fic: Embrace 1973 (3/3)
He had the appearance of shyness. He was calculating. He was still awkward and almost chatty in his talk. The impression given was that of a Conservative willing to advocate change. "To meet the sensibilities of the 21st century," George said over the entre, seemingly without irony.
The voice was pleasant. It lacked the reassuring stateliness that could easily penetrate the Wall of Noise in the Commons, but he was ambitious. Whatever practise George might've lacked in time-travel, his innate instinct to navigate possibilities had smoothed his path. He would be Chancellor of the Exchequer- as long as Cameron was there, and then, perhaps Prime Minister. Time-travel aside, he also possessed the purely political quality of those Westminster destined, the hypnotic way with words that relied on recursivity rather than meaning.
The hypnotic quality of himself-- Peter was older and really should know better-- didn't and couldn't ignore the eventuality of George Osborne willing to play and succumb to a game that appealed, disturbingly, to all of Peter's susceptibilities: the mouth, almost girlish in its bow and distractingly youthful, was entirely suited to the offering and keeping of secrets with smiles.
"You have been uncommonly kind to me," he said. Kinder, went implied, than others of the same age he had known: Davis or Brown or perhaps even Hague. Of course, they perceived him as a threat while Peter...didn't.
"You've never known what common is, George. The matter remains; I was young and you were younger." The point needed repeating. Peter did not like to guess the familial relationships of the Osborne clan, but he did not wish his name cited in any potential dispute.
The dinner was not quite warfare. Peter still had multiple battles he was conducting faraway from the table where George was still seeking an advantage over New Labour by being instinctively charming to Peter Mandelson, Prince of Darkness.
But what was mere instinct compared to actual knowledge?
Peter thought of Gordon and their rows. Gordon had never known that it wasn't that Peter didn't wish to aid him better but merely because Tony had seen him in the right moment, in the right year, seemingly with a willingness to trust. And yet, if by some means he had only learned the outline of this pact- Peter smiled- he had always meant to return to England. Gordon could forgive him once he knew, and he needed him now.
"You are staying on the yacht?" George asked him. The silver dessert spoon in his hand was smeared with chocolate. A trace of it remained on the corner of his mouth.
"There's no place in the villa for me, I'm afraid," Peter replied, watching as a red tongue darted out and lick away the chocolate. George was untrained. If Peter wished, he could- but of course not, not yet. "I shall have to see you tomorrow."
They parted, not quite lingering on the stony road while feral dogs whined nearby. The deck swayed gently beneath Peter as he boarded and nodded to the concierge. He had a dreamless sleep that night. It seemed time was beginning to bend strangely around him, even the coterie from the NewsCorp noticed it and unconsciously avoided or deferred to him very easily. When he saw George Osborne again in the afternoon, the solidity of his presence was contradictory to Peter's sense of a shift.
The man accompanying George aboard and their conversations was subtle, but the visions he wove were too flimsy to convince, the reasons he gave too weak to penetrate- a weaker sort of Tory.
"Disappointed?" Peter asked later.
George gave him a blank look. "I don't know what you mean."
"Slept well?" George frowned and glared. Under the bright sunlight, the shadows under his eyes were obvious. Peter continued, "Will you sit by me at dinner? They might not like you very much at the moment. They might prefer us to sit together, in fact. It is perceived," he cleared his throat delicately; they couldn't really be unnnoticed, "that we might even neutralize each other."
Nat was George's childhood friend. This piece of information was clearly a bit sour. Nonetheless, George did sit next to Peter during dinner and listened rather intently whenever he spoke with a rather more serious expression than the previous night. He was trying to make a decision.
It was only fair. "Come with me, George," Peter said at the end. "You are not my child."
George flinched.
It would only be the once. Once to see whether it was some fantasy concocted from nostalgia for his idealistic youth or something more twisted, damningly vampiric and preying... He had been fooled by himself before. Tony's promised friendship had turned out to be both true and chimeric...
They went to Peter's room. George's Tory lackey was occupied elsewhere. George himself stepped inside, the evening's summer sun through the window threw a rosy tinge on his face. Or, was he, in fact, blushing?
"It's not new to you," he commented unnecessarily, drawn in spite of himself, forwards. An adolescent excitement animated his face.
"It's like any other thing," Peter answered, "we lock the door if we don't want others to know."
George shut the door. He was in front of him, eyes almost black, his lips curved in a perfect impish grin. Peter touched his face, his neck, and loosened his polka-dot tie.
There were moments, the touch of that sweet mouth, that delightful skin, the fine strong bones of his face and hands and even wrist he recalled with a sort of aching pleasure even as he experienced it for the first time. The verismilitude was almost exact and better for all the surprises- the little sounds, the subtle cant of his hips were things Peter had forgotten, or suppressed.
It was obvious how very very new it all was to George Osborne. His soft mouth fell open. His thighs trembled and he gasped and moaned prayers, eyes fluttering closed as his back arched and his hands tried to tug Peter closer, closer...
"I wish you know how much I missed you, dear boy," Peter whispered afterwards. The sea glinted in the faint moonlight, a ray of it fell through. The skin was shadow and ivory. A shiver passed through Peter. He thought of damp and cold drafts seeping through stones. He pressed closer to the warm body and drew up the sheets.
George stirred then sat upright, breathing heavily. He looked at the man propped on the elbow on the bed beside him, apparently bewildered.
"Find me in London," Peter offered. He reached up ran his hand through the dark hair, the short curls soft against his fingers, and kissed George again.
George smiled blearily, face flushed, pink visible from cheek to sternum. "I will," he said. "What time is it?"
A while after he dressed and left, Peter did the same and went on deck. He nodded to the watch and sat on a chair as the the skies transmuted from twilight to dawn. George couldn't possibly know how Peter intended to return to London from Brussels. And yet, he did. Already, awareness of the repercussion and the reverberations were rippling across Peter's sated body.
He sighed. It would not only be the once, after all. And yet, surely it was a finer world where the past was not all in the dark. Perhaps, one day, he would write a book. A book, he mused, that would be written in code.
But that would have to wait. He needed to return to cabinet first.
-=-=
Christmas reception the same year, time was moving faster-
George approached him, formal and stiff, alone. "It is regrettable," he said, paused, "but I hope we can move beyond our past."
"Our recent past, you mean?"
George inhaled deeply before answering: "All of it."
Peter smiled. "I didn't know you for twenty years."
"I think you must have," muttered George. He had reflected, became disturbed, and grew resentful.
Peter raised an eyebrow. "You only became an MP in 2001." And almost immediately after - in fact, the minute after - he won Hartlepool. A twenty-year pact, but it had cost him eight years to fully recover from it though George Gideon had been as fast as any career politician, almost the baby of the parliament
"Yes, but," George wouldn't be able to leave with so many Conservative politicians about with modern interests; furthermore, Peter wouldn't let him- nonetheless, he was unconsciously doing so.
"You can't change what had already happened." Peter was reasonable. Resigned, even. "There are no new beginnings."
"Lord Mandelson, congratulations on your appointment." That, Peter supposed, was the unnecessary apology. He thanked him. He laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Shall I expect you tonight?" he whispered as he brushed past.
"Always."
-=-=