[The jostling escape through the marketplace is a blessing, really. It gives Quentin time to make a last-ditch effort at composure, clenching his jaw and measuring his breath and trying to school his face into something other than stuttering shock. By the time Eliot's long strides slow to a halt, though, stunned reaction has turned into panicked rumination, and Quentin struggles to form any intelligent words.]
[He shakes his head. A million frantic questions are begging to be asked - Are you okay? Are you you? Is this real? - but the more he thinks, the less any of the words make sense. So on pure impulse, he makes the one move that does, and pulls Eliot into a tight, desperate hug.
what's a touching reunion without a meat incident
You're- [A start.] I'm- [Keep going, buddy.] What-
[He shakes his head. A million frantic questions are begging to be asked - Are you okay? Are you you? Is this real? - but the more he thinks, the less any of the words make sense. So on pure impulse, he makes the one move that does, and pulls Eliot into a tight, desperate hug.
Then, muffled by fabric and bony shoulder:] Hi.