Fergus doesn’t think far enough ahead to consider what will happen if he doesn’t get re-elected. He’s not an idiot; he knows the coalition has effectively kneecapped any chance the Lib Dems ever had at being a serious political force and he’s not popular enough in his own constituency to squeak under the radar. It’s just, if he doesn’t get re-elected he’ll be out on his arse and he knows Adam isn’t done with politics, will stick it out with some other hapless politician for a bit longer if he can, cross the floor and see what Labour can do for him.
Fergus doesn’t know how he’ll cope without him.
He had hoped that Adam would be the braver of the two of them and acknowledge that the tension between them has long since gone beyond macho one-upmanship and puerile banter. It wasn’t love at first sight or anything. When they first met Fergus thought Adam was a bit of a knob actually, still does in fairness. It’s been more of a slow creeping thing wherein he’s realised the only person he can actually stand in the seething pit of vipers that is Westminster is Adam, who looks after him and looks unfairly good in a suit.
That Fergus is gay, a fact he’s known since he was about six years old, is irrelevant to most aspects of his life. He’s never wanted it to be a thing; wheeled out for points scoring, made to wave the flag for press releases and prove the doddering old homophobes in government aren’t exactly that. It’s irrelevant because he eats, sleeps and breathes politics, is generally terrible at flirting and has been unreasonably in love with his Special Advisor since they were young and taking their first steps in PR, politics and journalism, terribly earnest and much bigger twats than they are now, which is saying something.
The only problem is that he’s always been a coward, for as long as he’s known Adam and for much of his life before they met. He isn’t even really sure where Adam stands vis à vis the whole sexuality thing; he’s handsome and he can be charming, he does a good line in flirtation when he wants something and doesn’t seem terribly concerned about the gender of his target. That could all just be the game though, it might not mean anything. He doesn’t flirt with Fergus.
Which is why, at an interdepartmental canapes and backstabbing party at the HO, when Adam, tipsy and flushed from too much cheap prosecco, presses him up against a wall in an empty corridor and kisses him with wet, insistent tongue Fergus doesn’t kiss him back.
‘Jesus, fuck . Adam!’ Fergus doesn’t push him away with much force but Adam’s drunk enough that he stumbles, looking about like gravity has suddenly betrayed him. It is unreasonably endearing.
‘What? I…?’ he looks upset which makes Fergus’s heart race.
He’s drunk too and peering at Adam in an attempt to divine some ulterior motive; if all Adam fancies is a shag he’s come to the wrong place, but if this is some hamfisted declaration a probably soon to not be empty corridor is not the place to do it.
Fergus desperately tries to form his thoughts into a coherent sentence but his mouth, which has long been disconnected from the more sensible parts of his brain, says, ‘you’re not gay!’, instead and he feels himself blushing.
Adam’s laughing at him, Adam’s always laughing at him but usually he’s in on the joke too.
‘No, but I am bisexual and you’re gay so…’
‘How do you know that?’
Adam raises an eyebrow at him as if to say; Elton John has more subtlety than you do.
‘I mean...how do you know that about me but I don't know that about you? Adam you’re my best mate and I need you to help me with re-election and if this is just because you want a quick fuck and can’t be arsed with going out on the pull then...’
‘You’re not going to be re-elected, Ferg.’
Adam says it with such crushing finality that Fergus sags slightly against the wall, forced, all at once, to accept the truth of it.
‘I know. I know .’
Fergus runs a hand over his face and when he looks up Adam is standing much closer. Now he comes to think of it Adam is kind of always there , at his side, handing him a cup of coffee or important documents, his coat and his keys at the end of a long day, steering him about with a hand on his arm or at the small of his back. Adam flirts with everyone but Fergus can’t remember the last time he followed through. He’s usually crashing on Fergus’s sofa after long evenings going over policy and if he does go home Fergus knows he goes home alone.
‘God, I’ve been a tit,’
‘Yeah,’ Adam breathes the word against Fergus’s neck, his hand warm against Fergus’s hip. They’ve been in positions like this so many times, Adam giving him a pep talk, low and emphatic right into his ear. It has never been so damning.
Fergus glances warily down the corridor, towards the door where the tinkly sound of a bunch of politicians getting steadily rat arsed suddenly sounds a whole lot louder than before.
He’s always been a coward but Adam made him brave back then, when he’d first wondered aloud about having a crack at Parliament, and he makes him brave now.
Fergus turns into him, shifting so the hot, sweaty space between their bodies gets significantly smaller, and says in a voice a touch more desperate than he intends, ‘do you think they’ll notice if we leave?
‘Any of that lot noticing we've gone awol is about as likely as our role in government suddenly becoming at all significant,’ says Adam.
‘Let’s go then.’
Adam doesn’t kiss him again but he looks like he’s thinking about it.
The freezing cold air outside is a balm as they wait for a taxi.
It feels much like any other evening with Adam where he’s vaguely hoping it won’t end, they’ll share a cab back to whoever’s house is closest and he’ll spend an uncomfortable night on Adam’s couch or in his own bed trying not to wank or cry in equal measure.
He wishes he hadn’t quit smoking.
