//TW: abuse, swearing\\

Washington

"Do we have any homework this weekend?" one of my students asked. They all looked so lifeless, so drained, so overworked. Exams were in about a month, and either they were studying as hard as they possibly could or they didn't even know when the Exam was.

There are two types of students.

"Uh... just send me a picture of your favorite Pokémon and we'll leave it at that," I said.

A sigh of relief escaped their mouths collectively as they stood up to leave, quick to abandon the pursuit of education behind in favor of the less rigorous, less demanding life of a college student on any given Friday night. And I do not blame them. Even I hate sitting here, trapped within cinderblock walls.

Me.

Why did I pick this job again?

Faces raced past, leaving behind the classroom, running off to enjoy their weekend. I nodded to each one as they left, trying my best to stifle my smile at the eagerness with which they fled. I skimmed the crowd, searching for one student in particular. The one with the bobbed head, the one who clutched his arms tight to him to minimize the space he took up, the one who flinched at any given noise. The one who disappeared the moment you tried to pin him down, as temperamental as a dandelion tuft floating through a blue summer sky.

Things had been better, for a while. Just enough for the absence of his fear to be starkly noticeable. But I suppose that's the funny thing about progress: it doesn't always follow a straight line.

"Uh, Thomas?" I asked. "Would you mind staying behind a moment?"

His head shot up as his name left my mouth, and a wave of fear passed through his gaze for a fraction of second. But it disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving me to question whether it had been real in the first place, or perhaps a trick of the light. Thomas flashed me a wavering smile, a total contradiction to the terror flitting through his gaze a moment earlier. I'll give him this, he knows how to hide his emotions.

But just not well enough to hide them from me.

He blinked, glancing over at the boy gripping his arm tightly. The realization seemed to wash over both of them simultaneously, and James stiffened and his jaw clenched and the frown perpetually residing on his face only worsened.

"This isn't going to take long, is it?" asked James, and if I did not know any better, I would not have heard the irritation lurking beneath the surface of his voice. But I had known this kid practically since he was born, and it would take a lot more than a feigned smile and few pretty words to conceal the way he gripped Thomas's arm. Most people only look at faces, but faces really only give one side of the story. And with people as guarded as these two, that side of the story is often the farthest from the truth one could ever get.

"I'm not sure," Thomas returned quietly, darting out of the way of two students as they rushed past. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Thomas."

"I really do need to talk to him," I added. "It's about a test grade he may need to make up."

Thomas nodded, eager to play along.

"I promise, it'll be quick."

"Come on, Tommy," James said, frowning. "I just wanna get home and spend time with you. Is that really so much to ask?"

"It shouldn't take more than five minutes."

"I'll stand outside," James said to Thomas, smiling sweetly.

I watched as James retreated, casting one last look at Thomas. I would have given anything to decode that gaze, to pick it apart and understand every last facet, every last meaning hidden underneath the falsely stated affection, the mockery of tenderness. I would have given anything to finally fully know what that sort of look meant, especially if it meant keeping Thomas away from it.

I wonder if it is as bad as I think it is, but every time I ask, Thomas dances around the question, weaving stories and crafting lines that do not provide the answers I'm looking for. Like an actor in a play, it is next to impossible to tell which version of himself is true, which side of the story is closest to reality. And unless he flat out tells me that he is scared, that he is being used by somebody who is supposed to love him regardless of whatever obstacles exist, I cannot do anything. The rules tie my hands behind my back and leave me blind, forced to find my way through the darkness using only his voice, his silenced voice.

It is, to say the least, a frustrating situation.

I waited for the rest of the class to clear and gestured for Thomas to take a seat in an empty spot close to my desk, the same one he always sits in. Alexander passed last of all, making some big show of dropping his bag and sweeping up the papers off the floor. I rolled my eyes, but Thomas tried his best to conceal a smile as he bent down to help. Whatever they whispered down there remained theirs and only theirs, lost to my ears. I pretended not to notice, flipping through the stacks of papers piling high on my desk until I found the pathetic attempts that some students thought counted as an essay.

"I'll see you later," Alexander said, his smile quite unlike anything I've seen in a very long time. It is undeniable, the effects Thomas has had on him. Who would have thought? Certainly not I, not a few years ago. "Thanks for the help."

"Yeah, I'll see you later!" Thomas returned brightly, the hints of a promise lurking in his tone.

Alexander waved goodbye, and cast me an exaggeratedly confused look in return for the one I gave him. He rolled his eyes and continued on, leaving the two of us behind.

