Archive of Our Own

October arrives before Quentin’s even aware of it. Midterms loom on the horizon, a spectre following the chill in the air and the changing leaves. Anticipation of a Halloween spectacular buzzes around the PKC, the promise of a party the likes of which Quentin— who had not yet been living at the cottage last year, since discipline tests came at midterms— had never seen. Which is all well and good— hey, who doesn’t love a party— but another late-October day stands out in Quentin’s mind. The trick is just getting Margo alone long enough to ask about it.

It should be easy, they’re dorm room neighbors, after all. But the reality is that Quentin spends very little of his time in his actual assigned dorm room. Honestly, he uses it more as a dedicated study location than a bedroom, and then only when Eliot’s particularly busy, or particularly determined to use Quentin to procrastinate on his own work. But fate would have it that one such night would coincide with Margo’s door being open, early evening as he’s leaving a marathon study session with the vague idea of finding food.

“You can just leave it on the bed,” Margo calls out from the direction of her closet when he knocks his knuckles lightly against her door frame. Presumably she’s buried head-first in her actual closet, and not the gateway to England.

“Whatever it is, I don’t have it,” Quentin calls back, scuffing his foot against the door frame. Margo emerges from the closet to squint at him for a moment, then gives him the smallest of smiles before resuming her rummaging.

“Sorry, Little Q, I thought you were Todd.”

“Nope.” He waffles in the doorway for a minute, waiting to see if she’ll invite him in. But it’s Margo, and as such it can probably be assumed that if she wants him to leave that won’t be a mystery. Hesitantly, Quentin steps into the room and nudges the door closed.

At the sound of the door clicking shut, Margo pulls back out of the closet all the way to look at him. There’s fond amusement written into the quirk of her mouth as she puts her hands on her hips. “Why, Quentin, is this finally the moment our secret and illicit affair begins? I should warn you, I’m a biter.”

“What? No, I mean— Okay, first of all, are we really going to pretend that Eliot’s only objection would be about not being invited, because come on.”

“He does like to watch,” she agrees, eyeing Quentin up and down with what feels like frankly too much genuine appraisal in her eyes.

“I’m not here to fuck you, Margo,” Quentin laughs, dropping to sit on the edge of her bed. There’s something comfortable in the rhythm of this, Margo trying to embarrass him as a means of showing affection. It’d taken some getting used to, but it comes along with her moments of genuine openness, where she sits with him and shows her gentleness and that— That’s precious. He’ll take the face-burning embarrassment that goes along with it, to have that.

“Your loss,” she says with a wink, turning back to her closet. “So what’s up? I’m kind of working on a timetable, here Coldwater, ándale.”

“So,” he starts, fiddling with the strap on his bag to have something to do with his hands. “You know Eliot?”

“I’m familiar with him, yes,” she says, amusement clearly written into her voice even though he can’t see her face. “Think I’ve met him once or twice.”

“Shut up,” Quentin grumbles, shoving his hair back out of his face. “So like, his birthday’s coming up, right? And I don’t really— I mean, I was around last year, but I didn’t live at the cottage yet and also like, I don’t know, Eliot and I weren’t— Like, we were friends, but I don’t remember doing anything? For his birthday?”

“Yeah, we didn’t really. I mean, Halloween is the next day, so we just kind of kept prepping for that party.” Margo emerges holding a handful of colorful fabric which might be a dress? Skirt?

Whatever it is, she waves it in his general direction while kicking off her heels. “Eliot’s weird about birthdays. We didn’t celebrate it at all during our first year since it was before the trials. We weren’t that close yet.”

“Seems like we should do something, though,” Quentin mutters, arms crossing over his chest. “I mean, we went to London for my birthday. Honestly I thought he’d want a party.”

“If he wanted a party, he’d have been dropping hints for weeks. Have you ever known Eliot to be subtle when he wants things?” Margo asks, walking over to stand near him, tossing the garment of clothing on the bed next to him. He has just a moment of appreciating the frankness in her face, how beautiful she is even with her hair undone in the middle of getting ready. Then she just— grabs the hem of her sweater and starts to tug it off, which— what?

He catches a hint of black bra as he spins around to face the wall, nearly falling off the bed in the process. Something like panic pushes in his chest, which is just like— stupid, really, they’d just been joking about having a threesome, and now he’s having a heart attack about to see Margo in a bra. Trying very hard not to think about her boobs even a little bit because somehow she would know, Quentin tells the wall, “I think Eliot wants a lot of things he never says out loud.”

“Oh stop being a baby, you’ve seen me in bikinis smaller than this.” There’s a beat, and then Margo says, an uncharacteristically serious note to her voice coming from out of Quentin’s line of sight, “I keep forgetting how well you know him. I’m used to keeping his secrets for him, even the ones he doesn’t realize he’s keeping, but. I don’t really need to do that with you. You’re right, Eliot’s kind of terminally bad at wanting things for himself if it feels too risky, or if not getting it might hurt too much. Hey, zip me up, will you?”

She’s standing back to him when he dares to look away from the wall, holding her hair in a loose bunch out of the way with one hand. It leaves the back of her neck exposed, which feels— like a metaphor, somehow, as he stands up to move behind her. As instructed, Quentin zips Margo into her dress, pulling the little metal tab from the middle of her back up to the base of her neck where she’s holding her hair. “So you don’t think we should do anything at all, then?”

Margo turns to give him a speculative look, one eyebrow raised. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Kind of but it’s like— a logistical nightmare.”

“Well, logistics are my specialty,” Margo says with a grin, reaching out to pat his cheek. It should feel kind of condescending, but coming from Margo, any kind of affection feels like a gift. “What are you thinking, Coldwater?”

Grinning, Quentin outlines his plan.

___

The morning of Friday, October 30th dawns clear and bright as every morning at Brakebills. The nip in the air is minimal, just enough to make you glad to be wearing a sweater, but nothing like the chill Quentin finds stepping through the portal in his dorm room to New Jersey. It’s early, early enough that his dad’s not up yet, and Quentin moves as quietly as he can through the house, calling a Lyft even before he’s made it downstairs. He’s on a time crunch after all, rushing against Eliot’s early riser tendencies. The whole errand takes about 45 minutes and that’s a quarter of an hour longer than he planned, but he does take the time to leave a cup of coffee and a plain bagel with a note for his dad before rushing back through the portal.

Still, he makes it up to the attic room before 8, and when he cracks the door open to peer where it’s still dark and quiet inside. Slipping as softly as he can into the room, Quentin toes off his shoes by the door and leaves his hard-won prize on the nightstand: a bag of egg sandwiches and two lattes, all held in a stasis spell to keep them fresh and hot. It also keeps them from smelling as delicious as they are, which is kind of a bummer, but he’ll take what he can get. Eliot’s got good curtains in his room, but they’re far from black-outs, and it’s easy for Quentin to see the man himself, sprawled out on his stomach with both arms curled under his pillow. He seems to be naked which is far from surprising, but he had slept alone last night. Quentin had claimed a need for space to study as part of The Birthday Plan, enabling him to make his early morning jaunt without disturbing Eliot.

Now, he settles down on the bed, sinking down to sit at Eliot’s side as the bed shifts with the distribution of weight. Eliot stirs a little, not really waking so much as shifting to accommodate Quentin’s presence in the bed. A soft, unbearably fond, sticky feeling unfolds in Quentin’s chest and he reaches out to touch, sliding his fingers gently into Eliot’s curls. The soft strands of hair slide through his sifting fingers, calling Eliot to wakefulness with a soft, “Hey, baby. Good morning.”

