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Chapter Text

I KNEW I had fucked up when my brother showed up unannounced at my door.

There really aren't a lot of things capable of making the ol’ John Quincy Adams get out of his way to see me, of all people. You see, I am not exactly his favourite brother.

“John...”. I tried to force a smile and look more presentable and less ‘I-drank-the-whole-night.’ “What do I owe the pleasure?”

There is no smile on his face. It’s amazing how he can perfectly imitate my dad’s look of disappointment. They really are similar.

“Save it, Charles. You know very well why I’m here.” He comes in, without even asking for permission. And even with all his rudeness, dad still thinks he is the greatest being on Earth.

“I fear I do not... Sir.” I close the door behind us as it seems like this will take a while.

John looks up and down at my living room. I know he is looking for something, anything that might give me away. But I’m smarter than that and, besides a little mess, there is nothing incriminating or wrong. Not where he can see, at least.

“Well, I heard rumours, Charlie. Serious rumours.”

I tried my best to hide my fear. It couldn’t be about the drinking; he would not act so serious about something that both of us already knew. It was something worse. So much worse.

“It came to my attention that you are surrounding yourself with immoral people.”

Immoral. This could mean anything. I went to parties with rakes and drunks and unmarried ladies who weren’t exactly angels. Maybe it is not so bad. Maybe he had no idea about the other stuff.

“You behave like Dionysus, you drink, you lay beside nymphs and satyrs without any distinction or discretion...”

So, he knows. Shit. I am damned. Quick, think of something. Anything.

“These are all lies. You said it yourself. Rumours.” I did not believe myself nor did he believe in me, but just like good Adams’ boys, we pretended. “Did Father hear it too?”

John sat in a chair. My chair. And once again he did not ask me for permission, as if this was his house and I was the guest. He took a second before answering.

“Obviously not. He would die just from disappointment.” Disappointment. That word seemed to follow me everywhere. “I shall guarantee that these rumours end immediately, and you shall stop giving people what to talk about.”

I am incapable of thinking about who saw what. Maybe I was too drunk and let my guard down? Maybe the neighbours heard me while I had company? I couldn’t know. The men I’ve been with were always discreet.

It seems that no matter where I go, I cannot escape the All-Seeing Eye of the Adams. Even at my own home I must worry about who might see me and tattle to my father as if I was still a kid.

“Charles?” I heard John’s voice, louder than the ones in my head.

“Yes, I understand. It was great to see you, sir.” I get up to open the door. “Send my love to Naddy and little Thomas.”

John took a while to get up and when he did, walked too slowly. God, I hated him. Suddenly I understand Cain’s urge to pick up that damned rock.

“There is still salvation for you, Charlie” he said as he walked through the door. “Just act more like a Christian and less like a pagan.”

“Yes, marvellous advice, brother, congratulations.” I basically had to push him to make him go away. “I bid you adieu.”

I never closed a door so quickly. And after closing the door beside me, I leaned on it to catch my breath.

Father didn’t know. And even though my brother was an arse, I doubt he would say anything. Of course, I would not follow his pitiful advice and just stop behaving like I usually did. I should just be a little more careful next time.

SO HERE I was. At the front of Colonel Alexander Hamilton’s officer, with a letter of recommendation in my hand.

Col. Hamilton himself was the one that opened the door. He was around the same height as me, maybe a bit taller, with tired blued eyes and his hair, perfectly tied behind his back, was of an auburn colour. Even with his age and a few white hairs, he was beautiful, with a youthful vigor. I can only imagine what he looked like a few years younger.

“‘Morning, sir. I am Charles Adams, your obedient servant.” I handed him the letter my father wrote. “I believe my father talked about me being your clerk.”

Col. Hamilton scammed through the content of the letter and then gave me a polite smile.

“Yes, yes, your father explained everything. He told me you’re a hardworking honourable man and I hope you can prove him right, sir.”

“Absolutely, colonel Hamilton.” I offered my hand for him to shake and he accepted.

Col. Hamilton guided me around the place, while explaining all the things I had to do.

“You will find that we have a lot to deal with, all the clients and different cases. I need you to do filing, scribing, running errands, sorting mail and a few other administrative duties.” He says and I fear that the list won’t end. “Do not be scared, as we have other clerks who will help you with everything. And trust me, it was harder being an aide-in-camp to Washington.”

I do my best to keep everything in mind and ignore the little voice in my head that says you will fail, you cannot do this, why are you even trying? I mean, Col. Hamilton had worked directly with the president. He was a prodigy. What would he think of me, the boy who couldn’t impress his own father?

After all the introductions, Col. Hamilton showed me my table and grabbed a coat for himself.

“Make yourself comfortable, sir. I fear that I shall go now, or else I might be late for a meeting. While I am out, John Mulligan will help you with any doubt you may have.”

“And John Mulligan is...”

“One of my other clerks. He is... somewhere here?” He looked around, as to make sure. “I am positive that he will show up soon or later. Now if you excuse me, Mr. Adams...”

“Of course, it was a pleasure, sir.”

Col. Hamilton went away and I sat on the chair, tapping a song on my new table.

“The Temple of Minerva” said someone behind me.

I almost jumped with the sudden presence of someone else. I turned to see a young man with dark hair and maybe 5’10” which made him a few inches taller than me. He was slender, had good posture and an undeniable handsome face.

“I am sorry, sir, I did not mean to scare you. But the song... Tis from The Temple of Minerva, correct? I knew I recognized it from somewhere.”

I found it quite impressive that he recognized with nothing but the tapping of my fingers.

“Oh, yes, sir. I watched it with my father, many seasons ago.”

“Well, he is a man of good taste then, Mr...”

I hesitated as he extended his hand for a handshake.

“Mr. Charles Adams.”

“Adams as in... John Adams?” He arched his eyebrows, worried... or maybe surprised? I couldn’t tell.

There it was. Every time my father’s name is mentioned there is some reaction. They will either think him the greatest man in the world or the worst. In either case, I am the one who gets punished.

“Please do not. I swear he is nothing like whatever image you have in your mind right now, sir.”

And I am more than just John Adams’ second son and John Quincy Adams’ little and inferior brother. But I do not add that since it would just seem petty. I prefer to talk about my traumas only after a couple of beers and some intense intercourse.

“I beg your pardon then. My name is John Mulligan. I’ve been working for Col. Hamilton for a while now...”

He sat on the table next to mine and put his chair closer. There was something about Mr. Mulligan that it made me want to hear him keep talking and talking.

“And what is it like? Working here, I mean.”

He hesitated, looking up. Oh, no, that was a bad sign.

“Well... It is a good job to have had.”

“What does that mean?”

“Col. Hamilton can be quite a tyrant when necessary. You will find that we have a lot of work and not very much time... But it pays off in the future. It will grant you experience and popularity.”

He started to help me with my table, organizing papers and documents.

“You do not need to...”

“I do insist.” He moved one small pot of ink just a few inches. I saw nothing wrong from where it was before. “I like being useful and organizing things.”

I tried to get out of his way, but then he tried to reach something far away and I ended up locked.

I could feel his body pressed against mine and suddenly all the air in my lungs got sucked away. I tried to continue the conversation after he pushed away:

“D-do you have plans, sir? For when you leave?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” He smiled, probably excited to talk about it. “I have always wanted to travel around Europe. Meet new people, learn new things...”

He went back to his chair. His foot touching my ankle. I was sure it was not on purpose, but it seemed like my brain could not focus on anything else.

“Oh, I lived in Europe for a while, to study. But it did not go well. I didn’t adapt as well as my brother so Father sent me back to America.”

“Alone, sir?”

“Yes. It was quite scary; I was just a child having to cross the ocean by myself.”

“Oh, I feel so sorry.” Mr. Mulligan rubbed his hand on my shoulder. It felt somewhat familiar, like he was an old friend from lost times.

“No need, I am fine now. And I would still love to visit Europe one day.”

“Who knows, maybe in a few years we could find each other.”

I felt the pressure of his hand on my shoulder going away and almost wished he put it back.

“I think I would really like that, sir.”

I WOKE UP surrounded by piles of paper. Shit. I must have fell asleep while working. This is bad. Really bad. Col. Hamilton would tell my dad how I’m not trying enough and simply am not cut for the job. Then, of course, I would receive a letter from my dad saying how disappointed he was and how my brother was so much better than me. It was college all over again.

As the thoughts spiralled in my head, suddenly I couldn’t breathe correctly. My hands were sweating and my surroundings blurry.

“Not this again” I murmured to myself.

I was so focused on containing my panic that I didn’t even notice the young man behind me, tapping my shoulder.

“Do you feel well, sir?”

“Excuse me?” I turned to see a very worried Mr. Mulligan. “Oh, yes, I am well, just tired, sir. I fear that I might have fallen behind in all this work.”

“Do not worry, my friend. I have finished it for you.”

I looked down to see that he was telling the truth. Most of the letters were already transcribed.

“Mr. Mulligan! You shouldn’t have!”

“’Tis nothing, believe me. I had time in my hands.”

He started to organize my table, even though I tried to stop him. I grabbed his hand before he could reach for a letter. He looked at me, my hand still touching his. I suddenly felt my face getting red. Great, Charles, ruin this like you ruined everything else.

“Well, sir, then I must repay you somehow.”

I looked into his eyes as I spoke and that seemed to surprise him. Mr. Mulligan looked flustered and pulled his hand.

“I wish not, sir. As I said, it was a favour from a friend.”

He turned back to his own table. I thought I saw him blush but it was probably my imagination.

“I insist! How about lunch? I’d be more than happy to pay for it.”

He gave me the kindest of smiles. It almost made me regret having asked. How could I curse such a beautiful creature with my existence?

“Only if you accompany me, sir.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

TURNED OUT THAT dinner with John Mulligan was more fun than I could possibly have thought.

We were totally opposites. On the subject of appearance, he was tall and thin, I was small and round. His eyes were blue like the most beautiful sky, mine were of a simple brown, like my mother’s. His hair was of a light strawberry blond, while mine were of a burnt brown.

In the subject of psyche, it was the same. Mr. Mulligan was calm, a bit shy and talked too little. I had always preferred disturbance, noise and a tad of attention.

“‘Tis fine silverware.” He touched the cutlery. “I’m impressed.”

Usually, I would make no deal out of silverware, but the appreciation on his face made me curious.

“I suppose so. This is a great tavern after all.”

“You made a great choice, sir.” Mulligan smiled. “It’s clean and organized, better than a lot of places around here.”

“It would be my pleasure to come here with you again, sir.”

I ordered food and we begin to talk. Everything simply felt natural and, on that day, I did not meet him. Instead, I recognized him from many lives ago.

My college’s stories were met with surprise, showing that even our pasts were different. Mr. Mulligan was the perfect student and I... Well, I was in trouble for most of the time.

“Are you telling me you ran across Harvard’s yard totally indecent?” He covered his mouth with his hands, trying hard not to laugh.

“Indeed, sir, I am telling you exactly that.”

“You jest!”

“I do not! Me and some friends lost a bet and were already... fishy, as some might say. It did not look like a big deal at the time.”

Of course, it was a big deal when Father found out, but until then I was already doing other dangerous stuff.

“How did you not get expelled?”

“I am afraid that only my principal can answer this question. And believe me, I really tried. These were some wild times.”

John looked at me with amusement. I can’t remember the last time someone paid that much attention to anything I was saying. It was a bit scary. I had to watch everything I said or else I could be in trouble. I couldn’t let escape that, in these wild times, I kissed as many boys as I had girls. Maybe more.

“Tell me, Mr. Adams, what more did you do?” He leaned closer to me.

“I got on top of a statue and might have done some damage property.” I did the same and leaned over the table, with us both being dangerously close now. “I paid to get it fixed of course.”

From this position, I could see all the details in his face. His blue eyes looked like a painting of the sky made with God’s brush.

“You certainly were a rascal in college, sir.” He laughed and his whole body laughed with him, making me laugh too.

“And how about you, my friend?”

Mr. Mulligan leaned back against his chair.

“I fear my experiences were not quite as thrilling. Even now, I am too much of a rule’s follower.”

“You tell you never broke a rule?” I crossed my arms, doubting him.

“I do not think so, no.”

A pause. I tapped my fingers on the table and with my best alluring voice, I said:

“But do you want to?”

His eyes glared at me with shock and curiosity.

“Sir... What are you planning on?”

“I dare you to keep the silverware.”

“Sir!” He let out a half surprised, half offended gasp.

“No one will notice!”

“That’s theft!”

“Alright, then. Forget I said anything.”

I raised my palms in defeat. I was only jesting anyway. Besides, I could never push him to do something like this, I would not want Mulligan’s vision of me to be tainted in any way.

We kept talking about trivial matters even after we had finished eating. It was a special thing really, talking with him was easy and natural and before I could see it one conversation simply turned into another. And then another. Until it got too late and both of us needed to go.

“Mind if I walk with you, sir?”

Mulligan beamed at my request. We split the bill — he even asked to pay for all of it, but I couldn’t in good conscience allow that — and got out of the tavern.

Just as we were a few steps away, he stopped.

“Sir…” Mr. Mulligan pinched my arm. He opened his coat to show me his pocket.

I saw a silver fork in his coat pocket. When I looked at his face, Mulligan was laughing out loud.

“I cannot believe you!” I joined the laughing. “You did it!”

“I did it! I’m officially a bad boy.”

“Oh, no… I’m afraid I’m already becoming a bad influence on you, sir.”

His laugh transitioned to a simple smile:

“I like it, though.”

And I thought of that for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

“I NEED ONE of you to help me with a case. ‘Tis a very important client and, Mr. Adams, seeing you are new here, I was thinking it could be you,” said Hamilton as he approached both my table and Mulligan’s.

John looked at me excitedly. He mouthed a "go for it" before turning back to look at Col. Hamilton.

“Absolutely, sir.” I quickly got up. “But maybe... maybe Mr. Mulligan could join me?”

Both Mulligan and Storge, another one of Col. Hamilton’s underlings, looked at me surprised. Hamilton simply crossed his arms, rather curious.

“Excuse me?”

“Since I am new here, I thought it would be better if I were not alone.”

Hamilton hesitated and gave it some thought. I was expecting him to say no, judging by my colleagues’ reaction, but he seemed to be in a good humour.

“I suppose you are right, sir. Mr. Mulligan, you are invited to the case and, please, help Mr. Adams with whatever he needs.”

Mulligan stood up as he heard his name. He smiled at me and I did the same thing. Mr. Storge on the other hand looked quite mad. Well, not that I cared about what he thought. Mulligan’s smile made it all worth it.

Col. Hamilton went away, gesturing for us to follow. When we got closer, Mulligan whispered in my ear:

“You risked yourself out there, sir.”

“Did I?” I said in the same tone, without turning to look at him. “I do not see how.”

“Well, Col. Hamilton made it clear that he needed only one so you're disagreeing with his orders. And then you admitted that you are not ready for the job by asking for help...”

I stopped walking and he did the same, looking at me with curiosity.

“I just got here. Is it not best to be sincere and recognize that I might need help?”

It reminded me of my childhood, trying to do everything alone, just like my brother. It did not work back then; I do not see how it would work now.

“Maybe. But you just lost a chance to prove yourself in front of Col. Hamilton. We don't get a lot of these around here.”

“You see, sir, if that means you will be with me, I do not care.” I put one of my hands in his shoulder.

John's face turned a light shade of pink that I have always found adorable.

“I feel honoured, but...”

He could not finish his sentence as Col. Hamilton called us both:

“Are you planning to keep me waiting for how long?”

Mulligan held a laugh and started walking in his direction. I followed and said as I pass through Col. Hamilton:

“I'm sorry, sir.”

He tried to look mad, but I could see that he wanted to smile.

“Just go ahead. And stop jesting.”

Col. Hamilton took us to his office and put two big boxes in front of us. He gave us a summary of what was happening, a dispute of property between Mrs. Elizabeth Rutgers and Mr. Joshua Waddington. The Lady owned a brewery that she had to abandoned when the British were occupying New York. During that time, Mr. Waddington, a loyalist, had taken the property and started running it himself.

“I want you to sort what’s important and what’s not. Please keep in mind that Mr. Waddington is trusting us to give him our best defence and I do not wish to fail his confidence in me.”

I did not say it out loud, but I was surprised that Hamilton, a man who had fought for independency, was defending a tory. But it was not my place to comment on it.

We divided our time talking about work and working in silence. Turned out asking to share some time with Mulligan was the best idea I ever had. He made work feel like fun. He was also extremely smart and helped me with the things I did not know. He didn’t judge me for my questions, but answered then sincerely.

I didn’t hear the voices on my head when I was with him. And even if my heart raced, it was not out of nervousness, but something else.

“I am excited for the trial. It’s the first time I will be able to see him in action. Thank you for bringing me a long.”

I tapped my fingers on the table as I thought about what it would be like.

“What should I wear?”

That question got Mulligan excited. He sat up straighter and joined his hands together, with a big smile on his face.

“I can help you with that! I love discussing clothing! My father was a tailor, you know? I picked up on some stuff.”

“All right, we can meet at my house tomorrow after lunch, if you are free.”

His smile falters. His eyebrows raised slightly, like the thought hadn’t occur to him.

“Your house, sir...?”

“How else are you to see my clothes?”

“Oh, I supposed that’s true. Of course, I will be there.”

THE CHURCH’S BELL rang and reminded me of what I was supposed to be doing. It was already after lunch and Mr. John Mulligan might knock on my door any second. I gave a quick look around the place, mostly grabbing the empty bottles that were around. My house was small and not really impressive. I mostly used it to bring company at night and sleep in the morning I don’t work.

I wished I had something better to show to Mulligan. Hopefully he’ll have eaten at home, for I fear I have nothing to offer him besides whisky.

I am already on my feet when I hear the knock on the door. Three, to be precise, at equal intervals of time.

I took a deep breath before opening the door.

“Mr. Adams! Good morning. Well, good afternoon.” He laughs awkwardly as he fidgets with his fingers. Good, it seemed like I wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

He looked absolutely gorgeous, his fair skin adorned with a tint of healthy red. Mulligan was always so proper, so immaculate, like a living painting.

“Please, come in. Forgive me for not being a proper host, I have not prepared myself to receive visitors in a while.”

He looks around, analysing every detail of my house. It somewhat reminded me of my brother, but unlike Quincy, John didn’t look repulsed. He admired my living room as one did an art piece in a museum. I wonder what he saw, if that told him anything about me.

“...Do you live alone?”

And there seemed to be a glint of hope in his voice, but I cannot admit that without admitting my own desires.

“I do, yes.”

“Oh. I don’t.” He says without much thought and my eyes widened in response.

“You have a...?”

Mulligan suddenly realizes the implications in his sentence and is quick to correct himself:

“My family. I still live with my parents.”

“Oh, of course.”

I sighed in relief. He was not married. Thank God. We look around in awkward silence. Until I cannot help but break it.

”So, you said your father is a tailor?”

I adored the way his whole face shined when he responded to me. I envied the proud look on his face as he talked about his father. My own face was more of worry and fear.

“Yes, sir. He actually made suits for the president himself.” But then his smile disappears. “I assume that’s not as impressive for the son of the vice president, but, you know...”

Mulligan simply shrugged. If he knew the truth, he wouldn’t feel like this. Isaac does not revel in being the son of Abraham. He does not celebrate his father’s love if it means being his sacrificial lamb.

“You overestimate how involved I am in my father's ordeals.” I gesture for him to seat by my side on the sofa. “You know, some say vice president isn’t a real job anyway.”

“You mean Col. Hamilton says that.”

We laugh together. I can almost hear our patron’s voice as he says that. Even if he tries to not show his opinions on my father, for respect for me.

“Speaking of which, how did you get this job?”

“My father knew Col. Hamilton back in his college days. He said he was going to be a good role model for me.”

“I don’t think my father likes Hamilton.” I said with the same tone of one who shares a secret. “I mean, he respects him. They share a love for our Country, certainly. But I remember he saying that Col. Hamilton was feverish.”

John Mulligan nodded, as he thinks a bit about my words.

“He can be... Intense. But I like it.” “Do you find passion an admirable quality in a man?”

Without thinking about it, I got closer, my hand hovering over his. He looked at me, surprised with the question and with my proximity. Mulligan’s blue eyes shone even brighter.

“I... Yes. A man needs to believe in something. And whatever it is it should make him ardently inspired.”

My eyes did not leave his as he talked. It was so intense that it made my heart sped up. I wondered if he knew how inspired he made me.

“And in what do you believe?”

He swallowed, hard, and I watched the enticing movement of his Adam’s apple.

“I believe in strength through knowledge,” he said, firmly. “That no man knows everything in this world and that we should all strive to find the answers to the questions that plague us.”

He left me speechless. I could see why Mulligan saw Col. Hamilton as an example of character. They seemed to share the same passion for learning and self-improvement.

“Sorry, it was not my intention to be so spirited.” He laughed, looking down. “I believe we had an appointment.”

I got up and I think about offering him my hand, but changed my mind, instead just pointing to the direction of my room.

“Right, of course. Please, follow me.”

I tried not to think about the implications of having John Mulligan on my room. He did not come here as my companion. And as he inclined over my closet to take a look at my clothes, I forced myself to look away.

Mulligan chose a few coats and puts them over my bed. Meanwhile, I started to take off the coat I was currently wearing and threw it on a chair.

“Say, why did you choose law of all things?”

“Well, Mr. Adams, even though I admire my father’s work, I wanted to do something different. And law was just...”

I started to unbutton my waistcoat and Mulligan slowly stopped talking as I did.

“What?” I turned to him, throwing my waistcoat somewhere else. I would deal with it later. “Go on...”

He looked at me with his mouth still opened. When he realized I was talking to him, Mulligan shook his head and adjusted his posture.

“Forgive me, I forgot what I was going to say.”

I gave him a small smile. Part of me wished he didn’t do this, that he didn’t give me hope. Hope was a fickle thing, made for feeding the naive. I, on the other hand, was a cynic to the core. It was safer to keep my heart wrapped tightly to avoid it breaking.

“Say, what do you think of this one?” I asked, picking up the first coat I see.

It was a green one, with a golden-diamond pattern through it. I don’t even remember that this was in my closet.

“It’s very... colourful” Mulligan responded, enunciating his words slowly. “It looks like something Col. Hamilton would wear.”

My head fell slightly to the left. Yeah, I could see him wearing something like that.

“He does like his patterns...”

“You should wear something plain, but with colour.” With a focused look on his face, Mulligan pulled another piece from the pile. “Try this dark blue one.”

I felt my face get hotter with how he looked at me as I got dressed. He had the same concentration he had while working. Unconsciously, he bit the tip of his thumb, looking at me up and down. I could not take my eyes of his lips as he did this. My thoughts go to imagine his mouth wrapped around something else. No. Stop it, Charles. You are better than that.

“It’s a bit ill fitted.” He knitted his eyebrows together. “Who made you this?”

“I don’t remember... It’s been a while since I bought new clothing.”

I do not mention that part of this comes from my struggles with money. He does not need to know that.

“That’s a shame. But not to worry, I can fix it in time for the trial.” “Could you? I would greatly appreciate it!”

His eyes dart to my body and I automatically cross my arms, feeling slightly self-conscious.

“...I have to measure you, sir.”

“Oh, alright. Sure.”

“Thankfully I brought measuring tape.”

I knew that was no way for he to do that without touching me, bur as he patted me, I had to make a conscious effort to think of something else so that my brain did not confuse his touches with another form of caressing.

His hands went through my waist and as he pulled the measuring tape, I am pulled towards him just a little, enough for our faces to be close. Oh, how I could kiss him. To let lip do as hand do.

But I cannot.

This was different than college. Back then, I knew who I should approach. Same as for when I went out in taverns. I knew that the men there would reciprocate my desires. But I couldn’t know for certain if that applied to John. And I couldn’t take the risk, even if he was truly remarkable.

It’s he who pulled back. In silence, he notices the number and writes it on paper. His tone is colder as he answers me:

“It shall be ready tomorrow, sir.”

THE NEXT DAY he finds me in my desk. And he proudly hands me my fixed coat. I looked around, deciding that it’s best not to do this here. I went to change on the bathroom and, when I come back, Mulligan clapped excitedly.

I smiled, indulging him with a little twirl.

“You did a fine job. Your father must be proud.”

He passed his hands through the waistcoat, which also means passing his hand through my torso. I let an unvoluntary sigh.

“What are we if not the product of our fathers’ works? Did you not become a Lawyer because of your father’s influence, Mr. Adams?”

“... I don’t know. I thought I liked Law. I like it better than politics.”

It was almost ironic. College was freedom, was the way I had to get away from my father’s gaze. But even though it was my choice, I was still following his path. Just when I thought Mulligan and I were alone in our own world, I heard the familiar voice of our mentor as he passed in between us.

“The difference between Law and politics is smaller than you think” said Col. Hamilton with an ominous tone. “Come, boys, our closing arguments won’t write themselves.”

I felt my face get hotter as I sat back on my table.

Soon, it was already the end of the day and our pile of documents did not seem to get any smaller. And, to add insult to injury, Col. Hamilton dropped another pile of paper in front of us.

“I need you to transcribe and correct these annotations. It’s what I intend building our argument on.”

I had no idea how that man managed to write all that on that same afternoon. He truly wrote as if he was running out of time. I turned to Mulligan and he gave me the same worried look. There is no world in which we finish this in the last half hour we have in our shift.

“Col. Hamilton...” Mulligan raised his hand with uncertainty. “Do you think we could stay late in your office?”

He darted his eyes to my colleague and then to me. There’s a small arch on his eyebrow.

“I will allow it. But careful, you two. I hope you use your time to work.”

Mulligan leaned in my direction and whispered.

“What else would we do?”

I laughed to myself. I could think of at least a few other things we could do. None that could be said out loud.

We stayed even after everyone left. Mulligan was responsible for guarding the keys. He put them in his coat pocket and patted it three times.

While Mulligan worked on copying Col. Hamilton’s letters, I went through the case again. Mrs. Elizabeth Rutgers wanted a compensation of £8000, which I, personally, found insane. I thought about what I would do with that much money. It would certainly pay a good night at the tavern.

After writing for a while, I turned to Mulligan. It’s already dark at night, so I can only see him by candle light. I took the opportunity that he is not paying attention to admire him for as long as I can. His hair is even more beautiful in the candlelight for it brought out the tint of golden red on his locs.

