fic: A More Perfect Union (Ara/Tao, PG)
A More Perfect Union
Hello Venus/EXO, Ara/Tao, PG, 2800 words
"So, you're the little lady who I owe my life to." All American Girl AU.
Title from the preamble to the Constitution, ha. Thank you to avirjin (and Sam!) for the assistance as always. And thanks to the mods for making intoaclub possible- oh, wait, that's me. And gdgdbaby of course.
Zitao's one brush stroke of paint away from finishing the last apple in his fruit bowl when his arm is jerked away. A black line goes through the center of his banana. "My painting," Zitao whines. All thick black lines, very gothic. His dad would've hated it, but been forced to display it proudly in his office along with Zitao's other art class works.
"We're leaving," Jaemin says, shoulders rod straight. Zitao drops his paintbrush. With his arm still in Jaemin's grip, he's led through the backdoor of the classroom.
"What's going on?" Zitao asks, nearly stumbling down the first step. He's never been around for any security risks, but he’s gone through the training, knows a million disaster plans by heart. "What happened to my dad?" He asks again. Fuck, he's going to start crying. "Jaemin, tell me!"
Jaemin finally stops before they reach the fire exit of the building. He's shorter than Zitao at this angle, and he lifts his hand up to cup Zitao's shoulder. "I wouldn't be this calm right now if he wasn't okay. I'll tell you everything in the SUV."
In the SUV, Zitao learns a few things.
1.) There was an assassination attempt on his dad.
2.) He was saved by a girl.
3.) A girl who might possibly be connected to the assassination attempt?
4.) "It's hard to tell anything at this point."
5.) Jaemin's shoulder is a good place to hide his face when he let outs a big, gulping cry of relief.
The would-be assassin has a boner for Taeyeon Kim.
“These guys always want to do it for love,” Jaesuk, the head of security, tells them later when they’ve all gathered into a conference room. The shooter had been listening to “”Twinkle”, apparently, his iPod still playing on repeat when the secret security tackled them to the ground.
Before they could even come home, the White House had to be searched again for potential security threats. Zitao was antsy, clinging to Jaemin’s arm up until he had his mom and dad in sight. In spite of everything, his dad seemed relatively relaxed after his private briefing. Zitao and his mother immediately swept him up in group hug that lasted until his father said, "If you don't let me breathe the Secret Service might think you're trying to kill me too."
The girl who rescued the President, on the other hand, has no connection to the shooting. The Secret Service agents give them a run-down: 19 years old, second generation Korean-American, lifelong resident of D.C., lives with her parents and younger sister. "Georgetown freshman, 4.0," Zitao's father reads off his iPad. "Impressive."
Zitao, prone to the kind of selective attention his mother scolds him for on an almost daily basis, tunes out most of what the Secret Service says about this girl, Ara.
The next day, they make a family visit to the hospital. ("What's she here for again?" "Broken wrist, don't you pay attention, Taozi?") The press surrounds the building, pushing over each other to get a shot of the President, an army of police forcing them back behind barricades. In two years, Zitao still isn't used to the press. He keeps his head down as he walks, tugging on the hem of his sweater vest. He'd been vetoed out of the black tank top he'd worn for the past week.
It's obvious which room belongs to Ara. If the stern looking man in a black suit and sunglasses standing outside didn't give it away, the dozens of fruit baskets and flower arrangements lining the hallway lead right to her door. There's even more inside the suite, every available surface covered with stuffed animals and flowers. Zitao lingers behind his parents.
"So, you're the little lady who I owe my life to," Zitao's dad announces.
Thank you for your bravery! A card from the people of New York City reads. You're an inspiration to us all! sends the Netherlands.
There's a bunch of hand shaking and introductions as Zitao continues to look through the cards. Is that from the Dalai Lama? “This is my wife,” Zitao hears his dad say. “And my son, Zitao. Come on, don’t be shy.”
