mourningdasies

[mourningdasies]

AFTER THE STORM

A Jamilton fanfic featuring two broken old men in the modern era

Word count - 3.4k

CHAPTER FIVE

The library was too quiet for this kind of tension.

Not the real kind—just the slow simmering kind that brewed in mismatched silences and undercurrent glances. Thomas Jefferson stood at the head of the long conference table, tablet in hand, tapping it against his palm while Alexander shuffled papers beside him, a scowl already forming even though they’d only just begun.

“We need a theme,” Thomas said flatly, scrolling through his notes. “Something seasonal but not too cliché. Last year’s was ‘A Winter Kaleidoscope.’”

Alex looked up from his notes, unimpressed. “Jesus.”

“I didn’t name it.”

“Well someone did. And they need to be put on a watchlist.”

Thomas exhaled through his nose, smirking a little despite himself. “Got any better ideas, then?”

Alex hesitated. The blank sheet in front of him had three suggestions scrawled hastily in his handwriting—none of them festive. He pushed one forward. “What about ‘Expression Through Survival’?”

Thomas blinked. “Survival?”

“Yeah,” Alex said, trying to stay even. “Y’know, like… making it through. Hard years. Hard life. Resilience through art. That kind of thing.”

Thomas paused, clearly thrown. His mouth parted like he was about to ask something personal, then snapped shut. “That’s a little heavy, don’t you think?”

Alex frowned. “Is it?”

“It’s a middle school art festival, Hamilton. Parents show up. The superintendent shows up. They’re not exactly looking for emotional depth in finger paintings.”

Alex’s jaw flexed. “So… fun and shallow?”

“I didn’t say shallow. I said—”

“You said the quiet part out loud.”

Thomas set the tablet down with a thump. “Look, I get that you think everything has to mean something—”

“Everything does mean something,” Alex snapped. “Even what we choose not to talk about.”

There was a moment where the tension sharpened—where it might’ve turned into a real argument if either of them had the energy for it.

But Thomas just crossed his arms and leaned against the table, watching him.

“What do you want, Alex? A theme that says ‘my childhood was a warzone’?”

Alex’s throat closed up. He didn’t answer.

The silence that followed wasn’t mutual—it was Alex holding his tongue behind clenched teeth, and Thomas watching him, already regretting what he’d said. The only sound in the library was the soft whir of the heating system and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights above them.

Thomas sighed and picked the tablet back up. “Look. I’m not trying to erase anything. But this festival—it’s not about us. It’s for the kids. And I guarantee you if we start putting the word ‘trauma’ on flyers, we’re gonna have every PTA mom in a ten-mile radius calling the office.”

Alex shifted in his seat, trying to let it roll off. But it sat like a weight on his chest anyway.

He looked down at the page, rubbed his temple with his thumb. “Fine. What did you have in mind, then?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Something festive. ‘Harmony in Winter,’ maybe. Or ‘Season of Color.’”

“Harmony,” Alex repeated flatly. “Wow.”

“Shut up.”

“Are we hosting a middle school art show or releasing a Christmas album?”

Thomas laughed, surprised. “Alright, then what doesn’t make you want to gouge your eyes out?”

Alex tilted his head. “’Something From Nothing.’ It’s neutral. But it says something.”

Thomas considered it. “That sounds like a self-help book.”

“Good. Maybe some of these parents could use it.”

“Jesus, Hamilton.”

Alex let the ghost of a grin show. “What? You’re the one who said last year’s theme was kaleidoscope. Pretty sure we can’t go lower.”

Thomas smirked, fighting the urge to laugh. “Okay. How about this: we pick something broad. Open-ended. Gives the kids room to interpret. Maybe ‘Reflections’ or ‘From My Window.’ It sounds poetic, but it doesn’t make the board nervous.”

Alex mulled it over. “Fine. I can work with that.”

It was just after five when Alexander wandered back into the mostly empty hallway outside the band room. The overhead lights buzzed dimly—half of them had already flickered off with the auto-timer, leaving everything cast in a bluish gray, like dusk under hospital fluorescents.

Most of the students had gone home. The janitors wouldn’t start their rounds for another hour.

But from the band room down the hall, music filtered through the closed door—low, steady, imperfect. A trumpet slightly off-beat. A keyboard playing tentative chords. And beneath it all, a voice giving quiet, patient direction.

Alex paused.

He told himself he was just heading out and had taken the wrong hallway again. He told himself he’d just stop and listen for a second—nothing weird about that. But then he stopped walking. And then he leaned against the wall. And then, worst of all, he stayed.

Through the narrow window of the door, he watched Thomas moving between students with a kind of easy confidence. Calm, steady, instructive without being controlling. He was kneeling beside the keyboard player now, saying something that made the kid laugh—something kind, probably. Something Alex wouldn’t know how to say to a preteen without sounding like he was trying too hard.

He could admit it, if only internally: Thomas was good at this.

And Alex… wasn’t. Not yet.

The music shifted—now just a few soft notes on the keyboard as the others packed up. The kids filtered out, waving goodbye to Thomas, who waved back with a tired smile and a stretch of his arms. His voice drifted out through the now-open door.

“Get some sleep, Marcus. Don’t forget to ice your wrist.”

The kid nodded and disappeared down the hallway.

Alex stood there awkwardly, still leaning on the wall like an idiot, before finally deciding to step in. It was stupid to just lurk like some creep. And it wasn’t like Thomas hadn’t seen him yet.

Thomas turned just as Alex entered. His surprise flickered only briefly. “Hamilton,” he said, voice scratchy from talking over brass and drums for the last hour. “Didn’t think you were still here.”

“I could say the same,” Alex replied. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Thought you clocked out the second the bell rang.”

Thomas snorted. “Only when I want to keep my sanity.”

He reached for his thermos on the piano, took a sip of what was probably now-cold coffee. He didn’t offer to share, which was fine—Alex wasn’t thirsty, anyway.

“You run a tight ship,” Alex said finally, nodding toward the music stands. “Didn’t expect it.”

Thomas gave him a sidelong look. “What, thought I let them free-jazz their way through winter recital?”

“I mean, you seem more like the type to let things happen. Chill. Cool guy. Not Mr. Rules.”

Thomas scoffed lightly, but it lacked any real bite. “You can’t get middle schoolers to sound decent on instruments without structure. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

He leaned back against the piano, folding his arms. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, quieter:

“Music was the only structure I had, growing up. Everything else was just… chaos.”

Alex looked at him. Really looked.

Thomas wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes were trained on the far wall, unfocused. Like he hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

“Y’know I used to sit in the old shed behind our house and play whatever I could find—busted keyboard, broken guitar, empty bottles. Didn’t matter.” His voice had dropped low, almost nostalgic. “Anything that sounded better than yelling.”

Alex’s chest pulled tight. He didn’t know what to say to that. Not because it wasn’t familiar—because it was. Too much. Too suddenly.

He swallowed. “It’s funny.”

“What is?”

“How we all turn our trauma into talent. Like if we shine it hard enough, it’ll blind everyone from the actual damage.”

Thomas turned toward him slowly. “That what you’re doing, Hamilton?”

Alex didn’t answer.

Thomas didn’t press. Maybe he understood that silence said enough.

Alex shifted, glancing around at the music sheets scattered across the piano. “You’re good with them. The kids.”

“I like them.” Thomas shrugged. “They remind me that people don’t have to turn out like their parents.”

That made Alex glance up.

Thomas looked away again, maybe realizing how much he’d revealed. He waved a hand vaguely toward the piano. “Anyway. Teaching them makes more sense than pretending I know how to be anything else.”

“You do,” Alex said.

Thomas blinked. “Do what?”

“Make sense.” It came out too quickly. “In here, I mean. Watching you work—it’s clear you care.”

Thomas raised a brow, surprised. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant to.���

Thomas grinned.

And then he tilted his head, looking at Alex like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. “You’ve got a real messed up way of flirting, you know.”

Alex blinked.

Thomas blinked.

A beat passed.

“I wasn’t—” Alex began quickly, defensive already.

“Oh God, I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean that like—” Thomas rubbed the back of his neck. “I was just teasing.”

Alex cleared his throat. “Right.”

Silence again. This one longer. Not quite tense, but thick. Neither of them moved.

Thomas looked toward the door, then back at Alex. “You walking out, or were you planning to critique my seating chart next?”

Alex took the exit, fumbling for a way to leave without making it weirder. “Nah, I’ll save my notes for the real performance.”

Thomas gave a little half-laugh, shaking his head. “Can’t wait.”

Alex turned and stepped out, heart tapping something a little too fast in his chest.

He hadn’t meant to flirt. Probably. But… maybe he had.

Either way, he was absolutely never going to bring it up again.

—

The bass rumbled beneath his feet long before Thomas even stepped inside.

Familiar. Predictable. Comforting in its own, gritty way.

He slipped through the alley entrance without ceremony. He wasn’t a regular, not anymore, but not a stranger either. The kind of face people remembered and didn’t question.

Inside, the lights were low and soft, like always. The smell of sweat and old booze clung to the walls. The booths were full, but not crammed. A couple people were dancing already, shoulders brushing, limbs loose with liquor. The DJ was someone new—he didn’t recognize the set, but the beat was good enough.

He moved toward the bar, weaving through clustered conversations and trailing laughter. Someone called his name before he even sat down.

“Tommy J, as I live and breathe.”

Thomas turned to find Dre behind the bar—short, compact, sharp-cheeked with a single long earring that brushed his collarbone. Dre had known him when he was still pretending to be straight. When he’d still shown up in button-downs and flinched at every touch.

Thomas smirked a little. “Didn’t think you still worked here.”

“Didn’t think you still came here,” Dre shot back, sliding a towel over the counter. “Where the hell you been?”

“Busy, was here not long ago. Guess it wasn’t when you were working.” He kept it simple.

Dre rolled his eyes. “You’re always busy. But you look like you need a drink more than an excuse. Your usual?”

Thomas nodded. “Make it a double.”

Dre didn’t ask questions.

The glass thudded onto the counter a moment later, amber liquid catching what little light there was. Thomas took a sip, then a longer one. He let the warmth spread, throat to chest to the tips of his fingers.

It wasn’t the alcohol that relaxed him. It was being here. The anonymity of it. The ritual. The noise around him louder than the thoughts in his head.

That should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

He leaned his elbows against the bar, gaze drifting across the floor. Bodies moving, laughing, existing in a space made just for them. For them. He’d come here for that once—chasing connection, sometimes distraction. But tonight he wasn’t sure what he was chasing.

His head still buzzed faintly with the memory of that moment earlier with Hamilton.

That goddamn awkward hallway pause. The weird energy. The accidental almost-compliment. The way Alex had looked at him, like he saw something.

Thomas took another sip.

It was just stress. That was all. They were planning a festival together. Working late. No boundaries. No filters.

Still, something about it wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Hey.”

Thomas turned, halfway through his drink. The guy beside him was vaguely familiar—messy hair, an eyebrow piercing, tall. The kind of face you maybe only remembered if you’d once had your hands on it in the dark.

“Do I know you?” Thomas asked.

The guy laughed. “We made out in the back room a few months ago. You ghosted.”

Thomas blinked. “Right. Sorry.”

The guy shrugged. “Not here to guilt you. You looked like you needed a dance partner.”

Thomas looked back to the floor.

He could say no. He wasn’t really in the mood. But saying yes was easier than thinking. And definitely easier than sitting alone in his thoughts while Alex Hamilton haunted the corners of his head.

“Yeah. Sure.”

They moved to the floor.

It was easy, at first. The thrum of the bass, the rhythm guiding his hips, the guy’s hand skimming the small of his back. No expectations, no conversation. Just movement.

And yet, the whole time, Thomas felt like he was performing something. Like he was going through the steps of a dance he no longer believed in. He used to come here and feel electric. Raw. Unstoppable.

Now he just felt… off.

He kept seeing Alex’s face. The way he hovered in the band room doorway, awkward but present. How he listened without interrupting. How he didn’t run when Thomas got a little too real.

He remembered the moment Alex complimented him. Or tried to. And how, for a split second, Thomas had felt something twist in his chest. Something stupid. Hopeful. Curious.

The guy on the floor leaned in, pressing their bodies closer. Thomas let him, hand on his shoulder, matching the pressure. But the disconnect was too big. There was no spark. No distraction.

Just an echo of a look. A sentence. A pause in a doorway.

He stepped back.

“Sorry,” he muttered, already turning. “Not tonight.”

The guy didn’t seem offended. Just shrugged and melted back into the crowd.

Thomas made his way back to the bar, drained the rest of his drink, and pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders.

“Already out?” Dre asked as he passed.

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Thomas hesitated. “No. But I’m used to it.”

He pushed back through the alley door, the cold hitting his face like a slap. He let it.

The walk home was long and quiet. No music. No conversation. Just the sound of his own boots on cracked pavement and the thoughts he didn’t want to keep having.

What would it even mean to be honest about himself? Really honest?

Could he say out loud what this place was to him? What it meant?

Could he look someone like Alexander Hamilton in the face and say this is who I am?

He doubted it.

Not because he thought Alex would lash out. But because he wasn’t sure which would be worse: rejection… or being understood.

The cursor blinked.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Alexander Hamilton stared at it, chest tightening.

His laptop screen was a glowing void, the lesson plan template open but empty. Just a title typed—Week 9: Poetry & Personal Voice—and nothing beneath it. He could feel the pressure behind his eyes building, like the edges of a stormcloud pressing into his skull.

