#eliot ♤ the mosaic verse

[runcnlove]

[ O P E N for Quentin; set in the Mosaic verse and in spirit sort of continuing this and this, in a way that it's gonna be a different story since I'm writing El in it but with scenes resembling those still sort of happening previous to this one, because I can't quite put 'Eliot falling ill not that long after Ari passes away' plot out of my mind, not to mention I have such a soft spot for stories about one character taking care of the other when they are sick / recovering, and imagining these two in this scenario is 😘👌 ]

Eliot wakes when something warm and heavy just enough to feel comforting without being suffocating ( quilt, his brain supplies helpfully, sleep-hazy as it still is ) lands on top of him, smoothed out by the gentle touch of hands he would ( and did ) recognize anywhere and anywhen, even running a high fever.

The same hands then move to his forehead, feeling wonderfully cool against his still a little too warm skin, but he lolls his head to the side a little to escape the caress, the temperature check.

You worry too much, Q. You're gonna get wrinkles before your age.

Quentin's sweet sweet care felt nice when Eliot was sick but now he's recovering, there's no need for the other man to look as worried as he knows he does without even needing to open his eyes – Eliot feels guilty enough for all the sleepless nights and premature gray hairs he caused Q already, not to mention the flashbacks the other man probably experienced that Eliot is very very carefully not thinking about because it would break his heart all over again.

( Ari was as much a part of him as she was a part of Q; the closest friend he'd had after Margo and Q himself, and the only close friend he's had in this reality... losing her, and so young, hit hard, and he still hasn't let himself feel the grief fully – couldn't, really, because then he knows he'd fall apart, and Q and Teddy needed him to be the strong one )

There's a familiar small warm weight pressed against his side ( Teddy, he'd dozed off telling him a bedtime story, he remembers now, the boy's curiosity prolonging it way past his scheduled bedtime and Eliot's recent illness making him tire much too easily during the day and doze off multiple times a day, though usually not for long, just minutes at a time sometimes ), so Eliot opts to focus on him first, blinking his eyes open to watch that dear little face, peaceful in his sleep, and leaning down to place a kiss against the top of the little boy's sweet-smelling head.

Then, he finally lolls his head back to look at Q, giving him a wide smile even though keeping his eyes open more than half-way still feels like too much effort – he's so warm and comfy, he might go right back to sleep as soon as they finish talking.

❛ Hey, ❜ his voice is hoarse, both from the illness he'd suffered through and the bedtime story that unexpectedly stretched for hours, and Eliot swallows, clears his throat and tries again ( he sounds no better, though ), ❛ You're frowning again. Don't. I'm fine. ❜

[runcnlove]

@doorinthepage ( Eliot ) gets kind of a side thing to this because Teddy is a precious, helpful bean who wants his Papa to get better and was being very loud about it; also because Eliot deserves so be loved and cared for as much as possible

Teddy peaked into the bedroom, hugging Bae the Bear tightly to him with one arm, to find his Papa asleep, the sight making his brow furrow.

Papa has been staying in bed for the better part of the last couple of days. Sleeping, mostly, with Dada sitting beside him, a deep furrow etched between his brows, making him look so sad and so tired, it set Teddy's nerves on edge, too.

( The fact that the whole situation is reminding him more and more of when his Mama was sick right before she had to go away to a place so far away she couldn't come back didn't help at all )

Right now Dada is outside, though, for the first time in days, tending to Papa's garden, those plants that needed immediate attention. The colored tiles that have been as much a part of Teddy's life as bedtime stories are lying where Dada left them the first day Papa didn't get out of bed for breakfast, after finishing the latest picture – design, his parents called it – and tearing it all up, scattering the tiles around the base in such anger Teddy has only seen a handful of times from him ( mostly, after Mama got sick ).

Looking back over his shoulder to the front door of the cottage and seeing his Dada still kneeling on the ground beside one of the many garden beds surrounding their home, Teddy slipped into the bedroom and pattered softly over to the bed.

❛ Papa? ❜ he called but since he was trying to be quiet because Dada said they shouldn't talk too loudly when Papa is sleeping so as not to disturb his rest, the word ended up being barely audible and probably not enough to be picked up by another ear.

As such, he received no response, which worried him even more, because his parents usually responded when he called them ( even if it was a sleepy and barely intelligible not-quite-word, it was still a response ).

Mind in all honesty made up even before he crossed the threshold, Teddy pushed Bae the Bear up to rest against the pillow first and then climbed up on the bed himself, ending up sitting on his knees by his father's side.

❛ Papa, ❜ he whispered again and leaned in towards his father as if to share a secret, young voice full of innocent worry and yearning to help, ❛ Bae and I are here to take care of you. ❜

He then reached out to touch Papa's face, too pale yet his cheeks too red at the same time for his liking, but his fingers accidentally bumped into the cloth draped over Eliot's forehead to soothe his fever instead.

Finding it warm, Teddy pulled it off, distinctly remembering that it should be cold, looked around until he found the bowl filled with water perched on the bedside table and dropped the cloth into the bowl, water splashing a bit on the bed and on him, the way Dada did it.

Sloshing it around in the water, which wasn't cold but was definitely cooler than the cloth, for a bit, he pulled it out and was going to put it back on his father's forehead when he remembered that's not how he saw adults do it, be it his Dada or Papa or Mama.

Gripping the opposite ends of the cloth, he wrung it out over the bowl first, his hands too small and not as strong as adults' to squeeze out nearly as much water as necessary, so a couple of cool drops fell on Eliot's face, neck and rolled under his collar when Teddy folded the cloth neatly and draped it again over his father's forehead, patting it a couple of times for good measure.

