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Everyone in the world will find writing on their skin one day. Everyone in the world has a soulmate, after all—someone whose markings upon their body are mirrored on their other half. It is its own form of courtship, one parents can do little to stop, and that makes it all the more exciting.
Thomas Jefferson is twenty-seven, without a single word having ever appeared on him, and isn’t entirely sure if he prefers it that way or not. On one hand, freedom. On the other, embarrassing rejections as everyone around him marries.
It is the noon of a hot day when he stops measuring distances for his growing project of a home over a sudden itch spreading over his left arm. He pulls the sleeve up to see—them, the unmistakable words of a soulmate.
Need help. Was it Ovid or Horace who wrote the Heroides? This is a time-sensitive question.
Time-sensitive it may be, Jefferson can’t help but stare for a while at the words. He has a soulmate. It should have been obvious enough, but only now does it set in. His soulmate is less concerned with that.
Hurry. Ask your father if you must.
Jefferson snaps out of his stupor. He knows the answer easily, even if he would rather not be ordered around by his future wife. At least she is educated, even if she still believes that men have to ask their fathers about such things.
Ovid, he writes on his right arm, glad for his trained ambidexterity to be useful and somewhat hopeful it impresses her at the same time.
Thank you, is the only response, and it vanishes quickly after he reads it. Clearly she is not the most romantic sort. He waits for more, but nothing comes, and he guesses that she is being examined by her mother. Best not to leave any markings when her parents are watching, he decides, and continues his work.
—————————
It is an infernal hour of the night, as he answers correspondence clad only in his dressing gown, that his arm starts to burn again.
It starts on his inner arm. Quitting his own writing, he reads.
Out of paper. Notes on Latin and its pronunciation. DO NOT READ. If you read it it will disappear. You should be asleep anyway.
The lines continue across his arm, practiced sentences spilling over onto the back of it as well, guidelines on oratory written beneath them. They disappear as he reads, but she must not notice, more and more sentences being written. She must have the most taskmaster of parents, Jefferson muses. Suddenly they stop.
Why did you read it?!
Jefferson smiles, caught. But a question comes into his mind.
What is a girl like you doing up so late? he asks.
There is no response for quite a while. Jefferson has never considered himself an impatient person, but there is really no reason to deliberate on this question, is there?
The itch returns, only one word being his answer.
Girl?
Jefferson’s smile becomes stuck. Slowly, his brain is a waterwheel churning the thoughts. These are not the notes of just an educated girl, he realizes. These are the notes of someone in serious study of the language, someone expected to speak it, someone expected to practice oratory for public speeches.
These are the notes of a student in college.
And so, he writes the most ridiculous question of his life.
Are you a man?
The words fade from his skin as his soulmate reads them. Again there is no response for what seems like an eternity, though he is not sure he wants one.
Finally,
Are you?
And that is all the confirmation Jefferson needs to put out his candle, quit his desk, go to bed, bury his head in his pillow, and pray to whoever is watching that his arm never bothers him again.
—————————
It is a morning some months after that one that he is first confronted with the fact that that night had not been a dream.
Upon waking, he finds that it is his chest bothering him this time, and he groggily aims a mirror towards it. And there, scrawled across his body, is the bawdiest poem he has ever laid eyes on, made even more insulting by the fact that he has to read it backwards.
Please do not write me again, he writes on his right arm, though he feels it is more appropriate to call it begging. The response is swift, as usual, spreading across his left.
That was one of my friends, it says. Thank you for reminding me he had done that. I will upbraid him shortly. How would I write on my own chest, anyway?
I really do not want to know what you and your ‘friends’ get up to, Jefferson writes.
It was only the one.
I do not want to hear about it, Jefferson insists.
Noted.
How are you so calm knowing your ‘soulmate’ is a man?
A pause.
Given the information currently available, it is not the most surprising of events.
Jefferson has seen enough.
Please do not write me again.
—————————
It is the next year when that awful man comes back to haunt him.
What do you do?
Jefferson stares at the words as they disappear back into his arm. He really should not answer it. But it is a bitter case he is losing, he still has no wife to complain to, and—yes, he’ll admit it, he is desperate enough for company that he’ll write to this mystery man.
I am a lawyer.
Oh, you can help me with my oratory skills, then. I am not good at it.
I am not a good lawyer, Jefferson hastily writes in return, not willing to incompetently play tutor.
Why are you one, then?
Why do you care?
I myself am wrestling with law. I am not confident in any path I am to take after graduating, came the honest reply. In fact, I think I am soon to die, so I will not have to worry about it for long.
