Archive of Our Own ^beta

Quentin gets about thirty seconds alone in his bedroom in the cottage, before Eliot is bursting through the door without knocking. It's not that he wasn't expecting him to take it hard, but seriously - can he not give Quentin just a couple of minutes of peace?

"This isn't happening," Eliot says without preamble, slamming the door shut behind him. "I'm sorry, Q, but it's not."

"I honestly don't think it's your decision to make," Quentin says, running a tired hand over his face.

"Q," Eliot says. His eyes are bright with moisture and he sounds anxious. "Q, Why?"

Quentin sighs, looking away from him. Eliot's eyes are so expressive when he wants them to be, and he really doesn't want to look at that mournful pleading expression. It would be easier if he could convince himself he was vaguely pissed off, instead of hopelessly yearning.

"Magic is gone because of me. This is how I put it right."

"Bullshit. That's bullshit. You did not act alone, this is not all on you, you can't just give up everything - "

"Eliot," Quentin says, pinching between his brows. "I've made my choice, and I've explained myself to you, so I don't think there's any point in rehashing - "

"Quentin, what about the people who love you? How is this fair to Alice? And Julia? And - me? How can you - "

Oh, he cannot be fucking serious with that line of goddamn argument. Quentin is so tired. He's so tired and so angry and the way Eliot is looking at him right now is just completely unfair.

"What's the alternative?" he says, his voice hard. "Because all I can hear is you and everybody else telling me that I can't do this, but I'm not hearing a different plan."

"We come up with something. We come up with something together, Q, like we always do."

Quentin laughs, an unkind, humorless sound, and watches with grim satisfaction as it sets Eliot back on his heels. "Oh, sure. Together. That's - that's funny, coming from you."

And this has officially become dangerous territory, because Quentin has been very careful recently not to show any signs of anger or heartbreak. Everything is fine between him and Eliot. Everything is normal and great and - well, he'd say peachy, but that feels loaded. But if there's anyone in the world who can push Quentin's buttons, it's Eliot Waugh. Ever since that fucking rejection, and Eliot's pitying, condescending insistence that a relationship between them would be a stupid idea, Quentin has been trying his damndest to pretend that nothing ever happened. And most of the time, Eliot seems to be on the same page - but then he'll come bursting into Quentin's room with unshed tears pooling in his eyes and tell him that they'll find a way together, and...

Yeah. Quentin's just tired.

Eliot is frowning at him, half concerned, half angry. "I don't think that goddamn attitude is called for, Quentin. You're the one about to do something stupid and - and - " he cuts himself off. "You didn't think I'd really just be okay with this, did you?"

Quentin shrugs, feeling mean. "Why wouldn't you be? Besides, Eliot, it's not like I'm dying, I'm just - "

"But we'll never see each other again," Eliot says, like this is a fate worse than death, and Quentin hates him for being right about that. "We'll never - how are you okay with that? How can you be?"

"I'm not okay with anything, El, I'm just accepting that this is the reality of the situation."

"Well I'm not. I'm asking you - Q, I'm asking you to please fight for yourself. Can't you just - "

"No. Eliot, I think you should leave - " Quentin takes a step forward, pushing on Eliot's arm to try and spin him around and guide him towards the door of his bedroom, but Eliot is as immovable as stone.

"Have you really thought about it?" Eliot says. "Picture it, Quentin. You're going to spend the rest of your life - the rest of eternity, maybe, in the same place. Trapped, isolated from everything you've ever known. Stuck with just one central task, one you have to keep working on forever and ever and ever. One you'll never be able to finish, no matter how badly you want to be done."

Eliot is staring at him, something hard and purposeful in his eyes, and Quentin begs him silently to shut the fuck up, but Eliot is continuing: "Does any of that sound familiar? Fuck, Quentin, if there's anyone in the world who knows how shitty that is, it's you and me. You're going to sign yourself up for another pass at purgatory, this time with a new creepy setting and unsettling Big Bad included?"

For a moment, they're both silent, just staring at each other, and Quentin feels his stupid, bruised heart cracking again. It's been doing that a lot recently. This isn't the first time Eliot's said something like this in recent weeks, some negative allusion to their lifetime together, but it still stings every fucking time.

They're always little comments, oblique enough that nobody but Quentin could possibly understand them, but specific enough that Quentin always understands them. First it's 'go be life partners with someone else for a little while,' then it's Eliot shuddering dramatically at a piece of art or an outfit rendered in a pastel pallet, claiming that just the sight of those color combinations gave him trauma flashbacks, and then it's Eliot proudly trumpeting his newfound sexual freedom, since it seems his banishment from Fillory broke the magical fidelity contract with Fen, and lamenting Margo's fucked up marriage arrangement - 'a lifetime with the same person over and over and over again... we must find a way to spare Bambi from this most terrible of fates.'

