Thank to fashionable lateness, Eliot hadn't yet made a complete circuit of the room, so, no, he hadn't noticed Quentin wallflower-ing. When Quentin was sneaking up behind, he'd just bid a 'catch-you-later' to his sharp-toothed friend and was raising his martini glass to take a drink. When he whirled around at the sound of Quentin's voice, some of the vodka and vermouth splashed over onto his hand.

"Quentin!" The exclamation was followed by a shocked look down at his own hand, a second or two while he considered whether to mourn the loss of alcohol, and the conclusion that just now, there were decidedly more important things going on. Which was a conclusion Eliot never came to lightly.

"Oh my god—" And now he was pulling Q into a one-armed hug. After months of contending with the City relatively on his own, finding footing among a whole new group of people and worrying about the ones he'd left behind, there was no way that wasn't happening. "How long have you been here?"