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When Aaron Burr walked into his dorm, he expected to see Alexander working. Maybe drinking coffee despite it being literally midnight — the man has zero self-control. If he was lucky — sleeping, perhaps. Not pacing around the room in a bundle of nerves.
“Hamilton? What’s wrong?” he inquired after a few seconds standing in the doorframe, not being noticed. Alexander spun around to face him, his eyes wide.
“Burr?”
“Well, yes,” Aaron raised one eyebrow. “I live in here too, in case you forgot.”
“No, I, I know, that’s not what I— come in!” Hamilton nodded, stepping back to his bed. “Hi, Burr. Hello.”
“Hamilton, what’s wrong?” the man sighed, coming up to him and taking a chair from under his own desk, sitting down. It’s not that he enjoyed dealing with his roommate’s problems, but leaving Alexander in such nervous state would mean zero hours of sleep — the man would not stop pacing around the room. “And don’t give me the bullshit about everything being in order, we’ve lived together for too long for that to fool me.”
“But everything is—!” Alex began before suddenly going quiet again and pulling up his own chair, almost collapsing on it. “Okay, fine, you’re right. It’s not.”
Aaron nodded contently and leaned back, spectating Hamilton from under half-closed eyelids. The man kept fidgeting with his hands, then picked up a book, opening it on a random page and avoiding his gaze.
“It’s just—“ he threw his arms up and hesitated again before pouting quietly. “It’s nothing major. You’re going to laugh.”
“Just suck it up and tell me, Hamilton,” Burr rolled his eyes. “If it is going to make you feel better, I am going to try to restrain myself from laughter.”
“What a great promise,” Alexander frowned, then sighed. “But you could at least help me maybe. It’s just that… I got another mark today. Don’t know when, don’t have time to check every hour, but I did.”
Aaron waited politely for him to continue, but Hamilton averted his gaze, focusing it instead on his own wrist.
“And?” he prompted after a few seconds, because that definitely didn’t seem worth stressing out about.
“And it’s black!”
“And?” Burr repeated, slightly confused now. “Isn’t that even better?”
“And I have no idea who it is!” Alex blurted out, squeezing his eyes shut. It took Aaron about five seconds to understand the meaning of the phrase and just how ridiculous it sounds.
“So you’re in love,” he summed up. “And it’s requited. But you don’t know who you are in love with.”
“Basically,” Hamilton shrugged, his tone near accusatory. “Now, I know that is dumb and weird and unrealistic, but… yeah.”
“And that’s a problem how?” Burr yawned. “Alexander, you’re a smart man. If you actually think about it, you’ll understand in a matter of minutes. It can’t be that hard to realise.”
But when Alex looked away, biting his lip and definitely not planning to break the silence, he sat up, staring at the man more attentively.
“Or— It’s not that, Hamilton, is it?” he said after another minute has passed. “It’s not that you don’t know. It’s that you don’t want to.”
“Well, I do, but—”
Alexander’s voice faltered and faded away, as he — the man who could write a six pages long essay in an hour — struggled to find words. Aaron clicked his tongue.
“Speak.”
“Huh?”
“Well, you definitely have things on your mind, you are just not sure you want to tell me. So speak — I’m not going to tell anyone, you have my word.”
Hamilton looked at him for a few long seconds, trying to judge whether it was an actual invitation or just words said out of politeness, and then, seemingly coming to a decision, sighed and demonstrated the inner side of his wrist to Burr. The black mark was there, sure enough, but not alone — accompanied by a red cross and a scar. Not that Aaron hasn’t noticed them before, but he never heard the stories behind them. And he had to admit — he was definitely curious.
Alexander pointed at the scar, his voice still shaking as he began to speak.
