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o-fantome · 5 years ago

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Hamilton Musical Essay

First off, I want to say that if you like the musical, that’s fine. I’m not trying to tell you not to like it. I’m simply expressing my thoughts about it.

Secondly, this is mostly about things the musical got wrong, but there is definitely going to be some bias and opinions in here. So don’t take anything I say (unless I have provided a source) as fact.

Now, let's go through this show one song at a time.

(quick warning, this post is long. very long. and will take a while to read. i apologize in advance)

ACT I

Alexander Hamilton

I don't have much of a problem with this song, and it is pretty good. However, I do wish that they hadn’t glossed over his early years. I get that they were not that interesting, but they played such a big part in his life, especially in his later years when he was in politics.

“Me? I loved him” haha no. that line should have been said by Eliza and Laurens. Not Eliza, Angelica and Maria/Peggy.

Aaron Burr, Sir

Oh boy, oh boy, I have quite a bit to say about this one.

I strongly dislike the portrayal of Burr throughout the whole show. I get what LMM was going for with the whole “it’s how history sees him” but, you could’ve given him a bit more character.

Burr singing “Fools that run their mouths off wind up dead” and then Laurens walking out immediately after is clever, because Laurens really was a fool who ran his mouth off quite a lot. Like the time he yelled at the king of France, King Louis XVI.

There's the obvious mistake that Hamilton met John Laurens, Hercules Mulligan and the Marquis de Lafayette at completely different times. He didn’t even meet burr in 1776 as we see here. He met burr in 1772-1773 when Hamilton briefly went to Princeton.

Laurens, Mulligan and Lafayette have very little character (which is something a lot of the people in this show struggle with.) for people who were pretty close to Hamilton, (especially Laurens) they don't seem like they were written to be very important characters. Their personality in this show can be summed up in a sentence.

And there's the other obvious mistake that Lafayette (and probably Laurens as well) never met Mulligan.

My Shot

The foreshadowing is good, I'll give it that.

For some reason, the chemistry between Lafayette and Mulligan-- who, again, never actually met-- is better than the chemistry between Hamilton and Laurens. What's up with that, huh?

“Wait ‘til I sally in on a stallion with the first black battalion” Laurens never got his black battalion. Congress approved the plan, but the South Carolina Legislative Assembly did not.

“Laurens, I like you a lot” get outta here with that crap. Either make their relationship a bigger part in the musical or keep it out completely. I hate how subtle and glossed over their relationship is in this show.

I do like Laurens’ little part in this song, it’s a rare part of the show where we see his actual personality instead of just “grr slavery bad alcohol good.�� Anthony Ramos is a very good singer.

This song is pretty good story-wise. It is very well written. Hamilton’s monologue is surprisingly accurate to the real Alexander Hamilton and his beliefs.

The Story of Tonight

It has a good vibe, and I think it’s the closest we see Laurens and Hamilton throughout the entire show, which is kinda nice.

Again with the Lafayette-Mulligan thing LMM why???

The Schuyler Sisters

LMM unintentionally created a monster when he wrote that “and Peggy” line. That joke is one of the most overused and unfunny jokes in this show and its fandom.

Having Angelica be the “strong woman” in the show was a good idea on paper, but it’s not all that accurate to the real Angelica Schuyler, and it’s like her only personality trait (aside from the whole Hamilton and Angelica thing but I’ll talk more on that later)

I'm gonna say this a lot but oh my god these people have no character to them. Not even Eliza Schuyler-- Hamilton’s frickin wife.

Listen ok I am strictly attracted to men but Phillipa Soo is an absolutely beautiful and amazing and talented person. She has full permission to step on me.

Farmer Refuted

The farmer refuted was a pamphlet published by Hamilton in 1775 in response to something Samuel Seabury wrote about how the congress in Philadelphia was bad. Not an actual public debate like you see in the show. But I’ll let this one slide because having the actors read pamphlets onstage would be a lot less entertaining.

That’s pretty much it the song isn’t that interesting.

You’ll Be Back

This is probably just me but I don’t like how King George III steaks the show and is the main source of comedy. When I asked family members after their first viewing of the show who their favourite character was, almost all of them said the King.

Mr. Groff, please keep your spit to yourself.

As far as my knowledge of King George III goes-- and I do not know a lot about him so don’t take this too seriously-- this song is a pretty accurate depiction of ‘The Mad King.’

Redcoat Interlude

Just gonna put this here to say The Bullet is a really cool character.

Right Hand Man

Chris Jackson has the voice of an angel.

I don’t like the way Washington is characterized. At some points, he’s over-glorified, but at other parts of the show, he’s downplayed a lot, and it doesn’t at all seem like the real George Washington.

Washington and Hamilton’s relationship in this show is so off from what it would’ve been historically. You don’t see it much in this song so I won’t say much here for the sake of keeping things organized, but I’ll discuss it later when it’s more obvious

Mulligan is shown in a continental uniform, yet he was not in the army. He was a spy. He wouldn’t have worn a uniform.

As with a lot of songs in this show, the music and choreography are amazing. The ensemble is so so talented.

This scene where Burr is meeting with Washington isn’t entirely wrong, but it’s not exactly how it happened. According to Wikipedia, “In the spring of 1776, Burr's stepbrother Matthias Ogden helped him to secure a position with George Washington's staff in Manhattan, but he quit on June 26 to be on the battlefield.”

Hamilton did not meet Washington at the same time as Burr. He joined Washington’s staff in the spring of 1777.

I’m not exactly sure what he’s referring to when he says “I have some friends, Laurens, Mulligan, Marquis de Lafayette” but I do know that Laurens and Lafayette were not his friends at this point. They weren’t even in America at the time. Mulligan was, and he was good friends with Hamilton.

A Winter’s Ball

The formatting here is wild. This happened in 1780, I don’t know why LMM skipped ahead to this.

“We’re reliable with the ladies” ok that is true I’ll admit.

What is Laurens doing here? He was a prisoner of war in Phillidelphia when Hamilton met Eliza.

Helpless

Eliza was not “helpless.” If anything, Hamilton was the one head-over-heels for her.

Hamilton. Was. Not. Into. Angelica. Angelica. Was. Not. Into. Hamilton.

Hamilton’s little speech to Eliza after he gains her father’s blessing is kinda cute and pretty accurate.

A lot of the people shown in this scene were not at Hamilton’s wedding.

Laurens is shown as Hamilton’s best man, but at the time of Hamilton’s wedding, he was travelling north to meet with Washington after finding out he is to be sent on a diplomatic mission to France. James McHenry, a fellow Aide-De-Camp to Washington, was Hamilton’s best man.

Satisfied

I hate how this is such a good song because what it’s about is probably my least favourite part of this show.

There is no evidence of Angelica being romantically attracted to Hamilton. They likely had a brother-sister kind of bond.

Now, having Angelica as the side love interest wouldn’t have been that bad if it was a real thing, but it wasn’t. LMM intentionally re-wrote a part of history to have her in it, when he could’ve kept the same storyline, and have Laurens be the side love interest. If he had given Laurens that role, he could’ve made the show more historically accurate, and it would bring to light a part of history many people try to erase. But in giving Angelica that role, he has not only completely changed a part in history but has also erased the fact that Alexander Hamilton-- nor John Laurens, for that matter-- was straight. LMM had so much power. He was writing a musical about a founding father. He could have brought so many things we didn’t know to light. And yet, we’re stuck with this.

Angelica was not the person who introduced Hamilton to Angelica. It was most likely Cathrine “Kitty” Livingston, a friend and possible love interest to Hamilton that he met before he joined the army.

Angelica had brothers.

The Story of Tonight (Reprise)

“I’ve seen wonders great and small” *gestures down* I’m sorry sir what?

They were all married before Hamilton.

Wait For It

This is a beautiful song and it doesn’t have much wrong with it.

Stay Alive

Sweet lord the timeline is terrible. The battle of Monmouth happened in 1778 before Hamilton got married.

Here is a better example of the strange portrayal of Washington and Hamilton. The real Washington wouldn’t have called Hamilton “son.” He wouldn’t be as friendly with him. Their relationship was professional.

Mulligan was already in new york, so he wouldn’t have to “go back to new york and [his] apprenticeship.”

“Instead of me, he promotes Charles Lee” Hamilton did not ask for a command at Monmouth. What happened was Lee was given a command, declined, and then it was given instead to Lafayette. Later, Lee requested the command be given back to him because Lafayette was very young and didn’t have much experience. Washinton blindly trusted Lee and agreed to give it back to him.

After Lee was court-martialed, he kept running his mouth and slandering Washington. Hamilton originally wanted to duel lee, but Laurens told him not to, and to just let him say what he wants. Later, after Lee kept running his mouth and the insults got worse, Laurens decided to duel him.

Washington didn’t know of the duel. He didn’t even know it happened until the day after.

Ten Duel Commandments

Hamilton was not the one who was super giddy and impatient for the duel to start, he was kinda the opposite. Laurens was the one who challenged Lee and was the trigger happy one.

Burr was not Lee’s second, Evan Edwards was.

Again, Hamilton was not as enthusiastic as shown here. He was the one who tried to call off the duel and actually prevented Laurens and Lee from firing a second time.

Meet Me Inside

Laurens was not satisfied after he shot Lee, and demanded them to shoot again.

Washington saying “these young men don’t speak for me” isn’t that far off from how he reacted, but we can’t be 100% sure because there’s not a lot that was documented about his reaction to the duel.

Washinton was more upset with Laurens for holding a duel in his honour. So he wouldn’t have lectured Hamilton as he does in this scene.

As I said before, Washington would not be calling Hamilton “son”.

I really wish LMM wrote this scene differently because it’s entirely wrong. Hamilton didn’t leave the army until March of 1781, after being so fed up with Washington continuously denying him a command.

“Charles Lee, Thomas Conway, these men take your name and they rake it through the mud” that is true, and he’s referring to the Conway Cabal. More info on the Conway Cabal can be found here if you’re interested.

The timeline is so confusing here. “Your wife needs you alive” technically, at the time of the duel he didn’t have a wife, but by the time he left Washington’s staff he did. But in the show, I'm assuming this scene takes place in 1778, so, historically, no wife yet. But in the show, he also gets married before this scene. So I don’t know what’s going on here.

That Would Be Enough

For the sake of simplicity and not driving myself to insanity, I’m just gonna assume this takes place in 1781. Because I don’t want to try and figure out the timeline.

Eliza was not a month pregnant yet, in fact, she wasn’t pregnant at all at the time. Hamilton went home in march 1781, and their first son Philip was born in January of the next year. Doing the math, Eliza wasn’t pregnant until May 1781.

This song is actually really sweet aww.

Guns and Ships

Ah, the timeline finally smooths out.

Lafayette wasn’t really a “secret weapon,” he was just a General

Nevermind the timeline is messed up again. “I go to France for more funds” he did that in 1779, and he went back to France on leave, apparently missing home. He ended up working with Benjamin Franklin to send more troops and ships to America.

I wish Laurens was mentioned here. He went on a diplomatic mission to France in February and convinced the french congress to gift America 6 million livres.

Lafayette was not the one to tell Washington he needed Hamilton to come back. What happened was in July after he left, Hamilton sent a letter to Washington threatening to resign his commission. Washinton panicked and sent Tench Tilghman-- a fellow Aide-de-Camp beside Hamilton-- to go to the house Hamilton rented with Eliza to tell him to come back to the army and that Washington will give him a command.

You can see in this scene Lafayette running with a letter, but he was not the person who did that. It was Tilghman.

History Has Its Eyes On You

I can’t think of anything wrong with this song, it’s pretty spot-on and sounds beautiful.

Yorktown (The World Turned Upside Down)

“We’ll be with you when you do,” ehehe no they were not. The Americans did almost nothing to help France during the French Revolution.

“Take the bullets out your gun” was actually something Hamilton did with his battalion when they were sneaking through the trenches on their way to attack Redoubt 10.

Laurens was not in South Carolina, he was at Yorktown-- fighting under Hamilton’s command-- after just returning from his diplomatic mission to France.

Lafayette was not “there waiting in Chesapeake bay,” he was with the other french troops attacking Redoubt 9.

Again, Mulligan would not have been in uniform.

Mulligan might have “taken their measurements, information” but he sure didn’t “smuggle it.” That was done by his slave, Cato. He and Mulligan were working with the Sons of Liberty and with Hamilton’s spy ring-- of which we do not know the name of-- and smuggled intelligence to General Washington.

The instrumentals and the choreography make me very happy. I really enjoy the short little instrumental break.

The siege of Yorktown lasted three weeks, not just one.

They act like this was the end of the war. It most certainly was not. The war didn’t officially end until 1783 with the signing of the Treaty of Paris. Yorktown was the last major battle of the war, but not just the last.

What comes Next

I’m very picky about this but I don’t like the king purely because I feel like he steals the show and is the automatic favourite.

Dear Theodosia

Philip Hamilton was born a year before Theodosia Burr.

I don’t know much about Burr, but I can say that Hamilton really did love his kids and his family, and I'm upset that we don’t see that in the show. At least we see a bit of it in this song.

Laurens Interlude (Tomorrow There’ll Be More of Us)

“It’s from John Laurens. I’ll read it later.” This makes me sad because the last letter sent between these two was sent from Hamilton on August 15th (and most likely never reached Laurens before his death,) so Hamilton was probably expecting the letter Eliza brings him to be a reply.

We don’t know exactly how Hamilton learned of Laurens’ death, but we do know it was not from a letter from Henry Laurens (John Laurens’ Father.) He most likely learned of Laurens’ death from either Washington or General Greene.

I find it a bit odd that Laurens sings the line “and when our children tell our story” because he never met his daughter, he left his pregnant wife in England (she moved to France a few years later) to sail to America to join the revolution, and never visited them (not even when he was in France for his diplomatic mission.) But I get it, it’s a reprise of “The Story of Tonight.”

The war was not over, but it was close.

“His dream of freedom for these men dies with him.” Yep. Unfortunately, he never got the black battalion he worked so hard for.

I hate how fast it moves from this emotional scene, where Hamilton learns of the death of his closest friend-- the man he loved-- to “after the war I went back to new york” like geez, LMM. give the man some time to grieve.

Non-Stop

The trial of Levi Weeks didn’t happen until 1800.

There is no record of this midnight meeting of Burr and Hamilton.

Burr didn’t actually support the constitution.

Angelica was married long before this, so I don’t know why it’s just being brought up now-- oh wait. LMM is back on his hamgelica bullcrap.

John Jay got sick after writing four, came back to write the fifth, then got sick again and ditched Hamilton and James Madison.

Hamilton did not write all 51 essays on his own, he collaborated on a few with Madison.

Hamilton was not immediately offered the position of Treasury Secretary. It was first offered to Madison, who declined, and then it was offered to Hamilton.

Most of the time, Hamilton was upset that he had to leave his family for work and wrote them often when he was away. From this point onward in the show, Hamilton’s character and personality are getting more and more inaccurate. He was not the selfish, self-centred man we see in the show. In reality, he was a kind man who loved his family but oftentimes made bad decisions due to his bad habit of acting without thought or planning.

ACT II

What’d I Miss

Daveed Diggs is cool, but I don’t understand why so many straight girls are so obsessed with him.

“Pissed him off until we had a two-party system” that’s pretty much true and it’s stupid.

He was in Paris for 5 years. It's not that long.

The “Sally be a lamb” line makes me so upset because it is so disrespectful to Sally Hemmings. I wish LMM left her out completely.

“I am to be the secretary of state, great!” Jefferson was not very happy about being appointed to the secretary of state because he wanted to stay at Monticello and do his own thing.

“I can’t believe that we are free” it’s ironic that Jefferson of all people says that line.

Mr. Madison, that’s not very COVID friendly of you.

Jefferson knew Hamilton for a bit before he went to France, and they did get along outside of politics.

Cabinet Battle #1

I hate how cocky and self-centred Jefferson is here because 1) it’s annoying as hell, and 2) the real Thomas Jefferson was not. He was quiet and shy.

“Imagine what gon’ happen when you try to tax our whiskey.” funny you should say that, Mr. Jefferson. Neither Jefferson nor Madison were not involved with the whiskey rebellion. They were silent on the issue because they made a deal with Hamilton (which I will talk more about in a few songs.) However, Hamilton-- the guy Jefferson is talking to in this scene-- was involved in the whiskey rebellion. He doesn’t have to “Imagine what gon’ happen,” he was there. More info on the whiskey tax and rebellion can be found here.

“We almost died in a trench, while you were off getting high with the french” Jefferson wasn’t in France during the war.

I’m glad the topic of slavery is being brought up, but it could’ve done in a different way instead of just a clap back in a rap battle.

“Madison, you mad as a hatter, son take your medicine” Hamilton is such a hypocrite here. Did he forget the time he almost died of a fever when he was 10? Or when he almost died of a fever in Albany in 1778? Or the fact that on multiple occasions he overworked himself so hard that he got sick? Or his kidney problems? Or--

“You’re gonna need congressional approval and you don’t have the votes!” Jefferson and Madison literally helped him get the votes. (again, I’ll explain later.)

“Well, James Madison won’t talk to me.” He used to. A lot. Hamilton and Madison used to be really good friends until Jefferson returned from France and Madison drifted to his side.

Take a Break

I don’t know how long her trip lasted, but I doubt that Angelica was with Eliza and the kids on their trip upstate. She came to visit in 1789, and the Reynolds affair started in 1791. However, I have no concrete evidence that she left before the affair started, so maybe she was there. I don’t know.

Ah yes, Alexander “I Don’t Care About My Family” Hamilton.

“I have a sister but I want a little brother” by 1791 (when this scene takes place using Philip’s age as a reference) Phillip had 2 brothers already.

While the Schuyler Mansion is near a park, there’s no lake. Today, at least. There’s a swimming pool though.

“I noticed a comma in the middle of a phrase,” shut up shut up shut up.

“With a comma after “dearest,” you’ve written: “My dearest, Angelica”” I hate how obsessed LMM is with this stupid comma, yet doesn’t say anything about the multiple suggestive and romantic letter between Laurens and Hamilton.

Speaking of the comma situation, it was meant as a joke. What had happened was Angelica sent a letter to Hamilton with “my dearest, Alexander '' and put the comma by mistake. She just slipped up with her grammar. And in response, Hamilton wrote “my dearest, Angelica” as a joke to tease her about it. It’s not romantic. It was meant. As. A. Joke.

John Adams was vice president. I'd say that’s a real job.

Angelica, stop being all “I came all this way :((“ he doesn’t want to miss out on the trip, but he has to. If he had a choice he would definitely go with his family.

Say No To This

I hate how this song demonizes Mary Lewis (more commonly known as Maria Reynolds) like she was trying to get out of an abusive marriage??? And Hamilton was like “oof that sux wanna bang?”

The heterosexual energy in this scene overwhelms me (/j)

The first letter (that I have found) from James Reynolds to Hamilton was sent on December 15, 1791, so not “a month into this endeavour.”

I will note here that in the letter mentioned above, it sounds nothing like what we hear in the song. Which makes me question if the above letter is even the one Hamilton the musical is talking about.

Because of limited information, I cannot say whether this scene is accurate or not.

“I don’t know about any letter!” she most certainly did. Mary and Reynolds both sent letters to Hamilton concerning the affair.

The Room Where It Happens

This is the song I was talking about when I said I’d talk more about the deal between Jefferson and Madison and Hamilton.

Washington was the one who proposed that this dinner happen.

Clermont street was renamed Mercer street in 1799, the dinner table bargain (what this song is about) was in 1790. Before the Hamilton-Reynolds affair. Yet another wrinkle in the timeline.

“Now how you gonna get your debt plan through?” “I guess I’m gonna finally have to listen to you” well, Hamilton didn’t really “talk less, smile more” his way through the issue. He did-- as he usually does-- quite a lot of talking

“Well, hate the sin, love the sinner” doesn’t sit right with me because it is sometimes used as a homophobic remark.

Jefferson’s account of the bargain on the assumption and residence bills is what this scene is about.

Madison did not hate Hamilton until Jefferson returned from France.

Leslie Odom Jr. is so, so talented.

There is nothing to suggest that Burr wanted to be there. I don’t even think he knew it happened.

Schuyler Defeated

Not much to say here, it's a short and forgettable song.

Cabinet Battle #2

I don’t like how much Jefferson says “we.” He wasn’t there. He wasn’t a soldier.

“Smells like new money, dresses like fake royalty” Hamilton was known for his colourful clothes, while Jefferson was known for dressing sloppily.

“Lafayette’s a smart man, he’ll be fine.” yeah, uh, he was imprisoned in Austria at the time…

“You’re nothing without Washington behind you.” Hamilton was a very powerful man. One of the most powerful, next to Washington. Even with Washington gone, he still held a lot of power and was pretty well-known.

Washington On Your Side

“Thanks to Hamilton, our cabinet’s fractured into factions.” Hamilton is probably one of the biggest reasons the two-party system exists, but Jefferson did play a role as well. To put it simply, Hamilton and the federalists disagreed so much with Jefferson and the democratic-republicans that everything just got split in two.

“And dresses like the pits of fashion” look at the point from the above song.

“Somebody gives me some dirt on this vacuous mass” it really wasn’t that hard to find dirt on Hamilton. He had a controversial past, and could sometimes be a really shady guy. However, it was all for-- at least in his own head-- good reason.

Because of how close Hamilton and Washington were, Hamilton had a lot of power, and Washington backed him up quite a lot.

James Madison gets so little lines in this show, and it makes me kind of upset. Hamilton and Madison were pretty close friends for a few years, so I don’t know why LMM didn’t talk at all about that.

“This immigrant isn’t somebody we chose” yes, but Washington chose him. Don’t like him? take it up with Washington.

One Last Time

Jefferson did not step “down so he can run for president,” he stepped down to go home. To relax at his mansion, to get away from politics. He stepped down in 1793 and didn’t run for president until 1796.

This song is actually really good, and pretty accurate. And good lord Chris Jackson can sing. Gives me chills every time.

I Know Him

Adams did know King George III. and from what I have read, he was very nervous to meet him.

“That’s that little guy who spoke to me” of course he’s little to the king, the king was like 6’6”.

The Adams Administration

The Adams Pamphlet was published in 1800.

The new york post wasn’t founded until 1801, so I find it odd that they’re bringing it up in this song, in 1797.

Adams did not fire Hamilton, he stepped down on his own in 1795.

Hamilton’s response to Adams’ taunts hurt Hamilton’s reputation a lot more than it hurt Adams’.

We Know

This takes place in 1792 before Adams was president.

