Archive of Our Own ^beta

September 2, 1782

To whom it may concern,

As of the date of August 27, 1782, the revolutionary officer, John Laurens has been reported dead after involvement in a skirmish with the British at the Combahee river. He..

The words played in his head again, he couldn't bear to look onward in the text. No, his eyes reread the lines. John Laurens has been reported dead. John Laurens. His Laurens, his Jack. Dead. And to believe Hamilton had been so upset at him not but months prior, an anger that had never seemed to fully dissapate no matter the letters they sent back and forth.

Laurens never read his last letter.

‘ Quit your sword my friend, put on the toga, come to congress.’

Friend. Good god, if he were to know the man would never receive the letter it would be any word but. It would have been lover, my dear, beloved, not friend .

This is a cruel joke on him. A gruesome truth to Laurens’ behavior. Just as he had begun thinking of the possibility that his Jack may join him, nature had taken its toll and rudely snuffed out the flame that he was, the flame he had. The vigor and the passion behind every word and action. 

John Laurens was forced out of this world. At least Alexander would like to believe it that way. Alexander would like to believe that he had not heard Laurens wish for death in glory those late nights. The nights he cherishes so deeply within his heart.

Yet he has Betsey. His wonderful, beautiful Betsey with their wonderful, beautiful son. 

He has not uttered the name of Laurens once in her proximity and he never shall. The two cannot mix, they mustn't exist in the same breath, nor universe.

He so desperately wishes to say his name to her, to say I loved him. I still do. He wanted the two to meet, so she could understand. She would understand. Yet she wouldn't. She would never understand. She would not understand his tears, his cries, his sobs and wails from the shatter of his own heart because he had not been able to remind his Laurens of his love. 

He wasn’t able to see him again. Now he will never.

Even as Betsey calmly knocks on the door, he must compose himself, even as his voice cracks as he calls a weak ‘Come in!’ while he can hear the flow of his blood within his ears.

Elizabeth carefully stepped into the room, a small child coddled tightly within her arms. His son. His amazing, beautiful son that Laurens had seemed so resentful of when Hamilton had first brought him up. Betsey freed one of her hands, placing it gently and over his shoulder, causing Alexander to jump. “Are you alright, my love? You must remember your family and join us for dinner this evening.”

Hamilton’s breath hitched, his quill stilling on the paper below his hand. Hit a nerve, she did.

“Right, yes. Understood.” His answer was mechanical. Perhaps to balance the utter need to sob . As Betsey gives him a small kiss on his cheek all he can think of is how he longs to feel Laurens’ lips upon his. How he aches to feel his touch once more. The very need to feel his breath upon his neck again. To hear his laugh, see his smile, hold his hand, anything! 

Maybe he is a weak man, but the words no longer come to his mind. All he wants to do is write . And yet words fail him. 

Words have never failed him before.

When he failed, words were there. Even as he lacked the comprehension to fully understand his surroundings, words were there

August, 1777

“John Laurens of South Carolina. Pleasure to meet you, sir.” 

And the only thing present in Hamilton’s mind was barely words at all. He was pretty. Gorgeous, even. Tall, powdered hair, strong figure. His words failed him for only a moment before he cleared his throat, shaking the southerners hand.

“Pleasure is all mine, Laurens .” There was a perhaps unneeded, and rather exaggerated hint of anger in his tone with the tightest handshake he could manage despite being nothing in comparison to the strength Laurens had shown in his own. 

Was he mad at the mans existence? No. He was mad that his existence had so quickly left him devoid of a thought. He was mad that the southerner had stopped him in his tracks. 

That cannot happen.

October 7, 1777

“Dear god John you are such a moron ! Are you stupid?! Trying to set a house on fire?! Why-” 

Laurens small laugh cut him off.

“Ah, I understand, I understand! I was acting moronically! There shall be no need to chide me so harshly!” Laurens huffed, attempting to tug his arm away from the shorter of the two. “I can wrap it myself!” He hissed, although it sounded more of a whine.

“If I cannot trust you to not get shot, I cannot trust you to care for the wound yourself, sir.”  Hamilton carefully wrapped the cloth around John’s wounded shoulder with a scoff, perhaps purposefully wrapping it a bit too tight the first time just to solidify his argument.

January 17, 1778

“It's freezing in here,” Hamilton hugged his arms tighter to his chest as Laurens hummed, removing his cravat from his neck.

