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it’s not a bad day. not really, not in comparison to how low he can get. he’s just - tired, groggy, his world a little grey around the edges. he will either feel better in a day or so, this light cloud slipping off, or it will linger and darken into something truly bad. accordingly, his plans for the day mainly involve sleeping and watching american sitcoms and slowly devouring the small pile of fruit his parents had dropped off a few days earlier.
then lucas called, and half an hour after they hung up, after eliott had assured him that he was fine, truly, that lucas should try and enjoy the official housemate bonding day that was apparently happening today, eliott wasn’t alone. between what felt like blinks, but what may have been two micro naps, eliott opened his eyes and lucas was on the bed next to him staring intently at his phone, mid candy crush level. he looks comfortable, settled, and probably planning to stay. eliott waits until he only has two moves left, and mumbles out a greeting. lucas startles, a little, and his finger slips. one move left, and, from what eliott can tell, far from completing the level. the phone gets thrown onto the bed somewhere around their knees, and lucas pairs his own greeting with a kiss pressed to eliott’s cheek.
“aren’t you supposed to be with mika and them?” he asks and rolls onto his side, close enough to kiss lucas properly before he can answer. when he leans back, those lovely eyes are lidded, a compliment and a request, and several minutes are spent kissing him again, gentle warmth spreading through his body.
“manon had to do something, so it’s being pushed back a few hours.” a quiet, pleased smile accompanies lucas’ answer. it’s terribly convenient, but none of the usual ticks that indicate lucas lying are present, so eliott doesn’t consider it further. a section of hair flops down and over one of lucas’ eyes; it’s soft and a little greasy when eliott brushes it back. “are you okay with me hanging out today? am i interrupting anything?”
“do you know a show called parks and recreation? it’s american.”
“no.”
“lucky for you, the only thing i’m doing today is binge watching it. so no, you’re not interrupting anything.”
“sounds like a good time,” lucas answers mildly. probably, hopefully, he understands that this plan also involves sleeping, and not talking much. at least lucas will only be able to spend a few hours here, not enough time for any potential seeds of guilt to plant and grow.
lucas rolls off the bed to set up the show, and rattle around in the kitchen. he comes back ten minutes into the first episode with a bowl of strawberries, a bottle of water, and changed into a pair of eliott’s sweatpants. he settles down close to eliott, nestled against a mountain of pillows, thighs pressed together, their bounty on top of the blanket in front of them. his chest loosens, something soft and light growing.
the strawberry is the first thing he’d eaten today, and it bursts sweet and full on his tongue. they’re sitting so close eliott only has to turn his head to brush a kiss against lucas’ temple in thanks. lucas sends him a quiet smile and hums.
“where do your parents get these? they taste so much better than the ones i buy.”
eliott takes his time finishing his bite before answering. “i think they go to a farmers market. i’ll ask them exactly where, if you want.”
“i’d like that,” lucas answers around another piece of fruit, watching as a blonde woman talks to the camera, her eyes wide and hands flapping, her entire being alarmingly excited.
he feels lighter, gentler, but no less tired, eyelids heavy and yawning. it’s midmorning, probably close to midday, and he’s only been awake for a few hours, but still he slouches down until he’s almost lying flat, his head near lucas’ waist and an arm around his shoulder. instead of pointing out of any those facts, the boy next to him says nothing, uses the arm around him to draw soothing patterns on his skin and coaxing him closer to sleep, even the ragged edges of his fingernails familiar and somehow comforting.
“we could go together,” he mumbles, and shuffles closer to lucas, warm and solid and smelling faintly of lemon myrtle.
“i’d like that too,” is the last thing he hears before he relaxes back into slumber.
***
when he wakes up again, the light outside has changed, darkened, and lucas is still there, on his side facing eliott but looking down at his phone on the bed between them, sudoku, eliott manages to identify after a few seconds. lucas does sudoku. he didn’t know that. eliott drags the blanket up higher and watches lucas immediately look up, eyes big, their blue startling. he doesn’t say anything, just smiles warm and goes back to his game.