He wasn’t even sure when he’d last eaten. Maybe lunch. Or maybe just coffee. Time got slippery when he was like this���coiled too tight, stuck in his head, trying to force function out of exhaustion.

He wiped a hand down his face, elbow knocking over a stack of marked-up student essays. Papers scattered across the floor, red pen still uncapped and bleeding into the margins of one.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

He knelt to pick them up, hands trembling. It wasn’t cold in the apartment, but his fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. One paper slipped from his grip, floated like a dead leaf to the floor.

And something in him broke.

The air thinned.

He reached for it, but his vision tilted, and suddenly he was somewhere else.

~

A dirt road in Afghanistan. Hot. Loud. Blinding sun reflecting off metal and sand.

The smell of oil. The high whistle of tension in the back of his throat.

They were on patrol. Routine. Supposedly.

He remembers stepping out of the truck. Just for a moment. The radio crackled. Someone said something over comms—static swallowed the rest.

Then a sound.

Click.

He froze.

Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. His fingers clenched around his rifle, useless. The world narrowed to the square of dirt in front of him, where the road had been tampered with—something buried, wires just barely visible through disturbed earth.

And John.

John wasn’t frozen. John ran. Shoved him hard. A second later, the blast swallowed the sky.

~

Alex gasped.

He was back on the floor of his living room, body drenched in sweat, lungs clawing for air that wouldn’t come. His hands gripped his knees, nails digging through the fabric of his pants.

It was like drowning from the inside.

He bent forward, forehead nearly to the floor, trying to remember how to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

Eventually—minutes, or hours, he didn’t know—he pulled himself to the couch. Slumped against the cushions, staring at the wall, every nerve in his body fried.

He reached blindly for his phone. Tapped Aaron’s name.

Straight to voicemail.

He tried again. Same thing.

Out. He was out. Probably at the gym or getting groceries or… fuck, he didn’t know.

The apartment was too quiet.

He glanced at the time. 9:43 PM.

Then, without meaning to, his thumb hovered over another contact.

Thomas Jefferson.

He hadn’t saved the number. It was just there now, after Thomas had texted him about the festival. That smug tone, laced with sarcasm and pity. And something else.

Something Alex didn’t have a name for yet.

He didn’t hit call.

Didn’t even type anything.

He just stared.

The idea of texting him was absurd. Stupid. What would he even say?

Hey, I’m having a panic attack and I think I’m unraveling and also you looked really good in that fucking maroon sweater yesterday and I hate how my brain can’t stop thinking about you?

Yeah. No.

He tossed the phone onto the couch and leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, hands laced behind his neck.

This was why he didn’t make friends. Why he didn’t try. Why he kept the people who knew him before far away.

He glanced at the coffee table.

His notebook sat there, half-open. The one where he’d started writing again.

Poems.

Letters he’d never send.

The top page was for Phillip.

He reached out, fingers tracing the line he’d written weeks ago:

I used to think I’d teach you how to build a life from ashes, but now I think I only know how to burn things down.

He hated how true it still felt.

He hadn’t seen his son in three years. Not since Eliza moved to Paris with Lafayette. Not since the divorce became permanent, ink drying on the line between past and future.

He wanted to send him something. A letter. A poem. Proof that he still existed, still cared, even if he wasn’t there.

But everything he tried to write came out wrong. Messy. Angry. Heavy.

Just like him.

His fingers curled into fists on his knees.

Was this it?

Was this all he had left?

A bottle of anxiety pills in the cabinet. A stack of student essays. A halfway-finished festival project and a co-chair who made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t understand.

And a son halfway across the world who might not even remember the sound of his voice anymore.

Alex stood suddenly, too fast, the room spinning again.

He braced himself on the wall.

Then, slowly, quietly, he picked up the poem, folded it once, and slid it into his notebook. He didn’t tear it out. Didn’t rip it up.

Just put it away.

Then he shut his laptop, shoved the papers into a rough pile, and let them sit.

He walked into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face.

Looked in the mirror.

The man looking back at him was tired. Not just exhausted—tired. In his bones. In his blood.

He pressed his palms to the sink and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he picked up his phone and texted Aaron one word.

“Home?”

No reply.

He stared at it for another long moment, then turned off the bathroom light and sat down on the couch again, curling up with a blanket.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t sleep either.

He just sat there, notebook on the table, poem folded inside like a truth too sharp to say aloud.

[mourningdasies]

THE MERCY OF MEN

Aaron Burr seeks mercy from the man he tried to kill nearly half a year ago, and ends up destroying everything peaceful once again

word count - 1.8k

CHAPTER TWO

Alexander woke to the sharp sting in his side and the smell of ash.

It took him a moment to place himself — to remember he hadn’t dreamed last night. Burr really had come to his door, soaked in snow and regret. And now…

He sat up stiffly, groaning as the wound throbbed. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, took a breath, and limped out into the hallway.

The parlor was dim but not empty.

Burr was there, seated in the hard wooden chair by the fire, hands folded, posture too stiff to be restful. He hadn’t removed his coat. His boots left a faint trail of half-dried mud on the floorboards. His gaze was fixed not on anything, but into the hearth’s low-burning coals. Like a man sitting with ghosts.

Hamilton frowned.

“You didn’t sleep.”

Burr startled — just barely. His eyes met Alexander’s, dark and weary. “Didn’t feel right.”

“You could have,” Alexander muttered. “Wouldn’t have been the first time you made yourself comfortable where you weren’t wanted.”

Burr didn’t rise to it. He glanced at the books stacked on the nearby end table — Alexander’s reading from the night before — and reached absently for one, fingertips grazing the worn leather spine.

“Don’t touch that.” The words snapped out harder than Hamilton intended.

Burr’s hand paused, then pulled back.

Silence bloomed like rot in the room.

Alexander hobbled to the small kitchen nook and lit the stove, eyes on his teapot but ears alert. He made no effort at conversation, no gestures of welcome. His movements were slow and deliberate, the kind of care one only took when pain dictated every step.

Burr didn’t speak either. The air between them remained stiff with tension, heavy with things left unsaid.

Finally, after several minutes, Burr broke the silence.

“I never imagined I’d be here like this.”

Hamilton didn’t turn.

“No one ever does. Until they are.”

“I mean in your house,” Burr said. “After everything.”

Alexander poured boiling water into two chipped cups. The clink of porcelain was louder than necessary.

“What did you think would happen,” he said quietly, “when you pulled the trigger?”

Burr didn’t answer at first.

He looked back to the fire. “I didn’t think.”

“That’s not like you.”

“I thought…” Burr hesitated, then shook his head. “I expected we’d both die. Or neither. You— the way you stood there, Alexander. Like you didn’t care. Like you wanted it.”

Hamilton turned slowly. He brought one cup to Burr, setting it on the side table without ceremony, then retreated to his own chair, easing down with a hiss.

“You thought I wanted to die?” he said, voice sharper now. “That gave you the right to grant it?”

“No,” Burr replied. “It terrified me. But I saw it in you. The same thing I’ve seen for years — that edge, that hunger to destroy yourself if it meant proving you were right.”

Alexander laughed — bitter and tired.

“Don’t you dare pretend you know me.”

“I know enough.”

“You know nothing,” Hamilton hissed. “You’ve spent your whole life doing nothing. Waiting. Hedging your bets. Always choosing the middle road so no one could hold you accountable.”

Burr’s jaw clenched. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh no?” Alexander leaned forward, eyes hard. “You wanted to be president, and you couldn’t even say what you stood for.”

“I stood for unity!”

“You stood for silence.”

Burr stood abruptly, pacing a few feet toward the window.

“I wrote to Madison,” he said. “After the duel. I asked him for help.”

“And?”

“He didn’t respond.”

Hamilton sipped his tea. “Sounds like him.”

“I reached out to Gallatin. Even to General Wilkinson” Burr let out a humorless laugh. “They’re all gone. Scattered like rats off a burning ship. I thought I had friends. Turns out I had usefulness.”

“That’s politics,” Hamilton muttered. “Welcome to it.”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” Burr said suddenly, turning to face him. “I know I don’t deserve it.”

Alexander studied him for a long moment.

He looked like a man slowly coming undone — not in the theatrical sense, but in the quiet, despairing erosion that followed humiliation. His coat, still damp, hung too heavily on his frame. His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. And there was something new in his voice. Not charm, not self-preservation. Something dangerously close to honesty.

Hamilton looked away.

“I’m not a saint, Burr, but I’m also not the man you think I am.”

“I don’t think you’re anything anymore,” Burr said quietly. “Except the only person left who knows what I was.”

Alexander stared at his tea, the steam curling upward between his fingers.

“How long do you need?”

Burr blinked. “What?”

“How long,” Hamilton repeated, “before you run again?”

Burr sat down slowly. “A week. Two, if I’m lucky. There are smugglers who’ll take me south. To Mexico, but I need time to reach them.”

Hamilton sighed.

“You can stay. Until then.”

Burr let out a breath.

“But I don’t want gratitude,” Alexander added. “And I certainly don’t want your guilt.”

“What do you want?”

Hamilton looked at him then, really looked — the years of rivalry, bitterness, tragedy and ambition sitting between them like smoke.

“To not feel like a fool,” he said. “For letting you in.”

They sat in a strained, distant silence, each man consumed by the churning storm in his head. The fire had dulled to faint embers. Burr had stripped off his damp coat by now, folding it neatly on the arm of the chair like a soldier in an unfamiliar barracks. Hamilton’s fingers twitched occasionally on the spine of his notebook, though he hadn’t written a word.

He glanced toward the desk, toward the letters half-finished and unsent, and exhaled through his nose.

“I could write someone,” he said at last.

Burr turned to him, cautious. “Someone?”

“Robert Troup, maybe. Or Lawrence Lewis—Washington’s nephew. He might be sympathetic enough to arrange passage south, assuming he still remembers I exist.”

“And they’d help me?” Burr asked, tone wary.

“They might,” Hamilton said. “For a favor. Or for leverage. But don’t count on me yet.”

There was no kindness in his voice—only calculation.

Burr frowned. “Why offer at all, then?”

“Because I don’t particularly want your blood on my floorboards.”

That silenced Burr for a beat. He sat straighter, jaw tight.

Hamilton didn’t look at him as he continued. “Jefferson only pardoned me to make you look worse. I endorsed him, Burr. He didn’t want to owe me for it. Pardoning me made it clean. Neat. You—on the other hand—are perfect for his narrative.”

Burr stood, slow and cold. “You’re saying I’m here because it’s convenient for him.”

“I’m saying,” Hamilton said evenly, “that the only reason you’re not in chains is because of me.”

Burr said nothing. He stared at the fireplace, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle twitched beneath his skin. His shoulders lifted, then dropped in a silent breath, the kind of breath people took when they were deciding whether or not to break something.

“I never realized how much power you still have,” he said quietly. “Even now.”

Hamilton scoffed. “It’s not power. It’s projection. I let people believe I’m too loud to silence. I write faster than they can tear me down. That’s all.”

“That’s not all,” Burr said, still staring at the fire. “You survived being shot, and the world only cares about how it made you stronger. You’ve turned every failure into a footnote. Do you know what it’s like, Alexander, to be the one history doesn’t need?”

Alexander closed his notebook.

“Spare me,” he said.

Burr turned toward him fully, hands now clenched. “You think I want pity? You think I came here to be reminded of every mistake I ever made?”

“I think you came here because no one else would have you.”

Alexander rose carefully, pain flickering behind his eyes as he steadied himself on the desk.

“I’ll write tonight,” he said. “Assuming you don’t give me another reason to regret this.”

Burr didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But when Hamilton left the room, his hands shook at his sides — not with fear, but with the awful weight of needing someone you had once tried to kill.

Dusk bleeds into evening. The light outside Hamilton’s home has turned copper-red, streaking the wooden floorboards with long shadows.

The fire had been stoked again, a reluctant warmth flickering in the hearth. Burr stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the light vanish over the rooftops. The weight of dusk made the silence feel thicker somehow — less like stillness, more like something waiting.

From the study, he could hear the faint rustle of paper, the occasional clink of glass. Hamilton was still writing. Burr closed his eyes.

Hours passed.

The fire had died to embers again. The only light came from Hamilton’s candle and the reflection of moonlight silvering the windows. He sat at his desk, hunched forward, the journal splayed open before him.

This one wasn’t a ledger. Not a letter. Not a draft of legislation or a treatise on the state of the republic.

Just a journal.

And tonight, finally, he wasn’t writing about law. Or legacy. Or the weight of being Hamilton.

He was writing something that stung.

His quill moved quickly, frantically, like he was afraid he’d lose the words if he hesitated:

‘There is a man in my house who tried to kill me. And I am still the one losing sleep.’

He stared at the line for a long moment after it dried. His breath caught in his throat. He closed the book, slowly, as though it might burn him.

In the next room, Burr shifted in his sleep — a quiet sound, like a man unsettled even in dreams.

Hamilton didn’t move.

He stayed at his desk, spine stiff, gaze unfocused. The candle flickered. The night deepened.

Two men in one house.

One haunted by what he’d done.

The other haunted by what he’d survived.

Neither could sleep.

