Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s late. The streets are dark and mostly empty, just him and Alex and one or two others making their way home. Laurens is drunk and tired, but in that way that makes his limbs loose and his smile easy. Alex is leaning on him, laughing firecracker loud at something he said. Laurens feels - good. Really good, like this is the sort of night he'll remember ten, twenty years from now.

Alex halts, stops with a sudden, jerky movement that almost sends him tumbling to the ground. Laurens giggles, absurdly, turns to look at Alex. The two of them peer at each other in the dark. A streak of light from a window illuminates the right side of Alex’s face, softening his features. Alex smiles, tucks a loose strand of hair behind Laurens’ ear, and leans in towards him.

And this - this is new. It's been a few weeks, only, and he really doesn't know Alex all that well. Alex doesn't talk about his family or where he's from. The West Indies, sure, but that's all he gives. Laurens doesn't mind, though. (Would rather not talk about his own family, about that big, empty house and a fortune build on blood and bones.) Alex doesn't talk about any of that, but he has big ideas and a sweet, soft smile after he's had a few and Laurens genuinely likes him.

So he allows himself to be kissed by Alex, allows himself to kiss Alex back. Tentative, gentle, just a dry press of lips. They pull away, and Laurens becomes hyper aware that they are not alone.

The chorus, standing half a block down, are all in a neat line. They’re turned away, shadowed backs ramrod straight and tense. They're utterly still, silent, pretending they don't know what's happening behind them, ignoring the obvious truth of him and alex, alex and him, together. Something about it makes his stomach drop, makes panic crawl like hands up his throat - nails scratching at the soft tissue, fingers pressing too hard against the sides. Crossed out lines, burnt paper smoldering, nobody needs to know - flashes in his head. A chorus member, the one standing to the far right, winces.

But then there's Alex, hand on Laurens' cheek, turning his head back so they can kiss again. Everything else fades away, dissolves into this humid summer night, the haze of possibility flickering in the air. The chorus remains there, though. Carefully not watching, even as Alex and Laurens pass by - their heads turned, looking away.

---

He hears the edges of a song before he sees who's singing it. The music’s outside the tavern, starting to get closer. Burr’s voice is there, which is usual, and another, which is not. Laurens hasn't heard this one before but he recognizes anyway. The absurdity of that thought makes him pause for a second, but then the tavern door opens and it gets shoved aside.

In steps Burr, standing tall and proud, with someone else close behind. Laurens cranes his neck, tries to catch a glimpse of whoever it is. They stay hidden though, behind the bustle of Burr and the members of the chorus.

Talk less, says Burr and yeah, Laurens has heard it all before. Just as he turns back to his drink he hears,

What?

Oh, that's new.

The music starts to get louder, the words clear and bright as sun through water.

Fools who run their mouths off wind up dead.

It’s his turn now. He knows how the words go, always does, but they almost get caught in his throat this time around.

Yo yo yo yo -

His lines come out easy after that initial choke. Strange. He stomps his foot on the ground, bangs his fists on the table to keep the beat for Lafayette and Hercules. There's a crackling in his veins, the kind he gets when he’s itching for a fight. It buzzes up and down his spine, gets caught at the small of his back and he has to resist the urge to sink his nails in and try to dig it out with his fingers. Something is about to happen.

Burr, the revolution's imminent. What do you stall for?

There’s a sudden silence then, like the entire chorus is holding their breath. The crackling spikes into lightning and thunder roars in Laurens’ head.

If you stand for nothing Burr, what'll you fall for?

Now he sees him.

Dark hair carefully tied into a queue, dressed in cheap but tidy clothes. He’s a little on the short side, a narrow frame and delicate features, but it’s easy to ignore that. The way he holds himself, with an odd air of almost-confidence, it’s like he’s so sure he’s going to do something, be something great, but hasn't quite figured out how to do it yet. And then, for a split second, his eyes meet Laurens’ - dark and light-devouring, sharp as broken glass and broken bones, filled with the promise of Something Great.

Laurens almost falls out of his chair.

He catches himself, though. Goes along with Lafayette and Hercules as they get up and personal with the new kid. And if Laurens’ voice is a little hoarse, a little off beat, it gets drowned out by the strings and percussion.

It's a beginning. His heart is pounding in his chest for something he doesn't know yet, but can't wait to find out.

---

He's dead.

Or - no, maybe not yet. His fingers twitch a little, trying to find something he knows isn't going to be there, something that maybe was never there to begin with. He wouldn't have been able to do that if he was dead. He must be dying, then. In that place between being dead and being alive. He’s dying, but he's singing, too.

I may not live to see our glory,

His chest hurts - the individual gunshot wounds all melding into a singular, all-encompassing pain. Ribs turning to spikes driving into his heart, white-hot fire burning up the air in his lungs and he can't breathe, but he can still sing and it's enough.

But I will gladly join the fight.

