Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The problem with getting together two weeks before finals is that you barely have the chance to enjoy your new relationship before the semester is over.

Granted, the end of the second semester was a lot less stressful for Quentin’s class than the end of the first. At least no one was getting turned into a goose and forced into some weird emotional bondage trust exercise. Less so for the second years. Eliot, it seemed, had been pinned down along with the rest of his cohort by Sutherland, and given a very serious lecture about spending the summer picking their dissertation topics.

The retelling contained a lot of emphasis on 'expanding magical understanding' and 'broadening the depth of magical learning', and Quentin can't honestly tell how much of that is an expectation that every graduating senior discover something new and how much is Eliot lowkey freaking out. Probably some of both. The thing with Eliot freaking out is that it tends to happen explosively and quickly and then get buried and aggressively not dealt with ever again. Quentin’s still trying to figure out how to navigate that.

Seven months of friendship and three weeks of a tentative relationship haven't really been enough for Quentin's to get his brain around the quirks yet. And it's a tentative relationship only in that Eliot keeps looking like he's waiting for it to be snatched away from him, a little look of delighted surprise on his face every time Quentin settles into his lap or slips into his room. It only makes Quentin want to hold on harder, honestly, prove to Eliot that he deserves anything he wants.

It's kind of a miracle that one of the things he wants is Quentin, but he's not going to question it. He'd decided, the second that a hint of that want seemed serious, that it was worth fighting for.

The problem is, well. Summer.

Eliot and Margo stayed on campus during the summer. This was, Quentin has gathered, a fairly rare occurrence, and reason both of them ended up as Dean Fogg's deputies a lot of the time. Sort of an unofficially work study, they got free run of the campus during the break in exchange for doing more or less what he told them to do most of the rest of the year.

"I'm sure we could get him to let you stay too," Margo says yet again, three days before the end of the semester, the three of them gathered in her room to celebrate the last second year final being complete. "We're not just gonna be sitting here smoking weed all summer, either, we travel a lot."

"We will be sitting here smoking weed some of the summer," Eliot whispers conspiratorially from where he's sprawled on the bed, head in Quentin's lap while Quentin's sits against the headboard in Margo’s mountain of pillows. Quentin grins down at him, carding his fingers through Eliot's soft hair. Head-in-lap is tacit permission for hair-touching, and Quentin’s going to make the absolute most of it, sliding his fingers through the soft black curls, the stiffness of product giving way under his hands.

Margo’s sitting at her desk, sorting through papers and notebooks to celebrate the end of the semester by ritually burning. She is, at least, taking the time to pull out things she might want to reference later. Eliot had just dumped an entire semester's worth of work in a bag and called it a day. "Of course there will be some of that, but we're going to Barcelona soon. Are you sure you don't want to stay, Little Q?"

"I'm sure," Quentin says quietly, watching his own fingers slide through Eliot's curls. "I mean, it sounds kind of amazing honestly, but– I want to spend some time with my dad."

The ‘While I still can’ hangs unspoken in the air. Eliot hums a little, turning his head to rub his cheek affectionately against Quentin's thigh. "You can still come visit," Eliot points out. "Or travel with us, if you want. It's not an all or nothing proposition, baby."

Quentin swallows the little shiver of delight he gets every time Eliot calls him baby. "Yeah, I– will definitely visit. I don't want to not see you for three months."

"I don't want to deal with him not getting laid for three months," Margo says pointedly, bunching up a piece of paper and lobbing it with all her Welters expertise so it bounces lightly off Quentin's head. "So you fucking better visit."

"Love that my Bambi looks out for me like this," Eliot says with a sigh, and Quentin bites down on his smile, enjoying the feeling of being caught up in the little bubble of their world. He really is going to miss it, this feeling of belonging, of being welcome in their space. Margo and Eliot, who kept everyone at a distance, had let him in. That’s never stopped feeling special.

Quentin has one final left, but the truth is he’s been packed and ready to go for days. He’s not exactly constitutionally disinclined to living out of a suitcase, especially when he spends six out of seven nights sleeping in Eliot’s room, anyway. Just sleeping, sometimes, because Quentin’s spent his whole life being a shitty sleeper, but always a little less, if he’s got someone to share a bed with. Even less than that, it seems, if the person is Eliot.

So Quentin’s been packed for a while. The books he wants to take back for the summer and his lightest weight clothes are tucked into his case and duffle bag and everything else is packed up and in storage, waiting for the end of summer. Being a rising second year means getting the chance to claim vacant bedrooms, before the new batch of first years get their disciplines assigned. It means he can, finally, move out of the room over the kitchen, which pretty much always smells like whatever’s being cooked downstairs. Three quarters of a year of eggs and burned popcorn and curry and burned popcorn and pizza and burned popcorn and fucking– cinnamon apple cupcakes at 3am, why, Eliot, just why, was more than enough for him. There's a room opening up next to Margo, and well– maybe it isn’t as nice as Eliot’s room, the little bubble of safety up in the attic, a beaded curtain and a flight of stairs and a door away from everyone else.

But it's not like he expects to be in his room a lot, anyway, so Margo will probably thank him for the quiet. And when he is in there, well. Margo on one side and Kady diagonally across and Alice down at the end of the hall, there were worse odds, when it came to feeling safe in a place. As long as–

As long as he gets to stay here. Until some discipline presented itself (oh, god, please) and he doesn't end up whisked off somewhere else. None of the other options seemed appealing, the Illusionists’ Mansion (“They have the tackiest parties,” according to Margo) or the Naturalists Treehouse or in with the Healers in the infirmary where Quentin can live out his own personal nightmare of being in a hospital for the rest of his life.

No, he really doesn’t want to leave The Cottage, with its eclectic bohemian clutter and warm earth tones, with Eliot and Margo and the other friends he’s managed to make this year, its little reading nook, and Eliot’s attic bedroom. He barely even wants to leave it for the summer, especially to go spend the next three months in New Jersey, in the house he hasn’t exactly lived in since he turned 20, except–

While I still can, right?

So Quentin participates in the ritual burning anyway, which mostly seems like an excuse to get drunk at a bonfire, but who is Quentin to question tradition. There's lots of wine to go around, first and second years mulling around the flames outside The Cottage, and being outside under the stars somehow alleviates the feeling of being trapped that Quentin usually associates with parties. Or maybe that's just Eliot, happy as ever to have Quentin in his space, but social, attention elsewhere until Quentin wants it. Eliot has a knack for making Quentin feel included without the pressure to perform some social role that he doesn't understand. He can just stand with one of Eliot's arms looped around his waist, head back against his shoulder, and watch the fire. Eliot's so tall, and his voice is such a deep soothing rumble, and Quentin didn't know how badly he wanted this but he does. He desperately, desperately does.

Three months of not seeing Eliot every day. Three months of not being able to kiss him, or crawl into his bed when sleep proves elusive, or bury an anxiety spiral in the weight of his arms. Even before everything, before other failed relationships and drunken kisses and bar-side revelations, being around Eliot had felt calming. Grounding. Safe.

Quentin's going to miss him.

He's still staring absently into the fire when he becomes aware of the feeling of being watched, and focuses in enough to actually see Alice standing on the other side of the circle, watching him. Should he go talk to her? Things are still weird, more than a little, but they're going to be in this cohort together for the next two years. God, he hopes 'friends' might be on the table for them some day, he really does still give a shit about her. But as soon as she registers he's noticed her watching him, her mouth pulls into a small smile and she turns away, turning back into a conversation with an illusionist student Quentin doesn't know. Which tracks, honestly, she was getting tired of talking to him when they were together, why would she want to talk to him now?

Like he can sense Quentin's mood taking a turn towards shitty, Eliot's arm tightens around his waist, nose pressing down into his hair. "Need another drink?" he asks, soft and private, and Quentin's stomach squirms a little. There's still a little bit of wine left in his cup, but Quentin swallows it easily, feeling the burn of alcohol in his throat.

"Would you look at that, I think I do."

Following him to the drink table is just an excuse to stay close, make the most of the few days they have together before Quentin disappears back into the muggle world. They end up sitting together on one of the scattered lawn chairs, sharing a single cup between them, bottle set at the side to refill it when they get low. Having Eliot's attention, his focus, his smiles and his lovely hazel eyes all trained on Quentin is a lot, it really is, and Quentin just wants to bask in it. They talk softly, into the small space between their bodies, until the tension becomes too much and then they're kissing, cup and bottle abandoned to make out under the stars, in the middle of a crowd.

They disappear back into The Cottage before the party's over, but nobody seems to notice except Margo.

Eliot’s room in The Cottage feels like another world. Some of that is definitely magical, Quentin knows, silencing spells to keep their noise in and other noise out. But there’s a feeling to it, a warmth, which isn’t magic. It’s the candles on the surfaces and art on the walls, the soft squishy rugs on hardwood floors and the sheets, blankets, pillows on the bed, more comfortable than any dorm bed had a right to be. It’s Eliot, his personality made physically manifest into his space. It’s a little bit Margo and Quentin too, in the bits of themselves they’ve left here, Quentin’s books and Margo’s photographs.

He’s going to miss this so much, he thinks, as he stands at the foot of Eliot's bed, looking around. This little bubble of safety, a place to hide. He’s looking fondly at the pictures on Eliot’s desk, the Margo-Quentin-Eliot-Alice-Kady of it all. Physical kids. He can feel it when Eliot moves up behind him, the weight of his presence is almost enough to make Quentin shiver even before Eliot touches his sides. Hands sliding up and down and then around to hug him, tug Quentin back against his chest a little.

“You look sad,” Eliot says quietly, lips just against the shell of his ear, and now Quentin really does shiver.

“Nah,” he sighs, leaning back into Eliot’s arms. God, he loves this feeling, the strength in Eliot’s arms, the shelter of them. “Just thinking.”

“Mm, sometimes that’s the same thing with you,” Eliot points out, teasing a little, and well. He’s not wrong, really, is he?

“Not tonight,” Quentin promises, turning around so he can go up on his toes for another kiss, lips still tingling from before. Eliot hadn’t bothered to shave again before the party, and his 5-o’clock shadow prickles across Quentin’s skin, hot and exciting. His tongue is soft, when it brushes Quentin’s lips, makes him want to open up without a second thought.

Exciting is a good way to describe it, the feeling that curls in Quentin’s stomach as they shed their clothes, as Eliot half-picks him up to slide the two of them back on to his bed. Excitement, at the span of Eliot’s shoulders as he slides off his shirt, excitement at the thick dark hair on his chest and the hungry look in his eyes. It’s exciting to feel Eliot braced over him, big enough to make Quentin feel caged in when they kiss again. Excitement, eager and sharp, when he finally gets his hands down Eliot’s pants, feels up his cock in the tight confines of his trousers. It’s already thickening up, head poking out of the foreskin, and that’s exciting too; all the ways they’re different here.

“Want you," Quentin breathes, give Eliot's cock a little squeeze, feels it grow a little in response. Quentin stomach clenches in excitement, God. That beautiful cock.

Eliot laughs breathlessly above him, curls tumbling artfully across his forehead. "You have an exam tomorrow," Eliot points out, kissing– all the way down Quentin neck, that scrape of stubble on skin like lightning through him.

"What, you think I'm not gonna be able to focus if I can still feel your massive dick inside me the whole time?"

"I think," Eliot breathes out, nose dragging up Quentin’s neck until they can kiss again, again, again, "– that it's a distinct possibility."

“Sounds like you’re gonna have to get creative then,” Quentin sighes, rubbing– just to feel Eliot’s hips press into his hand, to hear him gasp as Quentin’s thumb rubs up under the head of his cock, tracing that fascinating seam where the extra skin folds back.

“Just– Jesus, fuck– just me?” Eliot pants, pulling back enough that Quentin can look up into his face. He’s lit golden-yellow by the soft lamp and the flickering fire-light shining in through the windows of his room, hazel eyes blown black and mouth a soft red that Quentin just wants to– bite– “Where’s your creativity, Coldwater?”

“Baby, I think we both know that if it’s up to me, it’s going in my mouth,” Quentin says dryly, which makes Eliot laugh, sharp and bright and loud, and look at Quentin in that way he does sometimes. Like Eliot likes him, just– likes him. Like Quentin makes him happy.

“I’m never going to complain about that,” Eliot purrs, petting one of his beautiful fingers over Quentin’s mouth, and what, is he supposed to just not lick it? Eliot’s skin tastes a little like wine and woodsmoke, and Quentin wants to chase it, except Eliot’s hand is moving to cradle the back of his head. Thumb petting softly at the skin behind Quentin’s ear like it’s an afterthought, Eliot brushes their noses together as he says, thoughtfully. “I might have an idea, though.”

“O-oh?” Quentin asks, squeaks really, because Eliot licks his throat and then has the audacity to pull away after. Except– oh, he’s taking his pants off, which is good, yeah, probably necessary for pretty much anything Quentin wants right now. Scrambling to follow his lead, Quentin gets his jeans about three quarters of the way off before he gets distracted watching Eliot, with his miles of leg ending in tiny silky black briefs which are doing absolutely nothing to keep his cock in place–

“Pants, Q,” Eliot says, fondly, with way more composure than someone that hard with like a full bottle of wine in their system should be able to manage.

