(TW: BRIEF MENTION OF SELF HARM/CUTT1NG WOUNDS(Healed))

Through shared jokes and fleeting glances, the next couple days seemed to be better for you. Your laughter was easier and you had something to look forward to every Saturday, whether you'd have liked to admit it or not.

Not even the weight of schoolwork could dampen your tentatively bright spirits too much, but as it turns out, having two of the most (insufferable) long-winded, much-too-similar students in the area paired for a heavily weighted project was not a good idea.

The two of you worked in unnecessarily convoluted ways to solve simple problems in your work, and made that problem everyone else's problem. Eventually, a certain roommate of yours decided they'd had enough.

"Did they seriously just-"

"They locked us out." You confirmed, and Alexander Hamilton stood with his mouth agape at the closed door. Before he could start spouting an eloquent string of... colorful language, you heard Peggy's smug voice call out from the window above.

"Angie's not letting you twats in until you guys take a break-"

"Tough shit!" Alex yelled. "We can just keep on working from our phones! Google Drive strikes again!"

"Modern technology is a bitch, huh?"

Peggy rolled her eyes at the two of you, vanished for a second, presumably to turn to her sister, and then reappeared at the window. "Angie says the second she sees either of you working on it, she's deleting all 23 pages of your stupid work and submitting it as is!"

"Fuck!" He cursed. "We left our computers on!"

You shrugged. "Not like we had much time to close them before she shoved us the fuck out."

"Anyways, while you're at it," the youngest Schuyler sister continued, leisurely leaning on the windowsill, "We need groceries." A crumpled ball of paper flew from above and hit your friend square in the eye.

"Ow! What the fuck!"

Peggy snickered, and you picked up the note from the ground and unfolded it as the man pressed his palm against his left eye socket.

"Dude, you could've just texted us!"

"That wouldn't be any fun! Don't come back until you're done, dipshits."

The window slid close with a thunk.

As the two of you walked along to the store, you inspected the neatly penned grocery list as your companion mumbled under his breath.

"I don't understand why we're walking. Why are we walking. Do you have a car?"

"I can't drive. Can you drive?"

"...No."

You side-eyed Alexander as he rambled on, occasionally gesturing wildly with his hands.

This guy has the most durable pair of lungs in New York City. I don't think I've ever heard him stop talking.

Besides all of the apparent common traits the two of you shared, with work, Hamilton was in a whole different dimension. His brashness did not spare that aspect of his life, in fact, it seemed to condense there, in a gooey amalgamation of caffeine-fueled jitters, eye bags, insufferable and incessant remarks, and rants gorged on ambition.

You'd never seen anything like it. You doubted that anyone had.

There was no doubt he was brilliant (though rumor had it, that the only reason he scored so high on every academic assignment was because he wrote so much that his professors got so overwhelmed that they just defeatedly slapped on some near-perfect marks, and then promptly turned to alcoholism), but that intellect of his, like everything, came with a cost, an equal opposite reaction to his action, which was seemingly his sanity.

But the twinkle in his impossibly intelligent eyes and the flowery craftsmanship of his long, drawn-on, and often drunken speeches made it all frustratingly mesmerizing to those who tolerated him, and frustratingly difficult to make him stop.

Well, that, and his excruciating stubbornness.

It probably didn't help either of you that the two of you bounced off of each other so well, like you were made to enable each other, trapping yourselves in an echo chamber of impulsive ideas and nonsensical debates of which neither of you held an incentive to escape.

Despite this, of course, you still held your differences. Notably, unlike your friend, you had a mode that wasn't just FORWARD. It wasn't a STOP by any means (it seemed that Aaron Burr had an iron grip on that one), but more of a SIDEWAYS, which was also the direction you pulled Alexander to narrowly prevent him from smashing his skull into an inconveniently close telephone pole.

"Easy, dude. You're gonna get yourself killed at this point."

"We could just continue our work on another app where she can't see our activity." He muttered. "We could-"

"Or," you slapped a hand onto his shoulder, "we could actually take a break and continue our productivity tenfold afterwards."

He squinted at you. The wind blew wisps of chocolatey hair into his face, and he scrunched up his visage to try to blow them away. You suppressed an amused smile.

"And here I thought we were birds of a feather."

"And you are the deciding factor in our sticking together, my friend."

"We could have finished by now."

"Untrue. You'd have written at least 10 more pages. And I'd assume the esteemed Alexander Hamilton would have a more thorough grasp of the simple concept of making sacrifices for the greater good."

