Work Text:
A loud crash can be heard from the other room. He winces, not out of fear but pain. Trailing behind the thud, there’s a sharp ringing bouncing within his skull. It hurts. He doesn’t care to investigate what caused the ruckus to occur. That blasé behavior is the norm for him. His eyes, dry from lack of sleep, are glued to the screen. It’s some sort of tunnel vision; all outside movement is ignored as if it never existed in the first place.
He is alone within the study space as time passes. The room itself, containing a wide rectangle table with twelve plastic chairs on its perimeter, was shared with him and three similarly aged peers. It’s late, so it’s reasonable to assume most people have made their way back to their dorms for dinner and to share pleasantries with friends. But not him. He has work to do. This is his only time out of the day to indulge.
He should indulge.
He needs to indulge with his writings.
********************
A soft knock could be heard on the door to the room. By the time he notices, the student working in this section of the building has already let herself in. There are visible bags hanging under her glazed eyes. “Sorry to barge in, but the library is closing. Could you please gather your belongings and return once it is open, again, tomorrow?”
Her voice strains when the request leaves her throat. She’s trying to whisper, but it’s filled with a dry croak when spoken. What time even is it? He blinks the delirium out of his eyes and looks at the lock screen of his phone for a moment. The clock reads 23:58. Shit. He lets out a soft “Sorry” and turns back to his laptop. Before closing it, he looks at the dimmed screen. A blank document stares back at him. No thoughts were ever expressed on it.
On the walk back to his dorm, the cold breeze sends a chiller down his spine. He’s wearing a light, dark colored pullover and dark blue, straight-styled jeans. It wasn’t supposed to be this cold. Earlier, the low was reported to be 55. Why is it so chilly now? His eyes are staring bullets into the ground; a neutral expression is plastered on his face. It’s the only thing he muster in this very moment. Anything else would be a waste of his own time and energy. It’s not like anyone else is around to be his audience. There’s no emotion to be recognized within his body language. He could be mistaken for a shadowy figure it the peripheral of your eye for all he cares. He just wants to get home and lay down. Stretching out his limbs like you do with latex gloves before putting them on. Releasing any built-up tension from stress and self-burden underneath the warm covers of his own bed.
As his dorm building can be seen on the horizon, illuminated by the moon’s light, there’s a mellow buzz within his back pocket. He picks at the seam of his right pants pocket and grabs his phone from its designated holder. The lockscreen displays a text from someone assigned the contact name E. Poe. When clicking on the notification, it goes the conversation between him and Poe. It reads as follows: “Hi, checking in to see how you were doing. I know you said you would be busy working on a draft for an idea that was lurking in your brain. I don’t mean to bother.”
To a 3rd party onlooker, the message may read off as skittish, like a young child asking their mother for something out of the pantry, but to him it’s oddly endearing. Cute even. People seem more abrasive with how they communicate their intentions. More along the lines of demanding answers because of his implied intelligence in certain literary and analytic thinking. Though, between him and Poe, it can quite be the opposite.
“Writer’s block.” Is all he replies with. He doesn’t feel the need to elaborate on anything other than what’s factual. It’s too much mental energy. They exchange messages back and forth as he continues down the same street his dorm is on. It’s just a few more minutes.
E. Poe: “I see, it happens to us all when starting out a new project. Wanting to show up the latest finished work. It’s a creative disease, haha.” (00:12)
“Mhm” (00:14)
E. Poe: “Trying out a different technique when drafting out a plot and its elements might be a good change.” (00:15)
“Head hurts too much.” (00:18)
E. Poe: “Another migraine?” (00:18)
“Mhm” (00:20)
He reaches a crosswalk, just out of reach to of his destination. He doesn’t bother to look around him before stepping with his right foot onto the street. It’s slick and shiny from the streetlight. It must’ve rained. The smell of dew layering the dead grass and asphalt assaults his nose after.
Step.
Step.
Step.
HONK.
A car perpendicular of his person blares its horn at him. It’s no more than three feet away from him, shooting bullets of light at him. You could clearly see his shadow on the right, stretched out and almost inhuman. One would assume he’d be more aware of his surroundings, but he never really is. With his head either daydreaming of a new plot to a novel, a twist in the narrative, or eyes fixated on the ground; there’s a unconscious faith in people around him to be his eyes and directions.
