moderatelymaladjusted: (74)
Quentin Coldwater ([personal profile] moderatelymaladjusted) wrote in [community profile] logsinthenight 2019-09-18 02:57 pm (UTC)

Do you? Do you real-- it's--

[Leaning in to the hand like he's done it a million times, Quentin can't take his eyes off of his boat, his one tiny boat among all the rest of them, sailing off and taking his goodbyes with them. That peace, that feeling of being just filled with it holds even as he twists against Eliot to just kind of breathe at him, head tilted back to look up.]

It's beautiful. It's. I can't even--

[And the soft, careful memories of his dad are there, just beneath the surface and raising up like bubbles. The time they tried to paint the hallway on their own, and failed so hard they had to use the backdoor for a week and let the painters do it. That time he'd broken a leg at thirteen and had been bound to the house for weeks, and his dad watching show after show with him on the couch in the living room to cheer him up. So many dinners and packed lunches with little notes in them until Quentin grew up enough to ask him to stop. Memory after memory and they're all lit up golden in his head, like something happy and cherished and not weighted down by what came later.]

I want. I want to make another one. For the others. For... you know. I think I need to.

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