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... )
“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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“I’ll tell them at my press conference,” He nods, “But I’m not saying you’ve been sacked.”
“Don’t tell them I’m ill,”
“I’ll be non-descript,” he promises, “I don’t want your political record ruined by stories that you’ve been sacked,”
Miliband’s eyes flicker to Ed who nods, approvingly.
Miliband leaves not long after, as Andy retreats to bed, leaving the two Eds in the living room, neither sure what to say. Ed looks totally shattered, just as bad as Andy, but there’s nothing Miliband can say to empathise with him.
Ed Miliband announces Andy’s leave of absence at a press conference in Bristol Railway Sheds, during a meeting with grass roots South West activists and council candidates. It goes smoothly, the only hiccough being when Miliband referrs to a ‘they’ instead of a ‘he’, which leads to a few questions about Andy’s bachelor status, and a bit of idle speculation involving politician-and-secretary clichés.
Ed relates a non-descript ‘condition’, but concedes Andy may not return to frontline politics. He fields a couple of questions about reorganising his shadow cabinet, and tells them he’ll have a reshuffle as soon as possible, but he forsees minimum disruption to how it currently stands. He finishes the meeting with a small tribute to Andy’s time with the Labour party, working closely with him, and how much he’s done for them.
It sounds like an obituary.
Back home, in their house that feels more like a bunker - the two of them sit together on the sofa, feeling like sole survivors in an apocalypse, fearful of journalists and infections and Conservative poll positions, and not knowing which would be worse (infections. But Andy doesn’t want to die under Tory government, and he doesn’t want Ed’s career to go up the swanny because of some ‘secret cabinet lover’ discovery). Ed is still paranoid, and has started washing his hands at least four times an hour for fear of bacteria.
“We should... we should say something.”
“Don’t be stupid. We’ve told Ed, I’ve resigned, it doesn’t matter.”
“I can’t just not go into work.”
“Maybe you should start going in to work then.”
“Andy, please. I mean, we’re not corrupt, we haven’t abused our position. It’s not a scandal, is it?”
“Apart from that we’ve lied to everyone about it. It’s not principled. You won't ever be made chancellor,”
“Andy. Fuck off.” Ed snaps, and he really means it. Fuck the shadow cabinet, fuck politics, Andy’s what’s important, and he’ll give it up in a shot if he has to. He hasn’t been so sure of anything since the Euro, and look how much everyone appreciates him and Gordon telling Blair where to shove his single currency.
“People will ignore us if we just keep quiet. I want people to ignore us. I don’t want fucking Guido and every other twat on their porn-stuffed laptop having an opinion - good, bad or indifferent. I want them to fuck off.”
*
Gradually, Andy’s system becomes more accustomed to the medication. The rash recedes (Andy can now wear an open-neck shirt), as does the nausea and diarrhoea, which is a relief.
He still goes in for parliamentary votes and the odd debate (where he sits next to David Miliband or Ben Bradshaw, heckling for all he’s worth) and carries on with constituency meetings, but doesn’t rejoin the cabinet, although he gets offers almost weekly, and not a breakfast goes by that Ed doesn’t say “For fuck’s sake, I need someone to play hangman with while Miliband’s wanking on about the squeezed middle”.
Instead, Andy concentrates on his ‘self-care’. He starts small, taking long walks down to the nearest park, where he has a little sitdown and makes sure he eats something healthy, and a slow one back, for an early afternoon of writing (contributing to the Fabians’ blog, and Uncut) and doing some of Ed’s reading for him (endless crime stats. Andy is not a numbers man, and gets tired just reading about it).
His numbers stay relatively stable, and he gets a gushing review from the Doctor when he next visits. He ups it to running in the morning, and walking in the afternoon, and spends the rest of his time on the telephones, coordinating the ‘No to AV’ election campaign.
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*stocks up on tissues and waits for update*
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Andy hates that his life has now become governed by sporadic trips to the doctors and 3 digit numbers: 500 at the beginning, 400 a month later, plummeting to 340, and now his shaky 300.
Despite everything (exercise, less stress, eating better, sleeping better) his numbers still fall, slowly and gradually. Not enough to create hysteria and panic in Ed (who is very very good at overreacting even to the smallest dip in CD4s), or to send Andy into a self-destructive tailspin, but enough to make Andy feel like a jack-knifed lorry on the A11: useless, cumbersome, stalled and, above all, getting in everyone’s way.