By the time Quentin extracts his ankle from his jeans and underwear, Eliot is naked, kneeling on the bed with one hand curled loosely around his cock. He’s watching like– like something about Quentin is worth seeing, like something about seeing Quentin makes Eliot want to curl those unfairly long fingers around his own beautiful dick– And Jesus, Quentin almost wants to go at it mouth-first anyway, ideas be damned, except Eliot’s smiling and reaching out for him with a murmured “C’mere,” and so, thoughtless– Quentin goes.

He gets a kiss, which he was expecting, straining up because even with both of them kneeling on the bed like this Eliot is still almost a full head taller than him. Then he gets nudged around, which he was not expecting, Eliot’s hands gentle but firm on his hips, sides, ribs.

“What are we doing?” He pants out, which gets him another laugh, soft and gentler this time. But maybe that’s because Eliot’s crowding up behind him now, close enough that his breath skates out over Quentin’s ear.

“You said you wanted it,” Eliot murmurs, low, nose and mouth brushing along Quentin’s shoulder until he’s shivering. “I’m giving it to you. Trust me.”

“Yeah– okay,” Quentin agrees, thoughtless, leaning back helplessly into the bulk of Eliot’s body behind him. God, he’s so warm, all skin and scratchy hair as his arms loop around Quentin to have enough room to do a series of familiar tuts, conjure slickness out of thin air onto the plane of his palm.

“Spread your legs,” he murmurs, soft and hot where his head’s hooked over Quentin’s shoulder. It sends a bolt of heat shooting down into Quentin’s gut, but he does, feeling– flushed hot and embarrassed and– turned on.

“I thought you said we couldn’t–” he starts, but then Eliot’s hands move not back towards Quentin’s ass but down. The slick is body-temperature, but Quentin still jumps a little as Eliot spreads it on the sensitive skin of Quentin’s inner thighs, up over his balls and back, getting everything– wet–

“There you go,” Eliot sooths, bringing his slick-wet hand up at last up to Quentin’s cock, as with the other he nudges his own cock in and– up until– “Close your legs now, baby?”

Quentin does, feeling flushed hot and skin-tight, shivering all over. It throws his balance off a little, squeezing his legs together, but he doesn’t care. He can lean back into the solid bulk of Eliot’s body behind him, keep his legs tight closed to give Eliot somewhere nice and warm to–

–fuck.

“Oh,” Quentin breathes out, only it’s more a moan, really, than a word. Because oh, it’s– it feels good, Eliot’s cock dragging against the slick skin of his perineum, rubbing against his balls, the rarely-touched sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Breath caught in his throat, Quentin looks down and he can see–

He can see Eliot’s long, thick, beautiful cock, poking out from between his legs on every gentle thrust, the head shiny and red. He can see Eliot’s big hand holding Quentin’s own cock flat against his stomach, the span wide enough to cover the whole thing. He can see it all, and he can hear Eliot’s ragged breath against his neck, and he can feel the drag of it like it’s– inside him, but it’s not because he can– see it all.

“Oh, god, El,” Quentin gasps, flailing around for something to hold on to, which means he ends up with one hand gripping the wrist Eliot’s not currently using to pin Quentin’s cock in place, and the other one back on the eminently squeezable curve of Eliot’s ass. Which– is just too much, maybe, given that now he can feel the flex of muscle every time Eliot thrusts.

“Harder,” Quentin gasps, and Eliot’s hand tightens on him reflexively, like he’s being– so fucking carefully.

“Don’t want to knock you over,” Eliot pants, voice low and deep near Quentin’s ear and it makes him fucking shiver, nipples going prickly into painfully tight little points, because Jesus Christ, this man–

“You won’t,” Quentin promises, reaching back with his other arm too, so he can hold on. “I can take it.”

“Fuck, Q,” Eliot swears, and his hips snap in on the next thrust, jolting Quentin but not– moving him. Not when he’s got something to hold on to.

“Yeah, come on,” he agrees mindlessly, loving the feel of it between his legs, the heat of it. Eliot’s making these– wonderful sounds, breathless pants and groans, his big broad warm hand keeping Quentin’s cock tucked up out of the way and it just feels– so intimate, so fucking overwhelming. “I can feel how hot your cock is. Jesus, El, you’re so hard.”

“I really am,” Eliot agrees, forehead dropping down onto Quentin’s shoulder, and– his curls are wet with sweat, hanging off his forehead and down against Quentin’s chest. Beautiful soft curls, when Quentin risks letting go with one hand to reach up and– hold him, stroke his head, just– touch him, because Eliot deserves to be touched with kindness, and fuck if he’s going to let Quentin do it then who is he to pass up the chance–

“You feel good,” Quentin murmurs, angling his head as much as he can to get his mouth on skin, just the curve of Eliot’s jaw within reach. “El–”

Eliot makes a sound that’s half a moan, half a sob, gripping Quentin’s hip tightly and fucking faster, harder, sharper. Like he’s losing control, loosening that grip he tries so hard to keep on his own composure most of the time. It’s okay, Quentin wants to say, helpless, clinging back, it’s okay, you can let go. I’m not going to let it hurt when you fall.

It’s messy, when Eliot comes, with a grunt and the hot spill of semen on the insides of Quentin’s thighs. It’s sticky and should really be gross, except– except Eliot’s barely done coming before he’s pushing Quentin back onto the bed and shouldering his way in between Quentin’s thighs. Making him spread, really, to a degree which almost aches because Eliot is nothing if not broad-shouldered. Then his– soft mouth and warm soft wet tongue are on Quentin’s skin, licking up the streaks of his own come and licking up, and licking up until he’s– nuzzling at Quentin’s cock, murmuring, “Hi, cutie,” like he’s fucking– missed Quentin’s dick.

It sends a hot rush of embarrassment, not-quite-shame through Quentin, makes him want to cover his eyes with one hand and grip Eliot’s hair with the other, because– because he feels small, but he likes it. Likes the way Eliot calls his cock cute, the way it almost disappears in Eliot’s hand, the way Eliot likes it.

And the thing is–

Being with Eliot always kind of makes Quentin wonder how he managed to get to 24 years old without having good sex before. And maybe that’s not fair to– Alice, and the handful of girls who came before her, except– The thing is, Quentin has never felt wanted the way he does like this. Stripped bare and laid out, spread apart and vulnerable, he’s never felt desirable like this before. Like everything he has is the exact thing someone else wants. To look down and see hunger in Eliot’s eyes as he takes Quentin’s cock in his mouth, to watch satisfaction spread across his face as Eliot goes down, until Quentin’s cock is nudging the back of his throat. Eliot’s hands cup his hips and hold on like he’s never wanted anything else as he makes his throat relax, until he can push forward so his nose is brushing the skin on Quentin’s lower belly.

Quentin hadn’t known he could be wanted like this, so thoroughly, so completely.

He’d had no idea how much feeling that, and wanting just as much in return, made sex so much better. Add to that the fact that Eliot’s got experience and technique to match Quentin’s own determination and enthusiasm, and it’s just– mind-blowing. Literally. Quentin is having his mind blown.

“I’m gonna come,” he manages to get out, one hand still petting in Eliot’s curls, because– sometimes Eliot doesn’t like to swallow, because sometimes it makes him cough for like an hour after, and Quentin tries to be good about it, but–

Tonight Eliot just hums, and goes back to the root, works the head of Quentin’s cock into his throat again and again and again until Quentin’s arching his back, helpless, as pleasure blooms outwards. Eliot just takes it, eyes closed, swallowing with determination around the wash of come. Every nerve ending Quentin has is sparkling, all alight, as Eliot works him through it, suckling ever so gently until Quentin starts to go soft and shy away from the oversensitivity.

“Um,” he starts, intelligently, as Eliot pulls off and clears his throat a little. “Good creativity. A+ top of the class, really.”

“Arts and crafts were my strong suit,” Eliot agrees, crawling up Quentin’s body to kiss him, which is– nice. They could do more of that, maybe. Except Eliot’s pulling away, nuzzling their noses together, as he whispers, “I’m gonna go get some water. Don’t go anywhere?”

“Mmmhm,” Quentin agrees, like there’s much chance of that. Like there’s anywhere else he wants to be tonight. Anything else he wants to do, other than take advantage of one of the few nights he has left of Eliot’s comfortable bed, the smell of his sheets, the warmth of his skin. “Come back soon.”

“I will,” Eliot promises him, kissing again softly, before crawling off the bed to collect one of his many robes and undoubtedly scandalize one or more of their housemates by wearing that and nothing else down into the kitchen. Quentin burrows his way under the covers, and watches him go.

____

Eliot goes with Quentin into the city, when the semester ends.

“You don’t have to come all this way, you know,” Q protests, again, as they step off the subway into Penn Station. But he’s still holding Eliot’s hand, letting Eliot carry his duffle bags. It’s military-green and probably bought at an army surplus store, because that seems like the kind of thing Quentin’s father would do, and Quentin wouldn’t care enough about to protest. He doesn’t, in any way that matters, looking like he’d rather be waiting to catch the train to New Jersey by himself.

“I wanted to come,” Eliot says, again, but can’t really bring himself to resent the repetition when it makes Quentin smile, small and private, curl in towards Eliot in the shuffling crowd.

It’s true, anyway, he had wanted too, would have driven Quentin all the way to Montclair himself if he still had a car. He’d had to have Margo talk him out of renting one to do just that, because she’s right, there’s a line between helpful and overbearing, and that’s probably it. Besides, the portal from Brakebills into New York was free, and Eliot loved being in the city anyway. It wasn’t even one in the afternoon yet; he’d have plenty of time to make the trip worthwhile after Quentin’s train left.

They’re early enough, due to Quentin’s travel anxiety and the efficiency of magical portals, that there’s a free bench near the platform when they roll into the station. Q perches on it, sitting as he always does, like a human raised by pigeons who’s never encountered a bench before. It makes something kind of painfully fond tighten in Eliot’s chest, and he’s– got to turn away, look out at the platform so he’s not looking at the curtain of Quentin’s hair, the wonderful slope of his nose, the corners of his mouth where his dimples grow.

Fuck.

Three months.

That’s longer than most relationships Eliot’s had.

“Hey,” Q’s voice comes through softly, and there’s a tug on the back of Eliot’s belt, like Quentin hooked his fingers into it nudge him back. “You can’t just stand there for 45 minutes holding a bag, Eliot. If you’re going to wait with me, then sit.”

Well, okay then. “Maybe I was waiting for you launch yourself off that bench from your runner’s crouch,” Eliot drawls, dropping the bag he’s holding down next to Quentin’s beat up suitcase and his messenger bag. He drops to sit next to Quentin, arm along the back of the bench in invitation.

“Mean,” Quentin accuses, but he tips over immediately, snuggling over into Eliot’s side. Head on his shoulder and knees on his thighs, Quentin cuddles in close in that thoughtless way he has, not a deliberate queer like fuck you dare into the world but with the ease of someone who didn’t– grow up afriad. Not of this.

Eliot loops his arm around Quentin’s shoulder, feels the warmth of him through his shirt, and presses a kiss to the top of his head. Queer like fuck you. “Yeah, I’m so mean to you,” he agrees, low, teasing. “Don’t know why you put up with me. You must be looking forward to getting a break from me.”

“Fuck, not at all,” Quentin laughs, a little choked, and Eliot’s heart clenches up in response. Q’s face grinds a little against Eliot’s collarbone before he pulls back, still in the circle of Eliot’s arm but enough to wrap his hands around his own knees. “Literally, I already miss you, this is so dumb.”

“It’s not– I’m going to miss you too,” Eliot says around the lump in his throat, rubbing his thumb along the curve of Quentin’s shoulders. God, because Quentin should know, right? Eliot might be crap about talking about his feelings, but he doesn’t want Quentin to feel like he’s alone in this.

“You’ll be in Spain,” Quentin points out, a little quirk at the corner of his mouth as he rests his chin on his knees, gives Eliot those big puppy eyes of his.

“Not for another two weeks,” Eliot says weakly.

“Mm, you have Margo,” Quentin points out, wiggling his fingers a little until Eliot hooks their pinkies together. “You’ll be fine.”

“We should– meet here, before I leave for Barcelona,” Eliot says, spur of the moment, but– fuck, July is a long time away. “We can meet in the city, and then– I don’t know, you can crash at Brakebills for a night, and go back to Jersey when we leave. You can be away for a night, right?”

“I can be away for as long as I want,” Quentin says, sitting up a little. “This is a self-imposed exile, remember? That’s not– I dunno, that’s not too soon?”

“Not for me,” Eliot promises, looking into Quentin’s eager face, so fucking beautiful. “I understand why you’re doing this, but if I had my way I’d keep you all summer.”

A little smile starts to curl at the corner of Quentin’s mouth. “Yeah?”

“God, yeah, of course,” Eliot whispers fervently, leaning into to steal a kiss just because he can, because Q’s here, now, with kisses ripe for the stealing. “Let’s meet up. Come on, it’ll be like– a date. We don’t do that very often.”

