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Downing Street’s kitchen is too quiet for comfort, the kind of uneasy silence that amplifies every clink of David’s fork against his plate and every shift of Nick’s chair. It’s too early, too early to be awake and this miserable, too early for the pale sun to do anything but cast a faint, cold light, through the half-drawn curtains.
Nick sits at the polished table, hunched over a mug of coffee that he had neglected till it had gone lukewarm. He’s not got an endless stream of meetings and calls he has to get through before attending Cabinet, after all. He’s got time. Across from him, David eats his breakfast with an unhurried ease that makes Nick’s chest constrict with an emotion he has labelled as jealousy, though he doesn’t think that’s the whole truth.
It’s just everything David does - the confident tilt of his head as he types out a reply to something on his phone, his relaxed posture - everything radiates assurance.
It’s almost infuriating, how composed David is. How relaxed he is.
Nick swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and tries to work up the will to finish his coffee. It’ll bring little comfort. He has no reason to chug caffeine, anymore. He thought breakfast would help, he’d spent half the night awake and worried, stressing about the future, about his constituents, about the country, and selfishly, about his legacy, wondering if everything he’d done had been in vain.
When he’d heard David stir, he’d risen gratefully, glad to have something else to focus on, some company to remind him he wasn’t completely alone.
He thought breakfast would help. Had imagined, perhaps foolishly, that it would give him a chance to hold onto some semblance of intimacy between them, but he’d clearly been daydreaming again, because he feels lonelier than ever.
David, mercifully, breaks the silence first. He’s up early enough to make them both a proper breakfast, had fried eggs with lemon and olive oil, and had plated them with a flourish - avocado and toast. “Did you see that piece in The Mail, yesterday?”
Nick tenses, tries not to wince. Of course he’d bloody seen it. You couldn’t be in politics as long as he had without constantly scouring newspapers and headlines, vainly searching for your own name, even when you knew they’d do nothing but excoriate you.
David gives him a half-smile, something that always seems a little smug on David;s face, and leans back in his chair. He stretches his arms. He hasn’t done his tie up yet, has left it around his shoulders, a task for later. He looks good, in the way only middle-aged men can be to their partners. “Apparently, it’s your tie choices that lost you the election.”
Nick forces a laugh, tries to make it sound dismissive, uncaring, though it comes out a little strained. He can’t convince even himself of his confidence anymore. “Trust them to always pick the lowest-hanging fruit.”
“They’re relentless, aren’t they?” David says. “I mean, I can handle it. But I wish they wouldn’t go after you so much.”
Nick bristles. He can’t help it. He’s sure David doesn’t mean it that way, only said it to be kind, but he doesn’t like being babied. “I’m not some fragile flower,” he says, finally braving a sip of his rapidly-cooling coffee.
David's smile widens. “Of course not,” he says. “It’s just - Well, you’re a little soft, aren’t you?”
Nick tightens his grip on his mug, involuntarily. His knuckles whiten with the force. “I survived five years of coalition, didn't I?”
David raises his hands placatingly. “I know, I know,” he says. “But you wouldn't think that from reading the newspapers. They’re all wondering what's next for you.” There’s a pause. “Other than being my house-husband,” David adds, a cheeky grin on his face.
The words are meant to be a joke, Nick is sure, to soothe his nerves and make him feel better. But the heat rises to Nick’s face, and he can’t help the hurt bubbling in his chest. He’s being too sensitive, he knows, and it’s not like he minds, he used to be a stay at home father, but it still stings. It’s the implication that he’s completely useless at everything else, so this is his last option. Being David’s house-husband.
“I’m not good enough at cooking for that,” he jokes.
David, ever the gentleman, laughs. “You couldn’t cook to save your life,” David tells him.
“I can make toast,” Nick says, a little defensively.
“And coffee,” David says, “But other than that, you’re a disaster. Look, I’m no gourmet chef, but at least I can decently chop vegetables.”
Nick tries to let the joke go. He breathes out deeply, tries to imagine all the shame and stress exiting his body with that exhale. It doesn’t work, obviously. He still feels a little hurt. He’s over-wrought and raw from the election defeat still, and every little dig from David makes him feel more and more like a failure.
He just can’t stand the fact that David’s right - he isn't built for this, not really. He was able to cope before, but now he just can’t, the press, the disappointment, David: it’s all too much, a steady crushing weight on his chest that makes it difficult to draw in enough breath. And that catastrophic election, which had been worse than every worst-case scenario he and Tim had drawn up, just cements that belief.
David is, as always, oblivious to Nick’s inner turmoil. Nick could sob his eyes out two feet behind David and David wouldn't notice, wouldn't so much as turn around and glance at him. Maybe Nick is just good at hiding his feelings. “You know,” he says,
his voice self-assured, soft, “The hacks will chew you up and spit you out if you give them an opening. That’s why you have to brush it off and move on. Never let them see your vulnerabilities, or they’ll pounce.” He gives a wry smile. “I’ve learned that the hard way. And anyways, it’s not personal.”
