Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So, it is absolutely not John Laurens’ fault that his housing assignment goes wrong. Whether anyone else believes that or not is their problem.

He’d been so careful about it, too. He’d communicated with Jim Madison over the summer, once they’d been informed they would be rooming together in the freshman dorm. They’d coordinated who would bring which items that could be shared, and even agreed on a basic list of rules they would adhere to. He had thought he was off to a good start, getting ahead on his relationship-building skills before ever setting foot on campus.

Now, three days after move-in, their Resident Advisor is standing in the door to their shared room, looking unimpressed.

“But the housing regulations say there’s no switching rooms for the first two weeks of the first semester,” John protests. “I don’t understand why-“

Angelica Schuyler cuts him off with a well-timed raise of an eyebrow, forcing John to wonder how he’s capable of making himself look like such an idiot in under thirty seconds.

“I told you,” she says sharply, arms crossed as she leans on the door frame. “It’s a special circumstance. I’ve already gotten special approval.” She flourishes a piece of paper at him off the top of a stack she’s somehow balancing in her arms without looking awkward. “Pack up, Laurens. Jefferson is already on his way up here.”

“I-“ he says plaintively, blinking at the form. “I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

“Oh, it’s not you,” Angelica snaps, although he’d certainly think he was at fault from the way she’s glaring. “It’s those idiots, Jefferson and Hamilton. Five noise complaints the first day alone because they won’t stop arguing. Thomas claims Hamilton is trying to torture him into insanity by not allowing him to sleep.” She sighs, suddenly looking tired and human, cut down to life-size by the squabbling of her charges. “I’m sorry to do this to you, and usually we wouldn’t force this so fast. I knew the moment I set eyes on those two that this pairing wouldn’t work, though, and I can’t take it any longer.”

John squashes three arguments about the inherent unfairness of what is being proposed, schools his features carefully into pleasant agreeability, and nods a little. “And Jefferson and Jim Madison are already friends, so you know they’ll get along,” he says evenly. “But I don’t know Hamilton. What if he decides to torture me? Maybe he needs a single?”

“Can’t,” she says, efficient and professional. “He’s a scholarship student. Brilliant little shit, here on a full ride, but it stipulates standard accommodation. He’d have to pay out of pocket for a single, and he says he’s not doing that.” She flicks through another few sheets of paper in the stack in her hands. “He wrote a fourteen page complaint about Jefferson, our housing policies, and the unfairness of housing decisions being made by the ‘corporate entities determined to define our destinies and ensure social compliance through negative peer reinforcement of nonconformist thought.’”

“I don’t think we’re going to get along,” John says, backing up a little. If he can just politely extricate himself from this conversation, maybe Angelica will go find someone else’s life to ruin. “We’ll probably fight just as badly.”

Angelica smiles at him. If sharks became lawyers and then wound up on the Supreme Court, they would smile like that, John thinks. “No, you won’t. You two will be a good fit.” He must blink a little too uncertainly, because she presses the point with a firm nod. “I’m good at reading people, Laurens. I know you and Hamilton will work well. In fact, I think it’ll be good for both of you.”

John has something like a small army of objections lining up in his head to make themselves heard, but he knows better than to pick a battle he’s going to lose. He nods acceptance, and goes to pack up all the things he had so carefully unpacked three days before. He wonders absently, as he shoves his clothes into an empty pillowcase, whether Angelica would be willing to provide him with written evidence that it wasn’t anything that he had done that was at the cause of this change. There aren’t many ways he can make this sound particularly good when he reports in to his father.

Rarely has John been so glad that Henry Laurens has taught his children not to overvalue possessions. He shudders to think what a nightmare this would be if he had anything like the number of things that he had watched so many other students bringing into their rooms over the past few days. It only takes two trips to carry his belongings down the two flights of steps to where Angelica informs him his new roommate is waiting. He passes Jefferson on the way, whose arms are overflowing with clothing and room decor; he is followed by at least six friends similarly laden. John takes a moment to feel sorry for Jim Madison, who is about to be swept under this tidal wave of items.

John hesitates outside the door to his new room, which doesn’t look any different from the other blank wooden doors around them. He is not ready to meet Hamilton, whose name he has already heard in mutters from other freshmen who have encountered him. Screwing his courage to the sticking place, he knocks at the door.

There is no answer.

He waits an appropriate amount of time, knocks again, waits again, and then uses the key that Angelica had forcibly switched with his old one to let himself in. The room is the exact same layout as the one he has just vacated, but where Jim had kept all of his belongings neatly arranged on his side of the room, this area looks like it’s just been struck by a hurricane. Papers, books, pens, notebooks, and clothing are scattered around every corner of the tiny room. One of the desks looks like it has just been hastily cleared; the other is a mountain of paperwork and disaster, centered around an ancient-looking laptop whose keys are currently undergoing the worst abuse John has borne witness to. The young man in the brown hoodie with his back to John doesn’t even seem to register that he’s entered the room. He keeps typing with a ferocity and speed that takes John’s breath away. Another fourteen page complaint? He resolves then and there to stay on Hamilton’s good side. The last thing he needs, at this point, is to be written about publicly.

It takes John less than an hour to rehome all his belongings, make his new bed (the bottom bunk, thank goodness), and carefully stack up all of Hamilton’s belongings that had been on his side of the room. He doesn’t disturb Hamilton at his work.

John knows better than to disturb a man who is busy.

If Hamilton hadn’t suddenly broken away from his work to stand and stretch violently, immediately going to pour himself a cup of cold coffee from the pot balanced precariously on the shelves next to his head, John doesn’t know when he might have been able to make himself known. As it is, he nearly drops his book in surprise when Hamilton wheels on him, eyes brilliant and invasive.

“You’re the new roommate, aren’t you?” Hamilton asks. John blinks; his voice isn’t what he’d expected. Hamilton looks far less put together when you look at him face-on; his eyes are bright, but the bags beneath them are dark and bruised, and he doesn’t look like he’s washed his hair in a day or two. He may be an inch or two shorter than John, built lean and small, but it’s hard to take that in when confronted with such intensity. Hamilton steps forward, quick and light, and stretches out a hand to John. “Alexander Hamilton. I am confident you’ll be a dramatic improvement on Jefferson. Not that that would be any feat of difficulty, it must be said, but at least the standard has been set already.” He doesn’t seem to breathe as he speaks, words tumbling out faster than John has heard in some time. He thinks of the brook that tumbles through his backyard at home, where the kids like to play, and how the water tumbles over the smooth rocks at the bottom, bubbling and sparkling in the South Carolina sunshine.

If Alexander Hamilton is water, all motion and action, then John needs to be a rock. He sets his features in steady friendliness, shakes Hamilton’s hand, smiles the socially acceptable amount. “I hope I will not disappoint, with such a low expectation set before me,” he says, just a hint of laughter in his tone. He doesn’t know how seriously to take Hamilton yet, or how seriously he takes himself. “I’m-”

He stops himself just in time. Three days has been long enough to figure out that introducing himself as John Laurens is a great way to make enemies fast, here. His father’s political fame seems more like infamy here. Henry Laurens had warned him it would be this way - all the students who had been brainwashed into believing all conservative thinkers were evil - but John suddenly wants this one person, just this one, not to look at him like Senator Laurens’ son.

“Jack,” he says, his father’s nickname for him coming more easily to his lips than he’d expected. “I’m Jack.”

Hamilton shakes his hand, seeming to take in everything there is to know about him from one perusal of his face. “Sorry I didn’t hear you come in,” he says, already spinning off the other way to dig into a pile of his belongings, looking for something unknowable in the depths. “I tend to be somewhat hard of hearing when I’m in the middle of writing. Just - I don’t know, throw something at my head if you need my attention.”

“No, that’s fine,” John says. He files this information away. Hamilton is likely not dangerous when disturbed, then. It’s good to know. “I can be hard to interrupt myself. My little sisters like to pull on my hair if I’m not listening.” He tugs at a few curly strands in demonstration, and Hamilton snorts in quick amusement.

“Sisters,” he says. He scans John’s half of the room quickly, and snatches up the one framed photo John has of all five of them, taking it in with lighting-fast glances. “And two brothers?”

John nods. Not that there’s much to say to that anyway, but there’s a sudden lump in his throat, the misery of missing them pressing in all at once. He’s never been away this long before. He’ll call them again in the evening; he can wait until then.

Hamilton has already put the picture back and moved on, taking in all of John’s possessions with quick glances. He nods, as if pleased. John feels like he’s passed some sort of test.

“Looks like you’re not as much of a slob as that arrogant, pompous jackass, Jack,” he says. He looks a little amused by his own wordplay. “What are you studying?”

“History - ah, prelaw,” John clarifies. “I’ve got the rest of my life planned out for me already. You?”

Hamilton grins, quick and sharp and just this side of manic. “As many majors as I can cram into four years. Right now, poly-sci and English with a side of history.”

The ambition and brilliance that flows off Hamilton in waves is almost enough to knock John off his feet. He knew, coming to school here, that there would be world-class minds everywhere, and had looked forward to sharpening his own wits against them. Hamilton is like a tsunami, though, and John thinks again of the brook at home, when spring rains swelled it into a torrent. He can’t help but smile a little wider, caught up in his new roommate’s enthusiasm.

“Well, do leave some of the learning for the rest of us,” he says, and Hamilton barks a laugh.

“I’ll just be glad when we can get to it.” Hamilton is moving on again, now pouring the cold coffee and drinking it black. John shudders. “Three days of waiting around, playing getting-to-know-you games is more than enough for a lifetime. Classes tomorrow can’t come fast enough! Who do you have for fresh-core?”

Freshman Core Learning Opportunities, John has already learned, was looked upon with dismay by most students. Everyone was required to take it first semester, and nobody seemed to enjoy it.

“Burke,” he says, digging in his pocket for the schedule he already has memorized.

“Good,” Hamilton says. “Me too. Don’t let me work through it, OK? Drag me along if you must.”

John feels his smile grow a little wider. He’s got a friend for his first class; his dread diminishes by half. Hamilton stares at him for a moment, longer than he’s been still since he first got up, and then wrenches himself away, crashing back at his desk. He’s back in work-mode in seconds, the hammering of his keys ramping back up to the insane speeds from before. John leaves him to it and moves to arrange his course books on the little shelf above his desk, arranged by class.

He nearly startles out the open window when their door crashes open with no warning, and two more boys thunder into their room. They both seem as singularly focused as Hamilton, making their way to his sides and shaking his shoulders.

“Alex, man,” the larger of the two says urgently. His voice is deep and insistent. John feels himself freeze up. “Alex! Schuyler just told us she kicked Jefferson out. What’d you do to him?”

“And why did you not warn us in advance so that we could watch?” The second boy’s voice is lighter, floating on as thick a French accent as John has ever heard. The merriment in his tone makes John want to grin. “There is not enough entertainment here to deprive us so, my friend!”

Hamilton blinks at them for a moment, clearly still lost in his work, before he surges back to life, hands moving energetically as he talks. “Nothing! Well, I may have written a few things, but I didn’t do anything to him. It’s hardly my fault if Jefferson can’t take as good as he can dish out. I’m glad to be rid of him.”

The first intruder shakes his head, still looking disturbed. “Didn’t she tell you who you’re getting in exchange?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “Laurens’ kid. Fucking Henry goddamn Laurens sent one of his kids here, and now we’re going to be stuck with him!”

“Laurens?” Hamilton echoes, looking thoughtful. “Not ‘Abomination Laurens’?”

“This one, even I have heard of,” the French boy says soberly. “He is no credit to your country.”

“Senator, South Carolina,” Hamilton mutters, as though he’s accessing a file on a computer. “Head of the Senate Committee on the Judiciary, also Head of the Subcommittee on Border Security and Immigration. No spouse; children, Mary, Martha, James, Henry Jr, and - John.”

John swallows convulsively. That had been a nice two minute acquaintanceship. Now, he wishes he were under his bed, where Hamilton’s piercing eyes couldn’t stab through him.

“John Laurens,” Hamilton says curtly, and doesn’t blink. “Jack’s a nickname for John, isn’t it?”

The other two look confused, and then follow his gaze over to John, who’s frozen in his chair. The French boy looks startled to see him there; his companion says something that would have gotten John a quick slap around the face, and throws his hat onto the floor, like it is what has offended him. But John knows it isn’t.

This is why he doesn’t like to introduce himself by name. They all think they know him already, think they know his father, rather than just the biased portrayal the media puts forward. He lifts his chin (not too high; he’s not challenging anyone) and nods. “I’m John Laurens. I usually go by Jack.”

“How about you go back to South Carolina and tell that father of yours he’s made a mistake?” The first boy’s voice is scarcely more civil than a growl. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to send his kid into a hive of sinfulness and debauchery like this.”

“It’s not-” John starts, but Hamilton stands and turns on him, and his voice dies.

“Let’s see, how many “abominations” would your father count, just here in this room?” His voice is deceptively light and calm. “Immigrants, check. Non-white people, check. Non-straight people, check. Non-Christian people, check. Looks like we’ve got all the offenders except outspoken women - and I’m sure Angelica wouldn’t mind popping her head in to complete the package.” He turns away, clearly done with John. “Keep your distance, Laurens, and don’t think about trying to pull rank here. Your father isn’t the only one with political influence.”

“He’s not really like that,” John offers, already feeling how hopeless it is to make these protests. Nobody has listened, not in the past three days. Somehow, he seems to have fallen into a dorm with nothing but far-left radicals for company, and they certainly don’t want any of his. “He’s a good man-”

“Tell it to the Westboro Baptists, next time he invites them around,” Hamilton says blandly. “Laf, watch out for this guy.”

The French boy is staring at him warily, and pulls Hamilton toward the door. “Come, Alex, we should go eat. I suspect you have forgotten a meal or two already today, eh? George and Martha made me promise I would keep you from wasting away.” They’re at the door in an instant, and John has nothing to say. He watches them leave without another glance in his direction.

The door closes behind them, and John heaves a sharp breath, letting his hands ball into frustrated fists. It’s not fair, he thinks furiously.

“Life’s not fair, Jack,” his father would have snapped, if he were here. “You can’t expect to be handed everything you want.” And John knows that, has always known that. Fair is a concept for children.

He wishes at that moment that he could throw all his belongings back in his car and drive home, back to the noisy chaos of his younger siblings and the comforts of the world he had known. He hadn’t expected college to be easy, or fair, but he hadn’t expected everyone to hate him based on his last name, either. His tutor had never warned him of this aspect of higher education. He stares at the family photo again, blinking back traitorous tears.

“Men don’t cry, Jack,” his father would have told him. “Remember, the media has it’s eyes on you. Don’t you do anything that will disgrace this family.”

He knows better. He stares into space until he’s got himself under control again, and then goes back to arranging his books. Classes begin tomorrow. There’ll be plenty of time to find like-minded friends, people who will give him a chance to show he’s not as bad as they think. Maybe he’ll even find someone else to room with, someone who doesn’t hate him at first sight.

He opens his laptop to call his siblings, ready to try to solve the other kids’ problems from a distance, to hear their stories of the day he’s missed. Their father won’t have been home in a few days; there will be issues to solve, plans to make before he gets back and makes a reckoning with his children. Big brother face firmly in place, he calls home.

He tries not to think of water on stones, or why it bothers him so much that Alexander Hamilton in particular won’t give him a chance.

Chapter Text

Well, it’s finally happened.

Alexander Hamilton has found a problem he can’t write his way out of.

He’s come to have almost magical levels of belief in his own ability to manipulate words, to twist and turn his way through complicated situations with a well-chosen phrase or a properly timed drop of information. He’s written his way out of situations most people would have considered themselves lucky to survive. He even managed to get rid of Jefferson, which is perhaps the most impressive feat he has ever accomplished.

He can’t get rid of Laurens. And he’s tried.

He’s written and complained and argued and lectured, and Angelica Schuyler, damn her brilliant brain, has given as good as she got, and still refuses to accede to his demands.

Alex demanded that she replace Laurens. Angelica brought him a copy of the housing regulations, with the areas about roommate disputes highlighted in an ugly neon yellow. He’s already been through one roommate switch, and she refuses to lift a finger to arrange another.

Alex provided a thorough list of all of the reasons he could not possibly be expected to room with the son of “Abomination Laurens,” in alphabetical order. Angelica threatened to force them to go to roommate counseling, arbitrated by herself, to work out their issues.

Alex threatened to go on a hunger strike. Angelica just laughed at him. (He was insulted, but eventually saw her point when he found himself mindlessly eating whatever had been pushed in front of him by his friends during one of his impassioned rants.)

And it’s all Laurens’ fault. Alex had been able to get rid of Jefferson by documenting his unreasonable behavior; Laurens stubbornly refuses to do anything Alex can reasonably complain about, other than continue to be John Laurens. He’s been stuck with Laurens for two weeks now.

Alexander’s new plan, though, is certain to work. He’s just going to be himself. That strategy has had an almost one hundred percent track record of pushing people out of his life. (The Washingtons are an exception that he hasn’t worked out yet; he’s reluctant to investigate it too closely, for fear that everything will come crashing down on his head.) He knows he’s impossible to live with. His sleep schedule is unpredictable; sometimes he doesn’t sleep for two or three days at a time, and then he’ll crash for a whole weekend or fall asleep in the middle of meals. He’s terrible at remembering to feed himself, but awesome at keeping himself in coffee. Martha sends him care packages every two weeks, most of which he manages to inhale without noticing the contents. He knows damn well that his writing habits are hard to tolerate; he paces and mutters and argues with himself when he’s stuck on a certain point, and has been known to rant and rave at the walls, all for the purpose of sharpening his rhetoric. Rarely has it taken more than a few days to drive roommates or foster siblings to the brink of insanity, just by Alex being himself.

It’s not working on Laurens. He never complains about the weird hours or the smells from Alex’s unwashed laundry mountain or the fact that Alex will keep the lights on all night when Laurens is trying to sleep. Alex is even beginning to suspect that he might be refilling Alex’s water bottle sometimes; he’s certainly suspiciously hydrated all the time. He doesn’t really talk much at all.

But it’s whatever, Alex doesn’t have time to waste on bigotted, privileged, rich assholes anyway, and there’s no doubt that Laurens is all of that. He has everything - the latest iPhone, a laptop that nearly sparkles with all the newest technology, designer clothes. Laurens has a fucking car, how’s that for ridiculous? Nobody needs a car on campus. It’s one of the most ridiculous wastes of natural resources and money Alex can imagine. Laurens doesn’t even use it.

Alex doesn’t have time for any of that. He’s stretched to his limits already. He knew he’d be busy, taking an eighteen credit schedule, and adding clubs and extracurriculars and projects on top, and now he’s also juggling social demands, because Alexander Hamilton has friends. It hasn’t stopped surprising him yet. He’d expected Lafayette to sort of drop him once they got to college; sharing a pair of foster/quasi-adoptive parents doesn’t actually make them brothers, and he knew Laf would be the center of attention. He wasn’t wrong. (It’s almost scary how rarely he is wrong.) But Laf has stuck with him, and so has his roommate, Hercules Mulligan, a man who has the most rocking name Alexander has ever heard. There are three of them, and they are friends, and it’s almost too much for him to take in, some days.

College is amazing. It’s intoxicating, the level of freedom and intellectual stimulation - and by all the powers of heaven, the books! Floors and floors of them, in multiple libraries, all at his fingertips whenever he wants them.

Yeah, Alexander Hamilton has found nirvana. He has friends, food, shelter, books - and opportunity. The future stretches before him, barely out of reach of his fingertips, and everything he can dream of and work hard enough for can be his. He can make a name for himself; he can make himself someone important enough that he’ll never be helpless and dependent on others again. He’ll be able to pay back the Washingtons for everything they’ve done for him, return the investment that the people of St. Croix made to get him to the United States. He has big plans and a bigger future ahead of him, and he doesn’t have time for distractions.

He doesn’t like to admit that Laurens could be a distraction. He simply won’t allow him to be one, and then he won’t have a problem.

Lafayette saunters in without knocking - doors are things that happen to other people - and drapes himself across Laurens’ empty desk chair. Alex doesn’t know where his roommate is - maybe in class, maybe at a witch-burning. Could be anywhere, really.

“Alexander,” Lafayette intones, when simply existing in his presence is not enough to divert Alex’s attention. “Martha asks why you have not answered her texts. She has decided you are dead.”

“Not dead,” Alex mutters, pouring a cup of coffee and throwing it back with a callous lack of regard for his heart’s ability to handle that much caffeine. He glares suspiciously at the pot. It’s warm, and that doesn’t make sense, because he hasn’t made coffee for a few hours now. Usually by early evening he’s drinking stone cold coffee. “Writing for the school paper. Did you see Laurens’ latest shit?”

Lafayette looks around the room. “I have not seen him since yesterday,” he says, looking suspicious.

“Not Laurens,” Alex says, waving his words aside. “Laurens. His father. Abomination Laurens.” Laf still looks confused, and Alex waves him over toward his laptop screen. He has to smack the side of the ancient device to get the sound to come on.

Henry Laurens, asshole extraordinaire, had given a stump speech that morning - why he bothers, Alex doesn’t know, because they’re never going to bother running anyone sane against him, Henry Laurens is going to continue to be a Senator until he dies - with all the usual shit. Anti-immigrant, nationalist rhetoric that teetered just on the civilized side of white power advocacy, all wrapped up in the polished veneer of a Christian gentleman with a very nice accent.

Laurens has the accent, too. Laurens Laurens, not Abomination Laurens. He looks so much like his father, it’s a little scary - same eyes, same stubborn tilt of the chin. Laurens looks like the version of his father that had stayed in the oven a little longer, though, hair dark and curly and skin several shades darker than the man on the screen. And then there were the freckles.

Alex has an eye for detail. It comes in handy a very great deal of the time.

Lafayette narrows his eyes at the screen as the man bows his head in public prayer, asking God to heal the land of the great affliction of sin that is poisoning the nation.

“I forget, what’s our great national sin today?” Alex spits, slamming his laptop shut. He really shouldn’t do that - the hinges are barely holding together as it is. “Abortion? Overly progressive taxation rates? Socialism?”

“No,” Laf draws the word out, accentuating his dislike. “The war on traditional marriage, he says. It is an abomination.”

“Oh, right!” Alex does a little dance of rage, unable to help himself. “That’s right, it’s the fault of all of us non-straight people! We’re causing the oceans to rise and the plagues to befall the land, you know.”

Laf laughs and stretches, catlike. “I am so upset with us,” he says. “And those of us who come from abroad, we are doubly to blame.” Alex points, nods, agrees. Henry Laurens goes back and forth on who is most to blame for the woes of the country almost every day, and the media is happy to give him attention, covering his hateful speech with far more seriousness than Alex feels it deserves. Maybe he’ll come to visit Laurens some time and Alex can throw something at him.

“Anyway, I’m writing an editorial for the school paper,” Alex says, circling back around to the beginning of their conversation. “What do you think, should I get Laurens to proofread it for me?”

Lafayette snorts. “What, you think you will trick him into expressing an opinion?” He laughs at his own joke.

“He and Burr should have lived together,” Alex says gloomily, crashing back into his chair and kicking his feet up onto his desk. “They could have gone years expressing nothing but polite smalltalk and refusing to have facial expressions at one another. Maybe Burr will trade me his roommate?”

Laurens has never come right out and said any of the shit his father does, but then Laurens doesn’t really talk to them. They don’t talk to him, either, it must be said. Their worlds don’t really have much in common. What’s important is that Laurens doesn’t say anything against the hatred his father spews. He attends his College Republican meetings and kneels in prayer every night and never, ever condemns the poison that comes out of his father’s mouth and makes its way through all the branches of the media.

It’s not like Laurens is the only one with a famous father. Angelica and Eliza Schuyler’s father is every bit as influential as Laurens, and a hell of a lot better off. The Washingtons - but Alex cuts himself off there, because he doesn’t use their name or their reputation and he won’t, not even to score points off Laurens or Burr or Jefferson.

He glances over at Laurens’ neat, orderly desk, where the picture of Laurens and his younger siblings, all of whom got their father’s blond hair, sits carefully next to his worn Bible.

Alex doesn’t think he’s trying to keep much secret; he’s not hiding the fact that he’s bi, and he’s ready to throw hands with Laurens if the spoiled little bigot ever has a problem with that. But Laurens doesn’t know that he’s not in the country entirely legally, and Laurens can’t know that, because his father stands around frothing at the mouth about deporting all “illegals” and he cannot doubt for a moment that neither of the Laurens men would shed a tear at putting him back on a boat to St. Croix and watching all his dreams slip away.

He’s irrationally angry at Laurens about it, even though it hasn’t happened. He’s not going to let it happen, either. Screw Laurens for it, anyway. He could contradict his father any time, if he wasn’t just as bad. Henry Laurens in miniature, sharing a bedroom with him for the rest of the year. Alex lets out a groan.

They only have one class together, thank heavens, and it’s at nine am on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so Alex can usually pretty much sleep his way through it. It’s the Freshman Core class that is exactly as useless as everyone says - a waste of three hours a week to tell them all not to plagiarize or do drugs or cheat on their work. Also, a rather ridiculous amount of time spent on learning to do citations properly. He’s never heard Laurens open his mouth in class - but, then, Alex spends half of that class asleep, so who knows what he’s missed?

Lafayette eventually gets tired of his brooding - Alex would prefer to call it “organizing his thoughts” - and drags him off to eat dinner with Hercules and a few others, and by the time they finish eating, Eliza Schuyler has appeared to drag them all off to a poetry reading, which somehow turns into drinks in someone’s dorm room while Angelica turns a blind eye. He forces himself to stay, even though the stacks of books that are waiting for him keep sliding into his mind, reminding him of the million things he hasn’t done, and four years are going to go by so fast - he drinks, to make his brain shut up. He winds up dragging an overly-celebratory Hercules and Laf back to their room and shoving them toward their beds, distantly aware that his own laughter is closer to a giggle.

He’s not quiet going into his room, even though it’s past midnight, but Laurens is sleeping with a soundness Alex has to envy. His giddiness gives way to a more sober tiredness as he finishes his editorial, allowing himself to punctuate it with all the name-calling that he already knows will be edited out. He’s got to have his fun where he can. He sends the piece off, feeling the vindication of having done something to stand up to tyranny - and yet, just the tiniest bit guilty.

He’s been raised to be cussed, as one foster mother had told him once. He’s stubborn and obstinate and takes a profound joy in opposing injustice and stupidity wherever he finds it. And that’s all fantastic - but he sometimes remembers that not everybody is Alexander Hamilton, used to fighting tooth and nail just to stay alive. Maybe he’s not being fair to Laurens. It’s not like Alex has any idea what it would be like to have an actual father. (Washington doesn’t count. Alex is too old to need a father now.) Maybe he wouldn’t be much better, if he had a dad who spewed that kind of poison all the time.

Across the room, Laurens suddenly gives a rough, wild shout and sits bolt upright, breathing heavily, looking around their too-bright room as though searching for an invisible assailant. After a moment, he buries his face in his hands, mostly hidden by a cloud of wild hair, and he doesn’t say anything. And Alex gets it, because he has bad dreams, too; for just a moment, just one wild second, he feels bad for John Laurens.

“Hey,” he says, awkward and hesitant. Even his words have abandoned him in his moment of need, cowards that they are. “You ok?” It may be the first thing he’s said to Laurens in a few days.

Laurens pulls himself together so fast Alex blinks. In a moment, he’s composed and pleasant, sitting with the proper posture Martha has despaired of ever getting Alex to adopt, hands calmly folded in his lap. He’s the picture of an affluent, well-bred, model American boy; his daddy’s pride and joy.

“Fine, thanks,” Laurens says - like they’re friends, like he’s not the biggest threat to Alex’s safety and wellbeing that he can imagine. “You?”

Alex snorts, and turns off the light.

Chapter Text

He’s not getting kicked out again.

That had been John’s decision, approximately five seconds after he’d worked out that Hamilton was trying to get rid of him. And no, it’s probably not his most mature decision ever, to stick it out with Hamilton just to annoy him, but honestly, John’s feeling a little peevish right now, and maybe isn’t making the best choices.

It had been bad enough having to explain to his father how he’d already lost his original housing assignment; he wasn’t going to do that again. So John just smiles internally every time he catches Hamilton trying to make him lose his temper or bait him into an argument. He’s been dealing with younger siblings his whole life; Hamilton doesn’t stand a chance.

College - isn’t what he’d expected. He blames his tutor, who has spent the last six years waxing nostalgic for his own college experiences. Isaac had apparently had a fairy-tale experience in his own education. John can’t say the same.

Classes are fine; slower to get going than he’d expected, and he can’t help, no matter how hard he tries, feeling the tiniest bit resentful at the schedule his father has laid out for him. Just once, it would have been nice to have a say in his own life. But Henry Laurens knows how to plot a successful course through college, law school, and a significant political career afterwards, and he just wants what’s best for his son. So John attends all his classes and does all his work and avoids everything he knows better than to meddle with. He’s going to be successful at this, if it kills him.

If it weren’t for his siblings back at home, John would actually say his life is significantly easier than before. Somehow, college is a less stressful environment; he feels lighter and more free - but that comes with a load of guilt as well, because he’s not looking after his siblings properly. It’s hard to do from hundreds of miles away.

He calls home every evening, checking in with them to see their faces and hear their voices, reminding him of the other side of his life. Henry Jr. is going crazy with his own college applications, and John helps where he can. He gets the others to tell him what they’ve been working on with their tutor, how the girls’ riding lessons are going, whether James is ever going to stop fretting over his delayed growth spurt that John always reassures him will come along any time now.

When he knows their father is away in Washington, John gets the kids to tell him anything he really needs to know - who he needs to cover for, what stories their father needs to never hear. He talks to Isaac if the kids are having academic problems. Henry Laurens is a busy man, with a very stressful job. He doesn’t need to be bothered by unimportant concerns or burdened with details that will only add to his stress. John can carry those things. He’s been doing it for years.

Hamilton is a complete ass at first, John notes with hidden amusement. He stalks out of the room when John calls home, as if daring to raise his voice above a whisper is too great a distraction for Hamilton’s mighty intellect. After a few weeks, though, the novelty seems to have worn off. Hamilton just ignores them, most of the time.

One night, about a month into term, Hamilton is staring daggers at his own screen, apparently attempting to will a document into being, while John coaxes the details of James’ latest shenanigans out of his wiggly younger brother.

“And what happened with the toads then?” he asks. It’s only years of practice that keeps the grin off his face, modulates his tone to seriousness instead of the laughter that wants to burst forth.

“I wasn’t trying to scare the girls, Jacky!” James protests. “Martha said I was, but I wasn’t! I just wanted to see what would happen!”

“You wanted to see what would happen if you put toads under your sisters’ pillows?”

“I thought they were frogs,” James admitted sadly. “I wanted to see if they would climb on the pillows for kisses, like in the story.”

Across the room, Hamilton gives such a loud snort of laughter that the kids hear him.

“Who’s laughing at me, Jacky?” James asks, pride mortally wounded.

“That’s my roommate, Ham - uh, Alexander,” John says, stifling his own amusement. James hates to feel like he’s being mocked. “He’s not laughing at you, Jemmy. He’s - sneezing.” He picks up his laptop, turning it around so the screen faces Hamilton, and makes the most pleading face he can manage over the top of the screen. “Don’t. Laugh.” John mouths.

Amazingly, Hamilton seems to have something like a heart. He spins around in his chair and scoots forward until he can see all of the kids, crowded around on the other end of the connection. “Hi,” he says uselessly. “I have, um. Allergies.”

Alexander Hamilton, who never shuts up, whose brain never stops working, is close to speechless. John will treasure this memory, particularly when Hamilton goes off on one of his brilliant, impassioned rants that the rest of them struggle to even follow.

“You live with Jacky?” Mary asks suspiciously. “I thought he was living with somebody named Jim?”

“Plans changed,” Hamilton says, still useless. John’s face gives an involuntary spasm, as if to smile at him. He could almost be fond of Hamilton, like this. “Tell you what, kid. How about you try your experiment with toads there, and I’ll replicate it here with your brother, and then we’ll compare notes? That’s more scientific.”

The girls and Henry explode in laughter. James does not.

“You’ll get Jacky in trouble,” he says seriously. “I’m going to be in trouble already.”

“No, you aren’t,” John reassures him, returning his laptop to his desk. He owes Hamilton one, though, and he’ll have to remember that. Maybe he’ll keep switching Hamilton’s coffee for decaf later in the day. It won’t look good for him if his useless roommate dies of caffeine poisoning or his heart explodes or something. John’s not a doctor, how would he know? “I’ll talk to Isaac. He won’t tell dad - and I’m sure the girls won’t either, right?” He puts a note of warning in his voice.

“Of course not!” Mary’s offended at the very idea.

“Not if Jemmy doesn’t do it again,” Martha says thoughtfully. “And he has to clean up the mess.”

And John is NOT going to ask what kind of mess has been created by toads under the twins’ pillows, because he just doesn’t need to know. That’s an aspect of the problem that can be dealt with at home.

They say goodbye after another moment, the kids drifting off to their evening activities. Martha lingers at the end. “We miss you, Jacky,” she says soberly.

His heart contracts painfully. “I miss you, too,” he whispers. “I’m coming home to visit soon, OK?”

“This weekend?” Martha begs. “Isaac says Daddy’s coming home this weekend.”

His heart gives a hard thump. “Of course,” he promises fast. “I’ll come as soon as my classes are done on Friday. Be good until then, OK?”

“We’ll try,” she promises, all little-girl sincerity, wrapped up in the knowledge that they can never be quite good enough. John decides to see if he can skip out early Friday. It’s better if he can beat their father home, have things under control before he gets back. His job is very stressful.

John stares at the blank screen for a moment after he signs off, until he notices Hamilton’s reflection in the dark glass. Hamilton is staring at him from behind his back.

“Problem?” John asks coolly.

“Nope,” Hamilton says after a moment. He turns back to his own desk. “They seem nice,” he says after a moment.

John blinks in surprise. That’s about the most Hamilton has had to say to him since the day they met, other than to curse at him if John wakes him up while blundering around in the early mornings.

“They are,” he says. He can’t keep from smiling, missing them fondly. “They’re a handful, sometimes.”

Hamilton snorts again. Must be as close to laughter as he’ll let himself get around John. John’s heard him laugh properly around his friends, open and inviting. He squashes down the part of him that whispers, sometimes, about how nice it would be to be friends with Hamilton and his little crew. “So your dad’s a dick to them, too, huh? Almost makes me feel better. Must be nice to be the golden child.”

John sits up straight, feeling as if he’s been struck by lightning. “Don’t talk about what you don’t know, Hamilton,” he mutters. He doesn’t want to be nice to Hamilton anymore. They both shut up.

~~~~~

The rest of the week is a bit of a blur, as classes are slowly beginning to pick up their pace. John gets so busy with research for his intro to cultural anthropology class that he misses the weekly College Republicans meeting. He finds he isn’t sorry.

Not that there’s anything wrong with the meetings, of course, or with the other kids who attend. He knows a few of them from mingling in the same political spheres throughout their childhoods. It’s just that some of their arguments are getting really old, especially since they’ve been having the same exact debates for as long as John can remember. He knows the talking points, knows the research behind them. He just doesn’t want to go over it yet again.

But the kids from that group are some of the closest things he’s found to friends yet. Charles Lee finds him on Friday morning, when John is staring blearily at a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and trying to remember if he’s done everything he needs to do for the week.

“Jack!” Charles claps him on the back so suddenly that John startles, spilling coffee all over the table. Now he’s awake. “We missed you yesterday! Not being seduced away by Washington’s degenerates, are you?”

John mops at the coffee half-heartedly. “Washington? What’s he got to do with anything?” John knows all about Washington. He and Henry Laurens are bitter political rivals. The arguments against George Washington are another set that John can recite in his sleep, if needed.

Lee guffaws. (Seriously, that’s how he laughs. It’s pretty awful.) “You don’t know? Hamilton and his lot - they’re Washington’s. Not biologically, so they say,” he winks, making the gesture border on lewd. “But who knows with those people?”

John wastes a minute thinking about this. His father would certainly have made it public, if Washington had illegitimate children, which meant that couldn’t be the answer. He’d heard Hamilton and Lafayette refer to George and Martha, though, which could well be the Washingtons - but he’d gotten the impression they were more like close family friends. It wasn’t like he and Hamilton were friends.

He shrugs at Lee. “Nothing to do with them. I was trying to find sources for my paper that weren’t wildly biased and lost track of time.”

Lee guffaws again, and punches him in the arm. John doesn’t wince. “Glad to hear it! See you don’t miss it again. We’re coordinating Mock Trial with the College Democrats, and you’d better be there. Hate to have to tell Henry you’re playing hooky!” He winks again, nearly as nasty as the first time, and saunters away. John stares at his back, unseeing.

The freedom he’d been feeling recedes a little further.

“Laurens!” He looks around in surprise. The strong French accent is very recognizable, but he has no idea why Hamilton’s friend Lafayette would be addressing him. He raises his coffee cup in a polite gesture of recognition, and masks his surprise when the Frenchman drops into the chair across from him.

“Lafayette,” he says carefully. “What can I do for you?”

“We are not friends,” Lafayette says candidly - but there’s no hostility in it. “But Alexander is my friend, and I wish for your help.”

John’s been in politics all his life, due to his father’s position. He’s used to keeping himself neutral in the public eye. He nods at Lafayette to go on.

“An anniversary of a sort is coming up for him,” Lafayette says. “Something he has written. It always causes something of a furor. Reporters and the like, they wish to talk to him, but Alexander does not wish to do so.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Hamilton doesn’t want to talk about himself and something he’s written? You must be joking.”

Lafayette looks disappointed. “You do not know him, Laurens.” The gentle reprimand reminds him of his own similar words to Hamilton, and John feels ashamed. “October 3rd, this will happen. Will you help me to cover him?”

John doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t need to be Hamilton’s friend, whether he’d like to or not, to do the decent thing. “Don’t tell him I’ve got anything to do with it,” he warns Lafayette.

Lafayette smiles and stands, looking down at him with something approaching warmth. “I do not think you are so bad, Laurens,” he says.

It’s the nicest anyone has been to him for a while.

~~~~~

He makes it home before their father, driving a bit faster than the speed limits allow, but he doesn’t get pulled over. It all works out. He has time to check in with Isaac and hear all the details of the kids’ trials and tribulations, promising to look into all of it; he lets Isaac leave early for the weekend. No need for him to pass any of those little issues along to their father. There’s time to force Henry Jr. to comb his hair and sweet-talk the girls into changing back into the dresses their father prefers to see them in. By the time Henry Laurens comes home, his household is all in perfect order.

“Jack?” His father is surprised to see him, but not displeased. John heaves a silent breath of relief. “I didn’t know you were coming home this weekend.”

“I learned it was Homecoming this weekend,” John says. “Didn’t really feel like sticking around for the partying and drinking that’s sure to sweep over campus.”

His father nods approval, but also narrows his eyes. “Now, Jack, is that really an appropriate topic of discussion in front of children?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” John says quickly.

Their father looks all the children over, asks to see some of their latest work, and then dismisses all of them but John. They scatter, relieved to be at liberty; John and his father go into his study.

“How are things going at school, son?” his father asks. John fills him in; he doesn’t mention Lee’s insinuations about Hamilton and his crew. Henry sighs nostalgically.

“I’d go back with you if I could, Jack. You know, I used to room in that very same dorm myself, in my college days?”

“Yes, sir,” John agrees. He’s heard all of his father’s college stories a hundred times. It’s part of why he’s surprised at the dislocated feelings he’s had about school. He had thought he knew what to expect - but Henry Laurens’ college experience was several decades behind him. The world had changed since then, even if Henry had not.

“Lee tells me his son has some concerns,” Henry says. John’s heart beats faster. He should have been more careful about paying attention to the time. “I hope you are not allowing yourself to grow complacent?”

“No, sir,” John says. “I missed a meeting, but only because I was working on research. It won’t happen again, sir.”

“See that you don’t,” his father reprimands. “It is always a challenge, stepping into the morass of temptation that the modern university represents. You must be on guard against bad companions as well as bad ideology, Jack.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be careful.”

Henry stares at him. “You must remember how much is on the line, son. My reputation rides on your behavior, as do your siblings’ prospects. You are a part of the public face of the family now.” John nods agreement. “And I’m sure I do not need to remind you of the costs associated with such a prestigious education. The sacrifices that I am making for your education, that your siblings are making-”

“I won’t forget.” He meets his father’s gaze. He hasn’t done anything for his father to disapprove of, for once. It’s a nice change.

“Good.” Henry studies him a moment longer. “Things are about to finally begin to move on my proposed legislation, after all this time. Be sure that nothing you do will reflect poorly on us. You know how the media enjoys tearing me down at any opportunity.”

John nods again, and does not allow a hint of the dismay he feels to surface. Everyone at school who already hates him for his family is going to be a thousand times worse once the Laurens’ bill begins to make news. He can hear Hamilton’s scornful rants already.

Chapter Text

“This weather is stupid,” Alex says suddenly, one morning in early October, nose pressed against the window to take in the stupid colorful leaves and the stupid early morning fog that blankets the green stretches of lawn that separate the buildings on campus.

“Right?” Laurens agrees. He pokes his head out of his tiny closet, where he’s been sorting through his ridiculous, stuffy clothes for far too long. “It’s September. It’s still supposed to be swimming weather.”

“Shorts and sandals,” Alex agrees. He and Laurens never have pleasant conversations; he’s curious to see how long this one could last. It’s something small they have in common, though, being from further south and not used to the early change of seasons in New York. Most of their cohort is from further north (not Jefferson, but he doesn’t really count, because he’s awful).

“Hurricane season,” Laurens adds - and there, it’s over. Alex scowls out the window and doesn’t answer. Laurens waits a moment, and then, looking downcast, gathers his clothes and wanders off to the shared bathrooms to change. He’s uptight about everything, Alex grumbles to himself. Would it really kill him to change with Alex in the room? He’s not sure if Laurens is like that because he knows Alex is bi, or if he’s just inherently prudish. Alex gets dressed himself, reluctantly putting on an oversized hoodie that does little to comfort him. Stupid October.

To his surprise, Laurens follows him when he leaves that morning. It’s not like they have class together, and there’s no other reason for them to go the same way. Alex glares at him over the stack of books he’s returning to the library.

“Are you stalking me, Laurens?”

Laurens grins at him, crooked and lazy, and Alex has to bite the inside of his lip to keep himself from responding in kind. It’s a stupidly contagious smile. Everything is stupid today.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Hamilton,” he says, voice a quiet drawl of amusement. “I just happened to be headed to the library, and thought I’d amuse myself watching you balance that stack of books.”

“You could help, if you weren’t too feckless to be entrusted with books,” Hamilton shoots back, a strange mixture of annoyed and amused.

Laurens makes a show of glancing at his hands, shaking his head. “And risk roughening these lily-soft hands? I think not, Hamilton.” He’s still amused, but it’s at himself, now. Alex can respect that sort of humor. He lets it go, and allows Laurens to trail him without another word.

They almost make it. It’s fucking Jefferson who sells him out, of course, and Alex sees it coming but can’t move fast enough to get into the library before the pack of journalists is upon him. They found him last year, when he was finishing up high school while living with the Washingtons, and George had been forced to use all his diplomatic powers to persuade them to go away. He’s Alexander Hamilton, the Orphan with the Golden Pen; the vultures circle every year at the anniversary, wanting to hear more of the tragedy porn that has made him famous. He shifts his books, ready to fight.

“Mr. Hamilton!” one of the journalists calls. “Alexander! Can we get a word!” He calculates the distance to the library, to the reporters. He can’t make it without risking dropping the books.

And then Laurens steps in front of him, taking several long strides toward the rabid pack. “Excuse me,” he says, all courtesy. “But aren’t you Cameron Anderson?”

The reporter nods his head, looking surprised.

“I’m John Laurens,” Laurens says, still calm and controlled. “I’m afraid I have to take issue with a profile you recently wrote on my father, sir.”

“You’re Henry Laurens’ son?” another of the pack asks, turning her microphone toward him. “Are you and Mr. Hamilton friends?”

“Hardly.” There’s too much quiet amusement in the word for them to question his sincerity. He’s ten feet in front of Alex now, fifteen feet, and making himself a perfect target. Alex decides to abandon him to his fate and sneaks off to the library. He’s pretty sure he can make himself scarce there all day, and if he doesn’t come out, they’ll eventually give up. Thank God Laurens decided to stick up for his horrifying father, Alex thinks, and then wonders what the world is coming to that he can even consider that thought.

Lafayette comes and finds him later, sneaks him in a sandwich and coffee that Alex inhales in the stacks. Laf knew this would be a problem; he was there last year, after all.

“Can’t they just leave well enough alone?” he complains, mouth full of food.

“The American media like a show,” Lafayette notes. “They want you to demonstrate your suffering, your gratitude to this country for saving you.” He rolls his eyes, and Alex copies him.

“And the last thing I need is them digging into my story and getting all the legal aspects made public,” Alex mutters. He doesn’t even like to discuss it out loud, but Laf is his most trusted friend. “Until Washington can get the visa thing sorted out, I really need to stay out of the spotlight.”

“Oui,” Lafayette agrees easily. “This is not so hard to do, here. Easier than at home, maybe.”

“Home,” Alex scoffs, and takes another monstrous bite of his sandwich. The Washingtons’ place is warm and loving and welcoming, but it’s never going to be the first place he thinks about when he hears the word home. Home is blazing sun and dust on bare feet, the smell of the sea, the voice of his mother calling him in from his play. He hasn’t known that home for a very long time. Laf hums in acknowledgement, and doesn’t make him talk about it.

Eventually, Alex gets tired of moping and trying to repress memories that should no longer have such a hold on him. He shakes his head and changes the subject. “You should come round to my room this evening. Soldier Laurens will be reporting in to his commanding officer, and I can’t wait to see what dear old dad will say about him starting shit with the press today.”

Lafayette shifts uncomfortably. “Why do you call him that?”

“You haven’t seen him when he talks to his father, huh?” Alex asks. He’s out of sorts today, stinging and waspish; he hurts, so he wants to hurt others. It’s not his best side. Everything is stupid today, including him. “Laurens goes all stiff and proper - even more so than usual. Everything’s “yes, sir” and “no, sir”, like he’s some sort of windup toy soldier.” He laughs a little, and knows he’s being mean. He doesn’t really care, today.

“And yet he caused a problem with the press?”

Alex shrugs. “Defending dear old daddy’s honor, of course. After all, how dare the media ever smear Henry Laurens by printing his own words and attributing them to him? Can’t have that sort of thing.”

Laurens’ father calls twice a week, punctual to the minute, and Laurens is always there to take the calls. His father does most of the talking. Laurens just stands at attention and listens. Alex wonders if he’ll get a gold star from his father from today’s antics with the press.

Lafayette isn’t looking at him. “I do not think you are being fair to him,” he says slowly. “There may be more at work here than you see.” And Alex really, really could not give less of a shit about Laurens’ delicate feelings. He gives Lafayette the finger and stalks away. He’ll add it to his list of things to apologize for on a day that is not this one.

He works the day away in the depths of the library, only re-emerging when cover of dusk will give him the privacy to make it back to his dorm unimpeded. It’s days like this when he’s glad that his screwed-up brain makes him hoard food in his dresser drawer; he’s not going anywhere for dinner that they might spot him again.

He comes into his room in the middle of what he can tell is a tense conversation, just from the set of Laurens’ shoulders as he stares at the far wall. “Yes, sir,” he says quietly, and “No, sir,” just as Alex had known he would.

But there’s more tension than usual in the white-knuckled grip he has on his phone, and his lips are pressed together tightly, eyes very distant. “No, sir,” he says again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

His father cuts him off with a voice raised high enough that Alex can hear the tone and volume through the tiny little speaker, though he cannot make out the words. He’s taken aback by the anger that pours through that inarticulate roar.

Laurens stiffens even more, if that’s possible, and takes a quick step back, as if he can put distance between him and his phone. He hits the dresser with his back, and stands frozen until the voice drops back down to normal tones.

“No, sir,” Laurens whispers. “No excuses. Sorry, sir.” His father doesn’t appear to say goodbye before hanging up. Laurens stands frozen for a moment, eyes a thousand miles away. Alex turns around and messes with his own phone, feeling somehow vaguely guilty for having been witness to the scene.

Maybe he’s not the only one having a shitty day.

He tries to make up for it the next morning by walking with Laurens to their shared Fresh-Core class and not being awful; he’s not sure that Laurens even notices. He’s lost somewhere in his own head.

Burke, their professor for Fresh-Core, has decided that they’ll spend a week or two on the conventions of formal debate. Alex tunes all of his rambling out; if there’s one thing he already knows how to do, it’s argue. He always figures it’s a punt on the part of the teacher when they make the class debate - a whole lot less work for them if they just have to sit back and listen. Burke gives them what he clearly believes will be an utterly anodyne topic to debate - the role of the arts in public education. Poor, poor, foolish man.

