John's arm weighs heavily around his waist, draped casually over the warm skin there. His finger traces languid, sleepy patterns onto Alexander's hip.

The sheets of John's bed and their bare limbs all tangle together in a warm, convoluted mess. John's breathing is gradually softening, slowing to a gentle flutter.

Alexander thinks he must be tired, indeed, he knows the man well enough to presume that he was up late the night before painting or reading. It is a rather unhealthy habit, but presently, he is glad for his lover's slumber.

He does not want John to see the tears that fall now unhindered down his face. He lies facing away from the man, his spine pressed flush against his stomach.

Alexander, with one free hand, must grip hard onto the side of the mattress to stop the sobs from racking his entire body and, by extension, the bed. He does not want to wake John. He must not wake John.

He cannot believe he has been so foolish, so careless! He is selfish, he is asinine, he is in danger. His greatest political enemy reveals to him that he knows his secret, his peculiarity, and his first course of action is to return to the comfort of what will almost certainly be his downfall. He has put his Jack in danger by returning here, he has been indescribably stupid.

He remembers the days they did this during the war, found shelter with each other from frozen, bloodied fingers and freezing mud and rain. He remembers it being desperate, burning, feverish. But... He thinks he fell in love after the first time he and John lay together, rather than before.

It had come about by flirtation, friendship and increasingly affectionate touches, but he doesn't think it had been love at first, he thinks it had been coping. He thinks it had built up slowly, his love for the man. Like a mountain, jagged and steep with an eventual, sheer drop. Falling in love with John had been like jumping from a great height. Like he was Icarus, surely destined for the sun to burn him, send him crashing to the sea below.

Only, he had not.

Or maybe... Maybe he never fell in love with John, maybe it was always there. Maybe he just became wise to it, when he noticed himself staying with the man after they'd slept together. When they'd hold each other, bring each other coffee in the mornings and talk late, late into the night. He remembers the summers they spent together in humid tents, writing until eleven or later and talking until the sunrise flowed through the tent opening like the tide.

Slowly, he untangles his legs from John's and sits up, keeping his face turned away from the man that lies behind him. He hears John stir slightly, a hand strokes from his lower back to his thigh.

"Where are you going, my love?"

John's voice is muffled by the pillow his face is pressed into, sleepy and contented too. Alexander must clench his fist hard and regulate his breathing to answer in an ordinary, casual manner.

"I wish for some water, I shall return soon."

John grunts, already dozing off again. Alexander stands up and reaches for a loose, blue robe cast over the back of a chair. He slips it on, the silk soft against his bare shoulders, and walks through the house. The floorboards are cold against his bare feet. He enters the kitchen, a usually warm, cosy room full of chatter and delicious smells.

It is quiet now, however. The is unlit and smoking gently in the grate. Spices hang drying from a rack on the far wall and some dough proves on the counter, sprinkled lightly with flour. Rebecca has evidently picked some hyacinths from the garden as they sit, delicately beautiful, in a vase on the window sill.

The light that streams in through the window is oyster grey and mottled by the shadows of clouds overhead. The sky looks as though it has been pieced together with torn scraps of paper.

He moves to the lattice pained pantry, takes a bottle of whisky from the shelf and pours himself a glass. It is dark bronze, the light refracts through the crystal tumbler so coppery shadows are cast onto his hand. He takes a small sip, swishing it around for a few moments in his mouth. John has good taste in liquor. He suddenly wants to cry again. He remembers late nights with the other Aides in taverns, remembers he and John slipping off to share whiskey and body heat alone together.

He places the bottle back into the pantry and leans against the wall of the kitchen, sipping slowly at his drink. John dozes, the servants will not return till sometime late noon and he wishes only to stand here, alone, nursing this glass.

He cannot fathom how he reconciled in coming here today. How did he convince himself it would be wise to? If Jefferson were to discover this meetup, he would have his name emblazoned across every newspaper in the country by tomorrow.

