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It is absolutely, certainly, hundred percent unfair that Thomas Jefferson gets to be so tall.
He is even taller than some of your professors, and you’re fairly certain that if you put him and Washington back to back, Thomas would’ve ended up beating him by like half an inch or something. Combined with his personality, appearance and a tasteless magenta jacket he wears much too often, it makes his twenty times more annoying.
Seriously, it is incredibly hard to look down at someone when they are, what, fourteen inches taller then you, and Jefferson deserves being looked down upon more than anyone else.
You can’t help but feel that people are laughing at you whenever you get into an argument with Thomas, simply because he looks like he could use your head as an armrest. Even Lafayette has commented on that at some point, and honestly – he was the last person you expected to hear such mockery from.
(You were gravely offended for two more days after that.)
“I mean, some people are taller than others, that’s just… genetics,” John, your roommate, shrugs. You sigh.
“Obviously, Laurens, I’m not dumb. I’m just saying that Jefferson’s genes could be less like those of a giraffe!”
He chuckles.
“Firstly, giraffe’s necks are so long because they have around seventy genes unique to their species, so you are hardly right. And secondly, Thomas is hardly as tall as you make him out to be. He just seems like it to you because you are, honestly, tiny.”
“Okay, first of all, why the fuck do you know how many unique genes do giraffes have? Is that like a thing you study in biology? And secondly, I am not short, I am totally average, thank you very much!” you pout.
“Alex. No offence, but you are literally four foot nine or something, with an average height in USA being roughly twelve inches more than that!”
“I am five exactly and full offence taken!” you frown. John laughs and okay, you cannot be angry at him when he laughs because his laughter is totally contagious. However, you do take an opportunity to tease him on his unnecessarily accurate knowledge of average heights (and the number of genes in a giraffe!)
“It’s not my fault I am interested in genetics!” he shrugs. “And giraffes are just a fun species to study, so…”
“Oh my god, you are such a nerd,” you laugh, totally not having run out of arguments to support your point, and he giggles and throws you a candy bar from a nearby table.
You love having John Laurens as a roommate.
***
Okay, but like you totally hate having Thomas Jefferson in your debate class.
Because you always end up going toe to toe, standing in the middle of the classroom and yelling at each other. Okay, maybe you are the one who does most of the yelling, but Jefferson always insults your character, origins or even clothing choices, which, okay, “Has no relation to the debate whatsoever, and if it did, it would give me an unfair advantage because look at your jacket!”. In the end Washington has to stop you from attacking one another physically much too often.
And, of course, Jefferson is really fucking tall, and standing on your tiptoes doesn’t even help. So your neck always ends up hurting after the debate class, and it generally isn’t a nice experience.
“Why are you even still taking it?” Laf wonders, chuckling quietly.
“I enjoy taking a piss out of Jefferson,” you shrug and frown under his sarcastic gaze. “What? That is a totally legitimate reason!”
“Bien sûr,” he grins contentedly, and you can’t help but feel like you are missing out on something, because Lafayette, being Jefferson’s roommate (sometimes you wonder how he can even stand the guy), would know a lot about your debates from him as well. That, of course, is just an assumption, but considering how much you blabber about them to John–
Wait, what? No. No, no, no. You do not “blabber”. You are trying to intelligently discuss it with your friends and get them to agree that Thomas Jefferson is a tall asshole who is wrong about literally everything he says, and if debate class comes into the conversation, well it is relevant!
(Somehow your plan doesn’t actually work and you start doubting your persuasion skills. Sometimes.)
***
Okay, you cannot say you are not looking forward to the debates entirely. Sometimes, especially after a long day of classes, it is kind of satisfying to prove how wrong someone is and to yell at them without being perceived as a madman. And yelling at Jefferson is generally satisfying no matter the cause, so sometimes – especially on Wednesdays – it may just be the best part of your day.
(Not that you’ll admit it to, like, anyone.)
So yeah. Wednesday. Debates. The topic this time wasn’t anything overly exciting, just some general stuff on space exploration, but enough for both you and Jefferson to get invested in the thing, alright. Definitely enough for you to jump from your chairs and stand face to face in the middle of the room because the tables are conveniently arranged in a circle. Certainly enough to make up arguments for and against it on the fly. And, of course–
Wait.
Was Jefferson wearing high heels?
Okay, fine, not exactly high heels, more like platform boots (which, to be honest, is even dumber, now that the thought has formed in your mind) but still! Why on earth would Thomas fucking Jefferson out of all people want to wear high heels?! Wasn’t he tall enough already?! You scoff in annoyance now that you realise it and Jefferson smirks.
“What, finally admit that my arguments are clearly superior to yours?”
“You wish!” you snort. “No, I was just outraged by the sheer stupidity of the words coming out of your mouth. You say that space exploration would require a massive amount of money, and, yeah, a three-year-old kid could’ve come up with that. However, consider how useful could the potential research be! The technology not necessarily has to only be used for...”
