Chapter Text
When Alex came to the United States from his little island in the Caribbean, devastated in persona and reeling from disaster after disaster, he’d expected to go to college. He knew it was his only shot at getting a job, making a life for himself in this new place, this better place. He knew it was h is only shot to do something he was passionate about and make a difference in the world. He was not throwing away that shot. But what he had never expected was the ambitious double major combination of political science and journalism to land him a job in the most prestigious newspaper, The Stance, in upper Manhattan.
The paper was run by Philip Schuyler - yes, the same Philip Schuyler from The Schuyler Hour on ABC News. When he’d reached out to Alex personally, he’d nearly had a heart attack. Schuyler cited Alex’s good grades and promising journalistic ability as reason to adopt him as a writer for The Stance, explaining that he was part of a national program called the Revolution Initiative, which promised it would aid the most able collegiate scholars in their transfer to the working world. The aim, said the initiative’s website, was to create a better future for the country by enabling the brightest of its up-and-comers early on.
When he first showed up in the Schuyler Building, he had no professional clothing. He wore a wrinkled button up shirt, jeans, and sneakers. But Schuyler, an intimidating man with salt and pepper hair, Peter Capaldi eyebrows, and a real knack for making one feel small, only shook his hand and welcomed him on board, claiming that his work spoke for itself.
“Your opinion is clear. That is enough. That is why I chose you over your peer, I’m sure you’ve heard of him, Mr. Aaron Burr. That is why I am certain you belong here.”
He’d gifted Alex a thousand dollar deposit into his bank account to buy himself professional clothes and any school-related materials that were necessary. “If you need more money, do not hesitate to come see me, but your first paycheck will be coming in a week’s time nonetheless. It is imperative to the Revolutionary Initiative that you keep your grades up and continue proving your scholarly ability through your employment here. The laptop is yours, for school and company activities. Welcome on board, Mr. Hamilton. I will see you next Monday.”
For once in his life, Alex found himself speechless.
The next Monday, he had the privilege of meeting the Schuyler sisters, who went to his college and were famous around campus for their hard work and kind hearts (and also their rich father, but few mentioned it).
Angelica, witty and sharp, stunningly beautiful, was a senior; Margaret, who preferred to be called Peggy, soft yet vibrant, a freshman; and Eliza, sophomore like Alex, trusting and kind and warm. They were all adopted, and they were all brilliant.
Eliza slipped Alex her number at the end of the day. “Maybe a coffee sometime?” she’d whispered as she walked past. Alex felt his heart flutter as he smiled up at her. He was hardly the professional he claimed to be in this place, though. He doubted that Eliza would find his regular self attractive, his swearing and humor and love for cartoons. He was only nineteen, after all. His mind was older, but his attitude wasn’t.
Alex hid his smile when Mr. Schuyler glanced at him, eyes narrowed but still friendly in his odd way. In person, he was just like his television personality.
“Hamilton? A word.”
“Sir?”
He stared after his blue clad daughter. “Your first assignment. I’m not starting you easy, and I apologize for that. But I think you will be a good fit. You are aware of the race for President, of course, now still in the primary stages. At the moment, General George Washington seems to have secured the Democratic nomination, but Mr. President King and Senator Henry Laurens are in an ever-shifting contest for the Republican nomination. I’d like to test your bravery and perseverance with a long assignment that openly contradicts your preferences and point of view; you will need to judge fairly as a journalist in the political field for your entire career. Now is a good time to start. For that reason, I am assigning you to report on a contestant for the Republican nomination, the one and only South Carolinian. Henry Laurens.”
Alex was disappointed - he was, in his own words, a huge-ass liberal - but nodded as he put his laptop in his messenger bag.
“Laurens will be in New York City next week. Prepare yourself.”
Alex, noting that it was dark outside at this point, decided to do some research on his least favorite presidential candidate at his favorite cafe, Federalist Soup, a funky little spot that mixed hipster and hip-hop. He’d get a coffee or seven and catch up on what he’d missed by forcefully ignoring the conservative candidate over the past few weeks, and try not to puke too hard.
The barista, a classmate by the name of Maria Reynolds, who had a tattoo of a rose behind her ear and clearly belonged at a Sephora store fixing the snobby looks on the faces of Columbia kids instead of serving them coffee, offered him a warm smile as he entered. “Alex. You normally aren’t in here this late, what’s up?”
Alex felt his professional visage melt off in the presence of his friend. “Hey Ria. Can I get a quadshot?”
She raised her perfect left eyebrow, embroidered with her newest piercing. “Quadshot kinda night?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’ll feel me in a second: get this. Schuyler gave me my first assignment. Henry Laurens.”
