Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Up or down?"

The question catches him off guard, making him flinch slightly and glance up from his phone. The half-written message is left unsent. He hasn’t even noticed the elevator stopping on the floor.

The pause is a little too long, and Jefferson repeats himself.

"So, are you going up or down?"

Alex blinks and shifts his gaze to the elevator control panel. The numbers glow softly in red, their light unevenly reflected on the scratched metal surface. Third floor.

"Up."

"Great."

Jefferson steps into the elevator, presses the door-close button, and leans casually against the wall. Alex instinctively takes a couple of steps back, putting as much distance between them as the confined space allows.

“You'd think they couldn't afford a bigger one,” Thomas says, seemingly addressing Alex’s movement without looking at him.

Alex doesn't answer.

Thomas is wearing a dark green sweater patterned with striped candy canes and snowflakes – undeniably festive. A classic. Alex finds himself wondering if pink Christmas sweaters exist. Or purple ones, at least. Well, not likely — if they did, Jefferson would have certainly found a way to get his hands on one.

Jefferson looks… well, like Jefferson. It’s impossible to tell whether the smug half-smirk is part of his default expression or if he’s just noticed Alex staring.

Mutual silence fills the space between them. Alex can’t recall the last time he managed to keep his mouth shut for this long in Thomas Jefferson’s presence. Probably never. Usually, it only takes a few minutes in the same room before he’s halfway to losing his voice. Or not halfway.

But right now, well. Right now he’s just too tired.

And Jefferson must be tired, too. Not that you can tell. It’s infuriating — the way he always manages to look perfectly put-together, even in the face of the apocalypse itself — or at least the end of the last workday. Might as well be the same thing.

Curiosity gets the better of him, and Alex deliberately searches Jefferson’s face for signs of exhaustion. Instead, he notices something else — Jefferson’s haircut is different. Maybe he came in like that this morning? No, Alex would’ve definitely noticed the shaved side.

Not that he spends much time studying Jefferson’s hair.

Ninth floor.

The Christmas party is on the top one. Corporate events have always been Alex’s personal idea of a nightmare, but this one takes the cake. Who, in their right mind, genuinely wants to spend Christmas Eve with coworkers, half of whom they can barely recognize?

Not Alexander Hamilton, that much he can testify to.

He has no idea how Jefferson feels about the holidays, but knows Thomas handles them far better than he does. At least, he’s never been the one dropping a wine glass. Or a tray of tarts. And he always has the perfect line to charm the right people. God. The idea of envying Thomas Jefferson is as bizarre as it is revolting.

Tenth. Jefferson shoots him a glance. Top-down. Alex looks away, vengefully thinking that party charisma aside, Jefferson’s article didn’t win best of the month — Alex’s did.

Ha.

They’d argued over that piece on congressional polarization, of course, like they argued over every column. Jefferson shouted himself hoarse; Alex nearly broke a chair. He’s pretty sure John and Madison bet on whose article gets published, but has yet to catch them at it.

Eleventh. Twelfth.

Thirteenth.

Fourte—

Click.

The elevator stops.

"What the fuck," Alex blurts. Great, Merry Christmas to him. And a Happy New Year. Well, it could be worse.

The next moment, the light flickers and goes out.

"Shit."

Jefferson sighs and turns on his phone flashlight. "I have never imagined I’d say this, Hamilton, but I completely agree with you,” he drawls, inspecting the walls with a tensed look on his face.

"Should we, I don’t know, call the dispatcher?" Alex suggests, already bracing for the response.

Jefferson rolls his eyes.

"Hamilton. Surely, even you can recognize the futility of this exercise. It’s nearly nine. It’s Friday," He ticks off each point with theatrical patience. "And, to add to it all, it’s Christmas. Do you honestly think anyone’s answering?"

"Oh, for the love of— what is wrong with you, Jefferson?" Alex snaps. "Why not at least try?”

Jefferson glares at him for a couple of seconds — Alex can’t see much of his face in the dim light, but the guess isn’t hard. He holds the gaze.

"Okay. By all means, then," Jefferson says finally, sweeping a hand toward the control panel.

And Alex tries. The little bell icon lights up on the first press: “Your call has been received. Please wait.”

He waits. Nothing.

He tries again.

And again.

By the fourth attempt, he’s ready to break the button. He gives up, mostly because hearing the hold music one more time might jeopardize not only his mental health, but also the elevator’s structural integrity.

"Satisfied?" Jefferson inquires mockingly.

"Thrilled. Fine then. If you’re so damn smart, what’s your plan?" Alex hisses in response.

Jefferson doesn’t reply. Instead, his flashlight switches off, and he dials a number. Alex listens to the ringing echo until Jefferson mutters, "Unbelievable."

"What?"

"No signal."

Alex checks his phone, just in case, but Jefferson is, unfortunately, right — no wi-fi, no signal. Oh, and there is another pleasant discovery: his phone battery is almost dead. Great. Merry Christmas to him.

"Shit," Alex mutters aloud. It is still the most concise conversation they’ve ever had. "So… now what?"

"Hmm," Jefferson hums, clearly faking contemplation. "How about five minutes of silence where you don’t annoy me? Just for a change."

"Who’s the annoying one, Jefferson?" Alex fumes. But then anger gives a bit of space to curiosity. "Why five minutes?"

"Because," Jefferson smirks, "in five minutes, this elevator will be fixed, and I’ll be free of your company. At least for tonight."

Alex questions Jefferson's optimism. Every other time he’s been stuck in an elevator, it’s lasted at least a couple of hours — once, overnight. On the other hand, that might have something to do with the fact that the elevator in his building looks like it was installed during the Industrial Revolution.

Five minutes of silence stretches agonizingly slow. The next five feel even slower, and another five mark the beginning of eternity for him.

This is unbearable.

Thomas shifts his posture several times, leaning against the wall, then straightening up, as if unable to find a comfortable position. Finally, with a single motion, he pulls the sweater over his head. From time to time, his gaze lingers on the elevator doors before returning to the opposite wall, and Alex thinks he notices his jaw tighten slightly each time.

Alex tries editing a piece about student protests, but it quickly goes from bad to worse. Whether it’s from exhaustion or the lack of proper lighting, the text blurs, his eyes refuse to cooperate. Without the internet, he can’t check the latest statistics. Eventually, he gives up, turns off his phone, and lets his thoughts take over.

When will he finally get home? Shame he can’t text John — if they’re stuck here for hours, he will definitely freak out.

Alex imagines how perfect it would be to be anywhere but here: at home with hot food, Laurens, and a Christmas comedy. Or at least at a café with his laptop. Never again is he dragging himself to a work holiday party, no. Social image? Absolutely not worth it.

Letting his eyes adjust to the darkness after the bright phone screen, he scans the space around him: the dead control panel, the grainy linoleum floor — gray, probably — the large mirror on the wall, and the scratched graffiti near it. The air faintly smells of metal.

He runs his fingers over the nearest scratches but can’t make out the letters. The shadowy reflection in the mirror — distorted and hazy — unsettles him more than he’d like to admit, so he sits on the floor, positioning his backpack against his side to block the mirror from view.

Jefferson stands motionless across from him, arms crossed over his chest. Alex can barely make out his expression, but his eyes are closed, and his brow furrowed. His features are made strangely softer by the darkness.

Time drags and drags.

“Jefferson,” Alex calls, breaking the silence.

