𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑 [𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙽𝚄𝙴𝙳]

Just Like a Ghost To Me

Alexander hadn’t been to work in a week.

It was worrying, to say the least. Alexander Hamilton, the man whom never missed a day of work, skipping precious hours of what could have been sleep just to pile in more papers, more writings, more work in general. Alexander Hamilton, the man who was nothing without his pen or biting words, able to create flowery scenery from nothing but old parchment and wet ink. Alexander Hamilton, the man who had replaced his blood stream with bitter and cheap coffee, who had worked himself into stress induced fevers more than five times, who had argued more than once about his work being the only good part of him. Alexander Hamilton, the man who hadn’t been to work in a week.

Thomas knew better than to blame it on himself, and even if he really wanted to, he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t dare. He knew that Hamilton wasn’t so petty as to never show up at work just because of a single argument, just to avoid Thomas, just to create a new wall between the two that Thomas doubted could be remade. However, he also knew of the man’s stubbornness, which made it so damn difficult to place everything into its correct order, so damn difficult to understand where the hell the immigrant was. He also knew that the man would have blocked Thomas If it was simply the fight, but it was clear that he hadn’t, seeing as though Thomas was still able to message him throughout the day without his text bubbles going green or without receiving a message on how he couldn’t reach the number anymore.

There had been theories, Thomas knew, on how the man had been murdered. Perhaps he died on his own cause, the insane amounts of coffee he drank of a daily basis finally getting to him. Perhaps he got ran over, and was in the hospital. Perhaps he had taken his own life. There were murmurs, whispers going around in the halls of the workplace as if this was a high school and Alexander was the most popular kid there. Concerned mutters, questioning glances at Thomas or at Washington or at anybody else who could have been associated with him, for good or bad cause. Thomas didn’t bother indulging himself in the gossips, knowing better than something so simple as being ran over stopping Hamilton. He knew the immigrant, and as much as he promised himself to despise it, he almost knew him better than he knew himself. If any of the theories were correct, it was most likely to be the fact he was murdered.

There wasn’t much Thomas could do for it, anyway. Nothing he trusted himself to do, that is. He trusted himself to think about what might be the issue, to think about how to solve it, but he wasn’t going to allow himself to act on anything he thought. He shouldn’t even care this much, anyway. Alexander wasn’t anything to him but a cheap fuck, and he didn’t feel like the immigrant was anything more, either. Even still, though, any human with morals would feel a twinge of worry at the extended absence. Thomas had immediately blamed it on John despite himself, even though he knew it was virtually impossible. John was in a jail cell until the day of his trial arrived, and there was no way him and Alexander could have seen each other in the time. The trial was in a few months. It was practically impossible for him to be the cause of Alexander’s disappearance. Or, was it? Thomas didn’t know. He hadn’t dealt with any of this before. And it killed him.

Well, a week turned to two weeks. Which turned to five, which turned to a month. There was still no response to his cell, despite ‘read’ messages which indicated that Alexander at least saw them. There was no calls, no voicemails, and most importantly, no sight of the male in general. It was as if he never existed in the first place, a sort of figment in Thomas’s imagination that he placed due to, what, loneliness? Everybody stopped talking about him. It was dead silent without him. There was no arguments, no debates, no cabinet battles. There was no disagreement. There was no /Hamilton/.

Until there was.

Thomas scouted the other’s office whenever he could, as much as he could. There was never a time where the Virginian’s door would now be found closed, seeing as though they were just a few brief steps between the two rooms to visit one another. He always had a perfect view of the other’s door, and would find himself glancing up at it subconsciously whenever he was writing or working in general. And, really, it took five looks before Thomas noticed the golden ring of light around the other’s door, the two small sounds he heard coming from the dense wood. However, as soon as he had, he jumped up without even a breath of hesitation, hastily pushing his chair into his desk and cringing when he heard the metal squeak against the tile floor of his office.