𝐩𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 ( queliot )

001. grief stricken

Eliot and Margo trudged into the physical kids cottage, it being vacant because Dean Fogg gave the students at Brakebills a new place and Professor Lipson wanted to keep Eliot close while the others were staying at Marina's former apartment. Margo gently closed the door behind them. Eliot set his cane against the wall, tugging off his scarf and jacket and hanging them on the coat rack before limping to the couch, barely relying on his cane to get there. Margo stared sadly at her best friend, following him to the couch.

"El," she said, taking a seat next to him. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine, Bambi," Eliot lied, attempting to convince Margo it was the truth with a small smile. "Really."

"El," she placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay if you're not. Quentin just died, I understand if you need time."

Something in Eliot broke because he had wanted to remain strong. If he let himself cry over it, it would be real and that meant he was really dead and he wasn't going to be there for the rest of his life.

"Fuck," Eliot cursed, scrunching his eyes shut and leaning his head into his hands. "Bambi, I-I can't believe he's gone." His body started to shake as he released his sobs. "He's gone, Bambi, he's fucking gone and he's not coming back."

Margo reached out, taking Eliot into her arms and hugging him to her chest as he sobbed harder than he ever has in his life. His heart felt like it was physically wrenching in his chest, twisting and turning and being squeezed to the point where he thought it would burst. It was an unbearable sadness. He couldn't do this without Quentin, the little Freshman, who he had never known would mean this much to him, had been there through his worst moments and he didn't know how he would make it through without him.

"You're going to be fine," Margo reassured herself more than Eliot, tipping her head up to stop the tears from falling at the sight of her best friend unraveling into pieces.

"But I won't, Bambi," Eliot choked, sniffling. "Without him..." his voice cracked, "I can't."

So, the best friends sat there, holding onto each other because while it was Eliot being put through so much heartbreak, Margo was just recovering from all she had been through in the past months. Margo's first tear fell, traveling along a black curl on Eliot's head. They were broken.

Eliot woke up in his room, draped across his comforter, faintly remembering how he got to there. There was a bottle of wine in his hand, one that had been emptied into his stomach. He couldn't believe that he wasn't experiencing the worst hangover in his life because of how much he drank last night (considering the wine was the only bottle left in the house after.) Guess being possessed by a monster really strengthens your alcohol tolerance. However, despite it not being the worse one of his life, Eliot was still hungover, pounding headache, nauseousness, and disorientation. Which is what Eliot blamed for not realizing that it was not his room, but Quentin's, and not the fact that he had been spending every night for the last week sleeping there. And it's what Eliot blamed for not getting in the shower and for not changing out of the same sweatpants and sweater he had been wearing for a week.

Voices were whispering downstairs, likely about him or Quentin, maybe both. Either way, he couldn't really bring himself to care much. He was spiraling downwards and nothing really made him have the will to stop. Only the rumbling of his stomach brought him to push himself up off of the bed. Eliot grabbed his cane, which he must have set next to him last night, and trudged down the staircase, wincing at the pain that still occurred in his hip even though he was taking his pain medicine.

"He's not getting any better," he heard Margo say from the kitchen, "especially with all this alcohol around. I can't imagine what was between them for him to be so broken up about this."