Writing Challenge Week 1: Mixing Colors

Okay, here we go I guess! (I am terrible at naming things...) #wsweek1

(upd: omg a feature, i am so happy *-*)

Burr was never the one to draw clear parting lines between the concepts of good and evil, identifying their reaches and ranges. In his mind they blurred and shifted and mixed together, and black and white were long since forgotten, turning instead into a palette of greys of different hues and saturations. He knew that angels had their faults and demons could occasionally show redeeming qualities, and no matter how pure or corrupted someone seemed at the first glance, there was always a speck of the opposite hidden deep beneath the dried layers of monotonous paint.

That was, frankly, why Burr could never understand Alexander.

Hamilton was all black and white, Hamilton was all extremes and boundaries and drawing lines, he despised compromises and poured his heart into both love and hatred. If he fought, he fought to destroy, and if he built, he created worlds and worlds and worlds by the sheer power of his mind. White worlds. Black worlds. Never grey. He clashed with everything Burr stood for and wasn’t afraid to say so, and Burr knew all too well – one day Alexander’s sentences will make up the bricks for a path, leading him straight to an open coffin. He just wondered who would be the one to build it.

Burr was twenty, young ambitious man, just out of college and ready to face the world, and when they just met Hamilton’s coat was a bit too long for him, he had bags under his eyes and stars trapped in his gaze.

Aaron’s first thought was “Who is this kid?”

”Oh, sure, sir! I’m Alexander Hamilton, I’m at your service, sir!”

He wished it was “I don’t care. I’m in a hurry.”

When Alexander walked into the chapters of people’s lives, he left his imprints, he created pages upon pages of stories, letting his name resonate in people’s minds and leave a bittersweet taste on their lips. For Burr it was no different, except that maybe his book had Hamilton’s name mentioned in it far too many times to think of one without the other. It was always Burr and Hamilton, Burr with Hamilton, Burr against Hamilton, and he would do anything to cross it out, but Alexander’s presence – or absence – in his life became, perhaps, an essential part of its definition.

He had that effect on people, after all.

And sometimes Aaron couldn’t help but wonder, with Hamilton’s love for extremes, with his philosophy of all or nothing, of be loud or don’t speak at all, sometimes Aaron couldn’t help but wonder whether Alexander saw him in black or in white.

(In black. Or in white. It depended.)

But that wasn’t what mattered. All thoughts about Hamilton always led in the same direction, ended up slamming into an invisible wall, a statement, true to Burr’s entire existence. Hamilton was, from the moment they met, and is, right now, and always will be, in the future history books where their names will no doubt be featured as chapter titles, he was – different. Opposite even, a reflection in a broken, wicked mirror, which would never change, which would continue hiding behind the cracked surface, sneering and mocking and pressing its palm against the glass, no matter what you tried.

And oh, Burr tried.

He tried persuading him.

“Talk less, smile more!”

He failed.

“If you stand for nothing, Burr, what’ll you fall for?”

He tried ignoring him.

“I’ll see you on the other side of the war.”

He failed.

“I will never understand you!”

He tried shutting him away.

“Good night!”

He failed.

“Hey! What are you waiting for? What do you stall for?!”

He tried understanding him.

“I learned that from you.”

He failed.

“Jefferson has beliefs. Burr has none.”

He tried calling him out.

“Weehawken. Dawn. Guns. Drawn."

He

“You’re on."

succeeded.

Burr was never the one to get lost to extremes, he always knew Hamilton was grey, exactly like the rest of them – he could just never quite settle on the proportions. But now, when his head shouted that there is perhaps a single speck of white, if that, mixed in with a full goblet of black, his heart pointed out in a soft whisper that the dawning sunlight painted Alexander unusually light.

Burr wished his heart would just shut up.

And then it was the countdown, oh, it was the countdown, and Burr felt every number drip down his cheekbone, and he knew Hamilton will shoot to kill, and he knew he should shoot first. And when someone exclaimed “Ten!”, hysterically, on the top of their lungs, he felt the ground sway from under his feet. He spun around. He lunged forward and pulled the trigger.

He hit.

It was at that moment, Hamilton’s arm stretched, strained and pointing directly at the sky, but his grip weak around the pistol, at that moment, when the first drop of blood fell onto the dry grass, soon to be covered completely in the burgundy torrent, it was at that moment, when pain exploded in his chest and he forced himself to look up at Burr, seeing – anger? Shock? Remorse? – flare up in his eyes, it was at that moment Alexander Hamilton first saw grey.

But it wasn’t until later, until he tried taking a shaky step forward, wanting to grab Hamilton’s wrist and yell at him to get up, that this wasn’t supposed to happen, that this was not what he wanted, wasn’t until he was pushed into the boat and rowed back, his eyes shut and his temples resonating with pain to every movement, wasn’t until he got home, changed and sat down at the breakfast table, knife and fork trembling in his hands and clattering against the plate, that Aaron Burr first saw black.

The slave nodded silently, complying with Mr Burr’s request to remove the mirror from the dining room.