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... )
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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“Yes, I think Ed Miliband’s team will be very worried about him going AWOL in such a... brusque manner.” Nick says, carefully, shooting a look to Yvette.
“Brusque? It’s rude,”
“Yes. But I think we can all assume he’s suffering some.. personal problems.”
“Personal problems or not, I hardly think ‘go to hell’, if you’ll pardon the phrasing, viewers, is a particularly statesman like attitude.”
“What I think is amazing,” Yvette interrupts. This is the reason she’s been put on the sofa this week by the Labour Party - get the story right. Defend them to the hilt, attack any wanker that thinks this is a political story. It’s personal. Tell them to fuck off. “Is that you’re all focusing on his last line, and seem to have forgotten the first three. Andy’s in hospital, and Ed’s feeling a lot of pressure. He’s worried about him. Of course he comes across as preoccupied.”
“He’s not just worried, he’s giving up his job. Word was they were friendly, but it’s a little extreme? Politicians lose family members and don’t give up politics. Look at Gordon Brown, Cameron.” Andrew Neil goes through the motions, awkward at this line of questioning, but aware it has to be done.
“Well it won’t surprise anyone to know that people deal with problems in different ways. If Ed doesn’t feel he can best serve the government at the current moment, that’s his choice to make, and I think he’s made the right choice, both for him and Andy and the party.”
“You’re talking like he’s already dead. The email itself says ‘if he dies’ - so it’s serious? Much more so than Ed Miliband told us.”
“It’s not my place - it’s not anyone’s place - to reveal Andy’s personal situation.”
“People would say it is when they’re our shadow cabinet, elected representatives.”
“No, it isn’t.” Yvette says, firmly. “It’s personal, and you have no more right to ask these things than the aide did of leaking them.”
“If he’s not up to the job-”
“Then he should take a leave of absence, which is exactly what he is doing.”
“Andy Burnham is. Ed Balls hasn’t even been given leave. He’s just told his party leader what he’s decided.”
“I don’t think Ed Miliband or any of his colleagues are really surprised at Ed’s decision.”
“So you’ve all been aware of Ed Balls’... friendship with Burnham.”
“It’s hit us all hard, but Ed especially.”
“Yes, but why? We were all under the impression Ed Balls was a hard-nut. His media image is of a bully, Gordon’s hatchet man..”
“That’s a media image, cultivated by hacks because it suits a narrative. Anyone who has spent time with Ed knows he is a kind, generous, man. He’s a softie. And he gets on well with all his close associates - in Cabinet, ministers, constituents.”
“Are you a great friend of his? Or Burnham’s?”
“Yes. Labour is a united party, we all get on well.”
“That sounds like a party line. Ed Balls has just told Ed Miliband to stuff his job and shadow cabinet.”
“No, he’s said he doesn’t feel he is able to serve at the moment,” Yvette doesn’t give an inch. “He’s not said ‘stuff your job’. Ed wouldn’t do that. He cares passionately about Labour politics and the country.”
“Sounds like he’s more passionate about Andy Burnham. Yvette Cooper, thank you very much.”
Yvette jumps up off the sofa as quickly as she can, pulling the microphone off her lapel, and passing it to the nearest BBC worker.
Investigation, character assassination, call it what you like, but Yvette knows better. She doesn’t believe for a moment that Ed could ever give up politics forever - or that Andy would let him - but knows that politics can’t matter now.
Politicians never have time even at the best of times, but running between houses, constituencies, hospitals, in time for visiting hours, family visiting, looking after Andy’s family (who are on their way down from Leigh at this very moment) is work enough without having to keep an eye on Theresa May and her bunch of goons.
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“You shouldn’t’ve sent that email. You should be there, backing up Miliband. Not here.” Andy gestures around the room from his seat on the high hospital bed, and it’s so anachronistic and plain wrong.
“I’m doing the right thing,” Ed snaps, clearly unsure of what he can do to make amends to the party while still keeping Andy as top priority. “Miliband’ll have a reshuffle soon. He can put Alan back at Home Office, Yvette can go to the Treasury, and he’ll have to promote some others to Cabinet.”