But he must have felt my burning gaze, for he looked up and straight at me.

“May I help you?”

“Yes, actually. Could you help me with my grammar? I was never good at it. Not as good as my brother, at least.”

He approached me. I always had to stop breathing when he was around me. His presence made everything else seemed so dull.

He smiled and gently touched my hand to take my pen. God, think of something else, Charles. Anything else. Do not think about how good he smells or about asking which pomade he used in his hair.

“Say, do you have brothers?” I asked, holding on to the subject like a life boat.

“Two brothers and five sisters, yes.”

He answered, but still paying attention to my writing. One strand of his hair falls to the side and I resist the urge to take it of his face.

“Then I suppose you share my doom.”

“I doubt it. I am the oldest. ‘Tis different.”

He moved the strand to behind his ear and, to my displeasure, steps away as he finished analysing my work. I gave it quickly look. Besides a few punctuation mistakes, there is nothing to be changed.

Weirdly, I am reminded of writing lessons with my father and Quincy. Not an experience I wanted to repeat.

“Luck has been on your side” I said, grabbing more paper. “I am the second child, forever stuck by my brother’s shadow. I am the restless one, the troubled one, the one with the devil behind my eyes.”

“That’s not what I see.”

I shrugged, his words having little effect on me. He didn't know me. Not the real me. He couldn't know. If he did, he would never say something like that. He would see the same devil that others had saw.

“...Are you familiar with the prodigal son parable?”

Mulligan leans on my table, crossing his arms.

“Where are you going with this?”

“It’s just that, sometimes, the troubled child is the one who’s return is more celebrated.” His hand touches mine and this time is deliberate. There is no mistake as to what he’s doing, nothing he is reaching for besides me. “God is very forgiving. And he rejoices in those who come back to his path after straying from it.”

My mood sours immediately. I am reminded of my father's sermons. And, to my own surprise, I pulled my hand back.

“But sometimes the distance one has walked is far too great to return.”

I turned to the case’s notes. I didn’t see what John’s expression was and it was probably better that way.

Time seems to pass more slowly as we work. But, somehow, the pile of letters and documents was actually getting smaller. My hand was hurting for all the transcribing, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

Eventually, I couldn’t handle anymore. I looked to the clock Col. Hamilton kept in the wall. It was already late at night. That had to been enough, right? When I looked at Mulligan to try and read his feelings, I saw that he seemed as tired as I was. Great.

I got up and lifted my arms, stretching myself after so much time on my chair. He shot his eyes at me and quickly looked to the floor, biting his lower lip.

“If I read one more line about the Trespassing Act I might commit defenestration.”

That made him laugh out loud and soon the air between us is lighter.

“Let’s hope it will not come to that.” Mulligan started to organize his stuff and mine on an order that seemed to make sense only to him. “I think we are mostly done for today though. We are already way ahead of schedule.”

“Your words are honey to my eyes, friend.”

When leaving Col. Hamilton’s office, Mulligan made sure he had locked the door. And then checked again. And one more time, even after I confirmed that he had, in fact, locked the door.

When we finally start walking down the street and I made to say goodbye, he protested:

“’Tis far too late. Let me accompany you home.”

“I am not going home.”

“Oh.”

He gulped, looking down in embarrassment.

“I’m going to a tavern.”

Now, if I were a smarter man, I’d have kept my mouth shut. But I was not a smart man.

“Is it proper? We have work tomorrow.”

“I have training. I used to go hang over to class all the time.” And as I said those words out loud, I realize how mad they sounded. “Not asking you to go with me. In fact. I beg you to not go with me.”

Of course, that was the same thing as asking. I should’ve known better. I mean, I knew how much my father prohibiting me to do something only made me wanted it more.

“I want to. If you allow me.”

Bad choice. Just say no, Charles. You are a strong-willed man. Just say no. I practiced in my mind. No. It’s two letters. You can do this.

“Actually, sir...” “Please?”

Oh, bloody hell.

Blue eyes like that should have been criminalized. They should be considered war weapons. I was just a man, how could I say no when he looked at me like that?

“Yes.” I regretted the word as soon as it leaved my mouth. “Yes, you may come.”

In his excitement, he grabbed my arm the same way a lady would do to a gentleman. On a different world, we could walk like this the whole way. But I know that even at night, there are eyes everywhere. And this action would not be seen favourably.

“Follow me.” I distance myself from him a bit.

The tavern I was going to is a bit far, but we pass the time talking. And I enjoyed walking with him by my side. If he noticed that our path was becoming shadier by the minute, he said nothing.

I kept him closer as we turned to the dark alley where Bacchus was located. I could already hear the loud noises of conversations, fights and music. Usually, that was the noise of home. But with Mulligan on my side, I wasn’t sure.

I stopped to grab him by the shoulders. He needed to understand what he was about to see. With intensity and clarity, I said,

“Look, this is nothing like the tavern I took you to when we first met. Do you understand that? There will be no fine cutlery here.”

“I am not an aristocrat, Adams! I can make do without silverware.”

I still had my doubts. But as we were already in front of Bacchus, I realized it was too late to change his mind.

As I walked in, I immediately recognized one of my friends, Isaac Miller. He was a small man, with black curly hair and dark eyes, with sideburns that framed his square shaped face.

“Charles! Took you long enough.”

“I was working. You should try that someday.”

He rolled his eyes. And then he noticed John Mulligan, who had stayed promptly quiet and close to me, seemingly analysing everything around him.

“And who is this?”

He stepped forward and I dart to the side as to cover his vision. Not that I could do a lot, since Mulligan was still taller.

“Stay away, Isaac.”

He retracted his hand, surprised.

“What? Is he yours...?”

“He’s my colleague.” And, in a lower tone, I added: “And he’s not used to these places, so slow down, alright?”

“Alright, alright. I can be as slow as you need, dear.”

I turned back to Mulligan, pointing to Miller with my chin. “That’s Mr. Miller. You’ll do good to ignore him.”

“You wound me, dearest. Now, please take my place. The seaman over there just costed me tomorrow’s dinner.”

It didn’t surprise me that Capt. Leroy was at the cards table. He was more of a gambler than me. When he wasn’t on sea, he could be found on that chair, gaining or losing money, depending on the day. And judging by the pile of coins on his side, that night was a good one.

“Captain.” I offered him a nod. “Do you not feel shame by playing with those who are lesser?”

“Pardon me?” Miller asked offended, but I just pushed him away and took his seat.

Captain Leroy gave me a sly smile.

“I do not play sober.”

“Pray tell, Mr. Adams, what do you do sober?”

I gave him a chuckle in response. I supposed he had a point.

“Alright, I shall buy you and your special friend a drink.”

Mulligan grabbed a chair to sit right next to me, even if there was a free space on the other side of the table.

“What are we playing?” I asked after ordering brandy on Capt. Leroy’s tab. “Whist?”

“Ombre. If that’s alright with you, sir.”

I kept the smile on my face. Years of playing taught me that confidence was my best weapon.

“Perfect.”

“Will you play it too?” the captain asked Mulligan “It’s a three-person game”

“I do not know the rules. I think I am better just watching.”

“As you wish.”

Captain Leroy gestured for one of his friends to join our game. Next to me, Mulligan observed my cards. I hoped his expressions did not let the captain know my hand, a particularly good one.

“Play.”

“I bid higher.” I cannot hide my smile as I talked. “Diamonds.”

Leroy’s eyes widened in worry. That was a good start. When I look over at my colleague, there was confusion on my face. He was making small towers ith coins I had just gained.

“Are you... organizing my coins?”

“Sorry.” But he did not stop. I decided to let him, as it wasn’t disturbing anyone. The game keeps going and, somehow, I keep inning. My pile grew, Mulligan kept organizing it, the drinks kept coming and Capt. Leroy’s uneasiness increased until he ended the game.

“That’s enough, sir. Even I know when to stop.” He sighed. “If you were not such a bad liar, I would accuse you of cheating.”

It was true that I never had played as good as game as this one. As I collect my prize, Mulligan put a hand on my back. His cheeks are a bit red, probably because of the alcohol.

“I am still not sure what happened, but congratulations.”

“I think it was all you, sir. You must be my personal Fortuna.”

He grew closer, just inches from my face. The alcohol on his breath matched mine and I wondered how his kiss would taste.

“This is a sign you should keep me at your side, Mr. Adams.”

“Yes, sir. Perhaps I should.”

I am, unfortunately, reminded that we are in public.

I pulled away and, in response, he got closer, almost falling on my lap. Dear God, he was drunk already. Why did I think that was a good idea?

A man on the corner of the tavern started playing a flute, caughting our attention immediately.

I was unsure of where she had come from, but a woman with an exaggeratedly painted face and with long, completely down hair. I did not know her personally, but I knew the type.

“Care for a dance, darling?”

I promptly ignore her and, to my surprise, Mr. Mulligan nodded in confirmation. I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, he was already on the enter of the tavern.

He was laughing, carefree. Twirling around the place as if he did this all the time. He fitted on that place. John Mulligan, the prim and proper, son of a tailor, rule follower, John Mulligan was acting as if the Bacchus was his second home.

As the song finishes, the woman leaned on his direction, her hand on his torso and I ran over there immediately. Too fucking close. I grabbed his arm, pulling him away.

“That’s enough.”

“C’mon, handsome.” She smiled, now to me. But I had been inoculated against her spells. And I continued to walk away.

Mr. Mulligan looked at me with widened eyes, half surprised, half confused. How come he did not get it? She had all but threw herself at him.

“You cannot entertain people who are trying to sell you something.”

“She was not trying to sell me anything!”

I gave him a serious look, arching an eyebrow.

“You are too pure for this place.”

“I am not!” He pulled his hand back. “Why can’t you see me as an equal?” “Mulligan...”

He cut me off, shaking his head.

“I’ll get us another round.”

I went too, of course. I would not let him alone in that damned place.

Ms. Ophelia was the owner of the Bacchus. She was taller and larger than most men, which helped her run the place with an iron fist.

There was a man in front of us, with tan skin and dark hair. Confidently, he put his elbow on the bar and closed his fist. He was all and strong. Not like the soft men I met in college or in high society. He had the arms of someone who had seen work. I shook my head, focusing on something that was not his arms, for a change.

“If I beat the missus in an arm-wrestling match, do I get my drinks for free?”

“You, sir? Bet.”

Ms. Ophelia pulled the sleeves on her dress and repeated the movement the man had made. Mulligan looked at it excitedly, as someone who probably was not used to something like this. They struggled, the man had to grab the table to steady himself as he tried to pull her arm down. But, slowly, his arm started to go down. In one last quick move, Ms. Ophelia slammed it on the counter.

At least he took his defeat humbly. With a curtsy, he left some money on the bar. As he turned, he realized he had an audience.

“Oh, hello. That was not a great first impression, eh?”

He had a slight stubble on his chin. Which was, of course, reprehensible. It was the mark of an unruly dirty man and I was definitely, positively, unquestionably not attracted to it.

Mulligan gets defensively closer to me. The man noticed it and acknowledged both of us with a nod.

“Excuse me, good sirs.”

I cannot help but to look back as he walks between us and Mulligan had to elbow me back to reality.

He got us two mugs. However, as his goes down fast, mine stays untouched.

“Will you not drink yours?”

I shook my head saying no. In any other situation, I would say yes and drink until I couldn't remember my own name. But, as of now, I was more worried about Mulligan. I had to stay at least somewhat sober, to take care of him.

He grabbed my mug and downed it dangerously quickly, hitting the mug on the table with unnecessary force.

“You see?” He gave me a ‘proud of himself’ look. “I can keep up.”

I didn’t answer him.

In truth, I hated it. I hated this. I hated myself. He should not aspire to be like me. I was defective, self-destructive, and a sinner. He should not look at me as if I was something to strive for.

John Mulligan was like the sun, shining brightly on everything and everyone around him. Meanwhile, I was a dying star, waiting only for my light to stop reaching Earth.

Chapter Text

LAST NIGHT I made sure to leave Mulligan at his door. It was hard, since he was not in a place to remember his address, but, somehow, we made it. After that, I could finally rest more easily.

And then, on the next day, I got worried again. Because ever since I started working with Col. Hamilton, I never saw Mulligan late. But he wasn't there. Twenty minutes after he was supposed to be there, Mulligan entered in a hurry. His cravat was a little out of place and he seemed to have missed a button of his waistcoat.

Col. Hamilton noticed him and downed his spectacles.

“Good morning, Mr. Mulligan.”

“I am terribly sorry, sir. I woke up unwell. It will not happen again.”

“Unwell, you say? I assume you and Mr. Adams spent the night working on our statements?”

“We did, sir.” I spoke up on his defence. “And we finished copying the letters you asked.”

“I was young once, sirs. If your work is done, you may amuse yourselves however you wish.” But he gave Mulligan a stern look. “Now, we are all running out of time. Time is a precious thing and we underestimate how much of it we have. I hope none of you are late tomorrow, for the trial.”

“We won’t, sir.”

Col. Hamilton laughed to himself before walking away.

“I have never been so mortified.” Mulligan turned to me, hiding his face in his hands. “Oh, god, I can already imagine what dinner with Father will be like if he gets news of this.”

My eyes went to his torso. I mean, not on purpose or anything. He was up and I was sitting down, making his beautifully sculpted figure straight to my line of sight.

“You... uh... missed a button”

“Oh.” He looked down, trying to find it.

I got up, stretching my hand in his direction.

“Here, let me.”

I thought about how easy it would be to undress him as my hands touched his button. And went his eyes meet mine, I fear he can see the depravity behind my masquerade. I sat down again, putting my eyes to the floor.

“Thank you, sir”. His hand was on my shoulder and I do not acknowledge it. Slowly, he took it off and went for his own chair.

“How do you seem so fine?”

“I told you. I have practice.”

Yes, it truly is a skill to drink myself to oblivion and wake up like nothing happened. I am sure he will be impressed.

“My head hurts.” He winced, touching his forehead.

“Are you properly drinking water?”

I got up to get him a cup. Somehow, I feel this was my fault. I had stained Mulligan with my dreadful inclinations. When I get back, he drinks it all in one go.

“Sorry for this.”

“I bought it up to myself. I asked to go with you. Now I shall suffer the consequences, Mr. Adams.”

“Please, you do not need to call me Mr. Adams. In fact, I’d prefer if you didn’t. It just makes me think of my father.”

“Then what should I call you?”

“We’ve drank together. You met my friends. You can just call me Charles.”

“Charles?” he asked, sounding the word in his lips. I loved how it sounded on him. “And I supposed you shall call me John.”

“It would be my pleasure.” I smile back. ”John.”

COL. HAMILTON ASKED us to meet him directly on the front of the court. Mulligan was already there when I arrived and his face light up when he noticed me.

“Morning, sir. Col. Hamilton went in first. I thought to wait for out here.”

I made a gesture for us to move. And before he stepped foot on the place, Mulligan made a sign of the cross. Three times. When I looked at him, puzzled, he answered:

“For good luck.”

“I wouldn’t have deemed you as a superstitious man.”

He looked worried. I knew that face. The face of a man who is afraid of being judge for his nature.

“I am not... superstitious. I’m simply...”

“You are you. ‘Tis fine.” I tried to smile, to show him that I had no problem with it.

We walked in side by side. I finally met the man we spend so much time trying to help, Mr. Waddington. It was still odd to help a tory, one who had profited with appropriated property at that. But I supposed this was necessary. England was not The Enemy anymore and we had to maintain our relations to it if we were to survive as an independent nation.

Col. Hamilton deserved the reputation he had. He commanded the court with proficiency and there was not one person able to take his eyes off him. Closing arguments were his specialty. He talked a lot, sure, but he was able to address every subject in such a clear and well thought manner that it was hard to find any holes in his line of speech. It was no wonder how I’d hear people say he had the most durable pair of lungs on the bar.

Next to me, John looked at him wide-eyed and impressed. Part of me wished he could look at me that way.

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Col. Hamilton ended up winning the case. Mr. Waddington only needed to pay £800. Mulligan turned to me with a big smile on his face.

“That was amazing! God, do you think one day that could be us?”

“I guess...”

“This is so much better than the boring paperwork we do all day.” Mulligan touched my arm lightly. “Thank you for bringing me along.”

I could not stop the silly smile from leaving my face, nor could I restrain myself from blushing.

We both accompanied Col. Hamilton outside of the court. He walked surprisingly fast, as if he was running out of time.

“Congratulations out there, Colonel,” said John, having no difficulty walking side to side with Hamilton, considering his long legs. “Twas incredible to watch.”

“I’m only doing my job.” His words were humble, but his face seemed delighted with the praise. “Still, this was a big case. I wouldn’t be opposed to bringing some wine and celebrating in the office. Mr. Waddington’s treat.”

Mulligan and I looked at each other as if we were children being invited to sit at the adults’ table.

I recognised a few important faces back in the office. Alexander Hamilton had friends all over New York. He eagerly introduced us to some of them. I could almost feel Mr. Storge staring at us with jealousy.

I downed the wine offered to me without much difficulty. Mulligan twirled his cup, not seemingly much too eager to drink it. I imagined he needed a break after our night at the tavern. He hasn’t done much talking either. He mostly watched the conversation in silence, until we finally were able to have a little privacy, close to the wall.

“I envy your ability with people, Charles. You make it look so easy.”

I arched an eyebrow at that comment.

“Easy? I am putting conscious effort into it. Every interaction feels as though someone has a sword to my neck, waiting for me to say the wrong thing so they can strike me. My heart races and my mind is plagued with all that could possibly go wrong. Tis hardly easy.”

His eyes were not the same when he looked at me that time. There is something, not pity, but recognition.

“I too have a terrific imagination when it comes to things that could go wrong. Sometimes I...”

“Yes?”

He stopped, averting his gaze.

“Forgive me, I shouldn’t talk about that.”

“You are not just, Mr. Mulligan. I have opened my heart to you.”

His smile was full of sadness.

“My heart was never closed.”

Before I could think too much about what that could mean, Col. Hamilton called me. I nod respectfully before parting.

“Your father sent me a letter asking me about your work.”

My whole body shudders at the mention of my father. I could only imagine what he had to say.

“...Yes?”

“I have yet to respond.”

I kept thinking about my father, about what he would say. What if the colonel wrote something bad? Have I done a good job? Col. Hamilton’s face did not tell me anything. He was impassable.

“He also sent a letter addressing you. I am unsure why he addressed it to the office instead of your home, but here it is.”

I took it, but couldn’t open the letter. And it was much worse than what my imagination can do. I don’t know if my brother had mentioned anything to him about my pastimes.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m just fine, sir, now if you excuse me...”

As I was trying to run away, I bumped into a side table, making a decorative vase fall and break into numerous pieces.

Well, fuck me in the arse.

All eyes are on me. Judging me. Probably asking how a kid like me is allowed to be there? Who let this clumsy excuse of a man anywhere near actual gentlemen?

“I am very sorry, colonel, I shall pay for another one.”

“You’re...” he started to talk, but I couldn't listen, not now.

“Forgive me.”

I could not breathe. I ran to hide somewhere. Anywhere. The first place that I found was Col. Hamilton's office. Good enough. I opened the door and sat in a corner.

This was bad. This was really bad. Everyone must be looking for me.

Insane. Why would they? No one cares about you.

“Shut up!” I yelled, like that would stop the voice in my head.

And John... Now he knows the true you. The crazy you. He will never want anything to do with you ever again! Good thing you are used to being alone...

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I repeated, closing my eyes and rocking back and forth, but nothing made it stop.

I could feel tears streaming down my face. Everything felt wrong. I loosened my necktie, struggling for air.

“Charles?” I heard in the back of my head.

This is... Different.

“Charles” he says again, this time closer.

This does not make sense. It does not sound like the other voice in my head. This one was gentle and kind and held my hand tightly.

“'Tis me, my friend. John.” He tilted my head slightly, making me look in his eyes. “How do you feel?”

“I'm fine.”

“I disagree.”

I let go of his hand and looked away. John cannot see me like this. He cannot know how truly broken I am.

“You can't disagree on how I feel! You know nothing about this!”

Great. Be rude to the only person who was nice to you. This is why you do not have friends. They all hate you! You are just going to push them away!

“I know how someone looks when they are fine. You are not.” He grabbed my hand again. He does not sound mad, just sad. This is worse. “Please, friend, be honest with me. I just want to help.”

No, he does not. Look at you, you are acting like an insane man. He will push you away just like everyone else did.

But then he squeezes my hand and the rational part of me comes back for just a second.

“Only if you promise not think me crazy.” I pulled him closer by the cravat and lowered my tone.

“I could never!”

It was hard to say anything, but I tried.

“There is... A voice in my head. It tells me horrible things, such that I am a disappointment, that everything I do is wrong and that the world would be far better off without my presence.”

I feel my voice breaking. The worst of all is the look on John's face. He certainly regrets having asked. He probably regrets having met me in the first place.

“Oh, my friend...”

The end comes. It was nice to be his friend while it lasted. I closed my eyes, waiting for the rejection.

And then... it did not come. He, instead, hugged me.

“What...”

He held me tighter. One of his hands moved to caress my back.

“I feel sorry that you have to deal with that. I also have a similar voice in my head...”

I wanted to say something, I really did. But then I felt his embrace and the words seem to escape my mind. We were so close that I could feel his heartbeat, way slower than mine and that seemed to calm me down, at least for a bit.

“And when I hear it, I try to do what is in my control, like cleaning or organizing...” John cleaned my face, wet because of the tears. “And forget what I cannot control.”

“I doubt that will work with me.”

He moved away and I almost wanted to pull him back. He sat by my side, our knees touching. I took his hand.

“Sometimes it doesn't work with me either. So, I turn to music.”

“Music?”

He smiled and that only warmed my heart. His hands started tapping a known song in my knee. I recognized the ballad immediately.

“Drink to me only with thine eyes... And I will pledge with mine” he sang, uncertain and low.

“Or leave a kiss within the cup, and I'll not ask for wine...” I continued the song and that seemed to give him more confidence.

“The thirst that from the soul doth rise” John sang, now laughing.

“But might I of Jove's nectar sip, I would not change for thine” This time we both sang together, not caring if it was out of tune.

And without even realizing, I was laughing along. It was fun and the voice in my head went away.

John pulled my face closer. His tender fingers in my jaw and cheeks. I got so nervous that I forgot the lyrics. He sang, this time alone, while I admired every little detail in his beautiful face:

“I sent thee late a rosy wreath...”

So close... I could kiss him if I wanted to. And God how I wanted to... But he would never forgive me if I did something like that. I certainly wouldn’t be able to forgive myself for something so selfish and reckless.

I commanded my body to pull back, but ended up closer instead. Our noses brushed together and he closed his eyes. My heart was racing, but this time it felt good. In a weird we-are-doing-something-wrong-that-feels-right way.

“By Providence, what is going on here?”

We immediately moved away from each other, but not fast enough that Col. Hamilton did not notice.

I could not think of an answer that explains it. Not without knowing exactly what he saw. Or what he thinks he saw.

“We were... singing?” John said and even though it was not a lie, it felt like one.

Col. Hamilton looked at us, seriously. I gulped and waited for an answer. He did not look angry or disgusted, just surprised and maybe a bit... amused?

“Mr. Adams and Mr. Mulligan, you both are quite drunk. 'Tis time to go home now, sirs.”

“Yes, sir.” We said at the same time.

John got up first and then helped me do the same. As we walked through the door, Col. Hamilton stopped me and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Be careful, boys” his tone was almost fatherly. “Please.”

I am not sure what he meant by that and decided not to think much about it.

I WAS INCAPABLE of stop thinking about John Mulligan.

It was impossible to see him in the office and pretend everything was fine. Nothing was fine. I was not fine.

At least he had no idea. He still behaved like he normally would. He still smiled and talked in his low tone and still did all the things that made me attracted to him in the first place.

The way he always cleaned his own table and mine even when I insist that it was already organized.

"Just let me do this, please" he would say and I would let him because... Well, what else could I do?

He then would tell me about this great play he is planning to see. Something Greek inspired, probably. I would nod a long but not actually pay attention, deciding instead to focus on the way his eyes sparkled or how his hands moved when he got excited.

I never realized how working with someone required so much touching. Sometimes our hands would touch when he gave me letters, or our elbows would fight for space while writing, or he would rest his head on my shoulder for a while.

The last one was not as work related as the others.

“May I ask you a question?”

We were lunching as he asked me this and I stopped my fork mid bite.

“Always, friend.”

“How do you like living alone?”

“I... I like it very much, actually. It is rather freeing.”

He nodded and I went back to eating, but I could see he was still thinking about something. After a while, he finished his thought.

“I was thinking, well, I am already of age. I have a job. ‘Tis past time I left my father’s wings and started to fly by myself.” Then he chuckled, “Well, maybe not by myself.”

“Pray tell, what do you mean?”

Mulligan hesitated, biting his lip slightly and inadvertently making it redder. Oh, how I should burn in hell for the thoughts that came in my head.

“Forgive me for being direct, but I assume you don’t live only on the salary Col. Hamilton gives us?”

“No, I couldn’t.” I strangled a laugh. Even the allowance my father sends me is not enough sometimes. Most of the times.

“You see, I am grateful for this apprenticeship. However, it is true that it pays more on experience than coin.”

“Aye, we can certainly agree on that.”

“And, just say the word if I am forgetting myself, but I believe I have the solution for our troubles. You mentioned earlier being short on money, and I need a new house but cannot afford it by myself so.... So, what if we shared a dwelling?”

That was a terrible idea. I mean, it would be completely fine if I was not so enamoured with him as I was. It was hard enough to feign indifference when he worked by my side. How was I to keep up appearances if he was also the first thing I see in the morning? If we had to walk back home together every day? What was to become of us? Living under the same roof? My heart was not going to be able to take it.

He must have been able to sense my hesitation, for he immediately continues, now nervous:

“Of course, it was but a suggestion. I do not wish to infringe upon your valuable freedom. Only to share it, as you made it seem so enticing. If that is not something you wish, I shall not take offense.”

Oh, but does the Lord tempt us. His blue eyes stared at me with such expectations and gentleness that I lost my words. I mean, it’s not like I couldn’t control myself. I just... never wanted a man that much. And not one who left me so confused as to his intentions.

I had growing affection for him, that much was true. And this affection was certain to grow if I continued to interact with him. Or, who knew, maybe I’d come to find out he was a terrible roommate and be disenchanted immediately.

