Joe Jonas: First Lady 2/2
Title: I Couldn't Aspire to Anything Higher 2/2
Fandom: The Jonas Brothers
Pairing: President Nick Jonas and his First Lady, Joe.
Warning: It's RPS! And lame.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4k
Summary: Nick J. finally realizes his dream of becoming President. Joe Jonas finally realizes his dream of following Nick anywhere.
Notes: I totally GOOFED about Nick's birthday and thought it was Nov. 16th, when it is actually Sept. 16th. For those of you who read the fic quite soon after it was posted, I implied that Nick had already won his second term. I've changed that final passage to make it more accurate, and included it in this second part. Title is from Marilyn Monroe's "I Want To Be Loved By You". I wanted to title it something other than a blatant rip off of Karla's idea, but "Joe Jonas: First Lady" is what this is, so that's what I gotta call it.
In other news, I heart blackwayfarers and th_esaurus for being so AWESOME about this. <3!
Part One: (Politicians Can't Wear Their Hearts on Their Sleeves)
Part Two:
Excerpt from an Associated Press article: With a second term in office a likely present for his 44th birthday, President Jonas celebrated with friends and family at a bash filled with a who's who of big names from both Hollywood and DC on Thursday. The fete was on a larger scale than typically favored by the President, and sent a clear message to opposing candidate Delauney. It's obvious that Jonas doesn't think he's leaving Washington anytime soon...
Brother and close confidant of the President, Joseph Jonas, finished off the night with an acoustic version Stevie Wonder's "Happy Birthday." The notoriously lighthearted Jonas started off in a single spotlight, mimicking Marilyn Monroe's still-famous breathy tribute to JFK, Jr. in the sixties. He waited until the crowd's bawdy laughter faded into awkward chuckles before flashing a trickster's grin and bringing out brothers Kevin and Frankie for a more traditional rendition of the song. By the time the crowd joined in for the chorus, the famously reserved President Jonas had a hard time keeping a straight face.
~~~
It's well after one in the morning when they return to the White House. Staff greets them at the entry, taking their coats, asking them if they want coffee or tea. They shake their head no and Nick dismisses the Secret Service agents. They'll play poker in the kitchen until the morning shift comes at six. Security greets them at the second floor with a wry, "Good morning, Mr. President." Nick shakes his head with a polite laugh.
"Happy birthday," Joe says on the landing. The lights shine yellow off of the marble, and the reflected glow makes Joe's skin look warm and rich, like caramel. His tuxedo jacket is unbuttoned, and his hands are in his pockets.
"Good night, Joe," Nick says, once he's had his fill of looking at him.
If he waited for Joe to turn away from him, he'd be standing there all night, so he does it himself, turning on his heel and heading down the hall. He can feel Joe's eyes on him more than half of the way. The sensation raises the hair on the back of his neck and makes his palms itch, but he doesn't let himself clench his fists even once.
Though he often feels alone, he rarely ever is. The security guard's name is Ben, his post is at the top of the staircase, and his job is to notice things. Nick tries his best to be likable, to encourage those that keep a silent watch over him to think of him kindly. It gently discourages questions while making them more apt to defend him. Nick thinks of it as an insurance policy, really; people have always gotten used to them. Even with everything that gets said, none of the staff bat an eyelash at Joe grabbing Nick's wrist excitedly to pull him somewhere, or Nick putting his arm behind Joe's shoulders when they get a rare chance to watch TV together. Not anymore.
But of course there are some things that can never be fully excused. They must retire to separate bedrooms. Joe has made the Queen's bedroom his own, a joke which never fails to get old, but at least the walls are no longer painted creamy pink. It's a room that has housed both royalty and children and it's been redecorated to suit Joe. (The Lincoln bedroom was never an option, too important, too well known, but it was of no matter really because Joe won't even go in it alone. "Feels haunted," he'd said, faking a shiver.)
Nick slouches a bit when he closes the door to his bedroom behind him, relaxes as the strain of being watched lifts from his shoulders. A slim, black leather portfolio with the Presidential seal is waiting on table next to the door. The last reports of the night, mostly intelligence filed from other time zones. Not for the first time, he considers not reading them. If it were anything important at all it would have been brought to his attention.
He taps his fingers against the report, thinking, then sighs and picks it up. He sits on the bed to review them, and as he does, something in his back pocket crumples. He reaches back to pull it out, lifting his hips. It's his birthday card from Joe. The inscription inside is perfectly bland except for all the explanation points, but still Nick opens it again to read it.
The memory of Joe's voice tonight filters into his mind, making heat creep up his neck. Joe had pushed the envelope tonight, but nothing brought out the sense of humor in a politician like alcohol and Nick had made sure that particular brand of insurance had been given out freely. Harvard alums have fond memories of Hasty Pudding Theatricals, and southern statesmen never tire of recounting their wild antics at Ol' WhateverU fraternity parties. Joe had been a hit.
Nick sets the card aside and tries to make his eyes focus on the report, but the words seem too small and tightly spaced. He sets it aside and rubs his neck tiredly. The door to his bedroom opens slowly and silently, and Nick feels a momentary jolt of fear because no one who is supposed to be here would ever open that door without knocking, but instead of some assassin, it's his brother slipping in.
