Warnings for mild sexual content & swearing. FF is still super annoying about formatting so that's why there are a bunch of random 'Hamilton's in the middle.

Enjoy the angstfest before you :)

I know that you cannot live on hope alone, but without it, life is not worth living.

Harvey Milk

There are moments when the memories of happiness and contentment, when those memories don't feel so far away. Like it could have been a few hours ago or maybe a day or two. But mostly they exist in the abstract. Those simple moments of joy have become so foreign that sometimes he's convinced it happened to another person entirely.

John used to smile a lot. He loved nothing more than a shady spot on a sunny day, face upturned to the soft breeze, radiating pure pleasure. That smile stays imprinted in Alex's memories forever, but he only takes it off the shelf for examination every now and then. Any more frequently hurts too much.

Just as that smile is gone from his life, so too is Alex's own happiness. Every now and then he is surprised to find himself laughing, but that simple serenity, that joy in just existing, is gone, perhaps forever. The moments used to sneak up on him, sitting next to John, sharing a laugh or a coffee – he'd be sitting there and suddenly realize this right here was all that he wanted for the rest of his life.

How can he ever be truly happy again when his other half is just gone? (*But close your eyes*)

They never found a body, but the police had gently informed Alex, more times than he felt necessary, that the odds of John being alive were slim to none. "That's just not how it works," they said. No ransom ever came, no motive ever presented itself. One day John was there and the next he was gone.

Alex had never gotten along with John's father, Henry – and neither had John for that matter – but he came to appreciate the man's vast resources as he poured every cent he had into hiring private eyes, drawing media attention, even "persuading" the chief of police to keep revisiting the case long after leads stopped showing up.

But there are some things money can't buy, and apparently the truth is one of them.

So John Laurens, aged 20, case number DZK3827, slipped off the face of the earth.

Ultimately Alex was never able to face putting away John's things and so his apartment continued to look as if two people lived there. Parts of the house remained forever untidied because he couldn't bring himself to put that blanket back in the closet where it belonged or take down that sticky note that said 'Bringing home take out' from the fridge.

Suddenly finding himself adrift as a newly solo boat, Alex did the only thing he knew how to do: work. He pushed himself through the last weeks of his summer class and into his junior year as if disappearing into the wind was contagious. He let the world of journalism consume his every waking moment because he had nothing besides class and the information he was told to know.

He lived mostly in the library because even now, nearly four months later, the apartment was too distracting. Madness lay down that road. The library was twenty-four hours, as was the tiny coffee shop, so Alex only brought himself home when he was on the verge of falling asleep on his feet. That way he could just tread the path to the bed and be done with it.

It's a surprise when, one day late in January, he finds someone sitting in his spot in the library. Not that it's officially his, of course, but he's spent so much time there that everyone knows he'll show up eventually and no one wants a conversation with the mopey kid.

It's a tall guy with an outrageous poof of thick black hair. He's not familiar, but it's been a long time since Alex had seen his old friends, let alone struck out to make new ones. It's been a long time since he paid much attention to any living thing at all.

He debates letting it go, passing by, but that little cubicle is where he works. He can't focus anywhere else. It lets him sit with his back to the wall, the wide expanse of the courtyard visible through the window to his right and the rest of the library to his left, a large panel making a little cubicle out of the table.

He doesn't want a conversation. He's been on both the college and local news stations pleading for information so his face is familiar to most at this point. Undoubtedly when he approaches, the person will flee without a fight, off put by his blatant misery and overwhelmed with pointless pity.

With a sniff, he gathers his books closer to his chest and walks up.

"Excuse me?" The person, bent forward so most of their head is behind the divider, remains oblivious. For a brief moment he wishes for that loud-mouthed, stubborn ass he'd once been. But that person is gone and this meek shell remains, driven only by the desire to be alone. He clears his throat and repeats, "Excuse me" a little louder this time.

The man jerks, apparently unaware of his approach, and leans back to peer up at him. He has smooth, light black skin with ridiculously well-trimmed facial hair. He's wearing a button down with a coordinated bow tie and Alex can't remember the last time he's seen a bow tie, let alone on a college student.

"Oui?" He looks a little skeptical, a little curious, like most college students would if a stranger approached them out of the blue.

"Um, yes, hi." His social skills, slim as they once were, have clearly plummeted and he's once again reminded of the man who could ramble a complete stranger's ear off about any given topic. He'd been so bold back then. So ready to tell the world exactly what he thought. "This is…this is my spot?"

The man's brows furrow. "You have assigned seats? In the library?" His accent is thick, but he clearly has a decent mastery of English. "Pardon me, this is only my first semester here," he explains, beginning to gather his stuff and dammit why did he have to be cute, looking all confused and apologetic?

"No, no. It's not…it's not assigned. It's just that I usually sit there…but it's fine. I'm sorry to bother you." He feels like an insensitive jerk now and forces himself to let the issue go.

As he turns, however, the other man speaks up. "Wait! Do I know you from somewhere?"

"No, I don't think so." He's pretty sure he'd remember such a silky voice, especially with such a handsome (and bow tie donning) body to match. The man squints at him as if he were a particularly puzzling equation. Something seems to dawn on him as his finger flies up in a 'wait' gesture, while he rummages for something in his bag.

Alex debates running while he can, because he definitely doesn't know this man, but something holds him in place. Why would a guy like that think for even one second he was acquainted with a loser like Alex?

"Voilà! In the paper. C'est toi, non?"

Sure enough. Smack dab on page one of the college newspaper.

UNIVERSITY STUDENT STILL MISSING.

The picture from John's ID card is below it, but towards the end of the article, there is a picture of John, Alex, and Hercules standing arm-in-arm at an undergraduate picnic. Hercules must have given it to the paper. Alex had forgotten entirely about the school newspaper, of which he had been chief editor last year.

"I'm sorry. About your friend," the man says sincerely. He sticks his hand out, unknowingly severing Alex's view of John's grinning face. "Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert Du Motier, Marquis De Layette. But please," he adds, likely noticing the utter terror that had consumed Alex's face, "call me Lafayette."

"Alexander Hamilton," he says slowly, shaking the proffered hand mechanically, likely with the grip of a dead fish.

"A pleasure, mon cher."

There's shame somewhere low in his belly for his lack of manners. This man – Lafayette, was being so pleasant and Alex was returning it with the grace of a concussed penguin. But the shame is buried underneath the weak flutterings of his heart, roused by the sight of a forgotten image of John.

"Anyway," Lafayette continues, "I was just leaving. The seat is all yours."

It's likely a lie, but Alex does nothing but nod as Lafayette packs up and leaves. In his daze, Alex doesn't notice the scrap of paper left behind until an hour or two into his work. It has a phone number on it, but he can't see why anyone would willingly choose to talk to such a maudlin person. A gesture of pity, nothing more.

Hamilton

But when he runs into Lafayette at the coffee shop attached to the campus bookstore, the first words out of the Frenchman's mouth are, "Why didn't you text me, mon cher?" He sounds genuinely upset, as though they were pals from way back.

"What did you want me to say?" Alex asks slowly because seriously what does this guy want from him? Why can't he let him revel in his sorrow like everyone else?

Lafayette laughs and it's a damn sweet sound. It sounds like the satisfaction of a successfully skipped rock or the warmth of snuggling under the covers on a chilly day. "Well, hello is always a good place to start." He smiles fondly at Alex, like he's a particularly innocent child. He remains undeterred at Alex's silence and instead continues, "Why don't you join me? Coffee and a bagel, my treat."

