Scars

Psychologist Eliot

When Quentin came back from Brakebills South, he was different. He wasn't as low energy as before, sloppy and lethargic. He studied, he studied like a madman, and even helped Eliot cook sometimes. The fact he was shit at it didn't make a difference, however he did always put spoons aside for Margo, which was very well revived.

But Quentin hadn't said a word of what happened there. Eliot hoped it was because maybe he'd come out on the other side already, no point getting your shoes dirty again when you've already hiked the trail. The dirts already been scraped out from under your fingernails, the garden can wait until tomorrow.

Quentin had kissed Eliot upon his arrival. Eliot wasn't really sure what he expected, they weren't really anything besides friends before he'd left, they still really weren't, but it made him feel a lot guiltier than he'd planned.

It had been a few days, Quentin would still sleep in Eliot's bed sometimes. Eliot didn't have to wait until he was dead asleep to cuddle him anymore, Quentin let it happen. He'd even put his hand in Eliot's a few times, casually, but it was a big step for him, almost to big.

Which, psychologist Eliot deduced, meant Quentin had done one of three things.

One, by some miraculous force of nature, that force being a drunk old Russian, Quentin had actually overcome all of it. Q had actually faced his demons, head on, and won. Now he was just enjoying the spoils.

Two, Quentin had done something very, very stupid. Like memory magic stupid, because Eliot remembered seeing someone try pull that shit his first year, and being jealous he didn't think of it first. True shit went sideways and she couldn't remember how to use a fucking spoon but hey the chic didn't remember something about her stepdad anymore.

Three, Quentin went back to what he's done for 22 years before he came here, became a marvelous pretender. Which in all likelihood meant he was or had been cutting.

Well show him what he's won folks! Which of the magical doors of possibility had Quentin fucking Coldwater chosen, cause Eliot knows fuck all!

The one thing that helped was for one reason or another, Quentin had gotten closer with Margo--Eliot presumed while he himself was drunk or passed out--and at some point given her the cliffs notes. Something which for the most part Eliot had never even done, especially not sober. From what Margo had told him, Eliot assumed Quentin hadn't told her about the night he tried to leave, because why the fuck would he? She knew about the abuse before it, it was enough to make her apologize, and possibly made her an unofficial member of this unofficial organization called the "let's make sure Coldwater doesn't slit his wrists or some shit squad". The only official thing about it was the name that of all people, Penny made up.

Eliot had no idea what Penny was in this for, sure him and Quentin had a frenemies vibe that bordered on the foreplay to some sort of BDSM, but the two really didn't share anything besides a room. Eliot wondered if it was because of the whole psychic thing, like maybe he'd given up on ditching the kid, just figured he could get him quiet with enough ghetto therapy.

But Quentin wasn't in his room with Penny. He was, not very subtly, stumbling through the cottage doorway--onto a tipsy Eliot, quite literally on a tipsy Eliot, and planted a kiss on his neck.

"Hey." Quentin said, breaking the kiss for only a moment.

"Hey..what the fuck was that?"

"Can we call it progress?"

"Sure. Just uh, are you drunk?"

"I mean I had a beer with Penny but that was like an hour ago."

"So this is all, you?"

"It always was Eliot."

So Eliot and Quentin kissed, like actual kissing, which Quentin was surprisingly good at. Eliot liked that he still had his scruff from his time away, like he'd forgotten about shaving as a ritual, it had just became another unnecessary thing.

"Q, wanna go upstairs?"

"Yeah." Slow and breathy.

So they stumbled together, a tangled collection of bodies.

They piled onto the bed, Quentin kept kissing Eliot as his legs swang off the side. He was so fucking unbelievably perfect.

Eliot noted that Quentin was trying not to make it obvious this was far as he wanted to go, tonight at least. He way his leg tensed when Eliot tried running his hand up it, and how he would grab it and move it somewhere else before Eliot could even notice. He'd give the kid something for all the card tricks, he certainly had a knack for misdirection.

But his lips were a very nice distraction, one Eliot didn't mind in the slightest. He'd never had Quentin like this before, not since that first party at least. When Eliot just saw him as innocent and bashful, that dark part of him having gone dormant for awhile.

But that wasn't Quentin, that was drunk traumatized Quentin. This was Quentin, and he was falling for him. Just a touch, just enough to matter, barely enough to notice.

Psychologist Eliot thought about all his deductions, about how fucking out of the blue this was, and whether or not Eliot should feel guilty for taking advantage of it. Also if all this was just his compounding impatience, maybe even his imagination. It could wait for the morning anyway, and maybe for Eliot to sober up a little. A lot, this didn't count if he was the drunk one right? He'd sleep it off, with his stupid nerd under his chin.