(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

“look, george, you know how much we value you and your work, but there are obvious places for improvement, and we expect to see it from you.”

the words rattle in george’s brain, in henry laurens’ nasal whine, all-knowing, as if he understands. as if they understand this business, his company, his work, the effort. as if they think – as if they know – as if they understand –

the rage crawls up his throat like a snake, coils hot in his stomach.

of course, sir, he had said, and bowed his head, as if they understood, as if they knew, as if, as if, as if –

hamilton hadn’t been in the meeting, but he’d been outside, and the moment washington had stepped outside, his could see the fury rolling off him like waves.

“that bad, huh?” hamilton says, and tucks his phone into his pocket, standing up and gathering his ipad. “well, i mean, i knew the report wasn’t going to be good, but..” he winces, dramatically. washington stares at him, coolly livid, lets hamilton read him like a book. “well,” his assistant said, and looked at his ipad, “i can cancel your stand-up with knox and sullivan at 3 if you want. i don’t think they thought you were going to make it, honestly.”

“whatever,” he responds, and he seethes all the way back to his office, dumping himself into his chair. hamilton paces the length of his office, becuase god-fucking-forbid the man stay still for two damn seconds. what he does for the rest of the day can only be referred loosely as working. he sits in on a conference call but doesn’t really pay attention to it. he thinks about lining the board up and shattering them, one by one. freezing them first, maybe. or crushing them in his hands.

“any plans for the evening, sir?” hamilton asks. sometimes hamilton asks in a way that says your plan could be me, but not this time. he wonders what hamilton could be doing that overrides his perverse sexual urge.

“i’d like to see you,” he says. for a second hamilton looks surprised, as if he had another plan. then, he shrugs.

“sure, should i eat dinner?”

“whatever.”

“which place?”

“the condo.”

hamilton nods, then sweeps himself out of his office. washington stares at the place where he was for a little while, and watches the city out of his windows.

when he gets to his condo, hamilton is laying on his couch in just his boxers and his undershirt, reading his kindle. his eye track the man’s bruises on his biceps and his thighs. from this angle, he can just see the creeping tattoo on hamilton’s shoulder of his home island. there’s an empty rocks glass on the table, a few drops of something amber in the bottom. hamilton looks at him over his kindle, puts the thing on the table, and sits up. his face is softly flushed from the liquor. washington walks past him to the kitchen, pours himself a glass of bourbon. hamilton prefers rye even if he pretends otherwise to satisfy his boss, so he selects his best rye and refills his assistant’s glass as well.

“if henry laurens or john adams were to fall into a trash compactor and go ignored and slowly be crushed to death and be conscious for the feeling of their bones breaking, i would not be that upset.” hamilton takes a larger-than-acceptable sip of his rye.

“they’re collectively unpleasant,” washington agrees, taking a sip of his drink. he sits down on the couch. hamilton reaches for his own glass again, but washington’s hand wraps firm around his wrist. “don’t down that like you’re in college. it’s meant to be slowly enjoyed.”

hamilton rolls his eyes at him, but he takes only a small sip, not breaking eye contact. then he puts the glass down. “so what’s the plan? or you just like me here to admire becuase i’m hot?”

washington scowls. “as if you had something better to do,” he says, softly.

“actually, i did have plans, but i cancelled them because i’m such a remarkable and dedicated employee.” then, perhaps out of spite, he picks up the rest of the glass and downs the remaining rye all at once.

washington can’t explain what about it upsets him as much as it does, as much as he’d like to. what he does know is that something about drags back henry laurens’ words to his mind, or the disapproving faces of the other board members. he grabs the collar of hamilton’s undershirt and twists it expertly in his hand, pulling hamilton towards him. hamilton looks at him, his shock of his surprised edge off by rye.

“get up,” he says, and he stands, so hamilton comes with him. he half-drags the man through the condo and veritably throws him at their designated punishment wall. hamilton gets the drift, pulls off his undershirt; his back is a mess of bruises and a few particularly vicious-looking old welts. he obediently puts his hands above his head and stands, breathing loudly. washington stares, and then he digs manicured nails into flesh, hard enough that hamilton gasps. hamilton’s already ditched his belt but washington still has his, and all at once some dam inside him breaks and the leather cracks against flesh until hamilton’s knees are quaking with his effort to stand, his hands held behind his head, his flesh red and vibrant, shaking all over. a particullarly vicious lash and hamilton is crumbling to the ground, his legs giving out. washington catches him by the scruff of his neck and throws him down with additional force. hamilton’s stomach has just the right of give against the toe of his loafer, and the groan is sweet. another kick, just for enjoyment’s sake, and then he rolls hamilton onto his stomach with his foot and just applies a little pressure to the base of his spine, enough that he groans, inarticulate. it feels good, this rush, the control, the power. he steps harder.