Nick tries to smile, nods, like he appreciated David’s paternal, condescending advice. Of course it’s not personal for David. The press took shots at him, cheap shots, mean shots, unbearably cruel shots, - but it all slid right off his back, like water on a duck. David’s got a shield of confidence to protect himself, his supportive family and friends, his unshakeable belief that he’s right, always right. Nick, on the other hand, is slowly being worn down by the constant chipping of his doubts, his failures.
“They’ve certainly had their fun with me,” Nick says quietly.
David looks up then, finally, and Nick wills with a sudden, wild desire that David sees him, for once, but David’s expression softens only a little. “You know how they are,” he says, and his tone sounds almost bitter for a second. “I’ve returned us with a thumping majority, saw us through the coalition, led us out of the wilderness—and it still isn’t enough for some of these people.”
Nick doesn’t flinch, he'd never allow himself to, not now, but his stomach turns a little. David is, of course, not trying to insinuate anything, but the contrast between them couldn't be starker. David is thriving, his position secure, his mandate acquired. The British public want him, and they certainly don’t want Nick or his LibDems.
David is shockingly observant today, because he must catch something in Nick's expression and pauses. “Come on, Nick,” he says, leaning forward. There’s no hesitation when he reaches out and places his hand over Nick’s, his fingers a little cold in contrast to Nick’s warm palm. Nick’s hand automatically closes over David’s, squeezing a little, as if he could tear some comfort from David by force.”You don’t mind me saying all this, do you? I know it's a sore subject for you still, but I don't see why I shouldn't be allowed to celebrate, even if things didn't go great for you.”
Didn't go great. David has such a way with words; the understatement is almost insulting. Nick forces a nod, though his throat feels like it's suddenly closed up. “It’s fine,” he says, and because he sounds so downtrodden, he adds, “Really, David. You should be proud of yourself, I’m not begrudging you anything, it’s just..” He runs his free hand over his face, at last discarding his freezing coffee. “Christ, I feel like I’m grieving.”
David shrugs, and withdraws his hand. “You may as well be,” he says. “But you'll bounce back. You're far too intelligent not to. And hey, you've got time now, haven't you? Why don't you write that book you're always on about?”
“Maybe,” Nick says, giving a weak smile. He doesn't really believe he will, he has nothing truly useful to say, he thinks.
He can't shake the feeling that this is something he won't be able to bounce back from. No amount of “intelligence” will rationalise this insurmountable failure. Of not just the election, but of every little thing that came before it. He doesn't regret the coalition, not really, because there really wasn't a second choice.
But he should've known. Should've campaigned harder, focused more on electoral strategy under FPTP in the 2010 election, should've tried harder in negotiations, should've at the very fucking least, if nothing else, got AV passed. But he hadn’t, and he still can't quite understand how, why and when everything all went so wrong. He breathes out, slowly. Well, he'll have plenty of time to think , now.
David had taken gambles and risks and emerged victorious almost every single time. Nick had bet it all on the Alternative Vote (his own miserable little compromise) and Lord’s reform, and hadn’t gotten either.
He stands abruptly, pushing back his chair. “I think I’ll take a walk,” he says.
David looks up at him, his expression a blend of bland curiosity and faint annoyance. “Now? It’s barely light out.”
“I need some air,” Nick insists.
David doesn't argue. He rarely does, when Nick withdraws like this, it's never worth the effort. Nick is one stubborn bastard.
“Suit yourself,” he says, turning his attention to the papers beside his plate. Nick bends down to press a gentle kiss to the top of David’s head, laughs a little when David, smiling, bats at him, and leaves.
He steps out into the cold morning, the light only just beginning to rise over the buildings. He walks quickly, but then forces himself to slow down, worrying his pace will appear frantic. There’s still security guards, after all, watching. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets, curling his hands into fists to keep his fingertips warm, his breath visible in the pale light.
The streets of Westminster are quiet, unbearably so. He’s alone with his thoughts now, without David or distractions to protect him. They’re relentless. He’s seen his family doctor, and she says that though this is a little out of her scope, she thinks he's probably suffering from some mild form of depression, and should eat well, exercise, get some sleep, and see a therapist for some basic CBT skills. He’d nodded along, asked her for therapist recommendations, let her direct him to some service, and after he’d left that appointment, he hadn't spoken a word about it.
It’s not depression. He’d know if it was.
Every step feels heavier, weighed down by the unshakable certainty that he had failed. Not just failed himself, but failed his party, his colleagues, the voters who had once placed their trust in him. He thinks of the volunteers who had campaigned tirelessly, the staffers who had worked long hours, and the supporters who had believed in his promises. Of Miriam, whom he had often neglected just so he could work more, and after all that toiling, he'd had nothing to show for it.
He had let all of them down, hadn't he?
His mind drifts back toward Downing Street, where David has probably finished his breakfast, surrounded by plans and schedules and the machinery of power. David has everything - success, influence, a government behind him. And Nick has… nothing.
The anger comes, so swift and ardent, that Nick is almost surprised at himself. It’s not directed at David, it’s directed at himself.
All that work, and nothing to show for it. Nothing at all.