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John Laurens would be a liar if he said that he was not avoiding the newest aide-de-camp; however, he could not hide from the pretty face forever.
Laurens sighed as he stepped into the tent and sat in his usual seat. Well, there was no usual seat, for he had never been here before this battle, rather he sat in the seat he had been for the last few days. He took a deep breath and began transcribing the intelligence upon the paper. He did not even look up when he heard a particular handsome man sit in the chair next to him.
After about a quarter of an hour of writing, John could take it no more.
“That is the third quill you have broken in less than half an hour,” Laurens said, turning to face the ginger.
“They are feeble,” Hamilton shot back, his face the colour of his hair. His dark eyes seemed to challenge Laurens with their gorgeous midnight hue.
Laurens raised a blond eyebrow at how Hamilton awkwardly gripped the quill. The latter’s hand had the feather resting on the ring finger instead of the middle, a death grip on all the wrong parts, and ink all over.
“No,” Laurens said, unwavering, “you are just holding the quill atrociously. You are supposed to be so great at writing that General Washington put you on his staff, yet you cannot even hold a writing utensil properly. Who taught you?”
“I taught myself,” Hamilton said pointedly, his head raised in pride and an unwavering challenge.
Embarrassment hit Laurens. Of course, the man had taught himself how to hold a quill. Not everyone had a tutor who smacked their wrist when they wrote incorrectly as Laurens did. He had heard the rumours about Hamilton’s childhood; it was a miracle that this man could read, let alone write English and French fluently.
“Ah, well,” Laurens cleared his throat, “It is much more efficient to write properly.” He looked around the tent quickly, but, of course, they were still alone.
“Let me show you,” Laurens said, taking Hamilton’s hand in his and positioning the other man’s ink-stained freckled fingers properly. Laurens guided Hamilton’s hand to dip the quill in the inkwell and then to write a word.
“Thank you although I think my way of writing was just fine,” Hamilton said, snatching back his hand. He seemed . . . mad. Laurens ignored it and went back to translating his stack for the day.
Later, the two men bumped into each other again outside of the dining hall.
“Watch where you are going, Good Sir,” Hamilton spat.
“You are mad at me,” Laurens said painly.
“Obviously,” the other said.
“Why?” the blond asked.
Hamilton turned copper coloured. “You may think that I am just a bastard from the islands, but I worked hard to get where I am. I do not need a politician’s son to help me hold a quill,” he hissed.
Oh. Oh.
“My apologies, Sir. That was not my intention. I merely meant to help,” Laurens said, his face going stony as it often did in situations like these.
Hamilton blinked. He eyed Laurens suspiciously then nodded, “We ought to have a redo. Alexander Hamilton. Pleasure to meet you.”
“John Laurens. The pleasure’s mine,” Laurens said.