Thomas Jefferson entered the dimly lit parlor with a flourish, his violet coat swaying as he spun a chair backward and straddled it. “Madison, my friend! You look like death warmed over.”

James Madison barely looked up from his papers, nose wrinkling as he suppressed a cough into his sleeve. “Good evening to you too, Jefferson.” His voice was hoarse, the kind of rasp that clung to him like an old habit. The humid Virginia air never did agree with him, but he had long since accepted that his body was more battlefield than fortress.

Jefferson grinned, setting a steaming plate in front of him. “Macaroni and cheese,” he announced, eyes gleaming. “Straight from France. You need to eat, my dear Madison. Can’t have you collapsing in the middle of a debate—again.”

Madison sighed but didn’t protest. He had learned by now that arguing with Jefferson was often a fruitless endeavor. Besides, there was something oddly comforting about watching Thomas fuss over him, even if he did it with his usual dramatic flair.

The door creaked open, revealing Aaron Burr, who surveyed them with a knowing smirk. “And here I thought you two only conspired over politics.”

Jefferson waved him off. “Madison and I are the architects of democracy, Burr. That requires strategy, intellect, and, most importantly, proper nutrition.”

Madison rolled his eyes, but a small, reluctant smile played on his lips. Perhaps Jefferson was insufferable, but he was also… Jefferson.

And that, somehow, made it all bearable.