If you’re asking, I can’t say no

[eliotwaugh]

The sound of an incoming text stirs Eliot from uneasy sleep. He feels hungry and sick, and part of him wants to curl up and return to unconsciousness, but there’s a sense of urgency from the muddle of half-remembered stress dreams that makes him reach for his phone.

One arm reaches out from the cocoon of the duvet and fumbles at the nightstand. Eliot winces at the chill of cut crystal against his hand, and the subsequent soft thunk as the whiskey glass tumbles to the carpet.

He pushes the duvet off his shoulders and sits up with a groan, peering from the floor to the harsh blue light of the phone. At least the glass had been empty. Eliot squints at the phone as he reads the message—it takes a moment to parse and it sounds normal enough, but he wonders what the fuck Jack actually means.

It’s after midnight. Eliot can’t help wondering what Jack’s doing awake at this hour, if he’s alone in his own bed or unable to sleep. If Eliot had just asked him to stay, instead of being such a coward, maybe he would have said yes. Maybe he’d be here, instead, and Eliot wouldn’t feel like there’s something missing that keeps him from any sense of peace.

But then, if Jack could see him now, what a mess Eliot is, surely he wouldn’t be asking to do this again.

He seems fine with it being transactional, though. And Eliot wants to do it again, to touch him and make him happy for a while, even if the shame of how much he wants it feels like something stuck in his throat.

He frowns at Jack’s mention of the musician, and feels his stomach churn. His thumb hovers over the reply field a moment before he sighs and replaces the phone face down on the nightstand. He can’t do this now. The most Eliot is capable of is scooting the glass further away so he won’t step on it in the morning.




When Eliot wakes up again there’s light coming through the curtains, and by some small miracle his head doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t feel particularly good, especially when he looks at the food left out, and Jack’s rings. But he’s marginally more capable of dealing with the situation than he’d been last night, so he sighs and looks at the text again.

It takes Eliot a long time to formulate a decent response—he understands that Jack had something of an open relationship in the past, and it seems he’s just inclined that way. And since he’s made it clear that anything he does with Eliot is educational, Eliot has no right to ask him not to see Jacob. He really shouldn’t even be bothered by it. He’s hardly a prude and there’s nothing wrong with the musician, but Eliot can’t bring himself to enjoy the thought of Jack being with him. He simply has to grin and bear it.

Finally, he replies: glad you found it enlightening, I had a splendid time. If you feel like you want more ‘lessons’ I’d be delighted.
Re: Jacob— (Eliot cringes as he types the name) I don’t see why you shouldn’t meet up with him, if you want to. Let me know how it goes!

He’s done a decent enough job of not seeming too desperate to meet up again—but he still needs to confirm the boundary Jack’s set down that they’re just friends. So he’ll be friendly.

Eliot sends another message, hoping their regular social schedule can still happen: Were you still up for coffee on Thursday? Looking forward to it if so

That accomplished, he sets the phone back down. He’s too drained of energy to tidy the mess, but too anxious to sit and wait for Jack’s response. In the end he peels off his socks and garters and drags himself to the bathroom in the hope that a shower will make him feel more like a person.

Comments

[jackrackham]

The beach is made of keys, but that's less important than Eliot pressing him down and pinning his hands back above his head. The keys press into the bare skin of his back, a mix of hard lines and sharp points that pierce his skin. As Eliot smirks down at him he grins back. They're both panting- It feels like they've been at this for hours now, just grappling in this unwelcoming terrain.

"You haven't won yet," he says, and Eliot's hands tighten on his wrists. He's pleasantly sore, but he thinks that he probably has enough strength left in him to get the upper hand one more time.

It takes an effort of will to shift his weight and push Eliot back. Instead of to the side, he kicks at Eliot's knee and lunges forward. The weight of them both landing creates a small crater in the vast mass of keys. Water washes up to meet them, mixing their blood with the faded rust of iron keys and pulling both back out to the ocean in a pink foam.

Jack has his hands at Eliot's shoulders and his knees are soaked through with salt water and blood. He smiles down at him, but the expression on Eliot's face has changed to something confused and pained. There's too much blood. The small crater of keys has filled with it, red and thick. Where is it all coming from?

"No, wait-" Jack runs his hands over Eliot's chest in a panic. "What happened?" The water slides in in swooping eddies and the harsh beach below them shifts. As Jack tries to keep water away from Eliot's face, Eliot coughs, spattering blood across Jack's face.

"No- come here- please-" He fumbles off of Eliot and plunges his hands below the rising water trying to pull him up, but Eliot's arms have sunk beneath the heavy weight of keys. It smells of salt and iron and blood, and his fingers are getting torn up in the effort to shift large masses of iron weight. Whatever he shifts aside only seems to make Eliot sink further beneath the water and the keys. Eliot is only breathing by straining his mouth above the water now.

