A/N: This was first posted on my ao3 in 2017, and it continues to be updated about once a year (currently working on chapter 6). The version here will be updated up till chapter 5 before following ao3's pace of uploads. It's interesting to see how my writing has changed over the past few years, which is why I'm still working on this story. Let me know what you thought.
Chapter 1
Thomas had left for France immediately after college on a five-year journalism programme, fully funded by his future employer, George Washington.
Thomas was finally back from France.
He looked different. He was different.
There was a flair in the way he held himself that had not been there before he left for France. There was a different intonation in his manner of speaking, influenced by the French.
Thomas seemed more confident, more sure of himself. He stepped off the ship with his arms spread wide, taking a deep breath, glad to be home in Virginia.
James stood at the other end of the pier and smiled. 'Fake it till you make it' seemed to have worked on Thomas. He had grown into someone confident in his abilities and ready to take on the world. James felt pride for Thomas swell in his chest.
Thomas finally spotted James, his grin growing even wider as he raised a greeting arm. "James!" Thomas hollered down the pier, sauntering towards him. James returned Thomas' enthusiasm with a simple nod.
James drove Thomas back to his house where Thomas would be residing until he found his own place to live.
"Thanks for putting up with me again, James," Thomas grinned as they dragged his oversized luggage through the front door and into James' living room.
"I've already dealt with your nonsense for five years in college, Thomas." James pointed out, dropping the luggage he was holding on the floor. "What's another few more months?"
"You're the best, Jemmy," Thomas sighed, placing the luggage down too and taking a step forward, surveying the house.
Thomas stood before James, in his full purple velveted glory. James had missed Thomas' crazy antics. James had missed Thomas' nonsensical and endless rambling. Most of all, James had missed Thomas' affectionate and teasing nickname for him.
It made his heart warm.
"...Earth to Jemmy," James blinked to see Thomas waving a hand in front of him, a wide smile across his face. "Were you thinking of work? Am I intruding by being here?"
"No no," James quickly assured, picking up the luggage he had placed on the floor and taking the other luggage Thomas was holding. He began to stumble backwards, dragging the luggage towards the stairs. "I'm sadly still unemployed. You can pick any room you fancy; all of them are empty."
Thomas, always the gentleman, lifted the other end of the luggage and carried them up the stairs with James. At the top, Thomas began down the corridor to pick his room.
The first room nearest to the stairs was James' room. Thomas glanced into the second room and stopped. "Jemmy," Thomas grinned, gesturing at the purple-walled room, "you did this for me, didn't you?"
"You must be tired," James said instead, changed the subject, shoving the luggage towards Thomas, letting them spin on their wheels across the corridor to Thomas.
James was certainly tired, after an entire day excessively cleaning his entire house in preparation for Thomas' arrival and painting the walls of the room next to his a bright purple.
"We can unpack tomorrow; I'm sure you're eager to rest," James told Thomas and retreated into his room before Thomas could respond, flopping on his bed with a groan of despair.
James wasn't sure how to act around Thomas. He loved the thought that they could have just slipped back into their old college routine but five years had passed. Five years was a long time.
Thomas was certainly not excessively loud and overly exaggerated to hide his insecurities anymore. He didn't seem to have insecurities anymore.
Thomas had changed. What else had changed?
"James?" Thomas' muffled voice came from the other side of James' wooden door.
"Yeah?" James called back, sitting up.
"I just wanted to say thank you!" Thomas said, "I learnt to cook in France and I'll make you breakfast tomorrow to make up for troubling you!"
"It was no trouble at all!" James yelled back and only heard silence in response. Thomas must have gone back to his room.
James lay back on the bed. He could tell Thomas that tomorrow. Right now, his lowering eyelids were a sign of fatigue.
James was rudely awakened from his slumber way too early in the morning. The sky was still dark, the night crickets still chirping audibly. Yet, the kettle whistling loudly downstairs indicated that Thomas was already awake and making breakfast.
