fic: Political Creatures (2/4)
George managed to extract an entire evening free after a fortnight. The speech he would be giving the next morning had been written a week ago and unless history took a drastic turn, at which point no speech from him was going to be advisable, it was the final copy. He rummaged for the key before remembering he had left in the box holding the tank watch. Brushing his hand over the crystal face, he hesitated, almost deciding to unbuckle the one currently strapped to his wrist. Instead, he put the key in the breast pocket of his jacket and closed the box. A passing glance in the mirror showed the unmistakable signs of jet-lag and hair unfit for Westminster, but Peter had never minded.
Standing at Peter's front door, key at the lock, he paused and closed his hand. The lock must've been changed. The metal teeth bit into his palm, he put the key away away, then rang the doorbell.
Peter opened the door. "George?"
For a moment, George thought that Peter must be referring to someone else. His name sounded strange in that tone. "I left a message," he reminded him.
"You did, of course." Peter said, still looking taken aback.
"Can I come in?" He had thought about this, resolved. He knew what he needed. A closure of some sort: both of them calm, sitting down, civilized, and at safe distance, without the distractions of everything else. The conversation had been long overdue.
The noise of the weeknight London traffic came to one of its rare lulls. Peter seemed uncertain. Then George heard the sounds of another conversation from the sitting room. Peter had company. Peter had forgotten. George thought to speak, even to accuse - you forgot - but strange hollowness seemed to have abruptly came into existence in the middle of his chest and all his words fell away. He must've shown something on his face.
"George-" Peter began, sounding almost careful, almost concerned. They were still standing at the doorstep. The door opened wider.
"I am invited," George affirmed, finding his voice again and entered the familiar hallway. The same vase and small scatter of papers lay on the hall table. George saw the reflection of himself in the mirror and Peter beside him, inscrutable.
"Peter, who is it?" A voice called out from the living room, the familiarity grating.
George forced a smile. "Introduce me to your friends."
A series of expressions warred on Peter's face as if he was assailed with some sort of internal debate. George watched, fascinated, but then Peter seemed to reach a decision. A coolness descended and fixed his face into a fascimile of benevolent tolerance.
"As you like." he said, and headed toward the sitting room, leaving George to follow.
"George Osborne, let me introduce-" The names were foreign but not unfamiliar, not the sort that would run to the tabloids. Nevertheless, his presence understandably surprised Peter's guests.
"Passing by," he explained, "to provide a perspective."
They began to talk. The flow and rhythm of dialog between acquaintances had ceased to be awkward a long time for Peter and George. The difficulty was remembering that it was all they were. A bottle of very good wine was shared. George took a glass, resisting the urge to finish it. A sip, two, and he grew resentful by his own presence. Peter sensed it; he drew the topics to their conclusions. The guests would leave, and George supposed he, too, would also be ushered to the front door- merely a passerby in Peter's long history...
He lingered in the hallway and cast an irritated nostalgic eye toward the stairs. The first time up the steps, he had been following Peter carefully, trying very hard to be patient.
"Stay," Peter whispered in his ear, so quickly and so quietly as his other guests took their leave that George was uncertain if he heard or imagined it.
"I didn't expect you," Peter answered as he closed the door.
"You didn't expect-" The implications were enough to make him annoyed again. "Mr. Mandelson, not expecting is hardly a trait I should associate with you, especially when warned in advance." Sneering, perhaps, but also at himself. When had he became someone who qualified a warning?
"No, it's not," Peter said, and after a moment, "but then, it's you. I had stopped expecting you."
George's drew a sharp breath. It was unfair. “I said I would be here.” It was Peter who had asked him to leave. Surely he remembered that. "You never said there were expectations," he continued. George would’ve never slept with David otherwise- an experiment for both of them, one couldn’t pursue once he understood that he couldn’t predict what he could lose, a realisation that came only after the fact. He couldn’t subject their friendship or the government to this uncertainty. But of course, it was George who didn't expect Peter Mandelson and the uncommon amiability that had sprung between them. He wondered sometimes if he had been spun, after all.
“There couldn’t be any for you,” Peter said with awful kindness. "I stopped expecting you,” he paused, apparently unhappy, his mouth a thin line, “because I had stopped hoping."