“what happened to bonding day?” he asks after some time, time enough for lucas to have gone through three rounds, all of them successful.
“it’s still happening. you haven’t been asleep that long,” comes lucas’ easy reply. he clicks out of the game and shoves the phone underneath the pillow. slowly, very slowly, like maybe eliott would deny the touch, he reaches out and runs his fingers through eliott’s hair. tension he didn’t realise he was holding leaks from his neck, his shoulders, and when lucas’ palm moves down, when he traces the shell of eliott’s ear, he nuzzles into it, presses a kiss to his palm, dry and soft. and magic, probably. those hands, always imbued with comfort and tenderness and kindness. apparently satisfied that eliott wants him close, he shuffles and diminishes the space between them, not too close, but enough that lucas, the strong line of his nose, his serious eyebrows, the pointed tip of his ear, is most of what eliott sees. that might not be a proximity thing, though. maybe it’s just a love thing.
regardless, there’s only so much patience he can ask of him. "lucas, you have better places to be."
"i don't." his tone is firm, a tint of something darkly amused in his eyes, and there are, undoubtedly, stories there hiding over the cliff of his words. something to interrogate. there is still so much he doesn’t know, lucas’ history unintentionally teased in offhand comments, in pinched lips and tight eyes provoked in odd moments. there is so much about him he will never know, probably, the swirl of gossamer thought and emotion that exists beyond language, beyond communication, beyond eliott. lucas: his favourite and most beloved other. he read something cixous wrote about this, ages ago, in the grey limbo period between different schools, and even then he knew he couldn’t apply it to anyone, not anymore, not until lucas. loving not knowing. loving: not knowing.
lucas isn’t looking at him anymore, is slowly sweeping his eyes across the pieces of art on the walls, his hair falling across his forehead. he should look bored, either because of eliott or because of the decor, but inexplicably the blue of lucas’ eyes are warm and sharp, taking in his surroundings like there’s something new to learn. not for the first time eliott wishes he could know what lucas sees, what details he picks out, if they’re different from what eliott gravitates to, what strings of thought he attaches to the schiele prints, the rouge tubes of paint left out on his desk, the children’s books piled on the floor.
an ankle drops over his, unobtrusive but present, and lucas shuffles a little closer. still patient. still understanding. still kind. later, maybe, he can ask lucas what he thinks of this space, of this world, of himself. for now he closes his eyes and pulls the sheet over his head. later.
***
lucas, for all his anger and sadness and torn up edges, slowly healing, is at his core stable and reliable, a fixed point in a trembling world. resolute. the world crumbles into something safe and small when eliott is with him, something to be treasured, to be revered . and he has no idea, eliott knows, still doesn’t truly comprehend the sheer magnitude of light he brings to eliott’s life.
lucas is his true north, his polaris come to earth, and he deserves better than the awful weight of eliott devotion, so ready to suffocate the object of his affections. he wants to hold lucas tight, crush him against his skin until he crumbles to dust. he doesn't want a single thing to ever hurt him again, to ever touch him with bad intentions. he wants to bend to world to his will so that it will give him everything everything everything.
one day, he will realise that eliott is not a good person. that he is jealous and petty and cowardly, a tsunami of emotions that will take and tarnish and tear without thought or control. the truth that slithers oily between his ribs when the world gets dark, when stars blink at him to sleep but anxiety buzzes louder. it’s a truth waiting to bleed out of his pores and stain his body black. stain the people who touch him, too. lucas has already been hollowed out, worn thin by neglectful parents and careless housemates and violent words that wormed silently into his mind like a time bomb. the process of rebuilding is turbulent and unkind regardless of the reward, and eliott is deeply aware of how easily he can be another source that siphons away his life. how he already has been, how likely it is he'll be once again.
sometimes this thing they've built feels infinite and intricate, them weaved together in a pattern impossible to unknit. sometimes it feels unbearably delicate, a bird skull waiting to be crushed. there is a voice inside his head that sounds remarkably like lucas, reminding him that it’s okay if they feel delicate, sometimes, because they will not always feel like that. minute by minute, eliott. he clings to the knowledge that in this minute, and this one, and this one, lucas is still there with him, bafflingly but unmistakably protective of the bubble of them. that eliott is a choice he makes again and again and again, the minutes culminating and crafting something beautiful, even with all the pain, the hurt turned to scar tissue. maybe even because of it.
