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They say that the eyes are a window to the soul. Was that true?
Is that true?
Alexander Hamilton doesn’t know what to think. He’s just cold, and while he doesn’t mind as much as he did in the first few damn years since he came to the States, he can’t say that he doesn’t miss his home islands. And it’s hard to focus on anything else when you’re cold. A welcome distraction, really.
A window to the soul.
A window to the soul… really? Now, what sort of poetic garbage is that? Alexander shivers, pulling his coat tighter around him. Even this many layers can’t keep a true islander warm. Huh. Perhaps if one were to look in his eyes they would see an island soul, whatever that looks like.
Do you believe that, John?
Why is he so cold all the time? Why is he so damn cold? Why are the States so cold? Maybe one day he’ll move down South – no, wait, that would mean being closer to Jefferson’s home, and he can’t yield to that sort of embarrassment, now. He smiles to himself, lips partly numb. The brat is older than him, years older than him, yet he’ll probably outlive Hamilton, what with the way he won’t stop bouncing around like a teenager. What a loser, he thinks, shaking his head, a smile still playing on his lips. They’re both practically old men now, but he has felt old since the hurricane, since he came to the States, since the first wave of terror at being completely and utterly alone hit him as he crouched on the street. A homeless, friendless bastard orphan immigrant.
It’s cold, John.
There’s no snow. Not yet, not this early in the year – instead, there’s dead leaves covering the earth in excessive amounts, like a particularly dry and crunchy blanket. October was John’s favorite month, he recalls wistfully. He liked the crisp air, and the crunch of leaves. Everything was brisk, Laurens had said, and the prospect of winter ahead made him happier. Oh, he loved the winter more than anything, but something about October seemed to make everything in him warmer, happier, more relaxed.
Soon, Alexander came to love the season, too. He appreciates the way everyone is happy and calm, a new year around the corner – months ahead, but still there – and that there are warm drinks inside, that there’s the crunch of leaves with every step he takes no matter where he is, reminding him that he’s still real. The atmosphere is almost surreal, how calm and comforting it is, so he supposes that the biting chill and the loud crunching leaves everywhere help ground him, making sure he doesn’t float away. So he stays with reality.
This is a particularly good autumn, John. I think you would like it. I wish you could be here. It would be nice to hug you sometime, but for now, our friends’ warmth is close enough.
Alexander is shaken out of his thoughts with the sudden realization that he has bumped into someone, and he apologizes profusely. The lady with the woman he bumped into who he can only assume is her wife assures him that it’s alright, then looks more closely. She asks if he’s okay, if he needs a call to be made or if he simply needs to sit down and talk with them. Both young women look concerned, and he blinks away the tears, trying to get ahold of himself. He supposes an old-ish man, listless, walking slowly and breathing oddly, tears in his eyes, may look a tad… not alright. Not to mention that he’s shivering. Eventually, after the women starts to look more concerned for him, he smiles, and all the charm of his youth is still there. He tells them that he’s fine, that he was just thinking about good memories, and they smile sadly.
These two been through things as well. He can see it in their eyes, in the way their smiles are fragile and how they stick together so closely, bodies pressed up against one another yet relaxed, like the warmth of each other is all they need.
He and John were once like that. Hell, he and Eliza were as well, but he had always glanced at John in those moments, happy where he was yet longing for John’s warmth as well.
Alexander thanks the two young ladies, they smile, says they hope he has a good day, and walk away.
He continues to walk.
He misses John. He misses Eliza, all the way in London, while he’s still here in Manhattan.
He misses Angelica, and Peggy, and his children, off at college. He misses Phillip. The thought of him hurts (beaten to death in a dark alley in Manhattan of course he was you idiot you let your child your teenage boy fight the son of a man who you know doesn’t play fair what were you thinking you fool you fucking idiot of course this is what happened).
The leaves crunch under his leather boots. His knees ache and his skin is cold everywhere even under the coats. He’s wearing the thickest sweatpants he has. A tanktop under a T-shirt under a sweatshirt under a jacket under a fucking coat and he’s really fucking damn cold. He feels so old. His eyes began to blur once more, and he angrily takes a hand out of his pocket to press his coat arm to the tears, shivering when the excess fluid on his face only makes everything colder, and shoves his hand back into his pocket.
Ah, here’s the end of the trail. He’s vaguely aware that he’s there, facing the ever-present traffic of Manhattan, that he should stop walking, and that he should – what does he do now? He should walk back; he walked all the way through Central Park to here, but he doesn’t want to walk, he’s so tired, and he’s so cold. So cold. He is so cold.
