Alexander is hunched low over his desk by the light of a single candle, burnt almost to its completion. The offices around him are presumably empty and no light from any others' candle flickers under his door. He thinks he is truly alone.
This, as usual, does little to bother him. He is normally the very last to retire in the evenings and has grown used to it in the year he has worked on the President's cabinet.
The latest draft of his financial plan sits near completion in front of him. It is gruelling work. Eliza has commented endlessly on his obvious exhaustion and state of ill health as of late but as he loves her, he forgives her of the fuss. She is not known to play the termagant, her recent behaviour must be a testament to his own, bordering on self-destructive, actions.
He glances momentarily at the Swiss-made grandfather clock and starts; it his ten minutes to eleven at night. With a glance behind him at the window, he notices the lights of the city have dimmed somewhat and the sound of hooves on cobblestones is sporadic; fewer people are out at this late hour.
He collects his things into neat piles and places the most sensitive of documents in the drawer of his desk, locking it and pocketing the key with particular care.
He is also careful to tighten the lids on his inkwell and smear his quill's nib onto some blotting paper before preparing to leave. The war taught him to make use of the little resources he is allowed and though he writes more than the majority of his colleges, his paper and ink expenses are generally low.
There are footsteps in the corridor outside, a group of them. Listening hard, with a foreboding curiosity filling him, he estimates that at least three people are moving in the corridor outside.
He cautiously pulls on his topcoat and tightens his cravat slightly. If he is to run into people, he must ensure a degree of propriety is maintained. He has a reputation to uphold.
The footsteps are near now and all at once, they stop, directly outside his door. He can hear low murmurings but cannot make out words.
He momentarily contemplates calling out to these people but stops himself. He will wait until they knock. Their approach to him has been rude and suspicious thus far, why should he humour them?
There is a firm knocking on his door and he sighs. He had hoped these people would simply pass him by, an encounter with his colleges at this late hour is the last thing he would wish for. Eliza will most likely be in bed already and he has long since missed his childrens' bedtimes.
"Enter."
He makes sure a certain degree of frustration is evident his tone when he replies but keeps his face civil and polite when the door is pushed open. He had thought it might be Randolph or Knox, he vaguely remembers one or the other mentioning they would work late, but it is not.
Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and James Monroe stand in his doorway. The detestable, Democratic-Republican trio he has verbally sparred many more times than he would have desired.
"Secretary Jefferson, Speaker Madison, Senator Monroe. You do not find it rather late for a meeting?"
He does not bother with pleasantries. He intends to make this brief, lest he enter another verbal scuffle with Jefferson.
Jefferson's face is contorted in a smirk that Hamilton can only interpret as trouble. He is dressed in his usual, francophillian manner. The embroidered crimson top coat and bright ribbon on his queue are ridiculously expensive looking, the sort of clothing Hamilton knows is worn in Paris.
This is telling, not only because it exemplifies the air of diplomacy he exudes, but because it forces Hamilton to realize Jefferson has dressed this way on purpose. It is to intimidate him.
It doesn't work. Jefferson can wear his lavish clothes and boast of his debauchery in France. He was fighting a war, that is infinitely more valuable a claim.
"Secretary Hamilton, I was told you would remain here late. A fine evening, is it not?"
He says this casually, as though he is making small talk at a dinner table, Hamilton gets the distinct impression he is trying to draw this conversation out. Making it memorable, savouring it. But why?
He nearly rolls his eyes but Washington's stern voice echoes through his mind. All the chastisement he would no doubt receive for baiting Jefferson is not worth it. He forces on himself a pleasant smile.
"Indeed, Sirs. Yet, as you eruditely said, it is late. I was about to send for a carriage."
He straightens the lapels of his coat and pulls his queue out from under his collar, making to pick up his briefcase. Madison, however, holds out his hand to pause him.
"You hasten to leave, yet I think you will find the reason for our disturbance... enlightening."
It is hard to be intimidated of Madison, especially when he is stood next to Thomas Jefferson. All of five foot four with a sickly frame and a pale, doughy face. Yet, there is a look in his eyes that Hamilton does not like. It is difficult to believe in this moment that he and Madison were once friends.
