#so repressed

This just felt like something fun to do, and like a nightmare he may have. He seems like he was a youth with guilt.

Ink and watercolor on cotton

I wanted to play with tape resists

why would you say this to me koi ……….. WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY !€!.€,!]!€>!!<!€$?<$~$~$}!!!!! How am i supposed to go ON ABOUT MY DAY NOW !!!!!!!!!!

Thank you!

Like this :) Uhh, I got a little carried away there, this was supposed to be much shorter and I wrote this just before I went to bed, but ANYWAY, let's just hope for the best!

-

"We needed those cannons, John, what the fuck is your problem? You didn't complain when we were doing it!"

John stared, his mouth in a harsh line, looking like he wanted to snap something Alex would need some time to forgive.

"I know we fucking needed them, but that's not the point! You are my fucking problem, Hamilton!" he said, jabbing a finger in his direction - he didn't touch him, but Alex still felt as though that finger had stabbed into his chest like a knife might have.

"Why are we even having this conversation, then?" Alex said, his volume dropped from close to yelling to quieter even than he would speak under normal circumstances.

John's shoulders slumped, and he took a quick step closer, raised his arm like he wanted to reach out to him, hesitated. The only thing that betrayed his agitation now was the crease between his furrowed brows.

"God, fuck you, Alex. You don't get to do this, act like the victim now and have me crawl back-" Alex opened his mouth, but John waved him off. "You fucking moron. Look, you know you are my best friend, but this kind of bullshit - it fucking upsets me, all right? You could have died, and you act like you don't even realise it."

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, and Alex... Alex burned with the sudden desire to be away from him. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he grew more exhausted with each new minute - to drag his complicated feelings into this state was probably not the best idea.

God, it was just so fucking difficult with John fucking Laurens and his pretty eyes and adorable freckles, with his stupid smile that was brighter than the sun; John, who worried about Alex, who laid a hand on his shoulder and touched him like he was precious, John fucking Laurens who always insisted Alex was his best friend.

He didn't want to be John's best friend.

Alex blinked and was startled when his vision blurred with tears; he turned away before John could see.

"Don't pretend like I'm the only one between the two of us who does stupid shit like that, Laurens. But somehow it's only a problem when I do it, isn't it?"

John groaned and buried his hands in his curls, raked his fingers along his scalp and yanked in frustration, a few strands coming loose from his queue.

"Just get it into your thick head that you are important to me, would you?"

Alex snorted and crossed his arms in front of himself, tight enough it drew his shoulders inward and made him appear smaller.

"I know, I'm so fucking important, your best friend," he spat, not able to contain his bitterness any longer, and John dropped his hands to his sides.

"Why did you say it like that?"

Alex didn't answer, just angled his body further away, ducked his head.

"Is that- are we- is that not what we are? Alex? Do you not-" he stammered, and Alex snapped his head back up - he sounded genuinely hurt, his voice weak, and the last thing he wanted to do was to cause him pain, not even in his anger.

"I do love you, John," he said, quietly, and looked him straight in the eyes as he did.

His features relaxed, but his expression grew thoughtful as he returned his gaze, and Alex broke out into a nervous sweat.

"Just... not as a friend?"

He stayed silent, tried to avert his gaze but found he couldn't, and a flush crept hot into his cheeks.

John blinked. "Like a brother?" he tried again, but it was hesitant, like he only asked because he thought he had to.

Alex didn't respond for several too long moments and bit his lip - the silence pressed down on them and grew heavier with every second that passed by, wasted.

He should say yes. He should agree and move on, forget they ever had this conversation, but- but Alex had imagined what John would taste like again and again, too often over the past few months, and it really wasn't fair to him.

There was a good chance John would be disgusted, after all. That he would want to leave if he knew. No more best friend. No more John.

"More than," he forced off his tongue, and the silence came crashing down around them with the same intensity as though the ceiling had just caved in and crumbled apart onto their heads.

"More than," he repeated, hoarse; not disgusted, not appalled - just testing the words, and- and it was too much for Alex. God, he was so stupid, to say something like that out loud, to admit to it.

He couldn't take this, this silence, this tension, he felt like his knees would buckle under the pressure and he would snap apart.

John was between him and the door, so he had to brush past him on his way out, but John's arm shot up and stopped him in his tracks with a firm but gentle grip around his biceps.

"John-" he began, eyes on the wooden floor-boards.

"I love you. More than a brother," he said, and Alex's breath stuck in his throat.

He raised his head slowly, met John's eyes and saw nothing but sincerity in them, and Alex wanted to cry.

"Wh- really?" he said, voice small, and John nodded, huffed a stunned laugh that eased some of the tension between them. He raised his other hand to Alex's face and cupped his cheek, stroked a thumb over his skin, careful like he was made of porcelain, as though John had never touched something as delicate. Alex would have been offended if he wasn't so smitten.

"Can I kiss you?"

Alex's breath hitched, and he answered by taking a bold step closer and tilting his face up, and John understood.

It was soft. His lips were chapped but warm, and so soft, so gentle, and Jesus Christ, Alex was kissing another man-

But he couldn't bring himself to care. It was John, John was kissing him, and he tasted so sweet, and somehow the smell of gunpowder and sweat only enhanced that.

He curled his hand around John's nape and tugged him closer, pressed his lips to his with more insistence, and fuck yes.

The kiss turned firmer, more demanding, and his lips tingled with it, his body thrummed when John swiped his tongue along his lower lip, and Alex opened up without hesitation.

It was hot, it was messy, and Alex wanted it to never end.

He couldn't say how long it was before John pulled away, both of them panting, heavy breaths mingling in a way that shouldn't have felt as intimate as it did.

"I think we should talk," John said, his eyes closed, and leaned his forehead to Alex's.

Alex hummed in agreement, but neither of them made any move to step out of their embrace.

"Can I have another kiss first, though?" he said, and John chuckled, a smooth rumble that had Alex's heart skip in his chest.

Anyway, here's my two cents.

I send my love to @sorrydearie and @czpla because they are my rocks, writing wise. And specifically for this story, they deserve shared credit for the tropes and headcanons.

Send me a word, if it’s in my wip document I’ll answer your ask with the sentence that it appears in

I TOO am all about the emotions, I SWEAR, but all my characters just clench their FISTS and their JAWS and they SWALLOW HARD and LOOK AWAY and say things like, “Look—” and “Just…” and practice other psychologically inadvisable ways of not-really-dealing with their feelings. (I don’t know where they got it from!) Emotional repression is a central theme™ in my oeuvre.

A n y w a y here’s the next best thing, a “feeling” from the only WIP I’m actually actively working on at the moment (giving you several sentences to make up for the fact that the word “emotion” isn’t in any of my WIPs):

Seb drifts. He doesn’t fall asleep, he thinks, not exactly, but when Chris squeezes his neck and calls his name it takes him a while to come to. Like he’s struggling to wake up from an unnaturally deep sleep that’s loath to let him go. It clings to the dry insides of his eyelids and weighs down on the back of his tongue, coils tightly around his windpipe. Feeling a spike of panic, Seb gropes around for the bottle of water Chris gave him earlier; he can’t tell whether it’s been minutes or hours. He drinks from it, shakily.