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Ashley Hampton always knew that he is a reincarnate. It was kind of a gut feeling, the one which makes you sit up in your bed in the middle of the night with a bittersweet taste on your tongue, the one which sometimes pangs you on your temple when you see something that should be completely unfamiliar, and the one which constantly lingers at the back of your head. Ashley didn’t have any of his memories back, had not the slightest idea of who he was in his previous life and had no proof that he even had one. And yet there were three fundamental truths he whispered to himself on stormy nights, because storms dragged the feeling out of his chest and made it bang at every window of the house, howling along with the wind.
One – he was someone famous. Someone infamous. Someone world-changing. Someone who burned quickly and brightly and someone whose name could be found in history books, mocked or praised – Ashley didn’t care. When he realised this, he bought around ten volumes of world history and read them all in a week. Not a clue. His second conclusion got drawn out of that.
Two – if he were to remember, books would not be a thing to spark the memories. Neither books nor words, not even if someone stated his previous name to his face. Ashley knew that he will wake up at once, but only when something spectacular happens. When a house bursts into flames, when a revolutionary war starts or when the whole damn continent of Antarctica melts, no less. Ashley – or whatever his name was in the previous life – was always a sucker for circenses.
And three – and this one was irrelevant to everything else, but just as, if not more, fundamental – he has met Arthur Barrow before. Before they ended up in the same English set, before they ended up in the same college, in the same city and in the same century. Ashley recognised him the moment he noticed the boy at the back of his new classroom staring at the teacher wearily, his smile visibly forced.
“Hey, can I sit here?” he asked. “Have we met before, by the way?”
Arthur looked up and Ashley could swear that he tensed slightly when their gazes interlinked, if for a moment, but then he looked away again and motioned at the chair.
“Of course, and I don’t think so.”
Ashley though did.
“I was famous. I will remember everything at once. I knew Arthur Barrow. I was famous. I will remember everything in an extraordinary way. I knew Arthur Barrow. I was famous. I will remember everything with a bang. I knew––”
Fortunately the storms were not too often of an occurrence in the city of New York, otherwise Ashley might as well have just gone mad.
- - - -
Arthur Barrow remembered his previous life much too early. He was eleven, he was a quiet child who read books and loved cats, he played videogames long after his bedtime and was happy. He had loving parents and worried about not getting and A-star in a school test. And then he found his father’s gun.
Yes, his father loved hunting – but usually he kept his all of his weapons in a safe behind a painting on one of the walls. One day though he just threw a pistol on his desk, not bothering to lock it up. “Later”, he thought. Arthur found it before said later came. He picked it up and inspected with total fascination – after all, he was just a child. It seemed… cool. He even considered taking it with him and showing off to his friends, or trying to teach himself shooting, or just hiding it in his room as a trophy... But then his fingers wrapped around a grip, and it felt so familiar that Arthur almost froze on the spot.
He held a pistol in his hands before, he realised. Maybe not this modern, maybe one slightly heavier, slightly longer – but he did. And he–
“Wait!”
What did he do?
“Then stand, Alexander. Weehawken, dawn.”
Guns
“drawn.”
The pistol fell out of his hand as Arthur fell to the floor.
"You’re on."
He woke up in the hospital a few hours later, his mind fuzzy and dark. He woke up to his mother chattering about how worried she was, to twilight behind the windows and to a lingering smell of medicine in the room. He woke up, knowing that he is not Arthur Barrow. Not only Arthur Barrow.
“Hey mum,” he whispered, and the word felt half-wrong on his lips. “Do you know anything about Aaron Burr?”
It took a while, explaining them what his previous life was like. Neither of his parents were reincarnates and they barely knew how to deal when he didn’t respond to being called Arthur or suddenly started talking in an eloquent manner never expected from an eleven-year-old child.
Aaron Burr was eighty when he died.
His world was turned up-side-down quicker then he could blink. If before he thought of cars as of some universal constant which existed since the universe was created, now he couldn’t help but stare at them in fascination. If before he struggled with learning Spanish, now he was basically fluent. If before he was as emotional as any other child, now he barely expressed any feeling, burying them deep in his soul.
