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“Did you ever imagine this?” Thomas asked as he sat up in his bed, looking out the window down onto the bustling New York streets. “When you were hunched over your desk, writing the Constitution, did you ever imagine that this is what you were helping to build?”
James answered with a question of his own. “Did you?”
“No,” Thomas replied quickly, “I always imagined an agrarian paradise. Rolling cotton fields, farmers bringing crops to market, a world where we were free to do as we pleased.”
“And this? What do you think of it?” James asked.
“It's different,” Thomas conceded, his eyes following the cars and glancing over the electric billboards. “But it's not necessarily bad . I believe things changed, and our country changed with them.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” James supplied, “I lived in Oklahoma before we moved here, and in Iowa before that. Let me reassure you, there are still plenty of farms.” There was a heavy pause between them--two men who were yet two boys--before James continued. “Maybe not plantations , but plenty of farms.”
“I wish I was at Monticello,” Thomas muttered, holding his chin in his hands. “I wish I was in my own house, in my own bed.”
“Your ridiculous bed,” James added. “Really, Thomas? I still cannot understand the logic behind your bed.”
Thomas sighed and slumped further into his pillow. “That is not the point , my dear Jemmy. The point is I want to go home .”
“You will. Soon.”
“No,” Thomas cut in bitterly. “I'll go to the sad little box that Parker lives in with the mulat--”
“Thomas, please,” James said, a flash of annoyance in his eyes.
“With the little girls and Ms. Jones. Better?” Thomas snapped, “That's not home .”
“It will be.”
“When?” Thomas demanded, “When I lose myself completely? When I become someone else entirely? When there's not a thought in my mind that belongs to Thomas Jefferson?”
“It's still you , Thomas. How many times do I have to explain it? It's still you, with many of the same personality traits and interests. Current circumstances and settings have just altered your ideas and your opinions,” James explained for what had to be the one-hundredth time.
“What is a man if not his beliefs?” Thomas shot back philosophically.
“What are beliefs if not flexible to new evidence presented in new situations?” James countered.
Thomas sighed. “I still miss it.”
“I know. I do too, sometimes,” James admitted. “Things were simpler. Easier. We were building a nation from the ground up, and yet, somehow, things were easier.”
There was another moment of companionable silence, and Thomas looked over at his friend.
He looked nothing like James Madison, and yet he most undoubtedly was.
And there was… something else about him, something that made Thomas’ heart play a drummer boy’s beat against his ribs. The slight uptilt of his mouth in a small grin, the way his brow creased when he was deep in thought, the odd weight of his laugh, somehow carefree and heavy at the same time, the way the light caught his glasses and made his eyes glow. They all pulled at Thomas’ gut, made him feel ways he couldn't remember feeling before.
He felt like he shouldn't like it. He couldn't help that he did.
“Thomas? Are you alright? You spaced out on me there,” James said, placing his hand on Thomas’ shoulder and bringing him back to the present.
“I'm fine, Jem,” Thomas said with a grin.
“If you're tired, sleep. Don't stay awake on my account,” James urged.
“You mustn't leave while I'm asleep,” Thomas pointed out, “You were already gone at school all day. You can't leave.”
Maybe Thomas had become slightly more dependent on James than he'd like to admit, but he's gone through a trying, traumatizing situation, and he was allowed the comfort and solace of mind that came with knowing his dearest companion would be at his side when he woke.
“I won't. I swear,” James promised.
Thomas allowed himself to sleep.
OoOoO
For a moment after he woke up, Thomas didn’t know where he was. Memories and feelings were blurred together in his mind, and it was hard to even remember who he was.
He said the first word he could think of: “James?”
“I’m right here, Thomas,” James replied, quickly grabbing and squeezing his hand, “Are you alright?”
Thomas thought about the question for a second. “Not really,” he admitted. “I had an unsettling dream.” A nightmare , he didn't say.
James tightened his grip on Thomas’ hand, understanding what Thomas was trying to say without words. “What about?”
“I… I’m not completely sure,” Thomas said slowly. “ It was hard to distinguish one clear picture. It was flashes, mostly.”
“Of memories?” James asked, and Thomas couldn’t help but notice the hope in his friend’s eyes. He scrunched up his nose is distaste.
“Possibly,” he said, intentionally vague, “It was more emotional than anything, really. Just overbearing sadness and guilt . If that is what being Parker is like, it’s only further solidified my desire to not be him .”
James sighed. He clearly wanted to say something but bit his lip.
“You don’t have to try and mask your disapproval, Jemmy. I’m acutely aware of your opinions on this matter,” Thomas growled, trying to hide the contempt in his voice. Who was Parker that James missed him so much ? Why couldn’t James just be happy that he had Thomas? Was Thomas no longer good enough? Yes, he’d been rather nasty at first, but that was rather understandable, was it not? Surely James wasn’t still upset over all of that?
