Chapter Text
Washington has been avoiding John ever since.
John has schedule several meets in the span of the three days the two have spent apart since their...incident. And in each case Washington has turned him down in fear that boy will try to make another move.
He still hasn't figured out how to let the boy down easy.
He doesn't think there is a way to let someone down easy.
No matter what you say, telling someone you don't feel the same way will always be brutal and hurtful. It's embarrassing and uncomfortable and at times could leave the other person bruised and beaten.
And Washington never wants to see John beaten. Never bruised.
So he just avoids the boy and lets John think whatever he wants to think. He won't do any harm that way. And when Washington knows ripping the band aid off won't be as painful he will do it.
But until then, no John.
He’s sitting in his office when his phone rings and he just knows it John.
No Jhon.
No John.
No John.
He lets it ring.
It starts ringing again.
“You gonna answer that?” Alexander yells from his desk. Hes currently sitting up all stiff, tie half undone and pony tail looking a little messy.
Washington supposes the boy is writing one of his infamous essays.
“Uh no...prank call. They got me already twice today.” Washington says instead rubbing at his face.
God he needs some sleep.
“Prank calls? That's odd...You want me to tell the security desk about them?” He asks and Washington is shaking his head though Alexander can't see him.
“No there's no need for that. They're probably just kids. Trying to be rebellious.” He says and he hears Alex laugh.
“Rebellious huh?” He pauses. “Is this what Americans think rebellion looks like?” He asks and Washington scoffs.
“You know the answer to that, Hamilton.”
“You're right, lots of great ole’ American stories about your rebellions. How brave you people are.” He teases and Washington just knows he has a slick smile on his face.
“You people? Are you not an American Hamilton?” He decides to play along and Hamilton hums.
“I suppose I am. I came here, nothing but the clothes on my back and made a living. Isn't that the American dream?” He asks.
“Yes, you're missing a few things but for the most part you get it.” Answers Washington and then there is a moment of silence and Alexander is walking into his office, fixing his hair and tie.
“And exactly what am I missing?” He smiles and takes a seat on the couch.
“The white picket fence and happy wife and children.” George tells him and Alexander shrugs.
“Don't like the color white, fences look weird. And I'm too young for a wife and child. I'm great where I'm at.”
“Don't let Eliza hear you say that.” Washington shakes his head.
“I know. I've known her quite sometime. She can get so…”
“Worked up?” Washington asks and Hamilton laughs.
“Yes, I suppose so.” He pauses and stares at his hands. “Sometimes I wonder.”
“About what?” Washington looks over.
“Why we are together. We are extremely different. We both have different ideals and objects. Beliefs and attitudes.”
“Opposites attract.” Washington swallows. He really hates talking about Alex and Eliza in a relationship.
Flashbacks of Thanksgiving fill his mind.
“No, not our opposites. Yes we get along and we enjoy each other. But I don't know. I can't help but feeling like it's wrong, our puzzle pieces aren't connecting. Like we are cute in pieces but together, the pictures are too different to be comprehended.”
“What's your picture?” Alexander has Washington's full undivided attention.
But Alexander ignores him.
“Eliza’s picture is blue, with blue skies and blue dresses and blue cotton candy. Crystal blue water, so translucent you can see yourself perfectly. You can see what you are, what you want and what you are doing. Clean. Blue.”
“But what is yours Alexander?” Washington tries again.
“My picture is red. Red skies and red wine that makes you drunk. Red fire so opaque you can't see a damn thing so you're forced to walk through it, making bumps and mistakes as you go.”
“Burning everything in your path.” Washington continues.
And Alexander just looks at him.
He looks at him and Washington looks back.
He doesn't know how long they are staring at each other. But Alexander looks so broken and he just wants to hold him.
“Why is everything fire with you?” Washington finally asks.
“It's a long story.” He smiles though it's bitter.
“WIll you ever tell me?” Washington looks away.
“Yes.” Alexander answers.
“One day.”
__________________________________________________
“Come on! Or we are going to miss the movie!” Peggy groans as she pulls on the door.
Angelica rolls her eyes.
“I'm praying on it.”
“Angelica.” Eliza warns and in response Alexander smiles at her.
Washington watches them from the kitchen, a glass of water in his hands.
“Are you sure you don't want to go?” Eliza looks a Washington, giving him her sweet smile. “I heard it's really good!”
“Yea uncle G! Come with us please!!” Peggy begs and Angelica shakes her head.
“Leave the man alone little sisters, he’s obviously tired.” Both sisters roll their eyes at her in response.
Washington chuckles.
