;;& ⁽ ᶤ ʷʳᵒᵗᵉ ᵐʸ ʷᵃʸ ᵒᵘᵗ ⁾

         ❝  OF COURSE IT DOESN’T. it happens for everyone else, perhaps, but  n o t the one who isn’t there, & in this case, the one who made a promise. therefore, promises made for after supper activities cannot be suitably kept, as the promiser has not attended supper, therefore, supper DID NOT happen.  ❞   angelica is quick to counter, eyes lighting up the moment her father turned to look at her. she grins, nose crinkling as she continues.  

         ❝  & it might not, if you don’t come down. mama sent me to fetch you. PHILIP is preparing to sit down & draft apetition for your attendance, then ALEX is going to stand on a chair & read it loud enough for the whole house to hear,& i believe mama has a headache what with the littler ones & i tried to tell him not to but –  ❞  here is where the girl stops for a breath, a rareity in itself, & shakes her head.   ❝  well, he’s quite set on it. so as you see, your attendance is of the utmost importance.   ❞

          “ a FINE conclusion to draw, my dear, and well-stated -----almost fit for the courtroom. be sure to not loose such quick wit when the mind ages. “          indeed, there in blue eyes glows a small spark of PRIDE at her astuteness ( even if rushed tones hold the twin falsities of exaggeration and fantasy ).          “ BUT, we first ought to re-examine the definition of supper; perchance it pertains to a time during which a nightly meal is consumed -----thus supper passes with or without my attendance, and my promise still TRUE. “          a laugh bubbles past his lips at that, a free hand coming to rest on the curve of her slim shoulder.

            “ is that your arrière-pensée? ”      ( or is it part for the neglectful correspondence? )      “ my stance on this matter remains unchanged whether we are ’in person’ or not. i am not going to quit until i see our slaves are enfranchised—– ”      syllables stumble out in rancorous & embittered tones, dropping heavy like stones from lips to dark woodwork.

civil wars prompts - NOT ACCEPTING!!

          night and RESTLESS thoughts steals him from the warmth of lauren’sembrace, a hoop of warmth buried beneath blankets and reeking of safety thatdoes not truly exist ( no e x p a n s e is safe from war —–it bleeds and stains allit can touch, and even that it does not ). and perhaps greatest of all, warsteals into the dreams as men try to use the vestiges of sleep escape from theharshness of truth only to find the realities of the imagined are often worse.hamilton usually takes up his quill to stave off its DEADLY kiss, but withnight pressing with dark fingers and tallow candles precious until the next supplies arrive he dare not,instead turning to chilly air to soothe his worries.

          the sentries nod to him when he passes, his fingers clutchedinto the coarse fabric of a threadbare navy jacket, dragging it closer toscrawny frame to shield against the buffeting wind. the crunch of leavesbrings a MONOTONY to dull the course of frantic thoughts, not unlike that of a dull quill scraping its last words; hamiltondoes not dislike the sound, chaos of the mind getting tangled between frost-brittleleaves of red and gold.

          he does not expect to stumble upon the general, and hecertainly does not predict his wandering to find his excellency caught in themidst of sleep’s throes.

          tis not his place to see such a scene, but nor would it bewise to turn away lest the redcoats be closer than the scouts report -----howGUILT would gnaw at his bones if such a thing were to occur! ( and he too knows the horror of being stitched into a NIGHTMARE without escape, and wishes it upon NO ONE ). and so he approachesall the closer, hand outstretched with tentativeness written across each sinew. he is careful with his touch; many sleep these days with knives in hand in case of unfriendly intruders, and dreams too often cling to the gaze even after eyes have been opened. a gentle palm upon a broad shoulder, and tones taking on the sharp edge of urgency ( not unlike the wind that sneaks between the seams and buttons of a forgotten jacket ).

          it always takes him to the same place; the press of a quill in hand and the STEADY rasp of the nib against parchment lulling the mind off to eerie quiet where nothing may distract him and the world falls QUIET to the simplicity of ink and words. the ghosts fall silent in the recesses of his pen as desperation runs from the ridges of poised fingers into the sharp lines of careful prose stamped in neat lines that don’t quite reflect the recesses of his psyche properly ( they don’t know about the ache his fingers if he does not let free the sentences locked inside, the calamity of voices as they reach a pinnacle of volume until he is not sure that they are truly all his own ). he writes and the world melts away to the one locked inside. these tendencies annoy many to no end; when alexander retreats to dance with his quill outside voices are too often sealed from the chamber of his focus, and few are granted access inside.

          john laurens is ONE.