George swallowed, his mouth too dry to protest then decided against it. It was too late to change either of their politics, or the prejudices they have. The distrust was natural, surely. The thought, discomforting as it was, nevertheless weighed lightly against the gratifying reality Peter’s confession. Then Peter touched the side of his face. Briefly, George felt the fingers at the edge of his eye. “You are young,” Peter murmured. Steeling himself, George gripped Peter by his shoulders. The other man looked alarmed, his stance stiffening, his back straightening. Then George kissed him, his mouth coaxing the other to open, easing away that expression of discontent.
Peter tasted of the wine they just had and the slight roughness of his cheeks was still exciting. Strange and yet reassuringly familiar after such a long time, lost in the unexpected surge of arousal, George shuddered violently when he felt a hand on his skin and the other one, hard, against the base of his spine, pulling him closer. The back of his shoe hit the rise of a step, he tried to sit down and drag the other man with him.
Peter hissed and wrenched himself free. “Not on the stairs.” His voice was silky and low; his hair only slightly mussed; the dark eyes were almost entirely black, yet amused nevertheless. From the corner of his eye, George could see himself in the hallway mirror- his mouth red and parted, his cheeks flushed, his shirt already untucked, trousers open, the hint of underwear almost visible.
“No,” George agreed, a little embarrassed. “The bed,” he advised, with a desperation that shocked himself.
The progress up the stairs was awkward and a little stilted, being interspersed with Peter’s paradoxical determination to keep George from undressing himself and reaching to touch him beneath the clothes at the same time.
In the bed in Peter's room, he lay atop of the covers as Peter sat astride him, unbuttoning his shirt slowly as if an afterthought to kissing every inch of exposed skin. The shirt parted. He gasped as Peter's mouth touched his chest, the heat of his tongue sending a blazing wave of heat through him the movement proceeded downwards in the same manner. George moaned aloud as a hot breath ghosted over him before a wet mouth descended on the inside of his thigh. He closed his eyes, mindless with pleasure at the feeling of each small suckling kiss and growing increasingly frustrated as he strained for release. He began pleading, arching off the bed while his hands tried to guide Peter’s head to where he needed. The man eluded his hold then somehow slid up his body- skin against skin- setting off flares on his nerve endings.
“Breathe,” Peter said, though he sounded breathless himself, his hand warm and slippery between them.
Deftly rolling them over, George kicked off the rest of his clothes and enjoyed a small moment of triumph watching Peter's eyes widen beneath him as he guided himself down. It had been a while. He winced a little, lowering himself carefully, enjoying Peter’s evident annoyance, every line of his body taut with tension as he held himself still. George grinded down slowly. The moment he gasped, Peter’s hands began stroking him and dissolved rational thought. Their bodies found the syncing rhythm and he was frantically edging toward his climax. He came first, groaning aloud, his legs only holding long enough to allow Peter to thrust upwards a few more time before he collapsed forward.
"It's like being on an island with you, an island of only ourselves," he said wonderingly afterwards. Peter was showing no inclination to kick him out of bed. There was something at the back of his mind telling him that that wasn’t the point, but he was tired and, for the moment, quite happy.
“What?” Peter, unfairly, seemed still alert.
“Nothing. I must’ve heard that somewhere.”
Peter laughed, dryly. “It’s Tony’s expression,” he informed him, as if divulging a secret.
“But he wasn’t at Corfu.” George yawned. Peter’s history was all in the past.
“No, he wasn’t,” Peter said but George had closed his eyes.
In the middle of the night, he felt someone stirring. He reached out and caught an elbow.
“Where are you going?”
Peter huffed. “Getting you under the covers.” He traced a tickling line from sternum to navel. “You seem to be heavier than I remember.”
"The life," George said sleepily as he rolled over,
"When are you suppose to be home?” Peter asked softly once he was in bed again.
"Tomorrow," George managed before he fell asleep.
-=-=
Peter was still there in the morning, reading the papers, a cup of tea in front of him. He looked up and smiled as George came in.
“You went to see David about Brussels, of course.”
“You are awake, then,” Peter commented as George went to survey the very well-stocked cupboard for breakfast. He would never understand how a man who ate so little could own so many cookery items and always have ingredient at hand. Then, he supposed that Peter liked to entertain and at least recognised that other people eat.
“It’s not going to happen,” George said.
“It was worth a try.”
Then before George left, Peter laid a strangely chaste kiss on his cheek. “I never changed the lock,” he said.
-=-=
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