Chapter Text
One Year Later
Sometimes Quentin still can’t believe his life. Today he woke up in London, because Eliot has a sold out concert here tonight, and the three of them weren’t about to split up for this first tour.
Quentin probably won’t always come along on the future tours — he doesn’t really have a job here, Eliot and Margo call him their joint groupie, and well — he supposes that’s more or less true.
He does have material for some new stories, so he works on those while they run around doing show related legwork that he can’t help with.
But just now he’s standing on the patio of their hotel room, watching the early morning light — a sunny day, a rarity in London, so he’s always heard - spill over the city. They’ll have a couple extra days here because this is the last stop on the tour, and they already have plans to do touristy things. Quentin can finally send some cool pictures back to Julia and Alice that aren’t behind the scenes backstage stuff. First stop is absolutely going to be the Tower of London, because Quentin has always wanted to go there.
And they’ve come around, which is nice. In fact, Quentin would say that Alice and Julia were almost as won over by Eliot and Margo’s musical gesture as he was himself. It convinced them that El and Margo are sincere, anyway, which Julia in particular never thought they were until then. It’s still a little weird sometimes, they all come from such different worlds, but it’s a start, and Quentin… He’s starting to realize he’s happy, in a way he’s never been before.
(Another small highlight of the past year has been seeing Poppy Kline’s latest book get ripped apart by the reviews, and also knowing that Mike McCormack’s newest album tanked. He probably shouldn’t enjoy those things, but he can’t seem to help it. He just tries not to be smug about it too often.)
“You are up way too early,” Eliot says from the doorway, and Quentin looks back over his shoulder to smile at him. Eliot is in one of his favorite robes, ones short enough to almost leave nothing to the imagination. He’s maddening like that, and Quentin tells him so often. Margo’s just as bad — her robes are sheer.
She’s still in bed, though, he can see her through the other glass door. Awake and sitting up, hair a wild tumble, but clearly she’s refusing to get up just now. Quentin can’t blame her, really, but he laughs softly when she beckons imperiously. “I think we’re being summoned,” he says with a grin.
“Of course we’re being summoned, Quentin, why do you think I came to get you? Now stop admiring the scenery and come back to bed, hmm? We have to be up and running in a couple hours.”
“More sleep is just gonna make us groggy,” Quentin points out, but he’s already stepping forward to take Eliot’s outstretched hand.
“When did I say sleep? I said come back to bed. Much better wake up call plans, Quentin, not more sleeping. Honestly, it’s like you don’t even know us.”
Of course, that’s the opposite of the truth. In the past year, Quentin thinks he’s come to know Eliot and Margo more fully than he’s ever known anyone. A year of music and banter, of bickering and the occasional real argument. Of laughter, and more than anything, of love.
Eliot’s tour is for his new album, his second solo attempt that all the critics say will wipe out any memory of his first. The new album is theirs though. Eliot’s music and Quentin’s lyrics, Margo’s editing skills to make them perfect. Sure, there’s a team at the label that tinkers with everything, but at the end of the day the songs are theirs, and this life is theirs.
And they are just getting started.