Chapter Text
Quentin stares at the tomato-sized puddle spreading toward his bare feet. When the cold water trickles under the calluses of his toes, he yelps, flinching back.
He feels like he has an entirely new understanding of the phrase “tip of the iceberg” now.
His first attempt was with a blunt knife he'd ransacked from the kitchen. He wasn't sure what kind of knife it was, only that it was the kind Eliot allowed him to use for buttering toast and cutting sandwiches. Truthfully, though, weeks have passed since Quentin’s done anything less straightforward than peeling an orange. But during the early days, when magic was new, he remembers he’d cut his own sandwiches because he’d done it all wrong according to Eliot.
Since El decided tailored meal service was in his mentorship wheelhouse, Quentin broke morning bread in Margo's company while Eliot worked the kitchen, dropping food before them as casually as he tapped the ash from his cigarettes. But there was nothing casual about the extravagant spreads Eliot spoiled them with. Even Margo was impressed, commenting how "superfluously ambitious" El was after last night's dinner, which Quentin can't even begin to describe. He'd jumped to add—it was hard to remember, he'd been floating on nine o'clock champagne bubbles—that the meal had been Tolkienesque, and his outburst had made Eliot's mouth crumple in a crooked smile.
Quentin had planned to use the knife like a chisel. As he started chipping away, he began to realize his mistake. He hurried back to the kitchen, turning the gas stove on high. He threw a flat-bottomed sauce pan on the leaping flames, half-expecting Eliot to spring out of a cabinet to chastise him. "This is Andalusian copper, Q. Do you want to treat her like a two-cent whore from Target?"
Quentin grabbed the pan once it seemed hot enough. He swung the pan at the block like a baseball bat, and steam wafted back into his face when the heat touched the ice. As the pan and ice hissed, a fracture no bigger than Quentin's pinkie finger formed on the smooth, cold surface.
He's just frustrated enough from the embarrassment of his failure to remember he's in magic school. Quentin rolls his eyes. Of course. A problem caused by magic can be fixed by magic. He tuts out a miniature sun, rolling its light over the block of ice like a flamethrower.
No dice.
Quentin retreats to the kitchen, pouring dirt from Margo's potted houseplant and grease from Eliot's jar of bacon drippings into a bowl. He stirs the mixture with the blunt knife and some tap water, then smears the tincture on the block of ice. He mumbles the incantation for Une Chaleur Temporaire and stares impatiently, waiting for the ice to melt. Two minutes and forty-three seconds later, a thin trickle of water slides down the block. A small puddle gathers at his chilly, exposed feet.
Quentin grits his teeth, pointing his finger at the ice. Miniature fireworks shoot out like silks from a magician's sleeve and land with a puff of smoke on the ice, sizzling into air as soon as they touch the surface.
Quentin runs up the stairway to pound on Margo's door.
Nothing.
He stares at Alice, her frozen expression torn between shock and fury. The attack had evidently surprised her, the sudden panic preserved in the severe arch of a ghostly eyebrow. He swallows, wondering if she's watching him. Her body isn't transmogrified into ice, only incased in it like an insect in amber. A thought breaks through the static of his head, and Quentin grabs a dictionary off one of the shelves that line the common room, looking up hypothermia with shaking hands.
Suddenly overwhelmed with guilt, he wraps his arms around the block of ice. He shivers in the cold embrace, but his resolve only builds. With a burst of strength, he begins to drag Alice toward the kitchen, planning to get her in front of an oven, the stove, anything—
The block of ice remains unmoved, its blank surface taunting Quentin with the reflection of his own miserable face. He swings his fist down on the ice, then reels back with a muffled scream. He clutches his hand to his chest, wondering if he broke his knuckles.
Out of the corner of his eye, Quentin sees Eliot appear on the landing, puffing on a joint. Eliot's eyes fall on Alice, and he floats down the stairs without comment. He gives Quentin a sympathetic smile, brushing his hand across the nape of Quentin's neck. Quentin leans into his touch, shoulders relaxing from where they’d been bunched against his ears.
Eliot sniffs, turning toward the kitchen. "Did someone leave the stove on?"
"Yeah." Quentin stares at Alice. "I think I broke my hand, Eliot."
Eliot clicks off the stove telekinetically, then moves his hand down to gently take the fist Quentin had been cradling to his chest.
"Oh dear," Eliot chides, inspecting the hand. He meets Quentin's eye, frowning. "Hold still."
He tuts over the bruises spreading under Quentin's skin, muttering under his breath. Suddenly, the pain leaches out his hand and Quentin sighs with relief. He stares at his pink knuckles—it's like the punch had never landed in the first place.
He looks back up, puffing with excitement. "Magic, it's just, it's—it's just really nice, you know?"
Eliot nods, the corners of his mouth wobbling with amusement. "Well, it is nice to be nice."
