Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

If Quentin were doing as well in his classes as Alice is, he'd be trying to wrap finals up early, but instead Alice is – he's heard, and it sounds true – taking extra finals, to get permission to place out of some of next year's pre-reqs. She's going to be on campus for at least another week. He's heard.

It's not that Quentin doesn't admire the whole go-getter thing (as proof of this, he would submit: Julia), and of course she's not taking her education seriously at Quentin, but like. It's insanely inconvenient, because it's the first week of June and mostly nobody is in the PKC anymore except for Quentin and Alice, and they share a wholehearted dedication to avoiding any direct interaction with each other, but even they kind of can't keep it up under these conditions.

Quentin, obviously, is not still on campus because he's taking extra finals (Jesus Christ). He just asked Dr. Lipson for special permission to stay through his summer heat, because it turns out that it's – pretty much true that at Brakebills, you can just say, hi, I have omega stuff going on, can someone help me out? and they...do that. Weirdly, that's harder for Quentin to fully get his mind around than the magic itself; he was always secretly prepared to believe he had undiscovered magic powers, but it really never occurred to him that being an omega wasn't on some level a huge fucking inconvenience for himself and everyone around him.

You're not supposed to say that, he knows. You're supposed to be proud of who you are, and he – is? He thinks he is?

It's complicated.

Anyway, Brakebills is Brakebills, and all he had to do is drop by for his physical and say, Hey, the PKC is my primary den, is it okay if I stay in residence until after my heat? It was no big deal, it wasn't even an awkward conversation.

Getting four hundred signatures from an alpha who's terrified to be in the same room with him was an awkward conversation, but that's nothing Dr. Lipson could've helped him with.

Living across the hall from his ex while he's in pre-heat is a whole new high-water mark for awkward in Quentin's life, but they're both managing. They really don't have a lot of choice.

It would be easier if they didn't also share a bathroom. The scheduling thing is pretty easy to work out: Quentin's a nighttime-shower person and Alice prefers mornings, and during the day Alice is mostly in the library or the labs or whatever anyway. It's the smells, really, that get under Quentin's skin, and he gets the feeling Alice would agree. He makes sure to take any towels or cloths he's used out with him when he's done, and Alice buys those really expensive medicated soaps that dampen her scent – he doesn't know, maybe it's all in his head? Maybe the bathroom doesn't even smell like Alice at all, or like him, or like him-and-Alice. Maybe he just remembers so strongly....

Fuck, he was doing so well before this. Quentin has zero experience trying to be civil with an ex; he's only dated a couple of women seriously enough that he could be said to have gone through a breakup with them, and the circumstances were such that it was easy for them to ghost each other completely and pretend it never happened. Quentin always assumed he'd be pretty good at being friends with an ex, but then also he always assumed that none of his breakups would ever be because he tried his hardest to cheat, then failed, but also kind of started dating the person he tried and failed to cheat with.

Kind of. It's complicated.

Anyway, now Quentin's done with classes and he's just lying around the Cottage, surviving on hot dogs and ice cream sandwiches and frozen, bagged steak fries, reading Chuck Tingle “ironically” and debating with himself about the wisdom of breaking into his kind-of-but-not-really boyfriend's suite to use the good bathtub. All things considered, he does not think he's exactly the friends-with-his-ex spokesmodel.

And the really petty thing? Is that he's kind of feeling sorry for himself, not even because of the Alice situation specifically, but just because – he got used to the pre-heat experience at Brakebills, where for a few days you just automatically without even putting in the effort become, like, Regina fucking George or something, and everyone smiles at you and wants to sit by you and bring you drinks or weed or cupcakes and tries to make conversation about things you're interested in and just basically acts like you're low-key famous or whatever.

Okay, not everyone – alphas. And Quentin is the last person (he thinks he is?) who's going to get his identity and self-worth all tied up with what random alphas think of him, but. It's nice, okay? After a lifetime of being either totally invisible or an inconvenience, he gets a few days per year where people treat him like they want to be around him, and yes it's all fake hormonal shit, but yes everybody else gets their turn and Quentin wants his. He wants alphas to fake-like him for a few days, but instead he's alone in a house with one alpha who would rather impale herself than so much as heat up a batch of steak fries for him.

It's Quentin's own fault, but it's also unfair. These two things can coexist, can't they? He doesn't know, but that's how he feels: guilty and also self-pitying and generally in no mood to put any effort into creating performance art about how chill he is being alone with Alice now. It's weird, it's awkward, it's just gonna stay that way.

Still, he's not actively pretending she doesn't exist or anything, so when they end up in the kitchen at the same time on Friday morning and Quentin is scrambling eggs, he offers to scramble a larger batch and share it with her. “Oh,” Alice says, and stares at him. And that's literally it.

He waits for a minute, and then says as gently as he can, “So is that – yes or no?”

“Oh!” she says again, less puzzled and more startled, which seems like the reverse of how this should logically go, but whatever. “I mean. If you're doing it anyway. Sure.”

“Yeah, it's no trouble,” he says, which it's really not.

Quentin's cooking isn't very Food Network or whatever, but eggs are easy, and the PKC fridge is always full. He puts in some sour cream and fresh chives, and Alice sets the table for two and makes the coffee. It's almost normal.

It could've been their normal. He's not as upset about the loss of that as he was a few months ago, but it's still close enough that he remembers the misery of their breakup in his bones, in his belly. It's fine, he's adjusted, it's probably for the best, but he's definitely not at look back on it and laugh territory yet.

“How are your exams going?” he asks when they sit down to eat together.

Alice shrugs. “Where's Eliot?” she asks, and Quentin can't tell if she's doing it in kind of a barbed way, or if she really just doesn't know how to politely ignore anything at all. It's Alice, so both are on the table.

“Um, post-finals spa retreat with Margo,” Quentin says. “He'll...be back tonight.”

He doesn't say why. He couldn't hide the reason from Alice if he wanted to, and – he doesn't really want to? Yes, things are ugly and messy and weird and she has every right to resent both of them, but. What's done is done. Quentin's apologized a billion times, and he is sorry, but it happened and now this is happening and life just. Moves forward. What does she want him to do, be alone forever in penance?

Probably. Shit, maybe he'd want the same thing in her place, he doesn't know.

“Well, good for you two,” she says, stabbing her fork against the plate.

“Look – Alice,” he says, because Jesus, they all have to live here together for another year, and Quentin can't take another year of this. “I asked you if you wanted to, um, to keep, keep working on the relationship, and like. You didn't.”

“I know, Quentin, I was there,” she snaps. “I know I had a choice, but both choices sucked, okay? So I'm sad about all my choices sucking, and I'm allowed.”

“Yeah, you're allowed,” he mumbles. He should drop it there, he knows. He should. “I just – okay,” he says, smacking his fork down on the table. “Okay, but. I don't know how you think it's supposed to make me feel, when I'm one of the choices you think sucked so much. Like, you get that that's why we broke up, right? Because I never made you happy.”

Her head snaps up, eyes bright and owlish under her glasses. “What?” she says. “That's not – that's not why– You didn't, though? Not make me happy. You didn't.”

“It didn't feel like I did,” he says.

Not like I make Eliot happy, he doesn't say. He's not a monster, he's not going to just say that. It's the truth, though. Eliot is very committed to his weird courtship program or whatever, but every time Quentin walks into the same room, Eliot's face turns toward him like a bloodhound and Eliot's scent flares warm and spicy and assertive, like his whole metabolism just gets thrown into a higher gear so fast you can hear the transmission stripping. Even if Eliot doesn't say a word, his eyes and his scent and his smile are all so eloquent, all singing I like you, I like you, please be mine at Quentin.

It's so corny. It's hard to know how to react to. Quentin usually just gets flustered and waves at him before going up to his room, where he lies on his bed and listens to his heart hammer and wonders what the fuck kind of Jane Austen novel he even lives in now.

The fact that Alice was different from that when she was his alpha – Quentin's not saying it made what they had not real or anything like that. Alice cared about him, he knows, and he definitely cared about Alice. If they didn't care, it wouldn't be so hard now, watching Alice struggle not to cry because of him. “I shouldn't have left you alone at your heat,” she says. “I'm – sorry about that.”

