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“You’re missing your own party.”
Quentin startles, flipping around so his back against the balcony wall, and bringing a hand to his chest as Eliot steps out onto the balcony with him. He’s watching him expectantly, a strange little smile on his lips, and Quentin swallows, attempts a sheepish shrug. “It’s a lot,” he says after a moment, carefully turning back around to look over the city view the penthouse grants. He reaches up and clutches the bars on the wall, fists tight and knuckles burning white.
The sound of Eliot’s shoes tapping against the concrete beneath their feet fills the silence, until Quentin can feel him, warm and real, standing just behind him.
There’s an unsteady exhale. “They just missed you,” Eliot says, soft, before moving to stand beside him. His hand settles on the top of the wall, and he looks down at it, Quentin following his gaze. They’re barely an inch apart. If he wanted to, he could loosen his grip, and reach out with his pinky and loop it through Eliot’s. But he won’t do that.
Because whatever feelings Eliot had for him were a lifetime and a death ago.
“I should actually say we,” He adds when Quentin doesn’t reply.
Quentin shrugs, turns his gaze back out on the skyline. “It’s okay if you didn’t.”
There’s no response for a long moment, and he takes that as his confirmation. Swallowing thickly, he looks down at his own hands. Wills himself to let go and walk away. Not just from the balcony, but from his feelings. From a life that never happened. Just let it go. Like Eliot has.
Jesus, he’d died, and the only thing he could think when he woke up on the floor of the penthouse with all of his friends staring him down had been Eliot, Eliot, Eliot. He hadn’t even felt bad when hurt washed over Alice’s face when he scrambled across the circle and threw himself into Eliot’s arms. All while Eliot sat there motionless and unable to stop him.
“Is that what you think?” Eliot finally asks, voice breaking off at the end of the sentence. “That I didn’t miss you?”
“You tell me,” Quentin mutters, “You’ve been avoiding me since I came back.”
“You say came back,” Eliot retorts, the words sour, “like we didn’t drag you back from the other side. Because you’d died.” He pauses, then sighs, and Quentin can see from his peripheral that his hands have tightened on the bannister as well, knuckles nearly as white as his own. “It’s your birthday, Q. I don’t want to have this talk now.”
Which should be fair, considering. But he still remembers how Eliot had unraveled them and walked out of the room. How he hadn’t looked back, or how he’s managed to leave a room every time Quentin enters it. How he’s the only one Quentin feels even remotely in his skin around, but the only one he can’t even get a moment with. Until now. Apparently.
“It feels like you don’t want to have any talk ever,” Quentin says, nodding. “I — I. Uh. I think I’m going to head to bed. Tell Margo thank you for me?” He turns, unintentionally facing Eliot, who’s still staring out over the city scape, his jaw set, and eyes shut. “And sorry for bailing, I guess.” He moves to turn away and head off the balcony, but a hand wraps around his wrist, tight, and holds him.
His gaze drops down, heart pounding and skin tingling at the feeling of Eliot’s hand on him. It feels like it’s been forever — and maybe it has — since Eliot’s chosen to touch him in any way. “Q.”
Maybe he should take pride in the way Eliot’s voice cracks.
“Let go, El.”
Because it hurts too much. As much as it feels too nice. It’s everything he can’t have.
“No.” Quentin bites down on his lip before forcing himself to look up at him. His gaze is soft, eyebrows furrowed, almost guilty looking at he stares Quentin down. Before Quentin can reply, Eliot’s asking, too quiet, and surprisingly sad, “Do you really think I didn’t miss you? That I haven’t wanted to be by your side every second you’ve been back?”
“What else am I supposed to think?” He moves to pull his arm away but Eliot holds firm. “You — damn it, Eliot. You leave the room as soon as I walk in. You — you’ve done everything you can to prove that you want nothing to do with me.”
“That I —” Eliot’s mouth snaps shut and he looks away, running a hand through his hair. He stares at the space over Quentin’s head for a long moment, and Quentin takes the time to actually look him over. He’s pale, hair still long and unruly. Bags have formed under his eyes, that back at Brakebills, he’d have spelled away without a second thought. His eyes slip back down to Quentin. “You think I want nothing to do with you?” Shaking his head, he adjusts his grip on Quentin’s wrist, “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to stay away?”
“Seems easy enough. I walk in. You walk out.”
