Jeffmads: A Story

Two

James Madison was dead.

James Madison was dead and Thomas Jefferson wasn't quick enough to save him.

Thomas could still recall the day he found James, lying on the tile floor of his bathroom, surrounded by his own blood.

The razor still glinted in Thomas' recollection, knocked onto the floor beside his crush. It seemed to wink up at the taller man, knowing what it had done, knowing it had played its part in the destruction of James.

James Madison was dead, the authorities had shown up too late. Thomas had hesitated too long to save him.

James Madison was dead, and he had killed himself.

°•°•°•°

Thomas shot upwards, a sob breaking free through his lips.

He buried his face in his hands, struggling to breath, his body shaking.

Next to him, a person stirred, awoken by the sudden absence of heat.

Knowing what was wrong, the person sat up next to Thomas instantly, suddenly wide awake.

"Thomas." The person whispered softly.

Thomas continued sobbing, his heart feeling as though someone had ripped it out.

"James," He whispered. His voice cracked. "James, no. James, please, don't leave me."

"Thomas," The person repeated, "Tommy, come back now. It's okay."

"No!" Thomas sobbed. "No, James, stay! Don't leave me!"

"Thomas," The person placed their hands on Thomas' shoulders, turning him slightly in order to look him in the eyes, "I'm right here."

Thomas gasped, hands scrabbling for purchase on James. "You're alive!" His hand slid around James' wrist, tightening around it as though James would disappear if he loosened his grip.

"I'm here, Thomas." James assured, struggling not to wince. Thomas' hand was on his cuts, his grip tight. Too tight, the pressure on them making his arm burn in pain.

Thomas continued to sob and James said nothing about his pain, not wanting to upset him any more.

"It's okay," James comforted. "It was just a bad dream. It's over now, you're alright. I'm okay. I'm not going anywhere."

Thomas nodded, still sobbing, beginning to take deeper breaths.

James watched, not entirely sure how to help. The nightmares had begun the day after James was released from the hospital, and James blamed himself for it.

"It's okay, Thomas." James whispered.

Sometime later, James had gotten Thomas to lay back down and he had stopped crying.

James had his arms around Thomas' waist, listening to the man's breathing.

"I'm sorry, Thomas." James murmmed, thinking Thomas was asleep. "This all my fault."

Thomas, standing on the precipice between sleep and awareness heard James' words. Before he could ponder them however, he was falling off the edge into the world of dreams.

Later - Thomas wasn't sure how much time had passed - he was stirred awake with the feeling something was missing.

He sat in confusion for a moment, wondering what was absent.

James.

Thomas thought back to his vivid nightmare. What if it was true and James really was dead?

"Aw, shit."

Thomas leaped from his bed, sneaking down the hallway. The voice had come from his kitchen.

Jefferson was met by a strange sight upon arriving in his kitchen.

James sat in one of Thomas' kitchen chairs, an ice cube in his hand and - when he saw Thomas - fear covering his face.

"T-Thomas," James stuttered upon catching sight of him, scrambling to his feet. "You're...you're up early."

"Um...yeah, I am." Thomas responded. "What...what are you doing?" He gestured to the now half-melted ice cube in James' grasp.

"I-uh...it's nothing." James lied.

"If it's nothing, why are you doing it at...3 in the morning?"

James sighed. "I promise, Tommy, it's nothing to worry about."

"Why won't you just trust me?"

"It's...it's a coping tactic."

"What?"

James sniffled; Thomas wasn't sure if he was sick or crying. "Okay." James breathed, obviously preparing himself. "Okay...okay...okay..."

"James?" Thomas said.

James shook his head. "You know...you..." James stopped, thinking. At last he sighed and pulled up his sleeve.

Thomas winced at James' arm, the cuts still not healed, the scabs glaring at Thomas from the light cast by the moon through the windows.

"I still get the urge." James admitted softly.

"No...no. James..." Thomas said.

"It's okay, Thomas." James said, crossing the room towards the sink. "I'm not going to do it, I swear."

"But-" Thomas tried to interrupt.

"That's why I do this," James continued, now wiping his hand on a towel, the ice cube having melted completely, "It helps me."

"How does that help you?" Thomas asked, his voice full of confusion.

"It takes away the urge." James confessed.

"But...but..." Thomas fumbled over his question. "You can't just...stop?"

James sighed, the sound weary. "Thomas - and I don't blame you for thinking like that - it's an addiction. I wish I could just...stop. I wish I didn't-" James stopped himself. "If it was that easy," He started again, "We wouldn't have people with gambling problems or smokers or..." James breath hitched, "Alchoholics."

"James..." Thomas said.

"It's okay, Tommy." James said.

"No, James, it's not." Thomas protested.

"It is. Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you but...but..." James' voice cracked. "I know," He breathed, "I know how you get your nightmares, and I know that I'm to blame for them and I just-"

"Shh," Thomas interrupted, "James, it isn't your fault. You don't have to keep all this in."

James stood across from Thomas, a silent standoff initiated between the pair. It ended when Thomas noticed the tears running down James' face.

"James, it's alright. You're going to be fine, Darling." Thomas began.

He froze. Darling?

James froze too. "Thomas?"

Thomas shook his head, curls swishing. "Y-yeah, James?"

"Did you just call me Darling?"

Thomas swallowed nervously, eyes shifting to look anywhere but at James. "Maybe..?"

James gave Thomas a small smile, the look sheepish. "It's cute." He said quietly.

"Okay then...Darling," Thomas said, testing the word.  "Shall we go back to bed?" 

James smiled.  "Of course."