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Been Too Unkind

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Adam is furious at Fergus. Getting pissed at the Party Conference, sorry,  Federal Conference, is the only thing that could make the whole shitshow bearable but Fergus has insisted they both go to bed early because they need to be well rested for him to do his speech tomorrow.

It’s a waste of a good suit and it’s so fucking typical of Fergus. Prissy, fussy Fergus who arranges the pens on his desk by size and colour and can’t cope if their schedule changes by five minutes but never tidies up after himself and needs Adam to remind him to eat. Adam is always looking after him, which is a pretty thankless fucking task most of the time, and all he’d wanted in return was a chance to get properly slaughtered like all good politicians should when the opportunity arises. 

He’d been so close to going to the loos with that bitch from Work and Pensions, as well. She’s already shafted them on policy a few times but can be relied on to have the good coke at parties and she might have let him slip her a cheeky finger too, if he’d played his cards right, but now he’s alone in his hotel room at 9 fucking 30 with no chance of anyone sucking him off or any drugs to soften that blow (pun very much not fucking intended).

The speech he’s written is good and Fergus knows it by heart so there’s no reason they couldn’t enjoy themselves this evening. They’ll need it, given what they’re in for, five days of self-congratulatory wank for getting into bed with those chinless, morally bankrupt cunts across the floor just for a taste of government. It’s cynical and he should be pleased they’ve got where they are; Fergus ran a good campaign, he deserves his seat and his position as junior minister even if it is DoSAC. Adam used to work at the Mail, morality isn’t high up on his list of virtues, but he has never in his life voted Tory and now he is one, or near as dammit, at the very least he should be able to enjoy the perks. 

Instead he’s sat on a scratchy duvet cover on a too firm mattress in a mid-tier hotel room with only a thin adjoining wall between him and Fergus. He has half a mind to march through the connecting door and give him a creative bollocking or demand Fergus give him that blowjob, as recompense for ruining Adam’s evening, except he’s not thinking about that. That is very much something he is not considering or has ever considered before.

He flops back on to the bed and looks at the gross spreading stain on the ceiling. Aside from anything else it would probably be a very bad move to shag one's boss and he isn’t sure Fergus is even out enough to want to anyway. They’ve spent the last few months campaigning and living in each other’s pockets, he’s fairly certain Fergus is gay, or gay enough to shag him if he asked, but he’s also a coward and so is Adam. He doesn’t do attachments or relationships, one night stands are more his speed, love ‘em and leave ‘em, except without the love. It’s just he’s a bit worried he’s half in love with Fergus already and if it went wrong there would be no taking it back.

‘Fuck this,’ Adam says to the empty room, swinging his legs on to the carpet, which has a pattern so nauseating he’s sure it’s designed to make hangovers worse. 

He takes a step or two towards the door to Fergus’s room and then stops, thinks better of it and turns towards the minibar instead, finds a tiny little vodka and downs it. He’ll put it on expenses, who gives a shit, thirty minutes ago he was thinking about shagging that pen-pusher from Work and Pensions and now he’s worrying about Fergus. He’s always worrying about Fergus. 

Adam gets out another vodka and slumps into the chair in the corner busy glaring at the door and drowning his sorrows; he’s not expecting it to open, he’s not expecting Fergus to come marching in, already yelling. 


Fergus had been reluctantly looking forward to the party aspect of the conference because he’d at least have Adam with him. Adam, who had lent in the doorway of Fergus’s hotel room earlier looking like every single fantasy Fergus has ever had and a few he hasn’t yet. 

He’d hoped for a night of getting gently pissed and bitching about their colleagues, in between discussing potential tactical alliances, but he’d relocated Adam, after escaping from a tedious conversation about fisheries, to find him with his hand on the hip of a woman Fergus only vaguely recognises, Jemima or something, talking close to her ear and with his eyes very obviously focused down the front of her dress. Fergus can’t help it, he sees red. 


The length of time it takes for Adam to disengage and turn to face him feels like torture. He doesn’t even take his hand off her hip as he raises his eyebrows expectantly and says in a voice laden with irritation, ‘what?’ 