A golden key shines, floating in the water, small and flat like a key from the future. Jack grabs it. It's a warm, soft metal, and he knows that he must be able to use this to fix this, to save Eliot. It's the answer, but he doesn't know how to use it. He kneels down, trying to dig his hand under Eliot's head to lift it up. Eliot is gasping for air.

"Eliot, I found a golden key." He's crying now, the key held tightly in his hand. "Eliot, please, what do I do. Eliot-" Eliot opens his mouth to speak, and it fills with water. A moment later the tide rolls in. He grasps wildly, trying to keep Eliot above water, but the keys pulls him down. When the tide pulls back there are only keys beneath Jack, the only sign that Eliot used to be here the blood mingling with seawater. He puts the golden key in his mouth to keep it safe, and bends again, scrabbling desperately against the heavy mass of keys.

---

Jack wakes, curled over his desk, his head buried in his arms. His heart is pounding and it takes him a moment to reorient himself and remember where he is. Slowly, he pushes himself up, his back and neck protesting as he straightens and stretches his shoulders back. The imagery from his dream is still vivid in his memory and he tilts his head back down to rub sleep and tears from his eyes.

"Jesus Christ." He's no stranger to nightmares, but he's never had one that involved Eliot before now. He feels a little bit ill, though he's not sure if it's after effects from the nightmare or not. Maybe he just needs to take a bath and eat something. He reaches out for his phone, part of him needing to check immediately that Eliot is okay.

The texts waiting for him there are confusing and he doesn't think that he can reply immediately. Instead, he sets the phone back on the desk and stands to pace around the room a few times. Once his heart rate feels like it's returned to normal he goes back to the desk. Perched on the edge, he grabs up his phone and reads the texts again.

Eliot says he wants him again, maybe, though now Jack regrets framing his own flirting as a teacher/student relationship. How Eliot responds makes the whole thing sound impersonal and transactional. Following that offer up with encouragement to pursue Jacob feels dispiriting. The idea of trying to find in Jacob some portion of what he feels for Eliot is exhausting, but what other choice does he have?

He sighs and opens up the reply field, pausing to think of a reply. He's not sure if Eliot would welcome him flirting, or if he would rather he save that energy for Jacob. He's not even sure how to flirt in a way that Eliot would like.

Eventually, he writes, Of course, I'll see you then.

[eliotwaugh]

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.

[jackrackham]

In the morning, Jack stares into the mirror in the bathroom- freshly showered and shaved. He runs a hand down the embroidered placket of his linen shirt, a careful little vine a gentle contrast against the soft green fabric. He'd finished it yesterday and it feels like a detail that Eliot would appreciate, but all the same he worries that Eliot might begin to realize that the handkerchief he'd gifted him wasn't purely store-bought.

He does up the buttons at the similarly embroidered cuffs, then quickly unbuttons them again. He wants to look nice, but he wants to look like himself too. He abandons the mirror and heads out of the apartment. He feels nervous about seeing Eliot today, but changing his clothes again isn't going to help.

As he walks to the little cafe that they visit every week, he wonders if there's a way he can ask Eliot if he'd done something wrong the other night, or if he hurt him somehow, but maybe it's better that he just follow Eliot's lead about how to act now.

It is good to see him. He waves back as he enters, and he can't help but smile as he sits down.

"'Morning." Eliot looks handsome- Jack's eyes flick down briefly to take in the unbuttoned front of his shirt, but he quickly averts his eyes, feeling embarrassed by his own interest. Out of habit he lifts his hand to push back through his hair, but pauses before completing the gesture. Given what Eliot had told him before, it might seem like he's asking for something.

"Have you ordered yet?" Jack says, but Eliot doesn't have time to answer before the barista sidles up to their table.

"Hey guys, don't you both look handsome. Want the usual?" Jack is relieved by the chance to be a little less awkward. He nods. "You're a marvel, yes. And whatever's freshest out of the oven?" He smiles when she offers a chocolate croissant. Once she's confirmed what Eliot wants, she smiles at them and leaves.

Jack pulls over the little ceramic container of sugar packets and fiddles with it, ruffling his thumb over the densely packed grouping as he looks up at Eliot. He smiles cautiously. "Look at that, we're predictable. Maybe we need to change things up next time."

[eliotwaugh]

Normally, Eliot likes being looked at. He certainly likes the little flutter of excitement he feels at being around Jack, now they’re both conscious of the attraction between them. But he doesnt feel at ease here.

Instead, he’s itchy at being seen as predictable. The cafe is a comfort; he likes good service, and he likes the barista well enough, but today it feels like he’s too exposed.

The thwip of the sugar packets is intrusive, too, and he has to force himself not to stare at Jack’s hands. There’s a moment where all Eliot can think of is the memory of his touch. He didn’t expect it would be this difficult to have a casual arrangement, and it’s clear Jack’s nervous too. Eliot needs to appear calm for both their sakes, and they can have a friendly conversation, and then with any luck they’ll look back on this and laugh.

