Look into your eyes, and the sky's the limit, I'm helpless!
Unfortunately, I no longer have the inspiration to continue writing these oneshots, so I will no longer be taking requests. Apologies to anyone that I've promised oneshots to.
Thank you for...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"PHILIP'S been shot," were the first words that your father, Alexander Hamilton, spoke to you as he frantically shook you awake from an afternoon nap.
You were instantly alert, and you quickly threw on your coat, following your father as you both ran to your Aunt and Uncle's — Angelica Schuyler-Church and John Church — house, where Philip had been taken to.
"Why was he shot?" you asked as you ran. "Who did it?"
"George Eacker." That was all he said about the matter, so you just focused on running as fast as you could, for fear that your brother would already be dead when you arrived.
When you reached Aunt Angelica and Uncle John's house and raced up the stairs, the doctor was waiting at the top. He said something about the wound already being infected when Philip arrived, and that he had lost a lot of blood, but you didn't stay long enough to find out more. Instead, you raced up another flight of stairs, and when you finally saw your Aunt Angelica waiting outside the room that Philip normally slept in when your family would visit, she quickly ushered you in, her expression sombre.
"Philip!" you cried when you saw him, his torso covered in blood.
"(Y/N)..."
You ran up to him, kneeling by his bedside and holding his hand. "Shhh... I'm here now." Tears started falling from your eyes as you said, "Oh, Phil."
"(Y/N)..." he repeated. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"
"No, you're not," you argued.
He carried on speaking, ignoring what you had said, "So I need to say this—" He paused for a few seconds to catch his breath before speaking again, "You're the best big sister in the world, and I love you."
You smiled at him through your tears. "I love you too, Phil," you said. "And you're the best brother in the world."
"I'm sorry for all those times I annoyed you, and for that one time when I shouted at you for saying that my hair looked stupid."
"You were six, and you had cut it yourself," you remembered. "But I'd rather you shout at me than die."
He groaned in pain, clutching his wound with the hand that wasn't gripping yours.
"Be brave, Phily," you said before your father burst into the room.
"Philip!" he exclaimed, just like you had when you saw him.
"Pa..." Philip said, trying to sit up. You gently pushed him back down with your free hand.
Your father ran to the other side of Philip and held his head. "Philip," he repeated.
Zoning out their conversion, you focused on watching the rise and fall of Philip's chest, praying that he didn't stop breathing. You only looked up when your mother, Elizabeth Schuyler-Hamilton, ran into the room, shouting, "No!"
"Eliza!" your father said.
"Is he breathing? Is he going to survive this?" She knelt down beside your father, clutching onto Philip's hand, which was still over his wound. "Who did this, Alexander, did you know?"
"Mom, I'm so sorry for forgetting what you taught me," Philip said.
"My son..."
"We played piano."
"I taught you piano."
"You would put your hands on mine."
"You changed the melody every time."
"I would always change the line."
"Shhh... I know, I know."
It looked like Philip was struggling to breathe, but he still carried on speaking. "I would always change the line."
"I know, I know." Your mother paused before counting in French, "Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf."
"Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf," Philip repeated, starting after your mother reached the fifth number.
"Good," your mother said before bursting into tears. She couldn't continue, so you took over — you had also learned French with your mother, and when she was ill, you would teach Philip.
Your mother gasped, and you looked down at Philip, who had gone still, his hand now limp in yours. "Sept, huit, neuf," you said, willing him to wake up so that he could continue counting with you. "Sept, huit..."
Knowing that he had stopped breathing and wouldn't continue counting, you gave a loud, heartbroken cry, resting your head on Philip's still-chest.
Your father tried to hold your hand that wasn't clutching onto Philip's cold one, but you just snatched it away from him. He had known about the duel. He hadn't tried to stop him from going. He was the reason that Philip was dead.
It was all his fault.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
╔═.✾. ═════════════╗
AUTHOR'S NOTE
╚═════════════.✾. ═╝
Merry Christmas, everyone! And, if you don't celebrate Christmas, happy holidays! :)
