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FIC: Coffee-Flavoured Kisses
Fandom: UK Politics
Title: Coffee-Flavoured Kisses
Word Count: 915
Rating: G
Summary: Peter and George retire to Ireland together. Can also be found here 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.
Coffee-Flavoured Kisses
It is a quiet night. Across the room, George sits engrossed in a book, one of the fantasy thrillers he loves; the warm light of a nearby lamp plays across his face, throwing half of it into shadow. Peter adjusts his glasses, and watches him – watches the slow blink of his eyes, the impatient flick of his wrist as he turns a page, the unconscious dart of his tongue to moisten his lips, the distracted move to scratch a sudden itch.
Peter’s own reading material lies forgotten on his lap. The Russians are doing something or other; Alastair Campbell MP has written a scathing opinion piece about the Tories opposing some vital government measure for opposition’s sake; Prime Minister Stella Creasy is flying back from somewhere to give a statement to the Commons about some official report and what it means for the future of green energy; Lib Dem leader Jo Swinson has visited somewhere in the Midlands and made a statement about something. It’s all beginning to blur together these days.
He finds himself staring at George’s hair. After all these years, it’s just as thick as ever, although finally faded to grey. His fingers twitch with the memories of all the times he has run them through that hair; he curls them around his forgotten papers.
Eventually, George sighs. (The end of a chapter, Peter knows by long experience.) The book closes, and then the man himself is looking up, catching Peter’s eyes still resting on him.
The curve of George’s smile is perhaps less sharp than it once was, but it still holds just as much promise. “Like what you see?”
Peter lets a smile pull at his own lips. “Always, dear boy.”
The epithet is perhaps no longer strictly accurate. The man in front of him is no longer a boy, but grown indeed, with the weight of years upon him; perhaps more importantly, with the weight of victories and failures alike resting upon his slightly stooped shoulders. His youthful good looks have rounded over the years into the distinctive, lived-in features of a middle-aged man with adventures behind him. And yet he will forever be Peter’s dear boy...
“That’s ‘dear sir’ to you, milord,” George says, and the smile on his lips stretches irrepressibly into a grin.
Peter gathers up his lapful of papers and sets them neatly on the table next to his chair. “Ah yes, Sir George Osborne, how could I have forgotten?”
It’s been nearly three years since George’s father died and George succeeded to the baronetcy. Two years since they left England to retire together to the little farm in Tipperary; a little farm almost invisible amidst the great mass of the senior Osborne’s fortune, but not forgotten by the man who was once a little boy playing in its fertile fields.
Peter still has occasional days where he misses the shouting and the bustle, the action and the drama, the politics and the passion and the fights. (He knows George has those days as well. Neither of them can fully let go of the business that seduced them and spat them out again; both will always remember what was, and imagine what might have been. Peter sometimes turns, expecting to see Alastair or Tony behind his shoulder. George sometimes flinches at the sight of the Prime Minister on the telly, as if she is a constant reminder of his own barren dreams.)
But when George had asked if Peter would consider leaving London behind and retiring with him to Tipperary, the answer to the question was never in doubt.
“I think,” George says, heaving himself out of his chair with the slightest of grimaces, “that milord should come to the seigneurial bed.”
Next to him on the table, some politician’s face grins inanely up at him from the pages of his newspaper, frozen in a tortured populist grimace. Peter ignores it, and reaches up to take George’s assisting hand.
George draws him near, capturing Peter’s hand between their bodies and resting his own free hand on Peter’s hip. The warmth of his touch radiates through Peter’s thin shirt, spreading a strange breathless feeling that has nothing to do with the spike of lust that simultaneously stabs its way down Peter’s spine.
Peter is old; he knows it in his bones.
He presses a kiss to George’s lips, which part under his, ready and open and familiar.
“Come to bed,” George breathes, more unsteadily this time.
In the morning, George will rise early, to go for his morning ride. Peter will wake a bit later - will putter a bit in the garden, the dogs playing about his heels and chasing birds - will do a bit of yoga, breathing in the cool country air through the open windows of their little home - will finally, in preparation for George’s return, brew green tea and coffee (the former for him, the latter for George) and set out granola and porridge (the same). And when George strides in, all flushed from his ride across the country, and downs his first cup of coffee in one long gulp, Peter will smile, and tilt his head up to be kissed, and the quiet peacefulness of the morning will blend into coffee-flavoured kisses, and all will be well in the world.
But for now, as George’s arm slides around his waist, and Peter’s own pulse begins to hammer more insistently in his throat, Peter throws peacefulness to the wind, and comes to bed.
