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Summary
Sometimes he just wants to pretend.
It’s his face and eyes-
Sometimes, the Monster will draw close, close enough that Quentin can’t see the snarl it pinches Eliot’s mouth into, and he can't help but pretend that it’s him. That it’s Eliot’s head on his shoulder. That it’s Eliot’s hands, passing him a plastic airplane. That it’s Eliot’s breath shuttering against his ear. Sometimes, he just wants to curl up, put his head to that chest that used to be his and listen to that heart beat at its ribs and pretend that it’s Eliot’s.
And then the Monster blinks just a bit too fast, or talks just a bit too slow, or squeezes just a bit too tight, and the illusion shatters and it’s just heartbreak and shame like boiling water pouring into Quentin over and over and over again.