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nomemeto‌:

He holds to his rolled up stack of papers, movements going still as she asks why he isn’t mad; should he be, he wonders, honestly unsure of where he should stand in all of this. It isn’t always in his nature to be accusatory or confrontational ( unless someone tells him he should — then it’s a matter of reputation over realization ), but what did Alex say that was so bad, so worthy of a fight? From what Usnavi has heard — other than Sonny presumably over-exaggerating the truth — was that the kid didn’t think he and Eliza were a good fit. Even a few moments ago, standing outside his bodega, the man brought the subject up ( I just want to ensure she’s being taken care of to the level she deserves, he had said, ), and was that such a wrong thought? Well, Usnavi would say so, but he would also defend that it isn’t his place to change that thought. He’s not here to change the world; he’s here to run his store, then retire off to a sunny beach somewhere sippin’ on a rum and coke with his toes in the sand. That’s it.

He places the papers back onto the counter; nervous energy, movements tense and uncertain. Expression, too, reads of this: unsure of where he should stand, confused as to what he should say next.

“I’m thinkin’ it’s not his place,” he says, trying, yet failing, to sound confident in his words. Still, he looks down to the counter, concerned he’s chosen the wrong path in the situation; social cues and interpretations never were his strong suit. “People are always gonna have stances on stuff like this, pero no podemos cambiar eso — we can’t change that, sí?” he looks to her, hoping she agrees, hoping his defense isn’t as flimsy as his mind is making it out to be. Nervous, he continues despite himself. “I’m not gettin’ involved in all that, unless you want me to.”

“You don’t have to get involved if that’s something you’re not comfortable with. It’s... a difficult situation to be just thrown into.” She would know, this isn’t the first time she’s plaid this game with Alexander and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but it’s upsetting bringing in unwilling participants. Usnavi doesn’t deserve this, neither of them did. “I agree, it’s not his place to try and dictate what I do and who I see, and certainly not to decide anything about you or our decision to be together.” Her face feels warm, flushed red for sure in her anger. She loves Alexander dearly, but his “protective nature” is more harmful than helpful, and how he speaks of her boyfriend, the man she chose to be in her life, is something she won’t let go by unnoticed.

“I suppose we can’t change how he thinks, not immediately and not entirely, it’s his mind to change, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try to influence him a little. In a good way, I mean.” Though he’d taken her advice before, what he used of it was sparse. It never hurt to try, especially with a topic as delicate and important as this.

#[ para. ]

nomemeto‌:

As she places her notebook back into her bag and continues to speak, he rounds the counter to stand near her yet again; not too close — nothing like when Alex first walked in, such a duel of protection and safety — but still close enough to feel like he’s done something right. It feels nice, just being with her; he looks back to the papers on the counter, deciding to just stack them all up in a neat pile — he would come back to it tomorrow morning. There was no real rush, after all; he grabs the pen, drumming it on the counter-top as he listens to her words. She didn’t want him to get beat, but it sounded like she did, maybe. Just a little. He could never tell, really, but the way Alex spoke about her, as if she was just some pawn in his great game of existence, it made Usnavi’s skin crawl. The pen stills, placed upon the surface as she finishes speaking, and he looks over to her as he lines the papers up again, for quite possibly the fourth time in a row. “Tried? Might as well’ve been givin’ some big ol’ speech,” and at this early an hour? Usnavi could really only process about half the damn thing.

He rolls the stack of papers up as he continues.

“It’s cool, I’m not mad at him,” which is only partially a lie right now; he’s more upset about the way Eliza was spoken of, than he is regarding anything else. All of the things Sonny has told him ( he was sayin’ racist shit, man! actin’ like we’re all lesser than just ‘cause of how we live and how we talk! ) — it bothers him, but everyone will always have something bad to say. Best to not get involved in every single bit of negativity; you do that, and you’ll never see the light of day. He moves the rolled up papers around in his hand as he speaks, supporting gestures. “He should probably learn to be quiet, though. Créeme, I don’t think anybody wants to hear all that this early.”

There’s a certain kind of warmth within her when Usnavi comes back to stand with her, even if all he does is shuffle around with his papers as they speak. She tries to scoot around him and out of his way, the space small but enough for them to be comfortably around each other. “I don’t think he’s ever been taught to be quiet. He’s always been a little outspoken, it doesn’t matter what time it is, he’ll voice his opinion whether you’re listening or not.” She sighs, she’s been through a lot of that, trying not to listen or pay any mind to Alexander’s opinionated speeches. Most of the time it’s easy enough to smile and nod, whether she knew or not, but recently it’d been getting harder and harder to turn a blind eye to his words. “I... I’m not upset that your not mad, maybe just curious. Why aren’t you mad about this?” She asks him this, her hand perched carefully on the counter, outstretched towards him like an invitation. It’s still the early morning, quiet and calm after the storm that is their friend running through them like a hurricane, and she opens herself up to ground them.

