Who: Eli and Preston What:A date Lunch Where: A restaurant outside of town When: Backdated to some day that is not today Warnings: None
Eli was surprised to hear from Preston.
He knew he’d missed the man, knew it like he knew he needed to breathe in order to live, but it was different - knowing rather than feeling. It was melodramatic, and he chastised himself for it, even as he whistled up the stairs to shower and change. He reminded himself, repeatedly and in very stern tones, that this was not a date. It was merely lunch, and if it felt like a date, well, that was merely in his head. Still, he dressed meticulously - designer denim, a white button down and a blue and gray vintage vest (he had been told it brought out the blue in his eyes).
Once he was certain he looked acceptable (which included shining his shoes and mussing with his hair for an inordinate period of time), he whistled his way down the steps and into Reliquary’s main room. It was loud, and it was crowded, and everyone gathered was arguing about the Bat.
Eli closed the door on all that, and he thought twice before lighting a cigarette (he didn’t want to smell like smoke), and he waited on the step.
Preston’s dark, uninteresting BMW caught the light as it slid up in front of Reliquary, and by contrast the man within was almost drab. It came to a halt and Preston paused for a moment before pushing the door open and looking out at the man. He smiled tentatively, but he was pleased to see that Eli was waiting and not hiding somewhere and worrying. “Are you ready for a break?”
“Do you guarantee me there will be no talk of men in cowls during this outing?” Eli asked, nearing the car and taking in the appearance of the man within. Preston looked sober, well rested, and it made Eli smile a touch. Despite everything, he cared about this man enough to want the best for him, whatever that might be. He stopped at the driver’s door, and he put his hand on the top edge. “But, yes, I am quite ready,” he said, his gaze welcoming; he was, truly, very glad to see him.
“It is guaranteed. I only want to talk about you.” Preston was trying to be honest, because he learned that when he wasn’t completely honest things went very badly. At the same time, perhaps avoiding certain subjects was best. He leaned into the seatbelt to smile up at him in return. “So get in.”
Eli almost reached out to touch him, a habit born of being tactile with the man in front of him. He managed to refrain, but only just, and he nudged the door closed before circling to the other side of the car and opening the passenger’s door. He slid in, and he snapped the seat belt over his hip, and then he ran his hand over the dashboard. The car was very Preston, and it made Eli smile and look over at him. “I was surprised to hear from you,” he admitted.
Yes, indeed, the car was very Preston. It was extremely clean, very well kept. The leather was in excellent shape, and there wasn’t even a wisp of cigarette smoke, not even if you sat down. Preston slammed his door gently shut, and a real grin lit his features as he pulled out into traffic. “I am not good at the normal part of relationships. I guess I forgot. Ours isn’t--we aren’t... typical.”
“How are we not typical?” Eli asked, turning his body slightly toward Preston, posture open and interested in the conversation. “I was under the impression we were quite the norm,” he said with a smile that said he was not being entirely honest. He had been to enough meetings and read enough to realize they were not, in fact, the norm. But he wanted to hear Preston’s opinion on what was typical.
Preston was surprised at the question. “Not for me.” He looked back at the road, for as briefly as he could. They both had many relationships; Preston understood what Eli’s were like from what he had seen, and Preston’s were generally of convenience. If not on his part, then on the part of his lover. He smiled to see Eli in a light mood, and it relaxed him in turn. They moved out of the city, beyond the traffic.
“How are we not typical?” Eli repeated. “More to the point, what is typical?” he asked. “We’ve never discussed that, now that I think on it. What we each expect from a relationship.” He wanted to ask if Preston had been seeing anyone, but he managed to hold his tongue. He wanted an honest answer from the other man, and pushing and pulling was unlikely to get him one.
Preston drove steadily, but he had to think. He didn’t rush it. “We’re not typical because you know more about me than anyone else. It is... it is atypical!” he said, laughing honestly because he had little choice but to do so.
“I don’t believe knowing things about the person you’re in- were in- a relationship with is atypical, Preston,” Eli countered. “Quite the opposite. Unless you’re contending that relationships are merely for sex, which I would disagree with.”
“I meant,” Preston said, a little embarrassed, “that it is atypical for me. Because I don’t speak of my life that deeply. That’s why I changed my name.”
“Very well,” Eli said, attempting not to smile at the embarrassment. “Barring past secrets and things untold, what else do you expect from a relationship?” He turned back in his seat, sitting fully forward. “I can go first, if you prefer.”
