Chapter Text
☀︎
The moon has intrigued humanity since the dawn of time. Ancient civilizations recorded how the moon changed position, shape, and vanished from the sky. The moon became the reason behind changes in weather, and behavior, a pattern of her own making. She would make her mark in mythologies across the globe, a goddess overlooking the ocean tides and crops in the fields. The moon presented mankind with the lunar cycle, counting the passage of days and predicting the coming of the seasons, which was crucial to agriculture and hunting practices. It was so significant, in fact, that the moon became the basis for the earliest calendars.
Following the invention of the telescope in the early 17th century, research began in earnest. The first maps of the moon were charted by mathematician Thomas Harriot and astronomer Galileo Galilei, who discovered the circular shapes and other oddities on what was long thought to be a perfect, heavenly sphere. This discovery was a source of great controversy at the time, as any such bold claims was a strike against Religious teachings. Yet, as their findings would suggest, the moon was not a translucent and perfect sphere, as Aristotle claimed, and hardly the “eternal pearl” of ascension into the highest heaven, as put forth by Dante.
The moon was full of unforeseen complexities. Though the Age of Enlightenment moved sciences forward, the moon would remain an enigma. She showed only a sliver of herself to those on Earth, hiding her other sides in the dark.
Hamilton flipped the page.
Having an interest in a particular course of study was nothing new to Alexander Hamilton, a man with a voracious appetite for learning.
Anything he wished to know was a challenge he deemed to be conquered. A goal he set out to achieve. It was a mentality that served as motivation, because where would he be if not for his zealous nature? It was his intensity, his passion, that was his salvation from the turmoil of his past. It was his unwavering spirit, his tenacious reading and writing, that brought him to where he was now: an officer in the Continental Army. His diligence had earned him a position as Lieutenant Colonel, an aide-de-camp to none other than General Washington himself, their Commander-in-Chief.
Needless to say, Hamilton was familiar with the desire to know more. It was a craving he always sought to satisfy. His endless pursuit of knowledge. Knowledge was his ticket to bring about change, and his ticket to the future—damned be the myths and legends that warned mortals of its dangers. To withhold knowledge from people was to keep them in ignorance.
Now, being an aide meant his studies were relegated to brief moments in the late hours of the night, perhaps the only time he could dedicate to his essay-writing and borrowed books. It was a small price to pay for the prospect of a nation he could—and would—have a hand in building. Hamilton couldn’t afford to waste any time, knowing the war interrupted his studies at King’s College. And he’d resolved to learn as much as he could on his own, something he’d accomplished well enough even as a parentless child in the Caribbean.
He flipped another page, skimming the words of the American Philosophical Society’s publication, Transactions. This first volume spanned findings from 1769 to 1771 in a collection of papers, essays, and reports, one of which featured the account of Society member David Rittenhouse’s observation of the 1769 Venus Transit.
The scientific journal was filled with information, and Hamilton consumed it like a man parched. It had become almost second nature to him, every piece of information filed away into the vault of his mind. He was a dedicated student who took his studies very seriously.
What Hamilton did not anticipate was a certain curiosity that wandered its way into his thoughts every so often.
It bubbled to the forefront of his mind, an innocent yet persistent reminder. A wellspring of fascination that took the form of a certain Southerner.
John Laurens was a topic of curiosity in which Hamilton took great interest.
This was a man he first regarded as someone with no remarkable distinction of merit. John Laurens was a wealthy Southerner, and the son of Henry Laurens, the Head of Congress. He had his family’s affluence and high station to thank for a prosperous upbringing, which of course included a formal education in Europe. Everything about him reeked with the spoiled riches of privilege.
His first impression of Laurens was that of a boy raised with a silver spoon. A young man who did not know hardship, not really, because people of his social standing rarely faced any hardship. Yes, he was well-educated, but his knowledge came from the lofty schools of London and Geneva, alongside peers of similar backgrounds.
And yet—
Laurens was full of unforeseen complexities, showing only a fraction of himself at every turn, to suit the standards of propriety. He would walk into the room in a few, graceful strides, his posture straight, his manners befitting that of a proper gentleman. He was a man of subdued charm, a quiet charisma which presented itself in unexpected moments, as though catching a glimpse of a pearl hidden in a shell. He had a side for the Army, a side for his father, and a side that was privy only to those closest to him.
“Hamilton,” A familiar voice called.
It was a voice that had burrowed deep inside Hamilton’s chest, a voice he could recognize in a room full of people. Hearing his name in that voice brought a smile to his lips.
He glanced up from his book and to the source of the voice, the aforementioned topic of interest.
Laurens was standing opposite him in the aides’ office of their Headquarters in Valley Forge, illuminated by the dim glow of the fireplace. His queue had loosened after a long day making rounds in the camp with Harrison and sending dispatches with their fellow Meade.
The light of the fire, flickering despite the cold of the room, made his hair shimmer like a halo.
“Hamilton,” He said again, more sternly this time.
“Yes, my dear Laurens?” Hamilton smiled.
“I believe you are aware of the hour, Hamilton.” Laurens said in a reproachful tone, but it was far too soft to hold any threat.
“It is a late hour,” Hamilton acknowledged.
“An hour much better spent sleeping.”
“It is an hour that I am not bound by my duties to this office, and I would prefer to read at my leisure.” Hamilton began, his gaze returning to the leather-bound book in his hand.
“Hamilton.” This time his name came out like a sigh.
In it there was tenderness and frustration all at once. Hamilton found he wanted to discover all the different ways Laurens could say his name.
“Must I bring you to bed myself?” Laurens shook his head.
Without a word, Hamilton kicked his feet up and propped them on another chair, bringing the book up to his face and blocking his view of Laurens. He sat in silence, passively reading the words, then loudly flipped to the next page. It was an obnoxious display of defiance, a challenge, because Hamilton loved to test the boundaries.
Laurens didn’t respond right away. Instead he stood there and watched Hamilton blatantly ignore him.
For a moment Hamilton wondered if Laurens would simply give in and retire to bed on his own, but the man was perhaps more stubborn than he was.
Only a moment later, there was the sound of boots on the wooden floorboards. A hand descended on the book.
Rather than swipe it away, however, Laurens leaned in close, their cheeks nearly pressed together, as he peered at the words himself.
Hamilton felt a warmth bloom inside his chest at the sudden proximity. They were like school children sharing a book, except they were grown, and the printed words were far too little, and this closeness was a distraction from the text.
“If you must read, then so shall I.” Laurens declared, kneeling beside him. He turned slightly to meet his eyes. “If this publication is so riveting that you would prefer it to sleep, I wish to know what it entails.”
With the book raised before them, the orange glow of the fireplace faded away, replaced by the silver light from the windows.
Moonlight fell across the room like a delicate veil, dust motes floating in the air as if a reflection of the snowflakes beyond the windows. The moonlight seemed to catch on Laurens—his smooth jaw, strong nose, the curve of his lip. It was as if the moon herself was admiring him, the way the light flattered his features, how his blue eyes turned to crystal. Hamilton inhaled sharply.
“It is you who is riveting.” He said before he could catch himself.
Laurens blinked at him.
Before he could muster a response, Hamilton leaned in and kissed him. He felt an instant thrill in the warmth between their lips, a comfort in the bitter cold of winter, and most of all, it was his dear Laurens—his riveting, breathtaking Laurens.
Laurens, despite his initial surprise, did not pull away.
Instead, when they parted for breath, he brought his hands up to Hamilton’s face.
There was a lingering quiet between them, their known doubts unspoken. Laurens looked into his eyes, as if searching for an answer.
Hamilton lowered the book to the table and brought his hand around Laurens, holding him by the back of his head. He felt his fingers catch in the loose strands, before he pulled Laurens close again, bringing their mouths together once more.
Heat sprung forth from their bodies. Hamilton wished to swaddle Laurens in this warmth, to surround him with affection so there would be no doubt as to how dearly he cared for him.
“Alex,” Laurens released a shuddering breath. A cloud formed in the air between them, from the cold or from the heat, they did not know.
Laurens glanced worryingly towards the doorway then made a motion to withdraw, but Hamilton held fast, using his other hand to grab Laurens by the wrist.
“It is a late hour.” Hamilton echoed, his voice almost a whisper. He pressed another kiss upon Laurens, who sighed against his lips.
“Yes,” Laurens nodded. Then he looked at him with a smile so unexpected, it stole Hamilton’s breath away. There was a twinkle in his eyes when the next words came, in another echo. “An hour much better spent sleeping.”
Hamilton didn’t resist the urge to kiss him again.
“I find it could be much better spent in your arms, and you in mine.” He said, and Laurens sighed softly.
“Alex…”
“We are alone, at this moment.” Hamilton said, his hands moving to cover the ones holding his face. “Did you not consider that I might prefer to see you in the hours we are not tethered to our desks and pens? Did you not consider that I might have already read this publication ten times over, and that I might have waited for you to come fetch me?”
