It was dark by the time David got back to the house in Notting Hill, the early, summer evening having finally wound down and the moon riding high in the cloudless sky.

Initially, after he and Nick had moved to Oxfordshire, David had intended to sell the house in order to pay off their new mortgage, but after Nick sold the film rights to his book they had been able to afford both houses with relative ease. It was a situation that had proved advantageous as David was frequently in London during the week, his acceptance of a place in the House of Lords effectively tying him to the capital for as long as he continued to work in Parliament.

When they had spoken by phone earlier in the day, Nick had told David he would be driving to London that evening, and so it came as no surprise when David saw Nick's Fiat parked in the driveway. He parked his own car in the space next to it and turned off the engine, reaching over to the passenger seat to grab his jacket before getting out and heading toward the front door, turning on the car's alarm as he went.

Inside, the hallway light had been left on, but Nick had already gone to bed, so David trudged wearily up the stairs and to the bedroom, pushing open the door and smiling softly as he saw Nick curled up on the bed, asleep. He had missed Nick during the five days he had been alone, having driven down himself on Sunday and been kept in London longer than usual by a series of meetings he could not postpone, and resisted a sudden, powerful urge to wake Nick immediately with urgent touches of hands and mouth. Although Nick had been back for three years now, his battles with sleep – both in adjusting to a bed once again and in finding sleep once there – had been long-fought, and the victory was not quite assured, even now. The slightest disturbance could upset the delicate balance of Nick's sleep-wake cycle, undoing months of hard work.

Contenting himself with a long moment of staring at his sleeping spouse, David padded silently to the en-suite bathroom and prepared for bed.

As expected, when David returned to the bedroom and slid quietly beneath the covers, Nick stirred, one eye blinking open, then closed, and Nick turned and shifted, allowing David to curl close at his side. A sleepy kiss was placed on David's lips and a drowsy ‘hello’ said in his ear. David said nothing, but instead wrapped Nick in his arms and held him close.

Some nights, when David arrived home after Nick was already in bed, that sleepy kiss would awaken passion enough to rouse Nick from sleep, and they would make tender, unhurried love to one another, afterwards falling into a blissful slumber. Other nights, like this one, Nick simply returned to sleep as soon as David was settled in bed.

It still surprised David that, after all these years, he could never be sure which of these events might transpire. It seemed whenever he attempted to guess, the exact opposite would happen; he would arrive home expecting Nick to groan sleepily as he wrapped himself around David, and within minutes Nick would be grasping frantically at David's pyjamas. A memory of one of those nights, of Nick's slender body writhing desperately against him, left David longing to wake Nick. He tightened his arms around Nick and, with a sigh, kissed Nick on the forehead and closed his eyes.

In the morning, after having slept surprisingly easily, David woke to the sound of his phone ringing on the bedside table. He groaned, grasping blindly for it as Nick stirred at his side, burrowing further beneath the duvet to block out the noise. His alarm, David realised as he held the phone in front of his face; he had forgot to turn it off. Quickly silencing the shrill beeping, David plonked the phone back where it had been and turned to Nick.

‘Sorry,’ he said as Nick emerged from under the duvet. ‘Didn't mean to wake you.’

‘I was already awake.’ Nick leaned up and kissed David lightly. ‘Did you get in late?’

‘After midnight,’ David commented, pulling Nick forward for another kiss. ‘I missed you.’

‘Missed you, too,’ Nick whispered against David's lips. He pressed himself close against David's body, one hand caressing David's face while the other clung lightly to David's hip. It was a position so familiar to David, a consistency so complete, that for a moment he was transported by memory to the very first time Nick had held him this way; that night in Devon just seven days after Nick had returned from Penrhyn.

During their two years of marriage, through all of its turbulence and triumph, through tenderness and tempers and tears, this simple touch from Nick had never failed to rouse in David such passion, such urgency and need, that the intensity of those feelings often left him trembling. He reached out, needing to touch Nick's body, needing to feel the weight, the certainty, of Nick in his arms, and kissed Nick again, whispering, ‘I love you.’

‘Always the charmer,’ Nick murmured, his smile lighting the boyish features of his face, crinkling the outer corners of his eyes. ‘I love you.’

David hugged Nick close, letting his hands roam lazily over the bare skin of Nick's back and arms, deliberately teasing himself by not indulging his building desire to do more.

‘How was the drive down?’ he asked.

‘The traffic was awful,’ Nick answered. ‘I wish I'd taken the train.’

‘You hate the train.’

‘I hate travelling at all,’ Nick said, his smile quirking into one of wry amusement. A familiar frown passed across his features, but did not stay, his expression transforming once again into simple happiness.

‘Why did you, then?’ David asked. He kissed Nick's forehead tenderly.

‘Catherine.’

Nick's one word answer was explanation enough. Catherine Percer was Nick's publicist. A thin, middle-aged woman whose overly persistent manner came close to bullying, and was only tolerable because of her shrewd business instinct. The daughter of a military man, David often thought Catherine would have been better suited to the hard voiced, hard line career of a drill sergeant, but he could not fault her dogged insistence in pushing Nick's interests. She had managed all of Nick's public appearances, and had proven herself a tough negotiator when Nick had sold the film rights to his book.

‘They still want me to walk the red carpet for the film,’ Nick explained, and then added, a note of wariness in his voice, ‘And you.’

‘Oh,’ David uttered in surprise. He knew Nick was involved in a long-running dispute with Dreamworks, who were insistent, despite Nick's resolute refusal, they wanted Nick to attend the première of Keeping Hope. The information they also wanted David there, however, was completely new.

‘They're concerned if both of us are not there then it will seem as if we are snubbing the film.’

‘Ridiculous,’ David commented. ‘Everyone knows you don't like public appearances.’

‘Apparently that doesn't matter,’ Nick answered, his voice sounding both irritated and stressed. ‘They want us there anyway.’

‘Can't Catherine get you out of it?’

‘She's tried,’ Nick sighed. ‘But they've started to pull contract clauses, with some pretty wild interpretations, I might add, and pile on the pressure. She wants to meet with me and discuss options.’

‘And those are?’

‘At this point: additional financial incentives for me to attend, and possibly a contract breach case if I still refuse.’

‘They're that desperate?’ David asked, beginning to feel somewhat stressed himself. He would not have minded doing the red carpet bit if Nick had asked; the media attention he could handle.

After he and Nick had wed, the fuss the media kicked up had lasted for months, with paparazzi hounding both of them, wherever they went, until they had moved out of London. What David did not like was Nick being forced into the public eye again, especially when Nick had made it clear from the start he did not want that.

In the two years since Nick's book had been published, he had made one television appearance, in a documentary commissioned by the BBC, and had attended three ticketed book talks at a London Waterstones, the minimum number he had agreed to in his publishing deal. All of those had been in the six months following the release. Since then, after they had moved, Nick had happily settled into a routine far removed from the hectic, spotlight-heavy one he had known before Penrhyn. David knew that, at least in the beginning, a lot of Nick's resistance had come from his time spent in isolation and the subsequent social anxiety. Nowadays, and even though the anxiety was still sometimes problematic, Nick maintained his aversion of publicity simply because he no longer wanted that kind of lifestyle.

‘Oh, that reminds me,’ Nick said, making David realise he had missed Nick's reply. ‘Simon has invited us to dinner tonight.’

‘Yes, I know,’ David replied. ‘He called me yesterday evening, said he had invited a few others.’

‘Duncan and Jo, probably.’ Nick unwrapped himself from David's embrace and threw back the covers, getting to his feet. ‘They're still showing Tess off to everyone.’

‘Still?’ David laughed, watching as Nick walked to the bathroom, pushing the door open wide. ‘How old is she now?’

‘Ten weeks.’

‘Ten weeks,’ David echoed quietly. Had it really been that short a time since Nick was last in London? Usually Nick visited only two or three times a year, but here they were in June and Nick had already driven down four times. David wondered if Nick was making progress in better dealing with the stress of travelling – perhaps Arthur had been focusing on that in their recent sessions.

Nick emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his hips, and walked to the wardrobe, where he kept a few changes of clothes stored for his infrequent visits. He flicked through them, quickly selecting a smart pair of trousers and a white shirt; no tie, Nick never wore one any more.

‘Are my good shoes still downstairs?’ he asked distractedly.

‘Should be,’ David replied, sighing internally as he realised Nick did not intend to return to bed. ‘Unless you took them home last time you were here.’

‘Don't think I did,’ Nick mumbled, beginning to move things this way and that within the wardrobe. David laughed to himself as he watched Nick leave devastation in his wake. Nick's side of the wardrobe always resembled that of a teenager rather than a man in his fifties, with rumpled clothes left in untidy piles and shirts half-falling from hangers.

At first David had industriously tidied and folded Nick's clothes, leaving them neatly arranged for when Nick visited, but whenever Nick did visit he left everything in disarray again, and after a while David had given up, putting Nick's lack of care down to the temporary nature of his presence in the house. Nick had not said anything, but David knew Nick no longer considered the Notting Hill house as home.

David got up. Home or not, and David had to admit lately he himself tended to think of the house more as an exceptionally comfortable hotel, he had always been something of a neat-freak. He made the bed as Nick dumped his good shoes unceremoniously at the foot of the wardrobe and went back to the bathroom to shower.

Not wanting to dwell on Nick's unusually rushed manner, or his own sharply felt desire, David opened his own side of the wardrobe and began to flick through the many suits he kept there, choosing, with much more thought than Nick had, one an elegant shade of dark blue, along with a white shirt and a navy blue tie covered with fine white dots. He had several meetings today, in spite of it being a Saturday, and could not dress as casually as he usually would have of a weekend.

In the bathroom, as Nick showered, David began to brush his teeth, casting furtive glances at the frosted glass of the shower cubicle. He wondered idly, as he watched the outline of Nick's body, how long Nick intended to remain in London. Would he drive back tomorrow morning or would he stay the week?

Recently, David had begun to feel the almost constant separation was putting a strain on his and Nick's relationship. There was no specific reason for him to feel that way, only a thought deep inside that there was an invisible distance growing between them, too much familiarity at being apart.

For the past year Nick had been making a home for himself in Oxfordshire; spending time with neighbours, making friends, joining the local community garden project. All of his activities were designed to strengthen his ties to the house and the life he had there, whereas David, spending four days a week in London, had little to no time to do the same. He more and more felt as though he was living two separate lives, with no way to bring them together, to marry them into something he could feel happy with.

This growing discontent with their situation hung heavily in David's heart, often playing on his mind during the time he spent away from home. He knew Nick felt the same way, though neither of them had spoken of it; he knew the meaning of the expression Nick wore every time David left on Sunday night, could read it as perfectly as if Nick had spoken the accompanying thought: I wish you didn't have to go.

The fact Nick did not say anything did not stop David from feeling his heart clench every time he saw the sadness in Nick's eyes. Even after three years, after countless therapy sessions with Arthur, Nick still had an aversion to being alone, and still kept part of himself locked away in a place David could not reach. Sometimes it was that, more than anything else, which worried David – that he knew there were things Nick still felt he could not talk about.

David rinsed his toothbrush and then his mouth, opening the bathroom cabinet to get his razor as Nick slid back the glass shower panel, stepped onto the bathroom mat, and grabbed his towel from the rail by his side. He wrapped it around himself and then took a few steps forward, putting his arms around David's waist and kissing the back of his neck.

‘Shower's free.’

‘Mm,’ David hummed, turning in Nick's arms so he could return the embrace, and trying to hide his unhappy expression. He thought he had succeeded until Nick tilted his head inquisitively, stroking David's back through the fabric of his pyjama top.

