Work Text:
The words come from his mouth suddenly; he tries to keep his mouth shut, he really does, but he can't. Some unseen force pries Thomas's mouth open, and as if something is possessing him, he spits out five words. "I hope you burn, Hamilton." The anger recedes after he says this, and Thomas deflates, much like a hot air balloon. He loses his posture, and his shoulders slump forward, the fiery emotion that powered his words extinguished.
When he glances up to meet Hamilton's eyes, Thomas sees hurt. But then Hamilton presses his lips together, and glares at him. Hamilton turns away, and Thomas is alone with the feeling that he said something very, very wrong. He ignores it, shoving the feeling into a mental box, locking it, and pushing it away. This is a tactic that Thomas uses often to keep himself going; no remorse is going to seep from that box into his heart. He locks that box when he feels upset, when he doesn't want stress, when he doesn't want to remember.
Thomas spends the rest of his day as per usual, thoughts not troubled by the previous exchange. At night, when he lies in bed with soft, smooth sheets below him, he opens the box, and lets it all come out.
Alexander Hamilton had not done anything out of the ordinary. The argument had escalated like always, and Thomas had let fury overtake him. Though he has had countless fights with Hamilton, not once had he felt quite like that. That had been something...different, and Thomas doesn't know what it was. All he knows is that it escaped from him that moment, and he wasn't able to keep it inside.
Inside. Thomas isn't sure where that sentence came from. I hope you burn? Why that? Thomas doesn't want Hamilton to burn, whether in this life or a next. He may disagree heavily with the man, but burning is not a fate he would want Hamilton to meet. Burning is excruciating.
Regret overwhelms him now, and Thomas shifts on his bed, rolling over to face the wall. He stares at it, but it gives no answer to why he said it. Thomas feels heavy; guilt and the lingering uneasiness weigh him down. The second feeling is so ominous, a horrible sense of doom. He sits up, and pushes himself back down by the pillow that now covers his head.
But that won't change those words.
—
Exactly one week later. Alexander Hamilton happens to be Thomas's neighbor as well as his coworker, and Thomas has always lamented that fact. Though he would never dream of moving; this is his house and his neighborhood and he wouldn't let Hamilton ruin that for him.
But now, Thomas wishes more than anything that he doesn't live here, because he can't watch this. He stands on his front lawn, the dew wet grass making his feet damp. And it's those feet that cannot move, that prevent him from doing anything to stop this.
He watches, horrified, as Hamilton's home vanishes in bright, vibrant flames. They illuminate the night, obscuring the darkness and crackling to cover the silence. Smoke lines the outermost edges, and it rises high into the sky. The smell permeates his lungs, and he inhales it unwillingly. Thomas tries to move, but his feet are stuck to the ground, and the sense of dread returns, stronger than ever, burning his heart. He scans the scene in front of him desperately, hoping that Hamilton is safe, away from the flames that will eat him away. But Thomas sees nothing, and panic blinds him and that's when it appears.
Thomas's head clears, and with absolute clarity he sees part of the fire separate from the mass of spiking red and orange. It touches the ground, and edges towards Thomas. His eyes widen in shock, and his leg tenses as he attempts to move away. The flames are so close that Thomas can feel the heat radiating from them. He closes his eyes, waiting for the flames to consume him, burn him up, leave him as a pile of ashes that the wind will blow away.
He feels the fire move towards his arm, and his eyes flick open to track its movements. Miraculously, it has not touched him yet. Then, Thomas realizes that the flames now form a flickering hand. It hovers over his own, which is solid by contrast.
From the flames before him emerges a faint face, with pure blue fire for eyes. An empty space appears in the mass of fire where a mouth would be. There is a crackle and a startling pop, and it begins to speak.
"Mr. Jefferson," it rasps, and again, Thomas finds that he can't look away. It has a rough voice, one that blends with the constant, rushing hiss of the fire. "How are you tonight?"
Thomas shakes his head, terror fueling his heart to pound faster, faster. He can feel his pulse in his fingers and legs, as still as he is, paralyzed on his lawn. Thomas feels his stomach drop, and the sick uneasiness becomes his being. The thing burns bright before him, and Thomas thinks back to the night before, wondering if he is sleep-deprived. But he went to bed early last night, and the acrid, overpowering smell is so real. He coughs, wanting to be rid of the smoke that clouds around him, lingering in his chest. His eyes are watering, and the heat is growing unbearable.
"A-are you—no, what are you?" he manages to choke out, needing an answer.
The empty space curves into an artificial, dead smile. "You should know. You summoned me." Thomas's lips part, and in that moment, he knows. I hope you burn. He feels a headache begin, and everything blurs, covered by the haze of fear and sudden exhaustion.
He realizes that it is waiting, and he whispers, "I didn't mean it."
A dry cackle is the response. It has no breath support, so it is rough and thin. "Oh, you should have thought of that before you said it." It throws its head back, and the flames arch towards the sky. "You can't take back the words you've said."
Thomas stands in silence, acknowledging the truth of those words. He finds that his feet are free once more, and is about to bolt back into his home when he remembers. "Is Hamilton alive?" he asks, leaning close to the fiery figure despite his instincts. Hamilton deserves this much, after what Thomas has done. It is his fault. The flames are his fault, the scorched house is his fault, and if Hamilton...dies, that will be his fault. "Please, tell me he's alive." Thomas begs, horrified at the thought. "Please, please. If Hamilton dies because of me—" His voice cracks, and he stares desperately at the flames, wanting, needing to hear that Hamilton is alive.
The figure becomes smaller, the flames around it dying down. "He's alive," it says, and Thomas breathes out in relief, which blows it away from him a few inches. "But he won't be for long if this goes on." The figure looks pleased, and when Thomas continues to stare at it, the flames around its head rise up to shrug.
"Stop it, then! Please! Stop the fire!" Thomas's breaths are quick and shallow in his panic. He doesn't know what to do or if it can stop the fire or if Hamilton will stay alive and all these thoughts crowd his mind and he doesn't know anything anymore.
The face looks almost disappointed. "You want that? You want him alive?"
"Yes. Please."
Thomas watches as the the fire flares, then vanishes, leaving Hamilton's ruined house in darkness. The figure shrinks until it is only a face that hangs suspended in the air. "If that's what you want." It pauses, and Thomas hears a hiss, much like a breath. It leans close, and adds, "But remember: I will be back. Until next time." The head gives Thomas an empty smile, and disappears.
—
The warm tan color of the hospital room floorboards do calm Thomas, if only slightly. He stares blankly at the floor below, in front of his feet. Thomas sits in the bedside chair, tapping his foot, a mindless movement. He glances up, hoping that Hamilton will wake soon and dreading it at the same time. Thomas has been putting off this day; he doesn't want to face him, not after this. Even if Hamilton had been lucky.
Hamilton had actually managed to escape with second-degree burns on his arms and hands; he is in stable condition now. Lafayette had recounted the story to him earlier, and Thomas had hung onto every word, the immense guilt for what he had caused almost like feeling the flames all over again.
—
rewind
Alexander's arms strain as he attempts to push his window up. He hears the creaks of the wood, but there's no progress. His attempts grow more desperate; Alexander knows that each second elapsed is a second he will never have again, and they bring him closer to his possible death.