No response.

“Jefferson. Jefferson,” Alex insists, cycling through tones.“Hey, Jefferson.”

“For God’s sake, Hamilton, what do you want?” Jefferson snaps, finally opening his eyes.

“Aren’t you bored?”

“No,” Jefferson replies, fixing Alex with a look like he’s just asked the dumbest question imaginable. “And what, exactly, do you suggest for entertainment?”

“I don’t know,” Alex admits after a brief pause. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Word games?”

“Brilliant idea,” Jefferson says with exaggerated enthusiasm. “What are you, five? We could also put together a puzzle. Or, I don’t know, stack some blocks. Got any lying around?”

“Oh, come on,” Alex says, surprising himself with his lack of interest in arguing. “Silence is worse.”

Because it is.

“Of course,” Jefferson sighs, exasperated. “Sorry. How could I forget? For you, silence is as unattainable as democracy in modern America.”

Alex wants to punch him. If only for the fact that he’s wrong about democracy. Probably right about staying silent, though — if this damned quiet keeps pressing on his ears, Alex might actually lose it.

"Alright,” Alex says instead. “No word games. Let’s try something else. What’s been on your mind lately? What are we writing about in January? New anti-corruption laws? Supreme Court reform?"

"Hamilton, I already told you,” Jefferson just barely holds back another eye-roll. “I get more than enough of your talking during meetings. And seminars. And, generally, life. The last thing I want right now is to listen to your idiotic ramblings about politics."

"As you wish," Alex replies, brushing off the jab with practiced stubbornness. Idiotic ramblings — seriously? Look in the mirror, Mr. Age of Enlightenment. "Alright then, back to word games. How about Say the Same Thing? You say a word, I say a word, and we try to find a connection until we both say the same one."

Thomas snorts, and this time there’s a flicker of genuine amusement in his voice. "Remind me, Hamilton, when have we ever thought the same thing?"

"Give me a minute," Alex says, pretending to ponder the question. "Charles Lee’s campaign for the student council?"

"There wasn’t a second option."

"Fair. Okay, what about the last philosophy assignment?"

"Hamilton..."

"What?" Alex boils, defensive. "If I don’t find a distraction, I’m going mad. And trust me, you’ll like my company even less after that. If you don’t want to play or talk, fine — then let’s do whatever you want."

"What, get out of the elevator? Leave me alone, Hamilton, will you?"

This time, Alex presses his lips into a tight line and actually does leave him alone.. There’s no way he’s the only one finding this unbearably dull. Well, unless Thomas Jefferson is an absolute lunatic who considers being stuck in an elevator his favorite pastime. Maybe this is just how he spends his Friday nights. Who knows.

Soon enough, Alex’s phone dies completely — now he can’t even keep track of time. How long have they been there? An hour? More? Has no one in the building even tried to call the elevator?

His thoughts jumble, but instead of the usual chaotic stream of ideas, one irritatingly persistent verse loops in his head. He can’t remember where he heard it — maybe in the lobby this morning, maybe in some ad.

The mood is right
The spirit's up
We're here tonight
And that's enough
Simply having a wonderful Christmas time…

God, Paul McCartney definitely didn’t mean this when he wrote about a wonderful Christmas. Nobody here is in great spirits. Unless, of course, Thomas Jefferson is a psychopath — which, to be fair, hasn’t been conclusively disproved.

Boredom and fatigue crash over him in waves. A dull throbbing starts behind his temples. Sliding lower down the wall, Alex shoves his backpack under his head and shuts his eyes. After all, he barely slept last night — might as well make use of the situation.

When he wakes, his headache is worse. It takes a few seconds for him to piece together where he is. Right. Elevator, Jefferson. Shit. Once the realization hits, he sits up too fast and regrets it immediately — his left arm, awkwardly pinned between the wall and an economics textbook, prickles painfully with pins and needles.

Gritting his teeth, Alex carefully flexes it, wincing and muttering curses under his breath. The idea of lying down and going back to sleep is tempting, but the idea of waking up even more disoriented keeps him upright. Judging by the numbness in his arm, he must have been out for at least half an hour.

Alex fumbles with his phone, trying to turn it on, only to remember a moment later that the battery is dead. Damn it. Is it just him, or is the air starting to feel stifling?

“Hey,” he starts, turning toward Jefferson. “Do you know what time it—”

The words cut off as Alex freezes at the sight before him.

Jefferson isn’t standing by the mirror anymore. He’s on the floor now, sitting opposite Alex, legs pulled tightly to his chest. One arm covers his face, elbow propped on his knee, while the other rests on the ground, fist clenched as if he’s bracing himself against a fall, though there’s nothing to fall from. His sweater — probably obscenely expensive — lies nearby on the floor, crumpled.

Alex blinks. Rubs his eyes.

No change.

Over two and a half years, Alex had come to assume Jefferson simply wasn’t capable of feelings like that — or, for that matter, many others.

He doesn’t misplace his notes before exams. He doesn’t forget meetings or oversleep classes. He doesn’t chew on pen caps like Alex, twist his hair around his fingers like Lafayette, or fiddle with his clothes like John.

Thomas Jefferson is annoying, arrogant and infuriatingly composed. He doesn’t worry. He doesn’t panic. And he sure as hell can’t sit on the floor looking like the world is about to end any moment now.

Yet here he is, doing exactly that.

Alex notices the tremble next. It’s faint but unmistakable, enough to twist something deep in Alex’s chest. This isn’t right. No one should feel like this. Not even Thomas.

He tries to focus, but his thoughts tangle—maybe from the lingering haze of sleep, maybe from sheer shock. He has no idea what could possibly help.

His body moves faster than his thoughts.

Before he can fully process what he’s doing, his hand stretches out and his fingers touch Thomas’ knee.

"Jefferson," Alex says, though it comes out less than steady, his voice refusing to cooperate. He coughs, forcing himself to sound more confident. "Are you okay?"

Right, great question. What does he expect to hear in response: "Yeah, I’m fine, just decided to rest here"?

Jefferson slowly lowers his hand from his face, his eyes locking with Alex’s — wide, tense, and unsteady.

“Please,” Thomas says, his voice strained and barely audible. It hits Alex like a slap. Shit. Maybe this is even worse than he thought. “Can you just—” He falters, the sentence left unfinished.

“Yeah? Can I what?” Alex asks quickly, his own voice coming out sharper than he intended. He leans in closer, trying to catch Thomas’s words, and only then notices that his own hands are now trembling, too. This sparks a wave of panic he suddenly becomes aware of. No. Not happening. He pushes it away, forcing himself to stay focused.

Jefferson leans his head back against the wall, silent. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling. Alex doesn’t know what to do.

"Check the ventilation," Thomas says at last, the words coming out through gritted teeth. "Can you just check the ventilation? Don’t you feel it? It’s like the air’s… running out."

Oh.

So that’s it.

So that’s it. Alex feels the corners of his mouth twitch into an involuntary smile because, well, that’s it. Thomas Jefferson is just a little claustrophobic. Well, maybe not a little, but still, that’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. A wave of relief washes over him.

“Sure,” he says, standing up. “Give me a second.”

He circles the elevator — which doesn’t take long — and confirms the presence of several ventilation grates in the upper corners. Just to be thorough, he tiptoes up to press a hand against one.

