Hamilton Oneshots

History Hates Lovers // Leeburr

"Are you sure no one will ever know?" I asked softly. Charles nodded with a smile. He always knew if something would be too risky.

"History hates lovers, Aaron. We can be like Achilles and Patroclus. Michelangelo and Tommaso. Emperor Hadrian and Antinous," he said. I nodded at his statement. He was right, those couples were so unknown after so long. I felt his arms wrap around my waist, Charles was gentle and light. We danced to our silent melody. I kissed up at Charles, laughing at his attempts to bite my face. Eventually, we tired ourselves and laid on the two cots we pushed together. Charles began to search my neck with his lips for a spot where my breathing would hitch. Once he found it, he lightly kissed it, nothing to be left but the feelings of pleasure on my body, no marks, no signs he ever touched me. I felt his body leave mine, but it left a phantom feeling as if he were still kissing my neck. I turned over to see him changing into looser clothing to sleep in. I got up and grabbed the discarded shirt, taking off mine to wear it. Charles stared at me, blushing darkly.

"You should borrow my shirts more often," he said. We laid back down, leaving no parts untouched. His elbows settled at the bottom of my ribs while his hands touched my chest. My arms rested over his, allowing us to fall into a comfortable sleep.

The Revolution was spent at many separate camps. Charles often wrote me letters, signing them with endings saved for one's lovers. I wrote about my longings for his arms around my waist again, the feel of his breath mixing with mine. I never bothered to cover his name or change his pronouns, no one was going to read my personal writings. I was never determined to make a name for myself like Alexander Hamilton or Marquis de Lafayette. The times we shared camps were much like the first, where we spent our downtime together, laughing at absurdities from around the camp. If anyone was curious about the faint candlelight from our tents, they would find us indulging in our late-night philosophy, with Charles laid amongst the cot and blankets, and I sitting at the desk, reading from the book that sparked the conversation. Any closer investigation would see right through our thin mask of friendship. Our lingering eyes, filled to the brim with love, our comfortable silences, loud with smiles and touch. I would have dared to thought if anyone saw our touches, they wouldn't expose us for our impious acts, but out of jealousy of our gentleness with each other. Those times together were often cut short by other calls of the Revolution, and I was often left only with letters with endings saved for one's lovers.

Once, Alexander Hamilton saw the letters piled on my desk, one arriving almost daily. He assumed it was a lover until he noticed Charles's name neatly written on the bottom of each page. Alexander soon began to believe we were close friends, Lafayette thought we were cousins, though we grew up across the ocean from each other.

"Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard were cousins and they grew up in separate kingdoms," Lafayette would claim. I'd dismiss it, saying that I would never write my cousins so often. I could never think of Charles as anything but a lover. He always made sure to promise his love in each letter, leaving me acting as a maiden who found her prince. In many ways, Charles was my prince, he was just as unobtainable as one, someone I could never marry. Yet, he was mine.

At times, the number of letters dwindled, making me worry for Charles's safety. Frequent apologies were written over the edges, apologizing for the lack of letters, or their shortness. I loved shorter letters, they were always on the point. We met again near Monmouth, where Washington had called Charles to lead the men. After some arguing, Charles agreed. I stayed behind that day, wishing and praying for Charles. As if sent by the Lord Himself, Charles came into the tent, red in the face. I was about to ask what happened, but he began to ramble about Washington and how he had been placed on a court-martial. He didn't stop talking, he just ran a hand through his hair and kept pacing and talking. I got up and gently kissed his chin until he looked down. I moved my lips to his and kissed him softly and slowly. I could feel him trying to head faster, but I kept my slow pace. We finally separated; he was still red in the face, though I assumed it was for a different reason.