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Chapter Text

The President stepped down from the podium with a nod towards the man opposite him onstage, very purposefully averting his eyes. He had to avoid Romney's strong, clear gaze, as he had through the entire debate. Something about his opponent was distracting Barack Obama from thinking straight.
He tilted his head graciously at the applauding audience, remembering to wrap his arm around his wife as they left the debating area. He and Michelle entered the back room where the President's party was situated. She accepted the congratulations and "well done"s with a charming smile and thank you on behalf of her husband. Meanwhile, he slipped into his dressing room. Barack placed his head in his hands, tiredly rubbing his eyes. He knew he would soon be able to go home, if that was what the cold, white structure could be called, but for now he was trapped in the political circus. Couldn't he have a moment to think in peace?
All too soon, Barack realized that being left alone with his thoughts may not be a good idea. Without any interruptions or distractions, there was no escaping his own mind. He couldn't ignore the strange feelings that had run through him when Romney shook his hand, or the memory of his deep voice reverberating throughout the room. Consciously, logically, the president knew he strongly disliked Mitt Romney. He disagreed with everything the man stood for. Still, something about him, who knew what it was, made him feel sensations he'd never felt before, think of things he hadn't known his imagination capable of conjuring. It scared him.
He rose to his feet suddenly and exited to the small crowd of his associates. The remainder of the night was passed in polite conversation, until near midnight his wife took his arm and whispered that it was time to be getting home. He announced their departure and they walked out to the waiting limousine.
Upon arriving home, Michelle bid Barack goodnight. She went across the hall to her bedroom suite and he entered his own, trying his very best to stay focused on going through the motions; taking off his suit and tie, putting on pajamas, brushing his teeth. Through strength of determination, he managed to keep any unseemly thoughts about the other candidate at bay.
As his long form collapsed onto the bed, his eyes fluttered closed. His exhausted body sank with relief into the down comforter. As conscious slipped away from his mind and sleep flooded over him, his guard came down. The President's sleep was occupied by the most impossible of fantasies.

Chapter Text

The next morning, as on all mornings, our president awoke to a busy melody of his daughters' laughter and eggs sizzling on the pan. It was a Thursday, so the girls chatted happily with their mother, anticipating Friday and the weekend. Barack felt a rush of love and gratitude to have what he had. Perhaps it was brought on by guilt - after all, he knew he shouldn't be thinking about Willard Romney nearly as much as he was - but all the same, he was immensely grateful to wake up with children who loved him and a wife who... well, a wife who cared about him.
For the sake of clarity: Barack loved Michelle, just not in the way a man ought to love his wife. She knew that. It was an agreement they had.
When Barack had met Michelle, he was a politician on his way to big things. She was a beautiful, intelligent girl who didn't belong where she was. The future First Lady was almost too competent, too strong; she was meant for something better. As they grew to care for each other, Barack felt that she deserved much more than she could have if she remained at her current standing. He wanted more for her than a boring life in run-down suburbs, and he knew how he could do that. He was already planning his campaign for presidency, and one night, he asked her to be his First Lady.
The proposal was hardly romantic. He knew it was only fair to her if he was honest: he wasn't in love with her the way he should be, and that was one thing he could never give her. He had expected her to be hurt or angry at this confession, but Michelle had given him a kind, knowing smile... Barack had never seen such wisdom in someone's eyes. She agreed to marry him on paper, and assured him all she expected was a partner. There was an understanding between the two of them. Though by no means was the marriage passionate, it was far from loveless.
For their many years of unconventional marriage they were the best of friends, and cared for each other as such. Both loved their children with all their hearts - they always agreed that Sasha and Malea were their greatest blessing. This was reason enough for Barack to feel grateful.
He rolled out of bed and walked into the kitchen, kissing each of his beautiful daughters on the forehead and bending down to scratch the dog's head. Michelle turned to him with a wide smile. "'Morning." He kissed her on the cheek and reciprocated her greeting.
"Daddy, I'm gonna have a slumber party!" Malea said excitedly.
"Really, sweetheart? That's great!" Barack replied in earnest. It was always his hope that his daughters would have as normal lives as possible, and each birthday party or play date was as joyful for him as it was for them.
The young girl went on and described the sleepover she was going to the next night, and her father listened with complete attention. The family chatted and ate until it was time for the girls to go to school. Barack watched from the window as they boarded each of their buses and Michelle approached him from behind, watching their children over his shoulder.
"I know you worry about them, but they're doing just fine." Michelle remarked. She knew what was on his mind.
He nodded and answered, "I know, but it's all a little troubling, what with the election so close."
"You mean you're worried about the election? You're the better candidate, and you will win." She asserted. He smiled and squeezed her hand in response. With a glance at the clock, he rose swiftly out of the chair and rushed to his room to get ready for work.
----
Halfway through Obama's day, which was spent, as always, in board rooms and offices, Michelle visited him. She'd come to bring him one of her healthy lunches and remind him of an event that night. It was a black tie gala, bound to be full of politicians and their families. This included, Barack realized with dread, his opponent, Mitt Romney. He would likely have to have civilized conversation with everyone in the room, made difficult not only by the fact that most of them loathed him, but also because he'd be busy trying to keep his eyes off of Romney.
'Well,' the president thought, 'At least tonight won't be boring.'

