the grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break

[jackrackham]

Jack gets ready slowly. He's still not entirely used to this new place, still hasn't made it feel like a place that he belongs. Waking without Anne feels wrong and he doesn't want to think over anything that she told him out on that boat.

He takes a shower, puts on his old clothes and looks in the mirror. Eliot seemed to think that they might be suitable for horse-riding outside the city, but at the moment he only sees how incongruous they seem compared to this modern room in a modern city. He takes a deep breath and lets it out as he settles his hat on his head, telling himself that the clothes won't matter, and he will attempt to be amiable, for Eliot's sake. He doesn't quite understand why riding horses is an activity all on it's own, but it will be a diversion all the same.

When he arrives at Villa Cordova, he wanders up through the entrance without going to the main building. It's dry and warm, and smells of dirt and hay and animals in a way that feels familiar. For a moment, he pauses and rests his forearms against a rough wooden fence. There are horses to watch, but he closes his eyes instead, listening to the relative silence of this place and feeling the sun begin to warm through the back of his coat.

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[eliotwaugh]

He can’t stay here, tempting as it is, because he knows he’d doze off and the thought of waking up next to Jack makes something inside him break. Eliot gets up, moving as carefully as he can to avoid disturbing him. It’s very quiet in the room; after everything Jack had told him, the space feels weighed down by the enormity of it, and it’s somehow right that everything is so sparse. Jack’s past has made this a wasteland.

Eliot looks around and tries to make sense of it all. His first thought is to tidy up, but it quickly becomes evident that there’s just not enough things in this space to clean. He takes his boots at least, padding to the kitchen to gather up his jacket. He hangs it on a hook by the door, and with his own things neatened he can almost feel like this is normal, just a guest visiting a friend.

He hadn’t been looking too closely before, but as Eliot observes the apartment now he thinks that Jack can’t have been here alone for very long. There’s a loaf of bread just sitting on the kitchen counter, not yet stale. That and the near-empty fridge scream ‘not handling a breakup well’ but at least there’s a rotisserie chicken that’s been picked over, so Jack hasn’t been starving.

The other room looks a little more lived-in, with a small desk covered in books and papers next to a ratty couch. “Oh, dear,” Eliot sighs, smiling sadly at the desk. It rings familiar, his own apartment had looked much the same when he’d first arrived and hadn’t worked out how to use magic here. But Jack had a much larger gulf of knowledge to span, and the fact that he was still at it after all this time was…somehow disheartening. Eliot examines the collection, and he tries not to get anything too out of place but he’s not entirely successful. It’s like Jack had said, he’s trying to understand how Darrow functions within a system of multiple dimensions, because he’s never stopped trying to get back to where he belongs. And there’s something so grim about it, seeing the evidence of all the work he’s doing to catch up–exercises written in the margins of an old pre-algebra textbook, reading about history and astronomy and physics and asking himself questions about travel to other worlds. And yet, sad as Eliot feels that Jack wants so badly to leave, he loves to see Jack’s tenacity on display like this.

He leafs through the notes, smiling to himself as the neat handwriting, how incongruous it is to see old-fashioned text in ballpoint pen. He writes with long curly esses, the kind that look like fs. Jack feels so out of place here, he’s made that clear, and Eliot doesn’t doubt that something like this contributes to that feeling. Eliot finds it endearing, though; a lot of the writing in Fillory was like this. He traces his fingertips over the words, full of an incredible fondness.

Eventually he gravitates back to the bedroom; some latent paranoia about snooping transforming into a certainty that Jack will choke on his own vomit if Eliot’s not in the room. But he’s restless, and he spends a few minutes poking through the closet.

Jack didn’t bring much over to this apartment, it seems, and Eliot hates to think of him as diminished in this way, less able or willing to explore modern fashion in his solitude. But there’s some things he smiles to see, like the lovely pink wool coat, and the scarf Eliot had given him when they first met. It’s not his anymore, Eliot thinks, and he finds himself pressing his face into the soft weave for a moment. It smells like spices and coconut, like Jack’s hair.

