Work Text:
«Affliction
[n.] a cause of mental or bodily pain, as sickness, loss, calamity, or persecution.»
«An affliction makes you suffer, but you have to deal with it anyway. Diseases are often said to be afflictions, but the word can mean just about anything that causes great suffering.»
Thomas had been in Hamilton's apartment before.
Once, about half a year ago, when his colleague sent a new draft to him and he spent ten minutes passive-aggressively knocking on the thin wooden door until Hamilton let him in and they could properly 'discuss' their disagreements.
The other time Hamilton passed out drunk at the office Christmas party and no one wanted to drive him home, so Thomas had been 'voluntarily' chosen by the attendees.
Today, Thomas was invited by Hamilton himself. They met sometimes, just to talk. Discuss. Argue.
Coffee shops where Thomas ordered tea just to annoy Hamilton.
Fancy restaurants which usually Thomas picked (and paid - Hamilton insisted on splitting the bills, he was a responsible adult who could pay his food himself thank you very much - but in the end, usually Thomas just pulled out the money and didn't leave space for an argument).
Hamilton wanted to cook tonight and when Thomas entered the apartment he inhaled the smell of fresh food.
"Don't touch anything. At. All." Hamilton punctuated the last to words before turning around.
"Hello to you, too, Hamilton." Thomas couldn't help but smirk a little before eyeing the room.
He hesitated, confused by what he was seeing.
The few other times he had been here, everything had been the same.
Non of the furniture had moved in over one years time, the candles on the cupboard haven't been lit, one of the pictures on the wall had been skew - hell, even the flowers were the same. Had he replaced them or were they artificial?
But Thomas kind of didn't even want to know about all of Hamilton's weird ticks.
"Voila!" Hamilton placed a steaming pot on the small table, revealing pasta with vegetables and despite Thomas' dislike for the man he couldn't help but groan when he took the first bite.
They talked. Talking around Hamilton was easy. They shot back and forth words without thinking much and it worked out well for them.
A few minutes later Thomas shook his hair out of his face and leaned back in his chair, stretching, promptly knocking over one of the candles on the cupboard behind him.
"Oops...", he hissed and looked at Hamilton's face. His eyes were wide, focused on something over Thomas' shoulder. Was he shaking?
"Eh, I'm sorry?", Thomas carefully proposed and Hamilton was torn out of his trance, visibly cringing. He looked like he was about to cry and it only confused Thomas more.
He slowly stood up. "Hamilton, what's going on? I'll pick it up, calm down."
"No!" The other's voice sounded hoarse, but it was firm enough to make Thomas stop in his movement for a few seconds. Instead of rounding his chair he went over to Hamilton, crouching in front of his chair.
His eyes were stuck to the floor, he was shaking.
His lips were moving, forming soundless words.
Thomas knew that he could just leave, but there was something about Hamilton's behavior that made him worry.
"Hamilton, what is going on?", he asked, firmly but not too loud.
Hamilton's voice sounded like defeat when he finally spoke. "Do you know who John is?"
"John as in John Laurens? Isn't he your boyfriend?" Thomas answered but immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say, as Hamilton looked up for just a moment, moisture blinking in his eyes. "Was. He was."
There was silence for a moment, then a little sob.
"This is because your boyfriend broke up with you? I mean I knew you-"
"He's dead", Hamilton interrupted, looking up. The tears were streaming down his face openly now, his brows furrowed together.
"Oh."
Another sob escaped Hamilton's lips.
"He was killed by some street gang. They called me to identify his corpse. I tried to move on. I tried so hard but I couldn't change anything in here. These candles were his favorites. I thought..." He was shaking even harder now, more sobs found there way out. "I thought I could pretend everything was alright."
"I'm sorry", Thomas choked out.
Hamilton looked like he had forgotten the Virginian was even there.
Suddenly he jumped up from his seat, making Thomas who also rose quickly stumble backward.
"You're not sorry." He spoke the words quietly, making a step up to Thomas. "You have no idea what I'm feeling." His voice became louder, he rose his head high and made Thomas slowly retreat to the entrance. "You're a complete asshole." It was something between a sob and a scream.
They reached the door, Hamilton opened it and pointed outside, his voice just a low hiss. "Fuck off."
This time Thomas didn't step back. He just stood there and saw how the anger was rising in the other again.
A minute passed. Hamilton let out something close to a battle cry and attacked.
The blows of his fists were unaimed and rather weak, like a constant drumming onto Thomas' chest.
With ease, the Virginian caught his wrist with his hands and saw Hamilton tearing up for the second time this evening. "Fuck off!", the other one repeated but it was so quiet Thomas nearly overheard it.
Instead of following Hamilton's order he just closed his arms around the man's shoulders and pulled him close with a soft "Oh, Alexander".
It was the last straw, the other one began to cry harder and whimpered into Thomas' shirt. He couldn't make out words but he didn't need to understand the hurt behind it.
After some time he gently pushed Alex away.
He laid an arm around him and lead him to his own sofa, urging him to sit down and then wrapping him up in a blanket.
He sat down next to him after dimming the light and pulled his knees up to his chest, folding his arms and resting his chin on them.
They sat in silence until Thomas heard fabric moving beside him and the next he knew Alexander was asleep, leaning onto him.
Thomas debated with himself if he could wake the other - the bags under his eyes were huge and he looked very peaceful - but it turned out he didn't need to when three hours later Alex' eyelashes fluttered open.
"You alright?", Thomas asked him and he responded with a small nod. "Then I should really go home, it's late."
"Thomas, I..." His voice sounded hoarse and he broke off, coughing. "Thank you. You know that you could spend the night?"
Thomas let out a short humorless laugh. "I'd rather die than spending the night in your apartment, Hamilton." He cracked another smile, softer, more genuine this time. "Humor me and get some sleep. And your welcome, Alexander."