It's the first thing Alice has ever been sorry about when it comes to Quentin, other than maybe Quentin in general. He's appreciative of, like, the spirit behind it, but. “I'm actually fine with that,” he says. “I'd rather spend a heat alone than with an alpha who's actively pissed off at me. It's not – it was never the heat, Alice. You shouldn't have left me alone at the party.”

“It was just a stupid party!” she bursts out, and there's as much confusion in her voice as anger. “There's a party all the time here.”

“But you told me you were coming, so I fucking waited for you,” he says. “I waited all night, because those were my sucky choices, right? I just – wait for you to put down the book and pay attention to me, or I go get you, and then I'm the needy, clingy, manipulative omega. I just. I felt like I was turning into this person I didn't want to be.”

Alice pushes her nibbled-at eggs away from her, shoulders drawing up and arms crossing in front of her. “So let me get this straight. Falling into bed with another alpha because I wasn't paying enough attention to you, that was you not being manipulative?”

“That was me being an idiot, I've apologized to both of you literally a million times.”

“Oh, I'm so glad you apologized to him,” Alice says acidically. “God, it must be agonizing for him, being so tall and sexy and confident and impressive. Omegas just can't seem to prevent themselves from falling on his knot, totally against his will.”

It's probably not a good idea to be defensive on Eliot's behalf, given the circumstances, but there's a little ball of vicarious pain in his chest right now, hardened around the memory of a drunk, sad, undefended Eliot saying I never really had friends who were alphas before Brakebills. Out loud, Quentin limits himself to saying, “He's your friend.”

“He's the competition,” Alice says flatly, and then her eyebrows do a funny thing, almost like she's surprised to be informed that she believes that.

Quentin can't help smiling just a little. His instincts are kind of a mess, but he really doesn't hold a candle to Alice in that department. “That's just hormones talking,” he says gently. “Eliot is your friend.”

“Maybe,” Alice says grudgingly. “He's not – he's not a bad person, I know that. It's just that he could have anyone he wants. He didn't have to pick someone else's omega.”

It sounds pretty basic, when she says it like that. It's more complicated in real life, or at least Quentin thinks it is. “Eliot makes being Eliot look a lot easier than it is,” Quentin says. “I'm not – justifying anything. Just, if you think he's so perfect or whatever, that everything comes so easy for him, it's – that's not really true.”

Maybe that's a little over the line, but all this air-clearing must be having some effect, because at least Alice seems to be listening to him and not just reacting. “I guess that's nice to know,” Alice finally says. “Do you love him?”

“I don't know,” Quentin says. “I could probably make an argument either way.”

Eliot is like the prince from some fucking fairy tale. He's handsome and self-possessed, he's witty and thoughtful and a good listener. They sit out on the Sea together, Eliot's jacket draped over Quentin's shoulders against the cool draught of the Upstate spring breeze, and Eliot lounges on a picnic blanket, displaying his perfect long legs and narrow waist, offering it all up for Quentin's approval the same way he offers bowls of olives and blueberry-thyme jam on goat cheese and white sangria. Eliot knows how to do this thing where he rubs, like, Quentin's eyesockets, which seems insane but makes a study headache disappear in thirty seconds flat. He can absolutely roast Quentin for being kind of a sulky asshole, but do it while smiling at him like he's an enchanting sulky asshole. He leaves presents in Quentin's room for him – just random little stuff like fancy shaving cream or socks with Yoda on them. Eliot gets really, really mad about jukebox musicals, and it's so fucking cute it's probably a threat to Quentin's health. Eliot smells like pure sex, but in a classy way, and every time he brushes his thumb over Quentin's fingers, pulling him closer by the hand to receive a gentle kiss goodnight on the temple, it feels for a second functionally identical to going into heat.

None of it feels real. Nothing about being Eliot's maybe-sort-of-unofficial-omega-it's-complicated feels like the way that real people live their lives. Even at Brakebills, where Quentin had to do an extra-credit project to pass a course called Philosophy of Chronoalchemy. Even here, Quentin can't fully relax and believe that the alpha every other alpha is jealous of...just for no reason decided there's no better use of his time than courting Quentin. Who even courts anyone in real life? That's YA novel shit – that should be proof that Eliot's like a thousand-year-old immortal or something. But he's not, he just.... Oh, god, Eliot is just not like other alphas, Quentin can't stand that he just had that thought without a single drop of irony.

The argument for loving Eliot is Eliot. The argument against is the very real chance that Eliot is a fairy tale, and Quentin is not the first person to think being the current focus of his attention is something that it's not.

“I kind of hope you do,” Alice says, evening out her quivering lip and pushing it into a slight smile. “I think getting dumped is easier if you can say at least he moved on to the love of his life.”

“Literally did not dump you,” Quentin says, finding a smile in response. “I'm the one who said we could work on fixing things, remember? You were there.”

Alice shrugs. “Because you felt guilty.” That's unfortunately more insightful than Quentin would like for it to be. “The reality is, there wasn't much left to work on fixing. You'd moved on.”

That's – well, call it an oversimplification. Quentin's not sure he's fully moved on now, let alone three months ago when Alice told him to fuck off. Still, he remembers waking up in the den when the last wave of his heat broke, dry-mouthed and feeling the ache in his thighs and his core. He remembers the total silence around him as he nuzzled his face into the pile of blankets he'd constructed to wrap himself around, how they smelled like no one but Quentin, and he remembers feeling weary and wrung-out but also...free. Like a reset button had been punched on his life, and he could just put his clothes on and walk back up to his room and carry on with the semester. And for a few minutes, before the weight of all his choices started pressing down on him again, he can admit he wasn't picturing carrying on...with Alice.

He still thinks Alice was done with him first, but there's nothing he wants to do less than spend the rest of his grad school career arguing about it. Quentin gently pushes Alice's plate of eggs back in front of her, and she hesitates a minute before picking up her fork with a faint, embarrassed smile. “They're good,” she says, scooping up another forkful. “I didn't even know you could cook.”

“I can't cook,” he says. “They're just scrambled eggs.”

“Well, they have – herbs,” she says. “So that's. They're not just plain eggs, they're – good.”

The very fact that Alice can kind of blurt out your worst flaws also makes it, Quentin doesn't know, even nicer when she thinks something nice about you. It would never occur to Alice to make that shit up, not even to flatter a breeding omega; sure, Quentin's still a little annoyed at not having any admirers during his pre-heat, but that's – whatever, it's fun but it's meaningless. Alice's kindness, when she gives it, though. That's never meaningless. “Thanks,” he says.

She even volunteers to do the dishes, but Alice has more schoolwork and Quentin has literally nothing else to keep him occupied for the rest of the day, so he insists that she not bother. It's not a lot of dishes, he really doesn't mind.

Quentin pushes up his sleeves and sinks his hands into the water, and the heat sizzles strangely against his skin, the foam of the soap a light tickle that feels unexpectedly intense. God, he's been in this vaguely hazy state of bored abstraction for the last couple of days, and he didn't realize that his body had already slipped over into the sensitized skin-hunger that he associates with first days.

What time did Eliot say he was coming home, anyway? No, maybe he – maybe he shouldn't think about Eliot too much yet.

Yet.

Yeah, maybe Quentin does need that bath today.

Only Margo and Eliot's suite has a tub, and both of them typically ward their doors. Quentin's never tried to get into Eliot's room uninvited (he's pathetic, but he's not that pathetic), and he hasn't tried to get into Margo's room – lately, but he does start for that one first. Then he rethinks. Whether or not he can get into Margo's room now (and he probably can't), there's no question that she's going to be infinitely more pissed at him about the intrusion than Eliot would.

That wasn't always the case, but. Margo's default with him these days is just-slightly-less-than-infinitely pissed, and those do not feel like reliably stable qualifiers. He chooses Eliot's door instead.

It's satisfying deep in Quentin's bones when Eliot's door opens to a simple Koehler's, because that's normally how you pick a mundane lock, not a magically warded one, which means – Eliot's wards are definitely set to go soft for Quentin, right? That's what it has to mean.

And it's impossible not to think about that, as he runs the water for his bath, as he strips his clothes off and sinks in. Eliot resetting his wards, adding a new condition, just in case. In case Quentin – wanted to come in while Eliot was away? While Eliot was asleep?

