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“The company with the highest bill by midnight wins.” Hank, the owner of their local bar, announced. It was a simple game, drink expensive. It had started when they arrived at the bar to see their opposition there, immediately sparking a war between ‘who the better George was’. Whichever group had the higher tab by the end of the night’s leader would be named ‘the better George.’
It was shameful to admit, but God was Hamilton a light-weight. There was no reason for it, he certain wasn’t inexperienced. It was likely because of his stature rather than mindset. They were down by three dollars when he had his first vodka, chugging the whole bottle like someone’s dad on a Friday night. He hadn’t bothered to involve himself in any conversation, he’d been feeling a little off recently. Some would say depressed, Alexander wouldn’t.
Ignoring the throb in his head, he looked up and across the room. Madison and Jefferson were doing shots. Jefferson visibly tipsy, hand gestures slightly more flamboyant, hair still spun into curls. He didn’t realise he was staring until Thomas looked back, eye contact hazy for a few seconds before going back to his bottle. It was empty. He smelled horrific.
Alex stood up, sluggish as he got back to the bar, words slurred as he murmured something about vodka. Jefferson nudged him in the side, “you’re gonna get alcohol poisoning.” Ignoring the warning, Hamilton took the glass, drinking half in one go. Jefferson rolled his eyes.
Midnight came soon, they won, whatever. Everyone was pissed. Washington was shouting something about comradery and bravery, nothing Hamilton had the energy for. Jefferson lived near him, which is how they ended up walking home together. Jefferson lazily threw his arm over Hamilton’s shoulders, words far beyond recognition. Neither of them were there at all, which is why it took them both five minutes to open the door. Jefferson’s door.
Hamilton could feel the emptiness now, something more familiar, something begging him to kiss Jefferson. Alex’s eyes were glossed over, legs shaky, everything unsteady as he stepped forwards. The kiss started off hesitant, immediately transforming into something completely hungry. He needed this, they both needed this. Jefferson didn’t pull back once, just giggled stupidly and guided them both down the hall. Hamilton’s shirt was discarded next to Thomas’ coat, followed by the clink of a belt buckle. Hamilton ignored the wave of insecurity, focussing on the trousers Jefferson had ripped off of him. He gave up on unbuttoning the other mans shirt, tugging it down and breaking a few buttons in the process. It was a blur, a messy, unforgiving blur of magenta sheets and torn hairbands that ended in a huge headache.
Hamilton didn’t open his eyes when he woke up, he just grumbled, shifting. That’s when he noticed, the arm under his head, the hand against his inner thigh. He shuffled back, the warmth behind him doing wonders for his chills. He couldn’t remember anything, no idea who this stranger was, but by God were they comfortable. He shut his eyes again, basking in the cloud he found himself on.
The second time he awoke went differently. He sat up, no idea where he was once more. Only this time, there was no warmth. He rolled over, letting out a huff of dissatisfaction before sitting up. It wasn’t before a loud retching came through that he knew he wasn’t alone. He followed the sound, pushing the door open before falling silent. He’d recognise those curls from anywhere. He’d slept with Thomas. Alex, for once in his life, had nothing to say.
“Hamilton,” he heard Jefferson wheeze, “you really aren’t into aftercare, are you?” Hamilton laughed, going to but a singular hand on the man’s back. “I drank more than you, why are you the one throwing up?” It’s not that he didn’t care for him, it just felt so awkward. Jefferson didn’t reply, finishing his hacking before sitting back. “How drunk were we?”
To that, Hamilton shrugged. “I have zero clue.” He could recognise that he was still somewhat drunk. Far less, less than tipsy. “Do-“ it was the physical touch part of him that was speaking, “do you wanna go back to bed?”
“Hamilton, man, I have no energy-“ Hamilton shook his head.
“Not, not like that, no..I mean, it’s only eight. We don’t have work, come back to bed.” Hamilton didn’t like the half begging he was having to do. “Come on,” he pulled Thomas up, who briefly leaned on him, before going back to his room.
They lay in silence, Hamilton doing nothing but enjoying the touch. Jefferson had noticed, and was dying to mention it. Being a decisive person, he did.
“What’s wrong with you.” He poked him in the side.
Hamilton looked puzzled for a few seconds, “what?”
“I’ve never seen you this at peace before.” Jefferson shrugged.
Hamilton could’ve admitted to the truth, that he had a dying need to be loved, or he could mumble, “I ‘unno.” Earning another chuckle from Thomas. “You’re weird.” Jefferson mumbled into the the back of his neck.
He hadn’t been the most loved child, growing up nearly completely alone. Hugging himself was self-soothing, moments where that was all he had led him to get a little attached. It never went away, the yearning, the need to be enveloped in the embrace of another. It helped that he was short, that he didn’t require much to be covered. It brought up a whole love language tangent whenever he mentioned it to someone. Did he want to talk about that with Jefferson? The spiral he had started was hastily interrupted by a loud snore. Jefferson had fallen asleep.
Hamilton snorted, he would mention that forever. For now, he rolled back up in Thomas’ arms, quiet laying itself atop the men.
What Hamilton had failed to recognise, was that Jefferson did not live alone. The rent in NYC was painful, and for an apartment this size no one person could handle that.
Madison hadn’t woken up much earlier, taking a few moments to ready himself and get dressed before leaving. He hadn’t stayed the whole time at the bar, falling asleep at exactly eleven. Hence his confusion when he left his room to find scattered clothes leading from the entry to Jefferson’s room. He would’ve rolled his eyes, continued and eaten breakfast, had he not noticed the bag by the door. That was Hamilton’s. As Jefferson had said, ‘no one is stupid enough to unironically have a briefcase.’ Hamilton was.
He knocked twice, hoping to God that they were decent. The tray he held had two cups of herbal tea, a hangover was expected. The silence wasn’t a bad sign, he pushed open the door silently, walking past the bed to put the tray down on Jefferson’s night stand. He’d expected worse, expected a battle field. All he got was serenity. Going back down the hall, he collected each of the garments and politely folded them, neatly placed on the floor outside. It was embarrassing for the both of them when they woke up, but glad it helped to avoid the “what are we?” part of it all.