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Eliot expects a lot of things to happen when he opens his eyes. He expects Quentin to be freaking out, but too much himself to risk waking either Eliot or Margo by running out of the room. Or for Quentin to be gone, and this warm, Quentin like shape under his arm to just be a pillow spelled to keep him from waking up. He expects a lot of things, none of them pleasant.
Well, none of them pleasant for him.
Which is why he keeps his eyes closed. He feels Margo pressed up against his back, all soft warmth, so different from when she’s awake. Her hair whisks against his back as they both breathe, and it’s nice. But the warmth in front of him, the warmth radiating beneath his arm, is all he can focus on. Every breath is a little shock through his body, electrifying and brilliant, and more than he ever thought this would be like.
Even where their legs are tangled up in each other, the soft hair on Quentins legs tickling Eliots. The rise and fall of Quentins breathing lifts Eliots arm, and it feels like he’s floating. For a moment his breath hitches, as he remembers that that is an actual possibility, but he feels the bed beneath him and the headboard where his hair brushes against it.
He doesn’t want to open his eyes. Because this is a spell that not even magic can compare to. It’s a moment of complete and utter peace and if he opens his eyes it’ll be shattered. Because Quentin will see it as a mistake, will wish it hadn’t happened. Will never look at him the same way. And if it were anybody else, Eliot would open his eyes, and wave at them as they ran away while he smiles a cigarette and laughs. But this is Quentin, and Quentin matters to him.
He loves him.
There’s something he’s never imagined. Loving someone, especially as much he loves Quentin. Course, his love for him doesn’t mean it’s reciprocated. Last night had been an anomaly, and Eliots not ready to watch Quentin run away from this. From him. He’s not sure he can take that rejection from him, especially after the way their lips fit against each other’s. How Quentins hands felt so right, just settling on his hips, running through his hair. How their breaths synchronized.
The sounds of Quentins moans.
He can feel Margo coming to beside him, her breathing quickens and she shifts closer to him. He hopes she doesn’t want to open her eyes either.
Her chin comes to rest up against the nape his his neck, nosing at the tendrils of hair there. “I know you’re awake,” she whispers, soft, almost so much so that he’s not even sure she’s actually speaking to him. “So is he.”
His heart pounds faster in his chest. He can either pretend to sleep, live in this bubble for just a little longer pretending that what they shared last night wasn’t just a mistake guided by magic and booze or he can open his eyes and face the music. Accept the fate last night has given him. Face the fact that once he does, he’ll lose Quentin forever. Because Quentin isn’t the type to handle something like this so well. That’s Eliots job. To live life impulsively and without regard to consequences.
All Quentin knows how to do is worry about the consequences.
“Open your eyes,” Margo breathes.
And he does, because he has to. Better to let the dream go sooner than later. Easier to accept the heartbreak.
But his eyes meet soft brown. Quentins gazing at him, the soft sun shining down on him, lighting up his form, almost making him glow. Margo kisses his shoulder behind him, and the bed shifts around them as she gets up, pulls on her underwear, and leaves without a word. Eliots eyes don’t leave Quentins until the door closes with a soft click behind her and Quentin sits up.
Eliots heart drops down to his stomach and he closes his eyes again, wills the dream to come back. Wishes to go back to last night, back to feather light touches followed by desperate clinging. Kisses and so much more.
Back to that moment of pure happiness - passion.
Quentins hand grazes over the skin of his forearm, and Eliot opens his eyes again. He’s looking down at him, head tilted and lips set in a line.
Eliot swallows, shrugs. “If you’re freaking out, you don’t need to sit there. I’m in need of a cigarette anyways.” He starts to roll over to grab the pack of cigarettes off the nightstand, but Quentin stops him with a hand on his shoulder. He sighs, looks up at him.
“I’m -,” he pauses, clears his throat. “I’m not freaking out, Eliot.”
“What?”
Nodding, he gives a small smile and scoots down the bed until he’s lying down, propped up by his elbow. He reaches up, eases one of Eliots wayward curls back into place, fingers gracefully slipping down the skin along his cheekbone and jaw, the lines of his neck, and settling on his collarbone, as his eyes watch their path. “Not freaking out,” he whispers, finally moving his gaze back up to focus in on Eliots eyes. “I mean - I was. But. I’m not.”