The boy then curled up against his father's side and laid his head on his chest, right over his heart, blinking rapidly to get rid of tears welling hot in his eyes and making his chest feel tight.

❛ Papa, please, get better here, ❜ he murmured, sounding much more serious and heartbroken than a child should have any reason to, ❛ I don't want you to go away like Mama. I don't want to miss you, too. I don't want Dada to be so sad all the time and throw things again. ❜

Teddy then turned his head to bury his face into his father's shirt and wept, as much for his father's attention as because the worry and sadness he felt were so overwhelming, he had to let them out somehow.

[runcnlove]

@doorinthepage ( Eliot ) asked: ❛ if i kissed you, i don’t think i’d be able to stop. ❜

Eliot's words startle Quentin, drawing his gaze up and away from the letter now forgotten in his hand, the one he'd focused on to busy himself with something in the wake of rejection that both made sense ( why would Eliot choose to be with him? ) and hurt deeply ( no reason other than fifty years they spent in a very loving, fulfilling relationship; they even raised a son for God's sake! nursed grandchildren! grew old together... ), to pretend that nothing happened, least of all his stupid, stupid suggestion, more than anything because at this point he could recite it with his eyes closed, the memory of writing it in the wake of Eliot's funeral clear as a day in his head ( theoretically speaking, he had means to return to the future once the Mosaic quest was finally complete, catch a questing creature, ask them to get back to his time... or, well, the time he and Eliot stepped from into Fillory fifty years ago, easy; only Q didn’t want to go back, for a number of reasons, the most important of all: he didn’t want to go back without Eliot and definitely wasn't gonna leave him behind ).

Eyes wide and lips parted, he looks at the other man and feels tears well up, brow furrowing, because that's just not fair, not fair of Eliot to break his heart the way he did and then say this, and he wants to be angry, he really does, but it's quickly overwhelmed by hope that's been brought on by fifty years worth of memories, of love, of experience that told him that as frustratingly difficult and even borderline cruel Eliot can get during the rough patches, they still can make it through and get out stronger and better and more in love than ever on the other side.

Hope that has been nearly crushed by joined forces of Eliot's rejection and Quentin's own self-esteem issues but was lit up brighter than ever by the look in hazel eyes, heartbreaking in its vulnerability.

❛ Then don’t, ❜ he finally finds his voice enough to say, then clarifies a little awkwardly, belatedly aware of the fact that the other could take his phrase to mean exactly the opposite of what he is saying, ❛ stop. ❜

He leans in as he says that but doesn't make the move the way he did on their first anniversary at the Mosaic. This time, it’s up to Eliot to do that.

❛ Don't stop. ❜

[runcnlove]

@doorinthepage ( Eliot ) asked: "I promith - I feel fine -"

❛ No, Eliot, you are not! ❜ Quentin cuts off the older magician's weak attempt at brushing his concern off a little too harshly than intended, realizes it and tries to soften it by clarifying in a milder tone, ❛ F-fine. ❜

Only the word cracks down the middle and Q has to look away briefly to swallow the fear that threatens to overwhelm him, brow furrowing as he tries to hold back sudden tears, memories still too fresh...

Memories of Arielle and what initially seemed to be just a cold that would make her stay in bed for a couple of days but then she'd be right as rain.

[ Stupid, stupid Quentin, how did he not realize it was more than that, how did neither of them realize, why does he keep letting the people he loves down and gets them killed, why..?! ]

Memories of Arielle, whom the fever had eaten up from the inside out before the week was out.

The same fever that apparently has taken a hold of Eliot now and the thought of losing him too scares Q more than anything ever scared him.

So he channels that fear into anger ( something he'd learnt from Margo... and doesn't the memory of her make his heart pang? it's been years since he saw her, and he's starting to suspect he might never see her again, and it hurts, but there's another reason to the way his heart sinks when he thinks of her under these circumstances – he can't help but think Margo would take care of Eliot much better than he ever could and would figure the Mosaic thing out to boot... because there's always a nagging thought at the back of his mind as they work through designs, dozens, hundreds, thousands of them, that they got something wrong, that there's a loophole somewhere in this quest but he can't for the life of him figure out what it is ), not at Eliot, even though it might look that way and that just adds a small stone to the pile of guilt weighing on him, but at himself, at his helplessness, at being a magician and his fucking discipline being mendings but being unable to mend those he loves, neither emotionally nor physically and somehow always finding ways to ruin things, because anger is easier than fear, than admitting he has no idea what to do other than some basic home remedies that might not help El the same way they didn't help Ari.

Taking a shuddering breath and forcing himself out of the pit of guilt and self-loathing his own brain is so helpfully digging for him, reminding him of all his faults, all his failures – he needs to take care of Eliot and he needs to take care of Teddy, he has work to do and he can't afford to fall apart right now – Q turns back towards Eliot and brings the hand that's not lying on the other magician's shoulder, pressing him firmly but not unkindly back into bed from when he tried to get up, to his forehead, frowning at the confirmation of his suspicion ( with the heat radiating off him enough for Q to feel it even before he touched him and the blush high in his cheeks, contrasting sharply with his otherwise pale face, it wasn't that hard to figure out he's got a fever ).

❛ You are burning up, El... and you sound honestly quite awful, ❜ he tries to crack a little smile there, to pretend there's a joke somewhere in his last phrase that would lighten the situation, but his smile is a fragile, wobbly thing that looks and feels more like a desperate attempt at holding himself together than anything, and he abandons it, growing serious in the authoritative, matter-of-factly way he only learnt when he became a father, ❛ So you're going to stay in bed and rest and let me take care of you. The Mosaic can wait for a goddamn day. ❜