Hamilton could remember the first time he had met Aaron Burr.
It was back in Elizabethtown. Hamilton had just recently come to America, and Burr was just sort of mucking around the college he’d recently graduated from.
Not that Hamilton would have taken him for a college graduate, at the time, seeing as he looked like a particularly tiny child. Apparently, however, he was almost the same age as Hamilton himself, which was jarring to Hamilton, as he was not particularly accustomed to his same-age peers looking younger and smaller than him; he wasn’t particularly tall or mature-looking himself.
They had hit it off almost right away. It had been too long for Hamilton, since he had made small talk with someone who could keep up with him, and by God, Burr really could. Surely nobody who might have overheard their conversation would be able to understand a word of it, with the ungodly pace they were talking at.
It was nice.
They both had other things to do, however. Hamilton had to get to his school, and Burr apparently had a party to go to. So they said good-day and the rest of the day was hectic enough Hamilton forgot the encounter quickly and didn’t really give too much thought to whether or not he would ever see Burr again.
A boy surrounded by a considerable number of attentive-looking people strolled into the hut. He had curly black hair and very pale skin and everybody else in the room was noticeably taller than him, but what really stood out about him to Lieutenant-Colonel Alexander Hamilton was that he looked very, very familiar. The problem was that Hamilton could not decide where exactly he knew the boy from. It was that odd sort of familiarity where you are aware that you almost certainly don’t actually know the person, but still feel like you do, for some odd reason. Hamilton stared shamelessly. Nobody would notice him staring; everybody was doing it. This boy, whoever he was, commanded attention very well for someone his size.
Once the crowd eventually dissipated and left the hut, the boy looked around, and noticed Hamilton. He cocked his head to the side, looking at Hamilton as though he were a very perplexing sight.
“Sorry, odd question, but have we met before? You...look quite familiar,” he said.
“I was just getting the same feeling about yourself. I swear I’ve heard your voice somewhere!”
“Well, I suppose I do chat up a rather considerable number of people over the course of a day,” the boy said cheerfully, and reached out to shake Hamilton’s hand. “I’m Burr, Aaron Burr.”
“Oh! I remember, now! Back in Elizabethtown, ‘72?”
It was Burr, too, though he looked different now. For one, he no longer looked a solid decade too young for his actual age, and for another, he was definitely at least a bit past five feet tall. What really struck Hamilton was that Burr was--Hamilton reminded himself that there was no need to put anything delicately while merely thinking it to himself--he was attractive. Incredibly attractive. It was hard to pinpoint exactly which of his physical features had led Hamilton to this conclusion, because in all honesty, the answer was ‘all of them.’
When night fell, everybody ended up having to share bunks, and of course Burr had ended up sharing Hamilton’s.
“I don’t suppose, if we really start to freeze , that I could get in under your covers with you?” said Burr, in a tone and with an expression that told Hamilton everything he needed to know.
“The thought makes me feel instantly warmer, Colonel Burr,” Hamilton purred.
And of course, the next thing Hamilton knew, he was on top of Burr, fucking him ruthlessly, holding his face down against the mattress to muffle his cries of pleasure. They both finished very quickly, and Hamilton fell asleep almost immediately.
They saw a lot of each other at Valley Forge, and had more sexual encounters than either would later admit to. Perhaps the most memorable of those occasions occurred when one of the senior officers, the Baron von Steuben, had hosted a party for which nobody in attendance was permitted to wear breeches. The men had lit their drinks on fire while drinking them. It would have been memorable for Hamilton for the rest of his life even if he had not damn near screwed Burr through their mattress afterwards, and in fact that part did not come to really stand out in his memory for years after the fact.
Burr didn’t cross Hamilton’s mind very much, after the war. Hamilton had a wife, now, and a career in law. He’d heard from his now father-in-law, General Schuyler, that Burr was working in the same field, but evidently both he and Hamilton had lives now, lives that didn’t really involve each other. It had been a nice fling, but in the end, that was what it was; a fling.
And then, in 1791, it happened.
By all means, New York had three political factions. The Schuyler family, the Clinton family, and the Livingston family. On top of that, General Schuyler was supposed to be unopposed in his bid for reelection to his senate seat.
So why was the news breaking now that Schuyler had not even been reelected? And why , in God ’ s name , was his defeat at the hands of--not George Clinton, or Robert Livingston--but some thirty-five-year-old middle-class lawyer named Aaron Burr?
Hamilton found Burr outside Congress Hall and did not hesitate to begin the process of making a political enemy.
“I tell you,” he shouted, “step down at once !”
Burr looked over at Hamilton with a very professional smile.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Secretary!”
