A hot flash of rage, like the ignition of oil in a cooking pan. Hamilton's teary eyes, his weepy voice, that he would use this against Burr, leverage his care for Burr against the very condition Burr has confessed to finding so unbearably restraining he almost wishes to have never been pregnant at all, to use that to further restrain him.
That Hamilton would finally open up in this moment, this moment when Burr is rebelling against his powerlessness, his loss. That Hamilton should distill it all down into something about Hamilton, about Burr's condition, the danger on his body, which has been used time and time again to justify the loss of each bit of control over his own body, his life, his self.
But the confusion. The want to scream, to yell, to rage. That even not Hamilton would toss out something that should be anyone's right to demand. This one thing, leave me be but no, Hamilton will not because Hamilton does not want to, the ultimate selfishness. But the want too, to comfort him. To return those favors that Hamilton had given Burr. To do his duty as omega.
He swallows hard, turns away, so he does not have to see that teary face, those pleading eyes, even as his body pulls against himself, every muscle tightening. If ever there was a moment to stand firm it is now. To assert his selfhood, his independence.
"I asked you to leave," Burr says. "You would ignore this want, once again, because it does not align with your own. You will go." Firm, broking no argument. It takes a great deal of will to keep his voice steady, but even so there are shakes--subtle cracks. He is a bad mate. An awful mate. Hamilton is crying, and he is doing nothing. Hamilton needs comfort. Hamilton needs help. "But as you need some direction, I would ask you to turn your attention not to my own needs but the armies. To find some way to help me, us, through them, for we will not be helped otherwise, as much as you fantasize about removing me from harm."
no subject
That Hamilton would finally open up in this moment, this moment when Burr is rebelling against his powerlessness, his loss. That Hamilton should distill it all down into something about Hamilton, about Burr's condition, the danger on his body, which has been used time and time again to justify the loss of each bit of control over his own body, his life, his self.
But the confusion. The want to scream, to yell, to rage. That even not Hamilton would toss out something that should be anyone's right to demand. This one thing, leave me be but no, Hamilton will not because Hamilton does not want to, the ultimate selfishness. But the want too, to comfort him. To return those favors that Hamilton had given Burr. To do his duty as omega.
He swallows hard, turns away, so he does not have to see that teary face, those pleading eyes, even as his body pulls against himself, every muscle tightening. If ever there was a moment to stand firm it is now. To assert his selfhood, his independence.
"I asked you to leave," Burr says. "You would ignore this want, once again, because it does not align with your own. You will go." Firm, broking no argument. It takes a great deal of will to keep his voice steady, but even so there are shakes--subtle cracks. He is a bad mate. An awful mate. Hamilton is crying, and he is doing nothing. Hamilton needs comfort. Hamilton needs help. "But as you need some direction, I would ask you to turn your attention not to my own needs but the armies. To find some way to help me, us, through them, for we will not be helped otherwise, as much as you fantasize about removing me from harm."