Part 1 was here; the masterpost with header information is
here.
So, this is awkward. It might have been less awkward if Eliot had done for the reading for the seminar, some essay on point of view and how women know they're being looked at or something like that, but he doesn't even have any respite on that front.
Thankfully Nate is the bestest best friend ever, because he takes the seat in between Moreau and the only other free seat in the room. Eliot sinks into it and ignores the smirking from the idiots on the other side of the table. Larry Duberman actually points at Moreau and then at Eliot before smirking at him. Eliot wishes he had some media theory which could support him punching the crap out of Duberman; at least Cora might not report him if he has an appropriate quote properly Harvard referenced to explain why fusing Duberman's skull into the carpet is totally necessary.
The seminar is mandatory, not requiring an actual exam or essay to acquire a pass mark, merely 80% attendance, and Eliot's been planning to use that leeway to go to Alton Towers in the summer term. He wishes miserably he had thought of going in the summer holidays instead, except then there would be kids everywhere, and Eliot's tummy goes a bit jumbly at the thought. He's felt guilty about kids ever since an Event That Cannot Be Named when he might have been babysitting for his neighbours and he Might Have Accidentally Left One of the Toddlers In A Freezer For Twenty Minutes; the upshot of it is that Eliot knows childminding is not a great career path, the downshot is he's spent forever feeling ridiculously guilty afterwards, even though the parents never found out, and that guilt manifests in him randomly looking after lost kids in parks and hospitals and whatever.
Bournemouth University is also apparently located in a time sinkhole, so the hour that the seminar is supposed to be crawls on for fifteen days. At least, that's Eliot's theory. He gets a bit cross-eyed as Cora goes off on one of her famous rants about Mikhail Bakhtin, and it's probably sometime during this that the piece of paper ends up on his notes.
When Eliot refocuses his gaze (Cora's now talking about Batman, which is more Eliot's speed) he sees it. He knows instantly it's not his notes because there's legible writing on it. He picks it up and looks at it, casually unfolding it. Nate leans in before Eliot can push him away.
"Loved the song," the note reads. "Let's try a less Hollywood version, eh? The Warehouse, 8pm.-DM."
Eliot swallows, feeling a rise of heat curl up his body from his toes, flaring into his cheeks. Is the note a joke? Or is it actually a serious note from Moreau? He's pretty sure Moreau's gay, if Fresher's Week was any indication (Eliot ran into him, literally, in the Old Firehouse toilets snogging the face off Jim Sterling; Eliot was so appalled he couldn't even stutter an apology, hence his lack of previous speakage with Moreau-because who the hell would find Jim Sterling attractive? The bloke's a snot weasel. Except cocktails were two for one that night, and Eliot knows personally that beer goggles have taken down many a fine gentleman. It happened to Eliot once, with this guy who insisted Eliot call him Kiev, when everyone in Leeds knew his name was Kevin Butcher. It took Eliot a few weeks to shake the Pavlovian response to want chicken the instant he wanted sex after that interlude. Sometimes he still wants KFC after he gets laid.)
He risks a peek. Moreau's staring directly at him, a curl to his mouth that should come across as supercilious but is actually pretty hot. It's not as hot as Nate's mastermind grin when he's figured out something that's super tricky, but it's the grin of a guy who Eliot actually stands a chance with.
Possibly. Maybe. If this isn't a joke. Fuck, getting laid shouldn't be as complicated as all this, Eliot's pretty sure.
Moreau points subtly at the note, taps his watch, and holds out eight fingers. 8 o' clock. Eliot's mouth is a little dry at the prospect of this actually being genuine, because if he does have a chance to fuck Nathan Ford out of his brain he wants it. Also, sex is always awesome. Except when it sucks. And even then, Eliot's still a big fan.
It's worth the risk. Eliot nods. Moreau's smirk widens and he turns back to Cora, as if he's been paying perfect attention. Of course Cora doesn't pick on him.
She picks on Eliot. "Eliot, what do you think?"
Eliot peers around the room, trying not to let his mouth hang open and stay there. Everyone's looking at him as if they're genuinely interested in his answer, and Eliot curses his brain, because it would be the first actually interesting discussion that he's zoned out on, wouldn't it? To be fair, it is because he was thinking about sex, which really should trump learning every time. He wonders if the Examination Board would see it his way.
