after hoc therefore something else hoc

alan dietrich. speechwriter.

[hstarke]

I know you pull your strings, Alan says, and he smiles. You keep tabs on their every move and their secrets until you can use them.

"So what is it that you're not getting?"

"I could serve someone," he leans forward, "like you do. I could come up with their words, puppeteer some marketable name around and make a decent living out of it. Well, I don't know how decent—" For some reason, he can't picture Alan in anything but a modest one-bedroom. Overbearing landlord, always renting, never owning. "I've been offered a thousand times. The spotlight, too." Fantastic hair, flawless lies. Machiavelli, eat your heart out. "I'm fucking tired of pretending like wanting money is some sort of spiritual failure — a made up sin by those low-lives protesting Wall Street. Have you seen the economy? Hate to break it to ya— but a 'good set of morals' doesn't put food on the table, buddy." Beat. "How's your guy, by the way — having to prove himself day in and day out? Being the target of nuclear enemies, so much so that he hasn't been alone — truly fucking alone — for a day since he started campaigning, couple years and wheneverthefuck ago?"

All of this to say—

"I make more in a month than Berkeley will make in a year." Not a brag, but a fact. "Sure, whatever. My name isn't gonna be in the history books — but I'm good, my kids are safe, and mostly importantly — I can do whatever the fuck I want."

[alandietrich]

"What I'm not getting—" Alan cuts himself off before he says too much. Jaw clenches, head tilts down and he peers up at Hans; an apologetic glance for almost ruining whatever game they're playing by crossing an unforgivable line and making it too real. "— is why the fuck we keep drinking in these shitholes."

Not the ideal segue but something to keep himself away from the real question — what would it take for Hans Starke to switch sides? Alan has no trouble believing that he's been offered the spotlight and more, and he can't be the first person to wonder if there's a soul underneath all of that hairspray.

It takes half a second to decide: no, there isn't.

"But you do serve someone," pause. "Someones. The market," quote unquote, "or whatever you people are calling it these days." Alan waves a hand in the air, dismissive. "Yeah, I want to save this country from people like you but I still have a fucking backyard, I'm not demonizing money." Only once has Alan Dietrich been confused for a communist and only because the other guy had his same haircut in college.

And then— how's your guy?

"You don't make it easy, but, hey, that's what you get when you're rebuilding the fucking economy from whatever the fuck the last guy did." Not everyone can be the highest approved President in the world. Alan makes a mental note to text Julian as soon as he's out of here.

He doesn't take the bait. I can do whatever the fuck I want. He doesn't say he can too. Truthfully, he doesn't have to. Alan's smile is smug and lazy, relaxed in a way that indicates he's thinking of something else— or that he's three steps ahead. "Sure," he offers Hans a shrug as his glass is refilled.

After a sip, he nudges the other's knee with his own, for no reason other than he can, and he leans back in his armchair again. "So can I," he says finally. "What's your point? You can take your kids to Disney twice a year and your pockets are full so fuck the rest of us?"

Us is a broad term. Alan Dietrich has never wanted for anything.

"Tell me something," he clears his throat, takes another sip of his drink, drums his fingers absentmindedly on the arm rest. "You really never thought about running?"

[hstarke]

They orbit, is what they do. Always passing, rarely overlapping. In drugs they find common ground, but never intimacy — if they had, perhaps Alan could have found out that the only man in New York City who understands him is the one he loathes the most. They orbit, and they mirror — they fight with weapons that the President or his military couldn't dream of mastering.

"I know how effective words can be." Blue meets blue — gaze sharp, but honest. It's more often than not that Hans had used his expertise on speech to get what he wants, and destroy who he doesn't. "For every person, there is a string of words put together that can end their entire existence. There's also the opposite — the exact thing you can say to make life suddenly worth living. The only difference between us is that you do it on a stage — the TV is still a stage — and I do it in private. But the repercussions are public." It lines pockets, and robs them too. "Or do you think those Senators last week backed out overnight because, shit, it came to 'em in a dream?"

"Yeah, yeah," he waves it off. "Jeez, you got me. What'did'ya do to get in there, anyway? They don't call it the Oral Office for nothing."

