[It would be easy enough to blame it on his own nerves. Or better yet, to blame it on some post-death mythological bullshit meant to test him. Like, surprise, here's your best friend eating chow mein! Resist him, or else you'll spend eternity in torment!
Except, he can't. Because there's Eliot, twenty feet away, eating chow mein, and suddenly Quentin has forgotten how to do anything but stand and stare. His tear ducts don't give a fuck if it's a trick, and neither does his skittering heart, racing in his throat. He takes a step, eyes bright with awe-]
... El- oh, fuck.
[-and promptly runs into a cafeteria seat, severely bruising his knees. Get over here, you possible hallucination, you.]
deux ๐๐๐
Except, he can't. Because there's Eliot, twenty feet away, eating chow mein, and suddenly Quentin has forgotten how to do anything but stand and stare. His tear ducts don't give a fuck if it's a trick, and neither does his skittering heart, racing in his throat. He takes a step, eyes bright with awe-]
... El- oh, fuck.
[-and promptly runs into a cafeteria seat, severely bruising his knees. Get over here, you possible hallucination, you.]