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... )
Not wanting to admit, even to himself, that he's jealous, Alastair has to find a way to get Peter to forgive him and try and prove that he isn't being homophobic (maybe being really nice to Reinaldo at a party... to the extent that Reinaldo is actually quite charmed by him, and, not knowing the things he's been saying, can't understand why Peter is so angry with him).
Bonus if it ends in Alastair finally, stammeringly having to admit to Peter that he has some sort of feelings for him, and Peter refusing to believe it/convinced that Alastair's just trying to wind him up.
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"What happened to you?" wondered Tony, barely glancing up from his notes. "You're acting like you've fallen in love."
"I have," Peter grinned. "Oh - oh, I'm so lucky!" He pulled Alastair to his feet and gave the astonished younger man a delighted hug, declaring, "We've made it official, dear, Reinaldo and I. I'm taking him for a meal tonight to celebrate."
There was a brief, loaded silence. "Who in the hell is Reinaldo?"
Pulling away, Peter waved a cheerful hand and explained, "My lover, of course. I've known him just over a month, you see, but -" he clasped a hand theatrically to his heart "- he's mine, my little Reinaldo. I think he might be..." Peter shook his head shyly and dropped into a chair, leaving the sentence hanging.
Tony did look at him now, sidelong and knowing. "You were about to say 'the One,' weren't you?" he smirked broadly, nudging Peter, who blushed. "You were!"
"I don't believe in soulmates..."
"Oh, but Peter!" Tony clapped him on the back. "That's great news. It really is. Is he going to move into your place?"
With a nod, Peter turned expectantly to Alastair, as if awaiting his approval. But Alastair was far too taken-aback to offer it. "Right," he began, trying to appear bored as he turned back to his lunch and paper. "Congratulations, I guess. Even though, you know, a month isn't very long to wait before moving in together..."
"Oh." Peter stared at him, disappointed, before shrugging and turning away. "If you're going to be like that..."
"Don't listen to him, Peter," sighed Tony. "He's probably just jealous. Tell us about Reinaldo - is he European? When can we meet him?"
As Peter nodded and launched into an explanation of how they had met and a full description of Reinaldo's charms, Alastair silently fumed on the other side of the office. He had no idea why the news of Peter's relationship going serious should upset him so much - the man badly needed a life outside politics - but somehow, he resented this little European intruder he'd never even met. When Peter happened to mention Reinaldo's age, his mouth suddenly snapped into gear without stopping to confirm with his brain.
"Oh, so he must have just finished his A-levels?" Alastair drawled, and then instantly regretted it as two pairs of eyes turned upon him.
"Don't be ridiculous," Peter sighed. "It's a considerable age difference, I know that. But Reinaldo's a grown man."
"Oh, right," Alastair retorted, "then don't expect time off to help your new exotic toyboy with his homework."
Tony rolled his eyes. "Can't you be nice for once in your goddamn life? Try and show a little tolera-"
"No," interrupted Peter, laughing awkwardly, "let him alone, Tony. He's just being Alastair." He ran a hand through his own immaculate hair and shrugged. "Some people take a while to get used to these changes."
But Alastair didn't want to get used to it. He wanted it to go the fuck away. Scowling, he tried to rationalise the shocked disappointment welling up inside - everyone had known for so long that Peter was gay that he felt sure it was nothing to do with that. The very idea that he was jealous, as Tony had joked, was ludicrous. After all, they barely liked each other most days, and - though Alastair could reluctantly admit his admiration for Peter's intelligence and personal charm - what could a straight man complain about if a long-time friend and colleague found himself a partner at last?
Maybe I am just homophobic? Ugh, no. It wasn't the Victorian Era, for god's sake. Alastair may have been a long way off metrosexual, but he liked to consider himself pretty modern when it came to stuff like sexuality and gender roles.
Except cooking, obviously, and housework and grocery shopping and childcare. But apart from that. And it always made him sad to see Peter the odd one out among couples, at parties and dinners.
So why was he suddenly so very, very angry?
