This is a one-shot that AquaArtistCat requested because she was was one of the first three reviewers of my other story, We Will Never Be Satisfied. She requested fluffy modern Lams AU. I hope you like it!
Friday- everyone was eager to get out of school and go home for the weekend (where, of course, they would spend the duration of their free time feverishly completing lengthy weekend assignments to be turned in the following Monday, but nobody dared think of that.) It had been a very stressful week of school for everyone, with the first large tests and projects of the year rearing their ugly heads as they prepared to destroy the hearts, souls, and sleep of one thousand teenagers throughout a bustling high school, filled with students shouting to each other as they crammed for tests they had forgotten about, milk cartons from the cafeteria littered all around campus, and love-struck teens, pining over acquaintances, strangers, even friends that most of them stood no chance with.
Alexander Hamilton was one of those students. As was John Laurens. As they pushed open the heavy door, which swung open with a small squeak, to reveal the closest thing to hell on earth (also known as Mr. Washington's math class), they would almost always glance at each other with a smile, a blush, and a "hello." Neither was aware that they were the subject of the other's dreams, fantasies, and artistic expressions. Both neglected to observe how the other often stared at them from across the room or attempted to make light, flirty conversation while failing miserably, because they were too busy doing the exact same thing.
On this particular Friday, both Alexander and John longed to get home and begin enjoying their precious two days of freedom, and, before even pushing Washington's heavy door open, had resigned to pay attention to Washington only when necessary to stay out of trouble, and to something, anything else any time Washington's back was turned or eyes averted, if only to make the dreaded hour pass without passing out cold on their desks due to boredom, stress, and exhaustion.
"Today," announced Washington as he stood tall in front of the class, "We will be switching seats. Everyone, please stand up and take your stuff to the back."
His request was met by groans from some, sighs of relief from others, and general mumbling as thirty-two students squished into a space too small to contain them all, sweaty bodies from P.E. pressing against each other, quiet students being shoved to the side by their more aggressive classmates. Washington cleared his throat and began pointing at tables and naming off students.
"Samuel Seabury, Charles Lee, you guys are partners. Sit at table one, please. Maria Lewis, Thomas Jefferson, table two. Eliza Schuyler, Nathaniel Pendleton... table three. Alexander Hamilton…"
Alexander tensed when he heard his name. He could be paired with anyone in this class, forced to work and collaborate on math problems together for a week. By the end of the week, he and his partner would know way too much about each other, including how often they turned in their homework, class participation frequency, and note organization style, to name just a few. And really, there was a wide variety of people he could be paired with, ranging from the impossibly stupid George King, to the quiet and awkward James Madison, to the intelligent but bossy Angelica Schuyler, to…
"John Laurens." The name rolled so easily off of Mr. Washington's tongue. He was painfully unaware of how he was sentencing the both of them to a week of awkward laughs, painful conversations, and broken hearts as he pointed to a table in the back and announced, "Table four."
The two blushed, shuffled their feet, and for one second shared a glance that sent millions of questions tumbling around in both of their heads, and pushed their way through the crowd to settle in the two seats at table four.
Time passed too slowly as Washington continued naming off students and sentencing some to the greatest week in math class ever, and others to certain doom. And the instant the last pair (George King and Angelica Schuyler, to the dismay of the latter) were named off and moving into their new seats, Mr. Washington was at the front of the room, displaying an overly complicated PowerPoint, and launching directly into a lecture about Riemann sums that Alexander was already tuning out of. He pulled his notebook out of his backpack as discreetly as he could, and noticed John was pulling his sketchbook out. They exchanged a look that only a fellow student would understand, a look that said a combination of I'm tuning out of this lecture now, why did I sign up for this class, and I'm praying that this won't be on the test.
