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It was not like he didn't cared.
When Eliza—his wife, his half soul, his refuge— carefully spelled words that did not meant to be heard, only to be memorialized and cursed into oneself forever and ever— words weren't supposed to hurt, he thought, they were supposed to from knots, bonds, and become inseparable.
“Alexander, there is a letter from you from South California.” She said quietly behind his back, Eliza was always too quiet, it often only made him speak more.
He shifted from his chair, his green table matching his olive outfit, papers were spread all over the small space. It looked like as if he had never moved from his workplace for a week.
He was a man of hygiene and he did take breaks, but sometimes he didn't bother himself to clear the issue on the table more than his own mind.
He pick up his pen as if it belonged to him as much as he belonged to it, and scrabbled letters that he was sure did not hurt— words never hurt— words only linked.
My dearest Laurens,
Quit your sword my friend, put on the toga, come to Congress. We know each other's—
He stopped, feeling Eliza’s hand on his shoulder. He deliberately covered the letters, and instantly flushed from shame and straightened his spine. He had nothing to hide.
“Alexander?” Her smooth voice was warm, but something was different from her usual cheerfulness.
“It's from John Laurens, I will read it later,” he said, knowing that he was probably being too skeptical, “Do me a favor by resting yourself of your knotting brows, Betsy.”
—sentiments, our views are the same.
Her frown only deepened, “It's not from mister Laurens, dear.”
A pause, it was not like he didn't cared, “Would you read it for me,”—stay focus, stay calm damnit — “Please?”
So she told him.
—We have fought side by side to make America free.
“The war was already over. As you know, John dreamed of emancipating and recruiting three thousand men for the first all-black military regiment. His dream of freedom for these men dies with him.”
Freedom was such a broad and odd concept, and yet, he was sure that Laurens understood it better than anyone else. He had given Laurens his full affection, trust and confidence.
It had been long since he ever permitted himself to do so. His thoughts on public policies can be known throughout the whole world as much as he cared, but sentiments can be a dangerous thing when turned to a untrustworthy fellow.
(Or ones who died, who lived, who may tell his story the wrong way. Feelings escaped his pen as his mind sometimes screamed wrong wrong wrong—)
Once, a long long time ago, a time he had always tried to forget, he confided to his mother and brother about the bullies he received from the streets, ranting about everything he wanted, not really to get attention, more than to get a laugh from his brother or the feeling of the soft hand of his mother gently patting his cheek.
His father was there, looking at him with those somewhat distant eyes and closed mouth, but he was looking at him. And that was more than enough.
But mercy didn't last, and he learned to never be satisfied, because he will never know when all he had can be taken away from him. It was better to never be satisfied than to let security slipped in. His eyes were closed during that hurricane, wondering how much he will lost again and again and again and he was scared, scared, scared—
You should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent.
“Alexander,” his wife’s voice made his eyes open and too aware of everything, “are you alright?”
He rubbed his eyes, roughly, almost as if he wanted some kind of torture to become less aware of everything. His eyes were dry.
He blinked, once, twice, and only saw phosphene, like a ring, wrapped his world into a smaller one, and it was great because he can hid and disappear into the shadows of safety— and he trusted, god forbid, he trusted and he tried to feel trust, but they abandoned him, they left him as if he was nothing, nothing, anything but a promise to be—
A promise must never be broken.
His mouth was sealed, but he managed to say something he can't hear, and when Eliza squeezed his shoulder with a soft pressure and the sound of the closing door pursued, he let himself to finish the letter that would never be delivered.
—Let us hand in hand struggle to make her happy.
Yrs forever,
A.Hamilton.
It's like he didn't cared, he thought as he distinguished the three revolutionaries under the dim light of the slim candle.
He hadn't felt this surge of comfort for so long, either his willingness to talk about exchanges that mattered to him personally. But he kept his past to himself, it was too soon, and perhaps forever too soon to openly discuss about it.
“John Laurens,” the boy in front of him muttered as Hamilton enjoyed the snores from the other two, “I think I haven't probably introduce myself since the show we created this noon,” he rubbed the back of his head sleepily and laughed, “So, John Laurens, sir.” After that, he made a little military salute.
