m a r t y r .

“- because honestly I’m fine with the rest of the trail mix, but raisins? Like what the hell is that supposed to be about? If I wanted a grape, I would eat a grape. I can’t imagine the kind of monster who lies awake at night and thinks ‘Fuck the grapes in my fridge right now, let me dry them out and watch them shrivel into tiny little demons, and only then will I consume them’. It’s why I can’t stand croutons either. They’re not even real bread, they’re the version of bread that’s been left out to die that white people want to convince me is still a product in and of itself.” He shakes his head with a profound disgust, though his dad can’t exactly see him from where he’s listening on the other side of the phone. As Vir’s been talking, he’s climbed out of the car and made his way to the front door, unlocking it and pushing it open with the expectation of having the house to himself just like every other evening for a good couple hours - or in the very least, enough time for him to get started on dinner. 

Instead, he sees Oliver’s things by the foyer and hears the sound of the television from the other room and thinks, alright, maybe this evening isn’t like the rest. “Hey, sorry, I’m gonna have to call you back later,” he says to his dad before he can fully reply to Vir’s monologue. “Yeah, will do. Aapse pyar karta hoon pita jee.” He presses the bright red ‘END’ and puts his phone in his pocket, slinking off his bag and going over to the other room to investigate. “Hey,” he greets warily. He walks over to Oliver, about to ask him some follow-ups about Oliver’s state, but he’s interrupted by his husband’s lips on his own. It’s a familiar thing, a gesture he can usually melt into, except that Oliver’s lips are lined with an unsettling taste. “You’ve been drinking,” he says instead of answering Oliver’s question. “Why have you been drinking? What happened?”

“Bad day at the office. I don’t want to talk about it.” And he doesn’t. It feels like all Oliver does on most days, talk and talk and talk and talk only to barely be able to follow through on half of his promises. He knows it’s not his fault, that this is just how politics works, you campaign for ten things but you can only actually deliver on three. But he’s tired of it, so fucking tired of tip-toeing around the correct thing to say, especially around Vir - Vir, who always manages to see right through him; Vir, who makes everything he says into something else. He doesn’t want to speak and he doesn’t want to think and he doesn’t want to play any games, just wants to exist tonight as OliverandVir in the way that couples are supposed to when they’re too stupid to be anything but perfectly happy with each other. 

“Have you ever helped a loved one destroy themselves?”

He hates the way that Vir’s name comes to mind before he can suppress it. But still, he thinks of Vir - of his bright smile when they first met, the self-assured way he once carried himself, the way he swore he’d write the next Great American Novel as though it was a fact rather than a prayer. He remembers that vision, how palpable it had been. How it’s all but gone now, almost seven years later.

But that’s not Oliver’s fault. It’s this city, it’s these times, it’s the way that writer’s block won’t let Vir be the artist he’s meant to be. It’s not his fault.

('You want me to buy that, don’t you?’ He can’t forget the way Vir spat those words at him. ‘As though you don’t just take and take without a single thought about what I want.’ But what does he know?)

“Out of all the lies you have ever told, which is your favorite?”

It’s heavy, the weight of his casual cruelties. Out of all the lies you have ever told. Where does he begin to narrow them down?  ‘Just one more election and we’ll leave DC. I’m only running for president to make a statement. I’ll always put the common interest before my own. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ This is what he’s made of, these masks that don’t fit.

“If you were a god, how would you prefer to be worshipped?”

He supposed he had inadvertently been representing the other side at the wedding, hadn’t he? Mike hadn’t shown up, nor had Will. But he’d had extremely ulterior motives for showing up. And that despite Oliver’s hope, Silas was going to go back to fiercely defending his faith on such a topic. But he doesn’t say anything; he wasn’t intending to get into a fight. Or at least, his announcement was as much as chaos as he had been intending to sow. He’s surprised that Oliver doesn’t just take the compliment and rather said something quite perceptive. “That’s very wise and self-aware of you to say,” he complimented, one sincerely given. For the two of them, being here, doing this, it might feel like second nature. He cannot help but think of such words when the question was turned onto him. “My son,” he answered warmly, denoted with that pride and joy that unmistakably could come only from love. That which cannot be faked. Whatever one might think of him, Silas dearly cared for his son. “Have you thought about children?” He asked, as if they were not something worse than strangers to each other — enemies. He can’t help but think about how old Henry had been when he had been Oliver’s age. He hadn’t even thought about being a senator yet. 

“Your son seems like a good man,” he notes off-handedly. It’s not a lie, but that’s mostly because Oliver doesn’t know Henry enough to really assess his character. In a way, he lumps all politician’s kids in the same corner, viewing them more as their parents’ side pieces for photo ops and campaign appearances than anything else. He is curious about one thing though - “Any reason he doesn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps and go into politics?” It’s not meant to be a critique as much as it is genuine interest. God knows that, unlike his sister, Oliver never had any interest in staying within his parents’ range of specialties. 

