An almost cooing sound broke from three throats. Elliot was stonily outraged. Those were his insights, even if they would not have got the same reception from his mouth. Elliot was helping Luke be irresistible to all women, which was unfair and unnecessary.
“Think of the different ways Othello has been produced,” Elliot said to Natalie, who was originally from the other side of the Border like him.
When everybody was engrossed in a conversation about the evolution of drama, Luke elbowed Elliot hard and whispered: “Why are we sitting here?”
“I don’t know, Luke,” Elliot said, very reasonably. “Why are we sitting here?”
Luke frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“That seems true!” Elliot exclaimed, but then Myra appealed to him on a point about set design in the human world, and they could not speak on the matter any further.
Elliot thought about it later, and thought he could understand. Elliot remembered Luke slinking away from parties, and remembered what Rachel Sunborn had called him: my shy boy. He remembered Luke punching him, and talking about what other people did as if he’d never had any friends before he came to the Border camp at all. Elliot still didn’t think Luke was shy, but Luke was wary of people he did not know well. He’d been raised in a fort with enemies without and impatient soldiers within: he had learned to be no trouble, a pleasure to have around, and to melt away long before anyone wished him gone. Elliot didn’t understand it himself, but if Luke needed someone to be obtrusive, Elliot could do that.
So the next day at lunchtime, Elliot grabbed Luke by the elbow when he came in and marched over to where the sporty types sat. “Can we sit here, you guys? Awesome.”
“Absolutely,” said some idiot with teeth that stuck out. “Over here, Luke.”
“Sit down by me and let’s talk about those moves in Trigon,” said another one, this time with an overbite. Elliot did not have the time to learn the names of all these people with dental problems.
It did, however, seem as if integrating Luke into this merry band would be simple. It was possible Elliot could simply slink away . . .
“Sit with me, Elliot,” said Dale Wavechaser, crushing Elliot’s dreams. He patted the seat beside him, which Elliot had mentally earmarked for Luke.
Elliot shot a desperate look at Luke, who was being pulled down like an antelope by three annoying lions. “Okay,” he said darkly. “Why not?”
Dale beamed and Elliot sat down. Dale put a hand on his back. “Are you doing all right?”
“Ahahaha,” said Elliot, squirming away. “Never better, buddy.”
“I’m glad you’re both here. I saw you guys at the drama kids’ table yesterday,” Dale said, looking honestly concerned. “You can come sit with us anytime, you know.”
“Gosh,” said Elliot. “What an honor.”
“Oh, don’t even worry about it,” said Dale. “You’re welcome.”
This immunity toward sarcasm must mean Dale had such a peaceful life. It also meant he and Elliot were basically speaking different languages.
“I mean, theatre, boring, am I right?” asked Dale. “It’s just a bunch of pretending stuff.”
“You’re so right, Dale,” Elliot told him nobly, for Luke’s sake. “I mean, the history of art, basically a lot of idiots wasting their time.”
“And that dwarf girl sits there.”
“I like her,” Elliot bit out, stabbing Dale with the twin icicles that his eyes had become.
“Oh no, I’m sure she’s nice,” Dale said hastily. “Sorry, that was—I didn’t mean to offend you. Hey, so you missed most of the Trigon game the other day, didn’t you?”
“I was thus tragically deprived,” Elliot said flatly. “Yes.”
Dale began to outline the events of the game.
What a nice person, Elliot thought. What a wonderful chat he and Luke could be having about their mutual love for physical exhaustion and hatred for culture. Also he was really handsome, the curling ends of his hair turned to summer gold. Elliot was so bored he wished harpies would attack.
Elliot was accustomed to being a gleefully abrasive and unpleasant personality, and he did not feel temperamentally suited to extended periods of tedium. He was used to telling people they were unintelligent and leaving at speed.
But he couldn’t do that to Dale. It wasn’t just Dale and Luke’s destined future. Dale had given Elliot his only birthday present: Elliot didn’t forget that. Elliot would rather hurt himself than Dale, if it came down to it.
Luke was on the other end of the table, looking twitchy and attempting to rise despite several hands on each of his shoulders. Luke too clearly wished he was the one speaking to Dale. Everything was terrible.
If Elliot said he had to go to the bathroom, he would be expected back. He set his mind to the problem of finding a good excuse to leave the table for the entirety of lunchtime.
“It actually reminded me of classic games such as the one played by Eleanor Sunborn eleven years ago,” said Dale. “Do you know that one? Never mind. Let me tell you about it.”
“How fascinating, please go on,” Elliot encouraged Dale gently, and stabbed himself in the arm with a butter knife. “Whoops, butter fingers. Butter knife . . . fingers.”
Dale and Elliot watched with incredulous dismay as the gash on Elliot’s arm widened and a lazy trickle of blood became a rushing river.
“As you can see, Dale, and desolate though I am to say it because our conversation was riveting, I have to go see a medic.”
“Will I come with you?” asked Dale.
“No,” said Elliot firmly. “No, you should stay and enjoy your lunch. If your Trigon prowess suffered because of a lack of proper nutrition, how could I live with myself?”
Whoosh! went the bluebird of sarcasm, zooming miles above Dale’s head.
“Oh,” he said. “Okay.”
“What did you do to him?” Luke asked, looming over them and eyeing the blood, which was now all over Elliot’s arm and the table, in horror.
The sporty types with dental problems were in a routed heap at the other end of the table. They were also staring at the blood.
“I did it to myself!”
“What did you let him do to himself?”
“It’s not his fault,” Elliot snapped. “Why would he assume that I couldn’t feed myself without incurring injuries? Which by the way, ignoring current evidence, I obviously can. I’ve been doing it for years. It was a simple accident. A slip of the knife. It could’ve happened to anyone.”
Luke yanked him up off the bench by the back of his collar. “Come on, we’re going to the medic.”
“That’s a really good plan, Luke,” Elliot said. “I commend you for it. However, if I might suggest one teensy, eensy adjustment? I could go, and you—since you’re not injured—could stay!”
Luke continued dragging. “Yeah, I’m really looking forward to Serene coming back asking me why she hasn’t found you in one piece the way she left you.”
If Serene was so concerned about his well-being, she could have not dumped him with a dull thud.
It wasn’t fair, so Elliot didn’t say it. He let Luke drag him to the infirmary tent, where at least his day was brightened by being whisked away and tended to by the cruelest medic of them all.