This earns him a garbled, indecipherable mumble, as Eliot rolls his head over to blink up at Quentin. “Wsits’?”

“Assuming that’s ‘what time is it,’ it’s only eight,” Quentin teases, scritching his fingers gently along the base of Eliot’s skull. Eliot grunts in acknowledgement, eyes sliding closed for a few more seconds as Quentin plays with his hair, watching him wake up slowly. His gaze is clearer when he opens his eyes again, taking in Quentin’s appearance.

“You’re dressed,” Eliot observes, more coherent and sounding kind of put out, blinking up at Quentin in confusion. “Why are you dressed?”

“I ran to New Jersey this morning.” Quentin pairs this explanation with a kiss, soft against Eliot’s sleep-sour mouth. He’s frowning when Quentin pulls back, eyes sharper and more alert.

“Ted alright?” Eliot asks, voice tense, and it— It does something funny to Quentin’s insides, how much Eliot cares. How much he cares about Quentin, and all the things that go along with Quentin.

“Yeah,” Quentin sighs, sliding down onto the bed so he can snuggle into Eliot’s side on top of the covers. “He’s fine. I just went to the deli, you know the one we went to this summer? To get breakfast.”

“Breakfast.” Eliot repeats flatly, confused. “You went to New Jersey for breakfast.”

“No, I went to New Jersey for Sal’s bagels,” Quentin corrects, snuggling in as Eliot loops an arm around his middle, settling them together cozily. “I figured that was a better bet than cooking myself. Though I did think about trying that, but— better for everyone, probably, if I avoid the kitchen.”

“Hm,” Eliot hums sleepily, dropping a kiss against Quentin’s shoulder through the fabric of his sweater.

“So, instead you get to pick either a sausage egg and cheese on everything or an egg and cheese on jalapeno. Happy birthday, sweetheart.” Eliot stills next to him, setting off a cascade of anxiety that sparks through Quentin like a live wire. “There’s not— I mean, it’s a Jewish deli, so there wasn’t bacon, but if— I mean I think cheese and sausage isn’t Kosher either, so I don’t know— but I could go find you bacon, if you want to stick it on the other one, I mean— The dining hall probably has some.”

“Too early for rambling,” Eliot cuts in, arm tightening around Quentin’s waist in a light squeeze. “I don’t need bacon, calm down.”

“Oh. Okay.

“You got me breakfast?” Eliot asks again, voice softer this time, and when Quentin twists his head around to look at him, he’s smiling a little. Wordless, Quentin nods, and Eliot’s answering smile is slow and sweet and warm. “Thank you, darling.”

“Also got you a pumpkin latte.” Quentin points over towards the night stand. “The one without the PS on the cup and the overwhelming amount of sugar is mine.”

“Don’t hate,” Eliot pouts, tugging at Quentin until he rolls over, snuggling in face to face. “You got me a birthday breakfast.”

“I did.” Quentin nods, reaching out to settle his palm against Eliot’s naked chest. His skin is sleep-warm, the hair under Quentin’s palm coarse and familiar. He expects it when Eliot leans in to kiss him, slow and soft, until the sourness of morning breath fades and all that they can taste is each other. It unfolds like a slow wash of heat, building and simmering under the surface as they part with the wet, slick sound of mouth against mouth. “I, um— Could also provide other birthday morning treats.”

“Oh yeah?” Eliot asks, a bright teasing lilt to his voice as he brushes their noses together. “What do you have in mind?”

Choosing to deliver his answer with a ‘show-don’t-tell’ methodology, Quentin nudges Eliot over until he’s sprawled out on his back on the bed, curls a wild splash of brown against green sheets. Eliot laughs, delighted, as Quentin clambers up on top of him; not his most graceful move, to be sure, but Eliot’s generous and forgiving of Quentin’s awkwardness, open and affectionate as always as his palms come up to cup Quentin’s ribs. He’s still smiling when Quentin kisses him again, long and deep, licking into the warm wet space of him. He’s smiling when Quentin draws back, and laughing when Quentin turns his kisses to the side of Eliot’s throat instead, kissing the jut of his jaw and the bump of his Adam’s apple.

Drawing his kisses down Eliot’s body, he kisses collarbones and the boney solidity of Eliot’s breastbone, the curve of his pec and the soft tender skin on his ribs right where his chest hair thins down to peach fuzz. The rumble of a pleased hum vibrates against Quentin’s mouth, resonant in the barrel of Eliot’s chest, as Eliot’s hands come up to play with Quentin’s hair, gathering it up and letting the strands fall in turns.

“I like where this is going.”

“I figured you would,” Quentin agrees, amused, tugging at the sheet that’s caught under the weight of Eliot’s body until he shifts enough for it to come free.

His cock is still mostly soft, but that suits Quentin just fine as he settles town into the open spread of Eliot’s legs. It’s still a treat, the way Eliot makes space for him so easily, how good it is to settle here with his nose and mouth against the tender inside of Eliot’s thigh, kissing up where Eliot’s cock lays, soft and tucked away into its foreskin. He can take the whole thing in his mouth like this, easy, no strain at all. But he’s feeling playful and fond this morning, and— there’s no reason not to take his time, indulge in every whim if it has a chance of making Eliot feel good.

So instead of jumping to the main event, Quentin kisses across the skin of Eliot’s pelvis towards the neat thatch of hair where his dick sits, laps his tongue out at the base as above him Eliot sighs deeply. The hand in his hair tugs just a little, a hello and a well this is nice, the wordless communication they’ve begun to learn from each other. Quentin moves down to tongue at the heavy weight of Eliot’s balls, sucking one and then the other gently into his mouth until Eliot groans out loud, his hips cant up slightly.

“Fuck, baby,” Eliot pants out, fingers tightening in Quentin’s hair on reflex. It hurts in the most delicious way, sending a sparkle of arousal shooting through Quentin’s body, fanning the heat he always feels from getting to put his mouth on Eliot’s beautiful cock. “God, can I wake up like this every morning?”

Quentin snorts, graceless, because honestly. Morning sex is hardly an unusual occurrence for them, especially on days where neither of them have classes before 10. “You feel like you don’t have enough blowjobs in your life?” Quentin teases, moving up to flirt his tongue along the fold of Eliot’s foreskin, fitting it gently between the delicate skin and the spongy head.

Eliot laughs, and fuck Quentin loves that, loves being able to make Eliot laugh during sex. “Oh, darling, I would never say that. You’re so good to me.”

It might be embarrassing, the way Quentin shivers with the praise, but— the embarrassment is a little hot too, always has been when it comes to being with Eliot. He knows he’s probably blushing, but he pushes through it, finally taking the length of Eliot’s dick into his mouth, stiffer now than it had been but still easy enough to take in and suck. Hollowing his cheeks, he does just that, working gently suction and pressure with his tongue, enjoying the feeling of Eliot getting hard in his mouth.