“I’m upset with him for digging to try and find problems in this,” she gestures between them, “Though he has no right to try and judge, nor does he have any definite say in what I do with my life and my time. But what do you think about all of this?”

#[ para. ]

nomemeto‌:

All he’s heard of with this entire Alex situation is that he’s said some pretty hurtful things about his relationship, but he figures this: anyone can have anything to say, and Alex never knows how to keep his mouth shut, anyway, so of course he’s gonna have something shitty to say. Would he defend Eliza to the bitter end? Of course he would. Would he get involved in drama and gossip just to argue with a man who is gonna make a living arguing with people? He’d really rather not, if he had the option. Still, he listens to what Alex has to say, glancing to Eliza periodically to try to gauge her response — he isn’t good at that sort of thing, and he’s notoriously terrible at confrontation, but she seems upset. Right? She’s upset, which means he should be upset, but maybe not too much? His mind is racing with these options as she moves to stand at his side, his heart joining in the sprint as she holds tenderly to his arm; He stands upright to mirror her, spine straight, nervous tension manifesting; to be honest, he didn’t want to do this alone — not because he was afraid of Alex, but because he was afraid of reacting in the wrong way. Arguments and private conversations with people that aren’t his select few usually prove to be impossible to navigate; still, he nods at Alex’s offer, then again with Eliza’s words that follow.

“Lo sé, cálmate,” he mutters, the latter being a word he says often — calm down. He should take a bit of his own advice; he nervously moves to follow Alex outside, fully unsure of where this conversation may go.

He comes back into the bodega about fifteen minutes later, looking completely exhausted. He looks out the window, making sure Alex is out of sight fully, before he starts speaking, pointing to Eliza as he begins. “Your friend’s got some issues. He’s lucky it’s just me and you, ‘cause Sonny woulda punched his lights out.” then, worried it sounded like he didn’t defend her well enough, he adds, “ – not that I wouldn’t’ve done the same thing. I, I mean I can if you want me to.”

The two walk just outside the doors, still in view from the window, Eliza doing her best to not keep looking up at them. She’s tired, tired of drama and the apologetic excuses and maintaining the hard line in this relationship between herself and Alexander. Sure, he didn’t know that she would be here this morning and he would defend to the end that it wasn’t intentional, but it felt off. He had a purpose, one to talk to Usnavi personally, but she still ended up having to be a part of it. Too often is she a part of someone else’s narrative, the supporting character in someone else’s story of growth or redemption. She’s always known that she wasn’t meant for the spotlight, but would it be so difficult to at least be left to her own devices?

Usnavi returns as she’s writing in her notebook, trying to journal her feelings, and she looks up at him when he speaks. “No, I don’t want you to punch him. I don’t want anyone to punch him, it’s okay,” though that might be a lie, she’s not one for violence, but it might just knock enough sense into him. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it. The notebook is tossed back into her open bag, Eliza pushing the hair back from her face. “I’m sorry you had to encounter all of that, Alexander is trying his best, I would hope. How badly did it go? I’m assuming he tried to apologize?” You could never truly be sure with Alexander what was a real apology and what was a thinly veiled excuse wrapped with a bow, and she hopes that he was genuine enough with one of the people he directly attacked.

#[ para. ]

restitutiion‌:

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?”

It’s surprising seeing Alexander again after so long. It’s only been a week, but she stares him in the face, seeing the tired look in his eyes, the dark circles telling more than he would admit with words. However, there’s still a biting anger in her heart, one that even her nurturing nature would not let be overshadowed. Alexander greets the two of them and she gives him a nod of acknowledgement, lips pursed in silence. She would not let a surprise visit ruin her morning. He speaks again, telling them about his plans to eventually show up, and she knows it’s not entirely true. He could have found the time, it’s more about finding the courage. Eliza stiffens her back, walking around him to move behind the counter and next to Usnavi. If the two of them are going to talk, she doesn’t want any part of it. “I’ll sit here for the moment while you both talk, it’s alright,” she says, holding onto his arm carefully.

