Burr unknots his fingers and, in a different way, pulls, delicately, at the strings that might, someday, unknot his mind. Alexander closes his eyes and noses against Burr, blindly. A rearing, furious thing in him wants to spurn Burr and claim his identity, bind himself to the fey version of himself who spiraled inexorably towards his own death. It's what Alexander Hamilton would have done, if he were transported here and now.
He can't blame the rest on biology. Not even if the smell (of his mate) hits his nose and breaks him out in pleasant shivers. He doesn't want to die, though. He doesn't feel the same hopeless, helpless rage at the absence his son left in his life. He wants to breathe, he wants to go on, he wants to look towards a future, and even though the future with Burr could be cut short, any time, any instant, he wants to live it.
His Alexander. Alexander's mate.
Burr loves him enough to come after him, and he doesn't look like he was dragged there by Hosack. Isn't that what Alexander wished for?
"I'm sorry," and once he says it, it falls from him, again, again: "I'm sorry for him, I'm so sorry," not for what he did to himself but for what he did to Eliza and Burr and the children and the country.
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He can't blame the rest on biology. Not even if the smell (of his mate) hits his nose and breaks him out in pleasant shivers. He doesn't want to die, though. He doesn't feel the same hopeless, helpless rage at the absence his son left in his life. He wants to breathe, he wants to go on, he wants to look towards a future, and even though the future with Burr could be cut short, any time, any instant, he wants to live it.
His Alexander. Alexander's mate.
Burr loves him enough to come after him, and he doesn't look like he was dragged there by Hosack. Isn't that what Alexander wished for?
"I'm sorry," and once he says it, it falls from him, again, again: "I'm sorry for him, I'm so sorry," not for what he did to himself but for what he did to Eliza and Burr and the children and the country.