Chapter Text
They leave for London together after his birthday.
It's not, all told, one of the better birthdays of Quentin's life. He gets to wake up with Eliot, which is nice; he gets a birthday blowjob from behind the safety of some wards and a silencing spell, which is even nicer. But it's kind of downhill from there, with an awkward phone call from his mother which circles into their old familiar fight about Quentin needing to grow up, and nothing at all from Julia, the whole day. The crowning bit of shitty comes at dinner when Ted loses track of how old Quentin’s turning, visibly slipping in his head and obviously upset by it. It's the first time Eliot's been there for one of those, which is– well now at least he knows, so Quentin doesn't have to try to describe it. Quentin tries, he really does, he tries to have a good time for his dad for the rest of the night, while he can. But.
It just means burying a bunch of shit that floats to the surface later, insomnia piling into silent tears and leaving him lying wide awake in the guest room, sleepless and staring out the window with wet eyes while Eliot rubs his back. The wide strokes of his palm are comforting as anything can be, but he doesn't say anything. There isn't much to say. At least they get to take the train back into the city together. Midday, and it's nearly empty, and it's so much more fucking bearable to just exist in the world when Quentin can kick off his shoes and twist up onto the seat to wriggle his toes under Eliot's thigh, steal his hand so Quentin can play with his fingers.
"What's your favorite thing to do in London?" Quentin asks, twirling one of Eliot's rings, chunky silver set with green stones.
"Mmm, theater probably," Eliot says with a hum, and when Quentin looks up at him, Eliot's watching him, eyes warm. "But I'm an actor, baby, or at least I was gonna be. There's so many museums and historical sites, there's no way we're going to see it all, so we don't have to try. The beauty of the closet portal, we can go back any time."
“Except, you know, classes,” Quentin points out, teasing, and when Eliot kisses him, it feels– safe.
They walk hand in hand back to the Brakebills portal, Quentin’s duffle bag in Eliot’s other hand because he’d insisted, and Quentin couldn’t really find a reason to fight him on it. Margo greets them with a pinch to Quentin’s cheek, a full-tooth grin, and a happy birthday which sounds really quite salacious actually. Then it’s a hectic 45 minutes of Eliot and Margo scrambling to check their bags for this vest or those shoes, which Quentin passes just– laying on his back on Margo’s bed, breathing in the smell of her sheets, hairspray and soap and perfume and a hundred other smells that he couldn’t possible identify, listening to them bustle around him. If he closes his eyes, he can just– disappear, maybe, into the mountain of pillows. It’s a very different smell than Eliot’s bed, but– nice. There’s traces of Eliot here, too, and that feels right.
The bed dips, shaking a little, and then there’s a warm body sliding up along Quentin’s side. Another, on the other side, smaller.
“Sleepy baby,” Eliot cooes, softly, on his right, nose brushing against his cheek, and Margo giggles to his left.
“Maybe we should put him down for a little while.”
“I hate you both,” Quentin grumbles, rolling off his back to the side– directly into Eliot’s arms, sure, but don’t tell him that. Face against the crook of Eliot’s neck, he sighs. God, he is tired. Which, honestly, what can be expected after maybe a total of three hours of sleep last night? But Margo’s bed is like Eliot’s, in that ‘way more comfortable than a college dorm bed should be’ way, and Eliot– Eliot’s warm, when Quentin snuggles into him. Warm, and he smells like soap and tobacco and aftershave, and if Quentin wiggles his face in just right he can tuck his nose in against the dip of Eliot’s Adam’s apple and just– not think. About anything.
“Do you want to take a nap?” Eliot asks, gentle, non-judgemental, one arm looping up around Quentin’s shoulders while the other rubs his arm. Which means it must be Margo’s hand in the center of his back, scratching lightly with her long nails. “I know you didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”
Neither did Eliot, come to that. But– “No. It’ll just make the jet lag worse, right? We should, like, push through until it’s time to sleep in London.”
They step through the portal in the closet together, and it’s– well, it’s kind of entirely what Quentin’s imagined stepping through a portal in the closet would be like, during his whole life of finding secret doors and running away. Except maybe it doesn’t count as running away, if you’re being brought somewhere, to something, by people who care about you. They step out into a pub, quiet in the middle of the late afternoon lull. The bartender gives them an odd look, which is explained by the door swinging shut behind them, faded letters on black paint reading ‘gents’.
Grinning at Quentin over Margo’s head, Eliot presses a kiss to her hair, eyes sparkling. “Welcome to the Ball And Sack, Q. Best pub you’ll ever find.”
“‘Course it is,” Quentin agrees, amused, and Margo grins at him.
The first day, half-day really, is a blur of just getting oriented. Eliot and Margo both have Oyster Cards, but they still have to get him one. Then he spends the entire time they’re waiting for the train to arrive telling them why they’re called Oyster Cards according to Wikipedia, much to Margo’s annoyance and Eliot’s fond amusement. By the time the train pulls up with a chime of ‘Mind The Gap,’ giddy excitement has started to push away the cobwebs in Quentin’s brain. He stands looking at the rail map, and Eliot stands close behind him, one hand on his hip, the other holding a post to steady them. Margo’s sitting close by and it feels–
Like an adventure.
They find their hotel and check in. Quentin somehow expected them to all be sharing a room, used to the traveling he’d done with Julia and James in college, them in a full bed and Quentin squashed on the couch. But no, they have two comfortably spacious rooms across the hall from each other, each with a bed bigger than the full in the guest room at his dad’s house or Eliot’s dorm bed at Brakebills. There’s an en-suite bathroom with a rather intimidating looking shower featuring, like, a truly unnecessary number of shower heads and a wide counter, already littered with Eliot’s various bottles and sprays.
“How are we paying for this?” Quentin asks as he wanders out of the bathroom, because god, he’s such a shit, it hasn’t even occurred to him to ask. Eliot’s suitcase is taking up half the bed, and Margo’s taking up the other half, so he perches on the desk chair, watching as Eliot unfolds and spells his shirts free of wrinkles.
“I still have my Daddy’s credit card,” Margo says, sweet honey in her voice concealing poison. “He pretends that not checking to see what I do with it is a substitute for fatherhood.”
“So don’t worry about it, basically,” Eliot says, eyes twinkling.
They venture out again for dinner. Eliot asks, “Feeling up for a crowd, darling?” and for once, Quentin finds that he actually is. So they wander their way through Covent Garden, ducking into stores and little specialty food shops, and somehow it feels more like a quest than going shopping. They eat dinner at a little terrace restaurant, Margo and Eliot chatting about all the places they want to take him, all the things they need to do. Quentin, for his part, feels exhaustion catching up with him, content to listen with Eliot’s hand on his thigh under the table. He just likes the sound of their voices, really, being with them. It feels good to be here with them.
“You two should go get some sleep,” Margo says, amused, when Eliot breaks off in the middle of a sentence to yawn, hugely. “I’m going to go get laid, I think.”
She’s so matter of fact about it, that it startles a laugh out of Quentin. Eliot just smiles at her though, that Margo smile that’s just– enamored and impressed and affectionate. Quentin likes that smile– it’s maybe his second or third favorite of Eliot’s smiles; after the ‘Quentin’s rambling about something’ smile and the ‘I’m getting my dick sucked’ smile.
He’s got half a mind to try to conjure that last one, when they find themselves back in a hotel room with privacy and time. Except, well. Neither of them really slept the night before, and he’s really fucking tired. It’s hard to be motivated to do more than curl up in the bed and kiss, especially when the kissing is so good. Being kissed by Eliot is always so good, steady and safe, warm and sweet.
“I can jerk you off,” Quentin offers, mumbling against Eliot’s mouth in the low light from the lamp on the bedside table, hand wandering down to cup between Eliot’s legs. He’s not hard, and it’s– such a weird, intimate thing, to hold him like this, soft and vulnerable against Quentin’s palm. Against his lips, Eliot draws a slow, deep breath, but then he shakes his head, smiling against Quentin’s mouth.
“Go to sleep, Q,” he whispers, and almost without meaning to, Quentin does.
They do the tourist thing the next day, and it’s– it’s fucking fun, okay? It’s kind of stupidly, ridiculously fun. Margo and Quentin drag Eliot down to King’s Cross Station, and they spend as long as they can get away with messing around with the trolly cart embedded half-way in the wall at one of the gates. Eliot plays the part of their long-suffering camera man, directing them as they pose for action shot after action shot. One stands out among the collection, where it actually looks like Margo’s dragging Quentin by that hand through a gate to another world.
It ends up as the new background of Eliot’s phone, but none of them comment on it.
Quentin gets a new background of his own, as they wander down the Thames, taking in the sights. Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, all of it sights Quentin’s seen in movies and TV shows his whole life. Harry Potter and Doctor Who come to life in front of him, and he can’t even find himself bothered by the crowds or the heat. They pause on a tourist-packed bridge looking out over the South Bank, where the London Eye reaches up towards the sky.
“We should take a picture for my dad,” Quentin mutters to Eliot, who’s leaning against the railing next to him, sunglasses on his nose, wearing a light floral shirt that should honestly look like wallpaper, except it’s Eliot so of course he looks amazing. He always looks amazing. “You’re the one with selfie-sticks for arms, so– take a selfie with me?”
“C’mere then,” Eliot laughs, opening up to welcome Quentin into his space. It’s tricky to find an angle that includes him and Eliot and any kind of background, that isn’t completely washed out by sunlight, but Eliot’s patient and a giant, and has very long arms. The final one they end up with is the two of them, tucked close together with Eliot’s arm around his shoulders, Quentin’s temple against Eliot’s jaw, the clock tower rising like a spire up in the background next to Quentin’s shoulder. He does send it to his dad and sets it as his background, before doing his duty as friend and boyfriend, and taking about 37 pictures of Eliot and Margo, together and on their own.
There’s a reply text waiting for him, when he glances back down at his own phone.
(From Dad) 2:34pm Glad you boys are having a good time. Everything’s fine here. Say “hi” to Eliot for me.
Grinning, feeling a little bit of relief, honestly, that nothing’s gone to shit in the last 24 hours at least, Quentin passes along the message.
Time flies by in a whirlwind. Eliot had been right, there was no possible way for them to see it all, so they pick and choose. One day they spend a morning on a bus tour, visiting all the major sights via double decker bus. Margo with her big sun hat and flowy dress keeps getting chatted up by tourists until she demands Quentin switch seats with her so she can sit in the curve of Eliot's arms, and Quentin's left the odd man out in their little block of 4 seats. He can't really complain, he's barely able to sit still the whole time anyway, and his flailing limbs seem to be enough to deter anyone from trying to sit next to him. That, and the fact that he's not a hot girl.
"You could just sit in my lap," Eliot suggests, a salacious grin on his face, and honestly, it's tempting. Quentin's pretty fond of sitting in Eliot's lap, the way Eliot's arms twist around his waist and tug him back, solid chest to lean back against, safe and secure.
"I'd probably just end up elbowing you in the face," he admits, and next to him Margo snorts. For a handful of heartbeats, he gets caught up in how they look together, so beautiful and elegant and right, he can only imagine how they must have looked spread out on the beaches of Barcelona, or twisting together in clubs to dance away their summer of nothing. And somehow, he gets to be here, with them. They chose him, and they keep choosing him and he feels so fucking– lucky. Then Buckingham palace rolls into view, and he gets distracted, turning to look as the tour guide starts giving her practiced speech.
That afternoon they venture out to 221B Baker St and wait in line for an hour to visit an honestly kind of dingy little recreation of the Sherlock Holmes flat. More fun are the couple of hours after in the Holmes themed pub nearby, getting increasingly drunk and silly until Eliot ends up wearing Margo's sun hat and they both try to convince Quentin to wear her shoes.
"Do you want to experience the healthcare system of another country?" Quentin grumbles, Margo's feet thump up into his lap: big block wedge heels tied around her ankles with ribbon. "Because I will break something. I can't walk in my shoes half the time."
"'S right," Eliot confirms, giggling into Margo's hair. "He falls over every time he tries to take his shirt off."
"Not every time," Quentin protests, but, well. A lot of the time. Smiling sweetly at Eliot, he says, "That's why you should take it off for me."
This earns not a small amount of cat-calling and jeering from Margo, and by the time they stumble out of the pub and into a cab back to their hotel, Quentin's feeling effervescent. Bright. Their separate rooms don’t seem to matter that night as they all tumble down onto the bed in Quentin and Eliot's room, clothes and all.
"Gotta take our make-up off," Margo says to Eliot, who's in the middle of the bed, long and warm and comfortable against Quentin's front. He snuggles in, nose tucking in at the back of Eliot's neck. He smells so good, he always smells so fucking good it’s not fair, and Quentin kisses the skin just under the soft little curls at the base of his skull, feeling the vibration of Eliot's voice in his chest. He's saying something to Margo, but Quentin's not really paying attention, already half-asleep.
He wakes up first, hungover and head-achy, to the bright light of the morning. They're all still in bed together, though someone (hopefully Eliot) was nice enough to get Quentin out of his jeans. Margo's curled around Eliot's back, wearing one of Quentin's own clean t shirts, and Eliot's sprawled out in the middle of the bed, hand tangled with the one Margo has thrown over his waist, the other reached out to settle on Quentin's chest, naked but for his underwear. They're so lovely, so fucking beautiful, and so comfortable together, and suddenly all Quentin can think about is–
Julia.
Julia, curling up in Quentin's bed the morning after a party in undergrad, hungover and upset about something or other. They'd– had a rhythm, hadn't they, in the first couple years before James started functionally living with them, because Quentin was almost never as hungover as she was. She'd stumbled into his room– which was really an office, curtains hung over the glass doors into the living room of her loft and no closet– she'd stumble in and curl on top of the blankets and cried a little, and he'd held her hand and then run down to the bodega on the corner for egg sandwiches and coffee, and they'd spend the whole day ignoring their homework and binge-watching something on her laptop– Doctor Who or Parks and Rec or Community and she'd rested her head on his shoulder and said–
"Glad I've got a best friend like you, Q."
And he'd been fucking jealous. That he couldn't have more? Like having what he had of her wasn't enough, when he didn't even know easy it would be to lose. That it could happen by accident, that she might just– drift out of his life.
Extricating himself from the bed is tricky. Eliot's a light sleeper, and when Quentin slips out of the bed, Eliot reaches after him, curling in towards the vacant space. Heartsore, Quentin stops long enough to reach out and settle him, slide his hand into Eliot's curls and stroke them back until he quiets, settles back into sleep. He finds his jeans folded over the back of the chair, and Eliot's cigarette case tucked into the inside pocket of his blazer. Fishing out a cigarette, Quentin swipes the keycard off the desk and stuffs his feet into his shoes, heading out to smoke.
His bad mood coalesces over his head like a rain cloud, and hangs over him for the rest of the day. He tries not to let it bring them down, he really does, but it's difficult to find the enthusiasm he would normally be able to conjure for the Tower of London, the Crown Jewels, all of it– none of it quite feels real. Physical. Solid. He slips away from the other two once they've finished their tour and Margo and Eliot disappear into the giftshop, heading up the grassy slope of a hill towards a small wall he can perch on. There's a pretty good view of the city from here, and he sits, and tries to just– make himself look. Be present. Half-remembered grounding exercises from therapists and from inpatient treatment centers flit through his mind, but that's always easier to do when it's anxiety he's fighting against. Being grounded is harder to reach when nothing feels real, even the ground.
It's Margo who comes to find him first, which he's a little surprised about. He shouldn't be, it's often been Margo who pulls him out of his head, after the Welters tournament, and during the trials. Margo, who’d sat with him and said ‘the best way to get what you want is to be so miserable that you don’t want it anymore.’ It had felt profound, then, and now– now he’s not sure how he feels about it, when every day it feels like he’s gained so much and is also losing so much too.
"If your boyfriend spends $200 on fake jewelry, I'm going to make him wear it," Margo calls up to him, swerving around a couple little kids horsing around with a look of distaste that almost, almost, makes Quentin smile. "Big fuck-off chunky necklaces and all."
"He could make it work," Quentin calls back, which like– he probably could, but what the fuck does Quentin know about it.
"Oh honey, no he couldn't," Margo sighs, perching next to Quentin on the wall. "So, do you actually want to Eeyore alone right now, or do you wanna tell Mama what's wrong?"
“Nothing wrong,” he lies, looking out across the city.
“Right,” Margo agrees, dry, sarcastic, and he can’t look at her. Doesn’t want to know what her face is doing. “So like– you don’t have to tell me, but don’t bullshit me either, Coldwater. Nut up or shut up.”
“But nothing is wrong. Or like–Sometimes I feel like I just don’t know the point of it anymore,” Quentin says, all in a rush, as Margo leans back on her hands. Her feet come into his line of sight, wearing sandals that must be magicked to avoid giving her blisters with all the walking they’ve been doing today. Her toenails are painted with flecks of gold, reflections of bright sparklingly light. “We’re just– stupid monkeys, who have to eat and shit and sleep so we can stay alive long enough to fuck out tiny versions of ourselves. And what’s the point of any of that, when the world is so terrible and we all d-die, anyway.”
“Hm. I feel like I’m supposed to say love?” Margo says, dry enough that Quentin looks over at her. She’s smiling a little.
“Love’s just the brain response to make us want to do the little-versions-of-ourselves.”
“Yeah, bullshit. The way I love has nothing to do with babies. It doesn’t really even have much to do with sex. Are you going to sit there and tell me that the way I love Eliot or you is less important?” Margo asks, sounding– gentler, than he’d have expected. “Do you really believe that, Q?”
“No,” he admits, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I still– Why do we even fucking bother, when everything’s so... hard?”