The melody is piano, some strings in background. It’s soft and sweet, but not quite as slow as he would've expected. That’s fine. A slow song wouldn't have suited him, anyway. Faintly, hiding behind the music and shouting and gunfire, there are other voices. Different ones - low and sad, half familiar through the haze of early morning and his body finally giving up. He has no explanation for it other than the fact that he's delirious with blood loss and in the process of dying.

And when our children tell our story, they'll tell the story of tonight.

His body is starting to numb now, the pain along side it. It starts at his legs, going pins-and-needles before nothing, and it's the nothingness that moves up his body. The flames in his chest begin to extinguish, embers fizzling into smoke and ash. He isn't left cold, exactly, but the absence of that heat, that light, leaves everything dull and muted. The warmth and wetness of blood soaking through his coat and pooling around him is so far away. Trees, river, and sky, already washed out in the dim light of not-quite morning become even fainter. Different shades of the same empty grey. He knows he should be dead but he isn't yet. There’s still one last line he has to belt out before he's allowed to rest.

Tomorrow there’ll be more of us...

And that's it. That's the end. The end of him, that is, not the story. The story’s not over yet - there's still so much to get through! New places to go and characters to meet, new songs to sing and dances to dance. All that was just the beginning, the introduction to something much bigger than himself.

And he's only a little sad that he won't be around to see it.

---

It's later, the ceremony and speeches and Angelica's treble clef confession are all over with. He's drunk, but not as drunk as he wants to be, which is probably why he stumbles over to the bar. Downs two glasses of whatever’s on-hand, is about to start on his third when he notices Angelica Schuyler sitting four seats down from him.

“Angelica -” he stumbles a little walking over to where she’s sitting. He should maybe bow to her, but he’s a little too tipsy to have the necessary coordination for it, and Angelica doesn't look too keen on standing to curtsy, so fuck it. He plops down next to her, opens his mouth and promptly forgets what he wanted to say to her.

There are a lot of things he could say to her, he supposes - he hurt us and he’ll hurt her or he’s awful, isn't he? how selfish he is, that heartbreaking boy or i loved him, love him too or they’re happy. they deserve to be happy, but god i wish that they weren’t. She already knows all of that, though. Acknowledging it would be like acknowledging that the sky is blue, or that there will be tragedy in war, or that the two of them already knew all of that way back at the beginning, before that first note of that first song was sung, or that this story is not about them so none of this matters anyway.

Instead he says, “That was lovely," with a pungent, too-long silence preceding it. Doesn't specify what he means by it.

“Yes,” she says, absent and far away. She’s staring straight ahead, eyes glassy. Her hands are wrapped around a crystal glass, less than halfway full. Her grip is tight, so much that her knuckles have gone pale and bloodless. Laurens is surprised that the crystal hasn't begun splintering beneath her fingers.

Laurens is tempted to put his hand over hers, pry her fingers away from the cool glass and press her palm to his. She’d have to look at him then - would turn her head and stare at him like she hadn't realized he was there before. Then he would jerk his head to the side in an obvious way and the two of them would find some quiet corner, or better yet leave the stuffy, too-bright ballroom and find somewhere far away so they could pretend the wedding party wasn't happening. They could sit and talk about all the things they both already know, because sometimes acknowledging that war is tragic or that they are only background in someone else’s story is enough to pretend that they’re okay with it. Like, he will hurt her like he hurt us, but it’s fine or he’s awful and selfish and heartbreaking, but we can forgive him or we love him, still, but we will move on or they are happy. we can be happy for them. Between the two of them, they can shut their eyes tight and convince each other that they aren't sitting in the pitch black.

He can’t, though. The next scene is about to start, any minute now, and he needs to be there for it. This, what it was going to be, what it could have been, doesn't matter. It isn't a scene, isn't written down anywhere, so it's not important. An extra that no one would ever see, that’s never going to happen. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that he’s insignificant. Just a small brushstroke on a large canvas. Present and necessary, but by no means paramount.

He’s okay with it. Being background. Being lost, forgotten among all the other brushstrokes. He’s okay with it.

His shoulder bumps against hers, just once, just lightly enough that it could be an accident except it isn't. He drains the rest of his drink and stands, unsteady.

"Be seeing you."

Angelica doesn't respond. Just keeps staring ahead.

The party continues on around them as he walks away. Loud and boisterous and joyful, cannonfire laughter bouncing off the walls. He figures Laf and Hercules will come looking for him soon. They’ll be pissed at him for cutting it so close.

He starts humming a little as he weaves through the crowd. I will never be satisfied, he will never be satisfied, plays in his head, stuck on loop even though the melody was never meant to be his.

---

Me? I died for him, he sings, and it’s an odd thing to say. It might be a lie. But right now, under the stage lights and scrutiny of a thousand eyes, it feels like the truth. He’s not the only one singing it, either. He’s standing alone, there’s his voice and no one else's ringing clear and true, but he’s not the only one singing.

If he stole a glance at Alex’s face, he’d see guilt - raw, honest guilt. Alex’s eyes would be wide, his brow creased and his lips beginning to shape themselves around the words I’m sorry, or something like that. He’d be sorry whether it was a lie or not - it wouldn't matter.

Laurens doesn't look.