Words-1585
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"When are you going to do your work?" The poet asked, his hand trailing over a stack of papers, many marked with important notices. He glanced at the half asleep detective, his head laying on the couch.
"What do you mean." He asked, his hand rubbing his face. He sat up, his eyes gazing at the concerned poet.
"You have so many papers you haven't started. Aren't you going to start them...?" He asked once again, his eyes staying on the detective. He noticed the procrastination habit of the other, he knew how much the detective didn't want to do any of the work, but he didn't know it got this bad.
"Whats the point." The detective said, his eyes grazing back towards the ground. His entire demeanor changed from the past few weeks. He seemed less lively, his personality completely changing. He was never that bubbly blackette the poet knew, and it made the brunette feel bad. Like he started something that gave distress towards the detective. His drive for anything dwindled like a falling leave, gravitating to the ground but not having a will of how fast it fell.
The detective seemed stressed over something, but the poet was never informed about it. Left to ponder what the blackette was thinking, and quite honestly, was difficult. The blackette never displayed his emotions on his facial expressions. He'd always been open with what he'd been feeling, but for the past weeks, everything was different.
"I don't know, but doing some work could help you collect your thoughts?" The poet suggested. He was one to talk about work. The brunette always was trapped in his room, mindlessly writing about the best fictional stories or the most lively real life happenings. He never seemed to stop working, continuously jotting down his ideas that eventually grew out into a novel.
"I don't feel like it."
"You don't seem to feel like anything." He spoke back sharply. His heart hurt to see his loved one in this state, all tired and loss of motivation. He wanted to be the push the detective needed to get back to his working ways, but, he didn't know exactly how to convince the other to do that.
"Whats that supposed to mean." The detective glared up at the poet, his eyes looking dead. The normally dark bags around the poets eyes surrounded the detectives, his emerald eyes having gray mixed into them.
"All you do is sit in your room and sulk, you could at least do something." The poet said, picking up papers from the flooded desk and plopping them in front of the detective, suggesting for the blackette to start them. He gestured towards them, staring at the other. "You can do them right? Or do you need help with them just like everything else."
"Can you just get off my ass? Let me think."
"You've thought enough, you can't just sit around and get to work once you feel like, you need to carry your own weight." The poet only scolded, his friendly and caring demeanor changing into one of charge, pushing the detective to do something.
"Can I not have some time alone? You have everything easy with your poetry, I get drained from doing shit too you know?" The detective became defense, his eyes still on the floor; like it was capturing every drop of the blackettes attention, sucking it through like a straw.
"You haven't been doing anything but sitting and staring off for weeks."
"So? I never bothered you when you sat at your desk just tapping your pen to your hand."
"That's different."
"How? I need a break. I'm tired."
"That's always your excuse."
"It's not a fucking excuse-" the detective only pitifully chuckled, too many emotions at once becoming painful. "Can I not just have a week to myself?"
"It's been a month, you need to do something." He poet poked in, a stern expression lacing his face. He'd always seen this laziness with the detective, but never linked it with anything mental health related. The blackette was always fine, and that's what he was told.
The detective only stayed silent, the amount of time he'd stayed in his bed, completely restless like he was taped to his mattress completely lost in track, the days feeling like hours, the weeks only feeling like minutes. Everything went by so fast, too fast for anyone to understand.
"So are you going to do the shit you were assigned to do weeks ago or am I going to have to do it again for you and make up a dumb excuse?" The poet said, his eyes never moving from the detective.
The brunette always covered for the detective. Doing his paper work was like clock work, waking up and filling out forms written for the detective. He'd do it because he cares for the health of the detective, but the amount of lying he'd created eating at him. He felt guilty for having to lie to those close to him, only because the detective never felt like doing anything.
The blackette picked up a pencil and the stacks of papers grounded to the coffee table, his eyes only loosing life in them quicker.
The poet defeatedly smiled to himself, picking up his feet towards his own room. He closed the door behind himself, sliding into his chair. Short stories were laid out on his desk, pens and pencils scattered around them.
His fingers curled around the pen, ideas flowing into his mind. His hand instinctively went to the paper, the need to spill all his thoughts onto the paper like water trickling into the drain. Yet he couldn't, the motivation quickly falling into that drain instead of his ideas, leaving him completely.
He sighed to himself, his hand trailing up to his face. He rested onto it, his fingers tapping the tip of them pen onto the table.
The poets words repeated in his mind, guilt fueling the thoughts scattered in his mind. He sighed once again, the detective appearing into his mind; the thought of his loved one alone brought every other thought back together, like he was the piece of the puzzle he lost and found again; finally filling the empty space of his usually complete puzzle.
"I shouldn't have said that, I was too harsh-" he spoke out to himself, a groan of guilt leaving his mouth. He dropped the pen onto the desk, a noise following it. The poet stood up, glancing back at the slightly cracked open door and decided to reconcile with with detective, the need to apologize suffocating him like waves of salty unknown waters.
The poet walked towards the door, the thought of what he'd do once he was down there.
Just apologize.
He'd realize you meant no harm and forgive you.
But what if he already hates you.
But what if he already left.
But what if you doesn't love you anymore.
This is stupid.
You can't say sorry.
Just apologize.
They thoughts circled around his mind like sprinklers, watering his brain with peaceful yet aggressive ideas.
"Ranpo?" He called out after exiting his room, making his way down to where he's been before. No response was given, more guilt fueling his mind.
"Ranpo I'm sorry-" he spoke after turning a corner, spotting a body on the ground, papers flown about like rain drops on a hard pouring day.
"Ranpo?" He spoke out again, believing he'd been seeing things, his hand rubbed his eyes; gazing back at where he'd seen that thing.
Yet, he wasn't seeing things. It was Ranpo. He'd passed out, his eyes shut completely.
The poet acted in worry, running up to the detective and turning him toward himself, the pencil in his hand slowly rolling out of his grip, the tumbles of it rolling underneath the couch he was sitting on.
He felt for a pulse and sure enough it was there. He wasn't dead by any means, he'd just passed out, the poet assuming it was from deprivation of sleep. Or lack of energy. He felt even more guilty, holding the detective close to him. The poet tried picking him up, a struggle, but nonetheless he succeeded.
The blackette rested in his arms, his eyes closed restfully. A soft smile displayed on his bitten lips, his hand running up the poets chest, finding a comfortable position and laying there.
The poet didn't spend a second staring at the detective, no matter how much he would have wanted to. The brought the detective to their bed, attempting to put him down onto it yet not being able to. He sighed, keeping the detective in his arms and sitting himself, rocking the tired blackette back and forth in his arms. The blackette curled up into the poet, his hand reaching for the brunette's. The poet happily took it, smiling down at the other.
"I'm sorry for pushing you, no more work yeah?" He poet chuckled, kissing the top of the detectives forehead, stroking his head softly.
He fell asleep himself, the poetry finally knocking him out similar to all the words he'd written down. They stayed asleep together, the darkness taking up the sky and filling their room, seeping into their room.
The poet hugged the blackette closer, cuddling up into his side. They both smiled to each other, their dreams becoming one.
Every story forms together like puzzle pieces, linking together perfectly, and their stories seemed to become those puzzle pieces.
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