“And I don’t want to be asked about, if that’s alright with you,” her voice is quiet, her head dropping close to his shoulder so only he can hear her. It’s not her time yet, and it’d be just like Alexander to ask everyone around her how she is rather than just give up and wait. She pulls over the stool from the corner and sits down, already placing her attention away from the boys.

#[ para. ]

nomemeto‌:

@tobealiveright-now

Lights up in the bodega, doors unlocked and morning rays slipping into the windows he still needs to clean — it’s still early, most of the world isn’t even awake yet, but the hungover crowd will start to slink in within the hour. Combine that with the guys who still have to work weekends, and the kids who have some wild plans for their first day away from class, and you’ve got yourself a pretty decent profit for a Saturday. The music isn’t even on yet, his radio left beneath the counter, as he tidies the place up a little; paperwork is strewn across the counter-top, ink pen flitting back and forth between his fingers as he works through the digits and numbers in front of him. This kind of thing was never really his strong-suit, but he still tries; with more people moving into the neighborhood, he’s been more on edge about someone catching him slipping and not doing pay properly, or not budgeting exactly so — it’s his store, not theirs, but still. He worries relentlessly, despite his fear of showing it ( despite his fear of his girlfriend stepping in and offering her assistance — he’s got it, no te preocupes, it’s easy ).

As he works, staring at the paperwork in front of him, he glances to the girl a few feet away, straightening up a display Sonny couldn’t be bothered to fix the night before; he’s already had his small talk with her, when she first entered and took her headphones out, but she’s so beautiful in this light, so gentle — he starts speaking before he can really even think about it, his own words a touch slower than usual, more calm themselves. “How did you sleep?” he asks ( then, aware of how abrupt or awkward it may have sounded, adds, ), “Mala noche — bad night, that’s how most people comin’ in today are gonna be.”

She knows she should be taking her off days more seriously. A chance to rest and refresh after the longs days at school and nights at the bodega. Maybe it’s her friends who have rubbed off on her, never taking the opportunity to slow down, every day now filled nearly to the brim with some kind of work. School papers, grading, learning Spanish, keeping the store clean, etc. It’s not wearing on her ( yet ) but she can hear her sisters chiding her in the back of her mind. Still, on a bright Saturday morning, it’s nice to wake up early and make the commute to Washington Heights, walking to the corner store in the sunlight, seeing her boyfriend for the first time in a few days. It’s a change of pace from what she’s known her entire life.

He breaks the silence, and she looks away from reorganizing shelves long enough to see his face change as he continues his thought. “I slept well, it was late once I got home, so I kind of just fell into bed.” Even though there were still lesson plans to be written, ones that are carefully tucked away in her bag on the off chance that it slows enough during the day for her to write them out. “It’s the weekend, though, I expect a lot of people will be coming through for their hangover cures or something of the sort. I wouldn’t blame them if they were a little grumpy.” She finishes placing items on the shelf, giving it a once over in satisfaction, before stepping back to the counter. “What about you? Did you actually sleep last night?”

#[ para. ]

choodraws

🌷trash 🌷

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tiredalwavs-deactivated20201024

we’ve been blessed this friday

#you will never find anyone as trusting or as kind [ fc ]#the man is nonstop [ alexander ]

nomemeto‌:

He picks up on the sadness in her tone, recognizes it as a strange, nostalgic sort of sound, but he doesn’t dare to speak out about it; they both understand how friends end up consumed by distance. It’s nothing new, especially not when your friends all have big plans and big dreams they’re working on achieving; it brings a small pang in his chest, somewhere deep and reclusive, hearing her sound so solemn about it, but there’s nothing much he can do about it — he’s not going to try to fix it, either. That’s her life; he’s got his own problems to worry about ( even if…yeah, their problems do seem pretty similar ). Speaking of his own complications, she quickly deflects the conversation, and it makes him quirk an eyebrow in her direction. A break? Did she even remember who she was talking to? In the ten plus years he’s held down the bodega, he’s only taken a break — longer than a couple hours or a stray evening — maybe…twice? Three times, if he’s being generous? He stops scrubbing at the counter, shoulders dropping a bit of their tension just milliseconds after she says his name.

