Chapter Text
“Burr, since when are you a cellist?”
Aaron paused in the middle of trying to fit his instrument into the narrow conservatory elevator and turned to see five feet and seven inches of angry lead trumpeter barreling towards him from across the lobby.
“Alex, can we talk about this later?” He asked, frantically reaching to press the button that would close the elevator doors, but just as they began to slide shut, a skinny brown arm shot between them, and Aaron found himself staring down into a pair of furious brown eyes.
“How could you do this to me?” Alex asked, stepping onto the elevator and forcing Aaron to cramp into the corner. For such a short kid, Alex took up an unnatural amount of space, and all Aaron could do was sigh as he leaned his head back against the wall of the elevator.
“Alex, I already told you I was thinking about quitting the band.”
“I didn't think you were serious!” Alex blurted. “I had to find out from Mister Washington of all people! How are we supposed to win RevFest if we don't have a guitarist?”
“You're getting a new one.”
“Yeah, but she's a sophomore," Alex scoffed.
“You were a sophomore last year.”
“That's not the point!” Alex said, stepping forward, crowding Aaron even more against the side of the elevator. The doors slid closed, trapping him inside with a gigantic cello and a very pissed off Alexander Hamilton. This was definitely not the way Aaron had thought his first day of senior year at Union Heights High School was going to turn out, but it looked as if his famous luck was finally starting to run out. “Since when do you even play classical music?” Alex hissed, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. Burr blinked and looked between the incensed junior in front of him and the instrument propped up against the wall.
“Alex, you knew I played the cello.”
“Yeah, but classical music?”
“There's no such thing as a jazz cello.”
“But you play guitar, clarinet, and piano,” Alex protested. “God, you're an overachiever.” He added under his breath.
“Those are also classical instruments,” Burr said with a sigh.
“But classical players are evil!” Alex whispered, his eyes bright as a saint’s.
“Are you sure you aren't just thinking of one particular violinist? Whose name begins with j and rhymes with reticent?”
“Jefferson’s the worst,” Alex admitted, “but it's not just him. You're seriously going to share the stage with Lee and Seabury? What gives?”
The elevator came to a stop on the second floor, and the doors opened. Burr lifted the cello out into the hallway, making sure not to stab Alex with the spike in the bottom, no matter how much he wanted to.
“Look,” he said, turning to face the other boy, whose arms were crossed in front of his chest in a gesture that was far more childish than it was intimidating. “Van Buren promised me first chair. Washington never so much as lets me solo. Which do you think is going to look better on my college application?”
Alex balked at that. “Seriously?” He asked, teeth bared so much it was nearly a growl. “This is about your college application ? Jesus Christ, do you ever think about anyone but yourself ?”
Aaron stepped back as if he had been stung. He hated arguing with Alex - winning was impossible, and he always ended up feeling like it was his fault - but this was going a little too far.
“Oh,” he said, “like you wouldn't do anything to get ahead, even if it meant calling in a few favors. Isn't that exactly what you've been doing since you got here?”
Alex’s eyes narrowed, and Aaron immediately knew that he had said the wrong thing. Alex hated being reminded of his scholarship status, hated even the insinuation that he had gotten a free ride, and Aaron had gone and done it anyway.
“We'll talk about this later,” Alex said icily. "Some of us have prior commitments to fulfill."
With that, he turned and stalked down the hallway towards the jazz room, black ponytail bouncing. The other boy’s hair had gotten ridiculously long over the summer, and Aaron almost shouted a quip after him about getting it cut, but he suspected Alex wouldn't take to kindly to that. Instead he took a deep breath and turned towards the orchestra room, lugging his cello behind him.
