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hollywoodx4 · 7 years

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Sticking with the Schuylers (32)

Hi! Welcome back, thanks for sticking around! Also, thanks for all of your questions the other day-I successfully avoided my coursework and they’re always the best way for me to keep my reference doc full of all kinds of character studies. Plus, you guys are so nice to chat with!

In this part, the aftermath. And a chat with everybody’s favorite older sister.

(Tagging: @ellzabethschuyler)

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She stands on the bridge in the pouring rain, body bent over the railing and arms dangled carelessly over the edge. He can barely see her through the onslaught of rain; it barrages down his forehead and nose and he’s choking back water as it flies toward his face. But he can still make out her outline; tired posture, silk brown hair mussed and matted by the storm, covering her facial features. She’s turned toward the water, away from him, and he watches as she leans further over the edge.

Through the raucous noises of the storm he can’t hear what she’s saying but suddenly she’s leaning further over the railing and he’s clawing his way through the rain. His feet seem to stick to the ground underneath them, and although his path is obstructed by fallen branches and the sheer force of the wind he can barely lift his legs high enough to begin thinking about surmounting the obstacles. She dips further over the railing, shouting then, and he heaves and pushes his body. Muscles tensed, posture bent, the sheer psychological force of fear is the only thing keeping his body rooted to the ground, no matter how he tries to reach her.

Her body slips over the railing and into the thundering river.

He watches her go, still rooted in the same spot fearful, unable to do anything but stand and stare. His body remains numb but his mouth flies open in shock. Nothing comes out. As desperately as he wants to scream-to beg for help-his body contorts with the pushed diaphragm and worn lungs of screams but he is muted. His body is muted. He is useless, and Eliza is gone.

…

She cries a lot. His nights have become consumed with the sound of it, the twist of a knife through his heart. And she pretends that nothing is wrong. Her need to be honest conflicts head-o-head with a protective barrier that ends in the truth, but not the whole truth. The first night, after John has gone home and she’s read the article four times through without pause, she hands him back his phone with a shake of her head.

“He’s pathetic,” She sighs, pacing around the room to begin the cleanup of takeout containers and empty glasses. He follows, a shadow to her racing mind, and she huffs. “This isn’t any of your mess. Go sit, it’s alright.”

When he refuses she wheels around to face him, pleading. The fa��ade gains its first few cracks.

“Please, Alexander.” He retreats to the bedroom and peeks his head through the doorway, an ear trained to the sound of dishes clanging in the sink. She leaves it on much too long for the two cups and two plates that had been left on the table. He can barely make out the sound of her sniffling against the rushing of the water from the tap. He fights the urge to go to her, but she’d asked for time. Through the front of cleaning by herself, she’d been asking for quiet-for a moment without him to deal with what had just been handed to her. Alexander does not blame her. Standing in the doorway, he only waits for the moment she’ll be ready to accept his help.

In ten minutes, she still hasn’t moved from the kitchen. In twelve his concern begins to grow. Thirteen minutes from the time he’d left her to wash two cups and two plates Eliza still has not finished. Alexander pushes back the guilt of going back on his word-of giving her some alone time-to make his way into the kitchen. The sound of running water still fills the room, enveloped in a stagnant, eerie silence. There is no clanging of dishes against the sink, not even the faintest of saddened breaths from Eliza. She stands over the running water with her hands submerged, body still and back facing him. He calls her name. She doesn’t respond-not even with a movement of her body or an intake of breath. He tries again, only to receive the same response.

Alexander moves further into the kitchen and his bare feet slip in a dampness that has taken over the tile. The soft dripping of water flows from the sink, over the countertops before creating a small rivulet along the cool, slick floor. It sends a shockwave through him, and he treads carefully across the floor to turn off the tap.

The silence that fills the room then is barely livable. Even after he had reached over her to stop the flow of water-after he’d said her name three times in gentle tones and slow syllables, her hands remain submerged in sudsy water. He moves to the front of her, then, leaning over the counter to find eye contact. He finds the usual light of her eyes shadowed by a thick gloss; she looks at nothing, eyes glued to the window behind the sink unfocused and empty. He longs to reach to her-to touch her arm, her hair-but his hand hovers still in the air next to her before it drops back to his side. He attempts her name one last time-the tone of it unfamiliar in the way that his voice presents it-shaking and hesitant-to her still form. She remains still.

