Alexander remembers the stories of his childhood. His mother once told him that Hanahaki was a beautiful disease. To love so fully and completely that it kills you.
He wasn’t so sure. Between watching his mother choke to death on her own blood-soaked petals and the heavy weight in his chest, he couldn’t see beauty in this.
Sometimes he wonders if his mother told these stories because she saw death as the true beauty. Back in Nevis, there was one way out, to die.
He changed the game. He proved that you can be more. But what does he have to show for it now? To lose it all to a man who would never love him. To a man he wasn’t sure was capable of anything but hating him.
His mother didn’t tell him she was dying. Alexander knew, but it was never addressed. He has an underlying feeling that his mother was afraid of becoming her illness, that people would forget that she’s a person too.
While her flowers wilted, she bloomed. She sang him songs of a better life. Of a world where they could have a chance.
Alexander knew he was screwed the second he saw his eyes. He, again, blames his mother. She filled his mind with stories of soulmates, of God filling lungs with flowers because they were easier to breathe than oxygen when the person you love is gone.
It’s easier to fade than smolder. More words from his mother. Maybe he could leave the world the same way he came in, quietly. No reason to scald those around you as you go.
He was also afraid. He was used to change but he finally had a rhythm. He didn’t want Washington to send him home. He had the world to change.
He thinks that maybe the flowers keep him grounded, remind him that he knows what it really means to be alive. Something you can only know when you understand what it means to die, to survive. All the things you can just lose. That humanity was set up to fail, given love when all you can do with it is watch it leave.
He starts writing notes. He will leave this world with nobody to tell his story. So, he tries to tell it himself. Hopes that it could be enough.
Blood soaked petals filled his pockets, some cruel kind of poetry. He thinks that when he goes, he wants these petals dropped at his grave. He doesn’t want to forget.
He still has a million things to do, but he couldn’t imagine doing any of it without the memory of his love.
“Hamilton?” The flowers called, but maybe it wasn’t the flowers at all.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m better than ever, Jefferson.” A gentle smile on his lips.