“Well I hate to think that I’m being boring,” he answers, looking around the cafe. His gaze settles on the curling embroidered vine on Jack’s shirt, and he wants to simply reach out and run his fingers over it, but that would be far too intimate. A violation.
“But we can certainly go somewhere else next time, if you like. In the spirit of…trying new things.”

“That is a nice shirt, though,” Eliot says carefully, clearing his throat. “It looks good on you.” He feels his mouth twitch in something like a smile, but he doesn’t ask where Jack got it. Doesn’t want to see him lie about it. He wishes Jack didn’t feel the need to hide it from him.

“Oh, and—” Eliot fishes in his pocket for the rings, feeling like he’s floundering in the conversation before it’s even begun, “here, I seem to be making a habit of holding your things hostage.” He drops them gently onto Jack’s palm. “Sorry about that. I have the knife, too, just…” he glances at the counter, where the barista’s making drinks that might be theirs. “In a bit, don’t want to go slinging blades around in a cafe.” Eliot laughs, soft and a little self-deprecating. “You’ve been all right?”

[jackrackham]

Trying new things, indeed. Seeing Eliot again just makes Jack remember how he looked like a painting under the drifting magical lights, how soft his hands had been. He looks down to his own hands, and when he looks back up he catches the faint smile that Eliot gives him. He lifts a hand to smooth down the fresh embroidery, uncertain what to say. He can't tell Eliot that he embroidered the detailed stitches himself, especially now that hiding his true feelings is even more important, but he does appreciate the compliment anyway.

It's strange- now that they've had sex, it's a little easier to accept that Eliot is genuine in his compliments, but something uncertain still remains. Eliot had seemed too quiet and troubled afterward for Jack to earnestly believe that everything is alright between them.

Jack takes the rings back when Eliot offers them and closes his fist around them, holding up his fist knuckles-forward to show Eliot the tan lines on his fingers where the rings are missing.

"Doesn't quite feel like my hand without them there." As he slides them back on his fingers there's also a quiet and, he thinks, faintly ridiculous thrill at the idea of wearing rings that had been warmed in Eliot's pocket. He wonders if Eliot had tried them on.

Instead of answering Eliot's question how he knows Eliot intends it, he sidesteps it. Jack nods and starts in talking about the newest information he's found in books at the library- a new chapter in a history of Darrow and by extension this world. If he were to talk about how he feels it would be a different and more difficult conversation. He hasn't really been all right and Eliot knows that- Eliot doesn't need to hear a rehash of his troubles.

When the barista calls them up, Jack pays (it's his turn) and carries back their coffees and two danishes. Eliot has pulled a notebook out of his bag by the time he's back and Jack sets their order down then leans over the table, examining the pages. He's surprised and pleased when he can recognize and understand a couple mathematical formulas.

"You're finding...the area of a sphere?" Jack changes seats so he can see the paper better, sitting catty-corner to Eliot instead of across from him. Their knees jostle together in a pleasant way as he turns the page a little more towards him. The closeness isn't unusual for these breakfast meetings, but today he has to push past a feeling of awkwardness and uncertainty. He glances to Eliot's face and then redirects his gaze down to the paper instead, skimming his fingers over notation that he recognizes only as magical. "Is this about the barrier?"

[eliotwaugh]

Eliot smiles, startled despite himself when Jack comes to sit closer and examine his notes.

“Yes,” he answers, losing a moment in staring at Jack’s fingers. “If it is a sphere, that is. I mean that’s what I’d like to find out, and you—” he’s getting ahead of himself, and he wants to explain, but it’s difficult. Jack likes knowing things, and he inspired this idea, but with him sitting closer Eliot can smell his hair. He remembers how soft it felt, how satisfying to have his hands in. For an insane moment he wants to lean in and kiss his neck.

He gives Jack a quick, apologetic smile and clears his throat. “You mentioned…going out on the water to try the boundary from there,” Eliot says, avoiding the mention of both Anne and the circumstances under which Jack told him about it. “And it got me thinking about how I hadn’t examined it from that angle, and what else I might have overlooked in accepting what people said, about not being able to leave here.”

“What I’d like to do is get a series of measurements of the barrier, to see if there’s a curve to it, and from there calculate the overall size of the thing.” He glances as Jack and sees him nod, and remembers the books and notes in Jack’s sparse apartment, how he feels like he doesn’t know enough and how he chafes at that.

Eliot continues his reasoning, drawing more diagrams on the notebook between them. He drifts from physics to philosophy as he speculates about what the possible shape of the barrier might mean, if it’s something deliberately put in place, or a naturally-formed aspect of this world.

“Like a pearl growing around a contaminant,” he says, and Jack’s hand stills on the page for a moment. “If it’s natural there could be imperfections, weak spots somewhere. Or maybe it’s artificial like a column, and in that case how high does it extend?”

Because if its purpose is to contain people inside it, Eliot reasons, it only needs to extend as far as a person could reasonably go. He smirks at Jack as he theorizes that with enough magic layered on him he could do some very unreasonable things, and if the barrier has an opening or an edge deep underground or in the stratosphere, he would be able to go there and find it.

