Christ. Things hadn’t been tgis way with Mike - then again, Mike doesn’t even compare to Quentin as far Eliot’s concerned. But, still, this is what he’d been afraid of. Messing it all up.
Eliot spends a good deal if time fussing with his hair. He’s nervous so he needs to look perfect (it’s reasonable). What does he even say? Is I’m sorry too simple? When he does finally see Quentin, he decides to just start easy.
Quentin had to take a moment. That conversation with Eliot had been...messed up was probably an understatement. He really hadn't appreciated the joke about Eliot dying because he'd already seen Eliot die two times too many. It wasn't some notion that he could wave away as some event that would happen in the far future. Even if Eliot had been an old man, because he'd gained all of those memories at once and because all but the most vivid were a generalized blur, it still felt as if he'd just lost Eliot.
And then Quentin had suggested a drink. He'd mostly been kidding because Eliot had already made his position clear. Quentin's sexuality wasn't good enough for Eliot. Never mind that he'd only had two really serious relationships and one of them had been platonic. Never mind that falling for his best friend was a thing he did, apparently. So he'd mostly been joking until Eliot said yes. Until Eliot called him sexy.
He wanted to go out with Eliot. Somewhere in the city, as far from the memory of Fillory as they could get. But he needed some kind of explanation about why. Why now. What had changed.
And now here was Eliot looking ridiculously...Eliot. Brakebills Eliot with the shirt and suspenders and vest and all Quentin wanted to do was ruffle him up a little bit, but if he did that, they wouldn't get anywhere. And Quentin wouldn't get his answers. Instead, he took a moment and ate Eliot up with his eyes.
"I can see that." Quentin hadn't. He'd just paced. And worried. And paced some more.
Eliot thought about making a joke. He was very good at deflecting with a well timed quip, but he got the impression that it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. He watched Quentin watching him and unconsciously smoothed down his vest. Dressing like this, putting this image forward, it was like a safety blanket for Eliot.
“Because,” he answered, “if it doesn’t happen now, it’ll never happen. And I don’t want it to never happen - It’s not you, it’s me.” Eliot paused for a moment. He looked at Quentin again, finding some strength in the presence of the other man.
“I’m sorry.” He stepped forward, holding out a hand to take Quentin’s. “I’m sorry, because I made you feel like it didn’t mean anything. It meant everything.”
[The affection is nice while it lasts and then Eliot is badgering him again. His shoulders hunch and he rolls his eyes, and they settle decidedly away from El.]
Jesus El, do I have to literally take your memory away with magic to get you to let it go?
[Still hedging around it for as long as he can manage. The truth is he did this to himself.]
[ Quentin woke to something the smell of something delicious wafting sweetly in from the kitchen of their tiny cottage. He recognized the smell of Eliot's special blueberry pancakes, and for a few moments everything was blissfully nice, the only thoughts in his mind those of Eliot and the wonderful food he made and their sweet domestic life here together--
And the puzzle and how they would never solve it and never get to leave and god Quentin Coldwater was a pathetic excuse for a hero if he couldn't even solve one dumb puzzle about the meaning of life or whatever. And why was Eliot even with him anyway? Probably only because they were alone here. He wasn't anything special, Eliot Waugh could have anyone.
Just like that, he felt that weight smash down on him again, the little voice whispering in his ear how worthless he was, making him question the point of any of this, even of life. The only consolation was that he actually wanted to get up today, he wanted to have Eliot's pancakes, they were among his favourites. Yesterday he hadn't even had the energy to get out of bed at all.
And Eliot... Eliot had stayed with him, curled up around him. He'd let him sleep, brought him breakfast in bed and insisted he ate it. He'd just been there and hadn't judged at all. Quentin couldn't remember the last time anyone had really taken care of him like that, the last time he'd been like this and someone had understood.
That wasn't fake, he knew that much, Eliot obviously truly cares for him. And yet he couldn't help but think they only had this because they were here. Eliot wouldn't want to be with him if they were back home, if they ever got to leave here, Eliot would surely not want to continue this either.
Fuck, can't his brain just stop being such a dick? He sighs, shoving his face against the pillow. Maybe he should just go back to sleep, maybe...
