#lamstober

We thought ourselves so acquainted with death, Gilbert thinks drowsily, but now, it’s all too real. He almost wants to laugh. At them. At himself. For thinking they were better, for believing it would never be one of them. As though the idea none of them would die to be as obvious as stating the sky is blue. How wrong they were. And of all people for death to claim, it had to be him. How could they not think about it? 

The empty chair is a permanent reminder. Death could take us fast. Hamilton was only here this morning, wasn’t he?

Although, someone else was also there. In the seat by his side no less. Absent but not in death. 

Laurens.

Gilbert rubs a hand over his face. He can’t think of Laurens now, lest he start to grieve all over again. For Gilbert knows in his soul, that he has not lost only one friend tonight; but two. Because how could the death of one mean anything but devastation for the other. Those two came in a pair, after all.

He grieves for Hamilton. For Laurens. He grieves for the connection he fears is permanently gone. His friendship. All of it. Gone. 

A sound reverberates through the office, and he thinks that someone has started to cry again. But the pitying looks from the other aides tell him that in fact, the sound had come from him.

He doesn’t try to hide his tears, and he meets every gaze. He will not hide his grief. His friend is dead and he feels no shame in grieving him the way they all should. Because how could they do anything else? Did he mean nothing to them? Why do they hide? He doesn’t understand. They should be crying. All of them-

It’s Meade who grips his shoulder. 

He does not turn to face him.

Gilbert doesn’t need to turn to see what sort of look he’s giving him. He can hear it in his voice, “Check on Laurens, my friend.”

He huffs.

“If you think that will ease my grief,” he says hollowly, getting up anyways, “you did not see the look on that man's face.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

September 18th, 5:12 PM

“Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton is dead.”

It’s as if the world stands still. The Captain is the only motion in the room, still panting after the journey here.

The aides are quiet for only a moment before the room descends into chaos.

How? When? Who? Are you sure? It was Hamilton? Our Hamilton?

He says nothing, does not join. His mind has not caught up, still stuck on the word. Dead.

A guttural sound snaps him out of his mind.

Gilbert halfway believes Hamilton's ghost to be in the room. Because what else could make that sound, but some vengeful spirit? He raises his head to the true perpetrator, and finds only Laurens. Standing in the same place he was before, eyes open and wide. No tears, no sound. All Gilbert hears is his labored breathing, as though he cannot get enough air. As though he never will again.

“Joh-”

But when his eyes snap to him, Gilbert finds he also cannot breathe. There is only he and Laurens looking at each other. Over and over the message passing between their gaze.

Hamilton is dead. What do we do? Hamilton is dead and there was nothing we could do. Hamilton was just here. Just here, Laurens. Was he not just here? 

Hamilton is dead and nothing is right anymore.

John closes his eyes, their conversation interrupted. He leaves. The sound of his boots is the only thing Gilbert can process.

His gaze sinks to the floor. His cheeks are wet.

Gilbert is alone and he wishes would wake up already.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

September 19th, 12:53 AM 

Hamilton is dead. But he left many things behind.

He knows because Laurens has emptied his trunk. He has surrounded himself with so many letters and belongings that it looks like a nest. But a nest would be home, this mess is nothing but the remnant of one.

He tries to speak, his strained throat protesting, “Mon ami- please.”

Laurens does not appear to have heard him.

“Arrête.” John stiffens but does not stop. He continues shuffling through Alexander’s belongings. “Go to bed.”

John stops shuffling, but he still will not face him.

“It will not help you.” 

And finally, that seems to awaken him. He turns.

Gilbert expects tears. Or the evidence of them. Expects bags and stain and unkept hair and an expression carved with the devastation he feels deep inside his chest. He sees none of that

Laurens looks the way he does everyday. He does not appear to have cried at all. 

He looks to the mess beneath him, as if surprised it is even there, and looks to Gilbert. It takes him what feels like eternity to speak. “I need to find it.”

Gilbert closes his eyes, in pain. He crouches next to his friend. He speaks softly, like John is a bird that will fly away at the snap of a twig, “‘It?’”

John nods, beginning his shuffling once more, “Only one thing. And then I will…”

He sniffs. He turns to face away from Gilbert once more.

Gilbert reaches for the papers in his hand. Laurens grips them tightly, till his knuckles whiten, “Please.”

He says it with such pleading that Gilbert can’t help but loosen his grip. Laurens takes the correspondence from him swiftly, clutching it to his chest. They breathe. It feels like eternity.

John turns back to his papers.

“Can I help you find it?” Gilbert says, in a voice that cannot be his, because his voice has never been so small as how it sounds in his ears.

Laurens lets the words dissipate into the air, and he shakes his head. 

“You would not recognize it.” He says, seeming too small for his body. Too big in his uniform. He looks Gilbert in the eyes now, and Gilbert believes he does not see him. 

“I’m sorry.”