[mourningdasies]

MY MASTERLIST

AFTER THE STORM (Jamilton)

A Jamilton fanfic featuring two broken old men in the modern era

CHAPTERS

One, Two, Three, Four, Five,

THE MERCY OF MEN (Hamburr)

Aaron Burr seeks mercy from the man he tried to kill nearly half a year ago, and ends up destroying everything peaceful once again

CHAPTERS

One, Two,

[mourningdasies]

AFTER THE STORM

A Jamilton fanfic featuring two broken old men in the modern era

Word count - 3.9k

CHAPTER FOUR

It started with a Gmail notification at 6:43 a.m. on a Tuesday.

Alexander sat in the teacher lounge with his thermos of over-sweetened coffee and the remains of a dry protein bar in his lap, rubbing the heel of his palm against his temple as he reread the email header again:

“Winter Art Showcase Lead: Confirmation + Expectations”

He clicked it open with the tip of his thumb, hoping he’d read it wrong, that the glitchy district email had sent it to the wrong Alexander, that some poor other bastard was about to carry the full weight of Ruary Middle School’s end-of-semester chaos.

But no.

It was him.

Congratulations! Due to your availability and enthusiasm, the email read—God, enthusiasm—you’ve been selected to take the lead on the Winter Art Showcase…

His left eye twitched.

Aaron had warned him not to ignore chain emails. “Silence is consent when it comes to administrative bullshit,” he’d muttered one night over leftovers and reruns. Hamilton had waved him off then, half-drunk and exhausted, muttering that if they needed him, they’d ask.

Well.

They’d asked.

Without asking.

He skimmed the list of responsibilities. Coordinate between departments. Schedule showcase performances. Communicate with parent volunteers. Secure funding from the PTA. And that wasn’t even getting into setting up the multipurpose room the night before and making sure none of the kids got into fights backstage over who got more time on the mic.

By the time he hit the third paragraph, Alexander exhaled sharply through his nose, tossed the protein bar wrapper in the trash, and muttered, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

A few heads turned.

Mrs. King gave him that sharp smile from where she sat with her ever-steaming cup of chamomile, probably already mentally docking him ten professionalism points. She was always watching, always eavesdropping with the smugness of someone whose fifth-grade reading group ran itself.

Hamilton pushed back from the breakroom table and stood up abruptly. “Bathroom,” he muttered to no one in particular.

He didn’t go to the bathroom. Instead, he wandered the halls for a few minutes, biting his thumbnail and contemplating whether he could fake his own death before December 22nd.

His first two periods crawled. The students were wired with energy, the kind that made them slap each other’s backpacks for no reason and whisper Christmas countdowns like spells under their breath. Alexander tried to stay grounded—reviewing paragraph structure with the seventh graders, grading poetry prompts from the eighth—but his attention kept drifting.

By the time third period rolled around—his prep period, blessedly—he was in full-on fight-or-flight mode.

He sat at his desk in a classroom that still smelled faintly of Expo markers and middle school deodorant, staring at the blinking cursor on a new Google Doc titled “Winter Art Showcase: Task List.” It blinked at him like it was mocking him.

Alexander leaned back in his chair and exhaled, glancing out the window. The sky was overcast—dull gray like the inside of his head. The kind of winter day that never really woke up.

Thomas Jefferson’s classroom was across the hall and one door down. He thought about walking over.

He didn’t particularly want to ask Thomas for help. But after months of working here, it was clear the students adored him—and even more telling, so did the staff. His classroom was the hub for everything creative. Choir, jazz ensemble, musical theater kids, loners who drew on their arms. He ran it like a ship and the kids followed.

If anyone knew how to handle a damn art showcase, it was him.

Alexander stood up. Then sat back down, because he remembered Thomas hadn’t even come to work that day.

Then he stood up again, also remembering he needed to refill his coffee mug.

But just as he was grabbing his mug and starting toward the door, he saw someone slip into Jefferson’s classroom.

A tall man in a beige coat, lean and serious, flipping open the door like he had the right to be there. Which meant he probably did.

Hamilton watched for a moment, then stepped into the hallway, jogging a few steps down to intercept.

“Hey,” he called out as the door creaked open wider. “He’s not here.”

The man turned.

He had a narrow face and tired eyes, the kind that hadn’t slept properly in a week. His gaze swept over Alex like he was making quick calculations.

“Excuse me?”

“Jefferson,” Alex clarified, thumbing toward the door. “He’s not in today. Wasn’t here first period either.”

The man’s expression darkened, subtle but visible. His shoulders squared a little.

“Hm,” the man said.

There was an edge in his voice that suggested this wasn’t just a casual visit.

“You looking for him for school stuff or…?” Alex tilted his head, cautiously polite. “I can leave a note or something.”

The man hesitated, looking over his shoulder into the empty classroom, then back at Alexander.

“No,” he said finally. “I’ll go see him.”

That made Alex blink.

“Like—see him? Like at his house?”

The man’s mouth twitched. “That’s the plan.”

“Damn,” Alex said before he could stop himself. “Wish I had friends like that.”

The stranger gave a flat, unreadable look, like he didn’t have time for this.

But Alex pushed forward anyway.

“Actually—wait. Since you’re going to see him, could you tell him something?”

The man looked mildly skeptical but didn’t walk away, so Alex took it as permission.

“Tell him I need help,” he said. “With the Winter Art Showcase. Apparently I’m leading it. Don’t ask me why. I thought he might be… I don’t know. Good at it.”

He hated how sheepish he sounded. Hated how casual he tried to make it.

The man gave him a long look, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “And you are?”

“Alexander Hamilton,” he replied, reaching out to shake the man’s hand on impulse.

The man didn’t take it.

Instead, he nodded once, curtly.

“I’ll let him know.”

Then he turned and walked back down the hallway like he had somewhere much more important to be.

Alexander watched him go, confused.

He returned to his classroom, vaguely annoyed by the interaction. The guy was obviously tight-laced, possibly judging, and definitely overprotective. Thomas probably had a whole entourage of bougie friends with Yale degrees and cufflinks.

Still.

Alex opened a new sticky note on his desktop and wrote: Winter Art Fest. Ask Jefferson. Find damn parent volunteers.

Then he stared at it for a long time, chewing on the corner of his thumb.

Eventually, he added: beige coat guy = ???

Then he closed his laptop.

It was nearly the end of the day when Alexander saw a reply email from admin:

“So glad to have you lead the festival, Mr. Hamilton! We think this will be a great way for you to ‘connect with the student body.’ Let us know if you need support.”

He laughed once, bitter and loud enough to startle the student in the front row of his seventh-period class.

Connect with the student body. Right.

That would’ve required him to be someone they wanted to connect with.

The bell rang. Students surged out into the hall.

Hamilton sat at his desk as the last of the laughter and footsteps died down. Then he folded his arms on the desk and rested his forehead on top of them, letting the noise of the school fade into silence.

All he could think about was how this was going to fall apart in his hands.

All he could think about was how Thomas Jefferson, for all his pretentious piano-playing and smooth confidence, would’ve probably nailed this in his sleep.

And Thomas hadn’t even shown up today.

Lazy, flashy bastard.

He hoped that tight-laced guy—whoever the hell he was—delivered the message.

Because Hamilton had no damn idea how to run an art festival alone.

And even less of an idea why part of him was disappointed Jefferson wasn’t here today.

—

Alexander was still lying on the couch when his phone buzzed. It was late Sunday afternoon, sun bleeding through the blinds in pale strips, painting thin gold lines over his worn hoodie and the living room floor. Aaron had gone out—maybe to get groceries or just to escape the apartment for a bit. Alexander hadn’t moved in an hour.

The buzz came again.

He shifted his hand toward the coffee table, fumbling for the device with the kind of lazy resistance that came from an unmotivated weekend. He flipped it over.

A text from an unknown number.

Unknown Number:

“So you’re the poor bastard who didn’t reply to the staff email. Classic mistake.”

Alex blinked.

Then it buzzed again.

Unknown Number:

“I’m assuming you’re the one stuck managing the festival. Don’t worry. I pity you. I’ll help.”

He stared at it for a moment, his thumb hovering over the screen. The name wasn’t saved, but the smug tone was unmistakable. It was Thomas. He didn’t even question how he got his number. Maybe he bribed a secretary. Maybe he picked it off a contact sheet like a normal human. It didn’t matter.

Alexander exhaled through his nose, something close to a chuckle buried under it. He tapped out a reply:

Alex:

“Thanks. I think. I’ll take the pity.”

There was no immediate response, and he didn’t expect one.

Monday came and the school smelled like cheap cleaning fluid and peppermint—the remnants of some holiday-themed air freshener battle happening in the office. It was cold outside, but in the halls of Ruary Middle School, the radiators clicked and groaned, the air thick and dry.

Alexander had spent the morning trying to convince himself the day wouldn’t be a disaster. The winter art festival had its own chaotic gravitational pull. He’d spent his prep period attempting to sort through three years of past event files—none of them organized, half of them missing, all of them contradictory. One folder was labeled “Festival 2020,” but it contained nothing but a flyer for a science fair.

By lunch, he was so far underwater he wasn’t even kicking.

He sat in the staff lounge, chewing through a turkey sandwich like it had personally offended him, when Thomas sauntered in. Always a little too stylish for a middle school teacher, his jacket had a sheen to it, his curls controlled but still wild enough to look natural. He had a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, a smirk twitching on his lips like he’d walked in on a private joke.

“Morning, Mr. Hamilton,” he said, sliding into the seat across from him like they’d been meeting up every day for years.

“Jefferson,” Alex said around a bite. “Didn’t expect to see you in here.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Where else would I be? There’s a microwave in here. My classroom doesn’t even have a damn sink.”

Alexander shrugged. “You’re not exactly a regular in the lounge.”

“Neither are you.”

Fair point.

They sat in silence for a moment before Thomas leaned back and gestured loosely at the manila folder on the table between them. “So. The festival.”

Alex groaned. “Kill me.”

Thomas snorted. “Tempting.”

Alex gave him a dry look.

Thomas cleared his throat, setting his coffee down. “Look, I’ve done this thing twice. The trick is to make it look impressive without giving anyone something to complain about. And since this is Lexington, Virginia—”

“—that’s everything,” Alex muttered.

“Exactly.”

Thomas pulled the folder toward himself and flipped it open like he was dissecting a frog. “You’ll need a theme. Something seasonal but vague. Joy, hope, warmth—whatever. Just avoid peace because then someone’s kid will write a poem about Americas past, and that opens up a whole damn conversation we’re not allowed to have here.”

“Jesus,” Alex muttered.

“Include him too,” Thomas added, half-smiling. “Not overtly. Just… thread him in. Have one nativity-themed choir piece. Maybe a classroom does a stained-glass craft. It’ll do wonders for your bonus.”

Alex leaned back. “Are you seriously telling me that if I include Jesus I get a bigger check?”

Thomas shrugged. “No one says it outright. But the best festival gets the best bonus. And the best festival is the one that doesn’t make the PTA clutch their pearls.”

“That’s… gross.”

“That’s the job.”

They sat there a moment. Thomas toyed with the edge of the folder. Alexander studied his face in the silence—noticed how smooth his expression could be when he wasn’t smirking, how the line between sarcasm and sincerity always hovered just behind his eyes.

Alex cleared his throat. “Why are you helping me with this?”

Thomas blinked. “I told you. Pity.”

“Right.” Alex didn’t quite believe that.

Thomas smiled into his coffee. “Besides, it’s kind of fun watching you flail.”

Alex rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched. “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re terrible at asking for help.”

Another pause. This one wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it was awkward. Tangled up in the kind of energy that came from two people who didn’t know what to make of each other yet.

Finally, Alex broke it. “So. You’ve done this twice. How’d that go?”

Thomas snorted. “One year I did a showcase of holiday music from around the world. Thought I was being all inclusive and progressive. Got complaints because I didn’t include enough carols. The second year I just threw together a ‘Winter Magic’ theme, let the kids make glitter crap and sing ‘O Holy Night.’ PTA ate it up.”

They fell back into silence.

Alex picked at the crust of his sandwich. “Do you actually like this job?”

Thomas looked at him, not smiling for once. “I like the kids. The rest of it… you learn to stomach.”

Alex nodded. That was honest. He appreciated that.

Thomas stood, brushing crumbs off his shirt. “Anyway. I’ll forward you a template I used. You’ll want to get the sign-up sheets out by next week. Ask for volunteers, then do everything yourself when they bail.”

Alexander’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t the food—it was the weight of responsibility, the crushing realization that this wasn’t going to be some passive supervisory role. He had no experience with events, no patience for corralling people, no instincts for navigating the PTA’s fine-print expectations. This wasn’t grading essays or editing grammar sheets—this was public. Performative. Prone to judgment.

He rubbed his face with both hands and groaned into his palms. “Shit. I am so screwed.”

Thomas paused halfway to the door, glancing back with a faint smirk. “You’re only just realizing that?”

Alex let his hands fall into his lap and looked up at him with a mix of desperation and irritation. “No, seriously. You can’t just dump all this on me and walk off like some smug holiday ghost.”

Thomas blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I can’t do this alone. I—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You know how this works. You know what to avoid. What the admin wants. What the parents expect. You’ve done it.”

“And you’re supposed to do it now,” Thomas said slowly, crossing his arms. “It’s your job this year.”

“Because I didn’t respond to an email.”

Thomas didn’t argue. That fact was uncomfortably true.

Alexander leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Look, I’ll do the grunt work. I’ll manage the paperwork, the classroom submissions, the newsletter stuff. I’ll handle the writing and the visual arts. Hell, I’ll even paint a goddamn backdrop myself. Just… you do the music side. Please. Choir, instruments, scheduling rehearsals—whatever that all entails. Just help me. I’m begging you.”

