"In matters of public outcry, I am rarely wrong," is all Washington says to that. He parts from Burr with a squeeze of his shoulder, a murmured word of support.

Hamilton is asleep when Burr enters. He is curled up, on his side, hands cupped in front of him and nose buried in the cravat. He seems small, this powerful man, this leader of the Federalists. He is small.

The touch of Burr's hand rouses Hamilton enough to nose against Burr's wrist, to brush his lips at Burr's palm. He looks up bleary, confused from the drugs. "Oh," he says, like he's recognized something strange in Burr's face. "I love you," like a revelation, like a surprise. A tear runs down his cheekbone, touches the corner of his mouth. He doesn't seem to notice. He just breathes the smell of Burr's skin.