[alandietrich]

He's not the face of this administration. He knows that. He also knows that if he, for some unimaginable reason, were to clock Hans right in the jaw, the only person in this dimly lit speakeasy who would connect him to the White House would be bleeding profusely. It's lucky that Alan isn't a violent man.

"Yeah, I know all of that," he retorts, snappy. It's not so much what Hans explains, as if Alan doesn't know the effect that words have in private, but the growing annoyance in the back of his mind. "I wasn't born yesterday, Starke, I know you pull your strings, and you keep tabs on their every move and their secrets until you can use them."

We aren't all that different. If anyone thinks the Democratic party isn't threatening their representatives to vote one way or another, Alan has some bad news for them.

Again, he's perfected the unmoved expression when faced with a comment like this one — naturally, he can't tell Hans that the office has earned that title. Alan motions swiftly in the air to get a refill of his drink. "I was great at my job and I didn't stab people in the back when they stopped being useful." And the most powerful man in the world fell in love with him.

[alandietrich]

INCORRECT QUOTES ;; berkeley administration team

@berkeleys @elenaxserrano

credits:

josiah bartlet, the west wing [ julian ]

josh lyman, the west wing [ elena ]

sam seaborn, the west wing [ alan ]

bonus!!

- josh lyman, the west wing

[nightmarevirgo]

☀️🌙✨ tarot questions ✨🌙☀️

the fool: do you have any nicknames? the magician: have you ever written a poem or song about somebody else? the high priestess: what is your dream date? the empress: do you think you will ever get married? the emperor: what are some names that you like? the hierophant: do you believe in ghosts? the lovers: do you have a crush? the chariot: thoughts on astrology? strength: what is your dream occupation?  the hermit: what is your favorite soda pop? wheel of fortune: first three songs that come on shuffle? justice: favorite color of rose? the hanged man: favorite movie soundtrack? death: what are three things you want to do before you die? temperance: can you describe a strange dream you’ve had? the devil: do you enjoy thunderstorms? the tower: favorite colors to wear? the star: have you ever seen a psychic? the moon: have you ever written a love letter? the sun: do you believe in magic? judgement: do you enjoy school? the world: do you like waking up early?

[alandietrich]

AVA | ALAN | AJ

[berkeleys]

Mr President, can I speak with you for just a moment? A sentence heard twenty, perhaps thirty times a day. I promise it won't take long, a reassurance that only a few dare to make. It always takes long.

But it's the painfully mundane nature of the approach, the anyone could be saying this to you at any time aspect of those words, which doesn't mean they're in love with you.

Julian excuses himself, politely, as he always does. A sort of duty calls edge to it that always gets investors to perk up in interest, like he's going to take a call from across the world, or press a glowing red button with high implications. All their ideas as to what presidency is seem to come straight out of a cartoon. Instead the truth is much simpler, for Julian finds himself suddenly crammed against steel shelves — cans of this, jars of that.

"Happy New Year." The shell of his political mask starts peeling away slowly at that voice, that smile. Julian steps closer, but doesn't kiss him yet. Maybe a dance first, for old times sake. "You know, I ought to start taking you to nicer places," he jokes, looking around the pantry. "Ah, there we go." An array of champagne bottles, lined up in wait. Julian grabs it, then works on uncorking it free. "Petty theft. I'll pardon myself in the morning."

[alandietrich]

He falls for it every time — a small step closer and he's already welcoming Julian's lips against his, except they rarely come when he expects them to. Alan clears his throat and follows the other's gaze around the pantry, a loose arm hanging over the man's shoulder as if to keep him close. "Impressive," he nods with a quiet understanding.

These are the small moments where they are the most genuine versions of themselves — locked doors, enclosed spaces, drawn curtains, moonlight through the window, a mattress with the rperfect dents carved out. Luxury is not a need, they'll take what they can get.

"We don't have long," he reminds Julian, as if he could ever forget. The abandoned conversation won't seek him out, but surely Elena will wonder where they went. And that's if they're lucky. "Drink up."

[hstarke]

"I know this is gonna be hard for you to accept, buddy," — Hans mirrors him, leaning forward in return; knees do bump, this time — "but you're not even close to being the kinda fish I'm trying to fry." In DC, his sight is set on lawmakers — campaign backers — or at the very least, high-ranking staff that could make themselves useful for something. Out of the Berkeley circle, Elena stands out as worth his while. "You're a speechwriter. What influence do you have?"

