Chapter Text
Even at five years old, Jefferson hid nothing. His emotions, his thoughts, his opinions... he let them be known to the world, and damn them all if they disagreed. Even at five years old, he'd carried around that ridiculous white handkerchief which immediately flew up to his mouth whenever someone nearby him did so much as yawn.
Even at five years old, he was an 100% utter germophobe with no verbal filter.
Even at five years old, Madison was short and sickly. He had a hacking cough, a runny nose and two bleary eyes that regarded his surroundings uneasily. Even at five years old he stayed quiet, picking his battles with care and trying to settle debates peacefully.
Even at five years old, he hadn't had the good luck to steer clear of the magenta mess known as Thomas Jefferson.
It had been early morning at the time. Too early. The new kindergartners trickled in sleepily, looking for people to sit near and already missing their parents. More than one started to cry, only to be quickly ushered away by the teacher and soothed.
James, ironically, might have been the most energetic kid there. Fitful nights were common to him, and waking up early was no stranger either. So he sat, amiably wiping his nose with his sleeve, and waited for someone to sit next to him.
Nobody did.
James still wasn't bothered. There could be plenty of excuses on why no one had sat next to him yet. Maybe they didn't relish the idea of being so close to the back of the room. Maybe they already had someone in mind they wanted to sit with. Maybe they just hadn't noticed him yet.
When class started however, with the teacher calling everyone's names and the kids yapping merrily, James started to feel a little uncomfortable. He could feel peoples pitying glances.
That's when the door flew open.
The first thing James registered about the newcomer was his hair.
It was... well... huge. Huge, and black, and fluffy. A bit like a bush. This kid probably needed no pillow when he went to sleep with a head of hair like that.
Along with that minor detail, the kid was also dark skinned, with bright black eyes, a magenta sweater and a cocksure grin. He swaggered in importantly, practically preening from all the attention everyone was giving him.
"Sorry I'm late, miss," he said to the teacher. His English had a slight lilt to it, one James couldn't identify. "My daddy was stuck in traffic."
"It's fine," the teacher said indulgently. "But please try to be on time tomorrow. What's your name?"
"Thomas Jefferson. I can spell it if you want. My daddy taught me how to."
"That won't be needed, Tom."
"Thomas. T-H-O-M-A-S--"
Everyone gaped in admiration. Not only did this child prodigy know how to spell his name, he had just back-talked the teacher! A few giggles broke out.
"Alright, Thomas, that's enough. Good job. Why don't you go sit next to..."
The teacher looked around thoughtfully. She'd dealt with Thomas's kind before: smart-mouthed arrogant little ones who thought that because they could spell and count slightly better than everyone else they were rightfully kings of the classroom. She needed to put him next to someone quiet who could temper that... Someone who wouldn't stand for that kind of attitude...
Her eye caught on the little boy at the back of the room. He'd hardly spoken a word since he'd first arrived, just snuffled and sneezed a few times. The teacher's heart went out to him. Maybe he needed someone to give him confidence just as much as Thomas needed someone to take some away from him.
"....James," she concluded. "Why don't you go sit next to James?"
James felt everyone's eyes flick towards him. He instinctively shrunk down in his seat.
"Yes, miss," Thomas said.
He sauntered to the back and flippantly tossed his stuff onto James's side of the table. James didn't bother trying to shove it away. He was torn between feeling relief at not being alone anymore, and mortified that his partner ended up being a loudmouth with a superiority complex. Now surely everyone would stare at him... and judge him... and not want to ever sit next to him...
In fact, James got himself so worked up over it that when the teacher began roll call, he started to cough.
Generally, there were three stages to James's sickness: The drippy nose (which occurred 24/7 and consisted of just what it sounded like), the coughing (which also happened consistently and usually resulted in him hurting his throat) and the sneezing (rarer, but more annoying to deal with.)
It was all pretty straightforward, really. Except that coughing was then split into two groups: Stressed coughing and regular coughing. Regular coughing was annoying, but tolerable. Stressed coughing however could go on for minutes at a time, and never failed to irritate everyone around James-- thus stressing him out more, and making his cough worsen.
Sitting next to Thomas brought on a panic round of the latter.
"Aaron Burr?"
"Here."
"*Cough cough cough.*"
"George Frederick the Third?"
"Here!"
"*Cough cough cough cough cough.*"
"Thomas Jefferson?"
Thomas sent James a nasty look as he raised his hand. "Here, but can I move?"
The teacher didn't look up from her paper. "No. Jamie, do you need a strepsil?"
James tried not to choke on his own spit. Easy does it, he could hear his mom saying. Calm down there, steam engine.
"No, thank you," he managed to say after a second.
The teacher nodded. "If you need anything, just let me know."
"Can I move?" Thomas asked again.
"No, To-- Thomas."
"But he's spitting all over me. It's like I'm at a waterfall or something."
James flushed bright red as the surrounding kids started to laugh. The teacher frowned. "Thomas, that wasn't nice. Apologize to Jamie."
