fic: The Right Thing To Do (2/2)
The tea sat on the kitchen table, tendrils of steam curled into the cool morning air.
“You know how to make tea?” he asked softly, half to himself.
George turned around, incredulous. “You thought I didn’t?”
Peter went to rummage in the cupboard for the muesli.
“I thought I should encourage your immortality after your last interview," George said, his face freshly shaven, relaxed.
There was a joke in it somewhere, Peter hoped. George had told him he considered the Dark Prince persona was a fairy-tale, something of a childish story easy for sound-bite journalism. Peter Rabbit was a story meant for children, Peter sometimes would like to remind him, fairy-tales were often not. He would not, of course- that was part of the trouble. "What is the occasion?" he asked, picking up his cup and taking a sip of the hot liquid.
"I realised I never knew what you ate for breakfast until I readabout it."
"You know more important things," Peter said. "What I eat is not even a top priority for me. You know the wines I favour."
George frowned at the plate of eggs and toast in front of him. "It's the principle of the matter," he muttered.
For once, Peter didn't want to pursue the principle of the matter, but his silence seemed to be its own reply.
"You don't expect anything from me," George concluded. His fork slipped on the plate, metal and procelain scraping loudly.
"George, dear-"
"Yes?" He had narrowed his eyes, ready to scrutinize the answer.
"I like seeing you at breakfast as well," Peter said, very good at giving non-answers by offering a pleasant truth separate from the topic. He smiled, leaning across the table, and reached for one of George's hands, which had balled into a fist. "Relax," he soothed, lifting it to his lips and kissed a knuckle, then let his lips trail down the finger to the second. George's breath hitched. His hand unfurled. Peter looked up at him from beneath his glasses and licked the narrow gap between two fingers, the skin slightly salty on his tongue.
"Don't- I'm not-" George lowered his voice, "not wearing-" he bit his lip, his eyes fell closed, his skin flushed.
Peter raised an eyebrow. It was a Wednesday. Neither of them ever played fair. He resisted the urge to ascertain the truth then.
"I'll be watching carefully," Peter informed George, turning over the hand and pressing a kiss to the palm before standing up. "Our friends are undoubtedly waiting."
-=-=
George was still a young man. He could be distracted once, twice, even three times. His own not inconsiderable arrogance making it easy for Peter.
Then the general election was drawing closer. They saw each other less in government or elsewhere, except perhaps on television. Peter woke up earlier and George didn't usually come in the evenings any more.
Both parties had abolished weekends for their campaign managers.
The room was still dark. A thin layer of frost clung to the windows. Winter would be colder this year, Peter thought. Very late at night, he had discovered a rumpled Tory at the far end of the bed on top of the covers, and had drawn him close. George had managed to get beneath the duvet by the morning, still in his shirt and trousers, and was a comfortable warmth close to him, merely asleep, his breathing quiet and even. It was difficult leaving him.
Peter, fully dressed, pocketed his mobile from the bedside table and bent down to write a note. The nibs Mont Blanc pens always moved across the paper easily. He never signed these notes, but never found them again, either.
There was movement on the bed. "Not staying for breakfast?" George asked, as if it had not been weeks since they shared a morning.
"Breakfast meetings," replied Peter, though Gordon had less interest in putting out a spread than Tony for potential photo-ops and was more eager to listen.
"David would be ready to go running about now," George said.
Peter knew better than to follow that up with a remark. He finished writing the note then looked at the man looking at him. "I wish I can stay." He kissed a pillow-creased cheek. "Our time is not our own."
"After the election," George said against his ear, "there will be no more excuses."
There would be always more sacrifices to make on this road, Peter knew, but he was preserving a fantasy, even for himself.
-=-=
A week before the chancellor debate, George arrived on his doorstep. Peter was already on his last phonecall of the day.
"The face of youthful economics," Peter said, a little teasing, but rather delighted, "step into my parlour, my darling."
George snorted. "I'd rather step into your space," he said, doing just that, "give you a taste of something fresh," he said, and pushed Peter gently against the wall before kissing him thoroughly. He tasted of mint. Peter moaned into his mouth, his hands undoing belt and zippers before palming the erection within.