He’s followed every instruction from his doctor, from the clinic, even the bloody counsellor, but his numbers still sink like a lead zeppelin. He starts to feel hopeless, which is when the defeatism he’s never ever been known for rears its ugly head.
Andy’s never really felt depressed. Unlike Ed, who spends days in black moods, Andy’s good at keeping up the chipper humour and easy grin that the party knows him for.
Now he feels that same feeling he felt a year ago, with his first diagnosis: depression, emptiness, slow and like he’s swimming through treacle. He finds he can’t get out of bed again, he stops going for runs, and even reading a newspaper becomes too difficult.
He avoids parliament altogether, telling Ed he wants to avoid exposure to any infections, especially at this time of year (in a building like that, with 646 MPs passing through and visitors, lobbyists and policemen, Ed’s grateful Andy’s not taking the risk), and instead spends his day in bed, trying to will himself better.
He hides it as best he can from Ed for a long time, but Ed cottons on when Andy’s trainers haven’t moved from their spot on the stairs, and there’s uneaten food in the bin and rotting fruit in the fridge. A quick scout of the internet history also shows Andy spends the whole day with Andrew Sparrow’s rolling blog, democracy live, and the Everton news page He barely leaves the laptop for more than half an hour.
Ed knows the ‘don't ask’ days because he comes back to find Andy, only just out of bed, the television still on upstairs in the bedroom (on don't-ask days, Andy doesn’t have the brain capacity for anything more than the Simpsons or comedy on 4OD), trying to give the impression of being active by making tea as soon as he hears Ed’s key in the lock.
Ed tries a few times to be angry, to bully or guilt-trip Andy into looking after himself better, but try as he might, he can’t sustain it. Even when it’s for Andy’s own good, if Andy says ‘fuck off’, off he will fuck.
The only exception to this is when Andy’s still in bed half an hour before his appointment. Ed breaks his sacrosanct rule (that you indulge Andy on pretty much everything), hauls him out of bed, threatens to carry him to the car, and drives him to the surgery himself.
Andy (pyjama shirt, woolly jumper) threatens to refuse his flu jab if Ed even thinks of pulling a stunt like that again, to which Ed replies he’s going nuclear, and is going to knit Andy a balaclava. Andy doesn’t laugh enough these days, Ed’s glad that the thought of him knitting still makes Andy giggle (the same way Ed and the violin, Ed and making meringue and Ed and watching Strictly Come Dancing is just funny).
Ed drops Andy at the surgery, and speeds off (late, as usual) to Home Office Committee Questions, instructing Andy to get a taxi (“If you even think about walking home, mate, I’m on the phone to fucking Hicks and Gillette, or some Arab billionaire, and I’ll piss on his chips ‘til he bans beer at Goodison.”).
Doctor Marsh is sorry, very sorry, instructing him to go home immediately, and basically live under his duvet for the rest of his life. Andy isn’t really surprised by the prognosis. He likes to think he takes bad news like a man, with resignation and just an air of ‘I told you so’. He knew it was bad. Only a stupid optimist (ie, Ed) could have gone through this morning and not have guessed the change from ‘stable’ to ‘serious risk’.
Cunting 200. Bollocks.
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*cries*
*begs for more*
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“What?”
“We haven’t had sex in months. Fuck me.” Andy tries to nudge Ed’s cock through his trousers with his foot, but Ed’s grip on his ankle tightens. With his finely-honed animal instinct, Ed is wary of requests like that. He misses the old days, when Andy wouldn’t even have to ask because they’d been fucking every other night.
Something’s evidently wrong, but Ed knows Andy won’t say what - it could be anything from a bad day to inoperable bollock cancer - and hates Andy’s tactic of distracting himself via sex, football or beer. He doesn’t feel used because he’s not that fucking pathetic, but it would be nice to be told where Andy’s sudden sex drive comes from, and if it’s something he should worry about. So, as usual these days, he gets annoyed.
“No. I don’t believe in healing cock and nor do you. It’s bullshit.”
“You promised me it wouldn’t change us. You’re letting it win. Fuck me.” Andy asks, and it doesn’t sound like an unreasonable request.
Sex has become strange since it happened. Andy’s even skinnier physique makes Ed feel like a perpetrator of domestic violence if they even try to return to their normal pushing, pulling and biting (Andy pushes back, but if the daft prick’s been too ill for lunch, he barely has the energy to get his cock up, let alone the rough and tumble that used to precede sex). And anyway, the utterly hopeless and completely focussed look of adoration Ed gives Andy when he’s fucking him is almost too much for Andy to take. Andy feels like an object of worship, like some kind of miracle, that Ed’s savouring, which only makes him feel more doomed and mortal.
