Archive of Our Own

“Have fun boys!” Margo called out as he and Quentin left, giving him a knowing look over the top of her magazine, because she was a bitch. Quentin obviously didn’t think anything of it, even waving goodbye at her and Alice, but Eliot glared daggers, to which she all but cackled in his face. Bitch.

Yeah, maybe he had a slight attraction. It wasn’t his fault that Quentin Coldwater screamed that he needed to be fucked through a mattress, and rather desperately. It also so happened that Quentin was… pretty nice to be around. A little neurotic, but in a way he could enjoy. Especially because he usually didn’t protest too much at Eliot telling him – very affectionately – to shut up and do as he was told.

And yeah, he was keeping Quentin around longer and more frequently than his other first year boys, but to say he had a crush (which she did, loudly and often) wasn’t just absurd, it was demented. It demonstrated a foundational lack of understanding of his character. What hedonist worth his salt was going to develop a crush on anyone who wore plaid? For convenience, not even as an alternative statement, which Eliot could at least understand as a concept.

Fucking Margo, Margo and her “have fun boys!”. Now he was nervous. It wasn’t even—they were looking for a book. Yes, Eliot had dressed in one of his favorite outfits, but that was irrelevant. There was never a time to not wear an ensemble of choice, life was far too short. You never knew who you were going to find out in the world, particularly New York.

(And if Quentin happened to take him in a little startled, deer-caught-in-brief-but-intense-headlights look that spread warmth all over Eliot’s body... well, bonus.)

There was an unexpected turn when a ghost of Ex-Best Friend Past turned up, and yeah, maybe he did have a semi-plan to very casually some other activities they could take part in, and maybe that activity might at some point include a magicians’ bar, which he knew for a fact would be right up Quentin’s alley, but Quentin getting into a sour mood was going to undoubtedly complicate the success of such a venture. What a fucking bummer. What a waste of a day in New York. Of this stupid outfit.

He allowed himself all of these thoughts, then looked over to see that whilst he had his inner bitching, the two of them were still going at it. Fine, this was going to take a while. He put the box down. He let the not-lovers have their spat. Eliot didn’t exactly have anyone he needed to cut ties to when he got to Brakebills – those ties were snipped long before he even finished undergrad – but he knew it was something that it was common for students to go through. Plus, given the memory spell backfire and subsequent life of crime that Julia was following, it was uniquely weird and difficult.

He applauded for Quentin when it was over, cigarette between his lips. He did mean the praise too—it seemed like it was a hard conversation for any person to have, especially if that one person were Quentin. Quentin didn’t really appreciate it, unquestionably in a shitty mood now. Great. He didn’t begrudge him said shitty mood, but he’d already, in the short time he’d known him, understood that being around Quentin while in a shitty mood was some of the least fun you could have with your clothes on. He did not care to put up for an entire car ride to the portal with it, and the walk back to said car.

Quentin was also feeling rather chatty – a one-sided kind of chatty, but it was better than a sulky silence. It didn’t really benefit from an audience, so Eliot permitted himself to zone out, save for supportive mm’s and ah’s and uh huh’s where they felt like they might make a difference. Really, he was trying to focus on carrying this stupid box. Quentin, so focused on his rant, was drifting closer and closer to the street – not, uh, suicidally, but purely out of distraction. God, he was such a hazard to himself and Eliot’s poor heart.

He didn’t really think much about it – stepped aside, lightly pushing Q to the spot he’d been on the sidewalk so that Quentin was on the inside. He frowned, indignant and about to say something bratty, no doubt (the kind of short guy who hated being reminded that he was), until he realized what Eliot was doing and then he softened. Stuttered an, “oh,” before he kept talking. God, he was delicious.

Eliot knew then. He knew the way you knew about a good kiss. That he was going to unravel Quentin Coldwater that night like best fucking present he’d gotten, Christmas morning come to him in the middle of September.

“Are you hungry?” Eliot said, trying to keep from bouncing on the heels of his feet. Say yes, say yes, say yes.

Quentin paused, then frowned. “Yeah,” he said, with a hand to his stomach, like he’d been so caught up in his anger that he’d forgotten to notice, and now he was very taken aback at being reminded. How stupidly endearing of him, Eliot thought, and put his hand on the small of Quentin’s back. A bit daring (and tricky, as he was still holding the box), but it paid off, because Quentin relaxed a little.

“Let’s go, then. My treat.” 

He thought Quentin, with all the data he’d gathered on the subject thus far, would protest—would at the very least halfheartedly push some cash in Eliot’s hand, so that Eliot could tut, Absolutely not, darling, and flash a credit card like the Pretty Woman fantasy he never knew he needed. But instead, he suggested a bougie, independent burger joint and in line, turned to Eliot and plainly stated that he wanted a milkshake too.

Eliot had this twisted, wholesome fantasy of the two of them sharing a milkshake – exchanging sappy glances over a tall glass topped with whipped cream, two straws, or maybe even just the one – but he chickened out. Plus, Quentin wanted peanut butter and banana with chocolate syrup, which sounded disgusting, so Eliot got his own dark chocolate one. Quentin did demand a taste and, amused at his boldness, Eliot allowed him one sip. Quentin’s whole face screwed up around the straw, as if he’d tasted the single most awful thing he’d ever put in his mouth (and oh, did Eliot want to know about the stuff he’d put in his mouth).

“Jesus Christ,” said Eliot and, indignantly, Quentin huffed.

“It’s bitter, who the fuck likes a bitter milkshake?”

“Infants,” said Eliot, and just for the sake of it, took another long sip without breaking eye contact, “don’t get to critic older, more matured palates.”

“Okay you are one year older than me, at best.”

“Are you trying to crush my cradle-robbing dreams, Coldwater?”

Quentin rolled his eyes, good-natured. The kind of straight boy who allowed you to flirt with him and was fine to play along. Specifically, Quentin himself would either take it with a kind of confused and bewildered, who, me? attitude that Eliot couldn’t quite tell whether it was authentic or not, or an eye-roll, like Eliot was unquestionably fucking with him. It was a little concerning that Quentin tenaciously dismissed or outright denied any compliment Eliot threw his way but he seemed happy enough when Eliot grinned back at him. 

The conversation steered itself back to the Julia-of-it-all, which Eliot expected. Rome wasn’t built in a day. He patiently listened to Quentin’s rambling, which was relatively circular, but he seemed to need to still get it out, so Eliot let him. It did pain him a little to see—all of it was so born from a place of caring, caring so, so deeply that it wracked your whole body and mind. Eliot hadn’t been cared about like that... maybe ever. He and Margo... didn’t fight. And they didn’t fight because they didn’t talk about anything hard or too real. And Eliot hadn’t let himself care about anything like that since... Indiana, probably, where his impulse to care about absolutely everything was decidedly kicked out of him. Sometimes quite literally. Of all the things he thought he would be thinking about, sat there eating a burger and fries and a delicious milkshake with a cute boy, his childhood was definitely not one of them. Quentin Coldwater... what a thing he was.

He was so cute, though. Eliot couldn’t help but think it, near constantly since they’d met but especially now. Eliot just wanted to watch him, chin resting on his hand. He was so wrapped up in his words that he was barely touching his food, just gesticulating wildly with a lone fry that he’d picked up and forgotten to actually get all the way through eating.