His eyebrows raise a bit at the mention of his own kids. “Sure, I’ve thought about it,” he says. “Vir and I can both agree that we want at least one, though I think ideally we end up with two or three. We’re looking into adoption options, but we’ll probably hold off until after the election year. Vir’s a little paranoid about raising a kid surrounded by politics, and I get it, I just think there’s a lot worse things you can put a kid through. I mean, the Kennedy’s and Clinton’s seem like they’re doing just fine.”

God. The way Oliver talks about himself — his oh so noble fight for the greater good — Hans wants to vomit. And he thought he had an ego.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hans nods along, rightfully dismissive. “Doesn’t that get you hard?” 

It’s not his typical joke – but Hans’s own honest take on what Oliver’s true vision might be. An ego issue, far more than a need to serve the public. He isn’t that special. Just another politician, running high on his own image. He meets Oliver’s eyes, not at all threatened by the dark he sees within them — if that, Hans recognizes it. Like it’s his own. 

He shakes his head, “You know what, Oliver.” No, not Mr Vice President, not Zafar, but the little man standing before him. “I’ve lived through shit for my entire life you couldn’t handle for a single day. I’ve fought for the country you can only so thinly-veiled support. Lost stuff over it, too. What’ve you lost?” Hans doesn’t expect to hear anything back. Nothing that compares, anyway. “So I get to make my money whichever way I please and still be as good or as bad of a man as you.” It’s what I’m owed. Hans’s blue eyes are as cold as they’ve ever been. “So don’t go there. You might just not win.” 

Hans smiles then, wide, and gingerly touches a finger to the very center of Oliver’s chest. “There. That’s just what I meant. No matter what I do, what I believe in, what I put my money into, you’ll feel the same. So that still leaves all of us mortals down here, plowing through the mud, just trying to get daddy’s approval. But that’s the catch; we don’t stand a chance of ever getting it. So predictable. And so much for an open mind.” He laughs. “What an embarrassment. To know Hans Starke figured you out before you ever got a chance to.” 

The offer comes out of nowhere — so much so there’s a sense of whiplash, right there at the base of his neck. Hans shakes his head, “Yeah, I smoke.” Surely, Oliver Zafar wasn’t just laying out an invitation. “What, you got a speech for that, too?” 

“Jesus Christ, there are so many layers of misunderstanding and delusion rolled into your thought process that I don’t even want to dignify it with a response.” And for a split second, Oliver thinks maybe he won’t. He thinks he’s finally learned, that this is what it is to be the Vice President, to let bygones be bygones and accept that there are some aspects of Hans Starke’s mindset that he will never be able to make peace with. But there’s an itch at the back of his throat, a kind of festering of frustration that makes him a good politician on his best days and an inconsolable brat on his worst ones, and he can’t help but let it win this one time. In the very least because he refuses to let Hans Starke go back to his husband later today and make it sound like Oliver just threw in the towel. “Fuck it. No, you’re wrong. Let me tell you why.”

He narrows his eyes and digs in. “First off, don’t tell me where I can and cannot go. You think I haven’t lost anything in life? You think it wasn’t this country that took it from me? My name may be Oliver, but my father was adamant that it be Amenhotep before my mother begged him to change it to something that would fit more snuggly in a colonizer’s mouth. And sure, it helped, but my last name is still Zafar. My skin is still brown when I grew up in a city that was sixty percent white, then ended up in a Senate where I was the first person from the Middle East to serve in the last decade. I have been called a Muslim despite my Christian faith, a terrorist, a dune coon, and names that I don’t even want to repeat. My home has seen three decades of war because of all the intervention that this country has sponsored for the sake of the oil that you so diligently live and die for. You don’t think, after all this time, that I’m bitter? That I’ve wanted to say ‘fuck this country’ once and for all and wave my Harvard degree around until I sold my soul to the consulting company with the highest bid? You don’t think that it would be so much easier, and I could justify it to myself by saying I earned it?”

As he speaks, he keeps Hans at his side but zig-zags through the crowd in an attempt to make it towards his destination. It doesn’t allow him to lose the rhythm of his speech, however. “Which brings me to this next idea,” he continues, “which is regarding - I can’t even describe it, this philosophy you’ve attributed to your life? That you can be as cruel and malicious as you want with your life choices because of your past? I mean, that’s just incorrect and spiteful. The world fucked you over, sure, but that doesn’t give you some green card to fuck over everyone else. If anything, you should reflect upon your time fighting for this country and be determined to tear down the military-industrial complex that allowed for that pain and suffering, not go ‘rah-rah!’ for the people that want to expand it.” They finally make it to the White House, at which point Oliver nods towards the guards to let him past the initial security and gestures towards Hans as if to say ‘he’s with me’. From there, it’s a matter of navigating hallways and rooms until he makes it to the library, where he grabs a ladder to climb to the top of one of the shelves and start looking through the books. Throughout this all, he doesn’t stop talking. 