Zitao is tugged forward by his father and that's when he realizes that tuning out the briefing might not have been a good idea, because if he'd paid attention, Zitao might have realized that he knew the girl in question. She looks different today, wearing her hair down instead of her usual high ponytail. She hadn't been wearing a smile before either, but now that he's gotten a better look he can say she's got a nice one. After a moment of Zitao staring, his father coughs under his breath and Zitao offers his hand to shake. She holds out her left, the one not in the cast. It’s soft and warm in Zitao's awkward grip.
“We've already met,” Ara says.
“Zitao!” His mom admonishes. “You didn't tell us you knew a national hero!”
"I didn't realize I knew her," Zitao says, at the same time Ara protests, "I'm not a hero, really."
“We’re in the same art class, Mrs. Huang," Ara explains.
The same art class where, when she started a mere three weeks ago, Ara tore Zitao’s still life apart during peer review. “It looks like you took all of your unresolved teen angst out on the canvas,” she’d said, nose in the air. True artists, Zitao had thought to himself, weren't constrained by silly things like color and form. And what did she know about his unresolved teen angst anyway?
“Oh, Dana Song’s? Isn’t she just amazing?” Zitao's mom gushes.
“We love her,” Ara’s mother agrees. “We told Ara she needed to do something creative. She’s always got her nose in a book, this one.”
“We couldn’t get Zitao to study if his life depended on it. It was either this or singing lessons, but I told him he can’t just sit around and text his friends all day over the summer again.”
Their moms laugh together and Zitao is distinctly reminded of being a kid and being made to sit still while his mom dealt with the principal. He's not in trouble now, but he almost feels like he is, the way Ara's looking at him like she has him all figured out. Zitao feels a vague, itching need to prove himself to her.
"Well, Ara, we'd really like to show our appreciation for you," Zitao's father says. "How would you and your family like to have dinner at the White House?"
The Yoos come over on a Saturday night. Zitao shows up approximately thirty seconds before their anticipated arrival, wearing a skull t-shirt instead of the button-up one of the housekeepers laid out for him.
"Zitao," his mother says, hanging her head. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Love me and cherish?" Zitao offers, fluttering his eyelashes. She tugs on his ear piercing and Zitao yelps.
Ara is wearing a pink dress, modestly cut with a string of pearls accenting the neckline. Zitao notices because it brings out the red in her cheeks when the Huangs lead them through Cross Hall to the family dining room. At the table, Zitao's father asks her about school. "I'm thinking about political science," Ara says. " Or law school, if my parents can help it."
Across the table, Zitao's mother motions at him to put away his phone. He does, not before Snapchat-ing Sehun a picture of his shoes under the table.
"Politics, then? We already know you're not afraid of tackling the tough issues," his father jokes.
After dinner, the adults retire to one of the sitting rooms for a coffee, while Zitao's dad suggests that he take Ara for a tour of the White House. She is one of those people, Zitao notes, that tries to lead even when they don't know where they're going. "This way," he says, catching her unbroken wrist in his hand.
The banquet hall he takes her to is one of the smaller ones, used for more closed affairs. It's empty at the moment, all the tables removed. Their footsteps echo across the waxed floor. "Wow," Ara breathes out.
She paces the length of the room, admiring the intricate crown moulding, the chandeliers, and the rows of portraits. She stops in front of one, a portrait of George Washington that Zitao's father had requested be transferred from the National Portrait Gallery because he'd always liked it.
“Did you know that Dolley Madison saved this picture?” she asks, turning to look back at Zitao.
“Who?”
Ara gives him a look through her bangs, the same kind of look that Chanyeol gives Zitao whenever he opens his mouth. “The wife of James Madison. You know, the fourth president of the United States.”
“Oh, that guy," Zitao says. He got a B- in US History, much to his parents and teacher's mutual chagrin. "What happened to the painting?”
Ara reaches out, stopping just a few inches short of the painting. “It was the War of 1812,” she says, tracing her finger over the lines of Washington’s body without touching the canvas. “And the British were coming to burn down the White House so she took a bunch of papers and this painting here.”
