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Willingly continuing therapy has been one of the most challenging things Eliot has ever forced himself to do. Walking, under his own power, thank you very much, into Patrick's office, like clockwork, every Thursday afternoon is brave. Eliot doesn't think that lightly, nor does it say it aloud. It feels almost boastful just to consider the thought when millions of people go to therapy every year and find themselves better for it. Going to therapy doesn't make him unique, but it has helped, and it continues to help, so he keeps going. Plus, he likes Patrick.
Patrick, the second therapist he'd tried, is handsome, straight, happily married, and reminds him a little of Charleton. The man isn't naive like Charleton had been, but he has that same kind of Jiminy Cricket-esh quality. There are moments when Eliot can almost hear Patrick's voice in his head when he starts to overthink something. The guy is patient, which Eliot supposes he has to be because it's his job, but he also calls Eliot on his bullshit. It all combines to make Patrick safe. Safe is good. Safe means that Eliot can flirt a little when he needs to deflect from a particularly tricky topic without having his off the cuff remarks about Patrick's hair or eyes being misinterpreted. If he crosses a line, Patrick tells him and gently directs their conversation back on track.
Deflecting has been happening a lot over the last month and a half or so – ever since they started a deep dive into Eliot's history of failing to meet expectations. Together they've talked about how he hadn't lived up to the standards of his parents and, by extension, his parents' tight-knit church community. The two of them spend a whole session dissecting how those failures had set precedents that have followed him through life. They talk about how his teachers, through all levels of his education (even Brakebills), had seen this brilliant boy and expected more than Eliot was ever able to give them. They talk about Fillory... and Fen, and Eliot's infinite number of failings as both a king and a husband. Eliot admits that he feels like he utterly failed the daughter they should have had with her, then he explains that failing her had motivated him to give everything of himself to Theo. He'd have given Theodore both of Fillory's moons if he could have reached them.
The part he'd played in his son's life is one of the few things that make him feel pride. Theo had been such a fantastic kid who had grown into an admirable, successful young man. Teddy had gotten the best of both him and Quentin. The truth of that bolsters him, right up until the point where Eliot thinks about how Ted would have reacted if he'd witnessed the night in the throne room. Imagining the look of disdain, of outright hatred, that he would have gotten from Theo if Theo had witnessed him crushing Quentin's heart the way he had sent Eliot crashing into a fit of tears that derailed the rest of that week's session with Patrick. The realization that he's discussed his child with his therapist more than he has the boy's other living parent doesn't help. It reminds him of just how thoroughly he's failed at everything important throughout his life – as a son, a brother, a student, a lover, a king, a husband, even as a friend...
Eliot's failures to live up to the expectations of his friends had been the topic of the most recent Thursday. They had started the session by talking about how he'd betrayed Alice (twice). Then their conversation had transitioned to how with the second betrayal, Eliot had ruined his friendship with Quentin to the point that they couldn't even be in the same room together. Finally, they had rounded out Eliot's allotted time by exploring his anxiety that things are slowly but surely souring with Bambi.
Under no circumstances does Eliot want to fight with Margo. At the same time, he's dedicated to the idea of being brave and putting himself first. Boston has been good to him, really good. Despite the exhausting schedule, he keeps Eliot finds himself liking both of his jobs. The bar that had hired him is a queer-friendly space owned by a magician – meaning that Eliot doesn't have to hide... well, anything. He and the owner had clicked from their first conversation. Boston has given Eliot a blank canvas to figure out who he wants to be, and the unlived life of the mosaic had left him with a fair amount of residual wisdom. Somewhere along the line in that lifetime, Eliot had realized that he didn't need to be the foppish dandy he'd paraded himself as during undergrad. That Eliot had been an aloof asshole, who had primarily been a product of rebellion, one he'd designed to be the antithesis of his parents' rural religiously focused life. While he'd been trapped in his head, he'd had nothing but time to explore himself. He'd promised Quentin he'd be brave, and bravery, he is learning, is being honest with himself about what he wants and needs.
