[Eliot, still looking like a High King even crouched on the forest floor with him, even in the dark and dressed in somber black like he's in mourning. But to be fair, it's the only clothes he has here and even the best cleaning spells will wear it out after a year. If experience counts for anything. It's a stray thought, about Eliot, a well-worn grove in his brain that always, always notices him even when he probably shouldn't. Always commenting voice in the back of his mind on the cut of his shirts and the width of Eliot's shoulders, the graceful movements of his hands.
With practiced ease, Quentin forces his eyes and his thoughts back to the boats before getting up and grabbing his lantern off of the ground.
He shuffles his feet most of the way there, like he doesn't really want this, or like he can somehow trick himself in to not thinking about what they're about to do, as he gets sheets of paper and art supplies from the piles near the water. A few glowing rocks make it in to the pile as well.
He can't think of anything to say, not when the arts and crafts things clutched to his chest, but he shifts his lantern to the already overflowing hand and brushes the back of his empty one against Eliot's, not quite holding hands but close enough to find some measure of comfort. To offer it back, too, because Eliot lost Margo, and he can only imagine how that must feel.
He sits down crossed-legged on the beach and spreads the supplies out in front of him, picking up a piece of paper and a pencil, he starts writing in fits and starts, pencil moving unevenly across the paper as he writes a letter to his dad.]
I--uhm, you can make one? Too? There's like a lot of paper here. [Too much maybe. He'd really just grabbed a stack and hurried away.]
[Before turning back to write the lines to his dad, what he should have said and how missed he is, was, and how sorry Quentin was to have missed the final days of his life. He ends it with one large Q at the bottom before folding it in to a paper boat, the kind they used to make together when Quentin had been a kid. They'd made one, once, and painted it bright red and set it out in a lake, watching it together until it sank under the small waves because the paper got too wet.
With care, he draws out the tuts to keep the glowing rock from dropping out of the boat as he places it in it, and moves to stand by the edge of the water.]
Goodbye, dad.
[Almost as soon as his boat hits the water, this sense of peace creeps over him. Like he can breathe again and he turns to Eliot with a quiet gasp of surprise, mouth open on the exhale. Peace and something like calm warmth, like waking up in a pool of sunlight to a world without fear.]
no subject
With practiced ease, Quentin forces his eyes and his thoughts back to the boats before getting up and grabbing his lantern off of the ground.
He shuffles his feet most of the way there, like he doesn't really want this, or like he can somehow trick himself in to not thinking about what they're about to do, as he gets sheets of paper and art supplies from the piles near the water. A few glowing rocks make it in to the pile as well.
He can't think of anything to say, not when the arts and crafts things clutched to his chest, but he shifts his lantern to the already overflowing hand and brushes the back of his empty one against Eliot's, not quite holding hands but close enough to find some measure of comfort. To offer it back, too, because Eliot lost Margo, and he can only imagine how that must feel.
He sits down crossed-legged on the beach and spreads the supplies out in front of him, picking up a piece of paper and a pencil, he starts writing in fits and starts, pencil moving unevenly across the paper as he writes a letter to his dad.]
I--uhm, you can make one? Too? There's like a lot of paper here. [Too much maybe. He'd really just grabbed a stack and hurried away.]
[Before turning back to write the lines to his dad, what he should have said and how missed he is, was, and how sorry Quentin was to have missed the final days of his life. He ends it with one large Q at the bottom before folding it in to a paper boat, the kind they used to make together when Quentin had been a kid. They'd made one, once, and painted it bright red and set it out in a lake, watching it together until it sank under the small waves because the paper got too wet.
With care, he draws out the tuts to keep the glowing rock from dropping out of the boat as he places it in it, and moves to stand by the edge of the water.]
Goodbye, dad.
[Almost as soon as his boat hits the water, this sense of peace creeps over him. Like he can breathe again and he turns to Eliot with a quiet gasp of surprise, mouth open on the exhale. Peace and something like calm warmth, like waking up in a pool of sunlight to a world without fear.]
Oh. Oh, Eliot--