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To Eliot, portals are little miracles. The one they used today had cut the forty-plus minute walk from his apartment in Boston's South End to Boston's Public Garden to a matter of minutes. It's something Quentin probably appreciates more than Eliot because Quentin has been acting somewhat squirrely for days. He has something up his sleeve. It's not a bad something. Eliot thinks it might even be a good something, but Q has been frustratingly mum on the details – admitting only that he wants to spend the afternoon in Boston's Public Garden. When last he'd asked, there had been something babbled about statues and ducklings. Eliot doesn't care what they do. The bottom line is that Quentin is excited about whatever he has planned, so by default Eliot is excited to go along with it.
The chatter of the Starbucks on the corner of Charleston and Beacon streets dies away as they step back onto the sidewalk, and Eliot shifts his caramel frappucino to his right hand so he can hold Quentin's hand with his left. Getting to hold his boyfriend's hand in public is one of the more exceptional perks of having a boyfriend. It's such a simple gesture, yet to Eliot, it's almost like he's giving the equivalent of the middle finger to everything that would have stopped him in the past. That it's Quentin's hand he gets to hold makes the action feel serendipitous. By all accounts, neither of them should be here, but they are here, and that feels miraculous.
Quentin swings their arms as they wait for the traffic light. Across from them, Boston drops away to a field of lush green trees and shaded walkways. Boston's public Garden doesn't hold a candle to New York's Central Park, but Eliot supposes that there's enough within the confines of the waist-high fences to keep their attention for an afternoon.
“What are we here to see again?” He asks as the light changes, and they flow across the street.
“Well, I want to start with the Ducklings,” Quentin tells him as they step onto the opposite sidewalk and stroll into the Garden.
“Actual ducklings, like the ones you feed bread?”
“You're not supposed to feed bread to ducks, Eliot!” Eliot actually does know that, but he also knew how scandalized Quentin would be by the suggestion, and he isn't disappointed. “It's not part of their normal diet, and what they fail to eat can trigger algae blooms, which leads to hypoxia and the destruction of their habitat.”
“My bad, baby. So, no bread for the ducks. Did you bring something they can eat?” Eliot loops his arm around Quentin's shoulder and holds him close as they walk along the shaded path. The Starbucks cup hangs from his hand, and he brings the straw to his lips. It's warmer than it is typically for early May, and his drink has already started to melt because of the heat. The Monster had left him with instances where he just craves something sweet, and he's learned to indulge the impulses quickly, so they don't spiral into more debilitating reactions.
“We aren't here to feed ducks. I want to see the statue.”
“There's a statue of ducks?” Eliot knows that he should have educated himself a little more about Boston before he'd chosen to move here, but he'd been so desperate for a change. Boston has a robust LGBT community, is still on the East Coast, and he'd never visited it. He hadn't been in the right mental state to be picky.
“It's based on the children's book 'Make Way for Ducklings.' Come on, surely someone read it to you! It's a 1941 children's book that won a Caldecott Medal for Robert McCloskey's illustrations. He did them in sepia tones instead of black and white. It's the official children's book of Massachusetts.” Eliot laughs softly and beams down at the smaller man tucked against his side. The revelation is oddly fitting. Quentin is the only adult he knows who would lose his shit over a statue of ducklings based on a children's book.
“I think you forget that my parents weren't 'the read to their kids type.'” He reminds Quentin with as much flippancy as he can manage. He knows the lightheartedness falls flat when Quentin's smile droops. To fix it, Eliot reaches to tip his chin upward. “Hey, Q, forget them. Fuck them, even.” He uses the tilt to rest his forehead against Quentin's. It's the closest thing to a kiss that they've reached. It's not that they don't want to kiss one another. Eliot wants to start kissing Quentin and never stop, but he's afraid. It's an absurd thing to be because he's been hell-bent on being brave since his friends saved him. Bravery has been his mantra; at times, it has been his singular focus.
