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“Mr. President?”
Enjolras blinked up over the rim of his reading glasses at Gavroche, who was standing in the doorway to the Oval Office, and who looked unusually nervous. Since Gavroche had been Enjolras’s body man since he had “accidentally joined” a high school group’s tour of the White House and proceeded to impress every single staffer that he met, including Combeferre, the Press Secretary, only to reveal that he was actually a then-homeless high school dropout, it took a lot to make him nervous, which was why Enjolras paused before asking, “What is it, Gavroche?”
Gavroche hesitated before saying carefully, “It’s the First Gentleman, sir. He’s on his way to the Oval Office.”
Enjolras winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What’s the status?”
“It’s hard to say, sir,” Gavroche hedged. “There was a lot of swearing involved, and the First Gentleman called you some names that not even I feel comfortable repeating, and I think he might have thrown something at the wall since I thought I heard glass shattering, and—”
“Gavroche. What’s the status?”
Gavroche looked as if he would rather be anywhere but there. “I’d say probably DEFCON 2, sir. Maybe DEFCON 1.”
Enjolras winced again. “Get me Combeferre. And thanks.” Gavroche nodded and left and Enjolras sighed and glanced back down at the memo from the State Department that he was supposed to be reading in order to prepare for his security briefing in an hour. He couldn’t read a single word of it, not with the knowledge that Grantaire was on his way, and that he was pissed.
It was hard to say if he had any right to be pissed, but Enjolras had learned pretty early on in their relationship that Grantaire pretty much always had a right to pissed.
There was a knock on the door and Combeferre stepped in. “Gavroche said you wanted me, sir?”
“The First Gentleman is on his way. DEFCON 2.”
Combeferre paled. “Christ. Do you want me to do something about it?”
Enjolras waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not. I wanted you to come here to tell me where we are with leaking the contents of my speech tomorrow indicating a shift in policy on Syria.”
Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were planning on giving a speech tomorrow indicating a shift in policy on Syria, so I’d have to say that we’re at exactly no where regarding leaking the contents of said speech.”
“Right. So it looks like you’re just going to have to help me with Grantaire.”
Sighing and rolling his eyes, Combeferre sat down on one of the couches. “I don’t know how I let myself get talked into these things…” He glanced up at Enjolras. “DEFCON 2, you said?” Enjolras nodded. “But the last time he was at DEFCON 2…”
He trailed off and Enjolras nodded. “Yeah. Exactly.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Meaning some idiot just told my husband that I’m running for reelection.”
——— Four Years Ago ———
“Grantaire.”
Grantaire glanced up from his sketchbook, his gaze slightly unfocused, and blinked at Feuilly and Bahorel, who had, at some point in the past few minutes, come into his studio in the brownstone that he and Enjolras owned in the city, and sat down next to him, all without him noticing (though to be fair, when Grantaire was absorbed in a sketch or painting, a nuclear blast could probably occur without him noticing). “Can I help you?” he asked.
Bahorel nodded. “Yeah. We wanted to talk with you about your issue.”
Grantaire blinked. “My…what?”
“Your issue. We were originally thinking the drug and alcohol awareness, given your personal history with the topic. It would bring a humanizing touch to an issue that a majority of Americans think doesn’t affect them, despite studies showing that the opposite is true, and drug use, particularly among suburban youth, is on the rise.”
Bahorel said this all in a confident tone that left Grantaire staring at him as if he had grown another head, and Feuilly added, in what he clearly thought was a helpful way, “But our polling data shows that reminding the public of your history of drug addiction doesn’t work to our advantage, so we thought that perhaps a better issue would be partnering with the National Endowment for the Arts and promoting art education in public schools, especially given the amount of school districts forced to cut art from the curriculum because of budget cuts.”
