( enter: me. )

hamilton, 24, he/him/his. soon to be columbia law graduate, husband, activist, writer; are you aware that we're making history? [ dependent rp blog with this group. ]

[restitutiion]

“Une maison! Oh, Alexander that is wonderful news for you two!”

Lafayette exclaimed, a grin spreading on their face. The corners of their eyes crinkled a bit, their tispy joy obvious on their face. What is not being said in the lines by their eyes, or the white teeth behind the grin is the fact that Lafayette was a bit jealous of the couple. Marriage was something that seemed so far off to Lafayette, an almost unattainable goal.

Unattainable only because of Lafayette, themselves. Who would want to marry someone who is just a bit out of touch with reality, someone who carts off to France at the drop of a hat? The jetset lifestyle will kill you, after all. They, of course, had Hercules in their life but why subject such a great human being to such torture?

“Alexander, I would love to help you plan the wedding!” They probably had very different ideas of the perfect wedding, of course, but Laf would help be it a party of 4 or a party of 400. “Oh! I must also find the perfect gift! Me et mon Hercules will have to start looking immediately.” A statement more for themselves.

“You’ve never been one to shy away from the idea of work before! I know you’ll get through this- I have heard the planning is the worst part, you know.”

& --- The excitement is contagious, and a mirrored smile quickly spreads across previously distracted expression; how wonderful it is to have friends who support you unconditionally, he thinks, as if the latest distaste for his company has anything to do with moral standing or friendly admiration. Nay, the unfavorable opinion was bred from terrible opinion, clearly expressed for the world to see; he digresses. Sitting here, with one of his closest friends, he succumbs too easily to the warmth of familiarity, beaming as his company begins talking about the wedding --- the wedding that has been temporarily placed on hold, due to the upcoming move and the state of the world, but it remains a point of interest, nonetheless. He takes another sip of his wine before speaking, all too eager to put in his own two cents ( again ).

     “You will love the house; a backyard, four bedrooms...more than enough room for you two to spend the night without huddling on my couch,” though he did love the smaller space at times, admittedly; it was always a comforting thought, knowing that his friends would have to be in close quarters were they to stay with him longer than anticipated. The Hamilton home would be a safe haven, big or small; this is his goal, if nothing else. Alas, though, he rolls his eyes at the wedding and work comments; Lafayette did have a point, no matter how little Alexander would like to acknowledge it.

        “The planning is endless,” he says, as if they’ve done anything more than guest list discussions and potential venue ideas; he’s been too busy with work, and classes, and now with hiding away in his apartment. Much too busy to call venues, or caterers, or plan anything for the future; not that any businesses would even engage, anyway, what with the current health risks. He gestures with his glass as he continues. “But you have to help me plan it. With your help, it will be, ah, how you say...inoubliable!” he vaguely butchers the pronunciation, inebriation digging its sharpened claws into syllables like a hunger too heavy to quench; he’s heard Lafayette say the word before, and he oft requests translations for words he doesn’t recognize ( should a moment like this ever arise, where he may need to know it ). 

[restitutiion]

Lafayette found their place again at the table, then proceeded to pour themselves a heafty serving of the newly opened wine.

“One of a kind! Yes, Alexander! You always know what I am trying to mean.” meaning to say is moreso what they meant, but seeing as English wasn’t their first language there was no need to fault them for any mistakes. Besides, they’d just come back from spending a long time in France.

Tending to family business. At least..thats what they said they were doing; In reality they took care of their deceased fathers estate. He’d passed not too long ago and the thought still hung heavy on the frenchmans heart- perhaps thats why they were all too willing to keep the wine flowing. The estate came with their greiving, yet distant, mother. She had never been Gilberts biggest fan; they turned out much too queer for her liking. They’d been very afraid they were to be cut off from family funds- keeping them from coming back to America. Of course they hadn’t told Alexander, or anyone for that matter- how could they? They were supposed to be strong, they had to keep that perfect apperance.

Lafayette stared at the wine swirling in their glass for just a moment too long, then snapped back to the present. No need to dwell on things that made their heart and mind heavy- they were with their friends! Here beside those they loved most.

“It is, er, difficile to know how you live here without me! no fashion, no good wine! Tell me, Alexander, how have my friends been? While I am in France, alone without you all.” The more the drinks flowed, it seemed Lafayette had harder times finding words- but yet again, headstrong.

“I trust your answer will be nothing short of the word bored” They gave a small chuckle before resting their chin in their palm, elbow to table.

& --- The fumbling through the English language is reasonable, and though as of late people have accused him of holding some ingrained distaste for those who do struggle in this same fashion, he truly doesn’t mind it; speaking in one language can possess its own multi-faceted difficulty. He’s learned a fair bit of Spanish, and that, too, proves even more challenging than his first --- still. He pours himself a full glass of wine, leaning back and relaxing once its safely held up in his hand, the same pose as an elitist disowning the local poor ( or, in a descriptor he’s heard before, in a sort of I’d like to speak to the manager fashion, all high and mighty and far too elegant for the current situation ). The conversation returns soon enough, and the smile never once leaves his face, plastered across it in great enjoyment. He almost comments, but Lafayette first finishes their thought, and Alexander hesitates, ever briefly; how has everyone been? His smile slowly begins to fade. Not good, he wants to say, but knows that sounds just about as boring as it comes --- he scoffs in fake surprise at his friend’s comment regarding it; no, he has to tell a story, he has to twist and turn and weave the words into a tale of unfathomable woe, an eloquent analysis.