Thomas hesitated. His posture stiffened, but not out of annoyance—more like caution. Like being asked to participate in something again dredged up a weight he hadn’t prepared to hold.

“I don’t really have time for this,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice wasn’t convincing. “Between lesson planning, assessments, Martha’s holiday fundraiser, and grading…”

“You literally just said you’ve done this twice.”

Thomas shot him a sharp look. “Yeah. And I barely survived it.”

Alexander lifted his hands, palms up. “So help me survive it.”

There was a long pause—one that felt like it might stretch past the bell and into next week. But Thomas wasn’t looking at him with that usual amused disinterest anymore. Something in his gaze had softened, not entirely out of sympathy but recognition. A flicker of understanding.

Alex wasn’t just overwhelmed. He was exhausted. The kind of tired that crept up from your bones and settled in your lungs. And he wasn’t used to asking for help—least of all from someone like Thomas Jefferson.

Thomas sighed, glancing toward the window like the view might hold an escape. But it was just a few dead trees and an empty parking lot.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Alex blinked. “Wait—really?”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Don’t act so surprised. You’re pathetic.”

A crooked grin started to tug at Alex’s mouth.

“But,” Thomas added sharply, lifting a finger, “we split the duties. You deal with the visual and written stuff—essays, paintings, poems, bulletin boards, whatever the hell the art teachers send in. I’ll take care of the musical performances. I’m not babysitting you through the whole thing.”

“Deal.” Alex stuck his hand out.

Thomas stared at it like it was a foreign object.

“What, do you want a blood oath?” Alex quipped.

Thomas smirked and gave his hand a short, dry shake.

The school day finally ended and Alexander stepped out into the staff parking lot. His shoulder ached from the weight of his messenger bag, and his neck was stiff from spending the last period hunched over a pile of essays that all somehow managed to miss the point of the topic. He was drained. Mind blank. He didn’t even notice the chill until he reached his car and felt the metal door handle bite at his fingers.

He paused beside the door, unlocking it with a slow beep. His reflection in the window looked older than it had this morning—face drawn tight, eyes a little sunken.

Then his phone rang.

He startled. Not a text. A call. That alone felt unnatural. Nobody called him anymore. Not unless it was a bill collector or Aaron wondering if they were out of cereal.

He glanced at the screen, expecting some spam number from out of state.

But it wasn’t that.

Eliza Schuyler-Hamilton.

His stomach dropped.

He stood there frozen, the glow of the screen turning his fingertips pale.

He hadn’t spoken to her in—God, how long had it been? A year? Maybe more. And even then, it had only been a short, awkward email thread about Phillip’s school. She never called. Never. Unless—

His breath hitched. Phillip.

The thought knocked him into motion. He fumbled with the screen, his hand suddenly shaking like hell. It took him two tries to hit accept.

“Eliza?” he said, voice rough and barely audible.

There was a soft crackle on the other end. A delay. Then her voice, soft but clear.

“Hi, Alex.”

He didn’t realize until she said his name that he’d been holding his breath. It escaped from his chest in a slow exhale, heavy and tense.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, too fast. “Is Phillip—?”

“No, no—he’s fine,” she interrupted quickly, reassuringly. “He’s asleep. It’s… it’s almost three in the morning here.”

Alex’s throat closed up. “Then why—?”

“I needed to talk to you.”

He leaned against the car, head tipped toward the sky. He could hear cars moving faintly in the distance. The wind in the trees. His own pulse in his ears.

“About what?”

There was another pause. The kind that felt heavier than silence.

“I spoke to Gilbert,” she said finally. “He said you called.”

Alex winced. His free hand curled into a loose fist against the roof of his car. “I didn’t mean to—I just saw his name. I was stupid.”

“You scared him,” Eliza said gently, not accusing, not sharp. Just… worried.

Alex blinked. “I—what?”

“He thought something was wrong. He thought maybe…” Her voice trailed off, the unspoken words hanging in the air like ghosts. He thought maybe you were saying goodbye.

Alex closed his eyes. “Jesus.”

“I didn’t know you still had his number,” she went on.

“I shouldn’t,” Alex muttered. “I shouldn’t’ve looked. Shouldn’t’ve called. I just—It was a moment. I was—” He shook his head, unable to finish.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said. “But he was… upset. And confused. He was convinced you hated him.”

Alex let out a weak, mirthless laugh. “I don’t hate him.”

“Could’ve fooled him.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly great at showing affection these days.”

“That hasn’t changed,” she said, with a sad sort of smile in her voice.

Alex winced, deservedly.

They were both quiet again. The kind of quiet that had once filled the long spaces in their old apartment back when love had turned into duty, and duty into distance.

“I didn’t call to make you feel bad,” Eliza said eventually. “I just… I was worried about you.”

That caught him off guard. He straightened. “Why?”

“Because you haven’t seen your son in three years, and you won’t let me or Gilbert help you fix that. Because the only person who tells me you’re still breathing is Aaron. Because… you sounded lonely, Alex.”

His throat tightened. He stared across the parking lot, at the pale orange haze hanging over the pavement. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have the language for this anymore. For kindness. For care.

“I didn’t know you still cared,” he said quietly.

“You’re the father of my child,” she replied. “That doesn’t go away just because you stopped being my husband.”

His eyes stung, and he rubbed at one with the back of his hand. “You know, for a long time, I wasn’t sure I ever really deserved you.”

“You didn’t,” she said, a little too quickly, but then added softly, “but you tried. And I know part of you still does.”

Alex almost laughed again. “You’re remarried. To someone I used to bleed beside.”

“He’s not a competition,” she said, firm but not angry. “And he never tried to replace you. He always left space for you, Alex. It’s you who walked out of it.”

He swallowed hard. “I couldn’t stay. You know why.”

“I do.” Her voice cracked a little, but she caught herself. “And I forgave you. But that doesn’t mean Phillip doesn’t need you. Or that we stopped worrying.”

Alex pressed his fingers into his temple. “I’m not good at this.”

“You don’t have to be good. You just have to try. Call more. Even just to check in. You don’t have to talk to me. Call Phillip. Write him. Send him a picture of your classroom. Anything.”

“I don’t even know what I’d say.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

His shoulders sagged. The cold was seeping through his jacket now, but he didn’t move. “Thanks… for calling.”

“I didn’t want to go to bed without hearing your voice,” she said softly.

That did something to him. Not romantic—not anymore. But real. Gentle. Kind.

“Take care of yourself, Alex.”

“I’ll try.”

The line went quiet, and he slowly lowered the phone. He stood there for another full minute, trying to put himself back together before he got behind the wheel.

Eventually, he got in the car and sat for a moment, staring ahead through the windshield. The parking lot was mostly empty now. A single lamplight buzzed above.

He sighed, started the engine, and pulled into the street, headlights carving through the early dark.

[mourningdasies]

THE MERCY OF MEN

Aaron Burr seeks mercy from the man he tried to kill nearly half a year ago, and ends up destroying everything peaceful once again

word count - 1.7k

CHAPTER ONE

Weehawken, New Jersey. Then the nation’s capital. Now the ruin of two men.

The aftermath of the Hamilton-Burr duel was a disaster, both political and personal. Newspapers called it a tragedy; Jefferson’s allies called it a scandal. New York called it a crime.

Alexander Hamilton surviving was something no one expected — least of all Alexander himself. The bullet had struck low and to the right, missing his spine by a margin thinner than mercy. He’d fallen like a man struck dead, and Burr had fled the moment his second confirmed the pulse.

For three days, Hamilton hovered on the edge of death, drifting in and out of consciousness. Ministers gathered outside the house on Jane Street. Federalists mourned him prematurely. Eliza Schuyler-Hamilton refused to leave his side until his fever broke. And then — against odds and medicine — he began to recover.

He was not arrested, though by all rights he should have been. Dueling was a crime in New York and New Jersey both, punishable by heavy fines or prison. But Thomas Jefferson, freshly re-elected to the presidency, offered a quiet pardon. Not out of pity. Certainly not out of affection. But because Hamilton had endorsed him in the final hours of the election, swaying enough Northern Federalists to give Jefferson the edge over Burr four years ago.

Jefferson detested owing anyone anything — especially Alexander Hamilton — but he detested Burr more.

It was, in Jefferson’s words, a practical mercy. The sort you extend not to the man, but to the country.

Still, Hamilton had not left the duel unpunished. The wound healed slowly. He moved with pain, stood with effort, and lived now in a modest house far from the bustle of public life. His law career had stalled. His political influence had waned. His name — once spoken with fear and admiration — had become a kind of whispered warning.

He rarely saw Eliza. She stayed mostly with her sister Angelica now, bringing the children only on Sundays. The conversations were civil, distant, full of polite lies about health and letters and God.

Hamilton, for his part, kept to himself. He wrote, anonymously, for a handful of New York papers — poems, essays, the occasional fiery editorial under the name Cato Minor. He read by candlelight. He prayed, sometimes. He did not speak Aaron Burr’s name aloud.

—

By winter’s turn, Aaron Burr was no longer the Vice President of the United States. He was a fugitive. The state where he was born now wants his blood.

There was no trial. No defense. No sympathy. Only a warrant. Only the slow tightening of a noose he could already feel itching at the base of his neck.

The bullet had not killed Alexander Hamilton — but Burr’s career, reputation, and place in the republic died instead. The duel had done what politics never could: made him disposable.

New York called it Attempted Murder. The penalty was death.

He learned of the bounty from a Federalist acquaintance too scared to offer shelter but decent enough to whisper a warning. “They’re looking for you in every county,” the man had said. “I’d run, if I were you.”

So Burr did.

He kept to side roads, changed horses often, shaved his face clean and dressed in common cloth. Every shadow looked like a soldier. Every innkeeper seemed to squint too long at his face. He hadn’t slept properly in days when he arrived, quietly, in Albany — not to hide, but to say goodbye.

Theodosia answered the door with ink-stained fingers and a look of quiet surprise. At twenty, she was every bit the woman he had hoped she would be: brilliant, unflinching, and already far wiser than her father.

“you’re here?” she said the moment she saw him.

“I had to see you. Just once more.” he said

Inside, the fire was warm. The room smelled of rosemary and paper. Her husband was out. They had only an hour.

Burr sat across from her, hands folded in his lap like a penitent. He tried to smile, but it cracked somewhere in the middle.

“They’re hunting you,” she said, as if it were weather.

He nodded. “I wanted you to hear it from me. I’ll be gone by morning.”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. West, perhaps. Or south. I’ll find some place they don’t say my name.”

He didn’t say Mexico. Not yet. He hadn’t decided if he believed it was far enough.

Theodosia’s hands were cold when she reached for his.

“Will you write?” she asked.

“As often as I can.”

“And if I never hear from you again?”

“Then I died knowing you were safe.”

It was the hardest goodbye he had ever spoken. He left before dawn, leaving behind no trace except the faint scent of tobacco and regret in the air.

The road stretched ahead of him like a sentence already handed down. His name — once carved into the foundation of the new republic — was now whispered like a ghost.

another night and Hamilton had not yet slept.

This wasn’t rare. The house was too quiet, and his body too restless. He’d learned that the ache in his side flared worst between midnight and dawn — some cruel alignment of the cold and his healing wound. So he read. He wrote. He paced.

Tonight, he sat at his small desk, sleeves rolled, fingers ink-stained. A candle guttered beside him. Outside, a bitter wind scraped at the shutters.

The pamphlet he was drafting — an essay on the moral failings of ambition — sat half-finished. He was circling one sentence again and again, dissatisfied with every phrasing, when it happened:

Three knocks.

Soft. Not hurried. Not afraid. Like someone unsure whether they had the right house.

Alexander froze.

It was too early for Eliza. She’d never come at this hour. And no one else ever did.

He rose stiffly, pressing a palm to his side. The pain sang dull under his ribs as he stepped toward the door.

Three knocks again. Still soft.

He opened it — slowly, cautiously.

A man stood on the porch, wrapped in a long wool coat, soaked in half-melted snow. His hat hung low over his eyes, and for a moment, Hamilton didn’t recognize him. Then the man lifted his head.

And Alexander’s stomach dropped.

“…Burr?”

Aaron Burr nodded, lips tight. He looked like hell.

His cheeks were gaunt, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. His gloved hands trembled slightly where they gripped the brim of his hat. A trace of mud stained the hem of his coat. He looked older — not in years, but in grief.

“You look well,” Burr said softly.

Alexander blinked. “I suppose I should thank you for missing.”

A pause. Then, “I didn’t miss by much.”

Hamilton narrowed his eyes. “So what is this? You come to finish the job?”

Burr flinched. “No. God, no.” His voice cracked. “I— I wouldn’t be here if I had anywhere else to go.”

Alexander crossed his arms over his chest. “Try the gallows. They’re expecting you.”

Burr swallowed, jaw working as if chewing on pride. He looked down. Then back up.

“I didn’t know where else to turn,” he said. “And I knew you… might understand what it’s like to be hated.”

Alexander laughed once, sharp and joyless. “You’re a damned fool, Burr. Showing up at my door like this — in the middle of the night, no disguise—”

“I have a disguise,” Burr interrupted quietly. “It’s just… worn thin.”

A gust of wind pushed past them. Alexander hesitated, his fingers twitching against the doorframe.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, but his voice had lost its venom.