He drinks the last of his whisky, splashes his face with water from a pitcher on the table and walks back to the bedroom, his feet bare and silent on the hardwood floors. John looks up at him through half-lidded eyes as he enters, smiling drowsily. His blond hair is mussed, his face is still rather pink.

Alexander's heart aches.

"All is well?"

Alexander nods, smiles and climbs back into the bed, John's skin is warm and his feet have become like ice from walking across the cold floor of the kitchen.

"All is well."

John returns the smile, pulls the loose robe off from around Alexander's shoulders and kisses him gently, allowing one hand to rest languidly in his hair.

"It's been too long, Alexander."

He forces himself to nod and presses his face to John's clavicle in order to conceal his expression.

"Indeed, Jack."

"You haven't been working too hard?"

Alexander chuckles into John's collarbone and gives no reply. John lets out an exasperated, long-suffering sort of sigh.

"You will never change, will you, dearest?"

Alexander doesn't particularly want to talk at the present moment. He kisses gently along John's collarbone, occasionally scraping his teeth playfully across the warm skin. John strokes his hair contentedly, complacently.

"Do you wish me to?"

John laughs quietly and shakes his head, twisting a red strand of Alexander's hair between his thumb and index finger.

"Never."

Alexander really ought to leave. He cannot let on that anything is out of their blissful usual, but he cannot remain here. It is early yet, too early to return home for the trip to the park, but it would be better even to wander the city than to lie here, in bed, with John. Despite the fact that he would much rather the latter.

"I think, John, that I should be leaving soon."

John frowns and strokes his head protectively, instinctively pulling him a little closer.

"So soon? It is not yet midday, I'd hoped you would stay for lunch."

Alexander squirms, caught in ambivalence. He wishes he could stay, dine with John, discuss their readings and John's art, the season, each other; anything but politics.

But he cannot place himself any longer in this man's company.

"I- Eliza wished me to buy some new scores for Phillip and I will accompany herself and the children to the park later."

John places a kiss on the tip of his nose and winds their legs tighter together, holding him close.

"I own some Bach pieces he may have, I do not play, I have no use for them."

Alexander hesitates, half wanting to pull away from the man and curl up alone under the bed clothes, half wanting to bury his face into his chest and stay there for all of eternity. These are young, immature, dramatic impulses but he has never had reason to feel any less then ardently in love in John's presence.

"I could not, John. I am happy to buy some for him myself."

John watches him strangely, inching backwards and looking him up and down. The blankets have slipped to cover only their lower halves.

"Nonsense, you mustn't leave yet, you said yourself the visit to the park was later in the day."

John rests his chin on Alexander's head, pulling him closer, as though he is afraid the man will be stolen from him. Alexander thinks wryly that this may happen yet.

"I will stay for some tea?"

Alexander half concedes, his stomach twisting unpleasantly. John leans back, his face the picture of delight. He pulls Alexander into a tight hug once more and then sits up, rolling his shoulders and stretching his joints.

"You did not plan to bed me and then make your leave, did you, Alexander? That would be most impolite."

The younger man chokes on a laugh and sits up himself, kicking away the sheets. His voice is thick with emotion when he responds. By the way the muscles in John's back tense and his shoulders clench forwards, Alexander knows that he notices this.

"I did not, Jack."

John turns around to face him and studies him closely, his brows are drawn together in concern and he reaches a hand out to stroke Alexander's jaw gently.

"Are you alright? You sounded for a moment..."

Alexander shakes his head and stands up, moving towards his clothes where they lie on the floor, hastily removed.

"Merely glad to have seen you again. I missed you."

John's smile is apparent in his voice when he speaks a moment later, Alexander does not have to turn to see how his blue eyes would shine, how his golden eyelashes would flutter.

"Jefferson would pin you as a heartless sceptic, how would he react to such affection, Alexander?"

The question leaves him cold, with goosebumps down his arms and thighs. John knows nothing of the effects his words have, so Alexander must jest in return.

"Do not think I throw around such affections, I could manage well without anyone but my family and you, John."