“I'm afraid Angelica is right. These past few days have been quite hard.”
He doesn't look at Alexander. But he feels Alexander's eyes on him.
“I think a quiet night in would be much appreciated.” He smiles at the girls, still avoiding Alexander's eyes.
They all nod together and began their way out.
George finally summons enough courage to pat Alexander on the back.
“Alright son, take care of my girls.” He says and he can see the smirk on Alex’s face.
“Of course sir.”
And before he can even register, the room goes silent. And he is all by himself.
He thinks a few things over on what to do with himself for the rest of the evening, settling on a book about capitalism in the twenty-first century. Except for when he went to get the book, it was nowhere to be found on the shelf.
“Alexander.” He muttered. The only kid he’s ever met that willingly reads a French book about capitalism.
He makes his way to the boys room, stopping at the door.
He’s never really been in it.
Sure, when Alex has his nightmares he comes in there to comfort him but ever since the foundation situation, he hasn't seen the room.
Alex would be pissed off he went in it without his permission. Even if it was to get a simple book that shouldn't have been there in the first place.
But Alex isn't here.
So he goes in.
It's different with the lights on. The colors don't seem so dark anymore and Washington remembers that Martha had the room painted a light green. He's so used to seeing it in the dark he just assumed they were a dark blue.
He could see the hardwood floor. He knew there was one by the feeling of the coldness on his feet when he would walk on it in the middle of the night.
The bed was made and Washington scoffed at it.
Alex didn't seem like the type to make his bed.
He looks around for the book for a few minutes, going through papers and closets but he can't seem to find it.
He goes over the dresser and begins his search, the background noise filled with nothing but the murmurs of the t.v in the living room.
When he gets to the last drawer he can't see all the way back so he digs his hand in there and moves it around, aiming for a cold hardcover book.
And he finds it.
He gives himself a nod of approval and drags the book forward.
But what he reads isn't what he was looking for.
Instead of the book about capitalism, Washington finds a different book.
One that says Letters on it.
The man raises an eyebrow at it, and he would've put it back but it was Alexander's hand writing.
Why did Alexander write letters on it?
Exactly what's in it?
And suddenly it's as if the t.v is off.
And Washington is left to the excruciating pain of anticipation and silence. He can feel sweat forming on the back of his neck, and his fingers twitch. He bites at his lip and wonders.
Could this be his chance?
His only chance to unlock Alexander.
In a book entitled Letters in his hands, Washington can feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest.
And he’s made a decision.
He stands and in silence walks out of the room, closing the door.
The book still in his hands.
When George finally gets to his own room he shuts the door and even locks it though he doesn't know why. He turns on the lamp at his bedside and takes a breath before opening it.
September 22,2002
Dear Mother,
It is with great sadness I share news with you in your comfort of the afterlife while I sit here with the living. You must forgive me for telling you so soon, for it is not my time to speak with you right now. But I have no one else to tell this swift revelation to.
He looks up.
He can't do this.
These letters, they aren't meant for him, they aren't meant for anyone and it's wrong.
He can't do this.
Washington closes his eyes, flash backs of all the times Alexander mentioned his mother and it breaks his heart. He can't read them.
But suddenly he remembers that Alexander is an enigma that's constantly evolving into a greater enigma and this might be the only way to solve it.
He feels horrible yes. But he also needs answers.
He prays that God will forgive him for what he is about to do.
He says his apologies to Alexander's mother.
And he reads on.
It's just, I started high school, and everything is so much different from Nevis. Different in a way in which people talk different, believe and, want different things. While I only want to stay alive. They want to change the world. It's beautiful if I must say. How many dreamers are in New York. How they don't let anything stop them. It's inspiration to me, makes me want to do the exact same. Though no one sees me, I see them.
Washington scans the letter to the end.
I'm changing. I can feel it. The child you once knew is no longer roaming this body. My soul has evolved into a complicated machine that's learning it's place. I'm learning my place. I'm making my place.
Alexander.
Washington goes through a number of letters like this from Alexander to his dead mother. And slowly but surely he can see the shift.
From one Alexander to another.
A sad little scared boy forming into a brave and charging young man-the Alexander he knows today-and it's all because of the high school he went to.
The city really did change him.
He goes through the book some more until he lands on another letter that sticks out.
It's in an envelope with a red stamp that says RTS on it. It has a lot of stamps, some Washington has never seen before.
He opens it.
