Chapter Text
It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.
It shouldn't have hurt as much as it fucking did.
Alexander's apartment door cracked shut behind him as he let his messenger bag slide from his shoulder, the contents spilling out onto the floor in a heap of papers and a metal clatter. He stumbled forward, shoes squeaking as they caught against the tiles, his breath hitching in his chest painfully as the world blurred in front of him. His face was threatening to crumble into a twisted expression of hurt and embarrassment—over both the cause and his reaction. Yet the tears began to stream down his face regardless. He had held them in for far too long, and now they were coming whether he wanted them to or not. Hot trails of shame and revulsion caught in his beard.
His throat ignited with a ragged, choked feeling as a tiny sob bubbled out. His hand flew up, clapping over his lips to contain it even if he was alone. The sound bounced off the walls, forcing him to hear the sound of his own cries. It made a hot pit melt into his gut, burning at his entrails. He choked and choked until it felt like each organ was being torn to shreds by some wild animal and his intestines were left as the dental floss. It felt so wrong he could vomit.
He sank down into his loveseat, plunging into the softness as he grabbed for the torn arm with his free hand, steadying himself. He could hardly even make out the faded rose color through the smudges of his tears. His sobs were the only thing to echo around his apartment, the deadly silence of lonesomeness throbbing in his ears.
The words weren't wrong.
His mind whispered them cruelly on repeat—like a bad pop song in a supermarket. It looped enough to drive him mad. They dug right into his chest, curling and snarling around him like sharpened, barbed wire. They embedded themselves impossibly deep, and with something chilled, Alexander realized he would never be able to shake them.
Because they were right.
Alexander ripped his head out of his hands furiously. The world was distorted in front of him, and he couldn't find his breath. It was a deep, cavernous feeling—the realization.
Jefferson had been right. They had all been right. Everyone was always right.
And Alexander?
Well. He was as wrong as shattered glass. He was an embedded, splintering shard that just buried deeper and deeper into places he wasn't wanted. They had pinched and poked and prodded at him, but he had always been far too stubborn to just…vanish. An ever-present thorn.
The sound that made its way up his throat was harshly throaty. It was like some sort of animal had just been hit by a car.
When Alexander’s chest spasmed in response to his own noises, he hurled himself from the soft comforts of his thrifted seat. The base clacked with protest, the cushions immediately springing back into place. Even it was rejecting him fully. He backed away quickly, snagging his fingers across his head until the hair tie holding his ponytail in place was left dangling from broken strands of raven hair like a waiting noose. Agitation joined the panic, and he ripped it from himself so aggressively, he could hear each hair that popped free from his scalp. He threw it away from him, panting all the while. He didn’t have time to flinch at it, because then, he was pacing the floor wildly. He palmed the salted embarrassments away from his cheeks. Back and forth, back and forth. A ship being tossed to-and-fro on a turbulent ocean. He laughed something manic, the sound croaking.
He knew that all too well.
They would never let him forget that.
Never, never, never, never—
They wouldn’t let him forget any of it.
No matter how hard he tried. No matter how much he grew. He always came back to that one thing. What good was even trying when they already decided who he was?
His hair hung in his face, and it only made him more upset. The gel he had used to slick it back this morning was making it feel stiff and dirty against his cheeks, especially when it caught in his tear tracks. The masculine scent of it made him want to puke. He tried to push it back, but it kept sticking back to his face. He pushed and pushed, and with a pitching exclaim, he swore in his heart he was getting ready to shave himself bald. He stormed over to where the hair tie had landed after its brief freedom, shoving the bathroom door open the rest of the way with his shoulder. It bounced against the tub. He slammed his hand against the wall, the lights buzzing to life, flickering only momentarily. His eyes scanned the ground for the black band before they found their way up.
When he caught a glimpse of himself, he broke all over again.
He was a ghastly gray, eyes framed with dark skin and broken veins. His hair looked thick and greased, his clothes wrinkled more than a pug. And his face was splotchy, discolored, ugly. He was a haunt. They should hire him to do Halloween parties.
Not like his current job was going to stick.
He buckled forward, his knees too weak to hold the weight of his heart. Too weak for everything. His palms pressed flat against the sink, the cold of the ceramic eating against his skin. It almost burned. He gasped as a certain type of loathing wrapped him in an embrace. His hands found his eyes again, shielding away the glaring light as he dug his fingers against his eyes. He was trying to stave off the thoughts that had suddenly flooded into his mind, disrupting the horrible record of Jefferson’s words. This line of thought, however, was much louder.
If Jefferson could be heard at the supermarket, this could be heard near the tracks—It screeched. Like a breaking train getting ready to hit smack into something it shouldn’t. But trains don’t stop that easily once they’ve gotten started. These thoughts were the same as that. He could already feel it leaching onto him, digging its claws into the tenders of his brain, ready to split and pull. The trains always came at night.