Eliza Schuyler wasn't sure what she was expecting from her first day as a member of the Union Heights Jazz Band, but it definitely wasn't this. She walked into room 300 on the second floor of the conservatory to see a lanky boy? Girl? - Eliza couldn't tell; she suspected neither - lying sprawled on top of the piano, sucking the last of a caramel frappuccino through a lipstick-stained straw. Beside them, a tall, dark-skinned senior sat ignoring the drum set in front of him. Both were listening to a short boy with a ponytail prattle on about something that seemed to require lots of passionate hand gestures.
“He just up and quit!” He was saying. “And he didn't even apologize!”
“It sounds like there was an issue of communication, mon ami. ” The boy - person? That sounded about right - said sympathetically. They had a thick French accent, and Eliza realized that this must be Gilbert Lafayette, the exchange student who had come last year and decided they liked the place enough to stay.
“Yo, what time is it?!” The door flew open, making Eliza jump, and a skinny boy with freckles stepped into the jazz room, clarinet case under one arm and a sketchbook under the other.
“Like, one fifty-five,” the drummer said.
“Showtime!” The boy responded, striding over to the others as if he owned the place.
“Dear Laurens!” The boy with the ponytail said. “Where have you been?”
“Class doesn't start for another five minutes,” Laurens replied as he sat down at the piano bench.
“I expect only the best from my favorite clarinet player.”
“I'm the only clarinet player,” Laurens said with a chuckle. “and if you must know,” he continued, “science ran late. Mister Franklin was going on about how to scientifically improve the odor of flatulence. He says we’re morally obligated.”
“How does that man even manage to hold a job?” Lafayette sighed, showing off a nearly perfect cat eye as they batted their lashes dramatically. Eliza’s jealousy was suddenly all-consuming.
“You'll never believe what Burr did!” The black-haired boy, who Eliza realized must be the infamous Alexander Hamilton if sheer rage was anything to go by, exclaimed.
“I already heard,” Laurens said, “and yeah, it was a dick move.”
“How is it that everyone seems to find out about these things before I do?” Alex asked, pushing his mouth into a pout.
“Who knows,” the drummer said. “What are we going to do without a guitarist?”
“Um,” Eliza said, taking a tentative step forward, and every head swiveled towards her; apparently she had been so quiet that none of them had even realized she was there. “I’m Eliza,” she said, hand shooting instinctively to her hair, where it twisted nervously. “I’m the new guitar player for the jazz band. Is this the right room?”
“Of course, ma chere, ” Lafayette said, sliding off the top of the piano and striding towards her. They were wearing boots with ridiculously high heels, which made them tower over Eliza, barely five-five on a good day. At least Hamilton - a trumpet player, Eliza remembered - seemed just as vertically challenged as she.
“Oh yeah,” he said, face breaking into a large smile. “You’re Angelica’s sister, right? She's our bass player.”
“Yeah,” Eliza said, relaxing somewhat, “and my little sis-sorry-sibling, Peggy, they're going to be playing the trombone.”
“Are they a freshman?” Alex asked, and the way he said the word made it sound distasteful. Eliza didn't quite know how to respond, so she nodded. Alex just shrugged and said, “We'll make it work.”
“Do not lose hope quite so soon, mon petit jambon, ” Lafayette scolded, flipping their ponytail over one shoulder. “We have not even heard them play. Ah, and here we are.”
Eliza turned just as the doors opened and the rest of the jazz band streamed in. Once the players were all together, they were much more impressive, and she found herself clutching her guitar nervously. She relaxed when Angelica strode in, carrying her electric bass easily despite its size. Peggy trailed nervously in behind her, rubbing the back of their recently shaved head self-consciously.
“Hey, little sis,” Angelica said, unzipping her case and pulling out the bass. “I see you've met most of the gang.”
“Yeah, they're… interesting,” Eliza replied, glancing towards the piano, where Alex, Lafayette, Laurens, and the intimidating looking drummer seemed to have congregated.
Angelica whistled. “Yeah, Alex is something. Wait until you hear some of his compositions. Washington never lets the lyrics see the light of day, but just the music makes you feel like someone’s shouting at you. I would steer clear of him.”