       “Eh,” he starts, “we’ve been alright.” He thinks it the overstatement of the century and yet still, he continues. “Missing you, of course, and oh!” he points with his glass, the wine swirling around as the force is barely enough to...contain it, thankfully, not a drop spilling free as he continues talking with the disinterest he so often displays once he’s begun a tirade. “John and I, we’re going to look at a house! We’re hoping to move soon, so we can start planning the wedding. Again.” he stops, takes a sip of his wine, before adding, “Remind me to never get married again. It’s so much work.”

[restitutiion]

@restitutiion

The frenchman was not known to hold their alcohol very well. It was to be expected, given their small frame- not a lot of places for the drinks to go except for straight to their head. It shiuld come to no surprise to their friends that they were now very, very tipsy.

“Alexander!” they exclaimed, slightly too loud for a room that only held four bodies. “-I have missed you so, my poor heart could barely LIVE in France. Comment ai-je fait sans toi?”

They moved to clear off the table, clumsily grabbing the dishes, stacking them in a haphazard tower so they could attempt to make the least amount of trips possible. Lafayette was always headstrong- and this extended to all tasks, large or small. They continued to speak to their friend as they swept off to the kitchen; somehow keeping the grace of a dancer as they did.

“I miss this city when I leave, almost as much as I miss you- there is no one in France quite like you, you are....” They search for words, looking towards the ceiling as if there would be a guide there. “.. unique en son genre. Comprendre?”

They disappeared around the corner for just a moment before reappearing with a new bottle of wine to replace the now empty one that took residency on the table. It would probably benefit the entire party to stop while they were ahead- but it would be rude to refuse the grace of Lafayette, wouldn’t it?

& --- Life, as of late, was but a series of tumultuous disasters, each more catastrophic than the last, and within the eye of it all, standing amidst this hurricane that surrounds him, Alexander; surviving the past month or so has been quite the task, even moreso with his previous friend group having long since physically separated. Distance was a cruel, fickle thing, and it seemed the prayers he muttered into the night have been answered; his best friends, returning in synchronized rhyme, parallel hope --- dinner plans are made, and he accepts the invitation for both himself and his husband with ease. The meal is eaten, wine abundant and flowing like the river Styx, carrying desolate thought downstream, and all the while, Alexander is beaming like the sun; he realizes, later on, that this is the first time he’s been genuinely happy for at least a month now. He isn’t entirely satisfied with the thought. 

       Lafayette goes to begin to clean up, however hastily, rambling in their melting pot language of both English and French, and Alexander shakes his mind trying to search for effortless translation; he learned French in grade school, or at least to the conversational level, but time oft unjustly stole this sort of knowledge in times of great drought. He recognizes a few key words, and hopes to himself that this sparse understanding would last him the conversation. “ -- you should know you can’t live without me by now,” he says, ego inflated through social encouragement; this was what his friends did: they lifted him up, for better or for worse. He realizes this, now, wine coursing through blood, inebriated thought circling his friends’ names in red highlight. Lafayette disappeared around a corner, going to and from the kitchen, and Alex listens, still, to the best of his abilities.

       “Ah...no sé,” he says, mostly to himself; the languages in his brain are combined too easily in this state, but he quickly shrugs and continues his train of thought. “Oh! One of a kind, maybe?” he offers, the translation presumably a terrible attempt at the term, just before Lafayette sets a new bottle of wine onto the tabletop. Alex quirks an eyebrow, almost as if to say, “okay, so we’re doing this.” Instead, he says,

       “I’m in.”

[sorenkingsley]

[restitutiion]

As she speaks, he looks back to the papers in front of him, lest he give rise to distraction in the form of beauty and hope; much like staring into the sun for too long, looking at anyone for an extended amount of time — whether it be Sonny, abuela, Eliza or otherwise — always takes a toll on his mind. Better to not strain the head this early in the morning, he figures, still looking to her briefly once more as she asks how his night went. The pen in his hand stills as he speaks, his thoughts filing themselves into a comprehensible order. “I spent the night with abuela Claudia, helped her get some stuff in order,” mostly medical stuff she’s too stubborn to do on her own; she has to go to her doctor next week to hopefully get a refill on her medication, and Usnavi still has to call and get an appointment on the books. The pen goes back into motion as he leans forward on the counter, elbows on each side of his papers. “I got some sleep, pero I dunno how much. Maybe a few hours?” he didn’t mind it all that much; truthfully, he would much rather take care of someone than take care of himself. Abuela needs help with things, and Usnavi needs something to focus on; it works out great ( most of the time, anyway ).

As he looks back down to his work, the door of the bodega gently opens; he looks across the way — most people don’t start coming in for another half hour, at least — and confusion paints his expression as he sees the culprit.

