8 - upwards to infinity
Welcome to our eighth prompt post.
As ususal, here are a few things to keep in mind:
1) All fills for prompts of the earlier prompt posts go in the post the prompt was posted in. No re-posting or splitting up prompts and fills.
2) Self-prompt when you post unprompted fic. (This means posting what the fill is about in a first comment, like a real ( Read more... )
As ususal, here are a few things to keep in mind:
1) All fills for prompts of the earlier prompt posts go in the post the prompt was posted in. No re-posting or splitting up prompts and fills.
2) Self-prompt when you post unprompted fic. (This means posting what the fill is about in a first comment, like a real ( Read more... )
“I had the test a week ago. Yeah, I knew. But... Ed, I’m sorry. Things just.. happened. I was going to tell you, but then...”
“I know. You got your fucking test and thought ‘just deserts’ and fucking divine retribution, and so your Catholic heart did a fucking backflip.” Ed snarls, happy at finding an outlet for his welling anger. “You know, And, just because God thinks you need to be bitchslapped into line when you fuck some randomer, doesn’t mean I do.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You think you deserve it, though, don’t you? Because you’re fucking stupid like that.” Ed wants to shake Andy sometimes. Andy thinks Ed’s got problems, but Andy has the potential to see karma in train timetables. Some nights, it’s raining and Andy thinks it’s because they’ve been fucking too much.
Andy doesn’t deny it, which is as good as a yes.
“You fucking bastard,” Ed says it with a sort of disgust he’s never had for Andy. Ever. Even in their most troubled patches (leadership, last January’s coup when Ed barely left Gordon’s side, election campaign) and Andy almost flinches. Almost, and then he realises he’s the one that should be angry, that Ed should be taking care of. He’s the one with the diagnosis after all. Ed can grow the fuck up.
“That’s the stupidist fucking reason to be angry I’ve ever heard. I fuck someone else, get infectious, and then I lie to you, and you’re pissed off that I’m okay with being ill? You’re completely fucked up,” Andy feels his temper rising to match Ed’s.
They haven’t had a real fight in a while. He feels a headrush, a bit of endorphins. He’s been so tightly wound this past week, he’s almost forgotten what real emotions feel like and he welcomes them like a junkie 5 hours into withdrawal.
“Fuck off.” Ed slumps down into a chair, weak and knowing Andy’s right. He just doesn’t know how to deal with this. “I don’t want you to die.”
“I’m not dying.” Andy says, viciously, sparking Ed’s anger again.
“Yeah?” Ed snaps, and knows he’s going to regret it, “Cos 6 months ago you said you didn’t want to fuck anyone else ever again and look what’s happened.”
Andy deserves that one, he supposes. He scrubs a hand over his face, hoping they can backtrack a bit, away from the anger and hostility, back to the original question. “It’s only a positive result. I.. look, it’s not serious yet.”
Fuck, he’s said ‘yet’ again? Jesus, he needs to plan his conversations in advance.
“Ed. Please. I.. Shit.” Andy reaches out now, putting a hand on the back of Ed’s chair. “Don’t write me off yet. I.. I’m not dying.”
Oh FUCK.
Andy feels sick and dizzy as that little sentence falls out of his mouth. ‘I’m not dying’. What a horrible thing to have to say, at the age of 40. A half-plea, a conviction that he isn’t even close to believing. He’s always had a piss-poor health record (ironically, seeing as he was health secretary, and is in better shape than Ed, Andy always gets flu, catches every bug going, and is bed ridden by the tiniest virus. Ed is usually smug, bringing him tea and soup and telling him it’s his fault for being such a girly-man).
“Ed?” Ed’s never heard Andy sound so vulnerable - which is saying something, seeing as he’s seen Andy drunk and almost comatose (some fucker had spiked his drink way before they’d started fucking. Andy had rung, between retches and begged Ed to take him home. Ed had put him to bed, and sat with him while Andy cringed and apologised, stroking his shoulder as he brought back the 6 units of alcohol).
Ed gets to his feet as suddenly as he sat down and, again, his arms are around Andy.
“Ed,” Andy sounds a bit stronger this time, but not a lot. He gradually lets himself relax into Ed’s arms, and leans his head against Ed’s shoulder.
“I.. I love you...” Ed tells him, slowly. He never feels right saying that. “You bastard,” he adds, to save face.
“I’m not dying.” Andy repeats into Ed’s shoulder. It sounds more serious this time. Like a kid promising he’s bloody well not going to eat sprouts this Christmas.
“Nope,” Ed agrees.
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Andy is amazed and grateful Ed’s still here. He hadn’t expected Ed would storm out (fidelity is nowhere near as important as loyalty), but to tell someone you’ve been unfaithful, have become a carrier of a debilitating illness, lied and hidden it for a week, and for them still to be willing to hold you at night is more than he could have hoped for (and deserved). Andy falls asleep in minutes, leaving Ed to stare at the ceiling and panic.