“I know.”

“You’re lucky I’m not armed.”

“I know,” Burr replied, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something in his expression — not defiance, but desperation. “Please. Just let me speak.”

Another long moment passed between them — thick with old resentment and something else, something heavier.

Alexander stepped aside.

Burr knelt to feed Hamilton’s fire, while Hamilton poured two cups of weak coffee from the pot he kept on the stove. The silence between them stretched long and awkward.

Finally, Burr broke it.

“I regret it.”

Hamilton didn’t look at him. “Good. You should.”

“I regretted it the minute it happened. I— I wasn’t trying to kill you.”

Alexander snorted. “Then you’ve worse aim than I thought.”

“I’m serious.”

Alexander turned, his eyes sharp.

“You challenged me, Burr. You loaded your pistol. You fired at me. Don’t insult my intelligence now by pretending it was an accident.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Burr said, voice rising. “Do you know what it’s like? To have everything slipping through your hands? To be powerless, irrelevant, forgotten—”

“I do, actually,” Alexander snapped. “Better than most.”

They stared at each other, both breathing heavily.

Then Burr’s shoulders slumped. He looked older than he had a moment ago.

“I prayed,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Every morning after. I prayed for your recovery.”

Hamilton scoffed. “Since when do you pray?”

“I didn’t. Not before. But when I saw you fall—when I thought I’d killed you…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Alexander leaned back in his chair, eyeing him with open suspicion.

“So what now? You want forgiveness?”

“I want shelter,” Burr said. “Just for a little while. Until I can get out of the country. I’ll pay you, I’ll—”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Then name something else. A few days, maybe a week. I’ll stay out of sight. I won’t make trouble. I just—” His voice caught. “I can’t die, Alexander. Not like this. Not hunted, not disgraced. Not before I’ve had the chance to make something right.”

Hamilton looked at him then — really looked at him.

There was no arrogance left in Aaron Burr. No political mask, no polished courtroom charm. Just a man whose life was collapsing under the weight of his own choices. A man who had come to the last person on earth he thought he could ask for mercy — because there was no one else left.

“You said you wouldn’t make trouble,” Alexander said after a long silence.

“I won’t.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “But you can stay. For tonight.”

Burr let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t,” Hamilton said. “Don’t thank me. Just remember this: you so much as threaten my own safety in any way, I’ll drag you to the gallows myself.”

Burr nodded, eyes downcast.

“I understand.”

Alexander gestured to the chair by the fire. “Sleep there. I don’t have a guest room. And don’t snore.”

Burr managed the faintest ghost of a smile.

[mourningdasies]

Saying this like the fandom before 2020 wasn’t writing about the hamilton characters during the aids pandemic and giving Thomas Jefferson a miku binder 🥀🫩

i love Hamilton (the musical) but i fucking hate fhe fandom i wish it died. it used to be good. before 2020 it used to be so GOOD and now it sucks ass and i cant stand it

.

[mourningdasies]

AFTER THE STORM

A Jamilton fanfic featuring two broken old men in the modern era

Word count - 3.6k

CHAPTER THREE

The sky was the kind of gray that felt like it might never change—thick clouds stitched across the horizon like a closed wound. The air smelled like damp pavement and rotting leaves, the kind of Southern winter that didn’t quite commit to being cold. Thomas Jefferson pulled into his driveway, headlights briefly illuminating the pale shutters of his house before dimming to silence.

He sat in the car longer than necessary, engine off, fingers still wrapped around the steering wheel. Another day done. A long one. The spring concert was two months away, and middle schoolers had the collective focus of moths. He’d spent an hour trying to get the brass section to stop laughing every time someone squeaked.

When he finally made it inside, the familiar creak of the wooden floors greeted him. His house was always quiet. The kind of quiet that used to needle at him when he first moved in. He used to play music just to fill the silence, to keep from thinking. Now he’d gotten used to it. Grown into it like a second skin. The rooms didn’t echo so much as hum with his routine. Keys in the bowl. Shoes by the door. Jacket over the stair banister. All neat. All controlled.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen and froze.

“Jesus Christ!”

His voice ricocheted off the cabinets.

Standing there, by the fridge, was a woman he hadn’t seen in three years.

Anna.

His youngest sister.

She stood with arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and an anger that was far too loud for the silence around them.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, voice flat.

“You—” Thomas ran a hand over his mouth. “You broke into my house?”

“You leave your back door unlocked. Still paranoid of alarm systems?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She was the last person he expected to see standing in his kitchen on a Thursday evening.

“You gonna offer me something, or just stand there looking like I slapped you?”

“You did just appear in my kitchen like a damn ghost,” he muttered, walking past her to grab a glass of water. His hands were shaking slightly, but he hid it.

Anna didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at him like she’d been carrying this moment in her back pocket for years.

“You didn’t come,” she said finally.

He turned slowly, the glass still half-full in his hand. “Come to what?”

“The funeral.”

The word didn’t land. Not immediately.

“What…funeral?”

She stared at him. Not like she was surprised, but like she was disgusted. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“Anna,” he said, a slow realization settling behind his eyes. “Are you telling me…Dad’s dead?”

She didn’t answer. Just let the silence confirm it.

Thomas blinked once, then twice. His stomach didn’t drop. His heart didn’t race. There was no immediate surge of grief. No nausea. Just the sharp crack of something old and hollow.

“When?”

“Three days ago.”

He put the glass down. “No one told me.”

“Oh, sure,” she snapped. “Because no one in this town knows where to find Thomas Jefferson, right? No idea how to get ahold of the Great Music Teacher of Lexington, Virginia.”

“I changed my number, Anna.”

“You changed more than that.”

He looked at her. Really looked. Her coat was still damp from rain. Her hair was shorter now, chin-length and darker. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. But her mouth—the way it pulled down at the corners, clenched like she was biting back the real words—was the same.

“You could’ve called the school,” he said weakly. “I would’ve come if I’d known.”

“You didn’t come when Mom left.”

“That wasn’t the same.”

“You didn’t come when Louisa had her baby.”

“I sent a gift.”

“You didn’t come to the hospital when Carrie had her miscarriage.”

Thomas winced. “I didn’t know about that either.”

“Bullshit.”

Her voice was louder now. She took a step closer.

“You think because you ran away and play piano for teenagers that it absolves you of the name we all still carry? You think buying a house with inheritance money and sipping whiskey alone every night makes you anything but his son?”

“Stop it.”

“No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to stand there and pretend like you didn’t make a choice to leave us.”

“I had to leave.”

“Why? Because it was hard? Because staying meant facing what we grew up with?”

“Because I was suffocating!” he shouted. “Because every room in that house made me want to rip my skin off. Because I couldn’t breathe there without hearing his voice in my head. That’s why I left.”

Anna blinked, startled.

“I didn’t run because I didn’t care,” he said, quieter now. “I ran because if I didn’t, I wasn’t gonna survive.”

Silence.

Thomas leaned on the counter. His knuckles were white around the edge of it. His breath came heavy, but even.

Anna’s voice was smaller now. “He left you everything.”

Thomas looked up. “What?”

“In the will. The house, the land, the stocks, all of it. No mention of us. Just you.”

Thomas laughed, bitter and short. “Of course he did.”

Anna said nothing.

“He always wanted to shape me into him,” Thomas muttered. “The next politician. The prodigy. I was the only one who ever…did what he said. Until I didn’t.”

“He thought you’d come back.”

“He was wrong.”

A long, heavy silence settled between them. Anna crossed her arms tighter, her face unreadable.

“You live a stupid, perfect little life here,” she said finally. “And you pretend it isn’t all built on Jefferson money. You act like you’re some enlightened, better man. But you’re still him.”

That hit.

Thomas’s eyes snapped to hers. His jaw clenched.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

Anna blinked.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping toward her. “You wanna come back and yell at me for missing a funeral I didn’t know about? Fine. You wanna say I abandoned you? Fine. But don’t come into my house and call me him.”

Anna didn’t move.

“You don’t get to say that,” he hissed. “You don’t know what he did to me.”

Her mouth opened, then shut again. Her expression faltered.

Thomas pointed to the door. “Get out, Anna. Before I make you.”

She turned slowly, eyes glassy with something that wasn’t quite tears. Maybe it was disappointment. Maybe just exhaustion.

She didn’t slam the door behind her. She didn’t yell anything else.

He watched from the window as she walked down the street toward a silver rental car parked under the streetlight. She didn’t look back.

When the taillights disappeared, Thomas closed the curtains and sat down on the couch.

It was quiet again. The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful—just empty.

His father was dead.

And he could care less.

The echo of Anna’s footsteps had long faded into the night, but her words clung to the walls of the house like smoke. His breath came in shallow waves. He stood in the darkened entryway of his home, one hand on the door handle, the other limp at his side.

“She said I’m just like him,” he muttered aloud, to no one.

The silence didn’t disagree.

His mouth was dry. His chest felt too tight. And there, underneath all of it, was the brittle edge of something else—something he didn’t want to name. Not grief. Not anger. Something older.

Thomas grabbed his coat, shrugged it over his shoulders, and left.

He knew where he was going.

—

By the time he reached the edge of town, the streets were cracked and uneven, dotted with broken streetlights and closed storefronts with metal shutters pulled down. Neon flickered in the distance—half-lit signs advertising pawn shops, liquor stores, and twenty-four-hour diners that never looked clean enough to risk.

Thomas drove with the windows down. The air was thick with the smell of exhaust, fried food, and something musty, almost damp. It wasn’t the kind of place most people in Lexington knew. Hell, most people in his circle didn’t know it existed. But he’d found it years ago. In his twenties. A different life.

He parked in the alley behind an abandoned laundromat. There were no lights except the faint glow from a cracked red bulb hanging above an unmarked metal door. No sign. No name. Just the dented steel and a rusted buzzer.

He pressed it once. Then twice.

The door clicked open.

The inside smelled like sweat, old smoke, and perfume that was maybe two decades out of date. But it was warm. The walls were a deep plum, covered in old posters and faded event flyers: Lipstick Revolution, 2003, Kings and Queens of the Night, Open Mic Queer Voices. One corner still had glitter stuck to it.

There used to be more drag shows. Before the town cracked down. Before the “concerned citizens” held their damn rallies. One night, a protest turned violent, and a few of the queens moved away. A few didn’t.

Thomas had been here that night.

Now, the place was quieter. More low-key. The stage was still there, though it hadn’t seen a real show in months. The music was low—Prince’s “When Doves Cry” crackled through the speakers—and a few patrons were slouched at booths, nursing cheap drinks and dreams too heavy to carry home.

He slipped inside like he belonged there. Because in some ways, he did.

No one looked twice at him. That was the comfort of this place. Everyone had their own ghosts.

He sat at the far end of the bar.

A heavyset bartender with lavender eyeliner and chipped silver nails raised an eyebrow. “Whiskey?”

Thomas nodded. “Neat.”

The glass landed in front of him with a quiet clink. He didn’t sip it right away. Just stared at the brown ripple of liquid. His reflection shimmered in the curve of the glass, fractured.

“Rough night?” the bartender asked.

Thomas gave a low laugh. “You could say that.”

He didn’t offer more, and they didn’t ask.

That was the other comfort of this place—no one pressed. You could be whoever the hell you needed to be for one night. Just another shadow in the dark.

He finally took a sip. It burned, but the burn was welcome. Grounding. It gave him something to focus on besides the dull weight sitting behind his ribs.

He leaned back against the worn leather of the barstool and glanced around.

Two men were whispering at a table near the stage—one wearing too much cologne, the other wearing army boots. A trans woman with long curls and a denim jacket sat at the jukebox, flipping through the song list with a bored expression. A cluster of friends laughed in the back corner, loud and unapologetic, their joy like a middle finger to the world outside.

Thomas closed his eyes for a moment.

This place had saved him once. A long time ago.

He had been twenty-one and fresh out of college when he first stumbled through that rusted door. Back when he was still pretending to be straight. Back when his father had just announced his Senate run and needed his son to look “polished and traditional.” He was supposed to go to law school. Join a campaign. Date a nice girl. Make speeches.

Instead, he’d kissed a man in the alley behind this bar and cried about it for an hour afterward.

Now here he was again. Older. Still hiding. Just… better at it.

He finished his drink and ordered another.

It was past ten now. The place filled up a little more. Soft laughter. A shuffle of heels. The low thump of a new song on the speakers—Sylvester, “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real).”

The music was like a balm. A gentle reminder that joy was still possible. Even here. Even now.

“Mind if I sit?”

Thomas opened his eyes.

The speaker was a man, maybe thirty-five, in a corduroy jacket and too-tight jeans. His eyes were kind, and his body language relaxed.

Thomas shook his head. “Be my guest.”

The man slid onto the stool next to him. “You new?”

“No. Just haven’t been around in a while.”

“I’m Jesse,” the man offered.

“Tom.”

“Good to meet you, Tom.”

They shook hands. Jesse’s fingers were warm.

“Rough day?” Jesse asked.

“You have no idea.”

“I can listen. If you want.”

Thomas gave him a crooked smile. “Thanks, but I’m not sure I’m good company tonight.”

Jesse shrugged. “Then I’ll just keep you quiet company. I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Thomas didn’t argue.

They sat like that for a while, drinks in hand, the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward. Just… companionable. Like they were both clinging to the same rope in different storms.

Eventually, Jesse excused himself to go to the restroom.