Quentin huffs out a little breath and sinks up to his neck in the hot water, his knees popping above the surface as he scrunches his shoulders downward. Fuck, should he – should he have done that? Just been like, fuck Eliot's courtship rules and broken into his room, broken into his bed, crouched over him with his hands braced on the silk of Eliot's robe (does he sleep in the same robe he comes down to breakfast in? Does he sleep in anything?) and leaned over and kissed him awake?

No, that's. Eliot doesn't want that. Quentin knows he doesn't want that, because he said with his literal mouth in literal English words, The situation is delicate, darling – appearance of impropriety – proceed with caution. Eliot doesn't even like for them to be in the same room alone; he'll put his arm around Quentin while they study on the couch, hold Quentin's hand around campus, but you know what people will think if we come out from behind closed doors together.

I don't honestly care what they think? I don't understand why you do, either.

But he does, and that's just – Eliot. Eliot cares more about what other people think than any ten normal human beings, and it's not exactly Quentin's favorite thing about him, but everyone has their stuff. Fuck knows Quentin does, so who is he to judge?

That ward, though. A boundary specifically designed to fall down the moment Quentin tapped at it. That's... Huh.

Quentin can smell his own sweat, pulled out of him by the steam filling the closely sealed bathroom, and he tilts one leg outward, bracing his knee on the side of the tub. He can feel his vent melting open just a little more – speaking of a soft border that's just waiting to be pushed through. In just a few hours, Eliot is going to use his long fingers – his strong, nimble fingers that have gripped Quentin's hands and guided him through tuts, that have tangled in between Quentin's fingers possessively – to push Quentin's vent open wider, and that information hits Quentin between the shoulderblades and punches a moan out of him. Quentin grips his own thighs with both hands, closing his eyes and listening to his too-sharp, too-loud breathing in the quiet bathroom, because fuck, it would be so easy to rub it out right now, but also he doesn't want to, the last thing he wants is his own hand yet again. Not when he's finally so, so close to getting Eliot to spread him open and--

God fucking dammit, can Eliot just fuck him already? Quentin's been waiting for it for – conservative estimate, about two months, and more accurately – like ten years?

Breathe. A few hours, that's all. Breathe....

They've only even had a conversation on the subject one time, two months ago when they became officially-unofficial, or whatever the fuck they are. Upstairs from another dumb PKC party (theme: Flamingo Tango, which meant lots of boisterous pink and palm fronds and delicious pineapple drinks), just drunk enough to cross the line into not caring that everyone hates them together. Pinned against the hallway wall, half-hanging off Eliot's neck, kissing and kissing until Quentin's lips tingle and he's making helpless, hungry noises that Eliot licks off the tip of his tongue. Trying clumsily to undo Eliot's tie while Eliot's arm is in between them, his hand pressed up under Quentin's black t-shirt (fuck a flamingo) and cradling the curve of his ribs. Wait – wait, Q, you have to – ah, fuck, not do that.

I want to. Eliot, I want to--

But I don't.

And the way his stomach falls, the sick tremble of confusion, embarrassment, of loss – until Eliot touches his face, cups Quentin's chin in his big hand, presses two, three strong kisses against Quentin's cheekbone. You're different, I want it to be different with you. There were a lot of people I didn't treat right. Let me do better, let me treat you better, treat you like you deserve.

Okay, that's – that's really sweet, but like, sleeping with you would be, uh – pretty good? I would definitely feel like I was being, uh, treated – treated great, actually. I bet.

Eliot's smile, low and slow and dangerous, and his kind, kind eyes. Trust me, I can do much better for you than pretty good. But not tonight. I want to do this right.

Like – after a date?

Eliot's smile, and his eyelashes sweeping low as he shuts his eyes, as he leans in to kiss Quentin's face one more time. Eliot, smelling happy and steady and protective, smelling like Quentin's home. After I've courted you and won your favor.

After.... Eliot, oh my god, you have my favor, okay? I favor you, I favor the shit out of you, can't we just--?

He would keep arguing, if Eliot hadn't shut him up with a kiss that basically melts Quentin's jaw off his face. We started all wrong. I want to make it right.

And what could Quentin have said to argue with that? It was Quentin's fault they started wrong. He said he was sorry, but if sorry doesn't translate into letting Eliot do – whatever he thinks makes it right, then it's just an empty word.

Eliot deserves more than empty words. And Eliot deserves more than Quentin starting without him today, so he's not going to. Today is....

He's Eliot's today. They've both earned that, and Quentin's not going to fuck it up for a boring, stupid orgasm in the bath alone.

So he's good in the bath, he's so good, on his very best behavior, but the warmth bleeding into his muscles feels amazing, so Quentin re-ups the heat in the water with magic more than once, and when he finally drags himself out he's probably less clean than he started off, all wilted and waterlogged, covered in the sharp scent of his own sweat and slick. He sits on the edge of the tub and dries off, half-afraid to try standing up, because wobbly legs and steam-damp bathroom tiles are a bad mix and going into heat with a head injury would be an even worse mix.

He didn't even plan far enough ahead to bring a change of clothes. He's eyeing his balled-up, discarded clothes from this morning, obscurely put off by the idea of them touching his wet skin. Fresh clothes sound marginally better, but only marginally; the truth is he doesn't want to put anything on at all. The truth is – what he really wants –

Well. Why can't he?

He's Eliot's omega (unofficially, it's complicated), and even if he's not (exactly), he has Eliot's signature on four hundred pieces of paper that say that he's about to spend three days on Eliot's knot, so why can't he be in Eliot's bed? Eliot's not even here and neither is anyone else, basically, so for once they don't even have to care what the neighbors think (Quentin never cared to start with).

Quentin doesn't even remember making a decision, it just kind of – happens. He leaves all his clothes on the floor of the bathroom and wanders into Eliot's room, which apparently he's allowed in, even though he hasn't been here since, since his last heat, the last time he was flat on his back with Eliot in between his legs, Eliot's mouth on his skin.... Quentin whines into the pillow, rocking his whole body with slow, lazy intent against Eliot's soft purple blanket. He doesn't remember deciding that, either – to lay down naked and damp and get Eliot's bedding all messed up, but at whatever point he made the decision it was a good one. He can smell Eliot everywhere, faint but unmistakable, and when he licks Eliot's pillow, his own pheromone-rich scent mingles with it, harmonizing.

He dozes off, he thinks, or at least he's dragged under the surface by that thing that happens in heat, where time doesn't exist. Is he in heat? He's not sure – he's close, but he doesn't feel – he's so contented here, arms and legs wrapped around Eliot's comforter, with none of the driving, heart-racing touch-hunger that he associates with heat. So maybe not, or not yet anyway. Maybe this is just...partially the oversensitivity of preheat and partially...just happiness? Normal happiness, where you just want to be where you are? Maybe, Quentin guesses.

The sounds of the door and footsteps get Quentin's attention, but he doesn't look up from where he's pressed his face into the pillow, because if he hears what are you doing here? he's not going to have an answer, so he'd ideally like not to hear that just yet.

What he does hear is his name, the way Eliot shapes his name – that low, soothing voice dipping gracefully to stroke the first syllable harder than the second – Quen-tin. It sounds so nice when Eliot says it. Melodious. Quentin responds in a little grunt, which isn't graceful or melodious – he can't do things the way Eliot does them, he's nothing like Eliot.

Eliot sits beside him, dipping the mattress. “Quentin,” he says again, soft and breathless. His hand settles gently against the sweaty skin of Quentin's back. “Darling, can you – can you sit up for me?”

“No,” Quentin mutters, which is more or less a lie, he probably can sit up. He doesn't want to, though. He doesn't want to move at all, he just wants to breathe the spicy smell of Eliot and let Eliot's giant hand pet him until he melts.

Eliot's hand shifts until it rests with Quentin's sacrum right in the cup of Eliot's palm, his fingers spread wide so they lightly cover Quentin's back and a not insignificant portion of his ass. “You're beautiful like this,” he says with a strange little catch in his voice, marring the music of it. “But it's not... Your den is almost ready; I need to take you there. Okay?”

The den – Quentin's den, the den in the place where he lives. Where he and Eliot live, not live together, but – kind of together. That sounds nice. “Okay,” Quentin sighs, turning his face to the side so he's not talking directly into the pillow. “Yeah, that's-- we should go to the den.”