Alex revels in it, the opportunity to shape and deliver an argument, to thrust and parry with words. Here, he can be as mouthy as he’s ever wanted to be, and nobody can tell him to sit down and shut up, as long as he keeps to the conventions of debate.

“...which is why it is not merely short-sighted, but actively harmful to students to cut funding for the arts,” he thunders, joyful at the freedom to argue, to express himself.

Burke has indulged him long enough, and signals for the other side to respond. Alex smirks across the classroom, knowing how often he managed to knock his opponents speechless.

Instead, he’s the one who almost falls off his seat when Laurens - quiet Laurens, who never raises his voice - is the one to stand up and argue.

“All due respect, Mr. Hamilton,” he says, with a little glimmer of what almost looks like mischief in his eyes, “I think you’re misrepresenting the argument at hand. No-one here has called for prohibiting or even defunding the arts. The question on the table is, rather, the role the arts should play in public education. I doubt you will find anyone actually making the strawman argument you’ve put forward.” Alex gapes. Laurens makes eye-contact with him and - yeah, he does. He fucking grins. “I would argue, instead, for a more nuanced debate on the role of the arts. Who defines what consitututes the arts, or which artists are to be studied? Do we educate students on the traditional Western canon, or pay for them to be educated by graffitti artists? What is the role of hands-on activity in the study - surely of innordinate value, and yet inherently more costly in terms of time, materials, and budget.”

Alexander Hamilton is not often speechless - but he’s lived with Laurens for more than a month and never heard more than a sentence from him. He certainly hadn’t expected Henry Laurens’ son to engage in actual debate; his father certainly never did, choosing instead to bluster and pontificate. Laurens, across the classroom, is a version of himself that Alex has never seen before. There’s a fire in him that Alex hadn’t imagined he possessed. He is, suddenly, approximately two hundred times as interesting as a human being.

Eliza Schuyler elbows him in the ribs. “Pay attention, Alex!” she hisses. “Now we’re on the back foot already!”

In two minutes, Laurens has redirected the entire debate. They’re far down the rabbit hole within minutes, debating the makeup of a proposed arts curriculum on Laurens’ terms, and Alex is sitting back, watching it happen.

Laurens is damn smart, he concludes. He not only reshaped the debate, but he also managed to get them half bought-into arguments on the arts that Alex knows damn well come from his father. They’re debating the inherent worth of various artists and works of art until two minutes after the end of class, when Burke has to almost physically break up the discussion and send them on their way.

Laurens has class in the opposite direction of where Alex is heading, but he does stop long enough to catch Alex’s eye for one more minute. He grins again, crooked and almost cocky, and shoots him a pair of finger-guns on his way out the door.

Alex is so glad Lafayette isn’t in their class to witness everything that just transpired.

Still. He doesn’t object the next time Lafayette suggests inviting Laurens to tag along with them to dinner. Not like they’re going to be friends, but Alex is always willing to have another intelligent person to debate.

After another week or so, and a few more sparkling moments of classroom banter, Laurens is - well, getting along with them, at least. He orbits the edges of their group rather the way Aaron Burr does, joining them for a meal or a seminar here or there. He’s not a friend, but even Hercules doesn’t glower at the sight of him any more. Sometimes he and Alex talk about the weather, or whose turn it is to take out the garbage in their room. It’s getting better. Sometimes Alex can forget for hours at a time who he’s sitting with.

Alex himself decides to extend the olive branch one evening. Coming back to the room to drop off his books after his final class of the day, he almost murders his roommate by walking in on him while Laurens is getting changed. Laurens yelps and flings himself backwards into a chair, holding up his shirt like it’s a shield. Alex laughs.

“Geez, dude, chill. I’m not here to murder or molest you.”

“I never said,” Laurens protests. He’s got the shirt on faster than Alex can even blink, doing up the buttons with quick fingers. “It’s not.”

Alex waves him off. “Come and have dinner with us,” he says graciously, extending his hands in a gesture of friendship. It’s been a good day, at the end of a good week, and he’s in a good mood. Maybe, just maybe, he could do with one more friend. “We’re going to Taco Pierre’s. You can’t pass up such a perfect opportunity to both eat really bad Mexican/French fusion and also get food poisoning!”

Laurens looks at him in shock, eyes wide. (Alex’s brain uses this opportunity to note just how green his eyes are, and how ridiculously freckled Laurens is, because it’s really really good at focusing on the important things in life. Shut up, brain.)

“I - I’d love to,” he says, voice an awkward croak. “But I can’t. Not tonight.”

Alex shrugs, like he’s not disappointed by the rejection. “Suit yourself. More really horrible cuisine for the rest of us.” He drops his backpack, and then actually looks at what Laurens is putting on. “Wait. Why the hell are you wearing a tux? Why do you even own a tux?”

Laurens blushes a brighter red than Alex would have imagined possible, muttering some explanation to his buttons. “I can’t,” he says. “Look, I have to go. Good luck with the food poisoning?” He’s out of the room in a moment. Laurens should really join the track team, Alex thinks irrelevantly. He shrugs, unwilling to be shaken out of his good mood by a roommate he doesn’t even want to be friends with, not really.

Taco Pierre’s is just as awful as predicted, and they have a hell of a good time. If they drink a few too many margaritas, who is going to notice? Not the wait staff, who carefully ignore the blatantly underage drinking. Even Aaron Burr is being pleasant, which is a noteworthy occasion.

His phone buzzes with the tone he’s set for a news alert, and everyone groans as he picks it up. “Take a break, Alex!” Eliza calls. Laf throws a few corn chips at his head.

“Just let me see what it is!” Alex unlocks the phone, still laughing about the chip barrage - and freezes.

He could explain why he has Henry Laurens on a news alert, but anyone who would care already knows. He also has alerts for breaking news on immigration issues, so he would have seen this anyway.

Henry Laurens is announcing a brand new piece of legislation to the Senate, with several powerful supporters on hand. The legislation is billed as the most comprehensive effort to date to root out and deport all illegal immigrants, immigrants with criminal records, and everyone who has overstayed their visas. Hating himself for even looking at the headline, Alex clicks play on the embedded video clip.

“It is time to take this country back from the lawless forces that have sought to circumvent our legal system,” Laurens says smoothly, in that cool, convincing voice. “It is time to claim the birthright of the American promise for our American children, those born and bred here in our own land. We must put our childrens’ futures first, and claim the blessings of Providence bestowed on them as the heritage of this nation.”

He reaches out to his side and puts his hand on his son’s shoulder - John Laurens, his curly hair pulled back tightly into a neat ponytail, looking stiff and uncomfortable in the formal tuxedo whose existence Alex now understood. He nods at his father - no spark of life, no hint of a smile. He might as well be a perfect little robot.

“Anyone wanna help me hide a body or two?” Alex asks dryly, covering over his fury and frustration with sarcastic humor.

He won’t forget again so fast exactly who John Laurens is.

Chapter Text

John knows before he ever sets foot back on campus that he’s in for trouble. Not that it’s surprising; he’d known it would be trouble as soon as his father had demanded his presence at the formal dinner. Not like he could tell his father no, after all, especially not when the reception was happening only a few minutes drive from his university. It still isn’t fair - if fair were a word he uses. It isn’t.

Alex has made it clear he shouldn’t come into their shared room, by means of a sign duct-taped to the door, saying “Don’t You Dare Come In, Asshole.” He could open the door anyway, go in and argue that it’s his room as much as Hamilton’s, that Hamilton has no right to lock him out -

John has no fight left in him. He wanders off to the nearest study lounge and crashes on an ancient, lumpy sofa, still wearing the tuxedo his father had insisted on. He’ll deal with Hamilton in the morning.

Or so he thinks, because he’s barely asleep before Angelica Schuyler is shaking him awake, her face a mixture of concern and disapproval. “Laurens. What are you doing sleeping out here? Go back to your room.”

“Can’t,” he says blearily, rubbing at an eye with a tired fist. It tires him out more than anything, being put on public display, having to smile and make polite conversation with all of the people his father wants to impress. He’ll never make the mistake of telling his father so again, though - not since he was fourteen. “Hamilton doesn’t want me there.”

“And since when do we care what Hamilton wants?” Angelica looks angry on his behalf, and John is so tempted to let her, just to have someone on his side for once. There’s a comfort in that righteous anger being directed on his behalf. “I’ll give him a piece of my mind, Laurens, come with me-“

“No,” he says tiredly. There’s no use; the truth will only come out anyway. “He has a right to be angry. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Angelica looks distinctly unimpressed. “Unless you cut off all his hair or something, he doesn’t have a right to be angry enough to make you sleep in the study lounge.”

John sighs again. “I think it’s worse than that, actually.” He looks down at his hands in his lap. “I don’t know how to make it right. I didn’t want to go, but my father-“

“Ooohhhhhh,” she says, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. “I did hear about this one. There was some particularly effective swearing coming from your room a few hours back. I’d forgotten you were that Laurens.” She sits down on the matching horrible sofa across the room, and looks at him for a long moment. “It’s your father’s bill, not yours,” she says slowly. “Hamilton knows that, and once he cools his head a bit, he’ll remember he can’t blame you for it. You’re not Senator Laurens.”

“No,” John murmurs. He doesn’t really want to go into all this - but he also does, and Angelica is the first person who has shown any sign of being willing to listen to his side of things. “But I am his son, and I was standing there when he made the announcement. It’s not like I can do anything to stop him.”

“Did you write the bill?” Angelica snaps. He shakes his head. “Do you agree with it?”

He takes a deep breath. Looks to the sides of the room, the corners, the doorway. Whispers. “No. No, I don’t.” Deep breath. “Don’t tell my father?”

She laughs wryly. “Laurens, I wouldn’t speak to your father if he was the last person on earth, not after seeing how he treats people.” Her eyes are way too sharp and knowing. “Think for your own damn self. Tell Hamilton where he can stick his assumptions. Stand up for yourself.”

“I don’t -“ he says. Takes a breath and tries again. “I don’t know how.”

“Well, you’re in the right place to learn,” she assures him. “Start by not letting Hamilton bully you out of your own room.”

It’s a great sounding plan, but John just nods and agrees, and then does his best to go back to sleep on the sofa. Angelica rolls her eyes but leaves him alone, after throwing a blanket over him from who knows where.

She’s right, in that Hamilton does calm down a bit over time. At least, he takes the sign down, and he doesn’t throw things at John or anything. In all other respects, though, it’s like they’ve gone back to the first day they met - only worse. Hamilton actively despises him now, and none of their little group have anything to say to him. Eliza Schuyler gives him long, steady, almost pitying looks every time she passes, and John has a feeling that she’s praying for his soul.

He thinks longingly of how easy life was two days ago, when he’d been able to stand his ground and debate Hamilton in class, their standing equal. If he were someone else, he’d be able to use that energy now, make Hamilton see that his father’s politics aren’t his fault.

But that’s not true. Nobody ever makes Hamilton see or do anything he doesn’t want to, and they’re not in class. There’s no structured debate, no formal allowance made for him to argue and disagree. John knows his place; he knows there are times to speak, and times to be silent. He hasn’t done anything to earn the right to argue for himself now, not when he has to stand in silent assent by his father’s side.

He kicks the crumpled tux into the furthest corner under his bed when he finally gets to take it off. A few hours later, he hauls it out again and hangs it up properly. There’s no doubt he’ll be summoned by his father again, and it’ll only be worse if he shows up looking rumpled.

Having successfully torpedoed his burgeoning social life, John decides to refocus on his academics - which is not a bad idea anyway, given that the midpoint of the semester is not too far off, and midterms are apparently a thing that will happen whether he’s successfully made a single friend or not. He puts his head down and focuses on his studies, getting ahead on papers that aren’t due for weeks and editing Henry Jr’s college application essays for him as fast as his brother can write them. He makes sure not to miss a College Republicans meeting, and allows Lee to put himself in charge of Mock Trial preparations. He avoids Hamilton and his group where possible; he’s tired of the glares. Lafayette tries to stop him once or twice, looking like he wants to talk, but John ducks his head and moves along. Hamilton can come at him himself, if he wants; he doesn’t need to send a messenger.

The worst thing is having to get used to eating meals alone again; he’s not desperate enough to join Lee and his band of chattering hangers-on. He spends more time texting Henry Jr and the girls, checking in with them, although that’s stressful as well. It’s such a potential minefield, and exhausting to have to read every message he writes several times to be sure it won’t cause offense if their father or Isaac reads it during a spot-check of their phones. He thinks Henry Jr. always remembers to delete anything that might cause trouble, but the girls are only fourteen, and sometimes they forget.

On Wednesday, he gets back a quiz in Cultural Anthropology. He’d taken it the morning after the political reception with the disastrous outcome looming over his head; he’s disappointed, but unsurprised, to see that he’s bombed the quiz. He can’t afford the ding to his grades - “Straight A’s are the path to success, Jack,” his father has always reminded him - so he goes to the professor to ask what he can do to make up for it.

She gives him a book he’s never heard of - something on structures of poverty and privilege in America - and John does his best not to roll his eyes. “Extra credit opportunity,” the professor says. “Read it and write me a two page summary, and I’ll substitute it for your quiz grade.” John looks at it uncertainly, and she chuckles. “Go on, young man. I promise it won’t bite you.”

He takes it back to the dorm room, puts it under a stack of newspapers that keep getting delivered and never read, and avoids it for as long as possible. He knows about poverty; Henry Laurens is something of an expert, and has given John and his siblings lectures and talking points on the causes and cures for as long as he can remember. The idea of an entire book on it makes him shudder - but he really can’t afford to take home anything less than an A, so eventually he does what he must, and opens the book.

It - isn’t what he’s expecting. The author has completely different explanations of poverty than anything John has ever heard. And it’s not just poverty - it’s all tied up with racism and community structures, with the environment and tax policy and structures of power. He reads the introductory section on privilege, and then reads it again.

At some point, he’s dimly aware of Hamilton coming in and saying something, in a tone that’s clearly meant to be provocative. He ignores him. Hamilton sort of hovers there, in the periphery of John’s vision, for a while, and then disappears. He reads through dinner time and non-stop into the wee hours of the night; when he finally closes the book and looks up, even Hamilton is asleep in his bed. He’s never, ever stayed up later than his insane roommate before.

He feels like his mind is buzzing, an argument raging back and forth between everything he knows and what he’s just read. It would be easy - so easy - to dismiss the book as a work of propaganda, a politically motivated piece - but the author documented the research, and it doesn’t fit what his father has told him, what his political studies to this point have shown him.

He should go to bed.

He opens his laptop and starts to research.

Hamilton growls at him from beneath the pillows he’s piled on his head. “Go’ sleep, Laurens.”

“I’m working,” John says.

He’s still thinking, still working, when Hamilton gets up for the day, when the sun starts to break the crest of the horizon. Hamilton inhales several cups of coffee, and then manages to come awake enough to squint at John. “What’s wrong with you, Laurens?”

John hesitates for a moment, breathes deeply. “Poverty,” he says slowly. “Is - this book says-” he stops again. “It’s not what my - my father says,” he finishes. There. One complete sentence. He’s basically an intellectual superhero.

Hamilton laughs - a bit of an ugly sound - but John’s too busy thinking to be bothered. “Shocking,” he says snarkily. “What else is new?”

John turns to look at him. “You don’t get it,” he says, unable to make his voice have any decent volume. “I don’t know - who’s right? My father says-”

Hamilton cuts him off. “I know what your damn father says, Laurens. Guess what? He’s not actually an expert in poverty, or in anything except getting himself elected and keeping power by catering to the rich and powerful who keep him in office. And in being a hateful piece of shit,” he adds cheerfully, as if he’s forgotten that important piece of information.

“It’s not what I was taught in school, either,” John says quietly. He looks down at the cover of the book that’s shaken his foundations. “Not about any of this.”

Hamilton flaps a hand at him. “You didn’t go to school! Having a private tutor at home who only teaches you what your father wants you to know isn’t exactly a rigorous and well-rounded education, Laurens.” He folds his arms and stares at John, sitting down in his own chair so that they’re at the same height. “Didn’t they ever let you think for yourself?”

John frowns. “Nobody can stop you from thinking,” he objects.

“They sure as hell can, if they keep you from having the relevant information to be able to make informed decisions,” Hamilton snaps. John opens his mouth to object. “Hey, Laurens?” Hamilton asks quickly, “how old is the world?”

“About six thousand years,” John says automatically, because he hasn’t slept and he’s too distracted to see the trap coming. Hamilton snorts and points at him.

“Where the hell do you get that?” he crows, looking victorious. “That’s completely unscientific! Did they ever let you learn anything about science or the modern world?”

“I,” says John. He wants to object, because he did study science, and literature, and languages, and everything else deemed worth his time- but he’s starting to have questions about all of it, because what else does he not know?

“Hey, Laurens?” Hamilton says, more quietly, and it’s not as mean this time. “Did they ever let you learn anything?”

“I don’t know,” John says.

He doesn’t go to classes that morning. He finds himself walking into things that aren’t even moving - like walls - and staring into space, feeling as though the ground under his feet has become shaky. He’s not sure what any of it means. How much of what he thinks he knows is unreliable? What’s true, and what’s just false enough to trip him up? How can he know?

And how far can he afford to question his father? Scripture is pretty clear on the whole ‘honoring thy mother and father’ bit, and his father had made sure they all understood the importance of that mandate. John’s old enough to be out on his own now, but that doesn’t relieve him of the duty of showing his father proper respect - and honestly, he hasn’t done enough research on the new bill yet. There have to be good reasons that his father would propose such a law; he just doesn’t understand them yet. Just because John’s too slow to get it doesn’t mean that it’s wrong.

Sometime in the afternoon, Lafayette saunters in with a plate of food.

“Hamilton’s not here,” John says tiredly.

Lafayette hands the plate to him. “I am not looking for him just now,” he says, and gives John a sympathetic smile. John groans.

“He’s going around crowing to everyone, isn’t he?” John asks. He rubs his temples.

“No,” Lafayette assures him. “He is - worried about you, I think.”

John has to laugh at that. “Sure he is.”

“He knows what it is like to lose certainty,” Lafayette says, all seriousness. “To doubt.” He pushes the plate into John’s hands. John stares at it without seeing it.

“Laf,” he says, using Hamilton’s nickname without thinking about it. “I think my father is wrong.”

It feels like the world is going to end when he says that - but it doesn’t. His heart beats a little faster, but the world goes on, and Lafayette just waits. No divine thunderbolt from heaven, no eavesdropping interloper there to take word back home. Just him, and Laf, and that startling admission.

“He might be wrong about - about lots of things,” John says, voice shuddering a little.

“He may indeed,” Lafayette agrees.

“I don’t know what to do with that.” He looks up at Lafayette plaintively, just wanting someone to tell him what to think, what to do.

Lafayette leans back against the wall, eyes distant. “We are not our parents’ creations, Laurens,” he says. “You have learned something new. Now, you must get up and try again to make sense of it all, until the next time you learn that you are wrong. It does not stop, as long as you allow yourself to keep learning.”

“That’s not how it’s supposed to work,” John protests.

“But it is the way of the world,” Lafayette says.

They sit in silence for a long while. John eventually takes a bite of the sandwich Laf has brought him - and like the floodgates opening, he can’t stop it anymore.

“I hate my father’s new bill,” he says quietly, bitterly. “It’s cruel and unfair and it’s not going to help anyone. But - he’s my father.”

“Your father, yes,” Laf says. “But you are not him, my friend. You are not required to agree with him in all things.”

“No?” John knows his tone is too bitter - but his father isn’t here to hear him, for once.

“No.” Lafayette pulls up Hamilton’s chair and sits, putting a friendly hand on John’s shoulder. He doesn’t flinch away. “You are in the place to be, Laurens. You can learn to think for yourself, and then, you will see who you become.”

John nods slowly. “Don’t tell anyone about - about the bill, ok? That I don’t -”

“You can wait to tell them yourself, when you are ready.” Lafayette says. “But I think it would be easier, if you did. Alexander - it is difficult for him.”

John rolls his eyes. “Anything my father says is difficult for Hamilton, it seems, and then he makes things difficult for me.”

“It is not my place to say,” Laf says. “But it would help, if he knew. He would think better if you.”

It’s ridiculous, to get his back up about this, but he’s done a lot of bending and changing for others recently, and he’s tired. “Hamilton can think whatever he wants,” John says, and pretends he doesn’t care.

Chapter Text

Alex doesn’t know what to do with Laurens anymore. Not that he was ever exactly an expert, but he thought he’d had the guy figured out, and now -

Well, the fact that it turns out he was wrong about Laurens won’t stop bothering him. Even if he wasn’t totally wrong. He had been so sure that Laurens was just like his dad, that he was motivated by the same bigotry and prejudice and hatred. He honestly hadn’t stopped to consider the fact that Laurens might just not know any better.

It’s hard for Alex to rationalize, because he’d been done taking adults at their word by age twelve. It never would have occurred to him to just accept whatever he was taught, unquestioningly; for Alexander Hamilton, ninety percent of education lies in the fighting and arguing he gets to do. Laurens apparently didn’t work that way; just learning that his father might be wrong about something had sent him into a tailspin for days. Lafayette keeps telling him that he needs to be patient, when all Alex wants to do is get in Laurens’ face and shake him until he sees his father for what he is.

“Put yourself into his shoes,” Laf reminds him with an elaborate roll of his eyes. “Our friend Laurens is having to relearn many of the foundations of his world right now.”

He’s doing it, too. Laurens has turned into as much of a book fiend as Alex; they often pass one another coming and going from the library with stacks of books. Laurens seems to be reading almost at random - science and theology, history and political theory and gender relations and who knows what else, all at once. And, wonders never ceasing, he’s started talking to Alex.

Talking is maybe too nice a word. He interrogates him on whatever random issue is the current subject of his study; Alex is at a bit of a loss for what he wants, though, because he’s not looking for the facts - those are in his books and his online research.

“How the hell should I know?” he finally says, interrupting his third op-ed of the day. “What do I know about the national debt? Ask someone in politics!”

Jack (WHY he sometimes forgets and calls Laurens Jack now, he doesn’t know. Nobody knows. It just happens) is hanging upside down off his bed, looking at Alex curiously from beneath the edge of a huge tome of a book. “If I wanted a politician’s perspective, I’d ask my father,” he says coolly.

“Ask one of the poly-sci profs, then.” Alex finishes his cup of coffee and stares longingly at the empty pot.

“I can get that from the books,” Jack says. He narrows his eyes at the coffee pot. “Not another cup, Alexander, or I call campus security and have you carted off as a danger to yourself.”

He’s gotten bossy and mean about caffeine lately. Alex is plotting a mutiny.

“So what do you want my opinion for?” he asks, sulkily grabbing his water bottle instead. “Flattered as I am that you think me wiser than the experts in the subject matter-”

“I know what they say on both sides of the political aisle, and what the academics argue,” Jack cuts in. “What I don’t know is what - you know. People think.” He gestures uselessly at Alexander.

“You mean, your peers? Other students?” He nods. Alex can’t tell if he’s blushing, or if hanging upside down has just sent all the blood to his face via gravity. Alex waves his arms expansively. “Everyone has their own opinion. You have to come up with your own - you can’t just borrow other people’s.”

“I know that,” Jack mutters. He disappears behind his book.

Sometimes, he’s offensive, as he tries to learn so much at once. Alexander has to haul him away from the dinner table one night as they’re debating structural racism. Jack’s parroting every point from the Henry Laurens playbook, trying to work out the issue from both sides, and Alex can see Mulligan practically steaming at the ears. He finally grabs him by the arm and drags him out of the dining hall, turning to shove him against the wall just outside the door.

“Don’t you know when to shut up?” Alex hisses, like a hypocrite. “Herc has been beyond patient with you as you spew that shit, but he would have had every right to make you eat your words, Laurens. You have no clue what kinds of issues his family has been dealing with, how hard he worked to get a scholarship to come to school here. It’s not his job to explain society to you because you’re so sheltered you didn’t even know racism existed!”

He runs a hand through his hair, exasperated - and stops dead as he looks at Laurens’ face, where his eyes are glued to Alex’s raised hand. He’s frozen against the wall, stiff as a statue, and Alex steps back slowly, carefully lowering his hand to his side. Another step backward, raising his hands in front of him calmingly, and Laurens starts to breathe again. He’s pale beneath his freckles, eyes unnaturally wide, not blinking.

Alex feels sick to his stomach. Laurens doesn’t say a word, not a syllable. He steps sideways, carefully moving out of arm’s reach, and disappears down the street before Alex can collect his thoughts.

“Shit,” is the only thing he can think of to say.

He tries really, really hard not to think about any of that ever again - especially when Laurens takes off that Friday afternoon to go home to visit his siblings. Some of their muttered conversation over the latest videochat had sounded worried, and Jack had assured them he was coming home, they would fix it - whatever it was - before their dad got home.

Alex realizes that, somehow, he hadn’t hated Henry Laurens enough before.

It’s a very weird weekend. He and Herc and Laf hang out as much as ever, but there’s a strange sense that something’s missing. They’ve gotten used to Laurens hanging out with them, and his absence is felt. Alex even texts him a few times - messages that go unanswered, until a one line response on Sunday morning.

Heading back tonight. Talk then? Please don’t text again when I’m at home.

He spends a few hours over-analyzing that from every possible angle, but he respects Jack’s wishes and doesn’t text again. Maybe Laurens doesn’t want to be disturbed during his limited time with his family. Maybe Alex’s text messages are as annoying as his in-person personality.

Laurens doesn’t seem annoyed with him when he gets back, so that’s a positive. Alex forces himself to hang out casually on his bed, book in hand, as he comes in and starts to unload his things.

“Nice trip?” Alex asks. He’s so chill. No-one has ever been as chill as he is.

“It was good to see the kids,” Jack agrees. He sounds tired, but he’s just finished a long drive. “Henry Jr. just heard back from one of his top choices - he got early acceptance, so we had that to celebrate.”

“What the hell,” Alex grumbles. He’s relieved, that’s all. “What a stupid thing to have to call your brother every time. Henry Jr. - can’t you guys think of a single nickname?”

Jack goes tense, just slightly. “Our father doesn’t really approve of nicknames for Henry, and as it’s his name…” his voice trails off. “Whatever. It’s hardly the most important thing. Nicknames are sort of infantilizing, anyway.”

“Sure, Jacky,” Alex agrees with a grin. Jack throws a pair of socks at his face.

“Sorry I didn’t answer your texts,” Jack says after a minute, turning around to shove clean laundry into his drawers willy-nilly. “My father doesn’t really approve-”

“Of texting?” Alex bursts out. This is beyond absurd. “What century does he think he lives in? Are you supposed to be penning all your correspondence with feather quills and parchment?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not the texting. It’s - it’s you.”

“Oh.” That - actually makes more sense. “Well, yeah, I can see that. Not that he really knows me, but I totally get that.”

“He knows you’ve got a relationship with George Washington,” Jack says carefully, still not turning around. “He was - concerned, this weekend. That I was maybe spending too much time with you.” His voice is jerky, a little distant. Alex puts his book down. “I told him it’s not like we’re friends or anything.” He glances back over his shoulder, and Alex, who is about to be actually really hurt, sees the fear in Jack’s eyes.

“‘Course we aren’t,” he says airily, and stretches. “It’s Jefferson’s fault I got saddled with you, after all.”

There’s relief in Jack’s face. “Right,” he says. He hesitates another minute, then comes across the room to give Alex a folded-up piece of paper. “Letter for you from Jemmy. He insisted I deliver it by hand.”

The paper is neatly folded, sealed with a piece of tape. Alex opens it, utterly bemused. Inside is a careful set of childish illustrations, done in pencil. He can make out shapes that look like frogs, or maybe toads, and - he howls with laughter, sitting bolt upright and clutching the paper to his chest.

“My science experiment results,” Jemmy has written carefully. “Please send yours back with Jack next time.”

It’s Jemmy’s experiment with toads under his sisters’ pillows, Alex has realized, and from some of the illustrations, it didn’t go very well. One of the toads looks particularly flat.

“What is it?” Jack starts forward. “He wouldn’t let me read it.” Alex folds the paper up and crams it in his pocket, shaking his head.

“Oh, no, Laurens. This is between your brother and me. A matter of private correspondence.” He owes the kid for this one - where the hell is he going to find a toad? He resolves to do one better and get actual pictures with his phone when he manages to sneak a toad under Jack’s pillow.

Laurens shakes his head, torn between amusement and concern, and drops the rest of his things. A weight seems to have lifted from him already, and he looks younger, somehow, than when he walked through the door.

“It must be nice,” Alex finds himself saying wistfully, peeking again at the paper when Laurens isn’t looking. “Having younger siblings, I mean.”

“Yeah. Non-stop barrel of laughs,” he answers sarcastically, but his grin is fond when he looks back at Alex. “You don’t have any siblings?”

“Not counting Laf?” Alex asks rhetorically. “Actually, I do have a brother. Older.” He’s surprised at himself. He doesn’t tell many people that. “He’s pretty useless, though. He’s a James as well, but nothing like your Jemmy.”

“James Hamilton,” Laurens muses, flopping down on the beanbag chair Laf has insisted they keep around for when he visits. “Not quite as musical a name as yours, I’m afraid.”

Alex rolls his eyes and throws the socks back at Laurens. “He’s a Junior, by the way. We never shortened his name either. Still a stupid thing to have to say every time - James Junior sounds awful.”

Laurens is silent for a minute, quiet and considering. “I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned your dad before,” he murmurs, not looking at Alex.

“Not much to be said.” Alex flips over and stares at the ceiling. “He walked out when I was ten, and my brother didn’t stick around long after that. I don’t remember either of them that well.”

“I’m sorry,” Laurens offers.

“Screw that,” Alex says roughly. “I’d rather have the absence of a dad than one like yours.” He means for the comment to be somewhat amusing, in line with the way he teases his other friends, but the room falls too silent.

“Yeah,” Jack says after a minute. There’s nothing else to say.

~~~~~

Halloween week looks like fun to Alex. They’ve all been stressed over midterms for a while, and the stress is finally lifting a bit. Mulligan’s got a birthday to celebrate, Eliza is beyond excited for the LGBTQ+ Awareness Week she’s been helping to work on for months, and then there’s Halloween itself at the middle of the week. Alex is already taking mental bets on how many people in their dorm will get absolutely wasted over the course of the week, and how little work will get done.

They go out Monday to celebrate Hercules’ birthday - to Taco Pierre’s, which has sort of become their favorite off-campus hangout - and Alex doesn’t give Jack a choice in whether he’s coming along. He doesn’t have to twist his arm too hard, though - he thinks Laurens is actually getting used to all of them, and he doesn’t protest too much about coming. Turns out, though, that Laurens is pretty shitty at partying. Honestly, he should have expected that. He doesn’t drink, and looks scandalized that the others are.

“But you’re not legally allowed to drink,” he protests, watching Herc and Laf taking shots of tequila. “None of us are old enough.”

Alex takes a shot and throws an arm around Laurens’ shoulder, already in an expansive mood. “My dearest Laurens, you and I may know that, but these fine, upstanding American entrepreneurs are surely unaware!” He gestures at the Taco Pierre’s staff, who are watching them with weary indifference. “Should we bring down the heavy hand of law enforcement on them for our error?” Laurens shoves him off, but actually laughs - one of the first times Alex has heard the sound of his genuine laughter, and the first time it hasn’t been directed at his little siblings.

“Fine, but when you all wind up in jail, I’m not going with you,” Jack promises. He continues to refuse to drink, and he winds up stiff and awkward in comparison to the easy enjoyment the others find with the help of a little alcohol, but he doesn’t seem inclined to call the police on them.

They aren’t the only party at Taco Pierre’s that night, though. A group of older guys, several of whom look like they had probably been on the wrestling team in their own college days, are drinking far faster and harder than their party. It doesn’t take long before they’re growing rowdy.

“We might want to go somewhere else,” Laurens says quietly in Alex’s ear after a roar goes up from the neighboring table.

“Oh, please,” Alex says. He waves at the other table with a loose hand, unconcerned. They’ve switched on a football game of some sort, which Alex could not possibly care less about, and their neighbors are reacting to every play. Play? Score? Dance move? He doesn’t know the terms, and he doesn’t care. “Mulligan! Another round, on me!”

They drink more, laughing uproariously at the stories Laf has to tell of French high society, and Alex doesn’t pay any attention to the people around them. He’s genuinely enjoying himself, for once not worried about papers or grades or what opportunity could be slipping through his fingers right now. He doesn’t pay any attention until Laf makes his way to the seat next to Alex, moving in close enough to murmur in his ear.

“Our friend Laurens,” he says quietly. “Is he well?” Alex blinks, looking around. Laurens is still right there on his other side, nursing a glass of water and watching the people around them -

Oh. Shit.

He sees what Laf is talking about immediately. Laurens is stiff and tense, paying no attention to Herc’s absolutely awesome impressions; he’s watching the table across from them, where their noisy neighbors have gotten a whole lot louder and more intoxicated. They’re obviously drunk, slurring words and beginning to get handsy with one another. The TV announces another point/score/goal, whatever they want to call it, and a roar goes up from the table. Laurens flinches like it physically hurts.

“Ok, we’re done,” Alex tells Laf. “I’ll get him out. Bring the others back to the dorm and we can continue the celebrations there.” Laf nods and slips away - Alex knows he’ll go and slyly pay for all of them, the absolute cheat - and Alex hesitates a moment. He doesn’t quite feel like he should touch Laurens right now.

“Laurens?” he asks quietly. There’s no response. “Laurens? Jack!” Laurens shudders violently and turns to him, looking lost. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

“We shouldn’t,” Laurens breathes. Alex is reading his lips rather than hearing him above the noise. “They’re drunk. Someone could get hurt.”

“Yeah, that’s why we’re leaving,” Alex snaps. He stands up and tugs at Laurens’ arm. “Let’s go.”

“No, I’m supposed to-” Jack looks at him, confused. “Where are the kids?”

Alex blinks. “Not here,” he assures Jack. “They’re safe, OK? Everyone is safe.”

Laurens nods at that, still looking shell-shocked, but he takes Alex at his word and allows himself to be pulled outside, where the chilly evening air is bracing after the heat of the restaurant. Laurens blinks a few times, seeming to come back to himself at last; he doesn’t shrug Alex’s hand off his arm. “Alexander?” His voice is almost frail - not a word Alex generally associates with Laurens in any way.

“It’s OK,” Alex says, and hesitates a long moment. “My dad - he could be a mean drunk, too.” It’s a guess, but not much of one. He stares at Laurens a moment, waiting for the rest of their friends to emerge. “You don’t have to stay places like that if you’re not comfortable.”

“I have to look out-”

“No, you don’t,” Alex says, trying to remember to keep his voice gentle when he really wants to snap and roar. “We’re all old enough to look after ourselves, here.”

Another roar rises from inside, and Laurens’ hand grips Alexander’s where he’s still holding onto his arm. His fingers are ice cold. Alex has officially had enough, and he starts back for their dorm. He doesn’t let go, and neither does Laurens.

~~~~~

Laurens is awkward around him for a day or two afterward, though Alex doesn’t say a word about what happened. He’s busy, anyway - Eliza’s group has arranged a whole lineup of LGBTQ+ Awareness events for the week, and he tries to get to as many of them as he can. He goes to the open house and signs up for every group that looks half-decent, and makes plans to attend the on-campus Pride Parade the next day. Because Eliza’s a genius, they’re holding the parade on Halloween, which means having fantastic costumes is more important than ever. He’s got a pretty good idea of what he wants to do.

He’s carrying a bunch of flyers to staple up around campus for Eliza when he spots Laurens sitting at a table in the library and decides to stop by for a moment. Jack gives him a quick grin as Alex collapses into a chair.

“Taking a break from writing?” Jack asks, raising an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware that was something you were capable of doing twice in a week.”

“Ha, ha,” Alex says haughtily. “I’m helping Eliza, if you must know.” He shoves some of the flyers across the table. “You could help too, if you don’t want to leave all the work to me.”

Laurens glances at one of the flyers, and his face goes absolutely blank. “What’s this?”

“List of events for the week,” Alex says, shrugging. “I think there’s a talk this afternoon about the gender spectrum, and a seminar on LGBTQ+ activism tonight, if you-”

“Shhhhh!” Laurens hisses. He shoves the flyers back across the table and looks around. “Hamilton, we’re in public!”

“So?” Alexander shrugs. “Like I’m not on a first name basis with all the librarians? Trust me, as long as I’m returning books on time, they don’t mind if I talk above a whisper once in a while. They’re just glad some of us still use the library instead of looking everything up online.”

Laurens looks around again, looking as though he’s about to bolt. “You can’t just talk about things like - like this,” he whispers. “Put those in your bag before someone sees them!”

Oh.

Alexander pulls the flyers back towards himself. “Sorry to have bothered you, Laurens,” he says formally, and gets out of the library before he can do something really stupid.

He’d assumed that Laurens was just getting over all of his bigotry and outdated thinking, that it was all just a matter of ignorance - but Laurens knows he’s bi, Alex has said it enough times, so the fact that he looks like he’s about to throw up at the idea of people even talking about LGBTQ+ issues -

The surprise fades, and Alexander is left feeling angry instead. Of course it can’t be easy. He’s just lucky Laurens hasn’t said or done anything biphobic before now, or he’d have had to -

Anger sparks higher. Who the hell does Laurens think he is, to judge anyone else? He’s the one with medieval, narrow minded viewpoints here. Alex isn’t doing anything wrong. He hasn’t ever even brought anyone back to their room, out of respect for what seemed like a fragile truce between them in the first few weeks.

Well. A solution presents itself. If not a solution, then at least an approach that will let him work off some of his annoyance with his prudish, stuck-up roommate. He storms off, and doesn’t go back to the room that night, crashing with Laf instead. He just can’t deal with certain kinds of ignorance right now, and he’s tired of having to be the one to talk Laurens through his existential crises every time the real world rears its head at him.

He wouldn’t call Ned anything like his boyfriend, but they’ve hooked up a time or two, and he’s good company. He’s totally cool with the idea Alex presents, too, which is the important thing, and Alex decides to put bigots out of his mind for the time being and enjoy himself. They manage to throw together a decent matching set of costumes, and he forgets all about his impossible roommate in the fun of the Pride Parade and the party afterwards. By late evening, they’ve had enough to drink that nothing is bothering Alex anymore, and he and Ned head back for his room. He doesn’t care what Laurens has to say. He barely manages to get the door unlocked before Ned is all over him, and Alex is happy to respond in kind, kicking the door shut with a bang.

“Alex-” Laurens doesn’t seem to know what to say. That is so totally fine. Alex shoots him a fierce grin, not taking his eyes off Ned.

“Laurens, this is Ned. Ned, meet my asshole roommate.” He moves forward to kiss Ned again, and maneuvers the two of them toward the beanbag chair, because it’s the closest thing he can see.

“Hi, asshole roommate,” Ned says, not looking around.

“I-” Laurens says, sounding like someone is choking him. “I should go.”

“Yeah, you should,” he snaps. “Bye.” He’s not paying attention to Laurens right now; he doesn’t even notice when he leaves. The door closes silently.

There’s more than one way to get rid of a bigot.

Chapter Text

John doesn’t really know where to go. He stumbles out of their room - somehow it always seems to be Hamilton’s, more than his - and makes his way down the hallway, hoping he doesn’t look as confused as he feels.

He’s not sure what’s going on - not with Hamilton, and certainly not with himself.

Things had been going so well for a while - he’d honestly thought they were becoming friends, thought Hamilton was able to look past his issues and give him a chance to change, to learn, to make things right after he’s screwed up. And he does know he screwed up. He just isn’t sure how badly.

It’s his own fault, that’s obvious. He had reacted badly when Hamilton had shown him those flyers in the library - but that had been sheer reaction, shock. He had known the second Hamilton had left that he’d made a mistake.

Looking back on it, he shouldn’t have been so scared. Of course there hadn’t been any danger; Alexander Hamilton was allowed to talk about anything he liked; he could go to whatever talks and parades and performances he wanted. Honestly, John probably could have, too, if he were careful. His father isn’t there. He can read what he wants, discuss things he’d never thought he’d be able to even question. There aren’t spies standing around, waiting to tell his father what he’s looking at in the library with his roommate.

This feels like a step farther, though, beyond any of the transgressions he’s yet made into forbidden territory. The idea of people discussing such private matters so openly, as though it were all normal, as though there wasn’t something wrong with -

He finds himself in front of Lafayette and Herc’s door, wondering how long he’s been standing there. He has to make himself knock, and then again, and then he has to accept that they’re not there. He’s got nowhere else to go right now; he was already in his pajamas, so he’s not going to the library or anywhere outside the dorm, and he really doesn’t want to have to explain himself to Angelica if he tries to sleep in a study lounge again. He collapses to the floor, leaning back against the locked door, and tries to figure out what he’s going to do.

His phone is back in his room; he’s not going back there any time soon. Maybe he’ll never go back again. He doesn’t know how he’s ever going to look Hamilton in the face again.

Hamilton had been with - had been physically intimate with - another guy. Not that John had seen his face, but it had definitely been a guy. He had never asked - but the way Hamilton flirted with Eliza Schuyler, he had pretty much been expecting -

Whatever. He’s an idiot.

He winds up staring at the blank stretch of off-white wall across the hall from the door, trying his best not to think about his father, or about Hamilton, or about why exactly there’s such a pit in his stomach, and why he feels like he’s about to cry.

(“Men don’t cry, Jack.”)

He almost dies of fright when Laf shows up, sudden and silent and dressed as a mime.

“What are you doing?” he blurts out, staring up at his friend in shock.

“I thought it would be a funny costume,” Lafayette says. “Because I never stop talking, so…” He blinks down at John. “I do not understand your costume.”

“My,” John says blankly. “Oh, no, I’m not dressed up, I - Laf, I think I really messed up.”

Lafayette does not look surprised. “That is similar to what Alexander said last night.” He sighs and gestures for John to move so he can open the door. “Am I to suppose you will be spending the night here?”

“Oh, no, I don’t mean to intrude,” John begins. He’s going to have to sleep in his car - except the keys are in his room, Hamilton’s room-

“Laurens,” Laf says, almost sternly. “Stop being polite, come in here, and explain yourself.” And that’s the closest thing John’s heard yet to a plan, so he does so.

It doesn’t take long to acquaint Laf with the facts of the matter - the flyer, Hamilton storming off, John worrying over where he’d been all night, then Hamilton and - and that guy, coming back-

He has to stop. He doesn’t have words.

Lafayette is watching him, poker-faced. “So,” he says at last. “We know what has happened. What we do not know yet is, exactly, why.”

“Why? I told you, I said the wrong thing, and-”

“No.” Laf cuts through his babble. “Why did you say what you did? Why did you tell Alexander to hide the flyers?”

“I - didn’t want him to get in trouble?” John thinks he probably shouldn’t phrase his answer as a question. “And then I figured out later it must have been fine, or he wouldn’t have been showing me those things publicly, but I thought-”

“Why would flyers for the school’s Awareness Week get him in trouble?”

John is starting to feel trapped. He really doesn’t want to be having this conversation. “Because of what the awareness is about? You know?”

Laf nods. “I do. What is the problem?”

Maybe there’s some language barrier happening that they’re struggling with. “They’re talking about, you know. Very personal things. People aren’t supposed to-” Laf waits, still looking entirely confused. “It’s unnatural!”

“Whose word is that?” Lafayette has never spoken to him so sharply.

“My father always says-”

Lafayette claps his hands once, pointing at John. “And there is the problem. Your father is in your head, talking to us through you.”

John shakes his head. “No, it’s not about him. It’s about people with something wrong, who aren’t the way they should be. People who want things they shouldn’t. My father never-”

Lafayette is looking at him very strangely. “This boy who came in with Alexander - Ned, you say?” John nods, tamping down the instinct in his head that suddenly is screaming at him to throw stupid Ned out the nearest window. “Is he unnatural?”

“I don’t know,” John says, muttering it to his toes, which are not helping him kick Ned right this moment, and so are of no use to him.

“Is Alexander?”

John frowns at him. “How can you say that? He’s your friend!”

Laf nods, as if this is what he expects. “Who is unnatural, my friend? Who wants so badly what they should not have that you hate them so?”

“Me.” He can’t do more than whisper the word, and he can’t look at Lafayette.

It’s out, now, and suddenly he can see things much more clearly. He wants to kick Ned and throw him out the window - not because there’s anything wrong with Ned, who is probably a very inoffensive person, really. It’s his fault. And it doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t, because Ned and Hamilton can do and be and feel what they want and it’s fine, they’re fine, but John isn’t allowed. Rationally, he knows he’s being inconsistent. He’s not bothered by what anyone else does or wants, but he knows with absolute certainty that he cannot - He’s an idiot, because there’s something wrong with him, deep down, his father was right all along-

He’s utterly taken aback when Lafayette comes to sit on the floor beside him, wrapping a warm arm around his shoulders. “My friend, I do not believe you and Alexander have as much trouble between you as you both seem to think. He came here last night believing you hated him for what he is and who he chooses to be with; you come here hating only yourself, am I right?”

“Not my job to judge anybody else,” John says, voice thick and painful. “Why did he think I would hate him?”

“Because he is bi,” Laf says.

“Yeah, he said that before,” John mutters. “I don’t - I didn’t want to say I didn’t know what he meant, because it seemed like I ought to, but-”

Lafayette removes his arm from John’s shoulders, and for an instant he feels the loss sharply, sure that he’s messed up another friendship. But Laf is just rubbing his face with both hands, smearing his mime makeup badly, looking distraught. He mutters to himself in French very quickly, and John’s French is rusty at best, but he makes out a few snatches about idiots and lack of communication.

“It means, oh ignorant child,” Lafayette says, sounding incredibly fond and exasperated as he puts his arm back around John, “that our Alexander loves both men and women.”

Now that it’s been explained, that really is painfully obvious, and John should have guessed - except that doesn’t make sense. “But-” he protests, “but guys are meant to like girls. That’s how it’s supposed to go. And then you’ve got people like - like me, who-” He can’t go on.

“I will tell you what,” Lafayette says. “I will bring you some books to read. They will do a much better job of explaining than I can. For now, you must know only this.” He reaches out gently and turns John’s face so that he’s not looking at his feet anymore, but at Lafayette. “There is nothing wrong with Alexander. There is nothing, my friend, nothing wrong with you. You are both as you are meant to be.”

John has the sensation again of the ground growing unsteady beneath him, because he knows with absolute certainty that Lafayette is wrong, that HE is wrong -

But his father has been wrong about things before.

“Can I just live here now?” John mutters, burying his face in his knees because he cannot honestly deal with Laf looking at him right now, not when everything is so unsettled, not when he’s so exposed, because now Laf knows, he knows, and there’s a drumbeat of danger in his head. “Under the bed, maybe. You’ll never even know I’m here.”

Lafayette laughs, easy, like the world isn’t falling apart. It probably isn’t, for him.

He spends the night in Laf’s room, carefully not thinking about Hamilton or his father or stupid Ned. He doesn’t really sleep. The next morning, he will go and talk to Hamilton, like adults. He can apologize for everything he did wrong, and let his roommate know that it’s his problem, John’s, nothing to do with Alex -

But when the sun comes up, he creeps out without waking Laf up. He’s had a bit of practice moving quietly, not disturbing people. It helps now; he’s even able to sneak into his own room and grab his wallet and keys, a change of clothes, his phone. Alexander is actually sleeping, snoring fit to wake the dead. There’s no sign of stupid Ned. He hesitates at the door, trying to make himself do the responsible thing and stay, talk, work out their problems.

Alexander turns over, curling up on himself with a little snuffling sound that makes John’s throat clench.

He gets in his car and drives. Nobody is going to care that he’s skipping classes - everyone seems to just acknowledge that this Friday will be a waste. He should get his act together and go and talk to Hamilton.

He drives home.

He can’t stand the idea that Ned might come back, or that Hamilton might brush aside what he needs to say, because there’s no way John is going to get that right, the apology and explanation that he needs to make, because he doesn’t even have the vocabulary for it. He considers for a while, somewhere in North Carolina, just dropping out of college and never going back.

He can’t do that, though, because there’s no way Henry Lauren’s is going to have a dropout for a son. And he’s already paid the tuition - John’s head swims, remembering the numbers his father had shown him sternly before the semester began. The way it all added up was terrifying.

That support is conditional, it had been made clear, and it could be gone at any moment, if he doesn’t behave himself. As much as he’s tempted to believe Lafayette’s assurances, to think that he could go back and learn everything from the books he’s promised, figure out who is right - it doesn’t really matter.

And that’s the truth of it.

It doesn’t matter if his father is wrong, because he’s still John’s father, and John is still answerable to him, and if he thinks he can just get away with thinking and saying and doing anything he wants, his father knows how to bring it all to a crashing halt.

