Chapter Text
Strokes of brilliance do not strike him often. His sister would attest to this, likely pulling up an entire slideshow to present the world with his lack of brilliance. Or, as she would put it, utter bloody daftness to any sort of intelligence.
But this is pure gold, he swears to himself.
Untangling himself from the sheets is one story. Untangling himself from his slumbering boyfriend is another matter. The man is an angel, a masterpiece of heaven- unless you wake him up. Then even the devil is afraid.
Somehow, the broader man succeeds in sliding his arm out from underneath the lithe figure, gingerly shifting the head of long brown hair from his chest to the pillows. Luckily their bed provides a cloud-like give, allowing the stouter man to escape unscathed.
By no means is Jacob Frye large, or one of the annoying muscle jocks who earns himself the nickname Axeman
at the gym or something bloody stupid like that. He is perfectly content with his lean and toned form, tall but not lanky, broad but not bulky. A man of perfect ratio of strength and grace. Jacob pauses in his thoughts as he reaches for one of the pans hanging over the kitchen island. His boyfriend, Arno Victor Dorian, would receive the title of strongest while being the most graceful. Even in his most torn down and worn state of exhaustion, Arno keeps his shoulders back, his poise undefeated and unrelenting. But he’s delicate. Not sharp edges of a beefy man, nor the smooth curves considered more effeminate. A balance between the two: lithe, urbane, charming…
Shaking his head, Jacob returns to the task at hand.
…
Lifting his head from the soft pillows, Arno immediately catches something amiss. Detective skills and intuition aren’t for nothing. He reevaluates the few seconds he has been awake. Soft pillows, not a packed chest. Chirping birds outside the window, not a steadily thrumming heartbeat in his ear. Warm blankets, not warm body.
Jacob is up. And he left Arno to wake on his own.
Forming a thin line with his lips, the furious boyfriend storms downstairs. Choice words not entirely in English leap like fire on his tongue. They’ve had this discussion. Jacob promised never to leave him alone in bed unless it was- an emergency.
A sudden fear kicks in. Keen nose already picks up the scent of burning, and likely things that aren’t supposed to be burning. Set on high alert, Arno flies down the rest of the stairs, rounding the corner of the hallway and stepping into the kitchen to find chaos.
Ah! Ahhhhh, Arno?
The overconfident, arrogant Brit smiles shyly and apologetically, still patting at a dying flame on the stove.
Jacob?
Arno scoffs in disbelief, his French accent making the noise sound scornful.
I thought I could…
Jacob shrugs, shifting the pan off of the burner. Thought I could, ah… Bloody hell. I can’t cook.
Throwing his hands up in defeat, the usually-suave man swallows his pride and moves to throw away the burnt breakfast.
A deft hand catches his wrist before he can move. Arno’s thin, long fingers trail up his forearm, over the curve of his bicep, finally resting against the light facial hair at Jacob’s cheek.
What he thought was a rude awakening turned into the most hysterical instances of Jacob’s lapse in common sense. And he breaks.
At first confused, the concerned Brit holds the doubled-over Frenchman by the elbows, ensuring he won’t fall. Arno buries his face into Jacob’s bare chest, reining back his laughter.
Arno? Are you sure you’re okay? I can-
Non, non. It is alright,
Arno again catches Jacob’s hand. Large calloused palms press to smooth hands. I am sure it is salvageable,
Arno mutters, grabbing a fork from the drawer.
Both men hold their breath, as they both hold little faith in Jacob’s culinary skills. The French prove to be the better chefs anyway. And the French prove to be the harshest of culinary critics. Whatever Jacob attempted to make is a revolt, a disgrace to all food, a mockery of palatability. It takes all his willpower to swallow the meager bite and not hurl it into the sink. Still, as his stomach is forced to receive the attempt at breakfast, Arno shudders, briefly leaning towards the sink. For a long moment, he is certain that he is doomed to embarrass Jacob by heaving up the breakfast. Thankfully, the food remains set. Unfortunately, the taste does not.
Palm spreading across his lower back and rubbing comforting circles, Jacob watches over his ill boyfriend.
There is that little coffee shop down the street…
Jacob offers, passing Arno a glass of water. Downing the whole glass, Arno nods.