How many more nights have they got like this? He really, really, really doesn’t want this to end. It feels so right Andy being here, filling the empty space in his bed, the heavy weight that will give him pins and needles, and the hand on his chest that shows just how possessive Andy is and just how much he needs Ed to be too. They’re never sure who owns who.
They’ve always walked that balance: it’s uneasy sometimes, but Andy’s self-assured brand of humour and wit makes him the perfect foil for Ed’s frantic pugilism; Andy is the only one Ed can consciously give away control to; Ed is the only one Andy would consider taking control from. That, coupled with a matey, talkative, experimental sexlife means the hierarchy always gets muddled.
Ed isn’t sure how this is going to change now Andy’s got a diagnosis. He’s heard about people becoming completely dependent - psychologically as well as physically. He remembers watching Bob Flanagan and involuntarily squeezes Andy a little tighter.
Andy’s never been dependent in his life, which he views as something to be proud of, but also something to enjoy: he’s managed to cultivate this odd little relationship with Ed, who’s much better at relying on people, at getting help, at giving himself over to help him sort out what’s important. Andy has never managed to do that, because it only makes him feel as vulnerable as he looks (he’s willing to admit that he does look weak, with his large eyes and narrow suits).
Then again, as Andy loses control of his job, career, and, eventually, life, he might just grab power when and where he can.
Ed would rather the second option. It’s small defiance, but he’ll take what he can get. He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to take care of Andy in the way Andy might need.
They’re getting ahead of themselves. They’ve probably got years left. It’s just that word ‘probably’ that’s the problem.
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I need this now like I need oxygen and caffiene, even though it's been making me weep and then laugh and then weep again already.
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I need this to continue like I need oxygen. So bloody good. Far too close to tears.
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Cunting Christ, Ed doesn’t want to think about what the hell he’s going to do after...
Andy comes into Ed’s office before every visit, and tells him he’s ‘off to the quack. Don’t wait up’. Ed always makes Andy shut the door and kisses him goodbye, because it always feels like Andy will never come back. Ed knows that, even if his immune-count has gone down, he’ll come back, and he may not even be very different from how he was the hour before, but everything will have changed just because Andy will no longer by a bystander, sitting idly by, able to carry on, but will now be the victim, the casualty.. the body.
When Andy gets back, with a plaster on his finger, or one of those huge square cloth ones on his arm, Ed thanks every god he knows (not just the obvious ones, but Gaia and Thor as well), that he hears a number over 400. Andy announces it, with a grin, as he saunters back into Ed’s office, as if he’s announcing Fantasy Football results. Ed’s office is his first port of call, partly because he knows Ed will kill him if he keeps him waiting for that sort of news, partly because needles make him queasy, and he often needs a bit of a cuddle and a calm-down afterwards.
And the GP scares him. He’s very much like the old bastard who’d given all Andy’s childhood injections: the cruel, vicious and evil Doctor Holt, who had told Andy’s mother to put oven mitts on his hands to stop him scratching when he was 7 with chicken pox, and the same man who’d instilled Andy’s lifelong fear of eye drops.
Doctor March is slightly less daunting, but his eyes are just as beady, and cut right into Andy, while he’s sat there, legs swinging, explaining why he hasn’t been keeping up with his exercise. Even though he’s 40, he still can’t come up with a valid excuse for going to bed late and not eating breakfast.
Almost a year on (and neither know how they’ve lasted a year, but, for once, Ed is grateful to be in the relatively quiet opposition), the tiredness is the thing Ed notices most: more than the weightloss (gradual), night sweats (frightening) and shortness of breath. Ed tries to monitor Andy’s sleep (waking when Andy gets up at night to rinse himself of sweat) and tries to make sure they eat properly, but it isn’t easy when they don’t see enough of each other in the day, and when Andy’s rushing between meetings, getting sandwiches if he’s lucky, a sip of coffee if he’s not.
Ed tries to rectify this with proper dinners, but Andy’s sick of spinach and potato curry (it used to be his favourite, now if he has it more than twice a fortnight, he feels like he’s in a hospital or care home, being served meals on a rota). He loves Ed’s cooking, but he’s bored of this cook-sit-eat ritual they have now. It’s so much more formal than what they used to have (sandwiches, eating in the car on the way home, nothing so routinised as a sit down together).
He misses pot noodles and cigarettes and binge drinking (he still drinks, but he hasn’t had a real hangover in months - the type of hangover that keeps you in bed for 2 days, the sneezing-up-blood, mystery bruises kind of hangover).
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Andy hates being serious, especially with Ed, because it’s Ed and they should be spending their time playing football and drinking games and watching films, not having to go through this.
It goes without saying that if Ed knew Andy was perfecting this geostationary, arms-length orbit, Ed’d probably punch his lights out. It’s not Andy’s place to decide stuff like that. Andy’s done enough to fuck up the future, Ed doesn’t need him to go hermit on him.
Irregular sleeping and meal times consisting mostly of cheap green apples (he keeps a bag in his drawer, the perfect thing for eating on escalators) adds to the nausea and aches and means Andy’ permanently exhausted.
