"You are perfect to me, Alexander. As good as I had ever imagined I would find, in a match. Or better. I had always thought--" well, he neednt to trouble Hamilton with those artifacts of childhood. Had thought until he met Montgomery that he would be lucky to find a mate that treated him as more than some afterthought, a house omega, tho recieved shallow affections but no real attention. Hamilton though, Hamilton turns to Burr as if he is the sun, and in every moment he might melt away some hurt to reveal new growth. Has no difficulty, voicing his love and devotion, does not even begrudge Burr his own difficulty, when it comes to affection.

"This is important to me," he bursts, grabbing Hamilton's hand with renewed vigor, stopping him just before the doors to the inn. "I want to express to you, in the way you do to me. It's not enough for you to assume to know, even for all my difficulties. I would have resigned, I think, or transfered to some isolated post and born the shame and scorn silently, if you hadn't shown me such tenderness."

Oh, but that's not right either, because that makes it sound as if his affections are only selfish, about what Hamilton can do for Burr, about practicality and desperation. It is desperation, but not of the kind anyone might think. He loves Hamilton desperately, as if at any moment his heart might crack apart the bones in his ribs in some sick swell.

"I love you," he says, "and I don't see there ever being a world where I could not love you, even if you had not saved me when you did. I am--delerious. At the prospect of marrying you. With joy and happiness. And I want to make you happy as well, would put myself in great peril to make you happy, though I know now I am most disposed towards that goal when I am resting, and looking after my own body."