Falling into a rhythm is easy, working his hand in tandem with his mouth as Eliot’s cock swells to its full length, hard and huge and lighting up hunger deep in the pit of Quentin’s stomach. And, well, he could just do this, hand and mouth and spit and friction, it’s good and Eliot will like it, will run his mouth off because he knows Quentin likes that. But— it’s his birthday, and Quentin wants it to be special. So he works Eliot hard with his mouth and hands and then pushes, breathing out through his nose, until the head of Eliot’s cock begins to nudge against his soft palate. He pushes, swallowing and then making his throat relax, fighting against the instinct to swallow again as Eliot’s cock slides backwards, flirting on the edge of his gag reflex.

“Oh,” Eliot gasps, and god, Quentin wishes he could see better, see the pleasure play out across Eliot’s face. “God, baby, that’s it. You gonna try to take it all?”

Quentin slides back enough to hum an affirmative, then pushes back down. Working himself up to taking Eliot’s dick in his throat is a process, but they have time, and Eliot’s blowjob etiquette is impeccable, never pushing Quentin to take more than he can take comfortably. No, he’s a font of encouragement, instead, and it makes it easy for Quentin to sink in and settle, focus on relaxing himself until he’s working the head into the opening of his throat, pushing down, down, down until finally his nose is brushing the soft skin of Eliot’s abdomen and holding for a beat, two, three, until he has to draw back and gasp for air.

“Baby, fuck, fuck,” Eliot’s babbling, hands tangled in Quentin’s hair, holding him, grounding him, big dick so hard and wet in Quentin’s fist that he can barely get any friction at all fisting it with his hand. “Come on, honey, take it, you take it so good—”

He breaks off with a grunt as Quentin slides back down, working the underside of the shaft with his tongue the whole way down. It’s easier to do long deep strokes than it is to hold it, so that’s the rhythm he settles into, pushing the head of Eliot’s cock into his throat for a handful of fluttery seconds before pulling back, again and again and again. It’s wet, it’s messy, he’s got spit all over his face and his nose is probably running and his eyes are watering from fighting his gag reflex, but the sounds Eliot’s making are beautiful, like he’s never felt this good in his whole life, and Quentin’s the one who does this to him. He’s the one making Eliot feel like this. That’s such a mind-fuck that he doesn’t even mind the ache in his jaw, the building soreness in his throat.

“Gonna come, Q, I’m gonna. I’m— feels so fucking good, darling.” Eliot’s words of warning spill out of him in a tangle, but Quentin just hums in response, pulling back so he doesn’t choke on the spill of Eliot’s come. Instead he holds the head in his mouth, sucking gently and working the sensitive underside with the point of his tongue until Eliot comes with a shout. Quentin pulls him through it, working his fist over the shaft as Eliot spends in his mouth, body going lax against the bed. Quentin suckles him gently through the aftershocks, until Eliot starts to shy away from the sensation, then he pulls back, wiping his messy face on the sheets.

“Hap—” Quentin breaks off to cough, the crack in his voice rough from use. It makes Eliot snicker, all the way up the bed, still sprawled out in a lazy spread-eagle. “Happy birthday.”

“Hmm, s’nice. No complaints so far,” Eliot drawls, reaching a hand down until he can catch Quentin’s elbow and tug him up for a kiss. Quentin goes, bracing one hand on the bed by Eliot's head so he can lean down into the kiss, the rough scratch of Eliot days-old beard growth catching on his sore mouth in a way that’s kind of— exciting. Interesting. Maybe Eliot can read his mind, or maybe it’s just the natural progression of things, but one of Eliot’s talented, clever hands drifts towards Quentin’s waistband. And Quentin could let him, could let Eliot jerk him off while he rubs his mouth raw against the scratch of stubble, but— There’s a plan. He’s trying to stick to a plan.

“I’m okay,” he says instead, batting Eliot’s exploring hand away and moving to sit up. “You have class soon, and I want you to eat breakfast with you before. You can jerk me off later, I promise.”

“Or I could skip class,” Eliot suggests with the air of an evil genius unveiling some new scheme for world domination, “so I can suck on your sweet little cock, then we go back to sleep and have breakfast at noon.”

“Eliot,” Quentin whines, flushing, because that was just— not fair, playing dirty. “You have meta-comp today, I’m not supposed to let you skip meta-comp because you need it for your thesis.”

Eliot groans, finally flopping back to lay still against the bed. “Can you just make Julia go for me?”

“I think Sunderland might notice if you turned into a five foot three woman, El,” Quentin says, patient. His dick is still kind of interested in the whole idea of some kind of reciprocity, leaving him shifting uncomfortably on the bed under Eliot’s amused gaze. “Maybe we can shower together, if you have time after breakfast. Depends on how much time you need to get ready this morning.”

“Should be fast,” Eliot sighs, passing his hand over the shadow of hair on his jaw, scratchy and delicious. “The Margo-appointed Halloween beard is still coming in, so I don’t have to shave or trim anything.”

Smiling a little, Quentin pulls his knee up to his chest, resting his chin on it. His throat is pleasantly scratchy and sore, and he swallows against it, letting himself drink in the picture Eliot makes like this, post-coital sprawl with his skin looking pale and soft against the olive green of his sheets. The color brings out the warmth in his dark hair, the green in his hazel, he’s mesmerizing. Quentin could look at him all day. “Still bullshit that you’ll grow a beard for Margo and not for me.”

“I grew a beard for you,” Eliot protests, reaching out to brush his knuckles against the side of Quentin’s leg. It’s a gentle touch, an offer more than anything, and Quentin takes him up on it, reaches out to slide his fingers through Eliot’s. Long, slender and graceful, Eliot’s fingers are ringless this close to waking, and Quentin lets himself enjoy the sensation of skin sliding against skin, the shiver of sensation against the delicate insides of fingers. “I just had to shave it off because it was negatively impacting both our ability to be functional adults.”

It’s the truth, and Quentin knows it, hiding his smile in his knee. “I still don’t get this costume you’re doing.”

“It’s sexy Romans, Q, it’s not that complicated.”

“Right, it must be the specificity of the concept that’s throwing me,” Quentin throws back, rolling his eyes. “Remind me again why you’re doing sexy Romans with Margo and not Han Solo and Luke with me?”

The exasperated look on Eliot’s face is worth the goading, when it’s so easy to wind him up. “Because someone let Julia convince them that doing a couple’s costume when you’ve been dating for less than a year is tacky.”

“Hmm, well, someone knows that Julia’s still feeling kind of replaced and throwing her a bone makes life easier in the long run.”

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, squeezing his fingers lightly and then letting go, hand falling down against his own stomach. “Someone’s got a point.”

“I’m sure you’ll be a very sexy Roman,” Quentin offers, reaching out to pat Eliot’s arm consolingly. “Besides, bonus points: beard!”

He does end up getting an unfairly good handjob in the shower, which hadn’t been part of the plan, but hey— he can be flexible if it means he gets Eliot’s bulk caging him in against the shower wall, and Eliot’s hand performing miracles on his dick, with Eliot’s sweet low voice in his ear reminding him just how much Eliot loves playing with his sweet little cock. For that, he can totally let go of plans.

Eliot’s only five minutes late to class, too, so Quentin’s going to count that as a win.

___

He knew it was coming.

He’d known it was coming from the moment Quentin murmured the dreaded happy birthday, all backlit with early morning sunlight, the smell of crisp fall air clinging to his hair and sweater. Honestly, he should have figured out something was coming sooner, given that Margo had been silent on the issue— naive, probably, to think that she’d taken the hint from last year and decided to give the day a pass.

