Work Text:
Tell me Mr President..
“Do you know the muffin man?”
Roosevelt blinked, the confusion so clear on his face we can almost imagine it. If only exasperation were real.
“Er, Nevermind.. uh, Japan has yet to surrender Mr. President and you're about to die— I MEAN— uh, your term is about to end.”
The president's secretary, Dylan muttered, and being a time traveler he almost spoiled some important lore. Thanks for that, Dylan.
“What? But my term has just— nevermind. Get me Truman please.”
“Yes sir.”
Dylan left with all the grace of a newborn deer, as he proceeded to fall flat on his face with the first step he took to approach the door. Good job, Dylan.
After an unnecessary apology, Dylan scurried out of the president's office as though embarrassing himself in front of one of the most powerful men in the country was a life ending failure. He won't even remember within a couple minutes anyway, Dylan, you can relax.
Anyway, FDR was left to his own devices for a short while before his Vice President, or VP, Truman, entered, with his legs, unfortunately much shorter than the president's legs, but they're both taller than Winston Churchill and Joseph Stalin so nothing to really complain about, honestly.
“You needed to see me, Mr. President?”
FDR nodded, gesturing for Truman to approach as he stared at the desk in front of him. The one that was always in front of him. That was always in the middle of his office, and glaringly obvious. It was also wooden. Like most desks. Aside from metal desks. If those even existed then. When was the first metal desk made anyway? FDR kept staring at his desk as Truman obeyed and approached. His desk was also the slightest bit shiny if the light hit it the right way. Like Truman's pretty blue eyes. Wait, he has his own blue eyes, why is he thinking about that?
FDR would have a wife, Eleanor Roosevelt, who definitely took his last name and didn't simply have it before they married, to distract him from these kinds of gay thoughts, to a certain extent, that he was in no way related to, but unrelated to the situation; she'd run off with another woman a year or so into his third term. Interestingly enough, it was also Truman's wife, Elizabeth, or Bess Truman. Love loses and international women's day wins or something. Wait, you're not supposed to be aroace or lesbian in the 1940s. And International Women's Day probably wasn't a thing yet. Forget that. It happened but no one talks about it because this is fiction and I'm getting impatient okay.
Anyway, while the American people were shocked by that kind of revelation, FDR and Truman weren't that startled by it. Probably because those were their wives or feminine roommates who might not have even been into men, and here they are. Having gay thoughts. Disgusting.
“Mr. President? Are you alright?”
FDR finally snapped out of his wet train of thought or whatever sexy thoughts are when you're not experiencing them asleep, actually I suppose thinking about someone's pretty face doesn't count as sexy but whatever. Anyway, he snapped back to reality and finally looked up at Truman, their blue, eyes, fucking who the hell calls them that, “orbs” their eyes, met, different shades of blue but dark nonetheless, he instantly got rock stiff.
As in, he froze. What, did you think I meant something else?
Luckily, they both got silent with some sort of gay panic as they stood in the silence of the office, the president's wooden desk sitting there as an unfortunate third wheel. The physical distance was much shorter than the emotional, whatever the hell that means. If one was able to hear hearts just from standing in the vicinity of them, they'd hear these men's hearts beating fast enough to power up Palette Town, probably, as well as feel the tension strong enough to hack in half with a hatchet.
They glanced at each other's lips. Very homoerotically. How gay of them. FDR licked his lips and Truman bit his. I'm starting to feel like I'm interrupting something, and are you getting turned on yet, or what?
“...Mr. President.”
Truman muttered, the president in question holding back a low groan as if he had anything to groan about other than the ongoing war in the Pacific, the gayass.
“Yes? …Oh. Right. Uh. I wanted to ask for your input on the Pacific theatre of this war. The Japanese have yet to surrender and we've already captured Iwo Jima. Thoughts?”
“We should blow them up.”
Roosevelt blinked, and if they had existed in the 1940s his brain probably made the Windows shutdown noise.
“...Pardon?”
“We should blow them up.”
Truman repeated himself, putting his hands on his hips like an unimpressed toddler.
“We should use the bombs from the Manhattan project and blow them up! Blow up a whole city! Hell, blow up two! We need to put those A-Bombs to use, Mr. President!”
“I wanna put your A-Bomb to use..”
“What?”
“What?”
Roosevelt parroted, as though pretending to be stupid would keep him from sounding gay, Truman casually brushing it off as he kept going on about blowing up Japan or something, someone needs to calm that man down.
“God, I need you.”
“Huh?”
Roosevelt huffed, either his vice president was going deaf or pretending to be dumb as well, grabbing onto the other man's tie with an intensity so gay you'd think they were already having sex.
“Shut up and kiss me.”
Making out without consent isn't cool Mr President. But he did it anyway, smashing their lips together in an unbelievably homosexual way I guess, I don't know, are you turned on yet?
And they kept making out gayly or whatever, why are you still here?