fic: The Man Who Isn't There (2/5)
The sea was a metaphor. The boat, an analogy. Nevertheless, one Sunday Peter looked out from the window at a cafe off the North Sea in Hartlepool and caught the incongruous sight of the Shadow Chancellor in a pale blue checkered shirt -- surely almost gingham -- solemnly shaking the hand of first, small boy, then the dog he was holding. It must've been in exchange of directions, for the boy pointed at where he was standing and he saw George shielding his eyes against the sun.
Peter waved despite himself.
"Are you staying or leaving?" he asked as the man sat down opposite him.
"I was in Tatton," George explained, as if Cheshire wasn't on the other side of the country.
"And thought you drop by." Peter was willing to play along, though discomforted at the thought of being pursued.
"I had been invited," said George across the table.
Sound of glasses, people, cutlery. Smell of food mixed with the ocean. All around them, an absence of notice. The scene was like and unlike Greece, though apparently even the English sun could pink George’s skin. Still, it was true, it was Peter who had invited him, in full of the national press, no less.
George continued: "There really had been a meeting. I hadn't been looking for you until someone mentioned the Business Secretary was passing through. Then someone mentioned boats. They call you Peter here."
"Some people do."
"You prefer Lord Mandelson, of course," George said. "For your pains."
Probably more than he knew, Peter thought, on guard. "Services completed. Privileges earned, George," he replied, a little pointedly. "It's not an idea you and your friends are accustomed to, I suppose." It was difficult to name what expression George was wearing- the eyes slightly glazed, the mouth agape. Peter settled for surprised discomfort though it had not been an attack. At least, he conceded, not a good one. Paxman had drawn the same effect in an interview, but that had been in shadowy lighting and both men suited in their roles - suits, shirts, ties, politician and journalist. Though Peter could feel his mobile vibrating in his trouser pocket, Hartlepool would always remind him of better days. A better day, when the a future he himself would mound seemed possible. In fact, it was.
"But we do want people working instead of having incentive not to do so." George was still a little hurt, his voice going little bit shrill. “They should at least have a chance, having done almost nothing before.” They might even be speaking politics again if that wouldn’t be perhaps as inappropriate considering the setting.
"We can share a train back. It would save on government expenses," Peter offered. "Now we've established you know where you are going, we can make the full plans for it in London." Now that he had established George was willing without too much agenda, the least he could do was providing a little ..work incentive. Just to check.
On the small table, Peter shifted his hand and still smiling, subtly, carefully allowed the point of his index finger to trace a short line of the other man's inner wrist, the delicate skin jumping slightly at his touch. He looked up. George was gazing at him, his eyes gone dark, his breathing quickened. A blush spread over his face and extended all the way down his throat to the gap of his shirt.
-=-=
The Jag had barely left the kerb. Peter was depositing his keys when the high-beam glare of a headlight pierced through the curtains, temporarily over-brightening the room. A moment later, the doorbell and his mobile rang simultaneously.
It was only a reminder about a changed meeting time. And it was only George, unique, on the frontstep, still dressed for Parliament, nervously licking his lip.
Peter had never imagined being grateful for the fact that ministers kept the same hours. Occasionally the nights could grow too long. This one, perhaps would not be long enough.
He offered him something to drink.
"You don't have to get me drunk," George said, shedding his jacket once inside. Peter knew that tailoring. "Please don't offer me something to eat next. I don't think I can bear it." A plaintiveness in the tone in place, "Especially when you never eat, I noticed but you noticed me noticing," he said.
But he had been wined and dined, Peter thought, then admitted that perhaps he had been a little frustrating over the last few weeks. That elicited a laugh. Peter resumed, calmly. The Dark Prince had a reputation to keep after all. Also, George's friends weren't making for lighter workloads. "Patience, my boy."
"Lord of Heartless and Coy," George muttered as Peter kissed him, quite lightly, on the cheek. He turned his head. The kisses trailed across his face, slightly rough with the day's stubble, then lingered at the corner of his mouth.
"Come upstairs," Peter invited, voice low. George nodded, eyes wide, his arms held awkwardly by his side, as if afraid to touch. To Peter, It made quite the difference from being dragged upstairs, and, on one memorable occasion, on the stairs. There was probably still a stain beneath the new carpet. Personally, Peter couldn't see the attraction. It wasn't satisfactory for either skin (his), or joints (Alastair's), and Tony, who always knew, somehow, had laughed at them both.
The dark-haired young man he was fully intending to have for himself was merely following very closely behind him, occasionally bumping into his back, but apparently having taken his words to heart, being patient. Peter led him up by the elbow, one step at a time up the steps, the urgency of arousal a pleasant warmth humming beneath his skin, the unpleasant residue of the past slowly dissipating. Peter reflected that it was very gratifying to be followed so willingly. Downright stirring.
"What are you thinking about?" whispered George. They were in his house, his bedroom. Peter didn't like to cede homeground advantage and George's willingness to leave his Notting Hill home and Tory set for this part was endearing.
"That you apparently seem to be in uncharted waters, city boy." George seemed to be having a great difficulty with Peter's shirt buttons, small, white and cloth covered. Peter wasn't helping, of course. Close proximity, though immensely pleasurable, made undressing difficult. It would improve with practise. If this respect for clothing continued, Peter would even help him. He was done with his own set, of course. Rather, George's.
George looked up and grinned, though blushing madly. "Monsters be here, beware?"