He runs on caffeine (when he can get away with it. He’s trying to cut down to get some semblance of normality, along with rationing booze and unhealthy lifestyle), tea and coffee, and political doggedness, and collapses at night. Ed’s even carried a sleeping Andy up the stairs a few times, feeling like some kind of carer. He’s not a carer. Andy doesn’t need anyone to care for him.
All the same, it takes hours for Andy to get out of bed. They set the alarm for two hours before work, giving Andy an hour to ease into reality, while Ed showers or makes him a cup of tea. When Andy is able to sit up (even that is an effort) and drink his tea, he puts on morning news (or children’s television, depending how ready he is to face the day), and waits another 20 minutes before even trying to pull back the duvet. He dresses as slowly as he can get away with, wincing at muscle pain and cramp, and shouting at whoever has been dragged in for the morning Today Programme bollocking (their sports coverage really is shite).
This slow morning ritual is the best way he can manage to be firing on all cylinders by the time he leaves: any other way and he’d be struggling throughout the morning to even keep his eyes open. He doesn’t have the stamina or get-up-and-go, spontaneous energy that he used to.
Ed does, but tries not to show it. Ed runs around like a headless chicken, doing more than his fair share of cooking and cleaning and work, not because Andy can’t do it, but because he doesn’t want Andy to.
They both know this escalation can only mean bad news. It’s not as subtle anymore, not as easy to ignore or pretend it’s not happening. Andy’s had to start leaving Cabinet meetings, cancel other meetings with special groups and avoid press-outings, either because he’s too sick and sweaty or because he needs to piss every 2 minutes.
Everything becomes that little bit harder, and to an already exhausted brain, that means everything becomes 1000 times harder. Andy isn’t surprised that the next time he struggles into the surgery (exactly 11 months and 5 days since his original diagnosis in late November), he gets a solemn apology and four pages of prescription (cream for the rash, 2x ARVs, citalopram for the exhaustion, depression and sleep problems).
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Ed’s been dreading this moment since Andy told him, and the fact that Andy looks like a drowned rat doesn’t help anything: Ed always confuses being cold with having a cold, but even if they’re not the same thing, Andy shouldn’t be dicking about in the wet anyway.
“You’ve hit 350..” Apart from ‘200’, that is the word Ed’s most afraid of (even more than ‘marginal by-election’, ‘relegation’ and ‘David Miliband’ - because they’re all nothing compared with the prospect of Andy’s deteriorating health).
“I’ve been started on ARVs..” Andy sounds calm enough. He’d got his prognosis and headed straight for the nearest pharmacy. Two trips back and forth to a Boots and a Lloyds (what kind of fucking Boots doesn’t stock anti-depressants? Andy feels miserable just going into those fucking buildings, surrounded on all sides by instructions to BE BEAUTIFUL, to shun the ugly, to waste your life in front of a mirror like the shallow fucks the ad agencies want them to be), and finally he’s stocked up (unpronounceable names, he’d rather not fucking know, to be honest. It only makes it more real. If he doesn’t know the details, it’s a bit more like Holby City than fucking House MD. People survive in Holby. People have to wade through shit and self-discovery in House, and it usually ends badly).
“So things are bad.” Ed wants it to be a question, but it isn’t.
“Yeah. It’s... well, it’s.. it’s unusually quick.. Stress, work.. I.. I guess I haven’t been looking after meself as much as I should have.”
“Don’t even think about blaming yourself.” Ed says, sharply, but he looks lost. “Okay. Let’s have a look.”
They get the medication out, the scripts and the small pieces of paper they come packaged with, spreading them on the bedroom floor. Ed reads through the information religiously (although Andy knows for a fact Ed’s already got every NHS factfile there is on his hard drive. Any spare memory that once held porn or government data is now filled with endless tables, guidelines and advice), studying the company names and track records, case studies and clinical trials.
They spread everything in a kind of symmetrical, obsessive compulsive order, until they’re surrounded, re-enacting that scene from The Wall, with none of the musical beauty and all of the mental breakdown.
He wonders if everything would be easier to deal with if he hadn’t done all of that fucking research. Every story, be it life-affirming or filled with trials always ends the same. Every Clyde and Jessica and Sarah has a death-date written in italics under the main inspirational message. Ed really doesn’t want that to be Andy’s name in fucking italics.
God, please. Not Andy. Not Andy with a memorial-service complexion and straight-to-camera smile.
Andy stares at their little circle on the floor: pills, printouts, their cups of tea, and the leaflets Andy always leaves the clinic with his pockets stuffed with. “Not much of an arsenal is it,”
“Shut up, Andy, this is the 2004 Invincibles. It’s unbeatable.”
Andy chuckles. “They got lucky. They cheated.”
“We’ll cheat if I can work out how. No bastard is taking you away from me,” Ed slings an arm around Andy’s shoulders. Andy bites his lip, a sure indicator that, just when they’ve got back to easy banter, things are going to get serious again.
“We never did talk about how I got it,”
“I don’t really want to know, Andy.” Ed decides honesty is the best policy, even though he risks appearing uncaring or uncharacteristically forgiving, “Maybe that makes me a bastard. Obviously I care, but..”