“Really?” Eliza asked, sneaking a look at the trumpeter from across the room. “He seems so nice.”
Angelica made a sound close to a guffaw. “You stay away from that boy if you know what’s good for you. They call him ‘Tomcat’ for a reason.”
Over at the piano, Alex snatched Laurens’ sketchbook and flipped through it. “What’s this?” He asked.
“North American soft-shelled turtle.” Laurens responded, sounding proud.
“What is it with you and turtles, man?”
“I just think they’re neat.”
Eliza found it hard to believe that either boy was capable of securing a so much as a girl’s phone number.
“Okay, so that’s Alex,” she said. “Who’s the big guy?”
“That’s Herc,” Angelica replied. “He looks tough, but he’s a softie. Just don’t ever call him Hercules.”
“Duly noted,” Eliza said. At that moment, a tall, heavy-browed man in a sweater vest walked through the door. Eliza instantly recognized Mister Washington, who had sent her an email just a few weeks before asking if perhaps she was interested in moving up from the select combo and joining the band. He must have already known that the other guitar player was leaving, and Eliza wondered what had taken Alex so long to find out. She had never actually talked to Aaron Burr, but she’d never heard anyone say an unkind word about him. Then again, now that she thought about it, she had never heard anyone say a particularly kind word about him either.
“Alright, everyone,” Washington said, clapping his hands together. He had a strong, soothing voice, but the room still went immediately silent. “I’m glad to see so many familiar faces,” the teacher continued, “along with some new ones.” He looked purposefully at Eliza, who blushed and hurriedly went to take her guitar out of its case.
“We can save the get-to-know you games for another time. I thought we’d cut right to the chase.” With that he pulled a folder out from under his arm and began handing out scoresheets to the saxophone section. Peggy took one look at their part and shot Eliza a terrified look. Eliza took her own sheet music from Mister Washington and gave it a cursory glance.
Thankfully, it was a song she already knew; Eliza didn’t know what she would have done if she had to struggle through the changes and embarrass herself on her very first day, and she took the opportunity to peruse the rest of the band, who were already chatting and laughing with each other. She knew most of the saxophonists; one of them, Freidrich von Steuben, was in her history class, taught by the infamous Professor George, whose son Eliza thought might be in the orchestra.
Peggy seemed to be the only freshman in the band, and Eliza wished she could go to comfort her little sibling - she still wasn’t quite used to the shift in pronouns; after all, it had only been a few months since they had actually come out, but Eliza still kicked herself whenever she accidentally said “sister” - instead of sitting down next to the piano and drums. Herc nodded at her but refused to smile, and Eliza found herself questioning Angelica’s assessment of the drummer.
“Seriously? I know you play the saxophone,” Alex said as Lafayette brandished what Eliza recognized was a French horn.
“Yes, but we already have a full section,” the senior replied.
“That’s not even a real jazz instrument.”
“Like you ever follow les accords, little Alex.”
“I’m not that little.”
“Whatever you say, mon petit prince.”
The song started off easy, and the horn section got through the head with only a few missed notes and uneasy dynamics. When the solo section arrived, the bari saxophone player, a short, wide kid with curly hair, stood up hopefully and took a deep breath.
“Sit down John, you fat mother-” Alex shouted from across the room, though the rest of his sentence was lost in the baritone player’s first (and only) note. The boy turned pink and immediately sat back down.
“That’s John Adams,” Angelica whispered, leaning over to speak into Eliza’s ear. “Ignore him.”
“His girlfriend is Abigail Smith, right?” Eliza asked. “The girl who runs the newspaper?”
“Don’t know what she sees in him,” Angelica murmured before turning her attention back to her music stand.
Washington looked wearily at the trumpet section but pointed dutifully to Laurens, who stood up and began to play. He really was an excellent clarinetist, and Eliza nearly screwed up the changes as she struggled to listen and play backgrounds at the same time. The horn section applauded politely when he sat down, but the noise was lost in the first notes of Alex’s solo.