Still, bagels and a blowjob are nice, regardless of the occasion that prompts them, and if that was all that was coming, well— he can take it with good humor.

It is, of course, not all that's coming.

They ambush him after lunch, twin tiny devils with their shiny hair and huge brown eyes, both of them. He loathes them both, in a way that feels a lot more like love, as they corner him by his bar, Margo leaning her forearm on the surface while Quentin perches nearby on the arm of a chair. Straightening up warily, Eliot sets down the rack of glasses he’s holding, glancing from one to the other. “Whatever you two are conspiring about, I want no part in it.”

Margo, who would of course have anticipated this reaction, just rolls her eyes. But Quentin frowns, crease forming in his brow as his pretty mouth turns down. “I think you could at least hear us out first.”

“Right, sorry,” Eliot sighs, feeling unreasonably agitated. Smoothing a hand down the front of his vest, he tries to grab for some composure. “Bambi, Q, hello. What can I do for you? Would you like a drink?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a gin and tonic if you’re offering,” Margo says, eyeing him all too knowingly.

“Right. Sure. Q?”

“Sounds good to me,” he says with a little half shrug, but he reaches out, catching Eliot’s hand with a finger. Pulled towards him like gravity, Eliot drifts into Quentin’s orbit, meeting him when he tilts his face up for a soft hello kiss. “Relax, El, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Yeah, you’re only being mildly ganged up on.”

Which doesn’t exactly make him feel better, but she clearly hadn’t been aiming to. So he decides not to dignify this childish behavior with a response, moving instead to assembling two glasses of ice. G&Ts weren’t the best vessel for flare and personalization, but he can manage a little, pouring Beefeater London Dry gin with a squeeze of lime for Quentin. For Margo, he reaches for The Botanist, forgoing the lime instead for a sprig of mint, bruised between two open palms. Margo’s eyes are still twinkling with mischief when he slides her over her drink.

She takes a sip, humming thoughtfully. “So, we’re taking you into the city. We’re on a bit of a timeline, we’ve got an early dinner reservation. You’ve got about an hour to get ready, so don’t dawdle too much.”

"Am I the only one who remembers we have a party in two days?” Eliot asks, mildly exasperated, gesturing around the cottage. There’s still so much left to do. There should be a couple cases of wine and the distasteful-but-necessary keg coming in today, plus he’s got to plan out the illusion effects for the party— this is their last Halloween at Brakebills, it needs to be equal measures spooky and sexy, which is a complicated balance to strike. He hasn’t got time for his birthday, of all things. “There are deliveries coming, I can't just leave."

"All taken care of, baby.” Margo’s voice is gentle, the way she gets when she’s talking Q down off a ledge of panic. Eliot wonders briefly what his face is doing, to earn gentleness from her. “We’ve delegated that stuff for you. What's the point of being a third year if you have to make your own pick-ups?”

Sighing, Eliot looks over at Quentin. But there’s no respite there, just Quentin’s earnest eyes, eyebrows pulled together with concern. “Really, it’ll be fine. We want you to have a good time, not be stressing out about the party.” And well, Eliot’s pretty terrible at resisting those puppy eyes. Resigned, he nods, leaning in again to press a kiss to Quentin’s forehead, because, well— He wants to, and that’s reason enough.

“Excellent. So get changed,” Margo orders, waving her hand in a shooing motion.

Skeptical, Eliot glances between her in black-turtleneck-corduroy-skirt-thigh-high-boots ensemble and Quentin, who’s still wearing the slouchy green sweater and worn soft jeans he’d been wearing this morning. Cute, both of them, very autumnal but hardly dressy. “What’s my fashion brief?”

Margo squints thoughtfully off into the middle distance, a playful smile lurking around the edges of her expression. “I’d say smart casual. Color-match to my black and blue dress, the one with the lace.”

“Can he not just wear that— you know, even as I’m saying it I realize this is a stupid question.” Quentin’s words turn to a mumble as he takes a sip of his drink, a pink tinge heating across the edge of his ear. A warm burst of affection pushes its way through the weird lingering anxiety in Eliot’s chest, that swell of he’s perfect and he’s mine that Quentin draws up in him so often.

“Can’t wear a blazer with that vest,” Margo explains, so Eliot can just watch the confused bewilderment spread across Quentin’s face. Adorable.

“Right, of course.”

Eliot laughs, leaning down enough to press a kiss to Quentin’s mouth this time instead. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. Getting dressed up is half the fun.”

“I’m just saying, I don’t think I own anything nicer than what you’re wearing right now, so—”

“Oh, you’ll be fine, I’ll help you,” Margo cuts in, waving her hand over at Q. Which— Eliot would actually really enjoy watching Margo dress Quentin, but she’s already got him by the arm, tugging him away while point one immaculately manicured finger at Eliot. “You’ve got an hour, so snap to it!”

“Wait, who’s meeting this delivery order? You just glossed right over that!” Eliot calls after her, but she’s too busy frog-marching Quentin upstairs to respond. Fantastic. Making a mental note to personally murder Todd if a single item of the order isn’t accounted for, Eliot abandons his bar to go get changed himself.

45 minutes later, and he’s mostly ready to go, in the process of fixing his hair and face in the full-length mirror when there’s a soft knock on the door. It swings open before he can call out, Quentin slipping into the room and letting the door close behind him with a soft click.

“I’ve been sent to borrow a tie,” he explains, giving Eliot a kind of sheepish smile through the mirror. “Apparently neither of the two I own are acceptable.”

Humming thoughtfully, Eliot turns around to get a better look at Quentin. He’s dressed simply, wearing the grey button down he’d worn for his entrance exam over a year and the newest of his black jeans. And yet the shirt, untucked though it is, cuts in at the nip of his waits, drawing the eye to just how slender and solid he really is. The pants seem to be fitting better than Q’s pants tend to, as well. “Did Margo hit you with tailoring spells?”

“She sure did,” Quentin agrees cheerfully, tugging at a little at the cuff of his shirt. His hair is loose, hanging around his face in a soft curtain, and Eliot can’t resist stepping in close to catch a piece of it between his fingers, tuck it gently back behind Quentin’s ear. “I feel like I look ridiculous.”

“Oh, not even a little. You’re gorgeous,” Eliot promises, hoping the truth of the statement comes through in his tone.

“Well, I’m not you,” Quentin murmurs pointedly, reaching out to catch the lapels of Eliot’s burgundy blazer, tugging a little, “–but I’ll do, I guess.”

“You’ll do perfectly.” He leans down for a kiss, because he can, because it’s his birthday and everyone is hell-bent on making him acknowledge it then he should at least get to kiss his boyfriend as much as he wants. Quentin is as eager to be kissed as ever, melting a little under Eliot’s hands, palms sliding around Eliot’s waist under the blazer until they’re clasped at the small of his back. He feels trim and tiny and perfect in Eliot’s arms, and Eliot wants to unwrap him, but— “I suppose that timeline we’re on is serious, huh?”

“Kind of,” Quentin agrees, his tongue flicking out across his pretty mouth, scraped red from Eliot’s half-grown-in beard. “Let’s just say I don’t want to have my dick out when Margo comes looking for us.”

“You’re a wise man,” Eliot sighs, dropping one last kiss to Quentin’s lips before disentangling himself, moving over towards his closet. “Tie, you said? Were you given more instruction than that?”

“Nope. Have at me.”

