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September 6, 1782.
Barely has the crisp air and have the brown hues of autumn settled, cool and windy, when Martha is gone. Gone is she, and with her, so closes off a chapter of the joys in his life.
Thomas holds her hand and soon it is cold – too cold, but he is held back by faceless relatives when shakily he makes to shield her with her blankets of silk.
Cold and stiff.
The winter took her, he pleads in a litany; and he does not take heed when he is coaxed from her and reminded that it is yet autumn; that the air is crisp but the leaves, brown and red as they wither and fall, are not yet taken by ice and by frost.
For icy is her skin; if not to the touch, then to the sight. And on the skin, milky white, deadly pale, her raiments cling; dried fresh of her last feverish sweats; white cotton outlining on white flesh, and the contrast of dark strands shadowing on her too thin layer of skin, and sunken eyes forever sealed shut, and dry, half-closed blue lips that never again shall kiss. She does not look asleep. She is as well as hopelessly gone.
This sight, her last sight, burns into the loving picture of his mind. Those ten years by Martha – passed as precious as they were brief, too brief, and now gone they are – But the days still pass, and she is dug and buried; and he paces.
Winter, true winter, comes at last.
Thomas does not like the winter; not this one. But not at all is it akind to his grief. How he wishes for a wintery grief; cold, and numb, and everything he is not; at the very least, his sorrow should go frozen, should it be wintery. But an analogy of grief like winter would truthfully fall flat.
It is not cold and white. That was her. It is a desert, dry and relentless and lifeless; and it makes one gasp for a drop of refreshment, for a relief of wind, for a brief respite over the cruelty of its ground infertile and rocky against one's tender knees.
Lifeless it is, not unlike Martha's portraits – smiling eyes on the house's walls, eyes of a hazel oil-base paint spread, that look back at Thomas' own. A brush-stroke of an iris. His misery they see, although never shall they see again, and wretched, he has the paintings covered on black curtains. He cannot bear to see her face; a fair semblance, fair and sweet, now gone. Now reduced to strokes of lines that never do her justice enough. Should he behold her trapped in the cage of a portrait, he would be lost in it forever just as she.
Thomas paces and paces by the window, now methodically peeking, now groaning and despairing; but the days blur together, and in their stirring pace he paces all the same.
The wind whistles as between the slots of the window it intrudes; and even yet, far from discernible, it serves to all but drown the pitiful calls of his young daughter against the door.
"What is it?" Thomas calls back, sharper than intended, and she goes on.
Madison.
...
"I was under the impression, Mr. Jefferson, that your piano was seldom ever fallen into neglect," observes Madison, duly, the upright piano that lies forsaken in the midst of the room.
Undoubtedly dusted by the servants, but otherwise untouched, unsung. His voice is hushed; proper of James Madison's nature, ever proper of the occasion of grief.
"No," Thomas sits across the room, vaguely gesturing at his violin hanging forlorn on the wall. "I bow. I would bow those strings, and she would accompany. Skillful fingers such as those..."
Dainty, gloved fingers; fragile to the bare view, nimble on the keys of a piano. A liveliness that never shall return to echo on the halls of Monticello, to sweeten its ambience in a quaint little tune...
Madison takes a last look at the piano, as if considering it against Thomas' pitiable and distant airs.
"I have but air skills, sir," he begins, carefully, with his characteristic soft-spoken tone; and Thomas has to look up in amazement. "But I will join you, if you would have me."
Silence reigns.
Thomas forces his voice out, knowing well that Madison is never going to break a silence otherwise.
"Of course I would have you, Mr. Madison."
The younger man excuses himself from the room, in order to retrieve his instrument; and it occurs to Thomas that he has to tune his fiddle firstly, and secondly to wonder the amazement of finding that Madison is apparently versed musically.
Thomas goes and does just that; he picks and bows and adjusts at the strings until the sound is effectively tuned and settled; and it does not take long for the fellow Virginian to reappear, holding a black case of sorts; black like his coat and his breeches. (Thomas is not like that. He wears black only now that he has lost his Martha. James dares his black wear even through the hottest days of Virginia and despite the blasted white powder of his wig.)
In wonder, Thomas eyes the long darkened case, and his eyes lighten up for the first time in what seems a world Age or a lifetime; they lighten up in recognition as James pries the instrument from within.
A flute.