No. Alexander isn't going to die here. He pictures the newspaper headline, and his resolve strengthens. He will not die because of this fire. He will not die because of the mistake he made. He turns his head and panics when he sees how far the fire has advanced. It is closing in on Alexander, and he presses himself as close as possible to the window as his arms push. He curses himself mentally for always leaving this window closed.
Closed...closer....close...
Alexander can feel the heat, a warning of the searing pain to come if he doesn't manage to escape. No no no no he can't die here, not here, not like this, please please...
The window screeches as he pushes it up. Breathing hard, Alexander moves forward and begins undoing the latches of the window screen. But he loses his footing and stumbles back, hands instinctively shooting out to preserve his balance. Alexander's face twists, and he screams as he jerks his arms forward. It hurts, it hurts so much like nothing he's ever experienced, it consumes him and it's searing and it burns. He doesn't know how he manages to shoulder the window screen away and sit down on the roof because tears from the pain blind him—
Wait. The roof? Alexander dares to glance behind him and sees only darkness. A ruined house, ruined arms, and so are the hands that have carried him this far in life. But this section of his roof remains, so he clings to it. It still burns, it hurts so badly and he doesn't know how he's going to get down. But it's either that or meet the fire and stay in it.
Alexander's mind is hazy, and he remembers almost nothing after his last determined thought. His head feels so heavy, his eyes only want to slip shut, his body is sluggish, and the searing, excruciating pain is so constant.
Save me. I will never be the same. Please, anyone, someone... Did he say that out loud? No, actually yes, someone stands before him; Alexander stumbles into them and falls.
—
Thomas sits up in his chair when he sees Hamilton start to stir from his sleep. Deep brown eyes stare emptily down at the white bedsheets, so blank and devoid of anything. Hamilton's eyes reflect that nothingness. This makes Thomas uneasy; accustomed as he is to those eyes always filled with something. To distract himself from these thoughts, he speaks. "Alexander. How're you doing?"
Hamilton's head snaps up, and he stares. Now, his eyes fill with distrust, and though that is negative, Thomas is glad to see it. This is Alexander Hamilton.
"Jefferson," Hamilton replies, with a touch more caution than usual. "I think that is rather obvious." He lifts a hand to push a strand of hair away, but he winces as he delicately tucks it behind his ear. Thomas feels his heart twist. Does Hamilton know? He is never going to forgive himself for what he has done to Hamilton. But no, it wasn't him. It was that...thing; it set fire to Hamilton's home for simple pleasure. Not true, the voice in Thomas's mind tells him. It did that because of what you said.
You can't take back the words you've said, it rasps. Thomas hears this so clearly that his eyes dart around to see if it is here. His attention returns to Hamilton when he adds, "For what did you want to see me?"
"Why, I simply wanted to make sure you're all right. Something wrong with that?" The air seems to grow heavier, weighing down on his shoulders. Thomas exists within a world of air that seems to be closing around him, getting closer and closer to his skin. The air sinks into him, and Thomas absorbs it all, the knowledge of both lies and the truth pushing him down.
Hamilton squints at Thomas suspiciously, and snorts. "You. You're telling me you wanted to make sure I'm okay? We both know that's not true." And as usual, there is some truth to Hamilton's statement; though he doesn't know how.
Thomas grins to cover his overwhelming guilt. "You got me there, Hamilton," he drawls, drawing out the words for as long as he can, because he doesn't know what to say. What can he say to the person he burned? What can he say that will undo what has happened? There is nothing, so Thomas lets the silence settle around them.
"I'm sorry," he blurts out on impulse. "I'm sorry for what's happened to you." He stares at Hamilton pleadingly, needing him to accept an apology for a reason he doesn't even know. His chest feels tight, as if something is compressing him into something smaller until he will be gone.
Now, Hamilton looks more confused. "Really now. You don't need to say anything. You have nothing to do with it. Why are you here, Jefferson?" he snaps, eyes sharpening into tiny daggers that pierce Thomas's mental box. The emotions leak out, drenching Thomas; fear and anxiety and regret and guilt. They swirl together, pooling into a mess of indecipherable feelings.
"Fine. Don't believe me if you don't want. But I'm telling the truth, and you are too stupid to listen to it." Thomas's face is hard, but it's all an act because he doesn't know how he feels or how he should feel. So he won't feel at all.
—
"They have to give me painkillers every time they change my dressings or clean the wounds," Hamilton remarks one day, raising his arms to show Thomas. "Otherwise, it's very painful."
"...Oh," Thomas replies; how ineloquent of him. It isn't as if he's not aware. He knows that while second-degree burns are not the most severe, they are the most painful. And it's his fault, it's all his fault. He decides to take a risk, and before he has time to think, Thomas is supporting Hamilton's arm with both hands. His grip is light, and he looks down on the white dressings, trying to look through them, trying to see any sign of what it's really like. But he won't ever know, will he?
Hamilton's arm is slender, and the dressing pads it, making it thicker before the rest of his undamaged arm emerges from under it. Thomas's eyes trace up the edge of his smooth arm until Hamilton pulls it away.
"What are you doing? Why do you care so much?" And just like that, the moment's over. Thomas looks up to meet Hamilton's eyes, and he doesn't know what he sees in them. Captured, lost in them, he's gone and he wants to know, he wants to know what lies behind those eyes in Hamilton's mind. Always sharp, unrelenting.
Thomas hesitates, and lets out a breath, feeling the pressure build up in his chest until he lets it all go. "I just want to make sure you're okay."
"And why is that? I don't need your pity, Jefferson. Why do you care?" Hamilton's voice is hard, and Thomas feels as if he's trapped by it. He has nowhere he can go, so he remains silent.
Hamilton laughs, a harsh sound that cuts the silence, and suddenly Thomas is free. "I see how it is."
When Thomas returns home that night, as he lies in bed, staring up at his ceiling, a tear slides from the corner of his eye down his cheek. His throat is tight, and he gives in, letting out the emotions when no one can see. They don't need to know.
—
The presence of Aaron Burr in Thomas's home calms him. The man has a constant, serene aura around him, and he brings Thomas back to the way it was before—almost.
"Thomas," he says in his jovial manner, crossing his his left ankle over the right in a fluid motion. "Why did you ask for my company?" Why. Now, that's a common question, and it's one that Thomas has been hearing so often recently. Hamilton...
Thomas bites the side of his tongue, buying himself time to answer properly. He lays his palms above his knees, flicking his wrists up and down as he watches the tendons tense and relax. What to say? He mentally berates himself for not having planned this out earlier. Impulsivity has never served Thomas well, which is why he always schemes and plots his path before making any moves.
Thomas turns his head to Aaron, who is waiting expectantly, eyebrows raised. "I need advice," Thomas finally sighs out. "It's about Hamilton." He enunciates the name as precisely as he can, exhaling the first consonant. He lets the rest slide down from the peak of the H. The name rolls off of Thomas's tongue rather nicely, but he doesn't think about it for more than a split second.
Aaron looks resigned. "Did you call me here just to complain to me about Hamilton? And he's in the hospital now. At least pretend to sympathize, Thomas."
"I said I need advice," Thomas repeats. "I'm not gonna complain to you about him. Don't assume you know what I'm going to say." His voice hardens, and Aaron looks almost panicked before his face settles into its usual calm. Thomas leans back into his white armchair, his body molding into it and the sharp angle his right elbow makes dangling off the edge. His left hand still rests on his thigh, so Thomas draws it up, turning his wrist and his palm out towards Aaron. "Would you happen to know how Hamilton's house burned down?"
