[I found this and it is glorious.]
The coffee pot dripped continuously, and it served as the metronome to the thoughts that were carousing and dancing about the young man's head. After another four or so taps of his pale fingers against the glass top of the desk, he shoved his rolling chair out and made his way over to said coffee machine, stretching along the way. He couldn't say for sure exactly how many cups of this dark heavenly liquid he had drunk tonight, but, one thing he was absolutely certain of was that whatever the amount was, it couldn't possibly be healthy. Not for a normal human being, anyway. But, then, Darcy was no normal human being, so consuming superhuman amounts of caffeine only gave him that delightful little buzz.
Carting his favourite blue coffee mug with the smiling cat faces – whose eyes he had all drawn over with X's using a sharpie and boredom – back to his desk, Darcy resumed his station at the computer screen and sighed at his realization of the inevitability of futility in his rituals. Every night he sat here, staring at the blinking cursor, and only managed to turn out, at most, one decent paragraph that he didn't scrutinize and end up deleting the next day. He just didn't feel inspired recently, but, he couldn't exactly point a finger as to why, or how it had been affecting his writing so greatly. He had never been the best at self-analysis, and trying to do so at 4am running solely on coffee and the odd bowl of cereal only hampered the process.
But, Darcy sat down every night at his computer anyway, because it was the only way to keep that coffee and cereal re-appearing in the cupboards. Without him spitting out these corny, fantasy smut novels, he wouldn't even have a desk to sit at, and there was no way in hell or any other uninhabitable place that his favourite person, Lune, was going to do anything truly useful for the situation.
The digital clock flashed away another minute, and Darcy wished that it would tick away the seconds. Maybe that persistent sound would keep him from wasting away the moments contemplating his personal life and keep him more focused on squeezing the last dying bit of muse from his brain so he could turn this manuscript in and get paid. Rubbing his hands over his face and pushing them through the mass of unruly and un-brushed black hair, Darcy realized that whatever train of thought he'd been on tonight was now ruined. Anything he wrote now would only be nonsense, and in all truth, he desperately needed to get some real sleep. That couch had looked oh-so-tempting more than once tonight.
Maybe Darcy really was just losing his mind. It had certainly seemed that way for the last couple of years. Ever since he'd met Lune, his logic had been yanked from its bed of stability, held up by its ankles and shaken continuously. His brain was still being rocked by those continued hits to everything that he had known and had believed to be real and true. Two years ago, myths had still been myths, and silly children's tales were featherweights in terms of accountability. But, now, Darcy would have believed anything you told him, with the right amount of time. With enough effort, you could have the poor, confused man believing that rainbow painted unicorns stamped the stars into the sky with their hooves at night. That's what being turned into a damn werewolf did to a poor guy like him, he guessed.
Chugging down the last of his coffee, so as not to waste any of its precious caffeine, Darcy rinsed his cup and left it in the sink, moving out of the kitchen, and down the short narrow hall to his bedroom. As he passed by Lune's room, running his pale hands along the plain hall as he went, he thought he could hear his friend's heavy breathing, well, actually, something more like snoring, and the sound was steadying. It was an easier sleep knowing that he wasn't the only person in the apartment. Tomorrow, he was sure, he'd find something to do; something other than sit around their pitiful apartment and chew on the ends of writing utensils.
Unfortunately, Darcy wasn't feeling quite so motivated as the sun rose high enough in the sky to caress its way between the slats of his blinds and play tauntingly on his pale skin, which he quickly hid beneath his heavy covers. The clock on his bedside table was already glowing with the unnatural red numbers that read 6:00. Needless to say, Darcy wasn't really paying much attention to them as he rolled over and curled up facing the dark wall. It wasn't until 6:30, an ungodly hour of the morning, that he scrambled and nearly fell out of his bed at the blaring, screeching, horrid sound that was booming from Lune's bedroom. Before his mind even had a chance to comprehend what was happening, he'd already stormed into the pink-haired monster's nest and slammed his fist down on the snooze button, silencing the country music station his friend had so kindly set his alarm to. Sick bastard. It hadn't even stirred him.
He didn't feel any remorse as he yanked the covers off of Lune, but he quickly regretted it, as he saw his friend lying there, sprawled as only Lune could be, in all his naked glory. Darcy even managed to amaze himself at the speed and deftness he used to replace the covers. All he got in return for this was a grunt from the snoring face. Jesus, this man could sleep through anything!
"What... The hell was coming out of your radio? And do you seriously sleep in the nude?" he said, and the look of horror still hadn't left him.
"Uh huh," Lune only made a sleepy reply and rolled over.
Darcy shook his head. As much as this guy annoyed the hell out of him, his daily life wouldn't be half as entertaining without Lune around.
"You don't even work today! Shut off your alarm."
With that, Darcy left Lune to his dark lair of doom and porn, and shut the door behind himself.
Now that he was up, he may as well get some fuel going for the rest of the day. Darcy plugged the water kettle in, filling it to the brim with water, and prepared his cup of instant coffee grounds and milk, which seemed to be the only thing in their fridge besides some fast food leftovers he assumed Lune had brought home. They didn't lead a very glorious or luxurious life; that was for sure. If only people knew what really went on in a werewolf's day, Darcy had the feeling they wouldn't be quite so enthralled. Not that he cared. As long as they stayed fascinated he could keep selling his books and keep making money, so, he wasn't going to be the first to rush out and share all of the world's dirty laundry with the public.