"Oh," he replies, trying to select the most logical excuse out of his arsenal of avoidance. "I was just on my way to the library."

"I'm sure you were!" He replies jovially. "From what I hear you spend little time elsewhere! You are in need of break. Surely you can spare twenty minutes for a friend?"

Alex glances down at the textbook in his arms and thinks of the many pads of yellow legal paper, all full of scribbles, he has crammed in his bag. There are an endless amount of things he could do, but he can't recall the last time any of it interested him.

He thinks of John and the gentle encouragement he doled out in Alex's, admittedly rare, moments of hesitation. He thinks of that small smile, the gentle push at the curve of his back. Go those eyes would say.

It's only with the knowledge of how deeply disappointed John would be to see Alex so alone that he agrees to Lafayette's request.

The other man is wearing a dapper black sweater vest over a light purple button down that somehow brings out the color of his eyes. Alex feels foolish in his large pullover, the name of the university brazenly displayed on the front.

Once they both have food and the life-giving sustenance that is coffee, they settle at a small table in the corner. Lafayette seems willing to bear the burden of the conversation as Alex offers monosyllabic answers and noncommittal shrugs for the most part.

The question of why, why, why burns on his tongue, but he stuffs it down and tries to let the warm scent of fresh baked goods and pleasant company surround him. He learns of Lafayette's upbringing in France, the tragic deaths of his parents soothed under the calm tutelage of his grandmother. He started as a polysci major, swept up in the bursting political fervor that tended to consume college campuses, but soon found the deceitful nature of politics not to his liking. For now he's a business major with a minor in accounting and Alex can picture him as a suave CEO, dazzling with his good looks then backing it up with whip-sharp business strategy. He doesn't say it though, instead just nodding and offering a small "Suits you," but Lafayette's face positively lights up, as though Alex had dropped to his feet and proclaimed him a god.

Eventually Lafayette cuts their conversation off with a regretful need to get to his eleven o'clock class. Alex wonders for a moment how early a person could possibly need to leave for a class barely a hundred yards away, but then he notices the clock behind the other man's head and realizes it's quarter of already. Where did the time go?

Shame boils hot in his stomach as he realizes he spent all morning here with nothing productive to show for it. He could have been charging through assignments, slashing books off his to-read list in those hours. How could he be so lazy? How could he waste precious time just sitting around?

"I…I have to go too," he blurts, jumping to his feet and jostling the table in the process. Lafayette looks taken aback at Alex's sudden urgency, but he doesn't say anything on the matter.

"It's been a pleasure, mon cher. We will get together again soon, yes?" And there's that disarming smile that got Alex into this mess in the first place.

"Sure," he shouts noncommittedly as he all but sprints from the shop.

Guilt for running out settles in as he swoops into his corner spot in the library, free until class at one. What a manner-less brat he looked like, and in the face of such kindness. He wants to tear his hair out for making such a fool of himself.

What he wants is John. Here. By his side. Gently rubbing his back and calming his fraying nerves, whispering promises into his neck and enveloping Alex in love.

But then, if John was here, none of this wound be happening.

Hamilton

If nothing else, Lafayette proves himself to be a dedicated fellow, constantly appearing everywhere Alex goes, like a cold you just can't shake. Their conversation remains light and Lafayette never asks too much of him. Alex finds his own annoyance shifting, alternating between a degree of neutrality and relief.

In the dark nights, alone in his apartment for two, it feels like a betrayal to John. How dare he be happy? How dare he take pleasure in another's company? It's a new agony, something that simmers deep in his chest and nearly brings him to tears more than once at the mere sight of the Frenchman.

It's not fair.

It's not fair that he's here and John's not. What has he done to deserve such a blessing? Or is it a curse? It feels like one, something sinister clinging to his skin as he wades through the world around him, watching the happy people and their hopeful lives.

And yet he continues to secretly relish in the other man's attentions, the only person to give him so much as a second glance in months. Hercules, for all his kindness, stopped reaching out after the fourth or fifth time Alex blew up at him, calling him names no friend should ever say.

Lafayette takes Alex's mood swings with grace, willing to accept not knowing why Alex will suddenly shift from quiet and content to nearly bawling or when he flies out of his chair and out of the room, unable to stand one more second of happiness.

He doesn't deserve any of it. Not happiness and not Lafayette's understanding. But he has it and maybe John will forgive him if Alex lets himself enjoy every now and then.

And then one day the question comes.

"Will you tell me about your John?"

And the answer is no, no, no because John is his, a delicate flower to be held close to his chest. If he lets go for even a second or lets someone else stroke the soft petals, it might break apart and be lost forever.

John is his salvation, the only thing pushing him forward and he can't give that away, can't share it, not even with Lafayette.

"No," he says. And Lafayette listens. He nods, nonplussed, and carries the conversation elsewhere. Alex sits and listens, shaking internally, waiting for the demand, the anger. You'll never move on until you let go. He's so, so afraid that one day Lafayette will push, push him to let go, to give John up and move on and Alex can't. He can't release his beautiful bird from its cage yet.

But Lafayette doesn't bring it up again. He doesn't get mad and he doesn't ask for more. He surely sees the way the future and the past pull at Alex, keeping him suspended from the present, but Lafayette lets him be. If you don't want to share, then don't. If you don't want to let go, then don't. Be wherever you are exactly as you are. That's okay.

Love is a special word, one reserved for his beautiful John, but in his gentle acceptance, Lafayette earns himself a place in Alex's heart too.

Hamilton

The desire is there. It pools thick and hot in his stomach and one night he dares let his hand stray to his dick and his mind to the smooth, muscular curvature of Lafayette's body.

But afterwards it's shame that fills him, not relief, and he burrows into bed, gasping through his tears and choking out apologies to a dead man. His own body feels like a foreign thing to him, a cage tethering him to this pitiful reality. He misses the way John made him feel cherished and loved, like it was worth the time to map each and every inch of Alex's body. He misses his many attempts to count the freckles that spread across John's body and he definitely misses the way John would never let him finish, too impatient. Alex always was easily distracted, be it with sexy times or food or even a warm bath.

He can't escape his mind much these days to find relief and even taking himself in hand is not enough of a distraction to keep his mind from straying.

He's not sure what compels him to agree when Lafayette invites him to a small party one Friday night, but that cute little smile probably had something to do with it.

Alex isn't one for drinking oddly enough. That had always been John's vice and Alex took his job as designated driver and damage control seriously. Alex had enjoyed the communal aspect of parties, the way he got to bounce between dozens of people, talking a mile a minute, without bogging any one person down. And with a drink in hand, John blossomed, social anxiety slipping away like a tattered coat.

Tonight is different though, without his hesitant companion to keep tabs on. Lafayette leaves him to get them drinks and Alex lets himself drift through. People are everywhere, chatting loudly and drinking like there's no tomorrow. From the basement he can hear loud music thumping and the cries of ecstasy and dancing. There are far more people than the few Lafayette suggested would be present. But it's not (yet) overwhelming.

He feels…okay?

The energy in the air is contagious and Alex finds something akin to a smile fluttering across his face as he watches people laugh and catch up.

Lafayette returns and asks, "Are you enjoying yourself, mon cher?"

"Oui," he replies cheekily and the flash of happiness on Laf's face is totally worth it. For once Alex is doing something right.

For the first beer, Alex mostly follows Lafayette around and becomes rapidly astonished with the never-ending number of people he knows, especially considering it was his first semester at the school (though Alex learns he's a junior after completing two years at a college back home in France). Dozens of names are thrown his way and they pass him by in a blur. A few people seem to recognize Alex, but if they know he's that kid, they don't say.