They’ve done it exactly once, in fact, if you don’t count the first night they hooked up, which Eliot tends not to because it gives Margo way too much credit. It had been Quentin’s idea, actually, to take Eliot to a wine-tasting at some up-its-own-ass place in Brooklyn. They’d drunk quite a lot of their tasting wine and giggled outrageously through the whole thing, and when they kissed in the tungsten lit garden outside, Quentin’s smile had tasted like rosé. Then the preparation for finals had started the next day, and well. Dates had been kind of thin on the ground since then.

“Okay,” Q agrees, voice quiet and private. Just for Eliot. “Yeah, that’d be nice, to have– something to look forward to.”

“Let me pick, this time,” Eliot asks, a sudden desperate urge to prove... something. That he knows Q as well as Q knows him, maybe. That he can take the same time and care. “I want to take you out.”

“I’m not going to complain,” Quentin agrees, and then tips his face up– asking for another kiss. Eliot gives it, and fuck Q’s just... melting, soft. Sweet. Pulling away from him is heartbreaking, but well. They’re in public.

“Fuck,” Eliot breathes, as Quentin head drops back on to his shoulder. “Two weeks is doable.”

"Totally doable," Quentin agrees, settling his hand warm and heavy onto Eliot's thigh. Then he turns, nudging his nose up against the underside of the Eliot's chin playfully. "Hey, did you ever figure out why Margo was being shifty about her PA final?"

"Oh my god, yes," Eliot exclaims, delighted. "Do I have some gossip for you, sweetheart."

The remaining 40 minute wait flies by like that, in Quentin’s laughter and their voices shared into the sacred space between their bodies, a private little world all their own. But all too soon, the boarding call goes out for Quentin’s train, and they're standing outside the platform. "Call me, basically whenever you want," Quentin whispers as Eliot wraps him into a hug. God, they fit together so well, how is Eliot supposed too just... let him go?

"Tomorrow," he promises, feeling– skinned, tender, aching. Grabbing for some thread of composure, he says lightly "You know if you wanted to give my ass just a little goodbye squeeze, you could."

It makes Quentin laugh, shoulders shaking in his arms, and honestly that's almost as good.

Eliot stands at the edge of the platform, watching, as Quentin boards his train. He looks back, just for a moment, as he steps on, holds up his hand in a little wave. Eliot waves back, heart in his throat, and then Q’s gone. He waits at the end of the platform until the train pulls out anyway, just– just in case.

New York City feels cold, somehow, after that. Even the early summer heat can’t really seem to penetrate the bubbly of asphalt and skyscrapers. He’d had a plan, some things he wanted to get done; new clothes for Barcelona, stop in at one of the many magical shops both legitimate and black market to see if anything interesting or useful had turned up, maybe swing by a record store. But all Eliot can see anywhere he looks is Mike, telling Eliot he was special and wanted while also screwing his personal trainer. All he can hear is Alexi from undergrad saying Honestly, Eliot, you’re too high maintenance. If I wanted to do this much work, I’d fuck girls. Eliot loves New York, he honestly does, but suddenly more than anything he wants to be back in the shelter of The Cottage with his Bambi.

Well, maybe not more than anything, but... More than anything else he can actually have right now.

He can’t disappear behind the wards quite yet, so he goes to the market instead, buys some couscous and steak and broccolini for sauteing. He’s browsing the wine selection when his pocket buzzes, a text from Q containing picture of a leafy tree in bloom clearly taken from inside a window with the caption ‘view from my childhood bedroom. as you can see, I have arrived.’

That’s going to have to be enough. Best he’s going to get, anyway. It’s permission, at the very least, to go back and hide behind Margo’s skirts. She’ll want to celebrate the start of summer, anyway.

Eliot skips the wine and buys tequila instead.

____

“Hey, you.”

The Skype connection is grainy, the monitor in the tech shack barely up to the task of displaying even a basic Youtube video, nevermind displaying Eliot’s boyfriend in the 4k HD he deserved to be seen in. Instead he’s an unsteady blurr, all knees pulled up to his chest and loose hair tumbling around his face, clearly sitting at a desk in front of his laptop. In the room behind him, Eliot can see the top of a bed, rumpled mess of unmade blankets, the edge of a poster or two. Tantalizing hints, all of them, to the person Quentin used to be.

“Hey yourself,” Eliot replies, and he’s smiling, god help him, but he can’t stop smiling. A couple of phone calls propped up against the payphone on the quad have not been enough. “How’s Jersey?”

“Quiet,” Quentin admits, laughing a little. He ducks his head, and his hair swings in front of his face, making Eliot’s hands itch to reach out and touch him. “I dunno, being back here feels weird, especially– like, I had summer jobs, in high school? In undergrad too. Honestly, the last two years I didn’t even come back here. It’s just weird, to be kicking around the house all the time.”

“Thinking about becoming a barista to pass the time?”

“God, no.” Q looks up under his lashes, biting his lip and Eliot feels a wash of heat because– god, six days, he hasn’t gotten to kiss Q in six days. He feels like he’s dying of thirst, over here. “Plus, that would kind of defeat the purpose of being here to help my dad.”

“How’s he doing?” Eliot asks, gently. He can just see Q’s shrug through the lag in the connection.

“He’s sick. I can tell, more, now that I’m here, that he’s really actually sick. It’s– some days are better than others? I’m gonna go with him to his doctor’s appointments, see why– I mean, it doesn’t make sense to me that there’s no treatment worth trying. Like– people get better from cancer, right? Sometimes?”

“I– I don’t know, Q. Sometimes,” Eliot says, hesitantly, and– fuck, he feels like a selfish piece of shit. Six days moping around campus, thinking how much more he’d always enjoyed summers before when he didn’t have anyone to miss and– Q’s been dealing with this. Eliot’s been moping like this is a choice Q made, he wouldn’t rather have a healthy father and get to fuck around with his friends all summer. Like him leaving is somehow a reflection on Eliot when he knows it’s not, has been telling Margo it’s not for days. “I don’t know anything about this stuff, but um. I can do like. Research? If you need, I’m just kind of sitting around here. Or... If there’s anything else I can do to help. Do you need rides? I can drive.”

“My dad can still drive,” Quentin sighs, resting his arm on his knee and his chin on his arm. “I don’t know, El. I barely know what to do with myself, much less what– what kind of help to ask for. But thanks.”

“I want to help,” he promises, and god, it’s stupidly true, isn’t it? Hasn’t he wanted to help Quentin since his second week, when that fight with Penny had landed him in trouble and found Eliot confessing his deep dark secrets out in the dreary rain. It doesn’t fucking matter if Quentin was a portal and a train ride away. Eliot still wants to help.

“I’ll tell you, if you can.”

“Even if it’s just–” What, being there with you? Hello guy I’ve been dating for a month, let me watch your fucking dad die. Jesus. Jesus. Eliot fights the urge to scrub his hands over his eyes, because that would just smear his eyeliner all over the place. He’s gonna get so fucking drunk after this call. “–even if you just need to talk.”

“Well, I always want to talk to you,” Quentin says, and there’s a warmth to his voice that makes Eliot’s stomach swoop. Eliot thinks he’s probably dimpling at the screen, that little crease in the corner of his mouth where Eliot gets to tuck his kisses, until it makes Quentin laugh. “How about you, what have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know. Drinking, smoking, painting Margo’s nails,” Eliot sighs, trying to disguise the wiggle of lonely unhappiness in his gut. He’s always loved the nothingness of summer, the quiet campus devoid of people, no one else to take Margo’s attention away from him. Except this year, it’s hard to ignore the Quentin shaped hole in their orbit, or the dissertation-shaped storm clouds brewing on the horizon, all the messy out of place pieces scattered across Eliot’s life. “A lot of beautiful nothing.”

Quentin’s head tilts, puppy-like. He’s so fucking cute. Has he always been this fucking cute? “You don’t sound super happy about that.”

“Oh, I love doing nothing,” Eliot laughs, rolling his shoulders a little against the terrible computer chair. “I much prefer doing nothing to doing something, most of the time.”

“But not now,” Quentin fills in, shrewdly.

Eliot can’t do much besides shrug. “I mean, Margo’s kind of being a bitch about this whole thesis thing. She’s like– determined to get a head start or whatever, so–”

Quentin hums thoughtfully, arms wrapping around his knees again. “Margo’s also already got an idea of what she wants to explore, though. There’s nothing wrong with taking the summer to just relax. I mean, I’m literally just sitting around catching up on Netflix and all the movies I missed this year.”

“You’re not going into third year,” Eliot points out quietly, too quietly to be picked up by the shitty webcam.

“What? I missed that, you kind of dropped off.”

“Nothing, nevermind,” Eliot says, louder, readjusting himself to sit up straighter, press his shoulders back and breathe. “Just– you should have a call with Margo, fill her in on all the nerd shit she’s missing.”

“Hey, have her call me whenever,” Quentin laughs, waving his hand as if to indicate his ample free time. “You’re the ones with the shitty reception, I’m just sitting here with my thumb up my ass.”

“Why, Quentin, I didn’t know it was that kind of call,” Eliot purrs, suggestive, and Quentin laughs. The sound distorted through the connection, and Eliot hates it. He wants to hear Q’s laughter, his dumb little giggle, the warmth of his happiness, all the more precious for how hard-won it is.

“I don’t even want to think about anyone jerking off in the tech shack, El,” Quentin mumbles, and Eliot wonders if the door to his room is open. If his dad is kicking around somewhere nearby, listening to the formless rhythm of their conversation, the muffled rise and fall of sound echoing through the house Eliot’s never seen.

“Yeah, best not to think about that,” Eliot agrees, though he’s never been less hard, honestly. Mostly he just wants to lay with his head in Quentin’s lap, feel Quentin’s strong fingers scratching against his scalp. Mostly he just wants to see Quentin’s smile from 3 feet away instead of 300 miles. Mostly he just wants to stop feeling like everything’s slipping away.

"There's got to be a lot of magical history in Spain. Maybe you can find something there that inspires you. For your dissertation, I mean?"

"Babycakes, please don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not going to Spain to do homework. I'm going to Spain to drink a lot of excellent wine and look at a lot of very attractive men in very tiny swimsuits."

That gets him another burst of giggles. Eliot can't see if Q's blushing, but he ducks his head, hair swinging in front of his face in the way that means he probably is. Knee up to his chest, he looks– incredibly snuggable. All the way out there in fucking New Jersey. "Well, you could do both," Q suggests, looking up at Eliot from under his lashes.

"Okay, Hermione Granger," Eliot shoots back, just to watch him laugh.

"I'm not good enough to be Hermione," Quentin says, dimpling at him through the screen. "Julia's Hermione, or Alice. I'm like... Neville, probably."

"Margo calls you 'our Harry,' you know? Granted I haven't read the books because, as we both know, I can't read–"

"Of course, right, naturally."

"– but I did see at least six and a half of the movies, and it seems to me that Harry's more the 'dumb jock with a heart of gold' type–"

"Wow, you know me so well, El, it's like we share a brain."

"– and I think it's not off base to say that you would run into a creepy bathroom dungeon containing a giant snake monster if someone you care about was stuck inside it," Eliot concludes watching a pleased little expression bloom across Quentin face.

"Well," he starts, and then glances away. "Maybe for you or Margo or Julia. Penny and Kady have to save their own asses."

“Penny and Kady are more than capable of saving their own asses,” Eliot agrees. “Then again, Margo and Julia probably are too. Guess that just leaves me.”

“Like you really need it either. You’re the single most powerful caster in your year,” Quentin points out, low, a dry quirk to the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, baby, I think I need it more than you know,” Eliot admits, feeling– raw, stripped and skinned all of a sudden. Like somehow Quentin might not know how much of a mess he is, like he didn’t– watch Eliot fall apart for weeks, last year.

Like he hasn’t been seeing through the performance Eliot puts on for a while now.

“I miss you too,” Quentin says, quietly, and Eliot’s heart aches.

“Yeah– yeah, I know.” He swallows, fumbling in his bag to fish out his flask. Getting drunk after is still a good plan, but– maybe he can burn away a little of that sting now. Quentin’s watching him thoughtfully when he looks back to the screen, but says nothing, just offers a little smile. “So tell me about this nerd shit you’re catching up on.”

“Hmmm, how much do you care about Westworld spoilers?”

“Baby, I don’t even know what that is,” Eliot admits, sinking back against the horrible chair and taking another swig. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Okay, so it’s this, like– theme park? Okay, fuck, no, it’s a TV show called Westworld but in the show there’s also this theme park called Westworld. And it’s like this near future thing, but the park is set in the old west... and the whole show is this, like, meditation about personhood, because there’s like, robots, right? But you don’t know that–”

The knot of tension wound up tight like a spring between Eliot’s shoulder blades begins to loosen as he settles in, content to burn an hour or two away like this. Smiling a little, he listens to Quentin talk.

____

The date ends up being kind of amazing, actually.

Quentin feels like his head’s in the clouds from about the second he sees Eliot, absentmindedly stuffing a book into his bag as he wanders off the train platform at Penn Station. Eliot is, always, forever, irreverently beautiful, leaning casually against a bench with his long, long legs crossed at the ankle. He looks... fucking incredible, dark grey pants and a purple jacket which is actually probably like– plum or auburgine or some color Quentin doesn’t fucking know. He’d never claim to understand Eliot’s style, but he can appreciate the way it makes him look: like, incredibly appealing, in a Jane Austen kind of way.