Looking back, Gilbert, for all the world, cannot remember who apologized.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

September 19th, 4:23AM

Gilbert is not asleep when he hears it.

He tried, oh lord knows how he tried, but nothing. He fears what he will see in his dreams tonight, should he succumb to exhaustion.

But he hears it now, some distant sound. It echoes through the walls, in his ears, and Gilbert feels it nestle deep in his bones.

He’s prepared to chase away whatever animal is making that noise. He is in no mood.

When he opens the door to the hall however, the noise is coming from inside Hamilton's room. He stiffens, and briefly thinks that Hamilton has come back to haunt them. But the noise starts again and Gilbert thinks the real source is worse.

His ears pressed to the door, Gilbert now knows it is no ghost, not an animal, a spirit, a vengeful Hamilton making this sound.

It is only Laurens. Sobbing- no howling into the night. 

A continuous stream of noise. The worst kind of melody. It’s too much for Gilbert to bear and that grief hits him all over again; spreading through the air like disrupted sediment. 

There is no muffling the noise, despite the thick door. Each wail is loud and animalistic. The only indication of time passing is the gasping breaths John takes every few minutes. Breathing appears to hurt, as he chokes on the few gusts of air he can suck into his lungs. Not enough to fuel his sobs but he somehow manages on will power alone. 

Gilbert is sure the rest of the aides hear him. He is sure they are all awake. Perhaps some even wish he would shut up and let them dream of a better day. One where Hamilton is still alive.

Gilbert can only press his cheek to the door, silent tears running down his face. 

He does not need to make noise, for it’s quite apparent Laurens grieves enough for the two combined.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

September 19th, 8:51 AM

“I was- I was reported dead?”

He isn't standing there. He can’t be. 

Alive.

It’s like a bad joke. A horrible, distasteful, insulting joke.

Neither of them find it funny. Laurens laughs anyways. Gilbert can’t quite muster it, but the grin splits his face in two.

Hamilton looks at them, mildly concerned, “Gilbert? John? Wha-”

Laurens reaches him first. He is right behind him.

There was never a tighter hold. They consumed him outright, his protest he damned. He is alive and they are making a fool out of themselves. Hamilton is fully smothered, and this time maybe their will alone is enough to keep him from harm's way.

But John is mumbling, like a prayer—damn you, damn you, damn you— between kisses, each one hitting like a fist to skin. The most loving kind. Gilbert is also kissing him, more to confirm the fact he is, in fact, there. Skin and all. Here and so wonderfully alive.

After a while, Hamilton stops resisting. Lets them insult and love him. Lets them see that he has not gone. He half thinks Alexander enjoys the attention, but what does it matter? 

Alexander can only mumble, “I’m here, my fools.”

When John shakes in response, he repeats it, cooing, “I’m here.”

John can only smile breathlessly.

“Aaron Burr,” Meade breathed, “what’s he doing here?” 

“Oh God… I don’t have the cash to pay off the owners this time,” Laurens murmured, “we avoid an escalation at all costs, understand?” 

“It won’t end up exactly like last time.” Meade had to hurry along beside him, taking four strides for every one of John’s. “That’s why there was someone on the door frisking for muskets."

As the two men approached their table, Hamilton and Burr lapsed into a tense silence. Laurens’ feet slowed, despite himself. He could not help but feel as if he and Meade were intruding upon a private conversation. 

“Here you go.” Meade set down Hamilton’s drink. Laurens remained holding his beer mugs stiffly. 

“Did you see where our friend went? The Marquis?” he addressed Burr. In return, Laurens received a lazy, feline blink from the other man. He did not move, even at the swell of raucous applause from two tables away. The violinist had struck up with a new tune; slower and more melancholic.

“Unless… you drink Sam Adams?” Laurens offered his spare tankard.

“You’re too clinical in your approach.” Hamilton’s voice drew Burr’s attention back to him effortlessly.  “You think everything comes down to technique.”

Meade, Laurens, his drink were mere apparitions to him now.

“If you’d ever partaken in a college-level competition, then you would know that it’s technique which counts!” Burr retorted.  

“Theory is only a part of it!” Hamilton slid his arm forward into a little split beer. If he noticed his blue coat darken at the elbow, he gave no indication. “It’s much more important that you be well-informed and passionate about the topic!”

“What are you two debating about?” Meade had taken the seat beside Hamilton, leaving Laurens to reluctantly join Burr.

“Debating,” the two men answered briefly. 

“Ah. Of course.”

Behind them, the pipe’s melody floated up and down. One voice was both out of time and tune. He was drawing out vowel sounds into meaningless shapes, clearly unfamiliar with the drinking song’s words. Meade looked round. Lafayette had his long arm slung around a middle aged woman, clinking their mugs together rhythmically and spilling foam all over her hand. 

