First of all, you are clearly not to be trusted with fun historical facts.  What would you ever do with the knowledge that the Marquis de Lafayette once gave John Quincy Adams a pet alligator that the sixth president insisted on keeping in the White House?  Or the fact that America’s treaty with Morocco is the longest standing, due to the fact that they were the first to acknowledge us as an independent country? Anyway.  There was technically already these two idiots sharing a bed last time, but you know what everyone always needs more of in their life?  THE WINTER AT VALLEY FORGE.  Now, there’s actual Research that happened for this one, so some points.  It’s about the end of 1777, meaning John Laurens has only been with the army a couple months (to be fair Hamilton’s only been there about six months longer), and what I’m generously calling ‘huts’ are tiny little buildings that basically only function to cut the windchill down, and they usually housed WAY more than two, but…artistic license?  For the sake of nominal consistency, I’m pretending that this is before Schuylkill, so theoretically it could fit into the same continuum as your other request.  

John hadn’t slept heavily since coming to Valley Forge—the ill ease of a Southern boy exposed to the bitter nip of a Pennsylvania winter for the first time—but he was getting better at it.  The tiny hut was better than the tent, and their status as aides de camp of the general himself meant that they were only two to a hut.  It meant there was barely space to walk between the slapdash cots and the writing desk they shared and the two chairs. Alexander—who had insisted on the familiar address within scant days of meeting John, all sharp-edged smile and warm dark eyes—had a slightly easier time of it, as he wasn’t forced to stand with his head bowed whenever he drew too near a wall, but not much.  The hut was small and damp and dark, and there were moments when John felt as if taking too deep a breath would crack the logs around them.

The thud of Alexander’s forearm colliding with the desk as he dozed off was loud and sharp in the small space, and John jolted awake at the sound.

“My apologies, John,” Alexander said, muffling a yawn with one hand. He reached out and steadied his tallow candle, dabbing at a smear of ink on the page.

“They are unnecessary,” John said, frowning.  “What time is it?”

“Very late, or perhaps very early,” Alexander said with a shrug, brushing an escaping coil of hair out of his face and squinting down at the page.  “I suppose the answer depends on whether you would prefer to judge by the past evening or the upcoming dawn.  That is, of course, assuming you were able to tell which is which in this abysmal weather.”

“What’s started now?” John asked, rolling onto his side and curling up tightly beneath his thin excuse for a blanket, so that he could watch Alexander more closely.  It was rare that he had the chance to observe the other man, and even rarer that he took it, but it was late and he was weary and if he spent a moment admiring the glance of candlelight off Alexander’s cheekbones, such a thing could be written off.

“It has begun to sleet, and I never imagined that I might mourn snow so much,” Alexander said, face twisting with distaste, and John laughed, feeling a sharp shudder of cold wrack down his spine.

“That’s right,” he said, amused.  “You are a southerner too, are you not?  Tell me, Alexander, does Christiansen get weather like this?”  Alexander’s eyes flickered to John’s face, wary for a moment, and John’s smile faded.  Alexander should never look so concerned, it didn’t suit his wickedly intelligent features, and it sent a sharp jolt of pain through John’s chest.  “You asked me not to speak to anyone about your origins, Hamilton,” John reminded him, reverting to his surname in an attempt to impress his seriousness on him.  “I have not told a soul, as you asked.”

“I believe you, Laurens,” Alexander said, offering a faint smile.  It was a shadow of his usual charming grin, but it warmed his eyes until John imagined he could feel his gaze as a weight.  “And no, I had never even seen snow until I came to New York.  And what about the good colony of South Carolina?”

“No, never,” John said with a laugh.  He shivered again, harder, and sighed, pushing himself up from the bed with his blanket drawn around his shoulders like a cloak. “Alexander, my dear boy,” he said, rising to his feet and taking the two steps necessary to stand behind the other man. “You are of no use to anyone if you work yourself to the bone.”

John Laurens had learned several things about Alexander Hamilton within days of meeting him, three of them foremost.  First of all, the man was brilliant, the sort of incisive mind that was discussed for centuries afterward.  Second of all, he was a devoted abolitionist, and moreover willing to overlook Henry Laurens’ existence in favor of John’s own views, a rare and precious gift.  Third, he was more determined to work himself into an early grave than anyone John had ever met, firmly wedded to the mindset that one did not truly need sleep until standing was impossible, and that even then work could be accomplished while seated.

After noticing that the two had fallen into a quick and close friendship, the Marquis de Lafayette had cornered John.  Far from reprimanding him, as John had initially feared, the major general had strictly informed him that he was now one of those responsible for ensuring that Monsieur Hamilton remembered to eat from time to time, and sleep when necessary.  The Frenchman had beamed at John when he dryly agreed, pecked him on both cheeks, and immediately proceeded to insinuate himself as one of Laurens’ closest friends, second only to Alexander.

“I need to finish writing this letter for General Washington,” Alexander said, and, so close, John could see that fine shivers were crawling constantly down his neck and across his shoulders.

Peering over Alexander’s shoulder, John huffed a laugh. “Alexander Hamilton,” he said. “You and I both know that the general does not need that letter for another week at least, and this is already the second draft.  And you are about to freeze something off, if you stay here.”

“I–”

John rested a hand on Alexander’s fine-boned wrist, forcing him to either put the quill down or risk smearing ink all across his page.  He only just managed to repress the impulse to jolt back at the contact—Alexander’s skin was like ice. “You are done for tonight,” John said firmly.  “Unless you have a compelling argument otherwise.”

Alexander fidgeted for a moment, not quite pulling away from John’s grip on his wrist.  “I cannot sleep,” he finally muttered.  “It—I’m still unused to the cold.  I thought getting work done was an improvement over lying on my cot and listening to the wind.”  He allowed John to tug him upright and his voice was distant when he said, “Nevis didn’t get snow, but we had hurricanes.  They used to sound like this.”