He looks from Madison to Jefferson, to Monroe and pushes his glasses further up his nose. He will humour them, this once.
"Enlighten me, then."
Jefferson bends down slightly and from the floor picks up his polished briefcase Hamilton had not before noticed. He opens it surreptitiously, not allowing Hamilton to see the contents. Again, he fights the ever growing urge to roll his eyes. He has not time for Jefferson's histrionics.
Jefferson pulls out a small bundle of papers and sets them on the desk in front of Hamilton. They are payments, monthly ones from a single account to another, nearly two hundred dollars each time.
He reads the name at the top of the document and all at once, an icy sense of dread fills him. It is cold water, no, freezing water being poured down his back, chilling his spine and sending goosebumps to bloom on his arms. He is paralyzed. He knows these checks.
"Check stubs, from a Mr. James Reynolds' accounts. Nearly two hundred dollars in monthly payments for the last three years. That is a lot of money, is it not, Secretary Hamilton?"
He gathers himself and casts an incredulous eye over the three of them, raising an eyebrow and feigning ignorance.
"Why are you showing me these, and more importantly, how did you procure them?"
Jefferson laughs sharply, his icy grey eyes are alight with malice. It is enough to chill Hamilton to the very bone.
"These checks, though astonishing in the evidence of corruption they show, are not the entire reason we are here, Hamilton."
Hamilton sits back down in his chair, feeling at once that if this meeting (he should say ambush, really) is going the way he dreads, he will not be able to stand for its duration.
Monroe steps forward now, having been silent thus far. He continues for Jefferson, fixing Hamilton with a steely gaze.
"Nearly eight months ago, Secretary Jefferson and I were approached by a one, Mr. James Reynolds who claimed to have information on a member of Washington's cabinet that would be of great interest to us."
Jefferson is pulling at his cuffs, the silver clasps gleam in the candlelight. A smirk has crept its way onto his face.
"Upon scheduling a meeting with Mr. Reynolds in a small establishment in Philadelphia, we were shown a number of documents, all of which I have with me."
He gestures to the papers Hamilton is holding with trembling hands and laughs at the man's obvious anxiety, despite his best efforts to keep a straight face, his hands have betrayed him to Jefferson.
"The first of these aforementioned documents is the one before you, a record of a series of payments to Mr. Reynolds, in an attempt to cover up sensitive information and evidence he held against you."
Hamilton wishes the ground would open up and he would be swallowed whole, better than the living hell he is enduring now.
Madison continues for Jefferson, drawing himself up to his full, unimpressive height and stifling a cough with a lace-edged handkerchief.
"The other documents we were shown by Mr. Reynolds," he gestures to the papers Jefferson is now pulling from his briefcase, "were the correspondences between yourself and Representative John Laurens, from 1778 to 1782."
These words come like a punch in the gut to Hamilton and when the letters are placed in front of him, the sensation changes to more closely resemble a knife wound.
They are not the original copies, nor is it the full correspondence. He has those hidden in his study, treasured under lock and key to be taken out on sporadic, sentimental occasions. These have been copied out by someone, who evidently had access to them, somehow.
He knew Reynolds has these, yet has not been shown them before. He had paid Reynolds monthly for the past three years, he could not think why Reynolds would break their agreement.
He picks up the first and reads through the opening paragraph. This is one of his to John, circa 1779.
Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that I love you.
I shall only tell you that 'till you bade us Adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart to set upon you. Indeed, my friend, it was not well done.
You know the opinion I entertain of mankind, and how much it is my desire to preserve myself free from particular attachments, and to keep my happiness independent on the caprice of others. You should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent.
But as you have done it and as we are generally indulgent to those we love, I shall not scruple to pardon the fraud you have committed, on condition that for my sake, if not for your own, you will always continue to merit the partiality, which you have so artfully instilled into me.
Hamilton winces upon finishing the paragraph. He regrets nothing of the words upon the paper before him for not a single one them are false, but he realises the evidence is damning. However, surely they are not wise to the extent of he and John's relationship- perhaps he can pass this off as mere wartime camaraderie.