It's nice. It's been so long since he's been able to exist as anyone but the boyfriend of the missing, probably murdered, dude. It's been so long since he's been anything but a poor soul, but here he is and people seemed genuinely pleased to meet him, shaking his hand eagerly and striking up conversation without hesitation. He's lucky to have snagged someone as picky as Lafayette, he's told and he can only laugh along because Lafayette obviously wasn't picky. He picked Alex didn't he?

By the time his third beer is in his hand, he finds himself glancing more and more frequently at the basement until Lafayette finally notices and, laughing loudly, drags Alex down.

Everything is glow paint and black light and the vibe is pumping strong. The air is ripe with sweat, endorphins, and lust. The crowd moves as one mass, grinding and loving and losing themselves to the throng.

It's a lot.

The bass pounds in his chest and he hesitates. It'd be so easy to get lost in the crowd. To lose himself. To never be found.

"Everything okay?" Lafayette asks from behind him, nearly shouting directly into Alex's ear to make himself heard.

"Y-yeah. Go ahead. I'll be there in a second."

Laf shoots him a concerned glance, but Alex shoos him off. He watches with fascination how quickly the other man blends in. He's a natural, body moving in perfect time like the beats are an extension of his own mind. Others move in and out of his circle, dancing against him then disappearing just as fast to do the same to someone else. Lafayette's eyes close and his mouth parts and his body does the talking and he looks like a god.

Alex doesn't want to be alone anymore.

He barely has time to lament his empty beer before a new cup is pressed into his hand by someone and, after a sip of liquid courage, Alex forces himself forward. He's swallowed immediately, bodies pressing in on him from all sides and the scent of sweat is an overpowering aphrodisiac. He flinches away at first, trying to keep himself untouched, but he gives in after a moment or two and it's surprisingly easy to become desensitized to the brush of strange skin against his back and arms. He puts a hand on Lafayette's arm and the skin is warm to the touch, soothing his seemingly permanently frozen fingers. The other man's eyes flick open and a Chesire grin spills across his face when he sees Alex before him.

Lafayette moves closer letting their bodies brush together as he lifts his arms above his head and sways along to the rhythmic beat. Alex feels stupid for a moment, like his own body is a wet noodle next to this Greek god, but he downs the rest of his cup in one go and closes his eyes, letting the beat overtake him.

Who gives a fuck if he looks stupid? Who gives a fuck if Lafayette is picky and Alex isn't worthy because he's here and Lafayette wants him here and that has to mean he's worth something.

His buzzing mind finally slips into silence, the pound of the music on his ears and the pressure of Lafayette's body on his the only things he's conscious off.

Someone presses something into his free hand and he looks down to find orange glow paint. He immediately draws a lightning bolt down Lafayette's cheek and neck, startling the other man into opening his eyes again. His pupils are blown in the darkness and he looks nothing short of pure bliss incarnated. When he sees what Alex has done, he responds with equal savagery, striping three lines across the entirety of Alex's face, leaving marks not unlike war paint.

He can feel the remnant of Lafayette's searing touch on his face and his own possessive mark glows back at him from Lafayette's chocolate skin.

He sees their mutual ownership and he feels the bass deep in his body and he feels the scorch of skin on skin and he wants.

His mouth is on Lafayette's before either of them can blink. He fights the other man for dominance and, despite being nearly on his toes to reach, wins it. He can feel one of Laf's hands on his cheek and the other begins to dig into his hip with the growing intensity. Alex lets his hand slide from Lafayette's neck to his hair where he grabs a fistful and pulls just enough to say mine.

He wants and he needs and he needs it now.

Alex grabs Lafayette's arm and rushes up the stairs, dragging the unresisting man behind him. He recalls the location of the nearest bathroom perfectly, having mapped the whole house upon first arriving in case he was in need of a hasty exit at some point.

He all but shoves Lafayette in, smashing the door closed behind him with his foot even though they passed at least a dozen full-on snoggers. Apparently done being pushed around, Lafayette grabs his shirt up in two tight fists and swings him around, pinning Alex up against the sink. Their hands are everywhere and the porcelain is the most pleasurable agony against his back as heat pools in his groin, nearly unbearable in its intensity.

"More, more," he chants when he can get air. Lafayette begins mouthing at his neck while one hand slides up Alex's shirt to tweak his nipple. He moans loudly and wantonly in a way he's never done in a semi-public place.

Lafayette leans back a bit, nibbling at his ear before whispering, "Mon cher, perhaps we should slow-"

"Stop talking," Alex orders, voice sharp with desperation. He surges forward, biting lightly on Laf's neck while his hands begin to undo the other man's fly. He can feel Lafayette's hardness beneath his fingers and Alex is beyond ready to show Laf exactly what he's capable of. Alex pushes Lafayette back up against the wall before dropping to his knees, barely even feeling the spike of pain as they meet the tile.

"Alex…" Lafayette tries again, voice far too in control for Alex's liking.

He wants to show Lafayette what it is to lose control, to feel like your very body is spiraling apart before you, to surrender completely to something beyond you. He will take Lafayette apart at the seams, he will be in control and he will show them all what's he's worth.

"Alexander," Lafayette's voice is louder now, displeased and that won't do at all.

"No, it's okay. I can do this," Alex assures as he hooks his fingers into the waistline of Lafayette's purple boxers.

The hands previously cupping his head and shoulder move like vipers to snatch at his wrists. Alex freezes, moving to stare hazily at Lafayette.

Holy shit he can't recall the last time he was this aroused. He's practically on the brink of orgasm, even untouched, with the proof of Lafayette's interest inches from his face and the thrum of life through his veins.

"You are not in your right mind," Lafayette informs him, which is frankly the biggest pile of bullshit Alex has ever heard. He glares and jerks his hands, but Lafayette refuses to free him. Instead he drags Alex's wrists above his head to press them against the sink and kneels down, cornering Alex on the floor. He leans close, apparently wanting to rip Alex apart with simultaneous desire and denial. "Trust me, love, there is nothing I'd like more than to have you here and now, but you are not in the right mind to be making these kinds of decisions and I won't let you see me as a mistake come morning."

Un-fucking-believable.

"You were the one who wanted to come here," he hisses. He's a feral cat, cornered and ready to fight for the right to live. Lafayette doesn't get to drag him here kicking and screaming only to cast him aside like garbage at the first hint of enjoyment. He may be some ridiculously social, supposedly picky Frenchman with a body that was so fine it was frankly stupid, but Alex doesn't have to take this shit. He's a fucking person and just once can't he get what he asks for? He thought Lafayette was better than this, but he was wrong. Lafayette's just another asshole who thinks he can shove Alex around and laugh at his pitiful attempts at living.

"Alex-"

"Let go!" he screams, unashamed of the high pitch of his voice and the spittle that undoubtedly hits Lafayette's kind (and kind of stupid) face.

To his surprise, Lafayette lets go immediately, letting Alex's hands smash into the floor with the momentum of his now unrestrained resistance.

"I do not mean…" Lafayette begins, his mouth pulled down into a frown while his eyebrows draw together. "Alexander?" his accent is thick in his confusion, but Alex doesn't give a single flying fuck.

He rips himself free of Lafayette's looming body, ignoring him as he stumbles and lands ungracefully on the toilet seat. He doesn't know where he's going as he flings the door open and storms all the way out the front door. He feels like a fly caught in a jar, circling and circling and trying and trying but never finding a way out. Everywhere he goes he's blocked off.

