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They get to about the third week alone at the mosaic before they start McFuckin’ losing it.
In some ways, this is easier on Quentin. It is, he knows it is. Eliot is a people person. He’s a textbook extrovert. Eliot’s idea of ‘quiet time’ involves at least two other people in his space, and even that he wants very rarely. In fact, in the one year of almost-normalcy they had before the whole world shit the bed in spectacular fashion, Quentin had figured out that Eliot was more likely to burst into your room with some weak excuse thinly veiling a desire to not be alone than anything else.
It doesn’t help that, of all the options of people to be stuck in relative isolation with, Quentin’s probably not high on the list. He’d probably rather have Margo. He’d probably rather have Idri, who he’s like– getting married to? If that’s still a thing? Quentin’s honestly not sure where that stands right now, and if the last eighteen days have taught him anything, it’s that not every thought he has needs to be said out loud. Some will make Eliot laugh, sure, but some will send him into a sour turn of grouchiness and moody brooding. Asking ‘hey, are you still marrying that guy to stop a war in the future, what’s up with that?’ probably falls in the second category.
So he says nothing.
Which is fine. Because Quentin’s better suited to isolation. He’s spent a lot of his life seeking out isolation in one way or another. He hates crowds and he hates having to go places and he hates meeting strangers. And the fact that he would rather be stuck here with Eliot than anyone else is–
Fine.
It’s fine.
It’s fine. It’s not like they’re gonna be here forever, they just need to– figure out the beauty of all life. And they can argue math versus artistic vision forever, but the only way to actually make any kind of headway is to try shit. So they try shit. And fail. And fail. And fail.
It stopped being fun around day 10. Most of day 11 they didn’t even speak to each other, waking up in the too-small bed in the cottage with no blankets and no shower and no clothes but what’s on their backs, only the food they’ve been able to conjure with weak, half-remembered spells or buy off locals passing through.
So sure, Quentin’s a lot better suited to isolation than Eliot is, but he’s also not great at being bored, either.
And god fucking damnit, this is boring.
He’s starting to wonder if he and Eliot have run out of things to say to each other. Almost a month of solid companionship might actually be enough to exhaust the things they have in common. There aren’t that many, really, after all. Magic. The quest. Their friends, who they’ve sort of– stopped talking about, on some kind of mutually understood unspoken agreement. That’s kind of it. It had felt like enough, before, but suddenly–
Quentin’s aware that he’s spent very little of the last year actually with Eliot. Which he’d known, god, he’d hated it, being stuck on the wrong side of the locked door from Eliot and Margo in Fillory. But even before that... he hadn’t really been around, had he? It’s not like they could share gossip about the palace staff, when Quentin barely knew them.
No, 18 days stuck alone with Eliot, and Quentin was beginning to feel like maybe he was a part of some different species, some kind of– awkward basement gremlin, while Eliot was a creature of sunlight. A creature of sunlight who probably didn’t want to listen to Quentin ramble about his quest anxiety or how worried he was about everyone they left behind.
So, to keep from exploding outwards, Quentin folds inwards. He just– tries to focus on the quest. Tries to make a routine, like his therapists used to tell him, and sticks to it– but by the third week, it’s habit driving him up out of bed, not optimism. Honestly, this fucking quest– he misses books, okay. He misses Jul–
Nope.
Not going there. Not even for a minute, not even in his own head.
We’re smart, we can do hard things, is what Eliot had said.
It didn’t matter if it was an impossible thing. They had to do it.
“I’m going to make bread,” Quentin announces, on day 23.
Based on the look Eliot gives him, this is about as sensible a thing as announcing his intention to join a convent. “Ooh-kay,” he sings-songs in response, clearly skeptical. “With what yeast?”
Quentin falters. “I mean, they probably– have some in the village, right?”
“Probably not,” Eliot says, leaning back on his hands on the half-completed mosaic, and he looks so– self-righteous and superior, Quentin kind of wants to strangle him with his own tie. “But if there’s a bakery, you might be able to get a sourdough starter and some flour, and we could go from there.”
Which, of course, of course this something Eliot knows how to do. What doesn’t Eliot know how to do, with his perfect hair and his perfect clothes and his perfect magic and his fucking– high king stupid perfect face.
