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Parties at the White House were frequently an exercise in patience for Sir Mark Brydon. That 4th of July, the traditional garden party (with fireworks) was shaping up to be particularly trying. Not that turning down the invitation, like the White House not extending it to him to him in the first place, was thinkable, but being the British Ambassador at an event celebrating breaking free from the evil tyranny one represented was never entirely without irony. That year the evening in question seemed have more than its normal share of champagne-drunk patriots who felt the need to express themselves. Loudly. To Mark. Which was particularly frustrating when Mark was unable to respond in the manner which, all other things bring equal, he would have preferred. For the most part Mark's views, or at least those he represented, were well known meaning those who sought his company, at least those you were not particular friends, were more interested in a bit of political horse-trading or reinforcing mutual alliances. Unfortunately, there were always a few who were not only rabid bores, but deliberately singled him out to inflict their views upon.
How Nicholas managed to keep his peace when on particularly fine example of southern evangelism started giving his opinion on 'damned queers' in the military Mark was unsure, but put down to sheer professionalism on Nicholas' part. He tipped Nicholas the wink to make himself scarce - one of them having to listen was enough. And since he was fairly sure the prefix had been intended as a statement of future residence rather than a profanity and so, if the Reverend was right, Nicholas would get to hear the speech in full after he died. In return Nicholas had steered one of the waiting staff in their direction to top up his glass. Mark suspected a small amount of bribery might have happened as the waiter didn't move to far away, and his flute never less than half-full, until the Reverend spotted a more attractive target leaving Mark feeling fuzzier around the edges than he normally allowed himself to get and such events.
The one saving grace of the festivities, like the others held during the summer, was that they spilled out into the gardens and there was a small chance to get away for ten minutes when one felt more than normally inclined to say something diplomatically unwize to any of the more decided of the other guests. Or alternatively get a breath of air when it was sorely needed because one had imbibed a little too freely do to those aforementioned guests. Which was why Mark ended up sneaking towards one of the quieter corners of the gardens that, during a previous event, he had discovered tended to guarantee a little peace and quiet.
He had nearly reached his chosen destination when he realised that the corner was not as empty as he had assumed. His first thought was that it must be a security guard and he prepared himself, reluctantly, to be shepherded back to the party. Then the shadow separated briefly into two and Mark realised that it definitely wasn't a security guard, not unless the security guard had a very close friend. He quickly ducked behind a nearby tree, not wanting to disturb the couple and, having got that close by accident, unsure how to depart equally unobserved.
"Come on," the voice was rough, insistent, but recognisable and Mark let his head fall back against the tree in disbelief.
Mark looked - he couldn't help himself - but it was just two shadows moving against each other, neither identifiable.
He jumped as a firework exploded above them, for a moment thinking his heart had burst with it. The flash sent streaks of light across the bodies of the pair, painting highlights across them in bursts of red, blue, purple and green. Heads still mostly shadowed by the trees, Mark caught glimpses of pale hands scrabbling at clothing. Of pale shirt tails set free. Of skin as hands pushed clothing aside. Of the shadow he was almost sure was the Under Secretary for Defense turn towards the tree and the other shadow close in behind him. Mark quickly dodged back behind his tree. The salvo of pyrotechnics blotted out some of the sounds from behind him but his memory was happy to supply what he was otherwise missing.
Mark breathed deeply and tried to ignore what was happening. Tried to ignore the surge of arousal or the way each muffled groan, real or imaginary, seemed to go straight to his cock. He was in the gardens of the White House, for Christ's sake. He was listening to two men having, from all available evidence, very enjoyable sex in the garden of the White House... And didn't that thought keep running around his mind with all the subtly of a streaker at a test match.
The heel of his hand pressed against his erection, half futilely trying to push it back down and half just wanting the pressure of touch. He shut his eyes. Not entirely believing what he was about to do but knowing it was going to happen anyway. He was insane. He rubbed his hand over the bulge at his groin. Insane or not, he would have to be quick. He looked around with swift desperation. If there was anyone close, other than the oblivious lovers, then they were all already in more trouble than they could handle but he had to make some concession to good sense. The fireworks bloomed overhead, illuminating a psychedelic dreamland that in another reality had been a garden. One that seemed to be mercifully free of anyone except himself and the shadows behind him.