"Joe," he starts to whisper, but Joe refuses to act as if this is unusual in any way. He hefts a bottle of what looks like scotch and says, in a normal tone of voice, "Told Ben I had a present I couldn't give you in front of cameras."
Rather famously, Nick still abstains from alcohol. To avoid coming off as too religious with his liberal voter base he has said this is because of his dedication to his health. He sighs and shakes his head, "I think you've started enough rumors tonight, Joe."
"Fine," Joe says shrugging. "I'll go tell him that you're not secretly drinking against doctor's orders and tell him what we're really doing."
Nick stands, and puts the papers in his lap aside. "And what are we doing?"
Joe smile fades and he sets the scotch down with a clunk on the same table Nick found the reports. "It's your birthday," he says, coming close.
"Joe," Nick says, trying to stop this before it gets started.
Joe doesn't stop, sliding right into Nick's personal space. His eyes drop down Nick's face and then up again. "Didn't get to celebrate it last year," he says, voice soft and rough. He touches the lapels of Nick's jacket as if he means to straighten them. "And mine this year didn't really make up for it."
"Well, next time I'll tell the Bolivian guerillas to stage a coup after your birthday," Nick says, touching Joe's hands as if to slide them off.
Joe smiles and tugs on Nick's lapels, setting him off balance so that he has to grab Joe's arms to steady himself again. "That's all I ask."
They're close enough that irreversible processes are taking place; Nick's lips have parted, and Joe's pupils are dilated, the temperature in the air rises a degree. Nick tells himself one kiss, like it's a concession, but it's a white flag of surrender. Joe's mouth is still sweet from the birthday cake, and there's the sharp taste of alcohol over it, mixing into this deadly cocktail of things he shouldn't have.
Joe starts walking them back to that big four-poster bed and Nick's feet don't even stutter to stop them once. When their legs touch the bed, Joe steps back, away from the kiss, and smooths his hands down Nick's chest. "Happy birthday to you," he sing songs, low and soft. He pushes his hands under Nick's tuxedo and slides them over Nick's shoulder and down, removing the jacket.
He tugs Nick's bow tie loose, and starts on the little black buttons, "Happy birthday to you."
Nick is sure that some of the dress studs are being dropped and lost, but he's more interested in the wry curve of Joe's generous mouth, the fan of his eyelashes on his cheeks and he looks at his hands, the faint freckles across his nose. In fact, Nick is so distracted that he's not prepared for the push that sends him falling back onto the bed. He sits up on his elbows in time to see Joe sink to his knees.
"Happy birthday," Joe sings, as he undoes the belt and pulls down the zipper. He raises an eyebrow, "Mr. President."
Nick tries to laugh but it comes out weak and breathy because Joe is working his cock free and opening his mouth to it. He pushes himself up to sit and watch himself disappear into Joe's supple mouth, moans a soft "oh," and spreads one palm over the back of Joe's head. He threads his fingers through the salt and pepper black hair, mussing it. Joe keeps his hair pulled away from his face now, stylish but dignified, but it's still long enough to get messy and Nick loves it messy.
He fists his hand in Joe's hair, and rocks up slowly into his mouth. Joe's mouth has always been one of his favorite things. So much so that when they were teenagers he used to think he could live with just kissing. He used to rub his mouth chapped and raw on Joe's lips, thinking 'this is enough, it has to be enough.' It wasn't and now he's tilting Joe's head back to watch the push and drag of his cock in and out of those same lips, clenching his teeth against the moan fighting it's way up his throat.
It would be best to end it this way, just quickly and without lot of fuss, but just when Nick decides they've pushed the envelope far enough on Ben's gullibility and changes to a faster a pace, Joe pulls off. Nick looks up at him, slack mouthed, momentarily struck stupid at the loss of all that perfect, wet heat and suction. Joe stands and starts pulling at his clothes and kicking at his shoes like they aren't worth thousands, like no one will notice a tear when that is precisely the maid's job.
Slowly, Nick's brain begins to develop a concern, but Joe tosses his shirt on the floor before he can voice it. Their age is catching up to them more and more these days but a lifetime spent focused on health and fitness, and an unfortunately stubborn streak of vanity, means that Joe is still mouthwatering to look at. Nick hasn't done too badly himself, though he barely has time to sleep let alone exercise. He gets letters from eight year olds asking him if he likes being president, eighty year olds asking if he likes running the country into the ground, and eighteen year olds asking if he likes getting his dick sucked. His secretary showed him a few examples one day to make him laugh. People say he was elected on his good looks alone, but they've actually been a huge part of his problems. He has no excuses for his bachelorhood.
Perhaps if Joe were heavy and balding instead of fit and tan maybe no one would have thought of anything, let alone dreamed of implying it. But though there's a gray tinge to the chest hair now, and a little more to grab onto on his sides, but Joe's shoulders are still strong, his stomach flat. Joe pushes his trousers down his hips and Nick tries to think of something to say to put the brakes on this, slow it down a little.
"You're going to fuck me," Joe says, crawling up on the bed.