He shakes his head (mostly to bring his attention back to the world around him, not some sort of darkscape he drifts to when exhausted and continues walking up the street.
When he gets to the dorm, he can see Poe outside sitting on a bench. Poe has a blanket wrapped around himself, bracing for the breeze every time it forces itself through the stale air. Ranpo rubs the tiredness out of his eyes, blinking a few times, as a superficial way of making sure Poe is real and not just some cruel insomnia-induced hallucination. He really is there, sitting on a bench with his raccoon to his right and some sort of wooden basket to his left. A warmth climbs up Ranpo’s spine. Spreading to the veins within himself, pumping and carrying that warmth from his ribcage to the tips of his fingers and toes.
Ranpo wants to run, but his legs won’t move fast enough. He wants to leap into Poe’s arms. He wants to express any gratitude for the gesture, but all he can do is wait for Poe to stand up so he can rest his forehead on the other man’s free shoulder. Poe pats his back, acknowledging the struggle but still appreciating Ranpo’s try.
Ranpo leds them both up to his dorm room – since he is the only one with a keycard that unlocks the room and building itself. It’s a single because, by law, transgender individuals must be placed within their own rooms. It’s a darker lit room, mostly just a desk light illuminates the space. The floor is tile, though there is a record-shaped rug at the foot of the door, so dirt doesn’t get track in. The walls are mostly bland, with the occasional photo of some creature or animal for a future writing prospect. There’s loose clothing strewn about the two chairs and bed from the past couple of days. A bookcase is full of books from different countries; all from either the genres of thriller, horror, mystery, or fiction. On top of said bookcase, there are used and partially used notebooks full of ideas. Either fleshed-out novels or just pages of incoherent ramblings. All that needed to be written down.
It feels like a writer would live in a space like this.
Ranpo, unlike his usual behavior with guests, sits on the bed before gesturing the other man to sit. The raccoon follows and nestles itself into Ranpo’s lap, covering its face with the inner wedge of his elbow.
Poe, on the other hand, sets down the basket goods on the floor near the door. He starts to clean the room. Picking up loose clothing and placing them into the hamper by Ranpo’s desk. It’s almost full, though it could be dealt with in the next coming days. Then, he sweeps the floor. Gathering any crumbs or wrappers left without much care about. He would vacuum, but there’s a “quite hours” rule currently in place. It’d be too noisy at the given hour, close to 1am. Lastly, he wipes down the counter surfaces with a disinfectant to get rid of any unwanted dust. A mess only holds someone back from what they could really do.
After some last-minute tidying of some loose books and cable management, Poe takes a seat next to the other man. Ranpo’s head hangs low, drowning in a feeling of shame.
“I’m sorry you had to do this, again,” Ranpo says, sheepishly.
“Don’t be sorry, hun,” Poe replies. He wraps his arm around the other. Holding him gently, as a way to comfort him.
“But I am! You didn’t have to do all this,” Ranpo rebuttals using his free-ish hand to point out the cleaning Poe had just done. “I would have done it… eventually.”
“Really?” Poe slightly teased. “Whenever you get into one of your ruts, you know you stop taking care of yourself until you force yourself out of it.”
Ranpo opens his mouth to try and fight it but pauses for a moment and thinks. He knows how he behaves when something stresses himself to the bone. It’s like a gnawing pressure at his skull cavity that won’t go away. It builds and builds like a tower of unstable stones until he breaks.
When the man-made dam breaks, it’s destructive. Water rushes out, destroying anything in its wake. This is due to pressure build-up from the water. It’s a long process. It doesn’t just happen randomly one day just because it feels like it. There’s rain, there’s snow, there’s moisture. Factors feed into the buildup.
Tonight is one of those nights it does.
Hot tears stream down his cheeks. He hides his face in his lover’s closest shoulder. The twist of the torso scared off the raccoon to the pillows displayed on the head of the mattress.
He wants to apologize, to say anything but it all hurts. His throat is catching itself on any syllable it could muster. Any sentence comes out as unruly mumbles, muffled by the cloth of Poe’s shirt. Whines and some sort of howls are the last resort. It’s like an animal that had lost everything. Just jumbled cries for something better. To be better.
