Author's Note: All historical references or details are included purposefully, and everything that is ignored or changed is also done so purposefully. Appearances are based off the OBC, but are subject to "artistic vision" changes or whatever you want to call it. Enjoy ~

Alexander Hamilton liked words.

Well, like may not be the appropriate word to clearly distinguish his love for all written materials from, say, jelly-filled donuts.

Alexander lived off of words. Every kind of word, whether it was written or spoken, screamed or whispered, short or long, old or new, careful or careless. Words took over the biggest space in his heart and were all that was ever on his mind. They were more important to him than food or going outside or human interaction. The only times he ever talked to people were to ask them 1) If they'd read anything worthwhile recently, 2) Their thoughts on the state of their local government policies, and 3) If he could quote them on that.

The only thing that he may have loved more than words was libraries. And only because they had so many words inside them. He regarded any library or book shop that he found himself in to be his home, even if only temporarily. It was as simple as that. No other place held the same grip on his heart and no person had ever even come close. If he could have put the local library's address down on his school registration papers, he would have.

Alex didn't really have a home or a family, not in New York. But the library was close enough.

It was fitting, then, that he found his two greatest loves at the library: words and John Laurens.

Alex needed to write so badly that he had resorted to scratching the outline of words into his arm with his fingernail. The withdrawal was killing him. He should have known better than to leave his notebook on his study table in the library the night before, and he'd had to spend the whole day without it. It felt as if one if his limbs had been severed.

He was usually more careful, but he had been so tired, and very unwilling to leave. His notebook had just gotten lost in lazy translation.

It was quite appropriate that he had left his French homework in it.

The world was so claustrophobic and cluttered and busy that it seemed like the bus could not move fast enough against the current of the city. There were too many people, too many happenings, too many thoughts that Alex could not record. He was going out of his mind. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood, sharp and putrid, but it only caused him to dig his fingernails in deeper. He squeezed his eyes shut in his best attempt to block out the world and silence the onslaught of thoughts that were drowning out the rest of his mind. He only knew when it was his stop from the screech and halt of the tires that threw his head against the side of the window.

Alex bolted up and nearly trampled an elderly man on his dash off the bus. He ran from the stop after a quick apology, chasing his thoughts through the streets of New York until he barreled through the all-too-familiar doors.

At once he was soothed, like ice on a burn, and felt his body settle into its natural movements. Alex waved hello to the librarians that were friendly with him, dutifully ignored the ones that were not, and let the feeling of being home wash over him.

Alex had found out very early on that there was nothing more comforting than being surrounded by books.

He dropped his latest reading haul into the return bin before he sauntered over to his claimed table, snatched his abandoned notebook back lazily, then kissed its cover before flipping through it to find the page he'd left off on.

Alex's table was in a far corner behind the dusty shelves that held children's non-fiction. It was, for the most part, secluded, and completely unvisited, but that was what made it perfect for him. A match made in library heaven. The constant smell of mildew and ink was comforting and focusing, and he could roam and study and recite French verb conjugations as he wished without having on-looking passerby. His seating choices were between a sturdy wood chair that didn't match the table in shape, style, or color, or a ragged, bright green bean bag that had been thrown in the corner haphazardly in the hopes of attracting young children to non-fiction, if only to sit and read in a surprisingly comfortable neon blob. Sometimes he just sat on the floor. Lighting was never a problem since a floor to ceiling section of the wall had been taken out and replaced with a window, open to a tranquil view of the sidewalk and city outside.

Or it was a tranquil view, until someone threw a bike at it.

Alex jumped back in his seat, his pen scratching a long black line across the clean page he had begun to write on. A kid about his age ran up to the mangled frame, shouting to another person that Alex couldn't see. From what he could tell, the kid was pretty mad, but he was more concerned about the state of his bike than seeking vengeance. After discovering that the back tire was completely flat and slightly bent out of shape, the kid sighed, sat on the curb, and pulled out his phone.

Alex made his way outside. He wasn't sure how he could help; actually, he was pretty sure that he could do virtually nothing for the guy, but he was strongly in favor of keeping his window from getting smashed in. And, the guy looked pretty pissed off. Nothing posed more of a window smashing hazard than pissed off people.

"Hey," Alex said when he approached the bike's owner. He cringed at his own awkwardness.

The guy looked up at him, startled and confused. Alex could have sworn that he had seen him before, but he couldn't put the face with a place or a name. His eyes were squinted against the sun, and his hair was pulled back harshly into an explosive ponytail of curls. He was huddled on the ground, his back against the library window. He still had his phone out, poised between his hands, and Alex suddenly felt like he was intruding. "I, uh, saw what happened with your bike and I was just wondering if I could help at all?" Alex figured he would keep his anti-window smashing motives to himself. For the time being, anyway.

He didn't realize he was holding his breath until the guy spoke. He stood up, turned to look at his mangled bike, then faced Alex.

"Sure," he said. "You wouldn't happen to have a tire pump on you, would you?"

Alex laughed, surprising himself, and the guy smiled. Alex noticed that he had a good smile. A really good smile. Alex stuttered when he went to speak.

"You wouldn't mind me asking, what happened, exactly?" Alex inquired hesitantly.