Alexander turned to the next blank page in his notebook, adding the date, hoping to pen another descriptive essay for fun to satisfy his hunger of holding a pen in his hand and letting the words that tumbled around in his head all day fall perfectly onto paper. He stared at the page for five minutes, but the words wouldn't come. His thoughts, usually so organized, swirled around in confusing blurs that all focused on one certain person sitting across from him, his eyes flicking up to shyly observe John Laurens. He stared at his sketchbook in concentration, glancing up for only a moment to meet Alexander's eyes before letting out a small squeak and immediately focusing his attention back on his sketchbook. His wide green eyes darted back and forth and he pressed his lips together as he erased a mistake on his page. His hand reached up to push a curl of hair out of his eyes and tuck it behind his ear, and Alexander felt his heart speed up to a rate usually achieved after the dreaded mile in PE, and his stomach began turning over and over again, filled with butterflies. Suddenly inspired, he looked down at his notebook and began to rapidly move his hand across the paper, words being formed almost faster than his brain could comprehend what he was writing…
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 'til 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 of 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 artfully instilled into me.
Across from Alexander, John also wanted nothing else but to exit the classroom, for the first step he took outside the confined quarters of Washington's hell-hole would be the first step of the weekend, a break he desperately needed. And so, instead of paying attention to what surely was information that could have aided him on his next test, he pulled out his beloved sketchbook and flipped through it until he found a blank piece of paper, pretending to pay attention to Washington as he glanced around the room for inspiration. He was quickly distracted by Alexander, much like Alexander had been distracted by him. Alexander's messy brown hair fell into his eyes as he licked his slightly chapped lips in concentration. He wrote something furiously in his notebook that obviously didn't have to do with math. John felt his face heat up and quickly ducked his head, praying Alexander wouldn't glance up to find John so flustered-looking. John realized he had been sketching without thinking about it and glanced down to find a rough outline of Alexander's face.
John had already sketched Alexander about fifteen times, but he decided that he would do it again, especially since he was right there. He worked for about forty-five minutes, meticulously adding details, shading, and that one last strand of hair that would really finish his drawing, before he noticed that Washington was speaking to the class.
"…Now, discuss with your table the main things you learned today. I want to see everyone participating!"
Alexander flicked his eyes up at John, the slightest hint of a smirk appearing on his lips. "Um, honestly, I didn't learn anything because I've been distracted this whole time."
"Distracted?" questioned John. "Or flat-out not paying attention, like I was?"
"Uh, yeah. That."
Both men blushed before Alexander hastily changed the topic. "So what were you doing?"
John began to hold up his sketchbook when he remembered that he had drawn Alexander on that very page, surrounded by hearts and his name written in John's best cursive. In horror, he slammed the book shut and dropped it on the table.
"Who was that?"
"Nobody. Uh, you saw it wrong. It was ah, um, a turtle."
Alexander set his own book next to John's and sighed. He obviously knew John was lying to him, as the differences between John's beloved reptilian creature and a human being were massive, but chose not to say anything, whether it be he saw what it really was and was trying to spare John the embarrassment or simply didn't want to pry (John was now clenching his fists under the table and praying it had been the latter.)
Fortunately, the bell prevented the situation from getting any more awkward, and John and Alexander each grabbed their respective books before bidding goodbye to each other and rushing for the door as quickly as they could.
Entering his own home, Alexander placed his backpack carefully on his bed before opening his notebook, determined to write his descriptive essay now that beautiful, smiling, freckled John Laurens wasn't sitting right across from him, distracting him and making his heart beat triple. He took a seat at his desk, which he fell asleep on more often than his bed, and opened it to the middle, where he knew the next blank page was.
Instead, he gasped at the beautifully penciled drawing of a turtle that lay upon the blank, heavy, unlined page, and realized all at once that he had carried John's sketchbook home with him. The sketchbook now lay at his disposal, and he realized that he now had access to the inner workings of John's head and his most private thoughts. Alexander knew he shouldn't, but the thought only crossed his mind for a second before he gave into his curiosity and found himself turning the pages of John's sketchbook, admiring carefully drawn trees, landscapes, and turtles. And then he stopped abruptly, nearly earning himself a papercut- it was a picture of himself. That in and of itself was enough to make Alexander's stomach fill with butterflies, but the fact that his face was surrounded by hearts and his name was written in perfect cursive under the portrait- Alexander had to jump up and do a spontaneous dance out of sheer joy for the fact that John clearly felt some kind of attraction toward him- and not in a friendly way.