‘You okay?’ Nick asked, smiling kindly.

‘I'm fine,’ David answered. He pulled Nick closer, searching for a way to tell Nick what was troubling him without sounding like a needy teenager. ‘I've missed you, this week has seemed to last a long time.’

‘I missed you, too,’ Nick said softly, kissing David on the cheek. ‘We seem to spend a lot of time apart at the moment.’

‘I'm sorry.’

‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ Nick reassured him, smiling affectionately. ‘It's as much my fault as yours.’

‘I'm the one who's never at home,’ David huffed. ‘I'm always busy with-’

‘You not being at home is only half of the equation,’ Nick interrupted. He leaned back, regarding David in a forthright manner. ‘As I said, it's as much my fault as yours, I should spend more time here with you.’

‘You are busy with the community garden, I know how important it is to you.’

‘Nothing is more important to me than our marriage, David,’ Nick said, sighing, obviously as frustrated by their situation as David was. ‘I-I think after all the press attention I became a little, a little afraid of being here, but I shouldn't have let that get in the way of spending time with you, and I'm going to make more of an effort from now on.’

‘Nice speech,’ David chuckled. Nick grinned at him. ‘Did Arthur give you that in one of his many lectures?’

‘He certainly did not,’ Nick laughed, shaking his head. ‘You know as well as I do he gave up lecturing me about you after we got married.’

‘Oh,’ David said playfully, ‘and what does he lecture you about now?’

Nick smiled enigmatically, but David saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes and did not press for an answer. They had spoken about what Nick's therapy sessions involved but Nick never went into much detail, mostly it concerned Nick's continued anxiety over large social gatherings and using any kind of public transport, though there were other things Nick discussed with his therapist he would not talk to David about; David knew most, if not all, of them were directly related to Penrhyn and the time Nick had spent on the island.

In the beginning, David had been surprised Nick had remained in therapy for as long as this. Somehow he had got the idea that after a few months Nick would stop seeing Arthur as regularly, or even stop seeing him at all; he had not expected that three years after Nick had returned from Penrhyn he would still be meeting with his therapist on a weekly basis. It highlighted to David that he really did have very little understanding of the complexities of mental health, up to that point at least. Of course the problems associated with a trauma on the scale of that which Nick had been through could not be fixed in a time period of weeks or months, David understood that now, having watched Nick struggle with countless issues caused by his almost six year period of total isolation, from the serious and still persistent sleep problems to more mundane concerns like the fact that Nick still sometimes retreated into his headphones and listened to the sounds of the ocean to calm himself if he was feeling stressed.

The change in Nick's character was less apparent now than it had been when he had first stayed at Chequers, gone was the near constant nervousness and the abrupt mood swings David had grown used to in the early days of their relationship. The fright at loud noises had also faded, with Arthur's help, and Nick no longer felt the need to sleep on the floor or walk around barefoot.

‘How will you see Arthur if you are here?’ David asked, thinking Nick missing sessions probably would not be approved of.

‘I'll drive,’ Nick answered, his wariness vanishing as David changed the subject. ‘Or take the train, he has been going on about that recently, says it's one of the last things we need to work on.’

‘Surely not the train?’ David grinned. ‘He truly is horrible to you.’

‘I'll tell him you said that,’ Nick said with a laugh, nuzzling his face against David's neck for a few moments before stepping away and giving David a look of regret. ‘If I didn't have to meet Catherine in less than an hour, and if she wouldn't give me a worse lecture than Arthur ever has if I were late! This was not, not how I wanted to spend Saturday morning. There was a lot less getting dressed and a lot more of you in my version.’

‘Sounds very similar to what I would have liked.’ David smiled and leaned forward to give Nick one last quick kiss.

‘I'm surprised you didn't jump me as soon as you got in last night,’ Nick chuckled as he left the bathroom. David turned back to the mirror with a short laugh, inspecting his cheeks and chin before squirting some shaving foam into his palm.

‘I thought I had better let you sleep,’ he commented.

‘What was that?’ Nick's voice called back a few seconds later.

‘I said,’ David repeated, raising his voice, ‘I thought I had better let you sleep.’

There was no answer, but David heard Nick give another low chuckle, followed by the sound of a drawer being opened and then closed. David lathered his face with the shaving foam and began to shave. He was almost finished when Nick returned to the bathroom, mostly dressed but with his shirt hanging open, and leaned past David to get the deodorant from on top of the cabinet.

‘I'm going to be late,’ Nick said in a stressed voice. ‘Just checked the traffic report; Edgware Road is at a standstill.’

‘Go through the backstreets?’ David suggested, rinsing his razor in the sink and towelling his face dry.

‘They'll be just as bad as people try to avoid the traffic,’ Nick answered, he quickly used the can of Lynx he was holding before putting it back and grabbing his toothbrush from the cup by the sink. ‘I'll have to take the tube.’

‘It won't be so busy on a Saturday.’

‘I suppose not,’ Nick sighed. As he started to brush his teeth, Nick reached out his hand and idly brushed a spot of shaving foam from David's ear, rinsing his finger clean under the still running tap before inspecting the other side of David's face. Evidently there were no similar spots there because Nick nodded in approval and smiled around the handle of his toothbrush, white foam gathering at the corners of his mouth, looking both totally adorable and absolutely ridiculous.

‘I can go with you on the tube if you like?’ David offered as Nick rinsed his mouth and wiped it with a flannel. ‘If you don't want to go on your own.’

‘No, no, I'll be fine,’ Nick responded, buttoning his shirt. ‘I should go alone. Arthur says it will be helpful.’

‘He's really pushing you on that, isn't he?’ David asked.

‘Yes,’ Nick answered. ‘He wants me to finish therapy this year, so he's pushing me on a couple of things right now.’

‘Finish?’ David raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, finish,’ Nick smiled, nodding lightly. He looked pleased and proud. ‘He says it's time, that I'm ready, ready to live without the safety net.’

‘How do you feel about it?’

‘I'm pleased, obviously I'm delighted,’ Nick said, a small frown appeared and his smile faltered a little. ‘To be honest, David, I'm scared. I'm worried that I won't be able to cut it without him to talk sense to me.

‘Arthur obviously thinks you can,’ David said, drawing Nick forward and stroking his neck affectionately. ‘I think you can. You know you're stronger than you give yourself credit for, you always have been.’

‘I love you, David,’ Nick whispered, wrapping his arms around David's shoulders. ‘I know I've not been, not always been easy to live with-’

‘Nonsense.’

‘No, no,’ Nick insisted. ‘I know at times I've made things difficult, I know you have been frustrated, even angry, with me.’ Nick broke off, sighing and taking a step backwards to look David directly in the eyes. ‘There are so many things I haven't told you, things that I should have told you a long time ago.’

‘I said I would wait,’ David told him, smiling softly. ‘For as long as you needed, until you are ready.’

‘I think I am,’ Nick said. ‘My last four sessions with Arthur have been- I want to tell you and he has been helping me with the worst thing, the one that- But now is hardly the time! Are you going to be busy this afternoon?’

‘I have meetings all day,’ David said regretfully.

‘Still going over Lords reform?’

‘Trying to muster enough support to get it past the rebels.’

This was the second time a bill for House of Lords reform had been prepared. The first, in 2012, while Nick had been on Penrhyn, had been dropped after facing opposition from both Labour and the Conservatives. The latest attempt had made it through the Commons but was now being held up as it was debated in the Lords. Whether it would pass or not was difficult to predict.

‘I'm sure you will get it through this time,’ Nick said. He flexed his fingers on David's shoulder. ‘I have to run, David. Can we find some time to talk later? Before the party, perhaps?’

‘I'll try to be finished by six.’

‘Oh good,’ Nick smiled. ‘That gives me a few hours to get ready. Party starts at eight.’

‘You'd think he would have them earlier now he's not leading the Lib Dems any more,’ David chuckled.

‘You know Simon,’ Nick grinned, shaking his head. ‘Must dash. I'll see you this evening.’

‘Say hi to Catherine for me.’

After Nick had left, David took a shower and got dressed. He was preoccupied by what Nick had told him about being ready to talk through some of the things they had thus far avoided concerning Penrhyn. David had never really minded Nick's reluctance to speak about what happened there; he was worried over it, thinking of it as the last barrier that Nick had, but knew that Nick would find a way to cross that when he was able. Knowing that Nick had used his recent sessions with Arthur to broach the subject, and the knowledge that Nick was soon to stop seeing his therapist, made David realise just how far Nick had progressed towards completely recovering from everything that had happened to him.

Two years ago, when Nick's book about Penrhyn had been published, David had bought a copy in secret and read it with growing fascination, not only for what was in it, but also for the things that had been deliberately left out. There was no mention of the day of the plane crash, nothing about David until the very end - and then only a brief mention. A lot of the detail was in how Nick found food and water, and the things he had done to keep himself occupied. Most tellingly of all, Nick had made no mention of the scar on his chest or what had happened to his mood after the day he injured himself.

In the years since his return, Nick had only told Arthur the full details of his experiences on Penrhyn. Even David had only limited knowledge.

Nick wanting to tell him the rest left David wondering what exactly he was going to say. He knew Nick had kept the worst of it to himself, as if he was afraid of how David would react, or afraid of something else, something inside himself.

Through the course of the day, David found himself unable to properly concentrate. He funmbled his way through a meeting with another Conservative Lord who was supporting the Lords Reform Bill, before eating a hasty lunch and making his way to George Osborne's office in 30 Millbank, where George, now the chief election stratagist rather than chancellor, wanted to discuss David's role in the upcoming 2020 elections.

‘David,’ George greeted him warmly, rising from his chair and holding out his hand. ‘Good to see you. How are you? How's Nick?’

‘We're fine,’ David said, shaking George's hand and then sitting down.

‘Is he still in Oxford?’ George asked conversationally.

‘No, he drove down yesterday,’ David replied. ‘Had to meet with Catherine Percer.’

‘About the première, I suppose. What is it, two weeks away now?’

David explained the situation, George listening sympathetically and offering helpful suggestions.

Their friendship was not as close as it had once been, but was better than two years earlier when David and Nick had married. George had refused to attend the wedding, telling David bluntly that he thought it was a mistake. They had not spoken for six months.

It had hurt David to know that the man who had until then been a dear friend did not support his decision to marry the man he loved. They had rowed bitterly when David asked George to be his best man for the ceremony, and George had stormed out after telling David that the marriage would not last six months and not to come crying to him when it all went wrong.

Two years on, George was more accepting, but the friendship they shared had never fully recovered. Even though George had apologised for his words some eight months earlier, things between the two of them were still stilted.

‘Anyway, David,’ George said when he had given a final, condemning opinion of Dreamworks. ‘About why you're here.’

‘Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this?’ David asked. George gave a sly grin.

‘Because you're not stupid,’ George answered. He tapped his ball point pen on a stack of papers in front of him. ‘How would you feel about being our poster boy for the gay vote?’

‘I'm hardly a boy,’ David responded gruffly, shooting a hard look in George's direction.

‘No,’ George agreed. He leaned back in his chair, smiling a little smugly. ‘You are Lord Cameron, former prime minister and leader of the Conservatives, who two years ago married a man who was once your political rival.’

‘And that's the angle, is it?’ David asked testily. ‘Using my marriage as political currency?’

‘It wouldn't be like that, David.’

‘Wouldn't it?’

‘No,’ George insisted adamantly. ‘We want you to do a couple of interviews, that's all. Perhaps a poster.’

‘We?’ David questioned, unconvinced by George's assurances.

‘All right, Boris,’ George sighed. ‘Boris wants you.’

