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It took him two hours and thirty-six minutes to get to him, to get to where John was dying. Alone, Hamilton arrived to the tent at dusk. Rushing through, past the doctor and into the room. There were piles off bloody rags, one laying around Laurens’ upper left arm. He was fast asleep, visibly in pain and looked so deeply pathetic. Hamilton choked on a sob, stomach churning. He knelt down next to the bed, whispering a quick prayer before holding his hand. He pulled the blanket up just a little higher, being so careful of his arm. Alexander pressed a kiss to the back of his hand, before stilling in patience.
A loud groan awoke him from his daze, forcing him up. “Laurens,” he put a hand on his right shoulder, not wanting to shake him. John’s eyes were half open, glazed over. He screwed them shut, obviously still feeling the hole through his muscle. He shhed him carefully, trying to stay calm. “It’s okay, it’s just me.” Laurens’ right hand held onto the side of Hamilton’s wrist, breaths heavy.
“Alex.” He grit his teeth, words between pants. “It hurts.” Alex nodded, now holding that hand.
“How bad is the damage?” He hadn’t bothered to ask the doctor, just ran past him.
“Gone through the under, hitting a bit of my chest.” Laurens paused, “I’m out of order, Alex.” Alex squeezed his hand, shaking his head. “You’ll be fine, I promise.”
“Don’t promise.” He whispered.
“I don’t promise.” Hamilton laughed, his head starting to pound, why did he feel so sick? The imminent danger of infection may’ve been it. John looked helpless, like a cough would send him to death. Alex could feel his breakfast coming up, could feel his stomach pulsing. He let go, stepping back. “Alex?” John didn’t even try to get up. Hamilton was coughing, half spluttering until it all came up onto the tent’s floor. He hated the acid burn, hated the feeling and hated how he had just ruined the moment that was being had.
“I’m sorry- sorry, I.” He wiped his mouth with a tissue, realising how stupid he must look. John shook his head, tears held back by pride. “I’m gonna be fine, Hamilton. Y’know you didn’t promise.” He smiled. That smile brought him some hope.
Back in New York, Laurens was given three months of bedrest. Alex stayed with him most nights, visits rare from anyone else. John lifted his arm up in the mirror, taking a good look at the large scar that sprayed across the under of his humerus. Alex sat down next to him, dinner set on a tray. “Cool scar, isn’t it?” Laurens couldn’t disagree. It did look cool. “Thanks for dinner.” Alex nodded.
It had become a habit at this point, sleeping with John laying on his right, left not so sure. “Go to sleep, John.” Alex shamed, it was late now. “You too.” He grumbled, rolling onto his stomach just to bury his face in a pillow. Alexander sighed, shuffling next to him. “Try and sleep well.” He wished, well aware that it sounded easier than it was.
Nights all blurred into one, the same routine repeated over and over until they could do it on autopilot. Neither complained, and so nothing changed.