Work Text:
two months before
“I've thought about it and... I mean, it wouldn't really be us, you know?” Alice says, her eyes big and blue and earnest, and her hands warm in his. “It would just be... the fox hormones.”
And because Quentin is, honestly, a selfish asshole sometimes, he argues with her, tries to explain that their feelings are real, that they'll last. She shoots every argument down, finally ending with, “I said no, Quentin. I mean it. Stop pushing.”
Normally, when Quentin feels shitty and worthless, he talks to Eliot but right now Eliot is- giddy and in love and if Alice had said 'yes', all that would be fine, but right now he doesn't think he can handle having Eliot's happiness rubbed in his face.
So he broods downstairs for a while, in the reading nook he knows Alice never goes to because she prefers the library.
He's been there about an hour when he hears a familiar voice.
“Hey, Coldwater, why're you hiding in the corner like a friendless loser?” Margo plops down next to him, gives him those soft eyes that he remembers from after the Welters game. She knocks her shoulder against his, smiles at him. “Come watch something nerdy and sexy with me. It'll be more interesting than sitting here wallowing in your own misery. Haven't had a chance to watch that show based on Lucifer yet, so we should check it out. It might be good.”
“It won't be good,” Quentin says, feeling contrary and mournful, because it's been that kind of day.
“We won't know until we try, dummy,” Margo says, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him up. “I'll let you gossip about whatever stupid thing is making you sad, then I'll tell you all about why I hate Eliot's new boyfriend.”
“You hate Mike?” Quentin asks, and Margo lights up like the fourth of July, like he's just given her the best present in the world.
“Oh, fuck, yeah, I hate him so much, starting with their horrifically saccharine 'meet-cute'. Okay, I'm gonna set the scene for you...”
a few minutes before
Quentin sits on the floor and drinks and watches Eliot breathe.
He's desperately, frustratingly relieved each time he sees Eliot's chest move.
Eliot had only – had only talked around the edges of his pain, before he'd passed out. Talked about wanting to be healed at Chatwin's Torrent but shied away at the idea of talking about why he needed to be healed. Shied away from talking about everything that had happened with Mike.
It's worse, Quentin thinks, that Eliot almost talked about it. But he just keeps burying it inside and it's fucking killing him and Quentin is just- helpless.
Quentin's always been the friend who was most likely to go off the deep end and do something stupid, and he's never known before now how terrifying it is to be on the other side. He has so many fucking apologies to make to Julia, if he ever gets the chance to talk to her again.
The hardest part is how useless he feels. Eliot has been hurting for a while now and Quentin still doesn't have any plan better than being company so at least El doesn't drink alone.
“Jesus, you two. Why are you- why are you on the floor?” Margo sounds annoyed but he feels such a burst of relief when he hears her voice. Margo can- Margo knows Eliot better than anyone. He knows El hasn't really been talking to her, either, but maybe she'll have some idea of how to help.
Quentin would do just about anything to make Eliot feel better.
after
Quentin thinks he might be the only one still awake.
He's not sure how much of this he's going to remember in the morning – his mind is already feeling fuzzy from... from the alcohol and that flood of emotions and... and the ways they'd touched him.
He presses his fingers against his mouth. It feels swollen. It feels wet.
He feels like he's drifting in a dream, honestly. It's unbelievable enough that Margo and Eliot are his friends. That they actually wanted- that they enjoyed-
It doesn't feel quite real.
Tomorrow, when he wakes up, Margo and Eliot will- they won't be cruel about it, but- but they'll kindly let him know they aren't interested in a repeat performance. It'll be- they won't avoid him for weeks afterwards like Alice did after Brakebills South, because they are his friends, but he suspects the actual morning-after talk will go the same way. Not really us, not really our emotions. Just magic and hormones and he was an okay option at the time but not in the light of day. Not for real.
He should get up now, go to his own bed.
Eliot's hand is resting on his hip, big and warm. Eliot had smiled tonight, when Quentin had been-
Eliot had smiled, like he meant it.
Margo had kissed him and taken off his shirt and said he really was pretty cute and told him to get on his knees and it had been-
If Quentin leaves now, he can skip the awkward morning after where they have to walk back everything they said, everything they did. He can pretend it never happened and avoid getting the otherwise inevitable “let's just be friends and never ever have sex again” conversation.
He shifts, only a little, and Eliot's hand curves in, tightens on his hip.
Quentin knows it doesn't mean anything. Eliot's already asleep. Eliot's heartbroken over Mike.
Still.
He stays.