Of course, the way Eliot kisses him hello would probably make a regency heroine come down with the vapors. Quentin’s feeling a little faint himself, when Eliot draws back, leaving Quentin’s lips pleasantly damp and tingly.

“Hello there,” Eliot practically purrs, from like... four whole inches away from Quentin’s face. Was he always so tall?

“Uh huh,” Quentin agrees, a little stunned. His jaw is maybe hanging open a little.

This, for some reason, makes Eliot grin, nuzzle their noses together. “Never change, Cutie Q.”

“What?”

“Nevermind,” Eliot laughs, pulling away far enough that they’re not causing a scene in the train terminal anymore, and looping their hands together. “Are you hungry? The place I want to take you has sandwiches and appetizers, but if you want more than that, I’m happy to get dinner first.”

“Sandwiches are fine,” Quentin promises, excitement sparkling through him like champagne bubbles. God, two weeks, he’s been in New Jersey for two weeks, and now he can’t fucking stop smiling. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” Eliot says, smirking like the little shit that he is. Which gives Quentin the perfect excuse to needle him, tug on his hand and whine until Eliot threatens to pin him against a wall and shut him up.

It’s not much of a threat, honestly.

But their destination turns out to be an arcade bar, full of craft beer and cocktails with nerdy names like 'The Princess Peach' and giant collection of game cabinet and pinball machines. Eliot, with his dexterous hands and quick reflexes and excellent pattern recognition, turns out to be kind of unfairly good at all the games that aren't openly rigged. But oddly enough, Quentin finds it hard to be competitive in any serious way, not when Eliot's so clearly enjoying Quentin’s enjoyment more than anything else. They take turns cheering each other on more than they play against each other, laughing and joking as the machines merciless eat their tokens. By the second drink, Quentin wound his way under Eliot's arm, hand in his back pocket, thoroughly handicapping him to the point where he's basically trying to play Donkey Kong one handed. How lucky for him he's telekinetic.

"You're a menace," Eliot informs him, as the game counts down through the losing screen. But he's smiling, and murmuring the words from a distance of about 3 inches from Quentin’s face, so. He'll take it.

He’ll take a kiss too, if it’s on offer.

They retreat to a high-topped table once they're out of tokens, with fresh drinks in hand, Quentin with a beer and Eliot, a cocktail named 'Winter is Coming' which seems to just be an overpriced gin and tonic over crushed ice. Sitting, Quentin can just hook his feet on the rungs of Eliot's chair, let their ankles tangle together, bodies angled towards each other. He can feel Eliot's breath on his face as they lean together, talking lowly. He smells fucking amazing, really, sharp and clean and masculine. It makes Quentin want to climb into his lap, which he's not nearly drunk enough to actually do, but the impulse is there.

"Margo spent all morning complaining that I'm hogging you," Eliot's saying, trailing the fingers of his left hand along Quentin's right. "Next time you come visit you're going to have to come for a couple days so she can actually see you."

There's a warm, bubbly glow in Quentin's stomach that's got very little to do with the alcohol. Margo, in her own way, has been as good a friend to him in this last year as Eliot has. Missing her has a different shape, of course it does, but he misses her too. "I brought her a book," Quentin says, gesturing towards his messenger bag, hung up on the wall innocently, like it's not currently under the effects of Ramsiders Extradimensional Space. "I know you're not flying to Spain, but I figured she could like.... read on the beach or something."

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled," Eliot agrees, fingers trailing along the inside of Quentin's wrist. He's wearing three different rings on that hand, and Quentin finds himself wanting to put his mouth on the metal, feel the temperature difference between the body-warm silver and Eliot's skin. "Even if she doesn't read it while we're in Barcelona, I'm sure she'll read it after."

"Have you ever been before?" Quentin wonders aloud, watching the play of colored lights from the arcade cabinets mixing on Eliot’s face in the dim light. The noise of the bar is a good excuse to sit close, but that doesn’t stop Quentin from looking his fill, seeing as much of Eliot as he can get right now.

"Barcelona? No. Spain, yes, obviously, twice for Encanto Occulto, but that's sort of it's own thing. You don't really go for the culture."

Quentin nods, because right, of course, but then he actually thinks about it and... Something about the math there doesn’t quite line up. "Wait, I thought you didn't go this year?"

"I didn't." Eliot's mouth turns down, looking away unhappily, and fuck, shit, Quentin's an idiot. He didn't go this year because of Mike. Which is probably something of a sore spot, now, given how that'd turned out.

"So did you go... before Brakebills?" Quentin puts together, which is kind of odd, given that– don’t you have to be a Magician to go? Don’t you have to be invited by Magicians to go? Eliot nods, a little smirk starting up on his lips, and Quentin laughs, delighted. "Eliot Waugh, were you a hedge witch?"

"Don't you think you would have noticed if I had a full tattoo sleeve? I know my excellent physique and massive cock are distracting, but–"

"Okay, asshole," Quentin gripes, kicking uselessly at Eliot's shin under the table. "‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable–’"

"Yeah, yeah, okay nerd, calm down," Eliot teases, pushing in to quiet Quentin with a kiss. Which should probably be annoying except Quentin is like, constitutionally incapable of being annoyed about being kissed by Eliot. "There was a guy. I'm not saying I was sucking dick for spells, but there was dick sucking, and there were spells."

Something about that– rubs Quentin wrong, a little, but Eliot seems unbothered by the idea, so Quentin just... lets it go. “So he brought you?”

“Mhm,” Eliot agrees with a little shrug. “It wasn’t really a thing, we basically only spent that week together. Then the next year, I brought Bambi.”

“And this year she brought Todd,” Quentin, just to watch Eliot’s nose wrinkle in disgust. “You realize that means he can go back next year on his own if he wants.”

“Oh god,” Eliot groans, dropping his head forward onto Quentin’s shoulder. The spicy smell of his cologne wafts around them, and Quentin has to fight the urge to bury his nose in Eliot’s hair. “That’s it, I can never go back. It’s ruined forever now.”

“That might be a bit of an overreaction,” Quentin points out.

“It is not,” Eliot whines, pulling back to take a very morose sip of his cocktail. “I was going to try to talk you into going next year, and now we’d have to deal with like. Todd dick.”

Quentin chokes a little, face burning hot. “You realize I’m, like, way more likely to end up in the corner bumming everyone out than Todd, right?”

“Oh, baby, no you’re not,” Eliot says, in that voice that is kind of surprised, somehow. Like he hasn’t spent a year trying to coax Quentin out of various corners. “I mean, I recognize that is your general approach to parties, but I also fuck you. I know you have the ability to get uninhibited in the right circumstances.”

“I don’t know if those circumstances would be on a beach in the middle of an orgy,” Quentin says quietly, because god, even the idea of it makes his skin prickle in a way that has way more to do with embarrassment than excitement. It was one thing to lose himself with Eliot, who he trusted more than– anyone, really. Another, completely, to give it to a beach full of strangers.

When he looks up, Eliot’s watching him with this kind of– raw open tenderness, that makes Quentin’s stomach wriggle. “Well, then, no beach orgies for you,” he says, easy, leaning in until there’s only their breath between them, and the puff of Eliot’s words tease his skin like a physical touch. “Just means I get to keep you all to myself, now doesn’t it?”

Little shivers of delight chases up Quentin’s spine, and hmm, yes, keep me. “Seems like it,” he agrees, flirting his fingers along the inside of Eliot’s thigh, where the fabric of his pants is stretched tight over the muscle. “Luckily, you’re usually up to the task.”

“Oh, baby, I so am,” Eliot agrees, then– licks along Quentin’s bottom lip– like they’re not in the middle of a bar and– okay, yeah, beach orgies, it shouldn’t exactly be surprising Eliot’s a bit of an exhibitionist. And god, he should be, looking the way he does–

“You’re–” Quentin squeaks, and then stops and clears his throat. “You’re going to get us thrown out, and I haven’t even played Lord of the Rings pinball yet.”

Eliot laughs, brushing a softer more PG kiss against Quentin’s mouth, before pulling away, leaning back in his chair with a rakish smile. “Well, we’d better get you some more tokens then.”

They make their way back to the Brakebills portal in the dark, laughing and clinging to each other as the heat of summer clings to the city. Quentin, at least, isn’t drunk enough to really need it, and he doesn’t think Eliot is either, but it’s nice. Honestly, it’s so fucking nice to be back in the city, to feel his age, almost 24 and recklessly hopeful with beautiful man holding his arm. At some point Eliot’s tie had come loose, the top button on his shirt undone, and he’s so– he’s so fucking surreally lovely Quentin has to push him up against a wall and fit his mouth against that secret triangle of skin. It makes Eliot laugh, delighted, then groan a little, and then they’re fully making out against a wall. God, Quentin feels fucking alive. He could do anything, anything at all in the world, because he’s the person Eliot Waugh wants to kiss.

“If you don’t–” Quentin gasps, as Eliot shifts his weight, thigh pressing interestedly between Quentin’s legs. “–if you don’t stop I’m going to have to blow you in an alleyway.”

“You started it,” Eliot grumbles, but he pulls away, and Quentin has to bite his lip to hold in the groan of protest. “No, you deserve a better date than being on your knees in alley.”

Tender, helpless affection curls in Quentin’s chest. He reaches out to grab Eliot’s lapels in both hands, push up on his toes for a long, sticky kiss. “It was a good date,” he promises, mouth against Eliot’s mouth, close enough to feel the catch of his breath, the shiver through him. “I’m not opposed to being on my knees somewhere else– just so we’re on the same page–”

“Yeah, Q, I know,” Eliot says, sounding kind of amused and really fond. Quentin grins, lips tingling a little as Eliot reaches up, brushes his thumb against them. “Let’s get back to campus with all our clothes on, okay?”

“Tall order,” Quentin says, mock serious, licking briefly at the pad of Eliot’s thumb.

“I believe in us,” Eliot says, horsley, pretty hazel eyes almost black– god, Quentin likes this man so much it’s stupid.

The burning fire has banked to a simmer by the time the step through the portal and emerge in on the quad. The campus is almost in complete darkness, none of the glowing lights on the exterior of the academic buildings turn on. Eliot mutters something under his breath, too quiet for Quentin to make out the spell, then there’s a flash and he’s holding a palm full of bright flames.

“Phone flashlight too mundane for you?” Quentin asks, fondly, getting ahold of Eliot’s free hand regardless. The dancing flames cast interesting shadows across his features, and Quentin wants– so badly– to bring their faces together, rub his nose against Eliot’s nose, his mouth against Eliot’s mouth. Something animal inside him just– wants.

“Not nearly dramatic enough,” Eliot agrees, but he’s smiling, a soft private just-for-Q smile that Quentin will never, ever be sick of. “Plus, if Margo tries to waylay us, I can threaten to throw it at her.”

There’s no need, in the end, to threaten Margo with anything. The bottom floor of the Cottage is empty when they walk in, which is weird enough to give Quentin pause. This must be the first time he’s ever actually seen the place this quiet. It doesn’t seem to bother Eliot in the slightest as he shakes out his handful of flame, and Quentin understands maybe for the first time, why Eliot could so easily treat this place like he owned it. It’s literally his home. With one full summer of no one but Margo to share the space, of course he acted like he had claim to every room. It was the only place he had any claim to at all.

There’s a light emanating out from under the door to the second floor bathroom nearest Margo’s room, a sweet-floral scent and the tingle of warming magic wafting out into the hallway. Eliot smiles fondly, fingers twining with Quentin’s. “Baths are a traditional part of Bambi’s self-care nights,” he whispers conspiratorially, tugging Quentin’s hand down the hall and up the second set of stairs to his room, like Quentin really needs to be led. Like there was really any question where they were going.

Quentin flops down sideways across Eliot’s bed, watching fondly as Eliot closes the door and stops to carefully untie and remove his shoes. The little tipsiness from the bar earlier seems to be mostly gone, but Eliot still looks rumpled, curls falling across his forehead, collar open. Still, he takes the time to make sure his shoes end up in the right place.

“I missed you,” Quentin says quietly, around the burn of affection in his chest. Eliot looks up at him, startled, and all Quentin can do is smile, resting his head on his hand.

“Naturally,” Eliot agrees, all bravado, crossing the room in two long strides. Then he’s climbing onto the bed, bracketing Quentin’s body with his own. Quentin rolls with it, easily, until he’s on his back looking up at Eliot hovering over him. “I’m very missable.”

“Mhm,” Quentin agrees, reaching out to get ahold of Eliot’s hips and tug until he gives in, settling with his weight in the cradle of Quentin’s thighs. The pressure of it pushes Quentin’s legs open a little more, and a hot little shiver of excitement dances through him.