‘That's absolutely terrifying,’ David joked uncomfortably, shifting position. ‘Did he say why? Or is this another of his not-so-brilliant ideas to endear us to the population?’

George shrugged, sighing again, a weary look on his face. Strategising for the election was a job that had been made that much harder when Boris had taken over as leader of the Conservatives after David had stood down. After a series of typically Boris comments in recent months, the tolerance of the public to the bumbling politician had begun to fade, and it was looking increasingly likely that there would be another leadership election within a year.

‘You know I have to talk it over with Nick,’ David said when George remained silent.

‘I know,’ George answered. ‘I didn't expect you to agree right away.’

‘Do you have a timetable in mind?’

‘Nothing this year,’ George said. ‘We were looking at next March, if you agree. You'll be fighting for your Lords seat at the same time, provided the Bill goes through.’

‘I'll let you know soon, then,’ David told him, glancing at the clock on the wall and getting to his feet. ‘I have to get going, I'll call you next week.’

‘Thank you,’ George said politely, shaking David's hand. ‘Oh,’ he added, seeming to only just think of it. ‘Ask Nick if he can get me tickets to the première.’

In the greater scheme of things, and in general in the world, magic and mysticism are considered to be things that only occur in fiction. The notion that there really are fairies and elves and wizards is something to be enjoyed in the flickering light of a cinema or when flipping through the pages of a book.

It would probably surprise and frighten the general population to learn that, sometimes, the things they imagine in their heads actually exist; it would certainly astonish everyone to learn that, when the doors are closed of an evening and the lights dimmed, the wax models in Madame Tussauds spring to life, and are somehow magically endowed with the personality of the people they resemble.

There is one visitor, however, who is neither made of wax, nor human, but to explain in detail one must let imagination take flight, for it ventures into the realms of impossibility, as that visitor, with his sharp suit and yellow tie, is the robotic version of one Nicholas Clegg.

How the perfect replica of the Deputy Prime Minister came to know the wax models were more than they seemed is something of a mystery; perhaps it was simply a deduction of his superior mental powers - infinitely greater than those of his human likeness - or perhaps it was that he had been drawn to the place when the human Nick had told him, in no uncertain terms, that despite the memory transfer and the accompanying feelings they bestowed in his mind, the real David was off-limits.

Whichever of those was true - and it really does not matter - the Nick-bot managed to find a way past the formidable security of an evening - a task he found ineffably easy given his calculating and computeristic nature - so he could visit wax-David. It brought a certain amount of joy to his otherwise boring existence, and despite wax-David's continued declarations that he did not have to come calling, Nick-bot kept doing so.

This was one such night.

‘You really don't have to keep sneaking in here,’ said the wax figure that resembled David Cameron. He was speaking, as he did every night, to the robotic version of Nick Clegg.

‘Someone has to keep you company,’ the Nick-bot shrugged, ‘and protect you from Tony.’

‘I have company; Boris is here, and besides, Tony is too busy trying to impress Obama to bother me much these days.’

‘Nice to know I am welcome,’ the Nick-bot snapped, his computer chips processing something like anger.

‘You are welcome,’ wax-David replied, his moulded features attempting something like remorse but failing utterly. ‘It's just risky, you coming here. What if someone finds out?’

Gentling, the Nick-bot said, ‘They haven't so far. Lets face it, David, the security here is a shambles compared to me.’

There was that, wax-David conceded in what he supposed was his mind, although quite how he had one was a difficult concept to grasp. Nick-bot had been visiting now for six months, and had never once been caught. In truth, wax-David looked forward to Nick-bot's appearance of an evening, though he could not say why. Wax-David reached for Nick-bot's hand, grasping it tightly in his own. ‘I never said I wanted you to stop visiting.’

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Nick-bot leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to wax-David's never changing lips, and wax-David pulled away, startled at this turn of events, but realised in the dim recess of what could presumably be called his brain, he liked the sensation - was it really that? - of Nick-bot's mouth against his own.

Unable to portray this thought, given the restricting nature of his appearance, wax-David kissed Nick-bot again, realising he had a tongue and he could use it, but fearing his heated state would melt him to a puddle.

Nick-bot pulled wax-David into his lap and both set to kissing hungrily, their carefully designed tongues touching, leaving wax-David wondering just when it was he had developed a nervous system for sensation to course through.

The desire to touch Nick-bot overwhelmed wax-David, and he set his hands to the task of stripping clothes, pushing the crisp jacket from Nick-bot's shoulders and unbuttoning his shirt. Yes, he certainly wanted this, the feel of Nick-bot's bare skin under his hands. Perhaps his own memories of the real David influenced him more than he had thought.

Their desperate kissing and roving of hands was halted as they reached the removal of trousers.

Well, this was rather fucking awkward... Neither wax-David nor Nick-bot had the anatomy needed to continue the encounter, and wax-David pulled away from their literally breathless kiss.

‘I'm not...’ wax-David confessed.

‘No, me either,’ Nick-bot agreed.

They ceased kissing, Nick-bot slipping away from wax-David's hold.

‘Fuck, it's not fair,’ Nick-bot grumbled.

‘It's never fair, Nick,’ wax-David said.

Nick-bot shook his head. ‘I think when I next stand in for Clegg, I will ask for more lifelike qualities in wax models.’

Wax-David agreed, pulling Nick-bot to him again. Even if it could go no further, he wanted Nick-bot's mouth against his own.

There had been jibes at first from the others - except for Boris, who had declared the whole thing “bloody marvellous” and returned to making bumbling attempts to woo Kate Moss - at their fledgling (and impossible) romance, but soon enough the snickers and knowing looks had died down and things carried on much as they had in the preceding six months.

But as it turned out, Nick-bot's superior breaking and entering skills were not as formidable as he had hoped. Well, the reality of it was it wasn't the act of gaining illicit admission to Madame Tussauds that had led to what they now faced, but rather that he and wax-David had become a little careless in paying attention to the security guard as he patrolled the building, and who could blame them for that; kissing was a much more enjoyable pursuit than anxiously watching for anyone who might discover them.

The unfortunate guard who had stumbled across them had stood in dumbstruck silence, mouth opening and closing akin to that of a fish, and Nick-bot shot away from wax-David so quickly he very nearly detached a limb, making wax-David yelp in pain and wonder why it hurt when he was composed entirely of wax; it did not seem fair. Although, pondering the matter a little further before the guard stopped impersonating a statue, wax-David decided it was a trade-off he was willing to live with, given the ability to feel any sensation was better than having none at all.

Nick-bot was biting down on his perfectly formed bottom lip, casting nervous looks at wax-David. Yes, wax-David agreed with the unspoken sentiment, they were well and truly fucked, and not in the way - or indeed by the person - that either of them had hoped.

Briskly, the guard (who later turned out to be named Malcolm, a fact that has nothing to do with the story) ordered wax-David to resume his usual place in the museum, and then he hauled Nick-bot away by the arm, muttering darkly that “people will hear about this”. Wax-David watched on with anguish, catching a last fleeting grip of Nick-bot's hand, before he returned to stand behind the plaque that bore the name of his likeness.

An hour later, Nick-bot found himself standing before the groggy, and absolutely furious, human version of himself.

‘What,’ Nick demanded, ‘the fuck were you doing?’

Nick-bot held his head up; he would not apologise for going to see the man - well, wax model - he loved, and this was all Nick's fault for having those kinds of feelings for the real David in the first place.

‘Did you fry a circuit or something? You didn't really think-’ Nick was cut short as David (the real one) shoved his way roughly into the dimly lit office, looking as though he had literally dragged himself through about fourteen hedges in his haste to arrive. If Nick-bot were capable of seeing things, he imagined he would have seen twigs in the man's hair - his fluffy, ruffled, wickedly askew and fucking gorgeous hair.

‘Stop looking at him like that!’ Nick shouted angrily, and Nick-bot became aware he was staring at the real David with what could only be called an adoring expression. It wasn't fair, he thought, not only could he not have the real David, they would stop him seeing wax-David too. It was not fair and nothing short of cruel. He pouted miserably as his shoulders sank.

‘I just got the message,’ David said. ‘Have they really been-’

‘Apparently, they have been seeing each other for months,’ Nick muttered quietly, running an hand across the back of his neck.

‘Oh,’ David exclaimed, looking at Nick in surprise. ‘That's a little- I mean, we can deal with this quietly, can't we?’

‘The guard won't talk. They'll tighten up security, and so will we. Can't have him running all over London.’ Nick gestured toward Nick-bot as he spoke.

Staring angrily at his human counterpart, Nick-bot growled, ‘It's not fair! You can't keep us apart!’

Backing away a step, David's face curled into abject confusion. ‘He's very animated for a machine,’ he commented to Nick. ‘Are you sure his programme is not defective?’

The response that rose to Nick-bot's lips was cut just short of escaping into the room as a knock sounded at the door. It opened to reveal an equally miserable wax-David accompanied by a sleepy John Bercow. Nick-bot shot across the room before anyone could stop him, sweeping wax-David away from the shorter man and standing in front of him, as if to protect wax-David from a host of match-wielding assassins.

‘John, why did you bring him here?’ Nick sighed wearily, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Stepping away from the facsimiles as though he did not even see them, John walked over to where the human pair were standing. ‘It seemed preferable to leaving him at the museum. Boris was staging a sit-in protest in the middle of the historical figures section and had the others making banners denouncing the heinous crime of preventing true love. His words, not mine, of course. He even convinced Einstein to get in on the act.’

With an exasperated noise, Nick looked up at John; he squeaked as he caught sight of the events unfolding beyond where the Speaker was standing. Nick-bot was pressing wax-David into a convenient bookcase and kissing him thoroughly senseless (by the look of it), and Nick blinked, unable to do more than emit another pathetic squeak as the he noticed wax-David's arms were coiled tightly around Nick-bot's waist. Obviously they couldn't do more than kiss each other, Nick knew that, but what struck him hardest at that particular moment was how evident it was they really, really, wanted to.

Noticing Nick's shocked expression, John turned around and rolled his eyes. He walked over to the pair and grabbed Nick-bot by the shoulder, pulling him roughly away from wax-David; wax-David moaned in protest, and John said, ‘Enough of that you two. Sit down.’

With an indignant look, Nick-bot grabbed hold of wax-David's hand and pulled him across the room to sit in two chairs that were next to each other. Once there, they sat in silence, but did not let go of each other's hands.

‘You see,’ John said as he walked back across the room, ‘we have a real problem here. There is no way we can keep them apart.’

David, staring at the non-human versions of himself and Nick, spoke for the first time since John had entered the room. ‘What are we supposed to do then?’ he asked.

‘There are only two options,’ John declared. ‘Either the robot goes to live at Madame Tussauds...’

‘Not possible,’ Nick interjected, still eyeing the pair across the room, noticing their attention had once again flagged and they were leaning close against each other, wax-David running his hand up and down Nick-bot's arm tenderly. It was bizarre to watch himself, even in machine form, being treated in such a way by someone who looked like David. Whatever feelings the Nick-bot had gained from the memory transfer - and Nick knew there were some - they were nothing like what was being displayed in front of him. Could it be they were actually...? Nick shook his head.

‘So what's the other option,’ David asked, seemingly as distracted as Nick himself by the scene across the room, where Nick-bot was now smiling and whispering in wax-David's ear.

‘That they both become human,’ John stated.

‘Human?’ chimed Nick-bot and wax-David from where they were sat, apparently paying attention to the conversation more than anyone realised.

‘Could we really?’ Nick-bot asked, an eager expression on his face, one wax-David would have matched if it were possible.

‘I would need a few days to prepare, but yes it is possible.’

