Alexander is dead.

The news hits Thomas harder than he expects it to. All the air is sucked out of his lungs, and the walls feel like they are collapsing around them. He's spinning into a bottomless abyss, one that he doesn't feel the need to try to climb out of.

Alexander is dead.

He can't be dead, because Thomas saw him just yesterday, laughing and smiling without a care in the world. But the newspaper headline is plain, cold and harsh. Alexander Hamilton is gone.

The funeral is bleak, something that Thomas does not want to attend, for fear of seeing his Alexander laid out in a coffin, unusually still and silent.

His Alexander.

James tries to take Thomas' mind elsewhere, he really does try, and for that, Thomas is grateful, but even his best friend can't fill that gaping hole inside of him. There's no one to debate against, no one to yell at, no one to cuddle with on the couch watching a horror movie, there is just no one there.

Until there is.

He starts seeing Alexander everywhere he turns, a ghostly figure with a serene smile upon its face, a bloodstain right between his ribs. His eyes are blank gaps of space, speckled with stars from the night sky, and when he talks, he doesn't just talk, he thinks, and Thomas feels the words reverberate through his body every time. Only when Thomas gets closer to this afterimage of Alexander does he realize that this is Alexander. The way his glasses sit upon his nose, slightly skewed, the hair mussed as if he just woke up, every part of the spirit screams Alexander.

But it isn't him.

This Alexander is cold and distant, something that Alexander in real life would never be. Thomas offers him paper and a pen, but the ghost of his lover refuses to take them, no matter what Thomas says.

This isn't Alexander.

And those thoughts slam into Thomas harder than the newspaper headline did. Because if he could have Alexander back, he would give anything, but this, he knows, is exactly the opposite. Alexander sits on the table, legs swinging slightly, eyebrows raised in a questioning look at Thomas' sudden agitation, but Thomas doesn't want to look at him.

This is torture, and he doesn't want to take part of this at all.

But when Alexander stops him from pacing feverishly around the house and forces him to sit with a gust of cool air, Thomas can't take it anymore.

He bursts into tears, letting himself crumble, all of his pride and dignity gone in a flash.

Well, he didn't have much of it left, did he?

The ghost of Alexander Hamilton then does the unthinkable. He hugs Thomas, and for once, his spirit isn't so cold. It's warmth encircling Thomas now, and for a moment, Alexander solidifies enough to Thomas to grab hold of him desperately.

They stay like that for a long time, Thomas pressing his face into Alexander's shoulder, with Alexander himself rubbing small circles into his lover's back.

When Thomas finally calms down enough to pull away, Alexander smiles at him, this smile a bit more playful and quite uncannily similar to a smirk he would have worn if he were alive.

You'll be alright, his voice echoes in Thomas' ears as the apparition breaks apart in a billion gold pieces and drifts out the window into the night sky.

Thomas watches until every last golden speck disappears, before closing the window tightly and going to bed.

He sleeps peacefully for the first time since Alexander's death.