“And finally, my point wasn’t that I disapproved of you donating your money to good causes. It’s that you can’t expect me to - fuck, look out,” he calls over as one of the volumes gets knocked to the floor. “My bad, I’ll grab that in a sec.” He goes back to flipping through. “Where was I? Right, you can’t expect me to say that that cancels out. It’s similar to when Jeff Bezos pledges a billion dollars or so to support underprivileged communities. Like, what do you think creates those underprivileged communities, Bezos? Maybe unequal wealth distribution, which he contributes to disproportionately with his fucking disgrace of a company? In that same vain, it’s great that you donate to UNICEF and help child refugees, but then that effort is thwarted by you turning around and creating child refugees by making certain parts of the Earth uninhabitable through a climate crisis. And maybe you want to tell me ‘no, Oliver, that’s not fair, the things I actually believe in and the things I do are two separate things, you just don’t have an open mind’, and okay, that’s fair, because you’re right. When I think about a person’s character, I don’t think about their intentions or who they are deep down. I think this is it, that all a person is should be defined by what they do on the surface and contribute to society. In my moral understanding, an oil lobbyist killing the planet who cares about people and understands climate change is still an oil lobbyist killing the planet, no matter the mindset he has going into the process - and if that means I’m not open-minded, then congratulations, you caught me.” Finally, he pushes the right book to the side to reveal a box behind it, which he pulls forward and opens. Inside, a few finely rolled blunts and a lighter, courtesy of the president and his great state of California. “Now put this in your mouth so you have a reason to shut the fuck up for a little while,” he says from his place on the ladder, extending an arm down with one of the blunts and the lighter in hand. 

The sunshine around here doesn’t quite compare to home, but she’ll take it. It can be said that the work there doesn’t compare to here, so, there’s something to be said about trade offs. She’ll give up beaches for a life like this. Most of the time, anyway. But today, the windows in her office aren’t enough. Ginny knows from the moment she wakes up that needs to feel the rays of the sun to breathe a little easier. The grueling press briefing does little to stop that sensation, with multiple allies she usually looks to in the briefing room bowed out thanks to illness and the conservative press biting at the bit. She played the part, of course, but it left her all the more drained. And so: sunshine. She has no food to speak of save for the iced coffee beside her that’s steadily melting in the midday sun. Her own face is tipped up toward the rays, her closed eyes preventing her from seeing the approaching Vice President. 

She’s always been closer to Julian. Ginny doubts that she or Oliver would deny that. But she represents both of them and looks at both of them with fondness and respect. Which means that Oliver gets a snarky comment hand-delivered before she allows him to sit. “I don’t know, from what I’ve heard you’ve been sneezing up a storm. Don’t want to be inheriting the plague here.” Word travels fast, especially during campaign season. Still, Ginny gives an amiable smile and moves the laptop she’d brought outside with her. She’d intended to do work, but… here she is, being paid to sunbathe. “Oh, I won’t rob you of your lunch. I have some seriously exciting Pad Thai leftovers waiting in my office.” It could be sarcasm, but really, it’s not. Who could blame her? It’s excellent Pad Thai. “How are you feeling, Mr. Zafar? Besides congested.” Another wise crack, punctuated by a curling smirk on her lips. “Pace of things has definitely ramped up since the Fourth. And here I thought it was hectic beforehand. Or maybe that’s just for me. Is this the standard madness for you?” 

Make no mistake, Oliver is as gay as they come (eat your heart out, Lola Villarin), but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think there’s something incredibly compelling about a strong woman in her natural habitat. Or, maybe not compelling, but something familiar. After all, Oliver grew up in a household in which his mom made as much (if not more) than his father. In fact, the two of them considered the other such equals that it actually caused unhealthy amounts of comparison, leading Oliver to feel like he was in the middle of a competition rather than a parental unit sometimes. His mother aside, his sister was also notable for being the brightest and boldest in the room, and even today, she’s the one making their parents proud as she excels in her male-dominated biochemical research while Oliver slacks off in politics (and really, only in the Zafar household could being the Vice President still make Oliver second in his parents’ eyes as compared to his science whizz of a sister). 

So maybe that’s why Oliver feels so comfortable around Ginny and Rory and all of the other badass women in the White House - in a sense, it feels like he’s right back at home. 

