Becoming Me Was

An Eliot Waugh from The Magicians (TV) RP blog. Follows and asks from my main, cuendenan. Minors, please leave. NSFW is a possibility. Rules | Verses & Threads | AO3

[alwaystiredshark]

For more of my art @alwaystiredshark

[cardtricksandminormendings]

Open Post

They tell Quentin he's being put up in a room while the red tape around his having been legally missing and presumed dead is sorted out. It might even be true. But also Quentin is fairly sure that the plan is to keep him at Brakebills. Indefinitely. And as a subject of study more than a student.

He doesn't think they'll be able to, in the long run. But for the moment he's willing to sit with a book, his only movement the slight shift when he breathes and when his hands turn pages. He barely even needs to blink.

Humans aren't this still. But he isn't that, now. Mortal, and they think aging like normal, but not human. He can see magic now, and other things he hasn't been able to identify yet.

And he can sense someone at the door before it opens - or at least he can sense their magic in a prickle down his spine and a taste in his mouth.

"I know if you're coming in you have a key, and I can't open it, but still, it's polite to knock," he says without looking up when it does open.

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

@cardtricksandminormendings

Eliot pads his way softly up the stairs, using his telekinetic senses to find the runes of the alert spells and avoid them all. It's easy, even in the restrictive black suits he always wears now. The other staff have been hiding something for weeks. Eleanor, in particular, keeps giving Eliot odd looks and refusing to say anything. Conversations end when he comes into the room. Whispers follow him. He's sick of it. Besides, with the students at South or on break, the only things he has to do tonight are drink, drink, and maybe do drugs. Eleanor should be grateful he's snooping instead of giving himself alcohol poisoning, really.

As he expected, the wards on the door are vulnerable to his telekinesis—if he touched them with regular magic or his hands, they'd trigger. But with his special brand of magic, he can scuff out a rune and silence the alarm. After that, it's a breath's worth of thought to unlock the mechanism and turn the knob. The voice coming through the door is hauntingly familiar, and a tiny ray of hope plants itself inside his chest. He opens the door and—"Q?" he whispers. It's him, that voice, that face, but—changed.

A part of him that he needed when he was a foolish quester and a terrible king points out that this could be some kind of trick, but he ignores that idea. What does it matter? He's just a schoolteacher these days. If this gets him killed, he'll be dead. Maybe then his efforts to search the underworld for any of the people he cares about will actually fucking work.

[doorinthepage]

@thegreatestcreativeproject

Quentin felt the sting in Eliot's voice like it was his own. He squeezed Eliot’s hand a little tighter, willing the warmth between their palms to anchor them both. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, a small smile spreading across his face, trying to soothe that raw edge in Eliot's expression. “I’m not exactly picky, you know that. As long as you’re the one making it, I’ll probably call it my favorite.”

He let out a soft laugh, stepping in closer so that the space between them was nearly nothing. “Besides, I’m pretty sure we can get creative. Earth food or not, it’ll be ours.” The word came out with a weight that made his chest ache, but it was a good ache—one that promised hope.

Quentin missed home as much as he could tell Eliot did. A wave of sadness hit him momentarily when he thought of Teddy, and all of the picnics Eliot, Q, and their son had had together.

He looked away, trying to mask the sudden surge of emotion. “Surprise me, El. Make something ridiculous.”

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

@doorinthepage

Eliot tucked Quentin's strangely short hair behind his ear for him with his free hand, trying to get him to look back at Eliot. A thousand apologies bubbled inside him—for treating Q like his feelings were a joke, for lying, for basically forcing Q to lie to everyone about their relationship, for pretending nothing mattered, for breaking Q's heart, for the stupid bullet, for everything, but he didn't think repeating all that would serve anything but his own guilt. He pressed a kiss to Q's knuckles and pulled him toward the kitchen. He had no interest in being one step further from Q than absolutely necessary. "As you wish, baby. How do you feel about marshmallow fluff?" It was a pretty normal thing for Eliot, but he had a vague sense that marshmallow fluff on sandwiches was not really done in middle-class, East Coast suburbia, so it should fit "ridiculous". And sweetness seemed appropriate to the moment.

Thread here

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

@runcnlove asked: "a long kiss, the best kind… i can still remember the feel of your hand on the back of my neck."

