garden swings

Alexander Hamilton x Reader - Memory Lane

A/N: Apologies for the delay in updates. I am so, so sorry that this is so short, but I needed to get this out to you. I apologize that it is not  Garden Swing Pt 2, but it will be given life! Eventually. Life has been hectic…  On the bright side: my history teacher played Hamilton in class this week. I gave the class a quick biography of Alexander Hamilton and was subsequently accused of spoiling the ending. What, do you think he’s still alive?

You sighed, looking out of the window. The rain had been non-stop since you had woken up, and it was only meant to get worse. Biting your lip, you turned to look at your husband, Alexander. See, much as he might deny it, Alexander was deathly afraid of thunderstorms. Ever since his turbulent childhood in the Caribbean, a roll of thunder or a flash of lightening sent him into a panic attack that, if not dealt with soon, could cause him to feel low for days.

Huffing, you let the curtain fall back into place, joining Alexander on the floor beside the bed. “What are you doing?” Your voice was soft. “Just looking through some old essays. I can’t believe I used the word ‘colossal’ in year five.”

Your mind was cast back to a small, cosy classroom that looked over a concrete playground. The room was warm as you stuck your tongue out in concentration, focusing all your creative energy on the story in front of you. Next to you, a mini Alexander was poring over a ten-page long novel, scribbling furiously with his newly-gained pen. The class was relaxed, each child planning out and bringing life to their ten year-old imaginations, the teacher looking on approvingly.

You smiled warmly at the memory. “You also used ‘flibbertigibbet’, don’t forget.” Alexander chuckled. “Was I describing Thomas?”

Rolling your eyes, you pulled out the box hidden half-hidden under the bed. “Wait, did you seriously keep all of our old writing for this long?” To be honest, you weren’t really surprised. Alexander tended to grow quite attached to anything he wrote - and anything you wrote, for that matter, no matter how much you begged him to throw it out.

You changed into a more comfortable cross-legged position, leaning your head against Alexander’s shoulders. Rifling through the over-flowing box, you scanned over the bad handwriting and poor storylines. Various memories of a five, ten, fifteen year-old you sprang to mind. “Hey, since we’re stuck inside for the day, want to take a trip down memory lane?”

Alexander looked out the window, frowning. “Don’t remind me. Why not? It’s not like there’s anything else to do.”

Ten minutes later, you and Alexander were curled up on the bed, hot chocolate in hand, surrounded by dog-eared paper and battered folders. You scanned the piles, easily spying your neat, curvy handwriting against Alexander’s messy scrawl. Oh, how you wished you could back to when labels didn’t matter, you weren’t defined by your intelligence, and MySpace was still a thing.

“Hey, I forgot I wrote this!”

You raised an eyebrow at your husband’s childish outburst. “Alexander Hamilton, forgetting that he wrote something? Impossible.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Preposterous.”

“Unheard of.”

“Unthinkable.”

“Unimaginable.”

“Inexcusable.”

“Okay, you win.” Grinning, your hand blindly glided over blotchy pages in search of one specific piece. Where was it? Under the winning entry of the city’s story competition, next to the newspaper article the two of you had conjured up, beneath your badly-written attempt at a poem? Oh, there it was.

Alexander’s eyes softened as you held up a folder full to the brim of first drafts and careful planning - also known as his greatest prize. As if handling a newborn kitten, he carefully opened the grey folder, flipping through the dusty pages inside. “I can’t believe it’s been so long since I wrote this…”

At fifteen, Alexander was angry. Angry, and upset, at the injustice he had seen from the world. You could remember, clear as day, watching Alexander from the comfort of his rickety bed as he near broke his spine while hunched over the old wooden desk, scribbling away furiously, letting the world know just what was wrong with it. Day and night, there he was, the only sound being pen against paper as he vented, ranted, let go of his feelings.

With the new age of technology impacting how media was spread, Alexander made a decision, a decision that he was now so, so grateful for. He started a blog, posted his essay, and then boom; soon enough,  the whole world had its eyes on him. And of course, you had supported him every step of the way. From nights spent scouring the dark side of the internet to find out the correct facts, to reading anonymous hate, to making speeches and appearing at local news events - the two of you had done it all.

And you didn’t regret one single bit of it.

Even though he really didn’t need to as he (and you) knew it by heart, Alexander scanned the paper in front of him, muttering under his breath at parts he could’ve re-written and frowning at the sheer truthfulness of the words in black and white. Sipping your hot chocolate, you picked up one of your old homework essays. Why did your teachers find it so necessary to spend an entire half-term on the study of vampires? You were sure your year seven teacher had an unhealthy obsession with Twilight - namely, one vampire in particular. Really, you thought that Robert Pattinson was better in ‘Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire’, but you felt it would work out better for you if you kept your mouth shut as your teacher was known for giving out detentions for anyone who disagreed with her.

Vampire essay after vampire essay after vampire essay - just how many of these did you do? Tossing them aside, you switched your attention onto a story which had unlocked a world of writing for you. Who knew that there were so many bee metaphors? Relaxing back into Alexander, you started reading. You had such an original name - Honeybees - and the whole story was actually pretty bad, looking back on it. A misspelt word here, the wrong ‘you're’ there, and some punctuation in the wrong place. Nothing horrendous, but it still irked the English teacher inside of you.