Hamilton teasingly made the same salute, “Alexander Hamilton, mister Laurens.”
The dim light made his brain vomit, and when he rubbed his eyes and stars made the picture of his view instead of Laurens, but when they cleared out, all that was left was a ring around Laurens’ frame, bright and warm.
“Alexander?” He asked worriedly, “are you alright?”
With his hand on his shoulder, he felt something of a déjà-vue but Laurens was already dropping his hand to his side, “Pardon me,” he said, looking at the ground, “it was not appropriate.”
Hamilton didn't reply, instead staring at the candle, burning crimson and orange and hints of yellows, “Mister Hamilton?”
If candles can be still after winds downed it, maybe a hurricane was nothing after all.
“Yes?”
“Would you like a carriage home with Mr. Lafayette and Mr. Mulligan?”
The ring flashed a second, like a reminder of the past, the future and the forever. Its white light hit his eyes, and he felt about crying.
“Gladly.”
When he saw Burr with his daughter walking down the streets of Manhattan, Hamilton wondered if he ever cared at all.
“Mister Hamilton,” Burr drawled with his smooth melody which was somehow concealed into a hint of annoyance, “What a wonderful coincidence.”
“Mister Burr,” he smirked but he hesitated when he finished, “Sir.”
He realized some of Burr’s black hair had turned gray, and with the sun under his head, he can see bright brown shining like what a spotlight would usually provide.
“How's your daughter?” Hamilton asked conversationally, “and yourself?”
Burr brighten at the question, “She is fluent in french and latin, and I planned her other courses, of course—“
He didn't bother on ignoring the latter part of the question, either really bother to listen Burr finish his sentence. His mind wondered to Philip, who also knew french and latin. He was a great gentleman, and would be also a good soldier, he would have also—
“Sir?” Burr frowned at his quiet altitude, and when his eyes filled with something akin to pity, Hamilton hated it, “I would also like to give my condolences to your son’s tragedy, dear sir, I would understand fairly if you refuse to speak.”
Questions pursed silence just as death will always lead to hunted lives and silence of the ones who regret it.
(—He would have also survive if only he hadn't trust his father.)
“I am fairly certain that I am by no means unhealthy, Burr, sir.” He snapped forcefully, but Burr just sighed and under his daughter’s weary glance, he gave a farewell and retreated to their home.
His daughter was still looking at him when they stepped out, and he can hear her muffled voice, a witty but still full of child’s curiosity and concern.
“Father?”
“Yes, Theo?” Burr sounded so much amiable and kind. If only he ever used this voice in court, Hamilton would probably laugh under the desk.
“What happened to Mr.Hamilton’s son?”
Burr’s eyes turned to him but soon Hamilton can only see his back and his fainted sound, “He died on a duel,” the rationality earned in his words shocked him, “surely you had seen in the newspapers, no? Dear, if you want to know the details—“
They started to fade from his view until another wave of crowd made to this street to Manhattan, at this place, when he stood there, as if frozen by the heat of the sun. Crowed cities will never notice a fool by himself.
So he stayed there for a minute, trying not to breathe and he stared at the sun, calmly, silently and blindly.
After, he looked at his hair through the sun, he couldn't make the difference between white hairs and those shone brightly by the sun.
“Papa, you are crying?” Philip once asked.
He denied it, because he wasn't crying, but Philip argued that “your face looks like you are crying, Pa.”
There was these days when he really felt stressed and just stared at the ceiling, and they were mostly gone after philosophizing over nothingness, but Philip looked determined to comfort him when he hugged him with his short little arms, and almost panicked when Hamilton shivered under his touch.
“Papa, don't be scared, it's Philip!” The child grinned wide, his small hands wiped his un existing tears and giggled, “Papa, do you feel better?”
Hamilton just tucked his son tighter, “Philip?” He put his head on his son’s small shoulder, and buried his hair there, “Philip?”