The burning urgency of necking in the street gone, everything feels syrupy and slow when Eliot kisses him. And it’s– god, it’s everything Quentin’s been wanting, in the stolen moments when he can even manage to drag up the desire to touch himself, a shower here and an afternoon alone there. The scrape of Eliot’s end of the day stubble, the bulk of him, big hand cupping the back of Quentin’s neck and tilting, guiding him just where Eliot wants him, how he wants him– god, yes, this. Eliot’s mouth, his mouth, hot and wet and open, Eliot’s breath against his breath, Eliot’s tongue against his tongue–

“El,” Quentin breaks away to moan, head rolling back as a shiver of pleasure clenches in his gut, knees tightening on Eliot’s hips reflexively. He’s getting hard, and so is Eliot, he can feel it, right there where Eliot’s caught between his thighs, and god– god. “I know I said I was going to suck your dick, but–uh. I want– Would you fuck me? I want you to fuck me.”

Above him, Eliot groans, nose and mouth dragging across Quentin’s cheek as he drags himself back. “Fuck, Q, I– of course. If you– if that’s what you want.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, shivers of excitement in his belly, because– god, Eliot’s big beautiful dick. It’s been– fuck, since before finals, really, weeks since he had it in him like that. God. Fuck. “Want it. ‘M gonna– fuck, Eliot, I’m gonna fucking come before you get it half-way in.”

There’s laughter on Eliot’s voice when he asks, into the skin at the crook of Quentin’s jaw. “Yeah? Should I make you come first?”

And that’s– there’s the temptation there, isn’t there? Because god, Eliot’s broad palm tight around him, covering nearly all of him as he pulled him off, or the hotwetslickness of Eliot’s mouth working him over until he came– god, there isn’t enough time to have all the sex Quentin wants to have before he has to give Eliot back for another two weeks. And the idea of dragging it out for– hours– is incredibly appealing, but the thing about taking Eliot’s dick is–

It’s a lot of work, sometimes, kind of. And he wants it, god, he wants it, with a curling hunger low in his stomach that makes him feel– empty. But he’s not, is he, he’s– going to have to take time and relax because it’s been three weeks and the downside to having a boyfriend with a huge fucking dick is that sometimes– when it’s been a while–

“No, just–” Quentin breathes, reaching out to touch, cup Eliot’s head with both hands, stroke the velvety skin and soft little curls behind his ears with both thumbs as Eliot’s head rolls against his neck. “Just give it to me, okay? I want you to give it to me.”

Eliot makes a wounded little sound, almost a whimper, makes something tender and needy knot up in Quentin’s chest. “I will, sweet boy,” Eliot promises, which is– a new one, he thinks, in terms of the pet names Eliot’s used for him. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about it, except it makes that– that weird, embarrassment-safety-hunger feeling expand inside him, like it does when Eliot makes him feel small in a good way.

“El,” he whispers, thighs tightening on Eliot’s hips, thinking I want him– god, I want him, god I want him so much, all the time–

“Probably,” Eliot says, as though with great effort, “Probably getting our clothes off would help.”

“Hm,” Quentin hums, feeling– giddy, “a reasonable hypothesis.”

“If you can still come out with words like ‘hypothesis’, I’m not sure I’m doing this right,” Eliot grumbles, which sends Quentin into a fit of laughter, helpless and happy. But Eliot’s already tugging on his t-shirt, heedless of the fact that it’s stuck under their combined weight.

It takes some creative wriggling to get Quentin out of his clothes, and then Eliot’s pushing back so he’s up on his knees, going at his own buttons with as much determination as a man who’s definitely hard in his fancy trousers can manage. Quentin pushes up on his elbows, just to watch for a second, as Eliot shucks his tie and vest quickly, face flushed. That flush reaches down his chest, Quentin can see, as he starts the process of undoing the fiddly little row of buttons down his shirt. It’s– god, it’s a sight, the way the skin on his chest peaks out through the gap in the fabric, thick dark hair against pale skin– Quentin thinks he should be commended for waiting as long as he does before he’s pushing up the rest of the way, just to get his mouth on Eliot’s skin.

“You–” Eliot groans, hand flying to the back of Quentin’s head to twist in his hair, a sharp-tight pain that makes Quentin’s dick jerk, achy between his legs, “are very distracting.”

“Go faster then,” Quentin complains, gasping as Eliot tugs his hair in response. He settles, instead, for going at Eliot’s belt while he finishes with his shirt, working it free with trembling fingers, tugging open his trousers. He barely gets a chance to feel him up, really, that hot heavy shaft and the soft weight of his balls, god, Quentin’s mouth is watering and he doesn’t even want that right now– before Eliot’s stumbling away, off the bed to get the rest of his clothes off, because heaven forbid he fuck with his socks on.

Then he’s gloriously naked at the edge of the bed, cock hard and proud between his legs, standing up against the patch of nearly trimmed dark hair and Quentin just– has to touch, he has to, flail his hand out to the side of the bed so he’s practically dragging Eliot forward dick-first, but. It means he can watch, close up, as he rolls the sheath of skin down, exposing the fat flushed head, shiny and wet. Eliot’s laughter chokes off into a moan, flushed all down his front and flushed here too, hard and thick and Quentin wants it, he wants it so badly he can barely breath.

“I have to finger you,” Eliot pants, like– somehow, Quentin might not know, might not realize what it meant to take this big beautiful dick, like he hasn’t done it before– god, it’s been too long.

“Yeah,” he agrees, arching up when Eliot bends down to kiss him, opening up for the brush of Eliot’s tongue until it’s– fucking into his mouth, really, Eliot’s hand where it belongs on the back of his head, his hands on Eliot’s sides.

There’s a rattle near the head of the bed, and the bottle of lube comes shooting out of the bedside drawer with a wild tug of telekinesis, slamming into the duvet with a sharp thwack. Quentin might start laughing again, at the whole ridiculousness of this, them sprawled out the wrong way round on top of Eliot’s tasteful bedding, Quentin inches from having his head hanging off the foot of the bed and Eliot too impatient to just– reach over and grab the lube, when he can call it too him magically. He might start laughing, but he’s too busy moaning instead, as both of Eliot’s palms slide down the tender skin on the insides of his thighs.

Jerking, a little, instinctively, Quentin flails out for something to hold onto. He ends up with a handful of bedding, and Eliot’s right shoulder, all bone and muscle flexing under warm skin as Eliot just– pulls him open, so gently, until he’s exposed to the cold room. “Talk to me?” he begs, riding the wave of embarrassment at how much of him is– on display like this, cock and balls and hole all– right there, for Eliot to look his fill. Like he can bear it, if he gets to have Eliot’s voice with him through it.

“I’ve got you, Little Q,” Eliot murmurs, adjusting his position a little so the bend of Quentin’s left knee is caught in his right elbow, pushing it up so he can brush the fingers of his left hand between Quentin’s leg. “What do you want me to say?”

“Just– I miss your voice,” Quentin replies shakily, which feels– sharp, too true, even as the muscles in his stomach jump as Eliot’s big hand pets over his cock, moves down to cup his balls gently, god, god, oh.

“You don’t have to miss me,” Eliot murmurs, fingers spread slick down behind Quentin’s balls, a tickly sensation, which is– almost an itch, until he starts rubbing with purpose, the pads of two fingers against Quentin’s hole. “I’m right here, Q, you don’t have to miss me–”

“Eliot,” Quentin chokes out on a cry, as the tip of one finger slides in. He tries– god, it’s– it’s one finger, he needs to get himself together except–

“That’s it, bare down,” Eliot’s coaching, soothing like he had the first time they’d done this, and Quentin knows, he knows how to take a dick, certainly knows how to take a couple of fingers, it shouldn’t feel wholly new again– except– “You’re doing so good, baby, just push back for me.”

He’d wanted Eliot to talk, hadn’t he? Fuck.

But he does it, bares back on Eliot’s finger while Eliot leans forward, kisses against his sternum, murmuring so softly that the words loose cohesion in Quentin’s brain, just– texture, feeling, a slow wave as his body yields, and Eliot’s finger slides in to the joint.

“El,” he cries, half-begging, looking down to find Eliot already watching him, soft brown curls and pink wet mouth, Eliot’s eyes blown black and rimmed with hazel, Eliot, Eliot, giving him this.

“You’re so fucking pretty, baby,” Eliot murmurs, shaking his head a little like he can’t quiet believe it.

Quentin just wants to touch him. That hand on his shoulder, Quentin releases to cup Eliot’s cheek, run his thumb over a sharp cheekbone, as Eliot fucks him slowly with one finger, stopping to add more lube before he goes back in with two. It’s easier now, like Quentin’s body’s finally remembered how to do this, and he arches back against Eliot’s hand, as those two clever Magician’s fingers find his prostate and just– rub, mercilessly, up against where he’s sensitive. It sends a zing of pleasure straight to his cock and he shouts, grabbing thoughtlessly Eliot’s hair.

“No pulling,” Eliot says, voice gentle but– firm, and Quentin’s letting go before he’s even processed the words.

“S-sorry,” he pants, petting at little, open palmed, over the top of Eliot’s head.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Eliot murmurs, sounding, indulgent, maybe? Except he’s still fucking Quentin steadily with those unfairly talented fingers, kissing across his ribs and his stomach while Quentin– looses his mind.

“I thought–” Quentin starts, shakey, barely able to call up the will to even be a brat when he’s feeling so fucking– tender, so touched inside. “–thought you were gonna give it to me?”

Eliot laughs, a little breathless, but Quentin can feel his smile against his stomach. “Nice try,” he shoots back lightly, adding more lube, so everything is slippery wet, so fucking slick, because he’s, oh– working in another finger. “I am, baby, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried, I’m–” Quentin gasps, tugging on the bedding so he doesn’t tug on Eliot’s hair. “–getting old, waiting for–”

Eliot bites him, just a little, a sharp sting of pain at the side of his ribs, and he honestly nearly comes, a white shock of pleasure when he’s so on edge. Three fingers deep and he’s already so– he really is going to come before Eliot gets it halfway in.

“Stop being so good at this,” he begs helplessly, letting go of the bedding to rub his hand over his own face, hide a little, while he grabs for even a measure of composure. “I’m serious, if you keep fucking– going at me like that, I’m going to come faster then either of us wants and then I’m going to feel bad about it.”

“Okay,” Eliot soothes, and the angle of his fingers changes. Still good, still nice and full and dragging spikes of pleasure along the rim, but– at least that live wire feeling is gone. “It’s okay, Q. You’re doing great.”

“I’m just laying here,” Quentin laughs out helplessly, looking down to find Eliot watching him again, the stripped-back-tender look on his face. “You’re doing all the work.”

Eliot shakes his head. “You’re letting me in.” He punctuates the words a twist of his fingers, and a kiss to Quentin’s belly. “I’m grateful.”

“Well, that’s not hard,” Quentin says, quiet, and Eliot laughs. Disbelieving, maybe.

Three fingers become four, and Quentin spares a moment to wonder if Eliot’s going to– fucking, try to get his whole hand in there. The idea sends a scared frisson of excitement pinging into his belly, because– oh god, could he take that? But then no, Eliot’s pressing one last kiss to Quentin’s chest, then he’s dragging back onto his knees, squeezing a palmful of lube onto his hand and then smoothing it down the shaft of his cock. And god, that sight, Eliot’s hand curled perfunctory, easily, around his cock, the way his fingers don’t even meet his thumb–

Quentin reaches out for him, as he leans back down, hands on his ribs while Eliot braces one arm on the bed near Quentin’s head, reaches down with the other to guide his cock– right–

“Oh,” Quentin breathes, helpless, rolling his head until he can bury his face in Eliot’s hair. The curls are going damp with sweat, and he smells– clean, and– good, and– it’s not distracting at all from the feeling of his fucking huge dick pressing gently but insistantly where Quentin is. Waiting to open up for him.

“Okay?” Eliot pants, fine tremor of muscles under his skin as he braces and pushes– carefully, with a very controlled amount of force, trembling. Trembling, because he needs to be inside, Quentin wants him inside–

“Uh huh. Uh– oh,” Quentin groans, nails digging into Eliot’s ribs as the head pops in, thick and full and stretching and. God, so good, Quentin’s shaking too, isn’t he? Or is that just Eliot, trembling into him until they’re both– the same–

“It’s okay,” Eliot says, breath washing out against Quentin’s neck, lube-sticky hand settling onto Quentin’s hip, then gripping back at his ass, his thigh. “Hey, here– can you–?”

“Yeah, just let me,” Quentin agrees, shifting enough so he can get both legs up, hugging the sides of Eliot’s torso, and that changes the angle enough for Eliot to slide in another inch. Quentin groans, arching back, and Eliot’s hips move a little, fucking instinctively like he can’t– hold still– and this, god, this– even with only three or so inches to work with Eliot’s already melting his spine–

“God, Q–” Eliot breathes out, rich voice high and tense, and– Quentin just clings back to him. Wants to take all of him inside.

“I can take it,” he promises, into Eliot’s sweaty curls, which earns him another moan and on the next rocking thrust, Eliot slides in– deeper– “Fuck, Eliot.”

He can take it. He does, god, it takes– another application of lube, and another shift in position, but then Eliot’s sinking into the hilt, and Quentin has– all of him, god, so fucking full he feels it in his stomach, swears he could feel it at the base of his throat. Eliot, trembling over him, braced on a forearm tucked beneath Quentin’s head, inches between their faces, because they’re– fucking face to face with the lights on, Jesus.