Grantaire stared blankly at Feuilly. “I’m sorry,” he said carefully, “but I have no clue what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Your issue,” Feuilly said patiently. “The First Ladies and Gentlemen have traditionally picked a personal issue to promote and work on during their tenure in the White House, and we were thinking, given your career in the arts, this would be a good stance for you to take early on in the campaign, to let the country know what kind of First Gentleman you’d be, especially given your history.”
Still staring at him, Grantaire asked, “Who the hell is ‘we’?”
Bahorel and Feuilly exchanged glances before Bahorel said, a little surprised. “Enjolras for America, of course. Enjolras’s presidential campaign committee.”
“Enjolras for—” Grantaire cut himself off, inhaling sharply, and stood, his expression completely neutral. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I must excuse myself. I have to go see my husband.”
He didn’t wait for their response, instead marching past them and out of his studio, heading straight for Enjolras’s office. When they had first purchased this brownstone, back when Enjolras was nothing more than a state senator representing one of the most diverse districts in the state, the four-bedroom home had seemed an extravagance, even if it meant their three children had their own bedrooms. Now, with all three kids grown and out of the house and a condo in the state capitol as well as an apartment in D.C. since Enjolras had been elected US senator, it may have seemed even more of an extravagance, but since Grantaire had turned one bedroom into his studio and Enjolras had turned another into his office, it was well-used despite its size.
But not even a four-bedroom brownstone was enough to contain Grantaire’s wrath as he burst through the door of Enjolras’s office and snarled, “You had better have a damn good excuse for this.”
Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked up, startled, from where they were sitting across from Enjolras, who just raised an eyebrow at Grantaire and said calmly into the phone he was holding up to his ear, “Thank you, Mr. President. Yes, please pass my best on to your wife. Yes, I’ll do the same for my husband. Have a good day, sir.” He hung up the phone and looked innocently up at Grantaire. “Is there a problem?”
“Is there a—” Grantaire cut himself off again, completely furious. “Who was that on the phone? The President of the United States? Was he calling to offer you his support in your upcoming presidential bid?”
Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged looks and hastily stood, gathering their papers. “We’ll continue this discussion later, Senator,” Combeferre muttered, and they both quickly left.
Enjolras looked as if he was particularly glad that there was a desk between himself and his husband as he said defensively, “As a matter of fact, yes, the President was calling to offer me his support and his endorsement in his presidential bid. And I can’t see why you’re upset about that because I know for a fact that you voted for the man, so—”
Grantaire let out what sounded suspiciously like a hiss. “You think I’m upset because the President is endorsing you?”
“Well, when you put it that way, no probably not,” Enjolras said, holding both his hands up in a placating gesture. “But honestly I’m not entirely sure why you’re upset because you knew this was coming. You knew that I had talked about running for president if the time was right, and the party leadership approached me because by their polling numbers, I’m one of the strongest potential candidates in the field, especially with the President’s endorsement.”
If possible, Grantaire looked even more furious, though his voice was suspiciously quiet as he repeated, “You’re not entirely sure why I’m upset?”
Enjolras’s expression took on the stubborn set it sometimes did when arguing with Grantaire. “No, I’m not. You know what this would mean for me. You know how much I would be able to get done while in office, things that have been blocked repeatedly by the legislature. I would be in prime position to address some of the most important issues of our generations that affect millions of people across the globe—”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Grantaire shot back. “Of course this has always been your ambition! I’ve known that since the day you asked me to marry you and I told you it wasn’t a good idea politically and you told me that you didn’t give a damn, that you’d become president with me at your side or not at all. But—”
“Exactly!” Enjolras interrupted. “With you at my side! That’s all I’ve ever wanted, which goes back to why I don’t understand why you’re upset! I thought you were on my side with this!”
Grantaire slammed his hands down on Enjolras’s desk and glared at him. “I am on your side with this!” he shouted, and Enjolras threw his hands up, exasperated.
“Then why are you upset with me?”
“Because you didn’t tell me!”