The pancakes smell so good, though. And if he didn't get up, surely Eliot would just be in to poke him into eating them. He was pretty hungry too. Which was good, maybe he could do better today. Even though the thought of working on the mosaic at all threatened to send his treacherous brain spiralling all over again.
Forcing himself to sit up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, trying to prepare himself to get up. It's harder than it should be, but not as impossible as it was yesterday, when any kind of motivation had escaped him.
Pulling on one of the loose fitting pairs of pants and shirts he and Eliot had gotten from the nearby village, Quentin closes his eyes, then opens them before quietly making his way out into the kitchen. Or rather, the main room, since their cottage was really very small. ]
Uh, hey. [ He said softly, his voice small as he approached Eliot. He felt a tug of affection at his heart when he saw him, something soft and nice that persisted even through yesterday's fog of depression.
Folding his arms, he looked at the floor, feeling ashamed and silly for it all at once. Eliot hadn't judged him before, yes, but he still hated this. These days when he couldn't get out of bed, it brought him back to a time before all this, to when the future in front of him seemed grim and colourless. ]
So, um, sorry, El. For yesterday. We could've gotten more done on the puzzle and I-- I get like this sometimes. I thought I wasn't doing that bad anymore but I guess I'm still-- [ he makes a vague gesture at himself ] like this.
[ Eliot gets it. He understands what it's like to think the weight of the world is crushing you, or that you're never going to get anywhere you're trying to go. He's been there plenty of times. The difference is that while Quentin deals with it by lying in bed and shutting the world out, Eliot drinks and does his best to let the world in. But it's been easier for Eliot here. The mosaic is total bullshit and Eliot's not going to admit it, but he's not sure if they'll ever really get it. He tries not to think too much about everyone back home (that's when he really finds he needs to drink to numb things), but. It's easier.
Eliot falls into the routine easily. He takes to the calm of the cottage in the middle of Fillory, he enjoys the sound of the stream not far off and the people in the village are kind. He's even gotten over tapping once again into his farming background and he tends the garden that gives them their vegetables. Domesticity, as far as Eliot is concerned, is exactly what he needed in his life to ground him. He has a purpose here.
And, yeah, it doesn't hurt that he has Quentin, too.
Maybe it's just luck that they've ended up on this quest together. For every thought Quentin quietly has about how this would never happen back home, Eliot has it, too. So he's clinging to it while it lasts. He takes advantage of being able to lie beside Quentin, and to kiss him, to just live life with him. There are days where, yes, that means making sure Quentin eats. Days where he alternates giving Quentin space or wrapping around him while they in bed. Honestly, he doesn't mind. He likes it.
So he smiles when Quentin shuffles into view. ]
Hey, you're up.
[ Eliot doesn't bother saying anything else. It happened, and it's time to move past it. After all - it's okay to feel like a depressed sack of dicks, so there's no need to apologize. Instead, Eliot leans in to press a kiss to Quentin's lips before popping a blueberry into Quentin's mouth. ]
The blueberries are unreal right now, right? I picked them yesterday but I have no fucking idea what to do with all of them before they go bad. Maybe we can sell or trade them in the village.
[ Something in Quentin's chest unwinds the moment he sees Eliot's smile, sees Eliot being happy to see him. He sways just a tiny bit, pressing back into the brief kiss, another knot untying inside him at that soft brush of lips. Yesterday this comfort had been soothing, too, but the strength of it had only been enough to hold back the absolute worst of Quentin's demons.
Now he thinks maybe it could be enough to banish them.
The blueberry helped, too, reminding him of how hungry he felt this morning, and it tastes damn good. He takes his time chewing it, savouring the way the flavour spreads over his tongue. A small smile even fights its way onto his lips. ]
Yeah... We could trade them. Maybe. But, tomorrow, we don't have to go today, right? [ the thought having to go and be around people and pretend to smile or feign happiness in order to be pleasant be as really threatened to kill all these good feelings he was having. He doesn't think he can handle doing that and trying to work on the mosaic today. He doesn't even really want to do that, either, but they have to.
He leans forward more now, arms coming up to wrap around Eliot's waist. This is better, nicer, he wishes he could just be here with Eliot all day, their little cottage full of the smell of delicious food cooking, the fire warm, their little piece of domestic heaven. ]
It smells good... [ he spoke softly, head turning slightly, still pressed against Eliot, to glance over where the pancakes were quietly frying in the pan. ] Thanks, El. For everything.
