Where The Light Goes

The Hanahaki Disease - an illness born from one-sided love, where the patient throws up flower petals. The infection can be removed through surgery, but the feelings disappear as well and *ability to love is terminated. However, if not removed, the illness can often lead to death.

*Often times the flowers will represent the emotion of the person who is currently suffering.

The first time it happens he pays no mind to it. He doesn't know where it came from, doesn't realize the importance behind it, the flower petal. Perhaps, it had got stuck on his shirt while he was out. Whatever, it didn't matter.

He throws it away.

---

The second time is much worse, Hamilton finds himself in the bathroom at his work place, praying no one comes, no finds him. He's bent over the toilet, on his knees, yellow petals floating gently in the toilet water. His hands gripped his throat as he coughs and chokes into the toilet bowl, yellow streaming out his mouth. It burns like hell, his throat, and his heart.

Yellow Tulips, hopeless love.

It was basic knowledge, taught even at his poor run down school in the Caribbeans, all the meanings of every known flower, that someone had coughed upon. The flowers represented the feelings, and emotions and could change when they changed.

He flushes the toilet stands up, washes his hands and walks out, his head high and his heart low. Alexander shakes his head and laughs quietly to himself, yellow tulips, of course. It just doubled the fact that whoever this person he 'loved' would never, ever, be with him.

A hopeless love.

Yellow Tulips.

He's not worried, he hadn't planned to fall in love anymore, he hadn't wanted it, love, anymore. Didn't need it. All he needed was his work and that was enough, his legacy. Yet, he doesn't tell anyone, he doesn't say anything, he doesn't go to the doctor to get it removed, he does nothing. No one needs to know.

And even as he says, he doesn't care, tries to convince himself he does not care, he finds himself looking around, searching, desperately, who could it be?

John?

He wishes it was John. Sweet, beautiful, passionate, John, his best-est friend. But, no it couldn't be him because when he looked at John, all he felt was pure unadulterated love, platonic love, nothing more and nothing less.

Lafayette?

No not him either. When he looked at Lafayette, headstrong, daring, brave, Lafayette, he felt happy, protected almost. It was an odd feeling, but one made out of brotherly love. Familial Love.

Hercules?

Alexander almost burst out laughing which had quickly turned into a coughing fit, instead. No. Hercules gave him a sense of companionship, camaraderie, understanding. He understood Alexander in away John nor Lafayette could, and he appreciates that.

Besides, they had all found what they were missing in each other. And, Alexander thinks they're lucky, to have more than one person to love.

Then, he decided to look to the wonderful Schuyler sisters and finds nothing there as well.

Angelica was fire, a wildfire, and he was the forest. It had started quick and spontaneous, what they had. And, then it ended, with him burned to pieces and her doused. Her flame gone, as quickly as it came.

Eliza was soft and gentle and pure like the white carnations he had choked on for her. But, they had already fallen in and out of love and he had made an unforgivable mistake and she had rightfully left him for someone better. Left him to be with Maria, he had always wondered while his petals were white, when hers were red, then he found his answer, they weren't meant to be.

And Peggy, someone he found he could confide in, someone who helped him understand himself. But, they had never had anything more than the brother-sister relationship he felt for her.

He was out of ideas, but the petals kept coming.

Yellow tulips, a hopeless love.

So Alexander continues on his searches makes a list of people even highly unlikely ones.

Aaron Burr?

That could never work, he was with Theodosia, and they were so happily in love it made him physically sick--the soft petals rushing down his throat as he hacked into the wastebasket.

James Madison?

Even if they were once good friends--sometimes he even admits to himself that he misses it--there's no way, they barely speak anymore, there's no time for him to fall in love.

Thomas Jefferson?

His first reaction is to say no, a staunch, no way, could never happen in a million years and yet when he looks at Jefferson he feels something--or maybe that just the petals in his throat, where did he put the wastebasket?

Alexander sighs as he stares at the yellow petals in the trash, or what has recently become his throw up bucket, and he knows. He feels in it his bones, there is physical proof in front of him and mental proof in his heart.

What he feels for Jefferson was no John or Lafayette or Hercules. Certainly not Angelica or Peggy or Eliza, it was not Aaron Burr nor James Madison. It was something so completely different but familiar at the same time, and he hates it.

When he looks at Jefferson he feels a fluttery feeling in his chest, that he covers up by screaming at him longer. His palms get sweaty, so slams them on the conference table louder, his legs get jittery so he stands up to be taller, better than. And he finds he can't deny it.

He's in love.

He's in love with Thomas Jefferson.

Yellow tulips, a hopeless love.