Work Text:
"Come on, Dad!"
"Philip, I'm busy."
The young boy tugged at the coattails of his father, sitting at his desk, and trying to concentrate. His son was trying to make that difficult.
"But you gotta see, you gotta!"
"Philip..."
He jumped up and leaned over the desk, feet dangling, finger pointing over the paperwork and to the door to another room, where there was a window. "But they're sooooooo pretty. C'mon, dad, c'mon!"
"Philip."
Hamilton picked up his son and set him firmly on the ground.
"I am busy, and I cannot wait on this. I have a deadline to meet. Do you understand me."
The boy nodded sheepishly.
"You may go and watch the fireworks without me, but I need to be free of distractions."
He scuffed his shoe on the carpet. "...But I want you to see..."
"Philip."
"Yes, Dad. I understand."
The office door clicked shut behind him. Philip looked up out the window. It had many bright colors dancing on a dark black background. He could hear them as they separated. They exploded. It felt magical.
He sighed, resting his face on the windowsill. It really was beautiful. Each pop felt like the beating of a heart. Like something about it was alive. like something was making him alive. He wondered if it made anyone else feel that way.
He wanted to ask his dad. Maybe he felt the same way. Maybe he could see how beautiful it was. Stupid work, getting in the way of things. He didn't like it. He didn't like the way that it had made his dad talk to him. He just didn't talk to him like that. He'd always look at the stuff that he made.
He made...
Philip Hamilton shot up from the windowsill and rushed over to his room. He'd just been struck with a brilliant idea. He came back with a small box and a blank sheet of paper. He slammed the paper down and ripped a crayon out of the box.
Dad would have to look at the fireworks after this.
There were three quick knocks on the door.
Alexander Hamilton groaned. "What is it?"
The child opened the door and ran back over to the side of the desk.
Hamilton turned sideways in his chair to his son, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Philip, I can't-"
He was interrupted by a sheet of paper barging into his hands. "What's this."
"Fireworks," Philip beamed, hands on his hips. "I drew 'em."
"You... drew this?"
"Yep!"
Hamilton stared at the drawing. The background was a scribble of black crayon. There were various colored lines coming off from the bottom. At the top of each one, more lines, shooting out. Like petals from a flower.
"I drew more, too! Wanna see?" He held out two more sheets.
He took them, flipping through them in his hands. The world around him seemed to fade as he stared.
"So, this is your plan?"
"Hell yeah!" Laurens put his arm around his friend, pointing excitedly to different sections. "Just look at what we've got set up!"
"Gonna get set up," Hamilton corrected. "We're not there yet."
"But soon..." Laurens grinned.
"C'mon, John," he said, setting the paper down beside him. "The war's still goin' on. Shouldn't we wait on the celebratory shenanigans until we actually find out whether or not we've won?"
"Seriously? You kiddin' me? You wanna celebrate our victory by planning a party?"
"We oughta focus on planning our maneuvers if we even wanna think about a party later."
"God," Laurens looked back up at the sky. "I can't even focus on bein' a soldier unless I'm bein' a party planner on the side."
"What?"
He started to bounce a little, with a hint of bloodlust in his eyes. "Nothin' gets me more ready to shoot some British soldiers than remembering what it's all for."
Hamilton raised the paper - as well as an eyebrow - "This?"
"No, ih- look," He put one arm around Hamilton's shoulder and pulled him close, laying his other palm flat against the night sky. His eyes followed his hand, brushing, smoothing the atmosphere as if a gentle silk cloth. A large sweeping motion, a gesture to, well, seemingly everything, as far as the eye could reach.
"Y'see all this?" He turned to look at his best friend, inches from his face. "This is gonna be ours. All ours. It ain't gonna be part of that damn British empire any more, and you know what we're gonna do with it?" He grinned wildly.
"We're gonna blow it the fuck up."
He pointed aggressively at the sky. "We're gonna pollute that baby with so much light that you won't be able to see the stars for weeks! King George's gonna see that shit from his throne room! And there is nothing, nothing, that he, or any other British bas-uh-asshole is gonna be able to do about it. Y'know why?"
He took Hamilton's hand in his and spoke softly.
"Because we are gonna look up at that bright, booming sky and know that we won. That we," He squeezed his hand tighter, "Are free."
The wind whistling through the air was crisp. It rustled the leaves and whipped against the paper that Laurens grasped tightly in his hand, almost as tight as the other one. And there was that small moment of deep connection - of intense, emotional understanding.
Hamilton began to open his mouth, but Laurens didn't let him finish. He stood up, taking his friend with him.
"You gotta promise me something."
"I swear on my life."
He patted him on the shoulder, "I knew I could count on you," and walked away.
Hamilton stood there. "W-wait," Laurens looked back over his shoulder, seeing him throw his arms out "What am I agreeing to!?"