        Regret is a mournful thing, embedded upon the tongue like the taste of home tainted with venom ( which is to say, it is familiar in a way he wouldn’t like to say, yet deadly all the same ). His friends, as of late, have shed light upon a series of belief systems he has oft been too cowardice to face of his own volition; of course, he is more than willing to accept this criticism --- not because he is typically susceptible to the opinions of others, but because these belief systems so deeply impact his every moment. To be told you have discriminated against the very people you call family, the very barrio you have called your home for years now, it is disheartening, to say the very least, especially when the opposition you have so boldly shared was based on your best friend’s relationship --- nothing more, nothing less. Of course, even his closest allies hesitate to believe such claims, and so he has been forced to improvise, to examine things on his own time and to draw his own conclusions --- this is not a new development, though the pressure to form the correct conclusion is now even heavier than before. He cannot deny the accusations, nor can he continue to annoy those he adores so dearly; and so, here he is, entering the corner store just after they’ve opened, in hopes of apologizing to one of the few people directly impacted: the man who is now dating his best friend.

       The door opens gently, and immediately, two pairs of eyes are on him; he takes in a low breath as he approaches the counter, hands shoved into his coat pockets, all tired eyes and timid expression. He glances to Eliza, who has only a week ago cut him off entirely from her life; he looks to Usnavi, who is apparently doing business upkeep at the counter. He approaches the counter, stopping maybe a foot or so away from it --- enough distance to comply with their requests of such, and yet close enough to stand his ground, should anything really develop. He didn’t count on Eliza being present this morning; it seems he severely underestimated the speed at which that relationship is developing, but stay on track, Alex, get this done --- he reminds himself of this mentally: he has a job to do here, plain and simple, in and out. It should be easy.

        “Hi,” he says simply, glancing between the two with a bit of unease ( almost uncharacteristic for this man who never stops talking, this man who works non-stop and adamantly defends his opinions no matter the consequence ). “I’ve been meaning to come in this week, I just haven’t had the chance to do so,” his gaze settles upon Usnavi, who has looked between the two a few times and inevitably just settled for watching Alexander with a curious gaze. “Could we...talk, for a few moments, just you and I? Preferably somewhere private?”

[restitutiion]

John has lived with Alexander for years - he’s learned to read him better than most people have, and he knows, immediately, he’s made a mistake. Everything about Alex’s demeanor screams get away, and John does his best to subtly shift away. It hurts to see him like this - he knows, deep down, that whatever’s got him this deeply stressed out is nothing he can fix or help with. It’s a deeply ingrained thing with responses that are almost involuntary at best.

He pulls the blanket back gently, curling it under his own legs and freeing Alex from it. The action puts more space between them, and he can only hope that helps Alex somehow. “Okay. ‘M sorry for pushin’.” It’s sincere, but the concern still bleeds through. “It’s the middle of the night, Alex. Do you wanna stay out here? ‘Cause it’s warmer inside, man.” He tries to keep his tone light, but he knows that he sounds tired and stressed and concerned. “It’s up to you. But if you’re gonna be out here, can I at least give you this blanket?”

& --- Alexander doesn’t look over to his husband any, doesn’t engage in any eye contact or intimacy beyond sitting in the same general vicinity ( and even this, the shared closeness, the implied comfort --- it eats away at him, a carnivorous thing, a parasite ); chest rises and falls, up and down, up and down. He nods vaguely at his husband’s apology, not wanting to delve much deeper than that, and he stares first at the candle, then to the sky, to the street; he deflects weakness as if this is what killed his mother, as if this is what killed his cousin. Did Peter aim the gun to his head because he was too weak to go on? Did his mother pass from illness because she was too weak to combat it? Ridiculous claims, he knows, but his brain thinks himself the exception; he cannot be vulnerable because here, he is intelligent. Here, he is almost a law school graduate; here, he is becoming something greater than the illegitimate, greater than useless, greater than unwanted --- John would surely leave him, if he knew of the entire collection of loss that resided in his heart. If he knew of the way Alexander hid his trauma deeper and deeper, digging the grave with each free moment he comes upon, only to take a glimpse at the grave site on this day, February 18th. It is only ever typically only a peek, only a thought; he stares down towards the street in silence for a few moments, just breathing, just grounding himself.

“I don’t want your blanket,” he finally says, voice quiet, tone still unsteady, trembling even though he himself sits perfectly still; his mind still wages the war, still not done, still fighting relentlessly. He is in New York, but his mind imagines Christiansted; he is on the fire escape, but his mind imagines the call to the police, she died, you have to come get her, I couldn’t save her, I, I, I, 

“I’m going back in soon,” he continues, and though his voice still sounds uncertain and desperate, it is slowly regaining the bite he wished for previously; to deflect is to be angry rather than upset, it is to be bare fists instead of broken hearts --- it is to fight rather than cry; he still thinks of that bedroom, his heart is still racing, all frantic thought and twisted noose --- remember where you are, Alexander. Remember. Washington Heights, New York, 2020; he hasn’t had an episode like this in so long, not since a therapy session months ago, and he wants to kick himself for this --- why didn’t he try to be quieter? Why didn’t he make sure John was asleep? 

[restitutiion]

John only catches it for a moment, but Alex’s face tells a different story than his words. He takes a deep breath and sheds his blanket cape before he opens the window wide and climbs out to join his husband where he sits. He drags the blanket out after him before closing the window enough to keep the apartment - and Hamlet, who was asleep in the kitchen - warm. He doesn’t say anything at first; he watches the smoke curl from the wick of the now-snuffed candle, tucking himself into Alex’s side before throwing the blanket back over his front. “’s fuckin’ freezing,” he says quietly, keeping his voice low as not to ruin the moment. “But it could be worse.”