"Everything’s fine," he declares, turning back to face Thomas. "Ventilation’s working. It’s just a little stuffy, that’s all. Okay?"

Not okay. Thomas doesn’t react, and he sure doesn’t look any calmer.

Alex drops back down to the floor across from him. This time, every movement feels deliberate, but he doesn’t hesitate long before reaching out and placing his hand on Thomas’s clenched fist.

"Listen," he begins, frowning as he searches for the right words. Before he can find them, Thomas turns his wrist and grips Alex’s fingers. The gesture is so natural that Alex instinctively mirrors it, immediately forbidding himself from thinking about it now. "Even if something did happen to the ventilation — which is very unlikely, okay? — but even if it did, and somehow there were no backup batteries or whatever they use. Even if all that were true, it’s, you know, physically impossible to run out of air in a big elevator with two people in a couple of hours. It’s not airtight, right?"

Thomas doesn’t answer, and Alex, lacking better options, decides to take the silence for agreement.

"There you go," he says, a little too brightly. "We’re fine."

For a while, they sit in silence. Alex counts the seconds in his head, and Thomas works on steadying his breathing.

one Mississippi. two Mississippi. three.

Alex tries to think of what else might help. Reasoning didn’t work, even with empirical evidence. Okay, okay. He’ll just have to distract him somehow, then. Okay. Fine. But how do you distract Thomas Jefferson when politics is off the table?

four Mississippi. five.

After two minutes, satisfied that Jefferson is no longer gasping for air with every breath, Alex finally asks:

"How about a distraction?"

Pause.

"Okay," Thomas replies without looking away from the ceiling. His voice is still quiet, but it’s steady now.

"Great. Let’s study for finals."

"What?" Thomas turns to him fully, so genuinely bewildered that Alex has to fight the urge to burst out laughing. Good. That’s a start.

"Well," Alex says, trying to suppress a grin because, God, now is not the time to laugh, "we have an American History exam after the holidays, right?"

"Hamilton, are you—" Thomas starts, then stops, shaking his head. "Fine. Sure."

"Great. So, here’s the plan," Alex says, pulling his bag closer with one hand and fishing out a crumpled chocolate bar from the side pocket. "We take turns naming dates. First one to mess up loses. Winner gets this."

Thomas glances at the chocolate bar and grimaces.

"I’m allergic to peanuts."

"Perfect. It doesn’t have any."

"Let’s hope it’s not expired," Thomas mutters. Alex wonders how Jefferson can manage to worry about a chocolate bar’s expiration date while still teetering on the edge of a panic attack.

Once again, he is insufferable, and that’s great.

"You’ll find out. Ready?" Alex doesn’t wait for a response. "Okay, let me think… Boston Tea Party?"

"Seventeen seventy-three."

"Right. Your turn."

"Hmm… Declaration of Independence?"

Oh, of course it had to be the Declaration. What else?

"Seventeen seventy-six. Yorktown?"

"Seventeen eighty-one," Thomas says after a brief pause, "if we’re talking about the Revolution. Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia?"

"Seventeen eighty-seven. And if you want to know, the centralized government framework definitely had—"

"Hamilton."

"Oh. Right, sorry. Got carried away. Uh… Patrick Henry’s speech?"

"‘Mr. President, it is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope.’ Seventeen seventy-five. Whiskey Rebellion?"

"Seventeen ninety-one." Alex is trying hard not to be impressed by Thomas casually quoting historical speeches like it’s a party trick. He stalls, He pauses, scanning his mind for the right date. Damn, what else is there? "Bacon’s Rebellion?"

"Sixteen seventy-five… no, wait, seventy-six." Thomas stops, narrowing his eyes. "Hold on, Hamilton. Did you just abandon your precious Revolution, skip back an entire century, and deliberately bring up Virginia history just to catch me off guard with my ignorance of my own state's history?"

"Maybe," Alex replies with a smirk. Well, that was faster than expected. "Or maybe I just like Virginia."

"Do you now?" Thomas arches a brow. "And what exactly is it that you like about Virginia?"

"Eh, I don’t know… creepy mountains?" Alex suggests. "Does that count?"

"Not even close," Thomas replies, visibly relaxing, even letting out a faint smile — not at Alex, just into the empty space.

Yeah, Alex hoped that bringing up Virginia might cheer him up, but not this much. He can’t help finding it absurdly amusing.

"Well, sorry," Alex blurts before he can stop himself. "It’s not like there’s much else to like about Virginia besides Shenandoah."

Damn it. He mentally kicks himself. Why can’t you just stop talking when you need to?

But Jefferson doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks wistful.

"If you’d seen the garden at Monticello in spring," he says, simple and unexpectedly softly, "you wouldn’t say such nonsense."

Oh. Yeah. That’s probably true. If it is — well, then invite me, Alex thinks. Just to prove the point.

And he has no idea where that thought even came from.

"What about you?" Jefferson asks suddenly, breaking the brief silence.

"What about me?" Alex replies cautiously, shaking the image.

"Where are you from?"

"Where am I from? Hold on," Alex squints at him. "Aren’t you the one who gives me daily commentary — not particularly funny ones, by the way — about immigrants?"

"Sure," Thomas says evenly, "but I don’t actually know where you were born."

Alex snorts before he can stop himself. Of course. Christmas Eve. In a dark, stuffy elevator. The perfect time and place to unpack his traumatic childhood. With Thomas Jefferson, of all people.

And then, before he knows it, he’s laughing. Loudly. Because what the fuck. The sheer absurdity of it all. He laughs because he just pulled Thomas Jefferson out of a full-on panic spiral. Because he’s sitting on the floor of an elevator, still somehow holding Jefferson’s hand. Because he’s thinking about the garden at Monticello, — oh god — and the confused look on Jefferson’s face only fuels the hysterical amusement bubbling out of him.

"You know," Jefferson says, looking at him wide-eyed, "now you’re just scaring me."

Alex wipes at his eyes, still chuckling, and forces himself to pull it together.

"I—"

He’s cut off by a flash of light. The elevator jolts, lurches into motion, and then stops just as quickly. The doors slide open.

Fourteenth.

Alex is on his feet in an instant, out of the elevator before he’s had time to process what’s happening.
When he turns back, Jefferson is still sitting on the floor. Their eyes meet just as the light inside the elevator flickers off again, and the doors slide shut with a soft chime.

No.

Oh, come on.

No way.

Right. Clearly, the best thing for Jefferson right now is to leave him alone in a dark, stuffy elevator. Yes, sure. Alex lunges for the button panel, jamming his finger against it repeatedly, then kicks the doors in frustration when nothing happens. The floor is predictably dark — and empty.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Someone has to be in the building, right? Even at night, there’s always someone. With that thought fueling him, Alex takes off for the stairs.

Thirteenth. Twelfth. Eleventh.

Tenth.

Ninth.

Third.

By the time he bursts onto the first floor, he’s sweaty, disheveled, and gasping for air. He slaps a hand against the wall, his vision narrowing and pulsing at the edges, but then he spots it: light glowing from the security booth at the far end of the hall. He pushes off the wall, frantic sprint slowing to a fast-paced walk.

"Hamilton."

Alex freezes, spinning toward the voice.

Thomas is standing by the elevator, perfectly composed, holding Alex’s backpack. Alex groans, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. What had him so worried in the first place? Son of a bitch.

