Work Text:
Usually, Eliot has a tight lid over his innate telekinesis. Nowadays it's even approaching a healthy form of control forged from practice and years of guidance; a far throw from his pre-Brakebill years, where his only coping methods had been to numb himself with alcohol and whatever else he could get his hands on, or forced to deliberately trigger depressive episodes so he didn't have any strong desires at all. The alcohol and drugs are probably there to stay, but hey; it's mostly recreational, and Margo's in no position to judge on that one either way.
Sometimes, though -- his control slips. It's usually during the final dregs of a party, Eliot curled up somewhere cozy, watching the people around him with a sleepy kind of observation. Margo would be at the other end of the room, and then there would be a tug- the familiar feeling of Eliot's magic yanking her mostly-gently to his side. She'd roll her eyes fondly, gesturing to any conversational partners to follow her to this new location if they cared to do so, all the while Eliot buts his head against her exactly like a cat until she indulges him by sliding her hand into his hair to play with the strands or scratch at his scalp.
She teases him for it, because to name the feeling within her when it happens would be to flay herself raw.
He knows, anyway, the way he's known her truest self since their initiation- naked and cold on the roof, sober just to prove that they could do what everyone else needed a buffer for. He is not often an overachiever; but even back then, he matches her energy exactly when she needs him to.
Still. The test is over now; there are no points to be gained from telling him about the warm and gooey feeling of knowing that, more than anything else in the world, what he wanted in that moment was to have her at his side.