‘It’ has replaced all other evils in the world. It is worse than Blair, Bush, Thatcher, nuclear North Korea, Cameron and Clegg, global warming and Goldman Sachs as the most hated word in the house. It is never called anything more specific, for fear of letting it know it’s being talked about. It’s like fucking reds under the bed, and careless talk costs lives. If it knows they’re plotting against it then it might bite them both on the arse.
“No.” Why the fuck is Andy blaming him for the lack of sex? Andy’s the twat who wanks into the fucking toilet these days. “You fuck me if you’re so desperate,” Ed says, and hopes Andy will take it as a literal invitation.
Andy grabs Ed by the lapels, knuckles digging into his chest, threatening to tear his shirt.
“Don’t even fucking joke about that, you utter, utter CUNT.” Andy snarls like he’s got rabies, eyes flashing dangerously.
He hasn’t done anything like this in a long time, and hasn’t realised how much he’s missed the feel of it: Ed excitable and expectant, big stupid eyes begging and endearing. He looks a bit frightened, too, as Andy shakes him, growling with an anger he hasn’t shown since before any of this (they haven’t fought in so long, Andy’s pretty impressed by that).
“I wasn’t joking,” Ed stammers, and that’s when Andy punches him in the mouth, nanoseconds before he realises just how bad things have got while they’ve been pretending.
Ed needs some care too. Andy’s been so focussed on his routine, in making sure he’s still alive to take care of Ed in the future that he’s neglected to take care of him now. Ed’s been working, cooking, politicking, supporting Ed Miliband and Andy and an ailing shadow cabinet, and all without an ounce of relief. Andy’s given him affection, but nothing more tangible. Ed must be in hell.
“You never top anymore.” Ed wipes blood from his lip. “Couldn’t fucking stop you before. You’re the one that’s letting it win.”
Andy is speechless, watching Ed slump onto the sofa, sucking blood from the split in his bottom lip.
“I can’t risk it, Ed..” Andy says, but he sounds longing and desperate. “I want to fuck you all the time.”
“See? I was fucking lying when I said we could carry on as normal. It will always win.”
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Andy directs Ed upstairs, and is surprised how good he feels when Ed does exactly as Andy tells him. He tells Ed where to put his hands, when to touch him, when to shut his eyes, even when to breathe a few times. Under instruction, Ed wanks Andy, relieved at being allowed - no, being ordered - to forget that Andy’s getting sicker by the day.
When Andy comes (into a fucking condom, because Andy’s paranoid and careful like that), Andy directs Ed towards condom and lube, and Ed doesn’t have the words to refuse when Andy looks at him with his dark and impossible eyes and tells Ed “fuck me and tell me you love me”. Ed does. He says it over and over because he’s confused, both powerless and in control at the same time. He doesn’t understand the sensation of pulling and pushing Andy’s limbs and torso, and yet having no choice in the matter.
He comes himself, and even then Andy doesn’t stop. He directs Ed to the bathroom, where they stand under the shower, and Andy kisses Ed and tells him he’s sorry for not doing that sooner.
He tells Ed how he’s been scared of going too far: the thought that if he ever does give in to temptation and tie Ed or blindfold Ed, that he won’t even stop to think about protection. That’s his worst nightmare: being in control of someone else at the same time as losing all self-control. That’s how this disease spreads. He can’t be responsible for something like that.
“You overestimate how much of a pushover I am, Burnham. I know I’m head over heels, mate, but even I’d safeword at that.” Ed tries to diffuse the tension that’s built up while Andy speaks. Andy nods, with a self-deprecating laugh.
“I just can’t get my head straight these days, Ed,” Andy cups his hands, letting them fill with water and then splashing scalding water into his eyes. “I’ve slipped up. The numbers don’t look good. I’m.. I’m serious now.” A part of him hopes Ed doesn’t hear the verdict over the splashing of water.
“Under 200?” Ed slams his fist into the shower, turning it off. “Andy, why didn’t you say? We went all through that fucking... and you....”
“It was a fight even getting you in to bed, you’re hardly going to fuck me if I tell you I’ve got months instead of years.” Andy doesn’t move from under the shower, even though he starts shivering.
“What?”
“I’m bored of being a temporary fucking library loan, Ed.” Andy sighs, letting his back hit the wall tiles with a wet slap. Ed pushes open the shower door, and flings towels and boxers at Andy, still pissed off but not enough to let him get a chill. “It’s like we have to savour everything. I don’t need daily reminders than I’m mortal, Ed. I really don’t. It’s bad enough that I’ve had to give up work, and there’s the Leigh by-election coming up, and ... I’m scared.”