Something flashes behind Eliot’s eyes, and before Quentin can even think to react, his free hand is coming up to grab his shoulder, and then Quentin’s being walked backwards, until he’s pushed up against the wall by the door and Eliot’s looming over him, holding him there. “I am trying,” he all but hisses, leaning in so close his hair brushes the edges of Quentin’s face, while his breath fans over his cheekbones. “to protect you.”
Quentin blinks. “What?”
“Every time you see me you flinch or — or startle.” He swallows audibly and pulls back, not far enough that Quentin’s able to step away from the wall, but enough that it doesn’t feel like he’s looming anymore. “I know. The monster was traumatizing for you, and I didn’t want you to see me and think of it, and to —” He breaks off and looks down at where his hand is digging into Quentin’s shoulder.
There’s something he’s not saying, but that’s not that point, because — “No I don’t.” Like right now. When Eliot’s holding him up against a wall. No flinching. No startling. None of this has anything to do with the monster.
Eliot’s gaze darts back up to meet his. “When I walked out here, you almost jumped high enough to fall off the side of the building, Q.”
Quentin balks, because obviously. “Because I was alone and I wasn’t expecting anyone—”
“Why are you even out here?”
“I just needed some fresh air.” Eliot purses his lips, and Quentin looks up at him, curiously. “What did you think I’d do if I saw you? Confess my undying love again? Because, you don’t need to worry about that. I learned my lesson the last time.”
It’s a low blow. But he’s had a couple drinks and he’s tired of all of this. He’s tired of the way his body feels like it might spontaneously combust because of Eliot’s touch, and he’s tired of desperately trying to find time with him. Tired of hoping for a life Eliot’s made it clear he doesn’t want.
He’s not the tired he was before he volunteered to go to the mirror realm. But he’s tired.
Eliot lets go of him abruptly and takes a step back. His chin’s trembling when he says, “No, you jack ass, I thought you’d fucking kill yourself. Again.” He raises a trembling hand and points it at him. “And if you still believe I don’t love you . . .” He shakes his head hand falling to his side as he looks down at the ground between them, licking his lips. Quentin watches, silently shocked as his chest rises and falls, until, “Everything I’ve done is because I love you, Q. Because I can’t bare to lose you again.” It’s barely even loud enough for him to hear.
“What?”
Eliot’s shoulders rise, and then fall, like he’s trying to steady himself with a big, deep breath, and then he’s looking up and directly into Quentin’s eyes — and it almost shocks him how much he missed the soft hazel. “I love you.” It’s deliberately slow, like he’s forcing it out and with as much truth and earnestness as he can possibly muster. “I’m not avoiding you because I want nothing to do with you. I’m avoiding you because I love you and I don’t want to be the thing, again, that. Sends you spiraling.”
Quentin has to take a second to make sure his heart hasn’t actually stopped in his chest, before swallowing. “I . . . You were never —”
“I’ve been updated on the missing year, Q. Don’t bother lying.” He takes the step back in, and Quentin’s breath hitches. “You told me you loved me. I rejected you. Then we almost blew up the world because we’re both too selfish to be selfless.”
Which doesn’t doesn’t really make any sense. “If you’re so selfish and you love me . . . then how have you been avoiding me?”
Eliot blinks down at him, a face almost like one of those familiar and fond judgmental looks he received on the daily back at Brakebills. “ . . . I’m here, aren’t I?” He reaches up, almost hesitant, and stops, just shy of taking Quentin’s hand. “I followed you out here, Q. When it comes to you . . . there’s nothing I won’t do to keep you safe.” He steps in even closer, so close that when he breathes, their chests brush. “But I’m no saint. Much as I try to be.”
And it’s clearly meant to mean something, and it does. It connects where it needs to, but, “You try to be a saint?”
And just like that, the awkward, not-quite-right tension shatters, and Eliot reaches up to shove him playfully, a little smile attempting to form at the corners of his lips. Quentin’s shoulder hits the wall behind him, and he swallows, unable to ignore the fact that Eliot hasn’t let go of his shoulder, all the while looking up at him with wide eyes. “Shut up,” Eliot says, “I’m trying to be serious here.”
“Seriously?”