“I didn’t know that the White House ever burnt down.”
“You don’t know a lot of things, do you?” Ara asks, not maliciously. Still, Zitao’s shoulders go stiff in defense.
“If you know so much, how come you didn't recognize me in class?”
Ara wrinkles her nose. "You were wearing glasses. That worked for Clark Kent."
Which flatters Zitao, so he asks, “Do you want to meet my cat?”
Moving into the White House, Zitao had been appalled by the tasteful decorations that the predecessors had left behind in his room. The only thing that makes it feel like home is the cat his parents got him as a concession to the “pain and suffering” he claimed the Huang presidency would bring him. Little Peach is a sandy colored shorthair, prone to napping in Zitao’s dirty laundry hamper and attempting to swat at birds from behind the glass of Zitao’s window.
They sit on the end of Zitao’s bed, Jaemin watching from the doorway. “Ara,” Zitao says, hesitating over two tiny syllables. “I know everyone in Dana’s class is going to be talking about you but could you, uh, maybe not let on who I am?”
Little Peach nuzzles Ara’s arm cast, purring happily. “It’s my private space,” Zitao adds.
Ara regards him thoughtfully. “You know, in the past week I’ve gotten at least a dozen phone calls from, like, people I went to middle school with. I know what you mean.” She mimes a zipper over her mouth. “You’re safe with me.”
Zitao doesn’t see Ara again until her medal receiving ceremony. As with any political function, it’s hardly a small affair. There’s diplomats, business people, other politicians, and of course the media. Zitao spaces out of his conversation with a senator from Wisconsin, instead watching across the room as his dad and Ara talk. He has an idea of what it might be about.
It was originally going to be his role: the judge of an international art competition in which each country submitted a representative piece to be displayed in the UN building in New York. But then his dad had spent a week mumbling to his secretaries and his cabinet and even his wife about how a dinner was nice and a medal was pretty special, but wasn't there anything else they could do for that nice Ara girl?
Zitao, not particularly eager about the idea of sifting through a hundred different interpretations of the word “courage”, is happy to suggest Ara take over his job. He’s got enough duties as the First Kid as it is: getting to school on time, making decent grades, not being the cause of his father’s impeachment by defacing any surface of the White House with the phallic graffiti his friends keep suggesting. It’s not that he wants to make Ara suffer- no, it seems to Zitao that it might be something she’d actually like to do. His dad agrees.
Just as he thought, Ara’s face lights up at the news. He watches her shake his father’s hand, and while he can’t read lips, he imagines her saying something like, “I won’t let you down, sir.”
Zitao is pulled away to socialize (see also: stuff his face with hors d’oeuvres while people talk at him) and he loses track of Ara in the crowd. A half hour later, he hears a quiet psst behind him as he returns from the bathroom.
“Look what I got from the catering staff,” Ara says, tilting her body away from the crowd to show Zitao the bottle of champagne tucked under her blazer.
“Hey! They stopped giving me things two years ago, that’s so not fair.”
Ara flips her hair. momentarily revealing the smooth line of her neck and sparkle of the diamond in her ear. “It’s a girl thing. Plus, I signed a napkin for the guy in charge. His daughter’s a big fan.”
It's not hard to sneak off to the roof. Zitao's done it a million times in a million different venues. Jaesuk keeps telling Jaemin that he's giving Zitao too much leeway, that he should be more strict, but Jaemin's weak to Zitao's charms.
The evening has done nothing to cool the muggy summer air. Zitao strips off his jacket as soon as they step out onto the roof. "I hate these things," he complains, pulling at his tie.
Ara slips off her blazer too, neatly hanging it over the railing around the water tank. "I bet you go to a lot of these events, huh?" she asks.
"If I had a dollar for every event, it'd probably add up to the national deficit," Zitao says. He may laugh at his own joke.
It takes some fumbling to get the bottle of champagne open ("I've got a confession, I have no idea how corkscrews work," Ara mock-whispers) but finally they succeed, each taking a long swig. Zitao's normally downgraded to cider during formal functions; he feels a bit rebellious downing something reserved for adults.
