Work Text:
Lucas set himself up on the sofa while Chris got the snacks. DVDs were strew across the coffee table, Oscar noms and B movies alike. They settled on a period drama about a royal affair, leaving the subtitles on for Chris' benefit.
They started at opposite ends of the sofa, each leaning on an arm. Chris tucked his feet up, toes brushing Lucas' thigh. Twenty minutes in he shifted and they were shoulder to shoulder. By the time the affair had begun his body was slumped against Lucas' and he was struggling to keep his eyes open.
Lucas felt an unnerving excitement fluttering in his gut, even after all their previous hours of proximity. Over-sized butterflies with dusty wings tickled his insides, making him restless under Chris' weight. It had him reaching for snacks every few minutes and, when he couldn't take anymore popcorn or bite-sized Snickers, he started in on the hard lemonade. He sipped and sipped and realized too late it'd force him to get up.
He slipped out from beneath Chris, careful not to wake him, and hurried to the bathroom. When he returned the film was rolling credits. It was time to go but as he looked at Chris, cheek smooshed against cushions, his body raising and falling with breath, he realized he didn't want to leave.
Unsteady on his feet he grabbed another movie from the table and switched out the DVDs. Then, clumsily, he lifted Chris enough get back under him. The other man's head settled in his lap, pillowed on his thigh. In an afterthought, Lucas removed Chris' glasses.
It was in the last few minutes of Brooklyn that Chris woke to the trembling of Lucas' body. His muscles tightened and shook, a hand pressed firm over his mouth to stifle his hiccuped sobs. He always was a sad drunk.
"You'll feel so homesick that you'll want to die," the movie's voice over said, "and there's nothing you can do about it apart from endure it."
Chris pushed himself up. Lucas hardly noticed. A ruined napkin was crumpled in his hand, glasses slightly askew on his nose.
"But you will, and it won't kill you . . ."
Sleep still fogged Chris' mind, his tongue heavy as lead. He didn't try to speak. Instead he scooted closer and wrapped Lucas up in his arms. Lucas' free hand clutched at his wrist, he opened his mouth - maybe to (needlessly) apologize - and then shut it.
". . . and one day the sun will come out and you'll realize . . ."
They were all limbs, graceless as they shifted. Chris pressed his lips to Lucas' neck, to his cheek, to the corner of his mouth. It was Lucas that pulled him in for a proper kiss, wanting closeness. Never before had he been so bold. Chris let him take what he needed, gave best he could. Lucas' tears slowed and all at once he nodded off into sleep.
" . . . that this is where your life is."
Chris, now wide awake, moved only to pull a blanket over them and to grab a sketchbook. There was one within reach at the end of coffee table beneath The Silence of the Lambs and King Arthur.
He started Brooklyn over, having missed it the first time through. He missed most of this go, too, more focused on sketching. Lucas looked lovely in this lighting. It would make the perfect painting.