The smile wins out whatever battles it’s fighting as it blossoms over Eliot’s face. His hand travels down Quentin’s shoulder, following the length of his arm, where it stops. Settles, a feather light touch over Quentin’s hand, barely anything more than his index and middle finger dancing along the lifeline at the center of his palm. “I want to make a joke about wondering why the hell I missed you when you’re so dumb . . .”
Quentin swallows. “But?”
He looks down at their hands, twisting his simultaneously to wrap around Quentin’s entirely. “But I had a countdown to your birthday,” he murmurs, glancing back up at him from beneath his eyelashes. “And I wasn’t sure we’d get here.” He shrugs a shoulder, squeezing Quentin’s hand. “You. Alive. In time for your birthday, I mean.”
“Oh.”
Eliot nods, gaze flickering down and then back up. “I’m sorry you felt abandoned.”
“I didn’t—”
“Please, Q, your attachment issues are nearly as bone deep as mine.” His free hand comes up, grazing along the fabric of Quentin’s shirt. “I don’t want to lose you.” He swallows, adams apple bobbing as his hand settles on Quentin’s stomach, warm through the fabric of his shirt. “I’m — I’m sorry I made you feel otherwise.” It almost feels like the warmth from his hand is burning through and singing Quentin’s skin.
Inhaling shakily, Quentin lets his head fall back against the wall behind him to look up at him. “Apologizing isn’t like you.” He exhales, his eyes fluttering as it forces his stomach into Eliot’s hand.
Eliot shrugs, leaning down, his hair like a curtain draping over them. “Neither is admitting I’m in love with someone, and yet.”
“And — and yet.” He swallows audibly, and Eliot’s eyes flash.
The hand wrapped up in Quentin’s lets go, sliding up his arm, over his shoulder, and settling, fire-hot against the side of his neck. “Do you remember,” He starts, his hair brushing against Quentin’s cheek as a slow summer breeze drifts over the balcony. “Back in Fillory. How we celebrated your birthday?”
Quentin swallows again, stomach swooping. “Is — is that why you followed me out here?”
“Well, no,” He looks guilty for a beat as his thumb soothes the skin at the base of Quentin’s jaw, eyebrows furrowing. “I did want to wish you happy birthday but.” His gaze flicks down to his thumb and then up to meet Quentin’s. “I was worried about you,” he says, soft, “there are a lot of people in there and you looked overwhelmed.” A sheepish little smile twitches at the corners of his lips as his thumb scoots up to brush at Quentin’s cheekbone. “Remember Teddy’s twenty seventh birthday?”
Quentin’s eyes slide shut as a laugh builds and forces its way out, “Oh my god,” he laughs, opening his eyes, feels the way they’re crinkling at the edges, “You’re really going to bring up me jumping into a river to avoid conversation with people I didn’t know as a reliable comparison?”
The smile on Eliots lips evens out until his thumb moves up to trace the crinkling lines. His eyes follow the movement as he speaks, “Honestly, I’ll bring it up for the rest of my life, since we both know I’m going to spend at least that long explaining away your social ineptitude.”
“We are?”
Eliot freezes for a beat. Then his gaze slips over to meet Quentin’s again, hand slipping back down to its place at the side of his neck. The hand on Quentin’s stomach fists the fabric of his shirt, pulling at it. “Tell me you don’t see . . . it when you look at me.”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “I don’t.”
Eliot shakes his head, leans in even closer until he can press the crown of his temple to the top of Quentin’s head, his eyes sliding shut as he says, “Q.” It’s heavy. Plagued by the past and everything they haven’t actually discussed just yet. Quentin can feel the furrow of his brow in the way it bunches and wrinkles against his hairline.
He reaches up then, fingers tingling, to grab onto the fabric of Eliot’s shirt. He tugs on it to pull him closer, clumsily locking Eliot’s hand in between their stomachs. Waits until he opens his eyes before repeating, quiet, but with all the weight he can possibly force into the words, “I don’t.”
Eliot stares at him for a moment, eyes flickering back and forth between Quentin’s like he’s looking for something. And then, as if he’s found it, he forces his hand out from between them and brings it up to cup Quentin’s jaw, while the other moves to the back of his neck. Quentin barely has a moment to register what’s happening, to even lean into it, before Eliot’s lips descend on his, needy and desperate and so, so warm.
And, jesus, so fucking familiar.
