Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Really, Bambi? Celebrity boxing? Come on, can’t you get me The Masked Singer, if not Dancing With the Stars? What about a Voice guest coach, surely I’m not that washed up yet,” Eliot says, leaning back in his chair with a mimosa in one hand. “Me in a boxing ring is just asking for a disaster and we both know it.” 

“Yeah, well, if you can’t get your shit together it’s all there’s gonna be, El,” Margo says, brutally frank as ever, perching on their breakfast bar. Some might say it’s a terrible idea to live with one’s manager, but Eliot Waugh and Margo Hanson have been all but inseparable ever since meeting on a Greyhound bus to Los Angeles. And while even now they could afford to have their own places, it’s better this way. “But there is one thing, if you’re willing to accept a favor.” 

“At this point, I will take anything that doesn’t descend into punching,” Eliot says, setting his drink down in order to more effectively sprawl across the chair. “What is it?” 

“Remember Kady Orloff-Diaz?” Margo asks, and Eliot rolls his eyes. How can he forget Kady? Back in the day, they’d been up and coming together, her running solo and him still one-half of The Enchanters with Mike… but to think of Mike is never a good idea, so he tries to shove aside the memories of singing on stage together before falling into bed together. 

Never mind. Kady. She’s done amazingly well for herself, Eliot knows; the indie rock genre isn’t really to his taste, but he appreciates talent. He also appreciates the gorgeous image she makes with her boyfriend Penny Adiyodi, who used to be her drummer and then took over manager because Zelda, the oddly stuffy older woman who had been managing Kady, was an utter disaster.

“What about Kady?” he asks. 

“She’s offering you a song.” 

Eliot sits up. “Say what now?”

“She’s got this new album of duets coming out, it’s a genre mix deal,” Margo explains. “And she remembers us, thought she’d make the offer. And, she wants to perform the song with you during her New York concert, which will get you some much-needed recognition off the cover singer circuit.”

“Hey, covers have been saving my life so far,” Eliot points out mildly. And it’s true. There’s nothing quite like singing one’s own work, of course - or, rather, half one’s own work - but since Mike quit the duo to go solo, cover songs have netted Eliot a reasonable following online and on small tours. It’s not ideal but it’s still performing.

He keeps telling himself that as the live gigs dry up - online is great still, but not the best moneymaker. Something about the ad revenue not being as good online as it was in the print days - his little brother Patrick, the only member of his family he can stand at all, is a journalist in Seattle, and according to him, that’s why journalism jobs are failing too. But whatever, the point is, Eliot isn’t exactly in trouble yet. But he’s heading there, and he knows it. 

Still, this all sounds too good to be true. “Margo, what’s the catch?” 

“All the duets are new songs,” Margo says, “to be written by the guest singer. In this case, you.” 

And there it is. “Bambi, we both know I can’t do lyrics.” It’s the whole reason he’d needed Mike in the first place. It’s the whole reason his own attempt at a solo album had crashed and burned. “And neither can you,” he adds, because while she’s also his best girl for sound mixing - he’d never be able to turn raw demo songs into the final product without her - she is possibly worse at lyrics than he is. 

Which is hard to do. Eliot, for all that he can spin melody out of the slightest auditory inspiration, cannot do lyrics at all. He tried, and the result was an album so bad that the only place one can still find a copy is buried amongst Patrick’s extensive CD collection. 

“I know,” Margo says. “That’s why I’m in the process of hiring you a lyricist.” 

Eliot makes a face. He hates working with outsiders. It had been one of the upsides to working with Mike, because they knew each other. In hindsight, Eliot has realized he knew only what Mike wanted him to see, but the point remains. Working with someone for a one-off is… not promising, but Margo’s right. If this can get him some fresh attention, then he just might be able to pull off a true comeback. And for that, he’ll need a lyricist anyway, so maybe he’ll get lucky this time? 

Before he can say anything, the doorbell rings. “Oh, plant-watering time,” he says instead, getting up to go let Amanda in. Only it’s not Amanda, their usual plant girl, at the door. Instead there is a guy with light brown hair pulled back in a messy bun, big brown eyes in an unfairly pretty face, clutching a watering can to his chest. 

“Uh, hi, I’m Quentin, Amanda’s my cousin? She broke her leg, so she asked me to cover her plant watering people. She was supposed to call you…” 

“Well, she didn’t, but that’s all right,” Eliot says. “What’s your name?” 

“Quentin. Quentin Coldwater.” 

“Quentin Coldwater?” Eliot repeats, incredulous, giving him a once-over. Almost painfully adorable, even with his hair hanging in front of his face and the tragic jeans and blue t-shirt over a white long-sleeved shirt - the design is a grey owl on top of a crossed pair of some kind of medieval weapon. Some nerdy thing, Eliot decides, but the blue looks good on him. The layers are unfortunate, though. They hide too much, he’s certain of it.

“Um, yes, that - that’s my name,” Quentin says awkwardly. “Where’s your gardening can?”

Oh God, he’s adorable. Amanda is very nice - and pretty enough to be eye candy for Margo - but her… What did he say? Oh, right, cousin. He is more than pretty enough for Eliot to enjoy the view. “Under the sink,” he says, waving a lazy hand in the relevant direction, watching Quentin Coldwater’s eyes follow the movement. 

“Hey. Pay attention,” Margo says, snapping her fingers in front of Eliot’s face. Eliot jumps, turning back to face her. 

“Of course, Bambi. What were you saying?”

“I was saying, I’m in the process of hiring you a lyricist. I’ve got some guy, his name is Sebastian Rupert, which is a weird as shit name, I’m sure it’s a pseudonym but why the fuck a lyricist needs one I can’t tell you. Anyway, he’s worked with Kady before so that seems like a good place to start. He also wrote that song you and Mike did that the label really wanted you to put on, that bonus track, remember?” 

Eliot does. It’s one of the few times Margo and Mike had been in agreement - they didn’t like the idea of using someone else’s song, and Eliot had felt the same way. But it was only their second album, and they didn’t have the clout to refuse it. That’s how it goes sometimes. Actually, the song hadn’t been too bad, a little weird and ill-fitting compared to their own stuff, but tolerable. So if Eliot has to have a one-off lyricist, someone whose work he’s sung before isn’t the worst deal in town.

“All right. Set up our trial session.” 

“Trial session? Eliot, how many lyricists do you think I can line up here?” Margo demands, hands on her hips. Eliot gives her his best lazy smirk, which only gets him an even worse glare.

“I think you know me well enough to have at least one backup, Bambi, just in case.” 

Not the worst deal in town, Eliot muses even as Margo lectures him. She’s done it before, and he knows he can safely tune it out. One song, and maybe he’ll - they’ll - be a success again. Definitely not the worst deal. 

Neither is having a temp plant boy, at least one as pretty as Quentin Coldwater. As far as Eliot’s concerned things are starting to look up, and he is definitely not going to complain about that. Now he just has to crank out one song, and he’ll be on his way again. 

Just one song. With a lyricist he’s never met. But he trusts Margo, so this is going to work. It’s got to work, frankly.

