Elliot ditched his jock reputation after high school. He happily traded his cleats and shoulder pads for college cafeteria food and seminars notes. Now, without the distraction of football, he has managed to find success at the University of Minneso...
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"He's in Paris and I'm in agony," Pierce exclaimed.
He had come to the gym in hopes that Elliot would be working behind the counter, but no, he was gone - all the way across the Atlantic Ocean.
Quinn grunted as she lifted a bar of weights above her head. "I'm busy, Pierce. Take your romantic comedy to Hayden."
"She's in class."
Quinn rolled her eyes. "Fucking hell," she muttered, ending her set and sitting up.
Wyatt was spotting her from behind. "Who?"
"Elliot," Pierce told him.
"Elliot?"
"Yes, Elliot," Pierce repeated. "I'm dating Elliot, Wyatt. Keep up. I like guys - sometimes. Mainly only Elliot. It's hard to explain. But I really don't give a shit who knows anymore. I'm fucking over it."
People had already posted videos of him and Elliot fighting at the art gallery. There was no denying the rumors now - and damn anyone who had a problem with it. Now everyone Pierce cared about knew he loved Elliot, and that's all that really mattered to him. It was a relief, actually. He could label himself later. He had bigger problems to solve.
"You're gay?" Wyatt confirmed.
"No, I'm not gay. I'm - ?"
"You could've told me, man," he said, gesturing between himself and Quinn. "You could've told us both."
"I already knew," Quinn admitted.
Wyatt whirled at her. "What?"
"Listen," Pierce interrupted. "This isn't about me. This is about Elliot."
"Why'd he tell you first?" Wyatt asked Quinn.
Quinn pinched the bridge of her nose, exasperated. "Does it matter? Coming out isn't really as glamorous as it is movies." Says the girl who kissed her girlfriend in front of a whole arena. "It's more of a slow progression of self-acceptance and - "
"Guys," Pierce shouted. "Focus. Elliot is in France."
"Yeah. I know." Quinn shrugged. "He left for Paris yesterday. Get over it and Facetime him."
"I wish I had money to fly to France for spring break," Wyatt mumbled, off topic.
Pierce ignore him, speaking to Quinn when he said, "He's mad at me."
"Jesus Christ. Really? Again?" Quinn shook her head. "Does it ever stop?"
"What happened?" It was Wyatt, genuinely concerned.
"I yelled at him," Pierce regretted. "In front of a bunch of important art people. I said some shit I shouldn't have said. I think I really hurt him. And I was a little jealous - but for good reason."
"Just talk to him," Wyatt suggested.
"Talking won't fix this," Pierce feared. "I've apologized to him endlessly. I've told him I love him a billion times. He hears it, but he doesn't believe it - not really. Words don't mean much to him. I need to show him I care." Like art or movies or a tattoo.
Wyatt was grinning like an intoxicated cat. "You know what we have to do, right?"
"You look constipated," Quinn said to Wyatt.
Wyatt shooed her away, a true hopeless romantic as he told Pierce, "We have to go to Paris."
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