Nate's the only one who's not looking interested, probably because Batman is totally not his thing. Nate doesn't really do fiction, so why he's on a 30% creative course is completely beyond Eliot. Except for Bournemouth doesn't do Religious Studies, and maybe Nate wants a career on Songs of Praise or one of the many Evangelical channels creeping in on the weird numbered Freeview channels or something. Nate's not even looking vaguely interested; he just looks sort of strained. Probably because Eliot's not taking the studying seriously. He really, really should take a look at doing that some time soon.
"I... think it's an interesting perspective," Eliot says, slowly. "But with too much emphasis on postmodernism?"
"Excellent point!" Cora says. "Does anyone have a quote highlighted in the reading that might back up Mr. Spencer's ideology?"
Eliot lets out the tense breath he drew in after trying what is turning out to be his stock answer to everything (seriously, postmodernism is the most awesome companion of a procrastinating student in the world. Eliot wants to hand its creator a drink, except he's vaguely sure its creator is humanity in general, or maybe it was the Pop Art artists, so he doesn't know whether to buy himself a drink in lieu of being able to buy humanity a round, or to, like, buy a can of Campbell's Soup in Andy Warhol's honour. Maybe he can do both.)
Normally in this situation, when Eliot's ability to bullshit magically saves his arse, Nate's ready with a positive whisper, like "nice save" or "I can't believe she bought that" or, Eliot's favourite, "One day you're going to bat your eyes at someone and they're not going to fall at your feet, and you're going to be so shocked your face will stick." It's only his favourite because Cora heard Nate the time he used it, and made Nate lead the next reading even though it was Eliot's turn.
Of course, Cora also knows quite plainly that Eliot never does the reading, whereas Nate always does, so perhaps she orchestrated it so that her seminar wouldn't have to suffer Eliot stuttering through the essay cold.
This time Nate looks pissed. Eliot feels resentful. It's not his fault he gets away with everything. Sure, he's been perfecting the power of his baby blue eyes since the dawn of time, and he knows his country charm is endearing (in the deficit of an Irish accent in the vicinity, Eliot's Yorkshire accent is usually the nicest in the room) but it's not his fault he's made weaselling out of things into an art form. Nate's skill is academia and thinking and being generally the biggest brain in the world; Eliot's skill set is slightly different. Eliot's not a natural studier, and Nate shouldn't be pissed off at that.
Except apparently he is.
Nate stays pissed off, right through the rest of the seminar, right through when Moreau brushes past Eliot on the way to the door and whispers, "See you tonight, Spencer," right through the library when Eliot photocopies all of Nate's notes, and then right through half of lunch, even though it's Chinese day on the multicultural food section and both Nate and Eliot can eat enough Spring Rolls in Sweet and Sour Sauce for it to qualify as an Olympic Sport. Nate's version of pissed off is a dark expression and silence. Eliot fills up the space with prattle, something else Eliot could qualify in at an Olympic level.
"Seriously," Eliot says, polishing off his third plate of Spring Rolls and eyeing up the queue to see if there's enough left to bother queuing a fourth time. "You're going to come with me tonight, right? I mean, just in case Moreau's got a camera crew or something waiting for me to humiliate me."
Nate lifts his head from his mere second plate of Spring Rolls (a definite sign there is Something Up with him) and squints at Eliot. "Why are you going if you're not even sure it's a genuine date?"
Eliot looks at him flatly. "Uh, because if it's genuine there's a chance of sex? And I quite like sex. It's definitely in the top five list of my favourite things to do. Maybe even my top four."
"Which would make it your fourth favourite thing," Nate says, spearing his last Spring Roll idly. "What are your top three?"
"Sleeping," Eliot says. "Always the top contender."
"Top choice approved."
"Next: eating."
"Of course."
"Third-" Eliot pauses, pretending it's for dramatic effect, but in reality it's to give him time to come up with an alternative to Spending time with you, Nate, and imagining all the different ways you would kiss me, because that's totally and unutterably sad. "Watching cartoons or motorbiking. I can't quite choose."
"Watching cartoons while motorbiking," Nate says.
"Exactly. But apart from those three slash four things... Sex, definitely," Eliot says. "And it's not like I have a million guys lining up for the task."
