Pete/Carl, very PG-13 (sorry, alison_12, I know you wanted teh secks, but this story informed me I couldn't drag it down into the gutter with such smut...*coughlateripromisecough*)
You lift a suitcase heavy with clothes, books and memories, and head to the door.
You don’t know why you feel compelled to say this when you know no one’s there to hear it. Closure, perhaps? Or do you still imagine someone’s there, upstairs, waiting for you to bound up there and pounce?
[Honey, I’m home!]
Oh, that old one.
Open the door, put down suitcase, close and lock it. Red, the peeling/chipped red painted door that will remain in your memory forever. Even the colour will remain freakishly vivid within the snapshots of your mind, you think wistfully.
You trot down the footpath, guitar in one hand, suitcase in the other, hat on your head (always so dapper), and as you scramble to get onto the huge red monster of a bus that has ungraciously agreed to halt for you, you think of how many times you’ve done this. Why was it this time? The landlord start to get nosy about that strange smell that permeated throughout the entire apartment block from your flat? A real “death on the stairs”?
How many houses have you rampaged through in the time since you left your parents house? It’s like a competition; come on Pete, let’s get going when things start getting too comfortable.
How many times can you run, Peter?
See how they run…Or how you run, over and over.
You lug your possessions up the stairs of the bus, then collapse into a seat with the guitar/suitcase jumbled next to you. You look sideways at it, then down at yourself and realise you’re jumbled too; long limbs tangled every which way, suit jacket’s missing a button (must fix that later), cuffs of pants and said jacket just too short for your absurdly proportioned body…No wonder everyone downstairs was giving you strange looks.
You think back on the house you just left. Nights of debauchery relieved before your mind’s eye (what you could remember of them, at any rate)…always people staying over, all of you out of your brains on cheap whiskey or, when you could afford them, other substances. And then sometimes just two, still out of your brains, but ready to commit your joint life experience into song, melody and poetry melding into a beautiful mess in your ears.
The grey, grim London streets flash by as you stare out the window. Rain’s splattering – looks like the sky’s crying, you said once…but then maybe it really is, crying for the grey depths of the nothing parts of the city.
All your reminiscing has made you lose track of the time, and the bus has just passed your stop.
Jump up, you snatch up swinging guitar and leaden suitcase, adjust your hat and run for it, down the stairs and *oof*, flying leap out the door seconds before it snaps indignantly shut on you…however, the guitar is not so lucky, the doors catching it like a Venus fly trap, forcing you to tug and tug and tug until, with a thud, you gain liberty for the instrument, the sudden release throwing you back onto the gutter.
Picking yourself up, you bumble your way back down the street to an apartment block. Non-descript and average to a fault, as you let yourself in the front doors and begin the six floor climb of the stairs, you think about how wrong this is. Because you don’t ask for help; you’re the mighty Bilo, king of the alcoholic stupor and nothing can ever touch you. But then, you admit to yourself, maybe things would if you could bring yourself to let them.
Press the intercom buzzer.
“Hey Biggles, it’s m-”
“What kind of a time do you call this, you tosser?? Remind me never to give you a time any less than two hours before I actually need you again…”
Door clicks, sound muffled by the thunk of your suitcase against the door. You march in, dump your things in the hall and then hug me tightly, whispering
Thoughts? I liked it at first, but...nuurh, didn't end up like I wanted it to. Oh well.