#I messed up and now he looks like Alexander Hamilton man

[genosnumberonesimp]

Art trade with @rattyaugustst ! Go follow him!!

[betsey-laurens-hamilton]

attention ELAMS ONESHOT john survived au!

I can't believe I haven't posted this. it's one of my favorite one shots ever. its john and eliza, he gets to the hamilton household alive and well after everyone thinks he was dead bc he wouldn't send letters to alexander for a while. its giving he wasn't dead he was just depressed

anyway enjoy!! I love them so much! 🥹

⋆ ☼ ☽

“He looks happy.”

John looked over at the woman standing near the counter. He struggled a little to keep his eyes plainly open but did his best nonetheless.

“Alexander?”

“Yes. You two are a good fit.”

A little smile made its way to Eliza’s lips and she gently dipped some cotton into an alcohol-based solution.

“Well, I appreciate that.”

Laurens winced when Elizabeth placed the cotton on one of his open wounds, though maybe that was just because he had relaxed and completely forgot to prepare for the pain.

“Fuck.”

“It’s about the third time I hear you curse in the past hour, Mr. Laurens, you sound like a sailor.”

His blue eyes darted to her. Eliza was focused on his wound, however, she managed to sneak a touch of a fun tone to her voice. She was not very serious about what she’d said. He snickered after a few seconds staring at her, and shook his head.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hamilton.”

“Please call me Eliza. As appealing as the title is to me, I feel like we should be going past formalities by now.”

“Eliza. Sorry, Eliza.”

Both of them chuckled a little bit, looking and sounding a tad shyer than they usually did.

“I am merely messing with. How did you manage this wound, by the way? My husband has spoken several times of your endearing ease to get yourself in trouble. The war is already over, what could you be up to?”

“Well…” Laurens sighed. “I was simply serving my duty to the country. Fighting for the land. The british are yet to leave us alone fully.”

“Are those battles not more dangerous than the previous ones?”

“Sometimes.”

Eliza stared up at John from the wound for a few seconds. He shrugged.

“Well… Alexander has also spoken of his desire to see you again, written letters quite a few times, yet you never seem to acknowledge it.”

John frowned, eyes on her once again focused face. She was bold, that mistress of his companion. Perhaps why they fit so well.

“A man on duty can’t give everything up to pay a friend a visit any time he wishes, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.”

“No, but you have had plenty of free time despite your efforts to keep yourself busy, so I’ve heard.”

“I do get busy with things other than battles. I have personal matters, do I not?”

“Exactly what we are talking about, Mr. Laurens. I was just quite curious about the reason my husband’s best friend would rather not show up to his wedding day.”

John couldn’t help his cheeks from warming up at Mrs. Hamilton’s comment. Did she know he had also been invited by her husband to the aftermath of it? Was it something that they had thought of together or was she oblivious to the entire situation? John couldn’t even begin to wonder how a woman like her would react to such indecent ideas. There was, however, a curious spark about it, hidden away…

“John?”

“Uhh…”

Eliza wiped the soaked cotton over his wound one last time, ripping a wince out of him.

“I’m not angry at you, John. Alexander might be a little, but I’m not. I am quite curious, though, but I don’t want you to speak on subjects you may not be comfortable with or find displeasing.” Eliza collected the dirty cottons and stood up, scaring Laurens slightly. “Stay. Are you alright?”

He just looks at her, blue guilty eyes and a hard swallow followed by an apology and yes. A few seconds later, Eliza returned with bandages and a glass of water.

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. If you feel better, sit up a tad.”

And then he did as said, holding in a grunt of pain.

Eliza worked in silence for a few seconds. Sometimes, she’d glance up at him, but John was unaware, having closed his eyes. Just tight enough, Schuyler wrapped bandages around his arm, making sure to soothe any rough patches beforehand.

“You know, your hair resembles wheat.”

“Hm?” Laurens blinks his eyes open, slightly unaware of his surroundings. Eliza worked like an angel, so much better than any nurse ever did and, god, he was tired.

“The blonde in your hair. I knew it reminded me of something. It’s wheat in the morning sun.”

A breath got stuck in his throat. How was he supposed to hold on much longer?

John swallowed.

“Specifically morning sun?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Laurens!” Eliza abruptly looked up at him.

“John. Call me John.”

“Fine. John, how come you do not know the difference? You’re an artist as far as I know…” She sighed. “The morning sun is… well, definitely less yellow, leaning more into a whiter shade of sunlight. It hits the wheat and reflects a light beige, a beautiful one at that. It’s different.”

He stays in silence for a brief second, only to realize there’s a smile on his face.

“It’s…” Eliza sighed, cheeks flushing slightly but also quite a smiley expression. “It’s one of the most beautiful hours of the day. I wish Alexander would rise earlier more often, just to appreciate the daylight and the fresh air of mornings.”

“I would always try to convince him back in army days…”

“And would it work?”

“Definitely not,” He chuckled.

Eliza joined in with quiet giggles.

“I forced him out of bed sometimes for a walk. He despised it.” John added.

“He has the loveliest grumpy morning face.”

“He does…”

Both of them lean gently into their smiles, sighing in content one after the other. John, however, quickly noticed what he said and shot Eliza an indiscreet wide gaze, which the brunette met with a calm, yet aware one. A knowing, very discreet gaze.

Heavens, did she know?

Laurens rapidly cleared his throat, shaking his head. “Either way we never spent too much time out, General Washington always had plenty of work to do, much more pleasant for him.”

“Yes, the writing?” Eliza finished up the bandage, checking it around a few times.

“Yes.”

“Hide the pen and present him with a sweet activity once he comes asking for it. Just a tip… Well,” She grinned. “You’re all done, Mr. La.. John. You’re done, John. I suppose I should leave you to rest.”

“Thank you, Eliza. Truly.”

“It’s nothing, John. Good night, just shout if you need something.”

He chuckled, meeting her gaze a last time before she opened and closed the door behind herself.

“Good night, ‘Liza.”

[cozycompositions]

@febuwhump Day 14: Captivity

Reworked plot I found at the bottom of my notes. Totally didn’t get lazy today

Scripture says in the beginning there was darkness, and then there was light. Hamilton appreciates the terror of the beginning, trapped in suffocating darkness, eternally. He’d do anything for more light right now. The storm rumbled on above, seeing only by the dim light from the lantern he trudged along. Alexander had been lost in the woods for hours now, having had his horse shot out from under him during a redcoat ambush. He had been accompanied by his best friend, but had ultimately been separated from Laurens in the fighting. His horse had run in a different direction.

Now, Hamilton limped on slowly, he had previously sustained some injury to his leg that, being no doctor, he could never tend to himself and was most likely making much worse by walking on. He knew he should have stayed with John.

A wolf howled in the distance. Only then did Alexander notice the pattering of a thousand paws on the ground... all around him. He couldn’t pin point the direction the noise was coming from, but the realization hit him like the hurricane on Nevis; he was lost and about to be attacked by a pack of wolves.

Alexander walked slowly, heart pounding in his chest. Don’t attract the wolves anymore, his mind supplied. Light steps. However, the wolves seemed to see right through Alexander's strategy. The beasts pounced onto him the second they had a chance. Alexander- fighting for his life-dropped the lantern onto the muddy grass. The glass shattered and the water instantly put the flame out.

Hamilton couldn’t scream. He kicked and clawed at the animal’s above him, panicked. He grew fatigued quickly, only realizing once his muscles gave way to gravity that these wolves were not causing him bodily harm. They seemed like naught but shadows.

Oh.

Alexander looked around. These wolves were not real - Apparition Magic - there was a dark mage somewhere near by. Apparition Magic was known as a tool to paralyze one’s opponent, Alex knew. Someone was going to mess with him. Was already messing with him.

Suddenly the wolves shot back and a man clad in red emerged from seemingly thin air. Alexander attempted to sit up. He couldn’t. Hamilton felt as if his whole body was glued to the ground under him. He turned his head. The figure stood near him, a few feet away. He was surrounded by the wolves, petting them.

“Do as I say, and you may live. I can help you, and keep these lovely things away from you,” he gestured to the wolves. “But you have to help me with a little endeavour.” And with that, the figure, made its was over to Alexander. In the light of the candle it was holding, Hamilton could see..

The man’s face. The man’s let Hamilton see his face. The realization hit him like a train.

This man doesn’t plan on letting him go.

He’s an older man, maybe about Washington’s age. Handsome, mysterious, and dangerous. The thing Alexander’s eyes were drawn to most, were the soldier’s eyes, dark, threatening, and ready to pounce.

Hamilton felt the pressure on his limbs lift and scrambled to his feet. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The nausea hit him then. All he felt was confusion, head swimming, asking himself what’s going on and why doesn’t anything make sense. He stumbled, collapsing at the redcoat’s feet.

The redcoat speaks, his voice cold. “Listen, boy. Listen to what I say. Listen to me, and you won’t be punished. I need a little favor from your Daddy.”

[im-tops-bottom]

anon asked for "Say No To This but make it Jamilton"...now I know you wanted a fic but I said fuck it I can't think of anything so I rewrote the song instead. for your reading pleasure...please note I accidentally deleted your question instead of replying (my bad) also please note that this will not go to the beat very well if at all so don't sing it...

Narrator (N): There's nothing like summer in the city

Someone under stress meets someone looking pretty

There's trouble in the air, you can smell it

And Jefferson's by himself, I'll let him tell it

Jefferson (TJ): I hadn't slept in a week

I was weak, I was awake

You've never seen a bastard secretary more in need of a break

Longing for a cat

Missing my wife

That's when Alexander Hamilton walked into my life, he said

Hamilton (AH): I know you are a man of honor

I'm so sorry to bother you at home

But I don't know where to go, and I came here all alone

TJ: He said

AH: My works doin' me wrong

killin' me, losin' sleep, frustratin' me

Suddenly I'm up and gone

I don't have the means to go on

TJ: So I offered him to help, I offered to walk him home, he said

AH: You're too kind, sir

TJ: I gave him a coat that I had locked away

He lived a block away, he said

AH: This one's mine, Jeffershit

TJ: Then I said, "fuck you, I'mma head back home"

He turned red, he led me to his bed

Let his legs spread and said

AH: Stay

TJ: Hey

AH: Hey

TJ: That's when I began to pray

Lord, show me how to say no to this

I don't know how to say no to this

But my God, he looks so helpless

And his body's saying, "Hell, yes"

AH: Whoa

TJ: No, show me how to say no to this

I don't know how to say no to this

In my mind, I'm tryin' to go

Jefferson's conscious (JC): go, go, go

TJ: Then his mouth is on mine, and I don't say

JC: No, no (say no to this)No, no (say no to this)No, no (say no to this)No, no (say no to this)

TJ: I wish I could say that was the last time

I said that last time, it became a pastime

A month into this endeavor I received a letter

From a Mr John Laurens, even better, it said

John Laurens (JL): Dear Sir, I hope this letter finds you in good health

And in a prosperous enough position to put wealth

In the pockets of people like me down on their luck

You see, that was my husband who you decided to

TJ: fuuuu...

JL: Uh oh, you made the wrong sucker a cuckold

So time to pay the piper for the pants you unbuckled

And hey, you can keep seein' my whore guyIf the price is right, if not I'm telling your wife

TJ: I hid the letter and I raced to his place

Screamed, "How could you?" In his face, he said

AH: No, sir

TJ: Half dressed, apologetic, a mess, he looked pathetic, he cried

AH: Please don't go, sir

TJ: So was your whole story a setup?

AH: I don't know about any letterTJ: stop crying God dammit, get up

AH: I didn't know any better

TJ: I am ruined

AH: Please don't leave me with this helpless TJ: I am helpless how could I do this?

AH: Just give him what he wants and you can have me

TJ: I don't want you

AH: Whatever you want

TJ: I don't want you

AH: If you pay

TJ: I don't

AH: You can stay...

TJ; Lord, show me how to say no to thisI don't know how to say no to thisBut this situation's helpless

AH: helpless

TJ: And his body's screaming, "Hell, yes"

AH: Whoa

TJ: No, show me how to say no to this

Jamilton: How can I (you) say no to this?

TJ: There is nowhere I can go

JC: go, go, go

TJ: When his body's on mine I do not say JC: No...

Jamilton: Yes...

JC: Say no to this...

Jamilton: Say no to this, I don't say no to this

TJ: There is nowhere I can go

JC: go, go, go

JL: So?

TJ: Nobody needs to know...

[thekatebridgerton]

babes have you seen charithra’s latest tweet 😬😬 I was willing to believe their words might’ve been misconstrued a little but …

You mean this one

where she reffers to this part of the interview:

I stand by what I said in my previous post, Kate and Edwina love each other and won't be fighting over a man. But just to elaborate, here's more of my opinions on the topic dear reader

And I like to start nothing that I always knew that the part of TVWL where Kate asks Anthony if he'd be okay marrying Edwina after kissing her sister, would come back to haunt me later and I honestly expected this from fanfiction, not from Netflix. (Because during that part of the book, I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks that in a darker timeline, Anthony would definitely have tried to pull a Benedict with Kate after the lack of sexual chemistry in his marriage to Edwina drove him mad)

And I'm not saying it could happen in the show. I'm saying that it's heavily implied by both characters that Anthony had it in him.

Well apparently show Anthony is taking this literally.

I'm going off on a limb and calling it right now. The love triangle,( if there is one at all), is definitely going to be a Princess and The Frog kind of situation. And yes, I also can't believe they are going to pull a Charlotte Lebouf with Edwina, but *sigh* the shoe fits.

I mean it's sort of close enough to the book cannon to be believable. Edwina is the type who is kind, sweet and probably only inlove superficially because Anthony is what she thinks she should love.

Like Charlotte and Naveen they sound like there's genuine affectionate friendship there, but they eventually realize that 1) they both love Tiana more and 2) they both deserve better, no matter how much they like each other.

So in my opinion this is where our infamous love triangle is headed after reading the EW article. Me thinks Edwina's won't be as hurt as we think when she realizes that her favorite suitor loves her sister more than her. Disappointed yeah, but not really heartbroken.

And that this will create a whole wreck for Kate internally. Not just because Edwina likes the guy, but because she's never thought herself a rival for someone Edwina wants in the first place. Kate would love to Katniss the whole love triangle right away and sacrifice herself and Anthony for her sister's happiness (it's just cannon that Anthony won't let her)... And just sort of accidentally end up married to him because they can't help all the sexual tension.

Why am I looking forward to that? I shouldn't be so mean! Why does this situation make me laugh so much?

Oh right because they both will be giving Anthony manwhore Bridgerton a headache. Not knowing if he's attracted to Edwina because he should be attracted to her or to Kate the woman who literally could step on him and he would thank her. Does he want to be a good Viscount who dies early? Or does he want to spend the rest of his life as Kate's sex slave? he likes them both and he should be picking the nice one who won't kill him if hooks up with Sienna after marriage, but nope, he wants that one, the one who will shoot him if he takes a mistress. Yes dear readers, anything that makes Anthony tear his hair out is funny as hell for me.

I shouldn't be enjoying this! I saw what butchering historical cannon in Hamilton did to Angelica Schuyler. ( But let's face it as much as we love Eliza and Alexander. If musical version Alexander Hamilton had married Angelica Schuyler, he'd probably still be alive and also the president. )

So, honestly speaking, I'm both looking forward to it and dreading the Tiana/Charlotte/Naveen mess this is going to be.

And that's the tea.

[undyingskies]

Best Friend’s Brother

request: yes, “Hi, how are you? I've a request: y / n is one of Charlie's older brother friends and lives with Owen and Char ', because she is a writer for JATP. One day Owen and Charlie are live, Y / N's doing the dishes. Owen jokes that Y / N has to use a chair to put the dishes away (she is about 5'1). Y/N hasn't seen them and continues to sing and dance to musicals (heather, mamma mia, rhps, hamilton, location), doing the dishe. Charlie has heartfelt eyes for her. You decide what's next. Thank you! <3”

A/N: This was really fun to write, I hope you enjoy!

Warning: None 

——————————————————-

Everyone thought you were crazy for moving in with two boys. Why in the world would a single 20 something year old want to move in with two 20 something year old guys. But you loved it, you really did.

The thing here is your best friend was one of your roommates older brother. Michael Gillespie was the one and only best friend in question, when he found out that both you and Charlie would be working on the same show, he thought it was a no brainer to offer up the idea of you two living together. Neither of you really minded the idea, it was just up to Owen to say it was alright.

At first you thought maybe it would be weird, but Michael was right, it was better to be living with someone you knew than be alone in a different city. You and Charlie were the same age, Michael was older. He was your best friend but more often than not he acted like an older brother and truthfully, he felt better sending you off to a new city with Charlie than you alone.

Living with the boys had proved to be more fun than you ever thought it would. You were a writer on the show and the boys were the stars, so your hours were a little different from each other’s. That still gave you the time and space to yourself and that’s really all you could ask for.

This week was the first week in about two months that you had off, well everyone had off. After countless days and sleepless nights for the whole cast and crew they decided a week off would do no harm.

This was your third day off and the freezing Canada streets were not calling you or the boys. You were staying locked up in your apartment with the heat on blast. The boys decided to just hang around and go live to talk to fans. You decided it was time to clean, you did laundry, vacuumed your room and living room, and your last task was the pile of dishing that has accumulated in the sink.

You had your hair pulled up in a low bun to keep it out of your face, you had your workout shorts on that were covered by the large oversized shirt you stole from one of the boys, and fuzzy socks hugged your feet to keep them warm. You had your music blasting; you were in your element.

Your dance moves and music had caught the attention of the fans, you didn’t know but you were in the background of the live. Comments started flooding in about you.

Owen chuckles as he reads through them. “Can Y/N reach the dishes it looks like she’s hopping up to get them done?” He reads out. This one gets a laugh out of both Owen and Charlie.

“She actually has to use a step stool, we love our tiny but might Y/N, a full 5”1.” Owen laughs, Charlie shakes his head.

“Is she listening to musicals?” Another comment asks.

“Yes, she is. She’s a theatre nut, I think this is what the third musical of the morning?” Charlie answers back.

He was right, it was the third. You started off with Heathers, then moved onto Location, and now you were finishing Mama Mia. You weren’t quite done with your playlists of musicals though. The starting cords of Alexander Hamilton came through your speaker. A loud squeal escapes you.

Since Hamilton came out on Disney+ a few months ago the hype for it came back again. You and Owen were constantly listening to it and competing on who could learn the raps faster.

“The ten-dollar founding father without a father, got a lot farther by working a lot harder, by being a lot smarter.” You rap along with Anthony Ramos, turning from the sink to face the boys. Owen already on his feet facing you getting ready to rap the next lines.

“By being a self starter, by fourteen, they placed him in charge of a trading charter.” Owen raps as you make your way into the living room. The two of you facing each other getting ready for your rap battle.

Charlie laughed at the sight in front of him, this was a lot more common than people thought. It happened at least once a week.

The fans were loving it and were going crazy over the constant switch of you rapping then Owen rapping. Charlie just watching being content, his eyes never really leaving your short figure. He loved the sight of you in your element like this, the brightest smile on your face. He also didn’t miss the fact that you were wearing his shirt. He had wondered where it went.

Don’t think the fans didn’t notice the look on Charlie’s face as he watched the two of you and how it never left you.

“What’s your name man? Alexander Hamilton.” Both you and Owen yell together at the last line, falling into a fit of laughter.

“That was good guys, the fans loved your show.” Charlie tells the both of you. Owen plops down on the couch next to him laughing. You smile and throw your arms over Charlie’s shoulders leaning over him to look at the screen.

You didn’t catch it but a blush made its way onto Charlie’s cheeks at your actions and contact.

“You’re welcome you guys, I aim to please.” You laugh out, responding to the comments. “Now I am off to finish the dishes.” You say with a wave and then you’re off again.

Charlie and Owen sit silently for a few seconds reading over the comments. That’s when all of them came flooding in talking about the way Charlie looked at, the blush on his cheeks when you touched him, and the speculations of him liking you.

Owen laughs at points one out. “Look dude.” He says. The comment read, “Charlie looked like a deer in headlights looking at Y/N, while also being the epitome of the heart eyes emoji.” Charlie blushes at the comment.

“Well she’s not wrong.” Owen laughs.

“Shut up dude.” Charlie says shoving him away. He wasn’t ready to spill the beans about his feelings for his brothers best friend.

Owen just shrugs it off. The rest of the live was spent with Charlie avoiding any and all comments or questions about you and Owen trying his best to switch topics knowing his best friend was getting a little embarrassed.

You finish the dishes and make your way over to the couch. You immediately land next to Charlie, resting your back on his side like he’s the back of the couch. He throws his arm around you, pulling you closer.

“You guys down to order some food, I’m hungry.” You ask them. The boys agree and go to say their goodbyes to the fans, ending the live.

“So what are you thinking?” Owen asks you.

“Mmmm maybe pizza?” You say thinking out loud.

“Sounds good to me.” Owen says, Charlie agreeing. “I can make the call to order it.” You tell the boys, getting up to walk out of the room to make the call.

“You know you should tell her.” Owen says looking at Charlie, as he watches you walk out of the room.

Charlie let’s out a sigh and shakes her head. “I don’t think I can, I don’t want to ruin the friendship we have or the one she has with my brother.” He confesses.

“Okay first of all you have to be blind if you don’t think she likes you back. Second of all your brother knows how you feel about her you idiot, if the fans noticed almost immediately, your brother for sure knows.” Owen says. “Besides he told me! He pushed the two of you to live together in hopes it would get one of you to confess your feelings for each other.”

Charlie is shocked at Owens words. He didn’t really know how to wrap his head around his confession. If his brother says you like him than it is a chance it’s true, but then again, he could just be messing with him it is his brother after all.

“I don’t know, I wouldn’t know how to tell her.” Charlie gets out before you come walking back into the room, shutting them both up.

“Tell who what?” You asks, plopping down again next to Charlie.

“Oh nothing.” Charlie says trying to brush the topic away. Owen rolls his eyes. “I’m going to go take a shower while we wait for the pizza.” He says, leaving the two of you alone. When he leaves, he whispers to Charlie, “Tell her.”

Charlie just shoots him a dirty look. You notice their littler interaction but don’t question it, you’ve learned that at times it’s the best thing to do.

The two of you just sit in silence with Owen going. You not really paying attention and just scrolling through your phone and Charlie just lost in his thoughts and conflicting feelings about telling you.

He was thinking he might as well, if Owen says his brother already knows and they both swear you like him back, then why not go for it? Plus after that live with all the fans there’s no way you won’t see some of their comments. He thinks now is the time, just go for it.

Next thing you know a hand is slapping your phone out of your hands and the body to which you were leaning on has moved and you’ve fallen flat on your back.

“Charlie what the hell?” You ask him. You weren’t ready for any of that. You push yourself up, lock your phone and push it to the side.  You turn to face the now distressed boy.

“We need to talk.” That’s all he says and then he is on his feet pacing.

“Okay, talk about what?” You ask, while watching Charlie strut back and forth.

You let him walk back and forth for a couple minutes, letting the silence take over the two of you before you probe him for an answer again.

