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They’re in quarantine for an undetermined amount of time, locked in their apartment with a pile of books for Eliott, and movies for both of them. It sounds nice - and it is, in the beginning, when they can spend their days snuggled up on the couch, with a cup of hot chocolate each.
And it’s still nice when they (eh, Lucas) try out new recipes and organize a date night for them, up in their parisian apartment on a Tuesday night. They play footsies under the table, hold hands across the dark wood of their kitchen table, a candle burning between them. Eventually, they put out the candle and stumble into their bedroom, pressing each other down into the mattress.
Life in quarantine is still cozy when they wake up tangled together, hands pressed against backs and arms around waists. Gazes locked onto each other, and smiles being hidden in sweet kisses. The sunlight pours onto the duvet, they look at each other, and think about angels.
It’s still nice when Lucas gets too caught up in schoolwork and Eliott doesn’t quite manage to get caught at all - too distracted with sketching his love bent over textbooks, tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth as he takes note after note.
Things aren’t as nice when Eliott accidentally leaves the fridge door open, causing a high sounding beep to scream out into the silence of their apartment. Lucas, bent over his textbooks, flies up into the air, and knocks over his cup of tea, pouring the hot liquid all over his notes.
It’s still not nice when Lucas gets mad and screams at him for it, and when there’s a tightness in Eliott’s chest, crawling higher and higher up his throat. He tumbles out excuse after excuse, feeling the beads of sweat on his forehead.
Eliott feels trapped, then, so he flees into the bathroom, locks the door behind him, and sits down on the toilet lid. He needs to get better at handling anger being directed at him, he knows, but for now, he counts and taps his knee for every number.
Fortunately, things in his life don’t seem to end too sadly as of late, so before he’s even counted to two-hundred, there are taps on the door and Lucas’ voice coming from the other side, muffled and careful.
“Eli, baby, can you open the door for me, please?”
Before either of them knows it, things are good again, heads pillowed on chests as they lie buried in hot and foamy bath water. When they’ve dried off, they read to each other, softly and quietly as they lie curled together.
“You’re the only person whose company doesn’t exhaust me after this long, mon amour .”
“I love you, too, forever.”