Archive of Our Own

“It’s called the Queen Bee.” Eliot pushes the drink across the counter to Quentin, who is, all things considered, still a captive audience for Eliot’s mixology experiments. “Lime, mint, dark rum, and wildflower honey. Julia wanted to call it the ‘Mind Your Own Beeswax,’ but I told her puns are only acceptable in a sexual context, and I’d be ritually burning her Christopher Pike books in our bonfire if she added any other bee puns to our Google Workspace.”

“You never should have involved Julia in planning, like, anything.” Quentin snorts, all creased up eyes and infuriating dimples, tracing his finger over the sugared rim of the glass. He licks the sugar from his fingertip, which makes Eliot’s brain short circuit almost entirely, but he’s able to pick up his poor, battered train of thought in the interest of appearing functional.

“I’m beginning to realize. If she renames any of the sacred offerings—”

“You mean like— the party snacks?” Quentin takes a sip of his Queen Bee, smacking his lips. “And the— themed party drinks?”

“Oh, Q. No, I don’t deal in such mundanity. This is a signature spring cocktail, and the—”

“The chicken salad is like— a sacrifice for the old gods?” Quentin’s face splits into a rare, toothy grin. “You’re so full of shit.”

Something in Eliot’s chest cracks open, warmth spilling into his veins. Quentin’s dimples have to be illegal in at least several jurisdictions. “I assure you I am not. It’s vitally important to welcome the vernal equinox with aplomb. Honoring our ancient forebears.”

“Isn’t it, like, very Eurocentric? Like, Ostara is Norse. We talk about honoring Bacchus and, like, Iris. And it’s just not—” Quentin, infuriatingly, gives Eliot a mansplainy little shrug. “I mean, there are lots of rituals to honor spring. Like, multiculturally.”

Eliot sniffs. “This one has the best sexual rites, I assure you.”

“I dunno. I bet you could add the best, uh, sexual rites to whatever you put your mind to.” Quentin taps on his glass, his eyes darting away before he takes a sip. His eyes flutter shut in pleasure, and Eliot’s stomach, traitorous, flips over entirely. A leftover emotion, surely, since Eliot is over all things Q. Well, mostly. It was just the one kiss, incandescent in his memory, like something within him had split open, new growth climbing through him where there had only been lifeless blankness before.

It hasn’t been on Eliot’s mind that much at all, recently. He’s just a bit stuck on—

—Quentin’s lips— he does admit to rumination on the shape of his mouth, his cupid’s bow, the laugh lines when he really smiles. Being delusionally invested in the very particular feature of one man— it’s a poetic gay tradition. So this is a passing thing. Gone soon, Eliot’s sure of it.

He thinks it might have been—

— the way Quentin had pushed into the kiss, hands gripping Eliot’s vest, the low moan that had escaped his lips, like it was too good, like he felt the spark of connection between them, at once intimate and vast. But Quentin had disappeared shortly after that, and maybe he didn’t remember— or maybe he was embarrassed or simply— straight when sober, flexible when drinking. It was just a kiss, he reminds himself. Sometimes, though, Q catches him off guard, and the quirk of his mouth sends Eliot back to that night, the photographs stored in his mind, all tinged with soft focus and a golden quality to the light, even though it had been well past dark when Eliot leaned in and caught his lips.

The rites of spring will rid Eliot’s mind of that night, the fire he felt, the high he keeps chasing in his head. The Festival of Ostara— a fabulous fucking event (emphasis on the fucking)— with the flower crowns and classy fucking robes— it’s the cleanse that Eliot needs. Springtime is all about getting a cute boy to worship your dick. Eliot’s can come to terms with the fact that the boy in question won’t be Quentin. It’s fine— Eliot is fine with that.

“S’good,” Quentin murmurs as he takes another sip, lips bearing the faintest shine. Eliot’s stomach swoops when he remembers— fingers tangled in Quentin’s hair— the way he’d gasped, clutching at Eliot like he was afraid he might fall.

“Good? That’s it?” His voice is cool, nonchalant, a touch mocking. Beneath the counter, his hand twitches— just slightly— nothing anyone would notice.

“Um. Let me see. I’m— uh. Supposed to say something about the flavor profile, right? It’s— vivacious.” Quentin smiles, eyes creasing up at the corners. He takes another sip, showily swirling the glass, like he’s at a wine tasting instead of a cocktail sampling. Barbaric. “Um, refreshing. Like. The flavors? Go together well.”

“So helpful,” Eliot says. “Genuinely insightful. I’ll need you to finish that one and let me make you the next one— and maybe you’ll have feedback that actually makes sense.”

“Eliot. It’s Tuesday. I have an oral exam tomorrow. I can’t just try— however many themed drinks you have—”

“Mm, is it gauche if I tell you my beverages would assist you in any oral exam?”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “I bet. And yeah it’s— gauche.” He takes another sip of his drink, humming like he’s pleased despite his better judgment. That’s the beverage analysis that Eliot’s really looking for— the small, quick smile, the dark smudge of his lashes fluttering. Quentin might not be much of a drink connoisseur— or, really, a connoisseur for anything besides YA fantasy and plaid flannel— but he’s not going for an expert opinion. Q is his target audience, really, and no— Eliot isn’t planning to put any amount of thought into what that means.

“Next, I’ve got the lavender lemon drop. There’s actually a hint of clementine in the undertones—an experiment in citrus. I have candied lemon peel to accompany—”

“Don’t you think it would be easier to serve, like, bottles of beer? Or like. A keg?”

“Take that back,” Eliot says as he muddles a sprig of lavender. “This is the fête of the season, and I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Or like a— I went to this lacrosse party one time, and they had a plastic pool full of fruit punch and Burnett’s Vodka. And like, Dimetapp. I think. Like bug juice— or uh, jungle juice—”

“I hear that you’re speaking to me, and you’re saying words.” Eliot slices a lemon and tuts out a charm that transfers the juice to the cocktail shaker. “But I certainly don’t comprehend them in the way you’ve put them together.” He crushes a bit of ice with another spell, aware that Quentin is now watching his hands as he moves through the enchantment. “For one— who did you know who played lacrosse? I thought you just went LARPing—”

Quentin laughs, his face crinkling up as he leans forward across the bar to grab a cocktail straw. “Everyone at Columbia is a nerd. Even the lacrosse team. Julia’s ex, James— he always took us to those parties.” Quentin shoves himself up onto the barstool, perching there like a little bird. “I mean, he took me by myself a few times.”

Eliot’s eyes flick over to Quentin’s face. Who was this boy taking Q to parties? “Oh?”

“Mm hmm,” Quentin says, twisting on the barstool. “Yeah, we were—” Quentin shrugs. “—close. At one point.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Eliot doesn’t wonder about his tone.

It should be annoying that Quentin sticks the cocktail straw in his drink and drinks the rest of it that way, pretzeled into his best impression of a Cirque du Soleil performer. But it’s— charming, in a way. There’s a warmth to it, standing across from Q, comfort buzzing between them, a gentle, electric flow.

“Ah, well. I’m sure your nerd parties were fabulous with the— bug juice in the bathtub and what-have-you. But we’re hosting a classy affair. Ergo, a selection of thematically significant cocktails.” He pours a shot of limoncello, a bit of Stoli, topping it off with lavender and lemon wedges. “I don’t have a name for this one yet. But rest assured, I shall by Saturday.”

“You’re going to get me fucked up. And I need to study.”

“Mm. I’ll make you dinner. Get you sober. Help you study.” The brightness in Eliot’s chest expands— a normal thing for friends, probably— and he pours the rest of his lemon drop in a second glass, pushing the other to Quentin. “Now, I need your honest assessment on this one. I need to know if the citrus clashes with the lavender.”

“Dinner?” There’s a faint flush on Quentin’s cheeks, the hint of a small, pleased smile. “I— yeah.” He sips at the lemon drop and sputters a bit, swallowing as tears gather at the corners of his eyes. “I think— um.” Quentin clears his throat, following with a little cough. “Uh— ah I. It’s great. And I don’t have like super refined taste buds—”

Eliot takes a sip, choking it down, the mix of acids with the light herbal hint of lavender— it’s acrid. “I think I’ll need to tone down the herbal notes.”

Quentin smiles, pushing the drink back towards Eliot. “I’ll have another Queen Bee. Or is there a third cocktail you need to shove in my face before you deliver on dinner?”

“Mm, just these two so far. I’ll cook up something else before Ostara. You’re my official taste-tester.” Eliot glances up at Quentin, who’s mostly focused on the candied lemon peel on the side of the glass. “You’ll be there, I assume? I don’t know how you feel about— rituals like this one.”

“If I don’t attend, you might as well dig my own fucking grave. Julia’s been making, like, lists and shit with Margo for two weeks. I don’t think either of them are letting me off the hook.” Quentin pauses, fiddling with the curls of lemon. “Or if you don’t want me to— I mean know it’s, like— your time to. Meet people. I don’t want to drag you down, I mean. You always end up spending your time with me. Or whatever. So I don’t have to come—”

“Q, don’t be silly,” Eliot says, his heart rate ticking up. It’s been a thought— a thought he’s had with his hand on his dick— seeing Q crown of flowers, a set of short robes. Obviously, Eliot would tailor something so Q could show off his arms, his shoulders. The dark thatch of his chest hair. And his thighs. Maybe— maybe Quentin would kiss him again, pair off with him— if he wanted. But— it’s really not Q’s style, is it? And moreover, Eliot doesn’t seem to be his style, or his flirting would have worked. It hasn’t, and Eliot needs to get it through his head. “The Ostara rites last year were more or less a public sex fest. So it’s perfectly fine if you come and you want to leave early.”

“Oh. I mean. I know I don’t like— I mean, I know you know I don’t have much experience. Um. But. I mean— it sounds fun? And I’m not like— a virgin.” Quentin is now bright red. “I like your parties,” he adds, clearing his throat. “What— ah, what are you making for dinner?”

“I’d like it better with you there. I always do,” Eliot says, shocked at the sincerity in his words. It’s true— he’s enjoyed every party— he’s even enjoyed his classes more, living in the Cottage more, he’s enjoyed magic more— since Q arrived in his life. He clears his throat. “So. I have wild Alaskan salmon, and I was thinking of roasted red potatoes. Fresh greens and arugula with a raspberry vinaigrette.”