Chapter Text

The golden needle pricked his lapel, slipped through the fabric, and broke through on the other side. Barack carefully clasped the pin, securing the enameled flag directly atop his heart. Michelle, in the next room, twisted to pull up the zipper of her floor-length gown. A chauffeur smoothed his plain suit, a bodyguard inserted a white earpiece, and a PR woman tapped manicured fingers against the scribbles on her clipboard.
Ten minutes later, the limousine bearing the president and First Lady came to a stop in front of their destination. Barack unfolded his legs and exited to bright flashing lights. He extended a hand to his wife, who stepped out one stiletto after the other. The couple walked down the red pathway and approached the staggeringly tall columns. Underneath the great marble structures, double doors bode them passage into a spacious ballroom. It was filled to the brim with chubby, balding politicians and older women in obnoxious, glittering gowns. Barack took a deep breath before wading in knee-deep.
***
Willard Romney drifted through the room, walking straight-backed and stone-faced between the various groups of important people. Most who approached were greeted with cool politeness, and favorite members of his own party were treated to brief conversation. Mitt Romney was more dissatisfied than usual on this particular night; he could muster up only so many niceties.
The reason for this was unknown perhaps even to Romney himself. The uncomfortable emotion was settled in the back of his subconscious, nestled in its depths. He may not have recognized the feeling, or he might have been in denial, but either way, a certain President was somewhere on his mind.
Mitt had been unable to avoid thinking about Barack for more than an hour at a time since the debate. As a result, he was distracted at best (and short-tempered and moody to say the worst). A glance around confirmed that indeed, the President and his wife had arrived. Barack squeezed Michelle's hand and kissed her on the cheek before joining his Vice President and a few other people. Illogical jealousy stabbed at Romney when he observed the small act of affection, which he desperately tried not to feel.
The night went on in that fashion. Whenever Obama talked to someone, smiled at Michelle, or just looked particularly well, Romney kept up his façade while guiltily watching from the other side of the cavernous room. Consequently, Mitt's mind was occupied by self-loathing for the better part of the night. When he couldn't ignore his feelings and thoughts, he settled for being ashamed and angry for having them.
'I'm perfectly straight,' he told himself, 'And I am a good Mormon. It's just not reasonable. What's wrong with me?' He passed the time between bothersome conversations by repeating in his head, 'I do not have homosexual tendencies. That is wrong. I do not have homosexual tendencies. That is wrong.'
***
It was almost exactly midnight when Mitt excused himself from dancing with his wife to escape to the bathroom. In the hallway outside of it, he bumped into someone he'd very much been hoping not to encounter.
"Oh... Ah, ehem. Hello, Mr. President."