Outside, Jefferson hands Alex his backpack and the chocolate bar, then pulls out a pack of cigarettes — Nat Sherman menthols, of course, because of course — flicks his lighter and takes a long drag.

Alex unwraps the chocolate bar, only to discover it’s disintegrated completely into chocolate-wafer crumbles. With a sigh, he picks out the largest piece he can find and tosses it into his mouth. A large snowflake lands on his nose. Without thinking, Alex huffs to blow it off, promptly choking on the wafer.

Jefferson shakes his head, watching him with an expression Alex can’t quite place. If he was looking anywhere else, it might have passed for warmth. Directed at Alex, though, it feels more like a harmless mockery.

"Hamilton?"

"Yeah?" Alex’s stomach twists, and for a split second, he’s terrified Jefferson is about to say thank you. That would be too much. He already said please earlier. Breaking the rule of mutual hostility twice in a single evening?

Jefferson exhales smoke into the cold night air.

"Merry Christmas."

Chapter Text

For a few weeks after Christmas, nothing of note happens. 

Probably because they don’t talk at all. Not intentionally, of course — just the way things go. The internship ends after the holidays, and now they only share half as many classes as they did in the first semester. Not that Alex is avoiding Jefferson. Why would he? He’s just busy. Too busy to think about, enclosed spaces, Virginia or anything else Jefferson-related, thank you.

Every now and then, they cross paths in the hallways — that’s inevitable. Thankfully, Alex usually spots Jefferson before Jefferson spots Alex, which gives him just enough time to duck into the nearest classroom or pretend he’s deeply interested in whatever the vending machine has to offer.

Most days, it works just fine.

Not today, though. Definitely not today.

Because today, honestly, Alex is just an accident waiting to happen. He is juggling far too much in his hands — a bunch of textbooks, a cup of steaming coffee, and his phone — furiously typing as he walks. He absolutely has to finish a message to Angelica before class starts, so he pays no attention to where his feet are taking him.

And, oh, it’s a mistake. Big mistake. A massive one, because when Alex blindly rounds a corner, he nearly crashes straight into Jefferson.

“Hamilton,” Thomas says, entirely unbothered, with a slight nod. “Long time no see.”

Alex stumbles back, freezing as the words stick in his throat. He suddenly realizes he has no idea what their new dynamic is supposed to be. Should he nod back? Smile? Say something?

Stop standing there like an idiot would be a good start.

Jefferson waits, perfectly still, one eyebrow raised in calm expectation.

“Uh,” Alex finally manages. “Yeah?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Alex wants to kick himself. Brilliant. Thomas’ lips twitch into the faintest smirk before he nods again and steps around Alex, melting into the crowd.

Almost immediately, a familiar voice sounds from behind.

“Mon dieu,” Lafayette murmurs, materializing out of nowhere like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “That was graceful.”

Oh, screw him.

“What was?” Alex asks warily, though he’s absolutely sure he doesn’t want to hear whatever Lafayette has to say.

“That,” Lafayette gestures vaguely in the direction Jefferson went, a grin spreading across his face. “If you’d like, I could give you a refresher on basic social etiquette. For example, ‘Hi, how are you?’ Simple.”

Alex groans, adjusting his grip on the precarious stack of books in his arms. “No, thanks. I think I’ll pass.”

“Bien sûr,” Lafayette chuckles lightly, smoothly extracting the books from Alex’s arms, ignoring the protest. “But if you change your mind, I offer a full beginner’s course.”

Alex grimaces at him.

He still has no idea how Lafayette managed to drag him into French literature. On a Saturday morning, no less. And it’s not like he has time to spare.

It’s not like he even likes literature.

“Chéri,” Lafayette says casually after one of the lectures, absently adjusting a loose curl from his ponytail. “So, you two? How long has this been going on?”

"Sorry, me and who?" Alex replies distractedly, focused on shoving his laptop into his bag.

“Thomas,” Lafayette clarifies, far too casually.

Alex’s bag nearly slips from his hands. Lafayette watches him patiently, pin clamped between his teeth, before breaking into a gentle laugh.

“What—” Alex starts, unsure if he’s questioning the laughter or the name. He shoves Lafayette lightly on the shoulder. “What?”

Lafayette practically glows with amusement. “Oh, laisse tomber,” he says, finally pinning the shiny curl back into place. “Forget it.”

Yeah, right. 

Like that’s going to happen.

When Alex steps into the hallway moments later, Lafayette is already chatting with Jefferson, all smiles and animated gestures.

It’s fine, though. Really. No big deal. Who knows what they’re even talking about? They’re friends, after all — whether Alex likes it or not.

Alex has no idea how Lafayette managed to drag him into French literature.

But now that he has, surely it’s his moral obligation to help Alex pass the class? Well. Apparently, Lafayette doesn’t seem burdened by morals in the slightest. Oh no, he’s happy to help — just not tomorrow, not Thursday morning, and definitely not Wednesday evening. Saturday? Oh, he has tickets to Paris. So sorry, mon ami. 

So, when Lafayette finally declares himself free and at Alex's service on the last Friday of January, Alex isn’t about to throw away his shot. 

The library is warm and smells faintly of dust. Alex is running hopelessly late — Laffayette deserves it, though, so he feels little guilt. Once he spots a familiar set of curls near their planned desk, he hastily weaves his way through the shelves.

The catch reveals itself only when the owner of the curls turns around. “You might want to ditch the drink. This is a library, in case you forgot.”

The fact that Alex doesn’t freeze mid-step this time is a miracle.

“Thanks, mom.” He settles his espresso on the table. “Uh… hi?”

“Yeah, hi,” Thomas confirms.

“Okay,” Alex says slowly, trying to piece this together. He takes a slow breath, staring at Thomas. The same dark curls, the same sharp jawline — like someone copy-pasted them with slightly different settings. How has he never noticed before? “So. What are you doing here?”

“Well,” Thomas replies smoothly, “as far as I’m concerned, I'm waiting for you.”

Right. Back to the original theory: Jefferson is absolutely not okay in the head.

“Our mutual friend asked me to cram some French grammar into that hopeless head of yours,” Thomas clarifies. Apparently, Alex’s expression is an open book. “He is difficult to turn down, you know? He didn’t mention you’d be this baffled, though.”

Of course he didn’t. 

Alex is going to kill Lafayette.

No, seriously. He better stay far, far away from America, because the next time Alex sees him, he’s getting drowned in New York Harbor. Or in the nearest fountain.

Thomas doesn’t seem particularly bothered by Alex’s confusion. He simply nods toward the second chair and goes back to his work, pen already moving across the page. Alex glances around — just as he feared, every other table is occupied. The test is on Monday. He’s absolutely, definitely going to kill Lafayette for this.

The choice between accepting the silent invitation and walking out is barely a choice at all. He needs this grade, and there’s no other time to study. Cool. Settled.

With a deliberate effort to appear unfazed, Alex sets Proust and his notebook beside his coffee and takes the seat. Thomas glances up at him, one eyebrow slightly raised, but Alex shuts it down with a quick, “No.”

Thomas smirks faintly but doesn’t respond. Alex flips open In Search of Lost Time and resumes his work, stubbornly focusing on the paragraph he left off at, scribbling translations and linguistic notes in the margins.

It doesn't take much time for him to get utterly frustrated. For fucks sake, who exactly approved the notion that this course is suitable for entry-level French? There might be a need for some administrative rotation. 