He can see Eliot now; if he looks better after spa day with Margo, then Quentin's too clueless to see the difference. Eliot looks perfect, like always. He smiles at Quentin, using the tips of his fingers to brush the damp hair off Quentin's face. “Hello,” he says.

Quentin smiles back. “Um, hi. I was – I took a bath.”

“Mmhm,” Eliot says. He leaves his hand against the side of Quentin's neck as Quentin pushes himself up with one arm and awkwardly works himself around to sit on the edge of the bed at Eliot's side. Eliot leans in and presses a warm kiss to Quentin's temple, inhales deeply, and then sits back with his hands clasped in his lap. Quentin's not sure if that's supposed to cover up his erection, but actually it only draws attention. There's...really no hiding that. “I – I did some shopping,” Eliot says. “I haven't had time to unpack it all, so if you can – do you think you can wait just a little more? Not long, I promise. I just want everything to be ready for you.”

He's still staring at Eliot's crotch, Quentin realizes, and he jerks his head up to make eye contact. That's – better, for certain values of better. “You want me to – wait here?” Quentin doesn't love the idea, honestly.

From Eliot's little frown, he kind of agrees. “No, come with me,” he says. “I'll get you a robe.”

Oh, because Quentin is – naked, right. Yeah, that's, that's a good point. Robe would be good.

Eliot has a million of those, of course, and he picks out a heavy dark blue robe from his closet and basically dresses Quentin like a doll in it. It's not that Quentin can't move, he's just kind of – zoning out, and anyway this is better, he's pretty into the way Eliot's big hands feel around Quentin's forearms, guiding him into the sleeves, the way Eliot's arm make a big, loose circle around him as he wraps Quentin up in warmth. “There, now, that's better,” Eliot murmurs, sweeping Quentin's hair back with his fingers, placing a soft kiss on his forehead. “You're with me now, aren't you, pup?”

“I'm not a pup,” Quentin mutters, even though he's pretty much acting like one right now. Still, it's not nice to make fun. Heat-brain – Quentin can't help it.

“I know you're not,” Eliot says. “You're my lovely little omega, aren't you?”

But he's – he's not, though, or it's – unofficial, it's complicated, they're not.... It's not the way Eliot makes it sound. “You want me to be?” Quentin asks, because in spite of how Eliot dresses and acts, it's not the fucking Edwardian era, it's the twenty-first century, and – relationships are complicated, they don't all look alike, and you can't assume that just because someone went shopping to stock your den and calls you darling and calls you special and takes you on, on stupid fucking picnics on the Sea, you can't assume you know what they want from you, unless you. Ask.

Eliot frowns again, but he seems more puzzled than unhappy. “You know, Q,” he says in something a lot more like Eliot's normal voice, “I actually put a lot of work into--”

“I know, I know you do,” Quentin says hurriedly.

“--into courting you, so I don't. I don't – know what you want?” Quentin's stomach drops, and he shakes his head, trying to figure out how to say, nothing, nothing, just you. “I know the reputation I have, and I'm not saying it's wrong. But I'm doing everything I can think of to show you that – to show you how much I care about you. I know you still don't – believe me, entirely, you aren't sure about me--”

“That's so not the issue,” Quentin says. “I'm sure.”

“Are you?” Eliot says, fixing Quentin with focused intensity, his hand gripping Quentin's thigh, but the scent coming off of him holds no anger at all. He smells sad. Quentin's eyes close as Eliot leans closer, and he thinks they might kiss, but instead Eliot's forehead butts gently up against Quentin's. Quentin can feel the curl of Eliot's hair brushing against his skin. “You know how I feel about you?”

Quentin's not sure he can breathe, but he manages a little sound, a puff of yes, and he reaches his arms up around Eliot's neck and tilts his own head to bare his throat. Eliot's hand slides up to grip Quentin's hip, and he bends down to press his mouth to the join of Quentin's neck, nuzzling his lips against the slippery, slightly oily texture of the sweat beading up around Quentin's gland. “Jesus, fuck,” he groans into Quentin's skin. “I want you so much. I want you to be mine.”

You're really not supposed to have, like, relationship conversations under heat conditions, but – fuck it, Eliot's right, he's been more than putting in the work, and there's no other reason he'd do all that, other than just. Wanting Quentin. “Me too, I want you, too,” Quentin says breathlessly, nuzzling into Eliot's lovely silky hair. “Take me – knot me, please. Eliot, please.”

Eliot's fingers clench in the velvety fabric of the robe, and he pushes himself slowly away until he's sitting upright by Quentin again. “Come on,” he says. “Everything's almost ready for you.”

Once his arm is tucked snugly under Eliot's arm, it's actually not hard to walk down the hall, down the stairs. Everything is working, brain and body, Quentin is just – spacey. But Eliot anchors him, his smart, crisp shirt and the solid forearm underneath it giving Quentin something to wrap his hand around, the sheer size of him towering at Quentin's shoulder providing shelter to soothe Quentin's little bit of hindbrain hypervigilance. He's going to his good, safe den, escorted by his good, strong alpha, and it's stupid and irrational, but it feels nice. He smiles up at Eliot, feeling foggy and dumb and happy, because yeah, maybe pretty much everyone in Quentin's life hates the fact that he and Eliot are a thing, but they are. So – suck it, haters.

Eliot takes him down to the kitchen and has him sit at the bar, brings him sparkling water with a twist and kisses his temple again. “Just stay right here until I come for you,” he says, rubbing Quentin's back. “It won't take long.”

“Okay,” Quentin says contentedly, leaning on his elbow and poking the lime twist until it falls into his glass with a splish. “I'll be here.”

He does almost doze off then, tracing patterns in the condensation on the side of his water glass, listening to the way Eliot's heavy steps echo through the PKC when it's all but empty, up and down stairs, opening and closing doors. Taking care of things. Taking care of Quentin.

That's not – the kind of omega that Quentin is, usually. Or he didn't think he was this kind of omega, but what if he is? If Eliot – tall, sexy, confident Eliot, the alpha that the miniature world of the Physical Kids revolves around like the sun – if he thinks that all of this is right for Quentin, that it fits him, then maybe Eliot – knows? Eliot knows a lot of omegas, after all.

There are voices on the far side of the living room, over near the foot of the stairs – voices arguing. Quentin hunches down, turtling into his robe, because he can't deal with conflict right now, it crawls over his skin like ants and he hates it.

The only voice he can really make out is Margo's, but in the pauses between her words, he can hear the low thrum of Eliot trying to be soothing, and Quentin knows they're fighting about him. They don't fight about anything else. Quentin puts his head down on his arm and wishes he could....

God. What, run away from home? Disappear into a comic or a Fillory book? Call Julia and let her distract him with funny stories about math camp? All the hits going way back into Quentin's discography, any of the things that used to keep him from crawling out of his skin when his parents yelled at each other, not infrequently about Quentin.

He can hear the staccato shots of Margo's heels on the tile as she stalks into the kitchen, passing behind him. He doesn't say anything to her, and she ignores him, too. She mostly ignores him these days.

Quentin doesn't fully exhale until he hears Eliot's slower tread approaching, Eliot's scent settling protectively around him as he puts a hand on Quentin's arm and another one on his back. “Okay,” Eliot says, quiet and a little tense. “Come on, Q, it's time.”

It's time. It's time. Quentin slides off the barstool and grabs for Eliot's hand to steady himself. Eliot's strong fingers lock through Quentin's and squeeze, and for a second Quentin really does forget everyone and everything else. The second after that he remembers, but it's pretty easy to pretend that he doesn't – that he can't feel Margo's cold eyes prickling through his back as he walks away.

He just focuses on his alpha, who's there to keep anyone from hurting him.

But of course Margo can't just let herself be ignored, like – of course she can't. “Have fun, boys,” she calls after them, poisonously sweet. “Fuck it all out of your systems, okay?”

There must be something more than just the mating urge sizzling along with all the chemicals in his blood, because a totally unfamiliar anger flashes up between one heartbeat and the next, and Quentin wheels around to face her and says, “You know, he denned with you a month ago, and I didn't say anything--”

Margo slams the cabinet shut and swings toward him like a cobra. “You didn't say anything? What the fuck do you think you could have said about it?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Eliot says, throwing an arm up across Quentin's chest, a barrier between them that's probably more to deter Margo than Quentin; it's just that Quentin's closer.

