A lone, bright flame dances atop a single white candle amid the darkness of the room of one, who sits at his desk, writing. The shadows are at his company, clawing onto the walls surrounding him, mocking him. They tease, they taunt, and, in rare moments, they wait. But he replies in nothing more than the sound of pen scratching away at thick, crinkling papers, breath silent as he continues on.

Rusty old hinges slowly groan behind him, and he stops, pen hanging in the air as he waits.

"Blumiere?"

He breathes in, then continues. His eyes are drooping, threatening to close, and yet he focuses upon each word the ink creates, never once looking away. His voice is dry and rough as he speaks;

"Yes, my dear?"

"Shouldn't you be in bed by this hour?" Worry and concern is laced within her words, wooden boards creaking with every step closer to him. She stops right behind him, waiting for his response.

"I should be asking you the same question, Timpani."

He hears her shift in her spot. "I was feeling a bit... uneasy. Worried, if I'm to be honest." A sigh. "Every time I woke up in the morning I never saw you in bed besides me. Instead, I'd find you here, sleeping on top a pile of papers."

Her hand finds itself on his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze to the tense, rigid muscle beneath his clothing. She's looking over him, watching as he continues to write, ink flowing from his pen into the fibers below.

No words are spoken after that, his pen filling the gap of silence that has been left between them. The strokes of his hand are slower now compared to before, where the sheets of paper in his journal were at the mercy of his pen, dyed, scribbled, smudged in splotches of deep black. Now, however, the color has begun to fade, dry from their endless work.

His wife frowns. "... Your boss isn't asking you to work overtime again, is he?"

A short, low bark of laughter squeezes through his throat and his hand stills. The corners of his lips tug up to a smile as he straightens his back against the chair, eyes lifting to the little sprout of flame that waved at him.

"No. Ever since you had told him off that day, he hasn't been giving me an overwhelming amount to work with." He sighs, satisfied and amused at the memory that she has given him, and turns to her with a lopsided grin. "It is truly remarkable on how you had rendered him absolutely speechless by the very end, and I still find myself chuckling about it when I remember about it."

She smiles softly at him in the candlelight, pleased with his words. Yet, the flame wavers, and he spots the concern in her eyes. "Is there something troubling you, then?"

He doesn't look at her.

"Blumiere?" She's squeezing his shoulder again, his chest sinking as he breathes. He has to answer. He knows he does. He raises his head to her, lips parting to speak.

But then he sees the lines under her own eyes, how her eyebrows are pulled together as she waits for his words. Guilt weighs down upon his heart as he realizes just how much sleep she's losing for his sake. He turns away from her, his head low as he answers.

"... Yes. There is."

Nothing is said between them. The weight upon his shoulder disappears, the warmth that was once present devoured by the cool air. He misses it.

But then something soft grasps his hand, and he looks back up to see her hand is on his, thumb tracing a slow circle on his skin. She's sitting beside him now, gazing at him with a look that says she knows. She knows.

"It's the nightmares again, isn't it..?"

He stares at the open book before him, a mess of scrawled words on forgotten lines, blurred into a black abyss of faded words. As his eyes trail over the stained hand that continues to hold the very pen that had created this monstrosity, his eyes close, unconsciousness slowly taking him once more.

"I'm afraid so, Timpani. I'm afraid so."

AN: And here's the end of this drabble! I'm quite proud of this one: it's longer, sets a decent setting, and the communication between the two makes it pretty clear on what's happening. Definitely more angsty than the last one, so I had to change the genre. ;;

James Birdsong - Thank you for the review! I'm happy to hear that the writing in both drabbles are alright with you, and even happier knowing that you read them, so thank you!