Aaron sips from his mug of hot cocoa before setting it down on the round glass coffee table before him. "I don't see why you need to know that for advice, but okay. It was an accident. Something to do with his kitchen; I'm not sure how exactly it happened but I know that for sure." Aaron glances behind him and out the window, looking at the remains of Hamilton's property.
"I see," Thomas murmurs. "I see." So Hamilton has no idea at all. He regrets this; he doesn't want to tell Aaron, let anything out from the box he's so carefully constructed around everything that's happened. But he won't keep Aaron waiting. With anxiety pooling in his stomach, he forces the first words out. "But Hamilton's wrong."
"What do you mean, he's wrong? How would you know?" Aaron seems to feel the awkwardness hanging in the living room, so he returns to his cocoa. He also looks uneasy, and Thomas can see the tension in his body.
Thomas takes several shallow breaths to prepare himself. "I saw what burned his house down."
"Okay, so what was it?"
Scratch that, he's still not ready. Thomas drops his head to his knees and blinks at his legs. "I...I don't know what to call it," he answers at last. "But I saw it come from the fire. It looked like a person made of flames."
He looks up to see Aaron squinting at him, a concerned look on his face. Thomas chuckles humorlessly at the situation he's in. What has he done to Hamilton? To himself? "Thomas. Listen to me," Aaron orders. Thomas nods, letting Aaron's voice and the steady eye contact calm him. Aaron's bright eyes tie him down, prevent Thomas from floating into a void where nothing exists but for him. "That person wasn't real. It must have been late, Thomas. It wasn't real. Exhausted and scared; we all know what can happen then. That...thing wasn't there."
Thomas wants to believe Aaron, and in this moment, it would be so easy to. The soft glow of his lamps pulls him into a lull, the gentle warmth provided by his gray wool blanket, the heat from his mug of hot cocoa... Thomas sips, and the hot cocoa slides down his throat, creamy, soothing. It's so quiet, and Thomas almost thinks that he and Aaron are the only living beings in this world right now. Nothing matters, nothing to worry about; just this pleasant warmth, still air and calm.
But what's more real than all this is that feeling. Thomas feels as if there's never been anything more real than that sick unease that keeps invading his very being. It's getting stronger now, it's growing, and the lights...flicker?
Aaron reaches over, and puts his hand on Thomas's. Together, they watch in shock as flames illuminate the bulb of Thomas's lamp. The shadows dance on the gold lampshade, and Thomas is sure that he sees a hand. Aaron's eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to say something but then—
"You called?" The voice is as dry as ever, and bright orange flicks up in a short wave. It hovers in front of the two men, no fiery legs in sight.
"Mr. Aaron Burr. I assure you I am very much real." Thomas watches as Aaron struggles for words. To think, he had been in this situation not so long ago. The pleasant warmth is gone now, replaced by the same stifling heat that it had brought to Hamilton.
"What are you?" Aaron whispers. "Why would you burn Hamilton's home?"
Its empty mouth curves up at the corners. "My dear Mr. Jefferson told Hamilton he wanted him to burn. And who am I to refuse that sweet request?" But it hadn't been sweet at all. I didn't even mean it.
Aaron stares at Thomas, eyebrows knit together and eyes wide in horror. "So...it burned Hamilton because of you?"
This was what Thomas had feared. He lowers his eyes, not wanting to think of this again. You hurt Hamilton. "I didn't mean it," he says softly. "But it thought I did." Those words changed everything, and they hadn't even been true.
—
"I don't know how you could ever apologize to Hamilton for that," Aaron says, surprisingly calm for what just happened. But Thomas looks into his eyes, and sees that he's unnerved. "You know how much he needs his hands."
And Thomas does know. He has seen the way Hamilton looks down at his ruined hands. They'll heal, yes, but time is something that there isn't ever enough of. Now that it's happened, reversal is not possible. Oh, when does a mistake become much more than that? When it takes something vital away? "I know," he breathes. "You don't need to tell me. I know. But I need a way to apologize, Aaron. Yeah, maybe he won't believe me, but he deserves to know."
Aaron stares into the depths of his empty mug, tilts it towards his lips for a moment, then sets it on the end table. "Where's Hamilton staying after he gets out of the hospital?"
Thomas stands, and stretches his arms. He pushes his wrists so far back that his arms begin to tingle, but he doesn't mind the sensation. "Actually...I don't know. Probably at a friend's place."
"He could stay here," Aaron suggests. "It's convenient 'cause you're his neighbor. And you could try to make it up to him during his stay."
He splutters. Just the thought of it is already concerning him. "Hamilton? Staying here with me? Are you out of your mind, Aaron?" But Thomas's mind wanders, and his thoughts start to stray. Breakfasts spent on his porch, the colors of the sky melting into one another like well blended paint, quiet evenings in the living room, watching the leaves flutter outside—oh, Alexander...
Unrealistic. What is he thinking? Hamilton's not that kind of person. And that kind of person is not Hamilton.
Aaron leans closer, looks Thomas straight in the eye, and replies, "Look. I've got nothing else for suggestions. You get one chance to try and apologize. Don't waste it."
Thomas sighs, the air pushed out of him leaving him deflated. "I suppose."
—
Thomas doesn't think he will ever grow accustomed to this. Hamilton perches on the stool that has slender, narrow legs, which gleam when they catch the light. Face down, towards the plate, he takes this time to observe Hamilton. No, this is not creepy, Thomas assures himself. The area between his eyebrows and the crease of his upper eyelid leaves his eyes in...shadow, almost. Below his eyes are also shadows, but shadows that curve into his face—eye bags.
His nose curves out ever so slightly, and his lips are thin. Hamilton's hair, tied back loosely, rests in the angle between his neck and right shoulder.
Thomas stops his assessment of Hamilton's features, and tries to close the box. It is stubborn, refusing closure, straining against the force of his mind. So he smashes it, lets it all out, lets it flow to the back of his thoughts. Sometimes, it's easier to keep something out of mind rather than constrained in mind.
—
His hand, curled into a loose fist, raps on the door. The sound echoes, and Thomas listens to it. The remnants of the sound hang for a second, and right when it dissipates, Hamilton opens the door. "What is it, Jefferson?"
Ugh. Thomas has not made any progress so far. The question is flat, more a demand for an answer than a question. Hamilton looks annoyed, and Thomas needs forgiveness. "Just wanted to check up on you. How are you, Hamilton?"
"Doesn't matter." Hamilton jerks his chin to the right, his hair swinging back over his shoulder.
"And why is that?" Thomas is careful to make his tone flippant. Reveal nothing, invest nothing. He imitates Hamilton, jerking his chin, which causes his curls to bounce against his cheek. He throws him a smug smirk, and sees Hamilton's frown darken. "Come on. If it doesn't matter, as you said, I'm sure you can tell me. What're you so upset for?"
The noise Hamilton makes is between a snort and an exhale. "You wouldn't care."
Thomas steps forward, extending a hand to rest on the edge of the doorway. His other hand comes forward to cup Hamilton's cheek, and he grins when he sees those eyes widen. Thomas drags his fingers lightly down Hamilton's soft cheek. When they reach the edge of his jaw, he curls up all his fingers but his index finger, and traces the line to his chin. The hand falls away, and he says, "Darlin', you should tell me." There's a tinge of a threat in the words, and Thomas sees Hamilton realize that.
