John Laurens & Alexander Hamilton

WE ARE MORE THAN WILLING TO DIE

Summary: Alexander Hamilton's more than willing to die- for their cause, the revolution, this war, for their country, a new nation they'll make. He's reminded once again that he's also got people he'd like to grow old with, once its over.

I am more than willing to die.

The silence felt deafening, and Hamilton stood still, feeling every nerve in his body burn with anticipation. He felt small. Having just had an outburst, yelling straight to Washington's face… He blinked once. Twice. Waited for the upcoming backlash, readied himself for whatever might come his way. He and Washington had always been on questionable terms, at least in his eyes. The general attempted a friendlier relationship, which Alexander could accept more if it weren't so obvious.

But having knowledge Washington showed favoritism towards him was infuriating. If anyone saw that, and saw him in his current position, there would be no doubt they'd speak, and rumors would spread like wildfire, and all the work he had done to get where he was now would be put behind the bushes, brushed off as Hamilton being a leech on George Washington's greatness. He did not wish that. He wished for people to acknowledge his struggles, his work, his success, and adjudge it to him, not to anyone else, not to a friendly hand that helped him climb up the stairs of success. No, he had done his own share to get this far.

"Go home, Alexander—"

Hamilton's lips part, ready to backpedal, to come up with a reason, a excuse, anything to prevent Washington to continue this. He couldn't leave. Couldn't let things die like this, he couldn't, couldn't, he—

"—That's an order from your commander."

And if the fear of being forgotten and thrown to the side, left to rot with the memories of his short-lived success wasn't this big, the voice that told him to talk back, talk reason to the general, probably wouldn't have been shut silent.

"Sir—" His voice cracked, and he hated how scared he sounded, how unsure. A few words and Washington had made him sound like his younger self, unsure of his every step on his tragic life. It was just a word, whispered, but he hoped it conveyed how much he wanted to be here, needed to be here.

"Go. Home."

He searched for words, for phrases to win his place back, but the general had already turned his back on him, not even looking one last time over his shoulder.

Feeling defeated, he bit his tongue. Didn't want to dug the hole deeper than it already was. He turned to leave, deciding he should go speak to John before leaving.

His brows rose in puzzlement when he stepped outside, recognizing the pistol that laid before the general's tent. He crouched down to pick it up, and looked around, searching for his friend. John was nowhere in sight, and he sighed, his mind already providing reasons to why was his gun left forgotten. Laurens had probably stayed behind, waiting for Alexander. And he had probably listened to his and Washington's exchange.

He admitted to having sound unlike himself at some points, obviously desperate for some form of recognition in the battle. A recognition where his name would be spoken between their men, about his heroic acts, of how he had successfully lead them to another victory. He walked towards the tent he shared with Laurens, hoping he'd find him there. He'd like to explain himself to him. Not that he had too, but it could as well serve as a way to vent out his frustrations. Moreover, he wanted to congratulate Laurens for the duel he had had with Charles Lee. Wanted to tell him how well he had done, controlling himself, keeping his aim, not throwing away his shot. He had rose from the battle, satisfied, and had successfully defended Washington's name.

John Laurens had made him incredibly proud for various reasons.

Upon finding the tent unoccupied, he decided the best course of action now would be to gather his things in the meantime. If Laurens didn't return by then, he'd leave a quick note before leaving. After he finishes, there's barely a moment to think about pulling out a paper and a pen before John's cheerful voice rings in his ears.

"Hey, Alex— What are you doing?" The sudden change in tone is a giveaway of his surprise to finding the tent bare of Alexander's previous scattered belongings.

Alexander doesn't turns to face him, thinking through about what he'll tell John. "I'm leaving."

"Leaving?!"

The small hitch he hears on his friend's voice makes his heart ache with worry, and he turns to face him—"I'm not wanted here anymore, John."—, cuts the distance between them short and lets his hand rest on Lauren's shoulder. He smiles at Laurens, softening upon looking at those eyes widened by surprise. He forgets about the fact he must leave, for a second, and feels his anger and frustration bleed away. Its scary how easy John makes his problems fade, how quickly he calms his temper.