And then, as he idly runs his hands over some shirts, Eliot notices something. A motif of embroidery, running along the collar and placket, but it looks unfinished. He blinks in the dim shadows of the closet and turns the fabric around to the back where the pattern leaves off. There’s a needle, threaded and tucked neatly next to the seam. Jack’s made this–and the instant Eliot completes that thought he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and he rubs his thumb over the curved shape of a vine. He knows exactly where he’s seen these stitches before, this exact green floss.

“What the fuck,” he whispers, looking from the shirt to Jack, asleep, out towards the hall. In a pocket of his jacket, the handkerchief embroidered with little pink roses, that Jack had given him. That Jack had said he’d bought.

Eliot doesn’t know what to do; there’s nothing to do, he can’t just wake Jack up and demand an explanation, and even if he could he dreads to think of what kind of answer Jack could possibly give. It feels wrong somehow, like he’s wrong, and he backs away from the closet and returns to the bedside, frowning.

Jack looks troubled, brows furrowed in his sleep, and Eliot wishes he could know what he’s thinking now, or what the fuck he was thinking when he made a present for him. Mostly Eliot wishes he could reach inside him and soothe everything that’s bothering him. Instead he reaches a careful hand out and brushes a lock of hair off Jack’s face. He sighs, feeling impossibly tired.

For a moment he’s stuck, indecision trapping him in place. He can’t leave, he knows that for certain. He needs to stay, and look out for him. But he’s leery of pushing boundaries any more than he already has. So after a moment Eliot sits on the floor, resting his back against the side of the bed. He can hear if Jack’s in distress this way, and he isn’t in danger of getting too close if he dozes off.

Eliot isn’t aware of falling asleep. He doesn’t dream, there’s just a vague half consciousness and the white noise of the room, and then after an indeterminate span of time he’s jolted awake by the sound of retching.

He gets to his feet after a brief effort, and finds Jack in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet. Eliot doesn’t say anything, not wanting to startle him. He just hovers in the doorway, grimacing in sympathy. Jack barely registers him, it seems, and he hardly makes eye contact once he’s done and stepping past him, so Eliot follows in an awkward silence. He seems to come back to himself after he has some water, though Eliot’s troubled by how Jack still won’t look at him. The question, when it comes, doesn’t surprise him. But it makes him sad.

“I wanted to,” he answers simply. He wants to say more, about how he couldn’t live with himself if he just left Jack alone in that state, after everything that’s happened. But he keeps quiet and looks at him a while. He looks rumpled, and Eliot doubts the sleep was comfortable. What he probably needs is food and a shower, not someone hanging around and prodding at old hurts, and certainly not questions about a handmade gift from months ago.

“Are you…feeling any better at least, after all that?”

[jackrackham]

After all that Eliot says, and Jack wonders if he means the vomit or what came before- drunken rambling and grief and sobbing in his arms.

"A little," he admits with a wince. He takes another sip of water to wash back the taste of acid and juniper then sets the glass aside. For a moment, his gaze lingers on the kitchen floor, thinking of his face pressed tightly into Eliot's neck. How long has it been since he cried like that? He cant remember. It must have been when he was still a child. It means something that Eliot was here for this, that he wanted to stay despite the whole mess of him.

When he looks back up at Eliot he sighs to see his soft and concerned expression. He doesn't know what he's done to deserve this man's care nor what would possess Eliot to offer it despite everything that he should find reprehensible in him.

"I know you will say it's not needed, but I am sorry for-" he shakes his head minutely and meets Eliot's eyes, both balking at the idea of describing the events of the afternoon and embarrassed that they happened at all. "I know it's not an easy task to take care of a drunken fool against his own wishes." He'd done it for his father, he'd certainly done it for Charles more than once, and neither were experiences that he'd want to repeat.