He realizes, with a start, that he’s jealous of Hamilton. Hamilton can say and do whatever he wants, kiss whoever he wants, argue with anyone, and nobody can stop him. He’s earned his own way there, on the merits of his intellect and hard work, and nobody can dangle his life over his head and threaten to take it away from him. His clothing is old and tattered, and his computer is about one more coffee spill away from the garbage, and John knows he worries over money and food sometimes, that he budgets carefully for outings to Taco Pierre’s, and he knows, he knows, that Hamilton would be furious to know he’s even thinking this, but right now, he’s jealous.

Laf calls, when he’s about an hour from home. “You ran away, didn’t you.” It’s not a question; his voice is flat and unimpressed.

“There’s - stuff I have to do. At home,” John says. He’s a coward.

“Is it,” Laf pauses. “Are you safe, my friend?”

John clenches his teeth. This is the problem he’s been trying to avoid thinking about. Laf and Hamilton clearly think they have his life all figured out, and they don’t know anything. “I’m fine.”

Laf pauses. “If you do not come back, I will come after you,” he says. It sounds more like a promise than a threat.

John drives a while longer, until he’s back on roads he knows like the back of his hand. He taught Henry Jr. to drive on these roads not so long ago, and he stops at a scenic pull off to collect his thoughts before he arrives home. Pulling out his phone, he sees, to his surprise, that he’s missed a bunch of texts from Hamilton.

the hell are you thinking laurens

Laf says you went home why would you go home

Laurens

answer me dammit

look just come back and we can figure things out ok. You don’t have to go back there just because I was an ass

John smiles, a portion of the weight lifted from his shoulders. Hamilton, in his own incomparable way, has cheered him up a little. Maybe they can figure things out in the end.

Don’t give yourself airs, Hamilton. I’m not going home for your sake.

And that’s partially true.

He gets a response before he can even put his phone down.

you could die laurens

so many kids high on sugar from Halloween candy. v dangerous

John laughs aloud.

No worries. My father doesn’t hold with Halloween. I’m in no danger.

scandal. outrage. Hamilton seriously can text as fast as humans can talk. im calling child protective services. Halloween is an inalienable right of childhood

John takes a deep breath. He can do this.

I’m sorry about the past few days. I didn’t mean to be offensive. Can we talk when I get back?

you have to come back for that to work laurens.

Didn’t really know if you’d want me to, he shoots back, before he can think twice. He scrunches his whole face up in a grimace at his own awkwardness.

i have gotten used to your particular brand of assholeishness

besides Laf says im being an idiot and hes usually right

And John can’t really argue with that on any particular front.

Chapter Text

Three-days-ago-Alexander-Hamilton was a moron, current Alexander Hamilton has decided.

This didn’t really become totally clear to him until Laf showed up and basically rubbed his face in his own stupidity, but he’s willing to admit his faults once they’ve been made totally, blisteringly clear to him.

He’d been so stupid to just assume Laurens’ motivations for things came from malice. It has, in fact, been pointed out to him that he’s supposedly learned that same lesson a time or two already; he just seems to keep forgetting it. So yeah, turns out bringing Ned around just to freak Laurens out had been a bit of a dick move. Lafayette is a good, good man, and will not tell Alex half the things he wants to know about what Laurens said, but the disappointment in his eyes as he looks at Alex tells him enough. (He has a theory that in some past life, Laf had been a golden retriever; he’s got the eyes for it.) When Laf had told him that Laurens had gone home - home, back to whatever it is that makes him look like that when drunk men shout - Alex had almost had a panic attack. He hadn’t meant to push Laurens that far, even when he had thought he was just being a bigot.

He’s had all weekend to get sorry for it, too, which always helps. He knows his faults, honestly. He flies off the handle and acts too fast, doesn’t stop to think before speaking, and pretty much does believe he can talk (or write) his way out of every problem he encounters. His pride gets in the way of apologizing, even after he’s calmed down and started to see how he’s screwed up.

But Laurens apologized first, and as soon as he did, all of Alex’s walls came crumbling down, and now he’s nothing but sorry, and worried for his friend. (OK, yeah, now he apparently thinks of Laurens as a friend, at least in the back of his mind. That’s weird. He files it away to think about later.) It’s killing him not to be able to at least text, but Laurens has made it clear that he can’t do that during his stupid visits home. That is really, really sending up red flags, but right now there’s nothing he can do about it but wait for Laurens to get back.

Herc and Lafayette actually have to come and frog-march him off to dinner on Sunday evening, since Alex is getting absolutely twitchy by that time. They spot Laurens on the way back from dinner, just as he’s making his way into the dorm, and Alex notices he’s not the only one breathing a sigh of relief. Not that he’d really thought Laurens wouldn’t come back, but - what if he hadn’t?

“Go,” Laf says, giving him an unsubtle shove forward. “Go and talk to him.”

Herc crosses his arms and stares down at Alex. “If you don’t get things settled between you, I’m barricading you both inside until you either work it out or kill each other.”

“Okay, okay,” Alex says, putting up both hands in surrender. “Going, talking.”

He lets himself into their room, feeling strangely on edge. It’s not like Laurens is about to attack him.

Laurens is waiting inside, looking exactly as nervous as Alex feels, which doesn’t really help, even though it seems like it probably should? Feelings are absurd. “Hey,” Alex tries.

“Hey.”

They stare at each other for a long, long moment, and then Alex collapses into his chair with a sigh of exhaustion. “How about we just stay here silently for an hour or so and then go and tell Laf and Herc that we figured everything out and it’s all good?”

He laughs at that, actually laughs, and Alex feels his heart grow a little lighter. “Never thought I’d see the day you didn’t want to talk, Hamilton,” he says, face lighting up with a crooked smile.

“Let’s start there,” Alex says, grabbing for a lifeline. “We fucking live together, we can use proper names. Call me Alex, I’ll call you Jack.”

“One stipulation,” Laurens says, like they’re having a debate in class, and Alex wants to stop him, wants to make him talk naturally, but he remembers Laurens in debate, how he shines. If this makes it easier for him, Alex isn’t going to mess with it. “I’m still allowed to call you Hamilton if I’m annoyed with you.”

“Acceptable,” Alex says, so that he doesn’t look like a fool, with Laur - Jack so poised and confident. “So, Jack,” he stresses the name in the most obnoxious way he can, and Jack grins at him again. His heart does a really weird little flip in his chest. “Lafayette has spent the entire weekend looking at me like I just killed his kitten and baked it into a pie, and I think somehow it’s your fault? Except it’s me he’s looking disappointed at, so I’m probably at fault as well, and Herc wants to lock us in until we kill each other, so I’d say we have things to work out.”

Jack sits in his own chair, turning so they’re facing one another; he’s still proper and poised, as opposed to Alex’s casual slump that barely keeps him in the seat. “Right. I’ll start by saying - Alex, I’m sorry for how I reacted to your flyers. I completely misread the situation. I’ve never seen anyone discussing things like that openly before, and I was - concerned.”

Alex is good with words, and he hears all the other words Jack could have used there, probably more accurately - afraid, panicked, terrified. It’s his apology, though, he can use whatever word he wants.

“So, just to be clear,” he says, and doesn’t let himself get too hopeful. “You freaking out at me, telling me to hide the flyers - that wasn’t personal? Like, directed at me?” Jack shakes his head, eyes impossibly wide.

“We’re not,” he says, gripping his hands tightly in his lap, “we’re not supposed to talk about things like that, right? Or, that’s what I thought, anyway. I thought you were doing something really-” he cuts himself off.

“Stupid?” Alex guesses, and smirks triumphantly. “It’s about the least stupid thing I’ve done all semester. We’re absolutely supposed to talk about those topics, and debate, and educate ourselves, and kiss people until we figure out what we’re doing. It’s half the point of going to college.” Jack Laurens looks like he might go hide under his desk if Alex keeps up that line of argument, so he shelves it for later. “Ok, but here’s what I don’t get. You’ve known all along I’m bi, so why the hell did you freak out about it then, if it hadn’t been a problem before?”

“Oh, man,” Jack says. His voice is a pained groan, and he rests his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. “This is so bad. Alex, I didn’t know what you meant.”

“How do you not know what-” Alex cuts himself off, because - shit. Yeah, that actually makes sense now.

“I thought you meant, like, bi-racial?” Jack says, not looking up. “I didn’t know you were talking about, y’know, attraction. It’s not a term I’d heard before.”

Alex knows he’s gaping like a particularly unattractive goldfish, but damn. Part of it is that he’s cringing in silent empathy with Jack, and part of it is that he really cannot wrap his brain around just how sheltered and ignorant Henry Laurens has been keeping his kids. How the hell does someone get all the way to college and not know shit about gender and sexuality? He’s almost morbidly curious as to how little Jack does know, but he’s not about to go into any of that. It’s not like he’s stupid - he’s just been kept in the dark, and Alexander does not understand why anyone would do that to another person.

“Oh my god, dude,” is all he can manage. Jack winces at that, too, and Alex reminds himself to watch his words. “See, you’re the one who should have been going to all the awareness week stuff.”

“I’m starting to understand that now,” Jack says. He still won’t look up.

“So,” Alex tries, rubbing his face with both hands. “So I probably about made your brain explode, coming in here with Ned?”

“Not something I saw coming,” Jack mutters drily. “My fault, not yours.”

“Do you even know any other-” he pauses, searching for a word that isn’t likely to cause confusion, “non-straight people? Before coming here, I mean?”

Jack goes completely still at that - a signal Alex is learning to read as a clear red flag. Shit. He backs off.

“You know what, bad question,” he says quickly. “Here’s a better one. Are you OK rooming with me, now that you know what I’ve been saying all along?”

He does look up at that, his face a really amusing beet-red, but Alex can’t laugh at Jack’s expression. “Yes,” he says simply. “If you’re not sick of how stupid I am.”

“Not stupid,” Alex snaps. There’s too much there, under that word, for him to be comfortable letting Jack call himself that. “It’s college. The whole point is that we’re here to learn.”

Jack nods, though he doesn’t look certain. “It - it doesn’t bother me, who you bring back,” he says - and here’s the thing Alex has just figured out. Jack Laurens is a really, really bad liar. He might as well be wearing a sign that lights up in neon every time he says something untrue. He doesn’t let himself smirk. “Whoever you choose to be with, I mean. Just - maybe a little warning, so I can clear out?”

OK, so he’s lying, but why? Alex’s first instinct is to assume that it’s more inherent bias, but he’s promised himself he’s going to stop jumping to that conclusion. He is obviously bothered, but he’s the one going out of his way to say that he isn’t. Is it an attempt to prove that he’s really not being judgemental - and if so, how does that work when he’s obviously not telling the truth?

It’s too much to work out in the middle of a conversation, so Alex files all that away to think about later.

“Same goes for you,” he says airily - and then he does laugh, because Jack looks like he’s about to jump out of his seat to object. Time to change the topic. “So, we’ve established that I’m bi. I’m also a bit of an ass.” He scratches the back of his head. “I only brought Ned back here to make you uncomfortable. I’m perfectly happy to keep everything out of our room. Less drama. Sorry,” he throws out. He really, really hates having to apologize. It feels like being too far in someone else’s debt - but since Jack apologized first, it’s a little easier.

“You don’t have to-”

“I already did.” He makes eye contact, and nods firmly. “And the thing is, I’m gonna be an ass again. It’s just my nature. I get stressed, or overworked, or go too long without sleep, and I get mean. That’s not about you.” This is so freaking awkward he wants to die. “Feel free to call me on it, or ignore me, or whatever, just - don’t let me run you off back home, right?”

Jack’s mood shifts to something a little darker. “I told you, I didn’t go home on your account.” Lying again. “I wanted to go back, and my siblings- our dad wasn’t going to be back this weekend, and they-”

“That’s your business,” Alex interrupts. “I’m just saying. This is your room, too.”

“Does that mean you won’t object if I move Mount Laundry?” Jack is obviously trying to change the subject, and that’s OK. They’ve covered enough ground for right now. Alex folds his arms and glares.

“Mount Laundry is a national heritage site now. Moving it would be an act of hate.”

He gets a crooked, somewhat shy grin for that, and they let the tension of the moment go. There’s plenty more they’ll need to say, but it doesn’t have to be hashed out all at once. They’ve still got months of living together ahead of them.

November is on them all at once, too dark and too cold and way too rainy. Alex gets so sick of carrying an umbrella everywhere that he intentionally leaves it behind out of spite directed toward the weather gods, and they take it out on him in spades. He winds up soaked to the skin - and then, even though he knows that’s not how colds work, he winds up with an awful cold. Laf tries to bully him into going to bed and eating soup; Hercules tries to bully him into going to the campus health center and making sure it’s not pneumonia or something worse.

Jack, as it turns out, is a godsend. He takes Alex’s grumpiness in stride, ignores his protestations that he’s dying, and keeps their room stocked with the kind of tissues that have lotion in them, for which Alexander swears his eternal gratitude. He’s mostly well enough to laugh at himself for his own dramatics - until he isn’t.

He takes a turn for the worse one night in mid-November, and even though he knows, he knows, it’s just a cold, there’s a fear deep in his bones when he struggles for breath. His body remembers the helplessness and exhaustion, the fever that had raced through him, and he lies as still as he can in his bunk bed, staring at the ceiling, reminding himself that he’s not there, she’s not there, this isn’t the same as before.

Jack comes in, closing the door quietly, which is super weird because Alex hadn’t even noticed he was gone, how far out of it is he, he needs to be paying better attention to his surroundings-

“Tell your brain to shut up, Hamilton,” he says lightly. He opens a new box of tissues and puts them beside Alex’s head, then hands him a bottle of cold medicine and one of orange juice. He leaves Alex to struggle with those things while he quietly sets up a humidifier, and then he’s back to take away the rubbish that’s accumulating, and to drop a jar of Vicks Vapor-Rub on the mattress. “I’m not rubbing that on for you,” he says, giving a crooked smile. “Jemmy swears by it when he’s sick, but I think he just likes it because the girls hate how it smells and he can get a reaction out of them.”

“Thanks,” Alex croaks. His voice is a ruin, his throat is in tatters, and he’s probably never going to be able to draw a full breath again. Surprisingly, the smelly ointment does help - and the strong, clean scent helps him clear his mind. It’s nothing like the smell he remembers, the odor of death and disease that lingers in his nostrils. “I need to get back to work,” he rasps, struggling to sit up. Jack just snorts a laugh, not bothering to look up from his book.

“Yeah, right.”

“I can’t afford to waste this much time,” Alex protests. “I’ll be fine, I can sit at my desk and write.”

“You can stay right where you are,” Jack says placidly. “Or I can sit on you until you go to sleep. You’re not getting up.”

“But there’s so much work-”

“Alexander.” He does look up now, very serious. “You’re at least a month ahead in all of your classwork. You’ve finished your proposals for the independent studies you want to do, and I happen to have seen your drafts for all of your final papers, remember? You have less work to do than any other student here.”

“Not true,” Alex says petulantly, glaring at the ceiling. “There’s a million things I haven’t done. I can’t afford-”

“I’ll get Lafayette to call the Washingtons.” A low, low blow. Alex quakes at the thought of what Martha would say if she knew. He throws a wad of clean tissues at Jack, and pouts when it drifts aimlessly down to the floor, missing his roommate by several feet.

“I hate you, Laurens, you know that?” Alex whines.

“Uh-huh.” Laurens is unbothered. He goes back to his work, and Alex is left to stare at the ceiling, fighting to keep his eyes open. He blinks - and it’s morning, light sliding in through the window, and he can breathe again. The sharp smell of vapor-rub still lingers in the air, and Alex doesn’t hate it.

He’s fully recovered by the time they’re all packing up their things for a weeklong Thanksgiving break. (The university tries to call it Fall Break, so as not to prescribe any particular celebration; everyone just calls it Thanksgiving.) It’s the first time Alex has gone home, and he’s torn between wanting to show them all how independent he is, and revealing just how horribly homesick he gets at times. Not that the Washingtons’ is home, not his home, not really for good, but for now, it’s amazing to have a place to go back to where he’s welcomed and wanted.

“Hey,” he tells Jack before they leave. “Bring back tacky Christmas decorations when you come. I will too - we can make this place the picture of kitsch and sentimentalism.” Jack nods, but his eyes are distant. “You ok?” Alex asks, quiet now.

“Yeah,” he says, not sounding like he’s entirely present. “There’s just - I think Henry Jr. has gotten himself in some trouble. He won’t tell me what’s up, but it doesn’t sound good.”

Alex shakes his head. “It’s always the Juniors. They’re nothing but trouble.” Jack smiles - but Alex feels a chill, looking at him. It’s not a real smile - it’s the plastic, political kind that he hasn’t seen in a while.

“Have a nice break,” he says, shaking Alexander’s hand (honestly, sometimes he wonders when the hell Jack was raised, given his old-fashioned manners). Alex wants to say something else, something less flippant, but the moment is over; Jack’s headed for his car, and Lafayette is slinging an arm around Alex’s shoulders.

“At last!” He sounds like he might break into song. “Let’s go, Alexander! George and Martha will be waiting for us!”

They were; Alexander hadn’t appropriately envisioned how fond their reunion would be. Martha was wiping away tears when she finally let go of both boys, and Alex didn’t know that he had ever seen George grin quite so broadly.

“Welcome home, son,” he murmurs, when he embraces Alex. Part of him wants to respond reflexively, as he always used to - to protest that he’s not Washington’s son. The rest of him tells him to shut up, and he lets himself relax. He loves college, really he does, but the weight of all of his self-imposed expectations and constant worries are so heavy there. Here at Mount Vernon, all of that falls away; he is just Alex, with the closest thing he’s had to family in more than half a decade.

The week flies by faster than he had imagined possible. It should be impossibly dull, when compared with his hectic schedule on campus, but though their time is spent in the most quotidian ways, it’s Thanksgiving before he knows it. He and Laf have decided to take over the holiday feast preparations, and George and Martha allow it, although they don’t seem to realize how the boys can hear them laughing as one thing after another goes wrong. In the end, there’s plenty to eat, even if it’s not the most beautifully presented, and Alexander feels a warm satisfaction, looking at the table and the people around it. Two years ago, he never could have imagined belonging in such a place.

He feels refreshed and ready to go by the time they’re heading back to campus, and almost feels guilty about how entirely he’s checked out of everything related to school. He’s barely even texted anyone in a week, and he doesn’t like to think of how much catching up he’ll have to do on everything. Martha is sending them back with enough home-baked goods to get them through the last few weeks of the semester, although Alex isn’t sure she’s calculated appropriately. The stress of finals will require more calories. Lots more.

Between the plastic containers of food and the box of Christmas decor he’s looted from the Washingtons’, his arms are so full that he stands outside his door and kicks it, hoping against hope that Jack’s already back. He’s in luck - the door swings open, and Alex shoves his way inside, dropping all his shit on Jack’s bed with a sigh of relief.

“Happy Back to School!” Alex crows. Their room smells a little stale from having been closed up for a week, and Jack hasn’t switched the light on yet, but he loves every familiar, messy bit of it. To come from one place he loves and find that he’s almost as home in another - it’s almost unsettling, how settled he feels. He grabs one special container of cookies and shoves it at Jack. “Here, Martha sends her regards. She says you have to come visit over the next break. She’s always sure that people need more spoiling.”

Jack takes the container, looking at it curiously, and Alex’s bubbly enthusiasm kind of drains away as he gets a look at his roommate. He looks utterly exhausted, with the same dark circles under his eyes that are usually Alex’s trademark.

“Thanks,” he says. “Thank her for me, will you?”

“Text her yourself,” Alex says. “I’ll give you her number. She wants to bug you anyway, about Christmas plans and whatnot.”

Jack shakes his head, looking - defeated? Alex isn’t sure how to put it. “I - don’t have my phone,” he says. There’s a note in his voice that begs Alex not to ask, but he’s Alexander Hamilton. He asks.

“What happened to it?”

“Long story,” Jack says. He goes back to his desk, where he’s organizing his books and papers. “Have a good break?”

“Yeah, awesome, stop changing the subject,” Alex says. He goes over and flips on the lightswitch, blinking at the sudden blaze. “Where’s your phone, Laurens?”

Jack’s back is turned. He shakes his head and pulls out his books, starting to arrange them again. “My dad - it’s broken. It’s fine.”

Alex sighs. The realities of life are piling back onto his shoulders, replacing the lightness he’d found over break. “Broken?”

“Yep.” Laurens pops the p, being as clear as possible. He does not want to talk about it.

“How’s your brother?” Alex tries. “You said he was in trouble?”

“He’s fine,” Laurens says. “I dealt with it.”

Well. Communication is going swimmingly. His back is still turned.

“Oh, hey,” Alex says casually, as though he’s just thought of it. “Brought the Christmas decor. Get a load of this awful wreath I found!” He holds up an incredibly tacky wreath, covered with glitter and tiny reindeer, glass ornaments and long, trailing ribbons.

Laurens turns and gives a snort of laughter he obviously can’t keep back as he studies the awful thing.

Alex doesn’t laugh. Now that the lights are on, he can see much better. Laurens’ eyes aren’t dark with fatigue. He’s got two black eyes and a bruise on the right side of his jaw. “Oh, shit,” Alex whispers. “What the hell, Laurens?”

“Fell down the stairs into a doorknob and you should see the other guy,” Laurens says, flat and hard. “Don’t ask, Hamilton.”

He doesn’t know what to say.

Chapter Text

John Laurens has spent his entire life trying to make his father proud. He has managed it from time to time by particular acts of academic or political merit, but it never seems to last. And he understands that, really he does. His father has such a stressful job, and being a single parent to five kids only makes it harder. John helps as much as he can - he always has - but he can’t take the burden off, not really. Nobody can blame the man for losing his temper sometimes, especially when his children cause the kinds of trouble they do.

He wishes, sometimes, when he lets himself indulge in something so useless, that their mother hadn’t died. He misses her, of course, but he’d only been ten when she died, and he doesn’t remember her as well as he would like. He does remember, though, that his father had been kinder then, happier. He’d given the girls piggyback rides, and played ball with Henry Jr. when he was home, and even changed diapers and bathed Jemmy when he was a baby. He’d been a good father, if busy and absent.

But when their mother had died, everything had gotten worse. Henry’s career had become all-consuming, and he came home from Washington less and less often. For a while, they were practically being raised by whatever succession of cooks, housekeepers, and tutors their father had hired in sequence. By the time John was twelve, he was doing his best to be a replacement parent to the others.

And then, their father had started drinking.

When he was sober, everything was - fine. He was somewhat distant, somewhat demanding, but they all knew the kinds of stresses he was under, and they didn’t judge him for it. He did what he could to oversee their education and moral development, even from a distance; he was trying his best, John knew. When he’d been drinking -

Well. No sense thinking about that. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t dwell on it. His father doesn’t mean to lose control, and John tries not to hold the incidents against him. He keeps the kids away from the worst of it, and puts it behind him as soon as it’s over.

Alex is not going to let him do that, and John knows it. He resents the fact that his father had hit him in the face, because he can’t hide that, can’t pass it off as an accident; he could have had the control to keep it somewhere undercover.

But he can’t blame Henry, not really, because he’d been drinking, and the new legislation is so stressful, and then John had tried to intervene for Henry Jr. -

It had been too great a transgression for him to bear. Henry Jr. had managed to get a girl in trouble - in the family way, as his mother would have said - and his little brother had been so, so afraid of how their father would react. And John had known, with a sinking sensation, that there was no way to break this news without sending their father into a spiral. His reputation was on the line, his family would be shamed in the press - Henry Laurens’ son, fathering a child out of wedlock.

There’s only one thing to do, of course, and they all know it. Henry Jr. has already proposed, and they’re making the arrangements for a quiet ceremony at Christmastime. He’s barely 18, and so is she; John has never felt the gap of less than a year between himself and his younger brother so strongly before. Henry Jr. seems like such a child, still. He won’t have that luxury anymore.

So anyway, that’s all being straightened out and managed. He’d kept Henry Jr. from bearing their father’s wrath, and his father had managed to work out his aggression without too much damage done, and John is ready to move on and put it behind him. If only his annoying, infuriating roommate would let him.

Alex is hovering, moving back and forth between projects and John, books and John. He’s not subtle, and he keeps staring at John with huge, dark eyes, seeing far more than he’s welcome to. John figures that if he waits a day or so, Alex’s interest will wane, and he’ll go back to his thousands of projects and to-do lists, and everything will go back to normal. He hopes it happens soon. Alexander Hamilton’s full attention is too deep and intense for him to tolerate for long.

“Laurens,” Hamilton starts.

“Nope,” he says, and marks down the dates of two more exams on his calendar.

“Jack,” Hamilton persists.

“Nope,” he says, and opens his laptop, looking at the time in the display. It’s so awkward to be without a phone, for so many reasons. He needs to get a watch.

“I’m gonna get Laf,” Hamilton warns.

“Nope,” he says, and calls home. Their father will be back in Washington by now, and even if they don’t have cell phones anymore, they can still do video chat. He didn’t take away their computer, knowing that they all needed it for their schoolwork.

Jemmy answers, and John immediately sits up straight, putting on a smile for his little brother. Jemmy’s only nine; he doesn’t handle everything so well, yet. “Hey, Jem,” he says softly.

“Jacky!” He can hear the others running to the computer room, calling greetings and shoving one another until they can all fit into the frame.

“Told you I’d make it back in one piece,” he says, grinning at them. He misses them already. He’s so, so glad that their dad isn’t due back home until after John gets home at the end of the semester.

“How’s your wrist?” His little sister shoves forward, arms crossed. “Lemme see, Jacky.”

“You’re not a doctor yet, Martha,” he objects. He can’t laugh at her - she’s so serious about this - but she’s thirteen, with as much stubbornness as he has and ideas about first aid gleaned entirely from reading historical fiction. He pulls his sleeve back to show her his forearm anyway, the clumsy bandage she’d wrapped around his left wrist still in evidence. She’s satisfied.

“You’re done in two weeks, right?” Mary asks, face pinched with nerves. “Just two weeks this time?”

“Promise,” John says. “I’ll be home in time for your birthday, squirt.”

“And mine!” Martha insists. He laughs at that one; he’s allowed. She’s making one of their old twin jokes, giving them all space to grin. She’s always been good at that. Everyone does their part.

Henry Jr. isn’t smiling, though. He’s been grim since he’d confessed his situation to John, both of them already knowing how bad it could get.

“Don’t do that again, Jack,” he says, his voice low. John glances behind him, to where Hamilton, curse his snooping, is listening to every word. “I can handle my own affairs.”

“Is that your best choice of words?” John asks drily. His brother doesn’t laugh.

“I mean it. I’m taller than you now, and I can take it just as well-”

“Take it up with Time,” John snaps. “I’m still older than you.”

Henry Jr. scowls, but he can’t really argue. He’s not the oldest, like John; he’s never felt responsible for carrying the weight of the others. He doesn’t step in for the younger ones. He and his fiancee will be out of the household, out from their father’s influence, in a month’s time. John loves his brother, but he knows Henry Jr. will leave and not look back, and John will still be there for the others every way he can.

Jemmy worms his way to the front. “Is your Alexander there?” he demands. “I need to talk to him.”

“He’s not my Alexander, dummy,” John says quickly. “He’s entirely his own fault.” He glances over his shoulder. “Hey, Hamilton, want to say hello to your penpal?”

Alex is there, crowding over his shoulder, in an instant. “Hello, Laurens’ brood,” he calls cheerfully. “Thanks for lending me your brother for a bit longer.”

They stare at him intently, and John has to chuckle at the seriousness in the way they’re examining him. He’s probably talked too much about Alex this time, but he was trying to find things to distract them from their situation, and Alex is very distracting. They all get nervy when their father’s temper flares. Jemmy waves.

“Hi!” he says. “Didn’t you get my letter? I was waiting for your results.”

Alex snaps and points at him. “Right you are. I need to finish my end of the experiment, and I’ll be sure to send along my report with Jacky next time, OK?”

“Watch it with the nicknames,” John mutters. Alex grins and puts a hand on his shoulder - but it’s light, tentative, as though he thinks John is going to break.

Mary frowns at him. “Our father says you’re a bad influence,” she says warily. “He says you’re leading Jack astray.”

“Ooookay,” John says fast, shoving Hamilton off. “And we’re done talking to the family now. Bye, guys - love you.” He signs off fast before they can humiliate him anymore, and shuts his laptop with a note of regret.

“Leading you astray, am I?” Hamilton says, with a sick attempt at a grin. He wears his heart on his sleeve; he probably doesn’t realize how transparent he is.

“You wish,” John mutters. He’s so tired, he could sleep for the night already, even though it’s barely seven in the evening. The visit home hadn’t exactly been restful, and he has to be back in class first thing in the morning, where they’ll be hard up against final exams and deadlines for all of their work, and a truly shocking amount of their final grades will be riding on the next two weeks. He can’t afford to be led astray, even if he’d ever wanted to.

“You’re not going to talk to me, are you?” Hamilton asks. He sounds - almost sad, a far more sober mood than John usually sees from him.

He hesitates a long moment, sighs, and turns to face him. Alex makes that face again, when looking at him straight on - recognition and helpless anger, and John tries not to flinch. “Can’t we please just drop it?” he asks quietly. “Talk about - about writing, and classes, and finals, and what you and Laf did on break? Please?” He doesn’t mean to let his voice break at the end, but he’s so, so tired, and he cannot talk to Hamilton about this, he can’t. This stays at home, in his father’s study; it doesn’t get to come and infect his life here on campus.

Alex hesitates a moment, and then nods. “I’ll make you a deal,” he offers. “I’ll order us pizza, and we’ll hang out right here and not talk about anything you don’t want to. In return, you are gonna eat pizza and Martha’s cookies and put ice on your goddamned face-” he breaks off, breathing hard. “Sorry. Ice your face. Deal?”

“Deal,” John mutters. He waits a second, then admits, “Don’t worry about it. The bruising will go down fast. In a day or two you won’t even see it.”

Alex looks up at the ceiling for a long moment, blowing out a long breath. John doesn’t speak Spanish, but he’s willing to bet the words Alex is muttering aren’t things he’d want the kids to hear.

~~~~~~

It takes a day or two before Alex stops looking at him like he’s going to break, and John just has to bear it. It helps when the bruising fades; until then, overlarge hoodies and winter scarves and wearing his hair loose and wild help keep other people from staring at his face.

It’s not that, though, that eventually diverts Hamilton’s attention. John almost wishes it was.

Eliza Schuyler, bless her, has a heart the size of the entire world, and is determined to right every wrong all at once. She’s spearheaded a group that’s organizing a huge protest on campus over the weekend, and she takes over their study lounges and puts everyone who can spare five minutes to work making signs and placards. John and Alex are walking back from class together when she ambushes them and drags them into her craft-maelstrom.

“What’s all this?” Alex asks, looking delighted. It doesn’t really matter what they’re protesting, John knows - he’ll be there, protesting with all his might. There’s pretty little that Alex doesn’t have strong feelings about, when it comes down to it.

“Immigration!” Eliza declares. “We were talking about it, and this shitty new bill that’s coming up in the Senate has a lot of people worried. It affects so many different groups. The college administration admits that there are more than two hundred students on campus alone who will be in danger of forced deportation if this becomes law.”

At John’s side, Alex’s breath is a sharp hiss, sucked in through his teeth. “Gimmie the markers,” Alex mutters, low and desperate.

“Ok, but Alexander, you have to write only a few words,” Eliza reminds him. “If you write a whole essay, no-one will be able to read it.”

Alex drops his backpack at John’s feet and storms forward, snatching the nearest empty posterboard and getting to work. Eliza watches him with a little smile, and then turns back to John, as if she’s just noticed him there. “Oh! Sorry, John, I didn’t mean to drag you into this. You don’t have to stay.”

The dismissal stings - but looking around, he gets her point. About half the posters he can see are addressed to his father, or have his name on them. The blasted bill is commonly being called “Laurens’ Law”, after all. He thinks longingly for a moment about having any other last name in the entire world. Instead, his surname is around him in big, dark letters, with all sorts of curse words and imprecations attached.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’d better go.”

He goes back to his room, finishes editing one of his final papers, tries to study for a final exam that’s coming up entirely too soon. Alex doesn’t come back. John eventually goes to dinner, spends a few hours at the library, goes to bed. Alex is nowhere to be seen.

As it turns out, it’s a good thing Alexander Hamilton had finished all of his required coursework weeks early, because the upcoming protest envelopes him entirely. John barely sees him for days; when he does, it’s usually for a quick change of clothes or to grab another thermos of coffee. Sometimes he’ll come across Alex, grabbing a few minutes of sleep on whatever surface has come in handy, and he tries not to wake him. Alex hardly seems to notice that John still exists. All that matters is the protest, the movement he and Eliza are trying to stir up out of nothing. Flyers are appearing on every bulletin board on campus, and some of the professors are even giving out information about when and where the protest will be happening.

“I’m not allowed to encourage you to attend,” his professor for Cultural Anthropology tells them as she hands out the final exam. “But I can tell you I will be there, and that I think there is great value in making your voice heard, especially for the sake of others.” John tries to block it all out as he takes the final; he can’t miss the fact that many of the students who know little of him except his last name have taken to throwing dirty words and glances his way. It’s not a good time to be a Laurens.

He decides on Friday, after he’s finished his second to last final, when he’s breathing the air of freedom for a few days, that he finally has time to do his research. He holes himself up in the library and reads everything he can about his father’s bill - the text itself, the discussion around it online and in the political world. He finds articles which estimate the numbers of people who will be affected, the effects on the economy, the arguments for and against it on legal, moral, economic, and political reasons. He doesn’t finish until after midnight, and then he wanders back to his dorm in the cold, moonlit winter night, thinking as hard as he ever has.

In the past month, he’s come to grips with the idea that his father isn’t always right. That had been hard enough. Now, though, it’s something worse. The arguments on both sides have merits of their own, and he can see the justification his father and his allies are using to push the bill in the Senate, and how it’s playing in the real world.

But, John thinks, looking up at the moon. But his father is wrong.

Not just incorrect. Wrong. He’s on the wrong side of this issue, the side of cruelty for its own sake. He’s set himself against the people in society who are already the most insecure and at-risk, people who are desperate and in need of help.

He goes to bed, but doesn’t sleep that night. He can hear his father’s voice, explaining all of it so calmly and rationally. His father is so articulate, so convincing. He’s going to get the support he needs in the Senate, and he’s got a shot at convincing enough in the House - and John knows why he’s doing this. For as long as he can remember, he’s known his father wants to be more. He wants to be president someday; he’s told them all, again and again, how critical it is that they never be embroiled in scandal, because it could damage his presidential aspirations. It’s why Henry Jr. will be married off and sent away quietly, so his shame doesn’t infect the family. It’s why John has to be aware, all the time, of paparazzi who might be watching his every move; it’s why he can’t write op-eds or give quotes to the media or ever express any opinion on anything that does not exactly mirror his father’s.

Alex flies into the room at seven, already a manic blur of activity. John wonders tiredly when the last time had been that he actually slept.

“Ready for the big day?” he asks. He’s trying to be supportive.

“Think so,” Alex says, running his hands through his hair, which is beyond wild. He pauses a moment at the door, arms laden with signs and armbands, clearly thinking through his inventory.

“Want company? I was planning to hit the library-”

Alex interrupts. “Look, Jack - I think you’d better stay here today.”

“Well, I had been planning to go work on my tan,” John drawls sarcastically, looking out at the still-dark winter sky. But Hamilton isn’t laughing.

“No,” he says. His voice is sharp. “This - what we’re doing today - this is important. And I get it, he’s your dad, you can’t speak out - but you can’t get caught up in it, either. Everyone there is going to know who you are.” He blows out a long breath. “You go out there, and nobody is going to care about your polite excuses for the man. It’s not the time to curry favor with him, or try to play both sides in the media. People’s lives are on the line.”

“I know,” John says.

Hamilton laughs, sharp and bitter. “You really fucking don’t.” He shakes his head. “Stay here, Laurens. Keep your head down. I’ve got too much work to do to have to babysit you today.”

And he’s gone, the door snapping shut behind him. John sits up, knowing he looks like an idiot, his mouth probably hanging open in shock. Not that he should be shocked - he knows Hamilton gets like this, Alex had warned him he might. He’d told him not to take it personally, not to be offended by it. John isn’t - because he can see it clearly. It isn’t about him.

He doesn’t know when he makes the decision. It may have already been made, long before. He takes two minutes to change into fresh clothes, throwing on his long, dark wool coat and shoving gloves in his pockets, pulling his hair back into a neat ponytail. He glances at his reflection in the mirror. The bruises are gone. He’s a boy, looking tired and scared.

He’s a boy, looking like his father.

He leaves without another glance back.

It’s very rare that John Laurens does anything without thinking it through. He assesses risks, weighs alternatives, looks at everything through the lens of what his father will think of it and acts accordingly. Today, he isn’t thinking. He doesn’t quite feel like he’s inhabiting his own body as he makes his way to the center of campus, where the rally will start. He’s out of sorts with all the world.

“Got an extra?” he asks one of the students handing out posters, and grabs one that doesn’t contain his family name - just the words “Rise Up” in stark, black letters. He’s not thinking. He can’t afford to think, not for a second, of what might come of all this. It’s not a question of anything, right now, but right and wrong, and for once, putting himself on the correct side of that line.

The crowd gathers, more arriving every minute, until they’ve filled the open, grassy area, and people are spilling along the sidewalks in every direction. There’s a whole plan, John knows - a march, and speeches, and probably some civil disobedience. He doesn’t need to know the plan. He’s just taking one step at a time in concert with the people around him, feeling the adrenaline pump through him.

He’s made up his own mind, for once in his life.

The crowd moves along, following the planned route; there are chants and songs, call and response. John feels a bit like he’s in a play that he’s missed all the rehearsals for - he doesn’t know what to say or do, or what’s coming next.

They stop in front of the courthouse, where he can just barely see Eliza Schuyler at the top of the steps, head covered with a teal knitted hat that stands out like a beacon. He inches forward where he can, trying to get close enough to see and hear. He makes it within a few feet of the front of the crowd - and then someone grabs him by the arm and spins him around, hand gripping too tightly.

“Laurens? What the hell?” It’s Alexander, practically on fire. He’s lit up by this energy, this action; he’s brilliant, here in this crowd. “I thought I told you to stay put?”

“Maybe I decided not to just do what I’m told,” John shoots back. Alex’s hand tightens even further on his arm.

“This is not a game, Laurens.”

“I know.” From above, Eliza shouts a triumphant concluding line to her speech. The crowd roars approval, and so does John, holding his sign above his head. His heart is pounding, mind roaring. Rise Up. It feels like the first thing he’s ever done that matters.

Rise. Up.

~~~~~

The adrenaline doesn’t fade until hours after the rally is over. He stays with Hamilton and his crew, and they work on cleaning up the rubbish that’s been left behind. He’s tired and wired, finding himself grinning at Alex and the others far more than seems natural. He doesn’t throw away his sign, for some reason; he folds it up until it can fit in his coat pocket. He doesn’t want to forget.

By the evening, they’re all absolutely starving, and Laf drags them off to somewhere that’s not Taco Pierre’s for dinner. Alexander and Eliza are over-the-top enthusiastic, carried away by the success of the rally.

“You have to speak next time,” Eliza gushes. “Alexander, we need your voice!”

He shakes his head, though it looks like it physically hurts him to refuse. “I - I can’t. Not yet. Maybe someday.”

Herc claps John on the back and rumbles, “Wasn’t expecting to see you there today, Laurens. How was your first rally?”

He blows out a breath. “I don’t know what to say. I just - I knew I had to be there.”

Across the table, Alex’s phone dings, and they all groan as he dives for it. “News alerts, guys, you know the story-” Alex is grinning as he unlocks the screen. Then, his face falls, and he looks up at John, eyes impossibly dark. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” John asks, still high on the energy of the rally.

Other phones around the table buzz and hum, and suddenly everyone but John is looking at a screen. They’re all silent.

“What?” he pushes. Of all the times to not have a connection to the world. He misses his phone.

“Shit,” Alex says again, and pushes his phone across the tabletop so John can see it.

It’s the front page of the evening edition of the city newspaper. Their rally has made the news, as they’d been hoping it would. But the front-page photo isn’t of the huge crowd, or of Eliza speaking.

It’s John, face clear and bright, cheering for Eliza as he held up his poster.

The headline blares, “Rally Against Laurens’ Law Brings Out Opposition, Even Within The Family.”

He can feel the blood drain from his face, practically feel his heart stop beating. It’s not a campus newsletter or a minor publication. His father is going to see it. His father has probably seen it already.

The poster stares back at him, damningly, his rebellion made brutally clear.

Rise Up.

Chapter Text

There have been a great number of frightening experiences in Alex’s short life.

Watching Jack quietly panic is up there among them, now.

He’s very, very pale and very frightened; he sets Alex’s phone back down gingerly, as if he’s afraid it’s about to crack apart. He seems to have grown smaller, somehow, shrinking in on himself as his breathing stutters and threatens to stop.

For a moment, he’s as frozen as Jack. A quick, frantic glance around the table makes him realize not everyone is seeing what he is; Laurens is falling apart fairly quietly. Maybe he can get through this without drawing attention he’s sure not to want? But Lafayette taps on his shoulder and jerks his head toward the door, gives Alex’s shoulder a shove. “Go,” he mouths. That’s enough to get him moving.

“Come on,” Alex says grimly, barrelling out of his seat and around to Jack’s, urging him up and out with gentle hands. He barely thinks to grab their coats on the way out the door, shoving his arms into his sleeves with a speed approaching violence. He’s had enough panic attacks himself to have some idea of what to do. Fresh air, space, and a lack of people staring at him in confused horror are probably the things Jack needs most right now.

“Guess I should have listened to you,” Jack says as they leave. He’s got a hand tangled in Alex’s coat sleeve so hard it must be hurting his fingers, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Kept my head down.” Even his voice is shaking.

Alex hates everything in the entire world except Jack right now. “Shut up, Laurens,” he says roughly. “You were magnificent.”

Jack gives an awful, strangled half-laugh. “Using the past tense already? Your confidence in my survival is not encouraging.”

“Shut up,” Alex repeats. Jack is hyperventilating now, barely taking in any air with each breath, and Alex can see his eyes darting around, as if looking for attack from every corner. They’re a few blocks from campus, maybe a ten minute walk back to their dorm, but Jack will be passed out on the pavement long before that, at this rate. He steers them around a corner and down a quiet side street, barely keeping his friend upright until they collapse onto a friendly-looking stoop. He throws Jack’s coat around his shoulders, too aware of the piercing cold, but he’s in no state to put it on properly.

Jack has squeezed his eyes shut tight, arms wrapped around his own torso, but his hand is still clutching Alexander’s sleeve like a life preserver.

“It’s OK,” Alex says stupidly. No, it fucking isn’t. “Laurens, you have to breathe.” He goes to grab Jack’s face, but stops short. That could be a really, really unhelpful move. Instead, he puts his hand on Jack’s where it’s tangled in his sleeve. His fingers are so cold. “Breathe, come on. Inhale, one two three, and hold it, four five six, and exhale, seven eight nine. Again.” He tries to find a balance between reassuring and commanding, not knowing what John needs to hear, not knowing if he’s doing anything helpful at all. “One, two, three,” he repeats, inhaling noisily. Jack gasps a longer breath. He’s trying. “Four, five, six.” Jack nods, jerkily. “Seven, eight, nine.” He lets his breath out slowly, and hears Laurens do the same.

It’s almost a melody, a rhythm that keeps pulsing between them as he repeats the count again and again, until Jack isn’t gasping and shaking anymore. He finally, finally opens his eyes and looks at Alex, and he’s not at all sure he knows where they are or what’s happening.

“OK,” Alex finally says, when Jack’s breath is ragged but steady; his fingers aren’t as cold under Alex’s. “I stand by my original statement. ‘Oh, Shit’ was definitely the right reaction.”

“Sorry,” Jack whispers. His voice is a ruin. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble, honest.”

Alex snorts. His mind is running so wild, he can think of ten different reactions to every statement, but he can’t settle on any of them. Everything is happening so slowly. “That’s you. Jack Laurens, professional troublemaker.”

Jack pulls his hands back, burying his face in them as he huddles into his coat. “I -Alexander, what am I going to do?”

“Tell your father exactly where he can go and what he can do with his fucking opinions?” He knows this probably isn’t helpful, isn’t what Jack needs from him, but he doesn’t know what to do. “Take cops along with you and have them throw him in jail for abusing his kids?”

Jack’s face re-emerges, somehow even paler and more shocked than before. “Abusing?”

“Laurens, if you tell me you don’t think that’s the correct word, I-” But Laurens is already shaking his head.

“No. It’s not - it’s my fault, not his. I knew better, I did. I shouldn’t have gone to the rally.”

Alexander could scream. “So fucking what? You’re allowed to have opinions and go places and think about things! He has no right to make you afraid to express yourself!” He raises a hand slowly, so slowly, feeling as if he’s trying to approach a frightened animal, and reaches towards Jack’s face. Jack is watching him, but he doesn’t shy away; Alex puts his fingers so, so gently on the side of his face, where the bruising has faded until it’s hardly visible, if you didn’t know it was there. “He has no right,” Alex repeats, feeling utterly helpless.

Jack shuts his eyes, pulling away. “Don’t. Please.” Alex withdraws his hand, shoves his hands in his coat pockets where he can clench them into painfully tight fists. His mind is whirling so fast, a million plans and strategies and thoughts chasing one another around in circles, and he can’t settle on one of them, can’t think straight enough to be of any use at all. He’s hyperaware of everything right now - every piece of garbage on the ground, the smells of food from the restaurants on the block, the ragged sound of Jack’s breathing. He doesn’t know what to do.

“What’s going to happen?” he asks quietly, feeling like he’s going to be sick. “What’ll he do?”

“I don’t know.” Laurens’ voice is low and rough. “I’ve never done anything this stupid before.”

“Don’t say that,” Alex snaps. He can’t look at Laurens right now, because if he sees that look of fear in his eyes again, he’s going to do something impossibly stupid. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“No, it was,” Laurens says. He sounds somewhat disconnected. “I was so stupid. I wasn’t thinking, I was just - I thought I had to make a stand, but I didn’t think about -” he stops, takes a deep breath. “I thought it was safe here.”

“Well, isn’t it?” Alex says. “He can’t touch you here.”

“The dorms close on Tuesday,” Jack reminds him tonelessly. “Winter break.”

“So you come home with me,” Alex says, spinning around to face him. “Laf and I will take you back with us. George and Martha will be delighted to have you, and-”

“I can’t.” Laurens’ voice is utterly flat. “I have to go home and face up to it.”

“No, you don’t! The Washingtons-”

“I have to think about the kids,” Jack says. He’s calm now, utterly calm and composed, which is just wild because Alexander feels like his own heart is about to explode with how hard it’s pounding. “That - I didn’t even think about them before I decided to go. I forgot.”

“But they’re not going to be in trouble, are they? You’re the only one who dared to step out of line.”

“I have to be home before he is,” Jack says. He stands up, puts on his coat like a soldier going to war, looks down at Alex soberly. “Thank you, for everything.” It sounds horribly like a goodbye.

Alex jumps up, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t go,” he says. It sounds more like pleading.

Jack manages to laugh, somehow, a little huff of air that hangs between them. “I’m not leaving until Tuesday, Hamilton.”

Tuesday. He has two days to figure this out.

~~~~~

He doesn’t.

~~~~~

He makes coherent, cogent arguments at Laurens for two days. He writes some of them down, aware that he has always been better at persuasive writing than at speaking. He threatens to bring in outside help - Angelica, maybe, because she’s the most brilliant person he knows other than himself.

Jack listens, and nods agreeably, and keeps packing his belongings. Jack doesn’t pick holes in his arguments or disagree with him on any substantive parts. He does forbid Alex to bring anyone else into the discussion, and Alex has to respect that as much as he hates it because he knows a little about having secrets, about the need to keep them from others. Jack is calm and reasonable and immovable.

If Alex didn’t see his hands shaking sometimes, he might think it was genuine. He notices that Laurens doesn’t open his computer, and suspects there are a number of unread emails he’s trying to avoid. But avoiding the topic is only going to buy him so much time.

Alex plants himself in front of the door on Tuesday morning, after every other stalling technique has failed. All the exams are finished, the papers turned in, and they have to be out of the dorm by 11 that morning. Jack has all his things packed neatly in two bags, his keys in his hand. He rolls his eyes at Alex.

“Are you going to chain yourself to my car next?”

“Would that work?” Alex says hopefully. Jack shakes his head, looking at him with the stupidest crooked little smile, and Alex feels the whole world tilt on its axis. Oh, shit. Again.

