("Guys - guys , I think I have an idea, if you would just -")
He watched as Quentin frowned at himself - one of those continual little moments of self-doubt that punctuated his every contribution to every social situation.
Sometimes, Eliot would feel a gentle tugging in his chest, a thin, thin thread tied 'round his sternum, begging him to step in and break the awkwardness and offer a reassuring smile. Maybe a brush of knee against knee under the table. But instead he usually (always) did nothing, just watched as Quentin trailed off into a mumbled, "Or, y'know, whatever," and chewed at the inside of his cheek, waiting for someone else to take over the conversation.
It was one of the many small, secret things about Quentin that Eliot guiltily treasured. Things he loved, things that made his heart ache, things that made his skin flush. Things that got him hard. A hundred little details he wished he could hold in his hands but that he had to pretend not to notice for fear of somehow tarnishing them, as if Quentin's personality tics might be subject to Heisenberg's fucking Uncertainty Principle.
And so Eliot observed them from afar, mentally snapshotting them and filing them away.
("Okay, see, the gods are these giant rams -
"Like sheep?"
"No, like rams. With the big curly horns. Giant ones. And one is gold and the other is grey and they're twins, and -"
"Jesus, Quentin, I feel like you're giving me a fucking Zodiac lesson.")
He pretended to hate the way Quentin managed to simultaneously be a weird, dichotomous contradiction of self-conscious loser and shameless, effusive nerd. Really, though, his stomach burned like a belly full of whiskey when Quentin's eyes lit up at trivia and children's book references and the most mundane magic. Everything was just so spectacular to him in a way Eliot couldn't quite grasp.
He wondered how broken he must really be if Quentin Coldwater, diagnosed depressive, could feel the kind of stinging, acute joy that he couldn't seem to capture. That kind of elusive fucking butterfly that always swooped free of his net.
(He wondered if the pain in his chest, the kind he felt when Quentin grinned at him all lopsided and puppylike, was some sort of aching happiness on Quentin's behalf or maybe self-pity or else a strange, disgusting mix of both.)
("Are you nearly at the man-bun stage, Q, or are you growing it out so you can rock beach waves this summer?"
"Now, now, Margo. Don't be cruel."
"Come on, El, I know a little lighthearted cruelty gets you frisky.")
He even liked Quentin's hair, wanted to tangle it in his fingers and squeeze his fist around it and watch Quentin's lips part as he gasped for air. This, especially, was shameful; he could never admit to liking Quentin's hair.
Quentin's hair was awful.
("You wanna go for round two, cowboy?")
Quentin leaned into him in the dark hallway, mouth whiskey-sharp and begging. They were alone in the Cottage together, bored and drunk, and he hadn't expected the response he'd received to his stupid, half-joking offer: rough hands pulling at the buttons of his shirt, teeth nipping at the edge of his jaw and hot breath against his skin.
Quickly, too quickly, Quentin's hands found their way down the front of his trousers, confident and needy.
"Don't chicken out on me now," Quentin whispered into his mouth, his hips dropping into a just-this-side-of-too-rough downward grind, pressing him down into the mattress. Eliot tried not to gasp, tried not to desperately arc up into Quentin's touch.
But he did, anyway.
"I just want you to be sure," Eliot said, as he slid his hands up Quentin's sides, up under his t-shirt, his fingertips following the curve of his ribs and the goosebumps rising across his skin. The room smelled like red wine and stale cigarettes and it wasn't right, not like this. "You're drunk, Q, too drunk -"
Cutting him off, Quentin pressed his mouth against his own, bruisingly hard, then pulled back to look him in the eyes, slightly unfocused pupils peeking out behind his sweaty, tangled hair as he licked his palm.
"Well, you know what they say," Quentin murmured, as he wrapped his fingers around him and twisted his grip in just the right way. Eliot pressed his forehead into the dip of Quentin's throat and clenched his fingernails into sweat-slicked skin of his back, trying to convince himself that this was everything he'd been longing for as Quentin whispered in his ear, "Second time's the charm, right?"
Afterwards, he'd sat on the floor outside the bathroom while Quentin vomited.
(He knew he'd gotten what he wanted, sort of.
But still.
He wondered if he ever should have wanted it at all.)