FIC: Happily Ever After
Sep. 26th, 2011 09:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zaubraI seem to be on a roll! Have another fic.
Fandom: UK Politics
Title: Happily Ever After
Ship(s): Gen (you could read it as David Miliband/Ed Miliband if you like, but there's nothing in the fic about that)
Word Count: 1,202
Rating: G
Content: Angst.
Summary: David watches Ed's conference speech, a year after Ed beats David for the leadership. Written for this prompt at the meme.
Disclaimer: This is a creative work of fiction, composed of fictional characters inspired by the public personas of living people. No injury or disrespect is intended to the persons named. If you've found this by googling yourself or someone you know, stop playing on the Internet and go run the country.
Happily Ever After
“We’re so honoured you could join us,” Chang says, smiling behind his wide-rimmed glasses.
“Not at all,” David says, and forces the muscles around his mouth to move into an approximation of a smile. “I’m pleased to be here.”
“I know your schedule must be very full,” Chang continues.
David keeps his lips twisted up. “Events such as this one are always a priority with me, Professor Chang. China is an important part of our world, and I value our discussions here in Washington.”
Chang beams at him and takes a sip from his wineglass, almost a salute.
David’s own is untouched in his hand.
~//~
David turns the polite rictus that is his face toward someone who he vaguely remembers introducing herself as Becky. Or perhaps Bessie.
Betty smiles at him shyly. “I thought you might have to cancel,” she says, “when I realised what week we were holding the conference.”
The young woman at her side looks between them. “What week is it?”
“Why, Labour conference,” she says, and turns again to David. “I think your brother’s doing an amazing job, Mr. Miliband, and I’m sure we’d all love to see the speeches. But American news channels don’t tend to cover foreign political affairs in much detail. You really must forgive our ignorance.”
“Not at all,” David says. He turns to the young woman at Betty’s side. “Forgive me, I don’t seem to have caught your name.”
“Alice,” she says. “But I’m hopeless, I don’t know anything about China. I’m just here as Becky’s date.”
“And what do you do, Alice?” David asks, turning his lips up again.
Becky looks a little put out, but accepts the end of the topic with good grace.
~//~
The hotel room is dark and quiet, the shades drawn against the light. After the noise and bustle of the main hall, it feels like heaven.
David stands just inside the door and lets his head fall back against it, lets his face go slack and his hands drop limp at his sides.
~//~
He told himself he wouldn’t watch. Wouldn’t put himself through it. Wouldn’t torture himself.
But one year after the worst day in his life, he’s lying on a hotel bed in Washington, hunched over his laptop – and Ed is on the screen, striding to the podium in front of a cheering crowd, an ocean and a vast gulf away.
There’s Douglas Alexander, on his feet and smiling. There’s Ed Balls, clapping away and beaming all over his broad face. There’s Andy Burnham, and Harriet Harman, and Yvette Cooper. There are all the people who used to form his world – there are all the people he used to think he knew. He used to hold them in the palm of his hand; and a year ago he lost them.
And then there’s Ed.
Ed stands at the podium, and looks out over his world. His smile is a little shy, his cheeks mantled with a slight blush, but he stands tall and sure. For all the column inches and arch commentary directed at Ed’s awkwardness, David’s well aware at how far his brother has come in one short year. A year ago, he was a leadership candidate who was best known for being David’s younger brother, for, as Cameron would later put it, ‘knifing a foreign secretary’. Today, he is a leader. Not the most charismatic or effective Labour has ever known, perhaps, but a leader nonetheless.
David hardly hears the speech. He watches Ed, as Ed stands at that podium; watches the camera shots of the delegates, their intent faces turned up toward the stage.
Downstairs, his own conference will be waiting for him. The lunch break was over five minutes ago. There’s a meeting on human rights abuses in Xinjiang. He should go.
“I will not listen to those who say that Labour is finished,” Ed says. “We are not finished.”
Louise says he should fight. Louise says that brotherly responsibilities went out the window the day Ed declared. Louise says that Ed isn’t the leader Labour needs, that he’s consistently giving the Tories easy openings and failing to take advantage of their mistakes. Louise says a year is long enough.
“We are not finished,” Ed repeats. “As long as the coalition puts the interests of the privileged over the interests of the people – as long as the coalition cuts too far and too fast – as long as the coalition endangers our economy, our society, and our values – Labour has the obligation and the honour to fight for another way, for a better way.”