“I thought you were my friend,” Quentin says – shouts? Is he shouting at Margo? He can't even tell, he just feels so – wild and needy and – and hurt, it hurts how she turned on him when he'd been so proud even just to, to be close to her. “You told me he wasn't your alpha, I didn't know you'd take it this way--”

“Is that what you think, you think I'm jealous?” Margo scoffs. “I don't give a shit who he sleeps with, as long as they put him back the way they found him. But you're going to wreck him, and I take that just a little fucking amiss.”

“What does that even mean?” Quentin says, at the end of his fucking rope with this, he's been walking on eggshells for months and he doesn't even know why.

“It means that Eliot is special--”

“Bambi, stop it,” Eliot says. “Stop, this isn't the time--”

It doesn't make a difference, of course, Margo doesn't listen to anyone, not even Eliot. Quentin can't believe he used to think that made her so cool, and not just, like, an asshole. “It means that he is special,” she says again, and something new shines out from the crack in her voice. She's still pissed as hell, but for the first time there's something raw and painful behind it. “He was supposed to be somebody, he-- we were going to travel all over the world after graduation, we were going to throw parties and discover artists and gamble excessively and seduce and blackmail someone who really deserves it. That's what he wants, it's what he always wanted, until he decided the only thing that mattered was some bougie bitch from New Jersey without a single adventurous bone in his fucking body, the nice omega he can finally take home to Mother. He's going to throw away his whole future, everything he could have done and been, just to make you happy, and you're not fucking worth it.”

Quentin has no idea what to say to that. Of course he's not – but he doesn't want – and Eliot wouldn't – Quentin's adventurous, isn't he? At least a little? Like, he doesn't know if he wants to seduce and blackmail Elon Musk or whatever, but did it really never once occur to Margo that... He's a really good poker player, at least, and the rest of it he could – probably learn? If he were worth an invite, which. He guesses Margo doesn't think he is.

“That's enough,” Eliot says, quiet and sober. “I told you, this isn't the right time to get into all this.”

“Right,” Margo says scornfully, like Quentin's regularly occurring heat today is some personal insult aimed at Margo. “Of course.”

She doesn't look back at them as she goes upstairs, doesn't give the slightest indication that she's coming back, but they still stand there dumbly for a minute, like they're both afraid to set something off by moving. Finally, Eliot leans over and kisses Quentin's hair lightly. “Don't worry about it,” he says. “She's – freaked about graduating next year, and she found someone to take it out on. She'll get it out of her system and things will go back to normal.”

That's not exactly the kind of friendship that Quentin is used to. It sounds exhausting. He manages a game smile as he slips his hand back into Eliot's, and he says, “You know, I'm a pretty good poker player. Like, if we all went to Monaco and we put you up as collateral in a high-stakes game as part of a secret Interpol sting to take down uranium smugglers, I would win that game. Save the day. All that.”

“Good to know, Mr. Bond,” Eliot says, smiling warmly at him. “Might pencil that in for next summer.”

Even though Quentin's legs are trembling a little from the double hit of adrenaline, lust and conflict, he feels like he floats effortlessly down the stairs; he's probably as clumsy as usual, but Eliot has him, Eliot won't let him slip and fall. Everything is okay, because Eliot. (That's the heat talking – mostly.)

Before he opens the door to the den, Eliot wraps an arm around Quentin and covers Quentin's eyes with his hand. “Eliot,” Quentin says, trying not to whine, or to melt. “Trust me, the anticipation is – we don't need any help.”

“Indulge me,” Eliot says. “And – act impressed, okay?”

That does make Quentin melt a little, and not just as, like a euphemism for the fresh pulse of slick wetting his thighs. It's just such a weirdly vulnerable thing to say, because who is ever not impressed by Eliot, where did he ever get the idea that he might need to call that in as a favor?

It's impressive – of course it is. Eliot has piled the mattress with pillows and blankets, quilted and knitted and one faux fur, and he's hung paper lanterns above the mattress on different lengths of cord, so that they look a bit like they're falling like snow in the dimness. There's another light on a small table that Eliot's moved into the room, a candle inside a jar that illuminates the low, round table and its piles of food. “So nice, Eliot,” Quentin mumbles, leaning back against Eliot's body, letting Eliot's arms wrap around him.

“Yeah?” Eliot says. “Do you want to lie down and smell everything? I've been – I've had it all on my bed for the last couple of weeks, because I didn't want anything to smell – too new, you know, or like it just came out of the plastic.”

“You wanted it to smell like you,” Quentin teases gently, his fingers brushing over the back of Eliot's hand where it rests on Quentin's belly. “That's, uh. Really romantic.”

“I hope that's all right,” he says cautiously.

They could keep this up all day, or at least until the first clench of true heat. Feeling equal parts impatient and giddy, Quentin twists out of Eliot's arms and backs toward the mattress, pulling Eliot along by the fingertips. It's easy to drop Eliot's robe in among the other warm things so that when Quentin lies back, he's completely naked, and this time Eliot doesn't ask if it's all right to follow. He falls down just where Quentin wants him, wrapped up between Quentin's legs, his tongue sliding home easily between Quentin's lips. Quentin purrs his approval of the tobacco-and-clove scent of Eliot that enfolds him from every side, gripping the shoulders of Eliot's shirt with both hands and tugging him closer, deeper. Eliot's hand strokes him, slow and exploratory from hip to underarm, then settles lightly over the curve of Quentin's chest, over his giddy, impatient heartbeat.

When Eliot pushes up on his hand, his lips are wet and flushed and his eyes are soft, the lashes fluttering like he's fighting off a spell to put him to sleep. Quentin puts a hand to Eliot's face, feeling the smoothness of his fresh, professional shave and probably, like – exfoliation or something. “Is there – anything you want to talk about?” Eliot half-whispers. “Anything you want?”

“Just you,” Quentin says, and for once he doesn't feel – weird saying stuff like that to Eliot, weird about talking to him like Quentin has some kind of right. At the moment, Quentin has every right. “God, I can't believe you made me wait until my next heat before you'd even touch me, you dick.”

“I touch you,” Eliot protests with a smile. “I touch you...respectfully.”

“Well, I don't want your respect,” Quentin says, reckless and semi-truthful. “Jesus, I want you to think I'm attractive, okay? Is that too much to ask, in between carrying my books and making me fucking – charcuterie boards?”

Eliot's smile doesn't falter, but Quentin's pretty sure he sees a little flicker of uncertainty at the corner of Eliot's eyes. “Wouldn't bother if I weren't attracted,” he says. Quentin nods and pets comfortingly through Eliot's loose curls, but before he can apologize, Eliot adds, “If it were just us, I'd never let you out of my bed. But if our positions were reversed – if I had to see you going to someone else in my own home-- I guess I thought if Alice had the rest of the semester and the summer to get over you, it wouldn't hurt her so much.”

And Quentin knew that was a factor, like obviously he did know, but something about hearing Eliot say it directly rather than slide around it with vague platitudes like appearance of impropriety, it makes Quentin ache a little with the proof of how kind Eliot can be, how much he thinks about other people, or at least his friends. “I get to choose, though,” Quentin says, and it feels – so unnatural in his mouth, but also it sends a thrill over his skin, heat and cold all at once like a fever. “That's – like, whatever, that's – being a quote-unquote real omega, right? You both brought me what you had to offer, and I...like you. I pick you.”

Quentin has never been the kind of omega who had alphas fighting over him. He's not beautiful like Margo or warm like Todd, he's awkward and prickly and moody, he can't dance and he can't read a room, he's a total buzzkill at parties. This is not a situation he knows except from movies and books, but he is an omega, and he theoretically knows his rights. He knows he gets to keep the alpha who can win his favor, and holy shit, he favors the absolute fuck out of Eliot Waugh.

“Lucky me,” Eliot says, low and breathless, and he nuzzles Quentin's cheek and his neck until Quentin squirms. “How close are you?” Eliot asks, settling his hand firmly on Quentin's thigh, thumb drawing circles in the hair. “Want something to eat first?”

“I mean,” Quentin gasps, “if – if you're hungry. I can be ready, though. If you want.”