Jefferson, Madison and Burr were not the people to confront Hamilton. It was James Monroe, Frederick Muhlenberg, and Abraham Venable.

The whole situation with the speculation of embezzled funds is pretty off from what we see here. What happened was James Reynolds embezzled $500 and tried to get his way out of imprisonment by saying he had dirt on Hamilton. Monroe, Muhlenberg, and Venable went to Hamilton and Hamilton explained “no, I didn’t embezzle government money, I just got my dick sucked.”

“Yes, I have reasons for shame,” yeah you think?

Hurricane

The workshop version is better, and it has Laurens in it.

The Reynolds Pamphlet

Gotta give Hamilton credit for not publishing this until after William S. Hamilton was born and then waiting for the stress of a new baby to be gone. Y’know at least he’s considerate.

Eliza was only gone for the summer of ‘91, so I don’t know why everyone’s acting like she was gone the whole time.

Hamilton didn’t even want to be a president, and never showed any interest in the position.

Angelica was already in America at the time, she didn’t just travel because of the affair.

The king has no reason to be here. I get that he’s the comedic relief, but this isn’t a scene where comedic relief is needed. It’s a serious situation.

“His poor wife” yeah, but have you ever stopped to think about what Mary Lewis is going through?

Burn

“You have ruined our lives.” The ‘our’ is referring to Eliza and Mary Lewis.

Blow Us All Away

George Eaker said many bad things about Hamilton in a fourth of July public speech, but Philip Hamilton didn’t meet him and challenge him to the duel until late November of 1801.

Speaking of 1801, this happens way after the Reynolds affair and the election of 1800.

Hamilton didn’t know that the duel happened. Philip lied and told his father that it had been resolved. Hamilton later found out that it happened when John B. Church and a few others told him after it happened that Philip was shot and dying.

“Everything is legal in New Jersey.” duelling was illegal in some form or another in every state, but the punishment was less severe in New Jersey.

The guns Philip (and his father 3 years later) used in the duel belonged to John B. Church. They were not Hamilton’s guns.

Eaker didn’t shoot on 7. They both counted to 10 and stood still for an awkward minute before Philip raised his gun to fire into the air, and Eacker got scared that Philip would shoot him and shot Philip.

Stay Alive (Reprise)

When Hamilton arrived at the home of dr. David Hosack (the doctor treating Philip) he reportedly fainted from anxiety.

Eliza’s scream should have been Angelica Hamilton, as she had a mental breakdown after the death of her brother, and was arguably (out of the rest of her siblings) the most hurt by his death.

It’s Quiet Uptown

Hamilton was really hurt by the death of his son. It was probably what broke him the most out of every death he’s seen in his life-- and he’s seen a lot.

“I take the children to church on Sunday,” after Philip’s death, Hamilton and his family became a lot more religious.

“His hair has gone grey,” there is a portrait of Hamilton shortly after his son’s death, and he looks like he’s aged 10 years. He looks old and sad and in grief. It barely looks like him.

Eliza would have forgiven Hamilton at this point. She forgave him not too long after the Reynolds pamphlet was published.

The Election of 1800

This happened before Philip’s duel, but you already knew that.

“I’m going door-to-door.” “You’re openly campaigning?” “Sure!” Burr was the first presidential candidate to openly campaign and set the standard for modern American politics.

They were tied for a stupidly long time. And when they finally got untied (by Hamilton and the federalists’ promotions and persuasion) it was by just a few votes. Not “in a landslide.”

Burr did end up being Jefferson’s vice-president. Jefferson didn’t change that.

Your Obedient Servant

This is a situation, much like the Reynolds affair, where no one is in the “right” or the “wrong.” Was it wrong for Burr to shoot Hamilton? Yes, absolutely. Was it wrong for Hamilton to say bad things about Burr and constantly keep him away from what he wanted? Yes, absolutely. But on the other side, was it wrong for Burr to be mad about what Hamilton did? No, he had every right to be angry. Was it wrong for Hamilton to speak his mind? No, freedom of speech and all that. It’s a very fuzzy situation and that’s partly why it’s unclear what exactly happened on the duelling ground.

While Burr’s loss of the elections was a reason for his duel with Hamilton, it was not the main reason. There were a bunch of little things that led up to this. A question I’ve been asked before (quite a few times, honestly) is “if Burr won the election/if Hamilton promoted Burr, would the duel still have happened?” and in my opinion, I think it still would have happened, it would have probably just happened later. Because the duel wasn’t the “breaking point” for Burr, it was just one of those little things that led to it.

Also while I’m on the topic of the election, it happened a few years before the duel. The election of 1800 was on March 4, 1801 (yes, 1801. It was tied for a very long time.) The duel was on July 11, 1804. So not directly afterward.

“Just to keep me from winning.” it is true that Hamilton did not trust Burr to be in power, and did everything he could to stop him.

The workshop version is cooler and more accurate. (if LMM had just kept the workshop version and what was in it I probably wouldn’t be writing TBH)

“I am not the reason no one trusts you,” in a way, yes, Hamilton is the reason no one trusts Burr. Hamilton had a lot of power and a lot of people listened to him. A good example of this would be his role during John Adams’ presidency. Hamilton constantly whispered into Adams’ cabinet members’ ears and basically told them what to do. And they believed him, and did what he said.

“Even if I said what you think I said, you would need to cite a more specific grievance. Here’s an itemized list of 30 years of disagreements.” Hamilton and Burr argued so much and Hamilton said so many bad things about him that when Burr asked him to admit to saying these things Hamilton essentially said “yeah well I’ve said a lot about you so you’re gonna have to be a lot more specific because I don’t know which time you’re referring to.”

Best of Wives, Best of Women

The title (and the line in the song) are a reference to this letter.

Hamilton was not with his wife the night before the duel. He was at a house he had rented in new york city that he stayed in sometimes while away for work. A few of his older sons were with him, though, including John C. Hamilton, who was interviewed many years later and gave a retelling of what happened the night before. You can read it here.

The World Was Wide Enough

“A doctor that he knew” was David Hosak, the same doctor who treated Philip after his duel just 3 years earlier.

“Now, I didn’t know this at the time but we were near the same spot your son died,” I’m fairly sure he knew, Philip’s duel was a pretty big thing and a lot of people knew.

“My fellow soldiers tell you I’m a terrible shot.” Burr was actually a very good shot. There’s even an account of him doing target practice a few days before the duel.

“But look it up, Hamilton was wearing his glasses,” Hamilton put on his glasses because he was old, and had bad vision from his years of service in the revolution, and from how hard he worked. Fun fact, he was facing the rising sun, which meant the sun glared off his glasses, rendering him unable to see clearly. He wouldn’t have been able to shoot Burr if he tried.

“This man will not make an orphan of my daughter.” Burr’s daughter, Theodosia, was 22 and married. I’m sure she would be fine. On the other hand, Hamilton’s kids were very young. The oldest, Angelica, was only 19, and the youngest, Philip II, was only 2. These kids all needed a father figure in their life, but apparently, Burr didn’t consider that.

In the lines "Laurens leads a soldiers’ chorus on the other side / My son is on the other side, he's with my mother on the other side / Washington is watching from the other side," it seems like they’re being listed in a very particular order but I’m not sure what it means or why they’re in that order.

Hamilton quotes Laurens’ lines right before he dies and it makes me think of a conversation I had with a friend. She was telling me about how for some time after Laurens’ death, Hamilton didn’t really speak that much in congress and such. At first, I thought “oh it’s because he’s dealing with the death of his closest friend and possible romantic partner,” but then my friend explained that that’s not why he was quiet. It’s because when Laurens was in South Carolina, trying to convince the house of representatives to give him his black battalion, he didn’t talk that much. He waited for everyone else to talk, and then he jumped in and talked. That’s why Hamilton was silent for a lot of the time. He was doing what Laurens did. He was quoting Laurens.

“They row him back across the Hudson, I get a drink.” After shooting Hamilton, Burr went to his cousin’s house as if nothing had happened.

Burr showed seemingly no regret for shooting Hamilton, and even bragged and joked about it for years after.

Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story

“Every other founding father’s story gets told,” it really is kinda sad how little people know about Hamilton. He’s not taught about in school. He wasn’t a president.

I do wish that the musical talked a bit more about Hamilton’s kids and their contribution to keeping Hamilton's story alive. Especially John C. who went through all of his father’s papers and wrote the first biography on him.

FINAL THOUGHTS

I really wish the Laurens-Hamilton relationship was a bigger part of the show.

The actors are amazing, but the people they play have little to no character/personality, and it kinda brings the actors down.

I love Phillipa soo.

There are so many inaccuracies that could have been easily avoided, and I genuinely don’t understand why LMM did some of the things he did. Like there was no reason to make Angelica the love interest. Absolutely no reason. And yet, here we are.

Hamilton, the musical was a great way to make more people interested in history, but unfortunately because of how wrong the show is, a lot of people who gain an interest in history from it think that it’s 100% right and treat it like a documentary. I would know, I became interested in American history because of the musical and I didn’t know how many things were wrong or left out until recently.

The workshop version was better and more accurate.

And that’s it! I’d like to give a big thanks to my friends who helped me, especially my friend Mary.

#gil writes #gil's hamilton musical essay #im actually so proud of this #please dont let this flop

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takaraphoenix · 4 years ago

Note

Ofc I'm excited for the new chapter phoe, I am so starved for Jason content that even the suggestion that I'm going to get some (esp QUALITY Jason content like urs) makes me unbelievably giddy and I'm fr checking my phone to see when it's gonna be update time in ur timezone 🥺✨

Oh gosh, you're so sweet. Your messages always delight me a lot and since Jason took kind of a backseat today in favor of the build up of the secret reveal, yooou get a small, Jason-focused flash-forward into their future. ;) also because I actually have time to write again fdklghaöklh

Sky-blue eyes were large as they quickly flew over the words in front of him. His mouth was in a small oh-shape as he absorbed every little bit of information that was given to him. And then it just ended.

To Be Continued...

No, no, no. That couldn't possibly be! This was too exciting, it couldn't just end like that! His sister next to him made a squealing sound as she also reached the ending. She grabbed the comic book out of his hand and tried turning the page, hoping against hope there would be more.

"No, no, no," she whined frustrated and threw herself back onto the bed.

After a moment, her brother mirrored her. The two groaned and whined until their current babysitter walked in, a frown on his face. He brushed hazel-hair out of his face.

"What's gotten into you lot?"

"The comic ends, uncle Tyson! It just ends! And the next issue won't come out until next month, but it just got really, really exciting!" he heard his sister complain.

"Grace is right! This isn't fair. Cliffhangers are unlawful and inhumane!"

Tyson laughed and approached the bed to sit down between his niece and nephew. "I think I gotta talk to your parents about your definition of unlawful and inhumane, Jacky."

Jackson huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, pout in place and sky-blue eyes dark like a brewing storm. When it darkened in the room and rumbling could be heard from outside, Tyson frowned concerned and cleared his throat.

"You guys do know that you could just... ask your parents, right? They were right there. They know exactly how all of this unfolded," offered Tyson.

He took the comic-book - issue 13 of The Adventures of the New Olympians - and closed it to hold up the cover, where Jason di Angelo was standing heroically in his Blue Lightning uniform, fighting a giant space-octopus. Jackson frowned and turned to look at his sister.

"I dunno", admitted Grace. "Dad is like... dad. Not Blue Lightning. Dad sings bad old boyband songs in the shower and steals daddy's blue cookies and baby-talks to Mrs. O'Leary."

"Yeah. These comics are totally fiction, uncle Tyson", agreed Jackson seriously. "Dad's a total dork, not a superhero! He isn't like daddy and papa."

Tyson huffed a little at that, fond smile on his lips. "He isn't now. But when push comes to shove, he always got our back in a fight. Because he could never bear standing aside if his family gets hurt. Go and ask him about it, mh."

"Tyson? Where are you?", called his wife from somewhere else. "Jason is here to pick up the kids!"

"Ah, your cue, pipsqueaks", Tyson grinned and ruffled both their hair.

Grace quickly grabbed her Wisdom Warrior doll, while Jackson took the comic book, both kids quickly running out the room and downstairs. Grace just lept off a few steps before the end of the stairs, jumping straight into her dad's awaiting arms. Jason was smiling softly, hugging her tightly. Her blonde curls bounced as he whirled her around once.

"Hey there, kids. Had fun with uncle Tyson and auntie Ella?"

"Ye--es", chorused Jackson and Grace.

"Thanks for watching them, guys", Jason turned to offer Tyson and Ella a small, grateful smile. "With Perce and Nico still in Canada about that... maple syrup fuled robot apocalypse... it's been kind of stressful. And then Thabi got into trouble at school and-"

"No need to explain, or to thank us", assured Tyson, patting his brother-in-law on the back. "That's what brothers are for, Jay. We got your back. Besides, we love those two."

With a last smile aimed at the couple, Jason herded the twins out of the house and toward the car. He made sure their seatbelts were fastened before he got in the driver's seat and started the car. In the rear-mirror, he could see the twins whispering with each other, but neither speaking up. He decided against asking, for now. They'd tell him whatever was on their minds when they were ready.

Once at home, both of the kids ran off to their rooms and Jason was so busy with things around the house that he nearly forgot about the kids' strange behavior. That's what they got for having a ridiculously big house and stables, but then again, they did need the grounds to allow their companions enough space to roam free. He'd just finished feeding Tempest and Blackjack when the twins suddenly stood behind him, serious, matching frowns on their faces.

"We have come to the agreement that we should ask you", declared Grace.

A nine-year-old with pigtails had no right to look this serious. Jason smiled a little at that, nodding and waiting for more.

"We know that daddy and papa are superheroes", continued Jackson as the three headed back toward the house. "But you aren't! You're just... dad. Right?"

"Ouch", Jason huffed out a little laugh. "Just dad, huh?"

"I mean, you're normal, like us", corrected Grace with a frown, motioning at the posters at the walls when they entered the living room. "You're only a hero on the big screen! Not in real life!"

The smile on Jason's lips turned more nostalgic. His dorky, dorky husbands had decided to plaster every wall that wasn't filled with family pictures with posters of his movies. Right now, Grace was motioning very decidedly at The Twelve Tasks of Hercules. Hercules was his most popular role, a fictional superhero clearly supposed to be the son of Zeus but never actually name-dropping Zeus in the movie series. Or the spin-off TV show. It had spanned a whole cinematic universe about fictional superheroes after they had introduced Theseus, a water-powered superhero who was a thinly veiled homage to Percy, in one of the movies. Theseus got his own solo-movie, then a sequel and over the years, they had established more and more heroes in this universe. Jason was so incredibly proud of it, not just because he played the hero who started it all, but because he was also creatively involved; he had pitched the character of Theseus.

Sitting down on the couch, he let his eyes wander just a little. A poster of his first big breakout role as Jace Herondale in a TV show adaptation of The Mortal Instruments... naturally, Percy had chosen the poster where Jason posed shirtless, showing off the runes.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?", asked Jason softly.

"I wanna take over granny's bakery", declared Jackson with a puffed-out chest. "I'll learn all of her recipes and become the best baker in all of New York."

"I dunno, dad. I'm nine", huffed Grace with a pointed look. "Maybe I'll become a great fashion designer like auntie Silena! Or a teacher like auntie Annabeth. Or president. Or astronaut. Oh! Or doctor."

"Okay, okay", Jason interrupted her, laughing. "But neither of you wants to become a superhero like your dads?"

The twins exchanged a silent look before shaking their heads and Jackson answered. "No. It looks scary. It looks cool to watch but I'd be super scared."

Jason nodded slowly. "But if Gracie was in danger, like really, really scary danger, what would you do?"

"I'd help her!", exclaimed Jackson immediately, grabbing his sister's hand.

The smile on Jason's lips grew some. "Being a hero is really, really scary and really, really dangerous. And I never-ever wanted to be a hero. I'm not as brave as your dads when it comes to that. But when there is something very big and dangerous that your dads can't handle on their own, I'll put my own fears aside. Because you know what is just... so much scarier than being a hero? It'd be if something happened to your dads. And I couldn't help."

He knew their kids were under no illusions; they knew Nico and Percy led dangerous lives and they knew something could happen to them. Nico had already been hospitalized for a longer period of time a few years ago.

"So when they really need me, I'll be very brave to help them."

"So... So this is really real?", asked Grace softly, holding up the comic-book.

Jason snorted a little at the extremely overdone hero-pose he was striking on the cover. "It's... more or less real. There's some... made-up stuff there, because those who write these comics, they only had the news coverage to go by, they weren't actually there when we met in private and planned and talked. But yes, that happened."

Jackson straightened up at that and took the comic from his sister to open it on the last page, putting it down on Jason's lap and very decidedly pointing at the To Be Continued in the lower corner.

"How's it end!?", asked Jackson eagerly. "We don't wanna wait!"

"Ye--es! Did you save the day? Did you rescue daddy when he got abducted by the alien octopus?", wanted Grace to know, eyes large.

Laughing to himself, Jason leaned back against the couch and opened his arms, both his kids immediately snuggling up to him and eagerly awaiting the story. Jason wasn't the greatest story-teller in the family, Piper was the author, but he did his best to actually tell the story as exciting as possible. He talked and talked for over an hour and by the end of the story, both twins were deep asleep. Asleep on him, not giving him a chance to move from the couch either. Though he was tired too, so he closed his eyes, just for a second.

"I'm de--ead", groaned Percy softly and something shifted.

Jason blinked sleepily, turning his head toward the source of the voice. His face lit up when he saw Percy snuggled up to Grace from behind. When he turned toward his other side, he saw Nico behind Jackson.

"I'm sorry we were both gone, amore", whispered Nico as he leaned over to kiss Jason sweetly. "It was an all-hands-on-deck situation..."

"You don't have to explain", Jason smiled faintly. "You're the leaders of the Olympians. They rely on you. Especially now with all the newbies, they need your guidance."

"Yeah, but we promised you we'd step back some", Percy sighed frustrated.

"You can't control when a weird Canadian wants to start the robot- apocalypse", Jason chuckled amused. "I'm proud of you both. And you have been stepping back a lot."

Percy hummed in agreement, eyes slowly closing as he rested his head on Jason's shoulder. Within moments, he was out cold. So the entire family was going to sleep on the couch today, mh?

"How did your meeting go?", asked Nico, sounding sleepy.

"Good. I mean. Really good. The studio is still so stubbornly thinking that female superheroes won't sell, but we finally pushed through. We got the Helen of Troy spin-off greenlit", replied Jason with a puffed out chest.

Nico smiled at him, kissing his cheek. "Good. I'm proud of you."

And then he yawned and snuggled closer to Jason. It filled Jason with warmth to just sit here, with his husbands and children, in their home. Safe and happy. Yes, he worried for Nico and Percy when they were out there, but he also knew that this was their dream and they loved their job. And ever since the twins had been born, the two really had stepped back, leading from the headquarters and training new heroes, only going out themselves if it was an emergency and the others needed help. Jason couldn't be mad about that, wouldn't want to be either, because he could never resent his husbands for living their dream - they had, after all, always supported Jason and his dream. Even when Jason would be in another country for months filming a movie, they never complained, they took care of the kids and were proudly at his side during the premieres.

"I love you two", whispered Jason, carefully kissing the top of Nico's head on one of his shoulders and the top of Percy's head on the other. "My heroes."

#Jercico #Fic: The Legacy of the Big Three #Jason Grace #Fanfiction #Phoe's Tumblr Drabbles #mmmh does that count? yeha I guess

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jefferoni-quotes · 5 years ago

Text

hotter than this heatwave

Jamilton, 13,045 words

I am begging y'all, don't let this flop it took an ungodly amount of time and I am so proud of it. Full fic under the cut.

Also, leave feedback! I love reading what you guys thought of my writing!

Hamilton is hot.

There’s no other way to say it. He’s hot, miserably so. Even with the air conditioner full blast, and a fan directed straight into his face, he’s simply sweltering in the heat. His childish refusal to remove his shirt (even in the privacy of his own home) isn’t helping the sweat cease in their races down his back, and the base of his ponytail sticks to his neck. He grimaces every time he even tries to move, and thus he’s resided himself to the expanse of couch, positioned himself under an open window. But there’s no breeze, none reaching him anyway. If he lifts himself on his shaking arms, and peers out the window, he can see the trees aren’t swaying. The leaves bustle occasionally, but it’s far from the usual dance they perform. He can hear all too clearly conversations, chatter from those subjecting themselves to the summer heat. Perhaps Alexander is more a winter person, ever since he had moved to America he had been, after all, he saw snow, something he thought only existed in movies, and immediately fell in love with the season. Being able to choose if he was to be pleasantly warm, or surprisingly cold during winter was an experience. To have the option of curling up like a cat by the fire, or lying in snow, making snowmen and such. And Christmas dinners- Alexander could go on and on for hours about the wonders of the coldest time of year, alas Hercules would disagree, argue Summer was so much better. But Hercules is Irish, he has enough of the cold to last him a lifetime. Now Hamilton would bet the man wishes he had just held his tongue, because he must be suffering in the heat too.

Fuck heatwaves, and fuck New York.

He thinks to himself as he throws a cushion across the room in frustration. It hits his air conditioning unit, and before he knows it the apartment is plunged into a volcano. The unit malfunctions, turns off and doesn’t turn back on, even when Alexander shoots up from his languid position and desperately tries to fix it. He beats his fist off the top with pent up frustration, sincerely hoping that magically it would be fixed. Alas, it was not, it gave one last spluttering attempt to turn on before dying with a not so graceful clank. What sin has he committed to be tortured in such a way? It feels as though Satan himself is clawing his way up from the circles of Hell, and has declared Alexander’s apartment his spawn point, where the Heaven vs Hell war will begin. Whatever war is about to commence, Alex is on Satan’s team, as God must have something against him to send this wave of heat his way.

“Fuck!” He yelled, kicking the machine and cursing even louder at the shock of pain coursing through his toes. He clutches his foot, hopping around his apartment like some hurt rabbit and hisses through clenched teeth. He finally jumps his way ungracefully back to his couch, collapsing onto it in one foul swoop. His legs involuntarily give out under him, and he’s almost thankful for it as he half considers stripping out of his shirt, aching for some kind of relief. He starts tugging on the hem of his shirt, mulling over the idea before pushing his own hands away in disgust. A respectable man always remains fully dressed for any occasion. What if a visitor were to come by? He would likely demand their exit from his home, but he would at least like to do so in style.