Nick's cock is out and lying on his stomach and it's not like he can hide the twitch of his groin at Joe saying that. "It's too-"
Joe kisses him, grabs him by the neck and bites his mouth until they break away gasping. "You're gonna fuck me," Joe says again, kneeling over him and popping the cap of a bottle with his thumb. Nick touches Joe's thighs tentatively, trying to decide whether to urge Joe on or gently stop him.
"It's been months," Joe complains reaching behind, and Nick's breath punches out of him.
It's true enough, it has been months, the campaign is being shot for a documentary, and to counteract the surplus of cameras and smear campaign by a faction of the Republican party they've kept Joe and Nick working different cities. More often than not their daily call to each other is made in front of an aide holding an agenda in their hands, checking their watch. And there's still almost a month to go until the election, they'll be flying out of Washington tomorrow night.
He can't see, but the way Joe's shoulder is jerking it looks like he's being rough with himself, going too fast and the desperation there makes Nick's mind up for him. He slides his palms up Joe's thigh, and slips one behind. He shoves the blunt tip of his index finger in with Joe's, and Joe cries out, tipping forward. His hand clenches where it lands in the bed sheets.
"Let me," Nick says, fumbling around for the discarded bottle.
Joe nods fretfully, pulls his fingers free and leans forward on both hands to give Nick access. Nick wets his fingers, puts two up against Joe and eases him back. Joe's body opens up to him, slick and hot, gripping his fingers, reshaping itself around them every time he scissors them open.
"Touch yourself." Joe hunches his shoulders and makes his stomach concave so that he can wrap his loose fist around his dick.
"Let me see." Joe sits up, sitting back on his fingers. The head is wet and red and he's barely touching himself at all, like he's worried he's too close. Joe starts moaning and Nick shoves the fingers of his other hand past his lips to keep him quiet. The walls aren't exactly thin, and the space any noise would have to travel to be heard is wide, but they're being reckless enough.
Nick fucks his fingers in three times to no resistance at all and twists his hips over to send Joe sprawling back on the bed. Joe bounces his hips and hitches his shoulders to get his head on the pillow and as soon as his curls touch the pillowcase he's reaching for Nick, all but whining for him.
Nick gets himself over Joe, plants his knees and lifts Joe's thigh up, spreading him open. He jacks his cock a few times to get it wet and then pushes it down to line it up. He's slow as he works the head past the initial resistance. Once past that, he takes a breath and shoves in straight down to the root because that's how Joe has always liked it. The sudden thrust makes Joe's mouth drop open on a silent exclamation that's only partly pain.
Nick waits until Joe opens his eyes to start thrusting. "Happy now?" he asks just to be a smart ass.
Joe tries to roll his eyes, but Nick interrupts it with another hard fuck in. He gasps, shuddering underneath Nick, "Yeah. Jesus, Nick, yeah."
They work up a sweat like that. Nick can feel it slipping down his back, wetting the feeble patch of chest hair between his pecs he's finally managed to grow. Joe grabs Nick's shoulder, cups his hand over the nape of his neck, using him as leverage to lift his hips in time. He keeps looking between them, at Nick sliding into him, at his own dick lolling on his stomach, popping up now and again to rub on Nick's belly.
Nick shifts a knee against the bed and comes in at a different angle. Joe shuts his eyes tight, throws his head back on the pillow, and whines. His throat is wet and shiny, a drop of sweat in the dip of his collarbones, and Nick's groin tightens up as his heart skips a beat.
"God, when you're like this-" Nick gasps without thinking. "Love you, I love you like this."
"Yeah?" Joe opens his eyes, heavy lidded now, the skin around them weathered and rough, but the color is still vibrant, the young, new brown of wet wood or melted chocolate.
"So much. Still."
He pulls Nick down until their foreheads touch; Nick's thrusts become more careful to keep them from knocking together, but harder too, and Joe grunts. "Just wait until- until you retire. We're going to get a ranch or something. An island. And we'll be all alone in the middle of nowhere. I'll be old and you'll nap in front of the TV and we'll fuck, unh, fuck every day on the breakfast table."
Nick's smile is both smug and fond. "Every day?"
Joe nods frantically, "Every day for a year. Eight years. God. Jesus. Nick!"
"I know," Nick says, "I know. Just. Need you, you know. So bad. Can't, oh-" Joe's body suddenly arches and stills under him and wet splashes on to his stomach. Nick stops babbling and groans wordlessly as he buries his face into Joe's neck.
He slows to feel Joe's climax, the clench of his body, biting his lip until Joe relaxes against the bed, and he can start pounding like his life depends on it. He shuts his eyes, wishing he could bite and suck Joe's vulnerable neck but all he can do is rub his mouth over it, again and again. He's so close and he gets wild with it, fucking his hips at a brutal pace and pushing Joe's thigh up like he is still as flexible as he was in his twenties. Joe hisses, but he doesn't ask Nick to stop, just grabs Nick's ass and tilts his hips up a little forward so that the next time Nick slides in it's all the way to the hilt, so perfect that it knocks the breath out of him. He holds onto Joe for dear life, shaking and gasping while his orgasm destroys him like a red-hot bat being swung wildly through his brain.
