Here in My Heart [jeffmads] || DISCONTINUED

Eight Weeks Passed

Thousands of miles away, a man's eyes raked over a short document held tightly in his hands. It had been sent eight weeks ago, by Thomas Jefferson. It was the same document James Madison had been staring at for weeks on end, the old parchment having begun to yellow from sitting open on his desk for so long. He scanned every line for hints regarding the absence of his friend. His closest friend, though nothing more.

Or so he made himself think.

But then why was he thinking about the way his heart jumped with every finely-printed word?

Paris September 28, 1789

My dearest James,
I just barely received your letter before I departed for Monticello. By the time you read this letter, I am surely on my way back. I left my letter to one of the maids at Lafayette's chateau to see it delivered as I could not do so myself. In fact, being in such a rush, I nearly forgot to respond. Anyway, all this to say I'm returning home in an estimated six weeks, weather permitting. I apologize for the length of this letter, I did not have the time to write out a letter as I usually do. Well, my coach is about to arrive. I look forward to seeing you soon.
Your affectionate friend and servant,

Thomas Jefferson

James sighed and set the letter down. Collapsing into his seat, he pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to block a tidal wave of thoughts, all about Thomas, from his mind.

Suddenly, his door flew open, almost ripping off from the hinges.

"Mr. Madison! Did you hear the news about good old General Mercer?"

Alexander Hamilton plowed through the door frame, ignoring the papers that scattered the white-oak flooring.

James groaned and buried his face in his hands; he did not need to deal with the eccentric nature of Hamilton's daily occurrence, especially not now.

Hamilton strode around the desk, babbling news about yet another old war veteran having passed away. He peered over James's shoulder, his gaze drawn towards an open letter on the desk.

"Oh–" Hamilton muttered to himself, his eyes growing larger with every word he read "–I didn't know you and Jefferson were so close."

Madison looked up sharply and snatched the letter from Hamilton's gaze.

"I would prefer it," James fumed, stuffing it away into one of his many desk drawers, "if you could keep your eyes away from things that aren't yours to see, Mr. Hamilton"

Alexander ignored Madison's show of irritation, his eyebrows drawn together thoughtfully.

"Shouldn't he be back by now?"

James sighed and leaned back in his seat. Hamilton was going to stay, there was no point fighting him.

"Yes. He should have been," James admitted. "He should've been back two weeks ago!"

"Well I'm sure there was just a misunderstanding, maybe he meant nine weeks instead of six or-"

"There was no mistake, Alexander!" Madison snapped and slammed his hand onto the desk, both angry at Hamilton and upset that Thomas had not returned. Hamilton jumped backwards at the loud noise.

"I'm sorry sir, if this was a sensitive topic for you, I did not know."

James stood up from his desk and began to pace back and forth behind his desk, playing with the edges of his overcoat as he strode.

Hamilton moved a little closer, taking his empty seat.

"You've been in this room for weeks, why don't you come outside and enjoy some fresh air." He offered.

"I can't." Madison grunted.

"You can."

"No, I cannot!"

"And yet, you can." Alexander stressed.

"Hamilton, you don't understand—" James spun to face him, "—Jefferson is lost at sea! He could be dead! His corpse could be lying at the bottom of the Atlantic as we speak! I will not leave, I will not rest, until he comes back!

"Sir, that can't be good for you health-"

"Does it look like that's my foremost concern right now!" Madison shouted. Suddenly, he clutched his chest and reeled forward, dissolving into a fit of violent coughing.

Hamilton leapt out of his seat and scrambled over to help. He eased James into a chair, but was shoved away before he could do anything more.

"I'm fine, I'm fine."

Hamilton stood in place for a moment, before working up the courage to speak again.

"You really should step outside sir, for your sake"

James glared at him, his chest still aching.

"Get out of my chambers, Alexander, if you know what's good for you."

Alexander hastened out of the room, and James heard him muttering under his breath.

"He's absolutely insane. You'd think it was his wife who'd gone missing with the way he jumped at me."

Then, Hamilton left.

The door closed with a loud click, the sound echoing throughout the now desolate room. James waited a second, then reopened his drawer and took out the letter. He returned it to his desk, the centerpiece of his organized and clutterless desk.

Glancing over at the door, he felt a tug inside him motioning to get up. As he began to cross the room, James heard Thomas's voice whisper his name from behind him. Madison spun around, a cry of joy on his lips, only to be staring at empty air. The glimmer of hope in his chest was extinguished.

Maybe Hamilton was right. Perhaps he really was going insane.

James leaned against the door and slid down to the ground, pulling his knees into his chest. He just wanted to see Thomas again. James felt empty without him. No matter how many letters and documents he wrote, he couldn't decipher his feelings. For once, it was something he couldn't put into words.

He caught a glimpse of his work desk; it was surrounded by crumpled papers, reminders of his failures.

Why couldn't he sort himself out? Why was he feeling this way?

Carefully, he stood, coughing loudly into his handkerchief, a battered piece of magenta cloth provided to him by Thomas. The letter on his desk, written by Thomas. A bottle of champagne imported from France at Thomas's recommendation sitting on a side table. Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of Thomas.

James's chest tightened when he saw a portrait of Thomas on the opposite side of the room next to a portrait of himself. Why were all of these things evoking such a reaction out of him?

Sighing, he wandered back to his desk and slowly lowered himself into the seat, gently placing his head in his hands.

What was going on with him?