𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑 [𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙽𝚄𝙴𝙳]

Mistakes Lead to Issues

Technically, Alexander's first issue, that launched everything else, happened because of Alexander himself, and he knew it perfectly well. Though, he also knew that he wasn't about to blame the fall of his life on himself, willing to find anybody and everybody who can fill in that slot, instead. He was always one to point fingers, and shoot the blame towards somebody else, instead of taking it himself. He knew that this was his fault. He knew he started this exact situation, and more to come because of said situation, but he wasn't going to say that he did it. He had better common sense than that. So, he instead blamed it on Jefferson. Who, Alexander /could/ technically say started everything, because he really did. Even then, the issue was still his own.

It mainly started with Alexander's need for work. His yearning for ink on paper, to have the power and control over what letters and words they formed, how long he wanted his writings to be, how short. He got to decide what the words and letters looked like, he got to choose what information was laced inside the shapes of ink, he had control over it all. It was one of his favourite things about writing. Writing is part of his job. And, no matter how much he wrote, and how much it annoyed his peers, them being the ones having to read all of his shit, nobody could tell him to do otherwise. Like what had just been stated, it was his job. What else was he to do?

Another reason to love work is the distraction. Alexander would be too busy perfecting everything he had done, focusing on the dull pain in his hand from doing nothing but writing from hours on end, on the bitter taste of coffee left on his tongue in hope for an energy boost, to bother focusing on his life problems. Why should he do anything else, why should he be anyone else, if he could work? It was a waste of time to do anything else. Besides, Alexander liked staying in his office, far more than going to his shared home. Far more than going to the one he shared his room with.

Which, led to worry. Alexander's office door, while always closed and locked, always had a golden glow from the bottom and sides of the door, showing a promise of a turned on light from inside the room in which outsiders couldn't see, showed a promise of somebody being in said room. Day in, day out. Twenty four hours a day, would the light be on. At least, that's what it seemed. Whenever one was to pass by, there would never be a lack of glow.

Of course, Jefferson wasn't the first person to notice this. Perhaps Alexander's friends had noticed first. Lafayette, Mulligan, Burr. Though, if they did, and if they had said anything, then it wasn't obvious, seeing as though there was no change. If Alexander's friends had spoken to him about it, then wouldn't he have changed the issue?

No, Jefferson didn't care. Which, was one of the thoughts he allowed to roam through his head while knocking on Hamilton's door, not wanting to place the other feelings in his gut that stabbed at his skin. And, when he heard a brief, "Come in," the words seeming distracted, concentrated and curious at the same time, Jefferson allowed himself inside Hamilton's office, forgetting about the other emotions easily.

Instead, he focused on the view. First of all, the room itself. It was somehow dark, almost entirely black, the only light being the soft, golden glow by a lamp on Hamilton's desk, illuminating the younger male's face. It was strange, really. The light somehow carried out to the door, ringing it from the outside, yet barely reached the walls when one was inside the room. There were three coffee cups, two of them empty and one half full, and Hamilton's rubbish bin, full of crushed bottles, of which Jefferson could only place as energy drinks. Then, it was Hamilton himself who caught Jefferson's eye, the immigrant's gaze still looking down to his current paper despite Thomas making his way inside. He had deep rings under his eyes, a bit puffy at that, a deep purple promising a lack of sleep. His complexion was pale, perhaps hinting towards malnutrition or something of the kind. Yet, contradicting everything else, were Hamilton's eyes, determined and searching as they always were. They had a fire, some sort of unwritten challenge displaying over the brown hue. And, when Hamilton finally looked up to catch Jefferson's gaze, a raised eyebrow accenting said eyes, Thomas could already feel something new bubbling in his stomach. It had to be an irritation. Hamilton looked like he was studying garbage, it disgusted Jefferson.
That's what it was. Irritation.