“I think I have been alone for far too long. It would be an honour to share a home with you, sir.” I offered him my hand. “That is, if you are willing to deal with some of my peculiarities.”

“Of peculiarities and idiosyncrasies, I know a lot. We shall make a fine pair, indeed.” I raised my glass in agreement.

I AM REMINDED of a particular tale from my childhood. There was a maid who baked me a delicious fruited and spiced cake. I remember asking for it every day until father got tired of it and banned it. I was, of course, not happy with it. I remember throwing a tantrum that made his face red and ears start smoking.

John Adams is not a man one wishes to madden like that. Even if one is a dumb six-year-old who should probably know better by that age.

So one day he sat me down, and on the table was a three-tier cake. And he said “eat”. And the whole day he let me eat nothing but that damned cake. I spent three days sick and stuck on the privy, feeling terrible and embarrassed. Needless to say, I couldn't stand even the smell of cake after.

John Mulligan was, according to my clunk allegory, the cake. My logic was that, if I had too much of it, I would eventually get tired and want something else. The problem was that, unlike the cake, John sweetness was never too much.

“My friend, you must come to dinner with my father tomorrow. I want to give him the news of our new living arrangement.”

“Are you certain I should be there? I do not wish to intrude.”

“Nonsense. You are my friend. I have already talked to father about you and he is most excited to meet you.”

I forced a smile. I don’t think his father, or anyone for that matter, will ever be impressed upon meeting me.

But John Mulligan was extremely convincing. And I was gullible. At least when it came to him. I was agreeing to meet Mulligan, Sr. before I could realize what I was agreeing to.

Well... This should be fun.

THE MULLIGANS HAD a nice house. Maybe small for the size of their family, but considering Mr. Mulligan was a tailor, he seemed to be doing well for himself. They had eight children, five daughters and three sons, John being the oldest. I knew a bit about his siblings from the stories he told me and I tried to remember face to name.

Mr. Mulligan was already on his fifties. His hair perfectly powdered and his expression serious. His suit was, of course, impeccable, with fine fabric. I recognized the charming sky-blue eyes I saw reflecting on John. On the other hand, his strawberry blonde hair definitely came from his mother. I saw light copper strands mixed with the silver hair gained with age. “Tis a pleasure meeting you both, sir and madam. I thank you for inviting me tonight.”

“Oh, the pleasure is ours.” She had smile signs on the corner of her eyes, and I presume she was often happy. “My dear Johnny speaks so well of your character. I am grateful you two met each other. It was certainly the wishes of Providence.”

I bite my tongue to avoid saying the first thing that comes to my head, as I so often do. So, I don’t say how ironic is that providence might joined us when all I can think of is committing sin when he's next to me. Wait, no. For God’s sake, think of something else.

I looked behind the couple. William and Hercules Jr. were playing behind them, running around the draw room. It reminded me of my own brothers. I almost miss them. Almost. I never got to be much of an older brother to Thomas, considering we are only two years apart.

“Come, dinner is ready.”

I sat right next to John. At this point, I knew John’s routine before eating. I adjusted my plate, not how etiquette demanded, but the same way John did. He looked at me, frowning.

“What are you doing...? Are you making a joke out of me?”

“No, I just thought...” I looked around. Eyes are not on us, but I lower my tone anyway. “Sorry, I suppose I wanted to find some reasoning in your actions. To see the world through your eyes.”

“Well, you shouldn’t.” He looked down, and shifted uncomfortable in his seat. “There is no reasoning to my actions. I obsess over bad things. The word is terribly ugly through my eyes.”

Under the table, I discreetly went for his hand. He seemed slightly startled, but then smiled calmly. If I could speak plainly, I would make sure he knew that he was beautiful in my eyes. And that that was enough.

Fortunately, Mr. John Adams was very adamant on properly raising his boys. I do not wish to boast, but I believe I fared well enough on the art of conversation.

That is, of course, until the incident at the end of dinner. Because, well, fate was an unfair mistress. We were all laughing and talking, when John stood up and raised his cup.

“If I could have a minute of your attention. Much has been said about future. I want you to know, dear father, that I heard your speeches of autonomy and self-rule and the duties of a young man.” Perhaps a bit confused, Mr. Mulligan raised his cup. Of course, he knew not where his son was going on about. My heart started to race.

“Tis a great time to announce that me and Mr. Adams shall be moving together.”

Mr. Mulligan practically spat his drink with his surprise.

“What?” He passed a fist through his mouth. “You will not!”

John turned his head. I could see he did not expect that.

“But... Father—”

I melted on my chair. Mrs. Mulligan and John’s sisters looked at the scene with wide eyes. I wondered if I tried hard enough, I could make myself invisible.

“You are far too young, you barely started shaving. You graduated last year!”

The worst part is that Mr. Mulligan was right. John still had the boyish look on his face, still had the hope of someone who wasn’t aware how dark the world truly was.

“You asked me to be more independent!”

“And you have done such by working with Hamilton.” Mr. Mulligan punched the table and I jumped. Now he reminded of my father. Perhaps anger came along with fatherhood. “I did not mean for you to live with a stranger!”

He didn’t spare me a look as he says that, but I felt it. That was a bad idea.

“A stranger? He is my friend!”

I would be honoured by his defence if it did not put himself on such trouble.

One trick I learned while living with my father was that, sometimes, the only way to save a friend was to call attention to yourself.

“John, ‘tis fine.” I stood up and put my hands on his shoulder. To his father, I continue, “You are right, sir, that we do not know each other for long. However, I assure you that your son has been a friend on times of need. I do not wish him harm. If anything, I hope this is an opportunity to get closer to him.”

“Closer?” Mr. Mulligan arched an eyebrow.

Next to me, John repeated to himself, with a soft voice.

“Closer?”

I almost slapped my forehead. I didn't mean it like that. I also did not didn't mean it like that. Such is my conundrum.

However, that granted me a look. Mr. Mulligan looked straight to me and I swear he could see right through all my walls. I wonder if he saw the gratitude I fell for his son.

He scorned.

“I cannot allow this.”

John seemed ready to argue back, but Mrs. Mulligan intervened.

“You two will have this conversation if private! Not on the dinner table.”

No one was hungry anymore.

After dinner, Mr. Mulligan and his son went somewhere inside the house. I remained on the drawing room, with both his sons. They were just young boys, the oldest being twelve. They seemed close. I heard less arguing than when me and my brothers were their age.

“Is it true your pa is the vice-president?” asked the younger one.

“Aye.”

“Papa says he doesn’t do any work” said the other brother, smiling with the expression of a ne’er-do-well.

The younger of all of them, Mary, appeared behind out of a sofa. I had not even seen her enter. I suppose spying was on her blood. “William, you can’t say that!”

Her blue eyes were twice their size, with an expression I had seen on John’s face before.

“’Tis fine. Although you’ll do well not to repeat that in front of him.”

The older of the girls entered the room. Sarah was but a year younger than John and reminded me of him most. Except her hair did not have the tinge of red his hair had; it was pure blonde.

“Mr. Adams? Excuse me, sir, but my father is asking for you in his study.”

“Me?”

She made yes and gesture me to follow her. Maintaining very properly the whole time, she curtsied and then walked away. I went into Mr. Mulligan's study with my hands behind my back.

“Sir, you wished to see me?”

He looked at me, I did not reciprocate it.

“If you are to do this, then you shall do this right.”

“Forgive me?”

“Trust no one. Assume everyone is your enemy. Everyone can and will be listening to you and your secrets” he talked firmly, like a commanding officer.

“I don’t have...”

“Mr. Adams, a man does not join my profession without realizing that everyone has secrets. And if you wish to hide yours, you should train your expression so that it does not betray you as it does now.” He pointed an accusing finger at my direction. “I know what young men do in college. For God’s sake, I lived with a young Alexander Hamilton. Not much surprises me.”

I hesitated. A spy cannot be hanged if he does not confess. Still, I said:

“...I have no intention on bringing your son to my business.”

“I believe you.” He sighed, tired. “I also know my son. I tried to protect him for as long as I could, but it is too late. You cannot keep a bird on a cage. You see, I knew the dangers I faced when I joined the Sons of Liberty. I joined anyways. Twas my nature, just as John’s nature is... Well, his to discover.”

Mr. Mulligan dismissed me with a gesture.

“That’s enough. I’ve said my piece. I hope you listen.”

When I get out of Mr. Mulligan’s study I saw an open to door and heard the concern voice of my friend. John was on what it seemed to be his room, walking side to side.

“Come in. He’ll change his mind. Or maybe he won’t. I am out of here either way.”

I gulped. The halls seemed empty, but I closed the door behind me for precaution.

“Are you certain that is what you wish?”

“Of course. We are already searching for houses. I gave the idea.”

I sat down on his bed. While trying to not think too much about the fact that I. Am. In. His. Bed. John has a lot of diverse drawings on his wall and I recognize the signatures. Sarah, Elizabeth, Margaret, William, Frances, Hercules Jr., and Mary. His siblings. I smiled to myself. He really is close to them. I couldn’t, in good conscience, take this from him.

“John, I remember how you talked about your father. You admire and respect him. I only fear mine. I do not wish for your relationship to strain for I know how it feels like.”

“He treats me like a boy!” He turned to me, clenching his fists. “And so do you! But I am a man! And a Columbia graduate. I can live my life as I chose to.”

I got up and grabbed both of his hands, trying to rest him.

“There is no doubt to be had about that. And trust me, I do see you as an equal.” I lay my hand on his cheek and slightly caress it. “But I think you should listen to your father’s worries.”

“He called us strangers.” John touched my forehead with his. Somehow, it feels more intimate than a kiss. “We are not strangers.”

I almost wanted to laugh.

“What are we, then?”

I pretended to not realize his hesitations.

“Friends.”

I pushed him away and let his hand go.

“We still see each other at work and—”

John grabbed my arm with intent.

“If you do not wish for us to live together, say so. But do not hide behind my father’s opinion.”

With the same resolve, I took his arm off my elbow.

“John, why do you want to live with me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your father clearly is happy to help you for longer. You could find your freedom here. There is no need to leave him angry.”

He sat down on the bed, his hands nervously going to his thighs.

“Because... Because...” Of course he couldn't think of a reason. He did not wished to live with me. That was just his wishes to rebel. I was caught in the middle. “Because when I was five, I lost my first tooth—”

“Pardon?”

“I am going somewhere. I lost my first tooth and I was certain that I was going to lose all of them at once. I dreamt, awake and asleep, about them falling right in front of me. So, I counted them. Repeatedly. Obsessively. At least a hundred times a day. My point, Charles, is that ever since I was a child, I could not trust my own mind. I was controlled by horrendous thoughts. Count your teeth or they will fall. Arrange your books in a certain order or thieves shall come to get you. Check the lanterns again and again and again or the house will catch fire. Tis a tiring existence and the only thing that has bought me some peace recently is you.”

“...Me?”

He extended his hand and pulled me to sit by his side on the bed. One of his fingers softly followed the lines on my palm.

“When you dared me to steal that silverware, I did not think about what could happen. I simply did it. And it wasn’t because my mind convinced me to do it. It wasn't because of fear of improbable consequences, but a decision made fully conscious. For once, I want to choose something for me. Let me.”

Maybe John was also going to get tired of me, eventually. Anyone who knew me too intimately did. Maybe he needed to make that bad choice, if only to learn not to repeat it.

“Alright. We shall start looking for a house as soon as possible.”

EVEN IF JOHN insisted on bringing me home, I insisted even stronger that he should stay with his family.

That is the reason I was walking alone back to my place. At night. In the dark.

In retrospect, I could see how it was a bad idea.

I was not far when I heard noise behind me. There were three men, watching from away. I started walking faster and they followed me, matching my speed.

Hell, I was not a good runner. But I started running the fastest I could.

“Wait there, Charlie!” Screamed one of them. “Are ye runnin’ from a friend?”

I realized I was even more fucked, because I recognized the voice and the accent. They were men whom I played games with before. And, to whom I might or not own some money. Running was not going to help, so I stopped and showed my hands. Luckily, I would be worth more alive than dead.

His two men held me in place, one grabbing each arm.

“I didn’t recognize you, James.”

“Tis weird how the indebted never recognizes the creditor, eh?”

He laughed crudely. His face was right next to mine, so he could see the fear in my eyes.

“I heard a lot of money went to yer pocket after winning to Captain, yet none of it went to me pockets, as it should've.”

He opened his coat and pulled a small blade, the type used for shaving and swivelled on his hand. I feel myself sweating, even with the cold of night. “Twas not that much money, James. I-I don’t have it anymore.”

“Already spent it?” He pointed the blade to me. “Well, then get your father to send you more.”

“M-my father?”

“Do not lie to me, Charlie!” I was afraid he was going to use the blade, but he punched my stomach instead. The air seems to leave me. “Ye could’ve mentioned that yer dear papa was the vice president.”

I did a terrible job at listening to Mr. Mulligan advice. My terrified expression betrayed me as he told me it would. And that was the confirmation James needed.

“I knew it!”

“I am not in a good situation with my father. He won't send me anything!”

“Oh, he’ll come ‘round, no doubt—long as he’s properly persuaded.”

I felt tears on my eyes as James pressed the blade on my neck with more force. I tried to free my arms, but the grip his men had on me was too strong.

“Wait, wait! I will get it!” I screamed as I felt blood dripping. “I get my salary next week, Monday. I shall pay you then.”

He put the blade down, but in his anger still punched me in the face. “You should've paid me last week, ye bastard!

My jawbone ached and my cheek was warm, pulsing along with my rapid heartbeat.

“Just three more days. I swear! And then I will pay you.”

James gestured for the other two men to let me go and I fell to my knees. For good measure, he kicked my chest, again knocking the air out of me.

“Ye’ better!” He pulled my cravat, forcing me to look at him. “Or we talk to yer father what his molly son has been up to.”

The walk back home was not a comfortable one. I made sure to look back nd see so that no one followed me, but if James knew about my father, who’s to say he did not know where I leave? That he did not know where I worked?

Even with the pain on my body, all I can think about is John Mulligan.

I couldn’t drag him into my mess. I couldn’t be his friend. I had to stay away. It was the only way to protect him.

Chapter Text

I HATED THE world. I hated myself. I could only feel self-pity as I went to work the next day.

And as I see John Mulligan, I hate myself even more. Because I know I have to break the news to him.

“Charles? Are you alright?”

He got dangerously close to me, his hand on my hurt cheek.

“I fell.”

“On your face?”

I fend off his hand.

“John, please.”

He inclined to my direction and I moved away to my desk. John followed me, as his desk is right next to mine. He pulled a piece of paper and handed it to me.

Tis an address, but none I recognize. I was puzzled for a moment, until it hit me. That address was meant to be ours.

“I thought we could take a look at it.”

In my mind, I had practiced how I would say this in thousands different ways, but none felt right. So, I simply say:

“I cannot live with you anymore.”

Mulligan looked around. No one seemed to pay much attention to us, so he got closer and turned down his voice.

“P-pardon me...?”

I couldn’t keep looking him in the eyes, so I just turned to my desk. I tried to remind myself that this is for his own good. That I would just drag him into the mess that it’s my life. That eventually I would take advantage of his kindness the same way I did when my brother tried to help me, only for me to spend my money on gambling again.

“I am sorry. Tis for the best.”

He blinked in surprise.

“The best? Whose best? Is this because of my father? Because I already talked to him and-” “This has nothing to do with your father.”

“Then what is it?” He stepped closer, his presence solid, steady, everything I was not. “I had just begun looking for a house. I already warned my father I was going away. If this is to be cancelled, I am owed at least a reason.”

“You are owed nothing.”

He winces as if I had struck him. His mouth parted slightly, but then he closed it, rethinking whatever he wanted to say. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, “You are right. But as a friend, this is at least expected.”

I sighed, feeling my stomach turn.

“...I don’t have the money”

“Col. Hamilton paid us Monday, did he not?”

“I... I had to use it somewhere else.”

He waited a bit, but I refused to give it more details. He sighed and shook his head, resigned.

“We shall find another way. We wait until next month. Problem solved.”

It was unfair how he made it sound easy. The way he threw solutions to my hurdles. As if he had the power to fix what I had spent years breaking. But how long could he keep this up? How long until he realized I was incorrigible?

“This is not so simple.”

“Then I pay your part.”

“No.”

My quick answer almost gets a laugh out of him.

“No? What do you mean no?”

“I am not letting you waste your money on me.”

“Tis no waste. You can pay me later.”

“John, no.”

“You don't get to tell me what to do with my money.”

How could he be so stubborn? How could he look at me—at what I was, what I had done—and still insist I was worth saving?

“I am trying to save you.”

“From what?”

“My brother tried this. He tried to help me. And I just fuck things up again.” My words seemed to shock him, but he has to understand the reality of this. “I destroy everything I touch.”

He took my hand on his and my heart raced.

“You did not destroy me.”

“I will.”

I NEEDED TO get John out of my head.

John. His voice still echoed in my mind, laced with that damnable insistence, that unwavering belief that I could be something more than I was. That I was worth saving. Fool.

So I went back to the only thing capable of clearing my mind: a couple of bottles.

They were always with me.

They didn’t share their opinion even after I said that there was no need.

Bacchus was dimly lit, the air thick with pipe smoke and the loud music competing with loud conversation. I paid for cheap ale, which tasted horrible, but it worked wonders to warm my body and clear my mind. Soon, I took another swig. If I drank enough, perhaps I would forget the way he looked at me, the way his touch lingered just a little too long. The way my own breath caught whenever he stood too close. The way his strawberry blond hair shined gold and copper at the same time, like the most precious stone.

Oh, I suppose this whole drink-to-forget thing was starting to work in the opposite way.

Luckily, a familiar presence settled beside me, drawing me from my spiralling thoughts. I glanced over my shoulder to find Isaac Miller dropping onto the stool next to mine. His dark hair was loose, strands falling messily around his face, his queue nearly unravelled. He looked like he’d been in a fight or a bed. Knowing him, it could go either way.

“You’ve been miserable ever since you started working.”

I chuckled. If only he knew...

“I need to pay for my drinks somehow.”

“If you were pretty enough, you wouldn’t,” he quipped, grinning as he nudged his shoulder against mine.

“Shut up.”

I shoved him, but he only rocked back slightly before leaning in again, undeterred. He reached for my glass, lifting it to his lips, but the second the alcohol touched his tongue, he grimaced and coughed.

“That’s terrible,” Isaac choked, setting the glass down with exaggerated disgust. “Are we that bad?”

I just needed to give him “The Look” and he realized how serious I was.

“Well, shite. Is it Mr. Adams?”

“No, not this time.”

I finished my cup. But it was not enough.

I gestured vaguely to Ms. Ophelia, who let her head fall to the side as she looked at me. I tried giving my best lost puppy eyes to see if she takes some pity on me.

“Money up front, Charlie.”

“Oh, you evil witch.”

She ignored my comment. Isaac, however, had no such restraint. He laughed, his eyes glinting with amusement as he watched the interaction unfold. Wait a minute—Isaac! My saviour. I turned to him with a grin, flashing my most charming smile. What are friends for, right?

“Don’t even.” He pointed an accusatory finger in my direction.

Well, time for plan B, I suppose.

I looked around the tavern searching for someone who might be willing to spare a few shillings. There were the usual regulars. A few elderly men hunched over their mugs, a couple of rowdy sailors hungrily eyeing their tankards. Capt. Leroy was not there, but I recognized the sailor who tried to arm wrestle Ms. Ophelia. He was rather handsome. But if the state of his clothing was any indication of wealth, his pockets were probably worse than mine. What a shame.

My eyes went to the gambling table. I can say for personal experience that nothing gets a man in a giving mood faster than to win on cards. There is an older and plump man on the left of the table, his pile of coins considerably bigger than his mates. And right next to him, a fine bottle of Madeira.

Perfect.

I walked towards him, sitting casually by his side. There’s a slight confusion to my sudden appearance, but I leaned in his direction and smiled.

“Are you winning, sir?”

“Yes, I am.” He looked at me up and down, half looking for recognition, half analysing what he sees. When his eyes are on my face again, he smiles. “Are we acquainted?”

“We could be.” I let my words carry my intentions. “Call me Charles.”

“I am Benedict.”

My gaze went to the bottle of Madeira. Benedict followed it and realized my wishes, suddenly straightened himself and poured me a cup.

“Say, thank you, kind sir.” I raised my cup to him. Then, I lowered my tone so that only he could hear my words. “A few more of these and you might win something other than cards.”

I leaned back in my chair, allowing a smug smile to cross my lips. Isaac, seated nearby, raised an eyebrow at me, clearly amused. I gave him a subtle wink, then turned my attention back to Benedict.

He seemed reinvigorated by my insinuations. He ordered another bottle of Madeira and made a huge bet on the hand he held. I keep to his side, occasionally touching his arm or letting my leg intertwine with his.

I pretended to be interested in his game and his stories with all the theatrics that I learned as a young Adams. I had mastered the art of listening intently, feigning fascination, nodding at all the right moments, and laughing at his jokes. The wine flowed freely, filling my cup time and again, and I took each refill without hesitation, hoping it would bring me closer to the state I sought. But alas, my endurance to alcohol was a curse that left me struggling to achieve the level of drunkenness I wanted, the feeling of losing all care in the world, where I could ignore the doubting voice on my head.

Eventually, though, the world was starting to tilt, and with every passing moment, I felt myself sliding closer to that blissful oblivion. The tavern’s noise seemed to fade away, the clatter of mugs and the murmur of voices growing distant.

I glanced at Isaac, who was watching me with a mixture of amusement and something else, perhaps concern. I almost laugh; Isaac should be the last person worried about me. But his face is soon enough blurred by the wine, as though his features were painted in broad strokes. I waved him off, dismissing his silent judgment, and turned my attention back to the glass in front of me.

There’s only a sip left, so I drink it all in one go. The timing is perfect, for Benedict seemed done with his game.

“What do you say we go somewhere more personal, Charles?” He whispered next to my ear. “You enjoyed yourself enough, did you not?”

I saw myself with a choice to make. I could scare him off, exaggerate my drunken state and leave hastily. However, I could spend the night with him. It’d be nice to feel wanted for a change. And he was well formed. Or maybe it was the wine talking. Maybe it was the emptiness I felt, making me crave for attention from anyone, whichever way I could get.

Isaac appeared by my side, standing in the middle of me and Benedict.

“Charlie, dear, do you remember out appointment?”

He waited for my answer. Benedict seemed slight annoyed with his sudden presence, but Isaac doesn’t care. That is the exact reason he was there, to protect me if things turned south.

I considered my options again. Spending the night alone, or extending my night of distraction just a little more? It seemed I already had my answer.

“Tis all well, friend, we shall see to it another day.”

He nodded and let me go. Meanwhile, Benedict collected his money, paid the bill and offered his arm for me to take. I smiled, trying my best to look as honoured as he wanted me to be.

“...My house is not available.”

I sighed, disappointed. For my own consciousness, I avoid thinking about the reasons we couldn’t go to his house.

“Fine, we go to mine.”

I was doing a really good job at not thinking about John Mulligan.

And I know me mentioning his name makes it seem like the opposite, but it was true. My good friend alcohol had the desired effect. And that is why, when I saw a figure sitting in front of my door, a known figure, his figure, I decided that I was going mental. The amount of alcohol I had drink throughout my life finally took its toll on me.

My second thought, and I am unsure which is worse, is that I was in fact not hallucinating and John Mulligan was actually sitting at the stairs to my porch. Benedict turned to me, not realizing what made me stop.

“Go away” I said through gritted teeth.

“Excuse me?”

Too late. John turned his face in my direction. It was dark, but I saw his face. He had noticed us.

“Just fucking find someone else, I don’t know.”

Benedict still had not seen him, which made me wonder if maybe my first theory was right and John was just a figure of my drunken imagination. With an anger I did not think was possible for him, Benedict grabbed my coat and pulled me towards him.

“Look, I spent good money on you, you little-”

I grabbed his hand and pushed the bastard away from me.

“We got company, you dumb wit.”

I gestured towards Mulligan and he finally saw him, letting me go and running away. Good.

“Who was that?” he asked as I got closer.

“No one.”

“Did he hurt you?” His frown deepened, assessing me.

“No.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you. You didn’t show up to work today, so I came here. But you weren’t here either. I didn’t know what else to go so I thought... I just thought...”

“You shouldn’t.” I step one step up the stairs to my porch. “This is not your job. I am nothing to you.”

I remained looking in front of me, doing my best to not look him into the eyes.

“You are my friend...”

He tried to hold my hand, but I pulled it back.

“I am your coworker, Mr. Mulligan.” My tone of voice was cold, I could barely recognize it as my own. “What I do in my free time is not your business.”

I took another step up and then I almost fall on my face. I might have underestimated how drunk I was. I tripped on the step and if it were not for Mulligan holding me, I was for sure to meet the floor.

He stumbled with my sudden weight, but was able to balance both of us on our feet.

“I will go tomorrow” his voice is determined. “If this is what you wish. But tonight, I will take care of you. And that is final.”

I struggled to open the door. It seemed useless to fight. I let him enter after me as I walked unsurely to the nearest sofa and let my body fall, the weight of my fatigue finally pulling me down.

I closed my eyes only to feel the presence of John right next to me. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes to meet the azure of his.

“You ought to go to bed.”

Somehow, he was able to guide me to my room. I took my coat and my boots off. He helped me with the cravat before I could say anything. The realization of my situation hit suddenly, and I feel my throat tightening.

“I am a burden.” My voice was hoarse as I choked back tears. I’ve always hated when I turned into an emotional drunk. “Not to me.” He puts his hand on my face. “Never to me.”

After taking off my waistcoat and carefully folding it, he watched me get to bed before walking out of my room. I almost asked him to stay, but I regained my senses before it’s too late.

It didn’t take long before I fell asleep.

I was uncertain if last night was a bad dream or reality. The fact that I could only remember parts of it did not help either way. The thing that affirmed to me that it was real was seeing my clothes folded on a chair in my room. There is no world where I would take the time to do this.

So, John Mulligan did come to my house.

And probably still was there, if he had not left by early morning.

He was sat on the sofa, looking pensively to the floor as if he had spent the whole night like that.

“Are you better?”

I shrugged. There was no answer I could give to that. I hadn’t known the word “better” ever since I joined college. Only “worse” and “worser.”