Thomas stayed. He let his gaze drift to the stage again. The lights flickered above it, casting shadows that danced like ghosts. He remembered a queen named Mona Devine. She used to perform here every Friday. Had a voice like thunder and lips always painted crimson. She once told him, “You can’t outrun yourself, sugar. You just end up getting tired.”

He wondered where she was now.

He downed the rest of his drink and felt the buzz start to warm his chest.

It was nearing midnight.

He didn’t want to go home.

Not to the empty house. Not to the silence. Not after tonight.

Anna’s voice still echoed in his ears.

You’re still him.

Thomas shook his head, as if that might dispel the thought.

He wasn’t.

He was a music teacher. He wore lavender cologne. He helped twelve-year-olds tune their flutes and taught them to love Stevie Wonder. He went to therapy now. He drank oat milk. He wasn’t Peter fucking Jefferson.

Right?

A slow song came on—Brandi Carlile. “The Joke.”

Thomas stared at the stage again. Something in his chest cracked.

He stood up, threw a twenty on the bar, and made his way to the back exit. He needed air. He needed to remember who he was.

Outside, the alley was quiet.

He leaned against the brick wall and closed his eyes.

The night was cold against his face. But it didn’t feel punishing. It just… was.

Thomas stood still, back pressed to the brick wall, the smoke from his cigarette curling lazily into the air. The sounds from inside the bar had dimmed, replaced by the occasional gust of wind or the distant hum of a car on the highway. It was quiet out here. Private. This alley was a barrier between two worlds—the chaos of the bar behind him and the bitter quiet of the rest of the city. It was a sliver of space where he didn’t have to choose who to be.

He let the cigarette burn low in his fingers, his thoughts stuck in a loop—Anna’s face, the rawness in her voice, the echo of her anger. It clung to him, made his clothes feel heavier, like grief that didn’t quite fit.

He heard footsteps too late.

At first, he thought it was someone from the bar, maybe Jesse coming out for a smoke, or the bartender tossing something into the trash bins—but the stride was too measured. Not stumbling. Deliberate. The hairs on his neck stood up as he turned his head—

And froze.

There, just a few feet away, half-lost in the shadow of the narrow alley’s entryway, stood Alexander Hamilton.

Thomas blinked.

Alex’s posture stilled just as fast, like someone had pressed pause. His eyes widened, hazy in the low light, brows scrunching as he adjusted to what he was seeing. The jacket, the sharp lines of his face, the permanent set of exhaustion in his shoulders. It was unmistakably him.

“…Jefferson?” he said, voice low and wary.

Thomas instinctively pushed off the wall, cigarette falling to the concrete and extinguishing under his heel. “Hamilton.”

They stared at each other.

Neither of them moved.

The awkwardness hit almost immediately, sharp and uncomfortable. It didn’t help that the alley reeked faintly of piss and whiskey, or that the door behind Thomas was humming softly with pulsing music—music Alexander would absolutely recognize if he got too close.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Alex said after a beat. His tone wasn’t accusatory. More… confused. Curious, even.

Thomas’s mouth opened, then closed. He had to say something. Anything but the truth.

“I was—just getting some air,” he offered, too quickly. “Needed to clear my head.”

Alex squinted slightly. “Out here?”

“Sure,” Thomas said, leaning into his practiced casualness. “Some of us have taste for sketchy alleys, you know. Gets the blood pumping.”

Alex didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched like he almost did. “Could’ve picked a better part of town for that.”

Thomas shrugged. “I’m not as fragile as I look.”

Alex gave him a look that didn’t quite say “bullshit,” but wasn’t far off. He tucked his hands in the pockets of his jacket and took a slow step forward, eyes scanning the space, the surrounding buildings, the flickering red bulb above the door.

Thomas tensed subtly.

Please don’t ask about the door. Don’t recognize the place.

“Didn’t think teachers from Ruary strolled down here after dark,” Alex muttered, but it felt more like thinking aloud than accusing.

“I could say the same to you,” Thomas said quickly, redirecting the spotlight. “What are you doing here? Looking for a fight? Or just your next bad decision?”

Alex snorted under his breath, tired but not irritated. “Neither. I just wanted a drink.”

Thomas raised a brow. “In an alley?”

“No, jackass. There’s a bar down this way. At least, I thought there might be.”

Shit.

Thomas’s pulse jumped. He shifted his weight, half-blocking the door behind him as casually as possible. “Most places don’t stay open past ten around here.”

Alex gestured toward the cracked neon sign on a building nearby. “Yeah, I figured, but…” He trailed off. His jaw flexed. “I dunno. I was hoping. had a bad day.”

Thomas tilted his head, studying him.

Alex didn’t elaborate. His shoulders were hunched slightly, like something was weighing on him—not physically, but emotionally. There was something brittle behind his eyes, something barely held together.

“You okay?” Thomas asked before he could stop himself.

Alex looked at him for a long moment. “You ever just… want to be somewhere no one expects to find you?”

Thomas smiled bitterly. “Yeah. I’m familiar.”

Their eyes met.

It was a fragile connection, nothing spoken outright, but Thomas felt something stretch between them. A kind of mutual understanding. Two people who lived most of their lives pretending to be whole in front of others.

The silence hung there, dense with things neither could say.

Thomas cleared his throat. “You won’t find anything open here this time of night. You should probably head home.”

Alex looked up at the sky. The streetlights cast orange shadows. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Didn’t really expect to find anything anyway.”

“Still,” Thomas said, folding his arms over his chest, “not the safest area.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “I fought in a war, Jefferson. I can handle an alley.”

Thomas chuckled despite himself. “Alright, soldier. Whatever you say.”

Alex finally cracked a small smile.

It didn’t last long, but it was real.

He turned slightly, glancing down the alley toward the street. “Well. Thanks for the public safety announcement.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I won’t.”

Alex paused again, hand on his keys, like he wanted to say something else but didn’t have the words.

Instead, he offered a half-wave and said, “Goodnight.”

Thomas nodded. “Night, Hamilton.”

And just like that, Alexander turned and walked off, the sound of his boots echoing against the concrete.

Thomas watched him go.

He waited until Alex was gone from sight, his figure swallowed by the dark curve of the street corner, before he allowed himself to breathe.

His hands were shaking again.

He leaned back against the wall and looked up at the red light above the door, still flickering. Still untouched.

God.

That could’ve gone worse.

It could’ve gone so much worse.

He’d managed to avoid mentioning the bar. Managed not to give away anything. But it had been close. Too close. If Alex had gotten just a little closer… if he’d heard the music, caught a flash of someone walking out in fishnets or stilettos—

Thomas shuddered.

He didn’t know how Hamilton would react. The man was an ex-soldier. Tough. Burned around the edges in a way Thomas still didn’t fully understand. Would he be disgusted? Would he pull away? Would he tell someone?

No. That last one didn’t feel like Alex. But the others?

Thomas didn’t know.

He pressed his palms against his face, trying to force the heat from his skin.

The worst part?

He’d wanted to talk to him. For months.

And now that they’d crossed paths—accidentally, out of nowhere—he still didn’t know how to talk to him. Didn’t know how to stop treating him like something sharp and distant.

He pulled his coat tighter around himself and turned toward the bar door.

Then hesitated.

Instead of going back inside, Thomas walked to the edge of the alley, stared down the same path Hamilton had disappeared down.

He watched the empty street for a long time.

Something about that interaction had left him hollowed out. Not in a painful way. Not like Anna. This was different.

Lonelier.

Because in that moment, with their eyes locked and their walls still up, he realized how similar they were. Two men shaped by silence. By expectations. By the terrible things they didn’t say.

And now Alex was walking away again, like always.

And Thomas let him.

He didn’t know what he was protecting more—his secrets or his pride.

But it didn’t matter now.

The bar door buzzed behind him as someone stepped out for a smoke.

He turned back into the dark, swallowed by the lightless part of town, wondering when, if ever, it would feel safe to tell someone like Alexander Hamilton who he really was

[mourningdasies]

AFTER THE STORM

A Jamilton fanfic featuring two broken old men in the modern era

Word count - 2.8K

CHAPTER TWO

Three months into the school year, Alexander Hamilton had learned three things.

One: middle schoolers were way more cunning than they looked.

Two: teachers gossiped like soldiers in a bunker—low-voiced, relentless, and absolutely impossible to ignore.

Three: every single kid in Ruary Middle School seemed to adore Thomas Jefferson.

It wasn’t surprising. Not really. The man looked like he’d walked out of a magazine spread for “Charming Southern Gentry Turned Music Teacher.” He smiled a lot. He laughed easily. He wore absurdly well-fitted button-ups and rolled up his sleeves like he was doing actual labor. And—maybe the worst of all—he had patience. Real, genuine patience. The kind that didn’t waver when a sixth grader melted down over a lost recorder or when the choir forgot their harmonies halfway through warmups.

Alex had caught glimpses of it. Not on purpose. It just happened. A class walking by, a music room door cracked open, the sound of Jefferson’s voice lilting through the hall in gentle instruction. A low hum of a piano. A laugh that felt too warm for the gray halls of a public school.

Kids liked that. Craved it. They trailed after him like he was a lighthouse in a fog.

And Alex… well, Alex didn’t resent it. He was just curious.

Okay, and a little bitter. But only in the way a man gets bitter when watching someone else live on an emotional frequency he’s long forgotten how to access.

He shifted in his seat now, rubbing the back of his neck, watching through his classroom window as Thomas guided a line of seventh graders back from lunch, casually drumming a beat against his thigh with two fingers. The kids followed him with the kind of easy loyalty Alex had never managed to inspire, and maybe didn’t even want to.

A girl—said something that made Thomas laugh. He tipped his head back, full and open, and for a moment Alex forgot to blink.

Then the hallway was empty again. Just like that.

Alex leaned back in his chair with a sigh and spun a pen between his fingers. He told himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t need to understand people like Jefferson. The ones who made kindness look effortless. The ones who hadn’t watched people bleed out. Or hold their breath in a crumbling shelter. Or sit through the silence after a detonation.

He hadn’t talked to Thomas since that day.

The one where Mrs. King had decided to interrogate his military service like she was entitled to it, and Thomas—of all people—had cut in, redirecting her judgment with a lazy barb. Alex hadn’t known what to say then. Still didn’t.

He wasn’t avoiding Jefferson, exactly. More like… preserving the fragile thread of neutrality between them.

Or maybe he was just a coward.

He dropped the pen. It bounced off the desk and landed on the floor with a soft thunk.

A few months was long enough to say something, wasn’t it? Even if it was just thanks or hey or how the hell do you get them to like you so much? But Alex had no idea how to start conversations that weren’t wrapped in sarcasm or laced with unintended bitterness. The truth was: he didn’t know how to approach someone who hadn’t already seen the worst in him.

He didn’t know how to be soft anymore.

Not that Thomas Jefferson made soft easy. He wasn’t unfriendly, per se—but there was a watchfulness to him, something Alex had picked up on in those first encounters. A caution. Maybe even fear.

That part Alex did understand.

He sighed again and let the silence settle around him. His classroom was dim in the early afternoon light, a stray sunbeam casting a long shadow over the corner of his desk. Somewhere down the hall, a bell rang faintly. The shift of periods, the shuffle of life.

He should be grading papers. Or fixing the grammar wall that a student had defaced with a badly drawn horse.

Instead, he sat there. Thinking about a man he hadn’t spoken to in months. Wondering what it would even sound like, hearing Jefferson say his name.

Alex.

He shook the thought loose and stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor with a screech. Enough. He had other things to worry about.

Still—he hesitated a second before stepping out into the hall, eyes scanning the crowd. Just in case.

—

The apartment was dim except for the flicker of a movie playing on the TV—something loud and ridiculous, full of explosions and unbelievable dialogue. The kind of film Aaron always insisted on watching when either of them had had a rough day, which lately meant every day.

A grease-stained pizza box sat open between them on the coffee table, half empty. Alex was on his second slice, balancing it in one hand while absently picking at the crust with the other. He wasn’t really watching the screen. His eyes kept drifting between the shadows on the ceiling and the steam rising from his slice.

Aaron sat next to him, socked feet propped up, arms crossed, entirely engrossed. Occasionally he snorted at some bad line delivery or a clunky edit. He hadn’t said much since they started watching. Not that Alex minded. Burr wasn’t the chatty type at home. He existed in silence the way some people lived in music.

But tonight, the quiet pressed in harder than usual.

Alex leaned his head back against the couch and exhaled slowly, a breath that sounded heavier than he meant it to.

“You ever think about it?” he asked.

Aaron didn’t look over. “Think about what?”

“Back then. The service.”

That got a response. Aaron blinked once, slowly, and then turned his head just enough to give Alex a look.

Alex shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the weight of it. “I dunno. Today just felt… long. Reminded me of being out there.”

Aaron stared at him for a second. Then turned back to the movie.

“No,” he said flatly. “And you’re not gonna ruin The Rock for me with your war flashbacks, Hamilton.”

Alex huffed out a half-laugh, though it came more like a cough. “It’s not The Rock, man, it’s Con Air.”

“Same difference,” Aaron muttered. “Over-the-top, loud, and none of it makes sense. It’s beautiful.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that might’ve been funny if the room didn’t feel so still all of a sudden.

Alex leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The pizza crust drooped in his hand.

“I just— Sometimes I forget we made it back,” he said quietly. “Then I’ll be standing in front of a bunch of kids, and I’ll think, God, they have no idea. They look at me like I’m a teacher and not just—” He shook his head. “Not just someone who didn’t die.”