“Oh, fuck. Now you’ve got me craving Pad Thai. You better keep on eye on your office, I’ve got a knack for picking locks and a stomach for some stir-fried rice noodles,” he says, grinning as he does. He doesn’t hesitate any longer to take a seat beside Ginny, though he throws some theatrical coughs her way just to punctuate the fact that her jabs about his illness don’t amuse him (even if, sure, yeah, they do a bit). “I’m about as busy as you are, I can imagine. Although I think the congestion is actually aiding the process. My daily cocktail of DayQuil, Robitussin, and Tylenol has me so out of it that I couldn’t even tell you what year it is. Something between 2011 and 2022, if I had to take a guess.” He reaches for his reusable bento box and starts dissembling the different compartments of it to prepare for his meal. “I don’t know if I’d necessarily classify the current madness as all that different from what I’ve been experiencing for... oh fuck, I don’t even know, since last February? Whenever I announced my initial bid for the presidency, give or take a few weeks.” It feels like a distant memory now, like actions he can barely claim as his own. He can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing. “Tell me about you, though. I need an excuse to stick some food in my mouth. What’s the biggest Spot The Difference you’ve picked out between managing DC and managing LA?”

Amanda leaves and Oliver is left with an incredible sense of uselessness, a sense of alright, fuck, and what now? that he can’t quite shake off. So he cancels the last couple of his meetings for the day (or rather, tells someone to cancel them for him) and proclaims the rest of the evening to be a time for self-care - read: drinking the only alcohol in their home (spiked Trader Joe’s seltzer, courtesy of Vir) and rewatching the Bobby Kennedy documentary. It ain’t much, but it’s honest work. 

There’s a noise at the door and Oliver can vaguely hear the sound of Vir coming in, but he doesn’t bother getting up to meet him. He lets him come to Oliver instead, and only when he sees Vir standing at the door of the living room does Oliver give off a little wave for Vir to come join him by the couch. “Hey you, you’re home,” he’s about to say late, but then he realizes that no, it’s just Oliver that happens to be home before Vir for the first time in too long, “on time.” He props himself up on his knees on the couch, which puts him at the perfect height to pull Vir down into a kiss. He realizes that the alcohol on his breath isn’t something he can exactly hide now, but then again, he has no intention of pretending to be something he’s not - not with Vir, at least (not now, at least). “How was your day?”

     She had been expecting the worst, she’d braced herself for the thunderstorm that would follow her confession. After all, she’d known it was wrong. He was right. She’d known Silas didn’t care about everything she did, she’d known they fought on opposite sides on almost everything, she’d known about his filibuster ( which, admittedly, had been kind of hot. But that wasn’t the point ). She’d known about so many things, and even after watching his appear on TV and trash the President and Oliver, she’d still crawled back into his bed and decided to pay no attention to what he believed in because she needed that. She had needed a space where she didn’t talk about work and where it just didn’t matter. Amanda was a firm believer in every single issue she raised and she would stand by her opinion if her life depended on it, but everyone needed a break every once in a while. It just so happened that her break took the shape of a Republican Senator, which was more than unfortunate. It was irresponsible and childish, and Oliver was right. 

     “I know,” she offered in a low whisper, although he kept going and her words were lost in his. As he named all the minorities they worked for, those they had vowed over and over to protects, those whose concerns they shared and had dedicated their lives to, Amanda could feel the tears gathering at her waterline. I know, I know, I know. That’s all she could think of. One rebellious drop finally escaped its confinement and she knew, in that moment, she was done with. There was no closing that door now it had been opened. One became two, and two became three, and three became nearly a waterfall drowning her red cheeks. “I know,” she repeated in the same tone which, again, was barely audible. Amanda was no stranger to Oliver’s monologues. Hell, perhaps she’d even witnessed the first of them. Sure, his eloquence had only escalated since their time in college, but the essence in his speech was roughly the same. He was right and you were wrong and here’s a ten-minute speech about why you should just stick to his plan and, also, shut the fuck up. She’d been working behind the scenes all her life and she’d been more than willing to work with and for him. She knew he’d be a great President, eventually; one she’d be proud to call her friend and peer, but there was something about this particular moment that was so unnerving when he made it about him. She’d been patient, all her life, and she’d been good at controlling her impulses, but tonight was a night of exceptions and she wasn’t about to fall behind. “Stop,” the backs of her hands were doing their best to rid herself of the tears still spilling from her eyes and her voice cracked into a plead as she looked up at him. 

     She could sense the disappointment in his voice because she’d used it on him not too long ago. Yes, she hated that he’d accepted the Vice Presidency, she was completely against him joining a party he didn’t believe in. But. “This isn’t about you,” Amanda was staring right at his face, even though his expression gave away how let down he was. Trust me, there’s no one who hates me more than I do about this. “I didn’t fuck him because you took the job, Oliver. It– it actually started before anyone offered it to you,” maybe this wouldn’t help her case but she was hurting and he wasn’t helping. At last she was able to stop the stream flooding her face and she stratched her back, trying to regain her composure. She was speechless. Was that really what he thought of her? That all she did was a reaction to him? She was beginning to understand the rush that Vir had felt when he cheated. It was wrong and they’d both known that much, but maybe they’d just needed to feel noticed by someone when Oliver was so wrapped up in himself. “This isn’t about you,” she repeated, tilting her head to the side and doing her best to mirror the disappointment in his face. Let him know what it felt like to be betrayed by someone you thought would be with you forever. Again. “Are you done?” now her face was almost blank, as if she had exhausted all the energy she had to react for the rest of her life. Amanda observed him for a moment, making a pause to really scan his face. The face of a man she’d once ( about two minutes ago ) considered her best friend and who now looked like a perfect stranger. “You’ll have my resignation on your desk tomorrow morning. If that’s what you want.”