Preston gave Eli a sidelong look. He didn’t expect anything out of a relationship except... well, something more positive than he had when he was alone. Anything. “Alright, you go first.” Only the sound of the engine took over when they stopped at lights; the radio wasn’t even on.
Eli chuckled, and he wasn’t surprised when Preston deferred to him. “Keep in mind that I’ve only been with women prior to you, and there was something significantly lacking in the sex department there,” he explained before beginning. “I believe I want someone who I trust with everyone, or who has the potential for it. Someone with whom I can talk and laugh and perhaps do non-masculine things, such as crying when I chop onions. Someone I can envision old age with. And someone who I can’t look at without wanting to rip their clothing off.” He smiled. “I believe those are the minimum requirements.”
Preston readjusted his grip on the steering wheel, since his palms were abruptly sweaty. He gave Eli another sidelong look, this one slightly worried, or as worried as he could be while still slightly amused as he envisioned old age coupled with ripping clothing. “That sounds like a very tall order.”
Eli smiled, and he leaned his head back against the seat, his gaze drawn to the way Preston adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “I would hear your very tall order, if you wouldn’t mind,” he said, folding his hands on his lap in an expression of endless patience.
“I don’t go into relationships with expectations,” Preston admitted. “I find it leads to a lot of disappointment.” He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel yet again, wondering whether or not this was like saying no, and if Eli was be angry at him about it.
“Preston, I am merely asking what you would like from a relationship. Not what you’d expect,” Eli said, and he smiled over at the other man. “There is no need to be tense,” he added, touching one of Preston’s hands on the steering wheel. “It is merely a question. And I do understand you’re not accustomed to thinking of your wants, but do try.”
Preston’s fingers immediately unwound and the white went out of his knuckles, and he shrugged a little guiltily for reacting the wrong way. “Right.” He pressed his lips together as he thought, rubbing his hairline above one eyebrow. What he would like. Right. “I’d like... someone who didn’t try to fit me into what they want to see. And...” More thought. “Perhaps didn’t get angry when I work too much.” He glanced over to see any reaction.
“How have your lovers tried to fit you into what they wanted to see?” Eli asked, leaving the part about working too much for the time being; he’d get to that.
“That depends. Someone that... only liked what they liked. Or went to places that they liked to go.” This was an awkward conversation. They still had at least ten minutes to the restaurant, too.
Something in Eli’s expression darkened. “Only liked what they liked?” he asked.
Not good. “Mm,” Preston agreed. “It’s just a question of letting some things be different.”
“Answer the question, love,” Eli said, and the darkness in his voice matched the darkness in his expression.
“I did,” Preston said. “Only liked what they liked. Like... sports.” Right, that was a good example.
“Preston.”
“What!”
“I want to know the extent of what these relationships have entailed, Preston,” Eli said, familiar vein throbbing at his temple, jaw clenching with barely controlled anger.
Preston frowned. This had gone badly wrong somewhere, and he wasn’t precisely sure why. “I’m not asking you about yours in that kind of detail,” Preston said, defensively, feeling only a little guilty since he had felt and seen beyond anything Eli would be able to tell him in words.
“What I am imagining might very well be worse than reality,” Eli said, and he very much hoped that was the case, because the things he was imagining were quite dark and quite terrible, and he didn’t trust his own anger if they turned out to be true.
“I’m sure,” Preston said, tone immediately shifting to reassuring.
“Preston, I require five complete sentences from you, lest I leave this vehicle and attempt to find the last person you dated within the city limits so that I may beat them within an inch of their lives. That person will, undoubtedly, be Thorne, and I will enjoy making him bleed very much.” Eli was, of course, entirely serious.
Preston took it as seriously as he should of, and hastened to reassure with more words, though he didn’t directly see why that was necessary. “Blake didn’t expect anything,” he said, with total confidence. “It wasn’t that kind of relationship. I think that it was just convenient, at the time.” He was watching Eli’s face as much as possible while still staying on the road; the surroundings were getting more green the farther out they went. “There isn’t anyone else in this city.”
Eli looked out the window, elbow on the door, fingers to his forehead. “Preston, could you possibly be honest with me about this one thing? Not Thorne. Your relationship history.”
“I’m trying. You want me to list them off?”
“Perhaps that would be simpler,” Eli suggested.
Preston scowled. This was pushing it a little far, as Preston had an inherent respect for relationships, which he considered to be very private. “You first.”