“That would take months and months of preparation,” he adds, swallowing a too-large bite of danish. “But if there’s a way out to the rest of this world, then…”

What then? Eliot knows Jack wants to leave. He doesn’t want him to leave, but he would feel terrible saying that. “I miss New York,” he offers, but he’s not sure it sounds at all convincing. “We could..I don’t know. There’s a world beyond the city limits, and a limit to what we can understand about it, stuck inside here.”

Eliot shrugs. The logic is sound, he thinks, but it feels like an insufficient kind of compromise. But he has to do something to try and make Jack a little happier. Just like encouraging Jack to go on a date with the musician, he thinks. Eliot has no hope of a future with him, can’t even envision the possibility beyond a vague sense of wanting, and in the meantime he has to construct a kind of sacrifice that he can live with.

“So it’s very early days, this idea,” he says. “And in the meantime…well, you’re meeting up with Jacob for some music appreciation, how are you feeling about that?” Eliot smiles. He really does want to be excited for Jack with this, but it’s hard work. “Do you know what you’re going to wear?”

[jackrackham]

It's charming how Eliot gets focused once he starts theorizing: sketching out equations and tipping the paper to show Jack each new possibility with renewed interest. He lets himself get caught up in the flow of his excitement. It's easy to fall into an easy rhythm with Eliot, the mathematical possibilities making way for more philosophical questions about the barrier itself. He's able to understand at least the equations behind Eliot's theories- he wants to impress him, but in this he can settle for keeping up.

He stills when Eliot compares the barrier to a pearl. He hadn't considered that the barrier might be some natural process. He's not sure if that's more or less concerning that it being deliberate and man-made or some sort of sentient being in its own right. He is encouraged by the idea that some spot in the barrier might be weaker or that there might be an as-yet undiscovered opening.

Eliot smirks at him and Jack's breath catches in his throat. As Eliot talks about doing something that by all accounts sounds reckless, difficult, and incredibly brave, Jack thinks of leaning over him in bed, of the softness of his lips. He smells nice this morning, the fresh smell of his soap mingling with the smell of pastry and coffee, and more than anything he wants to kiss him again. Jack's gaze slips from Eliot's lips to his pearl earring, then back to the notebook.

He knows that Eliot must feel confined here, as much because of the literal confinement as his desire for bigger cities and more exciting places and people. Maybe, even in this alternate reality, he would feel better back in New York. He does wonder...if Eliot's magic can break through the barrier there's a chance that it could only bring Eliot through. It is nice, though, that Eliot seems to assume they would travel together- at least to begin with. Maybe this project is what they both need. A goal. Something concrete to focus on. It's no use worrying about what would happen on the other side of the barrier when they don't even know if they can get through.

He nods, smiling softly back at Eliot. "I've never been to New York. I'd like to see it. With a proper guide, of course."

The shift to talk about Jacob of all things is a surprise, and the interruption from his fantasies about Eliot showing him his favorite places in New York is an unwelcome change. He leans back in his chair and shrugs. "I don't know," he says, answering both questions. "I don't have anything special to wear, but it's barely a date anyway."

Eliot surprises him by offering to lend him clothes to wear. Without really thinking about it, Jack accepts. A few minutes later, They're heading out of the cafe and back to Eliot's place. It's only once they're outside that Jack starts wondering about Eliot's motivations. Is it really just that he wants to help him make a good impression on Jacob? Normally he'd be heading off to the archive by now.

Feeling awkward and unsure, he tucks his hands into his pockets, "Did you have a favorite place in New York?"

[eliotwaugh]

The minute he makes the offer, Eliot wonders what the fuck he’s doing here. He’s not quite sure what he intends, other than it seemed like a normal, helpful thing to do for a friend, and that’s what he wants to be for Jack. Still, the thought of Jack with another man—one who’s friendly and unobjectionable and free to express his feelings—makes him feel a little sick.

So he’s grateful for Jack’s question about New York, since it pulls his mind back to more certain ground. Eliot smiles thoughtfully, and spends a moment in comfortable quiet as they walk.

“There were a few,” he says, and looks at Jack, a bit hesitant. “The thing is, you have to understand, I wasn’t…at my best when I lived there.” Eliot glances up at the trees whose shadows dapple the sidewalk. “I enjoyed it immensely but I was also just…drunk and dissolute and my memories of that time are all sensation and no meaning. I know it won’t be the same as my New York, but I want to see it sober, to see if the city really is as vibrant as I felt it was, then.”

“The art is amazing,” Eliot adds. Of that he’s certain. “The sculpture halls of the metropolitan museum were always so nice to walk through, and there’s a garden on the roof of the building that has a restaurant and fantastic views. Wonderful place for brunch.”

He catches Jack looking at him as he waxes poetic about the food from all over the world, the little old shops hidden away like treasure that you can only seem to find by wandering without an objective. And it’s good to talk about it, and be listened to. Escaping Darrow might be a pipe dream for all Eliot knows, but it’s still nice to think about taking Jack to see the sights.

