I Remember That Night, I Just Might (Rewind)
Chapter Four: Writing for Borrowed Time
It was a fight, but like any debate, John Laurens could win it as long as he had the advantage of a few pints of liquor in his stomach. It took 18 speeches to Congress, but seven years after he was shot at the Battle of Combahee River, he secured the freedom of his battalion of slaves. It was bittersweet and worth a few more pints. (He would swear he was not drunk when he appeared, but some records from the Senate seem to tell otherwise.)
So naturally, his instinct was to celebrate in New York, with Alex. The government was fostering new ideas under the shitty rewrite of the "New Articles of Confederation", and under his standards, were doing well enough that they could miss their abolitionist senator from South Carolina for a while.
Washington was President, Laurens snickered at his VP; the cabinet was filled with bickerers and complainers, but he had to blame Alex for turning down the offer of Secretary of Treasury.
He had to admit, he himself was ready to turn heels and run, but he knew the only place he could draft change for the abolitionist movement was in the boxing ring of the Congress floor. But John Laurens was a fighter and not willing to commit anywhere else but to this challenge.
New York had boomed since the seven-year lapse. It was busy and hectic, and Laurens went down the same alley twice before he realized he was on the wrong side of town.
"How the hell does Alex do it?" He grumbled, never having to stray far from the Capitol's center before.
He finally arrived at some landmarks he could recognize, allowing navigation to the Hamilton's doorstep less confusing and frustrating. (But he swears, they picked up their house and jumped across town. It was the only explanation.)
Straightening his jacket and smoothing down his curls, he knocks on the door twice, and before he could knock a third, Alex answered the door with a book in his hands, and his reading glasses perched on his nose; and John was falling in love with the man all over again.
"John?" Alexander said, phrased more of a question in his surprise.
Laurens gave a grin, tugging on the front of his jacket.
"That's South Carolina's senator to you." He teased, and a fragment of a once gorgeous smile was on Alex's face.
"I was wondering why you were so formal arriving at my house," Alex paused, his eyes combing his face, "You're even wearing your hair down. I didn't know you combed it."
"Had to look nice today—hey! Better than your greasy mess!" Alex laughed when John huffed, tugging the door open.
"Please, come in John. Eliza is off at the market today."
He entered the small modest home with the amount of grace of an elephant, nearly crashing into a table set off immediately from the door, and then slipped ("accidentally") into Alex's arms when his foot tripped on a rug, and he almost went out the door again.
"You could have warned me your house was a death trap, Alex."
Alexander rolled his eyes, latching the door behind him. "Only to you, since you seem to walk into everything dangerous."
"Makes for fun stories. Especially battle injuries."
Alex winced, his mind on other things, on a wheezing Laurens swaddled like an infant in his blankets and on the verge of death. His fingers travelled up John's chest, resting at the scar he knew was beneath, of a wound that was fatal to all but the iron built John Laurens.
"Sorry." He apologized in a short breath, feeling the fires within him shriek at such a tender touch.
It was the closest they had been in a long time, since the war when they were sharing even the same breath; and while Alex stared at his chest, he was studying his eyes and his lips and his nose, this man he loved with all his heart. Why had they maintained this separation for so long?
His first instinct (probably prompted by the alcohol) was to run outside and scream his love for him to the world and fight against the norms of society like he was prone to do—and then Alexander's eyes travelled to his own, and they were leaning, falling, falling into the abyss together as Alex clasped the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss.
It was the first of many quick, feverish kisses, Alexander wanting so desperately to forget how to breathe and just drown in the hurricane of love. While he wore his heart on his sleeve, Laurens poured his own out to everyone else; he could feel it in the way his fingers fumbled for his hair, massaging his scalp lightly as the kiss went on and on and on.
It was like there was never a separation, no years lost between the two lovers.
"Alex…" John whispered between the kisses, his fingers curving under his jaw. "How long has Eliza been out...?"
Alex twisted his head to check the clock and cursed beneath his breath and crashed his lips once more into his companions. Eliza would return any moment now, so he would not waste another moment. And just as Mrs. Hamilton arrived, she narrowly missed a blushing John Laurens hastily stuffing his shirt in his pants and her Alexander's dreamy look with his swollen lips and fly away hair.
