It's early in the evening when he gets the news.

Philip is resting peacefully in his cradle, his tiny chest rising and falling easily, evenly, and Alexander doesn't think he'll ever tire of this, just watching his son sleep. His son, his beautiful son-

I'll be here for you, he thinks fiercely. I'm not leaving.

He almost doesn't notice Eliza when she enters, but he smiles when he sees her, his heart full and fond in his chest. He gestures proudly to Philip, eyebrows lifted as he returns his attention to his son's face.

"Our kid is pretty great, huh?" he murmurs quietly, his voice scarcely above a whisper.

Eliza doesn't respond. She steps closer, lays a hand over his on the edge of Philip's cradle. He laces their fingers together, and she squeezes his hand gently without saying a word. It's the silence that gets his attention more than anything, and when he looks at her, her lips are pressed together, her eyes somehow looking at Philip and through him at the same time.

His heart stutters for a moment, and it's only through a great force of conscious effort that he keeps his voice to a whisper. "Eliza, is everything alright?"

She squeezes his hand again, then pulls slowly away, still without meeting his eyes. It's only now that he realises that in her other hand, she holds a letter. "I need to speak with you, Alexander," she says quietly, and steps away, heading toward the hall.

His chest seizing, Alexander follows her. In the time it takes for him to reach the doorway, a million terrible possibilities flash in his head – something's happened to her sisters, to the General, Eliza is sick, her father has changed his mind about blessing their marriage, she's changed her mind about him, has decided he's not enough for their son, for her, she's leaving – but Eliza says nothing as he closes the door and puts a barrier between their sleeping son and this, whatever conversation they're about to have.

He scans her face, half desperate for a sign. "What is it? Have I done something wrong? Your sisters, are they-?"

Eliza shakes her head. "They're fine," she says without meeting his eyes. "Angelica and Peggy are fine. So is Father."

"Then what is it? What's wrong?" There are so many possibilities-

The letter he'd seen earlier makes a reappearance as Eliza extends it wordlessly in his direction. "It arrived this morning," she offers by way of explanation. "It was addressed to both of us."

He takes it slowly, reads the address. It's from John Laurens. He'd seen it earlier, had assumed it was another of their casual correspondences and saved it for later. Now his chest tightens even further at the thought. How wrong had he been?

He tries, but he can't make himself open the letter. Can't make himself look. His eyes flick back up to Eliza's face, and he shakes his head. "What does it say?"

Eliza swallows, taking his hands into hers, paper crumpling between them. "There was a fight at the Combahee River," she says slowly. "An ambush. John was there." No. The war is over. The war ended at Yorktown, the war is over, there's no more fighting, nobody else is going to die- "He was shot at the start of it," Eliza continues. "He was alive when he dictated the letter, but…"

The world is spinning. "When?"

"It was dated for the twenty-seventh of August." Alexander does the math quickly. It's the first of September now. Five days, almost six. John was shot. It's been six days.

Infection can kill in under two.

"Alexander." Eliza wraps her arms around him, and it's only then he realizes how hard he's shaking. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in deeply. She smells like honey and lavender and soap, and he can't stop thinking of how different it is, compared to the way the field hospitals smell. Like blood and piss and sweat and sick, like the bed where his mother died. John's there now, dying, if he's not already dead.

Some small, choked noise escapes him, and he closes his eyes, holds Eliza tighter as she rubs circles on his back. Far too soon, she pulls away, lifting her hands to his shoulders as she looks him in the eye. "Go to him, Alexander," she orders quietly. "I know what he means to you. Go."

He's not convinced there's a point – he can't bring a body back with him, can't bring John's body anywhere- "He might not be-"

"I know," Eliza says. "But he could be. If he is, you need to be there."

In the room beyond the door, Philip wakes up and starts to cry. His son. I'm not leaving. "Philip," he begins.

Eliza cuts him off with a shake of her head. "We'll be here when you get back. I can watch him until then." She takes his hands again, squeezes them. "Go to John. He needs you now."

For several long, impossible moments, he stares at her, unable to comprehend how she can be so understanding The only noise is Philip crying still – he needs to be taken care of, you need to make a move now – and it takes less than a minute for Alexander to yield. He embraces Eliza again, presses a kiss to the side of her head. "I love you," he whispers, raw.