Hamilton presses his lips together, and steps back. Those eyes are now wary, bordering on scared...is that what Thomas sees? No, not scared. Not much daunts Alexander Hamilton. Certainly not Thomas Jefferson. "Fine. I'm okay, I suppose. Except for this, of course." Hamilton laughs bitterly, holding up his arms.
Ah yes. "Do you...wanna talk about it?" Get closer, so he can apologize. Not today, but eventually. Thomas wants to know how Hamilton truly feels.
Hamilton sits on the bed, and Thomas takes his place beside him. He rubs his eyes, avoiding Thomas's gaze. "I never realized how important my arms and hands are to me until recently," Hamilton mumbles. "I hate it. I hate it so much because I feel like I can't do anything. I mean, I can, but I have to be so careful. It's terrible and on top of that, my house is gone. And I have no one to blame but me."
Thomas takes Hamilton's hand, and surprisingly, he doesn't pull away. He looks at Hamilton, curled in on himself, the constant, confident posture gone. Hamilton stares down at his lap, reminding Thomas of that very first day in the hospital. His heart fills with something that he can't quite identify, and suddenly all Thomas feels is an overwhelming need to make Hamilton's eyes full again. "Alexander," he says gently. "I'm sorry for what's happened to you. I won't pretend to know what's it like. But I promise you it will get better. You're going to be okay." Thomas shifts closer, curling his arm around Alexander's waist. Alexander is warm, and Thomas realizes. He is comforting Alexander as much as he is comforting himself by doing this. The guilt still lingers, it'll never be the same, but he's moving in the right direction. It's going to be okay, he repeats to himself.
And right now, right in this moment, this Sunday morning, Thomas can believe that.
Outside, the gentle hues of the sky melt into each other, white clouds adorning the daily, ever-changing painting. It's beautiful, especially with Alexander's presence warming his heart.
—
"Wait!" Thomas yells, throwing his voice up the stairs. "Do not, and I'm gonna repeat, do not go in before testing that water!" He is so insufferable. Alexander Hamilton knows full well the danger of entering a shower without testing its temperature. New, healed skin is sensitive to extreme heat or cold. Already, Thomas has had to remind Hamilton five times to check before stepping in.
"I wasn't gonna go in, Jefferson," Hamilton shoots back, and Thomas can picture his face as he says this. Eyebrows creased toward the other, one quirked upward ever so slightly, eyes squinted at the corners, and lips parted, the lower one tense. The judgmental look Hamilton gives Thomas as he rushes into the bathroom completes the mental picture.
"Well. Glad to see you've actually been paying attention."
Hamilton doesn't answer this, instead lifting his leg up and inching towards the stream of water, hands braced on the tiles of the wall. But Thomas's hand shoots out, and he clutches Hamilton's leg and shoves it down in one swift motion. As Hamilton wobbles on one foot, turning his back to the wall to regain balance, Thomas steps into the pool of water running down the drain. He ignores whatever Hamilton is saying, and closes his eyes, relaxing in the calming sensation of warm water pouring down, collecting in the bathtub around his foot and swirling down the drain.
"—don't you even dare try to act as if I'm not capable! Y-you think I can't do it myself but I can! You forget who you're talking to, Jefferson." Hamilton's tone darkens at the end of his rant, his voice compacting into something smaller, denser, lower. Thomas feels a small pang in his chest at the way he said his surname.
"All I'm sayin' is to be careful, Alexander. The water's ready." Thomas makes a sharp turn on his heel, his hand finding the doorknob and pulling the door shut behind him with a slam. He strides into the guest room, the drawn curtains shrouding the room in shadow. Thomas doesn't bother to flick the light switch up, and flops onto the twin bed. With disdain, he looks at the rumpled sheets and messily folded comforter. Thomas rises, the bed accompanying his movement with its creaking. He gathers the the comforter in his arms, and heaves it onto the chair. Thomas smooths out the wrinkles of the turquoise sheets, a comfort to his hands. He traces along a wrinkle with a finger before realizing that he's doing...that again, and jerks his finger away.
Thomas leans down, tucking the sheets where they belong, wedging his fingers in to push the sheets farther. He pats the bed with a large hand, and folds the matching comforter (because color coordination will never go out of style) at the foot of the bed. He smooths down the pillowcase, and sets the pillow in its proper place.
He settles himself against the wall, lotion in hand snatched from the bed stand. Thomas tilts his head up, eyes tracing the textures of the ceiling. He hooks his left elbow over his head, and absentmindedly twirls one of his curls around his finger. Thomas hears Hamilton pull the bathroom door, so he makes sure to put a haughty expression on his face.
"Come here," he drawls, beckoning Hamilton with an index finger. Hamilton doesn't move.
"No."
Thomas heaves a long-suffering sigh. Before Hamilton knows what is happening, Thomas scoops him up onto the bed. Wordlessly, he pops the cap of the lotion open, and just as he's about to reach for Hamilton's arm, Hamilton opens his mouth.
"Wha-what do you think you're doing?! Let me go!" Hamilton's eyes are wide, and he flails, trying to escape. Without thinking, Thomas tightens his arm around Hamilton's waist, and pulls him into his lap. Thomas looks intently at Hamilton's face, watching his lips part, watching him blink up in a dazed manner.
"I'm helping you, Alexander. Now don't move," Thomas answers dryly. He looks down, assessing the new skin closely for the first time. Alexander's arms and hands feel dry; they are a discolored light pink, and they look almost...scaly, Thomas thinks. He sees a blister, but then Alexander pulls his arms away from Thomas's gaze. He ghosts his fingers over a spot on his arm, dragging his fingernails across it. Thomas hears a soft sigh of relief escape Alexander, who seems to have forgotten where exactly he is sitting.
Thomas reaches for Alexander's left arm, and begins applying the lotion, spreading it all over. He'll do his best to complete this task. As he thinks this, Alexander says, "Jefferson, I can do it myself. Let me get out of your lap."
Oh. Thomas feels a blush rise on his cheeks, and uncurls his arm from Alexander's waist. Alexander slides down from the edge of the bed, feet hitting the floor with a faint thump. Purposely avoiding eye contact, Thomas hands Alexander the lotion bottle. And it's as he is looking down when he truly realizes.
Scar tissue. Alexander Hamilton is scarred. And Thomas has nothing to blame for it but himself.
He hurries away from the room, leaving Hamilton, Hamilton with his damp hair brushing his shoulders, Hamilton in a simple gray shirt and loose, green pajama pants, Hamilton and the scars on his arms. Thomas's chest feels so tight again, heart beating in an almost tired fashion, uniting his whole body so he can compress himself smaller and smaller. Until he's so small that absolutely nothing matters anymore and he doesn't matter and the world isn't so unforgiving. But you can't take back the words you've said.
Thomas didn't know he would leave Hamilton scarred. He can't bear to think about it anymore. How could he have forgotten? Thomas hurt Hamilton, and he doesn't deserve to suffer. How could he have done this?
"Oh, the answer to that question is simple," a voice crackles, and at this point, Thomas can't tell if it's all inside his mind or if it's appeared again. He feels the burning heat, and concludes that it is here. Thomas buries himself further under his comforter, as if that would fix everything, but the flames are as strong as before. "You forgot the power that you wield."