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"Aw," Alastair heard Tony sigh, when Peter showed him the picture. "He looks genuinely nice, Peter. Young, but smart. I'm so pleased for you."
"You'll say anything to keep me happy, Tony," Peter beamed, pocketing the photo and glancing warily at Alastair. "Thanks. Anyway, I think I've got a debate to be at, so I'll leave you to it..."
"Hey," snapped Alastair. "Don't I get a look at the precious little angel? I'm curious as to what bit of fluff could tempt you into a relationship. Pass it here."
Reluctantly, Peter handed over the photograph. Alastair ran his gaze over it and his heart sank at the sight of youthful, olive features and bare, toned arms. "He's pretty," Alastair remarked quietly, just managing a sneer and a glance at Tony to make sure he was already wandering off. "So, which website did you order him from, again?"
Peter snatched it back. He grabbed the sleeve of Alastair's jacket and twised it, aware of how silly he must look, teeth clenched in barely-suppressed anger as he glared at the larger man. "I'm trying to ignore this," he growled, voice barely level, "but if you don't cut it out this instant and accept the fact that Reinaldo and I are in normal, loving relationship, then so help me - !"
"What?" demanded Alastair. "So help you what? Are you and your little princess going to shower me with deadly pink sparkles? Don't I have a right to not care about this teenage manslut you've taken under your wing?"
"How could you?" The distress in Peter's eyes was obvious, and Alastair's heart was in his mouth as he realised his mistake. No-one had ever looked at him with that much reproach and desperation (no-one he hadn't intended to look like that, anyway). "How could you, Alastair?"
"I-I'm sorry -"
"All I wanted was for you to be happy for me," Peter spat, releasing his sleeve and backing away. "You were happy enough when I was alone, weren't you? Funny, but ever since I met someone who loves me, and got laid for the first time since we were in fucking opposition, you've had nothing to offer but spite and homophobia!"
Angrily, Alastair tried to stop Peter storming out. "Listen to me," he protested. "It's not how it seems, it's really not! I just... I can't understand why... that boy's not right for you!" he finished, shaking the other man in frustration.
Peter regarded Alastair coldly. "Then tell me," he muttered, "who is?"
After waiting almost a minute for an answer and receiving none, Peter swept from the office, clutching the photograph of the young man and slamming the door behind him. For once, Alastair didn't feel like distracting himself with compulsive scribbling or shouting. Instead, he sloped back to his own office and silently buried his head in his hands.
Yep. It stung badly. He seemed to be the only fucking creature on the planet that had worked out how to sting itself.
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"That is to be expected, though..."
Peter nodded sadly. "I know. But I'd really hoped he might have taken it better. Much as I love you, dear, I don't want to have to sacrifice any friendships for us."
"Trust me, Peter," replied Reinaldo firmly, "anyone who cannot accept our love is not worth your friendship. Tell him to go and fuck himself."
With a whistful smile, Peter pulled Reinaldo's warm body closer to him and breathed, "I wish it was that simple, darling."
*
"What would you say are the main differences," inquired Alastair, sticking his head round the kitchen door, "between straight and gay long-term relationships?"
"Keeping our options open, are we, dear?" wondered Fiona. She was stood at the table, decorating biscuits with the boys, a phone clamped to her ear. "Very sensible. I've considered going lesbian myself if this all falls apart in a couple of years." Quickly, she prized the green icing out of Rory's hands. "Be careful with that, love, these are for your whole class..."
Impatiently, Alastair tapped on the doorframe with a biro. "Seriously, though. It's this thing about Peter Mandelson, you know. It's kind of been causing tension."
"What, the fact that he's gay and you're not?"
"Not exactly." Alastair sighed; if she didn't know, he may as well explain. "He's finally found himself a boyfriend. Some young Italian guy. Uh. And I said some pretty harsh stuff about it."
Fiona looked up, curious. "Such as?"
"Well... you know, nasty stuff. He said I was being homophobic."
