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The thing about Jefferson, was that when he played. It never sounded happy. Not like it use to. He would take out his violin, shining in the moonlight, and he would stand at the window of his study and play. Alone, it was his secret. He would play songs of hate and cruelty and pain. A far cry from the more joyful tunes he had preformed when he was younger, and more willing to play to people outside his circle.
He would cry to himself for the songs now lost...songs he remembered, songs he had wrote for loved ones now gone(Lucy, Martha) and songs by composers that had magic in them even though the creator did not. He would tie back his hair and play to the moon. Sometimes owls would watch him. Sometimes his cat would fall asleep by his feet. Sometimes a crying girl downstairs would hear the song and cry harder for lost love.
He was six years old when he started playing. His father informed him that it was honorable for People of high society to play an instrument. He said he wanted to play the piano, but his father said that was too common. So he took up violin. When he was a child, his parents made him practice, locking him in his room with the instrument for half an hour, and then an hour as he grew older. Practice paid off, and he became quite good.
"It's good to be able to play an instrument. Who knows, maybe you'll meet the girl you marry through music" He remembered his mother saying to him. He would roll his eyes of course, at the age of ten, marriage had been far from his mind. But it turned out to be true. When he had gotten older, he had indeed met a girl. She had been walking by and had caught him playing his violin on the balcony.
During the time she had come around, Jefferson had gotten into the habit of playing by himself. In peace. In fact at the time he could have been considered an amazing musician, but most people didn't even know he played.
When she had caught him playing that night, Jefferson had been waiting. Waiting for the split moment when the weaving of his notes would stop and he would disregard the woman below him, send her off, stop playing for the night like he did for so many others in the past. But that never happened. Instead he sat there, playing away, eyes occasionally glancing up to see if she was still there. She was, She had been siting on the ground, hands drawn up under her chin, and he never did forget the dreamy look in her eyes as he weaved and woved note after note, before his night symphony had come to a final soothing finish.
And that had been how he had met Martha.
Martha had always did like how he played. He had often remembered times when he would spend night after night playing his instrument until the crack of dawn. And no one would complain cause the notes had been worth hearing. He remembered the countless songs he had composed for her. Some bad, others not so much, but each and everyone had been filled with a emotion the likes of which no one had ever seen come from the young man.
But that had been a long time ago. Martha was gone now. Six years to the date. Since her death, music held no significant meaning to him anymore. He had often times found himself unable to play or unwilling to even pick up the instrument that lay in its case under his bed. It was a chore on his good friend Madison's part to just get him to grace their company with a few notes when they held parties and such. But even then the notes were dry and lifeless. And Jefferson found himself hating the instrument even more.
When he played the violin now, he played it cause he had to not because it held any meaning to him. He had found that over time when he stopped playing he would forget her. Forget his wife and all the memories they had shared. Playing the violin had turned more into a chore then a enjoyment.
Until that damn kid showed up.
He never would have excepted the spawn of Hamilton to have any talent with a musical instrument. When Phillip had come with him to Monticello, he had often stayed away from the music room entirely. Wouldn't even pass its doors. He never told Jefferson why, and to be quite frank Jefferson wasn't really sure he even wanted to know. He had a hunch it had to do with his parents death. Hamilton had always boasted about how well his son could play. But he had disregarded it as nothing more then meaningless "Parental Hype" and that his workmate had just been over confident in his son's abilities.
Oh god how wrong was he.
When Jefferson first heard it, he thought at first he was dreaming—a side effect, perhaps, of working too hard and too long, burying himself in the documents that currently littered every visible surface in his office. For the past hour the soft and muffled sounds of his music rooms grand piano had been reaching him through the wooden door of his study, and Jefferson had allowed it to lull him into a more complacent state of mind, his thoughts wandering even when he tried to concentrate and figure out equations.
As the hours went on and on so did the music. Until around midnight it had rather abruptly stopped. And Jefferson was left alone with his thoughts, the crinkling of the surrounding paper and the sound of the piano echoing in his ears. It had gone on like that for quite a while. Until Jefferson got up the courage to stop his work and get to slowly making his way to his Music room.
