Their hands brushed as Mitt stepped off the stage. Their eyes met for a moment, and Mitt smiled, "Always great debating, Rick."

Rick's already rosy cheeks turned pinker as he smiled and lowered his eyes. Slowly, he looked up at his opponent. "Same to you."

Mitt grinned. "Hey, why don't we go get a beer and relax? There's a nice quiet place not too far."

Rick bit his lip. Well, Karen did want to browse the Savannah antiques stores, and he was useless on those sorts of excursions.

Mitt looked at him expectantly.

"Sure," he responded, "but I'm going to shower and change first—I've been dying to get out of this suit all day."

"I know the feeling." nodded Mitt, "I'll come pick you up in an hour or so?"

"Yeah, an hour and a half?"

"No problem. I'll see you then, Rick." He smiled as he waved goodbye and exited the studio.

Rick sighed. He looked around—the soundstage was empty, the crowd and media long gone. Gingrich had already galumphed away, and Ron Paul had crept out unnoticed, largely ignored by the media frenzy that had dogged the rest of the candidates. Rick almost felt bad for Ron; it seemed as if the party, and the media for that matter, didn't take him very seriously.

"Mr. Santorum?" it was Dan Spinelli, a team member.

"Yes, Dan?"

"The rest of the team is in analysis—"

"I'll meet with them later. I'm going to go out for a while, okay?"

"Of course, sir."

Rick wordlessly passed Dan, and opened the studio doors. Dan caught up to him, and they walked in silence to the bus.

Mitt pulled up in front of the hotel, humming along to Jackson Browne and tapping the steering wheel. This, of course, was a bad idea. Really, he thought, I should be strategizing. I shouldn't be taking the opposition out for a drink…but why not? Why can't we just be two guys having a drink, enjoying each other's company? A tap on the window startled him, jolting him from his thoughts.

"Mitt?" it was Rick, in jeans and a button-down, his skin pink from washing.

Mitt unlocked the car, and Rick quickly got into the passenger seat. They sat in silence for a moment as Mitt started the car.

Rick cleared his throat. "So, Mitt, I was thinking—if the press sees us—"

"Don't worry, they won't." replied Mitt. He glanced over at Rick, who was looking down at his hands, which were neatly folded in his lap. "It's a really quiet sort of place. Besides, anything we can do to show GOP unity is good press."

Rick laughed a little. "I guess you're right." He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just that it's been a while since I've been out without Karen and the kids."

"What, no boys' night?"

Rick shook his head. "Not unless you count business lunches and dinners with PACs and lobbyists."

"That's business, not pleasure." Mitt leaned over and looked into his eyes. "You just need to relax and have a good time."

A few seconds later, they pulled up to a small bar, set far back from the road. A battered sign over the door read "Harvey's". They stepped out of the car almost simultaneously. Mitt swiftly approached the door, walking in long, fast strides. He opened the door.

"Thanks." smiled Rick as he entered. The bar was dimly lit by soft yellow and orange lights. Rick looked around. The place was almost empty, save for a few men at the bar and two young guys in a booth.

"What say we get a booth?" asked Mitt, as he slid into the nearest one, smiling invitingly. Rick gently slid into the seat across from him, facing the other two men in the booth nearer the door. A thin blond man approached their table.

"Hi, I'm Derek, I'll—" he stopped a moment, looking from Mitt to Rick. He took a breath and smiled. "I'll be your server this evening. Can I start you off with drinks?"

Mitt looked squarely at the blond waiter. "I'll have a coke and bourbon." he glanced at Rick.

"I'll have a sidecar," he said, not looking up.

The waiter nodded and walked off.

Rick relaxed his tense shoulders and sighed. "So, I—" he stopped, his eyes wide. The men in the booth in front of them had gotten up and were kissing, their arms wrapped around each other. He took a ragged breath. "Mitt, what is—"

"Uggh, get a room, sluts!" shouted Derek-the-waiter playfully, drinks in hand. A few men at the bar whistled.

Rick stood and reddened. "Mitt, why did you take me here?" he demanded.

Mitt stood. "Rick, you've got to—"

"Are you trying to sabotage me? Is that what this is?" he inhaled sharply. "Santorum spotted at gay bar, is that the headline you were aiming for?" he stepped out of the booth, his jaw clenched.

"No, Rick, please, no," he grabbed his shoulder. "It's not like that, let me explain."

Rick turned to look at him, his eyes wide and wounded. Rick sighed. "All right then, why are we here?" Rick turned his body to face him.

"I think you're a great guy, Rick," began Mitt, looking into his eyes, "You're smart, charismatic, and handsome," he paused, closing his eyes, "But I sense that something's missing, they don't really have what you need."