Something ugly and feral rips from his throat as he begins to sprint down the driveway and down the sidewalk. What few late night city-walkers there are at this time fly out of the way, watching the ball of aggressive energy burn out before them with absolute horror.

He makes it almost three blocks before his sneaker, an old converse that probably should be replaced but they're really the only shoe that gets better with age, catches on the uneven sidewalk and brings Alex to a crashing halt.

Alex's wrists protest as he manages to drop onto all fours instead of doing a full face plant into the cement. The sound of his breathing is sharp against his own ears and it takes a minute to realize his back isn't just heaving with his breath, it's heaving with the need to heave. With a lot of luck and a very tiny amount of coordination, Alex manages to get himself to the black metal trashcan on the edge of the sidewalk before God only knows what and a shit ton of bile spill from his mouth.

He drops heavily onto the sidewalk and leans against the trash. Jesus. What a miserable fuck of a night. Unbidden, hot tears well up and spill down his cheeks.

It's almost too ridiculous to fathom, but somehow Alex has managed to destroy the one good thing going for him in his life. Lafayette was the best thing to happen to him since John and there's no way the other man will ever talk to him now. Of course someone as worthless as Alex would fuck it up. Hell, he'd never had a chance to begin with, but that'd never stopped him before so he flew forward at full speed ready to hope and dare and try only to look like an absolute fool and an ass at that. Alex presses his balled up fists against his eyes to stop himself from ripping his hair out. He'd finally had a taste of something other than misery and he'd lit it on fire just so it could blow up in his face. What an idiot, what a useless piece a garbage he was.

"Sir? Are you okay, sir?"

Alex slides his fists down just enough that he can peer over them at this stranger who apparently enjoys finding angsty garbage and escorting it to the proper receptacle.

"Fine," he mutters, glaring hard at the eyes that have no business looking so wide and worried. Definitely a college student if the wimpy intellectual look is anything to go by. Guy probably couldn't throw a fist if his life depended on it. He has rich, dark skin and a stupid beanie on his hairless head.

"I'm sorry," the man frets, as he knows what it is to feel guilt, but persists with, "I can't leave you here like this. It'll be cold soon anyway. I've seen you around campus so you must live around here, right? Let me walk you home."

"I'm not a damsel," he tries to snarl but it comes out more like an aggressive protest against dams. The man ignores him and drops his bag to the ground where he fetches out a bottle of water. On a pride level, which is admittedly so low it's getting ready to samba with Satan himself, Alex tries to turn his nose up on the unneeded charity but damn if his throat doesn't burn from throwing up.

With a daring glare he snags the bottle and downs half of it quickly, though it does little to soothe his throat, flavorless as it is. The man stabs out his hand to help Alex up, but Alex pointedly drags himself to his feet with the assistance of the metal trash can.

Undeterred, the man appears at Alex's side, not quite touching but ready to swoop in should he stumble. It's just Alex's luck to run into Jesus reincarnated coming off of one of the worst nights of his life.

Alex doesn't offer any directions, instead he points himself the right way and hopes his new pal Jesus will get the message that he's got this, but the man proves himself dedicated and pads along contentedly at his side. Alex could be leading the fool to a serial killer's den and he'd probably offer to push the cross walk button to get there.

"Aaron Burr, sir," he introduces himself. The man sounds like he's perpetually interviewing for a job.

"Alexander," he growls out because his mama managed to instill some sense of decency and good manners in him.

Upright and moving Alex becomes viscerally aware of just how shitty his body feels. His back is aching something fierce and his legs are stiff and wobbly underneath him. His feet, those traitorous bastards, stumble and threaten to fly out of from under him with each step. Bed, all he wants in his entire life is a bed.

Well, that and John.

…And Lafayette?

And fuck if that betrayal doesn't sting hard so never mind, he just wants a damn bed.

Hamilton

He wakes up to his phone vibrating.

Seventeen text messages, six calls, and three voicemails.

He shuts his phone off and burrows deep under the covers. Fuck people.

The morning passes in alternating tidal waves of agony and blissful numbness. It's painful to merely exist and he'd end it if it didn't take so much damn energy. Being unable to make himself suddenly cease to exist, he does the next best thing by cutting off the outside world. The phone stays off and the curtains remain drawn. He doesn't need school and he doesn't need a job and he definitely doesn't need people because fuck people. Lafayette can go screw himself since he didn't seem terribly eager to let Alex do it. Alex doesn't need him and he doesn't even need Mr. 'Aaron Burr, sir' so if everyone could just leave him the hell alone that would be great. He wants to pull a disappearing act just like John. Gone without a trace and never having to deal with the shattered hearts left behind.

All Alex wants is to be with John. It shouldn't be too much to ask. They don't have to be rich, they don't have to be living that carpe diem lifestyle. All Alex wants is John to be here, just existing by his side so he's not alone.

His stomach aches with guilt over his behavior and there's still that niggling sliver at the back of his mind reminding him he's a traitor for enjoying himself when John can't and a traitor for even considering loving another man when John did nothing but give Alex his all.

He's half expecting the knock that comes around one in the afternoon and that pisses him off. When did he come to any level of being able to predict Lafayette's behavior?

The temptation to ignore it is strong. He doesn't want to see his concern, but mostly he doesn't want to face his own shame and embarrassment at his behavior. Mostly, he just wants to be left to drown in his own misery.

But then, Lafayette calls, "Alexander?" in that soft, accented way of his, like it's a precious word to be savored. He sounds like he's concerned, like he cares. Why he cares is a mystery, but Alex can't deny that he does. And if Alex takes a little pleasure in knowing that someone cares…well, sue him, he's human, okay?

The bones in his feet crack a ridiculous amount as he shuffles to the door, making it sound like he's walking on popcorn. He's only wearing flannels and a loose fitting T-shirt that was, once upon a time, John's. But Lafayette has seen him at his lowest already, he doubts some unflattering self-pity will make matters much worse at this point.

He opens the door and says nothing, staring at the middle of Laf's chest and not just because he's short. He doesn't get the expected 'are you okay?' or even a witty remark at his propensity for self-flagellation.

What he gets is a soft, "May I hug you?"

In surprise Alex blinks up, unintentionally meeting his eyes. Lafayette's expression is tender, but sad and Alex can't deny him when he looks like that. He nods, still rendered mute, and closes his eyes as warmth and strength and the pleasant smell of almond shampoo overtakes his senses.

Yes.

His stiff, aching body melts into the embrace, more than willing to finally let someone else hold him up because he's not as strong as he thought and it's easy to wonder why bother when you're all alone.

They stay that way for a good five minutes and it gives Alex enough time to explore the way their bodies perfectly fit together, his head tucked congruously under Lafayette's chin, Alex's arms resting flawlessly along the curvature of Lafayette's back while the other man's arms fit around his shoulders like the best security blanket.

It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

Somehow the unspoken mantra soaks through Lafayette into Alex, starting as an unidentifiable hum along his skin and seeping deeper into his chest as the meaning begins to take on clarity until it settles like a gentle net around his heart.

"Come, let us sit, mon amour," Lafayette whispers and Alex lets himself be guided like a wayward puppy to the couch. Lafayette keeps a hand on his back the entire time, tethering Alex to him and refusing to relinquish his grounding touch for even a second.

The Frenchman snuggles himself into one corner of Alex's couch – a rarely used relic of times when moments of comfort were allowed – so that Alex can curl up sideways and rest his head on Lafayette's chest.