‘Do you really think that's the best idea, John?’ Nick asked, looking at the Speaker dubiously.

‘It is the only option we have, unless you can think of something better,’ John replied. Nick had to admit he could not, and it did not seem right to separate them now he had seen how they were with each other. Nick felt a sudden, unexpected pang of jealousy, but he squashed it down quickly; David and he had decided, after all, there would never be anything more than a professional relationship between them, but still... Nick wondered if their relationship would have grown as much as the other pair if they had given it a chance, and looking at David, he thought the other man was considering the very same thing. It was too late now, of course, those feelings had inevitably faded over the course of the past six months, and now they were practically non-existent.

‘Now, I think they should stay here until the time time is right. I'll have Madame Tussauds make up a cover story for why the David model is not on display. In the mean time,’ John turned to the facsimiles sat on the chairs, ‘you two have to behave yourselves. Understand?’

Both nodded enthusiastically, Nick-bot beaming and wax-David attempting to do the same but, as usual, failing to produce anything more than a gruesome replica of a smile. David (the real one) wondered what on earth the Nick-bot found attractive about his wax counterpart, but did not speculate too deeply. If it meant he could get a few more hours of precious sleep, he would have agreed to anything.

Four Days Later

Nick-bot and wax-David stood nervously in the middle of the office as John clanked various bottles, mixing and stirring for a period of time that seemed endless before he finally turned and held out two vials in their direction. The real Nick and David had decided not to be present for the actual event (a fact that made everyone relieved, given the confusion over names) and so it was just the three of them. Glancing at each other with nervous expectation, Nick-bot leaned forward and pressed a kiss to wax-David's lips, and they embraced each other quickly.

Then they drank, and both slept.

When he woke, the first thing Nick-bot noticed was that his hands were warm. It was a peculiar sensation and he did nothing for several seconds but run one hand over the other and explore the newness of it. Then, remembering wax-David, he turned his head to look around. Wax-David was no longer made of wax, but that was not what made Nick-bot (it would take some time for him to drop the bot part of his name, and the wax part of David's) gasp in surprise; wax-David did not look like the real David - except he did, but about twenty years younger. Running a hand over his now-human face, Nick-bot found he too was not in his forties, but closer to his early twenties, at a rough guess.

Reaching out a hand, Nick-bot shook wax-David awake gently, smiling down at him in delight. ‘We're human, David. We really are!’ he exclaimed happily.

‘Quite right too,’ commented John from where he was sitting, watching the pair wake from their potion-induced slumber. Wax-David sat up and turned to Nick-bot, and then he smiled, a real smile, a wide, ever-so-happy smile, one he would not have been capable of only an hour previous.

‘Thank you,’ wax-David beamed at the Speaker as he took Nick-bot's hand in his own. John nodded once, reaching to the table and taking up an envelope.

‘Your identity documents,’ John said as he passed the envelope to Nick-bot. ‘You have different surnames, but your first names are the same. We've taken the liberty of getting you a flat in Brighton, although you can always move if you like. There are train tickets in there too, and some cash the, well, the other Nick and David donated to help you get started.’

Both men grinned at each other happily.

‘There is one condition to this you should know,’ John continued.

‘Anything,’ Nick-bot and wax-David chimed in unison.

‘You have to stay out of politics.’

That, the young men agreed, would not be a problem.

Epilogue

“ In what has been described as possibly the most bizarre event ever to take place, Madame Tussauds revealed today that the wax replica of Prime Minister David Cameron has gone missing. The model, which was commissioned in 2010, disappeared in the early hours of the morning five days ago, but until today Madame Tussauds had insisted the model was undergoing some repair work. In spite of an extensive investigation the location of the model remains a mystery. In a statement given earlier today, the Prime Minister said...”

Nick (the former bot) turned off the television and pulled (the former wax) David from his position on the sofa amidst a stream of complaints from the other that he had been watching that. They had arrived at their flat in Brighton, small but perfectly suitable for a twenty-something couple, that afternoon, and after walking along the pier and having dinner - a novelty considering they never needed to eat before - they had settled down together to watch the news, hardly expecting to see one of them as a headline piece. Now, however, Nick had other plans.

‘Come on,’ Nick said, hoisting David to his feet. ‘I'm taking you to bed.’

David stopped protesting immediately.

Now there was an idea that was better than watching anything on television.

David Cameron paced backward and forward in his office a few times, and then stopped again to read the headline that screamed at him from the front page of the Daily Mail.

TORY MP WRITES SLASH FICTION

Below was a picture of Peter Bone, Conservative MP for Wellingborough, with a look on his face David was sure would give him nightmares for weeks.

He paced across the room again, his feet landing heavily on the carpet.

Peter Bone?

PETER BONE!

I’m sure the media will have a field day with that surname, he thought wryly, rubbing his forehead with his hand and noticing he was decidedly sweaty. He reached into his pocket and fished out his handkerchief.

There was a soft knock at the door and David stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket before striding over and gripping the doorknob.

Nick Clegg stood in the corridor outside David’s office clutching a copy of The Guardian, its cover bearing a similarly startling picture of Peter Bone.

MINISTER OF HOMOEROTIC FICTION ran the slightly more muted headline.

Nick practically stamped his way into the office and slammed the newspaper on David’s desk. ‘Did you know about this?’ he demanded angrily.

‘No, Nick, I didn’t know,’ David replied, hanging is head and desperately wishing he was somewhere else, anywhere else.

‘No?’ Nick questioned.

‘NO!’ David insisted.

Nick slumped down on a leather covered chair and put his head in his hands. ‘I’m a fucking laughing stock,’

David had never before heard Nick curse, and he stood in shock for a moment before composing himself enough to reply, ‘We both are.’

Nick moved his face away from his hand and looked at David, ‘You’re not the one they’ve portrayed as a stepford wife.’ His face looked rueful.

David didn’t know what to say to that. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and then, thinking this made him look like he needed the lavatory, he walked around his desk and sat down, his gaze falling again to the newspapers and the abrasive headlines they displayed. ‘We should release a statement,’ he said, decidedly.

‘Oh, you think?’ the Lib Dem leader replied sarcastically.

‘Nick,’ David said, his tone a little more pleading than he would have liked, ‘I really think we should try to deal with this as professionally as we can.’

Nick rose to his feet, anger rising in his voice again. ‘Professionally?’ he spat, ‘Professionally!’

‘Yes, profess-’

‘Right, release a statement. Full investigation of claims. That kind of old politics bullshit.’

‘Nick, I really think you are taking this rather personally.’

‘Of course I am taking it personally. I don’t see how anyone could take it otherwise. Have you even read what Peter Bone has been writing?’ Nick stormed, marching over to David’s desk and stabbing his finger at the newspaper headlines.

‘Well, no, I…’

‘No, of course you haven’t. Too damn Tory to read further than the headline.’ Nick was furious, no, he was livid. He could feel himself losing control rapidly and David’s urbane manner wasn’t helping. How could he be so obtuse?

David watched in mute fascination as Nick fumed, his feet crushing the carpet and his expression growing ever more incensed. Then suddenly the Liberal Democrat leader stopped in his tracks, his lips curling in to a wicked smile.

‘You know what, David, you release your statement. I’ll support whatever you say.’

David stared at Nick, thoroughly bewildered by his sudden and inexplicable reversal of attitude.

‘Nick?’

Nick Clegg walked toward the door of David’s office, that strange, evil smile holding its place on his lips. As he pulled the door over he cast a last remark over his shoulder, too quickly for David to answer.

‘At least I’m the dom in most of them.’

They'd been flirting around the idea for months, sly suggestions of it that gave them both a feeling in their stomach that was a mixture of anticipation and a little dread.

David had finally agreed, and Nick had bit his lip in a familiar gesture as he pressed his hand against David's, reassuring him it would be okay.

‘Just take your time, David. You shouldn't rush it.’

David nodded. He lowered his mouth and began applying his tongue carefully. ‘Like this?’

‘Yes, like that.’ Nick's breath was a little short as he watched David's mouth working. ‘Like that.’

David smiled. He turned his attention fully to what he was doing. Mouth working eagerly and steadily. Fascinating. Nick stilled him with a hand laid carefully on his shoulder.

‘Not so hard, David.’

David paused for a moment, eager to accept the direction. It was, after all, his first time doing this. He locked eyes with Nick for a moment, looking for acceptance, finding it, and continuing with less pressure than before.

‘Good,’ Nick murmured, smiling gently, ‘Very good.’

The praise made David happy. He licked in gentle circles, teasing with his tongue. Nick watched patiently, his eyes a little unfocussed.

Presently, David stopped. ‘Are you sure I'm doing it right?’ he asked. Nick nodded softly, his hand finding David's hair. An unusual gesture, but one instantly pleasing; David's hair was soft and smooth.

‘You're doing it perfectly right now, just keep going.’

The tongue again, smooth circles, a gentle flicking motion; and he was nearly there. Nearly there! A gasp, and they looked at each other. David looked proud, Nick smiled down at him. ‘David.’

‘Oh Nick!’ David said, wiping his mouth. ‘Nick, I did it!’

Nick beamed at the Prime Minister. ‘You did, David. You really did!’

David rose to his feet, holding the proof of his achievement in his fingers. ‘I removed the orangey bit!’

‘David, we've got a problem,’ Nick said, slamming David's office door shut and flinging his body back against it as though to ward off evil.

‘What?’ David asked, studying his deputy's wide-eyed expression and heaving chest; it would have been attractive if not for the horror writ large across the other man's features.

‘It's the bear, David. It's coming,’ Nick exclaimed, as though this was supposed to explain everything and not lead David further into confusion.

‘The bear?’ David frowned, face creasing in on itself. Suddenly, a melodious female voice sounded in the corridor outside of his office door.

‘I'm the bear. I'm the bear and I'm coming!’

David was filled with inexplicable dread at the words, though he had no idea who the voice belonged to; the wretched squeaking of wheels accompanied the voice, grating their way down David's spine. The feeling was not helped by the sinister laughter that followed; somehow joyfully murderous.

Suddenly David was gripped by the intense desire to barricade the door with his desk, not wanting to see the owner of that terrible voice, a feeling he had, until that very moment, only associated with PETER BONE. Nick, thankfully, mercifully, and entirely understandably, appeared to be on the same page; gripping the bookcase next to him and frantically attempting to pull it in front of the door to prevent access.

‘Hee hee hee hee hee,’ said the voice outside the door, filling David's mind with images of horror. Ruled by panic, he rushed from his desk and helped Nick shove the bookcase in front of the door.

‘What the fuck is going on?’ David demanded when they both rested, backs against the bookcase, breathing rapidly.

‘It's the bear, David,’ Nick replied, turning to face David, the look of terror still evident. ‘I gather,’ David said. ‘What bear, and why is it saying that?’

‘The bear from the Teletubbies,’ Nick explained, his countenance not relaxing an inch. ‘The children's show?’

‘Yes, that one. It's fucking terrifying.’

David laughed; flung his head toward the ceiling and roared. ‘Some prop from a kids show has you this frightened? You're being ridiculous,’ David exclaimed, pulling the bookcase away from the door and moving his hand to the doorknob.

‘No! David don't!’

David paid Nick no mind and opened the door.

The bear advanced upon him, wheels squeaking menacingly.

‘I'm the bear. I'm the bear and I'm coming.’

As David helplessly tried to retreat, he suddenly thought Nick had been right all along.

George's hat was the most impressive tin hat anyone had ever seen. No twisted, untidy kitchen foil for the president of their little group, no sir; this tin hat was a work of art! The crown-shaped magnificence was crafted from the wrappers of the giant chocolate coins they sold in the Commons shop.