Even though Nate's blatantly uncomfortable with Eliot saying sex a lot (the flinching is a definite clue) he's still an awesome friend, and as such, not only is he putting up with it, but he also puts down his fork and leans across, patting the back of Eliot's hand comfortingly. He catches Eliot's gaze and smiles softly, not sarcastically at all. "Dude, there's plenty of guys out there that must want you. I mean, who wouldn't? You're hot. You have hair which doesn't curl up into a bed nest in the morning. You're interesting. You don't have to settle at all, let alone for the first guy who offers."
Eliot's brain is understandably wrapped up in the concept of Nate's hand on his, and Nate calling him hot. He tries his best for coherency, and resigns himself to the fact that Nate will attribute his inability to speak like a normal person to feelings, or something like that. "Uh- I- I'm not settling. I'm pretty sure I meant to try and ask Moreau out. Only I think my intentions were to quietly pull him to one side and ask for a lunch date, not to sing about my appreciation for some of his more questionable bodily emissions across YouTube. You cannot let me drink tonight, I swear."
"Alcohol is evil. I'm pretty sure I'd be an addict if I started drinking," Nate adds, his words a little fast as he pulls his hand away from Eliot's, like it's not the first time he's thought about it. Eliot quirks an eyebrow at him instead of voicing the obvious question. "I have an addictive personality."
"Which would explain why you mainlined all of Roswell in five days," Eliot says in realisation, trying not to feel bummed that he's missed this about Nate, another of the things they have in common. "I would have seriously pulled my hair out if I'd had to listen to another minute of Liz whining about how Max was soooo perfect, and evil Tess was sooooooo evil, and I can't stand to lose my hair. You said it yourself, my hair is awesome."
"I never used the word awesome," Nate says. "I want that to be made clear now in case you try and insinuate such a thing later."
"That sounds too close to legalese for my brain. Let's go buy more Sweet and Sour Spring Rolls."
"Aren't you worried that this is an addiction too?"
"If it is," Eliot says grimly, "we're both hooked. And if it cost more than £1.50 a portion I would wean myself off it. But as it's food which is ridiculously cheap for our budget, I think we should suffer this addiction in a manly and stoic fashion, and eat until we are too full to move."
"I bow to your crazier judgement," Nate says, "especially as it's justifying the best meal in existence."
"Amen," Eliot says. "That was a prayer, right?"
"Yes," Nate says, thumping his shoulder in pity. "Yes, it was."
There's a quiet pause as they stand at the end of the queue. Eliot frowns. "Are you mollifying me again?"
Nate looks at Eliot as if he's a question in an essay he's puzzling over, and it's an odd moment, another in the assortment of odd moments that have populated the day so far and it's still only 1pm. Then Nate shakes himself and he grins. "Of course."
"I should stab you with my fork but I have a worthier purpose for it in mind," Eliot tells him.
-----
During the first weekend of moving in to their houseshare, before classes had even formally begun, the five of them nicknamed their house The Tower of Babble.
It's not a real tower, something Eliot's bemoaned more than once. Living in an actual tower would be fucking awesome.
Eliot can't quite remember who came up with it. He thinks it was partly due to Sophie's really bad (her mini-performances she insisted on throwing in their shared sitting room had two settings-really bad and oh my god I'm going to gouge my eyeballs out with a rusty spoon bad) rendition of what she called "The Old Testament in 5 minutes." Eliot, Parker and Hardison spent the next hour afterwards sobbing into an ice-cream about the 5 minutes of their life they would never, ever get back; Nate actually enjoyed it, although he spent the next half an hour correcting Sophie's pronunciation so much she joined them at the ice-cream tubs to make him shut up.
Sophie must have mispronounced Babel as Babble, and as all five of them seemed to share the propensity for mindless babbling at some point or the other, depending on the situation, Eliot guesses the name must have struck a chord with all of them. It's only a chord of recognition because Eliot vaguely recalls them chasing down the ice-cream with Jaegerbombs, and he really wishes he'd listened to his subsequent No Drinking Ever Again rule he must have come out with the next morning.
The following day a glittery sign of "THIS IS THE TOWER OF BABBLE. BE SILENT AND BE CAST OUT" appeared on the door, followed by a pencil sketch of the Silence from Doctor Who, followed by a Weeping Angel standing on the Silence's head with a speech bubble casting the Silence out of the house, followed by someone arguing in capitals that the Weeping Angels just don't speak they only fling people out in time, then someone had added some Daleks, and someone else added the caption "WHAT IS THIS, I DON'T EVEN", and then Nate stuck a church advert at the bottom, and the whole wretched mess had been used in a game of Keepaway and then stuck back on the wall complete with the addition of an empty condom wrapper and dubious brown stains, and it was still in better state than the house contract they made on the first night which is stuck below it.