They still talk about ‘Cabinet’ as though they’re still in power. Cameron’s lot are still ‘shadows’ because they’re the fuckers who are all show, no substance and have no spines.
“What?”
“Well, he can’t keep me in the Cabinet now, can he? I’m a liability now - I look like I don’t care, and I’m AWOL too. He’s going to have to boot me out.”
“You’re not fucking leaving cabinet,”
“It’s the right choice,” Ed says, trying not to remember how many times Tony fucking Blair had said that and how few times anyone had believed it.
“No it fucking isn’t. You definitely don’t believe that. You can’t leave now, not when he’s about to shuffle everyone because of me. You to Chancellor, Alan to Home. They’re not going to have you hanging around forever, they either make you chancellor now or you’ve missed your chance to be the ‘new generation’. Go and bang some heads together!”
“It doesn’t matter,”
“Ed, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Would have thought that was obvious. You’re ill. You’re more important than a fucking job. Deal with it.”
“You’ve given up your dream job because of me?” Andy puts his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. “Fuck.”
“What? What’ve I done fucking wrong this time?”
“Ed, this is stupid. Why are you doing this?”
“I’m not pissing our time away in the fucking shadow chancellor job while I could be here with you. Don’t know if you are as thick as two short comprehensively educated planks, but I fucking love you.”
“Ed, please. Library loan, remember?”
“No. Fuck you. If you’re dying, I’m spending every last fucking minute I can with you, and I don’t care what the fuck you say - just try and get fucking rid of me, and I’ll finish you off myself,”
Andy scowls at his knees. Even now, sitting in a fucking hospital bed, Ed finds new and more imaginative ways to put his foot in it, thoroughly piss Andy off and generally act like a prick (and no, Andy doesn’t think this ironic. Andy’s not being a prick, Andy’s being very reasonable. The sun shines out of Andy’s arse, remember?). It’s not the death threat that guts Andy like a fish, but the way Ed brushes aside the library-loan reminder. Ed’s always fixated on time and goodbyes, Andy’s much more spontaneous, and doesn’t like being forced into Ed’s behavioural patterns any more than he likes being forced into a hospital gown.
“Fuck off, Ed. Go home.” Andy says dully, and it hurts more than if he’d shouted it and thrown a catheter bag at Ed. He doesn’t need this, he doesn’t need this prick lecturing him, patronising him, clinging on to him. It’s fucking tiring, and Andy’s been stuck with it for months now. He wants a fucking break. “Fuck off.” He repeats, when Ed doesn’t move. “Fuck off.”
“I didn’t mean that, Andy. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.” Ed says, shortly, and barrels of. Andy can feel the anger and resentment radiating off him even as he disappears through the double doors. He thinks he hears a few ‘cunt’s and ‘ungrateful arsehole’s too, which get Ed escorted from the stair well even faster.
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It takes a lot to provoke that sort of response from Ed these days. Working with Gordon flushed out that disappearing act, harnessed the humiliation, frustration and anger and turned it into a political force. After a shouting match with civil servants or Gordon or any of Tony’s lot, Ed could achieve more in an afternoon than in three days of calm and concession.
It’s not until now, when he’s faced with something big - an ominous something, the train coming slowly across the desert with him tied to the tracks - that he retreats onto the back doorstep. He gets home from the hospital, and sits on that frigging doorstep, chin in his hands. He listens to engines backfiring, and cars and a barking dog, and hates everything in sight and earshot. Andy has a similar tactic, although it usually involves firecrackers, cigarettes, dope or neat vodka (they’ve spent so much time on this back doorstep Ed’s amazed they haven’t eroded arse-imprints into the concrete).
This house, this bloody back garden, this contemplation and sense of impending hell.
He tries to keep calm, not to think too hard, not give up yet, to not get carried away, but his thoughts are like paint on wax, going every which way he doesn’t want them to. He holds his head as if somehow keeping his head still will stop his thoughts going at right angles.