“Can’t take a break if no one’s here to keep the shop open,” he counters, crossing his arms atop the counter and leaning into it a little, the towel just beneath his arms; it’s harder to be coherent when he’s looking at her face to face — she’s beautiful, and intelligent, but even more importantly? She’s actually talking to him; not trying to fish for gossip, or naggin’ on him about something ( he thinks to abuela telling him el trabajo te matará — work will kill you, as if she could say anything on terrible work ethics ). Still, he continues. “And hey, I still got a life! I’ve got friends comin’ in here every day, and I’ve been tryna’ go out to the clubs more often,” which is only kind of a lie. The last time he went was probably two or three weeks ago, and that’s being generous; Vanessa’s been asking him to go out this Saturday, but he needs that weekend money. It sucks, but it’s probably for the best; crowds like that aren’t entirely his jam, actually. Too many people? Not bad, he can handle it. Too many girls he’d like to spend the night with? Yeah…not the best. He looks down for a second; thinks back to Sonny’s words as he keeps going, really against his better judgement. “Keepin’ this place up and running is my life. Es triste, believe me, but it’s all I have. ‘Specially with my only other employees skippin’ out on working every other day.”

It’s true, she hasn’t actually stopped to think about what the store would do without him, but still. It’s something to think about. How many nights did Usnavi stay late to keep the store open, or refuse to attend a gathering because no one else would take the helm while he was away? It’s hard imagining what kind of life is to be had when you work more than you live. “Well, if there was a way, you should take it. You’ll work yourself to death if you keep this up, I’m sure, even if you say it won’t,” she shrugs, hiding her face in a sip of her coffee. She’s not one to really chide anyone’s work ethic, though she did often, having to be tough on the Hamiltons more than once. But they were different, their work isn’t their livelihood. Not like Usnavi, she figures. “It sounds like you need to get more reliable employees, then. Not to say that Sonny and Alexander are not, but it sounds like you need someone who will be there for you.”

Again, she can’t imagine how difficult it must be, running a store alone, barely able to count on anyone else to help when needed most. Dedicating your entire life to the upkeep and management of a place that does not seem to be giving enough back to you. She almost wants to ask why he keeps it, why he’s so set in his ways and stays at the little corner store in Washington Heights when there is so much life to live just waiting out there for him. “If you need any help, though, I don’t know much about... business, but I can try to help in any way I can,” she offers up. It’s not much, but it’s the best she can do.

#[ para. ]

nomemeto‌:

He watches as she blows over the top of her drink, taking a cautious sip, and he’s almost expecting her to tell him he was wrong somehow; maybe it’s too sweet, or too milky, or some other hurtful ( yet probably brutally honest ) critique — instead, she just keeps on speaking, and he takes this as a hesitant success; he knew her order, sure, but you can never be 100% on that kind of thing ( though, statistically speaking, the only person to ever really tell him he’s been wrong has been Daniela, and she just loves to get onto him about shit — he’s not even positive he can count that one ). She talks about the Hamiltons, and he just goes back to scrubbing at the counter between them, moreso towards his side; the music is still quietly turning and twisting into the air between them, melodies encompassing them — it’s nice. He nods along at her saying that no one ever knows when to hang out anymore; he gets that, more than he’d like to admit. With his friends all having careers, or school, or families of their own by now, it’s hard to get everyone together at once. Abuela’s been saying they all gotta have another big family dinner, since the last one was a couple months back, but you try convincing the Rosarios, the salon girls, and the Hamiltons to get all their schedules to align. It’s hard.

“Last time they had a thing was Alex’s birthday a couple weeks ago, right?” he starts, knowing that only ‘cause he had to close up shop just to go and hang out; it was fun, he had a good amount of liquor, but he still went home alone. He still had to get up at five the next morning to get the bodega up and running. He’s looking down at his work, this one stubborn spot he’s been scrubbing at proving itself difficult. He’s almost avoiding eye contact, at this point; almost. “Ya gotta just find the time. I ain’t seen Sonny in — shit, prolly a week now? I’ve only seen Alex ‘cause all he runs on is coffee.” not that he’s complaining; a profit’s a profit, after all. Still, he he does finally look up at her ( even allowing himself a faint smile at the sight of her still enjoying her coffee — he promptly looks back down, though, in some weak attempt of hiding it ). His anxiety has dissipated a little now, if only because he isn’t looking directly at her; work and put your focus elsewhere, and it’s all good. Right?

“Yup, that was the last time I saw a lot of people. I still see John and Alexander fairly often, but that’s only because we’ve been so close for so long, I couldn’t imagine not seeing them regularly.” She takes another sip of her coffee, the warmth running through her chest. It’s cold out, the three layers of clothes and jacket and coat only doing so much to protect her from the chill. The coffee helps just enough for her not to feel it, like the comfort of being held on the inside. “I think we try to make time, but it doesn’t always work out. For now, we settle for smaller groups or gatherings further in between than we’d like.” There’s a hint of sadness in her voice, and she hopes that it’s not too prominent. That’s just how life runs, she supposes, but that doesn’t make it any less upsetting.