“Charlie? Talk about what?” You ask again. “Just...Just give me a second okay?” He says in a stern way that makes you sit back in the couch and give him a nod of approval.

It takes him a few more struts and silence before he stops right in front of you and faces you. That is when he bursts with his confession.

“I like you Y/N, I like you okay! I have for a while and I just think you should know that.” He says exasperated. His arms fall to his sides and the two of you just stare at one another.

The silence and his confession sitting on top of you like a cloud. Charlie was now nervous and scared at your reaction, while you were just stunned.

You never even thought you had a chance with Charlie. He was your best friends brother, you never thought in a million years Charlie would ever think of you the way you thought about him. You’re lost in your thoughts but the song My Best Friends Brother by Victoria Justice starts to play in your head, causing you to giggle.

“Alright I know my confession was out of the blue but you don’t have to laugh at me.” Charlie says feeling sad and getting ready to walk away.

“No, Charlie, stop! I’m not...I’m not laughing at you” You say through your giggles. You stand up and grab his wrist not letting him turn away from you.

“I’m sorry Charlie, it’s just, you know that song? The one that goes, my best friends brother is the one for me. It just it started playing in my head and I couldn’t help myself.” You tell him, a little embarrassed at your own confession.

“That’s what you think about in this moment? Really Y/N? A song?” He asks. Then realization hits him. “Wait my best friends brother is the one for me?” He asks, stepping a little closer to you. Your chests now touching.

You bite your lip and nod your head yes. You let him wrap his arms around your waist to pull the two of you flush together.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I’ve liked you for a while now.” You confess. A large smile adorns both of your faces.

That’s when it happens. His lips met yours, finally. You let yourself melt into his kiss, loving the feeling. The two of you lost in the moment until you hear,

“Finally!” Owen yells, breaking the two of you apart. The both of you smiling and blushing.

“Also pizza is here and now Michael owes me 20 bucks so thank you for that!” Owen smiles and walks into the kitchen, with the pizza in hand.

“I guess Owen and Michael knew this was coming.” You say while looking up at Charlie smiling.

“I guess so.” He says before pressing his lips against yours for the second time. This time the two of you pull apart at the sound of your phones buzzing in sync.

Both of you check your phone, it’s a text from Michael that reads.

“As much as I am glad that one of you grew some balls to tell each other that you liked them, could you have at least done it a week later?? I was so close to winning that bet.”

You both laugh. Only Michael and Owen would make a bet about this. Charlie grabs your hand and leads you into the kitchen so the three of you could enjoy the warm pizza.

Charlie sits beside you, with a hand on your thigh. Not ready to let you go yet since he just got you. You smile and laugh with Charlie and Owen; thinking you are so lucky to have the two of them. Turns out your best friends brother really is the one for you.

[obwjam]

Yknow I gotta get my G/t angst hurt/comfort fix; Tiny Hamilton and Human Laurens Lafayette Washington etc while their still fighting in the war and little Alexander gets hurt on the battlefield. I’ll leave it vague enough so you can do what you want with this ig. ❤️ u bestie bye ✌️

ahhhh yes!!! the classic ♥ please forgive my really rusty writing because i haven't written in like five months and hamilton would be very disappointed in me for that :'(

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“ALEX!”

His eyes flew open at the distant sound of his name and the familiar voice that was saying it. But try as he might, he couldn’t get a grasp on his surroundings. First of all, it was dark, and muddy. Second, everything was coming to him in a blur -- the sounds far above him and the objects near him blended into a single discombobulating entity. Third, each time he tried to right himself, shoots of pain kept him down. But only for a moment.

“Where is he? I don’t see him.”

A frantic Laurens was trying to keep it together in front of his commander.

“Sir, do you see him? Mulligan? How about you? Oh, where the hell is Lafayette--”

“--John.” The only other voice besides Alexander’s that could ground Laurens so quickly belonged to the General. “You need to calm down. He couldn’t have gone far.”

“Unless the British got their hands on him! Those bastards, I swear to God when I find who took him-- I’ll-- I’ll…”

Laurens took a breath. Hamilton was better than that. He would never have allowed himself to be captured; not without putting up a fight, at least. John chuckled at the thought of little Alex turning feral toward anyone who messed with him. Any soldier unlucky enough to cross his path would surely walk away with a few fingers missing.

Washington was right. He couldn’t have gone far. He couldn’t pretend to know, but trekking through the mud at five inches tall didn’t seem like an easy task.

Mulligan came running over in a huff, opening his palms to show that he too had come up empty. “Where were you two last?”

“Maybe half a mile that way,” Laurens pointed. “But that was almost an hour ago.”

“That little man probably walked back to camp on two broken legs,” Mulligan mused, ignoring the look Laurens shot him.

“ALEX!” Laurens tried again, exasperated. “And where is Lafayette--”

“I SEE HIM!” an unmistakably French voice rang out, telescope in hand as he hung from a shallow tree branch. “There, near that tree.”

It took Laurens all of two seconds before his eyes caught Alex’s crumpled figure, and he ran full speed as mud splattered all over his clothes. Mulligan could make him new ones.

He fell to his knees, hands outstretched, heart sinking at the way Hamilton flinched when Laurens entered his vision. Alexander couldn’t tell who this was.

“Hamilton? Alex, it’s me, it’s John. Alex, please, it’s just me. Are you alright?”

Alex blinked a few more times and Laurens’ face slowly came into focus. He smiled weakly.

“Took you long enough,” he joked in a hoarse voice. Laurens couldn’t help but laugh.

“Sorry, little buddy…” he trailed off. He didn’t want to admit how it was impossible to see him lying on the ground.

Hamilton sucked in a breath as Laurens gently pushed his hands under his bruised body. He was accustomed to the sinking feeling of being lifted in the air, but in his hurt state, it was about ten times worse. Laurens quickly realized this and slowed down his movements, even though he was wading through the middle of a battlefield.

Silently, Alex cursed himself. Not only did he get himself hurt, but now the whole camp had to see him like this. As if they didn’t already think of him as helpless. He tried his best to see what was going on as the world whizzed by around him, but between his delirious state and the height of Laurens’ fingers, it was almost impossible to tell.

A massive shadow suddenly passed over Hamilton as an impossibly large figure peered down at him. Using all his strength, he closed his eyes and turned to his side. Whoever this was, he didn’t want them seeing him.

“Hamilton,” Washington breathed when his gaze met his tiny writer, clearly frightened as he curled himself away from Washington. His heart wrenched.

“Alex!” Lafayette cried, drowning out the sound of Mulligan’s soft gasp. Laurens was blinking rapidly as he whisked Alex inside the closest tent -- Washington’s -- and carefully placed him down on the desk.

Hamilton coughed when his body hit the hard surface. He was covered in scrapes and bruises, most annoyingly a cut above his eyebrow that was bleeding into his eye, and he was almost certain his arm was, at the very least, broken.

It was at these times that this group of boisterous, imposing men couldn’t believe how small Hamilton was. The quill he used seemed to tower over him as it sat in its inkwell and Alex was curled up next to it. All of his papers, finished and in progress and not even started yet, were scattered and took up so much desk space that nobody wouldn’t believe a five-inch-tall immigrant made this mess. He looked especially small as he shivered, giving his friends side-eyed glances like this was the first time they had met.

Lafayette wasted no time. He took a knee and leaned close to get a better look, seemingly oblivious to how Hamilton started to shake harder.

“Alex, oh my… what happened? How did you get so hurt?”

Hamilton’s first instinct was to get up and run away from this pinning gaze, but he was in no state to do that. He struggled, but he managed to prop himself up and lean back against a nearby book. The figure came into focus. He recognized him.

“I… I fell,” he muttered quietly, mostly out of embarrassment. He never fell. He couldn’t.

“He was riding on my shoulder,” Laurens interjected, keeping his voice low. “He was, heh, being my extra set of eyes. Telling me what was going on behind me in case someone tried to sneak up on us.”

Washington sighed. He didn’t want to ask this, but he had to.

“And why was Hamilton with you on the battlefield when it was my direct order that he never get anywhere close to the fight?”

Alex swallowed. He almost forgot how pissed Washington was going to be.

“It was… my idea, sir,” Alex managed, a pit forming in his stomach when Washington’s indignant eyes met his. “I made him take me. Don’t blame John.”

Washington pinched the brim of his nose, and Hamilton became tense. He knew what was about to happen.

“Son, don’t you understand? You don’t belong on the battlefield! I need you to be here, ready to do what I ask of you because this war is important! What would we do if the British had found you? Kidnapped you? Pried all of our secrets out of you?”

For the first time in his life, Hamilton was silent.

“At any moment, you could disappear without a trace! And we can’t do this without you! I can’t do this without you, can’t you see--?”

Washington paused suddenly when he fully took in Hamilton’s expression. His eyes were blown so wide he could barely recognize him, and his shivering was almost exaggerated. Hamilton started back in pure fear as everyone else waited breathlessly to see what would happen next. Never had their power imbalance been so clear, as Alexander lay injured and shaking on the desk and Washington towered far above him, voice booming. If this was the last straw, Washington could dispose of Hamilton and he’d never be heard from again.

He heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry, Alexander.” He paused to see if Alex’s expression would change. It didn’t. “It’s… hard to see you like this. And you had all your friends very worried. Especially Laurens.”

John blushed momentarily before taking this as an opportunity to change topics.

“You’re holding your arm,” Laurens said softly, taking a knee next to Lafayette. Alex tried his best not to let his nerves show at the two giant faces taking up his vision, but he was at least comforted by the fact that these were his friends, and they would never hurt him.

“I… I fear it may be broken,” he croaked, voice quivering. “I fell on it rather hard.”

“You are lucky a fall like that didn’t kill you!” Lafayette blurted, making Alex wince at the volume of his voice. Lafayette flushed red, immediately realizing his mistake.

"Oh, poor Alexander," he sighed, carefully taking his thumb and wiping away the stream of blood on Alex's forehead. Hamilton recoiled at the touch, and Lafayette pulled away with a sorrowful frown.

“I can make you a support for your arm,” Mulligan said from the corner of the tent. “And a new pair of clothes, too.” He joined his two friends and met Hamilton at eye level, examining how torn his old threads had become.

Hamilton could only nod as the room fell into silence, the four men staring at Alex in pity. His eyes were still wide and filled with nerves, and he was blinking just to hold back his tears.

“I’m… sorry,” he managed, earning a surprised stare from everyone.

“Sorry? Whatever for?” Lafayette asked.

Hamilton coughed. “You shouldn’t… I can take care of myself. You shouldn’t have to worry about me, but now I’ve caused you all a great inconvenience. You all have far more important things to do than worry for me.”

“That’s preposterous!” Lafayette scoffed. “You are one of the most important things to us, Alex.”

Mulligan nodded in agreement. “Life was no fun before you joined camp, little man.”

“I couldn’t do my job without you, son,” Washington joined in. “At the very least, you did manage to defy my expectations, seeing as you came back alive.”

Hamilton wasn’t in the mood to joke with his commander, but he managed a small smile anyway.

“We all need someone to fight for in this war,” Laurens said, and the room melted away, leaving just him and Hamilton alone. “Even if you can’t fight alongside me on the battlefield, you’re still with me, Alex. And I’m always here for you, to protect you, whenever you need.”

Hamilton stopped fighting the tears, and they spilled down his cheeks. John was right. Hamilton had everything he needed right in front of him, always.

He closed his eyes for a few moments before realizing where he was. He turned his head to the left, eyeing all the papers he still had to finish. “I… I might need some help with my writings for a little while,” he said sheepishly, earning a chuckle from everyone in the tent. He still had his priorities.

“I’m not sure I can keep up with your brain,” Mulligan teased, carefully taking a finger and rubbing Alex’s hair. To his delight, Hamilton used his one good arm and pushed the finger away like he always did.

“I’ll have another aide do the writing for you, Hamilton,” Washington assured. “But you must promise me you won’t lose your temper when he does something wrong.”

“Oh, I already know it’s going to be a disaster,” Alex sighed. “But it will distract me from how painful these injuries are.”

Hamilton watched in a dazed awe as Lafayette and Mulligan locked eyes and stood up as they went off to find some size-appropriate medical supplies. He could never get over how amazing it was that he existed around people so big.

“Permission to take him back to our tent, sir?” Laurens asked, still kneeling. Washington nodded as he rounded the back of his desk and sat down. His eyes never left Hamilton as Laurens stuck out his finger and Alexander pushed off it for support before crawling into his palm. Everything ached, but he at least felt a little better than before. He looked up to John and John smiled, telling him without words that he was going to be okay.

“John? Alexander?”

Laurens turned.

“Be careful, young men. That’s an order from your commander.”

Laurens and Hamilton both gave Washington a salute before ducking out of the tent, back out into the cold night.

[decoolz]

A Piece of my WIP

This is part of my Work in Progress The John Laurens Alexander Hamilton Kissing book--working title (TJLAHKB) I am extremely nervous about sharing this, but I would like to see what people think about it. This is just under 3000 works so most of it will be under the cut. A new beginning. The mistakes of London and teenage fantasy were gone now, he was sure of it. All he had to do was take this meeting and the next few years of his life would be set. John stepped out of the coach and smoothed out his waistcoat. If he did this right, he’d be able to recover his reputation. No one would be talking about the rumors if he achieved glory on the battlefield. All he had to do was find General Washington’s command tent.

The camp smelled like twelve thousand people had been camping here for weeks. The sweet stench of rotting food nearly overpowered the unwashed smell of thousands of people gathered in quarters much too small. John searched the faces of passersby for someone to help, but not a single soul gave him a glance. No wonder the British had the upper hand. This was the encampment housing the head of the whole continental army and not a single person gave John a once over. He could be a spy wandering about. All this was going in his first letter to his father when he got situated.

“Excuse me!” John shouted at a boy who couldn’t possibly be old enough to enlist yet was running around the place as if he knew every inch of it. “I’m looking for General Washington’s tent. I have an appointment.”

“Good luck with that,” the boy chuckled. He turned and pointed toward the middle of camp. “See the big round one. That’s where you’ll wanna go. Hope you really got that appointment.”

“I’m Henry Laurens son. I don’t need an appointment,” John clarified rolling his eyes. “My father arranged for introductions.”

“Good on you,” the boy nodded, then ran off the way he was heading.

John continued to drag his footlocker across the dirt and dying grass up the path to the “big round tent,” silently judging every single one of the people who walked by him without offering to help or ask what he was doing wandering around this camp. From the looks of everyone’s dirty and mismatched attire, this wasn’t the kind of place where people took much care to observe anything.

He entered Washington’s tent without once being stopped. Setting his footlocker out of the way, he straightened his waistcoat again before approaching the desk in the middle of the space. The man bent over the desk didn’t bother to acknowledge him when he entered. John cleared his throat thrice before the young redheaded man looked up for his work.

“How may I be of assistance?” he asked with an unrecognizable accent. “I’m assuming you’re not the Frenchman. Are you one of his staff?”

“I am French but I’m from South Carolina,” John replied. He pulled his letter of introduction from his inside pocket as he stepped closer to the desk. The man behind it appeared altogether uninterested. “I’m Henry Laurens’s son, I’m here to have a meeting with General Washington to join this regiment.”

“He’s not taking meetings today,” the clerk replied. “I can schedule you for later this week if you’d like. What is your business with the General?” He licked the end of his quill and met John’s eyes.

“No, you misunderstand me,” John said, shaking his head. “Henry Laurens is my father. He wrote to General Washington and told him to expect me this week. I don’t need an appointment, he’s expecting me.”

The clerk clicked his tongue. “Right. You still need an appointment. The General is a busy man. He isn’t going to stop running the army because some self-important rich man’s son is going to show up at some point this week. I can write you in for an appointment tomorrow if you like. Should I write in Henry’s son or do you have a name of your own I can use?”

“No,” John shook his head. “I should be able to see him today. He’s expecting me. He told my father he’s looking for a French translator to help with correspondence and the like. He made it pretty clear the post had to be filled post haste.”

“Right … but you see, that’s not how it works,” the clerk explained, speaking slowly as if John was a simpleton. “In order to get into see General Washington, you need an appointment. I make the appointments. I would highly recommend you stop being a jackass and give me your Christian name so I can put it in the ledger for tomorrow.”

John took a deep breath. Clearly, this man didn’t understand who he was speaking to or he wouldn’t continue to be so obstructive. He’d be sure to put this in his letter to his father as well, he’ll have this scrawny boy’s job by the end of the week.

“Listen, Mister…”

“Lieutenant Colonel,” the redhead gentleman corrected.

“Fine then,” John scoffed. “Lieutenant Colonel, I don’t think you understand what’s happening here. I have a letter of introduction from my father with the understanding that I am to meet with his excellency when I arrive at camp. I am here. So, if you please, announce my arrival.”

“You seem to have poor comprehension skills, which honestly looks bad if you’re trying to get a job as a translator. There must be a meeting set up and penciled into this ledger before you can see him.” He held up the ledger for John to look at. “As you see here, today he is booked solid since he’s in the city meeting with a Frenchman who will be joining the ranks. So even if I wanted to let you in to see him—which don’t misunderstand I do not—I can’t because he’s not even in there. But if you give me your name, and not refer to yourself as your father’s son, I can write you in for tomorrow.”

“But I have a letter of introduction,” John extended his hand with the papers toward the boy.

“Go for you,” the Lieutenant Colonel nodded. “What is your name? I can set up an appointment for tomorrow at one in the afternoon right after luncheon.”

“My father said--”

“Listen,” the other man pulled a hand down his face and sighed loudly. “We seem to be at an impasse here. You need an appointment. I honestly don’t give a shit what your father said, because he’s not here. I am. I control the ledger book with the appointments. I already informed you against my better judgment that General Washington isn’t even in camp at present. I’m not sure what it is you think you’re going to accomplish by arguing with me about it. Give me your name I’ll write you in for tomorrow right after luncheon and you can go relax at the inn up the road for the rest of the day and stop bothering me.”

“This won’t do,” John shook his head. “I was promised a meeting when I arrived.”

The other man blinked slowly, shook his head, picked up his quill, and continued whatever it was he was working in when John walked in. After several tense moments of silence, John cleared his throat again for attention.

“Oh, you’re still here. Again, your meeting is tomorrow at one. I wrote down ‘Henry’s son’ so they’ll be no confusion as to how important you are. If you insist on staying in my office to wait for your scheduled time, you are more than welcome to sit in one of the terribly uncomfortable wooden chairs on the side there. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

John sunk his teeth into his bottom lip to keep from yelling and let several short quick breaths out through his nose.

“What is your name?” John demanded. “I would like to make sure Congress knows exactly the kind of riff-raff General Washington has in his employment.”

“And yet here you are trying to join our ranks,” the redheaded man met John’s gaze with a sickeningly sweet fake smile.

“Hamilton!” A head poked around the entrance of the tent. An older man with the same green pin on his hat as the clerk. “Are you set to take a break for luncheon or is Lucy bringing you a tray?”

“No, I’ll come with you,” the redheaded man, Hamilton evidently, said. He straightened his desk and stood. “It’s Wednesday.”

As he came around the desk, John got his first good look at this Hamilton. He couldn’t be taller than five and a half feet. John could probably put his hands around the man’s waist and his fingers would touch. He looked far more like a boy than someone in charge of something as important as General Washington’s ledger.

“Are you going to invite your friend?” the other man asked, gesturing to John.

“Not my friend,” Hamilton grumbled. “You can join us for a meal if you want. Or wait until we leave and look to see that no one is in Washington’s office and pout about it. Just don’t touch my desk.” He didn’t bother turning toward John as he said it.

“Will my footlocker be safe here?” John asked, stepping toward the other men.

“Sure,” Hamilton shrugged. He pushed passed the other man out into the sweltering camp.

“Is he always so delightful?” John asked.

“You must have got him on a good day,” the other man joked. “He’s usually much worse. Richard Meade, Virginia.” He extended his hand to John.

This was more of the kind of welcome he was expecting. “John Laurens, South Carolina.”

“Son of the senator,” Meade smiled. “Rumor has it he’s a lock for the presidency when Hancock retires.”

“That’s what he tells me,” John nodded.

Hamilton waited; arms crossed over his chest for the others then led the way to the mess tent walking a quick clip about twenty paces ahead of them.

“Personally, I think it’ll be great for the union to finally have some southern influence at the helm of Congress. I think we’ve heard enough from Boston and New York for a bit.”

“Those men are the catalyst for the revolution,” John countered. “However, I do agree, if we are to be our own country it makes sense to listen to men from all parts of it.”

John let Meade lead him through the buffet line and tried not to gawk as Hamilton shamelessly flirted with a young brunette woman serving the warm rolls until she slipped an extra one to him.

“Is that the reason he was so eager to come to luncheon on Wednesday?”

“No,” Meade replied as they walked toward their table. “That would be Lucy. She’s around here somewhere. On Wednesdays, she helps with the dishes.”

“Hamilton is that man then?” John sighed, taking a seat across the table from Meade. Hamilton sat a little way down the table, toward the end on Meade’s side. John knew plenty of men just like that back in London. Men who shamelessly debased themselves in front of women for tiniest scrap of attention. Hamilton didn’t quite fit the usual formula for such a man, but John had to admit there was something about him that made it hard to pull his eyes away from the scrawny redhead.

Across the table, Meade rested his hat on the bench beside him. He was slightly older than John, maybe about thirty. This was the type of man John expected to find working for General Washington, a learned Southern Gentleman from a prominent family who knew the order of things. If Meade had been behind the desk when John walked in, everything would be taken care of by now.

“Forgive me for prying,” John said between bites of a watery but rather flavorful stew. “But since I will be joining this merry group of soldiers, may I ask about the dynamic of the inner circle?”

Meade laughed, his green eyes brightening as a crooked smile crossed his face. “I take it your father arranged for you to be the French interpreter we’re looking for. If that’s the case you’ll be working closely with your new best friend, Mister Hamilton. He handles most of the correspondence and does quite a bit of the planning and strategy for small missions. He’s the brains of it.”

“French interpreter was the plan, yeah, apparently a letter of introduction and a promise from my father isn’t enough to have an audience with His Excellency. I also need an arbitrary appointment and to dance for a five-foot-tall boy who thinks too much of himself.”

“Hamilton will be the first to tell you, he’s five foot seven,” Meade smiled. “General Washington is in Philadelphia today meeting with a French General who’s come to help us. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

This was supposed to be the easy part. The last couple of years had been an awful pile of hardship and stupid mistakes. Joining the army was supposed to be the first step in the right direction. All he had to do was show up and the rest would take care of itself. He wouldn’t have to deal with people looking at him sideways or whispers behind hands at society events. As he learned more about camp John did his best to remember that he wasn’t another setback, but a pause. Tomorrow would be different.

He turned toward the end of the table where Hamilton was batting his eyes at an enraptured blonde woman in a light blue gown. Something familiar started to bubble inside John, somewhere between jealousy and contempt. When the woman was called away, Hamilton slid over to join John and Meade for the rest of the meal.

“What do you think, Ricky? Will this son of Henry will fit in our merry band of aides-de-camp?”

