The Parent Revolution (A Hamilton AU)

7. The Moment

The isolation cabin was tiny. Tiny. Thomas was sure that even James would feel claustrophobic in it. Not to mention that he had to share it with his arch-nemesis, Louis. They had pushed their beds as far apart as they would go, but still were much too close for comfort. 

Since they had been banned from the activity for the next three days, Thomas and Laf were laying on their beds, actively not looking at each other.

That is, until winter decided to come early, blowing a whirlwind of cold air into the cabin. Papers, clothes, and other objects flew across the room. Lunging for the window, Thomas struggled and tried to cram it closed, but it didn't move.

"It's stuck!" he said, frustrated with its lack of cooperation. On the opposite side of the cabin, Laf scoffed and muttered something darkly under his breath. 

For a good thirty seconds, Thomas battled with the super old wooden frame until he looked over at the foreigner and  snapped, "Are you going to help or what?"

Rolling his eyes, Laf hopped off the bed and made his way to the window. Gesturing for Thomas to move out of his way, Laf placed one hand on the window. Straining against the resistance, Laf grabbed the frame with his left hand, too, and pulled with all his might.

Thomas watched Laf's muscles tighten and bulge as he tried to provide his strength, and his mind immediately went to James. I hope he's okay. Is he getting sicker? God, he'd better be okay. Is he missing me, too?

"I know you're worried about your boyfriend, but, mon Dieu, help me with this merdique window!" 

Flushing, Thomas hurried to help, all the while wondering if Laf was a mind-reader, or if he was really dumb enough to say what he was thinking out loud.

When they finally got the window shut, they both avoided eye contact, creating an awkward atmosphere, then each proceed to gather their belongings from where the wind had strewn them.

Curious, Thomas peered over Laf's shoulder, trying not to be heard. Laf was picking up pictures. Thomas caught glimpses of them: a woman in blue laughing, a black limo with a freckled guy posing ridiculously in front of it, and a framed selfie of Laf and a young girl in yellow.

Forgetting his own rule, Thomas asked, "Who are those people?"

Laf jumped into the air and screamed. He legit screamed, then punched Thomas in the face.

"Sorry," he said once he'd calmed down a bit. "I don't do well with jump-scares."

Thomas glanced at him, his body language saying, I asked you a question, dumbass, and looked pointedly at the pictures once more. Laf sighed, but went through the photos anyway. What's the point of keeping secrets if they had to live in this shack for the next eight weeks, anyway?

"This is my mum on the day she got a job as a reporter for this important newspaper," he said, stroking the edge of the picture absently. "I remember she said to me,  'Verba volant, scripta manent.'  It's Latin. It means, 'Spoken words fly away, written words remain.'"

"That sounds like something my dad would like," Thomas said softly, interrupting. Laf looked at him, and Thomas rushed to apologize. "Sorry."

Next Laf picked up the one with the limo. "This is John. He's our butler. Yes, we have a butler. My mum's a very good reporter," he offered as explanation. "My mum broke up with her boyfriend, so he took us to the theatre."

"And this," he sighed, unsure, "this is Peggy."

Thomas was wise, and said nothing.

"She had leukemia."

Laf seemed to shrink with those words, and Thomas found himself moving closer to Laf in an attempt to make him feel less alone. The European leaned his head on Thomas' shoulder, still looking at the picture. "We had hope. But hope really wasn't enough for Margarita Schuyler."

"Margarita?" Thomas asked, a smile forming on his face. "That's a bitchin' name."

To his surprise, Laf laughed, and said, smiling, "I'll tell her you said so."

--

"So tell me about you."

Scoffing, Thomas turned away, focusing his attention on a particularly interesting section of the wall, counting all the cracks in it.

"I told you about my dead cousin. Tell me your horror story," said Laf, dead serious, one of the few moments he had ever been that determined. 

"Fine!" Thomas snapped, whipping around to make eye contact with his roommate to drive his point across. "My mom left before I ever got a chance to meet her! My dad is a jerk who fucks his housekeeper because he can't handle having a real relationship! He sends me off to camp because he's a workaholic and never wanted me in the first place! I smoke weed to try and help me forget, and he doesn't give a shit! The only way Alexander Hamilton would give a fuck is if I died, and then it'd only be because he'd have to pay funeral expenses!"

It was quiet in the isolation cabin, then:

"Did you say Alexander Hamilton?"

Still pretty pissed, Thomas said, "Yeah, why?"

"Merde, I'm going to be sick," Laf whispered. He got up and lurched outside, looking greener than the grass. Moments later, dry retching could be heard, followed by some that was not-so-dry.

He was out there for a really long time, and Thomas started to get worried. He walked to the door, opened it, and looked around, searching for Laf.

Spotting him sitting on the porch, Thomas approached him slowly, being careful to make his steps as loud as possible so he wouldn't frighten him like he did before. Placing a hand on Laf's shoulder, the Virginian asked, "Is everything okay? I mean, I know my dad's a lot to handle, but --"

He was cut off with a hug and Laf sobbing in French. "Alexander Hamilton est mon père, cela signifie que nous sommes frères! Je suis tellement heureux, vous ne pouvez pas l'imaginer! J'ai été seul depuis si longtemps! Tant de temps, et maintenant je n'aurai plus à être seul."

From all the hysterical gibberish, Thomas was able to pick out a few words that he had learned from Elementary School, but he wasn't exactly fluent. He was able to translate these words, but who knows if it's correct or not:

~Alexander Hamilton (that one was easy)

~père = father

~frère = brother

~imaginer = image? Picture? 

~seul = alone

~temps = time

All this just made Thomas even more confused. I mean, how was he supposed to construct a working, sensible sentence out of six words and a name?

"Slow down, slow down," Thomas said, pushing Laf off him and looking him straight in the eye. "Explain. In English, please."

Wiping away tears, Laf said quietly, "My dad's name was Alexander Hamilton. He married my mum, got her pregnant, and ran away to America, where she couldn't follow."

Well, that's a lot to process?