The first few things are easy to read, like Clean up after yourself and Follow the bin rota! NOW! and If you can USE the microwave you can JOLLY WELL WASH IT OUT AFTERWARDS, except the rules degenerate into Do NOT use megaupload to get your illegal TV, I will motherfucking torrent it for you, just leave the list in front of my door of what you want and Eliot Spencer is never allowed to drink again and All your cereal are belong to me, love Parker.
The rest is indecipherable mush, apart from a few words where someone has tried to put in words their babbling 'triggers'. Like Parker only babbles if you make her watch a film on someone breaking into a museum, because she starts correcting the technique, and that is so much creepier than it should be. And Sophie babbles if someone gives her a bad review. Nate babbles if someone touched on any religious issue he found troubling or insulting or interesting. Hardison babbles about geeky stuff like computers and Star Wars and the correct type of cheese to use when cooking. And Eliot can see on the contract, above their barely legible signatures, that Eliot had been given "EVERYTHING ELSE" as his babble trigger, and it's sadly, sadly right.
Like now, and his impending maybe-possibly-could be-potential date, because what should he wear? What piece of clothing even says I'm not sure this is real but I'm pretending it is but not working too hard and please be real so I can get this stupid crush on Nate out of my stupid head? He gets so desperate he even nearly goes upstairs and calls on Sophie, but he's horny and frustrated, not suicidal. Instead he rants to himself, holding up clothes and tossing them in a heap like he's a complete girl.
He wants to wear his blue trainers, because they're excellent to run away in, however they have a doodle of Batman changing into Bruce Wayne to foil Chuck Norris, and Eliot doesn't know yet if Moreau would think it was adorable or creepy; also, some of the clubs insisted on shoes. He only has one pair of shoes, so this is the easy part.
In perfect Eliot fashion, he ends up wearing the same clothes he started the day in. Except a clean version, because a) he dropped Sweet and Sour sauce on the one from the morning and b) he owns at least three of each of his outfits. While it's fun pretending to Hardison he never ever showers, Eliot's a little bit of a closet hygiene freak. He decides to keep that fact in the closet, reasoning now that the bigger closet thing is out there, not an unspoken gay elephant in the room, he's allowed to still keep things in his metaphorical closet. Like his love of being clean and not smelling like ass, for one thing. He had wanted to keep his appreciation of Nate's finer, uh, assets in there too, but from the way Hardison smirked at him when they got back to the Tower, that ship has apparently sailed.
"Moreau's seen you in that today," a voice says from behind him. Eliot turns, mid-comb yank as he's trying to get his hair in better order (apparently throwing the whole contents of your wardrobe in a whirling dervish to find the right outfit to say please attempt to fuck me stupid, I'm pretty much at the highest level of dumb one can achieve, so try your best, have at it, challenge extended is not the best thing for keeping one's hair straight, and Eliot's a big fan of making his hair straight as it's almost the only part of him that is) to see Nate lounging against the doorframe, arms folded, a smile on his face. Eliot's brain fills in the fact that Nate might have been stood there for a while, he wouldn't have noticed, and so Nate might have seen him milling back and forth in his underwear; alas, even to Eliot's addled brain it sounds too much like wishful thinking.
"I don't have much else," Eliot says. "Plaid only comes in so many variations, you know." He turns back to his lump of clothes, half-heartedly digging through them again. "I don't know which shade of plaid really says I'm not as stupid as I look on YouTube."
"No shirt can achieve that miracle," Nate says, but pushes through into Eliot's room uninvited, heading for the pile of clothes confidently. Eliot watches as Nate's blue eyes scan the pile, and then something tenses in Nate's jaw and he swoops, his hand scooping out something from the pile, a crumpled mess of something. It's dark blue, plain. Eliot vaguely recalls it as his interview shirt, back when he had the hazy idea of getting a part-time job to supplement his ridiculously meagre Student Loan. But then he found 9p Spaghetti Hoops (the holy grail of all students everywhere) and resigned himself to the world of scraping around bargain shelves in the supermarket, and elbowing grannies at 10.58pm in Tesco for the cut-price bakery food. He vaguely recalls tossing it into the bottom of his wardrobe and forgetting it ever existed. "This one. Definitely."