“I don’t... I don’t want to keep stuff from you, Ed. Never have.”
The words unfinished business pop up into both their heads, which makes Andy feel like fucking Casper the friendly fucking ghost, both ridiculous, trivial and frightening.
Ed nods, against his better judgement. He promises himself it makes no difference. Whoever it was, however it happened, for whatever reason, Andy’s here now and that’s all that matters. It has to be.
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Ed inhales, thoughtfully. There’s a long pause as Ed wonders how best to say what he wants, and Andy prepares for the worst.
“I don’t think it’s a stupid excuse.” Ed says, finally. He takes a deep breath, getting ready for embarrassment, honesty and the return of his stammer (He always stammers on the important stuff. Fucking psychology. Fucking Freud.) “If it’s meaningless, you won't do it again, will you? You’re not going to leave me for him, so it doesn’t matter.” Ed shrugs. “That’s even more pathetic really. You can fuck who you like, just don’t leave me.”
Ed doesn’t know whether it’s because Andy’s getting worse, because he’s having a midlife crisis or whether he would feel like this in any other circumstance, but as it is, he doesn’t really mind where Andy’s cock’s been. It doesn’t make any difference. Andy’s still here, sat on Ed’s bedroom floor, in a loose hug, and that’s what matters.
Ed is always self-deprecating, and it’s one of the reasons Andy loves him so much. He’s not needy exactly, but Andy’s the only person that really makes him feel worth something, and Andy knows it and loves him for it. He’d never leave Ed. Ed’s just... Ed.
To spare both their blushes, Andy looks back towards his bounty of medications.
“I’ve been waiting for this to happen.. Every blood test I get a little bit more scared.. well, at least I know what’s coming now, it’s almost a relief. I’ll be sweating and pissing the bed in no time,” He tries to laugh at the more unpleasant side effects (he and Ed have been through with a red biro underlining the worst ones, hoping to be prepared for every eventuality).
“So I can blame the drugs companies now?”
It’s nice having someone to blame: he can’t blame Andy because Andy already blames himself, and anyway, he’s suffering enough; he can’t blame the man who gave it to Andy because that means blaming Andy by association.
So Ed blames the Catholic Church (it seems rational to blame a religion that opposes protection against the disease so publically and vocally), drugs companies (for not making the drugs cheaper so more people can benefit from them, and for the massive side effects) and the animal rights lobby (they stop medical testing - Ed doesn’t like animal cruelty any more than the next person, but in a Sophie’s choice between a mouse and Andy, there’s no competition. Ed’s willing to sacrifice anyone and anything for Andy).
*
Politics leaves no time for illness - even a fucking sore throat has lost people elections. Juggling school visits, lobby groups, scrutiny and committees with a full-time routine of care is fucking impossible. Andy’s supposed to be exercising, but when he gets home from a day of sweating blood over the fate of the nation’s children, he can’t do more than tumble in to bed, and in the mornings it takes all his energy just to repeat ‘I will not let the Tories fuck Britain’ as he gets into work. He can’t even tie his trainers without feeling tired, so doing real exercise doesn’t even come in to it.
He starts every morning with a long 5 minutes, checking his rashes (elbow, chest and neck), staring at his queasy-looking reflection. Andy’s never been vain, but he is paranoid about looking ill or tired. He still cringes and blushes when Ed comes into the bathroom and finds him, though (a few times, Ed made a joke of it, and Andy didn’t speak to him until lunch). He meets his own eyes in the mirror, and tries to find some mantra to live his life by - a motto, an inspirational phrase to spur him on into the next decade, to keep his CD4 numbers stubbornly above 300.
It doesn’t work. Instead, it takes weeks and he’s still feeling side effects.
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“Yeah, that’s about right.” Andy mutters, humourlessly. “Get up, arsehole, I’ve got to change the sheets.”
Andy pushes until Ed topples out of the bed onto the floor. He sits up, rubbing his head which he banged on the light plug.
“S’up?”
Andy is already half way through changing the sheets. “I told you, you should sleep in the other room.”
Ed hurriedly gets to his feet. Andy’s face is set in a scowl, but Ed knows he is burning with shame and anger. Anger at himself for being like this, anger with modern medicine, and anger with Ed for not leaving.
“Lemme do that.” Ed tries to tug the sheets off Andy, but Andy elbows him savagely away.
“I’m doing it, Ed. It’s my piss, I’ll clear up.” Andy snaps. He hates needing help with things. He’s been so tempted just to go home: to go back to Leigh, where there’d be no Ed to offer to make him breakfast, bring him tea, wash his clothes, monitor his pills, fuck, Ed even puts on Andy’s rash cream for him sometimes (this confuses Andy, because it’s not only medical care, but Ed’s hands are fucking gentle, and warm and Andy feels like a lump of clay, while Ed strokes and soothes Andy into a mesmerised stupor).
“Don’t be an arsehole, Andy. You’re sweating. Sit down, go and make some tea or something. You’re dripping all over the floor.”