Eli sighed, and he shook his head. “Forget I asked, Preston,” he said, and he looked back at the other man. “How have things been at work?” he asked, surface and without probing deeply into anything, the fact that it was a casual question evident in the way it was asked. “Has your brother been well? I believe you’re going on holiday shortly?”
Preston sighed too. His response had probably been a little harsh, he thought. He felt like apologizing, but Eli was already moving on, and Preston sat heavily back in the seat and let his hands hang from his fingertips at the bottom of the wheel. “Work is better; taxes were filed with time to spare, PR is good in comparison to the mess with Brandon and Monarch.” Perhaps that was too much detail. “Shiloh seems well, but he doesn’t want to talk about his son, and that concerns me.”
“Your brother seems exceptionally well adjusted,” Eli said, and it didn’t precisely sound like a compliment. “He indicated to me that he was doing everything wrong recently, both in regards to you and to his son. I take it nothing has changed there?” He paused thoughtfully. “Has he considered taking him on holiday as well? We went out as a family quite often when I was young, before things became hard, and you cannot avoid talking when you’re on a trip.” It was honest advice, even if there was a touch of disappointment in his voice at the turn of the conversation.
In comparison with himself, Preston had to admit that yes, Shiloh was definitely well-adjusted. “He feels guilty for only talking of himself lately, so now I can’t get him to say anything about Poe,” Preston confirmed. “I felt it in the... thing.” Whatever it was. My family did summer trips too. When did it get hard for yours?” he asked, curiously.
“My father managed buildings, and he was a thief,” Eli explained, something hard in the words that said he had not forgiven his father for their poverty. “We lost everything when I was five, and we were sent to live out in the country, where the shame wouldn’t touch the rest of the family. My aunt Garden, she moved here shortly after.” Eli looked over, quirking his brow and waiting to see if the confession caused Preston to be any more forthcoming himself.
Preston frowned at the road. “That doesn’t seem fair. It isn’t as if your family is responsible. That’s why you came here?” All his questions about Musings and the things Reina had told him came back. Preston shot Eli an intensely observant look, one he didn’t use that often. “How old were you when you came?”
“I came because my sister ran off with a married man in the town we lived in, and all the gossip came rushing back about the thefts and our reputation. I was fourteen. It was the year we met, actually,” Eli explained. “My father’s reputation follows his children; it is the way of things in very small places, Preston. The whole of the world is not like the United States.”
Preston was born and raised in Boston, and then traveled the rest of his life from capital to capital. “I don’t know how things work in Musings,” Preston said, trying to find a neutral tone. “Is that fourteen years when you stopped aging, or fourteen years total?”
The question was phrased oddly enough to capture Eli’s attention. “What are you asking, Preston?”
“If you’re older than you look? One of my friends at work just came from there, and she said that a great many people are older than they look, since no one dies.” To Preston, Musings was a bizarre, incomprehensible place.
“Were you born here?” Eli asked. “Or merely very young when your parents moved?”
“I guess... I don’t know,” Preston admitted, looking upset at the thought.
“Do you recall the portal?” Eli asked, because it was something he found quite memorable. “Did your parents tell you of Musings? Or do you remember it existing without being told?” He gave up the fight not to smoke, and he pulled a cigarette out of the pocket of his jeans with a shift of hips and brought it to his lips without lighting it. “I am the age I appear. I had not stopped aging when I moved, nor had any of my siblings. But, yes, I believe my mother was in her hundreds when she had my youngest sister, but she looked not a day over her mid thirties.”
Preston surreptitiously hit the button for Eli’s passenger-side window as he got out the cigarette, and then, after a moment of thought, his too, because he was still trying to quit. Badly.
“No, I don’t remember ever moving. The first thing I remember is our front yard. Shiloh told me we were from somewhere else when we first figured out what we could do. I thought it was a foreign country, or something.”
Eli made an understanding sound. It explained quite a lot, really, about Preston’s opinions of Creations. “I remember home quite vividly. I left on a rush of childish anger and wounded pride, fearing the prejudices of my peers when they learned of my sister and of our circumstances, and I regretted it the bloody second after I had crossed. I’ve missed them ever since, my family and friends,” he admitted.
That sounded, to Preston, fairly horrible. To have a decision you made as a teenager follow you around like that, to have it impact even the number of years you had left to live... He cast Eli a sympathetic look, and the car eased to a stop in the restaurant parking lot. The building was tiny, green and red, and the windows were covered with faded curtains.
