Another Scottish Tragedy [LAMS AU]

13

A/N: Sorry if the letter thing is weird it's literally a self-drag I'm dragging the stupidity of my tenth grade self who wrote a letter like this cuz I genuinely thought it was a good idea. I love dragging myself to filth (^♡^). I know me writing about my life offends some people but just know that this is just meant to be funny. It's not shade, it's tea, it's just some good ole self-depricating humor. Pls don't get offended it's really not deep at all it's just funny.

Also historically Alex did have feelings for John Andre so yay we stan a historically accurate sister.

This was going to be way harder than Alex thought.

The last time he'd done something like this, he had written a letter to his teenage crush John Andre.

He'd gone on and on for pages about his thick shiny hair and beautiful British accent. Looking back, it was the dumbest thing he'd ever written. Sappy, jumbled, nothing more than word vomit and excessive commas. His sentences had bordered on senseless and he grew more deranged by the paragraph. He'd even used the word "darling." The ink on the Bill of Rights had still been wet the last time someone said "darling" but apparently fifteen year old Alex had decided that he would single-handedly bring it back into fashion.

Needless to say, John Andre had not appreciated the letter. In fact, his exact words had been "Burn this disgusting letter right now or I am getting a restraining order."

Looking back, John was right. If someone called Alex "darling" four times, he would have wanted a restraining order too.

Alex still had the letter. Sometimes he reread it when he wanted to laugh at himself.

Sometimes he wondered of John had ever gotten that restraining order. He'd left Nevis before he had the chance to find out. He hoped John had gotten a restraining order. That would make an excellent story to tell at parties.

"STORYTIME: MY CRUSH GOT A RESTRAINING ORDER AGAINST ME!! NOT CLICKBAIT!!"

Peggy didn't know about John Andre or Alex's pathetic letter. It had just been chance that she'd suggested it. After the last incident Alex had sworn to himself that he would never write anything like that again, but Peggy's suggestion had convinced him that maybe he should give it another shot.

The only problem was subtlety. This letter had to walk the delicate like between being extremely subtle and blatantly obvious. It had to be subtle enough that John wouldn't find it creepy and get a restraining order, but obvious enough that John would know it was about him.

Alex put down his pen, frusterated. Maybe he couldn't do this. Maybe he should tell Peggy that this was not going to work and they needed another plan. Maybe he should just ignore Peggy and drive to South Carolina and tell John in person like he'd originally planned to.

Shaking his head, Alex picked up his pen again. One last try, and then he was going to give up and go steal some more potatoes.

Maybe he should do this the old fashioned way and write "I love you" on a potato and throw it at John. Maybe on April Fool's Day he should write "fuck me" on a potato and throw it at Aaron Burr. That'd be hilarious.

I remember when I first met you, my dearest.

Your innocence pulled me in, like a moth drawn to a flame. It makes perfect sense, really, for we are always drawn to what we ourselves are lacking. Why else are vampires drawn to the life and vibrancy of human blood, are depressed people drawn to humor and liveliness and laughter? Because we are full of voids, and we are constantly seeking out our missing parts.

We were opposites. Fire and ice. Night and day. Redcoats and Patriots. Federalists and Southern Motherfucking Democratic-Republicans. You were everything I was not, everything I wanted to be.

You were my escape, a light at the end of a seemingly endless tunnel. The rest of the world seems to have built up a stylized image of me in their heads, believing me to be a flawless invincible god who was untouched by humanly woes such as sadness and exhaustion. But you were different. You accepted me, flaws and all. I am not a god, but you never expected me to be one. You even tried to appeal to my human weaknesses, convincing me to do mundane tasks such as sleeping and eating which, though necessary to human survival, were not a part of my routine.

Try as I might, I could no longer deny the fact that my heart had come to set a great deal of value upon you, my dearest. I felt like perhaps I could trust you, perhaps I could let you know who I am. But I was afraid. I was afraid that once you knew who I am you would cease to treat me like a real person and treat me like the invincible god the rest of the world expects me to be. I feared that I would lose my only anchor in the rocky sea of life.

But when I confessed my identity to you, you treated me exactly the same. You did not let your predispositions and expectations blind you to my reality, instead you accepted my reality and found that it had a greater value than the fantasy I had built around myself.

I remember the first time I heard your voice, dearest, an experience I can equate to my first time seeing snow or Jonathan Shadowhunter's first encounter with the Angel Raziel.

It is now that I find myself unable to keep my feelings to myself any longer, for I find it quite difficult to keep my feelings to myself at all, and keeping them hidden for this long has taken its toll on my sanity, so it is for my sake as well as yours that I am confessing this to you.

I love you, my dearest. I love you more than starlight, more than the sea loves the shore and the clouds love the sky. It is my greatest hope of Hope's that you would return my feelings, though it is entirely understandable if you do not. I will not hold a grudge, for I find that sort of thing to be a waste of my time. Though my enemies will refute this claim until they go blue in the face, I am not one to harbor resentment for things that cannot be controlled, especially things as fluid and unpredictable as feelings.

It is with this that I bid you farewell, my dearest. I hope you will take it upon yourself to respond to my question of your love, though I do not mean to rush you.

With all the love in the world,

A. Ham.

(A/N: this is not a real letter I wrote it myself. The other letter was the real historical one but this one is one I made up)