[ quietly, pressing his lips against eliza's hair as he gently adjusts philip in his blankets, inhaling instinctively as philip squirms and blinks himself awake -- sleepy, not too bothered by the movement, but the infant's eyes darting around for a moment before catching sight of his parents. and then promptly yawning and going back to sleep once he's assured that he's fine.
upon hearing no crying or discomfort, alexander exhales. quiet. contemplative. watching philip shift comfortably, his fingers still curling around alexander's own. his throat tightens. his son. meeting him for the first time, waiting anxiously, pacing outside of the room, being an absolute terror to the nurses. and when philip was born, he cried, and alexander's heart immediately seized, and then broke, because was he in pain? did something go wrong?
but eliza (exhausted, pale, beautiful eliza) had simply told alexander that philip was greeting the world, and alexander was handed his son, who blinked up at him with beautiful blue eyes, and alexander hamilton (the decorated veteran, newly appointed delegate to new york, war hero, right hand man to george washington) had promptly fallen apart into shuddered sobs, and eliza had been convinced their child had a defect, when in actuality, alexander was just overcome with love.
love. it's not even as simple as love. he is complete, now, a hole that he didn't know he had is now filled, and alexander is silent with that thought -- a warm feeling in his chest, where eliza's fingers are gently curled into his shirt -- and he finally speaks quietly: ]
He is the greatest work I have ever created.
[ the tiny little infant in his arms, who looks content to sleep for a rare few hours, is a work of art, and nothing alexander writes, or says, or molds, will ever top that. ]
no subject
[ quietly, pressing his lips against eliza's hair as he gently adjusts philip in his blankets, inhaling instinctively as philip squirms and blinks himself awake -- sleepy, not too bothered by the movement, but the infant's eyes darting around for a moment before catching sight of his parents. and then promptly yawning and going back to sleep once he's assured that he's fine.
upon hearing no crying or discomfort, alexander exhales. quiet. contemplative. watching philip shift comfortably, his fingers still curling around alexander's own. his throat tightens. his son. meeting him for the first time, waiting anxiously, pacing outside of the room, being an absolute terror to the nurses. and when philip was born, he cried, and alexander's heart immediately seized, and then broke, because was he in pain? did something go wrong?
but eliza (exhausted, pale, beautiful eliza) had simply told alexander that philip was greeting the world, and alexander was handed his son, who blinked up at him with beautiful blue eyes, and alexander hamilton (the decorated veteran, newly appointed delegate to new york, war hero, right hand man to george washington) had promptly fallen apart into shuddered sobs, and eliza had been convinced their child had a defect, when in actuality, alexander was just overcome with love.
love. it's not even as simple as love. he is complete, now, a hole that he didn't know he had is now filled, and alexander is silent with that thought -- a warm feeling in his chest, where eliza's fingers are gently curled into his shirt -- and he finally speaks quietly: ]
He is the greatest work I have ever created.
[ the tiny little infant in his arms, who looks content to sleep for a rare few hours, is a work of art, and nothing alexander writes, or says, or molds, will ever top that. ]