‘We need to get an early night.’

‘Piss off, Ferg, you can go to bed if you like,’ he turns back to Jemima like Fergus has already left and after months of being the centre of Adam’s attention it feels like Adam's landed a punch in his face. 


‘What,’ he even manages to make the way he looks round sarcastic. 

‘Who’s in charge here?’

He hates to play that card. He so rarely feels in charge as it is and him and Adam are a team, a partnership. Just because it’s Fergus’s name on the office door in DoSAC doesn’t mean Adam deserves to be there any less.

‘You are, minister,’ is what Adam says but it’s clear what he means is fuck off and Fergus has to pull rank.  

His face at being sent to bed without any supper, supper in this instance being several lines of coke and his face in the tits of Jemima from Work and Pensions, is like thunder but he does still do as he’s told. Jemima’s wisely decided to extricate herself from Adam’s sweaty grip and wandered off in search of someone without a borderline homoerotic relationship with their minister. Not Fergus’s words, but Phil’s the first time DoSAC had a staff party; it wasn’t that long after him and Adam had joined DoSAC and yet Phil had managed to hit on something that was uncomfortably close to the truth. Not that Phil, with his deeply unnerving obsession with Peter Mannion, has a leg to stand on in that department. Still, it’s not something Fergus likes to think of too often. He’s out to his parents and his closest friends but he’s not sure he’s ready for the electorate to pass judgement on where he likes to stick his prick and Adam, as evidenced by his appreciation of Jemima’s cleavage, is obviously straight. 

They don’t speak in the lift. Adam stares straight ahead with his arms folded over his chest. Fergus keeps glancing at him, hopeful that Adam will hear the apology Fergus is formulating in his head just from sheer force of will but when the lift reaches their floor Adam marches out ahead of him down the corridor, letting himself into his room smoothly. All Fergus wants is to follow him through it but the door shuts as resolutely as it can on its soft-close hinges and he’s left standing in the empty corridor, feeling stupid and lonely. 

His own key card makes the little light on his door handle blink a dull red at him a few times before he finally gets into the room, stripping off his suit and collapsing onto the bed. It’s not like them; they don’t fight usually, disagree, yes, take the piss of each other, all the time, and Fergus knows he has a tendency to snap when he’s stressed but this is different. It feels like an argument even though it isn’t and Fergus still feels abandoned even though this was his choice. Would it be worse to be alone in his room knowing Adam was next door, shagging someone else, or to be alone knowing Adam is pissed at him for stopping him from shagging someone else. 

Either way Fergus is alone and angry and it’s all Adam’s fault. 


The vodka sharpens his mind, putting all his irritation into sharp relief and Adam is on his feet in an instant. 

‘What the fuck, Fergus, you can’t just barge in here!’

‘Piss off, I’m fucking furious at you.’ 

Fergus is pink with anger, his brow furrowed with anxiety and Adam hates the fact that all he wants to do is go to him and make it better. He suppresses the instinct and goes for righteous indignation instead. 

‘Me? what the fuck have I done? You’ve banished me from the party like I'm a naughty schoolboy, what more do you want? You want me to tuck you in? Read you a fucking bedtime story?’

He vaguely notices that Fergus is only wearing a t-shirt and his boxers, his feet are bare on the obnoxious carpet, his leg hair is golden in the low light and that is a fucking weird detail to be noticing. Adam is still wearing his suit, he hasn’t even taken off his tie yet, but he feels more exposed than he has in a long time; Fergus is so rarely angry at him, he’s usually just angry near him and waiting for Adam to sort it out.

‘We were -, we were at the party together but you fucked off to talk to whoever the fuck and…’

‘I’m sorry Fergus, do you need me to hold your hand so you can talk to girls as well?’

They are suddenly a lot closer than Adam had intended, right in each other’s personal space and through the open door he can see Fergus’s room behind him, already a bombsite, his stuff strewn everywhere and Adam itches to go and tidy it up.  