Another sip of her drink, and she tries moving the conversation forward a little. She doesn’t enjoy talking about herself too much. “I should be saying the same thing to you, though. When was the last time you took a break?” The store is always open, and he’s here every time Eliza drops by. It’s like he lived here and she wouldn’t put it past him to actually be living here, by the looks of it. “You probably also need to find the time to have a life, Usnavi.”

#[ para. ]

nomemeto‌:

When he stops to look up at her, their eyes meeting for a very, very brief moment, his mind starts to try and run a thousand miles a minute; or, it tries to run that fast, but ends up getting snagged on something else and never recovers from its stumbling. He freezes, listening intently, and he doesn’t make a move to do anything else until she finally steals a millisecond to check her watch. He picks up the rag he’s been cleaning with, flinging it over his shoulder as she keeps on talking — was over-explaining just a Hamilton ( and Hamilton adjacent ) sorta thing? ‘Cause they really gotta stop explaining their time-handling issues if it’s something that happens every single day; how many times has Alex come in here either wildly late, or wildly early, only to launch into a long winded explanation that Usnavi has already heard? How many times has Laurens talked about all the stuff he’s gotta do, only to act like he’s got no time at all? — never mind all of that. He goes to make her order even before any words come out of his mouth, even as she is still speaking; he’s got it memorized — hers, along with every other regular that graces his store with their ever-looming presence — and he nods along as she finishes up what she had to say. You would think that having something to do would stop him from rambling himself, his go-to coping mechanism in an awkward social situation — you could think a lotta things about Usnavi, and still probably be wrong about half of them.

“You’re the fancy type,” he ends up starting with, palms hitting the counter with a soft thud as he turns to start making her drink. “Dinner sounds nice,” he adds, then back-tracks almost immediately; he knows it could be construed any sort of way, but he’s still got Sonny’s voice in the back of his mind ( telling him to either run with it or run away from it — he didn’t mean it in any sort of way, but the words still haunt him ). “I mean, ya know, I bet those two got all sorts of good stuff over there. They got money, with Laurens doin’ whatever he’s doin’, and then Alex has got all his lawyer shit, and – it’ll prolly be nice, that’s all I’m sayin’. Uh –” and he stops, grabs her coffee and slides it across to her on the counter, the motion fluid ( if not a little off-kilter ). “One coffee, loads a’ cream and sugar, just the way you like it.”

She doesn’t take any offense in his words, she knows from her entire demeanor that she looks way more uptight that she actually is. The years under the Schuyler name and household did that, and while her sisters had slowly but surely snuck their way out from underneath all that weight, Eliza still has room to grow. Usnavi turns away while he speaks, she watches his make her order and while she knows that he knows, it still amazes her that he remembers. How many people’s orders does he know by heart? Not many people took too much interest in such trivial things, especially not about her, but it’s nice to be listened to for once. She pulls some cash from her wallet out while his back in turned, determined to leave it behind for him.

“Thank you very much, I appreciate it,” she says, taking the cup and blowing on the top before taking a sip. It’s overly sweet and milky, just the way she likes it. “They do well for themselves, sure. It’s nice seeing how they’ve changed over the years.” From their box dorms at Columbia, it’s interesting to see where they all landed after graduating. She’s proud of them, of course, it’s heartwarming to see them and Lafayette and Hercules and her sisters finally out in the world, finding their own way. “It’ll be nice, we don’t get together much outside of parties and such. Everyone’s so busy with their own lives, I don’t rightfully know when the best time to see anyone is, anymore.”

#[ para. ]

nomemeto‌:

Early evening in Washington Heights, and the bodega has finally started to slow down since the mid-afternoon rush; most people, Thursday night by six, are back home, or maybe out having drinks with friends — that’s where he’d like to be, to be completely honest with you, but with Sonny calling in ( again, for the second time this week ), and with Alex only hanging around for about an hour — not even long enough to pay him for it — he’s pretty much stuck here, watching the world pass him by. Benny stopped by for a bit, mostly just to rag on him about his latest date with Vanessa, and then the Rosarios swung by to invite him over for dinner later…not that he’s going to be able to make it, but the offer was still nice. Even Alex’s friend — Veronica, he thinks her name was — stopped by, grabbing a coffee before skipping off to study; all these people, and still nothin’ to show for it. Sad truth, most would say. He would, too, if he was the moping type.

