Archive of Our Own ^beta

“If you know you’re going to die—like really going to die, like... Is there a point in telling anyone? Does it matter?”

Eliot is so lost in the warm haze of nicotine and sherry that he almost misses Quentin’s question. He thinks that, probably, Q’s voice would have just swirled around him as pleasant background noise had what he said not been so startling. As it is, he feels the words before he really understands them. A shot of ice-water racing through his veins and making the tips of his fingers tingle, forcing his eyes open. It takes a few seconds more than it should before he’s able to speak.

“Of course it matters, Q. What are you talking about?”

Quentin hunches in on himself even more. They’re in the common room, and he’s curled into the armchair with his knees hugged tight to his chest, like he’s protecting something. Or hiding it.

“I...” Quentin pauses. His eyes flick to Eliot’s and his mouth twists just the slightest bit. Eliot thinks he’s trying to hedge his bets, judge how likely it is that his friend will forget this come morning. It’s late, and Q knows that sweet liquor hits Eliot the hardest. “What if you know that they can’t...that they shouldn’t try to stop it?”

Eliot feels that brief flash of panic again as he snubs his cigarette out in the ashtray on the floor and sits up. Quentin won’t look at him now; he’s staring into the fireplace with his hands clenched around the cuffs of his sweatshirt. He shakes his head a little, letting a curtain of dark hair obscure his face from Eliot’s view. Definitely hiding something. Eliot’s heart beats a little faster as he leans forward to try to get a better look.

“Quentin, what is going on? What aren’t you telling me?” He’s glad his voice is steady despite the fear that’s starting to grow in his belly, extinguishing the gentle fire lit there by the alcohol.

Quentin shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

“Q, look at me,” Eliot demands. He waits until Quentin meets his gaze before he says, carefully, “Why are you asking me this?”

Quentin’s eyes dart away again. He swallows hard and mutters, “I was just wondering.”

“Don’t do that,” Eliot snaps, the cold panic in his gut giving his voice a steely edge because is Quentin dying? “You can’t just—ask me that and not—if you’re sick and you haven’t told me—”

Quentin cuts him off quickly. “El, I’m not sick. I promise you there’s nothing wrong with me.”

He’s looking at Eliot directly for the first time, uncurling toward the taller boy in reassurance. The light from the fire gives his face a honey glow and makes the shadows under his eyes look starker, but he’s sincere.

Eliot takes in a long breath and lets it out slowly. He leans back into the cushions, scrubbing a hand over his face, willing his racing heart to calm. It’s making him a little nauseous.

“Quentin,” he says, trying to hold on to his quickly dwindling patience. Q sure does know how to scare the everloving fuck out of him. “There’s something going on. If you thought I was too drunk to notice, you were sorely mistaken.”

Quentin frowns at the fire. “It was a hypothetical question.”

Eliot snorts because yeah, right. Q is worrying at a spot on his left forearm, dragging his thumb harshly back and forth over the fabric of his sleeve. The action is familiar and Eliot swears in his head. It’s been months; Quentin must really be in a bad place if he’s gone back to—

Oh. Oh.

Eliot stands so quickly his head spins. “What did you do?” he asks, his voice low and rough. He kneels in front of the younger boy, grabs his shoulders, shakes him a little. “Quentin, what did you do?” His heartbeat is roaring in his ears and there’s so much adrenaline coursing through his system that his stomach burns.

Fuck. What if he took something? Oh, fuck. How badly did he hurt himself this time? Fuck, fuck, fuck...

Quentin gapes at him for a second. “I didn’t do anything yet!” he protests, then presses his lips together with wide eyes as if he’s said more than he meant to.

Eliot grabs his wrist and yanks him out of the chair, toward the staircase. Quentin hisses in pain. Eliot ignores it. He drags his friend up the stairs and into his room, opening the door so forcefully it bangs into the wall. He knows he’s making too much noise, holding Q too tightly, but he’s too drunk and too fucking scared to care. He shoves Quentin onto the bed and begins rifling through his dresser drawers.