***
he opens his eyes the next morning and feels better, yesterday just an off day. there’s no lucas next to him (thankfully, because it hopefully means he went home at some point to engage in some obligatory housemate bonding) but there is a sheet of lined paper folded over. flattened out reveals a crude sketch done in red ink, a raccoon and hedgehog in what looks like a park, a stall behind them selling strawberries, and gazing at each other with hearts in the air between them. written underneath is a very familiar line of text, with a small delightful addition.
you’re beautiful when you smile laugh dance eat sing breathe sleep.
he laughs quietly and traces lucas’ angular handwriting with a fingernail. outside, the world is soft and bright, morning light promising an even nicer day, and he feels an odd solidarity with the sunshine beaming cheerfully down on paris and her people. the feeling stays, wraps around his ribs while he slowly goes through his morning routine, which eventually lands him in his living room, lucas’ picture in hand and flicking through his records until something fits. it doesn’t take him long.
robot koch, which eliott had introduced as ‘romantic electronica’, and lucas had declared to be ‘kind of okay’, spins on his record player. it never used to remind him of anyone, for all the songs that did remind him of her, this one certainly didn’t resemble lucille or their relationship, but now it speaks vividly of lucas.
i get lost all the time
in my thoughts, in my mind
you come through like a light
in the dark, give me sight
early on, in the confusing messy months between seeing lucas on his first day and them officially being together ( il commence maintenant and lucas’ serious, determined face, his gentle hands) almost everything reminded him of lucas in some way. he thought it would pass, maybe, that it was a manifestation of the overwhelming rush of love, of excitement, of potential that had him seeing lucas everywhere. but that virginia woolf quote he had dedicated to him is just as applicable now.
lucas might not be expecting him to keep it, but he makes the executive decision to pin it up on the wall above the piano, between the red foxes he drew of idriss, and the paper with six panels on it, in each one a raccoon and hedgehog doing something different, a red circle around the option of them at an arcade, the hedgehog cheering in victory and the raccoon with exaggerated sad ears. that one turned out to be a prophecy, actually. literally who would have guessed lucas was that good at air hockey?
looking at the rough drawing, the hedgehog spikes uneven in length, the giraffe selling the strawberries, a tiny horse in the background that he vaguely remembers from the show they were watching, his smile is automatic and helpless.
if you let my soul out
you let my soul out
you let my soul out
it will come right back to you
it’s a great song, really, and a great album but suddenly not enough. he needs something with more energy, something to properly dance to, that will crowd up his head and speed up time to waste a few hours until he has to meet idriss. idriss who has gotten back into photography and has offered to buy eliott all the beverages he may desire today if he’ll join him in scoping out locations with the right vibe and lighting and energy. eliott would have done it regardless, since he himself should start branching out from using le petit ceinture as his inspiration for scenes, but the promise of all the iced coffee he could want is certainly a bonus. of all the things that have changed, idriss knowing exactly how to bribe him hasn’t. that, too, makes him smile.
he swaps out the vinyl for queen. in the kitchen, waiting for his eggs to cook, he texts his parents to get the name of their preferred farmers market. his dad texts back, a name and teasing suspicion about his wanting to eat well. on the stove the eggs are fluffy and pale yellow, small pieces of mushrooms peeking through in places, the spices he’d liberally added sharp and rich and appealing. one of his better combinations, then. when he sends along the information to lucas ❤️🦔☀️, he gets a surprised happy message in return.
a good day is found in small moments, he knows. the better days are the ones that prove this to be true. the eggs, when he tastes them, are creamy and salty with a kick from the chili. a success.