Meade nodded as he wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “It’ll be fine Hamilton. The two of you should figure out how to get along. If Mister Laurens will be working French translations, you’ll most likely be sharing a desk.”

Hamilton groaned, and let his head fall back, just as enthused about the prospect as John was.

“You’re at least learned in French though?” Hamilton asked. “Fluent? We have a remarkable number of Frenchmen coming to take up this cause”

John nodded. He’d been taught by his mother as a boy and then in some of the finest schools he could be sent to in Europe. Hamilton continued to eye him suspiciously.

“I gotta head back,” Hamilton wiped his mouth his sleeve and stood quickly walking off with his dishes, handing them to the servant whose job it was to clear plates from the tables when they were finished eating. John’s eyes never left him as he smiled and laughed his way into taking an extra pear from the young woman who gave him the extra bread.

 “An acquired taste, but I assure you he’d a good egg,” Meade said, pulling John’s attention back to the last of his meal. “He’s probably the smartest person in the army, including General Washington.”

 John caught Hamilton walking backward out of the mess tent with a wink to the women at the serving stations and doubted very much that a man like that could surprise him.

“Come on, I’ll walk you out to the inn, make sure you’re settled.” Meade stood and placed his hat atop his head. “It’s decent accommodation over there. Savor it, my friend, you’ll be living on a straw mattress on the bottom bunk until we move for winter camp.”

Once settled in the single room of the inn, John dug through his belongings for his stationary to write the promised letter to his father. So far, this journey wasn’t what he was hoping for, but tomorrow looked promising with the appointment scheduled to accept him into service. He was sure his education and experience would be just what General Washington needed. If he did end up working alongside that Hamilton fellow as Meade said, he’d be able to teach that man a little bit of tack. Show him how a man from Southern Society—like General Washington himself—should act.

[secretly-tword-obsessed]

Time Is Tickling

Request from @duckymcdoorknob

Fandom: Hamilton

Prompt: Laughing in French

Hope you enjoy!

Lafayette loved to wreck people.

He was a natural at tickling, his favourite victims being Hamilton and Herc. Every time Hamilton said something that could be interpreted as ‘dumb’  or ‘grumpy’, Laf turned to the magic of his fingers to make him withdraw his statement. Most of the time, Lafayette wouldn’t even have to touch Hamilton, as his smirk and threatening wiggling fingers were enough to get Hamilton giggling sheepishly and surrendering. It wasn’t as easy with his boyfriend Herc, as he wasn’t as squirmishly ticklish, but a well aimed poke to his belly meant the end for him. 

And you may be wondering where he got these ler skills from. After all, he was an immigrant, gay revolutionary who spoke English as his second language, you would think he had more important things to worry about. 

Well, his fingers were a big part of it. They were long and skinny and were capable of both light traces and firm touches. But that wasn’t all. 

Another big part of it was an experience that took place in his earliest days with the Hamilsquad. This was back when he wasn’t yet the best at English. He could speak fluently, but still messed up on quite a few words, anarchy being one of them. On that particular day, he was tired and wanted to leave the bar, but a very drunk Hamilton wanted to stay back. 

“Come on”, he’d urged, “Time is tickling”.

The other three men looked at him in confusion, before they burst into laughter. Lafayette, confused, asked them what they were laughing about.

“Ticking”, Laurens said, “The word is ticking”.

Lafayette shrugged, “That's what I said, tickling”.

The group erupted into laughter again, and Lafayette also noticed that in addition to the three men laughing, Hamilton had a strong red coat of blush going from his cheekbones to his neck. 

“Come on guys, what's so funny?”

“You have the wrong word”, Alexander squeeked.

“Wrong word? What wrong word?”.

Hamilton chuckled, “Lafayette, there is a difference between ticking and tick-”

Suddenly, Hamilton stopped speaking. He looked down to the floor, his blush going darker. 

Laurens chuckled, “Oh come on man! Don’t tell me you can’t say tickle!”

And that was when it hit Laf: tickling and ticking. 

“Ohhh”, he said, “Yeah guys, you were right. I meant to say, ‘Time is ticking’“.

But the other men weren’t focused on him now. Instead, they were cooing at Alexander.

“Wow, you can’t even say the word?”

“Shut Up”.

“I’ll make you shut up!”.

That was when Laurens tackled Hamilton over and started wrecking him. It was a gorgeous sight to Laf; two men, laughing together, rolling around, play fighting. It than occurred to Lafayette that he hadn’t seen anybody be wrecked since he was a young child. At that moment, Lafayette took an immediate interest in tickling. After weeks and weeks of watching and observing Hamilton being wrecked by Laurens, he gathered all of the knowledge he needed to be a good ler himself. When he first started joining in with the tickling, it was quite a surprise, but the group got used to it and, after weeks of witnessing his tickling skills, crowned Lafayette the Squad Tickle Monster. That was around the time he started dating Herc. 

And now they were here, at The Place To Be bar, and Lafayette was wrecking Hamilton. 

“Nohohoho stohohohop!”

“Stop? Stop what?”

Hamilton practically screamed, his laughter bucking up as Lafayette dug into his hip bones. 

“Okay”, Laurens said, intervening, “Thats enough. I’d rather have a living boyfriend than a dead one”. 

Lafayette chuckled, “Fine, but that remark was pathetic”.

Hercules kissed Laf’s cheek, “I know your my boyfriend Laffy, but sometimes I think you can be a little too mean to my friends”.

“Pffft, mean? Hamilton was practically asking for it, we all know how much he loooves being tickled”.

Hamilton winced softly. Laurens wrapped an arm around his boyf. “Relax Hamilton, I’ll protect you from this evil man”, he said, gesturing to Lafayette.

“You think you have it bad, I’m his boyfriend. I’m not even that ticklish, and yet he still manages to tear me to pieces every morning!”, Herc stated.

Lafayette laughed cockily, “Well, what are you gonna do about it huh?”

The men pondered this for a moment. They all knew that Laf wasn’t ticklish, unless....

“Lafayette, have you got any secret tickle spots we haven’t tried?”, Laurens asked inocently.

“Well”, Herc said, “Iv’e gone for all of the commonly ticklish places: The feet, the armpits, the belly, the neck”.

“Have you tried his knees?”, Hamilton asked. Lafayette snickered, he knew that that was one of Alex’s worst spots.

Laurens turned to Herc, “Based on that reaction, I don’t think he’s ticklish there”.

“Hold up a second”, Herc said, before gently nudging Laf to the floor and sitting on his stomach, pinning him, “I wanna try this”.

Herc started gently squeezing Lafayette’s knees. 

And that was when he felt it.

An electric current, traveling from his knees to his whole body, urging his mouth to let out a shriek of laughter. It couldn’t be....was he actually ticklish?

He barked out a laugh, not being able to say anything. He hadn’t felt this feeling since he was little, he’s almost forgotten how bubbly yet unbearable it was.

Hercules’ eyes widened, stopping the squeeze, “No way! Could it be, my evil tickle monster boyfriend is ticklish?”

Lafayette could hardly believe it himself. He suddenly regretted all his cockiness and sassiness from earlier. He looked around the room to see that everyone was smirking cheekily. Uh-oh. 

“Well, well, well”, Alexander said, crouching down beside Herc, “It’s about time you got a taste of your own medicine!”.

At that moment, he felt two sets of hands squeezing a and tickling his upper legs and knees. He couldn’t help but collapse into loud, hearty laughter. 

“Boy, looks like the tables have turned on you Gilly!”, Hamilton remarked, drilling his thumbs into his hips, mimicking Laf’s actions from earlier. This caused the man to double over in laughter, squirming harder and cackling louder.

“NOHOHOHO!”

“What is it little Laf? Can you not take what you dish out?”.

Since when was Hamilton such a tease!

Laurens walked over to the other three, whipping out his phone and taking pictures.

“No!”, Lafayette cried, squealing as Herc got a perfectly aimed poke to his thigh, “Do not post those!”. 

“Sorry”, Laurens said, “It’s already on the group chat. Breaking news: the worlds greatest tickler is ticklish himself!”. 

This caused the three men to laugh, giving them less energy to precisely aim the tickles, causing them to stop. 

Lafayette panted, though Herc didn’t move a muscle. 

The three men looked down at him evilly once again. Hercules leaned down and kissed his cheek, “Your adorable baby”.

This made Laf blush. 

“Who wouldv’e known!”, Laurens remarked, “He even laughs in French!”

The three men laughed. Lafayette rolled his eyes, “Shut up”.

“Okay”, Herc said, closing his mouth and letting his fingers talk instead.

“NOHOHOHOHAHAH!”

“There it is, that sweet French laughter”, Hercules teased.

Now, you would think that after this event Lafayette would resign his role as the group tickle monster. However, nothing could be further from the truth. He continued tickling, despite the fact that he got tickled back every time. 

It was obvious: Lafayette enjoyed the receiving end of tickling as much as he enjoyed the giving end. 

[wannabe-fic-writer]

All Over Again - Chapter 3

Summary: What was lost can be found. 

Warning: 18+ Smut, Language, Violence. 

Ch. 2

* * * * * *

Breathing heavily, you run your hand along the rifle, watching as it glows red. You then peek around the corner, calculating your next moves, and counting the number of enemies ahead. 

The new plan of action quickly falls to pieces when a dash of red goes by from the corner of your eye. Natasha leaps over the desk she used for cover, intent on charging the guy ahead of her, not paying attention to the other guy emerging from the shadows of the hallways to her left. 

You take off, pushing yourself over the desk, and tackling Natasha behind yet another one just as shots are fired from both men. 

She quirks an eyebrow, smirking just a little,“ got my back like always huh Y/Ln.”

Resisting the urge to curse, you just punch the ground beside her in frustration. Pushing yourself up and shooting focused, power imbued, bullets at the last two guys. 

Natasha sighs and follows after you as you head further into the building. 

Of course after that incredible day spent in NC, you come back to find out Bucky is no longer available for your mission, so Steve assigns Natasha. Maintaining your professionalism, you didn’t make any complaints. . . out loud. So now you’re in Canada with the woman. 

“Data retrieved, prepare for extraction.” You speak into the coms, pocketing the drive. 

Tense filled silence surrounds yourself and Natasha as you head to the extraction point. She’s mentally facepalming herself for screwing up. As if she wasn’t already on your bad side, now you’re annoyed with her for making a mistake. 

When the jet doors open, you let her in first, and she heads to the front of the ship with Steve. You opt to sit at the back. No longer needing to be off radar, you pull your phone out, an onslaught of messages coming in. 

Hey Y/n! - Wan

Before you go off radar, can you tell me what I’m supposed to wear tonight? - Wan 

You chuckle and shake your head, quickly telling her hi and to wear something formal. Then going to the other messages you have. All from Miss Luthor. 

Hi - Lena

Y/n hi, again. I realized you’re probably doing super important Avenging. Lmk when you get this. - Lena

You reply with a message received, a subconscious smile on your face. Seeing as you didn’t expect it or know why it’s there, you can’t fight it. 

Great. I was wondering when you’d be free to come back to NC. - Lena

Aside from debriefing and your plans tonight with Wanda, you aren’t sure what you have to do. But you also know you can’t just get up and go to NC. As much as you wish you could. So you tell her you’ll let her know and she quickly sends back a smile and thumbs up. 

When the jet lands you’re the first off of it and heading to the meeting room for debriefing. Steve meets you and Natasha there with the mission files. 

“How did it go?” He asks, eyeing you and the redhead. 

The woman stiffens beside you, ready to open her mouth to say something when you speak,“ just as planned Cap.” You slide the drive across the table.“ We collected the data without any injuries.”

After explaining a few more things in detail Steve ends the debriefing, taking the drive and walking out. You’re just about to follow when Natasha speaks up.

“Why didn’t you tell him about my mess up?” 

You sigh,“ because if I had we would’ve been here a lot longer. You know you fucked up, train harder, don’t do it again.”

Natasha pushes herself up and comes to stand beside you,“ I know I don’t have a right but I’m begging you to at least act like you still care.” 

“It’s not that I don’t. In fact the problem is that I care too much.” You turn to face her,“ there are times where I still want you. I care about you like you’re still mine. And I feel like shit because you deserve every bit of love that Bruce gives you and more, without my silent dislike of it.” 

The redhead reaches up, resting a hand on your arm,“ and you deserve love too.”

You step away from her touch.“ Look, Natasha, I’m sorry I’ve been acting cold toward you. But you have to understand how hard this is for me.” 

“I know.” She nods. Your relationship was a strong one, could’ve been stronger had she been honest with you. Having that end out of the blue sucked.“ But I don’t know how to make this easier for you. I want us to be friends.”

Friends? 

Friends.

The idea isn’t the worst thing ever. But being friends means hanging out. Which will most definitely include Bruce. You don’t really have anything against the man. He didn’t do anything. And quite frankly, you wouldn’t mind having Natasha back in your life, in a good way. 

You just aren’t sure if you’re ready for that at this particular point in time. 

“I can’t say I won’t ever be ready for that, just not now.” 

Natasha refrains from placing her hand on your arm again,“ you will tell me when you are right?” 

For the first time in years, you smile at Natasha and the woman can’t help but smile as well,“ I can. Or we can just hang out, they say actions speak louder than words right?” 

All that being said, you nod to her, and leave out. Heading towards your room. 

“Y/n!” 

Your gaze snaps up from the floor to find Wanda. 

The young woman stands at her door, a black knee length dress fitting to her form nicely, and her curled hair pulled into a ponytail. 

“Wan!” Going over to her, you take her hand in yours.“ You look great.” 

A light blush hits her cheeks and she smiles down at the ground,“ thank you.” She chuckles softly then looks back up.

“Give me a minute to clean up and we can go.” You tell her as you take a few backwards steps down the hall.“ Wait for me in the commons yeah?” 

She nods and you disappear into your room. 

After a shower you get dressed and do your hair, making sure you have everything you need before leaving out. 

Meeting up with Wanda, you tell everyone you’ll see them later, and you both leave. 

“So,” Wanda speaks up as you slide into the driver's seat,“ I never had a chance to ask: how did your trip to National City go?”

A smile forms on your lips at the reminder of the one day trip and you tell Wanda about it. Admittedly she has no idea what half the stuff you tell her even means, but she loves seeing how happy you are. She hated not having you around but if it meant you staying this happy, she wouldn’t have a second thought about you going out there again. 

In fact, she’s quick to ask when/if you’ll go back. While you plan to, you just aren’t sure when.

Before heading to the theater, you stop at the Stark’s. Tony has Morgan bring the tickets out to you (he got them for you after you told him that you endorsed Stark Industries to Lena). You and Wanda have a short conversation with the girl. Waiting for her to get back inside before you pull off. 

Wanda’s excitement for seeing the play kicks in on the drive to the theater. She asks you to tell her everything you know about Alexander Hamilton, to which you tell her that if you do, you’re spoiling the whole play. 

And she’s glad you didn’t.

The whole time she’s dancing in her seat and watching on in intrigue. She starts getting excited when certain “characters” come on stage. 

By the time it’s over she already has songs stuck in her head. Singing along to them on your way to dinner. 

“I am not throwing away my shot! I am not-” the lyrics fall short as she looks out the window.“ Where are we?” 

“A restaurant. You hungry right?” 

She smiles at you when you open the door for her and together you walk inside. 

You have to ask what her favorite part of the play was and she launches into telling you about it. Apparently she loved Lafayette. Hamilton’s crew in general was awesome. And she just has to know if that’s what really happened. You hate to tell her it wasn’t nearly as exciting and that there was a lot less music. 

You laugh when she tells you real history sucks and you have to agree.

Over dinner you ask about her. To which she tells you that she’s good and considering going to Clint’s for the holiday. The man truly cares for Wanda. She admits that it’s almost like having an older brother with hints of a father figure. You get that brother vibe from Clint, but being the same age takes away from the father aspect of it. 

With it getting late, you pay and leave, not heading back to the compound until you’ve gotten dessert(ice cream per Wanda’s request).

You find yourself shushing Wanda when you get back. The woman can’t seem to not sing the songs. But the majority of the team is probably sleeping or getting ready to and the disturbance probably isn’t welcomed. 

“Wan please it’s late.”

The Captain’s voice speaks up, startling you and Wanda,“ I take it you two had fun.” 

Wanda nods excitedly and tells Steve he has to see it. Steve tells her he just might.

“Hey Cap,” you stop short on the way out and turn to the blonde man,“ am I assigned to any missions over the next month or so?” 

His brows pinch together in thought, then he shakes his head.“ No you’re not. Got another trip?” 

You chuckle softly,“ yeah probably, but I’m always on call.” 

Nodding in understanding, he bids you and Wanda a good night. The two of you heading to your room, Wanda saying she doesn’t want to be alone tonight. She’s out in an instant and you ease into the bed after her. 

Before you go to sleep, you text Lena, telling her that you’d be happy to come down for a bit in a couple of days. 

That time passes quickly. All of it you spend with the team. They hate that you won’t be around on Thanksgiving so they implement an impromptu movie night. In which you’re allowed to pick the movie. 

Funnily enough you end up between Wanda and Natasha for the night and while you’re a little tense, since your last talk you don’t feel entirely upset about being so close to the ex-assassin. 

The day of, You and Wanda leave at the same time, her heading down to Clint’s, and you to the airport. Outside the compound you part ways, a long hug and a promise to call left between you. 

As expected it’s chaotic as hell getting through the airport with everyone traveling for the holiday. Over the flight you find yourself coming up with designs for the power saw. By the time you land you think you have a pretty decent idea for it. 

This time around, you’re let up to Lena’s office when you get to Luthor Corp. The space is impressive but not nearly as much as the labs.

“All work no play Miss Luthor?”

Lena looks up from her desk and smiles instantly at the sight of you leaning into the room,“ work hard so you can play harder Miss Y/Ln.” 

You point inside and she nods. Her office has a great view of National City. Despite the cloudy sky, it still looks nice out. Lights from other skyscrapers scattering the view almost like twinkling stars. 

“How long have you been here?” You ask, turning from the floor to ceiling windows to the clock. 

The brunette shrugs,“ got in at eight.”

It’s currently nine, p.m.“ You’ve taken a couple breaks right?” Her silence is answer enough. Walking around the desk, you lean on it and lock your gaze with her green eyes.“ Why don’t you head home and we meet up tomorrow.” 

Her gaze snaps up to yours,“ why?”

“Because it’s been thirteen hours and you’ve been working nonstop. I’m not going to be the reason you end up exhausted Lena.”

She sighs, knowing you’re right, but still wanting to spend at least a little time with you.“ Okay. You’re right. How about dinner?” 

“How about you go get some sleep?” 

“We’ll do it at my place. I relax and we both eat.” 

The two of you stare at each other with narrowed eyes. Determination swirls in those green ones and you can’t help but chuckle at it.

Standing up straight you nod,“ fine fine. Dinner at your place.” 

Lena smiles satisfactorily and makes quick work of packing her things up and leaving. Instead of a car service, Lena walks you out to her car. You must admit, you appreciate the simplicity of her black BMW. Only to find that the luxury lies inside with the red leather interior. Suddenly you want one. 

The second she’s sitting you compliment the car and she waves it off, saying she’s had the car for years now. Among having other things in common, you find that you and Lena share similar tastes in music. Which is really a mix of all kinds of genres: Jazz, Pop, R&B, Classic Rock. 

On the way inside her apartment, you end up joking about the last song being stuck in your head.

“Oh wow, this place looks great.” The apartment is similar to her office with the open concept and glass walls. However there is a very homey feel about it, with a combination of colors making the place warm and inviting. 

Lena smiles,“ thank you.” Moving into the kitchen, she pulls out two menus, both of which she orders from constantly.“ Thai or Mediterranean?” 

Thinking for a second you agree to Thai. Then joining her in the kitchen to choose a meal and accept the glass of scotch. 

“So, have you given any thought to the power saw?” 

“Aht aht, nope.” Lena raises a brow at your response.“ You just came from work, you really want to talk about more work?” 

A laugh falls from her lips,“ no I suppose not.”

You nod,“ as I thought. Without overstepping can I ask how things have been outside of your career?”

With a nod she beckons you to the living room, the two of you sitting on the couch,“ I’d love to tell you it’s been great but really, I’m far too invested in my career to focus on my personal life.” 

“I’m afraid that’s not very healthy Miss Luthor.” Your tone is teasing but you’re serious. 

She chuckles,“ I’m aware. But finding the time is a struggle.”

After a sip of your drink, you set the glass on a coaster on the table,“ not about finding the time, it’s already there. It’s about making the time. Thing is, work will always be there, and not to get dark but, you can’t guarantee that the people you love always will.”

Green eyes watch the emotions flickering through e/c and Lena knows immediately that you’re speaking from experience. If she had to guess, she’d say it was your dad. When you spoke of him at dinner the first time you came there was distance in your voice.

Before she can ask about it though, you add,“ besides I’m sure there are plenty of people dying for a bit of your time.” 

She tilts her head, expression of disagreement.

Noticing, you say,“ then allow me to be the first.”

Her jaw slackens and she’s ready to comment on your words but the buzzer sounds.

“I got it.” You pat the couch, pushing yourself up and fishing your wallet out. 

Lena still sits there, wondering if your statement was meant to be as flirty and suggestive as it sounded. Because her heart definitely reacted to it that way. 

It’s fluttering, a feeling she hadn’t had in quite some time. 

“He gave us a bunch of fortune cookies.” 

Your eyes are trained inside the bag as she looks at you, a smile pulling at the excitement in your voice. 

Suddenly she can’t help but see you in a different light. She saw how attractive you were before, sure. But it’s now a lot more than your looks and science knowledge that has her taken by you. 

With the containers spread out on the table, you and Lena start to eat. Conversation between the two of you light.

God you’re hilarious. And was that laugh been that cute last time, she finds herself asking(mentally).  

She washes her last bite down with a sip of wine and looks at you,“ how long will you be staying this time?” 

“I planned for at least a week, but I’m always on call with the team.”

The CEO smirks and raises her eyebrows,“ I get you for a whole week this time. And Thanksgiving.” 

Even if you tried you couldn’t fight the heat rushing to your face. Much like Lena just had, you wonder if she meant that flirtatiously. 

You laugh a little,“ if that isn’t a problem of course.” 

“I don’t see how it ever could be.” 

Over the next two days, ending the night like this seems to be a little routine. You go into Luthor Corp with Lena and hang around while she attends to company matters during the early hours of the day, the two of you work on the core and saw for a few hours, and then you have dinner together. 

Until tonight that is. You still spend the first half of the day like before, however as you two are working on the core security lets Lena know a friend of hers is here. So you both go up to her office, where Kara is waiting. 

The blonde smiles at Lena brightly, that same smile then directed to you,“ Y/n it’s great to see you again.” 

“Likewise.” You accept the hug she gives after pulling away from Lena.

“How’ve you been?” 

Nodding your head, you decide to just shrug,“ alright. In need of this little vacation that’s for sure. But what about you?”

The blonde’s smile is incredibly contagious. She pushes her glasses up her nose,“ great. I’m actually here to see if Lena will be joining us for game night.” The look on her friend’s face has Kara telling you,“ which you are more than welcome to join.” 

“Oh um,” e/c eyes flicker from Kara to Lena and back,“ I really don’t want to intrude.”

