fic: Political Creatures (3/4)
George was Chancellor. If Peter’s schedule and his fitted uneasily together, he had tried the key to the house one very late night and had fallen asleep on the neatly made bed waking up to eggs and toast and tea. Then, in the middle of May, he realised Peter still wanted to leave London.
Regardless of the situation at IMF, that his name should come up in any current economic discussion at all-- furthermore, from the briefs given by other countries-- was a little shocking. They had been concentrating on Brown so much that they had overlooked Mandelson. And even Gordon Brown didn't have the audacity to simultaneously exercise foreign leverage at the same time as mobilizing the domestic media.
George could confront this seeming duplicity or, alternatively, be angry at himself for ignoring the signs. Then there was the more damning fact that his finely honed political instinct failed with Peter. He had merely assumed that Peter’s business was no longer politics now that Labour was out of government and he had an actual job.
More worryingly, there was something in Dave’s manner that suggested that he had another set of considerations apart from that of the government or the Conservative party regarding a possible future nomination, one for which Peter would actually be qualified. Even he had known. George brooded upon the fact. Future discussions would be imminent but his own reservations, flooding upwards to the tip of his tongue, were alarmingly unsuitable for public consumption. George had intended to go home, but he ended up in Peter’s house anyways, agitating quietly in the sitting room.
It seemed disingenuous that he was probably holding the future of the man cooking him dinner. It was worse that Peter had merely smiled upon seeing him as if he wasn’t orchestrating headlines and op-ed pieces recently that had the potential of making this something theatrically like a last meal. George finally got up and drifted to stand in the doorway of the kitchen. The smell of some sort of roast was wafting out of the oven. His stomach grumbled. He had been making speeches and hadn’t eaten properly all day.
“You could just say you wanted to leave-” He froze on the “me”. He didn't want to say it aloud. Peter frowned, though George wasn’t sure it was at him or the clock behind him.
“Leave where? I thought we should have a nice evening in.”
“Leave me.” There, he said it, though the effort to dislodge the word from his throat only seemed to scratch it raw.
Peter didn’t immediately answer. “Will you get the glasses?”
“Why can’t you just tell me?” George said, though he went. His face looked bloated and distorted on the glass like some awful political cartoon. He poured in the wine.
“We’ve talked about this before.” Peter said it like there had been lengthy discussions, concerns expressed and answered instead of a series of half-whispered fragmented phrases as they were falling asleep or on the verge of doing so. And through all of it, George didn’t remember anything about leaving.
“You can’t call what we do talking,” George sneered. The comfort that he thought he craved from Peter suddenly seemed shameful, but to step away from it seemed worse. Admit that he had been spun? Even lied to? Made ridiculous, pathetic...
“Are you staying for dinner?” Peter asked, very calm, setting the table and pretending nothing was wrong.
“Yes,” George answered, sitting down and tore viciously at chunk of bread. “I need to hear why you are leaving me.” He reached for the butter knife.
Peter appeared confused. “But George, I’m not leaving you.”
“You retired from politics then you conspire with my friend behind my back for a post which you knew would require my input.”
“That’s not a conspiracy. If anything, it would be the opposite” Peter said quietly. “As you said, it required endorsement from the government, Chancellor.” He picked up his spoon and tasted the soup.
George glared. “You never changed the lock because you never intended to remain here for long. What else am I to think?” Across from him, Peter suddenly went still. “Peter, at any time at all, did you ever care what is beyond the politically obvious? You can’t expect me to not know what you intended after we blocked Gordon. David never likes to be considered ungracious. He is the Prime Minister, but, as you like to remind me sometimes, I am Chancellor.”
Perhaps that had been the hint. George didn’t really like Peter’s “dear boy” endearments even when they were said fondly before they became tainted with pre-election spin. Now that the memory had faded and he had won, George missed them. The problem with endearments was that you couldn’t ask for them. Perhaps Peter no longer considered him “dear” and the lure of “boy” had long ended. It was May. His birthday was next week.
“Did you? I wonder.”
“What?”
“George, you and I, we are political to our bones.”
“And your innate distrust of Conservatism is such that you can’t bear the idea of me being anything else?”
Peter had the gall to look pained. “I’ve always had Tory friends and all my friends are dear to me.”
