Work Text:
Alexander prided himself in his ability to understand men.
Not just in battle or politics — though he excelled there, too — but in the quiet games of conversation, in the unspoken languages of glances and gestures. He knew when a man was bluffing, when he was bored, when he was hiding something. He could tell when someone wanted to be challenged, or charmed, or ruined.
Until he met John Laurens. The most insufferable, stuck up, infuriating, gorgeous, blond, blue eyed southern gentlemen he had ever laid his eyes on. And Alexander Hamilton wanted him so badly. But Laurens never got the hint.
He tried everything. Subtle at first: lingering glances, small compliments, shared books with notes scribbled in the margins just a little too personal to be casual. He made jokes, leaned in closer than necessary, tested how far he could push. He gave John the very best of his mind, his sharp wit, clever writing, the kind of banter that had drawn men and women alike to his bed.
And nothing.
Laurens would simply blink at him, distracted, and then pivot the conversation to military strategy, or a new pamphlet he’d read, or just nature. If Alexander so much as brushed their hands together, Laurens would apologize as though he’d stepped on his boot. The man could fight and put a british soldier on the floor in seconds, but flirt with him a little and he melted into awkwardness like a schoolboy.
Alexander had started to think John was avoiding the implications on purpose. Maybe he was too proud, or too noble, or too afraid. Maybe — and that hurt the most — he didn’t feel the same way. Or maybe John just really didn’t understand.
It drove Alexander mad.
Because when John smiled, really smiled, it was like catching sunlight through clouds on a gray day. And when he laughed, genuine laughed, Alexander felt it in his chest like music. He could talk to John for hours. He trusted him. He liked him. He wanted him. And still, no matter what he did, it was like tossing pebbles into the ocean, hoping for a wave.
Alexander, usually so confident, found himself second-guessing everything. Was he being too forward? Too subtle? Too improper? Too loud? He hated that feeling. Hated that John made him doubt. And yet, he couldn’t stop.
Because every time John stood a little too close, or bit his lip while thinking, or looked at him like he was the only person in the room, Alexander fell even more in love with him.
It got to a point where he vented his frustrations to the person he trusted the most on camp: Richard Kidder Meade.
He entered Meade and Tilghman’s shared room, the latter not there and jumped next to Meade on his bed as he talked. For a good thirty minutes.
Meade snorted at the end of his speech, trying to cover it with a cough. “Perhaps he is shy.”
“No. No, it’s worse than that.” Alexander gestured dramatically. “I flirt, I wink, he stares at the ceiling. I compliment him, and he nods like I’ve just told him his shoes are adequate. I told him he smelled like rosewood, and he said, ‘Yes, that’s my pomade.’ My pomade, Kidder.”
Meade was shaking with quiet laughter now. “Good heavens, it sounds tragic.”
“It is tragic! I’ve never worked this hard for someone to not notice me.” Alexander collapsed with a groan, letting his head fall on Meade’s lap. “I am starting to think he is just not interested in me.”
“Yes, and it’s unimaginable for a man to not be interested in you, right, sir?” he asked, full of irony. “Are you sure he is not reciprocating?”
“If he was, I’d be in his bed, not yours.”
“Spare me the details, you depraved man.” Meade pushed him slightly. “I only ask because he seems... different lately. And you know John is not the type of man to go straight into anyone’s bed.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed his face in frustration.
“What do you mean different?’
“Just... I don’t know how to explain. More disoriented? More careful? He is spending twenty extra minutes on his hair than usual. He’s curling his hair and everything. He didn't used to do this before.”
Alexander considered it. It was true that John was being more attentive with his hair, doing more complicated hairstyles, but he had not thought much about that. John was a rich southern gentleman, who spend years of his life on Europe. That seemed to be his nature.
“And what do I have to do with this?”
Meade let his head fall, grinning.
“Really? You have no idea why he could be caring more about his appearance?”
“He always cared. It took me a whole month to see his actual hair color and three more to see his hair down. He is always proper, annoyingly so.”
