Eliot stood before the memory of his greatest regret, trying to brace himself for the inevitable shame of what he'd done. What he was about to re-live.
"I know this sounds dumb but, us. I don't know, think about it. We-we work. We know it 'cause we lived it. Who gets that kind of proof of concept?"
El watched himself, a stunned man searching for the right thing to say. And heard, for the second time, the most idiotic words he'd ever spoken.
What fucking spectacular hell this is! He marveled bitterly as his body grew cold with dread, heart racing, withering in his own skin, nauseated and helpless to stop the colossal mistake from unfolding.
" . . . We were just injected with a half century of emotions, so I get that maybe you're not thinking clearly."
But Q kept trying. He remembered his friend's quiet effort. He stood there, helpless, and watchedQ try. His eyes-no, not just his eyes, his whole posture-full of so much hope.
"Why the fuck not?"
All that beautiful hope, he thought. And you crushed it. Let's watch that happen, shall we?
"That's not me, and that's definitely not you, not when we have a choice." Watching himself speak a feeling surged through him, and he couldn't quite tell what it was, disgust or guilt.
"Okay . . . I, okay . . . sorry . . ."
You broke him, and he APOLOGIZED to you! You FUCK!
"What the hell is wrong with you?" He hadn't planned on speaking to memory-Eliot, only forcing himself witness the man's lack of balls ruin everything. But in the moment, even though he knew it wouldn't change anything, he was too pissed off to stay silent. "What the hell are you doing? Someone good and true loves you, and he went out on a limb. And yeah, maybe it was a little crazy, but you knew. You knew this was a moment that truly mattered, and you just snuffed it out."
In real time he'd avoided looking at Quentin. But now literally facing it, he saw. Saw the full effect of what he'd done. The way Q slumped, sad and defeated. Silent. He stopped pushing.
Part of Eliot wanted to yell: why didn't you push harder, Q? But he knew there was nothing Q could have said. Past-him would have shut down any and every argument in favor of them being together.
You couldn't stand the thought of losing Q's friendship to a failed romance, so instead you ripped out his heart. Like it was just a small, delusional thing. Like the way he so CLEARLY loved you was . . . silly.
He'd told himself in the moment that it was a noble act of self-sacrifice. Setting aside his own longing. Suffering a little pain for the greater good of protecting their friendship. But in re-living it? There was no avoiding the truth.
The way he'd shut down Q's interest and crushed all that sweet, gentle optimism? It had nothing to do with self-sacrifice, or noble intention. Not a goddamn thing. In brutal point of fact, it was a selfish decision. He'd chosen to protect himself. To keep things as they were, in the safe and familiar, rather than man the fuck up and deal with even the hypothetical risk of truly being with Q.
I can't stand to look at you anymore, he thought in the general direction of his past self before turning his attention to Q.
Sad, slouched Q. He could see the man already trying to pack up everything he'd just said and put it away in a box marked 'never.'
"Q, I'm sorry." He heard himself say the words, and wished to god the real Quentin could hear them, too. "I was afraid. And when I'm afraid I run away."
The most honest thing you've ever said in your life, and no one is actually around to hear it.
Kissing memory-Q was entirely pointless as well, but he had to. If for no other reason than to prove to himself that it wouldn't destroy anything. The sky would not fall. He wouldn't burst into flame. Nothing much would change, in fact, except maybe he could finally feel proud of himself. Like a man with the guts to stand tall with the love of his life and best friend, the pair of them carrying every risk and uncertainty with confidence.
I can have that, he assured himself as he pulled away from the brief kiss. I can still have that, I will fucking FIGHT to have that!
"If I ever do get out of here," He mused to the silent, unmoving memory of Q, "know that when I'm braver it's because I learned it from you."
With that, the door opened up.
Okay. Eliot told himself. Talk is cheap, motherfucker. You think you can fight? Prove it.