A/N: Inspired by the following prompt: Met Online AU.This chapter is a little 'sticky' messaging-wise, but it will become much more snappy later on.
Kili's POV
Getting home after a long shift is the best thing that happened to him today. He's exhausted, barely able to maintain a standing position. His head aches in a familiar subtly pounding way, threatening to cover him under the blanket of apathy. Still, it makes no difference. He hates early nights, and there is but one remedy.
Slightly shaken, he makes it to the counter and fixes himself a cup of steaming coffee, barely escaping with his hand in one piece as the coffee pot tilts dangerously and spills a few drops of hot, boiling liquid. He likes his coffee black. What he doesn't like is when someone makes it for him. The drinking part is not enough. He has to make it himself. So he does, feeling his body involuntarily relax in response to predictable motions.
The first sip is scaldingly hot, but he's not satisfied. So he takes one more. And one more still. His mouth burns, and that burn seems to spread to his whole body. He is still tired, but it's no longer edgy. Now, he can control it. "The rest should do the trick," he thinks and drinks up the second half of the cup in quick, messy gulps. The sudden feeling of clarity is elevating, but he knows that it won't last long, so he prepares yet another fill and makes his way to his laptop. The intense warmth of the cup in his hand makes a striking contrast to the cold room, and he hurries to put it on the table before it can burn his fingers off.
The light from the laptop is enough to see his immediate surroundings, but he still switches on the lamp and adjusts it, only stopping when he's fully satisfied with the result. He's still not sure what to do with himself today, but there is way too much nervous energy building within him to just dismiss it.
Surfing the net usually helps, but he feels that today calls for something more.
Sometimes, he draws, sometimes he writers, but these days neither is easily done. His inspiration seems to have taken a back seat lately, and he's too impatient to just wait it out.
He checks his messenger, with no real hope to see anything. He hasn't posted new things in ages. His old chats had died out after a time, and his creative life is just a void of endless possibilities with no actual implementation. He feels empty.
For a moment, the feeling is too sharp, and he considers closing the laptop and going out for some fresh air and a drink. He's not a big believer in fate or a chance, but the +1 message that suddenly pops out leaves him shocked for a moment. He tries to guess the sender and realizes that he honestly has no idea who that might be. It's been at least three months before he had anything but dull conversations at work and occasional pub meetings that felt more like a joyless obligation rather than anything else. And three months is more than enough time to move onto something more interesting than 'no recent activity' sign of death.
Suddenly piqued, he takes a big gulp of coffee. It distracts him, but also adds to the strange nervousness bottling up within him. A big calming breath is barely calming, but it allows him to stop thinking for a moment and just press the icon.
hewhodespisesart: Don't mind the name, it's just a silly joke that bears no reflection on my opinion of you or your art. In fact, my opinion is the direct opposite of what that name suggests. Thus, the question: is there any new stuff coming up? I really need it for my mental well-being. If you ask why, it would be a very relevant and very serious question. People get these kinds of messages all the time, don't they? Mostly they think of them as flattery. Sometimes they just dismiss them. Sometimes, they allow themselves to feel flattered, only to feel bad when there are no similar comments to follow that one. So, why should you believe me? That's a valid question. But I have to be honest and tell you that I have no answer for that. You're probably thinking that I'm drunk and incapable of making sense, and I might just as well be. But the fourth sentence of this message remains true nevertheless. Also, would I be able to write with no typos if I was drunk? That's an interesting question to consider. Maybe it's a superpower? Anyway, take care and don't let non-inspiration bother you. And if you do, make it into something beautiful. You're probably thinking it's bold of me to use the imperative the first time round, but I have to disagree with you. It's not really an imperative, although it's worded as one. It's a statement of the fact. You make things beautiful. If it also sounds like flattery, I'm asking you to forgive me. If it doesn't… well, in this case you will have to congratulate me on the successfully completed task.
For a moment, it's quiet in Kili's head. There is no pounding, no rushing thoughts. Some part of his brain tries to explain it, but falls short. His ability to think is lost, and he can only feel.
Confusion, amusement, joy? They are all battling for dominance, but evidently have no trouble making a mess out of his nervous system. Coffee doesn't come anywhere close.
Still, he reaches for the cup and takes one more sip. His taste buds remain numb.
He doesn't want to think of it as a joke, and his instincts assure him that it's not one. It's not even the question of trust at this point, but rather of his inability not to trust.
His emotional side is jumping ahead, and he is powerless to reach it by anything resembling a conscious effort. Instead, he puts his fingers on the keyboard and stars typing, letting the sound claim his completely, leaving no room for anxiety.
temporarilyoutofinspiration: Well, congratulations ARE in order, I guess. I'd say 'thank you', but it seems overly bland for this kind of message, so I will settle with this: to be honest with you, for a split second, I considered it a joke (which wasn't that unreasonable of me, you have to agree). Even if it IS in fact a joke, it was one that left me feeling good about myself, so cheers for that. If it wasn't, then I'm at an impasse. Once again, thanking you seems too impersonal, and you have to agree that your message is anything but. I can't offer no gratitude, either. So, I'm going to make you a promise.
He pauses and stares into the space. He's not sure where all that is coming from, but stopping is beyond his control at this point. One part of him wants to know what in that message is responsible for fueling the fire, whereas another part doesn't seem to care about anything apart from one thing: it's good to finally feel alive.
He doesn't specify the promise. Instead, he's offering his admirer to come up with one. The danger of it only serves to excite him further.
Waiting for the answer will be the worst thing, he realizes abruptly. At the same time, getting one could be a worse thing still, as he would likely get little to no sleep tonight.
He considers doing a reasonable thing: shutting his laptop and retiring for the night. But two cups of coffee he's just drunk are insistent in dissuading him from this idea. His head is light and clear, and he gets up to stretch himself a bit. The exercise alleviates the last shreds of tiredness and leaves him with a frankly ridiculous abundance of energy.
He draws for the next hour, so completely immersed in the task that a sound of the incoming message doesn't reach his ears right away. The clock hits 2 am, he startles and looks at the subtly illuminated screen. 'Two hours," he realizes. It feels like he's just emerged from under water, with no awareness of the fact that he's dived in the first place. His heartbeat is measured. Calm. If he didn't know better, he'd think he's been sedated with something.
When he opens the message, there is no nervousness or trepidation. He just treats like an ordinary act – one of the many acts to perform in the nearest future.
hewhodespisesart, First of all, I'm glad you didn't think I was drunk. It's very flattering, because I actually was. Drunk, that is. Sorry, in case you hate repetitions. And sorry in advance for anything that feels off. Unlike you, I have two styles of writing: sober and drunk, and the first one… well, you will see that for yourself, I guess. Also, thanks for not thanking me. For some reason, that made me happy. Then, I reached the last part of your message and was… confused, I guess? Do you want me to make my own promise? That sounds like fun, but I'm not sure what you mean.
The laughter suddenly bursting from Kili's lips is nothing short of violent. Logically speaking, he should experience something akin to cognitive dissonance, but he's too busy being amused. There are not plenty people who can make a shift from 'you make things beautiful' to 'I have two writing styles'. If anything, that could be a very satisfying way to spend the rest of the night.
Kili rids himself of the remains of his coffee and starts typing. The clock ticks off the seconds, silent and unnoticed.