Eliot took it upon himself to pick one up from his tray – no plates, it was that kind of bougie, which of course was the kind Quentin coveted – and put it in between Quentin’s lips. To his credit, Quentin dutifully took it, learning forward to bite it off Eliot’s fingers but missing brushing skin by just a hair. Then, having swallowed, he said, literally, “And another thing—”, in a rush to get it out and Eliot couldn’t have dreamed him up if he was off his tits on coke, that’s how perfect he was. They kept it going, Quentin accepting bites of his burger from Eliot’s hands, drinking from the straw Eliot lifted his way, while continuing to explain to Eliot exactly why it was so fucked up for Julia to act like this now, after everything. It was very de-sexualized, but the more it went on, the more Eliot didn’t even want it to be sexual. It was nice to just… be. It felt easy.

“I’m worried about her,” Quentin said finally, sounding frustrated with himself. Quiet, like a confession. Like Eliot was going to judge him—for being soft or sentimental. Eliot was the type, he’d made that much clear to Quentin. Maybe just this morning he would have judged him, but seeing him like this—deflate from anger to melted, sad sympathy—so earnest, so much that it inconvenienced him, he realized what a lovely thing it was. He wondered if he stuck around, whether Quentin would care about him like that one day—then felt stupid for even… why would that even cross his mind?

“I know,” Eliot said, not knowing what else he could offer, given that there was no fix for the situation, and it didn’t feel like it would go well for him to snottily remind him well, you have to cut her out of your life anyway so what she does isn’t any of your business. Well. He could offer the last bite of his burger. So he did.

“That’s yours,” Quentin said.

Eliot shrugged. “Seems like you need it more than me.” He did have ridiculous urge to feed the boy, get meat on those bones, and make sure he was healthy. He struck Eliot as the type to let that shit slide when there was too much noise in his brain, if this dinner was anything to go by. If Eliot was around, for now, right now, he might as well take on that role for him, God.

Again, his instinct would be to guess that Quentin would turn it down, very self-sacrificially and honorable. But he didn’t. And it was such a small thing, but he took the food, making constant eye contact with Eliot and smiling happily at him like he’d got him a present.

Oh honey, thought Eliot, wait till I blow you.

*

It wasn’t worth getting a car back to the portal, the traffic in Manhattan was so insane at this hour. Eliot was about to suggest a walk – it was the perfect amount of brisk; warm enough that they wouldn’t be in danger of losing any toes, but cold enough that it would make sense to shuffle closer and closer, maybe hook an arm in the other’s. Maybe they might happen to go past the bar Eliot had had in mind, and Eliot could say, oh – have you been here? No? Let’s go in for a quick drink, just one but when he turned to Quentin, it was clear the day had finally caught up with him. So, despite his own reservations about the mode of transportation in question, Eliot led them both to the subway. They were quiet on the platform, Eliot humming along to something stuck in his head and tapping his foot. He was in a good mood, he marveled privately. Just a greasy, overpriced burger, tucked away in an ostentatious part of Hell’s Kitchen and he was good. This whole day was so goddamn weird.

Quentin stared at the ground, hands stuffed in his pockets. Not awkward or shy – or, thankfully, visibly uncomfortable at Eliot’s presence – just lost in thought, clearly. When the train arrived, Eliot had to guide him onto it – well, not had to, but Quentin startled at the sound, like he hadn’t expected a subway train to arrive at a subway station, poor baby, and Eliot couldn’t help it. He put an arm around Quentin’s shoulders and walked him close to the door, where Eliot could tuck him away in a corner and shield him from other eyes and passengers.

On a bump and stutter of the train, Quentin, who had barely been holding on, jumped a little. They moved a little closer.

Then Quentin was blinking up at him, eyes big and worried, still, and exhausted. You can lean on me, Eliot almost said, but felt like it would be too obvious that Eliot was asking for himself, not offering for Quentin. He looked down at Quentin and instantly, somehow, knew exactly how it would feel if he rested against his chest, and in the same moment craved it the way you would a phantom limb. But he couldn’t say the words, they feel trapped in his throat at the thought that Quentin would see right through him – and God forbid, turn him down. So instead he curled his hand around Quentin’s elbow, letting him make the choice.

With a sad, tired sigh, Quentin leaned forward until his forehead hit Eliot’s collarbone. The weight was perfect. The warmth of him was perfect, even if it made no sense for him to feel it through his layers. And he was the absolute, most perfect height for him. He could still see over his head, making sure they didn’t miss their stop, and smelling his shampoo (something coconut, he thought). Eliot put one arm around Quentin, as gingerly as he could make it, and the other held onto the railing above for them both. He tried to keep their movements to a minor sway, as if it would jostle Quentin out his sleepy trance and out of his hold. But even as the train threw him around, Quentin stayed almost perfectly still, as if he really had fallen asleep, standing up, in Eliot’s arms.

*

The Cottage was quiet by the time they got back. The rager the previous night had been so epic that it was too much for some people to return so soon. Eliot, of course, was not exhausted at all. He felt like a live wire, after a fifteen minute journey of Quentin, pressed up against him, trusting and lovely. The night couldn’t possibly end now, even if he knew, logically, that Quentin would be desperate to go to bed.

Still, couldn’t hurt to try. He was at the bar, ready to turn around with some choices when he heard, “Hey Eliot.”

Quentin stood, at the bottom of the stairs, looking awkward but quietly, shyly pleased. Eliot didn’t say anything, waiting for him to finish. “Uh, thanks. For today. I needed to get my mind off things and... it was nice. I feel better.”

It was so tender, so sweet, Eliot almost lost his nerve. Maybe he should leave it, he considered. Leave this time, a happy, pure memory in Quentin’s mind. Oh, me and my new best bud Eliot went out for burgers and he was so nice.

Nice. Eliot Waugh had never been fucking nice. So he said, “Do you? Feel better?”

Quentin frowned.

“Because if you don’t...” Eliot produced the bottle of wine with a flourish. It wasn’t in a flashy witch bar, or even enchanted, but it would do for what Eliot had in mind.

Quentin’s eyes sparkled like he had taken him to that stupid bar—which only seemed stupid now, because he realized here, in the Cottage, he would get Quentin all to himself. No other distractions. How could he succeed in seducing a straight boy if the straight boy in question was going to spend hours looking around at the magically-changing architecture? “Oh, yeah, I definitely still feel awful,” he said, reaching for a glass.

He was so delightful. His sharp edges so surprising. This soft boy, who let Eliot feed him, who was so tearing himself up trying to not care about his friend, was funny and ironic and kind of a bitch. He was also blessedly easy to ply with wine, even if the wine did—say it with me—make him bring up Julia again.

Not only that, Quentin got wine-sad. Gone was the spark, the defensiveness from his arguments. Jesus, this was slowly but surely going down a road Eliot had no intention of navigating.

“She’s right. She was my best friend.”

You don’t need her, Eliot thought, surprising himself with his own viciousness. He didn’t even know anything about—well, no, thanks to this afternoon he actually knew plenty about her. But probably not enough to cast judgment.

“I don’t know what happened,” Quentin carried on. “I don’t know how it got so bad.”

“You found out who you are and she found out who she wasn’t.” Eliot looked him over. Fond, even as he was exasperated about talking about this fucking girl, and fascinated, with how much feeling Quentin allowed himself to feel. “Life.”

Quentin sighed, sinking further into the couch like he wanted it to swallow him up. He stared up at the ceiling, like what Eliot said had simultaneously sunk it while also completely going over his head. Quentin Coldwater hadn’t left the building, but he was definitely on his way out.