‘I don’t want to talk to girls. Women,’ says Fergus jabbing his finger against Adam’s chest and then oh so quietly like he hopes maybe Adam won’t hear him, ‘I wanted to talk to you.'

All they do is talk to each other, they have no time for anything else, but Adam knows what he means, and if he’s honest with himself, at the end of a long day, the only person he really cares to talk to is Fergus. 

‘I -,’ there is no easy answer to this. Nothing he can say in either direction that won't change everything for both of them, for better or for worse. 

‘Sorry, I know you’re not -, I just.’

Fergus visibly sags, all the fight let out of him, and Adam can’t bear it, ‘not what? Not what, Ferg?’

‘You’re not interested in men, in me, like that,’ Fergus’s face is flaring red now like you could heat half the country from the embarrassment coming off him and several things become clear all at once. 

‘Oh my god, you’re a fucking idiot,’ says Adam as he steps forward. 


He is being kissed. Adam is kissing him. Adam tastes clean and chemical, he must have been at the minibar, and then it’s just spit and Adam’s tongue in his mouth and his hands hot at Fergus’s hips. 

Fergus makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a squeak that is nevertheless very manly and tries not to lose his mind. He has to give a speech tomorrow, to the whole fucking party, about something important, which he has now completely forgotten in favour of getting his hands under Adam’s suit jacket and palming the warm, firm muscle of his chest. 

Adam makes an encouraging noise as he presses them closer together and then there’s no denying what’s about to happen; they want this, they want each other. He can feel Adam hard against him and it’s so tempting to just grind their hips together to an inevitable end but Adam, it seems, has other ideas. He kisses Fergus with determination moving his hands up to Fergus’s jaw as he walks them backwards to the bed and it’s obvious that this will be more than just a quick hand job they don't talk about after. It's terrifying and it's all Fergus has ever wanted. 

He sits down heavily on the bed to watch Adam shrugging out of his jacket, pulling off his tie in a way that will forever make him hard in his trousers every time he sees it, no matter how inconvenient; late nights in the office, tie off, shirt sleeves rolled up, will never be the same again. Then Adam toes off his shoes and socks but makes no move to take off the rest of his clothes as he goes to his knees, saying ‘let me suck you off, yeah?’ with one eyebrow raised like Fergus would be doing him a favour. 

‘Yep, yes, please,’ Fergus says stupidly but Adam is smiling up at him and his hands on Fergus’s thighs are grounding so it’s easy to smile back, to not let it overwhelm him. 

The first hot, wet touch of Adam’s tongue is a revelation. Taking his time, he laps gently at the head of Fergus’s prick, his hand at the base a firm pressure to keep him in check. It's pleasure enough to have Fergus gasping already, then Adam dips his head and hollows his cheeks, his tongue moving against the underside of Fergus’s cock and it is possible that nothing as good as this has ever happened in Fergus’s whole life before now. 

Adam’s taking it slowly, dedicated to making Fergus fall apart and fucking hell it’s working. Fergus may be biased but it should not be a surprise that Adam is really good at this. No one walks around like he does without being able to back it up and this is just as good, better even, than every time Fergus has imagined it. 

He wants to tip his head back but he can’t not look, keeps his eyes open to watch as Adam sucks gently at the crown, tongues the slit of his cock. Adam pulls off for a moment, his eyes bright, like he’s delighted to have Fergus’s prick in his mouth. Fergus is fucking delighted that’s for sure.


'Definitely, yes, great.'

Christ, does he talk a lot of bollocks when he's turned on but Adam just chuckles and ducks his head again, moving with more purpose now. Fergus's hands find Adam’s hair, tracing nails across his scalp before he realises what he’s doing but it makes Adam moan, a vibration low in his throat that translates across Fergus’s prick so he does it again and Adam sucks harder, takes him deeper.

He keeps his hands in Adam’s hair, not guiding his movement but just gently resting there. It helps, to be able to look at his fingers playing through the strands, when he can’t stand to keep looking at his prick disappearing into Adam’s mouth. He wants this to last; something tells him that this is more than a one off but if it never happens again he wants a memory that’s more than five minutes of action. 