“I don't think it has anything to do with what I want,” Eliot chuckles.

But it – kind of does, in this case. Quentin leans up to press a quick kiss to Eliot's perfect cheekbone and he says, “Want to see a cool trick? Take your clothes off.”

“Oh, I like it already,” Eliot says lightly, kneeling up to obey.

Eliot's body is – Quentin's not surprised, by any means, but fuck it's so gorgeous, slim and graceful like a beautiful omega, which only sets off his alpha assets – his height and solidity, his big hands and strong jaw and the dark hair all over his torso. Quentin tries to be cool about staring at him, like it's not his first time seeing a naked alpha, which it's not, but he still doesn't feel mentally and emotionally prepared for the sight of Eliot's thick, flushed cock standing up hard for Quentin, for the scruff of loose skin around the base that will thicken up into a knot once the rut catches hold of him. God, Quentin could've seen a hundred naked alphas (he has not), and he'd still be drooling all over himself to feel this body covering his, this knot filling him up, this--

This person who likes Quentin, who wants to be good to him, sharing the intimacy and the vulnerability of heat with him.

“Show me your trick,” Eliot says gently, his eyes laughing at how fucking transparent it all definitely is on Quentin's face.

“C'mere,” Quentin demands, and Eliot comes without hesitation.

The blankets do help and probably the robe did, too, but nothing packs a punch like the taste of it straight from the source, the scent of Eliot's breath and his wet mouth and the sweat clinging to his hairline and beading up low on his throat. Quentin breathes it all in, deep, heaving breaths, and he feels it wash over him, rich and smoky, carnal, Eliot. Quentin's body shudders, aroused and frankly a little confused, but that doesn't keep Quentin from grabbing Eliot's wrist and pulling his hand toward Quentin's vent. Eliot gasps and goes wide-eyed as his fingertips sink in with mindless ease, slick pooling in the cup of his palm. “You – did you just--”

“Uh-huh,” Quentin says, squirming down on Eliot's fingers.

“You can trigger your own heat on purpose?” Eliot says.

That's – no, that's so backwards that Quentin has to laugh, which actually comes out more of a crazed giggle. “'M not,” he says, screwing his hips upward, trying to get more sensation against the blood-flushed, sensitive inner walls of his cloaca. “You are. If I'm close, smelling you can, can get me there.”

“But – why? I've never heard....”

Neither had Quentin, but he's done a little research recently, and according to the good omegas of r/heat_help, it's rare but not unheard-of. Clinical research is sparse, but like any other form of attraction, it seems to be something in the immune system recognizing and latching onto a particular, necessary form of compatibility. Quentin fully intends to explain all of this in appropriately endocrinological detail – it's pretty interesting, actually – but right now he's in fucking heat, and the best he can do is gasp out, “You'd make a good, good father, my body wants – put it in me, please, give me your pups.” Oops, that's – marginally socially acceptable in the middle of a heat, but it's weird, right, that Quentin just went there right away? He's never done that before.

Eliot doesn't seem to mind at all. He makes a weird growling noise against Quentin's chest and pushes his fingers in hard, deep, coaxing more slick from Quentin's body. “Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, the fingers of his other hand closing tight in Quentin's hair. “Mine, beautiful, wanna breed you, sweetheart, right now.”

“Okay,” Quentin says on a spacey laugh. They're lying, of course, Quentin's suppressants are working like always, regularizing his cycles and dampening his pheromones so that he doesn't shed I'm breeding please come get me 24/7, as well as preventing any actual conception. Yay for modern miracles of science, allowing Quentin to be twenty-two years old and a mediocre Magician getting a non-accredited Master's degree in moving shit with his mind instead of just someone's loyal mate, barefoot and pregnant half his life.

But, like. Today it's really hot to pretend that Eliot's gonna dick him down so good that Quentin will never be anything but fat and happy and surrounded by little – superpowered mini-Eliots with amazing immune systems or whatever. Like, this is a feeling that will definitely pass, but right now it is what it is, so why fight it?

The last thing Quentin wants to do right now is fight anything. He lets himself go a little limp, makes Eliot exert himself a tiny bit to roll Quentin over into presenting position, which Quentin could do on his own, but it feels so much better when Eliot handles him. He makes a little squeak of surprise when the feeling of Eliot's hands on his hips is followed not by Eliot's dick, not right away at least, but by Eliot nuzzling inside his thigh, up into his wet cleft, his tongue circling Quentin's soft, dilated vent until Quentin almost sobs into the nearest pillow. Quentin whines a little, trying to widen his knees, but all he gets for his trouble is a few sweet, nipping kisses on the meat of his ass while Eliot's long fingers rotate inside him again, which is like – he's not complaining, but. “You taste – smell so good,” Eliot rumbles. “Buttery – warm – toast.”

“Toast,” Quentin repeats, half hysterical, because oh my god, Eliot had months of time Quentin would've happily dedicated to foreplay, but now he wants...?

It happens fast when it happens, though – Eliot rears up, looming, and it makes Quentin instinctively hunch down into his presenting crouch, his chest practically pressed flat to the mattress and his back arched. Eliot's cock is big, definitely bigger than any of the others (okay, either of the other two) that Quentin's had, but – nature takes its course, and Quentin's body softens and spreads effortlessly to welcome him in. Eliot gives a few lazy thrusts like they're just fooling around, a little advance sample (Quentin hopes) of what real life will be like now that they're together, but quickly enough Quentin can feel the pressure of Eliot's knot, firm and snug against him.

When Eliot knots him, he puts his back into it, riding Quentin right down into the mattress almost before Quentin's locked around him. Quentin whimpers, his whole world reduced to Eliot's hands on his waist and Eliot's knot caught inside him as the clench and release of orgasm begins deep inside Quentin.

The first wave passes, and Quentin releases his breath in a rush. “Shhh, shsh,” Eliot is saying, his strong hand stroking over Quentin's side. “Okay, sweetheart?”

“Okay,” Quentin confirms shakily. “It's – kind of abrupt at first, like a cramp? Feels better now.” An aftershock shivers through him, and he bites his lip on a little smile hidden in the pillows. Yeah, from here on it gets much better....

Eliot feels huge draped along Quentin's back, and Quentin loves it, holy shit. Eliot's hips move lazily as his lips nuzzle the nape of Quentin's neck and behind his ear. “Toast?” Quentin says, shifting his head so his cheek rests on his arm.

“Yeah,” Eliot says on a sigh. “Warm bread, dripping butter. Notes of strawberry jam. Saturday morning breakfast.”

“Oh, okay,” Quentin laughs softly. “I smell like brunch, cool.”

“Hm,” Eliot says. “Like croissants at brunch maybe, but. I was thinking of – when you get up early on Saturday morning to watch tv, and it's not a school day so you're not being pushed out the door with yogurt and cold cereal, but your mom still doesn't want to make breakfast for everyone, so the older kids make toast and chocolate milk....”

“That's a very specific memory,” Quentin says. “You – had a big family? Growing up?” It's a little weird to talk about this while they're, like, literally still coming, but all they're doing now is riding it out, so why not take advantage of Eliot being literally unable to get away?

He's silent for a minute, just long enough for Quentin to realize that he doesn't have to answer any questions just because he can't technically leave. But then he finally says, “Yeah. I was six of eight.”

“Is that your Borg designation?” Quentin asks, and he laughs at his own stupid joke. Look, he's literally having an orgasm right now, he can't be expected to be witty. “That's, that's a lot, though. I'm an only child,” he adds, which he's pretty sure Eliot knows, probably. Quentin's not secretive about that stuff. “I always thought I'd like a big family,” he says dreamily. “Not that big, though. Like – three or four kids.”

Eliot chuckles, which given their context – yeah, it's a weird thing to say. “Split the difference. Good call.”

“I mean. Not right away,” Quentin says. “Obviously, like – after we have jobs and a place to live and all that.”

“We?” Eliot says softly, brushing Quentin's hair carefully away from his exposed eye.

“Well, my – my mate and I. I'm still, uh. Interviewing for the position, obviously.”

Eliot laughs again and drops his cheek to rest against the back of Quentin's shoulder. That must be murder on his neck, but he doesn't seem to mind. “How am I doing?”

“Your, uh, your resume really caught my eye,” Quentin says.

