Work Text:
Thomas was a writer, there was no doubt about that.
He was the man who had written the Declaration of Independence. He was the man who had written countless other arguments in favor of the colonies, and why wouldn't he be proud of all of those? Those were pieces he held dear in his heart, knowing they had impacted the world in so many incredible ways.
What he was sitting at his desk currently writing, however, was much different.
So far, it read:
Being with you, Alexander, my chest aches. I feel I could die if the pressure refuses to let up, but I keep living in spite of it all. You are the cause of this strange malady, yet you are also the cure. You are akin to the fresh breeze that greets me every morning; you are the light dewdrops in the grass, glinting under the sunlight. You are so alive, it tortures me.
Thomas had experienced torture before in the form of watching his precious Declaration be torn to shreds, the notes regarding the sin of slavery and the evil misdeeds of King George III being replaced with words that felt dull, safe. Thomas despised it then and he despised it now. He had always believed the only way to rile a nation was through strong personal conviction and if not through speeches, through documents. The Declaration was one of the most passionate pieces he had ever written, yet it could've been so much more if it hadn't been prematurely butchered.
That had been his heart they tore from him, but now, there were no editors, no one to critique the steady flow of words from pen to paper. These words were his, even if he hated them. That handwriting was his too, even if he wanted to look away and toss the paper to the fire to devour, but he resisted. This was something he had written that couldn't be butchered or clouded through the lens of the interests of others; this was wholly his own. He intended to keep it, yet he doubted the page would ever again see the light of day as he pulled open a drawer and set it inside, promptly slamming it shut afterwards.
For a long time, he sat there, hands trembling, occasionally tugging at his curls in an attempt to ground himself. There wasn't anything he could do but hope the heavy feeling abated soon, so he sat still as that cycle of self-doubt and worry assaulted him.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't how he was supposed to be. Surely he was losing his mind, even if the feeling was so real he felt he could reach out and touch it with his fingertips. He could hold on, if he wanted, as he was far past letting go. The letter was proof enough of that: he was in this now. The long road that had been his denial was through.
It had been four days.
Thomas had thought a lot about the words his ink had pressed into the page not so long ago. He had tried to move past it many times, but without denial to hide behind, there was nothing to arm himself with. He couldn't build up his walls and sooner or later, Hamilton would recognize the weakness and exploit it for all it was worth. He knew this was a surefire way to have his name blasted in the papers and dragged through the mud until it became a synonym for buggery.
Understandably, Thomas was stressed. He avoided Hamilton as much as possible (not that he hadn't been avoiding him before) even though it interfered with his work. Washington caught on and it infuriated him to no end that his Secretary of State was all of the sudden constantly ‘ill’ or otherwise indisposed whenever he would call for a Cabinet Meeting.
The worst part was it wasn't a lie. Staring at Hamilton at Washington’s side, Thomas’s throat grew tight. His heart pounded. His head ached. His hands grew shaky until a pen became useless in his hand. He had no armor to protect himself against the onslaught that was the Secretary of Treasury's presence; many times he heard the words so clearly in his mind he almost said them aloud. It was completely illogical, but it was there.
That was how he found himself in his office once again, having feigned yet another malady to escape being trapped in a room with Hamilton. A pen was being flicked back and forth between his fingers as he reclined in a chair. The texture of the ceiling had captured his interest; it was a worthy distraction from all of those unpleasant thoughts.
At some point of time that was neither here nor there, his door squeaked open.
Thomas kept flicking his pen.
The door softly shut as someone stepped into the room.
The pen is Thomas’s fingers kept moving back and forth, now picking up momentum.
Someone cleared their throat.
The pen fell from Thomas's nimble fingers, rolling across the hardwood floor.
He looked up, raising an eyebrow. His eyes were met with two deep brown pools he would willingly drown himself in.
“Mr. Jefferson.” The Secretary of Treasury said, coquettely bowing his head in greeting. Thomas stiffly nodded in response.
Thomas watched as Hamilton looked towards the window. With him turned away, he finally felt able to breathe, but then the man spoke again. “A lovely day, is it not?”
Did he call on me to speak of the weather? Thomas wondered idly, not quite knowing why the thought made him want to smile foolishly.
“Indeed.” he answered, the stiffness retreating from his voice. He looked outside as well, towards the courtyard. There were a few passerbys strolling the grounds. Thomas could identify multiple types: some walked at a quick pace, clearly men of great importance who were eager to continue climbing the social ladder, while others walked slower, arms linked with their wives. The ladder type walked with a certainty the world would not move on without them. The skies could come crashing down and Thomas doubted they would walk any faster.
He couldn't help but see Hamilton in the fast-moving men out the window. His mind was always at work, spinning ideas faster than a weaver’s fingers worked thread. Life never seemed to move fast enough for him, even when others were telling him to slow down, even when his wife or the President himself told him to slow down.
Thomas didn't understand what was so attractive about that quality, even though he was unmistakably drawn to it.