————

thegreatestcreativeproject answered:

Eliot was too damn comfortable sitting on the bed in Q's room on the Muntjac. He shouldn't have sat down, but his mind was on keeping Quentin distracted from the poison the Key was dripping in his ear, talking softly about Margo and parties they'd run together, mischief they'd done, trying desperately to make him laugh. He didn't let himself think about the cutting things Quentin said when Eliot tried to give him a break, tried to convince him to hand him the Key. And apparently between the storytelling and the not-thinking, instinct had taken over his body, and there he was, sitting on their—on Quentin's bed. This wasn't wise. Even more than the reminders of a course that Eliot was certain would only end in disaster in this life, he was too fucking tired to be this comfortable. He couldn't sleep, not when Q might… But his eyes slid shut despite his best efforts. He couldn't have said how long it had been when he woke at heartbreakingly wistful words that brought a thousand half-faded memories to the front of his mind. "Y' always do love those," Eliot mumbled, not entirely awake.

[runcnlove-sb]

Exasperated, that's what Margo has been since their fruitless argument about the fate of his would-be assassin; since the High King announced their decision to spare the foo fighter's life and keep him in the 'dungeons' ( which were much too nice for such a name... guest rooms, more like ) instead.

Sure, she might understand his reasoning and even admit that his little speech about the world he wants his child to live in was quite moving and thoughtful... yet it doesn't negate the fact that he is being foolish.

When there's a group of rebels out for your blood and one of them makes an attempt at your life ( and doesn't he understand how lucky he was that she just so happened to be in the right place at the right time? what would have happened if she didn't, she doesn't even want to think about... and yet it seems that's all she can think about ever since, which is why his attitude grates on her nerves so much ), you don't set them up in a suite with room service and a nice view, you execute the bastard so no one else dares to do what he couldn't, for God's sake!

And if common sense wasn't reason enough for him, they dug up plenty evidence from the history books that that's what works best in situations like this.

But no, apparently he wants to stay in Fillory's history as High King Eliot The Merciful... who died tragically barely a month after his coronation, at this rate.

She's not gonna let him. The next time, she'll just kill the bastard on the spot, no discussions and arguments necessary.

So, exasperated. That's what Margo should be right now. She should give him a speech about how foolish he is being, maybe shake some sense back into him...

And yet, as they are finally left alone ( even though she knows better than to hope that it's gonna last... a five-minute breather, that's what it is, no more ), words that slip from her tongue are sympathetic, not stern.

"The most important thing is what you’re not like - your father."

Because she knows how difficult the news about Fen's pregnancy are for him, could read it plain as a book in the way his voice faltered when he announced he's going to be a father.

She knows him, and she knows his fears, and she dares to say she knows how to handle him at a time like this...

And for what feels like the first time since they were crowned, she feels their old connection resurfacing in all intimacy, tenderness and glory, tugging her towards Eliot as he turns away from her, self-deprecating in the way she knows too well.

❛ El, ❜ she sighs, full of fondness, her hand gliding from his back down his arm in a soothing gesture, covering his hand in an attempt to still the shaking, to say I'm here, you're not alone without actually saying it, tugging his chin gently but firmly with the other to make him look at her so she would know her words are reaching him, ❛ Your father was a shitty man that doesn't even deserve being mentioned in decent company, ❜ a hint of a smile, an attempt to dilute the reassurance with humor, as if they were decent, because neither of them can handle reassurance in its pure, distilled form, ❛ let alone you comparing yourself to him. You are so much better than him, and the fact that you are worrying right now about screwing things up actually proves that you are going to be a great father. You care, that's what matters. ❜

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

Eliot lets Margo move him, forces himself to smile for her, leans into her touch. He nods at her words about his father, but he has to shake his head at what she says next. "Seriously, Margo? That's what you're going with? If worrying about being good at things made you good at them, like, anxiety would be a fucking superpower; it isn't. Caring is no substitute for ability." Not wanting the words to sting, he turns his hand up and clasps the hand she'd put over it, squeezing gently. He tries to come up with something light to say, to dismiss the problem, to move on. But he can't; he's going to be a father, and he can't put it out of his mind.

Thread here.

[doorinthepage]

@thegreatestcreativeproject

Quentin’s breath caught, the simple touch of Eliot’s fingers sending warmth all through him. He had waited for this — God, had he missed this. That soft, familiar look in Eliot’s eyes, the way his hand fit perfectly around his neck, like nothing had changed. A quiet night, together. His heart ached with how much that he loved Eliot, how much he had always loved him, in his previous life, their mosaic life, in death, and back again. He squeezed Eliot’s hand, almost afraid to break the moment.