It’s such an alien statement coming out of Andy’s mouth, Ed does a visible double take. He finishes putting on his boxers, frowning.
“Scared?”
“Yes. Laugh at me and I’ll kill you.”
Ed would never laugh at him, not in this situation, but he likes saying it because it keeps up the pretence that they’re living in an alternate reality where he’s not ill and he and Ed are allowed to still banter like proper mates should.
“Er. D’you want a hug?” He offers, after a pause.
“Only if you promise not to do that clingy thing. I want a man hug.” Andy scowls.
“It’s going to be a bit gay. We are both naked.”
“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Andy grins. “Come ‘ead.”
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Damn you and Billy Bragg to hell don't stop god damn you
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Ed takes to following Andy around, as if he can repel any threatening infection with just his presence, laced as it is with anti-bacterial soap and antiseptic wet wipes, and every other anti- product he can lay his hands on.
He’s constantly vigilant against anyone who may be suffering from anything: the slightest sniffle from any visitor (postman included, Ed’s very fucking careful) and Ed stalks over and dares them to be in the same room as Andy. If Ed suspects he himself might have a cold, he retreats to his own house for a week, afraid even to ring for fear of sending bad bacteria down the phone line. Never let it be said Ed isn’t skilled at overreaction.
He stocks the cupboards with emergency lemsip, Benylyn and TCP, tins of soup and vitamin C tablets. The kitchen looks like a nuclear fall-out shelter, stuffed with every provision that Andy could ever possibly need, so he doesn’t ever have to leave the house again.
Ed conducts his one-man crusade against any form of biology that even thinks about making Andy’s lifespan any shorter, while Andy laughs at Ed, glad he’s not the only one. He doesn’t want to be killed by a bloody cold.
Ed’s still lacklustre at work, and treats all enquiries into Andy’s health as the blood suckers asking for a nice, fat sacrifice to leech off. Andy always has been good at distracting fire, with his stupid eyes and face and protracted dispatch-box metaphors, and real, normal, human anger at unprogressive and fatalistic politics.
“Nope.” Ed always says, without replying to the question, “Burnham wood’s not coming to Dunsernane. And I’m going home.” He tells Ed Miliband.
“Ed!” Miliband calls him back. “Do you want some time off?”
Ed doesn’t tell Ed Miliband that if he does want time off he’ll take it with or without his boss’s approval.
In the end, though, that’s exactly what he does. On the morning Andy goes into hospital with the start of pneumonia, Ed sends an email, not thinking twice about secrecy, digital records or common courtesy. He doesn’t much care how rude he sounds (he sounds rude quite a lot of the time), just dashes it off in the two minutes Andy kicks him out to get tea in.
With the predictability of a Richard Curtis script, the email gets leaked within an hour of sending it, and is on the news blogs an hour before the Daily Politics. Seems that some people will do anything for political advantage. Ed Miliband sacks the aide on the spot (she gets a job with a Tory thinktank a month later, but probably only because she’s been blacklisted from any left-leaning one), and watches the BBC news in horror.
>Ed Miliband,
Ed never knows how to address emails to Miliband anymore. It used to be ‘Ed’, back when Ed was the tea-boy, and cabinet-lesser. ‘Boss’ is reserved for Gordon. And ‘Skipper’ or ‘Skip’, because Gordon sometimes needed reminding that he was a real football fan, when he was swanning around with the likes of Mandelson and diplomats and government fawners, all chinless wonders who knew David Beckham and still thought Michael Owen was an England main-man.
Anything deferent is out automatically, leaving him with a perfunctory ‘Ed Miliband’. That’s if he uses a greeting at all - he usually just ploughs on with a correction on economics, a new survey about police attitudes, or crime statistics.
>Andy’s in hospital. I’m not coming in to work. If any coked-up journos or wank-addict SpAds ask where the fuck I am, tell them I’m bombing their grannies.
>If he dies, I’m leaving government. You can all go to hell.
>Ed Balls
It sounds harsh, but Ed means it. If Andy dies, then what’s the fucking point? Standing opposite a Tory bastard or Lib Dem power-mongerer, pissing about with the minutiae of government, arguing numbers and abstracts and falsified statements, and why the fuck should he even care about these people anymore? He cares about Andy, and if Andy’s not going to benefit from crime prevention, EMA, NHS waiting lists, then what’s the fucking point?
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