That caused Enjolras to pause, a frown knitting his brow. “What are you talking about?” he asked impatiently. “I just said that you’ve known about this for a long time—”
“I’ve known about your ambitions, yes,” Grantaire snapped. “What I didn’t know was that you had made the decision to run for president. That you had put together a campaign committee. That you had received the endorsement of the president. You didn’t tell me any of that. I had to find out from Bahorel and Feuilly telling me that my drug addiction history won’t gain us any advantages in your presidential campaign, which I previously did not know existed!”
For a long moment Enjolras just stared at Grantaire, then suddenly his shoulders slumped, and he slowly sat down in his chair. “I didn’t tell you,” he said quietly. “I didn’t…I didn’t even think to tell you.”
Grantaire sat as well, his expression drawn and his eyes dark. “You didn’t,” he acknowledged, just as quiet. “And I know one hundred percent, without any question of a doubt, that you can do the job, and as much as I abhor the politics, that doesn’t mean I don’t understand them — this is a good political move for you, and I know that. But I don’t give a damn about any of that, because you didn’t tell me and you didn’t think it was important to talk about. You didn’t give a second thought to what it would do to me and to us and to our children to have you run for president. That’s why I’m upset.”
Enjolras bowed his head and was silent for a minute before looking back up at Grantaire. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You’re right — well, you’re partially right. I did think of what it would do to you, and to our kids, but I didn’t — I didn’t think to run it by you. I didn’t think to ask them. I assumed that you would be fine with it since you knew it was something that I wanted. And I am sorry for that.”
Sighing, Grantaire reached across the desk for Enjolras’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “I know,” he said, sighing again. “I know — I objectively realize — that you didn’t mean to hurt me. But that doesn’t make it easier. This is a huge decision that will affect at least the next year of our life as you campaign, and the next five at the very least if you win. Our history will be under scrutiny — my history will be under scrutiny, even more than when you ran for the state legislature or for the Senate. And I can’t help but think of what Combeferre told you all those years ago when you told him that you wanted to marry me.”
Enjolras’s expression became stony. “As I told Combeferre then and as I will tell any who ask now, our relationship isn’t anyone’s damn business,” he said stubbornly.
Grantaire managed a half-smile. “But with you running for president, it’s the nation’s business now. And Combeferre wasn’t wrong — marrying me was a bad idea. He didn’t mean it personally, I know that as well as you and I’ve never held it against him, but he wasn’t wrong. With my history — Enj, I’m not meant to be the First Gentleman. I’m not meant to live in the White House. I’m a recovering drug addict art school dropout, and I will kill your chances among the more conservative in the party.”
“My own policies will kill my chances among the more conservative in the party,” Enjolras told him, his jaw set, and he stood and crossed the desk to crouch in front of Grantaire, taking both his hands in his own. “And you are not a political bargaining tool, for better or for worse. They can take whatever shots at me they want, but if they go after you, they will kill their own chances. I will make sure of it.”
Grantaire leaned forward and kissed him lightly. “I can’t ask you to do that,” he whispered. “It’s not the politically appropriate thing to do.”
“You abhor politics,” Enjolras reminded him before kissing him back. “And you’re not asking me.” Then he rocked back on his heels, his expression serious. “But I am asking you: will you do this? Will you run with me and let me take this chance? If you say no, I will end this now, I promise you. I will walk away from it all. I have two years left in my senate term and a lot of good I can still do, a lot of good we can still do together. But I want to try, Grantaire. I want to see what I can do as president of this country to make this a nation that stands for something again, for freedom and self-determination of all peoples, not just those we deem similar to us. I want—”
“Would you just shut up and kiss me already?” Grantaire sighed, and Enjolras laughed, but leaned in to do just that, cupping Grantaire’s cheek with his hand and kissing him gently. Then Grantaire pulled back slightly to give Enjolras a mischievous grin. “But you know, for all your proselytizing, there’s one thing you haven’t yet thought about.”
Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him. “And what’s that?”