Thomas was never one to awaken early. James hadn't even expected him to actually go through with his promise of making breakfast. All through college, it had been James making them breakfast and shaking Thomas awake afterwards. Thomas would then grumble and take forever to get ready.
It couldn't be Thomas actually making breakfast at four in the morning.
"Thomas?" James grunted, heading down the stairs and into the kitchen. "It's too early for breakfast. What are you-"
James did a double-take as he looked up and rubbed his eyes again to make sure he wasn't still dreaming.
Thomas 'don't touch my hair' Jefferson had pulled his hair back into a puffy ponytail. He was wearing an uncharacteristic black overcoat and a smile that curled the wrong side of his lips.
"Oui oui mon ami!" Thomas greeted, holding a spatula in one hand and taking great strides across the kitchen to embrace James tightly and kiss him on both cheeks.
"Thomas, I don't-" James began, but Thomas interrupted him and began rattling off in French.
Thomas gestured at the food, then the window and threw his hands up in the air. He turned to James expectantly, waiting for a response.
"Um," James hesitated, "You know I don't speak French."
Thomas exclaimed something in French, his loud voice rising even higher as he gestured at the dining table then took James' hand, kissed between his knuckles and looked up at him again.
"Thomas, what a gentleman," James laughed, pulling his hand back, "what's this all about?"
"Thomas?" Thomas finally switched back to English, a thick French accent in his words. "Non, non, I am not Thomas."
"Oh really?" James raised an eyebrow, "who are you, then?"
"Je m'appelle- 'ow you say- my name is Marquis de Lafayette," Thomas continued to speak in that strong accent, making a sweeping bow before James. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, James Madison."
"Marquis?" James laughed. Thomas wanted to act like French royalty? James could certainly play along. "If you're a Marquis, why are you making breakfast? Allow me to cook for you."
"Non, I like to cook my own meals and sometimes I like to cook for others as well," Thomas said, turning to face the sizzling bacon in the pan and casting a wink at James over his shoulder.
James laughed again.
"Alright, whatever you say, Thomas," James conceded, taking a seat at the dining table and resting his head on the table.
"I am not Thomas, 'ave I not said so?" Thomas insisted.
"It's too early for your games, Thomas," James raised a dismissive hand, "Wake me up when breakfast is done. I'm going back to sleep right here."
Thomas chuckled and James drifted back to sleep to Thomas humming a song he didn't recognise.
James jerked awake to the smell of burning bacon.
Thomas was standing at the kitchen window, staring out, still humming.
"THOMAS!" James yelled, scrambling out of his chair and turning the fire off, tossing the pan into the sink.
"James?" Thomas had dropped the accent, turning around with a confused frown. He looked down at the spatula he was holding in one hand and raised his other hand to his ponytail. "What is going on?"
"You burnt the bacon, dumbass!" James shouted at him, grabbing the spatula from Thomas as Thomas yanked the hairband off and his hair puffed back into its normal look.
"I wasn't cooking bacon," Thomas said slowly, coming up behind James to stare at the burnt pan in the sink. "I was going to make french toast."
"I guess bacon and eggs seemed more classy even if you didn't know how to cook them, doesn't it, Marquis the- whatever your stupid name is!" James snapped, glaring at Thomas.
Thomas only looked more confused at his words.
James took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry; it's early and I'm cranky. I'll make breakfast," James amended.
"I'm sorry, Jemmy," Thomas pouted, "I'll make breakfast tomorrow?"
"Never come into my kitchen without supervision ever again," James warned.
Thomas gave James a quick embrace from behind and bounced out of the kitchen.
James couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. Thomas was the most genuine person he knew. He didn't mean to ruin James' pan. James couldn't stay mad at Thomas.
Thomas started work at Washington's Newspaper company the week after his return to America. Thomas dragged a table to the back of the living room and it became his workspace. Thomas was immediately bombarded with drafting articles and reviews, often working late into the night.
