Work Text:
It was a ray of sun that woke John.
His body was surrounded by heat and scratchy sheets.
Soft, small breaths were the only sound in the room.
John closed his eyes and sighed.
It was no news that John Laurens was different. He had always known it, deep down. And people - his father, tutors - did not hesitate to remind him of it. He had dreams and passions that most people would define uncommon to say the least, he had learnt to live with it.
But then difference bordered in wrongness. He could remember every word of the worried letters his father had sent, full of concern for his indifference towards the other sex. The fear and disgust hidden under every letter. John Laurens didn't need his father or tutors to make him realize just how degraded his unlawful thoughts towards males were: he knew it perfectly well. The worst thing was how unescapable those fantasies were. He could’t get rid of them no matter how hard he tried. No matter how hard he fought against himself, how desperately he clawed at the soft skin of women, how passionately he kissed those tinted lips or how incessantly he pried himself to enjoy sex, he couldn’t seem to improve. It only took ruining Martha Manning’s life to make John realize just how dangerous he was. Being different might have not hurt anybody, but being wrong did. In his self imposed isolation no one could have got hurt.
Then Alexander Hamilton came.
The arrival of the young man felt no different from a fresh wind in a summer haze. It didn’t take John long to fall in love with those bright eyes. Hamilton was an absolute genius and John found himself enchanted by the man’s elaborated speeches, and whenever one finished he just needed more. He started cherishing the quick sparse touches they shared: Hamilton’s hand grazing his, the soft heat of his breath against his skin, the solid presence of the hand that sometimes lingered on his shoulder. He collected those instants with care and love and locked them safely in his head for himself only, reminding himself every time that wrongness hurt people and he didn't want Alexander to be hurt.
At the camp their relationship only grew, their working hours brining them together. They shared a tent, desks and hours every day, and every day John Laurens could feel his heart beating a little more for Hamilton. Still he kept it all to himself: the soft sighs, the blood that rushed to his cheeks, the worry that gnawed at his stomach whenever Alexander was away. Alcohol was a much better listener anyways.
Things changed after Schuylkill River. When the message had been read, John shut down. He couldn’t understand, he couldn’t cry and despair like Lafayette as all he could feel was absolutely nothing. He was empty, numb, a ghost wandering among men. He just sat there, eyes staring at nothing, searching for his friend’s bright ones. Searching for some kind of sign, a light that could guide him back home. It took a day and Alexander’s empty cot to make him realize that was it: Alexander was gone, dead into battle, and he wasn't coming back. The world came crashing down and only Lafayette was able to pry the pistol from his shaking hands.
That same night Alexander came back. He was a mess, soaked and smelling, but he wore his trademark grin as if nothing had ever happened. As the camp took care of their hero, soldiers joked about the fake news of the general’s right hand man’s death. The mourning and tears were suddenly turned into Alexander’s voice as he restlessly described every second of the battle. John couldn’t help but notice how Hamilton’s gaze lingered on him and Laurens gladly accepted it taking in those bright eyes he thought he would have never seen again.
When the booze had finished and everyone had gone to sleep, John Laurens found himself alone with Alexander Hamilton and, for the first time months, he forgot that being wrong meant hurt. He discovered that wrongness brought pleasure and small sweet kisses, that wrongness could shut Alexander up or could make him moan or scream. He couldn't find the will to care that wrongness hurt people when they held each other as everything ended, and he denied the thought as he fell asleep next to Hamilton, safe in their shared embrace.
The reality of what had happened dawned with the sun the following morning.
When John woke up, still sticky and sweaty from the previous night with Alexander curled up around his side he knew he had let his wrongness hurt his friend. Panic quickly flowed into his system. Why did he have to poison Alexander, his closest, dearest friend, with his unforgivable nature? If he was wrong and condemned, why did Hamilton have to share his hellhound fate?
Of course all the fussing woke Alexander, who overcame quickly his sleepiness as he took in his friend’s distressed state. A few ushered whispers and a light touch followed. John couldn't meet those bright eyes as he felt the shame and tears signing his cheeks. A finger slipped under his chin, watery eyes met comforting ones and Alexander closed the remaining distance making their lips meet. Maybe being wrong didn't have to hurt after all.