"Alexander! You didn't tell me John would be visiting." She exclaimed, greeting the war hero with a friendly hug and kiss on the cheek after setting the groceries aside.
Alex was quick to jump on the bandwagon of his own defense, but just as soon as he got on it, John Laurens kicked him off.
"I actually came as a surprise," The senator explained. "I just now was able to secure the freedom of all the men in my battalion."
"That is indeed a cause of celebration! I can see you've already started," She teased, attributing to the redness in his cheeks to drunkenness.
"You know me…"
"Then I hope you're staying for dinner?" She asked as Alex shooed her away when she attempted to take the groceries elsewhere, scooping them up in his own arms. John gave a small smile for the chivalry. It's one of the things he loved about him.
"I'd hate to intrude… but it's been so long since I visited."
"We insist." Alex said before he disappeared into the kitchen.
"Yes, do stay," Eliza concurred, "I'd love to hear stories of the Senate and George. Alex doesn't very much care to hear those types of things anymore."
John Laurens couldn't be mistake; he heard his Alex's voice in the kitchen, grumbling about the very mention of politics. Laurens grin could only expand, thoughts of mischievous banter plaguing customary traditions.
"Then I'd love to stay."
The day withdrew as they talked and talked at the dinner table, even as the meal grew cold under their stagnant forks and Eliza had to clear the table. Never once did they cease speaking. Even when Mrs. Hamilton proclaimed she needed to turn in early (a fact attributed to a possibly pregnancy), John and Alex simply moved the conversation to the latter's study so Alex could produce a bottle of champagne and two glasses for his more than welcome company.
While Alex pondered and studied his glass of amber fluids like the day in 1782, John simply took his like a shot glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"I know that look on your face Alex," He said, placing the empty glass on the desk.
At first, he went unheard, and then Alex glanced at him sheepishly. "I don't know what you mean, John. What face?"
"You're thinking of something big. What are you thinking of?"
Alex wondered if he was really that obvious, or if John was actually good at reading him. He was inclined to believe it was the former.
"I was just," He stopped, and it took Laurens reaching out and squeezing his hand for the record to start playing again on high speed. "I was just thinking the last time I had alcohol, it was in this very room, on the night I received the letter that you were shot."
No matter how many words he crammed into the sentence, he could not build a wall high enough to hide the face of his infant son, lost to cruelty only a few days after that moment. How foolish he had been.
His hands trembled.
He had been celebrating, blissfully unaware of what was to come. Did Philip show symptoms then, any signs he would soon die? The thoughts were winding so hard in his head that he never realized when he ended up in John's arms, on the ground of all places, hearing faint murmurs from his friend as hands were in his hair. His attention latched onto it, yanked the thread back down so at least the balloon of his sanity would not be sky born.
"It's okay Alex… It's okay…"
His vision was distorted, blurry; maybe he needed glasses more than previously considered, before he realized he was crying, dripping tears and snot right onto the new suit of John. He tried to apologize, but croaked instead, his body conceiving all kinds of grief that could never fully reach his mind.
Seven years of holding it all end really took a toll.
But the sun comes up, and the world still spins.
"You need something to do…" Laurens still spoke in hushed tones as if anything louder than a whisper would shatter what was left of Alexander, "Come work with me, Alex. You can write against slavery... we can stick it to all those southerners. Just you and me, Alex."
And it sounded so good, so right; but a part of Alexander knew it wasn't where he belonged, as much as he supported John's views. There was something more, something greater he was to do, but it had yet to come. So, on that night in 1789, he quietly agreed to assist the abolitionist movement by writing essays against slavery.
1789. The year Alexander Hamilton became becomes Secretary Sec—
Rewind.
1789. The year Alexander Hamilton became an abolitionist.
And it was through his essays and frequent meetings accompanying John Laurens that he met the celebrity sensation people couldn't help gossip about, fresh from the French scene and the current Secretary of State, Thomas Jefferson.
Little chicken soup for the soul. Had to have a little fluff after those last few chapters.
SincerelyTay: I must say thank you for reviewing ever chapter I have posted so far. It's very rare that I get someone dedicated like that, and it means so much to me as a writer when I see your name pop up on my notification. Thank you!
The1HamiltonFan: It had to be done for the sake of fanfiction I'm afraid. Do not fear, smol bean will return.
-Soul Spirit-