No profit is gained from this writing—only, hopefully, enjoyment.
It starts out slow, and it's mainly Nana's fault when the wheels really get rolling. Washington's a machine, and they're all cogs, and schmoozing, making nice in front of the cameras, and throwing money at the unfortunates of the world are the grease that keeps everything in sync. Looking good is first, but looking good while seemingly doing good is a very close second.
Nana mentions it one night at dinner, and TJ just nods, but he's mentally brushing the information aside before she's even done talking. It's nothing new really—some new project of the current First Lady's that the poor woman's trying to get faces for. It happens all the time, and every time someone mentions that a Hammond would really perk up the number of those contributions. . .
"I seriously doubt I'm the one they'd want attached to this thing, Nana," and they're eating, so he doesn't have to look over all the way and make eye contact. He can get away with just slightly turning his head as he continues eating. Even the tone was good on that one, just the right kind of bitter and sarcastic, not self-pitying at all, just practical. TJ does not get invited to Important State Functions; that's Dougie's job. No, TJ and Nana are the ones who are specifically asked to stay away, and honestly that's best for everyone.
"You haven't been listening to a damn word I've said, have you?" Nana then retorts, and neither TJ nor Doug can keep a straight face. Mom may sigh, and Nana's still frustrated, but the two of them are snickering too hard to really tell. It never gets old, Nana's swearing, and the more inappropriate the venue, the more hilarious it becomes.
"Truthfully," TJ finally manages, and his voice cracks a little from the laughter, which in turn kind of sets Doug off again, "no, because even the bare bones of what you're saying makes no goddamn sense whatsoever." Nana immediately opens her mouth, and Mom's clearly preparing a response too, but TJ just waves them off. "What part of any of this sounds like a good idea—me, at the White House, in front of hundreds of cameras, playing nice for some charity for kids?" He goes back to clearing his plate, stabbing a spear of asparagus and biting off half of it in one loud click of teeth. Then, his mouth full, he grins as wide as he can and comments, "I'm more likely to corrupt some of the poster children than I am to inspire any of those Capitol tightwads to open their fucking wallets."
"In short," Dougie offers wryly, but there's of course that look in his eyes, "you think it's a bad idea, even without knowing the specifics." He nods, glancing over at Mom and Nana and then back at TJ.
And TJ nods back at him, sunny smile in place as he chomps away at the fucking asparagus that he detests eating. Doug just shakes his head at him, but that's standard.
Nana's giving him the hairy eyeball, but she's also picking up her martini glass again, the one TJ made for her without making one for himself, and so hopefully tonight his opinion counts for a little more than hers. Maybe. At least Dad isn't here.
But, then Mom's bringing her hands up on the table, making that pyramid in front of her face and hiding her expression with it, and that's never a good sign. It kind of pisses him off and maybe even scares him a little too because she only does that when she's really frustrated and upset and doesn't want to show it. What the hell?
"Okay," TJ says, slowly, dropping his fork down on the plate, "what's really the issue here? Since when am I the unexpected disappointment?" He fake laughs. "This is me, don't forget. Did you honestly think I'd say 'yes' to this bullshit? I don't care if it is for a good cause; the answer's still fucking 'no.'"
Ah, the silence. Usually, Nana's the one to break it, drawling and slurring some witty rejoinder and neatly taking the blame, but this time Mom's stepping up. She drops her hands down but leaves them up out of her lap instead of where they're supposed to be, and TJ's first thought is that emphatic 'no elbows on the table' that was drilled into his and Dougie's heads all those years back in the fucking Governor's Mansion.
So, he meets her stare and lifts his eyebrows and gestures for her to speak the goddamn truth and say what it is exactly they're all wanting from him.
"The First Lady's primary cause has always been orphaned and disadvantaged youth," Mom states, and, yeah, TJ knows this. They all, the whole country, the whole world even, know Gina Garcetti's tale of woe, being raised in foster care and the righteous struggle she's undertaken to overcome her humble beginnings. It's old news (but still, TJ can admit, really fucking interesting news because of what it says about both the First Lady and the President himself, that class hadn't ever really been a consideration for the two of them, and the fact that it's old-school romantic might have more than a little something to do with the huge spike his numbers take every time she gets behind a podium).
"Uh, yeah," TJ agrees. "And?"
Nana huffs, and Dougie smiles, dropping his eyes back down to his plate, and Mom just stares at TJ like he's being willfully ignorant.
"The fundraiser we've been talking about tonight, TJ, is part of her newest project—inner city youth music programs, and– "
He starts laughing, cutting her off, and when he looks over at Dougie he's surprised to see he's not laughing or smiling too. He's actually pretty grim, and that causes TJ to reevaluate things.
