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Thomas stepped into the hall with Madison, a confident smirk playing on his lips. There were a few people in the room, but Thomas first strode over to George, “Ah, Mr. Washington, sir, so nice to see you again.”
Alexander overheard someone greeting Washington with a suave tone, with a hint of overzealousness. Not usually being the one to mind his own business, he turned in the direction of the speaker.
Thomas, after briefly greeting with Washington and assuring that they’d talk further after the meeting, turned to look around the room, and almost immediately met eyes with someone. They held gazes for a second, before forcing his eyes off of the man. Strange behavior for Thomas, since it was usually the other person who broke eye contact with him. Thomas, looking at the ground with a confused, almost perplexed look. He had felt… something, the second he looked at the man.
Alexander kept gazing at the man, even as he turned away, raising a hand uselessly and mouth dropping open a little, but he doesn’t know why. He faintly heard chatter around him, but it was almost silenced by his intense stare at the man. Alexander quickly turns, tearing his eyes away, and looks in the opposite direction.
“Jefferson.” Thomas just about jumped as a voice called his name, but he relaxed into his usual demeanor when he realized it was Madison, who goes on with, “Have you met our opponent Hamilton yet?” At the name, Thomas’s pulse picks up the pace. He can hear the blood rushing to his head.
Alexander hears his name and whirls around, again locking eyes with the stranger, causing another feeling of disorientation. There’s something about him, something Alexander can’t put his finger on. The man is talking to Madison, the scoundrel. Alexander almost scoffs at the idea of Madison trying to recruit him, when he suddenly realizes at their amity together that the man is already on Madison’s side.
Thomas meets the man’s eyes, and can’t hear anything over the skip in his heart. A monitor of his heart would have spiked. His face feels overheated, and Thomas touches his palm to his face. His eyes look wild, he knows, with the left eye doing an involuntary twitch. He grips onto his cane until his knuckles ache. This man is his opponent, he has to repeat to himself. This is the person he is fighting.
Alexander and Thomas stare at each other across the room, people aside. Their backs are straightened; their posture is sublime, with arms crossed behind their backs. Alexander stands steadily on both feet, despite the unsteadiness of his mind. Thomas attempts to stand more casually, resting more weight on one leg than the other. They stare, trying to identify what the sudden feeling was, caused by each other’s presence. They come to the same conclusion at the same time, or at least try to convince themselves it was what the feeling was called.
Loathing.
Thomas fights down the heat in his face, still feeling wildly unsteady as he convinces himself that, yes, he hates this man. That was the only feeling it could be.
Alexander is still only half convinced, but that’s good enough for him, and he molds his face into a serious glare, because yes, he hates this man. That was the only feeling it could be.
Unadulterated loathing.