Okay, enough. Eliot wasn’t a saint.

“Let’s not talk.” He topped up Quentin’s glass. He watched the wine, grateful, but still not all the way out of his own brain. None of Eliot’s usual tricks were working. Damn it he was good at this. This was a thing he was good at. It was making Eliot out his mind for all of the wrong reasons.

“Quentin,” Eliot said softly. Far too soft for the filthy things he’d been imagining doing to him. That he still wanted to do. “It’s going to be okay, I promise. You’ve got us, now.”

You can lean on me.

“Yeah?” Quentin said. Uncertain but hopeful. Like it hadn’t occurred to him that that might be the case. Or like he’d wanted to ask, but didn’t think it’d be welcome. Like Eliot hadn’t personally put food in his belly mere hours ago. Hadn’t cradled him close so that he could rest his eyes for a few minutes on the train. How many people did Quentin think Eliot did that for, exactly? Even Margo, if he tried it with her, he wasn’t sure she wouldn’t take an eye out with a perfectly manicured nail.

Eliot laughed, hoping it wasn’t too patronizing. “Yeah, Q.”

Quentin looked at him. “You’ve—did I tell you to call me that?”

Shit. “Oh, I—” He was stuttering. Eliot Waugh did not stutter. He certainly did not stutter for straight, first year boys who caught him out using a nickname he hadn’t been given rights to. “Your friend… your friend—”

“Julia,” Quentin said, like he was being helpful.

“Yeah,” Eliot said, impatient, jittery, he knew who fucking Julia was, he’d been hearing about her all fucking night, how did he forget her name, even for just two seconds? What was he so nervous about? “She—she called you that. I’m sorry, if it… was weird. For me to use it.”

Quentin smiled so, so sweetly. The first time he had in hours, all night. His head tilted Eliot’s way, resting on the back of the couch. “No, I don’t mind. You can call me ‘Q’.”

He could always get a read on a straight boy he had a shot with, and he was 97% sure Quentin was one of them – he ate fries from his fingers, for crying out loud – but something about Quentin also made him unbelievably uneasy. If he didn’t do this now, he might not ever build up the nerve again. He already cared about Quentin too much. And while if he didn’t get to hear the sounds Quentin made when Eliot sucked him to the root, he was going to bleed from his teeth.

“Listen.” Eliot cleared his throat. Then he pushed up onto a knee, so that he loomed over Quentin. So trusting was Quentin that he didn’t do anything but watch Eliot, expression not even changing, like there was a perfectly logical explanation for Eliot to practically straddle him. God. If he was wrong about this, about Quentin, this was going to suck. Everything else that was great about Quentin, besides that fact that Eliot wanted to make him scream, was going to burst into flames, here, on this stupid couch. And there was so much of it, the great stuff about Quentin—

Jesus, he was acting like a fucking virgin. Fuck it.

It wasn’t his first rodeo. So he kissed Quentin, just once. Firm enough to mean it, soft enough to retreat quickly, and evaluate whatever was happening on Quentin’s face.

He watched Quentin’s eyelids flutter back open, looking like everything about the world as he knew it had been shaken up. Just as an apology rested on Eliot’s tongue – Jesus, Q, I’m so sorry – with a pained whimper, Quentin leaned up from the couch and pushed his lips to Eliot’s.

There you go, Eliot thought, with delicious triumph, opening up the kiss, making it languid and long. There you go. Quentin whined again when Eliot moaned into his mouth, hot and smug, a little hoarse. He felt giddy with his own relief. This was easy. This was as easy as he always thought it would be. He was right, had been right about Quentin all along, and it was better than any high.

*

Eliot, as he was about to discover, had been so, so wrong.

So, Quentin was kissing him. That part was fine. He was making these delicious little noises, the same ones he’d made with each sip of his crime-against-nature milkshake – disbelieving pleasure.

“Eliot,” he said, pulling Eliot on top of him. Making Eliot crowd him, which, in itself was exactly what Eliot would have thought Quentin would enjoy, but he did it without any convincing or coaxing needed from Eliot. He moved exactly where Eliot wanted it, wanting it himself and first. They were bizarrely in sync. It was fucking perfect, even if Eliot was so dizzy he couldn’t do anything but touch him, wherever and as much as possible. “Eliot.”

“Yes, Q, that’s it, darling,” Eliot purred as Quentin’s heart thumped against his chest.

Quentin loved being kissed, as Eliot was in the middle of discovering. Melted into it like it was his first time, like he was dipping into a warm bath on a cold day; shivering and shuddering with the relief. He wondered exactly how long he could take it, until he needed something more. How long he could just be kissed, easily and thoroughly. It felt like all night. Maybe the question would be how long Eliot would last, before he needed to put something else in his mouth—

He registered the sound of Quentin’s lips detaching from his before he realized it had happened. Eliot’s eyes open slowly, reluctant. Afraid opening them all the way would ruin the moment, or stop it entirely. Like Quentin would stand up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and say, boy, that was weird. Time to pine after Alice Quinn now, as is my standard nightly activity.

And if he was honest, he, still, couldn’t believe it was happening. Or at least, this fucking simply. Eliot had played this game before with a perfect score, so to speak, and never had it worked out so well for him. He was impressed with himself, if that was where credit was due. He still wasn’t really sure.

Quentin was saying something. Eliot was trying to listen. He was trying very hard. It filtered through eventually.

“So, um, can I suck your dick?” Quentin said. Casually. A little breathless, but very nonchalant about the activity in question nonetheless.

Can he? “So”?

Jesus Christ.

Eliot was dying.

He had died.

“Here?” is all he can say.

“Why, do you want to go upstairs?”

Eliot startled. “Do you want to go upstairs?” he said, a slightly hysterical edge to his voice. That they were even talking about this went beyond Eliot’s impression of Quentin’s sexual hang-ups. He wouldn’t even talk about it typically, for fuck’s sake. Eliot had tried once, to bring it up in a curious but totally-believably-platonic, let’s just hash out sexual histories, dude, that’s totally a bro thing, right?  way and he’d blushed so hard Eliot wasn’t so sure he wasn’t about to shoot off into space. It had been cute as hell, obviously, and Eliot had just sat and watched, impossibly charmed by it. But he had thought it communicated a certain level of frigidity that was sure to be at least a little bit of an obstacle. Not—not this.

Quentin considered this – considered the geographical logistics of blowing him. Then he smiled, a little sheepish. Flushed. “I kind of… like the idea of doing it here—”

He slid off the couch, with no grace at all, awkward as hell and already undoing Eliot’s belt, and Eliot helpless to stop him or even ask what was going on. Because it couldn’t possibly be what he thought was going on. He’d thought he’d have to… gently coax Quentin into letting Eliot give him a very simple, very impersonal hand job first. A warm-up, at least.

Quentin kept going, “—where you can remember me doing it, later. Without anyone else knowing what you’re thinking about.”

He wasn’t confident, exactly, even though it was the most he’d ever seen Quentin sure of himself. It was more that he was comfortable, doing this. Obviously Eliot had wanted this, even if he hadn’t dared think it was going to happen, at least not fucking here. On this ratty couch, destroyed by and mended with magic countless times. Eliot had made good memories on this couch.

He doubted any of them were going to live up to this. Quentin was right—Eliot was going to remember this, forever.