The rooms are quick to grow stuffy, uncomfortable and as though the walls are too close and getting closer. Suddenly removing any clothing is a thought long forgotten, quickly replaced by the innate desperation to escape the closed doors of his apartment. He scrambles for purchase on the arm of his couch before forcing his muscles to revive and motor him towards the exit. He passes by his kitchen, opens the fridge for a moment just to feel the coolness on his body. He closes the door before all his food defrosts, albeit reluctantly. He would stand there all day if he could. Leaving the kitchen, he examines how his kettle has evaporated of all remaining water inside. There goes Plan B of making iced coffee, or worse, iced tea. Who could subject themselves to the bath water like clutches of cold tea? Disgusting.

He doesn’t stop to grab sunscreen, doesn’t consider sunburn a thing as he grabs his keys and shoves them in the pocket of his ratty cargo shorts. He pushes his feet into sandals, Birkenstocks, brown ones. He half contemplated putting socks on with his sandals, and automatically laughs at how much that would irritate Jefferson if he just so happened to run into him. The man is obsessed with his looks, conceited and vain in every way. Alexander wouldn’t be surprised if the man carries a pocket mirror on him, just to examine his appearance and remind himself of how goddamn gorgeous he is. Because he is gorgeous. Alexander is stubborn, not blind, and even he can admit the things he would give up for a fling with the man. His pride would never allow him to plead Jefferson for a one night stand however, and he knew Jefferson would never come to him, so that fantasy may as well remain just that. A fantasy.

So he leaves the socks behind, but not because he cares what others think. Of course he doesn’t… simply because socks would just be extra layers. He doesn’t care if people think his hair is a mess, which it is, so he drags his hand through it. The hand comes back damp, and he grimaces, wiping it on the tan material of his shorts. And he certainly doesn’t care that one of the buckles on his sandals is about to break. He glares at it, willing it to sew itself back together. It does not. Hamilton sighs and folds, giving up on attempting to appear presentable. It’s not like anyone else outside looks much better, save for the few teenagers posing on the streets in incredibly short shorts with a Starbucks they probably waited an hour for.

Alexander practically throws his door open and is met with a pleasurable breeze as it swings, which quickly dissipates into a blast of scorching air, as though opening an oven too quickly. You would think after being born in such a humid climate he would’ve grown used to the hot weather. Apparently, this was a false assumption. He fishes his keys back out of his shorts and locks the door, standing out in the lobby of his apartment complex.

Now that he’s escaped the confinement of his home, Hamilton doesn’t know what to do. He could run down to Starbucks, take his mind off the heat with an ice cold Frappuccino. However, that would only distract him for a moment, perhaps an hour, until every drop of coffee has been drunk, and he’s left with an empty cup and a smoldering heat once more. And besides, if he's so desperate for an iced coffee then he could just make his own. That idea drains down the gutter, because he doesn't have any ice and there's no way water would freeze very fast in this temperament. He can briskly walk to work if he so pleases, despite being ordered to stay off, but that would require changing into a suit and now that he thinks about it… does his office even have air conditioning?

A long, broken sigh escapes his lips and he drags a hand through his hair, which has grown ever so slightly damp with sweat. Maybe a walk to clear his head, and if he strolls in the right direction, the wind will hit him perfectly and he should cool down.

He accepts this as the perfect idea and walks his way out onto the street, practically able to feel the burning tarmac through the soles of his sandals. He hopes there are no poor dogs or felines roaming the streets, or on daily walks on this day. The pavement would be far too much for their paws. Alexander feels which way the warm breeze is flowing and begins to trek directly into it, finding a sense of overwhelming relief at the sensation. (Even if it is relatively brief.)

Alexander’s feet carry him wherever they please, walking him down long streets, past empty stores. He stops to glance into a bustling Starbucks, hears through the glass a man screeching at a barista who is refusing to take his order because, “no shirt, no service.” He continues past, rather glad he had decided not to go inside, as it looks far too crowded, even for a small man such as himself.

His strides are short but swift, floating him along the streets with an air of confidence that he is known to possess. It is undeniably cooler outside, a welcome surprise as a gust of wind blows his hair from his face. He hears the simultaneous sighs of alleviation from the few on the streets, clearly walking around for the same reason as Hamilton.

Time ticks by and Alexander allows his mind to wander, as it all too often does when he gives it the chance. His thoughts speed past a mile a minute, tempting his brain to consider them longer, grabbing them like falling petals before letting them drift to the ground and blow away once more.

He passes through Time Square, finding it bustling, more so than he had imagined. However, it’s not ‘Christmas Crowded’, the eloquent name given to Time Square by Lafayette for when the area becomes full at the most amazing time of year. He makes his way past people, brushing shoulders and probably contracting some undiscovered disease off of some of them. It’s New York, he wouldn’t be surprised. He jumps out of his skin when some man behind him traces their fingers up his spine, but when he turns around the person is gone, laughing to their friends. He scowls, half considers shaking his fist and exclaiming about “kids these days!” But he doesn’t, he just shivers despite being roasted alive and continues on his way.

He spaces out again, wondering about work and then he doesn't know what he starts thinking about. But in his head he can picture a man. A man with a jawline that could cut glass, eyes blacker than the depths of the sea, yet shining as though filled with fire. He can see springy curls, imagines himself running his fingers through the mystery man's hair and cooing as he mumbles his disagreements. He sees a dark complexion, sharp cheekbones, with soft edges. The colour purple is prominent in his clothing, and it takes a moment further for Alexander to identify the male in his mind.

He zones back in as soon as he realises he's thinking about Jefferson. Again. He's thinking about Jefferson in a good way, thinking about doing couple things, about dates. And he grimaces. He convinces himself it's just a fluke, only because he sees Jefferson every day at work.

He starts checking the watch on his wrist, which is starting to heat up in the sunlight. It’s been almost an hour and forty five minutes since he began walking, and he checks the number on the street. It’s all okay. He can always catch a cab. He looks around and finds himself no longer in the bustling parts of New York, but instead part of a classy suburban area. Rows of white picket fencing and neat little gardens, full of wilting flowers meet his eyes. In the lawns of a few are men and women of all ages tending to the plants, feeding them with water to try and keep them going through the unbearable summer heat.

All the homes are different colours, some a perfectly average, cream white, others slightly more lavish baby blues. There’s one where the exterior walls are a glowing lemon colour, and it fills Alexander with an unexplained wave of joy. Then again, the colour yellow always has. It feels warm, welcoming, like a friendship long awaited. Something that has awakened the craving in him that demands the enveloping arms of a smothering hug.

A child - probably around eight - runs down the street, being chased by who looks like his friend. The girl racing after him knocks him to the side and he goes down on a patch of grass, flat on his back while his friend stands over him with a look of pure pride. Her curls bob as she jumps up and down beside him with glee, and Alexander observes as the boy stands. They lean against the tree beside them for a moment, before he mutters something and this time the girl takes off sprinting, the boy following five seconds later. He chuckles at the purity of the situation and takes it upon himself to continue his walk. It’s warmer than ever, but he doesn’t care as much anymore.

The kids race ahead, the girl much further ahead until she stops. Alexander observes from the sidelines as he walks, and the boy taps her on the shoulder. They stand there, childlike joy radiating from their area.

Alexander breezes past them, halfway down the stretch of street. The houses grow larger than the previous as he continues to walk, yet still feel as homely. An amazing feat really. He can hear the soft patting of his Birkenstocks as they tap off the pavement each time his feet hit the floor. A car trundles past, down the street, at what must be 10 miles an hour, giving kids on the road time to move out the way. He doesn't catch a glimpse of the driver, but he has respect for them nonetheless.

As he passes a large, pastel green house, a tall woman exits her garden. She’s old, that much is obvious, but she doesn’t live up to the ‘little old lady’ aesthetic. She’s tall, she’s not hunched and the only part that gives away her age is the wrinkles lining her face. She brushes a grey curl from her face, tying back her hair afterwards. She’s mumbling under her breath, something that sounds like, “it starts soon! The concert!” And for a moment he feels awfully bad for her, thinking she has Alzheimer’s or something similar.

She has a thick Southern accent, and reminds him of Jefferson in a way. Her curls are similar, perhaps not as bouncy or as soft looking (in fact the only similar thing is that they’re curls,) but it has the same obvious care put into maintaining their pristine appearance. Her skin tone isn’t at all similar to his however, she’s pale while Jefferson’s complexion is almost tawny in a way. He can’t see her eyes from where he stands, but if they’re anything like Jefferson’s, then they must be dark, and perhaps they sparkle like his does when he gets passionate about what he’s speaking of… And when did he start thinking about Jefferson so much? Why does he know Jefferson’s eyes glimmer in certain lighting, or burn with a fire when they argue? Why is he paying so much attention to the man's pupils, and how they fail to hide the emotions his stone-cold face manages to maintain? When did he begin to study his rival so closely that he noticed all these oddities? Little details; like the way his lips twitch into a soft smile when talking to Madison, or recalling fondly his time in Monticello. Or now his eyebrows quirk upwards whenever Alexander opens his mouth to speak during meetings, conveying his irritation, yet innate fascination with the words flooding the room. How does he know that Jefferson’s curls would be soft to touch, without ever being close enough to feel them between his fingertips. Why does he feel that the man could go pliant with a scratch to the right place of his scalp? Where did all this knowledge come from? The depths of his bustling mind-palace? Or is it some fountain of information that Alexander and few others have access to? Is there some key to access the quirks about Jefferson, a key that he has? Or does he simply have the mould, a fragmented ideology of a key? Has Jefferson personally handed him this key, trusted him with it? Or has Hamilton snatched it from his clutches like a criminal from an off-guard prison warden? To think of it, why does Jefferson - the ever flowing river of confidence - stash his emotions away, hiding them like a gold hoarding dragon in a cave. He sits on them as though a mother bird would protect her eggs. He keeps them unseen to the passing onlooker. Is he scared? The idea is ridiculous. Thomas Jefferson? Scared? Hell would freeze over before the moment Jefferson is frightened. Or is anxious a better word? Why does he covet to know what it’s like to wake up secured in those arms? (God those arms.) Why does his head claw for the intelligence to feel Jefferson? (Whether that be a warm hug or a simple swing of their hands, linked together?) Why is Alexander asking himself all these questions? Why is his brain grasping and reaching for the answers, as though the forbidden apple that he craves a bite of.

Why does he care?

It’s a recurring thought, one that his mind cannot seem to formulate a complete answer to. Perhaps because it’s the nice thing to do? But no, fantasizing about someone’s eyes like some schoolgirl is not a “nice thing to do.” It’s a crush, is what it is. Wanting to know more about Jefferson, seeking the answers to his many personal questions is not simply because it’s a nice thing to do. It’s because he needs the answers. His mind demands he become closer with the man, the vain, uncaring man. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Out of all the people his heart could sing a yearning song for, it chose Thomas fucking Jefferson.

Why has his attention been undeniably captured, held hostage, by the Southern fuck?

This one, he can justify. It’s a simple answer really, one that is half the solution to his hundreds of other questions, the ones that buzz in his ears like insistent flies. And it’s two words, one word if you so wish to keep it incredibly succinct.

His wit.

His brain, his intelligence only matched and rivalled by Hamilton’s own. The way his fingers tap out word after word on keyboards, or scratch out essays upon essays onto paper with pens, pencils, whatever he can get his hands on. His intense expanse of knowledge that spans from American finance, to Shakespearean literature. His ability to argue and debate and speak for hours and hours with Alexander without losing his pace. The way his mind formulates sentence after sentence where he debates and there’s a fiery, yet somehow icy cold, passion in his tone. The fact that Hamilton finally has an equal. Where it’s unlike arguing against Burr, a stone wall of indifference. Jefferson is a stone wall that Alexander knows exactly how to make crumble. And he does. Over and over, yet Jefferson keeps rebuilding, stronger than before. He makes Alexander fight for his right to get his ideas across and as much as if pisses him off… he can’t deny that he loves it. He adores having to work his way up, enjoys knocking away obstacles that continue to respawn. What’s life without a little competition after all? Alexander enjoys hiking, and Jefferson is the ultimate mountain to climb.

But he wants more. He needs to know more about this mysterious man. He wants to know what it’s like to share sweet moments with him, wishes to be granted passage to his heart. He wants the key to be given to him, not stolen away. He wants Jefferson to trust him. He wants to know his talents, his skills, his hopes, his dreams. He wants to know about his past, his present and his future. Wants to know his real personality, the one he has secured in a vault. Because Alexander is stubborn, this much as already been said, but he’s not stupid. He can see the twitch in his fingers, the brief panic that flashes through the man's dark eyes whenever he has to present in Congress. He can hear the way he stumbles and stammers his way through speeches, as though he’s ready off a particularly shitty script. It’s only when they debate, when they argue with that familiar intensity, that the inferno is let loose. And Alexander is happy to be consumed in its flames.

The thoughts are almost enough to frighten him. The way they consume his constantly changing mind until he can think of nothing else. The burning heat in the air has been forgotten, replaced with a searing, white-hot pain through his chest. A heart attack maybe? More likely a soul attack. Hamilton uses his clairvoyance, he isn’t stupid. He knows this crush has been around since the day they had met. Since the first inklings of their argumentative ways. The kindling that sparked a fiery rivalry. One sure to last a lifetime. Well, maybe on Jefferson’s end. Alexander has felt this way, this white hot pain for a while, but now his body registers it and it hits all at once. Like a slap to the face, a punch to the stomach and a kick in the balls. It’s never hurt this much. Not with Aaron, not with John, not even with Eliza. The three most important relationships of his life had never been this intense, and he and Jefferson aren’t even together. Perhaps that’s what caused the pain to harm him so much. The craving of a thing he can’t have.

He gets the same feeling, the same way he felt around his other relationships. With Aaron, it was calm, predictable. It was boring. He needed more, he needed a spark, something he could bounce off of and then melt together. Aaron was grey. Monotone, and straight lined. He was a man who needed something still. He required security and promises to stay the way they were. But Alexander was a storm, unpredictable and wild and fully intent on ravaging the waters, while what Burr really needed was a lighthouse. Someone who was a beacon of light to shine him to the right place. Hamilton could never provide that.

John had been close. He had been orange. Intense, swirling like a fire, like a burning heat. But not enough. He was too quick to back down, to agree and leave arguments unsettled. He didn’t put up enough of a fight, backed down from debates and left Alexander with many more points to push across. They had the same opinions, there was no need for a friendly debate. It just wasn’t enough for him. There was passion, but not in the way Alexander’s heart craved. John needed something grounding, someone to match his intensity with a cute yellow or a fellow orange. And he found that, he found that in Peggy and Alexander was happy to watch him go. He wanted his orange to be happy.

The third person had been blue. Eliza was the sea and the sky. She was beautiful and calm and swaying. She was helpful and loving, quick to input her opinion only to retract it later on. Alexander had thought she was perfect. She was, Eliza was perfect. But Alexander was not. Blue didn’t mix right with whatever colour Alexander was. Blue turned dark and foreboding, into something he didn’t want to experience. Their fire had been wrong, and if Eliza was the ocean, then Hamilton was the smoke on the water clouding her. She needed a similar colour, a green like the Earth whom she could surround and heal. Or another blue to swim with. It appeared Alexander was neither of those.

But Jefferson. Jefferson was different. He was intense and angry and punched out. He was red. A dark crimson that demanded attention at all times. A matching light to Alex’s own. They bounced off each other, before they crashed together in a mess of colours, an abstract painting of similarities. Jefferson was passionate, he had an intensity that matched Alexander’s previously unrivalled one, and he loved it. He loved red. Red was the colour he needed, the colour that felt best in his heart of hearts. And that’s when he knew that he was red too, that he was a candy red. He was bright and flashing and Jefferson was dark and mysterious and together they were perfect. Together they formed a shade of undiscovered colour.

That’s what Alexander needed. He needed his red. Everyone else had theirs! It was his turn! It was finally his shot to find love, and he had no intentions of throwing it away.

In his time thinking, he’s almost completely forgotten the putrid heat, and the fact that the woman from before is walking down the street just a foot or two away from him. She’s brisk, in a hurry clearly, occasionally checking the time on her surprisingly high class smart-phone. In fact, another person joins him on his venture down the street, the little girl from before, but without her friend. And if he thought the woman reminded him of Jefferson, then this girl is the spitting image of him. Same hair, but longer and tied into puffy pigtails, the same wide and toothy smile as she taps Alexander on the side.

“Hey there, Mr!” She waves, and the first thing he can think is Stranger Danger. Did this girl's parents never teach her the importance of not talking to random people on the streets? “I’ve never seen you round here before, are you lost?” He supposes that he sort of is. He doesn’t know his way home, but somehow he’s not concerned. He can call a cab, or an Uber or Lyft. There are plenty of ways for him to arrive back home. But the fact that she asks him this is evident that this is one of those neighbourhoods. One where “everyone knows everyone.” Which is sweet, but annoying, because now he stands out. He wants to blend in with the crowd for once, but as he looks around, that’s been impossible for a while. He notices everyone out in their gardens or on the streets are white, which is expected at this point. It’s a flaw in the American housing system, one that he should bring up in Congress. Perhaps he could get Jefferson to support him for once, team up even. That’s the dream.

He hasn’t said much for a few seconds, and the kid looks up at him with large, expectant eyes. “Oh, I’m not lost, no. Just going for a walk,” he nods gently and she seems to understand. He thinks she’s just going to run off after receiving an answer, but she seems insistent to interrogate Alexander a little more.

She hums to herself, “what’s your name?” She asks ever so superficially, like an employer ready to write someone up for bad behaviour or poor customer service. Alexander knows those write ups all too well, it’s the reason he’s been forced off work today, something he was happy to let happen as soon as the heatwave hit. Work doesn’t have good air conditioning, if it has air conditioning at all.

“Alexander,” he answers with a flick of his head, casting his glance to the sky. They’re still walking, nearing the end of the street. The old lady has stopped, and the little girl has too, which subsequently has Hamilton stopping. He looks down at her, chin tilted down as she glares up. She seems livid at his name, and he wonders what he’s done wrong until he realises she’s staring directly into the sun as she tries to suss him out. Her gaze is warm and welcoming however, childlike and pure and it’s a nice break from the cool stares he’s used to.

She nods happily, “my name's Patsy, I’m eight,” she grins and turns on her heel, casting one final look over her shoulder. “I’m going to play, if my Pops leaves the house tell him that’s what I’m doing!” She runs off, leaving Alexander wondering who her father is. The old lady is leaning on the fence of the house in front of him, glancing up to an open window. She looks like an NPC in a video game, purposefully placed in a specific spot just for unimportant exposition. Alexander is an expert in certain video games, and if her position isn’t just begging for him to go interact with her. She seems as though she may have some enchanted knowledge to pass down onto him, maybe even a cherry pie recipe if he’s lucky.

He walks over to her side, resting his forearms on the flat tops of the white fence. The house in front of him is painted a soft violet, it’s pretty. There’s neat rows of tulips and petunias in the lawn, which is freshly trimmed so it seems. There are bushes in the middle of the grass, cut into a point. Everything is seamless, blending together. It’s homely and calm, and Alexander smiles. The woman is smiling too. He glances at other things in the garden. Tucked away into the left corner by the porch is a barbecue, and not too far from that a wooden bench. There are thin cushions resting on it, but no one sits there. The lights in the house are off, the windows open along with the curtains. But when he looks in, he sees no one. Then again, he can only see directly into the window and up, so anything at the other end of the room is out of sight. Perhaps he should’ve worn his glasses today, unable to see very far in front of his face. In the driveway is a family car, a blue Chevrolet still spongy with a few soap studs. Newly washed, he notes.

“It starts soon,” the elder comments, gesturing vaguely to the home before them. So she’s not an NPC. Alexander can’t put his finger on if that’s annoying or perfect, because he doesn’t have to start the conversation.

Yet his interest has been piqued, he was always a curious soul. It gets him into fits of trouble occasionally, but for now it seems as though the only thing he can get out of it is an intriguing talk. “What’s starting?” He asks quietly, tone low. His lips are dry, and he smacks them together to coat them with saliva to hopefully stop them cracking.

“The concert,” she answers, as though it’s the most typical thing in the world. Alexander is about to open his mouth to argue against that fact, to insinuate that a concert happening in someone’s home is ridiculous - (Even if all the Disney Channel movies taught him otherwise.) - but the woman is talking again. “Tommy always plays at three in the afternoon on a Sunday.” She seems transfixed, and every time Alexander tries to speak she hushes him. She holds up her hand to silence him, and it gives him the same feeling George Washington gives him, authority radiates from her and Alex finds himself actually shutting up. It’s two fifty-nine now, and he’s waiting for the music to start from this mysterious “Tommy.”

He’s impatient, and authority only hushes him for so long. He fidgets, picks paint off the fence and then speaks. “When does it start?” He hisses, bored. Come on, it’s three! Almost at least.

“I told you, he plays at three.”

“It is three!” Alexander whines pathetically, crossing his arms over. He’s stood still in wait for long enough, and if music doesn’t start in the next thirty seconds he’s going to walk away and never look back. He’s all set to move when the lady grabs him by the shoulder.

She hisses, “it’s starting!”

And indeed it is. Through the open windows, pouring out the house are the sweet chords of an expert violinist. It’s a harmony, seems sad, longing almost. The melody starts slow, and carefully picks up pace as it goes. He can only imagine who the player is, male or female it doesn’t matter. His mind whirs with ideas, forming the musician in his mind.

Their hands would grip the bow with precision, glide across the strings with a focussed expression. He can see their- no, his, eyes turned down to the instrument, pupils darkening as they get lost in the notes. The violin is balanced on his shoulder, tucked under his chin and his hair falls into his view but he keeps playing. The straight, actually, it’s curly. The ringlets of curls are brushed away quickly, in one movement as he continues to play.

Alexander spaces out, losing himself to the music. It appears the lady beside him does the same, but he can’t be sure. He tries to put a colour on the tone of it, tries to decipher the meaning behind the song. The violin fades into an instrumental where it’s clear the player should be singing, but they don’t. He tries to picture a face, going as far as to close his eyes and block out everything but his own imagination and the melody flowing to him. It’s like a siren call, coaxing him towards sudden death. And Alexander is all too happy to submit to the urges.

He finds a face, dark eyes, curls, complexion. Once again he’s picturing Jefferson. Over and over the man comes to mind. He tries to push him away, attempts to imagine someone else standing in the home and playing just for him. But it’s futile. And the song does feel like it’s for him. It feels like it matches the music his heart sings, the yearning harmony that lathers his soul is rivalled by this player. By Jefferson. It’s not like he’s ever going to meet the violinist, so he’s free to picture whoever he pleases.

