Chapter Text
"What did you do?"
"Just some minor mending."
Strong arms wrapped around Eliot's torso, hauling him towards the exit of the mirror realm. Quentin's name tore from Eliot's lips in a scream that echoed across the mirror realm, ricocheting off every shard; guttural. It clawed at his throat, scratching it raw. He fought against Penny's arms, kicked and screamed and scrambled to free himself, digging his unkempt nails into Penny's flesh. The traveller let out a curse, his grip slacking, and Eliot took his chance. He lunged forward, ensnaring Quentin's wrist in a tight grip, all but yanking him from the room. Sparks flew everywhere, carving through them both in agonising shards of ragged glass, but Eliot pushed forward. Quentin stumbled, collapsing, blood blooming against the fabric of his clothes, but Eliot refused to stop. He held Quentin under his arm and outstretched his hand to Penny, who travelled them out of the dimension, shards of the minor mending spell hot on their heels.
Hardwood flooring met Eliot's body, knocking the air out of his lungs, and he gasped, desperate for air. Beside him lay Quentin's lifeless body, his clothes caked in a terrifying scarlet; Eliot couldn't get up fast enough.
"Quentin- no-no-no-no-no Quentin please- " he pleaded, rolling Quentin onto his back and putting an ear to his chest. No breathing. No heartbeat. Instinct from his days on the farm kicked in, and his hands found their way to Quentin's sternum. He could do this: thirty chest compressions, two rescue breaths. Rinse and repeat. He felt Quentin's ribs crack beneath his hands, and somewhere, deep within him, his own heart broke the same way.
Hot tears blurred his vision, spilling down his face, and he hastily rubbed his eye on his shoulder, never once stopping compressions. "Come on Quentin, wake up, don't give out on me now-"
Penny placed a calloused hand on Eliot's shoulder- it felt like a lead brick. "Eliot. He's gone," he said, sotto voce, loss accumulating in his throat.
Eliot shook him off, shaking his head. "No." he refused, defiant, still pressing on Quentin's chest. "No, I can't lose him. Not now. Not now. Not-" he lifted his hands to form a spell, slamming it into Quentin's chest. It travelled along his ribs, glowing an electric gold, before fizzling out.
No.
He slammed another spell into Quentin's chest just as someone behind him let out a broken cry, a blonde blur collapsing beside Quentin's body. Alice. She was crying, whispering streams of denial, her hands moving deftly to form spells, just as Eliot's were.
"Come on Q, come back to me, please" he pleaded, slamming spell after spell into his chest - healing, revival, replenishment: anything even remotely close, he cast.
"PLEASE!" Something hot ran over his top lip, scarlet droplets staining his hands as they fell in a steady stream from his nose.
"Eliot," someone began- Margo, her soft voice warbling through the goldfish bowl that had enclosed around his mind- "Eliot, stop,"
He couldn't. Wouldn't. He had spent so long running from the truth, from the boy that he... loved. He couldn't lose him now. Not after everything. He slammed another spell into Quentin, sobbing, dizzy from the blood that had now stained his shirt. His hands were starting to blur - he was going to Niffin out. Not that he cared. He'd spend forever as a Niffin if it meant Quentin would start breathing again. "Please," he sobbed, collapsing over Quentin, beating his chest weakly with his fists, exhausted. "I can't lose you now- not- not after everything- not after peaches and plums and Ariel and Teddy and the key and- god... please. Come back to me,"
"El," Margot breathed, gently - oh so gently- prying him off of the boy before him. The boy that he loved too late. The boy that had sacrificed himself.
The boy that was long gone.
He leaned back against her, his hands shaking, stained red with blood that wasn't just his own. Her arms were steely around him, grounding him in reality; the painful truth.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," she whispered, rocking the both of them as painful, heaving sobs wracked Eliot's body, his face in her neck. "I'm so sorry,"
He couldn't tell who she was speaking to as she said it.
Around the room, people were weeping. Alice had sunk into the arms of Julia, whose tears were spilling into Alice's hair. Penny stood by the doorway, guilt written in his every expression. His hands fidgeted over one another - he didn't quite know what to do with them, to do with himself. Kady stood beside him, looking for all the world like she wanted to say something, but thought better of it.
Oppressive silence fell across the magicians, save for Eliot's ragged wails. It remained for what felt like hours until Alice finally spoke.
"We need to bury him. A proper burial. We owe him that."
Lifting his face from Margo's shoulder, Eliot stared at the blonde, glaring daggers. Margo's blouse was covered in his blood- he'd find a way to feel guilt about that later. The hardwood felt like brick beneath his knees, bruises forming from where he had slammed them into the ground with every spell he cast. He made his way over to where Quentin was still lying, his hair splayed around his head like a halo. He looked the most peaceful Eliot had seen him since... since he met him, actually. The anxious furrows that once marred his forehead had relaxed, and his glassy eyes no longer looked like they were calculating your next move so he could prepare for it. He looked almost entirely at peace.
Eliot hated it.
"Give me twenty-four hours to find a way to fix this."
The group at large looked at him like he was insane. No magician could beat death.
"Eliot, I don't-"
"TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. Or I swear to god I'll curse the goddamn lot of you."
Placing one arm beneath Q's knees, and the other at the small of his back, Eliot stood, lifting Quentin into his arms and cradling him close. Tears still streaming, he made to carry him out of the room. Eliot carried Q to his bed in the Physical Kid cottage- slowly ascending the stairs so as to not jostle the boy in his arms- and set him gently atop the duvet, stepping back.
"El?" Margo asked, placing a gentle hand on his bicep, "You okay?"
He wrapped his arms around his oldest friend, resting his head atop hers in their familiar stance. His eyes stung as he closed them, blinking away the tears that just wouldn't seem to stop. "Oh, Bambi," he all but whispered, "I don't think I can come back from this one,"
She placed a trembling hand on the forearms that wrapped around her shoulders, squeezing gently. Her voice wobbled, thick with tears. "I don't think I can either."
Margo turned in his arms, burying her face in Eliot's chest as she cried, hands clutching desperately at the ripped satin of his waistcoat. He rubbed circles on her back, holding her so tight, as though afraid to let go. Turning to rest his cheek on her hair, his eyes fell on where Quentin lay, lifeless.
Except.
"Bambi," he all but whispered, voice hoarse and weary, "Look at his arms,"
Margo ducked out from Eliot's embrace, wiping her tears with the tips of her fingers. As her gaze settled on the boy, her eyes grew wide.
His once pale skin was tinged with green, his arms slowly snaked around by strong green vines. Thorns grew in place of his nails, and wildflowers began to blossom in the curling ends of his silky locks. Greenery bloomed all around the lifeless boy; honeysuckle and brambles formed armour around Quentin, daisy petals settling on his feathery lashes, his lips a rosebud pink.
And there, in the bed Eliot fell for Quentin, lay a body refusing to rot.