Aaron didn’t say anything for a long time. The sounds of Nicolas Cage yelling filled the space where his voice should’ve been.

Finally, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Look,” he said, voice lower now, not sharp, not cruel—just tired. “We made it out. That’s what matters. Everything else is… something we carry. That doesn’t mean we gotta dig it up every time the silence gets too loud.”

Alex was quiet. He picked at a pepperoni, rolling it between his fingers until it fell apart.

Aaron glanced over. “You talk to that music teacher yet? Jefferson?”

Alex snorted. “No. Still haven’t figured out how to be a human man with social skills, thanks for asking.”

Aaron gave him a look. “You’re not as bad as you think.”

“I made a comment about his rich family and implied he was slumming it with us peasants.”

“…Okay, you are as bad as you think.”

Alex groaned and dropped the crust into the box, flopping back against the couch like gravity had given up on him.

“I don’t even hate him,” he muttered. “I just don’t get him. He’s all…” He gestured vaguely. “Graceful. Like he grew up in a museum.”

“Maybe he did,” Aaron said, eyes back on the screen. “You ever been to Monticello? Whole place feels like it judges you.”

“You’ve been to Monticello?”

“My aunt made me go on a field trip in eighth grade. I’ve never forgiven her.”

Alex actually laughed this time—quiet and startled, like the sound snuck out without permission. Aaron didn’t look at him, but his mouth twitched at the corner.

Alexander had excused himself to the balcony, only god knew why, Aaron assumed for fresh air. The cool night air pressed against his skin, a thin reprieve from the heavy, stale atmosphere inside. He’d left Aaron to his explosions and bad dialogue, the comfortable noise of something mindless that neither of them needed to think too hard about.

Alexander scrolled through his phone, thumb hesitating over names that held weight far beyond what was written on the screen. Hercules Mulligan. Marquis de Lafayette. Names that once meant family. Names that, at one time, had anchored him in a world that seemed to be slipping farther away with every passing day.

He hadn’t spoken to either of them since the war. Not in two years. Maybe more.

His chest tightened as he thought about how they had all fallen apart, the silence between them growing like a wall neither had dared to tear down.

With a shaky breath, he tapped Hercules’s name. His thumb hovered a second, his heart pounding in his ears. Then he pressed call.

The phone rang. Twice. Three times.

“Hello?” The voice was sharp, clipped, colder than Alexander remembered. It was still the same voice—no mistaking that deep, gravelly tone—but there was something hardened beneath it now, a distance that wasn’t there before.

Alexander swallowed. “Hercules,” he said quietly, “It’s me.”

Another pause. Then a bitter laugh, low and dry. “I know it’s you.”

His throat felt tight. “I’ve been thinking about… everything. About us. The old days.”

Silence.

“Why now?” Hercules’s voice was wary, the kind of caution Alexander knew well.

“I don’t know,” Alexander admitted. “Maybe I’m tired of the quiet. Maybe I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one left holding on.”

There was a crackle on the line. Then Hercules spoke, slower this time, like each word was weighed carefully.

“We moved on, Alex. I moved on.”

Alexander’s heart thudded painfully. “I’m glad. I want you to be happy.”

There was a short, humorless chuckle. “Happy,” Hercules repeated. “Yeah, I’m happy. Got a wife now. A kid. Family. Things you don’t get to have when you’re out chasing ghosts.”

The words landed hard, but Alexander swallowed the sting. “I don’t begrudge you that.”

“No?” Hercules snapped. “Because it sure feels like you’re stuck back there. Calling me out of nowhere after two years like you expect me to just pick up and go back.”

Alexander’s voice faltered. “I guess… I just hoped.”

“Hope’s for the living,” Hercules said sharply. “Not for the dead men we left behind.”

Alexander closed his eyes, a stab of grief twisting in his chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Bother me? You’re more than a bother, Alex. You’re a reminder.”

“Of what?”

Hercules hesitated, then the voice softened—just a fraction.

“Of the war. Of Laurens. Of all the things we lost that you can’t forget.”

Alexander’s breath caught. John Laurens’s name was a wound that never quite healed. He’d been their glue. Their light. His absence was a shadow over every conversation, every memory.

“I don’t want to drag you back into that,” Alexander said softly.

“Too late,” Hercules muttered. “Look, I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. I’m happy now. I don’t want to hear your pain or your apologies or whatever else you’ve been holding onto. If you really want to move on, maybe you should try it yourself.”

The finality in Hercules’s voice crushed Alexander. He felt the weight of years pressing down, the loneliness so vast it felt like a physical ache.

“I understand,” Alexander said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Good.” Hercules’s voice was colder now, more distant than before. “Don’t call me again.”

The line went dead.

The silence after Hercules hung up was deafening. Not even the sounds of Lexington nightlife—some distant sirens, the occasional bark of a dog, the low hum of cars rolling through wet pavement—could touch the hollow that opened inside Alexander’s chest.

He stood on the balcony, his phone still in his hand, as if part of him hadn’t accepted what had just happened. That Hercules—the man who once stitched up Alex’s arm under enemy fire, who used to joke that they’d die before drifting apart—had told him never to call again.

His jaw clenched.

The names on his phone blurred a little. Not from the screen, but from his eyes. He wiped at them with the back of his hand and let out a shaky breath. One contact down. One more to go.

Marquis de Lafayette.

Lafayette. God.

Always too smart, too earnest. He had a way of making everyone believe they were the most important person in the room. Maybe that was why Alexander hesitated.

He already knew what would happen if he called.

Because Lafayette always picked up.

He stared at the name until his thumb moved, like it had a will of its own. The dial tone buzzed against his ear. Once. Twice. Three times.

“…Alexandre?”

The voice came through, groggy but unmistakable. Still warm. Still kind. Still real.

A lump formed instantly in Alexander’s throat.

“Mon ami… do you know what time it is here?” Lafayette sounded like he was trying to shake sleep from his voice, a soft rustle of sheets on the other end. “It’s two in the morning in Paris. Is something wrong?”

Alexander opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“Alexandre?” Lafayette tried again, this time more alert. “Talk to me. Please.”

Still nothing. The words choked in his throat.

He could hear Lafayette shifting on his bed, could almost see him rubbing his eyes, sitting upright. There was a rustle, the click of a lamp turning on maybe.

“I was just dreaming about you, you know,” Lafayette said gently, trying to make him laugh, perhaps. “You were yelling at me in a grocery store about the difference between a croissant and a roll.”

Still, Alexander said nothing.

His grip tightened on the phone. The ghost of Hercules’s voice still echoed in his skull. You’re a reminder.

“I know you’re there,” Lafayette said, softer now. “I don’t care what time it is. You can say anything. I’ll listen. I always have.”

That made something ache deep inside.

Because it was true. Lafayette had always listened. Even when John died. Even when Alex fell apart and stopped returning calls and vanished from the group chat they swore they’d keep alive forever.

Even when he didn’t deserve it.

“I—” Alex managed to rasp, and then his chest gave a quiet shake as the breath caught in his throat.

He couldn’t do this.

He ended the call.

There was a soft click, final and sharp, and the screen dimmed to black again.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was a silence of shame. Of cowardice. Of that ever-familiar rot blooming in his stomach.

he couldn’t even say hi.

His hands trembled slightly as he slipped the phone into the pocket of his worn jean pocket. The sound of the sliding glass door felt jarring in the quiet.

Inside, Aaron was still curled up on the couch, now with a blanket thrown over his legs and a half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand. The movie had shifted from dumb action to some kind of cheesy romance subplot, which he was clearly ignoring.

He looked up immediately when Alex came in. “Everything alright?”

Alexander paused. His body was coiled tight, his nerves frayed raw.

“Yeah,” he lied, voice flat.

Aaron raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I did,” Alexander muttered.

He walked past the couch and into the hallway, dragging open the coat closet and grabbing the old army green jacket hanging inside. His wallet was already in the pocket. He shoved his arms through the sleeves with a sharp, mechanical rhythm.

Aaron turned down the volume a little. “Where are you going?”

“For a drink.”

“Alex, you have work tomorrow.”

“i’ll manage,” he shot back.

Aaron sat up a bit straighter, concerned now. “You want me to come?”

“No.” Alexander shook his head, not meeting his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Aaron didn’t say anything at first, then: “You’re not.”

That stopped Alexander. He stood there, hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff.

“I just need some air. Some whiskey. I’ll be back.”

Aaron watched him for a second longer, then finally sighed and leaned back. “Fine. Don’t get into trouble.”

Alex offered a ghost of a smile—just a twitch of his lips. “That’s never really up to me.”

He turned and left before Aaron could respond.

[mourningdasies]

AFTER THE STORM

A Jamilton fanfic featuring two broken old men in the modern era

Word count - 3.5k

CHAPTER ONE

The coffee was bitter, lukewarm, and burnt at the edges, but Alexander drank it anyway. He sat hunched at the edge of the old kitchen table, steam curling from the chipped ceramic mug in his hands. The morning sun was just starting to peek through the crooked blinds, spilling pale light across the cluttered counter of Aaron’s apartment.

It wasn’t his. Not really.

He was just… staying.

The door to the bathroom creaked open, and Aaron Burr stepped out, adjusting his tie in the mirror by the entryway. Always put together, always polished. That was Aaron. Even at 7:10 AM.

“You’re gonna be late,” Aaron said without looking at him.

Alex ran a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the weight pressing down on his shoulders. “You always this cheery in the morning?”

Aaron didn’t laugh. He rarely did. “I’m just saying, it’s your first day. Might be nice if you didn’t roll in five minutes after the bell.”

Alex grunted and took another sip of the terrible coffee. “Right. Wouldn’t want to make a bad first impression.”

Aaron finally turned, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. “Considering I’m the one who got you the job, I’d really prefer you didn’t.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, exactly. Just weighted. Alex studied Aaron for a second — the way he checked his watch, the set of his jaw, like he was already halfway out the door.

“I meant to say thanks,” Alex said, voice low. “For that. For… getting me in.”

Aaron shrugged. “Don’t thank me. I just wanted you off my damn couch.”

Alex huffed a dry laugh through his nose. “Charming.”

“Honest.” Aaron slipped on his blazer, smoothed the sleeves. “You’ve been here three months, Hamilton. Three. I was starting to forget what silence felt like.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining when I cooked for you every night.”

“Burning scrambled eggs isn’t cooking.”

“Ungrateful bastard.”

That earned the ghost of a smile from Aaron, brief and tired.

Alex leaned back, mug cradled in his palms, gaze drifting toward the blinds. “Still. You didn’t have to. I know I’m not the easiest person to live with.”

“Not even close.”

Another silence settled between them. This one more thoughtful. There was a lot Aaron didn’t say — always had been — but Alex could read the subtext well enough. It wasn’t pity. Aaron didn’t do pity. But there was something like concern under the surface, something that had driven him to pull a few strings at the school, to call in a favor with the district, to hand Alex a second chance when he didn’t think he deserved one.

“I’ll try not to screw it up,” Alex murmured, more to himself than anything.

Aaron sighed, reaching for the doorknob. “Don’t try. Just don’t.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

—

Alex walked the five blocks to Ruary Middle School with his shoulders hunched against the morning chill. His clothes were a little too stiff khakis and a navy-blue button-up that felt like a costume. He kept pulling at the sleeves, the collar, trying to make them sit right.

Lexington was too clean. Too slow. The kind of town where everything stayed the same, and everyone knew everyone else’s business. Alex felt like an intruder walking through it, a ghost wrapped in polite fabrics.

The school came into view at the top of the hill squat brick buildings, faded blue trim, a line of school buses unloading sleepy kids and chattering teachers sipping coffee out of travel mugs. It was louder than he expected. More alive.

His stomach twisted.

He’d taught before, after the war. Here and there. Temporary gigs. But he hadn’t stayed anywhere long. Hadn’t really connected. Too much baggage. Too many nights spent staring at the ceiling, too many mornings wondering if he was still cut out for this world.

But this time, he was going to try. Really try. For once.

He stepped through the front doors and was immediately hit by the smell of floor wax, pencil shavings, and old paper — the universal scent of schools across America. Familiar. Comforting, in a strange way.

A secretary with a tight bun handed him a laminated ID badge and a classroom key. “Room 214. Upstairs, end of the hall. You’re with the eighth graders, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Lucky me.”

She didn’t laugh. Just pointed him toward the stairs and went back to her typing.

As he climbed, he heard music drifting faintly through the halls. Piano, maybe. Something slow, elegant, with a hint of sadness in the chords. He paused halfway up the stairs, head tilted. The melody curved and dipped like it was searching for something.

Then it stopped.

Alex blinked and kept walking.

Room 214 was half-empty when he arrived — students trickling in, tossing backpacks onto desks, eyeing him with the casual indifference only eighth graders could muster. He wrote his name on the board — Mr. Hamilton — and took a moment to collect himself.

He didn’t expect this to feel… real. Not yet.

By third period, Alexander Hamilton had to admit—grudgingly—that it wasn’t going terribly.

The first couple classes had gone smoother than expected. No fights, no panic attacks, no flashbacks. A kid named Maya had already asked if she could write a poem about “how dumb boys are,” and someone else had slipped him a drawing of a dragon eating a math test. It was messy, chaotic, loud—alive. And for the first time in months, Alex didn’t feel like he was drowning in his own skin.