He collapses onto his brother, flushed and perspiring, deliciously exhausted; his mind is perfectly blank, as placid and still as an undisturbed lake. He's still buried in deep as they lie together, gluing themselves together with sweat and come, syncing up their breathing. Joe lays one hand across his back and combs the fingers of the other lightly through Nick's hair.
When Nick finally shifts and pulls his hips away from Joe's they both groan softly the loss. Before he's even moved an inch Joe grabs his jaw and pulls him back for a kiss. Nick's back protests the angle, so he tips to the side, landing on the bed next to Joe. They rearrange their limbs so they can lie close and tangled and kiss like newlyweds. Happy, stupid kisses to indulge in the rare euphoria of a shared orgasm.
"God, that was awesome," Joe says, pleased.
"That was stupid," Nick corrects. He can count on his hand the number of times they've been together like this in the White House, and never once somewhere that wasn't their private rooms. Joe keeps insisting that if Bill could get away with the Oval Office, so could they, but Nick had put his foot down. That sort of stuff is better relegated to vacations and joint trips.
"You're such a killjoy."
Joe means it playfully, but it's not something Nick likes to play about. "I'm not going to apologize for not wanting to get caught."
Joe sighs, and is silent long enough for Nick to consider the matter dropped. They trail fingertips across each other's skin without really thinking about it. As if, even though their minds are preoccupied, their bodies know better than to waste any opportunity to touch.
"It's hard you know," Joe says. "Being your little wifey and your mistress at the same time."
Nick laughs. "Yeah, that must be hard for you."
"It is." Nick realizes that Joe isn't joking.
Nick takes a deep breath and pushes it out as a sigh. He doesn't look Joe in the eye because he already knows. There's some part of Joe that wishes he could want simpler things, but it just doesn't exist in Nick. He's always been selfish about Joe, always felt the unmitigated, immature need of a child for him, but though he's tried, he's never been able to outgrow it.
Having this shortcoming brought to his attention makes him pout, just like a child. "What do you want me to do? Default the race to Delauney? Tell everyone?"
Joe looks at him, calm and quiet to contrast Nick's outburst. "Would you?"
Nick blinks. He opens his mouth, shuts it, sighs and tries again. "You wouldn't ask me to."
"No," Joe acknowledges. Still he looks at Nick as if expecting an answer.
Nick scratches his fingers through his hair, "Are you really asking me if you're more important than being president?"
"Am I?" Joe says, doing an impression of the little wifey that is a little too spot on. Nick is momentarily afraid of having to sleep on the couch.
He struggles to answer, but it's a Gordian knot of want and need and responsibility and he's too tired to untangle it.
"I can't give it up," he admits, saying it to the sheets instead of Joe's face. "But," and he looks to make sure that Joe isn't already angry. "I can't do it without you." He presses lips to keep the next step in that line of thought from coming out, that unfair 'please don't me make do it without you.'
Joe looks at him for a long time, as if he knows exactly what Nick isn't saying. He flops back on the bed, huffing out "fine," petulantly.
Nick touches Joe's side, rubbing his knuckle against the soft, thin skin. "I love you," he says in place of a thank you.
Joe groans his acceptance, "You big cheater."
"I'm not cheating!"
"Yes you are!" Joe says poking at him like they're brothers, like they're not naked and filthy from each other. "You always do! I bet you're even cheating on me."
Nick laughs, puts his arms around Joe to quiet him. "Hey, I'm cheating on you with you it doesn't count. You're my Marilyn Monroe and Jackie Kennedy all in one."
Joe rests his chin on Nick's shoulder, "You know, neither of those love stories had happy endings."
Nick snorts, "Promise me you'll never wear pink in parade and I'll promise you to never tour a city in a convertible."
Joe pinches him, "S'not funny."
"We'll be fine," Nick says, knowing this like he knows he'll win the election. News outlets took to calling his confidence "otherworldly" back in the first campaign, but Nick knows that sometimes you have to believe in something until proven absolutely, unequivocally wrong. "It's late," he says, yawning. "You should go back."
Joe shakes his head, "I'll sleep in the sitting room."
"Joe."
"It would look weirder to go now. When you get up tomorrow tell Mary that I drank too much, and slept on the couch. Make it seem funny. She'll come in and find me on the couch and tell everyone how ridiculous I am." He gets up and takes the bottle of scotch into the bathroom, pouring half of it down the sink. He swipes something from the floor, turns off the light, and slips under the covers.
"I thought you were sleeping in the sitting room," Nick says as Joe fiddles with his watch.
"Mary never comes in until five. Just let me be with you." He flips the covers over both their bodies, and starts prodding pillows.
Joe fits himself into the space beside Nick, making himself warm and comfortable, looking content. His mouth is raw and red, and his hair is still a mess, and Nick tries to summon up the energy to keeping fighting and fails. For all that Nick is the most powerful man in America he is finding himself expertly bullied tonight. Instead he puts his arm around his brother, lets Joe hum happily and kiss the hollow of throat. He doesn't expect to be able to sleep, not when there's a chance that they could be discovered. He expects to jump at every noise, for his mind to keep dreaming up troubling scenarios, but it is quite late. Nick is forty-four, fresh from being the man of the hour at a huge celebration and looking towards to a second term in office. He is lying in king-size bed in the White House with the only person he has ever wanted to the point of ruin wrapped around him. He sleeps like a baby.
