Elliot ditched his jock reputation after high school. He happily traded his cleats and shoulder pads for college cafeteria food and seminars notes. Now, without the distraction of football, he has managed to find success at the University of Minneso...
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The bar was nothing more than a loud conversation spoken from hundreds of mouths, all muddled together to create an overlay of voices that dominated the local band's snooze-worthy music. Pierce actually preferred Blake's morning guitar riffs.
There was a sticky table in the back corner, jammed between a life-sized sasquatch replica and a waiter's station. The light fixture that hung over their stale peanuts was covered in dust, flickering each time the bus drove past the building. Pierce ordered disgustingly salty fried pickles and then ate the whole batch - starving from hockey. No one complained, knowing the establishment was better than most pubs in town.
Elliot and Beck had abandoned the table, opting to practice their dart skills. Beck was barely hitting the board, aiming for the target but nicking a brick instead.
"Keep your arm straight," Ronan hollered to him, holding back a laugh. He sat hunched, letting his grimy body relax after the rough loss. Pierce was across from him, picking at a tattered leather chair.
Ronan lambasted Beck's stance, instructing him from the table. Beck hissed something crude, but Ronan only chuckled louder. His football-scarred hand twiddled with the handle of his mug, as if he was used to holding onto something else. Pierce analyzed him, taking note of his restless demeanor.
"How long have you guys been together?" Pierce asked.
The question should have terrified Ronan, but as he peered into Pierce's warm eyes, he felt an abnormal sense of comfort. He appreciated the well-observed assumption, understanding why Elliot seemed to trust the hockey player so much. Or perhaps he was just growing tired of keeping his own secret.
"Over six years," he replied, taking a swig of his chai tea. He swirled some extra cinnamon into the drink, casually sharing, "No one knows."
Pierce harbored no judgement. "That must be difficult."
Ronan nodded dismally, staring at his thumbs. "Sometimes it gets so heavy I think about breaking his heart just to give him a way out," he admitted. He breathed evenly, looking up at Beck playing darts with Elliot. The scene seemed so natural, like the past had been rewritten - like Beck had chosen Elliot. Ronan considered the alternate reality, quaking at the mere idea. "But then I look at him. And I realize I could never look away - not forever. I can barely look away longer than a second." He was overspilling, as if he needed to purge his own paranoia.
Pierce didn't realize love was perceivable until he saw the way Ronan looked at Beck. He wondered if that was why Elliot liked makeup - to express the inexpressible and to conceal the brutally apparent.
"He's too patient," Ronan added, giving Pierce a sad smile. "And I'm too selfish."
"You don't want to tell people?"
Ronan shifted in his seat. "It's complicated." He could write a novel about their relationship.
"I'm familiar with complicated," Pierce said, taking a sip from his bottle. His eyes drifted to the blue-haired boy a few feet away. Elliot caught his stare.
In the dim atmosphere of the tiny bar, Pierce resembled a Renaissance painting. The shadowed contours of his face, the amber beer bottle in his hand, the golden gyres of his eyes - indisputably baroque. Elliot had no critiques. He held Pierce's gaze, communicating with only a few blinks. The hockey player aimlessly traced the water rings on the darksome oak table, trying to ease his own desire.
Ronan interrupted their distant pining and asked, "Have you fucked Elliot yet?"
Pierce choked on his beer.
Ronan hid a smirk behind his mug. "Just asking."
It was strange to imagine Elliot existing in Ronan's world. Football culture, toxic masculinity, rude commentary. None of it coincided with Elliot's personality. He was so kind and vibrant. How had he outlasted the cynicism?
His thoughts blurred as Beck and Elliot wandered back to the table.
"I think I need a refill," Pierce announced, departing from the group. Elliot stole his vacant seat.
"Did someone say refill?" Beck slurred, shuffling to Ronan's side. "I want a daiquiri."
Ronan tugged on his boyfriend's belt loop. "You're not Ernest Hemingway, baby," he murmured, only loud enough for Beck to hear. "Let's get you some water."
"There's no water in a daiquiri," Beck garbled. "Or is there? What even is a daiquiri?"
Ronan's eyes were fond of Beck's nonsense, spooring every burp and wobble. "I think you've reached your limit."
"What is this? Prohibition?"
Ronan sighed, standing. "I should get him back to the hotel before someone offers him a sitcom deal," he said. Although the football player was exhausted, he anchored his boyfriend with one arm.
Elliot nodded his agreed.
Ronan glanced at Pierce and then back at Elliot, discreetly saying, "Don't fuck up. I like him."
Elliot thought the statement was ironic coming from Ronan's - the king of fuck ups.
Pierce was making his way to the bar as Elliot ogled the back of his head, counting his cowlicks. He chatted with the bartender, and even from far away, the stranger's amusement was obvious. Elliot wouldn't be surprised if the hockey player came back to their table with free drinks. Pierce could charm anyone, apparently even an obnoxious college jock like Ronan Price.
"We're going to Walgreens first," Ronan told Beck, steering him out of the bar.
"Why?"
"To get some Advil for your headache."
Beck almost tripped when he said, "I don't have a headache."
"You will tomorrow," Ronan replied.
King of fuck ups, perhaps yes - but not without a few virtues.
"Have a good Christmas," Elliot voiced.
Ronan sent a wave over his shoulder. He strode toward the door, catching Pierce with a farewell pat.
