Chapter 1: The Cottage
Summary:
In which, after riding two trains, Eliot puts on his armor.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Now
On cool clear nights, Eliot walks out of his studio and considers the stars. He tells himself it’s why he moved out here, away from everything that was his old life. That, in the end, this had been exactly what he'd always wanted.
He needs to stop lying to himself.
The light from the studio casts shadows on the lawn as the smell of oil paint and mineral spirits mingle with the mild spring air. Eliot smells the rain that has fallen and knows more will have come by morning. Fishing a cigarette out of his smock, he lights it and inhales. Petricor, he thinks to himself, forcing the smoke out through his nose.
Way back when, Eliot would smoke in his studio, but he’s been trying to be more cognizant of things recently. Things like the relationship between open flames and flammable substances, for instance. So, now he smokes outside and considers the stars. Admittedly, it is less convenient. But at least he can maintain the facade as that tragic-but-brilliant-artist to anyone passing by, and that’s always nice. It also keeps his studio from going up in flames, which is nice too.
While standing in the shadow of the studio wondering how he hadn’t managed to burn it down years ago, --because honestly, it’s a goddamn miracle-- Eliot barely registers his cigarette until he’s smoked it down to the filter. Tossing the butt into the ancient coffee can next to the door, Eliot runs his hands through his hair and heads back inside.
Compared to the outdoors, the studio feels stifling, and Eliot’s glasses fog up immediately after walking inside. He’s tempted to leave the door open to encourage some circulation. But the damp air might warp the canvases he just finished stretching. Which, if he’s being honest, he can’t afford to replace if something goes wrong. Instead, he turns the vents on high and wipes his glasses on the sleeve of his henley.
His studio, or The Cottage as it is commonly referred to in art journals, --back when he was featured in that sort of thing-- started its life as a detached garage; the old sturdy kind that has a second story. And was the deciding factor when he purchased his house. It was a simple renovation, to convert it into the freestanding building that it is today. Just another one of many transformations Eliot oversaw the year he moved from the City to upstate New York.
In the beginning, the second story doubled as a guest house, exclusively for Bambi whenever she came to visit. That changed when Eliot was forced to move from the main house into the Cottage. He had returned home from Whitespire after six months and found the money had all but dried up. The main house now exists as a rentable year-round, --Charming Tudor - Upstate Retreat and Artist Destination-- and is popular enough to keep Eliot out of the throws of bankruptcy. He shows his utmost gratitude and devotion to the main house by caring for its needs. Fixing leaks, tending to the grounds, cleaning every available surface until it shines. At first, he had resented the work, the mere concept of it sickened him. It was a crack in his carefully crafted facade. Too closely resembling the life he had before he created the first version of himself. But hiring someone would have cut into his already meager income. So, --being the pragmatic bitch he is-- he’d rolled up his sleeves, swallowed his pride, and set to work.
###
If you had told him a year ago that a 36-by-48-inch canvas would one day strike fear in his heart, Eliot would have sniffed at the insult while quietly ensuring that whoever said it never worked in the art world again, thank you very much. Yet here he is, brushes in hand, paints at the ready, and completely devoid of the confidence he once took for granted. At the risk of sounding dramatic, the exact dimensions of Eliot’s personal Hell are 36-by-48-inches. Maybe if he maps out more sketches, he can recapture that lost bravado, if only for a moment. Ultimately, it’s pointless, Eliot already knows what he’ll draw, what he always draws now: fantastic lands, mythical beasts, ancient Castles, and Quentin goddamn Coldwater.
In reality, Eliot hasn’t sold a painting in over a year. He’s been desperately trying to claw his way out of this rut for months because no one thinks dragons when looking to buy something to hang above their couch. Eliot had deliberately tried to distance himself from his early illustrative works. --The ones that made him famous, the ones that he felt were the only thing standing between him and sovereignty over the art world.-- Going so far as to deny he even created them in the first place. Now, in a Dickensian twist of fate, his castoffs had come to collect.
Elliot’s gallery contacts --or the ones that are still talking to him, anyway-- tell him that trying to sell works in his original style looks like a cash grab. But frankly, it doesn’t make a difference what it looks like, because it’s not as if he can currently create anything that isn’t a goddamn fantasy-trash-fire. He puts down his brushes and decides to go outside for another cigarette. Maybe the stars, the air, or the nicotine will magically grant him the inspiration he so desperately needs.
Fuck. He needs to stop lying to himself.
Back inside, --the cigarette break having done fuck all-- Eliot resumes his ongoing battle with the canvas. He takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, and considers calling it a night when his phone vibrates. Eliot looks at the screen and smiles; hitting video chat, he’s greeted by the most beautiful face in the world
“Hello, Bambi,” he says, a smile curling on his lips.
“El? Wow, I thought Todd was screening all of your calls.” Margo cocks her head, looking slightly quizzical, “Are you getting back to basics or something?”
Eliot’s smile vanishes as he averts his eye, “Yeah, uh, Todd quit.”
Anger flashes across Margo’s face, her tone suddenly venomous, “Fucking Todd. After everything you did for him.”
“No, it’s okay. It was sort of mutual. Well, it was mutually agreed I couldn’t afford to pay him anymore,” Eliot gestures in the air, trying to show how little he cares, “And, well, he was, uh, pretty traumatized from the shit that went down last year, so...you know.”
Margo’s face suddenly changes to concern, "Oh shit, I never thought about it that way," then she shrugs, "Meh. Whatever. Fuck Todd.”
"Whatever is right, feelings are gauche, ever onwards and upwards.” He flashes a smile that says, Don’t worry, Bambi. I’m okay, everything is fine and there’s nothing to see here.
Picking up on the subtext, Margo quickly changes gears, “El, I need a favor.”
Eliot gives her a genuine smile, “Anything for my Bambi. Your wish is my command.”
“I need to leave the country day after tomorrow, Embassy bullshit, and my fucking twat-nozzle of a house-sitter bailed on me.” She rolls her eyes dramatically on twat-nozzle, and huffs.
“You’ve always had such a way with words.” God, Eliot loves her so damn much.
“Shut up. It’s part of my charm.” She snaps, but there’s no heat in it, “So will you do it? It’ll be two weeks, which I know is a lot, but I’m pretty much fucked in both ends right now.”
Eliot looks over his phone at the blank canvas. Hell will still be waiting for him when he gets back.
He looks back down at Margo, “I just need the morning to get my affairs in order. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
Margo’s face brightens, all sunshine and daisies, “Oh thank you, El! We can celebrate your neverending generosity when you get here.”
“Love you, Bambi.” He says because it’s just so true.
“Love you too.” She tells him because it’s true for her as well.
###
Energized by his conversation with Bambi and the prospect of getting out of town, Eliot works until sunrise. His efforts result in a half-dozen or so rough sketches, ranging from ego-stroking self-portraits to macabre depictions of apocalyptic middle-America. There are even some sketches where fantasy elements slipped through, and he doesn’t completely hate them. The concepts are just vague enough that they could be reworked in a myriad of ways --a practice left from his commission days-- and possibly even get Eliot out of his rut. None of them may end up as a sellable work, but that isn’t anything he needs to worry about now. It's gotten him out of his head and doesn’t have any fucking dragons. So he chalks that up as a win.
Still having to tackle his to-do list before he needs to leave, Eliot sets to work. He emails the guests that will be arriving for the weekend, changes the passcode on the remote lock, checks the security camera and floodlight app on his phone, and asks his neighbors to call him if they see anything suspicious while he’s away. After doing a walkthrough to make sure everything is stocked and clean in the main house, he locks up and returns to the studio.
By the time he finally begins to pack, Eliot is running on fumes. He hastily throws his suitcase together, shoving clothes in with a level of disregard that would have horrified him a year ago. He pushes the thought away while stuffing socks, underwear, shirts and jeans into his suitcase. Assuming Margo will want to go out tonight, Eliot pulls a --previously-- trademark silk shirt, waistcoat, tie and a pair of linen trousers from storage. After returning from Whitespire, he had planned to only wear such items for special occasions, and seeing Bambi was always cause for celebration. He knows Margo has a steamer at her apartment, so he’ll have a chance to work out whatever wrinkles they sustain from the trip to Manhattan after he gets there. He places the items delicately atop of the massive nest of his other clothes before zipping the suitcase closed.
Shrugging on his navy Pendleton cardigan while nibbling on some toast, Eliot takes a moment to look over the sketches from the night before. He’d planned on revisiting them when he got back but really shouldn’t wait. If anything, developing them can serve as a distraction while he’s holed up in Bambi’s apartment. With his Lyft only four minutes away, Eliot tosses the sketches and a few canvases into a travel portfolio and grabs his collapsible easel. He scrambles around the studio, stuffing sketchbooks and art supplies into a backpack, shoving whatever he can’t fit into the pockets of his sweater. Eliot sincerely hopes Margo doesn’t murder him for setting up shop in her apartment while she’s gone.
When his Lyft arrives, Eliot is waiting outside feeling utterly exhausted. He cracks his neck, trying to wake himself up, and throws everything into the trunk. Finally, finally, he slides into the backseat and closes the door with a satisfying thunk. As they drive out of the neighborhood, Eliot realizes he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
“Well, at least I remembered to take off the goddamn smock,” he grumbles.
Thank fuck he can sleep on the train.
###
By the time the car pulls into Albany-Rensselaer, Eliot has hit his third, possibly fourth, wind. Coupled with the anticipation of seeing Bambi and the possibility of finally getting out of this rut he’s been in, his body thrums with such intensity it might split his bones apart. The train is on schedule, set to leave at 10:05 a.m. He forgoes buying coffee and texts, Margo, that she should meet him at Penn Station around 1 p.m. After hitting send, the last of Eliot’s adrenaline rapidly slips away, leaving just enough energy to board, stow his luggage, and take his seat before he crashes.
Aboard the Empire Service, Eliot snores indignantly and dreams of Quentin Coldwater.
Eliot watches from the woods, moonlight filters through the trees. Quentin is trespassing through his forest. If he can see Eliot amongst the trees he makes no indication. Eliot wants to go to him, to ask of his intent but is frozen with fear, shame, and regret. Suddenly, the forest vanishes, he and Quentin stand on a rocky beach overlooking a massive sea, the horizon besotted by mountains. Quentin is saying words that he can’t quite make out, and then...
“So, destiny is - it’s bullshit.”
He desperately wants to tell Quentin how sorry he is, but his body is screaming at him to run, run and never look back. Before he can do anything, Quentin turns away from him. Trying so hard to push down his instincts, to be brave for once, Eliot grabs Quentin by the shoulder.
The beach disappears and the two are at the gates of a castle. Torchlight from the throne room glows within. Its canvas walls drip slick and glossy, the smell of oil paint permeates the air. Eliot doesn’t want to go in, he knows what will happen if they do. But Quentin grasps him by the hand and drags him across the threshold.
Eliot wakes with a start, breathing hard, the smell of oil paint still in his nose. He scrubs at his face, trying to distance himself from the dream, then drags his fingers through his hair. Eliot gets out of his seat, stumbling his way towards the bathroom at the end of the train car. Locking himself inside, he fights to keep his balance as the train sways and takes a long, wobbly, piss.
While washing his hands, Eliot glances at his reflection and winces. To say he looks like shit, would be a massive understatement. It’s obvious that he hasn’t slept, his hair is frizzed out from constantly running his hands through it, and dark circles hang under his eyes. What’s worse, is it isn’t just his face. His henley, which has become excessively stretched at the collar, hangs at odd angles off his clavicles. His sweater slumps off his shoulders, no matter how many times Eliot pulls at it. At the very least, he’ll need to change his shirt and throw some water on his face at Penn Station before he meets up with Margo. There is no way she’s going to see him like this if he can help it.
After taking his seat, Eliot tries to fall back asleep, but the images from his dream are still aggressively vivid. It had been years since he’d even spoken to Quentin --because when Eliot Waugh fucks up, he does it at a professional level-- and when the time came to write his amends letters, he’d spent an obscene amount of time on Q’s. Even then, Eliot didn’t know if it made it to him or if he’d even bothered to read it. Instead of dwelling on it, --because that shit is counterproductive-- Eliot pushes the thought away and stares out the window. Watching as the City slowly builds up across the landscape.
###
Ten minutes outside of Penn Station, Eliot receives a text from Margo saying she’s running late. This means he’ll have enough time to clean up --in the bathroom, like a goddamn hobo-- before she sees him. Thank God for small miracles.
When the train pulls in, Eliot grabs his stuff, doing a once over to make sure he has everything and makes a b-line to the NJ transit restroom. He takes over a sink at the far end of the bathroom and fishes out his toiletries bag. There isn’t enough time to shave, but he’s able to spray some dry conditioner in his hair and wash his face. After checking his phone for any new texts from Margo, he locks himself in a stall, puts on some deodorant and changes his shirt. Eliot leaves the restroom feeling slightly more human, he’ll need to take a shower when he gets to Margo’s apartment, but at least he isn’t as crusty as before. His phone pings, showing three new texts from Margo:
Bambi <3: Here. Where are you?
Bambi <3: Meet me at A
Bambi <3: Now dickwad
Eliot heads to the lower level towards the subway, practically running --if he did that sort of thing, which he doesn’t-- when he sees his Bambi. She stands next to the turnstiles, her long chestnut hair cascading over her shoulders, adorned in Gucci and Jimmy Choo. Every inch of her, a force of nature. She smiles when she sees him, bright, genuine, and the most beautiful goddamn thing Eliot has seen in ages. He kisses Margo, and then wraps her in a hug, resting his chin on top of her head. She lets him hold her for a moment before pushing away from his chest.
“Jesus, El. You need a shower,” she says, pulling a face.
Fuck. He loves her so much.
###
After buying his MetroCard, the two board the subway and head toward Margo’s apartment in the East Village. She’d moved into her one-bedroom before the neighborhood had gotten completely gentrified, but stayed after the high rises started going up because of its ridiculously short commute to the UN. Way back when, he, Margo, Julia, and Quentin had all lived in various areas of the Lower East Side. Eliot wonders, if things had gone differently, maybe Quentin would still live there.
When they finally reach the apartment, Eliot drops everything in a pile at the front door, grabs his toiletries bag, and begins stripping off his clothes. If it were anyone other than Bambi, he might show a modicum of restraint --which, okay, that’s a lie-- but she’s seen him naked so many times it hardly matters. Margo wolf-whistles as he kicks off his underwear and opens the door to the bathroom.
Eliot turns the shower on scalding and shaves while he waits for the water to heat up. When he reinvented himself the second time, he’d grown out his hair and worn a beard, thinking it kept in-line with the above-it-all artist aesthetic he’d created, which honestly, just made him look permanently exhausted. --maybe because he was at the time. Well, among other things-- Now, he keeps his hair relatively short, letting his curls be slightly unruly when he’s out of the public eye. And he’ll never get out from under his perpetual 5 o’clock shadow, which he made his peace with back in Whitespire. But the compromise is worth it because when he looks in the mirror, he finally sees someone he recognizes.
Stepping into the shower, Eliot proceeds to scrub himself within an inch of his life, desperate to get the last 48 hours off of him. Wiping the steam from the mirror, Eliot runs through the rest of his routine. He brushes his teeth, puts on some moisturizer, and applies leave-in conditioner to keep his hair from frizzing out again. Margo is yelling something at him from the kitchen, he wraps a towel around his hips, puts on his glasses --which are so fogged up he can’t see shit-- and opens the door.
Eliot walks into the kitchen, “What’d you say, Bambi?”
"I said, we should go out tonight. Dancing maybe?” Margo says, handing him a cup of coffee because she is the best thing in his goddamn life, “Penny, is DJing at the Neitherlands, and he isn’t completely awful.”
Eliot hums an agreement, “Dancing sounds amazing.”
“Okay, I’ll text him so he knows to put us on the list,” She puts her hand on his chest and gives him a mock pout, “but you cannot wear those paupers clothes you’ve become so attached to. I refuse to let you debase yourself like that in public.”
“Not to worry, Bambi.” He puts down his cup, and takes her by the hand, spins her, and ends with a small dip, “I would never do anything to jeopardize my status as your arm candy.”
###
Getting ready for their night out might as well have been a montage. Eliot had laid down to rest his eyes just before lunch and woke up to find it dark out, the sun having set hours ago. Next thing he knows, Margo is pulling him out of bed and bullying him into the bathroom so he can take care of his hair and makeup. Eliot finds his clothes already pressed and hanging on the back of the door. She had gone through his luggage and steamed his clothes for the evening while he was basically comatose. For once, he's grateful that Bambi is an unrepentant snoop.
Forty minutes later Eliot emerges, transformed and victorious, in his resplendent armor. Tonight, ballads will be written and sung about his outfit alone. His lithe frame in a silk forest green button-down, elegant neck accentuated by a black-tie with his trademark trinity knot, which flows seamlessly into a matching black waistcoat embroidered in gold thread, finished off with charcoal grey linen pants. His curls --which will inspire more ballads and more singing-- are the epitome of licentiousness. Tonight, he leaves his glasses at home, they would only detract from the gold and black that now encircles his amber eyes, invoking a god-like luminosity. Each element of his glorious finery corresponds with the other, every faction of his barricade, perfectly in place. The result --seriously, so much singing, so much ballading-- is nothing short of incandescent. He walks into the kitchen, giving Margo his most charming grin and a kiss into the palm of her hand.
“Holy fuck, El,” she beams,” I completely forgot what you looked like under all those paints and poly-cotton blends.”
“Oh, Bambi,” he purrs, kissing his way up her arm, “You wound me. Besides, why should I dress to the point of extravagance if I don’t have you on my arm?”
Margo puts a finger to her cheek in mock contemplation, “I do bring a certain something to our dynamic, don’t I?”
Eliot gives a final kiss on her forehead, “My dear, you are transcendence itself.”
Notes:
Albums I have been listening to while writing:
Trouble Will Find Me - The National
Bashed Out - This Is The Kit
Blood Bank - Bon Iver
Soil - Serpentwithfeet
I don't know anyone IRL who understands these characters well enough to give me appropriate feedback, so comments are appreciated.
Chapter 2: The Neitherlands
Summary:
In which Eliot sees Quentin, Quentin sees Eliot, and everything goes to shit.
Notes:
Trigger Warning for PTSD flashbacks. All music references are linked so you can listen along.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When Eliot and Margo enter The Neitherlands, they turn heads, no doubt due to the fact that they are the most beautiful creatures anyone there has ever seen up close. In his self-imposed isolation, Eliot had forgotten what it felt like to light up a room. How could he ever forget how this felt? With Bambi by his side, dressed in gold, --her own hard, glossy, armor-- Eliot is invincible, a king mingling among his subjects. He holds out his hand, which she takes in hers, and leads them to the dance floor.
Bambi had significantly undersold Penny’s skills as a DJ. His mix works flawlessly to bring people to the dance floor and keep them there. Eliot dances with Margo on the crowded floor, glamorous, unattainable, and therefore terrifying to those around them. Her every facet brightly shines under the lights. Two halves of a whole, moving together as one, ethereal and elegant.
The music bleeds together seamlessly, all bodies within it, utterly spellbound and at its mercy. Not one among them would think to question or even consider Penny’s motives or endgame. The crowd is obedient, trusting in his ability, as he exercises complete control over each and every one of them.
*****
*****
*****
The music ends, signaling Penny’s 30-minute break. With the spell broken, everyone on the dance floor shuffles off to their various corners of the club, suddenly breathless and thirsty. While Bambi chats with Penny at his turntables, -- and, yeah, with the way she’s looking at him, they’re totally going to bang if they haven’t already-- Eliot heads to the bar.
Despite it having been more than 9 months since his last drink, he still likes to have a tonic and lime in his hand when he’s out, just to keep conversations from turning awkward and questions to a minimum. He orders his drink, but everything is backed up now that Penny’s on break. He drums his fingers on the bartop while he waits, and stretches out his calves against the brass rail.
Someone taps Eliot on the shoulder, he spins around and it’s too fucking late.
“Hello, Eliot.” Julia says dryly, wearing a smirk that’s anything but friendly, “ What the fuck are you doing here? ”
“Dancing, Julia. Why? Do I not have clearance to be here? I promise all my paperwork is in order, submitted the forms in triplicate weeks ago.” Eliot says drolly, but his stomach is in knots.
Julia lets out a smug huff, "You haven't changed," she sneers.
“Yeah well, you would know, I guess.” He retorts, accepting his tonic and lime from the bartender, "Obviously, seeing me standing at a bar, after five years, is enough to give you expert insight into my life and all its vast inner workings.”
Julie orders a gimlet and tells the bartender to put it on her tab, “I assume Margo is with you?”
“Of course,” he bats his eyes at her, intentionally trying to piss her off, --because she’s the one who started it,-- “I merely exist to be at her side. Without her, I simply cease to be. ”
“Oh, is that why you vanished into the goddamn ether after you almost destroyed Quentin beyond repair ?” Julia looks him in the eye, unwavering, she is not fucking around, “Because Margo didn’t follow you to wherever you fucked off to?”
At this, Eliot breaks eye contact and stares at the bottles behind the bar; thinks of the drugs that he could buy in the bathroom or the alley outback. Seductive in its simplicity, readily available, and so much easier than dealing with his current situation. He turns his back to the temptation and leans on his elbows against the bartop.
“What do you want, Julia?” Eliot huffs out and stares into his glass.
"Quentin is here, and he's in a good place for once." Julia stands up on her toes to speak in his ear, ensuring he doesn’t miss a word, "If you ever cared about him at all, you need to leave before he sees you. He’s in the bathroom right now, so I suggest you don’t wait.”
With that, Julia takes her drink and disappears back into the crowd, confident in her divine superiority. He wants to go after her, tell her how wrong she is, but he knows she isn’t. If Quentin really is here, the best thing Eliot can do for him is leave. He pays for his drink and works his way toward the door, but the bar is packed with bodies.
Realizing he hadn’t told Bambi he was leaving, Eliot turns around to look for her and sees Quentin as he’s exiting the bathroom. He looks devastatingly handsome, wearing a slate grey suit with a simple white button-down, the lights of the club casting a spectrum of shadows on his face. Eliot wants to rabbit, run as far as he can, but he's at the mercy of Q's wide eyes, his slack-jawed bewilderment.
The reaction hits Eliot like a cataclysmic event, his memories suddenly and aggressively in focus. In every corner of his consciousness is Quentin Coldwater, blinding him completely: his gestures, his hands, his worried eyes, his half-crooked smile, his face, -- his beautiful goddamn face-- the face that reflected his every emotion, and the way it looked when Eliot broke his heart.
His chest tightens, he needs to run, get out on the street before his armor cracks completely. But he’s surrounded by people, with no way out, and Quentin is still looking.
Margo finds Eliot somewhere in the maelstrom, but he shoves his way past her and breaks for the exit. She says something in protest and grabs his wrist, he pulls away, stumbling out of the club and onto the Street. He can't breath -- he can't fucking breathe-- and claws at his neck, trying to loosen the knot at his throat. His old armor is suddenly too constricting, making him feel claustrophobic.
As he wrenches off his tie, Eliot feels the panic inside him well up. He pushes the thoughts away, but they won't move. Refusing to go to that place in his head, the one that holds all the dark little boxes filled with the things he can never bring himself to think about.
Craigslist, correspondence, late-night collaborations, publishers and drafts, and edits and plans for the future. Seeing him for the first time, and then, again, the last time, when Eliot left and Quentin didn’t follow.
The memories come up so fast it’s terrifying, he feels like he may be thrown off the face of the Earth. He stumbles into the alley, leaning against the wall and pulls out a cigarette with shaking hands.
Life upstate, the Cottage, creating Eliot Waugh for a second time --the genius artist who needs no one to inspire his brilliance but himself-- a full suit of armor constructed from canvas, oil paints, and ineffable confidence. His infamous celebrity as a fine artist, on his way to becoming a household name in his own right.
"FUCK!" Eliot screams. His hands are shaking so badly he can't work the lighter, his thumbs spasm uncontrollably. "Fucking work! You plastic piece of shit!"
Money, so much money, spent on drugs and vices --too many to name-- all in the name of inspiration, all to stop feeling so lonely, paintings from the height of addiction, never to be sold, never to see the light of day, the Basquiat, Bambi, the hospital, Whitespire, and the resulting mountains of debt.
And then, it's over. Leaving Eliot in the alley, feeling wrung out and utterly alone.
It’s three blocks before Eliot can hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears. Two more before he stops shaking enough to light his cigarette. Whatever the fuck just happened to him, it had been a goddamn nightmare.
Tomorrow, he’ll apologize to Bambi and he'll find a meeting. Until then, he needs different clothes, he needs the apartment, he needs all the cigarettes.
Notes:
Music playing in the club:
Happy Man - Jungle
Feels Like Summer- Childish Gambino
Bubblin - Anderson .Paak
i- Kendrick LamarMargo and Penny hook-up: I don't ship them. However, I will never get over the line when Margo found out he died and said, " I guess I always thought someday we were gonna bang."
Chapter 3: The Roof
Summary:
In which Eliot is a fucking millennial, thank you very much.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Eliot tries his best to remain calm as he chain-smokes his way back to the apartment. He stops at a bodega and buys two packs of cigarettes and a box of La Croix, because he's a millennial and basic as hell. It had begun to mist when he left the club and got noticeably worse while he was trying to make nice with the bodega cat. A block later, rain cascades down on the Lower East Side. Eliot runs -- because, desperate times and all that -- towards the apartment, shielding his head with the box of La Croix, Camel soft packs firmly in his hip pockets, with the sound of his smokers’ cough echoing through the streets.
Sopping wet and fairly convinced he died two blocks ago from consumption, -- that’s still a thing, right? -- Eliot falls through the door and into Margo’s apartment. His clothes cling to him closer than his actual skin, as water drips down his back settling in his ass crack. His magnificent eye makeup is so badly streaked, he looks like a goth ditched at prom. In short, he's a damp, horrid, goddamn mess. Eliot puts the box of La Croix on the counter and awkwardly strips out of his clothes, leaving a trail of ruined silk in his wake. He’ll think about whether or not they can be salvaged later, but the Magic 8 Ball in his head is firmly saying “outcome unlikely.”
When Eliot gets to the bedroom he flops naked onto Margo’s bed with a huff, slowly sinking into a mound of pillows so massive, it borders on obscene. What should have been a spectacular night out with his Bambi, had turned into an all-out shit show so rapidly, --and honestly what the fuck -- his head is still reeling from it. What’s worse, he knows it was his own fucking fault.
The bed feels so nice, Eliot is tempted to just fall asleep then and there. But he has cigarettes to smoke and plans to make. Besides, Margo would give him no end of shit if she came home to find him naked on her bed, ass up in the air, with his dick firmly wedged between her mountain of pillows.
After, begrudgingly, removing himself from the bed, Eliot washes off his makeup and riffles through his suitcase. He'll need to go up to the roof to smoke, which means multiple layers and his wool peacoat. After getting dressed, Eliot grabs his cigarettes and a La Croix --because, again, millennial-- and climbs the stairs to the roof.
###
Eliot steps out onto the roof. The rain stopped, but in its absence, the wind turned merciless. He pulls the collar up on his coat, bracing himself against it. Hunching against the door with his back to the wind, he tries to light his cigarette. The lighter sputters and sparks, but finally holds the flame long enough to get the job partially done. He sucks hard on it, struggling to keep it lit. Something catches in his throat and he coughs -- like a goddamn middle schooler -- until his eyes water. He lights a second from the smoldering ember after that, then a third. He needs to text Bambi. He needs to call Charlton. He needs to find a meeting.
At some point, someone had brought up an old wooden dining chair and propped it next to the door. The varnish is patchy, and the armrests are mostly splinters, but it'd been shoved far enough under the door's shallow outcropping that it was still relatively dry, despite the downpour from earlier. Promising himself that he’ll go back inside to tackle his shit soon, Eliot sits down and lights his fourth cigarette.
For the second time in 36 hours, Eliot dreams of Quentin Coldwater.
Eliot sits on a throne in the oil and canvas castle, the glossy, slick-drip walls glisten in the light of the setting sun. Something knocks on the door to the throne room, Eliot knows he shouldn’t answer it. That danger lurks on the other side, but he’s so lonely, so completely isolated. The thing on the other side knocks again. This time, Eliot will answer, because he can’t stand to be alone anymore.
The door swings open, and it’s Quentin, wonderful, brave, good, and true. Just as he had appeared in the Neitherlands; devastatingly handsome and bathed in shadow. Eliot’s heart swells, he takes him by the hand, leading him to the throne. Quentin is behind him, saying something Eliot can’t quite hear...
“For what it’s worth, I think that you are going to be a really good King.”
Eliot takes his seat at the throne and turns to find Quentin on his knees. He tells Quentin to stand but is met with refusal; Q's eyes wide, and slack-jawed. Eliot pulls him up, commands him to stand, he doesn’t want this, doesn’t deserve it, not after everything that has happened between them.
“El…”
Shocking wetslickheat wraps around him, Quentin’s tongue, velvet-soft and insistent, runs along the vein under Eliot’s cock. Q opens his throat, taking him in, incomprehensibly deep, until his lips brush against his pelvis. Eliot wants to push him away --tell him to stop-- but the heat, the pressure, the unending rhythm as Q rises and falls against him is too much to bear. Eliot fucks into his mouth, shameful and ravenous. He fists his hand into Quentin’s hair, long and soft, just as he remembered. He looks down...
Quentin is looking, he’s still looking.
Eliot wakes up, achingly hard against his jeans. A shiver runs through him, unsure if it’s from the dream or the cold that has settled deep into his bones. He shifts uncomfortably, cursing the chair for what it's done to his knees, hips, and back. His peacoat, which he thankfully had the foresight to button up to his neck, --before falling asleep like a complete dumbass -- kept his core relatively dry, but his arms and legs are fucked. Eliot’s limbs scream in protest as he flexes them, trying to alleviate some of the stiffness.
He checks his phone, seven messages from Bambi. Eliot swallows hard.
This should be interesting.
Bambi <3: Where are you? What the fuck happened back there?
---
Bambi <3: El, please text me back.
---
Bambi <3: Ok. Now I'm pissed. Where the fuck are you?
---
Bambi <3: What the fuck? Answer your fucking phone.
---
Bambi <3: Julia just found me. Fucking shit, was she always capable of being such a fucking cunt?
---
Bambi <3: Back at the apartment. Found your clothes. If you're passed out naked somewhere I'm gonna fucking murder you.
---
Bambi <3: Seriously El...where are you?
Compared to unending wrath Eliot had anticipated, the texts are downright cuddly. He checks the time - Bambi’s flight isn’t until the afternoon, so she should still be in the apartment. When he stands, pain shoots through his body so fast he yelps, scaring the shit out of a flock of pigeons in the process.
It takes longer to get down the stairs than Eliot would care to admit, but he finally reaches Margo’s apartment. He opens the door to find Margo and Penny -- knew it, totally banged and/or banging-- drinking coffee on her couch.