“Alexander!” Did he… is he still standing? He doesn’t really think so. But the voice is familiar. He wants to turn his head, wants to look – ah, there it is, that face. Lafayette is older than him as well, but really, neither of them are that old, he recalls sourly, and drifts off to wondering why, then, do his bones hurt all the time so much – but Lafayette’s calling him, and he forces himself to bring his eyes back from his thoughts and to Lafayette’s face. “Alexander. Alexander, look at me, mon ami, just…” Where did he come from, anyways? He must have… been nearby, why was he nearby for no reason?
“Hey,” he says faintly, and he manages to shape his now absolutely numb lips into a crude imitation of a smile. “’Sup?”
“We are too old to say that now, Alexander,” Lafayette smiles back at him. Oh, his smile is much better… he should… smiling contest, would win gold medals, or at least bronze…
“Silver,” he says out loud absently, nodding decisively and wincing when that hurts his head. Did he hit it on a rock? He supposes he did, oh – he’s lying down now, isn’t he? Well. “You would get silver.”
Lafayette’s eyes are starting to do something odd. Alexander remembers his previous train of thought, when he was contemplating – what was it? The eyes are the window to a soul? Well, no matter how much that sounded like bad poetry, he can’t help but think that Laf’s eyes have to be a window to his soul, because they’re so – big, and nice, and so warm. Right now, they look sad. Oh, no, why’s he sad? Laf should never be sad. That should be illegal.
“Don’t be sad, Laf,” he says, and his voice sounds loud, loud loud to him – it’s almost annoying. How odd, usually he loves to talk a lot. But now he just wants to sleep. He’s tired. Old. He thinks that if someone were to look in his eyes, as Laf is probably doing right now, they would see wrinkles. In his eyes. Because his soul is probably very old. “Don’t be…”
There’s something that’s not right, but Alex is so comfortable. He wants to just stay there, now vaguely aware of his friend’s arms around him, still cold but now a little warmer because Laf just positively radiates heat, maybe it’s a French thing, but… now there’s another pair of arms, and he thinks maybe he heard Herc’s voice. And then it’s next to his ear, saying, “Alex, stay with us.”
“Not goin’ ‘nywhere,” Alexander slurs, almost annoyed at the frantic tone of his friend’s voice. He looks into his eyes, and tries to poke them, thinking maybe he could touch the soul inside. Wait, wasn’t he just thinking about how silly that was? But Laf’s soul was definitely in his eyes, so maybe it was true… “Shut up.”
“... Always been rude…” Laf’s voice comes through, and Alexander wants to reach up and smack him. But he’s real tired. Real tired. “Alexander, petit lion, stay awake for a little longer. You must stay awake. Please.”
“Yeah, man, stay up. You were up for like hours when we weren’t so old, weren’t you? You wouldn’t… ever sleep.” Herc’s voice is and always has been deep and steady. Laf’s was always steady too, but now it’s shaking. He doesn’t like that. There’s something about Herc’s voice, too, and Alex isn’t okay with that, because that means there’s something wrong, and he doesn’t want them to be sad, and he tries to tell them it’s fine, that he’s just really tired and wants to go to sleep, but he is tired and he can’t even talk. Wow, how long did he stay up? He doesn’t think that it’s been… what day is it, now…?
“Alexander… please…”
“Alex! Bro, just – I know we’re old as fuck now but c’mon, we were young once - !”
He misses John so much. He’s not as cold now, he thinks, because there are three pairs of arms – wait, what, three? Yes, he’s positive that there are three, but there’s – he can’t see –
And then John’s there, John fucking Laurens is looking at him, smiling, looking sad but he’s there. No, no, he definitely is not allowed to be sad, because – because –
“They need you to stay, Alex.” His voice! His voice, John’s voice, he’s – he hasn’t heard that in much too long, he holds onto it and drags himself towards it, until he realizes he’s not moving. He’s still lying on the ground, and his head faintly hurts, but it’s more like he’s not really there – almost like he’s floating, wow, that’s super cool. John is up, and if he’s floating, that means he’s closer, right?
“ALEX!” Laf is screaming. Herc’s – he thinks Herc’s eyes are tearing up, too, but he doesn’t want to look, but he doesn’t want to close his eyes, because they’re there, and he doesn’t want them to be sad, fuck, they can’t be sad.
He wants them to be happy.
But John, his John, John with his warm arms and freckles and his nice hair and his laugh is up and away.
He looks at Laf and Herc, and for a moment Herc looks at him, and Laf’s eyes look down at him, and he can hear the sirens around him. They’re coming, but this is Manhattan, they’re probably gonna have a hard time getting there, especially in Central Park. They could help him. They could – could –
Soul eyes. Windows to the soul. Lafayette has his whole, big, warm soul in his eyes, and so does Hercules, and he loves them both so much.
But he looks at them. And he makes sure they realize at the same time he does with perfect clarity, exactly how much he loves them. He sees them knowing, he sees their eyes understand.
And then he closes his eyes, and he is warm.