Title: Into the Sun
Fandom: The Libertines
Characters: Carl Barât, Peter Doherty
Rating: Mature
Length: 560
Notes: Part of a larger AU series, but stands alone as well. For my Bingo card.
Content notes: None



Peter has been accused many times of living in the past.

Not just the old time songs, the language, the longing for a more innocent, more free world, but his own past. It's true he has a tendency to pick at the scabs of long ago wounds, but it's about understanding what happened, not about revisiting.

He likes, himself, to argue that he lives in the present. Not for the sake of arguing: well, not just for that. It's true, mostly. He likes the smell of the sea air, even in Margate. He likes the sun on his skin, the cramp in his legs he gets these days when he runs, giddy, along the shore with the dogs. He likes being in the moment, now there are plenty of good moments to be had.

This moment though, finishing up the penultimate song in the set, he's in neither. He's present on stage with the band, with the Libertines, and part of him is always conscious of the past when he's out here. Years and years that blur into one picture. It's just that right now, it's been over an hour, and Carl has stripped down from leather jacket, from football shirt, from vest, to gleaming, golden skin, and Peter can't look at or think about anything else.

Drops fly from Carl's hair as he leaps, shakes his head back and catches Peter's eye, grinning wildly. It's late enough that he's cast off his serious, intense demeanour, he's having fun and he knows what's going through Peter's mind as he always does. Knows that Peter is thinking about bundling him off stage as soon as they've banged out 'Don't Look Back into the Sun', shoving him up against the nearest solid wall and kissing him within an inch of his life.

Peter came close to giving in a couple of songs back. Carl always flirts during 'Katie', dancing his way across the stage, grabbing Peter's head and putting that mouth, that delicious, smoke and alcohol-flavoured mouth right up to his. If Carl hadn't had such a grip on his hair, Peter would have been in there, fuck that Carl doesn't want to make a public spectacle, even though Peter would bet every last penny they have between them everyone out there knows they're back together.

For now.

Ah, self-restraint doesn't come easily to him, but it will be worth it. Happy post-gig Carl is a dazzling feast to be enjoyed to the utmost. Instead of a stolen moment, he can have all night to savour the taste of that mouth, to lick every drop of salty, champagne-soaked skin clean. To hold those skinny hips down while he swallows Carl's cock, sneaks the first orgasm out of him to add to his collection of Carl delights, turn him over and bury his face--

He realises he's been nodding along to the drum intro and shit, he's meant to be singing in a moment and he's nowhere near the mic, and Carl is laughing again and yes, he still knows exactly why.

"Fuck you," he says, moving in close enough for their faces to meet, and hopes his mouth was still far enough from the mic that maybe only the front row heard it.

"Later," Carl murmurs, mouth pressed up against Peter's ear, and they turn as one to leap into the sun.