“It’s going to be fine, Hamilton.” It’s so wrong that Laurens is trying to assure him, but Alex reaches for the surety that his friend is projecting. He has to believe him, because otherwise he’s not going to be able to let him walk out the door.

“Is it?”

Jack shrugs. “It always is.” He stands up, shouldering his bags. “It’ll be fine. He’ll have had a few days to get over the shock already.”

“And what if-”

“Alexander.” Jack cuts him off, stepping close enough to put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re the closest friend I’ve got. I don’t want to have to fight you on this. I have to go.”

“I don’t have to like it,” Alex says stubbornly. He grabs Jack’s arm in return. “You are coming back, though?”

“Let him try to stop me.” Jack is serious, solemn, and about a thousand miles away already. “Have a good Christmas, Alexander.”

Impulsively, Alex flings himself forward and grabs Jack in a tight hug. “You too,” he says, voice muffled. “Be careful.”

Jack hesitates a long moment, then returns the embrace. Alex tries to memorize the moment - but it’s over so soon, and he has to move away from the door. He watches Laurens walk down the hall and turn the corner, and it feels horribly familiar. He’s watched too many people walk away.

~~~~~~

Lafayette has to basically force him into the Uber to the train station, because his mind is a million miles away. He hates everything about the situation, hates everything in the whole world. There’s a hole in the middle of him that he’s felt too many times before, with the loss of too many parts of his world.

“Have you figured it out, then?” Lafayette asks, somewhere along the train tracks.

“Yes,” Alex says reluctantly. It had taken Laurens leaving, with an empty, uncertain month of distance stretched ahead of them for him to realize what had probably been apparent to everyone else for ages now.

“He will return,” Laf says easily. “Or we will go and fetch him back. Our Laurens is very capable.”

“I hate him,” Alex says bitterly. “It’s not fair. I never asked for this.” Jack Laurens is the worst. He’s taken advantage of Alexander’s blind spots to somehow creep into his affections, and now Alex has to deal with all of that.

It hadn’t been anywhere in his plan. He had so many plans for college, for everything he wanted to learn and study and accomplish, for the ways he would set his path for the rest of his life. It was his opportunity to fix his entire future. He had set very clear expectations for himself, too - he knew how to avoid entangling himself with others, to keep from developing particular attachments. Or at least, he’d thought he did.

And it’s so, so typical of his life, he thinks bitterly. Of course he winds up with Jack Fucking Laurens being the object of his unwanted affections - Laurens, who is so bloody ignorant about everything that matters to Alex, who is clearly and impossibly out of his reach, who would run screaming if he had a clue how Alex actually felt. Laurens, who is going home to face who knows what kind of shit to protect his siblings, who is walking willingly into a place Alex wouldn’t go if he were dragged kicking and screaming. Laurens, with his stupid freckles and wide eyes and and curly hair and crooked grin. Alex is disgusted with everything in the entire world, himself included.

George and Martha pick them up at the train station nearest Mount Vernon, and Alex doesn’t apologize or explain when his eyes are wet when he hugs them. He’s silent on the ride home, letting Laf bear the burden of chatting with their quasi-adoptive parents, filling them in on the past few weeks. He’s careful, of course, because he’s Laf, and he doesn’t say anything about Laurens or Alex or how impossibly stupid he’s been. The Washingtons are amazing, and they let him keep his silence as long as he needs to.

Alex goes to try to text Jack so many times, looking for reassurance that he’s still out there, but puts his phone away every time, because Jack doesn’t have a phone anymore, and he couldn’t text him at home anyway. He’s entirely out of reach. Alex doesn’t even know where he lives, except it’s somewhere near Charleston, South Carolina; he doesn’t know what his home is like, or how his father treats him when he’s not smacking him around. He’s in a different world now, and there’s no bridge between them.

“I need to know about Henry Laurens,” he announces that night over dinner, the first thing he’s said in hours. George and Martha exchange glances.

“In what context?” George asks. “I think you’ve heard enough of my complaints about him in the course of our Senatorial interactions to have a pretty good idea of my opinion of the man’s politics.”

“No, I know all his political shit,” Alex says, waving that away. “What’s he like, personally?”

George shrugs. “As long as you don’t cross him, Laurens is extremely professional and courteous. Very well respected in the Senate, even by those who don’t like his politics. He’s an upstanding man, but he can be vicious if you get in his way, as I’ve found a few times, to my regret.” He chuckles a little. “I haven’t worked particularly closely with him in a number of years. He used to be kinder, more flexible.”

“What do you know of his family?” Laf asks, and Alex takes a moment to be grateful for his somewhat-brother’s tact.

Martha frowns, thinking. “His wife was lovely - we used to run in a lot of the same circles, naturally. Eleanor was a very kind woman, with such a large heart. She doted on all of her children, and used to bring them everywhere with her. It was so sad when she passed.” She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen any of those little ones since. I wonder about them, sometimes. Henry would be so outnumbered by them, on his own.”

Alex blinks. He hadn’t quite put the facts together, somehow. Henry Laurens’ wife had died, some time ago. Jack has lost his mother, too - but he’s never said a word about her. Of course, Alex hasn’t mentioned his own mother, either. Some things are too private to share.

“How many did they have?” George asks, frowning.

“I’m afraid I lost track,” Martha says sadly. “There were several who - didn’t make it. Four, I think?”

“Five,” Alex says absently. “Does he ever talk about them - his kids?”

“We’re not exactly friends,” George points out.

“Do you know anyone who knows him better? Anyone who might be able to check on them?” Alex pushes.

“Alexander, what’s going on?” Martha asks. “This seems important to you.”

Alex takes a deep breath. Laf shakes his head, but Laf isn’t the one who has seen the most direct evidence. Laf can keep out of it, if he wants. Alex can’t.

“He’s abusing them,” Alex says bluntly. “I’m sure of it. Emotionally at least, all of them - he’s controlling, like I’ve never seen. And Jack-”

“Alexander,” Laf warns. “It is not your story to tell.”

Alex turns on him. “And he won’t, so I have to. Someone has to do something!”

He feels guilty, like he’s breaking a confidence, but Jack never said he couldn’t tell people. His hand slips to his phone, but it’s useless. He can’t reach Jack, can’t assure himself of his safety. His arms aren’t long enough - but Washington’s might be.

He lays the story out for them quickly, the parts he knows and the parts he suspects. The way the younger children look to Jack for protection; the way he came back beaten and bruised and refused to tell Alex what had happened; his reaction to the newspaper coverage of the rally. Martha’s hand is over her mouth, looking shocked; George looks grimly unsurprised.

“I’ve never seen or heard anything to suggest this before,” he says, “but I can’t be entirely surprised. Laurens is not a man who handles disagreements well, especially not when he considers himself to be in authority. I don’t imagine he would take well to his son so publicly speaking out against him.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I don’t think it will be good,” Alex tells them. “And his father took away his phone, so it’s going to be much harder for Jack to let anyone know if things go wrong.”

Martha turns to George, steely certainty in every line of her being. “Dear, we are going to do something about this.”

“Yes!” Alex says, jumping to his feet. “I say we call the cops. They can be there in no time-”

Lafayette scoffs at him. “Do you know our Laurens? Do you think there is any way he would allow the police to see what is going on? He would send them away none the wiser, and he would bear his father’s anger.”

“No, that isn’t the way,” Martha says firmly. “George, why don’t you call Philip Schuyler? He still does that annual holiday gala, doesn’t he? We should get him to invite Laurens and his children. I don’t think Henry would turn down the opportunity to rub elbows at an elite event like that.”

“No, you’re right,” George muses. “Especially if he thinks he might be able to gain more political support for his bill. I doubt he would bring the children, though. He never seems willing to allow them to be seen in public, with the exception of the oldest - Jack, is it?”

“Yes,” Alex says. It’s so close to being a workable idea, he’s almost frantic. “We need to convince him. He’s got to bring Jack.”

“Angelica and Eliza, perhaps?” Laf suggests. “If they were to host their own gathering at the same time and invite the children of all the guests? If everyone else were to bring their children, the pressure on Laurens to do the same would be great, no?”

And just like that, they have a plan, and Alexander’s anxiety goes down a few notches. He still can’t get to Jack, and has no clue what is going on at the Laurens’ home, but there’s hope that they’ll be able to make contact in a week or so, rather than having to wait all month.

It takes all of Laf and the Washington’s powers of persuasion to settle him down over the next few days, but eventually the certainty that they’re doing everything they can helps, and he’s able to mostly quiet the circuitous ramblings of his mind. He also writes vicious screeds against Laurens that he knows he can never publish, but it helps curb the impulse to run down to Charleston and start going door-to-door.

A week after they got home, Alex gets a letter in the mail - like, an actual paper-and-pen letter. It’s addressed to A. Hamilton in neat, childish print, and he gives himself a wicked papercut ripping it open. A few papers tumble out, folded together, and he makes himself sit down and sort them out.

The first is a letter from Jemmy Laurens, who Alex now officially adores and will see knighted before the whole world, if he has his say.

“Dear Alexander,” it reads. “You still haven’t sent me your experiment results. Jacky says I shouldn’t bother you about them, but you did promise, and Jacky says we should always keep our promises.” He has doodled another squashed toad or two, presumably to remind Alex of what he’s meant to be sending, and Alex laughs. “Jacky gave me your address and said maybe we can still be penpals? I would like that. I’m almost ten now, and I’ve never had a penpal but you. Could you write back? Yours, James Laurens.” The signature is in wobbly, childish cursive, and Alex looks at it fondly, and then snatches up the envelope. Yes, Jemmy has included his return address, bless his little heart.

He snatches up the other pieces of paper hopefully - and yes, that’s Jack’s handwriting. It’s a small piece of paper, and his writing is crowded in.

“Hamilton, I can hear you ranting from here. Stop it - poor Laf doesn’t deserve to have to put up with your nonsense. Everything is fine. Not great, but it will be fine, as long as I can persuade my father not to make me transfer to Liberty or somewhere like that. I have to figure out how to make him believe I’m truly contrite, and that your corrupting influence isn’t ruining me. Good thing I’ve got time to do that. No computer, so your plan of parchment and quill-pen seems best. If you write back to Jemmy, you can get a note to me if you want. Yrs - J. Laurens.”

He puts the letter down carefully, smoothing it flat with fingers that trembled a little from relief. He wasn’t sure what he’d thought - but of course Laurens wasn’t going to do anything drastic. He might be mean when he drank, but Jack was still his son. Everything is going to be fine.

There’s one more bit of paper, folded in half, and he unfolds it and squints at the unfamiliar hand.

“Hamilton - Jack isn’t OK, don’t believe him if he says he is. Dad is furious. Won’t let him out of his room. Says he’s not going back to school, if he’s so feeble-minded he can be led astray in a matter of weeks. If Jack doesn’t break, dad’ll make him. If you’re his friend, figure out a way out. - H. Laurens, Jr.”

Laf comes in and finds him kicking his garbage can around the room, ranting in a mixture of all the languages he knows. Alex stops dead and points at him.

“I need paper. Right now. And stamps, do we have stamps, I don’t even know how stamps work, damn it all, Laf.”

Lafayette raises both eyebrows at him, which is a very clear signal that he’d better explain himself right away. He can’t. He waves at the papers on his desk and collapses face-first onto his bed, and tries so, so hard not to think. Laf reads in silence for a minute, and then curses in truly foul French, and Alex knows they’re on the same page.

“What are we to do?” Laf asks. He sits on the bed beside Alex, unusually downcast.

“Write,” Alex says. It’s what he does best.

Chapter Text

“Master James Laurens,” Alex writes grandly. “Allow me to apologize for my delay in responding to your scientific report. Sadly, by the time I was able to find a toad for my own experiment, I no longer had your brother to try it on. I hope that this may make up for the lack.” He has included both pictures and his own badly-drawn renditions of a thoroughly disgusted-looking toad coming face-to-face with a sleepy Lafayette. It had been a bit of an effort to obtain one, but he owed Jemmy. “Please assure Jacky that his turn will be at hand once we are all back in the same place. I would love to continue being your penpal. I am nineteen, and have not yet had a penpal, either.” He’s included a quick sketch of himself looking despondent over the lack of correspondent. “Do your best to look after Jacky for me, would you? I’ll need him in top form to participate in our experiment. I’m sending a letter along for him, as well. Yours, scientifically, A. Hamilton.”

On a separate page, he writes to Jack, and hopes he can trust a nine-year-old with this information and the responsibility of delivering letters.

“Jack Laurens, you absolute moron. You have no idea how worried I’ve been, do you care nothing for my anxiety, how dare you tax my nerves this way? Etc. Is that the sort of ranting you’re looking for? Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, I must tell you I approve entirely of Jemmy and would trade him for you in a heartbeat; he is of the highest quality.

I hate this, Laurens. I’ve made all the jokes I can think of. We both know this isn’t fine. Do whatever - absolutely whatever - you must to get your dad to let you come back. Liberty University might as well be the moon for all the good it’ll do anyone, don’t go there, come back, etc. I can’t make proper arguments in this format. I’m useless with a pen. Throw me under any bus you can find if it’ll convince him to send you back with us. I’ll even move back in with Jefferson if I have to, as long as you can come back.

I’m absolutely furious with you, by the way. You’ve gotten me used to your obnoxious habits and stupid sleep schedule and horrible fashion sense and I find I miss them all. I will only forgive you if you come back in one piece. Yours, ink-splattered and paper-cut, A. Hamilton.

P.S. We are organizing a shindig at the Schuylers’ place. You absolutely have to come, I shall go mad if I’m stuck with only Laf for company.”

Martha has stamps and the archaic knowledge of how to use them, and he sends the letters off the very next day, and then stomps around cursing the slowness of the mail and the ridiculousness of letter-writing until George sends him to chop firewood to use up some of his nerves.

Two days there, he figures, and two days for a return. He haunts the mailbox like a ghost all day Saturday, and snatches the mail out of the delivery-woman’s hand before she can say a word. When he finds another letter from Jemmy, he barely stops to throw the rest of the mail on the kitchen table before tearing into it.

Jemmy has sent him a carefully drawn picture of all five of the Laurens’ children, better than anything Alexander could ever hope to draw, and a letter, but he sets those aside and looks for one from Jack.

“Hamilton, you are a madman. Tell the Washingtons to cut your caffeine rations in half before you die of stress and overdosing on coffee. Stop worrying. I told you, everything will work out somehow. My father has already announced we’re all to attend the Schuylers’ reception, and we’re having etiquette poured into our skulls until we’re liable to drown in manners.

Don’t even joke about moving in with Jefferson, we’d all suffer horribly. I think I can work my father around about coming back; if you see us at the reception, remember that we’re mortal enemies and that I can’t stand you. Seriously, stay away.

Don’t tell anyone I said so, but I wish I were there now, back at school. Please write again if you can. You have no idea how much I - well. Write, please. Yrs, dying of boredom, J. Laurens.”

This time, he has paper and pens and stamps and everything ready.

~~~~~

The Schuyler’s reception is at their mansion in upstate New York, and is being held two days after Christmas. Alexander has struggled to enjoy anything about the holidays this year, and is counting down the days until they get back to school. He feels guilty, wishing away the time he has with the Washingtons, but there’s a drumbeat in his ears that he can’t ignore, reminding him at all times of Jack, Jack, Jack. Laf doesn’t even make fun of him, which is how Alex can tell that he’s taking it seriously, too.

The Washingtons spend a lot of time talking quietly to one another, and Alex would be curious, but he doesn’t have the mental bandwidth to be curious about anything right now. He’s so focused on the Laurens Problem, as he’s calling the entire mess, that he barely remembers to sign up for classes for the spring semester. He decides, after some thought, to take a slightly less-taxing course load; his first semester has shown him that he needs more bandwidth to be able to manage personal issues as well as his academic life. He’s relieved, looking online, to see that nothing has changed in the online portal as far as his housing assignment goes. As far as the university is concerned, John Laurens is coming back in the spring.

Christmas is always a bit of a rough time for Alex, anyway. There are too many memories from his childhood, from the rough years he tries not to think about, and the holidays have a way of sticking with him. The Washingtons get that; everything is very low key and non-stressful, and Alex mostly hates the holidays for how they slow down letters between Mount Vernon and Charleston. They’ve gotten a few sets back and forth; Jemmy has filled Alex in on the fact that his twin sisters have celebrated their birthday, that his own tenth birthday is coming up in January, and that his brother Henry Jr. has gotten married. That shocks Alex, since he knows Henry Jr. is younger than Jack, and it doesn’t seem like anyone their age has any business getting married. But whatever, that’s not really his problem.

Jemmy’s letters are actually far more informative than Jack’s. Jack won’t say anything about what’s going on at home except to repeat that everything will be fine, which has stopped sounding comforting. Alex tries to keep his own letters upbeat, feeling that they’re serving as something of a lifeline for his friend. Jack always asks him to keep writing, and so he does. It feels a bit old-fashioned and ridiculous, but there’s something reassuring about having physical letters from Jack, as proof of his continued existence.

The 27th comes, after way too long, and Alex can hardly sit still on the trip up to New York. They’re lucky that the weather has been clear; there’s no snow to speak of, only mud. That feels appropriate. George and Martha are dressed to the nines, and he and Lafayette aren’t looking too shabby, either. Martha has made them both put their hair up properly and wear shoes that have been shined sometime this decade, which seems like overkill to Alex.

Everyone is there. It doesn’t seem like a surprise to any of them, but Alex hasn’t been a politician’s son his whole life, and he’s not used to the elite circles of power in which so many of his acquaintances travel. He sees Jefferson, who looks like he wants to puke on Alex’s green suit, and Jim Madison, Jack’s old roommate. He needs to remember to thank Jefferson someday for having been so impossible to live with. Burr is wandering the perimeter, shaking hands and talking to anyone who will make time for him; Alex is reminded of the fact that he’s not the only orphan there. The Schuylers are there, of course, Angelica and Eliza and their little sister Peggy all organizing and entertaining the section of the party that’s intended for the younger people. There are lots of little kids wandering around, and Alex doesn’t have any clue which ones go with which parents. He doesn’t really care; he only has his eyes open for Laurens’ children.

They’re very clever, it turns out. It must run in the family. He spots one of the twin girls first, who manages to redirect him without looking like she’s even noticed him; she points him to a girl who looks like her exact double, a ways down the hall, and Alex motions to Laf to provide a distraction so he can slip away. Laf gathers children around him to watch a noisy display of his juggling prowess (Laf can’t juggle), and Alex slips down the hall. The second twin eyes him carefully.

“You got him in a lot of trouble,” she whispers. “He says it’s his fault, but he never did things like this before.”

“I never meant to, I swear,” Alex promises. “I never would.” She looks at him for a long moment, and then motions for him to follow her. Around the corner, in a quiet little parlor, he finds Jemmy sitting anxiously still.

“Alexander!” The little boy’s excitement is contagious.

“My fellow scientist!” Alex shakes his hand solemnly. “It’s good to finally meet you in person.” He casts a quick, calculating glance over both of the children, and at the other twin, who has snuck into the room as well. None of them look hurt or injured at all, thank goodness. “Is Jack here?”

“He’s here,” a twin says. He thinks it may be Mary. “Our father isn’t going to let him out of sight, though.”

“And your other brother- Henry Jr?”

“Not here,” the twin who might be Martha says. “On his honeymoon.” Alex raises an eyebrow, surprised by how disapproving the children look about that, but it isn’t important right now.

“You can’t go and be his friend,” Jemmy says solemnly. “Not tonight. Jacky said to tell you that.”

Alex looks at all three of them. They don’t look very much like Jack - all of them with straight blonde hair and their father’s pale complexion, but there’s such a similarity in their eyes, in the way they’re all watching him. They’ve all got Jack’s watchfulness, he realizes; not exactly an ideal familial trait to share. They’re looking at him like Jack used to, when he was always waiting for Alex to sneer another side-comment about him or insult anyone with the surname Laurens.

“I’ve got to see him. Is he all right?” Alex asks, keeping his voice low.

“He says he is,” probably-Mary says.

“He always says that,” probably-Martha chimes in. “He thinks we won’t know what daddy does if he pretends it didn’t happen.”

Alex nods. “Can you tell me what’s been happening?”

“Jack doesn’t want us to,” Jemmy says. He seems a hell of a lot older than nine right now. “He says you’ll just worry and do something stupid.”

Alex forces himself to laugh, to look the little boy in the face. “What Jack doesn’t know is that I’m already doing both of those things,” he says, like it’s a secret.

“Daddy said he had to teach him a lesson,” a twin says. “But it’s been worse than usual. He didn’t let Jack come out of his room after - only for Henry Jr’s wedding.”

“He took away all his books and things!” Jemmy adds, horrified. “He said Jack’s getting bad ideas from places.”

Alex doesn’t swear, because there are children present, but he really really wants to. The idea of Jack locked in a room for weeks without anything to read or do - his skin crawled with the very thought of that much empty time and empty space for thoughts to run free.

“And did -” he doesn’t want to use Henry Jr’s words, doesn’t want to say break, because these are children. “Did Jack agree with him? Does he say your father is right?”

The twins nod in unison. “Yes,” they say, but neither of them sounds certain. “Well, he finally did,” one of them adds. “He actually argued back at first.”

“That’s what’s your fault, I think,” the other one says quietly.

“Look,” Alex says. He sits down on a couch, not wanting to be so much taller than all of them. “I can tell you all love your brother a lot. He’s very important to me, too. I want to help him - and all of you. Do you think you could tell other people - like, maybe, the police or a social worker, about what’s going on?”

They draw together as if by instinct, eyes wide. “We can’t,” they say in unison. Alex wishes he were surprised.

“It’ll be worse if we do,” Jemmy says, absolutely certain. “They’ll take us away.”

“That might not be the worst thing,” Alex suggests. “I’ve lived with foster families before.”

“They won’t, anyway,” Martha corrects her brother. “Henry Jr. and Jack both agree.” She looks at Alex, eyes old in the way that Jack’s are. “Rich white families with political influence who live in nice houses don’t get their kids taken away.”

“Ok, I get it,” he says. The fact of how right she is makes his stomach turn. “Just - think about it, though? There are people who can help. I needed help when I was a kid, too.”

They’re still watching warily, like he’s a form of danger himself, and Alex can’t stay away anymore. He has to see Jack for himself. He gets up, and makes himself smile at them again. “You’re a credit to your brother,” he says. “Now I think we’d better scatter, don’t you? I’ve got to see him for myself, but I don’t plan on getting caught. I think I’ve caused you enough trouble already.”

They’re gone in a moment, and Alex goes looking for Angelica.

“The Laurens’ kids,” he says when he finds her. “Three of them, blonde, skittish? Can you find them and maybe just spoil them horribly? Give them anything they could possibly want, just for tonight? I’ll owe you.”

“You’ll owe me the story of what’s going on here, buddy,” she warns, but she doesn’t object.

He makes his way into the main rooms of the house, wandering through the reception, eyes open for only one person.

When he spots them, Jack and Henry, he has to clap a hand over his mouth to shut himself up. Jack is there, closer than he’s been in weeks, but he looks so distant he might as well be back in South Carolina. He’s dressed in one of his stupid tuxedos again, his hair pulled back so tightly it looks like it’s giving him a headache; Alex can’t really see his face, because Jack is looking at nothing but the floor. He looks so weary, though, just in the way he stands and holds his shoulders, that Alex aches. He looks thin, too - worn down, maybe.

His father is less than six inches away, keeping one hand on the back of Jack’s neck as he talks and laughs with other guests. It would look fond, paternal, Alex thinks furiously, if you didn’t know the whole story. Jack isn’t talking or laughing, just looking down. Alex sidles closer, moving around behind the Laurens’ little tableau, knowing he can’t let Henry see him if his face looks half as dangerous as it feels right now.

He gets close enough to be able to hear some of Laurens’ conversation. He’s found some other prominent Republicans to talk to, and seems to be regaling them with a version of the story of the rally.

“So, of course, as soon as I saw the paper, I knew what was going on, of course. You can’t trust these liberal, elite institutions. Nothing like they were back in our day, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to say that our Jack had been listening to a little too much of that socialist propaganda they try to infect all our kids with, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack says, still looking down. He sounds very contrite.

“Oh, Henry, how awful!” an older woman says, putting a hand to her heart in an affected manner. “What on earth are you going to do about it?”

“Well, we did discuss transferring Jack to a more appropriate learning environment,” Henry says jovially. “But he made a good argument for the school’s reputation. As good as some of our conservative programs are, they don’t have the lengthy track records of the more established schools. His chances at law school will be much better with the proper credentials on his undergraduate education.”

Alex clenches a fist in silent celebration. That’s the best sign he’s had yet that Jack hasn’t given up fighting.

“But how can you be sure the problem won’t continue?” the nauseating woman asks, looking at Jack like he is the problem in question.

“Oh, we’ve had some good talks over this Christmas break,” Henry says, smiling tightly. “I think Jack has a much better understanding of the stakes of the matter now. He won’t be led astray so easily again, will you, son?”

“No, sir.”

Alex wants to be sick, or dash over and punch Henry Laurens and pull Jack away, drag him back to Mount Vernon - but he can’t, he can’t move a muscle because Jack is pulling it off. He’s got his father talked into sending him back to school, just like they’d hoped. He cannot mess this up. He backs away, and goes to find Martha.

“Can you see if you can get close, maybe try to get Jack away from him for a little while?” he asks. “Laf and I can’t do it, he’ll know we’re trouble from school, and George sure as hell can’t. I somehow doubt he’ll know you, though. He doesn’t seem the type to pay attention to other people’s families, especially since he doesn’t give a shit about his own -”

“Language, dear, we’re in civilized company,” Martha says kindly. She squeezes his hand. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She mingles her way across the room, exchanging hugs and kisses with various acquaintances, shaking hands and making small talk. Alex tenses up when she gets to Laurens, but the man greets her with all the political refinement George had said he was capable of. He gets close enough to be able to hear; some people look at him strangely, as this involves crouching behind a sofa, but he really doesn’t care.

“Now, Senator Laurens,” Martha is saying winningly. “I wonder if I might borrow your son for a little while? You see, I’ve learned the young ladies of this family have graciously volunteered to entertain all the youngsters tonight - an admirable feat, given the prodigious blessings of children we seem to have, as a group!” Everyone in her circle smiles and nods. Alex had known she’d be amazing at this. “I thought perhaps some of our young men could volunteer to assist them as well. Might not be a bad chance for them to make some friends their own age?”

Henry frowns for a moment, his fingers not moving from the back of Jack’s neck - but then he takes note of the expressions of those around him and lets go, patting his shoulder instead. “Sounds like an excellent idea! I’ve been telling Jack it’s about time he made a few more friends among the fairer sex, eh?” He pats his shoulder again. “Go make yourself useful, son.”

Martha smiles at him and has Jack’s arm in hers in a second, whisking him away before Henry can change his mind. Alex throws himself across the room, darting through the crowd and placing himself at the entrance to the children’s side of the party, just around the corner where he’s sure Henry won’t spot him.

Martha walks him around the corner, and Alex runs at him, so fucking relieved to see him alive and well-

Jack backs up, yanking his arm away from Martha, moving until his back is against the wall. “Don’t-” he says fast. “Not here, not now, don’t touch me-”

Alex stops short, bewildered. “Of course,” he says, his mouth on autopilot. “Are you OK?”

Jack smiles, tight and distant. “I’m fine,” he says. He doesn’t move. “Are the kids OK? They’re not causing trouble, are they?” He addresses the question to Martha.

“They’re being absolutely perfect,” she assures him, still smiling. If Alex didn’t know her so well, he would have no idea how worried she was; she used to look at him that way when he first came to them, barely holding himself together. “Please don’t worry yourself about them.”

Jack raises an eyebrow, and Alex knows instantly what he means - he’s always worried about them, it’s his job, what else would he possibly be doing - and he wonders how the hell he learned to read Laurens’ mind. Martha looks between them and excuses herself, and Alex wants so badly to reach out and grab John, make sure that he’s really there and whole and well. He keeps his hands at his sides.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “I know a place where we can talk.”

Jack looks torn for a moment, glancing back where he just came from, and then nods acquiescence. “I can’t be gone long,” he whispers. Alex nods and takes off for the quiet parlor where he had met with the other Laurens’ children half an hour before, and Jack follows him silently.

He looks around the room suspiciously, but finally nods and sits on the sofa, perched on the edge as if prepared to take flight. Alexander runs through the list of questions he desperately needs to ask. If he asks Jack about himself or what’s been going on, he knows Jack’s going to lie, and he can’t handle that right now.

“Are you coming back?” he asks, because it’s the question on which everything else hangs.

“As long as I don’t screw up again, he’s going to let me,” Jack says quietly. “One last chance.”

Alex lets out a deep breath. All that matters right now is getting Jack back safely; they can make a plan afterwards, make sure Henry can’t get his hands on his son again. “Have you blackened my name sufficiently to dispel any suggestions that you’re being brainwashed by me?” Jack just looks at him, long and deep, and Alex throws up his hands. “Damn it, Laurens, I don’t care what you say about me! Just - you can’t throw away your shot. You have to come back with us.”

“You have no idea how badly I want to,” Jack says. He sounds so tired Alex wants to cry. “If it weren’t for the kids-” he breaks off, straightening and brightening up. “Hey, squirt.”

Jemmy is peeking around the door, and at Jack’s greeting he runs forward, flinging himself into his brother’s arms. Jack catches him reflexively, but Alex hears the sharp hiss of breath, sees how he favors his right arm, and he narrows his eyes.

“Jacky,” the little boy whispers, not quietly enough. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Jack says; his voice is a little rough. “You’re doing so well, Jemmy. Keep it up, huh?”

Jemmy nods, tightening his arms around his brother’s neck. “Don’t let him send you back in there,” he begs.

“I’ll do my best,” Jack promises. “Are you having a good time at the party?”

Jemmy nods, slipping down to stand on his feet again, neatening his formal clothing. “Everyone is so nice,” he says wonderingly.

“Go on, enjoy it,” Jack says, laughing a little. He neatens Jemmy’s hair and gives him a push toward the door. “See if the girls will teach you their dance the next time that song comes on.”

“OK,” Jemmy agrees. He darts to the door, glances back for Jack’s encouraging nod, and takes off again.

Jack buries his face in his hands. “Shut up, Hamilton,” he says preemptively.

“I haven’t even started yet!” Alex protests. “What the hell is wrong with your arm?”

“Can we not?” Jack asks plaintively. “I’ll get someone to look at it when we’re back on campus, if it’s still a problem.”

“Yeah, good, great,” Alex snaps. “So what, you go back home for another two weeks and he locks you up like a prisoner? How much good are you doing the kids that way?”

“Shut up,” Jack says again, but this time it sounds like he means it. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“So tell me! I don’t understand why you keep letting him do this to you! You could walk away, or fight back, or tell someone!” Alex reaches out imploringly, and Jack flinches away again. He hates everything.

“Because he has the kids, and I don’t.” John’s voice is barely a whisper. “He can take them away from me if I mess up again, and there’s nothing I can do about it. He could hurt them, Alexander. It wouldn’t matter if I was free to do whatever I wanted, if they were still with him.”

“So what are you gonna do?” Alex asks, his own voice little louder.

Jack shrugs, his eyes bleak and distant. “Toe the line, I guess, until they’re old enough to get out. Maybe when I’m established on my own I can do more, but that’s years away.”

Alex swallows hard. Jack is so tired and worn down; there’s no fight left in him right now. Unbidden, his hand goes to his phone, where he’s changed his wallpaper; where Laurens, burning with passion, holds his sign aloft - Rise Up. The boy in front of him doesn’t look like the same person.

Lafayette pokes his head around the corner. “Heads up - Laurens is on the move. You don’t want him to find you here, alone.” He darts away, and Jack and Alex both jump to their feet.

“You do whatever you have to do,” Alex mutters fiercely. “Whatever it is you have to say. You get out of there and come back to us, do you hear me?” He looks at Jack for a long moment, taking in every bit of him he can, and then he can’t take it any longer. He moves forwards, presses a kiss to Jack’s forehead - a benediction, a good word to take with him. Jack doesn’t move. “But don’t you forget, John Laurens,” he says when he pulls back. “You are every bit as worth fighting for as those kids.”

He has to go then, even though Jack is staring at him like that, because if they’re caught like this, he’ll never see Jack again. He nearly runs from the room, taking a back passage in the blind hope that it’ll keep him off Laurens’ radar.

They’re going to get Jack back, and then they’re going to figure out what to do. He grits his teeth and swears under his breath, straightening himself up before he enters the reception again. He is never, ever going to allow either of them to be in this place again. He’s spent too much of his life feeling this helpless.

Chapter Text

It’s an impossibly big feeling, John thinks, staring up at the front door of his dormitory. It’s like coming home, but without any of the difficult feelings wrapped up with the house that he’d just left. He hadn’t been sure until even that morning that his father would really allow him to return, and during his whole, long drive north, John had been nervously listening for a phone call demanding he return home. His father had been doing a lot of that in the past week or two - giving orders just to make sure he obeyed, reminding him in every possible way that his compliance was not optional.

He thoughtlessly shifts his dufflebag to his right shoulder, and drops it with a little yelp. At least no-one was around to see his mistake; he grabs it again with his left, and makes for the dorm. People are starting to trickle back onto campus a little at a time, and he waves at a few familiar faces, finding himself starting to smile without his own permission. He’s back; he’s far enough away that as long as he’s careful and follows the rules, his father won’t be breathing down the back of his neck. No-one telling him where to go, where to stay, when he can eat and sleep. He’s back in control of his own life - within the parameters he’s been set, of course.

As he unlocks his door and slips into his dorm room, he’s suddenly very glad Alexander isn’t back yet. Not that he doesn’t want to see him - he’s missed Hamilton horribly, far more than he’d expected - but a few minutes to collect himself and start settling in are very welcome. He starts unloading the items he’d taken home with him, putting things back in their proper places, putting himself back together at the same time. He’d felt like he was falling apart, the last few days.

It had all been - awful, really, if he lets himself admit it, and he tries not to dwell on the first day. Then it had just been a long, slow, lonely wait for anything to happen - until yesterday, when the other shoe dropped. He doesn’t know if he believes, even now, that his father would carry out his threats. He wants to keep John in line, obviously, and even after the last month, and all John has done to try to convince him that he’ll toe the line, he’s not really confident John will do what he’s told.

It’s a shame that James has developed such a taste for heights, his father had said, not even bothering to look at John. He had watched out the window into their backyard, where Jemmy had gotten himself up high enough in a tree that only his feet were visible. I do worry about what might happen if he is not properly supervised. It would be a tragedy if your behavior were to distract me enough that something might happen to your brother.

John has to stop and breathe deeply, closing his eyes for a moment to push away the wave of fear that threatens to overwhelm him. His father has never threatened one of the other kids in such stark tones; usually, John is just worried that he’ll lose his temper when he’s had a bit too much to drink. The clear threat, though - that’s new, just like locking him up had been. He doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s not a sudden loss of control. It’s deliberate and thoughtful, and John is more scared than he can let himself admit.

He breathes again, pushes it all into the back of his mind, moves forward. He puts his clothes away, and packs away the memories he’s done thinking about. He doesn’t need any of them now - not his father’s lectures or the roar of his anger letting loose, not the long, lonely days with nothing to do but hope for a letter from Alexander or a conversation through the door with one of the kids. John hangs up the new picture he’s brought back, of himself and all his siblings at Henry Jr’s wedding, and, for just a moment, lets himself think about the moment at the Schuylers’ party. He’s been holding onto that moment for two weeks, puzzling it over, trying to make sense of it. Alexander kissing his forehead, like he was something precious.

He puts that memory away, too. This is not the time or place.

“Laurens!” It’s Alexander, roaring at the door. “For the love of liberty, man, open the door if you’re in there!”

He can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face as he goes to let Alex in. Alexander Hamilton is an absolutely horrible roommate, a frustration beyond all bearing, and surely the cause of most of his problems. He couldn’t be happier to see him.

“My dear Hamilton,” he says, letting his voice drawl lazily, showing the contentment he’s found in coming home. “Were you raised by wolves? Have you no manners?”

Alex grins back at him from behind an enormous stack of bags, books, papers, and containers that John is sure are more treats from Martha Washington. “No, but I really should have been. Children raised by wolves have a pretty good track record of making history.”

“Or getting killed,” John points out. He closes the door, and then shakes his head in disapproval as Alex lets his burdens scatter all over the room (except the books, of course - those, Alex lavishes tender care upon).

Alex frowns down at the mess. “I think Martha made me bring everything in the kitchen - except what she forced on Laf, of course.” He holds up the ends of his brand new, soft-looking scarf. “And she knit this for me. Who even does that anymore?”

“She seemed really nice,” John agrees, even though he’s trying not to think about the previous month or the time he’d actually met Martha Washington.

“Yeah. She and George are kind of the best,” Alex says fondly, and then spins on John. “Get your coat, Laurens, let’s go!”

“Go - where?” John asks, dumbfounded.

“New classes start tomorrow. I don’t know about you, but I still need to get my course books, and the damned administration messed something up with my scholarship and they haven’t disbursed the money they’re supposed to yet, so I need to get that straightened out right now.”

“And you need me along why?” John asks. He’s already putting his coat on, though, because he knows he’s going to come along; that’s never been in question.

“I have been deprived of company for a full month, Laurens,” Alex says haughtily. “Do you know how frustrating it gets, not having anyone to talk to except the same three people, especially when they already know everything you have to talk about because you’ve all been together nonstop for a month?”

“Yes,” John says drily. Hamilton looks at him over one shoulder, eyes as sharp and incisive as ever, a twist of something heartbroken in the shape of his mouth.

“Please notice how I’m letting that comment go,” Hamilton says formally. “”Letting it slide on by without comment, because I’ve promised myself that I will give you one hour of peace before I start pestering.”

“This really should count against that time limit, then,” John shoots back. “It feels a lot like pestering already.”

“Just you wait!” Alex grins at him, bright and dangerous. “Now come on, we have bureaucracy to defeat.”

John is swept up in his energy and enthusiasm, just like he always is, and finds himself grinning broadly as Alexander chatters all across campus, not stopping to breathe. It’s not until he’s fidgeting in the administration building behind Alex - “It’s Alexander. A-L-E-X-A-N - no, there’s no Z, why would there be a Z? Who spells Alexander with a Z?” - that he remembers he was supposed to check in with his father as soon as he arrived. He yanks off his gloves to send a text, and then another to apologize for having been late. There’s no reply; he isn’t expecting one.

“Get off the phone, Laurens, we’ve got to go find the Bursar,” Alex growls. “I’ve got a good mind to punch him.”

“Violence, Alexander? Is that really the answer?” John asks soberly, because he can be as much of a smart alec as anyone, and when Alex stutters to a halt, looking stricken, John laughs at him. “How long am I going to be able to get a rise out of you on that one?”

“How long until you can move your arm without looking like someone’s stabbing you?” Alex mutters, then shakes his head violently. “Nope, I promised an hour. You won’t tempt me to break my word that easily, Laurens. Come on. Bursar.”

They both find and manage to avoid damaging the Bursar, but Alex is left spluttering at the news that his scholarship funds can’t be disbursed until the beginning of the next week. He stomps along in a mood as they leave the building, hunching his shoulders against the wind.

“Now what am I supposed to do?” he grumbles. “Show up to class without books? What a fantastic way to make a good impression on the first day.” John lets him rant and rave, and wordlessly leads him along to the campus bookstore.

“Which books do you actually need before Monday?”

Alex shows him a few stacks, although there are more that he’s not likely to need right away. John calculates the total in his head, and rolls his eyes.

“This is not a problem. Get them now. I’ll pay for them.”

Alex glares at him with an unusual amount of actual heat; he hasn’t seen something so close to resentment since their first month or two together. It isn’t a nice reminder of those difficult days. “I’m not a charity case, Laurens.”

“I’m not particularly charitable, Hamilton,” he shoots back. “You’re obviously going to pay me back. It’s just rearranging funds for a few days.” He gathers up some of the books he needs, and turns to find Hamilton glowering at the books like they’ve personally wounded him.

“This shouldn’t even be a problem, if they’d done their job right,” he spits. “I earned that scholarship.”

“Everyone knows that, Alexander.”

He shakes his head, looking disgusted. “Washington would have bought them all for me, but I wouldn’t let him. I thought they’d have it sorted out by now.”

“It’s the very last thing you ought to be worrying about,” John says reasonably. He picks up a textbook for his introductory chemistry course and groans internally at the weight and size of the tome. “It’s just money.”

Alex laughs, but it’s sharp and bitter. “Easy for you to say, Laurens. I don’t have enough money to my name for Taco Pierre’s, let alone a bunch of overpriced, under-researched books assigned by professors who are so out of touch that they wouldn’t know the latest developments in the field if they were shot in the face by them.” He glares - at John, at the books, at the shop assistant who had looked like she might try to help them. She backs away.

“And like you said, that’s just a temporary state of affairs,” John protests.

“It really fucking isn’t,” Alex hisses. He’s flushed and angry now, and what’s worse - ashamed. John hates that. How can Alexander Hamilton feel something as absurd as shame for something as insignificant as his financial circumstances? “You have no idea what it’s like to want for anything, do you? I’ll never have anything I don’t work myself to the bone for.”

“Are you done?” John asks. He shifts the books to his right arm with hardly a grimace, and pulls out the letter his father had left for him this morning. “Dear Jack,” he reads aloud, stiffly. “My best wishes for an improved performance from you this upcoming semester. Do try to recall your lessons from this month, and remember that you ought at all times to strive for higher achievements in all fields. Your family name goes with you. I trust you will not repeat the follies of last year, or my only consolation will be that I did have a son such as you for a time.” He thrusts the letter toward Hamilton, who takes it gingerly, looking shocked. “It’s just money,” John says; he shrugs, and then winces. Bad idea. “It means nothing.”

“Laurens, I-” Alex says. John glares back at him, and he shuts up. Hamilton is about the meekest John has ever seen him as they gather books, wait in an impossibly long line to pay for them, and then make their way outside, to be greeted by a wind that cuts right through them. He huddles inside his new scarf. John looks away. He doesn’t have any right to be jealous of Alexander - and few would, given the tragedies of his life - but he’s standing there in a hand-knit reminder that he has people who love him.

It’s fine. John does, too. They just happen to be even more vulnerable than he is, and none of them can knit.

“I hate New York,” Alex grumbles.

“No, you don’t,” John assures him.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine. I hate everything else, though.”

John rolls his eyes. “I should just have let you punch the Bursar and get this out of your system. You’re not going to be this cranky for the first two months of this semester, are you? Because I already dealt with that once. I’ll go back to rooming with Jim Madison if I have to.”

Alexander looks legitimately worried about that. “No, no worries. Don’t even joke about that. I’ll be civil.” He glances sideways at John, and then steps in front of him, bringing him to a halt, as Alexander snatches the pile of books out of his arms. “You can start by letting me carry these.” John blinks at him in surprise. “Don’t think I can’t see you favoring that arm, Laurens. Your hour is long since up.”

“Oh, good,” John mutters. “This should be fun.”

“I’ll save it until we’re back in the dorm, but that’s it,” Alex warns, so John gets the fun of walking back with that hanging over his head. Perfect.

Laf and Herc are hanging out in their room when they get back - because of course they are. Laf views all property as communal property; John doesn’t even know where he got the key. There’s a round of greetings and well-wishes, which Hamilton ignores as he sorts through the books with high intensity, putting his carefully away and leaving John’s in a pile on the bed. Then he turns on John, waving a hand carelessly at the others.

“Good to see you, Herc, now get out of here. Laf, you too. Laurens, take your shirt off.”

John boggles at him, and Herc about chokes. Laf darts over to Alex, grabbing his arm. “Alexander, what are you doing?”

“Fine, bad phrasing, whatever,” Alex says grumpily. “I want to see the shoulder now, Laurens.”

John folds his arms and stares at the far wall. “Can you guys excuse us?” he asks their friends. “I seem to need to reacquaint my roommate with basic manners.”

Herc pulls Laf backwards out of the room, protesting, as Laf struggles to keep watching the show. He waits until they’re fully gone before turning to face Alex. “Want to try to explain yourself, Hamilton?”

Alex spreads his arms in a giant, helpless shrug. “I gave you plenty of warning! You had, like, two whole hours.”

“You promised pestering, not - whatever this is!” John protests.

“Fine. Then I’m taking you at your word and dragging you to a doctor, right now. You promised - and Jemmy tells me you insist on people keeping their word.”

“Don’t use my brother against me.” John has to keep his voice level at that, which is a struggle. He already deals with this at home, and the sudden terror is back, that something bad will happen if he doesn’t get everything exactly right.

Hamilton winces. “Yeah, sorry, my bad. That was a low blow. But you did promise.”

“There’s nothing to see!” John protests.

“Then show me.” Now Hamilton’s got his arms folded, and that familiar stubborn set to his chin, and John knows he’s lost.

“Fine,” he snaps. He pulls his shirt off his right arm, exposing his shoulder, leaving the shirt in place around his neck and other arm. “See, it’s fine.”

Alex squints at him from across the room, and then moves forward, slowly. “How much can you move it?”

John demonstrates, shows him that he has full range of motion through the whole joint, and keeps himself from wincing or making faces. “It’s just sore,” he mutters - which is true, as long as you ignore the rather spectacular bruising. He doesn’t look at Alex, who has made his way over, close enough to touch, whose hand is hovering just above his arm as though John is something that might shatter at a touch.

“What happened?” Alex sounds so horrified that John can tell he’s been letting his imagination run wild. He rolls his eyes.

“Stop looking at me like that. It’s not so bad. He hit me, I fell, I landed on my shoulder. It’s getting better.” It’s the first time he’s ever had to say that out loud, and he can’t look at Alex. It sounds worse out loud, like something that shouldn’t ever be said. Alex shifts around, moving behind him to get a better look, and John goes to put his back against something, pulling down his shirt, but it’s too late.

“Shit, Jack,” Hamilton breathes. He grabs the hem of John’s shirt and yanks it up again, not touching his skin. John closes his eyes, resigned. He knows what it looks like. At least it’s not as bad as it was a few days ago. Most of the bruises have faded to an ugly yellowish-green, but there’s no hiding the older marks. “What the hell?”

“I was a difficult child,” he says. Keep the words calm and steady, the tone unbothered. He’s not going to volunteer anything. “Apparently I still am.”

“You’re not a child,” Alex spits. John can hear the fury in his voice, and even though he knows it’s not directed at him, that Alex isn’t going to hurt him, he can’t help the way he tenses up, the way his breathing just stops as he waits to see what that anger brings. “Shit, sorry, shit,” Alex says, and backs away, his hands up between them. “I wasn’t-”

“I know,” John says. He’s tired.

“How long has he been abusing you?” The word hits him like a slap, and he jerks back.

“Don’t say that!” The objection is automatic.

“I swear, Laurens, if you keep defending him, I’m gonna paint the definition of Stockholm Syndrome on our walls until you know what it means,” Alex says. He’s trying so hard to be calm; he’s really not good at it. His eyes are dangerous.

“I don’t have Stockholm Syndrome! But - you can’t just say that,” John hisses. Some things, you just don’t say aloud. “He doesn’t mean to lose his temper. I push him too far.”

Alex groans and clutches at his hair, looking like he wants to tear it out by the handful. “That’s not an excuse!” He thinks for a minute, then looks at John, sharp and fierce. “Is Jemmy ever difficult?”

John can’t help but flinch at that. “Not usually. He’s a good kid.”

“And if he wasn’t?” Alex pushes. “If he pushed too far? Would you hit him, kick him?” He gestures at John. “Leave him looking like that?”

“Of course not.” John’s stomach turns. He could punch Hamilton right now for even putting that idea in his head, if throwing a punch was something he could ever give himself leave to do. Nobody is touching Jemmy, or the girls. At least Henry Jr. is away from it now; one less potential target for him to worry over. But Jemmy and the girls...

“So why is it OK for your father to do it to you?”

He opens his mouth, but there’s nothing to say. He’s not going to tell Alexander - brilliant, bright, sharp Alexander, who thought John hated him for who he was - what makes it different where he’s concerned. He doesn’t need to know how much of a disappointment John really is. Alex waits - so unusual for him - but there’s nothing. He closes his mouth, shakes his head.

“I don’t get you,” Alex says, helpless, confused. “You’ve got nothing but kindness and empathy for everyone else. You’re even nice to Jefferson! And when it comes to yourself, you’re so unjust. You wouldn’t let anyone get away with half of what you let him do to you, if it was directed at anyone else.”

It’s so tempting, just to tell him everything. But if he lets go of the thin vestige of control he’s hanging onto, he won’t be able to stop. He may never be able to put himself back together.

(“Men don’t cry, Jack.”)

John turns away.

