Work Text:
Wirman rips out another page, the poor thing cross-written until black and dripping. He tosses it to the floor and wipes the residue on his trousers, pressing harder into the fabric than necessary just to feel the agitating scrape against his skin.
Dirk watched him, carefully silent for a few moments before asking, "What's the trouble this time, Wirmo?"
"Oh, you know, just the same problem I've been having this entire time!" Wirman throws his hands up, then tangles them in his hair. "I can't write anything good!"
He bends over his typewriter, forehead pressed against the cool metal. "I just… I can't picture any of it… Everything feels too… abstract."
"Oh." Dirk purses his lips. "I uh, I thought 'abstract' was kinda your whole thing?"
Wirman glares at him through his now ink-stained brow. "I admit my writing can be a bit abstract at times— it's good for creating intrigue, unique descriptions, and opening the narrative up to interpretation— but my ideas are very solidly based. And I'm—" He buries his head in his hands. "I'm just trying to write the opening scene for goodness sakes!!!"
"Huh." Dirk strokes his chin, thinking for a moment before brightening up. He swings his legs over the side of the bunk. "I could help. Sounds like you're having trouble, y'know, visualizing."
He hops down in front of Wirman and spreads his arms wide.
"Seein' the whole thing in motion could help!"
Wirman blinks at him. He looks him up and down, blinks hard again, then narrows his eyes. "What do you mean…?"
"I'll be Mordoom, and you go ahead and... direct me!" Dirk tosses his sunglasses aside, then strikes the same pose he pulled for the movie poster.
"…" Wirman visibly thought about it, brow slowly becoming less and less tense as he warmed up to the idea. Finally, he acquiesced and set aside his typewriter. "Alright. I guess I'll set the scene…"
—
They'd been at this for a while now, going through different openings, dialogue variations, etc. Dirk had made himself look more like Mordoom by tousling his hair and taking off his shirt, draping his tuxedo loose around his shoulders. It still looked hardly anything like the wiry, vexed, sea captain that Mordoom was in Wirman's mind— but it wasn't too hard to use his imagination to fill the gaps.
Wirman was muttering to himself and writing down a few notes after a little scene they'd just done, and Dirk took the time to open his phone. There was a new message from Van de Peer, one he'd not gotten to check before retiring from the deck.
He couldn't suppress a deep sigh and massive eye roll upon seeing the newest demands. More action, more romance… and some gross stuff about how if there was romance maybe Dirk would get to kiss Julie and wouldn't he loooove to smooch a celebrity???
Dirk schools his expression before turning back to Wirman.
"Alright, JD, where were we?"
"Huh?" Wirman's fingers still. He blinks. "Right…" He slides the typewriter off his lap, fingers steepling. "You— Mordoom was looking out to the waves, thinking about… thinking about…" He clicked his tongue, face becoming taut with indecision.
"How about Belicia?" Dirk suggests, purposefully keeping his tone light. He shot a couple of finger guns at Wirman to drive it home. "Get a lil' romance in there?"
"Romance." Wirman deadpans.
"Yeah! That's his whole thing, right? Towards the end, I mean. How crazy he is about her? Maybe he's... I dunno, thinking back to the past and how much he misses her. Y'know, something like--"
Dirk casts his gaze out to the ocean beyond the porthole, countenance fierce and voice deep. "My dear Belicia, how I miss—"
"No. No, no, no. No… no!" Wirman waves his hands through the air as if dispelling a foul stench. "He wouldn't-- Mordoom wouldn't look out into the sea like that or call her a petname. An- and starting with 'how i miss you' is SO cliche! We don't need the character to state his feelings, we should be able to just… pick up on them from—"
"Alright, then, how would Mordoom do it?" He shrugs, giving the other man a lopsided grin. "You're the author!"
