Chapter Text
John Guerra didn’t tend to pay much attention in history class. Who really cared about a bunch of dead, straight, white guys? Especially junior year, when all the tests were multiple choice and their teacher didn’t seem to care so much about making sure they all passed the AP exam (John and his friends had been studying on their own) as he did going off on tangents about seemingly random topics relating to said dead, straight, white guys. Given all that, John had taken to alternating between drawing in his sketchbook and texting his best friends, Pierre and Frank. Because of this, he only caught the last word or so of his teacher’s sentence- “der Hamilton.”
Hamilton? Why did that name sound familiar? For the first time in forty minutes, he set down his sketchbook (which conveniently doubled as a cell phone hiding barrier) and listened to his teacher. Who had, of course, now moved on to a rant against Jefferson. Granted, John agreed that the guy had sucked, but now that meant he had to find out about this Hamilton guy himself. Namely, why the name made his stomach feel all fluttery.
Group Message: Frank<3 & Pierre
John: u guys know abt alexander hamilton?
John: name sounds familiar but i didnt do the reading
Frank <3: nope.
Frank <3: babe you lit have a computer w u right now
Frank <3: google him
Pierre: This should be good. Let me know when it clicks, nerd.
John frowned. Pierre was the only one of his admittedly small friend group that had had his revelation yet. Revelations tended to happen when something reminded you of your last life (generally the only one that ever yielded clear memories). Pierre’s had been last year, during a lesson in his world history class. He hadn’t ever mentioned who or what had triggered it but given how moony eyed he got for about a week afterwards, it wasn’t too hard to guess.
You were a gay white guy who was literally the personification of that stupid cinnamon roll meme. That’s all I’m saying.
He sighed. Pierre still refused to tell him anything more, despite relentless pestering. He knew being told directly rarely actually helped, but he still wanted to know.
Alright, Hamilton. He set his sketchbook back into phone hiding position. What did Wikipedia have to say about random straight dead white guy number 87?
Fifteen minutes later, and John still didn’t have an answer to his question. A couple of names had sounded familiar but nothing in the article had jumped out at him. The bell rang for lunch with John still wondering about the part of his brain complaining that the picture hadn’t shown his freckles and why would they do that?
He was so lost in these thoughts concerning a founding father’s freckles that it took his boyfriend literally dragging him into a kiss before he realized that he had just been standing outside of his classroom for who knew how long. He responded briefly before pulling back and lacing his fingers through Franks’.
“So, figure anythin’ out about what’s-his-face?” Frank asked, his Southern drawl still strong even after five years in New York.
“Alexander,” John responded immediately before making a face. “And apparently I was on a first name basis with the guy who founded… well, a bunch of stuff, I guess.”
“Huh,” was all Frank said as they started making their way to the cafeteria. “No names were familiar or anythin’? Or faces, maybe?”
“They left out his freckles. He was much cuter with them.”
His boyfriend stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Did you just call a founding father cute? I don’t think you’re allowed to do that. Pierre, tell him he can’t do that.”
Their friend had joined them just as they passed into the cafeteria. He rolled his eyes at them both before giving John a sly look. “John called Hamilton plenty of things that were much worse than ‘cute’. Trust me, this is a downgrade.” They all sat at their usual table, John shaking his head slightly in an effort to dislodge the sudden flurry of ‘dear boy’s and ‘beloved’s and ‘darling’s that were racing through his mind along with a lot of much cruder French. He groaned and dropped his head to the table.
Frank’s hand rubbed gentle circles between his shoulder blades as Pierre let out a long-suffering sigh and held out his hand. “Phone, dumbass.”
John handed it over, the green turtle case bright against Pierre’s pale skin. “See, now I’m almost scared to find out,” he said, watching as Pierre apparently searched for something.
“Yeah,” he responded distractedly, eyes flicking over the screen. “You’ll be fine. Gonna warn you now though- you’re gonna deal with a shit ton of bad memories.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He handed John’s phone back over. “Here, if that doesn’t trigger something nothing will.”
“Founders online,” he read aloud, making sure to sound as overly dramatic as possible and making Frank laugh, though Pierre just watched him. “From Dead White Guy #1 to Lieutenant Colonel Dead White Guy #2, April 1779. Jesus, that long ago?” He skimmed through the information on the sides before jumping back to the beginning of the letter. “Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by actions rather than words, to convince you… that… I love you.” He very distantly felt the phone fall to the table as his fingers went slack.
Alexander . The fluttery feeling from earlier returned, about a thousand times stronger. A sudden rush of images of red curls, violet eyes and a brilliant smile. God, getting shot had hurt less than this. Laughter and shouts and tender whispers and soft sighs.
Just promise me you will come back, John.
He bolted from the table, barely registering Frank’s voice behind him.
Just promise you won’t leave me, John.
He barely made it into the bathroom before puking. He heaved, shaking and sobbing as the memories kept flooding into his mind. His father, his mother, his siblings, Jemmy, oh God , Jemmy.
The feeling of the bullet tearing through his flesh. The sense of fulfillment that was now making him want to throw up again even though there was nothing left to come up. The faint regret as he realized he would never see Alexander again, just before everything faded for the last time.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, knees to his chest against the wall, silently crying. He sniffled as a hand rested gently on his shoulder and glanced up to see Pierre silently handing him a few tissues. “Thanks, Pierre.”
His friend settled down next to him, apparently willing to ride out John’s emotions. “Take your time, mon ami . I can’t imagine anything pleasant is coming back right now.”
“I promised him I’d come back, P.”
There was a pause. “Hamilton?” After John nodded, he continued. “I had wondered but I’ll admit I wasn’t sure until I had read the letters. Quite the romantic, wasn’t he?”
John laughed half-heartedly. “I left him. I promised I’d come back and then I abandoned him.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “I can’t do anything right.”
Pierre grabbed his shoulder again, rougher this time, not letting go until John met his eyes. “The guy wrote you about a million pages worth of love letters, John. I think he’ll forgive you.”
At that, John laughed for real, wiping his eyes and sitting up straighter. “He really didn’t know when to stop. I was so scared we’d be caught, and he just poured his heart out. Those letters were the only things that kept me going most days.” He rubbed his shoulder idly, confused for a split second as to why it didn’t ache.
Pierre didn’t say anything. John turned to find him smiling sadly. “You suicidal idiot .” He elbowed him lightly.
John grinned, then groaned. “Goddammit, now I miss him. How the hell am I supposed to find that little jerk?”
Pierre tilted his head thoughtfully. “Grindr, maybe?”
John started to laugh, except- “You know, that actually might work? That, or look for someone ranting for 90 tweets on the same subject.”
Pierre chuckled. “He would, wouldn’t he?” He frowned at John. “What are you going to tell Frank?”
“Shit.”
“Hadn’t thought about that yet, huh?”
“I’ve been a little busy having a minor emotional breakdown, thank you.” They started walking back to the cafeteria. “Well, I can’t say it’s because he’s a loyalist this time. But… it’s really not fair to him. I love Alexander.” He sighed. “I guess the truth usually works, right?”
“Theoretically. Though, I would recommend that you lead in with something other than ‘I’m breaking up with you because I’m madly in love with the guy on the ten dollar bill.’”
“Ha ha.” It was hard, though, to match up that image with his memories of Alexander. It just felt… wrong. “I really do wonder what he’s up to, though.”
Pierre shrugged. “Eh, I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. It’s only a matter of time before you two hotheads run into each other again.”
“I hope you’re right.” I’ll see you soon, dear boy.