“[Y/N], remember this?”

The obvious smugness in Alexander’s voice did not bode well for you. Turning your head, you couldn’t actually see what he was holding at first, as he was too busy flapping it in your face. “Alex - stop - let me see!” Pouting, you grabbed the piece of paper from your husband’s hand, frantically searching for the title of the work.

Oh, lord. “How did you even find this, Alex?” You were mortified. This was meant to be top secret! Grinning like the cheshire cat, he simply tapped his nose, not saying a word. The only time he ever shut up, and it wasn’t in your favour. Thanks, Alex, thanks a lot. “You were never meant to find this!”

At the ripe age of eleven, just when you were beginning to explore who you were, your older brother thought it would be a good idea to show you a film called ‘Vampire Hunters With A Vitamin D Deficiency’. Yeah, the title says it all. And, as you had just found a love for writing, you had decided to write down a few - okay, many - ideas for fanfiction about said movie. Ideas that somehow made their way to written and published fanfictions, complete with your own artwork and song playlists.

From somewhere - or someone, you were beginning to get a tad suspicious - Alexander had found your first fanfiction. Your shoulders slumped as you read just what you had written all those years ago, jaw dropping at just how cringey you were. “I can’t believe I used the word colossal twice. In the same sentence.”

Smiling at you, Alexander gently prised the creased paper out of your hands, abandoning the task of reading your old writing, choosing instead to cuddle with you. Not that you minded. It was rare for the two of you to have uninterrupted time together. Alexander was usually rushing from the office, taking down notes and ideas in his old notepad and living on five coffees, while you were usually editing or making some last-minute changes to a blog-post, monitoring the blog that you and Alexander co-owned.

It was something of a rare beauty to see Alexander in such a cuddly, playful mood. You were always down for a hug, but Alexander would stiffen and hastily excuse himself. Lying back on the pillows, your hands were all over each other as you made out like teenagers, revelling in the embrace of the other. Breaking apart, you made yourself comfortable, Alexander’s arms around your waist protectively. You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady ‘thump’, ‘thump’, ‘thump’  of his heartbeat.

*CRACK*

That wasn’t good. It seemed that, while the two of you had been messing around all evening, the storm outside had grown worse and worse. The effect on Alexander was instantaneous - he stiffened beside you, his breathing growing rapid. Shimmying up on the bed, you quickly took him in your arms, more cracks and flashes breaking the sky. You gently rocked him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. You carried on like this for a few minutes, Alexander slowly allowing himself to relax in your arms. He knew he was safe with you, that you weren’t going to harm him or push him away.  You weren’t going to leave him.

Just when you thought that the storm was nearing its end, one bright flash blinded you, a roll of thunder resounding  across the city. If you were scared, you had no idea how poor Alexander was feeling. When your top grew slightly damp, you looked down at him, stroking his sleek hair soothingly. You pressed a kiss on top of his head as, shoulders shaking, Alex sobbed into your chest.

It broke you to see your fiancee huddled in your arms, shoulders convulsing. Small cries and whimpers filled the room. You silently cursed the storm outside, hating anything that made Alexander break like this. Stroking his hair, you patted down the parts that stood out at odd angles, knowing that it was little ministrations like this that helped to calm him down.

After who knows how long, the storm finally subsided, and you breathed a sigh of relief. Alexander was silent, his face buried in your chest. Thanking the lord that the power hadn’t blown out, you pressed a small, sweet kiss to his forehead, arms wrapped tight around him.

“[Y/N]?”

You looked down at Alexander as he peered up at you, voice small and child-like, eyes red. “Yes, Alex?”

“You won’t ever leave me, will you?”

Pressing your forehead against his, you looked deep into Alexander’s onyx eyes. “I promise you, with all my heart, that I will never, ever leave you.”

A small smile spread across his face. “Pinky promise?”
Letting out a small laugh, you smiled brightly, bringing your hand up against his. “Pinky promise.”

Monday 8:27am
I woke up with you on my mind.
You called me babe last night —
my heart is still pounding.

Tuesday 10:53pm
Today I realized we won’t work.
What we are is hurting her.
And I think she matters more to me than you do.

Wednesday 11:52pm
I broke things off with you today.
She barely said a word.
I’ve never regretted anything more than this.

Thursday 4:03pm
I shouldn’t have sent that message.
You shouldn’t have been so okay with receiving it.

Friday 9:57pm
I almost messaged you today.
I didn’t.

Saturday 8:49pm
I’m walking around town in search of alcohol.
They say that liquor numbs the pain of having a broken heart.
I want to put that to the test.

Sunday 2:32am
I heard you texted a girl you’ve never spoken to before.
I wonder if it’s because you’re trying to replace me.
I can’t help but wish you weren’t.
I thought I was irreplaceable.

—  a week with you on my mind, c.j.n.
Move on, leave, run away, escape this place… but don’t forget about me, about us, about this town. Always remember where you come from so you can appreciate how far you’ve come.
—  c.j.n.