He smiled and walked back over. "You gotta swear to me that this," he held up the paper, the drawing, the plan, "Is gonna happen. If I get stationed somewhere far from the rest of you guys and can't make it back in time, you - Lafs, Mulligan, maybe Burr - are gonna go out drinking and blow up the sky for me. Alright?"
Hamilton felt frozen. "I can't do that."
"Alright?"
"I'll wait for you."
"Victory doesn't wait around to be claimed. Don't let it slip by. I don't want you waiting around for me."
"I don't want to do this without you!"
"You won't! The king'll see it, remember? So will I"
Inside of Hamilton's throat, there were thoughts. So many thoughts, all fighting and pushing, stumbling over each other, grappling to be first in line, to be spoken. None of them were.
"You won't have to worry. I'm gonna be right by your side. I won't spend a second without you after the war's done, I promise you that."
He held his hands gently.
"I swear on my life."
Hamilton sat down. The numbness had begun to wear away, and he was now acutely aware of himself, the soft cushions below him, the fingers running through his disheveled hair, and the crumpled, tear-stained letter clenched in his fist. It had only arrived about a half-hour earlier.
He leaned over on his wife, who had just sat down next to him. No words were spoken, let alone coherent ones, as no words she spoke could do anything to comfort him, and no words he spoke could begin to describe the pain that he had suffered. The only sounds uttered were sharp, pained, unbroken cries.
With each new loss, he learned something. With this one, he learned that, no matter the people in your life that care for you, loss feels no less lonely. As a man with a wife, a son, and friends closer that family, he felt no different than as a newly orphaned boy, crying in the remains of what used to be a town. No less helpless. No less like the only person in the world who had truly understood him had left. Only as much of a 'goodbye' as there had ever really been a 'hello'.
He heard a noise and his body went cold. One more thing he had just learned. The boom of fireworks sounded identical to the boom of cannons. No. No, not identical. With cannons, there was fear. There was the threat of death, there was the skip of a heartbeat, there was a type of thrill. The terrified type. Unless your cannon was the one being fired. In which case it was different. Hopeful.
With fireworks, there was no hope. There was no 'what might be'. There was only the acknowledgement of what had already happened. And Hamilton knew exactly what had happened.
The creases in the paper stabbed at the creases in his hand. He didn't need an acknowledgement, a celebration. He didn't need a reminder. He didn't want one. He wanted to slip away. He wanted to stop feeling. He wanted to join his friend.
The cannon had gone off, and Laurens was in the crossfire. Now all he could hear was the sound of its echo. A sound of celebration.
He looked up.
He couldn't think of any reason to celebrate.
The sky above him was dark, and dotted with stars. The wind gently lifted his coat, beginning to billow.
"You really going through with this?"
"I swore I would."
"I thought that you didn't even like fireworks anymore."
"Like I said," Hamilton said, taking a step forward, "I made a promise. Now..." He stuck the pole into the dirt and turned around to look at his friends. "This one's for that asshole King George"
"Oh, I want that one!"
"Wai- hey, I want it!"
"Hey, Lafayette." Hamilton smiled, "I bet George isn't the only European king who'll see this." He held out another firework to his friend.
Lafayette grinned. He grabbed it, yelling out into the vague abyss, "We're coming for you next, bitch!" and rushing over to plant it in the ground.
He then turned to Burr, standing awkwardly, hands in his pockets, looking like he was trying to be distracted.
"Sorry," he said, "But I don't really got any royalty that I want to send the middle finger to via pyrotechnics."
"I got four of these for a reason, y'know."
Burr looked like he wanted to approach, but was hesitant to.
"Doesn't have to be someone you hate. Just someone you want to send a message to. Someone who you want to remind. 'we're free'"
He thought for a moment.
"Oooooooorr, you could just fire one off for the hell of it. If you wanna be boring."
He chuckled. "No, no, I think I've got someone."
"Well? The hell are you waiting for?"
Burr walked up, taking one of the remaining fireworks, and smiling at Hamilton.
"Thanks."
Hamilton grinned wildly. He whipped around and shoved the last one firmly into the ground.
"Ready?"
"Hell yeah!"
He lit the match.
"This one's for you, friend."
ssssssssssssss
Boom
"...Dad?..."
Hamilton looked up from the crayon drawing. His son looked concerned, picking nervously at his sleeves.
"Did... did I do something wrong?"
"No," Hamilton chuckled, "N-no, of course not. Why?"
"You, um..." He pointed shyly to his eyes.
He touched his face. His cheeks were covered with a thin layer of tears.
"Oh." He chuckled some more. "Oh, no, Philip. I - heh - I'm fine." He smiled, picked up his son, held him on his lap and hugged him tight.
"Thank you," he whispered, "It's wonderful. I couldn't have asked for a more beautiful sky."