***
lucas asleep is a wonder he has yet to tire of. lips chapped, spots on his jaw, his arm around eliott warm and possessive. eliott will never be able to gamble, not now and not ever, because he's used up all his luck on lucas. saturday has shuffled in, seven hours gone, and the prospect of fresh produce and baked goods looms on the horizon. he’d moved his furniture around yesterday, his bed now directly under the window, so the sunlight doesn’t catch on them like it used to, but it’s okay, a worthy sacrifice for being able to see the moon from his bed. wilted sunflowers is now directly opposite his bed and lurks in his peripheral even when he’s on his side. unintentional, but vaguely appropriate, too, for a piece on the entanglement of life and death.
lucas makes a soft sound and burrows deeper into eliott’s side. it’ll be another minute or so until he actually wakes up. his eyes, when they open, are like the purest most vibrant drop of paint on a canvas. the sheet twisted around his waist displaying the moles scattered across his body like a treasure hunt.
“eliott,” he says, gravelly, soft e, tripping over the l, hard final ts, like a landing.
“lucas,” he murmurs in return and is gifted with a toothy smile.
“have you been watching me sleep?”
“i have other interests, lucas. i could’ve spent the morning doing all sorts of things.”
“maybe,” he says, drawn out and a little skeptical. “but all the evidence points towards a very reasonable answer.”
“and what’s that?”
“you’ve been crafting a marble bust of my sleeping face, obviously. so you’ll have something to stare at when i’m not here.”
helpless laughter bubbles up, lucas joining in. when it fades a trace of a smile quirks his lips, and lucas’ eyes start flicking there until they stick, face soft and open.
eliott bumps their noses together so lucas’ eyes return to his. “you caught me,” he whispers, and before lucas can think up an answer, brushes a thumb along his cheekbone and kisses him. and kisses him and kisses him. caught indeed.
***
they meander slowly back to his apartment afterwards, arms weighed down with their bounty and the sky ominously grey. some of it goes into the fridge and cupboards, but the wine, the fruit, they take back to eliott’s bed along with his laptop and lucas’ desire to keep watching the show they’d started last week, also in eliott’s bed. the cyclicity of it all settles comfortably into his chest.
the wine is good, fruit fresh, juicy, and the show funnier than he could appreciate last week. after a few episodes lucas makes the executive decision to stop watching, though, and replaces it with music, some english band from the sixties he adores, mouthing along to the words, fingers tapping along with the beat. when it starts raining, the water falls through the open window easily, like it was invited in, but they make to attempts to move or shut the window, only shift his laptop out of range. quietly the kinks sing about sunny afternoons and they lay there, shirtless, hands clasped together on eliott’s chest, and let the rain fall onto them, cool and light, petrichor in the air.
"you're going to have to change your sheets," lucas points out lazily.
"i know."
"are you sure it’s worth it? changing the sheets is, like, one of the worst chores."
"are you happy?" he asks.
"yes,” lucas says, simple and earnest, and it feels like a gift.
"so am i. so it's worth it.” he punctuates this statement, brushing his lips slowly across the line of his jaw, cool and wet, intending to do the same to his cheeks, his nose, the delicate skin under his eyes, but lucas turns his head and captures eliott’s bottom lip between his own. impatient. perfect.
“and you're wrong," eliott says, when they eventually break apart.
lucas’ expression, dazed, confused, pouting, is unbearably charming. "about what?"
"vacuuming and mopping is the worst. or laundry. sheets are okay."
lucas squints, like he disagrees, but that’s okay. knowing where the other stands will make it easier to delegate chores when they move in together. instead of continuing the conversation, however, lucas turns onto his back, eyes closed, neck tilted up to catch more of the rain. the world blurs away.
scene: a beautiful boy stands in a small room, the ceiling low and tight, the crowd suffocating. there is only one door, and outside the world is large and rain soaked, the water coaxing radiant colour from everything, flowers bright, lights sparkling, the earth rich. there is something waiting for him out there, something big, something spectacular. the crowd, dense and filling the room with pressure, stand in the way. but he could make it, if he tried, if he fought.
