Zero Two Three One | John Laurens X Reader [Hamilton]

LXXVIII: Six Days at a Hospital

"Nothing haunts us like the things we don't say."
—Mitch Albom

Things went from bad to worse. I mean, worse than worse.

It started when an audio clip of me shit-talking James Monroe got leaked. I was at the grocery store talking to Peggy on the phone, freely expressing my frustrations and letting swears slip my lips like a waterfall. I don't know how my words somehow reached the public, but it's out there. It started an absolute shit storm. Some people were sneering at me for saying what I did, others loved hearing James's name run through the mud.

Shortly after that, James Monroe (as he's been doing more and more often) went on a wild rant in the form of fifty tweets (I only read through about seven of them before getting too hurt to go on). People started making fun of me for "being real quiet", insinuating that I had balls to shit-talk others, but curled into a fetus when others shit-talked me.

Alexander didn't take what James tweeted lightly, so he made his own series of fifty-tweets, calling James everything from the simple "bitch" to the creative "vain, daft, mindless, clout-chasing motherfucker with no sense of self or worth outside of blackmailing those with the potential of gaining more success".

It took only minutes for a swarm of James Monroe's friends to publicly declare their hatred for us. As for fans of James Monroe, the normal ones swore to boycott all "Hamilton-infected products" from our movie to our video game to the clothing line with our name. The crazier fans hung up voodoo dolls of us — like Christmas lights.

Fans of Alexander and me said that James' friends were acting insane. James fans said our fans were protecting "snakes". Our fans said James was the real snake. His fans countered. Blah, blah, blah. 

The moral of the story, such a small thing lit an untamable fire on social media, and I can feel the burning from the social sphere.

I did a lot more crying than I should have. I tell myself that I don't give a shit about what these Americans think of me, and I remind myself of the somber sternness I once had. And yet, something in me ached and writhed.

Only video calls with John could calm me:

"God, I hate seein' you cry, baby."

"I'm just so tired of everyone being so vicious. I didn't sign up for this."

"I know."

"Maybe I deserve it... I did start it, after all. If only I had been more cautious with what I said."

"No, (Y/N). It ain't your fault. You did nothin' wrong."

"I did... You're so integral. It makes me feel like shit in comparison."

"I'm the opposite of integral, (Y/N)."

"I'm a waste of honor, John... I'm sorry for being so chaotic."

"Hey, don't apologize for anythin', sunshine. You're under too much pressure to be attackin' yourself over trivial things. For what it's worth, I love you, (Y/N)."

"Thank you... it means everything."

The point is, James and I are pitted against one another. Now more than ever. So now is the perfect time to expose James for all he is.

August 15, 2060.

I've been plotting something behind the scenes for about two weeks. This morning, for the first time in a couple of months, I called James.

"Hey," I said.

"Hello." He was reserved and cold.

"I think we have a lot we need to talk about," I continued.