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Eliot was bored.
He didn’t like being bored. As a child, even uttering the word meant that you were given some forgotten awful chore and berated for not having done it in the first place. In undergrad, whenever he was bored, which was often at first, he’d go raid the snack cabinet. By the end of his first semester, he’d gained more than the freshman fifteen and he invested in a lock. When he was bored in the second semester, he went for a run, which at least took care of the fifteen pounds.
When he arrived at Brakebills, he found himself rarely bored. There was always something. A party to throw, a drink to make, a cute boy to seduce. Upon meeting a young Margo Hanson, the word boredom vanished from his vocabulary. Just when he thought he’d found out all he could about her, she would surprise him. He loved people like that.
But here, on this day, cooped up in a cottage in Fillory, years before Margo would be born (and before he himself would be born, but he didn’t like thinking about that too hard) he found himself tasked with nothing to do. He and Quentin had been living there for almost a year at this point, and they had developed their mosaic building into a finely crafted machine. Instead of taking all day to design, build and dismantle, they had it down to only about four hours. There were often distractions, traveling merchants, talking animals, that girl who brought the peaches and plums and that beefcake she traveled with, and sometimes they distracted each other.
Quentin was a bad distraction. Eliot would get caught up watching him work, the way his brow creased and his lips pursed, and how his hair would fall into his eyes, despite his dorky little bun. Eliot would get distracted by his clever hands fiddling with toys. Some days the distractions were reciprocal. Eliot and Quentin in bad moods picking fights over where to place a tile or how to spend their meager amount of money.
But today they finished the mosaic, the rain began to fall, and so they retreated indoors, to read one of the musty old books, or make peach wine, or any of the other tasks Eliot employed to keep him from tearing Quentin’s clothes off and kissing the shit out of him on their double bed. Some days, Eliot’s hands shook with the effort of it, or maybe it was just the peach wine going bad.
“Look what I found!” Quentin produced a deck of cards from an old chest. He’d discovered it under the bed a few days after moving in. It was full of different treasures, belongings of the previous inhabitants of the cottage. They’d waited several months before breaking open the lock, and then began retrieving items. One or two every day, to keep it interesting. It made the days different, when so many felt like the same routine, over and over.
“You want to play poker?” Eliot asked, not really crazy about the idea but figuring he could use it as a way to get Quentin’s clothes off at some point.
Quentin wasn’t listening. He took the cards and sat down at the kitchen table and began playing with them, first fanning them out to look at the pictures, then shuffling the deck a couple times in short but smooth motions.
“Pick a card,” he said, holding the deck with cards fanned out.
Eliot had never enjoyed this kind of “magic” as a child, and even less as an adult. Knowing that there was real magic took the shine off pulling a rabbit out of a hat or sawing a woman in half.
But Quentin was looking at him with a smile of pure joy. Eliot thought about the rare times he’d seen such happiness in Quentin, and that was motivation to play along. He walked over to the kitchen table and took a seat, then reached across and picked a card.
Quentin returned the cards to a pile. “Okay look at your card, but don’t tell me what you have.”
Eliot had the two of spades. He turned it face down and offered it back to Quentin.
“Not yet,” Quentin made a big show of fanning out the cards and turning away. “Okay insert the card anywhere in the deck.”
Eliot inserted it left of the middle. “Done.”
Quentin shuffled the deck a few times then let the cards sort together in a bridge. He then offered the deck to Eliot. “Cut the deck please.”
Eliot cut the deck as Quentin requested. He found Quentin’s trick amusing even if he wasn’t impressed.
“I think I know where your card is,’ Quentin said, tapping the deck with his hand.
Quentin placed the two halves of the deck on top of each other and pulled a random card out of it. The jack of diamonds.
“Is this your card?” he asked, looking hopeful.
“No,” Eliot said. Quentin’s face fell and Eliot wondered if he should have lied.
“Oh shit,” Quentin said, and flicked the card. In an instant, it switched from the jack of diamonds to the two of spades. Eliot’s mouth fell open.
“How did you do that?” he asked, taking the card out of Quentin’s hand.
“Magic,” Quentin said. He seemed proud of himself as he picked up the deck and smiled at Eliot.
“No, really, what spell?” Eliot handed back the card. Quentin shuffled and then made another bridge.
