(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

Anonymous asked
Greenhouse verse, second war, frantic reunion decanter Alex is exchanged for or escapes captivity.

Washington had stopped sleeping. It was easier, than to go to sleep, and dream of something horrible, and wake up, every thirty minutes. He cut liquor from his diet and instead included coffee in each place, and stared at letters and maps by candlelight until things blurred. His other generals watched him with anxiety, and suggested things to him - that the trade would go on, of course, and that his husband would be back soon - that they could mount an attack, even though they all knew such a thing was never possible - that Hamilton would appear, escaped - which seemed unlikely. the man would be closely guarded. He holed himself away in a far tent and muttered over strategies and wished for plants and hated the war, and hated and hated. it was his fault. he could have reassigned hamilton. he should have kept him by his side. he should have, he should have.

“i certainly hope you are already married, for no man will ever seek to desire you with that expression,” said a ragged, weak voice, and it must have been a dream, but –

he looked up. his husband looked a disaster. he was wearing a stained shirt that might have once been white, but was now brown and crusted with dried blood. he was wearing long workman’s pants, perhaps canvas. no shoes. his face was streaked with dirt. he had cut off all his hair. he had lost a fair bit of weight.

“this is a dream,” washington’s mouth said, in mutiny of the rest of him.

“well,” hamilton said, and without waiting he shoved his ratty self between washington’s chair and table, and sat down in washington’s lap, and brought his grimy hands around washington’s neck, “i shall at least make it a very good one.” and he pulled washington’s mouth to his and kissed him hard, and it was too familiar to be a dream. too hard and warm and soft, and washington’s body reacted before his mind did, leaning into the kiss, his hands wrapping around hamilton’s body - lean and ragged but familiar, so familiar, his husband, his hamilton, his his his his. they kissed until hamilton groaned into his mouth, and then Washington took him in his arms and sat him on the table, knocking over the maps and the tiny figurines, the war gone. They all fought Hamilton out of his stolen clothes. he was bruised and dirty and thin and Washington kissed all of him desperately, and kneeled despite the pain in his knees and the age in his back and took him into his mouth. he was not a very good speaker, after all. he could only express with his body, the unrelenting feelings that husband brought upon him, the predominant one currently which was gratefulness.