His voice was infuriatingly friendly and casual, as if Burr saw this obvious confrontation as some sort of nice chit-chat.
“Oh, to Hell with your ‘good afternoon,’ I am telling you to step down!”
“Terribly sorry, sir,” said Burr, still smiling, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Have a good day, sir!”
Burr made to continue on his way, but was blocked by Hamilton, who was now standing very close to him, looking furious.
“Am I not making myself clear, boy? The office you are unqualifiedly holding now belongs to--”
“To whomever the people voted it should belong to, which so happens to be myself.”
“Do not make an enemy of me, Colonel!”
“I’ve certainly no intention of doing that, sir! Now, if you’ll excuse me; I really must get home as soon as I can.”
Before Hamilton had time to block his path again, Burr stepped around him and ran away.
It was only a political smear campaign. Only a series of attack ads. All Hamilton was doing here was normal politician things, namely, tearing his rival to shreds.
He told himself that many, many times.
The only problem was, it didn’t take long for the attacks to lose their explicitly political overtones. Hamilton had no idea how, over the course of eleven years, he had gone from ‘Aaron Burr is too young and naive to hold office’ to ‘Aaron Burr is secretly plotting to undermine the entire country for his own evil purposes’ to ‘the inhuman level of sexual attractiveness Aaron Burr has could only be obtained through a deal with the Devil, or perhaps he is the Devil, but my point stands that no normal mortal man could be that attractive.’ But that was the direction his writing had taken.
Hamilton hated Burr. He was the Democratic-Republicans’ bridge to the public, and therefore Hamilton’s political enemy. But God damn him, Hamilton wanted Burr. What did Burr expect, with that red lipstick he wore, and the way he walked, and obviously this whole eleven-year ordeal was all Burr’s fault. He was trying to seduce Hamilton to get the upper hand politically. He had to be. The entire government seemed to agree with Hamilton, so evidently he wasn’t crazy!
Though still in the middle of writing another inflammatory paragraph, Hamilton set down his quill and reached down his breeches to grasp his own cock. He thought rather sternly to himself that he should picture Betsey, this time. As he told himself every time. And, as with every time, he failed, his mind immediately conjuring up the image of Burr, back at Valley Forge, down on his knees trying not to gag while Hamilton brutally fucked his throat, or writhing in ecstasy beneath Hamilton on their bunk after von Steuben’s party, or...Hamilton vividly remembered more of those encounters than he would like to admit.
It became readily apparent in time that Burr was not going to do anything about Hamilton’s attacks. On the rare occasion that Hamilton actually confronted him face to face, he simply deflected, quietly and politely asking that Hamilton calm down and perhaps save it for a better time.
But Hamilton noticed over the years that there was somebody Burr both could not and would not ignore, and that somebody had been suspicious of him lately.
If Burr would not answer to Hamilton, then he would have no choice but to answer to Jefferson.
Hamilton knew exactly what he had to write;
Aaron Burr Plots to Usurp Presidency from Republican Primary Nominee Thomas Jefferson!
Burr looked tired, that election. As long as Hamilton had known him he’d always had those dark bags under his eyes, that slight pallor to his complexion, that indicated he didn’t sleep as much as the average man was supposed to. During the war, it became rather common knowledge that Colonel Burr could apprehend Loyalists at any ungodly hour of the night if need be. To this, the young colonel had only responded,
“I don’t sleep.”
Now, though it had been more than twenty years, he really, really looked the part. Hamilton might have almost believed that he really, honest-to-God, never slept. Hamilton didn’t think about whether maybe Jefferson had taken his made-up warning to heart and exacerbated the situation.
Come two years later, everybody, it seemed, had joined Hamilton in denouncing Burr. Hamilton wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or annoyed that they all seemed to be copying his rumors; could they really not come up with anything besides ‘Burr is a seducer?’
It was either the homoerotic seduction narrative or it was stories about how Burr had of course plotted behind Jefferson’s back to steal the election. The government had to keep up their side of the anti-Burr narrative. Hamilton never technically affiliated with them. They were just two separate entities, who in fact hated each other, but hated Aaron Burr more. Hamilton figured the difference was Thomas Jefferson, George and DeWitt Clinton, and Robert Livingston probably did not masturbate thinking about Aaron Burr every other night (though Hamilton didn’t know that for certain, but it just didn’t seem likely ).
Hamilton did not think about Burr having to work for these men who were so viciously deriding him to the public, knowing full well it was all lies, for no apparent reason. He didn’t .
This was Burr’s own fault for insisting on remaining politically active after he had been told so clearly not to.