[This should be happy. They're the same words tugging at the back of Quentin's mind, pulling the side of his mouth down into a quiet frown. But it was never really going to be, was it? Quentin's- dead, and Eliot is drawn and pale and so clearly pained by something, and they're standing in this strange, sanitized dream with no idea what's true. This couldn't be the bounding, beaming embrace of his thoughts, even if he tried, even if gold light streamed in and the gentle swell of an orchestra started up.
He lets go, giving Eliot room to deflect all he wants. His neck aches from craning up, this close, and he says, very gently, ] Does it even- hit the fan, anymore? Or is it just, uh, permanently attached to the fan?
[what happened what happened are you okay is everyone else okay]
no subject
He lets go, giving Eliot room to deflect all he wants. His neck aches from craning up, this close, and he says, very gently, ] Does it even- hit the fan, anymore? Or is it just, uh, permanently attached to the fan?
[what happened what happened are you okay is everyone else okay]