He goes whoring. A glorious three day Bender of drinking and fucking. He goes to the whores he know: the ones that will hit him if he asks, tie him up. And new ones too. Easy, quick fucks. Whores who don't care to pretend they're enjoying it. He sleeps here and there--passed out wherever he happens to be overcome by drink or laudanum. He feels fine. This is how he has lived, the lifestyle that started sometime after Princeton, took hold after Theodosia sr. death, and developed from habit to lifestyle after Theo jr.s death.
He wanders home, eventually. To a silent, stale house. Finds the letter, reads it. Reads it again. Folds it up and flings it at the wall. Punches the wall too, splits knuckles and drips blood.
He does hate. Hates the Hamilton who was. Hates him. A hate that folded into the fabrics of themselves, all those years ago.
What right did Hamilton have, to come into Burr's home? To be built up by him only to leave when his pride was recovered enough to dangle before Burr the mistakes of years ago. Not mistakes. Not.
no subject
He wanders home, eventually. To a silent, stale house. Finds the letter, reads it. Reads it again. Folds it up and flings it at the wall. Punches the wall too, splits knuckles and drips blood.
He does hate. Hates the Hamilton who was. Hates him. A hate that folded into the fabrics of themselves, all those years ago.
What right did Hamilton have, to come into Burr's home? To be built up by him only to leave when his pride was recovered enough to dangle before Burr the mistakes of years ago. Not mistakes. Not.
He goes back out. He doesn't want to think.