He looks over at Alex for a second, tempted to ask him what’s wrong or offer him some kind of reassurance. He doesn’t, though - instead, he opts for just sitting with him in silence for a bit. “Can I ask,” he starts gently, once he feels the need to talk about what’s going on, “what brings you out here? You don’t gotta tell me, but… it’s cold as hell and you… don’t like the cold.”

& --- For how easily he may dismantle his defenses when he is alone, Alexander is quick to rebuild these walls when faced with company --- even if this company presents itself as his husband, sliding to sit at his side with a blanket. Even so; there are facets of himself that he feels no safety in explaining. There are stories he can never tell, there are things that serve no meaning to the life he has built for himself now; pride becomes synonymous with neglect, growth becomes synonymous with abandonment. John is right; it could be worse --- it could be snowing. His mother would hate that, yet she, too, would probably marvel at it all the same ( like his first winter here, all wide eyes and terror and amazement, all at once --- a dissonance, a paradox ). His brain still swirls and swirls, images and sounds and the feeling of the blanket now spread across him just like that night, like lying in bed with his mother who stopped breathing five minutes ago, and what will he do? What could he do, but sit there and live two lives at once; he is the boy now orphaned, he is the husband now exposed as an emotional whirlwind --- he is breathing still, inhale sharp, breath determined. He was fine, like he said, but now they’re so close, and now he can feel the warmth of a body next to him, and the blanket over them, and everything is so close, the world closing in on him, the memories washing over him, the ---

“I --- said I was fine,” he tries to say this with some bite, but the effort is futile, tone coming off more as a plea than any sort of malice; he moves away from his husband, just a bit, just to break the physical contact, but the gesture isn’t as smooth as he imagines --- it is desperation, it is fear, it is get off of me, get off, get off --- breath is still sharp, in. Out. In. Out, and he hates feeling like this, all weak and broken and unsure of himself. He sets the candle down in front of him before stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket, where he starts to run his thumb over the smooth lighter, over and over, over and over. Grounding methods; remember where you are, Alex. Remember? 

[restitutiion]

Winter, John knows, is hard for Alexander every year. He’s always blamed it on the cold; the lack of sunlight did a number on everyone he knew, after all. If there were deeper reasons, Alex had never brought them up, and he wasn’t about to push. Alex would tell him in his own time if that was something he wanted to do. There were, of course, secrets he’d kept from Alexander as well; it was only fair.

He’s half-asleep when he hears the window in the living room open, and it’s enough to jar him awake fully. The bed is empty on Alexander’s side, faint bits of heat lingering from where he’d been lying before.

It takes him a handful of moments to untangle himself from the blankets and sit up; the air is colder than he expected, and he groans as he stretches. When he stands up, he steals a blanket from their bed and wraps it around his shoulders, pulling it tight as he shuffles sleepily out into the living room.

Alex is on the fire escape, the window propped open just a bit behind him. He’s got a candle with him, and he’s watching the flame flicker. John does as well for a bit before he glances at the clock - it’s nearly one in the morning, and he sighs knowing that he’s going to need extra coffee before he heads to work. That doesn’t stop him from heading over to the window and tapping on it gently. “Hey,” he asks, once Alexander looks over at him. “You good?”

& --- He stares at the flame something resolute, gaze steady yet distant; he looks not to the fire that dances to its own silent melody, not to this neighborhood that has brought him such familial pangs of familiarity, but to a bedroom minimalist not by choice but by consequence. Everything is so still, he imagines he could hear God’s thinking, if he listened closely enough; his mother, breathing every now and again --- like waves upon some previously impenetrable shore. He knows that he is not there, can feel the cool air from this New York winter shrouding him in a thin layer of agitation, but he still stares to the fire, as if he could hear her voice in the light ( as if, in this muted blaze, he will see her again --- does eternity live within every atom, every action, violent or otherwise? Could he see Heaven’s light in Hell’s warmth? ). He is lost in this thought, sentences winding through his mind, building palaces with no one in them, cathedrals where he has never once prayed; shall he drop to his knees here on this fire escape? Pray to a being who took everything from him?

There is a tap on the window, ever quiet, ever gentle, and he looks to it calmly, slowly; there is no manic energy here tonight. There is no craze to finish work, there is no pressure to be anything at all --- admittedly, he is lost in thought too dark to climb out of ( even this light in his hands, meant to guide him to freedom, simply casts glow upon his hidden corner of self-doubt ). Alexander looks to his husband briefly, expression nothing like the witty, sarcastic boy the barrio loves, nothing like the handful of times Laurens has seen him truly break ( speaking of his cousin so many years ago --- Alex still remembers ). This, here tonight, is a look of worthlessness, a look that reads of uncertainty and shame --- he feels so pitiful for that; he quickly looks away, back to the flame, back to the light. He is quiet for a moment; when he speaks, his tone is normal --- back to deflecting, back to his typical self.

“I’m fine,” he says, nodding a little as reaffirmation of his own words; he takes one more look to the candle in his hands before, whether due to impulse, or embarrassment, or fear of vulnerability, he blows it out. One quick huff, and the smoke lilts away into the night sky. 

