Chapter Text
Donald wakes up to a rainy mess drizzling down his window. He sighs loudly, lifting himself from the bed with some effort. He slogs his way to the bathroom, planting himself on his prized golden toilet and gazing at his face in the floor-length mirror. He tries not to think about how his ex-lover Joe had always described it. “Firey, like a rusty tangerine,” echoes in his skull cavity. He wipes the tears off of his face, reminding himself to think positive. The supreme court had announced a meeting with a “special guest” that he had to go to today, and there is no time to dwell on his sad, traumatising past right now. He takes a comb, and runs it horizontally through his platinum blond wisp of cotton candy hair, shaping it into a messy shape evocative of a pee-stained cloud on his head. Bronzer is the next step in his routine. He knew he didn't need it, given his naturally yam-coloured complexion, but it was always a good idea to make a good first impression, so he slathers his best stick of the creamy orange makeup on his face.
He chooses his favourite midnight-blue suit with pearly-white embroidery and a long red tie laying softly over his breast area. He loves this suit because it hugs his curves and brings out the specks of shining cerulean in his orbs.
After getting ready, Donald trods softly down the stairs to the meeting room, where his personal troupe of Macdonald's employees in yellow and red maid outfits would bring him his daily breakfast of fluffy chocolate chip pancakes and bacon and porridge. He sighs dreamily at the thought, opening the heavy wooden door to the room. His breath hitches as he lays his bright blue balls of sight on the figure sitting at the head of the table. “E-Elon? W-What are you doing here?”
Elon turns, pursing his lips and fidgeting with a bagel. “Donald…”
Then, chief justice John G. Roberts Jr entered the room, head held high. His metallic charcoal hair was slicked into an elaborate style, his makeup perfect as ever. If the white house was a highschool, John was the queen bee.
“J-John! You’ll tell me the special thing now, right?-” Donald starts, spinning on his heel, but Elon interrupts him. “Wait until after breakfast to tell him, John. It’s the least you can do.”
Donald is confused, but there is no time to question anything. The meal has arrived.
10 Macdonalds employees march into the room, each carrying an assortment of platters. 6 plates are placed in front of each man at the table, and Donald is momentarily distracted from his confusion by the heavenly scent wafting up in front of him. He can feel his pupils dilate at the sight of creamy, sticky porridge and slices of glistening bacon. The three of them begin to eat, and Donald is too caught up in his food to notice that Elon and John are hardly even picking at their plates.
After the last of the scrumptious spread had shimmied its way down his wide open throat, Donald turns his attention back to the conversation happening across the table in hushed tones.
Elon’s face was written over in shock, devoid of blood, and Donald takes a minute to admire how he sparkles like Edward Cullen under the LED lights. Eventually he manages to tear himself back to reality, realising that both Elon and John are now staring at him. He flushes a neon salmon colour (his skin tone is so orange that it alters the colour of his blush) and hopes neither of them noticed his staring.
“Would you tell me the thing you mentioned yesterday now, John?” Donald pleaded, clasping his wrinkled orange hands to his chest.
John sighs. “I suppose I have to, don't I. There's no way to put it off any longer.”
Donald’s hopeful smile wilts, realising that this special announcement might not be a good thing like had initially thought. “Wh- what is it?”
John looks towards Elon. “tell him. He’ll take it better if he hears it from you.” Elon shuts his eyelids softly. “You monster,” he mutters shakily. He takes a deep breath, and focuses his cornflower-coloured orbs on Donald’s own.
“Donny,” he inhales. “You’ve been- we had to sell you to One Direction.” he chokes out the words, they leave a bitter taste akin to a preventable disease. It's as if the sandy guilt in his lungs had trickled up and out in six simple words and a band name, tearing his throat to pieces on the way.
Donald is shaken. There are no words he could possibly think to encompass the feeling in his stomach. It felt like the walls of the uterus that was the white house had just given way, and Donald was a breached baby, fighting his way through the winding, twisting tubes of treacherous backstabbery.
“How could you do this to me elon! I loved you!” he wails finally, the weight of the betrayal hitting him repeatedly in his well-padded stomach like a sac of wet cement.
“I’m sorry Donald! It was the only way to save the country!” He cries, arms outstretched. “The only other options were your death, or the whole state being bombed! We- we had no choice.” Elon lowers his gaze, cheeks burning red in shame. He knew there was no other way, he knew that this decision would prevent so much hardship… but still, hearing the words slither out of his slimy mouth hole again, this time towards his one love, stung.
“How- how could this have happened??” He whispered, voice distraught with disbelief.
There was silence for a second as Elon glared at John, as if it were his fault.
“You remember the telegraph that Elizabeth sent a month ago, right?” John started awkwardly.
“Of course I remember, she threatened to nuke the white house if we didn't comply, why wouldn't I remember, John!?”
“Of course,” John repeated uneasily, not meeting his eyes. “You went on vacation to the island right after your speech about the fact that America would never bow to ridiculous Brits ever again, that we were a free country, and to remind everyone to not question the government’s methods or they would be deported on grounds of disrespectful speech. You left Elon in charge, and she sent him another message. She said she would buy 70 million dollars worth of Tesla stocks and refrain from bombing us if you were willingly given to One Direction. There was a clear right choice there Mr. Trump, you have to understand that.”
Suddenly, Donald feels lightheaded. He sits down, dazed, his mind a whistling hurricane. Thoughts flashed in an out like light lightning; what would happen to him? The country? Would he ever make his bittersweet return? His thoughts turn briefly to Elon. He might never see him in person again. That train of thought sours. He sold me, betrayed me! I should be glad to never see him again! Steeling his expression, he decides that he wont let this happen in his own damn office. “I’m not going to let some hoity-toity celebrities toss me around. I have friends- good friends- so many powerful, good- great, even!-friends who won’t let this happen to me. I’ll call them up, and you know what they’ll say? They’ll tell me what they’ve told me before. They'll tell me, and it’s the truth, they’ll tell me that i’m superior and cant be bossed around.” his bronze mask of bravado isn't strained, the lies slipping easily off his tongue. “I mean, they have no power. None! Zero! We, the united states of america, have 1300, 1400, 1500% more military power than all of the Europeans combined. I can-” suddenly, there is a sharp rap on the door.
Three heads turn to see a security man poke his head into the room. “high judge, adviser, the Queen is here.”