Before anything else, the Zafar household had always put an emphasis on understanding things. From the earliest age, Oliver and his sister were told to question not just what things were but rather why they were like that, told to be the person in the room who didn’t just accept things on a surface level but rather dissected further. After all, Oliver’s parents refused to accept anything less than extraordinary things from both of their kids, down to the very questions they asked in an elementary school classroom. And though it may have made Oliver a bit (alright, more than a bit) of an annoying kid, it’s translated into him being a person that tries to delve deeper in the present day - a person that tries to understand. And that’s the thing with Republicans. He may hate their value system more than he can articulate sometimes, but at least he gets it. At least he can comprehend their desire for individualism, their distrust of authority figures in the form of an overbearing government, their bigoted views as a result of dire miseducation. He’s studied the theory behind it, he’s looked into countless studies about the ticks and tricks that can turn a person liberal or conservative. All of this is to say that even in the ideology Oliver despises the most, the policies he pushes back against on a daily basis, at least Oliver comprehends the core of those ethics. 

But there’s just something about this that Oliver can’t understand. A disagreement in who he knows Amanda is versus what she’s done that he can’t quite wrap his head around.

“Before anyone offered -” He trails off, doing the math in his head. “You’ve been sleeping with Sanford for seven months? Seven months, and it never occurred to you that you were sleeping with a truly heinous person?” He’s not saying anything new, just going in circles of his own flaring emotions. He realizes as much too, so he sits in silence for a moment, trying to think of what he can tell Amanda that’s actually productive. “I don’t want your resignation,” he says finally. “I don’t undervalue the work you’ve done - not just for me, but for this campaign as a whole. But I also just, don’t understand this.” And there it is - his incessant need to get fathom things, his confession of this would be so much easier if it was something I saw coming. “I don’t see how you can do one thing in your professional life and then do something that contradicts it so harshly in your personal. I don’t get it.” He rubs his temples (not quite the weary emoji yet, but getting there) before shaking his head. “Fuck, Amanda. What else is there to say?”

“Oh,” Hans’s eyebrows shoot heavenward, the faux surprise claiming its way across his face. “You got a promotion? I hadn’t heard.” More like couldn’t escape from it if he’d tried. More like, Your husband told me about it after he’d fucked someone else. But hey, it’s the 4th, and he’s not about to brag. 

Hans sips from his own drink, looking away into the vast lawn, and all the people that mingle across it. “That’s restrictive,” he comments, keeping his own disappointment buried deep inside his chest. For what it’s worth, Hans only ever boasts pride when it comes to his position; having quite literally worked his way up from nothing, he’d found a place where his skills would be welcome. Morals have nothing to do with it, and not having them sure helps. But yes, as Oliver had so eloquently put it, in another life perhaps they would have fallen into a better fate. That of friends, perhaps. “You do things you don’t mean for politics all the time. I know you do — because everyone does. It’s the DC game. No matter your morals, you have to do it if you want to survive and succeed. And you’re there now, aren’t you?” The White House stares back at them from a distance. “Which means at some point, you did something others would condemn you for.” Maybe Oliver would combat it, and maybe Hans would have to call him out on his bluff. No politician ever succeeds running on only truth. 

They keep on walking, a mindless stroll. To an outsider, yes, it almost looks as though they like this. Hans listens quietly. Then, “You’re right. I’m not.” 

A much needed pause settles between his words, another step ahead, another drink. “I don’t care about it as much as you do,” — no one cares about it as much as you do —, “but I know you’re right. I know fossil fuel’s shit, I know we’re fucking things up for the next generations. My car’s electric, I have a UNICEF subscription, I recycle. I know I’m screwing everyone else over for my own benefit. I know we’d all be better off without oil. I know.” It’s an easy admission if only because Hans has always been aware of it. Never had him fooled himself, along with everyone else, that this was an ethically good idea. He’d always been aware of the rules he’s breaking, and how he’d perhaps stand for something else if only he’d had the chance. None of it holds any weigh however, besides his own self. So he’s selfish. Big deal. “But I also don’t think you’d see me any different if I worked on your side.” He looks at Oliver then, Hans’s feet slowing to a stop, eyeing him with care. “That’s the thing about you, Mr Vice President. You see someone, you label them, and they’re done. A box is where you most like to debate your opposites from.” He shrugs. “But I’m a businessman. And every time, the highest bidder wins. Right now, it’s Oil. Whenever your side can afford me, I’m there.” He wets his lips. “Until then, it’s me for me. I wasn’t born into silver like you. I can’t afford that fight.” Only then does Hans dare to smile, to ease back into old habits. “So don’t worry. You’re still the hero, and I’m still the villain. Blame it on your over-idealistic bleeding liberal heart. Or blame it on me. I don’t mind.” 