“That sounds incredible,” Quentin says. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Eliot doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he launches into an explanation of the menu for the festival while making Quentin another of his experimental drinks. While he’s talking, he notices Quentin watching his hands again, but he doesn’t assign any meaning to it. Best not to, where feelings are involved.

The event of the season is just days away. Eliot can focus on that and push past this thing with Quentin. Find a new boy, one who doesn’t make him feel— shredded inside when he leaves the next morning.

That’s the truth of it, isn’t it?

When Eliot dances close enough to his feelings for Q, it’s not that he wants to stay away. It’s more that the lack of Quentin isn’t a longing or an ache. He’s pulled apart, bare and raw, when those wide brown eyes meet his.

“I’m thinking of something with champagne,” Eliot says, “for the third option.” He focuses on his hands and doesn’t even look up when Quentin starts talking about getting a keg.

“You okay, El?” Quentin leans in so close that Eliot can feel his breath.

“Yeah.” When Eliot’s eyes lift up, the air between them crackles. “Just fine.”

~~***~~

“Weather looks like it should be conducive to a perfect evening. And more importantly, the ritual.” Eliot sips his pink champagne margarita, watching Todd set the table in the courtyard just beyond the patio. Todd hadn’t put up the first tent correctly this morning, which had caused Eliot to get involved in set up— and honestly, Todd’s just lucky he gets to be here at all. Eliot threatened to ban him from the party if he failed at putting the plates out, and Julia told Eliot he was being mean, so he’s currently recovering from the entire debacle beneath the sun shade, Margo draped over his lap, watching it all come together. And it’s coming together splendidly.

“Oh?” Margo peeks up at him. “Perfect weather?”

“Perfect for picking out a pretty boy— or letting the spell pick one out for me.” Eliot waves his hand. “I don’t know what sort of complications you and Julia have added. But I’m looking forward to finding out.”

“Honestly, I didn’t think you’d be getting your dick in the mix.” Margo brushes her fingertips over the back of his hand, sending a pleasant tingle up the length of his arm. It almost distracts him from the teasing tone in her voice.

“And what is it that makes you think that? I’ve been working with you— and Julia, I might add— for two solid months to make this happen. Expressly for the sex rites. And the drink menu, of course.”

“Mm hmm. I saw you fitting Q for his little fucking toga. You were awfully handsy, Praetor Cop-a-Feel.”

“Bambi. I can’t change the many marvelous things that I am, and I am—”

“A hugely emotional perv with a thing for horny nerds.”

Eliot sighs. “He’s precious. Touchable. And I like cute boys, especially cute boys who are game to show off their legs.”

“That boy’s legs have never seen the fucking sun. I don’t think he owns a goddamn pair of shorts. Honestly, that adds to my whole theory.”

“Which is what exactly?”

“I’ve known for months that you two idiots have total boners for each other. But I didn’t know he’d keep stepping out of his sad little boundaries just to spend time with you. And here he is in a fucking maroon sheet that barely covers his ass.”

“He’s being a good sport.” Eliot’s heart thumps in his chest. This whole week, he’d thought that getting prepared for the party would be a good distraction from Q, but he’d gotten caught up on feeding Quentin food and drinks, getting his hands on Quentin’s waist and hips— and his lovely, meaty thighs— when he’d acquiesced to Eliot fitting him for his spring festival attire. “We’re friends,” Eliot adds unconvincingly.

“He looked like he was about to cream himself when you touched his ass. The only reason he’s put up with all your party prep bullshit is because you’re paying attention to him.”

“We’ve discussed this, darling.”

“He’s got an acute case of wanting that dick. That’s Doctor Hanson’s fuckin’ diagnosis.” Margo squeezes his hand, slipping her fingers through his. “I keep telling you, but you keep not fucking listening. And it’s come to a head, El. You made him dinner three times this week. He slept in your bed two nights ago—”

“He was studying, and he dozed off. Nothing happened. We’re friends. And he’s not interested. I haven’t been on his to-do list. We kissed once, and I’m on his… to-done list.”

“And you think that kiss wasn’t a big deal for him?”

“I told you to drop this, darling. It’s simply not a thing. I’m planning imbibe the nectar of the gods, find a boy for the night, enjoy the fuck out of the coupling.”

“Have you even fucked anyone since Q came into the picture?”

“You know I have. There was that alum. And the nature boy. Mmm, and the cute visiting professor—”

“I didn’t mean since you kissed him. I meant since you started fucking mooning over him.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you mean, darling. I don’t moon over anyone. Certainly not our little Q—”

“Cut the shit, honey. It’s okay to like a cute little nerd.”

“It’s okay to like a cute little nerd?” Eliot strokes Margo’s hair, brushing it away from her face so it cascades over his thigh and onto the deck lounge. “I’d accuse you of projecting, but that would be tacky, wouldn’t it?”

“I have literally no idea—”

“Is that why you’ve taken a sudden interest in event planning? Ah, the truth at last. You’ve been telling me for a month you wanted to get more involved in party planning, adding little tips and ideas to Julia’s fucking spreadsheet.”

“—what the fuck you smoked, but you’re holding out on me. Seems like you’re on a pretty fucking good trip if you came up with that particular brand of horseshit.”

Eliot grins. When he looks down at Margo, her lips are very slightly pursed, dark eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses. “You’ve been awfully tight-lipped about that spell you and Julia have been working on.”

“It’s supposed to be a grand reveal.” Margo yawns, apparently intent on bypassing Eliot’s accusation—which can’t possibly be fair since he’s already talked so much about his feelings today. “Jules—”

“Jules?”

“— our chief astrology bitch, found it in some fuckin’ goddess book in the Knowledge Library. It’s supposed to be a tricky little bit of sex magic, but she figured it out.”

“How do you know she figured it out?”

Margo gives Eliot a little half shrug. “Listen, someone had to try the spell. And I wasn’t going to not fuck Julia, okay?”

“Mm, of course, Bambi,” Eliot says. “I’d expect nothing less. It also— I might add— gives you no leg to stand on when it comes to talking about my passing attraction to Q.”

“El, honey. The thing between me and Julia, which is more of a hot-friends-who-fuck thing— it’s not the same as whatever was going on in your head when you let your hands roam over Quentin’s ass while you were fitting him for his Roman twink cosplay. It’s like you’ve got a boner for Q, but your soul is horny, too. It’s written all over your dopey face.”

“My soul is definitely not horny for Quentin. My soul doesn’t get horny. Well, it did when we spotted those vintage Ferragamo boots with the white leather trim in Ibiza.”

“Valid use of soul horniness.” Margo grins and scrunches up her nose. “Boning Quentin Coldwater? Jury’s fuckin’ out. I like the kid. Can’t say I get it. But he’s eight hundred percent your type.”

“What type is that? Enlighten me on what I’m like and who I choose to fuck.” Eliot huffs and fishes a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with a snap of his fingers.

“Q is painfully awkward. More or less inept at living. Attention starved. Sincere— but also kind of a bitch. Real book smart but doesn’t know how to tie his shoes.”

“He can tie his shoes,” Eliot says without thinking. Maybe he feels a touch defensive as far as Quentin is concerned. Maybe it’s a little bit more of a thing than he thought it was. “And I don’t see how any of that is my type.”

“You want someone to take care of, Eliot. And that boy needs someone to feed and water him. Take him for walks.”

“Hm.” Eliot twists a strand of Margo’s hair through his fingers and lets it fall. He should be more annoyed, he thinks. But she’s not not right. She’s never not right. “He is like a puppy who just discovered it has a tail. It’s cute.”

“He is cute. And he practically humps your leg. His fidgeting and acrobatic bisexual chair sitting ramps up whenever you’re around.”

"Certainly not."

“I watched you let him talk at you about the religion in Battlestar Galactica for an hour and a half the other day. Tell me again your soul isn’t horny, and I’ll hex you.”

“I wasn’t really listening.”

“Bullshit. Don’t bullshit me— and don’t be a dumb bitch. It’s okay to want things, Eliot.”

“I want plenty of things.”

“I’m talking about real shit. Like a whole actual thing with Q. It’s okay to want that.” Margo takes out her contraband phone and starts absently scrolling, apparently done with the whole conversation.

Eliot stills, a knot of tension caught in his throat. He feels thrown back in time, to the moment he realized he had his first crush on a boy— Noah Edmunds, who’d played Renfield in a student production of Dracula. The play was terribly written, but Noah had been magnificent— wildly physical and crazed, cowering and worshipful before the Count. Eliot had been cast as a background vampire whose name he doesn’t even recall, but he remembers what it felt like, watching Noah’s shoulders move as he stood against the plywood background, awkward and sweating through his shirt beneath the oppressive heat of the stage lights, his pulse fluttering, a small running animal living just beneath his skin.

It’s like that this afternoon, as he sits beneath the newly budding trees, sinking into the realization that something occurred off stage while Eliot wasn’t looking, something beyond his full understanding.

He doesn’t quite know what to do with that, with the whole Quentin thing, so he lets it slide out of his mind as he watches the full white clouds roll across the sky. Margo is always sage in her assessments, and surely, the fact of wanting something beyond friendship or fucking is— neutral. A part of life for many, and a good thing, when it works. There’s a twist of hopelessness to it when one isn’t desired in return, and it’s best, in Eliot’s opinion, that he hedge his bets on the course of action least likely to result in the loss of Quentin.

Staying the course, sticking to the plan, and not pushing too hard on the things likely to make waves in the carefully careless design of his life.

~~***~~

The revelry starts at six, several hours earlier than most parties at the Cottage. Julia’s excuse was suitable— Ostara bonfires generally begin before nightfall so that everyone can burn their effigies of winter with enough daylight to remind them that they’re ushering in spring.

Eliot obviously looks flawless, clad in a set of robes he’d found in Milan the summer prior. The garment is crafted of shifting gold and sheer ivory fabric, held together with a braided bronze belt that nips in at his waist, the rest of it billowing behind him in waves when he walks. A crown of flowers— yellow forsythia and white hyacinth, accented with leaves of gold linen— adorns his curls, a smudge of gold eyeliner and coppery-green shadow to bring the look together.

