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Faulty Memory

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Hamilton pinned Jefferson up against the wall, blood pumping wildly in his veins. Buttons popped off, fine clothing tore, but the only thing Hamilton could hear was the heavy breathing and half formed words of the man in front of him. Sequestered alone in the tiny storage closet, the rest of the world might as well have been gone in that moment, for all Hamilton was paying attention to it.

He jumped on the tip of his toes for another bruising kiss, never quite satisfying enough; while Jefferson practically tore at Hamilton's undershirt. It was halfway off when Jefferson froze suddenly with a shocked, almost wounded noise. Hamilton stopped, falling back to the flat of his feet. Did he hurt Jefferson by accident?

“What is that?” Jefferson's voice strained, face pale. He pointed at something down Hamilton's side, arm wavering slightly like he'd seen a ghost

Hamilton huffed, trying to see exactly what the problem was that warranted such an abrupt interruption. “What is what- oh.” His scar. It was a nasty one; a deep, wide, highly visible gash. “That, my friend, is a little souvenir from the time I was held hostage during the war.” Hamilton wasn't about to elaborate, the moment not being one of his proudest.

Hoping to draw Jefferson's attention away, Hamilton hooked his arms around strong, tall shoulders, and tried to pull himself up- only for Jefferson to push him down with a firm motion, not even taking his eyes off the scar.

“God, not now, Hamilton!” Jefferson snapped. Now they were both frowning. They were in a broom closet where no one was looking for them, half undressed, but they were frowning instead of kissing- or however far their pent up energy would have taken them.

“Did... did it hurt?” Jefferson stumbled over his words, a flush caused from embarrassment rather than intimacy kissing the edge of his cheekbones.

Hamilton jerked his head up so he could give Jefferson an incredulous stare. “Did it hurt? Of course it hurt, you idiot. It was a bayonet through the torso.” Hamilton frowned, checking back on the memory despite himself. “Of course, the infection hurt more, as is always the case with such injuries.”

Jefferson frowned, suddenly looking sick. “Why?” Hamilton asked, not because he really wanted to know, but because there was something fundamentally wrong with the uncertain expression on Jefferson's face.

It took a long moment for him to answer. “...I forget, sometimes, that you actually fought in the war.” His words were quiet: guilty and subdued. Hamilton could hear the silent almost-apology loud and clear.

For once, Hamilton decided to be merciful. He'd called Jefferson out plenty of times on his lack of service, but it seemed wrong to do so now. So instead, Hamilton snorted. “You have terrible memory.”

Something in Jefferson's posture relaxed, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly. Hamilton knew then that he had made the right decision. “May I?” Jefferson was leaning down now, almost at his level.

“I guess?” Hamilton had no idea what Jefferson was asking. He didn't seem to be in the mood for any more of what they came there for, and to be honest, neither was Hamilton anymore. Jefferson stooped down, and Hamilton had a moment of realization before fingers were sliding against his scar.

He tried not to jump at Jefferson's digits- cold against the warm flesh of the side of his waist. They were equal parts careful, barely-there brushes and firm, inquisitive prods. “Does this hurt now?” Jefferson's voice was hushed, a hint of awe in his tone.

“No, not at all.” Hamilton found himself short of breath and almost dizzy, even though this was worlds more tame than what they had originally intended. Jefferson wasn't even doing anything, just touching an innocuous- if sensitive- stretch of skin.

Jefferson leaned in, and suddenly laid a gentle kiss across the biggest knot of scar tissue. Hamilton jumped, a sharp yelp forced from his throat at the unexpected touch of soft lips, against the light scratch of facial hair. His heart skipped and started racing with the abrupt sensation, unable to process it.

Hamilton could feel Jefferson smile- could literally feel lips shifting against his bare skin. Hamilton shivered at the feeling of soft breath, cool against the barely-wet patch of freshly kissed scar tissue. “Well, I certainly won't forget about this, at least.” Arrogance dripped off of Jefferson's words again. Hamilton didn't have time to form a proper response, as Jefferson straightened and immediately began throwing his clothes back on.

“Oh, and Hamilton,” He called. Hamilton's eyes snapped to him again, breaking free from his unfocused daze. “Pull yourself together, you're far too flushed for the private meeting we were supposed to be having.”

“Oh, shut up-” Hamilton snapped, but the closet door slammed shut, decisively ending what could have been an excellent tirade. Slowly, Hamilton began to gather his own clothing. One of his jacket buttons was a lost cause, but he'd survive the ride home without causing too much of a scandal.

Hamilton would never understand where he stood with that Thomas Jefferson.