“Eliot—” Quentin starts to object, but the taller boy scowls at him so fiercely that he shuts his mouth and just watches anxiously.

There’s a pack of razor blades stuffed in a sock in his underwear drawer. Eliot shoves it into his pocket with shaking hands. He wonders how he let this happen, how he let Q get so bad again without noticing.

There’s nothing else in the dresser, but Quentin is biting his lip and shooting tiny panicked glances at his bookcase and Eliot thanks his lucky stars that his friend has such obvious tells. He goes over and starts grabbing books off of the top shelf, shaking each one to check for hollowness.

He hears Quentin get off the bed, hears him plead, “Eliot, don’t—” but he won’t lose Quentin, he won’t, and so he turns around and snaps, “I swear to god, Coldwater, shut up and sit down.”

He doesn’t bother to see if Quentin complies. As he turns back to the bookcase he catches sight of a nondescript wooden box sitting in the corner of the bottom shelf. He kneels and pulls it out toward him, flips the latch.

“Jesus Christ, Q.”

Eliot counts nine bottles. Fluoxetine 40mg, the labels say. Take twice daily with food. 60 in each bottle. All full, as far as he can tell.

He looks up at Quentin, the beginning tendrils of anguish snaking their way around his heart. “I thought you stopped taking these months ago.”

“I did,” Quentin says, a little desperate. “I just never cancelled the prescription. I wanted to keep them just—just in case.”

“Just in case what?” Eliot’s anguish turns to anger somewhere between his heart and his mouth. He grips the box so tightly his knuckles turn white. “Just in case you found a good time to off yourself? You think I could live with that?”

“Just in case I have no other choice!” Quentin yells, his own despair written all over his face. He closes his eyes. “Just in case there’s nothing left.”

Eliot feels strangely hollowed out, like that hole he tries to fill with alcohol and cigarettes is bigger, somehow. He wonders if Quentin will just keep taking him apart and keeping the pieces until there’s nothing left of him. Eliot knows he would let it happen. Quentin’s been hoarding antidepressants like it’s some sort of sick insurance and Eliot is so in love with him he can’t stand it.

“Why now?” Eliot asks hoarsely.

Quentin doesn’t pretend to not know what Eliot is talking about. He bites his lip. “I don’t know,” he says, but he’s evading. “I wouldn’t have done it, I don’t think.”

“You were considering it,” Eliot reminds him. “If I had been too drunk to notice, if you had come up here alone, would you still be saying that?”

“I…” When Q looks at Eliot his eyes are vulnerable and desperate. “I don’t know,” he admits.

Eliot shuts the box and leaves, going into his own room to change into his pyjamas. He’ll hide the pills and the razor blades tomorrow, he thinks. For now, both he and Quentin need a little reassurance.

When he returns to Quentin’s room the younger boy is sitting with his face in his hands on the edge of the bed where Eliot left him. His shoulders are shaking. When he hears Eliot come in he lifts his head and Eliot sees that his eyes are red, his cheeks stained with tears. He stares at the taller boy like he doesn’t even know who he’s looking at.

“I’m staying with you tonight,” Eliot says, leaving no room for argument. He doubts there would have been one anyway. “And tomorrow, we’re going to have a long talk.”

“I thought you were done with me,” Quentin mumbles, his voice trembling a little. “I thought you’d had enough.”

“Never, Q,” Eliot says. He means it. “Change your clothes.”

When they’re both in bed, pressed firmly against each other in the dark, Eliot murmurs, “It matters because you matter, Q. If you know you’re going to die, tell someone so they can help you. Tell me. Please. It would matter if you were gone, Quentin.” I can’t go on without you.

“Okay,” Quentin whispers.

“Promise me.”

Quentin hesitates, presses his face against Eliot’s shoulder. “I promise,” he breathes against his skin.

It doesn’t matter that it’s a lie. Eliot’s not going to let this happen again.

He pulls Quentin more tightly to him and tries to loosen the tendrils of anguish wrapped around his heart.