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Burr is surprised by the knock at the door.
Or--not the knock. People have been knocking at his door a lot these days, wanting his counsel and his thoughts on the coming trouble. He’s being cultivated. He would say courted, if that wasn’t a term for submissives alone. Courted for a leadership position, on one side or the other. And after, no matter where things fall, to be one of the ones who builds on what’s left.
He is twenty, and already too tired for his age. It doesn’t seem fair that they should want to know what he thinks; what qualifications does he have, other than being the Dominant son of a good family? But it seems that is enough, in the eyes of the world, and so Aaron Burr gets many visitors, all of whom want something. It’s exhausting.
No, he’s surprised by who’s knocking. He didn’t think Hamilton even liked him all that much, at least not enough to want to seek him out without others present. He’ll say hello to Burr when he can stop making eyes at John Laurens for five minutes--Laurens is pretending to be a Dom these days, which is hilarious, but Hamilton finds the pretense convincing, or convincing enough for his purposes. But he won’t go out of his way to spend time with Burr. He won’t smile at Burr the way he’s smiling now, all openhearted joy.
And yet here he is.
“Mr. Burr, sir!” says Hamilton the instant Aaron opens the door. Aaron wishes Hamilton would quit calling him sir; it makes his stomach do very undignified somersaults and is unseemly and inappropriate besides, since Hamilton is not his submissive. He doesn’t show this exaggerated deference to any other Dom; Aaron has checked. But he can’t bring himself to ask Hamilton to stop.
“Hamilton,” murmurs Aaron. “Hey.”
Hey. He’d been lauded for his eloquence, once. It’s like Hamilton, by his very presence, sucks up all the words in the room so no one else can have any.
Hamilton is carrying something. A jacket, fresh from the cleaners. A uniform jacket, for a soldier. Aaron’s heart drops, and he scolds himself for it at once. It’s not like he didn’t know this was coming. Hamilton has said he plans to join the Revolution from the first moment of their acquaintance. Aaron has no right to feel shock, and then a slowly creeping sense of dread. He has no right to feel anything at all where Alexander Hamilton is concerned. Aaron remembers pulling him away from Seabury, shocked at his own daring, his own rudeness--a gentleman did not lay hands on an unclaimed submissive to move him where he pleased--but he had been unable to help himself, his rational objections and sense of propriety drowned out by a sick wave of no.
Hamilton had thrown him off, swatted him away like a fly, the response such appalling behavior deserved. What is it about Hamilton that turns him into an asshole? Other people think Burr kind, polite, and gracious. He doubts those adjectives would occur to Hamilton at all, if asked to describe him.
“You’ve gotten your commission,” Burr says, summoning a smile.
It’s the least loaded statement he could possibly make, just describing the facts. But still-- still-- Hamilton’s joyful smile vanishes, and he scowls at Burr. Burr’s stomach drops even further. There’s no reason to examine that now.
“I’ve enlisted, Burr,” he snaps, like Burr’s an idiot for thinking otherwise.
Burr is as shocked as he would have been if Hamilton announced the coat he was wearing was a red one. Alexander Hamilton, an enlisted man? He’s as glory-mad as the rest of them, and submissive or no, would not take well to the orders a foot soldier must follow. If he’s entering the military for the reasons so many subs before him have--to make a name for himself outside the bonds of marriage and family--being part of the rank and file won’t cut it. It is, in fact, an excellent way to get himself killed.
Maybe that’s what Hamilton wants. He does get this crazed gleam in his eyes, when he talks about bloodshed. Not that Burr has spent time studying Hamilton’s eyes.
And not that it’s any of his business how Hamilton chooses to spend the coin of his life. He just...thinks it worth more than that, somehow.
Aaron’s mouth is dry. “An enlisted man? You?”
Unaccountably, Hamilton smiles at him again. “Hah! Seems I’ve managed to surprise you for once.”
For once. He can honestly say, without equivocation, that Alexander Hamilton is the most surprising sub he has ever met. “You’ve always kept me on my toes, Hamilton,” he says. “But why not go for the officer corps? Surely that’s where you should be.”
“It’s adorable that you think I had a choice, Burr. Connections aren’t as easy for me as they are for some. You have to know someone. It goes triple if you’re a sub.”
The remarkable thing about that statement is that Hamilton delivers it without rancor or challenge. He doesn’t even sound angry at Burr, or at anyone else, and he’d have every right to be. It’s just...the way of the world. For once Burr wants him to fight, to tell Burr specifically to go fuck himself, to take his privilege and his money and shove it up his ass.
“You know lots of people,” Burr says, aware of how pathetic he sounds. Himself, for one. John Laurens, for another. It would be the simplest thing in the world for Aaron to say a few words on Hamilton’s behalf. It would be even easier for Laurens. This is exactly why switches shouldn’t take subs; they don’t have a Dominant’s sense of duty and honor, responsibility to those who have given their welfare into their keeping.
He’d call Laurens on it, but it would be beneath his dignity to treat a switch as a true Dominant. Laurens isn’t even likely to see a problem with his failure to provide for Hamilton, anyway. He’d probably think it romantic if they both died together.
Hamilton rolls his eyes. “What I get, I’d rather earn,” he says. Unlike some people is the implication there. Hamilton doesn’t say it aloud. He doesn’t need to. Burr has to stamp down his own shame. Neither of them had chosen their families, and Aaron has been as alone as Hamilton. More so.
“I’m sure you’ll distinguish yourself,” Aaron says. He’s not sure of that at all. Subs are kept back from the action, if they’re lucky. Used as servants and cannon fodder and warm bodies when they’re needed if not, though no one’s supposed to talk about that.
The thought makes his stomach turn. Hamilton deserves far better, and he should know that. Why this stubbornness, then?
“You don’t take the easy way, do you, Hamilton?” he asks.
Hamilton grins. “Never.” He offers a soldier’s salute. “Anyway, I’ll see you there, yeah? We’ll have each other’s backs.” He says it like he has no doubt of Burr’s loyalty, though his friends have speculated he’s for the King often enough. Burr’s not supposed to hear that, but subtlety isn’t exactly their forte.
Being trusted is new for him. He finds he likes it.
He does not point out that they cannot have each other’s backs. Hamilton won’t be his equal. Perhaps he can protect him, but that’s likely to go about as well as pulling him away from Seabury had. It's laughable at best and pathetic at worst.
He writes his patrons, after. He’s learning how to nudge, how to bend others to his will without ever quite expressing what that will is. He writes that perhaps submissives are being overlooked for promotions, that there have been many who have made able commanders of men, not just General Washington.
His patrons write back: you have a sweetheart you want to see looked after, lad? No shame in that, just give us the name and we can keep him away from the fire, put him behind some desk so he feels like he did some real fighting.
It enrages him. It enrages him that Alexander Hamilton should be dismissed so, when he is the brightest light the Revolution has. It enrages him that they’re right about him: he wouldn’t have made this his cause if there weren’t a particular submissive he…
Loved. Yes, he must love Alexander Hamilton, for now he wanted to fix this-- needed to fix this--for Hamilton’s sake. Not for his own advantage.
He writes again, more subtle this time. He does not give a name. Does not dare to try to use this to make Hamilton grateful, or influence Hamilton’s career trajectory in any way. That would be the death of love, if he is ever to be so fortunate.
When he next sees Hamilton, he’s wearing an officer’s uniform, blue and gold. They shake hands as equals. Aaron doesn’t know if the ground he prepared made a difference at all.
It doesn’t matter. He is satisfied.