Eliot squints at it. "I think it says more sad sad student alone forever rather than fuck me now," he says, and Nate's cheeks colour a little, but he doesn't say anything and then Eliot feels bad, because he forgets Nate's stilted lifestyle and how not everyone was brought up as foul-mouthed and honest as him. Not everyone had the freedom. "Sorry. I forget that I shouldn't be so-"
"Eliot," Nate says, looking at him seriously, "I like how you speak your mind. I'm going to check if Parker blew up the iron or if it's still serviceable. Come on."
Eliot frowns.
"Irons make your clothes flat," Nate says, slowly, turning to go.
Eliot's lost. "...and?"
"The iron, if it's working, will make this flat," Nate says, waving the crumpled item of clothing.
"I think I'd believe that when I see it," Eliot says, still a bit confused.
"You will see it," Nate says grimly. "You're ironing it yourself. I'm not your fucking housemaid."
"Awww, Nate," Eliot protests automatically, and then he pauses and squints at Nate. "Did you just say fucking housemaid?"
Nate's smile becomes instantly forced. He turns. Eliot can see a hint of red creeping up Nate's neck, just at the point where his mum once scrawled Property of Nathan Ford! in cheery, permanent blue Sharpie. "Um..."
"You did," Eliot crows, following Nate out of the room, double checking in his pocket for his wallet and key and letting his door click shut. "You totally did. I'm absolutely rubbing off on you!"
"Can you please not do that in the shared areas of the house?" Parker says, passing them on the stairs, eyeballing them both oddly. "My virgin eyes will bleed."
Nate ducks his head and Eliot stares at her until she skips up the stairs and turns on the landing. "She's so odd," Eliot breathes, shaking his head as they hit the ground floor and turn into their kitchen-come-dining room-come-sitting room-come-whatever other room they could think up.
"You're a bad influence," Nate mutters, eventually managing coherency. He pulls out the ironing board, detaches something from it, flinging it to the side disinterestedly, and pushes it to Eliot to sort it out. Eliot sinks the crossbar in and places the board down near the power points, leaning his hands against the kitchen counter and then crossing over to the sofas to see what Nate had detached from the ironing board. It's flimsy fabric, black and lacy.
"Holy shit, it's Sophie's bra!" Eliot picks it up and strings it out, poking the wire in the cups and grinning delightedly. "This... would make an awesome pirate flag."
"And you thought you being gay was a secret before because..." Nate draws out the last word. Eliot shoots him a look of disapproval, but they both know it's false. Nate bends down by one of the cupboards and Eliot does his very best not to leer, except the material in Nate's ever-usual grey trousers stretch oh so nicely over his arse, displaying it to absolute perfection, and god, Eliot's only human. He has eyes. And those eyes really lo- dammit, like Nate's arse. It would be a shame to deprive them, and it's not his eyes' fault Eliot's an expert on crushing on the most unavailable people on the planet. For example, his perfectly reasonable crush on President Obama. His crush on Timothy Hutton when he was in Ordinary People. His crush on Sophie (oh come on, he's human, he has eyes, he may be gay but Sophie Devereaux, come on, people. Everyone has a crush on Sophie, from the president of the university to Perry at their local Co-op, and Co-op Perry didn't like nobody.) All ridiculous, impossibly unrequitable crushes, and his stupid brain has added Nate on top of the pile, like he's the cherry on a cake and urgh, now Eliot really wants cake.
"Found it," Nate says, waving something blocky around. Eliot follows the movement of it, and he's still thinking about cake. "Earth to Eliot."
"Cake!" Eliot blurts, flushes, then says, "Oh! The iron, yes." He snatches the iron from Nate and bends down to plug it in. His cake fantasy has obviously done a number on his brain, because when he fails several time to get the prongs in the holes (it's not as easy as it looks, seriously) he catches Nate's reflection in the shiny metal surface of the iron, and it can't be, but the messed up reflection makes it look like Nate's checking out Eliot's arse, and there are so many impossible things about that thought, Eliot can't list them all. He refocuses on getting the three prongs into the hole, this time succeeding, and he flips the switch. The iron obligingly turns its red light on for him. "Awesome!" He stretches up and sets it down on the metal rest, waiting for it to heat up, and turns to Nate. "Thanks, man." Eliot holds out his hand so Nate can pass him the shirt, and Nate looks down at Eliot's hand like it's an alien thing. Eliot tries his best not to be offended. "Can I have my crumpled mess of fabric, please?"