"I am very glad you made it home alright last night. I'll have to thank Aaron next time I see him," Lafayette begins, his voice a low rumble that Alex can feel in the other man's chest.

"Aaron?"

"Aaron Burr."

"The sir guy?" It's the only word that sticks in his mind from the jumbled blur that was the walk home. And of course Lafayette knows him because apparently he's the most well connected international student to grace their campus.

And that gets him a little laugh. "Ah, yes. He does have rather a propensity for the word, non?" He sighs and Alex feels the moment of levity leave them. "Nevertheless, we must speak. I wish to…clarify myself and my words."

"There's no need," Alex admits, voice defeated, because he knows in his heart this is his fault and not Lafayette's and he can't let the other man take the blame for even a second, as much as it sounds desirable to slink away scot free. "You made yourself clear and I didn't listen. I'm-" Something strangles his throat, choking off his voice entirely. Tears begin to build, but he tries to force them away. This moment is not allowed to be about how pitiful Alex is or how much his life sucks. This is about owning up and taking responsibility. "I'm so sorry." It comes out sounding as strangled as his throat feels, like the words are sharp things to be spit out in pieces.

"Shh," Lafayette soothes, running a hand down his back, but Alex won't allow it.

"No," he urges, hating himself as a few salty tears carve canyons down his face. "My behavior was unacceptable and I'm sorry." He pulls away from Lafayette so his knees are drawn up and his back to the other man. "I thought we could make this work, even just as friends." He's crying in earnest now but it's not so bad because it blurs out the square on the wall where the paint is off-colored from where a photograph of him and John had hung for a few years until Alex put his fist through it one night. "I didn't think one friend was too," he hiccups, "too much to ask. But it was. I'm so messed up and you're so nice and patient and kind and I still can't make it work. I can't so we need to stop now because I don't have anything left to offer. This is me, this is all there is."

It hurts. It feels like shredding himself from this inside out, like pouring acid on his skin and watching it sizzle and melt away. But it's all there is. Even on the best of days Alex is bordering on barely composed and most days aren't the best of days. It was nice to pretend otherwise for a little while, to think that maybe he could be okay with just the right combination of soothing words and gentle touches. But no amount of wanting will change reality. This is who he is underneath, any pomp or posturing flaked away to reveal just this: a lonely, hurting soul.

Instead of watching him drift away, an island unto himself, Lafayette follows Alex and crosses the ocean of distance he's built between them. He wraps his arms around Alex from behind and places a little kiss along the back of his neck.

"Mais non, mon petit cœur, this is simply not true. I am not as foolish as you seem to think me. I did not see you that day in the library and think, ah yes, here is the picture of perfect emotional stability. I knew you were hurting, I know you are hurting, but that is okay, oui? Because I want to be there when you hurt and I want to stay until you do not hurt. I do not expect you to leap forward by yourself, mon cher, I wish only to be the one who helps you step forward, be they petit steps or flying lunges." He cuddles around Alex like a koala and Alex has never felt this level of devotion before. John never needed to show it because Alex never doubted it. John had never seen Alex so resigned and miserable because the only thing capable of producing such profound sadness was the absence of John.

"I tried," he manages to force out, but stops there, unable to admit, even to himself, just how badly he had wanted things to work out.

"Shh, shh, I know you did. Stumbling does not mean the end of trying. It is not go until you make a mistake and then give up. Trying is going even though you stumble. I know it is not an easy road unfolding before us. That is okay. I am here to carry you when you stumble."

Ugly sobs wrack Alex's frame but it's not from shame or even the miscarriage of his first tentative attempts. It's from some inextricable combination of gratitude and confusion and wondering what he could have ever done to deserve such kindness and patience.

He twists, burying his face in Lafayette's shoulder, and reveling in the way the other man's arms immediately rearrange to keep him incased in affection. "I don't deserve you," he whispers into the soft cotton shirt. If Lafayette has any misgivings about Alex smearing tears and snot onto his t-shirt, he doesn't voice them.

"Why, because you are sad?"

"Yes."

"For that," he pledges, head bent so the words are a prayer whispered into Alex's mussed hair, "you deserve me all the more." He drops a kiss onto the crown of Alex's head then bends to rest his cheek there.

Hamilton

Lafayette stays the rest of the day. He suggests that Alex avoid alcohol until he's in a more stable mindset and Alex is more than happy to acquiesce, not ever needing a repeat of such lewd and ruinous behavior.

They watch Netflix on Alex's laptop, bundled together on the couch, which is relearning what it means to be loved rather than a relic of love long lost, and Lafayette doesn't ask for anything more. For which Alex is immeasurably grateful.

He feels wrung out and hollow, but it's phoenix fire that's raged through him, burning through layers of hurt and pain and freeing up space for hope to blossom. That new bird, that ugly, fragile little thing, is peeking its wrinkly head up from the ashes, hesitant but curious.

Despite the constant shifting of new emotions Alex feels within him, things return to normal on the surface.

Lafayette is patient as ever, but Alex sees the little ways in which he pushes. He takes to holding Alex's hand while they share their tri-weekly morning coffee in that silly little shop wherein they first met. It's not a strangling hold, rather he lets his hand rest gently upon Alex's, nestling it in, but leaving Alex free to pull away at any moment. And it's only because Alex knows Lafayette would let him pull away that he doesn't, content and, more often than not, pleased at the familiar weight.

Lafayette pushes Alex to relax more, to unwind with an evening movie rather than an unneeded evening study session. It's not as hard to relax when there's someone to keep his mind distracted from circling down the drain of misery. And when it does become too much, when Alex can't sit still a second longer passively watching a movie, when he bursts to his feet and grabs his laptop or a textbook, Lafayette lets him go without protest, understanding that anything less will only worsen his restlessness.

Lafayette leaves him always with a gentle kiss and enwraps nearly every sentence with a pet name offered in French and Alex is grateful for the reminders because he's never met someone so gentle and kind and sometimes it's easy to wonder how he can deserve such sweetness.

They still don't speak of John and on this matter Lafayette doesn't push. He doesn't tell Alex to move on. He learns Alex's soft and hard limits, when 'go away' means stay and distract me and when 'go away' means go away and leave me to revel in my pain. Alex is happy in many ways, but he isn't ready to give up John and he allows himself the occasional indulgence in self-pity because he wants the world to know that no matter how happy he is, how recovered he seems, he'll never forget what John gave him and his life will never return to what it was before.

Lafayette allows him these nights of wallowing and even though it seems to confuse him, he accepts Alex's insistence that it helps him move forward in his day to day life. Sort of like a weekly confession, where he gives voice to his guilt at his newfound contentment and then, cleansed, he is able to continue on. It's okay if Lafayette is confused because it doesn't have to make sense to anyone but Alex.

By the time spring begins in earnest, life has settled into something altogether more pleasurable than Alex ever thought possible, even if it seems bland in comparison to the vibrant social lives of the college students around him. From the birds chattering eagerly when he awakes to the late auburn hues which paint the sky when he and Lafayette take an evening walk, the world seems to revitalize as Alex does. The world doesn't feel so dead and brittle, ready to break at the gentles of touches, rather it's green and springy, bouncing back from even the roughest of jabs.

It's on one such evening walk that Alex realizes he's ready. By his side Lafayette is detailing a boyhood exploit involving his pony (apparently this referred to an actual pony rather than some joke as Alex has first assumed), a freshly polished floor, and a terrorized butler. But somewhere along the line Alex realizes he's stopped listening. Instead he's staring at the profile of Lafayette's animated face and the caress of the evening sun around it. Something warm arises within him and it takes him a moment to recognize it, but sure enough there it is, his old friend. He takes out his mental Dynamo label maker and slaps a label on it as fast as he can, lest he ever doubt.