“Beautiful magic,” Margo offers, sitting up so her shoulder brushes his arm. “Good books. The satisfaction of winning. Chocolate croissants that are better than sex.”
“I’m not sure you’re having sex right,” Quentin returns weakly, and she grins at him, catlike.
“Things are terrible, your dad is dying and your best friend’s not talking to you–”
“Eliot’s my best friend–”
“Your best friend who you don’t fuck isn’t talking to you. You’re allowed to rage against the dying of the light for a while,” Margo says, squinting at him shrewdly. “What you’re not allowed to do is give up, or start thinking you're stuck in this shit alone. Because you’re not. Me and El are a package deal, but that doesn’t just mean you have to share him with me. It means I take some of your shit too.”
“Doesn’t seem fair to you,” Quentin mutters, looking back down at their feet. She pokes him with her toes, jabbing against the meat of his calf.
“Tough.”
The day does, admittedly, get better from there.
Not a lot, but– they get ice cream from a near-by shack, and share three flavors around between them. The strawberry is predictably pronounced disgusting by Eliot and Margo, so Quentin eats most of it because he honestly doesn’t care, but they still feed him bites of their chocolate and coffee. Eliot kisses him, softly, when Margo goes to throw the cups away, and it tastes a bit like chocolate.
“Doing okay?” Eliot asks, after the kiss breaks, and when Quentin shrugs half-heartedly, Eliot nods, fingers sifting through Quentin’s hair, gently. It makes small shivers trace down Quentin’s spine, makes him lean a little into the shelter of Eliot’s body. “Yeah, okay. I figured. We’ll take it easy for the rest of the day, okay?”
“We came all this way–” Quentin starts, frustrated, but Eliot shakes his head.
“Don’t worry about it. We can still have fun, even if we’re not rushing around.”
“I’m not going to have fun today,” Quentin mulishly, as Margo reappears.
“You’re allowed to have a bad day,” she informs him, hands on her hips. “But if you’re not gonna have a good time anyway, wanna go hold bags for me and El while we shop in Oxford Circus? That way at least you’re not grumping your way through something you feel like you should be enjoying.”
Which, as a theory, turns out to be pretty correct. Quentin hates shopping for clothes for himself, but he doesn’t really mind tagging along with them. And at least, sitting in Topman watching Eliot try on blazers, if he zones out or gets lost in his brain, he’s not missing anything. Anything besides his boyfriend being like– confusingly hot in a bunch of different colors, and that’s somehow just a normal part of Quentin’s life these days.
He begs off early, that night, leaving Eliot and Margo to a bottle of wine and gossip in her room.
“You can stay, even if you just want to read,” Eliot says, with the bone-deep kindness that he can’t even see, and Quentin just– kisses him, soft, rubs their noses together a little while Margo makes fake gagging noises.
“I want some alone time,” he admits, and Eliot just nods.
He doesn’t register falling asleep before Eliot comes back, but he must, because he wakes up to the sunlight of midmorning and the sound of water cascading in the bathroom. The bed is warm, in the empty space next to Quentin, sheets only gone cool where they touch the air, and Quentin sighs, rolling sleepily into the abandoned space.
Eliot’s singing in the shower. It’s something he does often, really, so Quentin’s not surprised. Knowing anything about Eliot at all, you'd be more surprised if he didn’t.
It’s nice, though. Eliot’s a good singer, and listening to him sing at any time is nice. But there’s something about the lack of performance involved, the way he sometimes loops back and repeats verses just because he likes them, it feels like a window into something no one gets to see. Quentin can lay in bed, on the weirdly dense hotel mattress that is nevertheless surprisingly comfortable, wrapped up in blankets and buried in pillows and just listen. Listen to Eliot sing, and just– not have to do anything else.
The singing stops when the shower shuts off, and Quentin mourns it, a little, comfortably sheltered in his little nest of pillows. God, can’t he just– lay here and listen to Eliot sing forever?
He should probably get up, he thinks vaguely. Get up and shower himself, so they can– what were they doing today? The British Museum? He doesn’t remember, but– it’s probably something cool, something he’s going to look back on and be just– stunned, and delighted, that he got to do this, that he got to do it with these people. But the bed’s comfortable, and the pillows smell like Eliot, or one of them does, at least, if he chases the scent.
A plume of sweet-smelling hot damp air precedes Eliot out of the bathroom, and well, Quentin rolls over to watch him walk out because he’s not an idiot, okay? A single towel clings to Eliot’s hips, putting up a valiant effort, but– he really is mostly naked, and Quentin’s allowed to look. He’s welcome, in fact, to curl a pillow under his chin and trace the lines of Eliot’s torso, the wide boney span of his shoulders and his solid chest, the hair dark with water from the shower and his rosey pink nipples. The thatch of neat dark hair between his hip bones is just visible above the towel, and by the time Quentin’s done admiring that he’s been caught staring, Eliot smirking at him behind his tumble of wet curls.
“Good morning to you too,” Eliot murmurs, crawling catlike up the bed, nosing in to kiss, oh– kiss Quentin, in the comfortable nest of pillows and blankets he’s burrowed for himself. A kiss turns into several, turns into Eliot sliding down onto the bed, wet hair be damned, his towel well and truly having given up by now.
“Do we have somewhere urgent to go this morning?” Quentin asks, curling towards Eliot’s body as he sprawls out on his back on the bed, kiss-pink mouth and arm out in invitation. His skin is flush-warm from the shower when Quentin settles against him, still just the slightest bit damp where water clings to the hair on his body.
“Darling, we are on vacation,” Eliot replies gently, scooting and maneuvering and manhandling until Quentin’s half laying on top of him. God, all that warm skin– he smells clean, when Quentin drops his face down against Eliot’s chest, nose and mouth against the warm skin and scratchy hair between his pectorals. “We don’t have to go anywhere if we don’t want to.”
“Seems like a waste,” Quentin points out, pressing a kiss over Eliot’s heart and then turning his head, so he can rest his cheek there instead. Gazing unfocused acrossed Eliot’s pec and shoulder, the pale skin of his bicep, he can hear the beat of Eliot’s heart under his ear. “To come all this way, I mean, and then spend the day in bed.”
“I don’t think you can fail vacation,” Eliot points out cheerfully. His fingers slide up into Quentin’s hair, pushing it off his forehead and then just– petting, gently, against his scalp. It feels nice, soothing, and Quentin lets his eyes fall shut, rubbing his cheek a little against Eliot’s chest. “I’m happy to stay in bed with you all day.”
Quentin snorts. “Well, when you put it like that...” he sighs, wriggling around until he can be fully on top of Eliot, cradled in the V of his thighs. They’re not hard, either of them, but it’s kind of fascinating to feel Eliot’s soft dick against his lower belly, a warm, animal feeling. All your soft parts against my soft parts. Eliot’s arms loop around his shoulders, hugging him, and it’s– god, it’s so dumb but it feels so safe. Face buried in Eliot’s chest, Quentin’s eyes prickle, caught up and surrounded, safe.
He has to put all that feeling somewhere, so he kisses up across the swell of Eliot’s pec, feeling the scratchy texture of hair under his mouth. God, it’s not– When he’d thought about what attraction to men felt like, as a teenager, it wasn’t like this feature prominently. It had been all– big hands and square jaws and strong arms, and yeah, okay yeah, cocks, what it would feel like to have one in his mouth or in his ass, the same way he’d always kind of hungrily just wanted to– stick his face in every pair of tits he saw, so maybe that’s not changed that much.
But he likes it, god, he really does, the scratch of Eliot’s hair against his mouth, against his cheek, the way he can wind his fingers into it and tug a little. And like, honestly, thank god Eliot’s ‘we don’t do personal grooming for other people’ never extended to waxing because Quentin would miss this. He kisses Eliot’s rosey pink nipple hello while he’s there, Eliot’s happy sigh rumbling in his chest. Then, because he can, he bites, lightly, in the meat of Eliot’s pec.
“Ah,” comes the soft cry, and Eliot’s hand in his hair tugs a little. Which is, mmm, nice. Good. It makes the encroaching fog in his brain recede a little. Still, he lets go, kissing softly over the barely-there indents on Eliot’s chest, lips and tongue as Eliot squirms a little.
“Bad?” Quentin asks, because he’s– it’s not like this is something he’s done before. He just– god, he just wants to put his mouth everywhere, on every single fucking inch of Eliot’s skin.
“I’m happy to indulge if you’re feeling it,” Eliot breathes out, laughing. “You’re going to end up with chest hair stuck in your teeth, though.”
“What, that’s not a hot look for you?” Quentin asks, teasing, feeling tender and– and held, as Eliot’s hand cups his cheek. But he ducks down pointedly, kissing a bitey, sucking kiss at the tender skin just under Eliot’s pec, where the hair lightens down to peach fuzz. It makes Eliot squirm, and that’s– especially interesting, when Quentin’s pressed all up between his thighs.
It’s only then that the implication of the position comes into clarity in his head, what being situated like this could mean, what it could lead to. And well, Eliot did put him here, but– Quentin still can’t forget the panicked race of his heart, the way he hadn’t even been able to look at Quentin when he’d said ‘I didn’t even mean to think it’. And god, Quentin had meant it when he said he didn’t need it, so he stops his biting kisses, pushing back up to rest his chin comfortably on Eliot’s chest.
Hazel eyes blink down at him, confused, a little laced with arousal. “I didn’t– you don’t have to stop.”
“I’m probably going to get hard, if I keep going,” Quentin admits, because, well– his dick is tucked up right beneath Eliot’s balls, and it feels good, that soft warm skin against him, it feels good to taste Eliot against his tongue, to rub his nose and mouth against Eliot’s skin. “I didn’t want to seem pushy.”
Comprehension and something unhappy twist in Eliot’s face, before it closes off a little. And no, that’s not what Quentin wants at all, god, can’t do anything right, can you, god, why are you so bad at this, so bad a sex, it’s amazing anyone’s ever even let you– “I don’t think you’ve got a pushy bone in your body, Q,” Eliot says gently, pulling him up out of his brain with a sweet scratch of fingers across his scalp.
“I can just suck your dick,” Quentin offers, because that– hunger is still there, god, gotta get my mouth on him.
“Tempting,” Eliot muses, fingers brushing against Quentin’s lips long enough for him to kiss them, fleeting and then gone. Feelings war on Eliot’s face, then they crystallize into something like resolve. “Or we could take some baby steps. And you could put that pretty mouth on me. I am shower-clean, after all.”
Which, oh god– just the idea of it sparkles bright along the paths in Quentin’s mind that are just stuck on a loop of kiss him, want to kiss him everywhere. And god, if it can feel even half as good as it does when Eliot’s done it to him–
“I mean, yeah, I’d– if you’re sure, I really don’t want to push, but. God, I’d love that.”
The shutter in Eliot’s face falls away, the warm affection spilling out on his features. And that’s maybe Quentin’s favorite look, right there, to be looked at like that– it feels like a gift.
“Sit up for a second?” Eliot asks, and Quentin does, pushing back until he’s folded in the middle of the bed, sunlight streaming through the room. God, it’s– the idea of having sex in broad daylight would have terrified him, ten years ago, but now he wants Eliot’s skin in the sunlight, all of him. The muscles in his stomach flex as he pushes to sit up too, and Quentin tries to make himself focus, on whatever Eliot’s got to say that’s important enough that it can’t be said lying down. But Eliot stays close, close enough for their knees to touch, for him to take Quentin’s hands. “Hey, you.”
“Hey.” Quentin rolls his eyes, fondly, and he’s surprised, somehow, when Eliot kisses him, short and sweet.
“This isn’t new ground for me,” Eliot says, nuzzling their faces together. “I can take your tongue or your fingers and not have a crisis about it, baby, I promise.”
“Oh,” Quentin says, dumb, excitement sparking in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, smiling, and Quentin can’t help but smile back. "Glad the idea of being first isn't part of the appeal for you."
Quentin snorts, reaching out to poke Eliot in the chest. "No, that's your thing," he accuses, because what, is he supposed to pretend he doesn't know? But Eliot shrugs, shameless, and Quentin curls his fingers in against Eliot's chest hair, tugging a little. “No, it's better if you know what you like, then you can um– you can tell me how to do it? Like you did the first time I sucked your dick? Tell me what– show me what you like?”
Real heat sparks in Eliot's eyes, now, a slow smile sliding across his face. "Mm, you do like it when I talk to you," he agrees, biting a lip that's pretty pink and kiss-soft. Quentin nods, feeling a little embarrassed and hot about it, tugging pointedly at Eliot's chest. "Yeah, I'll tell you what I like, don't worry, sweetheart."
Quentin doesn't mean to shiver, but he totally does. The grin on Eliot's face says he notices, and the way he pushes in for another kiss says he likes it. God, how fucking lucky is Quentin, that Eliot likes all his weirdness? Poised on the edge of another self-recrimination spiral, it's hard to remember to kiss back, until Eliot's hand’s in his hair, and then he does have to think much at all.
"Why don't you start out by giving my dick some attention, huh?" Eliot coaches when he pulls back, tugging Quentin's hair and petting him, rubbing their noses together. "Get me hard, sweet boy."
That, Quentin can do. God, he can definitely do that. Eliot makes no move to lean back, though, braced on one arm, his other hand in Quentin's hair. It makes the feeling of going down stronger, when Eliot actually has a lap for Quentin to stick his face in. Heat burns up Quentin cheeks, but God, he loves this. Tongue out, he licks gently out at Eliot's soft cock, shyly tucked away in its foreskin. He smells good here, musky and earthy, but still a bit like body wash, sharp and spicy, clean. Quentin feels hungry, god, he's just– wants to rub his face all over Eliot's whole body, a deeply animal urge to just smell like him.
Eliot makes a happy little sound when Quentin readjusts enough to get his hand down between Eliot's legs, gently push his cock and balls up enough that Quentin can tongue the tip, slide his tongue in between the tender skin and the spongy head, his favorite thing. Fuck, he loves this, he loves Eliot's cock, the way it twitches and responds. Very gently, he takes it into his mouth, soft but plumping up as he suckles a little.
“That’s it,” Eliot murmurs, his hand heavy in Quentin’s hair, gathering it back, pulling it up so he can– see my face when I suck it, oh god. Quentin’s eyes fall shut, trying not to think about it, a hot flush of embarrassment that just makes his own cock throb. A pulse of pleasure rolls down between his legs as Eliot’s cock moves on his tongue, twitching as it fills. It’s like nothing else, feeling Eliot go hard in his mouth, knowing that he did this. That he’s making Eliot feel like this. “Suck a little,” Eliot prompts, and when Quentin does he groans, a low resonant sound, breath going deep and long.
Quentin wants to see him, but that would mean moving from where he is now, curled low in a hunch with his head between Eliot’s legs, and he doesn’t– doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to move when he feels so contained like this, Eliot’s hand holding his hair in a messy pile, the warmth of Eliot’s thighs brushing his cheeks, the deep rich smell of him. God, Quentin’s mouth is watering, saliva sliding down Eliot’s half-hard cock, making Quentin’s face wet, Eliot’s balls wet, and maybe– back–
“Messy boy,” Eliot cooes, tugging a little at Quentin’s hair. Not pulling him back, just– just tugging. Because he knows Quentin likes it, because it makes him moan, which makes Eliot get harder, hot and silky on Quentin’s tongue. He can feel it when Eliot’s hips flex a little, the strain of muscle as his cock slides into Quentin’s mouth a little deeper, not even– fuck, not even all the way hard and nudging at the back of Quentin’s throat. “That’s okay, I like it sloppy.”
“Fuck, El,” Quentin pants, pulling off, because if he doesn’t he’s going to fucking– start humping the bed, or something equal embarassing, god, but– Eliot’s balls are right there, and Quentin can just– lick them, can’t he? Carefully, just fucking– rub against Eliot with his whole mouth, with his lips and cheek and tongue. That smell is so strong and Quentin feels like he’s losing his mind–
“Eager,” Eliot teases, tugging Quentin’s hair with purpose this time, to get him up, “Come up here, come kiss me before you put your mouth on my ass, come on.”
“No kisses after?” Quentin asks, pouting a little because it makes Eliot grin slowly, smile spreading across his face as Quentin settles into his lap.
“Only if you’re very good,” he mutters, pushing in, mouth against Quentin’s wet, messy mouth, catching him by the back of the neck and holding while Quentin– moans, pushing up into him, kissing– eating softly at his burning hot mouth, dear fucking god–
“I’ll be good,” he whispers into Eliot’s mouth, and it’s supposed to be– teasing, like Eliot’s teasing him, but it comes out painfully, painfully earnest. He’d be too fucking embarrassed to even handle it, if it didn’t make Eliot twitch up into him, Eliot’s big hand on his neck go tight for a moment, holding him close as Eliot just– fucks his tongue into Quentin’s open, eager mouth.
“I know you will, sweet boy,” Eliot murmurs, and Quentin feels warm, god– burying his face in Eliot’s neck as Eliot’s body pushes up into his– Their cocks brush, hard against their bellies, and when Quentin looks down to watch them– it’s like they’re saying hello to each other, Quentin’s– barely coming half of the way up Eliot’s.
“Please let me put my mouth on you,” he– begs, fucking hell, rubbing his nose and mouth against Eliot’s collarbone, sucking at his skin just to have something.
“Yeah, okay, let me just–” Then Eliot’s kissing him once more, twice more, three times more until Quentin’s giggling against his lips, then Eliot’s guiding him away by the hips. He sprawls backwards across the mattress, head landing in the pile of pillow Quentin had been hiding in earlier, feet braced on the mattress. “Like this, yeah? I want to be able to hold on to you.”