“Hey, Penny,” Eliot grins, “Great set last night.”
“Sup, Eliot,” Penny nods, “It’s been a minute. Margo told me about your new look." He gives Eliot the once over, obviously unimpressed, "Huh. I bet it’s a lot more comfortable than the shit you used to wear.”
Eliot takes a beat, unsure if any part of what Penny said was meant to be a compliment, “...Thank you?”
“Don’t make this weird, Waugh,” Margo gives him the side-eye, then turns to Penny, “And you, Adiyodi, time for you to get. Eliot and I have some shit we need to sort out before I catch my flight.”
Penny clicks his tongue and gets off the couch, ” Fine. Will I see you when you get back?”
“That depends on the caliber of sexting you send me while I’m gone.” Margo slaps his ass, then kisses him on the cheek, “If I were you, I’d invest in a thesaurus. Mama likes her adverbs filthy .”
Eliot nods in agreement, so Penny understands Bambi isn’t fucking around, “Bye, Penny,” He sing-songs, “Love ya.”
###
After Penny leaves, Eliot grabs a cup of coffee and collapses on the couch next to Bambi. His knees twinge in protest, and he lets out a wince. Next time he’s on the roof, he is burning that fucking chair.
“El, we need to talk about last night.” Margo’s face is full of concern, he hates it.
“Look, I’m sorry that I left without saying goodbye, but there’s nothing to talk about,” Eliot waves his hand and huffs, “You said it in your text, Julia was being a cu- omplete shit .”
“Should I be worried?” Margo asks, refusing to let up, “I mean, the last time…”
“ This is nothing like last time,” Eliot seethes, “I’m fine. Everything is fine. You’ll be back in two weeks and it’ll all be fine. ”
“El…Quentin - he came and talked to me after you left,” Margo gives him a look he can’t read, “It’s why Julia found me. She told me to stay the fuck away from him.”
“Yeah,” Eliot lets out a bitter laugh, “She basically said the same thing to me. She’s always been Quentin’s guard dog.”
“Damn straight she is,” Margo agrees, "I thought she was going to rip my throat out - but Mama made sure to respond in kind," she says with a wink, which gets a smirk out of him at least, “But, you know what? Fuck her. She was so certain she had you pegged, she knows fuck all. And Q…”
“I saw him there, you know, just as I was about to leave,” Eliot’s chest tightens, “Jesus, Bambi, you should have seen the look on his face. Why the fuck was he even there ?” He takes off his glasses, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes.
Jesus. It is too goddamn early for this day to already be fucking me over a barrel.
“He moved back a couple of months ago, said he was sick of the West Coast,” Margo says it like she’s trying to coax a wounded animal, “He wants to see you, El.”
“He fucking what ?” Eliot feels the Earth begin to tilt again, “Why, in the actual fuck, would he want to do that?”
“I don’t know,” Margo tells him, “Julia dragged him away before he could say.”
“What am I supposed to do with that? ” He whines, putting his head between his knees, “Where do I even start? I don't know where Quentin is. And it's a big fucking city, Margo! Last night, Julia said he was in a good place. What if seeing me fucks all that up!?”
Margo, brushing past Eliot's mounting panic, gives him an exasperated look, "Okay, first of all, it’s Quentin's decision to see you, not Julia fuckwit Wicker’s. Second, we both know when someone says "good place" they're obviously talking about Michael Shur." When Eliot rolls his eyes, Margo doubles down, "Come on, that series was amazing. Which you would know if you'd watched it, like I've told you to do, a billion times. Third, just because you dropped all social media presence doesn’t mean it stopped being a thing. You could find Coldwater, easy-peasy.”
Eliot looks up from his knees, “Easy-peasy? Margo, are you suggesting I internet stalk my ex?”
Margo rolls her eyes, “Oh, like you’ve never done it before? Grow a fucking clit.”
This is how Eliot Waugh, freshly back in the ranks of internet creepers everywhere, ends up creating an Instagram account, like the fucking millennial trash he is.
Notes:
I know that in the books Eliot smokes Merit Ultra Lights, but those are grandma cigarettes and he clearly smokes Camels in the show.
Albums I have been listening to while writing:
Trouble Will Find Me - The National
Bashed Out - This Is The Kit
Blood Bank - Bon Iver
Soil - Serpentwithfeet
Hive Mind- The Internet
Moon Shaped Pool - Radiohead
In Rainbows - Radiohead
For Ever - Jungle
I don't know anyone IRL who understands these characters well enough to give me appropriate feedback, so comments are appreciated.
Chapter 4: Breakfast
Summary:
In which food porn is made and Eliot is a pragmatic bitch.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
While Margo finishes prepping for her trip, Eliot takes full advantage of the kitchen. Since her lifestyle doesn’t really allow for cooking, Bambi doesn’t have much in the way of ingredients. However, after thoroughly scavenging the fridge and cabinets, Eliot finds that a half-way decent breakfast may be possible after all. His search yields a half carton of eggs, vegetable oil, a can of garbanzo beans that are only a month past expiration, -- which should be fine -- an unopened bag of kale, and some slightly spotty, but completely salvageable, mushrooms. Always eager to exercise one of the few distractions from his old life that he still allows himself; Eliot begins cooking in earnest. The apartment quickly fills with the smell of sauteed mushrooms, which is absolute bliss.
“You makin’ breakfast, El?” Margo yells from the bedroom.
He answers her with the sound of the coffee grinder spinning to life, then dumps the grounds into the french press and puts the kettle on. A second pot is absolutely necessary this morning. Since Bambi can’t travel if she contracts tetanus , Eliot decides to err on the side of caution and roasts the garbanzo beans for slightly longer than normal. Once all the vegetables are prepared and plated, he returns the pan to the stove, adding salt and water. Cracking two eggs on the lip of the pan, Eliot drops them with a sizzle, covering the whole affair with a glass lid. For a moment, all his attention is there, if he overcooks the eggs the entire dish will be shit. The fate of breakfast hangs in the balance.
Sunnyside and absolute perfection, he slips the eggs atop the vegetables, then turns his attention to the french press. Eliot places the lid and pushes the plunger down --which is always just so fucking cathartic -- then retrieves two mugs from the cabinet.
When Margo walks in, Eliot is in the midst of setting everything out on the counter. Bambi doesn’t own a kitchen table, which is an intentional choice. She’d never want to let any of her conquests think they’re invited to stick around the morning after, let alone breakfast. However, she did let Penny stay for coffee, which is definitely an interesting development.
Margo grabs the plates and plops down on the couch. After placing Eliot’s plate on the coffee table, she takes a bite of her egg and lets out a low guttural noise.
“I’m calling ahead to the Embassy and tattling on you. That noise is unfit for an Ambassador.” Eliot smirks, carrying the mugs and French press.
“I’d have to tell you which Embassy first,” she snarks, mouth partially full, “and if you didn’t want to hear that shit, you shouldn’t have made fucking food porn .”
“That should be my first Instagram post, hashtag food porn.” He takes out his phone and snaps a quick pic of his breakfast before tucking in.
“It’s been done, El. Like, a lot. Way too much, in fact. And besides, you can just have an account and not post anything. People do it all the damn time.”
Eliot stops chewing and blinks, “That’s a slightly disturbing concept.”
“Seriously, El. How do you not know any of this ?”
Eliot shrugs, “Social media is but a passing phase in this expansive multiverse. Besides, Todd would’ve been the one to run that stuff, anyway.”
“Fucking, Todd. In that case, it’s probably best you kept radio silence.” she snorts, stabbing at the garbanzo beans with her fork.
They sit in amicable silence, eating breakfast. Margo, finally frustrated with the garbanzo beans, tips the plate and shovels the last of them into her mouth with her fork.
Trying to muster some semblance of composure, he puts down his plate and turns to Margo, it’s imperative that he not cock out for this next part.
“So, in hindsight, I don’t think going out last night was the best idea.” He says quietly, “The way I felt, it was too close to...well. It’s important that I avoid those kinds of social factors. All the shit that happened, even with Julia, my actions made it worse.”
At this, Margo puts down her plate and presses into his side, “If that’s what you need, I’m game.” She raises his arm over her shoulder, getting as close as possible, “El, everything you’ve been doing, it’s amazing. I know I wasn’t…”
“I know, Bambi,” he says, kissing her temple, “I’ll be okay, just seeing Q last night was sort of a season 1 episode 10 of Buffy, scenario.”
“Eliot,” she looks up at him and cocks an eyebrow, “should I be worried?”
“No,” Eliot tells her, but she gives him an I’m not convinced, dickwad, look. “I promise. Today is solely reserved for sorting my shit out.”
“Fine, but no internet stalking until all your homework is done.” She taps him on the nose and cuddles in deeper.
Fuck. He loves her so much.
They snuggle and talk about nothing long after the plates are cleared and the coffee is gone. It’s wonderful, uncomplicated, and he’s missed it beyond anything he could put into words. Despite Eliot’s best efforts to push everyone away, despite how bad it got, Bambi always pushed back. Too stubborn to let him drown completely. It’s something he can never possibly repay.
Their little bubble of contentment can’t last though, Bambi has a plane to catch and -- one can only assume -- a world to save. After a kiss on the cheek and a second assurance from Eliot that everything will be fine, she and her HBIC stilettos are out the door. Once the latch clicks shut, Eliot turns on his heel and faces the empty apartment, “Right. Getting shit done slash sorting it out.”
Time to be the pragmatic bitch he is.
###
Finding a meeting was simple enough, there were plenty of choices in the East Village alone. Eliot had been attending open meetings for the past three months, and it still felt good every time, knowing that he had earned the right to be there. The feeling of stability and welcome, despite Eliot having left his home group back Upstate, was exactly what he had needed after the last few days.
On the way back to the apartment, Eliot makes the call to Charlton. He hadn’t checked in since Margo first called with her favor, but he knew that wouldn’t be an issue. Way back when, the thought of facing repercussion would have sent Eliot into a spiral of avoidance; because you don’t have to deal with someone else’s indignation if you never see them again. Thankfully, Charlton had made it perfectly clear when they met that he wasn’t there to judge. He was there to help by understanding what Eliot needed in a way only people in recovery can. Charlton served as a placeholder for Eliot’s conscience in the spaces where it was still missing. The Jiminy Cricket to his emotionally repressed Pinocchio.
By the time Eliot started telling Charlton about getting ready for he and Margo’s night at the Neitherlands, he was already draped length-wise over the couch back in the apartment.
“You went to a club...In the clothes, you used to wear before getting clean?” Charlton chirps through the speaker, “Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t see how that might be unwise.”
Okay, so Charlton was kind of judgmental despite his best efforts. Still, there was no one Eliot would trust more when it came down to brass tacks. There were, and always would be, some things he just couldn’t burden his Bambi with.
“Well, I didn’t think about any of that, Charlton . It was just supposed to be a fun night out with Bambi. I’ve only kept my old clothes for special occasions. So...”
“Tell me, in the past three months, have you had any special occasions in which you wore said clothes?” Eliot can practically hear Charlton pulling down on his shirt, a mannerism solely reserved for when he’s acting like a stuffy brat.
Eliot takes a beat, “This...would have been the first.”
“Well, now you know not to do that.” Charlton chirps again, with an exasperated edge this time.
“But Charlton, it’s such goddamn beautiful frippery. ” Eliot whines, “I can’t just get rid of them. They’re too pretty to die.”
Charlton sighs heavily, making the speaker crackle, “I never suggested you get rid of it . Just break old connections and make new ones. You’ll find other places to wear your frippery.”
Eliot continues to regale the rest of the evening to Charlton while he climbs onto the roof. Only pausing to violently kick the wooden chair over, which brings a surprising amount of gratification.
I’m bringing lighter fuel next time I’m up here, you lumbar wrecking motherfucker.
“Eliot, what was that?” Charlton exclaims.
“Catharsis ,” Eliot snarks into the phone while lighting his cigarette, “I highly recommend it.”
When the discussion approaches his confrontation with Julia and the near-miss with Quentin; Eliot begins to dance erratically around the subject. He doesn’t want to talk about his loss of control, about the flood of memories and panic because the thought it might happen again terrifies him. For all the strides Eliot had made in the past nine months, he was still a coward at his core. But, --since step five is just as important as the other eleven-- he had to at least try to be brave. So, pushing down every base instinct and toxic coping mechanism, Eliot lights another cigarette and steps through the door of his comfort zone, to tell Charlton the rest of the story.
###
To Charlton’s credit, he patiently listens to Eliot’s recount of the nightmarish evening, without speaking during the numerous intermediate silences that plague the conversation. He must have figured out by now that Eliot’s brain basically works by hand-crank when it comes to this sort of thing.
“So...opinions?” Eliot’s on his fifth cigarette, breathing the smoke out through clenched teeth. His anxiety is currently so fucking high, he can’t stand still and has resorted to bouncing on the balls of his feet. A mannerism he must have picked up from Quentin through osmosis.
“I liked the part with the bodega cat,” Charlton says after a suspenseful pause, “that was quite pleasant actually.”
“Christ, Charlton ,” Eliot seethes, “forget about the goddamn cat! Its diet probably consists of roaches and discarded Cheetos. What about the rest of it ?”
There’s a pause on the other end, “Eliot, I must admit, I’m out of my depth. What you experienced last night...I simply can’t advise you on it.” There’s another pause, Eliot already knows that means he won’t like whatever Charlton says next, “I think you should talk to a professional.”
No.Fuck.No.Absolutely.Not
“I’ll- I don’t know. I’ll need to think about it.” Eliot takes a drag, “What about Bambi’s thing? You think I should look him up?”
“Eliot, you’ll need to make your own decision. But if it were me, I would shut off my phone and focus on something else for a while. Perhaps you can try tomorrow? The last few days certainly have sounded trying.” He has a point, Eliot still hasn’t slept properly and he could focus on the sketches he brought if he needs a distraction. Plus, there’s all that La Croix just waiting to be drank.
Shit, I really am millennial trash. Just bury my corpse at the fucking Farmers Market.
The conversation comes to its natural end shortly thereafter. As far as check-ins went, it was surprisingly productive. Once the last cigarette from his pack is smoked down to the filter and his phone is successfully powered down, Eliot makes his way back across the roof. Opening the door to the stairwell, he shoots a look at the chair and makes a mental note to remember lighter fluid for next time.
Back in the apartment, Eliot grabs a La Croix and spreads his art supplies out on the coffee table, doing a quick inventory. Apparently, in his panic, he grabbed half the studio and shoved it either in his backpack or the pockets of his sweater. Mary Poppin’s carpet bag had less shit in it. He scans the apartment for an appropriate place to set up the easel. Normally he’d lay down a tarp and just have his way with the canvas, but that seems to be the only thing he left back at the fucking Cottage. Bambi’s sheets aren’t an option, she doesn’t sleep on anything less than 1,000 thread count and that sort of thing isn’t cheap. He finally settles on the front door landing, no one else is going to be at the apartment while he’s house-sitting and Eliot can just navigate around it when he’s coming and going.
It’s when he’s reviewing his sketches that Eliot’s eyes begin to droop. He tells himself there’s no need to be this exhausted. It’s only 3:27 p.m. and if he goes to sleep now, it’ll be a slippery slope toward a doomed existence of the Wheel and Early Bird Specials, dying alone and celibate.
Forty-five minutes later, he drags himself to bed, there is no way in hell that he’s falling asleep sitting up again.
Notes:
The next update should be in a week (or less if I'm impatient).
Description teaser: In which Quentin is bad at emails and Eliot is his very own gift to the world.
Albums I have been listening to while writing:
Trouble Will Find Me - The National
Bashed Out - This Is The Kit
Blood Bank - Bon Iver
Soil - Serpentwithfeet
Hive Mind- The Internet
Moon Shaped Pool - Radiohead
In Rainbows - Radiohead
For Ever - Jungle
I don't know anyone IRL who understands these characters well enough to give me appropriate feedback, so comments are appreciated.
Chapter 5: TADA
Summary:
In which Quentin is bad at email and Eliot is his very own gift to the world.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Since the sun is a fucking bastard and has no regard for anyone’s personal wellbeing, Eliot wakes up long before his alarm goes off. Blindly grabbing for his glasses, he checks his phone, 5:28 in the goddamn morning. Eliot would never normally sleep this long, but he’s basically making up for the last three days. He really shouldn’t bitch, he got a solid block of rem, in a bed, and not in yesterday’s clothes. Which for him, is a personal win.
Is my life just sad now? Don’t answer that, Waugh.
It’s as good a time as any to start his internet stalking. Charlton had said to wait until morning, and that’s a technicality Eliot will gladly use to his advantage. Still, when he Googles Quentin’s name for his Instagram handle, he can’t help but feel the slightest bit creepy.
People do this all the time, they do it all the time. Bambi told you so.
Eliot’s fall into the rabbit hole of the internet is so user friendly, it’s unnerving. Quentin has a hefty trail, which is something Eliot knew he had always tried to avoid, but things change. Eliot can only imagine what kind of a nightmarish landscape would unfold if he searched himself. His exploits of the previous year alone, at least what he can remember, probably flagged every SafeSearch blocker Google had to offer.
Quentin’s Instagram is sparse, mostly book covers and vacation photos. His heart sinks a little when he sees pictures of Q kissing a blonde girl in glasses, but he looks happy and it’s Eliot’s own fault that he moved on so he tries not to dwell on it. Sadly, it appears to be a dead-end. Eliot checks Quentin’s list of followers --which is just a thing people do, not creepy at all, right?-- and finds Purchas Publishing's account. Since it makes sense that Quentin would still be with the same publishing company, Eliot clicks on the link. Sure enough, Purchas has promotional posts for all their authors, including Q. He clicks on their insta-story -- what even is that? -- and brings up a headshot of Quentin, surrounded by gifs and text blocks.
***QUENTIN COLDWATER! READING AND SIGNING OF HIS NEWEST BOOK! LINK IN BIO!!***
It takes so much longer than Eliot cares to admit to figure out where “link in bio” is located on Purchas’s account, but he finally gets there. Panic immediately begins to rise in Eliot’s chest after he clicks on the link. The book signing is today at 9 a.m. to promote Quentin’s first work of adult fiction.
And it’s at the goddamn Strand.
Twelve Years Ago
Eliot had seen the ad for a freelance artist on craigslist, but it was still two weeks before he sent an email. In his experience, these things never came to fruition, the interested party unwilling to pay or get their basic shit together on whatever project they were developing. But he hadn’t suffered through undergrad to be a fucking bartender, therefore keeping his portfolio relevant was a must and what he’d created while at Parsons was already getting stale. So he’d sent off the email and then quickly forgot he had done it at all.
A week later Eliot received a response:
Hi, thanks for responding to my ad or, maybe, request as it were...Anyway, I was wondering if you had a website of work that I could look at? That’s a normal thing to ask for, right? I’ve never done this before, so I’m a little in the dark…
You could also just send me pics if you want, but I don’t know how that works through craigslist…You could just email me directly, I guess.
Please don’t steal my identity or anything.
I look forward to hearing from you!
Q
It was the strangest reply Eliot had ever received. Especially the closing statement, I look forward to hearing from you! It was as if, Q, --whoever they were-- had vomited out every word in their head and then, by the end, realized they had been trying to draft something somewhat professional and attempted to compensate.
I look forward to hearing from you!
They hadn’t even given any information on the project or their expectations. Well, at least they were upfront about never having done something like this before. The fact that they hadn’t was obvious, but Eliot preferred that over someone who would lie or not trust his judgment because they thought all artists were in fact con-artists. Either way, it was a refreshing, if not bizarre, change of pace.
Eliot, somewhat endeared to Q’s blundering honesty, decided a certain degree of hand-holding was warranted for the situation:
Q,
Thanks for getting back to me. A little bit about myself: last spring I received my BFA in Painting from Parsons School of Design. I have experience with various media but prefer to work in oils. Depending on your needs I can also be persuaded to create works in gouache or watercolor.
You can view my website: eliotwaughart.wordpress.org
Since you were kind enough to provide your email, I will send you pictures of my current work that are not listed on the website. Please check your spam for an email from [email protected] if you do not receive anything within the next half hour.
Would you be able to tell me more about your project? What are your expectations? Budget?
Eliot reviewed the message, it was succinct enough, especially compared to Q’s. He wanted to keep it professional, instill a degree of confidence. But, since Eliot was just a bit of a shit in everything he did -- and it was funny -- he added:
I look forward to hearing from you!
Eliot Waugh
P.S. I promise I won’t steal your identity.
Eliot emailed the photos, lit a joint, and went about the rest of his day. The next morning he awoke to find an email from Q’s Columbia account, the time stamp said it was sent at 2:15 a.m.
Hi Eliot,
Got your message. I decided that emailing would probably be more convenient so I decided to start sending from my Columbia account….but you probably figured that already. Sorry if my logic is cyclical. It’s late and I’m tired, but I can’t really sleep…Sorry.
Anyway, thanks for your email. It was really thorough and got me thinking about stuff. I really love your work! You are really talented. I would really like to work with you.
That was too many reallys.
Again, late, tired, sorry…
So yeah, the project, my project is a story that I’m working on. It’s a fantasy book for kids, like the Fillory series, except there’s just one kid, a questing creature, and they have to save their world. Anyway, I would want you to do the illustrations for it. It would be cover art, illustrations for the start of each chapter, and some full-page illustrations too (think the Watcher Woman from The World In The Walls).
I’m still looking for a publisher, but I have enough money saved up so that I can pay you for the original work and if it gets accepted by a publisher we can renegotiate on fees depending on what the publishing house would want.
You said you could do watercolors. How would I go about persuading you? What’s gouache?
Can I request sketches from you this early in the process? Could you draw a castle? What about an endless sea? Can you draw questing creatures like the ones in the Fillory books, but different? Would I have to give you a downpayment or something?
Sorry, that’s a lot of questions. It’s late, I should try and sleep.
I look forward to hearing from you!
Quentin Coldwater
Eliot couldn’t help but laugh when he was finished reading. If dear Mr. Coldwater --honestly, Quentin Coldwater? -- was as accomplished a writer as he was a composer of emails, the man was going to die penniless in a gutter. Still, there was something to be said about his blatant flattery regarding Eliot’s work. He also had money, which was rare. Most people -- and most people were assholes -- wanted to pay in experience. But illustration? Eliot wouldn’t have even considered it 6 months ago, except he really needed the work. Also, How would I go about persuading you? certainly was enticing...And again, I look forward to hearing from you! Honestly, who the fuck was this guy?
Hi Quentin,
Thank you for the information regarding your project. It sounds like an exciting endeavor. To answer your question as to how I could be persuaded, I can probably think of something, but for now, we can just put a pin in it. I can draw up some concept sketches of the images you requested if you decide to go forward with our collaboration. However, as I said before, I received my degree in Fine Arts, so I don’t have much illustrative experience. If you would like to go with another artist that would be better suited, I understand.
I look forward to hearing from you!
Eliot
There wasn’t any harm in giving Quentin an out if he needed one. Besides, if he decided that he should go with another artist, that would save Eliot the trouble of having to lower his standards and work as an illustrator.
Hi Eliot,
I don’t think I want to look for another artist...I really love your work and well, I didn’t even know there was a difference between art and fine art….is that bad? Is it ok if we meet somewhere when you get the concept sketches done? I’d like to see them in person...and ask questions and stuff if it comes up. Like, revisions? What do you call that in the art world? A critique, right?
Could we set up a critique?
Shit. I sound like a dick, don’t I? Sorry.
I mean, if you don’t want to meet up I get it. I just am better in person when it comes to feedback and stuff. But if you don’t want to because of, like, safety reasons that’s ok.
I promise I’m not a dick or, like, a murderer.
That makes me sound like I’m a murderous dick, doesn’t it?
Would it make it better if I told you I still haven’t slept?
Nevermind, sorry.
I look forward to hearing from you!
Quentin
Normally Eliot would never meet in person with a possible client. This was New York after all, not Fort Wayne, and shit could go sideways very quickly. Hell, it could have gone sideways in Fort Wayne any number of times, Eliot being who he was and Indiana being what it was. And yet, Quentin’s blundering honesty had gotten under his skin.
Hi Quentin,
I will get the concept sketches done this week. I can meet you at TADA, on E. 10th and 2nd, a week from Thursday at 10 a.m. Please let me know if this works for your schedule.
I look forward to hearing from you!
Eliot
P.S. You don’t sound like a murderous dick.
Hi Eliot,
That sounds great! Thanks for this! I’m so excited to meet you!
I guess I’ll see you in a week! I can’t wait to see what you come up with!
I look forward to seeing you!
Quentin
P.S. Sorry about all the exclamation points.
The morning of the meeting, Eliot dressed in a tastefully selected ensemble of gold and cream silk. He styled his hair, put on his rings, and ran through the more mundane parts of his routine. Once finished, he popped a handful of Adderall and gave himself a once over in the mirror. He knew exactly how everyone he’d interact with today would see him, including Quentin Coldwater. Eliot was his very own gift to the world and he took that responsibility extremely seriously.
After grabbing the concept sketches and placing them in his portfolio --which wasn’t really necessary but would bring a sense of professionalism to the whole exchange-- he said goodbye to Margo and started the walk towards TADA. The coffee shop was only fifteen-minutes from the apartment, which gave Eliot more than enough time to have his customary morning smoke.
It was a lovely fall day in New York, crisp and clear but warm enough that when Eliot reached TADA, he could wait for Quentin outside without freezing his ass off. The gods must have seen fit to smile upon him because, as he lit his second cigarette, the sun came out and cast itself on Eliot’s glorious face. It’s a good day to be Eliot Waugh, he thought to himself as he closed his eyes and lounged in the sunshine like a cat. When the sun had had its way with Eliot, it receded behind the clouds once again. Looking down at his phone, he noticed that Quentin was five minutes late. Slightly annoyed, he considered leaving, chalking Quentin Coldwater up to being yet another asshole who wasted his time.
Eliot was in the process of grabbing his portfolio when he saw a young man narrowly avoid being taken out by a bike messenger. He stumbled onto the sidewalk in a daze, completely unaware of the stream of obscenities the bike messenger had just left for him in his wake. He looked only slightly younger than Eliot and was cute, downright pretty in fact. Hell, in some circles -- specifically one singularly populated by Eliot Waugh-- he would make the upper echelons of said adjectives. His hair was long enough to cover his eyes, which was probably why he didn’t see the messenger. And what gorgeous eyes they were, big and brown, -- well, wide with terror more like, but whatever -- with long lashes. His handsome features were only slightly diminished by the horrifically tragic sweater he wore over a button-down and a cheap striped tie. The ensemble was finished off by a leather messenger bag he had strapped across his front like a shield, the kind that most aspiring writers wear because they think it fits with a certain visage...
Oh. Shit.
Eliot stood, quirking his head to the side, “Quentin Coldwater?”
The young man looked up at him, still dazed, “Uh-huh.”
“I’m Eliot. You’re late.” Eliot pushed the door open and held it for Quentin.
“Oh, uh, yeah, shit. Sorry about that, I’m, you know, running a little bit behind this morning. I, huh, it’s really nice to finally meet you in person.” Quentin sidestepped through the door and stuck out his hand to shake, face half-hidden behind his hair.
Eliot couldn’t believe it. He’d heard once that a good writer wrote in their own voice, but it had never occurred to him that in Quentin’s case it might sound exactly the same. As he shook his outstretched hand, the endearment Eliot had felt when first reading this downright pretty boy’s emails bubbled up inside him. But he pushed the feeling down - it was important that he keep things professional...for now at least. Grabbing his portfolio, Eliot followed Quentin inside the coffee shop.
“My friends, they, huh, call me Q, by the way,” Quentin mumbled, turning to face Eliot while tucking his hair behind his ear.
Eliot grinned like the cat that ate the canary, “Q, it is then.”
Quentin flushed and, unbeknownst to him, simultaneously reaffirmed Eliot’s belief that he was indeed his very own gift to the world.
###
Eliot loved TADA for a number of reasons, it had excellent coffee, plenty of seating, and just enough hipster angst that everyone avoided interacting with one another on general principle. The latter being especially true for the baristas. Quentin took a seat on a shabby red fainting couch, looking lost and shockingly out of place. Eliot’s mouth quirked, this man was just too damn much.
Dammit Waugh, keep it professional.
“What would you like to drink?” Eliot said, charm oozing off each syllable, "My treat."
Quentin swallowed thickly, apparently still dazed from the near-miss/meet cute back on the street, “Oh, uh, actually I was gonna offer to pay. Since, you know, I wanna hire you?”
"How generous," Eliot grinned, “How about this? You pay, I order. The baristas here aren’t what you would call friendly,” he gave Quentin a once over, “if Marina is working today, she will eat you alive.”
The younger man’s pretty eyes went wide as he nodded - agreeing to Eliot's terms, “In that case, I’ll um, have coffee.” He took out his wallet, handing Eliot the cash, “And, I guess, room for cream?”
Eliot turned on his heel and marched up to the counter. He could feel Quentin’s gaze follow him, which was fine, Eliot was used to being stared at, he liked being stared at. Except this felt different somehow; like it was more important. Maybe it was the fact that Quentin wasn’t a stranger, well not a complete one at least.
“Guh. What do you want, Waugh?” The girl behind the counter narrowed her pale blue eyes at him, “And who the fuck is that on the couch?”
“That,” Eliot quipped, gesturing at the young man, who was now in the process of dragging a coffee table towards the couch while apologizing to everyone for the screeching it made against the floor, “is what we call a customer, Marina. In fact, it’s our word of the day,” He enunciated each syllable, “ Cus-to-mer. Now say it with me…”
“Fuck off, Eliot,” Marina sneered.
Eliot flashed her his most charming grin, “Gladly, but not before you take my order. Then I will slink back from whence I came, hedonist's honor.”
“Sure, whatever. Anything to get you to leave me the fuck alone.”
“Charming as ever. You know, you should never have given up on the pageant circuit. A personality like yours would have won all the ribbons.” Okay, fine. The real reason for Eliot’s continued patronage of TADA? The glorious pleasure he got from harassing Marina, “I’ll take a breve, three shots, and a drip coffee, with room for cream. Oh, and Daddy wants that breve in a nice big mug.”
Marina glared at him the entire time she made his order. It was impressive, actually, and only slightly unnerving how little she blinked as she pulled his three shots. The upside of this relentless fury was that at least Eliot knew she hadn’t had the opportunity to spit in his or Quentin’s drinks. When Marina all but threw his order at him, Eliot picked up a handful of creamers for Quentin and took a moment to pour two fingers of whiskey from his flask into the breve. With Marina’s eyes boring a hole in the back of his skull, Eliot returned to the would-be writer on the shabby red fainting couch.
Quentin had awkwardly spread the contents of his bag across the coffee table. From what Eliot could see, there was going to be a fair amount of show-and-tell to accompany their meeting. He handed the coffee to Quentin, taking great care not to drip on the minefield of notes and other random shit.