Aaron Burr was a lawyer and a Vice President who knew far too many things for his own good. Arthur Barrow still went to high school when he turned sixteen. He didn’t exactly need it, but it has proven to be a good distraction. At first.
“Hey, can I sit here?” he heard one day right before a start of an English lesson. When he looked up, he saw a new guy standing in front of him, a bag on his shoulder and enthusiasm radiating from his eyes. “Have we met before, by the way?”
Arthur Barrow has never seen this guy before. Aaron Burr would recognize Alexander Hamilton anywhere.
Yes we have and please don't.
“Of course, and I don’t think so.”
- - - -
Maybe because Arthur seemed so familiar, Ashley went through all the efforts of befriending him. He never seemed interested or engaged in conversations, and yet Ashley struck them up anyways. He would sometimes zone out for a while when Ashley was speaking, he often seemed distant and cold, and yet Hampton hasn’t once thought of moving seats.
“Why?” Barrow asked once, almost a week into second half-term of Lent, and Ashley could only shrug.
“Why not?”.
Their friendship was not by any means normal. They didn’t have inside jokes and didn’t invite each other for sleepovers. Ashley hasn’t ever visited Barrow’s house, and Arthur has only seen his flat once, when they stayed in school long past sunset working on a project, and he decided that he should probably walk Ashley home. “I’m not a girl!” he pouted, but agreed to it nonetheless – Arthur rarely showed that he cared.
And yet they paired up for any school activities, they went to lunch together and sometimes argued to the point where both had a sore throat next morning. They competed in who can get a better mark in an essay and helped each other with topics they didn’t understand. Arthur ignored Ashley’s tirades and Hampton annoyed Barrow to no end, complaining about him evading questions – and yet when asked if they are best friends or something, both shrugged and nodded.
“Sure.”
“Isn’t it kind of obvious?”
Their English task was to write a love letter in eighteen’s century style because their teacher was a sucker for romance. Ashley just laughed at it while Arthur complained for a while, but she wasn’t about to change her mind, and so both boys had to come up with someone to write to. Barrow seemed to know the recipient the moment his pen first touched the paper, but Ashley couldn’t help but think about it with a sly grin.
“Hey, should it be a girl or a boy?”
“I don’t think Mrs Kendrick will appreciate a homosexual relationship the homework she set,” Arthur sighed. “Plus it was punished by a noose back then.”
(Didn’t stop Hamilton from writing letters to Laurens.)
“Exactly!” Hampton exclaimed, picking up the pen. “Two reasons to do precisely that! A boy it is.”
Barrow shook his head with a small smile. Of course Al– Ashely would want to piss off the teacher while still getting the top mark – and of course he will get a top mark.
“Darling Theodosia,” Arthur himself wrote down while the other guy started scribbling his pen furiously. And although it made perfect sense to address your love letter to the person who was your literal wife, he couldn’t help but feel… uninvolved. Uninterested. Unenthusiastic.
After all, it was more than two hundred years ago.
It took both of them around an hour to finish, and yet Barrow had only filled about two pages, while Ashley set aside a pack of five. Of course his writing habits haven’t changed in the slightest.
“Hey, how did you end yours?” Ashley asked, looking thoughtfully at two empty lines on his last page. “Kind regards is too much of a new expression, right?”
“Yours until the day I die,” Arthur shrugged. “I don’t think love letters should use too pompous of a language.”
“Oh, I know!” Hampton interrupted. “Or is it gonna be too formal? Meh, whatever. Arthur, hey, Arthur, how’s this: “I have the honour to be your obedient servant. Signed – A.Ham.”. Does that work as an ending to a love letter?”
Next moment Ashley was left sitting behind the desk alone, as Barrow got up, grabbed his bag and stormed out of the room.
“See you tomorrow, Hampton,” he hissed, and the guy tilted his head quizzically.
Well, that was that.
- - - -
New York was a city with a police officer on every corner and security cameras on every building. New York was not a city where a madman could take out a gun and shoot some innocent bystanders just because some guy refused to sell him drugs. At least that is what Arthur Barrow would have hoped. And yet – he was wrong, because that was exactly what everyone in the class has been discussing one Monday morning.