He glances at Jefferson. Thomas is writing, filling an ivory sheet with elegant script — because of course he would be the type to handwrite essays in the twenty-first century. Alex absently notes that he’s left-handed before redirecting his attention back to French. To hell with administrative rotation, somebody’s head should roll for this.

“Your problem is that on is impersonal.” 

Alex flinches, snapping out of his thoughts. Thomas is now watching him, one hand lazily propping up his head, his essay already set aside.

“What?”

Jefferson shifts closer, his hand moving from his face to point at Alex’s notebook. “Here. Les choses qu’on aime — it’s not necessarily ‘one.’ It can also mean ‘you’ or ‘we.’ Context matters.”

Alex looks down at the line. Yeah, that does make more sense this way. He scans the surrounding sentences, frowning as he corrects his note to “we.” Thomas nods in approval.

“Let me know when you’re ready to admit you need help,” he says, slowly twirling the pen in his fingers. “Because I see at least two subjunctive mistakes in your scribbles.”

Alex grimaces out of sheer reflex. The problem is, he really doesn’t see what Thomas is talking about, which is… not great. He glances at his phone. Nearly an hour has passed since he got here, and he’s barely made a dent in what he’d planned to get through. 

“Okay” he sighs, deflating as he sets the pen down. Screw Lafayette. “Enlighten me.”

And Thomas does. He crosses out half of Alex's notes, commenting on their disastrous nature, but before Alex can protest, he grabs another of his ivory sheets and starts breaking everything down. And it… works. 

When subjunctives and pronouns are sorted, Thomas moves on to untangling sentences, and then — delves into unpacking figurative meanings Alex would’ve completely missed on his own.

Alex draws the logical conclusion that Thomas really likes literature. And French. 

Especially French. Alex doesn’t know why he speaks French so fluently — or at all, really. But he does, and without a trace of accent. And Lafayette’s musicality is replaced in his case with deeper, smooth and measured cadence. When he slips into French mid-sentence, it’s more distracting than helpful. Way more distracting. 

“You’re annoyingly good at this,” Alex admits begrudgingly after Thomas outlines yet another structure.

“I used to teach kindergarten.” Thomas grins. “Perfect training for dealing with you.”

“Alright, alright, I take it back,” Alex grumbles, flipping the page of his notebook. “You’re the worst.”

When the excerpt from In Search of Lost Time finally ends, Alex feels completely drained. Jefferson, of course, looks as composed as ever — leaning back in his chair, more amused than anything.

“I don’t get it,” Alex groans, shoving his notebook aside and turning to him. “This is just so freaking boring. Seriously, how can you honestly like this?”

“I don’t,” Thomas replies with a casual shrug. “I mean, I love literature, obviously. Just not Proust.”

Alex blinks, surprised. “Really? Then what?”

“Lots of things,” Thomas says, tapping the edge of the table thoughtfully. “Voltaire, for example.”

Alex instantly remembers first-year political thought seminars — more specifically, he remembers being not very politely asked to leave after, well, a heated debate with Jefferson over Voltaire’s endorsement of despotism. In hindsight, it feels stupid, considering how much they actually agree on his philosophy. 

“He is much easier to read,” Thomas continues. “Sharper, more concise. Matches your brain better than Proust.”

It's true. And one thing to another — Voltaire to Baudilaire, Montesquieu to Hugo — they somehow end up knee-deep in a discussion about completely unrelated literature that has zero relevance to the upcoming test.

The news is — the seminar-presentation Jefferson and the allusions-explaining Jefferson are two completely different Jeffersons. And this new version is much more tolerable. 

They argue, of course they do — because, well. Thomas has far too many wrong opinions, and Alex has far too much energy to let any of them slide. But it’s different, still. Less rage. More excitement.

Lafayette might actually avoid drowning, after all.

It’s only when the library starts to empty and the sky outside turns a dusky blue that Alex remembers he’d planned to do other things. They wrap up their discussion, not quite resolving anything, more of a mutual ceasefire than actual agreement.

As Alex pushes back his chair to leave, Thomas suddenly stops him. “One more thing, Hamilton.” He leans over, reaches into his bag, and pulls out a book. Alex looks at the grey-green cover, catching the soft light.

“Might be useful,” Thomas says, sliding it across the table. “For your utter inability to grasp metaphors. I think you’ll like it, actually.”

Alex stares at the book, dazed for a moment. “Thanks,” he says finally — a weird thing to say, but it’s his turn to break the rule. “I mean… in general. Not just for the book. No, I mean, for the book too. Anyway — thanks. This wasn’t too terrible.”

“Welcome,” Thomas replies with a short hum. “See you later, Hamilton.”

As soon as the university door slams shut behind him, Alex pulls out his phone.

“You!” he nearly shouts as soon as Lafayette answers. “How could you!”

“Ah,” Lafayette chimes, voice breaking up into melodic laughter and soft rolling Rs. “So you’re done. Heureux de t’entendre, Alex!”

“Glad to hear me?!” Alex snaps. “I can't believe you — how could you? I hope you realize I’m declaring war. On you and all of France, damn it! You better start looking over your shoulder in the dark alleys, you half-assed—”

“Chéri,” Lafayette cuts him off, “tell me, did you have a bad time?”

Alex hangs up. 

He is pissed at Lafayette, genuinely, and he has every right to be, but… well. He didn’t have a bad time. More like an okay time. A good time. The most un-boring evening of his week, if he’s being honest.

And this realization is disarming. 

He doesn’t have the energy — or the will — to think about it right now. Instead, he opens the book still clutched in his hand and flips to a random page. He reads on the subway. He reads while walking from Forest Hills–71st Avenue to his apartment, probably making him the worst pedestrian ever.

His brain isn’t wired for poetry, he needs either a solid plot or new information to hold his attention when he reads, and French poems offer neither. Yet somehow, he’s caught in the rhythm of the lines. Helps with metaphors, huh.

When Alex reaches his door, he folds the corner of the page before shutting the book — not his best habit, but bookmarks are never going to make their way into his life. He stops at “ Où l'ouragan erre, Rugit le tonnerre ” — yeah, he could do without that particular imagery, thanks. The key turns only on the second try, grinding in a way that reminds him they’ve been meaning to fix the lock for what, a month now? He sets the book on the entryway table just as John pulls him into a quick hug.

“I was about to launch a search party,” John says, smiling with a hint of a frown. He’s probably been way more worried than he’s letting on, and Alex feels a pang of guilt. “After Christmas, you know — you could’ve at least tried picking up your phone. What happened to ‘home by seven’?”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees easily, balancing to tug off his sneakers. “Yeah, I’m sorry, should’ve done that. I just—”

“And what’s this?” John interrupts, reaching for the book. He flips through the pages carefully, pausing on a line or two. “Verlaine? Since when do you… Oh, Laf gave you this?”

Agreeing is a tempting option — the easiest one, generously offered on a platter. But it’s also a petty lie, and lies have a way of unraveling. This one doing that is not an option because Lafayette will never, ever let it go. And honestly, a long, awkward conversation with John is still preferable to whatever he would have in store.

So he admits, fighting back an urge to close his eyes for a moment. “No. Jefferson.”

John is the best of men, because if he’s shocked by the revelation, he doesn’t show it in the slightest. Naturally, a long conversation follows, but it’s not nearly as awkward as Alex had feared. Because John is John, and he doesn’t press him with questions. In fact, he ends up doing most of the talking.