He clutched his chest in mock offense as you ushered him through a set of automatic sliding doors. "Hey, I'll have you know, I'm a master strategist. I deem that the earnings of this sacrifice won't redeem its costs."

"What led you to that conclusion?"

"Common sense, duh! This thing is worth a good 20% of our average!"

"Haven't you ever heard of quality over quantity, Ham?"

"Only losers have to choose only ONE of those."

"Sorry buddy, but you're wrong. Let's get you something to eat."

"Objection-"

"Objection overruled!"

"Fuck!"

-

"What is this woman gonna do with 2 pounds of ricotta cheese?"

"Betsy's crazy," Alexander mumbled, dragging his feet beside your cart. "You're all fooled into thinking she's cute and innocent. She's scary."

"She's only scary when you do something extraordinarily stupid, Alex. That just happens to be often."

You hummed as you cart-surfed down the aisle, running your fingers along smooth metal racks and shiny plastic tags until you reached the next item on your list.

-Condensed milk.

"Do you know which brand she wants?"

With no response from your friend, you turned to find him hunched over a few feet away, staring blankly at a jar of peanut butter.

You set a random can of the product onto the metal-wired lining of your shopping cart and went over to check on him.

"You don't look so good, Ham."

You passed a hand in front of his dull eyes, which were so glazed over that they almost looked a lifeless grey in the harsh overhead store lighting.

"Ham."

You rapped your knuckles against the side of his head gently.

He didn't move.

"Alex!"

You poked him harshly in the ribs, and he flinched back to life so hard he reflexively scrabbled onto your arm for support. You reflected for a moment about how lucky he was that your wounds weren't fresh anymore.

Wincing slightly and unwinding his fingers from around your forearm, you dragged him along the aisle towards the cart.

"Dude, I don't know what kind of spell Skippy placed on you, but you better snap out of that shit soon. You can rest when we get home."

"I don't want rest." He muttered, and you flicked his forehead.

"But you need it, dipshit. There's only so much you can do to fight your body. When was the last time you slept?"

Alexander stared at you blankly. You sighed, not knowing what you were really expecting. "Get in the cart, man."

You finished up the rest of your shopping relatively quickly, picking up some snacks you had a feeling some people would like.

It wouldn't hurt to have some around, right?

Hamilton has a raging sweet tooth, Madison likes vanilla ice cream, Peggy likes sour patch kids, Jefferson...

Jefferson seemed like the type of guy who'd enjoy Red Hots. You shrugged and tossed them into the basket, hitting Alex on the head with them. On your way out, you very narrowly remembered: you were supposed to pay. You could AFFORD to pay.

You swiped the Schuylers' shiny debit card through the card reader like everyone else, and you found the notification of approval that came from the machine afterwards quite delightful.

-

"I don't know why you let this brute in our home, Eliza."

"Hush, Angelica. He's welcome here as long as he returns the Tupperware back to us at some point."

"So he's never welcome."

Thomas flashed a perfect grin as he sprawled his long limbs out leisurely on the couch. "You wound me, Ms. Schuyler. I am an esteemed guest. And it's not my fault your sister makes the most bangin' mac n cheese."

He leaned forward as his eyes caught on a set of laptops on the smooth wood coffee table, and he almost flinched as his fingers brushed the scorching metal.

"God damn, are they writing a project or building a nuclear reactor?"

"Yeah, shit sounds like a jet engine."

Thomas looked up. "Hi Peggy."

Peggy didn't, and continued to rummage through the drawers. "Hey dickface."

Eliza tapped her on the head with a ladle. "Be nice. Also, close those, would you? I think they'd appreciate not coming home to melted computer all over the place."

"'Course, just gimme a sec."

"I don't know if Washington would be impressed with plagiarism, Jefferson. Running out of things to fill the gaps where your intelligence should be?"

"Woah woah, boss lady. I don't know if Y/N would be impressed with snitches, 'gelica."

"And you'd know what she wants, would you?"

Thomas raised his palms in surrender. "Relax, just taking a look. All geniuses need inspiration from somewhere. As if I'd read through all this shit anyway."

He whistled. "23-page paper. And I thought Burr wrote a lot."

"Those two should've never been paired together," Angelica muttered. "They were already more than enough on their own."

Thomas nodded nonchalantly. That, they could agree on.

You shouldn't be with Hamilton.

"So, when's she getting back?"

Over at the table, Peggy snickered into her milk. He pretended not to notice.