He opts for subtle, deep plum with thin black diagonal stripes which will act as the perfect visual bridge between Margo’s blue and Eliot’s deep red. Eliot holds out the tie, and Quentin shrugs in agreement, folding up the collar of his shirt as Eliot steps back into his space, looping the silk around his neck.

“Hey, El,” Quentin starts, as Eliot deftly begins to loop the fabric into a knot at the base of Quentin’s throat. Eliot hums to show he’s paying attention, finishing the Windsor knot with practiced ease. “What’s the deal with your birthday? I mean, you’re being a good sport, but— I don’t know, I’m starting to feel like we’re actually making you do something you don’t want to do.”

Eliot’s stomach lurches, that odd discomfort mixed with adrenaline that always comes with feeling seen. “You’re not,” he promises, smoothing his hand down the front of Quentin’s chest along the line of the tie. “I’m going to get you a tie clip, okay? It’ll help hold the tie to your shirt since you’re not wearing a vest or a blazer.”

“Sounds good,” Quentin says, soft, and he doesn’t push as Eliot turns away, doesn’t force the issue as Eliot moves over to pick through the neat assortment of accessories on top of his dresser, rings and pins and clips, the odd watch or two he hardly ever wears. An enamel silver and black clip stands out perfectly, and he reaches for that, concentrating on the cool metal in his fingers as he turns back towards Quentin.

“You’re not making me do anything I don’t want to do,” Eliot repeats, meditative as he slides the clip onto the tie, and then onto the front panel of Quentin’s shirt. “So don’t worry.”

“Right,” Quentin says wryly, a little twist to the corner of his mouth. “Because telling me not to worry about stuff really has a high rate of success.”

He’s going to let Eliot get away with it, though, with dodging the question, Eliot can already tell. It sits a little guiltily in the pit of Eliot’s stomach, but he just can’t— He can’t pull the curtains back in this particular abandoned room with all of its dust-cloth covered furniture standing there like so many ghosts, and then walk out into the world and be cheerful and enjoy whatever Margo and Quentin have planned. Probably dinner somewhere nice in the city, probably drinks somewhere after, the standard fare. He’ll enjoy it, because he likes their company and that’ll— that’ll be good. Breakfast and blowjobs, and a nice dinner with his favorite people; a good birthday.

“Hey,” Quentin says, pulling Eliot out of his mind, breaking his eyes away from where he’s been aimlessly petting across the tie on Quentin’s chest. “Just be glad I didn’t tell my dad today’s your birthday, or we’d be going to New Jersey tonight, not New York.”

That’s enough to make Eliot laugh, startled, a secret little wriggle of pleasure in the pit of his stomach, the feeling he always gets being included in the Coldwater home. “Well, maybe we can go out there next weekend. Have dinner or something.”

“He’d be thrilled.”

Smile rising unbidden to his lips, Eliot leans in to brush his nose against Quentin’s, drags them together, nuzzling up to kiss Quentin’s forehead, the tip of his nose, soft against his smiling mouth. Then he pulls away enough to give Quentin a once-over, really take in the ensemble. He is, truly, almost unfairly handsome. The long hair and the skinny-cut pants and the tailored but untucked shirt all combine to make him look like exactly what he is: an attractive WASP-y genzennial Brooklynite who’s worked in at least one bookstore in his life and has opinions about Proust.

God, Eliot really does actually love him.

“Passable?” Quentin asks, straining to catch sight of himself in the mirror behind Eliot, then seeming to think better of it.

“More than,” Eliot agrees, bumping his index finger gently against the point of Quentin’s chin. “I’ve just got to put on eyeliner and then I’ll be done.”

They meet Margo down by the stairs, as the sun’s beginning it’s slow descent into the early fall evening. She’s beautiful as ever, hair straightened and shiny and eyes smokey, and she gives an approving nod to Eliot’s tie selection, needlessly straightening the knot at Quentin’s throat. He allows it with an air of long-suffering patience, meeting Eliot’s eyes over her shoulder with a little smile. Excitement starts sneaking up on Eliot in spite of himself as they set out, heading towards the portal to New York.

Leaves crunch underfoot as they all across the campus in the late afternoon sunlight, magic-hour lighting making everything feel golden and syrupy. Stepping through the portal is always a weird experience, leaving the literally magical atmosphere of Brakebills and stepping out into the harsh reality of New York. It’s slightly colder on this side of the portal, enough that Eliot wonders if he should maybe offer Margo his jacket. But she seems fine, already fishing her phone out of her purse to call them a Lyft.

“So where are we headed? Chelsea?”

“You’ll see.” She manages to maintain an air of complete unflappability, giving away absolutely nothing.

Shaking his head, Eliot looks over to Quentin, who is generally much worse at keeping shit buttoned up. But he just smiles a little, fingers brushing against Eliot’s palm. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

Long-leg privilege allows Eliot to avoid the battle of who gets to be squished in the middle in the back of the Lyft, sliding in while Quentin and Margo bicker. In a turn of events absolutely no one saw coming, Q loses, but that’s okay, Eliot’s happy to loop his arm around Quentin’s shoulder and stare out the window as the New York cityscape passes by. It takes him longer to put it together than it should, but by the time they’re rolling up towards the Village, something clicks and Eliot’s heart, well, leaps.

“Are we going to Broadway?”

Margo’s answering grin would be enough confirmation, but she adds, “Oh baby, we sure are.”

He could almost laugh with delight, startled and just— blown away, really, that they would think to do this. It’s not something he’d even think to ask for, and yet... God, it’s been so long since he’s seen a musical. They’d gone to a play at the Globe, last summer, and that had been wonderful, invigorating, truly next level mastery of theatrecraft, but, well. Musicals were Eliot’s thing, more than Shakespeare. He and Margo joked about going to Broadway, occasionally, but they also joked about going to, like, Aruba. It seemed about as likely to happen on a random weeknight.

But it’s not a random weeknight, is it? It’s his birthday.

“Dinner first, though,” Margo says as the car rolls to a stop, pointing out the window towards— fucking Sardi’s.

“No way!”

“Yep!”

The wind bites at Eliot’s skin as he steps out of the car, “How early did you start planning this, to get reservations at Sardi's?”

“Kind of last minute. I blew the manager,” Margo says, shrugging up the strap of her purse. At Eliot’s silence, she rolls her eyes, waggling her finger at him. “I fucking magicked the reservation book, what do you think? A nice couple from upstate is going to find that they had their reservation date wrong, whatevs. Though, if I had sucked dick for this table, I’d be expecting more gratitude and less judgement from you.”

“Besides,” Quentin cuts in, smirking a little. “Of the two of us, who do you think is more like to suck dick to make you happy.” Margo hums, waving at him as if to say, See- we’ve made use of him yet.

“I hope all the dick sucking you're doing is making you happy, too.”

Quentin snorts, indelicate, leaning into Eliot’s side as he winds an arm around Eliot’s waist, face tipped up with that soft little smile that says kiss me, kiss me please. “No complaints so far.”

And because it’s Eliot’s birthday, Margo even manages to stave off her performative gagging noises when Eliot leans in, dragging his mouth against Quentin’s in a soft kiss. She’s actually smiling, when they part, looking at them with a kind of soft fondness you might think her incapable of, if you didn’t know her. She reaches out for him the same moment Eliot reaches for her, their fingers twining together with a kind of familiarity that sits in his chest, the way her small hand fits in his, the hard gel of her nails against the back of his knuckles as they walk into the restaurant. She gives the hostess her name, and then they’re left to wait a handful of minutes, standing against the wall near the host stand.

