Even with every window and door in the Cottage flung open, the heat is downright oppressive. Quentin sits cradled in the common room armchair with his knees pulled up against his chest and his sweater sleeves pulled over his knuckles like paws, and Eliot tries to ignore him, one hand swirling a giant, sweating Tom Collins and the other thumbing through a dull tome on The History of Prophetic Horoscopy. But Quentin's posture keeps distracting him: the way he curls into himself like a bashful preteen girl or an exceptionally wimpy armadillo, worried about protecting his soft spots from predators.

With his elbows planted on the orange-brown velvet armrests, one of Quentin's hands is tangled in his hair, fingers twisting ever-so-slowly closer to the root. Eliot watches as the hand closes into a fist, and then the gin turns to vinegar in his mouth as Q tightens his grip and his eyes shut, frowning against the pain.

"Q?" It's not until Eliot sets the leather-clad book down with a dusty thump that Quentin registers that he's been spoken to. Eyes flashing open, his fingers loosen their grip and he turns towards Eliot's voice.

"Yeah?" Even as Q looks Eliot in the eye, waiting for whatever he was about to say, his fingers wrap themselves tighter around the roots of his hair and close into a fist once again - a count of one, two, three, four - before releasing.

"Quentin," Eliot says, louder this time and too formal, like he's addressing someone else's misbehaving kid. A side-effect of forcing the panic out of his voice. He clears his throat and tries again: "Q - whatcha doing, buddy?"

Q squints at him, confused, before sliding his hand out of his hair and into his lap. "What? Nothing. Daydreaming." He glances around for a change of subject and juts his chin out towards the coffee table. "What's that book about?"

He's not getting off that easy. Eliot cocks his head to the side and shoots him a look. "You know what I meant."

He gestures towards his own head in explanation and Quentin's hand shoots up to mirror him, embarrassed.

"Oh," he says, pushing his hair behind his ear and wiggling in his seat. Unable to get comfortable or to contort himself into a position in which he doesn't feel exposed, Quentin gives up and plants his feet flat on the ground and sits up straight, crossing his arms protectively but otherwise meeting Eliot's line of questioning head-on. It's almost brave, and so off-brand that Eliot feels strangely proud of him. "I was just" - bashful, Quentin scratches his head and finds right right words - "trying to distract myself. I feel a little squirrelly."

"How so?"

Q chews on his thumbnail and looks away from Eliot to glance around the common room. It's empty except for them, not that it would matter if anyone overheard - Quentin's words wouldn't mean much to anyone else except for the two of them. Chewing on his bottom lip, Q finally admits: "I'm just trying to keep from, y'know, excusing myself upstairs to the bathroom."

Eliot nods, unsure if he's supposed to offer Quentin a soft look or an understanding frown or if he's supposed to keep his face stone-straight so that Quentin doesn't think he's patronizing him, doesn't think that he can't share these difficult-to-say things out loud without being met with pity. He wants Quentin to share them out loud. Selfishly, he needs him to. Under no circumstances can he allow history to repeat itself: he can never find Quentin raw and bleeding like that ever, ever again.

(Brownish stains remain on the cuff of his favourite shirt; stains that won't allow themselves to be scrubbed or spelled away no matter how hard he tries. Even so, Eliot can't bring himself to stop wearing it, unconsciously worrying at the splotches with his thumb every time he sees Quentin unconsciously push his hair behind his hair or throw his head back and laugh.)

Clearing his throat, Eliot asks, "This hair thing. It hurts?"

"Well, yeah." Q shrugs. His fingernails scratch at the soft spot behind his ear. "I mean - obviously, yeah."

"But it helps."

Full-body wincing with embarrassment, Q nods.

"Okay," Eliot says slowly. Neutrally. They stare at each other for a long moment, silent except for Quentin's shoe tapping against the floorboards, until Eliot breaks eye contact first. Reaching forward to pick his boring-as-shit book back up off the cigarette ash-covered coffee table, he rolls his shoulders and settles back into his chair. "Well, then. Don't mind me," he says. At Quentin's confused look, he waves his hand and adds, "As you were."

Quentin exhales a long breath and pulls his feet back up onto the chair, his legs crossed at the ankles. This time, he wraps his arms around his calves, drawing his legs in close enough that he can rest his chin on his knees.

"So, what's that book about?" he asks again, tilting his head to try and glean the title.

The early evening light catches his face and Eliot can see the shine of sweat on his brow - he wants to tell Quentin to take that stupid sweater off, that everyone else has gone to the city for the weekend and he doesn't have to hide around him. Instead he says nothing, just closes the book and angles it so Q can see better.

"Prophetic Horoscopy, huh?" he says, sounding out the gilded letters on the spine. His hands are fidgety, the nails of one picking at the cuticles of the other, but they don't find their way back up to the roots of his hair. At least, not for the moment. "Are horoscopes even really a thing?"

"God, who knows. I think it's absolute nonsense," Eliot says, finding his page again and taking another sip of his drink. "Shall I read you some?"

Q snorts a quiet laugh and nods.

"Yes, please."