There’s a wide variety of attire— not only robes but all manner of spring attire. Lightweight sundresses on some of the girls, scant shorts and flowing shirts on some of the boys Eliot’s sampled over the past year. A few of them try to get Eliot’s attention— and, usually, he would partake. He’d choose one of his admirers for the evening, provide them with the gift of his undivided attention, ramping up the sexual tension with careful touches, a brush of his lips, a nonchalant confirmation that yes, his cock is as big as they’d heard— and when he was bored of his little acts of seduction, he’d usher his chosen lover somewhere a little more private and end the night with a pretty boy bouncing on his cock. When Eliot went through his performance— at normal parties, under normal circumstances— he was entirely in control.

That’s how he intends to spend his evening— perfectly in charge of his faculties, at the ideal level of tipsiness, far from losing himself to the thrum of his desires. Like normal.

But circumstances hadn’t been normal since Quentin Coldwater stumbled into his world and shattered his beautiful illusions.

Eliot’s long known he loved beautiful boys, the harder lines and flatter planes of the male form, hairy, muscled thighs, stiff cocks, and the scrape of stubble. He’s assured himself a fair number of times that Quentin is just particularly beautiful; he’s always been partial to boys he could tuck just beneath his arm, and Q’s face is open and boyish, his hair dark and silky, dusting his shoulders. When Q isn’t around, he can view it objectively, can know that he’s not too involved, can remind himself that Quentin is a friend. Nothing more than that.

He’s assured himself of this very sentiment a dozen times today— while watching Todd fumble with the tents and Margo shout at a few of her first year minions as they set up the bonfire, while mixing pitchers of drinks and casting spells to keep them fresh, after his strangely emotional conversation with Bambi that he’s choosing to ignore.

Eliot had reminded himself that he wouldn’t be disappointed if Quentin didn’t show or if he found someone else to entertain him for the night. That he could let it go— easily— if Q left before the final offering, or— if he stayed and wasn’t paired with Eliot. In fact, that would be for the best. Emotional investment is, perhaps, something Eliot is more drawn to than he’d like to admit. It doesn’t mean he needs to capitulate to it.

All of that thinking shudders to a halt when the patio doors open, and Quentin appears with Julia on his arm. He doesn’t spot Eliot right away, instead walking with Julia toward the bonfire, the lazy flicker of warmth playing over the planes of his bare skin, blending with the low, orange light of the gloaming, the clouds a rosy haze behind the trees.

Eliot of course knew that Quentin would be beautiful tonight; to Eliot, he always is. But Eliot had been going for more of a scantily-clad-hottie sort of thing with the robes that stopped at mid-thigh. A big higher than mid-thigh. Anyway. (El, are you sure— I don’t want to look— fucking stupid— And Eliot had assured him he absolutely did not.) But it seemed that— Julia had gotten her hands on Q, dolled him up in the way she had of convincing him to do things— and he looks— decidedly beyond the hot-boy mundanity popular among the men Eliot has so often desired.

Eliot does his best to ignore Q’s presence, taking a seat on one of the chaise lounges he’d had moved outside, and there’s some faceless boy feeding him raspberries. He should be enjoying his position as king of the spring fête— and he is— but when Quentin turns toward him, something bright flares to life behind his sternum. A shock, fierce and electric, rolls from Eliot’s nape to the base of his spine.

It’s worse than it’s ever been, igniting the walls he’s built up inside. A pain expands in his chest— less the sting associated with the immediacy of simple desire and more like the soreness that comes after working a muscle that’s been long neglected— the wholesome, heavy burn of use after a long period of dormancy.

“Hey, El—” Quentin catches Eliot’s eye, giving him a sweet smile and an awkward little wave. He looks relieved to catch sight of Eliot— which is his general mood at the beginning of parties— finding Eliot, making sure he has a touchpoint before socializing commences. This evening is no different, really. Not in any significant way. Eliot shouldn’t read anything into it.

It’s just that his name sounds so warm on Quentin’s lips, and— he’s stunning. Eliot is— as always, but maybe more so now— stunned by him. Maybe it’s the arrival of golden hour, the way the dappled light from the fire falls over Quentin’s face, the shadows over his strong brows, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, his dimples deepening as he approaches Eliot.

Yes, Eliot had always wanted boys, but he’s never seen any one of them as lovely as Quentin. The truth of it blooms inside him, tangled up with the painful knowledge that, whatever Margo says, Quentin doesn’t really want him— yeah, maybe he’d want Eliot for a night, and Eliot thought— he thought that’s what he wanted from Q.

“Q, hey. I’m glad you made it.” Eliot shoos away the random boy who’d been tending to him.

Quentin shrugs, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah, I— I’ve never been to a, uh, sex party.”

“Not precisely a sex party. The rites do involve an offering of physical pleasure.” Eliot catches himself looking at Quentin’s lips, then the length of his collarbone, the sweep of his honey-colored hair, the way it falls just over his shoulder. He shivers, wondering what it would be like to hold that Quivering bundle of boy on his lap, give into the carnal piece of his desire— the sounds he’d make when Eliot slid inside him for the first time—

“Sit,” Eliot says, quite likely against his better judgment. “Let Daddy explain.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint flush creeping down his neck, splotchy red blooming over his chest. He shuffles over and sits on the edge of the chaise, carefully avoiding Eliot’s personal radius. “I don’t think I need a conversation about the birds and the bees. I know how this shit goes. Julia gave me like— a whole ass dissertation. On the. You know.” Quentin makes a vaguely dirty gesture. “The porny aspect.”

“Ah yes, but you haven’t attended such a fête before—”

“Stop calling it a fête. It’s a fucking— party. You ass.”

Eliot huffs. “I call it what it is. It’s an opulent celebration.”

“But where’s the pool full of Dimetapp and rum?”

Eliot bites down on a smile. “We had it shipped off to the Treehouse. Josh is making a large bong out of it.”

Quentin snorts, eyes darting to Eliot, the hint of a grin appearing on his face. “To be delivered when things really start happening?”

“Not a chance. Bongs are inside the tents. And they’re of a normal size, thank you very much.” Eliot clears his throat. “It is— mostly a normal party. Until the darkest hour—”

“What’s like, necessarily the darkest hour of the night, Eliot? That’s just— some poetic horseshit.”

“That’s when the rites commence. There’s a tricky bit of magic that Julia and Margo put together to— assist our guests in finding a mate.”

“A mate? Are we— fucking— oxen or whatever?”

“No, Q,” Eliot laughs, trying to dampen the way his heart flips over when he catches Quentin’s surly expression. “The enchantment locates a sexual partner based on the— maximization of desire. For the pleasures of body and spirit.” Inside him, there’s a little twist of hope that maybe he and Quentin would find each other, drawn together. All of his wanting, laid bare.

“Like— soulmate bullshit or whatever?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. This is simply— a divine offering. A ritual to welcome in the spring.”

“You said last year was just, like, an orgy. This sounds, like, weirdly intimate for a Cottage party. Like— the body, I get. The spirit, I’m a little lost on that.”

“This is supposed to— class it up a little. We’re trying something new.”

“What if it’s— like, what it’s with someone you don’t— you don’t want?” Quentin rubs his palms over the hem of his robe. The material stretches and flips up, revealing more muscular thigh, covered in dark hair.

“That shouldn’t happen with the parameters of the spell. Margo and Julia tested it.”

Quentin goes beet red. “They— uh. Oh.”

“Jealous?”

“What? No. I’m not— Julia— um, like. No— that’s like ancient, ancient history. Like, long— long gone. From my entire psyche. We’re all, like, resolved on that. I just— wow. You know, it just sounds. A bit intense. You’re right, I might— dip out before that.”

“I’m sure the spell will find you a nice girl, Q.” Eliot grabs another pink margarita from the tray next to the lounge. When he turns back, Quentin is glaring at him.

“What if that’s not what I want?” Quentin sways toward Eliot, still glaring— but there’s something else there, too. Something— Eliot doesn’t quite recognize. A plaintive look, he thinks, and he half-expects little simmering lines of anxiety to start rising off of Quentin’s head, like steam rising from hot pavement after a summer rain. “What if I want— something else? Like. Not that. Not a nice girl.”

Eliot opens his mouth to respond, but he finds he doesn’t have any words. As much as he’s tried to excise the solid-hot press of Q’s body, the slide of his lips and helpless sound he made when Eliot kissed him— it’s still there, all of it— not tucked away in its neat little box where Eliot would very much like it to stay. No, it’s right there, at the forefront of his thoughts, especially three margaritas into the night, with Quentin sitting close and present, looking at him with a question in his eyes, lips parted, his skin clear and golden, shadows of the laurel leaves dancing over his face as the sun sets behind him. It’s as present as Eliot’s own name, as the muscle memory of his magic, as close as the taste of champagne on his lips.

“Well, I’m certain— you could find someone— whoever you want, really. Or if you don’t want anyone at all— that’s— that’s fine, too.”

“God, you’re fucking—”

“Hey, boys,” Margo drawls. She materializes before them, an absolute vision in the green and gold sari she adapted for the festival, zinnias braided through her hair. Quentin is still bitching when she shimmies in between them and drapes herself over Eliot’s lap.

“—goddamn— impossible— I should just— go—”

“You’re not allowed to fucking go anywhere. Or Julia will eat me alive. And not in the good way, baby.” She leans forward and taps on Quentin’s nose, giggling, at least halfway to as drunk as she gets. “And trust me, she’s—”

“Q, don’t go—” Eliot tries to lean over and grab Quentin’s arm, but Margo is deceptively heavy and about three times as strong as she looks. She deadweights on Eliot and leans over to stroke Quentin’s cheek with predatory affection.

“This whole thing is like my worst fucking nightmare,” Quentin says, batting Margo’s hand away.

“As I was saying— Julia is— good.” She cackles, kicking her legs over Quentin’s lap. “So good. It’s a good spell for practicing. We’ve practiced— a lot.”

Quentin pulls his hair over his eyes, dislodging the crown of flowers. “Margo, let me go. I’ve decided to hibernate for another six weeks. I’m going to my room and fucking— staying there forever.”

“Groundhog Day is over, nerd,” Margo says. She tucks Quentin’s hair behind his ear and fiddles with his flower crown until it looks a bit closer to how it was before. “Remember you almost—” Margo whispers, like she thinks Eliot can’t hear her. “— fucked Eliot at the Groundhog Day party?”

