#i feel like going insane everytime i have to call slender man as slender man like no his name is GORR’RYLAEHOTEP and THE OPERATOR

[prognostik-a2]

man how can i convince you all to watch marble hornets And/Or darkharvest00. what do i have to do

[chastiefoul]

first kiss(es) | itafushi.

word count : 2.045

in which Itadori tell Fushiguro he is cute. very cute.

---

Itadori and Fushiguro had made hanging out together every night a habit. There is hardly any day where they did not go to each other’s room where they did everything and also nothing. Some nights it would be movies, with Itadori spoiling everything unintentionally. Due to the training he just had not so while back ago, he already knew most of the famous movies were all about.

Itadori would like to call it knowledge but Fushiguro had made it perfectly clear that it was just straight up bragging.

Some other nights it’d also be quiet, with the dark-haired male reading and Itadori playing on his phone. Whether it’s loud or the opposite, it’s clear that these guys enjoyed the company of one another.

Though there is also a rare night like this. Where they both somehow laying on the bed with nothing to do, the sliding door that led outside opened a bit on purpose, just to let enough wind went in. Itadori would sneak a hand to Fushiguro’s raven locks, tracing his finger slightly along the strand of hair. Physical contact wasn’t something the younger male was familiar with at all but unless you had confronted him about this, not once Fushiguro had ever complained the subtle gesture.

Not that he should.

Itadori drew his hand back just to get something out of the boy beside him. Fushiguro that had been closing his eyes for the entire time turned his expression into somewhat of a discontent when the hand that was on his head was no longer there. It did not went unnoticed for Itadori as he chuckled softly,

“You know Fushiguro, I’ve been thinking about this for a while.. But you’re really cute aren’t you?” The salmon-haired man grinned, his eyes glistened with a slight obvious adoration, except of course not really to the oblivious friend of his. At this Fushiguro raised an eyebrow, annoyed. “Haah?” He said, displeasured, though if it wasn’t for the minimum light, it could be seen that Fushiguro’s face has been tinted with the color pink of embarrassment.

“See? That’s cute.” Itadori continued, still smiling. Clearly seeing how happy Itadori was teasing him, Fushiguro turned his back, sulking. “Shut up,” he mumbled incoherently with whatever little amount fight left in him.

“Still cute,” Itadori smiled yet again. “Honestly, you-“ Before Fushiguro’s complaint even reached its end, Itadori grabbed the shikigami user’s shoulder, and pinned him down against the bed. The gesture was perfect in timing, it was not rough nor it’s uncomfortable, it’s just right. At least that’s what Fushiguro think so, cause he shouldn’t know, he never encountered a circumstance such as this before.

Even then, Itadori totally caught him off guard, Fushiguro’s face clearly flushed, eyes running away.

“Yeah, totally cute.” His usual grin came back, looking down contently to a pair of dark blue orbs that belonged to Fushiguro. The gesture irked the raven-haired man way more than it should, he went to grab Itadori’s face, gripping it as a way of getting back at him.

“Ow, ow, quit being so harsh!” Itadori grabbed Fuhiguro’s wrist, stopping it before it’s harming his face any further. “Then quit being an idiot,” Fushiguro said with an annoyed tone, though as if contradicting himself, his one hand went limp, giving to Itadori’s touch completely.

Seeing that as a stamp of approval and an invitation to keep going, Itadori slowly drew his face closer to Fushiguro’s, bringing his gaze to his lips, making it obvious as to what Itadori wanted.

“Can I?” He lingered there for a moment before bringing his eyes back to Fushiguro’s gaze.

The latter man shivered under the usual goofy boy’s stare, though it wasn’t really an expression of scared but more like, excited? He never even thought about getting in a position such as this with his friend let alone finding out that he was actually eager for Itadori to kiss him?

Not letting his pride slid down yet, Fushiguro decided to be mischief about it, though honestly he was just as desperate as the other male to have his lips’ need met. “Can you what?” Fushiguro himself was surprised that he could manage a voice barely above a whisper, considering Itadori’s hot breath pressed against his jaw was kind of threatening Fushiguro’s insanity.