Lena waves it off, ignoring Kara’s curious look,“ game night is for friends, old and new.” 

It takes a few more persuasive words from the women, and a promise of good food before you give in. 

That’s how you find yourself in Kara’s apartment for the first time. Winn is the first person to approach you, hesitant about giving you a hug but you open your arms for it. 

“Y/n,” Alex approaches you,“ you’re joining us tonight?”

“If that’s okay.”

Lena and Kara frown at you then Alex. They’re wondering if you’d leave if Alex said she didn’t want you here. And you would. This isn’t your space. But you don’t have to.

Alex smiles a little,“ it’s fine, great even. I need a new partner since Olsen has fallen off.” She raises an eyebrow,“ drink?”

You nod and follow after her,“ what’ve you got?”

With your drink in hand, you go over into the living room where everyone is. Alongside greeting all the people you’d met the first time, you meet Mon-El. 

“Pleasure to meet you.” You shake his hand and the guy smiles.

He returns the sentiment,“ these guys told me about your last visit.”

“Uh-oh.” 

The friends around you laugh at your reaction. 

James shakes his head,“ nothing bad.”

“Yeah no,” Winn adds,“ we had fun last time.”

Smiling, you tell them,“ me too.” And you have fun this time as well. 

Quickly discovering that this group is competitive. Being on Alex’s team has you striving to win. The amount of high fives she gives you has your hand red but you love that you’re both dominating in charades right now. 

“Hey woah no!” Alex exclaims and you’re right there with her, shouting,“ you’re mouthing words James!”

“Exactly!” Alex smacks your arm with the back of her hand.

Kara looks from you and her sister, a laugh on her lips, and sees Lena. The blonde follows Lena’s gaze to you, for seemingly the hundredth time tonight. 

“Lena, mind helping me with these?” The closest excuse she has to getting the woman alone and she takes it.

The two pick up the empty snack bowls and carry them into the kitchen. At Lena’s side, Kara notices that she continues to glance over at you.

Playfully bumping Lena’s shoulder with hers, she says,“ this explains why you rescheduled lunch the other day. Didn’t want to waste a second of Y/n’s visit huh?”

The CEO’s eyes widen,“ I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yes you do. You like her. I’ve seen it every time you looked at her tonight.” The blonde leans down a little to catch Lena’s eyes,“ what changed and when?” 

She could try to deny this statement, but looking over at you and the way you throw your head back with laughter, she can’t.“ The day she came back. We ate dinner together at my apartment and I don’t know-” she shrugs with a soft smile.

A quiet squeal of excitement leaves Kara,“ this is great. I’m so happy for you Lena.” 

“For what there’s nothing going on between us. It’s just a crush.” 

“Right now maybe, but if you tell her how you feel. . .” Kara trails off, knowing the brunette can fill in the blank herself. 

While she knows there’s a chance you do in fact like her, there’s also a chance she’s just reading too much into small things. You could just be being friendly. 

Giving Kara a pointed look, Lena says,“ Y/n and I are just friends.” The words don’t reach her heart though and as she carries the refilled bowls back over to the living room, she knows that statement isn’t very believable.

* * * * * *

Taglist: @username23345​ @depressed-bi-bitch​ @fayhar​ @trikruismybitch​ @aznblossom​

[out-there-so-it-isnt-just-me]

Hey guys...I have an idea if you aren't sad enough yet. I was struck by a painful comparison sort of crossover idea. It would never be canon, but  I'm mourning the end of Campaign Two, and I want to be sad and over-dramatic. Essek, but as Eliza from Hamilton in “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story.” But, it’s for the entire Mighty Nien. Some of the lyrics are so on point for a poor Essek who will probably outlive all of his friends (Elves still generally live longer than Firbolgs by a good 200 years). Anyway, enjoy.

MN

Every other founding father's story gets told

It occurs to Essek, during one of the many periods without one of the Mighty Nein (the time that he dwells on them the most), how unfair their whole situation is. They saved all of Exandria, and no one knows. They are amazing, and odd, and frustrating, and no one knows. They will die loved deeply, but not widely. He knows they prefer it that way, all things considered. But, everyone else who saves all of Exandria becomes legends, while the people he loves best will be forgotten, remembered only by him.

And that. That sounds unbearable. 

So, in-between the times he sees the Mighty Nein, he begins to gather accounts. He writes down stories from those they helped, or simply left an impression on.  The people who have met the Mighty Nein have an air about them that he gets good at detecting. They attracted the oddballs and the outcasts. And if they're entirely normal (whatever that means), then they usually get a certain twitch if you ask for stories about interesting strangers. About half the time, a certain blue tiefling pops up in them. He almost has a heart attack when he hears  “go fuck yourself,” in Jester’s cheerful voice, when he knows Jester isn’t anywhere near there. He ends up getting the kenku’s story, and the voices of his friends are weaved into it. Essek thinks the Mighty Nein are the best people in the world, in their own rambunctious way. Part of him wants the world to love them as he does, or at least have the option to. Everyone should have a chance to get to know them, even if it's just through tales. The world would be a better place for it.

...And when you're gone, who remembers your name?

Who keeps your flame? 

Who tells your story?

Who tells your story?

Who tells your story?

Once there is only him and Caduceus left, this becomes a more prominent part of how he spends his time. After...after a long, long period of mourning. He has so much life left to live without most of the people who made it worth living.

I put myself back in the narrative

I stop wasting time on tears

I live another 50(0) years

He stops hiding his past and bears his sins and his story to the world. Essek tells his story so their story can be appreciated to the fullest; his part in their story emphasizes the depth of their compassion and chaos. He tells his story, but not as himself. Essek continues to drift from town to town under a vast number of aliases. Everywhere he goes, he spreads his stories of his friends, some serious, most silly. He disguises himself so he can stay alive to do a little more good, tell a few more stories, to truly live the life his friends wanted for him.

...I try to make sense of your thousands of pages of writings

You really do write like you're running out of time.

Eventually, he gets his hands on some of Beau’s journals, Jester’s diaries, and Caleb’s research. Well, he always had the research, but he gets to the point where he can share it with the world. He slowly begins to share and explain their thoughts and personalities with excerpts from those. Maybe he also has letters that he shares parts of (though most of those, those words specifically for him, he keeps to himself, for himself). He wonders if they'd be angry at him for spilling their private thoughts. But neither Beau nor Jester filtered their thoughts very much in the first place, and he keeps anything truly painful out of the public eye. Caleb, well, Caleb was always about sharing his knowledge and research, provided it wasn't dangerous. And they were all dead anyway.  One of the last things they told him was to be happy. And talking about his friends, learning more about his friends even after they were long dead, that made him the happiest he'd been in a while. So he hoped they wouldn’t begrudge him this small joy he’d managed to grasp and forgive him, should it be necessary.

I rely on Angelica

While she's alive, we tell your story

She is buried in Trinity Church near you

When I needed her most, she was right on time

Caduceus isn’t particularly interested in being well known or famous, but he never shies away from telling a story about any of his friends. Plus, he thinks it’s a good project for Essek. It's a way to continue to show his love for them and keep them alive in the only way they can be now. When Caduceus eventually passes away, he joins the eight other graves (Veth refused to be buried apart from Yeza) that lay in a tucked-away corner of the Blooming Grove. There is one space left, nestled between where Caleb and Jester lay, but it will be empty for a long time yet.

And I'm still not through

I ask myself, what would you do if you had more time...

...You could have done so much more if you only had time

And when my time is up, have I done enough?

Will they tell your story?

He keeps adding to his tale; he stretches it longer and longer with every shred he can remember. But, even his memory, as long as it is, runs out eventually. And their story finally ends, but he doesn't. He throws himself into activities that remind him of them. He does a lot of gardening ( mostly tea, poisonous plants, and flowers). He teaches children some rudimentary dunamancy in his spare time, for Caleb. He messes around with alchemy a little. Eventually, he publishes the last of the research that he and Caleb worked on together; ones that took him decades to solve by himself. He even finds himself drawing a surprising amount of dicks on random surfaces near the very end.

Oh, can I show you what I'm proudest of?

...I help to raise hundreds of children

I get to see them growing up

The time that doesn’t go towards his now worrying amount of hobbies, he spends doing what he has done since the beginning: caring for the Mighty Nien’s true legacy. He looks after and visits their children. He takes care of descendants of Luc, of Jester and Fjord, of the random teenager that Beau and Yasha seemed to adopt completely on accident, of TJ, of the Clays, and of a lovechild of Kingsley’s that found out who his father was and then somehow found Essek himself to learn about him. In an embarrassing show of sentimentality, Essek always keeps at least one offspring of Caleb's very first cat. There is a very funny story about Caleb thinking the animal was spayed when it was, in fact, not. He visits the different generations every couple of years or so (he has a schedule). The drow makes sure they know the stories of their ancestors, the adventures of the Mighty Nien; he tells them it's all real. He gives them ways to contact him if they’re in danger, or need any kind of help really ( he has funds to spare at this point). Every once in a while, a few of them will get it in their heads to write him yearly updates. It’s nice.

In their eyes, I see you, Alexander

I see you every time

And when my time is up

Have I done enough?

Will they tell your story?

It is strange and painful to see the attitude and mannerisms of the Nein in the descendants who have never met them. It is wonderful too. His stories of the Mighty Nein have become well-known tales that no one can decide how much is truth and how much is fiction (it’s true, it’s all somehow, hilariously true). He preserved them in his own way, in the right way (time travel is something he thinks of with a growing hunger the more years pass between when he last laid eyes on his friends). But in these men, these women, these children, they are truly alive.

One little half-orc girl has Jester’s mischievous eyes and infectious joy. Another halfling man squints just like Veth when she's trying to figure out if someone is bullshitting her. There’s a boy who charmingly bumbles his way through most social encounters, as Fjord did. A firbolg woman who has Caduceus gentle smile. A tiefling girl with all the audacious bravado of Kingsley. A man with eyes just as piercing as Beau’s, and a tongue just as sharp. Even Yasha’s kind and gentle demeanor somehow shines through in one small boy, despite her having no direct descendants. He gets to see these flashes of his friends in those who survive them, and it thrills him as much as it cuts him. (Sometimes, when the current cat has ruined some item of his, the pleased look it wears resembles the quiet glee Caleb exuded after he pulled a successful prank, but he’s pretty sure that’s just fanciful thinking.)

One of the last things Essek does before he dies is fully publish, in print, the entire tale of the Mighty Nein. How they came together, every person they helped along the way. The love, the loss, the kindness, the chaos, every moment he could recall or record was put into this one account (necessarily stretched out into several separate books). There is only one set, and he hands it over to the Library of the Cobalt Soul in Rexxentrum. Then he goes on his lonely way.

Oh, I can't wait to see you again

It's only a matter of time

There are now ten graves, each one as unique as its owner, nestled in a small corner of the Blooming Grove. One grave has the dirt still fresh around it. And somewhere, beyond the Divine Gate, there are cheers and laughs and cries of joy as the Mighty Nien become the Mighty Nine once more.

fin.

MN

It’s my head-canon that by the time Essek dies he’s practically a mythical figure among the select families he looks after. It's  to the point that in certain locations ( that have a lot of Nein remnants) he becomes a local legend, the guardian angel of nien (no spelling specified and with no real distinction of what that means), with skin like the night sky who drifts (literally) through towns and helps those who meet a certain requirement, unknown to the general populus. There are rumors that certain people have bestowed upon them a token they could use to call upon the angel’s aid. Of course, the people who have the tokens (sending stones or something similar. IDK how he would get that many wondrous items, but I focus on satisfying narrative not, like, plausibility) know Essek and know that he has died and that the tokens no longer work, but for a while they keep them as heirlooms, to show the love of one drow wizard for the friends he had long, long ago. Eventually, one of Veth’s descendants sells off their set because sending stones are worth A LOT, and the money seemed more practical. They have their stories; those are enough. 

And before anyone complains about the Kingsley bit, I felt compelled to add a smidgen of Kingsley content because Essek loves Jester and Jester’s with Fjord and Kingsley is with both of them for years. I’m sure they get to know each other well enough that seeing traits of Kingsley is vaguely nostalgic and warming, even if it lacks the depth and love he feels for everyone else. Also, there’s no convincing me that Molly/Kingsley doesn’t have at least one illegitimate child running around from various trysts, he was basically the Scanlan of this campaign. It goes with the hedonistic vibe he gives off.

Also, is it normal that I completely designed the Nein’s burial site in my head because I did? Like I imagine they’re all spaced out in a circle. It’s almost like a stone gazebo but there’s not really a roof; it’s just a group of nine pillars that support a stone circle. The entrance is the Traveler’s door with dicks around the edge, and each of the nine pillars/supports is designed to look the knowing mistresses staff. The stone circle is covered in carvings of storm clouds and lightning. Wires are strung across the center of the stone circle to form the symbol of the Cobalt Soul. Not that you can see the wires, because vines have been grown all around them. Once you step through the Traveler’s gate, you’ll find yourself on some kind of rough mosaic floor, with depictions of a peacock, a pyramid, a snake, a sun, a moon, and (oddly) a pirate ship. The mosaic is made up of buttons of various materials and shapes. In the center is a saltwater pool/spring (depending on how magical we can get idk) and floating above it is an eternal flame encased in some sort of dunamancy magic that doesn’t  actually exist that keeps it floating and eternal. Look I'm running out of ideas.

I can’t imagine what everyone’s grave marker would be, but I’m pretty sure Yasha’s is a simple stone that says "YASHA NYDOORIN: wife of Zuella and Beauregard Lionette," and the place where’s she’s buried is just covered in wildflowers that spread outside of the gazebo to encircle the structure entirely up to the gate. Also, everyone has a stone tarot card by their grave with the picture and designation that Molly gave them. Beyond that grows a weirdly dense thicket of trees and bushes that make finding the Nein's resting place rather hard. It’s said only the descendants of the Nein’s family or those favored by the Wildmother (or Traveler, Or Ioun, or Storm Lord) can find their way to them. And one tree, directly behind Yasha, is dead, struck by lightning who knows how long ago. 

And they’re buried in this order: Yeza/Veth, Caleb, Essek, Jester, Ford, Kingsley, Yasha, Beau, Cad. I know there’s a good chance that a) Kingsley would just eff off and die somewhere unknown and b) Cad would probably want to be buried with the rest of his family, but shhh let me dream.

[monoxidecahedron]

home is where the heart is- jamilmads

I have, in fact, been writing! Have some Jamilmads. I’m working on Wings Of Privilege, I promise, but in the meantime here’s this. TW for alcohol/drunkenness

Thomas sighed. He’d gone to the bar to relax, not to deal with his very inebriated coworker, but here he was, standing outside with a drunk Alexander Hamilton leaning on him. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get you home.” 

“Home is where the heart is,” Alexander muttered. Thomas just shook his head. 

“Well, where do you sleep at night, then?” Alexander just turned away, ignoring him. “You’re my home,” he said, barely audible. Thomas froze. 

“You’re drunk,” he said, more to himself than to Alex. No. Alex didn’t mean it that way. Besides, James was waiting for him at home, loyal like he’d always been, steady and unyielding and always there. And yet here Thomas was, hoping Alex did mean it that way. 

After some prodding and a lot of nonsense on Alex’s part, it became clear that he was not going to tell Thomas where he lived. So he hauled Alex into the backseat of his car and set the route to his and James’ flat, the monotone “route set for Home” ringing in the quiet. As blurred lights flashed by the windows, beacons among the general darkness of the night, Alex was silent, seemingly thinking. Thomas took this time to get his thoughts in order.

He did love James, he really did. Truly. But- Alex. Alex with his fiery passion, his never-ending energy, the way something inside him seemed to spark when he fought, the way his words flowed, powerful and moving, even though the power was often directed against him. It was a dilemma he never seemed to be able to solve. On the one hand, there was James, cool and collected, a steady presence always near him, quiet but strong in its own way. On the other hand, there was Alexander, whirlwind of fire and fury, always moving, always climbing towards something, leaving everyone in the dust. Except Thomas. Thomas could keep up. Thomas was the one who was challenging him constantly, pushing his limits, one foot on the ground next to James and the other chasing Alex. 

The light turned red and Thomas braked. It had started raining, and the windows were blurred with water, a soft pattering sound indicating raindrops landing on the car. “You’re in love,” Alex said.

“Well of course, I’ve always been in love with James,” he responded, although his chest tightened as he shoved aside his feelings for Alex. The man in the backseat scrunched up his face.

 “No, with me,” he said. Thomas twisted in his seat to face him. 

“What-?” 

“Yeah,” Alex said, in his own world already. “Yeah, you love me. I mean, I wish.” 

“What?” 

“Never mind,” he huffed, crossing his arms. Thomas would have rolled his eyes at the childish behaviour, but he was still stuck on “I wish”. What did he mean? He wished Thomas loved him? That was silly, he thought, because I do love him. Alex gave him a strange look, almost like he was scrutinizing him. “What?” Thomas asked. 

“The light’s turned.” Thomas turned back to see that the light was, indeed, green. 

“Fuck!” The car started moving again.

“Mmmm, yes please,” Alex muttered, eyes closed sleepily. Thomas tried to ignore him and the mental images forming in his head, gripping the wheel tighter and staring determinedly at the road. The harsh swish-swish of the windshield wipers seemed to pierce the silence. Neither of them spoke. 

When they finally arrived at the flat, five minutes later, Thomas pulled an umbrella out of the car’s internal storage (silently thanking James for his constant refrain of ‘you never know’) and opened the door, going around to do the same for Alex. When it clicked open, Alex didn’t move, just sat there, quiet. Thomas sighed, climbing into the backseat and unbuckling Alex, prodding him a little bit. When he still didn’t move, he sighed again and picked him up, pulling him out and closing the door with his foot. Silently he worried about how easy it was to hold the small man in his arms, but he didn’t say anything, carrying him inside instead.

James, who had been sitting at the table inside, looked up immediately as the door swung open. “Thomas, who’s- is that Hamilton?” 

“Iss’ me,” Alex slurred, waving a floppy hand from Thomas’s bridal-style hold. Thomas moved, shutting the door behind him and dropping Alex on the couch. “James!” Alex said, smiling and attempting to get up at the sight of him. “Hi! Hello! It’s been a while since we’ve talked. I miss you!” James winced. 

“You do know it was you who screamed at me and ended our friendship, right?” Alexander’s face fell. 

“Oh. Yeah.” Then he waved a dismissive hand, brightening up again. “Ah well, doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?” James, unimpressed, turned to Thomas. “Why is Hamilton here?” Thomas gave him a guilty smile. “I mean… I went to the bar but he was drunk out of his mind and I couldn’t exactly leave him there?” James sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You absolutely could have left him there! You could have- I don’t know, called a taxi! Call Laurens, if you have to!” Thomas sat down next to him. “Look, I know I probably could have, but-” There was no “but”. He had no idea why he’d brought Alex home. Well, actually. Scratch that. He knew exactly why he’d brought him home. He just didn’t want to admit it, and certainly not to James, his actual partner whom he was committed to, who loved him. James just shook his head. “Well, okay, Tom,” he said, “what do you propose we do?” 

“Me!” Alexander piped up from the couch. 

James blushed. “What?” 

Thomas winced, about to warn him not to engage, but oh well. Alex was already propping himself up, grinning. 

“Fuck me!” he said brightly. 

Thomas put his head in his hands. “Alex, just-”

“What?” Alex said, looking from Thomas to James. “You love me! You said so!” James looked stricken. 

“Thomas- I didn’t- I-” Thomas cut across him. 

“Alexander. Stop. Now,” he said tersely, every muscle tense. 

“Whaaaaaaat?” Alex sang. “I’m drunk! You said so!” James shook his head. 