“I know you to be of a studious character, Alex,” Laurens spoke quietly. “One who would spend every waking moment reading and writing to convince others of your ideals. It is and always will be a trait I admire about you. You would learn every angle, memorize every detail, and write your argument with such eloquence, such conviction, that it is impossible to disagree.”
“Should I write to convince you of my intentions?” Hamilton leaned in for another kiss, hoping to swallow the unease that plagued Laurens so. He felt a tremble against his lip, a shift in Laurens that could mean a variety of things.
Laurens stared at him with such a look in his eyes, of trepidation, of adoration, of an intensity that Hamilton felt mirrored his own.
“You are a light in the dark, Alexander.” He breathed out.
“And you are a question I wish to spend the rest of my days answering.” Hamilton kissed him again, pulling away only so that he may gaze upon his face. “I wish to know everything about you, my dear John. You are an enigma I can never seem to decipher.”
The man was a walking contradiction. His gentlemanly exterior belied a heated passion. A soft smile that faded away in the blink of an eye. There was an air of mystery that surrounded him, that he would present himself one way while keeping so many other sides of him in the dark. It was not secrecy, but a guardedness that confounded Hamilton. That such a brilliant man, with such compassionate and honorable sensibilities, could so easily vanish from sight. That such a handsome, charming man of integrity, never seemed within reach. Laurens showed himself, his true self, in such precious, fleeting moments that it would make any heart clench. Laurens was unforeseen, and unpredictable. It only left Hamilton with more questions than answers.
Laurens offered a smile.
“If I am an enigma, then you are the answer.”
Hamilton felt the beating organ inside his chest leap.
All manner of etiquette be damned, Hamilton threw his arms around Laurens and pushed himself into his chest. Laurens attempted to catch their fall as they tumbled to the floor, their buttons clinking against each other. They were fortunate that the green cloth they used as coverings on the desks draped to the floor, serving to cushion them in this instance. They would have to remember to adjust it to its upright position. Thankfully they managed not to make chairs scratch the floor or any papers fly about in their tangle of limbs, as Hamilton crushed their mouths together.
He wanted to kiss Laurens until the end of time.
“Alex,” Laurens gasped for breath, before Hamilton latched onto his lips once more.
There was a palpable hesitation in Laurens that Hamilton gathered from the way his hands loosened and tightened, an indecision on whether to pull away or press in deeper. They were on the floor, Hamilton hooking one leg around Laurens, arms wrapped around his neck. He would ensure it to be an endeavor for Laurens to push him away and retreat again into his perpetual shroud of mystery.
Still, even Hamilton needed to part for air eventually, despite how much he loathed to be interrupted, and Laurens was granted a moment to speak.
“Alex.” He said firmly. His eyes glinted in the moonlight.
There was that resolute strength of will that Hamilton loved. An unwavering determination that rivaled his own. It was yet another glimpse into that shining light of Laurens that only appeared in these fleeting moments. Hamilton wished he could capture it in a bottle so that he may have it forever.
“Yes, John?” Hamilton stared at him in wonder.
Laurens leaned in and gave a consolatory, chaste kiss.
“Not here.” He whispered against his lips.
Hamilton stifled a noise. It was always so difficult to oppose such an argument.
With a defeated sigh, Hamilton relented to his wishes and leaned back, reluctantly.
“You should know I do not take this to be a concession, but a recess.” He said with a stubborn huff. “I fully intend and expect recompense.”
With a chuckle, Laurens righted himself so that he could lay more comfortably at Hamilton’s side.
“Of that, I should be happy to provide.”
“And I shall keep you to your word.” Hamilton grinned. He reached for Laurens, letting his hands trace the line of buttons down his waistcoat and granting himself permission to hold Laurens by the hip, fingers slipping under his coat. Laurens allowed it.
“In due time, and in the right place,” Laurens said, chuckling at Hamilton’s exasperated look. He ran his own hand along Hamilton’s side in a soothing gesture.
There was an inquisitive nature in his touch, how Laurens lingered over the seams at his waist, or tested the way the coat fell over his chest with a flick of a finger.
“I did not know you had an interest in Astronomy.” Laurens commented, seemingly at random.
Hamilton blinked in confusion before he realized.
The book—Transactions of the American Philosophical Society.
“Ah, that,” Hamilton huffed out a laugh. His mind had been so preoccupied with thoughts of his dear John that he had almost forgotten about it. “It is a publication from the American Philosophical Society. You have seen a glimpse of the Mathematics and Astronomical Papers, but you must know there are yet other sections for essays in Agriculture, and Medicine.”
Laurens hummed thoughtfully.
“I had taken a liking to those subjects as a child. Seeing you read about the stars and Venus, I simply…” Laurens pressed his lips together. “The thought crossed my mind that you might have a gravitational pull of your own, the way I am drawn to you.”
At that moment Laurens looked at him with such veneration, Hamilton felt a flutter of tingles across his body.
“As the Earth revolves around the Sun,” Laurens said with the most beautiful smile.
Hamilton sighed inwardly.
“Then I am truly blessed that you have entered my orbit, my dear John.” He replied, resisting the urge to pull Laurens closer, his hands restless. “I would prefer a collision every time I see you.”
“Yes,” Laurens closed his eyes. “Though I am happy enough to bask in your radiance.”
Hamilton watched him, how peaceful Laurens looked, resting his eyes, picturesque in the moonlight. He wanted nothing more than to hold him close, share in his warmth.
“Shall we sleep here, then?” Hamilton spoke quietly.
Laurens exhaled, eyes fluttering open.
“I have considered it.” He said slowly, then shook his head. “But we mustn’t. I had intended to escort you to bed, when you tackled me to the floor.”
“A crude choice of words,” Hamilton pointed out.
“I find myself distracted with everything to do with you.” Laurens continued. “As such with your reading. How dedicated and awe-inspiring you are, reading on subjects such as Astronomy in the midst of war.”
“Should you like to read my books, I would gladly share them with you in my quarters.” Hamilton said with a cheeky grin. His hand moved around Laurens, feeling the buttons on the back of his coat. “I can arrange a time so that the room will offer much privacy.”
“You seek to twist my aim, but I do wonder of the contents, as teachings of natural philosophy in Europe vary.” Laurens said earnestly. “I am aware the Royal Society has influenced American teachings. However, I know little else, and I should wish to know more for our country.”
The way Laurens thwarted Hamilton’s advances should deflate any excitement, but his honest curiosity, for the sake of science and for the sake of America, could only stir feelings of rapture in Hamilton. This was a man who sought to improve their Nation in every conceivable way—in freedom, in education, in government, in abolition—
Hamilton pulled himself upright, bringing Laurens up with him. They sat on the floor together like two conspirators, with the moon as their witness. The moonlight beamed down on them accusingly, as the hour went far past what they should wish for each other.
“Would you not agree that your schooling in Europe is superior to that of here?” Hamilton asked.
The question caught Laurens off guard.
“I would say resources are abundant in such a place,” Laurens admitted, clearly embarrassed to bring attention to his formal education, an extravagance afforded by his status. He exhaled. “But it is not a matter of superiority. I believe intellectual pursuits to be a collective effort for all mankind, and I would hope that America is not regressive in its teachings.”
Hamilton smiled and rose to his feet, and Laurens followed suit, both of them setting the table and chairs right again. Hamilton grabbed Transactions where he’d left it, then spun around and shoved the book at Laurens.
“I must gather the other publications I have, but I shall bring them to you.” Hamilton said, gesturing to the doorway. “I must let you read on your own. We shall speak on this when you are done. I would like to know your thoughts on our American findings.”
“My apologies, Hamilton, I…” Laurens frowned, holding the book with an expression of uncertainty. “I did not intend to offend you.”
Hamilton stared at him, baffled.
“Laurens, you have done nothing but the opposite.” He grabbed Laurens by the arms, practically beaming at him. “You inspire me to think beyond my realm of understanding. You remind me not to lose sight of my aim—that our fight is not only for our country’s independence, but for all of her faculties. What is a country without the tools and knowledge of which others might boast? Should we not be a country governed by her people, and should not her people be knowledgeable to serve at their utmost?”
This time it was Laurens who stared back at him, stars in his eyes.
“Yes,” Laurens said, after a moment. His hand clutched tight around the leather-bound book. “Quite so.”
“Yes,” Hamilton repeated, in assurance. He squeezed Laurens one last time before he finally relinquished his grip. “And you should know you are successful in your aim—it is I who now ushers us both to bed.”
Laurens laughed.
☾
Laurens had taken interest in the arts and natural sciences as a child. It was an interest his late mother had encouraged, as young Laurens sketched the world around him. There was something to appreciate in all living creatures on Earth, that the flora and fauna breathed with life, with purpose. The veins within the leaves, the shape of turtle shells, the variation of colors in the sky, were all part of a marvelous world of wonders. Life was full of light, and the sunshine was never ending.
A sudden darkness would cast a shadow on his life at the death of his mother, whose loss only made his father colder.