In his darkest moments, David has thought about retiring. What is there for him now? Ed has taken it all, taken it and ran. Taken his podium, taken his party, taken his friends and colleagues, his enemies and allies. Ed stands in front of the Labour Conference in Liverpool, a new man – and an ocean away, David lies on a hotel bed in Washington, an old man.
“The coalition government is not for turning. They argue that there is no other way. We must take that fight to them, conference. There is a better way.”
But should he retire, what is there for him? Years of academic conferences, becoming steadily more obsolete and forgotten? An advisory role on some international body, drowning in red tape and hung up with mothballs? The cold solace of writing his memoirs, the biting remarks about his former compatriots excerpted and laughed over for a week, then set aside?
“I believe Labour has a future.”
The last time David spoke to Ed – really spoke to Ed, more than a polite greeting or stiff soundbite – David had been the prohibitive favourite to be the next Labour leader, and Ed had been his loyal younger brother who would serve in an important role in the Shadow Cabinet. They had drunk beer in Ed’s living room, and David had spun out his dreams, tongue loosened, planning out his assault on the coalition, his overthrow of the government, his rise to Downing Street. Ed had listened, and laughed, and helped David to bed when the room began to swim too much, calling him Prime Minister.
Not a week later, Ed was running, starting down the path that would lead him to here, to Leader and Liverpool and everywhere in between.
“Join me, conference, and walk with me into that future, into that bright future – together.”
Should it still feel as if something has been wrenched out of him, every time he sees Ed in his place, at his podium, surrounded by his people? Should it still ache sometimes, an almost physical pain, as he braces himself, as the magnitude of what he has lost washes over him? Should his breath still shudder, as the shards of his ambitions and dreams rain down on him, broken on the shoals of brotherly loyalty and love?
“Thank you.”
In Liverpool, Ed acknowledges the cheering and clapping of his delegates, his smile large and boyish, awkward and pleased.
In Washington, David drops his head onto the duvet and closes his eyes, his face twisted, his eyes dry.
“Thank you.”
Once upon a time, there were two brothers.
One lived happily ever after.
~//~
Fandom: UK Politics
Title: Happily Ever After
Ship(s): Gen (you could read it as David Miliband/Ed Miliband if you like, but there's nothing in the fic about that)
Word Count: 1,202
Rating: G
Content: Angst.
Summary: David watches Ed's conference speech, a year after Ed beats David for the leadership. Written for this prompt at the meme.
Disclaimer: This is a creative work of fiction, composed of fictional characters inspired by the public personas of living people. No injury or disrespect is intended to the persons named. If you've found this by googling yourself or someone you know, stop playing on the Internet and go run the country.
Happily Ever After
“We’re so honoured you could join us,” Chang says, smiling behind his wide-rimmed glasses.
“Not at all,” David says, and forces the muscles around his mouth to move into an approximation of a smile. “I’m pleased to be here.”
“I know your schedule must be very full,” Chang continues.
David keeps his lips twisted up. “Events such as this one are always a priority with me, Professor Chang. China is an important part of our world, and I value our discussions here in Washington.”
Chang beams at him and takes a sip from his wineglass, almost a salute.
David’s own is untouched in his hand.
~//~
David turns the polite rictus that is his face toward someone who he vaguely remembers introducing herself as Becky. Or perhaps Bessie.
Betty smiles at him shyly. “I thought you might have to cancel,” she says, “when I realised what week we were holding the conference.”
The young woman at her side looks between them. “What week is it?”
“Why, Labour conference,” she says, and turns again to David. “I think your brother’s doing an amazing job, Mr. Miliband, and I’m sure we’d all love to see the speeches. But American news channels don’t tend to cover foreign political affairs in much detail. You really must forgive our ignorance.”
“Not at all,” David says. He turns to the young woman at Betty’s side. “Forgive me, I don’t seem to have caught your name.”
“Alice,” she says. “But I’m hopeless, I don’t know anything about China. I’m just here as Becky’s date.”
“And what do you do, Alice?” David asks, turning his lips up again.
Becky looks a little put out, but accepts the end of the topic with good grace.
~//~
The hotel room is dark and quiet, the shades drawn against the light. After the noise and bustle of the main hall, it feels like heaven.