Alexander shuffles forward, stomach touching the damp of the countertop as he leans forward. He submerges his own hands into the sink-recoils at the boiling temperature-before taking in a breath and going back in. This time, his own calloused hands emerge with hers. Usually soft, their pruned and wrinkled texture feels foreign in his hold. He mindlessly rubs his thumbs across the backs of her hands. This is when she recoils.

It had been like pulling a trigger the way her body seemed to start back to life with the simple, habitual touch. He is consumed with an immediate guilt, settling in the pit of his stomach and the now prickling nerves within him. He jumps back, too, an apology already settled on his lips. Eliza’s eyes roam across the mess on the floor; the countertop, the cabinets. She fingers the damp cotton of her shirt with a sort of hesitant curiosity, unsure of what to make of the situation. Then she’s pulling at it, digits wrapping around fabric in an intense ferocity. Alexander watches for a moment-waits. A light has turned on in her eyes, now aflame with the spark of discomfort, still lost to him. Then she’s struggling, quaking hands in rapid movement unable to peel the dripping cotton from her skin.

“I’m going to help you, okay?” He steps forward, one slight movement of his right foot. She nods, unable to stop the movement of her hands as desperation fills her eyes-her lungs. Alexander takes another step, closing the gap between them before pinching the hem of her shirt with both hands. “Is it alright for me to help you?”

She nods again, flyaway hairs brushing against her face with the movement of it all. He lifts his hands slowly, peeling the dripping fabric from her body.

“Can you lift your arms?” Eliza listens to the instruction, ligaments numb with the load of her nerves. It’s an effort that feels herculean, even watching her, but she manages to get them far enough above her head for Alexander to pull her shirt over it. He holds the water-weighted fabric in his hands, letting it drip onto the tile in splashes that are a staccato to break the silence that has returned to the room. Eliza’s lips move in French. Alexander deciphers her words from the slight whisper that seeps between them. From one to nine and back again, Eliza counts. He watches. The dripping shirt begins to form another puddle. Her eyes well with tears before she blinks them away.

“What a mess,” She breaks the silence with a sigh, moving to the bathroom before emerging once more with an old towel. On her hands and knees she soaks up the rest of the water before taking her shirt from Alexander’s grasp. “I’ll just throw them in the wash, I guess.”

She walks away as if nothing has happened. A phantom smile, just barely there, mists over her paled features. The shift of mood narrows Alexander’s eyes. He’s stopped in his tracks. And when Eliza beckons him to the bedroom freshly clothed in one of his shirts it takes him a moment to follow. He is dazed. She’s laying on her side of the bed when he finally makes his way through the door, her favorite white knit blanket tucked up to her chin. She pats the space beside him, eyes half-closed, and watches as he gets ready for bed. His movements are slow, concerned. He walks along a sea of imaginary egg-shells that canvas the hardwood flooring, listens carefully for the crunch that will push the ever-shifting mood of the room over the edge. He hasn’t even slid all the way into bed before she’s rolled herself over to rest on him. Her eyes close. Against him he can feel the violent thrumming of her heart against her chest; a break in the smoke-and-mirror show she had been trying to put on. Alexander wraps an arm tighter around her, letting the warmth of his body and her physical closeness calm himself down a bit.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not right now.” Her voice hums soft against his chest as his fingers tread softly through her hair. Her eyelids flutter within their half-shut state, her heartbeat slowing along with her breaths.

“Do you want me to call someone?”

“Just need you…and sleep.” Her words dissipate into an incoherent mumbling toward the end of her sentence. Eliza manages one last tilt of her head, her lips brushing the defined line of his chin as she lets out i love you before her breathing becomes even and her body still against his. His eyes drift down to her now peaceful form and he sighs, continuing the run of his fingers through her hair, one hand tracing circles on her back. His eyes won’t shut. His heart won’t still. She cries a lot, and it worries him.

