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*· â,.-âNo, itâŠâ His heart dropped, and it was very visible in Quentinâs face as he watched Eliotâs reaction to his words. âIt was my fault. I shouldnât have said it like this, Eliot, I⊠was hoping it would make you remember. Maybe.â
His hands were trembling, and there was only a meek nod when Eliot stated they would need something stronger to drink. âSeveral yearsâŠ.â Several lifetimes, even, more or less, but Quentin was not sure how to explain the thing with the timelines to Eliot. At least, not yet. âI was an idiot when we first met, not knowing anything about Brakebills, and you sort of decided to take me under your wing, even when Margo hadnât been exactly happy about that in the beginningâŠâ
âItâs not you, Q... Itâs this Hell hole of a city. I should have known better when Fogg sent me here...â He muttered, mind now trying desperately to think of thoughts that had been torn away from him. He was mentally running in circles occasionally hitting walls as he tried desperately to remember anything as it actually took place. He had remember Washington, obviously. Brakebills. The Dean. âThis is ridiculous...â he muttered under his breath just grabbing the one of the many liquor bottles as taking a swig. âI canât even remember why he sent me here. Something about being utterly depressed....or something like that.â He said the one memory coming to him. âBut the second i got here i guess i just...lost it all and forgot about being sad and didnât think twice about it....And now its gonna be the only thing Iâm thinking about.â He groaned feeling more than a little disheartened. He offered the bottle to his new friend, or perhaps old lover, he wasnt sure anymore. âAny clue why your dear sweet friend is in anguish?â