Grantaire smirked. “I haven’t decided if I’m voting for you or not yet.”
Enjolras rolled his eyes, but a small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “And what, Mr. Grantaire, do I need to do to convince you that I deserve your vote?”
“Oh, I can think of a few things,” Grantaire murmured, grabbing Enjolras’s tie and using it to tug him closer. Enjolras’s eyes darkened and he pulled Grantaire out of his seat and pushed him back against the desk, kissing him almost hungrily. Grantaire kept a forceful grip on Enjolras’s tie with one hand, the other tugging at Enjolras’s shirt, trying to untuck it from his trousers, while Enjolras’s fingers dug into Grantaire’s hips with an urgent and pressing want.
Grantaire didn’t even try to protest when Enjolras lifted him to set him on the edge of his desk, just growled low in his throat and tugged Enjolras closer, his kiss possessive and demanding, and Enjolras responded in kind, pressing against Grantaire, who had finally gotten Enjolras’s shirt untucked and was just running his hands underneath it when, suddenly, the door to Enjolras’s office opened and Feuilly poked his head in. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, blushing at the sight. “We, uh, we weren’t sure if you were still fighting. Is this a bad time?”
Groaning, Grantaire rested his forehead against Enjolras’s shoulder. “Is this what the next four years are going to be like?” he asked hoarsely.
Enjolras chuckled, though his voice sounded just as strained as he answered, “Well, I have to win first. And besides, depending on how things go, it could end up being the next eight.”
Grantaire paused, something unreadable in his expression. “If it’s going to be eight,” he said slowly, “then we’re going to need to have another conversation. But not right now. When that time comes. Ok?”
“Ok,” Enjolras agreed, leaning forward to kiss Grantaire once more before stepping away. “We’ll table it for the moment.” He glanced back at Feuilly. “You can bring everyone in. We’re done for the moment.”
Grantaire stood and adjusted his clothing before crossing to the door, where he paused and looked back at Enjolras, smirking again. “You will win, though. Because if you don’t, you’re not the man I married.” He glanced around at Bahorel, Feuilly, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. “Gentlemen, I leave him in your capable hands.”
Then he stepped outside and closed the door behind him, a fierce smile just beginning to sharpen on his face. “First Gentleman,” he said quietly to himself. “I could get used to the sound of that.”
——— Present Day ———
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Grantaire demanded as he burst into the Oval Office, eyes blazing, fists clenched at his side.
Gavroche trailed after him, looking apologetic. “Sir, the First Gentleman is here to see you,” he said, a little lamely, disappearing out of the Oval Office as soon as Enjolras nodded at him, clearly wanting no part in the conversation that was to follow.
Enjolras sighed. “Grantaire—” he started, but Grantaire ignored him.
“We went over this four years ago, Enjolras, and you promised. If you were going to run for reelection, we were going to talk about it first. But once again, I had to hear it from someone other than you! I would have thought that you had learned your lesson the first time around, but no, for being one of the smartest men in this country, you have apparently learned jack fucking shit.”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, a little louder, but Grantaire continued to ignore him.
“All it takes is three simple words. Just three. That’s it: ‘I’m running again’. How fucking hard is that? How fucking hard is it to—”
“Grantaire!” Enjolras interrupted, standing up, and Grantaire fell silent, glaring at him. “Check your phone.”
Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry?” he said, clearly still seething.
Enjolras stared levelly at him. “I already told you I was running for president again,” he said patiently. “Meaning that you cannot be angry at me for it.”
Grantaire spluttered, his face turning redder than it had been. “When did you tell me that?” he demanded.
Glancing up at the ceiling as if seeking divine strength, Enjolras asked, still patiently, “When was the last time that you checked your phone?”
Silently, Grantaire fished in his jeans pocket for his cellphone, pulling it out and reading the text out loud that Enjolras had sent him several hours before. “We need to talk. I think I’m running for president again.” He was silent for a long moment afterward, then said in a quiet voice, “Oh.”