He's not sure what to do with his hands. He ends up leaning back against the counter and gripping its edge. It does feel better to have something to lean against- he still doesn't feel steady, or clearheaded, or well.

"I am sorry for it." He pauses just a moment, wondering if maybe he should just let Eliot leave without the promise of some other meeting, but the idea scares him. Despite Eliot's kindness today, there is a part of him that is still terrified that he's misunderstood- that Eliot was simply too kind to leave him alone with his grief and now, once he walks out that door, he'll be gone for good.

He imagines himself taking two steps forward, how it might feel to rest his head, again, in the gentle crook of his neck.

He swallows the bile building at the back of his throat. "Perhaps- There's a talented violinist that plays in the park weekend mornings...we could meet there tomorrow? If you still want to hear about the rescue and all that entailed...I can finish the story then." He smiles weakly and runs a hand back through his hair, another tired sigh escaping his lips as he does. He feels wrung out and tired and grimy, and he's sure that he looks worse. He's not sure whether he wants an hour long bath or to simply crawl back into bed and not get back up til morning. "Do you like violin?"

[eliotwaugh]

It’s awkward, now that Jack isn’t deep in the throes of despair, and Eliot wishes he could get him to stop apologizing. He wants to stay, because Jack looks raw and unfinished, and after seeing him so broken down Eliot wants to see the process by which he puts himself back together, to understand the whole of him. But he can’t. He’s seen more than Jack wanted him to already.

He fidgets, the air of discomfort seeming contagious. Jack is being polite but clearly wants him to leave, and everything that had gone before feels like far too much now. All their closeness feels like it had been a gross violation of privacy, and the only reason Jack had allowed it was because he was too distraught to protest. So of course Eliot can’t stay and make him some real food, or hold him until he falls asleep. He doubts Jack would even want a hug goodbye.

“Violin’s fine,” he says in answer to the question. It hardly matters. Eliot rubs the back of his neck, sighing. “Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he adds, trying to put as much warmth into his tone as possible. “I’d love to meet tomorrow. I want to hear the rest.”

He takes a step forward, reaching out to give Jack a brief pat on the shoulder. It’s the most he can justify allowing himself.

“It wasn’t,” Eliot begins, before crossing his arms over his chest and chewing at his lip for a moment. “You’re not a hardship, you know. I didn’t mind. I’m…I’ve been the fucked-up drunk more times than I can count, and it was never for as serious a reason as yours, so…it’s only fair I take care of someone else for a change.” He sighs, and tries to smile. “Please don’t feel bad, not on my account.”

[jackrackham]

"Alright." The hand on his shoulder is there and gone too quickly. It feels like Eliot is feeling uncomfortable with having been exposed to everything that happened today, and how he'd acted. If this were a normal day, if things had gone alright, Eliot might have hugged him goodbye. His fingers tense a little at the edge of the counter as he thinks about hugging Eliot goodbye. To thank him for following him here, for taking care of him.

He takes a step forward, but he took too long considering. Eliot is already backing away and gathering his things to leave. He thinks that it's probably for the best. He'd made today difficult and Eliot definitely doesn't want to be close enough to smell him at the moment. Regardless of whether or not Eliot had his drunken revels in the past, he doubts that it had been anything like today's sad confessions. He's amazed that it seems like Eliot is still willing to touch him at all.

"Tomorrow, around nine? He should be there, just follow the music, I won't be far off." Eliot says his final goodbyes and leaves. Jack shuts the door behind him and gently rests his forehead against the door. For a full minute he stays there, listening to his own breathing and feeling too exhausted and mortified to move. He doesn't know how tomorrow will go and he regrets what a mess he made of himself today. Whatever happens, he can't let that happen again. Eliot deserves better.

He sighs, pushes himself back from the door and heads back to the bedroom. He should take a bath, but he's tired and doesn't covet the idea of falling asleep and waking up in a cold bathtub. He brushes his teeth, changes into sleep clothes, and buries himself back under the covers- not in his usual spot, but on the side Eliot had occupied a few hours ago.