[ever since he (drunkenly, of course) stumbled into the portal to new york, klaus has found that he almost likes it better than his own city. they're similar in ways he never expected, yet different enough, it keeps him on his toes. having someone like eliot around who totally understands him is also a huge plus. not once in his life did he anticipate running across someone so similar to himself; understanding in a way other people wouldn't be, it makes him wonder if the magician isn't someone he might've met in another life.
what a silly thing to consider, reincarnation. even sillier is the fact he's contemplating it when there are far more distracting things at hand.
eliot, standing in front of him, holding another drink he can barely see through the already present alcohol-induced haze. he blinks once, twice, reaches to take the cup and draws it close, holds it against his chest while he catches the straw between his lips. he sucks down a quarter of the glass in one go, eyelashes fluttering heavily as he casts his friend a half-lidded glance, unable to help the playful smirk curving his lips at the edges.]
Yanno, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're tryin' to get me drunk.
[joke's on him, he's already way past inebriated, working into the blacking-out part. thankfully, klaus's well-aware his limit's nearing and they'll need to stop once that point is reached if they have any chance of getting back home. until then though, he's more than happy with sipping on his drink, letting his gaze linger places it shouldn't when they're out in public. (like he really gives a shit? because he legit does not care a single fucking bit who might be watching.)
it's a little delayed, the tiny giggle he lets out at his joke, although no less sincere.] Just kidding, obviously, I'm already goddamn sloshed.
[ Eliot's always in need of a distraction. Life, as far as he's concerned, is really just shit, and he's feeling that lonely void calling his name again. The deep hole that's so easy to slip into but so hard to crawl out of, and then, like a sort of answer to a prayer (if Eliot believed in that sort of thing), out pops Klaus. So much like himself that of course Eliot likes him, and different enough that Eliot isn't exasperated.
But mostly, in Klaus, Eliot feels like he's found something of a kindred spirit. And Eliot really, really likes that. ]
Not my fault you're a lightweight.
[ So he scoffs as he hands over the drink. The cups now are generously full, more alcohol than anything else. Eliot nearly spills his a little (ok, he's a little drunk, too) as he sits down beside Klaus. ]
I am not a lightweight, thank you very much! These drinks are strong as hell.
[wanna know how he knows? because he can still taste the alcohol— which is not a complaint whatsoever, he's never bitched about the burn, but just so they're clear: they are definitely more liquor than they are chaser. blessedly, he's past the point of caring, too thrilled with the idea he'll be drunk as a skunk alongside his friend.
despite rolling his eyes in a mock annoyed manner, klaus's lips quirk, he lifts his drink, taps their glasses together (somehow managing to not spill anything else between them) and replies,] Cheers, [before sucking down more of the drink.
now that eliot's beside him, he wastes no time propping against his shoulder, amazed as always at how he's found someone actually taller than him who isn't his lumbering, towering brother. his head tucks neatly into the crook where neck meets shoulder, halfway open eyes glancing toward his cup then upward.] This is a rhetorical question, but... did you know how gorgeous you are?
[ Once Eliot opens the door, he’s got his hands fisted in Quentin’s sweater to pull him inside. One hand moves to reach around Quentin to close the door as Eliot busies himself by kissing the other magician. ]
Mm. Hello.
[ He’s already a little ahead of the game, shirtless in his pyjama pants, wearing his red robe. ]
[ Eliot wonders if life will ever be simple for any of them. Clearly it's not going to happen any time soon, but it'd be nice to have days again where the biggest concern is what shoes he'll wear or what the theme for the night's party should be. In a lot of ways, he's sort of glad for the growth or whatever life forced him into, but he misses the way it used to be, too.
But Eliot's never been the introspective sort, so all that wistful thinking leaves him as soon as it comes, and instead he finds himself throwing on a robe and walking the short distance in the dark to Alice's room. There's no light on under her door, but he knows she's probably just as awake as he is. Maybe it's rude to impose himself on her like this. Maybe she, unlike him, enjoys the quiet solitude and needs it to sleep.
Well. It's too late now.