Jefferson is watching him as he reads further down the paragraph, thinking and planning and calculating as he is so known for, as he is so detested for by many.
Alexander looks up, making sure his posture is as straight as he is able and his eyes as stoic and expressionless as he can make them.
"Mr. Jefferson, have you ever fought in a war?"
It is clear he catches the man off guard with this question so he seizes the opportunity, standing up and glaring at Jefferson with unrestrained contempt.
"I- I served as a diplomat in France during the revolution, Hamilton. Surely you know this. A vital part of the war effort was done by myself and other ambassadors."
Hamilton shakes his head and braces his hands on the table below him. If he is to make this convincing, he must appear confident and unperturbed.
"No, you have not fought a war, Jefferson. You have not suffered and starved and been shot at from every direction by British Redcoats. You know not of watching comrades, your kin, fall around you and therefore know nothing of wartime camaraderie. Laurens and I are as good as brothers, yet you enter my office and accuse me of such improprieties?"
He realises his voice is shaking and he ceases his furious tirade, watching Jefferson's expression morph from shock to horror and then maddeningly, gleeful again.
"That was a heartfelt speech, truly Hamilton, and I may be more inclined to believe you if it were not for the rest of the evidence I have to support my accusations. I would not approach you with these things if I were not certain about them. I am a thorough man."
Hamilton's eyes move back down to the letters and he scans through them again, picking one at random and beginning to read. It is one of their earlier ones, when they were still young and reckless, sure they would be shot to death on some dismal battlefield. They never considered the consequences their actions should have on them in the future, sure that there would be no future.
They were lucky, or at least Hamilton now views himself a such. When he enlisted, however, he was not so concerned about returning from the war.
It is from John when he had recently departed to South Carolina.
Dearest Alexander,
It is with every hour that my heart grows increasingly weary of this distance, these wretched miles between us feel like oceans, like the vastness of the heavens above.
Hamilton cannot help a small, internal smile. John wrote as such a poet, romantic in the way that reminisced the European romance tales he surely would have read in his school days in Geneva. He has matured now, though his letters always retain that same, Shakespearean tone.
South Carolina is unbearably warm, you may think it would be a welcome relief from Valley Forge, yet I fear I have grown accustomed to the north's frigid temperatures these last years.
Dear boy, you know how utter and singular my devotion is to you and I am sure I have made my displeasure at leaving you well aware, yet this is not enough to satisfy my pining. I miss your touch, warm during the icy nights surely brought on by Boreas himself.
Your skin against mine, your lips, flush and soft. It is these thoughts that protect my sanity here in the south, and these thoughts which I live on like manna.
You surely laugh at me, reading this. I beg your forgiveness, we are not all as eloquent as you when it comes to professions of love. I suppose I make myself to be some love-sick Romeo, yet it appears that is what you have reduced me to, Alexander.
He cannot read any further. He sick to the stomach, his head spinning and his eyes misting over.
He could hang for this.
He is silent for a while and does not look up when Jefferson begins to speak again.
"As you have read, from these letters, we have reason to believe that you engaged in-" he wrinkles his nose here and looks down at the papers in his hand for a moment. Nevertheless, his next words are said with bombast, a suffusion of glee creeping into his tone as with his next words, he makes Hamilton's heart stop.
"-Gross indecency, or colloquially, sodomy. An offense punishable by death in every state."
He, for what seems like the first time in over fifteen years, has nothing to say. Thousands of possibilities are racing through his mind at a break-neck pace yet all of them seem foolhardy. He cannot deny this, it is written here, right in front of him, yet... It is not in his or Laurens' own pen.
Perhaps- Perhaps he could deny this, perhaps he could claim someone has made these up for purposes of sabotage. Perhaps-
"It baffles me as to why you believe you have anything against me, sirs. These letters are in neither mine nor Laurens' pen. I do not recognise the writing itself, either."
Jefferson smirks and adjusts his cravat. It is Valencienne lace, of course, this is Thomas Jefferson.
