Hamilton One-Shots

Swingset

Warning: Slight mention of abuse, suicide. Be careful, please.

June 27th, 2019

Dear Thomas,

We showed up at the foster home around the same time. Actually, the same time, if I'm remembering correctly. The same van from the Child Services office. You had bruises all over your neck and refused to look anywhere but out the floor, and I was in a cast, with cuts up and down my arms. We were really a mess then, huh.

That first day, really, the first month, we didn't speak. We shared a room, but we didn't speak. Except the first time we walked into the room. It used to be some girl named Maria's, but she turned out to be pregnant and had to be moved to a separate home. They didn't have time to repaint it, because both you and I were such high-priority cases, so the walls were bright red. I remember rolling my eyes and mumbling that it couldn't have at least been grey. You smiled, only slightly, and replied that you thought magenta would be more fitting. That brief interaction was the only words you would speak to anyone except your caseworker, for the first few weeks at least.

The home we were at had an old swingset in the backyard that had been there for seven years at least. It was old and creaky but I soon adopted it as my second home. I would shake the spiderwebs off one of the swings, sit my butt down, and swing. The branches from that old pear tree would poke my face, and the sunlight would shine directly in my eyes, but I didn't care. They wouldn't let us have razors or pencil sharpeners or safety pins or anything sharp at all, so this would have to suffice.

I didn't even realize you'd been standing and watching me from our room until you opened up the window and told me to switch to the other swing because you hated watching me get hurt and also did I know that my dismount technique for jumping off the swing was amazing? Naturally, I was so embarrassed, but I moved to the other swing, the one further from the tree, and I saw you smile.

A few minutes later, you came around the house and sat down in the swing I had just vacated. Hey, you said. Hey, what's your name? I seemed to have been struck mute. Sorry. You were just showing a true interest in my life, and no one had ever done that. Eventually we established that I was James and you were Thomas and that neither one of us wanted to talk about what led us here to the foster home. I was fine with that. I didn't want to tell you that then anyway, although now I wish I had.

Our friendship grew, and after another month or so, it turned into something more. By the time we were being switched to a different foster home, I was proud to call you my boyfriend.

We arrived at Mr. Washington's group home in the middle of Hurricane Florence. Being in Virginia, we were lucky it wasn't that bad, but you couldn't stop worrying about those tornadoes. I had to call you down so we wouldn't make a bad impression on our new foster parents. Mr. Washington was nice, and the kids were good enough. We were sharing a room again, but this time we got to paint it whatever color we wanted. I liked that. It meant we were really there. Permanent. But I guess we really weren't, right?

Of course, you painted your side of the room magenta, and I started cracking up. But you just gave that adorable, cheeky smile, and I couldn't argue with the fact that magenta was the perfect color for you. Personally, I went with a nice navy blue. A bit more adventurous than my normal grey, but you made me brave.

Do you remember Alexander? He kept sneaking out of the house late at night to go visit his boyfriend Laurens, who lived down the street, and we kept trying to bust him. Aaron would help us too. Aaron was nice. You remember him, right? He sends his regards, I'm sure. Anyway, Alexander got revenge on us by pulling a big stink about us being boyfriends and sharing a room, but Mr. Washington didn't care. The furthest our relationship went was me throwing a pillow at you when you were up late studying and an occasional chaste kiss on the cheek.

The Washingtons had a swingset too. A big tree too, but it was an oak. The two of us would sit on the swings, watching Philip climb up the tree, and tease the Schuyler sisters whenever they walked by. Those days felt like they'd be forever. Like we could be okay forever. Like we could forget everything that sent us to this place and ostracized us from the "normal" people.

Then you got worse. I noticed immediately, of course. You stopped eating as much at meals, but really, I couldn't judge for that. I didn't eat much either. My therapist called it an Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, but I just called it not wanting to eat.

At school, you didn't raise your hand much anymore. You wouldn't speak to anyone, or if you did, it was exclusively in French. Only us kids from the Washingtons stuck by you. Everyone else didn't care. You were popular enough, but once you started breaking, you were tossed to the side like a broken toy. Luckily, the first few time, we were there on the sides to catch you.

I didn't say anything. You'd only confided a bit of your past to me, and it didn't sound good at all. Neither was mine, I suppose. If either of ours were vaguely pleasant, neither of us would be or would have been facing this void. I didn't want to betray you. I didn't want to betray the fact that you still woke up sobbing in the middle of the night, and half a day later, would lie to the therapist and say you were fine.

You got worse.

I remember the evening when I was late getting home from school because I missed the bus like the dork that I am. You were okay that afternoon, laughing about Alexander's antics at debate club, and wrapping your arms around my shoulder while we were reading in the library. I missed the bus, and you were there, smirking at me in the back window like the adorable jerk that you were. Everything was fine then.

Mrs. Washington had to pick me up in the van and drop me off at home, before dashing off to Philip's parent-teacher conference. That boy was really something else. A genius but always getting into tussles with the other kids, mostly after they insulted someone close to him. Don't tell anyone, but I think what you did broke him. We were all a bunch of glass shards and he was the sharpest. But he's still here, so it couldn't be as bad as what you did to me.

I opened the door with my key. We were the golden boys. Old enough to be trusted with our own key. Alexander was old enough too, but no one in their right mind would trust him with anything. Eliza had a key too. Angelica had moved out a while ago, aged out. Aaron... he left that night in the middle of the dark. Runaway or transfer, we still don't know.

The house was empty. Except you, but I guess at this point you were empty too.

I found you in our room. And you had hung yourself. For days afterwards, I couldn't breathe, imagining what it would feel like if that rope was around my own neck.

Those days passed in a blur. The Washingtons were examined by CPS, incident forms were filled out, extra mandatory therapy sessions were given. No one noticed me half the time. No one noticed the broken boy on the floor, or the note he kept clutched close to his heart.

"I'm sorry. I will miss you. You know this is not your fault, nothing has ever been your fault. You're full aware of whose fault this is. You are too amazing for this horrible world and I hate doing this to you. Yours, Thomas."

That was all you gave me. No explanation. I wanted to hate you so much but I couldn't. I still can't.

Now.

They're going to repaint over the walls in our room. Because we were never really permanent anyway. Maybe blue and white stripes for a boy with too much inside his head, maybe red and yellow and green for three girls as close as sisters.

To their credit, they never gave me a new roommate. Our room's been the same since you died. Your magenta walls and clothes all over the floor. My navy blue walls and books all over the desk.

I hope there's a swingset in Heaven. If there is, wait for me there. I'll come running to you and everything will be okay.

Yours, yours, yours

James