The door had been slightly ajar, and within it, the slow harmonious taping of his piano's false ivory teeth. For a moment Jefferson hesitated, not wishing to knock on the door lest he interrupt the music going from within, and he knew that if he did that, if he interrupted him and the boy remembered that he was here, he might never hear this again. So instead he gritted his teeth and sighed again, reaching out to carefully open the heavy wooden doors, slipping into the room as quietly as he could.
Music flooded the room, echoing in the large, high-ceilinged chamber, swirling around Jefferson like the skirts of dancers from times past. To his right the large windows were open, their curtains moving slightly with the breeze that came in, and to his left was the entrance to the room, the heavy wooden doors that always reminded Jefferson just how old this place was, just how many years had gone by.
The resonance made His heart flutter just a little. It was such an enchanting melody, one that made him feel as if he were flying, though his feet stayed firmly planted on the ground. The gentle chords, the crescendos and decrescendos marking the times when his heart would pound harder, and his soul feel lighter.
It was truly inadequate to say that it was beautiful, for there were no words to describe the sounds that flowed all around him. Jefferson had known music, had shook hands with the finest of composers, had heard them play, and had played with a few himself, but what he felt now as the notes played was something far different.
It felt if he were being wrapped in the measures, holding him tightly and almost lovingly while the notes teasingly laid small kisses to his temple, caressing him in just the right way.
This wasn't music, this was something else.
This music made him feel like he could just melt away. The melody sweeping him along down a river of sounds, each holding a special place in his heart. He shifted slightly in his place, and watched as the kid played.
Out of all the instruments, and the echoes that seemed to permanently occupy the hall, he could still identify the sounds that the child's elegant fingers made. His fingers were poised over the keys, just the slightest arch giving his hand the leverage he needed to play smoothly.
He'd stroke the keys at first, not playing until he had the whole feel of the instrument. Then he'd move, so slowly, teasingly, to strike the first note. He wouldn't just play, he'd entice, Seduce was often a word composers would have used. But this wasn't it this was something else. It was as if it wasn't just a piece of equipment under his fingers, but like a person, someone the boy was coaching, helping along to find their voice and sing their heart out.
And when he moved his hands, it would look like he was dragging his fingers, caressing as he was playing. A satisfied smile would be on his lips, his eyes nearly closed as the music ran through him like the wind blew through reeds in a lagoon. His breathing would pick up, but Jefferson knew no one would notice, for they would be far too caught up in the soulful notes that rang through their hearts.
Jefferson didn't know how long he stood at the back of the room, listening without speaking, when the music began to slow even more. It seemed to end almost on a questioning note, and when Phillip lowered his shoulders Jefferson saw an expression of hesitation and faint discomfort cross the young boys face. His posture changed slowly, becoming less relaxed and more self-conscious.
"Little late for a encore isn't it Mr Mad—Mr Jefferson!—" he started before breaking off, saying nothing for a few moments, looking as if he were trying to force something out and failing rather miserably. Jefferson blinked. The kid gulped. Jefferson pushed himself off the wall without a word and walked out. The kid gulped again, eyes following the long limbed man out the door.
Phillip had been to shocked to move. He was still there when Jefferson came back. He was holding a brown Case in his hand. As he entered the music room Jefferson headed straight to the room's windows and closed all the curtains, Phillip had come over and helped with the remaining curtains of the room.
What was Jefferson planning.
Phillip had noticed Jefferson wore his favorite Velvet purple long coat with elegant golden buttons. But Jefferson on the other hand shredded his coat off revealing a plain white ruffled shirt, and tight black pants.
He knelt down, his thumb flicking the lock-on-straps to the brown case at his feet. Within it, the most beautiful instrument Phillip had ever seen emerged . The violin looked brand new, little did he know it was older then he was, just very well taken care of over the years.
"I do hope you weren't planning on stopping for the night" Jefferson said motioning to the piano. Phillips eyes darted between the piano, to Jefferson's outstretched arm, back to the piano.
