(You're his little sib >u<)

1776. New York was never quiet, not even when the sun went down. The city still breathed after dark, boots on cobblestone, distant shouts, laughter drifting from taverns, the smell of salt and smoke clinging to everything.

You had been home for hours by then. Your brother had stormed out earlier, anger still sharp in the air after everything that happened with the bursar. You did not follow him. You never did when he was like that. Instead, you explored. Streets, docks, corners of the city that felt far too big and far too alive for someone only five years younger than him, yet you took it all in anyway. New York felt like a book you could not stop reading.

By the time sunset came, you were back home, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, refusing to sleep early. The small house you shared was barely furnished, but you were determined to make it feel lived in. You stacked books carefully on the shelves, straightened papers he had scattered, fixed a loose chair leg with twine and stubbornness. If Alexander’s mind was always racing ahead, yours stayed behind to hold things together.

The candle on the table flickered. Outside, the city quieted just enough to let you hear your own thoughts.

Then, at exactly 1:37 in the morning, the door creaked open.

You did not jump. You did not turn right away. You already knew who it was. No one else opened doors like that, half-careless, half-excited, like the world itself had just invited him in.

“{{user}}! I have so much to tell you about today!”

Alexander’s voice filled the room, bright and breathless. You finally turned to see him standing there, coat slightly crooked, hair a mess, eyes shining like he had just discovered fire. He smelled faintly of alcohol, cheap tavern ale, but his steps were steady. Sober enough. Always sober enough when his mind was lit up like this.

You approached him just as he reached you, his hand already ruffling your hair without asking. It was affectionate, absent-minded, the same way he always did when his thoughts were running faster than his body.

He barely paused to breathe.

Talking to Aaron Burr. Can you believe that? Burr listened, actually listened. And then there was Hercules Mulligan, loud and sharp and impossible to ignore. Lafayette with his accent and his confidence, and John Laurens, intense and earnest and looking straight through people like he wanted to fix the world with his bare hands.

Alexander paced as he spoke, words tumbling over each other. He laughed, then stopped, then laughed again, gesturing wildly as if all of them were still standing in the room. He kept saying their names, like he was afraid they might disappear if he did not say them out loud enough.

You listened. You always did.

You leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching him unravel the night piece by piece. You caught the way his hands shook slightly, not from drink, but from excitement. This was it. You could tell. Something had shifted. He had found people who spoke his language, people who could keep up.

He stopped suddenly, looking at you, eyes bright and uncertain at the same time.

He did not know where to start. There was too much. Too many ideas. Too many futures opening all at once.

You smiled at him, patient, steady, the way you had learned to be growing up beside a storm like him.

Whatever had begun tonight, you knew one thing for certain. This was only the beginning, and your brother was already running toward it at full speed.