Chapter Text
“It’s okay, Nigel,” Zack said, stroking his wispy strands of grey hair. “It doesn’t matter that you didn’t do as good as you hoped. There’s still a few more years until the general election - you can pick up some votes before then.”
“You don’t understand, Zack. It’s not about that anymore. It’s about principle. It’s about the fact that the public would still rather have Starmer than me.”
“They don’t matter.” He paused. “Well, they kind of do. But that’s not my point. You just wait till I get into Parliament. Then you can show them who’s boss.”
Nigel sighed as he grabbed his jangling keys and thick wallet. It was futile arguing now. “I’m going out. Don’t follow me.”
“Nigel, please–”
The door slammed behind him.
Nigel sat drinking his £3.42 Greene King Abbot Ale in the dim light of his local Wetherspoons, the Moon and Starfish, his dejected eyes tracing the lines of the table. He knew he was being selfish. Zack left tomorrow; he should be helping him move all of his things so he could go and campaign in Brighton again. Damn Brighton. Their stupid council, so independent from the rest of East Sussex. So popular, so touristy, so Green. Always full of wokeism.
God, those universities, too, always so damn woke. But at least they had given him the apple of his eye - Cylan Daddick, an up-and-coming, young Reform candidate-to-be. A spark shone in that boy’s eyes, he had thought. Many hoped that he was smart, and had capable enough hands to lead Reform to victory in Brighton. He had also heard some stories that would help bring the increasingly radical Politics and Debate Society at Sussex University to its knees if it became too left-leaning in its next year. They had started talking about “yaoi” and all that nonsense. Cylan was its vice-president - and Nigel thought he was doing a damn fine job of it. But he was moving back to Bedford. He, too, would be gone soon. Was there anyone in his life that didn’t leave him?!
After a few (if you count “a few” as 5) more pints of golden ale, Nigel cautiously lifted himself up from the table and staggered towards the door. The world in front of him was blurrier than the result of the Brexit vote. His feet thumped against the floor as he slowly dragged himself across the room, cursing himself under his breath for taking that £5 million gift from a cryptocurrency boss. That was probably one of his biggest regrets, and now he was reaping what he had sown. A blaring noise rung out through the air and he felt like every head in the pub turned to look at him as he desperately tried to fish his phone out of his money-stuffed pockets to shut it up.
“Hey. It’s me. Just wondering what time you’ll be home,” came Zack’s downtrodden voice from the other end of the line.
“...’M just leaving… give me like… an hour. Or something.”
“Stay safe. Please.”
“It’s alright. I’m not a woman in London. I don’t have to worry about anyone from the Met.”
Zack sighed. “This is true. But hey, it could be worse. I’ll see you at home, I guess. I love you. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Click.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fuck my life.
Zack buried his head in his hands and sighed. It was always the same with Nigel. Always bar fights, milkshakes being thrown in his direction and “random encounters” with an ex. Never an apology, either - always just some excuse about how it “helped the British people” and was a part of the “fight for freedom,” and then drunkenly passing out on the sofa while Zack ate his vegan Loving Hut Chinese food on his own in silence.
Of course he’d always be forgiven in the morning. Nigel knew exactly how to twist his words so that Zack sighed and brought him into his arms again. They had been through so many things together; what was one tiny fault? Even if it was one tiny fault after another, Constantly. Always another chance encounter with an ex, another night spent alone for Zack. How long had it being going on like this now? Zack couldn’t remember just how many exes Nigel had been with in the timespan of their relationship. It hadn’t been long after they first got together that it started, but Zack had been so blindsided by love that he didn’t care. He was uncertain if he could still say the same.
What was he thinking? Of course he loved Nigel. Of course! That was why he stuck with him. That was why his loyalty didn’t waver even if Nigel had a few hiccups here and there.
…But did Nigel love him?
The thought surprised him - but after thinking it over, it scared him. As he heard the key click in the lock, his head shot up out of his hands and he looked at the sight before him. The same old froggy face, sulking with the after-effects of alcohol and sloppy kissing. Same old crumpled suit and tie, the faint afterscents of milkshakes and Wetherspoons clinging to it like a memory. Zack sighed and stood up, ready to help him get to bed safely.
“Come on. You know you always hit your head if you try and make it on your own,” he murmured, smiling softly at the man before him.
“Don’t… wanna…” Nigel groaned. “Need to- Ow-” (Attempting to sink into a chair, he painfully whacked his elbow against one of the armrests).
Zack sighed. “You know it’ll be much more comfortable laying down upstairs.”
“Might make me sick.”
“I’ll get you some water, then. Have you had any since you started drinking? I know you probably haven’t. And you don’t take your drinks slowly, do you?”
“Stop nagging… you’re not my mother…”
“No, but I care. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
In the kitchen, Zack leaned on the sink as water rushed into a glass. Why did he have to be so infuriating? Why couldn’t he just take care of himself and drink responsibly?
“Here, drink this,” he said, passing the water to Nigel. “You’ll feel a lot better if you do.”
Nigel mumbled a thanks to Zack before noisily drinking. He couldn’t help but wish it was another ale, and that he was back in Wetherspoons.
“Did anything happen while you were there…?” Zack asked quietly as he crouched beside the chair.
“Honestly…” Nigel began. “Really don’t wanna talk about it… Think is just best if I get to bed…”
“Alright, sweetheart,” responded Zack, standing up and giving him a chaste kiss on the forehead. “Let’s get you up there.”
Neither of them spoke for a good while. The silence wasn't comfortable - it hung in the air like a bad joke delivered with pride at Prime Minister's Questions - but neither of them knew what to say. It wasn't out of the ordinary for there to be this silence between them, but it was rare that it felt this… stony. There was seldom this kind of emotional distance between them. Last time some couples therapy had fixed it when it persisted for some time, but they couldn't afford that again; all Zack could do was silently pray that it would pass, and all would be alright in the morning.