//TW: rape, manipulation, abuse, swearing, thoughts of suicide, thoughts of self-harm, thoughts of murder\\

Thomas

The welcoming aroma of baked goods drifted through the air, a pleasant scent that anyone could enjoy. I could practically taste the soft chocolate cake melting in my mouth, the sweet flavor of the icing combined with the spongy texture of the cake.

I worked diligently, fingers gliding over the bowl as I tried everything I could think of to lose myself in the process. I let the scents, the feelings, the rush of that pure, pure bliss consume my soul, desperate for the escape that such a routine provided. The warmth of the oven cascading down my skin as I checked on the cake, the gentle droll of the music in the background, overseeing and supervising my work, the gratification that came with watching my beater mix the powdered sugar and the butter together to form the frosting.

I love baking. It's a science. It's exact. There's no room for mistakes, for things that should not exist. If it isn't perfect, you throw it out, you start again. You try and you try and you try and if you're lucky, if you've done exactly what you are supposed to do and followed the recipe exactly as it was presented, you never have to fear the repercussions because none exist.

It smelled delectable, like innocence bathed in sugar and chocolate and frosting. My mouth watered as I worked away, pulling the cake out of the oven and closing the door as loudly as I could, delighting in the way the loud bang echoed through the enclosed room. I let out a relaxed sigh as I set the cake down on the table, searching for inconsistencies, searching for any holes or gaps that would give me reason to start again and pour my love and time into something else, something new. But the cake was, relatively at least, perfect, and I was content enough with that.

The song drifted through the air, its quality slightly marred by the absence of any sort of speaker, but I was delighted just to hum along to the upbeat melody that I must have known by heart. I don't quite remember what it was, some obscure tune from the 60's, I think. But all I knew was the happiness it brought me as I stood in the middle of my tiny kitchenette, the cake on the countertop before me, listening to that beautiful sound and drowning out the rest of the world in the tiny little haven I secured for myself. It wasn't much, but it was mine. It was my escape from the world, from the troubles pressing inwards and inwards and taking until there was nothing left for them to take. It would have to be enough for now.

I was hit with memories of my childhood, mostly my father teaching me how to bake. I smiled at the thought, then pushed it away before it could develop into something awful, like most memories of my father did.

God, what I wouldn't give to go back in time. To have a chance to relish in those memories as I made them, to take a few moments to enjoy the world I was being given and take joy in the pleasure that they brought me. There was something so disillusioning about being an adult, about abandoning the joys of childhood in favor of a grim, gritty reality. What ever made me want to leave it all behind?

And now, look at me. Trapped between four, narrow walls that seem to get closer and closer as the days go on. Drowning underneath a sea of dirt, its weight perpetually pressing down on me. My arms burn with the cuts of the days that run past, my mind is constantly filled with the thoughts and the nightmares of what he had done so easily, so willingly. Not a day goes by where I am not bruised and battered and beaten, but what is worse? That,
or being forced to recall times where at one point, everything had once been better. Gone is the freedom, the unfurled wings and open sky of my youth. Now, I have nothing left but the memories and the daydreams that fade the second they are placed under scrutiny of the sun, the second they are forced to endure hard, cold reality.

I stared down at the cake before me, my fingers gripping the countertop as though they could split open the seams of this dirty, unfair world. I wished it was possible, to undo those threads and escape into the space that exists between them. Maybe I could find safety, then. Maybe I could find the purgatory that comes with nostalgia and old memories that are simply better forgotten. When the world actually made sense and there was no constant fear lurking over my shoulder, pulling on my strings like a puppeteer. When I was naïve and stupid and happy because of it.

And the worst part of it all is knowing that I will never be able to go back to those days. Even if I do manage to find a way out—and that's a massive, fantasy-driven if—I will never be able to live my life with that utter carefree nature. I will never be able to return to a field of wildflowers that dance in the gracious moonlight without fearing what lurks in the shadows beyond the first ring of trees. I will never be able to fly again without worrying about the fall. I can never be who I once was, for I am defined by what has happened to me. My name will forever be etched into the pages as a victim of circumstance, as a person who lost too much that cannot be recovered. And it doesn't matter anyway, for it isn't like I'll ever even have the opportunity to put all this behind me. I am quite literally tethered to James, and I have no life without him.

Water droplets splattered against the countertop.

