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Title: The Beach
The page before him was blank.
The caret, (yes he was pretentious enough to call it that) was blinking at the top of his screen, eagerly waiting for words to appear behind it.
It would be great, wouldn’t it? If the words would just start coming, without him having to lift one finger.
Maybe he could connect some sort of device to his computer, which he could then slap onto his head, and all the images would be neatly turned into text form on his screen. Dazai was able to see the scenes before him so clearly in his mind; the way the ocean waves hit the smooth, sandy shore, the smell of saltwater filling the main character's lungs.
He swore he could feel the sand between his fingers, as well as the wind blowing in his hair, in a somewhat annoying, yet comforting flow.
The heavy, loving feeling in his character’s chest as he watches his love interest jump around the edge of the ocean, laughing in the sun, felt so real that if he closed his eyes, he was practically there.
If everything was so obviously clear to him, how come he couldn’t get the word down onto this stupid page?
He had spoken about the scene so many times as well; Chuuya had heard him describe the sunrise an annoying amount of times, and their conversation always ends with the redhead saying the same thing:
“Why don’t you just write it down then? It seems like you have it all planned out.”
Of course, it was easy to say that.
Writing wasn’t just writing the scene you want; it’s creating the smooth transitions between the scenes, the way the characters develop to get to that exact part , and worst of all, it all has to be done before you get to the fun stuff.
Creating just the excerpt that you want isn’t just that; how did they get to the beach? Why are they there to begin with? How do the characters know each other?
Those facts come easily when you tell someone about a story: it’s often a one-off comment, describing the prompt or the situation presented before them.
You can’t do that when you’re writing a story. There has to be a pretense, some context; the characters can’t just be on the beach.
Dazai sighed as he leaned back in his chair, taking off his glasses in frustration. It felt like he’s been sitting in front of the screen for, what, five minutes? And he already felt ready to give up for today.
He hasn’t written anything in weeks. The few words he put down on those pages were always eventually deleted; there was always something wrong with them; life seemed to be missing from his stories.
The words he put down were meaningless, boring; all they did was describe, describe, describe. There was no emotion there, as if he had been writing a fucking manual.
Maybe a keyboard smash would help him along.
elirughesilurhgbnsl
Hm.
No, that didn’t feel right.
ergahuoipergqauih
….
Okay, no the keyboard-smashes seemed to only slow down his process.
The music in his ears felt right when he had put on his headphones, however now it seemed to just be incoherent noise, annoying his ears.
Dazai pulled the headphones down, letting them hang around his neck. A weak ‘beep’ rang from the headphones as he clicked to turn the music off.
Even his boyfriend’s music seemed to not be enough to motivate him to get words down on the page, huh?
Dazai was always jealous of Chuuya for being a musician. Writing music always seemed… well, not easier, he had seen that poor soul stare at his own blank pages as well.
Music just seemed more obvious to Dazai sometimes. You write your emotions, your feelings onto the page, and let it flow together with a melody you make.
There’s no thousands of words of pretence; no set-up, no backstories you have to explain before getting to your point.
With a song, he could start with the ocean. Start at the beach.
Who cares about the story before-hand, if just the melody is enough to tell you everything you need?
His eyes wandered to the clock at the bottom of his screen.
Shit, he’s been sitting here for an hour already? What the hell had he been doing?
The page before him was still blank, even the keyboard-smashes had been deleted.
Chuuya wasn’t going to be home for a few hours. He was going to bring home dinner, so Dazai didn’t need to cook today. (not that he was good at it, per se, however it would have been a nice distraction.)
The apartment was clean, courtesy of Dazai’s previous attempts to avoid his work. Their cat was sleeping away, not in the mood to play around with Dazai right now.
There was quite literally nothing else for him to do right now than to write.
This wasn’t the first time writers-block had haunted him. Yet, he was unable to remember how the hell he got out of it last time.
Maybe he should put his stupid laptop in his bag, and take the bus down to the beach, and try to write in the scene itself.
Dazai rolled his chair over to the window and pulled back the curtains.
Rain.
“..Really?” He mumbled to himself, and let the curtains fall back in place.
