My Little Cheeto ~ trumpxbiden ~ enemies to lovers

The Aftermath

It had been one night. A long and strenuous night.

Both parties contemplated the conversation prior.

Trump stared up at the ceiling above. He lay in bed, repeatedly outlining everything he'd said, desperately trying to find where he went wrong. He felt ill. Maybe it was the fight. But perhaps it was something else.

Biden stared into the darkness that was his office. He wasn't going to bed anytime soon. He stared at his hands. His old, calloused hands. Those same hands were responsible for causing so much pain. And today, they had caused even more.

Joe ran a hand through his thinning hair. What a day. What a night, even.

And Joe began writing.

He wrote through the night. He wrote about his thoughts. He wrote about his feelings. He wrote about how much he loathed himself and how he could never see anyone being happy with him. He wrote about how Trump made him feel. He wrote about how perplexing it was to be a 78-year-old man just now figuring out their sexuality. He let all his feelings out, no matter how confusing they may be.

And then he burned them.

He burned every single thought. He erased them.

No one would know.

No one could know.

And he slowly drifted into a taunting sleep—one full of crushing realities and hurt and love. But the love was what really stuck. The love was what he remembered.

~(The Next Morning)~

Biden turned on the television. After the night before, he really needed a cup of coffee. He fumbled into the kitchen.

Empty.

Good. Joe began getting out his Wigomat*. Ever since the day Trump walked into that coffee shop, Biden had started to make his own coffee. He told himself that it was "to never run into Trump again." But it could have been the hope to make the man of his dreams a handmade coffee on a cold fall evening.

Desperate for something to wake him up while he waited for his coffee to filter, Joe turned on the television. The blue light from the screen seemed to do the trick. Half-awake, he watched the anchor.

"After last nights events........both parties........mics muted........Trump tested positive for Coronavirus-"

What? Joe heard the spoon he was holding clatter to the floor. What had the news anchor just said? He scrambled around, desperately looking for the remote. He rewinded it, not taking his eyes off of the screen.

And there it was. "President Trump and first lady Melania Trump have tested positive for Covid-19."

Biden felt his gut drop. He knew Trump had health problems. And he couldn't imagine what would happen if he-

No. You shouldn't be thinking that. He's YOUR competitor. But-

Joe picked his spoon up off the floor. He looked at it. A distorted reflection stood before him. That's exactly what I look like. I'm flawed. I'm horrible. Why would anyone love me? Why would HE love me?

And he stood there, going over everything he'd said, exactly like last night. But this time, it was desperate. It was pleading for some reason to not love this man. Pleading for an excuse. An excuse.

And that's when he knew it. He knew he had run out of excuses. Knew he had fallen. Fallen so desperately in love. Knew he may never see this man again.

*A Wigomat is something used for making drip coffee btw

(Author's note)

OK. I know it's been a hot minute. Buttttttt.....THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 1K READS! TF! WHY DID THIS GET READ SO MUCH. YOU GUYS SCARE ME. But seriously, thank you. Also, I tried to make this chapter more emotional, but I'm bad at that, sooooo yeah. I think we'll have one more chapter of this weird little adventure. Thank you for staying around.