“No spells. It’s the kind of stuff I’ve been doing since I was a kid,” Quentin said, losing a little bit of the pride and looking a bit embarrassed.
“Do another one,” Eliot said, crossing his ankles under the table.
“Let’s see if I can remember.” Quentin stared at the deck for a moment. Eliot watched with quiet awe, he was cute when he was concentrating.
He inhaled then fanned out the cards for Eliot to choose from again. This time he had the King of hearts.
“Put that back in for me,” he said, holding out the deck. Eliot did so, trying to watch Quentin’s hands.
Quentin’s brows furrowed and he appeared to be thinking hard. “I think your card is gonna be one of these five.”
He dealt five cards in front of Eliot and turned them over. The King of Hearts was in the bunch.
“Don’t tell me which one is yours,” Quentin said. “Hold onto those five for me.”
Quentin snapped his fingers and tapped on the cards Eliot was holding. “Your card is back in the deck.”
“No way.” Eliot hadn’t felt anything, and he fanned out the cards in his hand. The king was missing.
Quentin had that confident air back in his eyes as he took the rest of the deck and spread the cards out in front of them, facing down. Eliot gasped as his card appeared, right in the middle, the only one facing up.
He clapped his hands, caught up in the moment. He knew it was just a dumb trick, but he loved it all the same.
“Will you teach me?’ he asked.
“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Quentin said, gathering up the cards and making them face the same way.
“Come on, Q.” Eliot leaned across the table. “I can be your lovely assistant. I’m great at distracting people from the real con.”
Quentin laughed at that and he plucked two cards out of the deck. An ace of spades and a queen of diamonds.
“Here how about something simple,” he said. “I’ll show you a snap change.”
He demonstrated again, the same effect as before, where he switched the card from the wrong one to the right one in an instant. With a flick of his hand, the card changed from an ace to a queen. Eliot was transfixed, and he reminded himself again, he wasn’t really using magic. It was just sleight of hand.
“Now you try.” Quentin dealt him two more cards from the pile, then came around to show Eliot the trick from behind. Eliot understood exactly what he was doing, simply pushing one card forward and the other back, and using the flick to add excitement. He admired the agility and ease with which Quentin manipulated the cards between his fingers. He’d always been fond of Quentin’s hands, but now he felt a tinge of desire at the thought of those fingers being used in other ways.
“Do you see?” Quentin asked, demonstrating again.
Eliot tried to mimic the technique but found it more difficult than he expected. His fingers felt clumsy and slow compared to how smooth and quick it was for Quentin.
“No.” Quentin set down the deck and reached around him. He inserted a card between Eliot’s fingers, then ran a fingertip along the seam to reiterate. “The back card goes here.”
Eliot’s interest in card tricks had gone out the window. He was reminded of the fact he hadn’t gotten laid in several months. Quentin was pressed up against him, smelling like his sexual fantasies and rubbing his fingers so softly it almost tickled. Eliot was barely capable of intelligent thought, let alone fine motor skills.
He tried to get ahold of himself and attempted the trick again, still extremely aware of Quentin’s proximity. He dropped one of the cards in the process and let out a little grunt.
“Keep trying,” Quentin said. His breath tickled the back of Eliot’s neck. Eliot tried again, and Quentin helped by placing the cards in the correct place between his fingers.
“Thanks,” he said, his throat dry. He could barely feel the cards, just all the places Quentin was touching him. Quentin leaned down as he attempted again.
“Shit.” Eliot couldn’t concentrate. Quentin’s finger slid against his. His fingertips were warm and there were slight calluses on his index finger.
Eliot turned his head and Quentin’s face was only inches away. He dropped the cards and instead of letting go, their fingers only tightened together and interlocked.
Eliot closed his eyes and so did Quentin. Their heads tilted and they inhaled simultaneously. Their lips were so close, Eliot swore he could feel moisture.
Someone knocked on the door.
The cards were thrown to the floor in their haste to uncouple.The rain was over but they had been so caught up they hadn’t noticed. Arielle was waiting at their door, there with her usual basket and something especially for them. They stood in the doorway of the cottage making small talk with her for a minute or two, not really looking at each other. The moment was lost.
The sun was setting, and Eliot busied himself with starting to make their dinner. Quentin built the fire and set the table. Eliot watched the stew cook and opened the package Arielle had delivered. Inside was a couple of jars of peach preserves and a plum wine Eliot had ordered as a surprise.