“Yes, Pa!” He gave a military salute, and Hamilton was glad that he can't see his smile. There was something similar about the ring and Laurens and Philip and—
“Philip?”
“What's wrong, Pa?” He cupped his father’s face in his little hand—just like when his mother was still alive— just like when Laurens was still—
“You will not go away,” he started the statement as truth, but it gradually became weaker, “right?” was barely a whisper.
“No,” Philip’s eyes were so innocent, so bright, so trustworthy— “no, no, no, no, no—“ he frantically shook his head, with tears falling down like sunlight— “I’m not going anywhere, I will be here for you, Papa—“
He stopped short and looked at Hamilton with sheer panic, “Papa is not going anywhere, right? Mama either?”
Eliza arrived seconds after Philip bursted into crying, and took the matter in hand. Hamilton stood there, gasping for air, trying to calm himself before he starts another crisis in the family.
“Darling, what’s happening?” She said after taking Philip into his arms, where Philip cried louder after finding its audience.
“Mama! You are not taking me away, right!”
Eliza looked at his husband with questions, but fortunately she was smart enough to not ask them out loud to complicated the affair.
She eventually lured him to sleep, and they didn't share a word. Her writing desk was full of burned letters, like the sun, bright and destructive. Its flaring smell of kerosene made the room emptier.
He will always remember the warming eyes of Philip when he promised him that he will never go away, because a promise shalt never be broken and he swore with his heart that he will do the same for his children.
Under the burned papers, he wrote with a somehow feverish sadness;
A promise must never be broken.
He wanted to trust, one last time.
Washington’s death eventually broke out in New York, on his wedding birthday.
He had always refused his commander’s affections, notably because of their unequal footing and a somewhat unbalanced sentiments toward each other, but their relationship went smoother and Hamilton eventually accepted him as a friend, but partnership ended here and here only.
If one asked his many regrets, it would be letting too many people into his mind, yet his heart compelled himself to restraint the number of fellows. And yet, too many had died, too many had he accepted, too many had he trust, too many had been lost into a box he sometimes called memories.
But he knew he will always be foolish enough to keep loving anyway. History may not painted his mistakes and falls correctly, but he will remember them, and collect them one by one, until he painted himself in that gruesome color that he won't recognize himself anymore.
And if someone asked who would paint him accurately, he would have said— he would have said?— Laurens— Eliza—Angelica— Washington?
He would have said nothing and continued to work? He would have said himself? He would have cried like an old man, lost and lost again?
Instead he blinked, realizing that it didn't matter since no one was going to ask anyway, and stared at the night sky from his working table, knowing that the sun will be shining bright.
It’s not like he didn't cared.
But Burr was in his vision, blurred by the sun, so he turned to the sun instead.
He saw the dawn, with its sun slowly rise up on his New York City, he rubbed his eyes, looking at the ring that appeared as expected, and forgot Burr for a moment.
He knew Burr wasn't going to shot, but even if he did, Hamilton was going to do a delope anyway. Burr had no influence in his decision.
The ring stayed for a few seconds, and between the blurring lines of his character, he wondered that if he greeted to Burr— pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, Sir?— he would replied with the same annoyance and caution during their first meeting— that depends, who's asking?
But the ring and the light disappeared, and dreams were gone.
Before they set their paces, he touched the grass for a minute too long, and his spine hurt. He was too old to do anything but duel, apparently.
The grass felt like Philip’s hands on his, soft and warm, and almost unconsciously he quietly replied to no one in particular, “Papa is staying right here— your father isn't going anywhere, your father is staying right here—“ but no one will be staying here today, both will go home eventually, his Eliza was still asleep.
God, he can't wait to see them again.
“Just stay alive,” she repeated to him during the war, to Philip after the duel, to him again after the shot, and finally to herself after everything died down, “that would be enough.”
The sun was shining bright, and the lines of sunlight can't distinguish anything but the phosphene Eliza felt when she stopped crying and stared at it instead.
She found the letters he wrote, and one was inscribed, with a messy pattern;
A promise must never be broken.
And she did laugh against the candle light, and whispered,
Liar.