Learn to Let Go

Chapter 1/1

You have to learn to let go, a voice keeps telling him. Move on, it suggests, persistent. Letting go, Eliot thinks. Such a fascinating concept. Letting go of the past isn't that easy, though, is it? Even as he gazes at Charlton who's laying beside him, asleep, unclothed, peaceful, he's thinking about Quentin. He's always thinking about Quentin. He should feel guilty about it. He doesn't. Learn to let go, the voice persuades him. He can't. How could he? How can he learn to let go of a person he'd thought to be the love of his life, someone he'd spent a whole lifetime with? Charlton's arm is resting on Eliot's chest – just like Eliot's had been resting on Quentin's so long ago. Eliot groans quietly, slowly getting up, careful not to wake Charlton. He dresses himself, sneaking into the hallway and down the stairs, casting a spell he hopes will silence his footsteps. The Physical Kids' Cottage is empty. Quiet. No music. No dancing crowd. No drunken karaoke. No Margo. Just him.

And alcohol.

He makes himself a Margarita (or a Margorita, as he and Margo used to jokingly refer to them) sitting on the couch. He stares at the toothpick that's piercing an olive, stirring the drink with it. He never really liked olives. He wonders if Quentin did. He never asked. There's so much he never asked from him. So much he never knew about him. A lifetime together, and he still had so many unanswered questions. Ones he could never get an answer to. He takes a sip. Sour, but Eliot knows the aftertaste will be sweet.

He's tired. He never got to say goodbye to Quentin, he realizes. He would've done anything to be able to touch, to kiss, to hold him once more. Just once. He sighs quietly, taking another sip. He's not even sure why he's drinking. Quentin's been dead for what feels like forever, but at the same time it feels like it'd happened a second ago. Eliot didn't like considering himself a drink-away-your-problems kind of person, but he was, and he knew that. He got drunk, partied, hooked up. Took his mind off things. But when the drunkenness faded away and the hangover came, so did the thoughts, twice as intense. He'd wake up next to some guy (who probably had a girlfriend), his memories of the night before blurred. He'd gather his things and leave, not bothering to say goodbye. He never did. It didn't really matter. They were just one-night stands, after all.

And the one time it did, he didn't get the chance to.

Eliot had asked Alice about it. How Quentin had died. He hadn't been sure he wanted to know, but he knew he couldn't have lived with himself if he didn't. Alice had been – and probably still was – a mess, too. She'd looked like she hadn't slept, and her usually smooth, straight hair had been unclean and messy. Turns out Quentin had sacrificed himself. For his friends. Because of course he would. He was that kind of person. He was so good. He had such a good soul, a golden heart. Eliot aspired to have that sort of kindness, loyalty and honesty, that selflessness. On some (most) days, Eliot felt quite the opposite of that. Cold. Untrustworthy. Dishonest. Selfish. This was one of those days.

Eliot acknowledged that Quentin had his flaws – he had spent an entire lifetime with him, after all – but Quentin was just so much better as a person than he was. So much better. He downs the Margarita, slightly scrunching his nose at the sour taste. But he's used to it. "Eliot?" a voice calls from behind him. His head jerks up. It's Charlton. He slowly gets up, with effort, placing the empty glass on the table. He rounds the corner, now facing Charlton. He's dressed up, in the same clothes he'd worn earlier that day.

"Charlton," Eliot says coolly. It comes out more impolite that he'd meant it to.

Charlton furrows his eyebrows. "Are you quite alright?"

Eliot gives him a hopefully believable smile. "I'm okay. Sleep well?"

Charlton frowns, but doesn't push it further. "I didn't sleep for very long. I dozed off, more like."

Eliot looks at him apologetically. "Sorry if I woke you."

Charlton shakes his head. "No, not at all," he assures him.

"Well, good," Eliot replies. He inhales. "I'm gonna take a walk. Get some fresh air."

"Can I come with you?" Charlton asks innocently, looking at him, eyes smiling. Eliot has no idea how Charlton can be so dense, despite knowing a lot – maybe too much – about Eliot.

Eliot clears his throat. "Sorry," he says. "I think I want to be alone for a bit."

Charlton visibly deflates, the smile vanishing from his lips. "Oh," he says. "Okay. I'll stay here, then." Eliot nods. He knows Charlton will be here. Would you ever consider being romantically inclined with someone who's planning to stick around? That's what Charlton had asked him. Someone who's planning to stick around. As if it'd been Quentin's fault that he died. Eliot isn't sure how to feel about him and Charlton. As a couple, that is. He's not ready yet. Not so soon after Quentin. And he's not even with his friends. With Margo. He feels... alone. Cold. Eliot knows Quentin did, too. But Quentin was his warmth. And he just hopes that maybe, just maybe, he was Quentin's.

As he steps out of the Physical Kids' Cottage, he notices that the weather is exactly how his thoughts are right now. Chilly. Humid. Windy. He thinks that it might start raining. He hopes for that, even. It could drown out his thoughts, wash them away. Eliot wouldn't call himself suicidal, per se, but there's always that itch to see what it feels like. Letting go. Of everything. Just mere oblivion. Empty darkness. Letting go. The word catches his attention. Letting go. He should. But not in that way. He has to stay strong, even though he's not sure why.

For Quentin, maybe.

He walks. He walks without a destination, walking wherever his legs lead him. Soon he finds himself under a tree that casts shadows across the lawn. The leaves sough in the wind, and a couple fall down, floating in the air until finally settling down on the ground. He looks around. He's close to the Naturalists' Tree House Dorm. They're growing plants here. Fruits – such as apples, oranges, peaches and... plums. Peaches and plums, motherfucker! Those had been his last words to Quentin. He didn't get to say 'I love you' to him. And now it was too late. Eliot discreetly picked up one of each, simply staring at them for a while. Just staring. He raises the peach to his lips, then bites down on it. Soft. Juicy. Sweet. He doesn't finish it. He puts it on the grass beside him. He can't do this. Not right now.

In fact, right now he doesn't want to be awake. Or alive. No. No, wait. He does. He does want to live. If not for himself. then for Quentin. And Margo, if he ever gets to see her again. He allows his eyelids to close, drifting off into a dream-like state. Aware, but not awake. He rests his hands on his lap, thinking what it would be like if Quentin was here. It would be different. So much different than it is now. So much better. So much easier. He's not with his friends. He's not with Margo. But if Quentin was alive, Eliot would have him. And that would be better. Much better. The best. More than Eliot would dare to ask for. More than he deserves. He's drifting away, unable to keep his eyes open. He tries to open them, but they immediately close. It's quiet. He can hear the crickets chirping, the leaves rustling in the trees, the grass swaying in the wind. This isn't that bad. He tries to open his eyes, but gives up as they stay shut, heavy under sleep's weight. And he lets himself drift away. Lets sleep decide what happens to him. He's not thinking much, now, but one thought in the back of his head jumps out, drawing his attention.

To let go.

Maybe it's time he learned to let go.