Work Text:
“How’s the book then love?” Henry asks, setting a fresh mug of tea on John’s desk. It’s the third one of the evening, and given the blank document in front of him, it’s far from the last. He takes a moment to stare at the mug, which has a sketch of a Charles Dickens on it.
He has been staring at the clock on his computer and watching the time tick by, the email from his publisher sitting open in another tab, kindly reminding him of his deadline in January, three months from now. It’s far too late to be up, and outside is quiet and dark. Occasionally he can hear a car pass on the rainy street, and his office feels too crowded and too busy-- though it’s really a very inviting place.
There’s a little loveseat, usually occupied by Henry, and piles of books and papers stacked precariously around the desk. He likes to be surrounded by books, but right now it feels oppressive. He feels like everything is crushing in on him
“Non existent,” John replies, and when Henry sets a hand on his shoulder, he heaves a sigh-- at least the oppressive feeling vanishes when Henry touches him, “I think I’ve forgotten how to write.”
“Oh nonsense,” Henry bends down enough to kiss the top of his head, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s a prize winning novel in that head of yours.”
“The last three haven't been prize winning,” John mutters. Dickens stares back at him. Stupid smug bastard.
“But they always do well. People like your books. You’re a good writer, you just haven’t found the one that makes them see what I see, that’s all.”
John makes a face, considers turning his computer off, but instead turns in his chair to face Henry, hands settling on his waist. Henry chuckles, and takes John’s face in his hands.
“My talented John,” Henry says, “Whose new book will get done before his deadline.”
“You’re my biggest fan.”
“Your number one, I’d say, though I like to think I’m a little nicer to you than Annie Wilkes would be. Though I do have you all to myself don’t I.”
John rolls his eyes, “Want to read the last chapter I’ve written?”
“Course I do,” Henry smiles. “I’ll get myself a cup of coffee, and you print it out for me yeah? I’ll be right back, pick an easy font for me, love, I’m tired tonight.”
Henry kisses him again, and gives his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. He resists the urge to pull Henry into his lap-- Henry wouldn’t approve of such a distraction when today’s word count is about ten total words.
He sets the pages to print, and tries to remember how to make the words flow.
*****
Henry is, for a man of his gentle heart, a stern taskmaster. John doesn’t get away with procrastinating very much under Henry’s reign-- which is a good thing, even if it’s occasionally miserable to sit in his office, or at their kitchen table and stare at his computer.
“What if I just kill them all off?” John says. Henry is chopping carrots for dinner, and he laughs from the counter.
“You wouldn’t do that,” he says, without looking over. The kitchen is starting to smell like whatever he’s cooking, and John’s about ready to quit for the day, “You love them too much. I love them too much. I told you I'm fond of that one, the doctor who's name you keep changing.”
“Be a lot easier to kill the whole lot of them off though.”
“You’d have to leave one alive, if you did,” Henry says thoughtfully. He turns and leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, “To carry on the story you know, to keep the rest of them alive, that makes, you know, narrative sense, so people could analyze it when it's a classic years from now. But you won’t kill any of them. You wouldn’t write me a book with a sad ending. And that’s sadder than killing them all off.”
“That’s true.”
Ever since he met Henry all those years ago-- he’d had an ugly first draft of his very first novel back then, Henry had been its first reader, prying the novel out of him word by word-- his books have all been for the man standing in the kitchen with him now. They joke about it, but Henry is his biggest fan, and when he thinks he’s chosen the wrong career, Henry rolls his eyes and tells him how foolish he’s being, sets John’s own books in his hand, reads the reviews on the back, and tells him that he’s just where he’s supposed to be. The last book’s dedication had been For Henry, you have my heart and each word that comes out of it which had made Henry pretend he wasn’t tearing up when he got his finished copy. But they all belong to Henry. John just writes them. Henry owns them. That's why he couldn't finish that draft until he met Henry that rainy August day, and his life had been catapulted in this direction.
Henry too, likes to say that John’s the reason he’s doing so well for himself, that John’s encouragement got him to finish his degree, got him to start his beloved job teaching poetry at a local university, but John’s books would not exist without Henry, and every time he looks at them he’s reminded of it. Henry keeps copies of them all over their home, and shows the new ones off whenever people come over for dinner. John thinks Henry's prouder of them than John ever will be. Henry would have gotten where he is on his own, John was just there to give him a nudge in the right direction. Henry firmly disagrees with this point.
They’re not immensely popular. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be that kind of writer, but he doesn’t mind. The critics like them, the people who read them like them, even if the number of readers isn’t that large. He’s done a few interviewers for smaller literary publications, and they make enough money to live happily in their cozy flat. It’s really all he could want.
“Enough chatting. Back to writing,” Henry says, taking the wooden spoon from the simmering pot on the stove and pointing at him with it, like a displeased teacher. He wonders what Henry’s students think of him, though John imagines Henry is much stricter with his husband’s deadlines than he is with his students, “Dinner will be ready soon.”
“Aye aye captain,” John rolls his eyes, and gets back to writing.
****
John finds his writing pace again, writing late into the evenings. Henry pretends to complain about the cold bed. He spends his mornings wrapped around John in the kitchen, clinging to him to make up for the lonely nights, but the book is getting written, through an inordinate amount of tea, Henry’s stern affection, and the occasional call from James who pretends to shout at him when Henry says he’s not writing enough, but really just does little more than offer a thoughtful word of advice or an ear to listen to.
“Henry,” he says. It’s nearly one in the morning, and he’s shaking Henry awake, but he’s just typed the last words, and he needs to tell him.
Henry groans, frowns at him, and pushes himself up on an elbow, “What is it?”
“I finished the book.”
“You did?” Henry’s voice is thick with sleep. He feels a little guilty waking up Henry-- the man loves his sleep-- but Henry’s told him before that emergencies are always a reason to wake him up, and apparently he classifies the finishing of a book as an emergency, “Can I read it?”
“Now?”
“Sure,” Henry smiles, “It’s the weekend. Break out the wine, why don’t you? Let me wake myself up. Put a sweater on, love, you’ll get cold.”
John is practically giddy with excitement. He sets the last chapter off to print, and sets the manuscript neatly in front of Henry’s place at the kitchen table, the warm yellow light strangely comforting against the bleak winter night. There’s a bottle of wine tucked away meant specifically for the ending of the book, and he pops it open, pouring two glasses.
“Does it have a happy ending?” Henry asks. He’s pulled on one of John’s sweaters, as armor against the cold, and pauses long enough to kiss him.
“For you? Of course it does.”
“Good,” Henry says, “I like a happy ending.”
“Tragedy has its place,” John offers, watching Henry sit. He’s too riled up to sit yet, instead standing behind the chair and holding the back of it.
“It does,” Henry nods, “But I think you deserve to give the world the kind endings you have in you. And I think the world needs them.”