Rick took a step back. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," replied Mitt, "that you need a man's love."

Rick sat back down. He looked around, and saw that the whole bar and Derek-the-waiter were all sitting in silence, staring at them.

Mitt noticed too. "What are you looking at?" he hissed.

Those at the bar turned around, and Derek-the-waiter walked back into the kitchen.

"Mitt, why? Why?" asked Rick, keeping his eyes wide, as if he were trying to stop the tears from welling up.

Mitt sat down. "I know this about you because I'm the same way—I-I like men."

Rick gasped. "But what about Ann? You've got sons—"

"I love Ann," he replied, "and I am so grateful to her for giving us our boys. But it's just not the same, do you understand?"

"But," whispered Rick, "Does she know?"

Mitt smiled wryly. "I think." His smile faded. "I think that she knows. But she doesn't want to. She wants to pretend that everything is perfect, that I'm not this way."

Rick nodded. "But what about your faith?"

Mitt sighed. "Religions are made by humans, and we're flawed. God is perfect, love is perfect. I believe in God, and I don't believe that being with a man is a sin. How could it be?"\

Rick's eyes shut. "The desire is unnatural, its consummation is sinful—"

"No, Rick, please, that's not true. It's natural, it's beautiful."

Rick looked away.

Mitt knit his brow. "Who hurt you?"

Rick faced him, biting his lip. "When I was about five, I thought that Dean Martin was handsome—I guess I had a crush on him." He stopped, leaning towards Mitt. "I let it slip around my father that I wanted to marry Dean Martin, and he—" a tear fell from his eye. "He backhanded me, right across the face. He told me that if I wanted to marry a man, that if I wanted to be with a man, that I was a pervert and a faggot." Another tear fell. "I wasn't sure what that meant, but he said it with so much hate, that I-I—"

Mitt reached for his hand and held it.

Rick smiled, sniffling a bit. "Thanks, thank you."

"What say we get out of here, huh?"

"Yes, please," sniffed Rick.

Mitt stood as Rick exited the booth, following and then putting his arm around Rick's shoulder. Derek-the-waiter ran over to them. Mitt reached into his pocket, procuring his wallet. He removed his arm from Rick's shoulder as he drew out a large wad of cash.

"We weren't here. Let your patrons know as well." He pressed the money into Derek's hand.

Derek nodded mutely.

"Glad you understand," said Mitt as he put his wallet back in his pocket and placed his arm around Rick's shoulder again.

They exited the bar. It was dark; once outside, Mitt turned, holding Rick's face in his hands. He felt the warmth spreading through his rosy cheeks.

"Do you feel better?"

Rick nodded, and Mitt saw a small smile on his face, illuminated by the dim lights outside the bar.

Rick exhaled. "I thought—I mean, I felt so alone." He wrapped his arms around Mitt's neck, feeling the muscles in his broad shoulders.

Mitt smiled, running his fingers through Rick's soft, dark hair, smelling traces of his Old Spice. He leaned in closer, allowing their foreheads to meet. Rick closed his eyes, his heart beating fast. Their lips met. Mitt pressed his body against Rick's as Rick pulled him closer, feeling the heat of his body.

Mitt slowly pulled away, breathing heavily.

Rick opened his eyes. "Should we—"

"Let's get in the car." Mitt quickly drew his keys out and unlocked the car.

Rick opened the passenger door and slid into the seat, hurriedly closing the door and buckling his seat belt.

Mitt followed suit and got into the driver's seat, starting the car and not bothering with his seat belt.

They drove out of the parking lot in silence.

"Mitt, what was that?"

Mitt turned to him with an eyebrow raised. "Wasn't it obvious?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"But I mean we're opponents, we're…" he let out a long breath.

"That's business—"

"That's our lives right now."

"It doesn't have to be," replied Mitt, gripping the wheel.

"I don't know how to handle this."

"Why?"

"I can't live a lie—I can't be a hypocrite."

"So you weren't before?" retorted Mitt.

Rick reddened. "No, I—"

"You're a gay man, married to a woman. You want things that you can't share with her—you've been keeping a secret."

"A secret isn't a lie."

"It's a lie of omission, and you know it."

Rick slumped down into the seat.

Mitt sighed. "Rick, it doesn't mean you're a bad person—you've only been doing what you need to in order to survive. I get it. You know that."

They had reached the hotel. Rick unbuckled his seat belt and opened the passenger door.

"Rick, don't be angry with me."

"Angry? I feel a lot of things about you, but that's not one of them."

Mitt smiled.

"No, really, I—we should…" began Rick

"How about tomorrow? I'll pick you up?"

"Does two work?"

"You bet."

