A very late birthday fic for the 28th. Happy birthday John Laurens, at least in this fic you'll have a good ending :')
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New York City, December 1783
“These bloody winters…”
The old man next to him grumbles and buries his face into the collar of his coat. His hands are digging in his pockets like he’ll find warmth if he goes deep enough. Laurens can sympathize. He's only been here two hours, and he too is sick of New York and its bloody winters. Shrewsberry is too, if the shivering is anything to go by.
He sniffs and adjusts the small trunk in his hands. Shrewsberry reaches out, but John shakes his head imperceptibly, “I have it.”
The man squints like he doesn’t believe him, but he nods and leans against the stone wall once more. He sighs, breath coming white before dissipating, “Carriage might’ve had problems. The road is too icy.”
John hums, eyes trained towards the crowd like they’ve been for the past hour. He had the same thought cross his mind once or twice, but he’s trying not to let the worry set in. Of carriages, of cold or of what’s taking him so long.
He impatiently taps his foot. Ridiculously, John tries not to feel offended that Alexander can’t innately sense his presence and come running. Haven’t I waited long enough?
Shrewsberry makes a surprised sound, “Ah maybe not…”
John whips his head in the direction of his gaze. His eyes scan the crowd and he mutters, “Where, where, where?”
Shrewsberry points.
And oh…
There he is.
Just a small red dot on the horizon. Standing there, looking like he's seen a ghost. All the same and so so different. Laurens’ breath is coming out in quick puffs in front of him. It’s all he can do to resist yelling his name. Hamilton doesn’t resist. Faces turn as he yells and laughs like a mad man in the distance. That small red dot is growing by the second.
For the smallest moment, he thinks it’s gravity pulling them together. It’s only the sound of his luggage hitting the ground, the thumping of his heel on icy stone and Shrewsberry’s one attempt at calling him back that makes him realize he’s running. His long limbs are struggling to keep balanced on the slippery ground beneath him. Running. It’s undignified, it’s dangerous and it’s making him laugh. He might slip.
He doesn’t care.
John expects the hug. He practically slams into Hamilton, ribs blooming with pain from the impact. It’s pain he welcomes with desperate clutching arms. On his face, his hands, his shoulders, his back, everywhere all at once as he calls to memory every curve and sharp edge that he once knew better than breathing. John will memorize it again, as many times as he needs. But now he’s laughing. And so is Alexander. John cries and Alexander cries as well. Chuckling and sniffling in between repeated words that mimic prayer— John John John and Alex Alex Alex. It’s is dangerous here; this place is too public and they are too affectionate.
They don’t care.
Snow has begun to fall, resting gently on the crown of their heads. It’s Alexander that pulls away, red rimmed eyes staring up at him and gloved hands still clutching the collar of his coat. He smiles and John has never seen a more beautiful sight. He can’t help but smile back. What else could he do?
The words aren’t needed, but he says them anyway.
“You’re here.” Alexander says it like he’s witnessed the sky turn green. John laughs in disbelief. At the words, and the fact that they are, in fact, true.
