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When Chowder goes into his room after his last class, Nursey is there.
This isn’t unusual. They usually hang out in each other’s rooms, but Nursey isn’t sitting in Chowder’s desk chair with his feet propped up on the desk like he usually does. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against the bedframe with his legs curled up to his chest and pulled in tighter by his arms, looking out the window.
“Hey?” Chowder says. He drops his backpack on his bed and slides down to sit shoulder to shoulder with Nursey, who doesn’t look at him. “What’s up?”
Nursey opens his mouth to say something and takes a shuddering breath instead.
“Okay. You don’t have to tell me if it’s hard. We can just sit here, is that okay?”
“Yeah,” he whispers.
They sit there for a while, Chowder breathing slowly and deeply, Nursey usually the same, but his occasional sharp inhalation or hiccup messes with his rhythm. Chowder can see tears. He breathes deeper. When Nursey’s fingers release the pen Chowder couldn’t even see because of how tightly Nursey is wrapped around himself, it hits carpet with hardly a sound. Nursey doesn’t pick it up. He takes Chowder’s hand instead, and Chowder squeezes his, and Nursey squeezes back.
They sit and breathe, and seconds tick by, and they sit and breathe more.
Eventually, Nursey sighs through his nose and says, “I haven’t written anything in a while.”
“Anything at all?” Chowder asks, because a day when Nursey doesn’t write is about as rare as a day when Bitty doesn’t tweet, or Whiskey doesn’t raise his eyebrows, or Dex doesn’t charge his laptop. It’s just something Nursey does.
“Well, I’ve written some stuff.”
Chowder nods and rubs his thumb along the back of Nursey’s hand.
“It’s just... it’s dull. It’s boring. I’m not excited about it at all. I just wrote it down because I felt like I had to write something. It’s...” Nursey lets his head flop back against the side of the mattress while he searches for the right word. “Disappointing. It doesn’t even look like it was written by the same person.” He takes a breath and lets it out. “And I know I can’t force myself to have good ideas, but it’s been like this for the past four days and I don’t know what to do.”
“What was that thing you said to me once?” Chowder says, although it’s not really a question. The words have stuck in his mind since the day Nursey said them. “‘Everyone creates life somehow.’”
Nursey doesn’t say anything, but he exhales, tightly.
“I see the world in your eyes,” Chowder says. Nursey’s pen has rolled to a stop in front of his feet, so he picks it up and looks at Nursey as he puts it back into his hand. “Stories. You breathe life into words. Nobody can do magic like that every day.”
“But I have been doing that,” Nursey says. “Writing stuff I like. Since preseason.”
“Just because you can do it for a really long time doesn’t mean you can do it forever. Besides, if writing was your day job, you would have a small fortune in overtime pay.”
Nursey doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth quirks up.
“Remember that day two months ago when I didn’t stop a single shot?” Chowder reminds him. “You were the one who told me afterwards that nobody has to be proud of every single day. And the next day nobody scored on me. Take your own advice, Nursey.”
“Yeah,” Nursey says. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”
“That’s why I said it.”
Nursey stops pulling his legs into his chest, and then, gradually, he releases them, just a little.
“I still love you even if sometimes you write crappy poems. Because I only write crappy poems. So I’ll be impressed no matter what.”
Nursey laughs, and he leans into Chowder, and they watch the trees ripple in the breeze.