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He tries to pray it away. He really, really does. On his knees, resting his elbows on his bed with closed eyes, Mitt tries as hard as he can to pray for a cure, a revelation, or, at the very least, forgiveness. Everyone knows that Mormons can’t love other men like this.
Oh, gosh, Heavenly Father would never allow this. Ann would never allow this. No, of course she wouldn’t. Neither would Tagg, nor Josh, nor Craig, nor Matt, nor Ben …
But especially, especially not Ann.
Just imagine if the press found out…
Bless that these are temporary feelings and bless that I am misguided. Bless that once I return to my wif—
Mitt’s prayers are interrupted with a sturdy yet gentle hand on his shoulder, and he has to take a slow, deep breath.
Of all people … oh, gosh, not now.
He quickly finishes up with a rushed in the name of Jesus Christ, amen before pushing himself to stand. He glances at the other man in the room.
Congressman Paul Ryan. At first, it seemed like a good idea to spend time with him … just him. A ‘business trip,’ with strong emphasis on the quotations. But now …
“Hey. We ran a good race, Mitt. Don’t get so down, buddy.”
Mitt knows that. And that is not the problem, despite the election having happened only a couple days ago. Here’s to President Barack Obama, soon beginning his second term…
He shows a flash of guilt, just a brief one, and he rubs his face. Shaking his head, he gives a soft, laugh (it’s very obviously humorless). “That’s not it, Paul, it’s—…”
Paul’s brows furrow a bit; he presses his lips together, hands sliding into his pant pockets as he realizes what Mitt’s upset about. “Ah.” It’s about them. A nod of recognition. What else would require prayer? An election that is now hopeless? Hardly. Prayers are futile. He lost. They both did.
(Upon acknowledging the reason for Mitt’s praying, Paul can almost laugh himself, remembering the people who say those against same-sex marriage are only in denial. Yet here they are.)
Paul clears his throat. Stepping forward, he pulls Mitt close and wraps his arms around him in a tight hug with a couple pats on the back. “It’s fine,” he says in an attempt to reassure him.
Mitt’s arms stay at his side for a minute as hesitation crosses his mind before he leans into Paul and returns the embrace, complete with squeezing him to his chest. But his chest hurts with guilt; the conflict has been building up for a couple months. He could almost laugh at himself. A week ago he was the Republican candidate for the President of the United States of America and now he is in some hotel room being held by his former running mate after a humiliating loss, and it isn’t even the election that is on his mind.
Paul squeezes Mitt before letting go and pushing away, but only to lift his hands and place them on either side of Mitt’s face. “It’s okay. It’s … Well, it’s bad.” He glances away sheepishly for a moment before meeting Mitt’s gaze again. His face is heating up from a combination of embarrassment and shame. "I know. I won’t sugarcoat it, Mitt. But this won’t be the end of the world,” Paul whispers, trying to further reassure the older man. “We’re good people, aren’t we?”
Mitt listens, truly taking Paul’s words to heart. He trusts him. He nodded in agreement, a small smile of sorts showing on his face. “Of course. Of course, yes.” He raises a hand to place it atop one of Paul’s own. If Paul is okay with it, then perhaps Mitt is as well.
“This is not— not…” Paul bites his lip, struggling to find the word. Mitt is distracting him and he’s quickly losing his train of thought. “…indicative of our characters.” His voice is quieter as the atmosphere becomes more intimate. He shifts on his feet. “We’re okay,” Paul whispers again before leaning forward and pressing his lips against Mitt’s own.
Mitt, caught off guard, takes a deep breath and widens his eyes before he gives in. He returns the gentle contact, eyes falling shut. It’s a tender, solemn kiss — but it doesn’t last long. Paul pulls away and steps back as the guilt hits him harder than it had before; Mitt leans forward as Paul interrupts the moment, hoping that it would have lasted longer, but he knows that it shouldn’t have. Paul did the right thing. The man in question clears his throat, lifting his hand to instinctively wipe his lips clean.
“It’s late,” Paul speaks up, breaking the silence. Mitt nods in agreement, standing up straight and tugging at his shirt collar.
"Yeah. Let’s get some rest, then.” He offers a smile before turning around to grab some sleeping clothes out of his suitcase at the end of the bed. Once he has his clothes, he walks pass Paul silently and makes his way to the bathroom. The door falls shut behind him.
Mitt drops his change of clothes on the floor and takes a breather. He places his hands on the edges of the sink and closes his eyes, counting to ten and back down to one again. He has to relax. He has to. It’s not the end of the world. Quickly, he changes and brushes his teeth. Once more, Mitt says a quick prayer, asking Heavenly Father for forgiveness again and thanking him in advance.
It had been a long day, but at least in this hotel room, they can avoid the reality of the world around them. With that thought in mind and hoping that this doesn’t eat away at him, Mitt leaves the bathroom, more than ready to sleep his feelings away.