Quentin gently led Eliot into their bedroom in their Brooklyn apartment. It was actually a very beautiful and sizable but intimate space for the two of them there. Eliot had the best eye, of course.

But Quentin could be creative, too. And sneaky. Their bathroom door was slightly ajar, flickering candles inviting the couple in, with lavender rose petals leading from the foot of their bed. Their bed was carefully strewn with Eliot's incredible homemade skincare products, essential oils, facial masks, a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries with two glasses of pinot noir, and two silk robes.

Quentin grinned mischievously, petting Eliot's while holding up one of Eliot's elegant ruby robes. "How's a DIY spa sound? You remember those?"

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

@doorinthepage

Eliot was curious when he noticed the flicker of the candlelights, and stopped when he stepped inside. This was so lovely. He could feel his body starting to relax in anticipation. But how—they'd been together all day. "Bambi or Julia?" he asked. Then he looked at the robe, down at the suit he was wearing, and frowned at the cane. There was nothing for it, though. He gave Quentin an apologetic look, then sat down on the chair they kept next to the bed and started unbuttoning. "This is wonderful. I love it. Just need a second…" he said, looking down. He knew Quentin wasn't upset. He knew. That would be fucking ridiculous. But he hated the need for delay, and the pressure to make himself and everything else perfect was turbocharged after so much had gone wrong because of him. So much damage done by his hands.

Thread here.

[runcnlove-sb]

[ O P E N for Eliot or Quentin; set anywhere in the show or maybe even pre-canon... ]

He didn't mean to run so far from home. Dada and papa were busy playing with their tiles ( no, not playing, Teddy was old enough to know that's what their work was... like farmers tending the land, or healers helping people, his parents were putting colored tiles together in different ways so when they get it right... he wasn't exactly sure what would happen then, but it was very important, so he wasn't really upset with them for spending so much time with those tiles – he helped them sometimes and other times he would busy himself with his toys or exploring the world around their cottage, and that's exactly how he got lost today ) and he saw a bunny and tried to approach him but he set off into the forest and Teddy followed him and didn't realize how far he ran from home until he couldn’t run anymore, stopped, looked around and not only he couldn't see their cottage even in the distance whichever they he turned but also the trees around him didn't look familiar so he had no idea how to get back home.

He wanted to cry, but he didn't, instead trying to remember what his parents told him to do if something like this happened. But all he could remember was that they explicitly told him not to go into the woods without either of them... and something from fairytales dada told him before bed, about some creatures that live in the woods that will help you if you capture them.

Now, Teddy didn't particularly like the idea of capturing anyone, but he reasoned that if he let them go right after, there would be no harm done and he would be home because he was getting tired and hungry and thirsty and just wanted his parents to be there to hold him.

It took him some time but he did manage to catch someone who resembled his dada's tales and he barely got the words out about wanting to go home ( he was saying home, but he was picturing his fathers ) when there was a flash and he... was no longer standing in the middle of the woods.

In fact, there was no plant in sight around him, which was weird because even in their cottage there were plenty plants, on the windowsills and the like.

His surroundings didn't look like anything he saw in his life but he figured it must have been some kind of a room...

And then, just like that, all his thoughts and growing sense of unease because he definitely wasn't home or anywhere that resembled home were gone because he saw a familiar figure. With his hair wrong and in different clothes, but that was definitely his father, and Teddy squealed with glee, shouting his father's name as he rushed towards him as fast as his tired little legs would carry him.

For Teddy, it seems like his big misadventure is over.

Little does he know...

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

Eliot breathes in deeply, burying everything he'd just remembered, burying the look on Q's face (oh, fuck, the look on Quentin's face), all of it. He knows that Q would have come to regret starting anything with Eliot when the worlds are his oyster, but he still feels sick at having made his—friend look so devastated. There are other, better people, he reminds himself. (Better women, a cruel, bitter internal voice whispers. He pushes that away, and tells himself that has nothing to do with anything.) Quentin deserves the best, and Eliot isn't that. He can't saddle Quentin with himself. (Sure, buddy, a different voice, this one mocking, whispers, that's why. Completely fucking altruistic. Got nothing to do with the fact that you'll ruin it as always, you—") Eliot shakes his head, pushing the thought away.