Chapter Text

Last time on A Political Affair:
It was almost exactly midnight when Mitt excused himself from dancing with his wife to escape to the bathroom. In the hallway outside of it, he bumped into someone he'd very much been hoping not to encounter.
"Oh... Ah, ehem. Hello, Mr. President."
***
"Hello, Mr. Romney." Barack replied, and then the hall fell quiet.
There was never a better example of an awkward silence. The void of air between the two was saturated with a million unsaid sentiments, which neither could acknowledge.
Barack, tactful and polite as he was, forced himself to speak. "You've enjoyed the event?"
Mitt cleared his throat and nodded. "Certainly, there are many interesting people."
(There was another pregnant pause).
"You did well in the debate," Mitt said, meaning his words more than the tone of his voice suggested. "Congratulations."
"I wouldn't have done nearly as well if I didn't have such a great opponent," Barack insisted. He realized immediately that he had let too much emotion slip into his voice, and both men glanced around uncomfortably. They realized the danger of the situation. The two were afraid, no, terrified of how such close proximity in a deserted, claustrophobically narrow hallway would affect their self-control. Romney was hyperaware of the president's every twitch of his lip or shift of his weight from one leg to the other; it seemed impossible to ignore the way Barack's eyelashes fluttered when he blinked or his fingers nervously tugged at the hem of his sleeve. Mitt grew more anxious and conflicted with every snail-paced second that passed.
"Excuse me, Mr. President," Mitt said quickly, and moved to pass him. At the same time, Barack had stepped forward, and ended up nearly chest to chest with Romney. There was hardly an inch of negative space to be found between their two forms, and it seemed to be buzzing with electricity.
Romney looked up with alarm and his eyes met Obama's. The taller man looked down at Mitt, using every ounce of strength he had not to let his gaze travel down to his lips. After the most painful second, he stepped aside and turned his eyes downward, letting Romney pass. They started towards opposite ends of the passageway, their original destinations having long been forgotten.

Chapter Text

The rest of the gala was a blur for Barack. He didn't even need alcohol to make his surroundings slur into one endless stream, circling him dizzily. Parties were not usually like this for him. Normally, Barack Obama was a talented orator, an interesting converstionalist, and polite and sociable to the highest degree. Lately, he just..... couldn't do it.
And Michelle noticed.
She was wiser than most gave her credit for, and didn't fail to pick up on the difference in her husband's behavior. The First Lady was quick to notice her husband's symptoms, and even quicker to diagnose them. But that knowledge she would save for later, she decided. She saw that there was no need to attempt a discussion that would only make Barack more closed-off about his feelings - much as that would satisfy her curiosity.
When Barack returned from the restroom, Michelle watched him from the corner of her eye as she conversed with the various guests of the event. He sat down at the gaudily decorated table, amidst a few members of the cabinet, and began poking his rubber chicken with a fork. They attempted to engage a conversation with him, as he was their President and acquaintance, but he politely made his disinterest clear. It was obvious to Michelle, watching him from across the room, that something had transpired which had put him in a yet stranger mood. It worried her. She'd been his best friend long enough to know that now would be a good time to take him home, so she excused herself and went over to him.
Thanks to her skill, even a couple as high-profile as the Obamas escaped cleanly from the suffocating ballroom in a matter of minutes. Barack was quiet on the ride to the White House, and for the sake of being considerate, Michelle let him be. He remained silent and thoughtful all the way home. Michelle observed the way his lips set in a frown, and she couldn't help but be worried. Could it really be better to leave him like that, thinking himself into a dark hole? 'Certainly not,' she thought to herself. 'I must help him get this off his chest, he'll feel better.'

Upon returning, Barack removed his jacket and dress shoes before retiring to the living room. Mrs. Obama removed her painful stilettos and put them away, then joined her husband on the couch. She had by then resolved to confront him and try to help. "Sorry for interrupting your train of thought, but I thought you might want to talk," she began. It was safely open-ended: Barack didn't have to feel trapped or pressured into answering any specific way. Still, he sighed and put his head in his hands.
"I knew there was only so much I could hide from you," he said with a wan, half-hearted smile.
"Yes, 'so much' being 'none'," his wife chuckled. "It's Romney, isn't it? Did you run into him at the party?"
"Yes. I'll admit it, I'm freaking out a little over the elections. He's got me anxious, that self-righteous, Republican idiot." Obama hoped insulting Romney would aid him in evading Michelle's query. She wasn't fooled - he was a kind-hearted man, and had never spoken poorly or disrespectfully of an opponent. Not only did she know that he was covering something up, but she had a very good idea of what it was.
"Barack, you know as well as I do that he's making you anxious for reasons entirely unrelated to the election." Barack raised his eyebrows in surprise, bearing resemblance to a deer in the headlights. Michelle continued, "It's fine if you can't admit it yet, Barack. But there's no point denying it either, since I already know. You've got a serious crush, my friend," she told him lightheartedly.
"I don't know what to do, Michelle." Her husband replied. He spoke with a straight face, but his voice betrayed him. He sounded absolutely, hopelessly.... Broken.
Michelle softened and pulled him into a tight embrace. "It's gonna be perfectly fine," she whispered reassuringly. When they pulled away, she squeezed his shoulder and gave him a small smile. "Honestly, Barack. It will be. Either you're going to get over it, or your feelings will become deeper. If it's just a crush, you can forget about him pretty quick. If the latter, you'll just have to figure out what you feel and then face it." Obama sighed. "No matter what, you'll be okay. And I support you through whatever, obviously."
The First Lady took a deep breath and smiled. "Now that we've gotten that talk over with, let's have a beer and watch a game, okay?" Her husband laughed.
"Got it," he replied, flicking on the TV and putting on a recorded basketball game. Then, Barack tried desperately to forget everything that their conversation had brought to the forefront of his mind.

