Trump x Pence

Trumpence

     Donald had never met Mike before he decided to run for president. He just chose the hottest republican politician he could find. Melania was only to keep up appearances, his true love was Pence.
     Pence was a career politician, he was quiet and let's face it not too bright either. He always seemed to be in his own little world. Not too keen on making decisions, perfectly docile. Trump liked that about Pence, he needed a pawn. Trump was completely in control of Mike, he always followed Trump's lead no matter what. No one knew whether it was because Mike didn't care what happened in the political world or because he wanted to please Trump. And frankly neither did Pence.
    Back when Trump first ran for president, him and Pence were scheduled to have a joint interview. The only trouble was that they barely knew each other. But Trump knew  the people would pick up on that and think them to be unprepared. He hated showing any signs of weakness so he called Pence and invited him to dinner. Only to get acquainted with Pence he thought. Nothing more.
     Trump took out the scrap paper with Pence had given him at a meeting the other day with  phone number written on it. 555-273-8399 -Mike. He looked at the paper, what a scene he thought I'm like a schoolgirl calling her sweetheart. He laughed at the thought of it, but somewhere hidden behind his laughter was a lingering fantasy. Such that if someone were to catch him off guard he might slip up. He might just say something so subtle as to give light to his feelings towards Pence. That maybe if someone were to pay attention very closely to the way he speaks of Pence that they might just put the clues together. And that was what kept him up at night.
     Trump had always tried to deny his feelings. Yet everyday as the election grew closer he knew that in turn he and Pence would have to grow closer . That he and this man would be working together to win the election. Like a moth drawn towards a lamp Trump had sealed his fate. What was he thinking choosing such a desirable man as his running mate. He knew it would never end well.
     Trump finally dialed Pence's number, he answered at the second ring. Trump took a breath and put on a convincing performance of normality. "Come to my house for dinner tomorrow at six, we'll talk strategy for next week's interview" he said. "Okay, I'll be there."
And then it was over. The date was set in such a short amount of time. Tomorrow Mike would be in his house sitting right across the table. Alone.
     It was Trump's day off and what a day that was to pick. He sat around all day thinking about what he would say to Pence. Practicing hiding his desires in front of the mirror. He couldn't help himself from thinking about why he really invited Pence over for dinner. He tried to convince himself that it was purely for professionalism but he knew it was more than that. He knew he harbored affections for Pence and as six o clock grew closer and closer he became increasingly self aware.
     Of course Trump had always known the way he felt about Mike but somehow it didn't feel real in his mind. Since nothing had ever happened between them and nothing probably ever would, he just wrote it off as a mere midnight ponder. As if it were just one of the little musings found at the back of the mind but such thoughts can very easily become actions.
    And then it was six o clock. And then Mike Pence walked through the door. And they were both at the dinner table. Trump snapped himself back into reality, Mike looked at him as if he were waiting for a response. "Yeah, sure perfect!", he quipped hoping it was a viable response. Mike smiled and took a bite of whatever exotic dish was on his plate.
    The formal dining room was dimly lit and it hinted of romance. Trump talked of politics and of impersonal pleasantries. The how are you's and the oh how nice's. Mike would nod his head and maybe say a few words here and there. It's funny how you can talk to someone for hours and not know them any better than you did before.
   And although the words of the men didn't speak, the room spoke for itself. The silence in between each sentence and in between each word hinted of an underlying truth and an overlying unease. There was a great discomfort in the room. Trump had things he wanted to say but he didn't and Pence didn't have much to say at all. But somewhere hidden in conversation their eyes met for a just for a second. It was a seemingly ordinary glance that should have been forgotten, but for some unknown reason it stuck. For in those few seconds of contact, there was a transference of emotion.
    Trump didn't know what it meant. There couldn't have been anything that happened in those moments when they had conversed. But he felt naked, as if Mike somehow knew how he felt. That somehow he had told him his secret unknowingly. And that he might've made a such a subtle mistake as to linger into his eyes for a fraction of a second too long.
He felt it. They both felt it. Something that could not be undone.