The Eye of the Hurricane
It was late at night when Alex received the call.
Naturally, he was awake and writing at the time, laboring on a self-assigned paper on the topic of civil rights which he intended to anonymously publish in the school's literary magazine. So when his phone sounded around midnight with the ringtone for "My Dearest, Laurens" and the screen illuminated Alexander's dimly-lit bedroom, he was quick to pick up.
"Hey, dearest."
"Alexander." John's voice sounded immediately strange to Hamilton; it was weaker than usual and lacked the sweet confidence it typically carried. Additionally, the way he'd said Alex's name was odd— as if he'd called only to say it, to have the syllables escape his throat, and then forget all other intentions.
"John," Alex replied, delighted nonetheless to be speaking to his boyfriend. He held the phone between his shoulder and his ear so he could continue typing.
"Um... I have to talk to you."
"Well, you've got me right here," Alex rubbed one eye, blinking at his computer screen.
"No, I..." John paused, an unusual insecurity in his breath. "I have to see you, too."
"Oh." Alex looked down at his attire— an old sweatshirt Mr. Knox had unearthed for him upon his arrival, a pair of sweatpants, and bare feet on the hardwood floor —and slowly closed his laptop. "Where?"
"Could you— Can you meet me in my backyard? I'll unlock the gate for you..."
"I'll be there in a few. John, are you alright?"
"I'm... I'll see you in a few."
"I'll be right over. Okay. I'm yours forever, see you soon."
"I'll see you soon," Laurens let his weak reply fill the space between Alex's proclamation and the beep of the call being ended.
Slowly, John unraveled the cocoon he'd built around himself out of random blankets and neglected jackets, his head emerging from the fray surrounded by terribly disheveled curls. He was still wearing the clothes he'd worn that afternoon— the pair of jeans with the crease down the center of each leg, the shirt with the long sleeves that Alexander had tugged at the hem of... Just that afternoon. John looked bleakly at the clock by his bedside. Surely it couldn't be correct— John cursed the thing for showing the time as a quarter to one in the morning. He stood slowly, willing his legs to remember how to walk properly, which was a surprising feat. He could barely even remember how to breathe properly after whatever episode had overcome him that evening. But, somehow, he managed to adjust his jeans so they felt a little less uncomfortable and poorly-fitted, pull an old jacket on over his shirt, and walk in an almost-dreamlike state down the stairs, out the side door, and into the garden, where Alexander would be arriving shortly.
Alexander... Laurens allowed his thoughts to wander to the boy he called his own. Hamilton, the non-stop, orphan, immigrant, self-starter who had had John in the palm of his hand from the second they'd met. He remembered that day, but he certainly didn't regret it— Alex had set every part of him aflame even before he knew it. He could remember the feeling of helplessness Alex brought upon him, almost like a dream that he couldn't quite place.
This feeling had surely not subsided over time; on the contrary, it seemed to have only grown. John looked into Alex's eyes and the sky was the limit. And his eyes weren't the only place that held such potential; Alex's entirety— his looks, his personality, his mere essence —had become the subject of John's endless adoration.
His whole body already ached with empty loneliness.
And, as if on cue, Laurens was quickly distracted by the flash of light from a cell phone flashlight, signifying Alex's arrival by the garden gate.
John took a deep breath (as if such an action would help him) and walked on unsteady legs to unlock the gate for Hamilton.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Alexander asked, pulling his bulky sweatshirt tighter around him. John briefly noted that the jeans Alex wore were evidently hastily pulled on and that his shoes were unlaced, both observations that momentarily distracted John. He now looked Alex in the eye, in those breathtaking eyes that had found their way into his heart without his consent, and felt weakness set inside him.
"Alexander, I'm sorry."
"What?" Alex took John's hand, glancing at the house.
"I'm... I'm so sorry."
"Why? John, are you alright?" When Alex was met with silence, he pressed on, "Listen, it's odd enough you're up this late..."
John stared at Alex for a long moment. He glowed in the moonlight. He was so perfect, in every single way... So how didn't he understand? How didn't Hamilton understand he'd chosen the wrong person? How didn't he understand that John was the wrong person, sure to disappoint, sure to lead to failure, sure to—
"John, if you don't tell me what's wrong..."