Danny wondered how on earth George had found the time to make it, whilst secretly wishing he had thought of the idea.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ George said, his head bobbing up and down with obvious excitement as the others “oohed” and “aahed” over his crowning glory. ‘Let's start, shall we?’

‘Yes George,’ Danny said, cursing himself inwardly as George shot him a look. ‘Sorry, Gids.’

That was one of the rules, no real names. In this room they were not MPs, they were members of “Club Clameron”; a secret society, if you like, that met once a week to talk about the heads of the coalition.

George settled himself in his usual chair, the tinfoil crown balanced snugly atop his head. If he hadn't been sitting in an armchair, he could have looked quiet regal, instead of entirely barking. Still, as the others settled down alongside in their own tin hats (hats which looked tardy next to George's) it completed the theme of the meeting perfectly.

‘We've had a request for membership,’ David Laws said, leaning over the side of his chair and swinging his feet under himself.

‘Really, Tiny? Who from?’

David Laws gulped, as if steeling himself. ‘Peter Bone,’ he said.

Around the room, MPs gasped in collective horror, some faces fell and others turned a distinct shade of green.

‘Oh no!’ Danny exclaimed. ‘How did he even find out?’

George gestured with his hands, signalling silence, and the hum of voices ceased. ‘We'll put it to a vote,’ George said. ‘Alex?’

Five pairs of eyes turned expectantly to Danny, since he was the member responsible for this kind of thing, polls, votes, anything remotely needing a sense of officialness. Danny stood up.

‘Gentlemen, the proposal before us is the acceptance of Peter Bone into Club Clameron. All those in favour say “Aye”.’

Not one voice sounded in the room.

‘Of the contrary “No”.’

And they said it in unison, all five of them, six including Danny himself.

‘I think the “Nos” have it,’ Danny said, sitting down again. ‘I'll tell him tomorrow. Let's watch the video.’

‘Oh, what one is it this week?’ William said, speaking for the first time since he had entered the room. Funny how quiet he was here, since at the dispatch box he could go on a bit, though he was no rival to Jack Straw.

George grinned and produced a recorded dvd from his inside pocket. ‘It's been a while since we watched this one,’ he said cryptically as he walked over and inserted the dvd in the player. He fumbled with the controls, stabbing at them with his fingers, and then cursed. ‘A little help?’

Everyone collectively facepalmed as Danny stood up and efficiently pressed play. The screen flickered to life and George and Danny hurried back to their seats.

The moment the music started everyone realised what George had put on. A classic, by their standards. The infamous and decidedly lovely Dave & Nick: Where Did It All Go Right? George grinned and let out a little yelp as the screen showed the two coalition partners surrounded by love hearts; he was by far the most vocal of the group, the others often having to shush him so they could hear what was being said, but he wrote the best stories so they couldn't find it in their hearts to stay mad at him for long.

By the time the show got to the Rose Garden “favourite joke” scene, George had given up his chair completely and was sitting on the floor in front of it looking like he would explode with joy any second. David Laws was still curled up in his chair with his legs under him, William had disappeared to take a phone call, Danny had retreated to the back of the room and was furiously scribbling “five days” meta fic, Mark Harper had fallen asleep and Michael Gove was snickering and drawing on Mark's face with a marker pen.

‘Don't think humble pie is what he's eating,’ commented William as he came back into the room.

‘Picard, don't. We don't know for sure they're doing anything,’ David said, always the voice of sensible reason, in spite of his prolific stories featuring blow jobs in the PM's office, among other things.

‘Oh, come on! You've seen how they are together. There's no smoke without fire,’ Danny piped up, raising his head momentarily from the paper before him.

‘And we all know David is finding Nick rather good company,’ George interjected, the grin still firmly fixed on his face. ‘He admitted it in the paper.’

‘Oh, that article, I died,’ Michael said, finishing up the last of a twirling moustache on Mark's face and leaning back to admire his handiwork. William chuckled as he noticed the moustached and bespectacled appearance.

‘God, Monty, I hope you don't let him walk out of here looking like that!’

The television was forgotten as the rest inspected Mark Harper's face, giggling into their hands so they didn't wake him. George took out his phone to take a picture. ‘Evidence,’ he said as the shutter clicked.

One by one they settled back down in their chairs and watched the rest of the programme. The closing shot of David escorting Nick into number 10 with the credits framed in yet more love hearts caused more than one of the members of Club Clameron to sigh with happiness.

‘This gets better every time, I swear,’ William said. No answer was needed to this observation, they all knew how they felt about this particular piece of television history. ‘How's it going, Alex?’ Michael asked, creeping up and peering over Danny's shoulder. ‘Hey now, no peeking!’ Danny swung his arm protectively over his story. ‘I haven't finished this bit yet.’

‘Did they moan about Ed Balls yet?’ William asked.

‘Yes, they did. Just like you asked.’

William clapped his hands with delight; he did it often and the others had only just learned to find it funny rather than disturbing. The noise woke Mark, who jumped and fell out of his chair. ‘Shit.’

Laughter sounded, partly because of the incident and partly because of the comedy moustache and spectacles. Mark frowned up at them from the floor, but this only served to make the glasses crinkle around his eyes and made the rest laugh all the harder. Finally George took pity on him.

‘Better use the bathroom before you go,’ George said. ‘You've got something on your face.’ He helped Mark to his feet, holding his expression firmly in check until Mark left the room.

A few seconds later Mark shouted, ‘You guys are dead for this.’

When Mark returned, his face pink from scrubbing, George faced the rest of them. He hated this part of the meeting, but it was his official duty as president to close the meeting.

‘Since no one has finished any of their stories this week, I think we shall close earlier than usual. I suggest you take the time to make whatever progress you can on your works in progress.’ George looked pointedly at Danny. ‘So, it is my unhappy duty to end this meeting of Club Clameron. I'll see you next week at the same time.’

George took off his tinfoil crown and left the room, the rest following close behind.

David picked up his blackberry and looked at the screen. Message from Nick, it read, and he clicked to open it.

David, Can you come to my office?
Big trouble!
Use side door.

Dropping the blackberry to his desk, David got up and strolled through the corridor that connected his and Nick's offices. He opened the door without knocking, and found Nick sitting at his desk, head bent over and brow creased in concentration.

‘Ah, David,’ Nick said, not stopping what he was doing, ‘You've got to help me.’

‘Help you with what?’ asked David, walking closer to Nick's desk and noticing for the first time that Nick's office appeared to be littered by empty crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers.

‘I can't stop doing this. I don't know why!’ Nick's voice was layered with desperation. David turned his attention from the mountain of crisp packets spilling out of the bin to Nick's desk, which was covered in crumbs and chocolate, a neat line of orange-tinged transparent circles sat at one edge.

‘Nick, what are you doing?’ David asked, watching as Nick patiently picked the chocolate covering from the top of a jaffa cake. David could see a look of confusion and horror on Nick's downturned face.

Nick did not stop and he did not look up as he said, ‘I'm removing the orangey bit.’

Across the deserted wilderness they walk, making the pilgrimage to the Holy Place, believed to be the ground where the legendary HoC stood, in the years before the happening.

Dressed in suits and ties they progress steadily onward, stopping every four hours and dropping to the ground, holding up their arms, palms outward, and offering the customary prayers to “He of the Wrists”, that he should guide and protect them on their perilous journey through the dangerous and uninhabited badlands. Sleeping huddled together under green blankets, they progress steadily and finally reach their destination.

The tall Golden Tower rises up before them, a symbol of the God they worship; enshrouded in mystery and believed to have been built by someone known only as Ben. They fall to their knees and hold each other, overcome with squee for being so close to the Holy Relic.

The priestesses are waiting to greet them at the temple beneath the shadow of the Golden Tower, throwing their arms wide they proclaim with great excitement, ‘Oh my God, you guys made it.’

They are ushered, weary and footsore, into the great hall, with its lines of green benches. On the wall above the altar there hangs a marvellous representation of the Clameron, the two-headed God who did rule upon high in the time when there was light and love and lots of buttsex.

The priestesses stand upon the platform before the altar and raise their hands to give thanks, speaking the words from Holy scripture.

‘Shut the fuck up and hear the words now spoken.
We gather here Loliticians, to give thanks to the Mighty Clameron.
The one God and BAMF.
Blessed is He and all who follow in His path.
May he guide us and protect us from the BONE.
Keeping us safe in our bedforts.
Now and forever, yo.
‘Bercow.’

‘Bercow,’ the congregation echoes, moving forward to accept the offering of jaffa cake, believed to be the last meal of God.

Back in their seats, they pick up their hymn books and proceed to sing hymn number forty-seven: In Bed with and Ardent Europhile.

There was much squeeing and loling amongst them as they begin to drink, as is the tradition whenever the chorus is reached, thus the rules of the drinking game teach them. The priestesses then again read from the book of Fandom.

‘And did he say, there have been 13 years of misery and darkness, but lo, Clameron came to the earth and did preach there was another way. He tasked He of the Wrists to make a better world, a world that was fair and not full of harshing. And lo, it came to pass that He of the Wrists presented a magic budgie to the people, a beautiful blue bird with a crop of yellow feathers on its breast and a tiny tie. And yay did the Gideon budgie sing and spread its wings to fly above the land, bringing much squee to the hearts of the people.

‘But there were those who spoke against the Clameron, dissing his wisdom and saying do not want. They did march and protest at the love offered and pledged allegiance to the unholy one, bringing the world to darkness and ruin as they spent all the money. They did capture the Gideon budgie and cage it, where it did sing of its unhappiness and woe.

‘And Clameron, defeated, left this world and went to the wondrous kingdom of Westminster, leaving nothing but darkness.’

Shouts and angry growls echoed around the chamber until the Speaker rose and shouted for order, whence the congregation fell silent, bowing their heads to the HBIC. After hymn number eighteen (Samantha Get Your Frock On) the priestesses bowed before the image of Clameron, raising their hands in silent prayer and all those present did Gidsface and drink profusely, well into the night.

Nick stared incredulously, eyes flicking from David's eager smile to the sun-coloured cake David held in his hands and back again in rapid succession. Perhaps it was the disconcerting gleam in David's eyes that had prevented him from responding to the cheerful “Happy Birthday!” that David had greeted him with when entering the office, more likely, it was the cake. The cake decorated with yellow sprinkles...

...and a misshapen heart.

Nick wondered, not for the first time, if David was trying to tell him something.

‘Do you like it?’ David asked, the smile faltering for the briefest fraction of a second and giving him the look of a puppy that has had its favourite toy taken away. ‘It's, uh, it's very nice, David,’ Nick replied, trying his best to be diplomatic.

‘I made it myself, you know.’

The grin again, the beaming of a cook with pride in his abilities.

‘It's very yellow.’ Nick groaned inwardly at the stupidity of his statement, concentrating on keeping his smile fixed firmly in place, and contemplating the appropriate way to respond when the Prime Minister baked you a cake for your birthday. David, however, only smiled wider.

‘Thought you'd like that,’ David said, placing the confection in front of Nick on the desk and reaching into his pocket. Nick eyed him suspiciously, not relaxing entirely when David's hand emerged holding a single yellow candle and a box of matches. ‘Going to make a wish?’ David asked as he ceremoniously placed the candle into the centre of the cake, creasing his brow when it promptly fell over, uprooting a section of the icing as it did so.

I wish you hadn't given me a cake with a heart on it, thought Nick, growing increasingly uncomfortable as David fought to keep the candle upright. It would have been comical, Nick reflected, if the cake had not been so ridiculously decorated, or if it hadn't come from David.

