To John's immeasurable distress, it wasn't long before instinct kicked in for Philip and he figured out how to summon Mirrors.
Of course the boy wanted to see his family, and he would not listen to a word John said when he tried to convince him not to, at least not yet, because- because that had been what John had done, to his own detriment.
He had watched his Alexander fall, down and down and down a hole of John's making, he had watched him spiral, had seen how he had treated his poor wife during that time, how he had shut her out (and really, ̶e̶̶̶v̶̶̶e̶̶̶n̶̶̶ ̶̶̶t̶̶̶h̶̶̶o̶̶̶u̶̶̶g̶̶̶h̶̶̶ ̶̶̶J̶̶̶o̶̶̶h̶̶̶n̶̶̶ ̶̶̶h̶̶̶a̶̶̶d̶̶̶ ̶̶̶b̶̶̶e̶̶̶e̶̶̶n̶̶̶ ̶̶̶s̶̶̶o̶̶̶ ̶̶̶j̶̶̶e̶̶̶a̶̶̶l̶̶̶o̶̶̶u̶̶̶s̶̶̶ ̶̶̶o̶̶̶f̶̶̶ ̶̶̶h̶̶̶e̶̶̶r̶̶̶,̶ he'd thought Eliza deserved better. She was a saint of a woman, and she was good for Alexander.)
John had observed his beloved's descent into the hell of his own thoughts. He had sat in this prison of the dead and wished so hard, prayed to a deity he'd long stopped believing in since, that he could just reach out once, to be allowed one touch to somehow tell Alexander he wasn't entirely gone, that they would meet again someday.
He hadn't been allowed, and Alexander had buried himself in work up to his nose.
That used to be a point of contention between them (John had gotten frustrated in the beginning, he was ashamed to admit. Later on, he understood Alexander only lost himself so thoroughly when he tried to distract himself from something, and he learned to ease him out of that state with gentle coaxing instead of passive-aggressive jabs.)
Eliza tried her best, ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶A̶l̶e̶x̶a̶n̶d̶e̶r̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶J̶o̶h̶n̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶ but her husband didn't make it easy for her. He would write and write and write and go days without sleep, without food, and John had wanted to hit him over the head with a broomstick, because John wasn't worth Alexander's life the war was done, he had a wife and a new son, and he could finally work on all the things he had always talked John's ear off about during the war.
Well. Work he did, but not much else. He wrote until he couldn't anymore, when his hands were shaking too hard to even hold a quill, and then, he cried. Cried until he fell asleep on his desk, and did it all over again when he woke.
John tried to explain this to Philip in as few words as he could, because the boy didn't know about his father's deep depression, and he didn't need to (besides, that was what he had been like after John's death. He couldn't bring himself to imagine what the process would look like after the far more devastating loss of his son.)
Philip had unfortunately inherited his father's stubborn streak, so he could not be swayed.
John gave in with a long-suffering sigh and stayed close, just in case–a smart move, the scene Philip willed into existence right in front of them considered.
It was his funeral.
And it was not a peaceful affair.
The children were crying, of course, he hadn't expected anything else; Eliza held her youngest in her arms, two of the little ones clung to her skirts, and she attempted to stifle her own heartbreaking sobs into a handkerchief at the same time as she tried to console her children.
Another woman was nearby, and John recognised her even though he had never met her–Angelica Schuyler Church. She was the backbone of the family at that instance, her demeanor sorrowful but strong as she tended to the older children.
And then, there was Alexander. He stood nearest the open grave, a young woman trapped in his arms as she struggled against his unyielding grip, sobbing, screaming hysterically, loud and grating and horrible, as though every new breath hurt her like a mouthful of broken glass shoved down her throat.
His eldest daughter. He held onto her, but did nothing else to comfort or even just calm her. The girl wept and fought to break free, and he just… stood there. Removed from the situation, unaffected, not offering a word of consolation.
His eyes were empty and dark like John had never seen them before–Alexander looked dead.
John turned away from the Mirror, but he needn't have. Just a moment later, Philip let it go and fell to his knees, abrupt as though his legs gave out on him, and buried his face in his hands.
A muffled sob reached John's ears, and he lowered himself to the ground next to the boy with a sigh.
"I never meant for this to happen," he cried, and John's mouth stretched into a sad smile.
"Of course not," he said and stroked a hand up and down Philip's heaving back. "No one blames you, trust me."
Philip snapped his head up and braced his hands on his bent knees. "But it's my fault! I was so stupid, I shouldn't have challenged Eacker to that duel, but- I was so angry, I couldn't let him get away with slandering my father like that, but that was so stupid, so stupid, I should have listened to what Mama always taught us, to be the bigger person, to walk away-"
John's brows inched up his forehead as he listened to the boy's increasingly tearful ramblings and just rubbed his back for the time being.
That had been the reason for the duel? Someone insulted Alexander? And Philip took it upon himself to fight that battle, even though Alexander had always been more than capable of defending himself, with clever words or a bayonet.
God. If Philip went to talk to him first–he would have told him to just drop it, John was certain of that. No wonder the poor boy was so worked up.
There was a pause, and John thought it was high time for a distraction, so he shot Philip a small smile and let his hand come to rest on his shoulder, squeezed the muscle gently.
"Someone insults your father and your first instinct is to fight them. Truly a Hamilton at heart," he said, and Philip sniffled, his interest obviously piqued.
"What are you talking about?"
