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They are careful for a solid year. Biding their time. Allowing the gradual settling of distance from the White House, from politics, from the public eye. Washington will never slip into obscurity, but at least he can be a private citizen again. He can have secrets that are not scandals. He can tell reporters to mind their own business, and not give a damn about the public response.
Alexander remains a devoted presence at his side. With the understanding they have reached, his boy has moved inextricably into his life. Taking over a sizable corner of Washington's closet at Mount Vernon. Traveling with him to public events—cautiously hanging back from the spotlight—dragging him on more than one private retreat.
"George, you went eight years without a proper vacation," Alexander points out when Washington balks at a third trip in as many months. "It's just a lakeside cabin in Minnesota, it's not like we can't afford it. You're not president anymore. You can take a break now and then."
Washington scoffs. "This from the worst workaholic I know."
"It's not my fault my work travels well."
"How can you expect me to take it easy when you're drowning in deadlines?"
"Tell you what." Alexander closes a thick manilla folder and sets it on the floor, then climbs across the couch and into Washington's lap. "After I retire from my second term as the youngest U.S. president in history, we’ll take an entire year off." He says it with the brazen confidence of a man who believes his aims achievable, and Washington sees no reason to doubt his ambitions.
But he still snorts and makes no effort to mask his skepticism at the idea of his boy relaxing for an entire year. Then Alexander kisses him, and Washington allows the argument to drop.
They let family and friends in on their secret during Washington's first non-presidential Christmas. It's a small gathering, all things considered. A dozen guests. Most of his former White House staff—family in ways that matter more than blood—and Martha.
The reactions range from knowing looks to unrestrained shock. Angelica is the first to corner Washington and ask how long this has been going on, whether they were fucking around on the job.
Washington refuses to answer that question, no matter who asks or how many times it’s posed. He'd rather let people assume the worst than lie, and he's sure as hell not going to spell out a truth so personal. Besides, this way Alexander can choose whether to be honest about their history, with no chance of contradiction between their stories. Alexander Hamilton may be honest to a fault, but he still has a career of his own to manage. This way the story is his to control, and Washington will support him regardless.
It's nice, after that. To be known. To have even one small, close circle who recognizes what he and Alexander are to each other. It makes things more real, more solid. He and Alexander are not a dirty secret. They’re a team.
June the next year, they are ready to change the game again.
"Are you sure about this?" Washington ducks his head to put the question in Hamilton's ear and still has to shout in order to be heard. Alexander seems restless against his side, whole body thrumming with energy. They haven't been noticed yet, as far as Washington can tell; there's still time to withdraw without causing a stir.
Alexander gives him an incredulous look, like he genuinely can't believe Washington just asked him something so stupid.
"Of course I'm sure," he shouts back. "We agreed on this weeks ago!"
Washington tightens his arm around Alexander's shoulders, wordlessly reassuring that he has no intention of backing out. "You just seem jittery."
Alexander laughs—a wide open sound—and slips his arm around Washington's waist in answer. "Of course I'm jittery. You know how I feel about crowds. But god, look around. Where could we possibly be right now that's better than this?"
Washington tears his gaze away from his boy and allows their surroundings to permeate his senses. The crowd is deafening, a noisy cascade of cheering, screaming excitement. The parade moves by at a steady clip, like an exultant tide. Colorful floats roll smoothly forward, surrounded by armies of dancers, acrobats, people. So much life, a sea of movement and energy.
There are rainbows everywhere. On the floats. On clothing. On flags, and faces, and capes, and hair. Banners everywhere, stretched above curbs, hanging from windows.
The entire block is a whirlwind of celebration, and Washington drinks it all in. Music pounds so loudly he can feel the bass reverberate in his chest. Alexander is warm along his side. A lifetime of promise, so much more—so much better—than Washington deserves.
For a time neither of them speaks. They stand incongruously still amid the roiling, dancing throng. Washington suspects Alexander would join in dancing if left to his own devices, but he remains exactly where he is. Nestled snugly in Washington's arms, occasionally resting his head against a broad shoulder. Drinking in the soul and warmth and power of Pride, the two of them together a serene island in a jostling river.
Washington regrets that he's never done this before. The unabashed joy surrounding him is healing in a way he was not even aware he needed.
"There," Alexander shouts, and even amid all this noise Washington recognizes giddy excitement in his voice. "News van at your ten o'clock. It's a television crew."
Washington grins and deliberately does not look that direction, even as he shifts his position relative to Alexander's, angling for the best possible visibility.
"Have they spotted us yet?" Washington asks, and this time he ducks his head as much for show as to put the question directly in Alexander's ear. He nuzzles at his boy's throat for good measure.
"The reporter has." Even shouting, there is laughter in Alexander's voice. "She's trying to get the cameraman's attention." There's an enormous flag in Alexander's hand—Washington doesn't know where he got it from, only that it materialized somewhere in the past ten minutes—and the rainbow is a bright complement to the warm, sunlit tan of Alexander's skin. It will make an excellent accessory, an unmistakable statement in the footage the reporter is about to collect.
"Tell me when they're recording us." He and Alexander have talked about this. Planned this. They negotiated meticulously, unwilling to leave anything to chance, but Washington's heart is still beating fast with excitement. There is nothing spur-of-the-moment in what they're about to do, but it feels spontaneous.
It feels momentous.
"Now," Alexander breathes. "They've got the camera on us, do it now."
Washington at last turns his head. Looks directly into the enormous lens of the camera half a block away. Smiles.
Then he curls a hand along Alexander's jaw and leans down to take his boy's waiting mouth in a plundering kiss.
He takes his time, letting the news crew record their fill. The flag in Alexander's hand flutters in the wind, flies the wrong direction and smacks them in the face a couple of times, but Washington doesn't care. He twines an arm around Alexander's waist and tucks his boy more securely to his chest. Alexander slides a possessive embrace around his shoulders, nearly clocking Washington with the flagpole in the process.
They figure it out. They keep right on kissing as the surrounding crowd jumps and dances and ignores them.
Eventually they part; they need to breathe. But even as the kiss breaks, Washington grins and holds Alexander close.
Alexander's answering smile is ecstatic. "I love you, old man."
"Come on." Washington presses a kiss to his boy's temple. "Let's find a new spot."
That's one news crew down, but there's a whole parade left to go.
"Yeah." Alexander untangles from his arms and reaches for Washington's hand. "I think I see another van down the road." Quick as that he is leading the way through the endless crush of people.
Washington holds tight to his boy's hand, entirely content to follow.