Work Text:
First the tide rushes in, plants a kiss on the shore
“What is that?”
Quentin looks up from his untouched plate of food to see the not-Eliot blinking up at the ceiling. Q looked up too, if only to keep from staring at Eliot’s face, wishing he would break through again. Before, if was hard to stare at the man he loved – and he did love him, never stopped (couldn’t stop) after Eliot’s rejection what felt like ages ago – stare at the man he loved and see a stranger staring back. Now, it was impossible to tamp down the hope that Eliot’s gaze would turn familiar.
“The ceiling?” He asked and the monster shifted in irritation.
“No,” he drew the word out long, a tell Q had realized for confusion. “That sound.” His confusion turned to irritation.
Q listened for a moment, hearing nothing more than the quiet chatter of the other patrons in the diner, the soft clink of silverware on cheap plates and the occasional staccato of the employees shouting from behind the double doors leading to the kitchen. All of it set to the background of a soft song piping through tinny speakers. He listened for a moment longer, unable to place the song yet it tugged at him – like a memory he couldn’t place.
So I rush to your side, like the oncoming tide
“You mean the music?” Q glanced briefly at Eliot’s face, swallowing down disappointment as the monster stared intensely back. It sat heavy in the pit of his stomach and he felt sick – he was so tired of this feeling, of barely keeping himself together. He honestly wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going, being by Eliot’s side without Eliot at his.
“Music?” The monster hissed the ‘s’ as his head tilted and he clicked his tongue harshly on the ‘c’, cutting off the sound and setting Q’s frayed nerves on edge.
At last we’re face to face, and as we kiss through an embrace.
“Music makes you sad,” the not-Eliot stated, questioned, quietly.
“Not all music,” Q managed through a lump in his throat, trying to push away memories of nights spent with Eliot beneath the Fillorian stars.
I can stare, I can feel, you are love, you are real
“But this music does.” He hated how foreign Eliot’s voice sounded when the monster spoke.
Q tried not to think of the last time he held Eliot (in Fillory, their grips shaky and hands wrinkled. Eliot had taken the age spots in with more grace than either of them thought possible) tried not to think about the last time they kissed (a nearly chaste but desperate kiss, alone in the boat before they went into Castle Blackspire – for luck, Eliot had said shakily).
“Why does it make you sad?”
The strange lilt the monster inflected in Eliot’s voice jarred Q from his memories.
“Sometimes music makes you sad,” Q ground out as he picked at the cold fries on his plate, just to give his hands something to do. His skin suddenly felt too tight around his bones – like he was going to explode at any moment and he was losing track of the conversation. But, the topic was clearly waning from the monster’s interest as he heartily dug back into his own plate of food.
Eliot hated poutine.
Really mine in the wind, in the rain, in the sun
Q inhaled deeply and caught the scent of peaches from someone else’s plate. He gagged and sobbed at the same time, reaching for the glass of water in the hopes to pass it off as a dry throat.
“Are you alright Quentin?”
He couldn’t bear to look at Eliot’s body across from him, the genuine concern from its false inhabit was too much to try to handle right now. He took a long sip of tepid water and tried to pretend the tears in his eyes were from his coughing fit.
Like the tide at its end, I’m at peace in the web of your love
"I'm fine."