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Of all people, Jefferson is the first one to sit in the disgusting kitsch chair next to the hospital bed.
Alexander finds himself unable to smile at the irony.
-
He’s never seen Hamilton so stagnant. He is almost afraid that he’ll find the man dead, despite nurses reassuring him that the worst physical injury Hamilton has is a broken nose. He was just frail (borderline malnutrition, arrhythmia, high blood pressure, anxiety) and combined with the trauma of what happened and a history of self-harm, it was better to keep an eye on him.
Thomas hates that his only thought is of the emphasis they had put on “physical injury.”
He doesn’t know what he’s expecting when he walks into Hamilton’s hospital room, maybe to see him fuming at detectives or to get kicked out immediately, but it certainly wasn’t this.
No one else is in the room, and Hamilton isn’t looking towards the door. He’s staring out the window, not bothering to sit up to do so. The stony expression looks terribly wrong on him. Thomas stands dumbly in the doorway for a moment, his hands in his pockets. But soon he steps across the room with light feet, into Hamilton’s line of vision.
Thomas expects something, anything, a snarky comment, a pen drop for God’s sake- but Hamilton just stares at him with the same deadpan expression, still not lifting his head from the overly-fluffed pillow.
“Why aren’t your friends here?” he blurts out, unable to handle the silence any longer and unnerved by those eyes on him.
Hamilton continues staring and doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move other than an occasional blink.
“You’ve probably had some unsavory visitors.”
Silence. Hamilton’s eyes finally move from him to glance at the ugly armchair.
“Do you want me to sit there?” He asks, because he has no idea what to do and is tempted to leave to sit in his car, in the hospital parking lot, and hit the steering wheel and cry until he’s exhausted enough to go home. Hamilton doesn’t deserve this. Thomas knows that no one deserves this, no one, but he sees the man in front of him nod slightly, and he’s reminded of a poorly filmed soap opera. Every movement is wrong. He shouldn’t look so unsure, he shouldn’t be in this bed; Hamilton should be working, typing up a storm, furrowing his brow in concentration, questioning the professor’s authority-
Anything but this.
Thomas is of the opinion that no person should be capable of causing Hamilton to slow to a stop, and it’s wrong. He wants someone to blame immediately, someone to ruin. The police will do that anyway, but he wants to personally be the reason that this guy regrets being born.
He swallows hard, giving up on his thoughts, and sits in the chair. He notices an untouched tray of food on the table and vaguely remembers the nurse saying something about how little this particular patient eats. “Look, I know I’m not your mother- that’s Mulligan’s job- but you should really eat. Can you… lean up a little?”
Hamilton blinks at him and sits up with a surprising ease but doesn’t make a move for the tray. Thomas does it for him, picking up what appears to be a shepherd’s pie in its tin. “I also know that you can do this yourself but… let me?” Hamilton nods after a beat, and he looks down, partly to cut into the pie with a plastic spoon he finds, but it’s mostly to hide his relieved expression. “You know, when I was a freshman, I got really drunk this one night and when I left the bar I accidentally closed a car door on my own leg. Long story short, I came to this hospital to get a cast and stayed overnight, and you know how it is, drinking makes you hungry, so the nurse brought me like, six plates of roast chicken and a tub of macaroni and cheese. Maybe I was just really fucked up, but I remember it being good. I think there was a dessert too, but I can’t remember what. We should get you a pineapple upside-down cake,” he rambles, because Hamilton still isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t look so sullen anymore. Just pensive. He nods again and even leans forward to eat the bite Thomas had spooned up for him.
“I always liked that as a kid, but Virginia isn’t good for fruits. You’d balk at our selection, probably, just a bunch of apples and grapes most of the time. I bet y’all had weird fruits up the ass, right?” Hamilton didn’t say anything. “It’s alright, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
-
And he doesn’t, for the good part of two weeks.
Thomas promises to visit him three times every week to make sure that he’s okay, that he’s eating.
His friends manage to visit on every day except the ones Thomas does. The nurses tell him that Alexander still hasn’t spoken since answering the detective’s questions on the first night.
