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amrev_intrigues2022-04-22 04:14 am
slowtoanger) wrote in amrev_intrigues2022-04-22 04:14 am
Private Storyline 2
Things seem to stall for a month, or rather slip into a routine, a delicate balance that teters on the edge of a tension difficult to dissect.
Hamilton won't stop feeding Burr, stealing him bits of food, watching at mealtimes to ensure Burr eats some incomprehensible measure from the table.
Burr had tried to take advantage of the public nature of that tradition, to eat bare scraps while Hamilton glared, beneath Washington's gaze, but when they had been once again alone Hamilton had refused to leave until Burr embibed enough food to make his stomach ache.
His sickness eases, but does not vanish. Mornings bent low over a basin and heaving while Hamilton attempts to cover for him to an increasingly agitated Washington. Underperforming--that is what Washington says. Disgraceful. He thinks these morning spells of illness the results of intemperance with ale, no doubt.
But the nights--those are the worst. Because he cannot stop aching for them. For the moments when he can curl against Hamilton's skin, close his eyes and pretend it is another body, if only the scent were not so different.
Even if he is not Monty, Burr aches for those scraps of affection, clinging to him the way one might cling to a rock in a storming ocean. Grows terrified that Hamilton might leave as much as he tries to convince himself he does not need him. But the emotions, once allowed to be felt, cannot be easily stopped up again. It is too easy to find himself drifting towards Hamilton during the day. Wanting to touch him, be touched. Held. Perhaps even groomed, though the thought makes him blush with shame and embarrassment.
His bedroom becomes too comfortable, allows them to slip too close to intimacy. Burr had nearly cried, when Hamilton presented him that blanket. Not enough for a real nest, but enough to fuss with on the bed for long minutes, make something resembling a nest. Burr had lost everything, in the retreat from quebec--but at least now he had a blanket.
He can't look at Hamilton's face, each night he fusses with the bedding, every stereotype he every rallied against. Any inadequacy of that nest quickly erased by the warmth of Hamilton's body.
Too close to hide the swelling, the changes. Close as a lover. Burr doesn't think of what they are--can't. Takes these liberties as they are--stolen and shameful.
With all the food, the extra smuggled bits, Burr is starting to show. And his hunger isn't leaving, never sated, but he is growing ravenous, and each day the question of what to do is more and more urgent. Soon Hamilton won't let Burr put it off anymore, and what then?
For all of it, his worrying about propriety, he balks in the face of some lie. Burr's reputation matters, is vitally important, but at the same time, he cares not for manufactured conventions. Would have no problem being seen as a loose omega, if only he were established enough for such things to not ruin him.
Even so, he is nearly unable to fasten his breeches, and the skin around his stomach, stretched, begins to grow sores, from the too tight waistband, the chaffing. Built for soldiers losing weight, not gaining, and Burr has always been slight. He takes to binding his stomach, tight beneath bandages, but then he is wracked with cramps, which grow worse each day.
It doesn't occur to him that this might hurt the child, this last bit of Monty, which has grown so dear to him. Finds himself clutching his stomach unconsciously in stolen moments, on the verge of tears. Watches the rise and fall for long moments, in the morning and at night, as if at any moment the slight bump might disappear entirely.
Now he is dressing again, binding his stomach once more, to force himself into his breeches, another day of Washington's disappointment. Burr snorts--at least in this there is some bitter mercy--Washington probably thinks Burr is growing fat from drink, if he's noticed at all.
Hamilton won't stop feeding Burr, stealing him bits of food, watching at mealtimes to ensure Burr eats some incomprehensible measure from the table.
Burr had tried to take advantage of the public nature of that tradition, to eat bare scraps while Hamilton glared, beneath Washington's gaze, but when they had been once again alone Hamilton had refused to leave until Burr embibed enough food to make his stomach ache.
His sickness eases, but does not vanish. Mornings bent low over a basin and heaving while Hamilton attempts to cover for him to an increasingly agitated Washington. Underperforming--that is what Washington says. Disgraceful. He thinks these morning spells of illness the results of intemperance with ale, no doubt.
But the nights--those are the worst. Because he cannot stop aching for them. For the moments when he can curl against Hamilton's skin, close his eyes and pretend it is another body, if only the scent were not so different.
Even if he is not Monty, Burr aches for those scraps of affection, clinging to him the way one might cling to a rock in a storming ocean. Grows terrified that Hamilton might leave as much as he tries to convince himself he does not need him. But the emotions, once allowed to be felt, cannot be easily stopped up again. It is too easy to find himself drifting towards Hamilton during the day. Wanting to touch him, be touched. Held. Perhaps even groomed, though the thought makes him blush with shame and embarrassment.
His bedroom becomes too comfortable, allows them to slip too close to intimacy. Burr had nearly cried, when Hamilton presented him that blanket. Not enough for a real nest, but enough to fuss with on the bed for long minutes, make something resembling a nest. Burr had lost everything, in the retreat from quebec--but at least now he had a blanket.
He can't look at Hamilton's face, each night he fusses with the bedding, every stereotype he every rallied against. Any inadequacy of that nest quickly erased by the warmth of Hamilton's body.
Too close to hide the swelling, the changes. Close as a lover. Burr doesn't think of what they are--can't. Takes these liberties as they are--stolen and shameful.
With all the food, the extra smuggled bits, Burr is starting to show. And his hunger isn't leaving, never sated, but he is growing ravenous, and each day the question of what to do is more and more urgent. Soon Hamilton won't let Burr put it off anymore, and what then?
For all of it, his worrying about propriety, he balks in the face of some lie. Burr's reputation matters, is vitally important, but at the same time, he cares not for manufactured conventions. Would have no problem being seen as a loose omega, if only he were established enough for such things to not ruin him.
Even so, he is nearly unable to fasten his breeches, and the skin around his stomach, stretched, begins to grow sores, from the too tight waistband, the chaffing. Built for soldiers losing weight, not gaining, and Burr has always been slight. He takes to binding his stomach, tight beneath bandages, but then he is wracked with cramps, which grow worse each day.
It doesn't occur to him that this might hurt the child, this last bit of Monty, which has grown so dear to him. Finds himself clutching his stomach unconsciously in stolen moments, on the verge of tears. Watches the rise and fall for long moments, in the morning and at night, as if at any moment the slight bump might disappear entirely.
Now he is dressing again, binding his stomach once more, to force himself into his breeches, another day of Washington's disappointment. Burr snorts--at least in this there is some bitter mercy--Washington probably thinks Burr is growing fat from drink, if he's noticed at all.
no subject
"I hope I didn't hurt you," says Hamilton, suddenly, as he tucks the trousers into the tops of the boots. Glances up to Burr. "Or, at least, that it did not displease you." He takes Burr's hand in both of his. "I meant what I said -- you have only to ask. I would not leave you unsatisfied." He holds Burr's gaze long enough to emphasize the words, and then, this time, kisses Burr's palm, and takes his leave.