Jefferson is bewildered by the man behind the words. And curse his soft heart, he can’t let them be.
If you are truly my soulmate, how can you die so soon? We have not even met.
The man takes his time.
Thank you, he says. I will continue to give my life some serious thought, then.
That is Jefferson’s good deed for the day, he decides, and he pulls his sleeve back up and pretends he did not just call another man his soulmate.
—————————
He is pacing his rooms, working off the excess energy his new courtship burdens him with when he is interrupted again.
Do you have any advice on dealing with annoying siblings?
The man must have graduated and gone home, Jefferson guesses, though ‘home’ could be anywhere in the world. The question is one he himself has asked time and again, though these days it comes with pangs of missing those he has lost.
Pit them against each other, he writes easily.
You are a genius.
The compliment buzzes a little in his head and he almost thinks this correspondence is worth the headache. The man leaves him alone like that, so he goes back to pacing holes in the floor, mentally composing something else his bride-to-be would like to sing to.
When the sun goes down, it is an unpleasant interruption to him and his violin when his arm starts itching again.
What is your name?
He sucks a breath between his teeth. No, that is not something he will ever divulge to Mr. Bothersome to blab about to all who can hear. He rolls his sleeve back up, continues playing, and, to his credit, the man leaves him alone.
—————————
This time it is Jefferson who first picks up the pen—hopefully for the last time.
Am happily married as of today. For the benefit of us both, please do not write me again.
He has to wait all day for the response, restless and paranoid on his wedding day that someone will want to see his arm for whatever nonsensical reason. Eventually, he feels it.
Noted.
That is it?! That is what he has waited for? Surely it is crushing heartbreak that causes such curtness, and he moves to soothe it.
You know there is the occasional happy union between non-soulmates. I have found mine and I hope one day you find yours.
The lines vanish, and Jefferson waits for a response until he realizes that he is the one being ignored now. And, cross as that may make him, Martha very quickly—and very enthusiastically—makes him forget.
—————————
(Ten years.
It has been ten years since that day, and ten years of the happiest days of his life. And it is all down in flames, together with the great amount of letters he has tossed to the fireplace.
It is week two of his isolation. Hardly any food, hardly any drink. He hates to think of what he looks like now.
One of the many topics his mind drifts to in this dreamland is the man from ten years ago, and what in the world he must be like now. He almost considers writing him again, yelling at him for being his soulmate, because if Martha were his soulmate then she would still be alive.
His eyes drift to that tempting gun sitting innocently, and he decides that he would rather blow both his arms off before he would want to sit through whatever infuriating response would be given to that.
He closes his eyes, letting his head fall back into his pillow, and feels himself go back to sleep.)
—————————
France, being forced out of retirement, and time help him to forget.
He has just written and mailed the most painful, yet perhaps the most passionate, letter of his life, a long series of ravings in a very ill-advised romance with one Maria Cosway. He’s not sure what he’s getting out of this, exactly—she is married and enjoys the company of plenty of men whilst he is Thomas Jefferson, Minister to France and chronically incompetent with women to the point of breaking his wrist over one.
An idea strikes him. This may be the idea that officially changes him from sane to insane, though it would have competition. It goes:
Since he has already written one person whom he should really not have, and poured his heart out to someone who he doubts cares about his troubles as much as he does, what is the harm in writing another person he really should not and who does not care about his troubles as much as he does?
So here he is, holding a quill in his left hand, trying to position his right arm in a way that doesn’t pain his wrist, and wondering what exactly one says to one’s soulmate who is a man who one hasn’t written to in fourteen years.
Are you alive? he decides to write. The man should be, but God is not light with His will when it comes to those Jefferson knows.
Jefferson waits for a while, eventually deciding to read the stacks of business correspondence he feels will only go away the day he dies. It is no surprise that the man would take his time with his response.
His eyes are just glazing over when he feels that itch he can recognize immediately despite the years. He takes a breath and pulls down his sleeve.
What happened?
A soft exhale that replaces a laugh comes from him. Curt, direct-to-the-point answers. How very familiar.
She passed, is all he can say. As much as he tries to banish her from his mind, when she comes back into his memory, the thoughts of her are all-consuming.
My condolences.
It is a dull sting to be presented with such unimpressive condolences, but he isn’t sure he was expecting anything else.
I am not good at this sort of thing, the man adds. At least he has the awareness to realize it.
It is all right, Jefferson writes. Are you married now?
