˚ ༘ˀˀ ꒰‧⁺ 𝚁𝚊𝚗𝚙𝚘𝚎 𝙾𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚜 ✎ˀ

ˋˏ ༻☘️ ɴᴏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋɪɴɢ 🖤༺ ˎˊ

Words-1585
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"When are you going to do your work?" The poet asked, his hand trailing over a stack of papers, many marked with important notices. He glanced at the half asleep detective, his head laying on the couch.

"What do you mean." He asked, his hand rubbing his face. He sat up, his eyes gazing at the concerned poet.

"You have so many papers you haven't started. Aren't you going to start them...?" He asked once again, his eyes staying on the detective. He noticed the procrastination habit of the other, he knew how much the detective didn't want to do any of the work, but he didn't know it got this bad.

"Whats the point." The detective said, his eyes grazing back towards the ground. His entire demeanor changed from the past few weeks. He seemed less lively, his personality completely changing. He was never that bubbly blackette the poet knew, and it made the brunette feel bad. Like he started something that gave distress towards the detective. His drive for anything dwindled like a falling leave, gravitating to the ground but not having a will of how fast it fell.

The detective seemed stressed over something, but the poet was never informed about it. Left to ponder what the blackette was thinking, and quite honestly, was difficult. The blackette never displayed his emotions on his facial expressions. He'd always been open with what he'd been feeling, but for the past weeks, everything was different.

"I don't know, but doing some work could help you collect your thoughts?" The poet suggested. He was one to talk about work. The brunette always was trapped in his room, mindlessly writing about the best fictional stories or the most lively real life happenings. He never seemed to stop working, continuously jotting down his ideas that eventually grew out into a novel.

"I don't feel like it."

"You don't seem to feel like anything." He spoke back sharply. His heart hurt to see his loved one in this state, all tired and loss of motivation. He wanted to be the push the detective needed to get back to his working ways, but, he didn't know exactly how to convince the other to do that.

"Whats that supposed to mean." The detective glared up at the poet, his eyes looking dead. The normally dark bags around the poets eyes surrounded the detectives, his emerald eyes having gray mixed into them.

"All you do is sit in your room and sulk, you could at least do something." The poet said, picking up papers from the flooded desk and plopping them in front of the detective, suggesting for the blackette to start them. He gestured towards them, staring at the other. "You can do them right? Or do you need help with them just like everything else."

"Can you just get off my ass? Let me think."

"You've thought enough, you can't just sit around and get to work once you feel like, you need to carry your own weight." The poet only scolded, his friendly and caring demeanor changing into one of charge, pushing the detective to do something.

"Can I not have some time alone? You have everything easy with your poetry, I get drained from doing shit too you know?" The detective became defense, his eyes still on the floor; like it was capturing every drop of the blackettes attention, sucking it through like a straw.

"You haven't been doing anything but sitting and staring off for weeks."

"So? I never bothered you when you sat at your desk just tapping your pen to your hand."