And this one?
It just hit Alexander square in the chest.
That's when he knew—with a breaking, catching sob—that there would only ever be one choice.
***
Thomas shouldn't have said any of it.
The words were cruel, even by his own standards. He had been a little drunk, only playing up his adversity with Hamilton to get a laugh out of his party members in the crowded bar. It was full of suits and the smell of cognac. And the fruity flavor of Monroe's vape. It wasn't as if he was filled with as much venom as he used to be. Hamilton had calmed a lot after his divorce, and in turn, so had he. In fact, he and Hamilton had come to be quite friendly with each other. But that was easy to forget after the heat of a debate—when landed insults were still simmering hot like a summer barbeque. Jefferson could still smell the smoke of them on his clothes, and he would be lying if he said his pride hadn't been wounded. Hamilton hadn't even spoken, but that made him even more of a target afterward.
A miraculous rarity like that couldn't simply be dismissed. Not by the Democratic-Republicans.
"Hamilton as president," Thomas had scoffed, "Could you imagine? What would that even be?"
"Nothing but four years of fucking tyranny." Monroe scowled, arms crossed tightly against his chest. He had been the one to breach the subject, accusing Hamilton’s silence as something more than that. He said it was Hamitlon beginning to calm it down for a future campaign. Monroe could never just let a sleeping dog lie. But Thomas was always more than willing to play fetch.
Thomas threw his head back with a loud laugh, one that demanded attention. He could see the glint in the others’ eyes, the curve of their lips as they leaned in, hanging onto his words. Lord help ‘em all. They were worse gossips than church grannies. "Please. As if he would last the entire four years. Hamilton has a bit of an— ahem— loyalty problem, if you recall correctly. He’d probably dip out of it in three months. All it would take is another…. country… batting their eyelashes at him."
Thomas finished with a grin as the dogs around him howled in laughter. And Thomas? Well, they had just given him the bone he needed to help lick away at his wounds. Hamilton’s past affair problem was low-hanging fruit, but after Thomas had just been stomped to the ground, he didn’t mind clamoring for it.
"Madison, Burr, how the hell did you put up with him for so long?" Monroe huffed out, calming from his bellowing cackles. He wiped his eyes. He pressed his pen to his lips. "I swear, I would have had him six-feet under if I had to spend more than ten minutes alone with him. Hell, I’d want to put a bullet in him in the first ten seconds. Or maybe I’d just put a bullet through my own brain so I wouldn’t have to live with the memory of being that close to him.”
Burr gave a polite chortle and a mumbled non-answer. One that made it clear he wanted to be seen as part of the conversation, but didn’t really know what to say. Thomas rolled his eyes just as Madison cleared his throat.
“He’s changed a lot,” Madison put simply. “We all have, in fact. Power and glory and all that. When he gets his head set on something, he’ll do anything for it. Even if it makes him look like a jackass. But I must say, he was less…jackass-ish today.”
Madison always did that. That weird defense-insult-defense sandwich that felt like being nailed in the head with a pillow full of lead. Monroe narrowed his eyes at him.
“Don’t fall for his games. You’re smarter than that. I bet my hat he knows something. Adams might be stepping down as party leader. He’s preparing his little chess pieces. Shining them up real pretty for when he makes his move. He’s got his baggy eyes on a crown. That’s the only thing that could shut him up like this.”
They all had bags under their eyes, but that was neither here nor there.
Madison cleared his throat louder as another gust of vapor hit his face. Thomas winced, patting quickly between his shoulder blades. Madison brushed him off. “Adams hates him. He wouldn’t be apt to give Hamilton any inside information. He’d sooner tell us. Or, at least, Jefferson."
Burr perked up, something excited in his tone. "Has he?”
"No. We don't have to worry too much about it, though. We don't have to worry about any of it, actually," Jefferson answered quickly, wanting the subject of dogging on Hamilton back, chest burning with excitement. It was that cruel buzz of acceptance, of laughing with someone, rather than being laughed at. He should have known he was getting carried away, "How do you suspect he would get the votes? His own father didn't want him. Why would anyone else?"
The cruelty came with a practiced ease that felt good. He should have caught his mistake when Monroe cackled louder than ever. He grabbed onto Thomas’ arm, shaking him a little. He whacked him on the back for good measure, showing off his approval. "I suppose, then, the only option left for him is to fuck his way to the top as usual!"
That one was sharp. The familiar rumor cut through the bar, and got some heads to turn.
Not like it mattered.
