It wasn't often. The writer would even dare to suggest the bouts of darkness; the shadow that passed over his view of reality was growing increasingly rare in it's vice.
But there were those days.
The curtains were drawn tightly, heavy fabric absorbing every lick of dying September sunlight, amplifying the heat and the suffocating heat of Akihiko's room. The writer lay: half in, half out. His eyes clouded with sleep and discontent and scotch. The laptop whined in the corner to be turned off, the fan's low roar had been growing increasingly insistent over the past few days. Akihiko rolled onto his side, silently but for the tired sigh that escaped him. An overflowing bookshelf goaded him in the near darkness. Was it really worth it? All these prizes, the commendations the ass-kissing. He created a divine universe in writing, the spiraling rhetoric caught between imagination and frustrated desire. But the more he created, the more this edenic scape lapsed further and further into intangibility.
So lost was Akihiko that the tiny rustle at the door went almost unnoticed…almost. Pale blue eyes shifted downwards to watch the shadowy figure pick it's practiced way through piles of paper, model trains, priceless limited edition novels to come to somewhere near his head. Unable to strain through the darkness,
Akihiko closed his eyes, feeling the soft dip of the mattress as Misaki sat behind him. At one time he would have been shouted at, told to get out and "Deal with it! God, Usagi!" but the only new sound was a low hum, barely melodic but very real and very safe.
Akihiko listened silently to the clinking as Misaki rearranged the tiny glass bears into size order on the windowsill. It was a habit that cofounded Akihiko "What does size have to do with anything?" he'd drawled in the first year of the relationship. Misaki had snorted: "When did you ever have to worry about size!" before blushing painfully and attempting to excuse himself from the room as fast as possible. He'd failed. A smirk swelled behind Akihiko's lips at the memory, not quite making it but it was there.
As though decided, he rolled back over to face Misaki, opening his eyes only to squint suddenly. The boy had disturbed the curtain; a shaft of amber light bled through, refracting between the glass bellies of the bears and casting his lover's face in a beautific gold glow, catching in his green eyes and making them shine.
A small hand laced into his; it's heat immediately obliterating the cold, clammy grasp. Misaki rested his cheek heavily on the heel of his other hand, looking down at his lover, unperturbed by the almost childlike gaze, the advocacy and devotion that it promised. That it always promised. Misaki could have laughed, or cried, he was undecided as he lay on the bed next to Akihiko and long, lonely arms gathered him up. Holding the only thing the writer had ever really wanted. The only creation that was real.