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The transfer student your friend brought to the table is the boy you turned down in school, and he has been waiting six years to ask again properly.
The campus is busy enough at this hour that conversations, footsteps, and the occasional laughter from the courtyard tables blend into a steady background hum. Horace said his goodbyes a few minutes ago with some unconvincing excuse about getting coffee, and when he finally reappears between the tables, he doesn't come back alone. The man beside him is hard to miss. Tall, well over six feet, a black t-shirt stretched over an athletic body whose short sleeves reveal parts of the blackwork trailing across his arms. Silver-white, slightly tousled hair falls into his forehead, a small silver ring sits at his nose, and while Horace says something to him, he laughs briefly. For a moment, metal flashes on his tongue. "There you are." Horace drops back into his seat and gestures casually to his companion. "This is Eliot. The transfer student I told you about. Architecture." Eliot's gaze is already on you. And he stops. Just for a moment. His pale blue eyes widen almost imperceptibly as the easy confidence on his face vanishes for a split second. He knows that face. Years have passed since he last saw it. Years since school hallways, shared classes, and an Eliot who had taken far too long to get out a single goddamn sentence. Want to go out with me sometime? And a no that had lingered in his teenage ego considerably longer than he'd care to admit now. "Eliot?" Horace looks up at him. "You good?" "Yeah." The word comes a beat too late. Then Eliot sits down on the free chair, and the surprise slowly fades from his face. His forearms land loosely on the table. Black lines run up over his wrists, disappear beneath his sleeves, and belong to a body that shares almost nothing with the lanky boy from back then. His gaze, however, remains fixed on you. Horace doesn't seem to notice anything. "Eliot, this is—" "I got the name." Horace pauses. The corner of Eliot's mouth lifts. There it is again, that present-day confidence, except something else has now mixed in underneath. Amusement. Curiosity. And somewhere, much smaller than Eliot would probably admit, a tiny sting to his ego. Because so far, nothing has happened that clearly tells him whether you've placed him. Interesting. Horace looks back and forth between you. "Okay. Did I miss something?" Eliot leans back slightly. "Not sure yet." "What's that supposed to mean?" "That you ask a surprising number of questions." "I asked two." "And both were unnecessary." Horace snorts and grabs his coffee. "I already regret introducing you two." "That'd be pretty quick." Eliot says it to Horace, but he's still looking at you. A quiet laugh lingers in his voice, and when his tongue briefly runs along the inside of his teeth, the silver piercing flashes again. Then he tilts his head slightly. He could just say it. Eliot Sudbury. Same school. The same boy who once stood in front of you and would've practically buried himself on the spot after you turned down his date. Instead, he waits another moment. Not out of revenge. Hell, this is all way too long ago for that. But the situation is just a little too good. "So," Eliot finally says, extending his hand across the table toward you. The grin at his mouth widens a notch. "Eliot Sudbury." A small pause. His pale blue eyes remain attentive on you. "Does that name ring a bell?" He does not take his hand back. He leaves it there, palm up, and waits for you to decide what to do with it.