‘I'll admit,’ David continued, seemingly oblivious to the fact Nick was mentally preparing to run from the room, ‘the icing isn't perfect. I've never been very good at that, I'm afraid.’ David continued his battle with the stubborn candle, finally succeeding in persuading it to stay where it had been put.

‘There,’ David said, triumphantly. Striking a match and holding it to the wick until it caught alight.

Nick looked at him dubiously; inexplicably afraid this was some kind obsolete courting ritual, and blowing out the candle would be akin to saying “I do”. Ridiculous, of course, but what else could a person think when presented with something of this nature? He paused, pretending to think about what he might wish for, as David waited expectantly.

Nothing for it, I suppose, Nick thought, blowing in the direction of the candle until it was extinguished.

David smiled widely and clapped Nick on the shoulder. ‘Happy birthday,’ he said again, before turning to leave the room.

Puzzled, Nick asked, ‘Aren't you going to stay for a slice?’

‘Oh, I couldn't,’ David shouted over his shoulder as he left the room. ‘What would the press say if they got wind of me eating cake with a Liberal Democrat bird on it?’

Nick held his breath until the door closed before bursting into laughter.

Once upon a time there was a Prime Minister named David Cameron. He had short dark hair that had a floofy little quiff, it constantly fell down across his forehead and made David very cross. Very cross indeed.

One day David was skipping through his kingdom when he came across a plane. It was a large, shiny plane and David skipped up the steps and went inside. Inside there were lots of men in uniform and David felt happy.

Then suddenly the door closed and the plane started to take off.

Oh no, thought David. I'm supposed to be running the country! Nick will forget if I'm not there!

David soon forgot his worries when he looked out of the window and saw the plane was flying high above the ground.

‘Weee!’ said David in delight.

Soon David felt tired from his merry spinning and he looked around for somewhere to sleep. There in the corner was a bed, and David skipped happily over to it and climbed under the covers.

Oh this won't do at all! thought David, tossing and turning, feeling very uncomfortable in the plain bed that belonged to the head of the army. This bed is far too hard!

David felt very sad.

When David got of the plane he met a man named Obama who smiled happily and shook David's hand. Obama was the ruler of the kingdom where the plane had taken David, he invited David to skip through the kingdom with him. Together they saw many things.

Soon David was tired from all of his merry adventures with Obama and he looked around for somewhere to sleep.

‘You may sleep in my bed,’ said Obama, still smiling happily. David skipped happily to the bed and climbed under the covers.

Oh this won't do at all! thought David, tossing and turning, feeling he would be swallowed by the soft, feathery bed that belonged to Obama. This bed is far too soft!

David felt very sad.

When he had said goodbye to Obama and rode in the shiny plane again, David found himself back in his kingdom and skipped happily to his office to make sure Nick hadn't forgotten to run the country while he was away.

But Nick was not there.

Oh dear, thought David, trotting around and around as he looked for Nick.

Soon David was tired from his not so merry searching and he looked around for somewhere to sleep. There in the corner of Nick's office was a bed, a most strange place for a bed but in fairy tales strange things happen all the time. David walked over to it (for by now he was getting tired of skipping) and climbed under the covers, only to find Nick was already in the bed.

Oh dear, thought David. I should not sleep in Nick's bed. But he was very tired from all of his adventures and Nick's bed was very comfortable, and Nick was turning over and giving David a cuddle.

‘Hello,’ said Nick as he opened his eyes. ‘Did you have fun?’

‘No, I skipped and tripped and flew, and nowhere could I find a comfortable bed in which to sleep,’ David pouted most vigorously, feeling very sad. ‘And now I have found a comfortable bed but there is someone already in it.’

‘It's not all bad,’ grinned Nick.

David was about to disagree when Nick leaned over and kissed him most lightly, right on his mouth.

Oh my, thought David, smiling quite widely and suddenly feeling not tired at all. This bed is just right after all!

‘What on earth are you doing?’

Nick froze, his pale eyes wide with embarrassment, hand paused midway between plate and mouth, jaffa cake gripped lightly between finger and thumb, beginning to flush furiously as he sat cross legged atop the checked blanket that covered his desk.

‘I - I - I,’ he stammered, his boyish face earnest in surprise, a hint of a nervous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he remained still under David's questioning gaze, looking increasingly akin to a deer caught in headlights. ‘Desk picnic,’ he mumbled hurriedly, turning his crimson face downward and returning the jaffa cake to the plate at his side.

‘Desk picnic?’ echoed David, sounding unconvinced, his own keen gaze sweeping about the scene before him. Nick - shoeless, shirt open at the top and messily ruffled at the waist, now absently sucking melted chocolate off of his index finger - his desk covered by a finely chequered blanket in tones of orange and green, atop which was a plate containing a stack of small triangular sandwiches, some crisps - McCoy's by the look of them - the jaffa cakes of which Nick was so ridiculously fond, and of course Nick himself. Spread out before him were a number of official looking reports, government headers stamped loudly at the tops of pages and cramped handwriting cluttering the margins. There were several chocolatey fingerprints on the one Nick held in his hand.

‘I - I -’ stammered Nick again, glancing up at David repentantly, eyebrows raised and hangdog expression on his handsome face.

‘Does your party know you are actually quite mad?’ interrupted David, giving a low laugh and shaking his head as he crossed the room to stand beside the desk Nick was sat upon. ‘Desk picnic, indeed.’

‘Don't knock it until you've tried it,’ grinned Nick, his blush now receding. He gestured to the plate of food beside him. ‘Have a sandwich. They're quite good.’

‘I've already eaten,’ replied David. He sat down on the edge of the desk as Nick reached up and affectionately ruffled his hair. David shot him a stern look. ‘Not the hair, Nick. I've got a speech in half an hour.’

‘Does your party know you care about your hair more than some of their policies?’ Nick chuckled in a low voice, leaning forward and planting a kiss on David's cheek, his arm wrapping around David's waist.

‘Well, if you won't tell them then I'll keep your secret fetish for, er, desk picnics to myself,’ laughed David. ‘Do you do this often?’

‘Oh a few times, sporadically,’ commented Nick, shifting position and pulling David closer to him. ‘Though naturally I'm now, now thinking there are better uses for my desk than having a picnic. Care to join me?’

‘I thought you'd never ask,’ answered David, smiling as Nick lay back across the desk and pulled David on top of him. Desk picnic, indeed.

‘David?’ Nick's voice asks as David hears the door open. Then, after a few seconds have passed. ‘Dave?’

David's reply comes out as something between a moan and Nick's name, muffled, incoherent, and David squirms with frustration, for all the good it does him. The overhead light blinks to life, low and dull, in a thin line at the bottom of the cloth that is covering David's eyes. He struggles again as he hears footsteps approaching, twisting his hands and tugging futilely when he is unable to get them free. Any second now Nick's feet will carry him around the corner and he will see...

‘Dave, I got your message. What's so urgent that-’

Nick's voice cuts out abruptly with a short cry of shock, and David groans - he knows what Nick is seeing - but then Nick laughs, clearly amused, and David turns his head in the direction of where he thinks Nick must be standing.

Help. That's what he means to say, but between the gag and the blindfold and the fact he can't get loose from the embarrassing position he is in, the word sounds more like, ‘Hmp.’

‘Nice boxers,’ Nick chuckles. He must be next to the bed now, David guesses as the flicker of a shadow moves against the thin strip of not-quite-vision he has.

Nice boxers? David thinks. No they're not. They're tacky and ridiculous and he never should have trusted Sam when she put them in his hands and purred he should wear them, or when she got a wickedly arousing glint in her eye and suggested they have a little fun.

This isn't David's idea of fun, being bound on his bed and naked except for a pair of boxer shorts covered in little blue hearts - he's immensely grateful they're not red, for some reason - while Nick doesn't even attempt to stifle his low, breathy laughs at the sight. He shouldn't really be bothered by the fact it is Nick seeing him this way; Nick has, after all, seen him in boxers countless times, and completely naked just as much, but there's something about the vulnerability of his position that makes him feel suddenly mistrustful.

‘Want a hand, Dave?’ Nick asks. Thankfully he sounds serious now instead of amused. David nods rapidly, hair making swishy sounds against the pillow, and then Nick's hands are reaching round to the back of his head and carefully untying the cloth covering David's mouth.

‘Thanks,’ David gasps gratefully when it is gone, licking his lips and trying to get the faintly soapy taste of fabric conditioner out of his mouth. He is about to say something else when Nick kisses him, ever so softly, and he feels the side of the mattress dip down under Nick's weight. For the moment, David kisses back, not worrying about the fact he is still tied up and blindfolded, and he doesn't really mind that Nick's hand is rubbing lightly on the centre of his chest; the physical contact is reassuring. He can feel the cuff of Nick's shirt, the coolness of the buttons, against his skin.

Little by little, David finds himself not caring Nick has not yet freed him from his restraints. Nick kisses him more insistently, and David is drawn in, returning the kiss as best as he can with the restrictions of his movements. There has always been something about the way Nick kisses - all gentle flicks of tongue and tiny nibbles at David's lips - David finds fascinating, and incredibly arousing, so when the blunt stub of Nick's finger rolls over one of his exposed nipples, David moans into Nick's mouth, arching into the touch.

‘What do you think, Dave?’ Nick whispers, breaking away from David's mouth to press hot, wet kisses along his jaw and down his neck. David feels Nick shifting position; he can't quite tell to where until the smooth fabric of Nick's trousers slides over his legs and Nick's weight settles on his thighs, removing what little ability David had to move at all. ‘Want me to let you go?’

In spite of the fluttery nervousness rolling in his stomach, David shakes his head. Nick's hands return to his chest, fingertips tracing through the sparse hair and circling teasingly around his nipples. David hisses as Nick leans down and sucks one roughly into his mouth, nipping at it with his teeth and slicking it with his tongue.

‘Fuck,’ David says in a coarse voice.

‘Not yet,’ comes the amused reply, words buzzing through David's skin as Nick continues to lap and suck until David is panting breathlessly beneath him, rocking his hips back and forward in a desperate bid for friction he can't quite find as Nick's body stays frustratingly out of reach. In ordinary circumstances, David would have grabbed hold of Nick and physically pushed their bodies together, but with his arms stretched out above his head all he can do is writhe helplessly.

‘I think I like you like this,’ Nick murmurs. And then he is gone; teeth, tongue, and lips all disappointingly absent; weight no longer pinning David to the bed. David whines and tries to lift his head. He can hear the rustling of cloth and the dull clink of metal, and imagines Nick is undressing. A sharp spike of lust shoots through him as he thinks of Nick watching him as he takes off his clothes, the blue-grey gaze David knows so well slipping languidly over his exposed form. The thought makes him shiver.

It feels like forever before Nick finally returns to the bed, but David is not sure whether Nick has removed his clothes or not because Nick perches at the foot of it, as far away from David as it is possible for him to be, and his fingers swirl tight little circles on David's ankle in a way that makes David's leg twitch.

‘Nick?’ David breathes, stretching his other foot down as far as it will go but not finding anything more than empty air. Then Nick shifts, sitting just in reach of David's questing toes, and the fingers on David's ankle curl round and hold gently as Nick lifts it away from the mattress. ‘Nick?’ David says again.

Nick doesn't answer. David feels a tickle of breath against his foot, and then Nick's lips are pressing gently against the pads of his toes. The sensation is unusual. David would have balked at the suggestion if Nick had asked - feet aren't something he generally associates with sex - but as Nick darts his tongue into the space between David's toes, David gives a gruff moan of pleasure, and another, louder moan as Nick sucks a toe into his mouth.