“Well, I say he is even more aristocratic now.” Meade shrugged. “Just... try to pay attention. Maybe the signs are not the obvious ones you'd expect, but they are there.”
The first sign was a feather.
John had found it outside camp, during one of his long, aimless walks that always ended in Hamilton’s tent. He brought it in like a gift, held delicately between two fingers, the pattern brown with white splattered dots, and set it down beside Hamilton’s ink pot.
“For you,” Laurens said, smiling faintly. “It reminded me of something sharp. And clever. I am pretty sure it was from an owl.”
Alexander blinked. “It’s a feather.”
“Exactly,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Sorry, it’s just that you go through quills unlike anyone I ever saw, so I thought you might care for a new one.”
Hamilton tightened his lips to avoid a smile. That was a gift, right? It meant something. He did not remember ever seeing Laurens give feathers, or well, anything to the other aides.
“Well, it's so beautiful I almost don’t want to write with it.” He twirled the pen in his hand, then passed it across his jawline, slowly, trying to get John’s attention to his face. “You are aware I'd have to strip off the barbs on this, right?”
“It's alright, I can get you more,” he said, with a smile bigger than what Alexander had seen from him before.
Then there was the small sprig of rosemary.
Hamilton was reading, sat on an armchair with his weight under his crossed leg, when Harrison called his name.
“Do you have an old letter or something that I can put to mark the pages on this book?” he asked Harrison, not wanting to twist the corner or damage his copy.
John almost jumped from his own chair after hearing this. He offered Alexander the sprig like a pagan leaving an offering on the altar. There was an excitement in his expression, like he had just been waiting for that moment.
“You can use this. I found it. You can have it. It’s very symmetrical, quite rare.”
“... Thank you?”
Alexander laughed to himself, putting the sprig between the pages and leaving his book on the table before going out to meet with Harrison, leaving John with a very much “proud of himself” smile on his face.
After that, there was a small, weirdly round and shiny rock which John placed silently on Hamilton’s desk before leaving without explanation. He kept it of course, because it came from Laurens, but he did not know what to do with it beside keeping it at his bedside. Or perhaps using it as the occasional paperweight.
Lastly, on that odd list of small gifts, there were the flowers. Alexander liked them the most, for they were easier to understand. Flowers were romantic.
He never gave him the same one twice. He chose flowers he found on the ground, mostly. Poppies, dogwood, lilies, daffodils, azaleas and begonias. He'd explain their name, along with their time of bloom and Alexander would listen, as he would listen to anything John said.
But he needed a place for them. He had half a dozen of them when he started to wonder what to do with it. His eyes darted to an old bound of the Odyssey he had. And an idea hit him, at least for the flowers.
The next time John had an offering for him, he would have one back.
The second sign was the waistcoat.
It was impossible not to notice the waistcoat, because it was the first thing Meade called attention to when John Laurens joined the other aides that morning.
“I do not recall a ball in our recent calendar.”
“That’s because there isn’t one,” Hamilton answered, not looking at them yet.
“Then, pray tell, why is Laurens wearing that disgustingly dandy vest?”
John came to an abrupt halt mid-step, as though the words had caught him in the chest. His face flushed a violent red that crept up to the tips of his ears.
“Since when does one need a reason to dress respectably?” he replied stiffly, chin lifted, though his fingers fidgeted with the edge of the waistcoat, betraying his discomfort.
The waistcoat was really beautiful. It was light blue, with embroidery made of golden thread, and even little patterns on the buttons. Alexander had never even seen Laurens wearing something like that. But he couldn’t say he did not enjoy it. It fitted him perfectly, as if it was tailored right on his body and it called attention to all his best features.
John turned his gaze sheepishly to the side as he explained, “I simply asked my father for some new tailored clothes and wished to wear them.”
“For no reason?” Meade smirked, slinking around behind Laurens like a cat circling a bird. “Or, better yet, for no one?”