In a youth speckled with personal tragedy, his studies became a place of solace. Lessons would refine his knowledge and understanding, tools that would benefit him, distract him from the pain, and push him forward. To possess knowledge was a power that was earned. A formal education could be bought, but it was the student who must make an effort to learn. It was that fact, that sense of independence and control, that Laurens needed.
As decreed by his father, Laurens studied law in Europe, where he perhaps overindulged in his newfound independence away from the judgmental eyes of his father. As a result, memories of London and Geneva were fraught with choices Laurens wished he could take back. He would often hear the word mistake, mistake, mistake in his recollection of his experiences. It was a complicated issue, worsened by his father’s sternly worded letters, having nowhere to turn to and no one to blame but himself.
How could he? How could he? What have you done?
Shame was the phantom that haunted Laurens, that he would see a familiar silhouette in the shadows, taunting him for his inclinations. It was nothing but a dalliance, if even that, and he was wrong to presume otherwise. The name formed in his mind—Francis—in the swooping lettering of his hand. His voice was still so fresh and sharp in his memory, like a sweet poison, reminding him of his fatal mistake. And then Martha, his dear girl, was there in his moment of weakness. That vulnerable state had Laurens desperate to follow the natural order, to hold a woman rather than a man, and in so doing, conceived a child. A daughter named Frances, in a cruel twist of fate, left alone with her mother in London while Laurens fled to America. The thought alone plunged him into darkness—what have you done? How could you?
In the depths of his mind, Laurens was fearful of the dangers of being found out. Those fears came to him in his sleep, where his subconscious conjured men in uniform confronting him in front of friends and fellow aides who would bear witness to his guilt, or worse, catching him in the middle of a shameful act. The horrors that would follow. The betrayed faces of those he cared for, the revolted look in their eyes, the disappointment, the shame. Laurens would walk to the gallows, and not even his death could salvage his reputation, tarnished forever and ruining his father’s career. In some instances, another would be standing beside him, his fiery red hair shimmering in the daylight as they tied a rope around his neck, and Laurens would thrash and fight to free him—
Alexander—
Laurens woke in a cold sweat, the creeping darkness of his unconscious gripping to the edges of his mind.
It took a moment for things to form familiar shapes as Laurens felt the linen on his skin, eyed the low ceiling of the garret above him, and noticed the way the sunrise poured in through the attic windows. It was still early, and no one in the house was awake, but Laurens couldn’t risk closing his eyes and seeing those horrors again.
Not Alexander—
A wave of emotion crashed through him, thinking of court-martials and men accused of sodomy.
With a shaky breath, Laurens brought his hands up to his face. His fingers were like icicles on his skin, and he could hardly feel his knees or toes.
Until there was a nudge of another leg, and then a sweep of another arm across his chest, and suddenly Laurens was face to face with the very man he should distance himself from.
“Good morning,” Hamilton mumbled into his shoulder.
The most wonderful heat radiated from Hamilton’s slighter frame, and Laurens wished he didn’t adore him so. Every touch ached, and every moment apart filled him with such longing. To have him here, sharing a bed together, was a dream. And Hamilton was a vision to behold. The sunrise would crest the horizon bringing the new day, but Laurens was convinced the sun was lying here beside him, the red coils of his hair flaring around him like rays of the sun, the freckles of his skin like spots where he burned too hotly. His smile could brighten even the dark side of the moon. Here, beside him, he looked just like a dream.
How Laurens feared to wake up from this dream.
“Good morning.” Laurens responded in a whisper.
Hamilton pressed closer to kiss him on the lips, and Laurens felt everything else melt away. Then Hamilton moved on top of him, slotting one leg between his own. His hair fell around them in a curtain of fiery curls.
With only their nightshirts and stockings keeping their skin from touching, Laurens found the thin fabric grew warmer in their closeness. He wrapped his hands around Hamilton, relishing in the warmth of his body, and returned his kiss.
“I am sorry for waking you,” Laurens ran his hands down Hamilton’s back. “It is still early. You might still gain another hour of rest.”
“The sun has already risen, and so has my John,” Hamilton countered. “I see no reason why I should.”
“No, for you choose not to.” Laurens shook his head, but he was smiling. “Your logic must always win in an argument, even if your opponent argues for your sake.”
“That is where you are wrong, my dear John.” Hamilton grabbed Laurens by the nose and gave a playful squeeze, earning a muffled noise in response. “If it is truly for my sake, then my wishes would be taken into consideration. You would tell me to sleep and eat, even if I should not want to.”
“You play the devil’s advocate.” Laurens pursed his lips. “I speak on your health, which it seems you wish to undermine. If a man is not of sound mind, he can bring himself harm. Those with sense understand the importance of meeting one’s bodily needs. Although the man might argue or resist, it is for his sake.”
Hamilton hummed.
“Alright, I concede to that point.” Hamilton said to Laurens, fingers trailing across the sliver of skin at the open collar of his nightshirt. “Perhaps I have been unkind to the needs of my body.”
Laurens blinked in surprise, then cleared his throat.
“Of hunger and sleep.” He clarified, watching Hamilton tuck waves of hair behind his ears.
“Yes,” Hamilton nodded while his hands wandered. He touched Laurens from the planes of his chest, down the wrinkles of his nightshirt, fingers pressing through the fabric and into the ridges of his torso. “But there are also other needs.”
“Alex,” Laurens began, stopped short when those hands reached his thighs. Any lower and they would touch the edges of his nightshirt.
There was a damning heat coiling deep in his abdomen, and he knew the more Hamilton touched, the more irresistible the urge became.
“You would not deny me this,” Hamilton said it like a question, in acknowledgement of their mutual need. A desire he must ascertain was reciprocated. “John.”
Of course Laurens wanted him—Laurens wanted him long before Hamilton could even make sense of their friendship, and he was certain of that. Laurens knew of his own nature, how much it tormented him, and Hamilton just happened to be a man unafraid to venture into the unknown, a man who took matters into his own hands. Laurens had always admired that about him. That he would indulge in the pleasures of life knowing the dangerous consequences. It was dauntless, fearless, reckless.
Yet, in a way, Laurens reflected that audacious spirit. He took to battle with valor, to charge onward with his head held high. It was this—this intimacy—that he struggled with indecision. The difficulty he had in the face of such temptation. It was a dance with danger. A dance with death.
Hamilton’s fingers reached the skin of his thighs. Laurens gasped under his breath.
“John, it is you.” Hamilton said, adamant. The fire in his eyes. “I need you.”
Those words sent a surge through Laurens, of want, of need, as he was engulfed by the flames.
Just like that, he pulled Hamilton close and crushed their mouths together.
The rush of desire overflowed between them, the way Laurens delighted in the feeling of Hamilton in his arms, how perfectly he fit in his embrace. Their bodies, pressed together, made their desire apparent. It was tangible between their legs, notable in their rising forms, and Hamilton was very eager.
Laurens would sigh into Hamilton’s mouth at his touch, the slide of his hand.
He ran his hands down Hamilton’s back, feeling the dip in the curve of his spine, until they came to the hem of his nightshirt. Laurens would bring his fingers underneath to explore the freckled skin of his thighs, wishing to catch each one in his lips.
The heat was immeasurable in this proximity. This intimacy. Laurens always found himself at odds with his own thoughts each time Hamilton lured him in, how this was the most wonderful thing to happen, how this would not bode well for them. How rampant his mind became with these conflicting thoughts. How could Laurens indulge in such a thing, to find joy and pleasure in this?
“Alex,” His name came out a trembling sigh as Hamilton trailed kisses down his neck, each one like a dose of wine, how his skin warmed and tingled under his lips.
How could Laurens refuse such bliss?
Laurens slid his hands under Hamilton’s nightshirt, appreciating the slight curves he found there, and the satisfied sigh from Hamilton’s lips. He would happily chart a map with his hands, to trace the rise and fall of lean muscles, to find constellations in the freckles of his skin. He could easily believe Hamilton was a celestial being, with his constant light and fire, their closeness a slice of heaven.
There was no sense of shame or guilt in Hamilton the way it haunted Laurens, how he would press their bodies together and roll his hips, knowing the rhapsody that would follow. Hamilton created friction for them both, his movement against Laurens affecting them in tandem, his hips rolling and their bare skin touching and oh, God it was too much and Laurens would simply come apart.
It was an unraveling that would come suddenly and abruptly, how the clenching of muscles would ignite the eruption within, until Laurens was shuddering in Hamilton’s arms.
In that moment of blind passion, Laurens pulled Hamilton in and held him tight, hands feeling and touching and committing him to memory. Laurens thought he should recognize Hamilton by touch alone.
The thought seemed to transfer to Hamilton, the way he followed Laurens, chasing after his hands, as he bore his hips down again and again.
“John,” He whispered before kissing him, just rolling his hips and kissing him. Hamilton repeated his name as if he were clinging to it with his last breath of sanity, and it made Laurens weak. “John, oh, John.”
“Alex…”
Laurens pulled him in just as Hamilton came down, pressing their bodies flush against each other, and Laurens would catch Hamilton’s lips in a searing kiss.
