fic: The Man Who Isn't There (4/5)
-=-=
The night fell, footsteps and chatter sank into a whispering quiet.
In the middle of putting up a book, the glass case alit with the lights along the Thames, years blurred together and Peter suddenly saw himself as he must have been: too knowing, more bold than wise.
He turned. A temporary lapse into fantasy. No more. Time had passed. Choices had been made. And he had been as wise as necessary, which was what anyone could need. There had been no mistakes, not really, if it brought him all to this moment. All that was well, ended well. And it did start as something quite well indeed, until it followed him home. Or perhaps, he had invited it like they said.
"Just look at you-" Alastair said more than once -- exasperated, in a rage, fondly -- or all three at once.
Peter clothed, unclothed, clean, bloodied, sardonic or crying, talking or mute- Yes, just look at him. They needed all the attention they could get and that was his work. What of it? If they all became their own work, it was an understandable and even an inevitable consequence.
The Labour Rose had no thorns, conveniently disappeared in public view, but it had been at a cost. And being inexperienced, they had no gloves.
But what did George Osborne expect from him now? What had Peter inadvertently promised him? He couldn't expect government secrets. He couldn't even expect that Peter could tell him how to lead a political party to an election victory. Then again, what did any of them promise each other? Nothing, as it turned out. He had to resurrect himself, the instinctual sense of vengeance tempered by his own ambitions.
For all of his easy compliance, a Conservative would have no such qualms. A strange war waited for Peter Mandelson in George's person, in his face, his young self-assurance...It was distracting when Peter couldn't be certain what he himself wanted. As the afternoon revealed, he could still be helpless.
The easiest thing for Peter Mandelson to do was not to go home. He had work to do, after all. The work that was his life.
-=-=
"He's staring at you, unfinished business?"
"At you, possibly," Peter drawled. "Perhaps we shouldn't whisper so closely together. You are crowding me. There are people watching."
"These Tories are juveniles," Alastair scoffed. "And why shouldn't I speak to you at a charity function? It would be odder if I didn't."
"The best age for being in Opposition," Peter said. Alastair sent him a look, almost sarcastic, but he did obligingly step away so that he wasn't blocking Peter's view.
George Osborne, surrounded by his set, was indeed looking at them. Rather, him, Peter was sure, for his expression changed when he caught Peter's gaze- longing and resentment. Peter was familiar with it. Indeed, he would be surprised if it wasn't in place.
"They look happier than we did, though," Alastair continued. "On the surface, at least. I don't suppose Cameron is anything like Tony."
"No one is." Still looking at George, Peter asked softly, "Were you unhappy?"
"What?" Alastair's tone turned sharp.
"I was unhappy, I think," Peter said, "but I thought it was what supposed to happen, that it would be all worth it."
"Peter..." A note of alarm came into Alastair's voice, he looked at Peter as if expecting another man. "What are you on about?" He seemed to be ready to move away, but Peter caught the bottom of his jacket with his hand.
"As you say, why shouldn't we speak to each other? We are old friends despite our past disagreements. Aren't we? Did you ever think about what happened?"
"What a question you," Alastair paused and grimaced, forcefully editing himself for the general audience, "of course I did. Didn't you read my book?"
"No."
The answer took Alastair by surprise. "Well, they were extracts. I had to edit the thing, of course I thought about what happened. Everything." He lowered his voice, "Peter, you can't mean-" He put his hand above Peter's, but gently.
"I'm writing a book, too," Peter replied and released him. "It might prove as cathartic for me as your book had been for you since you seem so perfectly fine now." He calculated that Alastair must be regretting his sobriety now. The idea of a book had been conceived just a moment ago. It would be a while until publication. In the meanwhile, everyone could marinate in their respective memories.
"You are fine, too, right?" Alastair asked, softly. As always, the reassurance would always come afterwards, almost tentative. They were all better with apologetics than apologies.
"I always am," Peter smiled, "No matter how you leave me," and left him.
-=-=
"You are not answering my calls. I should be used to this treatment by now, really."
Peter frowned at their reflection, then turned off the faucet. "I've been travelling. George, we should talk outside."
"Or inside," said George. For emphasis, he opened a cubicle door.
Of course the toilets were empty, for now. Peter sighed and went out. George followed him.