Adam doesn’t let him get a handle on the feeling, won't let him chase it, as he varies his pace, traces his tongue at random over Fergus’s cock. One of his hands is still on Fergus's prick, the other stroking ever so gently in the crease between Fergus's hip and his thigh. It’s maddening and it’s wonderful and it makes Fergus want to beg until Adam speeds up his rhythm, moving his hand in counterpoint to his mouth, and then Fergus is lost.

‘Fuck, Adam, I’m -,’ he manages in warning and Adam actually slows down, the bastard, drawing it out and it’s like Fergus is suspended, waiting, watching as he starts to come and then it’s happening, intense and glorious as Adam swallows around his cock and Fergus falls apart. 


Adam is so fucking hard it hurts and all he can focus on is the taste of Fergus on his tongue, the smell of him, cheap aftershave and sex, and the feel of him under Adam’s hands. 

He sits back on his heels, pressing the palm of his hand to his prick instinctively, his hips rocking up into the touch. They’re both of them breathing hard and Fergus looks ridiculous, disheveled, his hair all over the place but he’s reaching for Adam, drawing him on to the bed and kissing him, licking the taste of himself from Adam’s mouth. 

‘Let me,’ Fergus gets Adam out of his clothes, methodical until he’s shoving them off the bed and onto the floor. 

As soon as Adam is naked Fergus’s hand is on his cock, his mouth at Adam's neck and he doesn’t have time to tell him to stop, that it’ll leave a mark, before he’s coming, sudden and desperate, arching against Fergus’s soft, pale body as he shakes through the overwhelming pleasure of it. He hides his face against Fergus’s shoulder, clings to him in a manner that’s rather undignified but Fergus just holds him tightly, eases him through it and down onto the bed, side by side. 

‘Were you really going to shag that bitch Jemima from Work and Pensions?’ says Fergus as they both stare up at the ceiling, catching their breath. It’s apropos of nothing but considering what they’ve just done it’s not totally ridiculous that it’s on Fergus’s mind. 

Adam lets the question hang for a moment and, because he’s certifiably a bastard, says with a shrug, ‘is that what her name is?’ before deciding to be honest, ‘if it’s any consolation I would have been thinking about you the whole time.’

‘It absolutely fucking isn’t,’ Fergus says but he’s grinning when Adam turns to look at him. 

‘Come on then, shower,’ Adam says, getting out of the bed and holding his hand out for Fergus to take, ‘I can tell you all the things I would have been thinking of and you can tell me if you want to do them.’

‘I hate you,’ says Fergus climbing out of bed but he looks pleased and pink, kissing Adam lightly as he goes past to the bathroom. 

‘No you don’t,’ says Adam as he follows. Thank fucking god you don’t.


It’s jarring waking up in a hotel room, especially one that’s an exact mirror of the one you were meant to be waking up in. Adam is, unusually, still asleep and Fergus allows himself a moment to look; at the silver hair at Adam’s temples, the moles and freckles across his cheek, the bruise just at the dip of his neck and shoulder, livid against his pale skin. How on earth Fergus is going to get through his speech knowing that Adam is walking around with that beneath the collar of his shirt he doesn’t know. It feels damning, like he’s shown too much of his hand, Adam might not want any more than this; getting off together far away from home and never talking about it afterwards.

‘I can hear you stressing, y’know,’ says Adam rolling over to face him, the sheet slipping down over his chest and rendering Fergus temporarily incapable of conscious thought, ‘your speech will go fine.’ 

‘I wasn’t stressing about my speech.’

Fergus doesn’t pout, because obviously, but there’s something of a pout in his voice. If this is all he's getting he’ll cover any awkwardness with petulance and, with application of a huge amount of alcohol later, will probably get over it eventually. 

Except he doesn’t want to get over it, he doesn’t want to get over Adam who’s looking at him softly, leaning in to kiss him gently, and saying, ‘I know. I wasn’t really talking about your speech either.’