It’s all been so quick. So fucking quick, and Ed blames politics for that. If it weren’t for politics, if Andy hadn’t been working so hard, if he’d had a routine, if he’d looked after himself more, he would never have got so bad. If he hadn’t been stressed out by politics in the first place (here Ed takes the blame, because he’s worked out the night Andy had his ‘encounter’, Ed was spending his third night running in his office, going over OECD and IMF predictions), Andy wouldn’t have let That Cunt put his cock in him.
If Andy had just taken a bit more time to look after himself - if Ed had made him take more time - then right now he’d still be healthy, he’d have years not months.. He hasn’t even got months. He’s 100 and something, and Ed just knows he’s not going to get out of hospital.
If it hadn’t been for fucking socialism and communitarianism and the goodness of Andy’s bleeding little heart, Andy might have been more bloody selfish and remembered to have the fucking pneumonia jab (he had the flu one, but pneumonia was less regular. Fucking doctors, why didn’t they hunt Andy down, tie him to the chair and just force him to have it? Twat and his needle phobia...)
And now Andy expects Ed to carry on in politics without him? To slide up the fucking greasy pole, as if nothing’s happening. How can Andy tell Ed to carry on? What does it matter now? Ed’s glad that email leaked. Now at least he’s got an excuse to bury his head in the sand and never see daylight again.
All because Andy concentrated on fighting Tories instead of fighting infections, fighting like it’s a civil war, like everyone’s lives depended on it. Stupid, brave bastard. Ed has never thought of Andy as brave before (it sounds like his mother, calling him a brave boy for not crying when he fell out of that tree when he was 6), but it all reminds him why he loves Andy: because Andy (a bit like Ed, which Ed would notice if he had any capacity for self-reflection) is all or nothing, and always has been.
He’s on the phone to Andy’s room before he even realises what he’s doing. Andy’s been there 1 night and Ed already knows the extension number.
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They’re lying together on Andy’s hospital bed, the laptop on Andy’s knees, watching illegal internet streams of South Park, holding cups of tea (Ed brings a thermos of tea from home every day, knowing Andy is particular about his brew). He hates that Andy’s lived in hospital for a week, and does everything he can to make it feel more like home: Andy’s Everton scarf is hanging at the foot of his bed, postcards on the wall, his lucky mug on the side.
“What?” Ed tilts his head to look at Andy, careful not to dislodge the IV. Ed hates that IV more than he hates anything right now. It’s like Andy’s tethered, on a fucking leash, and it only serves to remind Ed of how trapped they feel by the rapidly decreasing timescale, the intrusion into their personal lives, and the things it’s asked them to change (routine, eating habits, drinking).
“When I’m gone.” Andy clarifies, “What d’you think you’ll miss most?” Andy repeats his question, quietly, eyes fixed on the currently-streaming disclaimer at the beginning of the episode.
“What a fucking stupid question,” Ed says, harshly. He feels guilty as Andy’s expression falters a little, but, thankfully, Andy stands his ground. He’s still got some fight left in him.
“Match of the Day, going to the pub, film marathons, holidays, showers, morning fucks? What d’you think you’ll miss most?” Andy repeats, firmly. He wants an answer and there’s no way he’s letting Ed dictate anything like this. He wants to know and he’ll be buggered if he goes without knowing what Ed will remember him for (mawkish, mawkish, jesus, Burnham, you really are a Smiths fan, aren’t you?).
“Andy, please don’t make me do this.” Ed’s voice quivers.
Andy clicks ‘play’ and they watch for a few minutes.
“Are you going? Definately?”
Andy shuts the laptop lid, lifting it off his legs onto the table. With it gone, Ed puts his hand on the duvet over Andy’s chest.
“It feels like it.”
It feels strange to admit it finally. It’s coming now, not in some abstract ‘future’ where there's pill food and jetpacks.
“You’re breathing.” Ed tells him, finally.
“Course I’m breathing. I’ve got a few days left in me yet.”
“No, I mean, that’s what I’ll miss most. Your breathing. And snoring. A pulse. You being alive.”
“Oh.” Andy shifts around. Ed’s head is ducked to hide the fact that he’s got tears in his eyes. Andy kisses his forehead, affectionately. He wishes he could make this easier - for both of them.