“Oh my God, please let me go—” Quentin pulls his hair back over his face, hiding again as he tries to get up. This time, Margo flings a charm at him that keeps him locked in place on the lounge.

“Bambi, don’t be cruel,” Eliot says. There’s a warmth rising in his own cheeks, his pulse ticking up the way it does around Quentin. It’s so vivid, the memory of it suspended in the air between them.

“Not until you fucking promise you’re not cocking out on my party, Coldwater. You’re not allowed to bail because you’re afraid of having actual fun. You might even get your dick wet.”

“Oh, my God— fine. Jesus Christ. Let me get up so I can get a fucking drink. I can’t handle either of you while I’m this sober.”

Margo waves her hand, releasing Quentin from whatever charm she’d cast to keep him in place. “Good boy, Coldwater. I’m holding you to it.”

“I don’t know why— this is very, like, the opposite of my scene. And I don’t want to fuck some rando in the woods.” Quentin wears an adorable scowl— more intense now after Margo’s ribbing— his brows all tensed and soft lips pulled down. The leaves on his crown are pulled in several different directions, and the shoulder of his robe has slipped a bit lower to reveal— surprisingly well-defined muscles, the dark promise of his chest hair, the dusky peak of one nipple. His crown has disappeared somewhere, hair falling over his eyes. Eliot’s mouth waters.

A heated thrill swirls low in his hips as he watches Quentin huffing and trying to pull his toga down to cover his thighs. God, he’s thought about it so many times— tasting Quentin’s lips again, taking his cock in his mouth, opening him and sliding into him, bouncing off his sumptuous little ass— fuck, what if— what if he could— actually— tonight—

“I’m going to get some of the stuffed mushrooms, I guess,” Quentin says. “If you’re making me stay.” He unceremoniously dumps Margo’s legs from his lap, springing up so quickly he nearly falls into the grass. The muscles in his thighs flex as he rights himself. When he looks back at Eliot, there’s that flash of something again, flickering across his face for a moment before it’s gone.

Quentin stomps off toward the banquet table and angrily loads his plate with Eliot’s fruit salad, veggie stuffed mushrooms, and fresh bread. He may or may not have put the feast together with Quentin in mind, perhaps with the goal of getting him to stay.

“You should fuck him,” Margo says, taking Eliot’s arm and curling it around her. She takes Eliot’s drink from his hand and sips at it thoughtfully. “I bet he’d be up for the fully public experience. Looks like he’s a kinky little bitch under all that hide-behind-his-hair nerd exterior.”

“Hmm. I don’t know. He’s been awfully cagey about the party. The ritual in particular.”

“That’s because he doesn’t want random dick in the woods.” She squeezes Eliot’s hand and looks up at him. “He wants your random dick in the woods.”

“How do we even know he genuinely likes dick?” Eliot remembers— Quentin’s body, strung tight and trembling, the desperate moan when Eliot’s hand slipped around his waist and down to cup his ass. With most other boys, that would be evidence enough. It just didn’t seem like enough for Eliot to take that risk with Q, not in any real way.

Margo gestures in Quentin’s direction. He’s shoving a mushroom in his mouth and nearly crashes into the table when Julia runs up to him and takes his arm. He looks, wide-eyed and forlorn, at Eliot for a moment before she leads him off. Eliot’s heart leaps a little when he watches Q go, and he has to remind himself that Quentin will probably be back. In all likelihood, Eliot hasn’t scared him off entirely. Yet.

“He might not know for sure if he genuinely likes dick, but goddamn. I’ve never seen someone so clearly in need of a thorough dicking down in my life.” She shifts on Eliot’s lap so she can look up at him. “You think he’d wear fucking sandals for literally anyone else?”

“What if he goes—” Eliot starts, pausing and humming appreciatively as he watches Quentin’s legs. Penny— who, bless him, is wearing one of his open vests and a long, weird scarf— is talking to him for some fucking reason, and Quentin’s leg is twitching in that nervous way of his. “Or what if he stays— and he’s linked up with someone else?”

“What if he stays— what if he goes— Give me a fucking break, Eliot. And have a little faith that Mama’s lined up a springtime miracle.”

Eliot tries to keep prodding Margo for information about the spell and her updates to the ritual, but, even as tipsy as she is, she walks around the subject, grinning at Eliot when he whines at her.

The party passes in the same way that Cottage parties pass— hazy and syrupy, time swirling in little eddies here and there, focused mainly on Margo when she’s lounging next to him. And as ever— as it’s been since Quentin arrived, really— his eyes are drawn back to Q. He’s mainly been talking to a drunk, blushing Alice. There’s a silvery thread of jealousy that worms its way through Eliot’s mind. He has to remind himself that Kady just about lives in Alice’s room now, and it’s clear they’re doing more than comparing notes on battle magic and phosphoromancy.

When the moon is well and truly hanging in the sky, heavy and full, Eliot makes his way back to Q, draping an arm over his shoulders. He does it carelessly, like it’s barely a thought— like he hasn’t been planning it for the past hour. He half expects one of the scowls Quentin was giving out earlier, but Quentin rolls his eyes instead, his face lighting up with a smile. Quentin’s cheeks are red from drinking, the fire casting shadows over his skin. Most of his robe has fallen away, his chest half exposed. A little frisson of delight rolls through Eliot. It’s not any good to hope for this, but he can’t help the sweet anticipation— of the spell, the ritual, Margo’s cryptic promise.

“You having fun, El?”

“Always. Better now that I found you. You should dance with me.” Eliot nods to a few couples swaying in the clearing. Someone, at some point, had brought out a guitar. Ordinarily, Eliot would turn his nose up at such things, particularly since it’s a group of psychics and a stray illusionist who wishes he were a psychic singing songs about the full moon, but—

—Q’s hair catches the firelight, and his eyes are dark and wide, his lips parted. The force of Eliot’s wanting surges over him like the rise and crest of a wave. He thinks of those pictures, taken from underwater as the ocean spirals up and around, whorls and currents of bubbles, the kicking up of sand and shell— chaos and clarity bound together. That’s what it feels like when Quentin tucks into him and slips his arm around Eliot’s waist.

“You know I don’t dance.” Quentin seems to be going for grumpy, but his tone betrays the hint of humor. “That’s a surefire way to kill the party.”

“Come on.” Eliot pulls Quentin, both of them laughing and stumbling, to the grass, wrapping him up in his arms and taking his hand. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me lead.”

“I— uh— I’m serious— I really don’t know what I’m doing.” Quentin swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, but he doesn’t pull away. He lets Eliot guide him, the grass damp against their feet. Quentin kicks off his sandals, pressing his forehead to Eliot’s shoulder for a moment before looking back up.

“You’re doing fine,” Eliot says, his voice softer than he means it to be. He should add something witty or irreverent, something to drain the tension from the moment, but he doesn’t. They’re quiet, swaying to the sound of the music, the faint breeze in the trees. In the stream that passes behind the cottage, he can hear the chirping of frogs. It reminds him of the first bloom of spring in Indiana— the best parts of it, the calm bounty of flowers coming to life and the sounds of animals and earth waking again.

When the song gives way to the chatter of the revelers and the crackle of the fire, Quentin pulls away, one hand still resting on Eliot’s waist. “I should probably go before the ritual thing. Like— I don’t think it’s— my kind of thing.”

“Not into the exhibitionism angle?” He reaches out and brushes a piece of Quentin’s hair behind his ear. He can’t help himself— his hand settles at the nape of Quentin’s neck, thumb brushing over the line of his jaw.

“Oh— I’m.” Quentin’s mouth falls open, the corners pulled down. “I’m— just. I mean— that’s fine—”

“Oh?” Eliot thinks of leaning in and catching Quentin’s lips with his, of slipping his fingers beneath the tie on Quentin’s robes, tugging at it until the fabric won’t stay up, until it falls away entirely and his hands can roam over Quentin’s skin, fall to the curve of his ass and drag him in close to Eliot’s body.

“Y-yeah. That’s— I mean. That’s not what this is about. I mean, it just seems— is it— you’re paired with someone— you don’t know? Like, how does the spell know what you want or what anyone else wants— like is magic sentient? I mean— is there a psychic component to it?”

“Oh, Q.” Eliot chuckles. Fuck, he’s so cute. Is magic sentient? Eliot could devour him. There’s a sex ritual that’s a thinly veiled excuse for a very public orgy on school grounds, and Quentin wants to know how the magic works.

“Hey, so— fucking sue me if I want to know what a spell is actually doing to my brain and body. My soul. Like, this is new— and it’s, uh— it’s interesting. It’s just that I don’t know many people? And there’s not many people I’d want to—” He shrugs. “You know.”

“I don’t know,” Eliot says. “Enlighten me.”

“Like there’s— um. I mean. I just wouldn’t— it would be weird to get linked with like— Todd.” Quentin drops Todd’s name like it should be dropped— with a deserved amount of distaste— but it still rankles Eliot to even think of such a thing.

“I don’t believe that’s how the spell works.”

“I’m saying— do you know how it works? Because Julia won’t tell me.”

“Last year, it was more of an organic thing. A blessing and then—” Eliot shrugs. “— people pairing off. Or throupling off. It was casual. I don’t know what Margo and Julia really have planned. Some splendid sex magic—”

“Then I should probably split before— uh, before things get weird—”

Quentin goes to pull away, but Eliot catches his wrist. “Hey, don’t go. You should—”

There’s a sound like the ringing of a bell, bright and clear, Margo’s drawl following, projected to be louder with a sound-altering spell. “Okay you horny fucking bitches, let’s circle the fuck up to welcome in the goddamn equinox with some fucking!”

Quentin freezes, his eyes drawn to the fire, where Margo and Julia stand with a small table of brass bowls and herbs. Julia is looking sternly at Margo, but she starts laughing like she can’t help herself.

“God— okay. I should get out of here.”

“You can just stay and see what happens,” Eliot says. He doesn’t know where the words come from, not quite. But there’s something in him that wants to just— see. Wants to know what occurs when Q is next to him for something like this. “You can leave— I’m sure. Margo is big on consent with sex magic spells. We had to go through a workshop at Encanto.”