"Thank you for suggesting me for the painting competition," Ara says, passing the bottle back to Zitao. "Your dad told me it was you. That was really nice."
"Well, I know how much you like judging art," he jokes, and Ara gives an affronted scoff. Zitao's cheeks feel warm and he can't blame the heat. He wrings his hands around the sweating neck of the champagne bottle.
"I'm sorry, but I stand by everything," she says huffily.
The noise from the party below and the ever persistent hum of traffic fill the silence that stretches out between them. Zitao leans against the edge of the roof, gazing out over the D.C. skyline, the monument standing tall and bright in the distance.
"You know, I campaigned for your dad," Ara speaks up. Zitao tilts his head back to look at her. "I was too young to vote when he ran but I handed out flyers and stuff. I never expected that I would save the same guy's life."
Two years ago, his father had just a few grey hairs and not much hope of making it all the way to the White House, not until the Republican candidate got embroiled in a sex scandal a mere three months before November. God bless adulterers. "At the Inauguration, Obama's kids told me that it got lonely," Zitao says. "I liked the attention at first, but these days I just want to be normal. The spotlight is weird."
"Well, now you have someone to share it with," Ara says, smiling as she leans in to ruffle Zitao's hair. Zitao's never been drunk in his life, and he hopes his tolerance is more than a glass, but his head feels light, bubbly like champagne foam. "At least until my fifteen minutes are up."
There's a cough from the door. "Speaking of which, it's time to go back to the party," Jaemin announces.
Zitao wishes they could stay out here longer, but duty calls. They don their jackets and Zitao hands Jaemin the evidence of their rebellion to be disposed of, as if his father doesn’t most likely already know about their escape.
Ara steps under Zitao’s arm as he holds the door for her. “Hey,” she says, that wicked glint in her eye again. “How much do you think I could get on eBay for a presidential medal of freedom?”
----
YOUR OWN MOD TWO DAYS LATE
Hello Venus/EXO, Ara/Tao, PG, 2800 words
"So, you're the little lady who I owe my life to." All American Girl AU.
Title from the preamble to the Constitution, ha. Thank you to avirjin (and Sam!) for the assistance as always. And thanks to the mods for making intoaclub possible- oh, wait, that's me. And gdgdbaby of course.
Zitao's one brush stroke of paint away from finishing the last apple in his fruit bowl when his arm is jerked away. A black line goes through the center of his banana. "My painting," Zitao whines. All thick black lines, very gothic. His dad would've hated it, but been forced to display it proudly in his office along with Zitao's other art class works.
"We're leaving," Jaemin says, shoulders rod straight. Zitao drops his paintbrush. With his arm still in Jaemin's grip, he's led through the backdoor of the classroom.
"What's going on?" Zitao asks, nearly stumbling down the first step. He's never been around for any security risks, but he’s gone through the training, knows a million disaster plans by heart. "What happened to my dad?" He asks again. Fuck, he's going to start crying. "Jaemin, tell me!"
Jaemin finally stops before they reach the fire exit of the building. He's shorter than Zitao at this angle, and he lifts his hand up to cup Zitao's shoulder. "I wouldn't be this calm right now if he wasn't okay. I'll tell you everything in the SUV."
In the SUV, Zitao learns a few things.
1.) There was an assassination attempt on his dad.
2.) He was saved by a girl.
3.) A girl who might possibly be connected to the assassination attempt?
4.) "It's hard to tell anything at this point."
5.) Jaemin's shoulder is a good place to hide his face when he let outs a big, gulping cry of relief.
The would-be assassin has a boner for Taeyeon Kim.
“These guys always want to do it for love,” Jaesuk, the head of security, tells them later when they’ve all gathered into a conference room. The shooter had been listening to “”Twinkle”, apparently, his iPod still playing on repeat when the secret security tackled them to the ground.