“I want to be flung about at Goodison. Promise?” He says it now while he’s on a roll. If he leaves it any longer, he might just start crying too. The little things make him feel better, and he knows Ed likes having things to do, things to distract himself. Andy’ll have to leave him a schedule. “And I’ll need ‘Abide with Me’, and I’m going out to Danny Boy because me Mam used to sing it at me when I was a kid.”
“Stereotype.”
“You’ll have to cringe your way through it, and be grateful I’m not asking for ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’.”
“What if Goodison don’t want you? Isn’t it illegal now?”
“Fuck ‘em. If you can’t get me on the pitch, just chuck me over the stands.”
“So you want me to commemorate you and honour your memory by getting beaten up, arrested and ejected for throwing ashes over the Everton faithful?”
“Yeah. You better do it, otherwise I’ll come and haunt you.”
“You fucking better haunt me, mate.” Ed cradles Andy’s head, and the idle speculation ratchets up in intensity. Andy feels Ed’s terror like electricity. His whole body is taut, as it always is when they’re talking about Andy’s coming mortality: frozen, like a rabbit in headlights, jumping between denial and defeatism.
“I’ll try.” Andy puts his hand on Ed’s. “But we haven’t got any unfinished business. We’ve sorted everything. I’ve even told you that I love you.”
“You say it all the time.”
Every day for the last year. They’re both so scared of missing the last opportunity, that they say it when one of them even leaves the room for a piss, let alone goes back to Leigh or Outwood. He meets Andy’s eye and the laugh tails away.
“Don’t die,” Ed croaks.
Andy really doesn’t want to.
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“Excuse me,” The nurse shakes Ed’s shoulder gently, trying not to wake Andy. “You really can’t stay here all night,”
“Shit, no.. sorry,” Ed tries to disentangle himself from Andy without waking him, but Andy feels Ed being taken away and automatically recoils, clutching Ed’s wrist.
“Andy, I’ve got to go,” Ed whispers, and hates that he has to speak at Andy like he’s an invalid or a child.
Sleepy and drugged up, Andy clings on. His eyes are screwed tight shut, and he holds Ed’s hand up to his lips. Ed wants to just bundle him up and take him home, but at home there’s sleep paralysis and silences and sounds that a drug-infused brain takes and runs with like fucking improvisational theatre. The sleep paralysis had been awful towards the end, with Andy waking him at least one morning out of three, with sweat on his top lip and tears in his eyes at some new sight or sound that had pinned him to the mattress. At least here they can deal with that better than Ed.
“Don’t go,” he begs in a whisper, biting the skin on Ed’s knuckle.
Ed struggles out of Andy’s grip, squeezing his hand, and kissing his hair. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise. Cross my heart.”
It’s odd the way it’s changed them. They’ve always been tactile and Ed’s always been sentimental, but Ed hasn’t promised to ‘cross his heart’ since his first real girlfriend when he was 11. In any other situation, Andy would have never let him live that down, but in his current state, Ed knows Andy won’t even remember him having said it in an hour.
He fucking hates sedatives. It’s not right, it isn’t. Andy shouldn’t be... like that. Tired, pale, sick, exhausted. He’s always matched Ed for workaholism, argumentativeness and cutting humour, but now he’s lucky if he can form a coherent sentence. Ed doesn’t mind Andy talking bollocks when he’s drunk, but every time Andy closes his eyes nowadays, Ed is scared he’ll never open them again. He’s picking fights with Andy’s body clock, his natural requirement for sleep. Biology. Ed hates biology.
Ed tramps out of the hospital, hauling his heavy coat on and heading for the bus stop. He kicks at the station plastic, absently. Andy looked so small. He’s scrawny at best, but now he looks like ... well, like a terminal late-stage HIV patient. A dying man.
It’s like it’s not Andy lying there anymore, and Ed doesn’t know whether he just caught Andy on a rough day or whether that change might be permanent. And how long is permanent anyway?
“Andy, you’d better fucking get back to normal,” Ed mutters, kicking a newspaper into a puddle, ignoring his own face on page 17.
He knows it won’t happen and he hates that he knows that.
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