Laurens stiffened as Meade laid both hands upon his shoulders, teasing fingers drumming lightly against the rich blue silk.
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing...” He made Laurens turn to Hamilton’s direction. “You do look nice. Doesn’t he look nice, Alexander?”
Alexander got closer and pulled John away from Meade’s prying hands.
“Stop it, Kidder.”
Meade raised both hands in mock surrender, his smirk fading just enough to show he understood the warning.
Alexander turned to John again, his voice low, warmer now. He gestured for the free chair at his side. “Don’t let him get to you, John. You are beautiful, with or without fine clothing.”
His blush didn’t go away as he lined up his waistcoat, looking to the wooden floors as if he might find a hiding place between the cracks.
“Thank you...”
The third sign was territoriality.
And that was when Alexander really started to consider that something was wrong.
Benjamin Tallmadge was not an unusual site at the aide-in-camp headquarters. He was George Washington’s head of intelligence work and could be frequently seen in and out. Alexander, given his role as Washington’s most trusted, was also the only aide who somewhat knew about his dealings with the Culper ring and often sat during those reunions.
Benjamin Tallmadge also was, to be blunt, very handsome. He had strong features, an agreeable face and blue eyes who reminded Alexander of John. He was tall, strong and, if Hamilton was to be sincere, he certainly did not mind having Major Tallmadge around.
And John had noticed his partiality.
One afternoon, Hamilton invited both men to translate a stack of letters. Usually, he and Laurens would work alone, but given the quantity of the letters, he thought to ask Tallmadge for help. Laurens did not appreciate it.
“Why him?” he asked. “Lafayette could help us.”
“Lafayette is busy. And, frankly, he could use some training on his spelling.”
Laurens crossed his arms like a disagreeable child. “Major Tallmadge is not an aide. Doesn’t he have his own work to attend to?”
“I am sure that if he did, he would not have accepted my invite.”
“Of course. He ought to know better.”
Tallmadge arrived quickly and Laurens paid him a respectful nod, but remained quiet. That is, until Tallmadge made some comment about his letter, and Hamilton laughed, briefly, genuinely.
That was when John slid the stack of papers off the table with a purposeful sweep of his hand, scattering them like feathers caught in a sudden wind.
"Apologies," he said curtly, already kneeling to gather them. "I must’ve gotten... distracted."
Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. Tallmadge, ever the gentleman, knelt to help him, but Laurens was quicker, scooping the papers from the officer’s hands with a forced, lopsided smile.
“Really,” he said, “I’ve got it.”
When he sat back again, he straightened his posture and puffed his chest out, seemingly bigger than he was. Suddenly, the few inches he had over Tallmadge seemed much more.
Benjamin glanced between them, then cleared his throat. “Well, I should leave you both to finish this. General Washington might hang me if I’m late again.”
“You wouldn’t want that,” John said without looking up.
Hamilton blinked. Was he imagining that or was John actually... Jealous?
As if to answer his question, on that night he found a new feather on his bed.
And then there was the sparring.
John always preferred to train alone, but now, he made sure to train his swordsmanship whenever Hamilton was around. He took off his coat slowly, almost like a performance, and started moving. It was a beautiful sighting and Hamilton had to admit it did work to get his attention, but part of him wanted to assure John there was no need for that.
One day it got worse, because Hamilton and Tallmadge walked together when they found Laurens. Hamilton tried to guide him to keep walking, but Laurens had already seen them. Not only that, he called them.
“Major, can you spare me five minutes?”
Benjamin looked at Hamilton who made a discreet “no” movement with his head. Benjamin ignored him.
“Yeah, why not?”
He took off his coat and unsheathed his sword, getting to a starting position. Hamilton sighed. That could only end badly.
Laurens smiled and announced the beginning of the duel. His movements were sharper, more theatrical, a masked display of dominance. He wasn’t just fencing. He was performing.