"Oh!" Nate colours a little again, and Eliot makes another mental note to find the damn thermostat wherever it is because the Tower is always way too hot. Nate throws him the shirt. "Sorry. I forgot I was holding it."
"I'm never forgetting that I'm holding this," Eliot says, wiggling Sophie's bra at Nate. Nate's expression reminds Eliot a little of constipation; he's obviously unimpressed at Eliot's antics, which bodes well for Eliot's maybe-possible-potential-date tonight, because that's how Eliot pulls-he just goofs off until someone finds it adorable, or they kiss him just so he'll shut the fuck up. Either way, it's usually a win-win method. "Fine, Mr. No-Fun-Pants," Eliot grouches. "I'll put the bra down."
"Good," Nate says, in a stiffer voice than he's been using all day. "That's appropriate behaviour."
"Appropriate what-now?" Eliot says, affecting a confused expression as he carefully places Sophie's bra in a prominent place on the nearest armchair. He really wanted to loop it around the back of the chair, fasten it so that the cups looked like creepy eyeballs, but Nate's disapproval is enough to dampen Eliot's enthusiasm. "It sounds like a made up concept to me."
"Everything sounds like a made up concept to you," Nate grouches, but he also sounds a lot happier, so Eliot's totally going to keep him at that level.
"Ooh, green light." Eliot grabs for the iron and throws the shirt down, haphazardly ironing his shirt because he knows it's going to wind Nate up, and he can see Nate's fingers twitching in the corner of his vision. Nate's such a controlling bastard, Eliot's said as much to his face on many an occasion and Nate's pretty much always agreed, and he would make an excellent evil mastermind. Eliot's brain starts to happily embark on all the ways he could con Nate into agreeing to thwart the next emerging superhero with clever gadgets and witty dialogue - except Nate's so clever he'd be the one supervillain trashing the hero every time, and as he flips the shirt over to do the other side he feels suddenly quite sad. Because Nate's an honest man, and you can't con an honest man. Eliot knows this because Hustle tells him so every week. Eliot can probably never watch Hustle again after this, because Mickey says it nearly every other minute like he's a stuck cuckoo clock, blaring it over and over; it would be like pouring salt into the gaping open wound of Eliot's heart. Not that his thoughts err to the melodramatic side of things or anything.
"I think we might have a genuine article of clothing emerging," Eliot says in wonder, putting the iron to one side, kicking the switch off. "Can you pass me one of my hairties? I've got a packet in the telephone table, one in the kitchen draw and one in the freezer."
"What did your last slave die from?" Nate says, but he moves to the telephone table, rummaging in the drawer. Eliot unbuttons the shirt he's wearing so he can change and turns to Nate just as he undoes the last button. Nate's holding out a pack of hairties, and Eliot reaches for them automatically, and their fingers touch, just a little, except Nate hisses low in his throat like he's hurt, and he drops the hairties.
"Dude, are you okay?" Eliot moves in closer, and Nate steps back automatically, and then laughs, almost nervously, and Eliot says, suddenly paranoid, "Um, my gayness isn't contagious."
Eliot doesn't realise he's so worried that Nate might say something to the effect of being frightened to be around Eliot again until Nate says, shakily, "Sorry, I hit my hand earlier and totally forgot about it. My bad."
"I'm sorry." Eliot's immediately contrite. "I would never have ordered you around if I knew-"
"Hey, it's my fault." Nate ducks and picks up the hairties, making an obvious show of using his other hand. "Here you go."
Eliot holds out his hand. Nate drops them into the outstretched palm, carefully making sure there's no skin contact this time. "Thanks," Eliot says, paranoia still buzzing in the base of his skull, because if Nate's ashamed of him that's, that's worse than his heart being broken, that's some of his soul too.
"I'll wait for you outside," Nate says. "I just need a bit of- Y'know. Real air. It's like a sauna in here."
Eliot nods, his mouth a little dry with disappointment, because the reality could be that Nate hates him, but Nate's trying not to, and that's worse than being outright told you're a fucking disgusting faggot and I hate you, and the few times Eliot's heard that were pretty sad occasions. "You okay otherwise?" Eliot says, pressing the matter, concerned.
