It becomes an easy routine. Two, sometimes even three times a week he stops by Herc's bar. It's mostly to say hi to John and no one labors under any delusions otherwise, but it's pleasant nontheless to spend more time with Hercules and, when he can, Lafayette. He forgot how much he missed these fools.
He watches and he learns and he loves.
He loves the way John will open up, gathering speed and enthusiasm with every word when he talks about something he's passionate about. Coming out of his shell just like the turtles he loves so.
He loves the way John talks about his mother and his siblings, tenderness coating his voice and bringing out a fond look that softens his edges. His mother is dead just like Alex's, he learns early on, but John refuses to avoid talking about her, determined to keep her alive if only in his memories.
He loves the way John blushes, quick and embarrassed, when Alex flirts with him, dropping double entendres left and right and waggling his eyebrows suggestively. John's a world-weary kid for sure, but he blushes like a virginal maiden when Alex so much as winks at him.
He comes to realize he's perhaps maybe a little tiny bit in love.
John's hot, for sure, but he's also sweet and loyal and self-doubting in a way that makes Alex want to wrap him up and never let him doubt for one second he is cherished.
The first kiss is awkward. Alex had stayed after closing one night, as had become his routine – Hercules has finally hired another bartender so John isn't working every night anymore – and John had been distracted telling Alex a story about his mother as he cleaned. Entirely oblivious, John had stretched across the bar to wipe down a spot near Alex, putting himself just inches away. Alex didn't let the opportunity go to waste, overcome with affection for this freckled, tough nut of a kid. And just like that he pecked John on the check.
For a moment John had looked so startled that Alex began to panic. Maybe all that embarrassment had really come from a place of being too kind to say no. Maybe he'd over stepped?
And then John grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands and nearly dragged Alex across the bar to kiss him proper.
The teasing Lafayette had given him the next day about the numerous visible hickies on his neck was worth it.
Hamilton
John's an easy person to fall in love with, but he's not an easy person to be in love with. He's friendly and approachable, always pleased to see Alex walk in, but he keeps most of his cards close to his chest. It takes Alex a while to notice how one sided their conversations sometimes are or how they keep things so superficial that John will only offer repetitious variations on a select few personal stories if pressed.
Lafayette tells him to be patient. Hercules tells him to be patient. Philip tells him to never ever discuss his romantic life with him ever again.
"This is not some whirlwind romance, mon ami. It will take time. Don't rush things. He has, perhaps not had the best life?"
Neither have I, Alex wants to whine, but he resists such petulance. Barely.
And it's not as if Lafayette's sage advice is baseless. Even in high school, before his mother had died, Alex used to rush head first into relationships, letting himself succumb quickly to obsession and burning the candle on both ends. It never lasted.
And John Laurens is one thing he wants to last.
He gives space when it's requested, and it is requested, learns to read the warning signs John gives him. He learns John is just as viciously independent as Alex himself is when Alex attempts to leave him a ridiculously large tip one night. Also like Alex, he is driven by some energy-consuming, soul-crushing need to prove himself.
For Alex, he wants to prove it to the world. To prove he deserves to be Philip's brother. To prove he deserves to live when his mother didn't.
For John, he doesn't know. Maybe it's to prove to himself. Or maybe an overly possessive ex or strict, disproving father. But Alex understands where he's going, if not where he came from. He's not as stubborn or opinionated as Alex, but his temper is equally quick to flare and, where Alex is always ready to verbally eviscerate someone, John is always spoiling for a fight. He doesn't let it interfere with his job. He's pleasant to customers and able to take rudeness without retort, but he's also willing to be a little extra rough escorting out trouble makers or to get in a few good licks of his own breaking up the occasional fight.
Alex sees the same fire he saw that night with Lee, that lust for pain and adrenaline.
But mostly it's easy.
A few nights a week, Alex brings his books and notes and occupies himself through the rushes. Herc has John give him free sodas on the house and Alex repays the favor by ensuring he buys a drink or two on Friday nights, when John can drive him home. And in between the rushes, he gets pleasant conversation and the occasional quick peck. Lafayette comes with him sometimes and they stake out a booth in the back.
It's all too easy to surrender himself completely. He forgets that he is Alexander Hamilton and nothing is ever won without an uphill climb first.
