Eliot checks his phone as soon as he’s out of the shower, and can’t help frowning at how neutral Jack’s reply sounds. He doesn’t know why he feels disappointed, since it’s what he wanted—for everything to be like normal. It’s the most sensible way to proceed now, and it seems like Jack agrees.
He sighs and writes: Great, looking forward to it and does his best not to dwell on it as he gets dressed.
The next few days drag out slowly. Eliot throws himself into work, but it’s a poor distraction. Optimizing storage solutions for dubious magical records isn’t how he ever expected to spend his days, but it keeps his mind more or less occupied—at least enough that no one else at the Archive notices that anything’s going on with him. Or if they do notice, they have the courtesy not to ask.
He thinks about it, alone at night, while trying not to think about being alone: he’s always done an impeccable job of appearing unruffled by anything life throws at him. He’s always been the one who’s always fine, as far as friends were concerned. The mask only ever slipped when he was at his worst with the drinking. And Jack, for whatever reason, is frighteningly good at reading him, and Eliot has to take extra care now. So he puts the whiskey away and doesn’t touch it, after that first dismal night.
But he needs something to chase off his thoughts. So instead he coaxes himself to sleep remembering the feel of Jack’s hands on him, the ghost of fingers twined with his.
—-
Thursday morning Eliot wakes early, and spends an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear. He’s uncertain what sort of tone to strike; he wants to have things be as they used to, but he can’t forget the sight of Jack looking at him with open desire. He wants that look more than he wants to be sensible. And it’s going to be a hot day, so what’s one more shirt button undone, in the grand scheme of things?
Eliot puts in an earring—a single pearl drop—in an effort to feel a bit more regal. Partly to gain a sense of control over himself and his day, but there’s also the thing Jack said, about Eliot hiding, that’s stuck with him days later. He doesn’t think of himself as hiding, but maybe if he withholds a little less, in this respect at least, it’ll give Jack less incentive to pry.
He sighs as he tucks the rings into a pocket of his jeans. The dagger is trickier, but fits in his satchel without looking too awkward. He hates to feel like he’s held Jack’s things hostage.
The cafe is crowded, but Eliot manages to claim a table by the window. He looks at the passersby outside and waits to order until Jack arrives. It’s not long before he catches sight of dark hair and hunched shoulders; Eliot feels silly and bubbly without even making eye contact, and he works to tamp down a smile before waving to get Jack’s attention.
no subject
He sighs and writes: Great, looking forward to it and does his best not to dwell on it as he gets dressed.
The next few days drag out slowly. Eliot throws himself into work, but it’s a poor distraction. Optimizing storage solutions for dubious magical records isn’t how he ever expected to spend his days, but it keeps his mind more or less occupied—at least enough that no one else at the Archive notices that anything’s going on with him. Or if they do notice, they have the courtesy not to ask.
He thinks about it, alone at night, while trying not to think about being alone: he’s always done an impeccable job of appearing unruffled by anything life throws at him. He’s always been the one who’s always fine, as far as friends were concerned. The mask only ever slipped when he was at his worst with the drinking. And Jack, for whatever reason, is frighteningly good at reading him, and Eliot has to take extra care now. So he puts the whiskey away and doesn’t touch it, after that first dismal night.
But he needs something to chase off his thoughts. So instead he coaxes himself to sleep remembering the feel of Jack’s hands on him, the ghost of fingers twined with his.
—-
Thursday morning Eliot wakes early, and spends an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear. He’s uncertain what sort of tone to strike; he wants to have things be as they used to, but he can’t forget the sight of Jack looking at him with open desire. He wants that look more than he wants to be sensible. And it’s going to be a hot day, so what’s one more shirt button undone, in the grand scheme of things?
Eliot puts in an earring—a single pearl drop—in an effort to feel a bit more regal. Partly to gain a sense of control over himself and his day, but there’s also the thing Jack said, about Eliot hiding, that’s stuck with him days later. He doesn’t think of himself as hiding, but maybe if he withholds a little less, in this respect at least, it’ll give Jack less incentive to pry.
He sighs as he tucks the rings into a pocket of his jeans. The dagger is trickier, but fits in his satchel without looking too awkward. He hates to feel like he’s held Jack’s things hostage.
The cafe is crowded, but Eliot manages to claim a table by the window. He looks at the passersby outside and waits to order until Jack arrives. It’s not long before he catches sight of dark hair and hunched shoulders; Eliot feels silly and bubbly without even making eye contact, and he works to tamp down a smile before waving to get Jack’s attention.