Before they could even come home, the White House had to be searched again for potential security threats. Zitao was antsy, clinging to Jaemin’s arm up until he had his mom and dad in sight. In spite of everything, his dad seemed relatively relaxed after his private briefing. Zitao and his mother immediately swept him up in group hug that lasted until his father said, "If you don't let me breathe the Secret Service might think you're trying to kill me too."
The girl who rescued the President, on the other hand, has no connection to the shooting. The Secret Service agents give them a run-down: 19 years old, second generation Korean-American, lifelong resident of D.C., lives with her parents and younger sister. "Georgetown freshman, 4.0," Zitao's father reads off his iPad. "Impressive."
Zitao, prone to the kind of selective attention his mother scolds him for on an almost daily basis, tunes out most of what the Secret Service says about this girl, Ara.
The next day, they make a family visit to the hospital. ("What's she here for again?" "Broken wrist, don't you pay attention, Taozi?") The press surrounds the building, pushing over each other to get a shot of the President, an army of police forcing them back behind barricades. In two years, Zitao still isn't used to the press. He keeps his head down as he walks, tugging on the hem of his sweater vest. He'd been vetoed out of the black tank top he'd worn for the past week.
It's obvious which room belongs to Ara. If the stern looking man in a black suit and sunglasses standing outside didn't give it away, the dozens of fruit baskets and flower arrangements lining the hallway lead right to her door. There's even more inside the suite, every available surface covered with stuffed animals and flowers. Zitao lingers behind his parents.
"So, you're the little lady who I owe my life to," Zitao's dad announces.
Thank you for your bravery! A card from the people of New York City reads. You're an inspiration to us all! sends the Netherlands.
There's a bunch of hand shaking and introductions as Zitao continues to look through the cards. Is that from the Dalai Lama? “This is my wife,” Zitao hears his dad say. “And my son, Zitao. Come on, don’t be shy.”
Zitao is tugged forward by his father and that's when he realizes that tuning out the briefing might not have been a good idea, because if he'd paid attention, Zitao might have realized that he knew the girl in question. She looks different today, wearing her hair down instead of her usual high ponytail. She hadn't been wearing a smile before either, but now that he's gotten a better look he can say she's got a nice one. After a moment of Zitao staring, his father coughs under his breath and Zitao offers his hand to shake. She holds out her left, the one not in the cast. It’s soft and warm in Zitao's awkward grip.
“We've already met,” Ara says.
“Zitao!” His mom admonishes. “You didn't tell us you knew a national hero!”
"I didn't realize I knew her," Zitao says, at the same time Ara protests, "I'm not a hero, really."
“We’re in the same art class, Mrs. Huang," Ara explains.
The same art class where, when she started a mere three weeks ago, Ara tore Zitao’s still life apart during peer review. “It looks like you took all of your unresolved teen angst out on the canvas,” she’d said, nose in the air. True artists, Zitao had thought to himself, weren't constrained by silly things like color and form. And what did she know about his unresolved teen angst anyway?
“Oh, Dana Song’s? Isn’t she just amazing?” Zitao's mom gushes.
“We love her,” Ara’s mother agrees. “We told Ara she needed to do something creative. She’s always got her nose in a book, this one.”
“We couldn’t get Zitao to study if his life depended on it. It was either this or singing lessons, but I told him he can’t just sit around and text his friends all day over the summer again.”
Their moms laugh together and Zitao is distinctly reminded of being a kid and being made to sit still while his mom dealt with the principal. He's not in trouble now, but he almost feels like he is, the way Ara's looking at him like she has him all figured out. Zitao feels a vague, itching need to prove himself to her.
"Well, Ara, we'd really like to show our appreciation for you," Zitao's father says. "How would you and your family like to have dinner at the White House?"
The Yoos come over on a Saturday night. Zitao shows up approximately thirty seconds before their anticipated arrival, wearing a skull t-shirt instead of the button-up one of the housekeepers laid out for him.