Eventually, the cake finished cooling. I drew in a deep breath, expunged the thoughts from the depths of my mind, and set to work icing the cake. The music continued playing, shifting into something a bit more mournful yet still ultimately happy, but it seemed slightly more distant now. I allowed my mind to wander like a weary, tired traveller, as I poured the rest of my time and dedication into decorating the cake and making it as beautiful as I sometimes longed to be. Treasured, wanted.

I'm vain, alright? I always have been, and no amount of beatings will ever coax the trait out of me. Trust me, I know from experience.

As I stepped over to one of the drawers to retrieve a new piping bag, my eyes somehow wandered to the window. There stood two figures, two small delicate figures working away to create their home and start a family. I couldn't help but watch the pair of goldfinches in their small yet perfect lives, absolutely deaf to heartache and struggle. They lived the simplest lives imaginable, and yet enjoyed theirs far more than I ever have with mine. They were free. Somehow, they were living the life I've always wanted. Is that weird? It sounds slightly weird. To be envious of birds.

I wonder how Alexander and Dick were doing. I had seen them both what? Yesterday? I missed them already. I hope they were both doing well. They probably were considering they didn't have to deal with me anymore.

The song continued to play as I returned my attention to the cake, a simple tune that was remarkably easy to lose myself in. With it, I could drown out the rest of the world. I could live in the beats and the notes and forget everything else that claims to matter. I could worm my way into the score and pretend it was mine and only mine, take refuge between the lines. But I didn't even realize I had been singing along at first, as enraptured as I was in smoothing the edges of the first coating of frosting that layered the cake.

"I don't understand where it went wrong.
Am I expected to play along?
Don't understand why it went this way.
Is this the role I'm supposed to play?

And if I let go, if I fall,
Will you catch me and help me through it all?
Will you be there to hold my hand?
Can you help me understand?"

The only noise was my singing, and I was fine with that. It was nice to be alone. I didn't mind. It was just me and my thoughts. Most of which were of Alexander. It seems that the longer I'm away from him, the more I think about him. And how much I've hurt him. But I love to picture the sight of his perfect smile, or the way he voice slightly rises in pitch when he's about to deliver the punchline to one of his stupid jokes, or even just the look he gets in his brilliant eyes whenever they dance over me.

What have I ever done to deserve him?

He will forever seem like he is out of reach, a glorious, perfect being I have always dreamed of. And now, I must content myself with the small knowledge that I had my chance with him, I had my time. It had been as fleeting and short-lived as cherry blossoms floating through the wind, forever spiraling downwards to the ground. But I should be happy. I should not deprive him of his chance to be satisfied and loved, not again.

I gripped the knife tighter, pausing my work only for a moment so I could wipe the tears from my eyes. It seemed ridiculous, how often I cried. How often I depended on somebody else to secure me my happiness when the only person I could ever truly be able to trust is myself.

In.

Out.

How long had it been since he first reassured me with those two utterly simple steps? How often I had relied on them for my comfort, to keep my sanity in check? And the funniest part—or perhaps the most crushing depending how you look at it—is that every time those two words whisper through my mind, it is in his voice. Because he is always, always, always there, my reminder to breathe and to live and to be. It will always be the piece I retain of him, if I cannot have anything else. Those two words will forever belong to me.

It made me smile, just to visualize Alexander whispering those words as he set his hand on my shoulder. As he brought me in for a warm, quick kiss in which he departed all the love he had to spare, all the love that he saw fit to bestow upon someone as unworthy as me. Yet another fairytale, a daydream that will never come true. But it was nice to hope, wasn't it? Nice to have something for myself.

But the thing about dreams is that they never last for very long. They are temperamental and fleeting, and flutter away like a swarm of disturbed moths the second the door slams open and that figure I've come to fear more than anything else steps into the room.

The sound alone made me flinch, the butterknife clattering against the countertop with a rancor that only drowned out the music, giving me hopefully enough time to stop it and cease my under-the-breath singing before James noticed. I paused, watching as he slowly stepped into the room, his arms crossed and his fury glowing bright enough to burn.

The tranquility thoroughly destroyed, I swallowed and pushed the cake an inch or two away from me, as if to separate it from my identity.

"James? Everything alright?" I called from the kitchen.

"Oh, just fuck off, Thomas!"

Panic surged through my like a flood gate releasing water in the middle of a storm. He'd be taking this out on me. It was inevitable and pointless to pretend otherwise.

I waited a moment more, only delaying what was to come. My breath came out in harsh, ragged gasps, but it existed and it expelled the worry into the still air, and that was enough. I unclenched my fingers around the counter, my eyes lingering on the knife for a moment longer than necessary, than comfortable.