Andy pulls off his boxers, grabs a towel, and tramps down the stairs, swearing loudly. Ed wants to grab hold of him and cuddle him into submission, but that would only make things worse.
When Andy’s back in bed - in new sheets, sponged off, clean pyjamas and sleeping on a towel to minimize damage in case it happens again (he isn’t incontinent, he isn’t, just by the fifth time of waking, he can’t haul himself out of bed quick enough) - Ed curls around him, protectively. Andy tries to get out of his embrace, his back to him, wishing Ed would just fuck off and leave him. Leave him alone, or leave him altogether, he’s not sure.
“You should sleep in the other room,” He says, coldly.
“If that’s what you honestly want.” Ed tells him, kissing the back of his neck. It isn’t what Andy wants, of course it isn’t, and Ed knows it.
“I just pissed myself, and you’re not bothered?”
“It’s only piss. I wet the bed until I was 10.”
“Really?”
“Yep. My parents wondered if it was psychosomatic or something. Thought about sending me for therapy evaluation a few times.”
“I wish they had. It’d save me a lot of bother.” Andy says, quietly. Ed laughs into Andy’s back.
“Fuck you,”
“What if I have to start wearing those fucking pants?”
“Then we’ll have lots more shower sex.”
“Answer for everything, haven’t you.”
“Isn’t that why you love me?” Ed grins.
“I do.”
Ed hugs him a little tighter. “Look. You could have contagious, flesh-eating leprosy and an arsehole that has teeth, but it doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere. So whatever break down you’re planning, don’t make it about me because that’s just not happening. And, for fuck’s sake, don’t make me sleep in the other room.”
Apart from the obvious humiliation, it means less sleep, it means loss of fluids and it means Andy drinks and eats less for fear of it happening again. It takes all of Ed’s best efforts to keep Andy at a relatively stable weight (Christ, why does he have to be so skinny? He looks like a stiff wind could blow him over at the best of times, now he’s got the silhouette of a stick figure.
Ed wants to punch every medical professional that ever practiced because what’s the fucking point of medication that makes you worse?
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“We can’t just keep this secret, Andy,” Ed crouches beside Andy, hunched over the toilet, his palm on his back, fingers spread. Andy’s muscles writhe under his touch as his whole body wretches.
“Don’t.” Andy coughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Ed strokes his back, miserably. “Jus’ shu’p.” He heaves again.
Andy’s shied away from every conversation Ed’s tried to have about this since being put on medication. It’s made him cynical and angry, and Ed knows that’s the medication’s fault (anti-depressants that make people more depressed? What the fuck?), but however much you prepare yourself for ‘mood swings’, to have Andy turn into a vindictive little shit with no libido is still hard to deal with.
“Andy, this is fucking insane. We can’t just-”
“There’s no ‘we’ about it. I’m keeping it secret, you’re just the emergency contact.” Andy says, viciously, getting to his feet and exiting the bathroom.
“That’s fucking cold, Andy.” Ed follows Andy out, back into the bedroom. Andy pulls a shirt on, demonstrating it is possible to convey anger through the act of getting dressed.
“Yeah, well, I’m dying, so fuck you,” He says, quietly, whipping a tie from the wardrobe.
(When Andy’s feeling a bit better, Ed’s going give him a serious bollocking about Andy so readily accepting that he’s dying, even throwing it back at Ed as some excuse. Andy’s not dying. Fuck you. He’s just got a shitty quality of life at the moment.)
“Why the fuck won’t you tell anyone?”
“Cos I don’t want everyone feeling sorry for me.” Andy shoves his feet into his shoes and leaves the room while Ed is still struggling with his belt. Ed grabs items of clothing and carries them downstairs, finishing getting dressed in the kitchen, where Andy’s bent over the toaster. “Or fucking following me around like I’m about to swoon and collapse. I’m not magnetic, you prick.”
“So what about when your dose gets upped? You going to balance a sick bucket on the dispatch box?”
“If I can’t fight this, I can at least fight Conservatives.” Andy bangs the kitchen surface, pinging a fork off the top. He winces after that admission: after all this soul-searching, the best he can come up with is petty vengeance, we’ll all go together and ‘no bastard copper’s going to take me down’. He thought he was more sophisticated than that.
Ed wants to argue, but it’s futile. He’d be doing exactly the same thing. He wants Andy to lie down and have a rest, but is glad he’s still on his feet and ready bomb everyone he disagrees with.
“You need to tell some people.” Ed nods. “Not everyone, but... well, Ed’s going to need to know if you’re falling apart,”
“Fuck off.”
“I need to tell someone.”
Andy hesitates. He hadn’t thought about it like that and feels guilty. He wonders how well Ed’s been sleeping - he’s been up, showered and breakfasted before Andy even woke up every day this week. Maybe he’s not doing too well.
“Not Ed. Not yet.”
*
True to his word, Ed doesn’t tell their party leader. In truth, he’s relieved. He doesn’t know what sort of relationship he has with Miliband these days - friend, mentor, bully, Stockholm syndrome - but he knows he doesn’t want any sort of conversation that could count as him confiding in him.