“I'm sure,” Eliot says wryly. “Don't worry, I know this is not the appropriate time to make plans for the future. I'm just feeling very cozy at the moment.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “I – I get that. So you – you do want that, too? A mate and a family and everything?”

The conversation is briefly derailed by something apparently pretty amazing happening to Eliot, who grasps at Quentin and grinds into him and makes a lot of low, breathless noises that are maybe the sexiest thing that's ever happened to Quentin in real life. “Oh, fuck,” he sighs when he goes lax against Quentin again. “What – what were we talking about?”

“Nothing, it doesn't matter,” Quentin says. Not like they won't have to talk about all this stuff again later.

But Eliot finds the thread on his own and says, “I wasn't always sure. Maybe I'm still – not completely sure. But it's a hell of a lot more appealing to me than it used to be.” He doesn't actually say that has anything to do with Quentin specifically, but – they are tied together, currently. And they're extremely genetically compatible, so. Quentin's going to, at least temporarily, believe that it has everything to do with him, or at least with the way he apparently smells like family breakfasts to Eliot.

“I'm not a very good cook,” Quentin blurts out. Eliot makes a lazy questioning noise and rubs his hand up and down Quentin's arm for no clear reason. “I can – make eggs. I made scrambled eggs this morning, they – came out pretty good?” Quentin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Every tiny shift of his ribs and his abdomen makes him intensely aware again that Eliot's cock is still deep inside him, pulsing gradually in response to the contractions of Quentin's heat. “I can make breakfast when we leave here. For – us. I mean, for you.”

Eliot is silent for a moment. “I think that's my job,” he says gently. “You'll be tired.”

“We'll both be tired,” Quentin points out. “And...that's one of the things I like about you? I mean, that you're not-- That you don't always do things like other alphas do.”

“Don't I?” Eliot says, soft and a little reserved. Uncertain, maybe.

“I mean, I see you as an alpha, of course I do,” Quentin says, and then he winces because – isn't that one of those things that you can't actually say without kind of implying the opposite? “Just, just not a stereotypical alpha. I mean, I would think that you'd...be okay with...non-traditional gender stuff?”

“Because I'm queer?” Eliot sounds – not defensive, exactly, but guarded. Quentin's definitely going about this all wrong.

“I don't even know what that means,” Quentin says. “I mean – I know what it means, obviously. But I don't know what it means for you, and like – if it means you're either more or less likely to eat eggs, I definitely don't quite get that aspect.”

“Touche,” Eliot says. “Can we...talk about this later?”

Quentin's still not entirely sure what the fuck they're talking about, but he's fine with that.

There's plenty of time after they separate, and by that point Quentin's actually pretty hungry. He and Eliot both pull large pillows over to the table and lounge naked by candlelight, working their way through a surprisingly healthy spread – roasted cauliflower and blackberries and slices of salami and a really amazing white bean and artichoke dip. “Forget it, I changed my mind,” Quentin says, experimenting with wrapping the salami around a cracker-and-dip combo. “You're a better cook, you should cook.”

“Well, practice makes perfect,” Eliot says lightly. “Listen, I – overreacted, and I apologize.”

“It's fine,” Quentin says.

“Maybe, but I want to explain. I've never been – involved with anyone quite like you before, and I think I've been trying to.... I don't know, over-correct a little? Maybe prove to – you, or to myself, that I can do the...” Eliot makes a languid gesture in the air, the candle guttering as his arm sweeps past it. “The alpha thing. The has-mate-potential thing. It's always been more of a goal for me to convince people that I'm not those things.”

“You don't want to – be someone's mate, or – or an alpha?” Quentin knows that's a thing, of course. That not everyone quite takes to their secondary designation, any more than to their primary. It's a tiny minority of a pretty tiny minority, though, so if anything Quentin's way more clueless about – all that than he was about Eliot's sexuality.

Eliot pours himself a little more wine, frowning thoughtfully. “It's more – localized than that,” he says. “I don't mind it personally. I like it, honestly. I like being able to smell things that betas can't. I like ruts. Sex vacation, what's not to love? And – being wanted like that by an omega, being needed.... It's not something I would want to give up. I just don't like the way people feel like they know you, the – the reductive way that – the box they want to put you in. I don't know, it's hard to explain.”

“It makes sense to me,” Quentin says. “I think...we all feel like that sometimes. Primary gender roles can be constrictive, and secondaries... we get it all so much worse, because we have all these. Biological imperatives. There's so much we can't control, I think people. Forget that we can control a lot. I never liked feeling like someone just saw me as, like, an example of omega-ness, either. It's super dehumanizing.”

“I think I'm...angry,” Eliot says, which startles Quentin. Alphas are famous for being angry, but – Eliot's not. But then Quentin thinks for the first time in a long time about that shattered lamp, about the guilt on Eliot's face when he admitted responsibility for it. “The minute I presented, my life slammed into this fossilized form, where I'd follow my knot around, chasing omegas until one of them thought I was worth something, and then I'd just start – all of it, you know.” Quentin nods; he doesn't personally know, because he grew up with people assuring him that he could do anything he wanted, that being an omega wouldn't change his life at all except four times a year. That wasn't totally true, but it was...aspirational or whatever. He doesn't think anyone ever told Eliot that. “Do you know Jacob and Esau?”

“Uh.” No? Sort of? “I know it's – it's Genesis, right? Jacob...wrestles with an angel?” Quentin wasn't raised religious, but you can't be an English major without at least a cursory familiarity with the weirder parts of the Bible.

Eliot nods, staring down into the surface of his wine like he's scrying it. “Esau was Jacob's older, hairier brother, and Jacob stole his birthright by tricking their senile father into passing his blessing onto Jacob in a fake fur. Very 80s sitcom-level stuff, in my humble opinion, but that's how the story goes. We learned in my church that the birthright was secondary gender – that we inherited the blessing of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, while betas are all descended from poor, dim-bulb Esau.”

“Weird,” Quentin says vaguely. Probably not the most culturally sensitive response, but he doubts Eliot is going to call him out on it.

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees mildly. “Not evil-talking-snake weird, but weird enough. Anyway. My beta parents' faithful, godly marriage was graced with eight children, and I was the only secondary. Blessed and beloved. In theory.” The way he says it is soft and bitter and infinitely deep. Quentin thinks that – if he does keep Eliot in his life, then he might be spending a not-insignificant part of that life learning what all of this is about, what it means to Eliot, what it did to him. That's kind of terrifying, but maybe not as terrifying as it logically should be. Knowing Eliot is – good, maybe? Is exactly what Quentin wants to do with his life? “I wanted out from the minute I knew there was a world outside of Whiteland, Indiana. It's all I wanted, and it was never.... It was never going to be easy, but fuck, my folks had seven other kids, I figured they'd learn to live with it. But once I was the fucking chosen one, there was really no – finessing it. It was stay and be their Jacob or go and never come back. So. Here I am.”

That's not exactly a tragedy from Quentin's point of view, but he wants to be sensitive. “Do you ever wonder if you did the right thing?”

“Never,” Eliot says. “God, no. Can you even imagine? No, staying was not an option. But I'm angrier that it had to be that way than I used to think I was, you know? I'm not...heartless. My family wasn't perfect, but I loved them. It hurt to....”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, just to take the pressure off of Eliot. God, he looks so – beautiful and so weirdly fragile, naked literally and figuratively in the soft light and the flickering shadows. “It really – sucks to feel like maybe people don't. Love you as unconditionally as you'd kind of, um, kind of prefer.” Quentin's not really cut off from his mother, not the way Eliot is from his family, but. They're a little more estranged than Quentin finds it easy to admit, even – even to himself sometimes.

He thinks he could say that to Eliot, sometime soon. He doesn't want to make it about himself right now, but it's a conversation he can imagine having with Eliot. God, he can imagine being known by Eliot, and that's at least as big a deal as knowing him. Bigger.

Shit, he's in love with Eliot, isn't he? Not because there's an argument for it, or because Eliot's won his favor or he's good mate material, or anything like that, Quentin just. Can't find the limits and the conditions of this way that he feels, can't imagine what he would ever learn about Eliot that would make Eliot seem anything less than worth it.

“Can we...?” Quentin says, glancing over his shoulder toward their mussed and empty bed.