“And there’s the clothes, of course,” Eliot says, as they reach his building. “If I want anything really nice here I have to order it online, which of course is just further proof that there’s a world beyond the barrier, but the thing is it’s not the same as actually going and looking at a piece in person and being able to touch it and try it on. To say nothing of being able to go to a real tailor and have something made bespoke. You’d love the garment district.”

Eliot’s dimly aware that he’s babbling to cover the bit of anxiety he feels at having Jack back at his place. But it’s different now, he reminds himself. There’s sun coming in through the windows, and if there’s tension in the air it’s nothing like the other night.

In fact, it feels more like the first outing they ever went on, taking Jack to get modern clothes. His motives were jumbled then, too, a tangle of curiosity and some fucked-up idea of patronage and pushing his luck to see what this man was about. Somehow, despite how overbearing he was, Jack didn’t mind his friendship. Perhaps that’s what he’s trying to reaffirm today.

He carefully avoids looking at his bed, when he starts rummaging in the closet for shirts that might strike the right tone.
“One benefit of ordering things sight unseen,” he gives Jack a little laugh, “I have ended up with a few pieces that might be more your style than mine.”

[jackrackham]

Watching Eliot's face as he talks about New York makes Jack ache to see him there in at least one of the places he calls home. The places he describes, too, sound wonderful...public museums, sculpture galleries, food from countries who's names he doesn't recognize. What would Eliot be like there, he wonders, and would Eliot enjoy being his guide?

Entering Eliot's bedroom again feels different, but in the light of day it doesn't hold the same weight that it did the other night. As Eliot turns towards the closet, Jack's gaze rests for a moment on the bed, thinking of Eliot beneath him, motes of light illuminating his face.

He follows behind Eliot once he's pulls a few things from the closet and hangs them facing out for Jack to consider...three different light buttoned shirts, two pairs of trousers, one a crisp natural linen, the other a chocolate brown denim. Jack takes his place in front of the closet and reaches out to feel the material. His hands glide briefly over things that weren't chosen...silks, crisp dark cotton with immaculate collars, the soft leather of his riding jacket, before he considers the shirts that Eliot had pulled out.

"You have such fine things..." The first is fine cotton, long sleeved but light and flowing instead of crisp shirting. He feels the length of the sleeves and lingers on the reinforced cuffs. The second is linen with wide-woven strips sewn down the front, skillfully crafted. The third, bewilderingly, seems to be crafted in a way he's not familiar with at all...some craft that is neither lace nor knitting but somewhere in between. Certainly the most provocative choice, given that he can still see his hand behind both layers of fabric. "What is this, lace?" The pattern certainly is beautiful- fine ornate scallops rendered in thin embroidery floss.

He jerks away before he even registers the touch- Eliot's hand at his temple, probably trying to tuck his hair back. He'd been so distracted by the shirt that he hadn't noticed Eliot reaching out to him. He sucks a breath in between his teeth, aggravated at himself for pulling away from Eliot again. Hadn't he told himself to be more aware of the possibility? And here, again, he wasn't prepared.

"Goddammit." He takes a step back, bumps into the closet door, and knocks down one of the pairs of trousers. "God-" He bends to pick up the trousers, hangs them roughly back where they were on the back of the closet door, then glances back to Eliot, feeling embarrassed and frustrated. Eliot has taken a step back, giving him space, and he knows that this time he's going to have to explain himself.

When he speaks, his frustration with himself is clear. "It's...I don't mean to bolt like a frightened horse every time you try to touch me. I keep telling myself to be prepared for it, but..." He drops his gaze to the ground for a moment then looks back to the trousers he'd just hung up instead of back to Eliot. He wonders if this is strange or unattractive to tell the truth here, but he doesn't want Eliot to feel like the problem. "I don't know- Even with Anne it was usually just in bed. I knew when to expect it, with her."

He huffs and reaches out to feel the fabric of the lace-like shirt again. It's a comforting texture.

"People don't touch me. Not like you do."

[eliotwaugh]

The way Jack touches things is so delicate. Eliot watches him examine the clothes, and can’t help thinking of the way it felt to have Jack’s hands on his skin. He shivers at the memory of such overwhelming care.

“It’s crochet-” Eliot starts to reply to the question, shifting a bit to look over Jack’s shoulder. He reaches out, almost unconscious, to brush a lock of hair out of the way, or to echo Jack’s own careful, maddening touch. But Jack jerks away –of course he does-- and Eliot steps back in immediate horror at himself.

It only lasts a moment, though, as it soon becomes clear that Jack’s frustration is directed inward. Eliot takes a breath and watches him, the jerky attempts to regain his composure. And he aches at the explanation Jack gives, wondering how his life, even in a more violent time and place, has left him so bereft. There’s so much to make up for, Eliot thinks, and it’s more than a wish or a need, it feels like an injustice or a wrong he needs to right. It stirs the fierce, possessive streak in him that normally is reserved for Fillory.

