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The ground was beginning to dim, the stark shadows of trees slowly diminishing away to nothing but darkness with a hallowed silence, filled only by the chirping of countless tiny bugs hidden away. Faintly though, in the distance, muffled shouting could be heard.
“Raise a glass!” a vibrant French accent slurred.
“To a job well done, gentlemen!” a much more stable voice accompanied the first person.
Sure enough, Marquis de Lafayette, Hercules Mulligan, John Laurens, and a few other nameless soldiers who came and went were all sitting in a communal tent, sprawled out on makeshift chairs with beers in hand.
The previous day, their battalions had faced the difficult task of carrying out an ambush in the middle of the night on their British opponents. Groups left all throughout the day to march straight for their camp. Patriots hid in the brush for hours after sundown, waiting until the final candle was extinguished, and then even longer for good measure. With a held breath, Major Generals (including Lafayette) led their men down through enemy lines, careful to silence the earth below their feet.
Each man was to take stand at one tent, gun pointed down in the general direction of where sleeping bodies were believed to be. Generals would raise their hand, all men poised and loaded, one eye on their commander. At one swift moment, gunshots rang through the valley, shocked British soldiers having no time to react before they were faced with a painfully short end.
The skirmish lasted mere minutes and then all fell silent. The patriots went back with their heads held high, a light of Valor surrounding them.
Nobody said war was pretty.
And now, here they were. A few soldiers singing sloppy renditions of merry songs, clasping each other’s shoulders with brotherly affection. The light outside was all but gone now, and candles were the only thing illuminating the silhouettes of drunken soldiers.
“Lafayette, move out of the way, my dear sir!” John Laurens shoved his friend off of the wooden crate he was standing on to make way for himself. “I have an announcement to make, attention all!” Laurens held up his tin cup which was brimming over with his freshest pint of sweet alcohol. The flavor burned his tongue: not with pain, but satisfaction. “I wish, gentlemen, that I were able to express my gratitude and admiration for you all. But-”
“Saw you run into that tree, Laurens!” some other drunk voice shouted, causing John to lose his balance and scowl in the direction he thought it had come from (which happened to be the entirely wrong way).
“Hey! Listen here, you!” everyone hushed as Laurens held his hand out, pointing absently at the small crowd in front of him. “Was staring at a pretty attraction, I don't need your judgment, fellow!”
“We are void of women, Laurens, no pretty attractions here!”
John stamped his foot into the crate. “There is but one, now silence, men!”
“Mon ami, get off the crate it is my turn again!” Lafayette began pushing his way back up, clinging to Laurens’ side as though his entire being depended on it.
Lafayette had always been known to be… loud when he had a few too many drinks. He would constantly cling to his friends, speaking more French than English that John usually translated well, but not with the haze of alcohol in his head. Lafayette had a voice that matched his appearance; loud, demanding, authoritative, but soft and kind at the same time. His brown curls would bounce in their restrains, praying to be let free at any moment, his dark brown eyes were hard in the light of the battlefield, yet soft under the candle glow of his comrades.
Hercules was far more built to handle his liquor than his counterparts. He could drink and drink, and drink… and drink some more before a hint of daze would even begin to cover his mind. A muscular build, tall, foreboding frame, and a glare that rivaled death itself made other men tremble. With the facade down though, one could smile at his kindness and consideration. A soldier of dark skin, dark eyes, and short black hair that he concealed behind a bandana at all costs, Mulligan was trusted by most in the camp.
And John Laurens. Oh, Laurens; one of the men least able to control their liquor. He had only drank two pints of the sweet nectar that the General had allowed them to have in celebration (a very rare occurrence), and he was already close to collapsing. Back in South Carolina over recent years, John figured out that alcohol was not the best of friends to him, but the temptation was always too great to turn down, with most nights ending in Laurens stumbling home and his father giving yet another disapproving glare.
No son of mine will be so shameful in public, no son of mine will be with-
“How about you both get your drunk asses down!” Mulligan grinned, letting out a hearty laugh as he pulled the two men down to Earth. Minutes after that treaded by, turning almost to yet another hour. That's when another soldier had to ruin the good time.