“We have a guest room. You can stay there. Good night, Thomas.” Thomas watched him walk towards their room. He sighed, looking at Alex and wondering if he was worth James’ disappointment. Alex smiled, blissfully unaware as Thomas scooped him up and dumped him in the guest room. 

~~~

The room is filled with pleasant natural light when Alexander wakes up, streaming in through the curtains and highlighting him where he lies on the bed. His hair is a mess, and he feels terrible, he notices, taking stock of the rest of his body. He blinks his eyes open slowly. He looks up and there stands Thomas, leaning against the doorframe in nothing but a tank top. “Er. Hi,” he says, voice a little broken from sleep. Thomas starts, as if he was caught doing something wrong. “Hey.” Alex blinks again, trying to chase away the fog that seems to weigh down his mind. “So, uh, what happened?” Thomas shifts uncomfortably. Something about his movement triggers a memory, snippets of lights and rain and the scent of Thomas flashing through his mind.

You’re my home.

You love me! You said so!

I mean, I wish.

Fuck. How much damage did he do? 

The answer is evident in Thomas’s uncomfortable expression. “Al- Hamilton, look, I-” He starts to say something, but seems to stop himself, deciding instead to tell him, “James made breakfast for all of us, so…” Alex nods, tells him he’ll be out in a minute, watches him go. Wonders what the hell he can do to fix this. He knows. He knows and he doesn’t like him. Stupid, stupid Alex. All those times his mind wandered, all the times he thought he saw something, all those times James gave him a tiny scrap of attention that he clung to, twisting it in his mind into something more…

“I’m done!” Alex shouts. “I’m done dealing with your shit! Go- go fuck around with Jefferson for all I care!” James gives him a hurt look, but turns away silently and walks off. He was never one for direct confrontation.

Alex watches him go, wondering what he just did.

James walks into the room, following Jefferson in his gaudy magenta suit to a seat across the table, right across from him. It’s like they’re trying to distract him; James with his small smiles and kind eyes, Jefferson with his bright laugh and disarmingly handsome features. 

The meeting starts. Washington is talking about something; he knows it’s important, but he can’t tear his mind away from how Thomas’s arms would feel cradling him, James’ soft lips against his, the two of them cherishing him-

He manages to keep himself together for two weeks, until he rounds a corner and finds James pressed against Thomas, kissing like there’s no tomorrow. So that’s it. This is how it ends, he thinks, sinking down onto his knees in his office, head in his hands, sobbing. That’s it. He doesn’t stand a chance anymore. His competition is Thomas and his competition is James. How could he possibly expect one of them to choose him over the other, when they’re both so obviously perfect?

James pokes his head around the doorway. “Alex? You coming?” Alexander nods numbly, dragging himself up stumbling towards the door. James catches him, and Alex resists the urge to wrap his arms around him and slot himself against James’ warm body. Instead, he pushes him away, leaning on the doorframe and waving James off, insisting he’ll be fine. He won’t be fine, not when he’s just revealed his hand and James will never look at him the way he desperately wishes he would, but he can be alive, at least.

When he enters the main room, he finds Thomas and James sitting at the table, laughing at something he didn’t catch. It’s such a domestic scene and he feels his chest tighten at their familiarity. He and James had that once. Before he can sneak out the door, Thomas notices him and waves him over. “Alex! Glad you finally decided to join us.” Alex draws a chair and sits, staring determinedly down at his scrambled eggs. Maybe if he pretends this didn’t happen, if he ignores them-

“Alexander Hamilton, you are not ignoring us like a child,” James chides. Alex huffs. 

“What. What is it,” he snaps childishly. 

“Well, you said some things yesterday,” James starts, choosing to ignore that, his tone stiff and professional. “We’d rather like it if they were true.” 

“M-hm,” Alex mutters sarcastically. Then his head snaps up as he seems to process the words. “Wait, what?” 

“What he means,” Thomas cuts in, “is that James has been pining hopelessly for you for a while and he dragged me into it too and he wants you to like him back.” James shoots him a look, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “I literally admitted I liked him last night”. Alex just stares at the two of them. “Wait. So. You- you want- me?” 

“Well, yes, that’s the general idea,” Thomas says dryly. Alex nods slowly. 

“Okay. And. Uh. What about- you guys’s relationship?” His eloquence seems to have lost him, Thomas notices, making a mental note to tease him about “you guys’s” later. 

“We were thinking, if you’d like, you could join our pre-existing relationship,” James says. Unlike Alexander, he seems to gain eloquence in awkward or new situations, making him sound awfully like a lawyer. Alex seems to be thinking it over in his chair. 

“I- well, okay, I guess? It’s just, like, a lot? I don’t really- I didn’t expect this,” he says, quickly adding, “it’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that it’s all a lot to take in, I do like you guys, I really do, it’s just it’s a bit much a bit too suddenly.” 

“That’s okay,” Thomas says. “We can take it slower. Start with a date or something.” Now in more comfortable territory, Alex smirks. “Better be something good, prettyboy, or I’m dumping your ass.” 

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. In hindsight, he probably should have recognized that Thomas would have absolutely taken that as a challenge, he thinks, staring openmouthed at the honest-to-god Ferrari that Thomas pulled up in. Said man just grins at him. “C’mon, Hamilton,” he says. “Get in.” 

As Alex pulls the door shut, James glances worriedly at him from the passenger seat. “Are you alright? I told Thomas it was too much but he wouldn’t listen-” 

“I’m fine,” Alex says. “Just- wow.” Thomas smirks, that devastatingly handsome, arrogant expression that Alex goes crazy for. “This fit your definition of  ‘something good?’” 

“I dunno,” he says fake-casually. “I don’t even know where we’re going.” 

“Well, you won’t for a while,” James interjects. “We’ve got a long drive, about forty-five minutes, so buckle up.” 

Forty-five minutes and one date at the pier later, Alexander stands back on his doorsteps, thoroughly tired and happy. Thomas and James insist on walking him to his door, and so there he stands, leaning against Thomas, whose fingers are running through his hair. “Goodnight, Alex,” James says, though he makes no move to go. Alex makes a muffled sound of protest against Thomas’s chest. Thomas laughs. “You have to get to bed, Lex, it’s late,” he says, and Alex can feel the vibrations in his chest. He makes another muffled sound. 

“M’ tired,” he mumbles, pressing his key into James’ hand. “You guys can put me to bed.”

“Alright then,” Thomas says, picking him up as James unlocks the door. It’s dark, and the crickets are chirping, audible even after they enter and shut the door behind them. Alex directs Thomas to his bedroom, and Thomas sets him down gently on the bed. “‘Night,” Alex mutters sleepily. James smiles. “Goodnight, Alexander,” he says. “Goodnight,” Thomas adds. Alexander is already fast asleep.

Yay! 2k of happy Jamilmads! Pleeeease leave a comment I’ll love you forever if you do and reblogs are greatly appreciated! This is your friendly reminder from your local frustrated Tumblr writer that likes do nothing!

~M

[mtherhino]

One side, Two lives

Chapter ten

Is he ok?

First Previous Next

Warnings: slight gore, panicked attack, and mention of eating disorder

Where the heck am I?  Virgil thought as he took in his surroundings. He couldn’t see anything except himself, as I he was standing in a pit of nothingness. He tried to to walk around but the blackness seemed to go on forever so he started to panic. Where a I? How do I get out of here? Where are the others?! Are they here two? I have to find them!

           Suddenly the anxious side heard a scream from behind him in the darkness. That sounds like Roman! He thought. He turned around and there stood Roman, on his knees and grasping at his stomach which confused the other side. Why is he grabbing at his stomach? Never mind I need to get his attention.

“Roman!” Virgil shouted to the other, but the prince didn’t acknowledge him, he didn’t even seem to hear him. This in no way helped Virgils anxiety.

“Roman! Princy can you hear me!” He shouted again, but just like before the creative side didn’t seem to even know he was there. Out of no where Virgil heard a dark chuckle.

He turned his gaze away from the prince and towards the noise. The shape of a person had materialized from the darkness, glimmering in a golden light and having what seemed to be a cape dragging behind him. The whatever it was approached Roman’s fallen from, laughing the whole time.

“You see? Your nothing but a weakling, and theres no place for anything like that here.” Virgil watched in terror as the person drew a sword and used it to tilt Roman’s head up to look at him. The side had tears running down his face and blood leaking from his mouth. Why is he crying? Why is he bleeding!? Virgil thought.

He looked back down to the prince’s hand and saw that the normally pure white outfit was now stained in blood, the red liquid was still spreading rapidly. Virgils eyes grew wide with horror. The golden being ‘tsk’ at the downed side and kicked him in the stomach making him cough up blood. No! Stop! You’re going to kill him! That’s what Virgil wanted to say, but as soon as he tried to scream black tendrils wrapped around his mouth and kept him quite.

Never the less the anxious side tried to run forward to stop everything but he couldn’t. He looked down and his feet where somehow stuck to the ground. He tried to pull himself free but it became clear that it was no use. He looked back at the scene in front of him and saw the figure start to raise his sword.

“You really are worthless. You’re just a pathetic excuse for a side, a useless nothing, and you’re especially no hero.” As the thing said that, it swung it sword down.

“ROMAN!”

           Virgil jolted up from his bed, his hand outstretched like he was trying to reach for something. His forehead was covered in sweat and he was sure that if he looked in a mirror his face would be whiter than a ghost’s. He brought his hand to his chest and he found his heart was beating faster than he thought it ever had. Virgil took a deep sigh and tried to calm down, it didn’t work very well. He looked over at his clock and saw that it was around 3 in the morning.

           What the heck was that? Virgil wondered to himself. He couldn’t remember much of his nightmare but he remembered that he was more scared than he had ever been in his life. Just trying to remember what happened made the side start hyperventilating. Ok. I need to calm down or else I might give Thomas a panic attack. Virgil started taking deep breaths and began to calm down as he repeated his 4 ,7, 8 breathing exercise.

           Once he was calmed downed he realized that he probably wasn’t going to be able to go to sleep for a while and flopped back onto his bed in frustration. The one night I actually tried to get more sleep. Just great. The side pulled out his phone from under his pillow and grabbed his headphones from his bed side table. This wasn’t the first time he was woken up by nightmares, but this time had definitely been the worst.

           He put on his headphones and picked up his phone. He went though a few different playlist before he finally settle on just clicking shuffle on My Chemical Romance. He ended up on Mama and smiled. This song was slightly calmer than most of the groups songs. He went to tumbler and started scrolling though it, humming the lyrics as he looked at post. After about an hour of looking at memes and funny videos Virgil found himself starting to dose off, the residents of the nightmare going to the back of his mind.

           When Virgil woke up it was too Patton calling him down for breakfast. He groaned as he got out of bed and change into his usual style. He pulled on his signature jacket as he went out the door even though he knew that it was crazy to wear a jacket on almost any day in Florida. Virgil walked down the long hallway eyeing every corner suspiciously in case Remus decided to just pop up or something. Because of this he wasn’t looking where he was going and ran straight into someone’s back and fell down.

           “Virgil? Are you ok” a familiar voice said. The anxious side looked up and saw that it was non other than Roman who he just happened to run into. The memories of his dream flashed in his mind and he looked at Romans stomach glad to see that there was no kind off blood staining on the t-shirt he was wearing. He shook his head a bit to clear the image of the fallen prince in his mind.

“Yah, I’m fine Princy.” Virgil said. Roman extended his hand to Virgil and pulled him up.

“You need to watch where your going, wouldn’t want you falling down the stairs or something.” Roman said with a chuckle.  The smaller side smiled softly at the sound but pretended to cough into his sleeve when Roman looked back at him.

           “Kiddos! Come get your breakfast before it gets old!” That had snapped Virgil out of his embarrassed fake coughing fit and the two started heading towards the kitchen. When they entered they found Logan at the table reading a comic book? Roman turned to Virgil and raised an eyebrow in question. The anxious side shrugged and went to go sit down at the table. He took a closer look at the cover and saw that it was a horror comic and that only confused him more.

“What are you reading Lo? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you pick up a comic book before” Virgil asked. Logan finally looked up from his book and he seemed kinda embarrassed.

“Well um, technically it’s a graphic novel and uh Remus asked me to read it over for him.” Logan said while he adjusted his glasses, and if Virgil wasn’t mistaken, he was ever so slightly blushing. As the gears in his head spun the smaller side started to smirk. It definitely seems like this guy has a crush Remus. Although it may not look it, Virgil didn’t actually hate the duke. They in no way got along, and Virgil didn’t trust the creative side as far as he could though him, but he didn’t necessarily hate the gremlin of a man.

           So, with this in mind, the mischievous raccoon in a jacket decided that as long as he was here, he might as well mess with people.

“I didn’t know you and Remus where such good friends.” Roman, who had sat down after getting a plate of food for himself from the kitchen, tried his absolute hardest not to burst out laughing as Logan stuttered and rambled to try and explain himself.

“He simply assisted me in conducting some research the other day and I wanted to return the kind favor.” Once more the prince and emo character shared a look. Virgil decided that was enough teasing for now. You have to spread out the torture to make it effective after all. So instead of continuing to make fun of his friend he decided he should finally grab some breakfast.

“Whatever you say Lo.” The former dark side walked into the kitchen to see Patton serving up a plate that he assumed was for Logan.

Today Patton had made some scrambled eggs, a few links of sausages, and some toast he was currently adding crafters jam to. Patton turned around to face his dark strange son and smiled widely.

“Hey kiddo! I made a plate for you if that’s alright. If theres anything you want to change about it go right ahead!” The fatherly side said in his usual cheerful tone. Unfortunate this kinda made the smaller of the two freak out a bit.

What if I don’t like whats on the plate? I can’t just mess with it Patton already put in the work to make the food and if I put any of it back it will look like I don’t like his cooking which of course into true but what if he thinks that? Luckily his worries were put to rest when he saw his plate had equal proportions of everything just how he liked it. He breathed a sigh of relief and went to go sit back down with the others.

When he got back to table Roman and Logan were arguing about some sort of play but the conversation was now going too fast for Virgil to actually pay attention to it.

“Don’t you dare say Hamilton wasn’t a good musical in my presence!”

“I’m just saying its historically inaccurate! For one thing the Skylar sisters did have an older brother so the part in the musical where Angelica sings about having to bring the family glory is false. Also she was already wed to a man before she met Alexander so she couldn’t marry him if even if she wanted to.” Logan reasoned in his calm yet frustrated ‘everyone-is-being-an-idiot-except-for-me’ tone of voice.

“Of course it isn’t entirely accurate to the real character. In theater you have to add a bit of drama to express the characters feeling in the scene better!” The royal side tried to explain while he waved his arm around in the air, surprisingly not hitting anything or anyone. Luckily before the two could continue Patton walked into the room carrying both his and Logan’s plate.

“Ok kiddos I think thats enough arguing for now, go ahead and eat instead of bickering please.” Patton said in a hopeful voice.  The two sides grumbled a bit to themselves but did start eating . Virgil looked over at Romans plate and saw that he once again had a lot less food on his plate than the rest of them. He had about two mouthfuls of eggs on his plate, one small sausage and half of a jam covered toast.

Doesn’t he need to eat more than the rest off us? I mean he goes adventuring all the time so he probably burns all the calories he gets from the meals Patton makes. Virgil pondered all this while he ate. If he was being honest he didn’t think he had ever seen Roman get seconds unless people insisted on it. Thats kinda concerning, what if he isn’t eating right because off stress? But why would Princy be stressed he’s the living personification of having a dreamy good life. Could something be wrong and we just haven’t noticed it yet?is he ok? Luckily he was broken from his thoughts as someone called his name.

“Virgil? Are you ok? You’ve been so pacing out for a while now, everything alright?” Roman said as he put a comforting hand on the anxious sides shoulder. Virgil gave the royal a small smile and took a deep breath. I’m just overthinking things. Roman’s fine, he would have come to us if he had a problem.

“Yah I’m fine Princy, just got lost in thought that’s all.” The creative side smiled at that and went back to eating his small plate of food.

           After everyone was done with breakfast they all went back to their own rooms, Logan still reading the graphic novel as he walked. Once Virgil got to his room he threw himself onto his extremely messy bed and was about to pull up something to watch on YouTube when he heard a knock on his door.

           What the, I was just with everyone, if they needed to ask me something wouldn’t they have asked me then? The purple side sighed and got up to open the door, only to find the hallway completely empty?

“Um, ok, anyone there?” Virgil said while he stuck his head out the doorway.

“Yup! I’m right here!” A choice shouted from behind him.

“Ahhh!” The smaller side screeched and accidentally slammed the door shut. There now sitting on his bed kicking his feet, was Remus. He wasn’t wearing his usual outfit for videos but instead a ripped up tank to and some black sweatpants.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” The anxious side said in an accusing tone.

“I was bored and decided that I might as well annoy you for a while.” The taller of the two said with a shrug.

Virgil groaned and destroyed any hope of having a peaceful day from his mind.

“Why in the world did you knock? You haven’t had any real manners since we were kids.” The purple clad side said as he sat down on a beanbag that he had in the corner. The duke shrugged.

“It was part of my grand plan to distract you so that I could scare you even better.” The insane side said with a sharp tooth smile. Before Virgil could make a retort the door burst opened. There stood Princy in a t-shirt and shorts, his hair looking slightly disheveled and with a sword in hand. He for some reason also looked a bit bigger than normal but Virgil discarded the thought as the lighting being weird.

           “Virgil! What’s wrong! What do I need to fight!” The red side exclaimed.

“Hey Ro! I just scared emo over here and he screamed like I had ripped out his guts or something.” The duke said as he threw his arm around his brother. Virgil was kinda surprised. Last time he had seen the twins interact Roman was out cold in seconds but now they were talking like they were best friends. Well I guess they are siblings after all. The smallest in the room said.

“Oh, ok then. Virgil do you need any assistance?” Roman asked. The former dark side thought for a minute and figured that he could handle Remus by himself, he had enough experience dealing with his craziness growing up.

“Yah Romano I’ll be fine.” Virgil said with a wave. Roman nodded but not without a sigh at the nick name and walked out.

“Oh but before I go,” the prince turned around and glared and the both of them, “if you two kill each other I will find a way to somehow resurrect you and get you both scolded by Patton.” And with that Roman left with a royal wave. The two remaining sides gave each other a look, Virgil’s one of distrust and Remus’s one of mischief.

“Sooooo,” Remus said as he jumped back onto the bed, “you like my brother huh?”  Virgil’s face turned bright red.

“I-I don’t know what your talking about!” The now highly nervous side shouted.  This only made the duke chortle.

“Chill out, I’m not gonna tell him, it will be a lot more fun that way.” Remus said with a grin. The hoodie wearing side breathed a sigh of relief.

“However you now owe me a favor.” The dark side said. Virgil grumbled to himself but agreed and asked what the favor was. The royal smiled widely.

“You have to help me beat Deceit’s high score in Mario cart.” The anxious side was surprised at first but then smirked.

“Sure, I’m not going to pass up the chance to piss off the snake.” The smaller jumped onto the bed as Remus summoned his switch that was nearly covered in stickers except for the screen.

           After a few rounds of Mario cart Virgil still hadn’t won once and he was getting annoyed, especially since Remus wouldn’t stop saying how he was the ultimate champion of this game. In this round they where nearing the finish line and Virgil was in second place while Remus was in first. He had dodged all of the shells Virgil had thrown at him but he still had one more.

There’s no way I’m letting this rat man beat me again. Suddenly Virgil had an idea and a dark smile formed on his face.

“So Remus,” the purple side said as he lined up the shot, “how did your date with Logan go?”

“What?!” Remus was so surprised that Virgil somehow knew about his sorta kinda date with Logan that he fell off the bed. Meanwhile Virgil threw a green shell at him and finished in first.

“Yes!” The smaller side exclaimed.

           “How in this wide terribly gruesome world did you find out about that?” Remus said from the floor. Virgil shrugged.

“Logan said that you helped him with some research or something while blushing so I figured you actually took him on a date.” The emo said while he leaned back on his pillow. He looked over at Remus who was now sitting on the bean bag looking slightly startled.

“Well I didn’t technically ask him on a date, I just offered to take him and give him a tour of the imagination.” The duke said while he messed with his white streak of hair. “I haven’t actually told him that I like him.” Virgil was surprised that Remus looked actually embarrassed saying this.

“I never thought I would see the day that you were nervous.” Virgil said honestly. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Logan if you aren’t ready to tell him.” Remus gave him an incredulous look and started laughing like a mad man which slightly scared the smaller side. He suddenly stoped and got up.

           “Thanks emo, I got to go or else De is going to get mad at me.” While the dark side walked to the door he messed up the purple wearing side’s hair until it defied gravity. “Wanna help me beat the record tomorrow since that slippery snake has such a freaking high score that we couldn’t beat it today?” The crazy side asked.

“Sure.” Virgil said, surprising even himself.

“Cool! Se yah tomorrow emo.” Remus said as he slammed the door loudly. The anxious side relaxed on his bed with a sigh. Even when just hanging out with the others being social was exhausting for him. He remembered that Thomas had some sort of event for tomorrow but Virgil doubted that he would need him for anything. As he was starting to drift off to sleep for a nap he had one last thought. Isn’t the wedding tomorrow?

Well I hope everyone if ready for some angst to come. Hope you guys have a good next 24 hours, bye!

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@lovelivingmydreams

[jefferoni-quotes]

hotter than this heatwave

Jamilton, 13,045 words

I am begging y'all, don't let this flop it took an ungodly amount of time and I am so proud of it. Full fic under the cut.

Also, leave feedback! I love reading what you guys thought of my writing!

Hamilton is hot.

There’s no other way to say it. He’s hot, miserably so. Even with the air conditioner full blast, and a fan directed straight into his face, he’s simply sweltering in the heat. His childish refusal to remove his shirt (even in the privacy of his own home) isn’t helping the sweat cease in their races down his back, and the base of his ponytail sticks to his neck. He grimaces every time he even tries to move, and thus he’s resided himself to the expanse of couch, positioned himself under an open window. But there’s no breeze, none reaching him anyway. If he lifts himself on his shaking arms, and peers out the window, he can see the trees aren’t swaying. The leaves bustle occasionally, but it’s far from the usual dance they perform. He can hear all too clearly conversations, chatter from those subjecting themselves to the summer heat. Perhaps Alexander is more a winter person, ever since he had moved to America he had been, after all, he saw snow, something he thought only existed in movies, and immediately fell in love with the season. Being able to choose if he was to be pleasantly warm, or surprisingly cold during winter was an experience. To have the option of curling up like a cat by the fire, or lying in snow, making snowmen and such. And Christmas dinners- Alexander could go on and on for hours about the wonders of the coldest time of year, alas Hercules would disagree, argue Summer was so much better. But Hercules is Irish, he has enough of the cold to last him a lifetime. Now Hamilton would bet the man wishes he had just held his tongue, because he must be suffering in the heat too. 

Fuck heatwaves, and fuck New York.

He thinks to himself as he throws a cushion across the room in frustration. It hits his air conditioning unit, and before he knows it the apartment is plunged into a volcano. The unit malfunctions, turns off and doesn’t turn back on, even when Alexander shoots up from his languid position and desperately tries to fix it. He beats his fist off the top with pent up frustration, sincerely hoping that magically it would be fixed. Alas, it was not, it gave one last spluttering attempt to turn on before dying with a not so graceful clank. What sin has he committed to be tortured in such a way? It feels as though Satan himself is clawing his way up from the circles of Hell, and has declared Alexander’s apartment his spawn point, where the Heaven vs Hell war will begin. Whatever war is about to commence, Alex is on Satan’s team, as God must have something against him to send this wave of heat his way.

“Fuck!” He yelled, kicking the machine and cursing even louder at the shock of pain coursing through his toes. He clutches his foot, hopping around his apartment like some hurt rabbit and hisses through clenched teeth. He finally jumps his way ungracefully back to his couch, collapsing onto it in one foul swoop. His legs involuntarily give out under him, and he’s almost thankful for it as he half considers stripping out of his shirt, aching for some kind of relief. He starts tugging on the hem of his shirt, mulling over the idea before pushing his own hands away in disgust. A respectable man always remains fully dressed for any occasion. What if a visitor were to come by? He would likely demand their exit from his home, but he would at least like to do so in style.