He doesn't even knock before he slips inside. The door is closed gently behind him and he uses the light filtering in from outside to find his way to the bed, and he crawls in. ]
[ He's right. She's awake, lying in the darkness with her eyes half open, unfocused gaze turned to the ceiling. It was like this in the immediate aftermath of the bonfire singalong, after watching Quentin turn into brilliant points of light as his simple spell ricocheted off the madness if the mirror realm and tore him apart.
She still dreams about it sometimes. She's not in the mood to dream about it tonight. Acceptance is a continuous process. She accepts he's dead, but there are still pangs of sorrow to deal with.
The door opens and closes quietly. He's silhouetted by the light coming into the hall from the masive windows. Alice usually prefers to be alone, but the moment he climbs into bed with her, she turns and wraps her arms around him, pulling him close. Eliot helps numb and soothe the pain just by being here, because he's the only person who really understands.
She wants to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a tired, shaky sigh. Maybe that's enough. God knows he's as tired as she is. For all that their lives are hellish, at least this, moments like this, help. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@theqcontinuum; tfln
Christ. Things hadn’t been tgis way with Mike - then again, Mike doesn’t even compare to Quentin as far Eliot’s concerned. But, still, this is what he’d been afraid of. Messing it all up.
Eliot spends a good deal if time fussing with his hair. He’s nervous so he needs to look perfect (it’s reasonable). What does he even say? Is I’m sorry too simple? When he does finally see Quentin, he decides to just start easy.
“Hi. I would have been faster but - I wasn’t.”
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And then Quentin had suggested a drink. He'd mostly been kidding because Eliot had already made his position clear. Quentin's sexuality wasn't good enough for Eliot. Never mind that he'd only had two really serious relationships and one of them had been platonic. Never mind that falling for his best friend was a thing he did, apparently. So he'd mostly been joking until Eliot said yes. Until Eliot called him sexy.
He wanted to go out with Eliot. Somewhere in the city, as far from the memory of Fillory as they could get. But he needed some kind of explanation about why. Why now. What had changed.
And now here was Eliot looking ridiculously...Eliot. Brakebills Eliot with the shirt and suspenders and vest and all Quentin wanted to do was ruffle him up a little bit, but if he did that, they wouldn't get anywhere. And Quentin wouldn't get his answers. Instead, he took a moment and ate Eliot up with his eyes.
"I can see that." Quentin hadn't. He'd just paced. And worried. And paced some more.
"Why now?"
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“Because,” he answered, “if it doesn’t happen now, it’ll never happen. And I don’t want it to never happen - It’s not you, it’s me.” Eliot paused for a moment. He looked at Quentin again, finding some strength in the presence of the other man.
“I’m sorry.” He stepped forward, holding out a hand to take Quentin’s. “I’m sorry, because I made you feel like it didn’t mean anything. It meant everything.”
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@floppyhair; tfln
[ Yeah, Quentin doesn’t really stand a chance against Eliot in person, does he?
When Eliot gets there, he presses a kiss to Quentin’s head, ruffles his hair, and climbs over the back of the couch. ]
I’m here. Start convincing me of this mystery, unimportant thing.
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Jesus El, do I have to literally take your memory away with magic to get you to let it go?
[Still hedging around it for as long as he can manage. The truth is he did this to himself.]
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[ He turns himself around, stretching out on the sofa and getting comfortable with his head in Quentin’s lap. ]
I’m ready to trek through the stars.
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late late late sorry!
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They're not THAT bad. A little too sweet. I can feel the gutrot starting. Easy down, though.
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And the puzzle and how they would never solve it and never get to leave and god Quentin Coldwater was a pathetic excuse for a hero if he couldn't even solve one dumb puzzle about the meaning of life or whatever. And why was Eliot even with him anyway? Probably only because they were alone here. He wasn't anything special, Eliot Waugh could have anyone.
Just like that, he felt that weight smash down on him again, the little voice whispering in his ear how worthless he was, making him question the point of any of this, even of life. The only consolation was that he actually wanted to get up today, he wanted to have Eliot's pancakes, they were among his favourites. Yesterday he hadn't even had the energy to get out of bed at all.
