It's hard for Eliot not to get behind a lack of wallowing, even if wallowing is absolutely what he himself would be doing right now, with as much hedonism as he could realistically cram into a single human body and then some, but...well, he thought this was going to be a lot more difficult, so he's cautiously optimistic as he follows Jefferson into the sewing room formerly known as the study.
Which is. Where that starts to give way mostly to just caution, inasmuch as even Eliot has to subscribe to the idea that repeating the same action over, and over, with the expectation of a different result is--he knows what it is. Knows it a little bit, in fact, from previous wallowing sessions: if he found a new vice to distract himself, surely this one would be the one that made him less constantly and terminally miserable. Magic, or sex, or drugs, or eating every stupid feeling, or a lot of other things that never helped for very long anyway.
He turns the spare chair around and perches on it with his legs straddling the sides and feet tucked around the bottom rungs, long arms draped over the back with his chin on top of them. "Creative projects are infinitely superior to wallowing, I'm coming with you on that one."
A pause. By now he knows their fake relationship isn't really anything to go by, but--it does remain true that in this one, he has no more real ability how to gently inquire after a person's mental health. Pretty much every time he's tried to check in with one of his friends about Alice has been an unmitigated disaster.
It's too important not to try, though, even if he fucks it up. "So...you feel better? I mean--it's okay, if you're not. I'm here for you, you know that, right?"
no subject
Which is. Where that starts to give way mostly to just caution, inasmuch as even Eliot has to subscribe to the idea that repeating the same action over, and over, with the expectation of a different result is--he knows what it is. Knows it a little bit, in fact, from previous wallowing sessions: if he found a new vice to distract himself, surely this one would be the one that made him less constantly and terminally miserable. Magic, or sex, or drugs, or eating every stupid feeling, or a lot of other things that never helped for very long anyway.
He turns the spare chair around and perches on it with his legs straddling the sides and feet tucked around the bottom rungs, long arms draped over the back with his chin on top of them. "Creative projects are infinitely superior to wallowing, I'm coming with you on that one."
A pause. By now he knows their fake relationship isn't really anything to go by, but--it does remain true that in this one, he has no more real ability how to gently inquire after a person's mental health. Pretty much every time he's tried to check in with one of his friends about Alice has been an unmitigated disaster.
It's too important not to try, though, even if he fucks it up. "So...you feel better? I mean--it's okay, if you're not. I'm here for you, you know that, right?"