Work Text:
He’s here at Peter’s house because the Downing Street apartment has become a little claustrophobic after all the time he has spent being cooped up there, working and expecting miracles to happen in the wee hours of the morning. And where he goes, the work must obviously follow, but it’s better than nothing. It’s certainly more spacious, which helps.
It’s another late night, approaching one, and he’s still sitting on the admittedly rather comfortable couch in the living room, speeding his way through another stack of papers, half filled coffee cup gone stone-cold on the table. The muffled sounds a toilet flushing. Peter steps out of the adjoining bathroom, clad in blue striped pyjamas.
“Come to bed, Alistair,” he says. He gives a little yawn and blinks blearily, padding softly towards the couch. And for an instant, he is backlit by the overhead light of the bathroom, and all Alistair can think is, beautiful.
“Just a little bit more,” Alistair says. “Goodnight.” Peter presses a kiss to his ruffled hair and rubs a thumb over his cheek. He shuffles off to the bedroom.
In the morning, Peter finds the other side of his bed untouched, the coffee table swept clean of paperwork. The throw on the couch, usually draped on the back, is neatly folded and placed to the side. Alistair has long departed. An ache deep in this chest. He feels incomplete, like something essential has left, leaving him bereft. A missing limb. Or perhaps, a missing heart. He pads back into the bedroom. There is a note on the bedside table.
I didn’t want to disturb you, it says.
+++
Peter only realises it 6 months later, in the middle of all the trips overseas and the copious amounts of paper and late nights, that Alistair has never shared a bed with him, despite all of his invitations to do so.
+++
They’re sitting on rickety stools at the small pine table in the kitchen, having poached eggs on toast and tea. Well, Alistair is doing most of the eating while Peter has yet to finish his first piece of toast from seven minutes ago. Weak winter sunlight filters through the cotton curtains. Tendrils of steam rise from a pot, cooling on the stove. Peter is in the middle of reading the morning paper when he absently places a hand on Alistair’s thigh, and -
- and Alistair flinches.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t you dare apologise, Peter says furiously. “The fault was all mine.”
He decides that this has gone on for long enough. He grasps Alistair’s hand.
“I’ve promised not to do anything you are uncomfortable with. But I would like your arms around my waist when I wake up. I want to press my ear to your chest and listen to the beat of your heart before I fall asleep. I want to hold your hand in the middle of the day, when you’re least expecting it...”
“Alright,” says Alistair, nervously.
“Oh pet,” Peter says helplessly. He kisses Alistair sweetly, palm gently cupping his cheek. Climbing off his seat to embrace him, Peter rests his cheek on his delicate collarbones. He breathes the scent of him in, warm cotton in the cool of the morning. Alistair tenderly strokes the curve of Peter’s spine, bewildered.
And Peter clutches onto him like a dying man.