This is love.

He coaxes Lafayette into turning back early rather than completing their usual loop. He takes the confused Frenchman by the hand and guides them to Lafayette's large bed with its ridiculously expensive Egyptian silk sheets. It feels weird to take charge, but he knows Lafayette will never push and so Alex must pull.

He pulls them onto the sheets and begins to unbutton Lafayette's shirt with nimble fingers. Lafayette's fingers, strong but smooth, halt his progress for a moment as they enclose around his wrist. "You don't have to," he offers sweetly, ever the gentleman, but Alex shakes his head.

"I want to," he promises, and seals it with a kiss.

Alex has never been a patient person, not even during sex. Sex with John was messy and full of laughter. They fought always for dominance, playfully pushing each other around and whispering naughty things until someone yielded. It was lustful, full of passion and drive and a love of life that could never be tamed.

Sex with Lafayette is not like that. Its fluttering touches and romantic words peppered with delicate kisses. It's making love, and Alex learns it's not as difficult to find pleasure in such foolish sentimentality as he expected. Lafayette pampers him and tends to Alex's every need. He's the only person Alex has ever met who can wax poetic with a straight face while pounding another man in the ass. Alex shows his gratitude in kind, always willing to take the other man's cock in hand or in mouth and he makes sure to use every second to the fullest.

He comes to love the unwrapped pleasure that spreads across Lafayette's face right before he finds release. It's vulnerable and honest in a way the put-together expressions he usually dons aren't. It's almost more enjoyable than any physical act Lafayette could ever perform on him.

John and Alex used to race, to see who could undo the other one fastest.

Alex and Lafayette fight to see who can make the other last the longest, teetering on the brink of sweet relief in agonizing ecstasy.

It's not better, but it is new. New is good, Alex thinks, because John doesn't haunt such memories. It's not replacing or overlaying, it's something entirely different.

Sometimes he takes a moment to thank the universe for allowing such a perfectly complimentary person to fall into his life.

By the time May rolls around, finals looming on the horizon, Alex spends more nights at Lafayette's apartment than his own. So when Lafayette, in his typically overly dramatic fashion involving a romantic candle-lit dinner and enough chocolate to give a small child diabetes, asks him to move in, it's more of a technicality than anything else.

It's what he doesn't ask that matters and he doesn't ask Alex to sell his old apartment. It seems foolish to pay for an apartment he's not living in, but without any utilities to pay for, it's manageable. Lafayette doesn't ask him to pay rent (Alex is slowly being to realize well-off doesn't begin to cover the endless supply of money the Frenchman has) so not much actually changes. Most of Alex's stuff has already made its way over anyway. John's stuff still exists in his apartment, still spread out so as to infect every corner with its grief, but Alex doesn't have to look at it. And it's nice to know he has a place for himself, just in case.

Commitment is hard, okay?

Lafayette's apartment is bigger, all the more so for his sole-occupancy of it. It's more of a duplex than anything and secretly Alex likes to imagine this is what true adult domesticity looks like, even if he sometimes feels foolish when he realizes that, aside from his clothes, his possessions could probably all fit on the coffee table if he tried.

A few days before finals Lafayette stands from his spot on the couch and stretches like the pampered cat he is. Alex glances up from the rolling credits to watch and he laughs at the disgruntled look that crosses Lafayette's face when several of his vertebrae pop as he stretches.

He moves to peer out the window, which overlooks Indian Head Mountain in all her springtime glory. "I think I will stay for the summer," he offers. Alex snorts because yes, Lafayette is so rich and it's so kind of him to slum it with the poor American college students but then Alex stops abruptly because Lafayette is not laughing.

"Wait," Alex says, examining Lafayette's self-satisfied face, the one he gets after settling on an answer following a difficult decision. "Are you serious?"

"Yes?" He replies, clearly perplexed and entirely oblivious to the hurricane building within Alex.

"Yes?" Alex hisses back. He must be misunderstanding, he must be, because no way was Lafayette actually considering leaving barely two weeks after asking Alex to move in, right? "You mean you were thinking about not staying?" Energy begins to hum in his body and he feels himself coil in his spot on the couch, a snake ready to spring at the slightest provocation.

"Well, yes," he says, having the audacity to shrug mildly, "I am an exchange student. Even if I came back next semester, it was assumed I would return home for the summer. Is that not what students do here? The dorms are closed during the summer," he informs Alex helpfully.

"And when exactly were you planning on telling me?"

"I just did? I didn't want to cause you unnecessary worry, mon cher, by telling you until I'd made a decision. Cross the bridge when it comes, non?" Lafayette gives him an appeasing smile, like he's trying to soothe a toddler who can't understand the situation.

Just like that, Alex loses it.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Laf?" he raves, flying to his feet and cornering the startled man in a heartbeat. "I'm not a goddamned delicate flower. We're partners, aren't we?" he demands and when Lafayette mistakes it for a rhetorical question he repeats, "Well? Aren't we?" with a slam of his open palm onto the wall besides Lafayette's head, making the bewildered man startle.

"Ouí! Partners, yes!"

"That means we're equals, Laf. That means we talk big ass decisions through together! None of this unnecessary worry bullshit!"

"Alexander," he says, voice still too collected for Alex's liking, "I did not mean to upset you. I-"

"Stop it!" he screams because his mind is baying for blood, for a release of this anger and it won't be achieved through some deep breathing and calm discourse nonsense. He wants to shove and be shoved and let Lafayette know just how much that hurt. "Stop being so nice!"

"Now you are just being ridiculous," Lafayette accuses, nose scrunched up in displeasure.

"No!" he screams because the Frenchman still doesn't get it. "Fight me dammit," he yells, letting his palm smack nosily against the drywall once more.

Lafayette goes perfectly still and his eyes sharpen, gluing Alex to the spot. Alex is painfully aware that he is no longer in control here. His wet, hot anger seems juvenile in the face of such cold ferocity.

"I am not John. Do not think to treat us as one in the same."

And then Alex is staring at a blank wall as Lafayette slides out and disappears elsewhere.

I am not John.

Ain't that the truth and the kicker all in one.

John was all passion and energy, ready and willing to go a few rounds with Alex now and again. That's how fights went for them, shouts and shoves until someone was cornered and then it was hot, needy kisses and a fight for dominance all the way to the bedroom. Sex was rough and fast and it was some of the best Alex has ever had.

But Lafayette, as he constantly had to remind himself, is not John. Shouting and cornering him was not a mutually-agreed upon foreplay and Alex was more likely to earn himself a cold shoulder and a painful knot of guilt than anything even resembling pleasure.

His energy seeps out of him, pooling invisibly along the floor as he drags his suddenly exhausted body to the couch, where he drops heavily into the corner he'd abandoned only a few minutes prior.

What a mess.

Despite what Lafayette accuses, Alex sees the differences between him and John. He's not confused, longing hasn't driven the lines of reality to blur. But old habits die hard and sometimes he forgets that he's not the person he once was. The Alex Lafayette loves is not the same hot-headed, arrogant fool who burst into college ready to flip the world off. He loves the hopefully sad and sadly hopeful little bird he found lost in the library one day, the sort of person that would want someone else to handle everything and let him trail along passively.

But even broken as he is, Alex knows he'll never be that person. Especially not now, as he moves to a headspace that feels a little more stable and, dare he say it, okay.