Rick leaned into the car. Mitt reached for him, gently gripping the back of his neck. They kissed; Rick let Mitt's tongue enter his mouth, darting in and out, softly tickling his own. Rick began to pull away, gently sucking Mitt's bottom lip as he went. Once they were completely separated, still facing each other, he whispered:

"I think you'd better book a room for tomorrow."

When Mitt pulled up to Rick's hotel the next day, Rick was already waiting for him. As Rick entered the car, a thousand thoughts rushed through his head: had he worn the right cologne? Were boxer briefs the appropriate underwear choice? Would he be any good at this? Was he even ready for this? Was he going to go to hell for this? However, his doubts dissolved as he closed the door and met Mitt's gaze.

They rode in silence to the Kendrick Inn, clearly a historic building, a brick structure covered in ivy, clearly antebellum. As they left the car and approached the entrance, Mitt turned to Rick.

"You ready?"

"I've never been more ready in my life." He replied his voice soft but steady.

Mitt took his hand, and they entered the inn.

Rick immediately understood upon entering that the Kendrick Inn was of the same ilk as Harvey's bar—the clerk at the front desk looked like a brunette Derek-the-Waiter, and though a few men sat in the lobby, no women were visible.

Mitt approached the front desk. The clerk looked up.

"Baum, Frank," said Mitt matter-of-factly.

"Suite 4," replied the clerk as he handed Mitt the key, to which Mitt responded with a curt nod.

Mitt led Rick past the desk and up a flight of stairs. They passed two other men in the hall, walking past three rooms until they reached suite 4 at the end of the hallway.

They stood facing the door for a moment.

"You ready?" asked Mitt.

Rick smiled and opened the door.

The room looked as if it had been plucked from the pages of Gone with the Wind—it brought to mind Scarlet O'Hara's boudoir. The heavy cherry wood four-poster king bed was covered in green and ivory pillows, and the curtains were long and sheer, muting the bright mid-afternoon sunlight that streamed in. The carpet underfoot was thick and soft.

Mitt began to unbutton Rick's shirt, kissing his neck and chest as he went. Once Rick was shirtless, Mitt gently pushed him onto the bed, removing his own shirt as he went. Rick was breathing heavily as he reached for Mitt's belt and fumbled to unbuckle it; he felt his erection pressing against him. After undoing Mitt's fly, he eagerly pulled Mitt's pants and briefs past his hips. Mitt kicked them off along with his shoes, and let his mouth wander down Rick's abdomen, unzipping his fly when he reached it. He removed his pants and boxer-briefs, coyly avoiding his erection, kissing down his legs as he took off Rick's shoes and socks. Once Mitt's mouth reached his ankle, he looked up at Rick, naked, breathing heavily, eyes closed.

He moved upwards, pinning Rick to the bed, maneuvering him so that he lay vertically, his head cushioned by the pillows, and positioned himself atop his flushed partner. They kissed, and Mitt's lips left Rick's only to wander down his neck and chest. Mitt made little circles with his tongue around Rick's nipples, and Rick moaned with pleasure. He felt Rick's erection against his stomach, practically throbbing. Mitt moved upwards, softly sucking Rick's shoulders and the back of his neck, shifting his partner onto his side. Mitt leaned to his left, his arm reaching for the nightstand. He opened the drawer and pulled out a bottle of KY Jelly. He squirted a generous amount into his hand, replaced it in the drawer, and rubbed his hands together, warming the lubricant, which he the rubbed over his penis. He began to massage Rick's ass, applying the lubricant around his anus. He aligned himself against Rick, so that they were in the spoon position. Mitt reached forward, placing Rick's hard penis between his index and middle finger as he guided his own penis into Rick. Rick tensed up and then relaxed; once Mitt had fully entered, Rick gasped and began to writhe. Mitt thrust, moving up and down in a steady rhythm; he lightly moved his fingers up and down Rick's penis. Rick continued to wriggle. Both men were panting.

Rick gasped again and let a small cry escape his mouth. He came longer and harder than he could ever recall; the orgasm sent electric sensations all through his body, and then slowed to a steady, pleasurable throb, punctuated by aftershocks that caused him to tremble. As he writhed and his muscles contracted, gripping Mitt's aching erection, Mitt continued to thrust, and as Rick's ass clenched, gripping him tighter, he came, moaning and gasping, now holding onto Rick's hips as he shook.

Both men laid, smiling and gleaming with sweat. Mitt placed his hand on Rick's shoulder, tickling his ear with his tongue. Rick laughed softly. Mitt smiled. "This is the headline I was aiming for."

Rick turned over to face him. "What?"

Mitt grinned boyishly. "Romney comes out on top."

They both laughed.