There’s an anger that bubbles deep in Oliver’s chest as Hans talks - or rather, it’s always there dully, like white noise, but it seems to lash out now. He hasn’t done all he has, lived and died for his causes like the martyr he is, just for Starke to compare them. “When I get my hands dirty, I do it for things beyond me. I move chess pieces around for the greater good, for the people who write to me every day to tell me how relieved they are that finally there’s someone willing to fight for them. Call it ‘the DC game’ all you want, but just know that you and I have never played by the same rules. We aren’t even on the same board,” he says harshly. “Which is to say, my ends justify my means. What’s your excuse? Destroying the planet, stealing the future of the kid I’ll have one day, just to make more money than any person knows what to do with? That's not the grounds for a moral guideline. That’s barely even an excuse.” 

“But you know that,” he says after a beat. “That’s what drives me fucking crazy about you, Starke. You know that. Maybe I like my boxes, but that’s only because I see no way you can justify using your talent for something that you realize is objectively corrupt. So tell me, how many millions of dollars is a climate crisis worth? What the fuck are you going to do with the money when you’re dead, and you leave behind an Earth on the brink of deterioration? Donate it to UNICEF? What an angel.” He means every word he says, but he doubts any of it is going to make a dent in Hans’ moral conscious. Just as Oliver’s chosen the hill he dies on years ago, so has Hans.

“Oh, Jesus, gross. You think I’m in love with you?” he asks. “Damn, that must be so awkward for you.” He winces in a kind of mock-disgust, only for his face to spread into an easy smile after a beat. He looks up at Oliver as he thinks of the answer, studying him - really studying him - and trying to remember when the aha! moment finally came. 

He sits up a bit from Oliver’s thighs so that Vir’s resting on his elbows. Like this, it’s easy to gaze right into Oliver’s eyes, and though it’s sappy and cheap and overromanticized, there is something to be said about looking into the eyes of somebody you love. Maybe this is where the answer to Oliver’s question lies - Vir finds a new reason to be in love with him in every expression, in every look, in every wrinkle of his nose and curl of his lips. Maybe love doesn’t happen in big moments but in details, in the holiest and cruelest parts of the day.

God, that sounds so fucking lame.

“I don’t know if it was exactly this,” he says, “but I definitely remember a big moment being like, four or five months into us dating. You took me to Boston, remember? It was for something you had to do in your home district, and also because you said I deserved a vacation and I guess you thought I’d take the wonders of the Red Sox Stadium over Bali any day.” He chuckles a bit at the thought. “Anyway, you asked me if I’d be willing to have dinner with your parents and even though I was like, scared out of my fucking mind because your parents were supposed to be brilliant and credible and these elusive martyrs in their field, I said yes. And then we show up and I don’t even have any tupperware of food with me to offer them so I’m truly, criminally unprepared - but I go in anyway and it’s fine, because your parents are lovely and you’re lovely and also it turned out my tupperware would have just been a nuisance amongst all the other food your parents had.” 

He can tell Oliver’s about to interrupt and say some dumb shit like ‘What does this have to do with anything?’ so Vir holds up a finger and gives him a look. “Wait. I’m almost there.” He puts the finger back down and continues. “So we’re sitting there having dinner, and I genuinely can’t remember what they asked but it was like - I don’t know, where I went to high school? Or what kind of high school I went to? Something that clearly exposed the fact that I was poor while you were the polar fucking opposite. Then your mom made some super subtle snide remark - I mean, not purposefully snide, but rich people can’t help themselves sometimes - and I just laughed it off because that’s what I’d been trained to do. And we could have so easily moved on, without even a beat in between, but you stopped the entire conversation. In fact, you took ten minutes out of that dinner to defend me and talk about how brilliant and capable I was despite my background. And I just sat there. I mean, I’ve been critically acclaimed for not being able to shut the fuck up, but I was speechless. It felt like the most absurd thing. I had spent my entire life up until then not being loved properly and having to justify my presence in people’s lives, but then finally here was you, defending me when I barely registered there was something to defend. I don’t know if that’s exactly when I fell in love, but it’s the moment when something clicked in my mind and I thought, ‘Okay. This man isn’t like the others. This is going to be the man that fights for me.’ With everyone else, it felt like they loved me because they didn’t know any better. With you, I finally understood that you loved me because in your mind there was nothing better. And that was incredibly endearing.” He leans in then with the smile still on his lips, kissing Oliver briefly, his own private ‘thank you, I love you still’. When they pull apart, it’s Vir’s turn to nod towards Oliver with a grin. “Your turn.”