He quickly turned the page and nearly choked. It was another sketch- in charcoal this time, and less detailed then the last- of him and John holding hands. He flipped the pages, and pictures of him were everywhere- some alone, some with John, some where he was in the classroom, some just his face with a giant heart surrounding it. His hands flew to his mouth and he found himself whispering ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, before he flew out of his chair and jumped around his bedroom. John liked him more than a friend. John obviously liked him more than a friend. John had a crush on him- the pictures practically confirmed it!
Yes, John was close with his friends, but (and a quick glance through the sketchbook confirmed this) he didn't draw Hercules or Lafayette's faces surrounded with hearts and flowers and beautiful cursive- rather, they were drawn encircled with spools of thread, American flags, or- in a certain picture that made Alexander chuckle- hands with middle fingers raised.
He squealed with joy and hugged his pillow as tight as he could. Nothing could upset him right now, nothing at all…
Besides the fact that John had his notebook. What if he read Alexander's embarrassing poem and decided he was creepy or obsessed or a stalker? Alexander didn't stop to consider the obvious fact that John's sketches clearly depicted that he himself had a crush on Alexander, and that the drawings were far worse than the poem in terms of obsession.
But Alexander was a teenager in love, and teenagers in love often make the mistake of forgetting to observe the larger picture. He flipped frantically through the thick pages of John's sketchbook before reading the writing scrawled on the back cover:
This sketchbook is the property of John Laurens. If found, please call 555-1234 for a reward!
Palms sweating and fingers trembling, Alexander punched the correct numbers into his cell phone (his second favorite electronic, after the computer), which only had time to ring once before John's frantic voice was in Alexander's ear.
"Who is this?"
"John, it's Alexander. I have your sketchbook…"
"I have your notebook!"
He sounded frantic, and for good reason. One lift of the cover, and his friendship with Alexander could be over forever. They'd avoid contact in math class. They'd collaborate in strange, forced, overly formal voices. If they so much as brushed arms, they'd jump away, both apologizing a mile a minute.
"Yeah! Um, do you want to meet somewhere to swap?"
"Um, yeah! You can come to my house if you want… I mean, just because it's the most convenient! I didn't mean anything else by it!"
"Okay, sounds good! Can you text me your address! You know, so I can find your house! I'm not trying to be creepy or anything!"
"Yeah I'll do that! But can you tell me your phone number? Not because I'm trying to stalk you or anything, I just need it so I can text you my address you so can come over!"
"Um yeah!"
Flushed and sweaty, Alexander gave John his number before jamming his thumb into the red "End Call" button and flopping back onto his bed, wincing internally at how awkward he had been on the phone, again forgetting that John had been just as, if not more, awkward.
Alexander's phone buzzed and he grabbed it, screen illuminating as he scrolled to check his texts. He found John's address and immediately ran to fetch his bike. He found it in the garage and leapt on, pedaling as quick as he could to get to John's house, for every second wasted was another second John could take to flip through that notebook and possibly find the letter he had written.
His legs burned and he almost fell off his bike twice, but finally he wheeled into John's massive driveway, jumping off his bike and letting it crash to the ground. Panting and doubling over to catch his breath, he took a minute to admire the carefully planted rosebushes and the pristine fountain sitting gently in the middle of his flawless yard before he was at the door, lifting the shiny brass knocker and letting it bang.
The door flew open and Alexander actually had to take a step back because John looked so cute and so flustered. He had abandoned his jeans and button-down shirt for sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. His hair was loose and tangled and Alexander just wanted to run his fingers through it. His face was bright pink and his eyes were wide with fear. He gestured for Alexander to follow him inside and he did, casting his shoes aside so he could avoid an awkward situation that would involve dirt all over the Laurens' expensive carpet.