He’s sweating, it’s the heat, it must be. His palms that are clenched into fists by his sides are coated in a thin sheen of sweat, his forehead growing damp again. He makes no effort to wipe it away, he lets the heat sweep over him. He allows the flames to engulf him, the chords of the song floating to him still.

But as soon as it’s begun, it ends. The violin fades out, leaving the music buzzing pleasantly in his veins. The lady smiles, nods and starts to walk off, back to her house. The concert comes to a close, curtains shut and shun all backstage visitors away. But when has Alexander ever abided by the rules?

His feet march him into the garden, down the lawn and up to the porch. He steps up the stairs, both of them at once. He’s having trouble summoning courage, something that’s rare for him. Typically he isn’t walking up to a strangers home just to congratulate them on their musical talent… that he probably isn’t even supposed to hear.

It takes Alexander a long minute of just standing there before he swallows his pride and taps his knuckles off the door. There are footsteps, coming closer and as they do he rids himself of the urge to run away.

He’s almost expecting Jefferson, he’s built him up in his mind and placed him on a pedestal. Or maybe it’s better to say that he’s trying to force the man into a treasure box, as he does with all the things he loves. His mother’s memory goes in there, his pens and his laptop and the pendant necklace from his mother. He’s trying to push Jefferson into the box too, to keep him by his side but he won’t stay. Perhaps it’s impossible to keep a person preserved in a treasure chest, or maybe it’s just Jefferson. He needs room, he needs space to evolve and change and grow and Alexander’s treasure chest can’t provide that. Alexander can though. He just has to let Jefferson stay out of the box.

Like he said, he’s almost expecting Jefferson to be at the door. But he still gets shocked when it actually is. It actually is Thomas fucking Jefferson standing in the doorway and Jesus he’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt so tight it should be illegal. It’s difficult enough for Alexander to handle when he can practically see Jefferson’s chest through his sheen white dress shirt at work, but this is too much. This man is an Adonis. He’s the sun, Alexander is an icarus and he feels as though he simply has to fly closer.

“Hamilton!”

Shit, has he been speaking this whole time? Alexander flicks his gaze to Jefferson’s face, and fuck him he’s wearing glasses. Chunky black hipster frames that balance on the bridge of his nose. Christ, he’s in deep isn’t he?

Jefferson waves his hand in front of Alexander’s face, grabbing his attention. “Hu-uh?” Alexander stumbles out his words pathetically, lighting up red soon after. He goes the same crimson as Jefferson’s shirt, the colour he identifies the man with. He looks like he’s about to slap Alexander across the face if he doesn’t start properly talking soon.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jefferson hisses, venom laced in his tone. He’s like a snake, coiled up into a spring, ready to attack and bite at the next to approach. In his hands (lord, those hands!) he holds a clear water bottle, knuckles white with the ferocious way he grips it. He brings it up to his lips and takes a careful sip, eyes trained like a sniper on Alexander.

Hamilton collects himself, gathering his thoughts, which shouldn’t be as difficult to do as it is. He coughs into his fist, realising how dry his throat is. The aspect of water is welcoming, and he wants to reach out just to snatch the plastic (reusable, how environmental) bottle off of Jefferson to guzzle down the remaining liquid. Alas, he does not. Because that would be weird.

He still hasn’t answered, thus Jefferson continues with a hiss. “What are you doing here?!” He’s not angry, Alexander knows this. He has seen the man angry.

One time, he had seen the man in his furious element. The cabinet meeting had just ended, and Jefferson had stormed out after Washington had taken Alexander’s side once again. It wasn’t Hamilton’s fault he was better! Jefferson had stalked towards his office, and Hamilton had followed after him, the cheap fake leather of his shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum. Alexander had continued his argument, much to the dismay of the taller man. Jefferson had tried his very best to slam the door on Hamilton’s face, using all his force (which was a lot) to close it behind him, but Alex managed to stick his foot in the gap and wretch it open, still blabbering away. Jefferson had collapsed into his office chair, held his head in his hands and muttered to himself as Alexander got closer. His voice had stayed a constant, boisterous and accompanied with gesticulating gestures until he lost his cool and whipped Jefferson’s seat around himself.

“Answer me already! You spit and stumble your way through speeches, I bring out the real you! I bring out the fires! Show me him and argue back!” The animosity had been high in Alexander’s tone, he liked the unabashed Jefferson who fought with him. The man who poured wisdom from his tongue like his mother language. Why he held it back when talking to anyone else baffled him beyond belief. But this meeting he had barely spoken, just shared his points with a quiet voice and sat back down, not bothering to debate Alexander. He was furious, made sure to target Jefferson in some of his words just to try and get a rise, a reaction, anything! But it had not worked, so he resorted to his last lifeline, and followed the man to his office.

Jefferson snapped his gaze up, and there it was, the fire he so dearly wanted. The red-hot passion that licked at his pupils, threatened to burn Alexander. “You bring out the real me?! No, Hamilton,” he had spat his name like it was some dirt on the bottom of his polished shoes, “you bring out the worst in me! You bring out the angry, tired part of me that doesn’t want to deal with your bullshit!”

“My bullshit?” Alexander had smirked as though he had won, and in his sense he had. For a moment at least. Because he had gotten a reaction, the thing he craved as much as air. He had gotten his red to reply and that’s all he really needed. He was happy from here on out. But, he could always push it further. So he had. “Care to explain to me what my bullshit is? Is it my financial plan? Is that what it is, Jefferson?” He had remained sickeningly-sweet, words sugary like honey, dripping in the same way.

Jefferson had laughed, hysterical really. A break from his usual smug laughter. A break Alexander didn’t enjoy very much. He was never one to like breaks, preferred to continue in a way he always had. And he and Jefferson had a dance, a specific way they did things that they had yet to break. A routine that Jefferson was so arbitrarily destroying just with a fit of chuckles. “Your financial plan is a piece of insulting garbage, but that is not what I mean-“ he had scoffed, and rose from his seat, towering over Alexander with a menacing glint. “-You are a parasite to me, you trail around like some sad puppy, desperate for attention! But why me? I stammer through speeches, but alas it’s better than talking a million miles a minute where no one can understand you! You bring out the fire, the hellfire! You make me want to snap you into pieces and scatter you on my lawn like fertiliser. Do us all a favour and get out!”

A little shocked by the imaginative insult, Alexander resisted. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Jefferson had him by the collar next, shoving him up against a wall, face so close he could feel the hot breath of his rival on his face. “You talk a big game, Hamilton, yet you forget to follow through. The fire you bring out in me is the worst part about myself and I’d prefer to hide it away,” he had growled, low and rumbling in his chest, “you’re not good enough to lick the dirt off my shoes. You must think you’re so special, yet all you do is hump the President’s leg until you get what you desire. God knows why he takes your side on every political matter.” He had dropped Alexander after that, left him scrambling to his feet. “Get out of my office.”

Scared, but stubborn, Alexander had supplied a retort. “Or what, old man? Gonna make me?”

Jefferson had grit his teeth together, grinding them so hard Hamilton was surprised they hadn’t faded away. “Or else.”

“All bark and no bite.” Alexander scoffed in return, making his way slowly to the door. He cast a look over his shoulder in time to see Jefferson physically slump back into his chair, looking tense and stressed and he couldn’t help but feel bad. He had felt Jefferson’s eyes on his back the whole time he had left, felt them searing holes through his jacket and burning into his skin. Not that he was complaining though.

And once again, Alexander peers up at him with wide eyes. “Oh, well um-“ he directs his gaze over Jefferson’s shoulder, “it’s kind of a long story.” He’s hinting quite obviously at his pleas to come inside, and Jefferson must catch on because a hint of realisation casts over his dark eyes, the eyes Alexander spends so much of his time thinking about.

“I have time,” came Jefferson’s grimy reply. One long finger came up to push his glasses up by the rim, unlike anyone else who would push them up by the bridge. Alexander inadvertently stashed this information away in his treasure chest. He taps his foot in a way that almost feels surreptitious. Or perhaps that’s the incorrect word. Jefferson keeps looking over Alexander’s head, then glancing behind him, eyes darting in all directions.

Alexander has the sun beating down on his back, and he can see Jefferson squinting in the light. It’s hot again, too hot in all the wrong ways, and Alexander only feels hotter with Jefferson’s eyes on him. “Well- uh- it started because my AC unit broke and-“

“Hamilton, I didn’t ask for a life story,” Jefferson fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt, looking almost nervous. Which was ludicrous! Jefferson? Nervous? That… made a lot of sense actually. His stammering through meetings, his constantly tensed shoulders, the time he had overheard Madison and Adams talking about him a few years back, saying “He was born stressed out about something.” It makes the shuffling around start to add up, how he loses his cool around Alexander and loosens up because he stops thinking. He stops worrying and starts concentrating solely on deconstructing Hamilton’s argument. He feels a little rush of pride at that, that he can get Jefferson to let go. Yet at the same time, it feels like it’s perverse knowledge he isn’t supposed to have access too, which brings him right back around to the key metaphor. A metaphor he’s using so often it’s beginning to lose meaning, and he’s beginning to imagine an actual key, which confuses his head even more than it already is.

He’s broken from his thoughts by Jefferson speaking once more, “would you like to come inside?” He asks quietly, shifting foot to foot. Alexander steals his gaze downwards, unable to look Jefferson in the face as he processes that question. His rival (whom he’s established as the man he wants to date, and god it feels so much more real when he thinks of it like that), has just invited him into his home. His home that Alexander always imagined to be bigger, more spectacular and less… welcoming. “You could inform me of why you’re standing on my doorstep in broken sandals over a glass of Chardonnay?”

“How am I supposed to say no to that?” Alexander responds almost mockingly, stepping into the home as Jefferson moves aside. He shuffles and a hand goes up to card through his curls, and Alexander wonders if they’re as soft as they appear. He resists the urge to stride over and find out for himself as he steps inside. “I would take my shoes off, but I feel as though barefoot is even more disrespectful.” He hums absent-mindedly.

Jefferson seems to tune back in at that as he flicks his gaze to follow Alexander. “And since when have you cared about being respectful towards me?” His words are sharp, upset almost. It’s strange, but Alexander kind of likes the vulnerability, it feels special. As though Jefferson is trusting him with the real real him. “Just leave your shoes on,” he adds carefully onto the end with a flippant wave and a frown.

Alexander does just that, but wipes his feet on the welcoming mat Jefferson has placed in his hallway. “What’s your liquor of choice?” Jefferson asks, sauntering off towards his kitchen, voice growing quieter as he walks off. Alexander finds his eyes following his back, watching the way his red shirt clings to the muscles of his back, and he swallows slowly, with intent.

“I believe I was promised Chardonnay, Mr Jefferson!” Alexander calls after him, taking it upon himself to look around the hallway. It’s cooler inside, thank god, but it’s not chilly. Jefferson knows how to set his AC without breaking it, Hamilton could never relate. The walls are painted a warm brown, framed family photos lining the hall. There is one, where Alexander counts twelve people in the image. The camera quality isn’t great, but all the people in the photo are similar in appearance, the only two who stand out are the ones who look like parents, as their hair is turning grey and there are wrinkles along their foreheads. He spots Jefferson - well, Thomas because he’s managed to figure out everyone in the photo is a Jefferson - rather quickly, he’s the second tallest in the picture, just after the one who looks like his father, but he looks younger, smiling wide at the camera and holding a baby boy on his hip. He looks much too young to have a son, so he must be Jefferson’s brother.

There's another photo of him cradling a small child in his arms, a newborn, little girl based on the pink wool hat on her head. He looks older than the previous photo, so Alexander deciphers that this is his child. He looks around. There are no children about. He’s smiling wider than he’s ever seen before, down at the baby whose eyes are tightly shut. Alexander grins to himself and ghosts a finger over Jefferson’s face, or at least over the glass. There’s a corner of a woman’s face in the top left, she looks tired. Jefferson does too, bags under his eyes and smile creases by his lips. But he still looks… god, what word can he use?

The next photo makes his fond smile fall faster than a rock from the top of a cliff. A wedding photo, Jefferson in his mid-twenties, dressed in a suit (that hugs him in all the right places, damn) and kissing a short woman in a flowing white wedding dress. He looks so happy, beaming as his hands rest on her hips. A wave of jealousy crashes over him as he studies the image closer. It’s outdoors, must be in Virginia, and the two newlyweds are standing under an arch laced with pink roses and light pink tulips. He frowns, there goes his chance. But it won’t hit him yet, it only will at around midnight, when he’s emailing Washington where he will pause and scream for a minute as it sets in.

He’s so focused on the wedding pictures that he doesn’t even notice Jefferson coming up behind him. “That’s Martha,” the low voice by his ear makes Alexander jump out of his skin, clasping a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out. “Sorry, did I scare you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and continues to talk, “I thought you would’ve been in the living room, but I suppose I never told you to make yourself at home.” Alexander turns around and chokes on a breath. Because fuck, Jefferson is right there, glasses slipping down his nose, cheeks dusted red and lips inches away from his own. He swallows again, takes a step backwards and hits the wall with his back.

Jefferson hands him a champagne flute with a bubbling glass of white wine, and Alexander nods in return. "Thank you," he studies Jefferson carefully as he flicks his chin up quickly and takes a step away, giving Alexander room to finally breathe. He quickly glances back at the few photos on the wall, catching a glimpse from his peripheral vision as Jefferson sips from his glass. "Martha was…?" He waits for the other to finish his sentence impatiently.

"My wife," Jefferson answers with ease, gulping back a small drink. "A million years ago at least." He chuckles. And Alexander doesn't quite understand. Typically, divorcees don't keep photos of their marriage hanging in the entrance way to their home. Apparently the confusion is evident in his expression, because his host keeps talking. "She passed away eight years ago, just after giving birth."

Alexander bites down on his bottom lip, regretful. He was just thinking about how jealous he was, thinking about going home, calling Laurens or Lafayette and talking shit about Jefferson and his supposed wife. Well he certainly wouldn’t be doing that anymore. “Oh,” he says, rather ineloquently, “I’m sorry.”

Jefferson shrugs, takes another long drink from his glass, like the conversation pains him. It probably does, Alexander realises. “It’s alright, it was a long time ago,” he drawls, making sure to not finish his glass. It’s half full now, and Alexander sips the sparkling liquid. Jefferson clears his throat, looking much like he does during meetings. Uncomfortable, small almost. “Well, can I tempt you to sit in the parlour with me?” He raises an eyebrow, leads them through to a room with windows that are almost floor to ceiling, spar for the comfy looking window seat (covered in a knitted quilt and tartan pillows) that Alexander plops himself down on. The other man seats himself by a small round table, mahogany for the looks of it.

Alexander wants to speak, as always. His tongue flicks in his mouth, forming words but Jefferson cuts him off. “So, Alexander, tell me, what brought you to my doorstep on this… boiling afternoon?” It doesn’t slip past him that Jefferson uses his first name. The way it rolls with his accent, drawling slow as always until Alexander is hanging onto every syllable.

His brain catches up with the question after being so hung up on the way his given name sounds on Jefferson’s lips, and the fact that he would love to hear it in other contexts- God, he needs to stop. But the man is right there and- No. “I broke my air conditioning unit, and needed to get out.” He shrugs and takes a slurping drink of Chardonnay, perhaps if he irritates Jefferson enough, he’ll see the fire he wants.

“That doesn’t explain why you knocked on my door,” Jefferson flicks his wrist and places his glass down. Alexander can practically hear the cogs in his brain (that wonderful mind) whirring as he thinks. He can see the intelligent man putting the puzzles pieces together, in order to view the whole picture. He stops to admire his fellow Secretary’s brilliance far too often, and he always has. It’s a constant, a comma in his life where he pauses and admits to himself that Jefferson is smart. And sometimes he hates it. He hates that Jefferson is so so bright, but is full of only stupid things to say. Like he doesn’t learn both sides of the argument before presenting. Or perhaps that’s just how humans work, they’re always going to be biased.

Alexander coughs into his fist again, seeing Jefferson grit his teeth that he had the audacity to slurp his expensive (probably French, pretentious bastard) wine. “I decided to go for a walk,” he began to explain, as confident as always. “And then I ended up here,” he chewed on the inside of his cheek, “because I heard you playing violin and wanted to come speak to whoever the player was. Didn’t know it was going to be you.”

Jefferson appears uncomfortable. He finishes his glass in one large gulp and places his now empty glass on the table. He pushes his glasses up his nose by the rim once more, sighing softly. “You say that like it was bad playing.” He said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at his empty glass, refilling it with only his eyes and exhaling as it refuses to fill. How disappointing.

“No, no!” Alexander waves his hands in a flurry, almost spilling his Chardonnay on the laminate flooring. Jefferson’s eyes catch the droplet that flies from the glass and lands on one of his quilted cushions. Hamilton is too busy explaining himself to realise. Why is he being so considerate of Jefferson’s feelings? (He has a crush on him, he knows this. He knows it’s because the man looks so much more vulnerable in his own home, in shorts and t-shirt and glasses. And oh fuck he’s staring again.) “I wanted to come tell the violinist how incredible their playing was!” He watches the man who is supposed to be his rival smile, genuine and pure, and his heart soars. Butterflies swarm in his stomach, flapping their wings at a hundred miles an hour. It’s like he can take flight, all because of Jefferson’s shy little grin, watching the way his lips twitch upwards. It’s so different from his other sly, wicked smirks, all teeth and hatred. Is it hatred really though? Alexander doesn’t have the time to ask himself all of these questions again, he’s never going to find an answer.

"I've played ever since I was a child," Jefferson replies, tapping his fingers off his thighs. As Alexander has established, everything about this man seems to be carved by the gods out of stone and his legs are no exception.

"Impressive." He isn't lying. Alexander finds it wildly impressive, violin is a difficult instrument to master. He believes Jefferson mutters something along the lines of 'thank you', but he isn't particularly paying attention. He needs more to drink. He doesn't want to have to think anymore, so he doesn't. Instead, he downs his glass.

“Want a refill?” Jefferson drawls, rising to his feet and taking both empty glasses. All Alexander can do is nod and watch as the man walks off, eyes concentrated on his back and definitely not other places because that would be crude.

Alexander crosses his legs (sits criss-cross applesauce) on the windowsill seat, fluffing a pillow behind his back and cautiously leaning back to rest against the window panes. He’s almost scared of breaking them, or of the glass popping out. So instead he turns and tucks his knees in slightly, sitting along it sideways to lean on the wall that slightly juts out. He must appear comfortable, because when Jefferson comes back in he laughs carefully. “Made yourself at home I see?” He hands Alexander the glass of Chardonnay, and he notes that in his other hand is the bottle.

“Yeah, got a problem with that?” Alexander responds sarcastically. Jefferson plops himself down - surprisingly - beside Alexander, in the small space between his feet and the other wall. He hadn’t expected the sudden closeness, and all cognitive thought grinds to a stop when he realises he can smell Jefferson’s overpriced cologne. It’s probably perfume, when he thinks about it. Flowery and reeking of money. But Alexander thinks (after smelling it before, and now smelling it here) that he’ll kill Jefferson if he ever wears anything else.

Jefferson sips from his glass. “Not at all.” Alexander wants to stretch his legs out, but felt as though he couldn’t do that. Jefferson was right there! What can he do? Put his feet on the man’s lap? … he could do that. He could actually do that. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, Hammy?” He purrs teasingly, raising a curious eyebrow and chuckling to himself. Alexander can’t help but notice the slight flush of his cheeks, the dusty pink across his skin. He eyes him suspiciously, before he finally realises that the man must be a lightweight. Now there’s something he didn’t expect.

“Hammy?” Alexander quirks an eyebrow, suspect. It’s amusing how Jefferson seems to relax that slight bit as he sips his Chardonnay. The slightly older man just nods in return, bringing his glass to his lips and taking another drink. Alexander does the same, swirling the wine in his champagne flute with a chuckle. “Just that I wanna stretch out.” He shrugs and continues to drink, observing as Jefferson’s face scrunches up unattractively. Somehow, Hamilton still finds it adorable. Who would’ve thought he would find Jefferson cute? How strange.

“Then just do it,” Jefferson suggests with a smile, shrugs his shoulders and sips his drink. Alexander is surprised, never would’ve thought Jefferson would allow him to kick his feet up. It feels intimate, like a cute-couple thing to do. He hesitantly stretches his legs out, untucking his knees and placing his feet up on Jefferson’s lap, who hums his approval.

Alexander sips his Chardonnay, starting to speak. And Jefferson? Jefferson starts to listen.

Half an hour, and the rest of the bottle of Chardonnay later, the two are on the right side of tipsy. They’re just drunk enough to feel comfortable enough to sit shoulder to shoulder, resting against each other without looking like they’re being forced into the close proximity. Except they are no longer shoulder to shoulder, in fact, they’re closer than that. Alexander has his head on Jefferson’s lap, his glass long forgotten on the table, along with Jefferson’s champagne flute too and the empty wine bottle. Alexander is continuously muttering about the current political climate, ranting quietly while Jefferson listens, occasionally inputting his opinion.

“Are you not gonna argue with me?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. He’s trying to irritate Jefferson, and pokes his cheek to try and agitate him more. But Jefferson doesn’t react, other than blushing an even darker crimson. The colour he is. He’s crimson, but now he’s dull and Alexander misses his booming red.

Jefferson hums to himself, eyes fluttering shut. Alexander reaches up and pushes the other man’s glasses up his nose by the bridge. Jefferson flicks his eyes open suddenly and stares down at him, catching his wrist in his hand. Alexander feels paralysed, feeling his large palms around his own bony wrist and holding it in a loose grip. He doesn’t answer the question, “it’s so nice outside. Why are we still sitting here?”

“Why indeed?” There’s a ever so slight slur to his words, drawn out a little more than usual. Alexander kicks his feet to the ground, standing so casually it’s like he stays and hangs with Jefferson all the time and not never at all. He turns to face Jefferson, overlooking his features. He’s never had a chance to look at him so relaxed, and he notices how tense Jefferson typically is compared to now. At work, his shoulders are straight, hunched up to his ears and his posture is a horizontal line. Whereas now, he’s a little more slumped, tension gone from his body. It’s a breath of fresh air, one he never thought he would experience and accept so easily.

Jefferson rises to his feet, and typically he would be towering over Hamilton yet now, he doesn’t feel as dominating. Instead, he’s softer, edges aren’t as sharp or predatory. The mirthful glint in his pupils has faded, but the fire still licks at his eyes. It’s a welcoming heat, like the fireplace on a freezing day. And despite the current heatwave, Alexander finds himself wishing to curl up by the fire like a purring cat. “Come on, let’s go sit in my backyard.”