On Wednesday, about a week and a half after Thomas’ first visit, he’s staying especially late, showing the other man pictures of Martha Stewart kitchens and explaining why they piss him off so much.
Before he knows it, there’s a nurse in the room, and he tries not to give her a bitchy face for interrupting his interior design rant. “Sir, you’re going to have to leave soon. It’s ten till nine.”
Alexander bolts upright on the bed. “Please let him stay,” he says with an urgency, his voice rough and cracking.
Thomas isn’t sure who is more surprised, himself or the nurse.
“I… I don’t think I can…” She really does look guilty, and more than a little stunned. Another nurse comes out from behind her with her arms crossed over her chest.
The second nurse whispers something to the other, and it seems to take a while, but the first nurse sighs and nods. “Okay, you can stay. But,” She turned to the woman behind her. “If the supervisor finds out about this, you’re the one explaining it.”
They walks out, although Thomas gets a wink from the second nurse before she closes the door behind her. He turns back to Alexander, who looks a bit surprised at himself.
“Is this a sleepover? Because this feels like a sleepover.”
Thomas hopes he can make Alexander laugh or even smile, but that doesn’t happen. The man instead rests his head on Thomas’ chest and closes his eyes. “You were the first one who visited me.”
“I was,” he says. He wishes that he knew where this is going.
“Thanks,” Alexander says, quiet and simple, but it makes Thomas want to cry all over again.
“Any time.”
Alexander licks his lips nervously and raises his head from Thomas’ chest. “God, I’ve missed so many lectures. How am I going to catch up?”
“I’ll help you, and I’m sure James can lend you his notes. Isn’t he in Government with you? Not that you’ll have any problem catching up. You’re gonna be done with next semester’s work by December, I think. You don’t have trouble with hard work, do you?” Thomas smiles at him. He hopes that they’re back to talking like they used to, albeit a bit less hateful. He even adds smug emphasis.
Alexander still hasn’t smiled, but his eyes shine at the challenge, and Thomas doubts he can name anything he’s seen that’s better than this. “Don’t bother. Madison’s notes suck. And I’ll be done with next semester’s work by November,” he says it with a false confidence, but it’s progress.
“Wanna bet on it?”
-
1 month later
-
They’ve never gotten around to putting a label on it, but everyone knows that Thomas and Alexander kiss a lot (and are subsequently disgusted by this fact.) They don’t go out much, since Alexander casually avoids bars, and Jefferson is an alcohol elitist anyway.
Alexander is still “that annoying kid who always fights with the TA.”
Thomas has evolved a bit, and is now known more commonly as “that annoying TA who fights the kid and then makes googly eyes at his back.”
For at least one class, Alexander Hamilton is known as “that annoying kid who fights the TA and then straightens his tie.”
It’s an interesting relationship dynamic.
Thomas is fine with the whole thing never escalating, the kissing and arguing and fussing over each other is enough for him. He doesn’t need to put a name on it. But Alexander is a different story.
When he asks the other man, “What are we?” Thomas realizes that he just wants his feelings validated.
He takes a dramatic deep breath. “I’m going to take a wild guess, and say, boyfriends. Does that seem right to you?” He kisses Alexander again, always has to lean down when he’s being difficult and doesn’t want to tip-toe, and he feels more than hears the pleased hum against his lips.
“Sounds about right,” Alexander breathes against Thomas’ mouth.
He pulls away. “Ugh, you’re ridiculous.”
“Says the man wearing a purple suit. Weren’t you the one who complained about Martha Stewart kitchens?” He clicks his tongue disappointedly and gives a coy smile. “I thought you were better than that.”
Thomas goes to retort, but he loves seeing Alexander smile too much, and they haven’t talked about his time in the hospital since he was released. “Whatever,” The other man is obviously surprised with the lack of a comeback, but if he’s bothered by it, he doesn’t say anything. Thomas does respond though, eventually. It takes a few minutes.
“I also recall a bet regarding next semester’s workload?”
Alexander’s dark eyes shine the way they did when he first mentioned it, and his simper turns into a feral grin.
“You’re on.”