<><><>

Quentin thinks he honestly might die. When he’d agreed to cover Amanda’s plant watering clients, he’d had no idea one of them was Eliot Waugh. Amanda had only ever talked about Margo, and while everyone who’d been any kind of fan of The Enchanters knew about Margo Hanson, just the first name hadn’t been nearly warning enough. 

And, oh God, he’s even more unfairly beautiful in person, how . 

As soon as he leaves, he texts Julia. [i am going to KILL amanda]

He’s just settling into his seat on the bus when his phone buzzes with a notification, and he pulls it out. [why are you going to kill your cousin?]

[because one of her plant customers is ELIOT WAUGH and she didn’t MENTION THIS]

[does she even know about your ridiculous high school crush?]

Quentin frowns down at his screen. Actually, that’s kind of a valid point. He likes Amanda more than most of his cousins - they don’t have much in common, but they’re the same age when all the others are either significantly older or younger. It sort of led to them banding together at family events by default. 

[i don’t know. That’s not the point. What kind of best friend are you, julia wicker-quinn, you’re supposed to be on my side! :P]

He’s still proud of himself, sometimes, that he can use married names for Julia and Alice. Maybe it should still sting, that the best friend he’d nursed a crush on for years and his first love actually found their forever partners in each other, but… It did, of course, for quite a while — and the less said about some of the bad choices it led him to, the better — but these days it’s more a case of being surprised that he actually got over it. He never thought he would, after all. 

But he’s glad he did, because Julia is his oldest and best friend. As for Alice, once they stopped trying to date and got over the fallout of that miscalculation, it turned out they make great friends too. So if Quentin hadn’t been able to get over it, he’d have lost two of the best things in his life. Also, more pragmatically, he wouldn’t have a job, seeing as how the three of them run their bookstore together. 

The Book Nook is where he’s headed now - he has some paperwork to do. But he’s barely made a dent in it when his office door bangs open. Quentin sighs, but in all honesty he’s not actually surprised. “Hello, Julia,” he says, raising his eyebrows at her. “I thought you were on floor duty today?” 

“Shut up, Coldwater, and tell me what happened!” 

“I… can’t actually do both of those things, you have to pick one,” Quentin points out dryly, earning himself a swat on the back of the head. “Hey, coworker abuse!” 

“I’ll show you coworker abuse, you brat. Any court in the land would obviously agree that I was provoked. So what happened?!”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Not much, really. I mean, what’s he gonna say to the substitute plant guy? Especially when his unfairly stunning manager is there and she’s also definitely not the sort of person you ignore, I could tell that right away. This is real life, not a bad porno.” 

“You wish it wasn’t though,” Julia says slyly. 

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” Quentin says, and determinedly goes back to his paperwork even though Julia is laughing at him. 

He assumes that’s the end of it, except that the next two times he’s there to water the plants, it seems like Eliot is interviewing for a new lyricist. Which makes sense, given the bits of conversation with his manager that Quentin overheard the first time he was here. Unfortunately, as far as Quentin can tell, the search does not seem to be going well.

The first time he’s there, the would-be lyricist in question is some guy with prematurely grey hair and a fondness for black leather. Quentin doesn’t catch his name, but he and Eliot don’t get far before Eliot stops. “OK, I know Kady’s got the punk rock shit going, but I don’t think this ghostly love song concept you have going is gonna work for me at all. Breaking open the Underworld sounds mystical and poetic and all, but it doesn’t match Kady’s style or mine. Which is weird, because you’ve worked with her and written a song I sang before.”

Quentin is on his way out when he overhears this, and from what he heard of the song, he thinks Eliot’s right. It was just obvious in his voice that he wasn’t clicking with the words, or at least it was for someone like Quentin who still has way too many Enchanters’ songs memorized. And if he keeps this up he’s going to start sounding like a creepy stalker, which is unacceptable even if it’s kept entirely in his own head.

So he just gets out of there. 

The third time he comes over, the lyricist hopeful is a younger guy, maybe about Quentin and Eliot’s own age. His hair is blond and kinda floppy, but what Quentin really notices is the shirt that looks like it was made out of someone’s drapes. Now, Quentin is far from a fashion plate himself at the best of times, and today he’s wearing worn black jeans and a t-shirt with the Stark direwolf on it, but even he is kind of horrified by drape shirts. 

That probably isn’t an actual term.

But anyway, Eliot and the other guy — Charlton? Maybe? Quentin isn’t sure and doesn’t care — are going back and forth about the lyrics. This time, funnily enough, the problem is the opposite. Charlton is all bubblegum pop as opposed to Leather Dude’s weird obsession with Greek mythology, which isn’t any better a fit for Eliot’s sharper-edged, almost fae style or Kady’s punk rock vibes. 

(What? Julia likes a little of Kady’s stuff.)

Charlton is reciting his last line, and Eliot doesn’t look impressed. Quentin is so busy trying to not look like he’s eavesdropping that when his brain does the thing it sometimes does when writing and just clicks, he isn’t paying close enough attention before the made-up next line in his head is spilling out of his mouth. 

Oh shit. 

“What was that?” Eliot asks sharply. 

“Um, nothing, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” Quentin stammers, turning back to the last plant. Fuck. Fuck. He needs to get out of here before he makes an even bigger fool of himself. “I wasn’t paying attention, it just kinda happened. Ignore me.” Shit, what the hell did he do? This is why he needs a better brain to mouth filter, no matter what his therapist says about accepting himself as he is. 

“No, hang on, what comes next?” Eliot prompts, and Quentin’s stupid traitor brain spits out the next two lines. What the fuck, he doesn’t even write lyrics, except when he occasionally has to create a “song” for a story he’s writing. But he does write poetry, sometimes, and lyrics are just poetry meant to go with a melody, right?

So he recites the words tumbling around in his head, and his reward is a blinding grin from Eliot Waugh that sends his pulse racing. Oh God, he is in so much trouble here, but he used to daydream about that smile. Getting it turned his way for real, just one time, is totally worth it, right? It doesn’t have to mean anything serious. Just one cool moment, that’s all.

Eliot turns back to his piano and sings Quentin’s three lyrics, already with a new melody like he’s testing them out. “That’s not my lyric,” Charlton says, scowling, and Eliot shrugs. 

“You’re very good at what you do, but what you do is not what I do. I’m sorry but I really don’t think this is going to work out.”

“Whatever.” Charlton rolls his eyes and walks out the door, leaving Quentin to stare at Eliot, completely at a loss. Holy shit, what did he just do? What the hell is going on here, and why is Eliot giving him that strange, thoughtful little smile? Why does it feel like he’s weighing Quentin for something?

“I’m really sorry, I never meant to interfere,” he starts to say, but Eliot cuts him off. 

“No, no, believe me, interference is exactly what I needed, Quentin. This has been a complete disaster from start to finish. Bambi means well, and usually she is terrifyingly good at everything, but finding me a lyricist is clearly the exception that proves the rule. Which I should have known, because it’s never worked before. We’ve tried, because I’m crappy at lyrics, but no luck.” 

He must notice Quentin’s puzzled face, because Eliot adds, “Margo Hanson. She was here the first time you came by - I call her Bambi, but for your safety I should warn you no one else ever, ever calls her that.” 

“Uh… actually Amanda should be back next time you need your plants watered,” Quentin says uncertainly. “So I, uh. I probably won’t need the warning.” 