At that point Eliza gave up on trying to focus on her own music. God, if this was what he sounded like soloing on someone else’s changes, she couldn’t even imagine what his own songs were like. Even Herc stumbled as Alex wove an improvisation that was frighteningly complex, and most importantly, loud. By the time it was over, Eliza’s ears were ringing, and Alex’s expressive face was almost crimson.
“Well done, Hamilton,” Washington said, smiling paternally. “Make sure to use space.”
Alex just shrugged, still grinning like a maniac.
The absence of sound suddenly seemed strange, and Eliza glanced around to see who was up next only to see Washington looking pointedly at her, and no, that was definitely not part of the plan, and she considered shaking her head, but now everyone was looking at her, so she plucked out a few tentative notes, just to get a feel for it.
About four bars in, she found a lick she liked and built on it, simply at first, something soft and lyrical to contrast Alex’s blaring attack, and when she finished, she was pleased to hear clapping from the horns. She looked up to smile at them and noticed Alex staring at her from across the room. He gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and for once she wished her complexion were more like Angelica’s if only so her blush wouldn’t be so noticeable.
The solo section came to end, and the horns came roaring back in. Eliza looked back down at her music, but the smile stayed plastered on her face like an idiot.
Yes, she was going to fit in here just fine.
CHARLES LEE (TROMBONE GUY)
LEE: are classical auditions always this shitty?
SEABURY: Please, George isn’t SO bad.
LEE: how is he ALLOWED to be first violin
LEE: he cant even READ sheet music
LEE: the best thing he can do for this class is go back to his mansion and shove money up his ass like the prick he is
SEABURY: We need him for the budget.
LEE: ITS SO UNFAIR
SEABURY: Well it’s not like you would be in first chair anyway.
The only reason you’re in this class is because Washington kicked you out of jazz.
LEE: WASHINGTON CANNOT BE LEFT TO BE IN CHARGE OF THE JAZZ DEPARTMENT
LEE: HE IS SINGLEHANDEDLY THE WORST TEACHER IN THE ENTIRE SCHOOL
LEE: Though even he isnt as bad as KING GEORGE
SEABURY: Well, if you try and kick him out,
we’ll have nothing, so it’s not within your interests.
James Madison was pining.
To an outside observer, it looked like he was putting together his flute and looking over his music like the dutiful student he was, but really he was pining. Pining, pining, pining for someone he knew was never ever going to look at him the same way. It was something at which he had gotten particularly good over the last six, very long years, and the end result was that he could maintain a completely neutral expression around the person even while he was dying inside.
The object of his (James was certain, unrequited) affection was currently shaking his violin case while he shouted.
“This is the year, James! I am finally going to get first chair, and mister Richy Rich can just go and fuck himself. What the hell sort of a name is King, anyway? What parent does that to a child? Is that why he’s such a dick? Some sort of complex?”
“You’ve said that before, Thomas,” James said gently, keeping his eyes fixed on the Tchaikovsky piece in front of him so he wouldn't have to look up at his friend’s ecstatic face.
Thomas somehow always looked exponentially more attractive when he was shouting about something, which James found supremely unfair, and he had become adept at avoiding such temptations when they presented themselves. All his work was wasted, however, because Thomas grabbed him firmly by the chin and James found himself staring into a pair of burning brown eyes, which were framed by a mass of curls.
“We’re seniors, James,” Thomas said. “This is our last chance.”
“I know,” James said, maneuvering out of Thomas’s grip. He hated it when Thomas touched it like that. (He loved it when Thomas touched him like that).
“You know he only gets first chair because his dad is loaded,” Thomas grumbled, flopping down in the chair next to James. “But can he even play ? God, it makes me mad.”
“Maybe van Buren will see the light this time,” James said encouragingly, but Thomas just groaned.