"Is everything okay?" Thomas asked after a moment, the silence stretching to fill the gaps. "Do I really have to make up a test?"

"Of course not. I just thought you would want to help me grade papers, is all." Of course, I didn't have to mention the true reason I had pulled him aside, the true reason I had lied to James. He already understood. Wordlessly, I handed him the stapler, which he gratefully took along with a stack of papers. "How's everything going at home?"

"Good," Thomas said, pulling a pen out of his bag and glancing over the first page. His voice was clipped, eyes fastening to the paper in front of him. "I got a bird."

"Oh yeah? That's good."

"Yeah. His name's Dick. He's a sweetheart."

"Oh, uh...that's an...an interesting name."

Once more, silence flooded into the gaps left by my inability to take action coupled with his refusal to open the doors of his mind. There weren't a lot things I wouldn't have given up to figure out exactly what he was thinking, to peel back the curtains and uncover the secrets he kept hidden behind locked doors and vaulted ceilings. But he refused to let me in, refused to let anybody see. The amount of times Alexander had come to me to talk in the past few weeks was evident enough of that.

Thomas sighed, setting the pen down on the desk.

"Is everything okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Thomas—"

"Sir, I don't know what Alexander told you, but whatever it is, he's wrong!"

I did my best to hold back a chuckle. Those two are more alike than either of them would like to admit.

Honestly? I was kind of glad they were dating for a while, no matter how short it was. Both of them seemed much happier, much lighter, and Alexander was beginning to look like his old self again. Their smiles and their laughter seemed to be easily won as long as they were standing next to each other, and that was all that mattered. The world was theirs, and even in the brief glimpses of the affection I saw, it surprised me with how real it was, like the flames of a fire just recently brought into existence, a fire that promised to burn for as long as it could. And with each smile, the world looked a lot brighter, even if it was only momentarily.

"I just thought you might want to talk about something that's bothering you," I tried, approaching it from a new angle as I do every week. And every week yields the same god damn result, getting me practically nowhere. The truth is just as elusive as it always is whenever I talk to him, forever floating on the peripheral of my vision like just another bad dream. He keeps himself under lock and key, never saying anything that could incriminate James, that could even hint at the situations he faces, and I have to wonder if I'm making it up for myself.

"Does something seem to be bothering me?" he asked, tilting his head like a curious little bird. And once more, the dance begins, with me trying to unroot the unspoken cause of his suffering, and him avoiding me at every turn.

He is not the person he had been.

"I don't know, Thomas. You just seem more upset than usual. And I wanted to make sure everything's okay. You know you can always tell somebody, and it's part of why I'm here. To listen to whatever my students have to say. There is no judgement in this room, I swear. You know that, right?"

Thomas nodded carefully, his fingers clutching his arms, digging into the tender flesh. I frowned but followed the precedent of the silence he set, eyes locked on a particularly boring spot of my desk. Sighing, I glanced down at my papers, wondering if they could provide me with the answers he refused to. It didn't seem fair, to have all the words in the world disposable to me, and be so terrible when it came to wielding them, to uncovering the meanings hiding underneath every single thing he uttered.

I just wish he would open those doors, for once.

"Sir? Did I do something wrong?" he asked, cutting into my thoughts.

"You aren't in trouble, Thomas," I reassured, trying my best to smile at him softly. "I just wanted to talk."

"Do you really think that there's something to talk about?" he asked, almost shakily. He clutched his arms, forming a shield around his body in some wasted effort to protect himself.

He was afraid.

No shit, Sherlock.

Anybody with eyes can see that much, at least.

"I know you're hurting, Thomas. All you have to do is tell me, and I can make everything better," I offered, as softly as I can. "But it's up to you and only you to take the first step. I cannot do anything until you say you want my help."

I held out the metaphorical olive branch, granting him the full access to it and everything it would provide. The safety he needed, the comfort he could turn to. All he had to do was reach out and grasp it, to allow the world to see the pain he endured. He just had to touch the golden leaves bathed in the sunlight, to let somebody else worry about something for him, for just once. All he had to so was accept my offering.

And once again, he rejected it.

I sighed when he remained quiet, his focus returning to the stack of papers in front of him. I watched as he gripped the desk, his breathing just barely shallow enough to be noticeable. But the tension disappeared and he offered me a smile as if the rest of the world didn't matter. It was a smile meant to placate me, a smile meant to distract me from the crippling pain hanging over his head. I studied him carefully, waiting for any cracks in the narrative, searching for the seams that just barely held his mask together.

It would take more effort than I had anticipated, but I had nothing but time. So, once more, I tried a different approach.

