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I’m wrapped around Q in the window seat of our brand new Brooklyn apartment, playing with his hair. Winding fingers through silky strands, lips to the crown of his head, one side of his face pressed to my chest.
His breathing is slow and even. I’m remembering the hundreds, maybe thousands of times we’ve sat just like this, but this is the first time these bodies have rested like this. Have loved each other like this.
We’ve been to hell and back, pretty much literally, and we have now finally, finally stopped to catch our breath.
So of course, my guilt and shame immediately start creeping in to occupy all that extra mental space. Naturally.
“Q?” I whisper. He hums softly into my sweater, inviting me to continue. “I am so sorry.”
He groans.
“Eliot, don’t start”
But I do start.
“It was horrible what I did to you,” I begin, “and I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for hurting you like that, especially because you were just…” I have to take a deep breath to keep my voice from breaking “trying to love me. The same way you always had. For half a fucking century”
“It’s a lot more complicated than that, El”
“Is it though?” I ask, rhetorically. Bitterly. “You wanted to pick up where we left off, and where we left off was truly content and safe and disgustingly in love.” I close my eyes. I’m fighting tears. Just saying out loud it makes me feel sick. “And I just rejected you. After everything we’d had”
If I actually picture how he looked at me that day in the throne room - eyes shining, so full of hope, but trying to play it cool - it physically hurts. That expression on his face when I pushed him away - how sad he looked before immediately trying to mask his disappointment - will haunt me forever.
“El. Please.” He takes my hand and squeezes. “Your nervous system didn’t remember. It was 25 again. It hadn’t learned the things we spent decades working through and figuring out” he offers, charitably.
So generous, so forgiving. I so don’t deserve him.
“Sure, but you didn’t run and hide like I did” I sigh, dejectedly, hoping that it’s not coming across as angry.
“No, but I played my part, which was to just assault you with unguarded neediness and freak you the fuck out. That was our dynamic Eliot. We worked through it over years. Decades! Remember?” He pauses, maybe waiting for a response, which I’m clearly not prepared to formulate, so he continues “I learned how to show affection without spooking you then ending up feeling rejected. You learned how to stop being so glib all the time and actually let your guard down so you could express your emotions. We worked through our feelings of unworthiness. We figured it all out together, but it literally took a lifetime.”
Bless him. Bless his perfect heart. He’s right, it’s all there in my memories, and now it’s making every hair on this immature body stand on end.
“That still sounds an awful lot like you doing all the work,” I offer, teasingly. So on brand. What is wrong with me?!
“Oh my god El, shut up.” Q groans “What I’m saying is, if my body had been holding the 5 decades that suddenly rushed into my mind, I would have refused to take that no for an answer. I’d have explained myself better.” He pulls my hand to his chest now, holding it in place with both of his. “Argued with that young version of you who had never known a real family or unconditional love, and reminded him of everything we’d learned.” He sighed, ruefully “But instead, my stomach clenched with anxiety, my muscles tensed, I fought to hold back tears. I was in no state to argue.” He explained “So then I reverted to the self-pitying little narcissist I was at 25 - and got all sad and dejected, then channeled it into delusions of grandeur and attention-seeking martyrdom. And look at the mess it made”
“Well, when you put it like that…” I tease, squeezing his hand gently. Oh, I’m still being glib, let’s try again. I quietly add, “I still really feel like the whole mess was WAY more my fault than yours” and immediately feel the familiar sting from my impending raw sincerity. “And I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for pushing you away like that… when all I really wanted to do was pull you into my arms and never let you go”
Q sighs heavily and burrows into me even closer. “And what do you think Margo would say to that?”
“That we need to pull our heads out of our asses and stop trying to win the self flagellation olympics, because we both already have gold medals?”
Q chuckles.
“Exactly”
I pat his belly gently with my free hand, like I’ve done a million times in my memories, “But so we’re clear, you’re still winning the insight olympics, and I’ll probably never catch up”
Q scoffs at that.“Um, remember ‘Wentin’?” He looks up at me briefly, then continues, “You’re his rock. When he shows up, you draw on this like, magical intuition, and become the most gentle, wise, loving partner imaginable, even when he’s being an absolute monster”
At this, I burst out laughing.
“Oh my god, I forgot about that nickname,” My fingers find their way back into his hair, my lips back to his head. “Remember when Teddy finally figured out that I was only calling you that when you were depressed, and we had to try to explain the joke to him?”
“Trying to describe 90s video games to a Fillorian. We were laughing so hard we were in tears” I feel his face break into a grin against my chest as he says it. Another fresh but old feeling. “What seemed like an obvious reference sounded so absurd.“
I’m smiling now. The grinning is contagious. “He thought I was just calling you a baby - kicking you when you were down!” I exclaim incredulously.
Quentin is still chuckling. “And eventually he just rolled his eyes, like ‘okaaaaay guys’”
“Yeah, that was the moment I first thought - wow, I really am the parent of a teenager’” I recall, fondly. Remarkably, with only the barest hint of sadness.
The prevailing feeling is actually this perfect blend of love and nostalgia and… hope? Is that what this is?
Q stills. He inhales sharply and whispers, barely audible “I want to do it all over again with you El. All of it. Please” and tilts his head again to look up at me. His eyes are glistening, but he’s smiling.
How did I get so lucky? How did this beautiful, strong, passionate, perfect man choose me? Again.
I smile back down at him, fondly. Letting all of this terrifying joy and love wash over my body. Still so young, but feeling just a little bit safer, a little less terrified. “Q, there is nothing in the world that I want more than that.”
***