[restitutiion]

@gojohnlaurens​

& --- To have tradition is to allow the past to sully your present, it is to allow memory, the predecessor to all futures, a chance to write footnotes upon each waking moment, the addendum to choice ( the chance to diminish something even so minuscule, even so mundane ). Alexander isn’t the biggest of fans of personal histories, though he is often all too quick to draw his weapon and aim fire to an acquaintance who claims separation from previous failures; how can you simply sit idly by, all the while denying the fact that your history contains multitudes of error? How can you claim innocence, when your past is drenched in such striking red, such putrid blood? Oh, how full of hypocrisy this may sound; he recalls his cousin’s bloodied body, lying so still in bed --- the gun near his hand, the way his face was mangled and shredded, matter of which he would rather not consider splattered against the headboard. He recalls his mother, lying ever calmly, still holding him, still there --- these horrors stand like statues in his mind, frozen in petrified thought; death is a cold embrace, arms outstretched or palms facing the sky --- death is a memory, and he oft wonders, when faced with these images in his mind like a stuttering film, when will it get to him? Will it get him now, standing on his feet and looking out upon his city? Will it get to him tomorrow? The day after? 

It is well past midnight, this chilly Tuesday evening, and Alexander stands out on the fire escape holding a single candle --- it is one he burns near nightly, typically set on his desk in the living room. It will serve a different purpose tonight, though he distantly wonders, if a candle still burns, does the intention alter the outcome? Does a flame burn brighter if it is lit for something more than the mundane? There is no melody tonight, no rhythmic beat from the television ( turned off before he stepped outside ), or his music ( turned off an hour before he even stepped into this cool winter weather ). It is only the wind, breathing down his neck like urgency, like memory, like Christiansted beckoning to him through the unspoken mutter of his mother --- do you remember, Alex? Do you remember that night? You’re going to be fine; her voice, not his, ringing in his ears, echoes striking like knives, like a rainstorm, like a hurricane.

He takes a sharp breath; he fumbles for his phone, pulling it from his hoodie pocket very briefly to only check the time: 12:43 AM. He doesn’t remember the exact time he’s meant to do this --- remembrance, for all its mockery and clarity, suppresses facts like the truth, blocks out detail like an eclipse of all he has ever considered worthy of his time; he wishes, at times, that he was more coherent when his mother passed, wishes he wasn’t so fogged with illness so as to barely be able to recall the specifics so many years later ( he realizes now, too, that it has been exactly twelve years since her passing --- he was twelve years old at the time ). His therapist reminds him that PTSD has a knack for skewing trauma from plain view until something drags it from its hiding place; is this where his mother resides then, he wonders --- in a corner with all the broken things? In a cave with his cousin, whose blood painted the wall like a mosaic? How unfortunate a thought; how wretched a concept. The wind blows, and he shivers; even with his hoodie on, he feels a chill dig deep beneath his skin. He reaches for the lighter in his pocket, flicking it once, twice --- the flame glows finally, as if the fire itself is reluctant to face such brutal truths, and Alexander simply stares at it for a few seconds; does it burn brighter if it is lit for the past, he wonders --- does it burn brighter now, if only for his mother?

He lights the candle, wick allowing light to dance against the dark night sky, and he clings to the lighter for a moment more before stuffing it back into his jacket pocket, movement forced, action jagged; palm returns hesitantly to cup the candle container, glass cool, flame warm, eyes fixated upon this insignificant display of --- of what, of memory? Of loss? Of grief? The emotion, however sharp, however painful, however bloody, still casts this glow upon the face of a boy with so much he wishes he could forget; how could you forge a future unimaginable if you held such a terrible secret --- how could you grow if you refused to replant roots in a more favorable soil? This is his turmoil; he excels here in his New York City, but his heart still aches for the islands. Eyes stare at the flame, but thoughts twist and turn and cry out for the mother he remembers so clearly --- come now, Alexander, do you want to read with me? Do you want to write together? And again, come now, Alexander, don’t worry for me, don’t cry for me, you’re going to be fine ---

Another sharp breath in; he blinks with ferocity once, twice. Grounding methods; remember where you are, Alex, you’re at home in Washington Heights. Remember, remember, remember?

[nexxdoor]

I fucking love garlic. Garlic haters get off my blog

[ramm-zeppelin-mode]

As a Frenchie, c'est bon 😙

[nexxdoor]

dont know what that means but we should fuck

[jennifero77-deactivated20210125]

12/23/15 #Ham4Ham

[restitutiion]

    The laptop is turned to her and she gives a little laugh to the title of the document. Only the Hamiltons would be ever so nosy in each other’s business to warrant the need for warnings. She scrolls through the pictures, trying to visualize the layout in her mind. A cozy little kitchen, rows of bookshelves in the living space. It could work, but Alexander made a fair point. She could infer from his sentence stopped short what he meant, the space seemed big enough for the two of them, if it were to be just the two of them. “It’s nice, I do like it! But I suppose you have a point, there’s just not enough space for more than the both of you. I’m guessing you have personal plans for the extra bedroom, which leaves no room for guests or—” she also ends here, a silent acknowledgement that she understands his point. “But if you had plans on staying small for the time being, this would be nice. Though I’m sure John would understand going larger on budget if you found the perfect place. He’s just worried about your future together, you know.”

    The unsaid topic stirs in her mind. They’re all still so young, but Alexander has always been a man of planning ten steps ahead. Who knows what he could be conjuring up now for the next few years? “Speaking of… what exactly do you have in mind for all of this spare space? I’m sure you’re interested in home offices—,” she says this with a dash of bitterness ( where she does not enjoy it in her coffee, she sprinkles it into her words, ) “But outside of that, what do you plan to do with it?”