There's sadness and fear as he follows his train of thought to its inevitable conclusion, but mostly there's resignation. Because how could he think something as wonderful as this could ever last?

He forces his weary body up and down the hall where he knocks on the door to the bedroom they share each night. When he opens the door he finds Lafayette sitting comfortably at the end of the bed, bathing in the glow of sunlight from the nearby window. He offers Alex a small smile, but Alex has nothing else to offer except his inevitable realizations.

"I suppose we ought to break up," he mumbles, staring at the ludicrously fluffy carpet beneath his toes.

"Care to explain why?" Lafayette asks and damn him, he sounds practically amused. Alex shoots him a glare of annoyance but moves to sit next to him regardless. Because he is not John, and a rational discussion is what is required here.

"You only love me when I'm sad. You won't love me when I'm happy. We're just too different."

His gaze remains on his hands but he's still startled when two gentle hands encompass his. He looks up at Lafayette, surprised to find his face soft with adoration. "My Alexander, always so dramatic," he tuts. "It is true we met at a most unusual period of your life," (that's putting it lightly, Alex thinks) "but that is not to say I haven't enjoyed watching you evolve these past few months into someone who allows himself to be happy. I love you as you are, however you are. I do not accuse you of treating me thusly out of spite. Mon ami, we have known each other but four or five months. I do not expect us to have adapted fully to each other yet. What you and John had took years and it will take us years as well. That's alright. That's what love is, it's learning."

"You were going to leave without telling me," he accuses softly, eyes still trained on Lafayette's kind gaze even as the visage blurs with tears.

"Non, mon cher, never without telling you. I was wrong to keep such a decision from you nonetheless," he admits and Alex nearly bursts into tears on the spot at how easy humility comes to the other man. "Je suis désolé. I did not mean to imply you were weak or, as you put it, 'delicate'. I meant only to shield you from added stress."

"I'm not a child you need to care for, Lafayette. I'm your partner, an adult, and that's not how adults do things."

"Ouí," he agrees. For such a sophisticated man, Lafayette wears his heart on his sleeve, face so genuinely apologetic it would look sarcastic on anyone else. But Alex has learned a few things over the past few months and he knows Lafayette prefers transparency in all matters, including emotion and expectation.

"And what was I supposed to do if you left? Sit here and pine like a dog in heat?"

"I thought perhaps, you would want to come with me? To France?"

"Come with you to France?" Any other time, any other way, it would have been sweet and romantic. Alex can picture Lafayette dreamily imaging sweeping Alex off his feet and whisking him away for a whirlwind summer in France. And it could have been, would have been nice, but not now. Not now that Alex feels like a dumb five year old, tottering behind the adult and following his every lead like an obedient puppy. He may be a sad sack sometimes, but he's not incompetent.

"Some other time," Lafayette soothes, seemingly content to let the matter rest.

Some other time sounds just about perfect. They're in a good place, truly, but it's tenuous and new. Unexplored terrain is hardly the best time to indulge in things superficially romantic, but ultimately trying, as a three month stay in Lafayette's home country surely would be.

They remain curled up on the bed, Alex nearly napping on Lafayette's broad chest while he strokes Alex's back. It's warm and comfortable. He's not sure what prompts him, other than a reckless level of curiosity, to ask, but he feels content enough to do so.

"Why did you pick me?"

Lafayette's hand stills for a moment before resuming its soothing tempo.

"Because, mon cher," he begins, tucking his head down so he can whisper into Alex's soft hair, "you looked so sad. And I thought, that's a face I would like to see smile."

Hamilton

Alex blinks awake to find the ceiling still enshrouded in darkness. Too early to be doing anything so what…?

Thunder crashes outside, followed by a flash of lightning. The spark of electricity in the air seems to slide under Alex's very skin, lighting his body up with anxiety and frantic energy. He sits upright quickly, only to cower in on himself slightly as another crash echoes outside. There's only a small crack in the curtains, but it's enough to make their room glow with each flash of raw energy.

It's just a thunderstorm, he reminds himself, but that doesn't stop the feeling of thousands of tiny bug feet skittering across his skin nor the urge to find somewhere small and secure and hide. His heart begins to gallop in his chest, leaving a cramped feeling in his throat, and letting only a tiny amount of air whistle in and out.

No, no, no, he scolds himself. He's been doing well. His grief grounded him for a while, then Lafayette took its place. For months he had let himself surrender to his anxious drive, putting every second to use and pushing his body to the absolute limits of productivity, leaving no time or energy for fear or doubt. But now, with Lafayette by his side, he's learning once more what it is to relax and savor the moment like a fine wine. That nervous energy persists though, begging for an outlet and letting his fear ensnare his faculties.

"Shit," he whispers. Frustration at his own body builds within him. It feels like a betrayal, to lose control of his senses.

In the faint grey light of the stormy night, Alex can just make out the indistinct outline of Laf's slumbering form. He knows the Frenchman wouldn't begrudge Alex for waking him, yet an invisible barrier holds him back, tethering his questing hands to himself. It seems so desirable, to just reach out and bury himself in Lafayette's warmth and strength. But the barrier is unsurmountable so Alex wraps his arms around his shivering body and slips out of bed, taking a moment to massage the beige carpet with his toes to ground himself. He closes his eyes as another flash lights up the sky and he flinches.

Alex doesn't get more than halfway to the door, and even that is accomplished only through intentional, haltering steps, before a sleep-confused voice calls out, "Alex?"

Alex had meet John his junior year of High School, when his temporary foster family moved and he'd begun a new school. His mother had died a few years previously and while his new family was pleasant enough, their relationship remained a cordial one, tempered by the knowledge of the temporality of it all. It worked for everyone and no one held any grudges.

So when Alex had run into John for the first time, he was a fresh face, safe in the anonymity of a large school. He wasn't that poor unfortunate orphan or that crazy political kid, he was just Alex. And he relished in it. It wasn't that he was compelled to lie when John asked him questions, but it was rather that he could say anything if he wanted to. He could define how he was viewed because no one already knew his story.

But now, as Laf's curiosity burns holes into the back of his shirt, Alex wants more than anything to have someone who already knows him. He doesn't want to explain to Lafayette the anxiety holding his chest captive or the ache already building in his shoulders from holding himself so tensely.

He doesn't want to explain, but he wants Lafayette to just know. Magically. It sounds ludicrous even to his ears, but he wishes he could just compel the knowledge into Lafayette's head so he would know that Alex doesn't want to be held – it feels like being trapped – but he wants someone close by and he would know that Alex prefers hot coco to coffee in instances like this and he would know that a good movie is always a great place to start. He would take Alex gently by the hand, as John had done dozens of times, and lead him to the couch where they could watch a movie together. It didn't matter if John stayed awake or slept, just that he was there. And eventually Alex would calm down enough to burrow into John's side.

He wants Lafayette to know all that, but the other man has no way of knowing without being told. Their relationship, as Lafayette reminds him often enough, is new, a baby bird in need of a little extra coddling.

"Is everything okay, mon cher?"

"Ouí," he replies, drawing himself back to the bed like a reluctant child. He silently slides back under the covers as if nothing at all had happened. He can practically feel Lafayette frowning at his back, but Alex lacks the will to do anything about it. He feels untethered from reality, as if he exists in a place occupied only by the swirling fear and tense energy that is consuming his mind.