"What?" he asks, directly to Doug. "What is the big deal?" And that's for all of them. "Not everything, you know, that involves music involves me or is even interesting to me. Also," and here he slumps back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back and smirking in that way Doug once told him Mom really, really hates, "this is really starting to sound like someone else doing the talking. You sure Dad didn't put you all up to this?"
Sure enough, Mom's face shuts down cold, and Nana glowers, and Dougie fucking drops his traitorous eyes back down to his plate and pushes his vegetables around because he hates asparagus too but is too chickenshit to ever admit it because he's the good one.
"Look, you little shit," Nana says, and TJ turns to her, smirking and slouching, "don't you dare think for one minute that just because you're my favorite I won't hesitate to smack you in that gorgeous gay face of yours for saying I'm that asshole's mouthpiece. Do you see your daddy sitting here? No? Then shut the hell up, darling, and listen to what we are actually trying to tell you!" She takes a few deep breaths, then a sip of her drink, and TJ isn't sure whether he wants to laugh again or apologize.
But, that's pretty standard for Nana.
Then, it's the final tack, with Dougie leaning far over his plate so he can be as physically close to TJ as possible while they're still sitting across from each other at the dinner table. "It's a big deal," Doug says, quietly and seriously, "but it wouldn't be about you. The First Lady and her advisors have snagged some pretty big names, several important foundations and charities being represented, and we just thought. . . " He holds TJ's eyes, smiles a little, and when that slowly slides up into a grin, TJ knows he's going to say 'yes' before his twin even opens his fucking mouth again. That grin gets him every damn time, and Dougie knows it, the shithead.
TJ raises his eyebrows, pointedly, gesturing for Doug to spit it out.
"And did I mention some of the big names who're going to be at this thing?" Dougie asks, then looking over at Nana as if he's somehow miraculously forgotten. "What was that one foundation, the one with the rock star?"
"Mercer," Nana answers, glass millimeters from her open mouth, "the one with the brothers and the band and all the tattoos. Pretty hot little piece of ass, if you ask me," she adds, and that does cause TJ to burst out laughing, Dougie too. Even Mom cracks a smile because nobody plays dirty like Nana, and bringing up hot men and rock n' roll is the dirtiest fucking play in the book.
Because it fucking works every time.
"Oh, God," TJ moans from behind the hand he has over his eyes, and his voice is all high and thin from laughing so hard, but he can hear Dougie still giggling across the table and Nana polishing off her drink like a pro, so he's not too embarrassed, "it's like high school all over again. Next, you're gonna be offering opinions on my wardrobe, and the words 'too slutty' are going to pop up every other sentence."
"Only this time," Mom says, calm as a fucking cucumber, "you are definitely legal and without escort, so hopefully there won't be any situations involving the Secret Service discreetly leading away the 25-year-old you've managed to con into the second-floor linen closet."
And that makes TJ groan again behind his hand, utterly mortified because he'd honestly thought all these years that she hadn't ever found out about that, but Nana gleefully cackles next to him, and Dougie can barely breathe as he says, "Oh, God, that's right—his face!"
So that's how Thomas Hammond winds up attending, and even playing at, the First Lady's Gala for Youth and Music, and that's how he meets Jack Mercer and Randy Jinds.
How he ends up sleeping with both of them is another story altogether.
If it hadn't become such a sticking point, then he likely would have kept playing the piano. He's good at it, even when he's terrible. His hands shake for everything else but not that. He likes it. It's good, and it makes him feel good, and it even makes other people feel good—most of the time. They never stopped harping about it though. It became this symbol of failure. He didn't play anymore; he did drugs. The two weren't connected until they connected them, and now he's fucking ambivalent about one of the few things besides being an embarrassment and being that guy that he's ever excelled at.
He tries to hurt them by refusing to play, and he's not stupid. He knows he's doing the same thing to himself, but what no one understands, besides Dougie, is that that's the point. Two birds, one stone, and maybe he just hates what they do more than he loves himself. Maybe he'd rather everyone else suffer than do something he enjoys. Maybe he's a real bastard like that, selfish and masochistic like that, but if that's the case—well, then he sure learned it somewhere. And fucking himself over is pretty much hereditary. Dougie's the best of both parents, the good twin, the poster boy, but all the rottenness had to go somewhere.