The action elicited a muffled whine, and he felt Hamilton’s lips move in the shape of his name—John—as Laurens ran his hands along his sides. It seemed Hamilton appreciated it, the way his hips would sway into the motion of his hands, his hips rolling and their skin touching, until he stuttered and came to fruition, that unraveling.
The moment of rapture was brief, yet infinite.
Hamilton would collapse on Laurens, who wiped them with a spare cloth they would later dispose of with all manner of discretion. For now they held each other, at least for a little while, until duty and obligation called them.
The sun was risen, light beaming across the room with such brightness, as if it should eliminate darkness itself. It fell on Hamilton so perfectly, Laurens would be blinded by the sight.
Laurens admired every freckle on his face, every eyelash resting on his cheek, every strand of hair that turned luminous in the sunlight.
“It pains me greatly that we must separate and leave this perfect cocoon,” Hamilton muttered, drawing circles on Laurens with a finger. He tilted his head to look at Laurens directly. “I wish time would stop, even for a moment.”
Laurens smiled fondly.
“I would like that.” He nodded, grabbing Hamilton’s hand and lacing his fingers through his own. Laurens couldn’t resist the chuckle bubbling out of him when he realized. “Though I am sure if you could stop time, you would spend all of it on your work.”
“It would be a waste not to,” Hamilton smirked.
“Rightfully so, except I fear you will never resume time again.” Laurens huffed out a laugh, tutting Hamilton when he opened his mouth to retort. “You will always find something which requires your hand. You would cure all diseases in that time frame. You are too brilliant not to make use of the time allotted.”
“Quite right.” Hamilton smiled, pausing. “Though you must not forget—you would be there with me.”
Laurens met his gaze, the tempest in his eyes. His heart pounded. Laurens wondered if Hamilton could hear it, feel it, chest to chest.
“If you wish,” Laurens said so softly, it was almost a whisper.
Hamilton stared at him for a moment, those beautiful eyes a raging storm that was impossible to read. There was an equally indiscernible expression on his face, looking at Laurens as if he were puzzling out something about him.
“What do you dream of?” Hamilton asked him.
“You mean, beyond freedom and abolition and our Nation,” Laurens added in clarification, to which Hamilton didn’t respond.
Instead, his expression twisted into one of concern.
“What do you dream of that always startles you awake?” Hamilton pivoted.
It became evidently clear that Hamilton had been wondering this from the start. And by the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes, there was no avoiding this question.
Laurens breathed out a sigh. He looked down at their intertwined hands and squeezed.
“Simply my greatest fears.”
Hamilton stared at him, but did not press further.
Instead, his hand squeezed back.
“Alas, I cannot stop time.” Hamilton said, changing the subject once again, and Laurens was silently grateful. “But I intend to cherish you for as long as I am able.”
Laurens pressed his lips to the top of his head.
“You are the dream that I wish never to wake from.” Laurens whispered into sunny curls.
Hamilton snapped his head up to look at him, that intense fire in his eyes.
“You must not say such things.” Hamilton furrowed his brow.
“I did not say anything,” Laurens averted his gaze.
“If you say such things, you must be aware of the effect it has on me, and how unfair it is,” Hamilton adjusted himself, leaning over Laurens so that he may kiss him on the lips. “As I shall not let you leave without answering for it, and I should not wish us to be tardy to our duties.”
“Alex—”
“You beautiful scoundrel.” Hamilton kissed him.
“Alex—”
Hamilton truly was an eternal, burning flame. One that engulfed all that entered his path, his orbit. He was warmth, and he was light. A constant fire that never waned, never faltered. His passion burned with the intensity of the sun itself, rising and meeting each day with such purpose, such intentionality, that Laurens would believe the universe revolved around him. Hamilton was the sun in his sky, and Laurens found that as long as Hamilton was there, life was full of light, and the sunshine never ending.
☀︎
Hamilton often found himself invited to dinner parties with Generals and their wives. His wit and charm were assets in a conversational setting, and Hamilton was not averse to such social games. In fact, he found it to be an entertaining exercise to impress others with his ability to spin words together. And so he dazzled the crowd with tales of their General, built a rapport with those who followed with questions, and delighted the audience with the ease in which he spoke.
It was a familiar scene; a different kind of battleground meant to curry favor with important figures or siphon information for their intelligence. Either way, it was a task Hamilton did exceptionally well.
Although he did not often participate in the dancing aspect of these events—most conversations happened in the periphery anyway—it was a social obligation for those in attendance. Regrettably, Hamilton did not have the proper lessons and experience to perform confidently in such dances, so when he wasn’t humoring a lady, Hamilton stood among the officers and watched the dance from afar.
Fortunately not all of Washington’s aides were so lacking in formal dance. Harrison and Tilghman would take to the floor for a song or two, dancing with a General’s wife or perhaps with one of the women of the house. His Excellency himself would step on the dance floor beside his Martha, their hands raised between them.
The string quartet would play their music, and the line of couples would glide down the room. They carried themselves with a certain lilt in their posture, as though walking on their toes. They touched hands and spun around, before turning to mirror the same action with the other hand. Their dresses and coats swirled in moving swaths of color until they became a fading vignette, but in Hamilton’s eyes, one dancer only became more radiant.
Laurens.
He was enthralling. Laurens, stepping forward and then to the side, bowing and swaying with all the grace in the world. He turned with his feet pointed and his arms poised for his partner, who placed her hand on his palm. His fingers would curl gently over hers as they floated across the dance floor. With such finesse, they could step onto the clouds. Laurens moved in such a way that could make the rest of the world disappear.
Hamilton felt his chest tighten at the sight, how Laurens and his lady twirled around the dance floor as if they were the only ones in the room. How he wished to be the one holding Laurens in his arms. To see that radiant smile and feel the clouds beneath their feet.
At that moment Laurens glanced in his direction, as if reading his mind. There was a certain look in his eyes, and a soft smile, reserved only for him.
Hamilton held his breath.
Time could not move more slowly.
When the song came to an end, the couples finished their dance and slowed to a stop, choosing either to step to the side or find a new dance partner. Laurens could be seen speaking with his lady, a charming smile on his lips. They exchanged a few words, her laughing and him smiling, as they walked to the side. Then it seemed she would say something amusing that would cause Laurens to laugh, before he dipped in a polite bow and she curtsied.
Once they parted ways, Laurens raised his head in search of him, their eyes meeting.
Hamilton could swear his heart was beating inside his ears.
Even then, he did not stop his eyes from following Laurens as he wove through the crowd towards him. That his visage, appearing in fragments between the faces of strangers and acquaintances, would bring such light.
It was then that Hamilton decided to meet him halfway, taking off from his position. He simply could not wait. Hamilton wanted to speak to him, to see him up close and hear his voice. Yearning made him so very impatient.
Faces passed in a blur as Hamilton walked towards his Laurens, who smiled at his approach. Hamilton felt a fluttering inside his chest that was second only to the flame that burned through his body once they closed the distance.
“Laurens!” Hamilton clasped a hand around his arm. He was grinning so wide, his cheeks ached.
“Hamilton,” Laurens said with such fondness in his eyes and a smile that pierced through Hamilton’s chest. He held Hamilton by his elbows, and it was all Hamilton could do not to burst into flames.
There were words forming in his mind, racing too fast for Hamilton to make sense of them. He felt that Laurens had taken away his power of speech, that he should be so breathtaking and captivating as to swindle the words from his mouth.
“My dear Laurens.” He managed, and reached for Laurens with both hands, as if he should disappear the second he let go.
Laurens gazed fondly at him for a moment longer.
“Might I have a word with you?” He asked.
“Yes.” Hamilton replied almost instantly. “Of course.”
Laurens smiled as he directed them towards the doorway.
They shuffled past the crowd in the ballroom, standing so close together that their shoulders were touching and their hands brushed where they dangled at their sides.
Hamilton used the opportunity to catch Laurens in his fingers, giving a quick squeeze of his hand, far below eye level.
That startled Laurens, who shot him a look that could only be reprimanding, if not for the red in his cheeks. Laurens was simply too fun to tease.
Suddenly, Hamilton felt a hand on his forearm, Laurens leading them outside at a much faster pace.
They passed by servants and officers, secretaries and ladies, everyone flitting about the house as the party went into the night. Some gathered in the parlor to have more private conversations, while others indulged in food and wine scarcely seen during the war. Most gathered in the ballroom, or whatever hall was the designated ballroom, as many such houses were really residential homes commandeered by the Continental Army. The hosts, compensated for their hospitality, would rearrange the home in such a way as to accommodate the needs of all. Now, they danced with their guests, who in turn offered them gifts and praise.
The night stretched on during such events that it was hard to believe the hour, or that people like the General could stand to dance and entertain for so long.
Laurens brought them through the side doors, designed to allow ease of movement for couriers and servants regarding deliveries and other such household matters. Right now this side of the house was absent of people, all busy elsewhere, as they stepped out onto the patches of grass peeking through the snow.
It was much quieter outside, the music and laughter muffled behind walls of stone. There were no windows on this side of the house that could see the party within, only windows without candlelight or windows shuttered to keep the cold out.