Eliza's arms tighten briefly before she releases him again. "I know. Now go."

He goes.

It takes five days for him to reach South Carolina. It's faster than he should have gone, likely, as both he and his horse are exhausted by the time they reach the camp where Laurens was staying. Some of the soldiers there recognise Alexander and greet him, but he brushes their pleasantries aside.

A doctor finds him almost immediately. He seems surprised to see him, but reports that John is – miraculously, unfathomably – still alive. Tries to tell him something else, but Alexander isn't listening anymore, doesn't care. He's here for John, not conversation, and so when the doctor shows him to his friend's bedside, he's not sure what to expect, and it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses to hold back his reaction until he's alone with John.

John, whose breathing is jagged and uneven, whose hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, whose skin is pale and slick with it. His uniform is in shambles, smeared with mud and streaks of gunpowder. One pant leg is shredded and covered in dried blood, and beneath what's left of it, he can make out the bandage wrapped around John's right thigh. It looks to be in dire need of a change, but there's little that can be done about that right now.

Slowly, carefully, Alexander shifts to be sitting by John's side. He reaches out to brush back some of his hair, but stops just shy of contact when he realises that the fever is high enough that he's radiating heat. He looks thinner than usual, and his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as his fingers tighten from where they're already knotted in the blanket beneath him. A noise escapes from behind gritted teeth, half moan and half gasp, and Alexander's stomach lurches at the realization that John is awake, feeling every moment of this.

He can't save him from the pain, but he'll be damned if he'll let him go through it alone. He presses his palm carefully against John's feverish forehead, trying not to shudder at the memories it brings up.

For a moment, the other man almost seems surprised by the contact, then relaxes into it, another gasp shaking from behind his teeth. "Hey, John," Alexander says softly, unsure of what else to do.

His friend's eyebrows furrow. "Alexander?" The word is slurred, barely intelligible.

Alex nods all the same. "That's right."

John opens his eyes, shifts his head slowly until his gaze settles on Alex, bleary and fever bright. His eyes are extraordinary, Alex notes, not for the first time, and the barest hint of a smile breaks across John's face, hesitant and pained all at once. "Didn't think you'd come," he murmurs. "Why're you here?"

"Because you are." Because Eliza said I could be, and I wanted to be. Because you were shot, and I can't let you die alone. Alexander thinks the phrases, but can't quite bring himself to say them aloud. He pushes back some of John's hair and raises an eyebrow in what he hopes passes for a joking expression. "I hope you feel better than you look."

"Don't." The huff of air that escapes John resembles a laugh only barely as he closes his eyes again. "Hurts."

"I know." He doesn't, actually. The occasional graze notwithstanding, Alex has never been shot before, has rarely even come close. John, on the other hand, makes such a habit of it that it's miraculous he's made it this long, at least according to Lafayette. Alexander thinks of Brandywine, how Lafayette had gotten a bullet to his leg but John had come back, eyes bright with battle and covered in someone else's blood. Thinks of Monmouth, watching John go down as his horse was shot from under him only to spring right back up again, a shot already in his rifle. So many times, he's gotten lucky.

He can't help thinking that this is fate, finally catching up to him.

"It's worse than Germantown," John mumbles, drawing Alex out of his mind. "Doctor says so."

Alexander doesn't need the doctor's feedback to make that analysis. He'd been there to pull the bullet out of John's arm at Germantown. It had been hell, it had been bloody, it had hurt like the devil, if John was to believed, but this, this is another level. Pointing that out seems useless though, so Alex settles for another soft "I know", as if that's more productive.

"Luck ran out, Alexander," John says, another breath shuddering in his chest. "Had to happen, right?"

Alex shakes his head. This is a conversation he can't have. "No. Not yet." Against all odds, against all logic, John's still alive after almost two weeks. It has to count for something.

"Will," John mumbles. "Has to." Pain twists his face again, his grip on the blanket tightening as another short hiss of breath stumbles past his teeth.

There's nothing to say. Nothing Alex can do. He can't take this pain onto himself, no matter how much he'd like to. The only help he can provide is soft, soothing noises as he pushes John's hair back from his face again. "Just stay alive," he murmurs. "Keep fighting. It isn't done yet."