“Yeah, do you need--?” Eliot says, setting down his wine glass and sitting up straight.

Quentin nods, because his body could probably go another fifteen, twenty minutes before he needs to be mounted, but he does need Eliot's arms around him, needs to feel the strong bones under Eliot's skin between his hands, needs the scent of Eliot right from the source, needs to lick it straight off Eliot's tongue. God, he needs this man, and he's not sure when it started and can't imagine when it would ever stop.

A thousand years later, when the candle has long since burned down and Quentin is thirsty and sleep-deprived, he takes advantage of omega privilege to sprawl decadently on his back, brain halfway to the next galaxy while Eliot sucks desperate marks into his neck and fucks him with sweat and muscle, with his big cock and his filthy fucking perfect pheromones dripping off his skin and onto Quentin's. He's not thinking about anything. He doesn't need anything. He's never felt so good, so full, so content in his entire life, and every time another wave of orgasm shakes through him, he slips free of his body just a little more.

“I love you,” Eliot says, his hand splayed against the side of Quentin's face, his hard, hungry kisses moving up Quentin's jaw, blindly seeking and finding his mouth. “Q, I love you, you're mine,” he says as he shudders, bending under the force of his desire, and Quentin wraps as much of himself as he can around Eliot and holds on, nodding as he gasps for air. I love you too, yes, me too.

They'll have to talk about it all again, obviously. Later on. Quentin doesn't care.

Eliot falls asleep almost before they've managed to untie, but Quentin is still in the stratosphere because of all the endorphins, and he rests on his side, stretched out along Eliot and stroking Eliot's sweat-matted chest as it rises and falls, the paper lanterns casting a celestial glow over the dramatic planes of his face. He's so remarkable, he's so unlike anyone Quentin's ever known. Quentin's so in love with him, and they're only just getting started.

It's the last gasp of Quentin's heat – honestly, he's not sure he even was still in heat for that last round; Eliot's knot didn't even fully catch, and neither of them noticed or minded. Quentin's still wired, but in a clean, bright way that feels more like being hyped up on energy drinks and anxiety for midterms than it does like being in heat.

Poor, sweet Eliot is sleeping like he's just come home from the war. He deserves the rest.

Quentin's trying to estimate the time when he realizes – the door's not locked. You always have to be locked into your den when you're alone, because the time will definitely come when you won't be able to remember that there are downsides to going out and offering yourself to the first alpha you can find. Even when Quentin's had companionship in the past, he's defaulted to a locked door; a lot of omegas like the extra sense of security. But so much was going on this time, he didn't even notice.

He's never left a den while his alpha was still there, but – there's no real reason for that, it's just. Not the way things are generally done, and Quentin is a bougie bitch from New Jersey, so he just does things the way someone told him they're always done and that's that. Point for Margo, he guesses.

Well, it's not much of an adventure, as adventures go, but Quentin gets up and finds his robe – Eliot's robe, and he lets himself out of the den. He wants to make breakfast for Eliot, and he's going to, because Eliot has literally nothing left to prove about what mate material he is, and Quentin...thinks maybe he has quite a bit to prove to Eliot.

It's not technically breakfast, since it's about two in the afternoon. He desperately needs a shower, and he weighs the pros and cons of using the bathroom he shares with Alice – terrible idea, he hates it – and of using Margo's – possibly the literal death of him, so, fuck.

He eventually decides on the suite bathroom, because if he's going to be sleeping in Eliot's room from now on, they're going to have to cross this bridge sooner rather than later. But then Margo isn't even up there, so Quentin gets his hot shower in peace, but he still has this hanging over his head, the inevitable confrontation when he and Margo have to share space again, because they share Eliot now.

It's fucked, and he – misses her so much. Misses who he thought she was, anyway – or who he thought they were to each other. Once he starts thinking about it, the melancholy overtakes whatever happy chemicals were lingering in his blood, and Quentin mostly just stands under the shower feeling exhausted and sad and missing Eliot already.

When he gets out, he forces himself to put on the clean clothes he brought from his room, but then he can't resist lying down on Eliot's bed for what turns out to be a nap.

He wakes up with a jolt, and it's after five. No sign of Eliot, though, so maybe it's not too late to surprise him, and Quentin pelts downstairs quickly, only to be brought up abruptly in the common room, where Margo and Alice are both reading on separate ends of the couch. Where else would they be, right, but he's still deeply unprepared for the way they both look up at him at once.

Still. They'll all be going their separate ways for the summer in a day or two, so a little awkwardness isn't the end of the world. “Hi,” he says, and they both stare at him with varying degrees of suspicion. “I'm, um. I'm gonna make eggs and toast for El, for when – I mean, he should be up soon, and. You know, you could – join us for dinner, if you want. Both of you.”

Alice glances at the door down to the utility room and the den, which is, god, unnecessary? Yes, it's going to be a post-heat-dinner, a high-carb, high-protein, you're-probably-hungry-after-mounting-me-fifteen-times-in-three-days dinner, but if everybody agrees not to draw attention to it, then it's not weird, right?

It's weird. Fine, it is weird.

“That'd be okay,” Alice says. “Can I do anything to help?”

He smiles, because it was kind of a downer to miss out on the flattering alpha attention during his preheat, but honestly if Alice Quinn offers you anything at all it's always worth a million times more, because she means it. “Yeah,” he says. “I'm putting you in charge of toast, okay?”

Margo...doesn't exactly offer to help, or agree to join them at all, but by the time the food is underway, Quentin glances over and sees that Margo has taken it upon herself to set the table – with four settings. “Oh, hey,” Quentin says, even though he probably shouldn't draw attention and make it weird. “Are you eating, too?”

“Well, everybody's gotta eat,” she says. “And...I owe you a small favor, so consider my glorious presence it.”

“You don't owe me anything, Margo,” Quentin says, because – yeah, she hurt him when she dropped him as a friend, but favors don't fix that. Only being a better friend next time fixes that, and she either wants to do that or she doesn't. Either way, they'll...figure things out. They'll have to, for Eliot's sake.

Margo shrugs, reaching into the secret wine dimension past the back of the fridge to come up with a bottle of champagne for mimosas. “Well, it was a little harsh, what I said about New Jersey,” she says. “I mean, it has its charms, right? You got Atlantic City. Springsteen. Some guy took me on a date up there one time to look at whales. Fucking whales, whatever, but at least he made an effort. So. I shouldn't have been so quick to run my mouth off. Some people like it, you know.”

“New Jersey,” Quentin says, just to check that they're, like, sticking with this.

“Yeah, New Jersey,” Margo says crisply. “We're talking about fucking New Jersey, aren't we? I'm saying, some people like it, and even if it wouldn't be my pick, I could – cut it a little slack.”

“I'm sure Springsteen appreciates you keeping an open mind,” Quentin says.

They're just sitting down at the table when Eliot comes pelting up the stairs, still half-asleep and startled into a mild panic by having lost the omega that it was kind of his one job to protect; he signed the forms and everything. “Hi, sweetheart,” Quentin says. He's not sure that really fits right on his tongue, but he might get used to it? He'd like to keep an open mind, anyway. “Are you hungry?”

Quentin watches Eliot's eyes sweep the table loaded with eggs and toast and mimosas, the friends already seated and the plate waiting for him. He looks over at Quentin with something – beautiful and complicated and curiosity-provoking on his face, something Quentin can't wait to know better, and he says, “I was going to make dinner for you.”

“Ugh,” Quentin says, rolling his eyes. “Are you tired?”

“Yes,” Eliot admits.

“Are you hungry?”

“God, yes.”

With some effort, Quentin maintains the same casual tone as he says, “Are you my boyfriend?”

“I – yes,” Eliot says, the words scraped out of him through sheer will.

Quentin gestures with his fork toward Eliot's waiting chair. “Then shut up and eat the eggs I made you.”

Slowly, Eliot pulls out the chair, still moving in a bit of a daze. He looks around once more at everything and everyone like he's trying to commit it to memory, or trying to believe it's real, but whatever he needed to see, that one more look seems to find it, and Quentin can see his shoulders relax. He pauses in the act of sitting down to kiss Margo's cheek next to him, and then he's taking a plate of toast Alice passes him, and the conversation starts up again like it never stopped.

Quentin lives for two more years at the PKC, but he never attends a better party there.