“I had no idea, I thought it was June!” He jeered playfully. Alexander scowled at the man.

“Oh ha ha. You are such a jestful fellow, aren’t you?” He snipped, causing Laurens to look up in surprise at the sudden irritation Hamilton displayed.

“I did not know the cold made you a brat, Alexander,” Laurens looked at him with a confused smirk, sitting up straight as he looked onward to the redhead, who stood with arms crossed across his chest with a scowl.

“Oh I hate you,” He hissed.

“But you do not.”

“You wish.” Ah, yet truly Laurens remained correct, he did not. For the longer their argumentative banter stretched, the larger the small smile swept across Alexander’s face until he was suppressing a grin from the sheer stupidity of the argument.

“You are an idiot, Jack,” Hamilton chided, yet joined the other on the cot. 

“But you lo-” Laurens faltered a moment, clearing his throat. “Yet you claim I am ‘your idiot.’ No?” 

Hamilton sighed, nipping playfully at his jaw.

“Indeed, you are. As I am yours.” 

Laurens hummed, his hand absentmindedly twirling one of Alexanders curls.

“My Alexander.”

September 2, 1782

His Alexander. Alexander was his, he was Alexander’s. But no, not anymore. He is Betsey’s. Betsey is his. He wouldnt have it any other way. 

Unless he would.

Given the chance, would he truly have strayed away from John? He wishes his answer to be no, but alas, he would. But Betsey is here. His beautiful, wonderful Betsey that he cares so deeply about and loves with all his heart that no longer has to compete with another.

Elizabeth and John should not exist in the same breath. Maybe in another universe Hamilton was given the ability to stay with John in public. Allowed to call him all the lovely names that he had done in the privacy of their quarters alone late at night. 

Alas, Hamilton wished he could spend the rest of the night reminiscing, unaware of the outside world and allowed to pretend that Laurens lay down next to him tonight instead of Betsey. A sin, he knows, yet grief has already stricken him not but 5 minutes after the information had registered in his mind and he cares not. What he cares about is Laurens. What Laurens used to be.

But no, no. Past tense sounds wrong to him. It should be present. Laurens should be here. Living, breathing, here . 

And he is not. And the very moment the realization hits him - Laurens is gone - is the same moment all hell breaks loose within the confines of Alexander’s mind. The struggles he faced that only Laurens dare to know, the struggles Laurens caused by himself. Dear lord, he does not care about how much pain was caused by the mere subject of the two of them! He just wants him back to say one final goodbye. He wants to show the tears in his eyes to the man he so loved, tell him he meant the world to him, that Laurens was a reason to keep fighting in the god forsaken war that had taken his life so rudely. 

It should have been Hamilton who died. Such a wretched, horrid man he was. Cared not for others feelings and focused on his own gain until Laurens snapped him right out of his trance.

“Oh god, Laurens,” Hamilton choked to no one but himself in his dark office. The obituary in the newspaper clutched tightly to his chest as he fell to his knees before him, bent over his own figure as his shoulders shook with sobs, his body wracking with his cries that no matter how long or hard he attempted to silence them, was for naught.

He wailed and sobbed and near screamed. Why him? Out of all the people in the world, why must his Jack be taken? Was this something he deserved? Was this the price of his transgressions? This must be a doing of god, a price for the things he has done to those all around. 

His dear, the only man he has ever, and will ever love, so quickly taken from his arms and into the hug of death. A feeling he knows Laurens craved which hurt so much more.

It all hurt. He is gone, and Hamilton may do nothing of it but cry like he had done as little boy who had just lost his mother. Except this time replace it with a man, an adult, crying over the loss of the truest, dearest friend - or lover - he’s had. 

He choked on words he spoke to no one, crying Laurens’ name out into the abyss of his office as if he would respond to his sobs of desperation for a sign that Laurens may still be with him. 

It is no surprise when no sign had shown.

A sobbing mess is what Hamilton was. Begging a dead man to return just to come back to his arms, to hold Hamilton once more so he may say goodbye.

“I loved you..s-so much,” He whispered, his words barely made it past his throat.

Betsey could not see him in such a state. Yet he could not bare himself in such a state. 

He wanted his Laurens back. Not Martha’s, not Francis’. Laurens was his and he had to suffer the shatter and snapping of his heart as he kept reminding himself that Laurens is gone . Gone. Dead. Deceased.

His Laurens is gone and he may do nothing about it.