Oh, look at me. First Hamilton fic. I have so many unfinished fics, but whatever! I'll do this instead, because feels are terrible things and this show has given me ALL OF THEM.
Disclaimer: Hahahahahahahahaha do you think I'm Lin-Manuel Miranda u lil shits
no u don't
fuck off
ANYWAY
So this is much sad. From the prompt Oxygen.
He walks into a room and she walks out of it.
There are no words spoken between them. He tries- so many times, he tries- but they stick in his throat, like he can't get enough air to form them as she sweeps past, eyes forward, not even sparing him a glance.
He should be surprised. After all, his words have never failed him before. Somehow, though, it makes perfect sense. Clarity is a knife through his heart. There will never be the right words to show that I am sorry for what I have done.
It's his fault. It always is, really, and maybe he should have taken that as a warning sign, a reason not to do anything, but he was caught up in himself (as always [why can't he ever see, why couldn't he look at her and finally see]) and spared no thought to the repercussions on his family.
When he'd seen the pamphlet in Eliza's hand for the first time, it had suddenly hit him. I've done her wrong. I've done it all wrong.
She hadn't spoken to him. She hadn't even looked at him. She'd placed the pamphlet on the table and stood up, leaving the room with her head held high, showing that there were no tears in her eyes. She would not show him her grief.
(Later, when he went to their room and tried to open the door, it was locked. He knew she was in there, but he didn't know how to ask her to open the door, and even if he had the words, she would no longer listen to them. They had finally lost their charm to her, all the magic of palatial paragraphs gone with her trust in him.
When he finally did manage to get into the room to retrieve some of the things he needed if he was going to continue to sleep in his study, he discovered a few shreds of parchment that contained snippets of his own handwriting. They were words he remembered penning, parts of letters to his wife, the ones that had caused her to fall in love with him. He searched, but he could only find a few fragments, and he concluded that the rest of them were long since ash in the fireplace. She had ripped all the evidence of his love for her to bits and had burned it for good measure. The realization that his beloved Betsey was lost to him had been creeping towards him, but it still landed with the force of a gunshot. I have ruined everything.)
The children don't understand what's going on. They're too young. Only Philip, his oldest at fifteen, truly understands, and he doesn't know which parent to choose. I'm making my children choose he can't look in the mirror anymore. He hates the face staring back at him, hates the eyes that admired Maria Reynolds and the mind that forced away thoughts of the family he adores so he could find carnal pleasure with another woman.
Part of him wants to hate Maria, hate her for making him want her, for making him betray his heart, but he can't do it. She's too young, too innocent. She never wanted any of that to happen... or did she? He doesn't know anymore. It's not her fault anyway. He should have said no.
His neighbors whisper about him behind their hands, abusing his character, calling him a liar and a cheat and a horrible man. He hides in his study, unable to face their words knowing that they're right.
They whisper about Eliza, calling her a fool, too weak to leave her cheating husband, women laughing because she wasn't enough for the tomcat, was she? Not pretty enough, so he went running to a younger woman? It's not true, it isn't, Eliza is the most beautiful woman in the world, but she doesn't know what he thinks of her. For all he knows, she believes the whispers. And she still goes about her business with her head held high, never letting them see how much their words hurt her.
He sees her. He notices the circles under her eyes, the tiredness in her joints. She may think he doesn't care, doesn't even know her, but he recognizes the signs. He's seen them in himself all too often.
Besides, he does know her. He does love her. He always has. She's always been the angel, the person he holds above all others, his beloved Betsey who can do no wrong. He had not known love before he met her, had never experienced the sweet caring that comes of being loved unconditionally from anyone other than his mother. Everyone he cared for left him eventually, but she hadn't. She never would.
Maybe that's why he did it. He knew he wasn't worthy of her, and he had to prove himself right, because if he's anything, he's self-destructive. He builds himself up just to tear everything away because he knows, deep within the darkest parts of his soul, that he would never be good enough for her, and he had to show her that.
He was right. He was never going to be worthy of her.
But he's not glad he was correct, because she's right there, just out of reach, and he needs her, he knows this now. She is his everything, the very breath in his lungs that keeps him alive. Without her, he is dying. She is the elusive oasis in a desert- every time it looks like he's getting close, it turns out to be a mirage and he's farther away than ever.
He has so many words, but he can't say them to her if she isn't there. He chokes on them.
He walks into a room. She walks out of it.
And she takes all the oxygen with her.
All done! What did you think? RFF, I need constructive criticism! Did I capture Alex's character properly or nah? Lemme know!
The word of the day is SOPORIFIC! It means causing or tending to cause sleep. Like trigonometry and Spanish. Review if you agree!
It's only 10:16. What the fuck. It should be 1am by now. I am very disappointed in time currently.
Oh well. That's all for now. Lulu out~