Quentin’s eyes were a little glazed as he insinuated a hand down Eliot’s pants. He hadn’t interpreted Eliot’s stunned silence as rejection, thank God, because he wouldn’t be capable of any words, even as his mind blindly chanted yes yes yes as he pulled Eliot out of his underwear. He looked drunk, but not like he was actually, because he knew what that looked like. This was different. He looked like he’d been hit upside the head and was about to pass out.

It was only when his cock was out that he saw a glimpse of the Quentin he expected. First, Quentin’s quiet, brief surprise at Eliot’s size—which was reassuring to see, because Eliot wasn’t perfect, and definitely needed his ego stroked right now, along with… you know. Then, at the touch of Quentin’s tongue on the head, Quentin let out a soft moan, like any pleasure was brand new and unexpected. What Eliot hadn’t seen coming was Eliot’s cock in his mouth being pleasurable for Quentin. But his shoulder drooped as if in relief, and he curled himself, on his knees, around Eliot’s lap, taking him in deeper like he’d been dying for it.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.” It was out of his mouth before he could hold it back, and Eliot felt like he was losing his mind, losing any sense of self because he—he wasn’t… like this. Sex was about letting go, sure, but he didn’t get overwhelmed to the point of delirium because of a little oral. And even if he did, one day, hypothetically, he’d still try and exercise a little self-control and make sure the other person didn’t know it was changing Eliot’s whole fucking life. He needed to preserve his dignity. He stared at the ceiling to try and regain some composure, because it was easier to do without watching Quentin eagerly try to swallow his cock.

But this wasn’t just a little oral. And Quentin Coldwater wasn’t the type to be smug. He was so lost in the feeling it was like it didn’t occur to him to be.

It wasn’t about showing off. It wasn’t about control. It was just about pleasing Eliot, in the simplest sense of the word, Eliot realized, staggered. He looked down at him, forcing Eliot into his mouth.

“Hey, don’t choke,” he said, trying to ease Quentin off him gently as he felt his throat contracting, struggling with Eliot’s length. Quentin didn’t hear him, or was having none of it. “Quentin, don’t, man.”

He wasn’t exactly in the habit of calling his sexual partners "man", but his brain was still adjusting to the idea of Quentin, his very best straight boy, being one of them, and it came out before he could think of something else. He tugged at Quentin’s hair, which also didn’t work to get his attention. It spurred him on, because of course it did, because absolutely nothing was ever fair or easy for Eliot in his world. He pulled harder, harder than he wanted and wincing, saying, “Quentin, don’t,” again until Quentin leaned back and gasped out, “Sorry.”

“Jesus Christ, you don’t have to apologize… ah.” Quentin was stroking him, watching with wild eyes. He put the tip on his tongue again. Watching. Watching.

“That’s it,” Eliot panted, because it seemed like Quentin wanted to hear it. Put a hand on his face for good measure. Then into his hair, still feeling bad for being too forceful. He dragged his fingers over the spot on his scalp absently, soothing without meaning to. Quentin closed his eyes, humming.

“Fuck, Q.” So many other names came to mind – sweetheart, angel, the most perfect mouth I’ve ever had – but he managed to keep them safely tampered down. “How—so fucking good, Q.”

Quentin let out a long, happy ah, like he was the one being blown. Eliot looked down, forcing himself to not lose his whole fucking mind, because he couldn’t possibly believe that Q was enjoying this as much as he seemed he was. It had to have some level of performance. He clearly had done this before, he thought hazily. Improbable, but not impossible, though his technique wasn’t flawless. It was more eager than it was finessed – though, again, he wasn’t sure how much of that was authentic.

Then, when he looked down, he saw Quentin’s cock tenting in his ratty jeans. Saw the tiny thrusts he was making as he tipped his jaw open to accommodate Eliot, eyes fluttering shut in unmistakable pleasure.

“Oh my God,” said Eliot, clutching at Quentin’s hair, feather-soft between his fingers. Quentin reacted, the same he had before, moaning openly around him. He tried to form words, he tried to—“Quentin.”

He came suddenly, powerfully, and so surprised that he hunched over Quentin, tensing up, probably being too fucking rough, but he couldn’t help it, couldn’t think of anything but anchoring himself to where his pleasure flooded out of him. And Quentin took it. Eliot felt his surrender under his hands, to however Eliot wanted to handle him.

Eliot shivered as Quentin gently took him out of his mouth, sensitive and reluctant. He wiped a thumb across Quentin’s mouth, where a little had spilled out, or missed, wondrous. Quentin’s lips puckered, just shy of a kiss, at the contact, and Eliot struggled at what to say. There was so much he wanted to say, wanted to ask, the first question being, as tenderly as he could possibly word it, What the fuck?

A series of aggressive banging came from outside the door. Quentin jumped to his feet, and Eliot stuffed himself back in his trousers, thinking, again, how holy shit, that had just happened. Here, in the Common Room, where it was quiet, sure, but anyone could have walked in. Margo could have walked in, taken one look at Eliot’s face and said Told you so, or God forbid, Todd. In fact, someone was trying to get in, fucking now of all times apparently.

Quentin looked towards the door, then at Eliot. “Should we… let them in?”

“No,” Eliot said, immediately, not just because no, that wasn’t how it worked, but also no,  Eliot couldn’t handle this being over, so soon, not when he hadn’t even touched Quentin. Whoever was trying to get in should hope that they fail, because Eliot couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t throw them back out for their completely piss-poor timing.

Quentin still eyed the door nervously, as loud swearing joined the sound of the knocking. “Do you… want to go upstairs, then?”

Yes. Eliot’s knees almost buckled in relief. Yes. Upstairs, his favorite fucking place in the world, he never wanted to be anywhere else. “My room,” he said, to which Quentin nodded, keen and a little dizzy. He took Quentin’s hand, and they were gone before whoever it was made it inside.

*

The mood wasn’t killed, thankfully, but it had mellowed. Not for Eliot, who was still hearing ringing in his ears, still feeling like ants were crawling over his skin, even though he was the one who’d just orgasmed. But for Q it had. Eliot had opened the door for him, gesturing for him to go inside first, and Quentin had looked down, bashful and more than a little pleased. They still held onto each other’s hand. Inside Quentin seemed, genuinely, very interested in his room, taking in every detail from each corner. It occurred to Eliot that surely, he’d been in here before, but maybe not. Either way, it was unbearably intimate, that Quentin was there, just looking. Was there wanting to look.

Then, Quentin turned to him, with a quiet, slightly expectant smile. His chin was tilted up, just so, and all Eliot had to do was walk up to him, closer, for him to lift it all the way for a kiss. When they did, Quentin leaned up into it happily, this sweet thing, until Eliot – quick, dedicated study that he was – slid a hand across his neck and his tongue across his teeth and Quentin turned to filthy, panting putty in his grip.

The journey to the bed was awkward, long, and done mostly blind as they attempted to continue making out on the way there. Eliot took the lead, as was right by nature, and pulled Quentin along with him, not on top of him, into his lap. Great thinking on his part, as it turned out, because he settled there with the perfect level of comfort combined with tension. Eliot kept his hand on Quentin’s neck, but moved it to his nape. Quentin was such a small thing, Eliot’s hand covered almost the span of his throat as he cupped the back of his neck, tugging on his hair to change the kiss angle.

