Archive of Our Own ^beta

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After a particularly rough Cabinet Meeting, the rain hammered against the windows of Congress Hall, a relentless rhythm that matched the pounding in Alexander’s chest. Papers lay scattered across his desk, each one a battlefield in the war of words he fought daily with Thomas Jefferson. Tonight, the air was thick with more than just the storm outside—it was charged with the unspoken tension between two men whose visions for America could not be more different. Hamilton’s quill hovered over the parchment, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Struggling to focus on the sheet of paper in front of him, he relented to instead work on his new financial plan— thanks to Jefferson's adamant (and successful) attempts to convince Congress that it was 'unreliable'. His attention was diverted to the sound of thunder crackling in the distance that made him jump.

Has that much time gone by already? The sky was dark and looking over the building, like a heavy velvet curtain drawn over it. The air was eerily quiet and tense— save from the sound of rain tapping on the windows and the ever-so sudden clap of thunder that made him tense. Hamilton’s hands shook as he pressed them to his chest, struggling to draw a full breath. The walls of the office seemed to close in, the storm outside muffled by the pounding in his ears. His vision blurred at the edges, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

He barely noticed when someone knelt down beside him, "...deep breaths, Alexander. You're safe, it's going to be fine." He subtly recognized the voice, the familiar southern accent more soft than ever, never heard before by the smaller man. "Alexander? Are you with me?" Weird, when did he become Alexander to him? He felt a hand move hesitantly over his shoulder, a silent offer of comfort in the midst of his spiraling panic. The touch was gentle, grounding him, reminding him that he wasn’t alone in the dimly lit room, a silent reassurance that someone was there, steady and patient, waiting for him to find his breath again. "...xander, breathe with me."
He said taking deep, exaggerated breaths that Hamilton desperately tried to follow along with. Jefferson’s voice was low, barely more than a whisper, yet it provided a sense of companionship— maybe a hint of something else. Hamilton focused on the warmth of Jefferson’s palm, the steadiness of his presence. Slowly, shakily, he tried to match his breath to the gentle rhythm Jefferson set, each inhale and exhale a little easier than the last. "That's right, just like that." That had pulled him out of his transe. "Wait.. wait Jefferson? Fuck, please don't tell anyone! They'll think I'm unstable or that I'm weak, I might lose my job I might—"

"Hamilton."

"What?"

"You're rambling."

"Oh, well uhm.. I'm sorry? I just— please," Hamilton continued. "Calm down, I won't tell anyone. But seeing as you just had a panic attack over the storm, as the person who helped you I would like to know why?" Hamilton sat curled up in his office chair, his breath still uneven. He wiped at his face, refusing to look Jefferson in the eye. "You wouldn’t understand," he muttered, voice thick. Jefferson took a slow step forward, his usual smirk absent. "Try me," he said softly. "I might surprise you."
"Well uhm.. I grew up in a small town in the Caribbean called Nevis. As you can guess we were not well off. When I was ten, my father left me and my mom. Good riddance, I guess? He didn't do anything, just wasted my mothers savings and drove us into debt. He would also—" His voice cracked into small sobs. "You don't have to continue, it's alright you know—" Thomas tried to back track at the implication of what his father did to him. God, there were so many things he didn't know about Hamilton.

" No it's alright, you were bound to find out one way or another," he took a deep breath before continuing. "He left us and... uhm me and my mother we got sick. Like really sick. I managed to survive but my mother—she didn't... well, make it." Hamilton hesitated, his fingers tracing the arm of the chair.

"After that, I moved in with my cousin. It was a good couple of months— didn't last very long though, he hung himself.Committed suicide." His voice raw, stripped of his usual smugness. The words hung in the air.

Oh. Thomas was at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say? I'm sorry? Well, no shit! "Are you alright?" Of course not! "Hamilton, I'm- I didn't know—" He was cut off by Hamilton speaking. " 'S fine," He put a hand on the now, calmer man as a sign to let him continue.