“And you were, like, paying attention?”

“Oh,” Eliot says absently, watching as Julia pours oil into one of the bowls. “Margo was paying attention, anyway.”

“I said— listen up,” Margo shouts in their direction. “This shit is for serious. Okay— so, you’re all going to link hands with the people in your immediate vicinity and—”

Eliot gets a little lost in Margo’s explanation, which is a bit more rambling now that she’s beyond tipsy and it’s— what time is it anyway? The night faded, one piece into another, with most of his time and energy focused on Quentin. And now, Q is next to him, his head tucked against Eliot’s shoulder, despite his protestations that this sort of thing isn’t for him. The night is wholly dark now, the sky clear, the inky night dotted with bright stars.

“This is a spell for renewal, for spring— and most of all for viewing the truth of things.” Julia launches into a much more formal explanation of the enchantment, how it ties psychic links to secrets magic, how it searches for bonds and acts upon them. Something about secrets magic has always weirded Eliot the fuck out— since he and Margo had confessed the darkest pieces of themselves, they’d been wound together deeper than he’d ever been with anyone. That hadn’t happened with most of the other pairings in his year— or Quentin’s— so he thinks maybe it was just them. Perhaps it was just who they were before and who they became after Brakebills South. But it had always seemed that those truths revealed in the midst of magic and vulnerability had fundamentally changed them, knotted them up in some unknowable way.

Quentin, being Quentin, is so entranced by the fucking explanation of the spell that he seems not to notice when Julia actually begins chanting in Greek, Margo joining her in some language he really ought to know but hadn’t bothered to learn because it was instrumental in psychic magic, and psychic magic is dumb unless it’s being used for sex— which, case in point, he guesses he should know this— he’s lulled by it, Quentin’s head warm on his shoulder, his fingers flexing around Quentin’s hip. It feels good to be close with him, chin resting against his head. His hair smells like the cherry blossom shampoo he keeps stealing from Alice, laced through with the scent of ozone and earth and spring and bright, clean sweat. Eliot doesn’t quite realize it either when the magic begins weaving through the air, faint shimmers of light that arc between the people there, little crystalline connections formed, gossamer threads that appear for a moment like— spiderwebs coated with dew— before vanishing. It doesn’t give him enough time to sink into the panic that’s been plaguing him for weeks when he thinks about Quentin and the overwhelming sense that if anything should change, he’d be losing something not just important but rare—

— it hits him for just a moment. And then the spell is done, spun between all of them, a silvery net over the Cottage and its grounds, the magic singing inside of him, sinking into his depths and taking hold.

“The truth of things— that’s fucking weird and vague,” Quentin says. His words don’t quite match his tone— there’s a low rasp to his voice— and everything around them feels dreamy and hazy and slow. Quentin shifts, wrapping his arms around Eliot’s waist and looking up at him, eyes locked together.

“Yeah, I think—” Eliot glances up and sees Kady dragging Alice off to the picnic blanket she had set up earlier. The absent thought strikes Eliot that he should have thought ahead, should have brought something soft outside. But there are— spells. Blankets stowed in the tents. A heated shock runs down his spine, twisting low in his hips, simmering there. “—it probably didn’t work. Didn’t seem like—” Julia is on Margo’s lap, her dress hiked up, leaning forward and covering Margo’s mouth with hers. Soft moans and the sound of skin on skin fill the air around them, and he feels himself pulling Quentin in closer. “—like it really worked,” he chokes out.

“Probably not,” Quentin murmurs. He blinks, wide brown eyes focused on Eliot, the fire flickering on behind him. There’s a buzz in the air between them, like— electricity taking shape in the space between their bodies. Eliot can feel the web of magic forming, pressing into his mind and teasing out the pieces of his desire.

“I dunno,” Eliot murmurs. “I feel a little—” He brushes his fingertips over the back of Quentin’s bare arm, watching the hair rise in the wake of his touch.

“Oh.” Quentin’s mouth falls open. “Yeah, I think—” He pauses, staring up at Eliot like he’s seeing something for the first time. Something in his face lights up, and his dimples appear just before his smile. He pushes up on his toes and places a kiss at the corner of Eliot’s mouth, quick and warm. The electric threads of the enchantment light up like stars appearing in the sky, bright beneath his skin.

It hums within Eliot, a low frequency, pricking on the pieces of desire he’s kept hidden for so long. He thinks about the way he’d avoided the reality of Quentin and his place in Eliot’s life. Quentin is warm-toned and beautiful, creases at the corners of his deep-set eyes.

Eliot feels it, senses the enchantment as it winds its way deep into them— there’s no world in which he can imagine letting Quentin go. But maybe that’s, maybe that’s just him, Eliot. He hasn’t wanted to let Quentin go for months now.

He’d pouted in his room, claiming he had seasonal allergies, the entire first week Quentin was at Brakebills South— and, even though he’d rallied the week following and even fucked a moderately attractive illusionist a few days before Q’s return— he’d pulled Quentin into his arms the moment he came home. Quentin had slept in Eliot’s bed that night— that’s where Q came when he had his worst days, when he needed comfort. Eliot’s room is his safe haven— Eliot had let it become exactly that. Where Quentin needed to be held, Eliot needed to hold him, craved the small, specific ways Quentin needed him.

Eliot, methodical in his movement, like he’s reaching out to pet the nose of a timid deer, runs his thumb along the crest of Quentin’s collarbone. He takes in a breath as Eliot presses his hand to Quentin’s nape, drawing him closer and ducking down to catch his lips in a kiss. He coaxes Q open like he did before and it’s just like it was— no, better since he’s mostly sober. The magic shimmers through him, small fibrous connections forming like regenerated nerves, creating meaning in the space between them.

It’s an odd thought but— Eliot has the strong sense memory of hearing music for the first time that wasn’t the monotonous drone of corporate Jesus-pop or evangelical hymns set to the dissonant warble of a church organ. Eliot remembers— he was eight and his cousin Hannah seventeen— he was lying on the floor in her basement, and she was draped carelessly over the couch. She put on a CD, one she must have hidden from her parents— a boy wearing eyeliner and lipstick was on the cover; the image plucked at something inside Eliot before the track had even started. The opening— windchimes giving way to synth, a melody blooming inside of it. He’d closed his eyes and let it sweep him away, the bass line picking him up and holding him— it made him think of light reflecting on water, the warmth of the sun— and he’d imagined the ocean even though he’d never seen it, never heard the crash of waves against sand. It was at once expansive and sublime, open sky and bright, clear air, but it made him feel known in a way that he’d never really felt.

That’s the way he feels when Quentin presses up and melts into him, giving back as good as he gets, his fingers tangled in the fabric of Eliot’s robes. They fit each other, he thinks, like harmonies intertwined, sounds rising together to create something entirely new. Natural, inevitable.

Eliot’s mind feels bright and buzzy when Quentin pulls back, head tilted to look up at Eliot. He knows he’s smiling— he can feel the pull of it in his cheeks. “I want you,” Eliot blurts out. “I want this. With you.”

Quentin pauses for a beat, staring up at Eliot. “I mean, I know you want this tonight, and that’s kind of— I’m not great at that. Being casual.” His hand slips between the folds of Eliot’s robe, resting warm against the center of his chest. “But I wanna be with you just tonight if that’s, like. Something you want. I can be— like. Cool about that.” Quentin gives him a little shrug, and it cracks something open inside of Eliot, a painful heaviness bleeding into him.

“I like you, Q. A lot. And I want more than just this.” He kisses Quentin again, his hand slipping beneath the burgundy jersey of the tunic Eliot crafted for him. He makes a shocked little sound when Eliot’s tongue glances against his and his hand moves lower, tugging down the fabric and resting on the small of his back. A soft noise rises in Quentin’s throat, and Eliot feels a little shiver run through his muscles.

“More than just this?” Quentin’s voice is devastatingly hopeful— like there could possibly be a chance that Eliot doesn’t want him.

“I’d like to take you out on dates and— make you dinner.” The inside of Eliot’s mouth feels strange, almost raw, like he ate something too hot, too quickly. Like the time he took Truth Potion for a delightfully fucked up Cottage party. He realizes that’s what it is, the ripped open vulnerability of the truth he’s been avoiding for— so long now. “I want you, Q. All of you.”

Magic is thick in the air, other people around, all in various states of undress, but they seem distant, somewhat unreal. Quentin is watching him wide-eyed, fingers scratching through his chest hair and sending heat through his skin.

“Do you wanna,” Eliot murmurs, a little thread of anxiety ticking up in his mind— around them, people are pairing off, finding little hidden corners, or— not so hidden. It’s not like this kind of thing doesn’t happen at Brakebills, and the Physical Kids, being, well, physical, had always embraced celebrations like these, making frequent offerings of pleasure. Probably more than was strictly necessary. But. Quentin said it’s not his thing— and it’s probably a good idea to take it somewhere else. Eliot doesn’t give a fuck as long as he can touch Quentin. “Maybe we should go somewhere. My room—”

“No,” Quentin says, tugging at him aimlessly. “Just wanna— be with you, here.”

A heated jolt courses through him at the thought— opening him and sliding inside, fucking him until he comes, having Quentin in front of everyone here.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, a bright pink flush spreading over his neck and chest. He’s pulling at the tie at Eliot’s waist, smoothing his hand down Eliot’s chest and pushing in close. Eliot can feel it then, the heat of Quentin’s cock through his clothes, the want that’s been all wrapped up inside them, unfurling around them.

There’s an odd bit of nervousness mixed with his excitement. It’s not like hasn’t done this before, here or at Encanto, but there’s something about Q that makes everything different, makes it all seem like something wildly new and unexplored. It’s slower and gentler than he expects, and Quentin is bolder than he would have imagined, pulling off Eliot’s robes and pressing kisses over his chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples and sending shocks down the column of his spine.

Quentin makes a choked off sound when the robes fall away, a puddle of ivory and gold at his feet. Even half-hard, Eliot’s dick is— well, not to put too fine a point on it, his cock is heavy and thick, longer than you’d see outside of porn. He’s been told more than once that it’s a thing of beauty, and Eliot’s just conceited enough not to debate that.

“Like what you see?”

“God, you’re conceited as absolute fuck.”