Still, Laurens continued walking, Hamilton in tow.
“Are we not far enough away? I should think no one can hear us from this distance.” Hamilton tilted his head. “Is it such a dire matter as to require this amount of secrecy?”
“Come now,” Laurens hushed him. “You insist on asking questions and only make us more conspicuous, you dastard.”
Hamilton fought back a grin.
“You are being elusive, my dear Laurens. Must you evade my questions? Is it so wrong that I wish to know where you are taking me?”
“I ask you to come with me,” Laurens began.
“And I am,” Hamilton said.
“Then come with me.” Laurens said with such gravitas that Hamilton could do nothing but stare back in awe.
It was rare to see Laurens commanding, his assertiveness typically cushioned by his gentlemanly demeanor, but it was yet another side of him that Hamilton appreciated. Laurens could be heated in situations that warranted his anger, whether that be in defense of the General or in battle, where he would thrust himself into the fray with reckless fury. That such a man, strong in his convictions and ideals, could be gentle and compassionate, yet still adamant and intense, that he could have so many wonderful and surprising qualities as to keep Hamilton so intrigued—
“I am.” Hamilton answered after a moment.
Laurens smiled.
“I would not lead you astray, my dear boy.” He said with the most beautiful smile.
“Laurens—”
There was a loud cackle of laughter suddenly, and they snapped their heads around, only to realize it was a noise coming from the other side of the house.
It was soon followed by other voices, a group of merry men who perhaps had too much to drink, as they hobbled off to the side. The men became visible as they walked out in their drunken stupor, but they were small figures from this distance, shrinking into tiny silhouettes as Laurens led Hamilton further away.
“Laurens,” Hamilton huffed out a laugh. “Where are you taking me?”
They were nearly invisible in the cover of dark, if not for the cut of moonlight that emerged through the passing clouds. A cluster of trees surrounded the house, not quite a forest but enough to have a canopy of tree branches above, casting a lattice-shaped shadow on the ground. The house was still within view, but it was far enough that they could pretend to hold it in their hands.
It seemed this was a satisfactory distance for Laurens, who finally came to a stop.
The moon offered a sliver of light at just the right moment, falling on Laurens the moment he turned to face him, illuminating his profile in a blinding silver.
Hamilton thought Laurens could be carved from marble, watching the light slide across his features as the clouds grazed the moon. Perhaps he was descended from the heavens above, the way Laurens appeared to him now, as if he should climb an invisible stairwell into the sky and truly walk upon the clouds. The thought made Hamilton’s chest tighten.
“I find myself tiring of these dances,” Laurens began, tossing a glimpse towards the house, the distant room of smiles and laughter. “And I wished to have a moment alone.”
“I see you prefer privacy in the extreme,” Hamilton said jokingly as he gestured to the silent trees around them.
“Perhaps.” Laurens chuckled, that soft smile like a veneer hiding secrets underneath.
“I must admit, it is a shame to hear you tire of dancing when you take to it so well.” Hamilton added, latching onto his hand before Laurens could pull away. “At every dance, my eyes are drawn only to you.”
Laurens lowered his gaze.
“You must not flatter me so, Alexander.”
“I only flatter one deserving of such. And you, my dear John, are a sight to behold.” Hamilton sighed, thinking of Laurens on the dance floor, his confident gait and handsome smile, how he could enrapture all fortunate enough to witness him. Hamilton pressed his lips together in thought. “I understand it must be tiresome to be expected to dance. It would be a loss, but if you no longer have the desire to dance, I would hope you speak on it.”
“It is not the act of dancing that tires me,” Laurens glanced up at Hamilton again, pausing. He squeezed his hand. “It is that in every dance my thoughts are of you.”
Hamilton gnawed the inside of his lip. Words turned in his head. Laurens chuckled weakly.
“How loathsome I am to dance with a woman and imagine you in her place.” He continued. “It is selfish of me, and unfair to her.”
“You are mad.” Hamilton muttered under his breath, then stepped up to Laurens until their chests touched. “You are selfish only in thinking that I do not have the same yearning. We so rarely have these happy occasions, and I should wish to dance with you, my dear John. To watch you whisk a lady off her feet, I am overcome with a surge of emotion I do not understand.”
Hamilton grumbled out a sigh, or perhaps a groan, as though his frustration could not decide the best sound.
“You are so lovely when you dance, and yet my heart aches.”
There was a moment of silence, perhaps ruminating on the state of such matters, that propriety and obligation demanded such dances that tormented them. Hamilton wondered how many dances Laurens participated in thinking of him, when he felt a hand slip around his waist and their clasped hands rise into the air.
Before Hamilton could make sense of it, Laurens was already drawing him away, his gasp of surprise caught in his throat.
Laurens took a few steps back, Hamilton stumbling after him, before Laurens spun them around, tilting their shoulders to one side and then the other. They swung back and forth like a ship at sea, riding an invisible tide as Laurens brought them to and fro. It would stir memories of a terrible storm in Hamilton’s past, if not for the steady anchor that Laurens provided through the waves. The moonlight in his smile, shining at him like a beacon of hope, joy, reserved only for him.
“John, what—?” Hamilton laughed incredulously as they spun around once more.
“I am inventing a new dance,” Laurens laughed in turn. “It shall be unique to you and I.”
“A clumsy dance, to be sure,” Hamilton joked, but he would not deny the buoyant feeling inside his chest.
“We shall simply have to practice,” Laurens replied.
The proposition in his words, the insinuation in his tone, made Hamilton’s cheeks feel warm. He didn’t know if he should prefer to continue dancing with Laurens if it should always make him feel so flustered. Hamilton was not someone who easily relinquished control, as he was a man who took matters into his own hands. And yet, when Laurens twirled around him and pulled him along, Hamilton found he didn’t mind it. In fact, it was much too enjoyable. He delighted in the way their waistcoat buttons touched, how the ruffles of their cravats mingled between them, standing chest to chest.
“I would think we should practice often.” Hamilton couldn’t resist smiling, his hands on his Laurens.
“I find you take well to anything you put your mind to, my dear Alex,” Laurens said, shining through the dark. “You are a man of many talents. You might add dancing to your list.”
“To learn how to dance is more than simply reading and writing, as other subjects might allow me to study them,” Hamilton countered as Laurens twirled them around once more, matching the slower pace of the clouds rolling across the sky. “I would require your expertise in this, Laurens, and I would hope you will continue to teach me, as you are the most graceful dancer I have ever had the privilege of watching, and it is you with whom I wish to dance.”
Laurens looked at him wistfully, and it made Hamilton’s heart ache.
There were a thousand words left unspoken in those blue eyes, always leaving Hamilton wondering, because his Laurens did not always voice his thoughts with the same unabashed gall as Hamilton. No, Laurens must always surprise him with sudden bursts of valor and bravery, charm and passion, mystery and intrigue. And now, he would confound Hamilton again, how Laurens would simply hold him and spin them around, as dashing and handsome and fleeting as the night sky.
Hamilton tightened his grip on Laurens, wondering if he might disappear at any moment.
“I would dance with you every night, if given the chance.” Laurens offered a smile, almost bashful, despite how closely they danced. Then he leaned in, resting his head on Hamilton as they swayed back and forth. The next words were almost a whisper. “Truthfully I wish to spend all of eternity with you like this.”
The air escaped Hamilton, the words blanking on his tongue.
All that remained was Laurens, in his arms. Laurens, with his smile. Laurens, holding him. And Hamilton would think he would prefer eternity like this.
They danced together in the privacy of the shadows, sometimes illuminated by the spot of moonlight falling through the tree branches above. Hamilton thought it was a perfect reflection of Laurens, how gallant and beautiful he was in his privacy, his inner sanctum. How incredible it felt to be immersed in this moment, ethereal and effervescent, like a dream. Hamilton found it almost hard to believe this was real, that perhaps the stars would join them, twinkling like the pair of eyes that watched him now. At this moment, Hamilton could believe the night sky surrounded them, the way their feet were floating on the clouds.
Hamilton was a practical man who did not wish on stars or believe in frivolous matters such as chance, but right now, he wished this dream would last forever.
☾
Laurens was a miserable fool. He had a tendency to imagine the worst, of which he was acutely aware. And in his awareness, a part of him denounced such negative thinking, while the other rationalized his fears.
Now Laurens was not a fearful man. He was not afraid of battle, of bloodshed, and he would confront anyone who dared slander their General’s name or his father. Least of all Hamilton. Laurens did not fear death or injury on his person, as made abundantly clear from the wounds he sustained in the Battles of Brandywine and Germantown. No, his fear was borne from that which Laurens cherished—he feared loss and rejection and punishment. Laurens, haunted by the mistakes of his past, knew the feeling of loss and rejection.
And he could not imagine life without the light brought by those dearest to him.
Hamilton was a light in the dark. A constant flame that persisted even in the harshest of winters. There were countless qualities to admire in Hamilton, of which Laurens could never hope to convey. Hamilton was the sun in the sky, that he should rise and bring light wherever he went, burning with a passion that never waned, never faltered. To Laurens, he was the greatest source of warmth in his life—a precious, persevering fire.