Hamilton turned around. Thomas’s eyes flicked back to him. Hamilton’s eyes followed, and their gazes met once more.
“I tried to call on you earlier.” Hamilton said, still carefully regarding Thomas. Thomas noticed a cautious quality in his voice, and he immediately went on guard again.
“Did you?”
“Yes. I wanted to speak to you about a proposal you made last week… You weren't here.”
Thomas grew more worried, wondering where this was going. “I was out for an hour or so today. My estate–”
Hamilton cut him off. “I am ashamed to admit this to you, Mr. Jefferson, but I found myself curious to get an idea as to what you would propose the next time we convened. I rummaged through your drawers."
Thomas’s heart all but stopped.
The letter.
"I believe I keep my desk drawers under lock and key." Thomas said slowly, his throat tightening. Certainly not...
"A lock can be picked." Hamilton said, bowing his head. He reached into his pocket and produced the damning piece of parchment. Thomas looked at it like his stare alone might burn it to a crisp, but there was no undoing this. Hamilton had clearly read it.
“I–” Hamilton choked on his words, having to collect himself before he continued (he was beginning to flush a slight red, and not from anger, Thomas observed) “I found your use of metaphors quite–”
How Thomas remained composed, he would never know. He sat still as a statue, face no doubt paler than it had been a moment prior as he uttered the words, “I know.” Why he said it, he didn't know. There were a million things he should've said, from My mind was jaded to I'm sorry, but his throat grew tight.
Hamilton briskly nodded, casting the folded paper a glance before quickly stuffing it back into his pocket. No words were said between them for a long moment, but then fear clouded Thomas' mind again and he made the mistake of opening his mouth.
“I know you don't owe anything to me, but if you could refrain from making this public, I would greatly appreciate it.” The words came out in a rush, however professional they were. Silence descended on them like a hungry beast afterwards, and Hamilton turned to leave.
Thomas breathed a small sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. Hamilton whirled around, eyes blazing with that familiar fire. Thomas’s eyes widened and he shrank back in his chair, terrified but strangely drawn to the look he saw on the man’s face.
“Thomas!” Hamilton yelled, furious, “You were about to let me leave your office, just like that?!”
“Yes?”
Wrong answer. Hamilton’s fury grew.
“I have waited, Thomas, waited for a sign that perhaps this wasn't all sin in your eyes! I have waited for so long, but you never dared venture closer than our positions urged us! For the love of God, make up your mind, but don't you dare leave me standing in the dark!”
As Hamilton finished his rant, that wild look finally left his eyes. He collapsed into the chair in front of Thomas's desk, breathing heavily. His face was more flushed than Thomas had ever seen it before, but there was also a strange familiarity in it. It took far too long before what he'd said even began to register in his head.
Oh shit.
Thomas nearly blacked out. Blood rushed to his ears and thank God he was sitting down, for his legs wouldn't have supported him had he been standing. Hamilton—No, Alexander— had just professed his love to him.
“All this time?” Thomas whispered, staring at the man in bewilderment.
“Yes. All this time.”
“How long I have waited, just to hear those words.” Thomas thought aloud. Alexander's gaze snapped to him in an instant.
“Then I won't restrain myself.” he breathed, making a move towards Thomas. Thomas only had time to freeze before Alexander was firmly locking their lips together. He kissed with fervor, kissing with such intensity Thomas felt positively high off it. He would inject himself with this feeling everyday if given the chance—it would sustain him longer than food and water ever could.
He firmly gripped the back of Alexander’s head, intertwining his fingers in his hair and tugging him closer. He braced himself against the back of the desk, breathing heavily as Alexander’s mouth tried its best to undo him. He was floating and certainly this couldn't be reality, though it was too real to be fantasy either. This was somehow the perfected middle ground of both worlds.
“I believe I love you,” Thomas gasped in-between kisses, beginning to lose himself in the sensation. He had just enough of his wits about him left to feel Alexander’s smirk against his lips.
“It's about damn time.”
After Alexander spoke those words, Thomas fully lost himself to the hazy, addicting sensation.
When Thomas properly came to, he only had bits and pieces of what'd just occurred. His memory was still hazy because everything felt kind of weird, like he was still walking on air. When he looked down, he discovered the mess that was his desk, with the many papers strewn about. None of that mattered much though, because Alexander was gone.
Thomas blinked then slowly moved towards the chair. He promptly fell into it, sighing as the ache in his limbs began to make itself known to him. He could only imagine what he looked like right now, but there wasn't any shame to accompany that thought.
Looking up, he laid eyes on the desk again. Besides the papers, Thomas made another observation: his desk was shifted out of place. Thomas felt a wry half-grin cross his face.
The papers he could reorganize, the desk he could move back. What he could not get back was the time before he knew what Alexander felt like; how he would ever become accustomed to the lack of that sensation, he would never know. For better or worse, they were stuck with each other now.