“My aunt lives on the same street and she hasn’t been answering my calls,” Mary was sobbing quietly.
“I can’t believe someone would do anything like that!” Dave frowned angrily to no one in particular.
“Four people dead, seven wounded, three in critical condition,” Lily recited from memory.
Barrow was waiting impatiently for Ashley to show up. For Ashley, who probably had enough to say on the matter. For Ashley, who’d go on a rant about people like that roaming on the streets freely. For Ashley, who’d complain about police forces being basically useless.
For Ashley, who lived in the same square.
Surely he wouldn’t be walking outside at five in the morning, Aaron whispered to himself. (Of course he would, fucking insomniac.) Surely he’s just oversleeping. (Never does.) Surely he will be in class soon enough. (He’s always at least twenty minutes early.)
Surely Alexander Hamilton does not deserve dying from a gunshot fucking again.
The teacher walked into the classroom, announcing that the lesson will start in five minutes, and Arthur sighed shakily, searching for “A.Ham” in his phone contacts. He was afraid of not getting an answer, afraid more the anything in the world – but after five long signals someone finally picked up.
“Hampton, for god’s sake!” Barrow exhaled, sinking into his chair and trying to make his voice sound less hysterical. “Where the hell are you? The lesson–”
“Sir?”
It was a female voice. It was a female voice. Not Alex’.
“Yeah?” Arthur whispered, feeling a chill running down his spine.
“Mister, uh, Hampton? He is in the hospital right now, I am afraid. He was one of the victims of the morning’s shootings. He is alive, but, uh–”
“Which hospital?”
He was pretty sure he said that loud enough for everyone in the class to turn their heads to him; he didn’t care. The nurse gave him the address and he dropped the call immediately after, shoving his books back into his bag.
“Ashley Hampton got shot in the morning,” he explained to the teacher who looked at him with slight interest, his voice overly-unemotional. “I am going to the hospital.”
There weren’t even any problems in getting out of class – the moment Mrs Kendrick heard him say this, she pointed at the door hastily, signing him out.
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” Aaron nodded, already outside the room. His mind was chanting “run” and his body followed the command without delay.
- - - -
He was later asked many times how did it feel to get shot. How would he describe the metal bullet ripping through his chest. And Ashley Hampton, the boy who could write a ten pages essay on anything from internal hierarchy of political organizations to extermination of mosquitos, could only find one word which encapsulated all his thoughts on the event.
Anticlimactic.
He expected something more grand, something more exciting, something that would dominate the news headlines for days and would be included into future history books. Something global. What he got instead was a bullet to the heart.
He stepped back in something reminiscent of surprise when it hit him and tripped over a tree root – wait a tree root? We’re in New Jersey, on the bank of Hudson river York, in the middle of the street with no rivers in sight. Someone yelled “Wait!” hysterically, and Ashley fell to the ground, pistol falling out of his – no, he didn’t have a pistol, Aaron Burr had a pistol and he…
Pain exploded in his chest a second too late, making him wince in agony, a single thought pulsating in his mind.
Ashley Hampton has never gotten shot before. Then who did, who did, who did, who–
And then he could suddenly think again and his thoughts were surprisingly clear – for the first time in years.
Alexander Hamilton, that’s who.
The biggest mistake Ashley Hampton has ever made got him a C grade on an essay. Hamilton’s biggest mistake got his son killed.
Ashley’s worst enemy was the pretentious kid from the parallel set. Alexander’s – the Third President of the United States.
Hampton dreamed of being a politician. Alexander Hamilton would very much rather choose a career of a lawyer (but ended up a Treasury Secretary anyways).
And yet there was a constant in their life. A constant which would be – and was – the death of them. Of him.
Ashley Hampton knew Arthur Barrow.
Alexander Hamilton knew Aaron Burr.
And they were one and the same.
- - - -
When Barrow burst into his ward absolutely out of breath, Alex was still asleep. No, asleep is a wrong word – even when Ashley sleeps, he is never at rest. He rolls over, frowns, mutters something illegible, and it seems that his brain is working even in sleep, which makes it no wonder, really, that he is always tired. Now, however, his face seemed peaceful, calm, and that was so wrong that Arthur could barely look at him for over a minute. So he fell on the chair nearest to the berth and hid his face in the duvet which smelled like cheap medicine and Alexander.