Embarrassingly rejected, is the quick reply. This brings a real laugh.
I remember those days, he consoles.
I have to get ready for work, the man writes. Is that not the case for you?
I am in Paris. I have done that some time ago.
European? is the bewildered response.
I am effectively a Frenchman now, Jefferson jokes.
Well, I will never cross the Atlantic, so if we are to meet, you must come here.
Amused by his seriousness, Jefferson replies I will come over soon enough.
Are you still a lawyer? the man chooses to ask. He is clearly not one for dwelling on topics he does not like.
Admitting he is the Minister to France would effectively be the same as announcing his name. I am happier with my line of work now, he words. What about you? What career did you ever decide on?
Politics, is the answer. If you’ll excuse me, I must go engage in it.
Jefferson lets the words fade without answer and lets go a relieved breath. Yes, telling a politician of all people his soulmate is Thomas Jefferson could only lead to trouble. He has to wonder what this man fights for, what values he holds dear.
But at this rate, he will never know.
—————————
Finally, he is back in his dear Monticello—though it is in desperate need of a complete renovation. He doesn’t have long to enjoy it, however, before his friend Madison arrives and informs him that he will not be going back to France on account of President Washington desiring his services as Secretary of State.
A long argument later, the two of them sit in his library, exhausted. Neither of them use their voice much, so hours straight of talking is enough to wipe them both out.
“I pity your future wife,” Jefferson says.
Madison’s eyes slide over, but he says nothing. Jefferson wonders if he is still angry.
“You will be the only man to win every argument instead of the other way round,” he continues.
Madison continues to read.
“Do you argue with your soulmate?” Jefferson asks finally. It is a very personal question, but they are at the point where he hopes it does not matter, and all he wants is a reaction now anyway.
“You could say that,” Madison says quietly.
“Oh, really?” Jefferson’s interest is piqued. “What does she have to say?”
“Why are you always so interested in who I am to marry?”
“I—” Jefferson starts, a hot flash across his face. “Is it so bad to want you happy?”
“She has much to say about everything,” Madison replies, ignoring his question. “I think there is no one so educated in the world.”
Jefferson feels a sense of competition flare up between him and Miss Soulmate. “Prove it.”
Madison pulls down his left sleeve as Jefferson hands him a quill and ink. He deliberates for a while before writing.
What is the history and relation between the French and Italian languages?
Jefferson feels a prick of jealousy bother him. He could answer this question far better than any woman. He watches as Madison rolls down his right sleeve, waiting for an answer.
His own arm chooses this moment to itch, and through instinct—his soulmate has been contacting him constantly since he first wrote—he exposes his skin and glances at the words whilst they wait.
On his arm is:
What is the history and relation between the French and Italian languages?
His mind goes blank. He looks over to Madison, who is still staring at his right arm and waiting for a response. Struck dumb, he taps Madison on the shoulder and shows him his arm when he looks over.
Madison does not say anything for a moment. His eyes travel between their arms wordlessly. Finally, he stands stiffly, mentions that his father will want him back and that Washington is probably sending him trees of correspondence, walks out of the room, and Jefferson can hear him break into a run as soon as he is out of sight.
He lets him go. Jefferson himself can hardly comprehend what just happened. There are a million sentences he has a mind to write, but it is best for both of them if he keeps them within his mind for now.
—————————
Madison? he writes a few days after that. The name disappears and he waits for the response.
Jefferson.
Jefferson sighs. He’s used to these detached replies.
Well, is all he is able to say. That famous eloquence in the written word is miserably failing him now.
Please forget everything I wrote to you before your time in France, Madison writes.
Memories flood Jefferson of the utterly strange student Madison had once been and he can’t help but laugh. I am afraid I cannot make any promises on that front, he writes. They were certainly not the words of a man who never does or says an improper thing, though, were they?
Why the Doctor chose to talk to you as if I were his own son is beyond me. Please stop repeating it.
You possess a rare genius, Jefferson writes truthfully. It is no surprise you were such a joy to teach that he feels so close to you.
There is no response to that, even as the words are long faded. Very well, then, Jefferson makes a note, compliments are unwelcome as of now.
—————————
1793, Philadelphia. The yellow fever has made a wreckage of the city, the smell of death creeping in from Jefferson’s firmly closed window.
Received your letter. Are you alright?
No fever as of yet, Jefferson replies.
Thank God, Madison writes with shaky handwriting. His next words are less passionate. Wrote to you my desire you leave. No work can be done.
Everyone has fled, Jefferson informs. Preparing to leave.