"Hamilton, Madison and I are both well acquainted with your style of writing. This entire correspondence reeks of, well, you."
He picks up the letter in front of Hamilton, the one he wrote to John and scans his eyes over the first paragraph, grinning.
It is humiliating, degrading, suffocating, to be under this scrutiny from three men he all but despises. These are his personal letters, his affairs with John have not ever been discussed so openly with another living soul, unless of course, you count Lafayette, who lives all the way in France now.
"I was not aware you were well acquainted with the idiosyncrasies of my love letters, Jefferson. If you were you would realise that these are not mine."
He sees Jefferson blanch slightly but that smirk returns as quickly as it had left.
Damn this man to hell.
Jefferson walks around to stand behind Hamilton and Madison and Monroe flank him. It is an obvious attempt to assert domination, physical power. He stands up and turns around to face Jefferson, glaring up at the man's six foot three stature with unbridled rage.
He will not be swayed by this elitist Virginian, too lazy to pass his plans because they require too much work. This Virginian whose skin is not marred by bullet scars and who's dreams are not vivid remembrances of his fellow men dying around him.
This ivy-tower, pampered man will not intimidate him. It does not matter he is nearly fourteen years his senior.
"You underestimate me, Hamilton."
Jefferson's expression is sly, yet he has lost some of that cocky assurance he had displayed upon entering Hamilton's office. He knows now that Hamilton will attempt to refute every claim he puts upon him.
"I would not intrude upon you in this manner if I had not irrefutable evidence to support my claims."
Hamilton wonders what Jefferson could possibly be referring to. He has John's letters safe in his study at home, locked away where no other could access them. He knows John is the same, he has seen the box John keeps their letters in. He knows that John treasures them equally as dearly as he does.
Jefferson reaches into his briefcase and takes out an envelope. It is clearly old but kept in good condition. The wax seal is broken yet Hamilton recognises the imprint left there.
No. It cannot be. Reynolds had mentioned this, threatened to reveal it, but he had always thought it a bluff. Never once had it occurred to him that such substantial evidence against them could exist in the hands if someone so mal-intentioned.
How would Jefferson possibly acquire this? It cannot be an original copy. It cannot.
Jefferson slides the letter across the polished wood desk to him and glances at Madison next to him. They are both smiling in much the same way a lawyer smiles when presenting his key witness to the courts. Hamilton knows the feeling well. Undiluted jubilance.
He picks up the letter and slides the paper inside it out, laying it on the desk and beginning to read.
It is his handwriting, his own distinct scrawl that he has perfected over the years. Even here, in this beta stage, it is recognisable immediately. Even furthur damning, is his signature right at the foot of the parchment. It is as though he has signed his own death sentence.
My dear Jack,
I acknowledge but one letter from you, since you left us, of the 14th of July which just arrived in time to appease a violent conflict between my friendship and my pride. I have written you five or six letters since you left Philadelphia and I should have written you more had you made proper return. But like a jealous lover, when I thought you slighted my caresses, my affection was alarmed and my vanity piqued.
I had almost resolved to lavish no more of them upon you and to reject you as an inconstant and an ungrateful lover. But you have now disarmed my resentment and by a single mark of attention made up the quarrel. You must at least allow me a large stock of good nature.
I trust your reasoning for not writing is adequate, you have never shown reason for my concern in regards to our love, for usually, you are as devoted a lover as I. My dear Laurens, the merit I set upon you was not ill placed, for, upon your leaving, I find myself consoled by your, albeit lone, letter and my own reveries of you.
I must confess, and it is with the kindest and most well-meaning sentiments, that you do indeed write as a Romeo. Though I hope I am not your Rosaline, a dalliance as brief as the life of the flower she is named. No, I conclude not.
While we are on the subject of such dalliances, I trust you have remained faithful to my devotion and not found comfort in Southern men. I would reassure you that I have not, though that seems unavailing. Who would I find comfort in - McHenry?
No, I am sure you are as singular as I in your affections. Who else would touch like I touch? You spoke of my lips and skin, flush and soft. Would the southern gentlemen of Carolina compare? They cannot kiss as I can.