“That look,” Eli said without ire, “isn’t required. I made my choices, and so has everyone else who crossed with knowledge of what they were doing. Now, I’ve my aunt and uncle dictating my life across the country,” he said, glancing at the windows and curtains. “Is it likely to be crowded?” he asked.
“It’s always crowded, but it’s also so dark it’s hard to see who it’s crowded with,” Preston answered, unbuckling his seatbelt and trying to conquer the sympathy as ordered. He reached over and, with a quick, uncertain movement he couldn’t seem to stop, brushed his fingers over Eli’s bicep, wrinkling the cotton, and then pulled away to open the door.
The touch was enough to shake Eli, to make him forget his convictions for a moment, and he had to smile as he moved to open his own door. "My self control is not as it should be," he said, closing the door behind himself and waiting for Preston to come around.
Preston did, pocketing his keys and standing on the curb in front of the car and smiling slightly as he waited in turn. He was dressed, as always, as if he just left the office, suit dark against the reserved Oxford shirt. The tie had green in the gray silk. “You never put a lot of store in your self-control,” Preston observed.
“I know better than to do so,” Eli said, gaze dragging slowly over the man. He moved forward, then, after the long perusal, and he straightened the silk tie and then ruined the effect by using it to tug Preston toward the door. “Come along,” he said, as if the tug and order was a requirement.
Preston’s throat worked as the tie was arranged, obvious when he lifted his chin cooperatively. He choked out a little bit of a laugh as he was tugged along, and he caught Eli’s shoulder as they headed toward the entrance, a grimy door with a bronze bell on it. “You’re going to knock it askew again,” he said, pulling it back once they were inside. The eyes needed a while to adjust, as it was a tiny place, a few booths and no more than eight tables. A small woman led them to a back booth, decorated with a pot of bamboo gone wild and more faded (but clean) curtains. The menus were computer printed in beat-up plastic.
The places was not the sort Eli imagined Preston to frequent. It wasn’t business friendly, and he assumed Preston preferred those places above others. It was small and, he suspected, familial. They probably knew their diners by name, remembered what regulars ordered, and served extra to repeat visitors. As an owner of an establishment that operated on the same small-town premise, Eli was impressed. He didn’t touch the menu, even after taking his seat in the booth. “What is good?” he asked Preston, to see how often the man actually drove out to this place.
“You just tell them you want whatever is good today,” Preston replied, readily. The lighting wasn’t good there, but you could run a hand over the back of the booths and come up entirely clean. Preston sat across the booth and got comfortable, glancing at the printed menu but not with great interest. “It’s kind of out of the way,” he said, a little apologetic.
“How did you find it?” Eli asked, genuinely curious. Small places always made him feel more at home. The more familial, the better. “I assumed you would prefer larger, more anonymous locales,” he said truthfully, arm along the back of the booth, posture slightly slouched and at ease as he looked at the man across from him.
“Generally, yes. This one is on the way out of town, I took a trip last year up this way toward Vancouver.” He hadn’t been here more than twice, though, considering the drive, and he got no special greetings as he ordered as advised (with the addition of “no meat, please”) and off the little woman went again.
“What was in Vancouver?” Eli asked, watching the woman go in search of their drinks. When she returned, he turned his body slightly toward hers and told her liked the establishment, informed her he had one of his own, and managed a decent conversation despite the language barrier. When she finally walked away again, he turned back to Preston and smiled. “And someone recommended it?” he asked, continuing the conversation as if it had never ended.
Preston had spent quite a bit of time in Beijing, and the language barrier was hell for him; he was very impressed Eli managed to get past it with charisma alone. He had been sitting with his chin on one hand during the brief interlude, and he blinked, as if waking up, when Eli’s attention suddenly came back to him. “No, just chance. I go alone. Just a... yearly thing.” No one actually knew he went alone, and he went slightly awkward and glanced down at his hand, which he tucked under in his lap a moment later. “So... there’s nothing in Vancouver. That’s the point.”
“There must be something,” Eli countered, “or you would not continue to return to the same place. Familiarity, perhaps?” he asked, leaning forward and out of his slouch, elbows on the table. “Why once a year?” he asked, as if this was a crucial thing, as if he had the sense that it held answers that would explain the man across from him in ways he did not know.