Chapter Text

Something has changed in the dynamic between all of them over the break. John thinks it was probably his monumental stupidity in charging out to that rally, regardless of the consequences. Whatever it was, they like him better now. He’s always included, and generally dragged along whether he wants to go or not. They go to see an artistic independent film at a little local theater; Laf thinks it’s genius, and the rest of them laugh themselves sick. Alex establishes a debate club within their dorm, and John can’t get over how much he loves the freedom to express himself in that venue.

He can’t do everything, of course. He keeps a list of prepared excuses ready for when they want him to come along to something too public, too political, too likely to catch him on camera. He’s never letting that happen again. Alex, at least, knows what he’s doing, and he’s usually good about backing John up when he needs an out. Doesn’t mean he won’t give John a hard time about it later - “Really? Les Mis is too risky?” - and John just has to roll his eyes and nod, and accept that even Alexander isn’t ever going to actually understand the limits he’s working against.

Alex’s schedule somehow isn’t nearly as insane as the previous semester, even though John had thought he’d said he was maxing out on credits again. When he asks, Alex just shrugs, and says, “I heard Adams is such a bad lecturer that no-one knows exactly how he has a job here. I’ve got better things to do with my time.” He still writes like time itself is at his heels, still flings himself headlong into every project he finds; he’s also around a lot more than last semester, which is pretty fantastic, actually.

Now that they’ve gotten past the first roadblocks, it turns out that Angelica Schuyler was right. They do make awesome roommates.

For one thing, they’ve both missed a huge amount of the pop culture references their peers live and breathe. While John grew up under strict surveillance, Alex had been drowning in poverty in the Caribbean, even though he never lets on that his situation was that dire. Neither of them had watched the shows and movies that their friends were so familiar with, or knew the music and dance fads. Neither of them had either gone to something like prom, or even a graduation. Alex is pretty closed-mouthed about what life on the island had actually been like, but they find so much common ground in the things that they have missed, John comes to feel like less of a pariah.

For another, they’ve both got secrets. They understand one another on a deep, though unspoken, level because of it. John learns where not to press Alex - parents, life on the island, money, or his insane fear of storms; Alex learns to leave well enough alone on topics of John’s family and childhood, for the most part.

He never, ever will let on to Alex that he’s done it, but John eventually gets curious enough about his roommate to look him up - and then Alexander Hamilton makes so much more sense. He reads Alex’s letter after the hurricane, looks through newspaper coverage of how his pleas for the world’s attention had gone viral. Aid and publicity had come to St. Croix from abroad, and Hamilton was hailed for it. He’s not sure what had happened between then and Hamilton’s arrival in the United States, but so much makes sense now. His pride in having earned his way on his own, his refusal to accept charity as far as it can be helped, his desperation to make something of himself. The storm thing makes sense, too, now; John never says a word about it, but on nights when thunderstorms rage, he sits up with Alex until peace comes again, both of them working side by side, not acknowledging the storm, but neither of them alone.

His father is the one thing that makes it less than ideal. He’s very, very clear about the fact that he no longer trusts John. He calls almost every evening, checking in to see that John is where he’s supposed to be, attending only the events he should, and generally keeping his nose clean. When he can’t find any fault in John’s reports, he’ll use the time to lecture on various political and social topics, proscribing the views that John should take on each of them.

Alex sometimes fumes silently if he’s around for those calls; sometimes, he’ll grab a sock and make a ridiculous hand-puppet with it, making it cavort around and move it’s mouth in imitation of Henry Laurens. Some nights, John clings to that silliness as a lifeline, even if it brings him dangerously close to laughter; some nights, he can’t stand it and turns his back, so ashamed that Alex even knows what’s going on that he can’t look at him.

They learn each other, mostly without words. John learns to keep packaged snacks on hand to feed Hamilton when he gets too cranky, and makes sure there’s Vicks Vapor-Rub around. He doesn’t know why that helps sometimes, and he doesn’t need to know. Hamilton learns not to sneak up on him or touch him without warning, and never to turn off all the lights. They both freeze in the New York winter, so they keep their room what they consider comfortable; Herc and Laf refuse to come in, because they say it’s “sweltering” and “unfit for human habitation.” It takes him by surprise, sometimes, when he lets himself think about it, that he and Alexander should function so well side-by-side. There’s a rightness about it that he can’t think about too much.

By late January, he’s entirely sick of snow. They have so much of it, and more seems to come down every time he blinks. He and Alex both bundle up against the cold, but it creeps into every inch of exposed skin and feels like slowly dying.

He’s walking back from a College Republicans meeting with Charles Lee (John cannot afford not to go, cannot afford to have Lee report anything but sterling behavior to his father) late one afternoon, already thinking longingly of getting back to his room and feeling warm for the first time all day, when Lee stops short.

“Look,” he says, sounding delighted. That can’t be good. He points ahead, to where John can just see Alex, his green coat identifiable from a distance, stooped over. “Isn’t that your awful roommate?”

“Looks like Hamilton to me,” John says neutrally.

Lee cackles. He starts forward again, but bends down to scoop up a handful of gravel and one of snow, mashing them together into a huge, dirty snowball. “How about we show that little upstart immigrant how winter works, hmmm? I doubt he’s had a proper American snowball fight even once in his life.”

“Hang on,” John protests, grabbing at Lee’s sleeve. “How’s this a proper fight? Throwing rocks at him while his back is turned isn’t exactly sporting, Lee.”

Lee rolls his eyes. “Laurens, I’m surprised at you! I thought you’d share our sentiments on uppity half-breeds like him - especially since you have to live with him!” His eyes turn sharp. “Or is it true? Are Washington’s brood of vipers poisoning your mind? My father said there was trouble last year.”

“It’s nothing to do with him personally,” John lies. “Weren’t you raised with any notion of honor, Lee? It’s hard to imagine your father being proud of your sneaking up on someone behind his back.”

“It’s a snowball, not a knife,” Lee sneers. They’re almost in throwing distance, and Alex is still stooped. John can see he has a pile of papers spread out all over a stone bench in front of him, like he’s rearranging them on the fly. If he shouts and warns Alex, Lee will get word back to his father. If he lets Lee throw the snowball, Alex will be freezing and miserable at best, injured at worst. “Bet I can get him in the neck, what do you think?” Lee murmurs in an undertone.

John has to do something. “Coward,” he says, sharp and clear. Lee freezes.

“What did you say?”

“I said you’re a coward, Lee,” John repeats. His heart is beating fast - but he isn’t afraid, for once. “Very brave, to attack someone’s unguarded back. What’s the matter - think the immigrant kid could beat you in a fair fight?”

“Apologize!” Lee shouts. It’s almost a howl. “Who do you think you are, to say such things to me? I’ll tell your father you’re consorting with communists again!”

John rolls his eyes, and gives Lee the cockiest grin he can muster. “The only person I’m consorting with right now is you, Lee. Guess that’s a bad enough knock to my reputation, anyway.”

Lee howls in rage, and throws the snowball at John’s face. He ducks. He doesn’t have to stand there and take it, not from this trumped-up little dirtbag with delusions of grandeur. He comes up swinging, hitting Lee in the chest with an open hand that sends him stumbling backward into the snow. He’s up again in a moment, coming at John with both fists.

He’s not afraid. In the face of Lee’s anger and violence, John finds himself - excited, actually. He knocks aside the attempted strikes, waits for a moment, and then shoves Lee down again just as he tries to spring forward. He’s on him before Lee can get up, and his hands are itching to punch Lee in the face, to make his nose bleed, to give him a taste of-

He stops himself, frozen for an instant - and then grins, scoops up an armful of soft, fresh snow from beside them, and dumps the whole lot right in Lee’s red face. Lee splutters and coughs, brushing at it with frantic hands, and John stands up and grins, just watching him.

“You’re finished!” Lee howls at him from the ground. “I’ll tell my father, and he’ll tell -”

“Tell him what?” John asks, hearing the laughter in his own voice. “That you lost a snowball fight? A proper, American snowball fight? Bet he’ll be really proud.” He steps away, leaving Lee behind.

Alex catches up to him a few minutes later, papers all neatly stowed, dry and relatively warm. “Was that you I saw just now, beating up on Charles Lee?”

“I didn’t beat him up,” John protests. “It was just a snowball fight.” He pauses a moment, looks at Alex sideways. “I wanted to, though. I wanted to hurt him.” His voice is so quiet, he’s not sure Alex can hear.

It’s bothering him already, the instinct to hurt and destroy that had risen in him so easily. He would have pummeled Lee after he was already down, beaten him bloody, just because he could. He’s always been afraid to look in the mirror too closely, for fear he’ll see his father. His stomach churns.

“Hey.” Alex grabs his sleeve, makes him stop. “But you didn’t. You could have, and you didn’t.” He’s staring at John so intently, as though trying to see through him.

“I don’t - I don’t want to be like him,” John says. He looks away. Alex can be too much, sometimes, too insightful and brilliant; John knows the story of Icarus; he knows he can’t fly that close to the sun.

“Good,” Alex says firmly. He starts walking again, and John has to stumble forward to keep from being left behind. “From what I can see, you’d really suck at it.”

John never tells Alex why he fought Lee; somehow, he doesn’t think he has to.

~~~~~

That snowball fight awakens something in John, though. Turns out, snowball fights are awesome, and John is awesome at them. Alex hates them and won’t go near the snow, but Hercules is a formidable adversary, and can often wrangle up enough other participants to make a decent battle. Lafayette pretends he’s entirely too civilized and refined to be interested, but a well-placed snowball to the hair can make him join in with the fervor of a revolutionary. The best thing, to John’s mind, is that Charles Lee now hates him, without any grounds to denounce him to his father, and he can now pelt Lee with snowballs on a regular basis. Lee is holding a grudge, and is often the one to strike first, but John never gives up, even when he should.

Lafayette drags him back to his dorm, soaking wet and freezing, after one particularly lengthy back-and-forth, and deposits him into Hamilton’s safekeeping. “You must watch him more carefully,” Laf says drily. “It is not his fault that he was not killed or wounded. He did everything that was necessary to procure one or the other.”

“Hey!” John protests, but Laf sort of has a point. He had, at one point, been perched atop a high stone wall to give him a better angle of attack, and he may have slightly fallen off said wall. “But I’m fine!”

“Through no fault of your own,” Laf says, and leaves him with Alex, who has a bad tendency to try to mother-hen him these days. It’s enough to make John laugh - though not out loud, because he doesn’t want to hurt Alex’s feelings - but the idea of Alex taking care of someone else, when he barely manages to keep himself alive on a day-to-day basis, is just funny.

The new protective streak comes to a head at the end of January. John is minding his own business, packing up a few things in his duffle bag, when Alex returns from his final class of the day.

“Eddritch is a moron,” he announces with a groan, and flumps full-length onto the beanbag in the middle of the floor. “I cannot believe I have to put up with another day of his lecturing, let alone the rest of the semester.

“Have you tried writing essays about it?” John asks, raising an eyebrow as he grins down at the prone figure of his absurd friend. “You got rid of Jefferson fast enough that way.”

“Not rid enough,” Alex groans, still face-down. “He’s in Eddritch’s class with me. I have to hear both of them waffling on, in love with the sound of their own voices.”

“So, completely unlike anyone else we might know,” John says neutrally. “Such as anyone named Alexander Hamilton, for instance.”

“At least I have something to say when I talk!” Alex insists. He groans again. “You can treat us to breakfast out tomorrow, for that insult.” He glances up hopefully, and John winces in regret.

“Wish I could, but,” he gestures at the bag. The change in Alex is as significant as if he’s been struck by lightning. He’s on his feet in a second, all amusement gone, and he grabs the bag away from John.

“Like hell you’re going back there.”

John frowns at him. “What, now I’m not allowed to go home?”

Alexander manages, somehow, to exude an air of sarcastic incredulity with his entire being. “Are you actually kidding me, Laurens?”

“No,” John says. He grabs the bag and puts it back in front of him.

“Do we have to talk about December again?” Alex asks dangerously. John turns away. December is something he’s not thinking about.

“It’s Jemmy’s birthday tomorrow,” he says instead. “I’m not going to miss it.”

Alex gesticulates at him. “So send him a card and call him!” He puts his hand on the bag again. “I’m not just watching you march back down there again. Not after last time.”

John doesn’t look at him; there’s a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he’s really not sure whether he’s feeling touched that Alex cares, or somewhat nauseous at the fact that his best friend is trying to keep him there. “And if I tell you my father isn’t going to be there?”

Alex squints at him. “Are you lying?”

“No.” He shrugs. “He’s got an important committee hearing coming up on Monday, so he told the kids he wouldn’t be home this weekend. I don’t want Jemmy going without a birthday celebration.”

Alex thinks about this for a long time - longer than it seems to warrant - and then nods slowly. “Can I go with you?’

John blinks at him. “To my family’s house?”

“Yes.” Alex is a weird mixture of stubborn and vulnerable right now, and John doesn’t know why, and he really doesn’t know why it’s so effective. “Unless you don’t want me?”

John thinks hard. If he weren’t sure his father really would stay away, he would never risk it - but he’s not coming home, and there’s no reason Alex couldn’t come. The kids have all had good things to say about him, and the long drive there and back would be a lot more fun with company. And there’s something in Alex’s eyes that makes him think this matters more than it should.

“Fine - but I reserve the right to abandon you along the side of the road if you say Jefferson’s name more than three times.”

Alex looks so relieved to be allowed along that John honestly doesn’t understand the stakes; he’s not going to ask questions.

And he’s right - the road trip down to South Carolina is a whole lot more fun with company. They take turns playing their music, even if John won’t let Alex behind the wheel, and a little part of him that he won’t really acknowledge takes comfort in the fact that he’s not making the drive in the same physical and mental state as he had last time. To be going home without a looming sense of dread, just looking forward to spending time with his little siblings and Alex - it’s nice.

“I want to tell you something,” Alex says in the middle of Virginia. “But you have to promise not to get mad.”

“I can’t possibly do that without knowing more, Hamilton,” John says. He’s lived with Hamilton too long to be taken in that easily.

“Fine,” Alex huffs. He hesitates for too long, though, and John starts to get nervous. “So I didn’t say anything specific,” he starts, hedging. “But the Washingtons - George and Martha - they kind of know a little of what’s been going on with, y’know. Your dad.”

John bites his lip. He’s not going to yell.

“Martha didn’t like what she saw at the Schuyler’s reception,” Alex continues. He sounds like every word is being dragged from him by force. “So she’s been pulling strings, and so has George.”

“Oh, no,” John says tiredly.

“Here’s the thing!” Alex says, turning on all the charm and forcefulness of personality that he’s infamous for. “They want you to come and visit over Spring Break. Come home with me and Laf for the week, that sort of thing.” John raises an eyebrow. “And George thought there was no way your dad would let you, so he’s, sort of - “

“Yes?” John prompts, when the silence goes a little too long.

“Sending your dad to the border that week?” Alex says, not really sounding certain. “I mean, his committee is tasking your father’s subcommittee with a tour of the border, a listening tour sort of thing. But it’s going to take all of Spring Break, so you’ll be free to come with us!”

“I - that’s very kind of them,” John says, head spinning a little. “But Alex, there’s no way I can just go off on - on vacation! I can’t just leave the kids all that time. I miss being there for so much of the time now, and-”

“Ah,” Alex interrupts. “About that?”

“What did you do?”

“Not me!” Alex says, raising his hands. “Martha! There’s this really awesome camp she’s worked with for a long time. It’s really quiet and private, and it’s for kids who have dealt with - with hard things. Losses and - stuff.” John clenches his teeth. He can hear the word ‘abuse’ even when Alex doesn’t come right out and say it. “It’s up in Vermont, and it’ll be all snow and horrible things like that at Spring Break, but your siblings could all go.”

“They’re fine, Hamilton,” John snaps. “They don’t need therapy camp.”

“No?” Alex says. “I did.”

Now John feels like he’s put his foot in his mouth. “You’ve been there?”

Alex nods. When John shoots a glance over at him, he’s staring straight ahead, out the window. “When I first came to live with the Washingtons, I was - sort of a mess. I’d lost - everything, really, over a period of time. Everything except my brain, and that was kind of stressed out at that point. Camp - it helped.”

“I’m really sorry,” John says, and he means it. “But your situation isn’t the same as theirs.”

“No,” Alex says. His voice is rarely this openly soft and kind, and John has to look over at him again. “But they’ve had a rough time too, haven’t they? Losing their mother, and your father being so -”

“Distant,” John puts in, and Alex allows it.

“Distant. That’s a lot for kids to go through - and then to have you and Henry Jr. both gone in a year? You’re telling me they couldn’t use a break, a bit of support?”

John grinds his teeth for a minute, and pulls off at the side of the road. He throws the car into park and turns to face Alex. “Is this some kind of trick?”

“Why would it be?”

“To get them to say something about-” he stops.

“About the fact that your dad is an abusive scumbag?” Alex pushes. John glares at him. “No, it’s not. Everything at camp is totally private; nobody there would ever betray confidences, even if your siblings wanted to say anything. And they’re apparently as hard-headed as you, so you don’t have anything to worry about there, anyway.” He rolls his eyes at the Laurens children as a whole, and John is oddly comforted.

“I’ll talk to them about it,” he allows. “See if they would even be interested.”

Alex nods agreeably. “And then you could come home with me,” he says, so hopeful that John is afraid to breathe too hard, for fear of popping his bubble. “Just - take a break for a while, you know? Mount Vernon is great for that. And the Washingtons are amazing.”

“I can tell,” John says, barely louder than a whisper. Even his brief interaction with Martha Washington at the Schuylers’ party had shown him that. The wild relief that had flooded through him when she had gotten him away from his father for a few minutes of breathing room had been a godsend. “I’ll think about it.”

~~~~~

Jemmy is out of his mind with delight at not only having Jack home for his birthday, but also his beloved penpal. John discovers that they’ve continued their correspondence over the first few weeks of the year, and Jemmy appropriates Alex with a sense of confident ownership and gives him a grand tour of the house.

“And this is the kitchen,” John can hear him saying proudly, tugging Alex along by a hand. “I’m not allowed out here by myself, but you’re here, so come look!”

John grins, and leaves them to it while he talks to the twins.

“How have things been, really?” he asks, and they exchange a glance that even he can barely read.

“Hard,” Mary says.

“It’s so quiet here when everyone’s gone,” Martha agrees. “Isaac tries to keep us busy, but it’s not the same.”

“Jemmy’s going stir-crazy,” Mary adds. “Now that you boys aren’t here to play with him, he’s taken to climbing everything and catching everything that stays still long enough.”

He hates to ask, but he has to know. “And when Dad’s visited recently? Have things been OK?”

Martha snorts inelegantly. “Like Daddy has any use for any of us.” He looks at her in surprise. “You don’t get it, Jack. You’re the only one he pays attention to. The rest of us are a total afterthought.”

Mary scowls at her. “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing! I’d way rather he ignore us.”

“Henry Jr. had the right idea,” Martha says. “Get out, go far away. That’s what I’m going to do as soon as I can.”

John is still wrestling with what they’d said before. “Do you really feel that way - like he only focuses on me?”

They roll their eyes at him in perfect fourteen-year-old harmony. “Obviously, Jacky,” Martha says.

“He told Isaac once that you were the one who would make or break things for him,” Mary agrees. “It’s why he’s so hard on you, I’m sure.”

“He’s not-” John starts. They roll their eyes again.

“We’re not little girls anymore, Jack,” Mary tells him superiorly. “We know how he is with you.”

“And how you are with us,” Martha says sharply. “Stop getting in trouble for us.”

He grins at them both. “Not on your lives, nibblets.” They glare at him for the old pet name, and he raises his hands. “Not my fault! Big brother privilege.”

Down the hall he hears Jemmy, still chatting Alexander’s ear off. “And this is the library-”

“I’d better go check in before Alex has a heart attack about how many books we have,” John says. The girls share another of those looks he can’t understand, and they both giggle at him - giggle! He frowns in confusion, and they just giggle more. “I did not raise you this way,” he tells them with mock severity as he leaves the room.

Alex is less excited about the books once he’s had a chance to look them over and see that most of them are old beyond belief, though John knows that wouldn’t stop him from taking up residence in the library if allowed to do so.

Jemmy hauls them through every room, whether it’s interesting or not, except the study. Even Jemmy knows better than to go in there.

Alex stops in the hallway outside the dining room that they never use anymore and stares at the ridiculously large picture that hangs on the wall. It’s the only decent picture they have of all of them together, in that little window of time between Jemmy being born and their mother dying. Jemmy points at it as though there’s some chance Alex could have missed it.

“See? That’s everybody!”

“Oh man,” Alex says, grinning at John with mischief shining in his eyes. “Look at baby Jack! You were freaking adorable.”

“Shut up,” John says. Alex looks back at the picture again.

“That’s your mom?” he asks Jemmy. Jemmy nods, confident in this, though there’s no way he has any memories of her.

“Yup. She looks just like Mary and Martha!” The resemblance is very strong, but John can see her in all of them, just like he can see their father.

Alex looks back and forth from the picture to John, and then back again. “But,” he says, and then looks at Jemmy, and shuts his mouth. Jemmy, who has had enough of standing still in under thirty seconds, tugs him along again, and they’re off to visit the back yard.

Jemmy is so keyed up about having them both there that he’s wild and ridiculous until after a late dinner, and then he crashes hard. He winds up falling asleep with his head in John’s lap and his feet in Alex’s, supposedly waiting up until midnight to see his birthday come. John gathers him up, surprised by how much his baby brother has grown in only a few months, and carries him off to bed.

Jemmy wakes up as he’s tucking him in, and one hand shoots out to grab John’s sleeve. “Jacky? You’re not leaving?”

“What, before your birthday, squirt?” John teases. He pushes Jemmy’s hair out of his face. “Not a chance. Now go back to sleep.”

“You gotta sing,” Jemmy says. It’s his superpower - getting everyone else to do what he wants at bedtime, stemming from a lifetime as the baby of the family. John makes a face at him.

“Really? You’re about to be ten!”

“But I’m not yet,” he says reasonably. “Plus you haven’t been here for so long. You gotta.”

Arguing with him is as useless as arguing with Alexander Hamilton. John gives up with good grace, and sings one of the old favorites that he’s been singing since their mother died, trying to bridge the gap between being the brother they all wanted and the parent they needed. He’s not sure he’s done any part of that right, and he’s not a good singer, but Jemmy falls asleep, and John takes just a minute to appreciate this one, simple part of life that he hasn’t messed up yet.

Except that when he looks around, Alex is standing in the door, staring at him with the absolute weirdest expression John has ever seen. He has no context for it, no way to interpret it; his only consolation is that Alex seems just as confused as he is. He darts off, and John flushes a shocking shade of pink, and neither of them says a word about the scene.

They make an absolutely incredible mess in the kitchen that evening trying their best to bake a birthday cake. John was just going to buy one, but Alex, spoiled by Martha Washington, had insisted that it had to be home-made. They’d reckoned without the fact that, while both of them were extremely intelligent and well-read, they had a combined kitchen experience about equal to that of a potato. A non-culinarily-gifted potato.

They send clouds of flour flying when they try to add it to the mixer, and Alex drops eggs on the floor more than once, leaving John to slip in the mess. Someone (it’s Alex) completely neglects to grease the cake pans, and someone (still Alex) doesn’t set a timer, and they wind up starting again at eleven pm, older and a little bit wiser.

“I’m never doing this again,” John promises his spatula as he washes the dishes. “Never.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,” Alex says. That’s easy for him to say, though, as he’s lying on the counter with his hair hanging down, licking the batter off a spoon.

It’s so weird. John doesn’t have words for how weird it is to have Alex here, in his own kitchen. Until now, Alex and his house were two things that existed in different worlds. Alex belongs to school and freedom and uncertainty; home was fraught and dangerous and familiar. Putting them together isn’t doing his nerves any good. Part of him expects his father to come in and find them at any moment, and he’s tense and tired with waiting for it all to fall apart. He’s not used to having to share his siblings with anyone, or with having to share Alex with his siblings. He’s out of sorts, off his guard.

He’s not letting Alex anywhere near his room. He’s not going anywhere near his room. Maybe never again, after December.

“Hey, Laurens?” Alex says after a minute. “Is it that bad?”

Alex knows him too well. He knows he’s not just talking about the dishes.

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “I never know anything for sure anymore.”

Alex sits up, looking somber. “Should I not have come?”

“No,” John says. “I’m glad you did.”

Chapter Text

February in New York is horrible. Alex hates everything most of the time - the wind and snow and ice, the way his toes are never fully warm, the stupid layers of clothes everyone has to wear, the fact that it’s dark so much of the time.

He is, of course, fully aware that some of his loathing of everything in the entire world is actually a projection of his discontentment at certain other aspects of his life. Apparently unrequited love is not good for his moods, which already tend toward the extremes. He gets depressed during the winter anyway. He mopes around for a few days after they get back from Jack’s house, because he can’t lie to himself anymore. He’s head over heels for his stupid roommate, and said stupid roommate is not only not interested in Alex, he doesn’t seem to be interested in anybody in the whole world. That’s honestly worse than the alternative, he thinks gloomily. If Jack just had a girlfriend or something, he’d be able to make himself stop the unattractive pining he’s currently doing. But he doesn’t.

It’s not his fault that Jack Laurens is ridiculously good-hearted. He’s apparently been blessed with a superabundance of just about every virtue Alex is aware of, except self-preservation, which maybe isn’t even one of the virtues, but it really should be, especially in Jack’s case. The fact that he’s adorable just adds more trouble for Alex. It’s not fair. And he’s so stupidly sweet with his siblings, and redefines bravery in Alex’s eyes, and - well, basically, Alex is screwed.

If anything, the visit to South Carolina had only made things worse. The easy enjoyment of the long car ride there and back was more comfortable than it had any right to be, and there had been such a quiet intimacy in getting to spend a few days with just Jack and his siblings. He was different there than at school - more at ease, more confident, though Alex knew that would all have vanished in a heartbeat if their father had come home. There had been a sensation of waiting for the other shoe to drop the entire time, as if all the Laurens children were just poised on the edge, ready to jump one way or the other if their father had shown up unexpectedly.

But he and Jemmy had managed to conspire to finally get a toad under Jack’s pillow, and the memories of that incident are going to carry Alex a long way. Mary and Martha had scolded all of them like they were children, but he and Jemmy had laughed themselves sick, and even Jack was clearly amused, though he tried not to show it. The toad hadn’t suffered any lasting harm, either.

He decides to get over Laurens as February careens onward, continuing to be cold and horrible. He throws himself into his studies and work, and then finds himself staring at Jack dopily over his laptop when he’s meant to be writing. He tries dating - well, dating is one word for it - and while it’s fun and distracting in the moment, none of the people he sees manage to dislodge his stupid, stupid heart from its insistence on Jack. It seems like a thing he ought to do, though, because otherwise he feels a bit like a creep, just hanging around and being uselessly in love with someone who will never love him back. He goes out with Eliza Schuyler a few times, and she’s amazing - but she’s too good for him, and he’s afraid they both know it. There’s not enough between them to form a foundation of anything lasting, and they both let it drop. They’re better as rabble-rousing revolutionaries than as a couple, it seems.

Even Valentine’s Day, with it’s absurd saccharine and cupid-laden pinkness, isn’t a useful distraction. He has a rendezvous set up with Ned - they don’t call it a date, and they’ll both pretend they don’t know it’s February 14th, but it’s nice not to be alone - that gets suddenly cancelled. Alex gets the feeling, from Ned’s text, that his buddy has found someone else to spend the evening with. And that’s fine, whatever, he didn’t want to go out in the cold anyway. He’s huddled in a blanket, totally not sulking about it, when Jack actually notices he’s still there. Alex doesn’t blame him - he’s been on the phone with his father for half an hour, and he’s come to know the lines of unhappiness in Jack’s face when things are going badly. This has been going badly. Jack finally gets off the phone, letting out a long, exhausted sigh, and then notices him.

“I thought you had a thing tonight?”

Alex is tempted to try to make a joke, turn it into some kind of innuendo, but he doesn’t have the energy for that. He shrugs. “He cancelled.”

“Oh,” Jack says. The string of emotions that play across his face is kind of hilarious to watch from the outside, even if Alex isn’t conversant enough in his facial expressions to understand all of them. He eventually says, overflowing with awkwardness, “Are you ok? Do you want to talk about it?”

“My god,” Alex says, and wraps himself up inside his blanket to die in peace, covering his face so his clueless stupid perfect idiot friend can’t see him.

“Guess that’s a no, then,” Jack mutters. He sounds down enough that Alex rethinks his position on dying and unrolls enough to look at him.

“What about you?” he asks. “No, let me guess, everything is fine.”

“Always,” Jack says, and smirks at him. Alex hates him so much. The amusement slides away after a minute, though, and he sighs. “My father was kind enough to remind me that this is a prime opportunity to be meeting eligible young ladies, from the proper background, of course. Since I’m already not covering myself in academic, social, or political glory, apparently I should have plenty of time to be finding a suitable wife. I’m afraid I’ve disappointed him again.” He doesn’t sound upset about it, so much as just glum, as though it’s a foregone conclusion at this point.

“And, what? Finding a quality wife is not a top priority for you?” Alex asks, and he knows he shouldn’t push, but hey - he’s making conversation. And he hasn’t threatened to kill Henry Laurens yet, so the conversation is going well.

Jack laughs so hard Alex is afraid he’s going to choke. He doesn’t explain himself. It’s good to hear him laugh, though, and Alex feels warmer all the way down to his toes just watching his amusement. Laurens has the kind of laugh that makes everything just a little less awful. Maybe it’s not so bad to stay in tonight, after all.

February continues in its depressing, stubborn horribleness, but there are hints of hope on the horizon. After one particularly awful phone call from his father (Alex tries the sock puppet thing and everything, and Jack still winds up curled in on himself on his bed afterward, silent and withdrawn), something seems to snap in him.

“Can you ask Mrs. Washington about - about that camp?” he says tiredly, not looking at Alex. “The kids are all in favor of the idea, and my father really won’t be home, so…” his voice trails off. “I can’t - I can’t be everything they need. Not right now.”

“Yeah,” Alex says gently, and doesn’t ask questions.

And then there’s something to look forward to, because it means Jack is coming to Mount Vernon, and that’s going to help. It has to.

Not that everything is awful, of course. Alex is blowing it away in all his classes, and actually learning some things, too, which is a bonus. And he and Eliza are doing great work in their campus advocacy organization, even if Alex feels like he sort of has to keep that quiet around Jack, because their entire point is to work against Laurens’ Law, and Jack has already paid a price. College is still the most exciting place he’s ever been, and he’s never not aware of the opportunities at his fingertips. Sometimes it amuses him, how his brain flips back and forth between macro and micro level focuses - his entire future, who he’s eating dinner with tonight, the state of politics, whether his socks are clean enough to wear another day, whether he’s going to get deported, how many times he can make Jack laugh in one evening.

Jack insists on going home one weekend in February, and he won’t let Alex come. He keeps so stubbornly silent about it that Alex has no clue what’s going on - if he was ordered home by his father, if everything is all right with the kids, if he’s walking back into something awful. He throws himself into work that weekend. He locks the door and won’t even answer it for Laf and Herc, and he accomplishes so much in one weekend that it’s almost scary. He doesn’t talk to anyone until Jack comes back, close-mouthed and solemn and shut down, but in one piece. Then Alex collapses and sleeps through all his classes on Monday, but it’s OK. Everything’s fine.

Eventually, February ends, as he’s always known it would, and things don’t seem as bad anymore. March is still cold and dreary, but they see sunshine more often, and they can count down the days until Spring Break. Alex is almost jealous of some of their friends who are planning to travel to warm places with actual sun for the week, but he’s mostly just glad at the idea of going home. He’s so ready for a break.

Jack spends approximately seven hundred hours on video chats with the kids, trying to help them pack and prepare for camp, and to make the travel arrangements. Alex chimes in where he can, being as unhelpful as possible just because it’s fun, and because sometime he can make them all laugh. They look more like Jack when they’re smiling. They look more like kids, all of them.

“Camp is awesome,” he confides to Jemmy. “Just enjoy it, and don’t let them bully you into eating all your vegetables. You’re allowed to just have fun there.”

“What if we don’t?” he asks, all seriousness.

“Then you call me and I come and get you,” Jack insists. “I’m not abandoning you, Jemmy.”

“I know,” he says.

“Don’t worry,” Martha says, taking over their side of the camera. “I’ll make sure he has fun. We don’t want you to have to leave for our sake, Jack.” She gives him a smirk that Alex can’t quite parse.

“If you need me, I won’t hesitate-” Jack starts. Martha glares at him.

“Don’t you dare, Jacky. Sometimes you need a break too.” And for once, he doesn’t argue.

They have the normal round of midterms and projects due before break, so they’re all stressed and tired by the time break rolls around, and they don’t bother packing anything until the night before. They haven’t made anything like plans for the break - just the idea of getting away is enough.

Laf bounds into their room far too early on the day their break begins, with his general lack of regard for other people’s spaces, and starts poking Alex in the face while he sleeps. “Alexander!” He pokes his cheek with a forefinger. “Alexander! Wake up! We are going home!”

Usually it takes him a while to wake up in the mornings, but this gets him up and going fast. “Yes! Operation Kidnap Laurens is in effect!”

“Don’t kidnap Laurens,” Jack groans, sticking his head under his pillow. “Let Laurens sleep. Much better plan.”

He doesn’t get his way.

The train ride down to Mount Vernon is so much better than the previous one, where Alex had been a mess of nerves at the thought of what Laurens had been facing back at home. This time, they’ve got a full week of nothing but free time, Jack is with them, and Alex has plans to make sure that Martha and George get to try to help him. Considering how much they’ve done for him, and what a mess he had been when he got to them, he can’t help but feel like they could work miracles for Jack, given a bit of time. They may actually be wizards, he’s not sure.

The train starts out fairly full, and gets busier the closer they get to DC. They’d started out comfortably spaced out, but as all the seats around them fill, they wind up squeezed together. Laf, who is the worst, and so far from helpful, maneuvers them into a position where Jack and Alex are shoulder to shoulder, with Alex in the window seat. Laf grins at him and raises his eyebrows. He’s been absolutely impossible since he worked out Alex’s unfortunate emotional situation with regard to his roommate. Alex makes a mental note to shave Laf’s eyebrows off while he’s sleeping.

“So, what do you want to do this week?” he asks, pointedly ignoring his somewhat-brother.

“Whatever,” Jack says, immediately looking sorry he’s there. “I don’t want to cause any bother.”

“Wrong answer!” Laf says. “We are going to enjoy ourselves, Laurens. It will be a bother if you are not having fun.”

“Also, you can’t say that around Martha,” Alex says, just a little frantic. “There’s this shed she has that she’s been trying to get me to clean out for months, and if we don’t have plans she’ll put me to work. I’m wasted on manual labor!” He holds up his hands mournfully. “If I’m all cut and blistered, how am I going to write?”

“I can help you -” Jack tries.

“No good,” Alex mutters. “There’s no way Martha and George will let you lift a finger this week. You’ll be forced to relax and enjoy yourself while I slave away at the toils of Hercules. The mythical one, not Mulligan.”

“We should be tourists!” Laf says, just this side of giddy. “I have wanted to see Washington DC since I came to this country. We could visit all the sights, no?”

“Sure!” Alex says. He elbows Laurens, but very gently. “Jack can show us around!”

Jack blinks at him. “Why me? I’ve never been there either.”

“Oh,” Alex says. Stupid assumptions. “I just thought that since your father’s been in the Senate for so long -”

“He always intended to take us,” Jack says, looking embarrassed. Like he should feel embarrassed for his father’s failures, Alex thinks with a rush of annoyance. “It just never worked out.”

“Even more reason, then,” Laf insists. “Two immigrants and one survivor of culture shock! We will paint the town red!”

“Well, we’ll see how far we get,” Alex tells him.

The train ride is only about three and a half hours - not really time to get incredibly bored - but Jack is quiet and thoughtful. Given the number of times he checks his phone, Alex thinks he’s probably worried over the kids, who are already safely at camp - he knows this for sure because Jack checked multiple times the previous day, including calling the camp director personally.

Alex starts planning his latest campus newspaper editorial series, and then the morning’s tragic lack of coffee catches up to him, and he’s waking up when they pull into the station. Laf is watching him with the most wicked expression of amusement, and he winks and holds up his phone meaningfully. He’s clearly been taking pictures. And that’s when he realizes he’s lying half on top of Jack, slumped over comfortably, head resting on his shoulder.

He sits up fast, wiping at his mouth and frantically hoping he hadn’t been drooling in his sleep or anything, and Laf flat-out laughs at him. “Do not worry, Alexander,” he chuckles. “I have many pictures to share.”

“Betrayal, Laurens,” Alex groans. “How could you let him do this to me?”

Jack laughs at him too, damn him. “After the amount of time I’ve spent this week trying to get you to sleep at all? I wasn’t about to wake you up!”

“Fine,” Alex says huffily. “Your new title is Jack Laurens, Kidnapping Victim and Official Pillow.” He makes his way off the train with his head held high, and doesn’t let himself think about how warm he had been, sleeping on Jack’s shoulder. Martha is waiting for them, and swoops down on them with hugs so kind and perfect that he’s pretty sure she has the market cornered on mom-hugs. She hugs Alex and Laf, and then turns to Jack, who is standing straight and formal, looking like a little politician.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Washington,” he says, extending his hand to shake hers.

Martha takes both of his hands in hers and squeezes them gently. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says. Alex nudges Laf, and they both hide little grins. Jack Laurens has walls and defences - but he’s no match for Martha Washington. You can practically see him melt, and in a moment, she’s got him in an embrace that Alex well knows has healing powers.

The ride back to Mount Vernon is too short to exchange all the information they’ve missed in each others’ lives, but Alex still feels a hum of contentment and wellbeing building around him. He hasn’t lived there particularly long, in calendar terms, but his heart is at home. George is waiting impatiently when they get home, having been kept back by work he had to accomplish. Alex and Laf may possibly engage in a little pushing and shoving as they go to him, just to see who can get there first, but it’s all in good spirits. He smiles at both of them, proud and fond, and Alex’s heart glows. He had never dreamed he would find people like this, a place like this - but Mount Vernon is a little more his home every time he returns to it.

George greets Jack, too, once he’s gotten free of the double onslaught of his foster sons. “Mr. Laurens,” he says, kind but formal, and Alex winces a little. He turns to see that Jack’s gone all Soldier Laurens again, practically standing at attention, pale beneath his freckles.

“Yes, sir,” he says, voice tight.

“Welcome to our home. We’ve heard a great deal about you from our sons, and you are very welcome here,” George says. There’s more formality to him than Alex is used to seeing, but George doesn’t know Jack the way they do; he knows his father, and how Jack stands by his side at political events.

“Thank you, sir,” Jack whispers. He doesn’t relax at all. It kind of hurts to look at him, Alex thinks, and grabs Laf by the arm and pulls him along.

“Come on,” he tells both of them cheerfully, as though nothing is wrong, “let’s grab our things. Jack, I’ll show you where you can stay!” He’s aware of George and Martha watching them all as they go, and he makes himself remember, with a wince, how much he and his friends had distrusted Jack at first. Martha has a heart the size of the world, and would happily adopt everyone who darkened her doorstop, but George is a more reserved judge of character. And he knows Henry Laurens, which never helps anyone.

They get Jack set up in the guest room and give him the tour of the place, which, with Laf in the lead, is hardly less enthusiastic than Jemmy’s tour of the Laurens’ place. Alex is biased, of course, but although the Laurens’ home had been beautiful, he thinks the love of the Washingtons has imbued Mount Vernon with a lot more warmth and charm. There’s one long wall in particular that he loves, and he insists on dragging Jack off to see it. The Washingtons have filled the whole length of the wall with framed photographs - one of each child who has ever been a part of their family in some way. Martha’s own biological children and grandchildren are there, of course, but so are all the foster children who had passed through, all the informally unrelated youth they’ve taken in as their own over time, the runaways who had stayed long enough to find some security.

“This is the Washington’s family,” Laf says proudly, and points to his own picture. “I am so fortunate to be a part of it.”

“Me, too,” Alex says. He doesn’t love the picture they have of him - newly arrived from St. Croix, still looking lost and battered by life, suspicious and hostile. It’s accurate for that time in his life, but he doesn’t like to remember being that version of himself.

Jack is stunned, at first; everyone always is. “They just take anyone who comes?” he asks, looking at the wide and diverse range of faces on display. “No matter what?’

“Everyone who needs to be here,” Laf says.

Jack seems to think about that for a long time.

~~~~~

Martha and George have prepared something of a feast for dinner that evening - all of Lafayette’s and Alex’s favorites, plus enough for twice as many people as are eating. Alex eats until he thinks he’s going to be sick, and slumps happily in his chair. It’s good to be home.

He and George get sucked into political discourse pretty quickly - their favorite way to pass the time - and Alex doesn’t really notice anything but the food and the argument. They have fairly similar views on most political topics, but Alex is willing to push everything to its farthest logical extreme; George, as an actual politician, is constrained by the limits of reality. Their discourse turns into debate, and they’re both getting slightly heated on the topic before Laf kicks Alex hard in the shin.

“The hell?” he says, turning on his somewhat-brother.

“You haven’t eaten your vegetables,” Laf says sweetly, and gives him an innocent look, but darts his eyes at Jack, who’s sitting between Alex and George.

Jack Laurens is doing his very best statue impression, food almost untouched. He’s watching Geoge Washington as if he’s a predator about to spring. Alex can’t quite tell if it’s George himself that’s the problem, or the circumstance of their raised voices. He already knows how badly Jack reacts to angry men, and even if Alex can’t fathom George ever raising so much as a finger to anyone, he can admit that his guardian can be a bit intense.

SIlently cursing his brain for not being equipped with telepathic powers, Alex coughs loudly and looks for a change of topic. “So, how’s the garden shaping up this year?” George and Martha both look at him a little oddly, and he winces. He’s never shown the slightest hint of interest in gardening, but he needs them to follow his lead. Thank god they’re both insightful enough to do so.

“I do have big plans,” Martha says, and smiles at him with a twinkle of mischief. “If someone were to help me by clearing out the old shed-”

“See?” Alex interrupts, taking the opportunity to grab Jack’s arm, as if for support on this point. “I told you! Laurens, you must save me from this fate! You would not abandon your friend to such a tedious demise, would you?”

Jack smiles - thin and fake - but Alex has broken the tension, and he’s breathing more easily. “That would be the height of discourtesy, I must say.”

“Of course, we would never expect that of someone so well mannered as you, sweetheart,” Martha says warmly. “And I was so impressed when I had the opportunity to meet your younger siblings this past Christmas. Their manners were as lovely as their temperaments. You’re doing a wonderful job with them, John.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, and Alex wants to hug Martha again. She somehow knows exactly what to bring up to make things better. “I’m afraid I can’t take the credit, though.”

“I have an eye for these things, young man,” she tells him wisely. “Anyone who sees you with them would know. They’re a credit to you.”

Lafayette turns the subject skillfully to their plans for engaging in tourism, and George and Martha are both replete with ideas and tips for what they should see and what can be skipped. Jack doesn’t tense up again, but he doesn’t let his guard down, either. Even when he does eat and join the conversation, Alex can tell he’s keeping both eyes on George.

~~~~~

It’s only because his room is right next to the guest room where Jack is staying that Alex has any idea something is going on. He’s settling in for the night, after a few quick hours of writing, when he hears Jack’s phone ring and quickly be cut off. Alex frowns - who calls at 2 AM? He can’t make out words, but he can hear Jack’s voice quietly through the walls, rising and falling. As soon as silence falls, Alex gives up all pretence of fighting his curiosity and goes to see what’s up.

He lets himself in after giving a quiet knock, and doesn’t wait for an answer. It seems silly to keep a door between them when they’re usually no more than three feet apart in their bunk beds.

“Everything all right?” he whispers. Jack is out of bed, looking out the window to the clear, dark sky.

“Yeah,” Jack says, but he doesn’t really sound it. His voice is choked - but there’s no fear or anger. He looks at Alex with eyes full of wonder. “I’m an uncle.”

“You what?”

Jack sighs. “My brother Henry Jr - the one whose name you hate? He and his wife just had a baby.”

Alex does some quick math, thinking back to when Jemmy’s letter had mentioned a wedding, and then a little more counting backward makes some things clear to him. “Oh. Oh!” He shakes his head. “Aren’t they even younger than us?”

Jack laughs a little, though it’s almost closer to tears. “Yeah. My baby brother is a father. I can’t quite grasp it.”

“Wow,” Alex says. It’s too much to really take in. “Uh - is everyone healthy?”

He nods absently. “Everyone’s great. Baby girl - they’re calling her Ellie.”

“Are you going to go see her?”

“My father sent them away,” Jack says quietly. “To France. I don’t know when I’m going to get a chance to visit. Maybe over the summer, if things go well.”

And that makes a few more things clear to Alex. He thinks several unpublishable things in Henry Laurens’ general direction, and shakes his head. “Congratulations, anyway! Uncle sounds like a pretty big job.”

Jack laughs drily. “I’ve got the easy bit. Henry Jr. has to be a dad.” He sounds awed at the thought, and more than a little terrified. “I just don’t know. Alex,” he says, turning to look at him directly. “How’s he going to be a good father to her? He’s not a bad person or anything, and I know he’ll try his best, but that’s not always enough.”

“You mean, how’s he not going to be like your father?” Alex asks rhetorically. “I don’t know how that works. Maybe he’ll need help. Maybe he’ll choose to copy a better model.” He puts out a careful hand, squeezing Jack’s forearm gently. “He’s got you to look up to, after all.”

“I’m never having kids,” Jack says. It’s flat and toneless. “Never.” There’s so much that’s going unsaid there, and Alex is not about to push it out into the open.

“Yeah,” Alex says quietly. “You might not be wrong, there.” He thinks of his father, walking away from a desperate family, and shudders. Jack has a point. The idea of ending up like their fathers - either of them - is enough to make him think twice about the future. “But,” he says, tugging a little at Jack’s arm to get his attention. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. You’ll never be like him.”

“That’s the goal.” Jack’s eyes are distant, but he smiles a little.

“It might be nice, though,” Alex adds after a minute. “I don’t know. I just mean - someone to carry on your name. Your legacy.” He thinks of the home he had known in St. Croix, shattered and splintered; he thinks about the fact that no-one back there will remember him, or his mother. That’s not going to be his story in the United States.

“The family name could die right now, for all I care,” Jack says bleakly. “It’s not exactly a badge of honor for any of us, these days.” Alex thinks about the protest signs, about how his activist group talks about Abomination Laurens, and he sees Jack’s point.

Chapter Text

They start playing tourist the next day. Alex wants to have a plan, to know where they’re going at every moment so they don’t miss anything. Lafayette argues that they should have no plan, and travel wherever their interests may lead them. Jack refuses to express an opinion (just to be a pain in the ass, Alex is sure) and they wind up pretty much following Lafayette’s lead. It’s actually nice, Alex has to admit - if only to himself - not to have to be stressed about staying on task.

Some days they spend in museums, wandering whatever exhibits seem most interesting, and it’s an awesome chance to share knowledge that each of them have. Laf makes sure they get around to all the monuments and architectural gems that he considers essential, based on a two minute google search of DC tourist spots. Alex makes it his job to find them interesting and affordable places to eat, steering them clear of overpriced tourist traps and boring national chain restaurants. Jack tries to find little souvenirs for the kids everywhere he goes, clearly feeling guilty at his absence from them. Alex eavesdrops shamelessly on his conversation with them from camp the first night, just to reassure himself that all of the little Laurens are having fun, and that Jack isn’t going to go running off after them.

Once he’s assured himself that the kids are fine, and that Henry Laurens really, really isn’t going to show up and find him daring to enjoy himself, Jack starts to relax. He’s still jumpy about being recognized as his father’s son, and won’t go near government buildings, clearly certain some of his father’s colleagues might recognize him and alert Henry.

Aside from that, though, it’s almost miraculous to watch the change in him. He laughs more freely than Alex has ever heard, and his sly sense of humor is coming out, teasing his friends and engaging in gentle mockery of them that gives as good as it gets.

Alex thinks the museums and memorials are as educational as anything they’re learning in college, for all of them. He and Lafayette have not had a traditional American education, and neither has Jack, for that matter. They all have gaps that need to be filled. He finds himself thinking more deeply about so many issues, looking for the stories behind the public facade. He and Jack make a habit of debating alternate sides of various issues as they discover them, both of them sharpening one another’s wits and arguments through the back and forth.

They even wind up with enough time on their hands that the three of them clear out Martha’s shed for her, though they don’t say a word to her. Alex is taking bets on how long it’ll take her to venture in and find it all cleaned out once they get back to school. Martha is so on top of everything, though, that he doubts it’ll be more than a day or so. He watches Jack closely around both of the Washingtons as the week moves on, and is relieved to see him relax some, drop some of his defenses; he’s never going to stop being wary around George, though, Alex has to conclude.