And Quentin can do nothing but stare at Eliot's joking little smile, and remember sitting on the mosaic as he kissed Eliot for the first time, all of the nights in their empty-nester years when they'd fooled around under the stars, missing their son but happy for the privacy. He'd remember all of the daylights-sunsets-midnights-cups-of-(Fillorian)-coffee, the fucking pieces of an honest to god life together, a life he'd loved, and he'd flinch away from the pain of Eliot's dismissive attitude, reminding himself that it wasn't Eliot's fault that Quentin was such a needy little idiot.

But something about this now, something about Eliot standing here and telling him that staying at Blackspire is going to be a nightmare, as if he isn't already well aware of it, and comparing that to the life they had, the life that made Quentin happier that he ever thought was possible for him... well, it sets his blood boiling.

"Oh, excellent point, Eliot," Quentin sneers. "It never occurred to me that Blackspire was going to suck. Thanks for pointing that out. And while I'm at it, I'm sorry that you had to suffer so terribly for the quest, but you don't have to worry. I'm not going to drag you down with me this time, you're free to do whatever the fuck you want for the rest of your life."

"Excuse me?" Eliot says. "What the fuck are you - so now you're mad at me for pointing out the obvious? You don't want to do this, Q. You don't want to give up your life like this - "

"No, of course I don't. But I'm going to. And since we're never going to see each other again, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop making me feel like shit, for once. Think of it as a going away present."

This stupid and immature outburst doesn't rile Eliot up, the way Quentin was maybe kind of hoping it would. Instead, his incredulous anger falls away instantly, leaving genuine bewilderment and a little bit of hurt in its wake.

"I'm - not trying to make you feel like shit," Eliot says slowly. "Why would you say that?"

Quentin scoffs, turning away from Eliot so he doesn't have to meet his eyes. "I get that you were miserable there, but I wasn't," he admits finally, furious at the burning in his own eyes. "And every time you say something about it, about how awful the whole thing was, it makes me feel - I mean, can't you hear the way it sounds, from my perspective?"

He turns around to see Eliot staring at him with his eyebrows scrunched up. "Complaining about the mosaic was like - our favorite pastime when we were trapped there," he says. "It's revisionist history to pretend we both had a jolly good time with that fucking puzzle."

"It's not the puzzle," Quentin says. He's trying to figure out why this is the conversation they're suddenly having. Wasn't this supposed to be about Blackspire? The monster, the quest? And now here they are, Quentin saying things out loud he'd been trying very hard to keep to himself. Oh, well. He supposes it doesn't really matter if Eliot thinks he's the most pathetic asshole in the universe. After tomorrow, Eliot won't have to put up with him anymore.

So he takes a deep breath and he repeats himself, looking at Eliot as he goes on: "It's not the puzzle. It's all of it. It's our family and our life. You act like the whole thing is just one big goddamn joke to you, and I don't - sometimes it just feels like you're trying to hurt me, Eliot. And I can't figure out what I did to deserve that."

"I - would never. I would never," Eliot says, affronted but also clearly worried, "try to hurt you, Quentin. I don't - look, I wasn't trying to make you feel bad, I was just - "

"What?"

"I didn't want things to be weird. I was trying to brush over it, show you we could - talk about it, you know, without it being all awkward.  I was trying to make it not that big of a deal, so - "

"Well it is a big deal," Quentin says, cool as steel.

"Q - "

"It's a really fucking big deal to me, Eliot," Quentin says. He refuses to feel embarrassed about this, but he can feel the tender, bruised center of his heart flutter weakly in protest at this conversation. He wraps his arms around himself in a feeble attempt at protection. "Can you not understand that?"

Eliot's eyes are pained now, and he chews on his bottom lip for a moment, looking down at his feet and swallowing. Then he looks back up, blinking quickly. "Look, I remember them too," he says, quiet and tender. "I know how much you must miss them, because I do too, and I hate that I made you think that wasn't important to me. I'm really sorry."

Quentin stares at him for a moment, wondering if he's actually serious, and then grinds his jaw together when he decides that yes, Eliot's actually going to stick with this level of deliberate obtuseness. It really shouldn't be his job to spoon-feed Eliot the answers, here. Quentin's not the one who pushed for this conversation. He tries valiantly to keep his voice even as he replies. "I'm not talking about Arielle and Teddy."

"Then what - "

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Quentin interrupts, pulling a frustrated hand through his hair. Then he just decides - fuck it - and says it. "The person I love more than anything in the world broke up with me after fifty years together, Eliot. You ripped my heart out of my chest and then went about your business like it was nothing. And on top of that, it turns out that the only reason you were ever with me to begin with was because I was your only convenient option."