They circled one another, parried and lunged, but there was a rhythm beneath it, a call and response. Each man struck not just at the other’s blade but at the air between them, trying to fill the space, own it. John’s footwork grew bolder, sweeping sideways in arcs that threw the coattails of his uniform like a fan. Benjamin met him with elegant control, his back always straight, every deflection like the flick of a tail feather.
Laurens feinted right, then stepped in with a full sweep, disarming Tallmadge with a flourish that sent the sword clattering into the dirt. The movement was excessive, triumphant, the finish to a play rather than a bout and then he looked straight at Hamilton.
“Well fought,” said Benjamin, wiping his hand on his trousers as he got up.
“Yeah, you too.” He gulped, still staring at Hamilton as if there was nothing but them.
Alexander felt his face get hotter, his heart racing.
He’d never wanted to be possessed by anyone. Never wanted to be someone’s belonging. His life had been too full of men who tried to own him, merchants, masters, generals, even the very idea of Providence itself. He’d clawed his way free of all of them, broken every chain, and built himself on his own terms.
And yet...the way Laurens had looked at him that afternoon, after he'd disarmed Tallmadge with a theatrical sweep of his blade, the fact that he'd fought for him, it had affected Alexander. It was as if he had claimed him, as if he had made everyone known that Alexander was his. And Hamilton had liked it. God help him, he’d loved it.
And that scared him.
There was no more pretending that something was not happening. Even though he had not yet given a name for said something.
He stared at the growing pile of beautiful, useless offerings left on his desk. Each one chosen with the care of a collector. Each one left by John.
He thought back to the books Laurens used to read in his spare time, natural histories, diagrams of birds, long passages about migration and mating and nests. Alexander had always assumed it was some childhood fancy, something left over from gentler days in Charleston.
But now?
Now he wasn’t so sure.
“You have that dangerous look in your eyes, mon ami.” He heard the familiar French accent of Lafayette. “That one you get when you’re thinking compulsively.”
Hamilton let his head fall on top of the stack of papers in his desk.
“I can’t understand Laurens. He acts oblivious to my advances, but then it’s not like he treats me the same as the others. Sometimes he makes me feel as if he feels the same, but then when I give him an opportunity to act on it, he doesn’t.”
Lafayette pulled a chair so he could sit in front of Hamilton, staring at him while leaning on his hand. “Perhaps that is his way of showing reciprocation.”
Alexander gave him a blank look. “Is it now?”
Lafayette grinned. “I am serious. Observe him. He hovers near you like a hawk over prey. He puffs his chest when another man walks into the room. He circles you when you’re talking to someone else. He gives those passionate speeches about liberty like the singing of a canary.”
Alexander stared at the ceiling in disbelief. “You’re saying I’m being… courted. Like a bluejay.”
“Like a very confused, very earnest and peculiar bluejay,” Lafayette said, laughing again. “You may need to chirp back more obviously.”
Alexander groaned and covered his face with his arm. “This is absurd. He should just say something. Why can’t he just say something?”
Lafayette offered him a gentle tapping on his shoulder as comfort. “Not all of us have the gift of endless words, mon ami.”
God, he was really mirroring birds' patterns, wasn’t he? The thought should have made him laugh, but instead, it warmed him like good food in difficult winter day. John, in his quiet, roundabout way, was saying something Alexander had yearned to hear.
“Thank you,” he said, already backing away. “I have to go... observe.”
“Observe?”
“The rituals, Lafayette!” Alexander called as he went outside, excited. “I must learn his language!”
John Laurens was sitting beneath a willow tree near the edge of camp, where the shadows hung low and the world felt softer, quieter. Alexander watched him from afar before letting him notice his presence. Even though Laurens felt so comfortable and calm, he almost did not want to bother him.
“May I join you, friend?”
Laurens looked up from his drawing and smiled.
“Yes.” He quickly made space so that Hamilton could sit at his side. “Please.”