Yet, it was the same for Itadori. When you were pining someone below you to find out he had the prettiest face and had been looking at you with a gaze so desperate underneath those long lashes, it’s kind of decided early that Fushiguro Megumi is a man with a tremendous charm, and an irresistible one at that.

Wait scratch that. Itadori had always known that Fushiguro is beautiful. Stunning, even, if he dared to be dramatic about it. So it wasn’t a surprise anymore that situations like these are bound to happen, exactly like how people around them had been saying.

How Kugisaki had shared a knowing look that the both of them were too tired to interpret, how Gojo had been snickering quietly everytime the two of them were in the same room. Also the time where Inumaki given up a seat besides Fushiguro just for Itadori to sit, and that time too, and many more times after that too.

Everyone had long been involved in that relationship, before Itadori and Fushiguro could even figure out what was it in their chest that felt painfully tight, everytime the room visit occurred.

“Kiss you,” Itadori finished, drawing his lips dangerously close to Fushiguro’s, stopping at just the right distance upon not hearing a yes from the boy below him, though he’s guessing it was just to be annoying. “You always ask too many questions,” Fushiguro let out quietly, just enough for Itadori to hear, and just enough to let him know that he needed it fast.

Itadori smiled into the kiss as the younger male circled his arms around Itadori’s neck, bringing him even closer. Their lips met each other at an agonizing pace, yet it was just right for them and no one else. Though a tad sloppy for a bunch of firsts, it was just as passionate as any other kiss that happened at nights on different places. The kiss between the two was not any less meaningful than the couples that shared a goodbye kiss at mornings where one of them had to leave, it was not any less sweet than a quick surprise kiss they had seen so many lovers done, and it was definitely not less than a kiss that was shared between two platonic friends anywhere in the worl-

Wait. Why are they kissing?!

The teasing- That’s where Itadori usually knew where to draw the line and to not ever cross it, but as it’s been said before, they didn’t get a night like this that much. The dim room, the cozy breeze, the exhausment that could make anyone’s head is not on the right mind, and each other. It was a crazy coincidence that at the same time after staring each other for a good amount, Itadori had known that he will never meet a man more desirable than Fushiguro, and no one will ever has this magnetic effect on pulling him constantly just to be with the said person.

And the latter man has never wanted so much when he grew up, but that kiss that longed for him a moment ago, he felt like he could kill just to have his vacant lips be filled with Itadori’s. No, not just for that night where he was swept off his feet, but for next morning, and also a long time after that.

Realization descended after them at the same time, they both pulled away from the kiss. As painful as it was.

For a solid minute, there’s just silence. Both of them still trying to pick the words that had to be said after that happened. When the both of them finished observing whatever it was so interesting about the bedroom sheets –as they’ve been staring at it so intently- they both said at the same time.

”So-“

“I-“

“You first,” Fushiguro yielded characteristically. “Okay,” Itadori agreed, taking a deep breath somehow nervous, but isn’t it a bit too late for that considering the intense proximity they both just experienced?

“Shouldn’t there be something, you know, before this part?” The pink-haired boy said sheepishly, eyes darted around. Fushiguro was no better, his ears were red all the way to the tip, his heart beat loudly against his ribcage. “Like a confession?” Still, he managed.

“Like a confession.” Itadori confirmed, his gaze finally returned and rested it on Fushiguro’s.”Okay, you go first,” the younger male started—someone had to. “Wha-why me?!” Itadori protested.

“You kissed me first,” Fushiguro stated, “You kissed me back!” Itadori stared at him in disbelief, mostly because how he thought Fushiguro could get away with this with a weak argument such as that.

“Right, shouldn’t that be enough..” Fushiguro stopped halfway, not used to wearing his heart on his sleeve, “proof.. that I want you?” He finished, the last part was barely a mumble. Still, Itadori managed to get that. Of course he did. He never, not once, did not listen to what the quiet boy had to say.

Hearing that, a shade of pink appeared on Itadori’s face, a few darker shade that the one he has on his hair. He smiled through it, grinning from ear to ear. “Me too. I want you too. No, Not just because you said that first, but truly, I’ve wanted you for a very long time. I like you so much Fushiguro, Maybe I’ve just been too scared about this confrontation because of the change it might bring to us, or to you. I guess I was scared you’d look at me differently and honestly that would be worst thing to ever happened.” He reached out to the slender finger Fushiguro owned, holding it gently. The neediness and urgence that was once there has turned into an act so prudent.

