Chapter Nine La La Land, dir. by Damien Chazelle #4
Eli steps into the kitchen and searches for any cups, finding only the red plastic kind with the Coke logo on the side that
he’s sure he’s seen at pizza places. That’s when he hears the first gag.
“Oh, God.” Eli’s stomach sinks. He grabs one of the cups and fills it up with tap water. He rushes back into the bathroom,
leaving the water next to the sink, and sits on the edge of the tub, rubbing circles on the small of Peter’s back. He doesn’t
let himself get too distracted, but he can’t keep his eyes from wandering, noticing the skin-care items that litter the countertop.
Eli even turns toward the shower, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees that Peter isn’t one of those five-in-one Old Spice
guys.
“Sorry,” Peter moans.
Eli snorts. “Are you seriously apologizing right now?”
He swears he can hear Peter’s smile. “Maybe.”
Peter continues to choke, spitting a few times. Thankfully, when he finally pulls his head away from the toilet, the water
is still clear.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Peter promises. Eli watches as he brushes his teeth, gargling the entire glass of water.
“Here, go get ready for bed. I’ll get you more water and some Advil.”
Peter stands there, and for a moment, Eli thinks he might collapse when he starts to slowly fall forward. Instead, Peter remains
upright, his head landing on Eli’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
Eli’s taken aback, unsure of what to do before he finally wraps his arms around Peter’s torso, scratching at his back lightly.
“It’s okay.”
He lets Peter stay there for however long he needs, listening to the quiet breathing, feeling the rise and fall of Peter’s
back as Eli’s nose fills with the soft, warm scent of Peter. They’re silent, the sounds of the city so far away as to be barely
audible.
“I think you’re my best friend.”
The words come out so soft, so sudden, that Eli’s almost sure that he’s hearing things. But he knows he felt Peter’s warm breath on his neck, and he recognizes the sound of Peter’s voice.
And his heart breaks.
He isn’t sure what to say to that, and maybe he doesn’t have to say anything. Maybe it’s enough that Peter trusted him with
that, maybe it’s enough that Eli was here when he needed to be.
Maybe it’s enough, and maybe it’s not.
Eli almost doesn’t want the moment to end, and when Peter steps back, Eli nearly pulls him back into the hug to hang on to
him for just a moment longer.
But the urge passes, and Eli starts to mourn.
“Go get in bed,” he says. “I’ll be there in a second.”
“Okay.” Peter obeys, walking into the bedroom as Eli pauses at the bathroom sink, wondering just what went wrong in his life to lead him to this. He feels that thudding in his chest, that heat in his palms. He stares at the empty sink, focusing on the drain.
Eli takes a few deep breaths, forcing his tense shoulders to relax. He doesn’t understand where all these feelings are coming
from, and he doesn’t like them.
He refills the glass and searches the medicine cabinet for a bottle of Advil, trying his best to loosen up before he strolls
into the bedroom, averting his gaze when he sees Peter nearly naked, dressed only in his underwear.
“Oh! God, I’m sorry.” Eli slaps his hand over his eyes.
“Hey, that’s my line,” Peter says hesitantly, pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants so quickly that he falls onto the edge
of the bed.
“Here.” Eli hands Peter the Advil and the water, watching as he gulps it down. “Now get under the covers.”
“Thank you, again,” Peter mumbles.
“It’s okay.”
“Can you just... sit here?” Peter asks him. “Until I’m asleep.”
“Of course.” Eli climbs onto the bed, sitting next to Peter with his back against the wall. Peter turns so he can look at
Eli one last time before his eyes close, a smile on his lips, hands tucked under his pillow as he buries half his face in
it.
It strikes Eli just how gorgeous Peter is, and he can’t help himself from brushing a single lock of hair that escapes Peter’s
head, tucking it back. Eli wonders if Peter knows that he’s beautiful. He hopes he does. Peter’s the kind of person who deserves to know how bright his smile makes a room,
how effortless it is to love a person like him.
And the inside of Eli’s mouth turns sour.
He waits for Peter to wake up, but he’s out like a light. For a while he lingers, watching Peter sleep. But he knows he can’t
hang around.
Eli feels his heart thudding in his chest as he slides off the bed, not realizing he left the Advil bottle right in his path.
“Shit,” he whispers, waiting for Peter to wake up from the clattering of the pills. He kneels on the hardwood floor, gathering
as many as he can from under the bed. It’s when Eli pulls his hand free that he hits something and hears it topple over, something
that sounds an awful lot like... books?
He yanks back the comforter carefully to peek under the bed. And just as he expects, he sees a floppy paperback. He carefully
pulls it out and stares at it.
“ The Duke’s Guide to Love and Lust ?” he reads quietly off the cover of the book, adorned with an illustration depicting two men in period-style clothing embracing
one another. Well, one of them is clothed; the other has his shirt split open, showing off a perfectly oiled chest. A romance novel?
Eli grabs another book. This one is titled Weather Man and appears to be a meteorology-themed romance. Others with titles like The Prince and His Pauper , Girlfriend Material , The Seven-Ten Split , and When Hairy Met Sally have been hidden underneath Peter’s bed for some odd reason.
Doing his best to hide the evidence that he snooped, even if it was accidental, Eli stacks the books back on top of each other
and shoves them back under the bed, clueless about their order, hoping that Peter won’t notice.
He wishes that he could watch Peter all night, keep an eye on him, but that’d be so very Edward Cullen of him, and Eli’s not
interested in being a stalker weirdo. So, instead, Eli slips his shoes back on, turning off most of the lights in the apartment
before he steps back out into the garage, the gate automatically locking behind him.
He lingers there, in what little warmth the building entrance holds, before he walks to the bus stop, grateful that it’s late enough at night that no one else is on the bus. The apartment is dark when he gets home, no lights under Rose’s or Patricia’s doors, so he decides not to bother them.
For a moment he considers starting a movie, putting on his headphones so he doesn’t disturb his roommates, or grabbing his
laptop to write about the night, but the former means he’d be going to bed far too late, and the latter just makes him feel
guilty when he thinks about it. So, instead, Eli tiptoes to his bedroom, changing into sweatpants before he brushes his teeth
then falls onto his bed, exhausted by the night.
He doesn’t mean to dream about Peter, about the sweet honeysuckle sound of his laughter, or that barest hint of Georgia accent
in his voice. He doesn’t mean to dream about tracing his hand along that jawline, about feeling his hand in Peter’s.
And he doesn’t mean to dream about what it might be like to kiss him again, to taste his tongue, to feel his lips against
Peter’s and the heat of his breath, his teeth on Eli’s throat, hands on his chest.
But he does.
And when he wakes up the next morning, he feels so much worse about himself.