“Mkay,” Quentin agrees, and sliding between Eliot’s spread legs. God, his fucking legs, they go on for days, he’s so long everywhere. Quentin stops long enough to kiss the inside of one of Eliot’s knees, because he can, because he likes– every bit of Eliot, so stupid much. “What do you want me to do?”
Eliot draws in a deep breath, and Quentin watches his belly flex with it, dark hair trailing up from the neat patch between his legs, hard cock stretching up to his belly button. Quentin licks his lips, unthinkingly, and Eliot chuffs out a breath, reaching out for him. “Come here, start slow, just– like you were before, lick my balls and get them nice and wet, okay?”
So Quentin does.
On his belly on the bed, his own cock trapped against the mattress, he buries his face against the soft furred skin between Eliot's legs, licking and sucking on Eliot’s balls until he’s prompted to move further back, and it’s– Quentin’s always loved giving head, really, actually loved it. It’s probably true he’s better at blowjobs than anything else– because it’s hard to do a blowjob wrong, isn’t it, as long as you keep your teeth out of the way. But there’s a different kind of ache that comes with keeping your jaw open to lick out, and it– he wants it, fuck, he wants it with Eliot, wants to have this, give him this, so badly.
So when Eliot pulls his own leg up, bracing– fuck– bracing his foot against Quentin’s shoulder, it’s– so much, he’s so fucking hungry for it. “Spread me open with your thumbs,” Eliot breathes out, and there’s just the finest tremor in his voice, in control but not unaffected, not by a long shot. Quentin does as he’s told, sliding his palms under the meat of Eliot’s ass– fuck– and hooking his thumbs in, brushing against tender, private skin as he pulls, gentle, exposing shower clean soft pink skin and the soft furl of Eliot’s hole.
“El-iot,” he whimpers, voice cracking on the second syllable but he’s– his mouth is wet, god, he wants– he wants– brushing his thumb gently against that tender skin, he watches the muscle contract and thinks, animal and needy– I have to be inside there.
“Start slow,” Eliot instructs, hand gathering up Quentin’s hair again, and he should maybe find an elastic, except Eliot seems to like it loose, likes being able to mess it up. “Just kiss me, baby– yeah, like that.”
It’s– god, it’s easy to find a rhythm with Eliot, it always is. He’s vocal about what he likes, and happy to offer direction if Quentin starts seeming aimless, but he also just– lets Quentin explore, as much as he wants, and god he wants. Kissing at Eliot’s hole, lips and open mouth against the delicate skin until Eliot tells him to use his tongue, and then he does and it’s– the feeling of it, jaw wide, tongue out against the slippery skin, nose up tight under Eliot’s balls, the truth of him filling all of Quentin’s senses.
“Fuck, Q, like that, yeah, just– right over– god, yes,” Eliot pants above him, and Quentin’s left chasing his sounds, following the things that make his breath hitch, the make his hips twitch back. It’s new and different but it’s also familiar, and it’s Eliot, and Quentin can give himself over wholly to this. Just let his eyes fall closed and get lost in the feeling of yielding skin under his mouth, hot and wet and musky.
It’s intoxicating, the way Eliot just– opens up under his mouth, in increments, muscle going slack, baring back as Quentin does what feels right, does what he’s told. Everything’s so messy and wet his thumbs are slipping and it’s– it’s hard to keep him open, maybe, so Quentin just pushes his face in more while Eliot tugs on his hair and rides back and moans, god, the way he sounds–
“Get your thumbs–” Eliot pants, petting clumsily at Quentin’s hair, “so you can lick inside, come on, Q.” So he does, and Eliot swears, hips pushing back while Quentin licks inside his body, god. Starving, he’s fucking staving, he wants to just– god, just lick and lick and lick and lick until he can’t anymore, until his jaw’s too sore, until Eliot’s come again and again from Quentin’s mouth, god, I need to make him come.
The slick skin-on-skin sound of Eliot’s hand moving on his cock, fast and needy, hits the air and fuck– Quentin can see it, in his mind’s eye, Eliot’s beautiful Magician’s hand wrapped around his big gorgeous dick, the foreskin slipping with the movement– god, yes, please, come– while Quentin fuckings as much of his tongue into Eliot’s body as he can. Eliot comes with a shout, and Quentin can feel it, deep and intimate, feel the muscle at his mouth squeeze down, feel Eliot’s balls draw up, feel everything go tight around him, as Eliot swears and comes all over his own stomach and chest and it’s– it’s everything Quentin can do not to cream himself, right there, rutting down against the bed with his mouth on Eliot’s tender skin.
He stops when Eliot starts to shy away, pushing himself up to– rest against Eliot’s hip as his legs fall down to rest, catch his breath. Eliot’s panting, shocky, petting clumsily at Quentin’s hair, and everything here smells like sweat and come, watching Eliot’s dick twitch against his belly, shiny with splatters of come. Quentin pushes up to lick one, thoughtless, and the muscle of Eliot’s stomach jumps under his mouth, and breathed out moan of, “God, Q– baby, fuck.”
“Can I–” Quentin starts, and then loses his nerve partway through, burying his face against Eliot’s sternum, in the soft smooth skin before the rough scratch of his chest hair starts. He’s fucking– smearing Eliot’s come all over both of them, and all he can think about it, needy hungry animal thought, is: good.
“What could you possibly be shy about now?” Eliot asks, half a laugh, as he touches Quentin’s wet face, pets his hair, touches him, touches him, Eliot’s touch is so fucking– perfect. “Ask me, baby.”
Quentin takes a deep breath, face burning, digging his nose into Eliot’s skin as he asks “Can I come on your chest?”
“Fuck.” Eliot twitches a little, and Quentin grins against his skin, helpless. “Yeah, you can, come up here.”
Pushing up, Quentin moves up until he’s fucking– spread, straddling Eliot’s ribs as Eliot’s hands land on the outside of his thighs, slide up the skin and back to squeeze at Quentin’s ass while he– gasping– reaches down to curl his hand around his own dick. He’s so fucking– primed, a shivering mess of animal need, staring down at Eliot under him, Eliot smiling up at him, Eliot covered in his own come and– arching up, for Quentin’s. “I–” he asks, hand tugging desperately on his cock, staring, helpless, at the whorls of dark hair, soft pink nipples, scattered freckles across his ribs. “– El, fuck– I just want–”
“Yeah, I know,” Eliot breathes back, and wow, wonderful, Quentin actually has no idea what he wants besides just to make Eliot smell like him, maybe, so it’s good that one of them does. “Come on, baby, rub that sweet little cock until you make a mess all over me.”
That– fuck– that, that’s exactly what Quentin wants.
He manages to keep his eyes open and watch, but only just, as pleasure crests inside him, balls clenching up and unloading, sweet bursts of good, god, it feels so good, as streaks of white paint out across Eliot’s chest, catching in the hair, up to his throat, across a nipple. It’s– honestly one of the most blazingly erotic things Quentin’s ever done in his life, fuck, he’s going to be jerking off about this until he dies. One of Eliot’s hands is still cupping his ass, the other has– settled on his ribs, helping keep Quentin up while he stares, dumbstruck, at his own come– on Eliot’s chest. Reaches out, half-aware, to rub a streak of it into Eliot’s skin, the hair scratchy under his fingers, slick with–
“Fuck, Eliot,” he breathes out, and then he’s giggling, and Eliot’s giggling too, and reaching up to catch Quentin’s cheek with his left hand and pull him down and in for– a kiss, which must mean Quentin was good, after all.
Settling against Eliot’s chest, this time with his own legs spread over Eliot’s hips, he pulls back, grinning a little. There’s– a pleasant soreness starting in his jaw and tongue, as Eliot pets at his messy face. “You say ‘fuck, Eliot’ like this is my fault, but honestly I’m kind of feeling like I was just along for the ride with your oral fixation today,” Eliot says, and he sounds happy, and Quentin did that. He tucks his face down against Eliot’s collarbones to hide his smile, only to find– well, a streak of his own come, naturally. Humming, he licks it, sucking a little until all he can taste is Eliot’s skin.
“I think you need to take another shower,” he says eventually, when he can bring himself to pull back and there’s a moment of– unsticking, as their skin pulls apart from the drying come.
“Gee, you think?” Eliot asks with a laugh, arms going up tight around Quentin’s shoulders in a good, solid hug. Heart in his throat, Quentin wriggles his arms under Eliot’s ribs to hug back, feeling– tender, and so safe.
They do end up leaving the hotel eventually. Margo’s not one to let anyone blow her off for long, so she gives them about half the day, then bursts her way in and drags them out. Quentin still feels– clingy, a bit, but it’s kind of nice to walk tucked under Eliot’s arm, resplendent as ever in red and gold, carelessly handsome. It really does feel like protection, like he’d stumbled through saying weeks ago. Like Eliot’s personality, his self-confidence, really is a barrier against the world that somehow Quentin’s slipped inside of. He gets to be in here, against Eliot’s hip, inside the shield like maybe it can help keep some of Quentin’s own demons at bay too.
Wandering around their little borrowed neighborhood hasn’t been high on the priority list, but they do it now. They find a bakery full of delicate looking treats, and Eliot buys a slice of cake with eight thin rainbow layers to share while Margo gets some delicate little macarons. They eat outside the shop, sharing a fork and giggles and brief kisses between them while Margo makes faces at them, and it feels– good. Like maybe even if he can’t get away from the encroaching fog, they can keep it at bay together. It’s a nice thought. Wandering takes them past shops and restaurants, until it’s late enough that they can slip into a pub for warm beer and chips, holding hands under the table.
“I’m glad I came here,” Quentin admits, licking the salt and malt vinegar off his fingers as the noise of the pub fills around them, warm texture to the room.
Eliot squeezes his hand under the table, big palm against Quentin’s and fingers laced together. “I’m glad, too, darling.”
____
Quentin kind of disappears, after London.
It’s not immediately obvious. How can it be, when they don’t exactly have open, easy lines of communication through the Brakebills wards. So far this summer they’ve mostly gotten by on emails, scheduling skype sessions in the process because standing at the payphone in the middle of the quad really only works for bursts of about 5 minutes, and only if it’s Eliot calling out. Quentin can’t call in, and unless Eliot’s off campus, texting isn’t an option.
So it takes a couple weeks, barrelling into mid-August, for the coincidences to become a pattern. But the email responses drop off from a couple of times a day to once a day, to a couple of days. No skype, and the tone of Quentin’s emails are, well– blank, honestly. He sounds blank. He sounds empty. By the time the second weekend rolls around, two weeks since their return from London, Eliot’s worried. Worried enough to try a phone call, Saturday morning, when the last email he got from Quentin was Thursday at 4am, a blank, toneless thing answering questions and not much else.
The phone call goes to voicemail immediately, which means Quentin’s phone is off or the battery’s dead, and it’s–
“Ted would get a hold of me, right?” Eliot asks Margo, pacing in a restless pattern around the ground floor of The Cottage. “If– god, if he’s okay, what if– Margo, what if something happened to him and Quentin’s alone.”
“Then he’d fucking call you, like he did last time,” Margo points out, and when Eliot opens his mouth to object, she waves her hand. “Call you, email you, whatever. Q knows how to get ahold of you if he needs to.”
“That doesn’t,” Eliot says, swallowing around the anxiety, “actually make me feel better, Margo.”
“Then go see him!” She huffs, in her long suffering I did not sign up for this bullshit voice. “It’s not like you don’t know where he lives.”
“Isn’t that, I dunno– kind of creepy?”
“Eh, bring a boombox and it’s a rom-com,” Margo says with a shrug, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back into the couch. “I dunno, El, don’t be creepy about it and it won’t be creepy. Go up and knock on the front door and say you were worried, don’t sulk around in a bush.”
“I’m worried because I haven’t heard from him in two days. Two days. Objectively not a long period of time!” God, he sounds vaguely hysterical.
“Two days is the amount of time you need to wait before reporting someone being missing to the police,” Margo points out, studying her nails like she’s bored. “Worse thing that happens, you get dinner and come home? It’s literally just a train ride, El.”
Just a train ride.
Nothing weird about that. Just a portal through to New York, and then a text message, maybe, in case Quentin’s phone has turned back on the last hour:
(To Cutie Q) 3:54pm Hey, I’m in NYC. Think I might grab the train out your way, you free for dinner? Lmk.
No reply.
No reply in the time it takes for Eliot to buy the ticket, no reply while he’s waiting on the now-familiar Penn Station platform, watching pigeons peck at the sad remains of a donut. No reply still as the train pulls into the station, or while Eliot’s boarding, or waiting for the conductor to come through and collect his ticket. No reply at all during the train ride, the slow fade of the cityscape giving way to suburbs, more trees and less concrete as New Jersey takes shape around the tracks. No reply before the train pulls into the station in Montclair, and no reply while Eliot waits for his Uber. No reply at all, even as the familiar street comes into view.
What’s wrong with you? he thinks, desperate, as the car pulls to a stop. What the hell are you doing? Well, standing at the end of the driveway probably counts as 'being creepy about it' so Eliot squares up, deep breath, and walks up the path to the front door. The bell doesn't work, he knows, a long dead battery that no one's bothered to replace, so he knocks instead, a heavy thunk against the wood. The car’s in the driveway, so Ted should be home at the very least. He only has to wait a moment, before the door swings open.
“Oh, hi, Eliot. Were we expecting you?” Ted asks, polite and welcoming but clearly a little confused. He’s pale and leaning heavily on the door frame, but not– imminently dying in an ER somewhere. A little pulse of relief shoots through Eliot’s chest, immediately followed by guilt. “Quentin’s been a little... absentminded. He might have forgotten to tell me.”
“I–” Eliot starts, then swallows, feeling the impulse to lie and then burying it, because if Quentin doesn’t want to see him then that’s something they’re going to have to deal with and lying about it isn’t going to make the situation less awkward. “No, he didn’t, but I haven’t heard from him in a couple of days and– I was worried and it’s just like– a train ride, right? Is he okay?”
Ted sighs, moving back from the doorway, so Eliot can step into the house. “He’s– I mean, he’s not the worst I’ve ever seen him. I’m not– locking pills up, yet, or anything."
Eliot must blanch, or something, some kind of visible reaction to the swooping drop of – oh fuck – as his stomach making friends with his knees, because it’s not like– It’s not like he doesn’t know alright? It’s– He’d sat through that whole lecture from Julia about anti-depressants, and a more stumbling ‘sometimes my brain breaks’ conversation with Quentin, when he’d been re-adjusting to the meds, getting– nauseous, at 3am, curled up on the top of Eliot’s blankets, while Eliot– kicked boys who would suck his dick out of his room to just– be calm and present and there for Quentin, who at the time he’d thought never would and he didn’t care. It’s not like he hasn’t seen the thin silver scars on the inside of Quentins arms, not like he hasn’t been quietly generating fear about this–
But it’s a far cry from fear, from the casual mention of ‘at 16 I was one suicide attempt in’ and just– coming up face to face with the reality of it. Here. Now.
And some of that must show on his face, because Ted grimaces. There's a guilty twist to his mouth, a familiar expression that Eliot’s seen on his son, the resignation of not being able to carry something alone that he feels like he should be able to. So Eliot makes himself stop, reach out to grip Ted's elbow. Carefully, sincerely, he asks, "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"
"I'm fine, kid, just not sleeping well." And God, he wouldn't be, would he? 'I'm not locking pills up yet,' with that resignation, the guilt and frustration. "Also, you know, the nausea..."
"I did some research about that," Eliot says, distracted, because he's been meaning to talk to Q about it, except, well. He hadn't really talked to Q, has he? But it’s something useful he actually can do, something he can help fix. "According to the healer at Brakebills, you should be able to take a potion for that without it screwing up your treatment. I can make it for you. It’s not going to actually cure anything– it’s just symptom management. But."
"I'll take what I can get," Ted says with a weak smile. Then, pointedly, "Q's upstairs. I was going to try to get him to eat dinner, if..."
"Yeah, I'll. If he wants to see me, I'll work on that."
"He wants to see you," Ted promises, squeezing Eliot's shoulder briefly. "I'm glad you're here."
And well. One out of two ain’t bad...
The door to Quentin's room is ajar, showing a peek of the dim interior of the room. It's late enough in the day that the sun has moved mostly to the other side of the house, leaving Quentin's room in a kind of twilight, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp. Eliot knocks, softly, just to– just to avoid startling him, really, as he pushes the door open. The air conditioner in the room is running, but even that seems inadequate to the pile of blankets on Quentin's bed, a half-burrowed nest where Quentin’s curled up, nose buried in a book.
Quentin doesn't look up much at the knock, just mutters, "'m not hungry" into the spine of his book, dull green-grey of his first edition Fillory and Further. The first one, probably, if he’s looking for comfort, or The Girl Who Told Time if he’s looking to escape.
"That's fine, I'm not food," Eliot replies lightly, stepping into the room and closing the door most of the way behind him. The sound of his voice is enough to get Quentin to look up, finally, startled, propped up as he is in the little nest he's built for himself, hair a mess.
"El?"
"Hey," Eliot says gently, frozen as he is on the other side of the room, across a sea of detritus on the floor, scatterings of t-shirts and shoes and pants, the occasional book in the mix. Still fucking unsure of his welcome, if he’s inserting himself somewhere he doesn’t belong again, if Quentin’s going to want him to go. Well, if– he will go, if that’s what Quentin wants, but might as well explain himself first. "It's been a couple days since I've heard from you, and I was– worried, I guess. I tried to call ahead but I think your phone's dead."
