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John is dying.
No, he’s already dead. More a corpse than a man. The vitality has left his body, he doesn’t feel his limbs any longer, they don’t exist any longer. He doesn’t exist either. More a ghost than a corpse. More of a wandering soul than a ghost. Limbs joined together by numb connections, a silent heart, and a thoughtless mind. More a rag doll than a corpse. But rag dolls tend to be dry and not bathed with their own blood as he’s, covered in carmine blood that turns his uniform purple, the purple slowly turning black as the blood clusters in dense clots. But it doesn’t matter anymore, he cannot feel anymore the blood flowing out his wound, he cannot feel any longer the wet texture of his clothing or its weight nailing him to the ground.
The pains have disappeared from his heavy body alongside with the pleasures too, and with that the bittersweet memory of his Hamilton.
He believes to have lost everything, his life and the right to own it. But an unexpected gift kisses him welcome as sunlight rays bathe his face.
A second unexpected gift is a kiss on his cheek and the energetic voice of Hamilton calling for him.
“John!” It could be a trick, a lie created by his delirious mind, a raving fantasy impulsed by his last heartbeats. Or a tender mercy from a God that loves him despite everything, a last sample of the vengeful nature by making him die remembering the blisses and misfortunes.
“Wake up!” Hamilton shouts again accompanied by a touch on his shoulder.
He does.
His lungs fill with air, his mouth fills with words. The first one coming out desperately, that word has been accumulated in his throat for months, “Alexander!” He calls breathless, despite his nostrils opening anxiously, despite his eyes opening to find an infinitely blue sky that welcomes him warmly.
“A nice dream?” Alexander whispers, perfectly unconscious of the vivid nightmare that remains in his numb limbs.
Laurens’ eyes search for the source of the calling, he might drown in the turbulent waters of his fears if he doesn't find his life-saving presence. He finds the source of his pains and pleasures kneeled at his side. Alexander wears his uniform perfectly organized, his cravat hanging from his neck like puffy clouds, his blue coat looks like a piece of sky embracing. He looks like a dream, he should be a dream, during the last months dreams are the only place Hamilton visits him.
He wishes the sun shining in the sky was compassionate enough to burn his skin and paint his cheek a red, to give him a clue —a lasting proof— it's not an invention of a dying man’s mind.
“John!” Alexander calls before he can stare at the sun to wait for it to burn his retinas. “Not a nice dream?” His hand forces his eyes to gaze at him instead of the sun. It's as shining, in fact John has the sensation that the sun has disappeared and Alexander has taken all its warmth.
“Not as nice,” he murmurs, his mouth sleepy and his throat covered with laziness. Before he can realize his hand abandons the ground to pursue Alexander's cheek, they’re pink, and somehow John knows he has been laying at his side under the sun —his disappeared twin—, he wears his uniform but his hair is untied, falling from his head like a fire cascade. Once his strength overpowers the numbness he tangles knuckles in the fire locks, he wishes the hair to burn his hand, to leave a permanent burn —a lasting clue— his dying mind isn’t inventing the cruellest of farewells.
Alexander leans his head towards his adoring touch, tilting so his hand cups his cheek –it’s as warmth as it looks–, he looks breathtakingly beautiful, unexpectedly happy. The only reasonable explanation for his apparent calm is that he’s accompanying John in a dream. Are you real? He tries asking, but the words die before they can even be born in his chest. What if once he acknowledges the fantasy it fades away leaving the worms to eat his meat as his sole company? Alexander caresses his hand, distracting those wretched thoughts. A single thought remains in his mind: Am I dreaming?
He doesn’t wish to ask, he doesn’t want to do anything that could break the fantasy so he goes along with it. John uses both of his arms to grab Alexander closer, his friend laughs but doesn’t resist, they both roll on the grass like playful children. While Hamilton is being possessed by thunderous laughs Laurens squeezes him in his arms, sensing how their intertwined bodies hit the solid ground. When they stop rolling on the ground Alexander is breathless over him. John is breathless too, Alexander’s weight squeezes him and he cannot breath.
He gets delighted with it. His arms refusing to let go of Alexander even when he pats his chest while shouting John! No, Laurens enjoys how he loses the breath for the weight of Alexander on him, how his agitated breathing crashes against his face, how his body between his arms is solid and real, and how John also feels solid and real. He refuses to stop existing.
“Alexander,” John whispers with the little air that remains in his –real and tired– lungs.
His purple eyes stare at him expectating, his red hair falling and being everything John can see. A new fire cascade, his personal one. He still wishes Alexander could leave a permanent mark on him, a visible one.
“Promise me something,” he whispers in the intimacy of their embrace.
Purple eyes look at him, the expression behind reveals Alexander will agree to anything his mouth says.
“Stay with me. Let’s make America happy.”
Alexander smiles. It’s a promise.