SQUATMANCER.

quietly, shifting the books to settle more comfortably in her arms, ‘ hi. ’

and - casey would have kept them, the books, at least as long as it took for quentin to part ways from her again; but this is fine, too, she decides, and lets them go. ( tries not to think about, you know, physical magic. he doesn’t seem like one of the too cool to be here hotheads, so maybe - ) ‘ it’s – n-no, it’s okay, i - there is no non-shitty way to say that’s, kind of a relief, honestly. but, like, who wants to go up to just - some person and say “hey, my brain is a little broken” when they might be - you know. ’

ah. they’re both bad at this. ‘ um - anyway. thanks. ’

quentin’s gotten very conscious of the space he takes up. quentin in twenty sixteen would’ve just kinda let someone carry all his books without thinking about it. quentin in twenty-twenty is both stubborn about having one arm and always wildly aware of the air that he fills in a room, and - aware of if it’s useful, or not. he’s not supposed to overthink like that, but neither his therapist or his boyfriend have trained that out of him yet. 

anyway, letting a tiny carry his books is taking up too much space.

( okay, a ‘tiny’, they’re nearly the same height. whatever. )

somewhere at the crossroads of something might really be broken and you don’t have to kill yourself for me, i’m already deeply impressed – eliot wants to hiccup, wants to throw up, wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to scream, and then finds himself at some hollow place where he doesn’t, can’t, do any of those things.

( and what is - the fucking point, of quentin coming back with him if eliot is still - wrong, if he can’t even feel things in the right order, if he can’t even cry when any normal fucking person would cry - )

but, that’s exactly it. that’s why he can’t look. quentin’s skittery muttering is why he can’t look.

his grip tightens on his cane, knuckles whitening. ‘ pretty much - when we start walking. ’ a bracing, aching inhale. ‘ do you remember. when we first met, you asked me if you were hallucinating. and i said, if you were, how would asking me help. ’ eliot’s head cants minutely. ‘ it’s not a trick. ’

he remembers. well, he remembers bits and pieces. remembering eliot is, so far, not remembering everything they’ve ever talked about, but the broad strokes and pointless details instead. broad strokes: eliot is the best person he’s ever met, even when he’s convinced that he’s the worst. pointless details: the exact crease around his eyes when he said i love you, but.

but, eliot says it and quentin remembers, and something aches palpably in his stomach to know it — and for the connected, domino-style memories it knocks downs down in the same moment. “ yeah. i was fresh off a weekend in hospital. i thought it was a, ” quentin’s laugh is a little off key, “ pretty reasonable question. ” he says it quietly, but firmly, closing a door on the notion of being tricked. at the same time he has a horribly lucid thought that if he was a god, looking to fuck with quentin coldwater on an irreparable cosmic scale, he would probably use eliot waugh to do it.

he wants to ask if they can stay longer, but in the last-chance-looking where he’s trying to commit eliot’s face to a fresher memory than the stagnant ones he’s still picking through, he just thinks that eliot looks more tired than quentin’s ever seen him. both of them have to be brave. and selfish un-selfish. and they have to go home. with a kind of resigned determination: “ i love you so much. ”

the thing is - he doesn’t know what he’s being thanked for. the thing is - it’s just more of the same. what did you think was going to happen, when you dove headfirst into another world? i thought i’d die.

the only difference is he wouldn’t have been dying for himself, but that’s not -

( he’s not dying. they’re, not dying. you want to live your life, live it here. he has to - they both, have to, figure out what the fuck that even means, now. what it’d be, to live for themselves and each other, instead of fucking - dying for each other, every time. in the aftermath, in the - )

he’s distractible under quentin’s fingers, buzzing at his half-here half-gone nerves: it’s dangerous, a little. like if quentin keeps touching him he might just not leave. not - deal with going back to a life where quentin might start remembering everything eliot’s said and thought and done and change his mind.

but he clears his throat, crisply, stiffly, tugs himself clumsily up to his feet, winces at the pull in his stomach muscles. lead the way, and he swallows thickly, nods. he didn’t come here - all the way here - to let the old fears crumble him all over again. ‘ yeah. ’ he did - he’s already done, the hard part. parts. okay. ‘ don’t, mm … ’ fuck. ‘ we can talk. on the way. if not looking at each other feels, ’ bad, ‘ weird. ’

“ okay. yeah, i, ” quentin inhales and stops. to think. following eliot to his feet is jagged and woozy and quentin laughs, anxiously, hollow, “ i think if - i couldn’t talk to you, i would ... i don’t know. it would start feeling like a trick. ” 

it could still be a trick. like the attendant at the train station. they don’t need you. this is a test, of some sort, one that quentin either has to pass or fail and — like the brakebills exam, getting it wrong, and in the dizziness that comes with standing quentin feels suddenly stuck on a precipice where his shitty balance could push him in the wrong direction.

maybe this is a test to make him stay. maybe it’d be selfish to go home with eliot. maybe it’s not - eliot, but like the centaur, and — quentin decides not to say i think i’m gonna throw up and instead just presses his hands to his stomach and wills the feeling to go away until it does. this whole place is thoughtform. if quentin says he’s going to throw up, he’s going to throw up. by that same logic, under his breath: “ this is real. it’s not a trick. they’re not tricking me again. eliot is really here. eliot is - eliot is taking me home. ”