That tugged some of Fushiguro’s heart strings, the rarity of a warm feeling engulfed him. “Stupid, the only change I’m going through right now is that realizing that turns out I can like you more than I already was.” His heart is full, to some extent, though it’s a very scary thing to admit, that Itadori has become such an important person to him that it is not possible for Fushiguro to be whole anymore without him in his life.

Without any further prompt, they both knew that words are no longer needed. Itadori reached out, this time with certainty and spring on his hands, Fushiguro just closed his eyes surrendering his lips, but how surprised he got when the one who made contact with the other male was his eyelids, so gentle, exceptionally incredibly loving, he couldn’t help but be overwhelmed with heaviness inside his stomach.

The kiss didn’t stop there, feather lightly trailing along the dark-haired male’s jaw like teasing because Itadori knew it wasn’t enough. Fushiguro was more sure of that because he could feel the smirk forming beside him.

Yet before letting Fushiguro has anything to protest against him, Itadori pressed a soft kiss, exactly like the one Fushiguro had been hoping for. He couldn’t help but smile and gave in, their mouth moving in an attempt to match each other. Honestly? They had no idea what they’re doing but it felt so damn good. The genuiness of a first kiss (well, second if you counted the impulsive teenage boys’ hormones) flew right between the two of them, there’s this rawness that felt like an electric spark every time their lips met each other. They couldn’t get enough, even though it was clear from the conversation they just had that doing this is something they’re gonna do a lot in the future to a point where they could already hear Kugisaki groaning and rolled her eyes at them, looking so done.

They pulled away, faces still extremely close to each other as if it pains them if it’s the opposite.

Still smiling, Itadori asked, “Now what?”

Fushiguro pretended to ponder for a moment, “Do that all over again?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They laughed, before leaning in yet again.

Let’s just say, those are a lot of kisses for a first kiss.

[kaadhalil]

i can feel you take control (of who i am)

context: @webheadstan and i were talking yesterday and basically i came up with the idea that there is not any birbal x akbar fics. and they kept enabling my bs and now we're here. im so sorry

cw: light swearing, pretentious fuckery, premarital handholding❤️

word count: 1,685

Short. Shorter. Comparative nouns. Mere concepts of measurement. Why would it matter? What is the point of any of this? Time trickles away as Birbal sits in his room, barely lit by a single candle. The breeze is strong tonight, the trees outside his windows shake their leaves, and Birbal feels as though the leaves are mocking him.

He's not doing okay, cut the man some slack.

He rises from his seat once the breeze picks up speed, threatening to snuff his candle. The wind is telling him to go to sleep. He tries to lie down and do just that. But he can't. He twists and turn in his bed, silky sheets tangling like his mind, every memory of the day running through his head over and over again and plaguing his dreams. He wants to sleep but sleep doesn't come. He's anxious. He's restless. He's worried. He's an idiot.

"So you think you're smart?" asked Akbar, his tone friendly, dripping with an emotion Birbal cannot understand. He fiddles his thumbs, watching the emperor intently. They are stood in the far end of the palace hallway, a balcony overlooking the mango groove. They stand silent, watching the sunset, the air is scented saccharine from the mangoes and thick from a tension Birbal cannot seem to understand.

Birbal smiles. Smart. Of course, he's smart. He'll crack the funniest jokes, he'll say the wittiest things just to see the emperor laugh. It's his favourite thing. Akbar laughing. Eyes shining brighter than the diamonds he's wearing, cheeks rosier than the roses that grow in the palace garden, a laughter that sounds like music to his ears, a rhythm so gentle and deep. He loves that he's the reason for that laughter.

("Oi Birbal," calls Kabir, the palace gardener when he catches Birbal sitting all by himself by the rose bushes cradling a duck in his arms. "What the fuck are you doing here, pal?"

Birbal turns. The duck quacks loudly, startling him, and pecks his hand. Birbal drops him in shock. The duck scoffs and slowly waddles away.