Madison takes his time before replying.
You are an admirable person.
Jefferson can feel heat come to his face. Madison’s direct compliments are rare.
I told you, I am leaving. There is no need for flattery.
Forgive me. Emotional.
A smile comes to Jefferson’s face. He wouldn’t mind sitting through another epidemic if it meant Madison finally showed cracks in his shell.
Madison writes again.
I do care for you.
Jefferson relishes in this openness as long as he can, his mind able to recall the exact form of each of those words after they are gone.
Will be back soon, he promises again, and Madison must be content with that, because he stops writing.
—————————
The election of 1796 has the whole country in a storm, the prospect of the land led by anyone other than Washington stirring uneasiness in the hearts of every American.
Jefferson, however, would be very content to wake up the day after the results are tallied for all he cares about its developments. The newspapers he can avoid, though he really should not, but it is the other method of updates that refuses to leave him alone.
Not good is written on his arm. Adams is looking to take the lead in crucial states.
Let him have them, Jefferson writes with some annoyance. He absolutely does not want to be President of the United States. It is bad enough he will likely end up Vice President.
Will interview some of the House members as to their district’s loyalties.
Jefferson thinks with a cross between amusement and frustration that there are two completely separate conversations going on on their bodies.
Tell them that I happily endorse Mr. Adams should he be the victor, he tries, hoping that will get the point across.
Bipartisanship is charming, is the reply. Madison has to be playing dumb now.
Jefferson continues on his day, silently mourning his retirement, as the results of the election are continuously written—and ignored—over his arm.
One day, the final result is conveyed in one simple sentence.
Adams is President.
Give him my congratulations, Jefferson writes, though he knows Madison will do nothing of the sort. It seems the two heads of the Republican Party will be back in the Washington arena, then.
Madison reads it but does not reply.
Busy?
I am retiring, Madison writes quickly.
You are? Jefferson repeats. It is hypocritical, but he absolutely does not want Madison to retire and leave him to deal with the Federalists alone.
Madison does not reply, and Jefferson waits until he realizes that this is intended as punishment for his lack of ambition. Madison would not leave a President Jefferson to fend for himself, but the Vice President he could leave to flounder and do nothing.
Jefferson sighs, hoping Adams will be agreeable. It is the only way he will escape these next four years sane.
—————————
Jefferson writes, yet again, the latest round of ballots, marking the divided votes and names of endorsements. The reply is immediate, Madison concerned as ever with the results.
This country is governed by fools.
Have hope, Jefferson writes, because if he’s learned anything through all the misfortunes in his life, it is that the only way to press on is to have hope. That, and if he so much as thinks about spending another four years as a do-nothing Vice President, this time under President Aaron Burr, he will scream.
You have far too much.
Should bearing hope ever be a crime, I will rot in prison, he replies earnestly.
You could probably talk the jailer into letting you go, if I know you.
Jefferson laughs at the message, a welcome diversion from the seriousness of the election.
If only I could talk any one of the Federalists into backing down.
I think the common jailer, completely uneducated, hired only for both his brute strength and his ability to watch people suffer, is both smarter and more understanding than any Federalist.
You should have put that in your Helvidius.
Don’t remind me of those days.
Madison may hate them, and really Jefferson should as well, but he has a strange fondness for the years they were fighting Hamilton together, Jefferson badgering Madison to no end to forge ahead in the endless paper war. This feeling comes up every now and then when he thinks of every stage of this strange relationship, happy memories tinged with a sadness of days never to come again. A flash of emotion comes upon him, and he writes.
What would I do without you?
The response comes quicker than he had imagined.
You will never have to worry.
Sometimes Jefferson does worry—it is impossible to hear of Madison’s attacks upon his health without his breath hitching and a quick prayer of please, please, not him too—but it melts away at these words. Madison’s honest affections are rare, and he should be able to reply to them with ease—they are soulmates, after all, no matter how strange that relationship is—but he finds that his words fail him.
The House begins to reconvene for yet another vote, and Jefferson leaves Madison be as he prepares for disappointment once more.
—————————
They have not written on their skin often in these past years.
Not for any abatement of affection. Jefferson thinks that should their friendship die, they have become so intertwined with each other that the two of them would wither away in short order. No, it is a simple matter of them being joined at the hip all of Jefferson’s presidency and Jefferson not wanting to distract Madison from the duties of his. Madison had written a comment that Jefferson was too good to him in that respect, as he was sure he had been rather distracting to Jefferson himself, but he understood.
