AN: So after like 4 years of absence, I leap into a completely new fandom, with the only display of my writing skills being my 2013 fanfics, which are, plainly put, simply horrendous. I wrote this in the middle of my exam week and about an hour and a half ago, I decided to type it up, polish it, and publish it. It's currently 4 AM. As you can see, I clearly have great decision-making skills. (I don't.) Anyway, expect several historical inaccuracies as I have not read Ron Chernow's Alexander Hamilton, I am not American, and I am not a historian in any way, shape, or form. I also do not know if good ol' Alex had a grandfather clock in his study, or he even had a study.
I'm going to regret this when my brain wakes up and punches me in the face later.
There is a grandfather clock in his study.
He's never taken much notice of it. It helps him when he needs to know the time, of course, and it scares the devil out of him with its noon chimes when he's lost in his writing, but otherwise, he doesn't take much notice of it. Its ticking is louder than most clocks but it lingers as no more than a dull rhythm in the background and hardly registers in his mind.
When Eliza reads out the letter from John Laurens' father, Alexander's heart stops beating.
In that moment, there was nothing more palpable than the relentless ticking of that grandfather clock.
Of course, his heart continues to beat. As if nothing happened. As if he has not just received news of his dearest friend's demise.
That is the cruel reality of it all. The world will keep turning. The people will keep cheering. It doesn't matter that one of America's soldiers has just passed, in the midst of fighting, no less; life will continue on just the same.
Eliza is concerned.
Alexander draws in a shaky breath.
"I have so much work to do," he says.
He does. Winning the war does not mean freedom just yet. There is so much that has to be done to ensure that this newly liberated nation does not fall flat on her face in her rush to leave King George's cage. There are systems to be formed, laws to be set, and endless, endless, endless paperwork.
That is fine with him. It keeps him busy, keeps him occupied, and the unexpected letter does not deter him. In fact, it proves to be more of an incentive than anything. He lets the ensuing work sweep him away into a world of words, his world of words, shaping laws and governance, ensuring order maintains a tight hold on this excited, freed nation.
That is how his days feel like – a cycle of writing, speaking, presenting, proposing, working, working, working, rinse, wash, and repeat. It is as Burr calls him: non-stop. He is aware of Eliza's weary eyes, watching him dart from one place to another, pausing only long enough to scribble down a few more essays before moving on to his next task. Then there are days when he stays rooted at his desk for several hours, a stiff hunched ball of ink spilling words onto paper.
He does not allow himself to be unoccupied for longer than a moment. For a moment is all it will take for him to unravel and he has no time for that, no time to indulge in emotional weakness.
So he holds himself together. Everybody's busy; Hercules has expanded his tailoring business and when they do meet, it's to discuss the manumission movement. Lafayette is caught up with France's own revolution. Burr works as his co-council on some of his cases. At some point, they'd become sort of friends, occasionally meeting to dine, usually at Burr's invitation. However, he makes it a point to ensure it doesn't become a frequent endeavour. There is no time for leisure; he does not have, cannot allow himself, such a luxury.
Eliza is concerned.
He assures her that he is fine, only a little tired, yes, he'll catch a nap, maybe, right after finishing the next one, two, three stacks of papers-
He dismisses Hercules' inquiries on his wellbeing.
He ignores the concerned glances Burr occasionally sends his way.
As the days go on, the nudges of his suppressed grief grow stronger. It is building up a storm, building up to a climax that is sure to swallow him whole, but still, he pushes the notion away. He pushes it away until he can no longer, until he is forced to yield under the shove it is bound to retaliate with, tenfold.
And yield he does.
Midnight sees him hunched over his desk, quill scratching madly against the parchment before him, soon to join the rest stacked on his left, all tattooed with his scrawled penmanship. His fervent mutters, hushed and rapid, match the pace of his scribbling. His study is the only one kept awake by the candlelight on his desk; the rest of the house is content to wander in the land of dreams.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It's not like him to allow such a petty thing to grate on his nerves, but it does. It is the only other sound present in the room. With every tick, he feels himself tense, pushing himself to write faster. Aware of every second that passes by, of every second wasted, he huffs, urging his mind to work harder.
A question pushes to the forefront of his mind, shoving aside all other thoughts with an intensity that matched that of a savage dog.
"Why do you write like you're running out of time?"