Reluctantly, Thomas surfaces, the comforter rustling as he pushes it away. "What's that supposed to mean?" Eyes hesitant, he slowly looks up, and meets the bright blue flames that dance, capturing his eyes, drawing them in. Thomas's eyes absorb the fiery blue; the colors sink into him and emblazon, illuminate his mind. Suddenly, a raging inferno fills Thomas; it consumes him, licks away at his heart, chars it. He can feel his heart change, singed as it is with the poison of it. His heart hardens, and the previous gentleness there vanishes for a moment.
Thomas fights the fire with his own, and feels the flames die down. Does he imagine it, or do its eyes look dimmer now? Indeed, the flames surrounding it are weaker, flaring up less often. The heat isn't so unbearable now. "You should know what it means," the being rasps, so quiet and more like the hiss of a small fire now. "It came from within."
And with one last flare, it vanishes.
—
Apologize. How to apologize? He needs to tell Alexander, Alexander needs to hear the truth, Thomas shouldn't, can't go on like this. He feels his insides twist, the nauseous feeling making him light, too light.
He makes his way past Alexander, who is typing furiously on his laptop, set on the dining room table. "You're gonna get blisters on your fingertips if you type too much," he calls. Staying at home—well, Thomas's home doesn't mean Alexander won't be productive.
Alexander doesn't glance up, focused as he is on his work. Thomas is almost relieved to see Alexander working, because a vulnerable Alexander Hamilton is still a little too strange to see. Thomas has always perceived Alexander as strong and resolute, and he would admit that he admires Alexander's character (and nothing more, or so he tells himself). So, seeing Alexander so vulnerable, hurt, damaged, having to take care of him has been an unusual situation...and to know that he caused it, he brought it upon Alexander...
It hurts Thomas too; he knows that it's unforgivable, what he has done. But everyone is multifaceted, and it surprises Thomas that he never realized Alexander Hamilton could be...weak. As much as he wants to deny it, say that he's only doing it because it's what is right, he has grown fond of Alexander's presence, and helping him.
But you caused it, his mind reminds him. You brought this upon him. And you haven't even apologized properly yet.
"I'm gonna get around to it," Thomas mutters, pulling his phone from his pocket. Alexander looks up, confused, and Thomas shakes his head. Alexander shrugs at his laptop, and resumes typing. Thomas notes with satisfaction that he's being more careful this time.
Upstairs, he speed dials Gilbert this time. Gilbert may not know the real reason behind Thomas's generosity, but he accepted it anyway. He's glad to see Thomas get along with Alexander in any situation.
And Gilbert is also a person who enjoys surprising his friends with nice things. Thomas smiles fondly at his phone's screen. He recalls the time he had come home to a batch of chocolate choux buns and a hug from Gilbert after an unhappy week.
They talk, and Gilbert's excitement shines through as the words begin to flow from his mouth more quickly. Thomas feels his lips curving upwards in another happy smile at Gilbert's enthusiasm. This is why they're friends. Gilbert yells into the phone at Thomas's suggestion, and Thomas laughs at the sound. "Of course, of course! It will be wonderful, I assure you."
"It'll be just us, right?" Thomas listens to the silence hang in the air, and he knows Gilbert is grinning like a maniac. He sighs, and adds, "Don't tell me you're gonna invite some other people."
—
The crisp morning air doesn't quite sting Thomas's face. He pulls the door open for the group, who frantically gesture at each other and mouth words. "Y'all better be quiet," Thomas hisses. "He's sleeping right now but you know him. He can wake at any time." Angelica gives a sharp nod, and passes a plate with cookies arranged on it to Thomas. Peggy stands on her toes, and tries to lean over her sister, another plate in hand, but Thomas shakes his head. He steps back and bows, plate balanced on his right hand, and extends his arm in welcome. Thomas sees John roll his eyes, as Eliza covers her mouth, trying to keep from giggling.
They follow him into the kitchen, where Gilbert is waiting. They gather the food on the kitchen table, and so it begins. "What are we doing first?" asks Hercules, seeming uncomfortable and awkward in the middle of the kitchen. And Thomas doesn't blame him, no; at what point had the relationship between him and Alexander become...this? He doesn't know either.
They begin, hurriedly unwrapping plates, pulling ingredients from their bags, setting things down and working and it's a whirlwind of fervor that Thomas finds himself caught in. He's struck by their passion; the determination that shines in their eyes, uniting them all under the same goal. And Thomas is one of them. It is no longer him and them; it is us, and the only thing that exists is the blazing spirit, the need to make Alexander happy. This unity, the knowledge that he isn't alone reassures Thomas. They lose themselves in intense concentration and sharp focus. One thing in mind and they're going to do it, no shadow of a doubt. Because Alexander Hamilton is worth it. A sense of urgency pervades the air, and they know to go faster, faster, but not too fast. Careful there, do that, do this, we got this, yeah, he'll love it.
By the time Alexander's footsteps hit the stairs, they are ready.
Thomas will never forget that look. Astonishment becomes pure joy as Alexander rushes towards the group with a radiant smile, lighting up the room and warming his heart. Alexander looks at the breakfast arranged on the table with wonder, a childlike demeanor taking over him. And Thomas nearly melts at the dazzling beauty. Alexander shines with happiness, and bathes Thomas in his light. He is bright as the morning sun, and Thomas won't look away, spellbound, drawn to the splendor.
"Is this for me?" he asks, seeming shocked. "All of this?" Thomas resists the urge to laugh; Alexander's disbelief is endearing.
"Yeah obviously, Alexander. Who else? We got together—thought you'd like a surprise breakfast."
Alexander looks at Thomas, eyes filled with gratitude. He steps closer, and puts his hand over Thomas's. "Thank you so much, Thomas," he says softly. Oh, and his heart is so full, overflowing with elation; he's floating on air, powered by a blaze inside, so strong that he may combust. And in this moment, he would let that happen, if only to immerse himself forever in this feeling.
He realizes that Alexander hasn't moved. "You gonna eat, or just stand there, Alex?" John pipes up, looking at Thomas, something strange in his eyes. And Alexander breaks away, and gives everyone gathered there a hug. They exchange smiles, and Alexander moves from person to person like a lighter to candles. He lights them all up, and Thomas watches.
Eliza pulls out a chair, and has Alexander sit down. "I brought my steamed pork buns," she says, pride evident in her voice. "Homemade."
"Those are the best, 'Liza! You know me too well." Alexander sips his coffee before scooping one up with the spoon Lafayette had set on the table. He sighs in pleasure, shaking his head fondly and smiling at Eliza.
"You guys can have some too. I made sure to make enough," Eliza offers, picking up the bamboo basket with the xiaolongbao sitting inside. This excites the group, and they hurry to get their own spoons. Thomas decides to try one, and he is momentarily startled by the soup that fills his mouth. It's so good, so so good, the savory taste is delicious and Thomas gives Eliza a thumbs up. She nods back, giving Thomas a sweet smile.
Everyone migrates to a chair or a spot by the table, and they chat while eating the prepared food. They leave most of it for Alexander, of course. As Alexander's friends crowd around him excitedly, bombarding him with questions, fussing over him, Thomas can't help but feel like he shouldn't be here. They are Alexander's close-knit group. They are Alexander's real friends, supportive and loving. They are the people that Alexander treasures. And Thomas? Thomas is the outsider; a glass window separates him, and he's not about to ruin the peace by smashing it with a rock.