He let them sit in silence for a while. John was focused on painting the yellow flowers on the tree in front of them, only occasionally shooting glances at Hamilton, whenever he though the other wasn’t looking. Alexander was whittling a twig, more to keep his restless hands busy than to create anything.
“I’ve been observing you, John.”
Laurens almost choked. “You? Me? Why?”
Hamilton laughed at that monosyllabic mess of a sentence.
“I’m not blind, John. And I’m not indifferent.” His voice was softer now. “It took me a while to understand, but I see it now. I see you.”
John raised his eyes to meet his. This time, fully, openly, no longer avoiding the look. He looked back to his painting and extended it to Hamilton. “I wanted you to have this.”
Hamilton carefully took the painting and let it in place where it could dry, Then, he smiled as he discreetly grabbed something special, he had brought with him.
“I got you something too. You are always giving me gifts and, well, you mentioned you missed your copy of the Odyssey that you left on South Carolina, and I already read mine, so...”
He gave him the book, his hands shaking slightly. John touched it with so much softness, as if he was carrying a fragile and precious thing. His hand went to the pages and Hamilton watched the exact moment when he realized it wasn’t just the book.
He stopped turning the pages and delicately traced them with his fingers.
“Are these...”
“The flowers you gave me? Yes, all of them.” Hamilton turned to another page, showing that there were other dried flowers in there. “That way, they will be preserved forever.”
“Alex...” John closed it carefully, putting the book next to his heart. “That is beautiful.”
“You deserve something beautiful, dear.” Alexander smiled faintly. “If this whole time you truly were attempting to court me like a bluejay wanting to be chosen, then I chose you. And I thought perhaps… If I answered in kind, you’d understand that.”
John was stunned into silence, his fingers tightening around the grass in a nervous way. Then, without a word, he closed the space between them. It was soft, impulsive but hesitant. Alexander, who felt as if he was waiting for this his entire life, reciprocated immediately. John’s lips felt delicate against his, in contrast to the rapid way his heart was beating.
Hamilton didn’t realize who pushed away first. It felt quick, too quick. That moment should last forever, and he cursed the world that did not stop spinning for their first kiss.
He hated silence, but he did not hate the silence that came after the kiss, after Alexander held John’s hand and in turn John twisted a lock from his ginger hair. Laurens looked so entailed, so amazed, and the way his blue eyes stared at him made Alexander wonder how could he have any doubts about his feelings.
Then John spoke, voice low.
“I don’t think I’m built the right way for people.”
Alexander moved closer to him, their legs touching now. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” John sighed, letting Alexander’s face go and turning his gaze down. “I don’t always understand people. Their words. Their expectations. I misstep. I go quiet when I should speak, and I speak when I shouldn’t. It’s why I read, why I draw, why I watch birds. They’re easier.”
Alexander tilted his head slightly. “Easier?”
John gave a small, shy smile. “They make sense. They have rituals, gestures. If a bird sings, it’s to be heard. If it dances, it wants to be seen. If it brings food, it wants to be chosen. They’re not subtle. And I guess I started thinking that was safer.”
Alexander leaned forward a little, watching him more closely now. Two or three inches and they might as well be kissing again, which made Laurens flushed, even if he tried to hide it.
“I didn’t plan it, you know? It’s not like I woke up and decided to behave like a bloody peacock. It’s just that when I’m near you, Alex, everything gets louder inside me, everything feels more... Intense. I didn’t know how else to show it. So I acted on what I knew. Instinctively.”
Alexander stared for a moment, heart beating a little too fast. Then, he reached over, placing his hand gently over John’s.
“You’re not built wrong,” he said quietly. “You’re just speaking a language I hadn’t learned yet.”
John let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, though it sounded like relief. “Well, now you know it.”
“Tell me... How do you say I love you in that language?”
John hesitated, then leaned in, brushing his lips gently against Alexander’s cheek, just near the corner of his mouth. “There.”
Alexander turned to catch his mouth fully, and this time, there was no hesitation in that kiss.
That, they both could understand.