Hmm Yortown is going to have to be quite short if I wanna write my other fics as well. Maybe 50 000?
Me because I’m a fuckinh idiot who apparently does not understand what short is and even while I am writing this I am realising that I’m thinking up a new RWBY fic. INSTEAD OF THE THREE HAMILTON ONES I’M WRITING.
So I’ve been trying to tone down the swearing in my fics a lil bit and that’s going pretty well (I managed to go 30 000 words of really tough shit without saying fuck once) but for some reason I can’t make Jefferson stop saying fuck.
I got through those 30 000 words without anyone saying it and then Jefferson said it four times in two sentences. Now I got 18 000 words into a story without using fuck and yet again, it was Jefferson.
Why do I think that this guy swore so much? There’s literally no reason I can think of but I just imagine him as a bundle of rage who keeps it under wraps while in public but then fucking breaks down in private.
The first nearly two thousand words of a Hamilton fic I’m working on. (And might have to abandon soon.) Posting it because I just want to show people. And yes. Wings. Wings are amazing.
Alex didn’t remember much of the fever that nearly killed him. He remembered boiling and freezing, shudders running through him as he desperately tried to push the blankets away from him. He remembered the water he tried to drink, as it splashed across his skin from the shudders running through him.
He remembered his mother’s death.
He didn’t remember how she watched over him, how she brushed his hair away from his eyes whenever it fell down. He didn’t remember how she sang quietly to him as her own voice began to give way. He didn’t remember how she stopped leaving the house, then the room and then the bed. He didn’t remember when she stopped having the strength to raise her head but how she still brushed the hair from his eyes.
He remembered her last breath.
They were curled up on the floor, blankets strewn around them, soaking from the seat and the cloying moisture that hung in the air. The doctor was meant to come back that day, was meant to help them. Alex didn’t really know what a man could do at this point, he knew his mother had given up on that. When she thought he was asleep she would whisper prayers into nothingness as her voice gave out.
As every day crawled past Alex felt his faith leaving him until the day when his mother’s whispered prayers stopped. Alex opened his eyes, resisting the urge to close them and just sleep. Hw gasped as he saw his mother sitting up, looking around. She looked rejuvenated and as she turned he saw wings on her back.
They weren’t massive, only a few feet in diameter, if even that. They spread out from her back, arching high over her head as she stared at them in wonder. Alex, staring up at them whimpered slightly as he tried to move forwards towards her.
His mother turned back, as if to say something when she vanished. Alex whimpered, clutching the hand he’d never let go. His mother’s lifeless eyes stared back at him as he imagined the last view he’d ever have of her.
When the doctor finally came Alex half woke up to see them shouting, trying to separate the boy from the corpse of his mother. Alex whimpered, trying to move forwards but was pushed backwards and carted out of the only place he’d ever known as a home. As he felt his eyes slide shut he saw a glimpse of the man who was carrying him.
Behind his back were two wings, larger than the ones his mother had sported. These wings were glossy and black, with a shiny texture that seemed to send jolts of green and blue through the feathers as they touched the sun.
Alex collapsed back into the man’s arms as he watched the feathers ruffle ever so slightly, adjusting to the boy’s weight.
When Alex woke he wanted to die. Every muscle in his body ached and as he woke he started to cough, a cough that lasted for too long. When he finally collapsed back his head was spinning.
“Hey Alex.” A quiet voice said. Alex stared up into the face of his cousin. The man was frowning down at Alex as he took his tempertature. “Doc said your fever should break anytime now.”
Alex mumbled something out, asking about the wings. The man frowned, leaning over. Behind him wings spread out. These wings were nothing like the ones on Alex’s mother or on the man who carried him away. These wings were brightly coloured, like the hummingbirds outside, but they were ratty. Feathers were hanging off, fallen ones were mixed up with the rest of them and they were matted with some kind of filth. Alex closed his eyes before he could think of much more.
The fever broke that night, leaving Alex with aching muscles and the memory of his mother’s corpse, still clinging to her hand. It took him a week to feel good enough to stand, to move around the house normally and in that time he slowly got accustomed to seeing the wings on his cousin’s back.
They didn’t make sense, that was his first observation.
The wings weren’t physical, whenever his cousin walked too close to the wall then the wings would sometimes phase into his clothing. But the man kept his wings close to his back and they seemed to droop whenever he came back home from the long days of work he had to do.
Later Alex would work out just what they meant. He wouldn’t get the real name of it for years though; depression. A desolation that reached so far into the man’s soul that his wings, a part he didn’t even know existed, were exhausted.
When Alex woke, a month later he froze at the silent house. His cousin would normally wake him but the sun was already beginning to rise and Alex hadn’t been woken. Something started to scream at Alex in his head, that something was wrong and that his life was about to change once more.