It is not of a particularly stunning or otherwise outstanding craft; merely, merely, a flute. It is evident that it must hold some special place in the likes of Madison's priorities, in that he still holds it in his keeping in favour of any a fancier, prettier piece.
"I came prevented," says Madison. "In that you would, I figure, wish to relieve the felt absence of music."
Thomas' violin joins Madison's flute that night, and for the years to come, Thomas will reminisce the unwritten tune they bled together as a piece of each other that remained so uniquely theirs – and Madison's otherwise blank face, now lost in an undone haze of music – all perfectly echoing in the halls of lasting memory.
...
"I am no poet, my dear Sir," the little Madison sits, and were Thomas not already privy to his acquaintance, he would not have taken notice of the withdrawn manner in which the smaller man's fingers clutch protectively at the small book. "And my poetry dates back to my college years of competitive pursuits. They were, by all means, meant to offend. I am barely now but rediscovering this use to the quill pen, and I hope this time for my verses to bring no offense."
Thomas only stares, blinking.
Uncharacteristically of James Madison, he has spoken more than Thomas requires to understand. And more uncharacteristically, he now seeks a relief for the silence that reigns: "It is intended for you, Sir, not at you."
"... Why should I take offense?" Thomas manages at last, evidently taken aback. "A piece is created of your hand, and it is for me. I should rejoice all the better, I say."
For truly, it would be most unseemly to reject or otherwise slight a piece of writing that his mere existence has inspired. Thomas crosses his arms and leans against his desk patiently, waits expectantly, and James takes his cue.
"It is a cheeky piece," Madison makes sure to clear up. "Lighthearted. But it is nonetheless of certain value... And at first I had wished to show you and laugh together over the silliness, but now I find I fluster."
And it is all to coax Thomas' mind away from his loss. Of course. James Madison, a gentleman so composed, does not ever mean to do with any a matter labelled silly or, God forbid, light-hearted. Thomas has to bite back a chuckle at that. He knows better.
(James' smiles, though reserved, are honest and true when aimed at Thomas.)
"Not a Giant nor a Nephilim," James announces, clearing his throat.
Fiddler that thou bow, bow me a little jig,
Mister that thou sow, row me a lively gig;
But thou should sow it loud, for thy frame stands most big,
And vainly strays thy sound, ere it should reach my ear.
And by thy trunk grown proud, I am but lowly twig,
Oft I mean to enquire, oft I am left wondering;
Do clouds misten thy eye? Do heavens graze thy wig?
Do sun and moon and star thy great frame shadow near?
My neck I ought to strain, my eyes I cast up high,
For thou be mighty slender, and I appear but a fly;
To Icarus I begrudge, a gift gods to him bring,
Would that I be bestowed a seemly pair of wings.
To reach the likes of me, thy frame thou ought to dig;
Instead so I should fly, for thee to reach this Whig.
"Is the piece's conflict, my friend, that you are too little – or that by you, I appear overgrown?" Thomas laughs at last, raising an eyebrow. Their jesting always comes as such a delight.
(And it is only theirs; so theirs.)
The poem was hasty. It followed no particular structure, and the rhyme scheme is unsteady and, at places, uncertain; and it is so evident that poetry is an area in which James does not excel; and it is with a heartwarming wonder that Thomas sees James, for the first time, so endearingly set. Never before has he seen him lay out such a piece, so uniquely and so humanly flawed, with no other purpose but to be.
It was laying bare a side so true, (so silly!), of himself.
So incompetent, that it is perhaps one poetic piece Thomas will treasure for all the life there is in him.
"It is flawed." James sighs with a creeping grin. Evidently he does not know where it came from, but Thomas does.
Flawed. Yes, it is flawed; it is human, and of the heart.
"It is flawed," agrees Thomas. "But it is wonderful. And as it is mine, allow me to keep it."
...
Thomas frees Martha's portraits, that night. Her eyes smile at him once more above the candlelight.
...
1783.
"Such are the ways of nature's Creator," says Thomas over coffee. "Perfect and free; and for their rightful enforcement in higher legislation I shall truly advocate soon."
They share in biscuits and coffee delighting in Thomas' second library; one that very nearly shadows over his first library, regretfully lost along all of Thomas' dearest texts. The fire of Shadwell.