Quentin pushes back into the kiss, shoving up onto the balls of his feet, fingers digging into the fabric of Eliot’s shirt as he tugs on it in an attempt to pull him impossibly closer. Eliot gives with no resistance, falling into him until his body is lined up against Quentin’s heavy and wam. Quentin’s breath comes as a heavy exhale through his nose as he’s thrown between the shock of the cold wall at his back and the raging warmth of Eliot at his front.
Every pull and push is new and familiar all at once. Body unsure what it’s doing, but mind so inherently certain of every trek his hands take—of gently tugging Eliot’s hair between his fingers, and twisting his neck to press a kiss, featherlight and wet to the bottom of his chin, down the side of it, and to the space to the left of Eliot’s Adam’s apple. He pauses, unsure why until Eliot moans, pushes Quentin further into the wall, and Quentin can’t help the giddy little smile he presses into Eliot’s skin before trailing his lips back up, over Eliot’s jaw, in search of his lips.
Eliot sighs into his skin, pulling away just enough to force their lips back together. “A disaster,” he murmurs into Quentin’s mouth, “My disaster.”
Quentin laughs. “I thought I—“ He breaks off as Eliot takes the chance to make his way down the column of Quentin’s throat, tongue dancing along the skin as he goes. A shiver shoots down Quentin’s spine, and he laughs breathlessly as he throws his head back, narrowly avoiding cracking it on the wall at the last second.
Pausing at Quentin’s Adam’s apple, Eliot says, “You thought you what?”
“Huh?”
A puff of air rolls over Quentin’s wet skin, and he groans low in his throat, prompting another laugh from Eliot, before his lips carefully trailing up the side of his throat and stop at the junction of his jaw. “You thought you what? He repeats, the words barely more than a brush of air against Quentin’s ear. “I’ll wait.”
“Dick.”
“Q.”
Quentin huffs, chest heaving, shoving against Eliot’s and then back against the wall. “I just—was gonna say. I thought I was supposed to be the talkative one.”
Eliot hums thoughtfully. “Is that how you remember it?”
“I—“ he stops, yanking at Eliots hair, smirking between gulps of air as Eliot groans and nuzzles into Quentin’s neck. “I honestly can’t remember—anything right now, El.”
Eliot’s lips curl against Quentin’s skin. “Do you remember how we spent your birthdays? In Fillory?”
“I—“ he breaks off again, as Eliot’s lips start on their trail again, leading up and around the front of Quentin’s neck, “Ye—Yeah. I. Uh. Do.”
“I could do that now,” Eliot whispers, suddenly against Quentin’s ear again, his fingers scratching at the base of of his skull. “We could dive right back in. Like you wanted.”
An annoying prick of reality jolts them as somebody walks by the balcony door, laughing—sounds like Josh, but a second pair of footsteps say he’s not alone—and Quentin freezes. Because it would be so easy to fall back into this. Let his body give into his mind and experience all of this for real, right here on the balcony where anyone in the skyscrapers surrounding them could look out and see them. It'd be so god damned easy. He could fall to his knees right now, and they wouldn’t even crack as he hits the floor. They don’t hold a lifetime of labor and crouching in them. It’d be so. Easy. Turning them around and pulling Eliot’s pants down.
But he doesn’t want what they had before. Not the same way. Not something they can deny, years down the line, as something that’s real.
“No,” he finally says, eyes squeezing shut.
Eliot freezes, and then falls away, untangling himself from Quentin as much as he can with Quentin’s hand fisted in his shirt. The warmth washes away as his hands fall to his sides, and the cool of the air around them soothes the skin uncomfortably. “Q—“ he starts, breaking off and sounding about as wrecked as Quentin feels and maybe twice as confused.
Quentin opens his eyes, chin trembling at the confused hurt flashing behind Eliot’s. He holds tight to his shirt, pulling him in back in, even as Eliot’s hands stay resolute at his sides. His free hand slides up, cups Eliot’s cheek. “Not no,” he elaborates, eyes wide as he swallows, “I just—it. It has to be different this time, if we’re doing this, El.”
Some of the tension in Eliot’s shoulders relaxes, but he still doesn’t move in any way other than how Quentin’s guiding him. “Different.” Quentin flinches. His voice isn’t cold. Just. Tempered. Which might be just as bad when it comes to Eliot.
