Hamilton awakens restless and hard and well-used. He arches to stretch himself, feeling the ache within him from Laurens' knot. The whole bed smells of Burr, and he finds himself nuzzling forward, sniffing at Burr's pillow. It makes something sweet and heavy settle within him. He adores Burr. He adores Burr. He wants to be making love to Burr right this moment.

He has to climb over Laurens to get out of the bed, and, entirely by accident, he finds himself settled on top of his old lover, a leg hooked to prevent him from escaping. Laurens rumbles at him and draws him down, and they are kissing, slow, wet, filthy. He melts on Laurens, and thrusts lazily against him.

"You were very good last night," Laurens tells him.

"Mm," acknowledges Hamilton, "your cock was very good last night." It makes them both laugh, a little, against one another's lips. There isn't time to indulge. Hamilton shouldn't feel so bereft at that. There's rarely time to indulge, and yet right now he seems to want it very badly.

He clambers out of bed, finally, traps his stubborn erection in his trousers, and reports for duty.

--

The smell of Burr hits him, as he passes close, in the office. He goes still as a wave of heat washes over him.

"Oh, God," he says, abruptly. He touches Burr's forehead, leans cautiously close to inhale.