"But that really fucked me up, you know? And when I was 17 a hurricane wrecked my town, flooded everything. There was one point where I was trapped under the rumble. I thought I was going to die. And to be honest, I was perfectly okay with that. I didn't think there was much to live for long before the disaster." He lifted the sleeve of his blazer to reveal a long trail of white lines and a few scabbed over.
"Alex..." The way Alexander looked at him reminded him of his own sister, she was only 15. He remembered every detail of the last conversation they had, even after all those years later. He hated the way he wanted to kiss it all away, to hold him while he broke down, he wanted to be the one that Alexander came to.

"-Well, it's been an on and off problem. I have it under control now, don't worry about (me, he wanted to say. But he would never long for him like he did for the other. ) it. I couldn't seem to die though, so I- well I basically wrote my way out. I wrote about the hurricane and how it affected me. And the town, they raised funds for me to send me aboard a ship headed for New York. And you know the rest, I met Burr, Laurens, Lafayette, Mulligan. I made a new life for myself." A rare vulnerability flickered in his expression. One he never let anyone see, Thomas thought. "But those memories... They don't disappear , I still have nightmares about it too. God, you must think I'm so pathetic right now... " Hamilton mumbled under his breath, probably thinking that the other man wouldn't have heard him.

"Hey, Hamilton, look at me." He said lifting up his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. Hamilton’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. His normally sharp gaze was clouded with uncertainty, his eyes scanning over Jefferson’s face searching for something—maybe reassurance, maybe just a reason to trust. "You aren't weak, and frankly, have never been. It takes someone strong to admit they’re hurting—to let someone else in, even for a second. Thank you, for letting that person be me."

By then, it was already the dead of night and the storm had completely stopped besides a light drizzle. The air filled with a soft and —maybe just maybe tender— intimacy, thick in unspoken words. Hoping that they could stay in the moment together, even if just a while longer. Eventually, Thomas had to break the silence,

“Do you mind if I stay a while longer?”

“I wouldn’t mind, actually. I'd really like that.”

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The office was buzzing with chatter, papers shuffling, and the occasional burst of laughter. Jefferson leaned against his desk, arms crossed, watching as Hamilton animatedly explained something to a small group of colleagues. His laughter echoing through the room.

When Hamilton threw his head back and laughed—a real, unguarded sound— Nothing like Jefferson had ever heard before in their bi-weekly debate sessions, he felt something stir inside him. Jefferson found himself watching that laugh more than ever. It was the second time this week he’d caught himself staring, and he wasn’t sure what to do with the warmth that spread in his chest. The way his eyes would wander just a second longer before he caught himself and looked away, the way Alexander had always seemed to notice but never brought it up. He noticed how the tension in the air between them was less tense and more full of— something new, something different. He hated how he wanted to lean into it, the feeling. To chase after it, that tingling feeling in his chest that he always had hated.

Jefferson shifted uncomfortably in his seat,eyes flicking up from his paperwork to where Hamilton stood across the room. Hamilton was laughing at something a coworker had said, probably a witted retort about Seabury or making fun of whatever Lee had brought up that day. He had noticed the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, a lightness to his posture that he usually kept guarded. For a moment, he thought— he wanted to be the reason why, hated how much he wanted to be the reason Hamilton—Alexander smiled like that. He hated how he kept getting drawn back to him, how he almost came close to reaching out or calling for the other.

He’s so beautiful, Jefferson thought to himself, clearly not realizing his fondness for Alexander and how his gaze had lingered far too long. The way the lighting had captured the sharp angles of the other's face, the way his lips parted slightly as he concentrated on the parchment— He felt a pull in his chest something hungry and relentless. He tried to pull his focus from him, to work on the papers in front of him, but his focus kept drifting back. What would it be like, he wondered, to reach out and brush a stray curl from Hamilton’s forehead? To feel the warmth of his skin under his fingertips?