I eagerly await your return to Philadelphia, as do the rest of the family. Though I would hope my want to see you has its roots in a different type of love, John.
I did not write of how I missed your lips in my last letter and feel somewhat as you have outdone me, Jack. You are well aware how I despise being outdone, so I will conclude in telling you that no other's could compare,
Yrs forever, Alexander Hamilton
He has not seen this letter since the war, since he set down his quill all those years ago and read back over his writing, already holding the wax stick over the flame in preparation to seal the envelope.
Thomas Jefferson is still watching him, his eyes are alive with terrifying malice, it is what Alexander imagines the unlucky mouse sees before it is snatched up by a particularly hungry cat.
"How- How did you obtain this?"
It is not quite a confession of guilt. He chooses his words carefully, making sure to leave his stance on the matter ambiguous. If he is eventually able to think of a solution, he wants to have as much room to manoeuvre as possible. This means leaving his options open. Burr would approve.
"Let us not delve into specifics Hamilton, after all, they are tricks of the trade."
He is overcome with rage and resists the boyish urge to swing at Jefferson. Is there an trade in humiliation? To seeking out to condemn two men who merely love each other? If it is, it is the trade the devil himself is involved in.
Actually, Hamilton thinks, it is some sort of sickening coincidence that Jefferson is clad almost entirely in red.
Monroe steps further forward into the candlelight and his eyes too are gleeful, though the emotion behind them feels less personal. Monroe is ecstatic about the effects this will have on his career, how with Hamilton gone he will have no one barring him from the decentralised government he so ardently desires. He does not hate Alexander, only his ideologies.
Jefferson's excitement, though is equally personal as it is political. This man has been waiting to find something incriminating on him for close to two years.
Jefferson does not only see Hamilton as a political rival, he despises him for his wit and his refusal to back down and the fact that he is right far more often than he is wrong.
Right now, he has picked up the letter Hamilton wrote to John all those years ago. He starts to read the first paragraph aloud. His southern drawl is mocking and obnoxious, seeping like a thick, syrupy poison through Hamilton's ears.
"Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that I love you."
He looks around at Madison and grins, showing gleaming teeth. Hamilton's hand has somehow found his quill and is gripping it hard, his stomach tight and his teeth clenched tighter.
Jefferson's tone takes on a simpering, falsely sentimental air. He sounds like a poor actor in the travelling theatre companies which frequent the square, or else pile into shabby theatres downtown.
"I shall only tell you that 'till you bade us Adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart-"
"Enough!"
Hamilton is shaking with rage now and his fist is clenched at his side, his fingernails dig sharply into the soft skin of his palms.
Jefferson slowly brings the letter away from his face, his grip on it slackening. He takes a step closer to Hamilton, looking him up and down with disgust.
"You have no idea how long I had been waiting for this day. When the Alexander Hamilton is revealed to what he truly is- a faggot, sodomite."
"-Jefferson..."
His voice is barely a whisper, it sounds so breakable. So unlike his own. The man in front of him smirks, shaking his head slowly, suddenly breaking the silence and slamming the letter back down on Hamilton's desk. His inkwell jumps upwards and tilts, falling to the floor and smashing instantly.
Hamilton gasps ever so slightly and Jefferson laughs again.
"Do you want to know the most entertaining thing of all, Hamilton? We don't think this little jeu de folie with Mr. Laurens remained in the confines of the war, no. It is clear the two of you are lovers. It is disgusting."
He has hit Hamilton in the exact spot where he knows it will hurt most. He has plunged a knife straight through his ribcage, and it is lodged there now.
John.
They have always been so careful. Under five living souls know their secret, and all of them friends. Eliza, Lafayette, The Baron Von Steuben, Pierre DuPonceau... Two of these friends share their plight, they can understand what it is like to love someone and never be able to show it openly.
He wonders if they are likely to be sent to the gallows for this. That is a punishment for sodomy, or at least he thinks it is... Yet, they are both respected veterans who have worked hard to shape their country. It is possible they will suffer prison, or the lash, or castration, or exile, or-
He thinks of Eliza. The humiliation she would be subjected to. The wife of an adulterer, a sodomite. Though, it was not as though she did not know about John.