Alexander Hamilton pushed open the tent flaps and was hit with the overwhelming scent of intoxication. Musk, hardy, and he almost longed to be in the same state of mind as his fellow men. Alas he had orders to fill, and so opened his mouth to give an announcement, but was stopped by an obnoxiously loud scream.
“Well if it isn't Monsieur Hamilton!” Lafayette’s French accent was most prominent then, almost too thick to fully understand his English. “The petit Lion has joined the party!” cheers and hollers flooded the air as Hamilton laughed, accepting a small shot of whatever Mulligan offered him. He gulped it down and shook his head.
“Afraid not, my fellow men. We must close the celebration down for the night, Washington's orders.”
Groans of annoyance could be heard, along with hushed mumbles of curses against the general; things no man would ever dare to say any louder than a whisper. But still, the men did not protest, they knew better than to have Washington interfere in such a trivial pursuit, so, they all inhaled their last drink and began stumbling back to their tents. Lafayette and Mulligan left easily enough, with only a little bit of protest in heated French, which Alexander quickly resolved in his sober state of mind. And then there was Laurens. Laurens refused to leave until Alexander did, in favor of telling him all about his endeavors over the past hours.
So, Alexander extinguished the last candle and cinched up the tent flap before turning to see Laurens standing there dumbstruck, a toothy grin gracing his already wonderful features.
“Laurens?” Alex slowly roamed forward, curiosity and hesitation edging his words.
“Hamilton.” Laurens mimicked his slightly serious tone.
“Let us retire for the evening,”
Laurens nods, but walks only a foot before stopping to speak again. “I must be frank with you, dear friend, I can hardly stand on my own two feet, let alone walk all the way back to our tent on my own free will,” the sentence came out in a slow drag, each word bleeding into the next.
Hamilton says nothing, simply moves to Laurens’ side, placing the man’s arm over his own shoulder to help steady the taller man. Laurens hummed his approval of the action and the two of them began the usually short (turned much longer by Laurens’ constant stumbling) walk back to their shared tent.
“My good man, have I ever told you how much I admire your bravery?” Laurens asked, his hand sloppily running through Alexander's hair.
“Never before have you mentioned such things,” came Hamilton's response.
Laurens gasped in mock horror. “I've been a fool for much too long,” he stopped walking, a serious look crossing his face. “Hamilton.”
“Is something the matter?”
Silence.
“I feel the urge to relieve myself.”
Hamilton bit the inside of his cheek as a chuckle threatened to leave his mouth. He tried to maintain a straight face and nodded slowly. The look Laurens gave him turned urgent.
“Right now,” he attempted a run, turning out to be him falling on his knees from the sudden movement.
“Laurens, please,” Hamilton laughed finally, helping his friend out of the camp boundaries and behind into the shallow expenses of wood. Laurens allowed himself free of his companion and went behind a tree, singing a hearty song to himself of more drinks, and freedom.
A moment passed before he emerged and allowed Hamilton to lead him back up and onto a trail to their tent. They were hardly on the outskirts of the camp, so they had a bit of a walk ahead of them. Hamilton decided to keep his friend on the outside of the tents, so as to not wake anyone who may have already fallen to slumber. Laurens was a loud drunk, and he knew it.
This wasn't the first time the two of them would go back to their tent heavily intoxicated, but it was the first time that the shorter man had been sober for all of it. It never quite dawned on him just how expressive Laurens was when under that influence. His hands waved around sporadically, not truly emphasizing any words, but more for the attention affect. His frame leaned almost completely on Hamilton’s, and he kept running fingers through the black hair on top of his head. Laurens’ own brown curls that graced his head bounced in his ponytail, his bright green eyes were lazy as they scanned his surroundings, and his freckles stood out prominently against the red tint in his cheeks.
He truly was a sight to behold.
“Have I ever told you how pleasant you smell?” Laurens leaned his face against Hamilton's cheek, smiling faintly.
Hamilton couldn't help but feel a tint or redness cover the tip of his ears. “You're being quite-”
“And your humor is unmatchable to any other man,” Laurens continued, unfazed by Hamilton's interruption. “Your eyes are of the warmest nature, and your calloused fingers are oddly soft to the palm.”
