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It takes less than a week this time around, to run into Alexander. New York, for all its size and pomp, had a certain familiarity that ignored all laws of time and space (a phenomenon Aaron was familiar with). It was better since the capital had moved, better since the skyscrapers had come to pass, the subways put in and the human waste (normally) kept off the street. He was enjoying the city, where it was easy to keep his head down and his ear to the ground.
Odd though, he’d occasionally walk into buildings that hadn’t been there before. But his muscle memory would relearn its ways. Two hundred years hadn’t been enough, he joked to himself.
It apparently hadn’t been enough for Alexander either.
Aaron avoided the theatre district like the plague. Or at least, he tried. The quick words and loud music and sheer vibrancy of it all called to him. (It also called to Alexander). But yet here he was, within spitting distance of the theatres, rushing to the lunch meeting he was late for. He checked his wristwatch (a fabulous item), and then realized the date at the bottom.
His meeting was tomorrow. Sighing and making a smooth heel turn, he bumped a stranger. He raised his head and to actually make eye contact when apologizing to the stranger. His eyes met the dark brown ones, he muttered “sorry,” and then he realized he recognized the goatee and the swooping hair. Oh no.
“Burr?” Alexander said it like a question.
“No, Sir,” said Aaron, which technically true, since he was using a different last name these days while practicing law in New York. (He had come to regret keeping his first name these days, as the intern keep calling him A-A-ron. He got the joke. It just wasn’t funny.)
“Aaron,” said Hamilton, imposing the familiarity. But his brow was furrowed.
They hadn’t seen each other since California in the height of the aids crisis. Fake a death and move in separate obits for a while. Alexander looked good, a little heavier than the last time Aaron had seen him, which was to be expected. If Aaron was following the right person on twitter, Alexander had fallen in love with waffles recently. He looked good, in the grey area between thirty and forty. Aaron being in a similar situation had passed as young as thirty and old as fifty. (“I’ve aged well,” he’d say, an inside joke to a man who felt like a figment when Aaron was alone. Alexander occupied his thoughts regardless of time or distance.)
“Alexander,” he said finally.
“Its Javier these days,” the other man corrected.
“Javier Hamilton?” asked Aaron, the joke of the alliteration colouring his words. It didn’t matter if they weren’t at a joking place after thirty seconds, the loneliness was getting to him, sue him.
Hamilton looked a little bashful. “I got comfortable signing it and making the papers by the time I realized.”
Aaron snorted. “Figures. Still writing like you’re running out of time.”
Hamilton smiles. The jokes are heavy, but what else are they supposed to do? Alexander remains convinced they have a place here and its not like Aaron can leave. One part is his pride, how stupid it would be if he found a way to die and then whatever purpose Alexander is convinced of comes to pass? The other part is simple; he has an apparent eternity to spend with Alexander.
“Walk with me,” says Aaron. “I misread my calendar, but I bet we can find a place to eat.” He’s pretty willing to gamble Alexander, Javier, hasn’t eaten yet.
Hamilton’s (they use whatever part of their original name they’re keeping) stomach growls, “yeah okay. Lunch sounds good.”
They get settled at a hole in the wall sandwich joint. Its Hamilton’s pick, surprisingly nice, exposed brick interior and a surprising amount of natural light.
“How long have you been in New York?” Alexander asks once the waitress leaves with their order.
“A week. The firm I’m with moved me over from the Houston branch.” Aaron gives it up easily. It’s a relief to speak plainly.
“Law?” asks Hamilton.
Aaron raises an eyebrow, sarcastically says, “No Alexander, accounting.”
“Hey, I’m accounting these days.” Is the retort. Aaron thinks ‘accounting’ can’t be used that way, but what does he know?
“Really?” he asks.
“Yeah, its quiet. I’m good with money,” which is true, and the only reason Aaron has learnt to inherit property and whatnot from himself every few generations. “I also like making people pay their fucking taxes.”
There it is.
“How long have you been in New York?” asks Aaron.
“Six years. I probably have another ten if I play my cards right. Grey hair dye has come into fashion. Its wonderful.”
Aaron had of course, noticed that trend and thought about experimenting.
“Better then powdering our hair,” says Aaron.
“I know right,” says Alexander. “I felt like I was watching Washington with his wig.”
Aaron stifles a laugh. “They still have those wigs for lawyers in England,” he offers.
“Aren’t they awful! I could never work over there.”
“Why would you want to?” Aaron says, slightly more liberal with opinions, especially with Alexander.
“I take great pleasure in watching them lose power and status.”
Privately, Aaron agrees. There’s something satisfying about the fact the only time they have attention is for royal weddings.
“When were you here last?” Aaron asks. It’s become a game between the two of them, when they find each other (and they always do) to see if they’ve kept accurate tabs on each other.
“Not since Nellie Bly actually,” Alexander says, “I left soon after giving her some pointers on the ropes. Missed the jazz though, what a shame.”
Aaron felt particularly smug, both at being right and having been in New York for jazz, and let it show on his face. “I knew you were here. I wouldn’t have pointed her here otherwise.”
“I know that look, Aaron Burr, don’t you dare tell me you were here for the jazz!” Alexander said.
“Not Burr these days,” He says in lieu of anything else. Per the unspoken rules, Alexander doesn’t tell Aaron where he was during jazz, though Aaron suspects Chicago. But he’ll have to wait until they met up there.
