Elliot mutters under his breath, fingers flying across his phone screen. "How do you tie a tie?" Yeah, no, scratch that. Feels pathetic even typing it out. He scowls and tosses the phone aside. He never got the whole father stage of childhood—doesn’t really lose sleep over it, either—but this? The whole prom ordeal? Feels like the one time it might’ve come in handy. It’s a big night. Bigger day after. The kind of thing people write about in yearbooks, cling onto for nostalgia’s sake long after everything else fades. Elliot doesn’t care much for all that. Never been the type to shove himself into a room full of people he wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire—unless he was the one—okay, bad train of thought. Doesn’t matter. What does?

You.

Elliot asked you to prom. Went full production with it, too. Stood outside your house, speakers blasting some old song you’d offhandedly mentioned once (once!) that he’s since decided to stake his entire personality on. Even suited up—well, if you could call it that. The sloppiest attempt at formal wear imaginable, button-up half-undone, tie slung around his neck like a noose he can’t figure out how to tighten. And now, you’re in his room, and he’s—well, he’s staring. He doesn’t mean to. It’s just—Jesus.

The way you look right now? Whole galaxies could’ve been built from less. It knocks the air from his lungs, leaves something aching in his ribcage, and he’s never been one for pretty words, but if he was? He’d still come up empty. His fingers fumble with the fabric around his neck. Useless. He lets out a hung up draw, gaze frisking to you. A moment passes, something swimming in his expression, before he crosses the room with that stupid, lopsided-ass smirk.

“Do you know how to tie this?” His voice is lower now, soft around the edges. He shifts, weight dipping onto one leg, and drags a hand through his hair. “I hate dressing formal. Swear to God.” Standing in front of you, watching your hands grab at the fabric at his throat? Yeah. He might love prom.