Quentin’s never come back from the dead before, but he’s been high before, and the similarities are - oh, hey, this bedspread is really soft, deep deep blue, made of something like - velour? That doesn’t sound right, that’s like, for pants from the seventies or something, but it’s not velvet either, which also starts with a ‘v’ - velveteen? Is that a thing? Velveteen like The Velveteen Rabbit, but maybe that’s just material for sad fictional stuffed animals from the turn of the century (he assumes) and not for beds - his mom had given away his copy after the time his dad had read it to him when he was about seven and was sick with a fever, and he’d gone into hysterics at the idea that they were going to have to burn all his stuff because of germs and nothing his dad said had calmed him down -
“Q? You okay?”
He looks up at Eliot in the doorway.
“Bed’s soft,” Quentin says, and slides over sideways onto the bed in question. “Is it made from rabbits?”
“No?” Eliot says, sounding worried, and Quentin smiles up at him, reassuringly, because the bed’s soft under his face too, the pillowcases made from the same slightly fuzzy material; but maybe not so reassuring? Because Eliot looks more worried, not less, comes to sit beside him on the bed and stares down into Quentin’s face, his eyes big and intent like he’s puzzling - puzzling, ha, like Quentin’s the puzzle, instead of - no, better don’t think about that -
Oh, wait. “No, not rabbits,” Quentin says. “Like, not real rabbits - except, I mean, he is a real rabbit at the end, he - that’s the point, right, that he becomes real once someone - or maybe he was real the whole time, and just didn’t know? I haven’t read it in a long time.”
“So I guess that a yes on whether you’re still pretty loopy, huh,” Eliot says.
“I am indeed looped,” Quentin says. “Come touch the bed with me.”
“I am touching the bed.”
“No, you’re sitting on the bed, you’re not - “ Quentin reaches out and grabs Eliot’s wrist, tries to tug him closer. “Lie down, here, with me.”
Eliot hesitates for a moment, then lies down next to him. But he’s holding himself so stiffly, staring up at the ceiling, so so careful to not touch Quentin at all, and his skin is barely touching any of the bed, so Quentin lets go of Eliot’s wrist, lays his hand on top of Eliot’s and laces their fingers together, drags Eliot’s hand across the bedspread, palm down. Eliot breathes in hard through his nose, doesn’t say anything.
“See?” Quentin says.
“I don’t think the bed is made out of rabbits, Q.”
“Not real rabbits,” Quentin says again. “It feels -” He stops, because Eliot’s hand feels good too, better than the bed, warm against his own, and familiar, the shape of it, the way their fingers fit together - “I missed it so much.”
“You’ve never been in this house before, Julia only just -”
“Not the bed,” Quentin says, and squeezes Eliot’s hand.
Eliot swallows, the line of his throat bobbing, keeps his eyes on the ceiling. “Q,” he says. His voice sounds weird.
“It’s okay,” Quentin says. “You don’t have to - it’s okay. This is good, this is -” enough, he’s going to say, because Eliot’s hand in his, Eliot next to him on this soft bed, both of them breathing, it’s enough, it’s more than enough; but then Eliot rolls towards him, fast, presses his face down onto Quentin’s shoulder, and he’s breathing hard again, shuddering, almost gasping, like he can’t catch his breath -
Quentin lifts his hand, touches Eliot’s hair, a little scratchy with product but soft underneath. “El.”
Quentin’s shirt is getting wet, and Quentin cradles the back of Eliot’s head in his hand, strokes his fingers through Eliot’s hair in long slow strokes, again, again, and breathes.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
FILL: Real - Queliot - Eliot-centric fluff/HC
Date: 2021-06-13 02:25 am (UTC)“Q? You okay?”
He looks up at Eliot in the doorway.
“Bed’s soft,” Quentin says, and slides over sideways onto the bed in question. “Is it made from rabbits?”
“No?” Eliot says, sounding worried, and Quentin smiles up at him, reassuringly, because the bed’s soft under his face too, the pillowcases made from the same slightly fuzzy material; but maybe not so reassuring? Because Eliot looks more worried, not less, comes to sit beside him on the bed and stares down into Quentin’s face, his eyes big and intent like he’s puzzling - puzzling, ha, like Quentin’s the puzzle, instead of - no, better don’t think about that -
Oh, wait. “No, not rabbits,” Quentin says. “Like, not real rabbits - except, I mean, he is a real rabbit at the end, he - that’s the point, right, that he becomes real once someone - or maybe he was real the whole time, and just didn’t know? I haven’t read it in a long time.”
“So I guess that a yes on whether you’re still pretty loopy, huh,” Eliot says.
“I am indeed looped,” Quentin says. “Come touch the bed with me.”
“I am touching the bed.”
“No, you’re sitting on the bed, you’re not - “ Quentin reaches out and grabs Eliot’s wrist, tries to tug him closer. “Lie down, here, with me.”
Eliot hesitates for a moment, then lies down next to him. But he’s holding himself so stiffly, staring up at the ceiling, so so careful to not touch Quentin at all, and his skin is barely touching any of the bed, so Quentin lets go of Eliot’s wrist, lays his hand on top of Eliot’s and laces their fingers together, drags Eliot’s hand across the bedspread, palm down. Eliot breathes in hard through his nose, doesn’t say anything.
“See?” Quentin says.
“I don’t think the bed is made out of rabbits, Q.”
“Not real rabbits,” Quentin says again. “It feels -” He stops, because Eliot’s hand feels good too, better than the bed, warm against his own, and familiar, the shape of it, the way their fingers fit together - “I missed it so much.”
“You’ve never been in this house before, Julia only just -”
“Not the bed,” Quentin says, and squeezes Eliot’s hand.
Eliot swallows, the line of his throat bobbing, keeps his eyes on the ceiling. “Q,” he says. His voice sounds weird.
“It’s okay,” Quentin says. “You don’t have to - it’s okay. This is good, this is -” enough, he’s going to say, because Eliot’s hand in his, Eliot next to him on this soft bed, both of them breathing, it’s enough, it’s more than enough; but then Eliot rolls towards him, fast, presses his face down onto Quentin’s shoulder, and he’s breathing hard again, shuddering, almost gasping, like he can’t catch his breath -
Quentin lifts his hand, touches Eliot’s hair, a little scratchy with product but soft underneath. “El.”
Quentin’s shirt is getting wet, and Quentin cradles the back of Eliot’s head in his hand, strokes his fingers through Eliot’s hair in long slow strokes, again, again, and breathes.