Chapter Text
August 27th, 1782
John Laurens woke up.
There was nothing else to it; he felt his mind becoming conscious and awake once more, felt his eyelids parting. The ground beneath him was steady, as if it hadn’t just been shaken by the troops he was leading, shaken by the gunshots and bayonet stabs and his fall—
He’d been fatally shot, he’s sure of it. He remembers seeing the redcoats ahead of him, their uniforms too bright against the yellow-green of the burnt grass. He remembers charging, even though they were obviously outnumbered, putting his men in danger, putting himself in danger. He had lacked the patience to wait for reinforcements, and he’d paid the price for it.
He remembers the musket ball entering his skin; it penetrated so cleanly, pushing right through his chest and coming out of his back, leaving a gaping hole. He felt the blood start rushing as his heart, his sinful heart, kept beating. Even though he was all too aware that he’d been injured, that was the least of his worries.
He knew, as soon as the bullet entered, that he would die. He would die on the battlefield, as he suspected, but would die alone. As he lay upon the bloodstained ground, he felt no physical pain, but sorrow. Guilt. The gaping hole seemed to be growing, swallowing him hole. He felt nothing and everything too much and too little, because he deserved the pain, but he couldn’t handle it.
He'd left his Alexander, just as he’d promised not to.
John Laurens woke up, and it was perhaps the most peculiar thing that had ever happened to him.
He felt no pain—nothing from his wounds, barely an ache from his head or arms or legs from the battle he’d just fought. He felt none of the sorrow, none of the guilt he’d felt when he fell unconscious. Nothing. This confused him even more as he looked at his surroundings, trying to gauge where he might be.
He was in a room, which was a surprise in itself; a real room. There was no canvas tent, no thin cover from the blaring heat of the Carolinian sun, but real walls. The room had a floor, too; wooden and stiff and cold, though he didn’t mind much. The only light in the room came from a dim candle, flame jumping up and down, swaying in a wind John couldn’t feel. A window on one of the walls beside him let him know that night had fallen; the moon shone brightly, clouds inching nearer and nearer but never quite covering it fully.
John took a moment, taking in his surroundings, the expensive-looking furniture that reminded him of his family’s estates, places where he knew his siblings would be; Polly and Patsy and Harry. He wondered about them, briefly. Did they think he was dead, like he should be? He’ll have to write to them, he supposes.
What of his wife, and his child? Do they worry, or have they stopped caring about him, as he has stopped caring for them? He winces at how easily he thinks it.
And what of his father, what does he think?
He ponders and ponders and questions all that he knows because he has a family of his own and a family he’s grown up with and they must think he’s dead. All he’s doing is sitting in a lush room, worried about what they may think and doing nothing to—
He hears a cry.
It’s a raw, young cry; it seems to be coming from a baby. He wonders, guiltily, if Frances sounds like that, or if she’s a quiet one. He doesn’t think he wants to know.
He stands up all too easily, the wooden floors making no creaking noise under the shift in weight. He takes a step, feeling different in a way that he cannot explain nor understand. He feels light; airy, like he weighs nothing, the way he feels before going into battle. It’s a freeing feeling, knowing that he’s putting his life on the line each time, just as he’d done at the Combahee River.
He takes another step, and another, towards the sound of the cry, louder than ever. It echoes through the room and the hallways connected. John keeps going.
He reaches the door and leaves it, entering a hallway; at the end of it lies a stairway, leading down, but the cry is closer. A few doors are placed along the hall, one of which is open. As he lays his eyes on it, his ears confirm that the cry comes from that room.
He makes his way to the open door steadily, hoping that he won’t scare anybody along the way. He knows not how he got here, or who lives here, or who knows how he got here. It’s a scary thing, to know so little.
He’s just beside the doorframe when he hears another voice; “Shh, shh, it will be alright.” His breath hitches in his throat; in one moment, he feels much smaller than he is. He feels trapped in his injured body—frail.
No. It cannot be.
He takes one last tentative step, putting himself directly in front of the door, and looks inside.
It’s a nursery, as he’d suspected. There is a large crib against one wall, and a dresser against another. The cry has become quieter as the voice comforts it, that familiar voice he’d recognize anywhere—
John sees him.
He sits upon a rocking chair in a corner, gently swaying back and forth, holding a bundle in his arms. He whispers the sweetest nothings to the baby, burning red hair laid gently upon his shoulders and violet eyes staring down at the child like he’s never loved another being more.
Which is exactly the problem, because John knows that he’d loved another being more—he loves John.