He's shaking with the angry energy surging under his skin when he stomps into the bar one Tuesday night. Lafayette's hot on his heels, apparently loathe to let him terrorize their mutual friends by himself.
"Heads up, my friends, il est de mauvaise humeur," he warns before Alex can get so much as a word out.
"I have a right to be in a bad mood," he all but snarls, unaffected by the wide startle of John's eyes. Besides him Lafayette goes still, staring inquisitively at John for no reason that Alex can discern. Now is not the time to be waxing poetic. "Fucking senators and their racist, homophobic agendas."
"Uh, let me get you something stronger?" John offers hesitantly as he dumps out the usual soda he had begun filling. A frothing beer appears in front of him and Alex downs a good chunk of it in his first swallow. "Care to let the rest of us in on what's going on?" John asks.
The bar is mostly empty at this time of the week and Hercules tends to the few other patrons with ease, leaving John free to listen to Alex's tirade.
Through gritted teeth he explains – and explains by himself because Lafayette is no help whatsoever, just continues to stare at John like he's an M.C. Escher original – about the new anti-gay marriage bill proposed by some Southern senator. It's clever too, with some clauses that are outrageous, but serve in turn to make the central argument look entirely too reasonable. It's restrictions on the benefits homosexual couples receive from marriage as opposed to the benefits received by heterosexual couples, including tax breaks and medical proxy access.
"It's a piece of homophobic trash is what it is," Alex snarls. John looks uncomfortable, rather than personally offended or ready to fly off the handle with a social justice drive. It's irritating. How can he not care?
Alex doesn't know how John identifies by he knows the warm feeling of John's hand on his cock and the way John will tongue-fight him for dominance when they kiss and none of that suggests a homophobic leaning.
"Mon ami," Lafayette interprets, addressing John and still looking pensive, "do you know the name of the senator that brought this bill to the floor?"
John's face twitches slightly.
"That's the thing that caught my eye!" Alex rants, unable to believe the irony, "The dude has the same name as you! Senator fucking Laurens! Like what are the odds?"
But John isn't bursting out laughing, he's not jokingly denouncing his name, he's…going pale?
"Isn't that odd, John?" he repeats, losing steam by the second.
But Lafayette leans forward, letting his hand come to rest on John's. He stares at John's downturned face with a sad intensity before finally offering, "Your father, non?"
Alex freezes.
Your father?
His father?
He'd thought it a coincidence. It was too bizarre, too random, too…well, coincidental to be true.
He waits for a laugh, a denial, anything. But John just stares at Lafayette, looking like Lafayette had just kicked his puppy and run over his bike for good measure. Without breaking their brutal eye contact, John's head dips up and down quickly, like they might not notice if he's quiet enough.
Anger flashes through Alex's body so fast he's surprised he manages to stay on his feet.
"Are you fucking serious?" he roars, drawing their attention immediately. John has the gal to look wounded of all things, like Alex is the deceitful, lying asshole here, and Lafayette gives him that look, the tread careful one. "You've got to be fucking kidding me!"
"Alex," John begins slowly, voice sounding like something fresh out of a rock tumbler.
And Alex can't even look at him for one more goddamned second.
He shoves off his bar stool and flings himself out the door, heart flying and breath heaving. How could John not tell him? He knows Alex is into politics, follows all the latest developments. How could he not mention his father is some homophobic Southerner who probably has more money than God himself? How could John just sit there and listen to his father rail against the sins of homosexuality? Did Henry know and not care? Or did John not even have the guts to tell him? Just ran away like some sick dog, just wanting to die in peace.
Jesus fuck.
Alex kicks the dumpster on the side of the building as hard as he can and savors the javelin of pain that laces up his leg immediately.
And here he thought they were getting somewhere. Here he thought John trusted him.
"Alex! Look I'm sor-" And that's as far as Mr. John Laurens gets before Alex puts his fist through the other man's face. John stumbles back, dropping painfully onto his wrist, and stares in shock at the blood on his fingertips.
"Fuck you! How could you be here, all ready to play happy little homos while your father – your father! – is out there trying to destroy the lives of people just like you! What's the matter with you?" He wants to go on forever, rage against the dying light, but John doesn't take things like that lying down, not even from passionate little immigrants whom he had stolen dozens of kisses from.
John flies at him, grabbing him by the waist and throwing them both to the ground. Straddling Alex, he gets in a few good hits to his abdomen and all but screams, "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about!" in Alex's face, close enough that he can feel little bits of spittle on his nose.