"Living room?" George asked, breathlessly. Peter nodded.
They dislodged the cushions from the sofa. Their ties curled dangerously near the fireplace screen. Then George decided to kick off his trousers and pants while lying on the ground. Peter wondered if he would mind carpet burn and was smoothing his hands up the naked thighs bracketing him. George's shirt was only partly unbuttoned, he moved the shirtfronts up.
"What is this?" There was very faint reddish points on the white skin of his hips.
"No one," George said, absently, handing over lotion and condoms. He licked his lips.
"No one?" Peter asked, stilling his hand, pushing the shirts up higher. He grazed his hands across the spots of discolouration. Two hours, perhaps. The span was not great, it must've been very gentle in purpose.
"Peter-" George pleaded beneath him.
Peter was shaking his head. "No one-" he said again, staring at George. George, who was politeness itself to his subordinates, colleagial among his colleagues, but friendly only to-
"You are trembling," George said, tentative, reaching out. Peter flinched away.
Too seasoned, too well-trained, words and evidence were already labelled and classified, a conclusion reached and his mind, too quick, already perused the document. Damn his experience. Ignorance, in this case, would've been welcome. Still, he didn't understand why he couldn't have foreseen his own reaction. Some warm nights, promises of some good mornings- what else did he expect? what else did he want? should he, perhaps, had that conversation except he wouldn't even know what to say. He had made certain Osborne would be in his bed sometimes and he was. Surely nothing warrant the hurt.
"Peter-"
But why not suspend the belief, just for a little while longer. Reality was always adjustable. "Dear boy," Peter said, silky smooth, gathering and bundling his emotions into neat little packages, ready to be shelved. "Dear George-" He coated his hand liberally with oil, deliberating.
"Come on," Osborne urged him, "let me turn around." He squirmed a little as Peter moved his shirt down again.
Peter shook his head. "Be quiet now," he shushed. He had never been this gentle, had never, in fact, had so much control nor desired so little and so much simultaneously. Peter carefully anchored his own hands over George's hips, above the cotton of the shirt as he moved, slower than usual. George didn't touch himself but was staring at Peter avidly, his eyes shining oddly in the firelight as Peter wrenched desperate small sounds out of him until he came. His own climax was approaching inexorably slowly, a stinging pleasure that made him sweat and feel oddly dirty, used.
"It was nothing, wasn't it?" he said afterwards, tired.
"It was nothing," George agreed easily, then caught the drift of Peter's thoughts. He did have that bizarre quality, endearing in a lover, annoying across the aisle. "I didn't mean this was nothing," he corrected hurriedly. He crawled closer. "I tried to to ask so many time, but you know how it is late, stressed-" he stopped himself, having overtread a line.
"Images are more powerful than words," Peter repeated, "but I suppose you can keep the notes," he mused aloud. "They're not really love letters."
"You can beat me if you like," George said quietly, "as punishment."
"Six strokes to the backside and you would thank me for every one?" Peter couldn't suppress the sardonic tone, or a reminder, "You're sailing very close to the wind."
"I would," George answered, though his voice came out a bit high. There was genuine fear in his face. Even if they had never spoken it aloud, he must know how dangerous, how inadvisable, how utterly irresponsible the offer was, though Peter couldn't shake off the suspicion that even now, he was trying to manipulate him.
"I'm not angry," Peter lied, touching George's hair, patting down a rebellious curl. "You did the right thing, " he paused, and added, "for us." He stood and turned his back on George. "I'm going to give you some privacy to dress," he said and walked out of the room. There was choked sound behind him.
Peter sat down in his immaculate kitchen. The teapot sat in the middle of the table. It was just past midnight. He would have to call his assistant for a locksmith in the morning. For now, he didn't feel like going upstairs.
Peter realised, belatedly, that he hadn't asked George to leave. At least, not in so many words. He tried to remember if he he had heard the front door shut but failed. Surely it impossible that he would stay. He moved quietly to the living room. It was empty. The cushions were still on the floor. He moved to tidy it up a little and paused.
George had forgotten his tie. Peter picked it up, looked at the fireplace, sighed, rolled up the strip of blue fabric and realised it was his own.