Quentin is silent for a moment, waiting for Eliot to say something - an awkward apology, maybe, an offer of hollow comfort. Eliot will lay off on the comments now, Quentin is certain of that, but he may have just made things worse instead of better, for both of them. Now Eliot's going to know how fragile he is. He's going to tip-toe around him, take pity on him for his pathetic little feelings. And then he's going to go right back to insisting that Quentin definitely doesn't know what's good for him, and he's going to keep trying to stop Quentin from staying at Blackspire.

He's already so goddamn tired - why couldn't Eliot just leave him in peace? Why had he pushed him into saying all of that?

It takes a while for Quentin to realize that Eliot isn't speaking, and he decides to risk a glance at him. What he sees freezes the blood in his veins. Eliot looks - he looks stricken, is the only word Quentin can think of for it, literally stricken, like someone has just slapped him hard across the face.

Quentin just looks at him, waiting for him to snap out of it, apprehensive now. Maybe that had been a bit harsh. It's not like it's Eliot's fault that their feelings aren't the same.

"El," he says, hesitantly. "I'm - it's okay, really, it's - " but he stops, astonished, because Eliot is bringing his hands up to cover his face, and he's - "Are you crying?"

Eliot doesn't answer, but - but he is, he's weeping into his hands, taking deep shuddering breaths, and Quentin acts on instinct, taking a few steps over to him and unwrapping the arms around his own stomach so he can put them around Eliot. The second he touches him, Eliot's hands drop from his face and he lurches backwards. "No, that's not what I meant," he says, and he sounds furious, but there's something else there too, something Quentin's having a hard time identifying.

"El," Quentin repeats, flinching slightly away from him. "I'm sorry - "

"Quentin," Eliot says urgently, taking a step forward then, his eyes big and round and leaking tears. "Quentin, I didn't mean it like that."

"I don't - "

"You're not convenient, Q. That's not. That's not what. I was trying to tell you that - Oh, fuck." His hands are back over his eyes again and his breathing is harsh in the otherwise quiet room.

"Um. Do you want to sit down?" Quentin asks. He has no fucking idea what he said to set Eliot off like this, and he's feeling irritatingly unsure about how to fix it. During their life together, Quentin had grown to know Eliot so intimately that he would have felt zero shyness about marching right up to him and holding him tight, or bullying him out of a sullen silence with a few harsh words.

Quentin had known Eliot once, known everything of him - or, he reminds himself with a painful lurch, he'd thought he'd known him. Eliot's reaction to Quentin's words in the throne room that day had changed everything. He knew now that he couldn't really trust a single memory of the way things had been between them. He, Quentin, had loved Eliot with his whole heart, and had truly believed that Eliot felt the same. But over the past few weeks he'd had to grapple with the fact that Eliot had accepted that love as the alternative to loneliness, and nothing more.

Eliot doesn't answer him directly, just lurches unsteadily over to the bed and sits down, his face still buried in his hands. Finally he speaks, with Quentin still standing awkwardly in front of him. "Is that why you - " he pauses, sniffs, and takes a few hitching breaths before continuing. "Is that why you're agreeing to stay in Blackspire? B-because of - because of me?" he sounds so small, so heart-breakingly sad. Quentin goes over to the bed and sits next to him, still hesitant to touch.

"No," he says, because while it might not be wholly true, he's not going to put that burden on Eliot. "No, Eliot. I'm not - look, I won't lie to you, I'm fucked up over it, over us, but I promise you that you're not the reason I'm taking Ora's place. This is the quest. It's my fault that magic is gone, and this is what I can do to make it right."

"But - if I hadn't - if you and I - " Eliot says, gulping around the words. It doesn't matter, Quentin really doesn't need him to finish. Eliot's asking if things would be different if they were still together. And Quentin can't exactly answer that, because he knows, as much as he wishes differently, that the answer is yes. "Oh, God," Eliot said, scrubbing his hand hard over his face. "Oh, God, Q."

"I don't want you feeling guilty," Quentin says. "I just - I'm exhausted, and when you said that thing about the mosaic being purgatory - I snapped, okay? It was inexcusable, and - "

"It's not your fault, though," Eliot says, looping back around to an earlier point. "Magic being gone, that's not all on you, you can't - "

"The quest demands sacrifice," Quentin says. "You and I should know that better than anyone, Eliot. You had to live your life trapped in one place, doing the same repetitive task again and again for five goddamn decades, and that was torture for you. You paid your share, now it's - "

"But I was happy there," Eliot says, trembling. He stands back up, tugging a hand through his hair and stepping away from Quentin on the bed. "I - I was happier there than I knew it was possible to be. Certainly happier than I deserved."

"Eliot."