‘Nice?’ Nick questions, his breath ghosting hotly over David's sole as he applies his tongue there, licking slowly from heel to toes and back down. David nods, grunting ungracefully as Nick nibbles round to his instep, his toes curling tightly as a series of tingles shoot up his leg and straight to his groin. He wishes Nick would touch him; he's painfully hard and longs to feel Nick's hand on him instead of this slow, torturous teasing, but at the same time what Nick is doing to his foot, the way his tongue is dancing in locations that feel as specific as they are seemingly random, is incredibly erotic, and he finds being tied up, letting go of any degree of control over the situation, strangely liberating.

Nick is mouthing his way along the back of David's calf, his large hands sliding up David's thighs but stopping just short of where David wants so desperately to be touched. David rocks his hips, whimpering as Nick makes steady progress along his leg, past his knee, along the inside of his thigh to the edge of the ridiculous boxer shorts he has, by now, forgotten he is wearing; forgotten, that is, until Nick comments, his voice thick with mirth:

‘Those really are nice boxers, Dave.’

If his hands were not tied, David would very likely have clouted him, or attempted to, since Nick punctuates the last three words with teasingly soft kisses to his cloth covered erection. As it is, David can barely manage to think straight, and mumbles the first thing that comes to mind.

‘If you like them so much you can have them.’

‘I like them better on you,’ Nick chuckles.

‘I'd like them better off me,’ David says in irritation, mostly because the hideous garment is in the way of what Nick is doing with his mouth, something which is entirely unfair.

‘In a while,’ Nick promises lightly, his hand creeping under the hem to stroke David's bare skin. David groans. He's never realised what an utter tease Nick could be.

Without the benefit of having his hands free so he can direct Nick's head exactly where he wants it to go, David can only grumble in frustration as Nick kisses his stomach. After a few minutes of this, David is so hopelessly turned on by the few fleeting touches through the cotton of his boxers he is pleading for more.

Finally, Nick's fingers curl around the waistband of his underwear and tug them over his hips. David kicks his legs impatiently, eager to get rid of them entirely and mumbling a curse that becomes a loud, keening wail as Nick's mouth is on him, sucking him hot and hard and deep. David bucks upward helplessly, grabbing at the ties that bind his wrists and using them to attempt to get his body away from the mattress and closer to the tight heat of Nick's mouth.

‘Nick, fuck, Nick that's...’ David shouts, trailing off with a strangled sound as Nick starts to move, working his mouth up and down while he pins David to the bed by his hips, hands gripping tightly as David begins to tremble and shake.

The way David is lying and the faint ache that is beginning to set into the joints of his shoulders seems to keep him from shooting to immediate climax, instead, he lingers somewhere on the edge, crying out increasingly hoarsely as Nick shows no sign of stopping, the low hums he makes reverberating through every taut muscle in David's body.

David is not sure how much time he has spent with eyes squeezed shut and every one of his senses reeling when Nick presses a slick finger into him; he doesn't care how it looks when he pushes back with his hips as much as he can, or how it sounds when he begs Nick to stop teasing and fuck him. He is thrashing wildly, completely out of control.

And he is loving every moment of it.

‘I definitely like you like this,’ Nick says in his ear, the sound sudden and surprising. David turns his head to kiss Nick, thrusting his tongue messily into Nick's mouth and whimpering as Nick kisses him back with equal enthusiasm, and about as much finesse. Nick's hand is on David's hip, slick and slippery against his skin, and Nick breaks the kiss, moving his weight to one side as his hand grabs hold of David's leg, wrapping it around his waist as he pushes forward.

‘God, Dave, do you have any idea how fucking hot you look right now?’ Nick whispers, the rush of air against David's ear making him shiver.

‘Please, Nick,’ David pleads. He is overcome by an intense desire to touch, and yanks his arms to get them free. ‘Untie me.’

Nick responds to the request instantly, stretching his hand up and loosening the knot holding David in place, and David, unrestricted for the first time since Nick arrived, drags his nails down Nick's back, ignoring the aching of his shoulders as he urges Nick to move, clinging with arms around Nick's shoulders as Nick kisses him again, briefly, before his head falls to David's shoulder.

The movement of Nick's body and the way he is breathing filthy words into David's ear is made all the more intense, somehow, by the fact David still can't see anything. He grinds his hips erratically, suddenly wanting to be on his knees with Nick behind him, fucking him hard as he begs for more. The thought alone is enough to make him come with a guttural cry, every muscle tensing as he throws his head back. A few seconds later, Nick collapses on top of him with one final jolt of his hips.

His arm feeling heavy, David reaches up and slips the blindfold from his eyes, blinking at the brightness of the room as his eyes adjust. Nick stirs and rolls off to one side, stretching sleepily as he turns his head and looks at David with a dazed and sated smile.

‘That was fucking amazing,’ Nick says.

David nods in agreement, chucking the blindfold over the side of the bed to the floor and letting his arm fall back to the mattress. Nick reaches out to him and drags him closer, the rough palm of his hand curling around David's cheek as he places a quick kiss against David's lips. Nick's face lengthens as he suppresses a yawn, and David realises he is tired too, physically exhausted. He closes his eyes, just for a second, he tells himself. It turns out to be longer.

When he wakes up, David turns to see Nick still asleep, his boyish features relaxed as he snores lightly. Over Nick's shoulder, David can see a pink slip of card on the bedside table, and he reaches across Nick's sleeping form to see what it is.

Nick, it says in Sam's handwriting. No doubt Miriam has already given you your present. I hope you're wearing them. They were a joke, if you hadn't guessed. Your real present is on the bed. Happy valentines day. P.S. I'd like him back by seven, and Miriam expects you home then as well.

The sneaky little... David thinks. He leans over to return the card to where he had found it and spies Nick's clothes on the floor in a pile. Right on top there is a pair of boxer shorts, they're identical to David's except for one detail; the hearts on Nick's pair are yellow.

Stifling his laughter, David looks at the clock and notices it is not even one o'clock. He flops back down on the bed and stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, grinning wider and wider as an idea pops into his head, then he cranes over his side of the bed and grabs the blindfold and ties, running them through his fingers thoughtfully as he watches Nick sleep.

Six hours until seven o'clock; plenty of time.

Besides, why should Nick have all the fun?

During the last few months the time David had been able to spend with Nick had diminished to a few hours grabbed on a Sunday, if both of them were in the country, and it had been a month since they had been able to be alone like this. David arrived at Nick's Putney home at around nine o'clock in the morning, full of giddy enthusiasm, and Nick had greeted him at the door looking like he had not slept all weekend. His expression was vacant and the hello-kiss he had given David held a definite air of distraction, as though Nick wanted to be somewhere else. It took only minutes for David to find out why; the reason was apparently something called Skyrim.

David did not understand what the big deal was, or why a video game should be so damn important Nick was practically ignoring him. Although 'practically' implied he had even a little of Nick's attention, which was completely untrue. Nick was, at that very moment, sitting in front of the computer monitor, the electric glow illuminating his boyish features, completely engrossed in whatever was happening.

‘Nick?’ David said, but got no answer and only the briefest glance from Nick before his attention turned back to the screen. ‘Nick!’ David tried again, louder.

‘Just a minute,’ Nick mumbled, fingers still clicking on the keyboard and hand moving the mouse.

‘You said that half an hour ago,’ David whined, flouncing across the room and slumping rag doll-like onto the large, cushioned sofa against the wall under the window. Nick remained silent.

This was utterly unfair; unfair and ridiculous. It was forty-five minutes since David had walked through the door and Nick was not yet in any state close to breathless (unless you counted the episode of almost-hyperventilation ten minutes ago when Nick was fighting some kind of wilderness animal), or undressed, or pinning David beneath him on the sofa and kissing him senseless.

‘David look, there's a dragon!’ Nick exclaimed, fidgeting excitedly in his seat.

I don't care about bloody dragons, David thought, staring at the pattern of the wallpaper in boredom. It was intolerable. Finding himself lying on Nick's sofa examining the corner angle of the ceiling while Nick played a video game. David huffed in annoyance and flipped over so he was facing the sofa back. If Nick was going to ignore him then he would jolly well do the same to Nick. At least Nick deserved it for being such a bore.

The resolve did not last long. Within a few minutes, the tedium of counting the dots on the cushions was so great that David, determined to prove he was more interesting than simulated battle against giants, got up and strode across the room, stopping behind Nick's chair and leaning down to kiss Nick on the back of his neck.

Nick's reaction to this was to edge his head away with a groan of irritation and keep playing. ‘You're distracting me,’ he complained before proceeding to ignore David once more.

‘Are you going to play this all day?’ David asked crossly. ‘I came over to see you, not to watch you sit at the computer playing games.’

‘I just want to finish this bit,’ Nick answered. David was both unconvinced and beginning to lose his temper. Their first time alone in a month and Nick was paying more attention to a damn game than he was to David, it was positively infuriating. David suddenly longed for the days when they had been nervously excited, perhaps even a little reckless; when an accidental touch in a meeting had led to one of them crushing the other against the nearest item of furniture at the first opportunity.

In a lot of ways what they had with each other was better now, but David found that today he missed the passionate abandon of the past and the way Nick used to look at him like he was the only person in the world. Now he could not even pry Nick's attention away from a video game. Whatever spark there had been between them in the beginning, it had faded, and David had the horrible suspicion it was gone for good, though he had never voiced it to Nick, fearing the other man would agree or, even more unthinkably, suggest they should end this.

The latter thought should not have upset David as much as it did.

Frustrated and confused by his sudden need to be acknowledged, David bent down again and kissed Nick a second time, trailing his tongue along the smooth skin of Nick's neck. Nick protested again, but this time did not pull away.

‘I'll make you a deal,’ David said into Nick's ear. ‘If you can ignore me for five minutes, no matter what I do, then I will sit here for as long as you like while you play your game, and I won't complain.’

Nick paused the game, turning to look at David with a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘Sounds like you fancy playing a game of your own,’ he chuckled. ‘Does it have rules?’

‘Do you want rules?’ David asked.

‘I think you'd have to agree what you are suggesting needs them,’ Nick answered, grinning at David. ‘For instance, if I agree to no matter what you do then what's to stop you from turning off the computer, or sitting on the desk blocking the screen?’

‘Hm, that wasn't what I had in mind, so I'll agree not to do either,’ David said.

‘Or stop me moving my arms,’ Nick added, seemingly just thinking of it.

‘Fair enough,’ David chuckled. ‘Is that everything?’

‘I think so,’ Nick smiled. ‘Though I don't rate your chances here, David. This is a bloody good game and very engrossing.’

‘We'll see,’ David replied. Nick turned back to the screen and resumed playing, a smile playing on his lips, and David could tell from the sly smile that Nick was waiting for David to try to distract him. Instead, David stood upright and walked out of the room, walking to Nick's kitchen and going straight for the freezer.

It was perfectly within the rules, David thought, feeling slightly wicked at the plan that had formulated in his mind. No blocking the screen and no restricting Nick's arms. He tapped an ice cube from the plastic tray and held it loosely in his hand as he returned to the room where Nick was, stepping quietly up behind Nick's chair again and watching as Nick tapped on the keyboard, apparently having forgotten David's presence once more.

Kneeling down behind Nick, David grasped the ice cube tightly between his thumb and forefinger. It was already beginning to melt and water trickled its way down David's hand and wrist. He pressed the cube to the back of Nick's neck.

‘Bloody hell, that's cold!’ Nick exclaimed, jumping slightly.