John watches his Alexander from his perch against the door, his Alexander, ever-serious and never opening up, yet displaying a level of domesticity he doesn’t think he’s ever seen in him. Even in their most intimate moments, the fire in his eyes never burned this low, this soft, the ocean waves never stopped roaring in his mind. Perhaps it’s parenthood, John thinks, though he doesn’t believe it. What he believes is that the man before him has changed, and he cannot bear to witness it, but he cannot bear, even more so, to look away.
The man he’s devoted his heart to is before him after so, so long. He wants to run to him, to take his face in his hands and kiss him silly, run his fingers through his hair and make him laugh just one more time.
The baby quiets, finally, and the silence draws John from his thoughts. Alexander stands, oh so gracefully, and sets the baby in his crib gently. John can only watch, loving and hating the scene before him. He’d always known Alexander would be a loving father, but that doesn’t mean he’d wanted it.
The man in question turns around with the same look on his face that he wore when he knows he won; an argument, a battle, the war. John had seen it so many times, but not nearly enough; it hurts, truly raw and real, to see it again.
He realizes this is the first thing he’s really felt since waking up.
Question after question enters his mind as Hamilton walks by him, turning down the hallway and down the stairs like he isn’t there.
Alexander? John asks gently, turning around and watching him go. He doesn’t turn around.
John follows him down the stairs. Alexander?
But Alexander keeps walking forwards, unaffected by the man he loves so dearly calling his name. He’s as beautiful as ever, walking in that dignified way John always loved.
Alexander!
John follows Alexander into his study and watches as he sits down, oblivious to the man in front of him. He wants to yell, wants to scream, to rip his hair out—but Alexander would be disappointed.
Alexander can’t hear me, he whispers into the emptiness he feels so acutely, like it’s stabbing him.
Anger starting to rise, John marches over to Alexander, his back turned and pen already moving quickly upon parchment. He puts his hand on the man’s shoulder gently, lovingly, trying to keep his anger hidden. It’s the same way Alexander had laid the baby in the crib.
It works. Alexander whips his head around, eyes loud and expression scared.
“Hello?” He says to no one. John is right here, and Alexander is looking in his direction, but he isn’t looking at him. He’s looking right through him, eyes fixated on the door behind him while John stands, mouth agape as the pieces of the puzzle fall together.
He says nothing more, just watches as Alexander turns back around. He watches as he continues writing, not even sensing John’s presence as he always used to. The other aides had always laughed when one of them would walk in the room, because the other would know before setting eyes on them. They’d laugh along because it was love.
John doesn’t touch him again. He walks out of the office, retreats up the stairs, knowing that the war is won, but he’s lost all his battles.
He enters the room he had woken up in, staring into a mirror directly across from the door. He is not reflected in the mirror; not his bloody skin, dark blond hair, not the gaping wound in his chest that he’s starting to feel again.
Or maybe it isn’t the wound; maybe it’s his heart he feels.
Yes, he thinks, eyes drifting away from the mirror that has forgotten he’s there and onto the floor. He feels his heart, no longer beating, but still there. It sits heavily in his chest with no purpose other than to rot because the one man he truly loves cannot see him and does not hear him and he is dead. What purpose does a heart have if not to keep a man alive? What purpose if not to love?
His Alexander has his loves; he has his son, Philip. He knows his name, has it memorized, has imagined the child as his own so many times—but he is not his. Alexander has his wife, his Betsy, who John knows is an amazing woman. He just can’t help but be sour towards them because his Alexander is content without him.
He is not in the mirror, he is not in Alexander’s mind, not in his heart. He is dead and he has accomplished nothing.
What does all of it matter, if he will not be remembered?
He walks into the room and lays on the patterned sofa as if it were a bed. He does not think to take off his shoes—not that he will stain anything. As he shuts his eyes, he feels it all coming back to him; the pain in his chest, the regret, the guilt, knowing he would never see his Alexander again and knowing he let down his family.
He did have things to live for. He just hadn’t known it was worth it.
Now, he feels indescribable pain; he is being torn apart and rearranged, put back together messily, knives and needles cutting him to shreds and sewing him back together. His heart has been taken out and thrust back inside of his chest, in the entirely wrong spot, and in every way the room had felt right he feels wrong because none of the love is meant for him.
He gets to see Alexander, but Alexander can’t see him. Alexander doesn’t even care.
That’s what hurts most of all; more than the weapons in his mind ripping him apart, or the invisible tools trying to keep him in one piece; more than the guilt permeating his being because he’s left so much unfinished; more than knowing he’s a failure to everybody. Alexander doesn’t love him, and the even death cannot relieve him of that fact.
John Laurens is dead, just as he’s wanted to be so, so many times.
John Laurens deserves the pain, and he’s known that, accepted that fact so, so many times.
He just never thought that he didn't deserve love.
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