[ Eliot still remembers how he’d leaned in, pressed fervently into the attention for even as uncertain as he was with what to do with his own hands. He’d been gentle, not wanting to frighten him off, on contrast from Margo’s heated advances, but between the three of them, it had all balanced perfectly. It had felt so real, and he’d let himself believe it.
How could all of it had been a lie?
His hand slips from Quentin’s face after a moment, a flit of rejection across his face as takes a slow breath and sighs. Eyes closing, his hand hangs in the air, elbow against his side keeping his forearm curled toward his chest but his hand never quite falling to rest.
He’ll always value what Quentin means to him. He could never mistake how little something like sex really matters in the context of things. But it still stings to know that Quentin had never really wanted him. ]
no subject
How could all of it had been a lie?
His hand slips from Quentin’s face after a moment, a flit of rejection across his face as takes a slow breath and sighs. Eyes closing, his hand hangs in the air, elbow against his side keeping his forearm curled toward his chest but his hand never quite falling to rest.
He’ll always value what Quentin means to him. He could never mistake how little something like sex really matters in the context of things. But it still stings to know that Quentin had never really wanted him. ]