Work Text:
On Writer's Block and Vanilla Milkshakes
(or, A Novelist Walks into a Bar)
The slow, rhythmic sound of water dripping down, down, onto the flagstones echoed hollowly in the near darkness. The policeman took another cautious step forward, lessening closing the distance between himself and the white-caped figure at the far end of the underground church’s? hall, standing on the dais with his hands behind his back, bathed in flickering light streaming downward from the (skylight). <- find out what those openings in the ceilings of underground rooms are called
“There isn’t anywhere left to run,” the policeman drew his handgun and clicked the barrel into place, “I suggest you stop now and turn yourself in.”
The masked man did not move, and the policeman, taking a deep breath to calm himself, lifted the handgun/pistol upward. His hand shook slightly. (is the protag’s fear of killing obvious enough?)
“I’d rather not – ” the policeman began, a strange sort of nervousness climbing up his throat adrenaline coursing through his veins in a manner he hadn’t experienced since he was a raw recruit – the masked man thief was so still – and then the masked man turned, and although the movement wasn’t sudden at all – on the contrary, it was smooth, and graceful, the policeman started, because as the thief turned, he spoke:
“You’d rather not hurt me, is it?” he said, and as he spoke, the policeman’s heart leapt into his throat,. and tThe thief reached up with slender white-gloved fingers to pry at the mask covering his face. “You haven’t changed much, have you, Tiger?”
***
Tetsuya groans and hurls his pen at the far wall of his office – which isn’t really much of an office: just a room, with a desk and a chair and a wastepaper basket (always brimming), but it is where he retreats to work, and therefore is an office, even if it isn’t up to the standards of most best-selling novelists.
The way things are going, he isn’t going to be a best-selling novelist for much longer, anyway, so it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t have many things to remind him of better days when he is, once again, poor and destitute (and trying to make his way back up to the top).
He should’ve listened to Seijuuro and stuck with a single plot spanning more than one book instead of trying to write a non-chronological series with different protagonists – because Seijuuro was right (as usual), and Tetsuya is awful at coming up with memorable characters, and his plot is suffering, too, as a result, because it’s all connected, and whoever heard of a crime thriller with no plot –
Tetsuya kneads his temples with his knuckles, counting to ten and breathing out, slowly.
Writer’s block. He used to think it was some sort of myth, come up with by lazy, unmotivated writers looking for an excuse to blame their lack of productivity on – but now, looking at the numerous sticky notes he’s got on his clipboard (research notes) and the scratched-out spider diagrams sprawled across his desk, Tetsuya wonders if he’s drunk his particular fountain of inspiration dry.
(Or maybe he never really had what it takes.)
The doorbell rings, then, just before Tetsuya loses himself in the darker corners of his mind. He heaves himself up from his swivel chair to answer the door, blindly reaching out and twisting the key in its lock.
(He doesn’t have to look through the eyehole: there’s only one person who’d come up to Tetsuya’s house unannounced and without calling ahead.)
“Akashi-san,” Tetsuya begins, but Seijuuro holds up a hand.
“Yes, I know,” he says, “I’m two days early, and you’ve got a spare key under your doormat. But,” he gives Tetsuya a pointed look, shrugging off his coat and holding it, expectantly, in Tetsuya’s general direction, “your draft of chapter fifteen was due two days ago, and it’s good for you to get up and out of your chair every once in a while, if only to open a door for your editor,” and he gives Tetsuya the sort of smile which, to anyone else, would come off as supercilious, but to Tetsuya, merely looks fond.
“I wasn’t aware I’d missed a deadline,” Tetsuya intones, mock-seriously, because he’d known exactly when he’d missed it, down to the minute. He makes a show of hanging Seijuuro’s coat on the coat-hooks, situated just behind the door (and therefore closer to Seijuuro than they are to Tetsuya); Seijuuro ignores this pointed gesture so easily Tetsuya wonders if he noticed it at all.
“If that were true,” Seijuuro says, preceding Tetsuya out of the foyer and into the office as if it is his and not Tetsuya’s, “I imagine I’d be a lot more worried than I am,” and he settles himself in Tetsuya’s swivel chair with an air distinctly reminiscent of a complacent feline (or the Chief Editor of a prestigious publishing company).
