alexander hamilton was a dirt poor, bastard, orphan, son of a whore who was deeply in love with john laurens, who came from an extremely rich, posh family.

the laurens’ family was holding a ball and alexander hamilton showed up as washington’s aide-de-camp, since he was his right hand man.

alex requested a dance with john, and john obliged. alex was smitten, but john was slower to fall in love.

alex was elegant on the dance floor, moving in rhythm, but john intentionally dragged his feet. he was going to make these next 15 minutes as difficult for the colonel as possible.

john tripped up, somewhat intentionally, somewhat not, as he slipped under alex’s arm, his heavy boot digging right into the other man’s foot, who gasped and suppressed a pained yelp.

john’s gaze was a mixture of guilt and glee, but mostly glee, as he looked up at alex, playing hard to get.

john: “you know, colonel hamilton, normally when a gentleman’s foot interposes itself between his partner’s and the floor, he apologizes for being so clumsy.”

alex forced a strained smile.

alex: “of course, sir. my deepest apologies.”

his voice was forced and pained, but the powered through nonetheless.