Work Text:
The air in the room wasn’t stale when he opened the door to his father’s study again. The fragile air reminded him of the trailing sparks from a firework as they dwindle into the pitch sky, or the chill sound of silence just as an orchestras last note fades away- empty feelings left behind by pop-rocks once they dissolve into noting but a mere sweet taste in your mouth.
John sighed feebly, just like him to be just like that- nothing but a blurry memory and passed on tales of his abilities. His hands traced the ebony wood of the worn desk, so many indents left behind in the faded planks from the scratching of a pen John would often hear late at night- Alexander working tirelessly until the creak of the door came like it always did, and his mother hushed him back to bed. The various books and papers lay sombre now, untouched and preserved ever since he had died. It felt like walking down the bustling streets now empty in the bleary-eyed morning.
John shook his head, hoping to shake away the doldrums he was swimming into again- quelling the wish to spend hours in this study trying to dig up the memories he had of his father and instead choosing to do something more productive, albeit just as fruitless as the former. He had always considered such a compendium on his father’s work, compiling the endless penmanship he had written into some form of remembrance- a legacy that could clear the tarnish away from his father’s name.
The letters filled the room almost, stuffed into drawers of questionable organisation, or spilling over a once-used desk in tidal waves. John was almost glad of how much time he would spend here categorising and sorting through the letters- a moment away from the creeping sickness of death that clung to his mother. It was her who had prompted him to reopen the casket of Hamilton’s mind- hoping he could write at least something to dedicate to his father’s life. He pondered this as he fluttered fingers over the unusually well-kept paper tied in string that lay tucked away in the bottom of one of the open drawers- shunning away his attention as he almost glanced over it too quickly. John did not wish to be hasty in any of his actions, lest it accidently cause a tsunami of paper. The string tying the letters was old, frayed slightly as if it had been reopened over and over again. Inky fingerprints lined a couple edges, beginning to blur slightly as if over the course of many years the ink had faded. John ran the broad of his thumb thoughtfully over a corner of the delicate paper, the handwriting here was unlike much else his father had written. It was small and deep-cut, sometimes scribbled over and rewritten- like the words were difficult to form. It bothered him. For someone who was known to write so intrinsically fast and intelligently, why had these letters been scrutiny to such equivocation? He lifted the first leaf of paper onto the desk, sweeping aside the other correspondence into neatly-formed piles to be read at a later date. Pen in hand, its tip glistened dangerously with murky ink, poised over the first word- he began to read.
--
‘Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear, it might be in my power, by action rather than words to convince you that I love you’
--
The warm mist that accompanied the burdened weight of autumn was light that evening. Pulling back shrouds over the battered landscape, unveiling the bruises that coloured trees and the deep scratches from previous battles. The sun had already begun its slow descent back into dusk, having perused the dreary camp to its content in the day. Chills from approaching winter prodded at the feet of soldiers who weren’t bundled together next to fires, conversing amicably despite tired eyes and tired stories. The bustling of the camp was still in these moments, the faint crackle of embers accompanying the champ of horses at the last remaining stalks of fresh grass. Yet just a little away from the hush of company, another spark of life stirred in the cluster of trees overlooking the desolate quagmire. A grove of oak trees overlooked the precipice and rolling hills, having yet to relinquish their hold on amber and honeyed leaves, beneath were nestled two figures- bathed in the copper light of the waning sun. Their breathing was masked by the indistinct groan of old wood, disturbed only by the faint hum of Alexander, in the depths of concentration as he persevered with the task at hand. His ink-stained fingers gently traced over the nose, cheeks and jawline of the other- pausing at the freckles that were smothered there- their multitude giving the impression that they had been dusted there like icing sugar on a cake. The small man was so consumed in this task, he didn’t even notice how a maroon leaf had landed on his exposed side- just above the hip and precariously balanced amidst the folds of his shabby coat. His fingers brushed aside the soft dark curls that had escaped from the Laurens’ tightly tied back hair, lifting from his cheeks as the freckled man’s eyes fluttered open- meeting with his in an instant. To any prying and perspicacious intrusion, it was would not have been impossible to see the almost dangerous allusion that poured out from the shared gaze- yet the French brandy that had somehow had been procured from the last supply was a sure distraction away from any disturbance of the two lovers.
