Dinner at Rusty’s

The dorm was a haze of late-afternoon stillness when Elliot returned, the faint hum of the radiator the only sound breaking the quiet. Bryce wasn't there—probably at practice, leaving dents in someone's ego—and Elliot let the relief settle as he dropped his bag by his bed. He sank onto the mattress, sketchpad falling open in his lap, and his pencil traced the familiar: waves, endless and rolling, a horizon he'd never touched. He was here on a scholarship, every penny counted, every chance to prove himself a lifeline after a childhood with nothing—his parents gone since he was too young to hold onto them. The ocean was his escape, a dream stitched into him by his mother's voice—"ocean eyes"—and he poured it onto the page, losing himself in the rhythm of the lines.

The door banged open mid-stroke, and Elliot's pencil skidded, slashing across the waves. He snapped the sketchpad shut, heart lurching as Bryce stormed in, sweat-soaked from practice, green eyes glinting with restless energy. He dropped his gym bag with a thud and glanced at Elliot, still curled on the bed like a shadow. For once, his smirk softened, replaced by something almost… easy.

"Yo, Elliot," Bryce said, voice rough but quieter than usual. "You eat yet?"

Elliot blinked, caught off guard, fingers tightening on the sketchpad. "No," he murmured, barely audible. "Not hungry." He reached for a book, flipping it open to nothing, a shield against whatever this was.

Bryce snorted, but it wasn't harsh. "Bullshit. You look like you're starving half the time. C'mon, I'm treating you. Nearby joint—decent burgers. Let's go." He grabbed his jacket, tossing it over his shoulder, and jerked his head toward the door like it wasn't a question.

Elliot's stomach twisted—panic, confusion, suspicion. "Why?" he thought, ocean-blue eyes darting to the floor. "He hates people like me." And he didn't take handouts—not from anyone, especially not Bryce. But Bryce stood there, waiting, and the weight of saying no felt heavier than going. "Okay," he mumbled, shoving the sketchpad under his pillow and grabbing his hoodie, head down as he followed, already calculating what he had left in his wallet.

The restaurant was a short walk off campus, a dive called Rusty's with chipped red booths and a neon sign flickering in the window. The air smelled of grease and salt, and a chalkboard by the counter read "Part-Time Waiter Needed" in smudged white letters. Elliot's gaze snagged on it, a spark flickering in his chest. A job. He needed one—badly—his scholarship covering tuition but leaving little for the rest, a constant reminder of the years he'd scraped by alone. He'd been scouring bulletin boards, asking around, anything to keep from sinking. This could work.

Bryce slid into a booth, sprawling across one side, and waved Elliot in opposite him. "Sit, Elliot. Relax for once." His tone was lighter, almost friendly, and it threw Elliot off. Bryce flagged down a waitress—a tired-looking woman with a notepad—and ordered burgers and fries for them both, not asking Elliot's preference. "You'll like it," he said, leaning back, green eyes studying him. "I got this, Elliot. Chill."

Elliot's jaw tightened, hands knotting in his lap. "I can pay for mine," he said quietly, voice firm despite its softness. He didn't look up, already reaching for the crumpled bills in his pocket—money he'd stretched thin, but his.

Bryce waved him off, grinning. "Nah, I said I'm treating. Don't be a dick about it."

"I'm not," Elliot shot back, sharper than he meant, those ocean blues flicking up briefly, stubborn. "I pay for my own stuff." He didn't want Bryce's charity—didn't trust it, didn't need it tying him to someone who could turn on him.

Bryce's grin faltered, a flash of annoyance crossing his face, but he shrugged. "Fine, suit yourself. Stubborn ass." He leaned back, watching as Elliot counted out his share when the food came, sliding the exact amount to the waitress with a quiet "keep the change" she barely acknowledged.

The burgers landed—greasy, piled with fries—and Elliot picked at his, appetite dulled by the tension. Bryce took a bite, then tried breaking the silence. "Hey, Elliot, your folks rich or something?"

Elliot stiffened, staring at the scratched wood of the table. "No," he said, voice flat. "They're… not around. Scholarship's why I'm here." He didn't elaborate—wouldn't. His parents were a wound he'd sealed shut, dead since he was a kid, and Bryce didn't get to touch it.

Bryce raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly. "Huh. Smart kid, then. Good for you, Elliot." His voice softened a touch, genuine, but Elliot didn't trust it, didn't look up. Bryce leaned forward, elbows on the table, trying again. "Nobody back home missing you out here?"

Elliot's jaw tightened, a wall slamming down. "No," he said, clipped and cold, eyes flicking to the chalkboard again. "Distance," he thought. "Don't give him anything." He shifted, pulling his hoodie sleeves over his hands. "I, uh… need to talk to someone." He slid out of the booth, leaving Bryce blinking after him, and approached the counter where the waitress was wiping down a coffee stain.

"Excuse me," Elliot said, voice soft but steady, those ocean blues meeting her tired gaze. "The sign—part-time waiter. Is that still open?"

She glanced up, sizing him up. "Yeah, kid. You got experience?"

"Some," he said, thinking of the diner he'd worked at one summer, scraping by after another foster home fell apart. "I'm reliable. I need the work."

She shrugged, jotting something on her pad. "Come by tomorrow, 3 p.m. We'll see." She turned back to her task, and Elliot nodded, a small, relieved breath escaping him. A job. A lifeline.

Back at the booth, Bryce watched it all—Elliot's quiet determination, the way he kept his head down but spoke up anyway, the stubborn set of his shoulders when he'd paid. He noticed everything: the hoodie tugged tight, the avoidance in those ocean blues, the way he shrank from questions. It bugged him, that wall, more than he wanted to admit. "Got yourself a gig, huh, Elliot?" he said when Elliot sat back down, his tone light, almost warm. "Not bad."

"Yeah," Elliot muttered, eyes on the table. "Maybe." He ate faster now, wanting out, the weight of Bryce's stare pressing harder.

Bryce chewed slower, green eyes lingering, like he wanted to ask more but didn't know how. "So, no family talk. What about the drawing? You're always at it. What's that about?"

Elliot's fork stilled, a fry halfway to his mouth. He didn't look up. "Just… like it," he said, voice barely there. "Oceans. They're…" He stopped, catching himself, and shoved the fry in his mouth instead. He didn't say he'd never seen one, didn't say his mother's words—ocean eyes—were all he had left of her, didn't say it was his anchor since she and his father died. Bryce didn't get that. Couldn't.

Bryce nodded, brow twitching with a flicker of frustration he didn't voice. "Cool," he said, too casual, and took another bite. He didn't push, but those dodging blues stuck with him, sharp and annoying, like a wave he couldn't ride out.

They ate in silence after that, the hum of the restaurant filling the gap. Elliot kept his head down, counting the minutes until he could retreat. Bryce was being nice—too nice—and it didn't fit, didn't feel safe. "He hates people like me," he reminded himself, finishing his food fast, relieved he'd paid his own way. When they left, he trailed behind, hands in his pockets, the chalkboard sign a small light in the dark.

Bryce glanced back once, green eyes catching those ocean blues for a heartbeat before Elliot looked away. Something tightened in his chest—unwanted, unnamed—and he shoved it down, leading the way back to the dorm in silence.