(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

he knew the signs of exhaustion when his husband arrived home.

“home” was generous, for it was not washington’s sweeping estate, which stretched seemingly eternally in every direction. Washington, and Hamilton, knew every acre in each way, there. This was a house, tall, with a yard, and only a few steps that belonged, nominally, to them. (They rented.) Mount Vernon could have taken one for miles in one’s thoughts - certainly Hamilton had learned much of it in his long walks. here, there was barely room to pace in their little city house, close to the capital. He could be further, not with so much work to do with the finance department. Washington could not leave him, and there were of course other benefits to him being here, in that he could have a better eye on his enemies.

He’d thought maybe it would help his husband accustom to a life without Lafayette, because now he dined with the emissary at least once a week, and usually more.

Today Washington arrived in the night, walking slow, eyes on the ground. Hamilton knew the sight of the sulk, knew Washington’s attempts to fight it only to be bogged down deeper. But Washington could not afford to not get out of bed. There was so much government to make, and so much work to do, and so many things to be a part of. It ran his husband ragged, absorbing the abuse, the hours of thinking and shouting. Hamilton had dragged the nascent financial department into existence, but they operated differently. Hamilton could thrive on being argued with. Washington loathed it.

They needed their wits, if they were to make the most successful thing that they could. he could not allow Washington to - Washington knew he could not - fall victim to a terrible low spell.

That was very close now, Hamilton thought. Very close and he needed to do or say something, take some step, move forward in any way that he could manage. His husband barely stood in the foyer as his jacket was taken from him. His man said nothing but let his feet automatically move forwards the steps, dragged each inch of his overweighed body towards his bed. The sulk was weights and chains clasped all over him.

The sight made Hamilton’s whole body ache. He had suffered, and he had been in pain, and sometimes he did not feel that good, about himself or the world or life. But he was sure he never looked the way his husband did, right now. He never looked like half a man, the mold of a statue, some unfinished painting.

Hamilton had been up late writing proposals for taxes. He would need to write twice as many, as more than half would be rejected upfront. He had not meant to stay awake until the first whispers of sun were appearing, but it happened. Washington had been talking about some meeting at breakfast. Hamilton had not really been listening. Washington had likely told him to go to bed before he was back. He did not, of course. He loathed sleep. The only worthwhile part of sleep was the warmth of his husband’s body and the calm of his measured breathing.

“George,” He said, hurrying halfway down the steps that Washington was presently standing, seemingly-baffled by, at the base of. The stairs led to their rooms. They had needed one for each of them as well as a room for both of them. It had been a strange place to look for, but they had found it. They lived here. They fought and they loved and they built a country. Hamilton wondered if one day their strange little apartment would be a museum.

Hamilton was no stranger to opposition. People did not usually do as he asked them to. And yet the sulk was a much different enemy than he had ever faced. Even with all his struggles with John - and Angelica - Washington was so different from them, both in his joys and in his sufferings. He was magnificent, in some way. Hamilton thought maybe all he did was fight. He himself relished in the fight. But Washington would have preferred a cup of tea and a sunny day and a flower to coax.

“Good evening,” he said, from the stair. Washington declined to look at him, a bad signed. Washington walked up the stairs very slowly, like each one was a mountain. “You should—” They had spoken about something. About the way he said things. He remembered. “–Would you like to come to bed to me?”

His husband still declined to look at him, turning away when they passed and walking down the hall. Hamilton frowned at his back.

“I would like it very much, if you would come to bed with me,” he said to his husband’s back, trying to resist the frustration he knew Washington did not intend. He knew Washington did not mean to ignore him. He knew that it was nothing personal. He knew his husband suffered. And yet the pilot light of his offense never went out.

They had talked about it. He disliked intensely to be ignored. Washington and said he would not ignore him, even when he was miserable. And here they stood.

“You said you would not ignore me,” he said, and tried not to be angry. It was easy to be angry, at Washington’s bowed shoulders. “Deny me if you like. But you said you would acknowledge me.”

This seem to have some effect, because Washington stopped in the middle of the hallway, and sighed a great sigh. For such a tall, broad man, he looked very small, and generally pitiful.

“I am tired,” Washington said, to the floor, “I will retire.”

Then he kept walking.

Hamilton chewed his lip hard enough that he felt the pain vibrate through his flesh. The shout formed easy in his chest. That is the least talking! You cannot even manage to deny me! He could imagine the whole discussion in his mind. Washington would go Yes, I suppose I cannot, and he would say You never could. They would not speak for a while, after.

He choked it down like acid. Instead he put himself between Washington and the bedroom door. There was no denying his husband looked utterly exhausted, the dark lines pulled deep into his skin, his eyes dull and distant, shoulders slumped.

“I will retire with you,” Hamilton said. Washington barely looked at him, shrugged without moving somehow, and walked around him. He followed.

“Let me undress you,” he said, because the anger melted and froze back into determination. Washington stood in the middle of the room. He had stopped. Hamilton knew it for the acknowledgement. “Will you tell me what disturbs you?” he continued, fingers working at waistcoat buttons, at the knot of a neckcloth, at the fine undershirt. “I will keep it to myself. I am here for it. Unleash yourself.”

Finally Washington looked at him. Hamilton hated when his husband looked so dull and listless, gray like smoke. He tried to impress life upon the man. He took Washington’s hands, which were hanging like dead stems at his sides, and wrapped them around his own waist, so he could press his face into that broad, bare chest.

He felt, as he often did, the gentleness of fingers fluttering back to life at the small of his back. He smiled a little smile of victory, and kissed the skin there. Washington did not exactly hold him, but there was some effort in his grip, at least. He felt soft breath in his hair and swore to never give up against the sulk.

“I love you,” he said, to Washington’s breastbone.