Fandom: The Jonas Brothers
Pairing: President Nick Jonas and his First Lady, Joe.
Warning: It's RPS! And lame.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4k
Summary: Nick J. finally realizes his dream of becoming President. Joe Jonas finally realizes his dream of following Nick anywhere.
Notes: I totally GOOFED about Nick's birthday and thought it was Nov. 16th, when it is actually Sept. 16th. For those of you who read the fic quite soon after it was posted, I implied that Nick had already won his second term. I've changed that final passage to make it more accurate, and included it in this second part. Title is from Marilyn Monroe's "I Want To Be Loved By You". I wanted to title it something other than a blatant rip off of Karla's idea, but "Joe Jonas: First Lady" is what this is, so that's what I gotta call it.
In other news, I heart blackwayfarers and th_esaurus for being so AWESOME about this. <3!
Part One: (Politicians Can't Wear Their Hearts on Their Sleeves)
Part Two:
Excerpt from an Associated Press article: With a second term in office a likely present for his 44th birthday, President Jonas celebrated with friends and family at a bash filled with a who's who of big names from both Hollywood and DC on Thursday. The fete was on a larger scale than typically favored by the President, and sent a clear message to opposing candidate Delauney. It's obvious that Jonas doesn't think he's leaving Washington anytime soon...
Brother and close confidant of the President, Joseph Jonas, finished off the night with an acoustic version Stevie Wonder's "Happy Birthday." The notoriously lighthearted Jonas started off in a single spotlight, mimicking Marilyn Monroe's still-famous breathy tribute to JFK, Jr. in the sixties. He waited until the crowd's bawdy laughter faded into awkward chuckles before flashing a trickster's grin and bringing out brothers Kevin and Frankie for a more traditional rendition of the song. By the time the crowd joined in for the chorus, the famously reserved President Jonas had a hard time keeping a straight face.
~~~
It's well after one in the morning when they return to the White House. Staff greets them at the entry, taking their coats, asking them if they want coffee or tea. They shake their head no and Nick dismisses the Secret Service agents. They'll play poker in the kitchen until the morning shift comes at six. Security greets them at the second floor with a wry, "Good morning, Mr. President." Nick shakes his head with a polite laugh.
"Happy birthday," Joe says on the landing. The lights shine yellow off of the marble, and the reflected glow makes Joe's skin look warm and rich, like caramel. His tuxedo jacket is unbuttoned, and his hands are in his pockets.
"Good night, Joe," Nick says, once he's had his fill of looking at him.
If he waited for Joe to turn away from him, he'd be standing there all night, so he does it himself, turning on his heel and heading down the hall. He can feel Joe's eyes on him more than half of the way. The sensation raises the hair on the back of his neck and makes his palms itch, but he doesn't let himself clench his fists even once.
Though he often feels alone, he rarely ever is. The security guard's name is Ben, his post is at the top of the staircase, and his job is to notice things. Nick tries his best to be likable, to encourage those that keep a silent watch over him to think of him kindly. It gently discourages questions while making them more apt to defend him. Nick thinks of it as an insurance policy, really; people have always gotten used to them. Even with everything that gets said, none of the staff bat an eyelash at Joe grabbing Nick's wrist excitedly to pull him somewhere, or Nick putting his arm behind Joe's shoulders when they get a rare chance to watch TV together. Not anymore.
But of course there are some things that can never be fully excused. They must retire to separate bedrooms. Joe has made the Queen's bedroom his own, a joke which never fails to get old, but at least the walls are no longer painted creamy pink. It's a room that has housed both royalty and children and it's been redecorated to suit Joe. (The Lincoln bedroom was never an option, too important, too well known, but it was of no matter really because Joe won't even go in it alone. "Feels haunted," he'd said, faking a shiver.)
Nick slouches a bit when he closes the door to his bedroom behind him, relaxes as the strain of being watched lifts from his shoulders. A slim, black leather portfolio with the Presidential seal is waiting on table next to the door. The last reports of the night, mostly intelligence filed from other time zones. Not for the first time, he considers not reading them. If it were anything important at all it would have been brought to his attention.
He taps his fingers against the report, thinking, then sighs and picks it up. He sits on the bed to review them, and as he does, something in his back pocket crumples. He reaches back to pull it out, lifting his hips. It's his birthday card from Joe. The inscription inside is perfectly bland except for all the explanation points, but still Nick opens it again to read it.
The memory of Joe's voice tonight filters into his mind, making heat creep up his neck. Joe had pushed the envelope tonight, but nothing brought out the sense of humor in a politician like alcohol and Nick had made sure that particular brand of insurance had been given out freely. Harvard alums have fond memories of Hasty Pudding Theatricals, and southern statesmen never tire of recounting their wild antics at Ol' WhateverU fraternity parties. Joe had been a hit.
Nick sets the card aside and tries to make his eyes focus on the report, but the words seem too small and tightly spaced. He sets it aside and rubs his neck tiredly. The door to his bedroom opens slowly and silently, and Nick feels a momentary jolt of fear because no one who is supposed to be here would ever open that door without knocking, but instead of some assassin, it's his brother slipping in.