"Oh," Quentin says, startled, glancing over to the bedside table where his phone's sitting face down. "Yeah, probably– I didn't mean to– Jesus, I'm. I don't even know.” He breathes out, hard, scrubbing his hands over his face before pushing to sit up more from his half-reclined slouch, blinking. It’s not unlike watching someone come up from being underwater. “Shit, I wasn’t– I wasn’t trying to ignore you, El. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Eliot says, heart in his throat– then– “Can I come in?”
“Yeah– yeah, of course. Jesus, sorry about the mess.” Quentin’s looking around his room like he’s only now becoming aware of his surroundings, seeing them through Eliot’s eyes. It’s not, really, that bad– just clothes which haven’t quite managed to make it to the hamper, as Eliot steps into the room. It’s a small room, smaller than the guest room downstairs, and with the dim light of the lamp it has the distinct feeling of a hermit’s cave– sheltered, isolated, in need of airing out. Eliot almost wants to open a window, but then Quentin’s little nest of blankets probably would become unbearably warm, with the AC flying out into the sky.
Q scoots over towards the wall as Eliot approaches, a clear invitation, but Eliot stops by the bed to take his shoes off because– he’s not an animal, okay? Quentin’s smiling, a little, when Eliot looks back up, like he finds it endearing that Eliot won’t wear his shoes in bed. It is, predictably, very hot in the little nest, Quentin’s warm little body tucked up against him. Fuck, he has no choice but to be, really, as they try valiantly to squish all 8 miles of Eliot’s legs into the little twin bed.
“Hey, you,” Eliot says once he’s settled, feeling awkward and gangly and uncomfortably gigantic in a way he hasn’t since– fucking puberty, really, when his limbs hurt literally all the time and his mother couldn’t keep up with how quickly he was growing through his brothers’ hand-me-downs.
“Hey,” Quentin sighs out, from inches way, now, and Eliot’s heart is still– fucking stuck in his throat, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Quentin seems to have no such problems, reaching out to curl his hand into the front of Eliot’s shirt and lean in for– a soft kiss hello. “I really am sorry, I didn’t– notice, really. That it’d been a couple days. I– I opened your email and then I couldn’t think of what to say so I thought I’d get back to it later and–”
“It’s okay,” Eliot tells him, even though maybe it’s not, not because he’s letting Eliot down in some way, but because he’s very clearly not okay. But very clearly still Eliot’s, as he snuggles down, half buried under a pile of blankets, nose against Eliot’s throat. Eliot makes himself relax, and trust, and wrap his arms around Quentin’s shoulders. “I was just worried, but– I might have overreacted. I can go if you want–”
Quentin shakes his head, nose brushing against Eliot’s throat with the movement. “I want to talk to you always,” he mutters, soft, a familiar turn of phrase that crawls into Eliot’s chest and takes up roots in his heart. “I just don’t know what to say.”
“Easier when we’re in the same place, huh?” Eliot says, feeling like he’s– stumbling around in the dark. But Quentin’s solid against him, under his hands, and Eliot can rest his head on Quentin’s hair, tangle their knees together, rub his back. He has to get half-under the pile of blankets to do it, but– he can deal with being a little over-hot, to get to be close as well.
“Yeah,” Quentin says, a weird tone to his voice that Eliot doesn’t really know what to do with. Then he sighs, sliding his arms around Eliot’s ribs. “I missed you.”
Swallowing thickly, Eliot presses a kiss into Quentin’s hair, a little stiff with grease. “Me, too.” Because fuck, obviously, he showed up here uninvited didn’t he? At least he’s welcome. At least he seems to be wanted, even if– even if Quentin’s hiding from the world under 6 different blankets, at least he’ll let Eliot under them with him. Absently, stroking his hand up and down the length of Quentin’s spine over his damp t-shirt, Eliot muses: "We should get you a gravity blanket."
"Huh?" Quentin mumbles, as Eliot runs his hand up to the back of Quentin's neck, petting, soothing.
"Weight blanket. Gives you the compression of a pile of blankets without trapping all this heat," Eliot explains, kissing softly at the top of Quentin's temple, his hair, touching him. Just touching, because fuck if it doesn’t soothe them both.
"Sounds nice," Quentin admits, muffled, and he's relaxing in increments under the press of Eliot's hand, sighing a little when Eliot goes for broke and reaches for skin, sliding his palm up under Quentin's t-shirt to get at the tacky skin on his back. Quentin wriggles his way half on-top of Eliot, and he’s resting there, chin propped up on Eliot’s chest,eyes drifting shut longer with every blink, when there's a soft knock on the mostly-closed door.
"Yeah?" Q calls out, not– really making any move at all to get off of Eliot, and that's– still fucking shocking, somehow, the idea of this just being. Fine. Normal. Unremarkable.
Ted's head pops into the room, leaning against the door frame. "I was thinking about running into town for Chinese, if Eliot's gonna be here for dinner."
"Are you good to drive?" Quentin asks, head lifting halfway up, brows furrowing in concern in the way that makes Eliot want to pet his thumb over the crease between them, smooth out all his ruffled feathers.
"I'm fine, Curly Q," Ted sighs with exasperation. Eliot bites his lip, trying not to smile at the scowl on Quentin's face of the adorable childhood nickname. "You good with Chinese, Eliot?"
"I do love an eggroll," Eliot agrees, and Quentin– tucks his smile down, a little thing, against Eliot's chest. Then he sighs, and pushes himself to sit up, knees to his chest and feet tangled in Eliot's legs just to fit on the bed. Eliot just watches him, the swing of his hair, the way his t-shirts hangs off his shoulders, his sturdy hairy forearms– god, Eliot missed him, he can finally feel it for real with worry receding in his chest.
"Sure, I guess, just like– the usual, I guess?" Then turning to Eliot, "Any special requests?"
"Besides the eggroll?" Eliot asks, grinning, just to watch Quentin roll his eyes and make a bitchy little face. "I'm good with whatever." Which was true, honestly. When it came down to it, Eliot grew up with meat-and-potatoes, corn-feed, Midwestern sensibilities when it came to food. He'd like to think he's cultivated better taste, since then, but the reality is he can and will eat just about anything. Then, to Ted, he says, "Maybe I can get some of that anti-nausea potion brewed up while you're gone."
Which is how he ends up standing at the stove in the Coldwater's kitchen, mixing up ginger and peppermint and tumeric and some sniff-test-passing yogurt, magic flowing from the tips of his finger while he mutters in Hindi.
"It kind of just smells like you're making curry," Quentin mutters from where he's perched on the counter top, holding Eliot's rings while his feet swinging against the cabinets, watching Eliot work. "Are you sure this is a real thing? It seems a little light on the whole– eye of newt, tongue of frog– thing."
"Because that seems like something that will make you less likely to throw up?" Eliot asks, amused, shooting Quentin a little smile. "It's just like– normal stuff that makes your stomach settle, but amped up by the magic. That's why it's safe to take with the medication. The stuff that goes into my hangover cures is a lot weirder, don't you worry."
"Glad to hear it," Quentin says dryly. When Eliot looks over at him, he's looking down at Eliot's opal ring, sliding his thumb over the stone. His hair partially obscures his face, and for the first time in a long, long time, Eliot has no idea what's going on in his brain. Quentin, who wears his emotions on his face, is hardly the enigmatic type, nor is "quiet" a descriptor that would often be applied to him. And yet–
And yet it persists, while Eliot finishes the position and bottles them in the little vials he conjures, seals them with a spell. "He'll need to take one every couple of days," Eliot muses, lining up the little row of ten bottles on the counter. "Basically when the symptoms come back, according to Lipson. But this should last him a couple weeks, anyway."
"Thanks," Q says quietly, as Eliot moves to stand between his legs, hook his hair back behind his ear.
"'Course," Eliot murmurs, as Quentin nuzzles in close, asking for a kiss, quietly wordlessly, which Eliot gives. "Anything I can do for you, baby?"
Q just sighs. "No." Then, after a moment's pause– "Like– hug me? Maybe? Is that dumb?"
"Definitely not," Eliot promises, folding him in close. Warm little thing that he is, Quentin's nice to hold, comfortable in the span of Eliot's arms. He and Margo, they're both– the fucking best size for hugging, tiny dense little packages, with varying degrees of sharp edges, but– once you got past that– just perfect.
They've migrated to the couch by the time Ted gets back with Chinese, under a blanket despite the fact that it's fucking 90 degrees outside. Thank god for air conditioning. Eating in the living room is a well practiced routine in this house, and Eliot's pretty familiar with it at this point in the summer, but the rhythm of passing around take-out is new. Like so many other things, he slots into it easily, taking cartons of beef and veggies from Q, rice from Ted. Quentin passes him an eggroll with a weak eyebrow raise, and he smiles, heart in his chest. God, this man, honestly. What did Eliot ever do to deserve him?
"So, are you staying for a couple of days, Eliot?" Ted asks, breaking through the starry-eyed disaster that is Eliot's brain.
"I don't know," Eliot admits, glancing at Quentin, then over at his own satchel, dropped by the inside of the front door. "I brought some clothes and books for my dissertation, in case I am, but– I did just turn up out of the blue, I don't know if you guys have stuff going on."
"Not much going on for me," Ted says genially, gesturing at the empty vial of anti-nausea potion. "If this works, then my week just got a whole lot better."
"You have an appointment with your oncologist on Friday," Quentin says quietly, a frown on his face, and Ted blinks at him.
"Oh. Well– Well, I guess, maybe– That, if. If you say so."
Eliot's heart sinks, watching as Quentin puts down his plate, pushing it away with a frown. "I was thinking," he starts, and something in his tone of voice raises warning prickles across the back of Eliot's neck. "Maybe I should like– reach out to Brakebills and see if they can like– defer my enrollment for a semester, or if like– I don't know, if I can take a sabbatical, or. Something?"
The word sabbatical rings in the air, as the pit of Eliot's stomach falls out from underneath him. "What?" He breathes, which is honestly the softer, lighter version of the 'what did I do, what did I do wrong, why are you leaving me' trying to crawl it's way up out of the suddenly reopened endless pit of need in his chest.
But chances are no one even heard him, over Ted's much louder, much more annoyed, "The hell you are, Quentin."
"Dad, if you can't even get to your doctor's appointments–"
"I haven't missed an appointment yet, and that's not just because you're here. We set up notifications in my phone to remind me a bunch of times that stuff's coming up. Buddy, you can't stay here like this." Ted's frown is so like Quentin's and they're both so stubborn, Eliot can already see them backing up against opposite walls, practically hissing.
"He's right," Eliot says softly, burying his own screaming, whining, terrible monster deep in his chest to look at Q full in the face. "Q, baby, you can't shut yourself away here. It's only going to get harder, and you can't be alone–"
"So Dad has to be alone instead?" Quentin asks, voice high, and fuck– his eyes are welling up, Eliot's entire chest hurts. "How can I– how am I supposed to go to school and focus and learn when I know this is happening–"
"The distraction will help," Ted says, sincerely, and they both look over at him instinctively. "I know that it feels like– life can't just keep going the way it's supposed to, Q, I remember how it was when my dad died–"
"You're not dead yet!" Quentin shouts, tears spilling over, and Eliot can't help but reach out for him, relieved when Quentin lets Eliot take his hand.
"You're right, buddy, I'm not. But I'm going to be, and I need you to have something else keeping you here after I'm gone." Eliot swallows, a hot tightness behind his eyes, because god, fuck, there's so many things I still need him for. "I don’t want you to put your life on hold forever. I didn’t even want you to put your life on hold for the summer.”
“I need to be able to be here–”
“Q,” Eliot says, gently, squeezing his hand until Quentin looks at him. Swallowing, Eliot tries to remember: be the person you want to be for him. Be someone he can rely on. “You can still be here for the important things. Sure magic can’t cure cancer but it can fix a lot of problems, darling. You’re worried about not being able to get here for appointments? I can set up a portal in your closet at school, like we have in Margo’s? Open the door right into your bedroom, you can be here right away.”
“I thought that was illegal?” Quentin asks, frowning, and Eliot shakes his head.
“Opening portals randomly is dangerous, because you can’t really be sure what’s happening on the other side. But with like, a controlled set of circumstances, it’s fine. With Margo on one side and me on the other, we can set up a permanent connection, easy.” Quentin’s fingers are tense under his, and that itching, whining fear wins out, finally, spilling some of that neediness out into the room. “Brakebills... isn’t exactly like other schools, Q. They might give you a semester, maybe, but if it looks like you’re not coming back– They’ll take your memories. They’ll take everything, not just magic, but– Margo and everyone and me. And– I think you’re better off with us to help you deal with things.”
“I didn’t think about that,” Quentin admits, which, why, why not, dumbass, you’ve gone through being nearly kicked out before. Eliot takes a deep breath, and makes himself relax, makes himself rub his hand soothingly against Quentin’s rather than clutching at him, desperate. “But that’ll happen if I fail out, too.”
“You won’t fail out,” Eliot says, fervently. “Me, Margo, Alice– fuck, even Julia, she can’t be a complete lost cause– we’re not going to let you. I will personally steal your exam answers–”
“Well,” Ted cuts in, parental voice of reason, and Quentin laughs, blinking out another wave of tears.
“You’re not alone,” Eliot repeats, emphatically, meaning– you don’t have to do it alone, but also– you’re better when you’re with us. Meaning, don't you know I need you? I need you just– next to me, in my life. His own eyes are well up, refracting the light in the room. Don’t go where I can’t help you, fuck, Jesus Christ.
“Okay,” Quentin agrees, breathing out, and Eliot’s almost surprised, that he gave ground that easily. He'd half expected to fight the stubbornness out of him over the course of fucking– days. But Q’s collapsing like the wind’s gone out of his sales, and maybe he just– Maybe he just needed to be talked out of it. To Eliot he says: “I’m sorry you have to deal with this–”
“Don’t be,” Eliot says, sincerely, wet eyes spilling over. “Q– all of this... predates everything with us. Except maybe being your friend, and honestly that’s the best thing I’ve done since the day I met Margo. I knew what I was getting into. I’m here on purpose, Q. I’m– this is my choice.”
“Okay,” Quentin agrees again, giving his dad a sheepish look.
“Oh, kiss your boyfriend, I swear I won’t pass out,” Ted sighs, and Quentin snorts. But does, in fact, lean in for a kiss, which Eliot gives, short and sweet.
“God,” he breathes out, blinking up at the ceiling once Q backs away. “Is my eyeliner smudged?”
“Yes,” Quentin confirms, and when Eliot looks down at him, he gives a sad little smile.
“Fix it for me?” Eliot asks, heart finally settling back into his chest as Quentin skims his sleeve of his hoodie down over his hand, reaching up to wipe gently at Eliot’s face. Eliot just looks at him, drinking in his face, so dear and so unknowingly almost lost. Soft, under his breath, he says, “Thanks, baby.” Quentin doesn't quite smile in response, but it's a near thing
Sleep eludes Eliot, that night.
Quentin passes out, hard, and fairly early, tucked into the curve of Eliot’s body in the guest room, deep sleep that settles his features and evens his breathing, makes him warm and clingy. Eliot lays in bed, willing sleep to come, and unable to stop the rising tide of messy, panicky emotion jangling around in his chest. It’s supposed to be– sleeping next to Quentin is supposed to be easier, except now all he can think of is losing it. How fucking miserably he’d be, without Quentin, truly without him. Even in all his self destructive fear spirals, when he’d imagined– fucking this up so badly that Quentin would eventually break up with him, they were always– they were always going to be friends, right? Sure, it'd be weird and awkward for a little while, but they'd still be– in each other's lives. That was the forgone conclusion. If Quentin can want to be friends with Alice, then of course Eliot wouldn’t–
Of course the most important bit, the Q next to me in my life bit, that was never in jeopardy.
Except, suddenly, maybe it was.
When he’d– god, months ago, almost a year, when he’d promised to find Quentin if the school took his memories, it’d been half a joke but now. Fuck, now– Now he can’t–
When did he get to the point where he couldn’t imagine life without Q? I did this on purpose, he reminds himself and he meant it, he means it, but– suddenly he’s fucking terrified of the reality of it. Eliot never meant to need anyone. Fuck, he'd decided after fucking Alexi, five fucking years ago, he wasn't– wasn't going give away pieces of himself ever again. But he was lying to himself, wasn't he, if he pretended Margo didn't have some of his pieces, that Quentin hadn't already had some of them long before Eliot kissed him, sloppy drunk and miserable.
Restless, he shifts a little, and Quentin makes an unhappy sound in his sleep. After shushing him on instinct, Eliot admits defeat and works his way out from underneath Quentin, petting him until he settles and then slipping out of the bed.
He’s sitting on the porch swing out back of the house, however much later, when the door to the kitchen opens. He looks up, expecting Quentin, and is surprised to find himself looking up at Ted, holding two cups of tea. He offers one, wordlessly, and Eliot takes it, of course he does, watching as Ted settles to sit out with him, not saying anything.
So Eliot doesn’t either, just looks back out over the yard where he’d cooked burgers and met Ted’s friends, been more thoroughly welcomed into suburban life than he’d ever thought possible. More than he’d ever thought he’d want.
“You know,” Ted says eventually into the stillness of the night, “I used to sit out here with Q like this, when he was in high school. I swear he spent two years not being able to sleep at night, no wonder he was so tired all the time.”
“Yeah, I–” Eliot swallows, looking down into the mug of tea. Probably Lipton, and made too weak. He sips it anyway. “I’ve done that, too. There’s this little reading nook, in the Cottage on our campus. He used to hide in there, first semester when he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes I’d keep him company.” Usually a couple drinks in, but who’s counting, really, if he could curl up in the comfortable little space and listen to Quentin read aloud. “Most of the second semester he had a girlfriend, though, so– fewer late night wanderings then.”