Admitting he needs glasses has been brave. It had taken about two months of living on his own to notice that his vision just wasn't as sharp as it had been before the Monster. He'd spent another two months struggling with contacts, but with his late nights and long hours, those just don't work. His new glasses had made their public debut during the same Thursday when he and Patrick had talked about the expectation of his friends. Eliot knows that when Margo sees them, she'll hate them. She won't hate them because he needs them. Margo will hate them because they'll act as the latest visible reminder that he's not the same person he'd been before the Monster and the subsequent fallout with Quentin.
The dark frames fit with the clothing choices that his lingering sensory issues have pushed him to adopt. It's been four months since he'd moved from New York, and there continue to be moments that the tips of his fingers tingle when he thinks about wearing smooth, soft fabrics like silk. Denim has become something akin to a life-saver. It doesn't take much to drop his arm to his side and rub the digits against the coarse fabric, to remind his brain that there are textures other than smooth when it starts to short circuit.
This morning the technique isn't working as well as it usually does, which sucks because it's Sunday. He meets Margo for their weekly brunch on Sunday, and the late-night at the bar means that contacts are out of the question. The glasses are getting their chance to shine a little earlier than he would have liked. Eliot smooths back his hair and mindlessly adjusts the frames before glancing down at the clunky wristwatch he's taken to wearing. Like the jeans, the watch has become something of a saving grace. With the turn of his wrist, he can prove that time has passed, that minutes and seconds are ticking away. It had been impossible to track time in the happy place, and there are moments when he needs to remind his brain that it's on the clock. This morning he's overslept a little, less than fifteen minutes, but it had been enough to put a dent in his morning routine and leave him running late. Almost like his thoughts have invited it, he feels his phone vibrate in his back pocket.
'You had better be on your way. Mimosas (represented by an emoji) don't drink themselves, Bitch!' The words are followed by a line of food emojis featuring bacon, eggs, and coffee. It makes Eliot grin to see. He loves Margo, and Margo loves him, even if he's currently not living up to Margo's exacting standards. Bambi still wears her clothes like a mask. Her appearance is her armor against the world. Eliot has to remind himself that Bambi doesn't have an extra lifetime under her belt to clue her in that appearance isn't everything. She hasn't entirely accepted that his shift in style is likely to be permanent. Eliot thinks as he types a reply, that if Margo had her way, she wouldn't waste a second before dragging him to Bhambi's Custom Clothiers (a favorite by name alone) in New York's Upper East Side to order a fleet of tailored suits.
Eliot doesn't, or at least he tries not to lie to himself. He wants to get back to the point where he can wear a tailored silk shirt again. He just doesn't want them to dominate his identity the same way they had before. He's done being aloof and unapproachable. It hurts too much to hold it all inside himself. He wants to be someone who can be more open about his feelings, who can cry buckets to his therapist, and walk away feeling braver for having done so. If the need arises where he needs to dress to the nines, he wants to be able to rise to the occasion. Eventually, he wants to start dating again, but realistically he knows that there will be many, many, therapy sessions between now and whenever that opportunity presents itself. For now, he's happy to dress down, to feel approachable and real.
Around him, the crowd thickens as he nears the doors of their favorite brunch cafe. People hover in small knots throughout the lobby, and Eliot weaves between them as his eyes scan for Margo. She's talking to Christina, their preferred server, and one of the woman's male coworkers. It seems like she's training this morning. Eliot uses the momentary distraction to tweak how his new glasses rest against his face before approaching the table. Margo spots him before he reaches them, and her jaw drops just a little before clicking back into place. Eliot can almost hear her teeth grind despite the distance and the general noise of the restaurant.
“Good morning, Christina.” The woman's hand flutters in greeting as Eliot slides into the empty chair of their tiny two-person table that barely gives him enough legroom. “Sorry, Bambi.”
“I didn't know you had started accessorizing.” Margo snarks in lieu of a greeting.
“Eliot, this is David. He'll be serving the two of you this morning. What can he get started for you?” Christina asks. Eliot really wants coffee, but if he orders anything other than a mimosa, Margo might start believing that he's been replaced with a pod person. He's half sure she already believes it and just hasn't said as much.