The rooms are quick to grow stuffy, uncomfortable and as though the walls are too close and getting closer. Suddenly removing any clothing is a thought long forgotten, quickly replaced by the innate desperation to escape the closed doors of his apartment. He scrambles for purchase on the arm of his couch before forcing his muscles to revive and motor him towards the exit. He passes by his kitchen, opens the fridge for a moment just to feel the coolness on his body. He closes the door before all his food defrosts, albeit reluctantly. He would stand there all day if he could. Leaving the kitchen, he examines how his kettle has evaporated of all remaining water inside. There goes Plan B of making iced coffee, or worse, iced tea. Who could subject themselves to the bath water like clutches of cold tea? Disgusting.

He doesn’t stop to grab sunscreen, doesn’t consider sunburn a thing as he grabs his keys and shoves them in the pocket of his ratty cargo shorts. He pushes his feet into sandals, Birkenstocks, brown ones. He half contemplated putting socks on with his sandals, and automatically laughs at how much that would irritate Jefferson if he just so happened to run into him. The man is obsessed with his looks, conceited and vain in every way. Alexander wouldn’t be surprised if the man carries a pocket mirror on him, just to examine his appearance and remind himself of how goddamn gorgeous he is. Because he is gorgeous. Alexander is stubborn, not blind, and even he can admit the things he would give up for a fling with the man. His pride would never allow him to plead Jefferson for a one night stand however, and he knew Jefferson would never come to him, so that fantasy may as well remain just that. A fantasy. 

So he leaves the socks behind, but not because he cares what others think. Of course he doesn’t… simply because socks would just be extra layers. He doesn’t care if people think his hair is a mess, which it is, so he drags his hand through it. The hand comes back damp, and he grimaces, wiping it on the tan material of his shorts. And he certainly doesn’t care that one of the buckles on his sandals is about to break. He glares at it, willing it to sew itself back together. It does not. Hamilton sighs and folds, giving up on attempting to appear presentable. It’s not like anyone else outside looks much better, save for the few teenagers posing on the streets in incredibly short shorts with a Starbucks they probably waited an hour for. 

Alexander practically throws his door open and is met with a pleasurable breeze as it swings, which quickly dissipates into a blast of scorching air, as though opening an oven too quickly. You would think after being born in such a humid climate he would’ve grown used to the hot weather. Apparently, this was a false assumption. He fishes his keys back out of his shorts and locks the door, standing out in the lobby of his apartment complex. 

Now that he’s escaped the confinement of his home, Hamilton doesn’t know what to do. He could run down to Starbucks, take his mind off the heat with an ice cold Frappuccino. However, that would only distract him for a moment, perhaps an hour, until every drop of coffee has been drunk, and he’s left with an empty cup and a smoldering heat once more. And besides, if he's so desperate for an iced coffee then he could just make his own. That idea drains down the gutter, because he doesn't have any ice and there's no way water would freeze very fast in this temperament. He can briskly walk to work if he so pleases, despite being ordered to stay off, but that would require changing into a suit and now that he thinks about it… does his office even have air conditioning? 

A long, broken sigh escapes his lips and he drags a hand through his hair, which has grown ever so slightly damp with sweat. Maybe a walk to clear his head, and if he strolls in the right direction, the wind will hit him perfectly and he should cool down. 

He accepts this as the perfect idea and walks his way out onto the street, practically able to feel the burning tarmac through the soles of his sandals. He hopes there are no poor dogs or felines roaming the streets, or on daily walks on this day. The pavement would be far too much for their paws. Alexander feels which way the warm breeze is flowing and begins to trek directly into it, finding a sense of overwhelming relief at the sensation. (Even if it is relatively brief.)

Alexander’s feet carry him wherever they please, walking him down long streets, past empty stores. He stops to glance into a bustling Starbucks, hears through the glass a man screeching at a barista who is refusing to take his order because, “no shirt, no service.” He continues past, rather glad he had decided not to go inside, as it looks far too crowded, even for a small man such as himself.

His strides are short but swift, floating him along the streets with an air of confidence that he is known to possess. It is undeniably cooler outside, a welcome surprise as a gust of wind blows his hair from his face. He hears the simultaneous sighs of alleviation from the few on the streets, clearly walking around for the same reason as Hamilton. 

Time ticks by and Alexander allows his mind to wander, as it all too often does when he gives it the chance. His thoughts speed past a mile a minute, tempting his brain to consider them longer, grabbing them like falling petals before letting them drift to the ground and blow away once more. 

He passes through Time Square, finding it bustling, more so than he had imagined. However, it’s not ‘Christmas Crowded’, the eloquent name given to Time Square by Lafayette for when the area becomes full at the most amazing time of year. He makes his way past people, brushing shoulders and probably contracting some undiscovered disease off of some of them. It’s New York, he wouldn’t be surprised. He jumps out of his skin when some man behind him traces their fingers up his spine, but when he turns around the person is gone, laughing to their friends. He scowls, half considers shaking his fist and exclaiming about “kids these days!” But he doesn’t, he just shivers despite being roasted alive and continues on his way. 

He spaces out again, wondering about work and then he doesn't know what he starts thinking about. But in his head he can picture a man. A man with a jawline that could cut glass, eyes blacker than the depths of the sea, yet shining as though filled with fire. He can see springy curls, imagines himself running his fingers through the mystery man's hair and cooing as he mumbles his disagreements. He sees a dark complexion, sharp cheekbones, with soft edges. The colour purple is prominent in his clothing, and it takes a moment further for Alexander to identify the male in his mind.

He zones back in as soon as he realises he's thinking about Jefferson. Again. He's thinking about Jefferson in a good way, thinking about doing couple things, about dates. And he grimaces. He convinces himself it's just a fluke, only because he sees Jefferson every day at work. 

He starts checking the watch on his wrist, which is starting to heat up in the sunlight. It’s been almost an hour and forty five minutes since he began walking, and he checks the number on the street. It’s all okay. He can always catch a cab. He looks around and finds himself no longer in the bustling parts of New York, but instead part of a classy suburban area. Rows of white picket fencing and neat little gardens, full of wilting flowers meet his eyes. In the lawns of a few are men and women of all ages tending to the plants, feeding them with water to try and keep them going through the unbearable summer heat. 

All the homes are different colours, some a perfectly average, cream white, others slightly more lavish baby blues. There’s one where the exterior walls are a glowing lemon colour, and it fills Alexander with an unexplained wave of joy. Then again, the colour yellow always has. It feels warm, welcoming, like a friendship long awaited. Something that has awakened the craving in him that demands the enveloping arms of a smothering hug.

A child - probably around eight - runs down the street, being chased by who looks like his friend. The girl racing after him knocks him to the side and he goes down on a patch of grass, flat on his back while his friend stands over him with a look of pure pride. Her curls bob as she jumps up and down beside him with glee, and Alexander observes as the boy stands. They lean against the tree beside them for a moment, before he mutters something and this time the girl takes off sprinting, the boy following five seconds later. He chuckles at the purity of the situation and takes it upon himself to continue his walk. It’s warmer than ever, but he doesn’t care as much anymore. 

The kids race ahead, the girl much further ahead until she stops. Alexander observes from the sidelines as he walks, and the boy taps her on the shoulder. They stand there, childlike joy radiating from their area. 

Alexander breezes past them, halfway down the stretch of street. The houses grow larger than the previous as he continues to walk, yet still feel as homely. An amazing feat really. He can hear the soft patting of his Birkenstocks as they tap off the pavement each time his feet hit the floor. A car trundles past, down the street, at what must be 10 miles an hour, giving kids on the road time to move out the way. He doesn't catch a glimpse of the driver, but he has respect for them nonetheless. 

As he passes a large, pastel green house, a tall woman exits her garden. She’s old, that much is obvious, but she doesn’t live up to the ‘little old lady’ aesthetic. She’s tall, she’s not hunched and the only part that gives away her age is the wrinkles lining her face. She brushes a grey curl from her face, tying back her hair afterwards. She’s mumbling under her breath, something that sounds like, “it starts soon! The concert!” And for a moment he feels awfully bad for her, thinking she has Alzheimer’s or something similar.

She has a thick Southern accent, and reminds him of Jefferson in a way. Her curls are similar, perhaps not as bouncy or as soft looking (in fact the only similar thing is that they’re curls,) but it has the same obvious care put into maintaining their pristine appearance. Her skin tone isn’t at all similar to his however, she’s pale while Jefferson’s complexion is almost tawny in a way. He can’t see her eyes from where he stands, but if they’re anything like Jefferson’s, then they must be dark, and perhaps they sparkle like his does when he gets passionate about what he’s speaking of… And when did he start thinking about Jefferson so much? Why does he know Jefferson’s eyes glimmer in certain lighting, or burn with a fire when they argue? Why is he paying so much attention to the man's pupils, and how they fail to hide the emotions his stone-cold face manages to maintain? When did he begin to study his rival so closely that he noticed all these oddities? Little details; like the way his lips twitch into a soft smile when talking to Madison, or recalling fondly his time in Monticello. Or now his eyebrows quirk upwards whenever Alexander opens his mouth to speak during meetings, conveying his irritation, yet innate fascination with the words flooding the room. How does he know that Jefferson’s curls would be soft to touch, without ever being close enough to feel them between his fingertips. Why does he feel that the man could go pliant with a scratch to the right place of his scalp? Where did all this knowledge come from? The depths of his bustling mind-palace? Or is it some fountain of information that Alexander and few others have access to? Is there some key to access the quirks about Jefferson, a key that he has? Or does he simply have the mould, a fragmented ideology of a key? Has Jefferson personally handed him this key, trusted him with it? Or has Hamilton snatched it from his clutches like a criminal from an off-guard prison warden? To think of it, why does Jefferson - the ever flowing river of confidence - stash his emotions away, hiding them like a gold hoarding dragon in a cave. He sits on them as though a mother bird would protect her eggs. He keeps them unseen to the passing onlooker. Is he scared? The idea is ridiculous. Thomas Jefferson? Scared? Hell would freeze over before the moment Jefferson is frightened. Or is anxious a better word? Why does he covet to know what it’s like to wake up secured in those arms? (God those arms.) Why does his head claw for the intelligence to feel Jefferson? (Whether that be a warm hug or a simple swing of their hands, linked together?) Why is Alexander asking himself all these questions? Why is his brain grasping and reaching for the answers, as though the forbidden apple that he craves a bite of.

Why does he care?

It’s a recurring thought, one that his mind cannot seem to formulate a complete answer to. Perhaps because it’s the nice thing to do? But no, fantasizing about someone’s eyes like some schoolgirl is not a “nice thing to do.” It’s a crush, is what it is. Wanting to know more about Jefferson, seeking the answers to his many personal questions is not simply because it’s a nice thing to do. It’s because he needs the answers. His mind demands he become closer with the man, the vain, uncaring man. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Out of all the people his heart could sing a yearning song for, it chose Thomas fucking Jefferson.

Why has his attention been undeniably captured, held hostage, by the Southern fuck?

This one, he can justify. It’s a simple answer really, one that is half the solution to his hundreds of other questions, the ones that buzz in his ears like insistent flies. And it’s two words, one word if you so wish to keep it incredibly succinct. 

His wit.

His brain, his intelligence only matched and rivalled by Hamilton’s own. The way his fingers tap out word after word on keyboards, or scratch out essays upon essays onto paper with pens, pencils, whatever he can get his hands on. His intense expanse of knowledge that spans from American finance, to Shakespearean literature. His ability to argue and debate and speak for hours and hours with Alexander without losing his pace. The way his mind formulates sentence after sentence where he debates and there’s a fiery, yet somehow icy cold, passion in his tone. The fact that Hamilton finally has an equal. Where it’s unlike arguing against Burr, a stone wall of indifference. Jefferson is a stone wall that Alexander knows exactly how to make crumble. And he does. Over and over, yet Jefferson keeps rebuilding, stronger than before. He makes Alexander fight for his right to get his ideas across and as much as if pisses him off… he can’t deny that he loves it. He adores having to work his way up, enjoys knocking away obstacles that continue to respawn. What’s life without a little competition after all? Alexander enjoys hiking, and Jefferson is the ultimate mountain to climb. 

But he wants more. He needs to know more about this mysterious man. He wants to know what it’s like to share sweet moments with him, wishes to be granted passage to his heart. He wants the key to be given to him, not stolen away. He wants Jefferson to trust him. He wants to know his talents, his skills, his hopes, his dreams. He wants to know about his past, his present and his future. Wants to know his real personality, the one he has secured in a vault. Because Alexander is stubborn, this much as already been said, but he’s not stupid. He can see the twitch in his fingers, the brief panic that flashes through the man's dark eyes whenever he has to present in Congress. He can hear the way he stumbles and stammers his way through speeches, as though he’s ready off a particularly shitty script. It’s only when they debate, when they argue with that familiar intensity, that the inferno is let loose.  And Alexander is happy to be consumed in its flames. 

The thoughts are almost enough to frighten him. The way they consume his constantly changing mind until he can think of nothing else. The burning heat in the air has been forgotten, replaced with a searing, white-hot pain through his chest. A heart attack maybe? More likely a soul attack. Hamilton uses his clairvoyance, he isn’t stupid. He knows this crush has been around since the day they had met. Since the first inklings of their argumentative ways. The kindling that sparked a fiery rivalry. One sure to last a lifetime. Well, maybe on Jefferson’s end. Alexander has felt this way, this white hot pain for a while, but now his body registers it and it hits all at once. Like a slap to the face, a punch to the stomach and a kick in the balls. It’s never hurt this much. Not with Aaron, not with John, not even with Eliza. The three most important relationships of his life had never been this intense, and he and Jefferson aren’t even together. Perhaps that’s what caused the pain to harm him so much. The craving of a thing he can’t have.

He gets the same feeling, the same way he felt around his other relationships. With Aaron, it was calm, predictable. It was boring. He needed more, he needed a spark, something he could bounce off of and then melt together. Aaron was grey. Monotone, and straight lined. He was a man who needed something still. He required security and promises to stay the way they were. But Alexander was a storm, unpredictable and wild and fully intent on ravaging the waters, while what Burr really needed was a lighthouse. Someone who was a beacon of light to shine him to the right place. Hamilton could never provide that.

John had been close. He had been orange. Intense, swirling like a fire, like a burning heat. But not enough. He was too quick to back down, to agree and leave arguments unsettled. He didn’t put up enough of a fight, backed down from debates and left Alexander with many more points to push across. They had the same opinions, there was no need for a friendly debate. It just wasn’t enough for him. There was passion, but not in the way Alexander’s heart craved. John needed something grounding, someone to match his intensity with a cute yellow or a fellow orange. And he found that, he found that in Peggy and Alexander was happy to watch him go. He wanted his orange to be happy.

The third person had been blue. Eliza was the sea and the sky. She was beautiful and calm and swaying. She was helpful and loving, quick to input her opinion only to retract it later on. Alexander had thought she was perfect. She was, Eliza was perfect. But Alexander was not. Blue didn’t mix right with whatever colour Alexander was. Blue turned dark and foreboding, into something he didn’t want to experience. Their fire had been wrong, and if Eliza was the ocean, then Hamilton was the smoke on the water clouding her. She needed a similar colour, a green like the Earth whom she could surround and heal. Or another blue to swim with. It appeared Alexander was neither of those.

But Jefferson. Jefferson was different. He was intense and angry and punched out. He was red. A dark crimson that demanded attention at all times. A matching light to Alex’s own. They bounced off each other, before they crashed together in a mess of colours, an abstract painting of similarities. Jefferson was passionate, he had an intensity that matched Alexander’s previously unrivalled one, and he loved it. He loved red. Red was the colour he needed, the colour that felt best in his heart of hearts. And that’s when he knew that he was red too, that he was a candy red. He was bright and flashing and Jefferson was dark and mysterious and together they were perfect. Together they formed a shade of undiscovered colour. 

That’s what Alexander needed. He needed his red. Everyone else had theirs! It was his turn! It was finally his shot to find love, and he had no intentions of throwing it away.

In his time thinking, he’s almost completely forgotten the putrid heat, and the fact that the woman from before is walking down the street just a foot or two away from him. She’s brisk, in a hurry clearly, occasionally checking the time on her surprisingly high class smart-phone. In fact, another person joins him on his venture down the street, the little girl from before, but without her friend. And if he thought the woman reminded him of Jefferson, then this girl is the spitting image of him. Same hair, but longer and tied into puffy pigtails, the same wide and toothy smile as she taps Alexander on the side.

“Hey there, Mr!” She waves, and the first thing he can think is Stranger Danger. Did this girl's parents never teach her the importance of not talking to random people on the streets? “I’ve never seen you round here before, are you lost?” He supposes that he sort of is. He doesn’t know his way home, but somehow he’s not concerned. He can call a cab, or an Uber or Lyft. There are plenty of ways for him to arrive back home. But the fact that she asks him this is evident that this is one of those neighbourhoods. One where “everyone knows everyone.” Which is sweet, but annoying, because now he stands out. He wants to blend in with the crowd for once, but as he looks around, that’s been impossible for a while. He notices everyone out in their gardens or on the streets are white, which is expected at this point. It’s a flaw in the American housing system, one that he should bring up in Congress. Perhaps he could get Jefferson to support him for once, team up even. That’s the dream. 

He hasn’t said much for a few seconds, and the kid looks up at him with large, expectant eyes. “Oh, I’m not lost, no. Just going for a walk,” he nods gently and she seems to understand. He thinks she’s just going to run off after receiving an answer, but she seems insistent to interrogate Alexander a little more. 

She hums to herself, “what’s your name?” She asks ever so superficially, like an employer ready to write someone up for bad behaviour or poor customer service. Alexander knows those write ups all too well, it’s the reason he’s been forced off work today, something he was happy to let happen as soon as the heatwave hit. Work doesn’t have good air conditioning, if it has air conditioning at all. 

“Alexander,” he answers with a flick of his head, casting his glance to the sky. They’re still walking, nearing the end of the street. The old lady has stopped, and the little girl has too, which subsequently has Hamilton stopping. He looks down at her, chin tilted down as she glares up. She seems livid at his name, and he wonders what he’s done wrong until he realises she’s staring directly into the sun as she tries to suss him out. Her gaze is warm and welcoming however, childlike and pure and it’s a nice break from the cool stares he’s used to.

She nods happily, “my name's Patsy, I’m eight,” she grins and turns on her heel, casting one final look over her shoulder. “I’m going to play, if my Pops leaves the house tell him that’s what I’m doing!” She runs off, leaving Alexander wondering who her father is. The old lady is leaning on the fence of the house in front of him, glancing up to an open window. She looks like an NPC in a video game, purposefully placed in a specific spot just for unimportant exposition. Alexander is an expert in certain video games, and if her position isn’t just begging for him to go interact with her. She seems as though she may have some enchanted knowledge to pass down onto him, maybe even a cherry pie recipe if he’s lucky.

He walks over to her side, resting his forearms on the flat tops of the white fence. The house in front of him is painted a soft violet, it’s pretty. There’s neat rows of tulips and petunias in the lawn, which is freshly trimmed so it seems. There are bushes in the middle of the grass, cut into a point. Everything is seamless, blending together. It’s homely and calm, and Alexander smiles. The woman is smiling too. He glances at other things in the garden. Tucked away into the left corner by the porch is a barbecue, and not too far from that a wooden bench. There are thin cushions resting on it, but no one sits there. The lights in the house are off, the windows open along with the curtains. But when he looks in, he sees no one. Then again, he can only see directly into the window and up, so anything at the other end of the room is out of sight. Perhaps he should’ve worn his glasses today, unable to see very far in front of his face. In the driveway is a family car, a blue Chevrolet still spongy with a few soap studs. Newly washed, he notes. 

“It starts soon,” the elder comments, gesturing vaguely to the home before them. So she’s not an NPC. Alexander can’t put his finger on if that’s annoying or perfect, because he doesn’t have to start the conversation.

Yet his interest has been piqued, he was always a curious soul. It gets him into fits of trouble occasionally, but for now it seems as though the only thing he can get out of it is an intriguing talk. “What’s starting?” He asks quietly, tone low. His lips are dry, and he smacks them together to coat them with saliva to hopefully stop them cracking.

“The concert,” she answers, as though it’s the most typical thing in the world. Alexander is about to open his mouth to argue against that fact, to insinuate that a concert happening in someone’s home is ridiculous - (Even if all the Disney Channel movies taught him otherwise.) - but the woman is talking again. “Tommy always plays at three in the afternoon on a Sunday.” She seems transfixed, and every time Alexander tries to speak she hushes him. She holds up her hand to silence him, and it gives him the same feeling George Washington gives him, authority radiates from her and Alex finds himself actually shutting up. It’s two fifty-nine now, and he’s waiting for the music to start from this mysterious “Tommy.” 

He’s impatient, and authority only hushes him for so long. He fidgets, picks paint off the fence and then speaks. “When does it start?” He hisses, bored. Come on, it’s three! Almost at least. 

“I told you, he plays at three.”

“It is three!” Alexander whines pathetically, crossing his arms over. He’s stood still in wait for long enough, and if music doesn’t start in the next thirty seconds he’s going to walk away and never look back. He’s all set to move when the lady grabs him by the shoulder.

She hisses, “it’s starting!” 

And indeed it is. Through the open windows, pouring out the house are the sweet chords of an expert violinist. It’s a harmony, seems sad, longing almost. The melody starts slow, and carefully picks up pace as it goes. He can only imagine who the player is, male or female it doesn’t matter. His mind whirs with ideas, forming the musician in his mind.

Their hands would grip the bow with precision, glide across the strings with a focussed expression. He can see their- no, his, eyes turned down to the instrument, pupils darkening as they get lost in the notes. The violin is balanced on his shoulder, tucked under his chin and his hair falls into his view but he keeps playing. The straight, actually, it’s curly. The ringlets of curls are brushed away quickly, in one movement as he continues to play. 

Alexander spaces out, losing himself to the music. It appears the lady beside him does the same, but he can’t be sure. He tries to put a colour on the tone of it, tries to decipher the meaning behind the song. The violin fades into an instrumental where it’s clear the player should be singing, but they don’t. He tries to picture a face, going as far as to close his eyes and block out everything but his own imagination and the melody flowing to him. It’s like a siren call, coaxing him towards sudden death. And Alexander is all too happy to submit to the urges. 

He finds a face, dark eyes, curls, complexion. Once again he’s picturing Jefferson. Over and over the man comes to mind. He tries to push him away, attempts to imagine someone else standing in the home and playing just for him. But it’s futile. And the song does feel like it’s for him. It feels like it matches the music his heart sings, the yearning harmony that lathers his soul is rivalled by this player. By Jefferson. It’s not like he’s ever going to meet the violinist, so he’s free to picture whoever he pleases. 

He’s sweating, it’s the heat, it must be. His palms that are clenched into fists by his sides are coated in a thin sheen of sweat, his forehead growing damp again. He makes no effort to wipe it away, he lets the heat sweep over him. He allows the flames to engulf him, the chords of the song floating to him still. 

But as soon as it’s begun, it ends. The violin fades out, leaving the music buzzing pleasantly in his veins. The lady smiles, nods and starts to walk off, back to her house. The concert comes to a close, curtains shut and shun all backstage visitors away. But when has Alexander ever abided by the rules? 