"You think that was torture? Our life together?" Eliot demands, and he's finally looking straight at Quentin again, not bothering to hide the tears still pooling in his eyes. "God, Quentin, you should just kill me where I stand and get it over with."

"What the fuck are you - "

"I was trying to give you an out!"

Quentin honestly has no fucking idea what Eliot is talking about at this point, and he's starting to loop back around to seriously goddamn angry. This is his last night with Eliot, with any of his friends. Can't they just let bygones be bygones, maybe do some platonic cuddling while Quentin pretends his heart isn't breaking? He wants an out. He wants an out for this conversation, mostly, but he can't shut it down. Because Eliot is still crying.

"What does that mean, you were giving me an out?" he asks, barely a question, fighting for calm.

"I was scared," Eliot says. "I'm an idiot and an asshole, what the fuck else is new? I thought you knew that Quentin."

"Scared of - what?" Quentin says.

Eliot takes a couple of shuddering breaths and then tightens his jaw for a moment. "I was scared that if we tried to be together here, I'd screw everything up and I'd lose you entirely. And you - and now you think that I - what, that I never loved you? That everything we both remember was based on a lie?"

Quentin is trying valiantly to squash down the annoying amount of hope that's rising suddenly inside of him, because it doesn't matter. He focuses instead on the thread of anger, which is still pulsing through him along with everything else. "Well isn't that what you fucking said?" he snaps. "'That's not me, not when we have a choice'?"

"It's not you, Quentin. That's the whole point. You think you love me, but I'm not - I'm not worth that. You weren't supposed to want me, you - you deserve someone good and - and stable - and not a fucking fuck up."

"And you get to make that choice for me, do you?" Quentin asks. The anger is growing bright and hot inside him now, because the full implications of this conversation have just started to hit him.

Quentin's an insecure idiot, and Eliot... Eliot loves him.

Eliot is in love with him, and rejected him because he thought that Quentin didn't really mean it. And Quentin has been walking around utterly devastated for weeks, flinching at Eliot's easy-going attitude and joking references, and all this time... "I don't get a say in how I feel and what I want. Is that what I'm hearing?"

"I could have had you," Eliot says, the volume of his voice rising and pitching towards hysteria. "When you first came to Brakebills, I - I could tell you wanted it, and I resisted, because I cared about you and I knew I'd hurt you. God, I should have just stayed away when you kissed me at the mosaic, I should never have been so goddamn weak."

Quentin lurches up from the bed and towards Eliot, stopping himself just in time from slapping him across the face. "Take that back," he growls. "You goddamn bastard. You son of a bitch."

"Well look what happened, I fucked everything up and now you're trying to throw your life away - "

"You don't want to be with me here and now, that's fine," Quentin says. Yells. They're both yelling now. "But don't you dare try to erase our life together, I won't let you take that away from me, God damn it."

And now they're standing face to face, their noses inches apart, Eliot towering over him and angled down so they can stare right in each other's eyes. Eliot's are black with fury and pain so profound that it stirs something fragile loose inside of him. Quentin's about to burst into tears, he can feel it, but he doesn't want to. He wants to hold onto the anger because it's the least painful option available to him.

"Quentin," Eliot says, his voice low and gravelly and pissed off. He brings his hands up, and Quentin has just enough time to notice that they're shaking before he's putting them gently on either side of Quentin's face. The contrast between his body posture and the soft pressure of his fingers along Quentin's jaw is devastating. "Quentin, don't do it. Don't stay in Blackspire. If you do, it'll destroy me. I'll fucking die."

Quentin can't think of words to answer that. He's never been more angry in his life. So instead of saying anything, he brings a hand up and pulls on the back of Eliot's neck, yanking him down. And then he kisses him like he's about to go off to war.

Which, in a manner of speaking, he is.

Eliot gets with the program immediately, biting and sucking at Quentin's mouth with ferocious passion, pulling him in tight and pressing his tongue immediately into Quentin's mouth. It's the best thing Quentin's felt in weeks, it feels brand new and also not, so familiar that his toes are curling not just from the physical sensation of it, but from the way every molecule in his body knows how to respond, remembers this at some intrinsic level that goes beyond flesh.

"Quentin," Eliot moans, dropping his head down to Quentin's neck. "God, I've missed this, I've missed you - "

"Who's fucking fault is that?" Quentin says, and he pushes Eliot forward, practically stumbling in his haste to get him pressed up against the wall. Usually he loves that Eliot is taller than him but right now it's pissing him off - he wants to crowd Eliot into the wall and trap him there, wants to make him feel vulnerable and small and weak. It's a fucked up impulse, fucked up enough that he stops for a moment, pulling back slightly to catch his breath and stare up at Eliot, who stays pressed against the wall even without Quentin's weight holding him there.

The look on Eliot's face is - it's -

"My fault," Eliot says. "It's my fault, Quentin."