He pulls on stockings, shirt and breeches, lacing the strings as adeptly as he can with trembling, unsteady hands. In the mirror opposite, he catches a glimpse of his appearance. His hair is mussed incriminatingly, the ribbon lies somewhere on the floor of the parlour and his throat is scattered with little pink bruises.

He feels sick.

He cannot believe what he has done.

"I— I cannot stay long."

John sighs and drags a comb through his hair, reaching for a ribbon on his dresser. Alexander waits as he ties his hair, perhaps a little more elaborately than he had before. He twists two small sections at the front of his head and adds strands of hair to the twist as he brings it around to the back of his head. His hands work quickly, efficiently.

Sometimes, Alexander forgets that under all the humble and down to earth personality he knows John to have, he was born and raised a southern gentlemen and then educated in Europe among courtesans and nobility.

He finishes, steps lightly over to where Alexander stands and kisses him, softly, one hand cupping his jaw. Alexander's body feels detached from his mind, because while his thoughts stray to Jefferson, to Madison, to his conflict with them, his body responds. His arms drape over John's shoulders, his mouth needs no prompting to press against John's softly in reciprocation.

"Shall I make tea?"

John pulls away, smiles and guides him to the parlour with a hand on his lower back. He sits, watches the garden and scans John's pamphlet on Fragonard as he waits. He has never quite been sure of his thoughts on the artist. His paintings, with their thin veneer of innocence disguising underlying eroticism, somehow, make him feel a little disjointed.

John seems to admire his work though, perhaps more for his use of colour and technique than the beautiful women that Fragonard's subjects tend to be. Alexander allows himself a small chuckle at this.

John walks in a few minutes later with the tea caddy and hot water. He stirs his own, passes Alexander the milk and lets him add the leaves and water to his cup.

"So, what of Phillip? When we last saw each other he wished to be a great painter, have his ambitions changed since?"

Alexander smiles, glad for this welcome distraction from his thoughts.

"Several times. Just yesterday, he wanted to be a banker yet the day before it was a doctor."

John laughs and fixes his eyes on Alexander's over the rim of his teacup. The gaze is gentle, soft. Alexander will miss it.

"And of yourself? You seem tired."

"Eliza said the very same..." Alexander mutters into his cup, avoiding John's gaze now, a little uncomfortable. This subject broaches too closely onto the one of work, of Jefferson, than he might like.

"And she is an observant woman, not one whose opinion should be cast aside, Alexander. You must take better care of yourself."

Alexander sighs, nods and takes another sip of tea. He realises then, that his hair is loose and hanging around his face rather irritatingly. He puts his teacup down onto its plate and stands, walking to where he sees his ribbon lying forgotten on the floor.

"Ah, I'd half hoped you had forgotten."

Alexander smiles and reaches up to tie his hair. John moans and pouts playfully, setting his tea cup on top of a copy of Burke's An inquiry. Alexander would complain, but he is not so fond of Burke. Let his works be used as coasters for all he cares.

"But there is no one else home, must you put it back?"

Alexander laughs and fixes the ribbon back in place, it is a simple style. He recalls once, Jefferson saying to Madison that he resembled a simple Scottish farmer, what with his red hair, freckles and distaste for courtesan pleasantries and manners. He remembers finding it amusing, Eliza and he had laughed over it. Now it only serves as hindsight, how he should have been more careful, realised Jefferson would be out to dig something up about him.

They finish their tea and Alexander decides that he really must leave. He should never have come here in the first place, he shouldn't have agreed to stay for tea. John looks displeased, even worried, when he moves to the hallway to put on his coat and shoes.

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

Alexander glances, evades the question. He would love nothing better, except his and John's freedom, and that is what is at stake here.

"Perhaps, I will have to make sure I've not agreed to any prior engagements."

John furrows his brows, says nothing and pulls him in for a quick kiss. Alexander melts into it. It takes every ounce of willpower he possesses to not push them back towards the bedroom. But he cannot, so instead he pulls back and smiles. Genuinely, this time. For he does not know when he will next see the man.

"Adieu, dearest."