Eliot turns his attention to the pillar of ice, glancing between Quentin and Alice. He rests the palm of his hand against Quentin's chest, guiding him back. "Okay, don't try this at home, kids," he says, winking at Quentin.
The block of ice levitates into the air then glides forward, trailing behind Eliot as he opens the door to the Cottage and steps outside. Quentin scrambles to follow, watching as Eliot deposits the ice smoothly on the patio.
Quentin hovers next to Eliot, knees weak with excitement. "Holy shit, El. I, it's—" He puffs again, catching Eliot's smug look. "I mean, holy shit!"
He circles the block of ice, almost overheating with the scope of the magic he'd just seen.
He stops, staring at Eliot again. "You didn't even tut!"
He touches the ice thoughtfully. "You know this is easily—I mean easily over, like, two hundred pounds, right? And it's taller than Alice, like, it can't be under six feet. You know that, right?” He walks himself in a circle around nothing, hands groping the air. “Fuck!"
He shoots Eliot a grateful look, stepping closer. “Thank you. You saved her life.”
Eliot waves him off. “Think nothing of it.” He pauses, taking a drag from his blunt. “It seems like our sweet Alice is doing just fine on her own.”
Quentin glances back, and sure enough, the light bouncing off the chrome of Eliot’s grill is growing bright enough to make them squint. “Wait, is she—is she using that like a magnifying glass? Like pulling the light into a beam or something?”
Eliot motions with his blunt. “Look at her right hand. She’s going to melt the ice there so she can tut the hell out of a spell our small minds probably overlooked.” He blows a smoke ring, eyes on the clouds above them. “Good for her.”
“Great.” Quentin keeps staring at the grill, blinking slowly. “Should we stay, or?”
“That depends. Are you hungry?”
“Um, yeah.”
Eliot puts his blunt out on the patio’s ashtray. “Want pancakes?”
“Like, how is that even a question? Of course I want your pancakes.”
“That’s the correct answer, yes.” Eliot opens the Cottage door for Quentin, bowing at the waist. “Beauty before age.”
Quentin snorts, though he doesn’t think it’s a funny joke.
As Eliot mixes the batter— “The trick is to stir sparingly, Q. Until everything is just combined. And, of course, to have your wet and dry ingredients mixed in separate bowls before. It’s so simple, but many a man has died from a heavy-handed whisk.” —he tells Quentin that Alice and Margo had “a lover’s spat” last night. He looks at Quentin carefully the whole time, like he might be re-opening a recent wound.
Technically, Alice and Quentin had been together since Brakebills South. But they’d only felt like a real couple, at least to Quentin, since they’d agreed to open their relationship. It was mutual, he told Eliot and Margo, who rolled her eyes. And, even better, it was mutually good for them. He’d had a moping period, sure, because everyone knew that an open relationship meant Alice would get to date other people, but Quentin wouldn’t. He’d just shrug it off if anyone cared enough to question him about it. He’d tell the truth anyway, even if it hurt: “I don’t think anyone is really in the market for Quentin Coldwaters, so I’m lucky to have a friend like Alice.”
“Pathetic.” Margo, sipping a cocktail. “I didn’t think you could set a new world record, honey, but you went and proved me wrong.”
“Hush, Bambi,” Eliot purred, stroking her hair reverently. They were tangled up on the couch, soothing matching hangovers with hair of the dog and cuddling. “What she meant, Quentin, was that she adores you—” Margo made a noise of dissent, but Eliot kissed the top of her head. “—and that we’re simply baffled how your adorable ass keeps making the absolute worst decisions.”
Quentin grumbled into his omelette, stuffing his mouth because he couldn’t think of an appropriately witty response. Also, it was the best omelette he’d ever had, and he was hungry, so.
As Eliot watches the griddle closely, spatula posed above the pale dots of batter— “The trick is not to play with it. Turning them over a thousand times toughens even the fluffiest pancake. Flip them once, if you can. And you can because they’ll tell you when they’re ready. The bubbles—see that?—tell you.” —he doesn’t tell Quentin that Alice broke Margo’s heart last night. How Alice had been unexpectedly cruel, and Margo had lashed out.
While he’s stacking three golden pancakes on Quentin’s plate, he doesn’t tell him that Alice blames Eliot for the awkwardness that plagues Quentin whenever he tries to reach for her.
He doesn’t tell Quentin that she implied he was cheating on her. With Eliot, of all people. He drizzles boysenberry syrup into a smiley face, startling a laugh out of Quentin.
Alice’s suspicions couldn’t be farther from the truth. Quentin clinks his fork with Eliot’s, forgetting to put his napkin in his lap.
Quentin wants Alice. Eliot smiles around his bite of pancake as Quentin asks, “Is it okay if I lick the plate? That makes it sound like I’m two years old, but, like. Can I?”
He doesn’t want Eliot. “Why don’t I make some more instead? How does that sound?”
But Eliot wants him.