Now sitting here, together among thousands of books and copies of pamphlets, a mess of texts scattered and piled before them, Thomas feels a deeper fire ignite within – one beyond the all-consuming fire of Shadwell or the enveloping warmth of Virginia.
(There was a reason Thomas had a bedroom made and kept for James; so long as he were in his home, it all remained warm and well.)
"Natural law is very much a subject of... Common sense, if you do follow me in my reference," says James after a while. "It is, or is as it should be, a common knowledge acquired innately; that is why it feels so utterly right, and why corrupted powers such as those monarchical fail to follow it. Such said administrations rebel fruitlessly against the natural design."
"Indeed they do, Sir." Thomas nods. "Against natural design with the etymology given by the old Schools of thought. No better source, no proof as infallible."
James hums, and sips at his coffee.
Thomas is sitting across the mess of a table from his political protegee, and yet intently his chin rests on his spindly hand, supported by an elbow on the table; and he reminds of a classical sculture of a philosopher and a thinker, albeit a much slender one, regarding with set intensity the ways of life and of necessities.
Regarding James, sitting before him.
"But sooner rather than later, all manners of governing and the directions of man return to the ways of natural law... "
"For so within us is written," concedes Thomas.
The wit of Shakespeare to introduce cheek in his tragedies. Cheek and delight. Now Thomas can better see how fiction reflects reality in place of deflecting it.
From outside of the room, both men can hear the unmistakable laughter of children – one older, Patsy, ever Thomas' little companion through his grief, and whose unbelievable load to shoulder as his eldest child is graciously relieved by a constant James Madison, who readily assists in her reading and her writing and in handling her father; one younger, Polly, whose feather-light steps echo in their turbulent run through the halls of Monticello, and ever marvels at Mr. Madison's flute, and he allows her to make it sing (or to attempt to); and one youngest, baby Lucy, giggling and most surely toddling after her older sisters if not carried by the servitude or by the girls – and Thomas is unsure of which one James has taken to indulging the most.
His sweet angels may be without a mother, and without the siblings that the Lord claimed too soon – but they have their father still, and they are all the promise that is left for Thomas Jefferson; and by God that as long as he draws breath it shall perpetually be secured and inspired in the promise that his dear girls remain...
Thomas is drawn out of his mental wandering by a pleased hum.
He watches as James takes a (discreetly) indulgent bite of his jam-filled biscuit, and Thomas finds he cannot look away. Those delights must have been baked by none other than the Hemings brother.
Were this someone, anyone else – someone not his Martha – already Thomas would have raised his concerns and his demands against the eating and the drinking in dangerous proximity of his much beloved books and his essays.
But this is not someone, anyone else. This is James.
The younger man meets his stare, icy blue eyes landing on the hazel of his own, and Thomas does not slight his gaze; instead, holding James' gaze, he slides the plate of biscuits toward him.
And he smiles.
"Indulge yourself, my friend, in this treat. As excessive and stomach-cramping as you so wish, I say."
"Mr. Jefferson," James hums, returning a half-smile, "I don't suppose you forget that gluttony is a capital sin – and so is tempting me to it."
...
Mr. Madison is a man of reserve, dear Sir. You saw to it: greet him in an embrace and merely he will be stunned where he stands. I beg you expect not much else in the future. I would not, in your position Sir, be too surprised or too wounded. He is not a man inclined to physical effects, (or to emotion at any rate.) He does not display such warmth, and rarely did he return it, and he is small and his hands are perpetually cold – so he is not built for such said displays any way. He has agreeable reasons also. There are ailments going 'round, and O his poor health. I would dare suggest he has remarkably withdrawn his scrupulous boundaries in regards of you, my good Sir, and all that concerns you. A favourable poem – what novelty indeed!
At any rate, Mr. Jefferson, I doubt greatly that Mr. Madison ever should take up on your offer of Monticello for his home, however generous it be –as so are my most benign prospects for the days long migraine it prompted upon you good sir as hearsay goes– and he still, absolute and resolutely, does not hug.
...
When baby Lucy draws her last breath, and too little a coffin is lowered before a distraught crowd and a sorrow-stricken father, James embraces him. For the first time he does. He is the one to hold him and read to him and play flute for him and all such affairs through nights of unbelievable grief. He sees that the girls find distraction, he assists in that the household is tended to, and he stays. Thomas breaks again when James allows himself to shed a lone tear.
...