Things come to a head, though, when he finds Jack standing awkwardly outside the guest bedroom door late at night on their third night there. He’s poised between going in and coming out, balanced in the doorframe as though he might dart either way.

“What’s up?” Alex asks, yawning. He had just been going to sneak another cup of coffee. It’s not his fault that there’s still writing to be done, even on break; he just has to make sure Martha doesn’t know he’s consuming caffeine at eleven o’clock at night.

“Nothing,” Jack says, too fast. “I thought I heard a door slamming.”

“You probably did,” Alex says ruefully. “We’ve got this storm door that doesn’t latch, and if the wind picks up just right, it smashes it back and forth. We’ve all kind of gotten used to it, so I didn’t think to mention it.” He stops, thinks through the scenario, and nods grimly. “Sorry, I should have warned you.”

“It’s fine,” Jack says. He’s tense, though, still balanced between in and out. “I just thought-”

“Come on, I’m going for coffee,” Alex says. “Want to keep me company?”

Jack does want to - Alex can see it. There’s eagerness in his eyes - but he pulls up sharp, shaking his head. “Better not. The Washingtons are sleeping, aren’t they?”

Alex snorts. “Yeah, and they can sleep through anything, trust me. I’m the only one who’s ever awake in this house after about ten pm.”

Jack steps back into the room, still shaking his head. “I don’t want to disturb anyone,” he whispers. The screen door bangs again and Alex can see him flinch, then recover. “Screen door,” he reminds himself. “Got it.”

“You know,” Alex says casually, “George never slams anything around. Not even, like, when he’s cooking. I’ve never seen him lose his temper.”

“Night, Hamilton,” Jack says sharply, and closes his door, disappearing into the dark.

“Huh,” Alex says.

The next morning, the fourth day of their visit home, he pulls George aside.

“Can I ask you a favor?” he starts. He’s not above using what influence he has, and George has never, ever denied him something he asked for - not anything he’s ever really needed.

“Of course, son.” Alex stifles the impulse to react to that word, reminding himself it’s just George’s way, and nods his head.

“It’s about Jack,” he says, looking around to be sure said Jack isn’t anywhere in earshot. He’s ridiculously quiet when he wants to be, and often winds up sneaking up on Alex without him noticing. “I think-” he stops, rubs the back of his head nervously. He doesn’t want to say this to George, but Jack needs him to. “I think he’s afraid of you.”

“Have I done something-” George starts, immediately looking worried.

“No! No, you’re awesome,” Alex assures him. “It’s not you. It’s - he has trouble with some people, I’ve noticed. Men, usually. I mean, you know some of the story.”

George nods slowly, looking as close to angry as Alex has ever known him. “Henry Laurens has a lot to answer for,” he says evenly.

“Yes, he damn well does,” Alex agrees, “but that’s not actually the point here. The point is, Jack doesn’t know that not everyone’s dad is like his. He doesn’t know, not really, down deep, that you’re not going to treat him like Henry does if he does something wrong.”

“Do you think it would help if I talked to him?” George asks. “I’d thought that giving him space to get accustomed to us was best, but I haven’t seen much progress yet.”

“Probably,” Alex says. Hopefully he’s not calling this wrong. “Just - not in your study. I don’t think that would help. And wherever you talk to him, don’t - don’t close the door. He doesn’t like being trapped.”

George is watching him, looking like Alex has done something impressive. He just radiates pride and happiness like an electrical room-heater, Alex thinks, even though that’s a ridiculously clumsy simile. Whatever. He hasn’t even had any coffee yet.

“You’re a good friend, Alex,” he says gently.

He probably is - but not as good as George thinks. He keeps an eye on both of them all morning, until George asks Jack, out of the blue, if he could come and help with the breakfast dishes. Alex has to give him a nod of encouragement before Jack moves, but it’s a good call. The kitchen is open and spacious, and there’s nothing like having your hands covered in bubbles to make someone look non-threatening. Laf and Martha wander off to their own destinations, but Alex sets himself up where he can eavesdrop. He’s not too proud to admit it, but he’ll be damned if he lets Jack catch him at it.

George makes small talk at first, asking about Jack’s studies and his experiences of rooming with Alex, and Alex winces as Jack answers, stiff and uncomfortable. It’s as bad as he thought it would be. George is good at people, though, and he doesn’t drag it out too long. Alex hears him scrubbing at a pan, and clearing his throat.

“I’m sure you know that I’m a colleague of your father’s,” he says gently. “We’ve had our disagreements over the years, but I want to assure you that I don’t hold any of that against you, personally.”

“No, sir,” Jack agrees.

“And I don’t know exactly what horror stories he may have brought home, but I assure you, I’m not in the habit of eating people alive,” he says, trying to be amusing.

“No, sir.” It doesn’t seem to make any impact.

George sighs a little, and rinses the pan, passing it to Jack to dry. Alex doesn’t miss the way Jack flinches away for a second, and he knows George doesn’t miss it either. “Can I be honest with you, young man?” he asks, after an uncomfortable moment. Jack nods. “I was very unhappy when Alex told us you’d been moved in as his roommate.”

“So was he, sir,” Jack mutters. Alex covers his mouth, trying not to laugh at that understatement. George laughs a bit.

“Yes, he was. I was concerned that you would be -” he hesitates, thinking of the right words.

“Like my father, sir?” Jack asks, sounding tired.

“Yes. But not in the way you’re probably thinking,” George says. “Alex means a lot to me, and to Martha. He’s a very special young man, as I’m sure you’ve noted - but he’s also been through a lot in his life. I didn’t like to think of him being put in an uncomfortable rooming situation. There are those who would prey on those who they perceive as weaker or more vulnerable.”

Jack shifts uncomfortably. “I never would, sir.”

“No,” George says. He watches Jack for a long moment. “No, I can see that. And I knew that about you before you came here, because I’ve seen the difference in Alex.”

Well. This is the unpleasant part of eavesdropping. Sometimes you have to hear people talking about you, which is always awful.

“He’s happier these days, I think,” Jack offers. “College is good for him.”

“You are good for him,” George says, direct and straightforward. “Alex doesn’t tell us much, so Martha and I have had to come to our own conclusions, but we both attribute a great deal of the positive change in him to your influence. He’s far more settled now, more content. We don’t worry about him as much.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Jack objects. “He’s a good roommate.”

Alex knows that’s not true. He’s many good things, but he’s always known he’s hard to live with.

George laughs, as if agreeing with his mental self-evaluation. “We both know that’s not true, son.” Jack fumbles the plate in his hands, almost dropping it. “But you’ve stuck with him, even though it can’t have been easy. You’ve been reliable. Dependable. Exactly what he’s missed in much of his life.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Jack says again, and he sounds sad - maybe guilty?

“You’ve done plenty,” George assures him. “I was wrong to assume you would take after your father.”

“He’s a good man,” Jack says, but it’s mechanical.

“Maybe. But you’re a better one,” George says. “I am very glad, now, that things worked out as they did.”

“Me, too,” Jack murmurs. He gives George a very shy smile, and Alex crawls away to celebrate the success of his scheme. It’s not a miracle, but it’s progress, and that’s all he can ask for.

~~~~~

Lafayette, who is the absolute worst, has gotten hold of the idea that Alex’s ridiculous crush on Jack will be improved by time alone together. He will not give up on his ideas for pushing the two of them together, and has stopped being subtle about it by the last night of break. They’ve already packed everything, ready to get back to school the next day, and Laf proposes they all take advantage of the unseasonably warm evening to go stargazing, spinning them a story of a meteor shower (which later turns out only to have been visible in Australia), setting them up with blankets on a hilltop just out of sight of the house, and then blatantly walking away and vanishing without a word. Alex is no longer sorry for the toad incident at all.

They spend a few minutes bad-mouthing their friend, meaning none of it. Alex is worried that Jack will decide to go, too, that this one last evening of quiet before their lives explode back into activity and responsibility will just melt away. He doesn’t. They sit out on the hilltop as the sky grows deeper and darker, stars emerging with a clarity that New York’s skies would never allow. There are no meteors, of course, but it doesn’t matter. Alex is almost knocked off his feet by how at peace he feels. There’s no desperate drive to accomplish anything right now, no crippling fear of letting the moments slip through his fingers without turning them into words or actions. Just time, and stars, and Jack.

“So, are they just like this all the time?” Jack asks, after a while. He’s trying to sound like he doesn’t care very much. He’s endearingly bad at it.

“Who?”

“The Washingtons.”

“Like what?”

He gestures vaguely. “This. Decent and kind and all of it. Is it genuine, or are they putting it on because you have company?”

“No, they’re genuinely like this,” Alex assures him. “I couldn’t believe it for a long time, either. Kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for them to be like everyone else I’ve ever had to deal with. They aren’t, though. They’re the real deal.”

“Wonder what someone would be like, if they’d grown up with parents like that all along,” Jack says wistfully. He’s sitting upright, knees pulled up to his chest as he stares up into the darkness.

“Me too,” Alex agrees. What could that have been like - to have two solid, dependable, trustworthy adults in his life? To grow up being able to count on someone else, not having to fend for himself all along? “Guess we wouldn’t be who we are if we had, though.”

“Can I ask something?” Jack isn’t looking at him. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk about it, though.”

Alex laughs. “The number of conversations we’ve had where I’ve tried to pull information out of you, I guess you probably deserve a couple uncomfortable questions of your own.” Even so, he feels himself getting a bit tense.

“You told me a little about your dad, once.” He’s hesitant and careful, thinking through his words. “But I’ve never heard anything about your mother. Is she still around?”

“No.” Alex doesn’t talk about this, doesn’t tell people this story - but Jack has lost his mother, too, and has a pathetic excuse for a father. If anyone is ever going to be equipped to deal with his tragedy, it’s Laurens. “We were on our own for a while, after my dad walked out. She worked herself to exhaustion to provide for us.” He blinks, suddenly able to see their tiny living space, the worn, too-small clothing he’d had, the meagre meals she’d been able to put on their table. He smiles, wistfully. “She never stopped. Until she got sick.”

“Cancer?” Jack guesses.

“Yellow fever.”

The look of surprise doesn’t startle him anymore, even though he can hardly see Jack’s face in the dark. “I don’t even know what that is.”

“That’s because people don’t usually get it anymore, at least not here in the US,” Alex says, trying not to be bitter. “When you’re half-starving and living in poverty, getting eaten alive by mosquitos, it can still happen. There’s a vaccine, but we never got it.”

“She didn’t make it?”

“No,” Alex says. It still hurts to tell it, even if the violence of the ache has faded a little with the passage of time. “We were both so sick. I remember - we were sharing the same bed. I thought we were both going to die.” He breathes. “I didn’t.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

Jack gives a hum of acknowledgement, and there’s so much understanding in it that Alex’s eyes suddenly get teary. He doesn’t have the usual fear of a stranger’s pity or overwhelming guilt - not helpful reactions, since then Alex winds up being the one who has to try to reassure them. He digs in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, opens it to the one decent picture he has of his mom, and hands it to Jack. He turns on his phone and uses its light to examine the picture.

“You look like her,” Jack says after a minute. “Especially - you have the same eyes.”

And that’s what gets him, in the end. He’s always hoped it wasn’t his imagination, that he carried that piece of her with him; to hear it from someone else is almost overwhelming. He’s quiet for a good long time, just letting himself think and feel, for once; letting himself miss her. “So, that’s my mom,” Alex finally says, when he can trust his voice to work. “I don’t usually - well. I haven’t talked about her in a while.”

“I get it,” Jack says. He hands the wallet back and watches Alex, eyes soft, chin propped on his hand, elbow on one knee.

“Well, fair’s fair,” Alex says, because he can’t be the only one to open up, because that’s just not fair. “What about your mother?”

Jack shrugs. “Not as dramatic. She was in a car crash when I was eight. We weren’t there, we didn’t see any of it.”

“Bad enough as it is,” Alex mutters. “It doesn’t have to be a competition.”

“No,” Jack agrees. “I remember the funeral very well, because Jemmy wouldn’t stop crying. He was still so little, and my dad didn’t have a clue how to make him stop.”

“Well, it’s a funeral. Crying is sort of appropriate.” Jack shrugs. “Can I see- do you have any pictures?”

Jack frowns. “Well, you saw the picture at my house. I’ve got a smaller copy of that one, but that’s all I’ve got with me.”

Alex wrinkles his nose. “Not your siblings’ mom. I want to know about yours.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack looks surprised - confused, maybe? Alex has chosen the wrong words, because of course he has.

“Your birth mom, if you prefer. Biological mother? I don’t know what terms you use.”

Jack sits up all the way, now beyond surprise. “What are you talking about?”

Oh. Shit. “No,” Alex says, and points at him accusingly. “No. There is no way.”

“Hamilton?” Jack’s confusion is climbing into something like panic.

“There’s no way he hasn’t told you this.” Alex has fucked up.

“What are you saying?” Jack looks almost dangerous.

“Shit,” Alex groans. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Alexander.”

“She - you can’t.” He sighs again, rubs his face. “You don’t have the same biological mother as the rest of your siblings. You can’t. How do you not know this already?” Jack is just staring at him, and Alex feels like he’s kicking a puppy. “I knew as soon as I saw your siblings, but I didn’t have any idea they hadn’t told you. How could they not tell you?”

“But she was our mom,” Jack says blankly.

“Of course she is!” Alex says hastily. “Nobody’s saying she wasn’t. Just - you obviously have a different biological mother, but Eleanor was clearly your mom. It’s not all about genetics, right?”

“Why would you even think-?”

“Chins,” Alex says. “I mean, there’s a lot of things, but the chins are the proof. Your brothers and sisters all have a cleft in their chins - the dimple thing, you know? And you don’t. That’s just genes.” He collapses onto the blanket, face down, unable to look at Jack anymore. “You look like your dad, and so do they, but not the same way. All four of the others are blond - you don’t even have the same coloration. Shit, Jack, how can you not have known this?”

“But.” Jack Laurens’ brain is clearly nonfunctional at the moment. “But. He was already married to my mom - to Eleanor, I mean, three years before I was born. And then I came along, and then Henry Jr. -”

“What, like, ten months later?” Alex asks, still facedown in the blanket. “He’s not even a whole year younger than you, right? Guess that makes sense, if you don’t share the same mother.”

“Then - who’s my biological mother?”

“I have no idea!” Alex rolls over and stares up at the sky, where there are no answers to be found. “No clue! Did your dad ever say anything - well, of course he didn’t if he didn’t even tell you - shit. I don’t understand anything about your family.”

“But I’ve seen baby pictures of me with - with both of them!” There’s real distress in Laurens’ voice. Alex should have kept his mouth shut. “I’ll have to see if I can access my birth certificate - my father handled all the paperwork for school and everything, so I have no idea what it says. But - it doesn’t make sense? How can I be a -” he cuts himself off and goes silent for a long moment. “Oh.” he says, after a minute. “Oh. That’s why - I’m not Henry Jr.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“He didn’t give me his name,” Jack says. “I used to wonder about that, if he just knew all along that he wouldn’t be proud of me, so he didn’t-” he stops again.

“If he’s not, he’s an idiot.” Alex says. “Well, I mean, we know that already, but even more so. How could he not be proud?”

“What’s there to be proud of?” Jack doesn’t sound self-pitying, or even particularly emotional. He’s being flat and factual again, and Alex hates it so much he could scream. “I’m a disappointment on every level. I’m none of the things he wants me to be, not really, and I’m a failure at pretending to be any of them. I don’t want to be a lawyer or a politician, I don’t want to support his immigration policies, I have no interest in marrying any of the girls he tries to set me up with. I’ll never be smart enough or accomplished enough to satisfy him.” He shrugs. “I guess I was a mistake all along.”

Alex feels like he has to scream, or maybe vomit. There’s so much unhappiness churning away inside him, and he doesn’t know how to contain it, or how to turn it into something helpful. What the hell is he supposed to say? How is he supposed to get through that much self-hatred to get Jack to hear him?

He sighs, deep and sad, and moves toward Jack, slowly and deliberately. This is not the moment to scare him away or make him freeze up; he keeps his hands visible and his face as kind as possible.

“So was I,” he says, trying to sound as neutral as possible. “My dad thought I - all of us, really - were enough of a mistake and a burden that he walked away forever. Doesn’t mean he was right.” He puts a hand on Jack’s arm, squeezing gently, desperate to make a connection. “Your dad is an absolute dick. There’s absolutely nothing that he’s right about. Why would you be the one exception? He’s not worth a second of your time, Jack. He doesn’t get to define you, and he certainly doesn’t get to tell you who you get to be. Don’t be a lawyer or a politician, if you don’t want to! Be you.” He looks Jack in the face, pushing past the raging discomfort that being this emotionally honest is causing. This isn’t about him, for once. “You’re amazing. I wish I had a fraction of your bravery.”

“I’m not,” Jack says, and Alex is horrified, because he looks like he’s about to cry, and he can’t handle that, he’s not equipped to deal with that - “I’m never brave enough to stand up to him. I can’t stop him - not at home, not in politics, not when it matters. I can’t keep the kids safe when I’m not there, and I can’t tell him who I really am, or any of the things I want, because he’ll never, never accept me. Everything about me - everything I’m coming to understand - I’ll never be able to make him happy or proud. I’m a mess, Alex.”

He squeezes Jack’s arm just a little tighter, and hates everything in the whole world that makes it impossible for him to do what he really wants and just kiss him, just show him exactly how amazing Alex thinks he is. “That’s not your fault, and it doesn’t reflect badly on you in any way. He’s the one who’s going to miss out by not knowing you, not really. Those of us who do? How did we ever get to be so lucky?” He smiles, though it’s hard, because he feels like he’s on the edge of tears himself. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks - honestly, it doesn’t. You don’t have to keep going back there and dealing with all of his shit. You can stand up for yourself, be whatever you want to be - and we’ll all be here for you, no matter what. You’ve got all of us.”

“I’d do it,” Jack whispers. He is crying now, and Alex thought he’d be falling apart, but it now seems like a good thing, a releasing of poison that’s been festering for how long. “I’d walk away, if I could. I don’t want anything from him, not ever again. Not his name, not his money, not his reputation.”

“You don’t need any of them.” Alex assures him. He thinks about it hard, and decides to take a chance; he moves again, slowly, and puts an arm around Jack’s shoulders, offering what warmth and comfort he can in the middle of a storm he understands well enough to be terrified by. “Trust me. Jack Laurens is a thousand times the man Henry Laurens could ever be.”

Jack laughs, a rough choking sound in the middle of a sob, and Alex’s arm tightens a little around him. “I wish I could, Alex. I’d drop out of school and work, or whatever it took, if I could. But -”

Alex knows, and can’t help the little flutter of resentment that goes up in his heart. Why the hell does Jack have to be so responsible? Even though it’s one of the things he most respects about him, right now he hates it, because the fact that he won’t walk away from his younger siblings means that Jack is still completely stuck, trapped by his father’s power, and there’s no guarantee they’ll ever get clear of him while he’s still alive, however long that might be. “I know,” he says quietly. “The kids.”

Jack nods, and tries to stop himself from breaking down, tries to pull himself together. Alex can see him doing it; he wants to tell him he doesn’t have to, that he can have more than five minutes of actual emotional expression. “Yeah. So until I can get them out, too, I can’t- he can’t know. Not anything real, not anything that will make him angry.” He takes a deep breath, wipes angrily at his face. “He can’t find out, which means I can’t do anything that matters.”

“Yeah, you can,” Alex insists. “You already are! Look how far you’ve come just in the time we’ve known each other! I mean, you’re friends with me and Laf and Herc! You’re at George Washinton’s place for Spring Break. You’re thinking for yourself and educating yourself, and those things are as brave as anything else you ever do. All of it matters, Jack.”

Jack pulls back - not all the way out of Alex’s reach, but far enough to be able to look at him properly, and regards him for what feels like an impossibly long time. “Don’t -” he says finally, and Alex feels a rush of nervous tension, sure he’s about to be pushed away again. “Don’t call me Jack. Not anymore.” He breathes deeply, eyes darting to one side as if nervous, but he presses on. “That’s my father’s nickname for me. Call me John?”

Alex grins. He’s exhausted by the weight of the conversation, worn out by all the problems he can’t solve - but this feels like a step forward, like progress pushing back against the despair and exhaustion that threaten to sweep his friend under. This one tiny step toward independence, calling himself by his own name rather than one that’s been chosen for him - he’s rarely seen someone take a bigger leap of faith.

“John Laurens,” he agrees. “I like it.”

Chapter Text

There’s not nearly enough semester left.

John can hardly believe how close to the end of the spring semester they’re getting. Ever since returning from Spring Break, it feels like every day is flying past a little faster, leaving him out of step and feeling like he’s running out of time. April is on them like a cannon shot, and everywhere the signs of spring are inescapable. He would welcome the warmer weather and the sight of living things growing and blooming after the long, cold winter - except he cannot let himself think about what comes next. There’s only a little more than a month left.

And he’s being ridiculous, he knows, because it’s not like anything will be over after that. He’ll go home for the summer, do all the press and politics his father wants from him, dote on his siblings, and be back in the fall to continue his education.

As long as it all goes according to plan. As long as he never steps a toe out of line, or lets his father get the slightest hint of half of the rebellions stirring inside his brain. As long as he can hide his associations with Alexander and the Washingtons and all the people he has come to love.

He can’t think about it too much, because he’s become horribly spoiled, become used to the freedom to go and do as he wishes, to think dangerous thoughts and argue unspeakable causes, and to have his voice heard. All of that will vanish overnight. The idea of going home, back to the house with all its memories, and the study with his father, and having to keep the younger kids quiet, keep them from asking questions that will get them in trouble - it’s absolutely suffocating. He changes the subject any time someone asks about summer plans, feeling as if he can’t catch his breath even at the very thought.

He’ll go home, because he has to. He’ll manage, because he has to. And then - well, fall will come again.

And here’s the absolute proof that Alex is wrong when he says John is brave. He hasn’t yet gotten up the nerve to even hint to Alex that he wants to be roommates again next year. There’s a whole system online for rooming arrangements, and he knows that if they both request to room together again, it’ll happen. John cannot imagine living with someone else, even people he’s fond of, like Herc or Lafayette. He wants to keep everything exactly as it is - Alex’s mess and nonstop coffee-brewing, and the understanding they’ve reached about when to speak and when to be quiet, and his own ability to sleep even with someone else in the room.

He hasn’t had any hint from Alex that he wants a change, either, but Alex also hasn’t said anything about wanting to room with him again. It’s very possible, John thinks glumly as he returns a stack of books to the library, that Alex is thrilled at the idea that he can get away from the Laurens influence next year. He could easily apply to live in a larger dorm with Herc and Laf, and never need to see John again. It would surely be a lot easier for him, not having to deal with John’s issues and his family and his impossible name, which is becoming harder to carry all the time.

Laurens’ Law, his father’s horrifying bill that would see undocumented people forcibly evicted from the United States in numbers that were hard to even contemplate, is in the news more frequently now. His father is on an all-out media blitz to promote it, and can be seen shaking hands and rubbing elbows with prominent politicians, fundraisers, and political activists on the nightly news almost every day. It’s going to come to a vote before much longer, John knows; the idea makes him nauseous.

So yeah. Who could blame Alex for wanting to get away from a source of so much poison? John just won’t be surprised if Hamilton says something about moving on to a different housing situation, he’s determined; he won’t react, won’t beg and plead to be brought along. He’ll have some dignity.

But it’s going to be so hard. He wants to cry at the very thought. It’s a small enough campus that he’ll still run into Alex and the others, of course, and there’s plenty of chances for them to wind up in classes together, depending on which degrees Alex is pursuing at any given moment. He’s sure they’ll be pleasant, maybe reminisce about their travels together or laugh at stories from their shared dorm room - and then Alex will keep running forward into the future, blazing a trail of brilliance that John can hardly look at without squinting. He’s going to be left behind. That’s nothing new.

He’s got a month.

John tries his best to enjoy every minute, even as classes wind up into an even more relentless, screaming demand on his every minute. There’s always a paper or project to be working on, always extra credit opportunities to be sought after, tests to be studied for. Somehow, there’s also always time for lingering over dinner to debate literature or theology with someone, or to go for a late-night smoothie run, or to watch a movie that nobody actually pays attention to. Time passes so strangely - flying by at breakneck speed, and yet so full of nooks and crannies, pockets of quiet and contentment that embrace him entirely.

Somehow, Alex and the others also find time to keep up with their social lives and even go on dates, which John really cannot fathom. He tries, for a while, keeping a chart for himself to keep track of who is dating whom. The relationships seem to shift with the winds, and John has messed up more than once by referring to a relationship that has ended with violent disaffection. By the time he’s adding in Aaron Burr’s badly concealed relationship with his TA, Theodosia Prevost, John has decided that all of it is a stupid waste of time. He’s very glad he doesn’t have to waste time or brain matter on romantic entanglements. He’s got bigger problems.

For some reason, though, when he expresses this thought to Lafayette, his friend nearly dies of laughter. Laf winds up slumped over John’s shoulder, wheezing gently from stifled amusement, while John looks at him in confusion.

“You’re not laughing at me, are you?” he tries. “It’s something about the way I said it, right? Or a joke I’m not getting when you translate it to French?”

Laf wipes away tears of laughter, and squeezes John’s shoulders tight. “Oh, my clueless young friend, I am indeed laughing at you. When you finally get the joke, you will laugh too, I guarantee it.”

John isn’t amused.

~~~~~

He fights with school records for a while, trying to get hold of his birth certificate, and gets exactly nowhere, so John fills out forms and requests his birth certificate from South Carolina, and then promptly makes himself forget about it so he doesn’t go crazy. As absolutely impossible as it seems, he has to admit that Alex’s crazy theory about his mother not being his mother actually does sort of make sense. He can’t think about her as anything but his mom, though; he spends way too long staring at the old family picture, trying to make himself see her features in his own.

It would all be so much easier if Alex was just wrong - but he so rarely is. It’s easy to just let himself be pulled along by Alex’s certainty on everything. He’s actively fighting that instinct, though, because how much better would that be than simply letting his father determine his every opinion? It’s almost a relief when he and Alex truly disagree on something, because it gives him valuable practice at standing up for himself. Not that he’ll ever use it at home, but still.

The question of religion is the big one, it turns out. John has faithfully attended church every single Sunday that he’s been on campus, and he goes to evening student events when he has time; it’s like Alex’s political activism that he tries not to bring up around John, though. They’re not hiding their activities from one another, but neither of them is exactly shoving them in their roommate’s face.

“You know you don’t still have to do that shit, right?” Alex asks one evening, as John is reading his Bible before bed. Curious, he turns to look at Alex, who is glaring daggers at the book from his weird perch on his chair. Some days Alex doesn’t seem to know how to use furniture properly. He gestures contemptuously at the Bible. “Your father isn’t here to watch your every move.”

“I know,” John says slowly. “I’m not doing it for him.”

Alex looks surprised at that. It’s not often John manages to really surprise him. “But I thought-” he starts. “Aren’t you working on all of that figuring life out for yourself business?”

“Yes,” John says. He’s not defensive. Not at all.

“So what’s with the propaganda, then?” He doesn’t mean to be awful, John knows. That’s just his special Alexander gift.

He sighs and closes the book, puts it back on his desk. “It’s not propaganda, Alex. It’s faith.”

Alex rolls his eyes so hard, people across the hall can probably hear him. “Oh, spare me.”

“No, you asked,” John insists. It’s good for Alex to listen to other points of view, too. “Look, I’m not stupid. I know how badly it’s been misused over time, how many cruelties and travesties have been justified by pointing back to the Bible.” He shudders a bit; his American history classes this semester have been eye-opening, bearing little resemblance to the stories he’d been taught at home. “But just because it’s been misused or interpreted for evil doesn’t mean there’s no value. For me, it’s - comforting.”

He doesn’t want to go into all the ways he means that. It’s his mother’s Bible, one of the very few things of hers he has to remember her by; his birthdate is written in the front in her handwriting, along with those of all his siblings - those who survived infancy, and those who didn’t. The language itself is another comfort; it’s the King James text, the poetic (if often inaccurate) translation that’s as much a foundation of the English language as Shakespeare. The rhythms and melodies of scripture speak to him on an aesthetic level, the same verses he’s heard and sung since childhood. He’s not willing to give those up. “It doesn’t belong just to them - not to bigots, like my father, who would weaponize them against everyone they disagree with. There’s so much good in here - kindness and grace, and a call to be better. My father can say what he likes, but I read in here about treating the poor and the sick and the stranger among us with love. That’s not the message he’s reading, but he’s not God.” He looks at Alex, able to meet his eyes now when he says impossible things like this. “My father is wrong.”

Alex hesitates, caught between his original point and this new information. After a minute, he nods, his expressive face melting into something almost like respect. “Just so long as we’re clear on that last point,” he says, and gives a wink.

John’s stomach gives a weird lurch. It keeps doing that recently, and he can’t figure out why. He files it away with the mental list of weird physical symptoms he’s struggling to understand.

He’s pretty sure he isn’t sick or injured; nothing hurts, he’s got plenty of energy, and he’s not running a fever - but something isn’t right. He gets that weird feeling in his stomach multiple times a day, now. Sometimes he feels almost light-headed, like he’s inhaled laughing gas; the urge to laugh at something Alex has said that isn’t even funny enough to deserve it will overtake him without warning. He loses track of his thoughts too often, and will find himself staring blankly at Alex without being aware of it, or drifting off in random thoughts that have nothing to do with his work, and are usually more about what they might do if he didn’t have to go home that summer, or if a miracle happened and they were assigned to room together again next year. It’s very peculiar. He’s decided to blame the spring weather for it, because nothing else has changed recently. He’s probably just suffering from allergies.

The next night, he doesn’t have to argue with Alex, because he’s not around. It’s not a big deal or anything, but John has started to really resent the evenings that Alex spends with his political activism group - which is happening more and more frequently, as they ramp up their opposition to Laurens’ Law. For some reason, the fact that he’s not really welcome there makes it worse - like Alex is doing it to get away from him or something. He wonders whether allergies can cause you to become susceptible to paranoia. To fill the time, he starts hanging out with Laf when he’s around, and tries not to spend all his time grumbling about how abandoned he feels. Apparently, he’s not totally successful at that.

“Laurens, you must not think Alexander is purposefully avoiding you,” Laf says, the third time he comes to sulk in Lafayette and Hercules’ room. For some reason, being in his own room without Alex feels really weird recently. “No more than you would avoid him in return. I wish I knew exactly what it is Alex has done to so capture your affections,” Laf continues. “It seems you have developed a great attachment, of late.”

“Oh, that’s not anything special!” John objects. “That’s just how Alex affects people.”

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Laf says, and reaches out to hug him. John lets him, because Laf. Lafayette lets go and pats him fondly on the head. “Alex is a remarkable person, yes, but he does not make all of us lose our wits. There is no universal Hamilton effect on all people that makes them follow him around, looking as though he has hung the moon.”

“I do not!” John protests, but his heart is sinking fast, because he’s suddenly, horribly aware that Lafayette may be right.

“Tell me, my friend,” Lafayette says kindly. “When is the last time you started a conversation with something other than ‘Alex says’ or ‘Alex just did’ this or the other thing?”

“He’s an interesting person!” John says, only slightly panicky. “And we live together! It can’t be that surprising that I’d be interested in what he says and does.”

Lafayette looks anything but convinced, but he nods. “Very well, as you say. But, Laurens,” he pauses a moment. “Would it be so bad a thing, if you did love him? Would it be so bad that you must lie to yourself?”

“Who said anything about love?” John really is on the verge of panic now, whether it’s wise or not. “I told you, I’m not interested in any of that! I don’t have time for - for relationships and all that nonsense right now!”

Lafayette is unmoved. He just smiles again, enigmatic and French, and John wishes he could shake him. He doesn’t though; he gathers his things and stalks off haughtily, still wishing he had anything like a decent retort to offer.

What does Lafayette know, anyway? John isn’t there to fall in love or to find romance. He’s got goals; he’s headed toward bigger things; he’s got way bigger problems. And Alex is his best friend, and someone who understands more parts of his life than John ever thought he’d share with anyone. He and Alex just get each other. They’re comfortable together. They’re perfect roommates.

But that thought brings along an unwelcome companion - for now, they’re roommates, but the end of the semester grows closer every day, and then what? Will he really see Alex again? Or will he be left behind, outside the brilliant circle of Alex’s passionate influence, as Alex and his friends move on?

The sudden choking misery of that thought is nearly enough to knock him off his feet, and he stumbles back into their room with uncommon gracelessness. It’s too empty, without Alex’s presence.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and John grabs it, happy for the distraction.

done early. am coming to get you for smoothie break to drown my sorrows

you cant say no laurens

He grins at the screen, stupidly happy that Alex is coming to drag him along, that he’ll get to be the one to hear Alex rant about the advocacy group and all of its failings. He’s not as left out that way. Sometimes, he flatters himself that Alex honestly really likes to talk to him, chooses to confide in him, above the others. It’s a secret little deception he allows himself; it makes Alex a little closer, a little more his.

John glances up to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror, suddenly unable to remember if he’s brushed his hair at all today - and the phone falls from his hands as he sees his own face, grinning like that at Alex’s words.

Oh no.

Lafayette was right.

He’s done it again.

He stumbles back into the beanbag, running his hands frantically over his face, feeling his heart pound, wild and dangerous, in his chest. How could he have been this stupid - not once, but twice? How could he have been so stupid he hadn’t even known he had done it?

He’s gone and fallen in love with a boy - again. And if it hadn’t been bad enough the first time, this time he’s absolutely messed it all up properly.

Falling in love with Francis Kinloch had seemed like the end of the world, at the time, but John had only been fourteen, and he hadn’t understood the enormity of what that meant, yet. He’d never meant to let anyone know, because even at fourteen he had figured out that letting Henry Laurens know what was wrong with his son was a dangerous move. He hadn’t meant to tell anyone at all. But he’d been fourteen, and so stupid, and Francis had kissed him and John hadn’t stopped him, and they’d been seen. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, pushing back the memories of what had come of that. He hadn’t seen Francis again.

But now, it’s so much worse. He’s not a fourteen year old idiot anymore. Apparently, he’s a nineteen year old idiot, because this is worse than Francis by a million miles. He’s fallen in love with Alex - Alex, who is fire and light and passion, who never shuts his mouth and isn’t afraid of anything. Alex, who wears every mark that society would hold against him emblazoned on his chest, making himself a target to show how little he fears them. Alex, who is brilliant and useless at looking after himself and who can’t bake a cake to save his life. Alex, who is his roommate.

And how has this happened, without his noticing, without his permission? How had he moved from acquaintanceship to friendship and on into this new and terrifying reality without knowing he was doing it?

It’s Alex’s fault. That much is obvious. He’s too brilliant and alive to just exist; he makes himself the center of the world without ever meaning to do so. He’d worked his way into John’s confidences and into his heart, and hadn’t bothered to give notice that he was doing so.

And it’s John’s fault, too. It has to be. He hadn’t been careful; hadn’t taken precautions against this, hadn’t developed defenses to safeguard his heart, and now he’s going to have to pay for it. At least - at the very least, he can make sure Alex doesn’t pay, too. He shouldn’t be liable for the consequences of John’s mistakes. It’s a stupid, short-sighted, one-sided crush, and John will do whatever it takes to make sure it never comes out in the open. He can’t let Alex get hurt for his stupidity.

He thinks, for a long while, about just jumping out the window and disappearing. He could probably survive the last few weeks of the semester hiding out in the library and Laf and Herc’s room. Alex wouldn’t have to see him, wouldn’t ever have to know what an absolute moron John Laurens was, that he had ever let himself stray so far outside the bounds of reason.

Lafayette.

Lafayette had already known. John scrambles for his phone, ignoring the unanswered texts from Alex.

Laf. Help. I am so stupid.

The answer comes seconds later, no hesitation whatsoever.

Yes, you are, but it is endearing. You have figured yourself out, then?

He laughs at that, rough and desperate, and scrubs at his face some more. There are tears in his eyes, for some reason, and right now John does not have the emotional capacity to control them, because the whole world is falling apart around him.

Only how very, very stupid I am, and how much trouble I’m in. What do I do?

What do you want to do, my friend?

And that’s the question that’s got his brain frying itself with anxiety, isn’t it?

He gets up and starts pacing, back and forth, trying to get his mind to work. He has options.

Option A - out the window and into hiding. He could manage to finish out the semester, sneak his things out of the dorm when Alex wasn’t around, and run back home. Pros: not having to face Alex again, not screwing up his chance at his father not killing him. Cons: no Alex. Not ever again. No chance to say goodbye or to try to salvage something like a friendship.

Option B - he could stay, pretend that absolutely nothing is wrong, and go on as ever. Pros: if he pulls it off, nobody knows anything is wrong (except Laf), he gets to spend the last few weeks of the semester in a real bed, and Alex doesn’t have to freak out. Cons: he’s not sure he’s that good at hiding, now that he’s caught on to his own stupidity. Also cons - he’ll have to see Alex, properly see him face to face, and not do anything stupid.

Option C - he could tell Alex -

Nope.

So there are two options, and somehow he doesn’t think Laf is actually going to help him with Option A.

Don’t say anything. Please, Laf, I’m begging you.

Your secret is my secret, my friend.

The door opens with an appropriately dramatic bang as Alex enters, already talking at a thousand miles an hour. “Aren’t you ready to go yet? Smoothies are calling, John, and who are we to ignore that call?”

John freezes, sets his face in an appropriately innocent expression, makes sure his mask is in place before he turns around again. “Hey,” he says, uselessly, because he is useless. “Sorry, I got distracted.” He shoves his phone in his pocket. “So, smoothies?”

Alex has apparently forgotten about smoothies, though, and is staring at him with an uncomfortable intensity. “Was that your father on the phone?”

“No, he’s working late tonight,” John says, before he remembers exactly why his father is working late, and winces at his own stupidity. His father’s bill will be the death of him. “I was just texting Laf.”

“And did Laf kill your puppy, for you to be looking like that?” Alex pries. He starts forward, as if to put a hand on John’s arm, and he is just not capable of handling that right now. Alex has gotten almost - well, cuddly, with time and increased comfort; he’ll often grab John’s arm or sling an arm around his shoulders, or just collapse on him in a warm and boneless heap - and usually that’s all fine, that’s great, but right now John thinks he’ll startle out of his skin if Alex touches him. He heads for the door.

“Nope,” he says. “Everything’s fine! Hey, weren’t we going out?”

Alex frowns at him. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a horrible liar?”

“Yes,” John admits, because his siblings are constantly calling him on his horrible poker face. He looks away, unable to deal with Alex’s scrutiny when he feels like every impossible thought and feeling and hope he’s ever had are plastered across his face in giant neon letters, and maybe they are, because Alex isn’t buying the act.

“So what’s wrong?” Alex isn’t letting go, but at least he follows John out the door, and it’s easier to forget that everything is falling apart when they’re walking through the hallway as if everything is normal.

“Nothing,” John lies. Alex snorts. “Ok, fine, it’s not nothing, but believe me when I say it’s nothing important.”

“And you’d tell me if it was?” Alex presses.

“Yes.” He turns and makes eye contact at that, because he needs Alex to believe him on this, even if looking directly at him makes his heart do that stupid awful lurching thing that John has just figured out is not allergies at all. He is in so much trouble.

“Fine,” Alex allows, but John can tell he’s not really buying it. He’s relieved when Alex doesn’t press further - relieved, and just a bit concerned, because it’s not like Alex to let things go. You know, ever. But he’s willing to bet, from the distance in his eyes, that Alex is ruminating on problems of his own. John is tempted to push him, to see if Alex will confide in him, but that seems unfair when he’s trying to keep a secret of his own. They get smoothies, and it’s nice enough, but John feels like a new distance has come between them with their mutual unwillingness to talk, and he hates it.

“I hate this system,” Alex gripes when they get back to the dorm, struggling to get the door to open as he swipes his access card. “I’m not going to miss this damn place next year.”

“No?” John says, trying to sound casual. He swipes his own card, and the door opens. Alex glares at it. “Not planning to live in the dorms again, then?”

“I would literally rather move in with Jefferson,” Alex says breezily. John lets him go ahead, because Alex always likes to go first, and because it gives him a moment more to hide his face from his friend, knowing he’s not concealing his emotions well enough.

That’s that, then. Alex isn’t coming back to the dorms. He hasn’t asked what John’s housing plans are. The gap between them opens a little more, and John’s heart gives a sick lurch - not the giddy sort this time, though. It’s sad and awful, reminding him of the countdown that’s always ticking in his head.

He has three and a half weeks.

Chapter Text

Alex waits until they’re back in their room, and then casually positions himself in front of the door, and John feels his heart drop even further.

“What?” he asks, already suspicious, already on edge with the idea of how fast his time is running out. His smoothie cup is empty in his hand, and he puts it down, wants his hands free.

“Don’t freak out,” Alex says. That makes John want to freak out, of course. “Nothing bad, OK? I just want to talk, and you tend to go sprinting away when you don’t like the conversation -” John looks pointedly at the window, which is not an unclimbable distance from the ground, and Alex rubs his eyes, looking tired. “I know, I get it, I won’t actually keep you here if you want to leave,” he says.

“Fine,” John says. He’s still aware of his heart beating too fast - the idea of being trapped in the room has brought up some bad memories - but this is Alex, who he trusts more than anyone, and whom he is also inconveniently in love with. So, lots of conflicting emotions. “What’s so urgent?”

“Summer,” Alex says, and John swallows hard and looks away, sucking in a quick breath. “No, see, that’s what I mean! One word, and you’re freaking out.”

“I am not,” John says, but his voice is strangled, despite his best efforts. “It’s fine.”

“I hate it when you say that,” Alex complains. “But. Look, I know you hate talking about it, but the semester is over in three weeks.”

“I know.” John looks out the window, breathing deeply. He’s not going to think about it too much, no matter what Alex says.

“So, what are you going to do?” Alex asks. He leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees.

John shrugs. “Pack up my stuff and go home for the summer?”

Alex rubs his forehead, looking stressed. The dark circles under his eyes are worse than usual. “There’s got to be a better way.”

He wants to let himself be grateful that Alex is concerned, that he cares enough for John’s well-being to involve himself, but the panic that’s clawing its way up the back of his throat is too thick. He’ll be back in the house, and his father is home so much more during the summers, and - he makes himself breathe, closing his eyes for a moment. Three deep breaths, and then he collects himself and looks at Alex. He has to be calm enough to do this.

“It’ll be fine. I’ve lived with him my entire life, Alex. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“But you shouldn’t have to!” Alex protests, waving his arms in exasperation. “You and the others, you shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells around him and mind every word you say! You all deserve to be somewhere safe, somewhere you can just exist.”

“Should doesn’t come into it,” John says, knowing he’s speaking too sharply. “This is the way the world is. I’ll handle it.”

Alex groans. “Just - can’t you let someone else help, just once?”

“There isn’t anyone else,” John snaps. “There never is.”

“There could be!” Alex looks furious, and John reminds himself that Alex isn’t mad at him, not at him, everything is still fine. “We could help - you know the Washingtons would do anything they can! They could keep all of you at Mount Vernon, out of harm’s way!”

John has to shut this down, because it’s too close, too real, and he has to go home and face the music in three weeks. He doesn’t have time to pretend everything is going to work out like a fairy tale. “Hamilton. Do you think my father would just sit back and watch while his political nemesis walked off with his children?” He laughs at the idea, harsh and bitter. “It would make things worse. And it’s not the Washingtons’ business. It’s not your business. This is my family, as screwed up as it is. You can’t come in and just scoop us up and treat us like orphaned kittens.”

Alex glares at him. “So, what? You just go back to standing next to him and nodding support as he passes legislation to ruin people’s lives? Erase all the progress you’ve made this year?”

“I don’t know!” John can’t sit still anymore, can’t deal with thinking about all of this, and he jumps up to pace the tiny length of their room, mindful of Alex’s eyes on him. “I don’t know what to do! I don’t have any of this figured out! It’s not like I want to do any of that, but where do I have a choice? What am I supposed to do?”

Alex looks so sad, it physically hurts to look at him. “John,” he says, plaintive. “I don’t know, either. There’s got to be something, though. You can’t just walk back into that for months, you know there has to be another way.”

John shakes his head, too tired and too bitter to have to deal with Alex’s feelings about how unfair John’s life is. “If there is, nobody has ever told me,” he says. “I’ve been trying to make all of this work my whole life, and I can’t, I can’t get any of it right. I can’t stop him, I can’t go against him, I can’t get the kids away from him. There’s nothing I can do.”

“Would you talk to Washington?” Alex asks - nearly pleads, and John is not in a place to deal with that right now. “Or someone? The police, or social services, or something?”

The idea sounds so promising, so easy - but his father’s voice, certain and smooth, is still in his head, offering a barely veiled threat to his little brother. He can’t stand against the kind of power his father wields, not even at Alexander Hamilton’s urging. But he can’t tell Alex no, not when he’s standing there with his heart on his sleeve, looking at John like he matters.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He’s been through entirely too many emotions in one evening, and he’s worn thin. “I’ll think about it.”