Quentin was no longer even holding himself up. He sprawled across Eliot’s body, entirely pliant and letting himself be handled. His arms rested on Eliot’s chest, hands delicately on his shoulders. Not even holding on, it was just to put them somehow to touch him, because the one doing the holding was Eliot, his arms around Quentin, one in his hand in hair and the other across his back to keep in place. It was hot but totally languorous. Eliot couldn’t remember the last time he was so content to just kiss the shit out of a person, but it was entirely related to Quentin’s reaction. It felt like he was being kissed for the first time, surprised at how much it felt good; the twitch of his hips to Eliot’s were stuttered, like he was discovering the sensation and going with the primal urge of his body with only a little hesitation. He could probably come apart just like this, grinding on each other and necking, like they were two teenagers, in a hurry to get off because they needed to be back before curfew, or because someone’s parents were due back home any minute.

It sent a pang through him—he’d never—Eliot had never had the chance to be that youthfully, contentedly horny. There was a rush of danger, of being caught, sure but, always packed with shame.

He could have been, with a boy like Quentin around, wanting to kiss and be kissed like this. Someone to eager to be touched, who responded to it like this, like it felt just so good, in a way that was simple. Like this was simple. Shy, but almost experimental, just wanting to keep seeking out that feeling like there was nothing wrong with it at all. It staggered him and realized how much, even now, in the pursuits of debauchery and hedonism, to spite his father, his bullies, and even last fucking bigot in Indiana, Eliot had never embraced this as a pure, simple pleasure. He clung to Quentin harder, and then they got the other undressed.

“El,” he got out between kisses, and oh, Eliot loved that sound. Loved that name on his mouth, from Quentin’s lips. Keep saying my name, he wanted to ask, but didn’t have to, Quentin kept saying it, helpless, like it was as surreal to Quentin as it was to Eliot, that this was who he was kissing. “El—iot, Eliot.”

“Yeah?” said Eliot eventually, when he could hear Quentin trying to catch his breath, holding Eliot at bay with a gentle but firm hand on his clavicle.

“I—” he said, then ducking his head when Eliot’s lips made contact with his throat, because yeah, sorry, Eliot wasn’t going to not kiss Quentin, not now, when Quentin had made it very clear it was something he wanted. Which he definitely did want, tilting his head down and lifting his shoulder and essentially trapping Eliot’s face where it was. His breathing shook and split. “Eliot.”

“Speak, Q.” He trailed his kisses up to Quentin’s jaw, light and exploring.  

“You’re distracting me,” Quentin said, entirely too accusing for someone whose voice was as breathy as his was. But he summoned some strength, wrenching himself away with a pained groan. He sat back on his heels, still on Eliot’s lap, and glared at him.

“Fine,” Eliot said. “I’ll behave myself, promise.” Eliot tucked his hands into his armpits as proof and then nodded at him, widening his eyes in exaggerated sincerity.

Quentin snorted, looking down at him with something like fondness, though it was exasperated. He pulled out one of Eliot’s hands, tangling their fingers and bringing them to his lips. His smile pressed to Eliot’s skin like a kiss.

“So, uh, this is where I’d ask if you want… to fuck me but… we had that burger earlier so.” Quentin’s ears were pink, like this was the part of the evening where he got embarrassed. Discussing the biological logistics of bottoming. His hair hid the rest of his face that wasn’t already hidden by their entwined hands. “So unless there’s, like, a spell? We might have to leave that for this time.”

“Leave that” for “this time”? “This time?” Eliot was losing his mind. He had hit his head, at some point, and was now delirious.

“There’s a spell,” he said, because for some reason that was the first thing his brain felt the need to address. Quentin blinked, looked down at him, surprised, but then smiled, like oh, okay. Cool! Problem solved, then.

What the fuck?

“You’re not straight,” Eliot blurted out, meant to be a question, but not coming out as such.

Quentin frowned. “Um, no? Not—no, not really.”

Eliot stared at him. Quentin squirmed under the attention, then visibly thought better of it, and eyed Eliot incredulously. “Wait, you thought I was straight?”

“Well,” Eliot started. “I mean—I mean yeah, Quentin.”

Quentin let out delighted peal of laughter from above him, throwing his head back. Eliot nipped at the newly exposed skin of his throat, to teach him some manners, and Quentin’s giggles turned into happy moans. Both his hands threaded in Eliot’s hair, keeping him there.

“It’s not that funny,” Eliot huffed. He turned them over, putting himself on top.

“I just—I don’t know how you came to that conclusion.”

“I flirt with you constantly, and nothing. I buy you dinner, and nothing. I ply you with wine, and nothing. You’ve spent this whole day talking about the girl you were in love with your whole life, while I did all of that. Doesn’t exactly instill confidence in your amenability.” Eliot didn’t mean for that last part to come out. He didn’t want Quentin to know that yeah, if he wasn’t straight, then his ego was a little bruised.

“I—none of that means I’m straight, I just… I didn’t think I was supposed to take it seriously. You…” Quentin reached up, playing with one of Eliot’s curls. Eliot had cursed boys for less, but Quentin touched his hair like it was precious. He was careful. “You’re you, Eliot. I thought you wouldn’t be genuinely interested in me.”

That—was so ridiculous Eliot nearly forgot to hold himself up, nearly fell onto Quentin. “Quentin,” said with as much tenderness as he could muster, “fishing for compliments is not a good look for someone so good-looking.”

Quentin rolled his eyes, like he liked to do and Eliot, now knowing why he had that habit, got annoyed. “Stop that,” he barked out and Quentin blinked, startled. “You’re fucking hot, Quentin, even if I didn’t want to fuck you I never would have lied about that. Any boundaries or hesitation was me being respectful, not me jerking you around.”

“You should have been jerking me around,” Quentin said gently, wanting to change the subject. Eliot had more to argue, had enough passion on the subject of Quentin Coldwater’s attractiveness to design a presentation, but he dropped it. The boy was making a sexual innuendo for him, after all. He knew the way to Eliot's heart.

“Yeah, clearly,” he said, huffing out a laugh. 

“You shouldn’t have arbitrarily made an ‘ass’ out of ‘you’ and ‘me’,” Quentin said lightly, the fucking nerd. “About my Kinsey placement, I mean.”

“It wasn’t arbitrary. You wear plaid. Like, for unironically. Not exactly a giveaway.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a queer uniform,” Quentin said dryly, amused. “Would you like me to put it on before or after you show me the spell to fuck me?”

“I’ll show you something, all right.” Not his best work, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He put one hand on Quentin’s stomach before the brat could mouth off again with some nerdy quip, while the other did the tut over it. Quentin shivered when it was done and Eliot, knowing it wasn’t painful, but unwelcomingly unpleasant, rubbed along his abdomen in a way he hoped was soothing.

“Jesus, that feels so fucking weird,” he got out, and Eliot panicked, like this was going to send Quentin running for the hills.

“I know,” Eliot said, sadness and worry leaking into his voice. He couldn’t exactly keep Quentin there, even if the idea of letting him go, at this point, would feel like cutting a leg off. He’s just got him here, it was happening. There was a franticness too, that maybe Eliot could fix this again. “How—”

Quentin grabbed at him before he finished his sentence, pushing them into another kiss, the length of him pressed against Eliot’s body. He felt Quentin’s ankle sweetly go around his calf, struck again at the littleness of him, and how much he wanted to be completely, literally wrapped around Eliot. He felt Quentin start to loosen up again, the more Eliot kissed him, and Eliot realized that had been the demand all along. That Eliot kiss him into distraction. He kissed with renewed heat and devotion, until Quentin was boneless and gasping enough that Eliot knew he could begin to kiss down Quentin’s sweet little body.