Mid 1784.
"I was uncertain of the manner of my announcement. Letter or a meeting, it is all the same; it is that I leave for France."
A beat.
"I have been appointed to our States' ministry of France," he carries on, taking James' small hands into his own. "It is so, sir, that I must bid you farewell. How long it may be, I... know not."
It takes a moment; a moment that borders on eternal, there in the outer gardens of Montpelier; but eventually, James' conflicting expression shifts into a sigh, and his hold tightens ever-so-slightly.
"When shall you leave?"
"I should take my leave by July."
Thomas very nearly misses the manner in which James' breath quietly broke in his chest.
"The doors of Monticello shall remain open," Thomas quickly assures, "your room ever available. Those under my servitude are in perpetual wait on you. I am aware you do not wish to leave Montpelier for your home, you have given me firm answer time to time. Still Monticello remains so yours as it is mine."
"I know."
"I shall take Patsy. I know my little Polly you shall guard well until I can send for her also."
James lowers his gaze at their hands – the gentle way in which Thomas's bigger hands easily hold his; and, much to Thomas' awe, the younger man effectively interlocks their fingers together.
"Of course I shall." James nods at last. "Now let us share in this evening, and allow us to dine and pray together for a steady voyage. I shall help you sort."
...
Paris is grand, and a marvel, but it too can be grey; and the thought of one particular delegate refuses to leave Thomas' mind, even before Lafayette's enthusiastic enquiries and his invites to dine and to scheme.
Patsy is there, at least, to make him company; or so it is for the first few days. His dear daughter is yet young, and in need of continuous education, and too much like her mother in the small ways, those passing details that for all else go unnoticed; too many daughters he has lost, too, and he is aware not one of the two will be static. Thomas enrolls her in schooling, then goes about his duties. It is not an easy road.
Franklin's presence he welcomes a great deal, is that old man bold and so dearly brazen; but his subsequent absence little less than a year later is very much not grand; and it is a post much too great Thomas must fulfill, a bar too high to attempt to reach, come the unfortune of Franklin's dismissal. Adams is a companion that shatters the ear all day and hoards the blanket at night. Lafayette is dear.
All in all, Thomas is surrounded by men of true presence – and yet, not all the men of Paris can ever begin to fill the void of one in particular.
Not his work nor his friendships serve to distract the mind, less so the heart. Often he writes to James, seldom does he go unanswered; it is all written in code, their code, and much of it is regarding matters of Polly, first and foremost; then three years later when Thomas has sent for Polly, his prioritized regards shift mostly to Monticello, to updates on the proceedings for their Virginia Statute of Religious Freedom, to advice; then soon enough to the timely French Revolution, and the usual cordial regards; to Monroe, to each other; but in the end, when all is written and all is sealed and all is sent, it all is to the sole intent of reaching James.
He refuses to wonder if James feels it the same. If James is, at the very least, reached.
(Thomas will be damned before so much as even considering to entangle James in the atrocity of his thoughts; if ever he is rightfully punished, by way of earthly law or by his day of Judgement, he at least will not have attempted to drag his most beloved friend into such damnation.)
Then Mrs. Maria Conway waltzes in, of Londoner fabric and Italian wood; the lady is dazzling and accomplished and married. Thomas feels himself drawn to her formidable ways, to her musical skills; quickly, they become close.
Thomas knows it is not meant to be. His last promise to Martha, for the better sake of their girls, was that never he would remarry – Martha would remain their only mother. Mrs. Conway also would not divorce easily.
When he tells Maria of James Madison, his tone softens in such a such a way like honey; asinine; and there appears a knowing glint in her eyes – and immediately Thomas comes to, he has just unknowingly laid his feelings bare; and she has just deciphered him like a translator would an ancient papyrus barely unravelled.
"How I envy this Mr. Madison. You affections must be enchanting, I say."
He can only stare. Words fail his otherwise impetuous self.
She knows.
"That is bold of you," is all he can manage.
She only smiles.
"Well, am I mistaken?"
Thomas looks at Mrs. Conway. Their breaths echo and bounce against the walls of the lone theatre wing.
And it is only senseful Thomas should run. Brisk and away, he ought to run. And had Thomas any sense, he would now run.
Yet for once, he feels he can take the risk of saying it out loud, of making it exist:
"No. No, you would not be mistaken."