“I’m going to kill this audition,” he said. “I feel like I’ve been practicing for half my life. Not that it’ll make any difference. Oh, speak of the Devil.”
James looked up to see a tall, light-haired (and somehow even lighter-skinned) boy with an insufferable smirk walk through the door carrying a violin that must have cost a small fortune. God, he hated King George, not that he was brave enough to say a word about it to anyone but Thomas. The boy stalked to the front row of chairs, where Charles Lee and Samuel Seabury were quietly conversing. The moment they noticed George, they dutifully stood and moved out of the way, yielding the only music stand in the room that wasn’t scratched, rusted, or plain broken to the other boy.
The rest of the room went silent; James Reynolds took his hands off the piano, his girlfriend, Maria Lewis, glared at him but rested her cello between her knees - James suspected that the two had been fighting again - and the new first cello, a lean, dark-skinned boy with closely cropped hair, looked up from his music in confusion.
This must be Aaron Burr , James thought. Burr was technically a senior, but a year younger than Thomas and he. From what James had heard, it sounded like the boy was something of a prodigy. Too bad he would shortly find out who really ruled the Union Heights orchestra.
Aaron was rapidly beginning to regret his decision. It wasn’t like he would ever admit it; no, he had worked too hard to be here to chicken out now just because of a little discomfort.
Still, there was something profoundly unfriendly in the atmosphere of the orchestra room, though he assumed most of that was due to the palpable animosity between the cellist girl beside him, whose red-lipsticked mouth was pulled into a tight frown, and the pale boy sitting a few feet away at the piano. Aaron already knew it was going to be a struggle to sit between the two quarreling lovers for an entire year.
Then, of course, there were the two boys sitting in the back, though while Jefferson merely looked frustrated, Madison had adopted a forlorn expression into which he seemed to lapse whenever the other boy wasn’t watching. The flautist wasn't exactly skilled in the art of subtlety, so Jefferson was either oblivious or trying very hard to ignore the other boy’s affections, though based on what he knew about the violinist, Aaron strongly suspected the former.
He didn't have anything against the pair - Alex only hated them because they had refused to collaborate with him on a piece the year before - but the three boys sitting in the front of the room were another matter. Aaron, who always tried to remain unbiased, felt comfortable hating King George (the third in his family to hold the name, as if he belonged to some ancient monarchical line, and didn’t George just love to brag that he was related to some English king or another?), whom everyone at least strongly disliked.
Even Seabury and Lee were resolute in their opinion of George, though neither was brave enough to say anything about it. Aaron tried to suppress a sneer as the two listened to George prattle on about his no-doubt expensive vacation to, what was it? Spain? Bully for you, Aaron thought. He had spent the summer at his aunt and uncle’s house in New Jersey. How exotic.
Though he hated to admit it, Alex had been right about Lee and Seabury; Aaron couldn’t possibly fathom how he was going to survive if he had to had to deal with them and King George III in the same room together.
All in all, the room was fraught with tension, and in addition to making his stomach queasy, it was also beginning to make his binder feel tight under his t-shirt until his ribs felt like they might give out. Aaron breathed a sigh of relief when Mister van Buren walked in, even if the man managed to be ten minutes late on the very first day of class.
“Good morning, everyone,” he said hurriedly as he struggled to organize the new scores on the music stand in front of him. “We’ll mostly be doing auditions today, and then I’ll hand out the music for this trimester. Now…” He shuffled the papers, looking flustered, and glanced nervously around the room. His gaze landed on Aaron, and his face brightened. “Oh, and we have a new student joining the band. Everyone, this is Aaron Burr, he’ll be joining us for the rest of the year.”
Let’s just start with trimester, Aaron thought, forcing a smile as the rest of the orchestra turned to look at him. George gave him a once-over before snorting and returning his attention to van Buren. God, Aaron hated him.