“Hm.” Eliot gets up from the piano bench and hops up to sit on the piano instead. “I’m not so sure about that. So tell me, Quentin. Ever do any writing?” 

What? Oh, shit. What has Quentin’s big mouth and messy brain gotten him into this time? “Uh, um. I mean, well. Everyone’s done some writing. But I’m not a professional, so it’s really nothing to, you know. To talk about.”

“Have you ever done lyrics?” Eliot asks, and oh holy fuck, this has definitely gotten out of hand. Quentin tries very hard not to look entirely like a deer in headlights as he searches frantically for some kind of answer. 

“No, um. I write fanfiction sometimes, that’s kind of all I’ve ever done.” Which is not entirely true, but he’s trying to stop this sudden turn of events, and admitting to his original short stories and especially poetry seems like the kind of thing that will do the opposite of that. “Seriously, I don’t think -” 

“I do. I think you might be exactly what I need. Write a song with me. You’ve already started it, just keep going.” 

“I - I really can’t. I’m so sorry,” Quentin says, hurrying to the kitchen where he can dump out the leftover water and put the can back where it belongs. “Amanda will be back next time and she is way less disruptive than me. Which of course you know already because she’s been your plant girl for years. Um, anyway. Again. I’m really really sorry, I have to go.” 

He scrambles for the door but Eliot’s voice stops him dead. “Quentin.” 

Just his name, nothing but that, and Quentin freezes, looking up at Eliot as he approaches. He’s so tall, it isn’t fair. “Look. I have a show tonight at this little club called The Armory. Ever heard of it?” 

Quentin has, actually. His old roommate Brian had a boyfriend who bartended there. He hasn’t thought about the place - or Brian and his English boyfriend Nigel - in years, last he knew they were moving out to San Francisco together. They’re probably still in their eternal honeymoon phase, though, he’s sure - 

And there’s his brain going off on totally irrelevant tangents again, which is more or less what got him into this mess, isn’t it? “Yeah, I’ve been there,” he says warily. 

“Great, so you know where it is. Come tonight, just watch my show and think about it, OK? Talk to a friend or a girlfriend -” 

“No girlfriend,” Quentin says inanely, and he’s not sure, but he thinks Eliot’s gaze just sharpened. 

“Boyfriend?” 

“Um. No. Neither, though either is an option - oh my God, sorry, you don’t need to know that, wow,” Quentin says, mentally kicking himself. 

“Hm. Waiting on the judge’s ruling there,” Eliot says, that sharp look still in his eyes. “Anyway. Talk to whoever you need to, bring a friend along tonight. Just don’t turn me down before you give it some thought, OK?” 

And, apparently, enough of Quentin’s teenage crush is still alive and well — no shit, he can hear both Julia and Alice saying — that he can’t say no to Eliot. Not outright, anyway. “All right, I’ll think about it,” he says. “But I really do have to go, my other job starts soon.” Technically true, although as the owners, he, Julia, and Alice more or less make their own hours. 

“Of course. See you tonight.” 

Quentin manages to get to the sidewalk before he calls Julia. Before she can say more than hello, he blurts out, “I got myself into so much trouble, and also you’re coming with me to a show tonight.”

He’s definitely going to need moral support to get out of this one.

<><><>

“I’m sorry, you turned down yet another professional lyricist and then proceeded to try and hire your plant boy? Not even your actual plant boy! He’s a temp! Eliot, what the fuck are you thinking?!”

Margo adores Eliot. Truly, she does. They understand each other better than anyone else in the world. But there are times he does things that even she is completely at a loss to explain. This latest scheme of his definitely falls under that category.

“Margo, look. Sebastian and Charlton were disasters. I only have seven days — we only have seven days. This Quentin Coldwater guy, he just went right for it. Hang on, I’ll show you.” Eliot sits at the piano and plays a tune way too peppy for either him or Kady, and the lyrics he sings are worse. “That is what Charlton came up with. Now, from that last line, we have…” 

He slows down the tempo of the music, singing three new lines that do indeed connect to what was already done, but even then they sound a lot more like something Eliot would do. Not much like something Kady would do, but that can always be adjusted. Margo sighs, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “And this Quentin Coldwater guy — wow, what a name, did his parents hate him? — just spat these out, no problem, no questions asked?” 

Eliot laughs. “I wouldn’t say no problem, he panicked as soon as he realized what he’d done, but more or less, yeah. Bambi, I mean it. This guy’s a natural.” 

“And you think he’s hot.” He had been kinda cute, in a bumbling awkward sort of way. More Eliot’s usual type than hers — Margo has been known to go for nervy nerds, but of the more snippy sharp-edged type than the awkward rambling type. But she can appreciate a pretty face. 

“And I think he’s hot, but I solemnly swear to behave myself if we can recruit him, because I need a lyricist more than I need a one night stand. No promises after the song wraps, though.”

Margo rolls her eyes, but then the full point of that comment hits her. “Wait, what? If? I thought he said yes.” 

“Er, well, no. Not yet. But I did tell him to come by The Armory for my show tonight. I figure I can convince him afterwards, and maybe you can help?”

“Oh, of course. Typical, you need me to close the deal,” Margo says, although she’s mostly pretending to be annoyed. 

Eliot gives her his most innocent smile, which makes her grab a pillow off the couch to throw at his head. “Bambi, that wasn’t very nice. But you always close the deal, that’s why you’re the best friend and manager I could have.” 

“You know, if I didn’t know you’re laying it on thick as a joke, I’d wonder how you ever charm anyone, that was so unconvincing,” Margo says, unimpressed. “But fine. Let me give Marina a call, see what I can dig up on this guy. We might need more information to win him over.” 

Marina, as ever, comes through with the goods at lightning speed — that’s the reason Margo still hires her, even though she has the personality of a pit viper. She’s also occasionally been good in bed, but owing to the personality thing that hasn’t happened in a while. Supposedly Marina is trying to clean up her act for her new girlfriend, which is one of those things Margo will believe when she sees it and also when pigs fly. But she doesn’t need to like Marina to employ her. 

When Margo reads the email, she has to laugh at some of the information. Oh, this is going to be juicy if they need to use it, but she’s going to tell Eliot to hold back the full details unless absolutely necessary. She’d rather wait on the reveal for some of it. 

That night, spotting Quentin Coldwater at The Armory is surprisingly easy. He’s dressed up a little from the t-shirt layers and worn-out blue jeans of the last time she saw him, in a dark grey button down and black jeans that at least aren’t faded. His hair is loose instead of messily pulled back, and OK, she can see a little more of what Eliot is thinking. 

The cute brunette next to him might put paid to Eliot’s other plans, though, that much is for sure. Or so Margo thinks until she slides into the booth across from them and spots the delicate golden wedding ring on Brunette’s finger, and the definite lack of one on Quentin’s left hand where he’s got his fingers wrapped around his glass. Cider rather than beer, it looks like, which makes sense because The Armory has an amazing house cider. Brunette has a pink cocktail, and with Margo’s own red wine glass sat on the table the drinks make as weird a set as she imagines the three of them do. 

“Uh… Julia, this is, um, Margo - I’m really sorry, Eliot said your last name but I…” Quentin says, trying to be polite but botching it a little. 

