Hamilton One-Shots

Don't Leave [lams]

Heavy smoke cleared from the air as soldiers marched off the battlefield. Some carried wounded on makeshift stretchers and others hobbling aside with the support of a fellow soldier. Soldiers in blue watched them leave, guarding the way with weapons at the ready, a shared look of pride among them all.

Alexander watched the soldiers around him, both black and white men fighting for their freedom in more ways than one for some of them. American soldiers sang and played "Yankee Doodle", the drum and flute reaching out through the air and to their ears, the simple tune bringing great cheer to every American around.

He saw Washington in the near distance, exchanging words with a fellow soldier with a smile on his face. The soldier left with a smile of his own and Washington looked to Alexander, making eye contact.

We won. This war is over.

His joy washed over him, but was short lived as he scanned the sea of faces. He analysed the people in blue jackets, searching for a particular face and the longer he looked, the quicker his pride was swallowed with fear.

He walked back into the field, wading further into it and his fear picking up as he constantly searched through faces, praying he didn't find the one he was looking for among the dead. He stopped a passing captain, grabbing his arm.

"Lieutenant Colonel Laurens," he said urgently. "Have you seen him?"

The captain looked to him, his expression turning mournful as he realized what he meant. He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Alex let him go with a brief nod of acknowledgement before going back to searching the faces around him. He built to a jog and found himself searching faces of the dead lying on the troubled ground, hoping he didn't find the one he was looking for there.

He stopped for a moment to listen, his own breathing the only thing he heard except the faded sounds from the soldiers at a distance, the music they played in celebration as the British marched away. He searched the ground when he heard a subtle movement, but nothing moved. Nothing, except himself when he finally spotted the man he had been searching for.

"John!" He scrambled to the man lying still on the ground, his body only shifting slightly as Alex knelt down beside him. He looked down at John and turned his body to face him. "John? Laurens, please."

John seemed to need a moment before his eyes focused on Alexander and he smiled. "Hi, Alex."

Alex looked over John. Dirt was caked in his hair and dusted his uniform and skin. In his lower chest, his uniform was stained red, saturated with blood that seemed to keep coming. Panic quickly replaced any air left in his chest as he pulled John into his arms. He'd lost too many people already. He couldn't lose John, too.

John held up his hand and Alex quickly took it in his in a tight embrace.

"Don't leave," he begged. "Please."

"You'll be okay." John smiled up to Alex. "Go build a great nation for your son."

The sting behind his eyes released tears that slowly fell. "You have to stay with me, you must," he implored through gasps of breath, holding him close. "I don't want to continue, not without you."

"At least yours is the last fast I see," he said whimsly as his eyes floated closed, his grip growing slack.

"Laurens. John. John?" With each word his own voice grew more faint, his throat closing up and betraying him. "John, please." His head fell and tears rolled down his cheeks, blinding him. He rested his head against Laurens', his body still in his embrace, the only thing holding his hand up being his own hold on it. "Don't leave me," he whispered, knowing his man was gone to this world, and he stayed there on the ground with John in his arms until his skin was cold and there was no warmth left.

...

The cheer and pride that had swelled within the troops was fading as they began counting the dead, finding their friends and brothers in arms among them. The wounded were being taken care of as best as was capable; wounds bandaged and drink that was available passed around. There was a notable solemn atmosphere washed in with today's victory as Lafayette walked through the temporary camp. Tents were set up, many made up the wounded and others of commanding officers and other soldiers.

Lafayette walked through the camp, avoiding passing soldiers and giving a nod to some when he recognized and called to. He reached out to a passing man and stopped him.

"Excusez-moi. Where is Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton's tent?"

"Right over there," he said, pointing from where he'd come. "On the right, three tents down."

Lafayette nodded. "Merci," he said, thanking him before continuing in the direction he had shown him.

Three tents down, he pulled aside the tent flap and walked in, prepared to celebrate their victory with Alexander and John, but he stopped short at the sight in front of him. Alexander sat at the makeshift desk, leaning over it with his head in his hands, his figure seeming to tremble.

"Alexander?" he said, walking closer, just beside his friend. "What happened? What is wrong?"

As he knelt beside him, he found his dear friend to be sobbing, his tears leaving trails through grime on his cheeks. In front of him was a quill and only partially written letter on the desk. As Lafayette read it, his heart sank, his throat closing. Many of the words were smudged from tears, the writing neat but some words almost unreadable.

To Mr. Henry Laurens,
It is with my most sincerest and gravest sorrow that I write to you of your son.
On Friday the 19th of 1781, Lieutenant-Colonel John Laurens was shot during the Siege of Yorktown. He d

It ended there, not a letter more written.

Lafayette turned to his friend, noticeably trying to quell the tears that refused to cease. He took his friend into his arms, fighting down his own silent sobs working their way up at the loss of his friend.

Alexander said nothing. His sobs subsided, but Lafayette could feel his tears fall onto his shoulder. Lafayette had nothing to say, no words of comfort to his friend or to himself.