& --- He is just a millisecond’s breath away from responding to her first comments, that which concerns his husband’s fretting regarding their future together; he knows that John carries with him the same fear he himself does, rooted deep in his chest --- death, like a friend, extending its cold and wiry hand as if to say, your time is up --- but when their hours here have ended, could it be said that they’ve done enough? If they leave behind no remnants of an existence, no legacy to prove that their lives weren’t little more than specks of dust upon the canvas of the universe, then what is the point of it all? Of course, the counterpoint holds gravity itself; not raising a family does not mean your life was in vain. Correct, yes, but for a couple bred of neglect or loss (abuse or death, self-infliction of any and every form), raising a family is a way of proving they are more than capable of defying the odds; perhaps staying in a smaller home, for the time being, would be suitable, but that would also be putting a definitive hiatus on their plans for a future --- he can’t let that slide. He sips on his coffee as she continues.

“Well. I’m looking for, at the absolute minimum, two bedrooms,” he starts. “One for us, and one to transform into a home office; we would share it, presumably speaking, but...” and yes, he knows that this is not the answer she was looking for, but he felt the clarification a necessity before continuing, and as he begins to put the thoughts to form, he realizes how big of a dream they may paint. Still, he doesn’t stop himself. “...we want to start a family. Not now, not until we both have our careers in check, but,” he offers a weak smile, sheepish yet again; he’s only twenty-four, but the typically so self-assured boy feels so small, explaining all of this to his dear friend. “I know he wants children, and I’ve grown admittedly soft to the idea. So we would need at least one more bedroom, potentially two more.” and with that, he looks to his screen again, clicking to another link; this one, a place much larger than the one previous. A home, not an apartment, with more bedrooms, more levels; it’s a little less affordable, but he’s crunched the numbers countless times: they could afford it, he’s sure of it. 

[restitutiion]

rather be divisive than indecisive. || another comprehensive headcanon deep dive, but for more trivial things.

he took french almost every year of high school, and was once pretty decent at it; he heard spanish a lot once he was put into the care of the stevens family, but didn’t ask for any translation (he was too embittered to involve himself). now, though, his french skill has diminished, but he’s been learning spanish more since his move to NYC. with the help of his husband, and nearly the entire heights barrio, he’s become pretty damn decent at it. is he fluent? nah, not yet, but he’s making good progress.

his dessert or candy of choice is always, always chocolate. 

he’s far-sighted and probably really should use his glasses more; the prescription on them hasn’t been altered in years (he should really get on that), but he still has them. he uses them mostly at night, in private, when he’s trying to read or write in one of his many notebooks.

his mother had a very strong cruzan accent (despite her living on nevis for a great deal of her life, as well), but she could also do a standard stateside accent fairly well; she did this due to how many tourists would hit her shop in christiansted, so when alexander was young and wished to use Exclusively the stateside way of speaking, she helped him perfect it. when he was a wee little baby, though, first learning to speak, it was a very noticeable cruzan accent. he can still slip into it fairly well (though he’s not amazing at it, he would admit).

the passcode on his phone has been the same for six years now. it is 083114, named as such for the first day he met john laurens (august 31st, 2014).

if you put vast amounts of sugar or cream in your coffee, he probably hates you. 

his coffee order is almost always a very basic coffee with a shot or two of espresso (though at the bodega he frequents, he just gets straight, black coffee. he used to get teased relentlessly for this, but now usnavi just doesn’t care anymore). at the coffee shop he used to frequent during his undergrad years, he would almost always order a large americano with an extra shot of espresso.

he loves coffee, but he hates energy drinks. he also rarely drinks soda. it’s coffee, water, or tea, usually with a preference in that order. he’s also only a social drinker, and doesn’t often stock his apartment with liquor unless it’s a special occasion. when he does drink, he’ll drink whatever beer is available; he hates harder liquor on its own (tequila / vodka / etc), but if it’s mixed? he’s probably down. he specifically loves a tequila sunrise, a screwdriver, or a killer bee.

he loves to freestyle with his friends. he’s a poet by nature, and he absolutely loves putting that to good use.

he doesn’t like fruit-flavored things, but he loves to eat regular fruit (or, a galaxy-brain move on his part, fruit covered in chocolate).

he never had any pets as a kid. the first (and only) pet he’s ever had is the dog he has now, hamlet, but he wouldn’t mind having another.

he visits a therapist every other week, typically with an appointment as late in the afternoon as possible. he’s gotten a lot better at dealing with the aftermath of these appointments, and hasn’t returned home crying because of them in months.

he doesn’t like there to be any background noise while he’s writing or working; he’s gotten better at this, though, often leaving food network on quietly while he works late at night. he never listens to music while he works.

he’s a demon in the kitchen and will make everything spicy. everything. if you don’t like spicy foods, don’t ask hamilton to cook for you.

his opinion of any and everything only comes in two settings: neutral, or unfathomable hatred. if you’re on his neutral stance, good for you! y’all are probably friends! but if you’re not? you’ve found yourself an enemy. congratulations. 

he has an extremely weak immune system; usually, when he gets sick, it’s just sniffles and a slight cold for a few days. he can grin and bear it. but when he’s really sick? he’s absolutely miserable. he doesn’t like to stay in bed all day when he’s sick, though; it reminds him too much of when his mom died.

