#softe

    “Well, what the flying fuck am I supposed to do here?” Lambert mumbled under his breath, rubbing his forehead as he stared at the keyboard and the blank document on his screen. He had his quiet music playing, the lights weren’t too bright, he could just barely hear his partner bustling around in the kitchen preparing dinner, and yet-

    “Bah-shite!” Lambert huffed and pushed his rolling chair away from the desk. He had the time, the energy, the everything. Everything except the words. Nothing would come out, no matter how aggressively he squinted at his laptop. He put his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his palms. No one to blame but himself, he supposed. Why had he even taken this writing contract in the first place? Well, you see-

    A warm weight rested on his shoulder and a spiced-honey voice murmured low in Lambert’s ear. “Usually, you can’t just will the keyboard to type by itself, you know.”

    Lambert rolled his eyes and huffed as he sat up. “Yeah, Eskel, thanks. Hadn’t realized that I forgot to invest in the computer that writes the damned novel for me.”

    He spun around to face Eskel, mourning the loss of Eskel’s hand on his shoulder as soon as it fell back to his side. “Besides, not like the first draft is due in six weeks. No, no. No rush, not at all. Oh, no wait, I’ve gotten mixed up. The first draft is due in six weeks and I’ve got diddly-shit to show for it. So, if you’ll kindly leave me to wallow in my own self-pity, that’d be grand. Thanks, love ya. Toodaloo-”

    “Oh, no you don’t-” Eskel caught Lambert’s chair as he started spinning back around and handled him around from the back. He wheeled him briskly down the hall, away from the computer looming in the lamplight. “You’re going to sit and have a nice dinner with me and not think about your book. I made tomato soup and grilled cheese-”

    “Esk, it’s the middle of a fucking heat wave, why soup?”

    “And you’re not gonna bitch about how hot it is ‘cause we have a lovely aircon unit that makes it feel like a penguin’s paradise in here.” They’d arrived in the kitchen just as the timer over the stove gave a happy ding, and Eskel stopped at the table right next to Lambert’s usual chair. “Go on, budge over.”

    Lambert grumbled but obliged, scooching over onto the dark wooden chair with the ornate back that Geralt had made as part of their wedding present. Eskel sent his rolling chair careening back down the hallway where it unceremoniously bonked into the hall closet door. “Oi, gentle there-”

    “That chair has been to hell and back, one more ding against a door won’t kill it,” Eskel smirked as he ladled two hearty bowls of rich red soup before switching off the stove. He dropped off the two steaming bowls, spun back to the kitchen where he fumbled in a drawer for spoons that they both knew would go unused, and grabbed the plate of grilled cheese. Lambert’s mouth watered as the plate hit the table, piled high with already-cut triangles that oozed yellow and white rivers of molten gooeyness. Eskel sat in the chair next to Lambert and gently bumped his shoulder with his own. “Go on, you’ve got first pick.”

    Lambert sighed and tried to push the nagging thoughts of failure from his head. Easier said than done. He reached for the triangle right beneath the one on top, that had caught all of the melted cheese from the one above it. He messily dipped it into his bowl, scooping a generous bite into his mouth. “AHh-fuhdashawt-” 

    “Careful,” Eskel shook his head with a smile, blowing on his own grilled cheese-spoon hybrid, “‘s hot.”

    Lambert gasped and swallowed, taking a long gulp of ice water. “Yeah, yup. Got it. Gonna let it cool a bit.”

    “Mhm,” Eskel chuckled around the bite in his mouth, dabbing his chin with a napkin on the side where his scar cut a notch in his lip. Soup tended to escape quite easily. 

    They ate in relative silence for a while, just as normal. Neither of them cared much for small talk, especially when they both knew that bigger things were on their minds. As Eskel dragged the last bite of his sandwich through the dregs left in the bottom of his bowl, he cleared his throat. “So, why’re you stuck?”

    Lambert rolled his eyes at himself and stuck his own last bite into his mouth, licking the stray soup that was on his thumb. “I’ve only got six weeks left and-”

    “Nuh-uh,” Eskel shook his head and sat back, resting his hand on Lambert’s thigh. “I asked why you’re stuck, not why you’re psyching yourself out about it.”

    Rolling his neck, Lambert pushed his bowl away from the edge of the table and rested his arms at the edge. “I just…I dunno. I feel…out of practice? If that makes sense?”

    Eskel nodded his head, gently squeezing his hand on Lambert’s thigh. “I think it does, but tell me more.”

    “Like, it’s too big of a project to try right out of the gate. And my stupid brain is like ‘But, if we never start it at all, we don’t have to worry about finishing it!’ Which, as it turns out, is not helpful.”

    “First of all,” Eskel raised an eyebrow and sat up, “your brain’s not stupid. Your brain is tired and overwhelmed. And that’s okay. You beating yourself up about it isn’t going to be helpful either.”

    “Yeah, I know,” Lambert murmured, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. “Sometimes I don’t even realize I’m doing it until it’s too late and I’m losing it.”

    “And that’s what I’m here for,” Eskel whispered gently, leaning closer to Lambert. “I can see when it’s too much and when you’re getting caught up in your own head, and I make soup and grilled cheese and forcibly remove you from your office ‘cause you’ll drive yourself bonkers in there. And then you can go back when you have your head clear. Right?”

    Lambert laughed. “Yeah, you do. You’re a godsend, Eskel, you know that?”

    Eskel shrugged. “Nah, Lamb. I just love you. That’s all.”