“Laurens-”
Laurens grinned, his finger trailing down Hamilton's jaw gently. “It is not my fault, dear sir, that you're unquestionably beautiful.” their gazes met: one of pure curiosity, the other hazed over with something that Hamilton couldn't place, other than the alcohol. A loose silence filled the air until Laurens spoke again.
“I love you.” The words were accompanied with a foolish looking grin, and a brush of tainted breath hit his cheek.
Hamilton laughed lightly, carefully trying to balance himself under Laurens’ significantly heavier weight, whilst holding his partner up as well. “The feeling is mutually shared, dear friend,”
John stood on his own- not without rocking back slightly onto his heels- and his stare planted firmly onto Hamilton's face. Tracing the contour of his cheeks up to those (surprisingly endearing) bags under his eyes, a sure sign of the hard work he constantly poured into the war. Eyes trailed up to his hair, with strands hanging out in every direction, falling out of the ponytail he had put in at the beginning of the day. Laurens put his hands on both of Hamilton's shoulders to steady himself, as their eyes locked once more.
“No. Hamilton, I love you.”
Hamilton felt suddenly aware of the weight on his shoulders, and the unwarranted heat hidden behind his companion’s eyes. His cheeks began to burn, and he couldn’t help the brief moment in which his eyes flickered down over Laurens’ lips.
Something deep in the brush rustled, and Laurens let out a squeal, breaking the lull between them. It was only a moment before Laurens bent over, letting out the most obnoxiously loud laugh that Hamilton had ever heard. Yes, he giggled along, but to a much lesser degree; his mind was flooded with questions. Laurens is drunk, that’s all. He doesn’t mean it, of course. That’s outrageous, Hamilton.
“Shit, that scared me a lot,” Laurens managed to wheeze out between his fits of laughter. Without warning he shook himself up and managed to turn on his own, already stumbling back in the direction of their tent. Hamilton stood in his place, a small, tentative smile gracing his lips.
~~~~~~~~
Eventually, they both fumbled into their tent, Hamilton lighting a few candles on his makeshift desk. He sat down, pulling his hair free of the restraint and rummaging a few spare sheets of paper from underneath his cot. All day long, Washington had spent his time informing Hamilton of the desperate need to contact Congress on the matter of getting more supplies to their commanders, who were beginning to run dangerously low on ink, paper, and other communication essentials.
While Hamilton made himself comfortable, setting up to draft a letter, Laurens was sitting on the edge of his cot, fumbling with the buttons on his overcoat. It was taking a considerable amount of concentration for the man to take hold of the top button on his coat, and try, desperately failing, to undo the seemingly impossible apparatus. Feeling defeat wash over him, he let out a low grunt of anger, resolving to take his boots off instead.
“Laurens?”
Those bright green eyes flashed up, peering in the direction of Hamilton’s desk. He made a helpless squeak and threw his arms down in defeat. Hamilton grinned and gently placed his paper down onto the hard oak surface of his portable desk. With care in his steps, he gently kneeled down in front of Laurens, pulling each button on his coat apart, before sliding the fabric off of his shoulders.
Laurens looked in a dreamy daze as the fingertips of his closest friend grazed his shoulders through thin fabric. Hamilton’s eyes were… amiable, and Laurens felt his breath catch in his throat when they locked gazes. An indescribable heat pooled in his stomach, and then Hamilton stood, causing John to whine at the loss of the body heat so close to his own.
“Please, rest your head, dear Laurens.”
The drunken man nodded. Before he can process what he’s doing, John’s hands are on Alexander’s jacket. He’s holding onto the flaps firmly, seeming to stare at his throat. Alexander steadied himself with his hands on either side of John’s body, carefully watching the way his companion’s eyes drifted down his body. It almost felt… intrusive.
John pulled him forward, making room on the edge of his one person cot. Their faces were mere inches apart, and Alexander could feel John’s hot breath laced with alcohol dance across his lips. It was a subconscious movement: swift and slightly sloppy, when John presses his lips against Alexander’s. Hamilton doesn’t kiss back initially, the shock of the motion rendering his brain all but useful. He isn’t sure if he should kiss back, John being in the state that he was. The only motions he allow himself are the shutting of his eyes and a hand that gently reaches up to cup Laurens’ cheek softly.