John laughed, eyes creasing up in a contented huff, as he began to shift his weight a little closer to the Alex, leaning forward and plucking the leaf off his side. Hamilton laughed uneasily- a shade of peach rising in his face at the intimacy of it all. The warmth lapsed and radiated off Alexander as constantly as the heat from sunlight- the achingly saccharine laugh that only exacerbated the pang in his chest. He steadied his breathing, inching a hand around the freckled jawline he had grown so fond of, surprise causing the leaf to fall from the others fingertips to the matted grass. He opened his mouth as if to say something, yet was staggered- inept as the task he had prided himself on the most. Able to write for hours on end about the meaningless. Unable to make those very words tumble out like the leaf litter.
--
‘You should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent. But as you have done it and as we are generally indulgent to those we love, I shall not scruple to pardon the fraud you have committed, on condition that for my sake, if not for your own, you will always…’
--
His hand clutching the pen stayed motionless, hovering over the letter. Rivulets of ink had embedded themselves into the scratched on words of the desk, as thick globules had fallen off the pen silently- never once touching paper. Johns other hand shook violently, clenched into a fist on his lap. Never once had he heard of this, nor was it even implied that his father was a…
He couldn’t even say it.
He had seen portraits of his father at this young age, scrappy and meagre but eyes full of light. He had heard tales of how Hamilton worked tirelessly at a task until it was finished- signing it not only with his name but the spattered inky fingerprints resulted from restless nights spent drafting letters. There were so many letters here between the two men. He tried to imagine them together, he tried to imagine…
The words tasted like something bitter. No, more like iron. The iron that had spilled from his cheek as he had unknowingly bit into it- soundless anger coiling into his core like the tendrils of constricting plants. Such ire he had never once known, such deep-seated disgust that he had been nurtured on- brought up with and believed in. Another man couldn’t… wouldn’t…
He couldn’t even think it.
Couldn’t bear to. Not his father.
At least the sharp edge of the pen would be useful for something after all.
--
It had taken Henry four days to muster up the courage to untie the bundle that contained his son’s uniform and belongings he had taken with him. When the parcel had first arrived, he could barely stand being in the same room as it, lest it would conjure up memories of his Johns freckled face smiling anxiously at his father- shoulders stiff and tight and pulled back in pride as he stood in his new uniform. He didn’t want to remember how those eyes darted to the ground- grin fading as fast as his fathers had huffed in disapproval and pushed past him. The stoic man looked despondently at the faded blue and red coat, eyes lingering on the mottled mahogany stains- and how the colour deepened and pooled at a point in its side. Setting his glass aside (for he had granted himself this respite from the chills that trembled in his fingers whenever he felt the stiff fabric), Henry studied the uniform a little closer- reaching out to pull a dark curled strand of hair from the jackets collar. He held it between his fingertips before letting it float into nothingness and settle into the dusty carpet. Amidst the clothes was a small pile of books and other various possessions, the quantity was meagre, the young man having left unexpectedly with so very little to fight. Henry stared at these also, choosing to pick up the leather-bound sketchbook he had given him a year before. He remembered how the boy desperately tried to pull back the curled locks of his hair as they fell naturally over his face as he remained transfixed on the floor- expecting nothing but reprimand from John in return. John’s eyes had watered slightly when his cold hand held out the leather book- he almost didn’t meet his sparkling eyes as his son clutched the gift to his chest and exhaled in relief. A nod was all that he had shown to him otherwise, formal stares and uncomfortable conversation that was as stiff and still as he had always been. Only the dark circles of regret now showed any other emotion in this man.
The pages were a little worn at the edges, spattered with dirt and smelling faintly of gunpowder and charcoal- leaving the odour imprinted in the firm lines in his hands. The book itself was almost full of sketches, magnificent and varied snippets of battle scenes, curious tracings of turtle shells and leaf patterns. Henry himself had never shared his son’s gift of creativity, only raising his lip a little in disapproval as he watched John and his mother pour over the budding flowers in the spring garden. He had caught him more than once sneaking away from the gaggle of hungry young women at dinner parties to their fine gardens and hot-houses, relishing in every leaf and petal of the delicate greenery. He must of noticed that too, for when he was older his boy began to hide the drawings away- becoming sheepish whenever he was caught staring a little too long at any rose.