“Never heard about the girlfriend,” Ted muses, rocking the porch swing with his heels. “Heard about you, though. When he told me about your school, about magic, about all of it. Like somehow you were part of the magic to begin with.”
Eliot feels– tight, constricted, hot behind the eyes. “I was the first person he met there, that’s all.”
“I really don’t think that’s it, kid,” Ted says, kindly. God, no wonder Quentin is– the way he is, all open beating heart, when this was how he grew up. "So, are you awake for the same reason I am?"
How do you– how the fuck do you break down an entire lifetime of messy, fucked up emotions and the way they chew you up inside? Even to someone who would probably care enough to try and understand, who’s partially responsible for the existence of your favorite human? He could blow it off, say any number of half-assed excuses, but– who the fuck else is he gonna talk about this with? Margo? She wouldn't get it. Quentin? Well, yes, he probably should, but that's harder to face.
"This summer," he starts, carefully, thinking through the words as he says them, "has been unlike any summer of my life. It's been– hard, and good, and a whirlwind, and lasted forever. And I've been trying to figure out how to... be, for Quentin, what I want to be for him. But I'm not sure what that means, or how to do it, because what I want for him is– for him not to feel alone. And I think maybe for the first time in my life, I don't want to feel alone, either. Being alone feels less like being safe than it used to. And that's been. Hard to wrap my brain around."
Ted hums a little, looking out over the backyard, and he’s got that no-eye-contact thing down, doesn’t he? Echoes of Q, everywhere, even in this conversation. “I don’t think human beings are really meant to be alone. Not really.”
Which, god, Eliot can’t help but think about Ted knocking around this house by himself for the last 4 years and change. Thinking he’d have time to find someone to share it with, maybe, and then realizing, abruptly, that he didn’t. It makes Eliot’s eyes feel– hot and sore and– he blinks, and blinks, and blinks until the wetness is gone. “I used to think I didn’t need anyone to become who I was supposed to be,” he tells his tea cup. And you know, if Ted just happens to hear it, well– “Turns out I was wrong.”
“Hmm. I think figuring that out is a good use of a summer,” Ted says mildly, rocking, rocking, rocking the bench, just a little.
With a guilty twist, Eliot gives voice to the real thought that's been keeping him up all night. "Am I being selfish telling him not to stay?" he asks, and he can't look at Ted when he asks it, just stares down into his tea. "Am I just telling him to come back because it’s the right thing for him or because I feel like I need him?"
"It can be both things," Ted says, and when Eliot looks over at him, startled, he shrugs. "Being a little selfish isn't bad, kid. There's nothing wrong with wanting to have your boyfriend around. But no– I know that we both know how bad it would be for him to just hang around here watching me get worse. At least at school he's got things to take his mind off it, stuff to learn, magic, and things to get out of bed for. You're smart enough to see how things are getting bad for him, this summer."
Eliot nods, sipping his tea. It could benefit from a little whiskey, honestly, but he left his flask inside, in the satchel next to the bed. He makes himself say, "It's going to be bad for him either way," honest, aching, "but at least at Brakebills, I can– I can help. And I meant it, about coming out for like, doctor's appointments and stuff, I'll set up the portal, I'll help him get here and get home, I’ll drive places– I just can't help him if he's on the other side of the state."
"You’re good at that,” Ted says shrewdly, with that specific frankness Eliot's coming to expect from him. “Helping him cope. I’ve noticed before, you’re good at it.”
“It’s not that hard,” Eliot starts awkwardly, but Ted shakes his head.
“It is. I spent 15 years trying to learn how to do it, and mostly failing.”
“I–” I’m scared all the time of doing it wrong, of fucking it up, no, get it together, Waugh,“– don’t mind the effort, I guess. Even when he’s kind of... prickly.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Ted says lightly, looking back out at the yard, wry. “That was the thing I worried about first, you know, when they told me I had this.” He gestures to his head, an all encompassing move signifying the tumor that was starting to steal his memory.
“Q being a bitch?” Eliot quips, lightly, a risk. One he wouldn’t take if he didn’t feel like he was starting to know Ted, know how he’d react to things.
It makes the other man laugh, which had been Eliot’s aim, and he unwinds a little, leaning back into the porch swing. “No, him being able to handle himself without support. Besides Julia, he’s never been very good at making friends.”
“He’s got friends, in his cohort,” He promises, because, well. Kady and Penny and even Alice would help Quentin out of a tight spot with only mild complaining. “He’s got my best friend, too. And once she gets her claws in, she never lets go.”
“Good, that’s good. I’m glad to hear that. I’m not trying to put any pressure on you, Eliot,” he says, like an afterthought. “I’m not going to be that parent who makes you promise to look after my kid when you’ve been together less time than I’ve been sick. It’s just– good to see that he can have that, you know?”
Eliot swallows, looking back up out at the yard so he can– maybe figure out how the fuck to say this. “He’s my best friend,” Eliot says carefully, skating around the thoughts he’d been racing through earlier. “And don’t tell Margo this, or she’ll hex my razors, but– he is. I don’t see that changing, really, even if–” even if I really fuck this up. He shrugs a little when Ted looks back at him. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I know that I care about him.”
“That’s not nothing, Eliot,” Ted says seriously. Then he sighs dramatically, reaching out to clap a very dad-like hand on Eliot’s shoulders. “We should both try to get some sleep, kid. Even if it feels kinda pointless.”
Eliot lets out a breathless laugh, looking up at the sky. Well, he could probably get a couple hours, if he somehow managed to actually fall asleep. “I’ll be right in,” he promises, watching Ted make his way back into the house.
He does mean to go right to sleep, except– except he finds himself standing in the doorway to the guest room, watching Quentin. His breathe is slow and deep with sleep, his face peaceful and young-looking, hand thrown out into the empty space left by Eliot’s body, and– Eliot’s heart hurts, watching him. Please don’t leave me, not for real, he thinks, watching the rise and fall of Quentin’s chest, and then– shakes his head. Gets back into bed, to snuggle in close in the dark.
He’s still groggy, the next day, and it makes him grouchy.
“I hate telekinesis,” Eliot says, grumpy, sitting with Quentin on the floor of the living room. In some kind of desperate bid to remind Q how cool magic was and how much he wants to study it, Eliot had pulled him to look through the books he’d taken out of the library, acutely aware that he suddenly had about a week and a half before he had to present a dissertation topic. This, of course, was backfiring spectacularly, because he still had no fucking ideas. “I hate that I'm supposed to write a 20 page paper on this. Magic-grabby-pushy-go. Not paper worthy.”
“I have an idea. Come here,” Quentin says, scootching forward until he’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, like he’s gonna fucking– start meditating in the middle of his dad’s living room in New Jersey. Given that Quentin and sitting aren’t usually concepts that apply to each other, Eliot’s intrigued despite himself.
“Is this some kind of tantric sex thing?” Eliot asks, folding down in front of him so they’re knee to knee. Quentin’s knee caps are warm and solid, and not a part of the body Eliot ever thought he’d feel any particular affection for. And yet.
“No, I need to be significantly more drunk before I have sex in the living room,” Quentin says matter-of-factly, fishing around in Eliot’s bag to pull out– a pen?
“So you’re saying it’s a possibility,” Eliot returns, because it’s what they’re both expecting him to do.
Quentin doesn’t bother to spike back, just holds up the pen instead. “Can you make this float?”
“Of course I can.”
“So. Make it float.”
Reaching for telekinesis is easy. Too easy, almost, like– an exhale. Like he was expending more energy not to let magic flow out of him and grasp the shiny metal casing of Eliot’s very best pen than he’s using to cast. Q’s hand falls away, and the pen is left hovering in the air between them. Eliot sends it revolving slowly, just for some visual interest, a little dramatic flare, and focuses on Q behind it. “It’s floating.”
“Yeah, so, what does it feel like?” Quentin asks, all earnest, pretty brown eyes wide and excited, like he always gets with magic.
“It feels like a pen,” Eliot returns, because, well. It does.
“Not the object, dickhead, the spell,” Quentin sighs, and Eliot rolls his eyes.
But he closes them, to focus on what Q’s asking. Reaching out with whatever sense connects magic to magician, he lets his awareness expand outwards. He can feel the texture of the metal, different than he would feel it with his fingertips. The smoothness registers in a different way, not so much a lack of friction or texture to grip on to, but more like– the smoothness of water passing over a stone. Magic wraps easily around the barrel of the pen, without much resistance– but there is texture. Faint rings, circles in the metal. If he tries, he can feel them, pull down into the microscopic markings left behind by the smoothing and polishing of the casing.
“I can feel textures too small to see,” he says absently, which is– interesting. He’s never really noticed that before. He’s never really tried to focus telekinesis on this level before. “There’s grooves in the metal. I can feel the pattern of them.”
“How much further down can you push?” Quentin’s voice asks, from far away, and Eliot furrows his brow, concentrating. If he tries, really tries, he can feel– the tension that makes metal metal. The binding of the molecules. If he pushed– further–
Opening his eyes, he lets the pen fall to the ground between their bodies.
“What happened?” Quentin asks, confusion writing across his face.
Eliot looks away. “I don’t think I should push further right now.”
“What? Why? Come on, it looked like you were getting somewhere–”
“I don’t want to mess around the molecular matter and accidentally set off a nuclear bomb in your dad’s house, Q!” Eliot snaps, flexing his hands, on reflex, seeing– the spray of red blood on a yellow school bus, gouges of physical force ripping through dirt, the shudder of glass ready to break under his hands. “Do you know what Mayakovsky said about me, at Brakebills South?”
“That he hates you and probably something else vaguely homophobic?” Quentin guess, voice so dry it’s nearing monotone.
“He said I was a ‘gifted telekinetic’ but that I lacked the will power to control it,” Eliot recites, balling his hands into fists before they can start shaking. “‘Gifted.’ Telekinesis isn’t a gift. It’s this– raw, unfettered thing inside of me, that hurts people. It’s constantly trying to break out and rip everything apart. I can’t– trust myself to control it. I barely got out of Mike’s apartment this spring before it burst out of me, and I could have killed him with it.”
“You didn’t,” Quentin points out, quiet. When Eliot looks back at him, there’s a furrow in his brow, but he’s not looking at Eliot like he’s afraid. Instead, he reaches out, hand falling on top of Eliot’s. Eliot’s knuckles ache from how tightly his fist is squeezed, but he’s not even aware of it until Q’s touching him. “It’s not inherently violent, Eliot. You just keep being– hurt by people. It’s not really surprising that you developed a kind of magic that can help you defend yourself. But its not only that. I mean– you’re not a battle mage.”
Eliot sighs, forcing his hands to relax. “No– I’m a party trick until I’m ripping you limb from limb. How do I write a thesis about that?”
“Just because you don’t want to get into molecular magic here doesn’t make it a dead end,” Quentin points out, thumb brushing softly against the back of Eliot’s hand. “Sunderland can help you do it safely, probably, once we’re back in class. You could do some research, in the meantime, see what kind of study exists in that area?”
“Oh, boy,” Eliot sighs, feeling a headache threatening already. “Reading.”
Quentin snorts, shaking Eliot’s hand in his. “Hey, at least you’ve got a discipline, you’re not just a ‘nothing-mancer.’ We don’t even know for sure I’m a physical kid.”
Eliot frowns, looking at him. Quentin’s looking down at the fabric of his jeans, picking at them a little. He somehow missed that this was even a thing that bothered Quentin, when for Eliot it was so clear. “You’re a physical kid, Q.”
“You can’t just will that into being because you want to have easy access to my bedroom,” Quentin points out, eye rolling little brat that he is.
“Well, you’re not a psychic,” Eliot says, reasonably, which they both seem to be able to agree upon. “You’re not a naturalist, because no offense Q but you literally can’t tell witch hazel from poison ivy. I don’t think you’re an illusionist, either, seeing how much trouble you have with wards. And you’re smart, but you’re not–”
“Julia?” Q offers, dully.
“I was going to say incomprehensibly fixated on the minutiae of spell work, but what have you. So I don’t think you’re Knowledge either.”
“Maybe I am just– so mediocre it doesn’t matter,” Quentin sighs, dropping Eliot’s hands to draw his knees up to his chest, hug his arms around them in classic Quentin defensive posture. Eliot can’t help but wonder if this, this anxiety, was a contributing factor to his whole– sabbatical plan.
“I don’t buy that,” Eliot says softly, because he’s seen Quentin wipe out a Welters stadium all on his own, when he wasn’t so lost in the fear that he wouldn’t be able to do it. “Something’s gotta feel easier for you than other things.”
“I dunno,” Q half shrugs, chin resting on his knees. “I think– sometimes, I can– translocate objects without meaning to?”
“Like with your muggle magic tricks?” Quentin nods mutely, hair falling into his face. Eliot smiles a little to himself, reaching out to hook it back behind his ear without thinking. “Well, that’s physical magic, for sure.”
“Also the– mendings and stuff, those repair spells? Or the um– binding and fusion spells? Those felt easier. Mending felt– easy.”
“All physical magic,” Eliot points out leaning in close, watching Quentin watch him as a little smile grows in the corner of Quentin’s mouth. “Physical kid.”
“I guess,” Quentin agrees, fingers reaching forward to hook in the front of Eliot’s tie, pull him forward until he’s balancing on his knees, against Q’s shins. His face tips up, eyes sparkling, tilting towards Eliot like an ask, like a dare or a promise.
Quentin’s mouth is soft, when Eliot kisses him. Warm, and a little wet with breath and speech, and when Eliot breaks the kiss, their lips stick just a little, lingering. Quentin hums, and tilts up again, and that fervent hungry affection that’s so terrifying claws at Eliot’s stomach because this man, honestly. This sweet boy, this kind wonderful man–
Curling a hand around the back of Q’s neck, Eliot sinks into the kiss, the feeling of it, Quentin’s breath against his cheek as he exhales through his nose, the scratch of his stubble. Q opens his mouth to breathe in, and Eliot lets him then chases the air, wonderful, as he catches Quentin’s top lip between his own and–
The door opens with a rattle, and Eliot springs back automatically, but he can’t get far. Quentin’s still holding his tie, fingers curled around the material. He’s still half-curled over Q, their faces inches apart as Ted walks into the house, keys in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. “Heya, kids,” Ted says breezily, hanging his keys up on the hook by the door. Quentin finally lets go of Eliot’s tie, lets him sink back until they’re sitting side by side instead of– fucking half-straddling him.
“Hey, Dad,” Quentin says easily, no hint of embarrassment in him, while Eliot feels like his heart is about to explode. “How’s Sidney?”
“Still convinced he’s going to be able to sell that giant lawn gnome, but you know. 25 years isn’t enough proof or anything,” Ted says, like– that’s a totally reasonable conversation topic, when you walk in on your grown-up son and his boyfriend kissing on your living room floor. “I got sandwiches from the deli on Bloomfield Ave on the way home, so don’t worry about lunch. Got you that one with Prosciutto, Eliot.”
“Sounds good,” Eliot squeaks out, several octaves higher than his normal speaking voice, which of course makes Quentin laugh at him.
“We’re just gonna finish up here,” Quentin says, leaning into Eliot’s side, a warm heavy weight. “Eliot’s finally working on his thesis.”
“That’s what you kids call it these days?” Ted calls back from the kitchen, and that’s enough at least to make Quentin splutter and blush.
“Your fault,” Eliot hisses, but presses a quick, sucking kiss to Quentin’s mouth away.
“Yeah, I’m a dick,” Quentin agrees, lightly sarcastic, as he reaches for Eliot’s notebook, flinging it at him. “I’m serious about the molecular magic thing, write that down and talk to Sunderland about it.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay, fine,” Eliot agrees, reluctantly.
Picking up the discarded pen, Eliot notes out the feelings and possibilities he’d felt in the magic as Quentin stands, stretching and padding off towards the kitchen. Eliot can just hear him talking to his father, the low rumble of their voices in the background, the clunk of plates and glasses being set down on the wooden table. There’s a rhythm to them, to Ted and Q, moving around this house together like they have for the past 17 years.
Ignoring the weird ache in his chest, Eliot finishes his notes quickly so he can go join them.
____
"Why didn't we do this at the beginning of the summer?" Quentin asks from his perch on the bed, watching Eliot scatter spell components in a semi-circle around his closet door.
The morning had been spent in a kind of chaotic scramble, searching all over Montclair for the right kind of unscented Epsom Salts, and 6oz of red clay, and the maple leaves, and live bamboo. It had been– kind of weirdly fun, all told, the three of them going on a very mundane quest, all of them– giggling about it, strategizing, guessing. Watching Eliot stroll into a local pottery shop and smile his way into some red clay purely by the force of his charisma alone was objectively hilarious, and answered a lot of questions about how he and Margo got away with half the shit they did.
It’s late afternoon now, and Ted's taking a nap, sleeping off the excitement of the morning, while Eliot prepares the spell for the portal and Quentin watches, with a kind of prickling excitement that always comes with magic. "Somehow a booty-call portal seems more invasive than a medically necessitated access portal," Eliot points out, eyes twinkling. "This isn't going to be like the Brakebills portal, anyway, always open. That would take a massive amount of energy, and probably a bunch of rare components that we can't get easily or without people asking a lot of questions. Plus, then you wouldn't actually have a closet anymore. We're more like... casting an anchor? So when you want to use it, you can cast an abbreviated version of the portal spell with verbal and somatic components only."
