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His hair fell over his face the moment he turned over in bed, and he brushed it aside with one hand to open his eyes.
Still so tired, so early in the day, he could have easily gone back to sleep upon seeing that even Eliza hadn’t woken up yet.
But something strange made his eyebrows furrow, and it didn’t take more than three seconds.
That odd feeling he couldn’t quite identify through the fog of sleep.
Until he did. It was cold, uncomfortable, and…
Wet?
Sweat—that was the first thing that came to mind. Of course, before a wave of a million uncontrollable thoughts surged through him.
His mind. Naturally, it arrived at a thousand conclusions in a second, but one in particular hammered him in the most unpleasant way.
He abandoned his resting position and sat up in bed, leaning more toward the upper edge of it.
Now almost on the pillows, he pressed the neckline of his white shirt. With his face flushed, breathing erratic, and his wife asleep beside him, he tried with all his strength to calm himself so as not to wake her.
Despite the daze, despite the heavy lethargy gripping his body, he could feel it.
There was something damp on his clothes, and he swore he felt something wet on the sheets just before pulling away from that area.
He shook his head and blushed. His cheeks truly ached from, among the thousands of desperate hopes, the strongest and most logical possibility.
Physically logical. Of course he hadn’t…
He couldn’t. He wasn’t— God. He just couldn’t.
Everything in life was possible—except Hamilton having…
If only the shame weren’t stealing his logic, pricking like needles all over his body—besides the sensation of blood coursing through his numbed muscles—he would have already done something about it.
He simply needed to process it.
He loved overthinking, but this time something greater made him wish he could move even a single muscle.
He closed his eyes and shivered—more. Soon all the possibilities he had conjured in his head faded, leaving only that one. Treacherously. In a way that made him want to cry, curse, and vanish.
He opened his eyes because humiliating thoughts found space when he couldn’t see anything.
And with both eyes now on the fabric, he could decide to check if he had really wet the bed.
His hand approached the sheet irregularly.
He stopped when he saw Eliza, fortunately still sleeping with her body turned the other way.
Crap, she was right there. And if he had really done something so disgusting, he had to find a way to manage it without her noticing.
What would she think? He didn’t know, but either way, he didn’t want her to know. No way.
She loved him too much, that was true, but something this pathetic couldn’t be discovered by anyone—not even by her.
She had already pitied him enough when she saw him devastated for being sent home.
Enough thinking. He had to act now.
No, first he had to check. The possibility that this was all a huge misunderstanding still existed, and he clung to it fiercely despite everything. And if not, only then would he convince himself this was just a bad dream. A terrible nightmare.
Without looking, he lifted the sheet quickly but gently. His hand trembled like a novice holding a weapon for the first time.
His teeth chattered, and with every second, the dampness he felt brought more uncertainty and torture. Still, it was hard to look.
He closed his eyes and turned his gaze toward where he had to look. Then, he opened them.
He didn’t need more than half a second to squeeze them shut again, this time with force.
The little time he saw was more than enough.
A dark patch, even tinged with a slight yellow hue.
On the sheets and probably on the mattress.
He couldn’t determine the exact size, but it wasn’t small. How had Eliza not..?
He began to hyperventilate. Too stunned to even shed a single tear.
He clenched his teeth and brought both hands to his face, which immediately rose to his hair.
What?
He couldn’t even recall if this had ever happened. Why would he remember that? His childhood was full of pain. He wouldn’t have paid attention to something so damn stupid.
And now, now that he was an adult...
His eyes remained fixed on the sheet. Every time he moved, he could feel the dampness on his clothes, and that was the worst part.
He tried to think, to justify, but nothing in the world could be enough to explain how Hamilton, Washington’s right-hand man, had…
It didn’t matter—it happened.
It was too much for him, and his eyes finally began to fill with tears.
He only managed to swallow them back when he felt Eliza stir, turning over in her sleep until she lay on her back.
His heart skipped a beat. His breath froze, and he felt that if he moved even a millimeter, she’d know immediately.