He manages to wrangle an elbow free and promptly shoves it up into John's solar plexus. John's eyes bug out in agony and Alex uses his stunned moment to shove the taller man off him. He leaps over, ready to pin John down and strangle some sense into the other man, but suddenly they're both flying.
Hercules' arms are a tight band around his chest as he's jerked off his feet and whipped around to face the other way. Behind him he can hear Lafayette pulling John to his feet. John makes a small wheezing noise and something prickles in the back of Alex's mind. Solar plexus was a low blow perhaps…He thinks of John's hits, carefully low to avoid damage to Alex's ribs. His eyes flick over his shoulder, unable to resist checking if the other man is truly okay. John is bent nearly in half, Lafayette's strong hands resting on his back and shoulder in case John should drop forward, but John's eyes are trained on Alex's face, pinning him to the spot.
'You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he offers again, but this time it's calm, a matter of fact. He stumbles to an upright position, Lafayette muttering worriedly in French at his side, before turning on his heel and whisking himself away into the safe confines on the bar. The few people at the end of the alley who had gathered to watch move out of the way like a tide, parting to let John back into the building.
"Sorry, folks, just a little friendly spat," Herc calls with a smile, watching closely as patrons file back into the bar and onlookers move on their way before swinging a glare at Alex. Guilt pools in the back of his throat because he could have really fucked this night up. Cops could have been called. A bad rep for Herc's bar barely three months in.
Lafayette comes up behind him, taking Alex's chin in his strong fingers, and checks him over. Satisfied that he'll live, Lafayette huffs and advises, "Next time, mon petit chien, I suggest you check in with your words before you check out with your fists. J'espère que notre bon ami vous pardonne."
And with that he's gone.
I hope our friend forgives you.
Yeah. Alex does too.
"Look, man," Hercules finally releases his tight hold on Alex's arms, letting them sag to Alex's side like dead weights, "I get where you're coming from. But not everyone can fight the good fight for ever, you know?"
He stands back to stare at Alex's miserable form.
Alex hopes his remorse is as clear on his face as it is in the sear of pain in his knuckles. He'd never in his life wanted to hit someone who mattered so dearly to him. Yet here he was, charging forward with his ideals at the reign and his morals flying behind yet again. He wants to go back inside to the familiar warmth and find John. To get some answers but mostly to kiss close the wounds he'd created. He wasn't that kind of person, he wasn't some abuser.
"John closes Thursday night. I suggest you don't come around until then. I'll send Laf out with your stuff."
Herc's soothing rumble trails off and he too vanishes around the corner to the bar entrance. Lafayette arrives with his bag as promised and sends him home like a grounded teenager.
The apartment is dark and Philip's door is closed (and locked even though Alex has never, would never, breech his privacy like that) and that's just fine because Alex wants nothing but to surrender his aching body to his bed.
Hamilton
As advised, Alex doesn't go to Herc's place until Thursday, and even then he slinks in like an unwanted cat. John's nowhere to be seen and he doesn't know if that's better or worse. Herc waves at him, complete with a dopey grin, from his post like nothing was ever wrong and Alex is reminded that some things in the world are really that simple.
"Hey, you showed!" He sounds positively thrilled, entirely oblivious to the acidic taste he caused to pool in Alex's mouth.
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"John sure did." Which is great. Just great. He'd nearly blown it just as he got knees-deep into building an actual human connection.
"Where...uh?"
"On break. Alleyway, I think," Herc answers his unasked question like the godsend he is and Alex nods in thanks and, knowing the slightest of delays will explode into full-blown procrastination any second, pads back to the door.
Sure enough, John is in the alleyway, the very same where they'd come to blows a few days prior. He's leaning against the brick, head tilted back and eyes closed. Something's dangling from his fingers, smoking lazily, and the earthly scent that floods Alex's senses tells him it's not a Camel or Marlboro.
"Herc know you have that?" he asks casually, being sure to keep his distance. The last thing he wants to do is trap the other man, forcing that energetic hum to explode into violence once more.
John opens his eyes and glances at him, entirely nonplussed by his presence - though Alex realizes now that he walked right by the entrance to the alley on his determined march to the bar, meaning John saw him go by and said nothing, that little shit - before taking a quick hit.
