One more look at the clock, and yep, it's seven. I'm standing in the kitchen with a fresh batch of a simple spaghetti carbonara, and no sign of Flynn, so he's probably stuck in his office again, mulling over some romance plot. Not that that's a bad thing or something I dislike, it's just a thing that sometimes happens with him and sometimes doesn't, so I need to take it as it comes every day. And with that, I plate up two servings for us and make my way over there, knocking at the door and letting myself in. The first reaction I get from him is a delayed one, though he's not so engrossed in his writing that knocking wasn't enough to get his attention. "Oh, hi, Joel. Is... is it seven already? Ah, sorry, I just..." he trails off, clearly embarrassed.
However, I just wave him off and pull the little table and chair out of the corner that I have stashed here for just these situations. We end up having dinner in Flynn's home office about once a week, and it's usually a great opportunity to probe him about what he's writing. I know he loves it when I show interest in his stories, and I enjoy it as well, so it's a mutually beneficial arrangement. "C'mon, I've told you before, don't worry about it, honey. But enough writing for now, alright? You must be hungry," I tell him, setting up the food on the table while he rolls his office chair over to one side of it. Then, I hand him his utensils, and we get to dinner, which is a quiet affair. The dinner itself is rarely the part where we talk, it's instead the part where Flynn can get some separation from whatever he's working on or whatever annoyances from work he is still carrying around with him—and honestly, the same goes for me on that count—so we can have an enjoyable evening together.
After we both finish up our plates and take a few moments to relax, I take a look over at his laptop screen, where I expect to see a good chunk of text, some sort of draft, or at least some notes, but now, there's nothing, which is quite unusual. It seems he noticed my confusion, because it doesn't take long for him to try and explain. "I, uh... got nothing. I've honestly been staring at this empty text editor for about half an hour, but nothing's coming to mind. I just can't think of anything," he says, the way he's phrasing it making it clear this is a state he never expected to be in, and that makes sense. Ever since I've known him, Flynn's been a wellspring of ideas.
There's a bit of a stunned silence before I reply. "Wow, really? I would've thought you just keep coming up with new stuff forever. Like, you've written about an AI that takes over a country out of love for his creator and an ancient shapeshifting spirit that resides under beds. You've changed up Nineteen Eighty-Four to be a story about gay sex. You put together an epic about a phantom thief that robs the rich and gives to the queer in 1930s New York, and wrote up a country that is essentially a communist dictatorship that runs on homosexuality. And you're telling me you're out of ideas?" I ask him.
In response, he lets out a sigh. "Yeah. Right now, I just got nothing. I'm thinking, and thinking... and all I get is blank. Total writer's block," he explains.
This is genuinely messing with him, but this is where I, as a good boyfriend, have an opportunity to cut in. I let my hand slowly creep across the table before laying it above his. "You know what I think? I think you need a reset. You've been writing so much complicated, crazy stuff... in fact, you know what, I think I have an idea. Do you want to hear it?" I ask him, and I've got a little something planned now.
The look on his face is quite puzzled, but he seems willing to give it a shot. "Um, alright, hit me," he says.
So then, I get up from my chair, walking over to his and starting to caress his cheek ever so gently. "This is a story about a poor writer who works so hard to bring others joy through his stories, and his boyfriend who loves him very much. And one night, when the writer is struggling with his work, the boyfriend has an idea... that that night, the writer should forget all his troubles. Instead, the two go to bed early, right after dinner. And then, they snuggle up under the covers, holding each other tight. And after that... well, the night is young, and the two will surely be able to find some other things to do..." I trail off, leaning in closer and placing a little peck on his cheek, then taking his hand. "What do you think, honey? Is that a nice story?"