Margo shrugs, watching Quentin’s eyes dart to the way it makes her hair fall across her shoulders. Hmm. Interesting. Boy can appreciate her too — she saw the way he stared when Eliot first opened the door, after all. Always fun. “Margo Hanson, I’m Eliot Waugh’s manager, roommate, best friend — I basically keep his life running.” 

“Julia Wicker-Quinn, I know exactly how that feels,” Brunette — sorry, Julia Wicker-Quinn — says with a smirk, offering her hand to shake. “So Quentin says we’re here for a recruitment pitch?” 

“I’m here for a recruitment pitch, you’re here to back me up,” Quentin corrects, but before any of them can say anything about that, the music starts, lights dimming everywhere except at the stage. 

Margo has always liked seeing Eliot perform. He’s good at it — he lights up a fucking stage. Even a little one like this. But still, it fucking kills her to see him doing this so small scale, with other people’s songs. He should be singing songs he helped create, words written for his melodies. Like it used to be, only better because that asshole Mike is out of the picture. If Quentin here can do that for him, well… She’s willing to run with it. 

Quentin is watching Eliot, practically spellbound, and Margo thinks it’s in the bag. But no such luck. “So, Eliot told me all about the way you pulled lyrics out of nowhere today,” Margo says as the lights come back up to their usual level. “Normally, I’d say he’s crazy to want to bring in an amateur, but it sounds like something clicked between you two without anyone ever knowing about it. One job, one song, we need it in six days and Eliot can’t do it on his own. I can’t help him, we’re both completely useless when it comes to lyrics. You were able to come up with three without thinking while watering plants. You’re a natural. So what do you say?”

Quentin hesitates, but then looks at Julia, who is frowning and eyeing Margo like she suspects a scam. Quentin sighs and shakes his head. “I’m really sorry. But like I told Eliot, I’m not a lyricist. I’m just a guy who works at a bookstore and has done a little writing as a hobby. I should have kept my mouth shut today. I’m really sorry but I can’t help you.” 

As for Eliot, when he comes over to join them he doesn’t even get a chance to make the argument because Julia cuts in, “Sorry, Q can’t help you. The invite was really nice of you, but we have to go now.” 

“Wait, come on -” Eliot starts, but Julia is towing Quentin away before he can finish talking. Eliot frowns and turns toward Margo. “I get the sense she doesn’t approve?” 

“She was perfectly nice earlier, but apparently not.” Margo frowns. “OK, so that was a bust, but I know where he works, so tomorrow you’re just going to have to go there and pull out the big guns. You’re the one he knows, so you’re gonna have to close this one yourself, El.” 

Of course, he’ll do it with the information she got for him, through Marina, but even so.

<><><>

Eliot finds his way to the bookstore Quentin works at the next morning, trying not to feel too much like a stalker. The place is called The Book Nook, which is somehow a cheesy enough name to turn itself right back around and be adorable instead. That in itself kind of impresses Eliot — it suggests someone was clever enough to know exactly where that line is. 

Inside, the place lives up to its name. The bookshelves are all wood, stained a warm golden shade, and there’s little reading corners set up all over the place. The chairs look squashy and comfortable, sort of like Starbucks chairs only less likely to eat you alive. Eliot hates those chairs, he’s convinced that they are designed to make you realize only when it’s too late that you’ve sunk too far to reach your coffee. 

The place is lit well, but softly. There are little beanbag stuffed animals placed here and there on the shelves, cats and rabbits and little birds. A lot of mythical creatures, dragons and winged horses, unicorns and mermaids. 

All in all, it just feels cozy. 

And when he finally spots Quentin, well. He’d planned to just corner the guy, talk at him until he convinced him to do the song. But he can’t exactly interrupt story time, can he? Quentin is sitting there with a book in hand, but he apparently already knows it well enough he doesn’t have to read all of it off the page. The book is in his lap, but he looks up a lot, telling the story with expansive hand gestures. Eliot thinks there might be voices too, but from this side of the room he can’t quite hear to confirm that.

“Are you stalking Quentin now?” asks a sharp voice from behind him. Eliot turns to find himself facing a very unimpressed woman, blond with very sharp blue eyes behind black framed glasses. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Eliot says, turning on the charm with a smile as he offers his hand. “I’m Eliot Waugh.” 

“Alice Wicker-Quinn,” says the blonde, ignoring Eliot’s hand. “And I know who you are, Quentin and my brother both used to have posters of you. I didn’t ask who you were, I asked if you were stalking Quentin. He and Julia told me all about your offer, and he turned you down because it was obviously a scam. So why don’t you just leave him alone instead of showing up at his job?”

Oh, another dragon at the gate. Fitting, given all the mythical creatures. Now that he’s looking around, there’s framed colored drawings on the walls too. He thinks they might be scenes from some of the books, and wonders idly who did the art, and if they have copyright for those. But enough of them are also fantasy themed that ‘dragon’ really is the only word for either of Quentin’s protective lady friends. 

Also, a scam? What the fuck?

“Look,” he says. “This is my last attempt to make my case, I promise. If Quentin tells me no again, I will leave him alone. Scout’s honor.” Eliot, unfortunately, actually was a Boy Scout for a while. He does not like to think about that particular life experience often. “But the truth, Ms. Wicker-Quinn, is that I need his help, so I am going to try one last time. I promise, my intentions may be a little mercenary in the sense that I would really like to kickstart my career, but they are also harmless and more or less honorable. I am not scamming anyone. I might be down on my luck, but I’m not that kind of shitty, OK?”

Alice raises her eyebrows. “Oh, this is going to be interesting if he says yes,” she mutters, and walks away shaking her head. Eliot doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, exactly, but she isn’t kicking him out. She’s letting him stay and try one more time to convince Quentin, which means he’s going to take this one as a win. 

So Eliot finds a chair to sit in where he can still keep an eye on Quentin with the group of kids. He doesn’t seem to be reading now, in fact unless Eliot is much mistaken he’s… Teaching them card tricks? 

Now that is unexpected. And strangely endearing. Eliot has no real opinion on children, and a person being good with children is not a trait he’s ever considered in either a positive or negative light. But watching Quentin with this little group on their story time rug, Eliot finds himself thinking that this is adorable. Just like he thought when he first saw his new temporary plant boy at his door. Unfortunately, now that he wants to recruit said plant boy, he has to behave. He did promise Margo, and he needs Quentin’s writing skills more than he needs to discover if he has… other skills. 

But it really is a damned shame, isn’t it?

When the kids are collected by their chaperone to go browse the shelves, Quentin looks up and sees Eliot. He freezes for a moment, then runs a hand through his hair and makes his way over, sitting in the chair across from Eliot’s. “I did tell you, I really can’t help you. I’m not a writer, not really. I sell books, and I do reading hour for the local schools, but that is not the same thing.” 

And that right there is the opening Eliot needed. “Except that you are a writer,” he says triumphantly. “You are a writer when you post short stories and poetry to various online literary magazines under the name Q Makepeace, or when you write fanfiction on Archive of our Own under the pen name FillorianKnight.” 

Quentin stares, then sputters. “I - I - how the fuck do you know that?” 