“It’ll be one year working on the mosaic tomorrow,” Eliot told Quentin, putting the wine away. “I thought we needed something special.”
Quentin nodded and poked at the fire. They still weren’t looking at each other.
“I think I’m gonna go for a walk by the creek,” Quentin said, wiping his hands on his pants. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”
Eliot waved at him and he hurried out, his hands shoved in the pockets of his pants. After a year, their clothes were starting to show a lot of wear, but they hadn’t termed it necessary to change into full-time Fillory fashion. Eliot imagined what Quentin must be thinking about. He had that look in his eyes that meant he was hard at work inside his head, probably overthinking their interaction to the bone. Eliot chastised himself for what he had almost done. Early on, he had made a promise that he wouldn’t let sex get in the way of their friendship.
Eliot took a seat at the kitchen table and grabbed the deck of cards that Quentin had left at his place setting. The cards were pliant and shuffled easily, even in his inexperienced hands. He thought about Quentin’s pride and his unabashed enthusiasm for the card tricks.
In the meantime, he practiced the snap, hoping to have it mastered by the time Quentin returned. It took what felt like one hundred times before he thought he could do it in a passable way, still nowhere as slick as Quentin. It would be enough to fool a Fillorian at least.
Quentin came back a few minutes later, his hair down and his face slightly pink from exertion. He had gathered some wood and dumped it by the cooking fire.
“You look a little flushed,” Eliot commented. Quentin was struggling to remove his hooded sweatshirt and not take his t-shirt along with it. Eliot tried not to laugh.
“I didn’t need my sweatshirt. It’s beautiful out right now,” Quentin said.
“Maybe tomorrow we could have our dinner al fresco,” Eliot said.
“Is it ready?” Quentin asked, taking his seat at the table and laying a napkin in his lap.
“One minute,” Eliot said and pulled the cards out of his vest pocket. “I’ve been practicing.”
Quentin sat up straighter in the chair and put his hands beneath his chin. The expression on his face swept at least ten years off his face, and he looked very much like a boy waiting for a surprise.
Eliot felt the pressure to perform, but he leaned into it. He had the 9 of spades and the King of clubs tucked into his hand. He arranged his fingers into the positions Quentin had shown him and flicked the cards, switching them within his hand. Quentin smiled like sunshine and jumped up from the table to hug him, and once again, Eliot was like a horny teenager as he spent way too long enjoying the feel of their bodies pressed together. When they broke apart, they were still smiling at each other, and the urge to kiss him was like a magnetic force, Eliot had to strain to resist it. It was unlike him to not listen to the whims of his body, but Eliot told himself it was the right thing to do.
Eliot pulled away and Quentin cleared his throat, backing towards the table, reaching behind him for the rest of the card deck.
“Do you want me to teach you the other trick?” he asked, hands already splitting the cards as if he was going to shuffle them.
“No, I actually think I want to leave some things unknown,” Eliot said. “There’s so few of life’s big mysteries left.”
Quentin shuffled the cards a few more times. “Hey, I think there’s something in your vest pocket.”
Eliot opened his vest to check, and Quentin plucked a card from it as if he’d conjured it from thin air. Eliot laughed at his own suspension of disbelief. He thought for just a moment, of what this must have been like for pre-Brakebills Quentin. How it explained his deep-rooted love for magic, and how it made part of Eliot mourn for the loss of magic in the present day. But Quentin’s enthusiasm for these card tricks, and his delight at showing them to Eliot, only made what they were doing with the mosaic seem more worthwhile.
“Time for dinner,” Elio said, feeling a bit domestic as he served them their stew. But then he didn’t trust Quentin to cook after the first few kitchen disasters.
They ate their dinners without speaking much, the tension that had built during the lesson and later demonstration hadn’t dissipated but instead left the room feeling charged, with the pressure sedated but not relieved. Eliot wondered how Quentin was feeling. If he had the same ache between his ribs and the same emptiness in his stomach. Eliot had convinced himself that this wasn’t one-sided. But then, he rationalized, as they went to their separate corners after dinner, maybe it had all been part of the trick, a little misdirection to get Eliot looking the wrong way, seeing something that wasn’t even there.