“Thomas…” James began.
“If I really am him , then why can’t you just be content to have me?” Thomas finally snapped.
James flinched away, and Thomas sighed internally. That was one question answered, he supposed. He should remember what and how he said things around James; his friend was apparently still sensitive after his last outburst.
“It's not the same,” James quietly refuted Thomas.
“All you’ve been saying since you showed up is that it is ! Is that I’m the same as-as him ! So which is it, Madison? Is it the same or is it not?” Thomas shouted in frustration.
“It's not that simple,” James said delicately. “You're asking a very complicated question.”
“Then answer it, dammit, instead of treating me like a toddler!”
“Then maybe stop acting like one!” James finally shouted.
Thomas’ jaw snapped shut with an audible clack and he immediately sat up straighter in his blankets, wincing as he did so. “I apologize,” he said, his words clipped and short as his fingernails dug into the heel of his hand.
“Thomas…”
“I simply wish to understand this situation--this world --better! I-I don’t get it, and I need to!” Thomas said, the stinging of his palms finally getting to him.
“I wish I could help you understand, Thomas. I really do. It’s just hard to explain,” James confessed, his voice back down to a near whisper.
“Could you at least try ?” Thomas asked.
James sighed and looked away. “I’m sorry, Thomas,” he said, and Thomas crossed his arms in a snit.
“Do you have any school work?” he asked, and James got the message.
‘I’m tired of this.’
OoOoO
Thomas was flipping through a comic book when it happened.
He was only reading the damn thing because James had asked him to, if only to keep him occupied while James was at school (yet another thing that bewildered Thomas--James was in school; James , one of the most educated and intelligent people he knew, confined to a class full of rambunctious children) and now he had a headache the size of Monticello.
There were actual memories this time, instead of fleeting emotions and broken thoughts.
It was as if Parker had no sense of self-preservation. Fighting people so much bigger than him, over sodomites ? Knowing the outcome would never be in his favor?
It wasn’t even as though this was a singular occurrence--no, from what Thomas gathered, this was normal for the boy.
And the whole time, the feeling that he deserved every blow he was dealt, like it was repentance or atonement.
Thomas told James of his revelation of sorts when he arrived at Thomas’ room a few hours later.
“So you remembered what , exactly?” James inquired, looking stuck between hopeful and concerned.
“I told you,” Thomas sniped again, “he was simply being pummeled by his peers. It was almost as if he was purposefully putting himself in harm’s way.”
“More than once?”
“From what I could tell, yes.”
James sighed. “I knew there were fights--of course I did, they were why he-you-whatever moved here,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “But you say it was… gruesome?”
“It certainly seemed gruesome,” Thomas grumbled, “From what I’ve seen so far, Parker’s life is hardly one to be desired. I can’t comprehend why you would want that for me, Jem.”
“Because it’s who you--never mind. I’m not fighting you on this again, Thomas.”
“His father is dead, he seems to be plagued by sadness and guilt--though for what, I do not know--and he intentionally seeks out situations that are detrimental to his well-being. It’s not something you should wish upon your closest companion,” Thomas tried to argue, “I would never hope for such a fate to befall you , dearest Madison.”
“It’s not like that . It’s you ! It’s already happened! All of that happened to you ,” James said, “You can’t just dismiss it .”
“Like hell, I can!”
“God, you never change . Never willing to accept what you’ve been through. It’s almost poetic in its irony,” James scoffed.
Thomas tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach as he shifted his gaze from James to his hands.
Dark hands. A slave’s hands. Callused on the tips of his fingers and scarred along the back. Parker’s hands.
It did nothing to settle his nerves.
“Thomas…” James began, stepping closer as his he was going to touch Thomas’ knee or shoulder. He stopped himself. “Please promise me you'll tell me if you remember anything else.”
Thomas bit his lip before smiling a smile that he desperately tried to keep from looking strained.
“You have my word, Jemmy.”
It was a lie, and Thomas knew it.
OoOoO
The next morning, Thomas woke with another headache and another piece to the puzzle that was Parker Jones.
These memories seemed to be more of an eclectic mix, without an obvious through line amongst them.
A birthday party.
Standing on stage with other students, playing trumpet and smiling.
Sitting in his room alone, fingers all cracked from playing his old steel string guitar.
A tall, dark man, smiling down at him.
Holding a little baby with a mess of curls in his arms.
A different man, passed out on the couch, an empty beer can in his hand.
An endless blur of school days.
Thomas woke up.
Parker was a child . A young boy who seemed intelligent, seemed caring, seemed quick witted and kind.
It defied every preconceived notion Thomas held.
Parker, obviously inferior Parker, was just as human as Thomas.