Jefferson swallowed hard, his pulse racing. He wondered if Hamilton could feel the invisible string—getting impossibly tighter every day— too or if it was just the works of his mind. But then Hamilton looked away, a shadow crossing his face as he turned back to his work. The moment shattered, leaving Jefferson with nothing but the echo of what might have been and the ache of wanting something he couldn’t—or shouldn’t—have. He forced himself to focus on his own papers, but the image of Hamilton’s eyes lingered in his mind, a reminder of everything he couldn’t reach for. The room felt colder now, the distance between them wider than ever, and Jefferson hated himself a little for hoping, maybe even longing for something he could never have.

Across the room, Hamilton let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He could feel Jefferson’s gaze like a touch, and it sent a shiver down his spine—equal parts thrilling and terrifying. He wanted to look back, to meet those eyes and see if there was something real there. But he didn’t dare. Not when every glance felt like a risk, and every moment of silence between them held too many things left unsaid.

And yet, when Jefferson finally stood and walked toward the door, Hamilton found himself looking up, their eyes meeting for a heartbeat longer than before. Neither smiled, but something unspoken passed between them—a question, an answer, a promise of what might come next.

Chapter Text

Alexander Hamilton never believed in fate, but he was starting to think the universe had it out for him.

It had happened so quickly—one moment he was striding across the marble steps of the Capitol, arms full of papers and mind racing with numbers, the next he was sprawled on the ground, pain shooting up his right arm. The world spun, voices blurred, and someone—Jefferson, of all people—was suddenly there, kneeling beside him, concern flickering in those infuriatingly soft brown eyes.

“Oh shut up, you're the last person I want to see right now.” Alexander muttered through gritted teeth.

Thomas ignored the jab at him, his hands surprisingly gentle as he checked the angle of Alex’s arm. “And yet, here I am. Try not to pass out on me, Hamilton.” They’d gotten him patched up, but the break was clean and cruel. The doctor’s instructions were clear: rest, no writing, no work.

Hamilton, of course, had other plans, said plans involving using his right arm instead.
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The next morning, Thomas found him at his desk, left hand scribbling furiously, papers scattered like fallen soldiers. The morning sunlight spilled across the desk, illuminating the chaos of ink-stained papers and half-drunk cups of coffee. Dust motes danced in the air, settling on the edge of Alexander’s sleeve as he hunched over his work, determined to ignore the pain shooting up his right arm—his dominant arm, the one he trusted for every signature, every argument, every desperate letter. Even if he could write with his left, it didn't make the pain in his right any better.

“Unbelievable,” Thomas drawled, arms crossed. “You’re going to undo everything the doctor did, you know.” Alex scoffed at that, “If you paid attention to which arm I was using, you would see I'm writing with my left arm. Because, if you haven't noticed, I'm ambidextrous.” He said without looking up from the new sheet of paper he had just taken from the pile. “You’re impossible,” Thomas sighed, moving closer, a hint of something softer beneath his exasperation. “And you’re going to need help, whether you like it or not.”

“You think I want to be here, Hamilton?” Thomas’s voice was softer than Alex expected. “I could be anywhere else. But I’m not.”

“You could leave,” Alex shot back, the words sharper than intended. “No one’s stopping you.”

Thomas didn’t move. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

“It's-its— nevermind.” Alex finally glanced at him, defiance flickering in his tired eyes. “I don’t need your pity.” Thomas leaned in, lowering his voice. “It’s not pity, Hamilton. Just… let me help. For once, let someone help you.” Alex’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, the only sound was the scratch of his pen. “I don’t need help. I never have. Don't…don't try and tell me anyone can— they can't.” He hated how easily his mask slipped in front of Jefferson. He hated even more that it was Jefferson who saw through it.

Thomas’s gaze softened, the usual sharpness in his eyes replaced by something gentler. “Are you willing to let me try? You have to stop pushing yourself, you know. ”

Alex’s hand stilled, fingers trembling just slightly. “If I stop, everything that I built—everything that I worked so hard for falls apart. I can’t risk that.”