Nate smiles at him, and his eyes dip for a second, and Eliot feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise, because Eliot's shirt is gaping and for all the world it kind of looked like Nate was glancing at his naked torso, at the trail of hair that led down further, and Eliot can feel his heart beating against his chest he's that weirded out. Nate's eyes fix very firmly on Eliot's, and his smile is wide. "I'm fine. Just... hot."
Eliot nods. Nate reaches out and pats Eliot on the shoulder, and it's a deliberate we're okay gesture, but his hand feels heavy, and it just makes Eliot more worried. He's fucked things up by actually saying the words I am gay, out loud, and now he can't take them back, and Nate's definitely got martyr tendencies. He's probably hating Eliot right now, but making himself stay friends with him for some bizarre self-loathing reason, and Eliot's stomach is churning as he watches Nate smile at him and leave the room at super speed.
"He's not okay." Eliot turns as he's shucking off his shirt to see Sophie standing in the doorway of her bedroom. She's got the worst room, down on the ground floor, but won't swap with anyone; in one way, she's just like Nate. Unfortunately it's the way he rather likes, which accounts for some of the crush he has on her. He just wishes his crush on her was bigger and could override the one he has on Nate, because that one's fucking up all over the place.
"I totally agree," Eliot says, tugging his shirt off the rest of the way and starting to pull on the freshly-ironed one. "He's been acting odd all day."
"Since this morning," Sophie says, moving into the room. She spies her bra and hilariously tries to edge across the room, unaware that Eliot's already seen (and fondled) it. "I suppose it's awkward to see your best friend declare their love for someone else, especially when-"
Eliot freezes as he's buttoning up the blue shirt. "Especially when what?"
"Well," Sophie says, looking a little uncomfortable, but maybe that's because she's having to contort strangely on the spot to pick her bra up. "I guess I thought he'd always hoped you'd be singing songs about his spunk, not someone else's."
Eliot considers it as he buttons up his shirt the rest of the way. "It would have made better blackmail material," he allows. "Still, I was drunk out of my skull. It could have been any name, really." Except he's been training his head for the last four months to not say Nate's name at all, especially when drunk, so he's glad it sort of paid off, even if it was in such embarrassing style.
Sophie's obviously managed to scoop her bra up because she's perched on the edge of the armchair looking more comfortable. "That's not entirely what I was getting at."
"I don't really get it," Eliot says. "But I'm glad you think he's not well too. Maybe we can tag team him to take some paracetamol. You know what he's like with medication."
"Oh my god you're an absolute idiot," Sophie says, staring at him wide eyed. "You and him both."
"You might be too if it's taken you four months to figure this essential fact out," Eliot says as reasonably as he can manage. "I've got a potential-possible-maybe date to get to, and Nate's waiting outside, so I should go."
"Oh," Sophie says, "oh, you're going on a date with him. Well, that's better news!" Eliot watches as Sophie straightens up, heading over to him with a grin, and he's so confused he thinks he might be confused forever. Well. It's not like he'll really know the difference. Sophie's hands tangle in the fabric of Eliot's shirt, and she smoothes it out and straightens the collar. "Go slow with him. His dad's a homophobe so he's got some real issues about being gay."
Eliot frowns at her. "How do you know so much about Moreau?"
Sophie freezes, her hands still on his neck. "What?"
Nate peeks his head through the door, rapping on it to get their attention, and his eyes linger darkly on Sophie's hands on Eliot's neck. "Eliot, the bus-"
Eliot turns back to Sophie and pats her on the head for want of the right thing to do in this social situation. "Thanks for the pep talk," he tells her, turns on his heel and follows Nate out of the door. When he looks back to wave goodbye Sophie's shaking her head and looking more confused than Eliot feels. He shrugs. He's got enough crazy of his own to work through without worrying about hers too.
- - - - -
The Warehouse is one of Bournemouth's newer clubs, but Hardison put it into Google Maps on Nate's phone and they find it eventually, even though it's crammed down beside a McDonald's, which Eliot cheers up about, because if Moreau no-shows him, or publicly humiliates him, then there's a great easy source of meat to console him with afterwards.
Well, a substance close to meat; a foodstuff which might have been meat in another life.