There's self-hate there, self-deprecation, but there's also so much ache and want in Eliot's eyes, and it's doing something very complicated to Quentin's body.

Quentin swallows. Coughs. Takes a step back towards Eliot, and then grabs one of his hands to tug him away from the wall. He spins them, puts himself up against the wall instead, and brings his hand up to rest lightly on Eliot's shoulder. "Well, good. I'm glad we're on the same page." And then, with absolutely no idea where any of this is coming from, he pushes on Eliot's shoulder, guiding him down to his knees.

Eliot drops instantly, like he wants it, like he's been waiting for it, and looks up at Quentin with wide, greedy eyes. "Holy fuck, Quentin." he says, and then, before Quentin can say anything else, Eliot is reaching for his belt buckle.

Quentin really, really likes sucking cock, and he knows he's good at it, but being on the receiving end isn't too shabby either. Especially, apparently, when he's unlocked some sort of latent top gene inside of himself, and especially when he can tell that it's really turning Eliot on. Eliot goes straight for it, swallowing him down and bobbing his head, no fancy tricks or slow build-up. Just kissing Eliot had gotten Quentin most of the way there, and within thirty seconds of Eliot's attentions he's rock hard and gasping, his hands clenched hard into Eliot's curls. He tugs at the hair grasped in his fists and Eliot moans, and redoubles his efforts.

Quentin is incredibly aware of how close he is to coming, and how fast this is going, but he's in some kind of crazy new head-space where the thought of it doesn't embarrass him. He doesn't want to slow down. What he wants in a way that's nearly painful, is to come down Eliot's throat - but he also doesn't want this to be over. He tugs hard on Eliot's hair twice, trying to signal him, but Eliot just groans again and swallows around Quentin's cock.

Quentin cries out, his hips stuttering into the heat of Eliot's mouth - "El, stop, I'm - I'm gonna - "

Eliot swallows again.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Quentin says. "Seriously, stop, I don't want to yet."

With an honest to God whine of disappointment that's going to haunt Quentin for the rest of his life, Eliot slips off and looks up at him, his eyes bright and wide, his lips red and wet. It's the hottest thing Quentin has maybe ever seen. They're both heaving for breath, and Quentin can see Eliot's erection tenting the front of his pants. "This is doing it for you?" Quentin asks him. He means it to sound self-assured, but it comes out as a genuine question.

"Apparently," Eliot says. "Fuck. Please let me keep touching you."

"You're a goddamn asshole," Quentin says, gripping Eliot's arms and tugging him up until he gets the idea and stands. "Do you have any idea what I've been going through these past few weeks? Questioning everything we had, believing that - "

Eliot cuts him off with a kiss, oddly tender and slow given the ferocity of everything that's happened up to this point. Quentin can taste himself on Eliot's lips, and his toes curl again. "Let me show you," Eliot says, hoarse and needy. "Let me show you, Q, let me make it up to you."

The coil of anger and desolation in Quentin's gut is mixing up with his arousal. He's still so hard, and he wants to come so bad he can taste it, but he's also slightly worried he's going to start crying at any second. He can feel all of it, combining to form a pulsing of want and fury and heartbreak and relief that's pounding in his temples, his chest, his groin. He looks up at Eliot and sees his eyes, pupils blown, sees the lines of heartache and devastation around his mouth. Something in the dynamic has begun to shift - Quentin feels like he can see it as Eliot takes back the control, adjusts their roles into something more natural, something as familiar as breathing. Quentin lets it happen. He suddenly wants to be taken care of in the way only Eliot can take care of him. He wants that more than anything. And so he nods, leaning up to reconnect their lips.

"Thank you," Eliot whispers against him, and he takes Quentin by the arms, guiding him around and over towards the bed.

Things go hazy and slow for a while, as Eliot undresses him, and then himself, and stands there staring at Quentin where he's lying naked and exposed, hard and leaking. Eliot takes himself in hand and strokes for a moment, biting his lip against the feel of it, head thrown back so Quentin can see his Adam's apple bob when he swallows on a moan. This is a familiar move, and one that Quentin is mostly convinced he does for show, since it looks so ridiculously good. And then Eliot's on top of him, rubbing against him, and then he's fishing lube out of Quentin's bedside table that he honestly hadn't remembered was there - he's fingering Quentin open, and the slow, molasses pace of things starts to pick up speed, the roiling tension of the past few weeks, Quentin's anger and hurt and lust and longing all coiling inside of him as Eliot fucks into him with his fingers all while keeping their lips semi-permanently fused together.