The act of kissing isn't what scares him – it's the idea that he will kiss Quentin and something about it won't be right, that it won't be like he remembers, that it won't remind him of home. It's a stupid, irrational, crippling fear. Holding Quentin in his arms is a perfect thing, and when he buries his nose in Quentin's hair, the other man's smell hits all the right notes. Mostly Eliot's worried about how Quentin will taste. His lingering sensory issues with taste and touch have been the most unpredictable and have proven to be the hardest to shake. He's not ready to take the risk.
Thankfully it's something that Quentin seems to understand. An in-depth discussion of his sensory issues had been the subject of their first 'date.' The two of them had holed up in Eliot's apartment with a couple of good bottles of wine and a home-cooked meal. They had watched Disney movies as Eliot had done his best to explain the hoops that he'd had to jump through as part of his post-Monster recovery. There had been a lot of tears on both sides; they had clung to one another until Eliot had fallen asleep against Quentin's chest. When he'd woken up in the morning, it was the most refreshed he'd felt in months. They had agreed that slow was best, that they wouldn't pressure one another for relationship milestones until they were both ready for them. It won't be like the night of their first anniversary at the mosaic. Quentin won't make the first move this time. In this lifetime, Eliot knows that he has to be the brave one.
“I just hate them sometimes. My dad read to me all the time. All kids deserve that.”
“I think my mom did when I was little.” Eliot can't help defending her. She'd tried more than his father.
“I wish you could have met him.”
“Your dad?” Eliot takes another sip of his drink, then offers the straw to Quentin.
“He would have loved you.”
“I hope so.” Eliot agrees as they meander along the path. The statue isn't that far ahead of them, and Quentin seems to have noticed it too.
“Wow.” Eliot looks down to find Quentin grinning. His face is alight with the same wonder that Eliot remembers from Quentin's first months at Brakebills, before the Beast, Fillory, and horrors beyond their imaginations had tainted it.
“Yeah.” The bronze ducks are a lot bigger than Eliot had been anticipating, and Eliot finds himself sharing a little of Quentin's glee. The mother duck at the head of the line is big enough for kids to climb on her. “Teddy would have loved this.”
“Yeah.” Quentin doesn't sound sad, but he does seem wistful. “I miss him.”
“Me too,” Eliot whispers. Getting to talk about his little boy with Quentin is possibly one of the very best things about having Quentin in his life once more. Their son had been another topic during the night they'd locked themselves in his apartment. They'd discussed how willing they each were to talk about Theo and Arielle.
“Maybe, when we get that far, then we can make up for some of the things we missed with him.” Eliot sucks in a breath and nods. It's not lost on him that Quentin says 'when' instead of 'if'. The blind faith that Quentin has in them punches the air out of his chest.
“We'll get that far.” The barriers between them won't last forever; Eliot won't let them. He and Quentin both know that it won't be the same. They can't replace Theo, and neither of them would ever try. Eliot isn't sure what they will do about Arielle. He can't see any of their female friends being willing to surrogate a baby for them; maybe they'll adopt. It's a bridge they'll cross when they get to it. “So, what else are we here to see?”
“We've barely seen this yet!” Quentin protests as he slips out from under Eliot's arm. A moment later, Quentin's phone is in his hand, and he's taking pictures of the ducks, and photos of the plaque describing the ducks. With a smile, Eliot pulls out his phone and uses the camera to take pictures of Quentin taking pictures. He finishes his frap as he waits out Quentin's enthusiasm.
“So,” Once Quentin has had his fill, Eliot lets the inquiry hang open.
“There's the Ether Monument, the George Washington Statue, and the swan boats.” Quentin's hand dives into his pocket, and he pulls out a brochure that looks like it has been folded and refolded about a hundred times. Some of the creases make portions of the map Quentin tries to read almost illegible. “I think the Ether Monument is this way.” His fingers are warm when they slide back into Eliot's.
“Do you have a history lesson on tap for this one too?” Eliot ribs as he matches his stride to Quentin's.
“Well, this one is the oldest monument in the park. It's thir- no,” Quentin shakes out the brochure and frowns down at the page. “I read somewhere how tall it is, but this doesn't say. It's tall, like 3 or 4 stories high.”
“Then, I don't think we can miss it,” Eliot tells him. They lapse into a comfortable silence as they walk.
“How's your knee?” Quentin asks as they close in on their target.