Eliot shrugs. “Margo knows a chick. Redhead named Marina. Scary as hell, and she should never be invited to parties, but she knows her shit and can find basically anybody. Anyway, not the point.” 

“Uh, I kinda think that is the point given no one is supposed to be able to connect my actual self to either of my online selves,” Quentin objects. 

“OK, yes, I admit it’s a little over the top, but what I am trying to say here is that you’re good. You are really good, and you were a huge improvement over Charlton with a few lines off the top of your head. Lines you were barely thinking about saying! Now, OK, I could be wrong, but I really don’t think I am. I think you might be a born lyricist. And I only have six days left to put this song together, and I am honestly desperate. Please, Quentin Coldwater, you’re my only hope.” 

Quentin blinks. “Did you use that quote to win me over because I was wearing a Star Wars shirt the last time I came over to water your plants?” 

“Maybe a little. Did it work?” 

Quentin sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh. OK, full disclosure, I had a huge, huge crush on you in high school, I promise I would never make this weird but I kinda feel bad not telling you.” 

“I am flattered, and nothing will be weird,” Eliot promises. He decides that it would not help his case to tell Quentin that he’s adorable, and this revelation does absolutely nothing to diminish that fact. Quite the opposite, actually.  “So, do we have a deal?” 

Quentin takes a deep breath, then nods. “Yeah. OK. We have a deal.”

Quentin has some paperwork to take care of, so Eliot wanders the bookstore while he waits. He’s not much for reading as recreation — books are tools, when necessary, and that’s as far as it goes. Eliot does like audiobooks though, likes having something to listen to when doing things around the house. He loves music, but he often finds himself avoiding it when doing things like what cleanup their twice-a-week housekeeper doesn’t get to. Something about chores seems to kickstart his creativity, and listening to other people’s music is the opposite of helpful at such times. 

But he hates silence, so he took to audiobooks instead. And The Book Nook has quite a selection — which is weird, because Eliot always kind of thought that people listened to audiobooks by streaming them now, not on CDs. Then again, by that same token, e-books are popular now, but this is still a proper bookstore. 

He’s still browsing the audiobook titles when Quentin comes down, looking nervous but determined. God, he really is cute, in his worn jeans and his nerdy t-shirts. Eliot has to behave himself because he needs this cute nerd, but it’s really fucking unfair. Still, he’s used to doing what he has to for the work by now, so he just walks with Quentin back to his apartment, where they settle in. 

“Now, the problem is, we can’t use the lyrics you came up with the other day, because they’re still based off of what Charlton was doing.” 

“Plagiarism is definitely a bad idea,” Quentin agrees with a faint smile, curling up in Eliot’s armchair with a notepad and pen. Eliot watches him in bewilderment for a moment, and then he really does just have to ask. 

“Are you a human pretzel? Because that does not look comfortable, I’ve gotta say.” 

Quentin laughs. “You are definitely not the first person to mention that. But for whatever reason, it’s comfortable for me. OK, so… we need to come up with a song that’s something you would sing, and also something Kady Orloff-Diaz would sing. What would you sing?” 

“Whatever gets me the job, honestly,” Eliot says, and means it. 

“Oh, that’s inspiring.” 

“At least I didn’t lie to you.” 

“There is that.” 

They get to work, and they stay working for hours. The sun is setting outside when Eliot’s brain just — stops. He sighs, getting up off the piano bench and flopping onto the couch. His fainting Victorian maiden impersonation, as Margo likes to call it. Quentin, for his part, gets up and stretches, his joints popping in a way that makes Eliot wince in sympathy.

Before either of them can say anything, though, Margo arrives with Chinese food. “Thank God,” Eliot says, falling on the beef and broccoli. Quentin finds sesame chicken and looks surprised - as he should be, because neither Eliot nor Margo like that. 

“Oh, I guessed right, cool,” Margo says with a grin. When Quentin looks up at her, confusion written all over his face, her grin turns into a sly smirk. “Nothing personal, honey, but I knew El here was gonna get his way as soon as he set his sights on recruiting you. He does that, it’s infuriating.” 

“She says that like she isn’t just the same,” Eliot says airily.

Dinner actually goes surprisingly easily. They swap stories, at least a few, Quentin talking about the bookshop he runs with his married friends. Eliot and Margo have a few wacky stories that are always good for some fun from their years together. They don’t need to get along, not for working on a single song, but Eliot finds himself really happy that they do. So far anyway.

But with dinner eaten, his brain is still refusing to engage music-wise, so Eliot sighs and gets up. “Come on. We’re going for a walk, I need inspiration,” he tells Quentin, who blinks. “And why are you washing your container?” 

“You don’t save yours?” Quentin asks blankly. 

“No,” Margo and Eliot say at the same time.

“Oh,” Quentin says sheepishly, throwing his container away instead, just like Eliot and Margo did. Eliot turns away to hide a smile, inexplicably charmed by Quentin’s bemusement. “So, a walk, sounds good,” he continues as he dries his hands. 

“Don’t look at me, I still have shit to do,” Margo says, waving them off. “Go, bond, have a meeting of the minds on the sidewalks of Manhattan. Then come back here and get back to work.”

“Always so sweet, Bambi,” Eliot drawls, and then he catches hold of Quentin’s wrist to tow him downstairs. At the front desk, Todd the doorman openly stares at them and Eliot waggles his fingers in a teasing wave. Todd lives in awe of him and Margo, which is either amusing or annoying depending on the day. 

They walk in silence at first, which is usually how Eliot likes it. It sounds like a cheesy kids’ movie thing to say, but the truth is, music really is all around. Sound is everywhere, after all, and with the right ear, even the most unpleasant sounds are a kind of music. The idea of them can trigger melody, or at least that’s how it works for him. 

Presumably it isn’t like that for everyone, but everyone isn’t a concern for Eliot. He knows what works for him, and that’s what matters. Still, when the ambient noise doesn’t spark an idea, Eliot decides to indulge his curiosity instead. “So, tell me more about your very protective friends, Quentin.” 

“You can call me Q,” Quentin says, looking up at him. “Alice and Julia? Well, Julia and I grew up together - we literally met in preschool - and we’ve been best friends that whole time. Got a little awkward when I spent most of high school and the start of college with a crush on her, but I got over it.” 

There’s an odd look on his face. “Actually, I got over it in part because I started dating Alice. But we… we were… the kind of couple that makes perfect sense on paper, you know? Prickly nerds who never had many friends, never quite knew how to handle social situations, more comfortable reading a book. But in practice it was… good for a while, then it was like all our sharp edges just cut at each other. So we broke up, and it was awkward but we were trying to stay friends. But then…” 

“I noticed their hyphenated names,” Eliot says mildly, already suspecting he can see where this is going. He imagines, briefly, how it might have felt if Mike had left him and started dating Margo. Impossible because both Margo and Mike had hated each other, of course. But still, the very idea, even this long after everything, hurts more than a little. 