He's actually told not to bring a date, although the polite euphemism is "company," and it's an aide doing the courteous and slightly awkward request. The current administration has taken a pretty moderate stance on most everything, and while that's to be expected of a first term democrat vainly attempting to work with a majority controlled republican congress, it's still aggravating and vaguely embarrassing, made worse by the fact that his mom is part of that system, part of the system, that without any qualms whatsoever demands his silence and invisibility. And both Mom and Dad live permanently in that world, but Mom's position on social issues is so completely not moderate that it's somehow exacerbated the fact she's routinely forced into a corner.
He has a few too many drinks that night when he goes back to the club under Dougie's watchful eye. The fun's been sapped from this life for awhile now, but standing on the VIP catwalk and looking down at the main dance floor still manages to stir up a bit of that smug daring and carefree attitude he's known for. It's not really his at all, is the only thing. It's Jacob's knowledge and Brad's contacts and both of their money, and it's Dougie's money too, put up out of the goodness of his heart—and it's TJ's fucking name and his fucking face and fucking pathetic life history.
He is a joke and not the funny or even the sad kind, just the uncomfortable, the astonishing, the "this guy's still alive?" kind.
He drinks a lot that night, and Dougie takes him back to Mom's, but she's thankfully already asleep. Instead, it's just both of them fighting to get TJ poured into bed and wrestled onto his side. There's some kind of designer trash can tucked next to the bedside table, and Doug pulls it over right next to where TJ's flopped like a beached whale.
"One of Anne's," TJ comments, and it must come out pretty clear because Doug huffs a little chuckle, a tiny, refined snort. He's kneeling by the bed, eyelevel with TJ, and his eyes aren't particularly sad, just resigned and maybe curious, likely wondering if tonight signifies some bigger problem than just TJ's usual shit.
"How's it going?" Dougie asks, and it's so familiar, him saying that. And they never really had a twin's language or a secret handshake, but Dougie's always known what to say—and TJ does him the courtesy of almost always telling the truth.
"Ok," TJ responds, blinking, and his eyes get a little wet, and Doug just nods and puts one of his hands on TJ's shoulder.
"You don't have to do this fundraiser if you don't want to," Doug tells him. "Mom would understand– "
"Maybe I don't want her to 'understand.' Shouldn't have to—always do this. And not like it changes—matters." TJ's angry now, and he tries to say what he's feeling, but he's still fucking tanked, and the words come out skewed, not that they ever proceed all that logically even when he's sober. Dougie's the diplomat, the talker, the one who always aced the essay questions in school, the one who's the fucking lawyer just like Mom and Dad. TJ's the weird artsy type, like Nana, like their grandfather had been. TJ's the screw-up, the black sheep.
When he was younger, during Dad's second term and right as the shit was hitting the fan with TJ's sexuality, people liked to remark that it was good there were two Hammond kids because at least one of them would make it out alive. Then there were the ubiquitous jokes about the 'evil twin'—at school, at the House, on the TV and in fucking magazines. The shits at the boarding schools afterward, after he was shipped off overseas in the futile hopes that he'd disappear, they continually thought it was hilarious to post pictures around the place of him and Dougie, him with a twirly mustache, horns, eye patch, or a few blackened teeth, just to really hammer the point home.
His direct definition is he's a pain in the ass, a troublemaker, impossible, burdensome, an embarrassment.
Dad's said it a lot over the years, and Mom said it last week finally, and Nana goes off about it all the damn time, but Dougie—Doug's never mentioned it once, never compared them, never told TJ to his face that he's the. . .
"Wanted to be you," TJ says, and Doug blinks rapidly and sighs, and his hand squeezes TJ's shoulder hard, but he doesn't say anything in return. But, what's there to say, honestly? They don't lie to each other, not really, and Dougie's silence is still filled with 'I know' and the obvious 'I never felt the same, Tommy' because TJ's the only one who wanted to switch places, the only one in the family who didn't want power or recognition but to just be a different person entirely.
They're all choices, and it's just a matter of how quickly he decides. The fast ones last longer, stretching out endlessly, following and nipping constantly at his heels. Nobody forgets the good times, the bad times, the worst times. Flying by the seat of his pants, and they're wrong, those snap decisions, but they feel so goddamn good to make. That's life right there, the fast, the dirty, and that's what matters. Those are what everyone remembers. That makes them the most real, right? If nobody knows a thing, then the thing doesn't exist. It's arrogant to assume a tree makes no sound as it falls in its human-free forest, but that's the truth. Nobody acts when no one's around to see the performance. Nothing counts if someone doesn't see it.
The reverse is true too. Actions are only seriously taken into account when the consequences become too great. People don't think twice about cracking their knuckles unless someone else comments on it. What's the point in doing something right if no one will ever see it, if that one act will never even factor in? What is– what's the goddamn fucking point?