Tetsuya hands Seijuuro his (unfinished) draft of chapter fifteen without being told; Seijuuro sets one ankle over the other and leans back, his face settling into an expression of almost deadly concentration. Tetsuya steps out to retrieve two cups of tea: he’s never liked watching people read his work.
“I’ve got writer’s block,” Tetsuya says once he’s returned, conversationally, as if he is discussing the weather (instead of, say, trying to explain away his awful prose), and Seijuuro looks at him over the top of his newly-acquired teacup, heterochromatic eyes glinting.
“That,” Seijuuro tells him, “is exactly why I said you ought to get out and about more,” as if he doesn’t know the schedule he’s set up for Tetsuya makes provisions for only two breaks (apart from sleeping, eating, and compulsory exercise obviously!), both of which are, by principle, monopolized by Seijuuro himself (because you never can keep too close an eye on your writers).
No sooner has Tetsuya opened his mouth to remind his editor of this fact than Seijuuro leans forward, uncrossing his arms. He doesn’t clap the flats of his hands on his legs – that would be too uncouth – and so, when his palms come to rest on his knees the gesture is decidedly awkward. Tetsuya pretends not to notice.
“It’s settled,” Seijuuro announces, “you’re taking a night of mandatory leave. Go on a field trip. Drink something other than tea. Hands-on research. Whatever you want to call it. Just don’t come back till you’ve learned something.”
He has a tendency to run his fingers through his hair when he is excited, as well as lapse into sentence fragments, Tetsuya notes absently, and so, at the end of this mini-rant, Seijuuro’s hair is sticking up rather alarmingly, and, accompanied by his wide (maniac) smile and the gleeful gleam in his eyes, makes him look rather like a madman.
(And Tetsuya wonders if he can get away with writing him into (the) book this time.)
***
The policeman’s eyes widened. Behind the mask – now tossed aside – smirking a very familiar smirk, the thief said,
“Been a long time, hasn’t it, little brother?”
“B?” the policeman breathed, a mixture of shock, horror and relief choking his voice, “I thought you were dead!” (how does one go about naming protagonists?!)
“Officer A,” the thief – B, the policeman reminded himself, it’d been B all along – stepped nimbly lightly down the stairs from the dais. “I heard you’re going to be up for a promotion, soon. Done really well for yourself in my absence, haven’t you?”
He stopped on the last step, just in front of A, nose mere centimeters from A’s own, his breath, slow and even – as if they were exchanging pleasantries over tea, A thought faintly? (just how much of an idiot is he?) – splaying over A’s face.
***
Tetsuya finds himself wandering into a bar.
It is a little past sunset, and chilly, even for early November, and while Tetsuya left his apartment complex intending to go to a park, he’d barely been outside five minutes before the cold had seeped through his too-thin jacket and made it impossible to stay outdoors any longer.
(The presence of dark, swollen clouds hung low in the sky and air rich with the promise of rain may have had something to do with it, as well.)
Inside, it is warm. Testsuya makes his way through the almost-crowd, slipping between closely-packed bodies with the ease of practice, his ears ringing with the (rock, which is to say, loud, catchy) music blaring from the loudspeakers. The band is playing live; Tetsuya catches sight of the lead singer between a patron’s side and elbow; the singer is tall, looks to be a little younger than Tetsuya: he is probably in his early twenties, with light brown hair (highlights: olive green) falling into his face in the front and sticking up in the back. Tetsuya makes a mental note of his eyebrows: shaped like a figure eight, he thinks, and makes his way over to the counter, casting a cursory glance at the overhead menu.
He doesn’t feel like booze; it’s too early, and besides, he’s never been one for drinking. There’s something about embarrassing oneself in public that’s never appealed to him.
“Excuse me,” Tetsuya says to the barkeep, who promptly ignores him. Nothing personal, of course, and the disregard doesn’t faze Tetsuya; he just raises his voice.