They don’t talk about where they’ve been, but they joke and tell stories anyways. Aaron has heard all about Alexander’s exploits in Salt Lake City but still enjoys the antics. Aaron can swallow his pride and tell him the embarrassing moments for a few hundred years ago with footman and slave owner. It’s a favourite of Alexander’s.
“I thought of a comeback to something inane Jefferson said the other day,” Alexander says, no need to transition to change topics. (though ‘the other day’ could be anytime in the last few hundred years when they weren’t together) “Then I remembered he’s been dead for two hundred years.”
Aaron stares at him, amazed at the joking. It calls to mind the days of mourning they’ve spent together. Nothing affects them quite like those they knew Before, even Alexander’s reaction to Jefferson or either of the Reynolds deaths. Aaron has lived a long time, yet he clearly sees Alexander, fighting the urge to run to Montecello as his last remaining friend Lafayette stays with Jefferson. They hadn’t talked to each other the whole time, back when they shared a small room with a smaller bed and feelings too big and complex to put to words. (For all they tried, with screaming and endless writing). Aaron just sat with Alexander.
Before, back once in the awful winter spent in Valley Forge, Alexander had told him he couldn’t seem to die. When facing the man from twenty paces away with a loaded gun, one awful moment had Aaron thinking to himself, “If that’s the case, this might all be a relief.”
Then Alexander turned up on his doorstep a week after his funeral.
“Aaron?” Hamilton said from across the table, half dislodging Burr from his memories, “Yeah I figured this might end badly for you.” (Funny, how Alexander had said a similar thing all those years earlier.)
“I’m fine,” said Aaron. “Long few days. But its good to see your face.” Which is true, a fact that no longer surprises him.
Hamilton’s smile is something Aaron has forever to get used to. He hasn’t yet; the sight of it makes his chest flutter, like his heart can’t quite contain all the feelings this man causes him.
He treasures that smile, every moment he manages to cause it tucked away. He got to give Alexander the news the Confederates had surrendered, the first time in a while he had seen the genuine happiness mixed with tiredness. With Alexander, there was never any fights that weren’t theirs. Their most violent arguments are always about what they should do, how safe it is to meddle, how much attention they can draw. (“We can’t die Aaron!” yells Alexander. “And if someone figures that out?” hisses Burr.)
They storm off, finding different sections of the country to inhabit. Burr is partial to the South, every now and then. The conflicts are so unlike anything he knows, the struggles are ones he knows well, slavery, poverty, the bible, but the land shapes the people and the people shape each other and they come up with things Aaron doesn’t understand. Sometimes, he can laugh about Thomas once wanting to try him from treason for playing around in Texas.
They find each other again. Alexander had found himself in love with the western frontier. Burr can’t imagine what the man gets from it until he can see the prostitutes building up communities from the dirt up. Burr is impressed. Alexander hasn’t slept with any of them. Burr is surprised.
They share a bed. And a joke. Late at night, Aaron says, “Do you think this is what Angelica had in mind?” Alex laughs. Alex laughs and then his features fall serious and they are up almost all night imagining the reactions all their friends would have had. Tactfully, Aaron doesn’t bring up Eliza.
(He’s never gotten over the way Alexander lovingly stalked her, after his ‘death’ until her much more permanent one. He would come home and sit quietly, exhausted from watching his children grow and being unable to help his wife. Angelica helps. Alexander cries, finally, when he realizes they are publishing the things he wrote, like he can’t believe the love they have for him. Aaron can’t believe Alexander hadn’t picked up on it.)
Then Aaron gets shot in a misunderstanding because Alexander wants to try and meddle with the world and Aaron always finds himself in the wrong place in the wrong time. Its not like he can die or age, but the point still stands.
So he starts walking in another direction. Yet they keep meeting. And history runs again and again.
“Foods here,” Alexander says, then tucks in. There’s always a chance he hasn’t eaten in a while, or just occasionally they get overwhelmed with the quality and quantity of food these days. Aaron gets that way too. They once made embarrassingly loud and public noises the first time they had brunch. Aaron himself takes a large bite of his sandwich. He’s always like this when they haven’t seen each other in a while. Hamilton knows he’ll fall into their regular patterns, they way they can bring up anything. Hamilton, without fail, worms his way into Aaron's heart.
Alexander dominates the conversation after that. Aaron likes it, its reassuring to have Alexander’s voice in his ears, a familiar noise from years and years of babbling. Alexander is either talking about accounting or memorials that he disapproves of. Possibly both. He follows the conversation, well practiced. He likes listening to Alexander, amazingly. The man in interesting, passionate about things that barely cross Aaron's mind. He’s surprised, occasionally.
Grief is a well worn companion at this point. He prefers Alexander. “Your place or mine?” says Alexander. It’s a flirty sentiment, but with something untranslatable under it. Aaron can only think, it’s the same thing, isn’t it?
Instead he says, “I don’t have an apartment yet, I’ve just got a hotel room.”
Alexander says, “Mine then.” (Alexander strongly believes in the unsanitary mess that is hotels are a disgrace. Burr doesn’t disagree.)
“Alright,” says Burr. But he thinks to himself, prays to the sky, Please let us make it work this time.