Tilghman waits for Laurens and Hamilton to leave the room, their hands barely brushing, before turning to Meade and Harrison.
“Okay—is it just me or are they, like, completely obvious?” he asks.
Meade snorts, loud, and rolls his eyes, hard. “Definitely not just you,” he says. He scratches a couple words off his paper before looking back up at him, a grin pulling smug on his face. “They have this thing—have you noticed? Every night after supper they say they have to ‘go take inventory’—together, for hours—and that’s after spending the entire meal making eyes at each other over the table. Like, Jesus Christ! Some of us are trying to eat, not think about our comrades in arms doing such and such and so and so!”
“Oh my god—thank you,” Tilghman exclaims. “I thought I was going fucking insane! Like, no, no, there’s no way I’m imagining the way they look at each other—”
“Or say each other’s names!” Meade cuts in animatedly. He pitches his voice up in a bad impression of Hamilton. “Like, ‘Laurens, oh, Laurens, have you finished the translation of the Marquis’s latest letter, Laurens—’”
“For. Real,” Tilghman cuts in right back. “Or like—like the fucking—the drawings?! You’ve seen the drawings, right? He likes to think he keeps it a secret, but no, no, I have seen them—”
“Wait,” Harrison finally says. Both Tilghman and Meade click their mouths shut, and he looks back at them with a cheeky grin. “You mean you guys haven’t caught them making out in a supply closet?”
Tilghman and Meade gawk at him.
“… You can’t be serious,” Meade says.
“Would you like me to describe it in detail?” Harrison asks.
”No!” Meade yells at the same time that Tilghman screams, “Don’t you fucking dare!”
Harrison wins.