“Excuse me,” he repeats, and for good measure, reaches out to tap the barkeep’s shoulder (or rather, bicep, because he, too, is rather tall). The barkeep starts and turns, gold eyes widening. His nametag reads Kise Ryota, the font dark and no-nonsense, as if to offset his unusually pretty face.
“Oh, I am so sorry, I didn’t notice you,” Kise exclaims, stating the obvious, and Tetsuya is taken aback by the force of his enthusiasm. “How can I help you?”
“Um,” Tetsuya says, “do you make milkshakes here?” Voiced aloud, the request seems somewhat childish; his face heats up and Tetsuya is glad for the dim lighting.
The barkeep, however, doesn’t skip a beat. “Of course we do,” he proclaims, although there is no ‘of course’ about it, “thank you so much,” he adds, “you’ve just won me a bet. Aominecchi,” he calls out to the other barkeep, who looks over, scowling, in the midst of serving a customer, “you owe me five thousand yen!” He turns back to Tetsuya, beaming. “What sort of milkshake can I get you?”
“Vanilla?” Tetsuya’s voice lifts upward, questioning, on the last syllable, and Kise’s grin widens.
“It’s on the house,” he says, “why don’t you take a seat and I’ll be right over with your order!” And he breezes off, leaving Tetsuya more confused than he’s ever been in his entire life.
***
“I’m going to have to take you in,” A said firmly, or tried to, which was a rather difficult task. Being around B had always been slightly off-putting, and now? A was hyper-aware of his own breathing, and his heartbeat, pounding somewhere in his throat.
B smiled, as if conscious of A’s discomfort – which he probably was. “Oh?” he raised an eyebrow, slanting his head back to better look A in the face. “I don’t think you’re going to do anything of the sort,” he said softly, setting A’s hair on end and causing his natural belligerence to surface. <- revise sentence.
“Oh?” A repeated, mimicking his brother’s voice, “what makes you say that?” ( f*ing hell, revise last three paragraphs)
***
Tetsuya has just settled himself on a free barstool when Kise comes sailing back, depositing Tetsuya’s vanilla milkshake with practiced grace and flashing another hundred-watt grin.
“Here you go,” he says, “let me know if you need anything else, alright? Enjoy!”
The milkshake is nearly perfect, Tetsuya thinks idly: it could do with a little more ice, but it is free, and Tetsuya’s never been one to get hung up on details. Except in his books, of course.
Over at the cashier, the other barkeep – Aominecchi, Kise had called him – slips a crisp paper bill into Kise’s back pocket; probably paying off the bet, Tetsuya thinks, and tries to come up with a description for Kise’s answering smile. It isn’t as blazing as the grins he’s given Tetsuya – it’s just as sincere: but it’s quieter, more affectionate?
Tetsuya taps the end of his pen against the bar counter and thinks of how Seijuuro sometimes smiles at him when he thinks Tetsuya isn’t looking: unguarded, candid, natural – yes, that’s the word – natural, as if smiling at Tetsuya is the easiest thing in the world: the sort of smile you’d give a childhood-best-friend, or a sibling, or –
A loud, raucous voice interrupts Tetsuya’s musings, cutting off his line of thought.
“[And then I said, ‘Dude, I coulda beat you with a hand tied behind my back’!]”
Tetsuya half-turns; two young men are entering the bar, slick with rainwater; raindrops stand out on their jackets, stark against their shoulders: and they are Japanese, which surprises Tetsuya, given that they are speaking in rapid-sure-fire English (which takes Tetsuya more than just a few moments and the prowess gained through several years of English courses to decode).
They’ve both got backpacks – black – slung over their shoulders – probably university students, judging by the rumpled collars sticking out past the tops of their jackets and the sneakers peeking out from under their trouser hems.
The taller boy shakes out his hair – looking very much like a shaggy, red-haired dog – Tetsuya thinks uncharitably, taking another long sip of his milkshake (it really is good). The red hair is probably dyed, unless the fact that the boy’s eyebrows don’t match is some kind of anomaly – which, on second thought, is probably very likely, because not only do the eyebrows not match, they are forked, too, a pair of narrow sideways ‘v’s arcing sharply off the boy’s forehead, disappearing into his unruly hair.
