He is not dreaming, at first. But the touches rouse him, draw him from the quiet depth of sleep into the warm shallows, suspended in a state between. Here, he starts to dream; his sleeping self tries to mirror what his waking self does, rising from bed, dressing, reporting for duty. But the scene warps to something amorous, Burr stroking fingers inside him and suckling at the head of his cock -- Laurens lifting him onto a sturdy table and spreading his legs, his thighs bare, his hole twitching and clenching as it is stroked. In the dream, he tries to concentrate on what Washington tells him, while Washington seems unable to perceive what Laurens is doing to him. He grasps for a quill, and Laurens, impossibly, filthily, kisses the entrance to his body, tongues at it, and then he is Burr, and then Washington's hand presses Hamilton forward onto the table, and he smells -- he smells something --

He moans, softly, and half-stirs, aware that something is happening to him, and since all he smells is Laurens and Burr, there is no alarm, no distress. Just a pulse of eroticism, a gasp; he lapses back into sleep and his dreaming mind tries to make sense of what he feels, placing him under Washington's piercing gaze while Burr's fingers slip inside him, one, two, three. For a flickering moment, he is in a cheap inn with Laurens, moving on top of him, knees splayed wide, bathed in Laurens' awed gaze.

A warm presence between his legs. He arches his back, subtly, opening himself.