He's so focused on quashing his own emotions that he startles violently at the sound of his name from T—but it can't be—he looks up. "Teddy?" he whispers, wide-eyed. He holds out his arms automatically, but the rest of him seems frozen in place.

Thread here.

[runcnlove-sb]

[ O P E N for Eliot or Quentin; set anywhere in the show or maybe even pre-canon... ]

He didn't mean to run so far from home. Dada and papa were busy playing with their tiles ( no, not playing, Teddy was old enough to know that's what their work was... like farmers tending the land, or healers helping people, his parents were putting colored tiles together in different ways so when they get it right... he wasn't exactly sure what would happen then, but it was very important, so he wasn't really upset with them for spending so much time with those tiles – he helped them sometimes and other times he would busy himself with his toys or exploring the world around their cottage, and that's exactly how he got lost today ) and he saw a bunny and tried to approach him but he set off into the forest and Teddy followed him and didn't realize how far he ran from home until he couldn’t run anymore, stopped, looked around and not only he couldn't see their cottage even in the distance whichever they he turned but also the trees around him didn't look familiar so he had no idea how to get back home.

He wanted to cry, but he didn't, instead trying to remember what his parents told him to do if something like this happened. But all he could remember was that they explicitly told him not to go into the woods without either of them... and something from fairytales dada told him before bed, about some creatures that live in the woods that will help you if you capture them.

Now, Teddy didn't particularly like the idea of capturing anyone, but he reasoned that if he let them go right after, there would be no harm done and he would be home because he was getting tired and hungry and thirsty and just wanted his parents to be there to hold him.

It took him some time but he did manage to catch someone who resembled his dada's tales and he barely got the words out about wanting to go home ( he was saying home, but he was picturing his fathers ) when there was a flash and he... was no longer standing in the middle of the woods.

In fact, there was no plant in sight around him, which was weird because even in their cottage there were plenty plants, on the windowsills and the like.

His surroundings didn't look like anything he saw in his life but he figured it must have been some kind of a room...

And then, just like that, all his thoughts and growing sense of unease because he definitely wasn't home or anywhere that resembled home were gone because he saw a familiar figure. With his hair wrong and in different clothes, but that was definitely his father, and Teddy squealed with glee, shouting his father's name as he rushed towards him as fast as his tired little legs would carry him.

For Teddy, it seems like his big misadventure is over.

Little does he know...

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

@runcnlove

Eliot walked into the main room of the Cottage. He wore the dark, formal Earth clothes that had been his staple since Q died he became a professor, hair he couldn't stand to let a stranger touch be bothered to cut tied back in a simple bun, reading glasses carelessly left on. His mind was mainly on the essays he was grading upstairs as he went to get water on autopilot. He looked up—and dropped the glass, shattering it. "Teddy‽" he asked incredulously. The son he'd never seen and yet remembered couldn't be here. He wasn't part of this time, this world, this reality. Eliot's brain, trained in a life of apocalypse after apocalypse, began to guess what might be happening. But—who cared? Q was—well, he wasn't. Eliot was researching fixing that, but…everyone had been so sure it would ruin everything. Eliot was so very, very good at ruining everything. Margo and Fen were MIA—it had been a full year since the attempted reconstruction of Fillory, and nothing. Eliot tried to tell himself they were just having some time sync issues, but it was hard to believe. All Eliot had these days was trying to keep baby Magicians from getting themselves killed being stupid and ever-weakening hope. This made it hard to care whether this was a dream, hallucination, or the cruel trick of some bastard who had a nefarious plan. It was his baby—Quentin's baby—right in front of him. Life was too fucking long to poke at this too hard.

He approached Teddy, arms outstretched to pick him up, smile more certain than he felt. "Hey, bud. What brings you here?"

Thread here.

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

Thread here.

runcnlove asked "It would be a worse fate to bow our heads to the challenge and say, ‘too much’."

————

thegreatestcreativeproject answered

Eliot loves Margo. He could just about explode with sheer fondness in this moment. She has such purpose, such viciousness, such certainty. When Margo Hanson sets her mind to something, it gets done. And if this is the course she chooses, Eliot is with her. Obviously. "I didn't say we shouldn't do it, Bambi. I said it was dangerous and we need to take precautions."

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

Thread here.

@runcnlove asked "This place may not seem like much, but we’ll make the best of it."