A lightning bolt struck across the horizon.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He waves his hand towards the window, dismissing the roaring thunder away.
Seems like the headphones Chuuya had gotten him for Christmas really were noise cancelling.
No, okay, he needed to focus. He turned back to his computer, the blank page taunting him again.
His eyes seemed to want to avoid the page like the plague; looking at everything else on his desk instead: the half-empty cup of cold tea, his journal, the rolls of bandages he had left all over the place, and his phone.
The poison to all writers. He knew if he picked it up, there was no going back.
Maybe he should message Chuuya, and see what he’s up to.
“No, come on, you know he’s at work.” Dazai scolded himself.
He bit down on the inside of his cheeks.
Words, words, words.
“Osamu, come on, just fucking write.”
Eh, being mean to himself has never worked in the past.
It was very tempting to just open a new tab and go on Netflix and rewatch the same, dumb shows he liked all over again. He could say it was an excuse, that ‘writing in silence is boring’, but deep down he knew that he would just end up focused on the show rather than put down words on his page.
… The rain outside sounded nice.
He wasn’t always a fan of storms, but somehow the thunder has grown on him over time; this was probably half-way due to the fact that Chuuya loved to drag Dazai outside whenever it was thundering, just so they could watch it together.
Seems like exposure was the greatest therapy sometimes.
No, come on, you’re getting distracted again, he thought to himself. He doesn’t even remember when he managed to roll himself over to the window again, leaning against the windowsill and smiling at the rain outside.
He always did this shit. Throughout the whole day, he feels the ideas explode in his mind, feeling like they’re going to choke him unless he puts them down on a page.
And yet, when the page was sitting before him, ready to take all this weight off his shoulders, nothing came out.
Not a single word.
Just as he was about to slam his hand down on the keyboard again, hoping those random letters would bring forth something in him, a loud thunderstrike sounded outside his window, at the same time as he heard the front door unlock.
He jumped in his seat, rolling away from his desk.
“Oi, Dazai, I’m home!” Chuuya’s voice rang from the hallway.
The sound of his keys clinking against each other, then being dropped onto the wooden table next to their entrance brought warmth to Dazai’s heart. It was the sound of his other half coming back; safe and sound.
“Welcome home!” Dazai cheerily greeted the other, leaning his head over the back of his chair, waiting for Chuuya to appear in the doorway.
A moment later, and some noises of struggle later, Chuuya slid into the room, holding two clear bags in his hands. His hair seemed relatively dry compared to his clothes; that’s what you get from driving around on a motorcycle in the rain, Dazai thought.
“I just got you some noodles from that Chinese place you like, I hope it's alright.” Chuuya said as he handed Dazai one of the clear bags, then made himself comfortable on the pale, beige couch in Dazai’s study.
“Yeah that’s- oi, don’t sit on my couch all drenched, asshole!”
Chuuya groaned at the scolding, and got up again, putting down his own food on the coffee table in front of him. “You’re such a piece of work…” he muttered through gritted teeth, then walked out of the study, presumably to get changed.
Dazai was left in the room alone again, just him and his laptop.
And some warm noodles.
Still staring at the blank page, he slowly pulled the take-away box from the clear bag, letting the delicious smell of the noodles fill the room.
He deserves the break, right? Yeah, he had done…..
Well, mentally, he had worked a lot. The story was quite fleshed out in his head by now, and he was getting quite hungry. Plus, he had missed Chuuya.
“Wow, you’ve done a lot of work.” Chuuya teased him as he walked into the room, draping himself over Dazai’s shoulders. He let his arms rest against Dazai’s chest, pressing his cheek against the others.
“Shut up. You know it’s hard to write.” Dazai replied, leaning his head against Chuuya’s.
“Writer’s block, huh? How long has it been now?”
Having Chuuya around him made him feel like he was a battery plugged in, charging back to full again. He felt bad for saying that he was tired, it wasn’t like he got any work done, but still, his mood, as well as his energy, felt like it was rising just by having the other around.
Dazai turned his head to the side, lazily kissing Chuuya’s jaw.
“Weeks, I think… I’ve lost count now.”
He felt Chuuya’s grip around him tighten, and heard a sigh escape his lips.
