Lams Summer

The only thing that could overthrow the pain of the never ending pile of correspondence was the one Laurens felt in his shoulder.

It had only been less than a week since he'd originally gotten the bullet wound, and yet he was bound to go back to his duties as early as such, as he deemed those most important. It was not solely his decision, though. He was given leave off of the resting which he had been forced to before, partly because the other aides were in need of more assistance, so no one could properly blame him for it. And, in addition, Laurens finally became an official aide-de-camp of the General, resulting in his want of doing the best of his work – and definitely not slacking it – only growing.

Yet he didn't have nearly enough time to heal, which resulted in his shoulder aching badly after hours of writing and conducting letters. He'd taken short breaks, but none were really sufficient.

The other aides obviously did not ignore that, helping Laurens wherever they could, taking some letters off of his piles whenever they managed to get done with a good part of their own. And while he appreciated that, he was sure that he could manage it on his own.

By the time the pain got nearly unbearable, it was already in the early hours of the night, marking hours of non-stop work.

Laurens cursed under his breath, earning a concerned gaze from Hamilton, not unlike the ones he'd gotten from the man previously. He'd been getting those all day whenever the man wasn't all too engrossed in whatever he was writing. It would've almost been exceedingly sweet if not for it being so continuous, making Laurens feel like he was a sick man on his death bed.

He quickly finished up writing some dispatch, his handwriting suffering in pair with his wound, before he got up and excused himself in a mumble to get a short break.

But before he could leave, Fitzgerald called after him. "Ah, Laurens, could you bring some coffee when you come back? I'm sure most of us are in dire need of a refill."

Everyone left in the office grumbled in agreement, at which Laurens nodded.

"I will be back shortly," he said, trying to go out of the door for the second time, only to get interrupted by Hamilton abruptly standing.

"I shall help. I find myself in need of a short respite also."

Meade snorted from his desk, skeptically regarding Hamilton. "That our dear Hammie freely decides to take a break in the middle of a work day… Truly a rare occurrence."

Hamilton gave the man a glare, though it held no true offense, and strode to Laurens' side.

"I am merely a man who knows his limits," he declared in a proud fashion once he got over his feigned annoyance. "I have no need for prolonged breaks in most daily occurrences, which I am sure of, but even then I am aware of the importance of having one occasionally. I just oftentimes don't see the need for myself. Currently, I do. So, if you truly care for it that much…"

Laurens chuckled, rolling his eyes so that no one – bar Hamilton – could see. 'Oftentimes' was not at all exaggerated, perhaps even much too soft a word, as it was a known recurrence that Hamilton had no taste for "unnecessary" breaks unless ordered so.

Meade was about to say something else, until Fitzgerald intervened. "As much as I am enjoying this, I'd prefer it if I could actually concentrate on this letter, and I'd rather have these two come back with the promised coffee as soon as possible."

Before anyone else even could, Hamilton agreed wholeheartedly – perhaps with a little too much enthusiasm – all but shoving a delighted Laurens out of the office, and closed the door behind them.

As soon as the door shut, Laurens placed a hand onto his shoulder, rubbing at it to ease the pain (which somehow worked, even if just slightly), yet a smirk still didn't fail to reach his face.

"Meade isn't exactly wrong, is he? What has gotten into you?" He jested smugly, raising his brows to get a reaction out of Hamilton.

He only let out a breathy chuckle. Instead, his eyes fixated on Laurens' shoulder, seeming quite distracted by it.

"Are you alright?" Hamilton decided to ask upfront, likely happier to get his answer without any further waiting.

He was doing about as good as you'd expect a person who'd recently gotten shot would, but he was sure that it could've been worse, and he believed his duties mattered more, so he didn't want Hamilton to focus on it far more than he should. "It is simply bothersome, nothing to worry about."

"'Nothing to worry about'!" Hamilton let out an incredulous breath, clearly annoyed at Laurens dismissing his pain, "You keep squirming the moment you have to move your arm more than just along a page, Laurens. I can hardly not do it."

It was no lie, he could not deny that. The pain in his arm had gotten agonizing, and moving it too much made him visibly cringe. And, damn him, he found it sweet that Hamilton worried so. If only he didn't do it just as much.

"I am doing better now. It does hurt sometimes, yes, but it should not concern you as much as it did days ago. I am fine, Alexander." Laurens let out a soft sigh, only saying Hamilton's Christian name after he made sure that there was no one to hear them. It were times like these that he was happy that they worked until most of the house had already gone to sleep.

Hamilton took his hand and squeezed it once, taking advantage of their luck. "Or perhaps it should concern you more. I am aware that you are capable of acting on your own. I am simply just asking you to prioritize your health, instead of taking on even more work as you have."

The tone made it seem like it was more of an order, rather than an ask, and Laurens assumed that he wanted it to be perceived as such.

While he did find it reasonable, he still felt like it was an obligation. The reason he got his higher rank did not satisfy him enough, so he wanted to compensate, or at least show that he was worthy of it, by working as best as his abilities could allow. To him, the shoulder was only an inconvenience.

Laurens squeezed Hamilton's hand back in hopes of reassuring him. "I am taking care not to pain myself too much. I just wish to show my worthiness of the position, that is all."

Hamilton was still skeptical, and maybe even more than he was before. This time, he placed his other hand to Laurens' cheek, searching for more affections, or perhaps to comfort him.

"The General did not give you the position just to take it away from you if you, God forbid, righteously take care of your health. I am sure he'd even encourage you to," he said, pausing for a second. Laurens was about to speak again, but that is when Hamilton spoke up before he could. "Your efficiency will not increase if you do it through discomfort, as aggravating as that might be. I should know."