"Then," she leans forward, "show him."
Silence.
"... And do keep me updated, as well."
Thomas is quite certain that this lady has waited to encounter something like this her whole life.
...
When word of James' latest seizing fit reaches Thomas, the task of persuading the Virginian into not boarding the nearest ship that sails for America falls solely on the Marquis de Lafayette.
"A seizure, Lafayette! And then not one letter since– oh!" Thomas throws his arms up in exasperation.
"Monsieur Jefferson–"
"It is an evil," Thomas paces, and mon Dieu does he pace. "Indeed sickness thrives in the least deserving few. Why does it simply not fall on the lowly wretches instead? On the vermin crowding the streets?!"
"Calm yourself, mon ami," the Frenchman chuckles uneasy, "pacing here and there you will only dig yourself a hole in the floor."
"Better yet!"
A silence reigns, where only the other man's steps are heard. The Marquis probably cannot think of a worse fit than the one possessing his friend at the moment. Madison's fit, Lafayette murmurs, would not even begin to approach.
"Do listen. Mon chér, here," begins Lafayette, gently, and it serves to soften Thomas' pace a tad.
"My friend."
"If what you say to me is of value, which yes I am assured it is," the Frenchman continues, a caring hand on Jefferson's cheek. "Then Thomas – votre ami will pull through. He will! You tend to say he always does."
Groaning despite the Marquis, Thomas continues in his stubborn pacing – in such a relentless resolve never seen perhaps since Martha.
...
1789.
Five years.
Five years he schemes and meets and takes counsel with the French; and once in London with King George, as well, but that had been arranged by Adams and rather ungracious; and Paris had indeed embraced him like her own.
But Thomas yearns. America. Virginia. Monticello.
James.
His boy's given name, Christian-given, once too indecorous-ly casual for the tongue, does not feel so improper to think of anymore – or a sin – only a calling. The idea of hands meeting, of fingers interlocking, of dining and praying; it never once has left Thomas' mind alone, unseemly as it all were. It was no mercy. One night of praying together, hand in his hand, and nothing more; and it was already so much; one night and one mere touch made memorable and made enough to last for the many more nights they have been to spend apart; a promise unspoken, that Thomas would return for more. He has taken that last night, a particular moment or two, and wore and stretched it plenty enough that worn-out it now lies done anc overdone in his mind and heart – and he now yearns to at once return and more of it produce.
Take what it may, for even now it does not seem such an evil to make return for the damned routine of cabinet assemblies, of factions, of committee arrangements; a cabinet, the split chaos of which he always became unwillingly tangled into, as if stuck in the midmost action of the Greek pantheon and its deity-dwellers; Thomas would endure that and more. He yearns to behold James' document, behold the freedoms established by their Constitution, teach them how to say hello; he burns to shake James' hand and take him in an embrace and speak his pride.
Thomas leaves Paris with a relieved conscience and sails to a promise for a Bill of Rights. He comes home with a new wisdom, and in the face, one or two new wrinkles.
...
"And they call it ice-cream?"
"In reference, I boldly suggest, to its icy state and its creamy texture."
Playful, and lively now, Thomas chuckles as James examines the new cold dessert, a hint of doubtful amazement gracing the younger man's features; then, tentatively, Thomas takes up the small spoon and leads it for James' lips, leaving no room or time for protest.
James grasps at the spoon, around Thomas' hand, and it takes a moment; there is the shaken stance, sweet Jesus how do they keep this so frigid, then Thomas' eyes promptly lighten up when James gives a tiny squeal upon the spoonful.
By God, James has let out a squeal; James Madison, of all people.
"A travesty that I have missed out on much of French cuisine. This is... Oh. Tasty." He retires the spoon from his mouth, reaching for more.
"I also brought chocolates for Your Little Majesty, if so you crave. They are shaped and some are stuffed. The latest in French sweets."
Thankfully, James remains blissfully oblivious to the French implications a box of chocolates entails. It does not lessen Thomas' delight in the slightest.
...
Thomas finds himself being pulled this direction and then hurled into the other, not given much of a respite of his recent Parisian trip, before being appointed for a higher office. As Secretary of State, he coaxes and pushes and protests; but Washington is hopelessly taken by Hamilton and his very blasted Federalists.
Washington's dismissal has been the last straw.