“Oh. Thanks, uh, that was really nice of you to get the, you know,” Quentin said, raising his cup in salute, splashing the coffee on the notes, --cue momentary downright pretty boy panic here-- “shit! Ah, dammit. *sigh* Yeah, okay, whatever. I, uh, saw you talking to the girl, I mean, barista. You weren’t kidding, yeah, she seems terrifying.”
Eliot sat next to Q and playfully knocked shoulders with him, "I've dealt with my fair share of bullies - Marina talks a big game, but she's an amateur. So, not to worry, it was my pleasure,” he hummed, surprised to find it actually was, “What do you have here? It looks like fun.”
Quentin blushed, making Eliot’s stomach do an unfair flip. “Well, this, this is the story. I’ve been working on it for, well, a while now, I guess. And I wasn’t sure what you would, um, want in the way of source material. I mean, if you decide this is what you want, of course,” he tucked his hair behind a red-tipped ear, which sent Eliot’s stomach into straight-up summersaults. “Um, I made a list of illustrators for you. I mean, if you want to, like, get a sense of the styles I think would work.” He picked up a piece of paper from the pile, handing it to Eliot, “I did some research and figured since you’re, you know, as a fine artist that they might work for you...as inspiration?”
Eliot doubted that a list of illustrators would inspire anything beyond an eye roll. But Quentin had gone to the trouble to do research so, not wanting to appear rude, he skimmed the list.
Illustrators for Eliot
N.C. Wyeth- The White Company, The Mysterious Island
Gustaf Tenggren (Swedish) - The Saggy Baggy Elephant, The Pokey Little Puppy
Alphonse Mucha (Czech)- Art Nouveau?
Chris Van Allsburg - Jumanji, The Polar Express
Maurice Sendak - Outside over there, East of the Sun West of the Moon
“Wait, N.C. Wyeth? As in Andrew Wyeth ?” Eliot had written a paper on Christina’s World in his freshman year of undergrad and was a bit shocked at the fact he didn't know the correlation. In his defense, he had done a massive amount of drugs since then, so if he had known at some point, it'd been lost somewhere in the haze.
“Oh yeah, I guess he was that guy's dad, or something?” Quentin popped his head up, eyes bright with excitement, “Anyway, I really love his clouds and water. They look so, I dunno, it’s almost sorta visceral.”
“The Saggy Baggy Elephant?” Eliot may have needed the work, but the words saggy and baggy did not inspire confidence.
“Oh, shit, sorry.” Q furrowed his brow, “That was more of a place-holder so I wouldn’t forget who that guy was. I mean, yeah, he did the Golden Books. But that was, like, super late in his career. Tanggren’s stuff ran the gamut. He basically recreated himself, or at least his style, for every project he did .”
Well, obviously, Eliot couldn’t relate to that at all, “...Okay, I guess I can Google him.”
“Actually, um, the Strand is just, like, a few blocks away. Uh, would you be up for a field trip when we’re done?”
Fuck. Eliot hated field trips just about as much as he hated reading and, by association, books. But money was money, work was work, and would-be writers with big brown eyes and floppy hair were, well...
“Sure. Sounds great.”
Notes:
Come back next week for another chapter!
Description: In which Quentin tells a story and Eliot is completely dazzled.
Albums I have been listening to while writing:
Trouble Will Find Me - The National
Bashed Out - This Is The Kit
Blood Bank - Bon Iver
Soil - Serpentwithfeet
Hive Mind- The Internet
Moon Shaped Pool - Radiohead
In Rainbows - Radiohead
For Ever - Jungle
3.15.20 - Childish Gambino
I don't know anyone IRL who understands these characters well enough to give me appropriate feedback, so comments are appreciated.
Chapter 6: The Strand
Summary:
In which, Quentin performs some magic and Eliot is completely dazzled.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
(Still) Twelve Years Ago
Eliot added more whiskey to his breve as Quentin riffled through his minefield of notes. It would have been easier if this downright pretty boy had had the foresight to come up with an organizational system. But then again, maybe this was his system, only it was so advanced that Eliot's laymen brain couldn't comprehend it. Either way, who was he to judge?
With a hair tuck and the smallest *ahem*, Quentin rubbed his hands on his jeans and looked expectantly at Eliot.
“Is it okay to start?” The look on Quentin’s face was so hopeful, it threw Eliot for a loop. There was some other emotion there too, almost as if he was already expecting him to say no. He’d wondered how many people Quentin had pitched this project to and how many times he had come away disappointed. Eliot guessed it was nothing short of a lot.
“Sounds lovely, fire away,” Eliot flashed a smirk and received the smallest of smiles for his troubles.
Holy shit, are those dimples? This man is going to kill me.
Quentin shuffled through the pile of papers, showing Eliot concepts he had drawn himself, world timelines, story maps, character bios, etc. His source material seemed endless. It was pretty impressive and, maybe, a tad overwhelming. Suddenly, Eliot felt that he had come to the meeting vastly unprepared. He had drawn his concept sketches last night after he and Bambi had taken shrooms, for fuck’s sake. While Quentin had devoted literal years of his life to this project. The most surprising part came when Q reached for his synopsis. His body language completely changed, suddenly possessing an unmistakable air of confidence. He pushed up his sleeves and flexed his hands, like a magician about to perform for a crowded room. After a deep breath, he began to read:
The Creature of Cordena
In the land of Cordena humans and questing creatures live in fear of one another. The humans keep to their villages while the creatures dwell in the safety of their forest. In a time of dire need, a boy named Ogden, begins a journey of uncertain danger, to save Cordena from destruction and the death of all who live there. His quest: to venture through the creature’s forest, and into the land beyond to find the Castle at the end of the World, where the source of all magic resides. While on his journey, a questing creature named Makepeace discovers Ogden while traveling through the forest. When asked of his intent, Ogden tells Makepeace of his quest. Seeing no other option, the creature offers his aid. The two begin their journey as allies, then friends, as they venture the world, crossing perilous mountains, and sailing an endless sea to reach the Castle. A lifetime passes as they devote themselves to the quest. By the end of their journey, what remains of Cordena is a wasteland populated only by demons and the dead, but the source of all magic still prevails. When the two cross the threshold of the castle, Ogden drops dead, his life taken in exchange for their entry. Makepeace, fueled by grief and rage, soldiers on to fulfill the quest. As his final test, he faces the darkest part of himself, made flesh by the most arcane of magics. Yet, his adoration for Ogden is more powerful than his demons. Makepeace reclaims magic, resetting time to the day the two first met. Though Cordena is now saved, Ogden and Makepeace remember their quest and lives from before. They devote their second lives to creating harmony between the humans and questing creatures.
After Quentin read the final words, he curled back in on himself. Reminding Eliot that the confidence and swagger he’d embodied only moments before was just an illusion. Now that the show was over, the would-be writer had neatly packed it away with his collection of card tricks and white rabbits.
“So, I, um, I’m still working on the ending. I have, like, ninety-nine percent of the book already written of course, but we’d be here forever if I was gonna, you know, read it. I’d planned to shop it around, after I graduate, as a stand-alone story, but, um, ideally, I’d like to have it be a series. Like, each step of the quest could be its own book. Or maybe, whatever happens in their second life? But, uh, I’m not good at thinking that far ahead. I dunno, what do you think?” Quentin asked, his heart on his sleeve. It was obvious he’d already prepared himself for yet another rejection. Eliot, on the other hand, was completely dazzled.
“Holy shit, Q, it’s spectacular.” He didn’t know much about fantasy, but Eliot knew a good story when he heard one. The names of the characters were slightly bizarre, sure, but the rest of it was, well, magic.
“Really? I, wow, thanks. I don’t usually, you know, get that response. I mean, my friend Julia is pretty supportive, but…” Quentin frowned, “She’s been leaning on me to give up and, I dunno, join the real world.”
“Well, speaking from experience, that shit is overrated. And with that said,” Eliot picked up his portfolio and unzipped it with a flourish, “would you like to see what I came up with?”
“Sure,” Quentin’s dimples made a brief appearance, “I’ve been, uh, pretty excited for it, actually.”
“Hmm, I hope I don’t disappoint then,” Eliot arched his eyebrows, “But, please, don’t hold back with your comments. Undergrad, if anything, made me thick-skinned.” Well that, and basically everything else in his life. He handed the sketches over to Quentin, who let out a small gasp. His eyes went wide as he looked over Eliot’s work, quietly muttering words of praise. Eliot would’ve been lying if he’d said it wasn’t the least bit hot.
“These are better than I could have...these are...I mean, this is amazing,” Quentin babbled as he pushed his hair away from his face, “I just, wow. I can’t...huh.”
“High praise,” Eliot grinned, “any constructive criticism you’d care to add?” This man was too fucking much.
“I mean, no? Is that bad? You just, you got it perfect. Like, even without any description, which sorry, I wasn’t really helpful...you know, with that,” Quentin stammered, “I think I’d rather tweak what I have already written to fit your sketches.”
“Oh no, don’t change a thing,” Eliot assured him, “I would rather rework it based on what you already have. These are just concepts, nothing’s set in stone.”
“Uh, okay, if you’re sure. I mean, you obviously know what you’re doing.”
“Oh, believe me, Q, I do,” Eliot smirked, giving him a pointed look. Quentin squirmed under his gaze. -- Christ almighty, I just want to eat you.-- “Now, at the risk of sounding gauche, could we discuss payment?”
###
Placing their cups in the bus bin, Eliot blew a kiss to Marina --who flipped him off for his troubles-- as he and the would-be writer left TADA and stepped out into the noon-day sun. It was still magnificently crisp and clear, only now improved by Eliot’s current company. As they got closer to the Strand, Eliot lit a cigarette while Quentin became increasingly animated, his hands emphatically gesturing as he chattered about his plans. He jumped from one subject to another at a break-neck pace, but Eliot found himself hanging onto his every word. The downright pretty boy's enthusiasm was rapidly becoming one of his favorite intoxicants.
“I never get to go here. I’m usually so busy with classes that, you know, making the trip is near impossible. Well and, uh, being broke doesn’t help either. I mean, I’ve been saving all my money for after I graduate, so I have a buffer when I’m trying to get the book published...Is it okay, if I just, show you stuff? Instead of buying anything?” Quentin asked, then shook his head as if he had just suggested some sort of heinous act, “I mean, I might buy a book anyway because, it’s really interesting actually, bookstores make their money on, like pennies on the dollar. Like grocery stores. That’s why it’s like, really important to support independent bookstores. So, yeah…”
“Interesting,” was all Eliot managed to say before Quentin’s eagerness barreled headlong into the conversation again.
“Oh, right! I forgot to ask. Did you ever read the Fillory books? I know I mentioned in my emails but you never said.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t much of a reader as a kid,” still not a reader, will die not a reader, “I take it you’re a fan?”
“Yeah, they, um,” Quentin’s voice suddenly shrank, “they’re really important to me.”
Knowing a loaded statement when he heard one, he placed a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. When he flinched from the contact, Eliot wondered if he’d overstepped a boundary, the man didn’t strike him as a homophobe, but it wouldn’t be surprising if he startled easily. Just as he was about to remove his hand, Quentin relaxed and leaned into the touch like a goddamn cat. He glanced up at Eliot, a small appreciative look across his face.
Huh.
When they entered the Strand, Quentin inhaled deeply and let out a contented sigh.
“What’re you doing?” Eliot bit down a grin.
“Breathing in the book smell,” he replied as if it were obvious, which made Eliot’s heart/pulse/stomach do a thing. “Okay, I’m gonna run to the Children’s section on the second floor and grab some stuff. Where are you gonna be?”
“I guess I can look in the Art section for some of the guys on your list.”
“Good, okay, that’s probably gonna be with rare art on the third floor. But if you can’t find anything, there’s, uh, regular-type art on the second. I’ll find you when I’m done,” and off Quentin went, practically skipping up the steps.
Jesus, insert Bambi joke about you and high-strung super nerds here.
What Quentin hadn’t mentioned about the third floor was that you couldn’t take any of the rare books out of the temperature-controlled, heavily guarded room that they only let three people enter at a time between 9:30 am -6:15 pm. So, obviously, Eliot figured fuck that and went to find books he could actually touch on the second floor. He was flipping through a coffee table book on Tenggren when Quentin found him. The man held a stack of books under his chin, which looked like it might topple at any moment.
“So, I guess I must’ve spent too much time in the kid’s section. Some of the staff started following me....uh, long story short, I have, um, a fake kid sister now. If they ask, all this stuff is for her,” Quentin said as the book pile shifted dangerously.
“Don’t worry, I’ll back up your story. Corroborations abound,” Eliot assured him. He took half the stack and gave him a wink, “How about we find a place to sit?”
The two settled into a pair of high-back chairs and began flipping through Quentin’s stack of books. He had been right about Wyeth, of course. The man’s water and clouds certainly were visceral. Eliot had grabbed a book on Mucha which, as it turned out, was on the list because it was Quentin’s first pick for cover art.
“The original Fillory books had, like, an art nouveau style to the covers. I mean, I had no idea it was a movement or anything. So yeah…”
“Is that something you’d like me to do?” Eliot asked, “I’ve always been interested, just never had an excuse though.” Also, it was the least illustrative option Quentin had pitched. To Eliot, Nouveau had a natural romanticism to it, and --for reasons he would be disclosing to Bambi as soon as he got home -- he was in that sort of mindset right now.
“That wouldn’t be too much?” Quentin marveled, “I mean, it wouldn’t be too involved, would it?”
“Oh, I guarantee it would be,” Eliot smiled, “but for you, I would be down to try pretty much anything.” The younger man flushed, forcing Eliot to bite back another grin.
###
Once the logistics of Eliot’s next round of sketches, which Quentin decided should be a mix of Wyeth and Mucha, -- two styles that were surprisingly complementary in a way that wasn’t completely batshit -- were finally worked out, they agreed to meet up again in two weeks to touch base. If the would-be writer liked Eliot’s designs, he would move onto painting the works in gouache.
Blah, blah, blah, insert boring art school montage here
The end game was to have the illustrations done by Quentin’s last semester so he could start submitting to publishers before graduation. They exchanged numbers before parting ways so Eliot could text if he had any questions.
With a small wave and a tuck of hair behind the ear, Quentin disappeared up Broadway toward the subway station. Lighting another cigarette, Eliot tipped his face to the sky and took a long drag. It’s a very, very good day to be Eliot Waugh, he thought to himself as he started the walk back to his apartment. When he got home, he made a b-line for Margo’s room and flung her door open.
“Jesus, El, what have I told you about fucking knocking?” Margo shrieked, “I could’ve been flicking the bean in here.”
“I met a boy,” Eliot sighed, then flopped face-first onto her bed.
Later that night, Eliot received a text from Quentin.
Q (pays you $$- DO NOT SEDUCE YET): Thanks for meeting with me today. I had fun.
You: Me too
You: Im looking forward to seeing more of u
Q (pays you $$- DO NOT SEDUCE YET): I’m looking forward to it too.
Oh.
Now
At this very moment, Eliot is freaking the fuck out. He’s going to the Strand for Q’s book signing, and that’s final. He cannot and will not cock out on this. But then there’s this hiccup, he has to summon up the nerve to see Quentin for the first time in five years,--which okay, Eliot fucking Waugh has seen worse. He can and will do this-- but, in the second-best shirt, he packed. Which, enter hiccup, is a cheap plum button-down with paint stains on the sleeves. He can’t even wear his waistcoat, because it’s currently a wadded up mess in the closet along with the rest of his ruined armor. Still, since there is nothing he can do to change any of it, he’s just going to have to ovary up.
After showering and getting dressed -- “ in those pauper’s clothes you’ve become so attached to,” gee, thanks Bambi -- Eliot climbs up to the roof to drink his coffee while he chain-smokes. He supposes if he were to wear his navy Pendelton cardigan, the paint stains would at least be covered up. It might also make him appear less destitute than, in reality, he totally is. There is a chance that none of this would matter to Quentin, but Eliot is, as previously stated, freaking the fuck out and he can only calm down to a certain degree.
I’m gonna need more cigarettes.
Once back in the apartment, it occurs to Eliot that as annoying as it is not to have his armor, it’s probably for the best. This is certainly not the opportunity to create the new pathways Charlton was suggesting during their phone call. Especially if things with Q go to shit...again.
It’s fine, you’re fine, everything is fine.
Honestly, maybe Quentin won’t even recognize him. Maybe he’ll fall into a sink-hole on the way to the Strand. Maybe, he’ll get kidnapped by gypsies.
Maybe, maybe, maybe…
###
The Strand is basically how Eliot remembered it. Of course, there are only so many ways a bookstore can change in five years, but it still feels strange. Eliot had loved bringing Quentin here when they were together. He called it Fairyland, a reference that he’d picked up from a book Eliot would never end up reading. Whenever he started spiraling Eliot would do everything in his power to be there for him, but sometimes he just wasn’t enough. Sometimes what the man needed was to walk the 6 blocks from their apartment to the Strand, his 18-mile city of books. Eliot wonders if Quentin walked there this morning, probably with a coffee in hand, maybe something to eat. It was a nice thought, a simple one. Like realizing that there are more great equalizers than death and taxes. There are things like eating and brushing your teeth. Base things that everyone usually has in common. Things that he and Quentin still have in common, even if everything else may have changed.
Oh my God, Waugh, you sound like a philosophy student. STOP FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.
The book reading is located on the first floor. When Eliot walks in, the area is already packed. Promo posters are plastered all over with Quentin’s face and the cover of his latest book, Six Short Stories About Magic, the cover art is atrocious but Eliot isn’t really in a place to bring up that sort of thing. He takes his place in the back of the room and hopes that he’ll go unnoticed. Which, yeah, since he’s almost a foot taller than everyone else, it isn’t so much a hope as it is a ridiculous notion. A moment later, a small woman that reminds Eliot of a Disney Princess walks out from behind the privacy curtain and asks everyone to take a seat.
Oh, right, chairs. Chairs are a thing.
Since the chairs are packed in so close, and he’s all legs, Eliot has to man-spread. -- Which is gross, but the disapproving looks that he receives are absolutely hilarious -- Thankfully, sitting down blends him in with the rest of the crowd. After a little introduction from the Disney Princess, Quentin takes the stage with a copy of his book.
It’s a surreal moment, Q, no longer under the shadowy lights of the Neitherlands, looks so different. He’s still devastatingly handsome but his hair is longer than Eliot could have ever imagined, tied into a loose bun at the base of his neck, he’s also wearing another magnificent suit, dark blue with a peach button-down. But all of it is just set dressing compared to his presence, which, just like that day in TADA 12 years ago, is like a magician about to perform. Except for this time, it is for a crowded room, with all eyes on him. He pulls on the sleeves of his suit, flexes his hands and with a deep breath, begins to read.
Notes:
Fairyland is a reference from Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut. Julia went through a Vonnegut phase in undergrad and convinced Quentin to read it. Despite it not being fantasy, it resonated with him.
Check back next week for another chapter: In which, Eliot knows sprinkles and jimmies are the same things and Quentin got mail.
Get ready for all the banter!!
Music I have been listening to while writing:
Hounds Of Love - Kate Bush
Homogenic- Bjork
Hadestown - Anais Mitchell
Walkin' My Cat Named Dog - Norma Tenega
Chapter 7: The Strand Part 2
Summary:
In which Eliot is no longer a narcissist (probably) and Quentin gets lucky.
Notes:
I've linked within the text to the music Eliot listens to. I hope you enjoy it, there will be many more from here on out.
Thank you to my beta mafm! I appreciate your encouragement and feedback!
Chapter Text
When they were still working towards making the Creature of Cordena into a series. Eliot had been Quentin's go-to for hashing out the details. They had worked all hours to meet Eliza’s insane deadlines and only ever needed one another for support. From what he could tell, when they called it quits -- or, specifically, when Eliot Waugh had forced them to call it quits-- Quentin had decided he was done with the series too. This new collection-- if it’s short stories, is it a book or a novel? He’ll need to Google that shit later -- is like nothing the man had written previously. Purchas wasn’t kidding when they promoted it as his first work of adult fiction. It was so dark. And would not go over well with any parent that gave two shits about their kid. In the passage Quentin reads, one of the characters literally grind up the bones of another and snort them for magic. Admittedly, before Whitespire, every substance that could have, feasibly, gone up Eliot’s nose, goddamn did. But he probably drew the line at body parts.
Probably... hopefully. 90% sure.
Obviously, Quentin had been wasted as a children’s author, not that he plans to tell him that.
From the safety of his seat in the back, Eliot closes his eyes and gets lost in the sound of Quentin’s voice. It’s just as intoxicating as he remembers, and the only remaining drug he’d ever consider allowing himself. Quentin stops mid-sentence, causing Eliot’s eyes to snap open, his heart shoots up into his throat when he sees the man looking directly at him, eyes wide.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, here we go again.
Eliot considers rabbiting, jumping up and clawing his way over the sea of people and chairs that surround him. He may break his neck --or someone else's in the process-- but fuck it. It would be worth any amount of time spent in the hospital or prison to avoid another panic attack from Hell like the one at the Neitherlands. He twists in his chair, trying to estimate how many rows stand between him and the door, when he sees the Disney Princess behind him, pointing at her watch and mouthing “wrap it up.” Quentin clears his throat and resumes reading.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Waugh, you panicked fucking idiot.
The reading concludes a few minutes later. When Quentin finishes, he closes in on himself for a split-second, before regaining his composure, most likely because his performance isn’t over yet. Eliot doubts anyone in the audience notices, but he knows Quentin's body language better than anyone. Well, at least he did. Quentin takes a seat at a table as a queue for the signing begins to form. Against his better judgment, which is to run away screaming like a maniac and never look back, Eliot grabs a hardcover copy and gets in line.
Whatthefuckareyoudoing!?
“Eliot...Hey.” Quentin looks mildly shocked, but then his expression softens. Something in Eliot’s stomach twists, and twists, and twists.
Shitshitshittyshitshit
“Hey, uh, could you sign this?”
As he hands the book to Quentin, their fingers brush, and a thrill shoots straight through Eliot. Quentin opens the title page and writes something down, most likely just his name. Whatever it is doesn’t register with Eliot because he’s too busy staring at the devastatingly handsome professional writer. Without even realizing it, the book is back in his hands, and he’s still staring.
“Sorry about the cover art. It’s just the worst, right?”
It’s a trap! DO NOT AGREE. Don'tDon'tDon't!!!
He swallows thickly, “It’s not...that bad.”
Q gives him a pointed look, “Really?
He wants you to agree! Agree! AGREE GODDAMIT! DoitDoitDoit!!! *SOB*
Eliot rolls his eyes, “Okay, fine, it’s terrible. Happy?”
Quentin grins, then cranes his neck to look at the line behind Eliot. It must be long, because his grin vanishes, and he lets out a sigh.
“Hey, do you mind sticking around ‘til I’m done? I was hoping we could get coffee.”
SHITSHITSHITSHIT
“Sure, I’ll be on the second floor,” The words slip out despite Eliot’s screaming brain.
WHATTHEFUCKAREYOUDOING!?
Quentin nods, “I’ll meet you there.”
###
It’s a miracle that Eliot is able to check out and find the high-back chairs on the second floor, without having a nervous breakdown. After flopping down with a huff --which he finds himself doing a lot lately-- he balances the book on the armrest with as much grace as he can muster. Of course, it immediately falls on the floor with a thunk, nearly launching Eliot out of his skin. He decides just to leave it. His hands are shaking so badly he’ll probably drop it again, anyway.
Along with Quentin's book, he’d purchased a cheap pair of pinks earbuds, on the hope that those in his immediate area would see them for what they were: the universal sign for fuck off. It isn’t his first choice for armor, but it would do in a pinch. Plugging in the earbuds, he finds Hunky Dory and turns up the volume. The sound quality is shit, but it’s worth the price of waiting for Quentin without unwanted intrusion. What the fuck is Eliot even doing here? Why the fuck does Quentin want to get coffee? Shit. What if he wants to talk about the amends letter? As Oh! You Pretty Things pulses through him, he fights the urge to crawl into a ball and die.
Desperate for a distraction, he whips out his phone to check his email. Bambi sent him an update from Ibiza. --Wait, Ibiza has an Embassy?-- It’s sunny and warm with beaches for days, but she’s bogged down by work and, quote, Ibiza is boring without at least one orgy on your dance card. A year ago, he probably would have written back telling her how it’s a waste of a trip and the universe is clearly unjust, and how dare she not invite him along, etc. But now? He would be just as bored and sober as she was, so he emails back telling her she’s a magnificent warrior goddess who shall save the... whatever that needs saving. And that Ibiza will always have at least one orgy at the ready for her to join when she can find the time.
Another is from AirBnB stating his renters left a 4-star rating because they were disappointed he wasn’t on the property.
What the fuck, who rents a house so they can talk to the owner? Weirdos, that’s who.
He leaves a 4-star review for the renters -- because he’s still a bit of shit, and it’s funny -- and verifies the reservation for the group coming in a few days. His neighbor will clean the house while Eliot’s in the City, so everything should be in order. Out of emails and still feeling cagey, Eliot opens Instagram. Scrolling through his recommendations, he comes across a digital artist he’s never heard of, Simon Stålenhag. Without so much as a how-do-you-do, he falls instantaneously back into the user-friendly blackhole of the internet. Googling Stålenhag leads him to Jakub Różalski, a board game artist, and that leads him to Zdzisław Beksiński, a Polish surrealist.
That's a shit ton of umlauts.
Each of the artists has a dystopian feel, reminding Eliot of the apocalyptic middle-America sketches he left at Bambi’s apartment. Beksiński is the only classically trained artist among them, but that’s beside the point. Eliot loves the work. Unfortunately, his phone is a shitty way to look at it. Since Quentin is taking longer than he expected, he figures it wouldn’t hurt to check if any of these artists have books available.
At the Strand, looking for books. Strangeness abounds, it seems.
Eliot finally, nearly, almost understands the appeal of the Strand. He’s able to find books on Beksiński and Stålenhag, which he hungrily drags back to his seat. Unable to find anything by Różalski, aside from his board game Scythe, -- why is a bookstore selling board games anyway? -- Eliot asks a staff member with pin-up style hair and cats eyeglasses if they have anything, but, sadly, it isn’t at this branch. She offers to put in a request, which will take at least two weeks. He politely declines.
Back in his chair, Eliot changes to Hounds Of Love and pours over the art books. As Kate Bush trills in his ears, he fawns over Beksiński. The man was utterly ahead of his time, like Bosch -level ahead. Some of the prints make his stomach turn, and it’s phenomenal. As for Stålenhag, Eliot cannot believe he hadn’t seen his work before. Okay, so he kind of protested all art journals once they stopped featuring his work, and, depending on who you asked, suffered from an aggressive case of blind narcissism. Which rendered him unable to appreciate anyone that didn't fall within the strict confines of what he considered fine art. But he was better now, right?
Eliot finds himself spellbound by every detail, every shift of light. He wouldn’t incorporate robots the way Stålenhag has, but it’s nice to know that the sketches he drew back at the Cottage might not be considered utterly batshit. That other people are out there making goddamn fantasy-trash-fires into fine art, and being recognized for it.
###
--Pay attention! Come on, wake up! Wake, up love!--
“Eliot?”
Eliot’s head snaps up. Quentin is standing over him, looking slightly concerned.
“Oh, hey,” he rips out his earbuds and shakes his head, “done already?”
“Were...were you asleep?” Quentin asks, slightly amused.
“Maybe? It happens more often than you’d think.” Eliot runs his hands through his hair and immediately regrets it, “I guess I need that cup of coffee.”
“Well, I know this place a few blocks away,” Quentin helps him up. “I met a spectacular guy there back in the day.”
Eliot has no idea what he’s talking about, “Where’s that?”
Quentin rolls his eyes, “TADA .”
Oh.
“Right, of course,” Eliot picks up Quentin’s hardcover and the Stålenhag book, “mind if I buy this first?”
Quentin arches an eyebrow, “Eliot Waugh...is buying a book?”
"Actually,” he wags Six Short Stories About Magic at him, then walks toward the checkout, “Eliot Waugh already bought a book. And now he’s buying a second one.”
“Strange times we live in,” Q calls after him.
“Ah, yes, strangeness abounds,” he mutters to himself.
After he checks out, Eliot and Quentin make the walk towards TADA. The fact that Quentin wants to even come within 50 feet of him is just the cherry atop this utterly baffling day he’s been at the mercy of. So, instead of trying to fight it any longer, -- because, as previously stated, that shit is counterproductive -- Eliot decides today’s theme is bizarre shit that is currently happening to me and moves on from there.
Eliot lights a cigarette. He's only got his lucky left after this.
“Can I have one?” Quentin asks, “I’m trying to quit, but that signing line was, like, so long.”
“Sure,” Eliot says, handing him the pack.
Quentin looks at it and frowns, “You’re giving up your lucky cigarette? Are you sure? I know you were always superstitious about that sort of thing.”
“It’s okay,” Eliot says with a wave, “I, um, don’t believe in that anymore.”
“He said, you know, like a liar,” Quentin smirks, borrowing Eliot’s lighter, “I’ll buy you another pack after coffee, sound good?”
“See?” Eliot replies, forcing the smoke out of his nose, “It is lucky.”
By all accounts, Quentin seems legitimately excited to see him. Eliot idly wonders if he suffered from head trauma at some point. Maybe he caught amnesia --Can you catch amnesia? He’ll need to Google that too-- whatever the cause, his excitement is sort of...infectious. Eliot finds himself easing with each block, his mood only improved by the company of Quentin Coldwater.
Bizarre shit that is currently happening to me.
Of course, none of this absolves or puts a rosy spin on the grand fuckery of five years ago. Eliot’s still the monster who nearly broke Quentin beyond repair. But if the man wants to have coffee, make some small talk, and exercise sentimentality before deciding it’s easier to hate him forever, well, that’s more than Eliot supposes he could ever have hoped for.
Eliot finishes his cigarette and tosses the butt into a trash can, “So, who was the Disney Princess?”
“Disney princess?” Quentin takes a beat, “Right, you must mean my publicist. Her name is Fen.”
“I’m sorry, Fen ?” Eliot doesn’t mean for it to come out rude, but it totally does. Oops.
“Don’t ask. Hippy parents, that were also knife-makers, I guess?”
“Wow, okay...she seems nice.”
“Oh, she’s a little ray of sunshine, who just happens to really fucking love knives." Quentin says with a slight eye roll, “Hell, she’d, probably put wildflowers in my hair if I let her.”
“Nice and complicated. Fun mix.”
“Yeah, well, you would know my type better than anyone.” Quentin gives him a playful shove, nearly knocking him over.
Eliot suddenly wishes he had more cigarettes, “So, does that mean you two are…?”
“What, dating?” Quentin’s eyes crinkle under an amused grin, “Oh shit, no. Not even a little. I just, you know, work with her...we make a good team.”
“Ah, that type.”