Alexander expects to trail after him, certainly not for the man to offer his hand to Hamilton. But he takes it, ignoring the way his heart pounds in his chest and the way his head is screaming at him. “You’re holding his hand! You’re holding Thomas Jefferson’s hand! He offered it to you! You didn’t even have to ask!” His pulse races in his ears, as he leads the two of them into his back garden. It’s beautiful, a large monkey puzzle tree in the far right corner, casting a lovely shadow over a section of the yard. Jefferson guides Alexander over to the tree and sits down under it, gesturing next to him. “C’mon, Hammy, I don’t have all day.” Alexander feels his heart flutter again, starting to race at the ridiculous nickname. If anyone else used it, he would be quickly driven mad. It’s all because of this damn Secretary.

Alexander takes a seat by him, leaning against the bark of the tree and exhaling. It’s warm, but at least vaguely cooler under the tree. Jefferson certainly seems to appreciate it, as the slightly intoxicated man removes his glasses and places them on the trimmed glass next to him, tips his head back until it hits the tree truck and breathes out happily. Alexander eyes the expanse of skin by his neck, and starts to feel like a particularly famished vampire, gazing at the muscles of someone’s neck of all places. But there’s a familiar itch in his fingertips, the urge to have his face tucked into the crook of his neck and just breathe. The thought would be scarier if it wasn’t for the alcohol in his blood. He feels confident, confident enough to lean against Jefferson and carefully hide his face in his shoulder. Not his neck, sure, but it’s close.

Alexander can feel his counterparts breathing stutter and he gently nuzzles against him, appreciating the muscle under him. “Hamilton, are you alright?” He’s sobered up, the shock of Alexander curling around him like ivy clings to a house seemingly having knocked the wine out of his system. He allows Alexander to wind himself tighter around his body, like it's cold out and he’s the only viable source of heat. It’s not. It’s still absolutely sweltering, evident in the way sweat beads at Jefferson’s brow and Alexander longs to reach over and smooth out the developing stress lines.

“Mhm…” Alexander hums his answer and buries his head into Jefferson’s neck, finally finally being close enough to him. Yet… somehow he’s dying to be closer. “I’m great, perfect! Even,” he giggles, the alcohol definitely making him a fun drunk. He’s a lightweight, that’s for sure, but when it hits him, it hits all at once. He’s got a rush of flirtatious courage surging through his veins, hot in his blood.

Jefferson moves his hand across and gently caresses Alexander’s pink cheeks, observing how he keens into it like a cat. That’s exactly what Alexander reminds him of, a cat. Hissing and violent in his worst moments, yet clingy and desperate for attention in his best. It’s a good thing Jefferson likes cats then. He drags an arm around Alexander’s shoulder, taking in his appearance. Small and (gross, his back is damp) hunched over, tucking into him and smiling, pink lips twitching into a happy grin. He’s so soft like this, vulnerable in a way Jefferson’s never seen him before. He’s intensity is being channeled into a new emotion, and Jefferson knows he’s still red. Still a fiery red, but it’s dragged in a different direction. It’s pulling him into love, and it makes his stomach do flips. Because if he has to be honest to himself, he’s had a crush on this ridiculous gremlin (excuse of a man) politician since the day of their first Cabinet meeting. Alexander could keep up with his thunderous talking pace, and he loves it. He loves it so much. “You’re sure?”

“Well,” Alexander decides it’s now or never, “I suppose there’s a way it could get…” he darts his tongue out and licks his lips, “even better.” He moves an inch away from Jefferson, eyes flickering between his eyes (no longer covered by lenses) and his lips, which look all too kissable. Jefferson doesn’t seem to catch on, just catches Alexander’s gaze with his own intense one.

“How so?” He raises an eyebrow, arched brow almost judging him.

“Kiss me,” Alexander breathes, tilting his chin upwards and leaning forward, hoping Jefferson will close the gap. And he does. God he does. He leans down and in, dipping his head and pressing his lips softly to Alexander’s own. They’re soft and insistent and gentle against his own chapped ones. And Alexander finds himself sober, before getting drunk on the feeling of Jefferson kissing him and ha! He’ll be able to rub this in Lafayette’s face later! Suck it, Frenchie!

Alexander cards his hand into Jefferson’s curls, because he’s scared he’ll never get the chance to feel them again. They’re as soft as they look, springy between his fingers and wonderful to the touch. It’s such a wonderful kiss, their first kiss, and Alexander wants to keep on kissing him forever. Jefferson makes a quiet whimpering noise and Alexander forces himself to pull away before he melts and never does. “Jefferson,” he breathes across his lips.

“Thomas,” the other corrects delicately, a meer whisper before he’s tangling his hand in Alexander’s hair and tugging Alexander back to meet his lips. It’s feverish this time, desperate and needy. The roasting heat must be getting to them, because they’re rivals, are they not? Well, not anymore. Because he’s pretty sure enemies don’t kiss in summer heatwaves, under monkey puzzle trees in their rivals back garden. But they do now, because Alexander isn’t giving this up for the world. Not now. He has his red.

“Thomas,” Alexander repeats Jeffer- Thomas’s words as they break away again. The name feels heavy on his tongue with the taste of its owner on his lips. Like it should be a sin, a sin to have enjoyed that so much. But he will gladly go to hell if it means getting to experience that intimacy again. The base of his ponytail has started to be tugged out, knotting where his fingers have tangled in the locks. He lays his head on the man’s shoulder, starting to slide half in and half out of his lap. It’s insane, the burning feeling in his chest as he locks this memory away in his treasure box, saving it for a rainy day, just in case this was a one time thing.

Thomas cradles Alexander’s chin in one hand, thumb hooking under his jaw and tilting his head up so that he can look into his eyes. Hamilton could get lost in those eyes, as he has many times. So many times during cabinet meetings he has stared at Jefferson, at those dark eyes and simply dove in, gleeful at the aspect of drowning in them. Only for the man to spout some ridiculous shit and drag Alexander out of the waters, slap him around and take him to his senses. “Yes, dear?”

That voice was going to be the death of him.

“I-“ He lost all forms of cognitive thought, the train must’ve derailed when Thomas pressed their lips together. Because fuck, he can even feel the violin chords buzzing in his veins again and it’s all so much and he loves it. Alexander flicks his gaze around Thomas's face, (he really has to get used to calling him that) kiss-swollen lips, the deep blush across his cheeks. He must look like an awestruck child from Thomas's perspective, because the man chuckles and takes his free hand through Alex's hair, taking it out of the pony tail in one movement. "Red." Alex mutters finally.

"Red?" Thomas repeats with a cocked eyebrow, hands Alexander his hair tie and brings both hands back to his lap. He really isn't sure what Hamilton means. What does red have to do with anything? If he had to put a colour to this moment, he would call it tickled pink. Intense and warm, but full to the brim of love and devotion. Pink.

Alexander nods, presses a finger to Thomas's chest, and another to his own. "Red," he nods, taking his fingers away, instead splaying his palm across Jefferson's chest absent-mindedly. "That's our colours. We're red."

Thomas never imagined he would be agreeing with Alexander so easily. With Martha, their relationship had been a soft pink. The fire was there, buried beneath the surface of dedication and loyalty. It was comfortable, it was perfect. He never needed anything else, because everything he needed was in Martha. But was he pink? Certainly not. She was his high-school sweetheart, the only real relationship he had ever had. He didn't count the many women (and men) in France, they never lasted longer than a night of sub-par activities and a morning of awkward goodbyes.

"We are, aren't we?" Thomas hummed, eventually pulling himself from his thoughts before he sunk too far. Thinking was a dangerous activity, one he didn't take time to do in fear of never emerging again.

"But," Alexander continues, and Jefferson's heart sinks. There's always a catch, isn't there? "We're the opposite reds. You're the darker red, most definitely. You're secrets and feelings are locked away, while I display mine like the lights on Broadway."

Thomas gulps. Never before has he been called out so boldly, or in such a forward manner. Yet Alexander has hit the nail on the head, first try and won the prize so it seems. He softens a little further, slumping against the tree. A low hanging stick swats at his head, and he bats it away with one hand.

"You keep everything behind lock and key… no one else has the key, I don't think," Alexander draws little swirls and patterns with his fingertip on Thomas's chest, the art fading as fast as it appears. He feels the man quiver, trying to hold himself together, and he knows that stone wall he hides behind is breaking.

He shakes his head in a curt motion. "Ja- Madison has a key," he corrects, inadvertently agreeing with Alexander, "Martha… Martha had a key." He finishes there, hands folding into each other, fingers fidgeting with discomfort. His face contorts as he screws it up, not allowing his mind to drift, forcing himself to stay in the moment. Stay in the tickled pink time. But how do you make pink from two reds?

"I'd like a key," Alexander adds, "if you'd be willing to lend me a spare." He glances up at Jefferson through his eyelashes, shall he offer something in return? The key to his treasure chest perhaps? The place he stores his most prized memories?

Jefferson chews on his lip. "I think you already have one. Whether we realised it or not… you've always had one." The metaphor is starting to confuse him, muddling with his mind. So many keys, and so many possible doors they could unlock and it's all a bit much. What door should he go through first? None of them have labels, none of them have a clear cut future secured behind them. How does he choose? Maybe he should let Alexander choose for him, go along for the ride.

Alexander smiles. He drapes himself further across Jefferson, kicking one of his legs over both of the man's and leaning into his shoulder, tucking himself there. The hot air, accompanied by the events that just occurred have sobered him almost entirely, but it feels so much better to experience this without the alcohol tainting his memory. "Thank you."

"For what?" Thomas raises an eyebrow, because as far as he's certain, he should be thanking Hamilton. Or cursing him. Cursing him and whatever magical force drew them together. This may just make him believe in fate, in destiny. He wasn’t a Christian, not anymore anyway, but this had him thanking god. Thanking every god for bringing them together. This was good, he could sit under this monkey puzzle tree, feeling the way he is now for the rest of eternity. Not good, no, that didn’t do this justice. Amazing? Fabulous? Stupendous?

"It's a preemptive thank you, since you'll be paying for tonight's date. Say seven o'clock." Alexander smirks up at Thomas, watches as the man chuckles. That laugh, there's a sound he could get used to. And to know he caused it? Fills him with joy. The laugh is like yellow. He doesn't know why, it just is. Colours fit everything, his mother was a deep navy blue, his father a cold icy white. Lafayette is purple, a mix of strength and flowing like the sea, but passionate like red. Hercules is green like juniper, he’s a grounding presence, one that Alexander can rely on to stay strong for them all. Angelica is pink, full of passion, but for some reason she just doesn’t hit that red mark. Washington stands bold in yellow, along with Peggy, but much like Thomas and Alexander, opposite ends of the spectrum. He can’t say why these colours fit, where he got them from or why they are this way, but it just does. It all slots together, everyone in his life has an assigned colour. And he thinks they always will.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Alright, I'm sure the neighbour will be fine taking care of Patsy for a bit," he hums. It's nerve wracking, because Jefferson doesn't have a clue if Alexander is alright with kids or not. His brain is screaming at him that Alexander is going to see sense and run, hear the talk of kids and sprint. After all, they're both in their mid thirties, so it's normal for someone their age to have a child. What if Alexander doesn't like kids? God, was this a mistake?

“Patsy? The little girl playing out in the street?” Alexander asks, laying himself across Thomas. He feels comfortable, like himself already, and he feels like this could go places. Because reds match, and opposites attract. They’re just lucky they’re opposite reds.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s playing with John,” Thomas sighs out his nose, grabbing his glasses and pushing them up his nose. He smiles at Alexander and giggles, actually giggles, a sound that makes Alexander’s heart fly like doves around his chest. “Dress comfy, I hope you like picnics.”

“Picnics?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. “I love picnics.” It’s true. Hell, if they picnic in the back of Thomas’s garden, criss-cross on a blanket under this tree, that could be one of the best dates of his life.

“I’m glad, it’s my dream date,” Thomas admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “look at us, getting to know each other already!” He chuckles again, noticing the flush it causes to Alex’s cheeks. Gorgeous. He cups his jaw, watches as the smaller man leans into the touch with a soft purr.

“You know what’ll make it even better?”

“What, if I bring more Chardonnay?”

“No!” Alexander bats at his arm playfully.

“Then what?” Thomas asks through laughs.

“If you kiss me again.”

And he does. God, he does.

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please this is 13,045 words I spent to much time on this I'm begging yall, if you liked it please reblog it, I dont want this to go unnoticed.

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chaoticneutralwriter · 5 years ago

Text

Fifth Act: Diligence

Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him - James 1:12

guardian demon!jimin x reader

genre: fluff, romance, supernatural, angst, slow-burn, slice of life, comedy

word count: 12.9k (CHONKY BOIII)

related works: see Masterlist under guardian demon!jimin au

Continuation of Fourth Act: Kindness

A/N: when i said it was long, it’s LONG long. WHEW! The second longest chapter in the series so far?? djfksgh Sorry to keep you waiting for so long ;w; I can’t thank you enough for your patience and unwavering love and interest for this series in spite of it! So here we go, FIFTH ACT YALL HHHH I hope you’ll enjoy!!

@cherryjiminiee @kokobaekkie @breathebangtan @itsadoozie @thatshylatina @chiminieboi @azulamakesmeblank @sectumsemptae @awkwardwookie @aduky @poisonseashell @shortannoyingginger @caramelmac-chiato @sana-b @jiminstinct @beautifulparisiangirl @taelieninvader @ggukjitaejin @xakemi-chiix @vantaenims @atulipandarose @moments-of-melancholy

You don’t want to admit it.

It’s so cliche.

But you’re not gonna burst out singing Meg’s song from Hercules because you’ve passed that stage at least.

What your problem is is that confessing your feelings has proven to be way easier said than done on a multitude of different levels.

Confessing to someone is already a nerve-wracking thing to begin with — you’re basically laying your heart out to a person hoping that they won’t end up completely crushing it — but furthermore, you don’t even know how to go about doing this. For the past days or so since you’ve resolved yourself to Jaehee that you were going to take that leap of faith, your only means of contact with Jimin has been through texting which was both a blessing and a curse.

You’re not gonna lie and say that you didn’t need to do some psyching up first, some mental pep talk through the assurance that you could still hold a decent conversation with him without getting sweaty palms. Of course, when you did manage to pull enough courage to direct the conversation to that topic (and okay maybe a glass of wine helped too), you were strategically swerved.

If there was one thing you wanted to do when you confessed, it was to do it in person. You feel like this is too big of a deal to do through text even if it would’ve helped you with organizing what you wanted to say better. You wanted to be open with yourself and to Jimin and being face to face was the only sure way to get your sincerity across.

So whenever you ask him if there was any chance he could meet up in person, whether it be at a cafe or even just late at night in your room, he would always excuse himself saying that he couldn’t. The reason always being that he was ‘busy’ or had matters he needed to attend to (his words, not yours). You understood at first, though the times when they happened it had put a damper on your confidence, but it soon became too redundant and you grew agitated, even more so because any attempts at a compromise didn’t work either; Jimin never gives a straight enough answer for it.

But then the chats became sparser, never lasting more than a few short exchanges until they just stop altogether.

And when the texts aren’t being returned, your calls are met in the same manner; your only reply is the sound of the dial tone.

Soon your suspicions morphs into anxieties, and though you attempt to reign in your imagination, the longer you don’t hear from him, the more they become rampant. Your mind begins to dredge up memories of things you’d rather forget, playing them out as if to show you how eerily similar this all is, taunting you, reminding you that the last time this had happened your guardian demon had come back on the brink of death.

You swallow, trying to quell the suffocating feeling that comes up but there’s a pressure on your chest that has your breathing shortened. You’re wringing your hands unconsciously, a small attempt at coping with how on edge you’ve become though it proves to not be as effective as you would have liked. How you found that out was because anything and everything irritated you and it showed.

You hate how it seems like you can’t go for a minute without wanting to snap at the next person who so much as look at you — a really bad thing because you work in an industry that requires you to maintain your cool in literally any situation, even the most absurd ones.

And it’s like today was ‘let’s irritate the hell out of Y/N L/N’ and you didn’t get the memo because the clowns are out in full force.

“Well I don’t want to call the help line, that’s gonna take too long.”

Deep breaths, you tell yourself, deep breaths.

“They’re actually pretty fast with finding your transaction history; the only time it would take a while is if you called during the weekend because their time of operation is shortened.” You explain for what felt like the millionth time.

Yet still, the man in front of you continues to scowl as if this is entire thing was your fault.

“But I’m already here, I don’t want to have to go home and come back because that’s a waste of gas.”

“Sir,” You start again, “I can’t refund this item for you at full price if you don’t have the receipt. As I said, I can still put it on a store credit but I will have to deduct thirty percent because I don’t know if you got this on sale or if you used a coupon — that’s just store policy. Or,” The word comes out firmly, “You can find the exact same item and just do a straight exchange for the better of the two.”

He pauses, as if to think it over and you were foolish enough to think that maybe he finally sees reason, but then he opens his mouth.

“But I want my full refund.”

Holy shit if it were not for the laws of this land….

“Then you’re gonna have to call the help line or go find the exact same item and exchange them.”

You’re done, you’re absolutely done and you swear if this man doesn’t walk away doing any of your suggestions right now, you can’t promise that no ones about to get smacked in the face with your scanner. Thankfully, as if the universe has heard you, he begrudgingly takes the box of outdoor fairy lights (you really want to pull your hair out here) and heads off down an aisle. You actually breathe out a sigh of relief, but there goes what little of your patience you have left.

Now you can only pray that the rest of your shift goes by as quickly and as smoothly as possible.

Obviously that was too much to ask for.

You cash out around five people more before a woman approaches your register, holding a box with a picture of a white Instax Mini Polaroid camera on the front. You’re not sure if it’s your gut instincts or because you’re already so annoyed that immediately, you have a bad feeling about this. Regardless however, you muster all the mental strength you possess to suppress the feeling. Lips pulled taut into a wide smile, you greet the customer with an overcompensating amount of friendliness.

“Hello, how are you?”

“Yeah, I want to change the colour of this polaroid camera.”

You force the smile to remain on your face, “Sure no problem! Which colour would you like instead?”

“The pink one.”

You turn around to scan the rows of polaroid boxes hanging on the pegs behind you, picking out of the three colours available for the pink one the woman wanted. Placing it on the counter beside you, you ask nicely, “Can I see the receipt for the camera that you have and the camera as well please?”

She slides the box over to you and you see the receipt poking out of the slit. You take it out, opening the box to check the camera inside and make sure that everything that came with it was still there. Once you confirm that it is, you close it back up and unfold the receipt to match the barcode number on the box to the one that’s printed. Looking over to the pink coloured one, you confirm that the the item code for the white and pink cameras are different which comes as no surprise for you; in order to do this exchange, you would have to return and repurchase so the inventory count would be correct for the store.

A rather simple and painless concept.

“Why can’t I just take this one and give you this one?” The lady questions, annoyance colouring every one of her words as she gestures between the two cameras.

“I know they’re the same camera but since they’re different colours, they have two unique item numbers that differentiate them from each other to help with our inventory. It would only work if they were the exact same camera.”

“But they are!”

“They’re different in colours.”

“You know I’ve shopped here for a long time and I have never had to do this before.” She scowls at you and you refrain from rolling your eyes because clearly she doesn’t shop here enough to know.

“We’e always had this policy ma’am.” You instead answer plainly, the artificial civility in your demeanour already dissipating. When it’s clear that you weren’t going to budge and give in to her intimidation, she rolls her eyes and pulls out her card to insert into the pin pad. The computer system lets out a beep in error, letting you know that the card she used was not the one she purchased the camera with.

“Is that a debit or a credit card?” You ask despite already knowing.

“It’s a debit.”

 “It has to be on the same card you used to pay for the camera.”

“Why can’t I just use any card?” You can already pick up the growing inflection in her voice; it’s a little louder and more aggressive but at this point you’re at your wits end too.

“For security purposes.” You choose to state simply, tired of explaining when you know it won’t work.

“Well, I don’t have that card on me because I thought this was going to be a simple exchange.” She says accusatorially, like of course all of this is your fault and you’re the one who’s being difficult. You try to take a deep breath in discreetly, jaw clenched until you feel it beginning to ache before you reply back to her.

“I can put it on a store credit and you can just use that amount to pay for the camera again.”

Your answer makes her huff, crossing her arms as she says, “Fine.”

Your finger practically punches in the appropriate operating system for the return method, reaching in a side drawer behind your counter to pull out a black card meant for store credits. There’s a slight tremble in your hand from the sheer effort of holding yourself back, feeling like a coiled snake ready to lash out at the littlest prod that you try to keep hidden by speeding up the process, which almost makes you slam the drawer close with more force than necessary.

You confirm the amount and swipe the card through the machine in one quick motion, carelessly dropping the card onto the counter in front of you as you wait for the printout copy of the transaction to come out.

“You didn’t have to throw the card like that.” The woman’s voice snap, piercing through your tunnel vision, so hyper-focused on just getting the task done that for a good minute you actually don’t know what she’s talking about.

“I didn’t throw the card.” You reply evenly.

“Yes, you did. Just now.” She challenges, gesturing to the card and pinning you with a sharp glare.

“It dropped out of my hand.”

“No, you threw it.”

“I didn’t throw the card, it dropped out of my hand.” You reiterate, biting out the words that at this point, there’s no way she wouldn’t notice your own growing disdain. To your surprise, she doesn’t continue to try and fight you on this (though the crossed look on her face remains) so you take it as a sign to proceed on to completing this transaction.

You think you’re in the clear; after swiping the card through, you hand over her new receipt and the camera she wanted but before you can even think about gritting out a very forced ‘have a nice day’, the woman cuts you off with a terse, “I’m speaking to your management about this. What is your name?”

The shock of her words make you freeze in place, your jaw nearly dropping from speechlessness. She can’t be serious right now….

But as the woman continues to wait, clearly impatient yet stubborn enough to wait for your answer, you realize that yes, she really is threatening to take down your name and report you to management over this petty squabble. Your heart is practically beating in your throat now and you feel your face heating up at how angry you’re getting, so much that for a split second the rash thought of outright refusing her came into mind. You wanted so badly to go through with it, loathed the idea of letting her think she had won when it’s her who was wrong in the first place. However, rationality wins over in the end; as sweet as the instant gratification would be, you think it’s not worth losing your job over.

Also, you just want her gone.

So you find yourself swallowing your pride and begrudgingly, you give her your name. To add insult to injury, she asks for a pen to write it down onto her receipt before she finally turns to walk off.

Great, fantastic, just what you needed; being written up because this stupid, entitled bitch decided to mouth off on you for something you have no control over.