Maybe in the future Jack will have stopped being skittish, and formed attachments with other people to help fill this gulf of neglect, but not right now.

Now Eliot looks at him and thinks, mine. Mine to comfort, mine to protect.

“But you don’t mind?”

He has to confirm, Eliot can’t ignore the deep-rooted certainty that he’s too much, but something about the way Jack mentions him separately from ‘people’ makes him smile, hopeful, as he asks it.

He feels a little deranged at the thought. Eliot lets out a shaky breath and tries not to think how easy it would be to keep this odd, charming man all to himself. For someone who’s been so bereft of kind touch it would hardly take any affirmation, and Eliot could have him, his careful hands and soft huffs of laughter on his skin whenever he wanted.

Until he ruined it, of course. The horrible needy thing that lives in him would claw its way to the surface, a suffocating bramble, and Jack would grow annoyed or tired with him and leave him and that would be worse than never having had him at all.

“I’ll just do better at not startling you in that case, yeah?” He smiles, trying to sound at all normal, and telegraphs the movement as he rests a hand on Jack’s shoulder. Eliot keeps his hand there, steady, though it’s an inadequate substitute when his instinct is either to pull Jack into an embrace or drop to his knees before him.

Eliot clears his throat. “But uh, yeah it’s called crochet, they make it with a little hooked thing–I honestly didn’t realize it wasn’t ancient.” He laughs quietly. “I think you’d look good in it.” Eliot’s gaze drifts over Jack’s face, down the line of his throat. “But then I think you look good in a lot of things, so…perhaps I’m not the best judge.”

Eliot takes a small step back, breaking contact, and tries to remind himself that this is all for stupid chiseled-faced Jacob’s benefit, anyway. But if he starts picturing them together he’ll really make himself crazy. “I don’t know, did you want to try it on, decide for yourself?”

[jackrackham]

"I don't mind." he confirms, dropping his hand from the shirt. When Eliot carefully places a hand on his shoulder, he lets the gentle weight of it turn him away from the shirt and the closet. He feels his heart rate pick up pace with the physical reminder of what Eliot touching him with intent felt like the other night.

He watches as Eliot's gaze drifts from his face to his throat, no doubt looking at the still healing cut there. Maybe it's that reminder of him under a blade that makes Eliot step back and put distance between them again. The gentle laugh and the compliment together feels almost self-effacing, but Jack remembers Eliot over him pinning to the sand and grinning, he remembers his steady gaze. Could it be that Eliot's step back is a distance he's inviting him to breach?

"They'll fit. I trust you on the impression." He says mildly, taking a moment to hold up the brown jeans against the crochet shirt, before hanging them together on the closet door. He can trust Eliot's fashion sense for this era; he doubts that he would steer him wrong or point him to something that would be inappropriate or unflattering. What he wears for Jacob hardly matters to him anyway. This date is an exercise in proving to himself that he can learn on his own what being with men is like, here. That he might learn to Love Jacob or live with him feels like an academic proposal as much as Jacob's own interest in him as an artifact from a bygone time. He'll go and then see how he feels after.

Eliot is different- He wishes that an academic approach made sense- that he could study his body language and find conclusive evidence about what he wants.

He hesitates for a second, his hand steadying the shirt as he wills himself to bridge the gap between them. It occurs to him then that, even if Eliot does still want him for sex, that the reason he'd been quiet after the last time was that he had wanted him but he'd been expecting a man hard enough not to melt under his soft touch and easy commands. Maybe he'd done it all wrong. Maybe Eliot wanted him to be stronger, and this weakness here is just more evidence that he's not what Eliot needs.

His feet feel glued to the ground. If Eliot wants him to be aggressive, he can't bring himself to try. he bites his lip, trying not to fidget or look nervous as he turns back to Eliot. Finally, he manages to take half a step closer, enough to reach out and straighten the already perfectly laid line of the lapel on Eliot's shirt. He raises his eyebrows, questioning, "Unless getting me out of my clothes was the whole point of bringing me back here?"

[eliotwaugh]

Eliot shivers, caught off guard by the question. Jack asked it mildly enough but he’s not wrong, as much as Eliot’s been subconsciously lying to himself about it.

He gives Jack a rather startled smile and considers his response, and doesn’t pull away. He didn’t plan for this, but he’s delighted that Jack feels comfortable enough to take some initiative.

“Not the whole point,” he answers, and it comes out sounding more shy than he’d intended. “I didn’t lure you here under false pretenses, if that’s what you’re wondering. I wanted to help. I do want to help. But…” he looks down at Jack still fingering his lapel, and reaches out to rest a hand on his waist, steady. “I can’t deny it’s tempting. If you’re not put off…?” Eliot tilts his head coyly, already feeling more confident about this possibility with the warm point of contact between them. He bunches his hand in the drape of Jack’s shirt, then smooths it. “Maybe I want to do something nice for you, if you’ll let me.”

