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Poe is frustrated. He tugs at the roots of his hair and draws small, invisible circles at the sides of his head, occasionally taking sips from his coffee. He types about fifty words and then stops, staring at the screen as though it’s his laptop’s fault he can’t write.
He has no idea what’s wrong with him.
Everything was fine just a few hours ago. He finished outlining the story and knew exactly what he was going to write. Now that he's reached the climax of the short story though, his outline seems – dare he admit it – kind of stupid. It just doesn’t make sense; not to him at least.
He’s a mess of a writer sometimes, and he hates himself for it.
What he hates even more, however, is having his rival see him like this. He knew accepting Ranpo’s request to come over was a bad idea. Why did he do it again?
“You’ve been staring at that screen for hours, it’s seriously getting annoying.” Ranpo hops up from the couch. He places a hand on Poe’s shoulder and leans in so that he’s eye level with the screen as well. “Do you know what happens next?”
“Of course I know what happens next.” He mutters, and for a moment he wants nothing more than to shut the damn thing and tell Ranpo to go and mind his own business while he tears himself apart, trying to think of what to write next. He doesn't though; he doesn't think he could ever bring himself to do that.
A stupid part of him actually finds Ranpo’s presence comforting. It pains him to admit it; it makes his cheeks burn and his heart race and he despises it.
“You don’t seem like you do.” Ranpo mentions it like it’s not a big deal, and Poe's breathing hitches. Had it really been that obvious?
If only the earth was so kind to open up and swallow him whole; but Poe has a feeling he isn’t that lucky.
“Well, actually I-” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck. He wants to come up with some sort of excuse, he really does, but he knows Ranpo can probably see right through him, and he doesn’t even have the energy to try and come up with a lie anyway. “I have an idea of what is going to happen next, I just-”
“You’re not sure?”
“Yes. I mean, no- I mean… kind of.” He skips over the part that his outline didn’t work out, and that he decided to basically ignore it after he reached the third page; he can’t, and he won’t admit it out loud. At least not in front of Ranpo, who keeps praising him about how his writing is getting better, and whose opinion matters more than anyone else's.
“You’re not very good at writing when you don’t know what happens next, are you?”
“Oh shut up!” Poe ruffles his hair and rolls his sleeves up, only to roll them down again. “I’ve pantsed countless of my stories for your information.”
“I know, I didn’t-” Poe glances up from his hands when Ranpo doesn’t continue right away. “Sorry.”
Ranpo is quiet after that, and all Poe can do is play with the hem of his shirt and chew on his bottom lip. He doesn’t feel like he can keep the conversation going, and if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t want to either.
“I’d take a break to think about it if I were you.” Ranpo flashes him a small smile. “You’ve been sitting on this chair, beating yourself up for exactly four hours, let’s go eat something!”
Poe doesn’t have the time to protest. Ranpo takes hold of his arm and forces him to stand to his feet, before he drags him in the kitchen.
“What do you want to eat?” He asks. The room is spinning and so when Ranpo lets go of him, Poe sits on one of the chairs of the dining table and takes his time to reply.
“Ah, anything is fine, really.” He says.
“I want something sweet. Do you still have that-?”
“Chocolate cake? It’s inside the fridge, right where you left it.” The moment the words sink in, Poe clears his throat. If his cheeks being on fire means they’re colored red too, he hopes Ranpo doesn’t notice. “Y-You know that I don’t really eat sweet things unless you’re, um, here, so uh, that- that’s why-”
“It really is right where I left it!” Ranpo thankfully cuts him off before he can confuse his words and embarrass himself more, and takes the cake out of the fridge.
They eat in silence, but Poe is dangerously close to disturbing it when he almost chokes on his food more than five times. It isn’t his fault, he tells himself; it’s just that whenever he glances up from his plate and at Ranpo, he finds him looking back at him.
He and Ranpo play with Karl for a little while, petting him and watching as he runs around the room. He has more energy than usual – Poe has a feeling that is because a certain detective is there – and Poe can’t help the small smile that touches his lips as he follows him with his gaze.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he opens his eyes, his head is on Ranpo’s shoulder and Ranpo is mumbling something about wanting to go to the bathroom but not being able to.
“Ah, s-sorry.” He removes his head as quickly as he can, only for Ranpo to put it in place again. Poe actually squeaks. He opens his mouth but closes it; he knows he'll probably regret it, but he's too tired to protest.
The next time he wakes up, the sun shines behind the closed curtains of the only window in his living room, and it’s so warm and cozy that he almost doesn’t notice that he’s not alone on the couch.
Ranpo’s head is on his lap, and he’s in this half sitting, half lying position that just looks so uncomfortable Poe is actually guilty. He wants to wake him up, tell him something about his body hurting if he sleeps like this, but Ranpo looks so peaceful and content while he sleeps, and Poe does nothing.
Karl is sleeping on his left, and Ranpo is sleeping on his right, and there’s no way for him to stand up without waking one – if not both – of them. He blinks a few times and yawns. Going back to sleep doesn’t sound so bad, not after having been awake during most of the previous night.
He can get back to writing when he wakes up. Now all he can focus on is just how warm Ranpo’s body is besides his own.