Daedalus

the sin bin

Though I would never admit it, especially not to the hound dogs called Sybil Rosella and Fleming Konecky, I'm actually somewhat excited to be traveling to Paris and Prague. I'm not as excited as Lent is, but I'm close. Not many people can surpass Lent in the fields of emotion. He is an artist, after all. However, there's a bit of a benefit to being subdued, because if it turns out that we are not able to visit Europe, I won't be as torn apart by it as Lent will. I have faith that Fleming can figure something out, though, as she is so often motivated by how much she loves Lent, so hurting him would hurt her even more. I can't imagine how stressed she would be if there were something as minuscule as a nuance in her plan now that she's intrigued Lent to the point of no return, but she's an intuitive woman, so I doubt that there will be any problems, and Lent can rest assured that he will receive his wish. He deserves everything that the world has to offer, and we all know it.

The situation becomes even direr when you're his roommate, and have to witness him tossing and turning in his bed seemingly every second. It's not like I can fall asleep to ignore it, as the noise of his restlessness shoots heaps of caffeine into my veins, partially because of how disruptive he is, and partially because I am worried about him. I don't want to fall asleep before he does. I want to make sure he's okay.

I realize that Lent is only flopping around his bed like a fish out of water because of the prospect of journeying to a whole other continent, and I'm not saying that I wouldn't do the same if I dropped a bit of cynicism out of my personality, but sleep dishevels you. Sleep doesn't give a shit whether or not you blew it off in favor of positive emotions. It only cares that you blew it off. Because of this, Lent could bear the weight of dark circles for the entire day tomorrow, as a sort of branding a prisoner would receive. Wasting his good vibes when they are unnecessary will only remove them from when they are, so it is my duty to tell him to calm the fuck down.

I don't wish to ruin his fun — no, I wouldn't dream of it, damaging a soul as spunky as his — but he'll thank me later for this, and if he doesn't, I still won't care, because at least I know that I saved him from a non-alcoholic hangover.

"Lent, buddy, you need to chill," I softly command. I don't move anywhere from my activity of staring up at the ceiling, as I feel that my words are enough. Besides, we sleep separately in two twin-sized beds, so I can't clamp an arm around him to keep him still, meaning that my words are all I have to wrangle him.

Lent pays no mind to my advice, as he rarely ever does, instead buzzing verbally about why he's practically dancing in his bed. "I just can't wait until we're in Paris, soaking up culture we have not yet explored, inspiring ourselves, being inspired by everything we see." Lent sighs, enveloped by adoration for something he has not tasted from his spot in the present. "It's much better than Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and you know it, too."

I'm not searching for a debate with my best friend. I'm only searching for the cure to his jitteriness, so agreeing with him is the best way to avoid parenthetical excursions. "Yes, it is better than Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and, yes, I am looking forward to being in Paris, but your tossing and turning won't bring it on any faster."

"Such a Debby downer," Lent mutters with such a fierce disrespect for me (and, by extent, his own health), though I notice that he's settled down for a second, and a smirk inadvertently plasters itself onto my face, but at least I'm shrouded by night so that Lent doesn't have to witness my smugness.

"I don't want to see any wrinkles on your face before you pass the age of forty."

"I love how you're so concerned with me," Lent teases, shifting around upon his mattress once more in order to annoy me.

"I love how you never listen to those concerns," I spit back, perhaps too harshly for what I was aiming for, and I immediately regret my tone of voice, yet my words have already been released, and there's no use reaching out into the void to try and reclaim them, but there's also no use trying to act as though they were never uttered in the first place.

Lent was obviously affected by my mistake, and it's a fool's move to think he was not, especially when that damage manifests in his next words. "It's kind of difficult to adhere to the pleas of hover parents." He accentuates the word "hover", clarifying just how much he hates this aspect of my personality, an aspect that isn't even a part of me.

I said I'm not searching for a debate between me and my best friend, but I can't allow him to sneak away with the misconception that I hate him tucked under his arm, so I need to say something to quell that misconception. "I'm not being a hover parent, Lent. I ask of you what is essential to your health." I am endeavoring to remain calm, at least, while my best friend nears an eruption that I have no power to prevent. I started something, and even if it was unwitting, every action bears consequences, and these happen to be negative ones.

"Yeah, because tossing and turning is so detrimental to me." I wish Lent wouldn't pursue this argument, but he is. Usually, Lent is a sweet summer child of rainbows and flowers, but when he is worked up, obstructions do not exist. Creators do not forget acts committed against them. If you have hurt them, and if you have since then made the mistake of thinking all is resolved, take one look at their work, and you will find yourself glancing into a mirror. Lent is a creator. Lent does not settle for half-assed apologies, but I'm trying not to fuel anything that would require one.

"I want you to get a good night's sleep."

I had thought my comment was the farthest thing from risqué, but apparently I was wrong, as Lent is picking it apart like a child with trail mix. "Oh, please! As if you do the same. As if you don't stay up all throughout the night, just staring at your fucking typewriter, not doing anything except wasting your time. You're a hypocrite, Basil Eads, and I will continue to do as I please until you revise your own life."

Damn. What inspired this kind of remark? Was it really something I did, something I said? Was it my fault at all? Regardless, it stings like hell, and I, as a writer, won't neglect it.

Lent is not a Neanderthal. Being an artist requires the brightest of minds, and that is how Lent was inducted into the group, so if anyone were to claim that Lent is stupid, they themselves would be the Neanderthal. That being said, Lent is cognizant of the blow he ordered to my confidence, a blow so sordid that even villains shame it from their lowly homes in the sewer.

I allow myself a comment that may or may not breach what is acceptable to my standards and my goals, but it must be expressed. "Is opposition so important to you that you're willing to sacrifice your sleep just to jab at me?"

Lent laughs, a maniacal sound that would expel confusion from everyone if they had heard the conversation prior to this noise, and wriggles into his mattress as if the debate is over when he says it's over. "Maybe this is why we need Paris."

And that's all he says to me for the night.

~~~~~

A/N: I think it's apparent that I have a flair for drama, because in my outline I hadn't intended for them to fight, but here we are

honestly I love these two, even if they fight, like.,,,,I'm crying

~Da[n]k[meme]ota