"An agrarian economy, dear friend." Thomas sighs and rubs at his brow. "Each man free to work his own plot of land and reap the fruits of his hard work. Each State free to a say in their own laws and in their own debt. Needless of this... competitive chaos Hamilton and those by his side seek to introduce, I say."
"Would that the President understood," agrees James.
They sit in silence for a moment, by the fire. Thomas seeks to soothe his ears to its familiar crackling. James needs the warmth to keep the night's chill from his sickly bones.
"At least we passed the Potomac..."
"In a damned compromise designed to indulge the Federalists–"
"Thomas, come to me."
Thomas.
James' tone is firm, and he has called Thomas by his Christian name, and Thomas can only obey.
Breaching the gap by James' side, the shorter man reaches around and pushes Thomas' head so that it lays resting on his shoulder. Thomas tenses for a moment, uncertain; then slowly, slowly, allows himself to take it all in – indulge in James' rare physical comfort – and gradually he relaxes against the other man's shoulder.
A friend is being a friend, and his embrace is benign and clean – and Thomas will see the world go down in flames ere he disturb that with his abominable, abominable thoughts, even if in this embrace he secretly indulges in those. James is oblivious, and that is both bliss and a cross.
(It is enough risk already, Thomas' deliberation on lowering the penalty for such persons. Visible disfigurement, for the legislators would not take zero punishment as reconsideration on the penalties for such crime. Imminent rejection of his Bill 64, for The Supreme Creator would not take undeadly punishment for such sin.)
They sit so in front of the fire; the smaller man's fingers find their way through Thomas' sandy red hair, combing so gently that it sends a tickling neat from his scalp to his face to his chest. His eyes flutter shut, and divinely, it is all well; and, for a minute of peace, the thoughts do not seem so great an evil.
"We must release a counter-gazette," says James at last. "I shall introduce you to Mr. Freneau soon, and then we shall do away with the details."
...
1791.
"We must take a respite from seeing over the gazette, Sir," says James first. "I can see that you are not well."
Indeed, Thomas is not well.
"For once, my dear friend, I am the one with the ailments." Thomas chuckles, then grimaces at the painful wave sent forth by his migraine. "Oh, am I the one sickly."
"I do not keep food down as long as I take it in, so do not think yourself lone in your ailments."
It does not take them long. They take their time of the day to bid a esteemed Freneau a proper adieu, and also to reach out to their dear Mr. Monroe; the first assures them he shall look over the integrity of their National Gazette, the latter writes a most enthusiastic letter updating them on his plans to run for the Senate.
Health, recreation and curiosity. With these words of announcement, the pair escape together for much needed idleness and vacation; they make for Vermont.
Thomas is free. He is free to roam the green lands in studying exemplars of the sugar maple tree; and the empty battlefields that survive a violent past neither man got to experience from the frontline, but in which turf the trails of bronze gun-cannons and stray bullets speak of the land's history all the same; and then on boat they go across Lake George looking for a chance to fish. James is free to feel the caress of the wind and the song of the birds and, well away from the eyes of common and high society, he gives his input beyond what's necessary, content with watching Thomas' following ramblings of sugars and flies, and content with simply being. They are content.
The food is good, as well, where they stay; molten cheese on buttered toast bread, mostly, and juice and fruit and ham and berries. The nightly milk and honey, ever warm – the occasional herbal tea. And it all serves, in its earthly simplicity, to revitalize better than any heavily elaborate dish an entire dedicated kitchen can cook up back home.
After their morning coffee, always they venture; accompanied at times, but more often than not, it is just the two of them in the open home of all that crawls and flies. Thomas clutches his ever handy notebook, ranting and making a note of everything that, for some reason or the other, calls for his attention. James pockets the quill pen that always Thomas forgets. Shortly, they run out of ink; a raccoon or something with hands and feet will have stolen it while they soaked ankles and fished in a creek. It briefly is the end of the world for Thomas, and then it is not. James only looks on; now and then, he is snapped out of his usual apacible stance by a sudden jerk and a smack onto himself, hissing, grimacing at the buzzing sting.
"Let us sulk together. You may write no more, and I find myself a sweetest treat for mosquitoes," James comments nonchalantly at this as they make for the one cliff with a finest view, his feeble hands now intertwined behind his back, but fanning at times subtly against the bloodsuckers.