Quentin feels like begging, but he won't. He knows Eliot will take care of him, knows that right now Eliot's being solicitous, and careful, and trying to tell him things with his body that he's never been very good at saying with words. The hand that's not inside of Quentin is curled softly around his neck, and Quentin can tell how much Eliot wants him, how desperate he is, by the way his fingers are actually trembling. He tries to breathe slow, let the feel of everything wash over him. Eliot's own breath has started to come out in little gasps against his lips, and he's started to thrust occasionally against the bed, seeking friction in what Quentin is pretty sure is an entirely involuntary motion.

Finally, finally, Eliot pulls his fingers away, reaches up to tug once on Quentin's cock, just to be an asshole, probably, and then he's pushing Quentin slightly so he's further up on the bed, lining himself up, pushing in.

Slow.

So fucking slow, Jesus Christ Quentin is going to kill him. He keeps going until he bottoms out. Eliot had prepared him well, but that doesn't change the fact that he's big, and it's been a while. Quentin breaths in, feels his chest and his scalp and his fingertips tingling with the feeling of being filled. This is right. This is how it's supposed to be. This is everything. Eliot is motionless inside of him, his weight on his forearms as he looks down at Quentin. Q waits a few beats to make sure he's actually ready, and then nods his head, closing his eyes against the sight of Eliot above him. If he'd been close before, right now he feels like he's one second from exploding. "Okay. I'm good. You can move," he says.

But Eliot doesn't. He stays frozen, deep inside of him, completely still and silent. Quentin whines, every inch of him strung tight and hot and wanting, but Eliot adjusts his position until he has  Quentin's arms pinned down, his hips flush against him, holding him immovable to the bed. "Q, look at me," he says, strained.

Quentin squeezes his eyes shut tighter, turns his head away.

"Look at me."

He can't. He can't, but he does, because Eliot sounds desperate, and Quentin has never been good at denying him anything. "El," he says, meeting his eyes. He tries to move, to push push his hips up, get friction, something, but -

"Quentin," Eliot says. "Quentin, I am in love with you. Please don't leave me. Please. I'm asking you to stay."

Quentin sobs, a low, deep sound he doesn't recognize from himself. He can pretend as much as he wants that the words don't matter, but he's realizing now that he needed Eliot to say that to him. He wants to say yes so badly; he wants to give Eliot everything he wants in return. "That's not fair, you know I can't - "

"I'll beg," Eliot says, and he pulls back and then jerks forward, jabbing Quentin's prostate with the kind of accuracy that only years of learning each other's bodies could allow. Quentin bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. "I'll do anything you ask." Another thrust. "For the rest of our lives." And again. "We find another - " Eliot's hips stutter, losing the rhythm, but he soldiers on, regaining focus even as his voice starts to go hoarse with strain - "We find another way." Another thrust. Hard. Quentin cries out. "Together." Thrust. "Please." Thrust.

And Quentin realizes for the first time just how much he doesn't want to stay in Blackspire. It's not like he'd been looking forward to it, but he'd been resigned to it. Now, it's like Eliot has reignited something inside of him, some spark of resistance, of hope. He blinks up at Eliot, who is heaving for breath on top of him, gone still again as he looks down, awaiting an answer like a man awaiting salvation or ruin.

"El," he says, and squeezes his eyes shut tight for a moment. He takes a couple of deep breaths, feels Eliot big and hot and perfect inside of him, and then blinks his eyes open again, looking up. "Okay. Okay, honey, I'll stay."

Eliot crumples, collapsing onto him, face burrowed in his collarbone. "Promise?" he gasps. "Do you promise me you - "

"Yes," Quentin says, trembling and twitching and vibrating with want -  because Eliot isn't moving and he actually thinks he's about to die. He's so hard that the pressure of Eliot's stomach against his cock is almost painful - any friction right now and he'll go off like a rocket. "I promise. El - God damn it - fucking - fuck me."

Eliot makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan, and he lifts himself up so he's not putting all of his weight on Quentin anymore. He meets Quentin's eyes for a moment, his own eyes red-rimmed and overwhelmed with relief and gratitude, and then - he does.

It doesn't take long for either of them. Eliot grabs at Quentin's legs and pushes them up, folding Quentin almost in half and slamming into him, hard. Every thrust sends a jolt through Quentin that vibrates out from his core through his limbs, through his cock, and pushing these needy, choked off whimpers out of him, until he's letting out a nearly continuous whine.

"Q," Eliot says. He's panting for breath, ragged and unraveling already, as he continues to push into him, relentless, a perfect rhythm that's jolting into Quentin hard enough that he's actually sliding up the bed. "Q, Q, Quentin - I love - I love you, oh God - "

Quentin's hands are twisted into the covers on either side of him, clenched hard, but he manages to release them and get his hands up to Eliot's hair, yanking him down as he tries to sit up, pushing their lips together. Eliot's pushing into him and Quentin is shoving down to meet him so hard that it's difficult for them to maintain the kiss, but Quentin wants to feel Eliot in every inch of him, wants to swallow the nearly pained cries of pleasure Eliot is making directly against his mouth.