But not your lovers, George thought. He was younger and only beginning to realise that Peter considered himself an embodiment of Labour which meant he would be doing everything in his power to further the political cause of himself all the while considering that he was doing it for the party, ideological consistencies were inconsequential. Nevertheless, no matter how political their lives were, to think that Peter perhaps considered and even planned their parting in such cold-blooded manner twisted painfully inside him.
“I honour my commitments,” George said slowly, “I stay my course.”
“Yes,” Peter said, amused, “entire Britain knows that about you. Don’t you see? You left me for your Prime Minister.”
“I bloody well apologised! It was once. As difficult as it is for you to understand, Peter, it is possible to have a relationship with the PM other than slavish devotion or barely suppressed contempt. And I couldn’t leave you if you couldn’t even bring yourself to tell me to stay. Do you really think me so inadequately punished that you devised this sadistic scheme?”
“Masochistic as well, if pain had been the intent.” The voice, steel wrapped in silk, belied the anger.
George shook his head. “Stop distracting me and just tell me why I’m still here if you want me gone.”
“I don’t want you gone. I know you will be. It’s an eventuality. These are different matters. Your hand is trembling. You are famished. The food will be cold.”
George ate, because Peter was right, he was hungry, and every moment at this table was a challenge he intended to meet. The food was delicious, though he kept stonily silent, all the time aware of Peter watching him. Peter was always watching him and George had always intended to be someone the likes of Peter Mandelson watched. As he savored each bite, George wondered what he saw these days.
He couldn’t stay afterwards. Seeing Peter there, fork in hand as he addressed the fruit plate, looking assesing, only added to the confusion. Letting Peter touch him was suddenly a terrifying idea. He had made his accusation. Peter denied it, which was he wanted. George should've been content except he was not. He insisted, then Peter then turned it back on him, presented the matter so artfully as if George was the one leaving, that George was the one who lacked trust. And George had been, he had insisted in his disbelief, so perhaps Peter was right, except he couldn't be. George didn't know what else he could do or should say. Peter had summarized their characters so matter in factly as if George was a child who could no longer be indulged. It was damning praise. He was in quicksand, every word would only sink him further.
“I’ll see you tomorrow evening at the reception.” Peter relieved him of the burden. George dried the last plate, hung the tea towel neatly on the rack, barely bid Peter goodnight, collected his jacket and tie then walked out. It was a dry Spring. At home, he blamed the inconsiderate sprinkler systems for making his face wet.
-=-=
Next
Regardless of the situation at IMF, that his name should come up in any current economic discussion at all-- furthermore, from the briefs given by other countries-- was a little shocking. They had been concentrating on Brown so much that they had overlooked Mandelson. And even Gordon Brown didn't have the audacity to simultaneously exercise foreign leverage at the same time as mobilizing the domestic media.
George could confront this seeming duplicity or, alternatively, be angry at himself for ignoring the signs. Then there was the more damning fact that his finely honed political instinct failed with Peter. He had merely assumed that Peter’s business was no longer politics now that Labour was out of government and he had an actual job.
More worryingly, there was something in Dave’s manner that suggested that he had another set of considerations apart from that of the government or the Conservative party regarding a possible future nomination, one for which Peter would actually be qualified. Even he had known. George brooded upon the fact. Future discussions would be imminent but his own reservations, flooding upwards to the tip of his tongue, were alarmingly unsuitable for public consumption. George had intended to go home, but he ended up in Peter’s house anyways, agitating quietly in the sitting room.
It seemed disingenuous that he was probably holding the future of the man cooking him dinner. It was worse that Peter had merely smiled upon seeing him as if he wasn’t orchestrating headlines and op-ed pieces recently that had the potential of making this something theatrically like a last meal. George finally got up and drifted to stand in the doorway of the kitchen. The smell of some sort of roast was wafting out of the oven. His stomach grumbled. He had been making speeches and hadn’t eaten properly all day.
“You could just say you wanted to leave-” He froze on the “me”. He didn't want to say it aloud. Peter frowned, though George wasn’t sure it was at him or the clock behind him.
“Leave where? I thought we should have a nice evening in.”
“Leave me.” There, he said it, though the effort to dislodge the word from his throat only seemed to scratch it raw.
Peter didn’t immediately answer. “Will you get the glasses?”
“Why can’t you just tell me?” George said, though he went. His face looked bloated and distorted on the glass like some awful political cartoon. He poured in the wine.