“With good reason,” Eliot says. It sounds a bit off for— whatever’s happening right now. He’s a bit unsteady with it, the cool, humid air hitting his skin, shivers running up his spine. It’s been a long time since Eliot made peace with his physical self, learned to love all of its idiosyncrasies, the sheer length of his body and the gangliness of his limbs— and he’s been naked, or nearly naked, in front of crowds far larger than this more times than he can count at this point in his East Coast life— but he feels oddly exposed, even tucked away as they are by the tents, with Quentin’s eyes on him.

“Yeah, I don’t even believe— I don’t know if I’ll ever believe— that you’d—”

“Stop being ridiculous.” Eliot pulls Quentin into him, drawing him into a sweet, lingering kiss that feels far more intimate than it should. He’s dimly aware of the sound of moans somewhere nearby, the telltale slap of skin on skin, wet and dirty. Hands shaking more than they should, he slides them over Quentin’s skin, helping him shuffle out of the tunic, pushing it down until he’s standing in his black boxer briefs. Quentin’s sandals must have been kicked off at some point or another, and there are bits of grass sticking to his feet.

There’s a tightness that begins in the pit of his belly as he takes Quentin into his arms and presses kisses over the line of his jaw and down his neck. Eliot doesn’t quite realize he’s done it until— they’re on the ground, and Quentin is on top of him, teeth grazing his collarbone and tongue flicking over his skin— he must have pulled them down, or Quentin did, but everything feels warm and a bit fuzzy, like the clarity of the focus of the camera from earlier has faded out, and the only thing left is Quentin. When he thinks to turn his head to the side, he sees two nature kids he knows— he thinks he’s slept with both of them, possibly together, at one point or another— one of them is on the other’s lap, and they’re both watching. Eliot lets out a helpless moan, tugging at the waistband of Q’s boxers and gripping the meat of his ass.

Quentin whimpers, his hips hitching in Eliot’s hands. He drags the boxers down slowly, the band catching on Quentin’s dick for a second before Eliot shoves it down. The head is flushed rosy, wet at the tip, and Q is kissing him and jerking forward into his hand.

This isn’t what Eliot had pictured in the times he let himself imagine not just sex— but something real with Q. In his mind, their explorations always occurred after some nebulous event where he took Quentin not somewhere grand but somewhere that fit him— maybe the cozy tapas bar he’d discovered in the Lower East Side.

Eliot had imagined— feeding him bites of thick, buttery bread and tasting it on his lips later, when they’d portaled back to the cottage. Taking him apart piece by piece until he was incoherent and begging for Eliot to fuck him—

But more than that, Eliot had fantasized kissing him, dwelling on the touch of Quentin’s lips, the glittering sensation that had burst to life low in his belly— he’d felt something close when he first kissed Levi Becker behind the gym in ninth grade— but everything in Eliot’s life had been systematically dulled in the years following. By his father and by his bullies, by the school that had expected him to be anyone but who he was, by the boys he’d loved— the ones who’d never loved him back and the ones who used him and left him blank and husk-like. Eliot had shut so many doors by the time he’d gotten to New York that he’d forgotten what it was to kiss someone and mean it.

And now, with his hands on Quentin’s hips, their lips connect for the fourth or fifth time that night, electricity buzzing and building between them, making a new home in Eliot’s spine, in the cradle of his hips— bright blooming to life within him. It’s not quite like— newness, not exactly, as much as it is like— something waking up inside him, cracking open hot and raw, from dark earth, something long hidden and stifled, remembering what it was supposed to be before its light had been broken.

He wraps his fingers around Quentin’s firm cock, dense and thick, swiping his thumb over the leaking tip, and Quentin lets out a gentle sigh against Eliot’s lips, rutting forward into his hand.

Quentin makes sweet desperate sounds as he rolls his hips into Eliot’s hand. It’s an awkward angle, Quentin’s cock moving in short, shallow strokes, his boxers still halfway covering his ass, waistband pressed tight against the base of his dick. But Quentin is panting into Eliot’s mouth, moaning and scraping his teeth over Eliot’s bottom lip, diving back in to suck on Eliot’s tongue as he thrusts the head of his cock against Eliot’s palm.

“Fuck— fuck, I’m already close, El— God, you don’t know what you— what you do to me—”

“Oh, I’ve got a pretty clear idea.” Eliot tightens his grip just to hear Quentin’s choked off moan, to feel the slide of Q’s cock against his palm. His own cock jerks, pressed hot against the muscle of Quentin’s thigh. “You wanna come before I fuck you— or do you want me to—”

“Fuck. Oh— fuck—” Quentin lets out a filthy groan, hips hitching so hard Eliot nearly loses his grip. “No— I— fuck, I jerked off twice today. I wanna come with, um— with your cock inside me.”

“Twice, hm?” Eliot nips at his jaw, a rapturous shock shooting through him. “Thinking about me?”

“Yeah— oh, my God.” Quentin’s knees are on either side of Eliot’s waist, the flush creeping over his chest. He’s trembling, trying to still himself— so he doesn’t come— which is so disturbingly erotic Eliot feels like he could come himself, fucking up between Quentin’s warm, solid thighs and spilling over them. “I’m always— always thinking of you.”

“Good, baby. I like that,” Eliot says. He threads his fingers through Quentin’s hair, bringing him in for a slow heated kiss.

“S’true. You’re so beautiful. Want you inside me.”

“Mm, you’ll have to be patient for me.” Eliot can feel that there are at least a few people watching them— honestly, who could blame them— Quentin is a hot little disaster even if he doesn’t know it. And he doesn’t— but that makes him twice as hot in Eliot’s opinion. And Eliot, even as smitten as he is, as focused as he is on Q, likes putting on a bit of a show.

“I can be— yeah. Patient. Sort of. I just might come if you make like— any sudden movements.” Quentin is breathing ragged, body tense, as Eliot lets go of his cock and slips his hand around to his firm little ass. “S’fine if you just— fuck me.”

“Is it fine? You ever had a cock inside here before?” Eliot pushes his fingers against the soft jersey fabric of Quentin’s boxer briefs. His flushed cock is stiff, insistent, red where the waistband bites into his flesh. But like this, Eliot can just press his fingers against Quentin’s hole, massaging the texture of the fabric against the tight rim of muscle.

Quentin’s cheeks look like they’ve been slapped, a bright pink flush blooming over his face. “Yeah. A few times. And—” He bites his lower lip, squirming against Eliot, tensing and releasing his thighs. “I have— have a few— oh my fuck— toys. I know what I’m doing—”

“Will you show off your collection for me? Show me how you fuck this tight little hole when you’re thinking about my cock?” Eliot presses the tips of two fingers in just a little, pushing just a little ways inside, enough for Quentin to feel it, for his hole to flutter and give ever so slightly beneath the fabric. It’s warm and supple beneath his fingertips, the ring of muscle twitching against the fabric. Eliot works his fingers there just to hear the little strangled sounds rising from Quentin’s chest. “Bet you look so pretty all stuffed full of cock.”

“Oh my— hnnn, Eliot, you can’t just— say things like that—” He wiggles down against Eliot’s fingers, cock stiff and red against his belly. “Will you just— I want you to fuck me. I feel like you’re not— you’re not hearing me. You’re just—” Quentin whines, his hips circling down and pressing hard against Eliot’s fingers. “—saying filthy things while you’re— not fingering me—”

“You’re just so desperate for my cock,” Eliot says, a little drunk with the power of it. “I’m going to give it to you baby. And again after the sun rises. I’ll get you to fuck me after that. You like taking turns, hm? Wanna shove that sweet little dick inside me?”

“Eliot, Jesus fucking Christ—”

“You worried someone will hear us, hm?” Eliot’s stomach swoops, a giddy, glowing sensation rising in his chest. The length of his cock pulses, hips tensing with the drive to sink in and fuck, to show Q all the ways he can make him feel so fucking good. “I have news for you, baby. Everyone here can see how much you want me inside you.”

Quentin makes a garbled noise that might be a word or a collection of words, but Eliot can’t make it out— the blood in his temples is pulsing, his cock aching hard, his belly thrumming with hunger.

“We’ve got a few admirers,” Eliot murmurs in Quentin’s ear as he eases his finger a bit deeper, the muscle quivering beneath his fingertips. “Gonna take my cock right in front of everyone? Surprised you didn’t want me to take you inside. But you like it, don’t you? Everyone seeing how filthy you really are. How much you want this big dick.”

“Jesus, fuck, Eliot.” Quentin is still squirming, pushing against Eliot’s fingers so they sink in a little deeper.

“It’s true. Tell me.”

“I’m— Yeah,” Quentin whispers, breathy and low, forehead pressed sweaty against Eliot’s neck, lips brushing against his kin. He presses a trembling kiss to Eliot’s neck. “I do— I like it.”

“That’s what you want, hm?” Eliot presses his lips to the column of Quentin’s throat, tasting the slicked salt of his skin, long hidden pieces of himself resurfacing, the magic of the spell multiplying in the humid space between their bodies. He tugs Quentin’s boxers, and he grumbles at having to rearrange, move so that Eliot can pull them off and toss them aside, bare skin on skin, Quentin bracketing him with his hips and rutting forward, clumsy, so that their cocks brush together. Eliot tosses his head back and grabs one thick, strong thigh, fingers digging into heated flesh as heaviness builds in his cock, balls tight and full against his body.

“You sure you—”

“Yeah, I—” Quentin shudders against him, hips hitching forward again, rubbing against the slippery head of his dick, sending a hum of anticipation through his hips. “God, so much. Want you to— come inside me—” Quentin trembles, hips still moving, an involuntary, instinctive motion, hips hitching continuously against Eliot’s dick. Eliot watches Quentin turning to look at the other boys watching them, a few other couples littered around the patio taking note of Quentin sitting on Eliot’s stiff cock and reaches down to take both of their cocks in hand, both of them thrusting between Quentin’s fingers.