When he shifts closer, his gaze drifts from Jack’s eyes to his mouth and then to the thin streak of scabbed red at his throat. It won’t leave a scar and it could pass for a shaving mishap at this point, but Eliot still feels a pang of guilt.

He dips his head down, grasping Jack’s waist more firmly as he presses a gentle kiss to the cut. It’s an apology of sorts, he thinks, but not just that. I put this here. And feeling Jack’s pulse against his lips, it’s harder to think of it as a mistake.

Jack looks a little dazed when he pulls away after a moment. Eliot grins.

“Here, just…have a seat.” He nudges Jack over to the bed without resistance, and looks at him: he’s questioning, maybe, but not uninterested.

He holds Jack's gaze as he sinks to his knees before him, and there’s a splutter of protest that he finds charming, like Jack thinks Eliot's debasing himself.

He smiles, his hands braced on top of Jack’s thighs, feeling the muscles jump under his touch. His face is flushed and he is so very warm.

“I want to make you feel good,” Eliot murmurs, stroking a slow arc with his thumb. It feels like he’s confessing something, too big to keep talking about. He needs his mouth otherwise occupied. “Yeah?”

[jackrackham]

Eliot leans and kisses his neck so gently that Jack aches to kiss him. When Eliot pulls back, his body naturally leans in towards him. It's only been a couple of days but he already misses the feel of lying next to him in bed. Eliot redirects him to the bed and he follows eagerly, but instead of joining him or pushing him further onto the bed, Eliot drops to his knees.

"Eliot- I-" he sputters, not knowing what to do. He nearly says that he doesn't want this, that he wants something more like what they'd done before. He wants to touch Eliot more than this will allow, but he can't admit that once Eliot says that this is what he wants. Maybe what happened before had been too much and that's both why he'd been quiet after before and why he's offering this now instead. Maybe this is all Eliot needs.

Besides, what sort of man would he be if he turned down anyone offering to suck him off, most of all Eliot? He nods, trying to let the slow movement of Eliot's thumbs on his thighs relax him.

Whatever his concerns, they slip away under Eliot's skilled attentions. Eliot is very good at sucking cock. Even absent his hot mouth, his soft lips, Jack is enraptured by the sight of him with his mouth around his cock, how he guides him up to orgasm almost effortlessly then backs off in a way that makes him whine with need.

Afterwards, as Jack tucks himself away, Eliot sighs and rests his head against Jack's thigh. His heart still pounding in his ears, Jack takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then reaches down and brushes his thumb against Eliot's bottom lip, feeling the saliva there, the soft texture of his lip. After a moment there, he brushes his hand gently past Eliot's temple to play lightly with his curls.

"Do you want me to return the favor?" He definitely does want to, even though there's no way that he could be as skilled as Eliot. Maybe Eliot would be willing to teach him- if this was okay, maybe that's a way that he could touch Eliot. Maybe he could make him feel good, too.

Instead, Eliot shakes his head minutely and says "Another time."

Jack nods, playing with Eliot's curls for a moment longer before dropping his hand away. Maybe Eliot just doesn't want that. Maybe He's just better as something to use, like he'd been for Anne. That's fine, he thinks, biting at his lower lip anxiously. If this is what Eliot wants from him, it's not the worst fate he can imagine. He can love him on his terms.

Maybe he should get out of here before he overstays his welcome. "They expecting you back at the Archive?"

[eliotwaugh]

He feels serene, like he’s acheived some level of enlightenment while bracketed here between Jack’s legs. Eliot’s world shrinks to just this room, this space made by their bodies and the weight of Jack’s cock in his mouth, the pleasant ache in his jaw. Here, he’s like something divine, some luminous creature of infinite compassion.

Jack is quiet, much like the first time, but Eliot can still read his body enough to tease him. He rucks up Jack’s shirt and plants a palm firm on his belly, to feel his breath hitch. When he draws off to keep Jack on the edge, Eliot meets his gaze with a smirk and finds his eyes black and his mouth slack with need. It’s the most beautiful thing Eliot’s ever seen.

He stays put afterwards. Eliot’s own arousal barely registers, he’s too focused on savoring the mingled pride and comfort as he rests his head on Jack’s leg. The feel of careful fingers in his hair is almost too much—it elicits an emotion in Eliot that he can’t name. It’s not the sense-dulling heaviness of submission, but something vast and light and fragile. If he keeps thinking about it he fears it’ll slip away.

So he smiles, and closes his eyes.

Jack asks to reciprocate, and it’s not surprising at all. He’s so curious and hungry for new experiences, and it’s unbearably charming, but Eliot can’t imagine moving from this spot. He demurs with a vague idea that there’ll be another time, even though he’s half sure Jack won’t want to do any more fact-finding experiments if he starts seeing the musician.

For the moment, while it still lingers, he savors Jack’s lazy tenderness, and imagines being able to receive this affection whenever he wants. Being the kind of person who deserves it. Eliot’s struck by the thought that people don’t touch him like this, either. He doesn’t think he’d want it from anyone else.

