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Dim lighting on rich, centuries old oak and frosted glass create a gorgeous amber glow that pairs beautifully with the scotch in Eliot’s hand. The scent of leather from the plush, cracked seats around the pub fills the room. It’s decently slow tonight. Save for a few folks tucked away in a dark corner, his only company is in the form of a painting. Eliot easily tunes out the giggling of the couple in the corner as he stares at the intricate millwork in the ceiling. He throws the rest of the drink back, and sets his glass down with a sigh.
The lean, well-groomed man behind the bar refills Eliot’s glass, adding a few drops of water to the aged scotch. Eliot admires the way his tattooed forearms tense as he works.
“Where’s Margo?” he asks, his sandy hair catching the light just so. His concerned half smile is framed by a trimmed, full-beard. “I was starting to wonder if you two weren’t bound by some invisible thread?” the lilt of his voice always manages to melt Eliot just a little. Suddenly, he’s sorely missing Margo at his side, whispering in his ear all the things they can do when they finally convince Oliver to come home with them.
“Revelling in my public humiliation,” he says, ignoring the second half of Oliver’s statement as be takes a drink from his glass.
“I would say she doesn’t seem like the type, but you know I can’t lie to you,” Oliver says with chuckle. Eliot’s lips curl into a small smile. Margo certainly has a way about her.
Oliver leans against the bar, and gives Eliot a comforting smile. “Want to tell me what happened?”
Eliot slides his arm against Oliver’s and lightly traces his tattoos with his index finger. “What do I get if I do?” he asks, voice dripping with seduction.
“Without her? Nought,” Oliver laughs and pushes himself off the bar.
Eliot brings the glass to lips but stops short. “Oh, so you’re into it, but you’re scared. I’ll let her know,” Eliot says, playing it blasé at first, but the smile definitely creeps into his voice by the end. He laughs before taking a sip of his scotch.
Still laughing, Oliver pours his own drink. He shakes his head to himself with a smile. Leaning back onto the bar next to Eliot, he takes a small sip. “So,” he begins, but pauses just long enough to flash a stunning smile. “What did you do?”
Eliot scoffs, only half offended, and takes another sip. “What makes you think I did something?” Oliver gives him a stern look and takes another sip, much longer than the first.
Eliot watches him for a moment, absentmindedly fingering the rim of his glass. Oliver turns up his hand, as if to hurry things along. When it’s clear to Eliot that he can't get away with avoiding the question, he relents. “Fine,” he takes a quick sip. “I said some shit, she said some shit. One thing lead to another, and now we’re in the middle of a blowjob competition.”
Oliver nearly chokes on his scotch. “You what?” He asks, setting his glass down, utterly bewildered.
“Competitive cock sucking,” he deadpans.
Oliver raises his eyebrows and tilts his head slightly with a smirk, before grabbing his glass and bringing it back to his lips. “Normal Tuesday night for you two, then?” He takes a sip.
Rich laughter flows between them. Eliot is warm and light from the scotch, quickly losing sight of how he even got here. “More like high stakes tournament complete with live audience and extravagant prizes.” His pitch ascends a bit as it leaves his mouth; it’s almost a question. Eliot doesn’t realize how absurd the situation is until he is forced to say it out loud.
“Christ,” Oliver finishes his drink. “Maybe I should come home with you,” he says with a wink. A wicked smile spreads across Eliot’s lips and he gives a lecherous laugh. “I take it Margo’s winning?” Oliver asks before Eliot can change the subject.
“No, we’re tied,” Eliot says, and downs the rest of his drink. He raises an eyebrow and points his glass toward Oliver, asking for another. Oliver furrows his brow, completely thrown off balance by Eliot’s statement.
Grabbing the bottle of Glenfiddich twelve year, Oliver refills Eliot’s glass, making sure to add a few drops of water to open up the flavors. “Then what brings you here?”
“We got into a fight,” Eliot brings the glass to his lips and breathes in the rich aroma of the scotch, appreciating the distinct pear notes for the first time this evening. He sighs before taking a sip. Oliver smiles, relieved to see Eliot starting to relax.
“No,” he snarks, drawing it out in overdramatic disbelief. “About?” He leans back onto the bar, brushing his arm against Eliot’s.
“I don’t even know,” Eliot says, resigned. He looks into his drink, the golden scotch washes against the sides, catching light as he tilts the glass in his hands. He sighs heavily and drops a bit of the tension in his shoulders. It’s hard to be in your feelings when you’re drinking scotch in a brilliantly-named, historic London pub with a beautiful man. He cracks a smile and takes another sip.
Oliver gives him a knowing smile and playfully nudges his elbow into Eliot’s. “Did you just realize it was stupid?” Eliot shrugs, suddenly feeling foolish for whole situation. This was supposed to be fun, he can’t believe he let it get this out of hand.
“Look,” Oliver starts. “If I can gather anything about you two, it’s that getting between you isn't the worst thing,” he says with flirtatious smile.
“Not where I thought that was going, but certainly not wrong,” Eliot says with a hearty laugh. He takes a deep drink of his scotch.
Oliver pushes himself off the bar. “I can’t fathom the two of you apart, let alone against each other,” he says. “The best things in life definitely come in matched sets,” he places a comforting hand on Eliot’s, careful not to linger. “Stemware, knives,” he lists, pointing around the room.
Eliot laughs softly, and continues the game. “Shoes, cufflinks,” he pauses and smirks; it’s his turn to place a hand on Oliver’s. “Lovers,” he traces a tiny spiral on the back of Oliver’s hand.
“Easy,” Oliver scolds playfully, pulling his hand from Eliot’s and pointing a stern finger at him. “It sounds like you have a lot of talking to do when you get home.” He turns around and grabs a couple of boxes. Eliot doesn’t even remember when they appeared.
“Yeah,” Eliot says, exasperated, before draining the rest of his glass.
Oliver places the to-go boxes in a bag and slides them onto the bar in front of Eliot. “Take these back to Margo.” he instructs. “One from me. One from you.” He winks, smirking much more wickedly than Eliot expects.
“Thank you,” Eliot nods and reaches for his wallet. “How much?”
“Don’t worry about it tonight,” Oliver says with a smile, pushing the bag closer to Eliot. “But if you’re alone the next time you’re in my pub, I’m kicking you out and locking the door.”