The thought takes shape in his mind— he’ll be able to do all the things he’s wanted— plunge his cock between Q’s pretty lips and come down his throat, take Quentin’s dick inside him and ride him until he doesn’t remember his name, wake up next to him and kiss him senseless, fall asleep with their limbs tangled together and wake him up with teeth and tongue and slip between his lovely thighs, get him all wet and messy, fuck into the tight-hot space until he comes—

“Yeah, I’ll give you— anything you want,” Eliot murmurs, his mind holding space for so much possibility and yet— at the same time focusing only on the image of having Quentin here, witnessed by the clear sky and its stars and the other revelers, each caught in their own spinning chase of pleasure. The muscles in his groin and low back go taut, his cock jerking and hips rolling up. He can feel it in the tip of his tongue, his lips, the balls of his feet— the sharp zing of wanting that filters through his blood and settles into an ache. He’s been feeling it for so long now, and it’s crystallized now; he gets to have this— all that he’s wanted.

“I want— want you, want all of you,” Quentin murmurs, lips brushing over Eliot’s collarbone, a thumb over one nipple.

Eliot presses a kiss just between neck and shoulder. “I’m gonna do a spell to—”

“Did the spell— I’m all—” Quentin shrugs against him, and Eliot laughs helplessly. “—ready. I’m all ready. To— you know.”

“You cleaned up— all for me?”

“Uh, yeah. I mean.” Quentin presses his nose against Eliot’s collarbone. “I’d think that was, like, pretty clear at this point.”

“Mm hmm. Did you get yourself all opened up? Hm? Use one of your toys—”

“I wanted you to, you know. Do it. Open me up. Wanted to feel it.”

It might be the enchantment, but Eliot barely feels the grass against his back as he shifts Quentin forward and draws slippery lube from the air, dripping it over the cleft of his ass and pressing his fingers against his entrance. Eliot’s stomach swoops, his dick jerking as he pets over Quentin’s hole. He half-thinks about doing a spell that will keep him from coming inside Quentin immediately, but it would take too much brain power, and he’d have to move his hand, which seems— unthinkable, right now.

It’s smooth and blood hot as he circles his fingertips there, fluttering and opening beneath Eliot’s touch. A shaky sound falls from Quentin’s lips as he presses down— to the second knuckle now, both of them panting.

“You’re doing so good, Q.”

“God, I know— what I’m fucking doing, Eliot,” Quentin says, moaning as he slips down and takes it all the way.

Quentin relaxes against him, thighs bracketing his hips as Eliot works another inside. It takes a shift or two for Q to get comfortable, Quentin resting on his chest, his cock hard against Eliot’s torso— jerking against him as he works a second finger inside— as he soothes over Quentin’s ribs with his free hand, fingertips skating over the notches in his ribs, kneading into the muscles of his ass. Eliot works him open, slow and gentle, his breath catching when he feels the flutter and give against his fingers.

“Fuck, that feels so good—”

“Gonna make you feel all full with my big cock. You want that?”

“Fuck— fuck yeah.” Quentin lets out a long fluttery sigh when Eliot fits a third finger inside him. He bears down against Eliot, his body finally giving and opening enough so he can rock back and forth, his cock leaking against Eliot’s belly as he very slowly starts to ride Eliot’s fingers.

It’s ruinously fucking beautiful— Eliot might never recover— to see Quentin’s body rolling and snapping against his hand, to feel the flex of his muscles beneath his fingertips. To watch him as he takes what he wants from Eliot. “Feel good, Q?”

“Yeah, ‘m incredible, wanna get you inside me—”

Eliot lets out a long groan. His dick, hard and pulsing between his legs, is heavy with anticipation. A bit of precome drools from his tip, a shivery pulse rolling down the length of his dick as he adjusts a panting, shivering Quentin over his hips.

“You’re so fucking pretty, Q.”

“I’m not— pretty— I’m just—”

“None of that— you are stunning.” Eliot traces one finger over Quentin’s bottom lip, which Quentin chases with his tongue, mouth open and searching. Eliot lets him lick over the pad of his finger, hot tongue like velvet. “You’re beautiful, Q.”

Eliot grabs Quentin’s thighs and moves the tip of his cock to Quentin’s hole, pulling the foreskin back from the sensitive head and moving it in little circles over the furrow of muscle. He can feel it pulse against his blood-flushed skin, sending little shivers of sensation down the length of his dick. There’s a jump of muscle beneath the base of his dick, the muscles of his groin tensing as he presses up, pulling Quentin down. God, Eliot’s fucked a lot of boys— he’d lost count after his first semester months at Brakebills— but he’s never felt this desperate, like he might lose his mind if he doesn’t get inside. He thinks Quentin is open enough to take him— he maybe should have used the spell, but he wants to see it in Quentin’s face when he relaxes enough to stretch around him. Wants to feel the pulse of muscle around his cock as Quentin’s body adjusts, makes room for him. Wants to remember this night— every movement, every moment.

There’s the slap of skin on skin from somewhere to their right— the boys Eliot knows, maybe, breathing heavy now— and probably watching because who wouldn’t watch this.

Unbidden, Eliot’s body jerks upward as he thinks of it— others watching while Quentin rides his cock, shameless and moaning Eliot’s name. All for Eliot. His slick cockhead meets resistance at Quentin’s entrance. But Quentin is moaning and lowering himself, knees shaking— and the head slips inside, Quentin’s ass clenching around him. Eliot makes a sound like he’s been punched as Quentin shifts and pants. In the firelight, Eliot can see the muscles in Quentin’s abdomen tensing up and releasing as Eliot’s cock sinks into him.

“You’re so— mmm— big. It’s big— El—” Quentin gasps, his brow furrowed, back arching in pleasure. He sinks down further, making breathy, ragged sounds; Quentin’s cock is so hard and flushed, and it jerks when he lifts himself back up and slides down again.

Eliot holds him by the hips, his own face burning, his cock squeezed so tight by Quentin’s sweet body. “Don’t hurt yourself, baby. I have plans to fuck you again—” Eliot grunts, trying to resist the instinctive jerk of his body as Quentin bites his lip and slowly starts to stroke his own dick, whining and trembling and needing this, needing Eliot— buried inside him. “— Jesus— fuck, you feel so— oh—”

He loses his train of thought entirely as he watches Quentin, hair sticking sweaty to his forehead, mouth wet and open, stroking himself and twitching around Eliot’s cock. “More, I need— all the way— please—”

“Q—” The muscles in his pelvis jump again as he holds Quentin steady. There’s a needy drive to fuck up into the slick, velvety grip of his hole, but the idea of hurting him opens up a pain in Eliot’s chest that feels at once unfamiliar and— wholly intuitive— like the urge to protect Quentin has always been with him, just dormant alongside the longing he’d pushed away for months.

“Come on— I can take it—”

Eliot nods and releases his grip, little red marks appearing where his fingers dug into Quentin’s skin. “Okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, soothing his hands over Quentin’s back and down over the heart-shaped swell of his ass. God, it’s perfect, round and muscled and— unbelievably hot as Eliot’s cock plunges deeper. He wants to take Quentin from behind next so he can watch himself disappear inside, see the stretch around his dick, leverage himself so he can fuck in hard and fast—

There’s time for that. There’s time for Quentin to learn Eliot’s body. It’s odd, seeing the truth of this— it’s not a flash of knowledge, like Eliot had sort of expected. It’s nothing showy, unlike so much of the sex magic he’s seen at Encanto. Instead of a lens flare of the unknown becoming known, it’s a slow surfacing, like a picture coming to life on the face of a Polaroid picture. There’s world enough and time for them to do exactly this and a million other small things, all the threads of connection Eliot has been missing from his world.

It takes a few more shifts, another bit of lube pulled from the fresh spring air, a readjustment and deep, heavy breaths for Quentin to take him all the way. But he does, sitting flush with Eliot’s hips, cock held in his vise-like heat. At first, Quentin just rocks his hips, hands planted against Eliot’s chest. Eliot holds his pretty ass to feel the muscles work beneath his fingertips, as he moves, shifting only a few centimeters at a time as he lets out hushed, desperate sounds.

“Feels so good,” Quentin says. “Thought about this so much.” He rolls forward, pressing his mouth to Eliot’s nipple while he thumbs at the other. The heat of Quentin’s soft tongue against him sends a jolt like fire down his spine, twining up with the arousal pooling in his hips and the tight, heated grip of Quentin’s hole against his dick. Quentin sucks and licks, moving from one to the other, scraping his teeth over one nipple as his hips work faster, his cock trapped between their bellies.

“You know how to work that ass, Q.” Quentin moans against him, sucking harder, a bloom of pain shooting through Eliot’s chest now. Enough to leave a mark. Just the thought threatens to tip him over the edge, but Eliot grasps the threat of letting go and coming inside and banishes it. He can’t— he can’t yet— he hasn’t even fucked Quentin properly. “Keep on like that. Mark me up, sweet thing. Show everyone how good you are.”

“Mmmph fuck,” Quentin says, hips snapping, mouth hot and sucking against Eliot’s skin.

“You’re so sweet and tight. Gonna use you so good— ruin you for anyone else.”

“Yeah, nngh fuck— ruin me—” Quentin moves faster, fucking down harder, cock brushing against Eliot’s belly on every stroke. “El, Eliot—” He reaches back and grabs one of Eliot’s hands, tangling their fingers together and pulling his arm between their bodies, using the leverage to ride Eliot faster. “— fuck, oh holy fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Fuck, Q, how are you real—” Eliot hears himself crying out as Quentin’s muscles contract around him; his eyes roll back in his head. Quentin is shaking, holding Eliot’s hand hard enough to hurt, hips working double-time, a broken shout rising from within him as his ass clenches and his cock jerks against Eliot’s belly, hot come splattering between them.

“Oh, my God, El,” he groans, his body seizing as a final jolt hits him, more come spilling between them as he grinds his body down and buries Eliot’s hard dick inside as far as he can. “You— you— I need you to come in me,” Quentin murmurs, trembling and licking at the places he marked Eliot up, kissing around one nipple again. A shock rips through Eliot when Quentin sucks, his body tender and aching like Eliot just came. “Please, I need it—”

“You want me to come inside you,” Eliot repeats, rolling his hips up in little circles. Quentin is slick and velvety soft inside, and Eliot slides easily with each stroke, the perfect grip of smooth muscle drawing him closer to relief, the energy building inside him like the crazed potential before an electrical storm. Q makes breathy, shocked noises each time Eliot shoves upward and bottoms out. “Not too sensitive? Tell me.”