~//~
Title: Coffee-Flavoured Kisses
Word Count: 915
Rating: G
Summary: Peter and George retire to Ireland together. Can also be found here 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.
Coffee-Flavoured Kisses
It is a quiet night. Across the room, George sits engrossed in a book, one of the fantasy thrillers he loves; the warm light of a nearby lamp plays across his face, throwing half of it into shadow. Peter adjusts his glasses, and watches him – watches the slow blink of his eyes, the impatient flick of his wrist as he turns a page, the unconscious dart of his tongue to moisten his lips, the distracted move to scratch a sudden itch.
Peter’s own reading material lies forgotten on his lap. The Russians are doing something or other; Alastair Campbell MP has written a scathing opinion piece about the Tories opposing some vital government measure for opposition’s sake; Prime Minister Stella Creasy is flying back from somewhere to give a statement to the Commons about some official report and what it means for the future of green energy; Lib Dem leader Jo Swinson has visited somewhere in the Midlands and made a statement about something. It’s all beginning to blur together these days.
He finds himself staring at George’s hair. After all these years, it’s just as thick as ever, although finally faded to grey. His fingers twitch with the memories of all the times he has run them through that hair; he curls them around his forgotten papers.
Eventually, George sighs. (The end of a chapter, Peter knows by long experience.) The book closes, and then the man himself is looking up, catching Peter’s eyes still resting on him.
The curve of George’s smile is perhaps less sharp than it once was, but it still holds just as much promise. “Like what you see?”
Peter lets a smile pull at his own lips. “Always, dear boy.”
The epithet is perhaps no longer strictly accurate. The man in front of him is no longer a boy, but grown indeed, with the weight of years upon him; perhaps more importantly, with the weight of victories and failures alike resting upon his slightly stooped shoulders. His youthful good looks have rounded over the years into the distinctive, lived-in features of a middle-aged man with adventures behind him. And yet he will forever be Peter’s dear boy...
“That’s ‘dear sir’ to you, milord,” George says, and the smile on his lips stretches irrepressibly into a grin.
Peter gathers up his lapful of papers and sets them neatly on the table next to his chair. “Ah yes, Sir George Osborne, how could I have forgotten?”
It’s been nearly three years since George’s father died and George succeeded to the baronetcy. Two years since they left England to retire together to the little farm in Tipperary; a little farm almost invisible amidst the great mass of the senior Osborne’s fortune, but not forgotten by the man who was once a little boy playing in its fertile fields.
Peter still has occasional days where he misses the shouting and the bustle, the action and the drama, the politics and the passion and the fights. (He knows George has those days as well. Neither of them can fully let go of the business that seduced them and spat them out again; both will always remember what was, and imagine what might have been. Peter sometimes turns, expecting to see Alastair or Tony behind his shoulder. George sometimes flinches at the sight of the Prime Minister on the telly, as if she is a constant reminder of his own barren dreams.)
But when George had asked if Peter would consider leaving London behind and retiring with him to Tipperary, the answer to the question was never in doubt.
“I think,” George says, heaving himself out of his chair with the slightest of grimaces, “that milord should come to the seigneurial bed.”
Next to him on the table, some politician’s face grins inanely up at him from the pages of his newspaper, frozen in a tortured populist grimace. Peter ignores it, and reaches up to take George’s assisting hand.
George draws him near, capturing Peter’s hand between their bodies and resting his own free hand on Peter’s hip. The warmth of his touch radiates through Peter’s thin shirt, spreading a strange breathless feeling that has nothing to do with the spike of lust that simultaneously stabs its way down Peter’s spine.
Peter is old; he knows it in his bones.
He presses a kiss to George’s lips, which part under his, ready and open and familiar.
“Come to bed,” George breathes, more unsteadily this time.
In the morning, George will rise early, to go for his morning ride. Peter will wake a bit later - will putter a bit in the garden, the dogs playing about his heels and chasing birds - will do a bit of yoga, breathing in the cool country air through the open windows of their little home - will finally, in preparation for George’s return, brew green tea and coffee (the former for him, the latter for George) and set out granola and porridge (the same). And when George strides in, all flushed from his ride across the country, and downs his first cup of coffee in one long gulp, Peter will smile, and tilt his head up to be kissed, and the quiet peacefulness of the morning will blend into coffee-flavoured kisses, and all will be well in the world.
But for now, as George’s arm slides around his waist, and Peter’s own pulse begins to hammer more insistently in his throat, Peter throws peacefulness to the wind, and comes to bed.
~//~