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Hamilton was horrible to work with. He was incorrigible, loudmouthed, and constantly getting into fights at any and all times of the day. He was horrendous.
He was also tiny.
This shouldn’t have appealed to Burr as much as it had; Burr knew, objectively, that he was tall and that most men were smaller than him. But none of them were quite as small as Hamilton, and none of them had the delicate features that graced Hamilton’s face. None of them had long, tapering fingers that were connected to tiny wrists.
None of them stared at him like he was simultaneously the most frustrating thing in the universe and the most talented. That was alright though, because Hamilton was the most frustrating thing in the universe, and Burr hated working with him, Burr despised him.
Burr had Theodosia, Burr loved Theodosia, he loved her so much and he loved their daughter so much. They were perfect.
(Yet whenever he closed his eyes, Hamilton’s face was there, bright eyed and naive like when Burr first met him. Hamilton was there, curled into his chest with a soft sigh and something akin to a purr, and Burr would press kisses to his neck and hair until Hamilton begged him for something far less chaste.
And maybe Aaron would toy with him, just a little, make him keen and cry out and bite back gasps. Or maybe he’d be completely quiet for the first time in his life, nothing but the sounds of his labored breathing escaping his mouth as Burr took care of him.
Or maybe the dream would take a different route, Alexander talking about some subject a mile-a-minute as he laid next to him, curled up completely in Aaron’s arms because he was so small. Burr wouldn’t really listen to what Alexander was saying, and Alexander wouldn’t really care that he didn’t. Alex would just lie there peacefully as Aaron ran his fingers through his hair and dozed off in golden sunshine.)
Burr had Theodosia, and he was happy. He was so happy. Even when Alexander Hamilton was right next door and they worked the same cases, even when Alexander Hamilton wouldn’t shut up. Ever.
(Maybe his chest got tight, in the middle of the night, when he permitted himself to imagine him. But that was just coincidence, that meant nothing at all.
(He wanted Hamilton more than anything in his life.))
Hamilton did not need protecting, he was his own man for Christ’s sake. (Hamilton needed protecting. Dear god, Hamilton needed to be protected. If someone didn't watch out for him, he was going to be shot.
That didn't mean that Burr had to protect Hamilton. (Burr had to protect Hamilton.))
Even if that was true, it was horribly annoying. There wasn’t a day that went by when Hamilton didn’t try to start some fight or another. His temper was as short as his stature: without Burr, Hamilton would fall apart. (There was a delicacy in his bones, femininity in his features. He was small; he was beautiful. (It wasn’t Burr’s job to protect him.) Burr wanted to protect him.)
Sometimes, on the rare occasion that they both worked late, he could watch Hamilton through his windowpane. He worked like judgement day was up ahead, never sleeping, never eating. Sometimes, in the middle of those long nights, when Burr felt so sleep deprived he couldn't even try to work anymore, he’d stare at Hamilton. Watch him work like he had hell on his heels, illuminated by the golden glow of candlelight.
(Sometimes, when it was dark enough and he was tired enough not to care, he imagined going to Hamilton. Imagined picking him up, carrying him to bed. Hamilton might have given a few token protests, but eventually he’d be too tired to bother. He’d fall asleep in Burr’s arms before they even made it all the way to bed, soft and pliant and trusting in Aaron’s arms. (This was not the first fantasy like this that he had entertained; often he imagined walking into Hamilton’s office after ‘accidentally’ packing far too much for his dinner, finally goading him into eating something on the pretense of discussing their case.
Other times he imagined pinning Hamilton against his desk instead of writing on it. But that was a different sort of fantasy, for a different time of the day, and far less frightening. He had become used to wanting Hamilton physically, he could ignore that if he tried. But wanting him to be happy for no other reason than to see him smile, wanting him to be curled up in Burr’s arms, safe and warm, well. That awoke something inside Burr that should have stayed sleeping, some sort of need and feelings that were far too tender than anything he should have felt for him. Anything he had ever felt for him. Feelings like this weren’t the animalistic want that Hamilton incited within him. This was different, this was far too much like...romance. (Love, some little voice inside his head said, too quiet to notice. You’re in love with Alexander Hamilton.))
He watched Hamilton through his window, watched as he scribbled onto some paper or another, as if he had no other purpose in life. (He looked beautiful.)
Burr blew out his candle. He went to sleep.
He dreamed.
(Hamilton lay beside him, curled up together in front of a fire. He mumbled something sleepily into Burr’s neck; Aaron ran a hand through his hair and shushed him back to sleep. He looked so peaceful as he slept, so trusting. As if he knew everything would be alright, so long as Aaron was there.
“I can hear you thinking,” Alexander mumbled, one eye peeking open just to glare at him.
“No, you can’t.” Burr rolled his eyes.
“I can! Sleep.” Like Alexander Hamilton had ever advocated for sleep in his life. Ha. But then Alex was pressing closer to him, small and warm in his arms, and Aaron managed to forget that. Then Hamilton ran a ringless left hand through his own hair, and Burr managed to forget any worlds where Alexander Hamilton wasn’t irrevocably his. He pressed a finger to Burr’s lips. “Sleep, Aaron.” Alexander had never used his first name before. Not once.
He liked the way it sounded on his lips.)
Burr woke up.