“I only wanted to make sure you’d woke up well. As well as one could be, I suppose.” He let his head fall slightly.

I recognized the look he gave me. Half pity, half disappointment. It was a Charles Adams special. I should say something. Apologize, tell him how much he actually means to me. How grateful I am that he stayed. But then... I should say nothing. I should let him see me for who I was. If there was any doubt to be had I didn’t deserve him, that would give him the answer.

“I shall go now. Tis improper to lengthen such a visit since we are but coworkers.”

It hurt. But I should’ve seen it coming.

At least he allowed me to accompany him to the door.

I’VE THOUGHT my day could not get worse. I mean, having to work side by side with John Mulligan after... Well, everything, was bad enough. I was wrong.

And then I see the vision of Hell. A dreadful vision not of fire and brimstone, nor of tormented souls shrieking in agony. No, this was far worse, you see. This was my brother.

Talking to John Mulligan.

Right in front of the office. At least Col. Hamilton is nowhere around.

Mulligan saw me first. His gaze quickly changes between me and my brother, and his expression told me that this encounter wasn’t his idea. Noticing that his listener had lost awareness, he turned around.

“Charles, there you are!”

“Quincy.” I forced a smile. “I did not get your note saying you were paying me a visit.”

“Oh, I did not send one.”

“Did you not?” My smile turned into a grimace. “Really?”

Mulligan seemed close to making his escape, which I did not blame him for. But Quincy turned his attention to him and the boy stopped in his tracks.

“I was just about to ask this sir where you were. Are you friends?”

John Mulligan gave me a side eye.

“Coworkers.”

“Please, you ought to join us for dinner either way, Mr. Mulligan.” he smiled, ever the diplomat. “If only to stop us from fighting.”

“When do ever fight?”

He simply arched his brown. Oh, well.

“Seriously, John, you don’t have to...” “I shall.” He smiled, almost as forced as mine.

At least the murdering of my brother would have a witness.

We walked into the inn and all I could think was all the possible ways I could escape. Pretending to be ill was my best option, right next to getting on a horse and running.

Alas, neither option seemed immediately feasible. For the moment.

Fortunately, Quincy was not cheap. He assured us with no small amount of self-importance, that he would see to our supper and wine. So it was not all bad. And, to his credit, he did wait until our meal arrived to get into the most sensitive subject.

“So, dear brother, has any unfortunate New York maiden been charmed by you so as to become the next Mrs. Adams?”

I hesitated, suddenly too aware of Mulligan’s presence by my side.

“I wouldn’t wish for any woman to endure that.”

“How noble of you.” He provided me with an ironic smile. “I just hope you are being careful. If you do not choose a wife soon, Fate may choose it for you.”

There it was, the condescending tone he learned directly from our dear papa.

“Pray tell, what do you mean by that?”

“It’s just that if one keeps a certain number of mistresses, as you so enthusiastically did in college, tis a matter of time before there are consequences.” He shrugged. “You are not immune to the laws of nature.”

I felt my face blush. Next to me, Mulligan’s grip on his fork tightened.

“You have nothing to worry about” I said, both to my brother and, indirectly, to Mulligan.

Quincy turned his gaze to Mulligan, inclining towards him in a conspiratory way.

“Is that so? Has my brother not mentioned any merchant’s daughter? Not a single actress? Lord knows he always had a weakness for theatrics.”

Mulligan gulped. He does not break my brother's gaze, but seems to be burning inside. “No, not that I remember.”

He retained his attention on his meal. To that point, mulligan’s rituals were second nature to me, but — as I would realize — not to my brother. Quincy watched, curious, the way he adjusted his plate while the rest of us were already eating.

“You know, Charles, you did always keep such odd company. Mr. Mulligan is surely an improvement from the rascals and rakes you’ve met in college.”

“Is it so?” My voice comes out sharp, almost as a warning.

John Mulligan looked sullen at that. With renown confidence, and perhaps a bit of defiance, he answered,

“Well, one mustn’t judge a boy too harshly for his youthful indiscretions. You were young once yourself, however difficult that may be to believe."

I cannot help but laugh out loud. Mulligan must have read my brother’s character immediately. I was reminded of how Quincy used to be as a child, always proper, always slightly displeased with everything, like an old man. The comparison couldn’t be truer.

Quincy did not let himself be offended by that. To be honest, I believe that if he understood the implications of Mulligan’s words, he would believe it to be a compliment.

"I always knew how to abide by the rules set before me."

"A commendable trait, no doubt.” Mulligan smirked, raising his glass. “Yet, if you will permit me to be so bold, I might argue that a far greater quality in a man is knowing when to defy order. If I am not mistaken, your father did not simply bow to the rules imposed on him by the Crown, did he?

Quincy grimaced to his cup, perhaps feeling a taste of his own medicine.

"That is hardly the same. My father’s defiance was a matter of principle, of duty to his country."

Mulligan shrugged, letting his head tilt to the side. “Ah, so rebellion is admirable when done for the right cause...” He nodded, twirling his drink in his hand. “But who, pray, decides what cause is right? There are some who would still believe that our war for independence was not a just cause.”

There are fewer things that make my brother so mad than to be contradicted. So even if his tone was polite, his words were sharp with insult in a way I did not know John was capable of.

“I hope you are not comparing a boy’s mischief to the great cause of liberty?”

“No, I wouldn’t dare. Though I do find some resemblance... I believe that those who live too rigidly by the rules often struggle to see beyond them. And that, sir, is the curse that prevents change. Those who concern themselves too much with propriety often find themselves shackled by it. But, of course, what do I know? I am hardly as proper and agreeable as yourself.”

Quincy glanced at me then, as if expecting me to intervene, but I merely took a sip of my drink, watching the exchange unfold with no small amount of amusement. That was just far too entertaining to stop.

“I see the influence Col. Hamilton left on yourselves, misguided as it might be.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Speaking of which, you must tell me how you find working beside my brother. He has never been particularly fond of discipline.”

Mulligan returned the smile, but there was an edge to it now. "On the contrary, sir, Charles possesses a sharp mind and a keen sense of justice. When he applies himself, he is quite formidable."

"Ah," Quincy said, amusement flickering across his face. "When he applies himself. Well, that does sound rather like him. If only he did that more."

“It frankly appalls me you put such little faith in your brother, sir.”

Quincy hesitated, certainly not used to having someone come in my defence. Usually, my father or other siblings would jump on the opportunity to air my mistakes.

“Forgive me, both of you. Perhaps you did change, Charles.” He offered me some grace. “I am happy to report that to Father.”

“Of course you are.” I almost rolled my eyes, imagining what Quincy would tell our father about our dinner.

I let myself fall a bit to my chair, hoping that the floor would pull me towards it. Mulligan afforded me a sad look. Pity. It made my skin crawl.

As we finished eating, we walked out of the place with a certain degree of rashness. Quincy mentioned being sad that he could not stay the night and I did my best to look disappointed.

He stopped in front of Mulligan and I could almost hear his thoughts. He was assessing him, wondering if that peculiar and stubborn man was good enough company for an Adams’ boy.

“You seem to have your wits about yourself, Mr. Mulligan, which is more than I can say of some. Hopefully you can be of some influence on my brother.” His judging eyes turned to me. “He needs it.”

I wanted to say something, but I feel Mulligan’s hand on my shoulder and stop. The touch is soft and comforting, two things I am not used to.

“I believe he could use a friend, yes. Advice, even. But influence is too strong a word. I am adamant that Char—, that Mr. Adams is fully capable of making his own choices.”

“If you believe so.” Quincy tilted his head, looking not at me or at him, but at the picture of both of us together. And for a moment I fear he will realize what Mulligan means to me. But he let it go. “You should write more often. Father worries about you.”

He worries about his name. His reputation. His hopes to be elected as soon as Washington is out of the picture. I am more consequence than motive.

Mulligan stayed by my side as we watch John Quincy Adams make his way back to Lord’s knows where.

“Thank you, by the way.” I turned to face him. “You did not have to do this.”

He was quiet, a small furrowing on his forehead. His gaze was still on the direction Quincy went, even though the man was nowhere to be seen. When he speaks again, his voice is soft and laces with that pity I hate so much.

“It grieves me deeply that your family treats you so.”

“I am used to it.”

“You should not be.”

Mulligan probably was used to his big happy family, where his siblings saw him as an example and his father cared. He did not have my two decades of experience holding the weight of being an Adams as Atlas held the weight of the world in his shoulders.

“John, I deserve it.” I granted him a small laugh, I hoped he could see that this didn’t affect me as much. “Trust me, I earned their distrust.”

He gestured for us to start walking, even though our houses are on opposite ways. I followed, for a thought a walk might help me after that evening.

“Do you believe that? Or are you repeating what they said?”

“They know me better than anyone. What they say and what it is true is not that much different”

“I don't believe that.”

He seemed so certain, so absolute on the fact that I was better — that I could be better — that I didn’t know how else to make him see that it didn’t get much better than that.

“John, the only constant presence in my life is my family and I assure tis not by choice but only because we are tied by blood.” My voice faltered, giving in my true sentiments of despair. “Everyone else left.”

“Everyone else is stupid.”

I chuckled with the directness of his statement. But John was fully serious. Or as serious as one could be as he crossed his arms like a discontented child.

“You think too highly of me.”

“I believe I think quite fairly of you.” He stepped closer to me and as our arms touched, I felt my whole body burn in response. “You are unlike anyone else I have ever met. You are so smart, and don't say it isn't so, I know it. You just refuse to believe it and now I see why. You are also so witty, truly, you have this dry sense of humour and a proclivity to sarcasm that would've been rude coming from anyone else, but you know how to make it painless.”

“John...”

“And if you need to tell me so again and again, I shall do it.”

I am left unguarded by his sincerity of affection. I hate how easily he did this, how easily John could read me, how effortlessly he could strip away the layers I had carefully constructed and set with the harsh years of my boyhood. It wasn’t just the way John looked at me —though that certainly didn’t help— it was the way John knew me. And I hated it.

“I don't want to hurt you.”

“So you decided to push me away before giving us—” he caught himself before finishing that sentence, but it was too late, I heard it. “...giving yourself a chance!”

“Tis better if it happened now than if I allowed myself to grow used to your presence.”

John stopped, furrowing his brow in confusion.

“What if tis too late for me? What if I am already attached? Did you not consider my feelings? Do you think so little of me as to believe that I would accept your absence without sentiment?” he looked down, hesitantly. “Do you realize that in your attempt to avoid hurting me, you have already done it?”

I have no fair answer to that. He was right. I had pushed John away. Not because he didn’t want him close, but because I was terrified. Terrified of what John saw in me, terrified of the way John made me feel like I might be worth something. That went against all the things that had been etched into me from a young age: Do not let yourself be vulnerable. Do now allow anyone to know you too much. Leave before they leave first.

I followed those commands. I put up walls, fortifications of stone around me, thinking that it would somehow protect me. But that crushing feeling in my chest told me it was too late. I was already hurting.

“I’m not going anywhere, Charles. I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.” John held both my hands, for just a moment, before letting it go. Of course, we couldn’t risk anything else while in public. “I’m here. And I’ll be here. As long as you need. As long as it takes. I’m not rushing you. I’m not asking for anything you’re not ready to give. And I’m not going to walk away, no matter how long it takes you to trust me, or to trust yourself.”

I wonder if it is possible to die from too much love. If somehow after so many years being denied affection, my body did not recognize it anymore and instead it reacted to it with panic. I felt suffocated and it became hard to breathe. I couldn’t think what the right thing to say, nor what properly timed joke would put me out of my misery.

He offered me affection and I held it in my arms like an awkward gift it had no place for in my home.

And John sees it. He sees the fear and the uncertainty and the mess he made me — the mess I am —so he stepped back.

I realized what I should have realized so long before. This was never about protecting John. It was about protecting me.

No one can hurt you more than those you care for. To care is to be left vulnerable. I knew it deep down.

And I denied his care, the same way I was denied it from others as a child.

I still did not think myself worthy. But I started wondering if I could forge myself into someone who not only could accept his love, but someone worthy of it.

HERE'S WHAT THEY don’t tell you about affection. It was addictive. It was for me, at least. But then again, I have never met a good feeling I was not addicted to. Bad feelings too, I suppose. As long as I felt something. As long it reminded me I was alive.

The thing is that once one is admired, once one is seen, one cannot go back into hiding. And once one has grown accustomed to kind blue eyes and sincere smiles during work, it becomes hard to go back to coldness and normalcy.

Maybe my plan of avoiding John could’ve worked if I was swifter with it. But as of now, I wanted — craved — him in my life.

So I’d have to fix this. Somehow.

And it started with the ornate box of Spanish cigars my father gifted to me after graduation. I had been careful with it. I did not care much for possessions, but that box had been safe by my side ever since. In some twisted way, it was a reminder that my father did care for me. That at least once in my life, I had done well. I made him proud.

There were still six of the dozen the box came with. And I was to sell them.

That was why I invited Mr. Williams to my house. He was the man who sold me alcohol at a good price. And whom I hoped to sell my beloved cigars. I was half grieving them already.

“I want a guinea” I said my price, trying not to show my desperation.

Williams laughed. “For half a dozen cigars I’ll have to take on my hand like an animal? You jest!”

“They are fine quality.” I insisted. I should know, of course. I tried them myself.

“Aye, but they are still only six.” He shrugged. “I’ll settle for two crowns.”

“Now you must be the one jesting.”

Williams did not stop smiling as he took the box in his head and weighed it.

“You want more? Throw in the box.”

“No!” I reached forward to take it from him “It has... sentimental value.”

“It has monetary value, good sir. Tis cedar, well-crafted at that. Tis worth more than what’s inside.”

“Fine. How much with the box? Two pounds?”

“A pound.”

“No. I am no fool. I can find someone who will pay more.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh.

“You drive a hard bargain. You should find yourself lucky I appreciate a man who is determined.” He tapped his fingers on the box. “Say, a pound and a half is the highest I’ll go.”

I was not happy, but I had no choice. Reluctantly, I offered my hand for him to shake.

“Deal.”

The other half of the plan was not yet formed.

I needed a place to get quick money. And I think I knew where it had to come from. There was a single place that could ruin a man or make him rich in a blink of an eye.

I waited the night to arrive to go to Bacchus, which at this point was my second home. The sailors were all there, including Capt. Leroy. I cannot help but smile. I felt comfortable there.

I drew a deep breath and slipped into the circle, my presence hardly noticed at first, but I didn’t mind. I wasn’t here for pleasantries.

“Mind if I join?” I asked, as casually as I could. They couldn’t know how Much was riding in this game.

“The table is full,” muttered an older man, turning his back to me.

“Shut up, Gallagher.” Capt. Leroy gestured for him to give me space. “There’s always a place for our friend Adams.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“You’re more than welcome. A crown to join, mate.”

“Fine.”

I knew he couldn’t resist the opportunity to gain back the money I lost him. And the best part is that he would be reckless, I knew it. Too eager to beat me, that would be his folly.

The first few rounds went well. I played cautiously, not too eager to risk too much, but enough to stay in the game. I won a few rounds, small amounts, slowly increasing my pot. The other two sailors were not worrying me. The first had an obvious tell of itching his nose whenever he was dealt a bad hand. The second, way too overconfident, plays when he should yield and raises when he should pass.

Captain was a different story. One did not play as much as he did without picking up on some tricks. As far as I could tell, he did not have a tell. Weak or strong hand, he kept a smile on his face. He joked and quipped like a man eating his breakfast.

“No devoted attendant at your side tonight?” he asked, shuffling the cards with ease.

“Nay. I suppose I shall have to suffer through the night without him.”

“Pity.” He smiled, offering my new hand. “Send him my regards.”

With a mix of strategy and luck, I won the next few hands. The rush of victory was swift, sending me a wave of pleasure as great as drinking. Oh, how could I forget how good it felt to win?

It was simple. Keep winning each round, get enough in the pot, and I’d be ahead. Just one more win, and I’d have a pound. Just one more game.

“I’ll raise a crown,” I said, my voice casual but tight with the tension I felt building. The others exchanged glances, and one by one, they tossed in their coins.

The cards came down. I had the best combination on the table, a pair of tens. My heart raced as I watched the others nervously discard their hands. Even all mighty Captain seemed nervous, reaching for his tankard more often than usual.

I had my pound. I could leave now and be set. But the rush and the temptation of playing consumed me. What if I could win more? I was on a streak, and luck had favoured me thus far. I could feel the greed creeping in, the familiar heat of overconfidence. What was the point of leaving the table with just a pound when I could walk away with two? Three?

“Pray, Mr. Adams, are you in?”

“Yes, sir.”

It’ll be my last one. Just this one. And I should make it worth it.

Captain dealt the cards. After seeing his, he immediately went to drink from his cup. He was on edge. It was a bad hand. The other overconfident sailor laughed, but he was obviously bluffing. I had a sequence. Everything was going right as planned.

I leaned back, feeling the weight of the pound in my hands, but as I looked at the growing pile of coins, my mind raced. I tossed my winnings into the middle, smiling a little too smugly. “I’m all in.”

The two sailors folded like I knew they would. But Captain hesitated, twirling a coin on his hand. He stared at me and I kept eye contact, confident. He wouldn’t fold. He wanted to beat me; I was just giving him the opportunity.

“I’ll match you.” He pushed all his earnings to the centre of the pool.

There were no words to explain the rush I felt as I played. My heart raced and I had to stop myself from laughing too soon. I showed my sequence: one of diamonds, two of hearts, three of clubs. It was not the best hand possible, but it was damn good enough.

Only for Captain to show me a prial of fives. He had the best hand. All his nervousness I foolishly thought I’ve seen was just anticipation of a man who knew he was about to win. I thought I was playing him, but he was the one playing me.

And now I had to suffer the consequences.

The others celebrated his win, of course. I forced a smile, congratulating him, but the humiliation burned at the back of my throat. I had lost everything. The pound I gained, the money I had wagered to play, everything.

“Well, well, Mr. Adams,” he said, his voice sweet with mockery. “Looks like luck’s taken its leave of you.”

I gave him exactly what he wanted. His vengeance. Nemesis must had been on his side. She granted me my payback for my hubris.

I covered my face with my hands, trying to figure it out what I should do now. I was hopeless. And then, like and angel from Heaven, a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired sailor appeared from the corners of Bacchus right behind me. It was the third I had saw him, and still had not learned his name. I had noticed him watching the game quietly and that was the first time he moved.

“Tough luck, eh?”

I offered him my worst unfriendly face.

“If you are here to jest at my expense, at least wait for me to leave.” I made to get up, but he stopped me, grabbing my arm. I froze, looking confusingly at him.

“Wait there, mate. You’ve got guts. I admire a man who plays risky.” He shook my hand and discreetly put a silver crown on my palm. “Why don’t ye try again?”

I looked at the coin and then to him again.

“Seriously? W-why?”

The sailor merely shrugged. “Call it an act of charity. Or consider it an investment, if it soothes your pride. I mainly want to see what happens if you are given a second chance.”

The coin seemed to burn on my hand.

“I am Charles.” “I know.” He laughed. “Call me Abraham.”

“If I win this, Abraham, I shall call you my saviour.” I showed him the coin, like an offering.

I sat on my seat again and pushed the crown forward. Captain laughed, side eyeing Abraham. But the young sailor didn’t let this get to him. He pressed on my shoulder, a small token of good luck.

This time, I would win. I had to.

And, as if the gods themselves had decided to mock my misfortune and then bless me in equal measure, the tide shifted in mine Favour.

Card after card, the silver crown multiplied, first into two, then five, then ten times its worth. The men at the table cursed under their breath, their glances flicking nervously between me and Thomas, who leaned casually against the wall, watching the game unfold with quiet amusement.

With his crown, I had managed to not only recover my losses but win back the pound I had foolishly risked and a bit more.

I sat back, feeling the rush of victory again, but this time tempered by a sense of humility. I had almost lost it all. But for now, I had won it back, and for some reason, Abraham's grin made it all feel right.

“One more!” exclaimed Capt. Leroy.

But I had learned my lesson. I declined the invite and collected my earnings and said my goodbyes, this time leaving with my pocket filled and a sense of fulfilment.

Abraham waited for me next to the door. His crossed arms called attention to how strong they were.

“I don’t know how to thank you.” But I could try, I took two crowns from my pocket. One for his troubles, the other for the investment.

“Thank you, but I didn't do it for the money.”

“So it was the kindness of your heart?”

He let out a soft chuckle, eyes dipping briefly before meeting mine again. “Let’s just say I had my reasons.” A beat passed. Then, quieter, “Had to get your attention somehow, didn’t I?”

“And you achieved just that.” I laughed, then slightly bit my lower lip. “I’ll see you around, Abraham. My saviour.”

He smiled, easy and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Anytime, Charles.”

LUCKILY, I KEPT the address John had showed me someplace in the mess that was my table. After finding it, I went to see it and deal with the owner. It was a widow, very quiet, didn’t ask many questions, only seemed to care if I had the money.

I paid the first month, which seemed risky. I mean, what if John said no?

It was small, tucked between two larger brick buildings, the kind of place that could be overlooked by anyone who wasn’t searching for it. But I had searched. I had planned. And now, at last, I have secured it.

Twas a small but respectable two-bedroom dwelling, tucked away on a quieter street in New York. Modest, the kind of place meant for clerks and tradesmen rather than gentlemen of wealth, but it is sturdy and affordable.

Inside, the main room serves as both a sitting area and a space for meals. A modest hearth takes up one wall, its bricks darkened from years of use. A small, well-worn wooden table sits near the window, accompanied by three chairs. We could have visits it seemed. Against another wall, a narrow shelf holds a few tin plates, a kettle and some other necessities.

My room had a narrow bed pushed against the wall, with a simple woollen blanket thrown over it, and a small chest at the foot where I could keep my clothes. Mulligan’s room mirrored it, though I imagined it would be kept tidier than his own.

It was not a grand home, nor even a particularly fine one, but it was enough. A space of our own, away from prying eyes and expectations, made just for us.

I only had to convince Mulligan to join me.

After our next day at work, I stopped by his table. We were leaving on a strange balance between awkwardness and cordiality, so he seemed surprised to see me.

“May I ask for you to join me in my walk home?”

He narrowed his eyes, fidgeting his fingers while he thought. Eventually, he gave in, collecting his things and joining me.

We talked about frivolities until he realized that we started going in a different direction to my house.

“Adams... Where are we going?”

My lips became a thin line as I ignored his question. A glimmer of amusement shone in his eyes.

“I am serious! If you attend to abduct me, I shall warn you that my family has no great amount of money.”

I muffled a laugh. We were almost there. I got closer, my hands shaking as I tried to unlock the door. John huffed, crossing his arms as I fumbled with the key. “Should I be concerned?” he asked, though his voice carried more amusement than wariness.

I finally managed to fit the key into the lock and pushed the door open with a creak. Stepping aside, I gestured for him to enter first.

He hesitated, glancing at me warily before stepping through the threshold. His gaze swept across the small but tidy space. He turned back to me, his brows furrowing.

“This isn’t your house.”

“No,” I admitted, stepping inside and shutting the door behind me. My heart pounded in my chest as I met his gaze. “It’s ours.”

John blinked. Whatever teasing remark had been forming on his lips faded, replaced by stunned silence. I watched as realization dawned on him slowly, as though he were afraid to believe it.

“If, if you wanted to, of course.” I started to doubt myself. It suddenly became a very bad idea. I mean, what if he did not want to live with me anymore?

But then his eyes brightened with soft, genuine surprise and the tension in my chest loosened. A quiet, relieved smile tugged at my lips.

“So, when do we pay?” he asked, his words full of that warm eagerness I hadn’t expected.

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to act casual. “Oh, I already paid the rent for this month.”

John’s brows shot up, disbelief mixing with curiosity. “Pardon? I thought you said you didn’t have the money.”

I shifted uncomfortably, the heat of my face rising with embarrassment. Truth be told, I hadn’t expected him to even think about the money. “I found a way,” I said quickly, waving a hand around the room. “Tis a gesture. I want to try this... friendship ordeal.”

The room was quiet for a beat. He watched me with an odd, knowing look, his fingers twitching by his side as if he wanted to reach for me but pulled back at the last moment, thinking it better. It was the kind of look that made my chest tighten.

“Next time warn me, you madman,” he said finally, his tone softer than usual, teasing but with a warmth that melted the rest of my doubts away.

“Where did the money come from?” he asked, his curiosity piquing. I froze for a moment. It took me a second to figure out how to answer, to find a way to avoid the truth I knew would make him frown.

“I just…” I swallowed hard, my voice trailing off. “I asked my father for an advance on my allowance.”

John’s eyes widened. “And he gave it freely?”

I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. “I assumed he was feeling generous.” A lie, but a necessary one. It was better if I did not acknowledge the money for our house came from the life I had tried to shelter him from. “I’ve learned not to question it.”

John’s smile slowly returned, faint but genuine, and his shoulders relaxed. “Good for us, then.”

And in that moment, as I watched him stand there, I realized that no matter how hard it was for me to get there, or how long I spent worrying about what allowing myself to get closer to him would mean. I wanted this. I wanted him here, beside me.

The likely probability was for this to end badly. It worked like that with everything I was involved in. However, I’ve always been a gambling man. And I was willing to go all in for John Mulligan.

Chapter Text

MOVING INTO OUR new home was an exercise in patience for both of us. John claimed he didn’t own much, which I foolishly believed until I saw the pile of books, clothes, and other miscellaneous nonsense he deemed essential. I had few belongings myself. Just some clothes, a few books, a box full of different types of alcohol and a trunk full of regret, though that last item was metaphorical and therefore took up no space.

We spent the afternoon arranging what little furniture we had, which mostly involved moving things from one side of the room to the other and then back again when John decided he didn’t like it.

“I am sure this chair is fine here.”

He paced around slightly, before moving it two inches to the left.

“There. Tis fine there.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but I changed my mind. Some things were not worth the hassle.

Organizing the books on our shelves was another small battle. We had three shelves on the left side of the wall and, counting my books and his, there was no space for all of them. We may lack clothing and proper furniture, but as scholars, the books were non-negotiable.

“Maybe we could leave some of them somewhere else. A nightstand?”

John frowned. He let his head fall, observing the shelf like another one would materialize it right beside it.

“Books are meant for shelves.”

“Well, some of these books are repeated. We don't need two copies of The Spirit of the Laws, do we?”