when he was younger, he kept his hair just long enough to pull up in a bun; he cut it short for the first time when he was in high school. it was short when he first moved to NYC. he’s let it grow out once or twice since his move here, but usually resorts to cutting it again; right now, he’s letting it grow out again. it’s...a bit of a mess right now.

he doesn’t like thunderstorms. he’s gotten a lot better at dealing with them, and he’s always been decent at dealing with the weaker ones; it’s only when the thunder shakes the room that it starts to eat away at him. because he has diagnosed ptsd, it takes a lot of effort to keep himself from falling into a flashback when the storms get that bad outside. 

in general, he doesn’t suffer from many flashbacks; he tries his best to internalize his sorrow, but on the rare occasion it does come out, he cries in private. he leaves the apartment, he goes on a walk, or to a library, or some place where no one will recognize him. he’s only cried in front of john laurens maybe four times, at the absolute maximum. they’ve known each other for six years.

he’s been openly bisexual since he was a teenager; he never did a big coming out moment, since he’s never thought it was that big of a deal. he got bullied for it, sure, but that never fazed him much. it wouldn’t change who he was, so it didn’t matter. 

he still does not like these new york winters. he doesn’t like snow. he doesn’t like ice. he doesn’t like having to wear so many layers. he keeps the heat cranked up to an ungodly level in the apartment at all times. 

[alexanderhamllton]

“Bill, I’m gonna try to appeal to your religious side.” | Bonus:

[restitutiion]

Coffee drips just over the edge of the cup, but it does the trick and she gives him a a sarcastic smile to match the one on his face. The two have always been evenly matched in this way, able to bounce off each other so quickly. “And risk sitting here in silence for an hour until you decided to look up? I didn’t spend an extra thirty minutes riding a train to be ignored, Alexander.” She drapes her coat over the back of the chair, tucking her skirt underneath herself as she sits. Things are haphazardly shuffled around in front of her and she waits, letting Alexander settle himself before snapping back, “Well, not all of us are accustom to the caffeine you all but directly inject into yourself. I am more than fine with my choice of drink, thank you very much.” She’s been given lip for this more than once and she’s learned to let it go.

    He begins to speak a mile a minute as she sits down, listening carefully and taking a sip of her latte. “Alexander, please, slow down. One plan at a time, dear, you’ve got more on your plate than ever.” It’s clear that he’s taking this seriously, though when does he not, and while she commends him on his dedication to his husband, she still does not agree with his over planning. The constant fill of his schedule with school work and life plan. It’s incredible. “Let me hear your list of residences, we can start there since it’s going to be a permanent place for the both of you.”

& --- She warns him to slow down, and he responds with but a simple, sheepish smile; truly, he had a tendency to get over-excited, shoot off from the mouth, and his friends oft had the responsibility of reeling him back in (of reminding him, Alexander, you have time --- lest he fear death like a threat just ‘round the corner, lest he hear the clock’s anxious ticking in the back of his mind; seconds like shots, hours like the barrel). She was correct in her assumption; despite his all too eager undergraduate years, nothing could have prepared him for law school, for having his internship, a marriage, a future --- ambition is his folly, it always has been, but the promise of a new year, one after the other, continues to prove itself a heavy cross to bear (especially for the boy who never anticipated living past twenty; to hit twenty-four, to be studying law and preparing a wedding of mass proportion --- god, he thinks, if his family could see him now, would they be proud of him? Would his mother feel pride in her son, rising above it all?). He nods at Eliza’s direction, reaching for his laptop and scrolling through the document; there, near the bottom, is a list of multiple links, each having bullet-points just beneath them. They detail the pros (and cons) of each place, such as rent, distance from school and work, commute time from their current home (lest he abandon the barrio forever; what would they think of him, leaving this new home behind for something new?). He scrolls to the very beginning of the page in question, then turns the screen to face her; never mind the title of the document, which displayed in the top of the screen, simply reads, “JOHN DON’T TOUCH THIS.” --- not his typical document naming method, true, but he couldn’t risk his husband’s curious nature getting the best of him. There are a total of four potential homes listed, and he hovers over the first link as he speaks up yet again.

“This is the first one,” he says, clicking the link and letting it load before he clicks to the images of the home. “It’s probably the most affordable place listed, but look at this,” he quickly clicks through the different images, glancing over to her for a moment once he’s finished. “-- it’s so small. I’m not moving from our current residence, which is a good place, by the way, just to cram ourselves into a place that barely has room for us, much less room for--” he stops here, abruptly, sure that the unfinished statement carries the intended implication. “-- anyway. I’m sure Laurens would love it --- because it’s more affordable --- but I know to honor our budget. I know how to handle the financials.” 

[restitutiion]

  Meetings with Alexander became less and less frequent over the months, paths branching off into different yet similar enough directions. It’s to be expected, their careers goals entirely opposite, and she always supported his ferocious ambitions. She never agreed with him pushing himself too far, though, and made her opinion on it loud and clear, much to the young man’s dismay. Perhaps that is why he calls upon her today, it’s what he wrote in his texts, for her honest opinion on a matter he would not fully explain. This worries her, his surprises are not always the most well thought out. Or good. She wraps her coat around her frail frame making the walk from the subway to the coffee shop, once a quick walk from her dorm room now a full commute from her apartment. But still, it holds too many memories to fully let go and she puts aside the extra half hour travel time in her mind.