“It’s just quiet. Out of the way... and quiet.” Unconsciously he leaned forward too, in response. Water and hot tea arrived, the tea pot comfortable and steaming between them with tiny little shot-sized cups next to it. “I go every year because... that’s when I take my vacation.“ Logic.
Eli poured them both tea, and he took his own small cup and brought it under his nose, smelling the tea before tasting it with a small sip. “And what do you do on your vacation, Preston?” he asked, hoping that would lead the other man into a confession of one sort or another.
The tea was oolong and jasmine, wonderfully brewed and very pleasant, without burnt bitterness. Preston’s long ink-stained fingers turned the little cup. “Stay in. Watch the snow. Sleep in. Read.” He glanced up, awkwardly smiled. “Boring things, really.”
“I could think of ways to make that infinitely more interesting,” Eli said over the edge of the tiny cup, blue eyes smiling as he took another sip. “Have you ever considered going somewhere else? Another location? Somewhere warm, perhaps?” He put the cup down. “Was Vancouver a planned choice?”
Preston blushed, colorless but smiling. “I plan these things, yes. It was Vancouver just because it’s relatively close, you know. To here.” Preston shook his head slowly. “No... I go somewhere cold. Reminds me of home, I guess. Or maybe how home was supposed to be.” He picked up his tea, and an appetizer of fried spring rolls arrived.
“But you’re not going to Vancouver with your brother?” Eli asked, already knowing the answer. He placed a spring roll on Preston’s plate, then he repeated the action with his own plate, the motion a thoughtless one that hearkened back to attending formal affairs with his aunt and uncle as they traveled. “I merely find the oldest place I have not yet seen than I have the time to drive to,” he admitted. “And I spent countless hours walking around the dust and photographing, as I experience the life that happened within its walls.”
“That doesn’t sound very relaxing,” Preston said, curiously, idly twisting the roll into sour sauce and spicy mustard. The burning mixed with the soothing sweet was pleasant on the air to cut the herbal tea. “I use my vacation to... pull myself together. The other memories, they don’t bother you?”
“No, because they aren’t in my head, the memories of places,” Eli explained. “I see them, like movies that share my space. It’s like standing outside a window and wondering what the lives of the people inside are like, except I actually get to experience it. Did you never do that as a child?” he asked, his expression turning old and fond. “My best mate and I, we would do that all the day long in the summers.”
Preston’s eyes slid down, and then back up again. “No, not exactly. I read a lot. It’s similar, I think.” He licked the sweet and sour sauce off his fingers and reached for the tea again. “So you’ve had a lot of practice with memories then?”
“I’m not certain reading is the same as being in the center of living,” Eli said, watching the movement of Preston’s hands with the sort of attention that could not be mistaken for casual observation. “I could show you places,” he told the other man. “Good places, warm places. It is, I think, brilliant that lives remain long after their gone. It is, you see, a way of keeping people alive. I wanted to teach about it, the lives of places. To photograph and document, but my aunt preferred I do something more tangible with my life.”
“You could do something in archiving,” Preston suggested, always eager to help. “Or photo-journalism. It’s a difficult profession to break into, but I hear...” He trailed off as the food arrived, plates of pan-fried broccoli in garlic sauce, fried noodles with water chestnuts, and sweet jasmine rice. Preston poured them more tea without spilling a drop, thanking the disappearing woman as she retreated. “...But what am I saying, of course, you love Reliquary.” He smiled at the mention of the tea shop.
“I had an offer for a teaching position at the university,” Eli explained, repeating the process of serving Preston before he served himself. The food smelled delicious, and he took the time to appreciate it before reaching for his chopsticks. “It was my intention, you see, to teach. But I remained a student long after I could have moved on, and I became involved in EIT, and my family despaired of me ever having a lucrative profession. They have no children of their own to fret over, and I did not choose Reliquary. It was chosen for me - I merely named it.”
Preston was surprised; his expert maneuvering of the chopsticks paused in mid-air. “I had no idea. You’re not independent, then?” It troubled him on Eli’s behalf alone, and he blindly put a piece of broccoli into his mouth without looking at it.
Eli smiled. “You have been inside Reliquary?” he asked, nudging his chopsticks toward Preston’s and encouraging the other man to eat. “That shop cannot sustain itself, not how I run it. I could make changes, of course. We have sufficient clientele to make a go of it without free refills and handmade food made with local ingredients. I could limit the staff to myself, set standard hours, and remove all the antiques I allow locals to showcase there.” He shook his head. “No, I am not independent. My money goes into the shop, and my aunt pays for most everything else.”
