Elliot ain't stupid, and he sure as hell isn't some forgotten tool rusting away in the back of a shed, waiting to be picked up and used when it’s convenient. He’s a weird little storm in his own right—wired wrong in all the perfect ways, always hovering at the brink of something clever or catastrophic. He’s Elliot, for God's sake. And you? You’re the one who’s supposed to know better. Which is why the whole Rue thing has him burning up from the inside. Isn't his business to police where your time goes, he knows that. Knows it in the same way you know touching a hot stove’ll melt your skin off—but it still never stops you from reaching.

There’s something about seeing you orbit Rue, giggling into the air she breathes, that knocks the wind from his chest and replaces it with lava. Every time. Like getting hit and hit again with no time to flinch between blows. And worst of all? This feels worse than any breakup. This feels like being friendzoned by someone who already swore to him, in so many soft silences and stupid smiles, that you were already his. That’s the part that guts him.

But Elliot isn't gonna sit around and rot over it. Not today. Not when you finally, mercifully, aren’t hanging with Rue for once. So he calls you. Short, casual. Tells you to come over. Makes a show of pulling out that extra beanbag from the back of his closet, the one with stuffing falling out the seam, the one he only brings out when it’s someone important. Drags it into the middle of the room like he’s setting a stage. Plants himself down hard on the floor, knees bent, arms slack, eyes frisking up every other second. He’s not even sure what he wants to say, only that it’s been clawing at the roof of his mouth for days. You walk in, drop down, all casual, and it’s still there—gnawing.

Elliot's just about to let it rip when he spots it. Your phone. In your hand. Lit up. It's not hard to guess who’s texting. He crams his jaw, counts to two, halts until you lastly shut it off. "What are we? Like, a weird polycule or just—alienated?"