"Sorry, Jamie," Thomas said, mimicking the teacher's tone. James just nodded and tried to force away the heat on his cheeks. The teacher, missing the sarcasm, turned away in satisfaction and went back to reading the rollcall, while Thomas took the opportunity to slide his chair away from James a bit and pull out of seemingly nowhere a white handkerchief.
"Can you not?" he hissed, flapping the scrap of paper in James's direction. James flinched.
"Not what?"
"Get your spit and snot everywhere. It's gross. My daddy says that's how germs are spread." He said 'germs' like another kid might say 'zombies.'
James shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sneezed, and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Sorry."
"No, you're not. You're still doing it."
"I can't help it. Sorry."
"Yeah, I noticed that. Use a handkerchief or something, dummy."
"I don't have one. Sorry."
"And stop saying sorry!"
"Thomas, Jamie," the teacher called out disapprovingly. "Do I hear trouble?"
"No, miss," Thomas immediately answered, his voice the epitome of angelic. "Me 'n James were just talking about stuff."
The teacher shook her head. Maybe, she reflected ruefully, placing them together hadn't been her best idea. "Alright, well, save it for break okay? Right now is classtime."
James tried not to cough.
~*~
The rest of the day had proceeded in a similar fashion. The teacher had partnered them up on various exercises, but in most cases James had ended pulling both of their workhaul-- Thomas refused to go too close to him lest he 'catch a germ.'
When he wasn't freaking out over James's cold, he liked to boast about the various places he'd been. He was half-French apparently, which explained that weird lilt to his voice that James had preciously noticed. Sometimes he slipped into French just to impress.
"You're a bit of a perdant, aren't you?" he'd remarked at some point. James had been trying to cut a piece of paper in two perfect halves (and failing miserably) and it was clear Thomas felt no inclination to help.
James hadn't asked what a perdant was. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. But Thomas for once seemed pleased at his silence, and as the quiet enveloped them both, it almost seemed different this time. Companionable.
"You keep on sniffing," he noticed a few minutes later. This was typical. No matter how nice the quiet, Thomas apparently could never stand it for too long (quite the contrast to James, who had grown up with it so much it felt more like an old friend at this point.)
"I'm sick," James said.
Thomas shook his head, making his curls bob up and down like waves in the sea. "I mean you keep on sniffing and sniffing and not blowing your nose. You should go do that."
James felt bewildered. "I should go not blow my nose?"
"Dummy. Go blow it."
"It's okay," James said, suddenly struck with the realization that Thomas wanted him not only to get up in the middle of class but also walk past the dozens of staring eyes and ask --ask!-- the teacher for a handkerchief. "I'm good."
"Liar," Thomas said. "When you're sick, you blow your nose. My daddy told me so, and he's always right."
James tried to stem the anxious coughs bubbling up in him. "I'm fine."
"Yeah, right. You need a tissue."
"I don't have one."
"Go ask."
"I don't want to."
Thomas looked at him with dark eyes narrowed down to slits. James hastily looked away. For a five year old, Thomas certainly pulled off intimidation.
"Oh, I got it," Thomas finally declared. He leaned back in his chair, an air of scorn surrounding him. "You're scared."
James didn't answer, and pretended to go back to cutting his paper. He could feel Thomas's gaze drilling into him.
"Scaredy-cat."
James mapped the line of cutting in his head.
"Scaredy-scaredy-cat."
He traced it with a finger, and then picked up his paper to try. This would be his third attempt yet. The project would probably go much faster if his coordination wasn't so poor, but as Thomas refused to take over, there wasn't much else to do.
"Scaredy-scaredy-scaredy-cat!"
Huh. The paper was actually coming out pretty even.
Well, it was, until Thomas kicked him under the table. The scissors dipped and snipped off part of the wrong direction. James felt his eyes widen.
"Why'd you do that?" he said. Upset. "I was almost done."
Thomas had been wearing a smug look, but at this question, it slipped right off into a mask of defense.
"You weren't answerin'," he mumbled, crossing his arms awkwardly. "When someone calls you a scaredy-cat, you have to answer 'no I'm not, you are.'"
Being only a five year old, James' face had yet to discover some of the expressions and emotions that older people got to experience, but now, at this perplexing and utterly offending sentence, he could feel his forehead furrow and his mouth curl into a scowl.
He'd never felt aggression like this before. It was a whole new sensation.
"That's stupid," he said. "Why should I call you a scaredy-cat? It's pretty plain you're not."
Thomas's defense was still on: "Yeah, I'm not, but since I said you are, you have to tell me I am. It's the rules."
"Well, I'm not doing them."
"You have to. They're the rules. Don't be stupid--"
"Thomas, shut up."
Silence.
James's gaze traveled downwards, suddenly ashamed. He'd never meant to say that. Now Thomas would hate him even more... and what if he told the teacher what James had said? He coughed once, shallowly, and tried to work out an apology.
Then he felt something being pressed into his hand.
He looked up. It was a handkerchief. The same one Thomas had brandished at him earlier, as if trying to swat away James's cold.
"Take it," Thomas said nonchalantly. "Use it to blow your nose or something. Since you're such a scaredy-cat."
James blinked at him owlishly before doing as suggested. "Thanks."
"Yeah, yeah. Now give me the scissors."
~*~