So Thomas stays quiet, observing with keen eyes instead. He fights back the urge to laugh as he watches Alexander shove a large chunk of tortilla de huevos in his mouth. Angelica collapses in laughter at something that Hercules said, pointing towards Alexander with a resigned look on his face. Alexander defends himself, mouth full of food but always, always on fire with his words. Peggy tries to calm him down, and John pats Alexander on the back, siding with him in the friendly bickering. Eliza and Lafayette discuss plans for a future outing to the park; a picnic perhaps?
Alexander is the center; he is like the sun, around which the planets revolve. Each planet has their unique beauty, but Alexander still outshines them all. Or so Thomas thinks.
Of course, the conversation soon turns toward Thomas. "So how's life been recently, Alex?" Peggy asks, tone light and unaccusatory, but it still makes Thomas uncomfortable. The mood in the room changes, the air becoming stiffer, holding them all tight to their positions. Hercules and Angelica glance at Thomas, subtle and cautious. They all want to know.
Alexander acts as if he doesn't notice the change. But Thomas sees him straighten in his seat, and set his spoon for the Puerto Rican breakfast custard down. "Inconvenient, but I've been finding life enjoyable besides that. Thomas is a good host," he says in an offhanded manner, inclining his head towards Thomas. He's relieved, and some of the tension evaporates from his body. It leaves him at ease, and Thomas relaxes into the calm morning atmosphere. Light and airy, it doesn't restrain him. He is free to float his way through these moments, buoyed by a soft, mellow feeling.
"Good," says Hercules. "Wouldn't want you to have any other worries besides—you know." He makes a vague gesture towards Alexander's arms and hands. Thomas still isn't sure how Gilbert managed to convince them that this would work out, but he's grateful.
"How about your life, Thomas?" Angelica grins at him, and the rest of them turn to look at Thomas. The previous ease vanishes, ushering in discomfort again. The looks aren't judgmental, but they assess Thomas coolly, and he wants to freeze up under their gazes.
He parts his lips, and shrugs. "I've been doing all right, I suppose. Alexander's company is pleasant." They nod, accepting Thomas's words for what they are: a subtle assurance that yes, indeed, they have been getting along well. More than well, really. Thomas glances to Alexander, his lips curved into a small, but glowing smile. And having that is enough.
—
Tonight is one of those evenings where time seems to come to a smooth halt. These evenings are the ones that Thomas treasures most. When time is still, there are no worries. No pressing matters hold him down; all that exists is him and a world of tranquility. Thomas can immerse himself in whatever task he chooses, losing himself in it, reveling in the simplicity of it all.
He sits again in his favorite white armchair, exuding an aura of elegance as he watches the dark scenery before him. The trees across the road are only silhouettes of what they are during the day, and they sway at the wind's whim. Every so often, the faint roar of cars get closer, and they rush down the road, headlights introducing them to the darkness ahead.
The soft lighting of Thomas's lamps edge his face in shadow. Hands curled in his lap, his legs stretched out, his body relaxed. Thomas's eyelashes lower as he begins to feel the vestiges sleep creeping up on him.
He doesn't realize at first when Alexander joins him, settling himself on the couch. "Thomas."
Thomas jerks upright, startled by the broken silence. He comes back to life again, and answers, "Yeah, Alexander? What is it?" He hadn't been expecting Alexander's presence, because he likes to retire to his own room (well, the guest room) at this time. Thomas has grown accustomed to spending these evenings in solitude.
Alexander leans forward, immobilizing Thomas with his intent eyes. And he can't bring himself to look away, not when Alexander is looking at him like this. "I wanted to thank you for all you've done." He immediately drops his gaze to the floor, and Thomas misses those eyes, beautiful and entrancing in their deep color.
"I-it's my pleasure," he stammers back, not knowing what to say. Thomas is grateful for these days together, and he doesn't know how to articulate that. But...
Were his motivations pure? Oh gosh, the only reason he'd offered Alexander a place to stay was to apologize. It didn't have any more meaning besides that; it hadn't been out of the goodness of his heart or anything sweet. And Alexander knows that Thomas Jefferson is not a sweet person, so why does he seem so grateful? Well...Thomas had indeed comforted Alexander, kept him from hurting himself, surprised him by arranging a breakfast party—
He hasn't even apologized.
"I'm gonna get around to it," he had muttered. So much for that. Thomas glances down at Alexander's arms and hands. Still scarred. The flames spark up from within, searing him, consuming him. As if Alexander hears his thoughts aloud, he says, "It'll heal. Don't worry about it." But you don't know who did that to you, Thomas thinks bitterly. If you did, you wouldn't be sitting here right now. He doesn't deserve any gratitude. There's nothing that can erase what he's done.
Sinking in a sea of tormenting, taunting thoughts that roll over him, drenching him in guilt, Thomas lets himself drift deeper. He's going down, he's drowning, he's fallen from the false sense of happiness that he thought he could have. So Thomas doesn't notice Alexander until he's so close. Alexander takes both of Thomas's hands, clasping them and raising one. He's dazed; he doesn't know what he's supposed to do, or what Alexander is going to do. Alexander leans in, tilting his head up, and Thomas wishes he could capture this moment forever.
Alexander is gorgeous. Hair swept back; Thomas has seen him run his fingers through that silky hair many times. He can picture Alexander doing it: he always arches his neck up ever so slightly, an elegant movement. Then he threads his fingers back through his hair, down till the place where his usual ponytail is tied. Earnest eyes meet his own, eyes that are so full of life, of passion and everything and anything felt in the heart. An expressive face, one which is now smiling beautifully, eyes crinkling at the edges. And oh, Thomas has got it so bad for that smile.
Thomas continues to stare back, and Alexander leans farther towards him. Thomas moves to close the short distance, straightening in his armchair. They are close, and right when they are about to meet, Thomas jerks away.
Alexander looks stunned. His smile fades, and he looks at Thomas with worry; Thomas knows that thoughts are running through Alexander's mind non-stop right now. A contrast to him, because he doesn't know what he feels. Say something, break the silence so oppressive.
Thomas smiles, and it's a sad smile, one that carries the hope that died that night, vanished somewhere along with it. "You thought, Alexander," he sighs, turning the words into something unkind. It's too easy; all it takes is a different inflection to the words. That can change everything. "You really thought so? Oh darlin', you are so foolish."
Alexander stares at Thomas in disbelief. "You—you don't...?"
That disappointment, that hurt affects Thomas more than he'd like to admit. Without thinking, he pulls Alexander close, and they kiss for a few moments that are all too short. The kiss is gentle and soft, and Thomas tries his best to convey his sorrow. I'm sorry, Alexander.
Thomas breaks the kiss, watching Alexander's face. As expected, he can read everything clearly. Confusion, then anger dawns on Alexander. Thomas smiles again; it begins as a sad smile, but he covers it up by letting it slip into malice, cruel and teasing. He shuts the box tight, and there is nothing remaining outside of it. But is that worth it?
Well, if nothing, Thomas is a good actor. He's always able to fabricate it around hollowness.
—
rewind
Alexander feels pressure build behind his eyes, a sign that he's overworking. He removes his reading glasses, setting them on his desk, no, Thomas's desk. But it might as well be his, at this point. Thomas has been a generous host, and Alexander resolves to show his appreciation for that kindness. Well, he's got to get to doing that at some point, so why not now?