And Hamilton, with all his charms and constancy, was unavoidable. Everywhere he went, he would shine, dazzle any crowd and command a room, with a smile so blinding it would be impossible not to gaze upon him in awe. The man was appealing in every sense of the word, pleasing to the eye and impressive in his skills, lionhearted in a way that justified his moniker as the petit lion. He was dauntless, bold, with an indomitable will. An unstoppable force who never hesitated. A man of grandeur through no means but his own merit. Hamilton always exceeded expectations, always did beyond what was asked of him, always more, more, more—as if he should redefine the limits of mankind. How could one not be amazed by him?
Hamilton was everything.
And when it came to Hamilton, fears manifested in Laurens like shadows cast by his light.
Their friendship was a special thing. It was precious, and dear to his heart, but Laurens could not ignore the thought that Hamilton, being such a gregarious and insatiable fellow, would find Laurens lacking. Of course Hamilton would seek more, desire more, and being Hamilton meant there was no shortage of options for him to choose from—why settle for Laurens when there are so many others with more to offer? So many others who would not resist the temptation, would not temper their desires, would not refuse him anything.
Why should he like Laurens at all?
Laurens felt his jaw clench. He gazed longingly at the horizon, hoping to be soothed by the sight of the setting sun. How the orange color enriched the bleak winter skies.
Nothing would come from this negative train of thought, that he knew. Nothing would come of his endless cynicism, though it might offer comfort in finding logic for something that had yet to happen. One could argue it was a defense mechanism, that Laurens was simply preparing himself for the horror, for the heartbreak, before it could strike him down.
In Hamilton’s absence, Laurens found himself woefully anxious.
He had heard countless tales around camp by now, spinning together a character that could only be Hamilton—his valiant, adventurous nature that also characterized his romantic pursuits, as Hamilton socialized in circles outside of the Army. A bona fide Casanova.
Nevermind the validity of such gossip, there was no denying those stories revolved around the same man, one so fabled he could be a myth, or an imaginary figure, like a swashbuckling rogue from a fairy tale.
Laurens, on the other hand, could not find as many admirable qualities in himself as he did for Hamilton. Laurens could say he was determined. He was impatient for change, eager for battle and emboldened by the prospect of glory, although his behavior often came back to bite him in the form of reprimand. His actions were admittedly reckless, temperamental.
And regrettably, Laurens did not have a long list of accomplishments to justify his position. Only the favor of his relations. Laurens was not ignorant to the blessings he was afforded by his name, the privileges he was granted, and neither was he blind to the suffering caused by his father’s trade. A cruel system had placed Laurens in a position of comfort, and it would be something he aimed to rectify for as long as he lived. Although it would prove difficult to oppose the cruel system that supported his own father and the Southern elite that encircled their family, Laurens could not abide by it.
The longer he went on, the more demoralizing his thoughts became.
Why should he like Laurens at all?
Shaking his head, Laurens pressed on through the cold.
It was nearly suppertime. Their military Family, consisting of the General and his aides, would sit down and share their meals together when possible, and they would expect Laurens to be there. However, his restlessness forced him outside, and now he walked around camp aimlessly, under the guise of making his rounds to check the state of the men and their quarters.
Laurens had already completed all the tasks needed of him, translating French to English alongside Tilghman, helping Meade with the couriers and their endless missives, and drafting a letter to his father at Congress at their General’s behest. He’d even managed to jot down some notes on his own agenda in regards to abolition through manumission.
Though there was no snow on the ground, the frigid air was a chilling reminder of the season. Every draft was a cutting wind. Laurens adjusted the cloak around his shoulders.
His thoughts, helplessly drawn to Hamilton, wondered where he was, what he was doing. Laurens often lamented how hopelessly attached he had become. For a while, all he could do was worry over Hamilton ever since he recovered from his fever, and consequently argue with him over his health—the man was too stubborn to sleep and eat when there was work to be done. Laurens did not wish to coddle him, but Hamilton had come close to death far too many times.
Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted when a group of soldiers shoved past him, a look of urgency in their faces.
Laurens turned to see what they were running from, and spotted a commotion down the line of huts, towards the edges of camp. He quickly made his way there, shouldering through a group of curious onlookers, only to find a brawl breaking out between two men. They were both in Continental uniform, but in a ragged state, as they tussled. Fists were raised when Laurens threw himself into the fray.
“Enough!” Laurens caught one man’s arm before he could throw his fist, then wrenched the two men apart, putting himself between them. He raised his voice to be heard over the murmurs of the crowd. “You will end this immediately or I shall report you both to the General for disorderly conduct.”
The two men sneered at Laurens, yanking themselves free of his grip.
“Disorderly conduct?” One scoffed derisively. “Tell your General to feed his men properly and perhaps we wouldn’t be fighting over scraps of jerky!”
“Yeah, why punish us for our hunger while you officers get to eat your fill?” The other man jeered. “Are we to assume next you will report us for our poor hygiene, when we have no water or powder?”
“Exactly right—we are expected to be pristine when our only shirts are falling apart?”
Laurens set his jaw.
“I can assure you we are working to provide these necessities, gentlemen.” Laurens straightened his posture. “Though I will be sure to make your grievances known regardless.”
“Some help you will be,” The man huffed. “Tattle on the less fortunate, so that they may have even less!”
“Right,” The other smirked, flicking an accusatory finger at Laurens. “What would you know of our plight, standing there with your own cloak and boots? You stand there more clothed than the rest of us.”
There was a murmur of assent among the group of men, angry in their state of hunger and cold. They glared at Laurens, at the thought that he should have more while others must survive on nothing. It was a familiar look; the long winter had not been kind to them.
“Why, you ought to give us what we are lacking and we shall behave, rightly so!” The two men stepped towards Laurens, each grabbing him by the shoulder. One touched the wool of his cloak as if it were made of gold.
“This is a fine material that should last a dreary winter such as this. I imagine you must also have wool blankets?”
“Sirs—” Laurens began, but the men spoke over him.
“Hardly fair to us then, if we do not have even that,” The other continued. “We fear every night of sleep to be our last, in this cold. It is only right that the less fortunate should be provided for, is that not so?”
“To begin with, this cloak would find much better use here, with us,” The first man clutched at Laurens and suddenly tugged on his cloak. It was enough force that Laurens nearly fell over if he hadn’t caught himself in time.
“Yes, offer some charity!” The other man laughed.
Laurens would right himself and fix his cloak in some semblance of propriety, but the two men insisted on grabbing him as though they should wrestle the cloak free. Laurens would push them away, but he was always hesitant to argue against reason in which he was inclined to agree, as Laurens was wont to commiserate with his fellow patriots. They were allies in this, and he would wish better conditions for all.
It was when the men grew impatient and aggressive that Laurens pushed them away, huffing with effort.
“My condolences, gentlemen,” Laurens adjusted the cuffs at his wrists and the collar at his neck. “You have my word that I shall deliver your concerns, and we shall see to it that your issues are addressed.”
“Again with that.” The man made a disbelieving noise. “You know nothing of the burden we endure, sir. We would rather you speak less and give more!”
“I would think Lieutenant Colonel Laurens is well acquainted with the state of our camp, and that you are sorely mistaken not to appreciate what he has been able to procure for you.” A new voice said confidently.
Laurens recognized the voice immediately.
He emerged from the crowd, sitting astride a dappled grey horse, the sunset directly behind him. It was like a picture from a painting, the way the sun gleamed around him as if he were the source of light—
Hamilton.
The men went quiet and released Laurens at the sight of another officer, this one upon a steed, though their expressions were less than enthused. It was clear they did not believe him, but decided to hold their tongue.
“Evidently there is a shortage that affects the whole Army, one that should starve and freeze us all to death, if not for the Lieutenant’s writings. He has influence in Congress, and I fear that neither of you can say the same.” Hamilton continued, gesturing towards Laurens, then dismounted from his horse. “Before you contend my point, it must be known that what little we have now could very well be nothing at all.”
He tossed a cautionary glance in their direction.
The men scowled at Hamilton, grimacing at what sounded like a threat.
Though his words carried a menacing tone, it was truly a warning for all of camp.
“I speak on this as your compatriot, as I am sympathetic to your suffering, however, it is not a simple matter.” Hamilton spoke calmly and with such surety that exuded a natural dependability. “All that we are provided is managed through a series of transactions that extends beyond our office. We might write requests for more, but any delay or mishandling is not our doing. That we have supplies at all should be considered a miracle, and it is Laurens here who expedites our messages through Congress. I would think it is he to whom you should be grateful.”
Hamilton looked towards Laurens with a smile. Laurens thought he was beautiful.
The men grumbled, unable to contest Hamilton’s sound argument. His line of reasoning was always clear and concise, while still maintaining a sense of sympathy that acknowledged the other party, as Hamilton would see every angle before deciding the best course of action.