Henry ran his fingers across the glossy leather as he closed the book again, going to set it aside on the varnished table when he caught onto a piece of paper jutting out of one of the pages. When he flipped it open again, his saw in actuality there were several folded papers hidden between sketches. They looked like letters, but Henry did not read them yet- his attention was encapsulated on a drawing on the adjacent page. It was intriguingly life-like. Not like the hastily drawn scenes or faces of a moment’s memory. It was of a young man he vaguely recognised, drawn with a fine hand and soft lines surrounding the curve of his hips and face like they were merely marking the passage of time it must have taken to draw this figure. The man was reclining on what seemed to be a bed of some form, half-dressed and revealing striking collarbones and a small frame. Smiling in debauchery, yet with eyes suffused with an expression Henry would not, could not recognise. His dark and smooth hair hung down dishevelled to the tips of his shoulders- an evident crease that it was mainly spent tied back from the man’s face. His hands were blemished with ink blots and illuminated by intimate candlelight. Henry shook his head, picking up the letter and smoothing it out on the table. After letting go of the sketchbook, the pages fell loose, showing more and more sketches of the same face- different emotions and different angles, but the same curve of a backbone, the same cocked eyebrow and incredible eyes. Henry steadied himself with another sip from his glass, squeezing his eyes shut as if to ignore what he had seen, to believe enough that if it wasn’t there it hadn’t happened. His son wasn’t…
He took a long and laborious breath, reaching for the letter again. Seeking comfort in the familiar loops of his son’s handwriting, unable to stop his eyes peering down the page, and he began to read.
--
‘How many violent struggles I have had between duty and inclination- how much my heart was with you’
--
“Stay.”
The words from Alex rang out over and over again like a drumbeat. John’s fingers tapped out a tune to the heart-breaking word that replayed in his mind.
“Stay.”
That’s all he had said, after shouting himself hoarse that’s all he could say to convince him. To just stay. The man fussed over the tresses that tickled across his neck, he knew he could accept this move up North and would be in the thick of the battle- either that or face more months of a glorified secretarial position in relative safety away from the action he so longed to see. Well, Laurens longed that, and the flustered little man who had barged into his tent- begging him to stay. The very man who worked beside him that day without so much as a glance, unwilling to try and convince him with illusory looks but rather the smug knowledge that he was right anyhow. John ran his fingers through the tie in his hair and pulled it out, releasing the mass of curls that tugged on his scalp somewhat when tied back to tightly to hold them there for formalities sake.
He was torn. With one word he was torn down the seams like parchment. Hair fell forward over his cheeks as he leant against the makeshift table in the tent, steadying himself against the cool surface. His shoulder rolled without any grimace or flashes of pain from his injury- something that had been plaguing and preventing him from returning to the fight. Yet now he almost wished it hurt more, to satisfy his soul with a permissible excuse for why he should stay.
Laurens exhaled deeply and picked up the leather-bound book that reminded him of home. Stiff, cold and formal- yet withholding his deepest secrets. It almost tempted him to sketch, another turtle shell or the faint outlines of constellations smothered by clouds that attracted his eye when he retreated back to his tent. Yet in doing so, he knew that every line would seem disagreeable and wrong, his hand could never quite muster what he wanted to draw- not that he knew it himself. Picking up the very worn and stubby pencil, he leant a little more forward on the desk, pulling a chair out so he could draw without the resulting pain in his neck. Drumming it in thought, John tried to remember a fond memory- his hand began working away faintly at the paper trying to build a familiar image he could not yet capture. The smooth lines gave way to a figure- slumped over a desk ungracefully and feverishly scrawling away at some letter or writing- pressing so hard it would seem he would leave marks in the desk too. The thought made him smile as John shaded the slope of lean shoulders which fused into a slight neck. Unkempt dark hair hung from where it was hastily tied back- it draped over the man’s face- concealing his expression in the shadows formed from the wax candle also lit on the desk. His smile faded a little as he brushed away the graphite dust from the sketch, as he recognised the man he had drawn. The scene was one he was often privy to- as his muse worked insufferably, even at night, continuing the perpetual staining of his fingers. It seemed as much a part of that man as his freckles were to him. It would have been impossible to hide the abashed shame that crept up his collar when his glances at the concentrating man were caught and dared to be returned- a raised eyebrow and coy smile of idiosyncrasy made him sink into his chair a little more whenever they worked together. Laurens sighed again, closing the book and retreating it back to the edge of the desk where he lingered for a little while- fingers feeling the buttery leather underneath.
This respite was interrupted quite quickly by an almost-bashful cough from behind him. Turning sharply to face the intruder- his eyes softened for just a moment as he was met with that familiar hunger-pang frame and intelligent eyes. Hamilton stood in almost awkward silence for a moment, then stepping forward and coughing again like he was about to apologise for his reckless and crude arguments- his undignified pleading. He was stopped; however, by a hand intertwining with his ink-stained fingers and his words uttered by another’s mouth.
“I’ll stay.”
--
‘I shall only tell you that ‘till you bade us Adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart to set upon you.’