When he saw she wasn’t waking, he allowed himself to cry.
Uncontrollably, with a frantic heart.
His face bore no expression—only the tears ran down uninterrupted.
Why?
He didn’t know. It was a mix of feelings. From weakness to disgust. Each worse than the last, and all caused by the same thing:
He, a revolutionary, important in the War of Independence, having an accident in his sleep like a child.
It felt like a threat to his self-esteem. Even to his honor, even if no one ever knew.
No one would believe this had happened—not even himself. But the evidence was clear; evidence he had to take care of immediately before it became… worse.
With no real choice, he opted to take care of himself first.
God. He almost started crying again.
What was he going to do? What was he even supposed to do?
Where was he supposed to start? He had no idea—he had never imagined himself in a situation this compromising.
His clothes—that’s what logic screamed in his ear.
With a sigh, he pushed himself to get out of bed. He flinched upon catching a glimpse of his clothes, then avoided looking again at all costs.
He got up. Placed a hand on his forehead and sat on the edge of the bed. Each second with that cold sensation against his skin was worse than the one before.
Without making noise, he planted both feet on the floor, his white socks softening the chill. He wondered whether putting on his shoes would make too much noise.
He walked to the wardrobe and quickly grabbed a pair of black shorts. He squeezed his soiled clothes in frustration, then cast them aside. He didn’t want to see them again.
He still had to take care of himself, but... God. The sheets.
He wished he could die instead of being in this situation.
With his head lowered, looking nowhere but the floor, he walked back to the bed. He moved fast, fueled by adrenaline and a desperate need to be done with it all.
When he lifted his gaze, his frenzy was interrupted by the last thing he wanted to see at that moment.
His wife, groggy, sitting up in bed. Maybe Alexander had made too much noise.
He froze.
“Betsy… I…”
He trembled. He had no idea if she had noticed. His violet eyes turned glassy instantly.
He approached the bed, hesitating.
He wanted to feign neutrality, but each of his limbs was shaking with a strength he had never known.
He couldn’t look his beloved in the eyes.
He wanted to run, run and hide forever. But instead, he went back to the bed and simply sat on it, pretending nothing had happened.
He didn’t know what to do. For the first time in his life.
“How are you?” Eliza asked just before brushing his hair. The question immediately brought color to Hamilton’s cheeks.
His eyes welled up again, and that was all she needed to know the answer.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, broken. She gently tried to hush him, but he kept apologizing.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter. You’ll be fine, alright?”
She told him, placing her index finger gently on her husband’s lips.
“But…” He didn’t get to finish, because she hugged him.
Eliza was certainly… surprised.
She didn’t need much thought to make sense of it all. Tired and heartbroken the evening before, Alexander had arrived after being sent home and had fallen asleep instantly.
It didn’t matter. She only wanted to be with him.
Her concern was genuine; Hamilton was excessively hard on himself, and she knew it.
She could practically hear all the thoughts in his mind at that moment—the self-hatred he harbored with such fervor.
And she was there to remind him that she loved him and would take care of him.
“Let me help you, Hammie. I’ll handle this. Keep getting yourself cleaned up, okay?”
He lifted his head without thinking. He almost looked at her in pleading.
“No, really. I…”
“Really, Ham. I can do it.”
She made a move to get up, but Alex stopped her.
“Eliza, you shouldn’t…”
He didn’t even finish his sentence. The shame robbed him of words. The humiliation made him feel unworthy of any kindness.
She stroked his curls. Finally, she got him to look her in the eyes.
“Let me, Ham. It’ll be faster, and I want to help.”
He looked at her, defeated.
He couldn’t keep clinging to pride after something like this, so he simply gave in.
Eliza withdrew her hand and, before getting up, she gave her husband a small kiss.
It was perhaps more intimate to kiss him in his humiliation than to love him in his glory.
“I’m sorry you have to do this. Thank you, darling.”
Elizabeth didn’t feel pity—only love.
And Hamilton kept trying to compose himself, not only in that moment, but for the rest of the day.