In all fairness, Eliot had been the one to turn him down. But Quentin had been the one to leave. He had had a perfectly legitimate reason, of course! The quest for the keys had been important. Magic itself was on the line, and Eliot himself had given him his blessing. He'd had a kingdom to run, after all, he couldn't very well come on an adventure with Quentin, even if he'd wanted to, which Quentin hadn't been entirely sure he did. Not at the time anyway. Not with Eliot's rejection still weighing so heavily in his heart. But they had spent fifty years together. A whole lifetime. If Eliot didn't want him anymore, then...
But no. If he hadn't wanted him, then why had he brought it up again later. In that one perfect moment of clarity, just when he and Alice were set to try and kill the Monster (and Eliot) for good. It had been their proof of concept, after all. Fifty years together. Fifty years. They had had a family, a son for fuck's sake. There shouldn't be any questioning it.
Quentin should never have let him go.
He has so many questions. There are so many things left unsaid between the pair of them, that need to be said. So many questions that need to be answered. Quentin tips his head forward against Eliot's shoulder, letting out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. Eliot's arms solid and warm around him. A familiar position they'd fit themselves into countless times before. One that he never thought he'd find again.
It takes Quentin a few moments to string some semblance of coherency together, and when he does he pulls back just enough to be able to look Eliot in the face, his eyes troubled and searching.
"Did it work?" he asks, frowning as he looks Eliot over, his hands shifting unconsciously on his back as he does. "Is he --?" But the question dies as he realizes that Eliot had been, when he had last seen him, bleeding out on the forest floor. And they had traveled him back to Brakebills but with everything that had been going on...
Quentin shifts a hand to press against Eliot's stomach, the touch tentative and uncertain, but he hadn't been acting injured this whole time. And it wouldn't have healed that quickly. He glances up at him again, a question in his eyes as he simply asks, "Eliot?"
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But no. If he hadn't wanted him, then why had he brought it up again later. In that one perfect moment of clarity, just when he and Alice were set to try and kill the Monster (and Eliot) for good. It had been their proof of concept, after all. Fifty years together. Fifty years. They had had a family, a son for fuck's sake. There shouldn't be any questioning it.
Quentin should never have let him go.
He has so many questions. There are so many things left unsaid between the pair of them, that need to be said. So many questions that need to be answered. Quentin tips his head forward against Eliot's shoulder, letting out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. Eliot's arms solid and warm around him. A familiar position they'd fit themselves into countless times before. One that he never thought he'd find again.
It takes Quentin a few moments to string some semblance of coherency together, and when he does he pulls back just enough to be able to look Eliot in the face, his eyes troubled and searching.
"Did it work?" he asks, frowning as he looks Eliot over, his hands shifting unconsciously on his back as he does. "Is he --?" But the question dies as he realizes that Eliot had been, when he had last seen him, bleeding out on the forest floor. And they had traveled him back to Brakebills but with everything that had been going on...
Quentin shifts a hand to press against Eliot's stomach, the touch tentative and uncertain, but he hadn't been acting injured this whole time. And it wouldn't have healed that quickly. He glances up at him again, a question in his eyes as he simply asks, "Eliot?"