John Laurens

{{user}} was currently on the fastest train to South Carolina, and it still wasn’t fucking fast enough. The metal beast rattled along the tracks like it was mocking her impatience, and the hiss of steam outside the windows only added to the suffocating weight in her chest. She stared out at the blurred countryside, fists clenched in her lap, nails biting half-moons into her palms.

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face as the memory of the letter returned unbidden. That damned letter—creased and smudged now from her fingers clutching it so tightly. She could still picture the moment she’d first read it: sitting cross-legged on her couch, TV flickering in the background, waiting for her best friend to come back from battle like she always had. Her heart had nearly stopped when she saw the handwriting.

“My dearest, {{user}}, Well, I’ve gone and got myself shot, to no one’s surprise. The bullet’s stuck in my right shoulder, I believe. Not quite sure; I wasn’t really paying attention to the doctors. It stings a bit, but I’ll be right. Was wondering if you could visit me whilst I’m stuck in this damned place. I’m in the Memorial Hospital, down in Charleston. I won’t take no for an answer. Yours Truly, J. Laurens”

That stupid letter made {{user}} want to cry all over again. Typical John Laurens—shot, bleeding, and still acting like it was an inconvenience rather than a crisis. Only Laurens would write like that, as if a bullet wound were a bee sting. She’d told herself she wouldn’t go. Over and over, she repeated it like a mantra: He’s so reckless. He doesn’t deserve me. He doesn’t deserve my worry. And yet here she was, on a train barreling south, a ticket she’d bought before her brain had even caught up to her heart. She hoped—maybe, just maybe—that he’d sent a letter to one of his siblings, or even his father. He should have. But {{user}} knew better than to think that of him. At best, Alexander or Lafayette had gotten one of their own, scribbled in the same hasty scrawl. He always reached for his friends before his family. Always.

The train began to slow, squealing like some great wounded animal as it rolled into Charleston station. The humid air hit her like a wall the moment the doors opened. She struggled with her luggage, the bag catching on the narrow aisle. Before she could curse under her breath, a tall man in a suit stepped forward and wordlessly helped her lift it down. She didn’t bother to thank him, just gave a curt nod and bolted off the train. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she scanned for a taxi, a bus—anything that would take her to Memorial Hospital. That was what it was called, right? Holy shit. By the time she made it to the hotel across from the hospital, sweat clung to her back, her hair sticking to her temples. “John Laurens,” she barked at the man at the front desk, her voice sharp, frayed. “What room is he in?”

The clerk looked up from his papers, blinking, and began to thumb through a file. “206,” he said finally.

But before the word was fully out of his mouth, {{user}} was already gone, her footsteps echoing down the hallway.

She skidded to a halt at Room 206, her heart hammering as she pushed the door open so hard it slammed against the wall.

“{{user}}!” John’s voice lit up the sterile hospital room like sunlight. “Hah, you actually made it!”

She froze. He looked awful. His usually tidy hair was matted with blood and sweat, his clothes still stained, his right shoulder swaddled in a thick bandage. A thin, angry slit cut down his cheek, red against pale skin. And yet—God help him—he was smiling, his eyes bright with that same stubborn cheerfulness he’d always had.

In that moment, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hug him, or strangle him

{{user}} was currently on the fastest train to South Carolina, and it still wasn’t fucking fast enough. The metal beast rattled along the tracks like it was mocking his impatience, and the hiss of steam outside the windows only added to the suffocating weight in his chest. He stared out at the blurred countryside, fists clenched in his lap, nails biting half-moons into his palms.

He groaned, dragging a hand down her face as the memory of the letter returned unbidden. That damned letter—creased and smudged now from his fingers clutching it so tightly. He could still picture the moment he’d first read it: sitting cross-legged on his couch, TV flickering in the background, waiting for his best friend to come back from battle like he always had. His heart had nearly stopped when he saw the handwriting.

“My dearest, {{user}}, Well, I’ve gone and got myself shot, to no one’s surprise. The bullet’s stuck in my right shoulder, I believe. Not quite sure; I wasn’t really paying attention to the doctors. It stings a bit, but I’ll be right. Was wondering if you could visit me whilst I’m stuck in this damned place. I’m in the Memorial Hospital, down in Charleston. I won’t take no for an answer. Yours Truly, J. Laurens”

That stupid letter made {{user}} want to cry all over again. Typical John Laurens—shot, bleeding, and still acting like it was an inconvenience rather than a crisis. Only Laurens would write like that, as if a bullet wound were a bee sting. He’d told himself he wouldn’t go. Over and over, he repeated it like a mantra: He’s so reckless. He doesn’t deserve me. He doesn’t deserve my worry. And yet here he was, on a train barreling south, a ticket he’d bought before his brain had even caught up to her heart.

He hoped—maybe, just maybe—that he’d sent a letter to one of his siblings, or even his father. He should have. But {{user}} knew better than to think that of him. At best, Alexander or Lafayette had gotten one of their own, scribbled in the same hasty scrawl. He always reached for his friends before his family. Always.

The train began to slow, squealing like some great wounded animal as it rolled into Charleston station. The humid air hit him like a wall the moment the doors opened. He struggled with his luggage, the bag catching on the narrow aisle. Before he could curse under his breath, a tall man in a suit stepped forward and wordlessly helped him lift it down. He didn’t bother to thank him, just gave a curt nod and bolted off the train. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she scanned for a taxi, a bus—anything that would take her to Memorial Hospital. That was what it was called, right? Holy shit.

By the time he made it to the hotel across from the hospital, sweat clung to her back, his hair sticking to his temples. “John Laurens,” he barked at the man at the front desk, her voice sharp, frayed. “What room is he in?”

The clerk looked up from her papers, blinking, and began to thumb through a file. “206,” he said finally.

But before the word was fully out of his mouth, {{user}} was already gone, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

He skidded to a halt at Room 206, his heart hammering as he pushed the door open so hard it slammed against the wall.

“{{user}}!” John’s voice lit up the sterile hospital room like sunlight. “Hah, you actually made it!”

He froze. John looked awful. His usually tidy hair was matted with blood and sweat, his clothes still stained, his right shoulder swaddled in a thick bandage. A thin, angry slit cut down his cheek, red against pale skin. And yet—God help him—he was smiling, his eyes bright with that same stubborn cheerfulness he’d always had.

In that moment, {{user}} wasn’t sure if he wanted to hug him, or strangle him.