You would not be sleeping in my bed period if I didn't feel that way about you.
Quentin stared at the words in front of him, trying to process what he was seeing. What Eliot had said. The meaning behind them and what they seemed to express and just...all of it.
"What the fuck."
The words escaped in a rough exhale of breath and he had to close his eyes for a moment to pull himself together. It was a lot. It was more than a lot.
You would not be sleeping in my bed period if I didn't feel that way about you.
If I didn't feel that way about you.
It was so matter of fact. As if he should have just known. As if it should have been obvious to him. But how? Eliot had told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn't what Eliot wanted. Except now maybe he was. Or something. He wasn't sure. He'd never been the greatest at feelings.
Okay, he just needed to talk to him. Make sense of whatever this was and make sure they were on the same page. Because he really needed this to make sense. He needed to know because the uncertainty was killing him and even if the end result was confirmation that Eliot didn't want him, it was better than not knowing.
It didn't take long to get to the Cottage. It looked exactly like he remembered and it made him feel a little more at ease. This was home. His mind strayed to half-there memories of another, smaller cottage. Another home. A home he'd shared with Eliot.
Nope. Not thinking about that right now. Not when he still needed to figure out what Eliot meant.
He found Eliot once he was inside, hands fidgeting nervously with his sleeves as he tried to keep himself together.
"What are we, El?"
Eliot probably owed Quentin a speech. Maybe the same speech he'd given the memory of Quentin when he'd been trying to find a way to take his own body back from The Monster. If not a grand speech then at least an apology. A very sincere, heartfelt apology, possibly on his knees, hands clutching Q's.
If not an apology than an explanation. They might only have a few months, maybe two years here tops before one of them disappeared again. And Eliot had been terrified to act on his feelings, was still terrified to act on his feelings, but worse would be missing out on whatever time they had left.
Instead Eliot sighed a bit smugly, tiniest smirk on his lips as his hands cupped the sides of Quentin's face and he stepped in to kiss him. Even when telling Q— showing Q— how much he meant to him, Eliot couldn't help but be an asshole about it.
There was a moment, a long moment, where Quentin gave in to the press of Eliot's mouth against his own. He'd always been weak where Eliot was concerned. Had always been drawn to him in a way that he hadn't truly been able to deny. So he kissed back, fisting his hands in Eliot's shirt and pulling him closer. It was good. It was everything he half-remembered from one blurry night and fifty years he hadn't truly lived.
He loved Eliot. Had done so for longer than he'd ever been willing to admit. Even when he'd been so sure that Alice was the only one for him, it had still been there in a quiet corner of his heart. A small flame that had built into a conflagration. And after the quest, it hadn't ever really died down. He'd tried to move on. Tried to be with Alice the way everyone seemed to expect. But the truth of it was, he'd been settling because he thought that Eliot didn't want him. It was selfish and unfair and Alice had deserved so much better from him, but it was the truth.
Still, he couldn't just do this. He couldn't fall into something undefined with Eliot. Not after everything. Not after what Eliot had done when he'd bared his feelings. That would be setting them up to fail. So he pushed Eliot back reluctantly, staring up at him as if willing him to just make things clear before he sighed with frustration.
"That's not an answer," he said. "I mean it is, but it...it's not a good answer. I think you owe it to me to clear things up, El. You...you told me you didn't want this. And I tried to let go of how I felt and now you're acting like it should be obvious to me and it...it's not. So, please, El. Just tell me what you want. Tell me what this is."
Eliot's face fell slightly. He would have rather not spoken about it, just moved forward. Which was easier for Eliot because he'd been the one who fucked up.
"I mean, why do we have to overthink this," Eliot said. "You're in my life now. I'm in your life now. Is this really something we have to over analyze?" There was that kernel of fear again. The one that wanted him to run or lash out and say something sarcastic like That's your thing, not mine. Or maybe get a drink and pretend none of this had ever happened.
Eliot pushed them down, but felt a corresponding rise in anxiety and blood pressure for it.
"Q…" Eliot tried. He was trying to gather the words, gather his courage. "I have fucked up too many times. I might be fucking up now, but I don't care." Third time's a charm, he thought darkly. Quentin had been at the hotel briefly. He had been in Tumbleweed. Neither of those times they had ended up together-- the first time was Eliot's fault for keeping Q at a distance, the second time he got to be on the receiving end of the just friends approach.
"Just tell me what you want," Eliot said.
It was obvious that Eliot had a hard time talking about his emotions. Quentin had known him long enough that he was well acquainted with that facet of Eliot's personality and a part of him wanted to give Eliot a pass. To just not talk about whatever was between them.
I get that maybe you're not thinking clearly-
I know you and you aren't-
Don't be naive-
That's not me and that's definitely not you-
-not when we have a choice
He still remembered everything Eliot had said to him in the aftermath of the quest. Every undermining of his feelings and every way he'd been made to feel stupid and wrong for how he felt and what he wanted. How Eliot had pulled away from him. It was, in part at least, why he'd been so prepared to give up everything and stay with the Monster in Castle Blackspire. Because he hadn't felt like he had anything left.
He hated this part of himself. The part that was so terribly anxious. That couldn't just accept the possibility of something good. That couldn't imagine anyone would want him. He loved Eliot, but the fact of it was that Eliot had hurt him and if this was going to work, he needed to be secure in the idea that Eliot wasn't going to turn around in a day or a week or, hell, a year, and tell him that he was just done with it. That it hadn't meant to him what it meant to Quentin.
"I want you to be honest with me," he said, feeling uncomfortably fragile. "I love you, El. I've loved you for so long. I'm in love with you. But I need to know how you feel. I need to know if you're going to walk away from me. Again." The last word was cracked and brittle and he'd tried so hard not to let Eliot see how much that had wrecked him, but it had.
"I'm not brave like you," Eliot blurted. He wasn't entirely sure where he was going with that. The speech he'd given in his head had seemed eloquent and caring and he wasn't sure he could reproduce it here to the same effect. "I got scared. I got scared and I ran away. I ran away after the aborted timeline, I tried running from giving you up when I shot the monster, and every time I run, I fuck things up."
Eliot put his hands on Q's waist to hold him there, and look him in the eye. "I'm not brave the way you are Q. I don't have the courage of my convictions or even to let myself genuinely feel, but please believe me that right now I'm really trying.
"While you're here, while I'm here, I would really just like to love you back."
The words were hard to hear, but Quentin forced himself to listen without interruption. He owed it to Eliot when he was being braver than he gave himself credit for. He knew how hard this had to be, but he appreciated that Eliot was going to the effort for his sake. And he hadn't realized just how much he needed to hear it until Eliot told him.
"I believe you," he assured him. "I know you're trying. And you are so much braver than you think, El. You're one of the bravest people I've ever met." He thought of the man who had become High King even though it meant leaving his life behind. Who had done what was needed time and again, no matter the cost to himself. Who had fought the Monster just so Quentin would know he was alive. Eliot was so brave.
"That's enough," he assured him. "We can do that." Then he leaned up, and up because Eliot was stupidly tall, pressing his mouth to Eliot's as he steadied himself with his hands on Eliot's shoulders.
Eliot threaded his fingers through Quentin's long hair, a sensation he had almost forgotten, and walked Q backwards, slowly and carefully, without breaking the kiss, into his bedroom.