“We couldn’t magic Hamilton tickets, though,” Margo muses, bumping her shoulder gently against Eliot’s arm.

“Like, legit, we tried, there’s wards. I’m on the shitlist of some very grumpy guy with a toupee.”

“He may or may not have put a mob hit out on us,” Margo agrees, cheerful sarcasm in her voice. “If someone tells you I disappeared after a sudden windfall, don’t believe it.”

“Well, naturally,” Eliot sighs, roping her in until he’s got one of them tucked under each arm, his little pocket people, Quentin with his heart so big he can’t help the care that comes pouring out and Margo who gives her love so selectively that it can’t help feel special to get even a part of it. “I assume our deal is still in effect.”

“First person to come into money has to pay off the other’s student loans,” Margo explains to Quentin. “This deal benefits Eliot, solely, of course—”

“Because Bambi has a rich daddy, yes. Statistically, the likelihood of me coming into money is astronomically low, anyway. Who am I going to inherit from? My parents want me to have that farm about as much as I want to have it.”

“I think there’s a pretty good chance you’ll be inheriting a car,” Quentin says, quietly, looking down at his boots so his hair swings into his face. “I mean, like, Dad’s basically said as much because he doesn’t want me to have it in case I like— wrap myself around a pole or whatever.”

“Baby,” Eliot whispers, struck. Here they are joking about inheritance, when that’s a real thing Quentin’s really going to have to deal with, and soon.

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have— I need to like, read the room better.”

Rescue comes in the form of the hostess showing them to their seats. The awkwardness shakes off as they get settled at a square table, Margo across from Eliot and Quentin to his right.

“So what are we seeing?” Eliot asks, as they scan over the menus their friendly server had handed them. “Or is that part of the surprise?”

“Nah, but it’s a new play so I don’t know if the title will mean anything to you. It’s still in previews, which is honestly the only way we managed to get tickets at all.” Margo shrugs, like the feat of pulling together a full Broadway evening is somehow no big deal.

“It’s still supposed to be good though,” Quentin says, quietly earnest. “I did a lot of, um, research I guess? So the play is called Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812—”

“A brief title,” Margo cuts in, smirking.

“— and it did really well in Boston, I guess? It’s based on a chunk of War and Peace which doesn’t sound super exciting, I know but, like, it has Josh Groban in it? And one of the girls from Hamilton? So hopefully it’ll be good.”

“I’m sure it will,” Eliot agrees, half amused at Quentin’s earnest rambling and half just touched, really, at how much thought went into this. God, how does Quentin care so much? But then he smiles, soft dimples on his cheeks, and Eliot just melts. How wild it still is, to be the focus of Quentin’s attention.

They share a bottle of wine between the three of them at dinner. The food is delicious, and they steal from each other liberally, tasting forkfuls of Margo’s crab and Quentin’s chicken while they swipe bites of his pork chop. There’s a feeling in the air that feels almost electric, almost— almost magical, not in the sense of a physical current he can reach out and manipulate, but there’s a surrealness he can’t describe. He remembers walking past with— fucking Alexi, probably— on the way back from standing in line for rush tickets, staring at the doors and dreaming about days when they could even remotely justify spending $60 each on a meal, on their way back to their dorms to eat 99¢ ramen. We’ll have made it, when we have tables at Sardi’s.

Turns out making it really only necessitates making a best friend with a trust fund, but— Eliot keeps finding himself staring up at the walls anyway, at the caricatures of famous names, broadway and silver screen alike, who’d sat here before them. To be quite literally sitting where they sat, well— this is a dream Eliot’s almost forgotten he had, like it belonged to another life. There’s moments where he almost feels like he’s slipping sideways, somehow, sliding back into the person he was three, four, five years ago, with a laundry list of dreams and another of fears.

His eyes catch Quentin’s as they drift down from the wall, almost a surprise to find Quentin watching him. Even more of a surprise, really, that Quentin’s smiling a little, softly around the corners of his mouth, a slight smile he’s not aware of enough to be self-conscious about. It grows, when Eliot meets his eye, and he reaches out to take Eliot’s hand over the top of the table. Tingles chase across Eliot’s skin as Quentin’s thumb brushes against his knuckles, soft and private, grounding. And just like that, the feeling of slipping in time goes away. He knows exactly when he is and who he’s with, Margo’s heeled foot resting familiarly against the side of his calf under the table, Quentin’s hand in his—

He knows exactly where he is, and he’s so grateful, suddenly. So grateful, to be here with them.

They exit with a crowd, joining the throngs of people making their way down Broadway to join one of the many lines forming as they get closer and closer to the houses opening. Margo pushes a ticket into Eliot’s hand as they fall into line at the Imperial theater, giving him a wink. “I thought an old fashioned ticket might be more your speed than a piece of printer paper.”

Feeling exposed, somehow, Eliot swallows and nods mutely, ducking his head down to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. It makes her smile, blooming under his lips, and when he pulls back she tucks in under his arm, fits there like she always does: perfectly. There’s a chill in the air, but he can’t feel it at all, with Quentin’s hand in his and Margo folded into his side.

“I’m gonna,” Quentin says vaguely, once they make their way into the theater, gesturing over towards the bar. “Want anything?”

“Yeah, for both of us, please. Meet you at our seats,” Margo agrees, steering Eliot firmly by the arm into the theater as they get swept up in the throngs of people.

“Why does Q need liquid courage?” Eliot asks, only half joking as Margo walks them through the doors in the back of the theater and down the aisle of the orchestra level.

“There was some debate about our seating arrangement. Not too much, though, he gave in pretty quickly. That boy will do a lot to make you happy, El.”

“I know,” Eliot agrees, still puzzled. They’re pretty far down the rows of seats now, Jesus, who did they kill to get these tickets, even in previews— But then Margo’s leading him, not to one of the front row seats, but up on to the stage. “Bambi, what?”

“Come on,” she laughs, pulling him by the hand up towards one of the many tables arranged into the structure of the set. There’s other people filtering up too, so apparently she hasn’t just fully lost her mind. This is part of the experience, it seems.

“We’re going to be on stage the whole time?” Eliot asks, delighted, spinning fully around to take in all the detailing of the stage. There’s set work on the insides of the curtains, portraits and art pieces hung up giving the sense of having just stepped into an old-timey lounge or gentleman’s club.

“Yep,” Margo agrees, taking a seat at the little three person table which must be theirs. “Q’s a little self-conscious, but he’ll get over it. How else do you think I got him to dress up?”

“This is amazing,” Eliot laughs, feeling giddy. Looking off the stage out into the filling audience sparks an old familiar rush deep in his belly, like looking into the face of someone he hasn’t seen in years. Hello, old friend. He sinks down into the middle seat next to Margo, still staring around, just trying to soak it all in. It’s not long before Quentin joins them, balancing three glasses in his dexterous magician’s hands.

“Old fashioned,” Quentin offers, setting the rocks glass down on the table in front of Eliot, “— and a French 75,” which he slides over to Margo, settling into the free seat with his own glass of red wine.

“You know, your trainability might be your best feature, Q,” Margo purrs, resting her chin on her hand to smirk at him until he blushes.