"Zitao," his mother says, hanging her head. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Love me and cherish?" Zitao offers, fluttering his eyelashes. She tugs on his ear piercing and Zitao yelps.
Ara is wearing a pink dress, modestly cut with a string of pearls accenting the neckline. Zitao notices because it brings out the red in her cheeks when the Huangs lead them through Cross Hall to the family dining room. At the table, Zitao's father asks her about school. "I'm thinking about political science," Ara says. " Or law school, if my parents can help it."
Across the table, Zitao's mother motions at him to put away his phone. He does, not before Snapchat-ing Sehun a picture of his shoes under the table.
"Politics, then? We already know you're not afraid of tackling the tough issues," his father jokes.
After dinner, the adults retire to one of the sitting rooms for a coffee, while Zitao's dad suggests that he take Ara for a tour of the White House. She is one of those people, Zitao notes, that tries to lead even when they don't know where they're going. "This way," he says, catching her unbroken wrist in his hand.
The banquet hall he takes her to is one of the smaller ones, used for more closed affairs. It's empty at the moment, all the tables removed. Their footsteps echo across the waxed floor. "Wow," Ara breathes out.
She paces the length of the room, admiring the intricate crown moulding, the chandeliers, and the rows of portraits. She stops in front of one, a portrait of George Washington that Zitao's father had requested be transferred from the National Portrait Gallery because he'd always liked it.
“Did you know that Dolley Madison saved this picture?” she asks, turning to look back at Zitao.
“Who?”
Ara gives him a look through her bangs, the same kind of look that Chanyeol gives Zitao whenever he opens his mouth. “The wife of James Madison. You know, the fourth president of the United States.”
“Oh, that guy," Zitao says. He got a B- in US History, much to his parents and teacher's mutual chagrin. "What happened to the painting?”
Ara reaches out, stopping just a few inches short of the painting. “It was the War of 1812,” she says, tracing her finger over the lines of Washington’s body without touching the canvas. “And the British were coming to burn down the White House so she took a bunch of papers and this painting here.”
“I didn’t know that the White House ever burnt down.”
“You don’t know a lot of things, do you?” Ara asks, not maliciously. Still, Zitao’s shoulders go stiff in defense.
“If you know so much, how come you didn't recognize me in class?”
Ara wrinkles her nose. "You were wearing glasses. That worked for Clark Kent."
Which flatters Zitao, so he asks, “Do you want to meet my cat?”
Moving into the White House, Zitao had been appalled by the tasteful decorations that the predecessors had left behind in his room. The only thing that makes it feel like home is the cat his parents got him as a concession to the “pain and suffering” he claimed the Huang presidency would bring him. Little Peach is a sandy colored shorthair, prone to napping in Zitao’s dirty laundry hamper and attempting to swat at birds from behind the glass of Zitao’s window.
They sit on the end of Zitao’s bed, Jaemin watching from the doorway. “Ara,” Zitao says, hesitating over two tiny syllables. “I know everyone in Dana’s class is going to be talking about you but could you, uh, maybe not let on who I am?”
Little Peach nuzzles Ara’s arm cast, purring happily. “It’s my private space,” Zitao adds.
Ara regards him thoughtfully. “You know, in the past week I’ve gotten at least a dozen phone calls from, like, people I went to middle school with. I know what you mean.” She mimes a zipper over her mouth. “You’re safe with me.”
Zitao doesn’t see Ara again until her medal receiving ceremony. As with any political function, it’s hardly a small affair. There’s diplomats, business people, other politicians, and of course the media. Zitao spaces out of his conversation with a senator from Wisconsin, instead watching across the room as his dad and Ara talk. He has an idea of what it might be about.
It was originally going to be his role: the judge of an international art competition in which each country submitted a representative piece to be displayed in the UN building in New York. But then his dad had spent a week mumbling to his secretaries and his cabinet and even his wife about how a dinner was nice and a medal was pretty special, but wasn't there anything else they could do for that nice Ara girl?