By the time he had opened Quentin up, with his fingers and with his tongue – with renewed vigor, because he didn’t need to ease him into this, because Quentin wasn’t fucking straight – Quentin seemed like he was in agony. Desperate to run, saying Oh my God, it’s so much, so good, but pushing himself back down on the bed to make himself stay. It was fascinating to watch, how much Quentin wanted something when he wanted it. Made him nervous, almost, that was how close it seemed like Quentin was being tortured instead of pleasured. Finally, he arched off the bed, grabbing onto Eliot’s shoulders, when he pushed inside him. He’d put them in missionary without thinking, and it struck him only now, when he could see every micro-expression on Quentin’s face. Maybe that had been what his animal brain was chasing, because now he didn’t want to look away for a second. He tried to still his hips until he could be sure Quentin wanted him to move.

Quentin kept squirming, and Eliot kept feeling all over, as if it would heal some hurt. Took Quentin in hand, to help focus on one singular sensation at least, but it just made Quentin move around more.

“Jesus, your fucking hands,” he hissed.

“Yeah? Talk to me about my hands.” He placed them on Quentin’s ribs, rubbing his thumbs along the ridges. He’d wanted to anyway, was going to, assuming he had permission, but this was so much fucking better, knowing Quentin wanted it, specifically.

“They’re so big, everything about you is so big, it’s so fucking hot.” He said it with a certain amount of anguished arousal, like it hadn’t been the first time that the thought had come to mind. That in itself was so unbelievably hot that Eliot stopped thinking straight. He wanted to hear about every moment he’d missed, where Quentin had checked him out or noticed something about him or even, God, if Quentin had jacked off to him.

“Flattery with get you everywhere,” he managed, as if that might be enough to push him to keep going.

But he’d derailed Quentin’s train of thought, clearly, because all he could do was writhe up into him. “Eliot.”

“Oh baby,” Eliot said, helpless and adoring, and Quentin—Quentin reacted so sweetly, with the same surprised, desperate gasp that was pulled out of him when he was kissed, even though the only point of contact was Eliot, in and out of him. Eliot swallowed it like wine. “Oh, you like that? You want me to call you baby? I can do that. I can call you baby. I’ll do whatever you want, Q, anything at all. Come on, baby, tell me what you like.”

He had always loved this part: learning a partner, teaching them how to teach him how he could best take them apart. He was dying to know how to do it for Quentin. There’d never been anyone he wanted to know more about.

“This,” Quentin said, which, uh, yeah Quentin that much was fucking obvious. But he expanded on his argument, blossoming academic that he was, “You—talking.”

Evidently, he couldn’t get out any more. But he didn’t need to.

“Okay,” Eliot said, eyes semi-closed in bliss as he nosed at Quentin’s face—who even as he was being thoroughly fucked, pressed into the contact like he’d been starving for the closeness. “What do you want me to talk about? You—ah—feel so good. I knew it’d be this good. It’s like you were made for me.”

Maybe a little heavy for a first fuck. What the hell was he saying?

It stopped his train of thought and Eliot went completely silent. Quentin lolled his head up to lock eyes with Eliot again. Expectant, but also kind, and a little glazed over as Eliot’s thrusts stammered.

“When I first saw you,” Eliot breathed out, casting his mind back to the moment in question. Quentin Coldwater, stumbling through the bushes and on the grass, scared and awed and fucking sexy and adorable wrapped in the perfect hot little bod package, messenger bag and ugly tie and all. His lost lamb, needing Eliot’s guidance. The kind of boy Eliot thought he knew, who didn’t have any idea how much he needed to be taken apart and put back together by Eliot. He hung on Eliot’s every word, trusted Eliot straightaway, looked at him with those big puppy eyes every time. Those eyes stared at him now. Listened to him now. Trusted and wanted. “When I saw you, Quentin, I knew. I knew I could look after you. I knew I could give you what you needed.”

He’d been wrong, a little. But not about that. That part was still true.

“Eliot,” Quentin said, sounding close to devastated. “Oh my God.”

He put a loose fist around Quentin’s cock, stroking but only just, barely brushing. He didn’t want Quentin to come, not yet.

“Is it good, baby? Am I being good for you?” He tried for seductive, he’d plead—your Honor, Heavenly Father, Margo. He tried, but he couldn’t. Quentin was so open, so, so sweet for him, it was contagious. He spilled more of himself than he knew he had. “Tell me if it’s good.”

“Yes, yes, Eliot,” Quentin obliged, of course he did. “It’s—so good, so good, El. I’ve—never, it’s never been—”

Me neither, oh, me neither baby. “Look at you,” he said, and Quentin squirmed again. “Taking me so well. Tell me when you need to come, darling.”

“Eliot,” Quentin said, with a warning in his voice. “Now. I’m gonna, I’m gonna.”

Well, that didn’t last long at all. Adoringly, he pressed close to Quentin, elbows on either side of his head. Kissing his last, high moans, he let Quentin’s dick be trapped against their abdomens, creating friction with his last thrusts. “Do it, baby. I want to feel you.”

He’d been so fucking noisy this whole time, but when he came, Quentin shook, gasped and let out one long exhale, barely voicing himself at all. Eliot shuddered, feeling Quentin’s come hit him, hit the lack of space between the bodies, and steadied himself as Quentin trembled around him. He wanted to last longer. Wanted to live in this moment, the heat of Quentin’s body, for longer than he’d had the chance to. He wanted hours, weeks, fifty fucking years of this feeling.

But Quentin ruined it. He looked up at Eliot, so startled, so fucking trusting, still catching his breath, and Eliot couldn’t hold back. Quentin’s mouth opened like he wanted to speak, like he knew Eliot was teetering on the edge, but only a tired, broken little sound came out. So he wrapped his legs around Eliot’s waist and he made one, last encouraging moan before putting his hand on Eliot’s back, and kissing his shoulder.

What else was Eliot supposed to do? He came, loudly, the feeling like a punch to the stomach. He grabbed at the sheets, too worried about hurting Quentin with how tightly he needed to hold onto something. The silence of the room surprised him, after—he’d been shouting, he realized, in the quiet. Quentin’s fingers traced his spine, patient and a little pensive. Eliot looked down at him—his mouth was swollen, a little bruised, and his hair messy against the pillow. He looked totally blissed out. This was the way to put Quentin Coldwater at peace. The way to slow down that frantic, intense little brain. He’d known that, somewhere down in his heart, but it was still a sight to behold—Quentin, not shy at all after he’d been fucked into oblivion.

“Jesus,” Eliot said. “You’re full of surprises Coldwater.”

“I’m full of a lot of things,” he said, slurred, wriggling his hips pointedly and smirking, like he was clever.

Eliot kissed him hard, the wise-ass, and it worked brilliantly. Quentin went all soft – well, some parts didn’t – and clutched at Eliot as he pulled out.  

“No,” Quentin said, on a high breath, “homo, though.”

God. Eliot was going to kill him. He was going to kill him, even though it punched out a delirious, hysterical laugh out of him, and Quentin smirked and shook with his own chuckles below. Even as he reached across for his shirt and wiped it across them, Quentin’s face going soft with the attention. Eliot was going to kill him. Quentin Coldwater was dead fucking meat.