“Ha. Yeah.” Quentin’s laugh is mirthless. “I mean, it’s been years since college, and they only got married last year. I was Julia’s best man, you know. By that point I could be with a clear conscience and a happy heart, or whatever it is people say about shit like that, but at the time I… It was kind of one of the worst things that ever happened to me? I was glad they were happy but the idea that I was so completely incapable of being what either of my most important people needed, except that they were what each other needed… Eventually I figured out — and therapy helped here, I have depression so I needed it anyway but Dr. Griffin was a godsend for this too. She helped me figure out that I could be something else they needed, as a friend instead. And I like seeing them happy. It just hurt like hell for a while.” 

He looks sad, even if just at the memories, and Eliot — he wants, suddenly, to tell Quentin that he’s not alone in this, that Eliot also knows the particular hell that is getting your heart broken. “I was dating Mike, you know,” he says, and watches Quentin’s pretty brown eyes go wide. It makes him laugh every bit as bleakly as Quentin did a moment ago. “Oh yeah. I know there have been rumors ever since I came out after he went solo, but he still plays the heterosexual stud so that’s all they are. You’re not gonna go tell the tabloids, are you?” 

“I — no, of course not!” Quentin says, indignant, and Eliot ruffles his hair. Which only gets him an even more indignant scowl. God, this boy is unfairly cute.

“I know. I was kidding. He broke up with me by quitting, you know. Didn’t give me a word of warning, just made the public announcement. And then I went to his apartment and demanded answers… and I caught him in bed with a woman. He likes women every bit as much as men and I knew that, but the only woman I’d have been willing to have with us is Margo and they hated each other.”

“You think that’s why…” Quentin says, and there’s something wary in his voice.

“Hmm? Oh, no. At the time I did think that must have been part of it but I’ve dated a couple other bi guys since and I figured out that’s not how it works, he was just a dick. And it’s easier for him to only date women and play straight, it works for his image, which is probably the main reason for it. Even if it’s not quite the fake out for him it was for me, you know? Anyway, I just meant… I get it. Heartbreak fucking sucks.” 

Quentin smiles, and this time the smile is fond, not sad. “I can punch him in the nose if I ever meet him? Although I’m not very good at punching so that won’t do much.” 

Eliot blinks, staring at Quentin for a moment, completely at a loss, and then he bursts out laughing. “Much as I’d like to see that, I’d rather not have to see you arrested, Q.” Quentin laughs too and that —

That right there, the sound of their laughter is —

Eliot flags down a cab. “I’ve got it, come on,” he says, jumping into the cab and tugging Quentin after him, his mind already half lost to the music again.

<><><>

Margo knows that twitchy look on Eliot’s face. Quentin grabbed a couple hours’ sleep on the couch, she can tell because he looks drowsy yet, still wrapped in the afghan that usually lives on the back of said couch. But Eliot has clearly not slept at all, the way he gets when the music is loud in his head, and now it’s reaching the stage where he can’t focus on the actual world. 

“Hey. Baby Q,” Margo says, just because she wants to see how he’ll react. She isn’t disappointed; when she says it, Quentin blushes like a tomato. It’s fun to watch. “You and me are going on a breakfast run. Right now.” 

“Oh, uh, I don’t —” He’s already looking at his notebook with an expression a little like Eliot’s when he needs to get his hands on piano keys or guitar strings. Great, Margo has two of them. Well, that’s all the more reason to take Quentin with her, because the idea of dealing with two sleep and food deprived creative types at the same time is the kind of thing her nightmares are made of. 

“We all need coffee, and Mama doesn’t like too much hangry in her living space. So let’s go, Coldwater.” 

He scrambles to his feet and gets his shoes back on pretty quickly, enough that Margo finds herself thinking idly, good boy, we should keep this one. She turns the thought over in her head while Quentin brushes his teeth and Eliot hums and mutters over his musical notes. And — hmm. It’s only been a day, so far, but the thing is, she remembers Mike. She remembers Eliot going fucking starry-eyed over Mike. And it had been fine, it had been cool, because they needed a lyricist and Mike was a decent one. Good even, when he was on his game, though never as great as he thought he was. 

Eliot’s music elevated his lyrics — without the music, Mike McCormick would never have approached anything like great. Margo’s listened to his solo stuff, that for some reason continues to do well. And it’s good, it’s fun enough, whatever. But it’s never as good as The Enchanters’ stuff was. 

But the point is, they’d needed someone like Mike, so virtue of necessity, all that. Margo’s never understood what Eliot saw in him that made him worth dating, but that had only really become her business when the fucker broke El’s heart. The truth, though, the one Eliot tried to deny, but they both knew was true, was that even at their very first meeting Mike didn’t fit with them. 

And, OK, fine, that wasn’t entirely necessary for work or dating. She and Eliot are both picky enough people that they long ago decided the deal-breaker was mere tolerance of anyone one of them gets serious about, because actual liking set the bar unreasonably high.

Except that Eliot had also never clicked with Josh, and given how Margo just finished writing out the last check to her divorce lawyer, well. She’s starting to think that anyone who doesn’t actually click with them both isn’t a keeper. And Mike had never clicked with her. She’d accepted him, but from day one — hell, from hour one — something had rubbed her wrong. Some of it had been jealousy that her El wasn’t being kept to herself anymore, yes, Margo can admit that in hindsight. 

But not all of it. 

It’s too soon to tell, but Quentin Coldwater seems to be clicking with both of them. Ergo, if that continues, they should keep him in some capacity or another, Margo decides. She’ll have to keep an eye on the situation as it develops, see what happens. For right now, it’s good enough that Quentin is out of the bathroom fairly quickly, his hair pulled back in a sloppy man bun, his messenger bag already slung over his shoulder. 

“You don’t need to bring that with you on a breakfast run, you know,” Margo says, raising her eyebrows. 

“I know but I pretty much take it everywhere. I don’t even feel totally balanced without it,” Quentin says, ducking his head so that a loose bit of hair slides over his face. He smiles a little, tucking that piece back behind his ear. “That was a joke, but you know.” 

“Right,” Margo says, oddly tempted to ruffle his hair. “Hey, El! We’re getting breakfast, what do you want?” she calls over her shoulder. Eliot doesn’t respond except to wave a hand at her, not even looking up from his paper. He pauses, shakes his head and taps a key on the electric keyboard, growls at either the page or the note and starts again.

“Did… that mean something?” Quentin asks, leaning into Margo’s space a little to ask it, and when she looks over he’s got a conspiratorial little grin on his face. Margo snorts and grabs his wrist, towing him out the door. 

“OK, Coldwater,” she says. “Yes, it did mean something, or at least I already know what Eliot eats from the café in question, so it counts. Also, smart-ass.” 

“I get the feeling you guys like that though?” 

“Only to a point,” Margo says, narrowing her eyes at him. Quentin shrugs but doesn’t seem to take her too seriously, which at the moment is a good thing. If she ever really wants to put the fear of God into him that will be another matter, but for now… For now, it’s more fun if he goes along with it. 

“So…” she says as they head down the street. “Fillory fanfiction, huh?” 

“Oh God,” Quentin groans. “Look, it’s not that I’m ashamed of it, because I’m really honestly not, but I will say that it’s kinda embarrassing to be caught out on it by, you know. People I just met.” 

“I mean, the stories are pretty good. We listened to the podfics — you know you’ve made it when more than half of your stories get podfics, by the way — but I’ve been known to decompress with a good fic when there’s time for it.” 