As an example, I held each copy in each hand. Surprisingly, mine was neater than his, in which the signs of wear were already showing. He pulled his copy out of my hands with certain bruteness.

“But I am not departing of my copy. It has my annotations and personal thoughts.”

“How about I sell mine and you let me use yours?”

“Charles, I would give you my own heart if you asked.” He put emphasis on his words by grabbing one of my shoulders and putting his other hand on my chest. “But I don't share books.”

You loved him, Charles. He was insufferable, but he was your friend and you loved him. This was what I kept repeating to avoid the ever so growing urge of throwing my copy of the Federalist at him.

“Well,” I sighed, scrambling my brain for solutions. “We can put another shelf underneath this one.”

“No.”

“No? What is it this time, John?”

“Four is a bad number” he murmured. For the sake of our collected peace, I did not ask what constituted a ‘bad number’. He continued, “We can put three on the other side, so its symmetrical.”

I blinked, trying my best to follow his logic.

“Except, my dear friend, we don't have that many books.”

“We ought to get more.”

“You are impossible,” I muttered, dropping onto what passed for a chair.

John dusted his hands off, surveying our work. “And yet, you willingly chose to live with me. What does that say about you?”

He inclined in my direction. One move and I could pull him towards me, making him fall right on top of me. Tempting.

“That I am a fool.”

He put a hand on my arm, our faces dangerously close. “That makes two of us, then.”

But work was not done. We still had to move both of our trunks of clothing. His was heavier, which I should’ve expected from the son of a tailor.

“You realize,” he said, as we dragged his trunk into his room, “now that we live together, you’ll have to endure my company at all hours of the day.”

I sighed, dropping it next to his bed. “Yes, I am aware.”

He smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “You could still back out, you know.”

I looked at him, at the way the fading light caught in his hair, at the half-smile playing on his lips, at the way my chest tightened at the thought of him not being here. He was perfect. And he made my life better. He fit into it like the other piece of the puzzle I did not know it was missing.

“No,” I said simply. “I couldn’t.”

He smiled shyly, with a lack of confidence not right for a man otherwise so stubborn.

“You say this now. But between working together and living together, we will spend a lot of time with each other. What if you get tired of me?”

I realized this wasn’t jesting anymore. He was genuinely worried about the subject.

“I considered it.” I thought about my father and the cake and his sweetness. “But I came to realization that it will not happen. Tis far more likely you will be the one tired of me.”

“I won't” he said, his assurance was back, like it never left him.

I wished only to have half of that self-assurance. That certainty of belief, that conviction that everything happened for a reason.

“How can you be certain?”

I cannot help but ask. My life was full of doubt yet his was so... right.

He moved to the kitchen, where he had bought a set of silverware gifted to him by his mother. The nicest thing we had, now that my box of imported cigars was gone. He pulled a fork from it, and I recognized it immediately. Twas not part of the set, it was the fork he had stolen the night we first dined together.

“You kept it?”

He looked at it with a kind smile.

“Yes. It was not smart to keep evidence of my crime, but I wanted the reminder.”

“Who knew that such strong friendship would start with such petty crime.”

I was jesting, but his face became serious as he looked at me.

“I knew.”

“You did not.” I chuckled, incredulous.

“I knew” he said, more firmly. He pressed the blunt side of the fork on my open palm, that being the only thing separating our hands. “I knew from the moment I met you, Charles Adams. Your name feels like a word I have been trying to remember my whole life. You changed me forever. I cannot go back to how it was before I met you. I feel like Fate itself tied me to you. When you touch me, my mind is silent for the first time. You saved me as much as I have saved you.”

For God’s sake, how does one respond to that? If only he knew the self-restraint it took for me to keep my composure and not kiss him right there. Or get on my knees and pledge my loyalty to him as a devoted knight.

I took the fork from his hand and put it back with the rest of the silverware, turning my back towards him so he did not see the anguish on my face, nor could I see the rejection of his.

Save him? I would condemn him to hell. To a life of misery. And all because I could not resist temptation. What a pathetic excuse for a friend I was.

I STARED AT the painting on my wall as if it would go away on its own. I had seen a lot of questionable art in my life — one does not go through college without meeting some burden artists who were destined to starve — but this terrible excuse for decoration that came with the house was truly hideous.

The portrait above my bed was, I supposed, intended to capture the likeness of a gentleman, though for the appearance of it, I’d have guessed the artist had never seen a man, or any type of person at all. The proportions on his face were all wrong. His enormous forehead and the hairline which seemed to start on the middle of his head, starting on what it was probably a wig, but it looked more like a cloud, curls frizzed in defeated mess. His eyes were small, and the painter must have missed some classes on symmetry, or the model was particularly unfortunate, because they were obviously different sizes.

One could not gaze upon the portrait without feeling, in some way, personally slighted. Needless to say, that ugly thing would not be in my room for long.

I yanked it and threw it on the floor where it belonged. I should probably burn that thing.

That was when I saw it.

A thin, jagged crack in the plaster, running vertically like an old wound in the wall. I leaned in, squinting. It was too small to be a proper hole, but big enough that, if I pressed close enough, I could see light filtering through from the other side.

John’s room.

I hesitated, then, because I am a man of great intelligence and sound judgment, I did the least intelligent and least sound thing possible: I pressed my eye to the crack.

At first, I saw nothing but dim candlelight and the vague shape of furniture. But then, a bit of movement. I saw John, pacing in his room, using just his night shirt and breeches, his hair falling completely on his shoulders, his hands twisting in a way he did when he was thinking too much.

I should have looked away. I should have put the frame back and pretended I had seen nothing at all.

Instead, I stayed there, watching as he flopped onto his bed, stretching out with all the grace of a cat before exhaling loudly and staring at the ceiling. He had no idea I was there, witnessing this small, unguarded moment.

Something about that realization made my stomach turn. It felt intimate, like I had stumbled upon something private, something I wasn’t meant to see. That was too far, I shouldn’t have done this.

I took a step back, suddenly aware of how fast my heart was beating.

I quickly put the frame back on its place, feeling my face burn.

I got out of my room so I could call him properly.

“John?” I knocked on his door.

“Wait a minute.”

My face kept burning as I imagined him getting himself presentable again. When he opened, his shirt was properly tucked and his hair loosely tied back. I asked for him to follow me to my room. When I took off the picture, I gestured at the crack.

“Behold. We have been living with a structural disaster. A gaping, offensive flaw in the very integrity of our home.”

John tilted his head. “Tis a crack.”

“Yes. A crack. A small, treacherous hole through which we can apparently spy on one another. Not that I would. That would be perverse.”

John raised a brow. “Of course. I assure you there won’t be nothing interesting to spy on though.” He grinned, stepping closer to examine it. “Huh. It’s almost like a secret passage, but worse. A secret passage for only for notes.”

“You don’t seem particularly alarmed.”

“Why should I be?” He knocked on the wall lightly, testing it. “I trust you. What are you going to do? Send roaches trough it?” He laughed, but I saw the moment he started considering it. “Oh, that’s actually horrifying. Please do not to that.”

I held hid hand for a moment, to assure him and make sure he did not consider that for long. I knew how easily something could stick with him.

“John, I am not sending roaches trough the crack. I am simply worried about privacy.”

“Oh.” I could see his face when he started thinking about already a new thing to fix. “Well, tis not so jarring. I promise not to look. I mean, you can’t barely see anything. Unless.... Unless you are worried about, uh, you know.... company?”

His face turned red. I realized we have not talked about this. When I lived alone, my house was hardly empty, at least at night. Men and women I had invited to spend the night. No one of importance, no one whose face I would remember.

Could I still bring someone home, knowing he was just beyond that wall? Knowing he might hear, might know? Would I even want to?

The probable answer made my stomach twist uncomfortably.

“I shall figure something out.” I picked up the painting and put it up against on the wall.

John exhaled, relieved, perhaps more so than I was. He tapped the edge of the frame, ensuring it stayed put, then shot me a small, knowing smile.

“Well, at least if you snore, I can whisper threats through the wall,” he said lightly.

I smirked. “And if you snore, I’ll send roaches.”

His smile vanished. “You said you wouldn’t.”

I merely shrugged, but the small smile of amusement betrayed me.

For the rest of the day, we finished getting our house ready. I found my ways of dealing with his idiosyncrasies the way I promised I would. In truth, tis a small annoyance for me, but I knew how important details were to him.

He had always been like this, precise, careful, so particular in his ways. But I had never understood why. I had never considered that there might be a reason beyond habit.

Despite my complaints, I could not deny the quiet satisfaction that settled in my chest as I looked around. It was not grand, nor particularly well-furnished, but it was ours. The walls still smelled faintly of dust and disuse, the floor creaked in odd places, and the wind slipped in through unseen cracks, but for the first time in a long while, I felt at home.

We had no servant nor cook, so we’d have to find a way to cook for ourselves. For that, I was using an old recipe book that was gifted to me by my old maidservant.

This night we were to do broil chicken. I was particularly sceptical about butterflying a chicken. Not just because I doubted our ability to cook it, but because I wasn’t sure I trusted John Mulligan with a knife that sharp.

"You're certain you know what you're doing?" I asked, watching him position the poultry on the table, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed from an earlier flour mishap.

John gave me a serious look. "I did not graduate law school to be taken down by a chicken, Charles."

I crossed my arms. "No, but I would argue this opponent is considerably more complex than half the cases Hamilton has us working on."

He scoffed, but I could see the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes as he pressed the knife to the backbone and began cutting. He worked carefully, though his nose scrunched in concentration when the knife snagged slightly. I reached over, guiding his hand along the rest of the cut, and together we spread the chicken open.

“Pray, no need to fight an already dead bird.”

He laughed and picked up some spices. Everything he did was methodically. He looked like an inventor, his concentration rivalling Benjamin Frankling himself.

We seasoned it well with salt and pepper before placing it inside-down on the gridiron, letting the heat from the low fire do its work. The kitchen smelled rich, warm, and enticing, the kind of scent that could make even the coldest night feel like home.

“You’re rather at ease with this,” I noted, watching him work the fire.

He shrugged. “A household of eight children requires all hands when the cook is otherwise occupied.”

I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall.

“And here I believed your talent lay solely in your law books.”

“My talents are many and varied. You never know when I might surprise you with another.”

“Is that so? My, now I am imagining what else you could do. Juggling is my favourite option thus far.”

“Nothing of the sorts.” He snorted. “But who knows, maybe I’ll show you someday.”

I watched him stir with practiced ease. The firelight cast a golden glow on his face, softening the lines of concentration between his brows. More importantly, it brought out the red on his otherwise mostly golden hair. For a moment, I let myself linger in the comfort of it, of him, of this entire evening that felt so domestic I could nearly forget the world outside.

“I eagerly await that.”

When the time came, we sprinkled breadcrumbs over the chicken, flipped it, and repeated the process. It was coming together beautifully, golden brown and crisping at the edges. While it cooked, I set to work on the gravy, melting butter in a pan while John chopped the thyme and sage.

It was hard to concentrate on gravy or mushrooms when I could see his forearms in action, bare. It felt so intimate, seeing how his hands worked. I had learned that, with John, his hands were just as expressive as his face. He could stay serious if he needed to, but his hands would always demonstrate if he was nervous or excited.

John must have sensed me staring because he glanced up, lips quivering in amusement. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Only marvelling at the fact that we have yet to burn anything.”

He rolled his eyes and went back to his work, but I caught the faintest hint of pink dusting his ears. “Focus on the gravy, sir.”

I whisked the flour until it got a medium brown colour, similar to caramel. The chicken was ready soon after, resting atop thin slices of lemon as we ladled the rich, velvety gravy over it. Perfect.

Mulligan cleaned his forehead with his arm and tossed a strand of his hair behind his ear. There was something special about making our own food. I liked his company, and it made me appreciate it more because of the effort we put together to create it.

His face when we finally sat down to eat said it all. He hummed happily, with his eyes close in delight.

“Y’know, Charles, together we make a good cook and a half.”

“... Am I the half?”

His answer was only a muffled laugh.

AFTER SO BUSY a day, I was far too late when I finally prepared myself to go to bed. I sat on the edge of my bed, tugging off my stockings with the slow exhaustion of a man who had lifted one too many heavy trunks in a single day. I washed my face and arms with the basin, making sure I was not smelling like chicken anymore.

After finishing my night routine, I let myself fall on the bed dramatically. I was excited to finally go to sleep. I felt myself drifting and drifting, until...

A whisper. Soft, insidious, gentle.

“Charles.”

I ignored it. Surely, this was a dream. I had taken a shot before sleeping, just to help me calm down. I guessed I was suffering the effects.

“Charles.” This time louder, more decisive.

I opened my eyes to darkness, the only light in the room coming from the embers of the dying fire. For a blissful second, I thought I’d imagined it. Then I heard a faint tapping against the wall.

I groaned, turning onto my side to glare at the painting. Slowly and unsurely, I took it off the wall, revealing a small light from the other room. If I really tried, I could see the outline of John’s figure.

“Charles, are you awake?”

“No. I am unconscious. This is the voice of my restless spirit, cursing you from beyond.”

John snorted. “You sound awfully coherent for a ghost.”

“Then I am a very articulate ghost. Tis happens when you talk a lot in life. Now, kindly let me haunt in peace.”

A pause. Then, softer, “I couldn’t sleep.”

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. “And so you felt compelled to ruin mine as well?”

“I simply wanted to talk.”

“At this ungodly hour?”

What I don’t say, fighting against my worst instincts, is that there’s only one type of conversation that happens at midnight.

“I figured, if I had to suffer, you might as well keep me company.”

I exhaled through my nose, letting my head drop back against the pillow. “You are the bane of existence.”

From the other side of the wall, I heard a quiet chuckle. Then silence. For a moment, I thought he’d finally relented and went to sleep, but then I heard it again.

“Charles?”

“John.”

“Do you ever feel like your thoughts don’t belong to you?”

I blinked at the ceiling, trying to shake off the last traces of sleep. “That’s an ominous question to ask in the dark.”

He let out a weak chuckle, but it was thin, strained.

“I mean,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper, “like they just… repeat themselves. Over and over. And no matter how much you try to ignore them, they won’t go away.”

Oh.

I turned onto my side, staring at the crack in the wall. I couldn’t see him, not when he was laying down, but the dim light from his room bled through just enough to cast strange shadows against the wood.

“Yes, as you know” I admitted, because John simply made me want to be honest. “But I imagine your thoughts are far more persistent than mine.”

“What do you do?”

I considered it. “I drink.”

He huffed. I could nigh hear him turning on his bed. “That’s not helpful.”

“No, but tis the truth.” I ran a hand over my face, sighing. “Pray, if I remember correctly, someone told me that singing helped.”

I bit my lips, remembering the night where we sang together. I still cherished that memories in my dreams.

“...What if I don’t feel like singing right now?”

“Then you need a better distraction.”

“As...?”

I hesitated, then reached for the first thing I could think of, while the pile of books by my nightstand stared at me. After our little trifle with the shelves, I let him keep the space and brought my own books to my room. I could handle the mess.

“Well… I could bore you to sleep with legal theory.”

“That would only worsen my suffering.”

“Rude. I’ve been told my voice was quite soothing” I smirked at the crack, then continued, “Or we could play a game. Something to keep your mind occupied.”

He hummed, considering. “What kind of game?”

“A game of imagination. Let’s talk about something ridiculous.”

“I don’t see how that’s going to help.”

“Humour me” I replied with a smile. “What would you do if you were king for a day?”

He let out a quiet, exhausted laugh. “King? This would never happen. I have no ties with the monarchy. What an absurd idea.”

“Yes, I thought we established that was the point.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, begrudgingly, “I don’t know. I wouldn’t accept the crown. Tis against my principles. A single man should not have that much power.”

I made a dramatic sound of disapproval. “So proper. Try again.”

“But this is what I believe.”

“Yes, boring. If you’re going to dream, dream outrageously. Go mad with power. Be a despot.”

He sighed, but I could hear the hint of amusement in it. “Fine. I would abolish slavery everywhere. All men are made equal after all.”

“You are no fun. That’s an obvious answer. Can you not make a single selfish decision?”

“You made me king!” he said, with exaggerate offense. “Alright, I would, uh, hire the best actors and singers and make them perform for me every day, whichever play I want.”

“See? That’s better.”

We stayed for a second in silence.

“And what would you do, Mr. Jolly?”

“That’s obvious. Parties. The best ones in both New World and Old World. There’d be booze and music and great food... Oh, I can already imagine it.”

“I fear you’d be a tyrant, my friend” he answered, with his voice softer, more tired.

“Naturally.” That earned me a breath of laughter, small but genuine. His restless shifting had eased. He sounded lighter. “I would abolish schools as well.”

“Completely?”

“Fine, maybe not abolish. But I would like a reform. There must be better ways to teach children, right? And they should have time to play.”

His answer did not come immediately, I imagined he was considering my answer. I, for one, was reminded of my first school in Europe. I hated it there. Even my brother, Mr. Perfect himself, hated it. The teachers were mean and stiff, and they would hit us for the slight mistake. I wouldn’t go back even for money.

“Yeah, maybe your kingdom wouldn’t be so terrible” he said, finally.

“Consider yourself invited to court.” After a moment, I added, “You should sleep now, Your Majesty. Your kingdom needs you well-rested.”

John yawned, then said, “I suppose you’re right.”

“Tis rarely happens, but sometimes I am.”

His breathing evened out not long after. I laid back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet. I did not move to cover the crack this time.

“Hey, Charles...”

His voice surprised me, I was sure he was already sleeping. I murmured a response; to let him know I had heard him.

“You know that I have realized? With the way our beds are arranged, this thin wall is the only thing separating us. Tis as if we are sleeping on the same bed.”

I chuckled awkwardly, immediately the image of us on the same bed comes to me. I turned to the side and I picture him there, on his own bed, looking at me. No, stop it. Not going there.

“Go to sleep, John.”

WHEN ME AND John got home from work that day, already in the early afternoon, I had little ambition besides eating, maybe reading a book and falling peacefully on my bed.

That, of course, did not happen. Because I, Charles Adams, could never get what I wanted.

I had barely shrugged off my coat when a sharp and impatient knock rattled the door.

John looked at me. I looked at him. We both looked at the door.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, in the middle of taking off his own coat.

“Oh, never,” I muttered, already dreading what awaited me on the other side. I approached with caution, muttering a silent prayer that it was merely a courier or a lost neighbour. But when I swung the door open, all hopes of a peaceful evening perished on sight.

“Charles.”

Her smile was more of a thin slightly curved line, that never reached her brown eyes. Her posture was always straight, shoulders back, carrying herself with the kind of poise that only someone raised with the strictest sense of propriety could maintain. Her brown hair pinned back and covered with a white hat and blue ribbon. Mamma would be proud.

“Abigail.”

There she was: my dear sister, ever poised, ever formidable, looking me over as though she had already determined I was a disaster before even stepping inside. Of course, the fact that I went to greet her at the door instead of sending a servant — that I didn’t have — mut have been a terrible offense.

“Do you expect me to stay on the streets, brother?”

“I am tempted.”

I waited, but John, poor innocent John, stepped forward with a good-natured and truly genuine smile. “Miss Adams, please, do come in.”

Abigail glided past me like she owned the place, “I am seven and twenty. That’s not an age for any woman to still be a miss.”

“Do forgive me, tis simply that you look far younger.”

I could see she wanted to keep her better-than-you expression, but she smiled. I think if she was capable of blushing, she would. Apparently not even Nabby was immune to his charms.

“Well, thank you, kind sir. You may call me Mrs. Smith.”

“John Mulligan, you most humble servant.”

I sighed and shut the door. John might be able to play formalities for my family, but I had lost the patience for that years ago. “I did not send you my new address, Nabby.”

“Yes, an oversight of your part, I imagine.” She squinted at me with distrust. “But tis all well. You gave it to Thomas.”

“And Thomas told Quincy, Quincy told you and you...”

The realization sent a shiver of horror down my spine. Damn Thomas and his inability to keep a secret from our bother. All the times I put myself in trouble for his pitiful head.

“And I told mamma and papa. They’ll be here in three days or so.”

Internally, I yelled. I screamed as loudly as I could. Externally, I gave her a pained smile. Three days was hardly enough to mentally prepare to a visit from the Adams.

“Please, do show me your house. I am eager to see what’s so good that you left the perfectly fine house Father had rented it to you.”

She analysed the place. Which, to be fair, was not on its best appearance. We were not expecting visits, and I tended to forget stuff where it did not belong. My coat was still on the sofa. There were books on the corners, the chairs were mismatched, a slight spill of wine from the night before clinging to the armrest. I was sure that if she could’ve taken out a magnifying glass to inspect each speck of dust, she would have.

Abigail clasped her gloved hands before her. "It’s… quaint."

I swear, no one had mastered the art of condescending better than my sister. Only Quincy could rival her, but she had the most practice, and the advantage of her sex – that which allowed her to express her thoughts only with the most pleasing smiles.

"Ah, yes, Nabby. That’s precisely what we were going for: quaint. Tis the last fashion on France, so I heard” I quipped with perhaps more rudeness than I should.

She exhaled lightly, her version of a sigh. “And no servants?"

"No. I found out that those cost money. Odd, isn’t it?”

"Not even a maid of all work?" She put a hand to her heart, as if I had told her I started to work on a coal mine. “Dear God, how do you fare?”

“Fairly well.” I spread my arms, gesturing to the place. “We’ve managed to survive an entire week without perishing from filth or starvation. Surely that deserves some sort of medal.”

She squinted her eyes at me.

“Since when do the Adams praise the bare minimum?”

I supposed she had a point.

She leaned over, inspecting the stack of half-washed dishes in the sink with a level of disgust so palpable it practically radiated off her.

“Have you really no standards?” She turned to Mulligan, as if he might be the one rational mind in the house. Which he probably was, but I did not like the way she implied that. “I understand my brother, he needs not a lot to be comfortable. But you, sir, seem like a respectable man.”

“I ask you to forgive both of us for the current state of the house, but you can rest assured, madam, that we care about this place to the best of our abilities.”

“That’s exactly the problem. Housework management is the duty of a woman. Two bachelors have no place in doing any of this, you two should be focused on working.” She shook his head in disappointment. “What is it to be next, needlework?”

I let myself collapse on the sofa, definitely not keeping the proper posture for a gentleman.

“Yes. How terrifying if we start to needle our own stockings. What is to be of society then?”

I turned to John, my words filled with exaggeration. I did not imagine he would reciprocate, as he cared too much about leaving a good impression on people. But I should not have doubt him. He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder, turning his face so he could look me in the eyes as he said, with the same sarcastic tone:

“Why, next thing you know, we'll be starting a revolution of sensible men who can fold their own sheets and brew their own tea.”

I hoped my smiled could convey the extent of my adoration from him. We were really made for each other. If my sister was not there, I would've hugged him for that reply.

“You may jest.” Abigail tilted her head at me. She said nothing of John’s hand wrapped around me, or my hand on top of his. "I suppose you imagine yourselves independent. Self-sufficient men and all that nonsense.... However, living in such an… unstructured household, without any proper influence! A young man of good standing, and yet...” She turned her back to me, still looking at the house. “Tell me, Charles, when was the last time you attended a proper dinner party? Or engaged in polite society?”

I scratched my chin in mock contemplation. “Does the tavern count?”

Weirdly, she did not seem amused by that.

If Abigail’s presence in our house had been a trial, then her decision to help was nothing short of divine punishment.

"Charles," she began, standing in the centre of our modest little home as though she had been appointed its governor, "if you insist on living like this, the least you can do is make it presentable for Mother and Father."

I crossed my arms. "And by 'this,' you mean what, precisely?"

She turned a slow, withering gaze over the room. "Like a pair of bachelors left unsupervised for far too long.”

“Have you considered that we are a pair of bachelors left unsupervised?”

“Forgive me, I thought you were gentlemen.”

John moved from the back of the sofa to sit next to me. "She has a point."

I shot him a look before turning back to Abigail. "Fine. What exactly do you suggest?"

Her expression brightened, the way a general's might when given full command of an army. "Oh, I thought you’d never ask."

The first thing she did was declare war on dust.

"You do realize you own a broom, yes?" she asked, holding it up like a foreign object.

I grinned. "Oh, we know. We just assumed it was decorative."

Abigail ignored me — she had practice at that — and promptly thrusted the broom into my hands. "Sweep."

"I do not take orders in my own home."

She lifted a brow. "Shall I tell Mother that her son, the well-educated, well-bred gentleman, cannot manage basic housework and yet insists on living alone?"

I scowled. "Tyrant."

John, the traitor, was already taking our tapestries and the rug outside to remove the dust, which I had not once considered doing in the time we’d lived here.

Abigail sat perfectly on the chair. Fortunately, not the one who had the wine stain.

“Are you not to help us?”

“Brother, a Lady does not work. She gives orders. The working part is what servants are for.”

Her sustained look and the emphasis on servants, left no room for interpretation that John and I were the servants on this occasion.

“I am sure your staff misses you dearly, sister.”

I swept with determination. Not as much because I cared about keeping our house pristine, or worried about allergies, more so because I wanted to proof to Abigail and to my parents that I could do this. I could be independent.

When I finally finished sweeping the floor and dusting the shelves, John was up to his elbows in soapy water, sleeves rolled past his forearms, methodically scouring a cast-iron pan with the determination of a man battling his mortal enemy. I watched from a safe distance, arms crossed, as Abigail hovered nearby like a governess.

"You're missing a spot," she said primly, pointing to an invisible stain on the pan.

John frowned, tilting the pan toward the sunlight. "Where?"

"There." She gestured vaguely, as if it was so evident it need not clarification. "Near the handle. It still looks greasy."

John sighed but obediently scrubbed harder, his brow furrowing in concentration. I, meanwhile, leaned lazily against the doorway, entirely unbothered.

"You know," I mused, "I'm beginning to think you just like watching men suffer, Nabby."

She sniffed, unimpressed. "I enjoy watching things done properly."

"Ah, yes, because the fate of our household hinges on the thorough cleansing of that one pan." I nodded toward John. "Careful, Mulligan. Should you fail in this sacred duty, she may prosecute you."

“Oh, then let’s pray Col. Hamilton’s council is worth something.”

I smirked, watching John’s forearms flex as he scrubbed at a particularly stubborn stain. Abigail might have enjoyed watching men work out of sheer supervisory tyranny, but I had my own reasons for appreciating the sight.