…

She’s laying underneath him-or, rather, he’s flung himself on top of her. He’s unsure of where he is or how he’s gotten here, but he knows that it’s Eliza he’s with by the way his heart pulls toward her. And it is-when he finally blinks the crusted sand from his eyes it’s Eliza he sees, deep brown eyes glassed over, lips slightly parted and painted an opaque layer of purple-one that’s just begun to take over.

He knows that there’s urgency in the situation; not long after he regains his sight he also regains sounds-gunshots and screams and people crying-voices that seem to disappear in the vast and deserted nothingness they’ve landed in. But the air is arid and he’s choking back layers of sand that have blown into his mouth and the pores of his skin. He holds a tighter grip on her as the harsh winds continue.

More gunshots. And then a voice; a set of hands on his shoulders, underneath his arms. Pleading from both sides. He holds her tighter, still.

“We have to leave her, she’s dead. Come on, they’re coming!”

He can’t get his answer out but he hears it, the thoughts echoing against his mind as he wraps his arms tighter around Eliza’s waist.

I can’t. The arms pull tighter on Alexander. I’m not leaving without her. A second pair of hands find his waist and wrap tight around it; two firm grips. He tightens his own. Knuckles turn white from holding on too tight. Her hair still smells like citrus. He doesn’t try to hold back the sobs that barrel from the depths of his stomach-from his soul. I can’t keep going without her!

He watches through wild, fighting eyes as the arms cart him away from her; watches as his gentle, soft-spoken Eliza becomes a tiny dot in the wasteland. He watches until that dot fades. He screams.

…

There is a moment of cross-over, of actual fear that tears through his heart as the gunshots from his dream transcribe into the pounding of their front door. It is still dark. Eliza has not shifted in her sleep; head on his chest, arm around his waist. Even when Alexander jolts upward in bed she barely shifts. A slight hum leaves her parted lips when he slides out from underneath Eliza, laying her gently back onto her pillow before throwing himself over the edge of the bed. There is a moment of hesitation when he gets to the bedroom door. He turns back to the room-to Eliza-as a hard and stabbing knot forms in his stomach. The familiar pin-prick of tears attempts to erupt in the form of a barreling roll of nerves from his toes to his eyes. She’s peaceful; her eyes shut tight and minute exhalations of air fill the room with a serenity that only comes at this hour of the night. There is a pull, a need to go back to her.

The knocking turns into a pounding and he’s reminded of the task at hand-the invisible battle armor he’s suited himself up in. He draws in a shaking breath before letting the image of a sleeping Eliza fill him with a warmth that washes over him, turning itself into a coursing flame. By the time his rapid feet make their way to their front door his knuckles are white with anticipation, and the impulse that drives him sends the door flying open without a glance through the peephole.

Alex stops his fist just millimeters away from making contact with Angelica Schuyler’s cheek. She staggers backward, hands on her hips, and throws a string of strong words through the air. His face, already a rusty rouge from the anger and anticipation that had consumed him just moments before, burns from the intensity of his embarrassment. Angelica shakes her head, running a hand through her hair in an attempt to stop the barrage of words that come from her mouth.

“Did you even-that article-can you believe-Alex what happened?”

“I don’t know!” The echo of his voice bounces off the walls of the hallway and he closes his lips in response to himself, looking between her and the door before letting her into the apartment. “She’s sleeping.”

Angelica heeds his warning and follows him to the kitchen, pouring two glasses of water and setting one down next to Alex. He eyes it, then her. Her brows are furrowed in a stern glare and she points to the glass, a silent order. He complies, drinking half the glass before he’s realized how thirsty he had been.

“You look terrible.”

“Thanks.”

“Why?” Only Angelica Schuyler, with her matter-of-fact tone translated even through the softness of voice they’re using to keep Eliza asleep, would ask so blatantly. Alex rubs his sweat-laced forehead with the back of his hand, a heavy sigh escaping his body to match his dark-circled eyes.

“I don’t want her to get hurt.”

“I know.”

“I started this.”

“You didn’t.” His companion sits upright in her chair, gripping his arm with a firm ferocity not unlike Eliza’s. Although Eliza’s defense of him typically came with softer tones and encompassing warmth. Angelica’s felt more like a discipline that made him hang his head. “You didn’t start this.”

“But I could finish it.”

“Could you?”