"Alex, you-you can't leave." John stutters, trips momentarily over his words, and the almost-smile on his lips disappears quickly. "We're in the middle of war."

John adds, as if that would change Alexander's orders. He smiles at him, somewhat melancholic. He'd miss him in the time he'd be gone.

"We need you, Alexander. You've got great brains and, and—"

The strain on his voice is notorious, and the redness around his eyes is tell-tale of how he had previously cried. Alexander can't help but mentally kick himself. If he only had more self-control over his mouth, he probably could avoid hurting those he cared about. "You did great on today's duel." He tells him, deciding to change the subject for both their sake. "Didn't expect less from a man of your caliber."

John whispers softly, "Just like you said. I didn't throw away my shot.", and Alexander swears John might be the friend he doesn't deserve. Because he's too good, too kind. He never seemed to have an ulterior motive, always comes with his intentions and emotions bared to Alexander. "I didn't throw it away and I— we—"

Alexander can't help but think John Laurens is the friend he doesn't deserve. Because he himself has been the cause of John's strife in more than one occasion, certainly. So when words seem to fail him, coming short for any apology he might need to give out, he brings his friend close to his chest, hugs him tight.

"Shh. I know, I know."

"Do you— are you really leaving?" He asks, softly, as if he's stepping over eggshells.

And it's probably due to the vulnerability he might be feeling at the moment, showing on his words, his tone, that makes Alexander replies just as softly, "Orders from your excellency."

John's laugh, although bitter, lifts some weight from his shoulders. "He doesn't know what he's letting go away. If I die I want you to tell Washington is because you weren't by my side."

The mere idea of John dying sends fear though his body, and his heart churns in pain at the thought. "No throwing away your shot, Laurens." He says in a playful tone, silently wishing for it to be true, for it to stand true. Because if Laurens died, he wouldn't know what to do, wouldn't know how he'd react to it, how he'd keep through life after it.

"I won't. But you're the one to help with clear thoughts." John hugs him tighter, and Alexander wants to laugh at the words.

Clear thoughts? They were all troublemakers, and Alexander was the first to propose crazy ideas, that most times than not could lead them to their death. "Could've sworn I was the one with crazy ideas."

"You are! Which means I'm the one to have the rational ideas."

Well, that made sense.

"Don't die, John. Not until we've won. And we've well lived past our prime, and our children tell our story." He says, remembering the times they would all go out and get themselves drunk. John, Lafayette, Mulligan and himself, they'd be like a chorus, repeating his last sentence. Until their children told their stories, none of them should meet death.

"Me dying seems as plausible as you throwing away your shot, Alex." John says, muffling his laugh against his shoulder, and Alexander smiles wide, presses a kiss against John's shoulder in a show of affection before he pulls away, still smiling at John.

"Never gonna happen, right?" Alex says, acknowledging his own insistence to his friends to not throw away their shot. If a shot is what you were given to live or die, you took it. You rose above it and kept going.

John replies, with a smile to match his own, "Never. You'll not get rest of me until we're both old."

He's okay with that. Alexander is perfectly okay with that idea. He'd love to grow old with his friends, share stories of their youth with their children, see his friends get married and live a happy life. He knows they deserve that much. So he repeats John something they've been repeating to each other in previous nights where sleep never came, where they stayed until late hours writing, and writing, and doing their best to come with a way to get what they so fervently fought for. A reminder for what they fight for, a reminder of their friendship, and their resolve, and their will to keep going and win the war.

"'Till the world turns upside down, John."

"'Till we meet again, Alexander."

He takes John's face between his hands, and playfully plants a kiss on the freckled nose of his friend. "You keep kicking ass for me, okay?"

"You keep your sanity for me, okay?"

Alexander laughs, and shakes his head, amused at how they could jest in such situation. These bright moments were the ones he looked forward after the war.

"We have a deal, Laurens."

.

Welp, here it is! Last chapter to this story that was written on the spur of the moment :). Hope you guys enjoyed it, short as it might be!