Chapter Text
His rapid climb to Actual Real Full-Time Teacher from College Graduate Scraping By As A Teacher's Assistant had been fueled by coffee and unexpected turmoil in the school system. He's here almost before he realizes it, poised a day before school starts with his first real career ahead of him. And while he knows mid-twenties is early to be teaching at a high school full-time - like, really early - he feels confident in his abilities. Alexander Hamilton knows how to get a point across. He knows how to hold a room's attention. He knows how to facilitate discussion.
He's ready.
Or at least he will be if he can find some decent goddamn whiteboard markers.
For the past week and a half he's been setting up his classroom, decorating the walls with posters and famous quotes and a "No Fear Shakespeare" joke poster - like just about every English teacher in America, he's not a big fan of the series. He imagines his students will be perplexed when they walk into English class and see the words fear Shakespeare staring back at them in bold text. He's certain he'll get a chuckle out of that one.
On top of all the decorating, he's stocked his room with paper, extra pens and pencils, hundreds of eraser caps, band-aids, tissues, and everything else he thinks he might need. Alex is pretty sure it'll all be gone in a week, but hey! He's prepared for the moment. He's spent most of this week's food money on making his room the best goddamn English classroom in the world. And currently it's missing whiteboard markers, which is why he's in a deserted Staples twenty minutes before it closes trying to find something suitable.
In Aisle Six, he stumbles upon one lonely package of neon dry-erase markers, with chunky tips and bright colors. He grins and makes a grab for them.
And promptly bumps into someone he hadn't noticed standing right there.
The first thing Alexander notices is that despite the carpeting, the floor of this Staples is hard. It hurts when you get knocked on your ass bumping into a stranger. The second thing he notices is that the stranger is also wincing in pain, probably going through the exact same thought process as Alex.
The third thing he notices, and, it could be argued, the most important, is the freckles.
They're only discernible after a second of scrutiny, but once Alex sees them, it becomes obvious that this guy is more freckle than face. He's got to take a second to pause even as he pulls himself off of the uncomfortable Staples floor, because he's always found freckles to be adorable. He's dated a disproportionate number of redheads. He can hardly say he's surprised at himself when the thought pops into his head that hey, this guy's cute.
Admiration turns to annoyance the second he sees that the neon markers - his neon markers - have suddenly ended up in Cute Stranger's basket.
He'd be politer about pointing this out on any other occasion, but they just did the "this store will be closing in fifteen minutes" announcement and he's not content to be some boring teacher with boring whiteboard markers.
So instead of approaching the situation with any sort of normal-person tact, he just points at the markers and says "I was gonna buy those."
John Laurens isn't sure whether the handsome stranger just got more or less attractive by pointing out the obvious. On the one hand, duh, John knows he was going to buy those markers - he'd like to give them to the stranger, too, but he really needs them. But on the other hand, it is late evening in the middle of a deserted Staples, so the stating-the-obvious thing is forgivable, and maybe even kind of cute.
Maybe even really cute.
Still, he can't let that sway him. He needs whiteboard markers, and the plain kind just aren't gonna cut it. After all, he's planning on being the cool teacher. Cool teachers have cool markers. Ergo, these are his now.
"Sorry," he tells the handsome stranger. "But I really need these."
"Those specific colors?" asks the guy, and the hope in his voice that John will say no is evident.
"These specific colors," John affirms.
"Well that's unfortunate, because I also really need those markers," the stranger retorts.
John shifts his basket to his hip and takes a long look at this guy. He's wearing a black t-shirt, white line drawing of some angry grapes printed on the front (The Grapes of Wrath, ha-ha). Old jeans. New dress shoes. Hair pulled back in a ponytail. He's got an incomplete tattoo sleeve running up his right arm - it looks more like a tattoo glove, given that it stops just above his elbow. John's never seen that before, and it's a weird look made weirder by the fact that the tattoos aren't your usual flowers-and-skulls shit, but leaning, cramped words in handwriting that looks like it would be at home in a letter from the eighteenth century.
He wonders what the words say. He wonders how much all those words hurt.
The man squints at John for a moment, following his line of sight, before glancing down at his arm. "Oh, shit!" he exclaims. "Forgot to wash all that off. I got some ideas for the essay series I'm doing, but I didn't have my computer with me, so this happened..." He giggles awkwardly.
"That what you need the markers for?" John jokes. "Adding a dash of color to your notes?"
The man laughs, louder and fuller this time. He throws his head back when he laughs, sending his chuckles skyward, and his ponytail swings over his shoulder. John can feel himself developing a sort of kinship with this man.
Still not giving him the markers though.
"I could start color-coding them," the man jokes back. "Seriously, though, why do you need them?"