He especially wishes he hadn’t quit smoking when Adam gives him a smile too full of teeth and looks him up and down in a way that invites no confusion as to its intent, his hand raised to hail a black cab.
‘Yours or mine?’
Fergus nearly falls off the curb as he thinks about how long it’s been since he changed his sheets and says decisively, ‘yours.’
Adam’s flat is, full offence, fucking horrible which is why they very rarely end up back there. It’s all leather and brushed chrome, empty, as several people have commented in the past, like Adam’s soul. Except Fergus knows that Adam always has his favourite tea bags in even though Adam only drinks coffee and there are towels in the airing cupboard only Fergus ever uses and a toothbrush just for him whenever he comes over. The only number on speed-dial on the rarely used landline is Fergus’s mum’s.
It’s strange to be here now, in this context, to bypass the living room and it’s extortionately expensive view of the city to follow Adam to his bedroom. To watch him turn in the middle of the room and know he’s about to be kissed by this man he’s wanted for far too long. Neither of them are even tipsy anymore and that makes it even more thrilling.
They kept to themselves in the cab. Fergus is a nobody in government, as he is everywhere else, but he can see the headlines now, mildly homophobic and damning; Lib Dem MP in Heated Clinch with Special Advisor. They would somehow manage to print the words Special Advisor so the frothing hate-rag reading public would hear a slur when they read it. He couldn’t stand it and he doesn’t want that for Adam.
Now, though, they’re safe in the private monument to personality free modernism that is Adam’s flat and Adam kisses to conquer, his hands firm on Fergus’s jaw, body a warm reassuring line against him. It feels to Fergus like maybe he’s not the only one who’s been waiting years to do this.
‘What do you like?’ Adam has his hand on Fergus’s arse and one eyebrow raised. His meaning is beyond misinterpretation and Fergus's heart starts hammering double time, his face flaring red.
‘I don’t usually…’ he trails off lamely, ashamed of being a disappointment in this as with everything else.
Adam just kisses him, squeezes his arse once before letting go, already asking, ‘will you fuck me?’, and Fergus nearly chokes on his own tongue in his eagerness to agree.
It’s been so long he’s certain he’s forgotten how to do it but Adam’s eyes are soft and Fergus is being pulled down onto dark blue sheets before he has time for more than a second of worrying.
‘Stop fretting,’ says Adam against his mouth, his hands hot at the small of Fergus’s back, pulling his shirt from his trousers, nails against his skin and it’s glorious.
‘‘m not,’ says Fergus because he isn’t really. This could ruin his career, what little of it’s left, but even if it goes wrong he’ll have tried, they’ll have tried, together, and if it goes right, well, it’s only the rest of his life.
Adam nips as his bottom lip with his teeth, soothes the sting with his tongue, ‘good,’ and starts unbuttoning Fergus’s shirt.
He’s seen Adam in various states of undress before, at the gym, getting changed frantically in the office when there’s no time between one event and the next but this is different; he’s allowed to look and appreciate what he sees, properly; firm thigh and soft belly, the scattering of freckles over his shoulders, all that pale skin. In the low light the silver hair at Adam’s temples shines and Fergus has to run his fingers through it, scratch against his scalp like he’s wanted to so many times and Adam leans into the touch.
They settle back into the mattress kissing lazily, rocking against each other and when Fergus gets a thigh between Adam’s legs he’s rewarded with a punched out gasp and Adam sinking his teeth into Fergus’s shoulder. It’ll leave a mark and Fergus finds he wants it to.
Adam rolls over to rummage in the bedside drawer, giving Fergus an uninterrupted moment to re-centre himself, as Adam chucks lube and condoms, plural and ambitious, on to the bed. Adam sits back up, between Fergus’s thighs, his cock hard, wet at the tip already and wreaks havoc on Fergus’s fragile state of mind by grinning up at him and saying, ‘how do you want me?’
‘Turn...turn over, please,’ Fergus manages, his mouth feels dry and also simultaneously full of too much spit and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on in his life.
Adam complies far too easily, docile as he tucks a pillow beneath his hips, and Fergus knows he’ll be paying for that later; he’s never easy for nothing.
Fergus slicks his fingers, strokes gently, presses one finger ever so slowly into the hot, tight clutch of Adam’s body watching the beautiful line of his back shift towards the feeling. He pulls out, gets more lube on his fingers, goes back in with two, rotates his wrist, moving with more purpose. When Adam shudders and pushes against him he crosses his fingers, spreads them, fucks them back and forward. He’s taking his time, feeling Adam relax; the noises he’s making are wonderful, half formed words and desperate little sighs and Fergus shifts again, pressing deeper, searching for that place that will make him moan.
‘Christ,’ Adam breathes out, his eyes closed like it’s bliss to have Fergus fucking him with his fingers like this, it’s certainly bliss for Fergus.
Leaning forward he traces his tongue along Adam’s shoulder, a gentle contrast to the movement of his hand, and a transparent attempt to grind his own cock against Adam’s hip. It’s too much too soon, pleasure sharp and sudden, which serves him right for not focusing on Adam, and he has to sit back to breathe, reign in the frantic beating of his heart. He moves back slightly, keeps his movements shallow, gentle pulls, mesmerised by the sight of his fingers curled inside Adam, getting him ready.