After another block, they round the corner to TADA. Well, at least where they thought it would be. In its place is the most horrific tragedy Eliot has witnessed in a decade, and he has seen some shit. Where TADA, the beauty of all life, Eliot’s purpose of existing for so many years, is a goddamn Dunkin’ Donuts.
“What the actual motherfucking fuck !?”
Chapter 8: Dunkin’ Donuts
Summary:
In which Eliot knows there's no difference between jimmies and sprinkle and Quentin got mail.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Eliot is devastated, his beloved TADA is gone, replaced by a fucking Dunkin’ Donuts. It must be karmic retribution for his vice-fueled past and his lack of helping little old ladies cross the street. It’s not his fault they didn’t walk fast enough on the occasions he did try. In their defense, he was ridiculously high when the desire to help usually hit him. Quentin, on the other hand, seems unphased by the coffee shop's absence. Instead, he is engrossed in the shameless seduction of sprinkles and sugar glaze.
Quentin orders a coffee, something pink with sprinkles, and a green one. Both look like they have the nutritional value of an area rug. Well, unless processed sugar is now the media darling of the FDA. Eliot, wanting to give as little money to this vulgar reprobate of what passes for taste in America, buys a coffee. Immediately, he realizes it was a regrettable decision. He shudders as they sit down at a booth that’s still sticky from the last occupants. The only thing that keeps him from having a full-on tantrum is Quentin’s blatant enthusiasm as he devours his green ring of fried dough.
Quentin turns his attention to his pink donut, “Are these jimmies or sprinkles?”
“They’re the same thing, Coldwater.”
“Really? Why do they have two different names, then?”
“Why is anything, anything?” Eliot pouts, this really is the worst.
“Watch out. Your ennui is flaring up.”
At this, Eliot chuckles. He can’t fucking help it. Despite all the changes both of them have gone through, Quentin Coldwater remained an endearingly sardonic nerd. Eliot takes a sip of his coffee cup and pulls a face. How can something taste like trash and be scalding to the point of skin grafts? He runs his tongue against the roof of his mouth, which is already puffing up from the burn. Everything in this sugar-caked Hell is the literal worst.
Once Quentin is finished devouring what is laughably considered as actual foodstuffs, he looks at Eliot and smiles. Suddenly, it sinks in how healthy the man looks. Eliot realizes he didn’t even notice that he’s been smiling all day, and been talkative, and emotive, and all the shit that is very not Quentin. Christ, Eliot truly has had his head shoved up his ass. He’d forgotten -- well, more like repressed, but whatever -- all about his conversation with Julia at the Neitherlands.
“Did you know I ran into Julia the other night? It was right before,” -- you what? Panicked the fuck out and ran for the fucking hills?-- “ I...uh saw you. She told me you were in a good place, that’s really…” Eliot searches his vocabulary, phenomenal, marvelous, grand, stupendous, “great.”
Dammit, Waugh.
Quentin picks at the jimmies/sprinkles/whatever still left on the table, “She probably made it sound like it just happened last week, right?” He snarks.
“She might have tacked, ‘for once’ onto the end of the sentence, but I get the feeling it’s more than that.”
Quentin makes an annoyed sound, “A bit.”
“I’d love to hear all about how wrong she is.” Eliot grins, because yes please.
Quentin’s eyes sparkle mischievously, and at that moment, Eliot’s stomach does a flip he hasn’t felt in a lifetime.
“Right, so, it’s actually really interesting. Did you know? Mental health- good mental health can take time to achieve? Like, years, sometimes even. And then you have to keep working to maintain it, which is crazy, right? Even if it seems, like, frustratingly impossible sometimes. Plus, if you can believe it, medication can be great if you, you know, find stuff that works and take it every day. But for some people, they have to look for the right dosage or, like, combination of different prescriptions, for a really long time.”
Quentin rolls his eyes and throws his hands up in mock disgust, “And then, maybe, I dunno, it only takes them part of the way there. So, they have to keep working on their mental health, in order to find a combination of all the different treatments that they can benefit from. Oh! And not all mental health practitioners are assholes who just, uh, parrot one another. Some, and here’s the real shocker, are actually helpful and listen and mean it when they say they care.”
“Therapy, medication, and whatever other tools you gotta keep in your mental tool belt - all working together. It’s a revelation, I know. Could be categorized as an Earth-shattering event, to Jules, especially.” Quentin finishes, he’s so damn smug, how could Eliot forget?
“I doubt anyone else has ever heard of or, dare say, benefited from this particular revelation in the history of man,” Eliot says with a small grin.
“You know what? I bet you’re right. I need to trademark that shit. Lock it down before anyone else can steal it from me.” Quentin smirks, all dimples, and creases.
Eliot missed this. Their inconceivably easy back and forth. It had a quality that could never be replicated. When it was gone, he had tried to fill the hole left by it with every known substance and distraction he could find. But, now, sitting across from Quentin, in their old familiar rhythm, he realizes that trying to replace it was an impossible task.
Eliot looks at Quentin with a grave expression, “I have to ask you a serious question. Like, the most serious. Ready? Good...”
“It’s my hair, right?” Quentin rolls his eyes.
“What gave me away?” He must be slipping in his old age. Maybe Eliot’s days of the Wheel and a lonely death are closer than he thinks.
“Jesus, El. I own a mirror. And you haven't been exactly subtle with, you know, your ogling.” he groans, “I’m surprised it took you this long to bring it up. Were you sitting on your hands or something?”
“Excuse me, first of all, Eliot Waugh doesn't ogle,” When Quentin throws him a skeptical look, Eliot gives in, “Okay, fine. That's a lie. Second, can you blame me? I got Dashboard Confessional stuck in my head just by looking at it.” --Honestly, how could anyone not notice? It’s fucking magnificent-- “Have you just developed an aversion to scissors? Or is this more of a visage for your devoted fanbase? I mean, if so, brava. I know lots of fantasy writers go for the ‘crazy hermit who lives in the woods,’ beard, so good on you for evading the cliche.”
“Well, no offense, it has been five years since we’ve seen each other, plenty of time for more than one change. And, my fanbase is nothing to sniff at. It’s not as big as ours used to, um…” Quentin falters while Eliot pretends not to notice, “But, yeah, after things started getting better, hiding from the world felt sort of moot, and my hair was a big part of that defense. But, well, I’ve always been told I have great hair, and, fine, it’s true, okay? So, it was either cut it or grow it obscenely fucking long. Now I need to have it up constantly, or it’s everywhere, you know, screaming infidelities. ”
“So you pulled a Samson. Wait, does Delilah know?” Eliot lets out a mock gasp, “Does Leonard Cohen?”
Quentin laughs, “Hate to break it to you, El, but they’re both dead. And, iconic musicians and biblical figures aside, for all the work I’ve done, I’m not invincible. I still spiral, and sometimes it’s as bad as before. And I know that I’m never going to be, like, the poster child for mental health, but I never thought I would make it this far, and I have, you know? I guess, knowing the hole isn't as bottomless as it was before, and that I’ve put in so much work to make it that way...It makes it easier to keep going.”
Adoration fills Eliot’s heart so rapidly it may explode. Quentin is doing so well. He’s doing so well, without him. Granted, Quentin had taken longer than most to recognize Eliot for what he was, but he had finally wised up and was flourishing.
Quentin clears his throat and runs his finger behind his ear, like a phantom hair still needs tucking, “So, uh, what about you? You look good, just different. I mean, when I saw you in the Neitherlands, yeah. But now...”
Eliot’s chest tightens slightly. He knew this was coming. That showing up without his armor was bound to raise questions. He tries not to let his rising panic get its hooks in him. “I...had to reassess my life a little while ago,” --had to take inventory, break old habits, build new pathways,-- “and, I realized I wasn’t really...I didn’t want to go back to being the person I was before. I’ve needed to choose what was functional in order to function. If that makes sense.”
I’m still a walking dumpster fire, but I’m trying so hard to be braver, and it’s ‘cause I learned it from you.
Quentin smiles, and Eliot’s heart just hurts, “I like it, the glasses especially. They make you look dignified.”
At their mention, Eliot compulsively takes off his glasses and rubs them on his cardigan, “Yeah, my eyesight went to shit a few years ago, and contacts are pretty much pointless when you’re surrounded by paint fumes every waking moment.” Making a point to leave out the fact that he lives in his studio because he’s broke, “I’m also trying this thing, where my vanity isn't the dominating factor in my decision making.”
“Well, that sounds great. Besides, you could be wearing a potato sack and still be Eliot Waugh.”
Eliot gives a dry laugh, “Thanks...but Eliot Waugh is kind of a moving target these days, I’m just trying my best.”
“Huh, I can’t relate to that at all,” Quentin shrugs, “ Oh well, I guess we have nothing to talk about.”
“Nice to know you’re still a brat.”
From the way their conversation is going,-- i.e., surprisingly well -- Eliot is certain that his amends letter or any news of the past five years had ever reached Quentin. If it had, there would probably have been a lot of questions. Many of which were guaranteed to be uncomfortable. But this wasn’t the time or the place to talk about it, and now there probably never would be. Not without introducing the idea that this whole thing, --whatever it is -- between them might be a disastrous mistake. He bites his tongue and tries to push the thought away. Quentin is doing so well, who knows how long that would last before Eliot fucks it up for him again. Once they leave this sugar-sprinkled cess-pit of mediocrity, he’ll tell Quentin it was great to see him, --which is so true it fucking hurts-- then maybe some more banter. Then, after they’re done, he’ll do the right thing and drop out of the man's life completely.
“So. I got your amends letter.”
Eliot nearly chokes on his coffee.
Notes:
Eliot is not a fan of Emo, but when he and Quentin first got together to collaborate, Q was going through a phase. Consequently, Eliot now knows the lyrics to every Bright Eyes, Dashboard Confessional, Sunny Day Real Estate, Death Cab for Cutie and Get Up kids album that was recorded before 2008.
He has never forgiven Q for the amount of brain space that is being taken up by it.
Thanks for reading! Come back next week for Chapter 8!
Chapter Description: In which Quentin finds napkins and Eliot doesn’t wax
Chapter 9: Demons
Summary:
In which Quentin finds napkins and Eliot doesn’t wax.
Be forewarned everyone, this is a heavy one.
TW for OD
Notes:
I have now linked to the music that is referenced throughout the chapter. I hope you enjoy the track choices, Eliot does.
Thank you to @mfam! You are the best beta a girl could hope for!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You got my amends letter?” Eliot sputters, hot coffee dripping down his shirt, “Ow! Fuck!”
“Oh, shit. Lemme get something to wipe that up with.” Quentin leaves the booth, rushing back to the counter.
“Ow, ow, fucking, ow!” Eliot tries to pull his shirt away from his chest so his skin doesn’t melt off. He undoes the top two buttons of his shirt and blows down. Fortunately, it looks like his chest hair got the worst of it.
And that is why Daddy doesn’t wax.
Quentin returns with a comically large stack of napkins and hands them over, “Wow, that, um, got everywhere.”
Eliot sighs and begins wiping down his shirt, “I hate this place.”
Unable to take any more of this vat-fried third circle of Hell, Eliot begs to leave and go... anywhere else. If Quentin's next move is to tell him to go fuck himself, fine. Eliot can take it. Just not while sitting in a place he once considered hallowed ground, before it betrayed him and became a goddamn Dunkin' Donuts. Yes, Eliot knows that change is inevitable, that he should be the bigger person and let this shit go. But he's maxed out at 6'2" and has no room left to be any bigger, so this is the hill he's going to die on, thank you very much.
Whether Quentin takes pity on him or just grows weary of Eliot's current round-robin of bitching and moaning, remains to be seen. Either way, they leave, which is splendid. Outside, Eliot buttons his cardigan to cover up the coffee stain on his shirt. It hides the majority of the mess remarkably well.
Congratulations, Pendleton. You are officially my favorite article of clothing.
Quentin, on the other hand, is now carrying Eliot’s books and staring forlornly at where the coffee hit him, it's the first time all day Eliot has seen the version of the would-be writer he knew, way back when.
"I'm sorry about your shirt," he tucks the phantom strand of hair from before, "I just didn't...we were... it was so... fuck. I didn't know how to bring it up. So when I saw a lulI, I, you know, dropped a fucking bomb on you. Shit. Why can’t I just act like a fucking person? "
"It's not like I don't deserve it," Eliot shrugs, "Look, you think you could buy me that pack of cigarettes? I'm broke and would like to smoke before we talk about this and, you know, everything inevitably goes to shit again."
"El, what the Hell are you talking about?"
"The lucky. You promised me a new pack."
"Yeah, I know, I know, but…" He throws up his hands, "okay, fine. Cigarettes first. Then we talk."
They find a bodega the next block over. As promised, Quentin buys Eliot his cigarettes. And, --as an omen of the shit-show to come,-- buys a pack for himself.
"I thought you were trying to quit, Coldwater," Eliot says as he steps back onto the street. He unwraps the cellophane and flips his new lucky over in the pack.
"Cut the astute observations and just pass me your lighter," Quentin grumbles as he flips his pack of Morleys upside down and slams it repeatedly against his palm.
The awkwardness that Eliot dreaded finally wheedles its way between them. Now that it was here, it planned to stay for the long haul. Chain-smoking block after block, was in no way going to help clear the air, but Eliot was still a coward at his core. So he’d kept quiet since leaving the bodega. Honestly, what is he even supposed to say?
Step nine is just as important as the other eleven.
"Q, about my amends letter... "
Quentin stops walking. Letting out a sigh, he dips his head to the side, the way he always did when he was about to say something important. Eliot wants to punch his stomach for the flip it does in response.
"So, okay, you know my dad died, right?" He takes a drag, ashing his cigarette.
Eliot's gut churns, family talk always makes him feel sick, "Quentin, I had no idea. Fuck, I'm sorry. I’m so sorry."
Quentin nods and begins to pace, "Yeah, it sucked. I came back to take care of him. He was in at-home hospice...anyway, it was a whole thing. Brain cancer," he frowns, "My girlfriend, Alice, she, uh, came out initially. But, her family is fucked up, uh, so she didn't really understand what I was...she's brilliant but emotions aren't exactly her wheel-house." Quentin sighs, taking another drag, "So we broke up. She went back West, and I, uh, stayed here with my dad until, he...you know. "
"God, Q," Eliot gapes, "You had to take that on all by yourself?"
"I mean, his hospice team was amazing, so at least there was that. But, yeah, it was just me a lot of the time,” Quentin throws his butt to the ground, takes another from the pack, and gestures for Eliot to hand over his lighter. “Mom didn't show until the funeral. Then she took over for, like, a day so she could feel validated, or some such shit."
I bet she guilt-tripped him every step of the way too.
"Anyway, I found your amends letter when I was going through his stuff. I almost threw it out. It was just shoved in with a pile of junk mail. Dad must have thought it was just another statement from the hospital."
Eliot passes over the lighter, "Is it okay to say that I'm sort of terrified that you found it?"
Quentin looks at him and shakes his head, "Don't be. Look, I was in a really, really bad place after dad died. I had to box up all his things and sell the house, and it was just this never-ending list of shit." He takes a sharp drag and blows the smoke upward, "So, when it was all done, I spiraled. My brain broke and I was alone for almost all of it. Julia helped, but there was a lot of, uh, mother-henning, you know? But she was really close to my dad, so it hit her hard too."
Oh shit, this is all my fault. No wonder Julia was so pissed. I fucking broke him again with that stupid fucking letter.
"Look, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean for any of that to happen. I spent so much time on that letter, and I still fucked it up."
"El, what the fuck are you talking about? I didn't even know about anything that had happened to you until I read your letter. I mean, fuck. What Marina did to you was psychotic. But I spiraled because my dad died. My brain broke because my dad died. You don't have to apologize, because none of that was your fault." Quentin shakes his head, "The thing is, I read the letter and realized how much I missed you. "
Oh. Shit.
"Look, I’m gonna be honest. I’ve been trying to find you since I got back. When I saw you at the Neitherlands, I was shocked, after all my fucking searching, you were just, like, there. But then you were gone and I didn't have a chance to talk to you and...'' Quentin gestures so wildly he nearly loses his cigarette, “Anyway, sorry. Point is, I got an Airbnb in the East Village. I'm looking at apartments. I am sticking around. We've both been through a ton of shit recently, and I was hoping we could, I dunno..." He lets out a long sigh, "I'd like to have you back in my life, in whatever capacity that is. But if that's too much to ask, I get it. I know relationships aren't really encouraged before you've made it a year. But is that true, for like, being friends? What I’m trying to say is, whatever you need, it's your call."
The Earth tilts beneath Eliot. After five years, after everything, there were just some things that would never change. Quentin Coldwater was still the bravest man he’d ever known. Eliot wants to hold him, rest his chin on his head, and tell him: Yes, please. Please. I want that. I want it forever. I’m sorry I fucked up. I’m sorry that I’m a garbage human who wasn’t there when you needed me. But I’m here now, and I’m trying so hard to be a better version of myself.
But he already knows the truth, which, at the very least, he owes to Quentin. And it breaks his heart, "That...Q, I’d really like that. I-I just don't know if I can.”
299 days ago
Rehab had never really suited Eliot's taste. He'd heard once that it was just nachos and backgammon, then came to find it wasn't. Besides, the whole scene was gauche, lots of crying and feelings and opening up. You could smoke as much as you like, which he enjoyed. But everything else, it hadn’t fit his aesthetic in the least. So, after a few days, he claimed he was better -- well, more like bored, but whatever -- and promised that, yes, he would stay clean, then ordered a Lyft so he could be home early enough for celebratory cocktails and designer drugs.
Upon Bambi's suggestion, --as well as, gallery owners, law enforcement, three random hookups at some point... rude -- he'd given rehab a whirl, twice, and decided it just wasn't for him. There were so many other things he could do with his time, -- like get high or drunk or, ideally, a very hefty combination of both.-- Besides, he didn't have a problem. He had a lifestyle.
The pleasant thing about the long, tedious, and sober Lyft home; it had given Eliot time to think. Since he had stayed at the Loria Center for three days, it was obvious that a four-day exercise in extravagance was needed to restore balance to the universe. Quadruple D would be the theme. Four Days of Drugs, Drinking, Dancing, and Debauchery. It was the type of alliteration that screamed, Eliot Waugh. Overjoyed by his own genius, he called Bambi to tell her the good news.
“El, why in the shitting fuck are you going home? You were supposed to be at Loria for a goddamn week, ” Margo chides.
“I know, Bambi. But it was all so utterly pedestrian. And besides, I ran out of cigarettes,” Eliot tells her drolly.
“For fuck’s sake, Eliot. Have whoever is driving you home stop at a gas station and then get your ass back to rehab!” He had not expected Bambi to sound so pissed. What was her problem? He was a grown-ass man and could do what he wanted. Specifically, not go back to rehab and continue to be bored into a stupor.
“Darling I can’t. I’m throwing a party tonight. You’re the first person I’m inviting.” Honestly, Eliot thought, why couldn't she see that leaving Loria was a good thing?
Bambi had growled and promptly hung up.
Eliot took her response as a hard no. It was a shame, she really hadn't been much fun at all recently. Not that he had worried; his Bambi always came around.
By the time Eliot stepped through his front door, everything had been arranged. Hoberman, in charge of drugs, would bring the most primo -- his word-- hallucinogens in the tri-state area. Penny, in charge of dancing, would create a four-day long playlist. -- repeat tracks were for amateurs -- While Eliot would kill two birds via drinks and debauchery. By creating signature cocktails so magnificent, people would be lining up around the block just to blow him behind the bar.
The first two days were the most excellent sort of drug-fueled orgy; figuratively and literally. Both Josh and Penny had delivered, as promised, and Eliot had been given at least a dozen first-rate blowjobs. -- and enough satisfactory ones that he had lost count -- All was going according to his glorious plan. Eliot basked in the glow of his own brilliance as he felt the universe shift back into alignment around him.
By the end of day three, Eliot’s guests were becoming boring. Everyone was suddenly making excuses as to why they couldn’t stay, why they had to go back to their stupid trivial little lives. And, despite his best efforts, they kept leaving, and leaving, and leaving. It wasn’t until Penny and Josh decided to go get ice --and didn’t fucking come back-- that Eliot was alone with his trepidation for the first time in days.
Before revealing themselves as the Judases they truly were, Hoberman had the humility to give what was left of his stash to Eliot. Gifts for the party host he had written in a card attached to a gallon ziplock full of colorful pills.
Mmm, Daddy’s favorite.
###
When Eliot awoke the next day, it was already late in the afternoon and the house was spotless. Despite the years of what fun with cocaine had done to his senses, he could smell his housekeeper's disinfectants. Everyone who worked for Eliot was fully aware of protocol concerning their boss when he was passed out: just do your job around him.
He was, after all, an artist, with an artist's temperament.
But when he found the note from Bambi pinned to his silk robe, things went sideways. It had said that she loved him, she knew he just needed a push. What was worse, she knew where all his hiding spots were and had emptied them. Hoberman’s drugs were flushed, his liqueur dumped in the sink, and every surface had been scrubbed clean. So, he better not think of trying to check for rems.
Goddammit, Bambi.
Honestly, it was fine, all he needed to do was call Hoberman and get some more of...everything. He had told Eliot the night before that he’d just got in a shipment from the City that would keep him flush for weeks.
"Sorry, man, I got nothing for you."
"Josh, are you tapped out? Or does this have something to do with Margo?"
"Look, I like my knee-caps, head, and balls where they are. I'm not saying that Margo threatened me, but I'm not not saying it either. Anyway, I got nothing for you."
God-FUCKING-dammit, Bambi.
Hoberman then informed him that not only was selling now off the table, Bambie had given Eliot's picture to every liquor store owner within 50 miles attached to the same riot act she'd "Not not threatened him with." That was fine, really it was. Eliot had plenty of friends that he could call on to help him. He had just entertained hundreds of people over the past three days. Certainly, one of them understood they owed him a favor.
Several increasingly desperate phone calls later, Eliot was crawling out of his skin. It was clear that he only had friends when he could give them something and never the other way around. Eliot should have realized that his personal low had ultimately been hit when he decided to call Marina.
“Heeeeey, Marina!”
“Waugh? What the fuck do you want?” Eliot could hear her crunching. She was eating something on the other end, -- cereal or possibly baby heads--
“I’m in a bit of a bind. You see, Margo took all my drugs, booze, and every other fun thing in my life while I was passed out” Eliot failed to mention the party since Marina had not made the guest list.
“*crunch* *crunch* You? Passed out? No,” Marina’s laugh sounded like a mediocre super villain’s. He bet she practiced that shit in the mirror. Like he did with smiling, “What does that have to do with me?”
“Well, Marina,” Eliot seethed, “I need to know if you’re holding.”
“Not with that attitude,” Marina bit back, “What? You think I’ll just hand shit over because you’re the ethereal, untouchable Eliot Waugh? Fuck you.”
Fuck you right back, you psychotic ginger piece of trash.
“Marina,” Eliot’s voice dripped with diabetic sweetness, “how can we make this work?”
There was silence on the other end. No doubt, Marina was consulting her flying monkeys on what her next move should be.
“Waugh? Are you still there?” Her voice suddenly matched Eliot’s tone of sweetness, “I’m feeling generous tonight, what say we talk shop when I get there?”
Eliot couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe he’d convinced Marina after all. He was incredibly charming. It wouldn’t be the first time he turned it on and got his way.
“Oh, thank you, Marina,” Eliot cooed, “I would put the champagne on ice for your arrival, but sadly Bambi took that too.”
“That’s fine. We’ll just tack it onto your bill.” She replied.
Surely she was joking.
###
Half an hour later, Marina arrived with champagne and, more importantly, her kit and enough cocaine to kill a horse. She was greeted with open arms by a shamelessly grateful Eliot Waugh. After he had placed the champagne on ice. --because, priorities-- Marina requested a tour. Knowing that denying her would be a very stupid thing to do, he impatiently ran her through the house, pointing out the crown molding --"Original to the house, had them refinished after I bought the place.”-- which paintings were his doing --“These were recently featured in Hi-Fructose”-- and which paintings were done by others --“Yes, Marina, that is an original Sue Williams, very good eye.”--
“Holy shit. A Basquait?” She had marveled, "How did you get your hands on that?”
“Birthday present from a friend,” Eliot said waving the comment away. Marina didn't deserve details, this was simply a business transaction. Besides, her swooning over his art made him feel ill, “and that wraps up the tour. Shall we retire to the living room?”
While Eliot poured the chilled champagne into flutes, Marina set out her kit and cut the lines. He had an antique hand mirror he preferred for such things, but, Bambi had nicked that as well.
Next time I see you, I am getting that mirror back. Then, I’m not talking to you for at least a week, you sneaky, bitch.
When he returned with the champagne, Marina had everything ready to go.
“Oh, you brought your own mirror, clever girl .” Eliot cooed at her.
She flashed her pale blue eyes at him, “I was a girl scout.”
Eliot smiled and thought of The Velvet Underground, “Of course you were.”
After that, things got hazy.
They drank the champagne and shot the shit --as was proper drug dealer/drug user etiquette-- Marina had put The Best Of The Kinks on the record player, dancing to You Really Got Me, before settling in to do a few lines together. At least, he'd thought they'd done them together. It wasn’t until his fourth that he realized something had gone wrong; it had gone catastrophically wrong. Suddenly Marina was standing over him like a demon while Dandy played, but Eliot couldn’t tell from where anymore. She laughed as the room swam and refracted.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out about your shitty little party? It was three days long you narcissistic ass.”
She laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
“Waugh, do you know how much I love Basquiat?”
Then the door slammed, causing the record to skip, and Eliot…
-- Dandy you know you're moving much too fast, *scritch* Dandy you know you're moving much too fast, *scritch* Dandy you know you're moving much too fast *scritch*--
He went away for a little while.
###
Bambi was there when he woke up in the hospital. She held his hand while she explained that he had OD'd. The cops had arrested Marina and found his Basquiat in the backseat of her car. Todd had called them when he'd seen Marina driving away from the house. And that Todd had been the one to find Eliot seizing on the floor, barely breathing.
Then Bambi started to cry.
"El, it's all my fault. If I hadn't emptied your house…"
Whatever Marina had given him, it'd been a cocktail of mostly cocaine, fentanyl, and meth. His left lung had collapsed, he'd had a heart attack, and for one terrifying minute, he had died. If they'd gotten around to the heroin, Eliot would have stayed dead. The worst part? He knew how dangerous Marina was; he just hadn't cared.
When Eliot was discharged from the hospital five days later, he checked himself into Whitespire.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! Come back next week for Chapter 9!
Description: In which Eliot, being the pragmatic bitch that he is, transforms again.
Chapter 10: Whitespire
Summary:
In which Eliot Waugh, pragmatic bitch that he is, transforms again.
Notes:
Music references are linked so you can listen to Eliot's ongoing soundtrack.
Thank you to my beta mafm! Your input is so important, and this story would not be possible without you.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
289 Days Ago
This time, Eliot was going to get it right. Dying had a way of pulling the rug out from under you. Now he knew that he had to take stock of his priorities. The second volume of Eliot Waugh was going to be a fucking long one, thank you very much. He would get clean, stay clean, and then pass away from old age when he was good and goddamn ready. Whitespire would be the place that helped him get there, it was the premiere discrete six-month rehab program -- for those of affluence and influence-- and the most grandiose money could buy.
Margo still felt like the whole affair had been her fault. Whether that was true, or not, hardly mattered. Any resentment Eliot had towards her dried up, instantly, the moment she’d started crying. Yes, he had decided to enter a program for himself. He was Eliot fucking Waugh. Genius, playboy, dandy extraordinaire; who wined, dined, and seduced --namely, one exciting night with Fredrikson Stallard-- the greatest names in the art world. Eliot could do this. But if he had misgivings, he would keep going for his Bambi.
New outfits were purchased. Rehab, even the grandest of rehabs, seemed to have missed the memo about dry clean only garments. But Eliot was stalwart to commitment this time, and vanity would have no place in it. Soft sweaters and cotton henleys. Materials that would survive the facility’s industrial washer/dryers, the kind of clothes Quentin would have loved, now replaced his beloved armor. Toiletries, cartons of cigarettes, cash, sketchbooks, canvases, and calling cards were all packed neatly into a suitcase. Personal items had been allowed, but the only one Eliot took with him when he checked into Whitespire was the opal ring Bambi had given him his Freshman year at Parsons.
Detox was the hardest part. It had begun while Eliot was still in the hospital, aggressively worsening after he arrived at Whitespire. Everything that he had snorted, smoked, injected, or swallowed to stop feeling so tired and lonely, all those things he had come to depend on to function, were being exhumed. Medications could only do so much to combat the fresh Hell that was his body. At all hours, Eliot would be on fire, like ants crawling and gnawing their way through his skin. His bones ached, with a chill that forced its way to the marrow. Sweat drenched his clothes and formed lake-sized puddles under his covers. Stomach cramps racked his body, making him shit rivers. The staff had to keep him monitored for grand mal seizures.
And then there were the mood swings. Eliot had always thought, after Quentin, he had genuinely known what it was like to lose control. He’d been a goddamn fool. Rage, guilt, depression, anxiety, all had their turn driving in the front seat of Eliot’s meat suit. His lifestyle had finally come to collect.
A month in, Eliot had come to understand that, as spa-like Whitespire was, it was still fucking rehab. It didn’t matter what thread-count the facility was touting. Those expensive sheets were still soaked with any manner of bodily fluids by morning. You could have fourteen karat wastebaskets in every room, but one out of three would always be filled with vomit and bile. And no amount of crab canapes were going to help if you couldn’t keep fucking food down. Detox was ugly for everyone, which made it an excellent equalizer.
All the celebrities that he had read about who had gone to Betty Ford made no mention of such ugliness. It had been more about how they got there than anything else. Now that Eliot had the first-hand experience, it was like he was in on a big secret. So, on nights when he couldn’t sleep, he would think of Scott Disick vomiting into his wastebasket. And it was glorious.
Whitespire had been adamant about Eliot seeing one of their therapists while he was an inpatient, but Eliot had no interest in opening that Pandora’s box. So, when they had told him it was his choice, that was their mistake. Since it was one of those posh facilities that were low-key terrified of what rich people might do when inconvenienced, he had passive-aggressively bullied his way out of anything that would require him to talk about his godddamn feelings, or whatever. Whenever the words unaddressed trauma were brought up, Eliot would become one with his disgraced inner child star and fight them tooth and nail. It was a testament to Whitespire’s professionalism --and however much money he was paying them-- that he wasn’t kicked out in the first month.
The first real watershed for Eliot came in month two. Despite being able to evade one on one therapy; group was non-negotiable. Led by the overly sympathetic Dr. London, Eliot was finally forced to open up. This, of course, only occurred with a great amount of resistance on his part and a minimum of resulting contribution. Mostly, they did self-reflective exercises --which, gross-- but the longer Eliot was subjected to the unending amount of requests put forth, the less he fought them. A woman not easily deterred, Dr. London was slowly --and enthusiastically -- grinding down Eliot’s once impenetrable armor bit by bit.
