Jefferson sighs, scrubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. Maybe if he just stares hard enough at the screen, he could wake up in his bed back at Monticello, his family estate. He wishes he could just go home, but there were finishing touches to be done on his arguments and counter-arguments. The future of their new nation’s relations with Europe were not going to wait for him to take a nap , and neither was Hamilton, from the sounds of it.
It’s nearing one A.M. but the aggressive tapping noises from Hamilton’s office never ceased. They had offices directly across from each other, and were in the habit of leaving their doors open so they could shout at each other across the conference room. It was a casual arrangement, and definitely more efficient than just emailing every comment and retort. He’d never admit it had the added benefit of being able to watch the shorter man, and his intense moods. Seeing Hamilton fling himself up off his chair to pace around the room talking to himself and then return to typing furiously was more entertaining than it probably should be. Once, Thomas had seen him so caught up in his own ranting that he crashed into his desk and went stumbling and sprawling across the floor. That was about two months ago, and he still told the story at every opportunity he could get, especially in front of Hamilton.
His stomach grumbles, pulling him out of his memories. When did he last eat? Dammit, usually it was Hamilton who forgot to eat dinner, or anything else. Stretching, he pulls his arms back over his head, cracking every muscle and joint he could manage. He had definitely been sitting still for far too long, because the pops went all the way from the base of his spine up through his neck and out to his elbows and fingers. It felt good to relax, to just end up all wrung out after feeling so tense all night, and he can’t help the long groan it presses out of him. Briefly, he entertains the thought of just leaving, just popping over to the gay bar down the street and picking up some nice twink to take home for the next… he glances at his watch - five hours, which was when he had to be up again for the morning’s meeting.
“Go home,” Hamilton shouts at him, and Thomas snorts. Really? Since when did Hamilton care about his well-being?
“You go home,” he snaps back, aware that it was a bit of a weak comeback. “Your typing sounds like a fucking machine gun going off. No wonder Washington’s had to replace your laptop twice in the last year.” One of those may have been his fault, dropping a stack of printouts on Hamilton’s desk with so much force it knocked over Hamilton’s “kiss the secretary” mug onto the keyboard.
He can hear the creak of the man’s desk chair as he leans back. “If only you had someplace to go besides here,” Hamilton suggests sarcastically, “you wouldn’t have to hear it. Oh, wait .” God, if only he had someplace to go besides here, staring at a screen at one in the morning, listening to Hamilton’s incessant tap-tapping that always got under his skin. He sighs, letting out a deep breath through his nose.
“My books aren’t in my apartment, and I need them,” Thomas explains, in a tone that wasn’t exactly as patronizing as he intended it to be. “That’s not a problem for you since your ideas are so staggeringly idiotic that no amount of sources could help you, so you’re the one who should leave.” He finishes the sentence as though it were the most solid argument in the world, although really he’s leaning towards leaving - but if he did, it would mean that Hamilton would have won.
“I don’t have anything to eat at my house,” Hamilton grumbles, and Thomas’ eyebrows fly up.
“And you do here?”
In response, Hamilton slams open a desk drawer and holds up a fucking protein bar.
“Jesus, you’re a trainwreck,” Jefferson groans, having decided to just go out anyways. He wasn’t exactly going to go home, just around the corner, long enough to grab a bite to eat. Standing, he stretches again, popping his hip and knee just to watch Hamilton cringe. Unfortunately, the trainwreck seems to have returned all his attention to the laptop in front of him. “ I need coffee and a sandwich, though,” he informs him. “So I’m gonna go find some food, and then I’ll be back, so don’t turn out the lights when you leave.” It was a meaningless request anyways, as Hamilton didn’t usually leave until practically dawn. Thomas often wondered how he got any sleep at all.
He steps out into the cool night air. Despite being in the middle of the city, the traffic has calmed down quite a bit, as it tended to do after midnight. It doesn’t bother Thomas, though, because he plans on just walking to the McDonald’s or something. The air would do him some good, even if it wasn’t as fresh as the country air back home in Virginia.
Three minutes later, he realizes that the path to McDonald's is the same path that would lead him right past the gay bar.