Eight is early for most of the clubs in Bournemouth, which don't really usually start to see action until 2am, and Nate's got this over-achievement strand in his DNA that leaves them in the club with an easy half hour to spare, and it turns out to be a good thing, because The Warehouse is heaving with people already. Eliot fights his way to the bar and buys lemonades while Nate masterminds a path through to the chairs, securing a table for them to wait and survey the crowd.
It's a nice club, large and a bit rough, like it's pretending to be some sort of actual rustic warehouse. There's large heavy beams spanning across the ceiling, and a VIP loft that has an actual hayloft ladder up to it behind the requisite crimson rope tie. The drinks are all served in beer tankards that Eliot thinks are made out of glass until he prods at one and finds it's just really good quality plastic; this club knows its clientele is going to be students, so it's a savvy move.
Except while the table Nate scored them is a great position for scoping out who's there, it's also highly noticeable. And Eliot's a new YouTube superstar among the local population, and has just publicly come out in the strangest way possible, and that makes him a target.
A target that gets hit on fourteen times in a row, and that's just within the first ten minutes.
By the sixth guy, Nate's sniggering into his lemonade so hard he ends up blowing bubbles in the fizzy drink. By the eleventh, Nate's not laughing any more, and Eliot's smile is frozen on his face.
"This has to be a joke," Eliot says, through his fixed grin. There's... hell, there's another one, leaning on a table nearby and giving him the big old hairy eyeball. "Seriously, Moreau's set this up to humiliate me."
Nate shakes his head. "I've been watching these guys. They're from different departments across the uni, different year groups. No way Moreau has all these on his payroll, figuratively speaking."
"So why are they all ganging up on me?" Eliot hisses plaintively.
Nate gives him a pitying look, like he can't believe Eliot's that dumb. "You can't blame them," Nate says. "You can't just go from being gay in a small town where everyone knows your name and expects things from you, to being gay in a big town like Bournemouth. Even though you can be open here, it's not like being gay has a sign. You're openly out, big-style, so you're a safe target."
"I'm turning them all down," Eliot says, shaking his head. "That doesn't scream safe to me."
"You're turning them down because you have a date," Nate says. "Not turning them down because urgh, gay boys, they make me sick." Nate has a sour note in his voice, like he's quoting someone, and Eliot thinks about it.
"Yeah, okay, I see your point. Plus, my date might not even be a date, and I guess by badly hitting on me they're showing me who to approach should this not work," Eliot says. "And on a plus side to this morning, none of them are assuming we're together."
Nate smiles tightly. "Bonus," he says, almost like it's anything but, and Eliot's confused again, but at this point he's resigning himself to making "HI, MY NAME IS CONFUSED" stickers and wearing them everywhere forever.
The guy who had been eyeballing Eliot sidles up, drink in his hand, smiles at Eliot, manages a pretty-suave "Hey, there" and then he flickers a glance at Nate. "Oh, shit, you're with someone. Sorry!" The guy runs off.
Eliot exhales, puts his empty glass-plastic?-on the table and folds his arms. "If I didn't have a potential-possible-maybe date," Eliot says, "I would totally be calling you a cockblocker right now."
"I aim to serve," Nate says.
Eliot rolls his eyes, and turns his head to look across at the bar, contemplating if paying £1 for a mug of flat lemonade is worth it or not. Maybe he'll switch to cola. Then he gets distracted by a guy at the bar who's stranger than the rest of the club goers. "Is that... Mr. Dubenich at the bar?" Eliot says, doing his best appalled tone just in case he's right, weaving his head to see through the crowd.
"I think it is," Nate says, his voice low and warm by Eliot's ear.
Eliot stares. "Huh." Nate's breath is warm on his skin, and Eliot shivers a little involuntarily, and turns to Nate. Nate's face is so close, and Nate's mouth opens a little, like he's trying to say something but can't find the words, and something low in Eliot's stomach flips, and-
"Hey, there."
Eliot pulls away, and he's bitterly disappointed for some reason he can't put his finger on, because it's not like Nate was going to kiss him or anything, but there was something almost crackling in this moment, and it's been ruined by... yet another guy. "Really?" Eliot says to the guy, deadpan. "Seriously?"
The guy's kind of cute, actually, and his face crimsons at Eliot's indelicate reaction. "Whatever, dude, you're not that hot," and spins on his heel, stalking away.
Nate stops laughing.
Eventually.
Part 3