Zitao, not particularly eager about the idea of sifting through a hundred different interpretations of the word “courage”, is happy to suggest Ara take over his job. He’s got enough duties as the First Kid as it is: getting to school on time, making decent grades, not being the cause of his father’s impeachment by defacing any surface of the White House with the phallic graffiti his friends keep suggesting. It’s not that he wants to make Ara suffer- no, it seems to Zitao that it might be something she’d actually like to do. His dad agrees.
Just as he thought, Ara’s face lights up at the news. He watches her shake his father’s hand, and while he can’t read lips, he imagines her saying something like, “I won’t let you down, sir.”
Zitao is pulled away to socialize (see also: stuff his face with hors d’oeuvres while people talk at him) and he loses track of Ara in the crowd. A half hour later, he hears a quiet psst behind him as he returns from the bathroom.
“Look what I got from the catering staff,” Ara says, tilting her body away from the crowd to show Zitao the bottle of champagne tucked under her blazer.
“Hey! They stopped giving me things two years ago, that’s so not fair.”
Ara flips her hair. momentarily revealing the smooth line of her neck and sparkle of the diamond in her ear. “It’s a girl thing. Plus, I signed a napkin for the guy in charge. His daughter’s a big fan.”
It's not hard to sneak off to the roof. Zitao's done it a million times in a million different venues. Jaesuk keeps telling Jaemin that he's giving Zitao too much leeway, that he should be more strict, but Jaemin's weak to Zitao's charms.
The evening has done nothing to cool the muggy summer air. Zitao strips off his jacket as soon as they step out onto the roof. "I hate these things," he complains, pulling at his tie.
Ara slips off her blazer too, neatly hanging it over the railing around the water tank. "I bet you go to a lot of these events, huh?" she asks.
"If I had a dollar for every event, it'd probably add up to the national deficit," Zitao says. He may laugh at his own joke.
It takes some fumbling to get the bottle of champagne open ("I've got a confession, I have no idea how corkscrews work," Ara mock-whispers) but finally they succeed, each taking a long swig. Zitao's normally downgraded to cider during formal functions; he feels a bit rebellious downing something reserved for adults.
"Thank you for suggesting me for the painting competition," Ara says, passing the bottle back to Zitao. "Your dad told me it was you. That was really nice."
"Well, I know how much you like judging art," he jokes, and Ara gives an affronted scoff. Zitao's cheeks feel warm and he can't blame the heat. He wrings his hands around the sweating neck of the champagne bottle.
"I'm sorry, but I stand by everything," she says huffily.
The noise from the party below and the ever persistent hum of traffic fill the silence that stretches out between them. Zitao leans against the edge of the roof, gazing out over the D.C. skyline, the monument standing tall and bright in the distance.
"You know, I campaigned for your dad," Ara speaks up. Zitao tilts his head back to look at her. "I was too young to vote when he ran but I handed out flyers and stuff. I never expected that I would save the same guy's life."
Two years ago, his father had just a few grey hairs and not much hope of making it all the way to the White House, not until the Republican candidate got embroiled in a sex scandal a mere three months before November. God bless adulterers. "At the Inauguration, Obama's kids told me that it got lonely," Zitao says. "I liked the attention at first, but these days I just want to be normal. The spotlight is weird."
"Well, now you have someone to share it with," Ara says, smiling as she leans in to ruffle Zitao's hair. Zitao's never been drunk in his life, and he hopes his tolerance is more than a glass, but his head feels light, bubbly like champagne foam. "At least until my fifteen minutes are up."
There's a cough from the door. "Speaking of which, it's time to go back to the party," Jaemin announces.
Zitao wishes they could stay out here longer, but duty calls. They don their jackets and Zitao hands Jaemin the evidence of their rebellion to be disposed of, as if his father doesn’t most likely already know about their escape.
Ara steps under Zitao’s arm as he holds the door for her. “Hey,” she says, that wicked glint in her eye again. “How much do you think I could get on eBay for a presidential medal of freedom?”
----
YOUR OWN MOD TWO DAYS LATE