phillips-legacy

Legacy, Phillip Hamilton x Reader

Prompt: Unprompted! Inspired by this poem: “ So maybe you’re a fool, headfirst in love / with ink beneath your fingernails. ”

Words: 701

Author’s Note: I know I already posted this, but I’m trying out a new layout! Let me know how you like it (I’m going back and changing the layout on my old fics)! I’ve also been listening to In the Heights like crazy so I would love some requests for ITH!

Warnings: Mentions of Alexander cheating on Eliza, comparison between father/son. Suggests the Hamiltons aren’t happy.

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Six. He was a split image of his father, people would tell him. People three feet taller with tight corsets and large jewelry. He didn’t know who they were trying to impress, but he always wondered how heavy they must have felt with all that weight on their shoulders.

His parents would beam with pride, but that was years before the Reynolds incident. They were happy back then. Happier.

Thirteen. He had yet to acknowledge the girls who giggle when he walks by. It took him another few years to realize why they were giggling.

Everyday he felt heavier than the day before. He remembers the women with large jewelry and red lips. How they carried themselves under the gaze of their father or husband or brother. He feels that way whenever he asks himself, “What would father do?”

Sixteen. A girl asked if he would write her. He didn’t know what to say. He told her he would, but he never found the words to go on the paper. He wondered how his father did it.

“It’s not about the words. It’s about the girl.” His father told him.

He never wrote that girl.

Eighteen. He hadn’t written letters with, ‘My name is Philip-’ in years. Instead he neatly signed, ‘Philip Hamilton’ at the bottom of each letter. They were never to women, though he had a few options.

He would write to his aunts on special occasions, but he never felt the rush of writing he often watched his father experience as a child.

He wrote like he was running out of time. Sometimes Philip would sit at his father’s desk. There were distinct carves in the woods, where his father had a nice bout of inspiration. He’d trace the dents, watching the clock and wonder how many words his father would have spit out in the thirty, forty, fifty seconds that passed.

Nineteen. You reconnected with the Hamilton boy at a market on accident. You used to see him being escorted around ballrooms by his parents. He asked if he could write you. He’d never asked someone that before. You said he could, and that you would write back enthusiastically.

He rushed home that day, using his father’s desk and quill - the same desk and quill he had used to dig him into a hole regarding the Reynolds.

‘My name is Philip-’ He wrote for the first time in years. He almost crossed it out. He didn’t.

‘I am a poet, and I’m a little nervous but I can’t show it. I’m continuing a legacy, I’m afraid I can barely write to you legibly.’

He added many more dents to his father’s desk that night. He sealed the letter when it reached nine pages - which happened to be the age he first saw you - and realized he couldn’t wait for the post to deliver it to you.

He rushed to your home when the sun had been down for several hours. He felt stupid standing on your stoop, knocking vigorously. What would your servants say about the frazzled Hamilton boy showing up at your door unannounced?

You answered the door. He never believed in fate before that moment.

You hugged your cover up closer at the sight of him. You told him you sent your servants to sleep hours ago, that you couldn’t sleep and wasn’t sure why. Philip swelled with pride at the thought that maybe you had been waiting up for him.

He offered you his letter. You took in the sight of him. Ink-stained hands. Disheveled hair. Frazzled expression. To any outsider, he was a split image of his father.

You always thought he looked nothing like his father.

You absorbed his letter as fast as he had written it. You wondered if this is what Elizabeth Schuyler felt when she had met a young and spirited Alexander Hamilton. Absolutely and completely helpless.

He grinned sheepishly when you looked at him with something he used to see in his mother’s eyes at the thought of his father. He shook the thought from his mind. You weren’t his mother. He wasn’t his father.

Together, you were something completely new and different. You blew each other away.