December 30,2007
Dear father,
Isolation is better than expected from what I gathered. James has left now, and I don't know where he is except from the occasional letter. One has a postmark from a prison, but I choose to ignore it. And though I am partily relieved of my new found lonesomeness. I still need someone to tell these things to. And this is where you come in. It has been a while since I have written a word to you, even longer since I spoken a word to you. But here I am, a bleeding pen within my bleeding fingers. Sending a message I know will be sent back. I'm writing you to tell you that it is in fact hard in New York just as it is on Nevis. And I can't figure out if it's because of the city itself, or my bad luck. I have grown tired of trying to brave fires. I've come to the conclusion, it's easier in snow. And I know you don't know what I mean, for I have never seen snow until recently but I tell the truth. I mean fires from within. It's been hard. Here is a testimony: One the night of December 20th a horrible snowstorm hit the city of New York. The snow was so thick, even God himself could not see the city he created with his thinning hands. I had been kicked out of Colombia and hired as a prostitute, in order to pay off my remaining debut to a Mr. James Reynolds. I have been evicted from my apartment and have to live in the whore house with the rest of the people. And it just felt like I was on fire. I'm always on fire here. And so one night, when I was sure a client wouldn't be knocking on my door, I took off my shirt and shoes and walked barefooted to central park, which would be more than an hour walk from where my home was located. Once I reached the park, I layed down on a park bench, still covered in snow and waited to die. I didn't die. But I did go numb. My skin turned purple and blue and my eyes watered. And it's only when I'm alone, when I'm out of the whore house sleeping on a park bench in the snow do I feel my body go numb. My mind blanks and suddenly I almost feel dead. I need to feel dead. But once I feel close enough to death, once I feel his hand on my shoulder. I wake up. I get up and I go home. Everything is gone. You. My mother. James. They were my home and now I'm alone. And so I lay in the snow hoping to die. To catch a break. And I'm sad now. I won't ask you for money because I know you don't have any and even if you did, you wouldn't give it to me. Well I don't want your money. I don't even want your name. I just want you to know that your spirit is made of nothing but music that makes the devil dance. And here I am to you, writing with a broken soul and empty veins. I've run out of ideas. So I write. And sometimes I get angry. I should've stayed in the snow. Because home becomes what hurts the most. Home is what hurts me the most. My home burned to the ground, I should've stayed in the snow.
Alexander.
Washington folds the letter back into the envelope.
Alexander was suicidal.
Is he still suicidal?
He got kicked out of Colombia, he told Washington and others he didn't want to be there.
George swallows and begins going through more letters.
There's no new information really, just the same emotions built into other pretty words and they break Washington's heart so much he just can't read them anymore.
When he is close to the end of the book, another name pops out.
This one from a week ago.
Dear Maria,
I too say with a heavy heart that I have missed you as well. Though our company has always been in wrong context, you were still a friend. You still are a friend. Treasured and supported. However I have written this letter not only to inform you that the love you are giving me is well informed and returned but also that I know longer sell my services. I have quit my job as a male escort and found solace in a much more complicated job that requires me to keep my clothes on. Yes, you heard me right, one that requires my clothes to be on. Underneath Mr. George Washington of Revolutionary Industries I am his secretary and most accomplish assistant. And though the work demands rigorous attention and dedication, I have never been more happier in my life, only except for when I was with my mother. I have completed all tasks that haunt me from Colombia and I am now free from chains of confinement within that side of the state of New York. I plan to fix things over with Jefferson and once I'm finished with that, I will be finally on my own. I will raise enough money to buy back my apartment, and I will take John with me. I will go to the love of my life, and express how much love I can now give because I am clean. Washington is a nice man. He is honest, and kind, and patient and without him, I would probably be dead. If you do see him-which you probably will- treat him with respect for he deserves and earns it. I cannot tell him much about myself, or our time at Columbia in fear of my fire touching him or my past spreading on to his. But I can tell him after everything is over and ashes. I cannot help you Maria. I no longer want to be apart of what you and your company do. I wish you good luck, I regret not one second of our time together, despite the mess it has caused.
Alexander
Washington squints his eyes at it.
What?
And whose Maria?
He looks around at the paper to realize that it has not been sent. At Least not yet.
He goes over all the things he’s read:
Alexander wa suicidal.
His brother is in jail.
His dad is still alive.
He was kicked out of Colombia, he didn't leave.
He's had this debt with James Reynolds for a long time.
He had a companion named Maria.
Washington rubs at his face.
He goes to close the book, enough of the words in it, at least for today when another name stands out on the very last page.
Dear George Washington,
And his heart drops.
Alexander has written a letter to him. He begins to think it over in his head. Each letter Washington has read has unlocked something about Alexander. Surely this letter must to. And it's directed towards him which means, Alexander does plan on sending it.