Preston looked slightly abashed. He had indeed been inside Reliquary, and his businessman’s eye had assessed the business himself. He had always thought Eli to be independently wealthy, because there wasn’t any other explanation. “There are distribution centers that still make local food; it just wouldn’t be unique to Reliquary. You could limit to you plus the cook and a part-timer for the weekends, or you could shorten the day hours.” The figures clicked behind his eyes, shifting here or there. He didn’t even want to know what the taxes had been like. He ate another broccoli, blind still.
Eli smiled. “I am running the establishment the way I am because it is the only way I find it meaningful,” he said. “I find value in people talking to one another, and in an experience that is not founded in consumerism. I have, admittedly, considered a part-time job at the university, but I do not think I am cut out for multiple jobs. I am not a man who likes more work than life. It would drive me quite insane, working as you do.” It was honestly said, and he took a bite of his food before continuing. “I have admitted to quite a few things,” he said once he swallowed. “I now leave it to you to make equal confessions.”
Preston wanted to say more about Reliquary as a business, because he could see ways to improve it, to make it better for Eli, and it was hard for him to stop. He pushed his vegetables around on his plate. “I don’t have any ambitions like that,” he admitted. “I just save everything; I don’t have much ready cash because I put it all away.” A slight shrug of his shoulder. “For a rainy day.”
“What is your rainy day?” Eli asked curiously, motioning over the woman who waited on them just to tell her how fantastic the food was and commend her on it. Pleased, she offered to bring them something else to drink, which Eli thanked her for before turning his attention back to Preston. “I am afraid I have nothing for a rainy day,” he admitted. “My aunt and uncle have always believed in giving me experiences, rather than money, and I’ve never made much of it on my own. I’ve not even done my taxes yet this year,” he admitted, imagining Preston’s horror at such a reality.
Preston didn’t have a rainy day in mind; that was partly his trouble. He barely spent a dime on his vacation. The money for attire and the car he thought of as professional investments. His biggest expenditure had been on Bly’s hacking device. He nearly dropped his chopsticks. “You haven’t?” Eli had entirely underestimated Preston’s horror. His eyes went wide and he quickly ate several bites and turned around to see if he could find the waitress/owner. “We need to get back right now. I can help you. Do you keep any records at all?”
“We are not rushing back to do my taxes, Preston,” Eli said with a fond smile he couldn’t hold back. “It has been a complicated few weeks. I merely fell behind.” He had all the paperwork ready, and he had been intending to get them done, but he hadn’t done much of anything since things had fallen apart with Preston. And then there had been the situation with Isobel. It had been a mess, and he hadn’t been concentrating on anything more than getting from one day to the next.
Preston gave Eli a look as if he thought he was seriously insane. After a moment, he realized that Eli was serious, and he slowly relaxed. “Tonight, then. Those need to get done, Eli. It’s very important.” The most important occasion in a financial year. You could practically hear Preston’s watch ticking in time to it.
Eli grinned, and he reached across the table and rested his fingers on the other man’s wrist. “You’re supposed to be enjoying my company, Preston. Not begging to offer me fiscal assistance,” he said fondly, his fingers lingering a moment before he pulled them away. “Tell me about your studies,” he said, waiting for the woman to set down the small drink carafe before quirking a brow. “Do you know what it is?” he asked.
Preston was relaxed enough to grin. He turned his palm over under Eli's hand, and his fingers trailed against the other man's palm as his arm pulled back. "You should be begging me. Filing does not come easy and I do not come cheap." At the carafe, blankly, "No idea." He tapped his chopsticks again to get them in order. "Which studies? At school?"
Eli grinned at the small show of confidence, and he would have forgotten all of his good intentions and grabbed Preston across the table to show him how much he approved of that particular trait. But he merely chuckled and sat back, and he poured some of the liquid from the carafe. It looked like wine, and he swirled the cup under his nose before taking a sip. “Yes,” he said. “School will suffice as a starting point.”
Preston watched Eli’s expression curiously as he took a drink from the mystery potion. “After I left home I went to stay with Shiloh, so I started college where he was. I got a scholarship and some loans, so it wasn’t that bad. I had a couple jobs before Anton hired me, and then I went to UCLA for my master’s while we were there.”
“What was your favorite class?” Eli asked. “Not the one you did best in - your favorite?”
