The Little Lion

All Work and No Play Makes Alex F*cking Tired

The frantic pitter-patter Hamilton's fingers made on his keyboard pierced the dead silence of his apartment, bringing some life back into the still 5AM darkness. He sat alone at his desk, leaning over the keys, his eyes glued to the screen as words made the quick journey from his brain into little blots of text. This was okay. He could manage this. A quick essay on a handful of Law Jargon, some acts, their lasting impacts, all of which he stringed effortlessly together into paragraphs and pages. He barely had to think about this. It came like second nature. Once he took notes at his lectures and did an hour or so of research, he very possibly could be up all night finishing an essay that had presented itself, fully formulated, in his mind. He wouldn't stop writing until he had it finished.

Hamilton was ecstatic that he had been given the opportunity to study law. The coursework, however, was mundane. And besides, he had a thesis he was supposed to be working on. Of which, he might add, he hasn't even chosen the dissertation topic. This law degree, though mundane, was indeed time consuming. Even if he did write like he was running out of time. Which he was. It was 5AM. Sleep was but a social construct. His body disagreed, strongly, and the wave of tiredness he had been suppressing all day/night/morning, raised its head. Like hell was sleep a social construct, it reminded him. "Fine," he sighed to himself, typing up a conclusion, then shutting his laptop. There would be more time to write after he slept. Slept away time he could be writing. He sighed again, then headed for his bed.

He was stressed (when was he not), on the brink of failure (he knew this and resented it with every fibre of his being), and alone. He longed for a warm bed to slip into in the early hours, a body that would complain that he wrote to much, but love him anyway. He needed the relief of unconditional love.

His last love interest had occasionally spent the night, a woman far too old for him and with hardly enough brains for him to put up with. But he had adored her company, as he did anyone's who admired him. Such a shame she had wanted so much of him. Marriage, kids. Alex sneered, turning over, trying to make himself comfortable. He had known she was only temporary. He knew exactly what he was worth, and who was worthy of him. He doubted any woman would satisfy him. Men seemed to despise him. There was no winning. A cold, lifeless bed would have to do for now.

*

Working on a Master's Degree in English Literature and starting a degree in law was wearing him down beyond belief. On top of his academic pursuits, he also had to try to keep to his publisher's contract (he was really, really not). This stated that he was to produce fully-finished pieces to be sent to the editor every month and a half (the dates were set), something he'd been falling behind on for the last four.

It shouldn't have surprised him, then, that he was startled aware a mere three hours later, by his phone ringing and his publisher's I.D flashing at him through the dark. He answered hurriedly.
"Hamilton, yes..sir..., before you say anything I just want to sincerely apologise. It is inexplicable that I have fallen behind and I understand if you-"
"Alexander, calm down." Hamilton gulped thickly. Somehow his unswayed tone was harder to take. "I am assigning you with a designated brief to replace your current free-rein situation. But only for until the end of this month. Please complete it. I will send you the details by email in the next few minutes." He was not sure whether to sigh with relief or refuse the offer. He has so much work to do already, but he couldn't let this job go.
"Thanks, Jefferson, Sir," he muttered, the the tiniest pinch of gratefulness. It was only a minute later that his phone buzzed, an incoming email, Jefferson detailing his assignment. Already. When he opened the message it said only:

"Alexander,
Let me know if you can make it to the office at 3PM. I'll meet with and introduce you to a collaborator I would like you to work with, at this time. Third Floor. Don't be late. Your job depends on it.
Regards,
- Jefferson."

So that was it. But...a collaborator? Hamilton snorted. Jefferson was probably thinking that he had fallen into incompetence. It wasn't like him to fall behind on any work at all. He'd just been so busy. Why did he overwork himself like this? He was spending every moment he had free writing and typing. Word after word, line after line, page after page, day after day. It wasn't enough. Time always ran out. There was too much to do, too much to write down. Not being able to complete a task he had set himself made his heart heavy. He cared so passionately about law, about language, and about his own legacy and the legacy of what he wrote.

Moments later, standing in front of his bathroom mirror, Hamilton pulled his long, black locks into a tight bun. Then nodded once at his reflection, to reassure himself. Reestablish his pride. Failure wouldn't define him. This probably wouldn't even be a failure. He knew he was the best at what he did, or would soon be the best. Who knew what lay in store. Who knew who this collaborator could be? It might actually work out for the best. Tilting his chin up, Hamilton resolved to just grab this day and get the most out of it he could muster. He straightened out the shirt he'd just changed into, then headed to the door. There were so many words to be written.