"This one is John Laurens. We dated for three years, y'know. In school. It was red for a week or two, and then it just suddenly turned black in the middle of the night, and I literally sprinted to his dorm, and—" he sighed, closing his eyes for a second and letting a faint smile touch his lips. Then, however, his voice faltered. "He got shot. Monday morning, two years ago in August. The school has only just started, everyone is buzzing, still in holiday mood, I am waiting for John to show up to class, have so much to tell him — and next moment I look at my wrist—"
His voice turned into a muffled sob as he pressed the scar harder, not able to look away.
"It killed a part of me. Not meaning to sound poetic, that's just how it felt. Still feels. Like— there is this constant reminder on your hand, a nick, so you can never ever... forget."
Aaron opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but Hamilton shook his head, moving his finger over to the red cross.
"But that's long past, I guess," he said, his voice not convincing in the slightest. "Now this one, this one's Eliza. You know the story, of course you do. I loved her, I really did, she loved me too. A year or so. It appeared black already, actually. Eliza was really the best thing that has happened to me, and Maria... Well, it was all my fault. We turned out to be one another's stress reliefs. I never got a mark from her, and neither did she — although she didn't even have one from her at-the-time boyfriend. (And I doubt he did either, the abusive asshole). Eliza found out, she was mad, she yelled at me, I yelled back. She said she wants to talk to Maria, I introduced them — and next thing I know my mark is back to red, and they are walking hand in hand. Took me a while to get over that, you can imagine. My own fault though."
Alexander chuckled quietly, nostalgia dripping from his eyes, and then frowned, indicating the last one of the lines of his hand, bold and black.
"This one though," he sighed, his voice hesitant. "I really have no idea who this is about. I wish I did, you know, but I also fear that if I think about that, if I try to understand, I—"
His finger dashed back to the scar and the cross. Burr looked over at them too.
"You won't be betraying them," he said, and from how Hamilton's shoulders tensed, it was obvious that he has finally guessed his thoughts correctly. "Not Eliza — you two have put everything behind long ago. Not John — he’d want you to be happy. You won’t be betraying them by loving someone else.”
Alexander exhaled loudly, then smirked, his fingers shaking.
"Eloquent much, Burr? I did not hear you speaking in such language before, don’t think.”
“I’ve read enough romantic novels,” Aaron shrugged. Hamilton though went quiet again, coming up with more and more arguments against… whatever it was.
“Yes, but if— whoever they are, if they know theirs is black, and they still haven't made any moves, I just don't—" Alexander shook his head. “What if they don’t want this? Don’t want me?”
"You said yourself you don’t know how long has it been there though.” Burr raised his eyebrows in something reminiscent of amusement. "You haven't noticed when it appeared, have you? It could've been there for no more than an hour, maybe they didn't even check theirs yet — people tend to sleep at one in the morning, you know."
"But I'd have to have some interaction with them if it was this recent," Hamilton shrugged, then raised an eyebrow at Aaron. The man shook his head with a snort, demonstrating his own wrist with a single neat black mark on it.
"Theo," he said, feeling the need to explain, and Alexander nodded.
"Of course. And, yeah, obviously I'm not in love with you."
"Should I take offence to that?" Burr chuckled.
They sat in silence for a few more seconds.
"I feel like if I know their identity, I won't be able to ignore it any longer, you know?” Hamilton suddenly said, his gaze anywhere but on the man in front of him, and Burr understood that exact moment — that is what bothered him the most. Having to accept all the commitment that comes with loving someone. Again. For the third time.
"Do you want to?" he smiled, tilting his head and trying to catch Alexander’s eyes. "Ignore it, that is. Look me in the eyes and tell me you do."
The movement of the second hand on the wall clock was unnaturally-loud, as Hamilton set aside the book he was hiding behind the whole conversation and looked at his mark again, his eyelids heavy. Then, after a minute of hesitation, he finally whispered:
"No.”
He jumped up, his hands jerking excitedly all over the place, set the book back on the shelve, almost knocking another three off it meanwhile, and grabbed Burr’s hand, pulling him to his feet as well.
