fic: Political Creatures (4/4)
There were no dark places. The machinery was visible, polished and humming with a hundred different conversations. Beneath the electric lights in their gilded sconces, standing amidst a knot of people, Peter’s darting eyes caught him and something flared inside George’s chest, on his skin. Like the proverbial moth, he drew closer until Peter’s hand was warm on his shoulder in greeting.
“Shall we continue our conversation?” Peter asked him.
“Which one?”
Peter lowered his voice for the answer. George bent his head to hear and barely suppressed a smile. “Whatever I like as well?” he murmured.
“Whatever you like. And how are you today?” And there was a quirk to his mouth that made the question rhetorical. People must be watching, George thought, strangely excited. Even now, Peter was revealing aspects of himself he hadn’t known. He drew himself taller.
“How do you expect me to be?” he asked aloud.
“Busy in your support of me, I hope.”
Considering how they parted, the blitheness was astounding. George had seen and discussed the proposal and he had been busy considering it and the consequence it might entail beyond himself. And for that reason alone, he would not admit it to Peter who had either gambled on George coming to the revelation himself or cared too little for it. It was the former which troubled him because part of that revelation had been both the inevitability of their affection for each other and its asymptotic property, their individual responsibilities forever drawing them away.
“David took your side, but I’m sure you are aware of his support.” One day he would discover how Peter convinced him.
“He accepted the view sooner than you did. I did not expect-” Peter trailed off, uncharacteristically.
“That I would not or that he did it so quickly?”
“That I could have had better timing.”
“But you didn’t worry.”
“It is too late in my life for uncertainties and I know you, George. You won’t like me staying in Britain.”
George had hardly dared to imagine it over the night. If Peter knew him, then surely he was the only man, and neither the wife writing in the study nor the friend sleeping Number 10, who could see and welcome the constancy of his private politics. And yet, he would still leave for Geneva if he could and George himself would admit that he must, just as he must remain Chancellor and they both must be under the media scrutiny regarding policies, opinions, even dietary preferences. Peter was right, they were both political; even the private space of their souls could not be free of it. They did not know how to be otherwise.
Still, the confirmation that apparently Peter did know that George would not bear a grudge past the evening was at once disconcerting and a relief. Even David would be pleased, though George would never tell him. His staunch support of the PM’s nomination would be enough, as it had ever been.
“I was thinking-” he began, purposefully enigmatic.
“Yes?”
“It was very convenient for you to cultivate yourself as Prince of Darkness.”
“You don’t need one,” Peter said, though he was nonplussed by the non-sequitur. George allowed himself a small inward triumph. “The government has Nick Clegg and you, George, is so quintessentially Conservative that it would be difficult to find anything,” he paused, smiled, “remarkably you.”
George bristled but he had told Peter that he intended to be invisible during his tenure as Chancellor. It was safer. Wiser. And begrudgingly, older, too.
“And yet, are you coming to Dorneywood next week?”
“If I recall the invitation.” Peter was invited, though he still might still choose to go Rudd's in Somerset if he considered George knew him well enough.
And George did know Peter and for all his carefully shored reasons, knowing that he would attend to the the birthday party of George Osborne, Chancellor of the Exchequer still didn’t seem quite enough. “I’ll be forty,” he hinted, feeling oddly ill.
“Are you mocking my age? You are forty, regardless when you choose to hold your party.”
“No,” George sighed, suddenly disappointed. He would not quite admit to abandonment. "Do what you like."
“We can always hope.”
And the worst thing of all, George realised, was that there was no ending to that hope and that he would be in it. “A private invitation, perhaps, would convince you?” Our political futures, he thought ironically, as the crowd and seemliness drew them apart again.
-=-=
A week before they left for Corfu, George was sitting in Cabinet when Michael made the comment that left George briefly breathless. That afternoon, George made a decision. He found Peter in his room, packing, he handed over the box. “A gift,” he said.
Peter looked at the red covering, the embossed golden curliques still unfaded after all these years, though he did not take it. “You are giving it back?”
“Yes. If you leave for Switzerland,” George cleared his throat, “to remember me by.”
“I don’t need a watch to remember you and I’m not leaving quite yet.”
“No,” George said, “but you might need to remember.” What is left of us. He did not think this was what he had envisioned when he realised Peter Mandelson knew and marked his name and still called him “boy” with a note strange possessiveness. “I wore it last,” he added.
“For the last time, I think you mean,” Peter said, his eyes steely, “I did notice the change.”
“It is no longer necessary,” George said, “now that I know.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” George pressed.
“The ties that bind us, figuratively, of course, unless you would like it literally as well, for recreation and nostalgia.” There was a certain wickedness in the tone that left George’s mouth a little dry at the image, but the resignation behind the mask wasn’t the point. He shook his head and leaned forward. “You do trust me, finally. Even with the economy.” That had been Peter’s grand gesture to George. For all the campaign against Boy George almost two years ago, the strength of the support for Peter from other nations would necessarily rely upon the success of this Government’s policies and not Labour’s irresponsible criticisms. No Miliband would have Peter. If George could be Peter’s, Peter should be George’s. It was only fair.
Peter laughed,the sound sudden and bright. “Even with the economy, perhaps, but I trust I have my own best interest.”
“Me, too,” George replied, relieved, as if the miasma of the dust of thirteen years finally cleared. He took the box from Peter’s hand, opened the bedside drawer and put it inside. When he turned around, Peter kissed him, his fingers curling into George’s hair.
“My dear boy,” he said quietly. “It is always very nice to be appreciated.”
“I know,” George said, shifting backward onto the bed, upsetting a stack of neatly folded shirts onto the floor. Peter didn’t seem to mind. He dipped his head and kissed George on the nose.