"What are you doing with one of the palace ducks? Don't you have like, I don't know, royal duties to do? Oh, my God are you ruining my roses?! Get out!"

"Nothing's wrong with your roses. I'm sorry. I needed somewhere quiet to think," says Birbal, sounding not sorry at all. No, he's busy thinking of other things.

The palace gardener looks down at him like a displeased mother. Birbal wants to disappear.

"Why'd you look so sad, buddy?" Kabir asks, as he begins plucking his roses.

Birbal looks up at the red, red roses in his hand. Some are small, some are big. He's beginning to go insane.

"How do you change things without changing them?" Birbal blurts. He doesn't know why he asked the gardener. If Birbal doesn't know, how would a mere gardener know?

Kabir gives him a look. "Something to do with the emperor?" Birbal doesn't answer. "I don't know what you're saying to be honest with you," says Kabir, twirling a large full bloomed rose in his hand. "But you change things without changing them by changing everything but them."

"Thanks, Kabir. That helped me in no way!" says Birbal, getting up. He shouldn't be wasting his time like this.

Kabir rolls his eyes as he picks a smaller rose and lays it in his basket right next to the bigger one he'd picked before.

"Sometimes, you are so dense, Birbal," he says.)

"Of course, I'm smart, your majesty," says Birbal. He isn't watching the sunset. He's too busy entranced with the single curl that rests near Akbar's ear. He wonders if that curl tickles.

"Well then, aren't you cocky?" chuckles Akbar. "You think you can answer every question ever?"

"No, but I'd love to try. I'm always up for a challenge. Even if it means doing the impossible."

("It's fucking impossible!" exclaims Birbal. "This is bullshit. I'm going to quit my job. It's not worth it!"

"Woah, hey, man. Keep the negativity away from the kitchens. This place is for good vibes and good vibes only. I'll kick you out. I don't care if you're a courtier," says Rahul, the head cook in-charge. Rahul is busy balancing plates and overlooking the dinner prep goes smoothly. The kitchen is hot, everyone is sweaty but Birbal has nowhere else to go. People keep kicking him out.

"I want to give up," whines Birbal, as he rolls one of the laddus in his hand. It's small.

Rahul comes closer to the forlorn courtier who's sitting atop one of the kitchen counters and silently muttering to himself like a madman. "Maybe if you shared your problem I could help you?"

Birbal sighs. Sure, why not? He's now accepted that he isn't as smart as he thought. "How do you change things with thout changing them?" he asks.

Rahul cocks an eyebrow at him. He reaches for the bowl next to Birbal and rolls a laddu. It's big. "You don't. You let things be. If change doesn't want to be forced then change shouldn't be," says Rahul. He yanks Birbal's smaller laddu from his hands and places it on the plate.

And then Rahul places his bigger laddu right next to it.

"What if change really, really needs to happen but it shouldn't?"

"Then it will. Or it already has. And you're just blind, Birbal.")

"Well then," says Akbar. He has a stick of charcoal in his hand. He looks at Birbal, something mischievous brewing beneath his eyes.

Birbal knows almost every emotion behind those honey coloured eyes like it's the back of his hand. Almost.

Emperor Akbar draws a line on one of the pillars next to him. He then turns to Birbal, a cheeky smile playing at his lips. "You see this line? If you're so smart then I want you to shorten it."

Birbal extends his hand to rub it off but Akbar catches it.

Birbal looks down at their hands. His fingers are long and slender compared to the emperor's short and thick ones. It's an imperfect fit. He could obsess over it.

"I want you to shorten it without touching it," says Akbar, his tone teasing. He graces Birbal with a playful smile.

"What?" exclaims Birbal. "That's not possible."

"Oh, so you aren't as smart as I thought?"

"No! I am! I mean..." says Birbal, flushed. "This is kind of ridiculous, your majesty."

"If so then do it. Make that line short. Go on."

Birbal blinks. He doesnt get it. He doesn't know what to do.

"Tell you what. We'll come back tomorrow. If you manage to do it, I'll reward you."

"What's the reward, your majesty?"

Akbar smiles even wider. His eyes shine with an emotion Birbal has grown so familiar to yet he doesn't understand. "Whatever you wish," says Akbar.