Thomas knelt beside the desk, his voice barely above a whisper. “You won’t fall apart if you rest. The world won’t end if you let someone else share the weight, even if just for a moment, Alexander.”

Alex looked away, blinking hard. “I'm- I —I don’t know how.”

“Just… let me try, Lex. Please.”

Alexander’s mind raced as he clutched the pen, knuckles white. The ache in his arm was nothing compared to the gnawing dread in his chest. He’d built his life on self-sufficiency, on never letting anyone see him falter. To need Thomas Jefferson—his rival, of all people—felt like a defeat—a resignation he couldn’t put into words.

Thomas reached out, his hand hovering uncertainly before settling on Alex’s uninjured arm. “Then let me show you. Just… let me be here. For you.”

He remembered childhood nights spent alone by candlelight, scribbling essays with frozen fingers, the world indifferent to his struggle. Needing help had always meant disappointment.

For a long moment, Alex didn’t move. Then, with a shaky breath, he let the pen fall from his fingers. “Fine,” he whispered, voice raw. “Just for a minute.”

Thomas smiled, relief and something deeper flickering across his face. “That’s all I ask.”

Thomas’s fingers brushed against his as he gathered the scattered sheets, lingering just long enough for Alex to notice. The contact sent a jolt through him, unfamiliar and unsettling.

He pulled a chair closer, settling in beside Alex, close enough that their shoulders brushed. For the first time in days, the tension in Alex’s frame eased—just a little—as his shoulders, hunched and rigid for days, finally sagged. He exhaled, the breath shaky, as if he’d been holding it for years. Thomas quietly began sorting the scattered papers, his steady presence a silent promise that Alex didn’t have to do this alone.

“Don't do anything stupid when I'm gone, I'm going to get you something to drink. Alright?”

“As if I'm capable of doing anything else,” he teased. Thomas let out a small chuckle before disappearing into the kitchen, returning with a mug of tea. He set it beside Alex, the steam curling between them. “Drink,” he said simply. Alex hesitated, then begrudgingly accepted the drink when Thomas wouldn't stop glaring at him otherwise. The tea smelled faintly of citrus and honey, its warmth seeping into Alex’s chilled fingers.

The atmosphere in the room was comforting, if not a bit unsettling—it was them after all. They left it alone for a few quiet moments before Thomas eventually cut the silence when Hamilton tried to reach for the quill again.
“You’re not the only one who’s afraid to let go,” Thomas admitted, voice low. “But sometimes, you have to trust that someone will catch you.”
For the first time in days, Alexander allowed himself to lean back, to let the warmth of Thomas’s presence fill the silence. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, he didn’t have to do it all alone.

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so basically my younger sister and older sister are really pissy so they took my phone!
all my works are on my google doc which i am syncing rn im using my school-issued device and they blocked ao3 thankfully my co-creater, eggsuma , showed me this site which syncs up to my ao3 and is not blocked (yippie!) so im just like doom scrolling yt while i add my personal acc to google docs, sorry for the long wait! this will still be continued fyi its the last week of the holidays though and i have NOT started on any work hopefully i get add on at least one more chap til the weeks ends.

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Omg hey :)

Beta reader Egg here, and i formally apologise that this is not a new chapter, as you know we’ve not been updating this fic for about 2-3 months now, apologies. But there have been new chapters in the works!

We have not been updating for long since the unfortunate Archive of Our Own curse has been bestowed upon our beloved rays_yaru... she has been sick for who knows how long and from what, but i assure you she will be back on her feet soon! We (I) have been worried sick about her and We are unsure when she will be able to return.

i am unable to write a chapter as a “so sorry to keep you waiting” gift as i am not much of a hamilton / jamilton stan like rays but once we’re reunited and she is back on her own two feet i can confirm we will work at our hardest to get you a new update!

wishing you well,

eggsuma

get well soon rays <3