Van Buren checked his watch. “Well, let’s get right to it,” he said, no doubt having realized that his tardiness had cost them a good fifteen minutes worth of class time, though it wasn’t like auditions would take very long. The orchestra was pitifully small compared to the jazz band with only one flautist, one trombonist, one pianist, one viola, two violins, and two cellos. Aaron suspected that Maria had only joined the group because of her boyfriend, so his audition would be a breeze (not that he was planning to half-ass anything; no, he had earned this, and he was going to follow through with it if it killed him). Violins, however, were another matter entirely.
It was common knowledge that George’s father, the well-disliked world history teacher for the junior class, channeled an outrageous amount of his funds into the school, particularly the music department, which would be nothing but two cymbals and a whole lot of shattered dreams without his support. No one knew where a private school teacher got that kind of money, but the accepted explanation was that it came from a family account (royalty, they said), and that it was the only reason his son, who was a passable violinist at best, consistently got first chair.
God, there had never been this kind of drama in the jazz band. Washington had never given Burr solos, but that was due to some personal dislike, not literal corruption. Washington always said he played “too safe,” well, now he was playing music with no opportunity for improvisation, music that relied only on technical skill and proficiency, things at which Aaron knew he excelled.
And yet, not twenty minutes into his first rehearsal, he found himself hating it.
But no, he was not about to go crawling back and accept whatever scraps Washington threw his way, especially not when Alexander Hamilton would certainly regale him with “I told you so’s” and “what did I tell you’s”. Despite what the trumpeter thought of him, Aaron always made good on his promises, and he would be damned if he didn’t keep this one.
SOUTHERN MOTHERFUCKING CLASSICAL COMPOSERS
TJEFFS THE GREAT: uUUUUUgh i HATE GEORGE SO MUCH IM GOING TO PUNCH HIM
TJEFFS THE GREAT: FUCK HIm FUCK ORCHESTRA **I** SHOULD BE 1ST VIOLIN!!
TJEFFS THE GREAT: HE DIDNT EVEN *PRACTICE*!!
TJEFFS THE GREAT: OR TUNE OR ***ANYTHING***!!!!
TJEFFS THE GREAT: JAMES IM GONNA STAB HIM
TJEFFS THE GREAT: FUCK GEORGE FUCK GEORGE HE’S THE WORST
TJEFFS THE GREAT: AHHHHHHHHGUHHHH
TJEFFS THE GREAT: THIS WOULDVE NVR HAPPENED IN FRANCE
TJEFFS THE GREAT: FRENCHMEN ARE SOPHISTICATED ENOUGH NOT TO ACCEPT BASIC BRIBERY AND MEDIOCRITY
TJEFFS THE GREAT: I WAS 1ST CHAIR THERE!!!
MAD(ISON)WORLD (YOU): Thomas... please calm down...
MAD(ISON) WORLD (YOU): Youre spamming me.......
TJEFFS THE GREAT: I DIDNT WANT TO HAVE TO DO THIS BUT HE LEAVES ME NO CHOICE
MAD(ISON)WORLD (YOU): What
TJEFFS THE GREAT:ITS PLAN BW
MAD(ISON)WORLD (YOU): I dont remember this
TJEFFS THE GREAT added SHITFACE BASTARD to conversation
MAD(ISON)WORLD (YOU): Thomas you changed all of my contact names who is Shitface Bastard
SHITFACE BASTARD: WHAT DO YOU WANT JEFFERSON
SHITFACE BASTARD: Not ALL of us have enough time to sit around jacking off to French flags and smoking money from a silver platter.
MAD(ISON)WORLD (YOU): Oh its hamilton
SHITFACE BASTARD is now HAMILTON
HAMILTON: What the hell do you two want. Is this some kind of pisspoor attempt at hazing?
TJEFFS THE GREAT: as much as it pains me 2 say this...
TJEFFS THE GREAT: we need ur help
TJEFFS THE GREAT: itll benefit ALL of us