It was that brilliance in Hamilton that Laurens would have no doubt of his success in law and politics. Of course, Laurens believed Hamilton would thrive wherever he went.
“Enough of this,” A man groaned. “You prattle on as if your tongues might run from you, when all we ask is food and clothing. That we must always be hungry or resort to other means of warmth, fearing every night to be our last, is what we detest.”
“Yes, leave us to meet our ends.” Another man harrumphed as the group slowly made to disperse.
“So long as you understand my meaning,” Hamilton nodded at them, his eyes straying to Laurens before flitting away. “It would be ill-fitting to cast blame, least of all on Lieutenant Colonel Laurens.”
That seemed to trigger one of the men, who spun around sharply.
“No, we do not cast blame—your Laurens is simply useless and we must suffer for it.”
The comment whistled through the air, as cutting as the wind. A few men stopped to turn and look at him, how he could so boldly disrespect a superior officer, even if it were intended as a crude joke. Hamilton certainly didn’t take it as such.
“What did you say?” Hamilton asked, his tone deceptively calm, but his voice was rising.
Laurens grabbed Hamilton by the arm.
“It is fine, Hamilton.” He said, shaking his head. “They are hungry and tired.”
Hamilton ignored him.
“That is a bold claim, and an egregious one—Laurens is a perfectly competent man in this Army, and you will recognize this.” He nearly shouted to the man now sneering at them.
“You would have me grovel and sing his praises when he has done nothing to deserve it. All he has given us are reasons to complain!” The man scoffed with a rude gesture of his hand. “You speak highly of him and his influence in Congress, but we all know it is his father whose position gives him some authority, and which I find to be discrediting to a man.”
He glanced sidelong at Laurens, as if he were something foreign, something spoiled.
“You were granted a position by way of your father, and that is no feat, and it certainly does not earn my respect.” He spat at the ground. “A man who does not struggle for anything, who does not gain anything for all that is given to him—that is a useless man.”
“Laurens has done more than you could hope to accomplish,” Hamilton snapped back. “You may not judge a man when you yourself have done nothing but complain about our present circumstances. I have not witnessed you help others around camp, carry dispatches in any manner of weather to the Generals, or write correspondence from dawn until dusk for the sake of our General and our Army, as Laurens so often does.”
“And yet, for all he does, what does he have to show but our starving faces and whittling numbers? Why should we take kindly to men who are blessed and promise to provide when they fail to do even that?” The man shot a pointed look at Laurens. “I’d wager you would not last long in our position. You’re too pampered to survive out here, boy. I imagine you wouldn’t be able to hold a pen and paper at all.”
Laurens furrowed his brow. A flare of anger coursed through his veins.
“I should like to prove that I can,” Laurens retorted. “I fight alongside my fellow patriots in battle, why should I not—”
“You would force Laurens to endure such trials only to make him suffer.” Hamilton said sharply, cutting him off. “That is dastardly. You wish misfortune upon him when he does nothing but work tirelessly for all of our sakes.”
“It is not so foul as that.” The man sneered. “Only to show Laurens how we live.”
Laurens made a face, opening his mouth to interject, but Hamilton—
“And you would ensure that he faces conditions worse than that, you will exaggerate just how much you endure in an act of retribution, because you believe it is rightly deserved!” Hamilton raised his voice. “I will not condone it.”
“The man says he is a fellow patriot, yet it is hardly fair that he lives in comfort and claims to work for us all, when we have so little.” He shook his head. “You defend him only because it hurts your pride.”
“You watch your tongue, sir.” Hamilton growled.
“Laurens is nothing but a name and a title. Even with his father in Congress, the man himself is useless, and he knows it! His wealth does the work for him, when he is handed positions of value and places of comfort. You defend him because you are of the same rank, or perhaps because his status dictates you. Why, does he pay for your obed—”
He was abruptly cut off by a fist, when Hamilton punched the man mid-sentence. There was a round of gasps.
“I will have you show him respect.” Hamilton demanded, his fists clenched.
The man doubled back in shock, before his face twisted in anger. He stormed up to Hamilton with his shoulders squared.
“How dare you!” The man yelled as he raised his fist, Hamilton reacting with a fist of his own.
Neither one landed on their intended target, however, as Laurens jumped between them.
He caught the man’s fist before it could hit Hamilton, while Hamilton’s fist came swinging into his side. There was a sting where the punch landed, nearly knocking the breath out of Laurens, and he inhaled sharply.
“Laurens!” Hamilton shouted, stunned. “What are you—why would you—”
The man recovered quickly and moved his other hand, aiming now at Laurens instead. He swung his fist with a vengeance, punching Laurens in the stomach.
It hit Laurens hard enough for him to feel his organs crushing from the impact, forcing him to keel over. Still, he stood his ground and swallowed the cough in his throat.
Laurens forced his other hand to grab this second fist, catching both wrists in his grasp. He shot a quick glance around to see that no one else intended to join the fray. Thankfully, Hamilton’s tirade and heated glare frightened away most of the other men.
“You pompous bastards,” The man grumbled when he suddenly leaned into Laurens, using his weight to overpower him.
Laurens stumbled backward in an attempt to keep his feet planted, but the man was determined to bring him down with him.
It proved difficult to stay standing with the man pushing back and forth, fighting to free himself, until they went tumbling to the ground.
They fell with a harsh thud on the dirt, hardened from the chill of winter, and rolled around trying to gain the upper hand. The man successfully pulled a hand free and managed to land a few punches, Laurens retaliating with a few of his own, as they wrestled on the ground. Each punch was a burst of adrenaline that had them whirling their fists at each other for a while yet.
“You would defend each other and let the rest of us rot!” The man yelled.
“You presume to know what we do, when our work is done for the whole Army!” Laurens yelled back. “Anyone with sense would see the suffering of the camp. You are harsh to think we are turning a blind eye to this!”
“When you walk around in cloaks and on horses, what is one to think but how fortunate you must be!” The man cried as they rolled over again, shaking and grabbing each other by the arms.
“You draw conclusions from your first impressions, when nothing is so simple,” Laurens grunted, wincing when his right shoulder—where he once suffered a gunshot wound—was pushed into the dirt. “You are mad to fight the men who wish to help you!”
“Laurens!” Hamilton said with a note of panic, and Laurens followed his gaze.
Right above them was Hamilton’s horse, frantically stomping her hooves at their commotion.
They both quickly scrambled away before they were crushed under the mare’s hooves. She trampled the ground where their bodies had just been, kicking and flinging dirt into the air.
“Hey, come now, girl,” Hamilton moved towards the mare with his hands raised in a placating gesture, trying to calm her.
Laurens climbed to his feet, his eyes on the man opposite him.
The man was noticeably more disheveled, with a prominent bruise on his face and a preference to lean on one leg. Laurens almost mirrored him, the way his cloak and uniform were unkempt, his own face bruised and his right shoulder seizing up. They were both in poor condition to continue fighting, and they both seemed to agree on that when they locked eyes, seeing their own fatigue reflected in the other.
Laurens released a sigh, but it came out haggard from the punches that impaired his breathing.
It was strange, but Laurens found the sensation to be refreshing. Maybe somewhere deep inside, he found these bouts cathartic in a way, that it could release tension and frustrations. There was no judge to preside over their argument, only their fists and their dwindling energy, until their wits returned and everything became clear. They had reached an understanding, perhaps not in agreement, but the physicality had expelled their anger.
Inhaling deeply, Laurens approached the man, who watched him warily.
Without a word, Laurens removed his cloak and handed it to him. The man scoffed, but it came out as a cough.
“I do not want your pity,” He snarled, his mouth tipped sideways due to the swollen bruise on his cheek where Laurens had punched him. “It might surprise you, but I have my pride. Nay, it might be the only thing I own, now.”
“Take it as your winning prize.” Laurens offered. “I am willing to admit defeat and give you the cloak you had been so intent on taking.”
The man narrowed his eyes at him, his hands hesitating to grab the very same cloak he had been clawing earlier.
“However,” Laurens pulled the cloak out of reach at the very last second. “You must not cause such commotions.”
“That, I cannot promise. We men wrangle each other, even as friends.” The man said with an arched brow. “Though I suppose you might not know that, given your status.”
Laurens chuckled to himself.
“No, it certainly would not be gentlemanly to argue with our fists, even if one should wish to,” Laurens simply said, and the man blinked in surprise. “But I will have you know that I only defend those who are deserving, and as your compatriot, I should hope that your disagreements would not leave a poor mark on our Army and our General.”
“That is not my intention.” The man conceded, looking at Laurens with piqued interest. His lips twitched into a smile. “I will say…for a pompous bastard, your punches pack a wallop. I see now that you do more than write.”
Laurens threw the cloak around the man, a grin inching its way on his face. It was lopsided, due to his own bruised cheek.
“Between you and me, I would much rather prefer to fight,” Laurens confessed as he clasped the cloak shut around the man’s collar. “Writing correspondence does nothing to strengthen the body, but it will frustrate the mind.”
The man barked out a laugh as the cloak was wrapped around him, the fatigue setting in.