He hadn’t been ready for the immense loneliness waking up would bring, waking up when something he thought was real was only a dream. He reached over to the other side of his bed, as if that would ease the emptiness in his chest, as if---(Hamilton would appear from the other side of his door, one eyebrow raised and a grin pulling at his face.)---as if there might be warmth there, something to belie the idea that he wasn’t actually alone.
The bed was cold. No one appeared at the door. He was alone. (His heart ached.) He went to work.
Hamilton’s office turned into a siren’s call, barely a few feet away. (He wanted.) But what would happen if he actually went there? This wasn’t a dream. Hamilton wouldn’t just welcome him with open arms (or an open mouthed kiss.) Hamilton would probably start spouting about some case or another---or worse, the US Constitution---and stare at Burr with those bright, wide eyes; completely unaware of what Burr wanted from him.
(He allowed himself to fantasize: he’d push Hamilton up against the wall and kiss him with all the heat of hell itself---and since this was Burr’s fantasy, he’d melt straight into it, curling around Burr’s body like he was made for this.)
He ignored him. Nothing would come of it, nothing could come of it. Hamilton was married, Hamilton was still half in love with John Laurens, Hamilton wouldn’t want him.
(Still, could he ever know if he didn’t ask?)
No. He worked on his case.
Admittedly, Hamilton would’ve liked this case, maybe he could have him over for lunch and they could discuss it? (Blatant lies. When had Burr ever wanted to deal with Hamilton’s incessant talk about cases? What he really wanted was to see Hamilton’s eyes light up, to sit next to him, maybe place his hand on Hamilton’s. Hamilton would be in the middle of one of his hour long rants, he would hardly notice it if Burr allowed himself a feather-light touch on Hamilton’s delicate wrist.) If Burr needed Hamilton’s professional opinion on a case, then surely it was a legitimate enough reason to see Hamilton?
Yes, it had to be. He packed up a few papers related to the case---if they needed any more surely they could run back over here. He was only next door, after all.
His hands were shaking, (excitement? Nerves?) he chalked it up to the cold. Why else would his hands be shaking? It was only Hamilton. (Dear god. He loved Hamilton.)
He knocked on Hamilton’s door. There was a moment of silence, his mind was awash with irrational fear. He might have been too late, Hamilton might have gone out already to lunch, (Ha, as if Hamilton would ever neglect his work in favor of not neglecting his body.) Hamilton might be too busy to meet with Burr---(Dear god, was Burr a school girl with a crush? He needed to get it together.)
The door swung open. Hamilton was there, his glasses still perched on his nose. It made his eyes look bigger than usual. “Mr. Burr?”
“Sir,” he said, clearing his throat. “I was wondering if we might confer.”
“Sure---about the Hayburn case?” He said, ushering him inside. Burr was struck again by their height difference---if he so wished he could just pick Hamilton up with hardly any resistance. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you on that for a while now.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes! It’s horrendous, don’t you think? That our veterans may be pushed to the brink of starvation---I thought that we were a better nation---” He gestured wildly; his eyes had that far away look that he always had when he was thinking of a better America, like he was in love with the ideals their country possessed.
(He was beautiful. So beautiful.
Burr wanted him.)
There were a million things he could do, and half of them might damage him irreparably. Kiss him---and have Hamilton list him as a sodomite? No, he couldn’t do that. Not if he tried with all his might. Perhaps touch his hand, his shoulder, relish in his warmth and nearness. Or maybe back him up against a wall, even without Hamilton noticing that he was doing anything at all; maybe see him notice, and watch his eyes darken with lust---(Alas, to stop there would never be enough. He wanted Hamilton wholly, in all the ways he might. To stop there, to be so close and not quite---that would be worse than this ending in a fight.)
Instead he simply said, “I had no idea you and this case were so well acquainted.”
He grinned, that smug one that seemed reserved for only him. “What can I say, Burr, I’m well read.”
What comes next was by no means his fault. He was weak, and Hamilton was. Well. Hamilton. Obviously it wasn’t his fault that he said, “Sure, if it will get you into bed.”
Hamilton’s eyebrows shot up to his hair as Burr tried to laugh it off. They were friends, right? He could say that. (They weren’t friends. He never thought they were.) Hamilton of course, put on his suave face to say, “Why Burr, I didn’t know you thought of me that way.”
His heart stopped. Time slowed. “What do you mean?”
“Well Mr. Burr, sir, you’re thinking about me in bed.” He winked, more grandly than he would for anything other than a joke, obviously to him this was just a joke. “What else is there to be said?”
Nothing, apparently, because Hamilton was staring straight at him with those wide, smirking eyes, and he was so close---close enough to touch. (He wanted so much.)
He kissed him.
Hamilton’s lips were softer than expected, his hair so good beneath his fingers. He wanted. He wanted---he didn’t know what he wanted. Oh lord---Hamilton knew. This wasn’t a dream. He kissed Hamilton. He kissed Hamilton and----Hamilton was kissing him back.
(What?)
He was. He moved underneath him, and it was better than any fantasy Burr had ever entertained. He pulled him down by his cravat, keening between kisses as Burr tugged experimentally at his hair. He liked it rough. Interesting.
And when they finally broke apart, so oxygen deprived that Burr had begun to wonder whether or not this actually was a dream, whether or not Hamilton was actually panting beneath him, lips red and bitten and hair in disarray. (God, he was so beautiful.)
“What was that, Burr,” he said, eyes so wide and trusting, and suddenly Burr knew he would never willingly give this up.
“I’m chasing what I want.” He said, heart still fluttering a mile a minute. “You.”