Author's Note:

Warning: My obsession with Broadway has lead me to this.

I was listening to 'Empty Chairs at Empty Tables' from Les Miserables and then randomly thought of the 'John Laurens Interlude' from Hamilton and began to cry. I had felt this connection between both musicals through the songs the Les Mis rebels sang and the songs the Hamilton revolutionaries sang. Both about revolution, both about camaraderie between the groups, both about a new and better tomorrow. And so this story came to life. I hope you enjoy.

Alexander Hamilton did not want to be there.

Yet, he felt compelled to return; he felt guilty if he didn't. Even if he just was sitting in the tavern in silence, a solemn and painful silence. He wanted to be alone in thought. A want which took him from his office, an explanation for his wife, to the musty tavern. It had only been moments ago that a letter arrived for him. It had only been moments ago that he was overwhelmed with happiness at the promising future. Now, that same letter was in his shaking hands and he was overwhelmed with heartbreak.

There's a grief that can't be spoken

There's a pain goes on and on

He was gone.

John Laurens was gone.

He read the letter over and over again to the point his eyes ached for a break. He couldn't tear his eyes away though, he wouldn't. John was dead. A piece of Alexander's heart fell away when he saw killed and John in Henry Laurens' handwriting.

Alexander remembered the times they wrote together; he would never admit it, but he adored his writing. The way he wrote was skillful, fast and careful, always resulting in beautiful and legible letters. His father's writing was simply cramped and it made Alexander even more doleful. As he thought about it, all his adoration for John resurfaced. There were numerous things he wanted to say to him. Even if he were still alive though, Alexander thought, you wouldn't tell him. There would never again be a place or time in which he could. He knew this and it killed him.

Here they talked of revolution

Here it was they lit the flame

He remembered the first time he saw John Laurens. At the seat across from him, the same table he currently sat at; holding a glass of beer, talking proudly with Lafayette and Hercules Mulligan. The smile John had on his face, the way his eyes lit up when Alexander spoke; he was glad to have entered the tavern that day. It was only the beginning to everything Alexander would work towards, along with his newfound friends. Reluctantly, he looked up at his surroundings and remembered that the tavern wasn't the same as it was that day.

It was darker. Even as the scattered candles burned providing all the light that they could with their shrinking wicks. The sun setting behind buildings added to the depressing and shadowy effect. It was quieter as well. The few men that were there spoke with each other in whispers or didn't speak at all. Where cheers were once shouted, where drinks were once shared, where John Laurens once was; there was the opposite. There was no life to be found. Looking at the empty chair, a quivering breath escaped his parted lips.

And they rose with voices ringing

I can hear them now

Somehow, in his mind, Alexander would close his eyes and John Laurens would walk through the tavern door, looking right at him. He proceeded to do this and when his eyes opened there was a closed door. No one calling his name. It was a foolish thing to do, but he wanted it to happen so bad. He wanted for him to be alive, for this letter to have never been written, for a chance to let John know his feelings towards him. Not a single soul knew about the way he felt, except for Eliza, maybe. He had a certain eagerness every time one of John's letters arrived and his immediate response in return skimmed only the surface of a whole other part of Alexander. He tried to repress it, but love always had a way of breaking through.

Alexander discovered John's death after his wife had read the letter to him. He regretted ever telling her to read it, but the letter seemed unimportant at that moment. He assumed it was about his success in South Carolina. He would've written back about his son, Philip, and the future work they would endure after their victory. But it wasn't from John. Alexander nearly broke down in front of his wife after she asked him if he was okay. Her face, drained of color, the pleading and loving look in her eyes was all too much for him. He evaded the question, refusing to let his love see his tears, and quickly went to his office to finish some work. He did however, write a few things but ended up crying over his desk. He couldn't push aside the grief he was possessed with.

"Raise a glass to freedom!

Something they can never take away!"

He managed a smile through his sadness at the thought of the John's ultimate dream of freedom. All his hard work and determination to make it a reality. All the essays they wrote, all the discussions they had, all the adversaries they overcame; and they succeeded. He succeeded. Only to have it taken away in a fight that could have never happened. With his death, all the surviving men that made up his regiment were returned to their masters. Alexander imagined John protesting angrily as their freedom was taken again. Fortunately, it was a dream for freedom that others would take on.

Alexander was interrupted from his thoughts at the loud crashing of glass. His eyes darted toward the noise and he saw two men who had obviously been drinking, fighting on the floor. He balled his fists, irritated that the drunken scuffle tore him away from his grieving. He wanted to say something but he couldn't muster any words. Instead, he folded the letter in half, slid it into his coat pocket, and stood up from his seat. He wiped at his moist eyes and cheeks before walking towards the door, carefully avoiding the fight. As he opened the heavy door, he turned back to look at the table and smiled at seeing John staring at him with his flawless smile.

Tomorrow there'll be more of us