-=-=
“You know how to make tea?” he asked softly, half to himself.
George turned around, incredulous. “You thought I didn’t?”
Peter went to rummage in the cupboard for the muesli.
“I thought I should encourage your immortality after your last interview," George said, his face freshly shaven, relaxed.
There was a joke in it somewhere, Peter hoped. George had told him he considered the Dark Prince persona was a fairy-tale, something of a childish story easy for sound-bite journalism. Peter Rabbit was a story meant for children, Peter sometimes would like to remind him, fairy-tales were often not. He would not, of course- that was part of the trouble. "What is the occasion?" he asked, picking up his cup and taking a sip of the hot liquid.
"I realised I never knew what you ate for breakfast until I readabout it."
"You know more important things," Peter said. "What I eat is not even a top priority for me. You know the wines I favour."
George frowned at the plate of eggs and toast in front of him. "It's the principle of the matter," he muttered.
For once, Peter didn't want to pursue the principle of the matter, but his silence seemed to be its own reply.
"You don't expect anything from me," George concluded. His fork slipped on the plate, metal and procelain scraping loudly.
"George, dear-"
"Yes?" He had narrowed his eyes, ready to scrutinize the answer.
"I like seeing you at breakfast as well," Peter said, very good at giving non-answers by offering a pleasant truth separate from the topic. He smiled, leaning across the table, and reached for one of George's hands, which had balled into a fist. "Relax," he soothed, lifting it to his lips and kissed a knuckle, then let his lips trail down the finger to the second. George's breath hitched. His hand unfurled. Peter looked up at him from beneath his glasses and licked the narrow gap between two fingers, the skin slightly salty on his tongue.
"Don't- I'm not-" George lowered his voice, "not wearing-" he bit his lip, his eyes fell closed, his skin flushed.
Peter raised an eyebrow. It was a Wednesday. Neither of them ever played fair. He resisted the urge to ascertain the truth then.
"I'll be watching carefully," Peter informed George, turning over the hand and pressing a kiss to the palm before standing up. "Our friends are undoubtedly waiting."
-=-=
George was still a young man. He could be distracted once, twice, even three times. His own not inconsiderable arrogance making it easy for Peter.
Then the general election was drawing closer. They saw each other less in government or elsewhere, except perhaps on television. Peter woke up earlier and George didn't usually come in the evenings any more.
Both parties had abolished weekends for their campaign managers.
The room was still dark. A thin layer of frost clung to the windows. Winter would be colder this year, Peter thought. Very late at night, he had discovered a rumpled Tory at the far end of the bed on top of the covers, and had drawn him close. George had managed to get beneath the duvet by the morning, still in his shirt and trousers, and was a comfortable warmth close to him, merely asleep, his breathing quiet and even. It was difficult leaving him.
Peter, fully dressed, pocketed his mobile from the bedside table and bent down to write a note. The nibs Mont Blanc pens always moved across the paper easily. He never signed these notes, but never found them again, either.
There was movement on the bed. "Not staying for breakfast?" George asked, as if it had not been weeks since they shared a morning.
"Breakfast meetings," replied Peter, though Gordon had less interest in putting out a spread than Tony for potential photo-ops and was more eager to listen.
"David would be ready to go running about now," George said.
Peter knew better than to follow that up with a remark. He finished writing the note then looked at the man looking at him. "I wish I can stay." He kissed a pillow-creased cheek. "Our time is not our own."
"After the election," George said against his ear, "there will be no more excuses."
There would be always more sacrifices to make on this road, Peter knew, but he was preserving a fantasy, even for himself.
-=-=
A week before the chancellor debate, George arrived on his doorstep. Peter was already on his last phonecall of the day.
"The face of youthful economics," Peter said, a little teasing, but rather delighted, "step into my parlour, my darling."
George snorted. "I'd rather step into your space," he said, doing just that, "give you a taste of something fresh," he said, and pushed Peter gently against the wall before kissing him thoroughly. He tasted of mint. Peter moaned into his mouth, his hands undoing belt and zippers before palming the erection within.
"Living room?" George asked, breathlessly. Peter nodded.