He has way too much to think about and figure out, and he’s running out of time.

~~~~~~

Laf has decided that he is John’s relationship advice guru. John objects to this on many fronts, including the fact that he is not in a relationship and that he is not looking for advice. This puts no damper on Lafayette’s enthusiasm.

“I honestly do not understand how it took you so long to figure out how you feel about Alexander,” he says loudly, flinging himself elegantly into the chair next to John’s in the library, where he is trying to study. (And only a little bit to hide from Alex, because he suddenly has a problem with his face deciding to flush wildly every time he looks at Alex, and it’s really disturbing.) John startles so hard he shoves his book halfway across the table, and then looks around in blind panic to see who has overheard.

There’s no-one in earshot, but that doesn’t do much to alleviate the pounding of his heart.

“You can’t just say that out in the open like that!” he hisses, dragging his book back toward him with a hand that shakes a little. “Someone could hear you!”

Lafayette shrugs. “All of the good students are too hard at work to care, and all of the bad students are already off at parties for the next few weeks. No-one will care but you, my little cabbage.”

“I don’t want that to be my nickname,” John mutters. He drags his hands down his face, trying to settle himself down. “And besides, you don’t get to judge me. Plenty of people take a while to work out big, complicated things like - like this.”

“Not people who go around looking at the object of their affections like this,” Laf says, laughing, and he pulls the most over-the-top puppy-eyed face of adoration John has ever seen. John would absolutely dump him in a pile of snow right now, if there were any left. “I had this figured out months ago, mon petit chou.”

“Now you’re just saying ‘my little cabbage’ in French,” John says sulkily. “And if you had it so figured out, why didn’t you say something?”

“I have dropped enough hints for you to drown yourself in them,” Laf tells him. “It is not my fault that you are so emotionally dense. You surround yourself in layers of protection. Like a cabbage.” He grins again, and it’s a good thing John is very fond of him, or France might wind up short one very annoying citizen.

“For all the good it did me,” John says. He’s going to try ignoring the cabbage thing now and seeing if it goes away. That always works super well. “Look where I wound up.”

“I am so sad for you,” Laf deadpans. “How terrible, to be so fond of your greatest friend. How tragic, coming to love the person you are closest to.”

“How disappointing, to have a one-sided crush on a person you absolutely know you can’t have,” John corrects. “It’s not actually funny, as you seem to think, because it’s not like this is the beginning of some beautiful relationship we’re going to begin. This is just me, true to form, screwing up the best thing I’ve had in my recent life and ruining the last few weeks I have with Alex by crossing a line I shouldn’t be close enough to even look at!”

Lafayette sobers and looks at him with something much closer to sorrow, now. “I do not even know where to begin to pick all that apart,” he says with concern. “You are wrong on so many fronts.”

“Yeah?” John asks. ‘Enlighten me, then. How is this all fine and wonderful?”

“I think, first, we need to go back to our conversation many months ago,” Laf tells him, without a smile. “At Halloween, you remember?”

Of course John remembers. There had been mime makeup and running away and stupid, stupid Ned who he never had gotten to kick, and - was he jealous of Ned even that far back? Had he already had inappropriate feelings for Alex, who was barely even tolerating his company yet? That was just sad, if true. “I remember.”

“You said, then, that it was unnatural. Do you still feel that way?’

John squirms, put on the spot. It’s too complicated a question to give a simple answer. He knows his father’s answer, and he knows what the books he’s been reading would say; he knows the positions all the major religions and political parties have staked out on the question of homosexuality. He’s holding all that inside him at once, trying to synthesize it into an answer that makes sense. “In general, no,” he says carefully.

“And in specific?” Laf pushes. “In your own very specific case?”

He blows out a long breath and closes his textbook. Clearly, he’s not studying any more right now. “I don’t know. Unnatural is what my father always said. It’s what he said when he caught me with - well.” He still can’t talk about that, about Francis, not even after five years. “And I always believed it. But, this year, I’ve come to see that he’s been wrong about - about a lot of things. Incorrect, sometimes, and sometimes just flat out wrong, and I can’t help it, Laf, I can’t help but somehow hope that he’s wrong again on this?” It’s not an articulated position; it’s a cry of something like despair from his very heart.

It’s a hope that’s been growing in him for a while, hidden away in the deepest corners of his soul - because if it’s possible, if Henry Laurens could be truly wrong about this, then everything changes.

Laf smiles at him, warm and kind and understanding. “I have no doubt that he is,” he says. “If, then, we make this argument - if we stipulate that he is wrong, and that you are in no way wrong or unnatural for feeling the way you do - what then?”

“Then?” John’s heart sinks. “Then, I guess it still doesn’t really matter. It’s not like it’s a mutual feeling, and it’s not fair to Alex for me to be pining away at him. I just need to keep it quiet these last few weeks, not cause a distraction or anything. It’ll be over soon enough.”

Lafayette gently, so gently, collapses face-first onto the table, shaking his head in despair as he goes. “You are the most cabbage-like person I have ever known,” he murmurs.

“I thought we were dropping the cabbage thing,” John protests.

Laf groans, deep and heartfelt. “What do you think would happen, if Alex were to learn of this situation?”

That thought is enough to make the first tendrils of panic stir through him. He shakes his head wildly. “Don’t you dare let him know!”

Laf turns to face John, head still firmly attached to the table. “Sadly, I cannot. I have given my word, and I keep my confidences, even when the secret keepers are absolute idiots.” He blinks meaningfully a few times, as if waiting for John to decode a secret message, and then sighs again. “I give up! I must leave you to your pointless wallowing, until you become sensible.” He heaves himself upright and drops a kiss on the top of John’s head as he goes.

Maybe Laf will still be his friend next year - although, if his father’s law passes over the summer, which looks increasingly more likely, he’d better just resign himself to never coming back to school. He’s barely managed to be more than a complete outcast this year. Things, as John well knows, can always get worse.

As it turns out, that’s even more true than he thought when he’d told himself that harsh truth, because he gets an official-looking envelope in the mail the next morning, from South Carolina. It’s his birth certificate. He leaves it on his desk, unopened, as he goes to classes for the day; he can’t bear to look, yet.

He’s sitting in his room staring at the envelope, ignoring the buzzing of his phone, when Alex comes charging in.

“Oh thank god,” Alex gasps. “You’re not dead! We thought something must have happened when you didn’t show up for study session or for dinner or answer your phone or your texts or anything.” His ability to talk without pausing for breath is one of his more impressive character traits, John thinks distantly, as if through cotton wool. “John?” Alex pushes after a moment. He comes forward, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Did something happen?”

“Not yet,” he answers, in a voice that betrays all his uncertainty. He nods toward the envelope. “That’s my birth certificate.”

“Oh,” Alex says intelligently. He squeezes John’s shoulder in encouragement. “Are you ready to see it?”

“No,” John says. He still feels distant from the world, like he’s not quite in his own body. “But I need to.” He waits for a minute, until he can make himself move to pick up the envelope and open it. He’s glad Alex is there; he might never have been able to force himself to make the first move.

The first piece of paper is very official-looking, and he scans over it quickly. Parents - Henry Laurens and Eleanor Ball Laurens. He lets out a quick, sharp breath, and finds he’s surprised. He’d come to believe -

The second and third pages drift down from hands made numb with shock, and he scrambles to pick them up, scanning the printed text on the second sheet, only absorbing the meaning of the words. It tells him that since he’s filing for his own birth certificate, as the adoptee, he’s entitled to his original, unaltered birth certificate as well. A copy has been included.

“Oh,” he says, and looks at the third page.

It’s another birth certificate, with his name and birthdate, and with his father’s name.

His mother is not Eleanor Laurens.

His eyes go blurry, until he can’t properly see the words on the page; he hasn’t picked up his biological mother’s name. He passes the papers wordlessly over his head to Alex and buries his face in his hands.

(Men don’t cry, Jack.)

Well, men apparently did a whole lot of things his father hadn’t ever mentioned, such as not telling their sons the first and most basic truths about themselves. His father can go jump off a bridge. He doesn’t stop himself when tears come.

He’s vaguely aware of Alex, exclaiming in surprise, and then sort of draping himself over John’s back like a warm, comforting, nervous coat. He wraps his arms around John from behind, and it’s grounding, even if John can’t really take in what he’s saying, just the sound of his voice, familiar and beloved.

“You were right,” he finally says, when he can speak again. “I knew you would be, as soon as you’d said it.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Alex mutters. He hugs John a little tighter, resting his forehead on John’s shoulder from behind. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” John says. “My father lied. That’s no-one’s fault but his.”

Alex gives him another minute, and then gently lets go, standing up properly to look at the paperwork again. “He didn’t just lie to you,” he says. “They fixed it legally, didn’t they? Eleanor was your adoptive mother.”

“That sort of makes sense,” he says tiredly. “They’d lost a few before I came along. Miscarriages, and there was a baby with a defective heart. Maybe she thought she’d never have any of her own?”

“Or maybe she loved you, Laurens,” Alex insists. “From everything you’ve ever said about her, I have no doubt that she loved you.”

And when he puts it that way, it helps, because John doesn’t doubt it either, not even a bit. His eyes tear up again, and he has to take another minute to process.

“So, according to the paperwork, I’m still, you know,” he says, and gestures vaguely at the pile of papers.

“Nobody else would have access to this original birth certificate,” Alex confirms, looking it all over again. “Even if they looked up records on you, you’re the only one who will know the truth.”

He takes the papers back from Alex, comparing the original and amended birth certificates, with the tiniest beginning of something like hope in his heart. He’s not ready to discuss it yet, not even with Alex, but there’s something like an idea beginning to take root.

He looks at the original record again, at his birth mother’s name. Mary Laguerre. Born the same year as his mother - as Eleanor. Born in - Haiti?

“Alex,” he says. “My birth mother? She’s from Haiti.”

Alex glances at the paper again. “You’re right. Wonder how your father met her.”

A thought occurs to John, and even though it’s not funny, not even a little funny, he can’t help but gasp with laughter, doubling up as the absurdity of it all hits him. Alex looks worried.

“They all think,” he wheezes, when he can catch his breath again. “Everyone suspects you and Washington - you know.”

“Let’s assume I don’t, even though that was such a detailed and useful description,” Alex suggests.

John makes himself calm down and draw a deep breath. “When you appeared in Washington’s life, a lot of people in my father’s circle assumed you were, you know. His son. Biologically.”

“Oh,” Alex says. “I actually didn’t know that.”

John waves a hand. “It got debunked quickly, don’t worry about it. But it was a rumor for a while.”

“And your point?” Alex says, a little sourly.

“It’s not Washington who’s got an illegitimate kid,” John says, starting to laugh again. “It’s my father.”

“Scandalous!” Alex grins. “I bet his constituents wouldn’t like that very much, would they?”

“A secret illegitimate child is never good news for a politician,” John agrees. He’s still laughing, but there’s a bit of an edge to it as well, because he suddenly knows why his father would have told Isaac that John is the one who could make or break him. The truth of his very existence is enough to damage his father’s reputation. That’s - actually not a great feeling, even if the situation is hilariously ironic.

“Damn,” Alex says, his face falling so hard it’s actually funny. “If it wasn’t you, just think of how we could blackmail the old slimebag!”

“Yeah, that scenario doesn’t necessarily work out so well for me,” John points out. “I do want to research my biological mother, though. There must be quite a story behind all of this.” It still doesn’t feel quite real, like he’s talking about someone else’s soap-opera drama, but he’s had a bit of practice recently in learning to accept impossibly difficult truths about himself.

“I’ll help,” Alex volunteers - and John really appreciates the willingness, he does. But he also knows Alex, and with all the academic pressure right now, not to mention his political activism, he knows Alex will forget to follow through. That’s OK. It’s not his problem. He’s already done more than enough, and John owes him a debt of gratitude for even bringing this information to light. He’ll have to find some way to thank him, someday.

Chapter Text

John is being really weird.

Alex can’t really blame him, because he’s got a lot on his plate, but he also doesn’t really have the time to sort out what’s going on, because Alex’s own plate is overflowing. He’s trying to finish the semester and sort out his plans for next year, and also figure out his immigration status and try to avoid being deported and raise public consciousness against John’s fucking father and his damn law. And all of that isn’t even mentioning his troubling little problem of being in love with John and completely unable to deal with that.

And somehow, John has managed to entangle himself into the middle of every one of those problems, until it seems like he’s inextricably woven into every part of Alex’s life and he can’t figure out how to get free.

This is why he tries to avoid personal attachments.

He’s trying to finish the semester, where he needs to maintain good grades in all of his classes and keep up his work with various publications and student groups, and make connections with faculty and staff who he’ll need later - and John Laurens is quietly falling apart in front of his eyes. Alex is trying to figure out housing for next year, with very particular needs in mind, and for some reason, John looks like he’s about to have a panic attack if Alex even comes near the topic of the next school year. And then there’s the summer.

He’s got to get things figured out over the summer, in terms of his legal status for remaining in the States, and he needs to do it now, before Abomination Laurens manages to shove his law through and get Alex deported. If he’s thrown out now, he’ll never get back in. And George is trying to help, but immigration law is about the most complicated thing either of them has ever tackled, and he’s got no guarantees that they’ll be able to sort it out at all. So that’s hanging over his head like a sword, dangling by a thread, and in the meantime John looks like he’s been hit every time someone mentions his damn father and his fucking law or the existence of summer in general.

Alex is sick of all of it - tired of being unable to do anything to help, and worn out with fighting for his basic rights to exist, and absolutely exhausted by how much he cares about John and all his problems even in the middle of all of Alex’s own issues. Every time someone mentions the summer, or the next school year, and John looks like he’s about to run for his life, Alex gets that stupid sick panicky feeling in his gut, and he has so much work to do. He can’t fix any of John’s problems, or his own, and there’s just way too much going on for him to handle any of it properly. He wants to be able to do what he usually does - hyperfocus on one assignment or problem at a time, destroy it entirely, and then move on. That’s not working now.

He’s sleeping less than ever, and so is John. Part of it is just par for the course, as the last two weeks of classes attempt to murder them with an impossible workload; part of it is emotional overload, and Alex knows it’s easier to power through it with coffee and hard work than buckle down and face the issues he’s trying to run from. In two weeks, when the semester is over, a lot of this will all go away, and then he’ll be able to face reality more directly, he promises himself. Even he knows he’s lying. He doesn’t sleep at all some nights, knowing he’s pushing himself to a breaking point, but there’s just so much to do and so little time left.

He makes it to the very last week without breaking anything irreparable.

Laf finds the place at last - he’s a lucky, lucky man who’s professors have mercy on their students and don’t pile everything on at the end - and texts Alex the address on the last Monday of term. It wakes Alex up from a too-rare nap, but he doesn’t mind when he sees the pictures Laf has sent. He clambers down from his bed with way too little grace, relieved beyond the bearing of it when he sees that John is there, asleep. Some days they barely see one another at all right now, which is just the worst feeling; he feels like John is pulling away in preparation for what’s to come, and Alex hates it, but he can’t even talk to John about the summer without provoking anxiety, so he’s been forcing himself to leave it alone.

“Laurens!” He practically shouts in John’s ear, he’s so excited. John calmly puts his pillow over his head and ignores him. Alex has apparently done far too good a job in training John to sleep through his noise, and look where that’s gotten him. He tugs the pillow away mercilessly. “Laurens, get up!”

“Is someone dead?” John asks, not sounding like he cares particularly.

“No, but I will be if you don’t get up and do as I say, because my brain will literally explode, and then you’ll have that on your conscience forever. Come on!”

John is a good, good sport, and actually does get up and drags himself through his morning routine while Alex practically dances around on tiptoe, trying to hurry him. He’s only had three cups of coffee by the time John is ready, and Alex doesn’t waste any time. He grabs John by the sleeve and tugs him along, out of the dorm and off campus as fast as they can go.

“Hamilton, you’re a madman,” John complains. Alex ignores him. He says that a lot, and he never means it.

“There’s no time to waste!” Alex says, barely glancing at the map on his phone. He’s been thinking about the shortest way to get there since Laf sent the text, and he resents every second that’s slipping away. If he doesn’t get this-

It’s less than fifteen minutes walk from their dorm, and Alex grins in delight as he spots the place. It’s a bit on the older side, but he doesn’t care. The For Rent sign looks like it’s barely been pounded into the ground, and Lafayette is pacing back and forth on the front step, looking as if he plans to keep all competitors away by force, if necessary.

“You made it!” Laf calls as soon as he sees them. “Hurry, Alexander!”

“What is this?” John asks, slowing to a stop and staring at the plain little house in confusion. Alex grins and gestures grandly at the place.

“Meet my brilliant plan for not having to live in the dorms again next year!”

John’s face crumples horribly, for some reason, and he looks back at the house with something like heartbreak - which doesn’t make sense, John never makes sense, Alex doesn’t have a clue what’s happening in his brain - but there’s no time for that now. Laf gestures at the open door, and Alex darts inside. It’s so freaking rare for a decent property this close to campus to come available for rent, especially with the restrictions he’s put on their search, and Laf has managed a minor miracle by finding this place.

“It’s perfect,” Alex breathes as he takes it all in. It’s - well, Martha would probably call it ramshackle, but there’s a kitchen and a living room, and five bedrooms, and probably bathrooms and whatnot, and he doesn’t care very much what it looks like. It really is perfect. “Laf, you’re a miracle. John -”

But John isn’t there. Alex looks around in confusion, and then goes back outside, where John is still standing in the front yard, arms crossed, looking at the little house as though it’s just murdered his best friend. “Come on, you have to come and see!” Alex calls.

John smiles at him, close-mouthed, tight and political. “I’m very happy for you,” he says. He doesn’t move an inch closer. “But I actually do have a final this afternoon that I need to study for, so I’m going to-”

“Don’t you dare run off on this conversation!” Alex protests, darting out to within arm’s reach, though he knows better than to try to grab Laurens when he’s in a mood like this. “What the hell, John?”

John looks like he’s a million miles away, and gives that awful fake smile again without meeting Alex’s eyes. “I’m really glad you won’t have to put up with the dorms anymore,” he says. “This seems really nice.”

“Nice?” Alex protests. “You have no idea how hard we’ve been looking for something like this.” He points at the little house. “Just think of it!”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” John says, voice turning sharp. “Now, if you’ll excuse me -”

“I’ll enjoy it?” Alex repeats. “What are you talking about?”

John finally does look at him, with a flash of something almost like betrayal in his eyes. “You’ve made it very clear how glad you’ll be to put living in the dorms behind you,” he says coolly. “I’m sure living here will be a lot less stress for you.”

“Me?” Alex repeats. “What about you?”

“What about me?” John asks. He’s so still, barely glancing between Alex and the house. “You’ve made it pretty clear you’re done living with me, so I don’t know what more you want-”

Laf, who has followed him back out, gives such a heartfelt groan of dismay that Alex spins to face him, unable to take in his reaction along with what John is saying, which doesn’t make ANY sense, and-

“You are both idiots,” he tells them, looking between them with an expression close to disgust. “Do you ever talk to one another about anything?” He bounds over and puts himself between them, wrapping one long arm around each of their shoulders and urging them forward. “Laurens, you’re a fool,” he declares fondly. “Alex does not want to be rid of you. Alexander, you are also a fool. Did you even bother to tell him what you were doing?”

“Rid of you?” Alex echoes, finally starting to understand some of the depth of his stupidity. “Why would I want to be rid of you?” He stares at John across Lafayette, unable to fathom what John has been thinking.

John laughs a little, gesturing at himself, for some reason. “It’s Jefferson’s fault you got stuck with me in the first place, and you’ve been pretty clear about the fact that you hate living in the dorm with me-”

“Yeah,” Alex interrupts, “because dorms are awful and soulless and confining, Laurens! Not because of you! Jefferson did me a favor, you moron! I wasn’t planning on trading you for another roommate.”

Lafayette pushes them both through the front door and stands in the entrance, arms folded.

“But-” John says. He blinks at Alex, who is suddenly struck by how adorable confusion looks on him. “But you never asked anything about what I was doing next year-”

Alex groans and hides behind his hands for a moment. “Because you look like you’re going to be sick if anyone talks about it! I thought I could just work out a solution and surprise you, and then you’d see that it’s going to be fine, that next year will be better, no matter what happens over the summer.”

“Solution?” John looks around, taking in the interior of the rental house. He’s clearly still not following Alex’s incredibly clear and logical train of thought. Alex sighs.

“There are five bedrooms here,” he explains, and knows that he’s turning as beet-red as he’s ever teased John about blushing. “If - if you needed to, if things went bad, I thought you could bring the kids here. There’s enough room, and we made sure to look in good school districts. George offered to rent us a place off-campus, since by the time he pays for housing this makes as much sense as living in the dorms, and I just figured you could live here with Laf and me and Herc, and then we’ve got space if the kids need it.” He shrugs, knowing he’s useless, watching John’s face as he struggles to understand what’s happening.

“You - found us a house where I could keep the kids safe?” John asks after a minute, his voice a rough croak. Alex nods. “You still want to be friends next year, even after everything?”

“Mon dieu,” Laf mutters. “I hate both of you so much. I have never known two such idiots.”

“Everything?” Alex asks, ignoring his brother. “What do you mean? I’d want to be your friend because of everything I know about you, not in spite of it.” He stops, thinking through what John has said, and his jaw drops in horror. “You didn’t think we were going to be friends anymore?” The very idea of that loss, of not having John in his life anymore, rocks him backward. He’s lost everything in the world, multiple times; he cannot lose this new and precious thing, this person he has found who has come to be entwined in every part of his life.

“I didn’t think you’d want to know me anymore,” John admits, looking at the ground. “I mean, by next year my father’s law-”

“Still won’t be your fault,” Alex snaps, because he really really cannot think about Henry Laurens right now. “It’s got nothing to do with you, John.” He gestures around the house. “This is - I knew if things got worse at home, you’d go to them, so I had to find a way for you to bring them here so you wouldn’t have to leave. So, I talked to George and Martha, and they helped me make a plan, and I had it all worked out-”

“Except for bothering to ask Laurens about any of it,” Laf says. They can hear his sarcasm all the way back in France, Alex is sure.

“You’re renting a house for me,” John says, still slow and unsure. “For me and the kids. You did all this for me?”

“It’s the absolute least I could think of,” Alex admits. “I can’t fix everything. I can’t write my way out of this situation, or your way out, and this doesn’t fix anything really, but-”

He’s caught entirely off guard when John surges forward, as though he can’t physically stop himself, catching Alex’s face between his hands, and kisses him.

It doesn’t last long - a few seconds, and he’s so startled that he doesn’t think, can’t think, can’t process anything but John’s hands on his face, John’s lips on his own, and how does any of this make sense-

John lets go and backs away like Alex is on fire, staring at him with eyes so wide Alex can’t see anything but his face. “Sorry!” John says, not blinking, not breathing. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, I-”

“Don’t,” Alex breathes. “Don’t you dare apologize.” He brings his fingers up to his lips, just for a second, just to be sure he’s still physically there. “Did you just kiss me?”

John opens his mouth as if to apologize, and Alex can see him stop himself, close his mouth, nod. As if there’s nothing to say; as if words are too dangerous.

Alexander Hamilton has never found words he’s too afraid to say, even though the consequences might be bigger than he could handle. He steps forward, closes the distance between them. “Can I return the favor?”

John is watching him, still not blinking, but he nods, just the slightest inclination of his head. Alex moves forward and catches John’s lips with his own, already feeling his mouth curving up into a smile he can’t contain.

“Oh, thank god,” Laf groans. Alex can hear him slump against the doorframe in relief, but he’s not looking at Laf right now, not paying any attention to him.

“I thought,” John says blankly when Alex pulls away to grin at him. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “What have I done for the past six months but worry about you and try to figure out how to help you?”

“Oh, I know,” Laf puts in, raising a hand. “Whined to Lafayette about how much he adored you, that’s what he has done.”

“Shut up, Laf,” Alex says, and can’t make himself stop grinning. “How the hell did you not know I liked you? I’ve never lived with anyone this long without us both being ready to kill each other.”

John is still looking bewildered. “But I-”

“No,” Lafayette interrupts. “This is where you tell him, Laurens.”

“Oh,” John says. Now it’s his turn to go pink, all the way to the tips of his ears. “I - I like you, too.”

“You absolute cabbage!” Laf shouts, amused and exasperated all at once. He comes over and grabs both of them by a shoulder. “Alexander, John has been madly in love with you for months, even if he has not known it until a few weeks ago. John, Alex is making everyone crazy pining over you. You are both idiots.”

“Apparently,” John says, sounding as if his breath has been snatched away. “I - pining?”

“You’re in love with me?” Alex demands, at the same moment. “I didn’t even know you were - I mean -”

“Gay?” John asks - and there’s nothing of fear in it, no hesitation. “Yeah, I am. That much I had figured out a while back.” He grins at Alex - a tiny, shy smile that starts at one corner of his mouth and spreads like flame. “I - yeah. I love you.”

Laf kisses each of them on the temple, and then moves away, shaking his arms as if he had physically carried them here on his own. “Well. I will leave you to work yourselves out, and I will go and make arrangements for this house before someone steals it away from us.” He shakes his head in dismay. “I cannot believe I have agreed to live with both of you next year. Idiots.” He’s gone in a moment, and it’s just the two of them, in the living room of the house that Alex has found to fix all of their problems.

“I - I don’t know what to say,” Alex admits into the awkward silence that follows. John is still there, right in front of him, warm and alive and apparently in love with him, which - how the hell is that possible?

“Miracles do happen,” John says, quiet and amused, and Alex can’t stop himself from giving a groan and leaning forward to kiss him again, just because he can, all of a sudden, impossible as it seems. It’s not something he had ever allowed himself to even really think about, because it was so impossible - John was off-limits, for so many reasons - and now he isn’t, and Alex’s brain is nowhere near caught up yet.

He wants to just lose himself in this moment, enjoy every aspect of it - but he can’t, because he’s so aware of how tenuous a thing this is, how fragile everything is at the moment. He backs off again after a moment, just a little, and John’s smile is so sweet that he hardly even minds. John leans forward to press their foreheads together, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I cannot believe you, Alex. You’re a madman.”

“But you like me anyway!” Alex can’t help but make it a crow of triumph, a little song of delight, and grins back at John, feeling freer than he has in years, and John laughs.

“Apparently so,” he admits. “Here I’ve been worried about all the wrong things, while you were doing - this!” John manages to capture the essence of Alex’s whole desperate last-ditch plan in one word. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“That’s easy,” Alex assures him. “Just don’t ever make me worry about you ever again.”

John sighs at that, and pulls away. Alex wants to cry out in dismay, pull him back, but he does know better. John shakes his head again, but it’s not happy this time. His eyes are old and tired again, which is so very wrong.

“Alex,” he says, and Alex doesn’t want him to say another word. “Thank you, so much. I can’t believe you were willing to do all of this. But it won’t work, you know it won’t.”

“No, it will!” Alex objects. “George has it all worked out!”

John sighs again. “And how can even George Washington persuade my father that it’s a good idea for me to live off-campus with a bunch of radical lunatic left-wing crazies affiliated with his bitterest political rival?” He shakes his head, and Alex knows he’s on the verge of tears, though which emotions are pushing him that far, Alex doesn’t know. “It’s going to be a miracle if I get to come back to school at all - assuming I manage to keep my mouth shut about everything in the world all summer, and I guarantee he’ll be taking an interest in approving my living arrangements for next year. If it had just been sort of automatic, that we were continuing to live together in the dorm, it might have slipped his notice, but I can’t-”

“Nope,” Alex says flatly. He grabs John’s hand, holding it as if it can stop him from slipping away. “My turn to be stupidly obstinate, Laurens. We’re going to figure this out. We’ll get the rental in Herc’s name, or something - somebody your father can’t trace back to Washington. I’m not letting you give up this easily.” John opens his mouth to object at that, and Alex squeezes his hand. “You’ll do whatever you have to do to get through the summer, and then we’ll all be back here, and we’ll figure it out one day at a time.”

He can see the battle in John’s eyes - hope against fear, and Alex can’t make his choices for him, but he can give hope as many weapons as possible. He pulls John’s hand, tugging them both further into the little house. “Come on. Let me show you around!” John hesitates for just a second, and then gives in and follows him while Alex starts waxing poetic about the plain little place and how they’ll make it special next year.

It’s not a battle he can win for John, but Alex can bring his one true gift to the fight - his stubborn refusal to sit down and shut up.

~~~~~~

That evening, they all go to Taco Pierre’s for awesome horrible food and not-quite-legal margaritas, and Alex is unable to keep the stupid grin off his face the whole time, because he gets to sit next to John, and hold his hand when he wants, and John occasionally laughs so hard at something someone says that he tips over and rests his forehead against Alex’s arm, and Alex doesn’t know that he’s felt quite this complete inside in his entire life. They both have to protest the fact that literally none of their friends are surprised to see them together at last; apparently, every person in the fucking world except Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens had already worked out how they felt about each other.

They walk back to the dorm in a loud and cheerful group, already bemoaning how much time they’ve lost not studying that evening, with their last week of semester slipping away like sand between their fingers, but Alex’s hand is clasped in John’s, and he doesn’t actually care at the moment. They’ll figure it out, all of it.

His phone rings - actually rings, not a text - and that’s unusual enough that Alex digs it out of his pocket. It’s George.

“Just a sec,” Alex says, and John obligingly waits with him, waving the others on without them. “Sorry,” Alex mouths as he answers the phone. “George? Is everything ok?”

“I’m afraid not, son,” George says evenly. “Martha and I are fine. You needn’t worry about us, but I have some bad news that you’d better hear as soon as possible.”

Alex nods, tucking his chin down, bracing himself physically. He’s good at getting bad news. He’s had plenty of practice at it.

“Laurens has the votes,” George says, his voice solemn. “It’ll take a few days to get the bill on the floor, but he’ll carry it in the Senate, and things don’t look good in the House. This could move fast, given the political climate. I’m doing everything I can on your visa issue, but I don’t know if we’ll get it sorted out in time. I’m sorry, Alex.”

“Oh,” Alex says blankly. He feels blank, like he’s been emptied out and left hollow. “Ok.”

“We’re holding an emergency meeting tomorrow to see if there’s anything we can do,” George promises. “I want to believe we’re better than this, son. I want to tell you this is not going to happen, not after all the work so many people have done to fight it, but it’s an election year, and I just don’t know what else is left for us to try.”

“Ok,” Alex repeats. “Thanks for letting me know.” He hangs up slowly, unable to muster anything else to say to George. It’s not his fault; of all people in the world, it’s about the least amount his fault, and he hates to hear George sounding so guilty over something that isn’t his fault. His thinking is going in circles, small and worried, and he lets go of John’s hand to rub his hand across his eyes, struggling to clear his thoughts.

“Alex?” John asks. “Are you alright?”

He doesn’t know what to do. He’s tried his best to write his way out of this one - to march and rally and organize, to use every weapon available to him.

“Laurens’ Law,” he says, unable to stop the bitterness from creeping in. “It’s passing.”

“No,” John says. His eyes go wide, and he shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. He can’t do anything more than Alex can. “He hasn’t said anything about it coming to a vote.”

Alex unlocks his phone and tosses it at John, not knowing what he’s doing, not knowing how to respond. “Ask him yourself.” It’s probably mean, probably insensitive, but he’s barely holding himself together at the moment. Everything is already fading around him, as if the last year has been an illusion. He’ll be sent back to St. Croix, back to the grinding poverty and hunger and vulnerability to the elements. He’ll never get to finish his degree, never get his chance to secure his place in the world. Never spend another holiday with the Washingtons, or make a name for himself, or establish a legacy. Everything is going up in smoke.

John isn’t calling or texting, or doing anything, really. He’s just staring at Alex’s phone screen, looking as stricken as Alex feels. Fine pair they make, Alex thinks distantly. When it comes to it, there’s nothing to be done.

What hope had a bastard, orphaned, undocumented immigrant ever had, against the powerful of the world? Laurens was always going to win. Alex had been deluding himself that he’d ever had a chance.

Chapter Text

Rise Up.

John stares at Alex’s phone screen, not seeing any of the icons or notifications. Alex’s background is John, at the rally that had almost been the end of everything, holding the protest sign that he still has in the darkest corner of his closet. Rise Up.

He wants to wonder why Alex has this set as his phone screen, wants to think about the soaring intensity of the moment captured in the photo - but all he can see is the wordless accusation of his own face, in a moment where he had been brave enough to act with the courage of his convictions. For a moment - just one afternoon - he had stood up for what was right, and in that moment, he could have made a difference.

Then it had all fallen apart, of course, because he’s John Laurens and this is how his life works. He’d gone home and paid the price for his actions, and he’d been too cowed since then to even think about raising his head again.

But Alex is standing in front of him, looking like the world is falling to pieces, and John is staring at the evidence of his own cowardice, and his father is about to do something so monumentally terrible that there’s no way he can excuse it or look past it. It’s not about John at all, or about what price his father might exact for disobedience.

Rise Up.

He locks the phone and takes it back to Alex, pressing it gently into his hand until his fingers curl around it. Alex looks at him with nothing like the presence John has come to expect from him. He looks shaken, shocked; the joy that had enlivened him all day, since they’d finally started to figure themselves out, is gone. He’s staring sightlessly ahead of him.

“Let’s go home,” John says quietly. He doesn’t dare touch Alex; he doesn’t know what to do with him in a moment like this, and the last thing he wants to do is make things worse. He waits for a long moment for a response, until Alex finally nods, jerkily, and they start walking again. John keeps himself right by Alex’s side, matching his footsteps, thinking furiously, trying to work out what he can do. His own breathing is completely steady, even as he hears Alex on the edge of fury, breathing hard through a building anger.

He has to do something.

He’s been hiding his whole life, keeping his head down, trying to smooth everything over all the time to keep things calm, to prevent storms. He’s learned to be a rock, steady and reliable for the kids; a rock that his father can take for granted, a thing to be stepped on and used for his own further aims.

Rise Up.

He has evidence now that his father is not who he claims to be - evidence that John is not what his father has said he is. He has a weapon that he can use against his father, and the political influence that comes from his position as his father’s son. If he can position himself just right, he can be a rock upon which his father can destroy himself. It doesn’t matter what comes after - not for John, of course; he has to work it out so that the kids are safe, but maybe Alex is right. Maybe he’s not entirely alone.

It takes him a long time to realize that they’re standing outside their dorm, both of them staring uselessly at the locked entrance, neither of them moving to do anything about it. Alex is in as much a world of his own as John is. They’re standing side by side, a thousand miles apart. They might have stayed there all night, if Laf and Hercules hadn’t found them at the door, opening it and pulling them inside.

“Alexander!” Lafayette is more alarmed than John has ever seen him. He puts both hands on Alex’s shoulders, shaking him a little. “George just called and told me the news. Are you going to be alright?”

“Sure,” Alex says tonelessly. “I’ll figure something out.”

“We will figure something out,” Laf says, emphasizing the we, and Alex snaps. His hands fly to Laf’s shoulders in return, and he’s radiant with fury.

“What the fucking hell, Laf?” Alex snaps. “Who does he think he is, to determine the fates of thousands of people who have never done him any harm? Where the hell does he derive the authority to ruin people’s lives?” He’s off in full voice, arguments building and spilling over as fast as he can make himself talk, and John backs off a little.

He wants to stay with Alex and try to offer some form of comfort, as Alex has done for him innumerable times already - but time is not on their side. He doesn’t know exactly why this is hitting Alex so hard. It’s possible that it’s the surprise of the thing, or the insult to all the hours Alex and Eliza have spent working on their campaign against the law, only to have it make no difference whatsoever.

It doesn’t really matter, in the end. He looks to Herc, who is watching their friends with something like shock. “Can you stay with him? You and Laf?” he asks, voice quiet; he doesn’t think Alex is paying any attention. He can’t hear much over his own arguments, that much is certain.

“Of course,” Herc says, looking perplexed. “Laurens, what-”

“Don’t call me that,” John snaps, feeling it like a blow. “Not right now. I’ve got work to do.” He steps back further, and the motion stops Alex’s rant mid-flow.

“John?” Alex asks. He looks puzzled, and John puts his hands up, frantically shoves back the curls that want to creep into his face, and shakes his head. He doesn’t have time.

“I’ll see you later,” he says, and makes for the door, ignoring his friends as they call after him.

There’s so much he needs to do, to organize. There are calls to make and strings to pull - but first, he needs information. Thank God the library stays open 24/7 during finals week. He wastes about three seconds thinking about the last final he still has to take, before brushing that away. Irrelevant. It’s not going to matter whether he passes the class now, anyway.

He buries himself in the quietest corner he can find that has computers, and gets busy. It’s not easy, with nothing to go on but his birth mother’s name, but he has his dad’s credit card and isn’t afraid to use it. Information is so much more valuable than the money it takes to obtain it.

It’s tomorrow before he starts to find what he needs. John makes himself take a nap for a few hours in an uncomfortable reading chair, and then gets back to work. He’s grateful, for once, that he’s left his phone in the dorm room. He’ll need it eventually, but for now, he needs to be unreachable so that he can focus. The plan has to be airtight. He doesn’t have time to mess up again.

His father emails, asks why he’s not answering his phone, and John can’t take any risks yet, so he emails back with an excuse and a question about the political rumors that are now cropping up on all the major news sites. Is the law finally coming to a vote? His father’s answer is so ripe with self-satisfaction that it turns his stomach.

“In fact,” Henry concludes, “I am afraid I may miss your homecoming, as my time will be quite taken up in Washington for the next few weeks. I expect I will not make it home again until July, at the earliest. I trust that I can rely on your usual good judgment in managing affairs at home until I can return. We can certainly celebrate both my political victory and your hopefully acceptable grades at the same time, once all this is over.”

It’s a stroke of luck John hadn’t allowed himself to hope for. It makes everything possible. He ignores all the other emails, several from his friends. He doesn’t have time to get distracted. There’s too much at stake.

Tomorrow fades into the next day before John has all the information he needs. He knows what there is to be known about Mary Laguerre, though it’s precious little. She had been in the United States illegally for about two years before John’s birth. He can’t absolutely prove it, but he thinks she had worked under the table for a local cleaning company that serviced the government buildings in Charleston, which gives him a pretty good idea of how she and Henry had met. There’s little else to be found. His own medical records give the basics of his birth, and she had been listed on his birth certificate, but he had apparently been officially adopted by Eleanor very quickly. That’s suspicious enough as it is.

Then, Mary Laguerre had been deported back to Haiti, where he’s managed to find a brief news story about her death shortly afterwards at the hands of criminals who had robbed her of a large sum of money.

John should probably feel more upset about all of this than he does. He’s terribly sorry for Mary, of course, and hopes that he’s wrong about his suspicions about where she got the money and why she had given up her parental rights to him so quickly. In the end, though, she’s not his mom. Eleanor Laurens had been his mother his entire life, and he had spent enough years mourning her that he doesn’t really have more to give another mother he had never known. Maybe after everything is sorted out he’ll be able to revisit everything and find some better connection to her story. Maybe he’ll have the luxury of time to grieve, when it’s all over.

For now, he prints off all the records he’s obtained, collecting a file that’s nowhere near as large as it feels like it should be, and waits until he knows Alex will be in an exam to sneak back into their room. He’s worried about Alex, and he doesn’t have time to be, not right now.

Their room looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane. Alex’s possessions are thrown everywhere, and John can imagine exactly how they got that way. His own things are untouched, except where they’re covered by Alex’s, and he finds his phone plugged in and fully charged. His heart gives a quick throb at the evidence that Alex had thought of him, even in the middle of this storm, and he pockets the phone and the charger, changes into the most respectable-looking outfit he can put together, and slips out before Alex gets back. He doesn’t have the emotional resources to handle Alex on top of everything else right now. He has to be a rock.

Campus is a spotty mess right now, a mixture of crowded rooms full of students taking exams and empty rooms where lectures are over for the term. They’re done tomorrow, he remembers vaguely, and figures he’s missed his final exam. John can’t care.

He finds a seminar room that’s completely deserted, and takes a few deep, steadying breaths before he starts to make his phone calls.

The kids, of course, are the first priority. He calls George Washington, grateful that the man had given him the number in case Alex ever needed help. He straightens his back and prepares himself, knowing he needs to be disciplined and ready for the conversation.

“Washington,” Washington answers. He sounds busy, preoccupied, and John has to force himself not to hang up. He needs the help more than he fears angering the man.

“Senator Washington, this is John Laurens,” he says formally. “We met a few months back, sir.”

“Oh, thank God,” Washington breathes. John is taken aback. “Are you alright, son? Alex and Lafayette have been worrying themselves sick since you disappeared.”

“I’m fine,” John says automatically. He’s always fine. “Sir, I need to ask you for your help, and I know you have no reason to give it, especially considering who my father is-”

“John,” Washington interrupts. “Son. Take a breath. I will help you in any way that I can, I promise.”

The offer is almost enough to undo him, and John has to gasp a ragged breath that wants to be a sob before he can control himself. He doesn’t have time to fall apart right now.

“It’s my siblings, sir,” he says, staying on task. “I’m about to do something my father is not going to approve of, and I have reason to believe he may try to take it out on them when I step out of line. He’s going to Washington for the passage of the bill, and they’ll be away from him, back home in Charleston, but I can’t be there and here at once, and I’m worried for them. Is there any way you could-” John stops. He doesn’t really know what Washington can do, what anyone can do. He just knows it’s not safe for the kids to be exposed to anything that could come down as a result of his actions, and George and Martha Washington are the first adults he’s ever met who feel like they might be safe enough to trust.

“Of course,” Washington says. He’s so confident, so certain, that John feels his control flicker again. What would it be like, to have that sort of power and kindness on your side all the time? What would it be like to have someone he could rely on? “What’s your address? I can’t go myself, as I have to be in Washington for the vote, but I know Martha, and I know she would never forgive me if I didn’t let her help. She can be there in a few hours, if you can let your siblings know that she’s trustworthy. Martha will keep them from any harm, I promise you.”

“Thank you,” John whispers. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the wall, eyes burning with exhaustion. It feels like a fifty-pound weight has been lifted off his back. “Thank you, Senator. I can never repay you.”

“That’s abject nonsense, son,” Washington says. He sounds so fond, over the phone. John is bad at reading voices, obviously. “After everything you’ve done for Alex, and all the good he and Lafayette have told me about you, it’s the least I can do.” He pauses just a moment. “John, you’re not in danger yourself, are you?”

“No, sir,” John says, pushing himself upright again and wiping at his eyes, which are watering a bit. From exhaustion, of course. “I’m not going anywhere near him - not now, and probably never again. I doubt he’ll want to see me.”

“Good,” Washington rumbles. “Then when you’re done, you pack up and come to Mount Vernon with Alex and Lafayette. We can bring your siblings there to meet you. I’m assuming, given the fact that you consider them to be in physical danger, that we will need to make reports to the authorities. Please know that Martha and I are more than willing to host all of you, for as long as you might need it.”

John hasn’t let himself think this far ahead, but Washington is right, and is clearly two steps ahead of John. His throat wants to close up at the idea of having to inform the police or social services, of having to explain exactly what danger they were in and how he knew it was serious. What if they didn’t believe him, and sent them all back to their father? What if the system didn’t work? And he is only nineteen - no money of his own, no home to offer them, no ability to provide for them. “I-” he says, his voice thick. “I don’t know what to do, sir.”

“Then how about you let us work on that aspect of things, while you do what you need to do about your father?” Washington suggests gently. “We view you as family already, John. Let us help you.”

“Yes, sir,” John says. It’s harder than he’d expected, asking for help, because part of him thinks of the Washingtons as a threat, capable of taking the kids away from him. He can know, in his head, that they never would do such a thing, but his heart is harder to convince. “I can’t do anything if I don’t know they’ll be safe, sir. I’m not willing to risk it.”

Washington chuckles. “I’m not in the least surprised, son. Now, what other help can I provide you?”

“I don’t think there’s anything else,” John says shakily. “I’m going to do my best to offer you an opportunity to come at him politically. I think you’ll know how to follow up better than anything I can suggest.”

“Very well. Then there’s just one favor I need to ask of you, in return.”

Of course he’ll want something in exchange for his help. John has expected this; he knows how the world works. “Anything, sir.”

“Tell my son you’re safe and well before his head explodes,” Washington says, amusement coloring his voice. “If I get one more text from him bemoaning your probable fate, I cannot be responsible for my response.”

John has to laugh at that, even though laughter right now feels almost obscene. “I will, sir.”

“Good. And one more thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Be careful, son. Whatever you’re planning, don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“I will,” John promises. He does mean it, too. Everything he’s planning is absolutely necessary. He’s spent enough time failing to act, failing to see the truth that’s so evident to others. Now that he can see, he has to act.

He gives himself a moment after hanging up, gathering his resources before making the next call.