————

@thegreatestcreativeproject replied

Eliot barely heard Margo as he stopped dead, unable to trick himself any longer; this really was the Mosaic. Impossibly, it was the one he knew, aged, not some pretty copy for this timeline. The old daybed, enchantments apparently intact, still lay next to the place where the Mosaic mold where he'd spent so much of that life was half-crumbled away. Those spells must have failed once Quentin finally solved it. The tiles were nowhere to be found.

His eyes stung, but he tried not to show it. Instead, he focused on the now. The two of them had fled Whitespire with almost nothing but the clothes on their backs, and Margo brought them here? Why? He hadn't told Margo he remembered. How could he explain the beautiful, impossible fluke that life had been? The voice in his head that had things to say about Quentin he shoved into a corner and locked away. This was the best way. The only way. "What is this place?" he asked in his best attempt at a light voice.

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

Thread here.

@runcnlove asked: "The most important thing is what you’re not like - your father."

————

@thegreatestcreativeproject answered

Eliot turned away and set his shaking hands on the windowsill, unable to look at Margo. She always did believe in him. They were finally away from the court, from his-his wife, and Eliot's facade of calm was collapsing fast. "I—I wish I were as certain of that as you are," he admitted.

[doorinthepage]

@thegreatestcreativeproject

Quentin smiled against Eliot's cheek. "At least it doesn't drive you crazy," he added with a mournful tone, thinking sadly of Penny.

— I, I, I persist and resist the temptation to ask you If one thing had been different Would everything be different today?

Fuck, he kinda hated it when Taylor's lyrics hit at the right - worst ? - moment.

Quentin always loved the little tidbits Eliot shared of his life before Brakebills. He had always appreciated these little insights into Eliot's inner life that he had tried to hard to suppress. But in their 50 years that masked eventually slipped away, even if his El wasn't aware of it.

The petty bickering about Taylor, though - how could Eliot have possibly been able to sing Quentin Taylor Swift songs having only heard her music second-hand? Psh.

It was actually strange in the moment hearing Taylor being the one singing her songs. During the mosaic timeline, those lyrics became Eliot's, and Taylor voice had subsided into distant memory.

He squeezed Eliot for all he was worth. "You'll have to memorize Folklore and sing it to me." He pulled his Eliot into the most tender of kisses.

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

@doorinthepage

The lyrics needled at Eliot, reminding him of how badly he'd fucked everything up, but the soft look on Quentin's face did not call for Eliot's guilt. Instead, he held onto Q just as tightly, kissed him back just as tenderly. "Anything you want." He tucked Q's hair behind his ear and kissed him back, trying to convey how happy he was to have him back. He refused to let his contempt for himself bring down the mood.

Thread here.

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

Thread here. @cardtricksandminormendings

thegreatestcreativeproject asked "I would've come sooner. I would've been here if you'd only asked." 

————

cardtricksandminormendings replied (same link) "Would you have? Really?" Quentin asks softly. "I wasn't sure."

————

The axe had hurt less.

"Yeah, Q. Of course," Eliot says quietly. "You should know that." The words sound like an accusation, but the agonized tone isn't one. "I could strangle myself for making you doubt it for one fucking minute."

[cardtricksandminormendings]

Quentin finally looks up. "Are you? And why exactly should I believe that?"

Why should he ever believe that from anyone ever again?

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

Eliot's breath rushes out of him when Quentin looks at him. He drinks in the moving, living expression, even though it's a cold, broken, angry stare. "Q," he whispers softly without meaning to. Then he shakes himself a little, but doesn't look away from Quentin's face, can't. He considers bringing up their long history, or asking him to give Eliot a chance to earn his trust whether he believes him now or not, but he goes with something solid, practical, immediate. "Why else would I even be here?" he asks. He mostly succeeds at mildness, but he knows Quentin can probably detect the undercurrent of frustration. "This isn't my scene. There's no apocalypse, no emergency; if I didn't care, I wouldn't have come."

Thread here.

[cardtricksandminormendings]

"Not anymore, I'm not," Quentin says coolly. "Fixed it myself. Turns out dying in the Mirror Realm as magic comes back, by way of a mending spell gone haywire when one is a mender, makes things more of a limbo situation than anything else."

He shrugs. "And also, except for Timeline 1, all the other Quentins are dead too."

