Eliot knows exactly what it is that Quentin is asking him now, looking up at him with nervous and unsure eyes, and he has no idea how he is supposed to respond. How is he supposed to have this conversation? How is he supposed to tell him what happened? How was he supposed to tell the only person in this world that he knew he was meant to be together with that he had fucked it all up and died? Did Quentin even remember what he did? Eliot doesn't know. He can't piece together any sort of answer from the brief period that they have been together here and he's terrified to. He's terrified of the answer and for what sort of revelation that it might be.
Or that it might break the magic and Quentin will be gone.
"I'm fine," he says, the words terse and his throat unbearably tight. He is fine, as fine as he's going to be, but he doesn't want to admit to Quentin or possibly anyone else that the Monster might still be lurking within him. Still in him and eager to get out, haunting Eliot whether awake or asleep. That much, he won't say. He needs to say something else, anything else, and try to answer Quentin with some degree of composure.
"It's—" he starts, then immediately stops. His face feels hot and he can't calm the thoughts in his head. Quentin's questions had felt like a sledgehammer to an already splintering dam and Eliot's face finally cracks. Misery washes over his face, raw and honest. "It's been a while. It's been so long and it hasn't gotten any easier," he tells him. He knows it is a mistake, but he cannot stop the words from falling out of his mouth or the way his arms tighten further around Quentin's shoulder to pull him flush against him.
If he holds him tight enough, maybe he won't disappear.
"You're still gone. I don't know if I'll ever be able to deal with that."
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Eliot knows exactly what it is that Quentin is asking him now, looking up at him with nervous and unsure eyes, and he has no idea how he is supposed to respond. How is he supposed to have this conversation? How is he supposed to tell him what happened? How was he supposed to tell the only person in this world that he knew he was meant to be together with that he had fucked it all up and died? Did Quentin even remember what he did? Eliot doesn't know. He can't piece together any sort of answer from the brief period that they have been together here and he's terrified to. He's terrified of the answer and for what sort of revelation that it might be.
Or that it might break the magic and Quentin will be gone.
"I'm fine," he says, the words terse and his throat unbearably tight. He is fine, as fine as he's going to be, but he doesn't want to admit to Quentin or possibly anyone else that the Monster might still be lurking within him. Still in him and eager to get out, haunting Eliot whether awake or asleep. That much, he won't say. He needs to say something else, anything else, and try to answer Quentin with some degree of composure.
"It's—" he starts, then immediately stops. His face feels hot and he can't calm the thoughts in his head. Quentin's questions had felt like a sledgehammer to an already splintering dam and Eliot's face finally cracks. Misery washes over his face, raw and honest. "It's been a while. It's been so long and it hasn't gotten any easier," he tells him. He knows it is a mistake, but he cannot stop the words from falling out of his mouth or the way his arms tighten further around Quentin's shoulder to pull him flush against him.
If he holds him tight enough, maybe he won't disappear.
"You're still gone. I don't know if I'll ever be able to deal with that."