A/N: So, this story and the ideas for it has, to quote Miss Angelica Schuyler, consumed my waking days. You have no idea.
Side note: I have done research but to be entirely honest with you I have little knowledge of how the US Military works. Given, I do have family members who are enlisted but to be quite honest, I am the worst liar on the planet and 'I need to know because I'm writing fanfiction about the founding fathers of our country' is not a conversation I'm willing to have right now. That said, if you notice any inaccuracies or factual errors in any of this, please let me know so I can fix it?
Two weeks after the fateful airport meeting, and Thomas was forcibly reminding himself that taking night classes had been his own idea. He'd wanted to spend his free time to be during the day, when he could explore, wander down Parisian streets and not even notice the fact that he was lost until his only option was to ask for directions back in his proudest, if accented, French. And so far? It was wonderful.
That said, his own circadian rhythm was proving to be a tricky bitch to try and outdo. Despite the fact that he'd slept for nearly eight hours earlier in the evening and had only had to attend one class, he caught himself yawning by 2 AM as he worked on an essay.
He was a few minutes into his self debate on whether he should try to push through the fatigue or instead make some of the coffee his roommate had insisted he didn't mind sharing — it was a vile brew, extremely strong, and Thomas would honestly prefer his usual tea about a thousand times over, were it not for the fact that the stuff worked —when his phone pinged loudly.
Rolling his head to ease the beginnings of a cramp from the way he was hunched over his laptop, he reached for the cell, finding his brow furrowing in confusion at the text that awaited him.
I'm dying. Thought I'd let you know.
Goodbye.
— A. Ham
Excuse me?
— Thomas J.
It wasn't as though he wasn't used to messages from Hamilton — in fact, over the past few weeks they'd established pretty regular correspondence, with an additional, if unexpected, positive to his new schedule being that he was awake in that ever slim gap between the end of Alexander's training day and when he'd finally succumb to sleep. Usually though, it was an unsolicited point from their previous day's virtual debate that he'd thought of sometime during the day, so this was new.
He'd barely set the phone down before he got another message.
I'm dying.
Ceasing to exist.
Passing on.
Going into the great beyond.
C'mon Jefferson, I know you're slow but even you should be able to understand the concept.
— A. Ham
Thomas rolled his eyes.
Yes, I am aware of what 'dying' means.
So what happened?
— Thomas J.
Burr.
— A. Ham
He chuckled lightly, shaking his head in something close to understanding. Whenever he'd probed to see how Basic was going, he was almost sure to get a rant about the man. Aaron Burr, one of Hamilton's superiors despite being just a year older, he'd gone to Princeton and graduated early and had enlisted as an officer the first chance he'd gotten.
Thomas had asked, once, why Hamilton hadn't done the same. He'd mentioned that his family was pretty well off once, or at least relatively influential, and no matter how differently they saw things, the guy was clearly smart. (Brilliant, was more like it, from what Thomas could tell, but he'd admit that over his dead body.) The only response he'd gotten was some vague statement about an incident involving Princeton's financial department.
What'd Burr do?
— Thomas J.
He started going on another one of his 'talk less' spiels.
— A. Ham
Okay, let me rephrase: What did you do?
— Thomas J.
Told him the truth.
— A. Ham
He found himself laughing quietly at that. One thing was for sure, if Hamilton wanted any future in the military he would have to learn to hold his tongue. That said, he wasn't under any delusion that Burr would be the one the get that through his head. He didn't have the chance to put that sentiment into words though before he was barraged with messages.
Sonofabitch DOUBLED my PT!
And that's not even what pisses me off!
He only even did it because Lee made him!
The man has no spine.
— A. Ham
Thomas snorted. Only Hamilton could be punished for insubordination and then continue to be insubordinate in criticizing the way he'd been punished.
And now my whole body hurts.
Which brings me back to dying.
— A. Ham
This was how their conversations usually went, for the most part, anyway: Hamilton sending about a dozen or so rapid fire texts while Thomas waited for him to finish before even trying to make his own point. Given, most of their interactions turned into political debates that only ever ended when either he got heated enough to just stop replying or Alexander finally fell asleep, but the principle was basically the same.
You text quickly, for a dead man.
— Thomas J.
Shut up.
— A. Ham
He scowled at his phone then. Despite how frequently they communicated, Thomas didn't know Hamilton's personality quite well enough to be able to tell if he was being dramatic or was snapping out of frustration and pain. He was spared from having to guess a moment later, though.
Actually don't.
You distract from the feeling of my limbs slowly dying.
— A. Ham
For reasons Thomas couldn't begin to explain, the corner of his mouth twitched upward at that.
Well don't I feel honored.
— Thomas J.
Oh my god. I hate you.
— A. Ham
No you don't.
I distract you from the pain, remember?
— Thomas J.
Im going to regret telling ou that, aren't i?
— A. Ham
The smile dropped slightly then, at the sudden errors in punctuation and capitalization, then completely when a full minute passed and there was no correction. That was unusual. Hamilton was ornery about things like that, and even if he rushed through a text and made mistakes, the corrections were always seconds behind. He didn't hesitate to leap at any mistakes Thomas made either. A few days before, he'd written eight text bubbles worth explaining exactly how wrong he'd been to use the word 'affect' instead of 'effect.'
He had to be completely exhausted.
Most likely.
Get some sleep, Hamilton.
— Thomas J.
He waited a few minutes, and when there was no reply, he assumed the recruit had either listened to him or had been asleep since before he'd even sent his response. Setting his phone back aside, he returned to his work.
As he finished the assignment, he found his mind drifting back to Hamilton. Perhaps it was insignificant, but he caught himself pleased with the realization that they'd actually managed a conversation that didn't turn into some sort of debate, on politics or otherwise. There'd be no real argument, and while he didn't mind — and even enjoyed to an extent — their usual back and forth, it was a welcome change. It felt a little less like strangers who argued with each other for the pure sake of it and more like... well, he wasn't sure.
Friends, he supposed.
As tired as he was, he didn't actually go to bed until nearly seven AM, making sure his alarm was set to wake him before three at the latest, so he could go out before his first class at nine.
When he woke, he had a host of unread text messages, almost all sent in the early Virginian morning back home. It took him a while to notice the one from Hamilton, no doubt from before the South Carolinian dawn.
In a shocking turn of events, I am, in fact, not dead.
Yet.
Get some rest yourself, Jefferson.
— A. Ham
Let me just tell you, my dumb ass had to think way too much about time zones and schedules for this chapter and I'm not sure I'm ashamed or proud of myself for it.
As always, follows and favorites are so much appreciated and reviews honest to god give me so much life you don't know. I just really like to know you guys are liking it, you know? Anyway, I'll see you next chapter!