It wouldn't take much. A quick slice across the neck, blood bleeding that bright red as it exploded into existence. The iron oxidized, the pain emphasized, and the world folding in on itself like a paper swan that had once been crumpled up. My eyes returned to James, his anger so palpable it hung over my head like a bad omen, like an oncoming storm. They darted back to the knife once more, the lights overhead gleaming against the metallic blade.

Self-defense, I could claim.

I considered it. I truly considered it for longer than I would like to admit. How wonderful it would be, to spill blood that was not my own. How easy too, for all I had to do was look away as the light left his eyes. To leave him alone the same way he had done to me so many countless times before.

But the feelings abated a moment later, leaving me numb and horrified with myself that I had ever even entertained those blood-curdling fantasies.

I set the knife I had been using to spread the chocolate frosting into the sink and turned around to look at him. He had crossed over to the couch and plopped down on it, shoving his head in his hands. And for a fleeting moment, I felt bad for him. Pushing the emotion away, I went over to join him.

James grabbed my wrist as I approached, his eyes filled with a fire that burned something deep within my chest. I swallowed as he gazed up at me, almost daring me to speak. These were the moments I was most terrified, where the silent fury engulfed him like a demon sent straight from hell. He kept me in his tight grip for a moment longer, than let go of me and growled something under his breath.

Hesitantly, I slid down onto the couch next to him.

"A-are you okay?"

"Why the fuck would you care?" he demanded. "It's not like you actually give a shit about me."

He was absolutely fuming. I took a deep breath. He was going to turn this into my fault. Somehow, he would end up taking his frustration out on me. "James, what happened?" I asked finally.

"It doesn't fucking matter," he growled, folding in on himself. "Nothing fucking matters anymore." With every word, I wanted to flinch away from him. I wanted to curl into a ball and never leave the safety I had found for myself. But still, I pressed onwards, forcing myself to diminish the distance I had put between us.

"James, please tell me," I whispered, reaching my hand across the space that separated us and sliding it onto his wrist. "You know you can tell me. I hate seeing you upset."

He glanced up at me. For a moment, I swore I saw the look in his eyes soften. Minutely, but its occurrence could not be denied.

"So I'm sure you know all about the essays we were supposed to do, right? The project we were given back in what, January?"

"The ones between you, Alex, and John Jay? Yeah, what about them?"

"Alright, so they were due today."

"Yeah?"

"Originally, we were each supposed to write eight and then have someone do one extra. You know, like normal human beings."

I nodded.

"Well guess who wrote twenty nine!"

"Alexander?"

"No! I did!"

I blinked. "Isn't that a good thi—"

He didn't even let me finish my sentence. "Guess who wrote fifty one?"

"I wanna say that it was Jay?" I asked, but I knew who it was.

I should not have smiled the way I had, for it only incriminated me even more. I should not have allowed myself that tiny hint of joy, but I couldn't help myself, and it thrived nonetheless. There was that undying passion once more, that eternal flame of determination that only made me fall for him more and more, if such a thing was possible. And even though I knew it wasn't true, even though I knew it painted me as the selfish whore that I am deep down inside, a small part of me couldn't help the persistent whisper of a thought that he had done so for me.

"Nope! Alexander fucking Hamilton. How the hell does he do that? He's infuriating! An absolute child!"

I slid away from him, a bolt of terror riding high in my chest. He could scream about Alexander all he wanted, but the truth of the matter that only one of us was here to bear the brunt of his wrath. I sighed, my fingers already shaking and dreading what was to come.

"James," I said softly. "It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong—"

"You put him up to this, didn't you?" he demanded, the accusation flying from his mouth just as violently as his hand flew to wrap around my arm. "You wanted to fucking embarrass me!"

"No, James, I—"

"I can't fucking believe how low you stoop sometimes," he growled.

Once more, he was rewriting the narrative. Pinning the blame on the defenseless, just to turn it away from himself. That's the funny thing about truth, I suppose, for it never is as pure and honest as we all perceive it to be. But I couldn't help myself, and a tiny pang in my heart believed him.

"James," I said as gently as possible. My heart battered against the cage keeping it still, but I swallowed down the bile in my throat and pushed through. "James, I would never do this to you. I love you, okay?"

And yet we find another example of how twisted the "truth" can be.

"How many did Jay write?"

"Five."

"Well you wrote more than him."