“Please wake up,” he muttered. “Please don’t die again.”
It was ironic, but he had to admit that Ashley was one of the only things that made his life worthwhile.
(And he just had to kill him the last time.)
Aaron didn’t look at the clock, didn’t bother counting minutes, and yet somehow knew perfectly well that when Ashley first stirred it was three hours after he got to the hospital. He leaned back on the chair, clenching his fists.
“Hampton? Ashley? Please tell me you’re awake.”
He got a soft “M-m-m-m…” instead of an answer, but that was quite enough: Burr jumped up and started pacing around the room nervously.
Ashley – Alexander – finally opened his eyes to this exact sight.
“Please don’t move so much,” he muttered. “You’re… flickering.”
“Oh,” Aaron exhaled, sitting back down and biting his lip. “Shit, I’m sorry. I– no, never mind. You. Are you okay? You got shot, Ashley, that son of a bitch shot you, what the hell, why did you even go outside in this hour, why– Holy shit, you scared me so much, you…”
“And I thought I tend to ramble,” Ashley smiled weakly.
He could barely move, but his thoughts were flying at two hundred miles per hour.
He remembered everything! Well, not exactly everything, since the human brain was basically incapable of memorising of everything that happened to a person during the course of their life, even if it was not that long, but enough to say that he remembered everything. He was Alexander Hamilton. The guy in front of him was Aaron Burr. They were enemies. Alex pissed him off. Aaron shot him. They were friends. They debated each other and fought for the same ideals. They worked together and helped each other.
The are friends. Right now. And that mattered the most.
(And being friends with Burr felt so much better than being enemies.)
“You do,” Arthur laughed softly, then stood up again. “Wait, I should probably call a doctor, so…”
He headed towards the exit of the room. Alex frowned, sparks of excitement in his eyes.
“Aaron, wait.”
Burr turned around, tilting his head.
“Yeah?”
“Aaron,” Ashley repeated, and the name felt weird on his teeth, sour and clatter-y, but so endlessly right that he couldn’t help but grin. When he hasn’t gotten another reaction from the guy apart from a raised eyebrow though, he rolled his eyes. “Aaron Burr, sir.”
And that has apparently made it clear enough. Arthur froze for a second, terror printed on his face, then exhaled slowly, closed his eyes and turned around, leaving the room without a word, his footsteps resonating in the hallway.
“Burr?” Hamilton exhaled with an actual frown this time, the wound in his chest suddenly responding with a sharp pain as he tried to sit up on the bed. “Burr, wait!”
And perhaps because this exclamation has echoed so much the one he himself yelled albeit a second too late a few hundred years ago, perhaps because it sounded so sincere, perhaps because it was said – for the first time in a long, long while – by Alexander, Burr couldn’t help but turn around.
“Yes, Hamilton?”
“Yes,” Ashley grinned softly. “Hamilton.”
And seeing Burr’s mouth turn into a hesitant smile as he stepped back into the ward, sitting on the edge of Alex’ bed, was totally worth getting shot for.
- - - -
“You’re alive!”
“I have all your science notes, Ashley. You’re welcome.”
“Oh my God, are you okay? Does it hurt?”
“Mary, he got shot in the chest. Of course it hurts.”
“I’d say you missed out on so much work, but you were like a few months ahead anyways, so you’ll be fine.”
“Welcome back!”
Alexander smiled to himself as he sat behind a familiar desk in his classroom, all of the other students crowding around his desk. Arthur came in a few minutes later, throwing the book bag on the seat near him.
“So, not going to drop out of school?”
“You wish,” Hamilton snorted. “I never got to have a proper high school experience in my previous life, you know. Need to catch up on some stuff.”
Aaron actually giggled at that, rolling his eyes with a fake “I’m done with this guy” sigh, as everyone else leaned in, interest and confusion mixing in their eyes.
“Previous life, you say?” Jake raised his eyebrows and Burr and Hamilton exchanged glances of ironic understanding.
God this was going to be a long story.