"Mmm, yeah, baby, talk dirty to me," Quentin teases, carefully protecting the little bubble of delight in his chest, a little circle of technicolor amongst the gray, be it magic, or Eliot, he doesn’t know. Sometimes they kind of feel like the same thing, intrinsically tied together.
Eliot's smile is delighted and surprised, and he winks, which shouldn't– Quentin hides his smile in his knees, feeling– the soap bubble shell around that delight grow a little thicker. "I'll talk about circumstantial translocation to you anytime, Cutie Q," Eliot drawls back, as he dips his fingers into the slurry of clay, tracing sigils on the door.
"Is that why you need the clay? For like– permanence?" Quentin wonders allowed, and Eliot hums in agreement.
"Yeah, it's the foundation of the spell. If we were making a portal that's intended to stay open all the time, I'm pretty sure we'd have to carve into the wood and fill it with porcelain or inlay stone?" Eliot shrugs a little. "I don't really remember, I looked into it two years ago, basically only long enough to find this version of the spell, and realize the more complex one would probably make me niffin out."
"Maybe two years ago," Quentin says, half an agreement, because– he can feel it, swelling around them, the slow build of Eliot's power as he moves through the ritual of the spell. He's not even casting yet, but the ambient magic in the air is already drawing towards him like iron filings to a magnet. Eliot, who inhabits magic, breathes it, exudes it, who might struggle to push through a reading assignment but has never, ever struggled to access the magic, to bend it to his will. Magic flowing through Eliot looks like dancing, it looks like sex, like anything Eliot's ever asked his body to do is undeniably easy and unquestionably skilled.
The components of the spell are all laid by the time the clock counts down to 3 o'clock. As soon as the hour strikes, Eliot starts casting, the swell of magic in the room responding to his movements. Quentin can feel it, the hook of his magic and the anchor of Margo's on the other side, building a bridge across space as they reach for each other. It sparks up Quentin's back like electricity, makes the air taste sharp like– ceder and burned cloves. It sends his heart racing in his chest, and he sits forward, intrigued and– excited, watching as the spell burns through Eliot's fingertips, lighting up the sigils on the door as the clay glows bright and hardens, then begins to flake away. The salts kick up into a whirlwind, contained chaos in the semi-circle around the door, as the bamboo plant begins to whither and die.
For all the slow build of the spell, it ends abruptly, all the leaves and salts falling to the ground with a sudden release. "Did it work?" Quentin asks, frowning, and Eliot grins back at him.
"Let's find out." He holds out his hand, and Quentin climbs off the bed to take it, letting Eliot pull him forward until they're in each other's space. Then Eliot's moving to stand behind him, looping his arms around Quentin's and holding his hands up in a textbook perfect Popper 34. "C'mon, I'll show you the tuts to activate it."
"Hm, this is clearly the most practical way to do that," Quentin murmurs back, twisting his neck until he's looking at the edge of Eliot's smile over his shoulder. But he holds his hands up obediently, following Eliot's hands through Popper 34 to Livingston 24 to Popper 26 and then back to 34.
"Good," Eliot murmurs, breath hot and tickling at Quentin's ear. He shivers, a little, instinctive, the way he always fucking– remembers he has a body and that body wants things, whenever he gets close to Eliot. "Now repeat 'open' in Japanese and Greek."
Quentin does, and this time he can feel the hook of magic, catching somewhere in the door as it passes through him. Light sparks behind it, and Eliot hums, pressing a kiss to Quentin's temple before drawing away. "If you dump me in the middle of a volcano I'm going to haunt you," Quentin warns him, glaring a little.
Eliot snorts. "I'm going with you," he points out, tangling his fingers together. "We will die this fiery death together."
"Oh, good," Quentin shoots back, dryly, but he steps forward nevertheless, pulling the door open and stepping through into–
–his new room at Brakebills, full of boxes and a grinning Margo, sitting with the legs crossed on the edge of the bed. "Hello boys," she coos as Eliot steps around Quentin to go to her, dropping a brief kiss softly on her mouth.
"Always lovely to cast with you, Bambi," he murmurs, grinning down at her, before looking around the room. "What's with the boxes."
"I broke Q's stuff out of storage," she says with a shrug. "It was an interesting way to pass the morning. I figured we didn't want to run the risk of someone else claiming the room first and then awkwardly having to dispel the portal in their closet."
"Smart," Quentin agrees, stepping towards Margo as Eliot turns away from her, disappearing into the cottage to go collect a couple more changes of clothes and some other things. "Thanks for helping with this. I think– sorry, I think I might end up stealing him for a little while longer."
"Mhm, about that," Margo agrees briskly, pushing up off the bed and stepping towards Quentin. He watches her come, wary, but– nowhere near wary enough, apparently, as she reaches out and pinches his nipple, hard. "What did I tell you about not trying to do shit on your own?"
"I don't remember being threatened with a nipple piercing, Jesus!" he protests, backing away with his arms crossed over his chest. Mother bitch, that hurt.
"You're fine," Margo says, rolling her eyes, and then she– pushes in to hug him. Quentin freezes, for a minute, because he's not– entirely sure if he's ever been hugged by Margo before, or hugged like this, anyway, the way she hugs Eliot. Hesitantly, he wraps his arms around her shoulders, lets her squeeze him tight until she pulls back. "Now, I say again: what did I tell you about trying to disappear with your shit?"
"That I'm not allowed to." She hums, clearly waiting for more, he huffs out. "Jesus, okay Mom."
"Honey babycakes, me being your Mama is not something you're ready for," Margo coos, reaching up to pat his cheek, leaving him feeling like he missed a step going downstairs. "Of course Eliot's gonna stay with you for a while, I had him for the last two weeks. Plus, it’s not like we're splitting custody, Eliot is fully capable of deciding where he's needed more and being there. And, you know– now we have this hand dandy portal, I can have lunch with him whenever I want."
"Are you– do you want to come back with us?" Quentin offers, which is both– a weirdly terrifying and exciting thought. He literally cannot picture Margo and his dad existing in the same room. They feel like– characters from different books, like smashing them together would be– disconcerting, but also maybe a little intriguing.
"I'm not wearing the right shoes for New Jersey," Margo says, dismissive, which, okay, sure, message received. Gentler, she says, "I'll go back with you sometime, Q, when there's practical things I can help with. But like– feelings stuff, that's Eliot's bag, not mine. You need help with logistical stuff, I'm there right away. Okay?"
"Okay," he agrees, letting her loop her arm around his waist as they look around the room.
"You're gonna be a good neighbor," she says thoughtfully.
"Meaning I'm never going to be in here?"
"Mhm, perfect," she grins back, catlike, and Quentin snorts. "You might be, depending on how dissertation research goes for El. I understand that you're very distracting."
"Eliot's perfectly capable of distracting himself, when he doesn't want to do something," Quentin points out, and he wonders, suddenly if Eliot's gotten a chance to talk with her about the molecular telekinesis yet. He wants to ask, wants to hold it up like– look, I helped, I'm good for him, you're doing the right thing trusting me with him but– it's not his to tell.
They drift into Margo's room while they wait for Eliot, since it's actually a functional space rather than just a bare mattress and a pile of boxes. Hesitantly, Quentin admits to her his worry about being too distracted by things with his dad to stay on top of his coursework, and well– that's more of a logistical issue, than an emotional one. Maybe she can help.
"Well, required courses are easy to pull you through," she says matter-of-factly. "PA and circumstantial astronomy and all those, El and I both have notes–"
"Eliot burned all his notes."
"– I have notes and your boyfriend's a dumbass, but somehow a really gifted magician despite having 3 brain cells," Margo grumbles. "Plus, the rest of your little clique is in those with you. I know things are weird with Quinn, since you left her to ride a disco stick."
"Jesus, Margo," Quentin groans, dropping his face into the comforter so maybe she won't see that his cheeks are on fire. "It really was a mutual break-up. It wasn't about Eliot."
"Sure." Margo shrugs, unconvinced or uncaring, and then continues on. "So it's really the electives that you've gotta worry about. What are you taking?"
"Um– Arabic, Intro to Healing and Horomancy."
Margo wrinkles her nose. "Well I failed Arabic, please tell me you don't have Cushman, he's a fucking bore. But Eliot can help you with that one, he aced it. I've got you for Horomancy. Healing might be an issue." She taps her fingers on her lip thoughtfully. "How do we feel about Lipson, is she queer? I could fall on that sword for you."
"Please don't," Quentin groans, and Margo grins, just as Eliot walks into the room with his usual fanfare.
"What did you do to Q?" He gasps at Margo, askance.
"Our secret," she trills back, shooting Quentin a wink.
That night, aftering bidding goodbye to Margo and some pizza with Ted, Quentin and Eliot pile up into the guest room with a post-dinner bowl of popcorn and Quentin’s collection of Studio Ghibli movies.
"I can't believe you've never seen any of these," Quentin grumbles as they settle into a little cocoon of blankets on the big bed, his laptop propped up in front of them. Eliot’s all tucked up against his chest, half laying down to fit, but it’s nice. It’s nice to get to hold him, to be able to reach up and slide his fingers into Eliot’s curls where Eliot’s head rests on his shoulder.
"Can't you though?" Eliot returns, skeptical, and Quentin huffs out a laugh on a quiet breath. "Honestly I'm a little surprised you have. I shouldn't be, but I didn't get the sense that anime was your kind of nerdiness."
"This isn't anime," Quentin objects, and then, because well– "I mean, it kind of is. It's Japanese animation. But they're just really lovely movies and the stories are all– like– the fantastical existing next to the 'real' world. That's very me."
"Hmm," Eliot agrees, nuzzling in against Quentin's jaw as the loading screen for Spirited Away starts up. "So is this guy a Magician? The animator?"
"I–" Quentin starts, and then pauses, thoughtful. "I don't know. Maybe? Some of it seems like it could– fit, maybe? We'll watch Totoro, after this, that's the one that seems like it's maybe the most– magically plausible."
"That your favorite?"
"No," Quentin says, but his normal protest that Princess Mononoke is his favorite dies on his tongue, because– it's not like Eliot would even know which ones are popular, which ones were made first, which are regarded as the best. "I mean, I really like it? I really like all of them. But the one I watched the most was Howl's Moving Castle and this one. That one's kind of a love story, about a girl who falls in love with this like– tall, mysterious, handsome wizard–"
"Yeah?" Eliot asks, evident amusement and delight in his voice, 'oof'ing when Quentin jabs him in the ribs.
"Fuck off," Quentin shoots back, and settles in to enjoy the movie.
Or at least Quentin is. It takes about 15 minutes until Eliot’s wriggled around enough in Quentin’s arm to nose against his cheek, lips trailing along the edge of Quentin’s jaw and up to the corner of his mouth.
“What are you doing?” Quentin whispers back, though he doesn’t– pull away, god, Eliot’s smells so good, and his 5 o’clock shadow scrapes against Quentin’s cheek in a way that’s very– interesting.
“You’re all dimply,” Eliot mutters back, kissing at, yeah, Quentin’s fucking dimples, Jesus Christ. “It’s cute.”
There are about a dozen things Quentin could do in response to that, and at least 10 of them would result in them very much not watching any movies tonight. Which– would be fun, probably, but– now that it’s playing, Quentin actually really wants to watch this. They can always revisit that later. “We’re here to watch a movie, not make out,” he points out, feeling the soft huff of Eliot’s laugh against his skin.
“I’m not trying to make out with you,” Eliot lies, blatantly, but settles back against his chest again, facing the movie. “I just think you’re cute.”
They take a break after Spirited Away, trading off the downstairs bathroom and yes, making out a little. It’s hard not to, when Eliot climbs up onto the bed with sparkles in his eyes, crawling on hands and knees towards Quentin like a cheetah, all shoulder blades and teeth. Quentin finds himself happily pounced on, scattered back into the pillows and thoroughly kissed.
“Hi,” he gets out, breathless, when Eliot finally pulls back enough for Quentin to see him, low-lit in the bedside lamp and Quentin’s laptop screen, and he’s– ridiculously beautiful, really, in soft pajama pants and a robe, gaping open at his chest while he hovers over Q. Thoughtless, Quentin slides his hands down Eliot’s long neck, down across his chest to scratch through his chest hair. “Done with the movie night?”
“No,” Eliot says, nosing into kiss Quentin one more time before sitting up, pulling Quentin up by his hands. “I’m into it, I just wanted to kiss you.”
They settle in for the next movie, not back to chest this time but curled together, with Quentin’s head on the ball of Eliot’s shoulder. It’s not, maybe, the most comfortable position, because Eliot’s shoulders are actually kind of boney, and Quentin’s fidgety, not super good at staying still even when he is comfortable. But Eliot doesn’t seem to mind, god, Eliot never seems to mind when Quentin’s being a disaster, and it’s– nice. Eliot smells nice. Quentin throws on Totoro and prepares to get distracted by the skin on Eliot’s neck.
He’d forgotten about the sick parent.
It’s honestly been so long since he watched this movie, Freshman year of undergrad at least, that the whole premise of the movie kind of slipped his mind. But–
It’s fine, he knows the movie has a happy ending, he can– he can handle it. He can handle this. Just– pretend he can’t feel Eliot tense at the mention of the girls’ mother being in the hospital, pretend he doesn’t know what Eliot’s bracing against. Because it’s fine. He’s fine.
He’s fine, until he’s not fine, all of a sudden.
He doesn’t even notice he’s started crying until Eliot’s saying, softly, “Q, baby,” and reaching out to pause the movie. Quentin shakes his head, because– no, he doesn’t– no, if they stop the movie, they’re going to have to talk about it, and Quentin doesn’t– he can’t talk about.
Pushing out of the curve of Eliot’s body, Quentin draws in on himself, pulling his knees up into his chest, burying his face in his hands to catch all the– everything leaking out of him right now. Because, god, no, the mom in the movie gets better, right, she gets better, she gets better– except Dad’s not going to get better–
“Darling,” Eliot’s saying, somewhere far away and much too close, and Quentin almost jumps out of his skin when Eliot’s gentle fingers hook into his messy hair, catching and pulling it back from his wet face. “Darling, breathe, okay. You need to breathe.”
“He’s gonna die, El,” Quentin croaks out, and it’s– fuck. His dad’s going to die. Not... at some nebulous point in the future, either, soon– tangibly soon. “My dad’s– my dad’s– my–”
“I know,” Eliot says, gently, hands on– Quentin’s shoulders, on his hair, gathering it back and gently– twisting it, so it stays, so Quentin can’t hide behind it anymore, can’t– can’t not see Eliot watching him with– a fair bit of regret, yes, but a lot of– a lot of compassion. A lot of kindness. “I know, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
Quentin shakes his head, arms tight around his knees, wanting to– scratch, scratch his own arms, dig at the skin with sharp grounding pain but– he’d have to let go to do that and if he does that, he’s going to fly apart. “I’m not ready for this,” he sobs, and fuck, god, fucking obviously, who fucking is, no one, no one has ever been ready for this. At least he’s not a kid, really, at least he’s– he’s– he’s what? Functional? Who’s he fucking kidding. “What do I d– how– El, how do I do this?”
“Do what?” Eliot asks, gentle, and Quentin wants to fucking– lash out at him, or laugh or–
“Live!” Quentin– sobs, god, he’s– a fucking trainwreck of a person, what is Eliot even doing here, why is he even–
“You’re not going to be alone,” Eliot says, still with that gentle, too-kind voice, and Quentin doesn’t mean to laugh at him but–
“You really can’t promise me that,” Quentin chokes out, and Eliot recoils a little, like Quentin’s words sting him. A little kernel of guilt churns in Quentin’s stomach, but– well, might as well face it now, right? “Eliot, I’m a piece of shit to be around, a lot of the time. And somehow you haven’t noticed yet, but you’re the only one. Even Julia’s figured it out, and god, I put her through enough, I have no idea why it took her this long. But it’s not like I don’t know that I’m terrible, that everyone’s better off without me–”
“Q, that’s not true,” Eliot says, fervent and, and– scared, fuck.
Quentin takes a deep breath, and another, and another, and makes himself– draw back, carefully from that ledge. Recognize it, for what it is, even though– even though it feels true, he makes himself stare at it and say– this is my illness talking, and it’s loud, but I can fight it. I can do hard things. “I know,” he breathes out, and it’s a lie, maybe, but if he tells the lie enough, he can make it louder than the darkness. Another long breath in, and a wave of tears out– and Eliot reaching for him, careful, hand settling onto his shoulder, cupping his neck and brushing his cheek with his thumb.
“The thing is– I know that my dad would do anything for me, El. He would do anything, he would do– anything for me, I know– that, I know it, because he has. He’s– slept in hospital waiting rooms and driven me to college and offered to pay my rent when I fucking– lost my scholarship one semester because I was too fucking depressed to go to class, and talked to me on the phone every night when I couldn’t fucking– stop crying, and he’s done. Anything. He doesn’t even fucking like fantasy and he– he raised me so I could love it.” Tears flow rapidly down Quentin’s face, as he gets caught on his own breath. “I’ve always had this person that I know, even when I can’t really– understand him or talk to him or don’t like him, I’ve always had this person– who I know would do anything for me. And I barely survived up until now. So what happens– next? How,” he asks, swallowing, blinking, tears streaming. “– how do I survive the rest?”
“You’re not going to have to do it alone,” Eliot repeats, and before Quentin can protest, Eliot’s talking over him, “I hear what you’re saying, Q, I do, I get it. You don’t feel like I can promise you I’ll stick around, and like– I get it, I wouldn’t believe that promise from me either–”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Quentin protests, weakly, because god, it’s not about Eliot, it’s never been about doubting Eliot’s ability to be loyal.