"Joe," he starts to whisper, but Joe refuses to act as if this is unusual in any way. He hefts a bottle of what looks like scotch and says, in a normal tone of voice, "Told Ben I had a present I couldn't give you in front of cameras."
Rather famously, Nick still abstains from alcohol. To avoid coming off as too religious with his liberal voter base he has said this is because of his dedication to his health. He sighs and shakes his head, "I think you've started enough rumors tonight, Joe."
"Fine," Joe says shrugging. "I'll go tell him that you're not secretly drinking against doctor's orders and tell him what we're really doing."
Nick stands, and puts the papers in his lap aside. "And what are we doing?"
Joe smile fades and he sets the scotch down with a clunk on the same table Nick found the reports. "It's your birthday," he says, coming close.
"Joe," Nick says, trying to stop this before it gets started.
Joe doesn't stop, sliding right into Nick's personal space. His eyes drop down Nick's face and then up again. "Didn't get to celebrate it last year," he says, voice soft and rough. He touches the lapels of Nick's jacket as if he means to straighten them. "And mine this year didn't really make up for it."
"Well, next time I'll tell the Bolivian guerillas to stage a coup after your birthday," Nick says, touching Joe's hands as if to slide them off.
Joe smiles and tugs on Nick's lapels, setting him off balance so that he has to grab Joe's arms to steady himself again. "That's all I ask."
They're close enough that irreversible processes are taking place; Nick's lips have parted, and Joe's pupils are dilated, the temperature in the air rises a degree. Nick tells himself one kiss, like it's a concession, but it's a white flag of surrender. Joe's mouth is still sweet from the birthday cake, and there's the sharp taste of alcohol over it, mixing into this deadly cocktail of things he shouldn't have.
Joe starts walking them back to that big four-poster bed and Nick's feet don't even stutter to stop them once. When their legs touch the bed, Joe steps back, away from the kiss, and smooths his hands down Nick's chest. "Happy birthday to you," he sing songs, low and soft. He pushes his hands under Nick's tuxedo and slides them over Nick's shoulder and down, removing the jacket.
He tugs Nick's bow tie loose, and starts on the little black buttons, "Happy birthday to you."
Nick is sure that some of the dress studs are being dropped and lost, but he's more interested in the wry curve of Joe's generous mouth, the fan of his eyelashes on his cheeks and he looks at his hands, the faint freckles across his nose. In fact, Nick is so distracted that he's not prepared for the push that sends him falling back onto the bed. He sits up on his elbows in time to see Joe sink to his knees.
"Happy birthday," Joe sings, as he undoes the belt and pulls down the zipper. He raises an eyebrow, "Mr. President."
Nick tries to laugh but it comes out weak and breathy because Joe is working his cock free and opening his mouth to it. He pushes himself up to sit and watch himself disappear into Joe's supple mouth, moans a soft "oh," and spreads one palm over the back of Joe's head. He threads his fingers through the salt and pepper black hair, mussing it. Joe keeps his hair pulled away from his face now, stylish but dignified, but it's still long enough to get messy and Nick loves it messy.
He fists his hand in Joe's hair, and rocks up slowly into his mouth. Joe's mouth has always been one of his favorite things. So much so that when they were teenagers he used to think he could live with just kissing. He used to rub his mouth chapped and raw on Joe's lips, thinking 'this is enough, it has to be enough.' It wasn't and now he's tilting Joe's head back to watch the push and drag of his cock in and out of those same lips, clenching his teeth against the moan fighting it's way up his throat.
It would be best to end it this way, just quickly and without lot of fuss, but just when Nick decides they've pushed the envelope far enough on Ben's gullibility and changes to a faster a pace, Joe pulls off. Nick looks up at him, slack mouthed, momentarily struck stupid at the loss of all that perfect, wet heat and suction. Joe stands and starts pulling at his clothes and kicking at his shoes like they aren't worth thousands, like no one will notice a tear when that is precisely the maid's job.
Slowly, Nick's brain begins to develop a concern, but Joe tosses his shirt on the floor before he can voice it. Their age is catching up to them more and more these days but a lifetime spent focused on health and fitness, and an unfortunately stubborn streak of vanity, means that Joe is still mouthwatering to look at. Nick hasn't done too badly himself, though he barely has time to sleep let alone exercise. He gets letters from eight year olds asking him if he likes being president, eighty year olds asking if he likes running the country into the ground, and eighteen year olds asking if he likes getting his dick sucked. His secretary showed him a few examples one day to make him laugh. People say he was elected on his good looks alone, but they've actually been a huge part of his problems. He has no excuses for his bachelorhood.
Perhaps if Joe were heavy and balding instead of fit and tan maybe no one would have thought of anything, let alone dreamed of implying it. But though there's a gray tinge to the chest hair now, and a little more to grab onto on his sides, but Joe's shoulders are still strong, his stomach flat. Joe pushes his trousers down his hips and Nick tries to think of something to say to put the brakes on this, slow it down a little.
"You're going to fuck me," Joe says, crawling up on the bed.