Then there're the slow decisions, the ones that drag out but never get anyone anywhere. Staying sober, staying clean, staying in, and it's a constant, continuous choice being made—over and over and over again every second every movement every thought. They hurt, too. They're painful, and it's just a loop of shame and self-pity and knowing it's never going to change no matter how much work, no matter the good fucking intentions. See, because nobody sees those moments. Nobody wants to watch that, that horrible, disgusting struggle. It's ugly; it's boring.
And then there's the fact that people don't believe it when they do see it. He disappoints when he doesn't disappoint because they think he's just hiding it better. They get– they get fucking nervous when he's good, when he's boring and clean and always on time, present, in the moment and on the ball. It's almost as if he's going off-script, as if he's cheating. When he doesn't lie to make himself look better, when he is better—that's when they really think he's lying. And when he's lying through his fucking teeth, as long as they don't catch him in the act, that's when they're fine being everywhere else, doing the duties of the land, playing the game and ignoring him as he fucking freefalls.
The truth is, and anyone who knows anything knows this, it's the anticipation that feels the best. The aftermath sucks, and the act itself is the reward, but it's that drawn out moment before which makes it all worth it. That's the rush. That's the best of life, of this life, of his life.
He fucking loves it. That's the truth right there. He loves being up and above it all, untouchable, clean and bright like a fucking star, and he's invincible then. He's perfect. It's worth it. It's worth everything surrounding it, everything that follows and discolors it, to be in that place for just hours, a long string of minutes, seconds, moments stretched out behind him like dirt kicked up in the road.
And that's how he wants to go out, will go out. It's inevitable really, fate, a done deal. The closer the highs, the better the chances, the better he feels. Only a few things even come close to touching that, and they fail in the end too. The longer he stays off, the worse he feels and not even physically. That's a bitch too, but it's not that bad. What feels worst isn't the fact that he's just another addict, a dime a dozen junkie. It's knowing he's not alone here in the fucking family, and yet being alone despite that. Nana's no saint, and Dad's a real prince, but TJ's the one whose name is always surrounded by the word "issues," who's defined and catalogued and simultaneously dismissed and exploited. And it's not his name, like some people argue; it's him. They make it him.
But, he likes going downhill, loves it, lives for it. It's fun, and he's proud of himself when he's in that headspace. He sees everything how it is when he's high, and pretending then isn't pretending at all. When he's high, he's happy. That's not fake. That is the truest goddamn Truth there is.
It's the After he has to worry about, the After that weighs in every time he goes to snort or shoot up, but someday there won't be an After, and TJ would be lying if he said he dreads that day's coming, if he said he isn't looking forward to the Perfect High. That's his role. That's what he's been heading for his entire life, and that's the Truth no one wants to say out loud, so he does. He says it, and it's in part to shock and wound, and in part to prepare and desensitize them, but really it's mostly him being honest about the one goddamn thing he's allowed to be honest about. He doesn't want to be here, and he doesn't fit in here, and he does try sometimes, but it won't ever work out, and he's never pretended otherwise. He steals, lies, is at the center of numerous scandals, but he knows.
They all know; he's just the only one with the balls to say it. And maybe that makes him a right bastard, but at least he's fucking right.
Mom buys him a new suit for the gala, actually has Doug mark off the time, and it's her and the Service picking him up at the house and driving to the tailor they always use. It's just the two of them going through catalogues and discarding certain styles, and it's Mom saying he wears too much black and him responding that black is formal, and then they look at each other and crack up, and TJ asks, "So, how about grey?"
Grey evidently makes him look strung out and tired, blue too skinny, black boring, and purple. . .
"Oh, honey," she says in that tone of voice where she's trying to either not laugh or let him down easy.
TJ grins and does a 180. "What, too flaming?"
Laughter, it is, and it's wonderful to hear, even better to be the cause of, and he straightens the jacket, puts his shoulders back, and scowls.
"How 'bout now?" he asks, milking it for all he's worth, and she gets up and comes over, reaching up to pat him on the cheek.
"I like the blue," Mom says, quietly, "best when not wanting to ruffle any feathers. However," and here she smirks, "I'm buying you this one too." TJ opens his mouth to disagree, but she cuts him off, saying, "Blue will be nice for the wedding, won't it?"
And just imagining the looks on those fancy Gala assholes' faces when TJ shows up in a purple three-piece suit is enough to send the both of them into giggling fits for the week.
"They'll call you The Joker!" Doug exclaims after TJ tells him. He sounds almost horrified, and TJ cackles in delight.