And Alex learns a lot.

For starters, apparently everyone but him knows that Jefferson spent high school in Paris. So he actually was Lafayette’s friend before Alex was, and it’s the most unfair fact in the world. 

When Alex feels comfortable enough to share the full story of Christmas night, it turns out that John is aware of Jefferson’s claustrophobia as well, and that’s why Jefferson doesn’t take the subway. Alex had always assumed it was just a matter of Jefferson having a private driver, or taxi money to spare. 

“Why the hell do you know that?” Alex demands, shaking head in disbelief.

What follows is a set of facts Alex is entirely unprepared for.

Lafayette isn’t the only backstabber in the group, John — John — is friends with Jefferson. They take an art class together on Sundays. Thomas enjoys painting portraits the most.

His resemblance to Lafayette is a running joke — apparently, they used to dress alike all the time just to confuse people.

He doesn't like parties after all, of any kind, nor does he like any large gatherings. 

His favorite color isn’t magenta — it’s dark green. Alex seriously wonders what, in that case, makes him fill his closet exclusively with pink items. 

He can't stand coffee.

He has a younger sister. 

He actually was among the people who signed Alex’s birthday card when it got passed around last year. 

John is John, and he doesn’t press him, for which Alex is eternally grateful. So everything should be fine.

Should be, but of course it’s not, because the conversation leaves him with one major side effect — it completely derails Alex’s carefully maintained avoidance tactic.

Jefferson isn’t just Jefferson anymore. He is the color inconsistency, and the next time they run into each other Alex catches himself staring at his green tie with a pink shirt for a few seconds too long, long enough to force out an awkward, “Hi. What’s up?” because standing silently would be weird.

He’s the absence in the noise and laughter on Friday nights, when everyone else is at the bar.

He is the neat italic cursive here’s to another year of debates I will inevitably win. 

He is portraits , which might be the worst point yet, because when Alex, hands braced against the edge of his desk, is passionately dismantling Jefferson’s entirely nonsensical take on progressive taxation, he stumbles mid-sentence. There’s a notebook sitting in front of Thomas, filled with pencil sketches — lines Alex can’t quite make out from where he stands. Jefferson catches his eye, and for a moment, there’s an excruciatingly awkward silence. Probably no one else notices, but Alex absolutely does.

It doesn’t make Jefferson more insufferable or more tolerable.

It just… makes him.

Lafayette doesn’t try his French trick again, which is for the best because he really should still be fearing for his life. Instead, he invites Alex to the library, claiming their new schedules leave them too little time to catch up. Alex can’t exactly argue. For one, Lafayette has a point. For another, “catching up” with Lafayette usually means John, Hercules, and Angelica will be there too, and Alex has absolutely no complaints about that.

He really should have guessed Thomas would end up being there too.

It’s fine, though. No big deal.

Even when the meetups become a regular thing. 

Jefferson doesn’t talk much, and he’s often the only one who actually manages to stay focused while everyone else inevitably dissolves into gossip and laughter within half an hour of the so-called “study session.” This makes it pleasantly easy for Alex to stick to casual “hello”s and careful glances — which, to be fair, don’t always feel entirely voluntary on his part.

Easy, that is, until one evening when a sudden “Hamilton,” from behind startles him. He turns in his chair, and is met with dark curls and an unruffled expression.

“I could use your help. Do you mind?”

Thomas Jefferson could use his help. Yep. Ah-huh. And he just asked for it.

“Uh,” Alex starts, stalling. Does he mind? Good question. He’s halfway through a presentation on the French Revolution with Lafayette, which is a perfectly valid  excuse to politely decline. “Actually, I’m a little—”

“Oh no,” Lafayette cuts in smoothly, his face immediately lighting up with an all-too-pleased smile. “Ça va, mon ami, I can finish this alone, no worries.”

Alex regrets forgiving him a thousand times over. 

Jefferson is uncertain about his calculation of the Gini coefficient after some welfare reform, which should work but doesn’t. And he wants Alex’s opinion. The situation is disconcerting at best, but he can’t just straight-up refuse to help Jefferson now, because he sort of owes him, doesn’t he? So he follows Thomas to a quieter table, away from the buzz of conversation and laughter. 

Thomas turns his laptop to face Alex, bringing up a set of graphs. “This is pre-reform.” He clicks. “And this is post-reform. Should be more significant, right?”

Alex leans in, squinting at the numbers. “You’re using gross income.” 

“Yes, because that’s—”

“Wrong,” Alex interrupts. “Gross income doesn’t really show what happens after redistribution. You need to look at what people actually have left after taxes and benefits. That’s kind of the whole point.”

Thomas frowns, his fingers hesitating above the keyboard. 

Alex sighs. “Run it again with disposable income, not gross. Watch the magic happen.”

Thomas’ frown deepens, and he mutters something under his breath but adjusts the model anyway, typing quickly. A few moments later, the new graph appears, aligning closer to what he’d expected.

“See?” Alex smiles.

Thomas looks at the screen. “Okay, that tracks. Thank you.”

He glances up from the screen, and the hint of a smile in his eyes suddenly reminds Alex of the expression he had with that “Merry Christmas” weeks ago.

He glances up, and there’s a flicker of a smile in his eyes, soft and fleeting but familiar in a way that catches Alex off guard. It’s the same expression from the “Merry Christmas” thing. And apparently, it does something to Alex, because before he can think better of it, he pulls up a chair beside Jefferson and gestures at the screen. “No, not yet. Now we can talk non-monetary benefits.”

When Alex rejoins the group after an hour, Lafayette and John exchange a look that Alex doesn’t even want to unpack. 

Somehow, the “could use your help” turns into a semi-regular arrangement. When Alex needs to submit his Proust essay, he slides it across the table toward Thomas, reasoning that with French, he has absolutely nothing to lose. Thomas rolls his eyes at the very first sentence and proceeds to correct half of it. Alex gets an A.

Thomas ends up snapping, “Remind me why I thought you’d be helpful,” when Alex attempts to explain the social cost of carbon while adding  “obviously” to every sentence. Alex replies with “Because I am, obviously.” Thomas laughs.

And when Angelica catches a nasty cold the day before she and Thomas are supposed to present their joint project, Alex stays until midnight, scrolling through endless clauses in the Constitution with his third vending-machine coffee.

At first, they wordlessly avoid anything remotely connected to history, political philosophy, or any other landmine on their extensive list of disagreements. But Alex, being himself, can’t stick to the reserved-and-civil attitude for long.

John throws a crumpled piece of paper straight at his face for, “If you can’t see the legitimization of symbolic violence in the educational system just because it doesn’t personally affect you, I can recommend an excellent ophthalmologist.” Lafayette catches the next wad mid-air, aimed squarely at Thomas.

Jefferson slams a stack of books onto the table with an authoritative, “That’s it, Hamilton, shut up.” And then keeps arguing with him. Alex throws his hands in the air in utter annoyance before collapsing back onto the couch and covering his face.

He doesn’t know anyone harder to outtalk. It’s infuriating. 

And exciting.

And Thomas still proofreads Alex’s overdue article on protests after that, ripping apart the structure but complimenting the content.

“You should talk to him, you know,” John says, carefully watering their somehow miraculously still alive aloe plant.