The day that Dr. London asked everyone to share a song that they felt related to their recovery, Eliot didn’t speak up. It wasn’t surprising, he never did unless spoken to directly, but when group was over he couldn’t get the question out of his head. For the rest of the day, he found himself mentally going through his musical catalog trying to find the perfect song. Hours later, Eliot could be heard quietly singing These Days to himself from the confines of his room.
These days I seem to think about/ How all the changes came about my ways.
The paintings that Eliot created while at Whitespire had less to do with aesthetic --one of the main aspects of his work leading up to rehab-- and more about exercising control and focusing on his recovery. Todd had offered to talk to Eliot’s gallery contacts about selling them when he got out, but Eliot had no desire to do so. The works were for him alone. He wouldn’t have them over someone else’s couch.
Only having the basics allowed to him --meaning acrylics only *sob* -- forced Eliot to MacGyver up. On the assumption that the outfits purchased for him to wear in Whitespire would most likely be thrown out after he left, Eliot used most of his clothes as cleaning rags. Sleeves and corners of shirts blossomed into concentrated bursts of color. Visually, it was a pleasant reprieve from the crisp whiteness of the facility and beat the hell out of having to walk to the restrooms every ten minutes to wash out his brushes.
###
Power of attorney had been given to Margo before Eliot left the hospital. She had told him his only responsibility was to get well, and that she would take care of everything else. It had made sense, Eliot wasn’t allowed cell or internet access while he would be in rehab, so he wouldn’t be able to track his affairs if he needed to. Honestly, he should have known something was up when she called him five months in at Whitespire.
“Eliot, honey, how is everything going?”
“Things are going really goddamn well, Bambi. I miss you.”
“I miss you too, bitch. Fuckin’ A, El. You sound so different.”
“I’m as shocked as you,” Eliot had teased, “Who knew, the perpetual warble of inebriation wasn’t my legit timbre. ” **
“And I didn’t think you could sound any sexier.” Bambi purred, “I’m impressed and turned on .”
Eliot smiled into the phone, “You act as if that hasn’t been the goal all along.”
Margo grew quiet for a moment, “Hey, El. I gotta make some tough calls before you can come home,” she paused, “do you trust me?”
“Always, Bambi. What’s this about?”
“Don’t worry. I got it covered. You focus on your last month there. You’re almost out.”
“Margo ...”
“You just get well. I got this. Now, ovary up, complete whatever steps you got left, and kick that last month straight in the twat.”
So, as instructed, Eliot kicked his last month straight in the twat. He’d sent out his amends letters as part of step nine. He had rewritten Quentin’s at least a dozen times, as more and more things to apologize for bubbled up inside him. Then there was the whole issue of crying. Scratch that, ugly crying. Shamelessly and desperately as if he were runner up on The Bachelor. Once he’d started, his tears had welled-up in heaving sobs. Face screwed up and red as buckets of tears and snot poured out of him, drenching his paper and smudging the ink like he was a goddamn Brontȅ.
But it got done, just like all the others, thus completing the twelve steps. He received his six-month chip, which even had a little reception afterward. There were even crab canapes, and this time, he kept those suckers down. On the last day, when Margo came to pick him up, Eliot was clean, would stay clean, and could now die of old age when he was good and goddamn ready. However, after all the paperwork was filled out, there was still the issue of the remaining balance.
“Balance?” Eliot asked
The cheerful girl who looked more like a Yogi than a receptionist nodded, “Yes, Mr. Waugh, you still owe $82,000 to the Whitespire facility.”
“Oh! You had me worried for a moment. I can get you the money in a week.”
Margo had put her hand on his elbow and whispered, “El, about that…”
“Do you need me to sign a waiver, or like a form of some sort?”
Margo dug her nails in slightly, “Eliot…”
Eliot held up his index finger, “Just gimme a sec, Bambi.”
“Eliot!” Margo practically shrieked and jabbed her nails down hard.
He wrenched his elbow out of her grip and spun around to face her, “What!?”
“There isn’t any money left.”
THERE WHAT!?
###
Margo had to sell everything to cover the bills Eliot’s doctors, legal team, and the good folk at Whitespire had so callously charged him. His health insurance had been a farce that he hadn’t even known he was part of. The Basquait was gone -- again-- as were the Williams, two Warhols, and the Ryden. But honestly, fuck the Ryden. The only reason Eliot had bought it out from under Leonardo DiCaprio at an auction was because it wasn’t as if the man didn’t have enough of them, anyway.
The only reason he wasn’t going home to bankruptcy was that Bambi was a demon when it came to cutting through red tape; she shredded through that shit like a wolverine. As she drove Eliot home from Whitespire, Margo had told him that taking a second mortgage on the house would probably cover the rest of his bills. There would also be enough left over to keep him on his feet until money started coming in again. Despite having power of attorney, she didn’t want to do it without talking to him first.
“I can’t believe this is happening.” Eliot had said, running his hands through his hair. It was a habit he’d picked up since learning to live without his meticulous hair routine in Whitespire, “Why the fuck did I think that one of the bougiest rehab centers in America was something I could afford?”
“El, you haven’t worried about money for years. Did you honestly look at how much it would cost before signing?” She didn’t take her eyes off the road, but Eliot already knew the face she was making behind the wheel.
“No.” God, he’d been so stupid.
“Lesson fucking learned then, right?”
“Past Eliot was a dumb bitch.”
“No, past Eliot was past Eliot. Look, you’re in recovery now, and that’s all that goddamn matters .” Bambi took her hand off the wheel and squeezed his thigh, “You’ll take out that second mortgage, payback Whitespire, and then we’ll figure out what’s next. We got this, baby.”
Eliot sighed, “What the fuck would I do without you, Bambi?”
Margo gave him a sideways glance, “It’s not all sunshine and Hitachi Magic Wands. I got some bad with the good.”
“Wait. There was a good part? When the fuck was that?” He exhaled, “Nevermind, continue.”
“I’m not going to sugar coat it, El. No bank will lend to you...except the one, you’re currently with.”
“What? Wells Fargo? Are they that bad?”
“Right. You were off your dick for most of 2014. Yes, to put it mildly, they have a history of fucking their customers without grease.” She scowled over the steering wheel, “What’s worse, is you’re gonna need to take whatever interest rate they offer.”
“Past Eliot was such a dumb bitch,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did you know I only opened up that account because the bank name rhymed with ‘Margo’?”
“Awww, El. I bet you were on Dexedrine, it always did make you sentimental."
“I don’t remember, but that tracks. There was probably a vague recollection of it from the Music Man at play there too. Whatever, now I’m screwed. Thanks, past Eliot. That’s nice.”
“Hey, past El had his head shoved so far up his twat he couldn’t function, much less care.”
“Right,” he nodded, “That is, definitely true.”
“But you are so much smarter than that. It’s going to be okay. We’re all in this together.”
“Did...did you just quote High School Musical ?”
“Son of a clit!” She hit the steering wheel with her palm, “That’s where it’s from!”
Now
That...Q, I’d really like that. I-I just don't know if I can.
Hours later, Eliot is still replaying his conversation with Q in his head. Quentin was more than supportive, having said that Eliot should take all the time he needs before making a decision. Even then, it’d been evident that his promise to think about it hadn't softened the blow as much as Eliot would have liked. After they had exchanged phone numbers, he had told Q he would text as soon as he could. Which seemed to be enough.
Despite all that, it had still sucked.
I know relationships aren't really encouraged before you've made it a year. But is that true, for like, being friends? What I’m trying to say is, whatever you need, it's your call.
Would being friends be that difficult? They had done it before. But the slippery slope into being more was there in spades, and it wasn’t going anywhere. If he were being honest with himself -- and Christ, he was trying-- Eliot doesn’t know if he would resist the temptation when it inevitably presented itself. Quentin had been the best thing in his life, and he’d ruined it. Then, he had spiraled uncontrollably, fucking died, and forcibly had to rewrite his entire life from there. Had he spiraled because it had been his fault? Or was it because he’d just been an addict looking for an excuse?
Enough fucking philosophizing, Waugh. You need to call the cricket.
“What do you think you would feasibly be able to control?” Charlton chirps through Eliot’s earbuds. It had turned into a gloriously sunny day, with the wind blowing through the trees. Eliot plants himself on a bench outside Margo’s building, there was no way he would go up to the roof without lighter fluid. He was going to burn that dining chair, so help him, God. He wonders if there’s a penalty for smoking on street level now, then quickly decides he doesn’t care. If someone does say something, he’ll feign ignorance. Either way, the pack Quentin bought him wasn’t going to live to see the sunset.
“I can only control myself,” Eliot says, exasperated. He knows Charlton is only trying to help, but damn he can be infuriating. Whatever, it was his choice to call him, so blame where blame is due.
“Yes.” Charlton says smugly, “Do you think you are in control enough for a friendship with this Quentin person?”
“Charlton, that’s why I’m calling!” Eliot could kill him, he really fucking could.
“Eliot, I’m not a licensed professional.” He quips back, “You know, this is why I said...”
“I know what you said,” Eliot sighs, “I can’t get into that right now. I just need someone to tell me what to do.”
“I’m sorry, but I won’t do that.” Charlton inhales sharply, “Do you trust yourself to set boundaries with Quentin?”
“Yes? It’s so much more than that though.” Eliot holds his cigarette in his mouth and pinches the bridge of his nose “I told you we have a history.”
“What if you were only to agree to see him while you were in the City?” Charlton chirps, “You have, what? Twelve days left?”
“Eleven,” Eliot replies, it isn’t that bad of an idea.
“Do you believe that’s enough time to attempt a friendship? Without complicating it further, that is.”
“Maybe? I think I owe it to Q, to at least try.” Quentin had gone to the trouble of searching for him, even though he probably had better things to do with his time. But Eliot was no longer a subscriber to fake it ‘til you make it. And he doesn’t want to reward Q’s efforts with promises he can’t keep.
“If it were me, I wouldn’t agree to it unless I was certain.” Charlton pauses, “Perhaps, you should wait until tomorrow. Quentin sounds like he would understand if you didn’t think it was appropriate.”
As usual, Charlton had hit the nail on the head. It was maddening. Maybe, someday, Eliot could figure this shit out on his own.
“Well, what should I do until then?”
“I don’t know, you're an artist. Make some art? ” Charlton quips, “Fuck. I’m sorry, Eliot, but I have to go. Feel free to call with any updates. Good luck.” And with that, Charlton hung up.
Having smoked his lucky cigarette, --upon which he wished he could just figure out his fucking life for once -- Eliot grabs his books and heads into Margo’s building. Maybe later, he’ll walk to that bodega he found after he fled the Neitherlands. He remembers the cat there being on the slender side, which was always a good sign. It was one of the first lessons Bambi had ever given him when they met freshman year:
Never trust a bodega with a fat cat; you don’t know what it ate to get that way.
Fresh off the bus from Whiteland, Indiana, and yet to undergo the greatest creative project of his life. Eliot had fallen in love with her then and there. How she had seen him for what he was, before he was brave enough to be it, was a kind of magic he had never known. Yes, chances were that Eliot’s destiny was to create himself, but without Bambi, his story probably would have been met with a dark and tragic end. She had saved him, over and over again. There would be no Eliot Waugh without Margo Hanson.
Without her, I simply cease to be.
Eliot winces at the memory. If this thing with Quentin ends up happening, he’ll need to apologize to Julia for being such a dick at the Neitherlands.
###
Having taken Charlton’s advice to make some art, Eliot flips through his sketches. It’s difficult to choose which to focus on first. Obviously, not the ego-stroking self-portrait. That would have been a hard-sell even when he was famous, and he’s diligently been trying to relinquish his once Durer-level narcissism. Given his newfound inspiration from the book on Stålenhag, apocalyptic middle-America is as good a place to start as any. Opening the windows in Bambi’s apartment that aren’t painted shut, Eliot puts in his ear-buds, selects Transformer, and skips directly to Perfect Day.
While shaking his hips and singing to the chorus of Satellite Of Love, Eliot mixes his palette of muted yellows, paynes grey, ember, and burnt umber. The colors are reminiscent of Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World. Why that painting came to mind --beyond the unmistakable middle America= sadness vibe-- is anyone’s guess. He’s sure he hadn’t given it a second thought since the paper he wrote in undergrad.
Hours later, Transformer continues to play on loop as Eliot finally realizes that A) Bambi’s apartment is not properly ventilated no matter how many windows are open and B) the fumes have left him thoroughly hot-boxed. The tell-tale sign of you’ve been working around inhalants too long dummy rears its ugly head as Eliot’s stomach lets out a low, painful growl.
Jesus, I forgot to eat lunch...and breakfast. How am I standing?
After cleaning his brushes, Eliot gets the leftovers from breakfast the day before. He picks out the now wilted kale and warms up the rest, topping it off with another egg. Leaving the kitchen, Eliot snags Q’s book from the counter, then takes his seat on the couch. He eyes the book speculatively as he eats. It would probably be best to read it before he sees Q next, especially if he plans to tell him he can’t handle a relationship in any context.
Hey, sorry to be a complete waste of your time...again. But, as a consolation prize, I read your book.
The concept of Eliot Waugh reading a book might be enough to keep Q from fixating on bad news, if there will be any. Eliot just can’t make up his damn mind, and it aggravates the fuck out of him.
After finishing dinner, he flips through the book aimlessly. For short stories, its lengthy as fuck. It makes sense though, Q was never one to cut to the chase. His fingers catch on the dust jacket --the cover art truly is horrible-- and the title page that Quentin had signed flips down:
To the spectacular Eliot Waugh- the most elegant man I’ve ever met, and the one I’ve missed most. Ogden & Makepeace to the ends of the Earth.
His lucky cigarette is sending him a sign, and it’s Quentin Coldwater.
Notes:
**Eliot now sounds a bit like the lizard persona from All That Hard, Glossy Armor- still Eliot, but some of the tired warble has been stripped from his voice.
Thanks for reading! Come back next week for chapter 10!
Description: In which Quentin can spell Millenial and Eliot cannot.
Chapter 11: Quentin's AirBnB
Summary:
In which Quentin can spell Millenial, and Eliot cannot.
Notes:
Chapter 10 and over 1,000 hits!
I can't believe this story has gotten this far! Thank you, everyone, for your amazing support!
This chapter would not be possible without my beta mafm, who helped get me out of writer's block when I was struggling to write Quentin and Eliot's tete-a-tete on the roof.
Thank you again! I sincerely hope everyone is enjoying Eliot's journey toward happiness.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next morning, Eliot walks down to the bodega to buy cigarettes. He had promised himself to put off texting Quentin until after his first smoke and, still sore from what he will forever refer to as the Dunkin’ Donuts incident , a decent cup of coffee. Thankfully, the bodega is well-stocked. Eliot buys some essentials, another two soft-packs of Camels, and is deemed worthy of affection by the bodega cat.
After picking up coffee, -- from an independent coffee shop, thank you very much- - and the mandatory first cigarette, Eliot makes his way back to the apartment. Sidestepping the easel at the front door, Eliot drops the sack of groceries on the counter, then whips out his phone to text Quentin. If the lucky cigarette is giving him a sign, he will take it.
Me: My lucky cigarette gave me a sign
Me: That we should hang out
Me: What are u doing for the next 10 days?
Me: Text 3 should be 1
Staring at his screen, Eliot wondered if he should delete the whole thread and start over. The text sounded ambiguous at best now that he looked at it. Maybe Quentin will find it endearing? He had always told Eliot that his texting practices sent him into hysterics.
Q (friends ONLY): Wow, your texting game has not improved.
Me: I thought u found them funny
Me: hysterics u said
Q (friends ONLY): Yeah, hysterics. As in, your sentence structure gave me panic attacks.
Me: Shit whoops
Q (friends ONLY): Don’t worry about it. I’d love to hang out. Does this mean the friend thing is a go?
Me: The lucky told me so
Q (friends ONLY): Well, definitely can’t argue with that. What are you doing tonight?
Me: Hanging out with u?
Q (friend ONLY): Time???
Me: Whats the hip mellienial answer?
Me: Ducking autocorrect wont spell mellainiall
Q (friends ONLY): 5? Says the overly-eager and thoroughly unhip millennial.
Me: K where?
Q (friends ONLY): My place?
Me: K
Shit. Shit. Shit.
After Quentin sends him the address to his Airbnb on E 11th, --which is within spitting distance of the Strand because, of course, it is-- Eliot tries his best to stay busy. Five was still hours away, and it wouldn’t do him any favors to panic. So instead of panicking, --because he is not doing that-- he showers, --twice-- goes out for a cigarette, --four, five, six times-- and, after failing to make any progress on his painting, decides to read Six Short Stories About Magic.
It never occurred to Eliot to ever give short stories a try. Up until this moment, whenever forced to read, he had either rapidly developed a cluster migraine --most likely due to vision issues he had outright refused to address-- or had fallen asleep. --most likely due to boredom-- But for whatever reason, whether it was a needed distraction or some sort of duty to Quentin, Eliot found himself flying through the pages.
More than anything, it’s comforting. Despite the many extreme differences between the Cordena series and this new work, it still sounded just like him. Way back when, Eliot had never tired of him reading new passages, no matter how many times he had to hear them over again. He wonders if Quentin recorded an audiobook at any point. Maybe he could search for it. And what? Listen to his ex’s voice while successfully avoiding any triggering behavior as a result? Nope.
Stupid step 10.
###
An exciting concept Eliot never knew about reading, it makes you lose time like a motherfucker. Halfway through the third story, he checks his phone. It’s already 4:49 p.m.
“Shit!” he shouts, quickly grabbing his peacoat and necessary accoutrements. In a matter of moments, he’s out the door, down the stairs, and then onto the street. Swearing under his breath as he rapidly taps --misspells, swears, and taps again-- Quentin’s address into his phone.
Google informs him Quentin’s place is a twenty-minute walk. Eliot could choose to panic, but he knows, at least this time, his error is a quick fix.
Me: Hey running late
Q (friend ONLY): It’s okay, thanks for letting me know. How far are you?
Me: Google 20min
Eliot watched the little text bubble disappear and reappear. Was Q going to call the whole thing off?
Q (friend ONLY): Cool.
Cool? What did Cool mean? It was too vague. Eliot did not like vague one bit.
Q (friend ONLY): Now I can take a shower before you get here.
This man is going to kill me.
###
Thanks to the combination of Lust For Life rattling on his earbuds, his eighteen-mile long legs, and the substantial amount of adrenaline that began pumping the moment he left Margo’s apartment, Eliot outpaces Google’s travel estimate by four minutes. There’s now just enough time leftover for him to properly smoke/panic before getting the nerve to text again.
Me: Im here
In an instant, the basement door opens, and Quentin appears in a bathrobe, hair still wet, “Hey, El, got your text. I figured I should come up.”
“Oh, thanks,” Eliot can’t take his eyes off of the man’s glorious hair, “Your hair’s wet.”
“Yeah, sorry, I’ll, um, just be a minute,” Quentin says, suddenly aware that he’s standing out in public in nothing but a bathrobe. Eliot’s mouth quirks as Quentin flushes crimson, “Right. Uh, can you come in, maybe?” he rolls his eyes, jerking his head towards the door.
“Well, since you asked so nicely, Coldwater,” Eliot grins as he marches down the steps.
While he follows Quentin through the building to his apartment, Eliot notices that there’s still shampoo in his hair.
“I gotta jump back into the shower,” Quentin tells him, “make yourself at home.”
Eliot quirks his head to the side, “Did you leave mid-shower just to let me in?”
“Uh, yeah, I was…” faltering in that very Quentin way, “I mean, I’m just going to go, um, finish up.” As he walks back to the bathroom, Eliot catches himself staring at his ass.
Shit.
Since Quentin had said to make himself at home, Eliot pokes around the apartment. It’s pretty basic, soothing grey walls, white accents, and art that was probably purchased at Target or some other big box store. Still, it’s easy to spot the bits that are Quentin --i.e., Books-- and the bits that very much aren’t. --i.e. cooking utensils-- When Eliot hears the water shut off, he panics. Grabbing the first book he can find, he launches onto the couch. Quentin’s footsteps echo from the bathroom farther down the hall. He doesn’t even pass Eliot on his way to the bedroom.
Off-key humming carries through the apartment, followed by the click-shut of a door.
Eliot looks down at the book he grabbed, The World Within The Walls. --Because of course-- Without anything else to occupy him, he flips through the well-worn paperback. It’s like a roadmap of the man’s personal history. The margins are filled with notes, variations on his handwriting as it improved over the years. Eliot has a needling sensation he should put the book back, that continuing to riffle through it would somehow violate Quentin’s privacy on principle.
“Are you finally considering reading those?” Quentin says from behind, causing Eliot to nearly come out of his skin.
Christ, was he always this fucking quiet?
Eliot looks over the back of the couch, Quentin has his hair in a messy bun at the base of his skull again. He’s wearing what could be best described as nerd couture. A charcoal gray fitted t-shirt --fitted? Seriously!?-- under a black bomber jacket with patch of the Fillorian crest on the left bicep. But, since it’s Quentin, he’s also sporting his signature black skinny jeans and bare feet. --thank Christ, some shit will never change-- The outfit leaves him looking absurdly handsome, as is the new normal.
“Come now, Coldwater. You know I can’t read,” Eliot says with mock haughtiness, “I’m an artist who has no time for brilliant short stories about magical theft on Library planets.”
Quentin gapes, “You’re reading my book?” He says a bit shocked, --which, rude-- “You didn’t even read the Cordena series…”
“Drat.” Eliot snaps his fingers, “You figured out my clever ruse. Yes. I am, in fact, reading your book. And, excuse me, just because I didn’t read Cordena, doesn’t mean I don’t know all four of those suckers from cover to cover.”
“Right. I didn’t think of it that way,” Q smirks a little, “You must have been so sick of my voice by the time we were published.”
“Never.” For a moment, the word just hangs in the air. So insignificant in its design, but the implication is the most complicated thing that Eliot has said in weeks, “Right. *ahem* So,” He claps his hands and stands, “Where should we go? I’m new to this whole ‘hang out’ thing. Well , the sober version at least. I mean, I’ve been invited to Netflix and chill...”
“Netflix and chill? Wow, El, that's, like, so not a thing anymore."
“Coldwater, I was in rehab for six months, so you'll have to excuse me if I'm not 'up with the times.'” Eliot says archly.
“Okay, okay, fair point," Quentin rolls his eyes, causing Eliot to force down a smirk, “Right, uh, yeah. Okay. Wanna, I dunno, get dinner?”
“Sure. Can we avoid anything fancy” Eliot unbuttons his coat to show off a paint-stained henley and jeans, “My shirt is kind of a nightmare, and I very well can’t dine in a peacoat .”
“Sure, yeah,” Quentin smiles, probably due to the Eliot and yet not of it all, “Not fancy, check.”
###
Since food is only an endgame, Quentin and Eliot smoke and talk as they walk around the neighborhood. Cutting through parks when they can, the two take in the blossoming trees of spring. Block after block, Elot can’t help but feel sentimental for the time when such domestic activities were a regular occurrence. Way back when, they would walk everywhere together. When Quentin would spiral, Eliot would take any opportunity he could to get him out of their apartment. In winter, Quentin would layer-up in long-sleeve t-shirts and sweaters, so that he wouldn’t give up and go home due to the cold. Eliot was, admittedly, kind of a task master about it. Which was always guaranteed to be met with protest, -- and Quentin could be a goddamn brat about it-- but they both knew it would be worth it if it meant they could walk for hours.
They grab dinner at a Banh Mi place with five stars on Google and an A in the window. Quentin gets a mango bubble tea with extra pearls; Eliot never really understood the appeal. However, there was a bizarre four-month stint in Eliot’s late twenties, where he loved Starbucks frappuccinos, but that left as quickly as it bafflingly came, with no explanation.
With Tompkins Square only a block away, Eliot carries the to-go bag as they walk, while Quentin shifts his bubble tea from one hand to the other.
“What’re you doing?” Eliot grins.
Quentin shakes out his hand before shifting the cup again, “It’s too fucking cold to hold onto, I should’ve grabbed some napkins.”
“You and your damn napkins. I swear.”
“If you’re so immune, why don’t you hold the damn thing?” He shoves the cup in Eliot’s direction.
“No,” Eliot shakes his head, “You bought the hat, Coldwater, wear it.”
“That’s a stupid fucking phrase.”
“Says the writer.”
“Yeah, so shut up.”
Once at Tompkins, the two find a bench under the Krishna Tree, and Eliot breaks out the sandwiches.
“Huh, I guess we had napkins anyway,” handing over Quentin’s banh mi, “that was nice of them, don’t you think?” He grins widely.
Quentin rolls his eyes as he yanks the napkins out of Eliot’s hand and wraps them around his cup, “Har har. You’re so funny, Waugh.”
“Obviously,” Eliot quips, “In fact, I would say it’s my third best quality.”
Quentin chews on his sandwich while Eliot stretches out his arms over the back of the bench. It’s one hell of a beautiful evening. After they finish their Banh mi, Eliot lights a cigarette and passes it over.
“So, what do you want to do now?” Quentin asks, taking a long drag and passing back the cigarette.
Eliot plucks it from Quentin’s hand, “I don’t know,” he sighs.
They sit in silence, passing the Camel back and forth, “ Wait. Oh my god, I have an idea.” Eliot says, sitting up and turning to face Quentin, “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” He tells him, “I mean, but it’s not, like, illegal or anything, right?”
“Honestly? I don’t know,” Eliot’s already on his feet, “but it’s something I’ve wanted to do for days!”
After a quick stop at Union Square Supply, Eliot ecstatically drags his new metal trash can the seven blocks back to Bambi’s apartment. Quentin follows behind him, napkin wrapped bubble tea in one hand and lighter fluid in the other.
Notes:
Come back next week for chapter 12!
In which the beast is bested, and Chekov's are easel makes an appearance.
If you've been waiting to leave a comment, now's the time! I appreciate your feedback!
Chapter 12: Satan's Throne
Summary:
In which the beast is finally bested, and Chekov's art easel makes an appearance.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hardly able to contain his excitement, Eliot marches up to Bambi’s apartment. After shoving matches and some cans of La Croix into the pockets of his coat, he and Quentin begin the ascent to the roof. Thankfully, it’s still early evening, so the raucous noise of his newly purchased trash can being dragged up the stairwell, doesn’t wake the neighbors. Well, no one complains. That he knows about, anyway. He takes the steps two at a time, knowing he won’t be able to keep up the pace but doesn’t care either. He can only assume Quentin is amused, based on the suppressed laughter he can hear between the crash of the can as it beats against the steps, railing, and walls. By the time they get to the seventh floor, Eliot has to stop. Putting his hands on his knees, he tries his best to breathe, but his smoker’s cough rattles louder than the trash can ever did.
“Jesus, El. Are you okay?” Quentin puts down his can of lighter fluid and rubs between Eliot’s shoulder blades. The contact makes his heart do a thing .
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” He pants, waving Q away, “I just ran out of adrenaline. I’m really fucking excited.”
“Yeah, about that,” Quentin squats down and looks up at Eliot, his brow furrowed, “What exactly are we lighting on fire?”
Eliot stands up and slings the can back over his shoulder, and marches up the stairs, “The lumbar-wrecking-motherfucking bane of my existence . That’s what.”
“Uh-huh.” Quentin says skeptically, “are you sure this is legal?”
“Probably not,” Eliot calls back as he continues his march upward.
When they finally reach the roof, Eliot is a wreck. He drops the trash can and resumes his position from the stairwell, hacking between his knees. Quentin, having carried vastly less weight, leans against the edge of the rooftop. Looking only slightly concerned as Eliot fights his way through what could best be described as a death knell.
“Hey,” Quentin glibes, “if you’re, you know, gonna die, can I have your cigarettes when you’re gone? Camels wouldn’t be my first choice, but I’m almost out, so...”
“You *cough* *cough* are such a brat.”
Quentin shrugs, cupping his hands as he lights his cigarette, “What’cha gonna do?”
After Eliot is done fucking dying in front of the cold and heartless beast, known as Quentin Coldwater, --devoid of sympathy for his fellow man...rude-- he barricades the door to the roof with a cinder block and searches for a place for the trash can. Sticking out his tongue, he squares his hands as if looking at a canvas in the cliche look at me being a serious artist pose that he’d seen done a hundred times in undergrad. The art student version of a guitar on a dorm bed. Holding his cigarette in his teeth, Quentin gives Eliot a small golf clap for his efforts.
After taking an elegant bow, Eliot positions the trash can in the middle of the roof, far from the door, but still invisible from the ground. It’s perfect. Having learned nothing from his coughing fit, not five minutes before, he lights a cigarette and joins Quentin to revel in his brilliance.
“So, where’s the big, bad, lumbar-wrecking-motherfucking bane of your existence?” Quentin asks, lighting another cigarette.
So much for quitting.
“All in good time, dear Quentin,” Eliot assures him between drags, “patience is a virtue after all.”
“Come on," he scoffs, "You’re the one who almost killed himself from the sheer excitement of, whatever the fuck this is.”
“And where was all this compassion ten minutes ago?” Eliot clears his throat, “And excuse me, Coldwater.” He smirks, “I think you meant, almost killed himself, again.”
“Right, right.” Quentin rolls his eyes, “My mistake.”
Flicking his butt over the edge of the roof, --it probably won’t hit anyone, just land in a hedge or something, it’s fiiine-- Eliot picks up the dining chair from where he’d kicked it the other day and brings it over to Quentin.
"Et voila!" Eliot drops the chair with a loud clatter and showman’s flourish, to add the perfect air of theatricality.
"A chair?” Quentin says confusedly, “We're lighting a chair on fire?"
"Oh, Quentin. This isn’t just any chair,” Eliot shakes his head, “This is the throne of Satan himself. Now, help me get it in the can."
Quentin scoffs, "Huh. You've lost your mind."
"Come on, Q, just let me have this," he pleads, --because let’s face it, he’s not above such things--
Q rolls his eyes and grins, all dimples, "Okay, fine."
###
“No. You gotta twist it. I said--”
“Just saying twist over and over, doesn’t actually help, Waugh. ”
“Well, Coldwater, I wouldn’t have to repeat myself if you would just fucking twist the thing.”
With Quentin’s help, --splintering, shoving, and only minor squabbling-- Eliot gets the chair into the trash can. If it’s not shoved down far enough, there’s a risk of it tipping over. A fact which Eliot patiently explained to Quentin when he started to get pissy about spending so much time struggling to get a chair into a glorified barrel.
Popping the safety seal on the lighter fluid, Eliot soaks the wood with it. He knows he shouldn’t use the whole can, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, this sucker needs to really burn. They can’t risk leaving any evidence behind.
“Isn’t this thing, like, varnished or something?”
“Why?”
“Uh, yeah. If we burn this, the fumes are gonna be, uh, super noxious. Like, I dunno, toxic even?”
