The rustle of the hotel room sheets is what alerts him to it. Tony must think he’s fallen asleep. They’re sharing a room—like they pretty much always do— and Tony went to bed earlier than him. He’d said it was the jet lag. Alastair briefly wanted to point out that they were both on the same flight but held his tongue. It was much more important for Tony to be rested than him because the press sectary can look shit, slamming coffees but the Prime Minister must look flawless yet always hard working. Not too relaxed as to look as if he’s been slacking but not too tired lest the rumours of ‘Unfit for the stress of the office’ start. Alastair had worked on the speech draft Tony had handed to him just before going to bed (‘Alastair, won’t you finish this for me?’) but an hour in, he’d called it quits. They still had a week before the speech and all but the ending was set. He wanted to have some energy for the pressers tomorrow, just in case something went south. He’d just climbed into the bed next to Tony’s somewhere in the vicinity of 20 minutes ago after turning off the lights. He had been unable to even feel tired, with a sort of restlessness overtaking him and was about to get up, make to the bathroom to take care of the…restlessness. But then, there had been a sound from Tony’s bed. He paused— not wanting to wake Tony up by making too much noise; his dick could wait the five minutes it took for Tony to fall back to a deeper sleep. He waits. And he waits. The rustling of clothes doesn’t stop. He wonders vaguely if Tony is overheating. Tony does run warm… as evidenced by him refusing to wear clothes unless absolutely necessary. He’s about to give up on his pipe dream of waiting for Tony to go back to sleep and turns over on his side to turn the lamp on since clearly neither of them are sleeping— A slight moan. He pauses in his movements, his fingers centimetres from the lamp switch. Surely, he imagined it. Surely, Tony isn’t fucking jacking off while Alastair is less than a metre away from him. Another moan. Oh Tony is absolutely fucking rubbing on out while he thinks Alastair is sleeping with in arm’s reach of him. Fucker. Despite everything and the sheer gall of Tony, Alastair's body clearly is not opposed to the sound. Far from it in fact, despite the sheer shock that his mind is unable to swallow.