His nail scrapes softly against Eliots skin. “You’re not freaking out?” Eliot asks, eyes sliding shut, because Quentins nails are scratching at a spot that is definitely bruised - though by Margo or Quentin, Eliot isn’t sure.
“I mean.” He heard Quentin swallow, “I’ve been up for a while. I’ve had time to think because I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“Why not?”
The bed shuffles and Quentins hand slides down to Eliots chest, tangling through the hair there, “You looked so calm. Didn’t wanna ruin that.”
He shakes his head, opening his eyes to look at him. “How did I know you’d say that?” He asks.
Quentin shrugs. “Because you know me. And, I know you. And … Last night may have been induced by something,” he frowns, furrowing his brow and shaking his head, “Alcohol. The emotion bottles. I don’t know. All I know is I wanted it - I. I wanted you.”
It’s hard not to take note that he’s saying everything in past tense, but his gaze is soft, and his fingers are on his chest, fortifying his heart, and part of him thinks maybe he can ignore it. Maybe they can live in this moment, too. Before Quentin tells him he doesn’t want this now. Sober and whole, Eliot isn’t what he wants.
How could he be? Quentin is all heart and love and Eliot is pain and heartache. It’d take a miracle for a sober Quentin to choose him:
It’d take a miracle for anyone to choose him. It’s just that Quentins the only one that matters.
He hadn’t meant to give him this power over him. Eliot didn’t give his heart out, because giving someone the capability of breaking it was too much to bear. The idea of his heart being in the hands of someone else is almost enough to break it on its own. But then Quentin walked into his life, and he had barely been in it for a few minutes before Eliots heart popped out of his chest and made a beeline for him. He’d managed to catch it the first couple of times, but then Quentin went from being a guest in his life to being one of two people that actually matter to him.
“Stop thinking,” Quentin says, then, tugging at the hair softly, “That’s what I do.”
Eliot sighs, “Then what are you thinking?” He asks, because he’s incapable of ignoring him. Completely and utterly under his control so long as he holds onto his heart.
“That …” His eyes dart down to his hand on Eliot’s chest, and he swallows. “When I kissed you last night it was to keep you from leaving. Because,” He pauses, chewing on his lip for a moment. “You’re the only one who’s chosen me,” He murmurs after a moment. “Alice and Penny got stuck with me because of the beast thing and how that linked us. Margo is my friend because of you. You … chose me. And I chose you.” His gaze slowly moves back up, pausing on Eliot’s lips before finally taking the final trek up to his eyes, “I love you. Like, this ridiculous fucking pain tears at my heart when you’re upset, or alone.
“It terrifies me when you get so drunk that you pass out, but I don’t want to lose you so I don’t say anything. And every time you smile, even though it’s so much rarer these days, it’s a large part of what makes my day bearable. Sometimes, not all the time because it’s impossible, sometimes … you fill that hole I have in me that I was sure was an abyss that I’d never escape from. But you fill it up with your laugh, and your charm, and that - that thing that is so distinctly Eliot that I can’t even begin to describe, and for a little while I don’t mind that I’m swimming in blackness. Because you’re there.”
Eliot’s breath hitches, and he moves his hand hesitantly up, to grip Quentin’s wrist, right above his chest. “What about Alice?” He asks, quiet, “Brakebills south -,”
Quentin shakes his head, “We - we were drawn to each other. Because of what happened. But we don’t - we aren’t - she’s not you, Eliot.” And the look in his eyes is so sincere and soft, “Nobody could ever be you. And I know I try to hide from it, because it fucking terrifies me.” His voices cracks, and he looks down at their hands.
“Why - does it terrify you?” Eliot asks, letting his gaze fall to their hands as well.
“I’ve never been in love.” Quentin whispers. “And it just seems like you could rip my heart out of my chest and stomp on it, and I’d be completely vulnerable to it. And I - I have so much happening in my head. I just - can’t imagine being happy.”