His companion, shorter, paler, darker-haired, laughs. “[You sure about that, Tiger?],” he says, and Tetsuya jumps (figuratively). Tiger?, he thinks, shoot, and suddenly, the two of them are ten times as interesting as they were a moment ago.
“[Oi],” the redhead says, but it is more fond, than anything else, “[you makin’ fun of me, Tatsuya?]”
Tetsuya can’t see the smile on his companion’s face when he replies – it is too dark, and half of it is hidden by a curtain of black hair – but he can hear it in his voice. “[Don’tcha think you might be giving yourself a bit too much credit there?]”
They approach the counter, stopping several paces to Tetsuya’s right, and Tetsuya shifts, subtly, in his seat, so that he can see them better.
“Two platters of yakitori,” the dark-haired boy says to Kise, who nods, smiling his ‘welcome to the best izakaya in Tokyo’ smile, “and sake, to drink,” he glances up at his friend, “that’s it, right?”, takes in the little moue of protest, sighs, and says, “make that three orders of yakitori, please.” He elbows the taller boy in the ribs. “[Just ‘cause I’m paying doesn’t mean you can eat yourself sick, ‘kay?]”
“[Whoa there, mom],” the taller boy says, and winces as the elbow digs in deeper. “[And who said you were paying, anyway?]”
“[Well, when ya make faces like that it’s kinda hard not to mother you, ya know]?” Tetsuya thinks he might’ve exaggerated the accent a little (although he could be wrong, not being any kind of expert on English accents).
“That’ll be twenty-fifty,” Kise says brightly, and stands patiently by while his customers have some sort of whispered fight over who is going to pay – which ends with the redhaired boy looking intently out over the crowd while his friend? brother? forks out the required two thousand-fifty yen.
Tetsuya’s vanilla milkshake sits, unattended, while he pulls out his cell phone, thumbing open his memo application and pretends he isn’t surreptitiously taking notes on how the black-haired boy – Tatsuya – has a beauty spot under his right eye and how the redhead tends to worry his lip with his teeth when he is impatient? Eager?
The app freezes; Tetsuya curses under his breath and gives the phone a little shake (as if that will make a difference) and his screen lights up, indicating the arrival of one new message from Akashi Seijuuro.
Tetsuya sighs, replying to Seijuuro’s ‘Still not home yet? Will I have to arrange a ride for you?’ with a blunt ‘You know you won’t,’ and is reaching out to pick up his milkshake and reopen his memo app when someone stumbles into him, nearly making intimate acquaintances of Tetsuya’s ribs and the bar counter.
“Oh, f*ck I am so sorry,” the someone’s (loud, raucous) voice rings in Tetsuya’s ears, “hey, are you hurt? I didn’t see you there – sorry -”
Tetsuya, wondering if this is the universe’s equivalent of winning him a lottery ticket, turns, rearranging his features into a smile that hopefully doesn’t look like a psychopath’s, sliding his phone into his pocket.
“That’s alright,” he says, “I’m fine.”
The red-haired kid – because, of course, it was him – sticks out an enormous hand, looking absolutely relieved, “Kagami Taiga,” he says, “are the seats next to you free?”
He’s got a good handshake, Tetsuya notes, although a bow probably would’ve been more socially correct, “Kuroko Tetsuya,” he replies, and takes a calming breath before he says, “yes, they are,” and tries not to wince when Kagami deposits his backpack on the counter with a loud thud.
“Oh, thank God,” Kagami says, dropping unceremoniously onto the barstool next to Tetsuya, “Tatsuya sent me to find seats but I don’t even want to begin navigating that crowd,” and he jerks his head at the swarm of people. It has grown, Tetsuya thinks, but it is still manageable – looking back at Kagami, Tetsuya wonders if he just doesn’t like crowds.
“Hey, were you writing something?”
Tetsuya nearly drops his milkshake. Kagami’s smile is utterly guileless, eyes wide and curious.
“Just - answering an email,” Tetsuya says, and he’s never been more grateful for the ability to lie convincingly on demand.