“Good for now. I'll probably need to sit for a bit soon, but for now, I'm solid.”
“We can sit, there's a place to sit, near the George Washington statue, or benches... there's a bench.” Quentin flails his hand uselessly in the general direction of the closest unoccupied seat.
“Q. Breathe. I'm good. I promise if I need to sit, I will.”
“Promise?” Quentin looks so earnest.
“If memory serves, I just did.” Eliot catches Quentin's arm and spins his boyfriend to face him. His hand settles at the back of Quentin's neck in a familiar grip. “You are so good to me, Q.” He murmurs as he rests their foreheads together. “I'm so fucking lucky. I wish I...” Quentin's fingers are strong as they wrap around his wrist and squeeze.
“You will.” Eliot lets his eyes fall closed as he breathes in Quentin's scent.
“Yeah.” It's a promise, but it doesn't feel like it's enough. It takes a moment to put some distance between them again. “Ether Monument?” He prompts as he tugs Quentin closer to the towering statue looming over them.
“Oh, uh, they installed it in the 1860s to commemorate the first use of medical ether. I guess the first time it was used by some Boston dentist. The figures on the top are supposed to be representations of the biblical Good Samaritan caring for an injured stranger.”
“Charming.” Eliot deadpans. He does pull out his phone to take pictures, though, because the way the statue towers over them makes him feel small in ways that kind of awe him. “Next stop?”
“The George Washington statue, where we can sit for a while.” Eliot rolls his eyes fondly. Quentin's repetitions that they can take a rest near the statue hint at the real reason they are there. He won't pry, but his curiosity is certainly piqued.
“Lead the way, handsome.” Quentin's cheeks pink just a little; then he takes off in a direction that gives away just how familiar he actually is with this particular park.
“See if you can keep up, old man!” Quentin doesn't take off running, but he's definitely striding, and Eliot waits long enough that he'll need to put some effort into catching him. His fingers brush down Quentin's spine as he reaches him again, then he settles his hand against the center of Quentin's back.
“Brat.” He murmurs with every ounce of affection he can muster. Quentin hums, pleased, and sweet as they continue to follow the paths around the lake that forms the Garden's center. The closer they get to the promised statue, the more tension Eliot can feel gathering under his hand.
“So we can sit over here.” Quentin half turns, and reaches for his hand, then leads him off the path and around a bed of tulips toward an expanse of empty grass. Eliot feels Quentin's fingers squeeze, then Q uses his free hand to form a series of precise tuts. In front of them, the air shimmers, then the illusion work falls away, and Eliot sees the picnic that Quentin has set up for them.
“Quentin, it's...” Eliot's eyes skim over the setup, absorbing every detail, starting with the blanket that Quentin had chosen. It's not exactly like the blanket they had used at the mosaic, but it's close. It's been formed from a pattern of colored squares, and seeing it makes something profound in Eliot's core ache. As for the food, Eliot knows Quentin had it catered before he says as much. His eyes fix on one of the little tables at the center of the spread, and the bowl of fruit brimming with grapes, strawberries, peaches, and plums.
“I catered the meal because I know fuck all about gourmet picnic food, but there are some personal touches that I think you'll like.” Quentin's voice wavers a little, tight with nervous energy, then Quentin's fingers untangle from his as Quentin lowers himself onto the blanket. When he reaches for one of the peaches, Eliot drops to his knees and takes to take the fruit. The skin is soft and velvety between his fingers, and Eliot brings it close enough to his nose, so it's all he can smell. His vision blurs, and he can feel the tears tracking down his cheeks.
“Q...”
“Is this too much? Shit, I'm sorry!”
“No!” Eliot forces his head up, forces his gaze to meet Quentin's. “Never be sorry! Q, it's perfect!”
“Yeah?” Quentin sounds a little watery-eyed himself.
“Yeah.” Eliot puts the peach back, then takes off his glasses to wipe at his eyes. The tears keep coming. It's a perfectly beautiful, thought out, wonderful surprise. One that makes Eliot feel insignificant like he has nothing to offer in return. Quentin had spent days meticulously planning a date that would satisfy both of them. He can't even kiss Quentin as a thank you.