‘One more like that and I'll win,’ David warned, and watched as Nick deliberately set his shoulders in defiance, bracing himself. David grinned to himself and ran the ice cube from Nick's hairline to the collar of the casual shirt he was wearing. Nick trembled slightly but gave no other reaction, so David followed the cold cube with his mouth, lapping up the drops of water he had left on Nick's skin with the ice. He glanced over Nick's shoulder and saw Nick's character was creeping slowly through an empty dungeon of some kind, searching in barrels.

In all honesty, David had thought the trick with the ice cube would have been enough to get Nick's attention, or at the very least make it falter enough that he could no longer play the game, but it seemed Nick was taking the game between himself and David very seriously.

Time to up the ante, David thought. He made a few more passes of ice and tongue, and reached one hand around Nick's waist, unbuttoning Nick's trousers and slipping his hand inside. Nick moaned.

‘What was that?’ David asked.

‘I - A draugr killed me,’ Nick said hurriedly. It was probably not true, David reasoned, but this was turning out to be more fun than he had anticipated and he did not want it to end just yet, so he ignored the lie.

David dropped the ice cube into an empty coffee mug nearby - since that tactic had proved to be useless he had no more need of it - and shuffled on his knees to the side of Nick's chair.

Whatever attention Nick was or was not paying to him, David could feel a certain part of Nick's anatomy was very interested in proceedings, and he intended to take advantage of the fact. He ducked his head down under Nick's arm and pressed his mouth to the outside of Nick's trousers. Nick grunted, his leg twitching against David's chest, but David could still hear the clicking of the keyboard as Nick's fingers moved, although it sounded less coordinated than it had moments before. He pushed Nick's underwear down with his hand and sucked the head of Nick's cock into his mouth.

‘Fuck,’ Nick hissed, one of his hands winding into David's hair. ‘That's cheating, David.’

Smirking as he stopped and looked up at Nick's flushed face, David said, ‘You made the rules, and I haven't broken them.’

‘I didn't think you meant you'd do that,’ Nick replied.

‘Someone is a sore loser,’ David commented.

Nick pushed David away, rearranging his underwear and getting to his feet. He held his hand out to David and helped him up. ‘I'm not a sore loser,’ he said, giving David a quick kiss before dragging him in the direction of the stairs. ‘At least, not yet.’

Nick Clegg stood at the edge of the crowd feeling like a complete idiot and, he thought, looking like one too. The white shirt he wore had elaborate ruffles which stuck out comically from under the crimson waistcoat covered in brocade. A gold coloured mask covered the upper half of his face, the top disappearing beneath the bushy, Venetian-style wig that made his head sweat and itch. Whose idea had it been that they should have a masked ball? Probably Gideon, he always liked dressing up in things.

He scanned the crowd looking for Miriam, but the masks made it impossible to tell one person from another, so he waited in growing discomfort until a hand touched his shoulder and he turned around, confronted by the sight of someone looking equally ridiculous, wearing a white painted mask that had feathers sticking from the top. Nick's mouth quivered in mirth as David asked, ‘That you, Nick?’ Nick thought about saying no, not wanting to admit he'd actually left the house wearing something so atrocious, but eventually decided against it and answered, ‘None other.’

David nodded, or rather the mask that covered David's face nodded, and then leaned forward. ‘Want to get out of here?’ came the conspiratorial whisper.

‘Hell yes!’ Nick smiled and he and David pushed through the throng of people and sneaked behind some velvet drapery at the far end of the room. Tucked away in the corner was a dark, leather-covered settee, and they sank gratefully down, simultaneously removing masks and wigs and tossing them to the floor. David produced, apparently from thin air, two glasses and a bottle of champagne and he held one of the glasses out to Nick, raising his eyebrows and wiggling it from side to side.

‘Where did you get those?’ Nick asked, taking the proffered glass and holding it still so David could pour.

‘Swiped them from one of the waitresses,’ David giggled, filling his own glass and taking a long mouthful. ‘Awful outfit you're wearing, Clegg.’

Nick feigned offence and then countered, ‘That's a bit rich coming from someone who looks like Clive of India.’

David roared with laughter. ‘At least I don't look like Jack Sparrow!’

‘I do not!’

‘Yes you do.’

Nick grinned at David, drained the rest of his champagne, and said, ‘But why is the champagne gone?’ in his best 'Jack Sparrow' voice.

‘Ah, more champagne, me hearty,’ replied David, in mock pirate brogue, filling Nick's glass and then topping up his own for good measure. ‘Arr, 'tis fine stuff this.’ Nick found this hilarious and leaned back in the settee, laughing uncontrollably and sending champagne spilling over the sides of the glass onto his waistcoat. David took the glass from his hand and held it until Nick's laughter subsided. When he offered it back, Nick refused, standing up and shrugging out of the waistcoat. David set both glasses on the floor.

‘Whose idea was this bloody thing, anyway?’ Nick asked as he sat back down.

‘Oh, probably George's. You know how he likes to dress up in things.’

This sent the pair of them into peals of laughter and they fell about on the sofa clutching their sides, which is how Miriam found them both as she poked her head around the velvet drapery with a confused look on her face.

It took him several moments to remember what his name was, but his mind finally furnished him with the knowledge his name was David. That's right; David Cameron. Feeling satisfied he'd not suffered a bout of amnesia he turned his attention to the reason why his mind had temporarily ceased to function. As always, the reason was Nick Clegg. ‘The Deputy Prime Minister’ his mind informed him and he thanked it quietly for its input.

Nick Clegg was currently standing in front of David's desk. He was holding a policy paper and looking at David with confusion painted across his features as David stared back like a mute idiot.

‘Something the matter?’

David wanted to say no, nothing was the matter, but it seemed the affliction which had caused him to forget his own name had spread to his vocal cords, depriving him of the ability to speak. His throat issued a low sound that couldn't be called a word even at the greatest stretch of imagination.

‘Hnngggg.’ ‘Sorry, Dave, I didn't quite catch that.’

Furiously struggling to make the tongue in his mouth work in a proper fashion, David tried again, managing to choke out only three words. ‘No.. Nothing.. You..’

‘Dave, you're not making any sense,’ the vision of Clegg replied, dropping the policy paper on the desk and moving across the room until he was mere inches away from David.

The close proximity of the Deputy Prime Minister did nothing to alleviate David's mental dysfunction; indeed, it only increased as David felt Nick's hand press against his shoulder. His mind scrabbled frantically to retrieve its grip on reality, but found nothing of substance greater and more pressing than the sensation of the hand on his shoulder and the glorious knowledge of breathing Nick's scent.

Nick, fingers absently stroking David's shirt, looked down at him with concern.

‘David? Are you feeling all right?’

David nodded in an altogether too vigorous fashion, his eyes unable to tear themselves away from the reason for his current befuddled state. Nick's pristine white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sides falling away to reveal bare neck and a tantalising hint of chest. Finally, his mouth succeeded in forming a coherent phrase, something he felt he should be proud of even if the phrase was a slightly less than admirable: ‘Your shirt is undone.’

Nick considered for a moment, his gaze flicking from David's face and toward his own bare skin, and then a smile appeared.

‘Is that what this is all about?’ David nodded slowly, uncertainly, and Nick did something that made David consider he might well be hallucinating after all; removed his shirt completely and tossed it to the floor. ‘Is that better?’

‘No,’ David gulped, despite his mind's firm insistence this was indeed a great improvement. ‘No?’ A mischievous glint danced in the eyes of his deputy as he knelt on the floor in front of David's chair and slid a scandalous hand up David's leg. ‘How about now?’ David squeezed his eyes shut as a strangled sound that could have been anything escaped his mouth, his heartbeat suddenly seemed very fast and very loud. Nick chuckled softly in his ear.

‘Seems you're not quite sure, Prime Minister.’ A kiss touched his neck and he sat unmoving, breathing rapidly as Nick's mouth trailed at a leisurely pace across his skin, over his jaw and stopped at the edge of his lips. ‘Okay?’ whispered Nick.

David opened his eyes, still unable to speak but wanting to see Nick, to let him know it was okay. Nick's eyes reflected the quiet question and David realised Nick was actually waiting for permission to take things further. He nodded, briefly, and tilted his head in silent consent, hoping it would convey the word he could not express; yes. A pause long enough for a breath and then Nick's mouth was on his, lips soft and gentle against his own, and he surrendered himself completely to the moment, opening his mouth as Nick's tongue darted inside.

Nick's fingers worked at the buttons on his shirt as they kissed, unfastening them one by one until he was able to push the shirt away from David's shoulders, hands slipping beneath to touch bare skin. David gasped at the contact, his own arms motionless as Nick swiftly removed the cotton garment, carelessly dropping it to the carpet.

‘Floor.’ The word was rushed between kisses, and David suddenly found himself being pulled down on top of Nick, their bodies pressing together and, oh, Nick was hard as he. David moaned, grinding his hips slowly as Nick's hands ran down the curve of his spine, nails scratching along his skin and making him shudder. Nick writhed beneath him and sighed his name into the air as David pressed teeth against Nick's shoulder and bit softly. Kisses, frantic, were cut short by gasps of pleasure as they moved in rhythm with each other, hands roving over each other's bodies and then clinging to each other desperately amid the cries of yes and oh and now.

This time, when David forgot his name, Nick's breathless gasps against his shoulder were enough to remind him.

Party favours.

Nick had never heard of the game before and he was sure it had been made up as a drunken, heat of the moment joke. The idea was thus: two people have to spend ten minutes together in a dark place and, in the spirit of the drunken way in which it was conceived, they can kiss or do anything they like during that time.

Nick sat uncomfortably on the floor as everyone exchanged hushed laughs over what George Osborne and William Hague might be up to in the darkened cloakroom where everyone had left their coats when they arrived. Boris was perched excitedly over a stop watch grinning wildly as the seconds ticked down. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1!

‘Time's up!’ everyone chimed.

The door opened and George stepped out looking a little flustered, followed by William, whose clothes were certainly less arranged than they were when he'd gone in, not that they'd been pristine at that point.

A loud cheer sounded and people passed drinks to the pair, who soon got over their embarrassment and started rambunctiously calling for the next pair. Nick cringed, dreading he might be chosen.

"Places everyone," cried Boris, the unappointed master of ceremonies, and they crowded back into a tight circle as Boris span the empty whiskey bottle on the floor. It span around in the middle of the group and stopped pointing at Nick.

Oh God.

Wolf whistles and cheers sounded as Nick reluctantly got up and made his way into the closet. This was madness. How had he got roped into doing this? He stepped into the dark room and closed the door, waiting. After a few moments loud laughter sounded in the room outside, followed quickly by a clamour of voices saying, ‘Go on! GO ON!’

The door opened a crack and a dark figure slipped inside. Nick couldn't tell who it was and he was about to suggest they just patiently wait it out when he felt a hand on his hip and a mouth pressed against his own. He let out a surprised squeak, which cut short abruptly as he felt a tongue sweep across his lips, causing him to make another sound; one that was nothing to do with surprise.

As if in answer, his unknown partner deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue past Nick's lips and sliding it along the roof of his mouth. Nick found himself kissing back, clutching at the shirt of the person in front of him and suppressing a groan of desire as he felt a hand on the back of his neck, fingers grazing his skin lightly.

A hand landed on the small of Nick's back and pulled him forward, holding him so their bodies were touching from top to toe and Nick moaned into the kiss, low and throaty and full of lust, and how was it that his head suddenly felt like it was buzzing? He was kissing now with desperate abandon, meeting the mouth on his own with ravenous hunger; wanting; needing. Delighting in the guttural sounds coming from his partner, their bodies pressed together in the dark, burning together in a fire of passion that had consumed everything except the sensation of hands and mouths and yes; just this moment.

There was a loud bang on the door, followed by another and a voice, ‘Come on you two. Time's up!’