He stands up, and heads downstairs, heart pumping uncertainty through him. Alexander doesn't know what to say, but that doesn't mean he won't try. Reaching the bottom step, Alexander runs his fingers back through his hair. But this time, it's a nervous motion, an unconscious urge to help himself calm down. Look presentable, put together, poised.
Alexander turns the corner, letting go of the banister, and halts when he sees Thomas. Reclining in the white armchair he treasures so, his eyes are closed, but even in rest, he is so, so regal. Alexander's eyes are a camera, capturing this image and saving it so he can look upon this beauty forever. Black eyebrows curve gracefully over closed eyelids, and long eyelashes. There's the scruff along the line of his jaw, and the dark, curly hair that shines in the light. And those full lips... Oh, what would it be like to kiss those lips?
Even in a plain maroon sweatshirt and loose gray pants. Thomas Jefferson is gorgeous.
With this heightened knowledge, Alexander approaches, making sure his footsteps are soft on the carpet. He sits on the couch across from Thomas, sitting on the edge on the cushion with trepidation. "Thomas." Those words are so foreign to the calm silence.
Thomas's eyes snap open, and he jerks upright in his armchair. "Yeah, Alexander? What is it?" Alexander had half hoped Thomas would remain asleep, but he's gotten himself into this; no backing off now. And really, there's no reason to back off. Thomas has been kind, offering Alexander a place to stay while his house is being rebuilt. His arms and hands are healing well, and soon his life will come back together again. But Alexander doesn't want this to end. It's special, what he and Thomas share. Perhaps that's only him, but he hopes that Thomas feels it too. So in the meantime, Alexander will enjoy this life in between.
Alexander leans forward, searching Thomas's eyes, searching for anything within. And Alexander sees something; he's not sure what but something is better than nothing. Thomas doesn't look away, meeting his gaze second for second. Alexander finally speaks, and says, "I wanted to thank you for all you've done." Realizing the length of time he's been staring, Alexander becomes shy, and drops the eye contact. He can feel Thomas's gaze still on him, and he doesn't know what to do. Look up, and meet those eyes? Stay here, and act as if Thomas isn't present? That won't do. But before Alexander can look up, Thomas answers.
"I-it's my pleasure." Never ever in his life has Alexander heard Thomas stammer. He is an articulate man, eloquent and elegant in his speech, and everyone knows it. Alexander was drawn to that when he first met Thomas, and he still is. Alexander could listen to that smooth, confident voice for hours. And he has, actually. Had to. But when Thomas isn't quite so articulate, Alexander finds it endearing.
Now, he looks up. Thomas looks panicked; this is so unlike him. It was only a simple thank you. What reason would he have to be worried? His eyes are wide, and Alexander sees his fists tense. He looks at Thomas, trying to send a message, show him that he cares. But Thomas doesn't notice, which isn't a surprise; actions aren't always as apparent as words aloud. Watching Thomas, who is still tense, Alexander follows Thomas's line of sight down to his arms and hands.
He looks down as well. Still scarred, but well on the way to what it was before. Alexander will be fine with the scarring. As long as he has full function again, scars won't matter. They'll serve as a reminder of past foolishness and what he has overcome. A chill sparks up his spine, and Alexander shivers. His breathing quickens as he recalls that night. Stay alive, stay alive...and he'd done that. But that had been a harrowing experience.
"It'll heal. Don't worry about it," he reassures Thomas as much as he reassures himself. But Thomas still looks distressed; eyebrows together, eyes wide, lips parted. So Alexander, wanting Thomas to smile again, rises and walks closer. He hesitates; should he do this?
Of course. There's no way he's going to let Thomas worry about him.
Alexander takes Thomas's hands, which are pleasantly warm. He brings one up, and Thomas looks at him, dazed. But he doesn't move away, and Alexander, taking that as a yes, smiles happily. At this, Thomas brightens, and oh, he's beautiful. His eyes are alight, bright with happiness, and if Alexander could see this again, he'd be forever happy. Thomas smiles, gorgeous, unfairly beautiful with those crinkled eyes and white teeth. He shines, he's bright as a star and lights up these evenings with his presence.
They stare at each other, and Alexander leans closer. Thomas moves to bridge the short distance between them.
Closer...close...
But no, the moment's broken and Thomas leans away and leaves Alexander alone, so close to something he's wanted so long, oh it's been so long and he hasn't dared to acknowledge it until now but now? There's nothing. He stares at Thomas in disbelief. Why? We were so close, I thought...I thought you wanted it too.
And Thomas smiles, it's a sad smile and Alexander waits for an explanation as to why. Tell me, please. "You thought, Alexander," he sighs, and Alexander is thrust into a world of messy emotions burning within. Oh no, no no no no he can't stay here, not for this, please please no...
But when has the universe ever been that kind? "You really thought so? Oh darlin', you are so foolish." And with those simple words, Alexander's crushed. That's all it takes.
He continues to stare at Thomas, whose face is hard against Alexander's shock. Thomas's face conveys nothing; it's an empty, hollow mask. And that emptiness scares Alexander. "You—you don't...?"
And Alexander's about to run for it, dash back upstairs away from this situation, but Thomas pulls him close, and their lips meet. He's wanted this for so long, so Alexander leans into it with abandon, not thinking. He disregards everything else that has happened, and shares a soft kiss with Thomas. It's gentle, with a tinge of something else that Alexander can't place in his mental state right now.
Thomas breaks this kiss, and Alexander looks up at him, thoughts filling his mind once again. What does he want? Rejection, then...that, and now? All of a sudden, Alexander feels himself burn up inside, and he needs a place to fan the flames further. He is about to speak, but he sees Thomas smile again, sorrowful. Alexander stares, and the smile turns cruel. Oh. So that's how it is. Well, so be it. It looks like he was indeed a fool.
He shouldn't be surprised anyway. The pressure behind his eyes was a warning to him for the weight in his throat and the tears misting his eyes.
Alexander watches as Thomas turns and leaves the living room. With dull eyes, he glances around the room; its warm aura seems to be gone. The shadows cast by the furniture seem foreboding now, and Alexander swears that it's dimmer.
It begins as a faint pain, so Alexander doesn't notice until it sharpens into a searing line along his right forearm. He gasps, and looks at his arm, but there's nothing there. Yet the pain is so real, and it's agonizing, takes over his senses. The burning feeling spreads to his hands and left arm, and Alexander sighs in relief when it dulls.
He doesn't notice the new scar.
Alexander cradles his right arm as if that would make everything better. He looks at the white lamp with the gold lampshade, trying to find solace, warmth, light in that. And the light flares once.
—
Early next morning, Thomas wakes to the ding of his phone. He has a text from Aaron Burr: He's staying with me. Thomas sighs, recalling last night with a grimace. He hasn't cried yet, but he knows that it's only a matter of time. The box can't stay shut forever; the pressure inside it builds up until it can't be contained anymore. The thoughts creep out, and Thomas bites his lip hard as he thinks.
He pushed Alexander away; threw away his shot at having something with him. This would have all been avoided if things had happened slower, if Alexander wasn't so quick with his actions. But Thomas knows that it's his fault, his fault for not saying something. Words can be a challenge, and he should have tried instead of avoiding it. Alexander hadn't avoided anything. He went into the conversation straight on, no fear of what Thomas would say.
Yes, Thomas is the real fool.
He lies in bed a little longer, reluctant to face the conversation he knows is coming. But Thomas had gotten into this by avoiding words. So perhaps he can get out of this by facing words? Thomas texts Aaron a response: I'm coming. He gets up, making sure to look his best. Because though he may be about to fall, he's going to go with grace.