"Who do you think gave it to me?"
And, oh yeah. Perhaps being a full-grown adult and business owner didn't necessarily mean the old Herc was left behind in the dust.
Alex tries, like really tries, to push an apology past his lips. Not for what he said, but for how he handled it. It's just hard to put into words the electric thrum of hurt that had coursed through him when faced with the realization of just how little he knew about the other man. Why didn't you tell me? he wants to plead over and over again.
But what comes out is, "So you're from South Carolina then?" because fuck it, owning up is hard, okay? He's an adult but maybe not the adultiest of adults?
The eyebrow raise suggests that John is less than impressed with his minimal attempts and he flicks his head away to stare at the opposite wall and take another hit.
Okay. Okay, Alex can work with that. He can do better. He'll have to do better because John is worth this. But before he can get a sound out of his gaping mouth hole, John cuts him off nonchalantly, still staring at the wall, with, "I'm sorry." So simple. Like it wasn't anything at all to lower his pride and pull on a face of humility for Alex's sake. Honestly Alex feels a little dupped, a little beaten to the punch because he was trying to be the bigger person, dammit, and he practiced a whole little spiel on the drive over…
"What? You-"
"Way overreacted. So I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hit you." His voice is sincere but he still won't meet Alex's gaze. Which, frankly, is annoying, but more so because apologizing seems so easy and natural to the other man. Meanwhile, Alex was tearing himself apart trying to find the perfect diction to properly elucidate his point. No one ever said humility was one of his stronger qualities.
"No, no," Alex urges because he was trying to be a good person and John's not allowed to make Alex's apology seem like a reactionary, obligatory thing, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have jumped all over you like that. It's just…"
And finally, those eyes flick in his direction. Just his eyes though, not his whole gaze, as though his curiosity is impulsive and uncontrollable.
"Just?" he prompts when Alex fails to pick a proper ending from the dozens of possibilities flying around in his head, a truly alarming place to be. Take a deep breath, he reminds himself, take your time. Clarity is key and a bumbling heap of word vomit won't get him much.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he pauses, trying to keep his voice level and non-accusatory because if one thing's for sure it's that he doesn't want another fight. "Did you think I'd be...mad?"
John sighs, returning his stare to the apparently riveting brickwork and rolling his shoulders as though he's preparing for intensive mental gymnastics.
"I mean...I guess I sort of thought the name gave it away?"
"There are loads of Laurens," Alex cuts him off, pouncing to his own defense once again, earning himself an less than pleased dead stare. Right, right. Taking turns. That's how conversation works.
"It never exactly came up? When was I supposed to tell you? When I was on my knees in the supply closet? Do you request full familial histories for all your fuck buddies?"
"Fuck buddies?" he asks because, try as he might, he can't quite move past that descriptor. Cold and impersonal. Sexual, but not sensual. No attachment, no commitment. Not exactly encouraging as Alex has never heard people soliloquizing their desire to be fuck buddies, a phrase existing only in the present with no future implications.
But then he stumbles, because when did he begin to think 'future' and 'John' in the same sentence?
John stares unblinkingly at him and Alex has only god knows what displayed across his face but John seems far less ruffled than he is because the bartender stubs out his joint and presses off the wall.
"My life is a goddamn mess, okay?" John says it matter-of-factly, looking impatient and unimpressed with the grungy alley. "My father and I don't get along. We don't talk and we don't have kumbaya political discussions over the dinner table. He was less than thrilled when I came out my senior year of high school and I was encouraged to travel far for college. Got out of there as soon as I graduated. I've got siblings, you know? Little ones and they didn't need to be seeing and hearing that shit, all that constant fighting. I couldn't bear creating such a poisonous environment so I did them all a favor and cut myself right out of the picture."
"Is that how your siblings see it?" he can't help but ask, even as John's wounded look cuts deep.
"It's not like I'll ever talk to them again to find out," John grunts as he breezes past. Frantic worry floods Alex because that wasn't resolution at all, it was the exact opposite actually, and he just wants things to be okay.
But John stops at the end of the alley, silhouetted by the sinking sun. His darkened outline runs a hand through his hair and Alex sees his salvation in that weariness. "Look. We have a good thing going. Leave my father out of it and I don't see why that has to end, okay?"
And with that, he's gone, his request a ghost of a promise in the stale evening air.