Nick's cock is out and lying on his stomach and it's not like he can hide the twitch of his groin at Joe saying that. "It's too-"
Joe kisses him, grabs him by the neck and bites his mouth until they break away gasping. "You're gonna fuck me," Joe says again, kneeling over him and popping the cap of a bottle with his thumb. Nick touches Joe's thighs tentatively, trying to decide whether to urge Joe on or gently stop him.
"It's been months," Joe complains reaching behind, and Nick's breath punches out of him.
It's true enough, it has been months, the campaign is being shot for a documentary, and to counteract the surplus of cameras and smear campaign by a faction of the Republican party they've kept Joe and Nick working different cities. More often than not their daily call to each other is made in front of an aide holding an agenda in their hands, checking their watch. And there's still almost a month to go until the election, they'll be flying out of Washington tomorrow night.
He can't see, but the way Joe's shoulder is jerking it looks like he's being rough with himself, going too fast and the desperation there makes Nick's mind up for him. He slides his palms up Joe's thigh, and slips one behind. He shoves the blunt tip of his index finger in with Joe's, and Joe cries out, tipping forward. His hand clenches where it lands in the bed sheets.
"Let me," Nick says, fumbling around for the discarded bottle.
Joe nods fretfully, pulls his fingers free and leans forward on both hands to give Nick access. Nick wets his fingers, puts two up against Joe and eases him back. Joe's body opens up to him, slick and hot, gripping his fingers, reshaping itself around them every time he scissors them open.
"Touch yourself." Joe hunches his shoulders and makes his stomach concave so that he can wrap his loose fist around his dick.
"Let me see." Joe sits up, sitting back on his fingers. The head is wet and red and he's barely touching himself at all, like he's worried he's too close. Joe starts moaning and Nick shoves the fingers of his other hand past his lips to keep him quiet. The walls aren't exactly thin, and the space any noise would have to travel to be heard is wide, but they're being reckless enough.
Nick fucks his fingers in three times to no resistance at all and twists his hips over to send Joe sprawling back on the bed. Joe bounces his hips and hitches his shoulders to get his head on the pillow and as soon as his curls touch the pillowcase he's reaching for Nick, all but whining for him.
Nick gets himself over Joe, plants his knees and lifts Joe's thigh up, spreading him open. He jacks his cock a few times to get it wet and then pushes it down to line it up. He's slow as he works the head past the initial resistance. Once past that, he takes a breath and shoves in straight down to the root because that's how Joe has always liked it. The sudden thrust makes Joe's mouth drop open on a silent exclamation that's only partly pain.
Nick waits until Joe opens his eyes to start thrusting. "Happy now?" he asks just to be a smart ass.
Joe tries to roll his eyes, but Nick interrupts it with another hard fuck in. He gasps, shuddering underneath Nick, "Yeah. Jesus, Nick, yeah."
They work up a sweat like that. Nick can feel it slipping down his back, wetting the feeble patch of chest hair between his pecs he's finally managed to grow. Joe grabs Nick's shoulder, cups his hand over the nape of his neck, using him as leverage to lift his hips in time. He keeps looking between them, at Nick sliding into him, at his own dick lolling on his stomach, popping up now and again to rub on Nick's belly.
Nick shifts a knee against the bed and comes in at a different angle. Joe shuts his eyes tight, throws his head back on the pillow, and whines. His throat is wet and shiny, a drop of sweat in the dip of his collarbones, and Nick's groin tightens up as his heart skips a beat.
"God, when you're like this-" Nick gasps without thinking. "Love you, I love you like this."
"Yeah?" Joe opens his eyes, heavy lidded now, the skin around them weathered and rough, but the color is still vibrant, the young, new brown of wet wood or melted chocolate.
"So much. Still."
He pulls Nick down until their foreheads touch; Nick's thrusts become more careful to keep them from knocking together, but harder too, and Joe grunts. "Just wait until- until you retire. We're going to get a ranch or something. An island. And we'll be all alone in the middle of nowhere. I'll be old and you'll nap in front of the TV and we'll fuck, unh, fuck every day on the breakfast table."
Nick's smile is both smug and fond. "Every day?"
Joe nods frantically, "Every day for a year. Eight years. God. Jesus. Nick!"
"I know," Nick says, "I know. Just. Need you, you know. So bad. Can't, oh-" Joe's body suddenly arches and stills under him and wet splashes on to his stomach. Nick stops babbling and groans wordlessly as he buries his face into Joe's neck.
He slows to feel Joe's climax, the clench of his body, biting his lip until Joe relaxes against the bed, and he can start pounding like his life depends on it. He shuts his eyes, wishing he could bite and suck Joe's vulnerable neck but all he can do is rub his mouth over it, again and again. He's so close and he gets wild with it, fucking his hips at a brutal pace and pushing Joe's thigh up like he is still as flexible as he was in his twenties. Joe hisses, but he doesn't ask Nick to stop, just grabs Nick's ass and tilts his hips up a little forward so that the next time Nick slides in it's all the way to the hilt, so perfect that it knocks the breath out of him. He holds onto Joe for dear life, shaking and gasping while his orgasm destroys him like a red-hot bat being swung wildly through his brain.
He collapses onto his brother, flushed and perspiring, deliciously exhausted; his mind is perfectly blank, as placid and still as an undisturbed lake. He's still buried in deep as they lie together, gluing themselves together with sweat and come, syncing up their breathing. Joe lays one hand across his back and combs the fingers of the other lightly through Nick's hair.