"Go to bed," James told Thomas for the hundredth time, turning around on the sofa to face Thomas at the table behind him.
Thomas' pen flew across the page, line after line. He was still in his fuschia tailcoat; he hadn't changed out of his work clothes when he reached home that evening. His eyes were wide and unblinking, in a frenzy of scribbling words.
"I'm not done," Thomas mumbled, his low voice betraying his tiredness.
James slammed his book shut, making Thomas jump in his seat and look up at him, dark bags under his eyes.
"You've only been working for Washington for a couple weeks, Thomas. At this rate, you're going to drive yourself into an early grave," James warned, keeping his voice soft. He wasn't angry, he was worried.
"I- I can't," Thomas sighed, his fingers white around the grip of his pen. "I can't lose to Hamilton. He's been producing more articles and more reviews than me. At this rate, I'm going to lose my job."
"Thomas," James stated, "Washington fully funded five years for you to be in France straight out of college to learn how to be a great journalist. You're the best in his company. He's not going to let you go."
Thomas gave James a thin smile, already distracted from their conversation, already turning back to his work.
"Go to sleep first," Thomas said, dismissive.
"I'm going to sit right here until you go to bed," James told him firmly and reopened his book.
There was a pause from Thomas' hard scribbling.
"Don't let me keep you up, James," Thomas told him, something strangled in his voice.
James ignored him, focusing on the words of his book. He was tired, but James wasn't going to let Thomas destroy himself with no sleep. If he had to threaten Thomas with himself, he would.
The minuscule words on the page began to melt into each other and become puddles of black ink before being absorbed and disappearing into the pages of the book.
James was startled awake when a heavy blanket was draped onto him. He looked up to see Thomas, his hair in a ponytail, smiling down at him.
"Why are you sleeping on the couch, mon ami?" Thomas asked. He was using the heavy French accent again.
"I was waiting for you, Thomas," James muttered, "how are you still alert enough at this time to fake that accent so accurately?"
"I'm not faking the accent; I am French," Thomas raised an eyebrow, "and I'm not Thomas."
"Haha, Marquis whatever. I'm tired, Thomas, let me sleep," James turned away and closed his eyes.
Thomas took a seat beside James on the couch instead. "Lafayette," Thomas told him gently, "repeat after me. Lafayette."
"Lafayette," James dutifully did so and Thomas- sorry, Lafayette- nodded, pleased. "Are you not tired?" James continued, opening his eyes again.
"Non," Lafayette shook his head, "I just woke up."
"What do you mean you just woke up?" James narrowed his eyes curiously.
Lafayette shrugged and smiled, curling the wrong side of his lips again.
James searched Lafayette's eyes. They were bright and alert, ready for action. There was no hint of fatigue in his gaze. He really was fully awake.
Just moments ago, Thomas was about to doze off at his desk.
Here Lafayette sat before James with no indication of any tiredness at all.
"How?" James whispered.
Lafayette shrugged again.
James reached out and gripped his arm tightly. "You must have insomnia. Or something. Maybe this is why you're awake all night and yet stay so alert. I'm bringing you to the doctor tomorrow," James said.
"Tomorrow Thomas 'as a meeting-"
"Now you're talking about yourself in third person. You're obviously tired but you're wide awake," James pointed out.
"Non-"
"Take a break, Thomas," James told him in his end-of-conversation voice. Thomas- Lafayette- whatever- pressed his lips together to form an annoyed line but nodded anyway.
James allowed Tho- Lafayette to lead him upstairs and into bed, falling asleep in his arms a couple times on the way up. James couldn't help it; he was exhausted and Thomas/Lafayette's arms were long and comfy around his chest. James felt safe right here in his arms.
James woke up to loud snoring from Thomas' room, sunlight blinding him through the window.