“Ah, okay,” Kagami drums his fingers against the counter, “because for a moment there, I thought you were a writer, maybe.”
There is a very familiar book in the outer (net) pocket of his backpack – a novel, paperback, titled The Trials of a Madman and a Savant, by Kurogane Taro, and it is familiar because Kurogane Taro is Kuroko Tetsuya, and it is the first book he wrote – the one that propelled him to instant stardom (or whatever the writer’s equivalent of stardom is).
“Did you really?” Tetsuya says, trying not to sound amused, and Kagami shrugs.
“You’ve got that absent-minded look about you,” he states, “and you’re kind of invisible, so I bet you’re good at observing people without alerting them to your presence.”
Tetsuya smiles faintly.
“I’m sorry,” Kagami says, “I hope I haven’t said anything rude. I’m afraid I’m rather tactless.”
“No,” Tetsuya assures him, “you haven’t,” and he is about to continue when Kagami’s friend appears, placing their food (and drinks) on the counter.
“You could’ve come and helped me,” he tells Kagami, a little chidingly, and looks over at Tetsuya. “Made a friend already?”
Tetsuya says, “I’m Kuroko Tetsuya,” because it seems appropriate, and Kagami’s friend replies,
“Himuro Tatsuya,” laying Tetsuya’s theory that the two of them are brothers to rest till Kagami says,
“He’s my brother,” and Tetsuya can’t help but ask,
“Is that so?”, and is duly acquainted with Kagami’s ability to tell a story and wolf down teriyaki at inhuman speeds, all at the same time.
***
The policeman’s eyes widened. Behind the mask – now tossed aside – smirking a very familiar smirk, the thief said,
“Been a long time, hasn’t it, little brother?”
“Tatsuya?” the policeman breathed, a mixture of shock, horror and relief choking his voice, “I thought you were dead!”
***
Outside, the streetlights flicker on, distorted orange blobs glowing faintly through the frosted glass window panes. Seijuuro turns a page, the paper rustling faintly as he sets it down on the desk.
Tetsuya tries not to tap his foot against the floor.
“I see they’ve got names now,” Seijuuro comments dryly, and Tetsuya shrugs.
“I met someone,” he says, and Seijuuro raises a fine red eyebrow at him.
“Two someones, by the looks of things,” he says. Tetsuya just smiles.
Seijuuro sets the last page down. “I like that you decided to go the short story route,” he taps a finger on the stack of paper sitting on Tetsuya’s desk. “It makes for a tighter narrative, which is good.”
“Thanks?” Tetsuya says, and Seijuuro smiles at him.
“It’s alright,” he says, “I never said I disapproved of you broadening your horizons.”
“What’s the catch?” Tetsuya can’t help but ask. Seijuuro shakes his head, slipping the papers into an envelope.
“What makes you think there’s a catch?” He slides the envelope into his briefcase. “In fact, I’ve got a friend over at a television company – played right, it could make a good script.”
Tetsuya stares at him. “What?”
“Don’t what me,” Seijuuro stands, picking up his briefcase, “detective anime has always been popular, you know.”
“I think you’re talking in non-sequiturs,” Tetsuya tells him.
“I think you need to dream bigger,” Seijuuro replies. Tetsuya retrieves Seijuuro’s coat and holds the door open for him.
“Why should I,” Tetsuya says, “when I’ve got you to do the dreaming for me?”
***
When Taiga finds the packet in his mailbox, a year later, he nearly trips over his feet running back up to the house, shouting,
“God, Tatsuya, look at this,” and hovers insistently over Tatsuya’s shoulder while Tatsuya takes his time wiping his hands on his apron and opening the (large, brown) envelope (“[Hurry the f*ck up],” Taiga says). There is a book inside, and another, smaller envelope, which contains a letter and a check.
Tatsuya looks from the letter – thanks for the story, sincerely, Kurogane Taro – to Taiga.
“[Good lord], you talk too much, Taiga,” he breathes, but the check is made out for a thousand American dollars, and Tatsuya can’t bring himself to complain.
***
end.