          how EASY it is for the razor edge of desperation to soften at a single touch, familiar fingers tracing the fragile lines of a wrist and stilling the ink running volatile through his veins ( they are there, the words, always there begging to be released from their cage and spilt across pale parchment----- and there is not enough TIME to release them all ). desolation still trembles under fragile skin, but his quill falls silent at the urging of tender affections, fingers limp as they allow the quill to slip from frozen grasp and the words clamor for him to snatch it up once more-----          “ alexander. “          the voice with its poignant inflections and worried undertow washes over all the others, drawing his gaze upwards, a dying candle accenting the madness still buried between violent flecks ( madness that fades to blankness, ink-stained fingers entwining almost uncertainly around each other ). yes? he wants to say, but sound dries up in his throat, swallowed in the wake of an erratic beat. he knows the meaning behind the single utterance of a name, anyways.

          ba-boom. ba-boom. ba-boom.

          his heart sounds too LOUD in his ears, breath unsteady as it hisses from quivering lips. his is balance upon a knife’s edge, and still, eyes stare upwards at his dearest friend until-----.

          he is drawn like a moth to flame to the glow hidden in the swirls of john’s irises, a MARIONETTE tugged jerkily along with frayed strings from its chair. cold fingers settle along the pulse thundering along the curve of a neck, white clouds escaping in a whisper over his tongue -----a name, quietly exhaled before alexander all but FALLS into the other. ( and it is like falling into the warmth of a bath after knowing nothing but rivers cut in winter ). eyes drift closed with fingers tracing against the fabric of his coat, and it is warm, so WARM. nestled between the cove of arms linked fast about slim frame it is SAFE, the ink of words careening against the confines of his skull fading to more white noise -----the sensation of a heart, alive and strong and REASSURING filling him and chasing the glacier from his veins ( finally turning the corners of lips into a faint smile, so RARE in these days like a flower in the deepest snows ). captured here with head tucked beneath john’s chin is a limbo that feel less like reality and more like a dream ( like pearly gates and golden clouds ); alexander would never leave if the world would let him.

         ( the world would never let him STAY ).

          lids slip open once more to INK from an overturned well seeping through his sleeve with slow chilliness, writing over the warm echoes of fingers painted against his skin as darkness presses with anything but the consoling comfort of a loving embrace. ( his quill is on the floor and his fingers lined with ICE ).

          eyes fracture open and he remembers the war ended in yorktown and his WORLD months later with a letter clutched between eliza’s fingers ( news delivered on a gentle tongue that did LITTLE to soften the pain of the blow ).

          he opens his eyes to a world full of GHOSTS that will not leave and continue to haunt in their nostalgic ways ( in the blue eyes of strangers, in the notes of a lullaby dropped from the cold lips of a woman without a home, and in the white petals of flower sold by the street stand two blocks away ).

          shadowy phantoms line his bones worse than any WINTER, chilling the beat of his heart and driving ice through blue pricked veins, allowing the voices to clamor for attention in his head once more ( not one is the one he wishes the most to hear ). absence resonates so PROFOUNDLY like the vacancy of heat ( of love ) because it cannot be felt until it’s too LATE and empty eyes are left to stare at a door that will never open again ( until lips cannot utter three words because corpses do not HEAR ). it HURTS because nothing can truly replace what has been lost ( eliza’s love helps in its own soothing way, a warm balm that goes cold too quickly and tainted with his guilt ) and sometimes even the age-old tactic of words upon words upon WORDS only leaves him feeling more empty. he should not shame his grief and try to cage it behind the too-weak prison bars of his heart, for emotions are not so easily grappled with, demanding to be felt in the end, one way or another. but he DOES: hands shaking as they angrily dash tears from their tracks and reach from a new piece of parchment.

          the UNMISTAKABLE rapping upon their door breaks through the sounds of his own amusement, hands clasped about his DEAR son as he bounces him upon his knee. eliza’s hands are busy with chopping and stirring and mincing, so upon the resounding echoes down the hall once more, alexander rises to attend to their unexpected guest at their stoop with phillip ( amusing himself with a spoon snatched from the dinner table ) balanced upon one hip. the tender look never quite leaves his eyes as feet take their course towards the front door, fingers running briefly through loose auburn strands before fixing around the brass knob.

          surprise catches his tongue as the door swings inward and a familiar figure, all broad shoulders, kind blue eyes, and profile he’d be hard pressed to FORGET, meets him. the fabricated greeting used too OFTEN upon those with pamphlets clasped in hand quickly dies in its place in his throat ( indeed, it would seem all words have forsaken his mind ). the spoon tumbles from phillip’s grasp, clattering loudly against woodwork, and alexander finally unsticks his tongue, syllables tumbling out in more a gentle exhale of breath than true utterance.          “ -----laurens. “