[A/N] Yeah, I know, I write Keiji stuff way too much. But. To be fair. This one is more like a Joanie oneshot than a Keiji one.

She reaches for any scrap of creativity in her mind like a woman gathering gossamer, thin strands coalescing. But it seems as though every time she works up something substantial, it falls apart in her hands. She deletes the scene she was trying to start and stares down a once-again empty document, then groans and bangs her fist on the table lightly. She squeezes her eyes shut and sees violent red and orange shapes that slowly fade to blue. With a deep breath, she releases all the tension in her face and opens her eyes. Great. Now, instead of frustrated, Joanie feels hopeless. She stares at the blank screen with half-lidded eyes.

There's a knock. "Sup, Keij?"

He manages to open the door in spite of holding the laundry basket. "Fresh out of the dryer. If you want to snuggle with it, do it quick so I can fold all of it."

"Oh... hey, it's okay, I don't have to if it'll wrinkle everything." He ignores her and dumps the laundry on her bed, which draws her in like a siren's song. She curls up into it and feels the heat radiating into herself. Though their duplex has sufficient heating, it's still a Winter night. Even just knowing how warm the pile she's curled up on top of feels compared to how biting the weather is makes her feel... safe.

"I made dinner, by the way."

She instinctively winces, but then sniffs the air. "Doesn't smell like charcoal. That's an improvement."

"Oh, fuck off," he dismisses with a teasing roll of his eyes. She giggles. "Ungrateful bitch. I know I'm a crap chef, but you've been absorbed in work for the past four hours. I wanted to be useful." He hops onto the bed beside her, and she tilts away from the laundry just a moment to lean against him.

"You're more than just your use, but yes. I really am thankful to have you."

He thinks and sits for a while. "Yeah. I know. I obviously know the last part, but... I know the first part, too." She holds back from saying what she feels like she ought to, but scrunches her hands in the laundry. "What's wrong? You're anxious."

"I— I shouldn't say. You'd probably think I'm ridiculous."

"I take you extremely seriously." The deadpan way he says it, eyes intense, makes her unsure of whether it's still banter or if he means it— or both— and decides that any of those options are funny. So she laughs again.

"Fine, then. Maybe I'll say it after I finish eating." She pulls out her favorite pair of fuzzy socks and the two of them get to folding everything else, in spite of him trying to tell her he can do it alone. The job goes quicker with both of them.

Afterwards, he issues his demand. "Eat it in the actual kitchen this time. Both of us have been eating in our rooms for the past week."

"Compromise: we eat in the living room so I can chill on one of the bean bags." He sighs, having never understood her distaste for actual chairs, but shrugs and heads back out there. She grins wildly and rushes to meet him, ruffling his hair. He makes an offended noise and bats her hand away. Even so, he grabs both of their plates and utensils as she sinks into the large blue bean bag.

Keiji appears to have made those onion and apple pork chops that she's been really into lately. The smell... is normal! She cuts into it tentatively. So is the color! "Holy shit! I was messing around with you when I mentioned you didn't turn it to ashes, but this might actually be good!"

"Don't say that yet. Your recipe was infuriating and mentioned salt and pepper 'to taste,' which you know is way too vague for me."

Her lips pucker briefly, but she maintains hope. The last hurdle— and the one he struggles with the most— is overseasoning. But even if it winds up being so salty that it brings her to tears, it still wouldn't be the worst meal he's ever made. Quickly, before she can talk herself out of it, she shovels a bite into her mouth.

It's a little bit saltier than she makes it, but otherwise... "Keij! This tastes pretty much normal!"

His chest puffs up and chin tilts up. What a smug bastard, she thinks fondly, shaking her head at him.

"What? You can't just fuel my ego and expect it to not immediately go to my head." After a few seconds, the bravado fades. His gaze dances along the carpet as he pipes up. "Uh, I watched it really closely. Followed every instruction to the dot. It was a bit intimidating trying to do it alone, since normally you hover over me like a hummingbird when I cook. I thought I'd burn the onions, but—"

"I'm proud of you. You always try so hard."

His face goes red, all the way to his ears. "Ah. Um. Thanks."

She takes her time on her dinner, pushing her fork around idly. They lapse into silence. She knows that's not exactly what he wants; they could've done this in their own rooms anyway. But she can't make herself say anything. The analog clock— antiquated, they know, but it was a fancy housewarming gift from one of her aunts— ticks along steadily. She munches vacantly, staring into space.

The bean bag shifts as he sits next to her. It's big enough to hold both of them, but not so much that the two can avoid being elbow-to-elbow. It's enough to startle her out of her daze. "You're lucky I like you so much. With almost anyone else, this would be a serious breach of personal space."

"Seriously. You're not acting like yourself. I'm getting concerned."

She shifts uncomfortably. "Look, I— I've gotten like, zero work done for the past two days. I'm trying. I really am. But every time I try to write something, it is just so EMPTY. I haven't hit my stride, haven't gotten into flow or whatever. Any kind of magic that I've got for this shit is just not coming to me right now. I've just been scrolling through socials, trying to write for twenty minutes, and erasing it all immediately. NOTHING is happening, no matter how much I try. It fucking pisses me off! You're, like, basically the most hard-working person I know, so you get it, right? The feeling of... can't stop, can't slow down, if I'm failing to be productive, I'll be disappointing everyone. And that's just it. I'm disappointing everyone. Fans mean well, but some of them make it real obvious that they're way too enthusiastic for me to finally push out a new movie. If I don't even have a script–!"

"Hey. Hey." He squeezes her shoulder in support. "You're Joanie Motherfucking Alexa Moore. You're a badass, a genius, and... um... one of my favorite people. You're legendary. But you're a person. People experience burnout. Even when you're doing what you're passionate about. Hell, I think the only reason I didn't self-destruct growing up was because my parents sometimes took me traveling for 'field research.' It is okay to take some time for yourself. You wouldn't be disappointing the people in your life. And as for your fans, well. The ones who you write for, the ones who are worth a damn, they'll understand. The ones who would blame you and feel like you owe them your whole life can screw off. Find some other celebrity to leech off of, or something. You'll be better off."

"I just feel so powerless."

"Then make a choice!" She tilts her head in confusion. "Humans are dumb, and small, and weak, but the reason we have power is because we can make choices for ourselves. What do you want?"

Her fists clench and she slams a hand into the flesh of the bean bag. "I... I want a break! I just need a damn vacation!"

He hums in gratification. "Perfect. I'll take care of the dishes. Then, wanna watch a movie? Or a reality show?"

"You've been doing small things for me all day. Could you tell I was off?"

A self-satisfied smile crosses his lips as he gathers the dishes. "Who's to say?"

"You're so cocky."

"Ha. Yep."

"Thank you."