i. Burr doesn’t know what to make of the man when he first meets him. He’s a whirling dervish, wearing his beliefs like a heart on his sleeve. The idealism radiates off him like light and Burr doesn’t know if he wants to shade his eyes or drink it in.
ii. When Burr tells Alexander to talk less and smile more, he didn’t expect to be here, half-drunk, pressed against him the way Burr’s pressed himself against women, but this time there’s a hardness in the breeches that matches his own. Alexander is certainly smiling – smirking, really – as his mouth traces Burr’s jawline, lips and teeth leaving bruises Burr will have to cover up for days. Alexander's definitely not talking, though he does moan something feral and incoherent when Burr pulls him closer.
Maybe he did expect it, though. There was always a gleam in Alexander’s eye, a way his gaze rested, weighty, the low suggestions that he wasn’t just a tomcat with the ladies. Nothing confirmed, of course. Just whispers.
(Though Alexander’s mouth on his confirmed more than Burr wanted to know.)
iii. Alexander’s hands travel over his body like he’s mapping it to recreate later. There is an experience in the fingers and the way they wrap around him and the depravity of it should repulse him but instead he arches back into Alexander's hands, lost. And when Alexander drops to his knees his tongue writes treaties across the flesh of Burr’s cock his eyes roll back in his head and he's not sure if he's seeing heaven or hell or some new dimension altogether.
iv. The first time he takes Alexander he doesn't quite know what he's doing. Alexander is hot and tight in a way the women before him were not. Burr watches Alexander open himself up for him, guide him inside. Burr can take it from there. Alexander fucks back into him, greedy, calls him "sir" in a deep strained voice that almost makes Burr come right there.
(The word sir is never quite the same for him again.)
v. Sometimes it’s slow. Mostly it’s not. It is not in Alexander’s nature to be slow, but sometimes he takes his time with Burr’s body, fingers and tongue writing paragraphs across his skin. Those times are the best and worst for Burr because in those moments he has time to think, to meet Alexander’s weighty gaze and wonder what this is, how long they have.
vi. Alexander writes him a letter, details every wicked thing he wants to do to Burr, wants done to him. In the letter he addresses him as sir. It's so filthy Burr burns it, after, cheeks still flushed. Seeing it in writing is different, somehow, more permanent.
More like evidence.
vii. Marriage doesn't stop either of them, but it slows them down. It goes unspoken that they are running out of time and Burr fucks Alexander over his desk like the world is ending. He kisses him, after, hard, like there was something that could still be salvaged between them.
Neither of them say the word love. For all the words Alexander has, he doesn't seem to have a word for what they are.
viii. Years later Alexander destroys him, takes him apart with words the same way he once had with fingers and tongue - with a single-minded determination, with the same relentless fervor that had once left Burr dazzled. It leaves his political career in tatters and he's never quite sure what happened, what catalyst sparked this animosity between them, why the desire soured and turned to snide letters.
ix. At dawn, Alexander addresses him as sir, and something he thought long dead stirs in his belly. They shake hands, courteous as ever even before the most uncouth of challenges (dumb and immature, they'd agreed, years ago). Alexander's fingers are the way he's always remembered them, slender and strong. He opens his mouth to say something, to stop this foolishness, but he's never had the same way with words as Alexander. Never had the same convictions.
There is nothing salvageable here.
x. Alexander aims his pistol at the sky. Burr does not.