Preston reflected. It had been seven--no, eight years since he finished his MBA, so he had to think on it. “Behavioral Finance. It tried to explain why people make the money decisions they do. It was based in a lot of theoretical psychology.” Preston smirked a little at Eli, who was making a lot of emotional decisions about his money.
Eli shook his head as soon as Preston began explaining the intricacies of Behavioral Finance. “No, Preston, something in the elective category, if you would,” he suggested. Eli liked photography, antiques, history and the like; he could not believe Preston actually liked finance. He couldn’t imagine anyone liking finance.
Preston smiled. It was a different smile than the smirk, fonder. “That was an elective. Give me some of whatever that is.” He pushed his cup across the table.
Eli poured some of the wine into Preston’s cup. He considered not doing it, but he was there to ensure the other man didn’t go overboard, and so he filled the cup before setting the carafe aside again. “Something not relating to your major course of study,” he said, changing his tactic.
Preston laughed. “I was working full time and taking master’s classes. Everything related to my major course of study.” Preston sipped at the wine, which was more juice, really. It was good, but not as good as the food. He didn’t show any signs of wanting to go overboard; he put the cup back down and helped himself to more noodles.
“You,” Eli said, pointing a chopstick, “are being intentionally difficult.”
“I am not intentionally difficult.” Preston was still smiling, in between slurping noodles. “It’s not in my make-up.”
“You would lie to me were that the case. Claim you liked art history or chorus,” Eli said, voice a slight huff, albeit an entertained one. “Do you enjoy cinema, at least? Please, Lord, tell me you do. I’m not sure I can stand it otherwise.”
“I’m just honest,” Preston said, tapping his plate as if this proved it. “Of course I like movies. Old ones, mostly. The black-and-white ones with drama.”
With a visible, exaggerated sigh. “Thank Heavens.” Grin. “Why do you prefer those?” Eli asked, tapping Preston’s plate in a copy of what Preston had just done. “I don’t much care for film,” he admitted.
“They’re smarter. They’re not in a hurry. Things don’t need to explode to mean something.” Preston shrugged one broad shoulder under his collar.
Eli pushed the plate with the noodles aside, and he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “You do realize you’re siding with my preference for antiques, don’t you? Validating my interest in old photographs and things covered in dust,” he said, taking another sip of his wine as he watched that shoulder shrug with interest.
Preston had done more talking about taxes than eating, so he kept going with the noodles as they spoke. “Movies aren’t antique.” Another bite. “Though some people think they’re dated. Antiques are old.” Grin.
Eli smiled. “No, love, your movies are antiques. Shall we ask the other diners if they’ve seen them?” he asked, obviously teasing and with no real intention to do so. He put the wine back down on the table, and he was quiet, obviously watching the man across from him with an interest that went beyond casual.
Preston looked around; there wasn’t anyone to ask right at the moment, and he relaxed. He went out of his way to avoid attention of any kind, positive or negative, because it was safer that way. “Fine; if antique movies make you happy.” He was serious, and grinned.
Eli shook his head, and he laughed. “You’re bloody impossible, you know that?” he asked fondly.
Preston waved for the check. “Compared to what?”
“Compared to every other rational man on the planet, I’m certain. Mind, I don’t have proof, but I am fairly certain,” Eli said, reaching for the check when it came and pulling his card out of his pocket quickly, handing it to the waitress before Preston had an opportunity. “You can return the favor at another time. When do you leave?”
Not happening. Preston started wiggling down the booth to pursue the waitress. “I invited,” he said, as he moved, by way of explanation. Then, “Next Monday.”
Eli reached out, and he grabbed Preston’s sleeve. “Do sit your arse down,” he said fondly. “Will you have communication methods?” he asked, a touch of worry in the question.
Preston shook his arm. He was going to pay for this, dammit. It was a matter of principle. “Phone and email,” Preston said, the proud owner of a ridiculously expensive satellite phone that would keep him in touch in case Anton burnt another lab down.
Eli let the man pay, taking his card back and pocketing it with a long, dramatically drawn out sigh of suffering. “You’ll be in touch?” he asked, slipping out of the booth reluctantly and looking at the other man, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
Preston neatly folded his receipt slip and put it in the appropriate wallet pocket as they headed out the door. He held it for Eli and smiled at him as he passed so close. “Naturally.”
Eli stopped for just a moment, just long enough to let his hand skim over the other man’s hip. “Have a good trip, Preston,” he said, and then he moved away. “Come drive a bloke home, won’t you?”