Summary: You were once the brimstone fire that burned through the papers that would set history on its axis.

Now you were a human, now you are an Icarus doomed to fall.

Notes: HAVE ANY OF YOU HEARD OF Inimitable-and-AnOriginal? BECAUSE IF IT WASN'T FOR THEM THEN THIS STORY WOULD HAVE NEVER SEEN THE LIGHT OF DAY. THEY ARE AMAZING! DO YOU NEED SOME BETA READING? CHECK THEM OUT!

Inimitable-and-AnOriginal

This turned out much more sadder than I originally intended. But I feel like the point got across. I do hope you forgive me for not update in so long. And amazing thanks to the beta reader to putting up with my nonses,

See you next time!

Chapter 10

He is a Sun.

He is bright and shiny in the dark mud that was the world. His freckles are stars and his eyes are too bright.

You shouldn't fall for him.

But you're an Icarus, and every Icarus needs a Sun.

You meet him by chance in a bar after aconversation you were having with a man about success in New York.

The old wood in the dimly lit tavern seemed to brighten when he sat, becoming as young and light as he was.

You think the most appropriate title for him would be the Sun.

Your fancy words that you have spent years practicing fail; they are stuck in your throat as he turns to look at you.

It's not a surprise you find yourself drawn to him, everyone else in the bar is too. He's a patriot, eager and optimistic for the future; an icon for the revolution. You'd think everyone is waiting to get to know him, his gravitational pull strong enough to make the room spin around him.

You don't know how to feel about him. It's a sin to love a man, but that doesn't matter, because when his mouth moves, your soul dances with his words. You try to figure out the feeling of your chest stirring when you think of him, and your eyes lighting up the moment you saw him. None of the words you can sayever come close to describing how you feel.

He is the bright sunlight in the middle of asunrise, his enthusiastic eyes lighting up the world. He reminds you of honey, sweet and pure. There were so many ways you could try to capture his essence, yet would never come close to how wonderful he is. He is all the good things in the world to you, and makes you eternally happy.

You are sure he doesn't feel the same way. He is a good Christian, unlike you. You're sure everything makes him happy.

You like him, you really do. You hope to one day bring as big a smile to his face as the grin you were wearing the moment you laid eyes on him.

You knew you were doomed to fall the moment he bought you a round of drinks, his smile contagious; even with foul language in his tongue, it sounds like sweet honey to your ears.

Now, you are doomed to fall, and you aren't quite sure you mind.

When the war begins, it isn't a surprise you joined. Long before the war, you had your own battles to win. But this war is not quick and painful, it is long and bloody. The rum in your mouth mixes with blood and sweat as you murder, praying a stray bullet won't kill you.

War is running on empty stomach, and burning with anticipation of wondering if you are going to die today or tomorrow. War is spies and lies, the line between good and badgetting blurred and forgotten.

War is the Hell God has cast you in, yet you question whether you care.

Because when rum is in your fingertips, and your lips are loose, there is a fire alight in your soul you can't extinguish.

You are deep in the back of the camp, where the tents are more secure and privacy is spared. You cup his head with your hands, like a holy man caring for the word of God, and his dark lashes flutter as you kiss him for the first time. His lips taste like alcohol and honey, despite it being the war and honey being rationed.

It will take time to know where he hides the honey, but right now the world is blurred and you decide to take advantage of the small moment of peace.

You are moved to Washington's staff. Many praise about you, while others curse your very existence.

But that doesn't matter, because General Washington is a good man. Good men are harder to find nowadays. He is fair and there is nothing you wouldn't do to him.

It's harder to find time with your Sun during the war, between writing to Congress and fighting for territory.

But somehow you both manage to make things work. You get cocky, nearly getting caught numerous times. And if sodomites got caught they would be hanged, killed as an example to what happens when people break the Lord's word.

The French arrive and there is some hope in this bleak war.

There are celebrations in their honor, and you wonder what to give your Sun as a present.

"I know about you and Laurens."