The truth comes out after a meeting, about the economic strategy (and future, Ed thinks, miserably) of the Labour Party.
Alan and Angela as the shadow ministers responsible, Ed Miliband, Ed and Yvette as the economics experts. It goes badly, with the ‘deficit denial’ tag being thrown about, Miliband’s constant pleas for both a ‘blank slate’ and a clear alternative to Tory policy, and getting hung up on the issue of graduate taxes when they should have been fighting the austerity measures.
By the end, both Eds are at loggerheads, hackles raised, Alan sitting in the middle, trying to mediate as they battle out their past grievances, going right back to the 2003 budget. Ed Miliband leaves on the dot of 11:00, imperiously walking out of the office with Alan in tow.
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She shushes him, patting him awkwardly. She doesn’t let on how surprising it is when she sees what she thinks are tears in his eyes. It’s frustration and anger, but there’s definitely something that’s making Ed implode. She doesn’t say anything, just waits for him to tell her.
He tells her Andy is ill. He can’t stop himself. He doesn’t look at her, just stares into his lap, and feels her squeezing his arms comfortingly.
Her reaction is small, measured. Like everything, the distance (however small, she is pretty much the closest Ed and Andy have to a best friend) helps a bit, but it’s still a shock.
“He’d nail my balls to the floor if he knew I told you,” Ed says, finally, scrubbing his face with his sleeve.
“No he won’t. Don’t be daft. He’s just drained.. Give him a bit of time to think about how he wants to handle it. Knowing you, you ploughed straight in with ‘what do we do to fix this’ and he’s probably frightened.”
She knows Ed - ever since sharing an office in Milbank in 1994, she’s got to know Ed personally, but also his political strategy - which is almost exactly the same as his personal one: See a problem, fix it. This isn’t something that can be fixed just like that, so Ed’s banging his head against a wall, and only making Andy feel worse for it.
Ed, sensing Yvette really is the right person to talk to, jumps at what he sees as an offer of help. “Will you come by or something? Talk to him?”
“Ed, you know I can’t do that. It’s not fair. If he wants me, I’m around, but it’s up to him. You can’t take that away from him as well.”
Ed bites his lip and knows she’s right.
“I can look after you, though. Come on, I’ll get you a cuppa and a custard cream,”
All in all, he feels better. After a long lunch with Yvette, he’s managed to sort of work out what’s going on.
Yvette knows a bit about powerlessness. ME isn’t HIV, but it goes hand in hand the depression and the debilitation, which means she’s got a fairly good idea of what hopelessness is. Ed feels less like he’s floundering in a mire of shit as she talks to him about it. Ed has no fucking clue. What if he gets it wrong? What if he panics? What if Andy bolts? What if Andy dies before Ed can tell him... fuck.
“Just slow down,” She squeezes his hand, comfortingly. “You’re doing better than you think, you know,”
Ed snorts, derisively.
“Andy’s been getting up in the mornings, he’s functioning. If he can carry on with politics and Daily Mail hacks and bloggers and endless abuse from the electorate.. Some people can’t handle that anyway, but he’s doing it on medication, and still getting back to constituency meetings while he’s at it. That’s coping pretty bloody well if you ask me. As for you, well. You helped me get back on track, you kept Gordon sane. You’ve got to stop believing in your reputation.”
“You were already getting better and Gordon had Peter.”
“I was well enough to have a part time researcher’s job, but without you nagging me, I’d’ve never got into parliament. And you were always Gordon’s first port of call. Stop feeling inadequate for once, Ed.” She tells him, sternly. “It won't help Andy, and it’ll only make you into a martyr, which no one wants.”
“I should’ve married you,” Ed nods because he knows she’s probably right, and his very confused poor head shows just how mad it is by replacing his ‘thank you’ with a proposal of marriage.
“Yes, probably.” She gets up, putting her bag on her shoulder. She hesitates, and then kisses his cheek. “Don’t drive yourself mad, Ed. Please.”
“I’ll try.”
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Also this bit:
and the animal rights lobby (they stop medical testing - Ed doesn’t like animal cruelty any more than the next person, but in a Sophie’s choice between a mouse and Andy, there’s no competition.
really hit hard since EB's dad canonically(?) is very anti-testing and managed to get a large lot of policy rebuked.
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There has been a new development in Labour politics over the past month: the rapid disappearance of all the old hands. Not noticeable yesterday, when Ed Balls and Harriet Harman flanked Ed Miliband like ferocious bouncers on the wrong side of town, but speak to any political blogger, journalist or even the ever nosy EyespyMP, and you’ll find gaps forming in Red Ed’s team. Andy Burnham, so busy after taking his role as Shadow Education Secretary, has been absent without leave for weeks now, not even seen during PMQs. He somewhat gracefully ducked out of Education Questions, leaving his deputy minister to do excuse him on the grounds of ill health. But what is this ill-health? No one knows, but we assume it’s catching:
Ed Balls has a spot of the fever about him. He’s looked lacklustre since taking his role opposite Theresa May at the Home Office, but now he’s positively lethargic. Apathetic. Soporific. All that fight that won him the Parliamentarian of the Year has evaporated into nothing, leaving a hollow, if grumpy, shell of a Shadow Minister. Reports say he turns up late (if at all) to Cabinet meetings - at which Burnham wasn’t even present, incidentally - and with very little to contribute, if reports are to be believed.