It feels dangerous. It feels wrong. But it also feels right.
It’s a moment before John breaks the kiss, leaving Hamilton to mourn the loss. “You need to rest your sweet head, as well,” Laurens whispered, idly pushing the coat off of Alexander’s shoulders, similar to how Hamilton had done minutes prior.
“I’ve got writing that needs-”
John silenced him with a finger over his lips. Somehow, he manages to pull Alexander close to him, his chest pressing against the smaller man’s back. And yes, Alexander let it happen (with a slightest bit of resistance), had no objections to the feeling of Laurens’ strong arms holding him tightly; no objections to the feeling of his chest rising gently up and down against his back. Alexander had no objections at all.
~~~~~~~~
The first thing that Laurens knew when he woke up was that his head was absolutely pounding. A constant thump, thump, thump… wrung through his ears. He groaned, slowly opening his eyes while shielding the sun’s rays seeping through their tent.
“Well good morning to you too,” Hamilton’s voice carried through the air, startling the sleepy man.
He snapped his head in Hamilton’s direction, causing him to cringe in pain. “Shit…”
Hamilton didn’t look up; simply shook his head with a low chuckle. “Careful, Laurens, your assistance is still necessary to win this war.” The shorter man stood, looking at Laurens for the first time. He had his papers in his hand, ready to leave their tent. “I have matters to attend to with the General. I am sure I will be able to seek out your warm eyes soon enough, though.” He winked, and left.
Laurens rubbed his palms over his eyes, thinking that, surely, he had just imagined Alexander Hamilton winking at him. John was confused. Thoroughly confused to say the least. What was that supposed to mean?
Still, he began to slowly sit up, trying his best to control the pain that coursed through his entire body. That’s when he noticed his boots, thrown across the tent on the other end. And… his jacket? Heaped on the floor in front of his cot. “Are those my…” his eyes snapped open to attention. “Are those my trousers?” His face drained of all its’ color. God, what have I done? Did he..?
No. No, he couldn’t have. Hamilton would never have let him do anything like that, nor would Hamilton dare do anything to Laurens in that state of mind. He wouldn’t dare. Laurens slowly progressed out of bed, finally stretching his aching back. Perhaps Hamilton… that would explain why he winked in such a way. No, stop Laurens.
John pushed the remaining thoughts out of his mind and threw on the nearest (somewhat clean) shirt that he could find. The sun was easing into the sky, John knew it must have been close to their meal time.
~~~~~~~~
“Can you,” Laurens rubbed his temple tiredly. “Keep it down, Lafayette?”
“Vous êtes trop fatigué pour apprécier l'humour, je vois.” Lafayette cooed, a sly smile covering his lips. The major general felt and looked completely composed despite the events of their previous night, save for the few strands of hair sticking out in skewed directions around his face. Mulligan to his right, let out a hearty chuckle, smacking Laurens on the back. He cringed once again.
“Lafayette, do not speak in foreign tongue to me now, my mind is in no condition to translate.”
“It’s not his fault you can not handle the heat of a little alcohol, Laurens,” Mulligan commented, taking a bite out of his stale piece of bread that he and the two other men had picked up. They were allotted a small meal ration every day, not a lot, but enough for the men to be grateful. Each soldier (on a successful day, if rations allowed) was given a small amount of bread, as well as a bit of dried meat. Typically milk was given out in the early morning for the men to use throughout the day as they pleased. A quart of beer was distributed to each man, which most kept until the night hours; unless they were to splurge on special occasions (such as the day prior). For a slight tinge of green, they would be given a few stalks of green beans, or a similar variety.
That afternoon, Lafayette, Mulligan, and Laurens sat around a smothered campfire sight, eating a few scraps of meat and rice. Well, Laurens was attempting to do so, but found it more favorable to drink from his canteen quietly instead; for sake of containing the remainder of his headache.
Minutes passed, the only noise interrupting the silence being Mulligan or Lafayette making an unimportant joke, and Laurens responding to them with an impatient groan.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” a cheery voice greeted them, much to Laurens’ annoyance. Who on Earth could be so cheery at a time like this?