“Right,” He nodded, touching the dense cloth between his fingers. The cloak did wonders to keep out the wind, which was strong enough to sometimes whip ice from the ground.
The man shuddered and sighed.
“I…perhaps I may have misjudged you, sir.”
“There is no need for that.” Laurens grabbed the man by the shoulders, holding him steady. The man had so quickly huddled under the cloak, as if he should collapse at any moment. Laurens smiled softly. “I know your meaning, and I…understand your frustrations. And, to your point, there are many men in higher positions with whom I would wish to fight, as we have.”
“Not everyone is quite as eager to fight,” The man huffed a laugh, then shook his head in disbelief. “You are a surprising lad.”
“I hope it is a pleasant surprise,” Laurens chuckled. He clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder. “If you boast of our fight, I should hope that you give credit to my abilities.”
The man looked at Laurens now with a new appreciation.
“Aye,” He nodded, pushing him as comrades would. “And I should hope there are many more lads like you, if we are to survive as a Nation.”
“Surely not a Nation that settles arguments with their fists,” Hamilton suddenly chimed in, having calmed his horse, and the two craned their necks around to look at him. He smirked at their expressions. “Only if the dispute warrants it, and if both parties consent to such a method.”
Hamilton grabbed Laurens by the arm.
“Now, Laurens, I believe we must go,” He said, looking at him intently with those deep, beautiful eyes.
His hand was as certain as the sunrise, as reassuring as the coming of spring, the way he gripped Laurens with no intention of letting him go. Laurens thought Hamilton might thaw the ice seeping into his bones, how Laurens could melt in his arms.
“Yes,” Laurens said numbly. “Right.”
“Good evening to you, sir,” Hamilton nodded to the man, who waved them off with far more respect now than to begin with.
Hamilton pulled Laurens in one hand and the horse’s reins in the other, marching off as twilight claimed the skies in a marvelous blend of orange and blue, the day and night merging together. The sound of people at supper clamored all around the camp, their fires crackling and mugs clinking together as the wind carried their laughter.
The noise would grow faint the farther they walked, cutting through the stretch of trees that separated the encampment huts from the General’s Headquarters. It was the quickest way back, hiking through the trees rather than making the full trek around the hills. However, right now, walking side by side, Laurens felt time move at a much slower pace.
Or perhaps it was because they had stopped walking.
“Hamilton?” Laurens turned to face him. He glanced down where Hamilton had grabbed his hand.
“Why?” Hamilton ground out, as if the word had been boiling inside of him this entire time, as if the question should make any sense at all.
Laurens tilted his head in confusion.
“Yes?” He prompted, and Hamilton snapped his head to look up at him.
“Why must you be so…so…” Hamilton scrambled for words. He shook his head in frustration. “I do not understand. I suddenly find you entangled in a conflict, and when I defend you, you get in the way—as if you are drawn to the prospect of injury. Do you not think I would like to protect you from harm?”
Laurens blinked.
“And I you,” He retorted, bringing his other hand over Hamilton’s, closing his fingers around his. “It was a dispute that I sought to end, and the men took issue with me. I do not wish any harm to come to you, especially when I am to blame.”
“Yes, I am well aware of that, you stubborn oaf,” Hamilton squeezed his hand and glared at him.
In his fiery eyes was that blazing flame, but his expression was torn, as if he should be angry, but an inescapable tenderness had softened his sharpest edges. Laurens thought he was like a candle flame in these moments, flickering alive and hot to the touch, yet just as delicate. How Laurens wished to cup his hands around him, to keep him burning, to keep him warm. How Laurens wished to keep Hamilton in his pocket.
“I am sorry,” Laurens apologized. “I know how much you would prefer to be punched in my stead.”
The joke was met with a frustrated noise, one that teased a smile at the corners of Hamilton’s mouth.
“Yet you do not regret your actions,” Hamilton said, his tone accusatory.
“If you wish, we can have a fight here, now,” Laurens offered, and Hamilton looked at him with wide eyes. “We shall punch each other as much as you wish.”
“Laurens,” Hamilton said incredulously, affronted and amused in equal measure. He grit his teeth, fighting back a smile. “Will you not allow me to fight in your honor?”
“You know I would keep you from harm as I am able.” Laurens responded.
“You know you cannot keep me from battle, even if it is a minor dispute here at camp.”
“No, I cannot,” Laurens sighed. A smile graced his lips, feeling the swell of pride inside his chest knowing the depths of Hamilton’s passion and daring. How could he fault Hamilton for his enthusiasm, his fervor, his zealous nature, when Laurens admired it so? That unrelenting spirit, his fortitude to persist despite all odds, could only inspire Laurens, as one who shared in that eagerness. “As much as I should wish you far from danger.”
Hamilton stared at Laurens for a long moment, then buried his face in his chest.
“That is exactly my meaning.” He groaned, his voice muffled by cloth.
Laurens tried not to feel so endeared by the gesture, but his heart tightened anyway.
“What is?” He asked innocently. Hamilton groaned again, the sound vibrating through his chest, tickling Laurens through his waistcoat. “Would you care to enlighten me?”
Hamilton lifted his head with an exasperated sigh.
“You would do all in your power to keep me from harm, even if that would mean you put yourself at risk,” Hamilton said, jabbing a finger into his chest. “But what of you? Do you not consider how I wish to protect you? To keep you from harm?”
“Hamilton—“
“And yet it seems to be your sole mission to make that impossible. Look at you!” Hamilton reached up and grabbed his face, Laurens wincing at the contact. Hamilton wiped a smudge of dried blood from a cut at his jaw. “Look at the state of you.”
His hands were a welcome source of warmth on his cheeks, how his fingers would lightly trace the lines of his face. Laurens would be lying if he said he did not enjoy the feeling. His body certainly relished in Hamilton’s intrusion, a comforting sensation, much like warming up in front of a fireplace. Hamilton was not a furnace, but compared to Laurens now without his cloak, Hamilton was radiating heat. Laurens thought he looked like the most wonderful place to sleep, wrapped in his arms. He smiled at the thought that he would like nothing more than to burrow away with Hamilton and hibernate for the winter.
They stood like that for a moment, in quiet contemplation, Laurens settling into Hamilton’s hands, and Hamilton inspecting every bruise of his face. Laurens sighed, leaning into his hand, hoping to memorize the feeling.
“Why do you so yearn to fight, Alex?” Laurens asked in a near whisper, as if it should be swallowed by the wind. “What is your aim?”
Hamilton looked him in the eyes, his hands holding him in place.
A tempest stared at Laurens, like the blazing sun, as if to say how could you ask me such a question? All doubt and uncertainty evaporated in Hamilton’s gaze, squashed by his indomitable will, and Laurens watched him in awe.
Then Hamilton leaned in and pecked Laurens on the lips, their hearts racing at such a daring gesture, a display of affection that could so easily be seen.
And yet, there was no fanfare, no blaring horns or shouts that accused them of unlawful behavior. Only the silhouettes of the trees, their silent witnesses, backdropped by the sunset now dipping below the horizon.
“You are worth fighting for, my dear John.” Hamilton said.
It was quiet, and private enough, the mare providing another obstruction to keep them hidden from view. Even if one were to spot them, they would be nondescript figures at this distance, silhouettes mingling as Laurens leaned in, drawn by Hamilton’s gravitational pull, daring to kiss him in return. The shadows they cast on the ground would merge into one where their mouths melded together.
And it was like stars burst forth between their lips, and they were suddenly lifted into the heavens above. There was that floating sensation between them, as light as air and vibrant as a comet, as if they had stumbled across a new astronomical discovery, how they could find themselves shining light into each other’s lives.
Laurens pulled away with an amused smile.
“Then we find ourselves at an impasse.” He declared. “Endlessly fighting to keep the other from harm.”
“It is a fruitless battle for us both,” Hamilton grinned, pulling Laurens in and kissing him again.
How irresistible his gravity was. How grateful Laurens was to be in his orbit.
“A fruitless battle, yet I will never yield,” Laurens responded, kissing him in turn.
“Nor will I.”
His existence fueled the blaze within, that Laurens would reciprocate his intensity, that he would feel inflamed just by his touch. Laurens found he was playing with fire, the way Hamilton had seared his way into his life, the way he burned away painful memories with his blinding smile and his warm embrace. How he breathed fire with his words. How Laurens would melt against his lips.
Hamilton truly was the sun, how he would shine and breathe life into Laurens each day, to give him an undying sense of purpose. How he inspired Laurens to reflect that light back to him, as the moon to the sun, that he might rise alongside Hamilton brandishing his own pen and sword.
The light and dark mingled between them, their shadows becoming one, as the sun descended into the horizon and the skies fell under the blanket of night. Laurens thought it a fitting end, that they might find themselves disappearing into the canvas of the world. He knew that Hamilton belonged among the stars, the sun in his sky. A celestial being that Laurens looked forward to seeing each day. One that he hoped to join, to bask in his light and to shine with him, as they fought, side by side.
Together, they would shine their light upon the world.