"Depends on the detours they take. And if Alex passes out. I wonder how she'll get him home this time."

He vaguely arched an eyebrow. Before he could open his mouth to respond, the doorbell rang.

"Speak of the devil...?"

Angelica smirked as she beat him to it, immediately turning back around with a smile, which soon faded into an exasperated sigh again as she opened the door for you.

"What is this."

"What, he was tired! And there's no way I could've carried all this shit home with my measly 2 arms. Do I look like a fucking spider to you?"

"Call me next time, doll. I'd never let you walk home like that."

Your heart both dropped and shot up at the same time, bouncing around your ribcage. You huffed. "Hey, Jefferson. What are you doing here?"

"Hey, sweetheart. I can't visit the most beautiful girl on campus just because? Just couldn't stay away from you."

"Bullshit. 'Liza made mac n' cheese." Peggy called from the table. The teasing smile you graced him with made his tongue sit a little heavier in his mouth. Angelica narrowed her eyes back at him

You watched attentively as Thomas assisted you in unloading your groceries. A little too enthusiastically, you thought, but when you questioned him about it vaguely, he simply flashed you a gracious, irritatingly perfect grin that left no room for debate. The condensed milk was set snugly into a corner in the pantry until it came time to open it, the hefty amount of cheese was thrown in the fridge, and the snacks-

"How'd you know I liked Red Hots, sugar?"

You sniffed. "Figured. Can you put the rest in the pantry?"

Soon enough, the cart was empty, save for an empty-looking husk of a college student.

"Well, what do we have here? So, from what I remember, garbage day isn't until Tuesday-"

"Oh, shut up. Well... He does smell kind of... worse than usual."

Eliza sighed. "Yeah, that's just how it is every time. We left spare shirts in the back of your closet for a reason."

Angelica sniffed. "Men."

"You want me to change him?"

"Just the shirt! He changes his pants to sleep," Eliza rushed out. "You don't have t-"

"We actually made him sign a contract about this a while ago, so it's okay!"

After dissuading Thomas Jefferson from following you into your room with a potent threat of seeing Alexander Hamilton shirtless...

"Why does he get to sleep in your bed?"

"You're a dog, Jefferson. Do YOU wanna change him then?"

"NO."

...and an equally effective promise that you would speak to him afterwards, you picked your friend up with slight difficulty and carried him to your room with his arm slung around your shoulder.

You kicked the door closed behind you and with a grunt, you maneuvered your friend to your bed, where he collapsed with a groan and his limbs splayed out awkwardly.

Okay... clothes in the back of the closet, huh?

Hooking out a clean shirt from the back of the storage area, you turned back to the bed to sit him up and yank his dirty top off. He groaned and then started snoring, his head lolling back against the headboard.

"Stop that," You muttered. He didn't.

You pulled the smooth cotton over his head, past the mole adorning his shoulder and the faded scar over his ribcage, and smoothed it down over his shorts. The shirt draped loosely over his lean, hunger-pang frame, and a twinge of familiarity struck you like a dart.

With his body finally tucked under your blankets and his head sunk into your pillows, you went to retrieve your laptops, and maybe a bag of candy along with it. When your feet sank into the carpet of the living room, the amount of tension in the air was significantly lower.

"Where's Jeffersnot?"

"Said he was gonna go retrieve something'," Peggy shrugged from the couch, and then smirked. "Don't worry though, he assured us he'd be back."

"Oh, joy." You mumbled. The youngest Schuyler sister raised an eyebrow just as your fingertips brushed the smoothness of your laptop. "Working again?"

"Yup. If I'm lucky, I'll get away with submitting it before Alex wakes up and adds another few pages."

"If you're lucky, you'll get away with workin' on it before Angie gets back and slaps you to the other side of the world."
-

As you typed and sat up on the bed next to your friend, you looked over to him often for feedback, realized he was unconscious, and then turned back with a strange feeling in your throat.

Comfortable, you realized with a start. It feels weird being comfortable.

You murmured to yourself, and you didn't worry if he was awake or not. If he could hear you, he'd understand anyway. Occasionally you'd speak to him directly, just to hear his valuable input.

"Why'd you have to write so much, dumbass? Do you know how much work the citations are going to take?"

Snore.

"You make a good point."

At some point, even you tired of writing, and your eyes couldn't help but wander to the man next to you, tracing the lines on his face that weathered the soft skin of his otherwise youthful face. Your fingers subconsciously came up to rest on your cheek, perhaps wondering if you bore the same appearance.

Comfortable.