“Hey, come here,” he says. He nuzzles against Vir’s cheek after they break apart from the kiss, staying there for a moment, breathing in the smell of both Vir’s cologne and something citrusy in between. Though it was a long while back now, Oliver still remembers the instance that Vir cites, up to the very moment of him standing up in outrage to defend his then-boyfriend. He remembers the pit of passion in his chest at Vir’s name being subtly mocked. The nation, the people, the good in all of it - those may be causes he’ll die for, but Vir will always be the cause he lives for. 

And then it’s his turn. The thing is, love isn’t just one thing, not just with Vir but in any relationship Oliver’s been in. As Oliver has changed and matured so has his adoration, and so it’s hard to look back and pinpoint the reason he fell in love with Vir when it’s so different from the reason he loves Vir now. How typical politician of him, unable to answer the very question he asked. 

“You’ll murder me if I say our first date, right?” he asks, squinting down at Vir with a smile. It’s such a cliche, and Oliver knows how Vir’s writer’s brain can pick those apart. “I don’t care, it’s the truth. I remember sitting in that awful, dimly-lit bar two martinis in, and I just - I couldn’t stop smiling. I thought I had a condition. You know what really sold me, though? When I asked you what you were studying in school, and after you told me the next sentence out of your mouth was ‘I’m going to write the next Great American Novel’. I didn’t even ask you about your career, your future aspirations, your big dreams. But you said that because it felt like a natural part of our small talk. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world to you. I thought that was, first and foremost, insanely sexy,” which probably explains why that date ended with both of them in Oliver’s bed afterward, “but also the easiest thing ever to fall in love with. I remember sitting there and thinking, ‘Yeah, of course, this man’s going to write the next Great American novel, and I’ll be damned if he isn’t all mine while he does it’.” 

Funny, how many people claimed to be his friend now that he had a fifty percent chance of being vice president. And while all Silas was thinking was fuck you behind that charming persona, he just smiled and nodded. He’s been tolerating idiots all his life and he could manage it for a few more months. But even such forced social pleasantries don’t detract from the glory of tonight. He’s here, in the White House, surrounded by his friends and his enemies, celebrating America. What more could a man ask for? The last person he thought might come up to him was Oliver (after Amanda and Julian, that is). Oliver Zafar has been present in his life for months, but only as a concept. The person who had become vice president. The person that Amanda was working for. But he doesn’t hate Oliver. At least, not at this moment. There was still a whole election for that. And for now, there seemed to even be half a compliment nestled in Oliver’s words that brought a cool smile to his lips. He felt no need to get into a verbal sparring match at this moment. He took a moment to look at Oliver, before aligning his own gaze at the setting sun. “I hope it’s not too late to say it, but congratulations on the wedding.” Despite expectations, the words were devoid of any snark. He’d never really bothered to go up to either of them at event, figuring the best gift he could give was staying clear. “He must be very proud of you.” Again, no trace of insincerity. He’s been thinking a lot about his late wife tonight. 

Silas mentions the wedding, and it feels like whiplash for a moment. It’s Oliver’s job as a politician to have some anticipation about what people are going to say next, what question the bright-eyed reporter has on the tip of their tongue, what a crowd of supporters is thinking at every word that leaves his mouth. But of everything he expected Silas to lead with, mentioning his marriage is very low on the list. Maybe they’re both meant to surprise each other tonight - Oliver approaching him at all, and now Silas veering this conversation towards an offbeat path.

“Never too late. I appreciate it - and that you were there at all. It’s a promising sign that a gay marriage isn’t as much of a bipartisan issue anymore,” he says. “I think I have more to be proud of than he does, actually. I’m in my natural habitat, he’s the one who really had to rise to the occasion way beyond his comfort zone. If there’s a loving God, I have a lot to be thankful for.” He nods towards Silas then. “What about you? Who’s in your cheering section?” 

Adam’s not planning to stay for the fireworks; lingering toward the side of the increasingly packed lawn, he’s just waiting to catch sight of Hans so they can get out of here. He’s almost starting to wonder if Hans just went ahead and left without him, halfway through writing him a text when very abruptly, the second couple appear beside him.  He abandons his phone in an instant, pressing a smile onto his face and a wave to Vir, he looks at Oliver - who he still struggles to comprehend is the Vice President, before he clears his throat. “Oh - it’s been - you know. Eventful.” He huffs a wry laugh and looks at him for a moment, trying to parse if the following questions is as genuinely curious as it seems. “I didn’t know, no. At least - I mean, I heard all kinds of talk, but I didn’t know…. how they were planning to do it. Or that it’d be tonight,” he clarifies. He hesitates, trying to determine what sort of boundaries there are when making small talk with the VP. “Did you work with him much in the Senate? Sanford? Seems like he’s been there long as I can remember.”

