Chapter Text
John Laurens is an artist, whether he admits it or not. He draws on his hands, arms, legs, feet, anywhere and everywhere. He is constantly covered in some kind of intricate design, idly adding to it when boredom strikes.
But sometimes it overlaps with words, long and complicated. These words are not his. They come not from his pen, but from the pen of his soulmate, whom he hasn't even met yet. John takes comfort in soulmates, unlike his own; half of the notes jotted down by his soulmate are refuting the validity of the notion.
At first, John is hurt - his soulmate, the person who is supposed to love him, already doesn't. It is because of this that John does not search for whoever it may be; he knows when to move on, and he has. He has his friends, whom he believes love him more than his soulmate ever could.
Hercules Mulligan, whose name is entirely fitting, is the frightening, kind, hilarious fashion student who always acts disinterested but who always cares. He always acts bitter and above their antics, but they all know better. Hercules is always there.
John's other friend has a name as long as their hair and their patience, but they are called simply Lafayette. They are beautiful, charming, wildly intelligent, and John's best friend of many years. Part of John is in love with Lafayette - then again, everyone is in love with Lafayette. They are elegant, and sarcastic to the point of rudeness, and John loves them for it.
And so John is content. His friends are brilliant, his schoolwork is going well, and he is right on the edge of happiness, he can feel it, right there, and he's doing fine.
Enter Alexander Hamilton, human disaster. He is a mess, a hurricane of power and ideas and thousands of cups of coffee. His eyes are perpetually sunken in and surrounded in purple. His long hair stays tied in a low, loose bun, strands constantly falling about his face. He is a whirlwind, a force of nature.
"He's certainly something," Lafayette mumbles. The three of them are in the coffee shop sitting at their usual Saturday table, watching the young man on the other side of the room typing furiously on his laptop.
"He reminds me of you," Hercules adds, nodding to John, who rolls his eyes.
"I don't think I was that bad."
"Mon ami, do not kid yourself," Lafayette shakes their head. "You were a disaster."
"I might have been..."
"A train wreck?" Hercules laughs. Then he shrugs. "He's cute. You should go talk to him."
"Are you out of your mind?" John replies. "He looks like he might snap if someone sneezes too loudly, much less talks to him."
"Maybe Hercules is right," Lafayette adds. "If you don't talk to him, I will."
"Be my guest," John offers with a wave of his hand.
Lafayette gives him a look, but rises anyway. They swagger over to the man, their face decorated in a smirk, the one that usually gets them whatever they want.
"Bonjour," they greet smoothly.
The man continues typing frantically, not having noticed Lafayette's presence. They are not deterred. They sit down directly across from him and repeat, "Bonjour," a little louder this time.
The man looks up briefly, catalogs the person sitting in front of him. "Hello." He returns to his work.
"Je ma'pelle Lafayette," they say. "And you?"
"Alexander Hamilton."
"May I call you Alex?"
"If you so desire," he replies sarcastically. Lafayette is partly frustrated; not many have ever resisted their charm. They can practically feel Hercules and John's snickers behind them.
"You seem to be working very hard," they observe with a smile, dripping in charisma. Alex doesn't answer, just continues his work. Lafayette is only half enjoying this chase. "Can I be of assistance?"
"You could let me concentrate."
Despite the man's tone, Lafayette is somehow charmed by him, intrigued. Alexander reaches for his cup of coffee and Lafayette notices his hand.
Black ink, swirled and woven along his fingers, on his palms, smudged. It is beautiful, but not unlike anything Lafayette has seen before, because they have seen it before, on John's hands.
They show no sign of noticing it. They are composed, only smiling a little at the artwork. Lafayette is smart. They understand what John has done to forget about his soulmate. But Lafayette also sees.
He takes Alexander's hand gently. The man looks up, annoyed. Lafayette types a set of numbers right onto the page Alexander has been typing on. "Call me sometime. Please."
They leave, telling the others he was just uninterested. They smile. John's time will come.