[alandietrich]

Years of keeping a secret don't make it any easier — and being unable to tell Hans exactly the kind of influence he has on the President only makes him roll his eyes and inhale sharply, as if he's swallowing his words. "I'm not playing that game with you," he says instead.

Anything he says is a direct reflection of Julian and he knows that — it really would be easier if he could wipe that smug look off Hans' face. "You underestimate the power of speech and you think you're smarter than everyone else." Pot, kettle. "At the end of the day, I'm in the Oval Office. You're hearing about it through Fox fucking News."

[hstarke]

"go ahead, make it worse." @alandietrich

Alan's features had this rare edge to them, where lines between harmless jokes and calculated attacks blurred together — a puzzling aspect to many, but an exciting one for Hans. Does he mean it? Does he want, truly, for Hans to blow everything out of proportion and give this self-righteous prick something exciting to do for once?

Tone is lost over faulty ears, no matter how closely Hans watches Alan's mouth moving around his words. "Don't tell me you're relying on me to make this whole thing," — the White House, of course — "worth your while. Let's be honest, Dietrich. You can't handle my worst."

[alandietrich]

He has no trouble believing that. Hans Starke is willing to cross lines that Alan has never even thought existed. He shakes his head, leans back on his seat and keeps absentmindedly swirling his drink in his glass, a long watered-down overpriced whiskey.

"No, but I am counting on you trying to ruin it," for me. Politics isn't personal, but this rivalry certainly is. Alan leans forward, elbows on his bent knees that almost touch the other's but not quite. "Just say what you have to say. No games." As if.

[alandietrich]

context: new year's yatch party with: @berkeleys

It's just after midnight, after the fireworks, after the photos, after the obligatory hand-shaking and champagne-popping. After both of their official duties for at least the next few minutes. These are the minutes Alan claims.

"Mr President, can I speak with you for just a moment? I promise it won't take long." He's had this rehearsed for years, interrupting a conversation and stealing Julian away to a private room, a secluded area, a bathroom stall, anywhere they won't be seen or heard.

Tonight, the most romantic place in the world is a pantry off the kitchen. It's a little crammed but it will have to do. "Happy New Year," he says, smile appearing as soon as they are alone behind a closed door.

[alandietrich]

context: new year's yatch party with: @samiyeburakgazi

"Hey," he calls to a stranger as they walks past him. And then, a little louder, "hey!" until they turn around. Alan stands in the small hall before the restrooms, visibly struggling in front of a mirror. "Sorry, this is— fucking stupid, but is there any chance you know how to sew a button on? This thing just fell off and I can't..."

[alandietrich]

context: new year's yatch party with: @kellscarborough

"I'm off the clock," he repeats, maybe for the twelfth time tonight. It's been his opening line since arriving at the party, and it's doubled in intensity after sneaking a quick trip to the nearest restroom. "It's New Year's, you're not working and I'm not working." He's always working, but not to the public. "... Whatcha drinking there?"

[berkeleys]

"Really?" He raises a brow. "Was it on any of the fifty e-mails David sent about it? or elsewhere?"

Lover, if one were to ask Julian, derived from its mother word. Lover, one who loves. Nothing nefarious about it.

Julian laughs, oddly charmed by the idea. Now that his reign has settled into motion, such ideas could be tossed around without immediate panic. "Do you think I'm too proper?"

In other words: Am I playing too safe?

[alandietrich]

"I don't know, I delete his e-mails without reading them. He's going to repeat them word by word every morning anyway..." he trails off with a lazy grin, fingers still drawing circles on Julian's skin. Of course he's bluffing — but he has told Dave this lie before. It's entertaining to see how much the vein on his forehead can take.

Long legs stretch over the other's lap, a shift into a more intimate and domestic position. He ponders then — Julian's question he didn't anticipate. After a short, comfortable silence, he nods slowly. "Sometimes," Alan allows. "You could break the mold if you wanted," he assures him. Pause. "Do you want to?"

[berkeleys]

"Research says I'm more popular with women," Julian offers. As recently as September, his opposers ranked at least twenty points lower. "Which is only a classier way to say, I'm at an aesthetic advantage." Which is also a classier way to say, they'd fuck him.