“So?” Eliot says, shooting Q a look, “The varnish is, like, a thousand years old and we’ll stand at a safe distance. Honestly, it’s fine.” Eliot lights a match and tosses it into the can.
With a gratifying, *FOOM* a massive tower of flame shoots from the trash can. The fire is more sublime than Eliot could have imagined and just as illegal --and probably toxic-- as Quentin feared.
Suddenly aware of how close he’d been standing when the chair went up in flames, Eliot nervously reaches for his eyebrows. Thank fucking god, they’re still intact.
“Best night ever, ” Eliot says as he cracks open the La Croixs, handing one over to Quentin, “to the millennial trash we are.”
Quentin raises his can in toast, “To the immolation of Satan’s throne.”
The two bask in the glow while sipping on their La Croix, Eliot grinning with satisfaction that only lighting shit on fire can bring about. The chair burns bright and fast, and in no time at all, it’s nothing but a smoldering pile ash and Eliot's sweet victory. With Quentin by his side and the goddamn chair finally dealt with, Eliot’s the best he’s felt in years. God, does he love lighting shit on fire.
Mmmm, catharsis.
In the dying light of the trashcan fire, Quentin wraps his arm around Eliot’s waist. As side hugs go, --the universal language for is this okay? I’m trying to act non-committal, but I think I’m just making it weird.-- it’s certainly less awkward than expected. As his brain screams things like: Keep boundaries, dammit! This is not a date!-- and --Whatthefuckareyoudoing!? Eliot drapes his arm over Quentin's shoulder. To the surprise of no one, the man leans into Eliot’s side like the goddamn cat he’s always been. Then, breathing a small contented sigh, Quentin mumbles something under his breath.
Just ignore it. Just fucking ignore it.
“What’s that, Q?”
Dammit, Waugh.
Quentin looks up at him, “I missed you, a-and I’m so glad to have you back, El. You know, in my life, that is. ”
Something grabs at Eliot’s chest. He just can’t bear this tete-a-tete, --this goddamn stupid fucking dance-- he’s been treating as something he’ll just need to suffer through.
I’m in control. This is me in control.
Eliot embraces Quentin, and, wrapping his hand around the back of his neck, gives in. The kiss itself is as Eliot intended, chaste, and contained. But Quentin just melts into it. Like it’s the most precious gift in the world.
And, well, that was that.
As the wave of endorphins rushes into him, Spellbound begins to play in Eliot's head. What started it’s life as a kiss of simplicity, just to test the waters, quickly shifts to that of hunger he’d long forgotten. The sensation of joy and yearning finally coming to a climax within that one simple kiss as it rapidly grows in its complexity, its certainty of what they’ve both been missing. Eliot’s thoughts, blending and expanding with Quentin, Quentin, Quentin. He wants to chase this feeling, wants to have it for his own. Synapses firing on repeat: Want. Need. Quentin. Now.
I’m so glad to have you back, El.
“Downstairs. Now. ” Eliot pants, no longer able to string a sentence together.
“You’re sure?” Quentin asks, wholly breathless and flushed. But there’s an edge of concern, of slight uncertainty.
Eliot’s brain short circuits as he looks down, “Yes. Yes, now. ”
Goddammit, he's so fucking beautiful.
Quentin dumps out his La Croix on what’s left of the dining chair. Then Eliot drags him by the hand, across the roof, and down the stairs to the apartment.
Confirmed consent was, apparently, all that stood between Quentin and enthusiastically showing Eliot just how much he missed him. By the time the two get down to Margo’s floor, he’s pulled his hair out of its bun and is practically climbing up Eliot on the mezzanine. Pushing Eliot up against the wall, Quentin grabs him by the belt loops and thrusts upward, his eager mouth communicating volumes after years of painful absence.
Quentin, Quentin, Quentin
“El, I missed you so fucking much,” Quentin tells him through red, swollen lips.
“I-I missed you. Oh, fuck,” He moans as Quentin places two of Eliot’s fingers in his mouth and sucks, “Shit, oh my god. We, we...gotta get to Bambi’s.”
When Quentin releases the fingers with a mischievous grin, a promise for later, Eliot’s vision goes white. Grabbing the man by his hair, Eliot kisses him deeply, getting the smallest of whimpers for his trouble. Oh, the noises. He’d forgotten all about those. Lust, flat out, surges through Eliot. Tightening his hold, he fucks his tongue into Quentin’s mouth, chasing those beautiful sounds. Possessed with the desire to pull as many glorious, needy noises as he can out of him. He feels himself getting hard as they begin to pour from Quentin’s blissfully parted lips.
Outside Margo’s door, Quentin pulls off Eliot’s peacoat and pushes him against the wall, nipping at his collar bones and kissing him with such ferocity Eliot drops his keys --twice-- as his mind goes blank and his knees buckle. With keys finally in hand, Eliot spins Quentin around and pins him against the door, grinding against one another as he slides the key into the lock.
Pushing Quentin backward through the door, Eliot knows he’s lost control. He just doesn’t care. This primal need is the most driven thing he’s felt in months. Now that he’s caught Quentin, Eliot plans to devour his meal painstakingly slow. Eyes closed and mouth-watering from unyielding hunger, he pushes Quentin farther back into the apartment.
Suddenly, Quentin drops from his grasp, followed by a loud crash. Eliot’s eyes fly open to find him on the floor, having fallen ass over tea kettle onto the collapsible easel.
“Christ! Are you all right?”
Notes:
Come back for chapter 13! In which Quentin's brain lies, and Eliot is vital.
Chapter 13: Eliza Purchas
Summary:
In which Quentin's brain lies and Eliot is vital
Chapter Text
10 years ago
It took more than a year before Quentin and Eliot found a publishing house. The would-be writer had sent his manuscript to Purchas Publishing six months after graduating Summa Cum Laude from Columbia. He had sent out dozens like it, but this time it stuck. The company was small, run by the slightly eccentric, Eliza Purchas. After a preliminary meeting where Eliot did most of the talking, she informed the two that she loved the first draft and would be moving forward with the first phase of what she hoped would be a series. Eliza was also quite taken by Eliot's illustrations. Vital to the project, she had said. Eliot had never considered himself as vital to anything and had indeed never been called such a thing either. It was flattering, to say the least, but then again, since meeting Quentin Coldwater, flattery had become part of the package deal.
The advance was the most money either had ever seen in their lives, but they were also broke. A combined incoming of nothing may have been a poor basis of comparison. Thanks to Eliza, Eliot was able to quit bartending and focus on The Creatures of Cordena as his full-time job. A year's worth of days, nights, and weekends were spent as a professional artist. This was the first time Eliot had dollars and cents coming in rather than going out, at least where his degree was concerned. He didn't plan on it lasting, however. Eliot knew better than to bet the house on a children's series, no matter how darling it's creator was. And once it was over, well, it was just a matter of time before he went back to bartending and Craigslist.
From then on, things evolved rapidly, Eliza would not settle for less. She expected Quentin to stretch his original story out over four books: The Mountains, The Sea, The Castle, and The Crowns. The first of which was set to go to print within the following year. Together, they slogged through the Purchas trenches, pulling all-nighters, fueled by Eliot's stockpiled Adderall. Quentin teased that they were brothers in arms, --though that was a far cry from what Eliot would have liked-- busy rendering and writing the newest concepts based on Eliza's ever-changing revisions.
"Okay, how about this?" Quentin popped up his head, turning to Eliot, "Makepeace watches from the woods, light from the twin moons filtering through the trees..."
"Do they have names, these twins?" Eliot asked, still focused on his drawing.
"Oh! I hadn't thought of that. Any ideas?"
"Kevin and Doyle."
"Um, I don't think that works…" Quentin furrowed his brow, then rolled his eyes in a of course sort of way, "Seriously, El...twins?"
"Well, triplets, actually. Undergrad had its interesting moments." Eliot leaned back and gave his arms a languid stretch. Then, resting his wrists on the top of his head, swiveled in his chair to face Quentin, "The third was named Mark if you want to give Cordena three moons."
"I'm, uh, okay. Thanks," Quentin rolled his eyes.
"Fine. Mark was the annoying one anyway. Very unwilling when it came to, hmm," Eliot gave Q a smirk and arched his eyebrows, "...teamwork."
In the nearly two years of knowing Quentin, the crush Eliot had on a boy he was not allowed to seduce had snowballed into straight-up infatuation, much to Bambi's constant groans. After first meeting Quentin she could not wrap her head around the appeal --Honestly, El. He's not that cute-- Eventually, her hard glossy armor was softened by Quentin's sheer earnestness, and Margo had come to appreciate the moody little nerd.
Their individual circle of friends eventually became the sort of homogeneous glob that is commonplace when one is in one's twenties. Quentin brought Julia into the mix, while Eliot had his Bambi, and then there were the other miscreants picked up along the way; Josh, Kady, and Penny, with which their party --aka drugs and broodiness-- would not be complete.
They all lived together in an apartment far too small for six, and, at one point, everyone may have fucked each other. --Josh had made a conspiracy theorist board when they were very, very high-- But Eliot had lost track of which body part had gone into what and with whom.
Insert Fleetwood Mac joke here
Well, everyone aside from him and Q, that is. Eliot --the stupid, stupid man that he was-- had never moved on from being head over heels for Quentin Coldwater. True, he had the occasional one night stand --he wasn't a nun after all-- and a short, yet regrettable relationship/distraction --Ugh, Mike-- but beyond that, it was Quentin, Quentin, Quentin.
On the rare occasions that he and Quentin spent time apart, Eliot would pine. Eliot Waugh did not pine, but his hand was forced. He had flirted with the downright pretty boy to near breaking point, and he had yet to reciprocate. Eliot wasn't coy or subtle, thank you very much. He'd applied a thick layer of innuendo, physical affection, and whatever else made the boy flush...and received nothing for his efforts. Nada. Zip.
So --instead of sleeping together...rude-- they slaved over their mutual halves towards their publication date. That wondrous day when Quentin would give him that half-crooked smile that made Eliot's heart slam against his ribs and say something endearingly dorky like, were published, bitches. But they would need to get there first, which was becoming increasingly difficult, what with Eliza's demands. And with each change to his original manuscript, Quentin became more frantic, much to Eliot's chagrin. Adoration had blinded Eliot to plenty of his quirks and moods, but nerd panic was fucking tedious.
"What if she, you know, wants her money back or something?" Quentin had asked one particular day when his anxiety had taken the front seat.
"Little Q, is that something that usually happens, or is your brain lying to you?"
"Uh, it's lying, I think? But..."
"Good. Then let's spend some money on a nice dinner, and not overthink it. Drinks are on my half of the advance." He had given Quentin a devilish grin and received that signature flush in response.
Unrequited love was such a bitch.
###
"Um, Bambi, can you come in here please?" Eliot asked.
It wasn't a date. It was nothing like that, really. Not a date. Nope.
It was just dinner and drinks to celebrate their first year in the trenches, just like in the first Great War. Plenty of soldiers must have done it; a bottle of Sangiovese, a tin of sardines, maybe a baguette, and absolutely no necking in the fox hole.
So, not a date.
Trusting Eliot enough to choose a restaurant was a huge step for Quentin, being a man who thought meat in a grilled cheese was fancy, as opposed to an overly ambitious panini. In an attempt to find a happy medium, Eliot had searched for something within budget, low key, but preferably with a menu that didn’t have pictures. It was what Quentin might call an epic quest, and thanks to modern technology, Eliot found a tapas place that seemed promising.
Okay, so small plates were somewhat of an intimate affair, but if Quentin didn't like something, it wouldn't be enough of a loss where he would feel guilty for not eating whatever Eliot ordered for them.
Plus, Daddy loved his Tempranillos.
It wasn't a date. It was nothing like that, really. But Eliot decided to get fancied up anyway. It was a night out after all, and when was the last time he'd done something like that? Well, Tuesday, but whatever. It's not like he'd spent hours devoted to planning his outfit, hair, and makeup only to panic at the last minute, questioning all his choices in fashion and life. Nope. Definitely not. He was still his very own gift to the world, a mantle that required the utmost gravitas, that's all. And the tones of gray and green he chose -- if he could just narrow it down to which fucking garments -- were to compliment his eyes and definitely not someone else's. Nope.
"What do you... oh, Honey, no." Margo walked into their shared bedroom to find Eliot blasting Baby Boomerang , surrounded by the wreckage of his wardrobe.
"I have nothing to wear!" Eliot whispered, hoping to Christ, Quentin couldn’t hear him over the music.
"You always look flawless," She purred, trying her best to calm his ever-growing hysteria, "I don't know what you're on about. Just, ovary up."
"But, what if something happens?" He whined, throwing another waistcoat onto the bed.
"Oh, for fuck's sake.” Bambi rolled her eyes, “Stop projecting. It's just Quentin."
“Could you please keep your voice down?” Eliot hissed, "These walls are thinner than a victorian street urchin.”
She eyed him curiously, "When was the last time you got laid?"
Eliot had to think, which was never a good sign when it came to this sort of thing, "...A while."
"Well, there you go. You just need a proper dicking.” Moving over a pile of clothes, she leaned back on the bed, “That'll wrench your head from your twat."
“Ingenious, Bambi,” He cocked his head at her, "Do you think I'll have time before tonight?"
Margo checked the time on her phone, "No."
"Then, that's not helpful advice!!" Eliot shrieked.
After asking what colors he was wearing, Margo had said something about abuse, not having to take it, and being needed elsewhere. She blew him a kiss and left him to his panic.
Seventy-three minutes later, Eliot felt thrown together at best. Simply put, he had run out of time spent trying to find an outfit and was instead forced to settle for one. The result was a grey button-down paired with a sage waistcoat, matching paisley silk tie, and charcoal wool trousers. His hair and makeup were at least salvageable when all was said and done. But it was still a far cry from what a week's worth of revolving doors of fantasies had prepared him for. Downing a handful of Zoloft Eliot gave himself a once over in the mirror; a knot of anxiety formed low in his gut.
It's not a date. It's nothing like that, really.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into what they laughably referred to as the living room. A shared space so minuscule, Eliot was barely able to lay on the floor lengthwise. There, already waiting for him, was Quentin looking the hottest Eliot had ever seen him.
Shit.That crafty bitch.
So that was why Bambi had asked about his colors. She knew what she could convince Quentin to wear, and then did her dirtiest of deeds. Margo had transformed the man into a book-nerd-sex-pot. What's worse, she'd probably roped Julia into it too. Who else on God's green earth could have gotten Quentin to wear anything that wasn't skinny jeans and a hoodie? They'd conspired. Conspired for fuck's sake, and for what? For the sheer joy of torturing him, that's what.
Goddammit. They'd done a fucking stellar job. Quentin was dressed in an olive green button-down that brought out the warm tones in his skin and eyes. Over it, he wore a dark grey suit --most likely picked out by the co-conspirators-- that, miracle among miracles, was the correct size for once. His hair was pulled away from his face and done up in a short ponytail. He was breath-taking, and, by comparison, Eliot felt like a hot mess.
"You, uh, look terrific." Quentin swallowed thickly, "Is, uh, this okay? Um, I kind of let Margo and Julia dress me."
"I sort of guessed." Eliot arched, "Who had dibs on finding the suit?"
"Jules got it for me," Quentin looked down, "She said I should have something that makes me look upstanding, for when the book gets published."
"Well, you look marvelous."
"You think so?" Quentin asked, his brown eyes full of disbelief.
"That would be an emphatic yes." Eliot offered the crook of his arm, "Now, shall we away to our intended destination?"
###
Pleasantly full of food and wine, Eliot and Quentin stumbled back towards the apartment. They had both left the restaurant giggling and flushed, but thanks to the mind-numbingly cold winter air, the walk back to the subway was one of mounting sobriety.
Which just would not do.
When they got home, the apartment was empty save for a note from Bambi. Apparently, everyone had gone dancing and wouldn't be home until the wee hours. Given the circumstances, continuing to drink seemed like the most logical choice. After putting Nature Boy on the record player and mixing a pair of Old Fashions, Eliot joined Quentin on the couch.
There was a boy, a very strange enchanted boy...
"Happy anniversary, Q to our first and last year at this thing," Eliot raised his glass in a toast, "by this time next year we'll be published and fabulously wealthy."
They say he wandered very far, very far over land and sea...
Quentin gave a toast back, his glass sloshing as he clinked it with Eliot's. After placing it on the coffee table, he gave him a crooked smile, "Hey."
A little shy, and sad of eye...
"Hey," Eliot mimicked.
"I um..." Warm lips pressed against Eliot's tasting of brandy, orange, and cherry. Opening his eyes, he saw Quentin, a smile on his face and eyes full of tender hopefulness.
But very wise, was he...
Moving his hand slowly to cover Quentin's own, Eliot wrapped the other around the back of the downright pretty boy's neck and kissed him with all the deep longing he’d hidden away for nearly two years.
And, well, that was that.
Now
"Christ! Are you all right?" Eliot yelps. He'd completely forgotten about the easel just behind the door. And now, --because Anton Chekhov is a little bitch-- Quentin was on his ass.
"I'm okay, I'm fine," he says from the floor, "Wait. Nope. I'm...Ow." Wincing as Eliot helps him up, Quentin stands, rubbing his lower back, "Shit, is thirty-three too early to say 'I hate getting old'?"
"Now you know why I wanted to burn that chair."
"Fuck! Your painting! God, El, I'm so sorry." Quentin picking it up from the floor and handing it over.
"It looks okay, no harm done," Eliot gives it the once over before picking up the easel and placing it back, "I was just messing around anyway."
"Really? I mean, I saw your work in Hi-Fructose a couple of times, which was striking. But, I dunno, this feels more, grounded maybe?" Quentin looks closer at the painting, "It's got this whole, like midwestern sorrow thing going on. Which has gotta tap into something for you personally, right?" He turns to Eliot, "Were you influenced by Christina's World or something?"
Eliot gapes, "I have so many questions."
"What?" Quentin replies, "I can't know about art?"
"Well, I mean, you didn't use to." Eliot replies,--sounding like a right bastard-- "How do you even know about Christina's World?"
"You're kidding, right? We talked bout Andrew Wyeth when we first met," Q furrows his brow, "Do you not remember that?"
"Oh yeah," Eliot lies, which, in his defense, feels simpler than explaining to Q that he's becoming increasingly convinced that something is seriously wrong with him, "Sorry, I remember now...at the Strand, right?"
Quentin gives him a look that Eliot can't read, "Right." Then, taking out his hair tie, he pulls his hair back into its messy bun, "Uh, so this is guaranteed to suck, but we gotta talk about what just happened on the roof."
###
The talk, as advertised, sucked, and was the closest thing to sharing his goddamn feelings, or whatever, since Whitespire. But since Eliot already lied about Wyeth, he had to be fucking honest about the shit that actually mattered. So, they talked about what went down on the roof, Eliot's recovery, how he had lost control, and all the other shit that was of vast importance.
He hated every goddamn second.
"So, where does this leave us?" He asks Quentin when all is said and done. They’d moved to the couch, where, -- like a fucking sit-com -- all the "big talks" in Bambi's apartment apparently took place.
Quentin looks at him with a forlorn expression, "Honestly? I mean, I would still like to see you. If you can't though, or, you know, don’t feel like you should, I-I respect that. I dunno, I feel like a lot of this is my fault. I didn't speak up when I should have. Instead, I just took you at your word and went for it."
"It's okay. You didn't... Look, I know I should say that this was a mistake, but it... just felt so fucking good." Eliot leans back, staring at the ceiling, "You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly I want you. But that's the problem, isn't it? My bullshit brain just thinks it's another drug." Eliot anxiously scratches the back of his head, and sighs, “I don’t know, does that make sense?”
"Yeah, it makes sense.” Quentin tells him, “So. Is this the part where you quote Brokeback Mountain?"
Eliot covers his eyes and lets out a groan, "God, no."
Together, they come up with a gameplan, one with boundaries, real ones, and strict rules regarding honesty. --Eliot already broke that one, whoops-- Promising one another that, despite still hanging out while Eliot was still in town, the focus would be on getting him through the rest of his first year. Quentin would wait for him, and they’d reexamine their relationship --whatever that meant-- then.
"Well, I should probably, you know," Quentin says, gesturing toward the door. It isn't that late, but they're both exhausted.
"Yeah, sounds good." Eliot says, standing up, "I'll walk you out."
Quentin turns to Eliot in the hallway, saying, "I, uh...you should keep working on that painting. I know you said you were just messing around, but what you have is amazing." Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Quentin bounces on his heels, "I mean, I think you're really onto something."
"Thanks, I'll think about it," Eliot tells him.
The two part ways on the stairs, Quentin makes his way to the street while Eliot, needing to get rid of any evidence they may have left, climbs back to the roof. Putting in his earbuds, he pulls up Head Over Heels on his phone. When he reaches the roof, the trash can is still there, smoldering slightly but otherwise undisturbed. The ash pile that was Satan's throne absolutely reeks. Even with the spring breeze that has kicked up. Who knows how long it would have taken before someone called the Super. --God, what was he even thinking? They could've been arrested-- Eliot takes his abandoned can of La Croix and dumps the last of it in the trash can. Sparks and ash fly as the chair sizzles its last breath. The beast of burden, finally bested.
Taking a seat on the edge of the roof, Eliot lights a cigarette and sees Quentin walking back towards his apartment. Catching sight of Quentin's slumped posture, curling in on itself, Eliot’s stomach twists. From a distance, he suddenly looks more like the young man Eliot once knew, than he ever does up close these days.
Chapter 14: FuzzBeat
Summary:
In which, Quentin waits and Eliot is a potato.
Notes:
Back from hiatus and could not be happier! Thank you to everyone who waited, I appreciate your patience :)
From now on I will be updating sporadically (always on a Friday), but this story will find it's end. I promise.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Eight days, one french press --which had shattered from overuse, sorry Bambi-- and all the cigarettes later, Eliot's rut has finally met its end. The rooftop incident being the one thing that ultimately drove a stake through the heart of his creative gridlock. He'd found himself, with astonishing ease, pouring all his energy --well, more like sexual frustration and general unrest, but whatever-- into painting.
That magnificent son of a bitch, Quentin fucking Coldwater, opened something within Eliot, and it had since poured from him freely. No longer acting as his personal Hell, canvases now litter every available surface in Bambi's apartment. The paint under his fingernails, the allegorical dirt from the hole in which he's clawed his way out of.
Referring to them as his pocket worlds, the new series of landscapes serve as an exercise in purging years of bullshit. And yeah, many of the new works are borderline fantastical --which he was making his peace with, thank you very much-- but others resonate with something long since buried—specifically, an isolated farm in Indiana where Eliot's profound misery had been a way of life.
Anytime he wasn't painting, Eliot obsessively went over his work, trying to find the strongest samples to bring to FuzzBeat Gallery. He's been able to narrow it down to two pieces to present, the others he'd taken photos of and hopes for the best. Flipping through the pictures for the fiftieth time on his phone, he receives a text from Quentin.
Q (friend ONLY!): Big meeting today?
Me: Yep dont know if Im ready
Q (friend ONLY!): Want me to come?
Eliot swallows thickly. It’s a tempting offer, but he was also trying to respect the boundaries they’d set.
Me: Im good
Q (friend ONLY!): Well, I’ve got business in Chelsea. So, maybe we can do lunch after.
Me: ok
Once Eliot realized that his newly recaptured inspiration wasn't, in fact, a fluke, he had reached out to his old gallery contacts. Only one responded back, --which, okay, he knew that might be the case-- and Eliot was surprised to find that she wanted to meet with him, instead of, you know, telling him to fuck off. Apparently, Harriet Schiff's new PA had sung his praises, and she was willing to set up a meeting to go over his current work. Now, the day of the meeting had come, and Eliot's trying his best not to crawl out of his skin.
When he had lived in the East Village, Eliot had met with Harriet and, acting at his utmost charming, arranged his first show through FuzzBeat Gallery. The show had been an unmitigated success, garnering praise from the media and bringing the small gallery into the spotlight. But once the press stopped covering his show, Eliot panicked and cast FuzzBeat aside. After moving upstate, he'd fucked up the relationship even further by sending Todd in his stead to do all face to face interactions in Manhattan, Eliot unwilling to debase himself with such trivialities. Even then, he would only ever send his lesser works to FuzzBeat, because what could a gallery of its size actually have to offer him?
God, he'd been such a prick.
The fact that Harriet may be willing to let all of that go, based on an employee's opinion, speaks volumes. Eliot knows he doesn't deserve any of it, and certainly not from Harriet, but if she found the grace to forgive him, he sure as shit isn't going to fuck up a second chance. Despite still having an hour until his meeting, Eliot can’t stand being cooped up in the apartment any longer. He packs his portfolio, plugs in his earbuds, and, heading downstairs toward the subway, puts on Poses.
###
Waiting for the L train, Eliot brushes up on his ASL. Way back when, to get on Harriot's good side, he'd learned some basic signs. But nearly five years' worth of vices is now stacked against him, gutting what little he knew to begin with. As with anything, the only thing Eliot can do is try his best...but at the very least, knowing the ASL alphabet can't hurt his chances of not coming off as a complete dick.
<A, B, C, D…>
As Rufus Wainwright croons Rebel Prince in his ears, Eliot sits on the train and continues to run through his signs. Though his first attempts are clunky at best, his elegant hands begin to regain their gracefulness with each pass of practice. Despite being unsure he'll be able to ovary up and get himself to put the signs to use, it's nice to have his hands run through them anyway.
Twenty minutes later, nerves shredded and heart slamming in his chest, he emerges in Chelsea.
Back on the C train, the voice of doubt had needled its way into Eliot's head. Whispering that there was no second chance awaiting him. Instead, Harriet had masterminded an elaborate prank to ensnare and degrade him, as he so justly deserves. With a dismissive flick of her wrist, she'll have him on his ass outside as rain pours down upon him like a poor, dejected, guttersnipe. Locking the doors behind him, cackling as he desperately pleads to be let inside, only to fall victim to the onslaught of rain that suddenly flash-floods Chelsea. In his last moments, as he's pulled down into the raging torrent that was once the warehouse district, he will look on in horror as Harriet stands, impassive, behind the impenetrable gallery windows, while maniacally twirling her Snidely Whiplash mustache.
Okay, so, the mustache is a bit much.
With clear skies --wonder how long that'll last-- Eliot has nothing but time to kill, he lights a cigarette and begins to wander the neighborhood, "You got this, Waugh," He whispers to himself between drags. "You got this, you got this, you got this."
He hasn't got shit.
###
Half an hour before his meeting, Eliot is out of patience and, more importantly, cigarettes. He drums his hands at his sides, in an effort to release some nervous energy. Certainly swinging by the gallery to check in can’t hurt. Hell, it might even help his chances of making a good impression.
When he reaches FuzzBeat, taking a cursory glance into the gallery, Eliot's heart drops to the sidewalk with a *splat*. Circumstances suddenly turning from bad to epically worse.
"Jesus!" Eliot ducks out of view and begins pacing up and down the sidewalk.
Todd is in FuzzBeat.
Removing his glasses, Eliot rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, realization slowly dawning on him. Harriet's new assistant, how he had sung Eliot's praise and the resulting meeting, suddenly made sense. It had been Todd, it had all been because of Todd.
The Earth tilts under Eliot and he cannot breathe, his hands begin to shake and everything is too tight. His chest contracts, breath gasping and ragged. Panic wells up inside him, threatening to swallow him whole. Whatever he had experienced at the Neitherlands, it was happening again. Eliot tries desperately to push his panic down, tries to get it to go anywhere else, but it won’t move.
Todd at the hospital, the look on his face when he saw Eliot hooked up to all the machines. The sympathy in his eyes and how Eliot, in that moment, hated him for it.
The panic takes Eliot completely, washes over him like a wave. And then, it’s over. Leaving him feeling wrung out and utterly alone.
He sits on the curb, breathing in through his nose, holding for three, and out through his mouth, and texts Quentin.
Me: Need help plz come
Q (friend ONLY!): On my way.
Me: Bring cigarettes
###
By the time Quentin reaches the gallery, Eliot is still sitting on the curb, an absolute wreck of a human.
"Hey," Quentin says.
"Thank God you're here." He stands and grabs Q, pulling him into a desperate hug --because fuck boundaries right now-- hoping that it will ground him.
"Are you okay?' Quentin muffles into his chest, "You look..."
Eliot releases him, "Did you bring cigarettes?"
"Yeah, they’re right here," he hands over the pack. Eliot grabs it and lights one, breathing in as steadily as he can.
"Eliot, what's wrong?"
"Remember that whole thing where my assistant found me when I overdosed?" Eliot sucks down on the cigarette in desperate gasps, "He's in-fucking-side."
"He what?" Quentin asks, craning his neck to look in the window.
"You need to come inside with me," Eliot pleads, "I can't go in alone."
"I don't think-"
"Quentin... please ."
Quentin stuffs his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket and shrugs, "Yeah...okay. If that's what you need."
Eliot finishes his cigarette and considers another before going in, but then he would be late. And he knows that even if he were to swallow a kiddie pool worth of nicotine, it wouldn't make any difference. Taking Quentin's hand, he pushes open the gallery door. Inside, sitting behind the receptionist desk, is a young man with a bright, cheery face under brown curls. When he turns to look at Eliot, his smile shines as if he'd won the lottery.
"Eliot!" Todd exclaims.
"Hi, Todd." Eliot says with a small wave, "I didn't know you worked here."
"Yeah! I'm Harriet's assistant, well, and interpreter. Man, it's great to see you. Lemme tell her you're here!" Todd says, before bouncing toward the backroom.
"I'm gonna go look around, come find me when you're done," Quentin whispers, giving Eliot's arm a gentle squeeze before heading off.
A small blonde woman in her late-forties steps out of the back room, followed by Todd. Despite her tiny frame, Harriet's intimidating presence and undeniable swagger suddenly fill the gallery. Todd signs to her and then points to Eliot. She strides over and shakes Eliot's hand, ever the businesswoman. If any animosity remains, it's undetectable, which is uniquely terrifying in its own right.
<Shall we get down to brass tacks? Todd tells me you have some new work.> Harriet signs.
Monumentally grateful that Harriet was never one for small talk, Eliot unzips his portfolio with a flourish that exudes far more confidence than he currently feels.
Thank Christ for muscle memory.
"Yeah, so, the new series consists mainly of landscapes…" Eliot says as he pulls out the first canvas and lays it on the table.
Harriet studies the painting curiously and gives a slight nod before signing to Todd.
<Your palette is certainly different from your previous work. I didn't know that you could be so literal with your concepts.>
"Well, a lot has happened since the last time I saw you." Eliot replies. Deciding to go for honesty instead of charm. Harriet had always seen right through it, anyway.
<So Todd has told me.>
"Oh," Eliot grimaces. But before he can say anything in his defense, Harriet puts up a hand to stop him.
