Chapter 5

A few mornings later, Alexander was woken up by his wife's high-pitched voice, which happily announced him that Angelica had accepted their invitation and had sent a note to inform them that she was on her way and would arrive for the summer. Eliza was so excited she almost started to jump on their bed. Alexander laughed heartily at the sight, even if he would have loved to sleep a bit longer – he was having trouble sleeping since the last Cabinet meeting, and he blamed the Democratic-Republicans for it. If it wasn't for their stubbornness not to accept his financial proposal, he wouldn't be risking his job for it! Even if... he tried to remember his last dream: two dark eyes that looked sadly at him from a distance suddenly appeared in his memories, and he blushed. No, it was impossible. He couldn't be dreaming of that moron, right? He shook his head to send all those stupid thoughts away – that wasn't possible, he couldn't possibly feel guilty, he hated the guy. As far as he was concerned, the more Jefferson was unhappy, the better; that would mean less trouble at work for Hamilton.

He got up unwillingly and got dressed, wearing one of his favourite waistcoats, the bright green one. He looked at the mirror and smiled to his reflection, trying to gather the courage to do that day's task: convince Jefferson and Madison to meet in order to talk them through his financial plan. He still didn't have a clue on how to compromise with them but he had to. He had given a lot of thoughts to his course of action and had decided to go to Jefferson first – Madison wouldn't talk to him anyway – and let him organize something in order to meet the horrible duo together. Jefferson's dark eyes haunted his thoughts once more, and he questioned himself if that was the best idea. But he had no choices. He had to try with every cells of his body and be nice – maybe just slightly polite would work too – with Thomas fucking Jefferson.

***

Thomas was in his library, writing a long letter to Lafayette, when the maid announced the visit of the Secretary of Treasury. He almost chocked and was still trying to recompose himself when Alexander Hamilton burst into the room with the I-don't-want-to-be-here kind of look on his face and an uncomfortable smile.

"Mr. Jefferson," he said awkwardly, scanning the room with wide eyes.

"Mr. Secretary," Thomas icy-cold voice welcomed him, "what can I do for you?"

He knew he was being rude not inviting him to sit and making him stand uneasily in the middle of the room – but he couldn't help it. The day when he'd seen Hamilton crying... something had shifted in his chest, he couldn't explain the emotion but he had felt a long-forgotten warmth inside – that, of course, before being treated like shit by the man. He shouldn't have never offered his help to an ungrateful little bastard, he had bitterly concluded the same night, while still thinking about Hamilton's stinging words. He shouldn't have let Hamilton hurt him, he had been naive. When you expose yourself too much, people hurt you.

He cleaned his desk from all the papers while waiting for Hamilton's answer, but for the first time in his life he noticed that the immigrant was silent. Thomas quickly turned to Hamilton, almost worried – was he having a stroke or something? But then he saw that Alexander was still staring at the piles and piles of books scattered around the room with an excited face. When he finally focused on his host again, his eyes were sparkling like the ones of a child on Christmas Eve; he almost forgot the reason why he'd come there.

"How can you have so many books?" he inquired accusingly.

"I collected them during my travels," Thomas replied with a satisfied smirk, he loved to brag about his collection. "Most of them are from France and Italy, but I've also inherited a couple of books from Monticello and – hey, put that down!"

"What?" Hamilton looked up in disbelief, holding a copy of Machiavelli's Il Principe in his hands, "is it forbidden to read them?"

"This is not a public library, you brute, those are private possessions!" Thomas snorted.

"Asshole," Hamilton concluded before putting the book back on the shelf.

Well, Alex thought, he hadn't even started introducing the reason of his visit and he had already insulted Jefferson – great job, Alexander. He breathed deeply a couple of times, trying to pull himself together and not be bothered by Thomas's air of superiority – that stupid mask Jefferson always wore and that seemed even more fit in that pompous rich house of his.

"Anyway, why are you here?" Thomas asked again, growing suspicious. He could sense that Hamilton was about to ask him a favour – why would he behave so odd if not? The simple sight of his political enemy in his own house was so weird he couldn't believe in it.