Hamilton's eyes narrowed, matching the stern tone of his voice. Laurens remained silent, thinking about it.

He would've continued with his stubborn refusions, especially now that what Hamilton was so ardently arguing for was pretty hypocritical, but the pain in his shoulder did not subside, if only even gave him another pang of it.

He tried not to squirm again, failing evidently. Hamilton's gaze grew only more concerned, but, for once, he decided to keep quiet – the only action being him quirking an eyebrow – and wait for Laurens' reply.

"…I suppose you are right," Laurens said finally, resigned.

Eyes finally softening, Hamilton brushed his thumb along Laurens' cheek, stood up on his tiptoes, and pressed a gentle kiss to it soon after. The action made him feel better simply with the tenderness of it.

Hamilton smiled, going backin place. "I know that I am. Be careful, my dear. And, if I do catch you doing that – well, I'm sure that it should not pose an issue to remind you that you've agreed with me prior…" Hamilton smiled softly, though with a little mirth tugging on the corners of his lips.

Laurens rolled his eyes to simulate irritancy, but still smiled in response.

"Aye, you may scold me if I do not take care. Or at least make me aware of my mishaps."

"Oh, trust me, I will," answered Hamilton.

Laurens simply chuckled. His eyes scanned all around them quickly. After that, he placed a kiss to his Hamilton's lips, who tried to kiss back as best as he could in those few seconds. They could not afford to prolonge it anyhow.

Already trying to resume the kiss, Hamilton abruptly stopped himself near Laurens' face, remembering himself and why they went out of the office in the first place.

His face lit up after a moment of silent contemplation, a smirk upon his lips once again.

"Do you suppose our dear friends would take offense to me taking you out on a stroll around the headquarters? I am still not quite so sure on the well-being of your shoulder, and I can only assume so are they," he asked, already pulling Laurens to the main door with no proper answer. There was no hidden meaning behind his inquiry, it seemed that he truly just wanted Laurens to have a longer rest from writing, even if just for some few minutes more.

Laurens could only follow, though he wouldn't say that he minded the proposition, so he did not resist the pull. "I do think that they wouldn't stop you from acquiring my rest, but I am sure that they will not be in best mood at us taking our time to bring them the promised coffee."

"So, we go on that walk?"

"Oh, aye. My wound would not appreciate me picking our friends over it right now."

And though it was not in his best comfort to share his vulnerabilities, as small as they may be, it was his dear Alexander, whom he knew he could share such things with, so his worries ceased as best as they could.

To his credit, Hamilton does no such thing. He only lets out a quiet snore every now and then, though they are more like sharp inhales. It gives the impression that he is always just on the verge of waking. 

The hot summer air also allows less modesty than Laurens would have hoped. Their bare chests are exposed; the slight sheen of sweat reflects the dying candlelight. He tries not to stare. Hamilton had been the first to strip himself bare, and Laurens followed soon after, unable to pretend he was above the heat when his would-be superior was not. They’d both kept their breeches on.

“I am accustomed to sleeping exposed.” Hamilton had said, tossing his sweaty garments across the room. Amusement seeped into his words. “You are in your right to complain about my state of dress if you so desire.”

Laurens had suppressed a grimace. “I have no complaints.”

Hamilton untied his hair, curls just grazing his bare shoulders. His blasted eyes caught the movement. Hamilton smirked, an ugly pretty thing. “I’m sure.”

He’d removed his own shirt out of spite then, but it took no genius to understand he’d already been exposed. 

Laurens thumbs the page of his sketchbook.

Any chance he had of sleep had been dashed the moment he’d entered this camp. The excitement in his chest had settled and hardened, leaving only the weight of his felled expectations. He knew this position was the farthest from the heart of the war, an honorable responsibility at best and a desk-job at worst. This position was so far removed from what he’d intended, but it was this or nothing at all. He could accept that. He would have, at least. 

Hamilton inhales sharply. 

Laurens waits, anticipating his awakening. It never comes, and Hamilton exhales into the open air. His lips are parted, ever so lightly, lashes fluttering.

Laurens dips his pen into the inkwell. Next to the woodpecker and right below the wild bergamont, he begins to sketch a face. The ink bleeds into the fiber of the page, a sharp contrast to the dark, charcoal lines of his previous work. He keeps his attention split between the subject and his own quickening lines.

If his second thought, the quiet amusement at Hamilton’s expense, had been all, he would be in bed at this moment. However, it was his first involuntary response that was the source of his late-night troubles. The thought that Hamilton would be fit to model. The thought of sketching his downturned eyes, his bumped nose and slight figure, and making a masterpiece of him. The thought of knowing what was behind that attractive face, seeing the best and worst of him, most of all.

Perhaps it showed on his face. Hamilton had turned to him and paused for so long, the stillest Laurens had ever seen. He’d looked at him from top to bottom, eyes narrowing on his face. A quirk of the lips—a frown? a smile?— was all he gave. It was uncomfortable. Invasive, even. Laurens felt a thrill crawl up his spine nonetheless.

It was the thrill of simply knowing. He knew next to nothing about Hamilton at that moment, but that one look exposed a trove of fundamental truths. Deficiencies as well. Flaws that marked them both. Flaws that had been his burden to carry since as long as he could remember. Hamilton knew. Laurens knew. It was exhilarating. It was terrifying. All it took was one movement of those pretty lips.

Laurens pauses his strokes. The handsome face on the page stares back at him, despite its eyes being permanently closed. It lacks a mouth, voiceless. He swallows.