"No, I don’t!”
"Exactly," Aaron grinned smugly, lowering his eyelids. "So go have a good night's sleep and think about it in the morning. Perhaps you will be able to reach some kind of conclusion. And really, how do you fall in love without knowing who with?"
“Hell if I know,” Alex grinned, jumping to the opposite end of the room and flopping onto his bed. “But, well, not like I’ll be able to sleep soon anyways. Might as well figure it out.”
“Suit yourself,” Burr shrugged lightly, taking his jumper off. “Personally I want not to be dead from sleep deprivation tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, whatever. Good night, Aaron,” Hamilton smiled, closing his eyes and letting his thoughts engulf him. If his roommate did say anything back, the words did not reach his ears.
So he was in love. Okay. Being bisexual hardly helped, but since the mark has definitely appeared sometime between midday, when he last checked, and midnight, when he actually noticed it, it must be someone he has seen in that period of time.
Lafayette his brain supplied, but Alexander just shook his head with a snort. He had definitely seen Laf in the evening, but was hardly in love with him. He was the closest friend, not a romantic interest.
Angelica. Hardly. Sure, they share a class in the afternoon and she definitely is hot, that Hamilton could admit. However, he was rational enough to know that loving her would never work out for many, many reasons. She could be interesting, sure, she matched his intelligence, no question — but he would never fall for her.
Mr. Wash— what, no. How fucked up is his brain if it would even suggest that? Hamilton sighed and rolled over. He really hasn’t properly interacted with anyone else today, and if—
Unless—
No.
But—
No.
But that would make sen—
No way. Nope, Nu-uh. Not happening.
Sure. Think about it though. Jefferson.
Alexander almost hissed in annoyance, sitting up sharply and staring at the opposite wall. Burr seemed already asleep (sometimes he envied the man’s ability to fall asleep in a matter of seconds) and didn’t even stir at the noises as Hamilton wrapped his head in his hands. He said it already — not happening. He disagrees. He will not be in love with his literal arch-nemesis. Especially if the love is — requited? The black of the mark stood out against his skin even in the surrounding darkness.
No, brain. This theory is hundred percent bullshit, at least because Thomas Jefferson will never love him back.
(Not that Alexander loves him in the first place for the “back” part to make sense.)
But now that the name was said out loud — in his thoughts, anyways — it refused to leave. Hamilton said he cannot love Thomas because his opinions are all fucking wrong — the name reminded that he enjoyed the debates to no end. Alexander frantically whispered that Jefferson’s fashion sense was the definition of non-existent — the name smugly replied that he still manages to pull it off. He thought that he could never love someone that idiotic — the name raised an annoyingly-familiar eyebrow, referencing back to every time Alexander couldn’t help but admit the man’s intelligence.
Hamilton touched the scar on his wrist, inhaling sharply. This one belongs to John Laurens, a reminder that a part of Alex’ heart was ripped out that faithful day in August. He ran his fingertip over the lines of the cross, a property of Eliza, a nick, almost mockingly reminding him of just how hard he fucked up back then. Finally, he stopped his finger on the black mark, and when he thought “Thomas Jefferson”, he expected the thought to clash. To feel bitter and wrong. What he got instead was a long-forgotten warm feeling, which made his breath catch and his heart beat just a little bit faster.
Alexander Hamilton was in love with Thomas Jefferson.
The phrase sounded strange.
The phrase felt right.
(And hey — it was mutual. Alex wasn’t about to start complaining.)
––––––––––––
Thomas couldn’t fall asleep until twelve last night, rolling over in his bed and attempting to keep his eyes shut, and this morning his alarm went off at quarter to seven. Despite that he felt surprisingly well-rested, almost enthusiastic — although thinking about it, what was the most exciting thing that could happen? Another argument in Washington’s class? Hardly fun.
(Okay, that may have been a lie. Arguments with Hamilton have always proven to be a great source or entertainment. Not that he’ll ever admit it out loud.)