Chapter Text

Three days later, the President was still thoroughly shaken up by the past few days' events. He awoke late and sat in bed, contemplating. First, there had been the debate. You could have cut the tension between him and his opponent with a butter knife, and it wasn't the family-appropriate kind of tension, at least not on Barack's side of the stage. Then, he had run into Mitt in the hallway at that gala. Their barely-even-a conversation would have appeared, to the outside eye, brief, light, and impersonal. That had not been the case for Barack - their interaction was torturously prolonged and all too meaningful. Afterwards, Michelle had confronted him about his "crush" on Romney, and he had not denied it. In retrospect, of course, Barack abhorred the idea. He obstinately refused to concede to her phrasing of his feelings - "crush"? He didn't have a crush. He couldn't. He was too old for such things, and besides, he was straight. It wasn't that he disliked homosexuals, he was simply convinced he wasn't one of them. He believed himself merely tired and overworked, that was why he felt so odd. 'It's only logical that I should feel whatever it is most intensely around Mitt,' Barack reasoned with himself. 'After all, the election must be the cause of my extra stress.'
And yet in any normal circumstance, a short meeting with his opponent might shake his confidence or get him thinking more about the election; but not this encounter, not in this situation. The thought of Mitt Romney rattled Barack to his core for entirely non-political reasons. Deep down he knew it was so, much as he rejected that truth, and it scared him. Everything he felt at the moment terrified him. He hadn't eaten or slept in days, hadn't been able to focus on his work, and only managed to do the bare minimum with his family. He'd gone from a (debatably) competent president to a acting the part of a conflicted teenage girl in just under a week, all because of a self-centered, generally despicable Republican. How could that be? Barack's only answer was that it couldn't be - but still, it was.
President Obama was a wise man. However, no matter how much better off he would be if he accepted what he felt and what those feelings meant - that would be the most mature thing to do - he found he could not face it.
'Crush? What crush?' Barack arose to prepare for the day, having successfully convinced himself that he had no unordinary feelings for Mitt Romney.
Almost.
***
It was a Sunday, Mitt Romney realized. That made three days since the gala, and he'd hardly done anything. Instead, his all-consuming thoughts traveled in and around an endless circle: think about Barack, try to forget about Barack, fail, try to think he was indifferent to Barack, fail, think about Barack some more. He realized his behavior was pathetic, but he'd barely managed to get out of bed each morning. Anne frowned at her husband more than usual lately; any display of human imperfection was highly improper to her. That wasn't what their marriage had been built on. Mitt couldn't bear the disappointment on her face; he had once loved this woman, and believed he still did.
Anne walked in just as Mitt was mulling over these thoughts. It was only ten o' clock, but she was as impeccably primped as she always was. Mitt amused himself by wondering if she had any skin underneath all of her makeup.
"Aren't you up yet, dear?" She asked pointedly, implying 'Get up or suffer my wrath'. Her husband obediently rose, feeling guiltily and put on his robe - nothing to do on Sundays. His wife smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "Come, Mitt, I have breakfast."
They both walked down the hall, Anne chattering about her friends, their husbands, their children, who just did what, and what the press was saying. Nothing was remotely interesting to Mitt, and he ate his omelet in silence while Anne talked at him. She departed after fifteen minutes, heading to brunch at one of the neighboring mansions. Mitt wandered the house in silence. He ended up in the living room, complaining out loud of 'tired old bones' as he lowered himself onto the sofa. Turning the television on did nothing for his mood but worsen it - the news was on, showing a recording of the (Mitt thought) unfairly handsome President making one of his spectacular speeches. He didn't switch the channel, though - he stared at the high-res screen oddly, trying to figure something out.
What exactly had the younger man done to ensnare Mitt's thoughts the way he had? They'd barely conversed, they differed on every viewpoint, and they were incompatible down to the most fundamental level. Mitt was almost angry at this hold Obama seemed to have on him - he couldn't control himself when someone else seemed to have taken over his mind. It was almost infuriating... Mitt was angry at him, yes, that's it. He was angry because Obama was making him feel these horrific things. Obama must evil for forcing Mitt into such a painful position.
Even as he set about convincing himself that it was not his fault, that he was not to blame for his own hateful emotions, he knew it was bullshit.
The only one he could be angry at was himself.
Mitt Romney was an exhaustingly well behaved man. He never, ever cursed, never showed weakness, was never (not even at home) anything less than polite and proper. But today, his back slumped, and his head fell into his hands. He uttered an expletive as a tear slipped out of the corner of his eye, hating himself and his traitorous, sinful heart.