There is a reason Angelica Schuyler is the most talked about woman in New York City. In a world of men, she is the one who controls gossip and protects her family. And in a world run by men, she had to mold herself to be harsh and cold.

Laws and the Lord's word are behind her.

Her sister means the world to her, and in order to make her happy, Angelica would do anything. Even if you and her have to suffer.

And at the end of the conversation, you cry on the shoulder of your Sun, wondering where the light went, because you are cold and scared, and your lover's grip is too tight and afraid.

The church bells are too loud and the space is too big. She is a lovely woman, and maybe if your heart didn't belong to another you would have fought for her.

She looks angelic and innocent, dressed in white and confessing her love. It feels like a sin when you kiss, and it takes all of your will to fake the light blush and move your mouth into a lie.

She is the only happy one here.

Your Sun isn't like before.

He is colder and harsher, carrying more scars than when you last saw him. But that doesn't matter because he is there and perhaps your world hasn't changed too much.

His hands are like phantoms on your thighs.

He smiles and the fire in his eyes rekindles yours, as he too fights for justice.

You spend that night writing more than you ever have.

You have a son.

You are a father, and in so many ways you are reminded of your lover. When the sun hits Philip's hair, you picture you, your son, and him on some pretty beach, all happy and smiling.

Your son is the only good thing that has come out of this two year Hell.

Eliza isn't bad; she is a lovely woman, and pretending to love her is easy on most days. Except on days when your soul aches from the emptiness, missing the warmth and the security of your Sun.

How can you feel so much when death is all around you?

Your Sun is dead.

That doesn't make any sense. No, because he is your Sun and that isn't right because he is a good Christian, God would have no reason to take him so soon. He isn't the dark in the world God should be fighting against.

You don't understand what's happening, don't understand why the basic writing on the paper somehow contains the heaviest words of the English language.

You don't understand your wife's words as you frantically try to remember what you last wrote to him.

You don't remember what the last thing you ever said to him was, and when you last kissed him.

You announce how you have so much work you have to do, in an effort to get away what is happening.

The war has ended.

A young man stands waving a white flag, and you wonder if it is a trap.

But men are laying down their arms, and for the first time you look at yourself, and laugh; you shout to the world about your victory.

You have won.

Soldiers are calibrating, wondering if it's a trap too. Men and women are coming out onto the streets, cheering and crying. Scars and battlegrounds seem so far away now, as you embrace your fellow soldiers.

The celebrating doesn't end nor does it dissipate as the night drags out.

Lafayette confronts you while you are secluded, wondering where you could break down and pray to your lover for forgiveness.

"I knew of you and Laurens."

There is this fear, like nothing you have felt in the heat of battlefield, will ever get close to this. This is the fear of almost pissing yourself and praying to the Lord, for the first time in a long time. Because you know what happened last time someone learned your darkest and nastiest secret.

"Don't worry, I came to give my condolences, he was my friend too. And he was the happiest with you."

You break down right then and there.

You tell yourself 'write'. Write like your soul is on fire with him, because these words are the closest you will ever feel close to him. Close to kissing the Sun's skin, and the lips of honey.

So write, because your soul is wearing out and wondering if Jefferson is dead or not. You hope he is.

Write, and wonder when they will all leave you alone to your writing. The General came today and you almost fell over when trying to salute him.

Write, and write, and write. Because this is the closest thing to smelling the lavender purple flowers of where his body lay to die.

In summer of 1791, you have a visitor.

This would end with a scandal and the breaking point of Eliza.

But this doesn't affect you how many would have thought.

Because her hands are almost like his. Her mouth is sweet, but never as sweet as his Sun. Eliza could never come close, and neither could she, but the mere thoughts and memories of his Sun brought out the fire in his soul.

Think of his hair as the sun filters through, giving it a golden hue. Think of his skin, hard and trained through the battle of blood and rum. Think of his voice, how strong and steady it was whispering the sinful acts to you.

Think and wonder if the ache is going to swallow you whole soon.

Think and pretend, because this snake isn't your Sun. For your sun has been dead for quite some time.

The pain of losing your son is almost the same as losing your Sun.