Quentin actually stops, staring wide-eyed at her, which Margo will admit was part of the reason she said it. She knows she doesn’t look like the nerdy type, it was one of the goals of her high school career to wipe clean any traces of nerdery from her outward persona. But she enjoys revealing it at the right time. This is definitely the right time to tell Quentin — she is very much enjoying their new boy’s shock. And it’s only going to get better.

“What - you - really?” Quentin stammers. 

“Yes, me, really. Now come on, we’re disrupting the flow of traffic. Actually,” she says, looping their arms and getting them moving again, “I was a big fan of the Fillory books growing up, and the fic is some of my favorite mental comfort food. I wanted to be Ambassador to the Fillorian Outer Islands when I was a kid, you know. In fact…” 

She grins at him, all mischief, and Quentin says, “I have a feeling I should be worried about that grin.” 

“Oh, you absolutely should be. I am HighKingBitch, FillorianKnight,” she tells him triumphantly, because the two of them have been chatting off and on via Tumblr DM for three years. 

It all started when they’d had a 100-comment thread on one of his fics discussing the only vaguely implied in the books fact that the Fillorian kings and queens could each have a husband and a wife. That was mostly because the story in question had involved Quentin’s original character High King and secondary king discovering that they could marry each other despite the High King’s wife, who he had married for political reasons. She’d been the leader of a rebel movement against the Dark King, and their marriage was part of the truce made between the Children of Earth and native Fillorians to overthrow the bad guy. 

It had been a pretty good story, actually, but even if it had been horrible, reading it was worth it for the way Quentin goes tomato red and starry eyed all at the same time. “Wait, that was you? Oh my God, that’s really cool, I - wow. I can’t — I’ve wanted to meet you in person since — wait.” 

Quentin stops, blinks. “How did I not realize — you did my podfics! How did I not recognize your voice?” 

“Oh, well, I edit the shit out of that, keeps my editing skills sharp between freelance jobs. Eliot laughs at me, but I get him to come up with those little musical intros he does to keep his skills sharp now that he spends most of his time tweaking existing shit for cover albums.” 

Telling him all this is even more fun than she’d thought, honestly, even if it does mean she has to tow him along the sidewalk. “How do you think I managed to have so many different voices, if I wasn’t editing that stuff to hell and back? I do decent mimicry, but not that good, honey. Although I have some ideas for And No One Knows Yet, which I didn’t do yet, but I am absolutely going to now.” 

And No One Knows Yet being the one with the huge comment thread. Margo hadn’t done it because of all the original characters being harder to find voices for, but she has ideas now. 

Sweet little King Tristan needs to sound like Quentin, for one example. High King Alexander… She’s kind of thinking about Eliot, although that will probably kill Quentin and Eliot will very possibly kill her. It might be worth it, really.

They make it to the coffee shop and Margo takes care of her order and Eliot’s — the latter of which makes Quentin’s eyebrows go up when he hears the coffee order. “I’m sure that tastes fantastic but how does he not end up on a sugar rush after that?” he asks once he’s ordered his own breakfast sandwich and a coffee with vanilla and Irish cream. 

“I mean, he does but that’s kind of the point, it’s his go-to coffee option when he’s in crunch time,” Margo explains, and because Quentin’s brought his messenger bag, she has him put it to use for the box of assorted muffins she got, so that they have those to snack on over the course of the day. Hey, guys ask girls to hold shit in their purses all the time, in Margo’s opinion it’s only fair to do things the other way around. 

“We’re on a deadline, so he’s gonna want to power right through it,” she continues as a very helpful stranger holds the door for them to leave. “Back in the day, we’d use more illicit substances for that kind of thing, but we’re both better at that now. Caffeine, sugar, and alcohol are the only things we go for these days. Also, access is harder than it used to be, which definitely helps us behave.” 

If this works out, access to whatever the fuck they want won’t really be a problem anymore, but Margo doesn’t think it will be a problem. She and Eliot have both come too far together to fuck it up now. 

“I mean, most shit is too much of a risk with my antidepressants, so I’ve, like… never tried much?” Quentin says with a shrug as they head back down the sidewalk. “Also, I spent most of my time with Alice and Jules, it wasn’t really either of their things, you know?” 

“Right. Julia’s your best friend and Alice is her wife?” Margo asks, trying to remember what he’d said on the subject. 

“Yeah. Alice and I dated last year of high school, first year of college, it didn’t work out, and then they hit it off better than we did, so, you know.” 

There’s definitely more to that story — in fact Margo knows there’s more to that story because while Quentin was on their terrace filling Julia in on where he’d disappeared to last night, Eliot had told her a little about it. 

“I told him about Mike, Bambi. I don’t know why, he just — he asked, and suddenly there I was pouring my heart out with his big brown eyes staring at me. And then he tells me about how his girlfriend left him for his best friend, and he ended up best man at their damn wedding last year, like who does that?”

That sounds miserable, and Margo tries to imagine a universe where she’d ever have the grace to do the same thing. She comes up empty, which makes her think Quentin must really care about both of them. Or he’s just a much nicer person. Probably both of those things are true, really. “And now the three of you run a bookstore,” is all that she says out loud, though. 

“Yep,” Quentin says. “Hence my very large collection of book fandom t-shirts. It seemed appropriate.” 

Margo has to laugh. “OK, I can see that. What is that one today?” she asks, nodding toward the red shirt with the golden lion on it. “Because at first I thought it was House Lannister, but it doesn’t look quite right for that. Or for Gryffindor, they’re both pretty distinctive.” 

“Oh! Alanna the Lioness, she’s a lady knight in this series of books called Song of the Lioness, they’re by Tamora Pierce. Actually, the shirt I was wearing the first time I came over was also from a Pierce book, the sigil of Keladry of Mindelan, the second lady knight after Alanna. I have a ton of Pierce shirts — they were Jules’ favorite for most of our teenage years, so I sorta picked them up and then I loved them too. Not quite Fillory for me but I do a reread every year or two, they’re just really good books and kinda soothing even though some of the stories look at some darker shit.” 

Talk of Tamora Pierce and her two fictional universes gets them back to the apartment and through the unloading of food. “Watch this,” Margo says with a sly smile, picking up Eliot’s coffee and sailing over to where he’s still sitting bent over his work. Margo glances over to see Quentin watching, curious and a little amused, before she waves the cup in front of Eliot’s face. 

Immediately, his head snaps up, narrowly missing a collision with his coffee. “Wh — wait, where did the latte come from?” Eliot says blearily even as he makes grabby hands for the cup. Margo smirks as she hears Quentin try to muffle his giggles over in the kitchen. Eliot looks between them, making a face. “Are you two ganging up on me? Bambi, we’ve only had him a day and a half, you’re not allowed to corrupt him already.”

“I can corrupt whoever I wish. Anyway, I’ve known FillorianKnight for three years, I totally have the prior claim.” 

“His best friend told us he had every one of my CDs, which means I have the prior claim,” Eliot argues, then takes a long drink from his coffee cup. Margo glances at Quentin to see his eyes are following the line of Eliot’s throat which is… definitely interesting after the way he was looking at her at El’s show. 

No, no, bad idea. She misses sharing boys with El, but they need this one. Maybe after the song’s written. 