"And also, happy birthday."

"Oh! Uh, thank you." Genuine surprise filled his voice, accompanied by a warm and welcoming smile as my words washed over him. He readjusted in his seat, his self-satisfied beam not once wavering from his face at the smallest display of somebody remembering him. "Thank you, sir. That means a lot."

"Of course, Thomas," I said, flashing him a smile. His shoulders eased, and he relaxed just a bit in the chair. Letting out a deep breath, he picked up another essay and scanned through it, and silence fell over the two of us once again. I watched him as he tried to hide his face behind the guise of reading, but he was failing, rather miserably. The flickering of his eyes to the door every once in a while was all too noticeable, as though waiting for somebody to come barging through at any moment.

"Any plans to celebrate?"

"Uh, what better gift is there than sleep?" he returned with a semi-amused laugh. "So, uh, not really I guess. What about you? I mean! Not that you're going to celebrate but like, well, I mean..."

"I don't have any plans," I said with a laugh. "But you're not planning to celebrate at all? Not even with Alexander?"

There.

Such a minuscule moment, but the movement of his pen halted altogether like a delicate but breaking procession. He drew in a deep breath, glancing at the door once more, his brow furrowing just slightly enough to be easily mistaken for a twitch. Thomas shifted in his seat, his free arm wrapping around his body in an effort to protect himself from whoever he waited for to come crashing through that door. The pen kept moving, regaining the speed it lost, but the patterns were too planned, too perfect. No ink dotted the page when I looked closer.

"No," he said, the single word measured so incredibly carefully. How many times had he perfected that voice, not too dispassionate but simultaneously revealing absolutely nothing? How many times had he depended on it? "Why? Did he say something different?"

"I was just curious, is all. And if he did, wouldn't that ruin the surprise?"

Thomas's laugh was far too perfect, splitting the air for the correct amount of time, pitch rising and falling at a practiced, exact rate. It was far too fabricated to be real. "I suppose so!" he said.

I sighed, allowing myself to be the first to crack.

"Alexander's very worried about you."

"So he did come talk to you then?"

"He doesn't have to."

"But he did."

"Not necessarily," I pressed. "But he does know that he can always come talk to me when he needs to. Something I fear that you sometimes forget. Or perhaps you choose not to, and that's fine. But you know you can't keep it trapped inside any longer Thomas. Simply put, it's not healthy."

He shrugged. "I'm fine. But thank you. I appreciate it." He sighed, setting the pen down. "I just wish you didn't have to be dragged into it, is all. I'm sorry."

"Thomas, it doesn't take a mind reader to figure out that Alexander's upset. He's gone back to the way he was after him and Eliza broke up. He's been coming to talk to me less and less, and when he does, it's because I force him to. He doesn't care about himself anymore, and you're almost three times as worse. So what's wrong?"

Thomas looked elsewhere, looked miserable. He drew in a breath, allowing the silence around us to fill the space. I sighed, opening my mouth to mumble some semblance of an apology, but Thomas spoke.

"I don't know," he said quietly. "I mean, I'm supposed to know, but I'm not sure." When I was silent, he went on steadily. "The thing is, I'm not sure if James really wants to hurt me or not. I think in his mind, he's only helping me. I want to leave him and be happy, but everyone else will get hurt because of that and I can't let that happen."

There it was. The most I had managed to worm out of him after God knows how long. The confession hung heavy in the air, Thomas cracking under the weight of it as he struggled to regain his breath, remaster the control over his body. His eyes never met mine, his body shook with the effort it had taken to hold up the vast, endless sky with nothing but his shoulders. But not once did Thomas cry. I'm not sure whether it was because deep down, he realized that the expulsion of such a heavy secret freed something within him, or he had simply run out of tears. But whatever the reason, Thomas remained unmoved.

"I will talk to somebody," I said, trying not to smile at my victory, trying not to congratulate myself for winning another meaningless battle. "And they will make everything better for you. You won't have to worry about James anymore, Thomas."

His disapproval was electric, spontaneous. "No! Please!" The exclamation sounded garbled, distorted, as he shot forward and grabbed me by the arm. "Professor, you can't."

"Why not?"

"Because—because I—" Thomas faltered, curling in on himself. "I'm terrified of what he's going to do once he finds out."

"He doesn't have to."

"He always does. Trust me. I know."

So many memories locked away, so many memories I'd never get the chance to know.

I sighed, leaning forward in my chair. "Thomas, this is killing you."