“I could start petitions. I could write-start a case file and get things worked up. She needs a restraining order, and a new apartment, and,”

“Alex, breathe.” He’s speaking at a pace so rapid that it dizzies him, sends him sinking back into his chair with closed eyes, pinching the space at the bridge of his nose in irritation. Angelica rolls her eyes. “You’re not a lawyer yet. You can’t just make things happen the way you want them to because you think you can write your way to it. Maybe my father could, but she won’t tell him. She won’t budge.”

“And what happens when he reads this shit-you’re telling me he’s just going to turn a blind eye to the blatant harassment that’s happening here?”

“I’m saying that he’ll only know some of the story at that point, not all of it. He’ll never hear all of it if Eliza has her way.”

He pauses, considering. The topic has always been a fragile one between them. Spoken only through Eliza’s head on his chest, her worries coming in one swift congregation of words drifting whispered through the air, the topic is incomplete in his mind. He only knows of her refusal to tell Phillip the details-the imagery of what would happen when he found out. Alex longs for that picture now, although Eliza’s depiction of her father confronting James is often vicious and unforgiving. If anybody deserves it, he reasons, it’s James Reynolds.

The silence eats its way to Angelica. While Alex sits opposite her, eyes searching and concerned, her mind drifts to the sister sleeping peacefully in the next room over. There’s a pressure on her heart, squeezing and contracting in a way that makes the entirety of her chest ache. She traces the rim of her glass with her finger, language dripping slowly toward her tongue while refusing to make its exit. Spit it out, her mind argues with the lips that remain sealed. Her body stiffens in her chair. She taps the table with her fingers, drumming a silent beat. Alex looks up from his own thoughts then, tilting his head slightly as the murmur of her name breaks the silence.

“I got accepted to Oxford.”

“Oxford…like, England?”

“To study abroad-finish classes toward my degree.”

“At Oxford.”

“Don’t look at me like it’s such a ridiculous thing, Alexander Hamilton.” She huffs, chugging a gulp of her water before slamming the glass back down on the table. He shushes her. Angelica shakes her head, drawing in a breath before lowering her voice. “I don’t even know if I’m going to accept.”

His mouth is agape when she looks up to meet his eyes. Now his head is shaking, vehemently.

“You have to go-why wouldn’t you go?”

The truth hits them both at the same time. Alexander turns in his chair to look toward the bedroom, craning his ear for any sign of movement. There is nothing, but he cannot pull his eyes from the doorway just yet. In a hushed voice, so low that Angelica can barely make out his syllables, he sighs her sister’s name.

“I know she can take care of herself. She wouldn’t say that-she wouldn’t want to offend me, or you. But she needs someone-for when it gets hard. She doesn’t want to be a burden so she’ll pull a veil over you but you know that. You know a lot about her.”

“I do. I-I try to.”

Alex has risen from his chair, treading carefully over to their bedroom with gentle steps. His head pokes through the doorway, slight and hesitant, before he lets his eyes fall upon her. She’s still sleeping, curled into her pillow as a replacement for his missing form. A flood of feeling-responsibility-washes over him as he watches her. This isn’t just a game. He knows what Angelica is insinuating before she’s formulated the thought into a coherent sentence. When he turns she is there, staring into the room beside him, eyes locked on her sister’s sleeping form in the way that his were.

“I don’t want to leave her.” She whispers, a hand trailing along the doorframe. Alex steps back, his lips drawn into a line.

“She’ll tell you it’s not a choice.”

“You need to take care of her.”

“I will. I always will.” It is not the conversation that Angelica had intended on having when she had come barreling to Eliza’s apartment at two in the morning. It’s not even a conversation she’d had with herself yet. Hearing Alex’s strong tone of voice, watching the way he looked over her sister as if she was the most treasured piece of his life…there’s a comfort in knowing that it’s him that’s with Eliza. His eyes are full of a strength, an adoration that seems to lift from his gaze and cross the room to her sister without a single uttered word from his lips. His promise is sincere. Alex eases her mind, but the media mania that has surrounded her sister sends Angelica’s nerves on overdrive. It takes more than just a person and a promise to fix something this big, and it doesn’t make her decision any easier.

#hamliza #hamilton au #alexander x eliza #mine: swts #no further tags #no wait #i love elizabeth schuyler

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