Of course, he knows what Alan means. No matter the job title, there's no escaping the fact that he would be competing all his life. "As your lover, I should encourage such talents," Julian says, wrapping a hand around that slim waist — tugging him closer. "As the President, I'll admit concern." Laughter follows. "I have a conference in two days."

[alandietrich]

"I saw the numbers," he nods. And they made sense to him. Of course women want to fuck him. Alan suspects that, if the men were a little more honest, Julian would have a similar advantage.

Fingertips keep toying with the slightly overgrown strands that tickle the back of the man's neck. He snorts in response — lover was always such a harsh word to describe what they are to each other — but he nods regardless as he's pulled closer.

"Leave it a little longer then," he suggests, trailing his digits down Julian's nape and sneaking them under the collar of his shirt. "Be the rebel president we deserve," he adds with a lazy grin.

[berkeleys]

"That's all that matters," he says of Alan's preference. Of course, it's not — but God, was it ever fun to pretend. For all intents and purposes, his chief of communications had strictly forbidden beards and brown suits. Julian finds Alan's thigh, and squeezes it. "I can't blame her. She always groomed me better than any of the other kids," — an implication, there — "and somehow, there was always something wrong with how I dressed. She must still think I'm in competition, even after I won."

[alandietrich]

He nods slowly. Of course that's a side of Julian's existence that he's only known through tales. "You are still in competition," he, however, reminds the President, "... Even after you've won. But you'll keep winning." A brief pause, and then a shift so he can lean forward towards Julian and not the coffee table. "I'll cut it for you."

[berkeleys]

In the same sort of jest, Julian raises his own mock toast. "May I never have a gate named after me."

Seems like a fair ask.

He smiles at Alan's motion, bowing his head slightly at the touch to his nape. "Did my mother put you up to this?" Julian teases. He can see it clearly: an impassioned Lili claiming that her son, Pareces un holgazán. "Based on both of your reactions, I'll safely answer — far too long ago."

[alandietrich]

Now, he laughs. Lili has called many times, all with good news and gossip and questions, and very few times to request Alan's interference. But he does like the mental image of it. Julian's mother and him, thick as thieves. "I like it like this," he assures the other. "Next thing I know you'll be singing out I got life, mother."

[berkeleys]

"Alas," Julian laughs, "for some, the best they'll ever be is being someone's coke contact." Which, is likely the case for whoever sold Alan their zero-cal banquet tonight. "And with what we have to deal with, I can see how there's a business for it."

[alandietrich]

If he had a glass, he'd raise it in a mock toast. "May our careers never come to that," he speaks, not loud but enunciated as if giving a speech. Alan leans back on the sofa again and stretches his arms to the sides, one hand coming up Julian's nape to play with his short hair. "When did you last cut it?"

[berkeleys]

"My house has a fireplace," Julian grins, teasing the obvious. Then, his eyes follow Alan's gaze to the coffee table; if you'd only suggested, a few years ago, that he would be sharing snow with his most genius writer, the man who would be President wouldn't have believed it. "Yes," he says, and he does, aided by some diplomat's greeting card rolled into a thin straw-like contraption. "Fuck." That's good, he thinks. "It really puts New York to shame."

[alandietrich]

Alan's gaze is blurred under the weight of the week — just like every Friday night, DC has proven to be so much more demanding than the city that never sleeps — but he still watches Julian with an intensity reserved only for the two of them. "You can say a lot of things about politicians," he starts, leaning forward and gently taking the paper straw from Julian. His dramatic pause is long enough to indulge himself with a perfectly portioned line. "But you have to admit, they're pretty good at this." As pictured in this very room, the President of the United States would know nothing but the highest quality available. Alan wouldn't dream of providing anything less.

[alandietrich]

context: alan's dc house with: @berkeleys

With a heavy exhale, Alan leans back on his new bold, blue sofa. His head rolls against the back of the seat and he tilts it towards Julian. "Next time, I'm getting a house with a fireplace," he announces, though the heated floors keep the chill November air outside, where it blongs. Briefly, he eyes his coffee table — or, rather, the assortment displayed before them — before looking back at the other man. "You wanna go first?"