But Hear Me Out
"What?"
John could only gulp.
Henry stood, his computer screen going black. A look of dull, blank confusion set in over his face, his wrinkles seeming deeper.
He hadn't known at all.
"I-I'm gay," John managed, words regaining their meaning. "I've known for a while. Maybe I should've told you. I don't know. But I'm... I'm sorry, dad. I'm sorry. I've tried to be different. I've tried so hard not to be but it's who I am and I know it's disappointing and I'm a shame and I never meant to embarrass you so I never said anything and I don't mean to hurt you and I'm sorry," his voice cracked, "I'm so sorry."
Henry Laurens blinked, mortifyingly silent.
John stood still, unable to breathe.
"John," Henry began.
John was beginning to shake, almost shivering. Except, lacking the provocation of coldness, it was an unnerving state.
"You have to realize what this means." Henry began to take steps, his feet plodding across the carpet surrounding his desk. "You have to realize what this does to my reputation. And, for that matter, our family name."
It was happening. John shook his head. No. No. No. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."
"John, you're my firstborn. You know that. And my expectations, all the expectations you've been set to..."
John looked down. He wanted to sink into the floor. He wanted to run. He wanted to fight. He wanted to hide. He wanted to scream.
He had no idea what he wanted.
Henry continued walking forwards. "You have to realize what this means for my job, and for every family friend and connection I have..."
"I'm sorry," John could barely raise his voice over a whisper now. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
His father stopped in front of him, and John froze, bracing for something. A hit. A yell. Something.
But Henry simply continued to speak. "Why are you apologizing?"
John went on with his chain of "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry..." Why was he apologizing? Why wouldn't he be apologizing? He wasn't right. He wasn't the right person. He wasn't the right son or the right brother or the right anything. "I'm sorry..."
"There's still one more thing."
John fell silent. He closed his eyes. He was going to go back to his room, pack a bag, take his car... He would say goodbye to his siblings. He would look at his tree one last time. He would watch the house in the rearview mirror until it slipped out of sight and out of mind. Why was Henry taking his time? It was clear he was displeased. It was clear he would never forgive this. His face showed it. But John stood still, bracing for the impact of what was to come, and praying that his father— was he still going to be his father? —would say it. Just say it. John was a powder keg about to explode. Just say it.
"You have to realize you're still my son."
John looked up suddenly, and somehow, one word found its way out of his throat. "What?"
"I'll be honest with you, John. I'm... Not entirely sure what comes next. But... Listen." Henry put a hand on John's shoulder. He jumped with surprise, but did not draw back; instead, he looked his father in the eye, still afraid and disbelieving. But he was listening. "You're still my son. You're still my firstborn."
Henry looked away for a moment. "Are you scared or something? Is this a frightening thing? I don't know how this is supposed to work."
John only stared at him. This was unreal.
"I've never done this," he said, and he let out an unnerving laugh. "There's nowhere you can go to read how to do this... What do I say?"
John couldn't blink. This was unreal.
"I suppose honesty would work..." Henry tilted his head, sizing up the situation. John was on the brink of a heart attack. "I'm... Pride isn't the word I'm looking for... Well, I didn't expect it, that's for sure. You're... Wow."
This was unreal.
"Your mother..." the man sighed, returning his gaze to John. "Your mother would be proud of you. She always would be."
John's mother.
Silence filled him.
Silence.
And then suddenly, John's throat was thick with a knot of inexplicable emotion, and he was beginning to shake harder and harder. This was unreal.
"I think I haven't said it much since... she passed. Or ever. But... I suppose this calls for it, right?" Henry took a deep breath. "I love you."
There they were.
There were the tears.
John was crying, a stream of hot tears rolling down his cheeks. His entire body was racked with the impact of these tears, and he nearly jumped out of his skin with complete shock when he felt Henry's arms around him. This was unreal. This was unreal. This was—
"Your mother would be proud of you, John," Henry said, his voice low. "For her, I'm going to try, too."
John could only sob. Henry continued talking.
"We're going to talk about how to handle this, okay? We'll talk about what the next step is. And we're going to have a conversation with your siblings, too."
John nodded vigorously, but the gesture was most likely lost in the quaking of the rest of his body. This was enough. This was so much more than enough.
Eventually, he managed to look up. The world was a blur. Everything was a blur. The world had, once again, turned upside-down.
"I love you, too," John said, his voice cracking and his arms trembling and his entire world shifting and changing and repositioning itself around this moment.
And there John stood, in the room where it happened.
But someone was missing.
John sprung back, wiping his eyes hastily on the backs of his hands. "I gotta do something."
Henry stepped back. "Dinner's soon; what do you mean?"
"I'll- I'll be back soon, alright? I just really gotta do something." John looked hopefully at his father. Everything balanced on this; urgency was an understatement.