Two minutes after that, he’s ducking into the club, ignoring the loud house music and keeping his head down as he makes a beeline to the back. Both doors to the glory hole are open, and he slips into one side, locking it behind him. The closet-sized room is dimly lit, which serves Thomas just fine, it helps him to relax. Settling onto the bench seat, he unzips his pants, considering how he’s getting harder just being here. It was a little secret addiction of his, and he was damn good at it. He wasn’t exactly into being a whore, having any random guy use his mouth. No, what he really got off on was absolutely ruining them, sucking their souls out through their dicks and sending them back home to their boyfriends, girlfriends or spouses, knowing that they likely wouldn’t ever be able to find the guy who gave them the blowjob of a lifetime in some glory hole in Washington, D.C.. He wouldn’t exactly label himself a sadist, but it definitely felt good.
Thomas is so caught up in his own distracted fantasy that he barely registers the arrival of another man in the adjoining booth. The cock that pushes through is a good size (frankly it’s hard to work with the little ones) and already flushed red and hard.
“Damn,” he chuckles, deep and low. He almost wishes he could get someone like that alone, make him beg for Thomas’ mouth. The man definitely seemed desperate enough.
He sticks out his tongue, running it slow along the underside of the man’s cock. The long, shuddering breath it brings drives straight to Thomas’ own dick, and he takes himself in hand, holding it firmly as he wraps his lips softly around the head and pushes forwards.
His mystery man rewards him with a breathy string of mumbles, just low enough that Thomas can’t make anything of his voice, and a sharp thrust deeper into his throat. Jefferson’s gag reflex was long gone, and he clenches his throat around the intrusion to draw more moans. The only word he can make out is “devil,” and fuck, Thomas takes it as a compliment. It would be just like Alexander, he thinks absentmindedly, to keep rambling even during sex.
Wait - Alexander? Thomas probes at the thought and hums around the cock in his mouth, sending the man sputtering and slamming on the wall. Alexander with his clever words, melted to a begging puddle of a man before him. Alexander with his insatiable hunger, his drive for more and more and his dedication to anything put before him - Thomas realizes with a moan that he wants to take him apart, piece by piece, to figure out what makes him tick, and put him all back together again with an irremovable bit of Jefferson left inside.
Maybe that was a bit too sappy, he tells himself, flicking his tongue down the underside of the shaft. But the idea of Hamilton laid out beneath him, or above him, unravelling himself, is enough to make Thomas’ cock twitch in his hand, and he starts stroking it slowly. The man slams his hands against the black wall between them, startling him. He is loud , and while there’s a certain etiquette of not talking at the glory hole (to maintain deniablity and anonymity) he definitely has not stopped making desperate noises. In Thomas’ mind, it’s too easy for those noises to morph into Alex’s voice, and god, he really isn’t going to be able to look Hamilton in the eye for months.
The thing about Alexander Hamilton is that there’s not a difference . More than half their coworkers in politics are hypocrites, and Jefferson can admit to himself that he can drop his public persona as soon as he leaves the building. But Alexander is just as passionate and stuck to his ideals in the outside world. He’s almost reluctant to go out to bars when their coworkers do, because he has to listen to Hamilton rant all day, does he really have to listen to it after hours? When they’re out, though, Thomas is changed, and that makes all the difference - their banter isn’t any less cutting, but they’re at least able to have a civilized conversation. There was even one occasion where, egged on by Madison, he’d gone to check up on a very sick Hamilton, because that boy didn’t take care of himself enough when he was actually feeling well. The words between them then had been almost kind.
He flicks his tongue against the tip of the stranger’s cock - of Alexander’s cock - and realizes just how close the man is to coming. He lets his jaw go semi-slack, and as the man fucks his mouth and throat, it’s easy to picture those deep brown eyes, his long hair falling in waves around his shoulders and swinging with the force of his thrusts. When Thomas feels the hot surge of cum on his tongue, he swallows around it, though it means that he has to stop breathing for a moment and his lungs burn. He makes sure to draw every last drop out of him, relishing the warm salty texture - it’s an acquired taste, but it drives the men further out of their minds when they know he’s swallowing. Briefly, he entertains the fantasy of whether or not Alexander would -
“ Thomas, ” Alexander chokes out, and Thomas’ mind goes blank.