Wirman stills in his hand-waving rambling/raving, eyes coming back to the present before the rest of his body follows suit and he hunches in on himself. "Euugh… uh……." He looks Dirk up and down, then huffs into his palm. "Well… he'd be a lot less…"
He mimics Dirk's posture, chest puffed out and chin tilted up in bravado. "Strong. For one."
He relaxes back into his severe hunch. "More… defeated. Hollow. Haunted. He's just lost her."
Dirk curls in on himself, shoulders drawn in, face contemplative as he looks downward— yet still out at the waves. He places a hand over his chest, then thinks better of it and holds his elbow instead.
Wirman gives a little nod of approval, perhaps subconsciously.
"He'd… think about how he misses her, yes, but we'd focus on how he's missing her. He can't stop thinking about her."
Dirk digs his fingertips into the soft flesh of his arm, head sullenly lolling to the side. His voice is low now, quiet yet powerful. "Belicia. Not a day goes by I don't think of you."
"Also cliche." Wirman scoffs. Dirk allows himself a private little glower. Wirman continues, "It needs something… something more… hm."
Dirk watches the smooth ocean current through the porthole, eyes catching on slivers of light in the inky black. He's reminded of dark hair, wavy and mussed from constant fretting, then shiny from being slicked back again and again.
He inhales,
"Belicia. Although you are… gone… I can't stop seeing you."
Wirman pulls his attention to Dirk. His surprise settles into intrigue. "A solid start… Seeing her in everything he does? In his dreams?"
Dirk continues, "The waves like your hair, the… stars like your eyes, the…"
"The air carries your laugh." Wirman finishes.
"The air carries your laugh."
Dirk breathes through a pained expression, trying to summon a forlorn feeling in just his brow— he twitches it, like he's seen Wirman do after a long night. His lips work for a moment, then the facade drops as he realizes he has nothing else. He flounders, casting a look to Wirman for help.
Wirman's staring intensely at him. Dirk feels like he's on stage for the first time.
He speaks, directs: "Thinking of her makes him feel guilty. These reminders aren't happy ones, and they surround him. He's…"
He tries to find the words, ensuring precision.
"Trapped. In her memory. In the very sea that's become her."
Dirk thinks for a moment, then gets back into character. He thinks of the inky black sea, the stillness of the submarine at night, when it's just him and Wirman's typing and frustrated half-mumbles. How quiet it is, yet oppressive.
"You… surround me. It used to bring me comfort, but now… it only…"
"Reminds me of the pain I caused you."
"Reminds me of the pain I caused you…"
Another silence. They're both thinking. Dirk swallows,
"I!"
Wirman looks up.
"I want to make it up to you. To see you again, all of you together again. The sea, the stars, the—"
"The breeze."
"The breeze. I want nothing more than to see you… again."
"Once more." Wirman corrects. "'I want nothing more than—'"
"To see you once more."
"He'd feel selfish—"
"Perhaps it's selfish,"
"L-like he doesn't deserve to think of her at all—"
"A man such as myself doesn't deserve to hold even your memory."
"And yet—"
"And yet—"
"… And… yet…" Wirman breathes.
Dirk softens his gaze, pretending to look directly at the memory of her— of… of someone he wants, but can't have. Shouldn't have.
"A-and yet, still, I cannot help but replay you again and again in my mind…" He lets the moment breathe, lets Mordoom's hesitation be known, then continues in quiet reverence:
"Maybe in this way, I can fool myself a bit longer… that you're still here."
He glances towards his audience of one, eyes still somber and yearning. Wirman looks back at him, hands frozen in a rare moment of focus. He breathes. He blinks. Then he's in a flurry of motion again, dragging the typewriter to his lap and clacking the keys with fervor. His cheeks have dusted a slight red, hidden only slightly by smeared ink.
Dirk smiles, loosening all at once. He watches Wirman write for a while, eyes dragging over the sweat on his brow, the colour in his pallid cheeks, the ten fingers punching words to page, all of it harmonizing into a now-familiar background noise as Dirk gets back into bed.
He lounges as he always does, sneaking glances where he can at his roommate.