Rise Up, Oh Heart, For There is Another Battle to Win

Anonymous asked: Psst John and Alexander meeting in your Hamilton Reincarnation fic series?

WOO, I am literal Laurens/Hamilton garbage, tell your friends.  
All In One Spot AU

John has been at Columbia for a year and, honestly, he’s starting to think that he was wrong, that no one else is here.  He walks past the law center every chance he gets, and he doubles the time of the walk from his dorm to the natural sciences building every single day to pass Hamilton Hall.  The statue is…reassuring, somehow, Alexander’s fine-drawn face cast in bronze and a quill in his clever fingers.  When John’s tired, or he’s had a bad night, full of nightmares with bayonets jumbled in with cars, the cinch of a noose tangled with the static of a television, he’ll stop and look at the statue until he can breathe again.

It’s not all bad.  John is in New York City, and he finally gets where Alexander was coming from all those years ago, this might legitimately be the greatest city in the world.  It sure beats South Carolina, hell and gone.  He’s introduced himself to everyone as John, here, and even admitted to a handful of people that he was a soldier in the Revolution.  He doesn’t have any close friends, but he doesn’t have any enemies, either, and the handful of familiar faces who see him when he quietly attends a Pride parade don’t say a word.  He’s taken a handful of prerequisites for a biochem degree, in the pre-med track—he always wanted to be a physician last time, and his father is too distant to fight him this time.  

He spends a little money on a sketchbook or two, on a set of pencils, and draws old faces, tries to imagine them in the modern world.  Lafayette, eyes bright and smiling, dressed in a suit.  General Washington, hands folded behind his back—no matter how many times John tries to give him a modern military uniform, his long heavy coat takes shape.  Aides and friends and soldiers whose faces he half-recalls, in t-shirts and jeans and flannels.  And Alexander, a thousand times Alexander, Alexander in modern clothes, in his Continental Army uniform, in shirtsleeves, in the coat he wears in the statue.  A few times, in the safety of his locked single room, John carefully sketches Alexander stretched out in their cabin at Valley Forge, lit in candle-flame and all smooth planes of muscle and skin, smiling at John, soft and sated.  An entire sketchbook fills itself with Alexander, over John’s first year at Columbia.

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Anonymous asked: A little birdie told me you were taking prompts again AND learning a lot about the Rev War. Hamilton/Laurens reincarnation fic?

All right, I’m HOPING that the birdie in question was the tags on this post: so if you wanted hamilton fic now would be EXACTLY the time to request it i was considering doing one of those ongoing tumblr au things where people could ask for specific scenes because i want to write a reincarnation au for hamilton (probably one of those universes where reincarnation is a little peculiar but not out of the ordinary) and i also wanted to write a college au and i figured i could do both at once but also i don’t know if anyone would be interested in that. Regardless, that is WHAT YOU ARE GETTING.  The way this is basically going to work is that if there’s a scene you particularly want to see or a character you particularly want to have me include, just send me an ask and I’ll write more, I guess.  Because this is something I very much want to write, and it’s also something I very much don’t have the time/motivation to do on my own.  So y’all can do me a solid by sending requests.

Circumstances tend to be the same, in each lifetime—relationships between parents, number of siblings, sometimes even place of birth.  No one’s sure why.  A pretty woman fallen from lofty social status, a wandered-off man, an older brother. If that’s the lot you drew at your first birth, it’s likely to be the one you land the second-third-fourth time around.

The illness hits Christiansted earlier, this time.  Andre Westen is seven, his brother and father already gone.  Last time, his mother got the worst of it—this time, it’s Andre who’s shaking and sick for two weeks, his gaunt and recovering mother clinging to his hand.  He lives, though, and when he opens his eyes after the fever breaks, the first thing out of his mouth is, “I’m going to need to change my name.”  There are conditions in place, laws and qualifiers that allow people to claim their past selves if they prefer and can prove it.  And Andre does prefer, and can prove it.  He’s young for such a powerful revelation—he can recite the names of teachers and colleagues, list details down to the minute, and with so little under his belt of this life, that one seems just as immediate—and it unnerves people to hear him wander from speaking like a child to speaking like a grown man when he’s distracted, but they give him his name.  

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