It was a question Burr had asked him earlier in the day. Alexander had responded with a curt, "Why do you wait like you're not?" Burr had looked as though he was about to retaliate but seemed to think better of it and had instead turned away with a shake of his head.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
There is hardly any pause in his writing, even between sentences. His hand is aching, threatening to cramp. The feeling has taken residence in the appendage for hours now. He doesn't give it the chance to yield to such weakness. It would only get in his way, waste more time-
"Why do you write like you're running out of time?"
It is a legitimate question. It is a question that Alexander can answer, just as he can start an impromptu debate with someone who opposes his beliefs and is clearly in the wrong. He has always been open about what he believes in, unlike Burr. Answering the question wouldn't have been hard at all. Launching into a tangent about how time is a precious and severely underappreciated asset in this world and explaining how absurd it is to see the sheer number of people who don't make use of the time that they have been blessed with would have been easy. In fact, Alexander has several opinions on the matter; to write a few essays on the subject could be something to consider-
No. No, there is no time, there are more important things he has to tend to. None of his boundless opinions, excuses, or political beliefs would ever be able to outdo the one, singular reason for his drive. The incentive to his work, the bare foundations for his constant endeavours-
Tick. Tick. Tick.
His quill snaps. He looks down. He'd been writing too fast, too vigorously, caught up in that particular train of thought. Not that he doesn't appreciate the brief distraction – it had been a train headed for the edge of a cliff.
The parchment is torn from where the tip of his quill had caught in the paper and a smear of ink smudges over the words he'd been writing. Ink drowning in ink. It's a laugh, he thinks. Ink has been an intrinsic part of his life for as long as he can remember, for what else allows him to express himself through the bottomless well of words residing in his mind? Yet, when too much of itself is cast at once, it drowns out itself, tunes itself out beyond the comprehension of the others who view it.
It's all too much, isn't it?
No. It isn't. It is too little. He is doing too little. Not enough. Never enough.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He wonders what the hell he is doing, sitting there and watching the ink from his broken quill bleed into the table, staining it further. He should be getting up, should be replacing his quill with a new one, should be continuing his work.
He isn't, though.
He is wasting time.
"Why do you write like you're running out of time?"
Of course, Burr wouldn't understand. Alexander doesn't understand him. They don't understand each other. They are two sides of the same coin, always trying to catch a glimpse of each other and always failing.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He is running out of time. They all are. He's just a lot more aware of it than the rest. Laurens taught him that. Laurens showed him that. Laurens-
John Laurens-
His breath hitches and he suddenly finds it hard to swallow. The torn parchment is damp. So are his hands. It's not ink. He blinks hard, once, twice. There's something in his eyes.
John Laurens is-
He stands up, as if the motion would be able to stop his mind from completing the sentence. It works, perhaps a little too well. His head spins, his vision blurs for a second, and he just manages to keep his balance. He briefly wonders when he last slept or ate. Belatedly, he registers the clatter that occurred when he stood up and he looks over his shoulder to see his chair fallen over from his abrupt action.
He hopes that he has not roused anyone in the household from their slumber.
"Why do you write like you're running out of time?"
Because he is. Because there is so much he has to do, so much he has to make up for. Because if he doesn't get things done now, if he doesn't see through his pledge to keep America on her feet, none of his efforts would mean anything.
Because John Laurens is dead.
The finality of that statement slams into his gut and he inhales sharply, planting his palms onto the table to ground himself. He can hardly see for the tears pooling in his eyes, a deluge of shame and regret spilling over and splattering onto the dark stains of the already soaked parchment.
John Laurens is dead.
Alexander takes in a shuddering breath. His thin frame is trembling, the whirlpool of exhaustion and grief sucking him in and closing over his head.
He writes like he is running out of time because John Laurens is dead. He died for him. He died for a cause the both of them had pledged their lives to. The war was over, he didn't have to die, but he still did, and doesn't Burr get it? If Alexander doesn't manage to make a difference before his own demise, he will have failed John. He will have failed everyone.
Tick. Tick.
Slowly, Alexander starts to sit down before he remembers that the chair has fallen over. So he sinks to the ground instead. He hates this despondency, pulling him down, stopping him from his work, but the feeling has been reduced to a bubble in an ocean of exhaustion and grief. He just, he needs to sit down for a little while.
Just for a moment.
Tick.
That blasted grandfather clock.