Chapter Text

Barack was exhausted by the time he exited his office. He'd hoped work would take his mind off things, but it had only tired him. It took all his effort it took to focus on the tasks before him, and not on... well. He emerged from his pile of paperwork having barely touched any of it. After telling Michelle he'd be out for a while, he headed to lunch.

He couldn't have predicted it. Honestly, what were the goddamn odds that he'd run into him again?

Barack steeled himself and walked into the cafe, cringing as the bells announced him. Romney looked up, and when he met Barack's gaze, he gulped. Barack decided that the cordial, platonic thing to do was walk over and greet Mitt. Also, he had a masochistic need to be closer to him, but if you asked, he'd deny it.
When Barack reached the table, they said hello to each other, and then fell into silence. Each was looking down, absorbed in his own thoughts, Barack standing awkwardly by the table. One of the waiters came and set another place opposite Romney, but he finished and left before Obama became aware enough to protest. As fate would have it, he'd come at rush hour, and there wasn't another available seat. Reluctantly, he looked at Mitt, who gave a quick, nervous smile in consent. Barack's jeans brushed against Mitt's as he slid into the booth, and for a split second, he could have sworn he saw Mitt shiver. It hadn't occurred to him that his presence could affect Mitt as much as Mitt's affected him, and the thought secretly satisfied him.
"How, uh, how has your weekend been?" Mitt asked.
"Good, just business as usual," Barack said, almost ashamed by the magnitude of the lie. "And how was yours?"
"Perfectly normal as well, thank you."
Aside from ordering his food, Barack didn't speak. Mitt ended up breaking the ice, attempting to make a joke: "We really ought to stop running into each other like this."
"Oh, I agree." The President choked out, suddenly unable to speak above a whisper. They were silent again, for a heavy eternity of a minute. Not meeting Barack's eyes, Mitt spoke. "So it hasn't been normal for you either, then?"
Barack shook his head, rasping, "Not the slightest fucking bit."
He heard a sharp intake of breath. Mitt shot out of his seat, appeared to be deliberating, and then walked (somewhat) casually out of the cafe. It took him a moment, but Barack ended up throwing cash on the table and following Mitt out. They walked to the back of the building, and when Barack turned the corner into a shady D.C. alleyway, he was immediately thrown against the brick wall.
"Damn you!" Mitt shouted. He shoved Barack, anger and conflict written all over his face. Barack, shocked and terrified, didn't move. He stayed there, still and silent, until Mitt's aggression turned to a different channel. Hands pulled his head down and suddenly Mitt's lips were crashing onto his, angry and starving and not at all chaste. There was a clash of teeth and tongues begging for entrance and rough, chapped lips, lips on each other, moving in sync, and then lips everywhere.
At some point there was a pause, then a car, back roads, a dirty motel, and a rented room. Both men stumbled into the room and slammed the door behind them, heading straight for the bed. The whole time, there wasn't a single word, just whimpered names and desperate cries, muffled by cheap cotton pillows. When they finally lay back, exhausted and sated, both of them let their breathing slow into a restful rhythm, their heartbeats falling in sync. Barack wrapped an arm around Mitt's waist and pressed a kiss to the pale skin of his back, so much more tenderly than before. Mitt placed his hand over Barack's and curled into him, leaving no space between their two bodies. They didn't speak, just lay there peacefully, any tension long gone.

Barack pretended not to notice the single tear that escaped Mitt's eye.