Rain bit into Alexander's face like tiny harmless daggers as he cycled downtown, leaning his entire body weight against the weather. He loved New York City, but the autumn was truly miserable.

Of course it was inevitable that the weather would stop the minute he wheeled his bike through the doorway of the publishing office. He quietly cursed the rain under his breath, ridding himself of his overcoat, now dripping wet. He slung it onto the coat rack to his left absentmindedly, one hand attempting to wring out the damp from his hair. He could handle rain. And he could handle this work. As his mind started to wander he reminded himself of where he had come from, how steep the rise to this position in life had been. There was no way in hell he was about to just sit back and allow himself any sympathy.

Upstairs he was met by Jefferson and another man, obviously his collaborator, whom he hardly gave a second glance. There was too much going on in Hamilton's mind for him to pick up any detail in that moment. His mind was just racing ahead, trying to predict what task was lying in wait for him. It was true to say that this was unlike him. He was normally completely present when away from his work, and dead to the outside world when he was writing. Fixated by the possibilities of the brief ahead, he didn't pay much attention to the man, even when they shook hands and sat down beside each other, in wooden chairs on the other side of Jefferson's desk. Hamilton wondered if this was what it felt like to be called to the principal's office at school. He wouldn't have known.

"So Alexander," Jefferson's words shattered his daze.

"Yessir."

"Mr John Laurens here needs someone proficient with use of the English Language to articulate his ideas," for some reason he sounded mocking, which caught Hamilton's attention only briefly before Jefferson continued, "I'm tasking you with narrating a publication of his photographic work." The air escaped Hamilton's lungs and he didn't know whether to laugh or protest. What was this? "This also includes a Q and A with the author and a biography. Laurens will write the first draft of the introduction, which you will rewrite. Mundane. Simple. Two week deadline. It sounds like elementary school homework. Do you think you can handle this at least? Until you get out of whatever rut you're in?" Alexander was set to protest, shout his opinions if he needed, until those last few lines. He felt embarrassment flush his cheeks. He should've known it would be a punishment along the lines of this. But what a cheap shot. Striking him where it would hurt, even if it was unintentional it made his jaw set.

"Yes. Sir. However, I do not like my intelligence being undermined or insulted."

"Then there will be no problem, as I did neither. If you ignore this task you can leave. I expect you put your upmost into this, as you should with all your work for this company." Hamilton sighed. He seemed to be doing so much of that lately. "Another thing. I have paired you with John Laurens because I see something similar in you both. From what I understand you have the same ideology and I think you'll work well together. So. You're okay with what I'm asking?"

All he could do was nod. John Laurens replied with a quick "yes."

"Good, good. I have organised the space beside the printers for you. The small studio/office space should work well with both of your needs. And so that you're out of my hair. If you need me, and please don't, I'm here. Again - it's due two weeks from today."

Hamilton didn't appreciate this waste of time, as he saw it. He was coming to despise a boss he had once admired.

He didn't wait for John Laurens, on the assumption that he knew where he was heading. Once he arrived at the small studio, which reeked of printing ink and mildew, he pulled out a notebook and began to scrawl down what he knew about this assignment (pointless, time-wasting, pointless). He then pulled out his laptop, realising he was wasting even more time mulling over something he couldn't change. He had a thesis to ...entirely do. He didn't even know what it was going to be based on yet. So much work to be done. So little time.

Time... it had been 30 minutes since he last saw the man who he was to be working with. Or for? Thinking about it made his blood boil. He was worth so much more than this. This was child's play this was so below him. His time was worth more than to be wasted on a task like this. The more he thought about it the worse he felt about the whole affair. Just as he was about to get up to leave, to assign his time to something more worthwhile and wanting suddenly to abandon the late Laurens, the man strode through the doorway. He was about the same height as Hamilton, but of his features, he couldn't take much in, John had his face buried in his phone screen. "Sorry about the delay I got lost and had no directions... I've just also realised that I have a dinner date I completely forgot about and my date is slating my ass right now. I'm so sorry, Alexander, I've got to go again. Right now. But see you at 8AM tomorrow?" Without as much as looking up, Laurens turned to leave. Was this kid serious?! Fucking about, wasting Hamilton's precious time? He had never felt so mad at someone he'd known for such a short period of time. How dare he?

To burn off the anger, and to make sure the day wasn't completely wasted, he decided to cycle across town to Water Street and Bridge Cafe, which he frequented (almost every day). He spent most of his evenings and sometimes even until closing writing consistently at one of the seats by the window. They knew him so well that he didn't even have to place an order, he just gave the barista $10 when she dropped by his first cup and they kept the coffee flowing for as long as he stayed. He liked it black and by the gallon, so he supposed they thought he was low maintenance and humoured his caffeine addiction. Into his second hour, he was almost sure that he would start on the dissertation topic of 'The Contexts Which Influence Literary Sales," obviously changing and expanding on that title once his work planned out. He proceeded to write himself out of the mood John Laurens had put him in. When he was finally content with the work he had completed, he cycled home, ideas still overflowing in his head. At home, he didn't stop writing until 6AM, when he decided it was an alright time to head back to Bridge. Coffee would have to fuel his words today. Not that his work with John Laurens would need much awareness. He rolled his tired, heavy eyes to himself, just imagining what the day would hold.