She does indeed, know their secret, that when Laurens stays weekends for meetings and political discussions, more than just those events take place in his office, or his bedroom, or the parlour. She knows of stolen kisses in empty corridors and wandering hands underneath desks.
He bites back a groan of anguish at the thought.
After this, there will be no more of these small, stolen pieces of heaven.
No more soft kisses after dinner and playful banter in the street, as they walk to work or some tavern. They are young yet, Hamilton thirty-three and John thirty-five. They are too young for this to end.
Then he wonders what Jefferson intends to do with this information. Is it his plan to publish these letters, watch a righteous mob divest the cabinet of Hamilton without having to lift a finger?
Does he intend to use this as blackmail? It is the ultimate piece of information to hold against someone for purposes of extortion, if that is his plan, Hamilton is at his complete mercy.
Then Hamilton wonders if they have approached John, whether they intend to or not.
"Have you... Does Laurens know about this?"
Jefferson smirks and glances at Monroe with shared mirth. Hamilton grits his teeth and sucks in a long, slow deep breath.
"Surely that is a question that anyone would ask in this situation, Jefferson. Rather juvenile humour, on your part, it seems."
He knows he should not be baiting Jefferson. In fact, it is indescribably foolhardy. If Jefferson wanted to, he could have Hamilton killed or imprisoned or whipped or driven from the country.
Yet, he can not help lash out. It is second nature to aggravate him.
Jefferson, however, doesn't take kindly to his snarkiness. He narrows his eyes and leans closer into Hamilton, still towering above him at six foot two inches tall.
"Your lack of self-preservation shocks me, Hamilton. I need not tell you what we can do with a single letter, a single sentence to the press."
Of course, Philip Freneau. Editor of the Daily Advertiser, founder of The National Gazette. In the palm of Jefferson's hand as usual. So much of Washington's first few months were spent trying to suppress the anti-federalist sentiment that southerners and Democratic-Republicans like him were so set on spreading.
"Of course."
To Jefferson, his response sounds like submission, like an acknowledgement of his superior position over Hamilton. To Hamilton, it is an ambiguous jibe at Jefferson's corruption. He is more thinking aloud than anything else.
Hamilton sinks back down into his chair and crosses one leg over the other. He had felt, standing up, as though he was likely to fall at any given moment. He has no desire to add to the list of humiliations Jefferson now has to mock him for.
"And what, pray tell me, are your intentions with these documents?"
Jefferson smiles and he takes out an envelope from his briefcase, handing it to Hamilton with a flourish. They watch him and breaks the wax seal, sliding out the paper inside and unfolding it.
It seems to be a list of demands, requirements they have drawn up which he must follow in order to keep this matter a secret.
There are many, the list seems endless and they grow more and more outlandish as he reads further down. They have not asked him to resign his cabinet post, which Hamilton grudgingly admits is a wise decision. If he were to leave his job suddenly, in the midst of all this partisan fighting and political unrest, it would look extremely suspicious.
They have told him to end the relationship with John, though he is not sure how they intend to enforce this. They have told him he must quit his financial plan immediately, he must caution his federalist agenda and cease his quote 'sentiments detrimental to the welfare of the southern states'.
Most outlandish of all, and disagreeable to Hamilton, is Jefferson's request that he act as a link between Washington and the Democratic-Republicans. The word spy is not used, and indeed the description sounds more like he will be a diplomat for them, pushing their agenda to Washington, yet, he cannot be complicit in this. He will not betray the General, as he still refers to Washington; sometimes jokingly, often times without realising he is doing so.
He points at the paragraph where this is demanded of him and shakes his head.
"I will not agree to this, Jefferson. Your other demands are extreme to the point of foolishness, but this is treason."
Jefferson kicks the leg of his chair sharply so that he is pulled away from his desk. Then he crouches down so that they are eye to eye. He looked enraged, he looks callous, he looks dangerous.
"Hamilton, do you need a reminder of the punishments you will be subject to if this affair is to come out? Sodomy is punishable by,"
And here he lists on his fingers, tapping each one as he goes through all the possible modes of Hamilton's demise.