Thomas didn't mention that bit of his revelation to James.
OoOoO
Thomas was torn. Was he… did he even count as ‘Thomas’ anymore? Every day he learned more about Parker, and he felt himself growing more into the boy he so fiercely didn't want to become.
Parker stood against almost everything Thomas fought for.
Thomas found himself agreeing with it (for who can change your beliefs easier than your mind--than yourself ?).
He was scared.
He found himself twitching away whenever someone said his name. Found he was smiling despite himself every time Charlie and Alice and Annabelle-- no , he snapped at himself, the three mulatto girls --entered the room.
He found himself slipping away.
And he was scared .
OoOoO
The next set of memories Thomas obtained only succeeded in confusing him further.
He was in a room covered in posters, with different knick knacks littered here and there. The bed underneath him wasn't particularly soft, but it wasn't entirely uncomfortable.
Thomas--or was it Parker?--wasn't focused on the room, however.
James had his arms wrapped around him. He was speaking softly as Thomas--Parker-- Thomas shook, tears streaming down his face.
Similar scenes flashed before him, sometimes with James, sometimes without. The settings changed, but the emotions did not.
Fear. Guilt. Loathing.
A perpetual sick feeling in his stomach.
Parker hated Thomas.
For a moment, Thomas hated Thomas.
And then he was back. In his hospital bed. Himself.
For a second, he still felt sick.
“J-Jemmy?” he croaked as he got over the dizzy, nauseous feeling.
“Thomas? Are you alright?” James asked quickly, his eyebrows furrowed together.
For a moment, Thomas didn't know what to say.
“I'm… I'm fine, Jem,” he finally replies with a weak grin.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course,” Thomas reaffirmed.
He didn't want to worry him, this boy who had tried to hard to comfort and reassure him.
He didn't want James to be worried because they were friends . That's all.
OoOoO
“Thomas?”
A flinch.
“Thomas, look at me. Please.”
Another flinch.
A moment of silence.
“Parker?”
He curled in on himself, or as much in on himself as he could without being able to move his lower body.
“No,” he muttered, his voice cracking miserably.
“No?” James asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He pulled away.
“I can't--I’m not--”
“Thomas?”
A flinch. A bitten tongue.
“Okay.”
OoOoO
James didn’t know what to do.
One one hand, it hurt him to see his friend in so much pain. Thomas, or Parker, or whatever , was covering his face with his hands as if he was trying to block out the world. He flinched away from every touch. He didn’t respond to any of James’ questions.
And yet , on the other hand, every day he grew further away from Thomas was a day he grew closer to Parker. Every second spent like this was a second closer to having things back to the way they were.
Of course, James knew things would never really go back to “normal”.
But it would be better .
Better than watching him stare at the ceiling and hold his hands in such tight fists that it broke the skin and left blood caked under his nails.
Better than this .
OoOoO
Parker didn’t really know what specific memory did it. He didn’t know what exactly what pushed him from one to the other, only that one day he opened his eyes and was not Thomas Jefferson.
No.
He didn’t remember everything , but he remembered most .
Remembered enough to make him sick in his mouth as he went over the last few months.
He didn't even know how to begin dealing with this whole mess. Apologize to his mother? It somehow didn't seem enough, not after the things Thomas -- no, Parker , because, like it or not, they were the same person -- had called her. Talk to James? And say what? That he had been an ass? Parker doubted that James could have missed the fact, when if judging only by the frequency with which he had looked at Thomas with what Parker could now identify as longing in his eyes. Thomas could too, he supposed, but he didn't want to. Jefferson had always been all about pushing the more uncomfortable aspects into the dark recesses of his mind, so why should Parker have expected any different?
James had, at long last, seen what Alexander Hamilton had noticed almost immediately upon meeting Thomas Jefferson: that Thomas had never been a particularly good person. Parker couldn't even fault him for not being present -- who would have wanted to keep company with Thomas Jefferson? Even James, when he has visited Thomas, had done it out of respect for Parker.
His thoughts kept circling back to one crucial question: what was he to do? What could he do?
Somehow, words had once again become insufficient. How typical that they would fail him during one of the most important moments in his life. Parker grimaced. He was by no means prepared to deal with the inevitable fall out.
His internal monologue was interrupted by the door opening, revealing the nurse that always came by about this time.
Parker didn’t miss the mild look of detestation that she had to take a second to mask.
“Mr. Jefferson--” she began but stopped herself when she noticed the way Parker recoiled from the name.
She must have also noticed the tears pricking at the corners of Parker’s eyes.
“Sir, are you alright?” she asked, taking a small step forward.
“I-I…” Parker tried to say, but his words caught in his throat as he dissolved into broken sobs.