"I want - " Quentin says, "I want - "

"Tell me," Eliot begs. "Tell me you're close, I'm - "

"Yeah," Quentin says, dazed. "Yeah, fuck, I'm - don't stop - "

Eliot makes a sound that might possibly contain a laugh and uses his arms, wrapped firmly around Quentin's back, to tug him him fully upright. The change in position disconnects them for a moment, and they both make twin sounds of bereft agony, but it does something to the energy of their coupling - shifts the mood and pulls them both back just slightly away from the edge.

They readjust their positions, flipping around so that Eliot is sitting on the edge of the bed with Quentin on top of him, and then Eliot is lining them up again and Quentin is sinking back down onto his cock, until he's seated entirely in his lap. The angle pushes Eliot against him deeper, and he gasps, dropping his face down into Eliot's neck. He wraps his arms around him and just holds him for a moment. Eliot's holding him back, trembling but otherwise motionless.

"Q," Eliot whispers. "You're so perfect. You're so perfect and lovely and fucking sexy, you have no idea what you do to me."

Quentin opens his mouth and licks at his pulse point, tasting sweat and the unique flavor of Eliot Waugh. "You want this," he says. Not a question. "You want me."

"Since the moment I saw you," Eliot confesses, tightening his arms.

Quentin shudders, and wiggles his hips a little bit. Eliot's fingers dig into his back.

"And I promise you I'll never give you reason to doubt it," Eliot says, voice cracking. "Never again. I swear."

Quentin could say a lot of things to this. He could berate Eliot for his lack of trust in their relationship, for hurting him and lying to him and not respecting Quentin's right to make decisions for himself. Or he could return the compliment, tell Eliot he's the most beautiful person he'd ever seen, that he's in awe of him for his courage and can't believe he has the honor of his love. He blinks, feeling a few tears drop from his eyes onto Eliot's shoulder, where his face is still buried.

"Okay," he says, instead of any of that. "Okay, I believe you. Now I want you to make me come."

Eliot moves at once, like Quentin's words have punched it out of him, jerking up and trying to push himself tighter inside. "Fuck."

"Yes, that's the idea," Quentin says, and starts to move, rolling his hips slowly to start, and then picking up pace, lifting himself off of Eliot just far enough to give Eliot room to thrust up into him.

He's close. He's so close, he's right there, it's - he's rubbing lightly up against Eliot's stomach with every motion, and that light, nearly non-existent pressure against his aching, leaking cock is torture, juxtaposed with Eliot's frantic yet still accurate thrusts, dragging past his prostate at every pass. He holds Eliot as tight as he can, feeling Eliot's hot, panting breaths against the skin of his collarbone, the tickle of his hair against his neck.

"Come on, Q," Eliot says, mouth right against his skin. "Come on, please, come for me." He says it like he needs it, like he's going to die without it, like Quentin has driven him completely out of his mind. The sound of it does something to Quentin, pulls his orgasm out of him the second he manages to get a hand in between their stomachs to touch himself.

"God. Fuck. God, Eliot!"

He clamps down hard on Eliot and, through the rushing in his ears, hears a loud shout - Eliot thrusts into him a few more frantic, uneven times, and then Quentin can feel him spilling inside of him before he himself has even finished coming. "Q, Q, QuentinQuentinQuentin, oh f-fuck - "

They stay that way, crushed to one another and breathing in loud, shuddering gasps, for a long moment. Eliot's crying into his shoulder and Quentin can't even call him on it because the wetness on his own face is most definitely not only sweat. Finally, he feels Eliot start to soften and slip out of him. He tries to say something, to tell Eliot that his limbs have stopped working and he's going to need help getting up, but Eliot seems to know it anyway. He lifts Quentin up and off of him, cradling him and lowering him down onto his back. He follows, burying his face in Quentin's chest, pressing Quentin back into the mattress and covering him like the world's most gorgeous security blanket.

Eliot's hand moves down to his waist and he starts tracing something there, and then stills the motion after a moment, huffing out a breath of laughter.

"What?" Quentin asks. Croaks, more like. His throat is tight and he feels like he's been screaming.

"I just tried to clean us up using magic," Eliot says. "You made me forget, for a second."

Quentin laughs back, but it's a mournful sounds. "God, El, what are we going to do?"

Eliot's head jerks up and he stares at Quentin for a moment, eyes narrowed. "I don't know," he says. "But you promised, Q - "

"I know. I know," Quentin says, bringing a hand up to brush it through Eliot's curls. "I'm staying, Eliot. I meant it."