They dislodged the cushions from the sofa. Their ties curled dangerously near the fireplace screen. Then George decided to kick off his trousers and pants while lying on the ground. Peter wondered if he would mind carpet burn and was smoothing his hands up the naked thighs bracketing him. George's shirt was only partly unbuttoned, he moved the shirtfronts up.
"What is this?" There was very faint reddish points on the white skin of his hips.
"No one," George said, absently, handing over lotion and condoms. He licked his lips.
"No one?" Peter asked, stilling his hand, pushing the shirts up higher. He grazed his hands across the spots of discolouration. Two hours, perhaps. The span was not great, it must've been very gentle in purpose.
"Peter-" George pleaded beneath him.
Peter was shaking his head. "No one-" he said again, staring at George. George, who was politeness itself to his subordinates, colleagial among his colleagues, but friendly only to-
"You are trembling," George said, tentative, reaching out. Peter flinched away.
Too seasoned, too well-trained, words and evidence were already labelled and classified, a conclusion reached and his mind, too quick, already perused the document. Damn his experience. Ignorance, in this case, would've been welcome. Still, he didn't understand why he couldn't have foreseen his own reaction. Some warm nights, promises of some good mornings- what else did he expect? what else did he want? should he, perhaps, had that conversation except he wouldn't even know what to say. He had made certain Osborne would be in his bed sometimes and he was. Surely nothing warrant the hurt.
"Peter-"
But why not suspend the belief, just for a little while longer. Reality was always adjustable. "Dear boy," Peter said, silky smooth, gathering and bundling his emotions into neat little packages, ready to be shelved. "Dear George-" He coated his hand liberally with oil, deliberating.
"Come on," Osborne urged him, "let me turn around." He squirmed a little as Peter moved his shirt down again.
Peter shook his head. "Be quiet now," he shushed. He had never been this gentle, had never, in fact, had so much control nor desired so little and so much simultaneously. Peter carefully anchored his own hands over George's hips, above the cotton of the shirt as he moved, slower than usual. George didn't touch himself but was staring at Peter avidly, his eyes shining oddly in the firelight as Peter wrenched desperate small sounds out of him until he came. His own climax was approaching inexorably slowly, a stinging pleasure that made him sweat and feel oddly dirty, used.
"It was nothing, wasn't it?" he said afterwards, tired.
"It was nothing," George agreed easily, then caught the drift of Peter's thoughts. He did have that bizarre quality, endearing in a lover, annoying across the aisle. "I didn't mean this was nothing," he corrected hurriedly. He crawled closer. "I tried to to ask so many time, but you know how it is late, stressed-" he stopped himself, having overtread a line.
"Images are more powerful than words," Peter repeated, "but I suppose you can keep the notes," he mused aloud. "They're not really love letters."
"You can beat me if you like," George said quietly, "as punishment."
"Six strokes to the backside and you would thank me for every one?" Peter couldn't suppress the sardonic tone, or a reminder, "You're sailing very close to the wind."
"I would," George answered, though his voice came out a bit high. There was genuine fear in his face. Even if they had never spoken it aloud, he must know how dangerous, how inadvisable, how utterly irresponsible the offer was, though Peter couldn't shake off the suspicion that even now, he was trying to manipulate him.
"I'm not angry," Peter lied, touching George's hair, patting down a rebellious curl. "You did the right thing, " he paused, and added, "for us." He stood and turned his back on George. "I'm going to give you some privacy to dress," he said and walked out of the room. There was choked sound behind him.
Peter sat down in his immaculate kitchen. The teapot sat in the middle of the table. It was just past midnight. He would have to call his assistant for a locksmith in the morning. For now, he didn't feel like going upstairs.
Peter realised, belatedly, that he hadn't asked George to leave. At least, not in so many words. He tried to remember if he he had heard the front door shut but failed. Surely it impossible that he would stay. He moved quietly to the living room. It was empty. The cushions were still on the floor. He moved to tidy it up a little and paused.
George had forgotten his tie. Peter picked it up, looked at the fireplace, sighed, rolled up the strip of blue fabric and realised it was his own.
-=-=