Not a single moment of it. Eliot shouldn't be here in a place called Asgard, ruled by an entirely different set of gods, he shouldn't be here with Quentin out of all possible people, and he shouldn't be tucked away in the entrance of his supposed new home, holding onto him as if he were the only real thing he's ever known. Deliriously, Eliot thinks that maybe he is. Maybe nothing has been real at all since he died.
He laughs despite himself, breathless and painfully bitter. "It's never going to be okay, Q." Not now, not in ten to twenty years, not ever. There will always be a hole left in his life that Quentin was supposed to fit into, that no one other than Quentin could fit into. There weren't any other answers or alternatives or some secret little method that no one was supposed to know, but could fix everything.
A part of Eliot would always be empty.
"Is it really you?" He asks in the next breath, his grip thoughtlessly tightening around Quentin's shoulders. Even if Quentin was fake, an impostor, or literally anything else, Eliot knows that he would still want to hold him just the same. The only thing that mattered to him was that it felt (mostly) like how he remembered. "It shouldn't be. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn'tβ"
Be alive.
Although, he thinks in a real degree of seriousness, that he would willingly blow whatever god responsible for it if it were true. If he's really here. It's fine, it's fine, it's fine. He'll give them anything they want for it, so long as he gets to take Quentin back with him. Hell, he'd even just live here if he had to. He could make it work.
He could.
"It doesn't matter," he says, decisive, as he leans downward uncomfortably to press his cheek against the top of Quentin's head. "You don't have to be real. I justβI just need you to be here for a little longer."
no subject
Not a single moment of it. Eliot shouldn't be here in a place called Asgard, ruled by an entirely different set of gods, he shouldn't be here with Quentin out of all possible people, and he shouldn't be tucked away in the entrance of his supposed new home, holding onto him as if he were the only real thing he's ever known. Deliriously, Eliot thinks that maybe he is. Maybe nothing has been real at all since he died.
He laughs despite himself, breathless and painfully bitter. "It's never going to be okay, Q." Not now, not in ten to twenty years, not ever. There will always be a hole left in his life that Quentin was supposed to fit into, that no one other than Quentin could fit into. There weren't any other answers or alternatives or some secret little method that no one was supposed to know, but could fix everything.
A part of Eliot would always be empty.
"Is it really you?" He asks in the next breath, his grip thoughtlessly tightening around Quentin's shoulders. Even if Quentin was fake, an impostor, or literally anything else, Eliot knows that he would still want to hold him just the same. The only thing that mattered to him was that it felt (mostly) like how he remembered. "It shouldn't be. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn'tβ"
Be alive.
Although, he thinks in a real degree of seriousness, that he would willingly blow whatever god responsible for it if it were true. If he's really here. It's fine, it's fine, it's fine. He'll give them anything they want for it, so long as he gets to take Quentin back with him. Hell, he'd even just live here if he had to. He could make it work.
He could.
"It doesn't matter," he says, decisive, as he leans downward uncomfortably to press his cheek against the top of Quentin's head. "You don't have to be real. I justβI just need you to be here for a little longer."
If forever isn't an option.
"Please."