Eliot stares at him for another second, suspicious, and then closes his eyes and nods, bringing his head back down so that his ear is directly over Quentin's heart. "Okay. Good."

A sated, comfortable silence stretches between them for a few beats, but then -

"Um, El?"

"Mmm?"

"Given that magic isn't actually an option, could you - "

Eliot laughs, and then groans as he levers himself up and off of Quentin. "I think you broke me, Q, Jesus." He stands and, gratifyingly, he actually stumbles a bit on wobbly legs as he makes his way towards Quentin's robe, hanging on a hook by the door. "I'll be right back."

When he comes back and starts to clean them both off with a warm washcloth, it occurs to Quentin that this is only the second time they've ever actually been together in these bodies. Everything about their life, their family, the mosaic, it all feels so real to him that it's inconceivable sometimes that he's back in his twenties, that he hasn't actually, physically, spent a lifetime with Eliot. It's imprinted on him, all of it. They gave up their lives to the quest, and it brought them together. And now...

"El..." Quentin says, as Eliot settles back down next to him, throwing an arm and a leg over him and pillowing his head on Quentin's shoulder. "Seriously. What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," Eliot says. "Kill the big bad creepy thing inside the castle?"

"That seems like a pretty serious risk."

"Worth it," Eliot says. His voice breaks again. "Worth it if the alternative is - "

"I love you," Quentin says quietly. "But you have to know that I'm not actually worth risking the whole world."

"Fuck you, yes you are," Eliot says. Like it's a simple fact of the universe. Quentin drags his hand down Eliot's back, petting him, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat.

"Someone has to stay in the castle," Quentin says softly. "I told Ora it would be me."

"I'll goddamn chain you to this bed, Q, I mean it," Eliot says. Quentin can tell he's trying to be funny, but there's still a tremor of fear in his voice. Quentin keeps the motion of his hand against Eliot's back steady and soothing.

"It's okay, El, I won't leave you. I swear."

Eliot turns his face and kisses along Quentin's chest for a few moments, then turns his head to lay his ear directly over Quentin's heart again. In Fillory, Quentin was usually the one lying curled up against Eliot's side, but sometimes, when Eliot was in desperate need of comfort, they'd rest like this, too. It makes Quentin feel protective and so very fond, like Eliot is a precious, fragile thing that belongs in his care, a sacred trust.

"I'm really, really sorry," Eliot says after several minutes of silence.

"Yeah, I got that," Quentin says, laughing, but the truth is, it's still nice to hear the words.

"Tell me what I can do to make it up to you."

"Another couple of orgasms like that one and I'd say we're even," Quentin says. He's only half kidding. His limbs still feel like jelly, and he's quite enjoying floating on the cloud of endorphins.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," Eliot says. "That I couldn't just trust that you - you really wanted me. I've never been good at - "

"El, it's okay. Really. I get it."

"But - "

"You were trying to protect us both from future heartbreak. And - you were wrong to do it, but - I know you. I should have known, I shouldn't have believed you so easily. I could have fought you on it, and I didn't."

Eliot sighs, his breath warm against Quentin's chest. "I thought you were settling for me, there. I tried so hard to be everything you needed, but I never thought I could really be enough."

It's so similar to the way Quentin's been feeling over the past few weeks - the feeling that their life together must have been a chore for Eliot, something he consented to because he was stuck, something he tolerated but didn't relish. "God, we're both so stupid," Quentin says. "I can't believe we never talked about this."

"We're emotionally damaged, Q, it's basically a miracle we made it this far."

"What, with you using your dick as a bargaining tool to get me to change my mind?"

"Hey, don't knock it, it fucking worked, didn't it?"

Quentin laughs, the sound louder than he was expecting. "You didn't have to fuck me into agreeing with you, just be be clear. I'd basically do anything you asked, Eliot."

Eliot's arms tighten around him for a moment, but then relax as he scoffs. "Okay, now that is revisionist history right there. Some of my memories of past-Fillory might be a touch fuzzy, but I do remember that you, good sir, are fucking lousy at taking directions."

Quentin pokes him hard in the side, and Eliot lets out an honest-to-goodness giggle, turning his head again to place a single kiss right over Quentin's heart.

Quentin feels the pull of sleep behind his eyelids, and decides in that moment not to fight it. He has no fucking idea what they're going to do about the quest, about Blackspire, Ora, the monster, any of it. He made a big production out of his decision to stay as a guard, and he's going to have to explain to everyone else that he's changed his mind and they need a new plan. All of that feels very far away at the moment, though, with Eliot's warm skin pressed against him, his heartbeat thrumming against Quentin's stomach, face pressed hard into his chest.

Outside of this room, there are really difficult decisions to be made, and quests to complete, and evils to conquer. But in here, he feels weightless and worry-free, and right where he belongs.