‘Don’t be a cunt, Ferg. Stop fucking teasing and shove your prick in,’ Adam cuts through his reverie, looking over his shoulder in a way that makes his back arch far too coquettishly for Fergus's remaining sanity.
‘And they say romance is dead,’ Fergus laughs, crooks his fingers, his aim certain, punishment for his cheek, and Adam hisses, hips kicking, and sinks back down into the pillows.
‘Fuck me, right there.’
Fergus leans forward to kiss him at the dip of his back, just before the swell of his arse, ‘I intend to.’
‘Well, hurry up then,’ Adam grouses but he’s smiling into the pillows all the same.
Adam moves, widens his legs, puts more of his weight on to his knees and Fergus gets the message. In the low light from the bedside lamp he shines with effort already and Fergus hasn’t even gotten inside of him yet. He fumbles with the condom one handed, teeth awkward against the packet, but he manages it, rolls it down his prick with his head tipped back, overwhelmed by the touch of his own hand. Fuck. Him and Adam. He’s about to fuck Adam.
‘Ferg, Fergus,’ Adam reaches back, takes hold of his hand, far too fucking sincere and it’s grounding, ‘come on, love.’
‘Yeah, fuck, ‘m OK, yeah,’ Fergus grips Adam’s hips and presses inside with one long, unbroken stroke.
‘Jesus, fuck,’ Adam rewards him with a long drawn out moan, pressing back against him enthusiasitically and it feels so fucking good to finally be connected like this.
From there it’s easy, instinctive, to move forward, to go with the roll of Adam’s hips beneath him, to chase the sounds he makes and feel every hot, sweaty place they’re touching. It’s been a long time since he did this but with Adam it’s glorious, perfect, mindless pleasure.
Fergus shifts forward, his teeth to Adam’s shoulder, and finds his prick hot and so fucking hard beneath them, strokes him in random counterpoint to the movement of their hips. Adam’s hands are gripping hard at the bedsheets and he fucks himself back onto Fergus’s prick, desperate. He can feel it when Adam starts to come, his whole body taut and gasping, before he sinks down onto the covers with boneless lassitude, taking Fergus with him. The feeling of it, Adam coming, in his hand, because of him, is what does it, he’s lost all sense of rhythm, thrusting once, twice, three times and he’s over the edge too, groaning out his release, his forehead pressed to Adam’s back.
Plastered together, sweaty chest to back and all the way down to their tangled legs, they shift apart to lie side by side on the bed. They’re breathing hard, gasping at the ceiling and Fergus thinks vaguely that they need to start playing squash more than once a week if they’re going to fuck like that with any regularity. He feels the sudden need to debrief and he’s laughing before he can stop himself but Adam is laughing too rolling forwards to snog him.
‘Why haven’t we been doing that for ages?’
Adam regards him seriously, ‘self preservation?’
Something like that, thinks Fergus, and my own fucking cowardice.
Adam slips out of bed to the ensuite and comes back with a damp flannel to clean them up with. The duvet is a lost cause but they shove it to the floor and settle under the old blanket Fergus used to use for his nights on the sofa.
More than anything falling asleep in Adam’s arms is the best thing Fergus has done in a long time.
Some things never change and Fergus wouldn’t want them to so he’s not at all surprised, or irritated, by the fact that when he wakes up Adam is sat beside him, already typing away at his phone, even though it’s barely past 6 in the morning. Fergus watches him, naked, hair fluffy and ridiculous, and feels inordinately pleased with himself. For once in his fucking life something appears to have worked out.
Adam turns to him and smiles, leans down to kiss him good morning, a proper kiss, filthy and with tongue, his fingers still clicking away at his phone.
When they break apart he holds up the offending object, ‘Phil’s having a breakdown about Peter’s breakdown about this new policy launch.’
‘There’s a fucking surprise,’ Fergus looks out at the cold, grey London morning and considers the fact that the rest of the world, and the rest of their lives, have been quietly carrying on while he was having one of the most important experiences of his life.
‘What do we do now?’
Adam shrugs, ‘same as always, we go to work, deal with whatever turd Mannion has left on your desk and wait for the inevitable.’
‘Which is what?’
‘I don’t know, Ferg, I’m not a fucking fortune teller,’ says Adam, still frowning at his phone. It makes Fergus nervous.
‘But together, yeah?’ he tries not to let the nerves show in his voice.
Yeah, together,’ Adam says, looking up from his phone to smile in the way he only ever does for Fergus and kicks him under the duvet, ‘now go make me a coffee, I’ve got a headache the size of Stewart Fucking Pearson’s ego.’
‘It’s your flat, wanker, do it yourself.’
Adam wiggles his phone again, ‘I’m busy salvaging what’s left of your career.’
Fergus pulls the duvet up to his chin, plastering on his best puppy dog expression, ‘if you go make us both a coffee I’ll give you a blowjob.’
Adam has never moved so quickly in all the time Fergus has known him.