“Fine, you do it then,” Quentin snaps, turning away from Eliot to place a tile so hard he cracks it in two.
Which is fine.
He can mend it.
It’s fine. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, except now Quentin’s fucking– crying, for some reason, some dumb well of frustration bubbling over inside him as he stares down at the broken tile, leaking out of him in big waves. Fucking hell, why can’t you just keep it together, you absolutely useless piece of shit–
“Q,” Eliot says softly, and Quentin– hates him, and his fucking gentle voice, and the kind way he brushes his fingertips against the point of Quentin’s elbow. Quentin hates him so much in that moment, and hates even more how much some small part of him that just– fucking wants his dad– or something, recently, that just wants to curl up in Eliot’s arms.
“Get fucked,” Quentin hisses, instead, through his tears, and Eliot sighs, next to him, languid and relaxed.
“Would if I could, baby,” Eliot drawls, then. “Are you volunteering as tribute?”
It’s– dumb, it’s the same kind of dumb, aimless, unserious flirting Eliot’s done at Quentin literally since the moment they met. Usually it’s comforting, a familiar sort of back-and-forth they’ve existed in as long as they’ve known each other: Eliot flirts with him, Quentin pretends to roll his eyes and laugh it off while basking in the glow of Eliot’s attention. Rinse, repeat.
Except today it’s– fucking irritating, god, can’t Eliot take anything seriously? Does he have to be wildly irreverent and slutty every single moment of his life. “I would rather fuck a tree,” Quentin hisses, slamming to his feet, nonsensical and untrue, like he’s not spending an hour every third day noticing the plush curve of Eliot’s mouth and his strong steady hands, and then making himself stop noticing.
Because surely it would be a betrayal of the whole dynamic of their friendship, for Quentin to break the routine by even entertaining the possibility that the flirting could mean– what, more? Eliot flirted with everything with a pulse. Certainly, he’d never indicated anything more than a passing interest in a fuck-em-and-forget-em encounter with Quentin– if Quentin even wanted more than that. If he even wanted that much. It’s confusing. But it’s also—
Eliot’s his friend. His best friend, and they’re fucking– stuck here, together, aren’t they? The last thing they need is to have what little camaraderie they have left shattered by Quentin doing something stupid, like tripping and falling mouth-first onto Eliot’s dick. Again. So Quentin ignores the flash of hurt across Eliot’s face, quickly covered by haughty indifference, and storms into the house, where at least he can break things that are less crucial to the survival of the magical world as they know it.
“I hope you get splinters in your dick!” Eliot calls back, a weak rejoinder at best. Because of course he has to have the last word, of course he does. It’s barely even satisfying to flip him off, as Quentin slams the door shut behind him.
Of course, anger fades into anxiety almost as soon as he’s alone. God, he’s such an annoying little bitch, he doesn’t even want to be stuck with himself, much less subject anyone else to it. But it’s not like he wants Eliot gone either, like he doesn’t know how much worse it would be if Quentin were stuck here by himself with only his own brain for company. He’d be dead before he even had a chance to run out of food. He doesn’t, god, he doesn’t want Eliot to leave; all he’s wanted since he stumbled across the lawn at Brakebills towards all 5,000 miles of Eliot’s legs is to be in his orbit.
He doesn’t want Eliot to leave, but Quentin can’t help but be acutely aware of how much Eliot must want to, stuck with Quentin and his moods and his incomprehensible neediness. Almost without thinking Quentin paces around the dim, damp, badly furnished little hovel towards the fireplace, thinking— god, he’s going to leave me here.
The illusion key is still in its place, on the peg over the mantle, which is all of a second and a half of relief. But it's not like Eliot needs a key to leave. He could easily walk his happy ass down to the village a couple of hours away. It's light out, and Eliot's smart and good with magic, even wayfinding spells. He could probably find somewhere to stay for the night, could probably find a bed and more besides— it’s not like Eliot's struggled to find companionship when he wants it. Not like Quentin doesn't know that.
Plus, Eliot’s still... well, Eliot. He's still got his High King blood, his divine mandate to rule. Would it be all that hard for Eliot to find a knifemaker, Fen’s great-grandfather maybe, who could slice his palm and proclaim him noble-born? What was 50, 70, a hundred years to a Fillorian throne, more or less?