<Basically, he informed me that you are a lot less of an asshole than you used to be.> Todd suddenly goes pale, but Harriet only shrugs, <My words, not his.>
"About that-"
Harriet holds up her hand again, <Eliot, in the nicest way possible, I don't really care what happened. You say you have new work, and I have gallery space. If you can prove that you have changed in the ways Todd claims, that is an added bonus. But I would rather see it in action than be told about it.>
"Fair."
<Now,> Harriet signed, <Let me see that other canvas.>
Some twenty minutes later, Harriet and Eliot have come to an accord. Once the series was finished, she'd hang the new work at Fuzzbeat for fifty percent of the sales, in exchange for exclusive rights to any other paintings he produces for the series within the next year. Which, honestly, is a blessing since none of Eliot's other gallery contacts seem to have time for him. Of course, there would be an unveiling, and Eliot was expected to attend when the day finally came. After a terse nod and a firm handshake, all that stands in the way of Eliot and his second chance is paperwork. While Todd runs to the back to fetch the necessary documents, Eliot checks in with Quentin.
"Hey, it sounds like things are going well." Quentin says, "Sorry. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but, you know, cavernous echoing seems to be kind of a thing here."
"We're just wrapping up," Eliot whispers, "but I can tell you more over lunch."
"Oh, are we still doing that?" Quentin grins.
"Yes." Eliot elbows him playfully, "And if you're going to be a shit about it, you'll have to pay your own way."
"Well, I better keep my mouth shut then," Quentin whispers, "Don't want to lose my meal ticket."
"Pretty face like that?" Eliot smirks, "You'll never starve."
Quentin flushes, and, clearing his throat, tucks the phantom strand of hair behind his ear.
Dammit, Waugh.
Before Eliot can backpedal, Todd reappears with a stack of documents --because of course, he does-- Honestly, their boundaries had been a losing battle since they were set in place. Because it was Quentin. Try as he might, Eliot couldn’t seem to shake that needling feeling of want . Want for his first year of sobriety to be done and past him. Want for an end to the ceaseless boundaries he couldn’t help but break. Want for a future with Q. But all those things felt so far off. So, knowing that there are more immediate concerns at hand, he makes his peace with the fact that the comment will just need to go unaddressed. Which definitely will not have repercussions, no sir.
Halfway through the paperwork, --seriously, so much paperwork-- Eliot's hand is beginning to cramp. He has to remind himself that, once everything is in order, his fleeting discomfort will all be worth it. Besides, Eliot is now contractually obligated to not cock out. With the last signature, his chest tightens slightly. His creative gridlock having had its hooks in him for so long, the idea that he needs to be able to maintain this new pace is an intimidating notion. Another handshake and terse nod later, it's all settled.
<I'll see you soon. Todd will be your main contact if you need anything.>
A feeling of dread suddenly washes over Eliot. Pushing the thought away, he signs, as best he can, <Thank you, H-A-R-R-I-E-T>
<You're welcome, Potato> Harriet signs, with a slightly mischievous look in her eyes.
"Potato? Wait, what about a potato?" Todd says confusedly.
<He used to call me Potato. I bet you thought you were signing my name.>
"What?" Eliot didn't even know the sign for potato. But, --as the universe kept reminding him-- Past Eliot was a dumb bitch. An arrogant, vapid, dumb little bitch who, somehow, knew ASL for potato and had confidently decided that was Harriet's name.
<Yes, imagine my confusion when you kept doing it.>
"Sorry, I used to be kind of a mess," Eliot says, as he mentally slaps around his former self.
"It's no problem," Harriet vocalizes with a smirk.
With that, Harriet retreats to the back room once again. Leaving Eliot and Todd in uncomfortable silence.
"So, um, how long have you been working here?" Eliot asks, trying to break the tension.
"A few months? Technically, I’d already been hired when I, uh, left." Todd averts his eyes, "That's why I wasn't all that broken up when you told me you couldn't pay me anymore."
"Todd...is that why I'm here?" Eliot asks, "Did you feel bad for me?"
"Oh, God, no." Todd shakes his head, "I've just always been such a fan of you…*ahem* you're work, and all that," a flush begins to crawl up around his collar. "So, anyway, when Harriet asked if I had any ideas for a new show, which was so cool, I never thought I could be asked about something like that. It was, like, this total honor and-"
"Todd, focus," Eliot tells him, a knee jerk reaction that he immediately regrets.
"Right...sorry." He averts his eyes.
"No, Christ, Todd, I'm sorry." Eliot runs a hand through his hair, "I was a complete dick to you when you worked for me. I'm so sorry. You saved my fucking life." God, he'd been such an asshole to poor Todd. "I don't think I ever even thanked you for that."
"You did in your amends letter, and that was, like, awesome." Todd says brightly, "It's one of the reasons I stuck around after you got back. You were trying so hard, and you were, like, so much nicer. I'm sorry I had to leave."
Eliot sighs, "Todd, leaving was- I didn't really give you much choice. You have nothing to apologize for."
Before Eliot can think, Todd hugs him. Hugs him. He lets out a wince as his arms are pinned to his sides, suddenly constricted by the force of it all. Eliot stands rigidly in Todd's death grip, unsure what to do. Finally, relaxing as best he can, he gives in and pats his former assistant on the back, arms still pinned against his sides. If this hug, in all its awkward glory, is what Todd truly wants, then so be it. After all, he owes him that much.
*sigh*
Fucking, Todd.
Notes:
Been waiting to leave a comment? Now is the time! Please let me know what you think!
Chapter 15: Pickwick's
Summary:
In which Eliot listens to Bowie and Quentin is a saint.
Notes:
Thank you so much for your patience, my life is currently a bit of a shit show. I hope everyone is safe and well in these somewhat terrifying times. As always, I have linked to the music in this chapter so you can listen along to Eliot's ever-growing playlist.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Eliot finds Quentin outside just as his stomach begins to growl. “Wanna grab some Indian for lunch?”
“Sure. Is your new best friend coming?” Quentin teases.
“ Har har. Your wit knows no bounds.”
“That’s what they tell me.” Q smirks, “But it, um, looks like things are good between you and your old assistant.”
“Surprisingly, yes.” Eliot says, “I’ll try not to overthink it. Unlike all of the other events from the past hour.”
“Want to talk about it?” Quentin asks, -- saint that he is. --
Eliot’s stomach gives another painful growl. Nicotine will have to do until they can get real food. “Maybe later,” he admits, lighting a cigarette, “right now, I think I’m still processing.”
The two walk in relative silence back to the subway, Eliot quietly chain-smoking as he replays the events of that morning. Didn’t Quentin say he had business in Chelsea? Perhaps he’d been able to take care of it before Eliot had had his meltdown. Maybe he rescheduled for another day. Whatever it was, Eliot can’t help but feel he’s been a disruption in Quentin’s life yet again. He tries his best to push the thought away, Quentin is here with him, and he’ll have to trust that’s what he wants.
For a weekday morning, the subway is surprisingly crowded. Eliot and Quentin are buffeted by people on all sides as they shuffle onto the train car. With standing room only, Quentin is crowded into Eliot’s space. So close, so very, maddeningly, close, Eliot can smell Quentin. He can feel the heat radiating off him as the proximity turns his skin to gooseflesh. He tries desperately not to breathe in too deeply, knowing that if he’s caught, it would be the kind of thing he can’t exactly walk back.
As the train bounces and sways beneath his feet, Eliot white knuckles the pole. Trying desperately to keep his footing so as not to get any closer to Quentin than he already is. It’s like something out of a sadistic rom-com, the meet-cute from hell. But Eliot can do hard things, even if that means denying himself what he truly wants. But here, at this moment, all he wants is to wrap his arms around Quentin and keep him. Lift his chin up, ever so slightly, as he leans down to kiss him with all the deep longing he possesses. To tell the world, in not so subtle detail, he’s mine .
A warbled voice announces that they’ve reached 1 Avenue, bringing Eliot out of his head. The space between them opens up again as he and Quentin shuffle out with the rest of the crowd. The platform smells faintly of piss and bodies, the air stagnant underground. As Eliot climbs the stairs to the street, he can smell the rain.
Quentin hails a cab as the rain comes down in torrents. Usually, the walk wouldn’t be a problem, but without a proper coat or umbrella, they would be soaked by the time they reached 6th street.
“I feel like a tourist,” Eliot admits as he slides into the backseat next to Quentin. “I don’t even remember the last time I was in a cab.”
“It’s weird, right?” Quentin says, buckling his seat belt. “But all the Lyft’s were, you know, like five minutes away.”
“I feel like we should really lean into the tourist thing, like, screw Indian. Let’s go to the Hard Rock Cafe or something.” Eliot says archly, “Or just mill around Times Square with a map. We could stare at the buildings, it’d be fun.”
“Jesus, El,” Quentin snorts, “I know you’re joking, but a back-alley appendectomy sounds less painful.”
Eliot stares out the window as they travel the eight blocks towards 6th street, pleasantly recalling the East Village’s Indian cuisine phenomenon. While wandering the neighborhood, way back when, he’d found it. He’d been searching the vintage stores in the area when the wind had sent the smell of turmeric and vindaloo wafting from the next street over. There, clustered together like a hive, were almost a dozen Indian restaurants. Each promoting more food, at better prices, the farther you traveled down the block. It had been one of the few luxuries he and Quentin could afford back when they were just starting out. Now, Eliot idly wonders if it’s still there at all.
When the cab pulls up to 6th, Eliot gets a whiff of curry and is suddenly so hungry that his hindbrain takes over, screaming Eat Now Or You Will Die. Grabbing Quentin by the hand, he drags him into the first Indian restaurant he sees, prices be damned.
Despite the risk of walking into the first restaurant that could fulfill his needs, -- i.e., food/now-- Pickwick’s is exactly what Eliot had hoped for. The lunch special is cheap -- prices even he can afford cheap-- and there’s a live sitar player on the small stage in front. More importantly, their orders come with complimentary naan, which Eliot devours with shameless ferocity as they wait for the food to arrive.
“So,” Quentin says, spooning coriander chutney onto his bread, “You wanna talk about it yet?”
Right. The unaddressed trauma of the morning. Eliot had nearly forgotten. He doesn’t want to talk about it but knows that he should or risk it festering. Decidedly, he’ll need to leave out the part that involved Quentin swooping in to save him from a near-mental collapse .
“This is all new territory for me, Q,” he sighs. “I’ve never been sober when I’ve had a gallery show.”
“Yeah, but you’ve worked so hard to get where you are. You should be proud of this.”
“I think pride will come later,” Eliot says, between mouthfuls, “first, I just need to wrap my head around all of it.”
“I can get that,” Quentin shrugs, “You know, uh, if there’s anything you need...”
You, always you.
“No,” Eliot tells him. “I’ll be okay.”
“Hey,” Quentin says, reaching to grasp Eliot’s hand across the table. The anticipation of contact is enough to make Eliot’s heart race. “I just-”
“Chicken korma?” The waiter says, appearing with their orders. Quentin clears his throat, pulling his hand away.
“Yeah,” Eliot replies, “That’s me.”
“Malai kofta?”
“Uh, here.”
After the waiter leaves, Quentin shifts awkwardly in his seat, “So, you know, after lunch, do you wanna go back to your place?” He asks, “I mean, it’s closer than mine, and we could, uh, hangout or something. Whatever you want.”
Eliot chews his chicken korma as he considers the proposition. With his time in the City almost over, there is nothing more he would like to do than spend it with Q. But Margo is slated to arrive that evening, and the apartment is a wreck. He knows that the amount of deep cleaning necessary won’t be possible if Quentin serves as a distraction.
“Sorry, Q. I can’t,” Eliot replies sadly, “I’ve got a shit ton to do before I leave tomorrow.”
“Oh my god, I completely forgot,” Quentin says, “Sorry, I guess I’ve lost track of the days.”
Eliot’s heart sinks. He knew their time would have to come to an end but wasn’t wholly prepared for it either.
I don’t want to leave you.
“Why don’t we get breakfast before my train leaves?” He suggests, grasping at any excuse to see Q one more time before facing his self-imposed isolation once again. “Bambi will probably still be jet-lagged from Ibiza…”
“Yes!” Quentin replies, “I mean, if, uh, that’s okay.”
Eliot smiles and nods, marveling at Quentin’s unrelenting enthusiasm.
After paying their bill, which Quentin took care of despite Eliot’s -- admittedly weak-- protests, the two head back out onto the street. The rain has stopped, leaving the sound of rushing water down storm drains as the only evidence of the downpour. Eliot lights two cigarettes and hands one over to Quentin, “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“I dunno, I have some, uh, signings coming up, but until then, my days are pretty empty.” Quentin replies, “I actually meant to tell you. That’s what the business in Chelsea was about this morning.”
So he did make his meeting.
“Really? Somewhere else in the City?”
“Well, um, no. It’s kind of a cross country thing?”
Eliot swallows, trying to force his heart out of his throat. “How long would you be gone?”
“Um, two months, I guess.” Quentin says, ducking his head, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know when would be the best time to tell you, because, well, you know…” He drifts off.
“So,” Eliot searches for the silver lining in this befucked turn of events. “Yay?”
“By the time I get back, you’ll have been sober a year.” Quentin offers, “And maybe we can talk about...stuff?”
Oh.
“Yeah...stuff.” Eliot smiles.
Quentin rolls his eyes, “You know what I mean, El.”
“I do, I do. And I’d really like that.”
At this, Quentin smiles brightly, all dimples and creases. Eliot’s heart swells, he may not deserve all that Quentin is willing to give him, but it’s nice to know it’s there.
###
After the two part ways, Eliot puts in his earbuds and selects Rock and Roll Suicide before stopping into a bodega for more cigarettes. The news of Quentin’s book tour, and the possibility of more when he returns, rattles around his brain. What if Eliot isn’t ready, even then? What if he fucks everything up again? They still hadn’t talked about the events of five years ago, would they ever?
Plagued by what-ifs, Eliot finds himself back at the apartment with little recollection of even walking there. As he slides the key into the lock, he pushes the thoughts away, knowing that he has more crucial tasks at hand.
When Eliot enters the apartment, he’s hit with a retching smell he can’t quite identify, which isn’t the greatest sign. He’d been so preoccupied the past few days that the apartment had fallen into chaos. But, as stated before, he can do hard things, and fuck if this isn’t going to be one of them.
Shuffling to It Ain’t Easy on his phone , Eliot surveys the damage. Canvases still litter every surface, crowded in next to take-out boxes and random piles of mail. All the time Quentin had spent hanging out at the apartment, he had somehow nested when Eliot wasn’t looking . In all reality, Eliot had known goats that left less of a mess. Honestly, he had wholly forgotten how gross Q had the potential to be. In fact, after the first hour of scrubbing, he’s convinced that the man was raised by wolves and not, in fact, the late Ted Coldwater.
“Jesus Christ, Q.” Eliot mumbles as he chips dried lo-mein off of Margo’s coffee table, “Bambi’s gonna have a fit.”
Hours later, Eliot is finally satisfied. All his pent up energy and sexual frustration that had previously been poured into his art had been exercised in the name of spit-and-polish. The resulting effort was a sight to behold, every surface gleaming under his touch. After doing the final sweep of the apartment, his phone pings as if by kismet.
Bambi <3: On the train back and exhausted.
Bambi <3: Mama needs to rub one out in a hot bath.
Me: glad to have u back
Me: love u
Bambi <3: Love you too, bitch.
With Margo back, all the events of the past two weeks seem dwarfed in the face of her arrival. His Bambi would be home, and all would be well.
While the smell of cleaning supplies still lingers in the apartment, Eliot heads to the roof to smoke and call Charlton.
“It happened again,” Eliot told him, taking a drag off his cigarette.
“What happened?”
“The panic attack from Hell,” Eliot grimaced. “This time, I had to call Quentin.”
“I’ve been told that calling on friends in a time of crisis is a healthy thing to do,” Charlton chirped, “But you don’t sound pleased.”
“I’m more embarrassed than anything. I didn’t want Q to see me like that.” Eliot admits, forcing smoke out of his nose.
As always, Charlton waits patiently as Eliot relays the events of the morning: Fuzzbeat, Todd, and Quentin’s inevitable book tour. By the time he’s finished, Eliot can’t shake the wrung-out feeling he’d had outside FuzzBeat. Perhaps it’s a testament to the severity of the circumstances. Perhaps he’s just tired. Whatever it is, Eliot feels it in his marrow.
Back in the apartment, Eliot tries his best to lounge, but after the call with Charlton, his nerves are shot. He stalks around the apartment, the six-hundred square feet suddenly too small for him. He could go back to the roof but wants to be around when Margo inevitably whirlwinds through the door. He needs to slow the fuck down. This isn’t the way he wants his Bambi to see him.
With lack of anything better to occupy his mind, the what-ifs return with a reckoning. He swallows hard as he fights the ever-growing tightness in his chest. What if Quentin changes his mind after the tour? What if he can’t make it until the end of the year? What if his upcoming show is a failure?
What if, what if, what if...
As best as he tries to fight it, Eliot is just so tired. Being unable to take anymore, he finally gives in and, curled up on the couch, listens to Five Years on loop. While Bowie sings about the end of the world, again and again, the front door unlocks.
“Honey, I’m home,” Margo exclaims, “Where the fuck is my fanfare?”
Eliot roles over to look at her, “Hello, my love.”
“El, what’s wrong?” she asks, kicking off her shoes and abandoning her luggage to sit next to him. She strokes his messy curls, scratching his scalp with her acrylics.
“I-”, Eliot starts, but nothing else comes out. Now that his Bambi is here, he no longer has any strength to keep up the facade. Tears begin to well up in his eyes as he buries his face in her lap.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Margo coos, still stroking his hair. “Tell Mama what happened.”
###
Eliot finally comes clean to Margo, all the events of the past two weeks tumbling out of him with reckless abandon. Starting with the Neitherlands and all the nasty bits in between. Even as he says it aloud, he can feel his gut uncoil. Letting it out, knowing that Bambi would love him anyway, somehow eases his troubled mind. All the while, she had stroked his hair and given soothing words of affirmation. His Bambi, his soulmate, how could he have ever kept anything from her?
“After the roof,” Eliot says, finally sitting up, “Quentin and I have--well, we kept seeing each other.”
“ Seeing each other? ” Margo gapes, “El, what does that mean, exactly?”
“Um, we’ve been more or less just hanging out. I can’t do much beyond that, though.”
“Does Q know that?”
“Yeah, and it’s awful. Bambi, I don’t know what to do.” Eliot buries his head in his hands, “This pining, it’s so much worse than before.”
“Well, duh, you had drugs before.” She rolls her eyes, “You were off your ass for Coldwater, literally and figuratively.”
“Bambi…”
“Fine. How does this get fixed? You have to make it through the last of this year somehow.” She takes his hand and squeezes, “Look, I know we haven’t historically talked about this sort of thing...but maybe you should talk to a shrink.”
“ Et tu , Bambi?”
Margo cocks an eyebrow, “I take it I’m not the first to suggest this?”
“Yeah, Charlton has been trying to convince me for a while now,” Eliot sighs.
“Well, Waugh, what are you going to do about it?”
Notes:
Thank you again for your patience, I appreciate this fandom's support so much. It means the world to me that people are still reading.
Please, feel free to leave a comment. Feedback is very important to me!
Chapter 16: Benedict's
Summary:
In which Eliot gets a basic benedict and Quentin gets a smother.
Chapter Text
"You have a train to catch," Margo says, shoving Eliot's head out of her lap so she can stand. "And Mama needs some coffee." After their talk, they had cuddled on the couch for the rest of the night. With only so much time left to them, and Eliot in the state that he was, Margo had refused to leave his side. Eliot stretches, feeling the aftermath of the couch in his lower back. Still, it isn't the worst sleep he's gotten in the past two weeks, "What time is it?" He asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Check your fucking phone," Margo yells from the kitchen. "Where in the hell is my french press?"
Shit . He'd forgotten to buy a new one, "Um, about that..."
"It's not here, is it?"
"Shattered into a thousand pieces, I'm afraid."
Margo sighs, "I'll make some tea."
Grabbing his phone, Eliot finds a text from Quentin.
Q (Friends ONLY): Are we still on for breakfast?
Thankfully, his train isn't due until 11, so there's plenty of time to pack and still have breakfast.
Me: still on
Me: where/time?
Me: dont say dunkin
Q (Friends ONLY): Ha ha. Why don't we meet at Penn at 9 and go from there?
Me: k
As Margo boils water for tea -- you owe me a goddamn french press-- Eliot packs. Jeans, shirts, and the army of art supplies once more at home in his backpack and suitcase. While putting the canvases into their portfolio, he looks over the pieces one last time. His second chance, and the essential part they play in it, feels less intimidating now that the meeting with Harriet is a day behind him. Stålenhag's influence may have bled through a little readily in some works than others, but he could always make adjustments back at the Cottage. Plus, with the rest of his paints at his disposal, he would be able to explore a broader palette than the one he'd been forced into out of necessity. The pang of pride that had insofar exceeded his grasp suddenly hits him as he recalls Quentin's words from the day before.
You've worked so hard to get where you are. You should be proud of this.
Safely tucked away and ready for their journey, Eliot places everything by the door and heads into the bathroom for a quick shower. When he reemerges, Margo hands him a cup of Earl Grey, planting a kiss on his cheek. Eliot can't help but think of the stark contrast of the past twelve hours. Last night was the closest he had come to hitting rock bottom since Whitespire. And as terrifying of a notion as that was, he had made it through, but not without help. Maybe Charlton and Bambi had a point.
As Eliot sips his tea, Margo cuddles back in with him on the couch.
"What about your bath?" Eliot asks.
"Ah, fuck it," Margo replies, "I'll take it after you leave. That way, I can be as loud as I want."
"Admit it, Bambi, my being here wouldn't deter you in the least."
Margo punches him in the arm, "I'm trying to be supportive, you ass."
Rubbing the ache away, Eliot just laughs. His Bambi, his light in the goddamn darkness. "Well, thank you."
"Have you thought about what you're going to do when you get back home?"
"I have to work on my pieces for the gallery show."
"I meant about the other thing," Margo says, gently taking his hand.
Oh. That.
"You and Charlton... you're -," Eliot whispers, "I need help." And saying out loud, it feels right. Like, the answer was there all along, but he was too stubborn to see it. Silly, stupid man that he is. Not wishing to make a scene -- Bambi would never let him hear the end of it -- Eliot leans over to give her a kiss goodbye.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Margo glares at him.
"Obviously, taking my leave from your fabulous domicile. I need to meet Quentin for breakfast."
"If you think you can slink off-"
"Slink off?" Eliot replies, "Bambi, I do not slink."
"I'm coming with you."
"Wanting to get your maximum Eliot time before having to face the dreary world on your own once more?"
"More like, I wanna grill Coldwater over what his intentions are."
"What is this, a regency? And me without my cravat."
"I know there's more than you're telling me."
"As low as I am to admit, there really isn't."
"Whatever. I'm holding out for Coldwater's version."
"Are you suggesting you accompany us to breakfast?"
"No. I won't muscle in on your date-slash-not date." She says, grabbing her magenta fur coat, "But I do want Quentin's number as a parting gift."
"I could give you that right now."
"And risk making shit awkward?" Margo rolls her eyes, "hard fucking pass."
"So, not only do I not get a say in you coming with. You are openly admitting to the fact that you are going to conspire with Q the moment my back is turned."
"Is that a problem?"
"Is that a question?"
Margo shoves past him on her way out the door, "Ovary up and make your peace with it."
###
Penn Station is a mess. A perplexing mix of locals and tourists mill around, narrowly missing one another. The bass of hundreds of thunderous footfalls bounce off the coved ceilings and rattle in Eliot's chest as he and Margo make their way through the crowd. With the air of annoyance that only true New Yorkers can muster, the two shove their way past the bodies upon bodies. There, at the center of the maelstrom, is Quentin. Glued to his phone and completely oblivious, Margo gives Eliot a devilish grin before shoving Quentin straight in the chest.
"Hey! Ass--Oh, hi Margo." Quentin says as he shoves his phone into his pocket.
"Don't mind me." She replies with a smirk, "I'm just here to get your number."
"Uh, couldn't El have, you know, given that to you?"
"Everyone's making a fuss today."
"What?"
"El said the same thing. I swear you two have no decorum. Now give me your number before I collect your balls." She hands over her phone, so he can enter it.
Quentin's eyes go wide, obviously no longer accustomed to Margo's variety of sweet-talk. "Yeah, sure." He fumbles with the phone, tapping his number in. Eliot watches with slight amusement while trying not to imagine Quentin sans balls. What a travesty that would be.
After he enters his number, Margo seems satisfied. She gets up on her toes and gives Eliot a final kiss on the cheek. "Now remember what we talked about." She says, suddenly maternal again, "Text me when you get home." She gives Quentin a wink, "Be seeing you, Coldwater."
Eliot watches her disappear into the crowd. Wholly prepared to see it part for her like the Red Sea. If only the nameless faces knew her like he did. They would understand that all of creation met its match when Margo Hanson came into existence.
"So, that just happened," Quentin says, the sounds of Penn Station nearly drowning him out.
"You know it's not truly a Bambi interaction without threat of violence."
"Yeah, point. Where do you want to go?"
"In all honesty, I hadn't given it much thought," Eliot says, looking at his phone. It's only 9:15, plenty of time to get a decent breakfast. Still, they should stay close, what with Eliot's luck being faulty at best these days. "Any suggestions?"
Quentin scrolls through his phone, "There's a place called Benedict's with a decent rating. It's about a block away."
"Sounds divine," Eliot says, adjusting his backpack," Shall we be off then?"
Thanks to the rain the night before, Eliot's luggage skids through the puddles that now line the sidewalk. He lights a cigarette as they walk the block to Benedict's, passing it to Quentin between drags. As per usual, the back and forth between them is an easy one. Eliot's thoughts drift to what life may be like in two months. Quentin would be back from his book tour, and he would be a year sober. Right now, the hurdles seemed insurmountable, but time has a way of wearing that shit down.
When they arrive at Benedict's, there's a crowd of people milling around out front. Eliot suddenly worries that they won't get food in time for him to make his train. However, when he peaks his head inside he finds that, though there isn't any seating, there is a small line of people waiting to order. Gesturing to Quentin to follow, the two take their place in line. Blondie’s Atomic blares through tinny speakers as they wait. The space is the size of a matchbox, and the entire interior is decked out in maps, all seemingly hand-drawn. With no rhyme or reason, the place looks more like a feverish collage than anything else. Just quirky enough to be endearing, but at the same time, completely baffling.
"What's with the maps?" Quentin asks, giving voice to Eliot's internal quandary.
"Right?" Eliot says with a shrug.
By the time the two place their orders -- Eliot gets a basic benedict while Quentin orders something called a smother -- and move towards the checkout, Eliot can't stand the mystery any longer. "Excuse me," he says to a barista, "you probably get this all the time...but what's the story of the maps?"
The barista, who did, in fact, get it all the time, rolls her eyes slightly and chuckles, "It's the owner's son. He's obsessed with map making. Says it helps him with his depression or something. The owner is a soft touch, so he lets the guy doodle his heart away."
"Huh," Quentin squeaks from his place at Eliot's side.
"Yeah," she replies, "nice guy. Just a little...you know."
Quentin frowns, "Yeah, sure."
With that, they pay for their order and shuffle back out onto the street. Eliot looks over to see Quentin still frowning.
"You okay, Q?"
"Yeah, I just...I hate it when people do that. You know, minimize other's coping mechanisms into a series of quirks."
"She was probably just sick of people asking about the maps. I wouldn't think about it too much."
"Whether she's sick of it or not...I dunno, it just gets under my skin." Quentin sighs, "Like, how many people have said that same shit about me?"
Eliot's skin prickles, suddenly wanting to defend Quentin's honor from would-be naysayers. He swallows, trying to push the feeling away. Quentin has been fighting his own battles for years without any help. It would be presumptuous to try and step in now. "I didn't think of it that way," he says quietly.
"Yeah, well, you wouldn't." Quentin mumbles.
Dammit, Waugh.
"What about your book tour?" Eliot says, desperately trying to change the subject.
"Oh, yeah, that. We're hitting independent booksellers across the country," Quentin gestures nonchalantly, "It's no big deal."
"Liar," Eliot smirks.
Quentin huffs, "Fine. It's a big deal. I haven't been on a tour since we were promoting Cordena-" he suddenly goes quiet. "But, well...that was a different time."
Eliot had been there, with Quentin, on every Cordena tour. He’d worked on his illustrations while on the road. Days on end, holed up in various hotel rooms, waiting for Quentin to come back strung out and exhausted. Eliot would brush the hair out of his eyes and settle him into bed, holding him until he stopped shaking from the anxiety of it all. Eliot's fingers itch, wanting to hold Quentin the same way as before. But things were too complicated now. He searches for something, damn well anything, to say, "We can text while you're gone...If that's something, you want."
Before Quentin can respond, someone shouts from inside the restaurant, "Order for Waugh! Order for Coldwater!"
After collecting their food, --Quentin grabs a handful of napkins, because of course -- they walk back towards Penn Station. The spring wind has kicked up, forcing Eliot to struggle between his portfolio, luggage, and balancing the to-go box. Quentin takes Eliot's box of food and lays it on top of his own, giving him the smallest of smiles.
"So, uh, what are your plans when you get back?" Quentin asks as he tries to keep the napkins from flying away.
"Working on the series for the show, naturally," Eliot replies, suddenly wondering if he should mention getting help too. If he cocked out on that, though...would Quentin be disappointed? "Beyond that, I'm not sure. I have a few ideas."
"Ideas? From what I've been told, those can be dangerous."
"Always."
They sit on a bench next to a group of nuns and tuck into their breakfast at the station. Eliot's benedict is pretty damn good, all things considered. Just the right amount of hollandaise with a little bit of lemon zest atop a crispy English muffin. Quentin's smother turns out to be some sort of sandwich. Slathered in so much gravy and bacon bits that Eliot can't help but imagine Quentin suffering from a heart attack right then and there. But, from the sounds he's making, it must be worth it.
With breakfast finished and the trash thrown away, the two get coffee at a kiosk. "I'm glad this worked out," Quentin says after he places his order.
"Agreed," Eliot replies, looking at his phone. It's 10:33. The train should be pulling in at any moment.
"Hey, going back to the texting thing, I'd like that."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I've never done a tour solo before, and, even with Fen there, it'll probably get lonely."
"Well, we can't have that."
"Certainly not." Quentin grins.
The sign for the Empire Services' arrival signals overhead. They are officially out of time. Gathering his bags, Eliot takes one last look to make sure everything is in order.
"How about I walk you to the platform?" Quentin says, "I mean, do they let you do that sort of thing?"
"I don't think you can go without a ticket."
"Oh." Quentin looks so crestfallen, Eliot's fingers begin to itch again.