There’s no response anyone to give in this situation. Any voice of assurance would be deflected immediately. Any reasoning will not meet the animal’s ears. All someone could do is be there. That’s what Poe does. He sits and waits. He waits until everything it let go. Afterall, this isn’t the first time this has happened. People, even Ranpo, get overwhelmed by external and internal factors. It’s our nature.
After some time, there is silence. There’s a subtle tap to Ranpo’s back. It’s unintrusive, like a waterdrop falling from a leaf after rainfall. It’s just noticeable to the person subjected to it.
Ranpo sniffles before raising his head to his partner. His eyes are blurred and burning from the tear residue. He uses his left hand to rub them clear. Still though, it’s hard to keep any object in view focused.
“Got it all out of your system, darling?” Poe asks.
Ranpo gives a slight nod yes, but he isn’t entirely sure how confident that yes really is. “I just feel bad when I do this to you. I want to be better.”
Poe wanted to interrupt his babbling boyfriend, though it would be rude and wouldn’t resort to anything other than Ranpo doubling down on his own insecurities. He just sits and lets him speak his mind. Every nonsensical thought that comes to mind gets uttered out in some form or another. Even the unspoken ones, actions will replace the missing sentences.
“Honey, you are the love of my life. I expect you to lean on me when you’re struggling. You’ve done the same for me. You remember what I was like when we first met?”
Ranpo sits up and glares at Poe as a response. They had met a local library exhibit on the evolution of the historical fiction genre. Ranpo had found Poe staring at a modernized copy of the book, perceived to have had kick started the whole genre and it’s motifs. Poe had his usual attire on, though hair hiding his eyes. There had been no way of truly reaching him on a personal, intimate level compared to now.
“You were like a scared cat,” Ranpo teases. A slight laugh is let out when reminiscing his partner’s behavior.
“Only because you had snuck up on me while I was lost in thought!” A slight blush brushes Poe’s face, staining his cheeks and points of his ears. “Anyways, am I like that now?”
It was a rhetorical question that still needed Ranpo’s willingness to answer. "Well, yeah of course you are. That’s why I fell for you.”
“Not entirely the answer I was looking for,” Poe looked away at his raccoon, who is now curled into a ball on Ranpo’s go-to pillow when they lay rest together. Ranpo had always preferred the side closer to the wall.
“Then what is your answer, huh?” Ranpo snapped.
“I was going to say ‘Yes, because of your support.’” Poe confessed.
Now Ranpo is the one blushing from the other’s affection. “Well…” Ranpo trails off. He had no response to that. What would he even say? His heart is pumping faster than ever before. He can feel it within his eardrums. It’s not just his, but Poe’s as well. Two hearts, beating with passion and for the other. Synchronicity others only ever get a taste of.
“May I?” Poe asks. Again, Ranpo just nods as a yes. There is that confidence others assume from him.
Poe uses his right hand – the one free, his left is stored underneath Ranpo’s body – and pushing his boyfriend’s hair away and places a kiss on his forehead. It’s a sign of sensual intimacy than sexual passion. A way to say ‘It’s going to be okay, my love’ without stating it. A simple action that holds more feelings.
“Wait, I almost forgot!” Poe exclaims. He tries to move his left shoulder to usher Ranpo to move for a moment, but there’s no reciprocation. He had fallen asleep. Poe lets out a soft laugh to himself about his, now sleeping, partner before laying him down to sleep in a more comfortable position than the contortion he currently is in. The raccoon had moved to his make-shift bed of blankets and a throw pillow on the ground, next to the foot of the bed.
He gets up to grab the basket he had brought for an occasion such as this. In there, a bag of assorted candies (lollipops, chocolates, and sour ropes) and Ranpo’s favorite soda are in there. Poe grabs a sticky note from Ranpo’s desk and writes “I love you” on it and sticks it to the bottle, storing the beverage in Ranpo’s mini fridge for him to find later. Then, there’s a new blanket at the bottom of the basket, as well. It was hidden to be a bigger surprise to his partner. It’s the colors of black, brown, and white with a cat printed on its face – calico colored. Poe grabs it and spreads it on the bed, covering Ranpo in the process.
A small yawn escapes Poe’s mouth. He makes his way underneath the fluffy blanket and wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s waist. Grabbing a hold and never letting go. Whispering ‘goodnight, my love’ under his breath before gifting one last kiss and falling asleep.