“Mhm.” Alex doesn’t look up from his omelet, scrolling through the news and only vaguely registering that John is speaking.

“Alexander.”

With Laurens, the full name usually is a sign of some serious affair, so Alex sighs and finally turns his phone away, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I was saying you need to talk to Thomas,” John repeats, with an expression too serious for a man holding a pink watering can. 

“We talk all the time. About what?” 

“Oh, come on.” John sets the watering can on the windowsill, crossing his arms. “You skipped the Watergate case study with me because you absolutely had to finish arguing with Thomas about which statue should stand outside the administration building. A statue, Alex. Really?”

“The one at the administration building, yes. And?”

“And,” John says, “every time it’s your turn to grab coffee for the group, you bring back one ginger tea. Nobody else drinks tea, and I know for a fact you’re allergic to ginger.”

“So?” Alex shrugs. “I buy Lafayette his hot chocolate too. It’s called being polite.”

“You came to the last art class show.”

“Of course I did,” Alex replies, frowning. “You’re my best friend, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Sure,” John says, folding his arms tighter. “But I also noticed you didn’t come to any of them for two years before this one. And, for the record, I’ve been your best friend that entire time. Oh, and by the way? I’m sick of hearing about the stuck elevator every time you get drunk.”

Alex burns him with a glare, but when John puts it like that, he doesn’t have much of a counterargument. He opens his mouth, shuts it again, and stabs his omelet with unnecessary force.

“If,” he says finally, punctuating the word with a jab of his fork, “if you’re right — and that’s a big if — why on earth would I talk to Jefferson? The guy’s hated me since freshman year.”

“Oh my God,” John groans, nearly smacking himself on the forehead before throwing his hands up in theatrical exasperation. “Hated you? Okay, Alex, that’s it. I’m done. You are literally hopeless.”

Alex fiddles with his fork but doesn’t say anything. John shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he moves to the sink, leaving Alex alone with his thoughts — and the omelet. Which doesn’t look appealing anymore. Great. Saturday ruined.

He does think about it that evening, though.

John heads out to a party that Alex was totally invited to, but he’d made up some excuse about law readings and stayed home — so unlike him that John checked his forehead twice before leaving, just in case.

Eventually, Alex does get to the readings, because he’s bored and restless for some reason, and work is his go-to cure for everything. 

By the time he finishes, the kitchen is dark, his eyes sting, and there’s still a pile of dishes in the sink he forgot about. He groans as he pushes the printouts aside, stretches his stiff back, and collects the empty mugs scattered around the table.

Warm soapy water runs down his sleeves as he scrubs at the plates, mind drifting into something he doesn’t want to dwell on. Raindrops start to tap against the sill, and the sound snaps him back. The mug clatters louder than he expects in his hands, soap spilling over the counter’s edge. He slams the window shut and thinks — no. 

There is absolutely no fucking way he’s talking to Jefferson. Even if he wanted to, it’d just be stupid and reckless. Not in a good way.

Of course, because Alex is the luckiest person alive, that morning conversation has the same effect as the last one: he becomes hyper-aware of Thomas’ presence in his life.

Which is ridiculous, because Jefferson wasn’t some ephemeral concept before. He was always there. It’s just that now Alex’s thoughts circle back to him even when he’s nowhere near there.

It freaks him out, maybe more than it should, which apparently applies to many things about Thomas Jefferson. 

So Alex starts creating distance. First, he stops buying tea for their library evenings. Then, he becomes conveniently busy during group work, keeping his head down and interaction minimal. Eventually, he stops showing up altogether. Literature classes become optional, then non-existent.

At some point, he realizes it probably looks weird from the outside, and deduces that Thomas can actually have it in his head to ask Alex what’s the matter. This is unacceptable, so the next time he sees Thomas in the hallway, he overcompensates by launching into such a painfully awkward small talk about the weather that Thomas stares at him with outright horror. Alex wants to sink straight through the floor.

Why does it have to be this goddamn Thomas-french-sketches-tea-dark curls-claustrophobia-Monticello — stop. 

After all, it’s just another inconvenience, like so many others Alex has had to deal with. Not even close to the worst one, if he’s honest.

And it’s fine. It’s fine.

No big deal.

“Hamilton.”

The sound of someone else’s voice barely registers in Alex’s head, but the words don’t add up, so he sees no point in reacting. Not that he’s sure he is capable of speaking altogether.

His thoughts feel fragmented, broken, tangled. Torn between noise and emptiness. Space itself is warped, muted yet crushing, and Alex desperately tries to grasp onto something in the chaos, but it feels like trying to catch smoke with bare hands — everything crumbles at the touch.

He wants to scream. To cry, just to hear his own voice. To slap himself. To either run away from here — wherever “here” is — until he can’t breathe anymore, or maybe to just vanish. But none of it is possible. He’s trapped behind an invisible wall, a pane of glass, as time and space slip further and further away.

“Hamilton.” The voice comes again, sharper this time, paired with hands shaking his shoulders — forceful, grounding. It’s good — great, even — because the shards of his thoughts collide and realign. Alex blinks, his breath rushes back, and his gaze focuses on Jefferson.

“Oh,” he exhales, because his brain can’t manage anything else.

Thomas’s face is tense, eyebrows raised in concern, damp curls clinging to his cheeks. Alex struggles to piece together where they are, what’s happening, and why his hair is wet.

He almost succeeds.

Then, a deafening crack splits the air, followed by a blinding flash of light. Alex flinches, shutting his eyes just in time to think that something unimaginably terrible is about to happen — before the ground disappears beneath his feet.

“Goddamn it!” The fall stops as suddenly as it started. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

The hands catching him shift, pulling him upward.

“For fuck’s sake, Hamilton, stay on your feet!” Jefferson snaps, pausing because Alex is entirely incapable of complying.

“Hey. Get up.” Thomas says it so firmly it once again sounds more like a command than a request. “You need to stand up, or I’m going to have to carry you.”

It’s such an absurd threat that Alex might have laughed if he had the ability. But he doesn’t. Instead, he sinks further into the darkness.

The fog in his head dissipates slowly, and it takes Alex a long moment before his senses sharpen and reality takes shape.

The room he’s sitting in turns out to be the empty lobby of the administration building. It’s dim — the overcast sky outside lets in only a dull light — but the rain has almost stopped. He’s cold, his shirt soaked through, and the pink hoodie draped over him does little to help.

He remembers stepping outside into the courtyard, the storm, the lightning strike — but has no idea how he ended up here.

Footsteps echo down the hallway before Jefferson appears, a steaming mug in his hand.

Oh. Right.

“Drink,” Jefferson says flatly, pushing the mug into Alex’s hands.

Alex drinks without tasting, the heat pooling in his chest. He vaguely wonders where Jefferson managed to find an actual ceramic mug. 

“So,” Jefferson says once Alex lowers the empty cup, “are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Alex mutters in a hoarse voice. As if it's not obvious from his no-longer-unconscious state.

“Good.” Jefferson nods, satisfied. “Then explain what the hell just happened.”

“Uh…” Alex hesitates. “I was dropping off some documents and got caught in the storm?”

“And decided to take a nap on the asphalt afterward?” Jefferson deadpans.

Alex stares at the bottom of the mug. Judging by the lack of grounds, it was tea. He doubts he’s well enough to explain anything properly, but he knows how terrifying his episodes look to others. It’s better to explain than risk Jefferson calling an ambulance or something.