“Hey,” Quentin pants, touching, touching Eliot, god, his ribs his back the curve of his ass. “Hey, you.”

“Hi,” Eliot replies, looking– stricken, somehow.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Quentin says, because he can’t– all he wants is Eliot to feel good. All of Eliot, to feel all of the good.

Eliot cracks on a helpless laugh, and then he’s rocking, back and hips and ass flexing under Quentin’s hand as he pushes– in– again and again and again. Quentin just, moves with him, best he’s able, rocking back into every thrust as he picks up speed once he’s– moving easily inside, god, inside. And suddenly there’s nothing Quentin wants more than to kiss him, pushing up towards his face until Eliot gets the message, lips dragging together and tongues brushing and breath mixing on escaping moans. Eliot’s lube-sticky hand finds Quentin’s elbow, the other arm shifting until he’s cupping the back of Quentin’s skull, so he can– kiss, and kiss, and kiss–

“I–” Quentin starts, and then– loses track, licking into Eliot’s mouth, against his teeth, then arching, head grinding back against Eliot’s hand as he lands one, two, three thrusts directly on Quentin’s prostate. “Oh, fuck, oh shit, El–”

“I can’t fucking– believe–” Eliot groans, above him, wet curls dripping, their bodies slick with sweat and lube and Quentin’s precome as they rock together, “how well you take it, baby. God– you’re– you feel good?”

“So good,” Quentin promises, fingers digging into Eliot’s back, reaching up to touch his nape. “You make me feel so good, god. I’m just, fucking– split open– and I love it–”

“I can feel your cock against my stomach,” Eliot groans, pushing in and grinding, so his stomach drags over where Quentin’s aching between them. “It’s so hard and –”

Little. The word hangs between them, hot-embarrassing-sweet-wanted, god, Quentin feels his cheeks burn, and he knows– god, Eliot won’t say it, but– “It’s okay,” Quentin murmurs, touching his cheek, the side of his head, his beautiful dear face so broken open with wanting. “It’s okay, El, I like it– I like it when it’s you.”

Eliot makes a hurt, punched out sound, doesn’t actually manage to say it, just– drops his face into the crook of Quentin’s neck and clings to him, arm around his shoulders and gripping his thigh. “You’re so– Q, you’re so–” he’s practically sobbing, clinging, and Quentin’s just– starting to wonder if maybe he should be worried, but Eliot’s– getting a hold of himself, slowly. Still shaking a little, still a sweaty clingy mess, but the tinge of desperation disappears as he starts fucking again, hard and sure and spine-meltingly good, shorting out Quentin’s ability to–

–think about anything, really.

He’s been on edge for so long, it’s not really a surprise Quentin comes first. The friction of Eliot’s stomach, soft skin and scratchy hair, against him is enough, the drag of Eliot inside him, sparking against his prostate is enough. He bites Eliot’s shoulder when he comes, kind of by accident, shivers of pleasure chasing through his whole body that’s just– so good. But it just makes Eliot moan, fuck into him harder.

“S’good,” he slurs through the sparkling of the afterglow, trying to give Eliot what he needs to– get there before the oversensitivity takes over. “It’s so good, Eliot, you– make me feel so good, god, fuck, give me that big dick so good–”

“Fuck,” Eliot hisses, slamming in and shuddering, whole body tense in the craddle of Quentin’s legs as he comes.

Quentin nudges at Eliot’s face with his nose until he moves enough to be kissed and then kisses him. And kisses him, coaxing, until Eliot’s kissing back, leading the kiss like he likes, like they both like. Deep needy kisses that taper off, slowly, into something softer. It aches, a little, as Eliot cock starts to go soft, slipping out and leaving Quentin– empty– sticky and leaking, a little tender about it.

“I–” Eliot starts, then takes a breath in through his nose, petting softly at Quentin’s skin. “We’re a mess.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, stretching, sticky, satisfied, toes wiggling against the bedspread. “I think we did a pretty good job.”

Laughter brushes out against his cheek, and Quentin turns into it, kissing Eliot again. God, he could just– do this– until they both fall asleep. But no, that’s not Eliot, Eliot would never fall asleep in his own mess like that.

Not mostly sober, anyway.

The benefit to Eliot’s room essentially being a loft in the attic, spacious and spelled though it is, is that he has a little bathroom attached just for him. They clean up together in there, weirdly tender feeling, almost more intimate than the sex, to rinse down together, brush their teeth side by side at the sink. Quentin perches on the closed toilet and watches Eliot wipe off make-up which has already run with sweat, wash his face in the mirror. It’s a familiar routine, from the last couple weeks of the semester, but Quentin still finds himself fascinated by it, by everything about Eliot. Eliot doesn’t even make fun of him, when he asks about things he should probably know, like what the point of toner is.

“Do you need to pack?” Quentin asks, quiet, as the stumble out of the bathroom, still naked but clean, anyway. Eliot’s hands move over the shapes of a cleaning charm, and the bedding loses its suspicious dark splotches.

“No,” he says, already sliding covers, Quentin crawling in next to him. God, he’s missed this bed. “I’m good, baby.”

He wants– god, wants to spend the whole night talking, like kids at a sleepover, curl up under the blankets with Eliot and share secrets. But sleep has been thin on the ground for Quentin, really, the past couple weeks, and– Eliot’s arm around him, Eliot’s chest against his side, are so comforting that he doesn’t really even get the chance to try. Just drifts off to sleep, feeling safe.

He wakes up, early in the morning, to an empty bed and the sounds of movement elsewhere in the room.

“I thought you were all packed already,” Quentin mumbles, winding Eliot’s duvet tighter around himself. The sun is barely rising, but there’s enough light spilling into the room that he can just see Eliot moving around the room, wrapped in his gold robe gaping open at the front.

“I might have exaggerated a bit,” Eliot replies lightly, but he stops next to the bed anyway, smiling down at Quentin. “You can go back to sleep.”

“Mmmm, or I can help?” Quentin offers, even though there’s literally nothing he wants more in the world right now than to tug Eliot back into the bed, get them both wrapped up in the soft sheets and warm blanket.

“No, you can’t,” Eliot murmurs back, a little edge of warm laughter to his voice. It sounds fond, really, and Quentin pouts up at him. “I’ll be fast, I promise. Just a couple more things to take care of.”

“Fine,” Quentin huffs, and steals his pillow, just to make a point. A point which he kind of forgets as soon as he has it, to be honest, because the pillow is soft and smells like Eliot, an indefinable mix of shampoo and cologne and skin and hair. God, but he’s missed this smell.

He doesn’t mean to drift back to sleep but he must, at some point, because there’s decidedly more sunlight in the room when he opens his eyes again. The pillow is being gently tugged from his arms, and he squints up, face to face with a mostly naked Eliot. “‘S bright,” he mumbles, releasing his armful of pillow so Eliot can slide back into bed and take its place. “Have to leave soon?”

“We have a couple more hours,” Eliot says quietly, hands moving in a familiar pattern in the air in front of him. The windows darken in response, pairing the light level in the room back to a dusky warm glow. It’s nice, and curling into Eliot’s arms is nicer, skin soft and warm against Quentin’s skin. “You can sleep some more if you want.”

“I can sleep later,” Quentin says softly, reaching up to catch one of those talented hands. Long, elegant fingers, noticeably bare of Eliot’s customary rings. Sliding his fingers in between Eliot’s, he rubs the pad of his thumb against a knuckle. It’s not like Quentin’s never seen him without rings on before; he almost always takes them off when working with spell components. It’s one of the first lessons you learn at Brakebills, the way different metals interact with different spells. But here, now, it feels like just another bit of armor stripped away. Glancing up, he finds Eliot watching him, a quiet little smile living around the corners of his mouth, settling warm behind his eyes.

“You’ve got really nice hands,” Quentin tells him, quiet in the early morning stillness. It gets him a suggestive grin, and he can feel himself flush in response, because yes, okay. Eliot’s hands are big and warm and strong, dexterous and sure. Quentin knows, has been reminded very recently, how good Eliot’s fingers feel sliding inside him one at a time. But he also knows how nice Eliot’s hands are to hold, the skin soft and rarely sweaty. He knows how nice it is to be touched by Eliot in general, how careful he is. How kind. “They’re really soft. It’s nice.”

Emotions flicker across Eliot’s face, and Quentin tries to follow the train of them: surprise, then resignation twisting into something unhappy, before the wall slams up, leaving Eliot’s face carefully neutral. Whatever just happened, it wasn’t what Quentin intended. Some minefield leftover from Mike, maybe? They still tripped over those, occasionally. Twisting Eliot’s hand in his, he brings it up to press a kiss to the center of Eliot’s palm, because fuck that guy, honestly. Fuck anyone could find themselves presented with Eliot’s fragile trust not and feel like protecting it was the most important thing they could do.

“You know,” Eliot says, and there’s a weird quality to his voice, a distance, that Quentin’s heard once before. I’m going to tell you something deep and dark and personal now. It makes something drop a little in Quentin’s stomach. “Where I grew up ‘soft hands’ would have been an insult. On anyone, really, but especially on a man.”

Quentin’s never given a lot of thought to where Eliot grew up, honestly. Everything about him seemed so metropolitan, so New York, that Quentin had kind of assumed they grew up across the Bay from each other. One wild happenstance away from stumbling into each other earlier in their lives. Twisting their fingers together, he squeezes Eliot’s hand a little. “What do you mean?”

“I grew up on a farm,” Eliot says tightly, like he’s bracing for something. His eyes flicker away and then back, like he can’t quite make himself hide from this. “My parents were farmers. I’m from Indiana.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes, because well– that’s unexpected. But also not– something Eliot should be bracing against. “Well. Um. That sounds like something you’d absolutely hate?”

“Yeah,” Eliot breathes out, on a laugh, looking relieved, a little. “Yeah, I fucking hated it, Q, you have no idea. Me and my soft hands were not meant for farm life.”

“I really did just mean you’re nice to touch,” Quentin promises, which for some reason makes Eliot laugh again.

“It’s not something I– tell people. Margo knows, because she was my secrets partner in the trails. Beyond that, the last person I told was... Mike.”

Oh.

“Fuck him,” Quentin says, seriously, rolling over so they’re face to face, so he can look Eliot square in the eye. “I want to know your secrets, El, and they are not going to make me think less of you. They’re not going to make me treat you differently, and they are certainly not going to make me cheat on you.”

“I wasn’t really worried you would,” Eliot says brazenly, but– something in his face still looks pinched tight. Unhappy.

“I like you so stupid much,” Quentin admits, settling his palm flat along the span of Eliot’s ribs. He can feel the expansion and contraction of Eliot’s chest under his palm with every breath, the beat of his heart. “Whatever this story is, you can tell me. Whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m not sure there’s much story to tell,” Eliot replies, and it feels like a lie, but not a malicious one. More like a lie Eliot’s telling himself. “It’s just not a great way to grow up. When you’re... you know. Me.”

“I like that you’re you,” Quentin says seriously, nuzzling in close so he can press a kiss to Eliot’s mouth, feel the scrape of his stubble. “I want to know more of you.”

“You get how that’s fucking terrifying, right?” Eliot asks, a little strangled and sharply, brutally honestly.

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, because he’s seen why Eliot’s walls exist, hasn’t he? At least part of why. This is just another piece of the puzzle. The best he can do is tuck his head under Eliot’s chin, snuggle up to him, let Eliot’s limbs wind around him hesitantly until they’re cuddled in close. “Just– I want to talk to you always, okay?”

“Okay,” Eliot agrees, voice soft, like maybe for once he actually believes it. “Maybe not when I have to leave for Spain in 4 hours.”

“Ugh, 4 hours,” Quentin complains, rubbing his face in against Eliot’s neck. “That’s so soon.”

“I know, baby.” God, still with that fucking swooping feeling, every single time Eliot calls him baby. He kind of hopes it never stops. “It’s only two more weeks.”

“Two weeks is doable,” Quentin repeats, humming a little as one of Eliot’s lovely, soft, not-farm-work-hardened-at-all hands sinks into his hair, like it belongs there, tucked just under the curve of Quentin’s skull.

“Totally doable.”

Four hours later, squished into a window seat on the midday train back to Jersey, Quentin’s phone buzzes where he’s got it tucked next to the edge of his book.

(From– El) 12:34pm Hello from Spain! There’s sun and sand and cell phone service here.

He grins down at his phone, stomach swooping happily. No cell phone service at Brakebills might honestly be the worst part of this summer. He barely even noticed it, when the majority of the people he cared about were on campus with him, but it put the distance between them this summer into sharp relief.

(To– El) 12:36pm all you can ask for from a vacation really :P

(From– El) 12:40pm Oh, you have no idea. I’m going to bother you so much. You’ll be sick of me.