He still has Anderson’s contact information from the profile he did on Henry Laurens almost a year before; he hadn’t wound up interviewing John for the piece, but he’d seemed interested in getting his point of view before Henry had stepped in and made it clear that his children were off limits. John takes a deep breath, and makes a call.

~~~~~

Anderson has enough pull to set up a small press conference. It’s nothing huge - he’s not a senator himself, just the nameless son of someone who happens to be making a lot of headlines. It’s only the fact that his father is basking in his publicity right now that gets John an opportunity to make himself heard. The irony is not lost on him. He doesn’t need to destroy his father - doesn’t want to, either. He just has to let him destroy himself.

They set up on a quiet corner of campus, eager to avoid making a stir; there are cameras and microphones, all the equipment that John has been watching his father interact with his entire life. It’s strange to be on this side of things, and stranger than he can imagine to be preparing to make news himself. He shuffles through his papers, making sure everything is in place; he’s made copies for the reporters who are gathering, knowing they’ll need as much proof as he has to offer. The bill is coming up to a floor vote in two days, and Anderson was practically salivating at John’s promise of information germane to Henry’s motivations for the bill.

“Five minutes,” Anderson says, passing close enough to clap John on the shoulder. He tries really hard not to flinch.

Five minutes. Time to keep his promise to Senator Washington. He pulls out his phone, shoots the twins a quick text to let them know to expect Martha, and calls Alex.

“If this isn’t John, I’m going to come through this phone and strangle whoever is on the other end,” Alex hisses. The phone hadn’t even rung one full time. John has to stifle a smile.

“Hey,” he says simply. Alex sighs so hard John can practically see him collapsing in relief.

“John Laurens, if you don’t get back here and explain yourself right now -”

“Right, you’ve already made the threat. Climbing through the phone and whatnot. I’m very concerned.” He lets himself be amused, lets himself be fond. He’s almost finished. “I’m fine, Hamilton. I’m still on campus and everything.”

“You’d better be!” Alex explodes. “I didn’t know where you’d gone! I checked to make sure your damn car was still here, and we’ve looked for you everywhere. You didn’t even take your fucking phone!”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He is, too. “I didn’t mean to make you worry, but I had work to do. You’ll understand soon.”

“What are you doing, John?”

He grins wryly at his surroundings. “Don’t get jealous, but I’m about to make a name for myself.” He tells Alex where he is, though he refuses to say any more. By his reckoning, it should take Alex long enough to arrive to let him do his worst, and then he can let himself fall apart if he has to, and it’ll be OK that Alex is there, then.

“Ready?” Anderson asks, and John says goodbye, pockets his phone, and positions himself. They’ve given him a little lectern to stand behind, and he places his papers down with great care. One last nervous swipe at his hair to keep it out of his face, a quick tug to straighten his shirt, and John nods. The camera operator gives him a silent countdown, and John takes a deep breath.

This is it. He can either rise now or crumble; he can finally do something to be proud of, or he can continue to live on his knees, letting himself be ruled by fear. He has a platform that no-one else has been given, due to who his father is. He has to do something.

“My name is John Laurens,” he says to the camera. It’s as calm and solid as he needs to be, and he takes a deep breath and goes on. “My father, Henry Laurens, is currently in the news for the new bill he is attempting to pass in the Senate later this week. This bill would ensure the removal of thousands of undocumented immigrants from the United States. My father argues this is necessary to secure public order and to prevent immigrants from using the services available to citizens in this country. He says that immigrants contribute nothing of value to this country, and that the rights and privileges of citizens are the only priority we ought to focus on.” He pauses, breathes again, centers himself. “But my father has not been honest about his own background. You are missing some critical information about his views on immigrants.”

He takes the first paper off the stack and holds it up. “This is my birth certificate. I just saw it for the first time a few weeks ago. I was shocked to learn that the woman I thought was my mother, Eleanor Laurens, was actually my adoptive mother. My biological mother, a woman named Mary Laguerre, was an undocumented immigrant from Haiti, with whom my father had an affair. When I was born as a result of that, my father appears to have paid Mary a considerable sum to relinquish her parental rights, and then had her deported back to Haiti, where she died at the hands of criminals.” His voice is still steady, and he keeps his back straight. “My father lied to me my entire life about who I was, who he was. He does not believe in diversity of thought or opinion. His plan to deport good, decent people like my birth mother, who did nothing to harm anyone else while in this country, is a callous, cynical move to appeal to the fears and biases of his conservative supporters. He expects to ride the wave of enthusiasm gained from this bill’s passage to the Republican nomination for president.”

John has to stop for a moment, closing his eyes just a blink too long, gathering his strength again. “Henry Laurens is not a man who deserves to be president of this country. He is not a man who deserves your support for this bill, or who should be given the benefit of the doubt. He should be investigated - his finances, his political influences.” John swallows hard. “His personal behavior, even in the privacy of our home.”

He’s done it, now. He’s crossed the Rubicon; there is no going back. There’s no more keeping silence, no more hiding bruises and abuses.

“Thank you for your time,” he says, knowing that everything hard is still ahead of him. “I’ll be happy to share with you all the evidence I’ve collected so far. I would rather not take questions right now.” He nods and steps back, as the camera operator signals that the recording has stopped.

Anderson and the others are looking at him in something like delight. John has just handed them a news-cycle, and possibly more than that, if his uncovering of the details has the effect he hopes it will. Voting for a popular bill against scary-sounding “illegals” is one thing. Supporting a man who has been hiding secrets this politically explosive is yet another.

John hopes, with a sick lurch, that Martha has made it home in time to be there for the kids. He doesn’t want them to see and hear what he just did, even though he knows there won’t be any hiding it now. He’s done hiding everything. He’s done everything but shout it to the rooftops.

“John?” He turns, surprised to hear Alex’s voice behind him. He’d thought he would still have more time - but Alex must have sprinted, because he’s clearly been there long enough to hear his little declaration.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly. He hands the packet of copies off to the closest reporter and goes to Alex, heart pounding in his chest. “Did you catch much of that?”

Alex is staring at him in shock, eyes huge and dark. “All of it,” he whispers. “Is - that’s all true?”

John nods. There’s no excitement in him, no adrenaline surge. He’s just tired. “Yeah. It’s all I could piece together in the time I had. Hopefully the media can dig up more, if there’s anything else to be found.”

“John Laurens.” Alex shakes his head slowly, unbelieving. “You just - do you know what you did?”

John shrugs. “It was the only thing I could see to do. He made me dangerous to his prospects through his own actions. I just - weaponized myself.”

“But what’s going to happen to you?” Alex demands. He comes a step closer, though he is still keeping his hands very much to himself.

“Who cares?” John demands. “I asked the Washingtons to help keep the kids safe. What else is there to care about? I don’t want his name or his money, or the future he’s tried to plan for me. He was never going to accept me for who I am. I don’t need anything from him, and I don’t care what he tries to do to me. I’m done.”

And that’s the source of the exhaustion, he realizes. It’s the feeling of the weight being lifted from him - the fear and anger, the thousand ways he’s had to repress himself and hide his personality and thoughts and beliefs. He’s done trying to live up to his father’s expectations. He can just be John.

Alex gestures at the reporters around them, who are blowing themselves into a frenzy, making calls and shooting cell-phone pictures of his documents. “Do you know what you’ve done?” he repeats. “You’ve given us a chance. We were trying to fight him with sticks and stones, and you just dropped a thermonuclear device on him.”

“Good,” John says wearily. He sits down on the stone steps of the building they’ve used as a backdrop, and drops his face into his hands. “That’s all I ever wanted. Today, it’s my story. Tomorrow, I have to think there will be more of us, telling the truth about my father and his colleagues, breaking down the facade of perfection. They’re just human, but trying to make themselves look perfect opens them up to a lot of potential criticism.”

Alex sits next to him, and puts a tentative hand on John’s forearm. “But are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” John says, and bursts into tears.

It’s over, and it’s all just starting, and he’s blown up every foundation of the world he knew. He has no idea what comes next, and he’s so tired. Alex has his arms around John in a second, letting him bury his face in Alex’s neck and just let out all the exhaustion and fear. Because Alex is Alex, he’s talking non-stop, a reassuring murmur of sound that John allows to wash over him without hearing any of it. It takes longer than he would have imagined to pull himself back together, but eventually he straightens up and rubs at his face, knowing he must look like an absolute mess. Alex is watching him, worried and proud and fond, and John doesn’t know how he got lucky enough to have someone like Alex sitting beside him at the end of the world.

“Hey,” Alex says, smiling at him softly.

“Hey,” John repeats. He looks around, relieved to find all the reporters have evaporated, leaving them alone. “What now?”

Alex shrugs. “I have no idea. I’d guess the story will be online any minute, and then, I don’t know what happens. The media will be after you with more questions and demands, of course. You’ll never give them enough to satisfy them.”

“I know,” John groans. He picks up his phone, almost afraid to see what’s happening in the world outside this stone staircase.

There are texts from the twins.

She’s already here, Jacky, Mary has written. Don’t wait so long to warn us next time!

Martha has texted, too. We love her to pieces. She’s taking us shopping!

John grins tiredly at that. Poor Jemmy. Don’t force him into too many different stores, or you’ll regret it!

“Mrs. Washington is with my siblings,” he tells Alex. “I couldn’t let him do anything to them because of what I was about to do.”

“And you couldn’t have taken two seconds and told me what you were doing?” Alex protests. “I had no clue where you were, and then my dad - uhh, George - called and told me that you had asked him for help. And I’m glad you did, really I am, but you couldn’t have let me in on it?”

“I was afraid you’d try to talk me out of it,” John admits. “I couldn’t have handled that.”

“I would have!” Alex says. “What you just did - now everyone will know all of it. You could have gone to him and threatened to go public unless he withdrew the bill, or something!”

John shakes his head. “I’m finished hiding things,” he says tiredly. “I’d rather try to make the best of it with everything out in the open.”

His phone buzzes, and John glances at it. Martha, again.

Jacky, Jemmy’s not here. He’s with Daddy. Didn’t he tell you he was bringing Jemmy with him?

The shock that runs through him is electric and painful, and he’s on his feet at once, though he has to grab Alex’s arm to keep from falling over with the suddenness of it all.

“John, what?”

“Jemmy’s with him!” John says desperately, shoving the phone at Alex. “My father never said he was bringing him along. He never brings us with him to Washington!”

“Oh, shit,” Alex whispers. He looks back at John, clearly torn. “But, I mean, Jemmy’s only ten. Your dad isn’t seriously going to blame him for what you did?”

John shuts his eyes, trying not to be sick, and clings to Alex. “He already threatened,” he whispers. “Said Jemmy might have a fall and be injured if I didn’t mind myself. I thought he was safe. I thought I had them taken care of.”

“OK, let’s go,” Alex says. He grabs John’s hand and starts to pull him along, and John’s feet can’t help but follow.

“Go where? I don’t know what to do!” John says frantically. The images of what could happen are flashing through his mind, paralyzing him. How long until the story hits the airwaves, until it gets to his father’s ears? There isn’t enough time.

“We’re going to DC,” Alex tells him. He’s already on his phone with his free hand. “Yeah, George? We’ve got a problem.”

They’re moving through campus at a run, and yet John has time to see every blade of grass they pass, every detail of the cracks in the pavement beneath their feet. Time is wrong, his heart is beating wrong. He miscalculated. He made the stupidest mistake, not checking that they were all together and safe.

If anything happens to Jemmy, it will be entirely John’s fault.

Chapter Text

John is an absolute mess. Alex can’t blame him for that, of course - not after everything he just did, and certainly not with his brother’s safety in doubt. He doesn’t even object when Alex pushes him gently into the passenger seat of his own car and gets them on the road. John has never let him come close to getting behind the wheel before. Alex isn’t even sure, honestly, whether John is aware of what’s going on.

He tries to talk to him, to keep up a running stream of commentary. Whether that’s more for John’s benefit or Alex’s is uncertain; Alex can’t handle silence right now. He doesn’t want to think about little Jemmy being in danger, but there’s a grim certainty to John’s eyes and the set of his shoulders. If their father has been abusing one kid, why not any of the others?

Alex swallows hard. It’s already so impossibly unfair to think of John in that situation - now, or as a younger kid. He hates it beyond reason. To think of Jemmy in the same state - Jemmy, who draws squashed toads and showed Alexander all his favorite places to hide in their house, who tries to look after his big brother when he can - it’s brutal.

Martha has texted to assure them both that the girls are safe and well, and she’s doing her best to keep them away from the news. As soon as John’s testimony goes viral, which Alex knows it will, Mary and Martha will put together the danger both of their brothers could be in. If any members of the Laurens family could be spared awfulness today, that would be nice.

Alex pushes the speed limits, especially once they’re past the traffic of the city. It’ll take them almost four hours to make the drive; four hours is a long time for a little boy. Even when they get there, they’ll have to find Laurens, who could be any number of places in the city, and then they’ll have to face the fallout of John’s heartbreaking confession.

Alex is still breathless when he lets himself think about it - what John had done, how much he had thrown away, how bare he had laid his heart before the world. Alex couldn’t have done it. He doesn’t really think anyone but John could have. It would have been so much better if they could have kept him and the other kids away from Laurens entirely, because Alex is sure that the man’s reaction is going to be violent. What John has cost his father - well, good. It’s no more than he deserves. Alex thinks about John, bruised and close-mouthed at the holidays; John, staring brokenly at the floor at the Schuylers’ party; John, flinching from angry shouts.

No. It’s much less than Henry Laurens deserves. If Alex and George have their way, he’ll get more of what he’s earned, too.

John gets responsive again almost an hour out from New York City. Alex can respect that it’s John’s way of handling too much stress - just shutting down, unable to deal with one more blow. He’s really, really glad that John had managed to keep himself together through whatever awful things the last few days had thrown at him, to be able to present that information to the world.

“I’m not sorry,” John says suddenly, interrupting Alex’s stream of consciousness monologue on the problems with the lack of term limits in government.

“Good?” Alex says, darting a quick sideways glance at him. John is pale and drawn, scared in a way Alex has only ever seen from him once before, and looks like he’s barely keeping himself from flying apart - but he’s doing it, somehow. “Sorry for what?”

“Everything I said today.” John sets his jaw stubbornly. “Going public with the information. Even if - if I screwed up, even if I put Jemmy in danger. As long as he doesn’t-”

“Hey!” Alex interjects. He grabs John’s forearm with his free hand. “You didn’t do a single thing wrong. Even if your father hurts Jemmy, it’s not your fault. You have to know that.”

John shakes his head, eyes fixed on the horizon. “But it will be. Even so -” John sighs, running his hands through his hair and pressing on the back of his head, looking down guiltily. “Even so. I had to do it, and I’m not sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Alex assures him. “You were magnificent.” He moves his hand to take hold of John’s, squeezing his fingers. “I just wish you’d said something to me, first. I wouldn’t have had to spend days panicking.”

John laughs a little, returning the pressure of their handhold. “I was on campus the whole time. It’s not like I went to duel him or anything!”

“Yes, I know, and that was bad enough,” Alex assures him. He won’t forget the fears that had plagued him about John’s absence and silence, or the relief he’d felt to see his car still peacefully parked in their parking lot. He couldn’t have handled it if John had taken off again, back to face his father on his own. “But I was worried about more than just you, if you can imagine!” He grins obnoxiously at John.

“What? I’m not the center of your existence? I’m hurt, Hamilton,” John teases. That’s a really good sign, if he’s able to make a joke. Alex swallows hard, not willing to let John know how close to the truth he is. He’s wound into the center of everything that matters, now, and Alex cannot imagine life without John Laurens and all of his baggage and ridiculous habits and unnatural love of snowball fights.

“I guess I have a secret of my own to share,” Alex says. Might as well - John has laid all of his bare to the world, and Alex knows now that his secrets will be safe with his friend. “You know how your father is out to make the life of every undocumented immigrant a living hell, just because he can? Well, I’m, umm. Not exactly here legally.”

John blinks at him. “Oh,” he says intelligently. And then - “Oh! Well, I guess that does make sense. Is that why you-”

“Freaked out entirely at the idea of his fucking law being passed?” Alex says wryly. “Pretty much. And, of course, the very principle of the thing is abhorrent. The fact that he thinks he can dictate-”

“We’re on the same page here,” John says. He squeezes Alex’s hand again. “You don’t have to convince me - not anymore.”

“So I see,” Alex admits. He grins over at John again. “I cannot believe you threw down like that. Every undocumented immigrant in the country is going to be lining up to buy you a drink.”

“I’m not old enough!” John protests. “So, can I ask - how are you here if it’s not fully legal?”

Alex makes a face. “Immigration law is fucking tricky. I came here properly - student visa and whatnot - but they coded it wrong, and it expired six months after I got here, even though it was supposed to be for the duration of my education, and I’m meant to be working toward a green card and citizenship. But if I’d gone back, they’d never have let me in again. George has been working on getting it fixed up, but for now, I’m way over my limit.”

John whistles softly. “I had no idea. You never said anything.”

“Well, for the first few weeks, you probably would have turned me in to ICE yourself,” Alex reminds him. “And then - honestly, I try not to think about it too much, because it’s so stressful. I try to just live my life.”

John nods soberly, and Alex knows he gets it. They are both bearing burdens they can’t put down, and they know the weight of it. “So, if my father’s law passes,” John says, and doesn’t complete the thought.

“Yeah,” Alex says. “It’ll be a one-way ticket back to the islands for me, and they’ll make sure I don’t get in again.”

“That’s not going to happen.” John is suddenly so certain that Alex lets himself relax, just a little. “I’m not going to let it happen. I’ll give them whatever evidence they need to turn on him.”

“You kind of already did,” Alex points out.

“There are areas I didn’t go into,” John says grimly, and Alex knows what he means. “Henry Jr. - he hates our father. I mean, really hates him. It’s why he went and - well, got himself a family of his own, I suppose. He thinks I don’t know, but he was keeping records for years of everything my father did.”

“Did?” Alex asks. He doesn’t want to have his suspicions confirmed.

“To, uh.” John hesitates. “To me. Henry Jr. wrote things down, took pictures when he could, kept evidence from, um. From doctors’ visits. When those were a thing.” His voice is rough and anxious, and Alex knows it’s costing him to talk about this. “Anyway. He’ll give it to me if I ask, and I’ll make it public if I have to. Even if they can spin the story I gave them already, it’ll be harder to justify - justify that.” He sighs raggedly.

“You don’t want to,” Alex says quietly. It isn’t a question.

“No.”

“But for the other kids?’

“Yeah,” John murmurs. They drive in silence for a while, the weight of that hanging between them. Then Alex feels his phone buzz, and sighs.

“I think that’s my media alert,” he says dully. He knows damn well John doesn’t want to see the stories that are going to be circulating online already, but they don’t have the luxury of ignoring any of it. John takes a deep breath and opens his own phone.

“Yes,” he tells Alex. His voice is flat. “It’s making waves.”

“Of course it is! It’s going to be the scandal of the day, at the very least.”

John pauses a moment, and then asks, sounding very vulnerable, “Do you think it will work?”

Alex shakes his head, grinning a little. “Laurens, I think the world will never be the same. There’s no way the bill will come up to a full vote with this much baggage, and even if it did, most senators aren’t going to want their names associated with his bill again. And especially if this turns into a longer news cycle - honestly, I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t wind up facing a recall referendum.”

“He’ll never forgive me.”

Alex hesitates. “Do you want him to?”

John shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not sorry, so I suppose not. But - I’ve spent my whole life trying to make him proud.”

“Maybe it’s time for a different goal, then,” Alex suggests. John doesn’t answer.

John follows the media reporting as Alex continues to blaze toward DC; within an hour, George Washington and other Senators have given statements to the media expressing concern, outrage, and suspicion as to whether they have all of the story yet. Washington in particular speaks out, and John plays a clip of an interview with him so Alex can hear it, too.

“I had the privilege of meeting John Laurens a few weeks back,” Washington says, “and I was impressed then by his character and integrity. I have no doubt that he is telling the truth, and I support a full investigation into Henry Laurens’ behavior and possible criminal activity. I have reason to believe that there may be concerns for the safety and well-being of his children.”

“Wow,” John says. “I guess it’s really all out there now, then.”

“Guess so.” Alex shifts a little, glancing at John again. “Can I ask something? You always seemed so - well, scared of your father. And I don’t blame you, you had plenty of reason to be - but what changed?”

John shrugs. “Nothing, I guess. And everything. I’m tired of letting him control me, and the kids, and everyone. I couldn’t let it go on any longer.” He hesitates a moment. “I’m still scared, to be honest.”

“You don’t have to face him alone,” Alex promises. “Not ever again, if you don’t want to.”

“Thanks.” John smiles - not a full smile, but enough to give Alex hope. He’s hanging in there, even as he’s waiting for the other shoe to fall. His fingers are wrapped around his phone so tightly that his knuckles are white.

When the phone suddenly rings, they both startle at the sound. “It’s him,” John says unnecessarily. He hesitates a moment, then answers. “Hi, Dad.”

Alex wishes he could hear any of the other side of the conversation, but there’s nothing except a muffled voice with no discernable words. John stares out the window, looking lost. “I know, sir,” he says. Soldier Laurens is back again, and Alex wishes he could just go back in time and smack the version of himself who had ever found it funny.

Henry’s voice again for far too long, and then John says, “Yes, sir.” Pauses for a moment. “Where’s Jemmy?”

Alex’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. After a moment, John just says, “I understand. Don’t - you can be angry at me all you like. Don’t take it out on him.” Pauses. “Yes, sir. I’ll be there, sir.”

He finally hangs up, and blows out a long breath, leaning over to steady his elbows on his knees.

“Jemmy is ok, I think. He’s with my father now, but I don’t think he’s - he’s done anything.”

“Is he angry?” Alex asks awkwardly.

“Not as much as I thought,” John says. He sounds worried about that. “He wants me to meet him at his hotel to talk about where we go from here.”

“Ok, now you have to be fucking kidding me.” Alex smacks a hand on the top of the steering wheel. He’d be pacing frantically if he weren’t driving. “You’re not seriously about to go into a room with him, behind closed doors? After what you’ve just done?”

“Well, he didn’t say I had to come alone,” John says. He shoots a quick little glance at Alex, who suddenly feels like he can’t quite breathe. John is going to let him come along, let him try to help? It feels like a sacred offer, in a way - an offering of a glimpse at part of John’s life he’d never expected to be allowed into.

“Good,” Alex says fiercely. “I hope you know I plan to punch him.”

“Well, that, I can’t let you do.”

“Laurens,” Alex says, warningly.

“No, Alex, I mean it. I won’t lay a finger on him, and neither will you.”

“After everything he’s done?” Alex protests. “He deserves it, and so much more!”

“I’m not talking about what he deserves. I’m talking about what needs to happen, here. You cannot interfere,” John orders. There’s no arguing with him. He’s a rock, immovable and dangerous just by existing with such strength. “No matter what.”

“I’m not about to just stand there and watch while-”

“Then you can’t come,” John says simply. “I know what I’m doing. I know what I need to do.” He stares at Alex. “He has Jemmy, Alex.”

Alex seethes, grinding his teeth together. He can’t possibly do what John is saying - just watch and wait. But even more so, he can’t let John walk in there and face his father alone, and he can’t put Jemmy in danger by refusing to cooperate. “Fine,” he growls. “I won’t. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” John says, and there’s no hesitation in it. Alex nods, and then takes out his phone.

“I’m going to record what happens,” he tells John. “I need you to consent. It’s legal here in DC, as long as one party consents. Whatever happens, we’ll have it on record.”

John makes a face. “I’d rather not. I’m not looking to trap him.”

“I am,” Alex snaps. “John, he’s willing to hurt Jemmy, maybe risk his life to punish you for telling the truth. He’s got no business being anywhere but in a jail cell.”

“I still don’t like it,” John mutters.

“But do you consent?”

John nods, looking sick. “But you can’t do anything with the audio unless I agree,” he warns, and Alex nods impatiently. It feels a little more like doing something.

The last hour of the drive flies by, and John directs them to the hotel where his father is staying. Alex has called George and told him where they’re going, and he insists he’ll meet them there. It is a relief to know they’re going to have backup.

It’s odd. His whole life, since he was twelve, Alex has known he has to fend for himself. He’s known that nobody else is going to help him solve his problems, that no-one else is reliable. So the fact that he’s traveling with a friend who has risked everything to help him, even without knowing that he was in need, and that he’s got a sort-of parental figure (not that he’s admitting that to anyone but John) whose help he wants and is counting on - it’s very strange.

They’re at the hotel sooner than seems possible, despite the fact that Alex has literally been counting down the minutes for the past hour and a half. John gets out without hesitation when they’ve parked in the garage, and waits for Alex to join him.

“I have to say this,” John says, taking Alex’s hands. “Thank you, for everything. Thank you for coming with me, and being willing to face my father. But you don’t have to. I can do this on my own.” He means it, Alex can tell, but there’s too much fear in his eyes for him to think John wants to go alone, and he certainly isn’t about to watch him walk away, alone, one more time.

Alex tightens his grip. “Nope,” he says, grinning obnoxiously. “I spent way too much time getting you properly accustomed to me. I don’t want to have to start over with someone new next year.” John rolls his eyes, relaxing just a little, and Alex takes a minute to just take him in, every detail of his face and presence.

“Don’t do that,” John says, going pink and averting his eyes.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like - like that.”

“Sorry, Laurens,” Alex says, grinning wider. “I happen to be infatuated, thank you very much. I’ll do as much smitten gazing as I like, especially when you’re being all noble and heroic.”

“Shut up,” John says, and he can’t keep himself from cracking a smile. Mission accomplished.

“It’s going to be fine,” Alex says gently. “Jemmy is going to be fine, and you’ve done everything you can.”

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and Alex can’t help himself. He pulls John’s head down and kisses his forehead, like he had at Christmas so long ago, and tries to lend him every bit of strength and courage and stubbornness that he has to give.

It’s only when he backs off, squeezing John’s hands one more time, that he notices George watching them from across the parking garage, looking pensive. “Come on,” Alex says, and they make their way over to him.

“Thank you for coming, sir,” John says. He’s still a little stiff and formal, but there’s no fear of George anymore. “And thank you, and Martha, for everything you’re doing for us.”

“It’s the least we can do,” George says easily, putting a slow, gentle hand on John’s shoulder. “What you’ve done today, I’ve been struggling to figure out how to pull off for years. You’ve got a career in politics if you want one, young man.”

John shudders a little. “Anything but that,” he says seriously.

“Are you sure you should go in there and meet him in person?” George asks.

“I have to.” John shrugs. “He’s got Jemmy, and he said I have to. I’m not worried, sir.”

“I am,” George mutters. He shakes his head. “You aren’t going in alone, son. I’ll be just outside, and I have a feeling there will be press here as soon as they get wind of where he’s staying.” John nods, and Alex feels a little more concern press in as he sees John’s gaze going distant - but he keeps himself together, and they head for the elevator in silence.

John only hesitates a moment outside the door of his father’s hotel room, and knocks vigorously. He doesn’t look at Alex.

Henry opens the door without a word, and steps back to let them in. He raises an eyebrow at Alex’s presence, but doesn’t seem impressed enough to say anything. Alex lets his hand go to his pocket, double checking that he still has his phone, which he already has recording.

“Where’s Jemmy?”” John asks, his voice brittle.

“James!” Henry calls, not breaking eye contact. The door to the adjoining room pops open, and Jemmy peeks out, then runs to John, who rushes forward to grab him in a desperate hug.

“Are you OK?” John asks frantically, looking him over from head to toe.

“I’m fine!” Jemmy says, looking bemused. “I didn’t know you were coming to Washington with us, Jacky!” Alex lets out a sigh of relief. Jemmy doesn’t even seem to know that he’s been a hostage, of a sort.

“James, I need to talk to Jack,” their father says, dismissing the ten year old with the wave of a hand. “I’ll come and speak to you later.”

Jemmy lets go reluctantly and backs away, obviously reluctant to leave his brother. John smiles at him. “See you in a bit, squirt.” Jemmy nods and disappears behind the door, which closes with an audible click. Good. Alex doesn’t think Jemmy needs to be present for any of what might follow.

“You wouldn’t have hurt him, right?” John asks, sounding so much younger and more vulnerable than he should that Alex’s heart hurts.

“I’m surprised at you, Jack,” Henry says. “Although I must say, your antics with the media today were quite diverting. I’m very grateful that James didn’t take advantage of my distraction to do anything too dangerous. You never know with boisterous children, though, do you?” He smiles, just a little, icy and dangerous, and Alex’s skin crawls. “I certainly hope there is no more reason in the next few days for me to be similarly distracted.”

John’s eyes almost literally flash - Alex hasn’t seen such a clear example of the saying before - and he turns away from the door where Jemmy disappeared and looks his father in the eye.

“Deal with me if you have a problem with me,” he demands. “Leave the kids out of it.”

“You are quite a problem,” Henry agrees lazily. “I’m afraid you’ve put a bit of a crimp in my plans for the week.”

John doesn’t look away. “I’m not sorry. Your bill is inhumane, and I’m glad I told the truth about you and - and my birth mother.”

“Now, Jack, let's not be unreasonable. You came up with quite a story, but you know you don’t have anything like solid proof. It’s a shame how often vital records are misprinted and need to be amended.”

“Are you really going to lie about it, even now?” John demands. “I’ll get DNA testing, for me and the kids, if I have to.”

“Also, sadly, prone to error or deliberate falsification. Who’s going to believe you?” his father asks, sounding reasonable. “I’m a respected public figure, Jack. You’re a nineteen year old who has already shown how easily led-astray you are. Nothing you’ve said or done is anything like the end of my work. Do you think I don’t have lawyers?”

“I know you do,” John says, quietly furious. “I’m assuming you’ve already had me written out of your will?”

“Of course not,” Henry insists. “That would raise far too many eyebrows. You’ll remain in the will until a more politically appropriate moment presents itself. Possibly if you attempt to testify against me in court; then, of course, I would have no recourse but to cut you loose.”

“And until then?” Alex interrupts, seething. “Everything goes on as usual?”

“Of course not.” Henry gives him a superior sort of glare, but one which dismisses him out of hand. He looks at Alex like he’s stupid. “Obviously, I cannot allow someone who makes such wild accusations around my younger children. Jack will have to make his own way in the world.” He refocuses on John. “I am very disappointed, Jack. I had hoped I had raised you up in the way you should go. I did not see this disloyalty coming.” There’s no real regret in his tone, though.

“You’re going to keep the kids away from me?” It’s the first time Alex has seen John flinch since they got into the room. It’s too deep a cut for him to sustain in silence. “You can’t! They need me!”

“What need do they have for such a bad example?” Henry sneers. “They need their father, Jack. I’m perfectly capable of caring for them, and hopefully, learning from my failures with you, I’ll be able to steer them into more productive paths.”

“What do you know about any of them?” John asks, his voice beginning to rise. “Were you there when Jemmy had bad dreams at night, or when Henry Jr. was trying to figure out what to do with his life? Do you know that Martha plans to be a doctor? Mary’s too scared to be in the same room with you - have you even noticed?” He takes a step forward, getting in his father’s face; it’s taking everything Alex has not to interrupt. “You haven’t been our father since mom died. All you are is the nightmare who shows up to scare us into compliance.”

“And clearly, I have not done a good enough job of that,” Henry snaps. Alex can see his temper beginning to fray. Red flags are going up everywhere, but he had promised. “Look at you! As soon as you were out from under my roof, you turned on me, after everything I’ve done for you. I got you into that school, Jack. I paid your way, every penny of it. I had internships lined up for you for the next six years, a path straight to a law firm and advantageous marriage and political career of your own, if you’d only done as I told you.”

John shakes his head, curls flying, chin up at a stubborn angle Alex hasn’t seen from him before. “I don’t want it. Not any of it. I don’t want your money or your plans for my life.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to be a lawyer. I’m not going to be a politician. And I’m not going to marry any of the girls you think are appropriate.”

“Watch yourself, Jack,” Henry warns. There’s a deep, quiet danger building in him, and Alex clenches his hands into fists. “Some lines cannot be uncrossed again.”

“Fine!” John shouts, breaking into a wild, dangerous grin. There’s nothing amusing in it. “Let’s do this, then. Dad, I’m not any of the things you tried to make me. I’m not conservative. I’m not anti-feminist. And I’m definitely not straight.”

That declaration rings in the air for a long, awful moment. Henry stares at his son as though he’s just set himself on fire. John sets his shoulders, and doesn’t look away.

In a sudden, silent explosion, Henry backhands John across the face. John stumbles backwards at the blow, but doesn’t fall. He stands straight again, facing his father, and doesn’t say anything.

“How dare you?” Henry hisses. “This is an abomination, Jack. How can you even speak of such shame?”

“Because it isn’t shameful,” John says quietly, certainly. “What’s shameful is how you’ve treated us, and the hate you taught us. There’s nothing shameful in loving another person.” He looks over at Alex at that, and Alex’s breath is taken away by the depth of tenderness in his expression.

That’s what really sets Henry off. He follows John’s gaze, and fury flares up in a split second.

“You!” he growls, turning on Alex. “You did this to him!”

“Wish I could take credit,” Alex says lazily. “I didn’t do anything but make too much coffee.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” John tells him, just as if Henry isn’t in the room. “I wouldn’t be here now without you.”

Henry growls, deep and menacing, and grabs John’s arm, jerking him forward. “I will not have this! No son of mine is going to parade around in open sin!”

“Clearly,” John says. He doesn’t even seem to notice the bruising grip his father has on him. “That’s why Henry Jr. had to be married off and shipped away - even though what he did was much less egregious than your own conduct. At least he wasn’t cheating on his wife.”

Henry’s face goes a really unflattering shade of red, and Alex wastes a moment thinking about how much John doesn’t really look like him, when you see them face to face. He doesn’t see it coming when Henry hits John again, fist flying into his cheekbone, and Alex can’t just watch this, he has to do something. He leaps forward, and John turns on him, fast and furious.

“Stay out of it,” he says - still utterly calm and composed. “You promised.”

“You can’t just let him-” Alex protests. Henry still has John by the arm, and Alex sees red at the color already blossoming across John’s face, but John is utterly unperturbed.

“He can’t do anything to me that matters,” John tells Alex. “Not now. He can’t keep me from coming back to school, or living where I want. I’ll find a way, without his money.”

“I can have you sued for libel,” Henry growls.

“It’s not libel when it’s true,” John points out. “Out of curiosity, how did mom respond when you told her you’d been cheating on her? When you told her you’d sired a bastard that she’d have to pretend was her own for the sake of your political career?” He narrows his eyes and cocks his head curiously. “What did the church have to say about it? Not exactly the behavior of the great man of God, was it?”

Henry roars with anger, losing control, and in an instant he’s shoved John against the wall with a solid crack that makes Alex wince, and hits him again, and then again. There’s suddenly blood, and Alex can’t take it another second.

“Stop it, you motherfucker!” Alex screams, running forward and pulling him off John, shoving him backward a few steps. He goes to throw a punch himself - but John grabs his arm and pulls him back, heedless of the blood pouring out of his nose.

“You’ll let him fight your battles for you, Jack?” Henry sneers, clearly looking to provoke a reaction. “After all these years, you still won’t raise a hand to defend yourself?”

“No!” John shouts, holding Alex back when he tries to lunge forward again. “Don’t touch him, Alex! You promised.” He pushes Alex aside gently, gives him a quick glare to keep him in place, and goes over to his father, stopping just out of his reach. “I won’t fight you,” John says quietly. “I’m not going to be like you. I don’t need to.”

“You’ll never come within a mile of my house again,” Henry spits. “I won’t have you near my children.”

“I’m not sure that’s going to be your call anymore,” John says. He almost sounds sorry for his dad. “They’re not going to let you keep them, when the truth comes out.”

“My lawyers can deal with everything you can come up with, Jack.” Even now, Henry doesn’t seem worried. Alex really, really wants to punch him.

“Dad,” John says quietly. “There are reporters outside the door with George Washington. I’m going to walk out there in a minute, with Jemmy and Alex, and they’re going to have everything they need to see that you’re not stable.” He gestures at his own face, which is already looking like a horror movie, and Alex holds up his phone to show that he’s recording the audio.

He can practically see Henry Laurens shrink as he makes the connection, and John shakes his head. “I think you need to get help. At the very least, you need to back off and leave us alone. I’ve got a lot more inconvenient truths I can tell the media if I have to.”

“Don’t do this, Jack,” Henry orders. “We can talk, man to man. We can still work this out to both of our benefit.” He seems confident, even now, that John will do what he’s told.

John looks down at him, profoundly sad. “I’m not Jack - not anymore. I’m John Laurens. And I’m done letting you take things from me.”

He turns and walks away without looking back, and Alex keeps an eye on Henry as John makes his way straight to Jenny’s door. He barely cracks it open before Jemmy flies out and flings himself at John. He’s clearly been crying.

“Are you ok, Jacky? What did he do this time?”

“Nothing that matters, squirt,” John assures him. He hugs Jemmy tightly, and they don’t look back at their father as they leave the room.

John had, of course, been right. There are reporters with cameras and microphones outside, clearly orchestrated by George, whose face looks like a storm cloud. Alex is willing to guess that more of the conversation had been audible outside the door than any of the Laurens might have wanted. Alex has to admire the optics of all of it - John, clearly having met with his father’s temper after his earlier confession, while Henry doesn’t have a scratch on him, and Alex has the audio of the entire conversation. Jemmy clings to John, blinking owlishly at the cameras, and Alex does his best to stay out of the way.

He doesn’t know what to think or feel about any of it. It’s what he’d expected, in a way, although he hadn’t thought Henry would be so cold and calculating. He’d had the impression, from John, that he only lost control when he’d been drinking. Tonight’s display proved that false. Henry had been perfectly sober. He hadn’t needed the excuse of alcohol to hurt his son, even with a witness in the room. Alex tries not to wonder how far Henry would have gone if John had been alone.

John doesn’t answer questions, and George is quick to get both of the Laurens boys, and Alex, out of the public eye. He manages to usher them into an employee’s only area, and Alex knows nobody is going to argue with him.

“Are you alright? All of you?” George asks, intense and focused, and Jemmy shies away, presses further against John.

“Yes, sir,” John says - but he’s so tired, so sad, that Alex feels his own eyes sting. “Jemmy, this is Senator Washington. He’s been helping me.”

“Yeah,” Alex puts in, winking at Jemmy. “He’s a good one. He puts up with me, so you know he’s going to love you.”

“What comes next, sir?” John asks, looking at George, and Alex knows this feeling - of being so tired and worn down that you just need someone to give you direction, tell you what to do.

“I expect that by tomorrow a judge will have signed an order to have the minor children removed,” George says calmly. “Especially after what they’ll have seen tonight.” He gestures at John, who isn’t bleeding any longer, but who still looks like he lost a fight with a bus. “I would be very surprised if they do not allow you to take custody, John, at least until the matter can be fully investigated.”

“Ok,” John says. He lets out a deep breath and leans his head back against the wall behind him, then winces; apparently he’s forgotten the knock he took to the head, even if Alex hasn’t. “Ok. I can manage that. I’ve been looking after them long enough.”

“But you don’t have to do it alone,” George assures him. “Martha and I will be happy to help in whatever capacity we can. If you and your siblings want to come to Mount Vernon for the summer, we certainly have room for all of you.”

Jemmy looks up at John uncertainly, and John just nods a little. “We’ll figure it out,” he says wearily.

“Ok, but the important question: Is he going to jail?” Alex breaks in.

“I don’t know,” George admits. “We’ll have to see what comes of the investigation. I can tell you, he will not be a welcome presence on the Senate floor. I imagine they’ll call for his removal back in South Carolina.”

“And the bill?” John asks.

“It won’t come to a general vote now, I promise you,” George says gently. “It doesn’t mean that no-one else will ever try it again, but for now, it’s over.”

John slumps against the wall in relief. “We won?” he whispers.

“You won,” Alex tells him.

He wants to scream it, wants to go out and shout the news to every reporter he can find. He wants to kiss John soundly and go drinking in celebration.

He wants to take John somewhere quiet and just let him rest.

“Come on,” Alex says, easing an arm around John’s shoulders and urging him forward. “Let’s go make sure you don’t have a concussion or something.”

“Martha will kill you if you have a concussion and don’t call her to help!” Jemmy says, wide-eyed.

“I can’t take any more killing tonight,” John says, giving them both a crooked little grin. “Can we skip that part?”

“Sure,” Alex agrees.

It’s over. The bill is gone, the imminent threat to his ability to live his life vanished in a heartbeat. Henry Laurens is no longer a threat, John isn’t about to vanish on him, Jemmy is alive and well. He’s very suspicious about all of this, because this isn’t how life works for Alexander Hamilton. He doesn’t get the fairytale ending.

And it probably won’t be one, after all. He’s still in the US illegally. John is still dealing with years of trauma and abuse, and is now essentially a single parent to all of his siblings. Alex is still neurotic and driven and borderline-addicted to caffeine. They’re not guaranteed anything. But now, they have a chance.

There’s a strange and heady feeling in the air as they walk out into the humid DC evening, and Alex grins up at the stars that are beginning to appear. It’s freedom. There’s a lack of fear, an absence of the burdens that they’ve both been carrying for too long. He wants to celebrate it, to cling to the new reality that nobody is ever going to be able to take away from them, now. If they mess it up themselves, that’s one thing. They can write their own destinies.

“I think we should go drinking,” Alex announces to the stars.

“Ooohhhh, really?” Jemmy says eagerly. “I want to come!”

“You have got to be kidding me,” John says, unimpressed by both of them.

“Alexander,” George says, in warning. Oops. He’d sort of forgotten George was still there. Alex grins innocently back at him, and then ducks his head to whisper in John’s ear.

“When we’re back at school, then. Next year.”

John gives a laugh that’s honestly closer to a giggle, and drops his forehead onto Alex’s shoulder in helpless, exhausted amusement. “Next year. Oh no. Alex.” He giggles again, nerves releasing their tension, fear and stress bleeding away into the night. “I think I failed at least one of my classes.”

It’s not the content that’s funny, but the situation, and the fact that they’re out of it now, and John is giggling gently against his shoulder. Alex can’t help but laugh, open and free. That sets John off, and they both howl with laughter; he’s sure George and Jemmy are both watching them skeptically, but he doesn’t care.

John gives a final shout of laughter and then stops, clutching the back of his head and glaring at Alex. “Now it hurts, Hamilton. All your fault. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Alex assures him.

“No, I don’t,” John agrees. He moves forward to grab Alex’s hand as they walk, and Alex has to marvel at the change in him. He’s a different person from the boy Alex had met at the beginning of the year. He thinks of the John on his phone screen, clutching his poster, defiance and hope personified, and even that pales in the light of what he’s become, what they’re both becoming.

Rise Up.

He clutches John’s hand a little tighter, and they keep walking.

Chapter Text

John hates going to court with a fiery passion. Sometimes it feels like he’s done almost nothing else for the past eternity.

There had been court hearings immediately, to get the minor children removed from Henry’s custody, and then to establish John as a suitable kinship placement, giving him the authority to make decisions for them and oversee their care. At the time, he’d wanted nothing but to hide all of them away somewhere, where the media couldn’t get at them for pictures and quotes and reactions all the time. Jemmy in particular had been getting twitchy about being ambushed by the media every time they left the house.

The Washingtons invited them all to come stay at Mount Vernon, and John had accepted, as much for his own sake as for the kids. It feels like a million years since he’s had space to breathe freely, and North Carolina is not a good place to be a Laurens right now. George and Martha are endlessly patient with all of them, and Alex is a whirlwind of nervous activity. Henry Jr. and his family even come to visit for a long weekend, and John gets to meet his tiny niece. It’s a very bizarre moment. Henry Jr. is there for the trials, of course, and they don’t have as much time to spend catching up as they would like.

Once the media had started looking into all of Henry’s dealings in more detail, they had found enough troubling evidence to more than justify his removal from the Senate, and then, soon afterwards, his arrest. John doesn’t want to have to understand all of it - there are a lot of complicated questions about campaign finance and possible money laundering through supposed church organizations, and he just doesn’t have the ability to handle all of that and also be what the kids need.

They have to show up at court hearings too often, and the girls both tend to shut down and go quiet on those days, while Jemmy explodes into wild action as soon as they’re free of the confines of public eyes, and acts like the little hooligan he really wants to be. There are so many people involved, all of a sudden - case workers and therapists and a guardian ad litem assigned by the court, and John hates it, hates that everything he’d worked to keep quiet and hidden for so long is being dragged out into view. All the court proceedings are sealed, of course, and John himself chooses not to press charges against their father, but there’s enough of a case against him for the younger childrens’ welfare that the court dates seem endless. He’s impossibly relieved that he hasn’t had to face Henry in court. He doesn’t know if he could bear it.

It turns out that everything can move really quickly, when someone has made as much of a mess as Henry Laurens has. The fact that they have evidence of physical abuse (though the words turn John’s stomach) and criminal activity means that Henry’s in jail and proceedings against him can move quickly. Aggravated circumstances, their lawyer calls it. It’s almost enough to make John rethink his distaste for the law, watching people actually working to try to get the kids justice.

So Henry Laurens is still facing months of criminal trials, but by the end of July, they’re sitting outside a courtroom in North Carolina where the judge is hearing arguments for the termination of Henry’s parental rights. For this particular part of the case, they’re not allowed in the courtroom. It’s just the social workers and lawyers for both sides, arguing it out in front of the judge. John is relieved that they’ve kept it quiet enough that there’s no media presence today, but they’ve all dressed the part, just in case.

Alex paces up and down outside the door, mouth moving in what John assumes are imagined legal arguments of his own. He finds himself smiling at Alex in a decidedly dopey way, but it’s endearing, the passion he pours into understanding and helping with every bit of the case he can. Not that John hadn’t followed suit, of course; he’d helped George and Alex with the visa stuff for Alex, and actually helped them find the approach that worked it out. Somehow all of his father’s lectures about how ‘illegals’ gamed the system had sunk in, and John knew the legal loopholes that they needed.

“He can’t win, right?” Mary whispers in his ear. She’s holding onto his hand with a death grip, and has Martha’s in the other. The twins aren’t always super close, but they tend to close ranks with one another when they’re stressed. He squeezes her hand back and shakes his head.

“From everything they’ve told me, no. This is pretty much a formality at this point.”

Martha snorts. “Like he’s even tried? He’s not too broken-hearted about seeing us go, Mar.”

John wishes he could correct her, but it’s true. Henry has done nothing to fight against their removal. He hasn’t fought for visitations with them or even hired a decent lawyer. Cynically, John thinks Henry is far more distraught over the loss of his political career and public face; the loss of the children he hadn’t had a great deal of use for isn’t the end of the world. The coming revocation of his bar license might be.

John coughs pointedly and darts his eyes toward Jemmy, and the girls nod. They’re all trying their best to shield him from the worst parts of their new reality. Right now, he’s pointedly following Alex in his pacing, trying his best to copy his walk and stance and facial expressions. He’s got a bit of a case of hero worship going on, which John wouldn’t mind at all if it didn’t make Jemmy so prone to pout if John tries to spend time alone with Alex.

The Washingtons accompanied them, but they’re really good about giving them space, and they’re waiting outside the courthouse. It feels right. This isn’t a place or a moment for everyone. It’s just them, the Laurens siblings minus Henry Jr., and Alex, and he doesn’t count as everyone.

“How much longer do you think it’ll be?” Alex asks suddenly, clearly having reached the end of his patience. “How long can it possibly take to declare him a dirtbag and be done with it?”

“Well, Alex, I don’t really know,” John says patiently, and lets himself roll his eyes at the frustration in his face. “It’s our first time being legally orphaned, so I’m afraid I can’t really give you an estimate.”

Jemmy snickers at that. For some reason, the idea that they’re officially going to be orphans has him unreasonably amused. John thinks it’s reading too many adventurous books starring plucky orphaned heroes, but whatever - if it makes it easier for his little brother to handle all of it, he’ll take it. “Orphans!” Jemmy repeats, still amused by the word. “Can you believe we’re going to be orphans, Alex?”

“Only the coolest kids get to join this club,” Alex says solemnly, and holds his hand up for a high-five. John has to try not to laugh. It seems like the wrong time and place for it, when they’re all dressed up and trying to be solemn for the court.

The door opens, and they all shoot to their feet, silent expectation falling over the room; Jemmy darts to John’s side and wraps an arm around him, suddenly not quite so strong and confident. Taylor, their legally appointed guardian, comes over with the paperwork.

“Termination was granted,” he says quietly. “It’s over. He can appeal if he wants, but there’s no grounds for it, and it won’t be sustained.” John doesn’t quite know how to feel about it, even though it’s the outcome they’d expected and been hoping for. In one way, it’s a relief - the threat that he’ll somehow get them back being lifted, the fear of protracted public court battles fading into the past. He can’t force them to come visit or dangle his legal right to the kids over John’s head anymore. There’s no weapon left for him to threaten them with.

In another, though - they are legally orphans now. That’s hard to stomach. He doesn’t want to think about what their mother would have thought about all of it.

He nods, because he’s the adult here and he has to manage all of this. “Thank you for everything you’ve done to help us,” he says. “What’s next?”

“Well,” Taylor says, looking at all three of the younger kids, and then back at John. “You’re next of kin, and already have custody. It’ll be easy to have you appointed their guardian - or would you rather move to adopt them? You’re young, but with the support systems you’ve been establishing, I don’t doubt the court would grant it.”

They haven’t talked about that at all. It felt like tempting fate, trying to work all of that out while the verdict of all the legal proceedings was still hanging over their heads. John looks at the others. “What do you guys want?”

They look among themselves, communicating wordlessly. They’ve had a lot of years of practice. There were too many times that they couldn’t risk speaking aloud, couldn’t risk words falling on the wrong ears. Martha nods at the other two, and grabs John’s free hand.

“We don’t need a dad,” she says certainly. “We don’t need you to be anything else. We just need our Jack.”

“Yes,” Mary agrees. “Be our guardian. You don’t need to take the rest of that on yourself. We’re not babies, Jacky.”

“Besides,” Jemmy says, looking up at him solemnly. “Orphans, remember?”

He’s going to have to get Alex to break the news to Jemmy that being an orphan isn’t the romantic adventure he seems to believe it will be.

“That’s fairly straightforward, then,” Taylor says. “Your father’s resources - money, land, all of it - are for the support of the minor children. As long as you’re willing to be the guardian of the estate as well, you’ll have control over all of it.” He raises a cool, lawyerly eyebrow. “It’s a great deal easier caring for children with plenty of resources at your fingertips.”

That’s absolutely true - but it also raises much bigger questions that John hasn’t let himself think about, yet. Should they all go home to North Carolina? What should he do about the kids’ schooling, now? There’s the house and land and vehicles to think about, and John has no real idea of how much his father has put away, other than the fact that they’ve literally never had to think about money, which tells him a lot. He’s in no way ready to manage all of that. He sucks in a deep breath, pushing back the familiar anxiety that wants to take over, and looks automatically to Alex - not for help, not to take the problems away, but because Alex will understand. He doesn’t have to face it all alone.

Alex seems to read all of it in his face, somehow, and is at his side in a moment, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “George and Martha can help you work it all out,” he reminds John in an undertone. “It’s going to be fine, right?”

“It’s always fine,” John replies automatically, and they share a quick grin, a memory of a shared joke that’s become somewhat less grim over time. “Are you going to help get all of that set up?” John asks Taylor.

The lawyer nods. “It’s fairly straightforward from here. You’ll have to come back to court for the guardianship hearing, but that could take a few weeks to set up. I’ll notify you at the appropriate time.”

“Thank you,” John says again. Taylor shakes his hand, one adult to another, and leaves. The social worker has pulled the kids aside to talk to them and make sure they understand what’s happened today, and John shoots Alex a quick, nervous look. “I can’t believe they’re actually going to let me have custody,” he whispers. “I don’t have a clue what I’m doing!”

“But you know them,” Alex says. He shifts his hand, taking John’s in his own. “You’re the person they need, and you don’t have to do it alone.”

That, thankfully, is true. The Washingtons have been an absolute godsend, and John is so grateful for them he could cry. (He does, sometimes.) They’ve helped him understand all the legalities and get the kids therapy and everything, and he knows he couldn’t have done it alone. He feels like he’s drowning at the very thought. Alex squeezes his hand a little tighter.

“So, what now?” Alex asks. He’s unusually solemn, all of a sudden, and despite his comforting hand, he’s not meeting John’s eyes. “Now that you’re a wealthy, landed single parent, what comes next?”

“I don’t know,” John says in a frantic exhale. He needs Alex to look at him, because this is a really big next step, and he can’t make it in a void. “I could take them home now, try to get things back to normal. It’s almost time for the school year to start again. Maybe that’s what they need, after how unsettled everything has been?”

“Maybe,” Alex says. His voice is very distant all of a sudden. “I mean, if it’s what’s best, you know we’ll support you.”

“I know,” John says. He swallows, and his throat hurts. Going back to North Carolina, to the house in Charleston, means the summer is over. It’s stability for the kids, but there’s a shadow hanging over that house in his mind, and he doesn’t want to go back. “Alex?”

“Hmm?” Alex is watching the kids across the room, still talking to their social worker.

“I don’t want to go back there.” He can only say it in a whisper, because he can’t let the kids hear. He has to be strong enough for all of them; he has to be in control, because the rest of their world has fallen apart.

Alex’s eyes lock onto his with uncanny sharpness. “What do you want, Laurens?”

“Well, I know they need stability-”

“No,” Alex interrupts. “What do you want? You get to want things too, you know, and even need things, sometimes.”

John lowers his head, brings their joined hands up and rests his forehead on their intertwined fingers. “I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to feel the way I did there, not ever again.” He takes a deep breath, trying to keep himself under control. “I want to go back to college, Alex. I want the things we planned - going to rallies and living off campus and staying up way too late every time you have a paper due to make sure you don’t let your heart explode from too much coffee.” He lifts his head again to look at Alex, feeling a tired, crooked smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the idea. “I don’t know how to do all of that and also be what they need, but it’s what I want.”

Alex is grinning, sudden and brilliant, and it takes John’s breath away a little. “You really do?”

John can only nod, and let the smile blossom across his face until it hurts a little.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Alex promises. And somehow, when he says it, it sounds possible. “There are so many options. They can live with us and go to public school in New York, or you can use some of your vast piles of money to buy them a snooty private education there, or they can stay with George and Martha and we can go visit every weekend, or whatever we work out. It’s going to be fine.” He bites his lip a moment, and then smiles again, softer and warmer this time. “It’s going to be good. We’re going to make it so good, for all of us.”

And in that moment, John can’t doubt the truth of that. Alex isn’t going anywhere, and neither is John. It won’t be as easy as Alex makes it sound. He can already imagine the havoc that will be caused if Alex and Jemmy live in the same house all the time - but Alex is a different person than he was when John first met him, and that makes it possible. He’s nowhere near as angry, not looking to pick fights with everyone who looks at him wrong. His world has gotten bigger, and his heart has, as well, and John knows this because he feels the same way.

He can’t help it, even though propriety tells him he shouldn’t, not in public, not in a court of law. He can’t help it. He kisses Alex - quietly, gently, with a smile that won’t stop. It’s not a revelation anymore, but a comfort, an assurance they find in one another. He’s so very thankful for what he’s found.

“Gross,” Jemmy groans, dragging Alex away after he’s put up with enough. He’s at an age where any kind of physical affection triggers his gag reflex, and even his fondness for Alex doesn’t make kissing acceptable in his ten-year-old eyes. “You guys are the worst. Can’t we go get ice cream or something?”

“You’re the worst,” Martha says, ruffling Jemmy’s hair until it all stands on end. “Leave them alone, they’re sweet.”

“So’s ice cream,” Jemmy points out. “They can do that stuff at home. Let’s go!”

He grabs both of them by the hand and starts to pull them out of the waiting room, towards the doors of the courthouse. Towards the future, John thinks poetically, and then is brought back to reality by the fact that Jemmy’s tripping over an untied shoelace, and the twins have started arguing over who gets to sit next to John in the car, and Alex is laughing at all of them, helpless and useless and the most precious thing John has ever had. His hands are very full, and so is his heart.

“Com on, Laurens,” Alex laughs. “All of you. How did I end up with a whole pack of Laurens’s to look after?”

“Guess you just got lucky,” John teases. Alex’s smile fades a bit, and loses the teasing edge.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I really did.”

He squeezes John’s hand again, and John feels his heart rise, like it’s being lifted on an updraft of hope. He’d never imagined, less than a year ago, that his life could look like this, or that someone like Alex could be holding his hand, walking into the future with him.

Rise up, he thinks, and now it’s not defiance or desperation. It’s a promise.