Adam answers his question in the way Oliver predicted, which is just fine with him. Adam’s connected to his fair share of powerful people, but Oliver’s been in this town long enough to know that that doesn’t necessarily have to mean that Adam knows jack shit about what happens behind closed doors. Still, he figures Adam is at least useful as far as decent conversation goes. Oliver usually can’t tolerate talking to entitled white men for longer than he absolutely has to, but Adam’s more pleasant than them. More attractive too, Oliver realizes as he studies him. Growing out the beard really does a man wonders, as Adam and Vir are prime exemplifications of.

He shakes his head at Adam’s questions. “I’d say work with him is an exaggeration. There’s not a lot of room for compromise between his ideologies and mine,” he says. “Plus, in hindsight, I wasn’t there long.” Which is to say, I wasn’t there long because I’m the Vice fucking President now instead. He turns to Adam. “You thinking of making the move to Senate anytime soon? If I’ve learned anything from ten years in the House, it’s that nobody in the House wants to stay in the House.”

  The afternoon is filled with a myriad of interactions, around half of which Rory can claim with certantity, she didn’t feel increasing amounts of pain, while enduring. A small sliver, within this number, she enjoyed. Speaking with Oliver for what feels the first time since they annihilated Will Bell on tv (they’re seen each other a dozen times - but D.C. is a cataclysm of moments that slip by) is easy; she enjoys the Vice President, his easy, warm smile, the quickness of his wit. Rory wants to slip him in her pocket - though they’re neck and neck, when she isn’t sporting a pair of heels. “I’d say I need about one shot and two pieces of paper, to do it. Aim isn’t my strong suit, but the targets are so big it’d be impossible to miss.” Big headass, she wants to add - but Rory’s too polite, to put forth a nickname the Admiral has only had used behind his back. Admittedly, she’s terribly sober - whatever she drinks, is buried beneath a mountain of water and savory food. It’s not that Rory wants to get drunk at an official event; it’s just, she wants to get tipsy at an official event. Tipsy and then some - drunk, in a sense. 

 A waiter passes by, eager to supply the partygoers with an endless stream of mojitos or drinks that rhyme with tex on the leech. Rory selects two drinks from the tray, offering Oliver a salt-rimmed glass. “It’d be a dishonor, for Julian’s Chief of Staff to get his VP drunk at a picnic. So I propose, I only get you lightly sauced. Or has the event been trying enough, that you are going to take those four shots? You look good out there, Vice President. The title fits you perfectly - and the Second Husband is doing a wonderful job of wowing elderly white men, with facts about Russian literature.” 

The thing is, Oliver did his research. He sat hunched over biographies and documentaries and transcripts, ready to be enlightened about all the good that politicians did in this world, ready to follow in their footsteps. It just so happened that none of those things mentioned just how much day-drinking this job required. Oliver hadn’t realized that of all the things college would teach him, the days he spent with a spiked drink in his hand while he talked politics to uncomfortable twenty-year-olds would be the most important. 

But out of everyone he’s going to spend drinking with today, Rory definitely ranks high. “Alright, drinks first, then we look into finding some decent paper around here. I don’t want any scrappy, do-nothing paper airplanes - these need to be a serious threat,” he says mock-seriously. “And as a matter of fact, this event wasn’t trying at all before it turned into a Republican circle-jerk.” Is the Vice President allowed to use the word circle jerk? Rory’s just going to have to give him a free pass. Then, at the mention of his husband, he laughs. “See, I’ve only ever teased him for double-majoring in something as useless and white as Russian Literature, but I guess he’s been the one playing the political long-game this whole time,” he says. 

With that being said, he’s definitely sick. He’s felt it coming on for at least a week now, though denial’s been his main strategy up until his frequent coughing and sneezing became a tell-tale sign that he wasn’t feeling at his best. But again, politics doesn’t allow for sick days, so Oliver finds himself in the office again, going about his daily routine with the exception of not shaking hands. It’s only when it’s time for his lunch break that his secretary finally points out how obviously sick he is and recommends he get some sunshine to clear his sinuses. He’s not 100% on the science behind that, but he takes her advice nonetheless, grabbing his bento box full of vegan nonsense (or as some may call it, tofu) and heading to eat on the steps of the Capitol Building with a bodyguard in tow. 

The sun isn’t beating down too harshly, thank god, as he makes his way up the stairs to sit and stare out at the city. He ate up here occasionally back in his Congress days, but he remembers the monuments looking larger back then than they do now - something to be said about perspective. As he gets to the top of the steps, he spots another figure and nods their way. “You mind if I sit by you?” he asks. His voice is a bit rougher and more nasally, a result of his flu. “I’m willing to share my quinoa.”