But importunely, she turned to me and shot me a sharp look, brow furrowing. "And why, pray tell, are you just standing there instead of doing something useful?"

Before I could protest that I was in fact contributing by offering valuable moral support and welcome distraction with my quips, she shoved a damp rag into my hands. "You may dry," she commanded. “It will be faster this way.”

By the time she was finished with us, the house barely resembled the comfortable, lived-in state it had been before. Now, it was tidy, the chairs were aligned in some mysterious, superior fashion, and the table was no longer a battlefield of discarded books, papers and half-eaten meals.

Abigail stood back, surveying her work with satisfaction. "There. Now, when Mother and Father arrive, they will at least pretend to be proud of you."

“Yes, we do that well, don’t we?” I exhaled dramatically. "My deepest gratitude, dear sister. I shall treasure this memory always."

She patted my cheek in that way only an older sister can: affectionate, condescending, and ever so slightly vicious.

“I left the address of a cook and a maidservant you can rent. Do whatever you wish on your free time, but please, consider hiring them when father and mother arrive.”

“I shall. Thank you again.”

I accompanied her to the door, shutting it with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm and letting myself lean on it as soon as she was gone.

“Finally.” I let out an exasperated sigh before falling to the floor. “Free, at last.”

John got closer and let himself fall to my side on the floor.

“She’s not that bad. The way you talk about her, one would imagine she was the devil herself.”

“Don't say that!” I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest in mock horror. “Tis offensive to the devil.”

“Oh, you are the worst.” He buried his face in his hands as he wished not to encourage me but failed to muffle his laugh. “She’s your sister!”

“John, when will you learn that my relationship with my siblings is not the same as the one you have with yours? Yes, I love them. No, I do not wish for them to know that. Understand?”

“I only say this, dear friend, because I know you. And I know that sometimes you put up walls, but they are your family” he said, letting his head thunk lightly against the wood. “You shouldn’t push them away.”

I shrugged. My siblings, all of them, were not easily pushed.

“She wasn't always like this. She had a heart, believe it or not, until some fellow broke it.” I pass my fingers through my head, turning my face down as I recalled the calmer times with Abigail. “They were to be wed. But Father moved her and mother to London, and I suppose not even great love can endure the distance.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

His amusement turned to genuine worry. I envied his empathy, sometimes too great for his own good.

“He went to Havard. He liked to drink and gamble and party and... Well, you can see why she doesn't like me as much now.”

“She must know the situation is different.”

I simply shrugged, getting up and patting my knees with my hand. After that much work, I longed for my bed.

“Tis too late for change how we are. I won’t stop being me and they won’t stop being...” I gestured vaguely. “Well, copies of our parents.”

I offered my hand for him to get up and he promptly took it, his palm warm and gentle on my hand.

“Speaking of which, are you worried about their visit?”

I raised my brow. Wasn't that obvious?

“Oh, you must miss them a bit” he teased, nudging my shoulder lightly.

“As much as a prisoner misses his warder.”

THE FIRST ONE to arrive was my brother. At 5h45, because he was nothing if not terribly punctual.

“Quincy!” I offered an exaggerated smile. “You’re early.”

“Tis only fifteen minutes.”

“Exactly.” I ushered him inside, closing the door quickly.

This time, we were prepared for visitors, my father had sent a note warning me of his visit at one day after Abigail left us, at precisely 6h00 in the afternoon. I had hired a single maidservant and a cook, who was at this point busy in the hearth. The maidservant prepared the table with John’s silverware, the best we had. The house was on his best conditions, even if it was still small and old.

Our efforts must have paid off, because Quincy makes no comment about the state, even after I give him the very quick survey of the house.

“Mr. Quincy Adams, tis a pleasure meeting you again.”

He looked at John with the most puzzled look, as if the man is a particularly difficult book.

“Of course, Mr. Mulligan. Although tis quite odd that when I last visited you both were simply coworkers. And now you two are... sharing quarters.”

“Yes, I must thank you for that, dear brother.” I quickly intervened, calling his attention to me. “In a way, it was you who propelled me to do this.”

“Did I?” There was an uncomfortable pause. I felt my shoulders get heavier by each second. “It was certainly not my intention.”

Nabby arrived five minutes later. I recognized her knock immediately. This time, I let the maidservant, Mrs. Willow, to greet her and announce her properly.

“Please forgive me for my lateness.” She curtsied, before taking her hat off and offering it to the servant. “There was trouble with the carriage.”

“You are not late.”

“One must always arrive fifteen minutes earlier.”

As she said that, I looked at my brother. I've always thought them eerily similar. Ike could-have-been-twins similar. She sat next to my brother and the conversation between them flowed so easily that it might as well have been rehearsed. They understood each other in a way I never quite could. Perhaps it was because they were so alike, both responsible, both brilliant, both utterly incapable of disappointing our parents. Or perhaps it was because they simply enjoyed each other’s company. What an outrageous notion.

“John, has Charles shown you the house?”

“I believe I am the host here, sister.”

“You lack a womanly hand to host properly. I am helping.”

Sure, she was.

“He has, in fact, dear sister.” John smiled at her. “I found it quite... quaint.”

I looked at Mulligan, I needed to know that someone else had also noticed that.

Father was next, arriving exactly at 6h00. His knock came right before the ringing of the church’s bells. As if the whole city was notifying his arrival. One might wonder if this was on purpose.

Even Quincy and Nabby froze. They might be the favourites, but they were not perfect. No one was on our parents' eyes. It was a sad comfort to see that they were just as scared as I was. At least we had that in common.

I let Mrs. Willow open the door and announce them.

My father was short, hardly imposing at first glance. His face was round like mine and carried a few extra pounds with his advanced age. His hair was already naturally greying, and he unified them with powder. When I looked at him, I feared I was looking in a mirror ten to twenty years in the future.

Right next to him was a woman of dignified elegance, marked by her graceful yet firm presence, not tall but upright, her attire was often in muted, earthy tones, ever the image of modesty and prudency. Abigail Adams herself, always immaculately put together, with every detail of her appearance thoughtfully arranged.

“My dear children, what a joy to see you three reunited.” He bowed to us.

Nabby went to hug and kiss him. Quincy and I looked at each other before following behind her and embracing them as well.

I did miss them. I loved them. And because I loved them and respected their opinion, they were the people who hurt me the most.

“I cannot believe you changed homes and did not think to properly host a dinner.” My mother shook her head, smoothing my coat even if it were not wrinkled. “At least with your family”

“I was going to. But I wanted to improve the house first.”

“This can come later.” My father dismissed my comment with a hand gesture. “I can, however, say that I want to know the man who shares a roof with my son.”

Following this cue, Mulligan found his way between Quincy and Abigail and bowed in front of father, his eyes shining with admiration.

“John Mulligan, sir, madam. It is an absolute honour to meet you both. I am grateful for the education you gave Charles. He is a remarkable man.”

That made father raise a brow.

“Remarkable? Charles?”

I was nigh offended by his tone. Like my name and the word remarkable in the same phrase could only be used if one wished to talk in antonyms.

“Yes, sir” said John, not noticing, or perhaps just ignoring, my father’s implications.

“I suppose you have been applying yourself at your internship, Hamilton says so as well. I am happy to hear that, son. It was past the time you started acting like a true Adams.”

Father did not mean to be terrifying, I think. He simply was. He was forged in the fires of duty, discipline, and some personal, ever-burning war against mediocrity. He looked at me, and I see the calculation behind his eyes, the measuring of my worth, the endless comparison to an ideal I will never reach.

He loved me too. I hoped. But I was also his greatest disappointment. The failure. I was not made in the same mold as John Quincy, that paragon of virtue and diligence. I was also not made the same Abigail Amelia, with all her grace and natural leadership. I was made sloppily, hastily and defective. Thomas at least had the advantage of being the younger. Father did not compare him to John, he was compared to me. And everyone was better than me.

And Mother... well, she is less fire and more ice. Cold. Controlled. Composed. I have never seen her raise her voice, which somehow makes her disapproval even more unbearable. When Father’s temper flared, it was expected, inevitable. But when Mother merely sighed and shook her head? When she looked at me with that quiet, weary disappointment? And I had to scramble my brain to know exactly why she was upset at me. It was not fun. I would prefer the screaming.

The door knocked again. This time Mrs. Willow announced my younger brother, Thomas.

He looked nervous at appearing this late. He looked like a boy who had wandered into the wrong room, despite this being his own family’s dinner. His hands fluttered at his sides, as if unsure whether to clasp them behind his back or smooth down his waistcoat. When his gaze landed on our parents, he straightened with a visible gulp and bowed first to Mother, then to Father, before finally acknowledging the rest of us with a sheepish nod.

Tommy had the strong Adams features, brown hair, round face and short statue. He did have the curls from mother and a dimple on his chin from our grandfather. It was no wonder he received his name from him.

There was no comment about his tardiness. Of course, Thomas was the baby of the Adams. He could afford to arrive late. Where I might have received a disapproving glance or a pointed remark about reliability and seriousness, he was merely met with quiet indulgence.

I resisted the urge to glance at Quincy, who, despite being the eldest, had never been granted such leniency.

I leaned back slightly in my chair, resting my elbow against the armrest. “So glad you could join us, Tommy,” I drawled, unable to resist the jab. “Did you lose track of time, or were you simply enjoying your last moments of freedom before facing the tribunal?”

Thomas blinked at me before offering a small, hesitant smile, the same easy charm that had always let him slip by unscathed. “A bit of both.”

Father sat at the head, his presence alone dictating the pace of the meal. Mother was at the opposite end, presiding over the meal with quiet authority. John Quincy, ever the favoured son, took the honoured seat to my father’s right, while I was placed to his left, a position that felt more like an obligation than an honour. Even if Abigail shot me daggers for being on that place. She settled for sitting on the right side of my mother and across from Thomas as I had purposely left the seat next to me available for Mulligan.

The dining table was set with far more care than it had ever known. A fine white linen cloth stretched across its surface, weighed down by borrowed China from Abigail. If mother noticed that, she did not say it. Instead, her watchful eyes inspected John Mulligan.

“Pray tell, where is your family from? That surname, Mulligan... Irish, is it?”

“Yes. My father was born in Ireland.”

“Pray tell, what does he do?”

I knew what she was building to, and did not like it at all.

“Mother—”

John's hand pressed slightly on my knee, a way of saying he was fine, a way of asking me not to intervene.

“He is a tailor, madam.”

My mother hummed in slight disagreement. Of course, in her high opinion, a tailor was hardly a fitting occupation for a gentleman.

“My father is Hercules Mulligan, a tailor to the president himself.”

My father’s eyes shine brighter in recognition.

“Of course, that Mr. Mulligan! A true patriot.”

John smiled. His hand discreetly left my leg, and I almost pulled it again.

“Yes, he used his job as a tailor for... intelligence work.”

“He must have been a man of resourcefulness,” Father admitted. “If he was trusted with such work.”

“He was.” Mulligan’s voice was steady. “And I aim to be as well.”

There was a flicker of approval in my father’s eyes, gone as quickly as it had come. I wondered if John Mulligan had just done the impossible and earned a sliver of my father’s respect in the span of a single conversation.

If that was true, then he was on a great place to become an Adams family friend. A position my father did not grant to many men.

After dinner, we arranged ourselves at the main room. It felt too small to host that many people. And it felt smaller with Mr. And Mrs. Adams suffocating presence. Eventually, I could not handle that and found an excuse to get away for a moment, if only to breathe a little.

When I open the door, it revealed Thomas, his back turned to the door as he stared at the ugly painting next to my bed.

“I had not noticed you were gone.” “It would not be the first time...” He shrugged. “Pray, Charlie, I know you must hide drinks here somewhere.”

He started to look around and I put myself in front of him.

“I would never—” I started to say, before realizing it made no difference. “Fine, under the bed.”

He grabbed a half empty bottle of whisky. We drank for the bottle without care, each taking a gulp.

“I miss you, you know” he said as he offered me the bottle.

“I am right here.”

“No, I miss you.” He poked my arm. “The real you. Not whoever you become when they are around.” A beat. Then he looked up to the ceiling. “I ought to call upon you soon. And we will party like we used back in college.”

The door opened, making both of us try to hide the bottle fast, only to reveal my brother, Quincy, looking like a runaway prisoner.

“Oh, is this not the privy room? Curious...”

He closed the door behind him and looked around, as if he really was looking for the privy.

“Are you two drinking?” His eyes widened. I waited for his reprimand, but instead, “And can I have some?”

Before either of us could protest, he grabbed the bottle from my hand, taking a generous swig without even a hint of hesitation. He didn’t even wince. I stared, dumbfounded, as he casually settled next to us on the bed, looking thoroughly at ease as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

“You alright?”

Quincy didn’t answer at first, the silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken words. His fingers tightened around the glass as if he were trying to wrangle some semblance of composure.

“Father thinks I have far too much free time and do not write him enough. Free time, Charles. I have not known free time ever since I left leading strings.”

He squeezed the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

“Well," I said, nudging his shoulder, "if it helps, you’re always welcome to join us in our mischief. We’re quite proficient at avoiding our own responsibilities."

Quincy smirked, finally loosening up. "I’ll take you up on that offer... for now."

On an attempt to cheer him up, I tried to remember something more amusing from our childhood. Then it hit me, and I grinned like a mischievous child.

“Remember when Thomas stuck his head on the stair railings because I dared him to?”

That got a big laugh out of him, in a way I have not seen in a while.

“Good heavens, it took two menservants and a big stick of butter for us to let him out.”

“I still smelled like butter for three days after that.” Thomas scrunched his nose as if he was smelling the butter in that very moment.

“Twas your own fault for letting me get to your big head. I don’t care if you were only six, you shouldn’t have listened to me.”

“I know that now, you devil!” Thomas laughed and jokingly pushed me.

It reminded me of being fifteen and being all together at our aunt Shaw’s house There were two beds, but we chose to share one, laughing and telling stories to each other. It was simpler times back then. I wonder what it’d took for us to come back. We’d grown into our own versions of people that sometimes barely felt like the same ones we’d been all those years ago.

The door creaked open slowly, and there stood Abigail, framed in the doorway like some sort of disapproving apparition. Her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of us, sprawled out in my room, away from the dinner table and our ever-watchful parents.

“Oh. What are you doing here? I can’t believe you! Are the three of you hiding from our parents? What a shame!”

“But what are you doing here, Nabby?”

Her face went crimson. She diverted her glaze to the floor.

“Mamma was asking when do I intend to gift her a granddaughter...” She sighed, leaning on the door dramatically. Leaning! Her! A lady!

Laughing, Quincy gestured for her to join us. Her hips twitched to a half smile, and she joined us on the bed. Her movements graceful but clearly trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. The mattress seemed to shrink with every shift, and I was almost hanging off the edge, uncomfortably pressed between my two siblings.

“One of you is crumpling my dress!”

Quincy, already slouched in a relaxed position, shot her a playful look. “Stop turning, then!” he teased, though his voice had a hint of warmth to it, the kind that only came out when he was genuinely enjoying himself.

We joked and laughed like children. Maybe it was the alcohol making y siblings more tolerable. Or maybe they were not so terrible as I remember.

“Wait, if we are all here... Then does that mean that John is alone with them?”

I got up immediately. I couldn't allow that. I hastily got out of the room, being followed by my siblings. I imagined the worst possibilities. Maybe it would end with a duel. Maybe Mama would tell a story of me, and he would realize he did not wish to live together anymore. Maybe I had sentenced him to a slow death by awkwardness.

But none of that seemed to be the case. They looked to be engaged in polite conversation. No blood, no screaming, no fighting, no broken china on the floor.

“There you are. This house is too small for you four to disappear like that.”

“Thank you, papa” I murmured, getting closer to John.

With my eyes, I asked him “Are you fine?” and he answered with a small reassuring smile.

Eventually the night came to end.

Mrs. Adams herself, ever the observant one, glanced at the clock on the wall, her sharp eyes flicking between the rest of us. "Well, I suppose we ought to take our leave before the night grows too late," she said, her tone still carrying that air of gentle command.

I happily helped them to prepare themselves to leave. Thomas and Nabby joined them, however Quincy purposely waited behind.

“Please, father, you go ahead. I would like to talk more with my brother, if that is alright.”

“Should I stay then?”

“No, please. I do not wish for you or mama to arrive late. Tis only small matters of law, nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Very well. But if I can be of any help...”

“We shall manage, papa.” I waved him goodbye.

Mr. Adams stopped and looked at me, with trace of tenderness. He held my arm, firm, and said, “I am glad you are well.”

I knew when my brother was lying. Father thought him incapable of it, so he did not see the obvious signs. His shifty eyes and his nervousness that only came when he had to lie to Father.

It couldn’t be any good.

“I doubt I can help with law, however—”

As soon as everyone was out, Quincy grabbed my arm and turned to John, suddenly very serious.

“Mr. Mulligan, if you could excuse me and my brother, we shall talk privately.”

“Of course, sirs.”

I moved to my room, with Quincy following me. He paced around for a while, before sighing and sitting on my bed. There was no trace of his past easiness. He was not my dear brother, telling stories of childhood. He was John Quincy Adams, son of the vice-president, the future of America politics.

“I thought you'd left this vice.”

I gulped. Suddenly the bottle on my nightstand looked very enticing.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t make me say it.” He closed his fists in frustration. “I know. I knew back then and I told you to stop. Tis not right, tis not natural and it can only bring you pain.”

I stepped forward, closing the space between us, my breath coming sharper now, my face a scowl. “Do not pretend to care about my pain” I said, in almost a bark. “You only care about the Adams reputation.”

He did not flinch, did not deny it. He only lifted his chin, proudly.

“If that is so, am I wrong? It vexes me you do not care about your own family. Think about what it would to mother if she found out.”

“She’s not going to find out.” Not if he did not tell her.

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something that could have been guilt. Or perhaps pity.

“Pray listen, Charles. For once in your life. If you want to debauch yourself in lowly places that is your choice to make. But to bring that sin into your home, to live together in some mockery of marriage, to—”

“Stop, stop.” I waved my hands in front of him. “Are you talking about John?”

Quincy’s face twisted in disgust, as if the very mention of John’s name was enough to set him off. “Do not use his name as if you’re intimate.”

I opened my mouth to defend him, but I realized that this was not my priority.

“Quincy, John and I are not...” I stopped. I couldn’t put it into words, it felt too heavy on my throat. “We are simply friends.”

He let out a humourless laugh, sharp and short. “You want me to believe that?”

“I speak truthfully.”

He looked into my eyes. For all effects, he knew me since I was born. He could read me better than anyone else, when he actually tried. His gaze changed to somewhat confusion.

“But... You are tempted, are you not?”

“That is... not the point.”

“That is precisely the most relevant part! If you are planning to lurry him in into—”

I stopped him again. I could not believe he thought so lowly of me. That I was someone who’d create some type of plan to fake my friendship and corrupt boys into the evils of Sodom and Gomorrah.

“John, I am not! I swear! He was the one who asked me to live with him.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Quincy’s expression did not shift immediately, but I could see the flicker of thought behind his gaze, the calculations, the slow, grinding realization that this was not as simple as he had imagined. That it never had been.

“I do not like the way he looks at you,” he said with a soft, quiet voice.

“And how is that?” I asked, with a challenge.

“With adoration. With intensity. Not even husband and wife should look at each other like that. Tis dangerous.”

I felt my face blush. Part of me wanted to believe those words. That there was something special, something different about how he looked at me. I knew Quincy to be against Eros. It was madness, a consuming love that went against all rationality. Ever since he lost all his hopes of marrying a young miss who had been the love of his life, Quincy preferred the type of love we saw with mother and father. Compassionate love, the one from a tre life companion. It was calmer, easier to endure. That love was not a wildfire but a hearth, something tended and controlled, something that warmed without scorching.

And yet, I had never known love that did not consume. I was made for fire. Indulgence, alcohol, games and love, it did not matter what, I never took nothing in moderation.

Quincy had discipline. He was measured, careful. He could portion out his affections like a well-kept ledger, always knowing what could be spared, what should be withheld. I had never been capable of such restraint. When I wanted, I wanted wholly. When I loved, I loved ruinously.

John Mulligan, on the other hand, walked a fine line between us. He had stubbornness, an intensity that flickered behind his calm exterior like a lantern in the dark. John was not passionless. No, he felt deeply, though he wielded that intensity with far greater control.

“You are exaggerating. You do not know him like I do. That is just his nature. Intensity.”

Quincy didn’t look convinced. His eyes studied me, trying to read the truth behind my words. The silence between us stretched, thick and suffocating.

“The way you look at him is not much better either” he scoffed. “With gratitude.”

I suppose I did feel gratitude towards him. Gratitude for his friendship, for his understanding, for the way he saw goodness in me. A man could not help but soften toward the one who thought well of him. Was that not how many a courtship began? A gentleman finds himself admired and, flattered by the attention, begins to return it. Affection that bloomed from the simple pleasure of being seen.

But deep down, beneath the layers of the polite explanation, there was so much more. And Quincy could see it, even if he didn’t fully understand it. That worried me, of course. If my brother could see it, who's to say that other people could not see it as well?

“What would you have me do? Stay away from him? I tried that. I cannot.”

He got up and he was sombre, as if he was already seeing my ruin. He rubbed his eyes and pointed a finger to me.

“You are not to touch him.” Quincy’s voice was colder now, final, as though the matter were settled in his mind. “Whatever feelings you may have must stay those of friendship. This.... this thing you do is addictive. It is a sin. A vice worse than alcohol or gambling. If you do this, you will damn him, you will stain this boy the same way those college devils stained you.”

I couldn’t find the words to explain to him that it wasn’t like this. It was not how so many people believed it to be. I was not turned wicked. I was always like this. Yes, there was a time where I did not act on those feelings, but they were always there.

It had not been learned. It had not been taught. It had simply been.

And no matter how much I had tried to stamp it out, it had survived.

“For once, brother, we agree. Believe it or not, I care for him. I wish not his despair. I wouldn’t wish my life onto anyone.”

He sighed, half relief, half incredulous. His hands went to my shoulders. And to my surprise, he hugged me. Quincy had not hugged me since I graduated. I did not even reciprocate it.

“I do care about you as well, Charles. Believe it or not. I only wish you the best life. And I know that you will not find it on this path you are taking.”

I pushed him away.

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

IT HAD BEEN weeks since we moved in together, and while we had settled into a routine —working together in the mornings, eating meals together, sharing small, quiet moments— it was becoming increasingly difficult for me to maintain the facade of indifference. I found myself distracted by how John’s voice sounded when he laughed, how he could make even mundane conversation feel like an invitation, and the way his hand brushed against mine during meals. It was turning me mad.

He was everywhere. I woke up, there was, already making coffee. The first time it happened, I had yet to grow accustomed to having someone else with me, so I simply walked out of my room with my long shirt.

John was in the middle of putting plates on the table and he almost let all of them fall when he saw me. I felt my whole face get warm as I tried to act like nothing unusual had happen.

“G-good morning” he somehow manages to say, not meeting my eye.

My shirt, of course, covered what it needed to cover. But I was not oblivious to the fact that I shouldn’t raise my arms too much or it would cease to be so.

Too fucking early for that. I bowed my head slightly in recognition and turned back to my room, putting at least my breeches and tucking in my shirt before walking out again.

After breakfast, we shared a carriage or simply walked to Col. Hamilton’s office, where John Mulligan still worked right beside me.

I could not go a single hour without feeling his presence, without hearing his voice in my head even when he was silent. He had woven himself so thoroughly into my life that I no longer knew where I ended and he begun.

I used to think affection was something one could put away neatly. A thing to indulge in briefly, then store back on a shelf like a book once finished. But John does not allow for such clean edges. He lingered, seeped into every corner of my mind, every thought I had.

We worked together, we lived together, we existed together. And somehow, despite all the time we spend in each other’s company, he never tires of me. That was the most infuriating part. My own family could not handle being in my presence for too long. But every morning, as he greeted me, his care and warmth never wavered.

We then got home, cooked dinner, or just ate whatever’s left from the day before, then study and finally sleep. Some days, I’d retire earlier to my room so I could try to distract myself from him.

One night, too late for anyone to be awake, I caught John Mulligan was meticulously rearranging the papers before him, aligning the edges with such precision that I could almost hear the thoughts swirling through his mind. He’d already done this once, twice—no, thrice. But it was never enough.

I had learned to watch him, in a way, studying his habits like one would observe the change of seasons. It was not just the papers, it was everything. The way he would line up the ink pots in perfect symmetry, the way his quill was always set just so beside the stack of documents, and when the letters were being written, his hand would freeze, as though waiting for a sign from some invisible force before he continued. His eyes would dart between the paper and his hand, but only once the line was perfect in his mind.

John was a man of rules. His movements were strict, deliberate, governed by invisible laws I could never see. He was everything I had sworn against in my rebellious youth.

"You know," I said, as I poured myself a cup of whatever was easiest to reach, "I don’t think I could ever be like you, John. I’m not made for order."

John paused, his eyes studying me carefully. "And I, Charles, am not made for chaos. But here we are, aren’t we? Like the tide and the moon, forever pulled towards each other. Maybe this means something."

I shrugged, putting the bottle back where I got it. I was just going to drink y usual before-bed drink, but something stopped me. The idea of John, alone, at that hour made me nervous.

“Are you not to bed?”

“Soon.”

He didn’t even look up from his papers to answer me.

“That’s a very inconclusive word. Soon. It could mean anytime. It could mean at sunrise.”

I got closer to him. Slowly, I touched his shoulder, caressing him just a bit, making sure he knew I was there. A warning. Pay attention to me, Mulligan, lest I be forced to do something drastic, like rearrange your desk.

“This needs to perfect. I shall go to sleep when this is perfect.”

I leaned on the table, and he winced after I pushed away some papers.

“Perfection does not exist. Not in this world. Maybe on Plato’s World of Forms. But not out our reality as mere mortals.” I grabbed his quill pen from him. “Therefore, you shall never end this.”

He opened his palm, gesturing for me to give back his pen, his face serious, but with the traces of a small smile.

“How about Aristotle's’ Eudaimonia? True fulfilment? By developing and bettering oneself, in hopes to achieve one's full potential, that is perfection.”

I offered him a proud smile. Someone had paid attention to their classicals. Hamilton would be proud. Relenting, I offered him his pen, not without playing with its tip on his palm a little.

“I suppose tis but a matter of perspective.”