“– but, baby, I’m not all you’ve got, either. So many more people care about you than you can see. You are so much easier to care about than you think you are. And– yeah. Yeah, okay, your dad is going to die. It’s– it’s fucking terrible, it’s awful, and I would– fucking cut off a leg to spare you it, but– There’s two things we can do right now: make the most of the time you have, and prepare for what comes after.”
“I’ve been trying,” Quentin breathes out, feeling another exhausted wave of tears leak out of him.
“I know,” Eliot agrees, “I know why you’ve been here this summer. But you need to get, really get, that not staying here longer has to be part of the second half. You need to be where you can see that you have a support network, and work on making it stronger.”
“How do I do that?” Quentin asks, dully, sarcastic, and Eliot sighs.
“I think you need to talk to Julia,” he says, resigned, and it sets Quentin’s hackles up, because Julia has made it pretty fucking clear she’s not interested in talking, but– “I know, baby, it’s easier to dig your heels in than reach out but– I think you’re gonna to need her.”
“I don’t know if I can do it,” Quentin admits, voice small, feeling– lost.
Eliot quirks a smile at him– gentle, kind– fuck. “I’m just gonna tell you that you don’t have to do it alone again, so like– brace for that shit.”
“God,” Quentin breathes out on a laugh, scrubbing his hands over his face. “God, okay. Now?”
“If you feel up for it.” Eliot shrugs, hand sliding down to take Quentin’s, lacing their fingers together. “There’s no expiration date on the offer. But– it might make you feel better.”
“I doubt it,” Quentin sighs, but– squeezes back, Eliot’s strong, broad hand. “Okay... okay.”
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
He settles with Eliot's solid chest against his back, thighs around his hips, arms around his waist. Eliot, breath soft against the back of his neck– steady. You are not alone here. The phone rings, and rings, and he's just about sure she's going to send him to voicemail, when there's a click and a muffled thump and then a cautious, "Hey, Q."
If he wasn't all fucking cried out, exhausted and wrung out, Quentin probably couldn't do this. But now, he's got nothing left inside to hack up, so he just– lays back in Eliot's arms, and answers back: "Hey Jules."
"Is everything alright?"
Which, okay fair– it's what, 10pm on a Thursday, a week before they're going back to school, and they haven't talked since the 4th, have they? But– "No, not really," Quentin breathes out, fucking– eyes getting wet again, nose clogged, god he's going to be so fucking dehydrated after this. Eliot hums quietly, vibrations Quentin feels through his chest more than hears, and nuzzles his nose softly against Quentin's hair. Supportive, steady. "I mean, nothing's alright, really, like, at all. My dad's dying, Jules, and my oldest friend isn't talking to me, and I think– I'm going to need you in the next couple months, and whatever's not. Not working with us, I need to fix it. I don't know how but I need to fix it."
"I haven't been getting the impression you need me very much anymore," Julia says, cooly.
Quentin's heart sinks. "Come on, Jules, that's not– that's not fair. You just decided that you didn't like my friends, like, arbitrarily–"
"Your friends, the hedonistic fuckboy and his BFF, the asshole Traveler who almost got you kicked out of school, the hedge who only shows up to class when she feels like and Niffin Girl who you fucked at Brakebills South. Jesus, Q, why would I have a bad impression of them."
"When did you become so judgemental?" Quentin hisses, hoping– god– that Eliot can't hear her. "Was it before or after your 6 months of buying Aderall from your roommate at Columbia and fucking James's Lacrosse teammates? We get to grad school and suddenly Julia Wicker has never done anything wrong."
"Fuck you, Quentin."
"Also, it's not like you were exactly trying hard to get to know them better, where you? I had a fucking– meltdown in the middle of a Welters tournament, it's not like you didn't know shit was going on."
"The last time I saw you before that I had to drag you buy your dick back onto your antidepressants while Eliot Waugh fucking sat there smirking and talking about his recreational drug habit–"
Eliot shifts, and god, Jesus, Quentin reaches back to catch his hand before he can go anywhere, slide their fingers together and hold on tight. "You don't know him," Quentin cuts in, sharp, and then– takes a deep breath, breathes out. Eliot's lips brush softly against his neck, and Quentin tilts his head to the side, offering his throat so Eliot's mouth can rest there, perfect.
"That's the kind of shit people say about their abusive boyfriends, Quentin," Julia says, matter of fact, and Quentin's stomach rolls.
"God, no, Julia. You don't know him. He's– my dad likes him, he's spent half the summer with us. He's smart, and kind, and good to me–" Eliot's teeth nip into Quentin's neck, a little love bite, arms squeezing around him, and Quentin relaxes back into them. Solid. Stable. "I wanted to– drop out, basically, and he talked me out of it. He's been– he's been good for me, Julia, he really has."
"Why where you– you can't drop out."
"Yes, that has been made abundantly clear," Quentin snaps back. "If for no other reason than that I don't want to lose my memories of this year. But Julia– I feel like you're not getting how bad things are, with Dad."
There's a couple of beats of silence, then she says, voice closer to the Julia he remembers than her hard, brittle bite: "Then tell me. How bad are they, Q?"
So he does.
It all comes spilling out, the summer of doctor's appointments and memory slips, ER trips and medication adjustments, vomiting spells and dizziness. "He's going to need full-time care, before the end, and– Eliot's right, I can't do it. I can't do it, but I'm going to have to figure out how to make it happen, and also–" He stalls out, and fuck, he's crying again, tears down washing wet down his face while Eliot nuzzles at his cheek, kisses it softly, hand rubbing on his trembling belly, "– also I'm going to have to figure out how to come to terms with that fact that there's going to be an e-end and– I'm sorry for whatever I did to push you away, Julia, I'm sorry."
It's just kind of more crying, after that. Head aching, shaking in Eliot's arms, he loses the trail of coherent words, breathless sobs. "Q," Julia says, down the phone, and she sounds worried now. "You didn't do anything wrong. C’mon, we just drifted apart a little. You're right, I didn't try very hard to– it just seemed like you had new people, and I'm not... I guess I'm not used to you making friends without me. I wasn't sure what to do about it. It honestly felt like you didn’t need me anymore–”
“Jules, I didn’t need you, but I like you– I want to hang out with you. But then all that ever happened when we did hang out was that you rag on my friends and you never asked about Dad, and– You didn’t even remember that I’d broken up with Alice, Julia, and I know I told you. But– I dunno. I’m sorry I hurt you. I kind of can’t stand you being mad at me.”
“I was mad at you after the 4th,” Julia admits, quietly, and Quentin swallows. “You just ripped into me, and then disappeared. And maybe I deserved it, maybe I could have tried a little harder to be a better friend, not let go as much as I did. But– come on, we're still us."
He can't respond, beyond a nod, which is not– helpful, really. "Yeah?" he manages to choke out, and Julia hums.
“Yeah, Q. I’m sorry, too. I got a little spiteful, I guess.”
“S’alright,” Quentin mumbles, breath hitching. “Sorry I made you feel like I didn’t give a shit or whatever.”
"You’ve never not given a shit about anything in your life, Quentin Coldwater,” She says, her voice a little lighter, a little more like his Jules. “You are literally full of shit.”
“Thanks,” he sighs, dry, rubbing his hand up over his face, as another wave of tears spill out.
“Are you alone right now?"
"No," Quentin hiccups, squeezing Eliot's hand in his. Another soft kiss to his temple, as squeeze of the arms hold him. "No, Eliot's here."
"Good," Julia says, and she sounds like she means it. "I really am sorry, too, Q. What can I do to help fix this?”
"Get to know my friends?" Quentin breathes out on a laugh. "I think you'd like them, if you gave them a chance. Margo's a huge nerd, like maybe more than you, and Eliot's like– so smart and so powerful and so good at taking care of people, he cares so much."
"Lies," Eliot whispers, a breath against Quentin's ear, and Quentin smiles, just a bit, nuzzling back against him.
"Kady's a badass and Alice is, like, terrifyingly smart, and Penny... is a person I know, I guess." Julia laughs, and Eliot shakes his head against Quentin's. "No, he's fine, he's like– weirdly loyal, in a 'only I get to call you a loser' kinda way. I think you'd like them. But like– you don't have to. I don't need you to be friends with my friends, but I still need you to be my friend." He pauses, feeling Eliot's breath against his skin, the warmth and safety of him. "Well, maybe Eliot. I think I need you and Eliot to be at least civil."
"I'll play nice, and not even invite her to any orgies," Eliot whispers, against Quentin's ear.
Quentin rolls his eyes, as Julia says, "Yeah, I can do that. I reserve the right to break his knees if he hurts you."
"He would break his own knees if he hurt me," Quentin says, dryly, squeezing Eliot's hand in his. "Don't tell him I told you but he beats himself up a lot about the idea that he might hurt me. So."
"You're ruining my reputation as someone who does not care about anything," Eliot says loudly enough for the phone to pick it up, and Quentin sighs. Rests his cheek against Eliot's.
"Babe, you care so much."
"Yeah," Eliot agrees, quiet again, just for him, lips against Quentin's temple; "I do, darling."
"You two are cute," Julia says, and she sounds– warm and surprised, and Quentin sighs, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you this summer, Q. I'll be better, I promise. You can talk to me about your dad or Eliot or– anything, school–"
"Maybe not school," Quentin says, self-conscious, all of a sudden. "You're like– blowing me out of the water, with school."
"Jesus, Q, I don't give a shit about your class performance."
"Seemed like you did," Quentin says, defensive. "When you kept telling me to party less."
"I was jealous," Julia says, and then she's– laughing? "God, Q, I– Knowledge kids never have parties, there's like three of us and it might damage the books–"
"You– You could have come to our parties!" Behind him, Eliot makes a deeply skeptical noise, and Quentin twists around to glare at him. "You shut up, you spent half the year putting your dick in another guy–"
"Hey! You were with someone else too! And I genuinely didn't know putting my dick in you was an option before that."
"Because you're a moron. Julia's invited to all our parties." Julia's laughing, down the phone line, and it's such a familiar sound it makes Quentin feel weightless.
"Of course she is now," Eliot grumbles, nuzzling back into the hug, and Quentin relaxes again.
"Good to know," Julia agrees, still laughing a little, then, "Fuck, Q, I really missed you."
"Yeah. Me too, actually."
"Tell your dad I say hi?" she asks, tentative, and Quentin swallows around the upsurge of fear and sadness. "I'll– maybe if you're going to be going back to visit, I can come with you sometime. To give Eliot a break, or if he needs to work on his thesis or even like– go with the two of you, maybe."
"Yeah, maybe. Just– I don't want to lose my dad and you, too."
"I don't want that either," Julia says, quiet. Behind him, Eliot hums a little, nuzzling against the sensitive skin at the base of Quentin's hairline. "We should get dinner the first night of the semester."
"There's going to be a party," Eliot says, loudly, and then softer, almost a little embarrassed against Quentin's neck. "Margo's already planning it."
"Well, you should come to the party, then," Quentin suggests, "I mean, I'll just be, you know– me, through the whole thing. So we can catch up. Let Eliot actually play host without me stuck to him."
"I can do mid-party catch up," Julia says, at the same time Eliot says: "I like having you stuck to me," softly, and fuck, Quentin wants to kiss him, is suddenly unbearably grateful for him. "But yeah, she should come."
"I'll see you in a week," Julia says, sounding amused.
The warmth of it lingers after she hangs up, as Quentin lets himself go limp, flop down sideways on the bed with a huff. He lands with Eliot’s knee digging into his ribs, of course, and Eliot huffs, wriggling around until he can extricate himself from Quentin’s body. Exhaustion bleeds into every fiber of his being, god, he fucking hates crying and he does it so much–
“Hey,” Eliot murmurs, bracing up over Quentin, hand resting– gentle– in the center of Quentin’s chest. Rubbing over his heart.
“Hey you,” Quentin chokes out, through his own congestion, snotty and gross. “That was, um– thanks. For being here.”
“Of course,” Eliot says softly, thumb rubbing a circle on Quentin’s chest. His hand is a warm, steady, weight and Quentin closes his eyes, concentrating on breathing, on the way his chest presses up on Eliot’s hand every time he takes a breath. It’s steadying, grounding, and when Quentin rolls over towards Eliot, so he can push his forehead against Eliot’s knee, the hand slides with him down onto his back. Up, gently, until he’s rubbing the tension at the base of Quentin’s neck, then stroking the hair back off his forehead. “You’re so fucking brave, Q. I’m so proud of you.”
“Didn’t do that much,” Quentin mumbles in protest, uncomfortable, because, god, if he can’t make a phone call–
“It was a lot,” Eliot argues, gentle, thumb rubbing right at the place on Quentin’s temple that’s throbbing from all the crying. Quentin rubs his nose against Eliot’s knee, warm through the soft fabric of his pajama pants. “Are you feeling okay, darling?”
“Feel like I need some water,” Quentin admits, and Eliot laughs out a breath.
“I can do that for you.”
Quentin’s mostly pulled himself together by the time Eliot comes back from the kitchen with a plastic cup of water, which Quentin downs most of in a couple swallows. “Wanna finish the movie?” He asks, voice raw from all the talking and crying. He clears his throat a little, while Eliot gives him a skeptical look.
“We really don’t have to, baby.”
“No, I– I want to. It has a happy ending, I promise.” Quentin shrugs, folding his arms around his knees, watching as Eliot climbs back up on the bed. It already feels so– so fucking right, sharing a bed with him. Should it, after 4 months? Quentin’s never been great at sleeping alone, but all the other bits of sharing space have never come easy to him. Not like they feel like they do, with Eliot.
Eliot, who’s bullying his way into Quentin’s arms, just barely saving the water cup before it goes tumbling across the bed. “Cuddle me,” Eliot demands, making Quentin laugh which– was probably the point, really.
“Yes sir,” Quentin mutters into Eliot’s curls, arms sliding around his chest. He’s warm and heavy, like– like a weight blanket, or something. Just– solid, like he’s pressing Quentin’s wandering soul back into his body. “You gotta start the movie then.”
“Think I can handle that,” Eliot agrees, as Quentin drops his face down into the crook of Eliot’s neck.
The happy ending might feel more like a fantasy than like real life, at the moment, but with Eliot in his arms, Quentin can at least enjoy the story.
____
People start trickling back to campus a few days before classes officially resume.
There's a party, of course, to kick off the start of the new semester, because it's important to remind everyone that the Physical Kids reign supreme. Half the school showing up to their first lessons hungover is just the way it's done, of course. Margo's shouldered most of the burden of party planning, this year, and Eliot will have to make it up to her sometime soon, but he's been distracted by, well– this.
Waking up on the last day of summer, with an armful of lovely pliant boy. Q's awake, and all silky skin under Eliot's hands, wide brown eyes and thoughtful frown on his soft pink mouth.
"Hmm, hello," Eliot mutters, blinking, and Q smiles, just a little thing, reflexive. "What are you thinking about so hard?"
"Over-thinking," Quentin admits, and then wriggles– closer, somehow, so he can tangle their legs together. "I can't believe the summer's over. But I also sort of can't believe it took this long?"
"Yeah," Eliot agrees, reaching out to hook a stray piece of Quentin's hair with his finger, tuck it back into place. He's so fucking lovely. And still mine, after four months. A record. "Fuck time, honestly."
"Mmm, haven't started Horomancy, yet," Quentin drawls, stretching a little, then wriggling– fuck, even closer– until Eliot can't actually see his face anymore, tucked in against Eliot's neck. "But I'll report back once I've learned how to fuck time, I promise."
Eliot snorts, fingers slipping through Quentin's hair just enough to nudge him back, so Eliot can– mmm yes– kiss him, slow and sweet and a little sour with the morning. Kiss him until it loses any taste at all, until they're both a little breathless, Eliot's hand in his hair and on his neck, Quentin's fingers tangled in Eliot's chest hair and tugging, just a little.
"We should probably get your room set up today," Eliot says, some time later, once his mouth is free. He has two handfuls of ass and he squeezes admiringly, just to watch Q wiggle a little on top of him.
"Counter argument: I'm never going to be in there and this is our last day to be naked in bed all day."
"It's a good counter argument," Eliot admits, because, well– It's not like they'll never get this chance again, but it honestly might take until the winter holidays, if dissertation research fucks Eliot as hard as he's expecting it to. "But we don't actually have all day. If I don't go help Margo this afternoon, she might literally hex my dick off."
"Mmm," Quentin hums a little, dropping his face down onto Eliot's chest. "So that means we need to spend the morning unpacking why?"
"Because I'm not supposed to let you stay in bed all day," Eliot says, softly, heart in his throat. It's– not easy, yet, to know how much is too much for him to push with this. There's still a little bit of fear, that it's– not his place. But Q just makes a face, and sticks his nose back into Eliot's chest hair, which, like– sure, okay. Fuck, Eliot likes him so much, it's probably– it's probably more like love, at this point.
Which is too much, really, for Eliot to handle the day before classes start, his stupid traitor heart racing in his chest as he stuffs the thought in a locker and steals its lunch money.
"I also have to get some books," Quentin admits, breaking Eliot out of the high-pitched whining ringing through his brain. "If I do it today I should be able to beat the scramble."
"Nerd," Eliot volleys back, and gets Quentin's teeth in his pec for it. Bitey little thing, Jesus– not that Eliot's really complaining, not that he ever fucking complains about Quentin's oral fixation. But still– "You can do that while I help Margo, maybe. Unless you want to go home?"
Quentin's quiet, for a second, cheek resting over Eliot's beating heart, before he sighs and– slides both arms up under Eliot's shoulders, hugging him. "I am home," he says, quietly, and that locker in Eliot's brain rattles, loudly, as the thought tries to escape again. "I don't– I don't want to treat the portal like a revolving door, El. If I'm going to be here, I need to be here. It's good to be able to get there quickly, but– if I think about it as just a door to New Jersey that I can go through whenever, then I'm going to spend all my time feeling guilty that I'm not going back every second I can, but I also– can't do that."