“i want to stay here with you forever,” lucas says, his quiet voice breaking eliott out of his head, blinking back to the real world. lucas is looking at him, serene and smiling, rain drops dancing down his nose, his cheeks.
“you do?”
he nods simply, eyes vivid despite the muted light, and it reminds him of a million moments, but brightest is them at le petit ceinture, with the rain and a flashlight as their only witnesses. eliott’s chest, his body, is suddenly too small for his heart, raw and glowing and encompassing everything. “so do i,” he says softly. “i love being in the rain with you. maybe we belong in the rain.”
“oh yeah?”
eliott nods, his smile growing, an idea forming. “if i ever make a follow up of polaris i think that’s what it will be about.” he thinks, again, of a beautiful boy in a crowded room and yearning for the rain outside.
“can polaris have a sequel? it’s so beautiful on its own.”
he hums and hooks a hand around lucas’ waist, slick and a little cold, to drag him closer. “you’re right. so not a sequel but something...adjacent. my own cinematic universe.” silly, perhaps, and more than a little fanciful, but the idea feels right nonetheless.
“the eliott demaury cinematic universe,” lucas repeats, like he’s testing it out, and eliott can feel his eyes crinkle with his smile. “i like it. what will the first one be about? you can’t redo polaris.” the way he says polaris, with weight, with meaning , sends warmth through his veins.
his answer takes a minute, but feels inevitable once he lands on it. “shame,” he says, and watches lucas’ expression carefully, watches his eyes widen, blue tinted with something he can’t interpret, his unsteady exhale. “shame and pride. that’s where the rain comes in.”
“sounds... cathartic,” lucas says, voice wondering and loaded, his hand curled tight around eliott’s hip as if to keep him in place. eliott doesn’t know if he’s aware of it, can sense a cluster of thoughts behind his eyes, mind whirring. once again seeing something eliott isn’t privy to. then, he’s grinning. “it sounds perfect,” he says and ducks in to kiss eliott quickly, one, twice, thrice, before leaning back. “i want to star in it.”
almost desperately eliott wants to know what he’s thinking, what that initial reaction meant. “you’re a terrible actor,” he protests instead.
lucas shakes his head, his hair slouching to the side, some of it clumped together from the light rain. “i’m an amazing actor, probably, and you can’t prove otherwise.” and conversation over, apparently, because he rolls closer and nestles his face into eliott’s neck, winds his hand on eliott’s hip around to press on the small of his back, keeping eliott close, enveloped in lemon myrtle and the strength of lucas' touch. his hair tickles eliott’s chin, and his sheets are going to be soaked where the rain pools around their twined bodies, and he never wants to move again.
over lucas’ shoulder eliott can see the plate of their late lunch, orange and red and green catching his attention, the fruit curiously bright next to the small bowl of usb sticks and a stack of books, including a carlo rovelli book lucas had lent him in exchange for a collection of anna de noailles poetry eliott had fallen in love with. it was a hardcover but eliott had taken the sleeve off once he got a glimpse of the book underneath, purple and gold and lovelier than he expected a book about time and physics to be encased in. maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised, though. after spending many many hours listening to lucas ramble on about it all, biology and physics and mathematics and plenty of other things falling under the science umbrella, he’d recognised the beauty and joy lucas found in it, in the complexity and majesty and mystery of their universe. eliott didn’t always see it, but knowing other people did, including whoever designed the book apparently, feels good. feels right. he doesn’t always remember, but there is beauty everywhere and in everything. and how lucky he is to have lucas, who reminds him of that when eliott’s world goes grey and flat, who has his own interests in an area eliott barely thinks about, and reveals to him the possibility of beauty where he wasn’t looking.
he hasn’t started reading it yet, despite the intriguing premise. lucas hasn’t indicated if he’s started the poetry eliott gave him. the pages are heavily underlined where the words stuck in eliott’s throat, and he half expects a trickle of questions about why he chose certain parts to underline, to mark significant, when lucas does eventually open it. of course, maybe not all of it will require explanation.
are kisses rising to you like water dissolving?
surely lucas will understand the significance of that.