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry ,” Parker finally forced out, his shoulders shaking as he covered his face with his hands. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean--it wasn’t--I couldn’t--”
“Mr. Jefferson,” the nurse tried again, but Parker shook his head so rapidly it hurt.
“I can’t--I’m not--”
“Mr. Jones ,” the nurse said, “Would you like for me to call a doctor?”
Parker shook his head again. “Jemmy--I need--please,” he choked out.
The nurse hurried to finish whatever it was she came in to do--something to do with all the equipment Parker was hooked up to, he didn’t know--before turning to face him again. “James?” she asked.
Parker nodded.
“And your mother?”
Parker paused for a moment, somewhat unwilling to face the look of disgust and pain that would no doubt cross his mother’s face when she saw him, but ultimately nodded.
“I’ll have them make the call,” the nurse said and rushed from the room.
OoOoO
His mother arrived first, entering the room around fifteen minutes after the nurse left.
Parker didn’t know how she got there so quickly.
He didn’t really want to.
For a moment, all she did was stand in the door frame, staring at Parker.
And then she had her arms around him, pressing kisses to his forehead and crying into his hair.
“Mama,” Parker blubbered, clinging to her like she was the last life raft in a storm, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry .”
“Shhh, baby, shhh. It’s okay. I’m not mad. I forgive you,” she whispered back, “You’re okay. It’s okay. No one’s mad at you.”
“But--”
“No, baby. No one’s mad.”
They stayed like that for what felt like hours, his mother reassuring him every time the tears started up again.
In reality, it was probably about ten minutes before the door opened up again, revealing James Matthews, all five feet and three inches of him.
“I swear , Thomas Jefferson, if you had me pulled from school for anything less than your impending death and desire for me to speak at your funeral, I will leave you for Hamilton,” he ranted, arms crossed over his chest.
Parker didn’t realize he’d started shaking again until his mother pulled him to her chest and rubbed her hand over her back.
“I-I-I…” Parker began, but he couldn’t seem to form the words.
“Is he alright?” James asked quietly, taking a step closer.
“He…” Ms. Jones started, and then took a deep breath. She seemed about to begin again when Parker interrupted.
“I’m sorry,” he said, almost forcefully, “I’m so sorry. I don’t have an excuse for it. I just… please forgive me. Please .”
By the end, his words had dissolved into broken pleas.
“Parker?” James whispered.
Parker nodded.
“Oh my God,” James breathed, “Oh my God!”
“Jemmy?” Parker asked, sounding almost near frightened.
“Parker!” James cried, wrapping his arms around Parker’s shoulders, “Dear God, Parker! You’re back, you’re back !”
Parker had thought that by now, he must’ve been out of tears.
He thought wrong.
With Jemmy, his Jemmy , pulling him closer, crying into his shoulder, running his hands through Parker’s now short hair, the tears came again.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over, like his own mantra and prayer.
“You’re fine, sunshine,” James replied, pressing a quick kiss to Parker’s cheek.
Parker didn’t really know what to do.
He knew he was attracted to James. He remembered a few things that made a very strong case for the existence of a romantic relationship between the two of them.
And yet…
There were enough lingering feelings from ‘Thomas’ to make the whole thing seem… wrong.
He didn’t mention it. There was no need to give James another reason to hate him.
“I’m sorry,” Parker said again, very aware that he sounded like a broken record, “I shouldn’t have--all those things I said--I just--I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry .”
James stared at him for a moment before holding Parker’s face in his hands and “Parker, it’s okay . It’s alright. I forgive you. It’s alright.”
And with that, he once again pulled Parker into a bone crushing hug.
Finally, finally , Parker relaxed in James’ arms as the tears were slowing and his breaths were evening out.
“Alright?” James asked quietly.
“Alright,” Parker replied.
James smiled, and Parker thought the heart monitor he was hooked to should have flatlined in that moment.
“Maybe now you can start actual physical therapy, y’know? You were getting pretty good at wheelchairs before you, uh, refused to use them,” James said cautiously.
Immediately, it felt like the ground had crumbled beneath his feet; there was no air in his lungs, he was simply being sucked down, down, down
down .
“Parker?” James asked, squeezing his shoulder, and at the same time, Ms. Jones came to sit on his other side.
Parker hardly noticed.
How peculiar, that in his rush of emotion from the regaining of his mind, he’d forgotten the loss of his body.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t walk, couldn’t jump, couldn’t dance or run or spin or feel the grass beneath his bare feet. Hell, he could barely wiggle his toes without feeling as if he’d been flayed and dipped in a horrific mixture of salt and lemon juice.
He was trapped .
He was trapped. He’d always been trapped, in a sense, but now . Now he’d lost control of everything .
He’d lost his last semblance of freedom .
It was somehow fittingly ironic.
Parker sobbed.