John shrugs, answers honestly. "I'm starting a new teaching job tomorrow at Liberty High and I want 'em for my classroom. There's something about having neon ones. I don't want to be the boring new guy, y'know?"
Handsome Stranger's eyes widen for a moment, but he blinks and John thinks he might have been imagining it. The stranger clears his throat. "Look," he says, "how about I accompany you to the register to convince you that I need those dry-erase markers? I've got a whole list of reasons."
"Sounds perfect," John says. "I could always use some company while I'm checking out in an abandoned Staples."
"Saying 'abandoned' makes it sound like the apocalypse."
"Who says it isn't?"
"Okay, but of all the large abandoned chain stores to be stuck in during an apocalypse, Staples has got to be the worst, am I right? Like yeah, I'm a huge sucker for new notebooks when nobody's trying to eat my brain, but no food, no water. Give me a Walmart any day."
John nods and starts walking toward the cash registers at the front, taking slow steps so the stranger can walk with him. He does, having to take two little steps for every one of John's even though he's not very much shorter than John is.
"Agreed. Although all the printers and office chairs and everything would make a great barricade at the front door," John points out.
The stranger inclines his head in acknowledgement of John's point. "Plus we could keep a record of the apocalypse, both on paper and on the demo computers. Once it's all over, they'll find this Staples and we'll be remembered."
"But dead from the lack of food and water."
"Yeah, also dead."
As they reach the cash register, John is so engrossed in the conversation that he pauses while the stranger checks out, letting him go first as they both motormouth their way through exactly how they'd survive in the event of an apocalypse. They've decided upon a Super Walmart as the best store to be stuck in, because obviously, but failing that, they're tossing up between various other stores. The cashier looks fed up with both of them.
"Oh, by the way," the stranger says, slipping it in at the end of a sentence. "I'm Alexander."
"John Laurens," John replies.
The stranger (Alexander, John corrects himself, liking the way the name fits the guy) fixes John with a dazzling smile, the kind people give you right before you realize you would do anything to see them smile again despite them being a total stranger in a Staples.
The cashier hands Alexander his plastic bag. It's got a big yellow smiley face on the front, the words have a nice day! printed underneath in blocky black letters. John is aware, somewhere in the back of his head, that he's been looking at Alexander smiling for too long. He's also aware, much closer to the front of his head, that he doesn't want to stop. Alexander shifts the bag to the wrist further from John and turns to leave. As the automatic doors slide open ahead of him, he turns and waves over his shoulder.
"Hey, John Laurens?" he calls.
"Yeah?" John asks.
Alexander grins once more and John swears he feels his heartbeat stutter.
"Thanks for the markers," Alexander says in a rush before dashing as fast as he can out of the Staples.
John's basket is empty.
Alexander Hamilton feels almost giddy on the fifteen-minute ride to his apartment (not counting the part where the machine wouldn't accept his freaking MetroCard), and he can't stop giggling. The other three people in this car must think he's off his rocker. Hell, maybe he is, but he's got a plastic bag on his lap containing a five-pack of super awesome whiteboard markers and he might have just made friends with a cute stranger.
Who works at the same high school as I do. And when he gets right down to it, that's why he's giggling - he can't wait to see the look on John Laurens's face when they bump into each other at school.
He does feel bad, stealing them from someone in need. But c'mon. John obviously doesn't need any help being The Cool Teacher, whereas Alex is certain he's going to need all the help he can get. He promises himself he'll let John borrow them, though.
As soon as he makes it up to his apartment (fifth floor, elevator is still out of commission - it has been since he moved in), he sets out everything he's bringing tomorrow. Messenger bag comes first, into which will go a notebook, three pens, two pencils, the folder containing his lesson plans for this month, the folder containing his backup lesson plans just in case something goes awry, and his computer. Thermos, which he plans to fill with coffee, to be consumed by lunchtime. And, of course, his prize, the whiteboard markers.
Everything else is already sitting in his classroom at Liberty High School, dark and locked right now, but to be filled with students and words and ideas by eight o'clock tomorrow. Alexander can't wait.
Mr. Hamilton, he thinks. Oh god, am I gonna have to make them call me Mr. Hamilton? Yikes. No, we're not doing that. "Hamilton" alone is weird though, a bunch of my friends just call me Hamilton. Well, the kids'll come up with something. Kids always do.
Alexander packs everything into his messenger bag except the thermos and the laptop. The former he sets on the counter right next to the shitty coffeemaker he bought at a church bazaar last year. The latter he takes with him to bed so he can work on his essay series.