A worrying trend for the leader, or perhaps a sign of things to come: Perhaps Ed Miliband really has been more successful at neutering his opponents within his own cabinet. If so, however, he is weaker for it. There is little or no opposition to the government currently, with only Douglas Alexander having the bit between his teeth and really giving his opposite number hell on Work and Pensions. Even Yvette Cooper looks like she’s got something on her mind.
Rosie, chief whip, knocks on his door, with perfect timing, as always.
“Hello, Ed.”
“Have you managed to speak to Yvette?” Ed asks, hopefully. He doesn’t think his first year as opposition leader has gone badly, but if he can’t drill some order into his truanting cabinet, he’ll never get over the headlines that call him ‘fumbling’, ‘dithering’ and ‘unauthoritative’. The Stalin-to-Mr Bean comparison even got an airing the other day.
“She’s cagey.” Rosie shrugs. “There’s definitely something going on,”
Only the leadership candidates (they gave up hiding it after about 3 weeks), Yvette (best friend, privileged position), Gordon (Ed still didn’t know why he’d told Gordon) and their parents know about ‘them’ as more than football buddies. But Rosie, as privy to home phone numbers and schedules has more of an inkling that there’s something going on (she’s rung Ed twice to drag him back from football matches to vote, and has noticed they generally arrive late at the same time, sharing cars) .
“What the hell is wrong with them? I thought they’d at least tell me,” Ed tries to be angry, but he just can’t perfect the autocratic leader persona (more Luxemburg than Lenin, as his brother says).
“I think you’ll have to speak to them yourself, Ed,” She shrugs, apologetically. “I get the feeling you’ve all got this little secret, and that’s fine, but if you’re going to keep secrets, you will have to sort it out on your own. If it’s not corruption, it’s none of my business.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Ed says, chastised and guilty at keeping secrets from Rosie, who really is doing a great job - keeping both new and old in line.
“It’s not corruption, is it?” She asks, eyes piercing.
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Okay.” She’s already on her mobile as she’s leaving the office. She’s scarily efficient, that woman.
Ed picks up his own mobile, gingerly, and calls the other Ed.
“Ed,”
“Oh.” He can hear the shadow Home Sec’s disinterest.
“Got a minute?” He asks, undaunted. Ed’s been getting better at being assertive, keeping the troops in line.
“Not really,”
“It’s important.” He insists, feeling like a telesales person.
“Yeah. Still no,”
“Ed-”
Ed hangs up on his boss, which annoys him. Miliband knows that he resents the pupil becoming the master, but there’s resentment and then there’s contempt. He makes his mind up to go round. They’re probably good enough friends that he’s justified in doing that. Probably.
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Ed’s frustration always ends on the shoulders of whoever he’s talking to, so Ed Miliband knows if he does turn up and something is wrong (all sorts of possibilities go through his head, all soap opera style, secret lovers, second families, espionage), he’ll take the heat of Ed’s wrath.
Miliband goes to Ed’s, knowing it’s less conspicuous than Andy’s (no steps up to the door), and closer to the supermarkets, so better suited for lying low and living hand to mouth. He knocks on the door, and then rings the bell. He hears shuffling about inside, and sees a shape behind the frosted glass.
“Shit,” Ed peers out the peep-hole.
“What?” Andy’s lying on the sofa, ever-present sick bucket in his lap, wrapped in a blanket and sleeping bag. He’s sweating with what feels like permanent fever, Ed spending the days hovering around him, scared it’s a real infection rather than medication. Ed’s never been so scared of medical semantics.
“It’s Miliband,” Ed stares.
“Shit,” Andy gets up too quickly, feeling a headrush and collapsing back down, spluttering and groaning. Ed is by his side in an instant, hand on his back.
“Y’okay? I’ll get him to piss off. Are you alright?”
“Let him in,” Andy shrugs. “There’s no point in not.”
“Andy,”
“Let him in, Ed. Have to some time, don’t I?”
Miliband knocks again, and Ed opens the door as angrily as he can.
“Ed,” He says bluntly, not inviting him in.
“Ed. Can I come in?”
Ed shrugs, and points him towards the living room.
“Oh. Andy. Hello,” Ed surveys Andy, trying to work out what this all means. He’s not good at speaking human at the best of times, but he can never read these two. Andy in a sleeping bag could mean anything from a hangover to a car accident.
“Hi,” Andy croaks, picking up his sick bowl and balancing it on his knees. He fucking hates this dose.
“Are you alright?” Ed asks, anxiously.
“Sit down.” Andy invites, warmly, the complete opposite to Ed’s scowl. Ed makes sure Miliband knows when he’s intruding, but Andy’s much better at social visits and entertaining guests (“that’s your Northern roots, eh, lad. Mekkin’ tea fe t’pitmen an’ y’500 aunties,” Ed takes the piss, although why he thinks making fun of Andy’s family is fair-game when Ed’s from Norfolk..) “Ed, get us a cuppa, would you?” Andy says to Ed, who is stood, sentry-like, beside Andy, as a human shield.