"Umm"
"I do hope you don't mind improvising for the night, I didn't bring sheet music for a duet"
"A duet...sir?" Jefferson had walked over, and was standing next to the piano holding his violin, the instrument was giving out small cries of protest as Jefferson gently tuned it. Phillip glanced at the sheets of music he had played today, bit his lower lip and then turned in his seat facing the piano again. "Not at all sir."
He began to strike the piano, letting his hands roam freely thought the keys choosing to follow no rhythm in particular. It was in those moments, in letting the music control his movements and his mind that Phillip had felt free. The sound of the piano was now re-vibrating thought the entire room, making him dive deeper into the music. Phillip was in blessed bliss. And then, softly, almost shyly the sound of Jefferson's violin began.
The sound of the violin woke Phillip from his self induced trance, and even if his fingers never stopped moving, his attention was now on the man beside him. Jefferson had his eyes closed, his face was peaceful, but it also bore the marks of concentration. His movements were steady yet fluid, in perfect control of the violin. His father had often compared playing instruments to the slow seduction of women, not that Phillip ever understood what he meant. His brain didn't connect the obvious innuendo to the playing of instruments. His approach at his young age was more modest then that. To him Love, and Love making which his father compared it to, were one of the same thing. His mother had helped him "make love" to the instruments, that in turn helped them make the lovely sounds they produced. Love came out of the instruments, and the love had been mutual.
Yes, Jefferson was a lover by nature, everything he did, he did with love, and if he didn't love something he would never bother himself to do it. Phillip himself couldn't help but admire the side of Jefferson that loved music just as much as he did.
But then Jefferson's playing started to take over, his movements became faster, and the music more raw. Phillip didn't lose a beat and started to accompany the rhythm of the violin. The music became entangled with the raw emotion being poured into it, both instruments battling to be the leading part of the improved symphony. Jefferson was viciously playing his violin, making every cry from the now abused instrument seem even more raw, almost violent. Phillip was struggling to accompany such violent performance, not really wanting to abuse the beloved piano like Jefferson was abusing his instrument. And yet he couldn't stop trying to bring such raw emotion to follow the violin that had obviously taken the lead.
And so they played. Phillip knew not for how long, immersed into the rapid changing music, he didn't see the passing of time, only the change of notes and melodies. The song from a soft and shy beginning, to a violent performance, to a sad torturing melody, to a loving tone, and back into raw violent emotions. Jefferson lead Phillip into a chaotic symphony that perhaps only he understood, with the music forever changing with the flick of his wrist. And just as the music was escalating, in the precise moment Phillip believed would have been the climax of Jeffersons performance, the music abruptly stopped.
Surprised Phillip turned to face Jefferson, his hands still in positioned to keep on playing at the man's signal. But the Wild-haired man had already lowered his violin, empty eyes staring at the wall in front of him. He seemed lost, confused, and Phillip couldn't help but worry. "Mr Jefferson... is everything alright?"
Jefferson turned his head a little towards the boy at the piano, and Phillip suddenly felt his blood run cold.
"Mr Jefferson, why are you crying?"
Jefferson turned to Phillip and blinked backed the tears in his eyes, seeming to regain consciousness again. For a minute he just stood there in silence, looking down at Phillip. And then the mask had come back on. And Jefferson once again rose his violin and prepared himself to perform once more. Phillip then once again began to strike the keys of his piano. Jefferson's violin soon followed, but this time it didn't attempt to take the lead. Phillip played, and Jefferson followed accordingly.
Compared to the previous performance, it had gained something. Jefferson's playing was beautiful, perfectly in sync, and majestically done. They played beautifully, uncanny for two people who had never rehearsed together. They played and played, before they each got lost in their own worlds.
In Phillips world, he was back home back in New York, once again playing with his mother's piano with her beside him. Her hands were on his hands, his and her fingers gently pressing against the keys, in tune with a familiar string of words. Un deux trois quatre Cinq six sept huit neuf. Un deux trois quatre Cinq six sept huit neuf. His fingers strummed gently against the keys. Memories he scarcely remembered flooded his young mind, his fathers teachings, his mothers piano lessons, All good memories.