“Hamilton!”
Oh. That’s who.
“How are you all faring today?” In Hamilton’s hand was another stack of papers - the man never seemed to be without them in his possession.
“Mulligan and I are simply perfect!” Lafayette clasped his hands together. “Laurens on the other hand is… oh, how you say, sullen?”
Hamilton snickered, throwing his free arm lazily over Laurens’ shoulders, much to his surprise. The presence of his arm was warm, and blush immediately overtook his face. It felt intentional, the way Hamilton leaned into his side with such ease, the way his hand gently traced a circle on Laurens’ arm; the motion was gone much too soon, and it made the man long to feel that fleeting sensation once again.
No, Laurens! He mentally scolded himself. He’s a fellow soldier, leave those thoughts aside.
“Just a while longer, and the pain will be subdued,” it sounded like a promise, the way Hamilton had said it: solemn, slightly serious. The look he gave Laurens made his heart flutter with excitement. Their eyes were locked in an accidental gaze, and Hamilton smiled wishfully. “There they are,” his words came out in a whisper, only loud enough for Laurens to hear. His eyes widening at the comment, and Hamilton withdrew himself from his colleague’s side.
The young camp de aide made a mock bow in his comrades direction as he snatched a piece of bread from Laurens’ tin plate (something he would never dare do to any other soldier, not even Lafayette. And especially not Mulligan). “I must be off, gentlemen.”
With that, he sauntered away, likely in the direction of his own tent, likely to go off and write as though his life depended on it.
Laurens watched him leave, suppressing the urge to get up and follow him. Why? For no reason in particular other than to be in his presence again, to hear his laugh radiate through the air, to admire the way that his hair did as it wanted, hardly ever staying in the confines of the ponytail Alexander always kept it in.
Hamilton had left John wondering. Wondering what his words could possibly have meant. There they are. The phrase replayed itself in Laurens’ mind over and over again, along with the image of Alexander’s heated stare. He wasn’t looking at anything other than John’s own eyes, and surely he wasn’t trying to-
Oh. John covered his mouth, faintly hearing a muffled voice in his surroundings. Earlier in the day, before Hamilton initially left their tent.
I am sure I will be able to seek out your warm eyes soon enough, though.
Laurens stood up immediately, losing his plate off of his lap. It landed with a clash on the floor. He rushed out an apology to his two fellow soldiers and bent over to grab the tin, now covered in dirt. “I’ll be down by the creek, washing my things.” He left without a second glance back at the two puzzled men.
I am sure I will be able to seek out your warm eyes soon enough, though.
Laurens bent down, submerging his plate in the cool fresh water. The men had been blessed to have a camp so close to a creek like this; the beauty of it was only matched with the fortune that they could get their drinking water from the rocky shores.
John shook his head running his now wet fingers through his knotted hair. His mind was hard at work, trying to decipher what exactly happened the night before.
We celebrated the raid, yes. With shots and beer, glorious celebration of a job well done, Laurens began running through the night to himself in his head. Lafayette was there, Mulligan as well. Others were there, all enjoying in the same glory. Alexander must have come late into the night-he looked disheveled. We left soon thereafter if my memory serves me well.
Laurens placed his tin plate on the ground and switched over to his cup, submerging that in water as well.
We… well, obviously we made it back to the tent. Hamilton… was writing? Yes, that’s sounds correct. He went to his writing duties. I must have undressed, and… taken over by the intoxication, I must have discarded my clothing everywhere. That is why they were scattered in the morning. I must have gone to sleep shortly thereafter, as-
John stopped washing his cup, his eyes widening in despair.
My God. In my intoxicated haze I kissed my comrade.
“Dear Lord…” he dropped his cup into the creek, all the memories flooding back to him now. Alexander helping him to undress, John kissing him, their walk home, and the conversations that ensued.
John remembered the way he grabbed onto Alexander’s coat, silently praying that he would never have to let go. He remembered telling Hamilton in the dark that he lo-
“Son of a bitch!” John cursed aloud, hastily grabbing his utensils from the water and virtually sprinting in the direction of his tent.