"Yeah, see, that doesn't make me feel better. At all."

"James, look. Alexander is... well, Alexander. You can't compare your accomplishments to his, because you're two completely different people. Look, you wrote four more than all of you put together were supposed to."

"And Hamilton wrote more than twice—"

"Forget about Alexander," I said, swallowing. "I'm proud of you."

James smiled. A wry, almost mocking smile. "I'm starting to understand why everyone calls you innocent."

I am not innocent. I have seen far too much, committed far too many sins. At the root of it, I am no better than James is, as we are both monsters in our own rights. But is there truly such a thing as innocence, or is yet another thing to become corrupted and falsified but people structuring a story to favor themselves? There is no such thing as purity, and there never had been.

Instead, I nodded, returning my gaze to the couch. It was so much easier to look at that James, with his ever present stare, and his wandering fingers as they slid from my arm down to my waist. My throat constricted, the words buried there dying at once. He didn't stop, once he had gotten to their target. I tensed as his fingers continued to travel downwards, my stomach giving out and allowing my heart free.

"I'm sorry, Tommy, for frightening you earlier."

Mouth dry with equal parts shame and terror, my words clogged together and became meaningless, worthless. I nodded along to his acquiescence, desperate for a distraction, an escape. Even a temporary one would be perfect.

"It's just been so stressful recently, what with finals and everything. And you're certainly not helping, and neither is the rest of the world. Today is just one of those days where it seems like the whole world is against you, doesn't it sweetheart? Nothing's going to go right today."

His voice was low, gathering that same deliberate huskiness that signaled the worst. It took everything I had within me not to flinch with every word he softly drawled as his other hand slid to my face, thumb caressing my lips. I couldn't bear to meet his eyes I couldn't bear the way he touched me I couldn't bear him I couldn't I couldn't I couldn't.

"You agree that I've been good, right?" he asked after a moment, a begging tone clash with the desire I could so plainly see in his eyes.

My body froze under his touch, much like a deer in headlights waiting to be run down. I could not move, I could not think. I could not do anything but sit there in his tightened grip, his cruel embrace. My breathing might as well have failed me, for all I wished it would just stop already.

"Yes," I agreed quietly, staring at the couch. I traced my finger over it, drawing imaginary doodles nobody could see.

"And you wouldn't mind if...?" he trailed off, though I knew exactly what he was suggesting.

I'm not sure why he was asking for my consent. He'd take what he wanted anyway, regardless of if I was okay with it or not.

"Tommy?" he asked after a moment. God, he sounded so desperate. "Please?"

"I—I d-don't want to. Not tonight...James, I'm just so tired," I managed out.

James sighed, the fingers he had been using to rub the inside of my thigh suddenly growing harsher, almost spiteful. I couldn't help the gasp of shock and pain that escaped my mouth, and that seemed to encourage him on even further.

"Please, Thomas?" James pleaded, forcing himself past all the boundaries I had painstakingly set up. "Please? It's all I've been thinking of all day. Don't you want me like I want you?"

"James—"

"Thomas, I don't want to have to ask you again. Please just do this one thing for me?"

"Okay," I murmured, finally caving in.

"Thank you~"

He barely finished his sentence when his hands were on my wrists in a second, pushing me so that my back was touching the wall. His lips met mine and he instantly bit down, running his tongue across my mouth.

He suffocated any gasp I could have made, any attempt to beg for help. James closed the distance between us and let his fingers slip under the few layers that separated our skin. And seconds later came the rush of shame, the feeling of being encased in grime and dirt and trapped under the overwhelming scent of him.

This'll be over by tomorrow.

That's what gets me through this. The idea that all of this will be over soon. The thought that tomorrow, this will be nothing but a bad memory that I'll push down into the darkest depths of my mind.

With those few thoughts, it's so easy to let my mind drift away, to let my body lose all feeling as he presses his hand down against my throat, shifting our bodies so I'm underneath him and he's on top of me as if that's the way our bodies were always meant to be. It's easy to forget the tiny, mocking words he hisses in my ear all under the disguise of love, claiming me as his and his alone. It's easy for his touch to fade, the gleam in his eyes to extinguish itself. It's easy to just float away in a sea of nothing and let the tide carry my body to an island far, far away.

But God, he's so rough.

There's no love in his touch, no passion. Just that desperate need to control and have. The pain fades but the memories are forever, and I will never be rid of the sight of him hovering over my body when for a sudden, solitary moment, my mind snaps back to reality to try and convince me this is wrong.