“He is a people pleaser,” Eliot agrees, like Quentin doesn’t also have the capacity to be the most onerous, cantankerous grouch when he wants to be. Smoothing his palm absently across the back of Quentin’s shoulders to take the sting out of the teasing, Eliot looks around at the set with increasing curiosity and excitement. It’s wild to be seated on the stage, tucked in near the stairs at tables so clearly a part of the set, making them a part of the set. Even knowing nothing about this play, he can already see how they fill the role of in-universe audience at a performance hall, pulling them behind the fourth wall and into the story.

And pulled into it he is, from the moment the first performer steps out on stage, he’s swept away into the story. Elements of the production are still rough around the edges, but that’s to be expected from previews, and previews on Broadway are still breathtakingly well done. The whole experience passes by him in a blur, the music and the dancing and the story. It’s not the best thing he’s ever seen, but it kind of is, somehow— the best thing he’s ever seen, sitting here with Margo and Quentin, feeling a part of something that’s just a little different, a little new, pushing the edges of the expected just that much.

He’d loved that feeling, the rush of making something new and exciting, of being a part of it. How wonderful to have been given it back, if only for an evening.

They end up at a piano bar near the portal, after the curtain closes, sharing a plate of rosemary-truffle fries between them and another round of drinks. Eliot’s still bubbling on the high of the production, and Quentin, in his very Quentin-way, is extremely eager to tell them about the ways the play varied from the book, because of course he read War & Peace in college.

“Not all of it,” he admits, face flushed from his fourth glass of wine in as many hours, but... happy. God, it’s so nice to see Q happy. “We were assigned some specific sections and I actually read about half of those— Lit classes were my electives of choice because they’re extremely easy to bullshit, you just need to understand how literary criticism works and you can argue your way through any reading you didn’t get to.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Eliot tells him, amused. “All of the reading I did in undergrad were scripts, and even then I found literally any recordings I could to get around it. Besides, plays are meant to be seen, you know?”

“Sure!” Quentin agrees brightly, perking up a little. “I took a Shakespeare elective—”

“Pretty sure we heard about this when we were at The Globe,” Margo cuts in, which takes the wind out of Quentin’s sails a little. “I’m just sayin’, I know he listens to your stories on repeat, but I’m too drunk for that.”

“You’re not drunk at all,” Eliot protests, because she’s maybe at most slightly buzzed.

“Too drunk to be patient.” Margo shrugs, waving her hand dismissively. “And besides, I like this song.”

It is a good song, and the person performing does it justice, which seems to happen a higher than average number of times for an open mic night. Quentin doesn’t seem bothered by being redirected, which is good— it wouldn’t always be the case, but he seems to have taken Margo’s abrasiveness in stride, more or less. He sits tucked into the booth at Eliot’s side, his hand a comfortable weight on Eliot’s thigh under the table. It’s not provocative, just— comforting, intimate, like a causal claim; you’re mine, I get to touch you like this. Giddy, still, Eliot tucks a smile into Quentin’s hair, feeling— warm.

“You should sing,” Quentin mutters, tipping his face up so he’s speaking almost into Eliot’s ear, breath hot and damp across his cheek. “You’re as good as anyone here.”

“Oh yeah? What should I sing?” Eliot asks, delighted, looking down into Quentin’s bright face, glowing in the dim light of the bar. For a moment, he remembers Quentin’s face in the pulsing electric lights of another bar, remembers the way it had felt to be so sure, so sure his life was going all the way off the rails and being resigned to letting it, then he’d looked over at Quentin, and the music had changed, and he’d made a different choice. “Mr. Brightside?”

It startles a laugh out of Quentin, and even better, he sings, under his breath and off-key “–choking on your alibi, but it's just the price I pay, destiny is calling me, open up my eager eyes, 'cause I'm Mr. Brightside.” The memory is there, written in his eyes, and for a moment it’s like they’re back in it again, living it together. Then Quentin shakes his head, swaying a little to bump into Eliot’s side. “I don’t think it’s quite your genre, really. But you should sing something.”

Which is how Eliot finds himself up by the pianos, writing his name on the little paper waiting list. There’s only two people before him, so he lingers by the bar, nursing the end of his drink and watching Quentin and Margo taking across the table of their booth. Something in the comfort and ease they have with each other makes a slow curl of delight settle warm and content in the barrel of his chest. They’d done this, together, they’d done this whole night for him, and he hadn’t even noticed them doing it. What on Earth had he ever done, to deserve that kind of care twice over?

The pensiveness stays with him when it’s his turn at the mic, and when the pianist asks him what he’s going to sing, he asks “Can you do Young & Beautiful by Lana Del Rey?”

They can, as it turns out, and the song fills through his voice easily, sweeping and lyrical, epic and rich. “Hot summer nights, mid-July, when you and I were forever wild, the crazy days, city lights, the way you'd play with me like a child—” Heart in in his throat, he meets their eyes across the crowded bar, Margo’s delighted smile and Quentin— God, Quentin, who’s watching him something that looks so much like pride. It’s almost too much, and he lets himself sink into the act of performing, working to the room at large.

“Will you still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful? Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul? I know you will, I know you will, I know that you will. Will you still love me when I'm no longer beautiful?”

The song finishes to applause, more than some of the other performers, and yeah— okay, it is nice to know that he’s still got it, even after a wildly unanticipated career change into magic and molecular manipulation. But Quentin and Margo stand and whoop and cheer for him and that means more, really, than the rest of the bar ever could.

___

It’s late enough to almost be early, by the time they make it back through the portal. The buzz of alcohol and the high of the show have both worn off a little bit, and Eliot finds himself thinking somewhat longingly of his bed. God, he really is getting old. The trek across campus feels like it takes forever, Margo barefoot carrying her heels with Eliot’s blazer around her shoulders, Quentin sleepy-quiet with his hands in his pockets, tie undone.

There’s no one downstairs in the Cottage when they get back, and for just a moment it could be summer, with the three of them the only people within shouting distance. It gives him a kind of nostalgic pang, for the kind of surreal isolation they’ll probably never be able to achieve again. Margo breaks off towards her room on the second floor, and Eliot stops with her, catching her wrist and tugging her back a little.

“Thanks, Bambi,” he murmurs, quiet and soft just for her, and when she grins he leans down to kiss her, closed-mouthed and sure.

Q’s waiting by the stairs up to the attic, hanging back to give them space. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a smile, reaching out to take Eliot’s hand in a squeeze before heading up the stairs without comment, unsurprising because he basically lives in Eliot’s room. Still the surety of it is nice, and if Eliot weren’t so drop-dead tired he might be tempted to make a production of peeling Quentin out of his dress clothes. As it is, the idea of curling up in bed together is sounding increasingly nice by the second.

“You planned this well, getting the blowjob out of the way in the morning,” he half jokes as they step into the room.

“That makes it sound like way more of an imposition than it actually is,” Quentin protests, sinking to sit on the edge of the bed to get at his boots while Eliot bends down to untie and put aside his own shoes. Quentin’s boots land somewhere near the foot of the bed, and there’s about a 50/50 chance that Eliot will trip on them later but he honestly can’t bring himself to care. “Like, if you want another blowjob, I could probably be persuaded.”