The kettle clicked, and Darcy swore he had been trained like a dog to respond instantly to that sound. He poured the now-hot water into his waiting coffee mug and stirred it his customary three or four times before dumping the dirty spoon in the sink with an unceremonious clatter. It wasn't long before he'd finished his coffee and yet another bowl of cereal, which, he reminded himself, he had to get more of, and dressed in his usual black attire plus scarf. He had a special sentiment for his red scarf, in all its wonderful, yummy plaid-ness, and he hated when it got too hot outside to wear it. Maybe that's why he hated summer so much?
Darcy checked to make sure he'd stuffed his wallet into his sweater pocket, safe under his heavier black jacket, before he buttoned it up and wrapped the scarf around his neck. It was winter outside, so he wouldn't look out of place with it on. Before he left, Darcy poked his head in Lune's door, who just happened to be getting up now that it was at least 9am, and who was now, thankfully, wearing his boxers.
"I'm going out. Don't burn down the apartment... Unless you're in it. See ya later!" With that, he left the apartment and closed the door firmly behind him, making his way out of the building.
It was cold outside, and the wind battered against the chilled, red skin of the people who braved it enough to walk the streets, persuading its way through layers of clothing and fastenings to set in to the marrow of their bones, causing half the people Darcy passed to be shivering. White puffs of breath preceded people where they walked like a warning to avoid their contaminated breathing space, and Darcy was no exception. With his hands stuffed into his pockets and his scarf pulled up to cover his nose, his black hair, now brushed though still not co-operating, hanging down in his face as he walked. He wasn't quite sure where he wanted to go yet, but, he knew that he had to stop off at a corner store or something to that effect before he went back to the apartment. He had to feed the roommate.
Darcy had known Lune for two years now, but, he wouldn't have known the fifty-year-old werewolf at all if it hadn't been for Darcy's writing career. Besides, it was all Lune's fault he'd ended up this way, anyhow. Suspicious of Darcy's seemingly accurate knowledge of the lives of werewolves portrayed in his novels, Lune had acted on that suspicion, thinking Darcy knew too much for his own good, so he may as well join them. Unfortunately for Darcy, his imagination had just happened to be right for once, and it had been the means to him ending up seduced by a charismatic, albeit strange and pink-haired, man and waking up with a nasty scar on the back of his neck. He instinctively reached for the area, but, it was hidden away beneath the thick scarf and his dark hair. There was no need in saying that Darcy didn't particularly enjoy telling the story of how the scar bite had ended up there of all places, and, he never had. Not that anyone had ever seen it or been curious enough to ask if they had.
Darcy was knocked from his reminiscence as he walked straight into a short, young woman with vibrant blonde hair and a loud voice screaming through her headphones into her ears, who had been paying about as much attention as Darcy had to the other people on the sidewalk. They quickly apologized to each other, and she continued on her way. From the corner of his vision, he saw that she had dropped something very bright and very red onto the sidewalk, and he quickly stooped to pick it up. Before his fingers touched it, Darcy realized it was the girl's wallet. Damn, she was going to be looking for this later, that was for sure. He scanned the mob of citizens rushing past and around him. She wasn't there, already hurried off somewhere up the street, oblivious to her loss. Luckily for her, Darcy was a good Samaritan of a werewolf. He had every intention of looking inside for some I.D., but the storefront he'd been walking past had caught Darcy's eye.
He crossed the stream of people and stared down through the glass at the large display in the window, and a wide grin opened on his face. It was a matter of moments before Darcy found himself inside the door, with its cheery bell to announce his entry, and was pulling down his scarf to inquire about prices and care and probably giving the saleswoman the only actual task she was going to have for the rest of the day. When he left, he was carrying a rather cumbersome box, a jumbo bag of kitten chow and the largest smile he'd had in a long time.
When he walked through the door he was greeted by the sight of Lune sitting at the flimsy kitchen table, eating the last bowl of cereal, which, Darcy realized, he had forgotten to pick up on the way home.
"You're back," he said between slurps. "And, no, I didn't burn down anything in the apartment. By the way... Werewolves are closer to dogs than cats, Darcy. What's with the kitty food?"
Darcy only smiled as he set it down on the floor, leaning against the side of the counter that divided the kitchen from the small eating area.
"We're going to need it..." He paused, putting the purring box on the counter, opening it carefully, and lifting a small, orange, fluffy ball of fur from inside. "To feed Mr. Squiggles!"
Lune only stared before standing up and pointing an accusing spoon at the tiny, mewing kitten.
"Hell... No. We are not having a cat and you are sure as hell not calling it Mr. Squiggles."
"Well, since you didn't buy it, or its food, you get no say. Besides, you hate cats, so what difference does it make to you?"
Darcy sat down at the opposite end of the table, the metal legs of the chair scraping against the linoleum floor, stroking the little, orange ball of fur that had settled itself into the crook of his arm and was now purring contentedly. He imagined it would curl itself up at the foot of his bed and sleep there all night, pawing at his chest to wake him up in the morning when it needed out for something to eat, and it made Darcy smile a bit.
Lune just scoffed and sat back down to finish his bowl of cereal that was, by all likelihoods, now soggy.
"Fine, you can call it whatever you want. It probably deserves such a horrible name."
"Your parents probably thought the same thing when they named you," he answered with a "you know I'm still your only friend" smile while he reached into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes.