This will be over by tomorrow, I tell myself over and over. It will become nothing more than a wretched memory to add to the list of them, a horrid lucid dream that will fade into obscurity. This will be over by tomorrow.

I close my eyes, picture that far off island with the starlit meadow and the sweet caress of the sea breeze against my skin. I picture the endless sky, and the warm embrace of the boy I so desperately miss more than anything.

If only he could see me now.

~•~

James had his arms wrapped around me, his chest moving slowly and rhythmically. I listened to that soft breathing. It was the only noise that the night had to offer. For a moment, if I closed my eyes and tried my best to imagine, I could pretend that it was Alexander's.

Does that make me an awful person?

I stared out into the darkness. The blinds were completely drawn; no light flooded the room. It was empty, lonely, dark, and oppressive. A perfect symbol for my relationship with James.

I just wanted to be happy again.

Was that really so much to ask?

To be loved? Safe? Happy?

Tears pricked my eyes for the second time that night. Behind me, James grunted softly, completely lost to the crash that comes after the initial euphoria. He slumbered on quietly, peacefully, no doubt pleasured by dreams of whatever he dreamt of, whatever twisted stories consumed his mind as darkness fell. It took everything I had not to shiver at the thought, not to cringe in shame at my own vulnerability and weakness.

My heart ached. Just like the rest of my body, just like the rest of my soul, but in a unique and utterly fragmenting way, my heart ached and pined and longed. No amount of fantasizing could ever bring back what I had held so dearly and lost all the same. No amount of hushed prayers and desperate tears could ever conjure Alexander, could ever bring him back. Nothing could fill that empty space carved in my heart, nothing but him.

And he was never going to take me back. Not after I had lost him. Not after I had lost my violin. Not after I had lost my bird.

I lose. I lose, I lose, I lose. I lose because nothing ever wants to stay with me, and the few things I can convince to be mine flee just as fast until they are nothing more than whispers in the wind.

The darkness consumed my vision, speaking back to me. It answered my pleas with that unchanging note, that single beat in a distorted melody. It became impossible not to wither or bend under that fragment and that possibility, with as much preaching as the darkness did.

I could kill myself, I suppose.

It would be easy. Cowardly. Painful. Stupid. But easy.

It was easy to picture, standing in the harsh light of the bathroom, knife against my throat. I could whisper some stupid words to myself, let my blood run the rushing water red. I could smile as I do so, having nobody but myself in the end and perhaps that is all I need. I could purge myself of my sins, of the grime and the maggots that infest my body.

I could strip myself of everything that had once made me the person I was. I could break the tether that binds my soul to my body and free the fragile bird inside. Wings would take to the sky, and I'd become nothing just as quickly as anything else can be destroyed. All it would take was a leap off the building, an unfortunate mishap that granted that sparing moment of flight, however brief it is.

So many ways to do it.

I could hurtle through the sky, taste it on my tongue one final time.

But I couldn't bring myself.

So I laid there in James's arms, his grip tight around my waist as his breath fanned against the back of my throat, his bare skin against mine. I closed my eyes and I prayed but praying did about as much good as praying always did, and when I opened my eyes again, there was nothing but that acute, withering darkness that ate up all that could be eaten.

I was trapped. I was lost.

I laid there for a while, trying not to let my thoughts corrupt me or make me do something I'd regret. Well, I guess you can't regret anything if you're dead, but you know what I mean.

There was a soft knock on the door to the dorm. Although it was barely audible, it still made me jump due to the silence that had enfolded around me.

Part of me longed to ignore it. To bury myself in James's grip and pretend nothing mattered. But it sounded again, those repetitious, delicate knocks, and James stirred behind me.

"Answer it," he hissed, his arms leaving their position around my waist. I could feel him turn on his side as I slipped off the couch, retrieving my clothes in the darkness, the same clothes that had failed their unspoken duty in protecting me. Even when I managed to pull them on, to hide my shame and my bare, vulnerable body, I still felt tainted, impure.

I glanced back at James's body a moment later, but it had returned to that near-motionless state, signifying his deep sleep. I returned my gaze back at the door until the knocks came again. Who could possibly be there at this time of night?

Maybe it was an axe murderer, coming to kill me.

One can only hope.

Anything to be rid of this burden.

I finally pulled on my shirt, wishing it could just erase the lingering touch of James's bare body against mine. Then, after a moment's hesitation, I opened the door.

"Alexander?"