"Their bites do show, my poor friend, on your skin. Generously. Bloodthirsty they latch to your veins and for that sweet, sweet ambrosia they flock..." Thomas reflects, overdone in a surge of poetry and evidently longing for his poor notebook, then continues. "Damned a waste. I could use that red ink, not unlike in the novels." They both chuckle.
And in the evenings when they feel as though they have climbed upon every possible hill and examined every flowery meadow, the sunset comes in its pink and orange and purple hues; mesmerized, they sit, –preferably upon their cliff,– and together they watch as the clouds burn and the sun hides, giving way to the first stars; the last song of birds is gone to slumber, and it is replaced by the chirping of crickets and the croaking of frogs. The moon is there and she provides enlightenment beyond any earthly lighting. It is all such a sweet affair; not unlike Martha's tunes in mornings past, the song of angels in the evenings.
Nature, indeed, is healing.
"It is best we return now," says James, still staring into the now purpling-blue night sky; but otherwise he does not make the slightest effort to rise.
Thomas hums in agreement, although he had been taking such contentment in the near proximity of their stargazing – and he stands from the dewy grass, tapping his cotton shirt free of moist dirt. He has not bothered to put on a coat, and his frill collar is half-made, and his cufflinks are torn and undone from where repeatedly they became trapped in their constant wandering among the vegetation. That is not to mention how pitiably day-long his wretched cotton shirt, otherwise stark white, is begrimed.
James' clothing has not been left untouched by the traces of nature – Thomas loves this rare slovenly look on him, he loves his every form – but James' frame is smaller, and as such he fit mercifully better through the vines and other greens. (It pains James to feel himself so unkempt, whereas Thomas is accustomed to be dubbed Duke of limbs; and ever sympathetically he bears his disparagement of clothing as far as awkward tailoring goes.)
"Yes. The moisture and the bitter wind combine is not good for your ailments." Thomas sighs. "And the dark."
A moment passes, and a shooting star steals all attention for just a moment. Fleetingly, the firmament borrows Thomas' gaze – and then when he turns back, James' gaze is on him.
"Will you not stand?" asks Thomas.
James only looks on. Thomas' eyes must be deceiving him, cruelly; if it weren't for the shadow of night, he would be assured that what he caught against the younger man's pale semblance was, unmistakably, a flush.
It takes a moment too long for Thomas to realize James is expectant.
"O-oh. Allow me..." hastily Thomas approaches, lending a hand for James to grasp as he stands; and Thomas finds it way too easy to help the younger man lift himself to his feet.
"Thank you."
"Shall we now make for the cabin or–"
When James pulls him down to his level, by the collar, Thomas cannot help a gasp; but then, too suddenly, and much too swiftly, James' lips are against his own, and then they are not.
Thomas can only gape; he blinks once, then twice, and his lips move but words refuse to come out.
At last, he breathes out. "James."
"I felt, my friend, that you were taking too long."
But James is smiling, and it is a true smile that reaches his eyes; bright blue; so bright against the night.
Unsteady and astounded, Thomas knows not what other course of action to take; slowly he takes James' hands into his own.
"M-my boy," he began. "Since when–"
"Since right before Paris, perhaps, I would have known. But I am positive it has extended, from way before."
Thomas lets out the weight of a breath. But of course.
Thomas, you baboon. You incredible fool.
Yet it is true. And in a sudden moment of joy, and of wondrous disbelief, Thomas is full; so incredibly full, so contently whole. This is no dream, no fabrication of the mind.
This is as sudden as life can be, but the evident signs... They all, now, flood into his mind.
The gardens of Montpelier. The library in Monticello. Philadelphia. Paris. Virginia, there and then back.
Vermont.
"By God," Thomas lets out a breathless laugh after a while, squeezing James' hands lovingly with his own, "of course. Of course. I have been so blind."
Through all the grief, all the unimaginable. Thomas' home and his family and his person had been James' – and still, he had not seen.
Thomas Jefferson does not stop to think, at that moment, what is proper and what is not. What is lawful and what goes punished. All that his mind can wrap about is that this is true, that they are true; they always were; and it swells and expands, warm and overflowing in his chest, until it is all he knows.
He knows that James is reached.
Eyes glisten under the moonlight – one pair blue as day, the other hazel and watery, both toward each other – and now blinking shut as their lips meet again, Thomas can only wonder what took him so long to claim what was always his.