("It's so simple, dear Birbal," says Akbar, cupping the side of Birbal's face and gracing him with a fond smile. Birbal has seen that look plenty of times before. It's soft. It's comforting. It's kind. It's the same look he's graced with everytime Birbal lets the emperor win at Snakes & Ladders. It's the same look he's graced with when they feed the ducks together. It's the same look the king gives him in the court daily whenever their eyes meet. "Can't you see?" he asks.

"See what?" Birbal asks, frustrated. Why is everyone around him so cryptic?

"You really are so blind," teases Akbar. "The answer is right before you. It's staring you in the eye. The answer is begging you to notice but you don't."

"Why can't you just tell me the answer instead?"

"I believe you aren't that dense and you don't need things spelled out for you."

"I'm frustrated," pleads Birbal. He's at his wits end.

"So am I. I'm frustrated that you wake up everyday and you choose to be a blind idiot who thinks you could hide things from me."

"What?!"

"Wake up. I'm waiting for you. Always have been."

Birbal blinks awake.)

He stands in the same hallway as yesterday. The pillar with the line. It's a fine sunny afternoon. The breeze is light. The sky is cloudless. The bees are buzzing. There's a thousand butterflies dancing in his ribcage wanting fly away.

It's so easy. It's all he's ever wanted. He's just been too much of an idiot to understand.

To change something that shouldn't be changed you change the everything but that. Be and let it be.

Change isn't forced. It has already happened. It has happened unnoticed, quiet. How dare. Birbal would've liked to have been told when it had happened.

He would've liked to have been told he fell in love.

"Go on," urges Akbar, twirling a rose in his hand. "Do it."

Birbal grips his charcoal stick in his sweaty hand and clumsily reaches for the pillar. And slowly he draws a longer line next to the emperor's.

He feels Akbar's eyes on him. Doesn't understand why that makes him nervous. The charcoal stick breaks right as he finishes. He gripped it too hard.

"Short," says Birbal, facing the emperor. The emperor is a good 3 inches shorter than him. "Your line is now shorter. I didn't touch it."

Akbar smiles. "Very clever, Birbal." Akbar hasn't once looked at the lines. He's intently looking at Birbal. "Ask for your reward."

Birbal glances away. The bees are buzzing and the butterflies are out of control.

"I- I don't know," says Birbal, hesitation at his throat. "Would you like a walk in our rose garden, your majesty?"

"I would like that very much," he says. Akbar reaches over to tuck his rose into Birbal's hair. "I'd love to. I've been waiting for you. Always have been."

"You don't have to wait any longer," says Birbal, slipping his hand into the emperor's and pulling him to the gardens.

Birbal looks down. His fingers are long and slender compared to the emperor's short and thick ones. Akbar's fingers have more rings, they have a gentler grip.

Birbal grips tighter. It's a perfect fit.

[my-dear-hammy]

Not Fast Enough

Masterpost

More Jamilton

Requested Tags: @propheticnugs @fan-dumb-trash  

Part Twenty-Nine

Thin Lines

----

Warnings: Jefferson is grieving. Weight loss, depression, the works.

Oh, and don't forget he has a loving wife

----

Everything inside Hamilton just shatters apart. He doesn't even know fully why. All he can do in that moment is stare at her. At Martha. He had assumed she was dead and that Jefferson wears his ring out of a sense of sentimentality. But no.

Jefferson's married.

“Is there something you need, Mr. Hamilton?” she asks.

Snapping out of whatever holds him, “Oh, um, yeah. Is, er, Jefferson home?”

“Yes. He's in our room. Is it important? I'd like to return to him. If your matter could wait…” It's obvious she's trying to get Hamilton to leave. She wants to care for her grieving husband who is in no condition for anything work related. Or stress related. Or anything basically Hamilton related.

Hamilton is standing on a precipice and he doesn't even know it. Don't walk off.

“Mrs. Jefferson, Thomas has been absent from work for three weeks. He holds a very high position and we very much need him.”

“He's grieving with his family,” she says softly. “Let him have the time he needs.”

What's left of his family.

