#m;elliot

@interphrase sent: 💏 from this meme for gaz & elliot --> in encouragement

the strange thing about the two of them now existing on separate schedules is that time is a factor in their relationship. having actual jobs means having to actually go places without the other, and having first spent so much time together pretty constantly when on the street, it’s... odd. comforting, in a way, that they lead a life close to normal, but also odd knowing that elliot has to get up at the crack ass of dawn for some work and gaz has a less strict schedule with more leeway to work from home. such is life, though, and if it makes their lives better overall, well elliot’s down for that.

send me   ‘ open up ‘   for a drabble of my muse talking about one of the most traumatic memories in their life…

it’s late, and ell can’t sleep. he’s not totally sure if gaz is still awake or not, fingers absently tracing patterns over the other’s skin. he had almost hoped an actual bed in an actual apartment would help ease the memories that come at nighttime, but it hasn’t. in fact, he’s loathe to admit it, but its almost made them... worse. he knows things are different now, better. but there’s still something reminiscent about the last time he had a real bed in a real home. 

“did i tell you how i got sent to rehab?” the answer is no, he didn’t. danced around the idea, just made some mistakes. he’s mentioned thomas, but... there’s so much more to it. fingers stop and elliot rolls on to his back, staring at the ceiling. “i killed someone.” a large part of the process of getting him situated for release from the rehab center was acknowledging the night that got him there in the first place. dealing with the anger and shock. “not... y’know, like. i didn’t plan to kill the guy. just... shit happens, right? i was mostly clean, had some ups and downs but more clean than not for several months. thought i was on the right track. that’s always when it goes wrong.”

not here, though. he won’t let that happen here. “anyway, i knew i shouldn’t have gone out, right. but i was nineteen, i was bored. i didn’t go out to buy or anything. just... i dunno, to be out? but my dealer... old dealer was at the bar too that night. i don’t --- i mean i don’t really remember what started it, y’know? i guess word was out that a cop picked me up, got me clean. maybe the guy was just scared i’d turn him in or something.” elliot doesn’t even know if he would’ve, but he never got the chance. “next thing i know, there’s guys everywhere, someone’s got a gun, people start to notice, they panic, there’s chaos, then ---” makes an absent-minded hand gesture in the dark. “its in my hand, and it’s me or him, yknow? or that’s what i thought, anyway. so i pulled the trigger.”

an echo of a gunshot sounds in his ears, a memory he carries with him. “wasn’t my night, i guess. thomas the cop shows up, newly reinstated in the force. gets that look on his face, y’know, disappointed. as if he’s not surprised. that hurt more than knowing i fucked up.” if elliot closes his eyes, he can still see thomas’ face, the expression on it as he made the arrest. “anyway, he arrests me, i get a charge for voluntary manslaughter since it couldn’t be proven that the guy i shot was the one who was going to kill me, thomas steps in and suggests rehab since, y’know, drugs. i get packed up, sent to a center, never hear from thomas again, and have to avoid half of new york city in case the dealers buddies want revenge.”