"I want to – I would love to have the possibility to talk with you and Mr Madison about the financial plan," Hamilton finally spat out, almost without taking a breath, as if he wanted to end that humiliating conversation as soon as possible, "and maybe find a compromise that could be – uhm – convenient for both sides." Alex lingered on his last words, hoping to make his proposal tempting enough for Jefferson. There certainly was something he would barter for –

"Absolutely not," Thomas declared with a tone that didn't admit objections.

But, unfortunately for him, Alexander had never understood when to back off in his life. He had always picked all the battles he could, and was not the kind of person to let it go so easily.

"What the fuck man?" he almost yelled. "Are you out of your mind? You can't just turn away from the only fucking option we have to save our economy! Do you have a better plan?"

"I can, actually, refuse to compromise with you savage federalists," Thomas spat back, livid, "whose only concern is money and financial wealth – even when it puts our Nation's very soul at stake. And I can refuse," he added bitterly, "to sit and talk this outrageous plan through with a repulsive human being, who cannot see beyond his own massive ego, not even to gain what he wants!"

"Excuse me?!" Hamilton was taken aback by Jefferson's unusual fit of rage.

"That's right, you brat came into my house after treating me like garbage, and now you're asking me – no, you're not even asking, you've only insulted me and then presumed that I would accept your offer right away."

"That's because I thought you had a little common sense, you asshole – well, my bad!" Alexander knew Jefferson wasn't completely wrong, but he couldn't let him have the last word.

A heavy silence fell into the room. The two men looked at each other furiously. Alexander had his arms stubbornly crossed on his chest and was patting his foot on the ground, waiting for Jefferson to explode or something; he had never seen the Secretary of State so angry. Thomas's hard gaze was fixed on Hamilton's challenging eyes, his dark irises melting with rage. Unlike Alexander, he remained perfectly still, trying to get his reason take over his violent emotions. Thomas inspired deeply, hissing the air out of his lungs a couple of times. He knew he was lying to himself: there was no other plan and they were in desperate need of money. But, every time Hamilton was within his sight, Thomas lost his usually steady grip on his feelings and found himself burning, mostly with rage – but there was also a tiny, insignificant part of his heart that rejoiced at every dispute they had. Hamilton was the only person who was actually able to confute his arguments, mastering his dialectical reasoning so skilfully that he had become a constant challenge for Thomas. He had never met someone so intelligent, and yet so childish and stubborn, as the man who was in front of him right then, scrutinizing his every action with a disapproving frown on his face. Minutes passed by while Thomas recovered completely and found his composure again. He tried to put on his cocky mask, but then the words spilled out of his mouth, revealing his thoughts without his consent.

"My wife died eight years ago," he whispered, astounded by his own honesty.

Hamilton looked confused. He was not comfortable talking about feelings, especially with people he hated, and he didn't know how to answer; so he waited, his mouth slightly open in astonishment.

"I've buried three daughters and a son," Thomas continued, his voice cracking with emotion. "So I know how does it feel to lose someone, Mr Secretary," his eyes pierced Hamilton's. "I know the grief and the despair... and I know the numbness that comes after."

Alexander was shocked. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, but no sound came out. In that very moment, he saw his own grief mirrored in Jefferson's deep, endless eyes; he saw himself crying till dullness after receiving Henry Laurens's letter informing him of the death of his son; he saw himself not eating nor sleeping for days, unable to recognise the faces around him. And then, the nothingness. He'd woken up one day and had begun to eat, sleep, talk and go to work again, his heart torn apart from his body and the hollow spot in his chest becoming less and less painful day by day – without ever disappearing.

Other interminable minutes passed, Alexander breathed heavily under the weight of the memories that had hit him so unexpectedly. He knew he ought to apologize to Jefferson, to say something – anything – but his body was not responding anymore. After what seemed hours, Thomas harshly turned his back to Hamilton, his shoulders straight and his head high, and spoke.

"I'll arrange a meeting with Mr Madison for next week, you'll receive the details via mail as soon as everything is organized." His voice was controlled and cool once more. "Good day, Mr Secretary."

Without looking at him, Thomas pulled a thin velvet string that hung from the wall before him and a bell rang. Instantly, a different maid entered the room and bowed at Alexander, escorting him to the door.