Thomas goes downstairs, and eats breakfast with a false calm. Any outsider would have seen him as a man enjoying the morning, in no hurry to do things or go places. But they can't know what's in Thomas's mind. Guilt, worry, and anxiety are beating him, a messy cacophony of thoughts and feelings and mistakes. So many mistakes he has made; each adds to his unease exponentially. But it's not about him. It's about Alexander, who he keeps hurting. When did he start to care so much about Alexander? Why can't Thomas keep himself from hurting someone he cares for? I'm sorry, I'm sorry...are those words enough? How can he apologize for what's he done?
As Thomas shuts his front door, he wonders if he can bear facing Alexander's reaction. Well, he'd best get to this. There's no avoiding it now.
He walks to Aaron's home; he lives rather close anyway. When Thomas stands before the front door, he hesitates for less than a second before ringing the doorbell. He hears it echo within the house, marking the start of his demise. No, that's not right, he thinks with a bitter laugh. His demise started a long time ago.
The door creaks open, and Aaron looks through the crack cautiously, as if he's not sure whether or not to expect Thomas. The truth is that he doesn't know how to approach the situation. Thomas knows Aaron is the type of person to check through the peephole before opening the door. "Thomas," Aaron says, nodding in greeting. "Hamilton's upstairs." Aaron lets the silence hang between them, heavy with the knowledge of what is to come.
Thomas sighs, trying to exhale the anxiety out of him. He sets his shoulders back and head high, and says, "All right. I'm going up to see him."
"Okay. Ple—no, you better resolve whatever happened between the two of you." Aaron offers a tentative smile, and pats Thomas on the back. "Now let's do this."
The pit in his stomach grows with each step Thomas takes up the stairs. His breaths are shallow, the anxiety overwhelming him. The discomfort weighs him down, and Thomas feels like his feet are becoming leaden. Still, he forces himself to move. He pokes his head into the first room, the one with light shining from the sliver of space between the door and the wooden floor. Thomas raises his hand, and knocks twice.
"Leave." The voice is hard, frigid, and Thomas wants to do just that. But leaving would mean giving up. And he's not going to throw away his last shot.
"Alexander, I need to talk to you, I hav—"
He cuts Thomas off, as expected. "Well, if you wanted to say something, you could've done it earlier. You should have told me!" He hears footsteps, and then Alexander yanks the door open. "Look, Jefferson. I don't want to see you, now or ever."
The words escape from his mouth before he can stop them. "Then why'd you open the door?" Thomas grimaces after that; he doesn't want to come off as cocky right now. Especially when he's not feeling that way. Alexander's icy glare intensifies, and he moves to slam the door. But before he can do so, Thomas lunges forward, pushing past the door and into the bedroom.
He closes it, and begins with, "I need to apologize to you."
Alexander crosses his arms, and stands with his posture stiff. "For what? Saying that you hope I burn? Causing my house to be burned down? Causing this?" He laughs, and it's almost maniacal. Alexander holds out his arms for Thomas to see.
His stomach twists. It looks worse than it did yesterday. There's a bruise on Alexander's left forearm, and there are several new blisters. And is that what Thomas thinks he sees? There is a new scar along Alexander's right arm. It runs from his wrist to halfway up his forearm.
Thomas draws in a deep breath. "I didn't know," he whispers. "I didn't know it would do what I said and didn't mean." He stares at Alexander pleadingly, begging him to understand.
"It still happened. You ruined me," Alexander says, returning Thomas's stare, unrelenting. "You should have told me!" he yells, voice rising in volume. Alexander pushes his disheveled hair back furiously, and continues. "You should have told me at the beginning what you'd done! Instead of staying silent, you could have told me. I thought—and I thought I had a chance too," he says, staring at the floorboards, his voice breaking. "I thought you cared about me. But instead, I had to hear the truth from that thing. I don't need your pity, Jefferson. All you wanted was to make yourself feel better. And like the fool I am, I accepted your offer, hoping it could lead to something more."
Thomas steps closer, but Alexander backs away. Oh gosh, how to respond to those words? He knows Alexander is right, it's his fault, but for the rest, he can't let Alexander think something about him besides the truth. "I know I should have told you. And I wanted to. But I didn't know how I could ever apologize to you for that. It's unforgivable, and I knew you wouldn't accept my apology. So I tried to make that up to you by offering you a place to stay," he explains, heart heavy. Now, Alexander blinks, and Thomas sees tears welling up in his eyes, threatening to spill out at any moment. This is what he's done.
Overcome by the desire to wipe those tears away, Thomas steps towards Alexander once more. And this time, Alexander doesn't move away. Thomas embraces Alexander tightly, rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. Alexander sniffles into Thomas's chest, and wipes at his eyes, which are now red. "I-it hurts," he tells Thomas between shuddering breaths. "My arms and hands. It burns."
Thomas's eyes widen. What? Why? But he can't make that any better. So he murmurs, "Alexander. Is there any way I can apologize to you for what I've done? Last night...I know I don't deserve you, not after this. I tried to make it so you wouldn't feel anything for me anymore, because you shouldn't."
Alexander's eyes flick up, and for the first time today, Thomas sees something besides pain written on his face. "You could start by saying those words, you know. It won't change everything, but it's a start."
Thomas lets go of Alexander to look at him properly. There are tear-stains running down his face, his eyes are red-rimmed, and his nose is running, but still he stands strong. "I'm sorry, Alexander. I'm sorry for causing you all this pain. I know I won't ever be completely forgiven, but I'm going to try my hardest to make it up to you." At that, Alexander gives him a small, wavering smile, and nods. Sometimes, that's all that's necessary.
Later, as they sit on the bed together, watching the outside world, Alexander tells him that it doesn't burn as much anymore.
—
It's strange, to be sitting in Alexander's living room instead of his own. Alexander's home is lovely, though, and the interior decorating is excellent. Well, he had a hand in that, so of course it is. Thomas and Alexander relax on the couch together, drinking hot cocoa and delighting in the evening's atmosphere.
It took time, for certain, but Alexander's arms and hands healed. Only a faint, small scar on his right arm remains, a reminder of mistakes and careless words. And every day, Thomas has done something to try to make it up to Alexander. They are little things, like supporting his smallest ambitions, encouraging him, smiling as he walks into the room, compliments. No, it'll never be the same, but better is is enough for now.
So they sip their cocoa, talking quietly. Right now, Alexander is the one being that exists in the world along with Thomas. The stillness isn't suffocating; instead, it's invigorating. Moments of true peace are rare, and Thomas will take them when he gets them. Beautiful serenity, and sharing it with Alexander is one of the things that never fails to bring Thomas joy.
Alexander looks beautiful in the fading light, the remnants of the sunset bathing him in a soft glow. Oh, he shines, radiates it from within, and it takes Thomas's breath away (almost. He can still breathe; there are no worries there).
"You're beautiful, you know that?" Thomas says, giving Alexander a sweet smile.
Alexander looks bashful, a blush rising to his cheeks. "Thank you," he answers, returning the smile. "You are too, Thomas." He sets his cup down with a clink, and his gaze drops to Thomas's lips.
Now, when they kiss, it's everything they've ever wanted and everything they'll always want. The spark is alive, uniting them. But it's not a fire; it's the gentle warmth in their hearts.