In the morning though. Not now. Now he was exhausted. His arms were giving out, and he threw himself to the side so as to not crush Quentin, even though he deserved it. “Go to sleep, you brat.”

Quentin hummed, and curled his hand on Eliot’s arm.

*

He woke up to Quentin watching him. His arm was thrown haphazard and mindlessly possessive over Quentin’s stomach, and Quentin hadn’t moved or moved it. His expression was thoughtful, but guarded, like he’d been bracing himself for Eliot’s reaction at seeing him.

Eliot himself felt a little… protective now as well. Of himself. In the light of day, all the boundaries of intimacy crossed, left him feeling a little… exposed. Being literally naked didn’t help, obviously, but what was worse was all it coming back to him, what he’d said and done. Quentin didn’t know, but that wasn’t… how these encounters usually went. Eliot definitely didn’t act like he had. And there’d never been boys like Quentin. He had no idea how to go about this.

He stretched his hand against Quentin’s skin, experimentally, and Quentin’s whole face broke open, even as he flinched a little (ticklish, maybe? Quentin seemed the type).

“It’s bad for your back to sleep like that, you know. On your stomach.”

Right, that was it. “Oh is it? Is it bad for me, Coldwater?” Eliot said, pushing himself up and looming over Quentin. Quentin’s face screwed up in that thrilled smile, dimples and eye crinkles everywhere. His arms and legs also reacted, like they were coming up to protect him from Eliot’s attack, but his face was tilted up towards him, saying kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. Eliot did. Slow and shallow, gently aware of morning breath. Then, just when Quentin was pliable and relaxed enough, he did start tickling him.

“Eliot!” he cried out, in breathless, giddy betrayal. Eliot had thought right. The boy was ticklish on every patch of skin he had; just breathe on him, too gentle, and he’d giggle himself to death. It was the best sound Eliot had ever heard, but he let himself be pushed off and down to his side. He fell back onto the bed, facing Quentin.

“God, that bed head,” Eliot breathed. It was a mess. It looked like he’d been riding in a convertible with the top down across the state. It was unspeakably adorable. Eliot adored it, instantly. “You should be illegal.”

“Are you hitting on me?” Quentin said, shit-eating grin like he was being so smart. He turned over onto his stomach as well, looking at Eliot from over his shoulder. As much as he could, with his cute, stupid little face half-pressed into one of Eliot’s big fluffy pillows.

“You know, I should really tie you to this damn bed and teach you about being so mouthy to your elders.”

Taking all that in, Quentin blinked. “Oh, I, um. Might be into that, I think. Huh.”

“God, of course you are, you’re such a cliche,” Eliot said, with his own smirk to mask his unadulterated delight. Quentin continued to be exactly who Eliot wanted him to be – even when Eliot wasn’t quite sure what he wanted.

Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “Cliche how?”

Cockslut, Eliot thought bright and fierce, but then thought better. Of saying it, not that it wasn’t true. But that was a conversation for another time. Eliot pretended to think it over, tapping a finger on his chin. Quentin watched him with great suspicion, even as he barely held back his own smirk. “Bratty, needy bottom with an oral fixation to boot?”

Quentin flushed bright red, while rolling his eyes. “I—God, whatever. Fine.” Still blushing, he smiled. “And I bet, what, you’re into a bunch of kinky shit I couldn’t even dream up?”

“You’d be surprised,” Eliot said, thoughtful. Thinking about this, just this. Just him and Quentin. Thinking about how all of the orgies, all of the magic, all of the kinky shit, as Quentin so delicately put it, was just making up for not having this. Just someone wanting to take all of what Eliot could give. 

Quentin softened, as if he understood. Curled towards Eliot wordlessly, and then winced.

“I’m sore,” Quentin complained, genuinely whiny. A complete brat, as if he hadn’t pushed himself back on Eliot’s dick as much as Eliot had driven into him. As if he hadn’t cried, so, so good the whole time Eliot was inside him.

“You’re welcome-slash-I’m thrilled?” Eliot offered, unable to help himself. Quentin glowered at him.

“Wait, can we circle back to something? That came up last night, I mean?”

Eliot perked up. “Certainly,” he purred, reaching down to take Quentin in hand. God, there was so much more they had to do. Eliot hadn’t even gotten to blow him, as he’d promised himself and Quentin in his own head. “There’s plenty of things I think we should revisit. Lots of things that came up, as it were.”

Quentin blushed a brilliant red, “I didn’t, um, mean like that, God,” and wrapped a hand around Eliot’s wrist, slightly frantic. It was a fairly loose hold, easy enough to slip out of, like he could tell Quentin kind of wanted him to, but fine, Eliot let himself be handled.

“I just. I need to know—if you thought I was straight, what exactly did you think… would happen? Did you think you would have to hold my hand through this?”

“Well.” Eliot looked at him, exasperated. “I mean, like I said, you didn’t really give off… a vibe, Q.”

“Because of my shirts,” Quentin supplied with sarcastic, faux-serious helpfulness.

“All right asshole, I get it, you can quit implying I’m a homophobe for thinking a man whose jean hem pools at his ankles isn’t DTF at first. I’m just speaking from lived experience here.”

“At first? What do you mean?”

God. “Are you sure you’re not straight?”

Quentin whacked him with the back of his hand. “Shut up. I’m serious, did you just… turn a bunch of dudes in your time?”

Eliot swayed his head from side-to-side pensively. “Well… I mean, sometimes, sometimes just for a night. A lot of dudes are more… flexible than they believe themselves to originally be. Especially if Margo is involved, which usually she is.”

Quentin’s frown didn’t let up. “I—whatever, I don’t actually care about the other guys.”

Eliot thrilled a little at the jealous edge in Quentin’s voice, but tried to hide it with a cough, his smile behind his hand. Quentin looked as if he didn’t believe him for a second.

“Then what do you care about?” Eliot asked, voice unreasonably soft and hitching.

“You—um, I mean, what you wanted from me.” Quentin’s expression clouded. “Did you want this to just be a night? Do you wish we’d… done this with Margo, like with the others?”

“I don’t want this to be anything like the others,” he said, in a low rumble of a voice. The notion alone was offensive. Reading something in Eliot’s sudden stiffness (and not that one), Quentin changed tactic. He pushed his hair behind his ears—that’s my job, Eliot thought mournfully—and met his gaze, visibly tense.

“I mean… what does it mean about me, Eliot?”

Eliot looked at Quentin, knowing this was a moment that was… important. Any misstep and he would lose him. It was written in Quentin’s posture—not quite ready to run, but ready to put walls up, protect himself. He hated that he invited that in Quentin. He didn’t want Quentin to want anything else but this moment right now—being held by Eliot, feeling safe. Feeling like there was nothing untouchable or unstable about anything Eliot was, even if many had eventually come to that conclusion. Even if Eliot had led them to that conclusion himself.

It was irrelevant what Eliot wanted, he thought. What mattered was Quentin. Quentin was not a one night stand. Quentin was not a boy, in any moment, he could imagine wanting to share with Margo. Quentin mattered, from the moment he spotted him to now, when he faced Eliot in his bed, being braver than he wanted to be.

“It means…” he began carefully. “That you should tell me how you like your eggs. If that’s… something you want. From me.”