“You think I’d do that to you?”
“No!” His eyes dart up to Eliots, “No, god no. You act all tough and like the world can’t break you, but you’re just as fragile as the rest of us, and somehow I know you’d never hurt me -,”
“I wouldn’t.” Eliot interrupts, the words coming out with more force than he intends. “I wouldn’t.” He repeats, softer.
“I know. It’s just the default place my head goes. How can this possibly go wrong? And then my brain tells me every single way it can.” He swallows, running his hands through Eliot’s chest hair, “My brain breaks sometimes, is all. But. You -,” He shrugs, “You make me forget for a little while.”
Eliot nods, letting go of his wrist, and reaching forward to pull him closer. “I didn’t believe in love,” He murmurs, as Quentin shuffles closer to him, “I swear. I - I’ve always said I’m a love ‘em once, leave ‘em wanting, kind of guy. And with Mike,” He pauses to take a shuddering breath, because this isn’t something he’s prepared to talk about, but he has to. “I know what I was doing. I - I was using him, and it wasn’t fair. Until everything happened, I mean.”
“Is that why it tore you up so much?”
He pauses before shaking his head, “No,” He breaths, “I did what I had to do. I killed him before he could kill anyone else.”
“Then why -,”
“Because the only reason he got so close to you, is because I let him in.” He laughs, a soft ironic breath, “I cared about him, I think. I hated him for what he did. But he’s not the first person I’ve killed, and, god, the real Mike died for nothing, I know that, and I do feel guilty about that, but. The thing that’s been with my head is that I let him in. I let him get to know you, me, everyone. I trusted him. And you almost died for it.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
He reaches up, taps at the side of his temple. “Tell that to my brain,” He mutters, eyes trailing over Quentins face. “We have that in common, you and I. We’re both damaged.”
“So damaged.”
Eliot hums to himself, and they lie there for a few minutes, just taking in each others presence. Letting everything sink in for a moment. But, Eliot sighs, “I didn’t want to open my eyes,” He says, “When I woke up. I thought you were going to freak out, go running to Alice, and that’d I would lose you.” He squeezes his hand around Quentin’s waist, “Even if you don’t want this, Q, I don’t want to lose our friendship. You matter - you’re my family.”
Quentin smiles, leans forward until their foreheads press against each other, and their noses brush, “I want this, Eliot. I’m scared, but we could all fucking die, and I want this. Last night I wanted it. When you woke up, I was so scared you’d leave,” His breath ghosts over Eliot’s lips, reminding him just how close they are, as Eliot closes his eyes, “And then Margo … You are my best friend. And I’m tired of running from my feelings. We could die. We can’t be sure the battle magic will work on the beast, and I won’t die without you knowing.”
“Knowing what?”
Soft lips press against Eliot’s, and he inhales through his nose, his hand sliding up Quentins back and shoulder until it’s cupping Quentin’s jaw. Quentin’s breath fans across his face as he pulls away a fraction, hand sliding up Eliot’s chest, to rest on the side of his neck. “I - I love you.” He whispers. “I tried to fight it, and pretend I didn’t. But you’re the only person who doesn’t make me feel more broken than I already am.”
Eliot laughs against his lips, thumb stroking his cheek. “Jesus,” He says, rolling his eyes, determined to ignoring the way his vision blurs as water brims over the edge, “We’re not going to die, you dramatic sap.”
Quentin laughs quietly, chest shaking as he scrapes his nails against that spot just under his jaw he’d favored last night. “There he is,” He murmurs, leaning forward to press their lips together again.
They lie there for a while, holding each other, kissing. It lacks the desperation their kisses held the night before, but somehow it’s just as good. Soft kisses. Quiet breaths, and glances that can’t be considered stolen anymore.
“We can be happy,” Eliot finally says into Quentin’s neck, later, “We can do that. It’ll be hell, and we will absolutely be god awful at it, but we can do it. We’ll kill the beast, and laugh all the while. We’ll come back here, become master magicians, and fuck the world if they try to stop us.”
“You really think -,”
“Yes.”
And he’s not absolutely certain they can do any of it, but for now, they can definitely try.