He might as well read it.
So with his veins running thick with anxiety, he reads.
I know writing this letter to you is quite odd considering the fact that I could literally text you this or tell you this in person. However, believe it or not I have a hard time speaking with people in physical form, unless it's about some political/financial debate to which I own it. But when it comes to emotions, and my past. Suddenly these pretty words I've been blessed with fail. And I always did like old fashioned letters, sometimes they are more stronger this way. I've even considered writing this with a quill, but I'm already messy, and ink will make this paper dirty.
Washington chuckles at that.
I'm here to tell you about myself George, the Alexander you ask for all the time though you're not ready for who he really is. If you're reading this it means I am fixed. I no longer am a threat to you and your knowledge about my pimp or the Reynolds shall not hurt you or anyone you love. But it can also mean that I am dead. And if I am dead, I would like for you not to feel so upset. For I have been dead for a very long time. By being physically gone it means I am finally free. And so are you.
Washington stops reading for a second and closes his eyes.
Why would Alexander die?
Was Jefferson really that dangerous.
But nonetheless, you're reading this letter. Which means I'm finally ready to tell you about myself, the life I have lived. But before we begin it, I need you to know that I am extremely grateful for your friendship and guidance. I may not show it but I truly am. You are such a good man Washington. And your kind and easy ears, should not have to listen to my ugly story. But every hero deserves their closing. And this is mine to you.
He looks up.
He breathes.
He reads on.
We began this story on the Island of st. Croix-
The door opens from the living room and he hears Peggy's laugh. Out of nowhere an overwhelming sound of feet hitting the hardwood floor fills the apartment and George is on his feet in seconds.
He rushes out of his room and is met with Alexander's voice in the background.
“I have never seen such picky girl in my entire life.” There's no bite behind it, only a teasing giggly tone and Washington would have normally thought it was cute. Except he isn't thinking about it, only the fact that Alexander's voice is getting closer to the hall.
He speed walks to the young boy's room, careful not to make much noise.
When he does get there he hears the bathroom door close, signalling Alexander's entrance into it. So quietly and quickly he opens the last draw of the desk, and puts the book back.
He then slips out of the room, and his plan is almost successful until he is in the hall and the bathroom door is swinging open and Washington is forced to connect with it in the forehead.
He doesn't know if he made a sound, from the look on Alexander's face he reckon he did.
“Oh God! Sir are you alright?” He asks, helping Washington to the floor. He grabs the older man by the hand and helps him up on his feet.
Washington shakes his head, though he can feel his brain moving around and he doesn't think that's a good thing.
“Yes, I'm fine.” He puts his hand on his forehead to check for blood or a bump, thankfully nothing is there.
“What were you doing?” Alexander asks innocently and Washington is relieved to know that Alexander has no idea what he really was doing.
“Waiting for you to come out, I suppose I shouldn't have been standing so close. My apologies.”
Alexander gives a soft sweet smile.
“Leave it to you to say sorry for getting hit in the face by a door.”
They go silent, the girls voices murmuring in the background, but George isn't paying attention to it.
He is only paying attention to the fact that Alexander has not dropped his hand. Washington stares at it, only because he doesn't have enough courage to look at Alexander.
The boys hands are rough, just like Washington would have expected. Though they are rough, they're still pale, and tiny. They look even smaller in Washington's own giant ones. The color contrast sends chills down his spine and he takes a moment to listen to Alexander's heavy breathing.
“Big hands.”The boy whispers. Then he is squeezing them.
“Yea.” Is all Washington can say.
Suddenly, Alexander is pulling Washington's hand up to his mouth, and now Washington really can't breathe.
The young boy kisses his knuckles, light, soft, and quick.
And there's a fiery look in both of their eyes, one in which Washington wouldn't mind burning in.
Alexanders lips were soft against his knuckles. And he begins to wonder what they would feel like on his-
“Uncle G!” Peggy's voice pierces through their intense stares. “Come quick, Angelica's is eating all your oranges without chewing again!”
There's a beat of silence before Peggy groans.
“And she hit me with one again!”
Washington doesn't break the eye contact from Alexander when he speaks.
“Just a moment, I'm coming.”
And then Alexander is releasing and prying his own fingers from Washington's. He then takes a step back, eyes closed and breathing heavy.
“I...I...I can't...just give me a moment.” And then he is shutting the bathroom door again.
And Washington can't explain what just happened. He doesn't know whatever that was and why it happened.
But he sure would give his right arm for it to happen again.