When Nick finally shifts and pulls his hips away from Joe's they both groan softly the loss. Before he's even moved an inch Joe grabs his jaw and pulls him back for a kiss. Nick's back protests the angle, so he tips to the side, landing on the bed next to Joe. They rearrange their limbs so they can lie close and tangled and kiss like newlyweds. Happy, stupid kisses to indulge in the rare euphoria of a shared orgasm.
"God, that was awesome," Joe says, pleased.
"That was stupid," Nick corrects. He can count on his hand the number of times they've been together like this in the White House, and never once somewhere that wasn't their private rooms. Joe keeps insisting that if Bill could get away with the Oval Office, so could they, but Nick had put his foot down. That sort of stuff is better relegated to vacations and joint trips.
"You're such a killjoy."
Joe means it playfully, but it's not something Nick likes to play about. "I'm not going to apologize for not wanting to get caught."
Joe sighs, and is silent long enough for Nick to consider the matter dropped. They trail fingertips across each other's skin without really thinking about it. As if, even though their minds are preoccupied, their bodies know better than to waste any opportunity to touch.
"It's hard you know," Joe says. "Being your little wifey and your mistress at the same time."
Nick laughs. "Yeah, that must be hard for you."
"It is." Nick realizes that Joe isn't joking.
Nick takes a deep breath and pushes it out as a sigh. He doesn't look Joe in the eye because he already knows. There's some part of Joe that wishes he could want simpler things, but it just doesn't exist in Nick. He's always been selfish about Joe, always felt the unmitigated, immature need of a child for him, but though he's tried, he's never been able to outgrow it.
Having this shortcoming brought to his attention makes him pout, just like a child. "What do you want me to do? Default the race to Delauney? Tell everyone?"
Joe looks at him, calm and quiet to contrast Nick's outburst. "Would you?"
Nick blinks. He opens his mouth, shuts it, sighs and tries again. "You wouldn't ask me to."
"No," Joe acknowledges. Still he looks at Nick as if expecting an answer.
Nick scratches his fingers through his hair, "Are you really asking me if you're more important than being president?"
"Am I?" Joe says, doing an impression of the little wifey that is a little too spot on. Nick is momentarily afraid of having to sleep on the couch.
He struggles to answer, but it's a Gordian knot of want and need and responsibility and he's too tired to untangle it.
"I can't give it up," he admits, saying it to the sheets instead of Joe's face. "But," and he looks to make sure that Joe isn't already angry. "I can't do it without you." He presses lips to keep the next step in that line of thought from coming out, that unfair 'please don't me make do it without you.'
Joe looks at him for a long time, as if he knows exactly what Nick isn't saying. He flops back on the bed, huffing out "fine," petulantly.
Nick touches Joe's side, rubbing his knuckle against the soft, thin skin. "I love you," he says in place of a thank you.
Joe groans his acceptance, "You big cheater."
"I'm not cheating!"
"Yes you are!" Joe says poking at him like they're brothers, like they're not naked and filthy from each other. "You always do! I bet you're even cheating on me."
Nick laughs, puts his arms around Joe to quiet him. "Hey, I'm cheating on you with you it doesn't count. You're my Marilyn Monroe and Jackie Kennedy all in one."
Joe rests his chin on Nick's shoulder, "You know, neither of those love stories had happy endings."
Nick snorts, "Promise me you'll never wear pink in parade and I'll promise you to never tour a city in a convertible."
Joe pinches him, "S'not funny."
"We'll be fine," Nick says, knowing this like he knows he'll win the election. News outlets took to calling his confidence "otherworldly" back in the first campaign, but Nick knows that sometimes you have to believe in something until proven absolutely, unequivocally wrong. "It's late," he says, yawning. "You should go back."
Joe shakes his head, "I'll sleep in the sitting room."
"Joe."
"It would look weirder to go now. When you get up tomorrow tell Mary that I drank too much, and slept on the couch. Make it seem funny. She'll come in and find me on the couch and tell everyone how ridiculous I am." He gets up and takes the bottle of scotch into the bathroom, pouring half of it down the sink. He swipes something from the floor, turns off the light, and slips under the covers.
"I thought you were sleeping in the sitting room," Nick says as Joe fiddles with his watch.
"Mary never comes in until five. Just let me be with you." He flips the covers over both their bodies, and starts prodding pillows.
Joe fits himself into the space beside Nick, making himself warm and comfortable, looking content. His mouth is raw and red, and his hair is still a mess, and Nick tries to summon up the energy to keeping fighting and fails. For all that Nick is the most powerful man in America he is finding himself expertly bullied tonight. Instead he puts his arm around his brother, lets Joe hum happily and kiss the hollow of throat. He doesn't expect to be able to sleep, not when there's a chance that they could be discovered. He expects to jump at every noise, for his mind to keep dreaming up troubling scenarios, but it is quite late. Nick is forty-four, fresh from being the man of the hour at a huge celebration and looking towards to a second term in office. He is lying in king-size bed in the White House with the only person he has ever wanted to the point of ruin wrapped around him. He sleeps like a baby.