I raised my cup to my lips, but as I was about to take my first sip, John grabbed my wrist. I raised my brow at him. A question. A challenge. Whatever he saw fit.

“Don’t drink” he asked, demanded, but with softness. “I’ll go to sleep if you don't drink today.”

I wanted to be annoyed at him. It was easier if I could be angry at him for trying to tell me what to do with my life. Instead of, you know, admiring the inviting way his lips pouted.

I pulled my arm back. But I did not raise the cup again. “What does that change to you?”

My voice was light, offhand. It had to be. If I let it slip, if I acknowledged that his concern felt like something sharp and real lodged between my ribs, I might never recover from it.

“It cannot be healthy to engage in vices every day. I worry.”

I could not help to roll my eyes at that.

“You do that often, it seems.”

“Someone has to.”

“Fine. But you are to go to bed now.”

He nodded, leaving his stuff on the study table. I, for once, left my untouched cup. What a crime. I moved to bed, waving at him before walking in my room. The moment my body touched my bed; I heard a familiar voice on the other side.

“Charles, I can’t fall asleep.”

Reluctantly, I took the painting off the wall again, revealing the abhorrible crack. There was no light in his room, so I couldn’t really see anything. But I had a vivid imagination, and I knew John’s face enough that I could imagine him on the other side, laid down with his hair loose.

“I chose the game last time. Tis your turn now, John.”

He thought for a moment, then said, “I’ll say a word, and you say the first thing that comes to mind. No hesitating. Just instinct.”

“But my instinct is usually terrible.”

“Then it’ll be entertaining for me.”

I begrudgingly accepted, “Fine.”

There was a pause, I imagined he was smiling. In a way, it was like having a roommate again. Even if our rooms were separate. It made sense that both of us had brothers. We were not used to sleeping alone and, even in separate bedrooms, we found a way to communicate.

“Alright. First word: sky.”

“Endless,” I answered immediately.

“Ink.”

“Stain.”

“Chaos.”

“Life.”

That earned me a chuckle.

“Of course you’d say that.”

“The Greeks are on my side, dear John. They believed that the whole universe started from Chaos.”

I raised my hands to the ceiling, I imagined having the whole universe at the tip of my fingers. It made sense, the emptiness, the void. Before everything there was nothing.

“Are we to remain philosophical tonight?”

“If you can keep up,” I teased.

John exhaled a soft laugh. “Very well...” John let the silence stretch before offering the next word. “Sea.”

“Drowning.”

He stopped, the answer puzzling him.

“Why?”

I was reminded of the terrible memories in my childhood.

“Remember I told you that I sailed to Europe with Quincy and my father? Well, our boat hit something, and water started entering. Everyone, man, woman, even Quincy had to help empty it. It was really scary, I thought I was going to die.”

I could still remember how I felt, watching all the water coming in and out boat start to sink. My father’s voice, barking orders, sharp and urgent. Quincy, pale but determined, his hands trembling as he scooped up water with a bucket far too big for him. And me, frozen. Useless. Waiting for the sea to take us. I was too small to help in any meaningful way. I had simply accepted that was to be our end.

“Sorry.”

I offered him a sad chuckle.

“I am better now. We didn't drown; we ported at Spain. I am just not particularly interested in sailing anytime soon.”

I heard him turning slightly on the bed.

“That was definitely more than one word, Charles.”

“Idiot.”

Two knocks on the wall. I knocked back. My hands lingered a little while on the wood, I wonder if he had his hand there as well.

“Let us go again” he said, finally. “Wine.”

“Always.”

“Law.”

“Fate.”

I surprised myself with that answer. Was this rally the first thing I thought? I had not much time to dwell on it, for John continued:

“Duty.”

“Chains.”

“…You think of duty as something that binds?”

I considered my answer again and found that I still abode by it. “Is it not?”

“I think it is an anchor, something that grounds you” he said after a moment. “Or a compass, it gives direction for those who are lost.”

I turned, not looking at the ceiling anymore, but at the wooden wall.

“Do you realize that if you require an explanation for all of my answers, it defeats the purpose of your own game.”

“Alright. I’ll stop asking.” Another pause, and then, so soft I could hardly hear trough the wall, John said, “Light.”

“You.”

I regretted those words as soon as they left my mouth. I should’ve stay something obvious like candle. Or warmth. Or sun. But, for some reason, every time I thought of those words I thought of him. So instead, I said the first true thing that came to mind. Like an idiot.

John was quiet for a long moment. Then, with something near amusement, he whispered back:

“Sleep.”

I closed my eyes.

“Soon.”

THE OFFICE WAS unusually quiet that morning. The kind of quiet that only precedes something unpleasant. Even the usual scratching of quills and shuffling of papers seemed muted, as if the very walls braced themselves for bad news.

“I have an announcement to make.” Hamilton stood at the head of the room, straight-backed, his hands rested on his desk “I have been offered a position to work with the president as his secretary of treasury.”

A heavy silence followed.

John and I exchanged a glance, but neither of us spoke. The meaning was clear enough. We were to lose our positions. There was no world where Hamilton’s office would continue on without Hamilton. And even if it did, my father had only sent me there so I could work directly under him. My father may not like his personal quirks, but he recognized the man’s brilliance.

“I know this may come as a disappointment to some of you,” he continued, though he did not sound particularly regretful. “But I trust that you will all find your paths. The work you have done here has not gone unnoticed.”

John cleared his throat, his voice careful. “And what will become of us, sir?”

Hamilton looked at us both, eyes sharp, assessing. “I will do what I can to make recommendations,” he said. “But I cannot guarantee anything.”

I nodded, though my stomach churned. It was not anger I felt, not entirely. It was the sour taste of inevitability. Of course Hamilton was leaving. Of course, he was moving on to greater things. And of course, John and I were left to scramble in the aftermath, trying to keep our footing as the world shifted beneath us.

When the meeting ended, John and I lingered in the near-empty office. His hands were folded tightly, his shoulders hunched as if he were bracing for a blow that had not yet come.

“I suppose this is it,” I said, forcing lightness into my tone. “We’ll have to find ourselves new employment. A thrilling adventure, is it not?”

John did not return my smile. He was staring at the papers scattered across his desk, though I could tell he was not truly seeing them.

“You know, this is a perfect opportunity to change trades. If there was ever a time for you to pick up juggling, tis now.”

He gave me a pity laugh.

“What's your obsession with juggling?”

I shrugged. It made him laugh, so it worked.

“You’ll be fine. There are other lawyers, far too many actually. Any of them ought to be lucky by having you in their offices.”

He did not look entirely convinced, but I would prove it to him in time. I crossed my arms, leaning on the table. At least we would still have a job for a few weeks, until we finished all the ongoing cases.

Col. Hamilton got closer to our table. Well, John’s table, mine by proxy. He had a light in his step that should not be allowed to a man who just gave us terrible news.

“There is something nice to say. I will be giving a farewell party. Hosted by a dear friend of mine, baron Von Steuben. Consider yourselves invited.”

That earned a sincere smile from John. He, of course, admired Hamilton like his personal hero. Being invited to a party like this was like a gift. Has soon as Col. Hamilton turned his back, John jumped in excitement.

“He invited us! Not the others, but us! What do you think that means?”

“That we shall make fine entertainment?”

John ignored my comment.

The invite had made him happier, but he was still nervous, I could see clearly. John’s mannerism got worse when he was nervous. His fingers twitched unstoppably, and he was quiet on the walk home, even if I tried my best to distract him with my jokes.

That night, he had difficulties falling asleep. That seemed to be a common problem on our household. I got out of my room, only to find him in the middle of our living room.

“John?”

He turned, surprised. His shirt was rumpled, his sleeves pushed up, his hair tousled as if he’d run his hands through it a dozen times.

“Did I awake you? Pray forgive me.”

I knew him enough to know what he was doing. I had seen the same routine many days before. The pacing, the checking, the re-checking locks, candles, the windows, the hinges, the shadows under doors.

“My friend, you’ve already locked the door.”

He stopped in his tracks, knowing I had caught him and his plans. He looked around as if to search for an excuse. I saw the twitch in his fingers, the subtle lean of his posture.

“Well, tis always good to make sure...”

“And you already blowed out the candles. All of them.”

“But...”

He stood there, looking smaller than he ever allowed himself to look during the day. In the stillness of the hour, without an audience or a task to hide behind, he was just a boy in a man’s body trying to fight shadows he couldn’t explain. And I just wanted to be there for him.

“I saw you do it.” I got closer. “Do you trust me?”

His eyes found mine, and after a moment, he nodded. “Yes.”

I held both his arms. Not to restrain him, gently, only to guide him.

“Then go back to bed” I said quietly. “Let the world spin without your supervision, just for a few hours.”

“Tis not so simple.”

“I think it is. You just walk there and lay down.” I grinned. “Want me to show you?”

“Charles...” “Please, John. I will go with you if it eases your mind.”

He hesitated just a bit before accepting it. As we walked, his shoulder brushed mine, warm even through our nightclothes. I watched carefully as he laid down, trying to keep my thoughts in check.

“Lay with me?” He was already beneath the covers, lying on his side, one hand reaching out to me from the bed like an offer. Or a plea. I hesitated. My feet rooted to the floor, heart hammering like it might break out of me entirely. My body pulled in two directions: the instinct to preserve what we had by maintaining distance, and the need, the aching need, to fall into the space he had made for me.

I was just a man.

And in that moment, I was fighting my most primal instincts. To touch, to feel, to desire. I was just a man made of flesh and blood and I burned for him like I have never burn for anyone else.

“John.” His name felt like a warning coming from my lips.

I tried to be rational. To have control. A good Adams man was not to be controlled by lust. A good Adams man stays composed and proper and...

“Just for a minute. I do not wish to be alone right now.”

Oh, hell.

How could I say no? I carefully laid down by his side, slowly, like a man lowering himself into the waters when he does not know how deep it runs and is afraid he might drown.

The mattress dipped. The blanket settled. The world did not end. Yet.

We enjoyed the silence for a while. I listened to his breathing, how it slowed into rhythm with mine. My heart, frantic before, began to settle, thudding a little more gently against my ribs as I got used to the strange, astonishing feeling of sharing a bed with John, just inches away.

“Do you wish to play a game? Tis tradition, I believe.”

“Yes!” His whole face lights up as he turned to meet my gaze. “What game?”

“My brothers and I used to play a storytelling game. Tis simple. One of us start telling a story, then the other one keeps going where the other stop until we get to the ending.”

John nodded, already invested, “Alright. You first.”

I cleared my throat slightly and let my voice take on a more theatrical cadence, smoothing into a storyteller’s cadence.

“Once upon a time... There was a prince. He was very kind but sheltered. His father kept him in a tower and did not allow him to see his kingdom. Until one day...”

I raised my eyebrows, gesturing him to continue.

“Oh, is it my turn?” He propped his head up with one arm. “Very well... One day, the prince decided to get out and see the world. He disguised his appearance and got out in the middle of the night.”

“While he was on his horse, outside of the safe walls of the castle, the prince was accosted by a group of bandits. They pointed their bows and swords at him and demanded all his money.”

“Charles.” His voice was softer now. “Must you always make a game of misery?”

“I think myself a realist.”

John shook his head with a faint smile, amused and reprimanding at the same time.

“Then fine. The prince gave a speech to his people. He recognized that they were probably hungry and scared. He willingly gave them his gold and fine fabric. The leader of the bandits took pity of him and offered the prince his protection.”

I sighed, turning my eyes to the ceiling.

“Must you always save me?”

“If I have to, yes.” He threw me a pillow. “Now you.”

“The leader of the bandits seemed very impressed by the prince’s character and countenance. But he said that there were evils in his world that not even he could protect the prince from. So, he taught him how to shoot a bow. But the prince, of course, was too pure and he refused to kill a life.”

He was gentle, but not naive. He realized my metaphor immediately.

“But he wanted to prove his value! So instead of shooting an innocent animal, he discreetly stole a silver—”

He stopped. Just for a moment.

The pause was barely noticeable, a hiccup in the rhythm of our storytelling, but I caught it. The shift in his breathing. The brief flicker of something behind his eyes.

A memory.

I knew where his mind had gone, though he did not say it outright. That first night. The candlelight in the tavern casting an orange glow in his face. The glint of something small and stolen in his hands. I had laughed when I found out, of all things, a fork.

And now, here it was, slipping into the story between us.

John’s lips curled at the edges, as if amused by himself.

“I mean to say, he stole a silver dagger from the bandit’s belt. And he was impressed. For the first time, he heard him. He saw him. He—”

“Yes. Until an evil dragon showed up out of nowhere and ate them all. Pity.”

After his initial shock, he laughed.

“You are bad.”

“I’ve been trying to say that for a while, dear friend.”

I moved to raise myself again, but his hand went to my arm.

“Do not leave yet.”

“I do not wish to. But I ought to.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” I chuckled. “This is improper.” “If you or I were a Lady, perhaps so. But tis very common for two friends to share a bed. Didn't you father share one with Mr. Franklin himself?

“Yes and... how do you know that?”

“I listen when you talk. Even when you think I’m not.” He simply shrugged. “I like the silence in my head when you’re around.” He wrapped his arm around me. “Stay.”

That’s when I began to pray.

Lord, show me how to say no to this. In my mind, I was trying to go, but... He was right there. So ethereal, so beautiful. I felt like I had stumbled into one of the Greek myths my tutors had always warned me about. A mortal who finds himself in the arms of something divine and gets trapped.

I was just a man.

So I stayed. I let myself fall on the bed and I let his arm wrap around me. At some point during the night, he pulled me closer and I simply let him, our bodies fitting together like two puzzles.

My hand found the curve of his arm, his wrist beneath my palm. He made no protest. No movement but the press of his forehead, resting lightly against the nape of my neck.

For the first time in Lords knows how long, I slept peacefully. And I think so did he.

JOHN WOKE UP too early. It was Sunday. No need to rise together with the first light of the day. I would’ve stay sleeping, if I had not been at his bed. Right. That happened, it wasn't a dream, it just felt like one.

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing?” I asked, still half asleep.

He was too happy and too excited for that hour of the day. I hated it. It just made my own misery worse. No one should be allowed to smile before at least nine in the morning.

“Will you accompany to church this Sunday?”

He started doing his hair and I couldn’t help but watch in quiet awe. His countenance was rather agreeable when he was like that. Even if I hated him for waking me up.

“Oh, dear John, sometimes you make it seem like you do not know me at all.”

“I understand you have your particularities, but I believe it would be for your benefit.” He turned in his chair to face me.

I covered my face with a pillow. “Stop, you sound like my mother.”

“She is a righteous woman.” He shrugged and I shivered at those dangerous words. “I like her.”

“I am liking you less by the minute.” He chuckled.

Carefully, he came to my side and offered me his hand so I could get out of bed. His bed, as I reminded myself.

“Do you believe you shall burn the moment you step into church?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“Well, you won’t.” he put a hand on my shoulder and not-so-discreetly urged outside of his room, with himself right behind me. “God is very forgiving.”

I went to collapse on the sofa, meanwhile he went for the kitchen, to grab us bread and eggs. I did not deserve him, honestly.

“I fear I have abused his compassion.”

“Just this once? Please?”

I need not tell what I did. I was nothing if not predictable. At least when it came to him.

The church next to our home was quite beautiful. I couldn't believe I have never noticed that. The glass window was stained with pretty colours.

It looked like something from a dream. Or from a painting I might have glanced at once, years ago, and quietly wished myself into.

The church stood tucked between rows of ivy-covered stone buildings, as if trying not to draw too much attention to itself. A chapel, really. Modest in size, but not in presence. Its steeple reached gently toward the sky, pale gray against the early afternoon light, topped with a delicate iron cross that swayed ever so slightly in the breeze.

Vines curled up its outer walls, framing tall arched windows of stained glass in bright colourful hues: lavenders, greens, and rose-golds that caught the sun just so. The doors were oak, lovingly polished, with brass handles worn from years of faithful hands.

John led me inside, and my breath caught before I could stop it.

The interior glowed. That was the only way I could describe it. The light poured in through those pastel windows and danced across the pews and tile floors, colouring everything in warm, shifting patterns.

The pews were narrow but intricately carved, their backs etched with tiny vines and wheat sheaves. Every detail whispered devotion. A line of white candles flickered at the altar, their flames impossibly still. Above them hung a wooden cross. It was the kind of space that made you feel reverent even if you’d stopped believing. A place you didn’t want to speak too loudly in, for fear the silence might shatter.

John knelt beside me without a word, and I followed suit, if only because it felt wrong to do anything else. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, his hands folded, eyes shut. There was something so achingly soft about him in that moment. Like he’d left the world outside the door.

I watched him a moment longer than I should’ve. I had thought I shouldn’t have, especially in a church. Then, he finished praying and sat at my side, the light from the windows drawing pretty patterns on his face.

“It surprises me. Your faith.”

“It eases my mind. Faith makes sense to me,” he answered, voice low. “It has rules. Structure. I do not have to wonder what is right or wrong. It is already written.”

“That sounds suffocating.”

John smiled, just a little. “To you, perhaps. To me, it is freedom.”

I let out a short, humourless laugh. “Strange man.”

He did not argue.

I saw when the minister entered and I shifted in my seat, my fingers curling tightly around my own hands.

“It was never like that for me,” I admitted. “Church, I mean.”

John turned his head slightly, waiting.

I hesitated. “When I was a child, Sundays meant sitting perfectly still under my father’s watch, waiting for my mother to nod approvingly when I repeated my verses correctly. It was not faith. It was duty. A performance.” I exhaled, shaking my head. “I do not think I have ever felt God the way you do. Only my father’s disappointment.”

John was quiet for a long moment, as if weighing his next words carefully. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer. “That is not faith, Charles. That is fear.”

I swallowed, glancing away. I did not argue either.

“You can find it in other ways,” he said. “Not just in this building. Not just in words recited by heart. But in kindness. In beauty. In order. In the way you feel when you are not thinking about right or wrong.” He hesitated, then added, “In love.”

I scoffed, rubbing a hand over my face. “If I told you I felt closest to God with a drink in one hand and a beau on the other, would you still be singing praises?”

John chuckled. “I would simply say He works in mysterious ways.”

I rolled my eyes but could not quite smother a small, reluctant smile.

The service continued, the minister’s voice rising and falling in practiced cadence, but I did not hear the words. I only heard John beside me, breathing steady, fingers no longer twitching.

He felt safe. At home. I envied it. It seemed easier. The church felt like a more adequate comfort than drinking.

THE FIRST THING to notice about Baron Von Steuben was his size. He was a tall, large and imposing man, with a figure that could rival Mars himself. He was a man forged on war and that was visible even in his later days. But his grandness was not only physical, but it was also his personality, his voice, his manner of speaking and how he moved his body.

When Hamilton introduced us, both me and John seemed smaller and younger.

“Tis an honour meeting you, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I am sure it is. I heard a lot about you two from Col. Hamilton.”

Me and John exchanged worried glances. We frankly had no idea of what Hamilton could be saying and both of us had a tendency of expecting the worst.

Then he smiled, throwing an arm around both of us as though we were old friends. “Come. Drink, eat! If you are to be unemployed, you may as well enjoy one last night in luxury.”

The room was filled with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. The party was in full swing, everyone buzzing with the latest gossip or enjoying the food and drink. Col. Hamilton made sure to formally introduce both of us to a few lawyers who might need a clerk or two.

The host’s grand parlour was lavish, with velvet drapes and fine china everywhere. The grand piano sat in the far corner of the room, nearly forgotten amidst the festivities. Guests had been flirting, discussing politics, or partaking in the wine, but no one seemed to have noticed the piano. No one, that is, except for John.

John had been standing near the window, chatting with a few others, when his eyes landed on the instrument. His hand brushed through his hair as if a thought crossed his mind, and then, without a word, he excused himself from the group.

I watched, my curiosity piqued, as he walked over to the piano. He paused just before it, as though considering something, and then he sat down. The noise of the party continued, oblivious to his action. John rolled up his sleeves, revealing the firm muscles in his forearms, and I found my breath catching in my throat. The sight was unremarkable, yet deeply captivating, just him, at that piano, ready to play.

With a soft exhale, he placed his fingers on the keys, testing a few notes first. The subtle sound of the piano cut through the noise of the room, and I felt an unexpected tension in my chest, wondering what he would play.

And then, he began. A simple melody at first, slow and deliberate, as if he were letting the music unfurl naturally. His fingers moved gracefully, with a touch that seemed to command the instrument’s attention. It was delicate at first, like a whisper in the chaos of the party, but as he continued, it grew in both complexity and emotion.

The room had quieted without anyone realizing it. The guests began to notice the music, but they didn’t dare interrupt, as if they too were enraptured by it. I, too, could not look away. His fingers danced across the keys, confident and fluid. He leaned slightly over the piano, utterly absorbed, and there was something undeniably intimate about it. I could see the flex of his arms as he worked the keys, the muscles in his forearms moving with ease.

The music was a strange mix of calm and longing, something that stirred in me without warning. It wasn’t merely the beauty of the sound; it was John himself. The way he seemed so effortlessly at home in that moment, his concentration absolute, his posture perfect, his sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the strength in his arms.

I suddenly realized I was holding my breath, watching him in a way I never had before. The piano’s music filled the space between us, wrapping around my thoughts and making everything else in the room feel distant.

Finally, the piece slowed. He finished with a soft flourish, and for a moment, there was only silence. Then, slowly, the room erupted in applause. But I couldn’t join them. My hands were frozen at my sides, my chest tight.

John looked straight at me as he stood, his sleeves still rolled up, his expression focused yet somehow lighter than before. He gave a modest bow, as if the entire performance had been little more than a passing whim.

He walked towards me and guided us closer to the wall and away from the eyes of the crowd.

“I hope that wasn’t too dreadful,” he said with a chuckle, wiping his hands on his trousers.

“No,” I said finally, still in a bt os shock, my voice rougher than I intended. “It was...” I swallowed, trying to make sense of what had just happened. “It was beautiful.”

He glanced over, his eyes flickering with that knowing spark. “Glad you think so,” he said with a half-smile, but there was something else there, a quiet self-assurance that made my stomach flip. “I told you I had other talents.”

And just like that, he walked away, as if nothing had changed. As if the whole evening hadn’t shifted in an instant. But to me, it had. Something had changed. In the middle of that crowded party, with the noise of the world around us, I had heard him play. I heard him. I saw him. I—

I watched as he leaved the place trough the backdoor, in the direction of the garden.

I fund him sitting on a stone bench, his eyes unfocused on the horizon, his right leg twitching incessantly. I sat by his side, offering a cup of wine, which he denied.

“Are you alright? You seem a bit... out of sorts, these last days.”

“I—I worry,” he admitted, voice quiet.

I frowned. “About what?”

His fingers traced the back of his hand, a nervous habit. “About us. Now that we won’t work together anymore.”

A strange, cold feeling crept into my chest. “John, we are hardly to be cast into exile. We will see each other at home.”

“That is what I mean.” He lifted his gaze to mine at last. “At work, we were always together. I never had to wonder if you would be near, if you would—” He swallowed, looking away. “What if it is not the same? What if you do not—”

He did not finish the sentence, but I understood.

What if I did not want him without the convenience of proximity? What if, without the forced familiarity of shared employment, I no longer chose him?

I exhaled, my irritation flickering between offense and guilt. “Do you really think me so fickle?”

John shook his head. “I do not want to think it. But I—” His voice faltered. “I have never had anything like this before. And I am afraid of losing it.”

Something in his words struck deep, though I did not know whether it was because I resented the doubt or feared proving it true.

I reached out, tilting his chin up until his eyes met mine once more. “John,” I said firmly, “I will always want to be by your side. You are not going to lose me, you understand that?”

There was still doubt in his eyes. He echoed words I have said it myself to him not long ago:

“How can you be certain?”

And, without thinking of any other way I could reassure him, I commit maybe the worst mistake of my life. I couldn’t resist fucking things up, it seemed.

I kissed him.

I leaned in slowly, as if to give providence time to intervene, but no divine hand stopped me. Our mouths met in a kiss so soft it might have been mistaken for a sigh. My lips brushed his, tentative, trembling. He did not pull away. Instead, his breath caught, and then I felt him lean into it with eagerness, even if inexperienced.

His hand came to rest at the back of my neck, fingers curling into my hair. And suddenly the kiss deepened with an intensity I had not anticipated. A quiet desperation blooming into something more certain, more known. He tasted right. Peaceful. As if our mouths were always destiny to meet in tragedy.

For a moment, I kissed him with all I had, because I knew I would propably never get another chance like this.

When we finally parted, I lingered close for I did not wish for that to end yet. My forehead resting against his, my breath still shallow, my heart pounding. My hands fell away from him, my gaze dropped to the ground, as a man asking for absolution.

“What have I done,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

“Charles...” he said softly, but there was a shift in his tone. That light that had burned so brightly just moments before began to dim.

“I shouldn’t have,” I continued. “I shouldn’t have—God, I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

I couldn’t answer right away. My throat tightened with guilt. My body still buzzed from the kiss, but my mind was already lashing itself with shame.

“Because it was foolish. Reckless.” My voice cracked like glass. “Because I do not know what happens now.”

“But I do,” John said, his voice steady but quieter. “We stop pretending. We stop lying to ourselves.”

I turned away from him entirely. “You don’t understand. You think this is a small thing, a sweet rebellion—”

“It wasn’t a rebellion,” he interrupted, voice firm now. “It was truth. We finally stopped hiding from it.”

He reached for me, but I jumped from the bench. Cowardly, perhaps, but it was all I could do to keep from crumbling.

“God, I can’t believe I did this. I shouldn’t have done this to you. Please, ask for forgiveness to your God and pretend this never happened. Save yourself while you still can. Tis too late for me. I don’t know how to be what you deserve.”

“You just were,” he whispered. “For one moment, you were.”

He stood, slowly, and walked again inside of the Baron’s house, giving me space. Perhaps he knew I needed it. Or perhaps I had already wounded him more than he could bear to show.

I sat in the quiet of nature in the moonlight, the ghost of his kiss still on my mouth, and wondered how something so soft and gentle could leave such a bruise.

Chapter Text

LOVE, I SUPPOSE, is meant to be a gentle thing. A natural thing. A thing one ought to stumble into with all the ease of stepping into a warm room from the cold. And yet here I was, standing in my room, my hand on the door, paralyzed with the certainty that the moment I got out, the whole house will catch fire.