They could be done tomorrow.
They could never fucking finish. The half-baked arguments they’ve made again and again about how someone finishes the mosaic and it might as well be them swirl around in Quentin’s head as he paces, ‘round and around and around the little hovel. It’s not so bad, really. The roof probably needs to be redone if the weather’s going to ever get worse than the mild sunlit days they’ve had, but the structure of the building is sound. Fireplace. Bedroom. Shelves.
He sits on the foot of the bed for a long time, listening to the sounds of clinking ceramic tiles outside. Anxiety spikes in his chest every time the sound stops, fear beating in his pulse: don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave, followed by irritation every time the sound starts again: god, can’t I get a moment of peace and quiet?
He doesn’t exactly mean to take a nap, but well– fucking time is fake, Quentin can’t sleep for shit, nothing matters and he doesn’t want to have to talk to Eliot, so. Nap. It’s dark by the time he wakes up, and the sounds coming from outside have stopped. And that fear, that fear of being left alone here with this fucking undoable task, is enough to drive him up, up and to the door and out onto the mosaic.
Eliot’s still there, though. He’s got a fire going in the firepit and he’s sitting on the bench outside, wine skin in his hand, staring a million miles away into the fire. He’s still there and Quentin’s suddenly more grateful for that than he is annoyed. Eliot doesn’t look up as he approaches the bench, but he does hold out the wine skin, and that’s– about as close to a peace offering as they’re going to get.
Taking the skin, Quentin sinks awkwardly onto the free space on the bench next to Eliot, and takes a swig of the bitter barley spirit Eliot had managed to get from the local village. It burns his throat and eyes and kind of honestly wouldn’t even benefit from a mixer because what do you mix with paint thinner– but it leaves him warm. Lord knows drinking with Eliot is something he’s familiar with, even in this stilted, awkward silence, where Quentin’s carefully holding himself apart; carefully making sure they don’t touch.
Of course, Eliot doesn’t let that stand long. When Quentin passes back the wine skin, Eliot takes it, and then casually slings an arm up and over Quentin’s shoulder, heavy weight pulling him into Eliot’s side until they’re pressed together all along the edges of their torsos, hip-to-hip and thigh-to-thigh. It unlocks Quentin’s ribs like a fucking key to greater magic, bleeding tension out of him like water through a sieve.
“I’m sorry you’re stuck here with me,” Quentin mutters, shifting a little until he’s leaning his weight into Eliot’s body. Vest abandoned, Eliot’s down to his shirtsleeves, and with his arm around Quentin’s shoulders, Quentin can’t but be aware of the heat of him, the warm-human smell of him. It’s impossible, suddenly, not to remember–
The feeling of Eliot’s body against his, a year ago, more, maybe– time feels fake now even on the best of days, even when the memories aren’t half-muddled by booze and magic– Eliot’s body under him, solid and warm and– the way Eliot’s shirt had scratched against his chest, the way Eliot’s hand had cover the back of his neck, big and solid and sturdy, the scratch of Eliot’s stubble against his mouth when they kissed, needy and desperate. The feeling of Eliot’s cock sliding hot and thick into Quentin’s throat–
Yeah, that’s– that’s gonna be a problem.
“I’m not,” Eliot says, and Quentin– blinks at him, completely lost. But Eliot just smiles, a soft little thing around his mouth and eyes, and his arm tightens around Quentin’s shoulder briefly. “I’m not sorry I’m stuck with you. I think you’re pretty much the only person in the world I wouldn’t have wanted to kill by now.”
“That’ll wear off,” Quentin says, dryly, because fuck, doesn’t he know? Doesn’t he know he’s a grating person, that his enthusiasm is smothering and his moodiness is intolerable? Hasn’t it been made clear, again and again, most recently by Alice, that he’s a person best loved from a distance?
But Eliot just hums, handing over the wine skin again. “Guess we’ll find out,” he says, close enough still that Quentin can feel the vibrations of his deep voice resonating through his chest.
“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, daring to– just tip his head over, until his ear is resting against the ball of Eliot’s shoulder. “Guess we will.”