"So?" he asked, then slapped his hands over his mouth the second the word pooled over the brim, a word he hadn't mean to utter, but a word he could never take back no natter how hard he tried. He winced, lowering his head as if bracing for an attack, for the desperate sentiments of people who simply did not understand. I couldn't claim I was different, but I could claim how much it hurt to see him breathe the way he did, as though he was clinging to humanity, clinging to life.

Thomas sighed. "I didn't mean that."

"You don't have to carry this weight all by yourself, you know," I said softly. "There are others who want to help. Who would do anything to help. I know people who could save you from this, both you and Alexander and the rest of your friends. You just have to trust me."

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, no doubt wishing for an escape to a world or a time where things never had to come to this. Where the idea that we would have to sit under bright fluorescents, locked in a stalemate where neither side would concede, the smell of lemon cleaning supply so thick and heavy in the air...where the idea of this whole meeting was a farfetched thought meant for laughs.

But his wishing didn't change the stark reality of the situation, and here we were trapped by the whims of fate and the unluckiest hand we could have ever been played, and there was nothing we could do about it.

"Are you okay, Thomas?"

"It's really hard to say. I don't know, I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize, it's alright."

"I don't want to bother you or anything."

"You're not bothering me. I've got nothing better to do."

Thomas smiled slightly. "I really doubt that. I completely understand. It's fine, I'll go," he said, standing up.

"Thomas—"

"I appreciate this. Really, I do," he managed out, his voice choked up by a blockade of tears. I have no idea how he managed out those few words. "I'm so sorry for wasting your time, I promise it won't happen again, I—"

"Thomas Jefferson, I order you to sit down, shut up, and listen to what I have to say."

Needless to say, he quickly obeyed.

I let out a breath, allowing the waves of calm to wash over me as I began again, softening my voice in the wake of fear that flashed through his eyes.

"Please, continue."

"I—I don't really kn-know how."

"Then why don't you start from the beginning?"

Thomas opened his mouth, and out it came. It was not particularly stirring, nothing at all like the passionate flames of rebellion kindled by ripe anger, as I was expecting. He curled his hands in his lap and stared at the wall behind me as he spoke—staring, but not really seeing. Even when his voice wobbled, his face contorted, he kept his emotions firmly under check, leaving me to fill in the broken gaps of a puzzle without guide or direction. Thomas did not tell a story as much as he outlined a sequence of events.

But he struggled through maintaining that perfect, unconditionally devoid look in his gaze. And the cracks widened with every falter, every deep breath he relied upon to pull his splitting seams together. Perhaps that's what got to me more than anything, more than the pieces that fell into place as the truth came falling out.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as he finished what could only be a deeply abridged version of the story. "I didn't mean to...I'm sorry."

I leaned back in my chair, satisfied but deeply disturbed and horrified with the truth. An abyss filled my stomach, a haunting melody whispered through my ears as the last of his lyrics died in the still, stuffy air.

"You have to promise not to tell anybody else," Thomas mumbled, urgently. "Please. If anybody else finds out...he's going to kill me."

"I cannot keep this silent, Thomas."

"Please," he begged. "You have to!"

"You'd rather James get away with it?"

"The rest of the world could have heard exactly what you just heard, and he'd get away with it regardless. Nobody's going to actually believe me."

God, when did he grow up?

The pressing reality settled upon me in that moment, and perhaps I saw a flash of the fear, of the self-doubt he'd been crushed under for the last few years, and for the first time, I think I truly understood. It didn't alleviate it, didn't make it any easier to swallow, but the understanding lingered and left me unable to provide the answers I was supposed to.

History's a funny thing, isn't it? Is it shaped by the truth, or rather by our perception of it? And what qualifies as history, as something worth being remembered and reiterated, and when do we finally decide to let the past float away? For too long, too many histories had been silenced, trampled over, simply for the sake of pretending that the world was better than it is.

I'm starting to understand why Alexander came to me so pissed at him multiple times. Or rather, when I forced him to tell me what's wrong.

"Thomas—"

"Sir, please. I can handle myself. I'm doing this because I have to."

I sighed. "You know, you really remind me of your father."

Thomas didn't expect that. He blinked, then a small smile drifted over his face. "I miss him."

"He was a good friend of mine."

When you're part of the rich Virginian elite, you know other rich Virginian elite.

But that's besides the point.

Thomas sighed, drawing his knees to his chest despite the fact he was sitting at a desk. Perhaps that was his way of dealing with the world: hiding. Making himself as small as he possibly can in hopes he won't be noticed, won't be seen.