The question comes as a sudden shock, like ice dropped down the back of his shirt. Eliot blinks, feeling the stinging threat of tears, and scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand. He sits back sharply on his heels, fumbling for a response.

“Shit,” he says, his voice rough. “Fuck, I…” he can’t answer, not immediately. He feels a sudden guilt about this whole morning, like he’s taken advantage or let show just how much Jack has him entangled.

“I should,” Eliot clears his throat. “I should let them know, I guess, I-” he looks up at Jack, hands balled up in fists on his knees. “Was this okay? I know I just sprung it on you but…”

He does need to get to work. He needs to get his shit together, but before that he needs to make sure Jack’s all right. “I don’t know if you want to…depending on how it goes for you with-with Jacob, maybe you won’t want to keep doing this?” Eliot winces, but gives Jack a reassuring smile. “I’m fine either way.”

That feels like swallowing glass.

“But I liked this,” Eliot adds, “as long as you did, and…I should let you get on with your day.” He wants to apologize, for being like this, but he’s made enough of a mess of the morning already.

[jackrackham]

Jack's brow furrows as Eliot quickly shifts away. Half dazed still, he blinks to focus in on what Eliot has to say. He's surprised about the sudden shift in mood, how he looks unsure and caught off guard.

Jack lowers himself from the bed onto the floor so that he's on level with Eliot, keeping an eye on his expression as he goes. After a moment, he extends one leg so that he can create a point of contact against him without getting too much in his personal space.

"Eliot, you can do whatever you want to me." He smiles softly, trying to keep his tone light, but there's no hiding his confusion. Eliot dictated this whole morning, Jack doesn't understand why he'd be worried about it now. There's a sadness to the statement, too, that he hopes doesn't come through. As much as he wants more from Eliot, he can't expect more from him than he's capable of giving. Everything between them feels so tenuous, but he does still want it.

He laughs lightly, but only for show. "As for Jacob-" He shrugs. "It won't be a trial, he's handsome. But so far, I've agreed to an evening of music appreciation in exchange for some insight into the time I'm from. The plan is to get back home- or at least out of Darrow, and that is still the plan. If my going on dates helps Anne feel better about wanting what she wants, then I'm going to do that, but it doesn't change what I want."

And if he wants Eliot, wants more than occasional sex? That doesn't matter. It's not possible, so it's not worth thinking about.

"I'll probably be thinking about your fine mouth the entire time, after this." Jack catches Eliot's eye, a faint blush burning in his cheeks. It's more than he would normally say, but he needs to be sure that Eliot knows he would still want him even if this date with Jacob goes well. Maybe Eliot is trying to disentangle himself and hand him over to someone else, but Jack doesn't want that to happen.

He studies Eliot a moment more, but he's not sure what he's looking for. "Do you want me to stay? I didn't want to overstay my welcome."

[eliotwaugh]

He’s bewildered, more than anything else, when Jack joins him on the floor. Maybe he shouldn’t be—one of Jack’s charms is how is doesn’t abide by the social scripts Eliot knows, so he’s off-kilter but not exactly anxious. Instead of standing and offering a hand up he’s here, they’re face to face, and continuing the conversation as if Eliot hadn’t been sucking him off moments ago.

He nods along. Jack sounds sensible, but there’s an undercurrent of something else, which Eliot supposes he should have expected. It’s an awkward arrangement, no way it couldn’t have been, even with the straightforward facts that Jack isn’t planning to be here indefinitely, and is comfortable with more than one casual partner. Eliot’s familiar enough with that, but it’s still, annoyingly, different with a friend. It’s different with him.

But he can’t offer any reasonable alternative, and though he flushes at the idea of Jack thinking about him when he’s with someone else, he can’t muster any pride at the compliment.

The offer startles him more than all the rest of what Jack’s said.

“Y-” Eliot starts to reply, before his thoughts can catch up. He wants to say yes, beyond all sense, but that’s a dangerous prospect, too impulsive. How could he possibly be honest under these conditions. Would you mind if we just cuddled? Eliot thinks, and imagines an awkward laugh, a polite refusal. Horrific. He takes a breath and smiles, hesitantly at first.

“You’re very tempting,” he answers at last. “We could probably lose a whole day just, mm, passing time together, but…” He could always call in sick, but there’s the chance John would Know the truth with his weird Archive powers, and he has no intention of making his personal business the subject of office gossip. “I’d rather actually plan for it, nicer that way. And it wouldn’t result in me getting told off by stuffy Englishmen.”

He sighs a little wistfully and meets Jack’s gaze with a soft laugh.

“My fault entirely for losing track of time…I promise to make it up to you later.” He doesn’t know when later might be, but they have a vague scaffolding of something, an agreement that they’ll do this again. It has to be enough. And in the meantime, he allows himself to imagine a moment suspended outside time, resting his head on Jack’s lap and being happy.