--
The bottle was empty. It lay on its side, dregs spilling onto an open page and smearing the intricate pencil lines there. Glass fractures reached up from the hardwood floor and gleamed like scintillant crystals, protruding shards from where calloused fingers had let it slip. The room was silent- the fading echoes of the strike of eleven from the grandfather clock had all but dissipated in the coldness of the hall. The large and dominant figure folded into two- crumpled and knelt into the floor next to the dining table. His sobs had turned raspy, breathing like the bellows of a fire as the grind of molars gave an uncanny melody to the gloomy room. Veins on his forehead throbbed desperately- as if they were large pipes to a great machine- feeding its fervent fire.
Thoughts churned out in half-formed words, spitting them out from whisky-smelling lips like sunflower seeds. It was toxic. Totally and utterly noxious to the machine itself but its production never failed in creating these venoms that inevitably strangled its heart. He could feel it taint the claret of his blood- suffusing his arteries and causing his muscles to clench and stutter.
After everything Henry had done to hide him, he just had to go and write his shame down. Acted out in unwanted rancour to his wishes and been with another…
Another poison, another word. Over and over until this amalgamated monster could barely speak- only cursing in stammering syllables.
The machine rose, clutching at the matchbox that lay next to the unlit candle- earthquakes erupting in his hands.
At least the matches would be useful for something after all.
--
Alexander shifted from foot to polished foot uncomfortably at the odd marble flooring beneath him. His war-starved figure wasn’t used to the gaiety that surrounded him, the muffled laughing and dancing of couples and groups of young man and women stealing glances alike. The insufferable heat from the many candles almost seemed too much, causing his now clean uniform to feel constricting. His (surprisingly clean and ink-free hands) ran over his tied back hair again, smoothing out the odd strand that would come free and hang over his face.
It had been a surprise to him that Alex was invited amongst the other more presentable aides and soldiers to the local ball, his heart beat quickened in painful tenor at the brush of trailing dresses and gowns that seemed so suggestive as women spoke and giggled behind his back. Perhaps Hamilton had been coaxed here by the promise of a decent meal, or a lull from the nipping cold in his tent or even the concealed wink Laurens had shared with him as he received his instructions. That bothered him even more than the prowling women, the anticipation grew in his stomach with every passing dancer. Alexander tried to look inconspicuously through the crowd- hoping to spot some familiar curled hair or constellation of freckles amidst the bland faces. The lack of his company concerned him more than the danger of them being together. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the corner of his lapel, eyes darting down towards the marble floor as he began to trace each intelligible line of the mineral in his mind.
Hamilton’s lacklustre attempt at an interest in geology was disturbed suddenly, his spine shivered as a hand glided up his back and rested on his shoulders- friendly companionship to some but meaning so much more as he looked up into those starlit eyes. John smiled back at him, withdrawing his hand in an effort to conceal themselves and holding his palm out as if to offer a dance. Although he knew it was impossible in these circumstances- Alex could not help but envision such an opportunity in the future. Perhaps when the night settled more into a morning hush he and Laurens could be hand in hand- nestled away in his tent as they turned to an unknown melody in the stillness of the morning. It comforted him greatly, façade raising up again as he quickly scanned the room for any sign of intrigue at their uncanny closeness. Taking the Johns hand quietly and quickly, he was led towards a group of fellow soldiers and given invitation to converse with them as if he couldn’t feel his heart pounding at the warmth of Laurens fingers looped with his.
--
Henry watched the flames lick and gnaw at the withering pages, the sides curled and writhed as ink transformed to dust- scarring the enamel of the dining-table forever. In erasing the narrative he was redeeming his son from infamy- he was doing what was right. Wasn’t he?
John slashed and teared at the words written with the pen- scraping foul ink across all delicate and eloquent language- justifying his actions as censoring for his father’s legacy’s sake. It was the only vehement act he permitted himself, laying the pen down with shivering hands as he retired the ruined papers- smoothing them out in some effort to preserve them. He was doing what was just. Wasn’t he?
The young man with stars that mapped constellations on his face was struck in the side in a needless skirmish- breathing fire and hot blood as Laurens curled up on himself- laboriously slow as the twinge of electricity that once put pencil to sketchbook faded away from his fingers. When Alexander died- his fingertips still stained with ink- many years later, the act was just as violent as the unbridled ferocity that tore paper years after his death- the act that shattered his ribs with a fatal bullet.
--
Alex stretched out his fingers again- relishing in the slight pops they made after being confined around a pen for the hours it took him to write the one letter. It had been hard to find the words- something he didn’t often suffer from- except when it came to counting Johns freckles, or watching the rise and fall of his chest in the morning snooze. It was promise. A new scene had opened for the two of them. Maybe he could hope it would stay that way. As always Hamilton signed it, ‘yours ever’.