He had his hand in his trousers before he could think better of it. His sigh of relief lost amid the aerial drum-roll. He worked himself fast and hard, trying not to think of the two men behind him for whom those adjectives must have been equally applicable. Styles was easy enough to dismiss from his mind but his shadowy lover... Maybe it was the anonymity, carried on from the previous encounter, Mark didn't know and had no interest in analysing. The whole situation was beyond reason, and maybe that was part of it as well.
There was a lull in the fireworks and in the shocking quiet the guttural hymn of sex sounded clear to the heavens. Mark bit his lip, desperate to remain quiet and hoping that the kiss of cloth on cloth as he moved would be mistaken for the rustle of leaves because he couldn't stop. The hard tree at his back kept him upright, pressing into his flesh with an un-gentle touch that could not be mistaken for a lovers, and yet whose sensation spurred his arousal. He let his head loll against the timber cushion of the trunk, fighting to keep his breathing light when all he wanted to do was pant for air. It felt so right and so wrong.
The twin banshee scream of rockets heralded the next salvo of light and sound. Under the false and artificial stars they created Mark pumped his erection with reckless abandon. Knowing he was close and racing time and sanity to the finish. With his spare hand he scrabbled in his pocket, sure he had a handkerchief there somewhere. Nicholas had handed it to him when he nearly hadn't bothered to bring it, joking about Mark using it to signal if he had had too much of the refined conversation the event tended to bring out. This might not have been what Nicholas had in mind but it was the thought that counted. And then all thought was wiped clean. The rolling tattoo of the fireworks merged into a frenzy of noise and he followed them to their climax.
The aftermath was deafening - the world shocked to silence by the fury of the display and needing to draw breath.
All too quickly the moment was lost. Mark froze as he heard movement, the warm haze of afterglow broken to splinters by the ice surge of fear. He did not breath again until the quick rustle of clothing was replaced by twin footsteps heading away. Mark cursed himself for a fool. All that would've been needed for ruin would have been chance to bring even one of the pair in his direction and his presence would have been revealed. As, maybe, it should have been. He let his head fall back against the tree with a feeling thump. The pain cleared his mind a little. What he had done was done - he could berate himself later (in the comfort and privacy of his own rooms when thoughts of that night were almost sure to rise again) when he was no longer standing with his spent cock still in his hand and evidence enough to impeach a president in his other.
He tucked himself back in quickly, making sure he was at least decently attired once more. And not a moment too soon judging by the sound of another pair of footsteps, unsure this time, warning of someone coming towards his vicinity. Not close, but close enough for concern.
"Ambassador!" The soft voice of his chief spy called. Mark straightened guiltily, stuffing the handkerchief in his pocket and thanking Providence that Nicholas had not come looking for him even a few minutes earlier.
"Nicholas," he said back. Hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt.
He saw the dark shape alter its course and come towards him, features shaping themselves from the air as he came close. Nicholas looked around, probably remembering the corner from the previous occasions he had had to retrieve his errant charge.
"Sorry Mark," Nicholas sounded apologetic, "you were being asked after."
The fireworks were over and so the diplomacy was starting up again.
"Always nice to be wanted."
"Isn't it." They fell into step together as they walked back towards the party and the floodlight area of the grounds. "Did you get a good view for the display?"
For a moment Mark faltered, looking across at the other man quickly. Nicholas wasn't looking at him but at the sky, inky blue so dark it was almost black and clear now of even the pale streams of smoke that had marked the fireworks' passage from the world.
"Are you okay Mark?" Nicholas stopped, frowning. "You look a bit flushed."
That was probably all too true. "Too much champagne I expect," he prevaricated. Nicholas was a good man but 'I just jerked off in the White House garden' was not something anyone willingly admitted to MI6 without a damn good reason. Not least because it was bloody embarrassing.
"You good?" Nicholas eyed him up carefully. Mark could see the calculation in his eyes as Nicholas tried to determine whether he should be whisked back to the residence for fear of diplomatic indelicacies. Slightly too late, although Nicholas could not know that. Something inside Mark wanted to bubble with laughter - the remains of the little boy who felt joy at having pulled particularly good ruse and not being caught. A feeling he doubted he would ever truly grow out of. He clamped down hard on the feeling, knowing that it could lead to no good. He didn't need personal risk when there was already so much to play for.
Mark took a deep breath, letting the fresh air do what it could to revive him. "I'll have to be." He smiled to let Nicholas know that he really was fine. "Lay on."
Nicholas gave him a tight smile in return and lead him back into the fray.