"Hmm." Guiding her sons carefully away from the almost-empty packet of sprinkles, Fiona tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and suggested, "Are you sure you're not just a bit jealous? I mean, you've always had a soft spot for Peter. Gender aside, he's exactly your type." She grinned at the look of stony disbelief in her partner's eyes. "Could it be you've been nursing a bit of a man-crush all these years and haven't even realised it?"
Shaking his head, Alastair tried to think of a word he could use around the children. "Rubbish," he managed, at length. "Good grief, woman, if that's the best theory you can come up with..."
"It's the only reasonable explanation that doesn't cast you as a prejudiced wan... bas... person," she retaliated. "Maybe you should do a little soul-searching, pet. And when you find it, ask it why you care so much that Peter is someone else's lover."
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What he didn't know was how to set things right. But he was bloody well going to try.
There was no question of who Reinaldo was; the calm, distracted features from the photograph were unforgettable, and everyone was making such a fuss of the young man you'd think he'd never even experienced New Year's before. Sure, he was still fairly new and exciting, but soon he'd be as familiar as everyone else's partners.
What a depressing thought.
Eventually Alastair managed to swallow his resentment and approach Reinaldo, doing his best to smile as he was accosted by Sarah Helm and dragged into a discussion about somebody's stupid holiday plans. He could see Reinaldo looking curiously at him, muttering something to Peter before the two of them turned away. It hurt to see someone so close to Peter, touching his hand, holding his attention.
So, maybe Fiona did have a point about the jealousy. But what was wrong about that? Everything, that's what. As Sarah's voice gradually morphed into a meaningless drone, Alastair realised the only way to deal with this mess and regain Peter's trust was to face the enemy like a man.
It took almost forty-five minutes to corner Reinaldo, so desperate were the other guests to meet this new and exotic addition to their usual company. "Hey," Alastair began, forcing a smile as Reinaldo's surprised eyes turned on him.
"Hi," replied the younger man. "I am so sorry, have we met?"
"No." Alastair shook his head and offered his hand, relieved that Peter hadn't told him about their awkward relations. "I'm Alastair. You don't need to tell me who you are - your reputation precedes you," he explained, raising an eyebrow.
Hesistantly at first - he was a shy man, bright but not at home in the world of politics - Reinaldo let Alastair coax him into a conversation. Bizarrely they soon found that, despite their lack of much in common, they could be quite comfortable, even friendly together - they talked about work and London, about their respective families and origins. And they talked and talked and talked about Peter. It was like the opening of a floodgate.
"The two of you seem to be very close," Reinaldo ventured, after absorbing another anecdote about Peter and Alastair's love-hate relationship down the years. "Peter rarely talks to me about his work, but I can tell you care for him. You care for each other."
Alarmed, Alastair tightened his grip on the glass in his hand. "Care... for him?" What's that supposed to mean? "What makes you say that?"
Reinaldo shrugged. "You like to talk about him as much as I do. We both value his strengths. There is no shame in loving a man as beautiful and rare as Peter."
"Oh, everyone loves him," Alastair insisted. "Everyone who really knows him, that is. To tell the truth..." And he realised that, yes, somehow it was the truth: "I'm so glad he's finally met you. We all are. A guy like you is going to be great for a guy like him."
With a genuine smile, Reinaldo paused. He reached out to pat Alastair's hand and answered, "Thank you, Alastair. You cannot appreciate how much it means to me that Peter's friends accept me in his life. I hope that I can come to spend nearly as much time at his side as you have."
"Oh, then you'd both be bloody lucky."
Reinaldo laughed. "That's true. You know, only a few days ago Peter was telling me that certain of his colleagues didn't react well to our relationship." He sighed, lowered his voice. "I wish that all people could only be tolerant."
Alastair glanced away, suddenly feeling guilty. He smiled sadly at Reinaldo and told him, "I wouldn't worry if I were you. You're right - I do care for Peter. And even if it's weird that we've suddenly got to share him with you, anyone who cares for him has got to be happy for him."