Stay alive, he repeats silently. Stay with me.

John falls asleep.

Alexander spends the day in and out of John's tent. He's never been good at sitting idle, and he's even worse at sitting by sickbeds. There isn't much for him to do around the camp, but it's enough to keep him from being still and going mad. He helps clean muskets, assembles the stew that's passing for edible today – God, he doesn't miss this, a man's food isn't supposed to smell like his feet – and while he works, he talks. Talk to the soldiers who had greeted him before, talks about what he's been up to since Yorktown, listens when they tell him about this latest fight.

It's as John's letter had said. It had been an ambush. The plan had been to intercept the British as they'd come down the river, and the British had intercepted them first. Two dead, nineteen wounded, three of them badly. Caleb Jackson had died two days after the fight from infection. Henry Mason is just getting back on his feet.

John is the only one left in between. The first time Alex returns to his tent, he tries to get him to eat something, but John's throwing it all back up again after only a few bites, face twisted with pain, mouth sticky with the vomit that's reeking thick in the air. Alex cleans him up and lets him alone after that, resorts back to trying to get him water instead in the hopes that he'll at least keep that down. Goes back to wandering the camp and worrying.

The next time he comes back, John is sleeping fitfully, seat beading across his forehead and a fever that cold rags don't even touch. It's almost enough to scare Alex senseless, because he knows how quickly these sorts of fevers strike. He remembers his mother's arms cooling around him when the sickness finally stole her in the space between heartbeats. The very thought of having come all this way just for John to – just so he can be alone, it's enough to make Alex sick.

So he doesn't leave. Sanitation, comfort, propriety be damned, Alex makes himself comfortable on the ground next to John, disregards the dirt burning his eyes and clogging his nose, ignores the pebbles digging divots into his arms. He watches John, the rise and fall of his chest, the flickering vein of beneath the sweat-soaked skin of his neck. He watches, waiting for the world to end, praying that it won't.

He falls asleep and wakes to John thrashing around in the throes of some nightmare. He's muttering something Alex can't understand, his voice frantic, twisted. Alex reaches for him, but the moment he makes contact, John flinches away like he's been burned. Awake now, he pushes himself up on an elbow that immediately goes out from under him, smacks right back down to the ground and starts coughing again, deep and rattling in his chest. By the time he's done, his hair is sticky, bile dripping from his lips again, his eyes clenched shut.

"John," Alex breathes, because it's the only word that comes to mind. He wraps an arm around him, pulling him away from the mess. "John, breathe. It's alright. I've got you." He wipes John's mouth with a corner of the blanket. It's long since ruined anyway. "I've got you."

The only thing keeping John upright right now is Alex, and he knows it. He pulls him closer, tries to ignore how hard the other man is shivering against his chest. He's burning up, shirt soaked with sweat. It won't be long now. "I'm so fucking cold, Alex," John whispers. "It's so cold."

Alex wraps his blanket tighter around the both of them. "I know." He's waiting for the world to end. "I know."

All aboard the angst train! I have nine million ideas for this fandom and all of them are sad.

Anyway, this is the first story in a series taking place in an alternate universe wherein John does not die and instead moves in with the Hamiltons because he gets a leg injury that makes independent living difficult at times. Lams is canon in this verse (though largely unspoken and not pre-established), as is Hamliza, but fair warning, this is not gonna be a fluff farm. If you are looking for a cute fic full of lovely, happy 18th century polyamory feels, this is not it.

I'm playing fast and loose with historical facts here a bit. I will largely follow the musical timeline instead of the historical one (if for no other reason than the fact that Hamilton for costing Burr the gubernatorial election is a decidedly more anticlimactic reason for his getting shot than him costing Burr the presidential election) and will largely be sticking to musical characterisations rather than historical ones. That said, historical viewpoints on various issues will probably make their way into this story in degrees, and...well. History was not always nice.

That said, if there are any glaring errors anyone sees, please please let me know, and I'll see what I can do to correct them. Hope you all enjoyed this first installment, and I'll see you soon for the next. : )

(Oh, and the title comes from 'You', by Keaton Henson. Check it out, it's pretty great.)