"I saw you and Campbell talking together," he said, as they approached the open windows. It was near the end of the reception. The night had grown colder, very few women were there, therefore fewer men. That part of the room was almost deserted. They stood near one of the floor length curtains.
"Yes, I noticed that."
"Were you discussing me?"
"No." Not directly, anyways.
"Good. Let me go home with you. A car is not a boat."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "People will talk about conspiracies."
"I am slightly drunk, Peter," George continued. "If I go back there in this state, someone will still notice and someone will ask me what's wrong. What should I say? What would Peter Mandelson advise to minimize the damage?"
"That you drank at a charity function," Peter deadpanned, then softened, "why would they even ask if anything's wrong."
"Because they're my friends and I think," George closed his eyes briefly, his black lashes brushed his cheeks, "I think that if you leave me here, again, I-" He had been almost leaning against the wall as he spoke. At first Peter thought he had fallen, then realised that George had contrived to press the side of his face against Peter's leg.
Minimize the damage indeed...Belatedly, Peter perceived the threat. He had not merely tempted George with something he could have, he had given it, promised more then denied him. George was intent now. Peter couldn't predict a response other than that it would be something they would both regret. If Korfugate was the result of a mild flirtation, Peter was loath to give the paper more headlines. For the moment, he should not be the center of the attention.
Impressed, annoyed, and hopelessly aroused, he relented, sounding angry to his own ears. But then, that was what George wanted. The floor was clean. He didn't even need to dust his knees.
-=-=
"I wanted to show you," George said without ceremony, quick with his own clothes once inside. They were still in the sitting room.
An expanse of still relatively unfamiliar skin, revelatory in the warm lighting- not unblemished, but certainly mostly unmarked.
"You do keep them," Peter said, unable to appreciate the aesthetics once confronted with it. It must've been weeks. Bruises never last on his skin.
"I like them," George said, touching at one on his hip. "They don't hurt even if I press them. I like them because..." he trailed off, the brazenness having apparently worn off.
"Because?" Peter pressed.
"I didn't expect-" He looked a little lost. "Can we go to the bedroom?"
Rooms didn't matter when the door was locked. Peter crossed his arms over his chest, still fully dressed, though the bowtie had been discarded, "What didn't you expect?"
"How it felt..."
"How did it feel?"
"You know how it felt," George said. "You must. I told you."
Peter reminded him that he didn't, that "satisfactory" was hardly an endorsement for more. It could be any one of the factors. Did he even know wich? He went on, watching George carefully. He was becoming bewildered and was apparently trying to make himself to appear smaller. He started frowning. Peter drew a certain amount of pleasure from the misery, wondering, half-hoping, already what it would take.
"How would you cry?" he finally asked.
"Now," George swallowed. He really did look like he near tears, eyes large and liquid. "If you don't touch me, if you are just here to taunt me."
A laugh began to build inside Peter along the strange feeling that had began to build as the first tear spilled over. He looked at George from above his glasses. "And when you dropped to your knees in front of me? Thinking, perhaps, that it would be wonderful to threaten me while placing us both at risk. I thought you were to keep silent."
"Can we go up to the bed now?" George asked plaintively. "That hadn't been a taunt at all." He moved toward Peter. "What do you want from me?" He raised his hands, palms up, imploring.
Peter took a rapid step backward, heart suddenly pounding as his hands stung with the phantom burn of a strap across his own hands. "Keep your hands lowered," he hissed.
George confused, did so. Peter surveyed his handiwork. "Close your eyes. We won't need need the bed."
"How-"
"Trust me."
"I don't," George said, but he closed his eyes, head lowered. Peter kissed his eyelids, tasting salt. Then he kissed his mouth. George's lips opened, his arms pulled at Peter's shirttails. Eyes still closed, he attempted the buttons again. This time, Peter helped him, leaving his shirt, belt, and trousers to puddle on the ground as he pressed George into the sofa. It could barely fit the both of them lenghthwise, but it would fit.
"Be silent, keep your eyes closed," he said and felt a tug at something inside his chest when there was only an exhale of agreement though they were moving against each other, legs tangled together.
Under the light of his own sitting room, the world was quiet and his head was filled only with his own thoughts, careening towards a horrible excitement- how far could he go? Very deliberately, he bit down at the flesh beneath his mouth where the angle of the jaw could leave a bruise or even a small cut shadowed and consealed.
George's body, taut like a bowstring, strained upwards.
-=-=
Next