“El, talk to me.”
“I want to kiss you, Q.”
“You want to, you feel obligated to, or you're ready to?” Eliot tries to answer, but the words stick in his throat.
“The first two.” He finally manages. Quentin deserves so much better than this, than him. Without thinking, Eliot bunches his hands into the blanket and hangs his head. The colors bleed together as he sniffs. When gentle hands cup his face, he leans into them with a miserable sigh.
“I'm so fucked up I can't even love you like you deserve. I was so goddamn stupid, Q. I broke us! I almost got both of us killed.”
“El, come here.” Quentin pulls at him, and Eliot follows; he'll go anywhere Quentin wants to lead him. “Shh, I've got you. I know what it's like to have a broken brain. I know things can get better, that they could be worse. You're here, and you're trying. We'll get there.”
“Q.” The syllable escapes as a mournful little gasp before Eliot buries his face against the fabric of Quentin's hoodie. They end up laying together on the blanket as Eliot tries to sob away his inadequacies. It doesn't work, but it helps. Quentin grounds him, and Eliot slowly calms as Quentin's hand rakes through his curls time after time.
“Do you remember when Ari died?” Quentin doesn't ask the question until Eliot has become quiet and still.
“A little?” Eliot lifts his head, and together the two of them roll onto their sides, so they are facing one another. Quentin's hand remains a grounding presence in his hair.
“I was so useless. It was one of my worst depressions. Do you remember what you told me?”
“All I remember was being worried about you and trying to keep things as normal as possible for Teddy.”
“You were my rock, Eliot. You stepped up for our son when I couldn't get out of bed, when I wouldn't eat, or bathe.” Eliot swallows as the memories stir inside him, each one growing sharper as Quentin works his way to the point he's trying to make.
“I don't remember what I said.”
“I felt like loving you betrayed her memory, even though we had never kept the two of us a secret from her. Eliot, you told me that it was okay to feel that way. You swore you loved me and that you would wait for me. El, sweetheart,” Eliot watches Quentin's adam's apple bob, waits for Quentin to get his emotions under control. “Sweetheart, it's my turn to wait.” Eliot feels like he's been socked in the gut. He can't speak, so he nods, then he wipes away fresh tears and nods again.
“I love you, Q.” Together they will get where they need to be; then they'll be unstoppable. Eliot scrubs away the tears a final time before reaching for his glasses. The world sharpens, and his eyes scan the spread. The table with the fruit also bears the wine, and he reaches for the bottle. The cork shoots free with a push from his telekinesis, and he pours for both of them. While the wine aerates, he takes the time to figure out everything that Quentin had packed.
Most of the food is set up on a separate little table. There's a charcuterie board brimming with cured European meats, nuts, crackers, cheeses, and olives, then a multi-layered tray of finger sandwiches and savory pastry puffs. The first thing Eliot reaches for is a triangle of spanakopita. The buttery pastry crunches under his teeth, and the pleased groan coaxes a bright peal of laughter from Quentin. For dessert, Quentin had chosen decadent baklava and a small pot of warm chocolate to dip the fruit. The deliberate selections leave Eliot feeling pampered and indulged in a way he hasn't been since Brakebills. The food in Fillory hadn't been anything close to this, not even when he'd been king.
“I guess I should keep this place on speed-dial.” Quentin guesses as they both load up their plates.
“Gods, yes.” Eliot agrees as he layers cured prosciutto and a soft cheese onto a cracker.
“Here.” Eliot turns his head and accepts the grape that Quentin offers him with a tiny grin. Quentin seems delighted. “I've wanted to do that since first year.”
“I wouldn't have complained,” Eliot informs him as they settle across from one another. Quentin had picked a seemingly perfect spot. The beds of tulips cast the ground in a dozen colors. On the lake, one of the swan boats drifts past them. Since Quentin had mentioned it, Eliot assumes that a boat ride is set to follow their lunch. For now, the wine is light and fruity; the company couldn't be better. He feels seen, and loved, loved on his terms, terms he's helped set, and over which he has some control. For now, Quentin is content to wait for him, and Eliot is more determined than ever not to keep him waiting long.