James pulled on an overcoat and headed to the next room to wake Thomas.
James opened Thomas' door and stood at the doorway, watching him sleep.
For all of Thomas' attempts to be fashionable, he was not very photogenic asleep. Thomas was sprawled out across the king sized bed, his loose hair falling over his face. The hairband he used as 'Lafayette' circled his wrist. Thomas had finally changed out of his work clothes before falling into bed- he was only wearing his white, long sleeved undershirt and pants.
There was something tender in his snoring expression, something innocent about his relaxed posture absent when he was awake that made James smile.
"Thomas," James hissed, "Thomas!"
"James?" Thomas woke up with a start. The French accent was gone and his eye bags were heavy underneath his eyes. Thomas scrambled to sit properly on the bed and looked back up at James. "How did I end up in bed?"
"You carried me to bed and I assume you- sorry, Lafayette- went to bed afterwards," James rolled his eyes and smirked a little at his own use of the alternate name.
"Lafayette?" Thomas rubbed his eyes, "what's that?"
"What's what?"
"What's a Lafayette?" Thomas asked, "It's French, right? I'm not very good at French. I know, I spent five years there, but- French is a hard language, okay!"
"It's you-" James began, then stopped himself. "You know what? It might be a crazy insomnia thing. I've only seen you play Lafayette when you're sleep-deprived. I'm bringing you to the doctor's right now."
"I can't take leave today; I have a meeting today!" Thomas protested.
James wriggled a finger at him, shaking his head.
"You promised me- well, Lafayette promised me, so we're going to the doctor right now." James ended the conversation with his no-nonsense voice.
"Fine," Thomas grumbled. Thomas knew better than to argue with James when James had made up his mind.
Thomas yawned and slid out of bed, throwing the closet open in search for something to wear.
James scanned Thomas' closet. Outfits for every possible situation neatly categorised by colour. James allowed a smile to break his stern expression at the sight of such familiarity. After all these years, Thomas still loved the colours of the rainbow just as much as he did back in college.
Yet, there was an addition to Thomas' collection. James strode over to the far side of the closet and pushed away Thomas' red fluffy furcoats to reveal a couple sets of simple black outfits.
Thomas hated black. He said it didn't make him stand out in a crowd.
Lafayette had worn black.
"Since when did you start wearing black?" James gestured at the black clothes, turning back to Thomas.
Genuine confusion scrunched across his expression.
"I don't… I still hate black," Thomas said, frowning hard as though he was trying to recall something, staring intently at the black in his closet.
James grabbed Thomas' arm and dragged him out, ignoring his "I'm not dressed yet" protests and driving him straight to the clinic.
James paced outside the doctor's office. Thomas had been inside for hours. What kind of tests were they running on him? What kind of illness did he have? Was it insomnia? Dementia? Idiocy?
Finally, Thomas was chased out of the room and James was called in.
"Split personality," the doctor explained, "or more accurately, Dissociative Identity Disorder."
"What's that?" James asked.
"Sometimes, trauma in childhood causes someone to protect themselves by dissociating from certain memories. This gives rise to other personalities created to handle those memories instead."
"Childhood? It can't be. I've known Thomas all through college. He never had this! It can't just- just pop up out of nowhere!" James screeched, unaware of the way he raised his voice.
"Mr Madison," the doctor continued calmly, "we have reason to believe from Mr Jefferson's medical history that he has had DID for a long time-"
"I've never seen this Lafayette in my life," James sneered.
"-and something happened in France that caused the rise of this more distinguishable additional personality, Mr Lafayette," the doctor continued as though James hadn't interrupted him at all.
"What happened in France?" James asked.
"That's for Mr Jefferson to know and for us to find out," the doctor nodded. "Mr Madison, DID can be cured or improved. Do not confront Mr Jefferson about it; he may not know the existence of Mr Lafayette and we do not wish to cause him to retreat further."
James nodded, numb, as he exited the room.