You hate how your heart is still pounding, still trembling from your barely restrained emotions that has your nails digging into your palms. With a shaky exhale in an attempt to shake it off, you radio over to your manager that you would like to take your break now.

Thankfully, you’re given the go ahead and you had never made for the break room faster in your life, brisk pace allowing for no chances of getting stopped by any more annoying customers. Once the door shuts behind you do you finally slump back against it, temples throbbing as you take in deep shuddering breaths.

It takes a feel minutes before you feel calm enough, the overwhelming fire simmering down to a calm you can control.

You may have had to swallow your pride in telling a Karen your name and risk being written up, but you’ll be damned if you let it break you down.

The groan comes out unabashedly when you unceremoniously fling yourself across your bed, finally home after what felt like a ten hour shift. You lay there, eyes shut like you’re trying to trick your body that you’re in the state of sleep just so you can obtain some semblance of energy back — it doesn’t work.

Instinctively, your hand reaches to dig into your sling bag to fish out your phone, muscle memory dictating your actions as your thumb slides your lock pattern open and they’re tapping on the messenger icon before you can even think to stop yourself. The window opens with Jimin’s message thread staring right in your face, mocking in the way it has not changed status at all, frozen in its own time.

You don’t know how many times you’ve seen this screen at this point but it still never fails to stir back up all the negative thoughts and emotions that has been plaguing you so vividly as if it was your first time experiencing it. Your teeth are tugging at your lips again, reading and rereading your own sent messages that have gone unanswered, all asking the same thing;

Are you okay?

Where are you?

The details to the questions are no longer of your concerns because each scenario you conjure in your head was worse than the last that they threaten to drive you mad. You don’t think you can bear the weight on your heart much longer as more and more days pass in living this torturous limbo of not knowing.

All you wanted was just an answer, anything that would let you know that he was out there, alive and well.

That alone was enough for you.

You tear your gaze away from the offending sight, tossing your phone carelessly onto your bed somewhere. You sit back up just in time to hear the front door unlock and open, signalling for Jaehee’s arrival home.

You exit your room to greet her, wanting to take your mind off of things if only for a short while.

“Hey, where’d you run off to all day?” You ask, helping Jaehee with a couple of grocery bags but a quick peek lets you see that there are some that contains other curious things like….is that a plant?

“Hey! Oh, just here and there. Stocked up on some more food stuff but then got really distracted because look at these!”

Jaehee excitedly sets down a reusable bag on the table before reaching inside to pull out its content, which turns out to be a good sized leafy plant sitting in a cute little white ceramic pot. The leaves are wide and arrow-like in shape, marbled beautifully in vibrant greens and yellows — the lightest colour starting from the centre and transitioning much darker — that makes them appear as if they have been painted on. At a quick glance, you would’ve actually believed that the plant is fake if it wasn’t for the specks of dark soil spilling out from the base when Jaehee accidentally tipped it too much while placing it down.

“They’re called Chinese Evergreens. Aren’t they pretty?” Your roommate beams, twisting the plant this way and that. “Now that I got some time to myself, I thought why not finally fulfill my wish in living my life out as a plant mom.”

A loud snort leaves you as you gingerly place the bag of food on the kitchen counter, turning around to see that Jaehee has pulled out yet another leafy looking plant, only the leaves of this one were long and banana shaped, a solid dark, olive green colour and parted slightly at the centre into an almost fan-like shape with seven leaves equal to each side.

“I got this one because I remember growing up, my parents had one, only theirs was way bigger.” Jaehee comments, holding up the plant comfortably in her hands. “I never knew what it was called until the gardener helping me told me it was a Kaffir Lily.”

You blink, a little skeptical at the name because it certainly didn’t resemble the lilies you pictured in your head.

“Lily? So does that mean it’ll flower?”

“Apparently? I was surprised too because I don’t think I’ve ever seen my parents’ plant flower but the gardener say its sporadic and sometimes first blooms don’t happen until two or three years later.” Jaehee regards the plant with a pensive pout and a tilt of her head but then shrugs and happily says, “But judging from the pictures though, they look pretty!”

You hum, choosing to nod along with what Jaehee says before turning back to sort out the food she’s bought. Seeing Jaehee so lively like this makes you glad for her. Ever since quitting her job, it’s like a weight has been lifted and Jaehee isn’t shy about taking full advantage of all the time she has now to do the more simpler things she’s missed out on — like cultivating plants apparently.

Whatever the hobby is, it’s nice to know that at least one of you is thriving.

Over dinner you express as much, which you get a boisterous laugh in response and actually feel sorry when Jaehee asks the same of you but all you can do is tell her that things have been the complete opposite on your end.

Aside from the god awful day at work you had (one which had Jaehee physically reeling and not knowing what to do with herself for a good five minutes; that was pretty funny), you had also told her of your predicament with Jimin. She’s frowning by the time you get out that you haven’t heard from him for days now.

“Every time I ask him to meet up in person, he’s always brushed me off or changes the subject, like he’s avoiding it.” You sigh out heavily, can’t keep how troubled you are from it out of your voice. “Now I don’t even hear from him at all and it’s making me anxious.”

A pause, and once again you’re wringing your fingers as you try to work out any sort of explanation for this. “You don’t think…You don’t think I scared him off do you?”

“No, no I don’t think that’s it.” Jaehee affirms, though the pinch in her brows doesn’t go away. “I mean it would suck if that’s all it takes because damn, I actually had a lot of faith in him but….I don’t know, it doesn’t seem right to me.”

Her words give you more comfort than you had expected, a relief you hadn’t known you needed and you’re all the more grateful for her to anchor you down. After wracking her head a bit more, Jaehee says carefully, “You mentioned how he was leaving soon, did he say anything about when he’s coming back or….?”

“No, he— he didn’t say. Just that it would be soon….” You swallow, feeling your chest clench suddenly. “I mean, he’s been gone before like this — twice actually — but he comes back, he always does…”

Even if it nearly kills him….

You trail off in your ramblings, trying hard not to reveal too much to Jaehee yet you feel like you’re making excuses for yourself because you don’t want to acknowledge the possibility that Jimin would up and leave without telling you. If not to your face then you’d hoped he would have at least the decency to leave you a note. Besides, shouldn’t there be some sort of formal undoing to your contract with him if he’s clear to be a free roaming demon again? It wouldn’t make sense if you’re still tied to each other in some way, or does the contract simply null itself? You refrain from letting out a groan, feeling the frustration and the oncoming headache draining what last bit of energy you have left. Instead, you drag your hands down your face and let out a heavy sigh.

“It only makes me worry because sometimes he’s reckless and does stupid things….”

“Wait, like what kind of ‘stupid things?’” Jaehee suddenly interjects, sitting up a little straighter and sounding a little more concerned. It has you floundering on how to put lightly that it’s in Jimin’s nature (and literally his job) to go out and find people to tempt them into depravity; would be fine and all had he been the only dangerous thing roaming the city but no doubt after that fateful night, there was something else more dangerous out there. Even though Jimin had told you it was one of those rare moments that he ended up so badly injured like that, you’d rather not take any chances or have him test his luck again.

“I don’t know like…things that might get him into unnecessary trouble.” God that does not make it sound any better. Panicked, you hastily add, “Nothing illegal of course! But like he…tends to wander and is a little too impulsive sometimes – do his own thing without thinking it through?” You cringe, bracing for Jaehee to give you shit for liking a guy who now sounds like a drug dealer or something. She gives you a rather perplexed look, a sort of lopsided quirk of her lips but eventually she seems to let it go, wordlessly trusting you and your sense of judgment.

“I’m just asking because….” Jaehee hesitates, then begins chewing on her bottom lip and her nervous tick starts to make you antsy.

“What?” 

“When I met up with him, on the day we talked about quitting my job at the cafe, he also brought up how he’ll be gone for a bit and told me to make sure it doesn’t worry you too much.” She lets out a short, wry chuckle. “Actually said something along the same lines but about you, or as he put lightly, ‘make sure she doesn’t go off and do something she might regret.’”

It takes a second for her words to process, so shocked at hearing about this new tidbit of information. You blink and can’t help the hard frown that takes over your face, “W-Wha— Wait hold on, he told you he was going to be gone for a while too? And he didn’t say where either?”

And what did he mean ‘go off and do something you might regret’??

Jaehee winces slightly at seeing the heightened distress she’s caused but she powers on, firmly believing that you deserve to know as much as you can in regards to someone you deeply cared about.

“Yeah, he only said that much to me so I’m still as lost as you are. But….” She swallows, “Before he left that day, he didn’t look so well…. Like, he might be coming down with something serious.”

Your shoulders tense, heart palpitating as your mind begins to race.

“I’m not saying this to freak you out because it’s just what I saw so you can take it with a grain of salt. I’m just letting you know in case it might shed some light on some things.” Jaehee placates, holding up a hand as if in an attempt to calm you. You try to get a word out, an acknowledgement or anything but your throat suddenly feels too dry and all of your thoughts are spinning with questions that have no answers.

Did he get hurt? If so, how? Or can demons actually become ill, but from what? Is this why he’s not answering your calls or texts? Because he was trying to hide whatever this is? For how long?

“Do you know any of his friends? Someone you can contact to try and get a hold of him for you?” Jaehee’s voice pulls you back out from those depths, only half registering her words.

“I— Uh…No, not real— “ You stop your jumbled stream of thoughts midway when one name does come to mind. “Yeah…. Yeah I know someone.”

You say that, but you hadn’t exactly thought of how you were going to find him, let alone ask him if he could find out where the hell Jimin has disappeared off to.

Hell, you're not even sure if Jungkook's around to help anymore. If you remember correctly, you swear the last time you’ve spoken to him was on that rooftop garden and that felt like ages ago; you haven’t heard so much as a peep from him since.

But you need to try something.

As aloof as he is, Jimin always lingers in some way, like a shadow that’s hidden out sight and after Jaehee’s talk, you're confident that he wouldn’t just leave without telling you first. Clearly, there's something else going on with him and he's not telling you. So it’s with that hope that you find yourself doing things you wouldn’t find yourself doing late into the night at almost two in the morning.

Like google searching how to summon specific demons.

It’s so stupid, you’re well aware. Before, you would be like anyone else when it comes to your opinions on the supernaturals and anything relating to the occult; a skeptic and a very niche hobby one partakes in. You wouldn’t have thought twice about it existing because there was little to no evidence on it (or if there were claims, it would consider to be a reach). Oh how the tables have turned and with this desperate times calls for desperate measures position you’ve found yourself in, now it’s like a whole new world full of possibilities, ripe for your picking.

Perhaps not something you should dive right into the deep end of but what other choices do you have? Besides, you never know if there might actually be something helpful or clues in…..Beginner’s Guide to the Dark Arts and Satanism.

.... Fucking hell, what are you doing?

It’s okay, you reassure yourself, as long as you don’t accidentally end up in the dark webs then you’re good.

You go through a number of different websites, all looking and sounding more like something you would find in a fantasy novel or just plain cult-y. Once or twice you come across ‘summoning rituals’, most of which involve your run of the mill staple requirements: lots of pentagrams, symbols, candles, a skull of an animal or a straight up animal sacrifice, and some fancy incantations that you’re not sure are even legit.

Of the times you do come across specified summoning rituals, they include all of the above in varying methods but one thing that had remained consistent, you noticed, was that you needed a name — a ‘true’ name as they had called it — of the demon you’re trying to summon, like Beelzebub or Lucifer.

It leaves you briefly wondering about your guardian demon’s name, the one he went by rather than the alias he uses. You never realized and the more you mulled over it, you begin to feel immensely guilty.

How must he have felt when you called him by another name that wasn’t his.

You go to sleep that night with a knot in your stomach.

Much of your nights is spent that way; scouring through internet searches hoping to find some sort of lead to go off of but honestly, there’s only so much sifting you can do before everything starts to sound like the ramblings of a fanatic. The only information you had found promising was about the summoning rituals, particularly the ones to summon a specific demon, given if you knew their true names….which is something you don’t possess, either for Jimin’s or Jungkook’s.

It’s a frustrating fact because it’s the last and most crucial thing you needed if you even want to attempt trying. You hate the idea that you’re so close to getting somewhere and it’s just this one thing standing in your way. At this point, you think you might have more luck trying to summon Lucifer himself and asking him where your guardian demon went.

…..

Huh.

Your fingers stop scrolling through your phone — another demonology article you’ve come across that didn’t really have much to do with finding a lost demon but intriguing enough to have you read — the thought pervading in your mind. It should concern you that it stays for as long as it did but the worse part is that the more you thought on it, the more it made sense.

If you can end up with a demon as your traditional guardian angel, then surely you have a chance at getting a hold of his boss, right?

Before you know it, you're flinging the covers off and booting up your laptop again in the quiet darkness of your room, half telling yourself that you won’t go through with this insane plan if you can’t find that one web page that seems the most credible to you. Much to your bemusement, you do, tucked away as a bookmark no less. It comically sticks out in contrast amongst the other more mundane things on the list; cooking recipes, nail art tutorials and then boom: witchcraft, demonology and understanding how you can attract different entities based on the energy you create through the elements.

Well, you think, looks like you’re about to find out whether Hell really is toll free after all.

If someone were to tell you months earlier that you would be spending a weekend shopping around for items to set up a demon summoning ritual you’ll be attempting yourself, you’d probably just let out one long, exasperated groan into oblivion before accepting the predicament, mumbling something along the lines of ‘he’s going to end up killing me first before anything else, and then what?’

Furthermore, you’re not just summoning any demon, you’re going to try to summon Lucifer, essentially the CEO of Hell and you’re about to pull a goddamn Karen — ‘corporate will hear from me!’ — on them because your guardian demon decided to go AWOL on you and you’ve had enough of being left in the dark. When they say you either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain, this wasn’t exactly what you had pictured for yourself.

Ah, truly the things you do for love.

Once you got over that rather ironic analogy (literally stared vacantly into space for a good ten minutes, not knowing whether to laugh or cry), you had searched up all the places within your city that would possibly have the things you were looking for. The site had suggested a variety of them, ranging from apothecaries to antique shops. It took you by surprise when you do actually find two or three of them, not expecting at all for these sort of niche shops to exist in what you had always pictured to be a mostly uptown urban neighbourhood — guess that goes to show how much you go out.

Your plan was to hit up these little shops, buy what you can find there and then whatever you’re missing you would order off from a suggested website. So that’s how you find yourself on a Saturday off, bright and early; a rare sight for all kinds of reasons as normally, you’d be dead to the world until at least after twelve in the afternoon but you had been so restless that even sleep didn’t hold you back.

You’re on a mission.

After painfully following your buggy google map directions, you stumble upon the first stop. It’s a little apothecary shop, tucked away down a small, narrow side street where much of the city’s history is still prevalent in its structures. You can only guess these buildings were built in the early 1900, or even 1800 — the brick-red edifice is well worn and have patches of dense ivy that seems to almost swallow the walls whole. It appears to be tightly packed, the few mom and pop shops that are open on the street level on either side have multiple windows and sometimes iron fenced balconies above them, which you can only guess are the living spaces for the owners. For the most part, it’s quiet, the only other person you’ve seen is a young man who was too engrossed in getting an interesting angle with his camera.

Craning your neck, you take in the the lacquered sign above which reads ’The Soul Apothecary’ in gold script against a dark forest green paint that colours the outer front of the shop. It’s chipped in some places, mainly along the border that surrounds the large panelled window that display numerous of things on a small wooden shelf; crystals that are big and small in varying colours, jars of dried herbs, small potted plants, and wind chimes made of both wood and silver hanging off to the side.

It’s all very quaint and it makes you think that perhaps on some other less tumultuous time in your life, you would actually visit this place again.

Once you had your fill in admiring the exterior, you finally make your way towards the front entrance, passing by the two potted evergreens and pushing the door open to which a little silver bell chimes, signalling your arrival. Immediately, you’re taken by the interior and the smell of burning incense. It’s rustic in nature, the furnishing mostly, if not in all dark wood with the same forest green accents and despite it being a relatively small shop, everything has been designed to effectively maximize the use of space; nothing appeared to be cramped or cluttered at all.

All the walls were occupied from top to bottom with shelves and drawers, packed full of jars containing who knows what with the occasional decorative pieces breaking in between — taxidermy butterflies in frames, diagrams drawn on parchment that has browned with age, and geodes. There’s a single, long wooden table that sits in the middle of the store that holds trays of trinkets that can be worn with a little chalk sign that has an explanation on the purpose of certain items (and a winky face drawn next to a ‘buy one get one free’ advertisement), mini figurines and mortars. Above you, you realize, were dried lavender and roses hanging from a bar secured into the ceiling, their scents still faintly lingering in the air whenever you pass under.

Finally, you come upon the front till and it’s perhaps by far the most eye-catching thing you’ve ever seen. Framed on either ends of the counter were two wooden pillars that taper towards the top to form a narrow pyramid where two wrought iron rods curve outwards, meeting in the middle. Hanging from them were brass scales, varying in lengths and sizes, some of the little weights left forgotten from previous use. It’s here that you also discover the source of the incense, the lotus shaped burner resting off to the side along a call bell.

You’re so caught up in taking everything in that you had failed to notice someone else has entered the room.

“I gather you enjoy my shop?”

The sudden appearance startles you, whipping your head up to come face to face with a chest before quickly shifting your gaze upwards and when you do, you do a double take. The owner of the voice — and as it turns out, the shop — was a shockingly handsome man, his hair a chestnut brown with the tresses sweeping naturally down over his forehead and looks soft to the touch. His face is oval in shape, set upon a strong jaw and brows but paired with warm features; eyes round, tall nose, and a prominent cupid’s bow upon plush lips (though you’re sure not as plush as Jimin’s), you think you can go as far as to say his face was near perfect— the golden ratio as they call it.

He’s dressed in a white tunic shirt, loose and flowing over broad shoulders and simple black trousers, his only other accessories were the long silk scarf draped around his neck, it’s gold intricate floral designs standing out against the black colour and a single dangling silver earring with a nail point at the end of the chain, the shape reminding you of a fang as it twinkles with the slightest tilt of his head.

For a moment, your mouth and brain fail to work coherently, leaving you to gape stupidly like a fish. To be quite honest, you were half expecting a much older gentleman or lady to be the mysterious owner of the shop, a long ingrained stereotype from all the fairy tales you’ve been told as a child but standing in front of you is a man you think no older than twenty-eight. Furthermore….. why does he look so familiar?

You can’t quite place it, like your mind is just on the cusp of figuring out where you’ve seen him before, but then you’re back to drawing a blank once your eyes focus on his features. It’s almost as if you’re being forced to relive a deja vu over and over again. You give up eventually, tired of this mental battle that’s only aggravating you. Besides, you have more pressing matters at hand. Like functioning as a normal human being.

“I— Uh, y-yeah! It’s— It’s a nice place. So...” You gesture your hands uselessly, not really knowing yourself what you mean by it either so you smile back, exhaling a nervous laugh. He lets out a hearty chuckle in response, a hand over his chest as he throws his head back slightly and letting you see his Adam’s apple bob.

“Ah, hearing how speechless you are about my shop is all the compliment I need.” He peers down at you again, soft smile never leaving his face, “Though that can only mean you’ve never visited before?”

You shake your head sheepishly, confirming his assumptions. “No I haven’t, so you’re right about this being my first time.”

He withdraws to his full heigh with a thoughtful hum, nodding his head and clasping his hand behind his back. “I had a feeling since I remember all of my customer’s faces. I guess I should introduce myself then.” With a flourishing bow, he says, “You can call me Sung Jin or Joel, whichever you prefer.”

You nod, smiling widely as you introduce yourself as well. “Y/N.”

“Y/N….” Sung Jin repeats, committing it to memory. His expression dims briefly, a complete one-eighty from his otherwise cheerful demeanour but as quick as it came, it vanished, replaced by his usual benevolent smile again. It has you thinking that maybe you had imagined it. “What can I help you with today?”

Seeing as there were no other customers aside from yourself, Sung Jin sticks by your side, helping you find most of the items you have written down on a list. He’s charming, quite amicable as he enthusiastically tells you about the different plants and minerals you were looking for in great detail, their medicinal properties (or lack thereof) and other trivia facts you hadn’t bothered to look into.

You enjoy it, fascinated by what you’re learning yet you can’t help feeling the irony of it all because what you’re using these things for is far from healing purposes. And evidently, Sung Jin seems to catch on when the items start to become more and more dubious in nature, but in spite of it, he does little to deter you from buying them.

“So….. Atropa Belladonna….” He starts off casually, one dark brow raised and when you give him a puzzled look back, he adds, pointing his chin at the vial of dull purple, bell-shaped flowers and shiny black berries in your little basket. “Commonly known as deadly nightshade — not something people buy often, let alone ask in my shop.”

“O-Oh….” You nervously fidget, eyes darting from the little jar of poison to the jar in your hand (‘chamomile’ the label reads, a subconscious choice that you’d rather not look too much into). “Uh... I just thought...you know, it looked pretty interesting...?” You sound as convincing as a soggy loaf of bread, the grimace on your face not helping at all.

Sung Jin stares at you, eyes boring so intensely into your soul that you felt the need to lean back slightly. It goes on for a long minute until he lets out a loud gasp and he leans in, stage whispering conspiratorially, “You're not trying to summon a ghost or a demon are you?”

“N-NO!” It comes out louder than you had intended, spluttering and choking on air as you say defensively, “I'm not – !! Who would – why would anyone wanna do that?!” The jar still in your hand nearly goes flying from all the frantic waving you're doing. At your strong reaction, the tall brunette bursts out into a guffaw, slapping the tops of his thigh delightedly, laughter pitching and squeaking as if you'd just told him the funniest joke he's ever heard.

“I'm just kidding! Oh man, the look on your face was priceless!”

Again, you're hit with the dizzying sensation of deja vu, so fast that you're left in a daze until you're knocked back by Sung Jin who playfully smacks you on the shoulder.

Geez, is the incense that strong in here? You don't know what's gotten into you.

Once he finally calms, Sung Jin lets out a satisfied sigh, placing his hands on his hips as he regards you again. “Well! If that's all that you're looking for today, I'll be happy to cash you out whenever you're ready.”

“A-Ah...yeah....” You reply weakly, still trying to recover from the cold sweat that he made you break out into. Once you get your bearings again, you shuffle on over to the register counter and by the time Sung Jin bags the last of your things, you'd spent just a little over a hundred dollars. Your wallet is crying but you tell yourself it's all on Jimin's tab that he's wracking up with you.

“Thanks for everything today, Sung Jin. It was really nice meeting you and finding your shop.” You say. The shop owner smiles at you, about to bid you farewell when he catches himself, eyes widening in realization.