“We’ve talked about this before.” Peter said it like there had been lengthy discussions, concerns expressed and answered instead of a series of half-whispered fragmented phrases as they were falling asleep or on the verge of doing so. And through all of it, George didn’t remember anything about leaving.
“You can’t call what we do talking,” George sneered. The comfort that he thought he craved from Peter suddenly seemed shameful, but to step away from it seemed worse. Admit that he had been spun? Even lied to? Made ridiculous, pathetic...
“Are you staying for dinner?” Peter asked, very calm, setting the table and pretending nothing was wrong.
“Yes,” George answered, sitting down and tore viciously at chunk of bread. “I need to hear why you are leaving me.” He reached for the butter knife.
Peter appeared confused. “But George, I’m not leaving you.”
“You retired from politics then you conspire with my friend behind my back for a post which you knew would require my input.”
“That’s not a conspiracy. If anything, it would be the opposite” Peter said quietly. “As you said, it required endorsement from the government, Chancellor.” He picked up his spoon and tasted the soup.
George glared. “You never changed the lock because you never intended to remain here for long. What else am I to think?” Across from him, Peter suddenly went still. “Peter, at any time at all, did you ever care what is beyond the politically obvious? You can’t expect me to not know what you intended after we blocked Gordon. David never likes to be considered ungracious. He is the Prime Minister, but, as you like to remind me sometimes, I am Chancellor.”
Perhaps that had been the hint. George didn’t really like Peter’s “dear boy” endearments even when they were said fondly before they became tainted with pre-election spin. Now that the memory had faded and he had won, George missed them. The problem with endearments was that you couldn’t ask for them. Perhaps Peter no longer considered him “dear” and the lure of “boy” had long ended. It was May. His birthday was next week.
“Did you? I wonder.”
“What?”
“George, you and I, we are political to our bones.”
“And your innate distrust of Conservatism is such that you can’t bear the idea of me being anything else?”
Peter had the gall to look pained. “I’ve always had Tory friends and all my friends are dear to me.”
But not your lovers, George thought. He was younger and only beginning to realise that Peter considered himself an embodiment of Labour which meant he would be doing everything in his power to further the political cause of himself all the while considering that he was doing it for the party, ideological consistencies were inconsequential. Nevertheless, no matter how political their lives were, to think that Peter perhaps considered and even planned their parting in such cold-blooded manner twisted painfully inside him.
“I honour my commitments,” George said slowly, “I stay my course.”
“Yes,” Peter said, amused, “entire Britain knows that about you. Don’t you see? You left me for your Prime Minister.”
“I bloody well apologised! It was once. As difficult as it is for you to understand, Peter, it is possible to have a relationship with the PM other than slavish devotion or barely suppressed contempt. And I couldn’t leave you if you couldn’t even bring yourself to tell me to stay. Do you really think me so inadequately punished that you devised this sadistic scheme?”
“Masochistic as well, if pain had been the intent.” The voice, steel wrapped in silk, belied the anger.
George shook his head. “Stop distracting me and just tell me why I’m still here if you want me gone.”
“I don’t want you gone. I know you will be. It’s an eventuality. These are different matters. Your hand is trembling. You are famished. The food will be cold.”
George ate, because Peter was right, he was hungry, and every moment at this table was a challenge he intended to meet. The food was delicious, though he kept stonily silent, all the time aware of Peter watching him. Peter was always watching him and George had always intended to be someone the likes of Peter Mandelson watched. As he savored each bite, George wondered what he saw these days.
He couldn’t stay afterwards. Seeing Peter there, fork in hand as he addressed the fruit plate, looking assesing, only added to the confusion. Letting Peter touch him was suddenly a terrifying idea. He had made his accusation. Peter denied it, which was he wanted. George should've been content except he was not. He insisted, then Peter then turned it back on him, presented the matter so artfully as if George was the one leaving, that George was the one who lacked trust. And George had been, he had insisted in his disbelief, so perhaps Peter was right, except he couldn't be. George didn't know what else he could do or should say. Peter had summarized their characters so matter in factly as if George was a child who could no longer be indulged. It was damning praise. He was in quicksand, every word would only sink him further.
“I’ll see you tomorrow evening at the reception.” Peter relieved him of the burden. George dried the last plate, hung the tea towel neatly on the rack, barely bid Peter goodnight, collected his jacket and tie then walked out. It was a dry Spring. At home, he blamed the inconsiderate sprinkler systems for making his face wet.
-=-=
Next