His feet march him into the garden, down the lawn and up to the porch. He steps up the stairs, both of them at once. He’s having trouble summoning courage, something that’s rare for him. Typically he isn’t walking up to a strangers home just to congratulate them on their musical talent… that he probably isn’t even supposed to hear. 

It takes Alexander a long minute of just standing there before he swallows his pride and taps his knuckles off the door. There are footsteps, coming closer and as they do he rids himself of the urge to run away. 

He’s almost expecting Jefferson, he’s built him up in his mind and placed him on a pedestal. Or maybe it’s better to say that he’s trying to force the man into a treasure box, as he does with all the things he loves. His mother’s memory goes in there, his pens and his laptop and the pendant necklace from his mother. He’s trying to push Jefferson into the box too, to keep him by his side but he won’t stay. Perhaps it’s impossible to keep a person preserved in a treasure chest, or maybe it’s just Jefferson. He needs room, he needs space to evolve and change and grow and Alexander’s treasure chest can’t provide that. Alexander can though. He just has to let Jefferson stay out of the box. 

Like he said, he’s almost expecting Jefferson to be at the door. But he still gets shocked when it actually is. It actually is Thomas fucking Jefferson standing in the doorway and Jesus he’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt so tight it should be illegal. It’s difficult enough for Alexander to handle when he can practically see Jefferson’s chest through his sheen white dress shirt at work, but this is too much. This man is an Adonis. He’s the sun, Alexander is an icarus and he feels as though he simply has to fly closer. 

“Hamilton!”

Shit, has he been speaking this whole time? Alexander flicks his gaze to Jefferson’s face, and fuck him he’s wearing glasses. Chunky black hipster frames that balance on the bridge of his nose. Christ, he’s in deep isn’t he? 

Jefferson waves his hand in front of Alexander’s face, grabbing his attention. “Hu-uh?” Alexander stumbles out his words pathetically, lighting up red soon after. He goes the same crimson as Jefferson’s shirt, the colour he identifies the man with. He looks like he’s about to slap Alexander across the face if he doesn’t start properly talking soon.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jefferson hisses, venom laced in his tone. He’s like a snake, coiled up into a spring, ready to attack and bite at the next to approach. In his hands (lord, those hands!) he holds a clear water bottle, knuckles white with the ferocious way he grips it. He brings it up to his lips and takes a careful sip, eyes trained like a sniper on Alexander.

Hamilton collects himself, gathering his thoughts, which shouldn’t be as difficult to do as it is. He coughs into his fist, realising how dry his throat is. The aspect of water is welcoming, and he wants to reach out just to snatch the plastic (reusable, how environmental) bottle off of Jefferson to guzzle down the remaining liquid. Alas, he does not. Because that would be weird. 

He still hasn’t answered, thus Jefferson continues with a hiss. “What are you doing here?!” He’s not angry, Alexander knows this. He has seen the man angry. 

One time, he had seen the man in his furious element. The cabinet meeting had just ended, and Jefferson had stormed out after Washington had taken Alexander’s side once again. It wasn’t Hamilton’s fault he was better! Jefferson had stalked towards his office, and Hamilton had followed after him, the cheap fake leather of his shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum. Alexander had continued his argument, much to the dismay of the taller man. Jefferson had tried his very best to slam the door on Hamilton’s face, using all his force (which was a lot) to close it behind him, but Alex managed to stick his foot in the gap and wretch it open, still blabbering away. Jefferson had collapsed into his office chair, held his head in his hands and muttered to himself as Alexander got closer. His voice had stayed a constant, boisterous and accompanied with gesticulating gestures until he lost his cool and whipped Jefferson’s seat around himself. 

“Answer me already! You spit and stumble your way through speeches, I bring out the real you! I bring out the fires! Show me him and argue back!” The animosity had been high in Alexander’s tone, he liked the unabashed Jefferson who fought with him. The man who poured wisdom from his tongue like his mother language. Why he held it back when talking to anyone else baffled him beyond belief. But this meeting he had barely spoken, just shared his points with a quiet voice and sat back down, not bothering to debate Alexander. He was furious, made sure to target Jefferson in some of his words just to try and get a rise, a reaction, anything! But it had not worked, so he resorted to his last lifeline, and followed the man to his office. 

Jefferson snapped his gaze up, and there it was, the fire he so dearly wanted. The red-hot passion that licked at his pupils, threatened to burn Alexander. “You bring out the real me?! No, Hamilton,” he had spat his name like it was some dirt on the bottom of his polished shoes, “you bring out the worst in me! You bring out the angry, tired part of me that doesn’t want to deal with your bullshit!” 

“My bullshit?” Alexander had smirked as though he had won, and in his sense he had. For a moment at least. Because he had gotten a reaction, the thing he craved as much as air. He had gotten his red to reply and that’s all he really needed. He was happy from here on out. But, he could always push it further. So he had. “Care to explain to me what my bullshit is? Is it my financial plan? Is that what it is, Jefferson?” He had remained sickeningly-sweet, words sugary like honey, dripping in the same way. 

Jefferson had laughed, hysterical really. A break from his usual smug laughter. A break Alexander didn’t enjoy very much. He was never one to like breaks, preferred to continue in a way he always had. And he and Jefferson had a dance, a specific way they did things that they had yet to break. A routine that Jefferson was so arbitrarily destroying just with a fit of chuckles. “Your financial plan is a piece of insulting garbage, but that is not what I mean-“ he had scoffed, and rose from his seat, towering over Alexander with a menacing glint. “-You are a parasite to me, you trail around like some sad puppy, desperate for attention! But why me? I stammer through speeches, but alas it’s better than talking a million miles a minute where no one can understand you! You bring out the fire, the hellfire! You make me want to snap you into pieces and scatter you on my lawn like fertiliser. Do us all a favour and get out!”

A little shocked by the imaginative insult, Alexander resisted. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Jefferson had him by the collar next, shoving him up against a wall, face so close he could feel the hot breath of his rival on his face. “You talk a big game, Hamilton, yet you forget to follow through. The fire you bring out in me is the worst part about myself and I’d prefer to hide it away,” he had growled, low and rumbling in his chest, “you’re not good enough to lick the dirt off my shoes. You must think you’re so special, yet all you do is hump the President’s leg until you get what you desire. God knows why he takes your side on every political matter.” He had dropped Alexander after that, left him scrambling to his feet. “Get out of my office.”

Scared, but stubborn, Alexander had supplied a retort. “Or what, old man? Gonna make me?” 

Jefferson had grit his teeth together, grinding them so hard Hamilton was surprised they hadn’t faded away. “Or else.”

“All bark and no bite.” Alexander scoffed in return, making his way slowly to the door. He cast a look over his shoulder in time to see Jefferson physically slump back into his chair, looking tense and stressed and he couldn’t help but feel bad. He had felt Jefferson’s eyes on his back the whole time he had left, felt them searing holes through his jacket and burning into his skin. Not that he was complaining though. 

And once again, Alexander peers up at him with wide eyes. “Oh, well um-“ he directs his gaze over Jefferson’s shoulder, “it’s kind of a long story.” He’s hinting quite obviously at his pleas to come inside, and Jefferson must catch on because a hint of realisation casts over his dark eyes, the eyes Alexander spends so much of his time thinking about. 

“I have time,” came Jefferson’s grimy reply. One long finger came up to push his glasses up by the rim, unlike anyone else who would push them up by the bridge. Alexander inadvertently stashed this information away in his treasure chest. He taps his foot in a way that almost feels surreptitious. Or perhaps that’s the incorrect word. Jefferson keeps looking over Alexander’s head, then glancing behind him, eyes darting in all directions. 

Alexander has the sun beating down on his back, and he can see Jefferson squinting in the light. It’s hot again, too hot in all the wrong ways, and Alexander only feels hotter with Jefferson’s eyes on him. “Well- uh- it started because my AC unit broke and-“

“Hamilton, I didn’t ask for a life story,” Jefferson fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt, looking almost nervous. Which was ludicrous! Jefferson? Nervous? That… made a lot of sense actually. His stammering through meetings, his constantly tensed shoulders, the time he had overheard Madison and Adams talking about him a few years back, saying “He was born stressed out about something.” It makes the shuffling around start to add up, how he loses his cool around Alexander and loosens up because he stops thinking. He stops worrying and starts concentrating solely on deconstructing Hamilton’s argument. He feels a little rush of pride at that, that he can get Jefferson to let go. Yet at the same time, it feels like it’s perverse knowledge he isn’t supposed to have access too, which brings him right back around to the key metaphor. A metaphor he’s using so often it’s beginning to lose meaning, and he’s beginning to imagine an actual key, which confuses his head even more than it already is. 

He’s broken from his thoughts by Jefferson speaking once more, “would you like to come inside?” He asks quietly, shifting foot to foot. Alexander steals his gaze downwards, unable to look Jefferson in the face as he processes that question. His rival (whom he’s established as the man he wants to date, and god it feels so much more real when he thinks of it like that), has just invited him into his home. His home that Alexander always imagined to be bigger, more spectacular and less… welcoming. “You could inform me of why you’re standing on my doorstep in broken sandals over a glass of Chardonnay?”

“How am I supposed to say no to that?” Alexander responds almost mockingly, stepping into the home as Jefferson moves aside. He shuffles and a hand goes up to card through his curls, and Alexander wonders if they’re as soft as they appear. He resists the urge to stride over and find out for himself as he steps inside. “I would take my shoes off, but I feel as though barefoot is even more disrespectful.” He hums absent-mindedly.

Jefferson seems to tune back in at that as he flicks his gaze to follow Alexander. “And since when have you cared about being respectful towards me?” His words are sharp, upset almost. It’s strange, but Alexander kind of likes the vulnerability, it feels special. As though Jefferson is trusting him with the real real him. “Just leave your shoes on,” he adds carefully onto the end with a flippant wave and a frown. 

Alexander does just that, but wipes his feet on the welcoming mat Jefferson has placed in his hallway. “What’s your liquor of choice?” Jefferson asks, sauntering off towards his kitchen, voice growing quieter as he walks off. Alexander finds his eyes following his back, watching the way his red shirt clings to the muscles of his back, and he swallows slowly, with intent. 

“I believe I was promised Chardonnay, Mr Jefferson!” Alexander calls after him, taking it upon himself to look around the hallway. It’s cooler inside, thank god, but it’s not chilly. Jefferson knows how to set his AC without breaking it, Hamilton could never relate. The walls are painted a warm brown, framed family photos lining the hall. There is one, where Alexander counts twelve people in the image. The camera quality isn’t great, but all the people in the photo are similar in appearance, the only two who stand out are the ones who look like parents, as their hair is turning grey and there are wrinkles along their foreheads. He spots Jefferson - well, Thomas because he’s managed to figure out everyone in the photo is a Jefferson - rather quickly, he’s the second tallest in the picture, just after the one who looks like his father, but he looks younger, smiling wide at the camera and holding a baby boy on his hip. He looks much too young to have a son, so he must be Jefferson’s brother. 

There's another photo of him cradling a small child in his arms, a newborn, little girl based on the pink wool hat on her head. He looks older than the previous photo, so Alexander deciphers that this is his child. He looks around. There are no children about. He’s smiling wider than he’s ever seen before, down at the baby whose eyes are tightly shut. Alexander grins to himself and ghosts a finger over Jefferson’s face, or at least over the glass. There’s a corner of a woman’s face in the top left, she looks tired. Jefferson does too, bags under his eyes and smile creases by his lips. But he still looks… god, what word can he use?

The next photo makes his fond smile fall faster than a rock from the top of a cliff. A wedding photo, Jefferson in his mid-twenties, dressed in a suit (that hugs him in all the right places, damn) and kissing a short woman in a flowing white wedding dress. He looks so happy, beaming as his hands rest on her hips. A wave of jealousy crashes over him as he studies the image closer. It’s outdoors, must be in Virginia, and the two newlyweds are standing under an arch laced with pink roses and light pink tulips. He frowns, there goes his chance. But it won’t hit him yet, it only will at around midnight, when he’s emailing Washington where he will pause and scream for a minute as it sets in.

He’s so focused on the wedding pictures that he doesn’t even notice Jefferson coming up behind him. “That’s Martha,” the low voice by his ear makes Alexander jump out of his skin, clasping a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out. “Sorry, did I scare you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and continues to talk, “I thought you would’ve been in the living room, but I suppose I never told you to make yourself at home.” Alexander turns around and chokes on a breath. Because fuck, Jefferson is right there, glasses slipping down his nose, cheeks dusted red and lips inches away from his own. He swallows again, takes a step backwards and hits the wall with his back. 

Jefferson hands him a champagne flute with a bubbling glass of white wine, and Alexander nods in return. "Thank you," he studies Jefferson carefully as he flicks his chin up quickly and takes a step away, giving Alexander room to finally breathe. He quickly glances back at the few photos on the wall, catching a glimpse from his peripheral vision as Jefferson sips from his glass. "Martha was…?" He waits for the other to finish his sentence impatiently. 

"My wife," Jefferson answers with ease, gulping back a small drink. "A million years ago at least." He chuckles. And Alexander doesn't quite understand. Typically, divorcees don't keep photos of their marriage hanging in the entrance way to their home. Apparently the confusion is evident in his expression, because his host keeps talking. "She passed away eight years ago, just after giving birth." 

Alexander bites down on his bottom lip, regretful. He was just thinking about how jealous he was, thinking about going home, calling Laurens or Lafayette and talking shit about Jefferson and his supposed wife. Well he certainly wouldn’t be doing that anymore. “Oh,” he says, rather ineloquently, “I’m sorry.”

Jefferson shrugs, takes another long drink from his glass, like the conversation pains him. It probably does, Alexander realises. “It’s alright, it was a long time ago,” he drawls, making sure to not finish his glass. It’s half full now, and Alexander sips the sparkling liquid. Jefferson clears his throat, looking much like he does during meetings. Uncomfortable, small almost. “Well, can I tempt you to sit in the parlour with me?” He raises an eyebrow, leads them through to a room with windows that are almost floor to ceiling, spar for the comfy looking window seat (covered in a knitted quilt and tartan pillows) that Alexander plops himself down on. The other man seats himself by a small round table, mahogany for the looks of it. 

Alexander wants to speak, as always. His tongue flicks in his mouth, forming words but Jefferson cuts him off. “So, Alexander, tell me, what brought you to my doorstep on this… boiling afternoon?” It doesn’t slip past him that Jefferson uses his first name. The way it rolls with his accent, drawling slow as always until Alexander is hanging onto every syllable. 

His brain catches up with the question after being so hung up on the way his given name sounds on Jefferson’s lips, and the fact that he would love to hear it in other contexts- God, he needs to stop. But the man is right there and- No. “I broke my air conditioning unit, and needed to get out.” He shrugs and takes a slurping drink of Chardonnay, perhaps if he irritates Jefferson enough, he’ll see the fire he wants.

“That doesn’t explain why you knocked on my door,” Jefferson flicks his wrist and places his glass down. Alexander can practically hear the cogs in his brain (that wonderful mind) whirring as he thinks. He can see the intelligent man putting the puzzles pieces together, in order to view the whole picture. He stops to admire his fellow Secretary’s brilliance far too often, and he always has. It’s a constant, a comma in his life where he pauses and admits to himself that Jefferson is smart. And sometimes he hates it. He hates that Jefferson is so so bright, but is full of only stupid things to say. Like he doesn’t learn both sides of the argument before presenting. Or perhaps that’s just how humans work, they’re always going to be biased. 

Alexander coughs into his fist again, seeing Jefferson grit his teeth that he had the audacity to slurp his expensive (probably French, pretentious bastard) wine. “I decided to go for a walk,” he began to explain, as confident as always. “And then I ended up here,” he chewed on the inside of his cheek, “because I heard you playing violin and wanted to come speak to whoever the player was. Didn’t know it was going to be you.” 

Jefferson appears uncomfortable. He finishes his glass in one large gulp and places his now empty glass on the table. He pushes his glasses up his nose by the rim once more, sighing softly. “You say that like it was bad playing.” He said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at his empty glass, refilling it with only his eyes and exhaling as it refuses to fill. How disappointing.

“No, no!” Alexander waves his hands in a flurry, almost spilling his Chardonnay on the laminate flooring. Jefferson’s eyes catch the droplet that flies from the glass and lands on one of his quilted cushions. Hamilton is too busy explaining himself to realise. Why is he being so considerate of Jefferson’s feelings? (He has a crush on him, he knows this. He knows it’s because the man looks so much more vulnerable in his own home, in shorts and t-shirt and glasses. And oh fuck he’s staring again.) “I wanted to come tell the violinist how incredible their playing was!” He watches the man who is supposed to be his rival smile, genuine and pure, and his heart soars. Butterflies swarm in his stomach, flapping their wings at a hundred miles an hour. It’s like he can take flight, all because of Jefferson’s shy little grin, watching the way his lips twitch upwards. It’s so different from his other sly, wicked smirks, all teeth and hatred. Is it hatred really though? Alexander doesn’t have the time to ask himself all of these questions again, he’s never going to find an answer. 

"I've played ever since I was a child," Jefferson replies, tapping his fingers off his thighs. As Alexander has established, everything about this man seems to be carved by the gods out of stone and his legs are no exception. 

"Impressive." He isn't lying. Alexander finds it wildly impressive, violin is a difficult instrument to master. He believes Jefferson mutters something along the lines of 'thank you', but he isn't particularly paying attention. He needs more to drink. He doesn't want to have to think anymore, so he doesn't. Instead, he downs his glass. 

“Want a refill?” Jefferson drawls, rising to his feet and taking both empty glasses. All Alexander can do is nod and watch as the man walks off, eyes concentrated on his back and definitely not other places because that would be crude. 

Alexander crosses his legs (sits criss-cross applesauce) on the windowsill seat, fluffing a pillow behind his back and cautiously leaning back to rest against the window panes. He’s almost scared of breaking them, or of the glass popping out. So instead he turns and tucks his knees in slightly, sitting along it sideways to lean on the wall that slightly juts out. He must appear comfortable, because when Jefferson comes back in he laughs carefully. “Made yourself at home I see?” He hands Alexander the glass of Chardonnay, and he notes that in his other hand is the bottle. 

“Yeah, got a problem with that?” Alexander responds sarcastically. Jefferson plops himself down - surprisingly - beside Alexander, in the small space between his feet and the other wall. He hadn’t expected the sudden closeness, and all cognitive thought grinds to a stop when he realises he can smell Jefferson’s overpriced cologne. It’s probably perfume, when he thinks about it. Flowery and reeking of money. But Alexander thinks (after smelling it before, and now smelling it here) that he’ll kill Jefferson if he ever wears anything else. 

Jefferson sips from his glass. “Not at all.” Alexander wants to stretch his legs out, but felt as though he couldn’t do that. Jefferson was right there! What can he do? Put his feet on the man’s lap? … he could do that. He could actually do that. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, Hammy?” He purrs teasingly, raising a curious eyebrow and chuckling to himself. Alexander can’t help but notice the slight flush of his cheeks, the dusty pink across his skin. He eyes him suspiciously, before he finally realises that the man must be a lightweight. Now there’s something he didn’t expect.

“Hammy?” Alexander quirks an eyebrow, suspect. It’s amusing how Jefferson seems to relax that slight bit as he sips his Chardonnay. The slightly older man just nods in return, bringing his glass to his lips and taking another drink. Alexander does the same, swirling the wine in his champagne flute with a chuckle. “Just that I wanna stretch out.” He shrugs and continues to drink, observing as Jefferson’s face scrunches up unattractively. Somehow, Hamilton still finds it adorable. Who would’ve thought he would find Jefferson cute? How strange.

“Then just do it,” Jefferson suggests with a smile, shrugs his shoulders and sips his drink. Alexander is surprised, never would’ve thought Jefferson would allow him to kick his feet up. It feels intimate, like a cute-couple thing to do. He hesitantly stretches his legs out, untucking his knees and placing his feet up on Jefferson’s lap, who hums his approval. 

Alexander sips his Chardonnay, starting to speak. And Jefferson? Jefferson starts to listen. 

Half an hour, and the rest of the bottle of Chardonnay later, the two are on the right side of tipsy. They’re just drunk enough to feel comfortable enough to sit shoulder to shoulder, resting against each other without looking like they’re being forced into the close proximity. Except they are no longer shoulder to shoulder, in fact, they’re closer than that. Alexander has his head on Jefferson’s lap, his glass long forgotten on the table, along with Jefferson’s champagne flute too and the empty wine bottle. Alexander is continuously muttering about the current political climate, ranting quietly while Jefferson listens, occasionally inputting his opinion.

“Are you not gonna argue with me?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. He’s trying to irritate Jefferson, and pokes his cheek to try and agitate him more. But Jefferson doesn’t react, other than blushing an even darker crimson. The colour he is. He’s crimson, but now he’s dull and Alexander misses his booming red. 

Jefferson hums to himself, eyes fluttering shut. Alexander reaches up and pushes the other man’s glasses up his nose by the bridge. Jefferson flicks his eyes open suddenly and stares down at him, catching his wrist in his hand. Alexander feels paralysed, feeling his large palms around his own bony wrist and holding it in a loose grip. He doesn’t answer the question, “it’s so nice outside. Why are we still sitting here?”

“Why indeed?” There’s a ever so slight slur to his words, drawn out a little more than usual. Alexander kicks his feet to the ground, standing so casually it’s like he stays and hangs with Jefferson all the time and not never at all. He turns to face Jefferson, overlooking his features. He’s never had a chance to look at him so relaxed, and he notices how tense Jefferson typically is compared to now. At work, his shoulders are straight, hunched up to his ears and his posture is a horizontal line. Whereas now, he’s a little more slumped, tension gone from his body. It’s a breath of fresh air, one he never thought he would experience and accept so easily.

Jefferson rises to his feet, and typically he would be towering over Hamilton yet now, he doesn’t feel as dominating. Instead, he’s softer, edges aren’t as sharp or predatory. The mirthful glint in his pupils has faded, but the fire still licks at his eyes. It’s a welcoming heat, like the fireplace on a freezing day. And despite the current heatwave, Alexander finds himself wishing to curl up by the fire like a purring cat. “Come on, let’s go sit in my backyard.” 

Alexander expects to trail after him, certainly not for the man to offer his hand to Hamilton. But he takes it, ignoring the way his heart pounds in his chest and the way his head is screaming at him. “You’re holding his hand! You’re holding Thomas Jefferson’s hand! He offered it to you! You didn’t even have to ask!” His pulse races in his ears, as he leads the two of them into his back garden. It’s beautiful, a large monkey puzzle tree in the far right corner, casting a lovely shadow over a section of the yard. Jefferson guides Alexander over to the tree and sits down under it, gesturing next to him. “C’mon, Hammy, I don’t have all day.” Alexander feels his heart flutter again, starting to race at the ridiculous nickname. If anyone else used it, he would be quickly driven mad. It’s all because of this damn Secretary. 

Alexander takes a seat by him, leaning against the bark of the tree and exhaling. It’s warm, but at least vaguely cooler under the tree. Jefferson certainly seems to appreciate it, as the slightly intoxicated man removes his glasses and places them on the trimmed glass next to him, tips his head back until it hits the tree truck and breathes out happily. Alexander eyes the expanse of skin by his neck, and starts to feel like a particularly famished vampire, gazing at the muscles of someone’s neck of all places. But there’s a familiar itch in his fingertips, the urge to have his face tucked into the crook of his neck and just breathe. The thought would be scarier if it wasn’t for the alcohol in his blood. He feels confident, confident enough to lean against Jefferson and carefully hide his face in his shoulder. Not his neck, sure, but it’s close. 

Alexander can feel his counterparts breathing stutter and he gently nuzzles against him, appreciating the muscle under him. “Hamilton, are you alright?” He’s sobered up, the shock of Alexander curling around him like ivy clings to a house seemingly having knocked the wine out of his system. He allows Alexander to wind himself tighter around his body, like it's cold out and he’s the only viable source of heat. It’s not. It’s still absolutely sweltering, evident in the way sweat beads at Jefferson’s brow and Alexander longs to reach over and smooth out the developing stress lines. 