When the news comes of the fall of the capital, however, Jefferson hastily retreats to his study, shuts the door, and writes.
Are you alright?
The reply does not come, which Jefferson expects. The situation there must be chaos. It does not even disappear, which means Madison is too busy to even read it.
The words finally fade as his daughter knocks on the door.
“Father?” she calls.
“In a minute, dear,” he replies, waiting desperately to see if Madison will write.
The answer comes in large, finger-painted, dark red letters.
No ink
He steadies his breathing. The blood is not enough to be concerning—he guesses that Madison pricked his finger and that is all.
Will write to you. Much more.
He isn’t expecting a response, but it comes in the form of a check mark. His worry disappears as he rolls his sleeve back up, opens the door, and gives Martha a relieved hug.
Madison, as always, will be fine.
—————————
He is old now, and rheumatism has done its best to steal his ability to write, but some messages need immediate communication.
Do not, under any circumstances, allow Browere to take your bust. It will kill you. Will write in more detail.
Trouble in paradise?
This is a matter of life and death, sir! he insists.
Noted.
How many times has Madison written that infuriating word over the years?
Write something more, he writes.
Rheumatism hurts, Madison answers.
Age is too cruel.
‘Tis the price of wisdom.
Jefferson sighs. Madison is right, as always. It doesn’t make him any happier.
My spirit is too young for my body, he complains.
A common affliction.
At least it is one I will be relieved of soon, Jefferson writes, and to this Madison gives no reply. It is to happen soon, he adds gently. I can see it like a sunrise just creeping over the horizon, that will cross the sky before one can comprehend, and then that final sunset will close the story.
Jefferson can see a dot appear on his arm, a pen contemplating what to say.
I have spent too much of my life by your side, Madison writes. I have forgotten what life is like without reading over words of yours.
Jefferson can feel a tightness in his throat. All his life, he has looked forward to death, looked forward to finally meeting everyone he has lost, but now that it approaches, he feels the pain of leaving those still on earth.
I will always be with you, he writes.
No reply.
—————————
July 1st, 1826.
Even his doctor has told everyone he can to prepare for the inevitable. Jefferson has been bedridden for about a month, his condition steadily deteriorating, and he welcomes death. Still, whilst he has the strength, he ought to go to the trouble of saying his goodbyes.
He puts a pen to skin, contemplating. He decides to write the first thing that comes to mind.
I think I will write a poem.
As in early days, despite it being the middle of the night, the response is immediate.
Conserve your strength.
To Martha, he writes, ignoring the admonishment. I hope it will ease her pain.
A pause.
Make it worth the effort.
Do you have nothing else to say?
He stares at his skin, given color only by the flickering candle nearby.
Hurry, Jefferson writes impatiently. If I fall asleep without hearing from you I fear I will never wake up.
You are quite stubborn against Death, Madison comments.
I will die on the Fourth, I have decided. Jefferson can hear Madison’s laughter all these miles away.
I have no doubts about that, should you wish it, Madison writes.
The words turn into nothing and neither of them write for a long while.
Soulmates, hm? Madison says.
Can lives as twined as ours have any other explanation? Jefferson asks.
Are you happy about it?
Jefferson presses his lips together, fiddling with the locket that contains his wife’s hair. Once upon a time, he had wanted nothing more than to forget that the person who had written on his skin was anyone other than his wife, but now…
After a lifetime of whatever strange relationship had developed between them, he finds it is incomprehensible to think of a life without his pillar of support constantly writing to him.
I have no regrets about that.
Good, Madison replies.
It is strange to die, Jefferson observes.
I think you will live forever.
That is comforting, he admits.
It is only now that Jefferson realizes the futility of saying goodbye when neither of them actually want to do so. I do care for you, he echoes from the past, the words being all he can say. Thank you for everything.
Madison leaves a long dash of a line. Jefferson guesses that that is his way of acknowledging that he doesn’t quite know what to say.
Take care of me, he decides to quote from one of his final letters to him. He leaves off the last part.
The words sink slowly into his skin and the response is a long time coming. Madison is thinking long and hard. It is a comforting familiarity. He almost lets his mind wander, wondering what exactly it is that Madison will choose to send him off with, but there is no point. Madison is Madison, and he will think of a goodbye to put their minds to rest. No conjecture could stand up to the real thing.
He has lowered his head onto his pillow half-asleep, his candle burning low, eyes cracked open watching his arm, when it starts to itch, and words slowly scrawl across it. It is a short response, but carefully chosen.
I always have.