IT'S AS IF HAMILTON HAS BUILT a wall around himself that prevents anyone from getting close to him, unless he decides otherwise. I don't know why, and, frankly, I don't see a need to.
But something makes me curious.
"TWO YEARS AND HE STILL DOESN'T let me take command!" Hamilton seethed as he entered our tent in a huff. "Shouldn't he trust me enough by now to allow me to lead—even just a small—group of men?"
I raised an eyebrow from my position at the desk—in the process of writing a letter to my father—and turn in my chair. "I'm sure there's reason behind his decisions. Besides, he lets you fight, doesn't he?" I say. I turn my attention back to my letter when I see him nod slowly.
He doesn't say anything, and I hear a quiet rustling as he removes his jacket, followed by footsteps.
He places a hand on my shoulder.
My breath hitches, and I cease writing once more.
"You know, the General likes you." Hamilton said nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed by the contact.
I scoffed. "Probably because of my father." I said dryly. See, my father is a powerful man in Congress; very traditional and well-respected.
"No, no!" he replied with a low chuckle. "Not because of him. General Washington never met your father."
"Surely he's heard of his reputation, though." I said.
Hamilton removes his hand from its resting place, and I find myself desiring the contact again, despite myself.
"You sound as if you have some distaste for your father, Laurens."
I want the conversation to be over. "Let's just say we don't have the closest relationship." I mutter, picking up my quill and dipping it in the inkwell.
Thankfully, he takes it as a sign and doesn't press any further.
But his words leave me with the realization that perhaps I feel a need to prove myself so that I can live up to my father's name.
I don't want it to be true.
Hamilton strides away from me, and I fight the urge to keep my eyes on him.
We return to silence, the scratching of my pen suddenly seeming extraordinarily loud.
I sense him staring at me.
"I don't like my father much, either," he says thoughtfully. I turn my head at the unusual show of humanity. I lock eyes with him against my will. "He... left when I was young..." he continues, almost dreamily, tilting his head slightly.
I feel a pang of sympathy for him and find myself beginning to stand. But as I do so, I break eye contact with him and he turns cold and unreachable again; the moment's over.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry." I say.
Hamilton turns his back to me as he removes his boots. "Be careful, Laurens," he said quietly. "I've yet to keep a friend."
BROWN HAIR AND BLUE EYES AND touches that turn to kisses that turn to hands on skin and a name slips through my lips and entangled legs under the sheets and heavy breathing and sweating and raspy voices and darkness and light, desire and desperation, love and fear all rolled into one and I hear my name in a whisper beside my ear and I'm falling and a rope catches around my neck and-
I sit bolt upright. My rapid movement wakes Hamilton, who lies beside me in the bed we have to share, and he groans softly as he sits up.
"Wha's th' matter?" he asks, words slurring together with his sleepy haze.
I put a hand to my pounding head. "Nothing," I assure him. "Just a bad dream."
Hamilton nods, accepting my answer, and lays back down, his breathing slowing. I take a moment to collect myself before doing the same.
I feel his hand interlock with mine as I drift back to sleep.
And I keep it there, because I'm falling.
~•~
sorryyyy this is short
YOU ARE READING
The Stars Fight Against Us
Historical Fiction"𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙪𝙨, 𝙢𝙮 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙." ~•~ Alexander Hamilton was raised dirt-poor on the small island of Nevis in the Caribbean. He's seen much loss. His father leaves him when he's ten years old. His mother's life i...