John wasn’t sure how to respond to that—he was often unsure of how to respond to Alexander, but fortunately Alexander was an infinitely forgiving friend, and more than willing to carry most conversations entirely on his own.  He settled for smoothing his thumb down the line of Alexander’s pulse, a steady and distracting drag of skin against skin, and waited for Alexander to look up at him again.

“And you, Laurens?”

“Hmm?” Jack said, looking up from where his hand was wrapped around Alexander’s wrist.  “I beg your pardon?”

“The cold, my dear Laurens,” Alexander said, closing his inkwell with his free hand and laying his pen neatly beside it before looking back up at John.  “How do you fare?”

As if being reminded of it summoned the problem back, John shuddered again, imagining that he could hear his bones rattle together.  “I am not entirely certain the cold agrees with me,” he said dryly, and Alexander laughed, quiet but full and genuine. John felt himself sway minutely toward the sound—it was rich and just faintly rasping with exhaustion, and it was lovely.  “But it’s the damp that is the worst part,” he added, hoping to prompt another laugh.

“It is rather pernicious,” Alexander agreed, smiling through another shiver.  “Do we still have wood for a fire?”

“Ever the optimist, my dear boy,” John said.  “Dry wood is worth more than gold these days.  We gave ours to the medical hut.”

“Ah, yes, now I remember,” Alexander said, and stiffened visibly at a particularly loud howl of wind against their walls.  “Well,” he said, resigned, “I suppose I can attempt to sleep, but I make no promises that I manage it in this cold.”

John considered for a moment.  He wasn’t sure which made his chest tighter, the thought of himself trying and failing to sleep, or of Alexander, listening to the wind and thinking of hurricanes.  He had a dangerous suspicion that it was the latter.

“I have a proposal,” he said carefully, unsure.  “If you’re interested.”

“I’m always interested in you, my dear Laurens,” Alexander teased, and John rolled his eyes.  If only.  He squashed the thought immediately and ruthlessly, and cleared his throat before speaking again.

“Some of the other men, and the other aides, they’ve started sharing cots in an attempt to keep warm,” John finally said, the words a tangled jumble, and when he stopped, watching Alexander cautiously, the other man looked bemused for a moment.

“Would you mind?” Alexander asked slowly.  “You seem ill at ease.”

John let out a laugh, only half-amused, and said, “My father is half a dozen colonies away and I still imagine I can hear him lecturing me about my behavior.”  He took a deep breath and released it slowly, forcing his tense shoulders to relax, and quietly admitted, “I would appreciate it, to be honest.  I do not enjoy the experience of shivering myself awake.”

“Who does?” Alexander said with a smile.  He reached out and seized the nearest corner of his own blanket, pulling it free from his cot and winding it around his shoulders.  “For what it’s worth,” he said more solemnly, “your father should be honored to have a man like you as his son.”

John arched an eyebrow at him and said, “As should yours.”

“Well,” Alexander muttered, picking absentmindedly at a small hole in his blanket.  It had possibly been unfair of John to turn the comment back on him, but the thought that Alexander believed his father had abandoned him because of a personal failing was unbearable.  John had known a lot of people in his life, and Alexander was reckless and abrasive and irritable and self-destructive and unarguably the best man John had ever met. Wherever James Hamilton had gotten to after leaving Nevis, John hoped it was the bitterest regret of his life that he had no claim on the brilliant man his son had become.

“Blow out the candle and come lie down, Alexander,” John ordered, releasing Alexander’s wrist at last.  He hadn’t realized how warm Alexander’s skin had grown under his touch until it was gone, leaving his palm cold and his fingers stiff as he settled back on his cot, pressed back against the logs of the wall.  The tallow candle flickered out and the hut was plunged into darkness, and there was a moment’s pause before Alexander’s slight weight settled on the cot in front of him.

For a moment, John worried, about nothing in particular and everything at once, the sort of all-consuming anxiety about the situation that settled on him like suffocation.  Never mind that he was only trying to ensure that no one froze to death before dawn, surely he was doing something unforgivably wrong.

The searching touch of Alexander’s fingers against his chin eased the knot in his chest so quickly it left him breathless.

“There you are,” Alexander said, amused, as his fingers trailed up John’s jaw to his cheek and the line of his nose.  “I am quite blind.”

“That is the general result of darkness, yes,” John said, smiling and feeling Alexander’s fingers find the dimple at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, be quiet,” Alexander said, and the fingers vanished. John missed them instantly, although less so when Alexander deftly layered their blankets together and lay down. With his usual brisk efficiency, Alexander shifted until his back was pressed against John’s chest, the pair of them curled together like children afraid of the dark.  Tentative, John wrapped an arm around his waist, and Alexander gave a faint, pleased hum that vibrated through his chest.

“You are frigid,” John murmured, daring to nuzzle into Alexander’s hair and tighten his grip minutely.

“Mm,” Alexander said sleepily, and his fingers slid through John’s, pulling John’s hand up to his mouth.  “My Laurens,” he muttered against the knuckles, a low and possessive sound that John carefully didn’t react to.

“Yours?” he asked, amused.  The few moments between being too exhausted to function and being asleep made Alexander drunk, he had learned this too, since their meeting.  It was endearing beyond the telling of it.

“Mm.”  Alexander brushed his lips against John’s hand again and John wondered if he was awake enough to notice the way John’s heart stuttered.  “My Laurens,” he repeated, lowering their joined hands back to his chest.

John waited for his breathing to steady out into sleep before he pressed his lips gently to the back of the other man’s neck and whispered, “My dear boy, always your Laurens.”