“The mimosa.” Eliot reaches across the table and casually ignores how straight and prim Margo is sitting in her chair. His best friend's hands are clasped together against the tabletop. David makes a show of scribbling down 'mimosa' then disappears to the kitchen. “I can hear your teeth screaming, take a breath already.” He informs her before he sips his complimentary water. The tension races out of her shoulders all at once.
“Gimme,” She orders. Despite himself, Eliot smiles, then obediently leans forward so Margo can slide the frames free from his face.
“Very hipster,” Margo mutters as she turns the frame this way and that. “They match the rest of what you have going on. I guess.” She waves dismissively at the rest of Eliot's outfit, which this morning consists of dark gray Diesel skinny jeans and a black Burberry polo with a plaid placket. The shirt collar features a strip of red that matches the Burberry emblem.
Without asking, Margo slips the glasses on and the way her face scrunches as she realizes that they are prescription rips a bark of unexpected laughter from Eliot's chest.
“Since when do you need prescription lenses?” She demands as she takes them off again.
“Since, you know.” They don't often talk about the Monster. “I tried contacts first, but those ended after the second time I accidentally rubbed margarita salt into my eye because they were bothering me. Eliot cleans a smudge off one of the lenses as he speaks. “I like them.”
“Well, I hate them.” There isn't quite as much venom in Margo's voice as Eliot had expected, for which he's grateful.
“I knew you would.” He says as lightly as he can manage as he reaches for the menu. A burger sounds good, but he's definitely in the mood for eggs, especially if they arrive with sausage and are drenched in hollandaise. David returns with his first mimosa and pulls a little pad from the pocket of his apron to write down their order. Working at a gay bar means that Eliot spends enough time around drunk, horny men to know when he's being checked out, so when David subtly starts to flirt, he flirts right back. It doesn't mean anything; at least to Eliot it doesn't mean anything. He's nowhere near ready to date, but it does make him feel good to know that other men find him desirable.
“Don't shit where we eat.” Margo half teases, half warns, once David is out of earshot. “I like this place. Don't fuck it up!”
“I'm not... ready for that, Bambi.” He assures her. It's harder to be honest with Margo than it is with Patrick, but he's trying. Her hand reaches across the table to squeeze his.
“El. Can I be blunt?” The very fact that Margo is asking permission to blurt out whatever is on her mind lends gravity to whatever she thinks she needs to say.
“I've never known you not to be.” He reminds her. This was the woman who had started a war on a two and a half country continent because an arrogant frat boy had slighted her.
“You can't stay hung up on Quentin forever. He's moved on with Alice. Maybe what you need is a David – to help you swing back into the saddle.” The last thing Eliot wants is a meaningless hookup. He knows exactly what he wants, and it's so much more staggering than that. “You can't hang yourself around the neck of a guy you've been with once, Eliot.”
“It was more than once.” The words slip out before Eliot thinks to stop them.
“When? When the hell did the two of you find enough time to form some life-shattering connection?”
“A lot can happen in a day, Margo.”
“So what? Twice, three times, four? A handful of hookups doesn't make a relationship, El.”
“Stop!” If Margo would think for two fucking seconds, she'd know. She'd read the letter just like they had done.
“El.”
“I'm not doing this, Margo.” He's not discussing the mosaic here, or ever if he can help it. “I'll move on when I'm ready, okay?”
“I just hate watching you pine over him.” Eliot is long past pining; he's mourning. He could have had everything he ever wanted if he'd been braver sooner. It's so easy to imagine what a serious relationship with Quentin might have looked like. He knows what it's like to be married to Quentin, to raise a kid with him, to grow old with him. He'd thrown away the chance to have all of that again, and he mourns the loss every fucking second. If he'd been brave from the beginning, maybe his life wouldn't be in splinters now. With a long sigh, he drops both hands to his legs and flexes his fingers against the denim.
“I'll get over it eventually,” Is all he tells her. Being brave enough to stick it out with his therapist doesn't make him special, but so far its helped, and as long as it continues to improve, he'll keep going. Taking care of himself has to come first, on a timetable that he dictates. He won't let Margo tell him how to heal, even if it means disappointing her in the process.