And Eliot... Eliot had stayed with him, curled up around him. He'd let him sleep, brought him breakfast in bed and insisted he ate it. He'd just been there and hadn't judged at all. Quentin couldn't remember the last time anyone had really taken care of him like that, the last time he'd been like this and someone had understood.
That wasn't fake, he knew that much, Eliot obviously truly cares for him. And yet he couldn't help but think they only had this because they were here. Eliot wouldn't want to be with him if they were back home, if they ever got to leave here, Eliot would surely not want to continue this either.
Fuck, can't his brain just stop being such a dick? He sighs, shoving his face against the pillow. Maybe he should just go back to sleep, maybe...
The pancakes smell so good, though. And if he didn't get up, surely Eliot would just be in to poke him into eating them. He was pretty hungry too. Which was good, maybe he could do better today. Even though the thought of working on the mosaic at all threatened to send his treacherous brain spiralling all over again.
Forcing himself to sit up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, trying to prepare himself to get up. It's harder than it should be, but not as impossible as it was yesterday, when any kind of motivation had escaped him.
Pulling on one of the loose fitting pairs of pants and shirts he and Eliot had gotten from the nearby village, Quentin closes his eyes, then opens them before quietly making his way out into the kitchen. Or rather, the main room, since their cottage was really very small. ]
Uh, hey. [ He said softly, his voice small as he approached Eliot. He felt a tug of affection at his heart when he saw him, something soft and nice that persisted even through yesterday's fog of depression.
Folding his arms, he looked at the floor, feeling ashamed and silly for it all at once. Eliot hadn't judged him before, yes, but he still hated this. These days when he couldn't get out of bed, it brought him back to a time before all this, to when the future in front of him seemed grim and colourless. ]
So, um, sorry, El. For yesterday. We could've gotten more done on the puzzle and I-- I get like this sometimes. I thought I wasn't doing that bad anymore but I guess I'm still-- [ he makes a vague gesture at himself ] like this.
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Eliot falls into the routine easily. He takes to the calm of the cottage in the middle of Fillory, he enjoys the sound of the stream not far off and the people in the village are kind. He's even gotten over tapping once again into his farming background and he tends the garden that gives them their vegetables. Domesticity, as far as Eliot is concerned, is exactly what he needed in his life to ground him. He has a purpose here.
And, yeah, it doesn't hurt that he has Quentin, too.
Maybe it's just luck that they've ended up on this quest together. For every thought Quentin quietly has about how this would never happen back home, Eliot has it, too. So he's clinging to it while it lasts. He takes advantage of being able to lie beside Quentin, and to kiss him, to just live life with him. There are days where, yes, that means making sure Quentin eats. Days where he alternates giving Quentin space or wrapping around him while they in bed. Honestly, he doesn't mind. He likes it.
So he smiles when Quentin shuffles into view. ]
Hey, you're up.
[ Eliot doesn't bother saying anything else. It happened, and it's time to move past it. After all - it's okay to feel like a depressed sack of dicks, so there's no need to apologize. Instead, Eliot leans in to press a kiss to Quentin's lips before popping a blueberry into Quentin's mouth. ]
The blueberries are unreal right now, right? I picked them yesterday but I have no fucking idea what to do with all of them before they go bad. Maybe we can sell or trade them in the village.
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Now he thinks maybe it could be enough to banish them.
The blueberry helped, too, reminding him of how hungry he felt this morning, and it tastes damn good. He takes his time chewing it, savouring the way the flavour spreads over his tongue. A small smile even fights its way onto his lips. ]
Yeah... We could trade them. Maybe. But, tomorrow, we don't have to go today, right? [ the thought having to go and be around people and pretend to smile or feign happiness in order to be pleasant be as really threatened to kill all these good feelings he was having. He doesn't think he can handle doing that and trying to work on the mosaic today. He doesn't even really want to do that, either, but they have to.
He leans forward more now, arms coming up to wrap around Eliot's waist. This is better, nicer, he wishes he could just be here with Eliot all day, their little cottage full of the smell of delicious food cooking, the fire warm, their little piece of domestic heaven. ]
It smells good... [ he spoke softly, head turning slightly, still pressed against Eliot, to glance over where the pancakes were quietly frying in the pan. ] Thanks, El. For everything.