Jefferson remains at his side, quiet and steady. Alex instinctively pulls the hoodie tighter.

“Well,” Alex starts, still hesitating, fingers squeezing the empty mug. “You once asked where I’m from, remember? So, Nevis.”

Jefferson gives him a blank look. Of course — why would an American know the name of an insignificant Caribbean island which poses no political interest? Bloody neocolonialism.

It’s almost funny that it still irritates him.

“It’s an island,” Alex continues. “In the Caribbean. Small. Cozy, mostly. Mountains, beaches, that sort of thing.” He exhales deeply, mentally bracing himself. “But you know the main downside of the tropics?”

“Uh, infectious diseases and giant spiders?” Jefferson guesses.

“Cyclones. And cyclones mean hurricanes. And hurricanes,” Alex says. His voice wavers, and he bites his lip to steady it. “Hurricanes mean fallen trees, flooded roads, and destroyed homes.”

Thomas’s expression shifts from confusion to a worrisome realization. Alex looks away.

“And sometimes,” Alex continues, fighting the lovely combination of nausea and throat lump, “sometimes downed power lines, or — I don’t know — corruption, stupidity, idiotic fate means evacuations are delayed. And it means some people don’t get rescued in time.” He sets the mug on the floor and grips the edges of the hoodie instead. “By ‘some people,’ I mean my mother.”

His chest tightens, but he forces himself not to cry. Thank you, not now. He refuses to look at Jefferson, sick of the sympathy and horror written on faces like his.

“So, yeah,” Alex finishes, his voice thin. “Storms and thunder aren’t exactly my—”

He doesn’t finish because, in the next moment, Jefferson pulls him close.

It’s not forceful — more like being carefully bundled up. Thomas wraps his arms around him, soft and steady, the hoodie surprisingly plush on the inside. Dark curls brush against Alex’s face — when did they even dry? — and, somehow, that simple, fleeting sensation jolts him back to reality.

“No,” Alex mutters, pushing against Jefferson’s chest. “No, wait, let go.”

Thomas releases him immediately, and Alex jumps to his feet.

Jefferson stands as well, far more gracefully, and looks down at him with a calm, questioning expression.

“You—” Alex nearly shouts. “You can’t just— do that!”

Jefferson raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because you’re Thomas Jefferson!”

“I wasn’t aware it comes with restrictions.”

“I—” Alex flails, searching for words. “You hate me! From the moment we met, Jefferson!”

The room falls into absolute silence for a moment, save for the drops on the window.

“No,” Jefferson finally says, steady as ever. “I don’t.”

If Alex was surprised before — or at least confused — he’s now genuinely shocked.

Jefferson sighs. “Hamilton, please don’t faint again. Once was enough. I don’t hate you.” His lips quirk in a faint smile. “If anything, I like you.”

Shit.

Alex doesn’t faint.

He freezes in place, eyes wide, as time stops alongside him. He has nothing to say because the words are stuck in his throat — or perhaps knocked out of his head entirely.

“Absolutely not,” he finally comments.

Jefferson sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he’s dealing with an unruly child. “God, Hamilton. Why not?”

“Because I’m not your type!” Alex blurts, then immediately regrets it. What kind of response is that?

Thomas seems surprised, too.

“No, you’re not,” he agrees, and it’s obvious, really — Alex is nothing like Angelica or Madison, or whoever else he dated. Hurts a bit nonetheless. “But that doesn’t matter because I like your personality.”

“You what? ”

“I like your personality. Do I need to repeat every sentence?” Alex has a feeling Thomas is barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

“Jefferson,” Alex narrows his eyes. “You—me—we don’t—this isn’t—oh my god. Are you out of your mind?”

Now Thomas does roll his eyes.

“I’d be more worried about you.”

Fair enough.

“How could you possibly like anything about my personality?” Alex demands, his words spilling out in a rush. “I can think of at least seventy-five things we disagree on. I yell at you in class. You yell at me in class! Till last month you ignored me in the hallway! You didn’t even want to talk to me when we were stuck in a one-meter space together. For two years, you’ve torn apart everything I say, everything I do. What part of that screams ‘likable’ to you?”

“All of it,” Thomas says simply. And plants his hand on the wall just above Alex’s head.

Alex wants to laugh at the cinematic gesture, but he can’t.

Because up close, Jefferson hardly resembles Lafayette. Jefferson studies him carefully with dark eyes, scanning his face with a deliberate intensity that’s almost frightening.

Lafayette doesn’t look at people that way.

Lafayette doesn’t stretch his lips into a dangerous smirk.

Lafayette doesn’t make the air crackle with electricity.

“Alexander,” Thomas says. “You’re a total pain in the ass. You’re unbearable, and every time I see you, I get a headache.”  

That;s more like it. Interesting how he manages to voice complaints from this position.

“I’ve never agreed with you and probably never will,” he continues. “Which is statistically strange because you have an important opinion on literally everything, and you’d think we might overlap somewhere.”

Thomas’s gaze finally settles on Alex’s eyes.

“But that,” he continues, “that’s exactly what I like about you. You’re unbearable, stubborn, and relentless. And you’d be the first to climb a barricade for what you believe in. And, for better or worse, you’re the only person I’ve never been bored with.”

Alex has no idea how to respond to that.

“I don’t— Do you— You are unbearable. I hate how you’re always so full of yourself,” he blurts out.

“I know.” Jefferson replies, is entirely unbothered.

“And your smugness,” Alex persists, trying to convince himself as much as Thomas. “You’re a total asshole, and I’ll do everything I can to keep you from ever touching real American politics.”

“I know.”

“And I can’t stand your stupid pretentious French!”

“Mm-hmm,” Jefferson hums, and the same electric sparks Alex feels in the air flash in his eyes. “Sure. You know, honestly, if anyone decided that a debate in freshman year was reason enough for first-sight hatred, it was you.”

It’s true, Alex knows it’s true, and now it feels like the dumbest decision of his life.

“Which is why I never planned to bring this up. Until recently. Because I know you don’t like French. Et je sais aussi que tu aimes mes dessins,” Jefferson’s smirk deepens. “Et qu’on ne parle pas dans les couloirs seulement parce que tu rougis à chaque fois que tu me vois.”

It knocks the air out of Alex’s lungs. He’d love to rewind the last month so he could once again know too little French to understand that sentence. Alex feels that if Thomas gets even a centimeter closer, he won’t be able to breathe, and the thought sends a wave of panic rushing to his throat.

And it’s like Thomas knows it, because he smoothly pulls back instead, his smirk fading into something warmer, though the teasing edge remains. “So, Hamilton,” he says, his tone lighter now, “if you’ve run out of objections, I’ll give you a minute to process. Then we’re heading to Riverside to figure this out.”

After that, grabbing Jefferson by the collar feels impulsive and inevitable all at once.

“Well,” Thomas exhales into his lips, smiling, “looks like you don’t need that minute to think it over.”

“No,” Alex shakes his head. “But you’re buying me coffee.”

“Whatever you say.”

“And a muffin.”

“No problem.”

“And you’re inviting me to Monticello.”

“For the whole summer, if you want,” Thomas laughs. “Are you done negotiating?”

The sunlight filters through the clouds, catching on Jefferson’s curls, and Alex moves his hands from Jefferson’s collar to the back of his neck, his fingers threading through his hair.

“Yeah.”