    Through the glass window of the shop, she sees him: Alexander Hamilton, with messy hair and a pen tapping too quickly onto a notebook she is sure is filled to the brim with notes. The door chimes when she enters, removing her coat in the warmth of the shop. He does not see her, and she is just a little bit thankful, knowing that immediately upon her arrival to the table she will be pulled into a conversation that will not stop until the job is done. It gives her time to head to the counter, ordering her usual vanilla chai latte ( extra sweet, she’s never been one for bitterness ) to take to the table. She sets the cup down with a little clatter to pull him from his work. They’d be there for hours if she just called his name.

& --- Alexander is fully enveloped in his work, bouncing back and forth between the laptop in front of him, keys tapping furiously across multiple documents, and his notebook, which contains innumerable thoughts crossed out, corrected, and expanded upon within its margins; never one for revealing to others his writings that have not yet been finalized, his covering his notebook upon her arrival is nearly instantaneous, the front cover being quickly pulled over the pages, pen dropping to the tabletop with a faint clink, clink. A bright smile spreads itself across previously stagnant expression as he looks to her, just as bold and stunning as he’s always recalled her to be; he knows, had his ridiculous roommate not called to him with the promise of revolution, he would’ve willingly laid down his life for this girl in front of him (perhaps they would’ve been wed; perhaps, too, he wouldn’t be nearly as happy as he is now). “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, yet he knows all too well, that indeed, the unspoken greeting was necessary; had she chosen to speak first, who knows how long it would’ve taken him to notice. The comment is said with a grin, though, as he begins to shuffle things around on the table; he places the notebook and pen onto the windowsill at his side, shifting his laptop to one side of the table (with the screen, of course, still out of her obvious sight), his own coffee just a bit to its side. He looks to her, and almost (almost!) rolls his eyes; it was, presumably, her favorite --- far too sweet for his tastes, yet somehow incredibly telling of her own. “You might need something a little stronger; this might take awhile.” he says, and again, he’s only teasing.

He looks to his laptop, albeit briefly, reassuring himself that it was left open on the document necessary; it is --- he sees the ever looming document title up in the left-hand corner of the screen --- and he would be lying, of course, if he claimed he didn’t possess just an ounce of hesitation (or, more accurately, an ounce of fear; would she chastise him severely for this concept? Would she so clearly object? --- only time would tell, he supposed so unfortunately.) He continues soon thereafter, assuming it would serve them just as well to jump headfirst into the subject matter at hand. “Okay, so I’ve compiled an extensive list of potential places of interest, and I need an opinion of them that isn’t from the guys at the bodega.” though he tended to trust their opinions (to a certain extent, anyway), these things oft required the sight from someone more adjacent to their consequences (and if Laurens couldn’t bear witness to them, then Eliza would be his second). “These are for a, a new place for us to move, and b, probably less important at the moment, a location to hold our formal wedding.” 

[restitutiion]

@tobealiveright-now

& --- Asking his best girl to have coffee with him wasn’t entirely an absurd request, though their meetings had become more infrequent since the two found careers of their own (education for miss Schuyler and continued education for Hamilton, respectively); still, the text message is sent a mere day prior, calling upon her expertly crafted opinion in person rather than electronically. His reasoning in this was simple: he would like to watch her responses, lest she keep her more sour thoughts to herself (an act not always expected of her; timid she may be, she still possessed a wit as sharp as her sister’s and, perhaps more surprisingly, an affinity for critique unparalleled by anyone else he’d ever met). They are set to meet at their most-visited coffee shop, just a short walk from the Columbia main campus; he spent many hours here, studying feverishly, consuming far more caffeine than anyone really should. He had some of his most cherished moments within these walls --- with Laurens, with Eliza, even with those he wouldn’t consider as close as those aforementioned (namely, the man who continues to ignore his texts here recently --- what else did Aaron Burr have to do, other than debate with one of his most esteemed acquaintances?). He arrives to the shop, backpack on his back, notebook in hand; he twirls his pen in his hand, flitting it back and forth against his fingertips. Was he anxious? Potentially, though not due to his company; she was a comfort amidst this unnerving sea of opportunists seeking attention, and he oft commended her for this. He finds a table near the front windows, beginning to organize his things across it; backpack hanging against the chair’s backing, notebook shut and placed with his pen atop it --- this would have to do, he thinks, gaze darting persistently back to his table as he stands in line, then as he orders his drink (surprisingly, only his first coffee of the day --- his morning had been spent at work, half-asleep as his employer explained...something, to him; he’ll have to fake his awareness next time the topic arises). Once he’s given his order --- a large americano, with an extra shot of espresso for good measure --- he makes a beeline back towards his table, rearranging its items yet again as he places his drink somewhere amidst it all. 

Only moments later, he has his laptop open in front of him; he needs a new one, honestly, with some of the keys needing work, and the mere amount of content causing the device to struggle to keep up with its relentless owner, but his finances are set to go towards other things first: namely, the cause of this meeting itself. He checks his e-mails --- too many, requests for freelance work, where the pay would be far too low for him to accept; a few years ago, perhaps he would’ve fallen for it --- and too quickly, he becomes engrossed entirely in the screen in front of him. He had plans to keep eyes on the door, to catch his friend as she entered, but alas.