Every fucking where.
The first time he sees him is one morning, about five days into the vacation. Lucas’s just exited the flat his dad has rented in Biarritz before he decides to drag him in yet again another father-son bonding activity, probably to make up for being shitty for the past two years — and not giving two shits for fourteen years before that. The guy is tall, and athletic enough for Lucas’ mind to fantasize about his arms and the patches of skin he gets to see thanks to the loose tank-top he’s wearing. He’s got messy brown hair, the kind that looks so effortlessly good, and clear eyes that he’s never been close enough to determine the exact color of. It’s shortly before 11 and Hot Guy is on the phone, standing on the sidewalk following the beachfront. Lucas nearly misses the huge step delimiting the pavement and the sand when his eyes trip over him. He throws a panicked look in his direction as soon as he’s found back his balance, cheeks burning, but the guy doesn’t spare him a glance and he’s relieved enough not to be bothered by that particular fact.
The second time, he finds himself waiting in line two persons behind him at the grocery store. It’s another morning and Lucas is buying an inordinate amount of snacks for yet again another solo session at the beach. Hot Guy seems lost in his bubble as he scrolls down his phone, a pack of beer tucked under his arm making his bicep tense and the veins pop — and okay, maybe Lucas thinks he’s got trouble breathing all of a sudden. He’s even hotter than in his memories, and frankly he doesn’t know what to do with this newfound piece of information, considering he already knows he’s going to have far too much time to obsess over it. Which is a bit problematic, because he spends most of his time in swim-trunks these days, and swim-trunks aren’t exactly known for hiding things.
He keeps seeing Hot Guy everywhere for the next few days.
Seeing. That’s it. He sees him, and then he obsesses over it for six hours. It’s by far the shittiest summer of his life, and he’s gotten his fair share of those already. He spots him at the beach again. A wonder, since there are enough people there to enact a real life-size version of Where’s Waldo, but apparently that particular version of Waldo is hot enough not to be missed in a fucking crowd – or maybe the universe just hates him enough to play with his nerves. One of those times, hot guy is with a girl – pretty, bright smile, long brown hair –, both holding surfboards as they are chatting enthusiastically, and Lucas is snorting to himself at the sight.
Of course he’s a surfer.
Of fucking course.
He’s not even surprised. It’s part of the package at this point.
Another time, he’s reluctantly pushing his way through the tourists lazily taking a stroll in a pedestrian street to get to the restaurant his dad has given him the address of. He doesn’t want to go, and at this point he thought he had made it pretty clear they have nothing to talk about, but it doesn’t seem to deter his father from trying, which he hates profoundly. Hot Guy is sitting at the terrace of a bar, with the same brunette and a few more people. He can hear them all laugh and talk, except for Hot Guy who’s busy rolling himself a cigarette, and suddenly Lucas wishes he could be a part of the group. Just slide himself in the empty spot next to Hot Guy and hang out with them — there’s a bitter taste on his tongue long before he gets to the restaurant and ends up fighting with his father halfway through dinner.
After that he’s a bit busy lamenting on his own life and missing his friends and his life in Paris to think about Hot Guy again, at least until the following afternoon. He’s left the flat again and gone to the beach early that morning, which is probably not the idea of the century because the weather is kind of shitty and if it’s not raining it seems to be a miracle already in itself. The sun is playing hide and seek, just like the heat, and Lucas is left with nothing to do when his phone dies shortly after he went to grab some fries at a food truck nearby for lunch.
He doesn’t really know for how long exactly he’s been asleep when a voice wakes him up. “Excuse me?”
A kaleidoscope of green and red dances in his eyes as he blinks them open. “What?”, he mumbles, mouth a bit slack. He reaches to rub his eyes, only for his hand to knock into his sunglasses. His mind is a little hazy, but not hazy enough not to recognize the face he’s been having boners over for the past week — a mortifying thought if there’s one. Hot Guy is crouching down next to him, a snapback hiding his messy hair, and Lucas is sure he’s going to die the moment he crosses look with him from behind his sunglasses.
Now he’s got the answer.
His eyes are grey.
And his heart is absolutely no longer beating.
“Sorry to disturb but, uh- maybe you’re not gonna want to stay out there under the sun,” Hot Guy says with a small smile.
Lucas’ eyes eventually trail away from his face to the white clouds in the sky. “There’s barely any sun today,” he says, clearing his throat. He’s hoping he’s nailing the casual tone, and he shrugs a little to make his point crossed.
Hot Guy’s smile turns into a smirk. “Yeah,” he drawls. “You might want to check though.”
And Lucas does. Because, even if he was asking for a kidney, he’d roll with it too. The sound he makes at the sight of his legs definitely blows up the casual pose he was desperately hoping to strike. The skin is pink (and unevenly at that), the kind of pink that promises a shit ton of Biafine, cold showers and sheetless bed.
“Holy shit no,” he blurts out, checking his arms. His first instinct is to look up at the sky, where there’s not even a patch of blue to nag him. “How is that a fucking thing?”
Hot Guy laughs. “Reverberation with the water. Sorry I woke you up but I felt bad.”
Lucas swallows. “It’s- It’s fine. Thanks,” he mumbles, and he tears his eyes away from the stormy grey look that is currently ripping his soul apart. “Lucky me I wasn’t planning to show off my impressive summer tan in September.”
“You should,” Hot Guy says. “You got it the hard way after all.”
Lucas is taken aback for a second, then he starts laughing and Hot Guy follows him. It seems too easy to be true. Not to be a whiner but he feels like nothing’s been easy for him for a long, long time. He didn’t expect to ever get to talk to Hot Guy. He doesn’t expect Hot Guy to stick around more than two minutes. And he certainly doesn’t expect him to hold out his hand.
“I’m Eliott,” he says anyway, and suddenly this summer doesn’t seem so shitty anymore.