This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. A man full-grown, a clerk to one of the most brilliant legal minds in the country, reduced to pacing his own bedroom like a prisoner in a cell, worrying over the fact that I had just kissed my best friend. And it should not be so complicated. People kiss all the time. I have done it a lot of times, though never with someone whose opinion actually mattered to me.

He wanted me to kiss him. I know he did. I saw it in the way he lingered when we were alone, the way his gaze flickered to my mouth when I spoke, the way he leaned too close and did not pull away. And dear God, did I want to lean in too. But I could not. Because I was not like him. Not in the way that matters.

He was good. A better man than I was, at least. I was an infection waiting to happen. A ruinous, rotting thing that should not be pressed too closely against anything still pristine. If I touched him—if I pulled him down with me—it will be my fault.

The thought made my stomach churn. My head ached with it. It destroyed me, plainly.

Perhaps if he had the decency to be as wretched as I am, this would not be so difficult. If he were reckless, or cruel, or thoughtless, I could go to him without hesitation. But he was kind. And he believed — genuinely believed— that this thing between us was something good. Something bright and holy. And I did not know how to tell him that it was not.

That I was not.

He would not believe me, even if I tried. He would laugh, the same way he always did when I said something self-pitying, and then he would say something infuriatingly hopeful, like: If God did not want this, why did He make it so easy?

To which I had no answer.

Other than the obvious one, of course. That this was a test. A cruel one, and one I am bound to fail. Because I have never had the strength to deny myself the things I want, not truly. And I wanted him.

God, how I wanted him.

And someday, when my resolve wore thin, when I get tired, and foolish, and he starts looking at me with that quiet, patient expectation, I know I will break. I will lean fully in. I will ruin him.

And I will enjoy every second of it.

WE HAD TO settle into a new routine, which I hated. We did not cook together anymore, and we both spend more time in our rooms than in our shared space. It was weird and unsettling. I had not realized how much I was used to his presence than when I lost it.

I didn’t know why, at this point, we were still living together. I think it was mostly out of his stubbornness and my obsessive nature. I did not want to let him go and he probably did not want to tell his parents thar his little experiment of freedom failed.

He still talked to me. He gave me good morning and asked about whatever case I was working on. But he remained distance and so did I.

It was Saturday night when I received my brother’s note he were to visit me. I cleaned myself and changed clothes happily, needing more than anything else a reason to get out.

I was ready when he knocked on my door.

“I said I was going to call on you. Here I am, calling on you.”

Thomas had no idea, but he was my saviour at that moment. I hugged him, as I had not done in long. He was initially startled but reciprocated with affection.

“I’ll go anywhere you want.”

I did not suggest Bacchus. He liked to party and drink but still was not exactly the target audience for that place. Instead, we went to a small tavern he knew. I paid for our first round, although my finances were not magically better and would likely get worse after my deployment. But that was a Future Charles problem. Present Charles wanted a drink. Or ten.

It didn’t take long for the alcohol to hit us and we inevitably entered the stories of our childhood.

He twirled his bottle before taking it straight to his lips and said, “Remember when Father wrote letters for the three of you and none for me?”

“Yes.” I took a sip of my own drink. “Because you couldn't read back then.” He shrugged, looking down. Thomas was only thee back then and he was a very emotional child.

“But mom could've read it to me. He still could’ve written one.”

I doubt our father, the practical man he was, considered that.

“You cried because you thought he did not love you like the rest of us.”

I chuckled, but Thomas did not find it funny. He had a sad expression, his lips downturned and his gaze soft. When he speaks again, in only a whisper.

“Sometimes I think I was right.”

That made me restart. Thomas never mentioned those worries before. Could he really think that? The same thought I had many times before? I mean, I understood John and Abigail, but me? There was nothing to prove that. In fact, given the number of sermons I hear throughout the years, there was a lot of evidence against that. “Oh, don’t start. I am the problem child, you’re the youngest. He loves you more.”

Thomas looked to the ceiling and turned slightly in his chair. With a quick gesture, he asked for another bottle. Was this our fourth? Fifth? I did not know.

“At least he expects something for you, Charles. He cares. I think he does not even try with me.” “Thats not true.”

Thomas scoffed. “He adores Quincy, he sees your potential. But I have nothing. Neither dedication nor natural talent. I am simply... plain.”

My brother spoke of plain as if it was a flaw. Like it stung to admit.

“I’d would prefer that.”

He shrugged, non-committable. “Grass is greener on the other side and all that.”

We talked more; I did not even feel the tiredness of the late hour. Time seemed to go faster at his company.

“Tell me, what made you call on me?”

“Do I need a reason to want to see my dear brother?” he replied with faux sweetness, curling a lazy smile.

“Yes.”

He laughed. “I just wanted to check on you. How is it? Leaving with your new friend?”

“Tis fine.”

He furrowed his eyebrows. I realize I made a mistake. Thomas was the first one I was honest about my nature, back when we lived with our aunt and the rest of the family was living in Europe. I was born knowing Quincy, Thomas was born knowing me.

“Hell, are you two...?”

“No. He... I want to. And I think he does too. But we did not.”

He studied me, his gaze sharper than usual. “What’s stopping you?”

“You know what.” I let my head fall, staring at the back of my hands as if they belonged to someone else. “I don’t want to damn him.” “Isn't a bit too late for that?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“I don't know anymore. I don't know anything.”

“You know what I think. If it is not hurting anyone, tis not my business. You should be happy. We Adamses are miserable enough on our own.”

I squinted my eyes at him, seeing him, the real him, in the first time in God knows how long. This brother I had often overlooked, who had spent a lifetime in Quincy’s shadow and never once turned cruel about it. There was wisdom in him I had never given credit.

“Thank you” I said, earnestly.

I moved to hug him, but he pushed me away as if I was contagious. “Alright Charles, that was enough sentimentality for a whole year. And drinks too. The check, please?”

IT WAS WEIRD being in the office while knowing it was probably our last days. There was a sense of finitude in the air, the people were somber, quiet. Col. Hamilton spend less time on office. I also realized that Col. Hamilton and my father would be coworkers now. How riveting. I might jump with excitement... of a precipice.

My spirits did not improve that day, especially after Mr. Storge introduced his dear sister to a few clerks, including John. Miss Edwina Storge was her name, and she must have gotten all the beauty in the family. Not only that, but she also seemed well disposed and very interested in whatever Mulligan had to say.

Naturally, I hated her.

During our small break, Mulligan and Miss Edwina started talking in front of the office while Storge watched from the window. I could’ve stayed quiet in my place. Or I could be petulant. And I was very partial to petulant.

Cautiously, I got closer to the window, surreptitiously asking, “Do you think proper to introduce Mr. Mulligan and your sister?”

He considered my question — and the accusation that came with it — before answering:

“He is an odd fellow. But he is intelligent and sensible. I have half a mind to think him an adequate suitor.”

“Yes, but wouldn't you want the best for your sister? Doesn’t she deserve more than adequate?”

He squinted at me, suspicious. I tried my best at an innocent face. Storge and I were never close, so I doubted how much he was willing to trust me or my judgment.

“I thought he was your friend...?”

“Yes, but I also have a sister. And I can assure you I wouldn't want her engaged to Mulligan.” I made my tone purposely serious. “What are his prospects? None at the moment. He would be wise to wait before marrying any lady. At least until he made a name for himself.” “I suppose you are right...”

Storge went outside and separated them. I almost felt bad. It wasn't fair to deny him a friend when I had already rejected his advances. But I was not a fair man, nor a righteous one. I was only a terrible confused, jealous man, and irrationally in love.

Love, I suppose, is meant to be a gentle thing, but not to me. To me, it was ugly. And unfair. If anything, I blamed my father. He didn’t teach me how to love right and now I was this hopeless broken thing, who did not know how to love without causing pain and who wished to possess everything he touched.

JOHN WAS DRUNK.

Not entirely insensible, but just enough that his usual careful mask had slipped. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his waves falling in disarray, and he lounged in his chair with the easy comfort of a man who had forgotten propriety.

I had been drinking too, though with far more restraint. Someone had to stay sober. Someone had to remember what was real in the morning. Col. Hamilton had bought us a fine wine, and we both seemed to enjoy it, so much so that we let the barrier between us fall for a minute.

“You spent a lot of time in Miss Edwina’s company today,” I muttered, staring into my drink.

John blinked sluggishly at me. “Miss Edwina?”

I forced a light chuckle. “Have you already forgotten her? Storge’s lovely little sister?”

John frowned, then gave a small ah of realization. “Oh. Yes, she was kind.”

I clenched my jaw, my gripe on the glass tightening. Kind. Intelligent. Well-bred. Perfect. The sort of woman who could give John a normal life. A wife, a family, the kind of existence I could never give him.

“You two seemed to get along well,” he said, keeping his voice even.

John tilted his head, watching me with something unreadable in his gaze. Then, he laughed softly. “You are ridiculous, Charles.”

I stiffened, that was not the answer I expected. “Am I?”

“You are jealous.” He got up, walking in my direction. “But you need not be. Because if she had kissed me, if she had professed her undying devotion, I would not have cared.”

“Are you so insensible? She would be good for you. She could give you a proper life, a future...”

My voice trailed because in the small second I looked away, he was already in front of me. He let go of his drink, his hands free as he leaned in my direction and I forget how to speak.

“I do not care for that” he murmured. His hand touched mine, lightly. “You know where my sensibilities lie. You know what I want, Charles. And I think you want it too.”

“Life is not about what we want.” I pulled my hand back. “You’ll do well to learn that.”

I hardly believe how much I sounded like my father as I said that. He’d be proud, I was sure.

“Then what is it about? Do you really want to spend your whole life living the way you are supposed to? Living for other people? A servant to society’s expectations?”

I sighed. He lifted his face to look at me in the eyes. I need no mirror to imagine what he saw. An unsightly, fat, unsuccessful man in twenties, but with under circles and a permanent scowl that left me with a rather disagreeable countenance. My features, when taken together, were wholly unremarkable: dull, nut-brown eyes and equally dull, nut-brown hair. Neither brightness nor symmetry to redeem them.

And John was everything I was not. Younger by a few years, yet somehow carrying himself like the more responsible of us both. His face, all sharp planes and soft light, held a kind of quiet gravity. There was something noble in the way he furrowed his brow when thinking, something gentle in the pureness of his blue eyes. He was truly pretty, with a delicate and gentle face.

I had no earthly idea what he saw in me. I had no fortune, no prospects, and very little charm. Only a sharp tongue and a weary heart. I had nothing to offer.

“I don’t know what you want from me, John.”

“I want nothing from you. I want you.”

My throat went dry. I felt my pulse hammering, my thoughts warring between reason and desire. I looked down. I could not keep my posture if I kept looking at him. “I would ruin you, John.”

“I would let you.”

“I cannot touch you.” I moved, passing by his side, escaping from the corner he had me in. “Anyone but you. I cannot stain you with my sin.”

Even though I am turned away, I can hear the pain in his tone as he said, “I thought you’d stop deciding things for me.”

I took a deep breath. I was doing this for him. I was the older one, the more experienced. It was my duty to be rational, for once in my life to think of someone other than myself.

“If I hang tomorrow, I will hang peacefully knowing that I did not drag you in with me.”

Slowly, he got closer again, his hand on my shoulder. I felt my holy body shake with self-restrain.

“So, you’re afraid,” John murmured. “Afraid of sin. Of ruining me.” From behind, he wrapped his arms around me. “But Charles, I would rather be damned with you than saved alone.”

The words undid me. But instead of following my worse instincts, I stepped away. The absence of his touch left a phantom ache behind.

“You are drunk. I know well how drink can make a man brave. Say those words while you are conscious, and maybe we can talk.”

I didn’t wait to see his face. If I had, I knew I wouldn’t have had the strength to walk away.

And yet, even as I retreated, my soul stayed behind with him.

IT WAS THE first time we were away ever since living together. After our last conversation, John left early in the morning, with nothing but a note saying he was to visit his family. He also did not show up to work that day. And even if our friendship was not the same it had been, I missed him.

I must have made my lack of enthusiasm quite obvious, because at the end of my work day, Col. Hamilton approached me.

“Mr. Mulligan warned me he was not coming today. I hope he is well. I know you two are close.”

“We... Well, yes. We are sharing a dwelling” I said, the words true, but it felt like a lie from my lips. There was no word to truly describe our relationship. “But he is currently with his family. I have no news of him.”

“I see.” Col. Hamilton gave me one of his knowing looks. Sometimes I feared he could read my mind. Then, he considered something on his head before finally saying, “Sir, why don’t you join me at dinner with my family? We are having a banquet to honour a dear friend of ours.”

I hesitated. That’s what I did. always, in everything. The moment the words left his mouth, my mind began to spiral through all the possible outcomes, all the ways I might make a fool of myself, or say the wrong thing, or not say enough at all.

Should I accept? Would that seem too eager? But if I declined, would I appear ungrateful? Uncivil? I could hardly afford to offend the man I worked for. And yet, what if I said yes, only to embarrass myself among his esteemed guests?

I shifted slightly on my feet.

“That is very kind, sir...” My tone faltered, caught somewhere between gratitude and fear.

I tried to read his expression, to see what the right answer was. Did he invite me out of politeness? Or was he being sincere? I couldn’t tell and the silence was beginning to stretch. Not enough to be impolite, but just long enough to be noticed. I had to speak.

My throat felt tight. There were ten different ways to phrase it, and I rehearsed all of them in the second it took to open my mouth. Then I gave up on the clever ones and let the simplest stumble out.

“I… I would be honoured, sir.”

My voice was low, and I hated the slight tremble I heard in it, but Col. Hamilton smiled. A small, approving thing that didn’t mock me or question my delay.

“Excellent,” he said, already turning to shuffle through a stack of papers on his desk, as if he already knew what my answer was going to be.

How I wished I had half of his certainty. Col. Hamilton never doubted himself. He spoke from his heart, hundreds of words per minute yet never chose the wrong word.

I quickly went to my home to refresh myself before the dinner at Hamilton house. He had left earlier in matters of business and told me I could meet him at his house.

When I arrived, Col. Hamilton had not yet arrived. After the servant allows me to enter, it was his wife that waited me in the drawing room. Mrs. Hamilton was just as I remembered, as if she had not aged a day. Col. Hamilton always mentioned her with a shine in his eye and a soft voice he didn’t use with anyone else. And I could see why.

Even in her late age, Mrs. Hamilton’s countenance was agreeable, with round and quick brown eyes, a gentle face and a dimple chin that seemed to have passed it on to her oldest son.

“Mr. Adams, ‘tis a pleasure to have you in our home. I am afraid that Col. Hamilton is not here yet, but I would be honoured to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Church, my dear brother and sister.”

“Of course, the honour would be mine.”

It was quite obvious Mrs. Angelica Church was the one who connected the two families, seeing how similar she was to Mrs. Hamilton. She had the brown hair and brown eyes, but while her sister was soft and round, Angelica was taller, sharper, every movement seemingly rehearsed. Her husband was a quiet man, but when he talked, he spoke with a British accent, his body large and imposing, the posture of a soldier yet the sly smile of a merchant.

It did not take long for Col. Hamilton to arrive. And as soon as he did, he barely had time to greet us when his son, Philip, came down running the stars and jumped to his arms. Philip was only a decade old but already behaved like his father. He was restless, easily excitable and seemed to be able to talk one’s ear off. I could see why Hamilton was proud of hm.

I could not help but be jealous of how tender and careful Hamilton was around Philip. My own father was never gentle with his sons and... Well, look how we turned out. I wonder what could’ve changed if it hadn’t been so.

When eventually Philip let go of his father and he could turn his attention to us, he bowed to me and hugged both Mr. Church and Angelica.

“Tell me, Hamilton,” said Mr. Church. “Are you that busy you cannot spare an afternoon to a friend who has come to visit you from so far?”

Hamilton gave him a sheepish smile.

“I spend the day appointing none other than the son of Bill Livingston, Mr. William Mallet as a midshipman in our navy. That boy is just as bright and handsome as his father is.”

Mr. Church was not impressed. He slightly shook his head in disapproval.

“You have then, I find, weaknesses not confined to the female sex.”

That produced a laugh. Hamilton chuckled, good-naturedly. Or perhaps because he knew, as I did, to laugh before others did. The matter moved on quickly, as it always does among men who prefer their jokes to remain unexamined.

But I remained still.

For the rest of the night and during dinner, no one seemed to think more about it like I did.

What had he meant by that?

Weaknesses not confined to the female sex.

Those words haunted me.

I knew, of course, what could’ve meant. Those words, so specific, being thrown around so casually, I wondered —and reprimanded myself for doing so — if Col. Hamilton was just like me, and engaged on vices better not named.

The dinner was a welcome distraction of my anguish, if I ignored the questions that came on my mind whenever I thought about what Mr. Church had said. At the end of the night, Col. Hamilton accompanied me to the door and, against my better judgment, I tried asking him.

“Sir, are you...?” I began, the words stammering their way out. “I mean, did you...?”

“Yes?”

God, Charles, do not say it. Do not ruin everything with a question you have no business asking. I gulped, anxiously.

I feared he’d say no. I feared he’d say yes. And I feared what it says about me that I want to know at all.

“Forgive me, I forget myself. Tis past my time, I should go now.”

Hamilton’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to read between the words I hadn’t said. But then he simply nodded, accepting my departure.

JOHN WAS BACK from his weekend at his father’s house. And whatever it was, he came back revigorated. He was smiling again, laughing, telling stories about his siblings. I, for one, foolish believed we could go back to how it was, before I ruined it all with my feelings.

The moment he sat down next to me; I should’ve known something was wrong. I should’ve known in the way he sat so closely by even if our sofa was big enough for both of us.

“Do you want to play a game?” he asked, so innocently. “Let us play questions and commands. I remember playing it with my sisters at the fireplace Christmas’ morning.”

I squinted my eyes at him, interested but doubtful.

He took my silence as agreement and explained the rules, “Tis simple, a commander bids their subjects to answer a question which is asked. If the subject refuses or fails to satisfy the commander, they must pay a forfeit or have their face smutted.”

As if to prove his point, he moved away and sat by our little hearth, touching slightly the soot.

“That sounds like a bad idea, John.”

“I thought you loved bad ideas. You drink and party and does whatever else, but you want me to believe that a childish game is too much for you?” He laughed, turning his face to the side.

“But it is never just that with you, is it?” I asked, feigning reluctance but already sitting next to him, on the floor.

He grinned, and for a moment, we were boys again, two students stealing time in a dormitory, hearts light with laughter and the thrill of something forbidden.

He asked first. “Have you ever written poetry?”

I groaned. “This is how you begin? By embarrassing me?”

“You may choose a forfeit if your courage fails you,” he offered sweetly.

I looked away. “Perhaps I did. But the paper met the fire before morning.”

He squinted his face. “What kind of answer is that? At least tell me some of the lines!”

I remembered some of it, of course, but enough to know that my verses should never be uttered out loud.

“Over my grave.” “Then you must do a challenge. Or I will smudge you!”

He got dangerously close to the fireplace, so I stopped him. “Fine, fine! I forfeit. What shall I do?”

John put a finger to his chin as if seriously pondering. Then, as the idea came to him, he clasped his hands together. “A Waltz across our living room.”

The idea gets a chuckle out of me. Our living room that serves as dining and drawing room at once was hardly a spacious and graceful space for something of the sorts. But I supposed embarrassing me was part of his strategy.

“Very well. And my partner? Last I checked, one cannot waltz alone.”

I offered my hand. For a moment, he looked like he would take it, but he quickly changed his mind.

“There. The coat hanger. She seems like an adequate pair.”

I pull my hand back, ignoring what it felt like a rejection.

“So our coat hanger is a lady? How could I have missed that?” I turned back to humour.

“How could you indeed. Did you not notice her long locs and feminine allure? That won’t do. You’ll have to make up for it.”

I approached the coat rack. An old, spindly thing in the corner, bearing my threadbare overcoat and a stray cravat I had long since lost the will to retrieve. With great ceremony, I bowed to it, took hold of one of its curling hooks, and led it into a waltz as if it were a duchess at the Governor’s Ball.

“Oh, madam,” I declared, spinning in a slow, awkward circle, “you move with such grace, you put all Boston society to shame.”

From the corner of my eye, I notice John clapping a hand over his mouth to mask his laughter.

I continued, fuelled by his amusement. I was reminded by the few afternoons where me and Quincy were not fighting, or stuck studying and I tried to make him laugh. It was easier when we were younger, making myself the target of jokes so my siblings could smile a bit.

When I had concluded his impromptu dance, I returned to my seat with an air of triumph, smoothing my waistcoat as if nothing unusual had occurred. “I trust I have met the terms of your judgment?”

“You have,” he managed between gasps. “Beyond all expectation.”

We traded a few rounds like that. He admitted to crying during a tragic ballad. I admitted to having ran away from home once. He forfeited once and I made him walk the length of the room with a book balanced on his head. We were having fun. And I believed we could go back to normal. Whatever normal meant for us.

“Tell me...” I looked around the room, as if it could give inspiration for my question. “If you could wake tomorrow and find yourself anywhere in the world, with anyone, who and where would it be?”

When I asked that, thought he would name an actor, or wish to be in some European theatre. But he does not hesitate to answer:

“Here.”

My whole body stopped. For a second, I thought I had died. But I did not. That made no sense. Here was a small house, with almost no furniture, more alcohol on the cupboards than actual food and in the company of the most miserable man in the States.

“Are you being sarcastic? Because that’s really my thing, John.”

I was laughing, giving him the opportunity to take that back, refusing to believe it. But he was serious.

“Here is home. Even after everything. These past days made me realize I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

My heart was beating so fast I was afraid it might pop out of my chest like a cork. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to close my eyes and put my hands over my ears like a child.

“You asked me to say it while sober. Very well, I will say it” he took both my hands on his, and I am sure he noticed how much they were shaking. “I want you, Charles Adams. I never wanted anyone else as much.”

“This is decay. This will rotten your soul. I accepted my destiny in Hell. But I won't see you there with me.”

He pulled me slightly, one of his hands moved to my face, cupping one of my cheeks. “Do you really think God would punish us for something so beautiful?”

“There is nothing beautiful about this.”

“That is what you say, but I see the curve on your smile and cannot help to think the opposite.” His thumb moves to the corner of my lips and he gently caresses it. “If He did not want this, then why would he put you on my way?”

“Tis a trial of Faith” I said, even though I didn’t believe that myself.

“Isn’t love itself a show of faith? If I lose everything else, love shall guide me.” “If loving you makes me praise the Lord’s name for He created you and allowed us to meet, then isn’t this love holy?”

My whole body burned, and I had to look away. I tried to think about the sermons my parents made me listen and the ones they would give personally. Lust was a sign of a weak man. The only type of carnal connection should be between a husband and a wife. Nothing else.

“You speak blasphemy” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Then I speak it fluently” he answered back in the same tone. John swallowed hard, his finger brushed my jaw, causing shivers in my body. “Charles, what do you really think about me?”

I did not answer. He did not move away. No jest, sarcastic comment or wit came to me. The only thing I could think of was the truth, and that was unacceptable.

“Then your forfeit: kiss me.”

My eyes met his and this is my mistake. So innocent, genuine, shining sky-blue eyes. My hand instinctively reached up, brushing a curl behind his ear. My fingers lingered near his jaw, and he leaned into the touch with the barest, gentlest pressure.

And then, slowly, I leaned in.

Our lips met. It was soft, uncertain, and impossibly real.

When we broke apart, he kept his eyes closed for a moment, like he was holding onto something fragile. Like he was afraid of me running away again.

But I had tried that already. I gave all I had to not fall into my own vices. But John Mulligan was pouring me a cup of my favourite brandy after a harsh night. I couldn’t say no anymore.

When we finally broke apart, John’s grin was lopsided, dazed but utterly pleased. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

I exhaled a laugh, shaking my head. Perhaps damnation was inevitable. But if this was sin, then I would burn gladly.

There was something about addiction that I had come to learn with all of my experience.

The more one denied himself the object of his desires, the more he would long for whatever it was. One of the few times I tried to quit drinking, I remember lasting a full month before falling out after a particularly difficult conversation with my father.

And then, it was as if I wanted to make up for all the alcohol I did not drank on that month. I drank for three days straight and only stopped because eventually I passed out. That three days were a blur, but judging by what my brother said after, they weren’t my best.

This all to say that, after trying for so long to keep John Mulligan at an arms’ reach, when I finally had him, I wanted all of him. I practically pounced to kiss him again.

He did not expect me, but his body welcomed me fast. He adjusted his position so he could kiss me in the same form, wrapping his arms around him and pushing his body in mine.

I moved to his clothing with precision. Right now, they were a barrier between me and him, and I needed them off.

John pushed me away slightly, his hands on my chest. His hair was dishevelled and his clothing half done and it was my fault. My breathing was difficult and my senses started returning to me.

“I never done this. With anyone.” My hands are on his face, my thumb on his parted lips. He was so perfect, so pure. Could I really do this?

As if he could sense my hesitation, John kissed my hand. “I do want to. I just... might need you to show me how.”

God, Charles, where is chivalry when you need it? I lift myself up and offer my hand for him to do the same. At least I should bring him to a bed.

We went for his room, and it took a lot of my self-restrain to keep me away from him for that long. As soon as the bed is close enough, I pushed him to it and crawl on top of him, taking off my shirt on the way.

“It’s as easy as walking. How do you think the first humans learned to do it?” I lay kisses on his body, slowing going down to removing his breeches. “It’s an instinct.”

When my hands touched him, he let a sigh of pleasure that felt like music to my ears. It was as if I was seeing a totally different side of John. And I loved him; I wanted whatever he wanted to give me.

He pulled me by my hair, urging my face up so he could kiss me. There’s a satisfied smile on his face, like it was all worth it for that moment alone. And I cannot help but agree.

“I do not care if this means we're damned” he said, between his ragged breathing. “If this is what decay feels like, Charles, then I shall perish with you.”

It was not decay. It was not and end. It was a new beginning. On that night we acted like gods creating a world just for us.

A world where we did not have to hide who we were. A kinder and understanding world where Love simply meant Love and two men could consummate their feelings in the most beautiful act of intimacy without fearing the consequences.

Together we made sense, opposites who needed each other for balance. Like the moon and the sun, fire and ice, body and mind.

I was chaos, he was order; together we made the Universe.