Peter skimmed his hand down one white shoulder, down his side and insinuated beneath the line of George pants and watched with interest as the effort on his clothing stuttered. "I think you would be rather more fortunate," Peter remarked, dryly, walking George toward the bed.
"Lie back," he instructed.
"Like this?" Breathing quickly, George laid down tentatively on the bedspread as Peter hung up his trouser and shirt and folded the rest of the clothes then turned around and-
"You are still dressed," George complained, raising himself on one elbow on the bed.
Peter considered the tableau-- the colours, lines and contour, the composition, eyes inevitably drawn to the slightly parted thighs. Sore eyes could be healed from the sight. Considered, too, himself. "Lights off," he decided. It was his own bed, after all. He could navigate it in the dark.
-=-=
George's mouth was soft and his tongue tentative. The reassurance of his hands, however, were another matter altogether. Breeding, or at least, public school, will tell. Peter gasped into the touch, appreciative of this one aspect.
"I can't see you," he heard, a note of a grumble in it.
"In the morning," he promised vaguely, smiling against the soft skin below George's ear, intent on exploring this new (even if not virgin, judging by the way how eagerly his hand was being guided) territory thoroughly. The friction between their bodies was utterly delightful. Their movements grew more frantic.
George moaned as Peter slid down between his legs, licking and suckling at the soft skin there. He was arching up, but Peter had him pinned by the hips.
"Coy," he managed, when Peter went up to find his mouth again and then in a move that surely was not from the playing fields of Eton, he trapped Peter beneath him, apparently trying to impale himself. He didn't succeed, but it was terribly arousing and Peter heard a low growl from himself.
Trying to convince the other man that it would be much much easier if there was lube involved proved quite easy. George, he discovered, was rather susceptible to his voice. Rather quickly then, he was piercing the tight ring of flesh to exquisite heat.
"Wait for me," he said, when he realised that George was trying to finish himself off. The answer was a whine. To prevent him, Peter grabbed and held down George's hand onto the bed. He moved, seeking an angle that set off almost a wail.
His chest was against George's back, the man beneath him having collapsed a little in the proceedings. "I can't hold off," he panted against the pillows, the words slightly muffled. "Let me-"
"No," Peter said, high. "Trust me." His other hand curved around Osborne's arm and twisted it behind his back. He held it while he continued to move, closer and closer until a light seemed to explode behind his eyes. When he came to, he heard something like a whimper.
...a whimper..
"Ouch. No, don't stop."
Hurriedly, he reached out to the bedside lamp, pulling on the sham from the floor as he did so.
"What is it?" He asked and wished he hadn't, being almost felled by the sight.
"Nothing," George was sweat gleaming on pink skin, soft short curls in disarray, dark pupils and, on his hips, along his torso, then above his shoulder, the unmistakeable traces of fingers and teeth. And, he was grinning, apparently having already came. He was pressing forward, one hand pulling on the edge of the fabric around Peter.
"Monsters be here, beware," Peter said, absently. He shrank away, feeling sick.
"That's not quite the answer I was looking for." George seemed preoccupied with the mark in the dip between the collarbones where there was a dark reddish mark, easily concealed by the right kind of collar and a Windsor knot. No, not mark, Peter viciously corrected himself. It was merely a bit red now. It would turn blue in the morning. In his mind's eye, he could see the exact shade of blue as well. It was a bruise and he had caused it. He made the first bruise on Alastair, too, before the arrangement changed. Before Tony- Well, he must have his way. It would be policy and Alastair must have his outlet, somewhere, someone.
"What are you looking for? Lie back and think of Tory? David Cameron? The tree motif-" Peter stopped himself. George was staring at him. He had said too much, too stirred by the memory.
"Not comparable at all," George said easily, "I just said, I don't mind if you become more excited. You can be a little rougher even. I don't break. It doesn't hurt." He dimpled. "Thoroughly satisfactory for all parties."
Where had he heard that before? "It doesn't hurt-" Peter repeated the words. Another man's voice echoed from somewhere inside is head. It doesn't hurt now, he would like to remind George.
"I can even cry a little if you like."
If he likes... And the boy actually had tears in his eyes. The rush of power was heady, almost dizzying. He realised he was still pinning one of George's hands to the bed. If he could press just so and lean forward this much....He let go as if burned.
"George?"
"Yeah?" George was trying to kiss him, the graze of stubble tickling his skin.
"I think you should leave."
George pulled away and opened his mouth. Peter gave him his hardest look, the sham draped across one shoulder like an imperial cloak.
It had never worked before, not with his friends, but George got off from the bed and started to throw on his clothes. "Thanks for the fuck and fuck off? So that's how it is." Angry now.
"Yes," Peter said, startled, "but you can use the shower first. Or the bath, if you prefer." He was already regretting telling George to go, but he was still at a loss. Need someone to tell you what to do, still? The thought was hideous. Surely he didn't.
"I don't want to," George cried. He looked up from fumbling with the shirt buttons, there were tears glittering on his damp lashes. They were flowing down his cheeks. "There? Happy?"
Peter wasn't happy. He wanted to tell George not to leave his collar unbuttoned quite so much, new Tory policy or not. He wanted to kiss away the tears, the pout, even the glare. He did none of these things. Instead, he sighed and followed him out to the door, just in case he felt like breaking something on the way. There was no goodbye at the threshold, just an angry stride, a bowed back, a quite ominously uttered: "I'll be back." Then Peter closed the door, carefully, softly, like nothing was ever wrong.
He slept the rest of the long night in his own guest bedroom where the red title of Alastair's diary extracts peeked from behind other books and seemed to mock him.
-=-=
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