"Flogging, imprisonment, exile, you would be stripped of your belongings, your land, your military rank, your titles. Your lovely wife would be taken back by Mr. Philip Schuyler and married off to another, more deserving, man. You could hang for this, Hamilton."
He pauses for breath here, watching Hamilton's face as it is drained of colour and taking in the slight trembling of his hands.
"Your precious 'Jack' would suffer the same fate as you. You could both be exiled, that is likely. Either sent to New-South-Wales or back to where you come from. You did grow up on a prison island, did you not?"
Jefferson cannot use that word. He cannot call John by the name only Hamilton is allowed. How dare he?
How dare he talk about Eliza in such a way, his lips are not fit to form the shape that creates her name. How dare he?
Instead of saying any of this, he breathes out his response quietly.
"You are wrong, Jefferson."
He sees Madison and Monroe glance at each other, a shared look of confusion and maybe even awe. He knows that no one but himself is known for standing up to Jefferson when he becomes this angry; when he is motivated by so much personal spite.
Hamilton stands up and begins to pace, as he so often does when he is alone in his office. He does not spare a glance in the direction of his three tormentors, rather keeping his eyes focused on the ground as he begins to speak.
"You are wrong, Jefferson. You forget I studied Law, that I know our states' legislations like the back of my own hand. Sodomy was punishable by death until three years ago until the repeals of the penal laws in September 86'."
He is remembering these things as he says them, thinking back to three years ago when the laws were repealed and lesser sentences on homosexuality were imposed. He had squeezed John's hand tight under the meeting table and they had dared to give each other small smiles whenever the new laws were mentioned.
"Even before that, do you truly believe I would be executed for my crime? I hold the rank of Major General in the American army, Treasury Secretary to the first president of the United States of America."
He laughs sharply, as though humoured by Jefferson's ignorance to these matters. In truth, he is.
"I would be unlucky to receive five years in a comfortable prison. As for flogging, that practice is only maintained for petty crimes in small communities, Jefferson. Surely you would know, seeing as you exert the same punishments upon your young slaves."
He pauses here and looks up momentarily to watch Jefferson, relishing in the furious puce shade he is turning.
"Of course, my reputation would be in ruins. Mr. Laurens would suffer the same punishments, Mrs. Hamilton would be taken from me. Yet, these threats are not enough to drive me to treason, sirs. You are mistaken if you believe I would betray the General on your behalf."
In truth, these threats are enough to drive him to treason, yet he knows that if he refuses this signal demand they will compromise with him, rather than expose him. He is more valuable to Jefferson in the cabinet than in a jail cell.
Jefferson looks as though he would like nothing more than to strike him, indeed, Hamilton almost fears this. The man has a formidable temper and Hamilton is under his complete control. What could he do if Jefferson did hurt him?
The moment passes, however, and Jefferson closes his eyes. He shakes his head slowly and sighs. Then, he starts to tut like he is chastising a petulant child. He smiles at Hamilton and puts his hands on his hips, rather like a condescending schoolmaster does.
"Impressive, almost. You do, however, rely too much on your faith in the law, Hamilton. A souvenir of your theoretical knowledge of it in opposition to any practical experience. The law may say one thing, but the people will cry for another. Angry, righteous mobs will do the job of the law enforcers. They do not need court warrants to lynch men they deem guilty, both yourself and Laurens, Hamilton."
He says nothing, looking straight ahead over Jefferson's shoulder rather than into those hate filled eyes above him.
Jefferson seems irritated by his lack of response and grins unpleasantly, sharing a look with Madison who stands diagonally behind his left shoulder.
"And your children, Hamilton. What about them? What are their names, let's see... Philip, Alexander, James and, ah, yes; Angelica. I say, I wonder what Mrs. Schuyler-Church herself will have to say about this affair?"
Hamilton breaks his eye contact with the wall and glares at Jefferson, not only for his mention of Angelica but the fact that he has the audacity to bring up Hamilton's own children. Has this man no shame?