(From– El) 12:40pm [picture attached]

The picture is of Eliot, grinning broadly, and Margo, glaring into the camera like she can melt it with her eyes. They are both, unsurprisingly, unfairly gorgeous, drenched in sunlight and backed by a bright blue sky. Longing tugs sharply in Quentin’s chest, which isn’t– it was his choice not to go with them, and he doesn’t regret it. Not really. Sure, dinner with his dad was probably going to be weird tonight, as he tries to figure out how to talk about this little trip without including ‘He gave me his dick one inch at a time and I fucking lost my mind for it’ but–

How many more awkward dinner conversations is he really going to get? Does he have any to spare, anymore?

Brushing his thumb against the side of the phone, he drinks in Eliot’s smile, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the Margo’s soft curls against his shoulder, the glow of her skin. These are my people, he thinks, looking down at the phone. They’re not going to drop me without warning.

Swiping open his camera app, he spends about ten minutes trying to take a selfie that doesn’t make him look like a troll or a neanderthal. He ends up with something tucked in sideways against the window, the scenery outside the train rushing past. It’s not winning any awards for world’s sexiest photo by any means, but– it’ll do.

(To– El) 12:48pm promises, promises.

Then, as an afterthought, he thumbs open a different text thread.

(To– High Queen Margo The Destroyer) 12:49pm lmk me if you confiscate his phone so i don’t worry.

He hits send, and turns back to his book. It’s interesting enough to suck him in again, enough that he doesn’t think to check his phone again until the train slows at the next stop. There’s two messages waiting for him, when he thumbs it open.

(From– El) 12:50pm God, baby, that’s not fair. You’re so fucking pretty, I’m gonna die.

(From– High Queen Margo The Destroyer) 12:50pm Smart boy. That’s definitely going to happen.

Grinning, Quentin turns back to his book, phone held tight against his chest.

____

Spain is amazing.

Margo doesn't even have to make good on her threat to take away his phone. The novelty of being able to text Quentin is great, but the time difference is enough to break him of the habit pretty quickly. Besides, he's traveling with his Bambi, the first and forever love of his life. Sharing the adventures with Q after the fact is enough.

It really is just days and days of sun and sand and culture, good food and good drink and good company. They stretch out on a different beach each day, Eliot people watching with the aloof disinterest of the unattainable while Margo lounges next to him in the tiniest bikini she owns, reading Quentin's book. Apparently he'd made tiny, sometimes indecipherable notes in the margins, and she delights in sharing them with Eliot, lightly mocking except that he can see right through it. She's secretly charmed, he can tell, and any lingering annoyance she'd had with Quentin for making Eliot mopey during their summer of nothing vanishes a little more with each penciled in note referencing some trope or other story elements.

"He must have been taking a women's lit class the first time he read this," Margo chirps merrily while Eliot trails his finger along her arm, watching a group of young men down by the water kicking a soccer ball around. A football. Whatever. "There's a lot of references to Showalter in these notes."

"Sounds like Q," Eliot agrees absently, taking a sip of sangria and watching one of the men whoop and jump on his friends back, bare skin sliding together. "I would have been so much more interested in sports as a teenager if there'd be more tender homoerotism."

"Baby, homoerotism and homophobia go hand in hand, you know that," Margo cooes back, finally looking up from her book. "Especially for teenagers. It's not gay if I touch your butt, as long as I punch you after."

Eliot sighs, tipping his head back into the towel he's using as a pillow. It'll be time to reapply sun-barrier spells, soon, but for now he just listens to the sound of the beach and Margo's breathing, the shuffling of her pages. Maybe tomorrow they can rent kayaks, travel out to the islands and explore a little.

Days they lounge away on the beaches, but nights they lose in clubs and parties. They go dancing, actually dancing, a couple times. There's a specific delight in the way they can move together, the rhythm between their bodies. Margo is an excellent dancer, and knows Eliot as well as he knows himself, her tiny frame in his arms feeling natural, an extension of his own being.

"There'll never be another girl for me, Bambi," he murmurs to her, late in the night, hips swaying together while she smiles up at him, bright as the sun.

They don't fuck after that, and it's notable because last year they probably would have. Drunk and high and skin hungry, he would have buried his face between her legs until she came wet and messy against his jaw, would have let her wrap her tiny fist around him and buried his nose in her hair, desperate and hungry just to feel anything at all.

Now, they fall into bed together, but it's just to sleep. Eliot wakes up on his stomach with her arm around his back, and reaches out to touch her, curl her lose hair around her ear while she sleeps. Beautiful, precious girl, bright like fire and sharp as ice. His perfect match, this girl who'll never love a boy, who'd never ask him to give her more than this. Last summer, he'd been sure that he'd never need anything but this. How could he ask for more, when having her seemed so improbable.

Who the fuck was he to ask for two soulmates?

He slips out of bed, mouth cotton-dry and head pounding, maybe a little too drunk still to be hungover yet. Fishing his phone off the nightstand and a pair of sunglasses off the table, he slips out onto the balcony in the early morning light. The sun is rising out over the water, painting the sky pink and golden, and he swipes open the phone, taking a picture of the spectacle. It's not half as beautiful as the real thing, rendered in tiny little cellphone pixels but he sends it to Q anyway, settling down in a chair to watch the sun rise, warm breeze tugging at his robe.

He hadn't really expected a reply, but his phone buzzes in his hand anyway.

(From Cutie Q) 5:47am wow

(From Cutie Q) 5:47am i'm not sure if this means I need to go to bed or that you shouldnt be up yet. isn't it like 5am there?

Eliot looks down at the phone, weird ache in his stomach that has nothing at all to do with the brewing hangover.

(To Cutie Q) 5:48am Probably both. I'll go back to sleep once the sun's up, spell the windows dark. Why are you still awake?

The three little typing bubbles pop up, and Eliot smiles a little, leaning back to watch the sun rise, already anticipating a long winded response. The water reflects the dazzling colors of the sky and this. This is what magic should feel like. This is what Quentin keeps saying it is. But when the phone finally buzzes in his hand, there is no long winded reply.

(From Cutie Q) 5:53am Insomnia? It's hard to sleep here.

There's a flash of memory behind his eyes, Q curled small and sweet, dead asleep around Eliot's pillow, the naked curve of his shoulder exposed to the cool air. Sleep smoothed out the worry lines on his face, made him look younger, happier, calmer. The ache in Eliot's stomach redouble, thumbs hovering over the screen of his phone. What the hell could he even say to that, besides come, come to us, come here and let me fall asleep next to you. I'll even come get you, just–

Because that's a good idea. Swallowing, he types instead:

(To Cutie Q) 5:57am Do you have any of the tea I gave you? Make some of that, and try to sleep okay?

It's still maybe a little overbearing. He regrets it as soon as he sends it, God, why can't he just– Quentin’s an adult, he doesn't need to be instructed how to be a person. Pushy, overbearing, God, Eliot needed to stop being so much fucking work–

The next text that comes in is a picture file: a mug, clearly containing a single bag of magical sleep aid tea, sitting on a counter next to an unfamiliar stove with– a sauce pan full of water. Well. At least he's not microwaving it.

(From Cutie Q) 6:02am i hate the way this shit smells. who decided a home and garden store would make a good tea.

(From Cutie Q) 6:02am thanks, El. you should get some sleep too.

The sun is really coming up now, and Eliot slides on his sunglasses. Hesitating, he types out 'I miss you' and then stares at it. Somehow it feels like both too much and not enough, I miss you I miss you I want you next to me, god I'm sorry I can't be a fucking normal boyfriend who wants you a normal amount, I have to be this pit of ugly never-ending need–

Swallowing a breath, he erases the message and writes out a new one.

(To Cutie Q) 6:05amSun's up, so I am. Sleep well, baby.

He slips back into the room, casting a familiar spell to block the light from the sun shining over the beaches. Margo shifts slightly, in her sleep, when he crawls back into bed next to her, but doesn't wake. She just shifts a little towards him, like she's seeking heat, but doesn’t wake up.

They sleep well into the morning, preemptively resting up for a party Margo had scored them an invite to the day before. It’s a good kind of lazy day, closer to their beautiful nothing than they’ve been able to manage back at the Cottage. Eliot lays with his head in Margo’s lap, watching Spanish TV with the sound off and texting Q on and off, while she reads. She even reads passages aloud to him, though he’s missing the context to really understand what’s going on. It’s just nice to hear her voice, and to relax into the growing excitement, the buzz of an oncoming party.

Eliot, of course, gets restless before Margo does. He starts getting ready to channel it, but– there’s only so much he can do, in the heat and the humidity of the Spanish summer. His hair will be a wild array of curls no matter what, so he’s better off to try to contain it than make it be something else. And well, cream pants and a light cotton shirt and a vest is about all he’s going to be able to stand wearing, anyway. Experience has taught him to wear a swimsuit under it all, because if he doesn’t he will end up naked in a stranger’s pool, and thank god for magic really, smoothing out any lines the – fairly immodest to begin with – swim trunks might leave in his trousers.

But he’s still dressed, mostly, curls piled up and face on, before Margo’s even half-way done getting ready.

“I look hot, right?” she asks, which is– kind of an odd thing to hear Margo ask, really. He’s never known her to question that. She’s standing looking at herself critically in the mirror, not at all his hyper-confident Bambi, who Quentin had nicknamed High Queen Margo The Destroyer, in some Fillory reference he didn’t get. Margo had, and it had made her smile like she wanted to chew him a little. There’s none of that now, as she scans the lines of her dress. “Like, hotter than that girl Hector talked to after he invited us?”

“Bambi, we both know you’re gorgeous, but if you want someone to tell you if you’re abjectly fuckable, I can only assume the answer is ‘yes’ based on text clues,” he fires back, confused. “Why are you acting weird about this?”

Margo huffs, rolling her eyes. “You were more helpful about this last summer.”

“I really don’t think I was,” he says dryly, because, okay maybe they fucked, last summer, but that had little or nothing at all to do with how Margo looks in a dress. It had very little to do with how Margo looked at all, and a lot more to do with how she had felt like literally the only solid object in the world. How he couldn’t actually touch anything else.

"You should FaceTime your lover boy, ask him," Margo says into the mirror, as she paints her lips a dark, dark red. Her skin has already gone nut-brown with the sunlight, dark hair still up in rollers and he feels both awed and honored to see her like this. Half-made up and vulnerable, even the boys Margo fucked didn't get to see her like this. This was just for him, and maybe... maybe Q, now, it seemed. As an extension of Eliot.

“He will just splutter and blush,” Eliot says surely, but he’s already fishing out his phone because, well, any excuse to call Q– “Would you find that validating?”

“Hmmm, yes, I think so,” Margo purrs, turning to look at the back of her dress in the mirror.

Well. It’s around noon in New Jersey right now, might as well give it a shot.

The FaceTime call takes a minute to connect, but Q does pick up. Eliot finds himself mostly looking at shoulder and a stretch of wall, the phone jolting around a bit as Quentin gets settled sitting somewhere. "Hey," he greets as his face comes into view, smiling his little no-teeth smile, the one that just dares to tease at his dimples and the crinkled at the corners of his eyes. It's hard to see much, through the little phone screen, but Quentin's hair is tied back, shorter whisps escaping containment in the front, and he seems to be sitting in a stairwell.

"Hey you," Eliot calls back, and he's grinning like an idiot, he can see it in the little preview window. Absolutely stupid grin. "This a bad time?"

"No," Quentin says with a shrug. "I'm helping Dad clean out the attic, but he went to try and find something in the garage so I'm just waiting."

"Planes?" Eliot guesses, because he's heard a lot about planes in the last month.

Quentin laughs, a little sheepish. "No, this is all my shit. The planes live in the garage. We're like... hauling through fake swords and action figures up here. And like 12 different 'kids learn magic tricks' kits. Even I'm a little embarrassed about how dorky I am, right now."

"Oh, baby, that's your best feature," Eliot lies blatantly, because Quentin's best feature is his smile. Or his eyes. Or his soft, soft hair.

"Thanks," Quentin says dryly, looking a little sheepish. "What are you guys up to? You have the party tonight, right?"

“Yep,” Eliot agrees, looking back to Margo, who’s looking at him fondly in the mirror. He smiles back at her, happy, god, with the two of them at his fingertips how could he not be happy? “We’re getting ready now. Margo needed an opinion from a man who has interest in lady bits, that is the real point of this call.”

“When has Margo needed a man’s opinion for anything?” Quentin breathes out, almost a laugh, and he looks embarrassed, but not– unhappy. God, his nose is– Eliot misses every single fucking line of his face, god, it’s been– not long enough probably, but his cute little nose– “Well, token bisexual guy aquired, I guess.”

Grinning, Eliot flips the camera around so Quentin can see Margo in her slinky little shiny dress, heel-less with her hair in rollers. “What do you think, does she look hotter than some other random hot girl who might talk to you at a pool?”

“Yeah, I mean, I especially dig the like– grandma hair things,” Quentin’s voice echoes, tinny from the phone speakers, and he’s not really blushing but he’s also fully smiling, with dimples.

“You’re a brat,” Margo sing-songs back to him, and Quentin’s giggling, and Eliot’s whole chest feels– warm–

“You’re like. Of course you’re hot, Margo, you’re always insanely hot. You’re way hotter than any girl who would ever talk to me at a party. And like– terrifying, so please don’t– I mean, I respect you so much–”

“There we go, that’s the reaction I wanted,” Margo says, pleased, eyes twinkling mischievously. Then tilts her head at her reflection. “What do you think, too much titty?”