“Mhm…” Alexander hums his answer and buries his head into Jefferson’s neck, finally finally being close enough to him.  Yet… somehow he’s dying to be closer. “I’m great, perfect! Even,” he giggles, the alcohol definitely making him a fun drunk. He’s a lightweight, that’s for sure, but when it hits him, it hits all at once. He’s got a rush of flirtatious courage surging through his veins, hot in his blood. 

Jefferson moves his hand across and gently caresses Alexander’s pink cheeks, observing how he keens into it like a cat. That’s exactly what Alexander reminds him of, a cat. Hissing and violent in his worst moments, yet clingy and desperate for attention in his best. It’s a good thing Jefferson likes cats then. He drags an arm around Alexander’s shoulder, taking in his appearance. Small and (gross, his back is damp) hunched over, tucking into him and smiling, pink lips twitching into a happy grin. He’s so soft like this, vulnerable in a way Jefferson’s never seen him before. He’s intensity is being channeled into a new emotion, and Jefferson knows he’s still red. Still a fiery red, but it’s dragged in a different direction. It’s pulling him into love, and it makes his stomach do flips. Because if he has to be honest to himself, he’s had a crush on this ridiculous gremlin (excuse of a man) politician since the day of their first Cabinet meeting. Alexander could keep up with his thunderous talking pace, and he loves it. He loves it so much. “You’re sure?”

“Well,” Alexander decides it’s now or never, “I suppose there’s a way it could get…” he darts his tongue out and licks his lips, “even better.” He moves an inch away from Jefferson, eyes flickering between his eyes (no longer covered by lenses) and his lips, which look all too kissable. Jefferson doesn’t seem to catch on, just catches Alexander’s gaze with his own intense one. 

“How so?” He raises an eyebrow, arched brow almost judging him. 

“Kiss me,” Alexander breathes, tilting his chin upwards and leaning forward, hoping Jefferson will close the gap. And he does. God he does. He leans down and in, dipping his head and pressing his lips softly to Alexander’s own. They’re soft and insistent and gentle against his own chapped ones. And Alexander finds himself sober, before getting drunk on the feeling of Jefferson kissing him and ha! He’ll be able to rub this in Lafayette’s face later! Suck it, Frenchie! 

Alexander cards his hand into Jefferson’s curls, because he’s scared he’ll never get the chance to feel them again. They’re as soft as they look, springy between his fingers and wonderful to the touch. It’s such a wonderful kiss, their first kiss, and Alexander wants to keep on kissing him forever. Jefferson makes a quiet whimpering noise and Alexander forces himself to pull away before he melts and never does. “Jefferson,” he breathes across his lips.

“Thomas,” the other corrects delicately, a meer whisper before he’s tangling his hand in Alexander’s hair and tugging Alexander back to meet his lips. It’s feverish this time, desperate and needy. The roasting heat must be getting to them, because they’re rivals, are they not? Well, not anymore. Because he’s pretty sure enemies don’t kiss in summer heatwaves, under monkey puzzle trees in their rivals back garden. But they do now, because Alexander isn’t giving this up for the world. Not now. He has his red. 

“Thomas,” Alexander repeats Jeffer- Thomas’s words as they break away again. The name feels heavy on his tongue with the taste of its owner on his lips. Like it should be a sin, a sin to have enjoyed that so much. But he will gladly go to hell if it means getting to experience that intimacy again. The base of his ponytail has started to be tugged out, knotting where his fingers have tangled in the locks. He lays his head on the man’s shoulder, starting to slide half in and half out of his lap. It’s insane, the burning feeling in his chest as he locks this memory away in his treasure box, saving it for a rainy day, just in case this was a one time thing.

Thomas cradles Alexander’s chin in one hand, thumb hooking under his jaw and tilting his head up so that he can look into his eyes. Hamilton could get lost in those eyes, as he has many times. So many times during cabinet meetings he has stared at Jefferson, at those dark eyes and simply dove in, gleeful at the aspect of drowning in them. Only for the man to spout some ridiculous shit and drag Alexander out of the waters, slap him around and take him to his senses. “Yes, dear?”

That voice was going to be the death of him.

“I-“ He lost all forms of cognitive thought, the train must’ve derailed when Thomas pressed their lips together. Because fuck, he can even feel the violin chords buzzing in his veins again and it’s all so much and he loves it. Alexander flicks his gaze around Thomas's face, (he really has to get used to calling him that) kiss-swollen lips, the deep blush across his cheeks. He must look like an awestruck child from Thomas's perspective, because the man chuckles and takes his free hand through Alex's hair, taking it out of the pony tail in one movement. "Red." Alex mutters finally.

"Red?" Thomas repeats with a cocked eyebrow, hands Alexander his hair tie and brings both hands back to his lap. He really isn't sure what Hamilton means. What does red have to do with anything? If he had to put a colour to this moment, he would call it tickled pink. Intense and warm, but full to the brim of love and devotion. Pink.

Alexander nods, presses a finger to Thomas's chest, and another to his own. "Red," he nods, taking his fingers away, instead splaying his palm across Jefferson's chest absent-mindedly. "That's our colours. We're red."

Thomas never imagined he would be agreeing with Alexander so easily. With Martha, their relationship had been a soft pink. The fire was there, buried beneath the surface of dedication and loyalty. It was comfortable, it was perfect. He never needed anything else, because everything he needed was in Martha. But was he pink? Certainly not. She was his high-school sweetheart, the only real relationship he had ever had. He didn't count the many women (and men) in France, they never lasted longer than a night of sub-par activities and a morning of awkward goodbyes. 

"We are, aren't we?" Thomas hummed, eventually pulling himself from his thoughts before he sunk too far. Thinking was a dangerous activity, one he didn't take time to do in fear of never emerging again. 

"But," Alexander continues, and Jefferson's heart sinks. There's always a catch, isn't there? "We're the opposite reds. You're the darker red, most definitely. You're secrets and feelings are locked away, while I display mine like the lights on Broadway." 

Thomas gulps. Never before has he been called out so boldly, or in such a forward manner. Yet Alexander has hit the nail on the head, first try and won the prize so it seems. He softens a little further, slumping against the tree. A low hanging stick swats at his head, and he bats it away with one hand.

"You keep everything behind lock and key… no one else has the key, I don't think," Alexander draws little swirls and patterns with his fingertip on Thomas's chest, the art fading as fast as it appears. He feels the man quiver, trying to hold himself together, and he knows that stone wall he hides behind is breaking. 

He shakes his head in a curt motion. "Ja- Madison has a key," he corrects, inadvertently agreeing with Alexander, "Martha… Martha had a key." He finishes there, hands folding into each other, fingers fidgeting with discomfort. His face contorts as he screws it up, not allowing his mind to drift, forcing himself to stay in the moment. Stay in the tickled pink time. But how do you make pink from two reds?

"I'd like a key," Alexander adds, "if you'd be willing to lend me a spare." He glances up at Jefferson through his eyelashes, shall he offer something in return? The key to his treasure chest perhaps? The place he stores his most prized memories? 

Jefferson chews on his lip. "I think you already have one. Whether we realised it or not… you've always had one." The metaphor is starting to confuse him, muddling with his mind. So many keys, and so many possible doors they could unlock and it's all a bit much. What door should he go through first? None of them have labels, none of them have a clear cut future secured behind them. How does he choose? Maybe he should let Alexander choose for him, go along for the ride.

Alexander smiles. He drapes himself further across Jefferson, kicking one of his legs over both of the man's and leaning into his shoulder, tucking himself there. The hot air, accompanied by the events that just occurred have sobered him almost entirely, but it feels so much better to experience this without the alcohol tainting his memory. "Thank you."

"For what?" Thomas raises an eyebrow, because as far as he's certain, he should be thanking Hamilton. Or cursing him. Cursing him and whatever magical force drew them together. This may just make him believe in fate, in destiny. He wasn’t a Christian, not anymore anyway, but this had him thanking god. Thanking every god for bringing them together. This was good, he could sit under this monkey puzzle tree, feeling the way he is now for the rest of eternity. Not good, no, that didn’t do this justice. Amazing? Fabulous? Stupendous?

"It's a preemptive thank you, since you'll be paying for tonight's date. Say seven o'clock." Alexander smirks up at Thomas, watches as the man chuckles. That laugh, there's a sound he could get used to. And to know he caused it? Fills him with joy. The laugh is like yellow. He doesn't know why, it just is. Colours fit everything, his mother was a deep navy blue, his father a cold icy white. Lafayette is purple, a mix of strength and flowing like the sea, but passionate like red. Hercules is green like juniper, he’s a grounding presence, one that Alexander can rely on to stay strong for them all. Angelica is pink, full of passion, but for some reason she just doesn’t hit that red mark. Washington stands bold in yellow, along with Peggy, but much like Thomas and Alexander, opposite ends of the spectrum. He can’t say why these colours fit, where he got them from or why they are this way, but it just does. It all slots together, everyone in his life has an assigned colour. And he thinks they always will.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Alright, I'm sure the neighbour will be fine taking care of Patsy for a bit," he hums. It's nerve wracking, because Jefferson doesn't have a clue if Alexander is alright with kids or not. His brain is screaming at him that Alexander is going to see sense and run, hear the talk of kids and sprint. After all, they're both in their mid thirties, so it's normal for someone their age to have a child. What if Alexander doesn't like kids? God, was this a mistake?

“Patsy? The little girl playing out in the street?” Alexander asks, laying himself across Thomas. He feels comfortable, like himself already, and he feels like this could go places. Because reds match, and opposites attract. They’re just lucky they’re opposite reds. 

“Yeah, yeah, she’s playing with John,” Thomas sighs out his nose, grabbing his glasses and pushing them up his nose. He smiles at Alexander and giggles, actually giggles, a sound that makes Alexander’s heart fly like doves around his chest. “Dress comfy, I hope you like picnics.”

“Picnics?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. “I love picnics.” It’s true. Hell, if they picnic in the back of Thomas’s garden, criss-cross on a blanket under this tree, that could be one of the best dates of his life. 

“I’m glad, it’s my dream date,” Thomas admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “look at us, getting to know each other already!” He chuckles again, noticing the flush it causes to Alex’s cheeks. Gorgeous. He cups his jaw, watches as the smaller man leans into the touch with a soft purr. 

“You know what’ll make it even better?”

“What, if I bring more Chardonnay?” 

“No!” Alexander bats at his arm playfully.

“Then what?” Thomas asks through laughs.

“If you kiss me again.”

And he does. God, he does.

-

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[shmegmilton]

Can you explain how Aaron and Alexander stopped being friends and started fighting?

They were never really ‘friends.’ I assume you got that idea from the play, but I have no idea why the play tried to push that narrative. Civil? Sure, but that was necessary. New York was less than 50,000 people at the time, and they were both accomplished lawyers & statesmen who had to work and interact with each other on a daily basis. Politics is politics, look at how people are acting right now during our election. 

As for your question, it’s a long line of policy & personal disagreements, mostly. They were on opposite sides of the aisle on pretty much everything. Lots of small things, but a lot of big, BIG things.

     Burr was (ironically) kind of a pacifist; he kept mostly to himself, didn’t really speak much publicly & didn’t necessarily go out of his way to confront people unless he’s been pushed long enough (everyone ‘snaps’ at some point, y’know?)

But that’s why the ‘Burr is an evil mastermind’ myth is so pervasive today. Burr just… didn’t bother defending himself, or correcting anything, because he (mistakingly) had faith in the inherent goodness of people that someday people would see him for his true character. So for that reason, we don’t really have a good timeline from Burr’s perspective as to how he felt about Hamilton—but BOY howdy did Hamilton never shut up about Burr.

----

Trespass & Confiscation Acts  (1782ish)

     During the Revolution, the British confiscated the property of patriots that fled the city. New York did the same thing, & for a while it was this game of: ‘Oh, you’re gonna take my stuff? **draws a line in the dirt** Well, everything behind this line is mine now.” It was all very bad, and after the way Tories & Loyalists faced a lot of honestly very fucked up discrimination & forfeiture of their rights. Hamilton (like most Federalists) was pro-British, so he represented a lot of these people in court. I’m sure it wasn’t purely out of the goodness of his heart--most of his clients were loaded--but the sentiment is there. On the other hand, there are multiple records of Burr buying up property around this time, most likely confiscated Tory property, which he would usually flip or give away to people that he knew, so he was taking full advantage of this. Burr also, most likely, went head-to-head with Hamilton on a few of these cases, because Burr tended to work with the ‘common folk.’

French Revolution (1789ish to 1799ish) & Proclamation of Neutrality (1793)

     Burr (like most Democratic-Republicans) was pro-French, so much so that he took in French refugees fleeing the Revolution into his home. He was very sympathetic to the cause.Hamilton was not. He basically saw it the same way that right-wing Conservatives see the Black Lives Matter movement is the best way I can explain it. He also hated it for the amount of immigrants that were now fleeing to the U.S.

Burr Gets Chosen For NY Senate (1791)

     Key word: chosen. As in, he didn’t actually run. That wasn’t how politics worked back then. The Hamilton musical just fucking lied outright about that, let’s be clear. He also never switched parties. Ever. Back then you were nominated by the people who were already in government--usually by one of the powerful families like the Clintons or the Livingstons, or yada yada. So Burr didn’t actually do anything. He didn’t even really want the position either, if I recall. But back then if you were ‘called to serve,’ you were obligated to do it. Hamilton was furious either way because it meant that Burr was replacing his father-in-law, Phillip Schuyler, meaning that he wouldn’t have that extra ear in government that he wanted. Burr also had a lot of views that were considered ‘extreme’ at the time, like getting extra rights for women, immigrants & black people, but I have no idea what Hamilton thought of those individual policies other than he just didn’t like women, immigrants or black people.

1792 & 1796 Presidential Election

Burr wasn’t really that serious about either of these elections, I don’t think (in ’92 he wasn’t that well-known & barely got any support, but it’s worth noting the fact he was nominated to run at all was really impressive. He’s tied with William Jennings Bryan as being one of the youngest people to ever receive an electoral vote, at 36 years old.) In ’96 he faired a little better—he got 30 votes, which is nearly half of what you need to get the ticket nomination, also very impressive.Hamilton was super staunchly opposed to both of these runs, though, and did his typical Hamilton thing of openly campaigning about how the people shouldn’t vote for Burr, yada yada.

Jay Treaty (1794)

     I highly suggest looking up supplemental information on this because it’s a bit complicated, but it was basically a treaty between us and Great Britain to reaffirm that we were going to continue to not mess with France, as well as a couple of other weird hang-ups. It was not popular, at all, especially with the Demo-Republicans. There is a specific instance (that is actually kind of insane) where Hamilton gave a public speech in defense of it, and the Democratic-Republicans in the crowd started pelting him & the other Federalists with rocks. Hamilton got SO mad that immediately challenged a man to a duel, and threatened to fight each of the Democratic-Republicans one-by-one.  

Reynolds Affair (1797)

     Burr had a personal relationship with Maria Reynolds; he was her divorce attorney in 1793/1794, helped her out financially, & successfully petitioned (+paid for) her daughter Susan to attend a boarding school. I believe they also stayed in his him with him during the divorce proceedings, but don’t quote me on that. He never said anything publicly that I could find, but Burr probably had a personal investment in the Reynolds Pamphlet, since it painted Maria in a really damaging light.

Alien & Sedition Acts (1798)

     These were some of the most worst laws ever passed in the history of the country. Like, these were AWFUL. It not only limited immigration, but it limited the freedom of the press and freedom of speech (ESPECIALLY immigrants, my god.)

Burr was right on the front lines helping defend people in court, he actively opposed it & is probably the thing that propelled him into Jefferson’s orbit as a potential Vice President.

John Barker Church Duel (1797)

John Barker Church had accused Burr of taking bribes (which was unfounded & untrue) and they ended up dueling. JBC was the husband of Angelica Schuyler, Hamilton’s sister-in-law.

Neither was injured (though, JBC apparently put a hole in Burr’s coat), but it supposed infuriated Hamilton & his associates so much that they would send out fake letters “from Burr” challenging people to duels.

The Manhattan Company (1799)

    Burr was getting sick of the difficulty he was having getting loans from the Federalist-run banks and decided to do something about it. There had been several seasonal epidemics of yellow fever—caused by mosquitos but, at the time, it was thought to be caused by improperly treated water, miasma (‘bad air’) or (if you asked Hamilton) stinky evil immigrant refuges who were fleeing France and Haiti. Burr saw this and spearheaded a campaign to get a proper water treatment plant, even getting Hamilton to help him. Through some really weird loophole that I don’t quite understand, Burr was somehow allowed to use the ‘surplus capital’ for banking, which essentially turned it into a bank. The actual water treatment portion of the company was plagued with problems due to improper management and things like that.     We’ll never know his exact thought process on this (people normally assume it was malicious trickery because people are biased to hate Burr anyway) & I highly doubt that Burr knew the extent of the issues (he was on the Board of Directors, but so were a dozen others--INCLUDING John Barker Church) so I don’t entirely think it’s his fault, but the fact of the matter is that it most likely exacerbated the existing problems & indirectly led to more people getting sick/dying until they finally fixed the problems.I would say that it’s completely justifiable for Hamilton to be mad at Burr, but, as we established, Hamilton hated both poor people & immigrants (two groups most likely affected by this) so he wasn’t actually mad at him for the reason a… y’know, a normal person would be mad at him. He was mad at him because Burr destroyed the monopoly that Federalists had on banks, making it easier for Democratic-Republicans & others to get loans. He was literally mad at him for making the economy fair.

1800 Election & 1804 NY Governor Election

  These two are self-explanatory, I think, and I’ve already been writing way too long, lol. My hand hurts.

[iangelofhell]

He threw away his shot (Phillip x reader)

Hi everyone!

I just wanted to say that this is the first time I ever post on tumblr... So I’m not sure how to use it exactly...

And that English is not my first language so I didn’t use an “old” type of communication, for me is more complicated. Anyway... if you notice something wrong, please tell me!

Summary: Your boyfriend and your friend got themselves on a duel. Luckily you, a medicine student, are there to save the day.

I promise this is not angst

Word count: 1463

Warnings: None.

I know George can be a little of a dick sometimes but this time he crossed the line. A duel. I will never understand why men die, literally, to prove the world their “honor”. They could do such without being so dramatic.  

It was a complicated situation, my friend on a duel to death with my boyfriend. If one of them kills the other I wouldn´t just lose the killed but the killer too. 

Never in my life felt my heart beating faster than now. While I saw the two men give each other backs and started to count to ten to kill the other. I didn’t trust the doctor on my side. He looked as nervous as I did, and that was bad. When I focused on the duel again My eyes locked with Phillip´s, just before he started to raise his gun to the sky. I smiled at him. If he didn´t shoot then George wouldn´t either. But then, when Phillip was at 7 and the gun almost fully pointing to the clouds above us, I heard the characteristic sound of a shoot, I watched and smelled how the air filled with gunpowder, how the red liquid spread on Hamilton´s white shirt, how his knees began to give in. I didn´t even think about it. I grabbed the doctor’s bag and started running in Phillip’s direction with the intention to catch him before his fall, but I didn’t. His knees impacted on the soft ground and he lowered his head to see the wound. His hands tinted with the same dark red of his shirt when he covered the injury. My eyes filled with tears and my vision went blurry, but I wouldn’t allow it. I allowed him to participate in this stupid duel and I let him fall, but I wasn’t going to allow him to die, even if that means I have to trade his life for mine. 

Omniscient narrator

Reaching Phillip’s side you let yourself fall on your knees and opened the bag that contained the necessary stuff to heal him. You were never this grateful for studying to be a nurse. While you take off the things you were going to need the boy beside you watched you with glassy desperate eyes. He didn’t want to die, he had so much more to see, feel, show… With his parents, his siblings… With you. He cupped your cheek with his bloody hand. The wet and warm touch made you focus your attention on him. His sad smile was too much for you. The sobs escaped from your lips without permission. 

“Don´t look at me like you’re going to die” Your voice was firm like an order, but, as in your eyes, it was evident the beg in it.

“(Y/N)-” 

“NO!” you yelled and grabbed his face as gentle as you could, but in this situation, it wasn’t much. “I do not allow you, I told yo- I told you this duel was a stupid thing, and when you are healthy enough I’m going to yell you and punch senseless for not listening to me” He chuckled lightly and nodded. You started to work again, slipping in the sterilized gloves and you began to clean the wound and patched it. Phillip just let you be, he didn´t know how many possibilities he had to live, but he knew if he wouldn’t let you tried it would be worst. After a glance at his eyes, you grabbed the first piece of clothing you saw and put it in his mouth. He quirked a brow but then he felt a horrible burning in his stomach and bit the fabric. you mumbled an apology and turned around to look at the doctor right where you left him the terror, still visible in his face. “For your sake, I hope the carriage is as close as it can be in less than a minute!” the man turned on his heels running to get the vehicle. Then you turned to Phillip’s friend, his second, searching for some composure. When you find it under the clear fear in his eyes you took the piece of material out of your boyfriend’s mouth and asked “Could you help me carry him to the carriage?” You saw him nod and wrapped Hamilton’s arm around his shoulder. You did the same thing and lay a hand on his chest. “We have to be careful I stopped the bleeding but any sudden movements won’t help…  At all” Both of you started to escort him as gentle and fast as you could. 

The travel was filled with a terrifying silence. You sat at Phillip’s left side with your arm wrapped around his, your hands intertwined. His head rested on your shoulder like its weight was too much for him. He wasn’t breathing, he was sucking as much air as he could. Sobs and whimpers leaving his lips now and then, your answer to that was squeezing his hand and run your free hand through his hair. 

Once in the hospital you explained just what had happened and your procedures to help. Then they took him away on a stretcher. you didn’t want to let go his hand, but you knew, if you let go this one time you could take it again a million more. So you did just that, but a second after you regretted it and started to follow the doctors so you could be with him. a man taller and stronger than you put himself in the way and with a soft voice told you to sit and wait for news about him. Someone asked a bunch of things about him, they asked for his family and send someone to call them. You answered automatically at everything but your head was in another place. 

You sat in a wooden chair. Your whole body shaking, hands full of your boyfriend’s blood, wet cheeks, your hair a mess, and your eyes and nose were puffy and red. It was quite a sight but you couldn’t care less. 

“Mr. Hamilton!” I raised my head and saw Mr. Hamilton there with eyes full of worry and horror. A man with glasses in front of him was explaining the same I explained when I arrived here. 

“Can I see him?” Alexander’s voice broke. 

“I’m sorry, right now the medics are working and they need space, but luckily he’ll live, thanks to the miss over there” he pointed at you “If she wouldn´t have been there he would have died”. You stood up and went to join the conversation. 

“So he’s going to live?” You started to cry again, but this time were happy tears. He was going to live. Phillip was going to be okay. 

The man nodded and smiled. 

“In a couple of hours you should be able to see him” Both you and Alexander left escape a sigh of relief. 

You waited and waited and waited. You were sat and then stand. At some point, Elizabeth Hamilton appeared. A doctor summarized the situation for her. When she heard that you saved her son she hugged you and thanked you. You hugged back and pat her back softly. 

Finally, we were able to see him, but you let the Hamiltons go first. They took their time, but it was understandable. It was your turn to talk to him. 

You reached his room. There he was. In a Hospital bed, pale as ever, and a little sweaty, but there he was. He was breathing you could see that but just to make sure, you let your head fell on his chest and heard the softs beatings of his heart. you sighed, relieved once more before looking at him. 

He smiled warmly at you.

“Hey” He nothing but whispered. 

“You stupid, stupid man” Your smile had nothing to do with the insult you just called him. He chuckled and took your hand. You sat at his side and cupped his cheek. “I swear to god if you ever scare me again like that I’ll kill you myself” He nodded and squeezed your hand. 

“Lay beside me?” You bit your lip, you wanted to do as he said. but you didn’t want to hurt him. “Please?” Oh, well, he used dis puppy eyes, there was no way you would say no to that. 

You lied down and rested your head on his chest as your hand drew random figures on his shirt.

“You saved my life” He whispered on your hair. You didn’t answer. You didn’t know what to say. Of course you saved him. What were you supposed to do? stay there and watched him die? 

wrapped his arm around you and hold you tight. 

You let his heartbeats lull you to sleep.