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

Eliot stares at—at—he stares into that familiar face for a long time, mouth open, thoughts scattered, faint hope clawing its way into his heart along with cold, stark terror. He should run for Margo, let her handle this, but he can't move, can't leave if there's the tiniest possibility it's true. He desperately wants to just nod, just let himself believe it, fall into whatever trap is before him, consequences be damned. But the part of him that promised Margo he'd stop self-destructing, the part that remembers what he owes, that part fights to at least a stalemate. He can't leave, but he does say, voice breaking, "Julia and Alice said—said you were at peace. That you wouldn't c-come." Saying those words aloud forces Eliot to close his eyes for a moment, swallowing a sob, aching with grief and not a little resentment.

He'd tried to deny it, had argued, pointed out that Q wasn't always very good at wanting to live, and that didn't mean it wouldn't pass. But they insisted. Everyone and everything insisted. First, it was just the memory of Blackspire and how he'd ruined everything that kept him from committing to anything, but it seemed that with every passing day there were more reasons that resurrecting Quentin was not only impossible, but wrong somehow. He did think about at least raising Quentin's spirit himself, just to make sure—he still does think about it, sometimes, but if he has to hear him say he'd rather stay dead, thanks all the same…Eliot can't withstand that.

Thread here.

[doorinthepage]

@thegreatestcreativeproject

Quentin gave a small, soft smile, his eyes searching Eliot’s face. “Okay,” he whispered, stepping closer, reaching for Eliot's hand. “No more plans that tear us apart. But—” he paused, squeezing Eliot’s fingers gently, “—what if we make a different plan? Something simple. Like a picnic? Just us, no dark magic, no danger. Just… a blanket, the sun, and maybe some of your amazing sandwiches?” Quentin’s grin widened, a little lopsided. He absolutely loved their picnics in the mosaic timeline with Teddy. “We could use a break from all the heavy stuff, don’t you think?”

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

@doorinthepage

Eliot took Quentin's offered hand, breathless, relieved when his own didn't pass through it; he still hadn't shaken the fear that this wasn't real. He looked up from their joined hands at Q's open expression. "Hell yes, baby, please." He'd go anywhere with Quentin, but a picnic sounded particularly wonderful. The chance to make Q food again, especially. He could make his fav—Eliot groaned. "Fuck, we only have Earth food here." It varied, how much it felt like their once-and-never life had happened to him, but just now it was very present. He'd spent decades fantasizing about showing Quentin the culinary delights of Earth "when" they got back to E—when they got home, but now all he wanted was to feed him like he would have at h—at the Mosaic.

"I don't even know what your favorite Earth sandwich is," he admitted mournfully. Eliot had cooked for Q back when they'd all just been grad students, but not so many sandwiches that he found that out.

Thread here.

[doorinthepage]

@thegreatestcreativeproject

Quentin shuttered, his skin buzzing with tenderness. He sighed into the kiss, almost nudging Eliot to wrap his hand at the back of Quentin's slender neck. He reveled in how Eliot would do that to him.

His fingers gripped Eliot's waist lightly as if to anchor himself in the moment. Quentin sank into the kiss, he would allow himself have this.

Quentin could only nod into agreement with Eliot, as the shorter man was too busy, far too intoxicated by ravaging Eliot's mouth.

He did not want to break the kiss, not for one moment. But his own body felt like it was being pinched to death -- pulling one's soul, body, and shade all back together had its physical cost -- and he could feel Eliot struggling to keep on his feet.

Quentin leaned back, with a parting peck to Eliot's lips. "Let's sit down. A quiet-night date sounds so lovely. When's the last time we did that?"

A whole mosaic, lovely timeline ago.

[thegreatestcreativeproject]

@doorinthepage

Eliot hesitantly followed the cue he was getting—he didn't exactly have muscle memory from the other timeline, but his instincts for this were almost uncanny—and gently curled a hand around the back of his neck, cautious in a way he never was Before. He wrapped his other hand around Q's waist and pulled him just a little closer as they kissed, deep and slow and sweet and so very, very right. But Eliot couldn't completely lose himself in it, not if he wanted to stay balanced, not with the amount of pain he was in. He couldn't relax his body as much as he wanted to, and his balance wasn't what it should be. He ignored it as much as he could, but of course Quentin noticed. Eliot looked down when he saw the concern in his eyes and reluctantly picked up the damn cane. Quentin, thank fuck, didn't say anything about it, but instead issued an invitation that sounded blissful. Eliot looked at him again, gently tucked Q's hair behind his ear. "Us? A quiet night? One that's a date? Must have been… a lifetime ago. I would love nothing more." He interwove the fingers of his free hand with Q's. "Lead on."

Thread here.