Under better circumstances, it wouldn't take Hamilton as long as it does to put the pieces together. The circumstances, though, are fairly poor: from the white-out pleasure of coming inside Burr's body to the perfection of Burr when he is completely devastated; the animalistic, instinctual high of his knot, swollen and pulsing as he comes, and comes, hard to breathe with how tight Burr is on him and how the sweet shivers of pleasure work their way through his body.

And, through all this, the wrong name filters into his conscious mind. His thoughts are sluggish, and narrowed to the intense need to care for the man that he's used so hard, but he understands.

"No," he murmurs, and he props himself up, unsteadily. He would have turned them over, let Burr go limp on top of him until this was over, but he can't, now that his protective instincts are flaring. The movement tugs on the knot, sends off another series of aftershocks within Burr, milking another surge in return out of Hamilton, bearing down like he could get, somehow, deeper.

"No." He cups Burr's face in his hand. "You're here, with me." Not with a dead general, as much as this explains Burr's behavior neatly and tidily. He doesn't mean to make the grief worse, but to draw Burr back into the present, extract him from a past that's reaching out with greedy fingers of pain to pull him under. "Say it, Aaron." He strokes Burr's flank, tips him up a little so he can reach far enough to kiss the tears off his cheeks, stroke fingers through his scalp. "I have you, you're safe. Say it."

He doesn't know what he's exhorting Burr to say. 'Yes, I'm here'? Hamilton's name? Agreement, confirmation?