Look who actually uploaded something for once...
There is a calm for those who weep, a rest for weary pilgrims found. They softly lie and sweetly sleep, low in the ground, low in the ground.
Hamilton gazes absently at the azure sky, feels the nip of a crisp wind blowing his clothes and hair, biting against the exposed skin of his neck. Leaves spiral down around him, richly coloured in russet, tawny and copper. Winter approaches fast, but the sun is warm and rests upon his skin as if it were his greatcoat, shielding him from winter's chill.
And suddenly, the peaceful silence is broken by roaring laughter and the stomp of feet against flat ground mixed with loud crunching. A definitive smell of ink permeates the air, followed by dialogue so quick, Hamilton can only catch the accents, French and Southern. Their voices get clearer, more familiar and Hamilton finally recognizes his dearest's voice.
"Damn it, Gilbert!"
It seems John and Lafayette are up to their usual antics.
The exuberant Frenchman races past, laughing wildly as he slides down the hill and bounds into the small grove next to the meadow devoid of any other human presences. John, however, stops beside Hamilton, and a laugh bubbles in the young man's chest at the sight of John's face and pressed shirt drenched in black ink.
"That scoundrel." Remarks John in his familiar Southern drawl, crossing his arms even though a facetious smile is perched on his lips. "He'll pay for this one."
"I have no doubt. Forwards then, my dear soldier."
John kneels down beside him, kissing him on the cheek and probably getting ink smudges on his face, and then stands back up and gives him a salute. "Pray for my safe return, love."
"Aye, I will."
John runs off, and Hamilton is startled yet again by a deep chortle, belonging to neither John nor Gilbert. He turns to see Hercules smiling with an expression like that of a proud father's as he watches the two shadows scuffling amid the trees.
"They scurry about like mice."
Hamilton nods absently, his mind drifting between worries and fantasies, and in the back of his mind, he wonders if this is a peaceful dream heralding a nightmare. It does not seem too unlikely.
There is silence for a few moments as Hercules sits beside him, albeit for the distant shrieks coming from their friends who are now wrestling in the meadow below.
"My boy?"
Hamilton turns his gaze to the older man, raising an eyebrow. "Hmm?"
"If you were able to change your mind about Miss Schuyler, would you?"
He lets out a sigh, his ungloved hand absentmindedly fisting into the grass, tearing out small pieces of turf and dropping them beside his leg. "I love my Betsey dearly, Mulligan, I truly do. She is kind, sweet, beautiful, generous... and yet I love John just as much. His cheer and his care, and so many other things… I would not pick between them."
"I did not say you must choose."
"But you... ah, nevermind. If I could, I would have them both. I would hold both their hands at the altar, lie in bed with them both, have my lady and my gentleman, and yet... I can not. I can never have them both." There is a burning pressure behind his eyes as if he might cry and Hamilton curses himself for his weakness.
Hercules wraps his arm around Hamilton's shoulders, and the younger man rests his head on Hercules' cheek and watches his dearest friend horse around in the meadow below.
"So what will you do?"
"Merely keep the secret as best I can. I'm quite good at that."
And it really is frightening, how easily he can lie and hide.
Later that night, Hamilton lays tangled in the covers with John, his heart still thundering from their exertions, curled contently in his friend's arms. John strokes his hair, whispering words of praise, and for once Eliza is completely put out of his mind. He would be content for this moment to last forever.
Hamilton finds himself being pulled towards sleep, and as he starts to drift off, he feels John place his lips against his forehead and whisper something softly.
"My dear boy, I love you."
The storm that wrecks the wintry sky, no more disturbs their sweet repose, than summer evening's latest sigh. That shuts the rose, that shuts the rose.