He’s cleaning the front counter, again, his radio playing down at the end while the sun sets over the corner, and he’d be lying if he said he was content with all this; mostly, he’s just lonely. This place slows down by about 5:30, and it don’t pick back up again until around 9 ( if he’s open that late tonight which, how today’s been going? He doubts he’ll stick around past eight, long as he gets all his work done by then ). He’s lost in thought, planning out the rest of the things he has to get done tonight, when the door softly opens; nothing like the push it with all your might type he usually gets around here, and so at first, he barely even registers that anyone came in, not until they’re up and standing right in front of him at the counter. He glances up, ignores them out of habit — he’s busy cleaning right now, damn — but then he looks up back again. Distant, hazy thought softens immediately as his mind completely stalls — so much for getting better at socializing.

“…uhh, ya know your friend’s not here tonight, right?”

She’s not usually out this late, and that may sound a little ridiculous for a twenty-four year old woman, but Eliza has always prided herself on being.... simple enough. Never out too late during the week, always checking her watch to keep on schedule. The school week is still going, she’d usually be at home grading or making lesson plans now, but the Hamiltons had asked for her company for dinner and they’re people you really can never say no to.

The ride from her apartment to the Heights never takes too long, and she arrives much earlier than she said she would. John and Alexander would have no problem letting her in early, but it seems more courteous to give them a moment to gather themselves. She’s come to find some kind of comfort in the barrio after this long, letting herself walk aimlessly for a bit to pass the time. She shocks herself a little when she ends up at the corner store, owned and ran by Usnavi, who’s always been fairly kind to her. He tries to give her coffee for free, and she always leaves a five on the counter when she leaves. Elizabeth Schuyler has never been in the business of taking things for free.

She opens the door slowly and it’s nearly silent on the inside except for the radio playing in the background. No one walking up and down the aisles, sweeping, keeping conversation. Only Usnavi at the counter, wiping down what she can only imagine is a speck on the linoleum. He’s always trying to keep tidy what isn’t there. She stands at the counter for a moment, not wanting to break the silence, but waiting until he finally looks up at her, mentioning who she can only assume to be Alexander. “I do! He invited me over for dinner tonight, but I don’t have to be there for another—” she checks her watch quickly, “Thirty minutes. I suppose I get a little overzealous with time. I actually came to get a coffee while I was here. It’s been a while since I’ve had a free moment to come by and get a drink.”

#[ para. ]

anewmanx‌:

& — 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.

She is not surprised at hear out the idea of the Hamilton family having children so soon. The two of them being the way they are, she’s more surprised that it’s not already int he works. Planning for the future, she supposes, is better now than rushing into it. Not that she would be against the idea, the faint sound of laughter and pattering of feet playing in her mind, the term Aunt Eliza not sounding as bad as it could be. The house is magnificent for their first home, and she falls in love with the blue-gray siding almost instantly. “Oh Alexander, this would be incredible,” she scrolls through the pictures of the home, picturing a cozy study nook, quilted bedroom sets. The group of them, sitting on a couch in front of a fireplace, toasting drinks together and reminiscing about the old days. It’s oddly emotional for her, to think how much all of them have grown up.

“Well, it is certainly big enough! Plenty of room for your own bedroom and an office so close together, and then extra rooms to be used as spare rooms until...” She trails off, not entirely wanting to speak it into existence. Not that she isn’t happy for the two of them to want such a gift, but not to encourage if for the time being. They’re all still young, there’s time for legacy another day. “I would not be apposed to having a place like that if you are sure you can afford it. It’ll save you the trouble of having to move again some day.”

#[ para. ]

anewmanx‌:

& — 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.”

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?”

#[ para. ]

anewmanx‌:

& — 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.”

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.”

#[ para. ]

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.

tobealiveright-now

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.

#[ para. ]

anewmanx‌:

[txt.]; Please, by now you’re considered an honorary Hamilton. I wouldn’t mind the assistance, though.

[txt;] Well, I’m honored that you think of me as such. I’d love to be a Hamilton and whenever you need me, I’ll help you out.

#[txt;]

anewmanx‌:

[txt.]; It has been far too long. I don’t think I can survive much longer without exposure to my best friends. [txt.]; Would you speak with your siblings, too? They are both more than welcome to join you.

[txt;] Of course! Peggy and Angelica would love to be there, I’m sure. You haven’t seen either of them in some time. [txt;] If you need any help planning or bringing this together, Alexander, you know that I’m always available for the Hamiltons.

#[txt;]

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