John abandoned his crouch and dropped to the floor next to Philip, crossed his legs and shifted until he was more comfortable.
"Has your father ever told you about that time the two of us duelled one General Charles Lee?" The mention of that name tickled something deep within him; long ago, it would have sent him into a rage, but now it just gave a faint tug.
Bygones were bygones, and nothing mattered when you were dead, anyway. Besides, the man had turned into so much less of an asshole after John had put that bullet into him.
Philip shook his head, eyes wide, and John pushed past the painful squeeze in his chest at the almost childish curiosity that started to form in those too familiar eyes (Alexander had never looked like that. He had been too weary and weathered, too beat down by life to ever look that innocent.)
"The man was an absolute idiot. He fucked us all over at the battle of Monmouth, and then had the nerve to blame it on General Washington, which he really should not have done within earshot of your father," he said, and Philip let out a wet little chuckle and lowered himself into a more comfortable position as well.
He looked a lot like Alexander, but his temperament was more of his mother, John thought (and if that didn't make him feel several kinds of ways he would not examine any closer.)
W̶h̶y̶ ̶w̶h̶y̶ ̶w̶h̶y̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶m̶a̶r̶r̶y̶ ̶M̶a̶r̶t̶h̶a̶,̶ ̶w̶h̶y̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶g̶o̶t̶t̶e̶n̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶d̶r̶u̶n̶k̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶n̶i̶g̶h̶t̶,̶ ̶d̶r̶u̶n̶k̶ ̶e̶n̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶g̶e̶t̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶c̶h̶i̶l̶d̶,̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶e̶i̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶m̶,̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶E̶l̶i̶z̶a̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶.̶
"He always hated when someone spoke ill of the president," he said, and John felt suddenly compelled to wipe the drying tears from the boy's face, so he reached a hand out to do so.
Philip let him, and with a sharp pang of longing, several instances of when he had done the same for his siblings flashed before his inner eye (and maybe he even wondered for a split second if Frances had had someone to wipe away her tears ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶J̶o̶h̶n̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶t̶r̶u̶g̶g̶l̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶r̶e̶c̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶ ̶l̶o̶o̶k̶e̶d̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶.̶)
He shook himself.
"Ah, but that wasn't all he was to him, was it?" he said, and Philip tilted his head to the side (like a goddamn puppy, why was this kid so endearing?) and waited for him to go on. "I can still hear it. I'm not your son, Alexander would say every time the general showed him some kindness or expressed concern for him. And then, the second he heard someone talk shit about the man, I had to physically hold him back from punching Lee! That was very strange for both of us, usually it was your father holding me back."
"Oh," Philip breathed and smiled. Thank God, John thought. "I've heard him say that! Mom always scolded him for it."
John snorted. "So did I. But Mister Hamilton has an exceptional talent of just not hearing a thing people say if he doesn't want to hear it."
Philip huffed a short, fond laugh, something like wistfulness resonating in it, and nodded; Christ, did it feel good to talk to someone about him, someone who knew him, someone who had memories of him just like John did.
"Well, to make a long story short: I shot Lee, and after that, he learned to keep his mouth shut. The general was… not amused. He never liked duels," he said, deciding it was probably best to leave out the part where Alexander talked to Washington first, got told to drop the issue, and received an explicit order to not challenge Lee. That would have perhaps hit a bit too close to home.
"Not amused?" he repeated, incredulous. "He-" Philip broke off, blinked a few times, swallowed, and John reached out to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly. "He hated duels. Thought they were stupid. I would have expected him to be furious with you."
John shrugged. "He certainly made a show of being very, very upset and disappointed with the two of you," he said, lowering his voice and speaking in a monotone, and that got another actual laugh from Philip. He grinned right back, elated that the boy still had it in him to laugh. "But in the end, we still spent Christmas with him and his wife two days later."
Philip shook his head, amused. "I can't believe he just let you get away with it."
"It was by far not the most idiotic thing Alexander and I attempted," he said in way of explanation, and the smile on Philip's face began to slip; the corners of his mouth quirked down into a frown, his expression somber.
"You were very close, weren't you?"
John blinked. "Yes," he said. "I loved him. I still do." He didn't bother with tacking the customary 'like a brother' on there. Hadn't since… well, since he had died, really. John couldn't care less if people realised the truth about his unconventional attraction now–what were they going to do, hang him for it? Yeah, sure.
"Dad never talked about you," Philip said, eyes fixed to where he was picking at his own fingers, down in his lap.
A sharp pain stabbed right into the centre of his chest, even though John was fully aware of that fact. It still hurt to hear ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶s̶t̶o̶p̶p̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶a̶l̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶A̶l̶e̶x̶a̶n̶d̶e̶r̶.̶
"I know," he said, quiet.
The boy raised his eyes, and his dark lashes glistened with unshed tears when he met John's gaze. "But you were so close. Is- is that what will happen to me? Will they forget about me? Never mention me again?"
"You cannot truly think that," he said and scooted closer, close enough their shoulders bumped into each other. John deliberately did not react to the part where Philip insinuated Alexander had forgotten about him (Alexander would never. Not after everything. He still loved John, just as John still loved him. ̶H̶e̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶,̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶,̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶p̶r̶o̶m̶i̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶.̶) "You are their son, their firstborn. They could never forget about you, Philip. Some things… are just too painful to talk about. But I promise you, they will never forget you."
Philip blinked, and a lone tear slid down his cheek. He did not give an answer, just rested his head on John's shoulder, and they sat in silence, together.