Laughter bubbles up warm and fond in Eliot’s chest. He’s honestly too tired to consider it, but he steps over to the bed anyway until he’s standing between Quentint’s knees. There’s enough difference in their heights that it leaves Quentin about level with the bottom of his sternum. Q reaches out for him, reels him in further so he can loop his arms around Eliot’s waist, rest his chin gently against Eliot’s breastbone. “Hey you.”

“Hey,” Eliot murmurs, petting his fingers gently through Quentin’s hair. It’s soft under his fingertips, and Quentin hums happily, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, clearly enjoying the contact.

“You have a good night?”

“Mmhm,” Eliot hums, nudging Quentin back until he sprawls back to lay on the bed, letting Eliot climb up and over to settle down next to him, cuddled together on top of the blankets. “I wasn’t really worried I wouldn’t, but— yeah, you guys blew me away.”

“Good.” Quentin goes for his hand, sliding their fingers together so he can play with some of Eliot’s rings, a habit of his when he’s thinking. Eliot lets him ride it out, sleepily watching his face in the dim light. “I was actually worried that we were going to make you miserable for a while there. I don’t— Like, there’s the whole birthday thing you have that I don’t really get? Like, I know I asked earlier, but...”

“What were your birthdays like, as a kid?” Eliot asks, gentle, feeling like— maybe he can open the curtains to the dusty room, a little, now, for Quentin. Feeling like maybe right now he wouldn’t be going in alone.

“I dunno— Fine I guess?” Quentin says with a little shrug. “I don’t remember much from when I was really little but, once I was in school it was like— Me, and Julia, and a couple of the other kids in the G&T reading program? My parents fought about it a lot, but they fought about everything, so. After they split it was pretty much just me and Julia and my dad, we’d like— go to the movies and have cake and stuff. My dad was, you know— single dad, paying a mortgage, so if I wanted big things for toys or games or whatever, that only happened on my birthday and Christmas, otherwise I’d just have to borrow Julia’s stuff. It was fine. Quiet, I guess? Dad tried.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Ted,” Eliot says softly, sliding his fingers gently through Quentins, watching the contrast of their hands together. He can see them in his mind: Quentin the young boy immortalized in the photographs all around the Coldwater house in Montclair, shy and gap-toothed with a flop of brown hair even then, Ted at 35, 40, 45 hair thinning and more tired each year, doing the best he could for his son. The sticky grief that doesn’t belong to him claws in Eliot’s chest, the pointless anger of it’s not fair, I just got here, it’s not fair—

“He was so glad you were there, this year, for my birthday,” Quentin cuts in, voice soft, like he’s reading the thoughts across Eliot’s face.

Eliot hums, looking at— Quentin’s square solid hand, the dusting of dark hair across the back, anywhere but his soft open face. “It wasn’t like that for me, growing up. There weren’t really... parties, or cakes, or friends, or whatever. There were never cupcakes at school, when all the other kids had them. When I was young, there were gifts, I think, but that stopped eventually. It was so close to Halloween that my friends always just kind of lumped them together, and my family... well.”

“Nobody tried,” Quentin fills in, and now Eliot is looking at him, without having made the conscious decision to do so. There’s understanding in his big brown eyes, and compassion, but no pity. That’s not Quentin’s style. “That really sucks, El. You deserved better than that.”

“I know,” Eliot agrees, laughing, looking away, then back to Quentin, always drawn inexorably back to Quentin. “Which also sucks, in its own way.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, rolling forward until he’s nuzzling into a hug, warm solid little shape in Eliot’s arms, holding on. It’s easier to be brave, somehow, holding on to Quentin.

“Now it’s just simpler not to think about it. Not to acknowledge it or, or— want anything, I guess. So it doesn’t hurt if no one tries.”

Quentin’s arms tighten around his waist, squeezing. “We’ll try.” He’s got the most earnest expression on his face when he pulls back, a serious little furrow to his brow. “Margo and I, we’ll always try, for you.”

Eliot’s stupid tender heart slams in his chest, wanting, wanting, wanting to believe it so badly. That he’s here now in this place where he can have these wonderful people who love him without reservation. Bambi. Quentin. Bambi. Quentin. The beat of his heart, both of them two soft syllables of iambic rhythm.

“You’re weren’t making me do anything I didn’t want to do,” he promises, reaching up to brush his thumb against Quentin’s cheek. “It’s just hard to let myself want it at all. But I’m trying.”

“I know,” Quentin says softly, rolling in again so that this time he can stretch up for a kiss, mouth falling open, coaxing Eliot into kissing him deeply. He feels precious and solid and grounding, here in Eliot’s arms, in his bed, in the place he made for himself in Eliot’s life. Proving through action the things he keeps saying: I want to talk to you always, I’m going to try, you are not alone. Quentin has a lot of trouble turning up for himself, but he’s never had an issue turning up for Eliot.

“We should probably get ready for bed,” Eliot whispers when the kiss breaks naturally, tucking a strand of hair back behind Quentin’s ear.

“Probably,” Q agrees, making no real move to extricate himself until Eliot does, and— it’s only the thought of how nice sleep skin-to-skin is that manages to convince Eliot to drag himself up, but he does it.

They have a rhythm and routine about nighttime bathroom use, by this point, and Quentin heads into the bathroom to do that while Eliot deals with his clothes. Hanging the things that need to be hung and setting the rest aside to be cleaned, Eliot pulls on a robe to combat the chill in the air as he passes by Quentin and into the bathroom. Q’s in bed by the time he’s done washing his face and brushing his teeth. Slipping in next to him, Eliot waves his hand through the air enough to click off the lights, settling down into the dark as Quentin curls in towards him, settling together in the warmth of the blankets. He smells just right, and Eliot’s just— overwhelmed, a little by the whole night. But this, here, this is special, and he should— he should—

“Hey, Q?” I love you. Come on, how hard is it to say? I love you. Three little words, all of which he has no issue saying in other contexts. Quentin hums soft, an acknowledgement, sleepy but still awake. Fuck, it’d be easier if he was mostly asleep. But no, Eliot doesn’t want to do it like that, he wants to see Quentin’s face, wants to share it. He just... can’t, yet. “I just— Thanks. For all of this. It was a really good night.”

“Gonna be hard to top next year.” He shifts a little bit, so Eliot can see his smile in the dark, the soft comma of a dimple, his unfairly long eyelashes. “I think we went too big, too soon. Next year I’m going to have to buy you a pony.”

“That’s Alice’s thing, honey.”

“Right, of course, my bad. Don’t know how I keep getting you two mixed up.” There’s laughter in his voice, warm and teasing, his skin soft under Eliot’s hand, resting flat on his ribs. Then, softly, “I hope 27 is a good year for you.”

“Well, it had a good start. Thanks to you.”

“And Margo,” Quentin offers, constantly so willing to make space for her. “Honestly, I was the ideas guy, but she made it all happen. She’s kind of terrifying— she might actually take over the world.”

“The world would thank her for it.” That earns him another smile, and this time Eliot reaches up to touch his cheek, brush his thumb against that dimple, settle his palm where it belongs, curved around the back of Q’s skull. Quentin’s gazes sharpens a little, the way it always does when you get your hand in his hair, and Eliot just has to kiss him, slow and deep. “Just— thanks for everything.”

“Of course,” Quentin says simply, like it’s just that easy. Maybe it is, maybe it can be.

Cuddling down to sleep for the night, Eliot’s willing to risk believing that it might be.