You definitely have a lot of things to say on the matter, so you just continue talking, while mindlessly walking over to the other corner of the room under Jefferson’s confused gaze and picking up a footstool. You aren’t exactly sure why does Washington even keep these things around in his classroom, but hey, better for you, right? You carry the thing back to the middle of the room, place it in front of Thomas and triumphantly climb onto it.
“And as I final argument, I am now taller then you,” you smirk. “Your response, mister Jefferson?”
For a second there is silence in the room with all the eyes fixed on you. Then Jefferson snorts and everyone else erupts into laughter, you even notice Washington chuckling from the corner of your eye, and this man rarely even smiles, let alone this. You frown in confusion:
“Did I make some obvious mistake I’m not ever gonna leave down?”
(You are pretty sure you didn’t, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask.)
“Hamilton,” Thomas sighs, nearly losing it himself. “You just climbed onto a footstool and declared you are taller than me. I’m not even going to comment on how that is not a legitimate argument, just – why?!”
“I– Oh for God’s sake!” you throw your arms, feeling blood rushing to your face. You may or may not have been totally distracted from whatever actions your body was doing while trying to come up with arguments against his words, but you are sure as hell not going to admit it. Plus, you can’t say it isn’t nice being able to look down on him once in a while. “I mean, you are wearing high heels, for god’s sake!”
“Yes, but–” Jefferson bites his lip, and then finally throws his head back, laughing, and wow, okay, you have never heard him laugh before. Snort sarcastically, sure, snickers to himself, yes, but not actually laugh. After about two seconds he twitches, coming back to his senses, and frowns again, though quite unconvincingly. “Washington, sir, is this even legal?”
“I am afraid I cannot prohibit mister Hamilton from standing on a footstool if he wants to,” Washington, to whom both of you turn demandingly, shrugs, hiding his smile. “And mister Jefferson, it is your turn to speak, so if you would be so kind.”
“But– Do you seriously expect me to– Okay, fucking fine!” He looks back at you, snorts yet again and shakes his head. “Okay. Pfft. So, you were talking about, um, technology, was it? Your arguments could be valid if we lived in some idealistic world where all the money allocated on a project is used up for the said project, but consider…”
And the debate goes on quite normally from then on, apart from occasional cackles from those surrounding you and even Thomas himself. Yes, you haven’t heard him laugh before, but you kind of want to do it more often – at least this makes him almost bearable. A little bit. Maybe.
Anyways, space exploration.
“Plus, you don’t seem to understand where does the money actually go, which I would expect from someone majoring in politics!” you continue on. “They don’t just burn it for fuel or something! For your information, it can massively reinforce the economy by giving jobs to people who are capable of…”
And see, there is the problem. Every person you are relatively close with (including Jefferson, that is, because you meet face to face so often) knows that you tend gesture a lot while talking. It is an old habit, probably due to how you, according to Laurens, manage to have an unlimited amount of energy even with limited sleep, and nobody is surprised anymore when you start swinging your arms through the air or pacing around the room while trying to prove a point. But the surface of footstools tents to be quite narrow and in all honesty, it is not that easy to keep your balance on it when you come up with an amazing argument or something.
So… yeah. You blame footstools and space exploration.
Because when you raise your head excitedly, hearing a (rare) fault in Jefferson’s argument, you take a small step forward almost instinctively. And when you realise there is no hard surface under your foot, it’s kind of a bit too late. Someone behind you gasps, Washington lifts, pushing his chair backwards, and you tumble to the ground. The height isn’t even big, okay – but if you’re unlucky, it is probably enough to break one’s nose when they fall from it. And, looking the truth in the eye, when were you even lucky?
And the next thing you know is that someone’s arms are wrapped around you and holy shit whoever it is, he’s warm. And he catches you from falling to the ground in front of the whole debating class, so there’s that.
And then he laughs softly.
“Seriously, Hamilton? You didn’t have to fall into my arms if you wanted a hug, y’know.”
Oh fuck, crosses your mind, and you struggle to get away from Thomas fucking Jefferson, who is grinning so widely it almost makes his face physically light up. The damn footstool is now toppled over on the floor and you, okay, you are struggling for words, feeling your cheeks heat up.
“And, uh, and as I was saying…” you try to continue, but trail off, staring quietly at the guy in front of you.
“I ship it,” a girl behind you states loudly and clearly, and okay, that comment was totally uncalled for, but acts as a catalyst, as everyone else virtually loses it. Jefferson kind of evades your gaze, but is still grinning, and you can feel that your mouth forms an involuntary smile.
And then – finally – the bell rings.
“Class dismissed,” Washington announces, snickering, and you exhale towards Thomas, half-hoping he wouldn’t hear:
“Thanks.”
And then you storm out of the room.
“Welcome,” he laughs behind you, but you can probably pretend you didn’t hear that, running straight to your dorm, which is fortunately not so far away, and falling on the bed the moment you shut the door behind you.
Well, that was that. Sure.
(And in the evening you keep bringing up to Laurens how much of an asshole Jefferson is and how he should probably definitely laugh more often because his laughter is much better for your ears than his voice. John, to your displeasure, cackles to himself.
“I hope someone filmed that.”
And you sigh in exasperation, realising that he is probably right.)