"Alexander?" He doesn't sound like the suave flirt Alex knows him to be. He sounds small and unsure, almost scared in his helplessness. It's Lafayette's fear that compels him to roll over. "It is the storm, non? You are afraid?" Lafayette guesses. He moves to rest a hand on Alex's cheek, but Alex shakes his head imperceptibly and Lafayette dutifully removes it, moving instead to draw spirals on the sheet between them.

"Not afraid so much as worried? If that makes sense." He knows it doesn't. "It's not, like, a phobia, but they make me uneasy and anxious. Like I feel as if something bad is going to happen and I should be doing something, but I don't know what. It's like running on a hamster wheel, going as fast as you can but knowing you'll never get anywhere. That's what it feels like in my mind? I don't like storms," he finishes ineloquently.

He's not making any sense, but Lafayette nods anyway and whispers, "Okay. What can I do?"

Alex thinks about mentioning a movie, the couch, but even as his mouth opens he realizes it won't work. Because that was John and this is Lafayette. His love is just as strong, but it's different and it will only feel fake if Alex asks him to shape his concern into the groves of John's ministrations.

"I don't know," he offers instead. "I don't really like…" It feels so stupid to say, but he knows Lafayette values honesty above all else. "I don't really like to be touched when…when I get like this," Alex says awkwardly. It feels clichéd, like something out of a Partner Communication Handbook, but he needs to put it out there, if only to prevent Laf from trying something and being hurt when Alex rebuffs him.

"Okay," he says again, simply. "May I suggest something we might try?" Alex shrugs. He feels as if he were two people: Alex and Alex's anxiety, and the latter must be appeased to release the former. It feels not unlike bringing a naughty pet into their house and asking Lafayette to help him care for it, as though he cannot take care of his own pet no matter how much he wishes to do so. I want to be good, the pet says, but it's not in my nature.

Alex is brought back to the present when something plops in front of him. He hadn't even noticed Lafayette move to the bookcase and back. Studies of American Transcendentalism.

"A little light reading?" he asks sarcastically, as he fingers through the large tome.

"I thought perhaps you could read aloud?"

Alex stares for a moment, unsure if he has the capacity to focus his energy so singularly, but he opens to the first essay to catch his eye ("On the Duty of Civil Disobedience") and begins nonetheless.

It's halting at first, he stumbles and stutters and slurs, rereading passages two or three times to get them out in their entirety. Lafayette sits patiently, reclined with his hands on his chest and his eyes closed, offering no pressures or assurances, merely letting Alex go. By the time he's a third or so in, the words spill more smoothly off his tongue, and Alex finds himself so devoted to speaking clearly and succinctly that he scarcely notices the soothed tempo of his heart or the release of the vice encasing his lungs.

By the time Lafayette says, "I'm not sure I can stay awake much longer, mon cher, though would I if I could. Your reading is lovely," Alex has almost forgotten that it is two or three in the morning. The storm outside has quieted, as have Alex's nerves.

Sleep may just be possible yet.

Lafayette tucks an errant piece of paper in the book to mark their place and he sets it on the bedside table. Alex settles in beside him.

"May I touch your back?"

"Yes," he says, surprising himself to find it true. Lafayette begins to trace patterns across his back, a soothing and gentle grounding.

He tries to remind himself there are no miracle cures. It's unlikely he will always be tempered so quickly and effectively in the future, even if they repeat this reading ritual until perfection. Emotions aren't as logical as that. The same pattern does not always produce the same reward. But it's a start. It's a first line of defense. And, more importantly, Lafayette is beginning to know without being told.

Hamilton

And then one day the question comes again. And it doesn't hurt as much as Alex expects.

"Will you tell me about your John?" Lafayette asks, fingers playing with Alex's silky hair. The spring sun is shining bright above them and Alex is perfectly comfy with his head on Lafayette's chest, both of them on their backs in the grass.

There's a shiver of pain, of course. An instinctive curling away, but Alex forces himself to remain and be still. He lets the pain settle and is surprised to find warmth on the other end.

"He was incredible," he whispers fondly even as his heart clenches at the past tense. He lets images of warm smiles and melodic laughter fill his mind instead. "He liked art. And animals. He was a marine biology major."

Lafayette masks a tsking noise behind him and Alex can feel him shake his head. "Non, mon ami. Tell me about your John."

His face crumples just a bit as warm tears leak out sluggishly, sliding across his face and over his ears to drop unnoticed into his hair. But it's okay. He owes John this.

He owes John this because there is no one else here to tell his story. His father, his siblings, they're all far, far away and Alex is the only one here to give justice to the sun around which Alex's life once revolved.

"He was full of energy," he starts slowly. Lafayette's hand is a calming presence as it trails through his hair and Alex forces himself on, surprised to find the words ready and waiting when he reachs for them. "And you never knew if he would give you the shirt off his back or sock you in the nose. He had a stupid sweet tooth and always put too much syrup on his pancakes. He liked to draw soft-shelled turtles the best because everyone thinks they're ugly and weird and John wanted to capture their beauty. Sometimes he drank too much but he was a dopey drunk, always wanting to sing and give everyone messy smooches. He was a dork. A big freckled cinnamon bun."

Lafayette's hand slides down to cup his cheek, forcing Alex to turn his splotchy face and crying eyes towards Lafayette. "He sounds like a truly lovely person," he says, words clear and ringing with sincerity.

"He was," Alex whispers and just like that he's gone.

Tears pour out as he gags on harsh sobs. He rolls onto his side, curling up into the fetal position, and Lafayette's strong arms pull him up to rest against his chest.

His John is gone.

His John is gone.

"Shh, shh," Lafayette hushes, lips tickling Alex where they brush against his neck, "C'est bon, c'est bon. Cry as much as you'd like, mon cher. Je t'aime. C'est bon."

"He's not coming back," Alex chokes because John is gone and Alex is here and the only way is forward but how, how?

A strong hand pets down his back and he curls into it like a cat, hungry and affection starved. His grief encircles him, pooling beneath him and growing with each salty tear.

"No, mon cher, he's not," Lafayette answers even though Alex didn't ask. He knows, God does he know, and the knowledge chokes him at night and settles heavily in his bones during the day.

He cries until his chest aches and his eyes feel like raisins and only then does he breathe. He's done right by John for once. Lafayette speaks Johns name with tenderness and reverence even though he's never met the man and that alone tells Alex he's managed to convey the essence of the genuine and passionate man in all his glory truthfully and sufficiently.

His grief soaks into the grass and soars with the gently zephyr around them. He feels not new, per say, but refreshed. Clean. Like the stench of sorrow doesn't cling quite so strongly to his clothes.

Hamilton

It's as if the gates have opened. Alex pours John out in every conversation, recalling old tales of mischief when he and Lafayette talk or adding anecdotal notes about John's preferences when they go out to eat.

Lafayette takes it in good stride, never pushing but always a keen listener when Alex offers up a tidbit. John begins to take form, solidifying as their invisible third partner.

June grows closer, unfolding in all her summer glory and gifting them with perfect sunny days complete with soft breezes and the promise of snow cones to eat, fireflies to catch, and endless hills to wander.

Alex learns that Lafayette loves farmers markets and their afternoons become casual cooking lessons, full of food fights and laughter. He learns that Lafayette loves nothing more than an afternoon nap in the hammock, sun on his back and breeze across his face. More than once Alex has to drag his napping ass back in before the mosquitos can have a go at him.

In discovering Lafayette, Alex rediscovers himself anew.

This is going to be part of a Poly series (I'm sure many of you have already figured out the over arching plot of that!), but can be read as a stand alone. Please leave a review to let me know if you're interested in reading more and what you thought! Thanks for reading :)