John led Alexander to his room, which, like all the other rooms in his lovely house, was spacious and palatial. However, it also lacked many signs that he had a wealthy dad and lived in a vast house: in fact, if Alexander had seen this room alone, he never would have guessed that John was so rich that he could wipe his ass with hundred dollar bills if he wanted. The walls were painted a soft blue, and his bed, which was resting in the center of his room, was messy and unmade. Across from his bed was his desk, which was also a big mess of papers, pens, and overdue homework assignments. In the corner of the room there was a massive pile of empty pizza boxes and water bottles, and all over the wall John had tacked drawings and photographs of turtles. It looked like a normal teenager's room, and Alexander thought it was quite refreshing after he had tiptoed through the Laurens' living room and hallway, terrified to touch anything lest he break or soil it.
John walked to his desk and picked up Alexander's notebook, handing it to Alexander, who, in turn, surrendered John's sketchbook.
John clutched it tightly to his chest, staring into Alexander's deep brown eyes, silently asking a question that the both of them had.
Alexander was tempted to just leave, but something kept him staring into John's frightened green eyes: perhaps it was the unresolved question that lay heavily on both of their shoulders, perhaps it was just another effect that John Laurens had on him.
Whatever it was, the two men stared at each other, seemingly locked in a trance, until John swallowed heavily and spoke the first words since they had talked on the phone: "Did you see them?"
Alexander felt dizzy and faint and extremely tempted to lie. Something stopped him, and he squeaked out a hoarse, "Yes."
John nodded, a new wave of fear causing him to sit heavily on his bed, buying his head in his hands, convinced that Alexander hated him with a passion, saw him as a freaky stalker, a creepy, abnormal, obsessive moron.
Alexander suddenly surprised himself. It must have been seeing John so heartbroken, so vulnerable, that did it. Usually rendered speechless around John, he suddenly felt his fiery passion come back, the passion and determination that always got him what he wanted: a plane ticket out of Nevis and to a better life, perfect grades in his new high school, a full ride to the college of his choice- and now, it would, he told himself fiercely, get him the guy of his dreams.
He moved to sit next to John and awkwardly put a hand on his shoulder. "Did you… uh, see my… thing?" he asked, obviously referring to the letter.
Now it was John's turn to squeak out a one-word answer that only opened the doors to a hundred new questions. "Yes."
I am not throwing away my shot, Alexander told himself fiercely. "Um… what did you think of it?"
John turned to look into Alexander's eyes, trying to hold back tears. "You don't feel that way about me, do you?"
Leaning in and pressing his lips to John's was the hardest thing he had done in his life. Harder than that time when he'd pulled three all-nighters in a row. Harder than the first day of school, where he'd stood quietly, awkwardly in front of his class and introduced himself as a "bastard, orphan, son of a whore," his homeroom, receiving responses of only giggles. It was even harder than when he'd sat in the principal's office with Samuel Seabury, both bruised and bloody, and been threatened with expulsion after getting in a fistfight with him.
He felt John kiss him back, and he tangled his hands into John's soft curls, heart thumping so quickly he thought he may pass out. When they broke away, Alexander and John stared at each other in wonder, Alexander dizzy and excited from the adrenaline rush that came from kissing John, John himself crying out of relief that Alexander didn't hate him and embarrassment that he was crying in the first place.
Alexander, following his instinct, softly pulled John's hands away from his face and brushed the tears of his cheeks, gently kissing his forehead and muttering, "What's wrong?"
Before he could panic at the thought that John now hated him, he responded shakily, "I'm just so glad you don't hate me…"
"How could I ever hate you, John?" whispered Alexander, pulling him into a hug. John buried his face into Alexander's shoulder and there they stayed for about five minutes, John leaning into Alexander and taking shaky breaths as he tried to calm himself, and Alexander playing with John's hair and rubbing his back soothingly.
After John looked up, he seemed calmer and more collected. He grabbed Alexander's hands and whispered, "So what are we now?"
This time, Alexander didn't hesitate before responding. "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 quoted from his letter, kissing John's clenched hands. "Will you be my boyfriend?"
Yeah so I hope you like it! I'm sure you can tell I've never written romance or experienced it before, so if you have any suggestions on how I can improve this, I'll gladly take them!