Politics: Obama/Edwards: Hope Whispers Try One More Time
Title: Hope Whispers Try One More Time
Pairing: Barack Obama/John Edwards
Rating: R, I guess. I suck at ratings.
Summary: John Edwards accepts an offer.
Disclaimer: So, so not true. (Unless it is, in which case you can totally let me know, Senators. I won't tell.)
Notes: Somewhat of a follow-up to this fic. Thank you to alowishus812 and raspsun, who assured me that this did not suck!
"When the world says, 'Give up,' Hope whispers, 'Try it one more time.'"
*
Five months. Five months ago it was a cold February night and in one month it will be three August days in Colorado. One month until Barack stands on stage and accepts the nomination. For the past few weeks he's been fielding calls from the other man; their conversations are stilted and almost awkward now, but still made weekly.
"I promise I won't make 'help' our campaign slogan," Barack says jokingly during one of his attempts to persuade John. John bristles a bit at the reminder, but he understands the underlying sentiment of Barack's statement.
It's a Friday, five months exactly.
Tomorrow, John thinks. Tomorrow he'll accept.
Afterwards, the news channels are re-airing footage from an event Barack appeared at. He's all but sealed the nomination and now the anticipation towards August is building. Elizabeth says something about how nice he looks tonight.
The night following Barack's first visit in February, John told Elizabeth how he left abruptly. He didn't tell her everything, but she knew enough. Elizabeth simply kissed him and reminded him to come to bed soon, all but giving him her blessing, just like she had four years ago. She knows better than he does sometimes, but he realizes it quickly this time, or he might've gotten a stern talking-to from her -- like four years ago. John doesn't quite know what to do with her sometimes, but he's thankful.
*
Even after running his hands through his hair all night, he still feels like there's confetti stuck in it, and he can still feel the rush of the cheering crowds. The sunrise is lurking just below the horizon and the early editions of the papers are already on display in the hotel lobby. He looks away from one of the newspapers, a picture of him and Barack, side by side and waving to everyone, emblazoned across the front, and turns back to a small group, including Barack and a clean-shaven Bill Richardson, discussing one of the aspects of the party platform laid out earlier.
John is pulled quickly into another picture. Barack grips his shoulder, and John rests his hand lightly at the small of the other man's back as he beams genuinely at the camera, eyes squinting and cheeks dimpling. He purposefully avoids looking over at one of the other small groups still hanging around in the conference room by the lobby. He wants to focus on the other things, the positives, tonight -- the positives of putting his issues front and center once more, of proudly being part of this historic election, of the very real chance of winning back the White House and the country after the eight years spent in the dark of such hopelessness.
John is feeling drunk and happy now, not on the small glasses of wine that are now empty, but rather on the atmosphere of the night and the fleeting touches. Barack is laughing at something someone else is saying, and with his body invading John's personal space the conversation between them actually becomes easier, like each cue from his eyes or hands is a cue to his thoughts as well.
After what seems to be the hundredth time Barack drifts back to him and the millionth time one of them has laughed and leaned in closer, John grabs the attention of the other man. "We need to discuss, ah, our plan for rural America," John says, ignoring that this is not the time one would normally discuss such things.
"Of course," Barack says, and the response is barely out before John is grasping his arm and hastily ushering him into a nearby room. He gives John a look, but closes the door behind them. John lets Barack hover impossibly close for a moment, and then the taller man is cornering him, working his shirt out of his slacks.
"So about our plan for the incentives for teachers in rural schools," John begins. Barack looks at him, and John raises his eyebrows. "Don't you think it's important?"
Barack pauses, his fingers lingering on the buttons of John's shirt. "You're serious?"
John laughs, looping his fingers through the other man's belt loops and pulling Barack forward towards him. "Mmhmm," John murmurs. "You might hafta shut me up." And then Barack's mouth is moving against his, kissing him hard, and his hands are finding Barack's belt, like they've done this since the beginning of forever instead of one evening that started it all and a few late nights on the campaign trail.
John drops the belt to the floor and pushes back on Barack, pressing him against the large conference desk behind them. "You couldn't keep your hands off me out there, and in front of everyone," John taunts, voice deep and his hand slipping inside the other man's pants, curving around his hardening cock.
"You're the one who dragged me in here," Barack protests, before John starts moving his hand, slowly at first, and tightly grips Barack's tie in his free hand. Barack moans into John's mouth. He pulls John's zipper down, taking his time and cupping his hand against the telling bulge, applying gentle pressure.
When John feels Barack's warm hand envelope his cock, thumb brushing over the head, he buries his nose in the crook of Barack's neck. It's silent except for breathing and hands moving on flesh in disjointed rhythms and low moans until John tenses up. He bites down slightly on Barack's shoulder and lets out a slow, drawling "Fuck, Barack," and that voice, those words, in combination with John's hands still on Barack, means it's only seconds later that Barack is coming, too.
Neither one of them moves for a minute. John slowly pulls away, finding a tissue, buttoning and tucking in all the proper ways.
"I don't think that plan has a chance of getting passed," John says, smiling, as they leave.
"We might have to make a few adjustments," Barack agrees.
As he closes the door again, John closes his eyes for a second and he can see brilliant lights and confetti in every bright color of the flag. This is what he was here for; any doubts that remained in the hotel lobby or the future were slowly dissolving. They'd make it this time.
