Chapter Text
Alexander had never liked his birthday.
No one had yet remembered, but he was okay with that. January 11th, right in the bitter heart of winter. Not even the good kind, the holidays had passed, people were settling into the new year, the only thing he really noted was that he was one year closer to his death.
He was fine. Sure, it made him feel guilty that he’d come now 30 years and was still mean and overworked, that he felt one step closer to a grouchy ungrateful old bitch that was an overall inconvenience, that he was 30 years old and all he wanted to do was work when he had everything his younger self could’ve dreamed of, that he was so much farther away from happy than he’d been before, but it was fine. Just another day of life.
He was fine.
Until he smelled it.
It was any other day at work—Washington had remembered, he gave him a “happy birthday”—but he would recognize that smell anywhere, and what he would do to get it again.
Anything. Really, anything. Hamilton would fix anything about himself and throw anything away or get anything he needed or anything he wanted as long as Alex could get a damn whiff, maybe a piece if he was feeling merciful, if Alex pleaded, if, if—
Hamilton got up too fast, bolted outside, then stopped dead in his tracks.
Right outside his office, heading towards him, warm and soft, one of his favorite things in the whole damn world and one of the things he missed most in life:
A basket of zucchini bread.
The sight, the smell was so alluring he could forget it was being carried by his ex-boyfriend, Aaron Burr.
“Hey. Hamilton.”
His head snapped up and he looked back to Burr. He tried to discard the shock and confusion and hunger on his face and in his stomach but it didn’t mix well with being pissed and hurt. What the hell did he want? Why was he here? What was he doing? Why was he holding that damn zucchini bread? What could he do to get some? What could he do to apologize? On his birthday, for fuck’s sake?
He hesitated. That was weird, he never hesitated. He was Alexander fucking Hamilton, he was one of if not the best at a big firm, Columbia graduate with a nice apartment in Manhattan. He could do anything, he did anything he put his mind to, there wasn’t anything in life but his own self that stood in his way.
“Uhm, Burr. Hi.”
What was wrong with him?
Burr took a breath and didn’t quite meet his eyes.
“It’s your birthday, I still had it in my calendar. I was stressed yesterday, stress-cooked, and, uh, accidentally made a loaf of zucchini bread.”
Alex’s eyes darted back down to the bread. He had a suspicion he was lying. Burr never stress-cooked, Burr stress-cleaned, and he knew well that Hamilton adored his zucchini bread, he knew he made that clear enough during the time they dated.
Burr held out the basket towards him.
“Happy birthday, Alexander.”
Alexander.
Usually he used Hamilton or dumb/jackass or asshole, very occasionally Alex when they bumped into each other. Not Alexander. Not anymore.
Hamilton took the basket, his eyes gone wide for a moment. This was amazing. This was so confusing. Was Burr thinking of him?
“Sorry if it’s cold,” Burr added. “Y’know how freezing it is outside, I made it earlier, it’s—”
“No, no, it’s okay.” Hamilton interrupted, looking back up at Burr. “…You’re the only one who remembered. Other than Washington, but still.” He caught himself glancing back down to the zucchini bread. Because it was good or he wanted to avoid eye contact?
“But uh, thank you.”
He looked back at him again.
Burr was surprised.
Not at Washington remembering, he knew he thought of Hamilton like a son, but everyone else? He felt himself frown. What the hell. Sure, in his own time, now, he’d call Hamilton obnoxious, arrogant, a bastard, probably even more than that, but no one?
“Oh, I’m sorry. I mean you’re welcome. What about the squad?”
Why couldn’t he talk today?
He had never liked his friends. But Laurens was his best, Lafayette surely would’ve, Mulligan would live to regret it.
“Oh, I— haven’t talked to them in awhile,” Hamilton admitted, trying a sheepish smile. “Business for Laf and Hercules must be busy, John’s got his hands full too.”
Oh.
“I see.”
Burr knew he never liked his birthday. It always made him feel guilty, cranky, like he wasn’t worth the effort. He didn’t know the answer to if he was anymore, but still.
“You doing anything?” he asked, just to make conversation. What the hell, he just reminded himself he knew Hamilton didn’t like his birthday. Why would he care if he was doing anything? He should leave.
“Oh, no. Not much. Maybe a drink or something, maybe eat some of this, it looks good,” Hamilton answered.
Something was wrong.
That was bullshit. Burr knew Alexander Hamilton went bat shit crazy over his zucchini bread. He made it 45 minutes ago. It was still warm. He made it every birthday of his and Hamilton would eat it all in one day and ask him to make more when he felt like shit. Hamilton didn’t let anyone else at it and had on multiple occasions threatened to kill someone if they took his zucchini bread. Burr made his favorite zucchini bread on earth and he knew damn well it wasn’t just “good” to him.
He was about to start off because what the hell, Hamilton, I make a spectacular zucchini bread—
But no.
He was smiling.
That stupid, softer smile that could guilt trip Burr to Hell. That damn smile he smiled when he was nervous but excited and soft like some little kid showing someone his new toy, full of pride but void of greed. Maybe not freaking out but still so happy with his stupid zucchini bread he made just for him that Aaron Burr Jr. would do anything for.
Added to the sad thought of the great Alexander Hamilton drinking alone with his zucchini bread on his birthday—for—his birthday.
Damn the courtesy that had been engraved into his brain like instinct.
“Maybe I could come with you?”
WHAT.
“What?”
Hamilton looked up, surprised. Burr couldn’t blame him. He wanted to pass it. Stupid uncle, stupid parents, stupid people and emotional suppression that raised him to be courteous. Stupid zucchini bread, stupid Hamilton. He just couldn’t let him be this pathetic. He had to say something.
“Not as anything, y’know. Just maybe grab a drink for your birthday, if there’s nothing else. Minus the zucchini bread. Maybe go to Lafayette’s, see him again if you haven’t talked to him for awhile,” Burr offered, internally screaming at himself but externally returning a nervous smile.
Also, he wondered what had happened. Lafayette never liked him, Burr thought the entire group was reckless, but they were all such great friends.
Hamilton had to stop to consider it. The system halted, everything stopped with momentum, like the sparks that came from the track when a freight train breaked.
A drink with Burr. His ex-boyfriend. Not as that, but friends. No, not as friends, they couldn’t be friends, but another handsome stranger. Someone he knew? Used to know. That was a song, damn it. Stranger. He’d go with stranger. Burr gave him zucchini bread; he should repay him.
”Sure. Thanks, Burr, that would be nice.”