Henry looked at him for a moment, thinking. He sighed. "Okay. But be home for dinner. No excuses. Got it?"
"I will. I swear." John nodded, a new wave of tears threatening to attack him.
Henry nodded curtly in return, stepping back behind his desk and sitting down in his chair again. "Love you, John."
John grinned, a messy, tearful expression, and ran out the door before he could return to sobbing.
It was nothing short of a sprint to the door. John ran through the main hallway, rushing through the foyer, out the front door, and flying down the walkway as if he were Hermes on winged feet. He had to get to his car.
Fishing his keys out of his pocket, John clicked the button to unlock the doors and hopped in, jamming the key into the ignition and looking to the world like a man on a mission. He had a task to complete; he had to move along.
It was all muscle memory after his foot hit the gas pedal. Right out of the driveway. Left onto Main Street, a little ways down. Pass Montgomery's Diner.
John was speeding and he knew it— it was a wonder he hadn't been pulled over.
Right onto Clermont Street. Pass the house with the brick front. Pass the turn onto Mercer Avenue.
There was the blue mailbox.
There was the house with the dark green door.
There was Alexander Hamilton's house.
John parked the car and got out, eyes glued to the window he knew was Alexander's.
Alexander... Laurens allowed his thoughts to wander to the boy he wanted to call 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 ached with hope and anticipation.
Now was the moment of adrenaline. John ran up, straightened his shirt, and rang the doorbell.
A moment passed.
The door opened. And there he was.
"John?" Alex blinked in shock. "Jesus Christ, John, are you alright? You had me scared to death earlier, I swear, and now—" he scanned John's tearstained face, looking horrified, "You look like you've seen a ghost or something."
"Alexander Hamilton," Laurens said, his voice still regaining strength. What was it about Alexander Hamilton? His eloquence, his ambition, his intelligence, his outlooks, his looks-looks... What was it that drew John to him, like a moth to a flame? And damn, he was a hot flame... And a smart flame... "Alexander, I'm sorry."
"What?" Alex glanced at John's car, then back at John.
"I'm... I'm so sorry."
Alex only blinked. This was too familiar... And yet...?
"I know I don't deserve you, Alexander," John continued, "But hear me out. That would be enough." He shifted on his feet and took a deep breath. "I told my father. I told him and I thought— I could've sworn he was gonna kick me out or something, but— he didn't. He isn't exactly happy, but Alex, oh my god, Alex... It's okay now."
"Holy shit," Alex's face split into a grin; an adorable, irresistible grin. "John, that's fantastic."
"And, well, look." In an act of impulse and desire, Laurens reached out and took Hamilton's hands in his own. "I don't know if you want to be with me, but..."
Alexander squeezed John's hands, opening his mouth as if about to speak. John cut him off, continuing.
"I need you, Alex. I don't pretend to know the challenges we're facing. And you might need time— I don't know. But I need you. That night, you know, you asked me something."
Alex stared at John, his mouth bordering on completely agape. "I asked you to let me be a part of your narrative. And to let me inside your heart."
"Yes!" John cried, suddenly moving forwards. "Please. I want you and I need you, Alex. I love you. I love you so fucking much."
Alexander's face looked like it was unsure how to react; to begin letting tears fall, or to grin, or to allow for some combination of the two. But evidently, Alex's face had learned to take its time about as effectually as the rest of him, so his decision was quickly made. "I love you, too." His expression settled somewhere between nearly-tearful and smiling. "Laurens, I'll forgive all of this. As long as, for my sake, if not for your own, you're always gonna love me, too."
"Yes." John could feel his own tears returning, but he didn't care. The world turned upside-down. We won. We won. We won. We won! "I'll do whatever it takes, I'll, I'll make a million mistakes... I just... What the heck I gotta do to be with you again?"
"John Laurens," Alex grinned, "You already are. You're the most incredible, attractive, intelligent person... You're perfect."
John shook his head. This was too much; the laughter, the tears, the feeling of the whole world shifting all around him. "I'm not p—"
Laurens was unable to complete his sentence, though, as he was promptly cut off by Alexander's lips on his.
Alexander Hamilton was finally kissing him again, at dusk between his doormat and his front door, and it was perfect. It was perfect. It was sweet, and pure, and it was perfect. John wrapped his arms around Alex, warmth filling him from head to toe. Alexander's hand was in his hair. If anything else felt good, Hamilton felt magnificent.
Alex pulled away, arms still around John, his eyes opening after a moment. "You are perfect."
John was smiling and taking in all of Alexander and the feeling and the scent and the sight and the pure euphoria that could not have been real. We won. We won. We won! We won! "I could be enough."
Alex kissed him again, and it felt so incredibly good and so incredibly right. "We could be enough."
John was, in the best possible way, absolutely helpless.
He was satisfied.
"That would be enough."