Zero Two Three One | John Laurens X Reader [Hamilton]

LXXXVII: Nine Days in New York

❝He is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.❞
—Emily Brontë

I never considered that Alexander could be as scared as I am. I've always assumed he was much braver than I am.

December 24, 2060.

I suppose it's Christmas Eve or something. The Americans are very riled up about this holiday, although I never saw appeal beyond the pretty lights.

Alexander and I have been here in New York with Washington to talk with some ambassadors regarding the upcoming meeting, but today, they gave us the day off because of the holiday. We initially didn't have any plans to go anywhere beyond the main city, but in the late afternoon, that changed.

We took a cab to our house. To have one last look at it.

And yes, this will be our last look. Because...

We were dropped off in the driveway, and as the cab left, I took a moment to examine the exterior. The moment we saw this house, we knew it was the one we wanted. It's beautiful, with large arched windows to let the light in every morning, and a sturdy, grey stone shell to protect all that is inside.

Alexander offers his hand and I accept without hesitation, allowing him to lead into the house as though we were royalty and this was our castle.

Once we enter, I notice the darkness and chill. Of course, since we were gone for so long, we shut all light and heating off to save energy. But rather than turning on the light, we opt to navigate through the darkness, and despite the lack of light the new moon provides, we have no trouble getting around.

We wander about the place for a while, with no purpose behind our steps and no motive behind our movements. We're ghosts, floating around, examining minor details from room to room.

On the kitchen counter sits an empty coffee mug that Alexander must have left behind when we were last here, and alongside it, a napkin I used to clean up spilled water, long since dried and crumbled.

When we stroll into the living room, I first notice the remote control on the coffee table, turned over and gutted; Alexander had been complaining that the control's batteries were dead, but rather than simply replacing the batteries, he manually changed channels.

We go into the rarely-used dining room, and upon the dining table is Alexander's phone charger.

"Told you," I whisper, not needing to elaborate further. (He had insisted that he brought it along, and I insisted he left it at home. Guess I was right.)

Throughout the house are my potted plants. We had a housekeeper come in every other day to dust and water my plants; I'd normally very kindly ask Reynolds to care for my plants, but I knew we'd be gone for a long time, and I don't trust Reynolds with anything for longer than a week.

Alexander got me most of these flowers — the few exceptions are flowers I bought myself. They're all alive and thriving, each bloom wonderfully unique in its shape, color, scent, and size. Living vessels of the most elegant perfume, a natural blessing from Earth. I name them by their species as I pass (at least, the species that I remember). I pay special attention to the flowers Alexander gifted me, and my eyes flutter to the first pot that I received from him.

These red roses managed to survive nearly three years. I've always paid close attention to these roses. Cutting off deadheads. Repotting with fertilizer. Watering carefully.

Alexander claims he's seen me talk to my flowers... I think he's just messing with me.

The same thought seems to dawn upon us, and without exchanging a word, we find the staircase and go up to the second floor.