The air mattress sinks more than usual underneath him, and he reminds himself for the fortieth time to stop leaving his research books on the mattress during the day. He also doesn't move any of the books off of the mattress, because he's here now and he's going to need them. He works until around two in the morning, falls asleep in the middle of a sentence, and wakes up with his 5:45 a.m. alarm. He finishes the sentence, saves his work, and bounces up to take a shower.
It's his first day as an Actual Real Full-Time Teacher. Alexander couldn't be more excited.
He makes a stop in the principal's office as soon as he gets there. He's already had extensive meetings with the guy, and honestly Principal Washington is everything a high school principal should be as far as Alex is concerned: trying his best to be tough but also such a Dad-with-a-capital-D. Alexander warmed up to him during the very first summer teacher training session (even though he's still not sure how he feels about being called "son" - he ignores it because that seems like something Washington does with everybody).
"Good to see you, son," Washington says when Alex knocks on the doorframe. The door's already open.
"Good morning," Alex says, doing his best to sound chill and not like he's buzzing with anticipation for classes to start. "Just checking in."
Washington looks up at him with a wry smile. "Excited for your first day?"
Alex huffs a soft laugh. "That obvious?"
"Just a bit. Morning bell rings in forty minutes. Good luck, son."
Alex tries to keep his steps even and slow as he walks to his classroom. He can't help himself, though: when he's sure no one's watching him, he breaks into a run until he reaches his classroom.
First day of high school and I'm already breaking the cardinal rule, he thinks partway through his sprint.
But then he can't even laugh at himself anymore, because there's a little card outside his door that says, in big important letters, A102 - Mr. Hamilton - English, and it hits him full in the chest that he's a teacher. Not a TA, not a cash-strapped sub (well he's still cash-strapped, but in a cooler way now), but a teacher. What a cool life he leads.
The first thing he does is pull the neon markers out of his messenger bag and line them up on the whiteboard. He grins every time he looks at him.
The morning bell rings (he swears no time has passed) and one by one, students file in.
John fast-walks to the teacher's lounge during lunchtime, fighting the flow of students toward the cafeteria. He's not quite sure where the cafeteria is yet, but he thinks he knows where the teacher's lounge is. He needs some free coffee.
He had three classes before lunch, and he's got two after, plus a break period. On the whole, everything is going better than he anticipated. The kids seem nice enough, a few people he thinks might be trouble in each class, but nothing out of the ordinary. He's especially enjoying his second-block class, a crop of eleventh- and twelfth-graders who seem rowdy but inquisitive and amiable. He thinks it might be because Military History is an elective, so they're all but guaranteed to want to be there. They've already dropped the "Mr." from his Super Official Teacher Name, choosing instead to refer to him only as "Laurens."
He doesn't mind one bit.
As he tries not to bump into passers-by, John mentally goes through the rows of kids and tries to match names to faces. Katerina-Marie, Jon, Marco, Ingrid... He's unconscious that he's muttering them under his breath - "...Kay, Anna, James..." - until a voice right next to him makes him jump.
"Ah, the classic plight of the first day. Do not worry - they will become second nature soon enough." John turns to face the speaker, trying not to look too startled, and is met with not-what-he-expected.
He's not sure why he pictures someone other than this man when he hears a French accent, exactly, but this is not the man he pictured. Tall, dark-skinned, frizzy hair pulled back into a knot at the base of his neck, dressed sharp enough that he could be working at some high-powered company, not an inner-city high school. The man sticks his hand out.
"Monsieur Marie-Joseph Gilbert Lafayette, pleased to meet you. Just Lafayette will do, if you don't mind - that wasn't even my full name. I teach French."
John laughs. "See, I was gonna guess German. John Laurens. History."
"Ah, so you are one of our new ones. We are like a big, strange family here at Liberty. I am sure you will enjoy your time teaching here - so long as you avoid the food they serve the students."
John laughs again. He likes this guy. "I'm actually on my way to refill on coffee. Teacher's lounge is this way, yeah?"
Lafayette nods. "I will see you around, John Laurens."
They go their separate ways. John goes back to murmuring the names of all of his students, trying to get it straight in his head. He doesn't know if it's working - he might have mixed up a few faces since class ended - but at the very least, he's got their names themselves memorized. Maybe he should have invested in name tags.
He's still got his head bent as he enters the teachers' lounge. There's just one other person in here, clattering away at a laptop. John doesn't even think to start a conversation or even give the other teacher a passing glance; his head's still wrapped up in his students. He refills his oversized coffee mug. In the background, he hears the keyboard clacks slow to a stop. John turns around. He doesn't register the face right away.
"Sorry for stealing your markers," says the other teacher, giving him a dazzling grin.
John almost drops his coffee.