Because he was like your Sun in so many ways. He was bright and energy seemed to flow through him. His smile was the one thing you looked forward to these days, when you weren't writing or debating.

Because when you first laid your eyes on him, your soul was filled with an unnamed substance that filled the room when he laughed.

That substance was something far more than pride and love.

He is dead.

And now you wonder how to grieve.

There is blood and pain, but not like the war. For war is more foul words and rum and praying under your sheets that you don't die that day.

This blood isn't from the Brits. No, this blood was drawn from your very first friend as you pay the price for laying down your seeds in history, a history that will judge your bones and soul.

Wonder, if you squint, if that's your Sun.

It's cold and maybe you caught a glimpse of Aaron's horrified face before blood started to swell your insides.

You find the cold to be the most despicable thing this deadbeat world has to offer.

Your Sun— John, John — he is there by your side as the doctor is setting—

"C'mon! You have to run, not trot!" Your Sun teases, a smile painted on his face that no Da Vinci could ever duplicate. He is glowing—

John is humming a tune under his breath, and his back is facing you. You hate that the most because you need to see his face, young and whole. Because it's become more difficult to remember his face as the years pass by.

- "Let's dance," Your Sun whispers into your ear as you hide your love from those around you. His face is on your shoulder as he hums an old tune and you both lose track of time slow dancing under the heavy—

Eliza and Angelica are there. Somehow you find the energy to let go of the bitterness your soul gripped so rigorously these years. Remembering is harder as the pain is becoming harder to fight. Your children are here, so pray for them.

And remember—

—"So you want to go swimming?" Your Sun teases as you buckle your horse. You roll your eyes, as your Sun is the most—

Remembering the unsuspected memories that spring past your grasp. Those that are resurfacing at three times the previous rate, and for the first time you can't keep up.

—"You are the most handsome man in the world," You whisper in love as your Sun glows—

Remembering the face of your Sun is becoming harder as the years pass by, but the feeling of love and safety that resonates in the room is enough for you. You—

— "What's your one fear?" Your Sun asks one night, his head resting on your shoulder. It's dark and you can't see his face. You suddenly realize that you can't answer the question. What are you scared of?—

John is humming an old tune under his breath, the same tune that his mother sang to him, and the same one he sang to you when you—

Someone is talking and you can't quite makeout their face, or put a name to the face. There is a woman, and you wonder if she's going to take you to Hell.

Clear your head and try to stop the onslaught of memories.

But John is still there, his back turned, and you reach out. Just barely, trying to touch him. But before that happens you feel. . . Something.

'No!' Fight tooth and nail, fight for John, he's now far away and you must stay here.

There is a silent snap, and you now feel weightless; you can swear on your mother's grave you hear a woman sobbing.

You fall in the cracks, and as you fall you realize something.

You were in love with him, and you flew too close, and now you're paying the price.

Yet you're not quite sure you're upset about that.

He is the Sun and every Sun needs their Icarus.

"Hey, Alexander?" John said one night, as he and you were laying in bed together, hiding from everyone else. You were just sitting and enjoying the other's company. He looked at you, and you noticed how he smelled like honey and gunpowder, how soft his lips were—

You looked up from where you'd been trying to count the freckles on his face, the night sky not coming close to how many there were. You grunted softly and continued counting.

"If I'm the sun, according to you," Your Sun began.

"You are," You corrected, whispering again. People were walking out here but peppering his hand in kisses was far more important. He smiled and shook his head.

But he spoke up again as the light outside tent began to become darker. "If I'm the sun, what does that make you?" He asked quietly. He already knew the answer.

"Icarus," You replied, voice muffled by his warm skin.

"Isn't that sad?" He murmured. You were still close enough to touch him. "Is it?"

"Yeah,'" You mumbled back, softly. He blinked and reached a hand out. You took it, and he pulled you closer.

"We're not gonna be some tragedy," He told you. He kissed your cheek, cupping your face with his soft hands.

"Yeah." You repeated.

How wrong you turned out to be. For every Sun needed their Icarus, and Icarus wasdoomed to fall for flying too high.