"Don't you have a manuscript due next week?"
Ukitake had walked into the study with a cup of tea, setting it down at Kyouraku's elbow just in time to see him doodling all over his paper like some kind of middle-schooler stuck in the back of world cultures class who had zoned out because the course wasn't enough like Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure to keep his attention. He never allowed Shunsui to drink when he was on a deadline; the other man insisted he did his best work with some sake in him but Jyuushirou knew that the only thing he did was fall asleep and drool on his paper. Since you couldn't publish drool, he didn't allow Shunsui to drink on deadlines. The sight of the steaming cup of fragrant jasmine tea made Kyouraku sigh heavily and give Ukitake the puppy dog eyes, which managed to be completely ineffective.
"Yes, I have a manuscript due next week, but I am totally devoid of all inspiration." Shunsui made the declaration in overly dramatic fashion, waving his hands at a yellow legal pad that was covered in ridiculous doodles of dragons with big beefy arms and hearts with arrows through them and all manner of uselessness. "I have the story done, but there's something missing and for the life of me I can't imagine what. So I sit here, waiting for inspiration to strike, for my muse to begin singing to me and-ow."
He cut off when his partner thwacked him upside the head with a convenient pillow. "You're procrastinating," Ukitake corrected dryly. He was all too well acquainted with Kyouraku's 'inspiration', which usually involved sitting there until the last possible minute, then slamming out some kind of porny sex scene and submitting the manuscript and calling it good. "I understand that artistic inspiration is something that can't be forced, but doodling hearts is not going to do anything to help it come along. I'm in the process of ordering dinner, do you want the usual?" Shunsui waved a hand that indicated 'yes', so Jyuushirou headed off to go call for takeout.
Once he was gone Shunsui kicked his chair back a bit, balancing it on the back two legs while he stared at the ceiling. The manuscript was missing something. It wasn't a chapter or anything concrete; it was something more intangible, a sense of cohesion and emotion that the story lacked. It was, technically, very well written...but it was soulless. He had a problem with submitting anything that lacked that element of soul that made people want to turn the pages, want to see what happened next. He just could not put a finger on exactly what it was, though.
About twenty minutes later Jyuushirou came back in, sighing when he saw Shunsui devoting a healthy portion of his attention to doing absolutely nothing. "You're never going to get done doing that. Dinner will be done in about half an hour, so I'm going to head out to pick it up; do you want me to get anything else while I'm out?" When Shunsui nodded he walked over, leaning down to steal a kiss before heading out. Once he was gone Shunsui re-grounded his chair before getting up and going to hunt through the books. There were scads of books in the house; that was one of those things that happened when you lived with a literature professor who was fluent in five or six - Shunsui lost count - languages. You ended up with most of the world's literature on your shelves. He browsed through the books, before pulling one down and leafing through it. He'd never been much for Shakespeare, but maybe a sonnet or two would get the creative juices flowing.
There was something magical about poetry, something prose couldn't achieve. The people who could fit words with emotions so precisely, to craft lyrical lines without the flowery bulk that crowded normal paragraphs. Shunsui had tried several times to write poetry and he'd failed miserably every time; Jyuushirou still had all his amateurish attempts, tucked in a folder that lived in the bottom of the drawer of his nightstand. At some point, though, he'd gently informed Shunsui that poems could start with something other than 'Roses are red, violets are blue', and that had sort of put a pause to his poetry-writing because he couldn't think of any other way to start one. He leafed through the book of sonnets, settling on number 78 before reading thoughtfully.
So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.
"But thou art all my art," he murmured thoughtfully to himself before sliding the book back into its place. His reverie was interrupted by the door opening and closing, and Ukitake's voice coming down the hallway, telling him dinner was here and ready. Abruptly, everything clicked into place. He knew what the manuscript was missing, but he would have to attend to that after dinner. For now, there was food and a beautiful man demanding his attention, not necessarily in that order. It wasn't like he was going to forget what he needed to add, after all. The manuscript had been missing its muse, and as his was standing in the kitchen waiting somewhat impatiently with Thai food he was going to attend to that first.
Three weeks later his editor informed him that it was one of his best, most inspired works yet, full of deep emotion and sweeping romance, and he had to chuckle as he read the email. "Thou art all my art, indeed."