“After LaGarde, then.” It wasn’t a question.
“Whatever you like,” George said as Peter loosened the knot of his tie and ran his hand down the fabric.
-=-=
“Shall we continue our conversation?” Peter asked him.
“Which one?”
Peter lowered his voice for the answer. George bent his head to hear and barely suppressed a smile. “Whatever I like as well?” he murmured.
“Whatever you like. And how are you today?” And there was a quirk to his mouth that made the question rhetorical. People must be watching, George thought, strangely excited. Even now, Peter was revealing aspects of himself he hadn’t known. He drew himself taller.
“How do you expect me to be?” he asked aloud.
“Busy in your support of me, I hope.”
Considering how they parted, the blitheness was astounding. George had seen and discussed the proposal and he had been busy considering it and the consequence it might entail beyond himself. And for that reason alone, he would not admit it to Peter who had either gambled on George coming to the revelation himself or cared too little for it. It was the former which troubled him because part of that revelation had been both the inevitability of their affection for each other and its asymptotic property, their individual responsibilities forever drawing them away.
“David took your side, but I’m sure you are aware of his support.” One day he would discover how Peter convinced him.
“He accepted the view sooner than you did. I did not expect-” Peter trailed off, uncharacteristically.
“That I would not or that he did it so quickly?”
“That I could have had better timing.”
“But you didn’t worry.”
“It is too late in my life for uncertainties and I know you, George. You won’t like me staying in Britain.”
George had hardly dared to imagine it over the night. If Peter knew him, then surely he was the only man, and neither the wife writing in the study nor the friend sleeping Number 10, who could see and welcome the constancy of his private politics. And yet, he would still leave for Geneva if he could and George himself would admit that he must, just as he must remain Chancellor and they both must be under the media scrutiny regarding policies, opinions, even dietary preferences. Peter was right, they were both political; even the private space of their souls could not be free of it. They did not know how to be otherwise.
Still, the confirmation that apparently Peter did know that George would not bear a grudge past the evening was at once disconcerting and a relief. Even David would be pleased, though George would never tell him. His staunch support of the PM’s nomination would be enough, as it had ever been.
“I was thinking-” he began, purposefully enigmatic.
“Yes?”
“It was very convenient for you to cultivate yourself as Prince of Darkness.”
“You don’t need one,” Peter said, though he was nonplussed by the non-sequitur. George allowed himself a small inward triumph. “The government has Nick Clegg and you, George, is so quintessentially Conservative that it would be difficult to find anything,” he paused, smiled, “remarkably you.”
George bristled but he had told Peter that he intended to be invisible during his tenure as Chancellor. It was safer. Wiser. And begrudgingly, older, too.
“And yet, are you coming to Dorneywood next week?”
“If I recall the invitation.” Peter was invited, though he still might still choose to go Rudd's in Somerset if he considered George knew him well enough.
And George did know Peter and for all his carefully shored reasons, knowing that he would attend to the the birthday party of George Osborne, Chancellor of the Exchequer still didn’t seem quite enough. “I’ll be forty,” he hinted, feeling oddly ill.
“Are you mocking my age? You are forty, regardless when you choose to hold your party.”
“No,” George sighed, suddenly disappointed. He would not quite admit to abandonment. "Do what you like."
“We can always hope.”
And the worst thing of all, George realised, was that there was no ending to that hope and that he would be in it. “A private invitation, perhaps, would convince you?” Our political futures, he thought ironically, as the crowd and seemliness drew them apart again.
-=-=
A week before they left for Corfu, George was sitting in Cabinet when Michael made the comment that left George briefly breathless. That afternoon, George made a decision. He found Peter in his room, packing, he handed over the box. “A gift,” he said.
Peter looked at the red covering, the embossed golden curliques still unfaded after all these years, though he did not take it. “You are giving it back?”
“Yes. If you leave for Switzerland,” George cleared his throat, “to remember me by.”
“I don’t need a watch to remember you and I’m not leaving quite yet.”
“No,” George said, “but you might need to remember.” What is left of us. He did not think this was what he had envisioned when he realised Peter Mandelson knew and marked his name and still called him “boy” with a note strange possessiveness. “I wore it last,” he added.
“For the last time, I think you mean,” Peter said, his eyes steely, “I did notice the change.”
“It is no longer necessary,” George said, “now that I know.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” George pressed.
“The ties that bind us, figuratively, of course, unless you would like it literally as well, for recreation and nostalgia.” There was a certain wickedness in the tone that left George’s mouth a little dry at the image, but the resignation behind the mask wasn’t the point. He shook his head and leaned forward. “You do trust me, finally. Even with the economy.” That had been Peter’s grand gesture to George. For all the campaign against Boy George almost two years ago, the strength of the support for Peter from other nations would necessarily rely upon the success of this Government’s policies and not Labour’s irresponsible criticisms. No Miliband would have Peter. If George could be Peter’s, Peter should be George’s. It was only fair.
Peter laughed,the sound sudden and bright. “Even with the economy, perhaps, but I trust I have my own best interest.”
“Me, too,” George replied, relieved, as if the miasma of the dust of thirteen years finally cleared. He took the box from Peter’s hand, opened the bedside drawer and put it inside. When he turned around, Peter kissed him, his fingers curling into George’s hair.
“My dear boy,” he said quietly. “It is always very nice to be appreciated.”
“I know,” George said, shifting backward onto the bed, upsetting a stack of neatly folded shirts onto the floor. Peter didn’t seem to mind. He dipped his head and kissed George on the nose.
“After LaGarde, then.” It wasn’t a question.
“Whatever you like,” George said as Peter loosened the knot of his tie and ran his hand down the fabric.
-=-=