But, sometimes Alexander talks about how "the gays cannot sit right in chairs", so that might have something to do with it, too. I don't know, and I'm not paid to, so frankly, I do not care.

Suddenly, Thomas laughed to himself, the kind of laugh only meant to break the unending silence that had filtered down upon the world, casting everything in that scrutinizing, white light.

"Sometimes I wonder how different life would be if he was still here. Maybe I would've never moved to New York. Maybe I'd be happy. Well, hold on, that's not fair. I was happy. For a time."

I nodded. I couldn't say I understood. I couldn't say I knew exactly what Thomas was going through. I couldn't say that everything was going to be okay.

But I could promise him that I would be there for him.

That I would not stop fighting until I made sure something was done, until I made sure he was safe and happy.

"I'm not sure how much that counts for but if you ever need something, come find me. Please."

Thomas stayed silent, until his face broke out into the slightest of smiles, so small I couldn't have been sure of its existence. But he let out a breath and lifted his chin, taking the world around him in with a new light, a new angle. The light framed his face, quick to catch the self-assured smile before it faded from existence, making the world just a bit darker without it. "Th-thank you, sir. I really do appreciate it."

"Of course, Thomas."

"Should I go, now, or...?"

"You can stay for as long as you like," I offered, trying to keep the unmoving look of neutrality bound tightly to my face. "I have nowhere else to be, and I quite enjoy your company."

"Surprisingly."

"Thomas."

"Sorry, sorry," he said, playing with the stapler he held, treating the ordinary, common object with a sudden level of intrigue and curiosity I just could not understand. It was almost as if everything was a new experience, every day marked a new opportunity, for him. It truly made me wonder what exactly had forced him to search for the most minute instances of happiness, as though that would he his only chance of it for quite some time. "I couldn't resist."

"Couldn't resist what?"

Thomas shrugged, toying with the tool. "I don't know. Never mind. I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to apologize for, you know."

"Right. Sorry." He winced, crossed his arms. Whatever bravery had streamed through the window with the morning turned afternoon sunlight seemed to be fading fast, leaving him just as he was before. The sentiments of his proclamation hang heavy in the air, unacknowledged but writing themselves through my mind over and over again until I had them memorized verbatim.

"Thomas."

"Can I start over?" Then, a sharp noise. He frowned, bracing himself. "S-sorry. I broke the stapler."

I flashed him a comforting smile and passed him another one, finally allowing myself to retreat into the comforting routine that came with grading papers. The silence that stretched between us was long but not entirely unwelcome, as there seemed to be a resolved air to it. I breathed in deep, read through the words and the marks of the red pen, and retired to the same process.

Some do not see the comforts of monotony, and I do not blame them. There is a certain dullness to it, but a welcome dullness, the promise of no new surprises, no new things to go wrong. And I think, judging by the way he relaxed for the first real time today, allowing himself to be lost to the sea of black ink against white paper, Thomas enjoyed the element of complete predictability. The control.

But, unfortunately, that came to a quick and startling end, the perfection of the routine utterly ruined by the spontaneity that exploded through the room with an echoing boom. Thomas jumped at the noise, his fingers clutching the new stapler like it could protect him, but there was nothing to fear, just as there hardly ever was.

The door slammed open, revealing a figure standing in the hallway, his smile wide. "George! George!" cried a French accent.

Oh Jesus Christ.

"Hello Lafayette."

"Hi!"

"It's been a while, no?"

"It has!" he exclaimed, sparring Thomas a look I could not decode, despite my trying. "Did you miss me?"

"Of course I missed you. You've always been my favorite, after all," I returned, with a snide glance at Thomas, who scoffed in an exaggerated mock-surprise.

"Unbelievable," he returned, his anger completely fabricated. I could not explain how remarkably refreshing it was, to hear that teasing lightness hiding beneath his tone. Though, part of me could not ignore the complete transversal from what he had been reduced to mere moments before. "Why am I even here?"

"Oh, stop it," Lafayette returned. "You're here because we love you."

"Love is a foreign concept to you cretins."

"Hey!" Lafayette protested. "I was on your side, bitch!" He frowned immediately, a look of horror encompassing his face. "Shit. I'm sorry. I did not mean to call you that—"

Thomas shrugged. "It's fine. Honesty, and all that, right?"

Lafayette rolled his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" I asked him, crossing my arms.

"Distracting you."

"What?"

Suddenly, John streaked past my desk, grabbed Thomas by his arm, and took off.

"Uh, bye?" Thomas called as they raced away.

I couldn't help but chuckle as Lafayette followed John and Thomas, screaming victoriously in French.