Work Text:
Aaron Burr almost enjoyed his quiet life in New Jersey.
Almost.
It had been decades now since he fired a deadly shot at his friend, his enemy, Alexander. If not for the constant whispers in the back of his head, Aaron would’ve been sure that he lived a charmed life.
It was a summer day when he finally decided to enjoy the rays of the sun and the gentle wind, and so he began walking leisurely through the roads of his hometown. He greeted warmly the colors of the bakeries and trading shops lingering on the streets, seeing as how the past years had just been filled with a depressing darkness that nearly drove him mad.
His legs were beginning to tire as he had not used them as much, just the occasional trips to his kitchen or living room, where he ultimately always ended back in his bedroom. Seeing a gorgeously tall, elegant library up ahead, he decided to take a small break from the stinging heat of June.
Boston Athenaeum. The library was, in simple words, beautiful. The inside walls were painted with a pure white that nearly blinded his eyes, and the rows upon rows of books filled with secrets made his lips turn upwards in the slightest.
Had anyone looked at the frail man fingering gently the pages of a novel, they would have seen the passive gleam that appeared in his eyes. A candle rekindled, that of which had been put out long, long ago.
As he sat with a sigh on one of the many cushions embroidered with floral patterns, he feed his curiosity as his eyes roamed the paragraphs slowly, taking his time to truly grasp the divine beauty of the words.
It was near dusk when Aaron finally looked up from his book, closing it with a deep breath as he replaced it on its position in the wooden shelf. As he began walking out, he noticed a pearly bust near the entrance. Curiosity filled him as he walked towards the polished marble, and he stopped dead on his tracks once those eyes stared back at him once more.
Alexander Hamilton. The plaque read. A patriot, a soldier, a statesman with talents and virtues to be admired.
His breath was stolen as he gazed at his face, eyes roaming the slopes and creases of his cheeks. He stared at the same sharp eyes that had once stared back at him. The very same eyes that closed and never opened again because of him.
This was Alexander in all Roman glory; proud, young, gallant. And yet, this wasn’t the man he remembered.
He remembered an Alexander with fiery eyes, burning with an aching desire to build a legacy. He remembered a disheveled Alexander who came rushing to his house at the peak of midnight, asking for his help to defend the constitution. He remembered an Alexander with fear in his eyes as the bullet teared his skin and muscles. He remembered an Alexander that became his friend when they were mere adolescents. He remembered an Alexander that became his enemy after their bitterness turned that friendship into hatred.
Aaron gently touched Alexander’s poised face with his trembling hand, his thumb tenderly stroking the falls and rises in the curved cheekbones of the marble. Then, he realized that the poetry was never in the declarations Alexander wrote to ruin Aaron’s life. The poetry was never in the tense letters of the two men as they organized the event of their downfall. The poetry was never in Alexander’s goodbye.
His eyes stared back at Alexander’s striking gaze, his hand cupping his chin, and he murmured, “There was the poetry.”
Aaron let his hand fall limply, and with one last glance, he walked out of the library with tingling fingers and a satisfied gleam in his eyes.