chatananas: Rahm Emanuel is R rated (ANGRY: Rahm is R rated)
[personal profile] chatananas
I wrote this ficlet the last time people on [profile] fakenews_fanfic were writing from prompts on [profile] unlove_you. I didn't post it then because I finished it around 1 am. I was about to do it tonight since it was an amnesty OT, but I realized at the last second that there's way too many f-bombs in it for that place. And people might be suffering from Rahm-fatigue after my pic-ficlet from the other day that kind of prompted a mini Emanuelmania in a place that is not made for that.

Okay, so here's the thing, unbeta-ed and all:

Title: This Is Not About You
Pairing: Jon Stewart/Rahm Emanuel
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: Rahm Emanuel



Stewart’s searching his old records for some Pink Floyd album. Rahm's way past caring about music at that point, but he won't bother telling him. He just sighs from his comfortable spot on the living room carpet and looks at Stewart’s back in a grey t-shirt, at his grey hair, at what he can see of his ass in the baggy, beige-grey chinos.

Fucking grey made flesh. Rahm’s about to have sex with the avatar of Grey. He knows he’ll find much heat under those ashes, though. That ugly, worn out mug knows a thousand different smiles, and Stewart’s shown them all tonight. He's courted him all night with a barrage of rapid-fire jokes and insults, until Rahm’s head was spinning so much he couldn’t do anything but stumble home with him. He didn’t need to do so much, but Rahm has enjoyed being worked for hours. All that banter didn't deliver a single clue as to why Jon motherfucking Stewart wants to sleep with him, though.

All he knows is there’s no kitchen table and their coats are the only ones in the closet. The guy's probably desperate to drag someone in his bedroom, if only for a night. Convince himself that he hasn’t bought a new king sized bed just to sleep alone in it for the rest of his life. Yeah, Stewart’s probably decided to go for the weirdest rebound fuck he could find. One that would shock him right out of grief.

“The greatest change the Obama administration will have given anybody in the last few months,” says Rahm’s voice, and he cracks up at his own joke, as usual.

Stewart gives him that cross between snigger and giggle that he’s got for a laugh.

“Are you that disillusioned already?”

“You don’t get it, shithead. I’m bragging,” says Rahm towards the ceiling. “You won’t be the same man come tomorrow morning.”

“We should have done this years ago, then.”



Rahm doesn’t need to know what that fleeting frown on Stewart’s face is about to know that this whole thing will be a huge fucking mess. Hell, it already is, but all those pink cocktails he’s had have robbed him of his ability to give a damn. Treacherous stuff to get girls drunk fast. He should have known better than to sip on something that looked like Pepto Bismol and came under a small roof of paper parasols, but the occasion had been too fucking ridiculous to pass.

“You slut. I bet you chose it just for the name," he'd laughed in Stewart's ear once the chatty bartendress had slided away alongside her polished counter.

“Sam did. She likes nothing more than to have guys order her drinks with awkward names.”

Rahm had watched him give a wave and a bright fake smile towards a booth at the other side of the room, where Bee was pointedly sipping on a Bloody Mary. The other correspondents barely looked their way. They could have been trying to act cool, but something in their carefully placed faces looked more like an attempt at giving them privacy. Rahm understood that the drink was for him, if he cared to ask for it. Invitation, mere conversation starter, whatever. Stewart's eyes said it’d be anything Rahm wanted it to be.

In spite of his legend, or maybe because of it, he’d never been propositioned in such a straightforward, unimaginative way. It came as a breath of fresh air, a much needed return to familiar territory. He fell into that fling more easily than in his own bed.

“I want one like that. Or two, if it’s not asking too much from you.”

Stewart had given him a cheeky smile, and delivered the next line in that tacky dialogue being exchanged by countless other couples right that very moment:

“Not too much. I’ll keep them coming.”

It really shouldn’t have been an elevated experience of any kind, but for a second Rahm had felt strangely connected to thousands of people all over the nation, in every goddamn bar that was not too classy to facilitate hookups with pink, parasol-adorned drinks called Screaming Orgasms. He was living the simpler life of simple people.

And now music was floating in the air, and Stewart was crossing the living room carpet with blue eyes in his. God help the both of them, because this would be everything but simple.



---
I think I messed up the verb tenses, but I'm not sure.

(no subject)

Date: Monday, 4 October 2010 18:51 (UTC)
erinptah: (Default)
From: [personal profile] erinptah
It really shouldn’t have been an elevated experience of any kind, but for a second Rahm had felt strangely connected to thousands of people all over the nation, in every goddamn bar that was not too classy to facilitate hookups with pink, parasol-adorned drinks called Screaming Orgasms.

This is really poetic, in an incredibly odd way.

Avatar of Grey FTW.

(Crosspost to [community profile] punditfic!)