Chapter Text
Laurens takes a breath, coughs, pulls the parchment towards him, and loads his quill with ink. It’s been less than a week, but he misses Hamilton so much his teeth ache. It had been like something out of a dream, waking up from a fevered sleep to see his Hamilton by his bedside, dark circles under his eyes and talking cheerfully about nothing in particular. A quick kiss stolen, a gift bestowed, and he was gone again. He raises his eyes to the corner of his tent where the ham sits and can’t help but smile. Thoughtful, chosen with an eye to wordplay. He likes it more than he would a hundred flowers.
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Dear Colonel Hamilton,
Greetings from the South. I hope that the progress of your war goes more smoothly than mine, confin’d as I am to a bed of sickness. The rations here are infinitely better for your kind gift of a ham, which is both a feast for my stomach and a memento of your visit (though I do not treasure it so dearly that I will not eat it). The weather is clear and my company in good spirits, despite the cold. It’s much warmer than New York, so do not send any blankets or coats. Your need of them is far greater than mine.
My political news is much as it was in my last letter though I have worn down a couple of men into converts, and now that I have reached a fold in the page I ask you to hide the rest of this and read it when you are alone.
I have altogether too much time to think while I am ill, and I find you in my thoughts more and more. My bedlinens still carry a faint memory of your scent. I smell it when I wake up, and for a very brief moment I can delude myself that you are there.
It helps if I close my eyes. It makes my imaginings more vivid. I can almost picture you leaning over me, a bare hands-breadth away, teasing me as you are wont to do. I wonder sometimes whether it is tempting fate, when we have so little time to be alone together, to further prolong your absences from me in this way. I can hear you laugh as you tell me that to be so close is hardly an absence at all – but when your hands are not touching me, I feel the lack of them. Have you ever seen a field of sunflowers turn, eyeless, over the hours to follow the path of the sun in the sky? Probably you have not, I can’t imagine you staying still so long (though I know you have patience for some things). My skin, it seems, senses your gaze much as sunflowers do the heat of the sun.
So you hover over me, intangible Alexander, and smile to yourself. Perhaps you straddle my lap, perhaps your knees are a bare inch from my hips and any moment you will fold down onto me as a rider sits astride a horse. Or perhaps your hands support you, your face looking down at mine, and at any moment you might lower yourself to kiss me. I can wait a long time, with my eyes closed, imagining what you might be about to do, though over time the anticipation transmutes to an almost-painful fever.
And when I open my eyes – well, perhaps you are merely in the next room.
Write soon, dear boy.
Yr most affectionate Laurens.
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The return letter comes with a huge bundled package, and Laurens is sure to thank the military equerry who had to wrestle the parcel through the disputed country between the main camp and Laurens’ southern outpost. He’s on his feet again by then, though coughing in a way his sergeant seems to find somewhat alarming.
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My dear Laurens,
Your entreaty has gone entirely unheeded, I have sent blankets enough to smother you. Did you really expect that I could sit idly by while you waste away in this despicable fashion? Do not tell me that you are perfectly capable of managing this illness - no, I cannot endure the thought of you weak and alone, with no one to offer you comfort or nourishment. I do not expect that it makes so much difference, despite your polished words, who does the comforting or nourishing, but I confess I would much prefer that it was my hand on your fevered brow. I feel quite certain I could tend to your every need and whim much better than any other. You know how I wish to dedicate myself to a worthy cause, and what worthier cause than this?
Laurens, you liken me to the sun, which I do not deserve. In truth, I do not so much radiate as blush like a maid, in the darkness of my tent, when I read your letters. Dare I dream that you could be persuaded to repeat those pretty sentiments again when we are together? I find thoughts of you so soothing in these troubled times. Our absences are difficult to bear indeed, and yet it seems to me that it increases our passion and affection for one another. A time will come when we may spend all our days together if we wish and then perhaps you shall tire of me, dear heart. I pray that it is not so. I am so very fond of you. You talk of my eyes, and I can scarcely stop picturing yours, and the way your gaze can change from tenderness to intensity in a moment. It takes my breath away. You compare yourself to a flower, and true, you are as beautiful as any that bloom on God's green earth, and as captivating. Do not wilt, John. I could not bear it.
Washington sends his regards. He grows weary of late, and I fear the war is taking a great toll. It takes a toll on all of us, but the mighty must bear it harder. I do not remember the last time I saw him smile.
Lafayette conveyed a sentiment in French which was much too vulgar to repeat here in any tongue, and therefore I have informed him he can write his own letters to you if he insists upon saying such things. He has taken to repeating my jape - about the serving girl and the boar - among the soldiers and has thusly become a great favourite. Alas, I am doomed to this fate, that other men should rise to greatness on my behalf.
Adieu, be happy, and let friendship between us be more than a name
A.Ham