“Oh,” Enjolras agreed, though he was smiling slightly. “I mean, you probably still have a right to be mad at me for a lot of things — I know my proposed budget cut from the NEA, but hopefully you know that wasn’t my idea, and of course then there’s that whole business with Latvia, which I would like to emphasize for the umpteenth time was not fully my fault, and—”
“Enjolras,” Grantaire interrupted. “I don’t think now is the time to talk about Latvia.” He held up his phone. “Four more years?”
Enjolras shrugged. “If you’re with me,” he said quietly. “Same deal still stands as before. You say no, and I’m out.”
Grantaire cocked his head. “Just like that, huh? You’re just going to leave power and glory behind at my command?”
“It’s not about power and glory,” Enjolras said hotly, his eyes flashing. “And it’s not at your command either. I think there’s still a lot of work that needs to be done, but I’m not going to do it without you. Trust me, I did learn my lesson. And I do want this. I just want you to want this, too.”
Grantaire crossed over to him and kissed him gently. “I do want this,” he said quietly, twining his fingers with Enjolras’s. “Four more years,” he said again, a little regretfully. “You know what this means, right? Four more years of sex being interrupted by everything from hurricanes to hostages to Gavroche not remembering to knock in the residence.”
Enjolras laughed. “I have to win first,” he reminded him.
Grantaire smirked. “And again, if you don’t, then you’re not the man I married. And this time, I might actually vote for you.”
“Meaning you didn’t vote for me the first time around?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire just grinned and kissed him, and Enjolras kissed him back, his hands dropping to Grantaire’s waist as Grantaire curved against him, his hands flat against Enjolras’s chest.
Just as their kiss was deepening, Combeferre cleared his throat to remind them from where he was sitting on the couch, “I hate to interrupt, sir, but, uh, I’m still in here. I can leave, if you want…”
Enjolras groaned and rested his forehead against Grantaire’s. “Please leave,” he said grumpily. “I would really like to fuck my husband and I would greatly prefer if you weren’t in here for it.”
Combeferre stood and Grantaire snorted. “Stay where you are,” he told Combeferre. “I’m not going to fuck Enjolras here. It sends a bad message…or something. I’m going to take him back to the residence.” He tugged on Enjolras’s tie, smirking, and Enjolras grinned, starting forward to follow him.
Of course, at that moment, the door to the Oval Office burst open and Bahorel came in. “Sir, you’re needed in the Situation Room,” he said seriously, before glancing over at Grantaire, whose smile had soured. “Good evening, sir.”
“Bahorel, what would the Secret Service do if I killed you with my bare hands?” Enjolras asked, while Grantaire just sighed heavily.
“You have one hour,” he told Enjolras, though he was talking to Bahorel more than him, and ignoring the pleading look that Enjolras was giving him. “One hour, and then—” This he directed at Enjolras. “—Then I’m starting without you.”
Enjolras kissed Grantaire once more and squeezed his hand before following Bahorel out of the room. Grantaire sighed and turned to Combeferre, who looked torn between sympathy and laughter. “Four more years, huh?” Grantaire asked.
“So it would seem, sir.”
Grantaire cocked his head slightly. “How will Courfeyrac feel about that?”
Combeferre stood and shrugged. “It’s only four more years,” he said reasonably. “Hardly any time at all.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Grantaire grumbled. “You don’t have to worry about fucking Courfeyrac with the Secret Service right outside your door.” Combeferre blushed and Grantaire sighed, heading towards the door. “Tell the President I’ll be back in the residence when he’s done in the Sit Room. And tell him I was serious — one hour, or I’m starting without him.”
“More than I need to know, sir,” Combeferre called after him, but Grantaire wasn’t listening, just whistling off-key to himself as he walked out to the portico.
Then he sighed and put his hands in his pockets. “Four more years,” he sighed, shaking his head. “For that, I’m getting started by myself regardless.”