His classroom still looked bare—half the posters still rolled up in the corner, his desk not yet cluttered with books and half-filled mugs—but it felt like a start. A place to build from.

Now, with the door shut and the blinds half-drawn, his third period prep stretched out like a gift. He rolled up his sleeves, loosened his collar, and sat cross-legged on top of his desk, scribbling lesson notes into the margins of Of Mice and Men. He still wasn’t sure what these kids could handle, but he figured honesty wasn’t the worst place to begin.

He was halfway through underlining the passage about Lennie’s dream of rabbits when a knock came at the door. Not loud. Not urgent. Just… there.

Alex didn’t look up. “If it’s a student, you’re supposed to be in class.”

The door creaked open anyway.

“It’s not a student.”

The voice was smooth. A little cautious. Alex turned his head just enough to catch the man in the doorway—tall, well-dressed, holding a folder in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He had that “Southern charm” posture that usually made Alex’s skin itch—like he was used to being looked at, listened to, maybe even obeyed.

He stepped in, just far enough to not be in the hallway anymore. “You’re Hamilton, right? The new English guy?”

“That’s me,” Alex said, sliding off the desk. “And you are?”

The man hesitated. His smile twitched, like it didn’t quite want to settle. “Thomas Jefferson. I teach music down the hall.”

Alex blinked. He’d seen the name on the staff list. Didn’t expect it to come with a velvet drawl and a fitted blazer.

“Right. Mr. Jefferson.” He leaned back against the desk. “You here to welcome me to the team, or just check if I bite?”

Thomas’s eyebrows lifted. “…Bit of both, maybe.”

Alex smirked. “Smart.”

Thomas stepped further into the room, though his posture stayed careful—like he didn’t want to touch anything. Or get too close. “I figured I should say hello. I usually try to meet new staff sooner, but your first couple classes were across the building.”

“Guess I’m in the exile wing.”

“It’s where we put the interesting ones.”

Alex tilted his head. “You trying to flatter me, or warn me?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

There was a beat of silence. Thomas shifted, his fingers tapping against the side of his coffee cup. He was looking at everything but Alex—the empty bulletin board, the crooked chairs, the open book on the desk.

“Your students seem to like you,” Thomas said finally. “I passed one of your classes earlier. Heard them arguing about whether poetry was ‘cringe’ or not.”

Alex let out a low laugh. “Yeah. One kid said rhyme schemes were a tool of the oppressor. I think she meant it.”

“She sounds like a visionary.”

“She’s 14.”

“That’s usually when the best manifestos happen.”

Another small silence stretched between them. This time, Alex didn’t fill it. He just watched. Watched Thomas keep adjusting his stance, keep trying not to look at him for too long. His smile was soft, but his eyes were sharp—cautious.

And, if Alex wasn’t wrong… a little flustered?

He narrowed his eyes slightly, then said, “You nervous around new people, or just me?”

Thomas blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You haven’t made eye contact for more than three seconds since you walked in. That a music teacher thing, or am I just throwing off your rhythm?”

For a second, Thomas said nothing. Then he cleared his throat and shifted again, this time finally meeting Alex’s gaze.

“You’ve got kind of an intense vibe,” he said, carefully. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“And you were sitting on your desk when I came in. Cross-legged. Like a monk who grades essays.”

Alex snorted. “I like to be comfortable.”

“I can tell.”

Another pause. This one wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it was awkward. Tangled up in the kind of energy that came from two people who didn’t know what to make of each other yet.

Alex broke it, like he always did—with words sharp enough to cut through silence, even if they weren’t always kind.

“So,” he said, crossing his arms and eyeing Thomas’s tailored pants and perfectly ironed collar, “you’re from that Jefferson family, right?”

Thomas blinked. “Sorry?”

“Your dad was Peter Jefferson. Senator. Big-deal Virginia politician, right?”

Thomas’s jaw twitched. “He was.”

Alex nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Huh. Didn’t peg you for a music teacher. Figured someone like you would be off in D.C. or New York—penthouses, private clubs, sipping something expensive with the other blue bloods.”

The words came out more bitter than he’d meant them. But once they were out, he didn’t take them back. That wasn’t how Alex worked. His tone might’ve been teasing, but the edge was real.

Thomas’s expression didn’t shift much. But something behind his eyes flickered—like a light being turned off.

“I didn’t realize my résumé was up for review,” he said, voice flat.

Alex raised his eyebrows. “It’s just interesting. That’s all. Most people with your kind of background don’t end up teaching middle school kids how to play the recorder.”

That landed harder than Alex expected. Thomas stood a little straighter. The coffee cup in his hand didn’t shake, but it stilled—mid-sip, mid-motion.

“Maybe not,” Thomas said, calm but clipped. “But some of us like to do things our own way.”

Alex tried for a smile, but it was lopsided. “Right. The rebellious son of the senator. Bet that went over real well at Christmas.”

Thomas didn’t laugh. His silence was heavy.

The tension in the room thickened—like humidity before a storm. And Alex, who could usually talk his way into or out of anything, suddenly realized he’d said too much.

He’d meant to be clever. Maybe even… flirt a little?

But that part of his brain didn’t work right anymore. Not when it mattered. What came out instead was defense disguised as sarcasm, curiosity masked as provocation. And now, here he was, watching Thomas Jefferson’s face go still—not angry, not hurt, just done.

“Well,” Thomas said, setting his untouched coffee on the desk. “This has been… enlightening.”

Alex straightened. “Wait, I didn’t—”

“Room 108,” Thomas cut in, voice smooth and distant again. “In case you need anything.”

He turned and made it to the door in three long strides, pausing only to toss over his shoulder: “Welcome to Ruary, Mr. Hamilton.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Alex stared at it for a long moment, jaw tight, fingers curled around the edge of his desk. A gust of laughter erupted from down the hall, students switching classes, lockers banging open and shut—but in his room, the silence felt like a slap.

“Goddammit,” he muttered.

He dropped back into his chair and dragged a hand down his face.

Way to go, Romeo.

—

The staff lounge was loud. Too loud.

Chairs scraped, microwaves beeped, someone laughed too sharply at something that wasn’t funny. A stained Keurig wheezed in the corner like it was dying a slow, caffeinated death.

Alexander sat at the far end of the room, hunched over a thermos of lukewarm black coffee and a sandwich he’d already lost interest in. His Tupperware sat unopened. The fork he brought lay untouched beside it.

He hadn’t wanted to come in here at all.

But he knew better than to eat in his classroom on day one. Isolation on the first week would make him that teacher—and while Alex wasn’t exactly gunning for popularity, he’d promised Aaron he’d “make an effort to act human.” So here he was. Human-adjacent. Holding himself like a loaded gun in a room full of paper targets.

Across the lounge, five or six teachers huddled around the main table. Laughter. Casual gossip. Something about the sixth-grade math scores. A debate over which vending machine was worse.

Alex didn’t try to join in. They didn’t invite him either.

But they were watching. He could feel it—the glances, the quick whispers.

They knew. Of course they knew. Small town. New teacher. Immigrant. War vet. Divorced. Broken. Too many scars. Not enough charm.

He was halfway through pretending to enjoy the crust of his sandwich when someone broke away from the group and crossed the room.

“Mr. Hamilton, isn’t it?”

He looked up. Mrs. King. History department. Polished gray bun, floral scarf, horn-rimmed glasses that she peered over like she was grading your soul.

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

“I’m so glad you joined us this semester.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ve needed a fresh perspective in English for a while now.”

“Thanks.”

She hovered a second longer, then pulled out the chair across from him without asking. Sat like she was settling into an interview.

“I read your résumé,” she said. “Army, right? Eight years?”

“Yeah.”

“Afghanistan?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded slowly, hands folding over the table. “That’s… intense.”

Alex sipped his coffee. Said nothing.

Mrs. King tilted her head. “Was that by choice? I mean, you enlisted, right? You weren’t drafted or anything?”

He stared at her. “There hasn’t been a draft since the ‘70s.”

She laughed—high and breathy, like she was trying to brush something off. “Right, of course. I just meant—well, I guess I’m curious. You seem very educated. And well-read. So I was just wondering why someone like you would choose to go to war.”

The question landed like a punch.

Alex didn’t answer at first. He clenched his jaw, took a slow breath, and tapped his thumb against the thermos. Once. Twice.

“I didn’t really have the luxury of options,” he said finally. “College wasn’t in the cards. And the Army paid better than waiting tables.”

“Oh,” she said. “Still, I can’t imagine fighting over there. In that war.” Her voice dipped like the phrase had dirt on it. “It’s just so… morally complicated, don’t you think?”

Alex’s expression hardened. “Most wars are.”

“I suppose. I guess I just struggle with the idea of anyone choosing to be part of that.” She gave a strained laugh, oblivious to the way the air had cooled around her. “No offense, of course. I’m sure it was an eye-opening experience.”

Alex gritted his teeth. Something ugly started to twist in his chest. He could feel it—the tight, clenching heat that crept in through old scars and bad memories.

He opened his mouth—ready to bite, sharp enough to draw blood—but someone else beat him to it.

“I’m sure Hamilton appreciates your concern, Cheryl,” came a voice from behind her. “But I think we all agree nothing says ‘light lunch conversation’ like military ethics and personal trauma.”

Mrs. King turned, startled.

Thomas Jefferson stood a few feet away, arms folded across his chest, leaning casually against the sideboard like he’d been there for a while. His expression was unreadable—mild smile, eyes flat.

“Oh—Thomas,” she said, flustered. “I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” he asked lightly. “Making him justify his existence? Or just implying he has blood on his hands?”

Cheryl straightened. “I was just asking about his service. No need to be dramatic.”

Thomas smiled. “No, you’re right. The subtle implication that he’s morally compromised is very understated.”

She bristled. “I was being curious.”

“Well, your curiosity sounds like a New Yorker op-ed from 2009.”

Mrs. King pursed her lips, grabbed her half-full mug, and stood. “Excuse me.”

She made her way back to the other table in a huff, muttering something about “defensive veterans” and “rude men.”

The lounge buzzed on around them.

Alex exhaled—slow, quiet.

Thomas didn’t move. Just stared at him for a second too long before asking, “You okay?”

Alex shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah, but she’s not subtle.”

“No,” Alex said. “She’s not.”

They stood in silence. Thomas glanced at the sandwich Alex hadn’t finished.

“Is that… turkey and ketchup?”

Alex looked down. “What? No. It’s—okay, yeah. It is.”

Thomas made a face. “That’s a war crime.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Didn’t realize the Geneva Conventions covered lunch meat.”

Thomas cracked a small smile. “Don’t quote it unless you’ve read it.”

“I have read it.”

“Of course you have.”

Alex paused. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Thanks, by the way.”

Thomas shrugged. “Didn’t do it for you.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No,” he repeated. “I just hate her more than I hate awkward silences.”

Alex gave a soft, surprised huff of laughter.

Thomas nodded toward the door. “Anyway. Lunch is almost over. See you around, Hamilton.”

He walked off without waiting for a response.

Alex stared after him.

Great, he thought. Now I owe the guy I offended this morning a thank-you for saving my ass from a history teacher with a God complex.

He looked down at his sandwich. Turkey and ketchup. It really was disgusting.

He wrapped it back up and tossed it in the trash.

After the final bell, Alex sat in his car, engine off, hands gripping the worn leather of the steering wheel like it was the last lifeline in a stormy sea.

The sun had dipped low behind the rooftops of Lexington, casting the parking lot in a bruised purple shadow. The fluorescent glow from the school building behind him flickered once, twice, like a heartbeat slowing down.

His eyes stayed fixed on the cracked leather beneath his fingers, tracing the worn creases without really seeing them.

What the hell am I doing here?

The question hovered in the air, heavy and persistent.

He wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion clawing at his bones or the memories scraping raw against the edges of his mind. The war. The nights when the storm battered his childhood home on Nevis, when he’d held his mother’s hand, begging the hurricane not to take her away. The fight to stay alive in a world that never felt like it wanted him.

He swallowed thickly, the taste bitter and dry.

He thought of the classrooms—rows of middle school desks, tiny hands raised to ask questions he barely had the strength to answer. The cafeteria buzz, the judgment in the eyes of other teachers. Mrs. King’s voice ringing like a bell he couldn’t unhear.

And Thomas.

That brief collision earlier, all polite smiles and awkward silences that stretched like thin wire between them. The way Jefferson looked at him—not quite with kindness, not quite with disdain—but something else. Something that made Alex’s chest tighten and tongue freeze.

He hated that feeling.

Because it meant he was still alive. Still capable of wanting something better than this gnawing emptiness.

Alex exhaled slowly, releasing the tight grip on the wheel. He rubbed his forehead and blinked hard against the gathering dusk.

“Piece of shit,” he muttered under his breath.

He’d said that about himself a thousand times before. And maybe it was true. Maybe he’d screwed up more chances than he’d taken. Maybe his past wasn’t something to be proud of.

But it was his past. The scars were real.

He closed his eyes, resting his head against the steering wheel for a moment. The ache in his chest was familiar, like an old bruise that never quite healed.

After a minute, he forced himself upright and started the engine.

The headlights flicked on, cutting through the growing darkness. He shifted the car into drive and pulled slowly out of the parking lot.

The streets were quiet now, the hum of tires on pavement filling the silence.

As he drove toward the modest apartment waiting for him, a reluctant thought crept into his mind.

Maybe tomorrow won’t be so bad.

Maybe.