Work Text:
1.
eliza is the one to tell him, though alexander suspects what news she's there to bring before he even looks at her
he feels it in his bones
he's always felt bad news in his bones, ever since the fever had him as a child and a deal was made to save his life and take his mother's
(you don't get that close to death without learning to look for the signs)
alexander will never forget the wood grain or the blot of ink on paper or the melody he held in his head that day without associating any of it with laurens
he'll play the scene back later
and wonder if he could have said something to stop those words coming from her mouth
or if he could have responded in another manner
and if he had, would his life had gone down a different path
it's easier to not think that way
life, he has learnt, is easier to deal with if he keeps marching forward
and never looks back
time never looks back, and nor should he
2.
he waits for the invitation to arrive for him to speak at his funeral
alexander is sure it will arrive
he is certain of it
they're each other's closest friends that still live on the continent, and so alexander waits
and waits
and waits
something that is foreign and strange and chokes him
he will talk about laurens when the invite arrives, and the words will come, and he will let his pen run free
the words that have been stuck inside his throat and unformed in his mouth will spill like ink on paper
like the stain that had been formed on the letter he had been writing when eliza filled the doorway
but the invite never comes
and instead he receives a letter informing him that laurens has been buried temporarily in one location
and then reinterred by his father at his home
alexander doesn't find out the first piece of information until weeks after his death, and the second letter doesn't arrive until month after his final burial
so he keeps the words to himself
and purses his lips when eliza asks
and bites him tongue when washington asks
and chews on his cheek when nathanael asks
and he waits for the words to wither and die so they don't hurt quite as much as they used to
though he knows that day will never truly come
because ink never truly comes out
3.
they ask him to write of laurens
they beg him to share memories
tell his story, spread his name, speak of him because everyone misses him so
and he refuses to write, because writing comes so easily and putting them to ink will reveal too much
so he talks in half-sentences
and he sticks to names that aren't his
and of places they shared with others
his favourite collective memories
like the time the marquis reenacted his first voyage to america and they all laughed until tears stung their eyes
or the night washington allowed himself a night's reprieve from duty and cracked his first joke
or the time when someone (maybe lee) found a dead man's shoes and was convinced he had lost his own feet
(cold and hunger or thirst did strange things to the mind)
alexander did not tell
of the first time john took his hand, under the table at the bar
of the first time he kissed him, with all the nerves of a young boy and the practice of a young man
of the first time he awoke with his head upon john's lap and a sunrise on his face
of the first time they shared a bed and it had felt like the most natural thing in the world
of the first time alexander accepted within himself what he felt
alexander did not share
how john laughed, with his head back and hands thrown by his face
how john attempted to braid his hair one evening and wound up knotting it so bad alexander was forced to use scissors upon it (and how he kept it after, tied with a ribbon)
how john would whisper in his ear, every night and every morning
how john always put his left shoe on before the right, and that he believed to do otherwise would be unlucky, and how alexander feared that maybe, maybe, maybe he had done just that his last day
alexander did not divulge
that he missed him
that he ached for him
that he hungered for him
that he longed over him
that he pined for him even now, and likely always would
to reveal that would be to reveal everything, and he couldn't have that, he couldn't allow that
so he didn't
4.
years ago
there had been a lull in the fighting and alexander had been recovering from a bout of seasonal malaria
(a recurrent illness that plagued him at least once every two years)
when john announced they should take some time away from camp
and they should go that day
before they (alexander) talked them (john) out of it
just out of town, just to a nearby field, where farmers declared the forest line neutral land
alexander had disputed it, as he was wont to do
there were letters to write
and munitions to count
there were soldiers to train
and accounts to settle
there were orders to follow
and negotiations to deliver
john had laughed at each protestation and asked him if washington were capable of tying his own shoes without hamilton presen
and alexander, bristling, had said if washington felt he couldn't then he would trust the general at his word
(because alexander, above all, liked being difficult)
with that, john had kissed him
and they spent the day away from camp
john had always found the most succinct way of having alexander agree with him, to fold to him
he'd bend to his will, with complaints and protests and arguments spilling from his lips, until they were replaced with kisses and promises and idealisations of their future
alexander liked thinking of their future
even if he knew then it would never come to be
5.
years ago
alexander kissed john for the first time
though he can't remember it wholly now (though he remembered each time thereafter)
what he remembers most is that he tasted of whiskey and he tasted of smoke and he tasted of
the rush of battle and dirt and shock and loss and life
and john didn't respond
because he was more stunned to be alive than the simple mortality of being kissed
the first time john kissed him back (which happened some weeks later)
which also happened to be the second time they'd ever kissed
he tasted of nerves and he tasted of anxiety and he tasted of hope and wishes and a future that could possibly involve both of them
and every time he kissed john thereafter, he swore the future became brighter and bigger and real
kissing john was like kissing summer
warm and bright, with the sun refusing to set on them
alexander can still smell the grass on which they lay and the scent of the pollen that clung to their uniforms
the prickle of grass seeds would send him back in time to heady days where his head lay on john's chest
the hum of bumblebees and the chirp of songbirds had him clinging to john's hand once more
and the turn of winter now has him living day in and day out without him
the kiss of snow upon his lips melts away like oh so many memories that have begun to slip away from him
with a frost in the air that chills him and brings upon a fear that he will forget things
like the exact colour of john's eyes
or the different shade in his hair when it was burned by the summer sun
or the precise number of freckles that dotted his nose
and the dimple that would appear in his chin when he smiled
and alexander fears he will one day forget the way he spoke and those final memories that he plays over and over and over will disappear with the setting sun
6.
alexander writes
when all else failed, he always writes
and he writes with his final letters (something he would never learn that burr also did) a request for his beloved eliza to burn all that had been entwined in the ribbon if he failed to return home that morning
he writes about john
and the words he has held back over the years
and the words he has withheld in those heady summer days
and the words he has thought would never be uttered
which have been kept inside until he thought he'd never find a way to bring them out
he counts the freckles he can remember (seventeen on his nose alone)
he counts the times they kissed (every stolen moment behind the stables, he's sure of it)
he counts the number of i love yous (every morning and every evening, always in his right ear)
he counts the days since laurens died (seven thousand nine hundred and eighty nine)
and he wonders if this is it
if this is the end
and if there could ever be more
he writes down all the things he couldn't say
and all the things he wanted to say|
and all the things he promised to say
words that have built up over the years, from the first meeting to their last
and all the days thereafter
of eliza and of his children and of their great nation, built upon their backs with bloodshed and sweat and tears
so many tears
and all his hopes for the future
for eliza and for his children and for their great nation, and all those who will live in it
people like them, people who loved like them, with their lives ripped in twain by duty and honour and hope
and he writes
and writes
and writes
until his wrist throbs and his hand is stained and his fingers streak the paper
and the summer sun threatens just below the horizon
looming like a blackened promise
and his pen scratches my dear, laurens,
and he stops
for there is nothing left to say
as he knows he'll see him soon
and he won't need to write any more