Ed Miliband is always awkward watching his two colleagues in non-political settings. In meetings and in public they are as combative and analytical as any other politician - especially with each other - but in the domestic setting, they’re bitchy and cuddly and so relaxed around each other it’s unreal.
Ed makes them all tea, in Labour party mugs (Ed got given a box when all the offices were cleared out of Downing Street), and sits down beside Andy, scowling at their party leader.
“I don’t want to be all heavy handed, Ed, Andy, but I need to know what’s going on, and what you intend to do about it.” Miliband begins, quietly, and he’s so different from the last few bosses they’ve had that it’s hard to believe he really is party leader. “I can’t have two of my most high-profile ministers disappearing without trace. It’s all I can do to stop our spin doctors coming round and dragging you in. Andy, you don’t even turn up to debates any more.”
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Ed chokes on his tea, surprised at Andy’s sudden announcement.
“I didn’t come here to sack you, Andy.” Miliband says, incredulous, still not raising his voice or losing his temper.
“I know. I’m not resigning because of you. I’m resigning because I’m ill.” Andy indicates the sick bowl in his lap, pulling down his t-shirt to show the blotchy rashes on his chest.
“Ill?”
“I’m on anti-retro virals.”
“What?”
“He’s got HIV.” Ed supplies, aggressively, to their surprised boss.
“AIDS? Andy, you’ve got AIDS? How long?”
“Have I known or have I got?”
“Have you known-”
Ed mutters ‘fucking typical’ under his breath at that. Typical that all Miliband wants to know is how long Andy’s been lying. Ed doesn’t and never will forgive himself that that was the first question he asked, too. It isn’t fair. No one ever asks Andy how he’s doing, just how long he’s known or how long he’s got. He hates the concept of time more than ever.
“I’ve been dosed up for... three weeks now.”
“You should have said.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He’s been doing a good job. Just this week he’s fallen off the radar. Cut him some fucking slack,” Ed jumps in, snarling like a pitbull, daring Miliband to try and chastise Andy.
“I didn’t come here to give him a bollocking,” Miliband insists, carefully and calmly in a way that both reassures Andy and makes Ed want to throttle him. “I only came to ask if he’s alright, or if there was anything I could help with.”
Ed bites back a comment about chocolate teapots and piss ups and breweries, knowing Miliband would get defensive and huffy and Andy would tick him off for it. Despite everything, Andy’s still acting as Ed’s support act, following him around with a mop and insurance details, phone numbers for lawyers and spin doctors on speed dial. The Labour Party’s ‘EDWATCH’ is still focussed on keeping Balls out of trouble, seeing him and his potential (note potential Ed’s been very well behaved recently) for fights and aggression as a bigger threat than Ed Miliband’s brand of inoffensive charm and inability to ‘speak human’.
“I still resign. Sorry. You’ve got a reshuffle on your hands.” Andy sips his tea and wishes he hadn’t. He tries to swallow, but manages half a mouthful.
“Never mind that. Are you okay?”
Andy feels vomit rising in his throat, but swallows hard, showing only the tiniest grimace. “Fine. I’ve got Ed,” He says, breathlessly.
“If you need anything-”
“I’ve got Ed,”
“If there’s anything I can do-”
“I’ve got Ed.”
“So you’re on medication? It’s serious then?”
“Yes. Dickhead.” Ed replies for Andy, showing his hatred of having to acknowledge their limited time together with proxy hatred for the questioner. He’s had to tread on his own feet to stop him saying the same things to Andy’s mother a few times.
“I’m.. I’m so sorry, Andy,” Miliband determinedly ignores Ed, speaking to Andy. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s speaking through an interpreter (although that’s what it always feels like, when Ed’s prowling around Andy, convinced the world is trying to hurt or take Andy away. Well, at least Ed has reason to believe it is now).
“I’ll be okay.” Andy shrugs, and Ed puts a possessive arm around him, leaving Miliband feeling like he’s intruding.
“Who knows?”
“Yvette. She’s been keeping an eye on Ed for me,” Andy says, lightly. “Keeping him at bay, otherwise I’d be up to my eyes in cotton wool.”
“Shut up, I’m Florence fucking Nightingale.”
“She ran a filthy hospital. She did more harm than good,” Miliband relates his trivia and wishes he hadn’t. Ed looks hurt and angry. Andy holds Ed’s hand around his shoulders, and Miliband knows that’s the only reason he’s not been kicked out yet.
“You done?” Ed asks, fiercely.
“I just wanted to check you were both alright,” Miliband tries to explain himself. “I’m sorry. I really am,”
“Ignore Ed,” Andy tells him. “We should’ve said something earlier.”
We? All three of them struggle to work out that personal pronoun. Ed doesn’t remember ever being given a say in the matter: testament to how things are changing that Andy’s willing to finally take Ed’s advice and stay off work.
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