“Unless you’re going for ‘modest’ is there such a thing as ‘too much titty,’ really?” Eliot replies lazily, watching Quentin’s face shift, his smile settle.

“Hmmm, you may have a point.” She grins, shark-like, and Eliot falls in love with her all over again. “What do you think, Little Q? Is there such a thing as too much titty?”

“Um,” Quentin splutters, and Eliot grins down at his phone, watching Quentin duck and try to hide behind his hair, which he can’t do with it up in it’s little bun. “Am I a bad feminist ally if I say no? Like– as a guy who... you know...”

“Likes tits? Honey, we know, you dated Alice,” Margo quips, turning businesslike back to the mirror to begin taking her rollers out. “You do take ‘go big or go home’ to heart with both your girls and boys, don’t you?

“To be fair, I didn’t– actually know that, before I started, with Eliot,” Quentin mutters, and god, now he’s blushing, isn’t he? Cute little thing. Eliot kind of wants to lick the heat from his cheeks.

“Bullshit,” Margo says dryly, twirling a spiral curl around her finger to get it to lay the way she wants. “There isn’t a single physical kid who hasn’t gotten flashed some nutsack by Eliot’s various robes.”

“Listen, I didn’t say I was going for ‘modest,’ did I?” Eliot asks righteously.

Quentin snorts. “Baby, no one would ever accuse you of that.”

“Wounded. You wound me,” Eliot sighs, rolling dramatically over on the bed so he’s splayed out, looking up at the phone over his head. And– okay, he’s not above a little vanity, who is, it’s a good look for him, curls a wild mess on the off-white of the hotel duvet. Carelessly sexy, you might even say. God, he would love to be able to do something about that, this constantly low-level horniness that just– rears up, every time he thinks about Quentin’s solid hands or his soft silky hair or his cute little cock or his surprisingly shapely ass–

“You need to stop looking at me like you want to eat me, I have to go move Star Wars toys with my dad in five minutes,” Quentin says, fond.

Eliot grins, tucking his free arm up under his head. “That doesn’t do it for you?”

“God, we better hope not,” Quentin huffs out, but he’s smiling, soft and pleased. “I should go. Have a good time at your party.”

“It’s me, baby, of course I will,” Eliot agrees, light, thinking– it’d be better if you were here, letting me make space for you where you don’t think you belong. “I’ll call you tomorrow, fill you in on the details.”

“I can’t wait,” Quentin says, and somehow– Eliot believes him.

Hector's party is at a little villa overlooking the beach, and magic tingles over Eliot's skin the moment he steps on to the property. Which isn't hugely surprising, Magicians tend to find each other in Eliot's experience, but he hadn't known that walking in. Margo seems unsurprised, at his side, scanning the crowd with her usual predatory smile. But there's an edge to it, a nervousness which is very unlike her, like this afternoon when they were getting ready. Something else going on, he realizes suddenly. God, he should have put it together sooner.

"Okay, what's this about," Eliot asks, grabbing Margo's arm and steering her towards the edge of the patio so they can talk under their breath. "This guy's a Magician, is that why you're acting like you suddenly give a fuck what anyone thinks of you?"

"He's not just a Magician, he's a cryomancer," Margo purrs back. "Can't you feel it? In the air? That's not just AC, baby."

God, fucking– of course. Of course, her stupid dissertation. "So, what, get him to fuck you and he'll check your homework?"

"I am allowed to fuck whoever I want, for whatever reason, same as you," Margo hisses, wrenching her arm out of his grip. "If you'd been paying attention when he talked to us–"

"He didn't," Eliot snaps, an irrational kind of irritation building inside him, "talk to us, Margo. He looked at me for three seconds then spent 20 minutes talking to you under his breath. And I figured, what the hell, she's allowed to flirt, so I left. And you didn't even notice."

"Of course I noticed," Margo hisses back, vicious and biting. "You went to talk to Q–"

"He's my boyfriend," Eliot snaps. "And you were busy. What was I supposed to do?"

"Flirt with me, maybe? Do we always do? You don't have to get your dick wet to charm people, Eliot, and this guy could really help with my research–"

"Oh fuck your research, that's not what this is about," Eliot hisses back. "You don't like that I have a boyfriend, you've never liked that. You couldn't even see how fucked up I was over Mike because you were so convinced I was better off without him."

"Q isn't Mike," Margo says, a dangerous coolness in her voice. "I want to be really clear about that because you shitty fucking attitude is not his fault. He's my friend. It's not his fault you're so far up your own ass that you can't see the sunlight–"

"You're unbelievable," Eliot hisses. She opens her mouth to volley back, but he twists away from her, suddenly unable to hear it. They can fight about this later, when they're not in public.

He snags a cocktail off a serving tray on his way past the pool, and down it in two swallows. It barely even has a chance to taste like anything, the burn of alcohol a good distraction from the jittery feeling bouncing around in his skin. Her fucking research– There’s a tray with champange flutes, and he takes one of those too, smiling perfunctorily at the pretty twink holding it.

“Anything more interesting than bubbly at this party?” he asks, and the twink’s eyes sparkle like his champagne.

Eliot doesn’t remember much after that.

____

"You should break up with me," Eliot tells the rim of the toilet, eyes and nose and mouth all running on the wave of another bout of nausea. At least he’s mostly dry heaving now, but spit and tears and snot are still pouring out of everywhere. God, he's leaking so much, fuck.

"Why should I do that?" Quentin ask, voice tinny and small through the speaker phone, but he's so– fucking soothing, like his voice specifically designed to smooth down Eliot's twisted feathers. Longing for him stabs sharply between Eliot's ribs, and he wants–

He wants Quentin’s hand rubbing between his shoulder blades. He wants Quentin smoothing the hair back off his brow. He wants to be touched like he's something worth–

Like he's worth something.

So he’d called him, instead, not thinking about the fact that it’s just after 4am in New Jersey, or that Quentin would have to sit and talk in hushed voices while his fucking– dying father slept somewhere nearby, listening to Eliot fucking– puke his guts out.

"Because I ruin everything I touch," Eliot moans, quiet, probably too quiet to be picked up by the phone.

But Quentin hears him, he must, because he says thoughtfully, "You know, my mom would tell you I break things."

"You don't," Eliot says, automatically, twisting his head to look at where his phone is balanced on the edge of the tub. For the millionth time, he wishes he could see Quentin’s face instead. "You fix things."

“It’d be nice if I could,” Quentin says, sounding wistful, and guilt stabs hard again in Eliot’s stomach. “El, what’s going on, really?”

"Bambi and I had a fight," he admits, stomach rolling. He manages not to dry heave, this time. "We went to the party last night, and Margo apparently knew this guy was a cryomancer and wanted to get like– insider info? And I kind of..."

"Freaked out," Quentin fills in, voice soft, "because you're worried about finding a topic for your dissertation?"

Fuck. "Yeah," he agrees, fresh wave of tears streaming from his hot sore eyes. "And I was so mad at her, and I– drank a lot, and I think I did some coke? I don't. I don’t really remember. I don’t really remember what I did, but I woke up here alone, and I can’t find Margo and I’m calling you at four in the fucking morning while I throw up in a toilet because I’m a bad person and terrible boyfriend."

"You're not a bad person or a bad boyfriend," Quentin says way more gently than Eliot deserves.

"I am," Eliot moans, with the kind of dreadful certainty that hurts all the way down. "I drink too much and I definitely do more drugs than I should. I get fucking mopy when you're not around, like somehow I deserve your attention more than anyone else. I’m selfish and I don’t think about what’s good for you–"

“That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard,” Quentin cuts in, and it’s so hard to read the tone of his voice over a call but he doesn’t sound angry. “You think about me all the time, Eliot. Literally, you think about my well-being more than I do. You just went a little too hard, it’s okay, you just need to slow down a little. And honestly, that’s like– worse for you than it is for me.”

"That's not the point–"

"It is though,” Quentin cuts him off, “It is the point if it’s making you feel like a bad boyfriend. Eliot, do you think I'm not a sad sack of shit when you're not around? I definitely am. You're allowed to have needs, baby. And as for the rest of it, I don't know, do you drink too much? Maybe. But it's never gotten in the way of you being able to be there for me."

"Not yet, but you don't know what my dad was like."

"Well– I guess that’s true. If it's something you need to deal with, we can deal with it together. Baby, you’re coming down and it’s rough and you’re hungover on top of it, but I don’t think that’s anything I should be mad at you for," Quentin says, voice quiet.

"But you deserve better than this. Better me. You deserve someone who can– understand how you feel about shit with your dad because they actually have some concept of what liking your father might feel like. You deserve someone who can read the books you like without getting headaches. You deserve someone who doesn't look at a mistake waiting to happen and think 'that’s a solid way to ruin a good thing before it gets taken away from me.'" Eliot can hear the hysterical edge to his own voice, and braces against that careening feeling of flying out of control. "You deserve better than me, Q, and I guess I'm just waiting for you to realize it."

"But I want you," Quentin says, quiet and emphatic. "I want you because you make feel safe, and seen, and appreciated. Because you are a good person, even when you can't see it. Because you take care of me all the time, and you've been kinder to me in the year that I've known you than people I've known all my life. Because you make it seem like being with me is easy, and it's not, Eliot, I know it's not. But you don't make me feel bad for needing you, and I'm so sorry I haven't given you that back in return."

"I– you haven't done anything wrong," Eliot sniffles, nose running. "You're not– I like that you need me. It's nice to be needed."

"You're allowed some of that too," Quentin says, gently. "I want to talk to you always, okay? That doesn't just mean when you’re at your best. It also means when you're–"

"Throwing up in a toilet," Eliot fills in dully.

"Or a bush. Or a garbage can."

"Jesus," Eliot sighs, "I'm a mess."

"A little, but who isn't?" Quentin voice is so fucking kind, how is he so kind? "Drink some water, sweetheart, and get something to eat, then go find Margo. I'm sure you'll be able to work it out."

"Yeah," he sighs, sniffing again. "You're really good at this, Q. Taking care of people."

"Sometimes. When I’m not lost in my bullshit. Which, you know," he lets out a laugh, a little bitter. "Is about a 50/50 shot, there. But thanks."

As it turns out, Eliot doesn't actually need to go find Margo. She finds him, before he's even managed to drag himself up off the bathroom floor, leans against the door frame with arms folded. "I'd say you deserve this," she says, voice clipped, surveying the whole mess of him. "Karma, bitch."

"You're not wrong," he sighs, leaning his head back against the cold porcelain of the tub. Her brows wrinkles in confusion, like she hadn't expected him to agree. "I'm sorry, Bambi. I flew off the handle."

"Well. I probably should have read you in ahead of time," she admits, stepping into the bathroom. Her posture is closed off still, but now she looks more worried than angry, which just makes him feel. Worse. "And for the record, I like Q for you. I did know how fucked up you were about Mike. I just– don't know how to help, with that kind of thing. But he did, he helped, and that's a big part of why I like him for you. And he makes you happy, I'd have to be an idiot not to see that."

"I'm going to break it," Eliot whispers, sticky and sore. "I'm going to break it and I'm going to break us, Margo, and I'm not going to be able to graduate because I'm not going to be able to write a dissertation and I'm going to end up right back where I was 3 years ago."

"Hey, listen to me," Margo says, crouching down until she's eye level, balanced on her heels. "You're not going to break us. Ever. I'm not your boyfriend, we are never going to just break up. And I'm not going to let you fail out either, even if I have to rip that paper out of you taint first. We got through the fucking trials together, we can survive anything."

It makes him laugh, and wet and snotty though he is, she lets him cuddle in against her. "Really, what can be worse than being forced to wear school issued long johns?"

"You're damn right," Margo agrees, scratching her nails up and down his back. "And for what it's worth, I don't think Quentin’s going to drop you either. He's a stubborn little bitch, remember? When has he ever given up on anything, ever, in his whole dumb life?"

She's right, of course.

It's easy to feel like he doesn't deserve them, their love and support. It would be so much easier to self sabotage than it would be to take a minute and catch his breath, and see what he has: a best friend, who loves him, and a boyfriend, who misses him. And maybe he doesn't deserve them, but they deserve the best version of him that he can muster.

And if he can't be that person all the time, well. That's hardly going to be a surprise to them, is it?

But it is kind of a surprise to him, how much he wants to be that person; how badly he wants to be someone Margo conspires with, how much he wants to be someone Quentin leans on. He wants Margo's secret softer self, her hair in rollers and no makeup on. He wants Quentin’s trust, the way he hands over something so– so personal and dangerous as "I like it, when it's you." Eliot wants to be a person they can rely on, and that's kind of the most shocking thing of all. He wants to be the person they think he is.

Which doesn't make it easier, or make the way his stomach drops with dread any less uncomfortable when he wakes up a few days later to a text from Quentin, sent early enough to be midnight on the east coast.

(From– Cutie Q) 6:24am dad collapsed. waiting in the hospital rn, but I'm not sure if we're gonna stay here or go see a specialist.

(From– Cutie Q) 6:26am fcuk, el, jm so scared. im not ready for this.