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Barack cried. Their relationship may have ended, but the truth and the love they had shared with each other was undeniable. It pained him deep in his soul to see Harry, to see the man he had thought was his fated partner, deny even knowing him.
As he watched the TV screen, a single tear dropped down his face and he felt his heart shatter deep in his chest. This warped, false version of Harry laughed awkwardly at one of the interviewers’ invasive questions, following it up with the words, “No, I’ve never dated a man.”
The sincerity of his denial destroyed Barack. He felt Harry should become an actor, for the blatant apathy on his face pained him incredibly. It was soul destroying.
He clutched at his chest as though he could reach inside and wrench out his heart, just to prove to himself it was still there. So he could hug it to him and console its broken pieces.
Harry’s smile on screen was so full and genuine that it obliterated any semblance of hope he had held.
If Barack could be just a man for Harry, then he would. In a heartbeat. But both had already made their way in the world in absolutely unmistakable ways. They were on the world stage every day, with the eyes of both fans and critics never leaving them.
And with that came Harry’s fans.
That was something Barack had never had to deal with, having only ever been in the world of politics, not the cruel industry that was Hollywood. It sickened him seeing how people would sexualise him—Harry, the man who had whispered a million words of adoration to him with just the slightest of touches.
Who had uttered the deepest of promises to him, from soul to soul, with just a simple glance of his heady eyes. And his eyes. Oh, those eyes. Their beauty could not be understated, a mesmerizing shade of just right. Ocean waves broke against icy cliffs in an endless tirade and jungles of deep, beautiful green flourished in mere seconds, with every slow and enticing blink.
He clenched his fists tightly, blunt nails digging into his palms, forming crescent moons reminiscent of the half of Barack’s soul Harry took with him the day he ran out of that forsaken room.
That room. Harry had walked in on him and Trump in an albeit… compromising position, he could admit that. But Barack hadn’t wanted any of it, the other man had been trying to seduce him into political weakness, and he wouldn’t fall for that. But just as he had been pushing Trump away, denying his advances in a polite and respectful manner, the love of his life walked in, bright eyed and grinning as always.
How quickly that had changed.
It was torture to not be able to fly right over to Harry and clear up this wretched misunderstanding. But he couldn’t, held back by his many responsibilities, shackling him to the country he ruled over, thousands of miles away from his hurting lover.
So instead, Barack reached out with a shaking finger and caressed the screen gently, uttering words of love. He adored Harry so much, if only he could climb right through the screen and kiss him senseless.
Barack’s need to touch, to hold, to kiss, to embrace, to worship, to squeeze tightly onto Harry and never let go overwhelmed him. If he had the chance to do a single one of those, Barack would. Without question. His certainty in this was unshakeable. He loved the man that was Harry Edward Styles. Along with all his flaws and so-called imperfections that somehow only made him seem more perfect.
Sometimes Barack wondered if any amount of torture could amount to the pain of their separation. Of losing him, perhaps forever.
He had an agonising pain in his chest. Barack had always known he felt emotions stronger than others, easily overwhelmed by them at the best of times. He was… unique in that way. And that’s what he loved about Harry. The fact that the younger man had never judged him when his feelings had gotten the better of him, and had simply held Barack in his arms and comforted him.
Obama pulled out a joint.
He was tired. Being a man in love was exhausting and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. So he returned to old, fickle habits. If Harry were here, he would have berated him in his adorable accent, slapping his shins and calling him his ‘silly boy’.
Just thinking of those soft, gentle moments with Harry caused a deep and reverberating pain in his chest. His body yearned for his lover like an addict, going through a level of withdrawal almost physically painful to him. He could die a thousand deaths for that man and never feel worthy of him. He’d made too many mistakes, hurt Harry too many times however, for even that to feel like enough.
It seems that joint had given him a rush of confidence and undeniable initiative, as he found himself reaching out for the nearest phone to him.
Hurriedly, Barack called the man he had been thinking of the whole day. He did it on the White House’s main phone, meaning Harry hadn’t blocked him here yet. Meaning he still had a chance.
“Pick me!” Barack choked out between sobs as soon as Harry answered the call, “Choose me, l-love me!”
He stuttered and stumbled over his words, hiccuping as tears spilled down his face in what felt like buckets. He would fix this. He had to. Barack was a man of his word and he had not been lying to Harry all those years ago when he promised to love him forever, with every fiber of his being, and to never give up on him.
He would make sure of it.