David stands just inside the door and lets his head fall back against it, lets his face go slack and his hands drop limp at his sides.
~//~
He told himself he wouldn’t watch. Wouldn’t put himself through it. Wouldn’t torture himself.
But one year after the worst day in his life, he’s lying on a hotel bed in Washington, hunched over his laptop – and Ed is on the screen, striding to the podium in front of a cheering crowd, an ocean and a vast gulf away.
There’s Douglas Alexander, on his feet and smiling. There’s Ed Balls, clapping away and beaming all over his broad face. There’s Andy Burnham, and Harriet Harman, and Yvette Cooper. There are all the people who used to form his world – there are all the people he used to think he knew. He used to hold them in the palm of his hand; and a year ago he lost them.
And then there’s Ed.
Ed stands at the podium, and looks out over his world. His smile is a little shy, his cheeks mantled with a slight blush, but he stands tall and sure. For all the column inches and arch commentary directed at Ed’s awkwardness, David’s well aware at how far his brother has come in one short year. A year ago, he was a leadership candidate who was best known for being David’s younger brother, for, as Cameron would later put it, ‘knifing a foreign secretary’. Today, he is a leader. Not the most charismatic or effective Labour has ever known, perhaps, but a leader nonetheless.
David hardly hears the speech. He watches Ed, as Ed stands at that podium; watches the camera shots of the delegates, their intent faces turned up toward the stage.
Downstairs, his own conference will be waiting for him. The lunch break was over five minutes ago. There’s a meeting on human rights abuses in Xinjiang. He should go.
“I will not listen to those who say that Labour is finished,” Ed says. “We are not finished.”
Louise says he should fight. Louise says that brotherly responsibilities went out the window the day Ed declared. Louise says that Ed isn’t the leader Labour needs, that he’s consistently giving the Tories easy openings and failing to take advantage of their mistakes. Louise says a year is long enough.
“We are not finished,” Ed repeats. “As long as the coalition puts the interests of the privileged over the interests of the people – as long as the coalition cuts too far and too fast – as long as the coalition endangers our economy, our society, and our values – Labour has the obligation and the honour to fight for another way, for a better way.”
In his darkest moments, David has thought about retiring. What is there for him now? Ed has taken it all, taken it and ran. Taken his podium, taken his party, taken his friends and colleagues, his enemies and allies. Ed stands in front of the Labour Conference in Liverpool, a new man – and an ocean away, David lies on a hotel bed in Washington, an old man.
“The coalition government is not for turning. They argue that there is no other way. We must take that fight to them, conference. There is a better way.”
But should he retire, what is there for him? Years of academic conferences, becoming steadily more obsolete and forgotten? An advisory role on some international body, drowning in red tape and hung up with mothballs? The cold solace of writing his memoirs, the biting remarks about his former compatriots excerpted and laughed over for a week, then set aside?
“I believe Labour has a future.”
The last time David spoke to Ed – really spoke to Ed, more than a polite greeting or stiff soundbite – David had been the prohibitive favourite to be the next Labour leader, and Ed had been his loyal younger brother who would serve in an important role in the Shadow Cabinet. They had drunk beer in Ed’s living room, and David had spun out his dreams, tongue loosened, planning out his assault on the coalition, his overthrow of the government, his rise to Downing Street. Ed had listened, and laughed, and helped David to bed when the room began to swim too much, calling him Prime Minister.
Not a week later, Ed was running, starting down the path that would lead him to here, to Leader and Liverpool and everywhere in between.
“Join me, conference, and walk with me into that future, into that bright future – together.”
Should it still feel as if something has been wrenched out of him, every time he sees Ed in his place, at his podium, surrounded by his people? Should it still ache sometimes, an almost physical pain, as he braces himself, as the magnitude of what he has lost washes over him? Should his breath still shudder, as the shards of his ambitions and dreams rain down on him, broken on the shoals of brotherly loyalty and love?
“Thank you.”
In Liverpool, Ed acknowledges the cheering and clapping of his delegates, his smile large and boyish, awkward and pleased.
In Washington, David drops his head onto the duvet and closes his eyes, his face twisted, his eyes dry.
“Thank you.”
Once upon a time, there were two brothers.
One lived happily ever after.
~//~
