he sits on the floor, spine against bed, and keeps staring at nothing. blank paper of his messy notebook looks at him back.

outside lurks into the booked room with fast food smell and (probably drunk) laughter. it's a festival in this side of a country, a celebration of love and youth. and... jiraya sits on the floor, alone, pencil in hand.

writing romance for a well-known romance author should not be that hard. especially when everyone and everything around is drowning in affection and, well, romance.

suddenly it simply is.

he feels tiredness on the back of his eyelids, weight in his hips and age in the ways his memory keeps showing him so many faces that it's ridiculously hard to understand what exactly he is thinking of.

he sighs and starts writing.

джирая сидит где-то в номере гостиницы и вздыхает над пустым блокнотом