Thank god Alex is done, because Thomas reels backwards as if he’s been hit. Tucking himself frantically back into his jeans, he slips out the door, hearing Alexander’s voice panting “I just need a second, just -” but it’s cut off by the blare of the house music.
He hightails it over to the restroom, not wanting to get caught if Alex comes after him. The music is muffled when he closes the door behind him, and there’s a cute guy preening in the mirror who gives him a knowing smirk. The only thing he can hear is the deep rumble of the bass, and it tightens around his chest with every hit.
Locking himself in a stall, he pulls out his cock again, spitting on his hand and pulling desperately at it.
“You need a hand in there?” the guy calls flirtatiously, and he gasps out a “no!”
“Suit yourself,” he gets in reply, and the bathroom door opens and shuts again, leaving him alone.
Alexander had been on the other side of that stall. Thomas wasn’t deluding himself, it may be an ungodly hour but he was perfectly sober, and he knows that was Alexander, knows that was Alex calling his name . He is… not entirely sure what to do with this information.
He strokes himself off into the toilet bowl, desperately focusing on the newfound knowledge that those gasps really were Alexander’s, that he’d just given Alex the blowjob of a lifetime, and hell, it had definitely been the blowjob of Thomas’ lifetime. Steadying himself against the wall with one hand, he allows himself to whisper Alex into the air as he comes, hard.
He thinks about it on the way to the McDonald’s. Thinks about whether it would have been right to let Alex suck his dick in return, knowing Alex was thinking about him; thinks about whether he should have said something; thinks about whether he should say something when he gets back. There’s a lot he doesn’t think about, including the state of his suit, his hair, or the fact that his breath still smells like cum. He orders food for both of them, a subconscious thanks to Alexander for finally breaking down the last of the walls between them. The man needs to eat more than protein bars, anyways.
When Jefferson gets back to the office, he catches Alex scarfing down the last of a protein bar. When did Hamilton even get back? He still looks practically debauched, hair falling loosely out of his ponytail, and a spot of high color on his cheeks. There’s a look on Hamilton’s face that’s probably his way of bluffing, of saying “I wasn’t just at a gay bar getting my dick sucked and fantasizing about you,” and Thomas hopes his own bluff is just as good.
He tosses the bag onto Alex’s desk from the doorway, watching the man scramble for it.
“I want to hand you your ass tomorrow in the cabinet meeting because I’m better than you, not because you’re starving to death. Eat the burger.” The strain in his voice, whether it’s from the friction of a cock in his throat or just guilt, is probably not helping his alibi.
Hamilton pokes at the bag as though it would bite him. “What is it?”
“Quarter Pounder, no onions, and apple slices instead of fries.” He leans against the doorframe, before realizing he probably shouldn’t have admitted that he has Alexander’s fast food preferences memorized. Straightening again, he scoffs. “Never let it be said I don’t know my enemy.”
Thankfully, Hamilton doesn’t question it. He tears into the apple slices and gives Jefferson a once-over, raising an eyebrow. “You get mugged on your way to McDonald’s?”
Thomas glances down at himself, realizing that he definitely looks worse than Alex does. His shirt is still untucked, and there’s scruff on the knees of his jeans from kneeling on the floor of the booth. He scowls, partially at himself for not taking the time to clean up, and partially at Alexander for being so ungrateful.
“Fuck you,” Thomas snaps. “Save your bullshit insults for the meeting.”
“You’re on,” Hamilton challenges, and Jefferson practically stomps back to his own office. He spends half the time worrying about international relations with the rioting France, and the other half drafting what he’ll say to Hamilton tomorrow that will hit in just the right way to land them both in bed together, without a wall between them this time.
The next morning Thomas rolls into the office on three hours of sleep, and he’s practically manic. Alexander looks like he usually does in the mornings - like he’ll personally stab anyone that gets in his way. Jefferson plugs in his headphones to listen to NPR and relax so he doesn’t immediately jump the man’s bones like he wants to. The droning of talk radio helps ground him, and while rereading his arguments gets his blood boiling again, at least it’s out of frustration and not arousal. He’s worn a brown suit for the meeting today, even though he really wanted to wear the magenta one, but that one’s at the dry cleaner’s and this brown one is just ever-so-slightly too tight, enough to show off his toned, slim muscles.
Besides, if they ended up humping in a storage closet or something, he could live without this suit for a while.