John's face breaks into a broad smile, his blue eyes are so bright. This man will damn him, has already damned him, yet Alexander doesn't mind. He would be damned a thousand times over for that same smile.

"Adieu, Alexander."

Alexander is unprepared for the shape that flies towards him upon opening the door to his home, knocked a step or two backwards as the weight of his son hits him in the stomach.

"Papa!"

He catches little Alex just in time and swings the child up into his arms, grinning broadly as the boy scrambles for purchase, giggling, holding tight to his father's shoulders. He pretends to be fearful, allows his voice to tremble exaggeratedly.

"I beg, do not hurt me! I'll give over all I have!"

The four-year-old laughs and reaches out a small, chubby hand to tickle his side, his small legs resting on Alexander's hips. Alexander lets out a small oomph of surprise and bites down on his lip to prevent himself from laughing.

"Pip will not play with me, papa, he says he is busy!"

Alexander catches his son's hand before he loses his dignity further, he is ticklish and close to laughing aloud.

"Well, we can't have that, can we? Is he in the playroom?"

Phillip sits at the piano in the playroom, fingers dancing over the keys in a scale, his tongue stuck out between his lips in concentration.

"Phillip, surely you can set aside your scale to play with Alex for a little while?"

The boy looks up quickly at the sound of his father's voice and grins broadly, flinging himself at the man, his sudden movement creating a breeze that sends music sheets fluttering to the floor.

"Papa! Were you with Mr. Laurens? Did he say when he would come to help me with my paintings?"

Alexander puts down little Alex, takes Phillip under his arms and hoists him into his arms for a few moments, pretending to groan with the effort.

"You're getting to be quite the young man, soon I shan't be able to lift you."

Phillips struggles, embarrassed, in his grip and Alexander takes pity on him and sets him down. Phillip is the oldest, at eight. He likes to lord over his siblings a little and feels his reputation damaged by such childish games. It amuses Alexander greatly, the boy is only eight yet he likes to play at being a man.

"And yes, I was with Mr. Laurens. In fact, he gave me some music for you. You'll have to thank him when you next see him."

Phillip grins and Alexander reaches into his pocket for the scores. Phillip places them very carefully on the piano stand and sits back down, reading the notes quickly and beginning to play. It is a hard piece, and a long one, so he plays the first few notes hesitantly. Not all that badly, if Alexander's rather bias opinion is anything to go by.

Then, Eliza's voice calls from the parlour, clear and gentle.

"Alexander?"

He takes each of his sons' shoulders and brings them with him into the parlour, clinging frantically to the warmth his children have put in his chest. He faces the terrifying chance of being separated from them, he won't dispel this happiness so soon.

Eliza sits, sewing on the sofa in the parlour. Beside her, Angie embroiders a doll's dress. Her fingers are clumsy and her tongue sticks out between her lips in concentration, in much the same manner her brother's does. She looks up and sets aside her project in delight, running towards him.

"Papa!"

He catches her, lifts his daughter and spins her in a wide circle, then pulls her so that she sits on his arm, clutching his lapels. He kisses her forehead once, gently and watches her childish, dark eyes, so like her mother's. He does dote on his only daughter, she is so curious and clever, so like her mother.

"What are you making for Cordelia?"

Cordelia is her doll, a large one they gave her for her fifth birthday. She brings it with her everywhere.

"A skirt, papa, but it is so fiddly!"

He sets her down and sits beside her on the sofa, examining the little piece of cloth. A few sweet, clumsy little flowers have been embroidered onto the scrap of cloth and a pincushion beside Eliza is stuck full of Angie's favourite pins, the pearl-topped ones.

James comes in then, the very youngest. He is being led by Constance by the hand, stumbling slightly in his usual, waddle-some way of walking.

"Papa!"

He runs forward as best he can, stumbles and is caught by Phillip, who is sat on the rug. The older boy brushes him down and sends him again in the direction of his father, smiling.

Alexander scoops his youngest son into his arms and places him on his lap, bouncing his knee up and down playfully. The boy chews on his teething ring, murmuring to himself in that childish lisp of his.