“Martha, dear, who's at the door?” says a voice Hamilton can never forget. That soft, southern drawl. He must've come downstairs after Martha's prolonged absence. Martha looks over her shoulder and opens the door a bit wider for Jefferson to join her, wrapping an arm about her waist. “Hamilton? What are you doing here?”

Hamilton is taken aback. Jefferson stands before him after being the main part of his life for a couple months and then disappearing for nearly a whole month.

He looks terrible.

He is dressed in a thin robe and some pajama bottoms. Which isn't so terrible if Hamilton didn't notice how loosely they hang from his normally filled out frame. He skin doesn't glow with its normal youth and vigor and enthusiasm for the world. The bags under his eyes are practically purple from lack of sleep and his facial hair has gone from neat and well kempt to scraggly. Jefferson's normal perky and bouncy hair seems almost… deflated.

Everything here is so wrong.

“I wanted to offer my condolences,” he finds himself saying. Jefferson just watches him with tired eyes in disbelief. Seconds of silence seem like an eternity. “...and apologize for running out as I did,” Hamilton says, pressure from the prolonged silence prompting him.

“No, you did the right thing,” Thomas says. “Thank you, for sending James.”

“Right,” Hamilton says awkwardly. “So…”

“You've driven a long way,” Thomas says with a lifeless smile. “Come in, have dinner, stay the night.”

“Are you sure, darling?” Martha asks. “The house is a mess. I haven't cleaned-”

Thomas smiles at his wife, tucking a bit of lose hair behind her ear. “Have you even listened to a single thing I've told you about Hamilton? The house will look sparkling clean in his eyes, don't you worry.”

Hamilton feels like he's intruding. “No, that's okay. I'd rather not. I have shit to do and-”

“I insist,” Thomas says, opening the door wider for Hamilton to enter as he steps back out of the way with Martha, walking into the house and fully expecting Hamilton to follow. After a moment of internal debate, Hamilton does, closing the door behind him.

Thomas is right. Not only is the house huge, it's well kempt and clean. Martha is insane if she thinks this is considered a mess. Thomas guides them all to a sitting room, where Martha immediately bustles to fold a rumpled blanket that was on on couch, as if the smallest wrinkle might insult a guest. Hamilton comes close to pointing at a polished surface and saying, you missed a spot, just to see what would happen. Didn't dare to. Not right now.

Martha really fixed that blanket just for Hamilton to sit down and ruin it again? He couldn't fathom. For now, standing seems like the best option since neither Mrs. nor Mr. Jefferson have taken a seat either. Martha looks up at her husband and smiles at her guest. “I'll go prepare some dinner.”

Thomas’ arm tightens around her waist, keeping her in place. “Nonsense. I'll make dinner.”

She looks up at him in surprise. “You will?”

Thomas laughs softly. It was slightly strained, but at least it wasn't forced. “Yes, love. I haven't forgotten how.” He dips down and kisses her softly before sweeping off and into the kitchen. Martha watches after him for a moment, as if some miracle just performed. Despite what is obviously an improvement, Hamilton can't help but latch onto how his chest twisted painfully when their lips met.

Martha turns to him again, smiling softly. There's no denying she's a beautiful woman. The type you'd expect to see on the arm of someone like Thomas. Though part of Hamilton suspects that Thomas is really the one on her arm. Long, soft brunette hair tumbles down her shoulders, slightly curly but verging more on wavy. Clear, brown eyes and a tall, slender frame that fits against Thomas perfectly. No, that detail does not escape Hamilton's notice. Call it a hunch, but Hamilton knows from the pictures on Thomas’ phone that Martha usually curls her hair, but lately, with certain events, it has been too much to bother with.

“Please, make yourself at home,” she says, gesturing to the couch. Hamilton doesn't even have to touch it to know it's expensive. Probably imported from somewhere. Has to admits it's comfortable though.

“I apologize for my intrusion,” Hamilton says. “I know it has to have been hard for the two of you lately.”

She nods solemnly. “Thomas only recently started venturing out of the bedroom a few days ago. Hasn't even looked at or expressed interest in cooking since he came home.”

“But Thomas loves cooking,” Hamilton says in disbelief.

“Yes, he adores it. It breaks my heart to see him this way,” she says. “In a way, your arrival is a gift. Makes the house seem less empty.”