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"I have been talking to your friend, Alastair," Reinaldo smiled, topping up Peter's glass. The older man's brow furrowed slightly. "He is quite charming, Peter. He certainly thinks the world of you."
"Oh." Peter folded his arms severely and glared across the room at the back of Alastair's head. "You liked him, did you? He wasn't... rude?"
"Oh, yes, terribly rude. Mainly about the Mail, and that person - what's his name - Wilson? Charlie Wilson?"
Peter grimaced. "I think you mean 'Whelan.'
"Oh, yes. Well, he is very entertaining. I am delighted that most of your colleagues seem to have taken quite well to me." Reinaldo squeezed Peter's free hand and gazed around the room, oblivious to the look of confusion on his partner's face.
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Once Fiona had (rather unsympathetically) called Tony to inform him that Alastair had man flu, she bundled the children into the car and left for the day, leaving him to take care of himself. The phones rang solidly for about half an hour. Eventually Alastair dragged himself out of bed far enough to actually answer. "Hello?" he muttered.
"It's me," answered Peter shortly. "Good grief, Alastair, you sound awful. Have you come down with something?"
"Yeah." He coughed painfully. "You could say that."
There was a long, awkward pause. Alastair didn't want to try to speak again because of the fire it would light at the back of his throat, and besides, there didn't seem to be much to say. Then, out of the blue, Peter demanded: "What was all that about last night?"
"All what?" wondered Alastair, perplexed.
"You know. You were being nice to Reinaldo. Making fun of him, perhaps?"
Alastair was taken aback. "What? No! I... in person, he's a pretty good guy, Peter. I wanted to make up for all -" He broke off into more violent coughing.
Sighing impatiently, Peter replied, "It's okay, Alastair. You know, an apology might be a good place to start if you want to make up for putting Reinaldo down to my face. And an explanation, too."
"I don't know." Alastair groaned and pushed his fringe back. "I just don't know. But I am sorry, all right?"
"Better."
"And, look, Peter..." Chewing his lip, Alastair cursed himself for being such a disgustingly soft lump. "Fiona said something the other night. I couldn't figure out why I hated Reinaldo so much without ever having met him, and you know how she knows me better than I do... well, she suggested it was 'cause I had... feelings for you."
An even longer pause. "I see," said Peter, suddenly distant.
"A-and I reckon she might have been close to the truth," managed Alastair quickly. "I mean, I'm not gay or anything. But... you, you know, you're special. You're great." Oh, why were his goddamn hands shaking so much? "You're fucking wonderful, Peter," Alastair whispered, barely able to believe the words coming from his own mouth. "And maybe I didn't want to let you go to somebody else."
The dubious grin was audible in Peter's voice. "So what you're saying is that you only resented Reinaldo because you were jealous?"
"I-I guess."
"Sure. You know," Peter snorted cheerfully, "the apology was enough. There's no need to wind me up."
"But I'm not --" Alastair froze. "Okay, Peter," he sighed. "Whatever. You don't know sincerity when you hear it, that's actually great by me. But know this: if you ever so much as think about telling anyone I admitted I feel that way, I will personally turn your pretty face to fucking pulp, okay?"
"Okay." Peter didn't sound too concerned. "I'm just glad you seemed to genuinely sort out your differences with Reinaldo last night. You may be interested to know that he's rather taken with you, actually."
Alastair's tired eyes widened. "He is?"
"Of course he is," Peter laughed. "Now, let us both pretend this conversation never took place. Get well soon and get your arse back into work, okay?"
"Okay." And Alastair hung up and crawled back into bed, a whole lot more confused than he'd been five minutes earlier. Still, at least Peter didn't hate him any more, and that was all that mattered.
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"What would you say are the main differences," inquired Alastair, sticking his head round the kitchen door, "between straight and gay long-term relationships?"
"Keeping our options open, are we, dear?" wondered Fiona. She was stood at the table, decorating biscuits with the boys, a phone clamped to her ear. "Very sensible. I've considered going lesbian myself if this all falls apart in a couple of years."
:D
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(Heheh, I'm still holding out for Millar!femslash...)
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