“Ah! I almost forgot something!” He whirls around from leaning against the counter to rifle through the drawers behind him, muttering under his breath until he makes a noise that lets you know that he's found what he was looking for. Turning around, he presents to you a stone crystal of sorts, about the size of his palm. At first, you think it's some type of rose quartz, only much paler than what you're used to seeing but as the light catches it, it shimmers iridescently, the vibrant colours sparkling and bouncing against the wooden surface of the counter. “A gift for you.”

“Oh no, I can't possibly...”

“Consider it as a 'thank you' for spending over a hundred dollars.” Sung Jin cuts you off with a tut, gingerly sliding the crystal into the little black pouch and cinching the draw strings together before offering it to you, “Also, it doubles up as a protective charm.”

“Oh really?” You ask, mildly intrigued, tentatively taking the bag and placing it into one of the pockets in your large tote bag.

“Yeah, keeps away all those evil spirits and spooky, scary stuff.” He wiggles his fingers at you, making you snort. Without any more surprises, you gather the brown paper shopping bags in your hands and turn, ready to leave.

“Thanks again, Sung Jin. I hope I can visit sometimes near the future.”

He shoots you a beaming smile, one that makes his eyes crinkle and cheeks full, waving cutely at you. Right before your eyes, he's aged back ten years and the sight makes it all the more difficult not to return his smile.

“Of course, come back soon Y/N. I'll be expecting you.”

His parting words ring out the same time the bell above the door does, making you halt just outside of the shop. You turn to look back as if something is compelling you to do so. It's confusing because you don't have any attachments to this place, having only visited for the first time and yet, you have this strange feeling of not wanting to leave.

The connection is broken just as quickly however, with the shuttering of painted wood, the door closing with a forceful clatter, effectively cutting off the strong earthy smell that had seemed to permeate around you until now. You shake your head, taking a deep inhale of the fresh air in the late afternoon sun. It clears away whatever dreamy haze that remained and with a shrug, you head on home, intent to tackle the rest of your remaining tasks.

Obviously, they would call for a night with a full moon, right on 3AM – the start of the witching hour. That's usually the case with these things right? Aside from this one requirement, everything else had been exceptionally easy to obtain. Your trip to Sung Jin's shop had saved you a lot of time and trouble in finding the things you needed which left only a handful of items that needed to be acquired – most of which you found on Amazon (of all places, but you suppose you really can find anything and everything on Amazon). The only hiccup you had was Jaehee nearly discovering your, as you sardonically call, 'new secret hobby' (boy that would've been a fun conversation to try and weasel your way out of).

So thanks to Amazon Prime, you have your very own demon summoning starter kit ready to go by the time the next full moon appears. And lucky for you, it lands on the day you have a closing shift so after you're done working, you can head right off into doing this – you have your eyes set on a local park just outside of your neighbourhood as the perfect place for it!

Wow, you sound way too excited about trying to summon Lucifer with no prior experience.

But you attribute the morbid exhilaration you're feeling as nerves you would have when you're doing something out of your comfort zone, like skydiving – except this was by far the most unorthodox way of getting high off of an adrenaline rush ever. Either way, you're antsy during the days leading up to it and even more so throughout your shift; you could barely keep still. Once you punch out for the night, you bid a hasty farewell to your co-workers and jet off without a second to waste. You take the bus to your normal route but instead of walking down the street towards your home, you continue on forward for two blocks.

You cross the road, coming up on the park that was like a little island all on its own with a simple playground and a set of swings that has seen better days situated in the centre, bordered by a singular paved path that curved from one end of the park to the other. The three street lamps planted sparely about the area begin to come alive just as the last of the sunset's light fades over the horizon. It casts everything in an umber glow, occasionally flickering sporadically. It's a quiet night, the only sounds are the faint chirping of crickets and passing cars in the busier intersection at the end of the road. There was no other person that occupied the park as far as you can tell, only seeing one or two people out taking a nightly stroll. The weather is especially warm tonight; even with the sun down there is still a blanket of heat that remains in the air, making you think that maybe you might actually get an early summer at this rate.

Your skin feels slightly warm and dewy as you decide to take a seat on the lone bench, finally putting down your tote and the big brown paper shopping bag you've lugged to work and stuffed in your cubby locker. It contains all of the things you need to set up for the summoning ritual but seeing as it's only eleven-thirty, you pull out your headphones to listen to some music while you wait for the appropriate time.

The moon was bright tonight, so clear against the cloudless sky that it almost looks like it was hanging right above you. You fall into a tranquil peace staring at it, the first in what felt like ages that you just bask in it – might as well take advantage of this rare moment before who knows what kind of shit will hit the fan soon.

Unfortunately, it lasts for about a good hour and a half before your nerves rear its ugly head again, suddenly so acutely aware of the time slowly passing. You're no longer satisfied with gazing at the moon, already having given up on trying to see the stars if you stared hard enough (you've never had such luck with that around here anyways). So you try to occupy yourself in other ways, like taking a look around the playground (you foolishly decided to try your hand at going down the twisting red slide which nearly sends you crashing into the sand pit below; that slide should definitely not be that fast) and doing a couple of rounds on the swings (before it let out a loud and concerning creak).

Still, the itch persists, you want to get this over with much like ripping a bandage right off. But magic takes time and precision, there's no cutting corners here, or so you read.

You eventually settle to make your base in the small platform of the play set, anxiously checking and rechecking your bag to see that you have everything. After you painfully drain your phone battery to fifty percent and nearly falling asleep, the clock finally hits 3AM. Now, you're truly deep into the night where the world falls to a hush and knows no better of the deeds that are about to transpire. The perfect cover.

You get to work, climbing down the play set with your bags in tow. Through the tab on your phone, you walk through the steps in setting up the summoning circle, using simple white chalk to draw on the pavement. You sprinkle the area with a crushed mixture of herbs and roots you had bought from Sung Jin's shop in the cardinal directions as instructed and draw a salt ring in the middle, meant to contain and protect you from harm. Finally, you mark the five candles and the inside of your wrists with more symbols in black ink and then take out a safety pin.

This is the one part you hate.

Inhaling deeply, you press the point of the pin against the pad of your thumb, adding pressure until you flinch, feeling the skin pierce and bead of crimson rises from the wound.

“Why do they always gotta involve your blood or any kind of blood....” You mutter, annoyed as you swipe it against the body of each candle, just above the marked symbols. Sticking your thumb in your mouth, you lick away the remaining blood as you arrange the candles to sit at the different points on the summoning circle and with a match stick, you light them all up. When the last of the candle is lit, you flick away the match and get into position, scrolling all the way down on your phone until you reach the incantations.

“Alright, here we fucking go...”

With your palms facing up, you begin to recite the first lines. You try to keep your tone steady and clear, enunciating each word. The further along you go, the easier they flow out like you know them off by heart, shocking you. You don't know if you're just imagining things but it's like something comes over you, a chill that travels down your spine, reaching to your fingertips and makes every nerve endings stand on edge. The sound of your own voice seems so distant to you now, like it's not even yours anymore as you fall into a trance-like state. You fail to notice the breeze that begins to pick up, a static charge in the air as the lamps around you flicker violently and when you utter the name 'Lucifer Morningstar', the candles are blown out.

When you regain your focus, you're slightly out of breath, heart thundering against your chest and in your ears. You glance around your surroundings, cautious and half-expecting to come face-to-face with the devil himself but slowly you realize....

There was nothing.

A whole three-sixty spin confirms it; there wasn't a single thing amiss around you that you're actually left in disbelief. But it's quiet now, too quiet. The crickets have stopped chirping, the street lights have stopped flickering – even the faulty one you saw earlier. So you wait another few minutes for good measures, holding your breath and shoulders tense until a sharp ringing and intense vibration erupts from your hand, causing you to yell out in surprise. Fumbling, you crash onto your knees in an attempt to catch your phone, managing to cushion what would've surely been a screen shattering fall to a short, edge denting clatter. You can't help the pathetic whine that escapes your lips; from being startled, dropping your phone, the ache in your knees, and the fact that the ritual most likely didn't work.

Shaking away the jitters, you blink, momentarily blinded by the light of your phone as it shows you the identity of the caller. You pick up after the third ring.

“Hello?”

“GIRL! WHERE ARE YOU!?” Jaehee's voice screeches through. You pull away, wincing and even from a distance, she speaks as if she's right beside you. “IT'S ALMOST FOUR IN THE MORNING AND IT'S BEEN TWO HOURS SINCE I GOT HOME! TWO HOURS!! AND NO TEXT OR CALL OR ANYTHING?! I THOUGHT YOU GOT KIDNAPPED!”

You sigh, guilt washing over you as you can hear how palpable her worry is. It'd completely slipped your mind to text her that you would be home late. You drag a hand down your face, feeling drained as your night's escapades start to catch up to you and answer Jaehee less she was going to pop a blood vessel.

“Y-Yeah sorry, sorry. I forgot I had to go somewhere and sort of lost track of time, also didn't help that I missed the last bus to get home so...”

“Do you need me to send an Uber? Where did you go? Are you far?”

“No, no it's okay Jaehee, I'll be home in a few minutes don't worry.” You reassure. You end the call after convincing Jaehee that you're absolutely fine and not being held at gunpoint. Looking down at the mess you've made, you can't help the small chortle as it dawns on you that this is definitely not something you should leave behind any evidence of – you don't think families or the elderly would appreciate finding out that there's been some occult funny business going on right outside their homes.

Whoops.

You gather the candles once the wax has dried, stuffing them back into the brown paper bag along with the little jars and vials you used. You sweep away the salt and remnants of the herbs as best you can, pushing them into the grass inconspicuously. For the ink staining your wrists, you wet your fingers with your tongue and rub until all that's left is a blotchy mess. Now all that remains was the chalk drawing of the summoning circle. At first you tried scuffing as much of it with the soles of your shoes but all that does was slightly smudge it, the markings still clear as day.

“Uhhh.....” You flounder, not knowing what to do with your hands before you give your bag a thorough rifle and triumphantly pull out an old water bottle still half full. This will do. You empty it over the drawing, making sure to try and get as much of it as you can. Thankfully, it dissolves without much resistance and you chuck the plastic bottle into the trash can. Sure there might be a few marks left over but it was hardly discernible and honestly, you can't be bothered with any more efforts. You're tired and you just want to go to sleep.

So you head on home without so much as another thought on your mind, oblivious to the ghostly white wisps of smoke trailing after you.

Jaehee was on you the moment you stepped through the door, already interrogating you and going as far as to ask if it had anything to do with trying to find Jimin. You should've figured she would assume that, knowing how troubled you were about his absence. At least because of that, she was somewhat more understanding but had made you promise you would let her know if you were going to be out past 2AM.

“I know how worried you are about him, but I don't want you going out and endangering yourself trying to find him like that. You shouldn't have to get hurt because of some bad decisions he chose to make.”

You really wished it was that simple.

So you placate her by saying that you had tried to meet with a friend of Jimin's only to be stood up at the last minute, completely not his fault. She let you go then, still miffed but otherwise glad that you're safe otherwise. You fall into a deep sleep that night the moment your head touches the pillow, exhausted.

It'd been the longest sleep you've ever had. You wake up groggy as all hell but with a new weight on your chest.

Your only lead in finding your guardian demon didn't work and the blow hits harder than you want to admit. It continues to follow you the days going forward, plaguing your mind with one question; where do you go from here?

Should you try other methods to summon a demon? Are there other methods? If so, then what? Try to find a local witch? It eats away at you and you swear you would've fallen into a manic obsession if it weren't for your friends. Like a saving grace, you get a text for an invitation to hang out on the preface that it's been a while and truthfully, it has. The last time you all had the time to gather together was before the BTS concert. At first you had wanted to decline, thinking you're not in the right state of mind to enjoy hanging out leisurely but you second guess yourself; maybe you do need a distraction, something to help clear your mind from this dark void that's taken over your life so that you can regroup and figure out what's your next best course of action.

The final push was Jaehee who practically forces you to go out at this golden opportunity, rightfully concerned about the haggard look you're starting to take on. So you pull yourself together, slap on some makeup to not look as dead on the outside as you feel on the inside, and take your ass out of the house.

It was no less a struggle, feeling as if you had to drag your feet every step of the way to the meeting spot you all agreed to. Doesn't help that the weather today was muggier than usual despite the sky being overcast, the sun constantly peeking in and out from behind the thick clouds that drift by. You don't remember it calling for rain today so you keep your fingers crossed, not liking the way some of the clouds appear darker than the others and you not bothering to bring an umbrella.

Thankfully when you reached the subway station, you're greeted by two of your friends who are already there, their cheerfulness lifting your spirits slightly.

“Y/N!!” Rosa squeals delightedly, coming to embrace you with a big hug. You let out a small 'oof' at her enthusiasm but bring your arms up to squeeze her back too.

“Hey, oh man it feels like forever since we've seen each other.” You part from Rosa to give your other friend a hug.

“Right? Oh my god...when was it? Like, before the concert?” Mei points out. “What's even sadder is that we always talked about meeting up and doing something but just...never did, for like weeks.”

Rosa laughs, “That's basically what being an adult is.”

You continue to chat idly, waiting for the rest of your other friends to show and when they do, you head on over to your favourite cafe as your first pit stop. You catch up with everyone and mainly talk about what you were all up to, which you can't exactly disclose in too much detail beyond 'working and sleeping'. It leaves much to be desired for an engaging conversation and you find yourself struggling for the first time with this disconnect, made more obvious when your friends mention any latest BTS content they've seen.

“You haven't seen this yet?!” Jess exclaims to you. She flashes you a high-definition picture no doubt taken by a fan site of Jimin on her phone, probably in the midst of their EU leg of the tour. He looks like a literal angel, dressed in all white with arms outstretched in a way that any second, you would think wings would appear, the glare of the spotlight illuminating behind him as he gazes out into the sea of purple twinkling lights. It's a breathtaking photo but right now, it's so bittersweet to be looking at him like this. Your heart clenches painfully in your chest, the emotions threatening to overwhelm you. It suddenly feels like you're living in a dream and the person you're trying to chase is nothing but a phantom, their face slowly fading from your memories and you're desperately trying to hold on.

You swallow, the tightness in your throat becoming uncomfortable as you force an apologetic smile on your face, straining. “I really didn't have time to catch up on anything lately.”

You follow your friends from one place to another afterwards, complacent in their decisions and growing more and more despondent in your responses. Whatever energy you had before to try and maintain a farce is long gone now and it doesn't go unnoticed by your group.

“Hey, you feeling okay?” Sonya asks gently, falling back to where you're hanging near the front of a cute stationary shop you all decided to randomly stop by. You go to open your mouth, ready to deny but then stop yourself, seeing no use in it. So all that comes out is a defeated sigh that has your shoulders slumping.

“Sorry, I don't know, I felt fine when I left home but I guess not...”

“Did you want to maybe get some water? I have Advil in my bag if you want. Or if you want we can walk you back home?” Sonya suggests helpfully. You give her a weak smile, declining with a wave of your hand.

“No, it's okay. Maybe if I rest a little....”

“You don't have to force yourself if you're not feeling it. If you feel like you wanna go home then we don't mind.”

You still feel guilty even though you know Sonya means everything that she says. The guilt only intensifies when the rest of your friends gather from browsing or buying something, immediately worried once they've caught on the rather serious air surrounding you and Sonya. In the end, you had decided maybe it was better to call it quits here, not wanting to trouble or ruin what was supposed to be a fun outing between friends because you're getting too much in your head. After apologizing for having to leave early and fight off their insistence on walking you back to the subway station, you part ways.

You've ended up in the deeper parts of the city, so it would take about six stops for you to get to the station nearest to your place. First though, you had a bit of a walk, either to get back to the station you exited from or the next stop over three blocks up the street, usually something you wouldn't mind if not for the looming dark clouds above you that had taken over the sky completely, plunging the world around you in a deep gloom. With no sun in sight, it makes the summer solstice 6PM look like it's winter's.

You go at a brisk pace, choosing to go back the way you came since you're more familiar with that route. The wind begins to pick up, a sure sign of the coming storm and you dread being caught out at this rate. Up ahead is a stoplight, the one where you're supposed to cross the street at but you're tempted to just cut across the road now, wanting to save time. The traffic here isn't busy with hardly any cars passing through so once you see that it's a red light on both sides, you make a run for it.

You're just about halfway to the other side when you feel the toe of your shoes catching on the asphalt and you're suddenly stumbling forward with your momentum. You're bracing for the fall but before you could let out a gasp, a strange sensation passes over you, like being suspended in midair. It goes by so quickly that you don't have the time to register the impact it makes because a split second later, a black sedan barrels past you, honking loudly as it goes and so closely you think it would've grazed your nose.

Body rigid, you're frozen from the shock, heart pounding loudly and with a mind now kicked into flight or fight mode, you sprint the rest of the way on shaky, clumsy limbs. You nearly collapse once you've reached the safety of the other side, taking deep breaths to calm yourself and the adrenaline running through you.

Either you should've looked both ways more carefully or that asshole just blew through a red light going a hundred kilometres on an eighty speed limit.

You're gonna go with the asshole because you swear the lights were red. You made sure of it.

Straightening yourself, you hoist your tote bag up your shoulders again and continue to make your way down the street. By then, it has begun drizzling, the droplets falling so erratically and lightly that they get carried by the wind. It makes it hard to avoid and only serves to further irritate you. It's a straight walk from here, you don't think you have to worry about nearly dying again so you keep your head down, one hand raised in an attempt to shield yourself from the spattering rain. You turn the corner at the end of the block, peering up to see the tall station street sign looming ahead and you've never been more relieved, powering on to reach it if only to escape the steadily increasing downpour.

So caught up in closing the last bit of distance, you're jerked out of your focus when there was a loud shout of alarm.

“HEY WATCH IT!”

Instinctively, your steps slow, body turning towards the noise in trying to find the owner of the voice. Your eyes whip to see a few people huddling under an overhang to a high-rise building you passed but what's more concerning is where their gaze is focused – widen in fear, their necks craning up, and some even rushing towards your direction, waving frantically to get your attention. It's when you follow their line of sight do you understand why.

Three stories high you spot the outlines of glass panels that line the edges of the balcony, only to your horror, many of them were teetering precariously off of their hinges with no hopes of hanging on because seconds later, their weight gives way and two of them begin to free fall.

Right above you.

You hear rather than see the first one crashing onto the pavement mere inches behind you, the sound much like that of rolling thunder that you can easily mistaken it as part of the stormy weather. You think you feel the pinpricks of glass shards spraying up to scratch your legs but all you can think is where was the second panel? You feel like you can't move your legs fast enough, so frazzled with your mind racing to barely process what is happening and eyes searching wildly but seeing nothing as if you've been blinded.

A chill runs through you then, an icy cold grip that holds you hostage and you wonder idly if this is how you're really going to die. A poor, unfortunate girl who met her demise because of some rotten luck and a freak accident.

And there it was again, that weightless feeling surrounding you, except now there's a distinct tugging as you feel yourself being pulled backwards. All at once, a flash of light goes off right in front of you, shimmering so brilliantly in an arc shape that it has you shutting your eyes, hands thrown up in protection and a gust of air whistles past your ears along with another resounding crash. It's so strong you momentarily feel the rain stop falling around you and you trip backwards, landing on your behind in a crumpled mess.

When you finally open your eyes, you're staring at a pile of frosted glass right where you had been standing, the glittering shards curving outward as if something had forced it away. You can't stop the tremors that shake through your body, breath coming out in short gasps.

What was that just now? There's no way that couldn't have hit you, you practically had a target marker right over your head for it.

Your head is spinning, barely hearing how a small crowd begins to gather around you, some approaching you while there are others who are on their phones, no doubt calling the fire department to report the incident. You're helped to your feet, are asked if you're injured and if you needed medical help, all of which you answer no thoughtlessly. You're more concerned with something else.

There's something else at work here; the first time you would've brushed it off as a trick of your mind but this time, it's just too coincidental. You swivel your head around, not even sure what you're looking for but you can't stop the traitorous surge in hope within you.

You nearly miss it.

Through the dispersing crowd you see two shadowy figures, concealed in the depths of an alley, so well hidden thanks to the darkness of the looming clouds and the still cascading rain. You stare with baited breath, watching the scene unfold as one of the figure grips the other in their hand, raising them until their feet dangled off the ground. They struggle uselessly and claw at the strong hold to no avail. Then, with an inhumane strength, they are slammed into the wall as if they were a rag doll. But to your shock, the crumpled body dissolves in a flurry of ashes and smoke, a few flickers of orange light seeping through before disappearing like dying embers on coal. You dare not take your eyes away, much less blink in fear of it being merely an illusion.

Yet the image before you doesn't fade, even though it seems like you're the only one who can see it. You watch the way the now lone figure struggles to remain upright, a hand reaching up to grasp at their head as if suddenly hit with a wave of nausea. It's then you realize they had been wearing a hood because the dark fabric falls away then, revealing to you a pale face you had not seen in so long.

“Jimin....” His name falls from your trembling lips in a mere whisper before you can stop yourself, breath caught in your throat and as if he had heard you, his gaze whips to your direction.

Your eyes lock on the familiar glow of crimson. Your heart lurches.

And then he takes off.

Panicked, you scramble to push past the few lingering bodies out of your way, feet kicking into a dead sprint, eyes never leaving his retreating back. You rush into the alley without a second thought, weaving and dodging the waste, dumpsters and other things that were lost and abandoned there. You're panting in your efforts to keep up, barely having time to call out to him but try as you might, you cannot hope to catch up to someone who's abilities far outweighs your own and after minutes of winding and sharp turns, you lose sight of him.

You come to a halt, lungs burning from exertion as your eyes dart this way and that but come up empty in what you're looking for. You curse loudly, distress taking over as you grab a fistful of your own hair. After the adrenaline begins to die down, you begin to take in your surroundings. So caught up in your pursuit of him, you failed to notice the unfamiliar streets you've ended up on. You don't know how far you've strayed, can't tell whether going up or down would be the best option in finding your way back but above all, you can't believe you let him slip from your grasp like that.

“Fuck....!” You hiss again, hands balling themselves into fists. The boiling anger makes you tremble more than the cold rain that begins to soak into you; anger at yourself for being so helpless, anger at Jimin for how distant he's become with no explanation. Were you not worth telling anything important to? The thought quells the anger to a hurt and the realization that your fears are more than likely to be true. Yet still, you don't want to confirm them, stubborn to deny it until you get answers – you needed proof. And the only way you're going to get that is to get to the bottom of it, no matter what. With nothing more to gain standing there, you reluctantly turn back to the way you came, mind frayed at the seams from all that has happened.

