My Dear Laurens (Lams)

A. Hamilton

Three weeks later

A cramped dressing room, a day's old outfit tossed haphazardly on the floor, a full-length mirror, and two men. One, donned in a glimmering, lightly perfumed, soldier's uniform, preening in front of the vanity, and the other, directly behind the self-involved man, straightened the collar of his friend's uniform.

"You've helped me so much throughout all this wedding planning, Laurens," Alexander, looking a few inches up and to the right, directly above his shoulder, locked eyes with Laurens. "It's almost as if you're getting married yourself."

Alexander's eyes crinkled as his joke had been well-received, at least in his eyes. He twisted his body back to the mirror and put his hands on Laurens' shoulders.

"I cannot thank you enough. You are my closest friend, and the best choice for my best man." Alexander pulled Laurens into a hug, reaching around Laurens' neck, atop his taller friend's shoulders, while Laurens wrapped his well-endowed arms around Alexander's waist. The hug possessed no space between them, but wrinkle-free uniforms.

Alexander did not leave the embrace as he whispered in Laurens' ear, "I could never imagine you letting someone down. You're too perfect-" Alexander felt Laurens' arms tighten around his body.

"Come on, Alexander. You know I'm not perfect," Laurens said, a smile shunned from his features. "I've got just as many flaws as the next man."

Alexander pulled away, and with a welcoming smile, he said, "And that's why I love you-"

Laurens blinked twice in half a second.

Alexander finished, "Because you think your flaws make you less perfect when they're the best part about you."

Alexander waited for Laurens to respond. He was satisfied when Laurens reciprocated the gesture with a quiet, "I love you too." Because of this reply, Alexander could comfortably turn back to himself and perfect his outer-image. After all, he wanted to impress his soon-to-be wife, and a good way to do so was looking like the last meal she'd choose to eat before she dies. Or, some other, less appropriate analogy.

The door to Alexander and Laurens' right whipped open to reveal a heaving Lafayette, and a mid-eye-rolling, full-glass-of-wine-holding, Mulligan.

Mulligan pushed past Lafayette, who expected to achieve the first word, and approached Alexander with a warning. "You have two minutes, Hamilton," he extended his arm holding the wine glass and offered a half-smile. "Thought you could use this."

Lafayette, still in the background with his hands on his hips, stared at Laurens with a scrunched nose and narrowed eyebrows. He walked over to Laurens, whose back was pressed against the wall, and stood next to him with crossed arms.

"I was supposed to give petit Hamilton that drink, you know?" Lafayette huffed. "Hercules can be such a-" he raised his voice, which already carried through the room with ease, "-POMPOUS ASSHOLE."

Alexander and Mulligan shifted to face Lafayette, and while Alexander tried to hide his amusement, Mulligan felt no need masking an emotion he was not feeling.

"You gonna keep talking, or are you gonna help this man out with whatever this hair is?"

It was clear how much Lafayette had rubbed off on Mulligan since they first met.

Alexander scoffed but reached a hand up to pat down whatever "this hair" was. He didn't think there was anything wrong with what he had done, but apparently, no one else felt the same.

"My hair is fine, Mulligan," Alexander said, crossing his arms and glaring up at Mulligan.

Lafayette left the wall and Laurens and raised his brows with a grimace. "Actually, mon ami, the walking corpse is right." Lafayette's eyes searched the room for a water source. Alexander had left a half-full glass of water on the dresser, so Lafayette plucked it from its place and poured some of the liquid onto his hands.