That’s when Quentin notices the newspaper on the counter and flinches hard enough he drops his sandwich. On the counter, luckily, so he can still eat it. “Hey, what’s up there?” Margo asks. 

“Oh, uh, it’s… it’s nothing,” Quentin mutters, crumpling up the page. Then he blinks down at the wad of paper. “Shit, uh, sorry, one of you was probably still waiting to read that, I didn’t — I — that is —” 

“Hey,” Eliot says in a soft voice, coming over and taking the paper ball from Quentin, tossing it in the trash. “Talk to us Q, because you’re being a little insane right now, and we kinda need you to be sane. What’s going on?”

“Um.” Quentin clears his throat, then reaches into the trash can to unroll the little ball. The woman on the page — a book review, it looks like - is unfamiliar, with bright red hair. “I… I know her.” 

And even just saying that simple sentence, he looks utterly miserable. Margo kind of wants to hug him, or more appropriately for her skill set, to find whoever is responsible for that reaction and hurt them. 

Shit. The damn boy is growing on her too, isn’t he?

<><><>

God, why is he such a useless asshole? If he’d just been able to ignore Poppy’s picture like a normal fucking person, then he wouldn’t now have Eliot and Margo — holy shit, this is even more embarrassing now that he knows it’s his oldest celebrity crush and his favorite fandom friend, what the actual fuck — staring at him with a combination of worry and exasperation. 

“OK, so, I already mentioned at least some of this to both of you but after Alice left me and ended up dating Julia I was… I did not take it well,” he explains. “I’d been — like — I was hospitalized twice in high school for depression shit, it wasn’t until the second semester of my last year of college that I finally really got on as even a keel as I’ll ever get. So I was really, really fucked up over the Alice and Julia thing, back in sophomore year of college. Which is not and never was their fault, I’m not saying it was.” 

“We didn’t think you were, Q,” Eliot says with a gentleness Quentin is still astonished that he possesses. It’s — this all still feels fucking unreal, like a romance novel he would write. Except for the part where this is not a romance, and he knows that, and even thinking about it that way is a really fucking bad idea. 

He clears his throat, tugging the hair tie off so that he can run a hand through his hair. “So, anyway, I didn’t take it well and I made some mistakes, fucked around with some people who were not good for me, like, at all. Guys and girls, I’m bisexual, but I was really kind of the stereotype of bisexuals will fuck anything with a pulse for that semester. Like, as much as an awkward nerd can manage to be that particular stereotype. Anyway.” 

“Anyway, who’s the redhead and am I gonna want to go punch her after this?” Margo prompts, and the offer of violence actually startles a laugh out of Quentin. 

“Um, that’s… No, probably not. So, Poppy Kline, she was in one of my writing classes, and we hit it off talking about dragons in fantasy literature. She has a real Thing for dragons, like every sex toy she owned was dragon themed, it was a little weird. Anyway, we hooked up for a while, until I found out she had a boyfriend… Well. Sort of. She was cheating on me with him — we weren’t dating, but we’d both said we weren’t seeing other people and would let each other know if we did for, like, safety reasons and shit - and it turned out he was cheating on his girlfriend with her. But he predated me, and also she knew about the girlfriend.” 

“That is… supremely twisted and fucked up,” Eliot says, “and I had a bad habit for a while of seducing people’s boyfriends, so if I think it’s overkill…” He stops, making a face. “I mean, I was a dick back when I did that shit, and I don’t anymore, but still. Even at my worst, that’s more tangled than I’d have managed. If you don’t mind my asking though, if it wasn’t that serious, why are you still so fucked up about it? That was like a decade ago now, wasn’t it?”

Quentin, who remembers one particular encounter where Poppy pegged him while wearing nothing but a coat identical to the one Eliot wore in the first Enchanters music video, is really thinking he regrets this conversation, but having started it, he does need to finish it. “No, it. It wasn’t the break-up. It was what happened after. Like, OK, I cut things off, I went back to burying myself in schoolwork instead of fucking around… but then, six months later, Poppy gets published. Her first book.” 

He taps the crumpled newspaper page. “This is for the third in the series - The Dragonborn?” 

“Oh! I remember now,” Margo says. “They were this sudden huge hit, a cross between Game of Thrones and Anita Blake, which is… really kind of fucking impressive. But what was the big deal about the books?” 

Quentin makes a face. “I’m… in them. There’s this character, Jake, he’s a creative writing major who gets himself tangled up in the supernatural underworld. And the way she sums him up is… ‘he thought he was a hero because he knew all the tropes, but in the real world Jake was completely useless. And he couldn’t even redeem himself with his writing — he could mimic Tolkien or Chatwin, Herbert or Martin, but stripped of someone else’s literary clothes, he was a soulless, talentless imitation of a writer.’” 

God, he hates how the words are still burned into his memory. He hadn’t even liked Poppy all that much, he certainly hadn’t been in love with her or anything. So why the fuck can her stupid books affect him like this?

“Wait. How do you know this Jake guy was you?” Eliot asks. 

“Well, he looks like me, he’s got all my habits. I mean, I definitely use bits and pieces of people in my stories, that’s a thing that happens. It’s normal, most people I know do it, but she… I don’t know. Every time I pick up a pen or sit at my computer, it’s like I can still hear those words, in her fucking voice. And I got used to it enough to keep writing, like you said it’s been a decade but… But it still… Every time I see anything related to her or her work it all just comes flooding back.” He’s looking down at his hands on the counter, not wanting to see the pity or the scorn he’s sure they must feel. Because, God, he knows it’s pathetic, he really does. He just can’t shake it, is the thing. 

Then there’s a long arm wrapped around his shoulders, reeling him in. Quentin can’t do anything but lean into Eliot’s one-armed hug, though he does try not to cling too much when he hugs him back. “First off, I read enough of your work to know that’s bullshit, and she’s wrong about your writing, even with fanfic included. Second off, fuck her and the horse she rode in on. Or dragon, as the case may be.”

“Seriously, Q, she’s got no room to talk. One of her characters is pregnant with a dragon-human hybrid baby, which is just fucking creepy,” Margo says. “Anyway, the best thing to do with haters is to prove them wrong. Write a hit song.” 

“Somehow, I don’t think she’s going to care about a song,” Quentin says dryly, regretting it when Eliot lets him go and looks down his nose at him instead. 

“Oh, I see. You’re being one of those snobby bookworms, who thinks one kind of writing is better than another,” Eliot says archly, and suddenly Quentin can, can see him as a character in a fantasy novel, a king on his throne somewhere. Margo hops up on the counter, watching them with a wicked grin, and he can see the same of her, lounging on the throne next to Eliot’s, the two of them joint monarchs of all they survey. 

It — it’s really an image, one that makes his belly and his throat tighten, makes his face go hot with a blush. “No, that’s not —” 

“Hush, Coldwater,” Margo says, poking him in the arm.

“I guarantee you,” Eliot declares. “There is not a book in the world that can make you feel as good, as fast, as the opening chords, the first words, of your favorite song. Whatever that may be. So I say to you, sir, don’t be a literary snob. And let’s get this fucking song written, prove all our haters wrong. What do you say?” 

Well. What can he say to that except, “I think that sounds like a great idea.”