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Laurens was dead.
Laurens had been dead for a long time, had been dead far longer than Alexander even knew him for. He’d died and it had felt like the world was ending, then it didn’t. Everything had moved on, and now it had been years, and sometimes a week could pass and he hadn’t thought about Laurens once.
The house was quiet without Eliza or the children there, and god did Alexander hate it. It was too easy to drift in and out of truly existing, with nobody to remind him of each day’s passing, and only his work and his thoughts for company.
Sometimes Alexander thought it was ridiculous that he was still hung up on a man he hadn’t seen in years. Othertimes he hated himself for not dwelling on him enough, as though he hadn’t mattered, letting him be forgotten.
It was dark outside, and the candle on Alexander’s desk had been lit, illuminating the signature of Reynolds at the bottom of one of the piles of letters. His work filled up the rest of the space, except Alexander’s wrist still ached despite the quill having been set down a half hour ago. He struggled to find the words, on nights like these, and most warningly, he lacked the will to further attempt finding them.
He and Laurens had understood each other, perhaps too well. It was seen in the nuances told in the inflections of their speech, and the words that didn’t need to be spoken. They rarely used the word ‘love’, yet they hadn’t needed to; even without the risk of saying it aloud, it was understood.
Alexander gave up on any pretence of work, and blew out the candle. He pulled on his coat and locked the front door, and set out on his journey through the New York streets without much of a route in mind. It was late enough to hopefully avoid any of the more respectable characters who might recognise him, and regardless, Alexander hardly cared that much.
They’d understood each other well enough that a part of Alexander had always known, really. He’d seen it in Lauren’s eyes before or after a battle, that glint, that recklessness disguised as bravery; he’d heard it in Lauren’s voice, the dismissive tone when talking about what they’d do after the war, never considering the prospect. He’d known it when hearing of John’s wife and that he had a daughter, whom he’d never seen and spoke of as though he never expected to see. Somewhere, deep down, Alexander knew Laurens hadn’t intended on surviving the war, and so even when peace was first announced, he should’ve known better than to believe that John would survive to experience it.
His path took him to a bridge, dimly lit by oil lamps and completely empty. Water rushed metres below, visible through the reflections of moonlight, and Alexander knew by the temperature of the breeze around him that it would be cold, freezing even. Unconsciously, he shivered at the thought, struck so suddenly by the memory of another river he’d fallen in that he’d hardly realised he’d stopped walking.
They’d understood each other well, and Laurens had hugged Hamilton tighter than Alexander could remember. He was still damp and cold, and his world seemed somewhat fuzzy beyond the presence of Laurens, dimly aware of the fact that when he’d been shot off his horse and into the Schuylkill river, he shouldn’t have survived. Laurens yelled that he’d thought Alexander had died, and all he could respond with was an apology.
Staring down at the river, Hamilton could remember the visceral terror when water entered his mouth, and his lungs burned as he tried to rise for air. He remembered it like from a distance, because he’d known that couldn’t be it, and yet now he sometimes wondered if it could’ve been. Going out with honour, cementing him in history in a way that his flaws could be resigned to insignificance, except now was far too late for that. With letters from Reynolds tightening like a noose, and his financial plan on the brink of either failure or success, his legacy teetered precariously on the verge of ruin or creation.
He and Laurens had understood each other very well.
“Did you want to survive the Schuylkill?” Laurens had asked, when they were alone and a few drinks in.
“I must’ve done. I did survive, didn’t I?”
“You’ve never seemed to want to live enough for my liking.” Hamilton shrugged.
“Can you blame me? I never thought I’d live past 20."
Laurens hadn’t pressed the issue. Alexander suspected he’d realised he didn’t want to know the answer.
Alexander wondered how long until someone would notice, if he fell. Would it be if they identified the body downstream, or when he failed to show up to work? Would it be the tragic, premature accident of an intelligent man with a promising career, or the closing of a story that should've ended years ago? He could hear the rushing of water in his ears, like a taunt or challenge, and it was so close.
Eliza had held him the day he received the letter saying John Laurens had died in battle, allowing him to cry as he felt his world shatter. All he could remember thinking was that John had held him tighter, and that at least John might finally be happy. At least this way, he’d finally gotten what he wanted.
Laurens was dead. Laurens had been allowed to die, and it was considered noble, and nobody but Hamilton seemed to realise that any part of it might be anything but unintentional. Alexander hated himself as he stared down at that river, for thinking that it wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair, that Laurens had been able to die and Alexander couldn’t seem to. Alexander’s breathing was heavy as he leaned over the railing, but he was hardly seeing the water anymore. Whether it was the disease that took his mother, or the hurricane that took so many of his people, or famine or the war and Schuylkill and the British or this godforsaken New York river-
The wind blew against his face, and it was cold where a rogue tear had fallen without him noticing. His wrist had stopped aching. The chill had penetrated through his coat, and it was cold.
He was so, so close that it almost hurt. His thoughts had stopped spiralling, leaving only a sharp, hollow pain in his chest and a dull emptiness that had never truly gone away since Laurens had died. Everything hurt so with a visceral intensity, burning away at his chest and yet-
Alexander wanted Laurens, but Laurens was gone.
Alexander wanted to go home.
He stepped away from the railing of the bridge, and each footfall was heavy as he began to tread the route back to his house. The door unlocked with a click, and he lit the candle in his office. His desk was exactly as he left it. The letters from Reynolds still lay there untouched.
Alexander picked up his quill, and began to compose a letter to Eliza, asking her to come home and sealed it up, to send it off the next morning.
Then, he found one of the last letters Laurens had sent him and held it to his chest as he cried.