Disclaimer - I do not own The Libertines, sadly.
Three Little Words
Will you come?
A travesty of three little words. You suppose you should have known that it wasn't going to be the three you wanted to hear when Peter came round to see you last week.
Awkward, forced smiles and unsaid thoughts. Double meanings, but… that was nothing new. It wasn't always like this, though.
Thinking back on their life together; a few short years that seemed like an eternity - because that's all he ever promised you, and that's all you ever wanted from Pete. Nothing substantial, just… eternity. Of course there was more - desperate kisses and desperate words, a life of desperation and hope and times when you think that just MAYBE it's going to be alright, but of course it's always hidden round the corner. The next hidden obstacle. Suicide. Drugs. Marriage. Fucking MARRIAGE. What kind of libertine gets married? The ultimate in tied down, sort of defeats the object of moral dissolution.
Whisky. Only thing left in the cupboard is a willow-patterned teacup, god knows how that got there. Whisky in teacups it is then, how ironic. Not quite the same, just like everything else between them.
You sit at the window, Carlos, watching the rain fall through grimy glass. Wishing that somehow it could wash away the memories the way it wipes the dark pavements clean - that you could stand in it long enough to just forget. But even whisky barely helps you now.
Thinking back to the last time they spoke, when Pete had uttered his three little words. Mention of a wedding, seemingly random comment thrown into the conversation, and suddenly time stood still and the world came crashing down.
Eyes averted. Throats cleared. Dazed.
I'm getting married. Will you come?
Of course I will.
Another forced smile, a brief hug that ached to linger - to cling and possess, mark and brand and punish. You watched him leave, feeling that aching tug in your chest that you wished was hate but knew was love.
Of course I'll come. Just find me a way to stop the disappointment; the sick, burning pain and the knowledge that you're no longer mine. I hate you. I wish I could hate you.
You remember a similar day to this, when Pete had fallen in love with the rain and decided they had to go dance in it on the roof, six storeys up. All you wanted to do was stay nestled in your single mattress, that warm delicious body wrapped round you in a haze of sleepy contentment. But Pete had begged, cajoled, compromised and all but shoved you to the door, his eyes so lit up with excitement because he only wanted to go if you were coming too.
Will you come?
A knock at the door. Ignore it, ignore it; all you want now is to curl up and drink and forget. Turn the blood inside and the tears on your face into liquor and drink yourself into oblivion. No Peter to curl around now but perhaps the warm haze that comes with the loss of sobriety will do just as well. Perhaps.
Knocking. The teacup smashes. Knocking. It sounds crazy and stupid but it almost seems familiar, that knock - a certain way of rapping knuckles against wood that makes your heart lurch. You trip over yourself to get to the door, pull it open, and there he is. A ridiculous birds' nest of fluffy brown hair; huge, pleading eyes. Scuffed shoes and a battered hat, string for braces and a skew-whiff tie. Perfection.
"Pete…"
Desperate kisses, the same desperate words as before and you know that that is all it's ever going to be, that once again is the only promise held in those pleading brown eyes - eternity and nothingness. And of course it's all you want.
"Run away with me," he says.
You're both so different now, years and experience and hard-learned lessons, the Albion torn apart in the storm of life and love - but Peters' arms are bare and you can see a spidery tattoo that matches your own and mirrors your matching minds and identical hearts.
"Run away with me. Will you come?"
Will you come?
Soft lips and a familiar, aching embrace.
Of course I will.
You join hands and run out into the rain - letting it wash the memories clean, running out into the uncertain future, into desperation. Into what you've always wanted - nothingness and eternity.
Fin