You don't make it two steps before someone grabs you and your screams are smothered by a hand.

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hale-13 · 4 years ago

Text

Trapezius

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 27 Prompt 27 - Injured

Peter gazed out over the harbor forlornly, twisting his mask into knots in his lap. Normally he would really enjoy the view – the sun was setting in a clear sky turning the normally disgusting water a soft orange and painting the area with a soft warmth. The peaceful view was marred by the emergency vehicles, Coastguard boats and police and news helicopters which made Peter’s gut clench with anxiety. He just… he tried so hard.

Words: 2123, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, May Parker, Helen Cho

TW: Injury, Poor Emotional intelligence

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

The sound of repulsers approaching made Peter tense and he mentally put his walls back up. He couldn’t afford to let Mr. Stark see him as a kid right now. They were colleges when he was Spider-Man, peers. He took a deep breath and held it for a moment before letting it puff out through his clenched teeth.

“Previously on Peter screws the pooch I tell you to stay away from this instead you hack a multi-million dollar suit so you can sneak around behind my back doing the one thing I told you not to do,” Mr. Stark’s sarcastic voice said and Peter held back a flinch, keeping his expression blank as he cautiously looked back over his shoulder. His back was killing him and felt hot and swollen from his Hercules hold of the ferry earlier – he had definitely felt something tear – but he couldn’t afford the weakness right now.

“Is everyone okay?” He asked instead, keeping his voice monotone and trying not to tense his back.

“No thanks to you,” the Iron Man voice made Mr. Stark’s snide tone sound slightly metallic but, more than that, it made his blood boil and he whipped around to face the man.

“No thanks to me?” He took no precautions as he lifted his lefts over they side of the concrete tower and jumped down on the other side making his shoulders throb. “Those weapons were out there and I tried to tell you about it and you didn’t listen. None of this would have happened if you had just listened to me!” His voice broke and he could feel blood rushing to his face but he did his best to push down the embarrassment. “If you even cared you’d actually be here.” He threw in boldly.

It took him by surprise, therefore, when the armor opened in from of him and Tony Stark stepped out, a grim look of disappointment on his face that made Peter stumble back a could steps, unable to hide his wince of pain but playing it off as shock instead. “I did listen kid. Who do you think called the FBI huh?”

Peter dropped his gaze, unable to make further eye contact, only interrupting to correct his age and flinching again at Mr. Stark’s yelling. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, but he could tell the platitudes were only making his idol angrier so he said instead, with the most sincerity he could push into his tone “I just… I just wanted to be like you.”

“And I wanted you to be better,” Mr. Stark said back in a weary voice before asking for the suit back. Peter heart sank further but he got it. Mr. Stark was right – he didn’t deserve to be Spider-Man if all he did was hurt other people.

The car ride back to his apartment in Queens was silent and awkward, broken only by Mr. Stark and Happy leaving the car and throwing his a pair of hideous Hello Kitty pajama pants and an oversized New York tourist shirt. It took more effort than he would care to admit to slip the suit off of his painful muscles and lift his arms up high enough to pull the shirt on but he managed it.

Happy slipped back into the driver’s seat a moment later and raised the partition but Mr. Stark didn’t return as they pulled away from the curb and Peter’s heart sank further when he realized the man had probably taken the armor back to the Tower because he couldn’t bear to be in the car with Peter another minute. His eyes were burning but he refused to cry here – he’d already proven to be a problem and he wasn’t going to cry about his well deserved punishment.

The car stopped in front of his apartment and the locks on the doors popped but Happy didn’t roll down to partition to talk to him or offer any direction so, without a backward glance as his poorly folded suit, Peter slunk out of the car and upstairs.

May was not happy with him for skipping school and not answering his phone and, with the pain of his torn muscles ratcheting up and the emotional trauma of the day weighing down on him he collapsed onto the couch and tearfully confessed to his aunt that he had lost his internship, wanting to bring his arms up to return her tender hug but physically unable to do so. His only relief was that she directed him to take a shower pretty immediately because he smelled like garbage,.

And, yeah, he probably did.

The piss poor water pressure of their dingy shower was actually a blessing today but Peter could still barely stand with his back facing the hottest water possible hoping that the heat would relieve some of his pain but he was still just as painful when he forwent his sleep shirt a few minutes later.

He healed fast. This was fine – it would all be resolved in a few days.

———————————————

“Fuck,” Peter muttered, keeping his right arm tucked close to his stomach as he wrestled with the leukotape he had bought at the pharmacy. It kept sticking to itself and the wall and his hair and basically everywhere but where he was trying to stick it and Peter groaned, balling the piece up and throwing it away.

It had been a few months since dealing with the Vulture. A few months since turning down Mr. Stark’s offer to be an Avenger but accepting his offer to become his personal intern and Peter couldn’t be happier.

Well. Except for his shoulder that is.

His left arm had healed fully after straining his muscles holding the ferry together but his right had just gotten worse and worse and it was interfering with his ability to not only be Spider-Man but also to just perform everyday tasks. He hadn’t been able to lift much with that side or even put on a shirt normally in weeks and it was starting to grate on his nerves. After spending hours watching videos on YouTube Peter decided to try some strengthening exercises and taping.

Neither was working very well.

“Fuck,” he said again, with feeling, as he bent forward at the waist to rest his head on the cool counter top of his bathroom. He was supposed to get picked up by Happy in a few minutes to go and spend the weekend at the Tower with Tony to work on his suit and there was no way he could hide this anymore. He couldn’t even lift his arm up to chest level. His phone vibrated on the counter top and he moaned, answering it without looking at the caller ID. “Hey Happy.”

“Nope, guess again,” his mentor’s voice said and Peter jerked up, letting out a strangled grunt as he jostled his shoulder. “You okay kid?”

“Why are you calling me?” Peter said instead, deflecting.

“I’m picking you up,” Tony said. “Now are you okay?”

Peter waffled for a minute but one look at his duffle bag made him ache and he let out a sigh. “Not… really I guess.”

“What’s wrong?” His mentor’s voice was sharp and he could hear the sound of his seatbelt smacking the window of his car and the door opening and closing as Tony got out of the car.

“It’s not a big deal,” Peter said, going to the front door and unlocking and opening it just as Tony left the elevator, they made eye contact and hung up their phones.

“Well you look to be in one piece and there’s no blood everywhere,” Tony said as he joined Peter in the living room of his apartment and looked him over. “So what’s going on kiddo?”

Peter nibbled on his bottom lip and gripped his right hand into his shirt tightly for just a second before releasing it. “Remember the ferry?”

Mr. Stark was silent and attentive as he listened to Peter ramble and sighed deeply at the end of his story, reaching one hand up to massage his eyes. “You really don’t half-ass anything do you?”

“Do you actually want me to answer that?” Peter asked confused and his mentor rolled his eyes, grabbing Peter’s bag from where it was resting in the hallway.

“Come on then, you have a date with Dr. Cho and the MedBay.” Peter whined but didn’t overly protest when he was directed out of the apartment and down to where Mr. Stark had illegally parked in the fire lane in front of his building.

It was just some muscle straining right? A week or two of meds and resting it and everything would be okay.

“Well its not a strain,” Dr. Cho told him just over an hour later looking at the images of his radiographs and MRI on a holotable. “You’ve torn your rotator cuff and continually re-injured it to the point that its basically just a mass of scar tissue.”

“Oh…” Peter said, a little dazed from the small dose of painkillers he had been given so that they would be able to manipulate his arm for the images. “What does that mean?”

Helen gave him the same disapproving look she had been giving him since she had taken his history and had learned that he had been putting massive amounts of pressure and g-force on an injury that he had never allowed to fully heal. “It means Peter,” she said firmly shutting down the table, “that you’ll need surgery to repair the tear and clean out all the scar tissue. And you’ll need to give it time to heal and go to physical therapy if you plan to ever use your arm to its fullest extent ever again.”

Peter’s mind went a little blank at that. “Surgery?” He asked, a note of panic creeping into his voice. “But Spider-Man–,”

“Will be taking a break,” Tony told him. “Your health always comes first Peter.” He turned his attention back to Dr. Cho. “Can you tell his aunt all of this later? Also when can we do the surgery.”

“I’ve already got him scheduled for tomorrow morning with a specialist I’m bringing in from NYU,” she said. “And of course! Just let me know when she gets here.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Peter groused from his spot on the exam bed but both adults ignored him and he rolled his eyes. “What if I don’t want surgery?”

“Then you’ll be dealing with chronic pain, pion and needles, weakness and continuous tearing for the rest of your life and you’ll need a shoulder replacement in less than fifteen years at the rate your going,” Dr. Cho said, typing notes into his chart. “So I’ll see you in the morning for the surgery.”

Peter glared at her but, at the twinge in his arm when he adjusted in his seat, he grumbled “fine”.

“It won’t be that bad Underoos,” Tony said later as they sat on the ridiculously large couch in the penthouse living room watching Brooklyn 99 while May spoke with Peter’s medical team. “You get to skip school for the next week while you recover and I bribed Bob Igor to give me the next season of the Mandolorian early for us to binge.”

“But…” Peter gnawed at his lip, hating the taste of blood that filled his mouth as he broke open the tender skin again. “What if this doesn’t fix it?”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Tony said with a smile. “Cho is the forefront in development in regeneration. If anyone can fix you it’ll be her. And May and I will be there the whole time. You have nothing to worry about okay?”

“You’ll be there?” Peter said, fiddling with a loose thread on his shirt and refusing to look up at his mentor.

“Of course I’ll be there!” Tony said warmly with a squeeze to his good shoulder. “You’re my favorite intern.” He teased.

“Thanks Mr. Stark,” Peter said sincerely, reading the unsaid bit and relaxing a little back in the couch. Between his pain meds and his full stomach he could feel his eyelids drooping and he decided to relax more fully into Tony’s side – there was no where he felt safer.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump27 #Prompt: Injured #irondad #spider man #Summer of Whump 2021

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pinkykitten · 5 years ago

Text

oc - felicity ivy jones bio (peaky blinders)

Faceclaim: Keira Knightley (looks like mostly vera from the edge of love)

Character Profile

Full name: FELICITY IVY JONES

Nicknames or Aliases: Red, Ms. Red, Big Red, Scarlet

History of Nicknames: Her favorite color is red and that is what she named the love of her life, her club, Red. She also loves wearing red. She has long sharp red nails that she fancies and she is always wearing her red lipstick and occasionally wears her red clawed gloves, shoes or her favorite, her red suits. She doesn’t like anyone or wants anyone to know her true name and people are intimidated by this head gangster gal and very scared of her. She will hurt you if you show her disrespect by calling her her real name. She is also deep down terrified of people digging into her personal life.

Age: 30 or thirties

She is from London but she resides in Birmingham, England

Personality: sarcastic, flirtatious, teasing, annoyed 99% of the time, she acts a lot like helga from alantis the lost empire, Jessica rabbit and meg from Hercules, to the public and her crew she is a tough bad a*s that can handle herself but at home she is wreck and is falling apart, depressed, and has a tiny bit of ocd, she cries most days and has bags under her eyes which she covers up with makeup and she takes tokyo, prescription drugs, and drinks heavily. at home she lets her guard down and is a mess having breakdowns.

Likes: dancing and singing (she does this not all the time but whenever she wants she sings at her club), suits suits suits that is all she wears people, good expensive suits and shoes and hats, food and alcohol, cooking, loves her club thats like her child, money, boxing, guns and weapons, fighting, tokyo, jewelry, makeup, womens rights, and her girls

Family: Arlo Jones (father, deceased)

Seren Jones (little sister)

Relationship with characters:

Tommy Shelby - She met Tommy when her father and little sister moved to Birmingham to manufacture cars and start a new life. Through her father she met Tommy and they quickly became good friends. She didn’t mind anything about him she just took him as he was. They grew very close but ww1 came and unfortunately Felicity didn’t keep in connection with Tommy. Her letters to him dying until they were no more. They both went their separate ways until when Tommy came back he saw that Felicity had made a name for herself and started doing business with her and seeing her as a business partner. Another gang he could trust. They still do have a really close relationship and its like they never had lost contact but their business lifestyle and differences makes them not go further than friends. They are now good friends and Felicity looks up to Tommy and trusts him with everything she has. Also she is the one where Tommy gets his most amount of tokyo. Tommy is also a regular at her club and his men and whoever is friends with him or family is a friend to her. They are very sarcastic with each other and playful and very flirty. Tommy tells Felicity everything and Tommy is one of the very few people who knows the real Felicity and all her demons. He is the only one she allows to call her real name and he doesn’t call her red. They protect each other and are like thick as thieves. He has a lot of respect for her.

Luca Changretta - Everybody in Birmingham and in London know about Red and her men. Luca knew she had connections with Tommy and invited her to his office to talk about setting a plan to get back at the peaky blinders. She would never do Tom dirty like that so she over and over again tried to disagree and leave but Luca sat her on his desk (knowing she was lonely after just having broken up with red’s ex) and the two had sex, only that one time as Felicity was lonely and the moment was heated. Luca flirts with her and teases her which she hates as she doesn’t like to be taken advantage of. He comes to her club and she sings to flirtatiously to him. Luca find Felicity invigorating and captivating, liking a woman in charge. Where as Felicity finds Luca an annoyance and a pain.

Alfie Solomons - That is her ride or die boy. She and Alfie are like two peas in a pod and she is also very flirtatious towards him. she loves alfie and spends a lot of time with him. since red doesn’t believe in love she is always trying to pick out a girl for alfie to go with or to bang (unknown to her alfie wants felicity) red is like one of the men. They are also business partners. alfies rum is sold and given at the club red and felicity is one of alfies buyers. They a lot of times act like a married couple. Alfie sometimes gets cheesy with his who charming personality or charming with red but she gets very annoyed. alfie thinks felicity is cute but he doesn’t want to admit it but he is very afraid of red. he knows not to get on her bad side. Alfie along with tommy is also a person that knows about her past and inner demons but because of word and rumors and sometimes her depression slips out making alfie worry for her and care about her. also they get a long very well because felicity is a jewish convert and is more devoted to the religion than Alfie. She partakes in all the jewish holidays and traditions and yes dinners.

Michael Gray - he has a major crush on red. he is intrigued by her and honestly felicity finds it kinda cute. he is sorta shy around her but when he gets cocky with the gang business he then starts to be more forward with red. he may not know it but she respects michael and finds him attractive. he tries really hard with her. he finds her unique and cool. she is very protective of michael. she would also visit him a lot of times, cooking for him when he was at the hospital. they get close.

Harriet Gould - her ex. before the luca incident with his arrival and everything of him felicity was with a writer for the papers. he was a shy, and timid man. at first red didn’t want anything to do with him as he was asking questions about her success based on the club as he wanted to write an article about her. she didn’t want more news spread about her but with his begging and her finding him attractive and liking his determination she finally agreed. she also thought maybe by harriet spreading the news about her club her club would gain popularity. tommy of course did not like him and found him very suspicious and sketchy. red treated him kindly and good and soon the two became close. he had a peak into her life and also she opened up to him about her past telling him the truth and wanting him to write it down. he was her favorite person. unfortunately it was shown later harritet’s true intentions. the coppers obey and listen to red much like they do to tommy but a group of coppers were planning to go against red and needed someone to know insight things to steal the money in red’s club. like tommy has a vault for the money so does red except hers is red lol. she found at night they had broken in and stole all the money. furious she found out it was harriet and the coppers and killed the coppers, hanging their bloody beaten bodies upside down in their homes and thankfully she retrieved the money she lost. she tried to kill harriet but she couldn’t find herself to do the deed as she still loved him even though he stole from her and went against her. harriet played with red’s mind and made her trust him again and take him back. he also begged for his life and told red that he would publish the article about her club and her. thinking it was over and thinking he still loved her red allowed him to live with her. she then though caught him cheating and making love to another woman on her bed. feeling anger and having enough she shot both the woman and harriet in the head. she broke down and now is more mentally unstable then before. having more trust issues and not believing in love.

Arthur Shelby - he loves her cause she gives him the light of day and she is usually on arthur’s side and loves him. she gets arthur a lot. they have kissed once but because they both were drunk and high as a kite. arthur is very protective of felicity and she jokes a lot with him. she barely ever gets angry with him and he seeks her to find good advice and comfort.

John Shelby - when she can she acts like a total dweeb and idiot when she is with john. she likes to rile him up as she likes it when he fights and gets angry. they like to gush over guns and who has more bde. he is also kinda scared of felicity but she would never hurt him. plus one of his daughter wants to be like red and he doesn’t know how he feels about it but red is like the worst with kids so she like tries her hardest with his million children. since she is very rich and wealthy she buys the kids gifts every time she visits john. john can’t even keep up with it.

Finn Shelby - boi put your pee wee back in your pants. finn sees felicity as an old lady and jokes with her saying she is old. she usually is seen smacking him upside the head. she was the first one to buy him a gun and teach him how to shoot. oops. also one of red’s girls likes him and he loves coming to the club red to not only have a smoke, tokyo, and a drink but also he loves the girls and usually he gets some action there. but felicity checks the girl first before she has sex with the tommy shelby’s brother.

Ada Shelby - red looks up to ada actually. she wishes she could be as strong as her and could have that affection and life that ada has. she loves hanging out with ada. they are like sisters. they go shopping all the time and eat every where. felicity loves to buy ada things such as purses, dresses, makeup, jewelry and red is always playing matchmaker with ada. getting her men to take ada out to dinner. red likes to take ada’s son to races and unknown to ada red lets karl make bets. red is always there for ada and if ever ada should call or ask for red felicity would be there in a flash in a minute. ada is her girl and she is always there for her especially with freddie’s death and just through tough times in ada’s life.

Polly Gray - where to start. red sees polly as her idol, her goddess. red wants to be like her when she grows up heck now. she listens to polly and takes her advice because polly is usually correct in things. thats why is was odd to polly and out of the box behavior for red when red got annoyed and stood up for michael. as much as she loves polly she loves this gangster life more and feels michael is old enough to decide what he wants for himself. she feels michael was born for this life. polly saw red in the beginning as a threat and suspicious but quickly red proved herself to her that she was true and was a friend to the peaky blinders.

Grace Burgess - red doesn’t mind her. she sees her as someone who is kind and sweet yet can handle herself. what she doesn’t like is when grace starts asking questions and trying to interfere and mess up everything red built. red is a friend of tommy and to see him happy and love someone makes red happy for him and more at ease. red even sang for them at their wedding.

Lizzie Stark - red likes how blunt lizzie is and sometimes feels bad for her. red is sometimes annoyed by her and feels that tommy shouldn’t give signs or do something for lizzie if its not genuine.

Linda Shelby - OH MY GOD RED HATES HER AND HAS NEVER LIKED AGHHHHH

Arlo Jones - red and her father had a good relationship. it was like any father and daughter duo. arlo loved his girls and was very serious. he also loved cars. he passed away being war because he was drafted in the british army during world war 1. he taught red to stick up for herself and to work hard and when you work hard you get money and booze.

Seren Jones - red always took care of her baby sister. seren was always quiet but was always laughing and having a smile on her face. she would always love to play with her older sister. because of the war, her father’s death, and recent trauma seren was not mentally stable and was sent to an asylum. red takes care of her still and checks on her to which nobody knows about this (until later tommy knows, alfie and then red tells ada and harriet) red cares deeply for seren and will do anything to protect her sister.

BACKSTORY:

red was mostly raised by her father as red’s mother left the family when seren was a baby. red only remembers some things of her mother but not that much. through hard work arlo went to birmingham small heath to pursue his car manufacturing (this was around the time where in a couple of years tommy would be drafted). red had a good time in small heath yes it was dark and gloomy but she liked it. when she was at small heath she was goofy and silly always making jokes. she became friends with the shelby’s and all their friendships grew. in that time life was more lighthearted and red was more innocent not really caring or giving two thoughts about the darkest places. also in this time she wore dresses.

the day before tommy was to be drafted along with arlo and others, seren and felicity were out. red bought tommy a pin as a gift as she saw it in a store and liked it. they were walking by a group of worker men and the men called out to red and seren. the men were gross and dirty and were trying to take advantage of seren and red. they got a hold of the “pretty one” seren first but red fought them off of her and yelled at seren to leave and go far away. seren, horrified and scarred for life saw the men grabbing felicity and ripping her clothes off. seren fled as red protected her sister. the men took advantage of her in a stables and left red in the dirt like trash. from then on red was never the same. she wanted to tell tommy but tommy had so much going on his plate and he was going to war. red never told anyone the only person who knew was seren but red tried not to worry seren and said that it was nothing. that moment on red didn’t trust men and never wanted to be humiliated like that again. if this was a mans world she was going to become THE man (thats why her attitude she changed she now wore suits, she also wears suits because she thinks if she looks more masculine men won’t be attracted to her and what happened to her won’t happen again). red vowed to never be taken advantage like that again. from that moment on though the men spread rumors of felicity that she was a whore and that she had sex with every man in small heath. people didn’t like red which she grew to not care. she rather people were scared of her for what she could do. red wanted to make a name for herself so she started getting to work in creating her club RED.

her father went to war and felicity had to watch her sister and deal with her club and she learned how dirty this world really could be. she wanted money the clothes the men everything she wanted that lavish lifestyle. word came in that arlo had died in the war and that made seren go into deep depression. so from the war, the father’s death and what happened to red seren became mentally unstable and was forced into an asylum. red visits her everyday and vows to get her out someday.

because of what happened in red’s life, and all the responsibilities such as her men, her girls (the girls that work for red at the club), her sister, her father, everything, red has nightmares and she is addicted to drugs, cocaine, and an alcoholic. but her house and club are always in ship shape and so are her outfits because she has ocd which occurred after what happened to her. nobody knows her dark side and her inner demons and what she is really going through and that she is struggling.

now she has her lavish club RED (idk why but i always envision it looks like gusteau’s resturant)

she has a jazz band that plays at RED every night. anybody can sing there you just have to put your name, there are dance girls and singers. they sing whatever. the dirty part of the club, at day its a normal everyday club but by night you can do drugs there, illegal alcohol if you ask and the woman agrees and she gets paid there are rooms in the back or there to have sex. at night you can do whatever you want its a party city there. red could care less just as long as you don’t mess with the club and that she gets paid. red also does bets and racing as well like the shelbys and she does jewelry.

HER OUTFITS:

OC FOREVER TAGLIST: @witchofinterest, @chlobenet, @abbysarcane, @myocmultiverse, @nkskywalker, @whctsherncme, lmk if you want to be on my permanet tag list or red’s tag list!

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