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

LXXI: Four Sides for Four People

❝But I must admit I miss you terribly. The world is too quiet without you nearby.❞
—Lemony Snicket

Happiness is a temporary pleasure. No matter how tightly I clutch it, it will float away. It makes me wonder if life is but a dream.

I wish I could have something permanent. But everything is temporary. Even I am temporary.

November 12, 2059.

John left a long time ago; Washington called for several American AC Generals to discuss the possibility of sending AC troops to the Ukraine-Poland border where fighting has yet to settle down. This means John is all the way in D.C. and I'm still trapped here in New York.

I try not to think about it. Thinking hurts.

"What cocktail do you have with the highest alcohol concentration?" I ask the bartender.

"Well, we have the Zombie Cocktail, with one part golden rum, one part dark rum, one part lime juice-"

"That's perfect," I cut the bartender off. "I'll have that."

"Right away, Miss Hamilton."

I relax back into the plush barstool, drawing invisible circles into the sleek bar countertop, staring down at the muddy reflection the shiny surface offers under the dim light. I shouldn't have come here, and I wouldn't have if I didn't feel obligated to come.

James asked me to come, and frankly, things between us have been deteriorating steadily. I'm getting anxious about what he might try to do to me or Alexander, so I'm trying to get on his good side.

So I accepted the invite.

It's a nice bar I'm at — high class and shit — and this place is filled with other celebrities, most of which I have made reluctant acquaintances with (and most of which are more fond of Alexander than of me). Not that it matters; I have no interest in talking to them. I greeted James upon entering, then drank my woes away.

The bartender slides me over a tall glass of a yellow-orange cocktail with a fresh, bright pineapple slice fixed to the rim. 

"Thanks," I whisper. I grasp the cold glass and take a small sip before scrunching my nose, a burning sensation starting at the tip of my tongue and traveling down from my throat to my stomach. "Augh, that's strong."

"Packed with rum," the bartender smiles, cleaning a spill a few stools away from me. "Umm, if you don't mind me asking, why aren't you with all the other celebrities, Miss Hamilton?"

I take another sip and raise a brow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I've noticed all your friends are over there at the tables, and I just figured you should be with them."

The bartender points over my shoulder, and I turn around to peer at the small tables where several other celebrities take up, talking and drinking eccentrically. Their wide smiles and annoying volume indicate their intoxication.

"Bold to assume any of them are my friends," I shrug.

"Dramatic," the bartender coos. He looks to his right and left, then back at me. "Mind if I get a picture with you for my Instagram? My boyfriend will flip if he knows I met you."

I tug a tiny smile; there are hundreds of thousands of pictures of me scattered around, so one more picture won't hurt. "Go for it."

The bartender leans over to me, holding up his phone to get a good angle of us. I sit up straight and hold a grin, figuring I might as well look good for the photo. When it's taken, I relax my facial muscles