At 7:55 he slides into his chair at the conference table, trying his hardest to act supple and seductive despite the nerves itching at the back of his neck. The rest of the Secretaries mill around, finding their seats and grumbling about how it’s a Jefferson-Hamilton debate again, which means none of them will get out in time for lunch, despite Washington’s best efforts. Maybe Jefferson can do them all a favor and shut Hamilton down early for once.
At 8:01 Washington snaps for Hamilton to join them, and the man grabs his laptop and scurries to the table, throwing Thomas a glare. Thomas only smirks at him. They read through the minutes with little fanfare, and, as Adams isn’t present to give his speech, Washington sighs and prepares for the discussion. That’s what it’s supposed to be, really, a discussion between the Secretaries about the different perspectives on the problem, of diplomacy vs the financial concern. It never turns out that way.
“The issue on the table,” Washington recites. “France is on the verge of war with England. Do we provide aid and troops to our French allies, or do we stay out of it? Secretary Jefferson, you have the floor, sir.”
Jefferson stands, making sure Hamilton’s eyes are on him. They are, and he grins as he sees something dark flash behind them.
As he goes through the motions, asserting their treaty with France, and drawing the Cabinet closer to him with his mentions of loyalty, Alexander’s eyes grow more distant. It gives Thomas a delicious thrill to know that this is what really throws Alex off his game. After a few minutes, though, he loses the focus of those brown eyes, as Hamilton’s laptop beeps and he looks down to type something. It must have knocked Hamilton back into reality, because his eyes go from glazed-over to twitching rage by the time Jefferson drops into his chair and leans back with a snarky “And if you don’t know, now you know, Mr. President.”
Hamilton nearly launches out of his seat with a loud shout.
“You must be out of your goddamn mind!” he swears, startling several of the Cabinet members around him. Thomas just tilts his head and smirks, confident in the knowledge that he holds all the cards. Hamilton’s trying to tear his argument to shreds, but right now, he couldn’t care less.
Thomas leans over his laptop, clicking open the messaging system. It really shouldn’t be used for such things, and he’s not sure if anyone monitors it, but he really can’t bring himself to care. Alexander can’t answer texts during a meeting, having been banned from doing so a few months back. The messaging system is the only way to go.
He smiles as he types out a blunt sentence, knowing that even if Alexander is really as oblivious as he seems to be, this will knock him right off his feet.
T. Jefferson: So do you usually say my name when you come? Or is that just on special occasions?
Alex clicks open the message without missing a beat, and freezes. “Uh,” he stutters, and there’s a beautiful moment of internal conflict plain on his face, between the desire to continue his tirade and the need to sit down and completely process everything that was just revealed to him. He doesn’t get the quiet of a bathroom stall and an early-morning walk to figure it out. A sick little part of Thomas wants Alexander to know how he felt, right at that moment, when everything came shattering down around them with one name. The rest of him just finds it amusing to watch Alex stumble over his words for once.
Thomas runs his tongue over his bottom lip, and Hamilton finishes with a weak little quip so he can sit down. It seems as though Alexander isn’t even paying attention to the fact that Washington is swaying his way. Alex types frantically, and Jefferson gets a little blip on his own laptop.
A. Hamilton: Only when you swallow.
He’d taken the bait. Thomas grins, and Washington says something that makes Hamilton snap to attention as he sends over his last message.
The meeting adjourns, and the rest of the Cabinet file out, arguing over their own opinions and gossiping about Alex’s sudden break in concentration. Thomas just sits there, watching Hamilton stare a hole into the conference table, and his message remains unread. He waits until they’re alone in the room, everyone else’s office doors shut tight, before he slides forwards over the table, eyes half-lidded.
“I’m bigger,” he purrs, in the deep, rough voice he knows drives people crazy. “I can show you tonight.” It’s not a question.
Alex sputters indignantly, eyes finally snapping up to meet his. Jefferson just smirks, snapping his laptop shut and standing. He returns to his office, closing the door behind him. When he settles back into his computer chair and opens his laptop again, a grin rises on his face as he sees the read receipt pop up.
T. Jefferson: Door code to my apartment is 72148. Do some jaw-stretches before you get there. You’ll need them.
A. Hamilton: You’re on.