Anyways, the first lecture was to start in about forty minutes, so he better get up. Jefferson was grateful that James was such a heavy sleeper — otherwise he would’ve most definitely woken him up by now.
Thomas could perform his morning routine with his eyes closed. Get up, shower, put on some clothes which could marginally fit into “smart casual” category (and long magenta coats definitely do, no matter what everyone else seems to think), make himself some instant coffee, because nobody has time for a proper one, set a ridiculously-offensive coffee mug (which was definitely not Hamilton’s Christmas present) on the table, catch sight of a scar and a black mark on his wrist—
Red mark. He most certainly meant red mark.
It couldn’t have been black, right? Jefferson reasoned with himself, looking anywhere but at his wrist as he finally put the cup on the white surface of the desk, not trusting his shaking hands. It was just an illusion, the lighting is bad, my eyes are tired — it couldn’t have been black.
He could do fine not checking. Not having to put himself through the wave of disappointment, which was bound to hit him the moment he saw a familiar bright-red line. Just… drinking his coffee, getting his books and marching off to his class. There’s no way it would be black, so why entertain the ridiculous hope of it?
Thomas Jefferson, despite what he liked to think, had zero will power.
So he squeezed his eyes shut and twisted his wrist around, revealing the marks. Then counted to ten, trying not to breathe like dog which has just ran up a staircase and finally glimpsed at them.
The scar caught his attention first — it stood out, was like a small doorstep which people can’t help but trip over. Thomas hated seeing this scar, thinking about this scar, remembering Martha and— no, no, not the time. He shook his head, allowing his gaze to dart to the right a little, focusing on the second mark.
Black.
“No way,” Jefferson exhaled to himself, rubbing his eyes with his left hand and checking the colour again. It didn’t change. Black. “Holy shit. No way.”
Thankfully, his frantic whispering was nowhere near loud enough to wake Maddison up, and so he dashed to his bed, grabbing his phone from the night stand and scrolling through his Messenger contacts.
This was not a good idea. Anything but a good idea. No way Hamilton would like him back. It must be some mistake. Definitely, Thomas’ brain chanted when he finally found the username he was looking for. He exhaled slowly, forcing the thought to shut the fuck up for a second, and ran his fingers across the keyboard.
virginian asshole: Um
virginian asshole: Hamilton?
Nope, definitely a bad idea. Jefferson barely suppressed an urge to throw the phone as far away from him as possible after turning the screen off when he realized he had absolutely no idea what to type afterwards. “Hey, so you like me back, right? Because I kind of have for a few months now, and my mark has turned black this morning, and this can’t be a mistake, right?”. Ha. No way would he send something like that to Hamilton out of all people. He was not that desperate.
(Turns out he definitely was, because when he heard a sound of an incoming message, he grabbed his phone quicker than he could blink, frantically typing in his password. Fuck.)
annoying: holy lord jesus christ, jefferson. i am not ready to deal with this shit this early in the morning. talk to me after classes, okay? preferably in some coffee place off campus.
Of course that’s what he would say, Thomas snorted and shot back a “Did anyone tell you that your obsession with coffee is unhealthy?" before he realized the actual implication of the message.
virginian asshole: Wait. Are you asking me on a date?
annoying: sure. unless you want to ignore that annoying but definitely ink black line on both of our wrists and go back to bickering in class.
Thomas most definitely, by all means did not.
virginian asshole: Holy shit, Hamilton, just name the time and place.
annoying: my dorm, like, four thirty. should be done with lectures.
annoying: also, for fuck’s sake, thomas, just call me alex. i feel like we're definitely at that stage of our relationship already.
(Later Thomas Jefferson will assure everyone that Madison is a dirty liar when he says that he woke up because of his roommate’s definitely overjoyed squeal. Hamilton’s — Alex’ — smug grin would definitely be a reward enough for arguing about it.)