Quentin drags his forehead, damp with sweat, against Eliot’s shoulder, lips coming to rest above his collarbone. “No, I like it. A lot.”

Eliot has the briefest flash of an image— Quentin fucking himself with one of his toys, something long and thick, his belly already splattered with come, fantasizing about Eliot taking what he wants, fucking into him with abandon—

Really, Eliot wasn’t going to class much before, and now, he doesn’t plan on letting Quentin out of bed. At least not for the next week. Maybe two.

“Hold on, baby,” Eliot says, nuzzling at Quentin’s neck and gripping his waist. Unlike porn, life doesn’t have fade-to-black scene breaks, but he manages to get Quentin on his back, throwing down a blanketing charm to dispel the chill of the grass— not that Eliot had noticed, not with a gorgeous boy riding him. His gorgeous boy.

The sound Quentin makes when Eliot slides back inside will stay in Eliot’s memory for the rest of his life. A drawn-out, dazed whine, his dense body quivering when Eliot bottoms out. It’s slippery and hot inside, Quentin’s body opening for him, obeying Eliot as he fucks into the tight, slick clutch of him, the friction perfect against the length of his cock. He can get in deep like this, hiking Quentin’s leg around his hip and planting his knee so he can plunge in hard, Quentin’s body jolting with every movement.

“You okay, baby?” Eliot fucks into him with precise thrusts, chasing that heady, almost-high sensation of building and building that precedes relief. Sex is always good— he makes it fucking good— but this is— it’s different. He doesn’t know if it’s the spell, subtle as it is, or if it’s just the way he is with Q. If it’s just who he is when they’re together, when Eliot has him like this.

“Mnnm, yeah, s’good.” Quentin whimpers, mouthing over Eliot’s neck, latching on and sucking hard over his pulse point. Eliot is lightheaded with it, with the urge to fuck harder, take more, claiming Quentin and spilling inside of him. This is so much more, so much deeper than anything he’s had with another person— the need for relief surges within him and hangs there, his heart beating double time, nipples hard and brushing against the scratchy-soft hair on Quentin’s chest, his cock frenetic with unspent energy, the tingling anticipation he usually feels in his hips rising and expanding through the whole of him.

“Taking it so well,” Eliot coos, digging his knees into the earth where it’s been made warm and downy by his magic. His back is wet with sweat and the clean dew of the grass, his hips and ass moving in wild staccato thrusts as Quentin whines and places one hand against the back of Eliot’s neck, playing with his curls. The gentleness of his touch sends sweet shivers down his spine as he draws closer to the brink. He wants it to go on like this, to last through the night, watch Quentin come on his dick when the sun rises. But it’s so much, and he’s wanted this for so long— he knows he won’t be able to drag it out, not for much longer.

“Oh, El— fuck—” Quentin’s leg clamps down around Eliot’s hips, drawing him in deeper. He feels it then, Quentin’s cock firming up again against his belly. “God, oh shit— harder—” Q reaches his hand between them, jerking his slicked up cock and kissing Eliot hard and sloppy, locking him in a biting kiss as Eliot fucks him hard and deep, losing all sense of rhythm as Quentin moans against his mouth, tears forming at the corner of his eyes as he throws his head back. Eliot licks the sweat from his neck, shuddering as Quentin’s compact body tenses around him again.

“Fuck, Q— so tight—” Eliot catches Quentin’s lips again, lips covered with the salt of his sweat. He can feel Quentin’s hand moving fast and hard, and gasps, shuddering and seizing up around Eliot’s dick.

“Wanna see you,” Eliot murmurs, shifting back just enough so he can see the fat drops of come spilling from the head of Quentin’s dick. Quentin’s whole body pulses hot and snug around him, pulling Eliot’s release closer to the edge. “Fuck, oh that’s so— fucking hot—”

Quentin’s dick is still flushed and half hard, his body covered in come, slippery against Eliot’s abdomen as he shoves his cock inside, pleasure, violent and electric pouring through him in wild currents.

“Come on— please. I wanna feel it—inside.” Quentin locks his other leg around Eliot’s waist, pulling him in deep. Eliot’s so close, arousal hanging heavy on the precipice as he moves his hips in small circles so he can stay like this, buried inside, held close in Quentin’s grip. Quentin is so stunning like this, hair splayed out behind him, his lips kiss-bitten, his cheeks flushed, sweat damp on his forehead. Eliot keeps himself there, pressing kisses to his soft pink lips and fucking into him, a tingling in the crown of his head and the tips of his fingers— Quentin wants him, takes so much pleasure in being with Eliot, like this— wants to be with him, sees something in Eliot that he never quite saw in himself.

He lasts until he can’t anymore— it’s too good, the messy, wet, throbbing pleasure of it— and Eliot’s hips quiver, thrusting in short, jerky motions until he’s shouting, his balls drawing up, muscles in his low back jumping. He bites down on Quentin’s shoulder when he comes, liquid-hot relief pouring through him, toes curling and fingers twitching as he spills inside, shoved deep.

They stay together like that, Eliot shifting to pull out when the sensitivity gets to be too much. Everything between them is filthy and slick, a little gross, like sex is intended to be. If an offering of pleasure is what the enchantment was looking for, they’d certainly provided. There are sounds of pleasure around them still, revelers worked into a frenzy, breathy sighs and gasps, the sound of skin on skin rising into the night.

It’s good being this close but something they’ve never done before. And it’s never quite been this way with anyone else, has it? All of Eliot’s boys, up until tonight, had a most fragile place in his ecosystem— easily selected and just as easily forgotten, the ghosts of their presence slipping away in his memory like wisps of smoke dissipating in the air around. The last Ostara festival had seen Eliot connecting with more than one boy, but he can barely recall them, can’t quite connect the shards of memory when he tries to pull them together.

Apart from Margo, Eliot has pushed away the people who wanted to mean something to him. Quentin, from the beginning, had refused to stay in his proper place in the periphery of Eliot’s life. There was only so much he could do to keep Q beyond his orbit because Quentin simply didn’t stay put, didn’t keep a solid distance— and maybe Eliot hadn’t worked quite hard enough to push him away, not like he had with so many others.

“I wanted to let you know—” Quentin starts. There are still people fucking, littered around the grounds behind the Cottage. Eliot’s senses are slowly coming back to him. It sounds more like— porn out here and less like— a garden party to welcome in spring. Quentin gets distracted, kissing his neck, fingers tangling in the curls at the base of Eliot’s neck.

“Yeah? What were you going to let me know?”

“I really fucking like you.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm hm, yeah. I do. For a— well, a long time, now. I think. Since before I kissed you.”

“I was the one who kissed you, wasn’t I?”

“Don’t think so,” Quentin murmurs. He draws Eliot in for another kiss, and what can Eliot do but give him exactly what he wants— draw him in close, lips fitting together exactly like they were meant to do, exactly like they did that first night when they kissed. Maybe, he thinks, he’s been wanting this for a long time. From the moment he met Quentin, Eliot felt like there was a ripple running through his life, a disturbance in his waters. He’d sized Q up that day, or he thought he had— categorized him as an adorable boy that, if he was so inclined, Eliot would show a good time and leave somewhere in his wake. It hadn’t been like that, he thinks, as he kisses Quentin, naked and tucked between his legs, all settled into him. There had been the spark of an awakening then that he’d avoided for the better part of a decade. He’d known wanting, and he’d known affection, but he hadn’t known it with the light or depth or color with which he wants this.

“I like you, too,” Eliot murmurs when the kiss melts away. “A lot.”

Quentin smiles at that, dimples settling at the corners of his mouth. They hold each other for— Eliot’s not sure how long— but long enough for Eliot to lazily tut out a cleaning spell and pull their discarded clothing over the tangle of their bodies. He’s not sure what time it is, just that the sky looks different than it did, the beginning of light rising behind the trees on the horizon. They end up on their sides, making out and dozing off as the sky begins to light up. Eliot’s pretty sure he’d be good for round two— but he knows there’s time. They’ve got all the time in the world.

“You wanna go inside now— I think I’m like.” Quentin turns his head to look out over Eliot’s shoulder. “Kinda done being outside. I smell like a campfire. And my leg feels weird.”

“I have a spell to expand the shower on the third floor.”

“Sounds nice.”

“We should go in,” Eliot murmurs. He pulls Quentin close and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Get clean and— I can tuck you into my bed and keep you there all day. If you had plans, they’re canceled. You’re mine until you have to go to class.”

“No plans.” Quentin yawns. “You’re so bossy.”

“You like it.”

Quentin laughs, placing a kiss just below Eliot’s ear. “I do, kinda. But I reserve the right to make fun of you.”

“I reserve the right to put you in your place.” He traces his index finger along the line of Quentin’s jaw, eliciting a little shiver.

“M’yeah, you can put me wherever you want me.”

A jolt of heat expands through Eliot and settles in his thighs. “Oh, I very much intend to. And I plan to make use of that pretty body all day.”

“Yeah, let’s— let’s definitely do that.” Quentin kisses him again, nipping at his lower lip and moaning into Eliot’s mouth.

It takes them a while to gather up their clothes— they keep getting distracted, and the robes that came off so easily seem too complicated as the sun begins to light the sky an iridescent orange. The path back to the Cottage is strewn with the evidence of a party well done— people sleeping, mostly naked, empty bottles of wine next to them, the banquet table depleted of its wares.

On the patio, Margo is asleep on one of the lounges Eliot brought in for the occasion, her hair draped over the edge, shimmery makeup smudged beneath her eyes. Julia is at the other end of it— she opens one eye and gives them a small wave, which, of course, makes Quentin panic so fully that he nearly runs into the door before Eliot opens it.

It’s quiet inside and— calm, inside. Someone left one of the windows open, so the first floor smells of ozone and fresh air and the first, sweet hints of spring. When Eliot offers Quentin his hand, he takes it, and they walk upstairs together to the shower. There are distractions to be had there— namely Quentin getting on his knees and wrapping his lips around Eliot’s cock, a blissed out expression settling over his features— and, yeah, Eliot’s going to explore that a bit later. But for now, he chases his pleasure and delivers it in turn before they stumble back to Eliot’s bed, huddling beneath the covers and falling asleep, all tangled up together.

As far as absurd excuses for Cottage party sex fests go, Eliot can safely say this has been, by far, his favorite.