In Jefferson's little world, things were a bit different. He was back in France at first, playing his violin for a adoring crowd of people gathered together for a party. The sounds of clapping echoed in his ears as the ghostly Patrons clapped to the swing of his violin. The clapping dulled out though as soon as it started, and he found himself back home. A Breeze from the slightly open window blew, brushing up against his forearm. But as He turned to look at his arm, something had caught his eyes.
On his arm, the nearly translucent shape of a womanly hand was caressing his skin. It felt like the breeze, soft, airy, dainty, there, but not. His face had turned up to look at it in the eye, but the ghostly apparition had pulled away, and began swaying to the music dancing around him. His playing began to change as he watch the ghostly figure dance around him, it became, slowly, more whimsical. More soft, more airy, nothing more different then the thing in front of him. It became different, it had passion in it, something his music had been devoid of for so long.
Phillips mother had disappeared a while ago. He was still playing the piano, but his head was tossing casual glancing to the man, dancing and swaying to the twine of his own violin like no one was around. He began to gently tap the keys in tune with his surrogates own melody. Soft music filled the large room. Moments later the soft melody that began to spill from older mans instrument began to die down. And everything came to a slow halt.
The two of them said nothing to each other. Both were sweating, Each coming down from their musical high.
Phillip was the first to speak
"Mr Jefferson, are you alright?" Jefferson stared at the instrument in his hand for a few moments, before gazing up at the young boy.
"Yeah," Jefferson said, rolling his shoulders in a brief shrug before he finished moving forward, sitting carefully on the bench besides the Boy his back to the other ones shoulder. Pip turned back to him, and Jefferson could see his face for the first time, could see the softening lines of the other's mouth and the way it almost seemed to smile. "Are you". At first Phillip didn't know what he was referring to. Until he looked down at the small dark spots on his pants. He brought the heel of his palm to his eyes wiping away his falling tears. He sucked in a breath, his eyes closing. Then the boys shoulders began to shudder a bit, his eye still buried in his palm heel
"Always the fool, isn't that right?" Phillip muttered, and Jefferson huffed, but it was a sound devoid of irritation. Still angled towards Pip, he lifted a hand and placed it on the young boys shoulder, which made Phillip glance back at him. But Jefferson said nothing, merely letting his hand linger for a moment before he deliberately let it slide off, turning back to the piano without another sound. He grabbed the hood to the piano keys and gently set it down.
He sighed, patting the hood softly. Phillip was still looking at him. "Best to let it rest for a while" he turned to look affectionally at Pip, "It's done its job well for the night"
He reached forward to grab his violins Case. He was laying the violin to rest as pip replied "They both have" Jefferson said nothing in return. Simply gave a half smile, clicked the case closed, and got up. He walked to the door, hand on the knob.
"Goodnight Phillip"
He left. Phillip wished him a goodnight, got up, pushed his bench in and followed suite.
Unbeknownst to either party, down the hall, hiding behind a corridor, a certain man had been spying on them, enchanted and enraptured by the music coming from the room down the hall, tears slowly dripping from his eyes as he watched his friend turn in for the night. He followed Jefferson to his room, lied about his whereabouts and settled into bed with him.
_
The next morning, Madison awoke to the rising of the sun, a empty bed, and the soft gentle notes of the Violin and Piano in perfect Harmony.
Prologue
Everyone talks about the gorgeous music coming from that one house down the road and how the two people you see when you peek through the window play in such perfect harmony it nearly makes you cry, from the little boy on the piano, fingers twiddling away as though they never tire, to the older man dressed in a purple velvet suit, weaving his way through the notes on his violin effortlessly, like it's apart of him
People will talk about how wonderful they play, and how much emotion they put into their notes and how the notes seem to intertwine and go together like old friends who have reunited after so long even though they both don't use sheet music. People will talk about about the way they effortlessly keep in tune with each other, like their weaving their own world through the notes that they play
People will talk, but they won't disturb. Cause they know if they do, the world will crumble, crack and break. The world will mourn the day it looses such beauty, so they don't bother them. Not yet, not until the last of the notes die down and the players have come to a rest. But even then they will wait. Ready for the hour when the players start all over again and the world is blessed once again with the opportunity to hear such music played once more