A Presidential Duty

What Even is This

Joe Biden doesn't remember the very moment he fell in love with his enemy, Donald Trump.

Perhaps it was during one of the many presidential debates over the years. The way Donald stared into his eyes as he spoke about America entranced Joe, and with the tension between them, he could almost swear he saw sparks flying. Joe couldn't help but be pulled in to Donald's strong gaze. The man had an indescribable effect on him. As if on cue, the long minutes of debate practice always vanished, leaving him with a stammering, stuttering mess of himself whenever it came time to give his response.

Everyone watching the debate always blamed it on his old age getting to him.

If only they knew the truth.

It didn't help that the republican had a habit of licking his cracking, crusty lips every so often. God, and the way he always looked so perfect in that suit of his. Joe was a sucker for hot, orange men in suits. He had to constantly keep himself from staring too much, especially with the fact that there were live cameras recording. God forbid anyone find out about his crush on his opponent.

No, Joe had a duty as the Democratic President of the United States, and it did not  involve falling in love with one Donald John Trump.

And yet, many of his late nights consisted of him gazing at the ceiling, wondering what it would be like to have Donald fixated on him instead. To have those piercing, incredible blue eyes of his actually look at him in adoration outside of the political sphere. To have the man's slimy, serpent-like tongue connect with his own, while his hands explored every corner of his body. If they had met under different circumstances, would his daydreams have become a reality?

God, Donald had Joe beat and he didn't even know it.

***

"Good job tripping over all your answers today."

Joe immediately turned to his right and came face to face with the man of his dreams. He couldn't help letting his eyes wander around, feeding on the eye candy that was in front of him. From the scraggly piece of hay that lay atop his head to the shiny, brighter than America's future shoes that he was wearing, Donald was a sight to behold, and it wasn't every day that Joe was able to stand so close to him.

So who could blame him if all his senses decided to enjoy themselves in that moment? His eyes roamed over Donald's body. He could smell Donald's million dollar cologne, and his ears honed in on every breath the man took. Only his hands were left helpless, balling into fists by his side, pathetically preventing himself from touching the man in front of him.

Joe smiled, making sure he didn't look too excited to see his opponent. "Why thank you, Donald. You didn't do so bad yourself."

"God," Donald grumbled, "I wasn't even complimenting you, and yet here you are, smiling like some dumbass."

"Come on," Joe said, running his fingers through the last few strands of hair he had left atop his head. "Why can't we get along together?"

Donald glared at him, gaze sending shivers down Joe's spine. Oh how he loved when Donald looked at him like that. If only he could be on the receiving end of Donald's passionate gaze all the time.

But what Donald said next left a different kind of shiver from within Joe.

"Stop living in your naive little bubble. Me and you," punched Donald, jabbing his finger straight onto Joe's chest, "will never get along."