[ Said absently, in an off-handed sort of way as Eliot moves through the kitchen and brushes his fingers along the back of Quentin's neck as he passes. They have the rooms for it. He's surprised they haven't done it already, but maybe there just hasn't been time between bullshit. They usually just recover in time for something new to happen, but they make it work.
They work well together.
They've always worked well together and they've always known it, even when they were acting like they didn't.
On the counter is an alcohol Eliot's distilling. He's experimenting with different things, different bases and magic additives and alcohol proofs. A pet project that's maybe more precise than people generally give him credit for. He takes a taste and exhales a long, weary sigh. ]
Mmm. [ A noncommital noise at the desk comment. He's heard it but it hasn't registered, pouring over tests with a combination of eyes-glazed-over and the occasional disappointment or impressed surge, depending on the student. He doesn't want a desk. He likes the table. he likes seeing the door open from here when Eliot comes home.
He's wincing at his own problem: someone who hasn't been paying attention who clearly doesn't understand what integers are--when the other's overdramatic sigh actually gets him to pull away. Quentin sets the paper down (he'll rant about it later) and half-turns in his chair to look at Eliot with the barest hints of an upturned smile. ]
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[ Said absently, in an off-handed sort of way as Eliot moves through the kitchen and brushes his fingers along the back of Quentin's neck as he passes. They have the rooms for it. He's surprised they haven't done it already, but maybe there just hasn't been time between bullshit. They usually just recover in time for something new to happen, but they make it work.
They work well together.
They've always worked well together and they've always known it, even when they were acting like they didn't.
On the counter is an alcohol Eliot's distilling. He's experimenting with different things, different bases and magic additives and alcohol proofs. A pet project that's maybe more precise than people generally give him credit for. He takes a taste and exhales a long, weary sigh. ]
Well that tastes like shit.
no subject
He's wincing at his own problem: someone who hasn't been paying attention who clearly doesn't understand what integers are--when the other's overdramatic sigh actually gets him to pull away. Quentin sets the paper down (he'll rant about it later) and half-turns in his chair to look at Eliot with the barest hints of an upturned smile. ]
I bet it's not that bad--let me try?