"I know," Eliot promises, smoothing his hand up and down the skin between Quentin's shoulder blades, feeling the muscles relax and unbunch under his hand. "You know I agree. You don't need to justify it to me."
"I need to justify it to myself," Quentin sighs, then he's rolling away, onto his back on the bed next to Eliot. Despite the last 10 minutes of trying to convince him to get up, Eliot feels bereft without him. "Alright. Let's get up."
It still takes an hour, of course, for Eliot to shower and bully Quentin in after him, Eliot shaving in front of the spell-defogged mirror while Quentin gets perfunctorily clean, with his terrible two-in-one shampoo and conditioner, and probably uses way more of Eliot's nice body wash than he should. He ends up perched on the closed toilet in jeans and t-shirt, watching Eliot arrange and spell-set his hair, apply eyeliner.
"Is this fun for you?" Eliot asks Q's reflection in the mirror, blink against the heavy feeling of make-up on his waterline. "Watching me put my face on?"
"I like your face," Quentin replies, smiling a little. Rattle, rattle, rattle. "I don't know. It's like– alien to me, but you're good at it. I like watching you do things you're good at."
"Ah, competency kink, got it," Eliot agrees knowingly, then leans over for a kiss because– fuck, why not?
The rest of the morning is spent unpacking Quentin's shit in his room, which is a pretty simple process with magic involved. They make the bed in about five seconds with a cooperative spell that leaves Eliot's fingers tingling, and the good, steady, solidness of Quentin's magic hooked through his breastbone. He behaves himself, though, doesn't pin Quentin down on his dull gray Target sheets and have his way with him. No, instead he takes it upon himself to start working on the wards in the room, careful of how the spells will interact with the anchor for the portal. A simple protection charm while Quentin half-heartedly throws clothes into drawers seemingly at random, which Eliot refrains from commenting on in favor of setting up the spell that will keep anyone but a resident of the house out of Q's room. It's looser and more lenient than the wards he has on his own space– but who is he to know who Quentin will and won't want in his room? Then a simple silencing charm, to keep noise in and outside noise muffled, while Quentin started unpacking and organizing his books.
The real draw of this room, Eliot knows, after being next to Margo's, is the bookcase. Set into the corner of the room by the closet, it's big and solid, transfigured from the shitty particular board into some solid hardwood beast of a thing by a physical kid long since gone. Q's already set up camp in front of it, box of books next to him and books spread out in a little semi-circle as he looks at the spines.
"How are we organizing these?" Eliot asks, trailing his hand softly along the back of Quentin's neck as he picks his way through the books, dropping down to sit with him in the only available space.
"We're not," Quentin says distractedly, reaching out to take the book from under Eliot's knee without looking up. "I'm organizing them, you're going to go help Margo."
"Mmm, or I can hand you books, and then we can go marvel in disgust at the dining hall offerings and lament that all the food in the kitchen is for the party," Eliot offers back instead, picking up a book and looking at the spine. The Mists of Avalon. That could be work or pleasure, honestly. "So what's the system?"
Quentin sighs dramatically, and Eliot bites back the urge to kiss his dimples. "Text books on the bottom. Above that, non-fiction by subject and then by author. Above that, fiction by genre and then by author, except for rare editions, which go on the top, with– can you show me that preservation spell again?"
In fact, Eliot can.
Quentin's putting the final touches on the last fiction row when his door bursts open, and Kady Orloff-Diaz strolls in, looking Burning-Man Chique as ever. "Quinn and I are going to raid the bookstore, you're coming," she informs Quentin, then gives Eliot a kind of bro-nod that he never knows what to do with when he receives it from actual bros. "I'd ask how your summer was but I assume you just got dicked down the whole time, so I'm not gonna. Wheels up now, Coldwater."
Then she drops onto the bed to glare at him, so– Eliot watches Quentin blush, delighted, and then watches with even more delight as Penny tries to follow Kady into the room and bounces off the wards Eliot cast. Residents only.
"– the fuck?" he mutters, just loud enough to be heard from the hallway, and Eliot snorts, turning back to Q.
"Looks like I'll be going to help Margo after all. Don't let them bully you too much."
"Because I'm historically great at that," Quentin returns under his breath, but he leans in for a kiss, soft and warm and sweet despite Kady's showy groans, so– Everything's as it should be.
Most of the groundwork for the party is in fact already done. Margo's taken care of supply acquisition, spending heavily now with the idea that any alcohol left over from this part could be consumed in the coming weeks. Gone are the plastic cups and bonfire of the end-of-year party; now was the time to remind everyone that style and substances was the Physical Kid way. So Eliot spends about an hour re-charming all of the crystal wear in the cottage to make it extra durable, a simple enchantment but one that had gone somewhat lax over the summer.
He finds Margo mass-chilling cases of white wine behind the bar, the cryomancy spells sliding out of her fingers like water. Moving around her easily, fingers brushing against the backs of her shoulders, he starts arganging and preparing his bar supplies, making little notes to himself as he does about what different magical flares he’s been experimenting with over the summer.
“Alright, so,” Margo starts, all business, dropping to sit on one of the crates of red. “Who do we have to worry about bringing un-accounted for substances to this party, hmm?”
“Hard to say, yet,” Eliot muses, turning to look at her, leaning his hands back on the bar. “Maybe those psychic twins? They always have weird spells. Didn’t you fuck one of them?”
“I might have fucked both of them? I’m not honestly sure,” Margo admits, disinterested, and Eliot feels a swell of fondness for her that makes his chest feel tight. “Hard to know who’s going to be filling Hoberman’s shoes now that he’s gone. I can’t believe we need to get a new weed guy.”
“Are you telling me that Hoberman doesn’t strike you as the type to hang around his old school selling weed?” Eliot asks, lightly, and at least it makes Margo laugh.
“I mean, you make a good point.” She nods, clearly having decided something, clapping her hands together. “Okay, so. You’re in charge of that, go poke around the Naturalists, see who’s got what, who’s bringing what.”
“Um, pass,” Eliot says, wrinklinking his nose in distaste. The fucking Treehouse always smells musty, like everyone there is growing mushrooms. Which, you know, they probably are.
“Your other option is to stay here and wrangle Todd,” Margo says, sweetly, blinking at Eliot with her big Bambi eyes.
“Fuck you, bitch. Treehouse it is.”
So Eliot spends a good couple hours playing nice with the Nature kids. There’s a pretty big contingent of Naturalist second years, a lot of Quentin’s cohort seems to have gone that way, but no one seems to be standing out from the pack yet in terms of new or interesting use of mind-altering plants. Still, he extends a couple key invitations, getting on the right side of the right people, which is enough for him to count the afternoon as a win. There are still lighting effects to cast, after all, and a wardrobe change to make.
He finds Quentin later once the party is in full swing, tucked away on the window seat with Julia Wicker and talking animatedly with both hands, empty wine glass on the window sill next to him. And that just won’t do, will it, so Eliot snatches up a bottle of red wine, making his way over to them as his fingers run through the motions of an uncorking spell, timing it perfectly so the pop the cork announces his arrival.
“Refill,” he offers, extending the bottle towards them as Quentin smiles up at him– fuck, dimples– and nods.
“Thanks,” he says softly, scooting towards Julia a little so there’s space for Eliot to tuck in next to him. Which he does, watching Julia’s guarded features relax into a little smile. Quentin’s gaze darts between them, clearly fidgety and nervous, and Eliot– fucking hates being something that makes Quentin uncomfortable, honestly. So he just settles his hand on Quentin’s thigh and smiles, with all the charm he has. He can do this. He can convince one 24-year-old girl to like him.
“What did I interrupt?” he asks, lazily summoning himself a glass and pouring some of the wine into it, before offering the bottle to Julia. She takes it, topping up her own and settling it on the sill.
“Q was just telling me about London,” she explains, nodding towards Quentin, who nods, smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Sounds like you guys had a good time.”
“Yeah, we did,” Eliot agrees, because short of that– one single dark cloud of a day, it had been maybe the best two weeks of the summer. “You tell her about visiting the Globe yet?”
Quentin grins, shaking his head and turning back to Julia. “So Eliot’s a huge nerd–”
“Hey!” He protests, because really, being called a nerd by someone who bought TARDIS socks in London is really– more than Eliot’s dignity can bear, but Quentin ignores him, plowing on.
“– and he’s been to a play at The Globe, but he’s never been like– inside, or backstage or whatever you call it. And they sell tours, but they’re expensive and you have to buy them in advance, so like, there was pretty much no way it’s going to happen, right?”
“Context clues tell me you found a way,” Julia fills in, but Eliot’s not watching her.
No, Eliot’s watching Quentin, his expressive face and wild hands, the way his hair keeps slipping out from behind his ears as he talks. His bright eyes dance while he tells their story of light crime in the hallowed halls of Shakespeare’s Globe, excitable and exuberant. The low light of the party highlights the line of his jaw, throwing the soft secret skin of his neck into tempting shadow, and Eliot– loves him.
He lets the thought sit in his chest for a moment, breathe the air of the party, before putting it more gently back into its locker.
“You didn’t. You did not go on stage, I don’t believe you,” Julia protests, and Eliot snaps back into focus.
“Well I didn’t get to stay there,” he aquessess with a light shrug, while Quentin starts giggling. “Luckily I am very charming and very good at pretending I only speak Dutch.”
“Do you speak Dutch?”
“Not even a little,” Eliot tells her cheerfully, as Quentin lists into his side, solid compact little weight. Eliot looks down at him, and then– has to kiss him, just has too. Warm and sweet and deep, a slow melting kiss that leaves Quentin a little breathless and blinking at him, little comma writing into the side of his cheek. It grows into a full happy smile, and something warm blooms in Eliot’s chest, as he leans in and kisses the tip of Quentin’s nose. “The play was amazing though.”
“Yeah, it was,” Quentin agrees, before turning back to Julia. “Oh! I need to tell you about this little apothecary we found, it was like something straight out of Harry Potter–”
Eliot looks away from him, smiling, surveying out across the room. It’s a good party, everyone seems to be having a good time. Energy sparkles around the space and okay, maybe it’s– a little tame, by their standards, no one’s dancing naked on the tables or passed out on the floor. But people are chatting, laughing and smiling, catching up– exactly what a welcome-back party should be. There can be ragers and blow-outs later; now is simply an opportunity to find oneself again amongst friends, relax, brace for the oncoming storm.
On the other side of the room, Margo catches his eye where she’s chatting with a girl he doesn’t know, a healer, maybe in Quentin’s year, with a very low cut shirt and quite a lot going on under it. Grinning, he gives Margo a subtly impressed nod, which she accepts with a wink and a smile, and it feels– right, somehow. It feels normal. Like they are finally, finally, back on balance– Margo and Eliot, party king and queen of Brakebills, but like– growing, as people. Who’d have thought?
Quentin leans back into Eliot’s side, and Eliot focuses in on him, sliding his arm easily around Quentin’s waist. It’s probably too early in the evening for him to tug Quentin up into his lap– he’s going to have to get up and return to the bar before too long, and that’ll only get harder with Quentin squirming against him– but it’s still nice to be close to him. Smiling a little, Eliot noses in to kiss at the soft skin behind Quentin’s ear, which earns him a giggle and a blush.
Q comes with him, when he does eventually head back to the bar, leaving Julia to fall into conversation with Kady and Alice. It might be half an ex-girlfriend-dodging-move, honestly, but Eliot’s not going to complain when Quentin perches up on the counter of the bar, socked foot brushing Eliot’s calf every time he swings his leg.
“How are you holding up?” Eliot asks, checking in, because well– he wants Quentin to have a good time, but he also just– wants him to be okay, more than anything else.
But Q just dimples at him, sweetly, like he doesn’t know he’s turning all of Eliot’s insides into melty goo. “I’m good. Catching up with Julia was nice. I think she actually is making an effort, so– I do appreciate that. I can meet her where she is.” At Eliot’s non-committal hum, Quentin reaches out, catching Eliot’s arm and tugging a little. He has to set down the cocktail he’s working on, but does, allowing himself to be pulled over into Quentin’s space. “Thanks.”
“What are you thanking me for?” Eliot asks low enough that it won’t carry over the music. Looking down into Quentin’s lovely face, god– Eliot wants to kiss him, probably, but also maybe just– look at him, forever. Which, okay, maybe he’s a little drunk, but Quentin’s still looking up at him with those big brown eyes, soft curls in the corner of his mouth, so– how can Eliot be blamed, really, for being distracted? Especially when Quentin’s sliding his palms flat up Eliot’s chest, curling around the back of his neck.
“Playing nice with Julia? Checking on me? Fuck, I don’t know,” Quentin huffes out, a pink tinge dusting his cheeks, just visible in the dim colored lights. “Just– this whole summer, maybe. For everything.”
“It was a team effort,” Eliot points out, heart in his throat, but Quentin just– tilts his head, nodding.
“Thanks for being on my team, then.”
“Well, that’s easy. I’ll always be on your team,” Eliot says, and it’s a shockingly easy promise to make, with all the messy feelings rattling around in the empty lockers of his brain. But– he’d meant it, what he said to Ted weeks ago: Quentin was his best friend, and that’s not going to change. Q just smiles in response, tilting his face up, but Eliot’s already kissing him before he even gets all the way through the motion. It starts off soft and sweet and quickly takes a swerve towards filthy with Quentin’s wandering hands sliding into Eliot’s back pockets, his sweet soft mouth falling open in invitation, perfect for Eliot to cup his jaw and just slowly lick in against his teeth, a slow roll of heat through Eliot’s body as he pushes up into Quentin’s space, feeling him everywhere–
There’s a clatter, as their movements send an ice scoop tumbling to the floor, and Eliot pulls away to retrieve it, feeling more than a little hot under the collar. Quentin, for his part, looks– embarrassed, but also a little pleased with himself, which is a kind of lethal combination, really.
“I need to make drinks,” Eliot tells him, a little kiss-drunk and stupid.
“Mmhm,” Q agrees, giving Eliot’s ass a friendly little squeeze before letting go, leaning back so Eliot can move out of his space. He doesn’t want to, suddenly, but, well– there’s not exactly a shortage, is there, of time he can spend kissing Quentin? Maybe just– one more, short and sweet, a tender little thing. Quentin watches him as he goes back to the bar, settling in again to muddle drinks. “Is it okay if I crash in your room, whenever I’m done with this?”
“Of course,” Eliot agrees, because, fuck, as far as he’s concerned, Q doesn’t even need to ask.
Later, much later, after Quentin drifts away and back and away again, after dancing in the middle of the living room with Margo, sharing a pipe with her, feeling vibrant and alive with her– after the party winds down and ‘late’ becomes ‘early’– Eliot slips into his room as quietly as he can. Luckily neither he nor Q have any ungodly early classes first thing on Monday, but Q still has to be in class by 10. Which, for him, means being awake by 9:30, but– still, Eliot should try to let him stay asleep if he is.
The bedside lamp is on, as Eliot slips into the room, but Q’s not awake, clearly passed out propped up in a pile of pillows with an open book on his chest. Eliot stands against the closed doorway for a minute, just– looking at him, how ridiculous and dear he is. Eliot wants– he wants to go bury his face in Quentin’s neck, roll around with his head in Q’s lap until until Quenitn buries his strong fingers in Eliot’s curls, wants to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until they’re both breathless–
Instead, he bends over and takes off his own shoes, and only stumbles a very little bit. Exhausted and tipsy, he’s still with it enough to go through the motions of getting undressed and scrubbing up enough to not wake up feeling truly disgusting. Then all that’s left is– taking Quentin’s book out of his slack fingers, carefully tucking in his bookmark (a playing card, of course it is– Jack of Hearts) into the open page and setting it on the nightstand.
Quentin stirs, a little, as Eliot climbs into bed. “– time is it?” he mumbles, rolling off his mound of pillows and over, until he’s– settling, warm and sleepy, in Eliot’s arms, head tucked under Eliot’s chin.
“Don’t worry about it,” Eliot murmurs, reaching for telekinesis to flick the lamp off, coating them in welcoming darkness. “Go back to sleep, Q.”
“I miss you,” Quentin mutters, nuzzling a little against Eliot’s throat, tender sweet thing, and Eliot– smiles, a little, as he settles in to sleep.
“No need,” he promises, palm sliding up and down Quentin’s back, all warm silky skin. Even though the wards on the room block out sound, there’s a feeling to the cottage, a life to it, now that it’s full again. Last year, he’d mourned the end of summer, because how could he– how could he know, really, that in 3 days time a lost little first year with an ill-fitting suit jacket and floppy hair would stumble his way across the lawn towards Eliot, and look at him with the kind of stunned bewilderment that usually meant ‘innocent straight boy’. How was Eliot of a year ago to know that everything, everything, was about to change?
“El,” Quentin sighs against his chest, here, in the year 2016, and it’s not– not like it’s the start of a thought, just. Just like he wanted to say Eliot’s name.
“Sleep, darling,” Eliot repeats, nosing down to press a kiss to Quentin’s hair, feel him settle and unwind in Eliot’s arms. Who knows what this year will bring?
Whatever it is, Eliot thinks, half formed, as he settles in to sleep with Quentin’s warm, dense little body cuddled up close– whatever it is, Eliot’s not going to have to face it alone, not when he’s got Margo on one side and Quentin on the other.
Content, he drifts to sleep, as the last dregs of summer night fade out.