"And what have you done today, James?"

The boy removes his mouth from his finger just long enough to let out a string of near incomprehensible words, Alexander catches garden and Angie.

"Did you play in the garden with Angie?"

Angie nods eagerly, her fingers still over her embroidery again. Alexander gets the impression she will not be much of a seamstress when she is grown, she seems to like having pretty things for her dolls to wear but takes no pleasure in making them herself.

"We saw a butterfly, papa! It was blue!"

Alexander laughs at her delight in such small, seemingly unmemorable things. He wishes he were able to find the same excitement in butterflies, maybe then he would not have been drawn, almost magnetically, to people like John. If he had been more easily pleased, less adamant on getting his own way, he might not be in the situation he is now.

They go to the park after lunch in a rather disorderly procession. Phillip and Angelica hang behind, scuffing their shoes in the dust and chattering away while the younger two scamper, or in James' case, waddle, between Eliza and Alexander's legs.

As he sits on the bench in the park, watching the light play like quicksilver through the leaves and onto the flowerbeds around him, he can almost believe everything will be okay. James falls asleep on Eliza's shoulder half way through the excursion and they had back soon after, Phillip and Angie with their stockings and jackets muddied from climbing the trees that surround the small pond in the very centre of the park.

Eliza brings James to bed upon their return home and Alexander places Alex in the care of Constance. He trusts Phillip and Angelica to be left to themselves in the playroom while he works, they are getting old enough now to read and draw quietly alone, especially Phillip.

His study is lit softly by sunlight filtering through lace curtains. The window has been opened to let the smell of candles and sealing wax drift out on the breeze and the faint chirp of birds permeates the near silence of the house. Alexander feels as though the peace is mocking him.

He sets about reading and studying his and John's correspondence, which he keeps in a hidden compartment of the drawer he keeps his ink and quills in. They are near word for word to the copies Jefferson had shown him. Whoever penned them left out or added no detail, however slight. They, as Jefferson commented, ring true to his own carefully crafted writing style. They are easily recognisable as his. It is damning, oh so desperately damning.

He is reading one, from John to himself circa 1780 when he hears the sharp rap of the knocker on the polished wooden door outside. Footsteps, Constance's no doubt, echo along the hallway and he hears the door click open. There is a brief interlude of silence, the words being spoken are not loud enough for him to hear, and then, Constance's call carries clearly out through the air.

"Mr. Hamilton! A message!"

He slides the letters under his ink tray and removes his glasses before leaving his office and jogging quickly downstairs. Constance awaits at the foot of the stairs, a well dressed black man beside her holds a slip of paper in his hand. He is handsome, little more than a teenager really and clad in clothes Alexander knows suit more an employed servant than a slave, he must be a free man. He quickly removes his hat, bows slightly and holds the parchment out to Hamilton with a charismatic smile, showing very white teeth.

"Sir, a letter from Mr. James Madison, under orders to be handed directly to yourself."

His stomach tightens and a sharp stab of pain sears through his head, he thinks he visibly winced. He takes the parchment, nods in thanks to the man and tips him a coin from his purse in thanks. It is more muscle memory than anything else, he cannot think of more than the contents of the message as the man makes his goodbyes and the door is closed behind him.

He opens it in his study, his hands unsteady and fumbling as he snaps open the wax seal. His eyes scan the message quickly, it is not long, written in Madison's own handwriting.

Mr. Hamilton,

As discussed in our previous discussion with Messrs Jefferson and Monroe on Friday evening, we expect your attendance at a second meeting on 18 115th street at seven o'clock, Monday next to negotiate the terms of a private agreement between yourself and the aforementioned parties. No other party, personal or political, is to know the place or subject or our negotiations until Mr. Jefferson, Monroe and myself decide so. The former strongly advises your attendance on the evening of Monday next and hopes you will keep the terms of our previous discussion at the utmost confidentiality.

Regards, James Madison.

And so, Hamilton supposes, it begins.