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Private Storyline B2
May. 18th, 2022 12:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slowtoangerBurr goes back. Of course he goes back. How can he not go back? They spend nights together, opening each other's flesh, wrapped, circled, ensnared. And each time he comes he brings something; little gifts, trinkets, books, blankets, quills, parchment. Things he knows Alex will like, thirsts for, an attempt to plug a hole that is always widening, desperate, grasping.
He wants to tighten them. Draw them together. To draw Hamilton to him the way he has drawn other young men. To wrap him close, the way one holds a dangerous thing, slick and pointed and sharp. Oh, but this Hamilton is not the same. Perhaps if given power he will dissolve the same, into paranoia and delusion, yet this Hamilton is desperate, fragile, breakable, for as much as he covers himself in sharp edges. Not unlike the Hamilton he once knew, and yet--
Burr will not be in the position, to fall victim to him. Too old, already ruined. Perhaps they never could have been anything more than two sharp objects, poised always to cut, before. But now, maybe--. He doesn't know. He wants Hamilton to come home with him. Better than a brothel, for all he respects Benedicta. Hamilton deserves more than only bodily pleasures, as much as his need for independence burns. No less independent there, in the brothel, than he would be with Burr, but then, the brothel is an easier dependence, to no one person. Something like independence, if one could only close their eyes and wish hard enough.
Burr takes to hiring him for the day, the night, not at the brothel but at his own home. Pays extra for it--pulling in a steadier income than he ever has before. Sits with him at dinners, puts him to bed in his own room, even, on some nights, for as much as Hamilton is perturbed by such arrangments. Burr wont admit it. Would never say it. But. He is lonely. Frustratingly lonely, painfully lonely. Everyone he knows is dead, outside a few, and here is Hamilton.
He wants to tighten them. Draw them together. To draw Hamilton to him the way he has drawn other young men. To wrap him close, the way one holds a dangerous thing, slick and pointed and sharp. Oh, but this Hamilton is not the same. Perhaps if given power he will dissolve the same, into paranoia and delusion, yet this Hamilton is desperate, fragile, breakable, for as much as he covers himself in sharp edges. Not unlike the Hamilton he once knew, and yet--
Burr will not be in the position, to fall victim to him. Too old, already ruined. Perhaps they never could have been anything more than two sharp objects, poised always to cut, before. But now, maybe--. He doesn't know. He wants Hamilton to come home with him. Better than a brothel, for all he respects Benedicta. Hamilton deserves more than only bodily pleasures, as much as his need for independence burns. No less independent there, in the brothel, than he would be with Burr, but then, the brothel is an easier dependence, to no one person. Something like independence, if one could only close their eyes and wish hard enough.
Burr takes to hiring him for the day, the night, not at the brothel but at his own home. Pays extra for it--pulling in a steadier income than he ever has before. Sits with him at dinners, puts him to bed in his own room, even, on some nights, for as much as Hamilton is perturbed by such arrangments. Burr wont admit it. Would never say it. But. He is lonely. Frustratingly lonely, painfully lonely. Everyone he knows is dead, outside a few, and here is Hamilton.