Pairing: Barack Obama/John Edwards
Rating: R, I guess. I suck at ratings.
Summary: John Edwards accepts an offer.
Disclaimer: So, so not true. (Unless it is, in which case you can totally let me know, Senators. I won't tell.)
Notes: Somewhat of a follow-up to this fic. Thank you to alowishus812 and raspsun, who assured me that this did not suck!
"When the world says, 'Give up,' Hope whispers, 'Try it one more time.'"
*
Five months. Five months ago it was a cold February night and in one month it will be three August days in Colorado. One month until Barack stands on stage and accepts the nomination. For the past few weeks he's been fielding calls from the other man; their conversations are stilted and almost awkward now, but still made weekly.
"I promise I won't make 'help' our campaign slogan," Barack says jokingly during one of his attempts to persuade John. John bristles a bit at the reminder, but he understands the underlying sentiment of Barack's statement.
It's a Friday, five months exactly.
Tomorrow, John thinks. Tomorrow he'll accept.
Afterwards, the news channels are re-airing footage from an event Barack appeared at. He's all but sealed the nomination and now the anticipation towards August is building. Elizabeth says something about how nice he looks tonight.
The night following Barack's first visit in February, John told Elizabeth how he left abruptly. He didn't tell her everything, but she knew enough. Elizabeth simply kissed him and reminded him to come to bed soon, all but giving him her blessing, just like she had four years ago. She knows better than he does sometimes, but he realizes it quickly this time, or he might've gotten a stern talking-to from her -- like four years ago. John doesn't quite know what to do with her sometimes, but he's thankful.
*
Even after running his hands through his hair all night, he still feels like there's confetti stuck in it, and he can still feel the rush of the cheering crowds. The sunrise is lurking just below the horizon and the early editions of the papers are already on display in the hotel lobby. He looks away from one of the newspapers, a picture of him and Barack, side by side and waving to everyone, emblazoned across the front, and turns back to a small group, including Barack and a clean-shaven Bill Richardson, discussing one of the aspects of the party platform laid out earlier.
John is pulled quickly into another picture. Barack grips his shoulder, and John rests his hand lightly at the small of the other man's back as he beams genuinely at the camera, eyes squinting and cheeks dimpling. He purposefully avoids looking over at one of the other small groups still hanging around in the conference room by the lobby. He wants to focus on the other things, the positives, tonight -- the positives of putting his issues front and center once more, of proudly being part of this historic election, of the very real chance of winning back the White House and the country after the eight years spent in the dark of such hopelessness.
John is feeling drunk and happy now, not on the small glasses of wine that are now empty, but rather on the atmosphere of the night and the fleeting touches. Barack is laughing at something someone else is saying, and with his body invading John's personal space the conversation between them actually becomes easier, like each cue from his eyes or hands is a cue to his thoughts as well.
After what seems to be the hundredth time Barack drifts back to him and the millionth time one of them has laughed and leaned in closer, John grabs the attention of the other man. "We need to discuss, ah, our plan for rural America," John says, ignoring that this is not the time one would normally discuss such things.
"Of course," Barack says, and the response is barely out before John is grasping his arm and hastily ushering him into a nearby room. He gives John a look, but closes the door behind them. John lets Barack hover impossibly close for a moment, and then the taller man is cornering him, working his shirt out of his slacks.
"So about our plan for the incentives for teachers in rural schools," John begins. Barack looks at him, and John raises his eyebrows. "Don't you think it's important?"
Barack pauses, his fingers lingering on the buttons of John's shirt. "You're serious?"
John laughs, looping his fingers through the other man's belt loops and pulling Barack forward towards him. "Mmhmm," John murmurs. "You might hafta shut me up." And then Barack's mouth is moving against his, kissing him hard, and his hands are finding Barack's belt, like they've done this since the beginning of forever instead of one evening that started it all and a few late nights on the campaign trail.
John drops the belt to the floor and pushes back on Barack, pressing him against the large conference desk behind them. "You couldn't keep your hands off me out there, and in front of everyone," John taunts, voice deep and his hand slipping inside the other man's pants, curving around his hardening cock.
"You're the one who dragged me in here," Barack protests, before John starts moving his hand, slowly at first, and tightly grips Barack's tie in his free hand. Barack moans into John's mouth. He pulls John's zipper down, taking his time and cupping his hand against the telling bulge, applying gentle pressure.
When John feels Barack's warm hand envelope his cock, thumb brushing over the head, he buries his nose in the crook of Barack's neck. It's silent except for breathing and hands moving on flesh in disjointed rhythms and low moans until John tenses up. He bites down slightly on Barack's shoulder and lets out a slow, drawling "Fuck, Barack," and that voice, those words, in combination with John's hands still on Barack, means it's only seconds later that Barack is coming, too.
Neither one of them moves for a minute. John slowly pulls away, finding a tissue, buttoning and tucking in all the proper ways.
"I don't think that plan has a chance of getting passed," John says, smiling, as they leave.
"We might have to make a few adjustments," Barack agrees.
As he closes the door again, John closes his eyes for a second and he can see brilliant lights and confetti in every bright color of the flag. This is what he was here for; any doubts that remained in the hotel lobby or the future were slowly dissolving. They'd make it this time.