Suddenly, in front of the whole goddamn world, he kisses Quentin. It probably isn't the wisest choice, putting such a statement on what should be an ellipse. But it was always a small fantasy to kiss someone in the middle of Penn Station before boarding with a tearful goodbye. Giving into his heart's desire, he pours every atom of his being into making it perfect. Yes, there would be no teeth-clacking here, thank you very much.
Embracing Quentin, Eliot kisses him breathless. Working his mouth open with a clever tongue, all while tasting the bitterness from his coffee with just a hint of cream. Quentin melts into his touch, making small, desperate sounds, always, always wanting more. And, Eliot, the gentleman that he is, happily provides that service.
He continues to kiss the love of his life until the conductor calls for last boarding. Running through the gate, Eliot jumps aboard with his bags. He looks back to see Quentin through the windows. "I love you!" Eliot screams as Quentin stares, heart racing, for one more fervent glance at his beloved.
But it didn't happen like that.
"Have a good trip , then," Quentin says, raising his hand for a high five.
What the hell?
Eliot Waugh does not high-five. He looks at Quentin, with his hand in the air. This was really happening, wasn't it? Not wanting to "leave him hanging" -- shudder -- Eliot reciprocates. There's a sickening smack as the two hands connect. Thank Christ they made contact, at least. If they had somehow missed , Eliot would have, well, he isn't sure. But, to say it was awkward...words cannot describe.
There's the sound of a text pinging as Quentin fishes his phone out of his pocket. "Well, um, see you," he says, suddenly engrossed by whatever is on his screen.
"Yeah, I'll text you when I get home."
"No worries," Quentin replies, not looking up from his phone.
Disheartened, Eliot hands over his ticket and heads toward the platform. He looks back once more, hoping to see Quentin smiling at him, but he's already disappeared into the crowd. Before his thoughts can go to the place where the what-ifs are kept, Eliot boards the train and finds his seat. Putting in his earbuds he selects, Peach Trees , and begins Googling therapists in his area.
While scrolling through page after page of would-be mental health saviors, he receives a text from Quentin.
Q (Friends ONLY): Sorry about the high five. I was trying to be nonchalant but I panicked. Then I got an email from Eliza and...well, it’s a whole thing.
Q (Friends ONLY): I’m going to miss you <3
Oh.
Me: Im going to miss u too
Me: <3
Chapter 17: Sunderland's Office
Summary:
In which the fight occurs
Notes:
Thank you to all my readers out there! This may be the last chapter I post for a bit (Holidays and all that) so I hope you enjoy it! As always, musical references are linked so you can listen along.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Seven Years Ago
Domestic bliss wasn’t something that Eliot had ever expected for himself, yet here it was. He and Quentin had been living together for almost two years, and it was perfect in every sense of the word. Yes, there was the occasional spat, but that was to be expected. He reveled in making the others gag --Kady especially, she made the best faces-- when they came over, forced to witness the utter flawlessness of their life together. Cordena was almost behind them, and with it, Eliot’s chance to take the art world by storm. It would only be a matter of time before all his dreams came true. On the other hand, Quentin wasn’t as convinced that the ending of Cordena was the fresh start that they needed.
“I, uh, just don’t know what comes next,” Quentin had said on a night when he was particularly cagey.
“What do you mean, baby?”
“It’s, um...what if I’m not good enough to write anything else? I mean, The Crowns are almost done, and-and what if that’s all I have?”
“Nonsense.” Eliot said, wrapping Quentin in a hug and kissing the top of his head, “You’ve got plenty more stories left to tell. Now,” he said, breaking the embrace, “come help me make dinner. We’re having Marsala.”
Quentin didn’t voice his fears again for another few weeks. Honestly, they had been too busy to do anything but work, what with being in the depth of the creative salt mines. But the day finally came when, like a pot on the stove, Eliot watched as his wonderful Q boiled over.
“I don’t know how you can be so, I dunno, cavalier about this.” Quentin said, wringing his hands, “We’re going to be out of work next year.”
“You’re looking at this all wrong,” Eliot cooed. “As soon as The Crowns is published, I’ll finally be able to work on a gallery show. Therefore ensuring my status as a world-famous artist. Q, you’ll serve as my muse while you write whatever your little heart may desire and wear suggestive outfits around the house.”
“Suggestive outfits?” Quentin huffed, “El, are you joking?”
“I have a whole line already picked out for you.” Eliot said, giving him a devilish smirk, “In the name of inspiration, of course.”
“This isn’t funny, Eliot. I have legitimate concerns. And you’re-”
“If you’re worried about money, don’t.” Eliot said as he waved the comment away, “We’ll live off of the royalties-”
“Money isn’t the point,” Quentin grumbled.
Now
It took a month for Eliot to find a therapist he could put his trust in. At first, there had been a few non-starters, shrinks who wanted him to get to the real meat of his issues in the first session, something Eliot was not willing to do at all . Pearl Sunderland had been different, though. She had an air of concern that wasn’t overbearing, and Eliot could respect that. She also understood what it was like to be in recovery, having a sordid past all her own. It was all thanks to Charlton, who suggested her when Eliot had spoken of his frustrations in his search. From there, things had noticeably improved.
After reluctantly surrendering his life story and the East Village events, Eliot had been diagnosed with PTSD. He learned that the panic attacks from hell were, in fact, flashbacks. It didn’t make them any less frightening, but, at the very least, he had a name for it now. From there, he and Pearl had worked together to understand the root cause. Turns out, pushing trauma down isn’t great for mental stability. From the start, Pearl had been very clear that she wasn’t there for a quick fix. This kind of thing would take time and effort. But Eliot could do hard things, and he had told her so.
“Are you excited for Quentin to come back?” Pearl asks during their latest session.
“Yes, of course. I just...need to make it through until then,” Eliot admits. In all reality, Quentin’s arrival is a mere week away. Perhaps, it feels longer due to his upcoming year of sobriety alongside Quentin’s return.
“You just went somewhere, Eliot.” Pearl always expects him to talk out his thought process, something he’s still becoming accustomed to.
“Right. Sorry,” Eliot grabs a pillow off of the couch and holds it in his lap. She has so many in her office, he often wonders what her house must look like, “I was just thinking about coming up on my year.”
“Do you want to talk about that today?” She asks, her pen scratching as she jots down, notes, “What do you think will change?”
“Nothing...or maybe everything?” Eliot throws his hands up, “I don’t know. Quentin and I have been texting.”
“What do you talk about?”
“All kinds of things.” -- Though he still doesn’t know about you -- “My paintings, his book tour. Did I tell you that I made a breakthrough with the series the other day?”
“That’s very good,” Pearl says, smiling as the pens’ scratching continues.
“Yeah, so anyway, sorry...Where was I?” He runs a hand through his hair -- the anniversary, right-- “As far as my year of sobriety is concerned, he’s been really supportive,” Eliot sighs, “It’s just…”
“Is there something else you would like to talk to him about?”
“I want to try again, and I know he does too, but,” Eliot digs his thumbs into the backside of the pillow and squeezes, “We just have... there’s this whole part we aren’t even talking about...And I don’t know how to bring it up without...,” Eliot gives a deep sigh, “I-I just don’t want to fuck everything up again.”
The scratching of the pen stops,“Eliot, what are you referring to?”
Six Years Ago
There was an upright piano in Eliot and Quentin’s apartment that had been there since the first tenants. It had been abandoned, unable to be moved, or not worth the money to do so. The piano was white, most likely in an attempt to make it disappear into the wall, which was only one of many colors that it had been painted over the decades. So many that a thick rind had built up over its entire surface. Eliot had no idea how far it went down, how many layers deep. He supposed it was like rings on a tree, a living record of its personal history. So, out of boredom, he’d decided to travel back in time by finding out how far down the layers actually went. Swallowing a tab of chocolate sunshine and his entire stash of peyote -- Because if you’re going time travel, do it right. -- Eliot washed down the concoction with a long pull of Kah Tequila Reposado --which Quentin had picked because he liked the bottle, and Eliot kept buying because he loved it --. After retrieving a mat knife from his art supplies, he set about prying the keyboard cover open.
Quentin came home to find Eliot playing Asleep. After spending the afternoon watching youtube videos, --and some MacGyvering-- he had figured out how to tune it, at least in a basic sense. As a result, the piano sounded less like shit than he had expected, but any decent musician would probably have twitched a little if they’d heard it.
“Hey, I’m home! I have some good news too! I, uh...hey, you got the piano open. And, um, working…” Quentin kissed Eliot on the top of his head, before wincing at a sour note, “Sort of.”
“That I did, my lovely little Q, that I did.” Eliot giggled to himself, “Me and the Lizard man, or is it the Lizard man and I? Whatever. We’ve been working on it all afternoon. He’s excellent company.
“What Lizard man?” Quentin asked, looking around the apartment.
“ Q , don’t be rude. You know, the Lizard man,” Eliot gestured to an empty corner. “Six foot two, lizard skin jacket, lots of necklaces... ridiculously good looking .” He turned back to the piano and continued to play, “ Very charming, says he’s a friend of Bambi’s.”
“What the hell are you talking about,” Quentin gaped, “Are you okay ?”
“You could say that,” Eliot said casually. “My dad died.”
And there it was. “He- he, what?”
“ Died . D-I-E-D.” A corresponding note accentuated each letter.
“Oh, shit. El, I’m so…”
“It’s fine,” Eliot snorted, “my brother emailed me this morning about it. It was the first I’d heard from him in...hmm, a decade, maybe? Anyway, dad was a bastard who did unspeakable things, and now he’s dead and about to be buried. How do you feel about Montauk? I was thinking, instead of attending the funeral, I’d book us a suite at Gurney’s. We could raid the minibar and have mind-blowing sex while overlooking the ocean. Lizard man could be our third. If he’s down for that sort of thing. Between you and me, I think he is. ” He looked over at the Lizard man, who gave him a thumbs-up, “Yeah, he’s good to go.” Eliot was met with a baffled look from Quentin, which he interpreted as, let’s put a pin in this, but if he’s down so am I , “That’s fine. We can hash out specifics later. You said you had good news?”
“I, uh, yeah. God, um,” Quentin said, tucking his hair behind his ear, “Right, Eliza just called. Purchas wants us to start a spin-off series. It’s gonna be YA for the readers who have aged out of the original books. Plus , they want even more of your work in it than the original series. Like, the Illustrated editions of Harry Potter.”
Eliot stopped playing. The last of the sound traveled up the walls of the apartment and disappeared.
Eliot turned and looked at Quentin, “You told her no, right?”
“Um, no , why would I do that?” Quentin said, looking downright bewildered.
“Because you told me that the last book was the last book .” Eliot looked at the corner. The Lizard man gave him a reassuring nod.
“Yeah, but isn’t this great? We get to make more . I would have done basically anything for more Fillory books as a kid.”
“Uh-uh, Q. You’re going to tell her no .” Eliot said firmly, “I’m too busy with the gallery show right now.”
“Too busy?” Quentin rolled his eyes, “ Jesus, El...you weren’t too busy to get high as balls and fix the fucking piano. Can’t you just do both?“
“But I don’t want to do both. It’s hard enough working on this shit as it is. Also, I don’t fucking want to do both.” He stared at Quentin through blown-black eyes.
“Look, El, you just found out your dad died, which, I mean, you’re obviously not handling well, and you’re like, so completely off your ass, you’re seeing Lizard men. ”
“It’s Lizard man , Q, not men , there’s just the one, and he’s a delight... unlike some people.” He looked over at the Lizard Man and gestured at Q, -- this fucking guy, am I right? -- “The point is, Coldwater, I may be off my ass , but I am having a moment of extreme clarity, ” Eliot swiveled back to the piano and started playing again, “Now, can we just move on?”
“Why the fuck are you making such a big deal out of this!?” Quentin shouted.
Eliot slammed his hands on the keys, “Because this gallery show is important to me, don’t you get that ?” Eliot wished Quentin would come to see reason soon. He was getting so bored of this shit.
“I mean, yeah, fine, whatever. But can’t you just put off the gallery stuff for a while longer? Eliza wants you specifically . You have no guarantee that your other work is going to actually sell . ”
No guarantee that your other work is going to actually sell. The truth was finally out.
Quentin squeezed his shoulder and sighed, “El, look, let’s talk about this tomorrow when you’re sober. The Lizard Man will be gone, and we can figure out what the best option is for both of us .”
Eliot wrenched Quentin’s hand away, suddenly furious. It was obvious now Quentin didn’t respect him, didn’t understand how important this show was; had he ever? “No. You don’t get to write this off because it’s inconvenient to your plans. I put off my shot long enough, and I refuse to be held hostage by you, or Eliza, just so you can live out your dreams playing make-believe for tweens.” He stood up from the piano and crossed the apartment in three long strides. ”You know what? You can just go ahead and do whatever the fuck you want. I’m done.”
“El, wait. Come on , can we just...”
Eliot walked out and slammed the door behind him.
A few days later, Margo went back to the apartment to pick up whatever Eliot had left that wasn’t nailed down.
Quentin didn’t try to stop her, didn’t try to explain, didn’t try to say anything at all.
And, well , that was that.
Now
Eliot digs his thumbs so far into the pillow that he can feel the tips of his fingers on the other side. The fight, the big, ominous, five year fuck up that neither he nor Quentin had the courage to bring up. The thing that nearly destroyed Quentin beyond repair . It sits there like a stone in his chest. How could they ever expect to have a future together with it left unresolved?
“I don’t know what to do, Pearl,” Eliot says, loosening his grip, “I’m just so terrified that I’ll lose him again.”
“Did you write about the fight in your amends letter?”
“Well, yeah. But there were so many other things I felt I had to apologize for. It sort of got glossed over.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that Quentin might have some guilt about it as well?”
“But...he didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Are you certain? You weren’t in your right mind when the event took place. And it could be that time has warped the incident somewhat.”
Eliot groans, “I need to talk to him about this, don’t I?”
“It might be time.” Pearl nods, “But you may want to wait to do so in person.”
“But when?” Eliot whines, “I just don’t see there ever being a right moment.”
“Well, when you do find the right moment, you will need to be brave. For yourself and Quentin.”
Burying his face into the pillow, Eliot screams.
Notes:
I've had the fight written since I began this fic, and am so excited to have it out in the world!
Did it break your heart? Was it hoaky? Are you madder at Eliot or Quentin? Thoughts and opinions matter to me! Please leave a comment if you're so inclined!
Chapter 18: Happy Anniversary Part 1
Summary:
In which Eliot reaches his anniversary.
Notes:
This chapter took a village/server in order to see the light of day. Thank you so much to redtoblack, Rubick, schifaroo, Leakingllama, stormcoming, and lazarov for all your help in making chapter 16 a reality. Your insight and support have made me a better, more confident writer. My gratitude to you is unending!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning of his one-year anniversary, Eliot lays awake in bed. He listens to the rain as it pounds down across the roof of the Cottage, the thunder rumbling in the distance. Spring has given way to summer, but he has yet to see any sunshine and birdsong accompany it. Something about the day feels off. Probably the fact that no fanfare is playing in his honor. Honestly, whatever. Throwing an elaborate party to celebrate sobriety seems more than a little gauche. And everyone he has social ties to in the immediate area is also in recovery, so it's not as if anyone could be bothered to attend said party, anyway.
Returning from Manhattan, Eliot had slipped back into his self-imposed isolation without a second thought. Now, here he is, bemoaning his lot in life knowing full well it's his own damn fault. He's alone, with no Bambi, no Q, and only his looming deadline to keep him company. It's fine. He'll go to his regular meeting tomorrow, get his one year chip, and that will be that.
Yippee.
In all honesty, if you were to boil down his ire to its sticky toffee center, the fact that it had been two full panic-stricken days since he had heard from Quentin was the true source of his dread. No texts, no calls, just dead air. Worry has begun roiling in his gut -- what if Quentin has doubts? What if he came back only to drop Eliot like the dead weight he truly is?
What if he's met someone else during the book tour? Surely, if he had, Eliot would know, right?
What if, what if, what if...
He does his best to keep the questions at bay, shove them into those dark little boxes that he doesn't think about -- which Pearl would probably say is unhealthy -- but his inner demons currently have the upper hand. So, instead of doing something constructive -- like get out of bed and work on his goddamn paintings, for example -- he checks his phone, again, reading the last batch of texts like a madman.
Me: where r u now?
Q (Friends ONLY?): In Delaware. Tomorrow is the last reading...Thank Christ.
Me: lol
Q (Friends ONLY?): What about you? Any plans this week?
Me: no just working on the show
Q (Friends ONLY?): Oh, okay. Well, good luck.
Me: Thnx
And then, nothing.
He's stop-started at least a dozen texts on his quest to figure out what the hell is up, but is always too chicken-shit to send any of them. Overcome with the need for distraction, Eliot scrolls through Instagram, trying his best to avoid Quentin’s profile. The last thing he needs to discuss with Pearl is insta-stalking, and all its trappings, the next time he sees her . Through the din of the rain, he hears the sound of a car rolling up the drive, but thinks nothing of it. People turn around in his driveway all the time. However, when he doesn't hear the tell-tale sound of a car backing up, he tentatively checks the security camera app on his phone.
The car is pulled up outside the main house, but his latest renters aren't due until tomorrow. Eliot sits up in bed, trying to piece together this bizarre puzzle. The driver just sits there for a good three minutes while the rain pours down.
Finally, someone emerges from the car and walks up the drive, but the camera is too rain-spattered to see any detail. "There's no one home, asshole," Eliot says to the screen. He watches as the person looks in the window and finds the house dark. A smug satisfaction warms Eliot's chest; whoever this person is will no doubt give up and then be one their way.
Except that they don’t .
Abandoning the empty house, they walk past the car -- which is now leaving for some fucking reason -- and make a bee-line for the studio. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Eliot lets out a groan. He can’t help but grumble his disdain. This whole asinine affair was just the cherry atop an otherwise shit morning. Annoyed that he now has to start his day by way of human interaction, Eliot gets out of bed and begins rummaging through his wardrobe for a pair of pants and a shirt.
Dressed and walking down the stairs, Eliot’s irritation grows exponentially with each creaky step. As he reaches the landing, he hears a knock. Now awake and wholly prepared to chew out whoever has the gall to darken his door, he turns the knob. Ready and willing to unleash his wrath on the person at the other side. "If you're here about renting the main house-" Eliot's words and heart stop mid-sentence, blood suddenly rushing in his ears.
There, on the porch, is Quentin. Soaked to the bone, looking every bit like Mr. Darcy. His hand flutters in nervous movement, giving the smallest of waves, "Surprise," he says meekly.
"Q, what? How are you here?" Eliot croaks, the words sticking in his throat as he feverishly pushes back his hair. God, he must look like a wreck.
"Margo gave me your address," Quentin says, shivering. He holds out a small paper bag. "I, uh, brought bagels? I-it's meant as a 'you're one-year-sober' celebration thing...I guess."
Dammit, Bambi. You couldn't warn a bitch?
"Wow, uh, bagels," Eliot replies, his stomach in knots. "This is a surprise."
"Sorry." Quentin suddenly deflates, the bag falling to his side. "This was a much better idea in my head."
"No, no," Eliot waves him into the studio with a trembling hand, "come inside. Please ."
Quentin shuffles over the threshold, taking off his coat. "Thanks, I really should have thought this through before, you know, taking the first available train this morning."
Pulse racing, Eliot tries to maintain a cool facade. "Q, honestly, it's fine.”
It epically isn't , but what can he do? His heart slams against his ribs as Eliot takes in the catastrophe that is his living quarters. To say that the Cottage had suffered from a severe lack of tidying while he'd been working on his pieces for Harriet is a massive understatement .
Christ, this place is a disaster.
Paint is smeared on... fucking everything , the oils leaving a thick, palpable stench in the air. Unwashed dishes pile over in the paint sink, and brushes, still wet from use, lay discarded on the floor. How Quentin could even stand the look of it is beyond Eliot's understanding. He resignedly hopes Q can't see his hands shake as he clears off the table.
"You slept in your studio?" Quentin asks, undoing his messy bun and wringing out what water he can.
Shit.
"Uh, actually, I live here," Eliot says, turning to face Quentin. "I'm kind of a tenant at my own house." He runs up the stairs, grabbing a towel from the linen cabinet in the bathroom.
"That sounds...complicated." He hears Quentin say below.
"Oh, it definitely is," Eliot says, reemerging. He throws the towel to Quentin. "But that can be a story for another time."
"Sure, yeah, of course," Quentin agrees, drying his hair in earnest, "whatever you need."
What Eliot needed was a do-over of the whole goddamn morning. If he had known Quentin was coming, he would have been prepared. Hell, he would have started preparing as soon as Quentin left for his book tour. But here he is -- yet again -- unable to get his shit together, in rumpled clothes, stinking of oils, and surrounded by clutter.
"Do you want coffee?" Eliot offers, placing two chairs at the newly cleared table. Even if he was caught unawares -- and on the brink of hysterics -- he'll still be a good host, dammit.
"Yeah," Quentin says, putting his hair back up. "Can I poke around?"
Please, God, no.
"If you want," Eliot tells him as he fills the pot in the paint sink and fetches two mugs from the shelf. "Coffee should be up in a bit."
"Uh-huh," Quentin says absently, staring at the most recent landscape occupying Eliot's easel. Something about Q seeing it unfinished makes Eliot’s gut twist. Like his secrets are on display, and no amount of oil and canvas can hide them. But...what harm would it do, really, if Quentin knew everything? Plenty, probably. Or is he discrediting them both by thinking so? Jesus , he'll need to talk to Pearl about that more in their next session. Before he can commit any more thought to the matter, the coffee pot goes off, wrenching Eliot out of his head.
"That one isn't finished," he says, grabbing a bagel and joining Quentin at the easel. He hands him a cup of coffee, then takes a sip of his own. The bitter taste is a welcome reprieve from the bile currently swirling in his gullet.
"Really? It looks pretty close." Quentin accepts the cup, blowing on it as he squints at the canvas. "What do you have left to do?"
"I don't know yet," Eliot shrugs, "it'll tell me. When it's ready."
"Wow. That's, like, the third most pretentious thing I've ever heard in my life," Quentin smirks.
"Brat," Eliot replies, biting into his bagel.
Quentin takes a sip of his coffee and clears his throat. "Sorry again about dropping in unannounced. I should have thought it through-"
"Q, really, it's fine." Eliot says, giving him a genuine smile that surprises even himself. "I'm glad you're here." It’s true ; as utterly unprepared as he was for Quentin's arrival, having him here with him -- on today of all days -- is nothing short of miraculous.
"Did you, um, have anything planned for today?" Quentin asks hesitantly, tucking a phantom stray hair behind his ear.
Right. That.
"I need to go into town. Got to pick up some things for my renters tomorrow," Eliot replies, finishing off his bagel.
"Oh, okay…" Quentin says, going stiff. "Do you want me to-"
"I'm asking if you want to come with me, " Eliot says, setting down his coffee and taking Quentin's hand. "It's just errands, shouldn't take very long at all."
Quentin relaxes as he gives Eliot's hand a squeeze. "Yeah. That'd be great."
###
Rain spatters across the windshield as Eliot drives him and Quentin to Wegmans. The windshield wipers make a soft whooshing as they move. It's an amicable silence that Eliot is in no rush to fill. Quentin is here with him, and he'll do nothing to endanger that.
When they arrive, the rain is pouring down in sheets. It clings to their clothes and skin as they run inside to keep from getting soaked, laughing at the absurdity of it all. The doors slide open for them, and together, they enter the welcome mundanity of the grocery store.
Eliot likes to keep the fridge stocked with complimentary beverages for his renters. Though his offerings are simple -- sparkling water, beer, and bottles of wine -- they earn him a five-star rating on Airbnb, nine times out of ten.
He makes his way down the brightly colored soda aisle while Quentin trails behind him with a cart. Lined with tooth-rotting high-fructose monstrosities, he ignores their siren song in favor of a box of key lime La Croix.
Once millennial trash, always millennial trash.
As much as he wishes he could hand-craft signature cocktails for his guests, the temptation had historically proven too great. He’d stubbornly attempted to do so when he first set about renting the main house. Though no liquor was technically ingested , he did come close and, since then, he had promised Bambi and Charlton to avoid such situations. Besides, it went against the hermit-like aesthetic he had accidentally let himself fall into. So, now he -- shudder -- buys beer.
When they arrive at the liquor aisle, Quentin tenses up. He looks around wildly as if he were a teenager trying to shoplift schnapps on a dare.
"Are you sure this is okay?" Quentin asks, watching with alarm as Eliot places a bottle of pinot grigio in the cart.
"Well, it's not as if I have a recovering alcoholic card they can ask for," Eliot jokes, adding a dark merlot with a clank. It's not as if he’s going to get carded at all , shame that it is. "Come on, we need to get beer too."
The cart rattles its way over sticky tiles, the smell of hops and lowered expectations marking their arrival at the beer section. Christ, why would anyone willingly drink this stuff? Then again, there had been a time when he was much less discerning when it came to any number of party favors, so really, who is he to judge? If the renters want beer, they would have it. He picks up two six-packs, opting for whatever is on sale instead of what's trendy. Free booze is free booze, and every last bottle would be in the recycle bin by Monday, guaranteed.
"Having a party?" The cashier asks, scanning the bottles.
"Why yes, it's my anniversary," Eliot says -- because why not?--
"Happy anniversary," the cashier says brightly, "how long have you been together?"
"Uh…" Eliot falters, suddenly wishing he hadn't started his little ruse.
"Two months," Quentin interjects from behind the cart.
Oh.
"Sorry, darling ," Eliot says with an exaggerated huff. "You're always so much better at dates than I am."
"You two are cute," the cashier smiles as Eliot retrieves his card from the chip reader. "Have a good day," she adds, handing over the receipt.
Eliot loads the bags into their cart as Quentin grins cheekily at him, all creases and dimples. "That was fun, wasn't it, sweetheart?"
"Yes, you're the very pinnacle of wit," Eliot says, rolling his eyes.
###
Pulling the car into the driveway at the main house, Eliot cuts the engine. He looks over at Quentin, who hasn't stopped grinning since they left Wegmans.
"Do you want help unloading, sweetheart? " He asks, getting out of the front seat.
Eliot -- for Quentin's benefit and absolutely no one else's, definitely -- has decided to play along. "Why yes, darling, that would be delightful."
Together, they empty the trunk in one load, and Eliot leads the way up the stone path to the side door. Awkwardly fishing out his keys, he unlocks the door with a small click, a moment later entering the kitchen with Quentin trailing behind. The entire place is spotless, still showing the thorough scrub-down Eliot gave it after the last tenants left. Placing his bags on the counter, he flips on the lights and looks on in satisfaction. Every surface gleams under the LEDs.
Eliot has always taken pride in his kitchen. When first touring the place, his realtor had said it was the heart of the house, and he was in no place to disagree. At the time of renovation, he instructed the contractors to keep as many original details as possible. All the appliances were updated, of course, and the walls had been painted a forest green to keep with the old-world aesthetic. But beyond that, the space was cozy with its coved ceilings, preserved sturdy walnut cabinetry, and breakfast nook.
"Wow, El. This kitchen is amazing." Quentin gapes around as he sets his bag on the counter with the others.
Eliot can't help but preen. It's been so long since he had someone he knew in his house. He hasn't hosted anyone -- anyone that wasn't paying him, at least -- since the night he'd overdosed. The fact that it was Marina who had the last tour of the house makes his stomach sour.
And that just won't do.
"Want me to show you around?" Eliot asks reluctantly, loading the groceries into the fridge.
"I mean, if that's okay," Quentin responds, still taking in the space.
"It's no trouble. I should do a walkthrough anyway.”
Eliot meanders through the house, flipping on lights and opening curtains in each room. As Quentin trails behind, Eliot can’t help but feel a bit Dickensian. Opening the manor for the first time after being shuttered for years. Well, more like a week, but whatever.
"Wait, is that acrylic ?" Quentin asks, pointing at the canvases hanging in the dining room. Eliot's heart suddenly sinks at the sight of them.
After Margo had been forced to sell off his art collection, Eliot had resorted to hanging the paintings he'd made at Whitespire throughout the house. But now, seeing them there with Quentin, it makes him shrink from the shame of their origins.
"Yeah, that, um. I painted those in rehab. Needed stuff for the walls," Eliot replies nervously. "Everything else was sold off to pay my bills."
"Oh, I didn't-" Quentin falters.
"I know. It's okay," Eliot replies. He wishes there were more to say, but there isn't. "Come on, I'll show you upstairs."
As Eliot leads Quentin up to the second floor, their footsteps the only accompaniment in the awkward silence between them, he wishes he’d said anything else about the paintings. Hell, he could have lied, and Q wouldn't have known the difference. But Eliot lied and hid for so long -- and he isn't that person anymore. He hasn't been that person for a year now. And he has to believe that the fuck-ups of the past are different from the fresh ones he's enacting daily.
"You know, I should probably get going," Quentin says, hesitating when they reach the top of the stairs. "You've got stuff to do. I-I'm sorry," he shakes his head, "I shouldn't have come."
Eliot's heart sinks, down through the floor and into nothingness. "What? No, you didn't...I mean, you aren't…"
Shame prickles across his skin, and clouds his thoughts. His brain begins rapid-firing scenes of ruination, the fire and brimstone of imminent terror. If only his life wasn’t such a shit-show, Quentin wouldn’t suddenly feel the need to leave. And if Eliot doesn’t do something, damn well anything , Q will leave, he’ll be gone , and who knows how long it’ll be before he sees him again.
Eliot can't let it end like this.
"I-I've been seeing a therapist," he stammers.
Quentin smiles, surprised but genuine. "That's...wow. Good for you."
"Yeah, I found her after you left for the tour. Her, uh, name is Pearl." Eliot isn't really sure why her name would be relevant, but he's never talked about seeing a therapist before, so he's kind of working off the cuff here.
"Oh, okay," Quentin says confusedly.
Tell him about all the strides you're making, the healthy coping mechanisms, your diagnosis, FUCKING ANYTHING!
"We talk about... things ."
Dammit, Waugh.
"I mean, that's great,” Quentin replies, “but why-?"
"I want you to know that I'm trying," Eliot gasps. His pulse races so quickly, he can hardly hear his own voice over the rush of blood in his ears. "Quentin, please, don't go."
Notes:
Thank you for your readership! Tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion!
Summary: In which the boys earn their Explicit rating.
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BartsFrogPrince on Chapter 1 Sat 04 Apr 2020 04:19AM UTC
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Rubick on Chapter 2 Sat 16 Jan 2021 08:09PM UTC
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stormcoming on Chapter 3 Mon 27 Jul 2020 12:44PM UTC
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Rubick on Chapter 3 Sun 17 Jan 2021 06:32AM UTC
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Hooded on Chapter 4 Sun 29 Mar 2020 05:24PM UTC
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mafm on Chapter 4 Fri 10 Apr 2020 03:28PM UTC
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DirectToVideo on Chapter 4 Fri 10 Apr 2020 08:13PM UTC
Last Edited Fri 10 Apr 2020 08:14PM UTC
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