"Jefferson, I suggest we leave my children out of this discussion."
The taller man laughs and it feels like a dull knife is hacking into him, not sharp enough to slice but painful and unsteady and grating.
"What age is Philip now? Around eight? Do you suppose he will understand what his father is, the names that the press and the public will label you?"
Hamilton has reached back his fist and is ready to strike Jefferson for what is coming from his mouth, but is stopped by the taller man's hand closing tightly around his wrist.
Hamilton pulls his hand back and considers swinging again, damned be the consequences.
He will bear Jefferson insulting him. He will let himself be called a faggot, or abhorrent and unnatural. He will not, however, stand for anyone disrespecting his family, John, his children.
Yet, it is for this exact reason, his love for his family and John, he will check himself. He slumps in his chair and picks up the paper again, reading over the demands with a determined eye. He does not look at Jefferson, he can already well imagine his delighted expression at his submission.
He thinks for as long as he feels he is able, considering, calculating, planning.
"I'm sure we can reach a compromise, Sirs, there must be additional requests we could substitute for the one I am unwilling to abide by."
Jefferson scowls and looks as though he would very much like to swing at Hamilton himself. Alexander recalls one conversation with John in which his friend dryly remarked he and Jefferson should just fight their disagreements out, physically. It would be better than their inauspicious, unavailing debates.
"His unrelenting traditionalism grows more wearisome by the minute, John."
Alexander discards his coat over a chair and falls onto the parlour's canapé with a tired sigh. He pulls off his shoes, which, after walking home through the uneven cobbled streets, are hurting his feet.
John stands behind him now, draping his arms gently across his shoulders and pulling his hair from his queue, which he knows hurts Alexander's scalp when tied tightly all day. He sighs contentedly and John smooths out his hair, carding a gentle hand through it and discarding the ribbon on the coffee table.
"One of these days, it might be wise to have the two of you fight out your disagreements. Your debates lead nowhere, I'm surprised The President hasn't called for this solution already."
Alexander can hear the sly humour in his voice, he twists around and looks up at the man above him with a tired smile. John leans down and they kiss, all of Alexander's worries about Jefferson are forgotten.
Madison now, however, is lightly touching Jefferson's elbow. Their height difference is laughable, yet he has been told the same thing when he is stood next to Jefferson and Washington. He is not exactly tall either.
"Thomas, there are perhaps some changes to be made to our approach, it is not surprising this has arisen."
Monroe steps in now too, nearly equal in height to Jefferson. He seems to agree with Madison and now inclines his head towards the door.
"Perhaps it would be prudent to reconvene after further deliberation, it is late after all."
Jefferson silently seethes for another moment before straightening his posture and raising his chin higher in the air. He sweeps the letters and cheques off Hamilton's desk and into his briefcase with an angry motion, scowling all the while.
"I trust you will think very carefully about your current position, Hamilton. I need not remind you again of our intentions, and the consequences you will face if you do not concede."
Hamilton stands silently and rearranges the items on his desk. Jefferson has made a mess of his things.
"You will hear from me soon, Sirs."
Jefferson tuts, one hand on the doorknob, the other clutching the handle of his briefcase protectively.
"No, you will hear from us Hamilton."
He has barely attempted to disguise the building glee in his voice.
"We will not sit around, waiting for your words."
Hamilton has to clench his jaw tight and press himself hard into his chair, gripping the handles tightly. Jefferson cannot possibly be more childish.
"Do not worry, I am sure there will be little delay. Of course, we need not tell you this meeting must be kept at the utmost secrecy, no one will know about this unless we decide to involve them."
Jefferson smirks and Madison's lips twitch into a quarter smile.
"Good night, Hamilton."
He opens the door and the three men file out, disappearing into the dimly lit corridor and retreating further and further away until their footsteps are as quiet as those of any mouse.
Alexander bends down and begins to pick the broken glass from the puddle of ink on the floor. He throws them into the bin that sits in the corner of his office and lays a blotting sheet over the spill, to absorb what is not yet dry.
Then, he sits back at his desk, he removes his glasses, he takes his head in his hand, and he cries.