Not Throwing Away My One-Shot (Hamilton One-Shot Book) {REQUESTS: OPEN}

~Hamlaf~

💚1920s💜

The bar was booming.

Jazz music filled the air in the speakeasy, as young, scandalously dressed women danced along. Somewhat older men either joined them, or were spending their time drinking happily amongst themselves. Though, through all of the fun, the partygoers made sure to be on high alert. After all, if they were to be caught, it'd all be over.

Alexander Hamilton, a spunky, young West Indian boy admired the sights before him with awe. Though he has lived in America for almost a full year since emigrating from the Caribbean, he hasn't been very active in the community, since he was more focused on setting his sights on working. Now, Alex finally has enough to spend a little time for himself.

"A drink, my good man?" The dark-skinned bartender asked, as Alexander slid onto the nearest barstool.

Pushing a lock of his dark hair behind his ear, Alex gave a small nod. "Yessum. I don't drink much, so I ain't all too familiar with all the names. Hit me with whatever this can buy. Je vous remercie."

After spilling some cash on the table, the bartender nodded and turned to making a drink. The sense of rebellion boiling inside Alexander, caused his adrenaline to heighten. He was fully aware of the Prohibition act, yet here he was, disobeying the law. It felt great to him. Like he was still a teenager sneaking from his parents for a date-night with the girl-next-door.

"Was that perhaps français, I heard? Est-ce que c'était ça?"

Recognizing the fluent French phrases, Alex's head shot up. Glancing around, he locked eyes with a man, perhaps younger than himself, just across the bar. A tall Frenchman, with a naïve aura about him. All too intriguing for Alexander. He needed to speak with him more.

"Oui," Alex answered with a chuckle, sliding down the bar, to be closer to the handsome stranger. "My mother came from a line of French Huguenots, it flows through my blood. J'ai maîtriser la langue."

"I see! As I have mastered ze art of Anglais... Or, I hope so..," the Frenchman laughed a bit, running his finger along with rim of his drinking glass. "I must say, Amérique has such...eh... How you say, 'unique' tastes."

"You're an immigrant as well, I presume?" Alex asked, as the bartender returned with a surprise drink. "How long have you lived here for then?"

"Deux mois," he shrugged, glancing over at the flapper-girls, smoking in the corner of the bar. He shook his head, turning back to Alex. "Wait, did you hint that you are an immigrant as well?"

"Yes," Alex sighed, making sure to keep his voice low. "You couldn't tell?"

The French stranger shook his head, with a smile. "Non. Not obvious at all, mon chéri."

Withholding himself from breaking into a blush, Alex quickly looked away. "Flirting, already? I don't even know you're name."

"I do not think you want to," he laughed harder. "But if you insist, bel, ze name is Marie‑Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette."

"Aye..." Scratching the back of his head, Alex couldn't hold back a hardy laugh. "Well, you're most definitely French!"

"Call me Lafayette if you want to save your breath," Lafayette smiled warmly, before dropping his expressions suddenly. "Oh, yes, mon cher, what do I call you?"