He ripped open the tent flaps, hoping to find his companion bent over his desk, deep in thought, or perhaps resting on his cot. What he found was neither; he found an empty tent, and his stomach dropped.
“Drill!” A shrill whistle blew and John dropped his things on his own cot, not caring where they went. He had drill, and he had a major problem to resolve with Hamilton.
~~~~~~~
Hamilton is mad. That’s why he hasn’t arrived yet, he’s upset. I would too, if I had witnessed such appalling behavior. He had done everything wrong. He knew he did. John wouldn’t be surprised if Alexander asked Washington to assign him a different tent partner. Surely the General would do that for him, in the blink of an eye.
John sat on his cot, his hands covering his face.
“Congratulations, Laurens, you’ve really done it now.”
Drill had dragged on into the evening, and John had taken to eating in his tent for fear of finding Alexander around their comrades. Now that he fully remembered what he had done, Laurens wanted to apologize, but not in front of twenty other soldiers.
He waited, and waited, and waited. Until finally, late into the night, Alexander emerged through their tent flaps. He said nothing, sitting down quietly at his desk. John sat up slowly on his cot, much like he had done that morning, only without the ache in his body.
“Hamilton…”
“Oh!” Alexander jumped, accidentally sending his quill pen flying across the ground. “Laurens, I hadn’t realized you were awake.”
“Right,” Laurens got up to grab the discarded pen. “Hamilton, I want to sincerely apologize for my behavior last night. I should never have allowed myself to be overcome by alcohol in such a way. I’m uncertain of what I said to you completely, but it is in my best interest to apologize for all of that as well.”
Alexander stood up and looked to John, who kept rambling.
“I have become hyperaware, however, of the grave mistake I have made. I… was not able to control myself properly to prevent my own incompetence. Please, dear friend, do forgive my mistakes that I have made, I do promise-”
Laurens was cut off. Hamilton’s lips hushed his voice.
John Laurens felt his breath catch in his throat. There was this man, whom he admired so deeply, tipping his head up to kiss him. This kiss that he imagined for the longest time, this kiss that he only dreamed would come some day when life was different, when they weren’t braving the birth of a new country together, this kiss that was happening right then and there. It made him feel dizzy when he felt Hamilton’s hands against the back of his neck and on his shoulder.
Hamilton was the first to break the kiss, and they both stood in the other man’s embrace, their breath mixing together.
“John,” a warm grin covered Alexander’s face as he leaned his forehead against John’s. The sound of his name rolling off of Alexander’s tongue sent visible chills down his spine, and it’s a miracle that he didn’t collapse against the shorter man.
“Alexander,” John squeaked out, grabbing hold of Alexander’s wrists. He closed his eyes, still cherishing the warmth of his comrade.
“Look at me, John.”
John opened his eyes and was met with a lustful glare. Alexander grazed his lips over John’s once again, much lighter this time. He pulled away.
“You need not worry, my dearest, Laurens.” Another kiss. “We will speak of it another time. For now, rest,” And then he was gone, off to his desk, leaving Laurens to his own devices. John undressed as quickly as possible, his mind clouded. He laid in his own cot, a thin blanket rubbing at the bare skin on his legs. He itched for something, not physically, but mentally.
His mind and heart were racing at outrageous speeds, and it took him a considerable amount of time before he managed to drift into a light sleep, the only noise that filled his ears was the scratching of Alexander’s quill pen against parchment paper.
As soon as Alexander heard a faint snore from John’s direction, he smiled and placed his pen down next to the paper. His heart pounded in his chest with no remorse, his lips were still tingling with the sensation of his fellow soldier’s kiss. He knew what he had done, he knew the risks.
It was dangerous. It was wrong to other men. But it was also right to him.
He longed to feel that again, to feel the fleeting desire within John’s lips. To hear his name come off of his tongue again, filled with warmth and longing.
Alexander turned back in John’s direction, spotting the outline of his sleeping body in the dark. He sighed, seeing nothing but fanciful pictures float through his mind, and whispered a secret that he longed to reveal. A secret that he’s held in for a lengthy amount of time. It’s a secret that he now knows John reciprocates.
“I love you, too, John,”