"Alex, I..."
"You can say it. Just say whatever it is."
Everything Henry Laurens had ever impressed upon him led up to this moment. John would never be happy. He should never be happy. He would never be satisfied simply because he didn't deserve to be. John felt his heart cramp and jolt with a sudden uneasy pain, and his mouth opened.
"I... I can't be with you anymore."
The words pried their way out— an ugly mass of everything Laurens didn't want breaking free and unleashing itself in a sudden motion. The words left behind a burning pain in John's throat, physical retaliation to the shame John knew his family would endure on his behalf.
Alexander was caught off guard for once in his life. "You... What?"
John's voice could barely raise above a whisper. "Please. Don't make me say it again."
"Why?" Alex's eyes widened, and, to John's dismay, he could see clearly Hamilton's argumentative and his (admittedly vulnerable) emotional sides merging within him. This would be even harder than John thought. "Why would you think so? John, what is going on with you—"
"You don't want me." John's voice broke. "You don't want me."
"John, I swear." Alexander took John's hands in his, an almost-angry fire in his eyes. "If this is the product of some tangent about how you hate yourself, then stop it. I hate everything in this life that isn't John Laurens—"
"Alex, I don't want... I don't want to have to... I don't..." John was shaking. He looked into Alexander's eyes and the starry sky above was the limit. Why did Alex have to absorb John's attention and affection so completely? Why did John have to be the way that he was? Why couldn't he have just enjoyed kissing Martha Manning and started dating girls and making his family proud? Why did John have to be who he was? He wished he wasn't. He wished he wasn't. But Alex's presence made it so much harder to come to terms with. Alex took up too much space in John's heart for coldness. "I don't..."
"John," Alexander was looking like he was at a debate. This was fundamentally Alex— he thought he could talk his way out, write his way out, convince his way out. John shook his head sharply.
"I shouldn't be like this," John said, his voice bordering on hoarse. It was as if all ability to speak effectively had been stolen from him. "I can't see you anymore... My family..."
"Your father— I swear, this is your father. If he thinks, for one second—"
"Alex, he'll disown me!"
John's voice was hard, regaining control over itself. Alex was silent for a moment.
"You can live with me and Mr. and Mrs. Knox," he said, insistent as John knew he would be. He shouldn't be. John was not worth fighting for. John should not be fought for.
"My siblings, they need me, Alexander," John said this with resolve, but his voice softened at the mention of Alexander's name. Alex deserved better. John was not the right person. Not in any sense of the phrase.
"They can come, too. You are everything in this life, John—"
"Please don't make this difficult, you know I—"
"You mean the world to me! You're the most incredible, attractive, intelligent—"
Hot tears welled in John's eyes. He willed them to stop, but their flow only increased. "Alexander! I can't! I can't be with you—"
"John Laurens, look around! If you could let me inside your heart—"
"You're in. You're in. I can't—"
Alex's voice was getting louder, raising to a speaking-level volume. "Let me be a part of your narrative. The story they'll write someday! Let this moment be the first chapter, John—"
"I can't do this to my family, my mother, my family..."
"Where you decide to stay!"
"I'm— You could date Eliza, I'm not the right—"
"I could be enough!"
"I can't..."
"We could be enough!"
"Alexander—"
"That would—"
"Alex... You know I don't want to do—"
"That would be—"
"I love you!"
Silence filled them both.
Silence.
Alexander's hands fell to his sides, leaving John's suspended and empty in the air between them.
In the eye of the hurricane, there was quiet.
Alex stepped forward. There was a pause. "I'm willing to wait for you."
John stared at Alexander once again. The non-stop, orphan, immigrant, self-starter who had had John in the palm of his hand from the second they'd met.
He was helpless. He was so fucking helpless.
"I'm sorry."
John leaned forwards. His lips met Alexander's halfway, his shaky hands finding the sides of Alex's face. John grasped at the feeling of wholeness, trying to comprehend the notion of completing himself without Alex. The taste of Alexander and the feeling of loving him would surely prove these attempts fruitless. However, Hamilton allowed John to kiss him, if only one last time.
"I love you, too." Alexander said, a whisper. "Take your time. I'll see you on the other side."
He walked away.
Out through the gate.
Into the darkness.
John was alone.