Chapter Text
October 7th, 2020
Gilded plates adorned with crystal cups and flutes of champagne and pristine ruffled napkins and knives sharp enough to slice through delicate bones and cartilage and webbing of hands and fingers and the carnitine of bitten nails. A table made of solid oak with upholstered chairs revolving around its marred sun. There was no carpeting under the leather soles of the seated men; the chairs would shriek at every chance, the subjugation of men anchoring themselves to the room for every gloating and goading meal since Truman’s terror weighed on them.
Don Jr.’s father carved a carrot on his dish. The meatiest chunk was speared and dunked into a pool of its marinade on the porcelain before being pushed between the president’s lips, between his teeth, and squeezed down his gullet.
Don’s half-brother copied his father; his stepmother maintained her interest in her fork.
“How was Ukraine?” Donald was still chewing his carrot. The pieces stuck between his veneers reflected the same color as the sagging skin of his cheeks.
Vanessa’s shape was imprinted on the chair next to Don. It burned in his throat like Macallan.
“It was fine. I brought back some cigars I think you would like.” Don cleaved a carrot of his own, dissecting it like he would with some protected species in Africa he would have shot in his thirties. “I had at least four different men ask for ‘American loans’ from the company--I’m not sure exactly what that’s supposed to mean, anyway--but I wrote down their names for you, too, if you’d be interested in--”
“How is the Biden situation.” It was not phrased like a question.
Don Jr. pinched his lips together. “I’m working on it--”
“I thought you’d be finished by now,” Donald Sr. tutted. He reached for the pot of margarine near Melania’s wine glass. Donald leaned his whole body into his wife’s plate and plucked the spread next to her. “We have less than a month before the election. These bogus asses in Congress have already tried to take me out. Bannon is being a shit and Guliani is being, he’s, ugh , he’s being himself , and you started this, son.” Don’s father scooped a chunk of margarine onto his knife. He watched as the spread slid off the edge of the utensil and plopped on the Porterhouse below. “This was your baby. You can’t abort it now.”
Don Jr.’s teeth began to grind together. He imagined a tooth chipping in his annoyance. “I don’t plan on abandoning this. I’ll have the New York Post publish it by the end of the month.”
A clank of metal on delicate porcelain rang through the dining hall. Three pairs of eyes met the president’s. “More like before the end of the week, Junior.”
Goddamnit.
“Can’t Eric--”
“Who gives a shit about Eric.” Donald’s tone was final. “Figure it out with Guliani or Barr or--fuck, even Zelenskyy even, it’s not like you can get impeached too, right?” Donald laughed to himself. His progeny stayed silent. “Eric exists in the hope I’d have another Ivanka, don’t fuck up your chances with him.”
Eric was a tremendous fuck-up, which is exactly why Don wanted his help. If it went to shit, Eric would go to prison, not Don--not the golden son.
“Junior.” Don looked up from his twisted fingers and wayward thoughts to meet his father’s eyes. “By the end of the week.”
“It’s Wednesday, how am I supposed to--”
Donald tried to swat the words out of the air with the back of his hand. “Fine, fine, by next week. I can wait until then.” He glanced at his Diet Coke and rum, then tilted his head to one of the wait staff, who hurriedly tucked tail and left the room. Donald returned to inhaling his blue beef, still bloody on the plate.
Melania patted her dry crimson lips with her napkin, the white cloth unstained by her makeup. “I am going to sleep,” she announced. She stood and planted a kiss atop Barron’s head, then walked past her husband out the door.
Don Jr. sighed. While a woman of little words, his stepmother instilled a brittle sort of fear in him: not strong enough to take root and grow, but enough to splinter and burrow into the fragile parts of him.
“I suppose that’s my cue,” Don declared, clearing his throat as he stood. A scream--the chair--rang throughout the room. Don tossed the linen napkin to his right at the empty seat where his wife, his ex-wife, was supposed to sit. He sighed. “My flight to Manhattan is at five. I’ll come back to visit before the story goes live.”
Donald nodded. He continued to eat.
Barron had the decency to say goodnight, which Don echoed before making a break for it.
God, what was this life?
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
November 3rd, 2020
Hunter was no stranger to controversy. His father knew it, his wives knew it, his God knew it. But he’d show his face to make his dad proud.
There were streamers, there were balloons, there was music, and it reverberated throughout the city. The lights set up above their heads to emulate the sun’s glory beat down upon the crowns of their heads as everyone on stage hugged, cried, and screamed.
Hunter hovered behind the mass of politicians in the front, eclipsed by the cameras by his dad, Ms. Harris, Jill, and even by some of his own children.
The next president of the United States peeked over his shoulder to glance at his son, his face outlined in the stark white of the LEDs and flashing cameras below the platformed stage. Hidden by a surgical mask, the corner of his dad’s mouth pinched into one of his trademark smirks as he stared at Hunter.
“We did it, son.”
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
November 4th, 2020
“What do we do?” Don stared at his father’s back behind the curtains of the newest stage his father rented for the next hour. He hoped his words reached him.
The blond pompadour adorned by his father shadowed Donald’s eyes as he turned to face his son. “Just…play along.”
Don frowned as his father walked out to meet the press.