August 27, 1799.

August 27.

Alexander Hamilton has always dreaded that day. The day his beloved Laurens died on the Combahee River during a British skirmish. He remembers that day clearly. He remembers the day he received the letter about the news of Laurens’s death. He remembers the anger he felt, the painful grief he felt, the way his chest would squeeze as he read the letter. The way the tears would prickle at the edges of his eyes. Hamilton currently sits at his desk, reading the letter again, feeling his heart tumble down his chest and to the pit of his stomach.

Hamilton sighs as he pulls out a small portrait of his Laurens. Hamilton smiles at the portrait, only a little. He strokes his thumb over the portrait, over his Laurens and sighs out his mouth. He swallows, his throat tightening. He clutches onto the portrait harder, so hard his knuckles turn white. Hamilton grimaces as he swallows as though he’s tasted something sour. He lets out a shaky breath, trying to keep his tears at bay. He chews on his lower lip, hard, as he stares at the small portrait of John Laurens in his hands. His hands shake as he remembers the happy times. The times when Laurens was alive, the times when they were together in Valley Forge with no Betsey in between them. The times when Hamilton was just Laurens and only his. When Laurens was just Hamitlon’s and only his. Hamilton swallows as he feels the first few tears slip down his freckles cheeks. His red curls fallen around him, framing his face in a sea of red. His body hunches over slightly, the portrait of Laurens pressed against his forehead and clasped with both of Hamilton’s hands.

Hamilton doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s been in this position when he suddenly hears a soft knock on his office door. Hamilton yelps, dropping the portrait on the desk face down, the ink pot near the letter he’s currently writing nearly topples over.