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likely gonna head toward nsfw territory so FAIR WARNING??? winging it like eyeliner (as always)
what a silly thing to consider, reincarnation. even sillier is the fact he's contemplating it when there are far more distracting things at hand.
eliot, standing in front of him, holding another drink he can barely see through the already present alcohol-induced haze. he blinks once, twice, reaches to take the cup and draws it close, holds it against his chest while he catches the straw between his lips. he sucks down a quarter of the glass in one go, eyelashes fluttering heavily as he casts his friend a half-lidded glance, unable to help the playful smirk curving his lips at the edges.]
Yanno, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're tryin' to get me drunk.
[joke's on him, he's already way past inebriated, working into the blacking-out part. thankfully, klaus's well-aware his limit's nearing and they'll need to stop once that point is reached if they have any chance of getting back home. until then though, he's more than happy with sipping on his drink, letting his gaze linger places it shouldn't when they're out in public. (like he really gives a shit? because he legit does not care a single fucking bit who might be watching.)
it's a little delayed, the tiny giggle he lets out at his joke, although no less sincere.] Just kidding, obviously, I'm already goddamn sloshed.
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But mostly, in Klaus, Eliot feels like he's found something of a kindred spirit. And Eliot really, really likes that. ]
Not my fault you're a lightweight.
[ So he scoffs as he hands over the drink. The cups now are generously full, more alcohol than anything else. Eliot nearly spills his a little (ok, he's a little drunk, too) as he sits down beside Klaus. ]
Cheers.
omg you have them
I am not a lightweight, thank you very much! These drinks are strong as hell.
[wanna know how he knows? because he can still taste the alcohol— which is not a complaint whatsoever, he's never bitched about the burn, but just so they're clear: they are definitely more liquor than they are chaser. blessedly, he's past the point of caring, too thrilled with the idea he'll be drunk as a skunk alongside his friend.
despite rolling his eyes in a mock annoyed manner, klaus's lips quirk, he lifts his drink, taps their glasses together (somehow managing to not spill anything else between them) and replies,] Cheers, [before sucking down more of the drink.
now that eliot's beside him, he wastes no time propping against his shoulder, amazed as always at how he's found someone actually taller than him who isn't his lumbering, towering brother. his head tucks neatly into the crook where neck meets shoulder, halfway open eyes glancing toward his cup then upward.] This is a rhetorical question, but... did you know how gorgeous you are?
these old things?
yaaahs those (also holy shit what a good icon)
weeps thank u he's so lovely looking
he really is, i'm cry ;o;
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@moderatelymaladjusted; texting texting texting
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some texting bullshit;
[ image.jpg ]
I believe I'm somewhere quite moist.
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i'm hoping you mean humid
its beautiful though
say hi to the whales for me
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is this the correct number
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I watched you put it in.
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Continue, tfln- pretend it's somewhere where they got to be a little happy for a while
That is true. I'll be there in ten
[Nine minutes later and there's a knock on the door.]
cries, let them be happy
Mm. Hello.
[ He’s already a little ahead of the game, shirtless in his pyjama pants, wearing his red robe. ]
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@dramaquinn;
But Eliot's never been the introspective sort, so all that wistful thinking leaves him as soon as it comes, and instead he finds himself throwing on a robe and walking the short distance in the dark to Alice's room. There's no light on under her door, but he knows she's probably just as awake as he is. Maybe it's rude to impose himself on her like this. Maybe she, unlike him, enjoys the quiet solitude and needs it to sleep.
Well. It's too late now.
He doesn't even knock before he slips inside. The door is closed gently behind him and he uses the light filtering in from outside to find his way to the bed, and he crawls in. ]
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She still dreams about it sometimes. She's not in the mood to dream about it tonight. Acceptance is a continuous process. She accepts he's dead, but there are still pangs of sorrow to deal with.
The door opens and closes quietly. He's silhouetted by the light coming into the hall from the masive windows. Alice usually prefers to be alone, but the moment he climbs into bed with her, she turns and wraps her arms around him, pulling him close. Eliot helps numb and soothe the pain just by being here, because he's the only person who really understands.
She wants to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a tired, shaky sigh. Maybe that's enough. God knows he's as tired as she is. For all that their lives are hellish, at least this, moments like this, help. ]
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