessly back, pleading (but what the fuck for?).
Several seconds or minutes pass as they simply stand and stare (clearly, he's lost his capacity for estimating how long a moment can last, since meeting this boy tonight) and it isn't like anything.
It really isn't, because Pete can't remember ever having done this so comfortably/uncomfortably, and so often with anyone in his life until now…..sharing so many intimidating, feverish gazes, in the course of less than half an evening, never saying a word… And maybe….

Maybe this *is* really what Carl wants, Pete realises, focus suddenly sharpening on the way Carl's mouth seems to sit sullen, determined, as if daring him to make it form more words.
He *does* want it…..it was just that he doesn't want anything (touches, hisses, the hitching of breath) being tainted by the touch of their words, things that are capable of lying, being misinterpreted.

And the more he picks this theory apart, the more likely it seems to be…
The worst moments between them tonight, he realises, have come whenever he's said something wrong or insensitive (not that it's that hard to do with Carl, anyway, he thinks childishly) and perhaps that's done more damage than he first thought…
Either way, Carl hasn't actually told him, up front to piss off for good, so far……hasn't even tried to throw him out after that heated instant just now, nor during this strange other-worldly moment they seem to be sharing…
Which means he must want something…he's just guessing that it probably isn't the 'chat' that Pete had in store for him, initially. And maybe Carl just doesn't want to risk that any more tonight, the damage they could do to each other if they used words in this moment that is unfolding gradually…

And Pete never realized how much a look could tell him until now, how right it could prove to be in it's implication and challenge, as he steps in, closes the distance between them to a gap of mere centimeters…and Carl doesn't look infuriated, threatening or about to cry, (or any of the other things that he had looked like before) now.
Just softer, more beautiful, but at the same time, more intense and on-edge…as if he's not sure Pete's understood any of these silent pleas……

'JUST FUCKING STOP, ALRIGHT?'

In answer to that, (that plea that felt like it had been uttered hours ago, now) instead of just coming out with a "No" or "Ohhh, I get ya…yeah, you meant stop talking, Pete…not stop touching me" - instead, he brings a hand, softer this time, up to snare in the tips of Carl's hair, and whispers (so close to Carl that he must be able to taste these last words on his lips)
"You give me a reason, Carl, and I will…"

Which he doesn't of course.

Does the exact opposite in fact, and swallows the pathetic, nothing space between them and brings their lips together, soft and sweet. Pete silently pledges not to say another word until this ends in one way or another.
Winding his other hand (the one not in Carl's hair, again) possessively around the back of Carl's neck, he tugs him back down onto the bed, and Carl's hands go up to his shoulders and begin to scratch lightly at the skin there, growing more frantic, as Pete licks hungrily up and down repeatedly, from Carl's collar bone to his ribs, dips his tongue into the hollow where Carl's hip juts from lying so flat for him, such a single-purpose position, he thinks, as Carl's hands go to his head once more.

Sitting up, he brings both hands to the sides of Carl's thighs and looks quietly at the boy beneath him, for approbation, reciprocation.

Carl looks back, for the first time, with nothing but the fiercest desire,
pupils so impossibly big and black that it just can't be the chemicals from earlier, legs parted in submission.
So, Pete leans down, strokes and fucking properly touches him, and actually feels him, grips the bones and solid flesh he can feel beneath the denim on Carl's hips, and a little pleasured hiss escapes the other-wise silent mouth before him. Pete's never felt more appreciative of someone so finely tuned to physical touches…it actually just speeds up his actions, more than anything, makes him want them both to have nothing but skin, nothing else in the way, just to see what it will do to Carl.

He's already unzipping Carl's much-abused jeans and pulling them off, boxers too, and finds himself just *staring*

Can't help himself, he's never actually seen another boy this exposed to him before. He's had sex with another bloke before, but it was completely different anyway, since he couldn't see much of what was going on, being on the receiving end mostly, and they always seemed to be half-clothed, furtive little encounters, hurried, behind a tree in the woods, or desperate and quick-before-we-fucking-get-caught ones in his bedroom.

Finds himself inspired to write (bloody stupid, when he should be ravishing every bit of skin he sees before him) volumes of prose, about everything that he can see right now. And touch if he wants.

Carl isn't playing the wallflower though, doesn't just lie and let Pete stare as much as he feels like, he's already unbuckling Pete's belt, pulling eagerly at trouser fastenings until they're undone and with practiced fingers, Carl's pulling the stupid things off.

And so, with nothing left to hide them from one another, visually or otherwise (treacherous words that can scar easier than Pete ever knew until now…) they're level on the bed, face to face, clothes scattered around them, and Pete bobs nervously as Carl takes in everything about him, and wonders fleetingly, if this is as new a sight (in the flesh) to Carl, as it is to him…and wants to be as close as he possibly can, wants to press his mouth to Carl's face and everywhere else too, when he sees that Carl isn't even looking at him in the way he suspects that he was gawping at Carl, himself earlier (probably not the best thing to do to someone who already seemed to have major insecurities about themselves)…
is just looking at him with the same lust and predatory want as he was moments before, when they were both half-dressed…
As if in a dream, Pete moves forward, as Carl lies back and then shivers violently at the first touch…

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