Hamilton didn’t really have an ally in the room. There was a smattering of laughter. Thomas had accidentally started the Washington-Hamilton scandal. He had planted the idea after a conference with a pointed Washington is Hamilton's Daddy jab. He hadn't even meant it in that way—he was from the south, damn it, and it's not his fault the word had been polluted. He had just wanted to blow off some steam, accuse Hamilton of getting a leg up. But it was mean and it stuck. He still remembered the way Hamilton's face twisted into something ugly when it reached him. It was another cheap shot. Hamilton should have been used to that. But the hurt disgust that had crept over his features made Thomas fill especially guilty that day. He didn't use that line anymore. But the others most certainly did.
It was not like Thomas was going to stop them either. Not tonight. Not when Hamilton's party had just destroyed them.
They all needed this camaraderie. It was healing to have a common enemy. Thomas sat back in his chair, grinning breathlessly instead. He brought his whiskey to his lips.
"Like mother, like son! Guess she taught the old boy something before she croaked!" Someone else spoke up, catching on, causing another fit of laughter to course through the gathered men. That one made Thomas wince.
He pressed his lips together. Thomas saw a strange emotion flash over Aaron Burr's usually placid face. Later, he would be able to place it as regret. At the time, he took it as encouragement. His mouth had gone dry, but he forced another laugh.
"Well. It’s like I always say. If you only have time to teach someone one thing, teach ‘em what you’re best at. I guess Mama Hamilton had to pick and choose with what time she had. Had to make sure giving birth to that was worth it somehow. Man, I gotta tell ya, if I saw that he was my son, I would be quick to leave this world, too. I mean, it's not just us either, is it? Not just Burr and Madison. Anyone who ever got close to the little bastard left, didn't they?" Thomas went along, his words teeming with a drunken slur.
As soon as the words left his mouth, a glass clanked down to the counter. But it was none of them. Thomas had just spared a glance over his shoulder, thinking it was a party member getting too drunk and slipping. But then he had to do a double-take. It wasn’t a party member. Thomas’ grin slid right off his face. It was Hamilton’s jaw working, his dark eyes narrowed. He slapped a couple of dollar bills onto the counter for the bartender.
Fuck.
Alexander pushed past Thomas, causing him to stumble forward.
"Fucking watch it," Thomas snapped with a glare, defensiveness and shame battling it out in his chest and melding into something meaner. Alexander matched it with the same level of intensity. There was almost a sense of betrayal in his eyes, along with the burning crimson in his cheeks. Thomas's expression dropped along with his heart. Alexander kept walking, but Thomas's companions kept calling after him.
"You should show the actual Americans here some respect, bastard!"
"Go back to whatever backwater island you came from!"
God. It was wrong. Hamilton wasn’t supposed to hear that. Hamilton wasn’t even supposed to have been there. It was their usual spot. Hamilton usually went to the bar on Sixth.
"Hamilton—" Thomas croaked, and he was sure an apology was going to follow. Because Thomas wasn’t all that cruel anymore. And he genuinely had not meant to put that look on Hamilton’s face. Not tonight.
He hadn’t even said a word tonight. He hadn’t started any fights. He hadn’t even presented an issue. He had just sat back, taking notes diligently. And now he had just been…decimated.
Hamilton’s hands clenched as he walked, dragging his bag up his shoulder further. But he didn’t turn. He didn’t bite back. He didn't say a word. That made Thomas feel worse. His mind gave a drunk spin, and Monroe was laughing harder than ever. It sounded worse than Madison's coughing. Something hot bloomed in Thomas' face and stomach as he rose to his feet, grabbing for his cane so he could stand tall and see Hamilton. He didn't want to let him disappear into the sea of a glaring crowd. He called, "Hamilton!"
Much to Jefferson's surprise, Hamilton glanced over his shoulder. It made Thomas stop in his tracks, his face dropping. The words shriveled on his tongue. He was going to say something, anything—I didn't mean it. I'm drunk and joking. We're both two old to be talking like that. I'm sorry. Get home safe. It didn't come. Thomas just stared at the lines folded into Hamilton's tired brow, the crows feet biting at his eyes, his thin-pressed lips. He was really looking at Hamilton for the first time in a while, and it was making his chest thunder and ache. Hell. Was that even some gray streaks in his hair? He was looking old. And he was looking tired. But the catching moment, the thing that made Thomas inhale so sharply it felt like a bout of Pneumonia, was the gleaming in his eyes.
Hamilton was getting ready to cry. Undeniably.
The bell above the door tinged once as Hamilton escaped into the night, footsteps quick. Thomas couldn't move. He was stuck in place, oxfords glued to the sticky, peanut covered floor.
He had made Alexander Hamilton cry. And he hadn't even apologized.
What a nasty dog he was.
And Goddamn them all, Thomas just eased back into his seat, huffing as he ordered another round, fingers twirling at the tender. No one thought more of it. No one thought of Hamilton at all until the next morning, he didn't show up for his legislation proposition.
No one thought that was the night when it would all go to hell.