Chapter Text
The van rolled on like a bat out of hell, rumbling across broken terrain, fumbling along cobblestone streets or cracked asphalt with bits of grass flying every which way and where. Europe rolled out like a red velveteen carpet, all rich and ready for The Libertines to make their grand appearance at every possible location- but first there was France. Peter was most excited about France, but of course, and spent the few hours they had driving through it spitting out random French dribble, sometimes in a sing-song voice. He just loved France, which was absolutely terrible of him considering he was an Englishman (and technically Irish) through and through but boy, if those old farm houses by the bubbling brooks and picturesque Parisian streets didn’t rile him up. Of course, it might have been the history lover in him, or simply the side of him that absolutely adored French writers. “Oscar Wilde’s buried someplace here,” Peter said, nose pressed against the foggy window. Carl was pressed to his side, half awake but still managing to play the guitar in his lap. Naturally he was playing “France” and John was singing along quite well. Not a lot people knew John was a fantastic singer. Gary was dead asleep, mouth wide open and head falling to and fro as the van bounced side to side along the cobblestone.
Carl was the only one to humor him. “Yes, Peter. We’ll visit him, won’t we?”
“I’d like that,” Peter replied softly, turning his head to gaze quite fondly at Carl. He had the profile of an angel fallen from grace. His hair was darker than any night and long, almost girlish, curing slightly at the ends and falling over the front of half his face. Carl must’ve loved looking broody and misunderstood, although his angelic eyes of the sky betrayed any bit of sin in him. Oh, but he was still sin incarnate, that much Peter was sure. He’d spin poems about the frame of Carl’s body all night, right down to that curious curve of his back, where Peter had before dared to dance his fingers down the slope, finger landing just above Carl’s low slung jeans. He remembered that night, the gritty East End club, the meager pay, the anger throughout the gig, all of Carl’s frustration afterwards that ended up with bruising kisses.
Peter didn’t mind. But he liked Carl like this, sleepy and dreamy and too tired to think about any reason why he should be mad at Peter. When Carl was sleepy, rocked like a baby in the tour van, he was perfectly content with the world. Peter smiled and spun his fingers through Carl’s hair, pushing them to the side to reveal that glorious profile. Carl grinned and fumbled a chord, but kept on playing. “M'not havin’ that, Peter, c'mon,” Carl said, just as Peter began teasing his hand up Carl’s thigh. When stuff like this happened in front of John and Gary, Carl was either one of two ways: immediately cross and snappy with Peter for even daring reveal their relationship to their band mates, or simply uncaring about the inevitability of Peter somehow undoing Carl’s jeans in the van, which nearly always happened at some point. Peter was sure John and Gary knew and chose not to say anything out of pure human decency, and because they were all best friends and knew better than to cause trouble.
So this time Peter dared and got a half response of rejection, but a playful one, with Carl biting his bottom lip and putting his head forward a moment to let his hair fall all down again. The van hit a bump and John hit his head on the low ceiling, “Fuck,” he grumbled, messing up his already messy hair. “I’m gonna try and sleep. You two don’t be too loud. It’s indecent.”
Peter never knew when John was joking but he laughed anyway and winked at him, receiving a disgusted look but then a quick wink in return before John turned around, pulled a blanket over himself, and drifted off.
Carl kept playing guitar. Peter waited. Their driver, one of their roadies named Tim, had his headphones on. They were out of view of the rear view mirror. It all seemed so well timed.
There was the option of waiting until they got to their hotel. Peter fucking loved touring because that usually meant he and Carl got to share a hotel room, alone, unless they were skint and everyone had to bunk in the same room to make sure they had enough money for food, necessities like that. But Peter’s necessity was Carl and Carl only.
Outside the van, France streamed by in darkened green and gray colors. Rain began to streak the windows but Carl’s reflection took up half the view, and Carl would always be more beautiful than any European countryside. Peter was very sure of this.
Well, there was only one thing to do.
Carl had stopped playing sometime before Peter came back from his thoughts and was now staring at Peter expectantly. The grins formed simultaneously and they both moved forward at the same time, and this Peter liked because it stopped him from thinking he was always the eager one who moved first. True, it was hardly ever Carl who initiated anything. Peter always gave more but as long as Carl reciprocated, who was Peter to complain? And slowly they came together, hushed and soft and quiet, with John and Gary sleeping in the middle seat in front of them, Tim up ahead in concentration.
But to be safe, Peter captured Carl’s face in his hands and brought him down low. Peter slouched in his seat and surged forward,capturing Carl’s plushy, obscenely red lips from the safe guard behind the middle seat. They could hear Gary’s on-and-off bits of snoring so closely, between their wet smacking sounds of kissing, of Peter trying so desperately not to touch Carl anymore than they should. Their breathing labored and Carl was shaking as he tried to hold Peter by the arms, pushing him back roughly for a moment.
Peter was nearly hurt. “What’s wrong, huh?” Peter couldn’t help pet his face, his skin of rosy marble. He ran a thumb down his sloping cheekbone, momentarily lost in his best friend who was absolutely the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Carl smacked his lips together, trying ot gather his breath. Peter loved how he looked after they had snogged, eyes all blown open, mouth all swollen and glistening. Peter couldn’t help the sight and went forward but only got a peck before Carl put his palm over Peter’s mouth. “Shh! Too much, okay? Too much…”
Peter felt sick to his stomach. Too much? Too much of what? Why did Carl suddenly look sad? Why was he retreating? Peter watched Carl sit back up but still pressed into him, throwing a leg over his knee, desperate to be close. Wanting to know what he did wrong. “Wasn’t that okay? I’m sorry, but we do it all the time anyway. In the van even. John even gave his approval-”
Carl screwed up his face in an attempt to hide a smile but failed. “God, Peter, it’s not that at all. I was afraid if we didn’t stop I’d rip all your clothes off of you and imagine the lads waking up to that, eh?”
Peter began laughing lightly out of relief. “God, you fucking scared me.”
“Scared you? Did you really think I’d ever refuse you?”
Peter blanched. Sometimes Carl made those really serious statements and passed them off lightly, but in his eyes you could tell he was being perfectly serious. “No… well, you could if you wanted to. But I’d toss myself in the Thames if you ever refused me.”
“Well, it won’t happen, darling. Not ever. At least not anytime soon, I’d say. The Thames is too cold, c'mere, darling.” So Carl at least could give Peter the cuddle he so wanted, throwing the blanket over the two of them. He pet Peter’s hair and Peter sighed, thinking of how this was the only way he could ever be happy. Being happy was being beside Carl, in their van, with their band, racing across Europe, playing gigs and celebrating afterwards in their hotels.
Speaking of hotels. “Oi, Tim?” Peter called out from over John and Gary’s heads. He waved a hand up to call his attention and eventually Tim pulled the headphones off.
“Yeah, Pete?”
“How long ‘till we get to the hotel?”
“Ah, around twenty minutes. Almost there, lads. I know you’re knackered. Aching to get into bed?”
Peter opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by John suddenly, who said: “more like aching to get into Carl’s trousers.”
Gary suddenly burst into maddening laughter, stunning everyone who thought he was asleep. Then everyone was laughing wildly, swatting at each other and wiping tears from the corner of their eyes, Paris forgotten around them while they created Arcadia in the tour van again.