"No worries, Bro," he replies, "there was pink too, if you think that would be better."
Purple for the gala and blue for the wedding, and when he smiles at the cameras going up the steps for the former—he generally genuinely feels it. In the shots of him that pop up in the days following, he's grinning like a shark.
" . . . no, I'm not going to reek of booze when I shake the First Lady's hand!" some guy is angrily whispering, pushing away a glass of liquor his buddy is apparently trying to force-feed him. "And you're officially cut off after this one too. I will disown you if you trip and fall again like– "
" –like that one time in front of that one actress at that one place," the other guy finishes for him, and TJ can hear his eyes rolling in his head. "Still harping on that? Cos I'm not apologizing for something I can't even remember."
"That's my point!" the first guy retorts. He pushes the glass away firmly with a scowl, but that only makes the second man shrug and change direction, gulping the contents down himself. "Jesus, Jack!" the guy says, shaking his head in that disappointed way TJ is more than familiar with being on the receiving end of.
"Who's it hurting?" 'Jack' eventually responds, and his voice is quiet, but the tone is belligerent.
"You," the other guy says, "and therefore me."
"I hate these things," Jack says, and now's when TJ starts feeling like a sleaze eavesdropping like this. It's what Nana would call déclassé and what Doug would drag him around by the arm to prevent.
So he bites the bullet.
"You're not alone on that front," TJ says, his slouch against the bar impeccable in its insouciance. It ought to be. He's spent years perfecting it.
Both turn his way, and upon returning the favor and finally getting a good look at them, TJ bites the inside of cheek hard.
"So, nice to meet you," TJ says. "When do you guys go on?" And he's smooth and smug like it's no big deal he's talking to genius musicians who are also hot as fuck. He does this everyday and it's tiresome, so tiresome. Yawn.
Guy Number Two, the badgerer who is in fact Randy fucking Jinds, says, "You're– it's an honor to meet you, Mr. Hammond," and stands up straight to face him and everything, sticking out his hand to shake like gentleman.
TJ is all over this. "Oh, forget that!" he says, grabbing Jinds by his shoulders and grinning like they're old friends, friends who like each other. "Pleasure's mine, dude! You guys fucking kill." TJ upgrades to an arm around Jinds' shoulder, turning them so a still-sitting Jack Mercer isn't blocked because what a shame that would be. TJ's beside himself with glee and lust and fanboy enthusiasm because it's not always true that hot people in photos are as hot or hotter in person, but it is definitely the case with these two. Half of We Spares right here before him. He is a lucky man.
"Well, uh, thanks," Jinds says, and he's all tensed up and visibly uncomfortable, so TJ releases him and sticks his hands in pockets.
"So, my question: when do you go on? Cos I have to be honest here, that's pretty much the only reason I came tonight." He finishes with a nice closemouthed smile, so as not to seem desperate, but he is undeniably making an ass of himself and truly couldn't care less. What's to lose? Does he even have a reputation at this point, or is he more of a running joke?
There's a certain freedom there to be sure, one he is more than willing to exploit, especially if his total lack of decorum gets him sidled up next to two of his idols.
"'Bout 45, I think," Mercer says, and TJ's not imagining the fact that the guy who notoriously blows off events and people attending those events hasn't made a move to escape yet, either physically or back into a bottle, which TJ would not blame him for one bit. Folks, himself included, tend to come on strong and overstay their welcome. One gets used to it eventually. Kinda.
"Cool," TJ says, nodding. Speaking of outstaying his welcome, and not wanting to burn a bridge before it's even constructed, he says, "Well, I'll leave you to it then. Break a leg and all that!" He smiles a last time and turns to leave, when Jinds catches his jacket sleeve and gives it a tug.
"Wait! You play, right?" Jinds glances at Mercer then back to TJ, earnest with his floppy hair and scruff and huge eyes. He's like a twink who grew up to be a hunk, which is pretty much TJ's type. Oh, God, is that his fucking type!
"Yeah," TJ says, "piano. I think I'm up second, so—before you? Something like that. Why?" Here he grins again, can't resist needling them a bit. "You need accompaniment? I do have quite the sense of rhythm."
Bingo! Mercer makes this coughing, snorting sound, and Jinds blushes like a Labor Day sunburn, all pink ears and red cheeks. Complements his red lips and has the added effect of loosening up Mercer a bit too, his posture relaxing as he honest-to-God smiles.
Innuendo it is.
"Not sure 'need' is the right word," Mercer says, "but I sure as hell wouldn't turn you away."
Touché.