“You’ll figure it out eventually.”
It was the only advice he knew he could give. Chuuya had experienced his own share of writer’s block before; and he knew as well that advice from others rarely helped. Writer’s block was always a battle between yourself and the empty page.
That’s it.
“For now, go eat your food. It’ll get cold.”
Dazai whined as he felt the other pull away, the cold air taking its place around him rather than Chuuya’s warmth. He grabbed the food from his table and placed it on his lap, then turned around in his chair so he was facing Chuuya, who was back on the couch, in dry clothes this time.
“You’re back home early today.” Dazai said as he began eating the delicious noodles in front of him.
“Oh, yeah… the storm is said to just get worse throughout the evening, so I decided to take the trip home now while it’s not too bad,” Chuuya replied, then filled his mouth with food. “Everyone at the studio seemed eager to get home as well, so I wasn’t the only one.” He finished.
Dazai had already scolded Chuuya multiple times over the years over his reckless driving on that damn motorcycle. It seems that it has worked though; The Chuuya he had known when they first met in college would bike in any weather with no hesitation if it meant he could play music for longer.
“What part were you working on?” Chuuya continued.
‘Worked on’. It implied that Dazai had actually done something today.
“They went to the beach together.”
“Pfft, well no wonder you got nothing done in this weather.” Chuuya quickly fished his phone out of his pocket, tapping away for a few seconds.
“What are y-”
“Look, the weather is gonna be nice on Saturday,” Chuuya turned his phone to Dazai, showing him the forecast for the week. “We could take a trip to the pier and hang around for a day. Maybe it’ll get your juices flowing.”
Dazai shrugged lightly as he continued eating.
“Well, if it doesn’t, we’ll just spend time by the water and enjoy ourselves. Either way, it’s a win-win, right?”
“Yeah, you’re right.” A warm smile painted itself on Dazai’s face.
It was always so sweet how considerate Chuuya was. Even if he joked around sometimes, he understood how hard writing was. He was always there to take care of Dazai whenever he hit ruts like these, ensuring he didn’t lock himself in his study for days on end.
“I love you.”
Chuuya looked up from his phone, a weak blush appearing on his cheeks. “I love you too, dumbass.”
Writing was hard. It all had to be perfect, the words had to make sense, and there had to be a certain flow to everything.
Sometimes he wishes he could capture perfect moments like this and put them on a page. The simple, loving way that he and Chuuya would look at each other; the way his heart would skip a beat every time Chuuya kissed him, as if it was his crush reciprocating those pent up feelings he’s held for so long, despite them having dated for over 3 years now.
These moments always felt so right, like something right out of a story.
Why was it so hard to put it into words?
“Osamu.”
“Hm?” Dazai focused his eyes back on the redhead.
“... You were thinking about writing again, weren’t you?” Chuuya was already finished with his food. How did time manage to pass so fast?
“Yeah I..” I can’t stop.
Chuuya put the now empty styrofoam box down on the coffee table, and quickly walked over to Dazai. He cupped the brunet’s cheeks, then lifted his head up. “Come one, let’s get out of this study. I can feel it slowly rotting your brain away.” He placed a soft kiss on Dazai’s forehead, then pulled him in closer, pressing him against his own chest.
Being stuck in this room for hours on end had wired Dazai’s brain to be in writer mode the moment he stepped in. There was a reason the two rarely hung out here.
“Mhm.” He hummed, then slowly got up from his chair. Chuuya took a step back, then took the food out of Dazai’s hands, and started carrying it out of the room.
“Make sure you close up your laptop!” Chuuya called out as he exited the room and disappeared into the living room.
Dazai stepped to his desk, and leaned over it, staring at the screen in front of him.
The blank page was, to no one's surprise, still blank.
He hadn’t gotten anything written today.
It was alright though. He still had time, and there was always another day.
Maybe hanging out with Chuuya tonight, watching a movie and cuddling, will help his block. Or maybe the trip to the pier in a few days will.
Or maybe nothing will help. Maybe he’ll be stuck in this block for a little while longer.
That stupid caret was still blinking on his screen.
Another day. He wrote on the page, then closed his laptop, not bothering to click save.