“You do realise that what you just described is integral to the art of rhetoric,” Burr returned smoothly, “logos is knowledge and rationality. Ethos is the conviction with which one presents their argument - “

“- as usual, you’re all theory and no practice!” Hamilton snapped, “you can take a hundred college courses on rhetoric, read every book on the subject and still lack what it takes to win a debate!”

Meade and Laurens’ heads moved back and forth, following the volley of shots fired between the two men.

Burr rested his head in his hand. He laughed softly. “Please.” He lifted his face. “You have one technique, Hamilton. You’re a master of the filibuster. Waste enough time and your opponent gives in. Normally it’s because he can’t stand to hear your voice anymore.”

“Ham - “ 

Hamilton shrugged off Meade’s hand.

“See, that’s when you know you’ve lost the debate.” There was a steely glint in his eye. “When you resort to personal attacks.”

Burr laughed a little louder. Before he could interject, Hamilton closed in again.

“Or is that how they scored points at Princeton?”

Laurens rolled a sip of beer around his mouth. It felt flat and left a bitter taste on his tongue. 

“At King’s, did anyone stay in the room to add up your scores, Hamilton?’ Burr leaned back in his chair, smirking. “As much as you love an audience, I assume the auditorium emptied out as soon as you opened that abnormally large mouth of yours.”

Laurens watched Hamilton’s face; the subtle transformation from challenge to savage delight. As the rest of the tavern, its occupants and hearty singing faded to obscure background noise, he felt himself recede too. 

“I’d like to test the size of yours,” Hamilton seethed, “by putting my foot in it.”

He was transported. Laurens recognised the same hunger in Hamilton’s expression as when the pair were in battle. But John had never seen such a look directed at himself. He was too used to hearing Hamilton agree with him, whether the topic was politics, strategy… even which tavern they should visit. Hamilton’s responses were always agreeable - “this, here, is why we’re friends!” “Laurens, I’ve always had you as a clever fellow.” “That is precisely why I love you!”

Burr was smiling nastily, one leg draped over his knee. It was a calm invitation for Hamilton to advance again.

Laurens’ knuckles whitened against the handle of his beer mug.

“Careful where you put your foot, sir," Burr warned, “I bite.”

Laurens glowered into his tankard, avoiding Meade’s sympathetic eye. He didn’t need the man’s pity. He didn’t need to subject himself to the blatant flirtation occurring under his nose. He certainly didn't need the caterwauling from several tables over. 

Hamilton scoffed. “That’s not what I heard downtown, Burr. Allegedly, your customers report their appendages free from teeth marks.”

Meade choked into his flask.

Burr slid his chair out noisily. He slammed his palms against chipped wood, leaning his body aggressively over the bench. Hamilton stared at his prize, oblivious to the blur of sound and colour around him.

Laurens had vanished behind a veil of smoke. Hot, prickling humiliation crept up his neck.

“I would cordially invite you to suck it,” Burr spat, “but that wouldn’t be doing me any favours.”

Hamilton’s slow smile turned Laurens’ stomach. His nostrils flared, throat tightening as though he would retch into his mug.

 “Oh, I respectfully disagree.”

Laurens felt the sting of an unprovoked slap. He glared over at Lafayette, who was now slurring into the woman’s ear (“You and I… we ‘ave such a connection!”) John glanced back at Meade who was staring down at his pint in embarrassment. 

Burr uttered a humourless laugh. Then he leaned in closer, so that the men were almost nose to nose. Hamilton did not blink.

“Do you?” he asked slowly, “then you misunderstand me, man. I don’t want that insufferable mouth of yours anywhere near me.”

“And yet, you aren’t exactly tearing yourself away.”

Burr finally acknowledged Laurens. But not closely enough to see the trembling of his clenched hands.

“Your friend is such a delight. How have you managed to go for so many years without kicking him?”

There came the crash of wood as Laurens flung his chair backwards. The back hit the cobblestones so hard it splintered. A passerby yelped as he leapt out of its path, causing him to slop beer down his shirt.

“I reserve that for whoresons like you!” John roared. Burr’s eyes widened as the man towered over him. “Outside, Burr. My boot could use a polish.”

Hamilton and Meade sat open-mouthed.

“And if you don’t shut up with that infernal racket, I’ll make that pipe your lover!” Laurens roared at the musician. The man lowered his instrument, considering its length in horror. The violinist carried on for a few awkward strokes until he stopped and looked to the notorious corner of the room. Lafayette grimaced sadly.

“I…” As Laurens came back to himself, he took in the tables of staring eyes. He could feel the heat in his face abating. “I only…”

He gazed down at their table. Then taking up the other tankard he slammed it down in front of Burr. “The polite thing to do when you’re offered a beer is to take it. Here!”

And with that, he turned and marched out, up the stairs, and through the tavern door with a final, resounding crash.

The entire tavern was cowed into silence.

“I take that back,” Burr spoke as he calmly removed his handkerchief from inside his coat and began wiping the beer from the table. “Laurens is clearly the one who loves an audience.”

—

uncolored version!