Work Text:
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck?
Fuck.
George Washington had long known the name emblazoned on his wrist. The cramped writing was loopy and messy, almost as if written in half an instant. He’d always been a curious child, and too young to understand the stigma of removing one’s wristband. So since age seven, he had known there was someone named Alexander Hamilton.
Alexander Hamilton. A man who was going to hold his heart in gentle hands, and kiss him with an all-encompassing love. That’s what soulmates were supposed to do, right?
His mother hadn’t been disappointed in him, upon his discovery. Instead, she had held him in her lap while he flipped through the phone book to see if Alexander lived nearby.
He didn’t.
There was an Alexander Hamilton living in Scotland, but he was going on eighty and had lost his soulmate in the earlier part of the century. So that was pretty much a dead end.
George didn’t stop looking, though. Despite knowing the stigma against knowing your soulmate’s identity, his ears perked up every time he heard the name. Alexander. A handsome name, he would think. The kind of name that burns into your mind and cuts into your skin. Maybe that was just him, actually.
There was no Alexander Hamilton in his middle school. Or high school. None at his university, and by the time he entered law school, he had realized that flipping through the student registry wouldn’t lead him to the other half of his heart.
So he lived his life. Alone.
George idly wondered if what others said was true, about soulmates; that you feel empty, before you meet them. He certainly didn’t feel empty. He’d always done well on his own, didn’t even need a partner to open up his law firm. The success was more than enough to drown out any doubt.
It was years later, when he saw the name somewhere other than his own skin.
His secretary has sent him the list of applicants for the internship, and he had taken it upon himself to sort through them on his own.
Alexander Hamilton was a recent law school graduate. He was brilliant, and accomplished, and well-received by others, and he was young. Fuck, he was young.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck?
Fuck.
A lesser man would have deleted the resume and gone on with his life. An even lesser man would call the number attached immediately, and confess the words most kept so closely hidden.
George Washington prided himself on his ability to keep his emotions far from his work, however. So through either sheer stupidity, or his own damned hubris, he kept Hamilton in the pool of candidates.
It wouldn’t be fair to cheat the boy (his boy, he tried not to think) out of a good opportunity, just because of some higher power that most certainly had a bone to pick with George. Hamilton had to know what he was doing; how could he not? Such a small percentage of soul bonds were unrequited. Hamilton had to know what he was doing. He had to know that the name on his wrist was the same name printed on all the business cards.
Suddenly, he wasn’t in his office at all. He was in the kitchen with his grandmother. Her hair was piled on top of her head in heavy curls, smile lines well-worn into her cheeks.
She was peeling green apples. Her fingers were deft as she separated the skin from the fruit. It was a practiced, well remembered motion, and as such, she was able to speak to George while she handled the fruit.
‘Little darling,’ she said, the name so familiar between the only lips those words were allowed to be spoken. ‘You are just like your father.’
George looked up from his own apple, at the words, feeling so much smaller than he had in years. He listened to her as the warmth from his office windows spilled onto the back of his tailored suit.
‘He was such a stubborn little boy; never grew out of it,’ she continued. ‘And he always did what was best for other people. I remember, when he was your age, he broke my good pie dish. He didn’t tell me, of course. Well, imagine my surprise when I get a call from the general store, saying my son is trying to use his birthday money to buy me a new one.’
And then, she laughed. It was a bright sound, sweeter than the sticky apple juice shining on her fingers. Her laugh always seemed like bottled sunshine. Always ready to pop open when there wasn’t quite enough.
‘I know you’re a good boy, little darling. Just like your father. And I know you’ll always make the right choice. But if you break my pie dish, just tell me, alright? I won’t have you walking all the way down to the store with your piggy bank.’
It was then that George had promised his grandmother to tell her if he broke her pie dish.
And then she was gone, and he was left staring at his dry hands in his empty office.
Yeah, okay. Maybe it wouldn’t be too hard?
Alexander Hamilton is so young. Too young to know the pain of losing a lover to old age, not so soon. Almost twice Alexander's age, he knew the man would certainly outlive him. Not to mention that he was too young to be taken advantage of by his boss, of all people. He probably doesn’t even know the name on his wrist. Most of the younger generation put little meaning in soulmarks, anyways.
It’s not really a lie. That’s what he tells himself as there’s the knock at his door a week later. He calls the person in and offers a friendly smile.
“Hamilton, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” George said, standing to extend a handshake over the desk. “Have a seat, won’t you? We have a lot to discuss.”
Alexander smiles back and George has to bite his tongue to keep his heart from screaming.
The taste of apples and cinnamon tinge his breath as he opens a folder, and he tries to ignore the brown-sugar-sparkle eyes peering up at him.