“What a dick, am I right?” called a voice from the back corner of the cafe. “Not Schuyler. Laurens. Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdropping, I just happened to overhear. It’s a quiet night.”
He looked back at the origin of the Voice. Someone was sitting in his table, the one he sat in every day in the afternoon as he did homework. Someone with possibly similar political opinions and, from what he could see in the dim lighting, a large cup of Federalist drink. “I can raise a glass to that .”
Maria nodded back there, whispering, “Go talk to him. He’s been in here for way too long and I’m starting to worry. I’ll bring your Cardiac Distress back to ya when it’s done.”
“Thanks, Ria.”
“Hey,” said the Voice when he approached closer. Its source was a guy, appearing to be about Alex’s age, with a curly ponytail and golden brown eyes and a splatter of freckles across his face and neck. He was drawing something, it looked to be a turtle with a disproportionately large neck, on a sketch pad the size of Alex’s torso. “I’m John. John Laurens. I happen to share a name with Senator BadPerson.”
“Dude,” Alex said, swinging the bag from his shoulder into his hands, “I am so sorry. You must get tons of questions now that he’s running for president. Can I sit here? You seem cool, and this is my regular spot.”
“Sure. Don’t throw away your spot. I’m lonely anyway,” John replied with a shrug, pencil poised just above the turtle eye. “I’m an art major. You can imagine how that leads to loneliness. I’m minoring in marine biology, though, just in case.”
Alex laughed. “My name is Alexander Hamilton. You can call me Alex if you want, most people do. I’m double major polisci and journalism, which is why I’m with Schuyler.”
John smiled into his sketch. Alex noted that he had dimples. “Ambitious, much?”
“That’s our Alex,” Maria jumped in, placing his drink on the table with a swoosh of her apron. “If you tip me pretty, it’s on the house.”
“Ria.” Alex rolled his eyes. She was already on the way to the counter again, but turned around and walked backwards to give him finger guns and a wink.
“So you know Schuyler, but have you met -” he whispered this last part, as if there was someone else in the cafe who might hear “- his daughters?”
He smiled at the thought of Eliza. “Yeah. They’re something else.”
“I’ve known them since freshman year. The Schuyler sisters work hard, and they’re ten times more chill than you would think from their professional demeanor. Once you get to know them, anyway. You should come hang out with us some time.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. John knew the Schuylers personally? It seemed that there was a whole side of Columbia that he didn’t know.
“I kind of consider myself a Henry Laurens expert, you know, out of necessity. So if you need anything, let me know,” John commented.
“Racism in modern America.”
The other boy looked up at him with furrowed eyebrows. “What?”
Alex sipped his coffee as he flipped his laptop open. “Laurens’ stance on racism in modern America. I know he was talking about something crazy, but I’ve kinda been ignoring him.”
“Oh. Well, my - my research shows that he’s an ardent white supremacist.”
“Even though he married an African American lady?”
John’s eyes were angry with his next words, bitter and sad. “It’s subtle.”
Alex typed that into his notes. “LGBTQ matters?”
“Conversion therapy.” There was something pitiful about the way he said it, but Alex decided not to pry. It took him a half second to jot down the note.
“Immigration?”
And they went on like this until Maria shouted at them from behind the counter. “I’d like to close up tonight, y’all.”
“Get your crusty southern ass back into Georgia, Ria Reynolds,” called John. They packed up laughing. John Laurens was gorgeous, Alex couldn’t avoid it. He couldn’t help but feel lucky to meet two incredibly stunning people in the same day.
“Hey, where can I get in touch with you? I might need some more information later on. Is that alright?” It was well disguised, but it was a “hey, what’s your number” move.
“If you show up around here more often at this time, I’ll be here. But anyway, put your number in my phone. I’ll text you.”
“You hear me? Move it, boys.”
Alex put his number in and grabbed his coffee. He’d barely had any of it - he was too wrapped up in talking to John. That said something.
It turned out that their dorms were in the same building. Alex asked why he’d never seen John around.
He shrugged. “It’s probably because you weren’t looking,” he said as they split. Alex was down the stairs, John was up. “I’ve got one of those faces. See you around, Alex.”
“See you.”
Alex the student was up doing essays about Thoreau’s poetry versus his prose. Alex the professional was up doing research about the platform of Henry Laurens. The coffee got finished, and every time he thought of either John or one of the Schuyler sisters he couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face.
He didn’t check his phone until before he decided to go to sleep, the sun about to rise. He had four messages.
Unknown number: Tis I, dat boi
Unknown number: o shit waddup
Unknown number: John. It’s john. I’ve memed please don’t hate me
Unknown number: you’re probably asleep. Sorry fam
Alex smiled at the messages and decided to reply to them both in the morning.
At least, a more reasonable hour of the morning than five-thirty.