He took the stairs quietly, not letting them creak as he slipped up them until he was at his cousin’s door. Alex, with trembling hands, let it open and immediately turned away. His cousin was swinging form the ceiling and Alex didn’t even need to look again to know the man was dead.
Where there had been scraggly rainbow coloured wings there were now pure white ones, hanging limply, but perfectly, from the man’s back.
When Alex had recovered he called the police and watched as the last of his family was wheeled away. He didn’t have anything to say and so he said nothing. People milled around him, flashes of brilliant colours as they went but he just sat in the empty house, waiting for whatever new shit the world would throw at him.
The hurricane struck not long after that. Once more Alex wished he could see his own wings, imagine they curled around him as if they could protect him from the rain somehow. It didn’t work. He huddled in the ruins of his mother’s house, watching people run past and never trying to shout out.
It would make sense if he died there, he thought. It would be okay if he died where his mother had, maybe where he should have. When the hurricane smashed a piece of wood into his head, knocking him unconscious, he dreamed. He dreamed about his skin splitting open, bones growing and cracking as he screamed. He dreamed about skin stretching and feathers shoving their way through as they grew, becoming matted with blood almost immediately.
In His dreams the wings hurt as they tore apart his skin, as they melded themselves to his bones. When he woke up again the pain followed him as he dragged himself out of the rubble. He could feel a piercing pain in his back and a much deeper exhaustion that dragged him down.
But he made it through, he stumbled across the ground which was littered with white winged humans, the people who were lost while he still lived. When he finally stumbled upin the rest of his village he wished he hadn’t.
The streets were filled with people wailing, some still holding their relatives. No-one spared him a second thought as he hobbled through the street. He was in pain but something seemed to push him on, a flame that burned in his chest, warming him as so many other bodies grew cold.
Alex quickly saw the state of the place, how he was no longer the only orphan, he was no longer the only person who would be raised as a bastard born, his mother was no longer the only widow. He forced himself onwards, forced himself to stand up when the major of the town started to talk.
Alex stood, stood his ground and spoke. The anger that had been warming him, the anger born from being abandoned, exploded from him in eloquent words he could never have imagined. He spoke, voice quivering as if in testament to his pain. He felt himself thinking as he spoke, explaining what they should do, the only thing they could do. He could almost feel his wings rising behind him as he spoke, as he filled the other hopeless with his strength.
When he finally fell silent they only stared at him for a long moment. He had talked for hours, he realised, hours while they just sat there listening. But they had listened. The mayor walked forwards, staring at the boy in confusion.
“What’s your name, man?”
“Alexander Hamilton. My name, is Alexander Hamilton.”
TWO YEARS LATER
Alex sat in the seat of a bus, staring out of the window. He could almost imagine his wings curled up around his head as he curled his legs up to his body. It made him feel better, no matter how much it made his ribs hurt.
A small bag sat at his feet, with a change of clothes, some money, food and a notepad already fall filled. This one bus ride had taken up almost all of his money and the driver had still almost not let him on, staring at him as if wondering how old he was and how he’d got the bruise on his face. Hamilton had just stood there until the man waved him on.
Now Alex sat there, cold and hungry. He was always cold now, America’s climate was nothing like what he was used to. He hadn’t had warm clothing back home and he’d been paying for that ever since he’d moved to America.
Alex felt his eyes slide closed and he forced himself awake again. He couldn’t sleep, it wasn’t safe. Not here and not now. At any moment someone could come and take him back. Take him back to-
Alex shivered again and tried to curl into himself even more. As the bus trundled on, preparing for the three hour long trip Alex pulled out his notebook, flipping through it. It had markings on it, mud and dust and even some blood. When Alex had seen that stain he’d nearly started crying all over again. But he’d picked himself up and ran.
The book also had writing in it, poems, stories, speeches and quotes from people he held dear. His mother had never seen the book but some of his dearest quotes are from her. Others are from books, the books that he had all but consumed after her death and then again after the hurricane.
He read through his words and others as the bus crawled to a halt. He knew he had time, he had another two hours. New York to DC was a long way after all. Alex felt his heart sink at that thought. He hadn’t wanted to leave New York, hadn’t wanted to leave behind what he’d imagined America to be but he did.
He left because he’d been wrong. America wasn’t different to his home, not really. There were still people who would hurt smaller people. There were rich people who would suppress the smaller people. There were bad people. Alex took a deep breath in at that. There were bad people who would hurt smaller people. And Alexander Hamilton had never been tall.
Do you ever find something that just excites you so much that you can’t stop thinking about it? And I don’t mean, oh that’s cool. I mean that every time you think baout it your chest hurts and you just get emotional for literally no reason and you stop being able to do that thing?
Don’t listen to Hamilton (do). It is full of lies (not really). It will break your heart (that one’s tru.)
