We practiced love...

The echoing of steps sounded against the walls of the physical kids cottage as Elliot paced back and forth. He fumbled, and fingers caught on the edges of his coat as he reached for his never-ending flask just one more time. His mind was fresh with images of the night several weeks earlier when he, Margo and Q had. Well, what exactly had they done. And yes, there it was. His throat began to tighten, palms began to sweat and oh shit, his yes, well, his male parts still functioned even though he wished to the gods that they currently didn't. He couldn't make any sense of what was going on in his mind, let alone his heart-- and so this hallway was where he'd been working the tile, wait, no, wood for the past several minutes. No. Wait. Hours. Days? Perhaps. Time had no meaning when Elliot was like this. All he knew was that there was no comfort in anything, least of all the things that he'd always found solace in before. Parties bored him, and Margo -- he still loved her with all his heart, but she was a total bitch right now. Yes, maybe that was normal, but it was particularly annoying given that they could die at any moment. Fuck that night. Fuck the beast. Fuck Margo and Fuck Quentin. By the gods, he wish he could again. Oh those lips, that hair that seemed to know just where to settle on a brow that always seemed furrowed lately. There he went again, and the flask made it to his lips once more as Elliot unintentionally, yet very intentionally flung his back against Quentin's door with a loud thud.