Quentin was a little slow on the uptake. He frowned a little deeper, in confusion, and then, as Eliot’s heart thumped painfully in wait, he came to understand. Every fear, every niggling insecurity, drifted away at the sight of Quentin’s happy, happy dimples. It didn’t matter what Eliot wanted. What Eliot wanted was easy.

“In a minute,” said Quentin, pushing Eliot onto his back.

*

Quentin liked scrambled eggs, with toast. Like everything with Quentin, it was extremely thought through, and he liked his eggs a very particular way. He tried to explain it to Eliot, getting more agitated when he saw Eliot taking out the creme fraiche and chopping up some chive because no, that wasn’t how he said.

“I think I can handle it, darling,” said Eliot, amused. “Help yourself to coffee while Daddy works.”

Quentin grunted, either at the endearment, which had a new subtext now, or at Daddy, but also looked very pleased with himself as he sat at the kitchen island. Probably all of the above. He was wonderful that way.

He kissed the top of Quentin’s head, to shut him up. Also because he felt like it. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

“Well, good morning,” said Margo as she walked in. “Someone knocked the door down last night, by the way. Not that you’d be able to hear it over what you two got up to.”

Quentin’s mouth dropped open, color draining from his face. Apparently this was the first time he was considering all the noise he made might have had an audience. Eliot swatted her with the wooden spoon. Margo snickered.

“Don’t pay attention to her Quentin, I’ve had permanent silencing wards up in my room for as long as I’ve been in the Cottage. She’s full of shit.”

“But look at his face,” she cooed to Eliot, and yeah, it was a pretty good one, even as it was very grumpily hiding his blush behind his coffee. “Now I know everything I need to know. Go Quentin. Didn’t know you had it in you, scamp.”

“Thanks,” he muttered into the bottom of his mug, missing the way Margo looked at him, surprised and then fond. The standard Coldwater effect on hardhearted hedonists, apparently. Eliot’s heart soared to see it – his two best people, getting along. He tried to school his face into something more dignified, but must have failed, because Margo caught his eye and winked.

“Speaking of being absolutely railed to near-death,” At this, Quentin groaned, and covered his face, threatened to leave, and then was mollified by Eliot topping off his coffee, “we need to hash out more Ibiza preparations, Ellie. I have a new outfit to show you.”

“What’s in Ibiza?” Quentin said around a piece of toast. There were crumbs on his cheek. Eliot wanted to lick it off. He wanted anything to stop from having this conversation.

“What isn’t in Ibiza?” Margo sighed. “Every high known to womankind and crystal-clear seas and skies. Oh, and lots of orgies. The shop until you drop of pussy and dick. Me and your Daddy are legends there, little Q. They’ll be dying to see us again.”

“Oh,” said Quentin, and fuck was there a lot of emotions in that oh. Eliot’s heart squeezed with it.

“Um,” he found himself saying, and caught Quentin’s eye before he figured out what the rest of that sentence was. Then, locking gazes with Quentin, it was definitely gone. Quentin smiled at him, pained but not hurt, betrayed. Because why would he be? They weren’t exclusive. That wasn’t what they’d talked about, not really. Eliot could fuck whoever he wanted. So, for that matter, could Quentin, even if he wasn’t going to Spain. It was all fine, above-board. It was fine, so why was he saying, “Actually…”

He turned his back, to make this easier. He counted to ten. He stirred the eggs. Here went nothing. “Actually, I was thinking of, uh, skipping Encanto this year.”

Margo laughed, disbelieving. “What? What are you talking about? We bought matching crop tops last week.”

“That was. Last week.”

“And what exactly has changed since last week?” Margo said, still sounding like she thought Eliot was going to whip around, say psyche and continue to gab about how much body glitter they were going to need. He did turn to her, eyes imploring. She knew what had changed. She had been the one mercilessly ribbing him about it, his stupid crush on the high-strung first year. He very deliberately did not look at Quentin.

“Are you fucking serious, Eliot?” Her voice had dropped low the way it did when she was poised to strike, hit where it hurt most. And he knew that Quentin was about to get caught in the crossfire.

“Margo…”

“No, no ‘Margo’. I’m sure he’s very good, Eliot, I’m sure he cried and his world was rocked and you made him feel like he never did before, but we don’t do this.”

“I’m sure have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, terse, because he did, because they had promised, pinkies linked on one of several drunk, delirious nights, that they would never, ever be anyone other than themselves, for each other or anyone else. Definitely not for a boy. He knew that if the roles were reversed, he would be furious with Margo too.

But Margo didn’t have a boy here, waiting for his scrambled eggs that he was sure he wasn’t even going to like, looking at her with eyes full of confusion, but hope too. Naked, unabashed, the way he had been when he’d given himself to Eliot – like it didn’t occur to him to conceal everything he felt. He was so open it was dangerous. It was no wonder the first thing he’d told Eliot when he arrived was that he felt so much he could hardly stand it, that they had to lock him in a hospital for it before he died of it. But over and over he still trusted. He was let down by Julia, just yesterday, and here he was, looking at Eliot like that, like he saw a version of Eliot that even Eliot didn’t have full access to.

This was something Eliot could really fuck up.

But…

But maybe he wouldn’t.

“I’m not going.”

Sensing defeat, she faltered – either purposely or accidentally employing her big, Bambi eyes. “But El…”

“This is not negotiable, Margo.”

“Eliot.”

“Margo, I don’t want to,” he said and she blinked, devastated but understanding. In the end, it was that simple. He reached for her, and she came, pressing her nose into his clavicle. “You’ll be fine, gorgeous. You don’t need me to tear that town apart.”

“Damn straight,” she mumbled, nuzzling into his robe before pulling away. She glared at Quentin, her hair adorably mussed. “His cock is a gift, boy wonder. You better cherish it or I swear to God I’ll rip yours off.”

It was the closest Margo would ever get to giving a if you hurt him speech, which after only one night could either scare Quentin away or completely go over his head, not just because of her colorful language. But Quentin, after his brief surprise, smiled placidly at her and nodded. Unthreatened and unbothered, because he was perfect.

“That is, if that’s not too gay for you, Eliot,” Quentin said. “Since, you know, I’m a newly-corrupted straight boy, and all.”

Never mind. He was the worst person Eliot had ever met. He wanted nothing else to do with him. He was going to make sure these eggs were ruined.

“Oh?” Margo perked up, eyeing Quentin up. “He’s a bitch?”

“Very much so,” Eliot deadpanned, while Quentin smiled, smug.

“How unexpected. Love that development for you.” She raised her mug in salute at Quentin, who laughed, and clinked his against hers.

“I’m loving none of this,” Eliot announced, in case anyone cared, but they didn’t.

Quentin took the first bite of the eggs, his face lighting up. “This is good,” he said.

“Told you,” said Eliot. Quentin chewed excitedly, like he hadn’t kicked up a fuss about how all they need is butter, don’t be Eliot-extra about this.

“Thank you,” he said, painfully sincere in his politeness and making Eliot wilt.

Eliot went over to him and cupped his face, looking at him with exasperation. “You are so annoying,” he said, with a little bit of wonder sneaking in that he didn’t quite mean to. He meant it to be teasing, and suave. It came out a little like, I think I’m going to love you.

Quentin’s face lit up, tilting up like a sunflower to the bright sun. How ridiculous, that Eliot would be the bright sun for someone like Quentin, but Eliot felt warm at the thought, like he was basking in his own sunbeam. “I know,” said Quentin, very pleased, and it sounded like, Me too.