“Doesn't James visit?”

“Oh, sure. When he has time. He's been busy at work, trying to get Thomas’ work straightened out and completed for him. He is a good man. We owe him a great deal.”

Ah. That explains James’ shortness with Hamilton earlier.

Ha. Shortness.

“I truly am sorry for your loss,” Hamilton murmurs. “Would you mind if I joined your husband in the kitchen? I need to talk to him.”

“Oh, of course,” she says, standing and smoothing her skirts. It really isn't hard for Hamilton to picture her in eighteenth century attire. “Just, no bickering. He's had a hard enough time as it is. I don't need the two of you turning the kitchen into a warzone.”

Hamilton chuckled quietly. “You have my word.” Maybe that's what Thomas needs. Someone to banter with as a distraction from the constant sadness that surrounds him in this house. Who could possibly stand a house this big with only memories of lost loved ones to fill it?

Hamilton.

Hamilton would love it.

Never would admit it, but he would, nonetheless. It's his type of thing. Definitely needed redecoration though. Not to insult Martha or anything, but it wasn't exactly his style. But, it is Thomas’, so of course Hamilton has to insult it.

His footsteps echo throughout the empty halls. Thankfully, one foot no longer makes a heavy this everytime the brace made contact with the floor. His brace came off a few days ago, and with it, Hamilton felt a profound sense of freedom. There's no describing how happy he was that day.

With a soft knock, Hamilton ventures into the spacious kitchen where he finds Thomas none other than mincing. A happy memory now tinged with sadness.

A jibe is already on the tip of his tongue, but Martha's words force Hamilton to swallow it back down.

So, like a smooth fuck, Hamilton says, “Hey.”

Thomas looks over his shoulder to see Hamilton. “Oh, hey. I didn't realize you'd join me back here.”

“If I'm being honest, I started to doubt if I would. I got lost twice. Your office is hideous.”

Thomas snorts, scraping what he has minced so far into a pan. “Only you would come all the way to Virginia to insult my office. In my house. While I make you dinner.”

“Aren't I the best?” Hamilton grins.

The lack of a response does not help at all. In fact, an awkward silence descends on the room.

“I'll glad to see your leg healed well,” Thomas finally says, setting a lid on a pan and reducing the heat to a light simmer.

“Oh! Yeah, it's been a relief to be able to walk unhindered. I can't thank you enough for all the help you gave me,” Hamilton says, stepping up to Thomas’ side. “I kinda wish you'd been there to see the brace come off and everything.”

“Sorry, I missed it.” The lack of emotion in Thomas’ voice very plainly shows that he just doesn't care at that precise moment.

Hamilton sighs softly. “Look, Thomas, I'm so sorry that you're going through this right now. And, I, well, I want to help. Like you helped me.”

“You can't.”

“You could let me try.”

“Bones heal, Hamilton,” Thomas states. “Things like this don't.”

Hamilton wedges himself between Thomas and the counter so he can look him in the eyes. “Let me try.”

“What're you going to do?” Thomas asks, narrowing those beautiful eyes, even as his lips speak with bitterness. “What could you do that Martha and I haven't already tried?”

“First of all,” Hamilton says, taking a risky move, considering they're current stance, and setting his hands on Thomas’ waist, if only to accentuate the profound loss of weight. “I won't let you sit around and waste away. Come back to work with me.”

The consideration that can be seen in Thomas’ eyes flood his chest with hope.

“I can't abandon Martha. Not now.”

And that hope is crushed.

“She'll be fine,” Hamilton insists. “She's a strong woman. Beautiful. I'm sure she has friend she could visit. But the best thing for you is to come with me, and go back to work.”

“I think your reasoning is a bit off, numbskull.”

“My reasoning is spot on,” Hamilton replies. “Which do you think is healthier, going back to work? To use as a distraction to get your life back on track? Or sit at home, waste away, only thinking of your dead kid?”

The anger the flashes briefly through Thomas’ eyes makes Hamilton flinch back. It had been pure rage at Hamilton's last statement. But Thomas seems to be in no condition to hold onto it and it dies quickly.

Luckily for Hamilton.

Thomas moves away from Hamilton and retrieves some wine. “I'll think about it.”

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