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Summary
He’d thought that his feelings for Quentin would diminish. A longer half life than normal, but fading nonetheless. But he’d had to actively push Quentin from his mind, working at losing him piece by piece (—two rivers, a continent— he thinks), but it was work, an active extrication, dulled by alcohol and drugs and sun-soaked, over-waxed men. It had taken time and the death of brain cells, his sobriety and losing the life he’d tried to build—
—but Eliot is sure, as soon as Quentin walks into his patisserie, that all of that resistance, the repeated acts of forgetting, was for nothing.
**Fic is incomplete. Abandoned.**