"Oh, well, this old dude kind of hit the back tire of my bike, you know, while I was riding it, and then he had to get out of his car – a really shitty Honda, by the way - just to tell me that I should 'keep my filthy youth scum off the streets.' And then he got mad, as you can see," he said, gesturing towards the bike.

After he had finished his recount of the incident, the stranger sighed, then held out his hand. "John Laurens."

Alex took it and they shook. "Alexander Hamilton. I go by Alex."

"You can call me whatever. I don't really care. My friends call me Laurens, though."

"Laurens, then." Alex smiled, though he sensed that they would soon fall into one of those awkward silences that he so hated. He started to speak, but clamped his jaw shut when realization colored Laurens' features with a shocked expression.

"Hey, you go to Albany Private, right? You just started this semester? Oh, god, I'm sorry I didn't recognize you before," Laurens said, slightly embarrassed. Alex was surprised. He saw Laurens looking at his uniform, which made his school obvious enough. Laurens wasn't wearing his, but he'd recognized Alex enough to remember that he was new. Alex hadn't paid that much attention to any of his classmates since he'd started school in New York, and he found it surprising that Laurens had given any to him.

"Yeah, I think I've seen you around too. With those guys, who have those names…"

Laurens laughed. His laugh was even better than his smile. "Yeah, Gilbert and Hercules. But I don't torture them like that. They're just Lafayette and Mulligan. And they're my ride, but they won't be here for-" Laurens checked his phone and sighed, "-at least two more hours."

"Oh," Alex said and blinked. Clearly, Laurens was asking for a ride, but Alex didn't have one. He also didn't have a cellphone, or people that he could call and ask for a ride even if he did have a phone. "Well, I'm just studying. You can sit with me if you want, you know, while you're waiting," Alex proposed, not expecting Laurens to agree, but hoping just a little that he would.

Laurens smiled in response. Alex wondered if he could ever get tired of that smile. "That would be nice. Thanks, Alex."

"Not a problem."

Alex showed Laurens to his corner. Laurens took the beanbag, and Alex sat at the table, consciously keeping his papers orderly, as opposed to spreading them out across the wood, and when that ran out of room, the floor. When Alex was working, he wasn't always the most attentive to organization.

Laurens didn't make conversation. He wasn't loud, he wasn't a distraction, but he wasn't doing anything. He hadn't taken out his phone again since Alex had brought him into the library, and he didn't have a schoolbag or any work with him to do. Alex, come to think of it, didn't remember seeing him at school that day.

Laurens wasn't even napping.

Alex couldn't handle it.

"Hey," he called. "Do you want something to do, or, like, a book, since we're in a library?"

Laurens laughed brightly. "If you're trying to get me to do your book report for you, don't bother trying again."

"No," Alex responded, grinning. "Nothing like that. You just look bored. I could give you some recommendations, if you want. What kind of books do you like?"

Laurens thought for a moment, looking back and forth between Alex and the window as if he'd been backed into a corner. Which, technically, he had been.

"Anything with science, I suppose," Laurens answered. "Anything that's a little strange. Or something with pictures, for that matter. You can never have enough pictures. To be frank with you, I don't read much."

With those words, Alex set out on a self-ordained mission.

Within five minutes, Alexander had Laurens hooked up with a library card and Frankenstein. Laurens had given him a skeptical look, but Alex only smiled, saying nothing, leaving the worn classic in Laurens' hands while he went back to his history assignment. He only hoped that it being the illustrated edition would make Laurens more inclined to actually read it.

As Laurens flipped through pages, Alex filled pages with his neat scrawl, working until he had nearly finished all of his assignments for the weekend. The hands on the clock turned, even though Alex didn't check it even once. The minutes ticked away, even though he didn't really want them to.

And then Laurens was leaving.

Alex didn't know why his chest felt so heavy when Laurens stood, thanked him for the book and the company, and went to meet his ride. Alex was alone, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't like it.

That weekend something happened to Alex that had never happened before: he found himself at a loss for words. One moment he was writing, trying to document as many of his experiences and thoughts and ideas as he possibly could, and the next he just… wasn't. The gears in his mind had stopped turning. He set his pen on paper, not knowing what to do with it, like he'd forgotten how it fit in his hand. He sat at his desk in his boarding room, paralyzed, until he woke from an impromptu nap with a page stuck to his face, half of it still unfilled, unfinished.

He didn't know what to do with the ache in his chest, or his brain's unwillingness to think of the right words. Wandering around like a zombie, he didn't go to the library on Saturday. The excuse he gave himself was that he was sick, and his immune system was overpowering his brain and couldn't function with the imbalance of power. He ate a piece of toast with half a jar of peanut butter slathered on top of it for breakfast, then for lunch he fixed himself a big meal and later in the afternoon he took the Livingston's kids to get ice cream at the place on the corner that they all liked.

He hated it.

He didn't write a word all day. He barely spoke. His mind was absurdly blank.

He couldn't handle the unproductivity. Thinking of all the time and potential he was wasting made him want to rip his hair out from the roots. Not knowing how to turn off his writer's block, Alex went on full shut down and slept for fourteen hours on Sunday.

When he woke, he couldn't remember anything he dreamed. No words came to his head, except the jingle for an auto-repair ad.

He slouched and dragged himself out of bed before flopping back down on the covers unceremoniously.

He supposed he was being just a little dramatic, but until he got his words back, life was going to be absolutely unbearable.