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It was a particularly chilly, june night. Full moon hanged high in the sky with pride, along with tiny pinprick of stars accompanying it. Wind howled just outside thin widows. Warm, yellowish light of street lamps illuminated empty sidewalks, roads, houses as well as a plain looking building. A hotel.
Inside one of many floors of said Hotel, light yet weary footsteps echoed throughout a small apartment- if you could even call it that. It was more like a spacious room with a bathroom and a kitchen, one equipped with a mini fridge, various mugs, plates, a kettle, utensils... Not much, in comparison to what the man was used to, but it had to do. Quiet steps halted.
Donald stood in his pyjamas, an oversized tshirt and booty shorts. There he was, in the middle of the dark kitchen, silently staring at a kettle. He blinked lazily, despite being fairly adjusted to the lack of light. He was lost in thought. Such feeling was foreign to him, those moments of intense ponder. This time was different though.
A troubled expression settled onto his face. He decided against making himself some tea, telling himself it wasn't really... American of him. On the inside, he knew very well there was a different reason he refused to soothe his aching throat. It was the noise it would make.
With an exhausted sigh, Donald managed to tear his gaze away. His hazel coloured irises skipped over the walls, not really registering the different shapes emerging from the obscurity, all covered in gloomy shadows. Until he spotted a small window.
He sneaked towards it, carefully stepping on the wooden floor, hoping it won't make any of those painfully loud creaks. Luckily, he reached his destination without making those at all. With a shaky hand he reached towards the handle and rotated it, opening the window.
Fresh air instantly flooded the room, along with sounds of the outside world. Distant chatter and music coming from nearby bars, occasional cars driving by, nearly silent buzzing of lamps. Donald deemed them as 'quiet enough' and kept the casement open. He rested his elbows on the window sill, propping his head up on his palms, staring into the night.
There are going to be consequences in the future. He was aware of that, and even then Donald brushed it off as just a possibility, completely ignoring the danger. And now? He was witnessing the worst case scenario playing out.
The harsh truth was that he cheated. He betrayed her. His beloved wife. Melania. The realization felt crushing. Yet his emotions didn't really add up. He should feel some sort of guilt, right? Anything beside the creeping emptiness and the knot in his stomach.
His treachery hadn't just taken place today. No, it wasn't a fresh thing. It began manifesting way earlier. His affair with Elon. It started off innocently enough, just like every major incident does. Small winks, suggestive smiles, evolving into one on one meetings they would call "Business buddies catching up" but it was never just that, was it? Those were quite obviously dates. Buying ice cream, going to expensive restaurants, or even simple walks in the park.
There was always something in between the two. A mutual feeling of deep connection, far beyond their understanding. Elon once even called it 'divine'. A spark that turned into a burning fire after that one faithful evening, one when Musk gathered up the courage to finally kiss Trump. The feeling of their mouths crashing into eachother felt nothing short of magical. It left the blonde man stunned, before he leaned in to initiate a kiss of his own.
That was a long while ago. And throughout this entire time they had only been getting closer and closer. Earlier today, it was another one of those days where they hanged out. Musk offered to show him something. They went to a bar... undercover. It was nessesary to wear disguises when you're the president and the richest man in the world. Still, that didn't make Elon look any less funny in a tacky curly haired wig and makeup on.
They got well- just a tiny a bit too tipsy... scratch that. They were completly drunk. It seemed that liquid courage got to their heads, because the next thing Donald remembers is them in the hotel room, drunkenly stumbling towards the bed. They fell on top of it, and into eachother's arms, all laughing and wheezing. It didn't take them long to start passionetly making out. That escalated, and before he would know it Elon was on top of Trump.
It's not that Donald truely regretted it. Quite the opposite. He would give everything to keep experiencing that blissful feeling every night, just to keep drowning in ecstacy, while screaming his lungs out. Unfortunately, that didn't change that Donald still felt bad for cheating on Melania.
Their marriage felt transactional. That wasn't anything new, Trump would even say he wasn't expecting a loving relationship with Melania. Against all odds that knot in his stomach just kept tightening every time he thought about her too much.
The blonde man tiredly rubbed his eyes, and let out a silent yawn. He blinked repeatedly, and spotted a glass ashtray on the window sill. A cigarette would surely feel relaxing right now, but Trump promised himself he would quit. Worse. He promised Elon he would quit. Smoking was an unhealthy habit of Donald, one that started in his youth. In his teenage years he would spend hours sitting on his porch with a lit cigarette. Years later, Musk was the one that broke the metaphorical chain to his addiction with a strong speech combined with physical comfort. Donald was clean for over a year today. His heart simply couldn't let his Elon down.
But there was one more problem. It was like a mischievous figure looming over him, threatening to destroy his everything. Trump sharply inhaled, snapped his eyes shut, and reached into his right pocket.
Sure enough, it was still there. He felt the lean shape of the pregnancy test Beneath the soft fabric. He pulled it out and laid it in front of him.
Two lines. Their mere existence on that very pregnancy test seemed to be mocking him. A cruel slap to his face. He clung onto the possibility that it's a false positive like a lifeline. It could simply be kidney stones, any other urinary illness, or literally anything else. It shouldn't be possible for Donald to get pregnant. It's physically impossible. Still, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes just thinking about the possibility of having to carry a child.
A distant, low groan cut through his thoughts and snapped him right out of it. Donald wiped his tears, shoved the test into one of the cupboards, and shut the window. He took one final breath before making his way towards the large, king sized bed.
And there he was. Elon, groaning softly, murmuring nonsense, snuggled up in a blanket, writhing underneath it. His arm was stretched out, hoping to catch something out of his reach.
Donald gave a theatrical exhale, except he didn't really care to mask his amusement. Looks like Musk is clingy even in his sleep. The blonde man lifted the covers, causing the other to shiver, before slipping into the cocoon as well. Their limbs resembled a tangled mess, both men trying to warm themselves up. Donald buried his nose in the silky strands of Musk's hair, inhaling the scent.
Maybe what they did was wrong. Maybe it will cause their whole careers to fall apart. Maybe. But Trump has reached a conclusion. It was definitely worth it.