“Yes,” Quentin says, adjusting his fist to get a better hold on the shirt and pull Eliot in closer. “Different. I—I need to know. You won’t. Run. When you get scared or—or. Think I’ll. Choose someone else.” He looks between Eliot’s eyes, sliding his hand back to cup his jaw, thumb sweeping over his flushed cheeks. “I—I need to know this is. That I am. That—that. We. Are—are it.”
Something flashes in Eliot’s eyes, and then he tilts his head, leaning into Quentin’s touch. “That’s why you said no?” He asks, lips curling up at the corners. “Because you want me to ask you to go steady with you?”
“Don’t mock.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He reaches up and sets his hand on Quentin’s hip. “I mean you are technically a virgin now.” Shrugging, he rolls his neck to press a kiss to Quentin’s palm. “Can’t blame you for wanting to take things slow.”
“Eliot.”
Eliots eyes slide shut, as his free hand wraps around Quentin’s wrist, pulling so he can press another kiss into the meat on the side of his hand. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs into the skin, moving down to settle a kiss to the protruding vein on the inside of his wrist, “I have every intention of making an honest man of you, Q.” Quentin opens his mouth to reply, but Eliot’s eyes dart up, his other hand kneading into Quentin’s hip. “No more running.” He let’s go of Quentin’s wrist and brings his hand down to Quentin’s chest, palm flat against the space between his pectorals. “No more doubt. Life is . . . finite. And I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I’ve got a lifetime of regret to look forward to.”
Quentin blinks down at it helplessly, before looking back up at Eliot. “Oh.”
“I did that once. And . . . Margo may have pointed out I was on my way to repeating that if I didn’t. Act.”
Quentin tilts his head, lifting to place his hand over Eliot’s. “Margo’s got all the smarts.”
“And then some.”
“I should send her a thank you card.”
Eliot grins, moving back in. “For all the sex we’re going to have or—“
Quentin pinches his wrist, “For making you see sense, asshole.”
“I mean. She’d probably appreciate a thanks for all the sex card more, but you do you.” He shifts, nose brushing up against Quentin’s, hair tangling up in Quentin’s. “If I promise,” he starts, as Quentin pushes up to bump his nose against Eliot’s, “To one day marry you. And to never accuse you of wanting to leave me for a woman . . . Can I blow you?”
It takes a moment for the words to register, but when they do, Quentin pulls back, laughing and wide eyed, “I don't know what part of that to focus on.”
“Hopefully the part where I offered to give you a birthday bj.”
“But you also said you want to marry me.”
“I did.” He moves forward, bending to bury his face in Quentin’s neck.
“And acknowledged your biphobia,” he pauses, “Okay. At least, abstractly.”
Eliot nods into his neck, “Mhm,” he hums, pressing a kiss to the base of his jaw, “I did do that, too.” A wayward hand travels down, following the side of Quentin’s ribs, and then the dip into his stomach.
“You—“ he breaks off, Eliots teeth scratching at the skin above his collarbone.
“Q, please,” Eliot says, only slightly exasperated, into the skin there, his lip getting caught on his collarbone as he does so. “Just tell me if I can blow you.”
Quentin swallows and slides his hand back to tangle up in Eliot’s curls. “Promise to stop avoiding me?”
“I promise you’re going to get sick of me I’ll be around so much.”
“After the past three years?” Quentin shakes his head, tugging on Eliot’s hair, all the while pulling him in closer. “I don’t think that’s likely.”
“Same.” A gentle, wet kiss falls on the dip between his collarbones. “Yes or no?”
“Out here?”
Theres a pause, then a little groan that vibrates all the way through Quentin’s heart and down to his toes, “God, Yes, Q. Out here.”
Quentin looks out over the balcony. Most of the lights in the buildings around them are out, and if they aren’t they’re probably too far away to see them. He tugs on Eliot’s hair again. “Yes,” he says, “Yeah. Okay. Out here.”
Eliot pulls away to look at him. “Yeah?”
Shrugging, Quentin nods. “Yeah. But. I—I don’t know how long I’ll—“
Eliot rolls his eyes and leans in to kiss him, slow and easy. Barely the faintest pressure; just an easy warmth that spreads through Quentin’s veins like wildfire. “Learning how sensitive your body is after everything,” Eliot says as he pulls away, deviousness dancing in his eyes, “is honest to whatever god is perving on us right now—going to be the best part.”
“Is it?”
His expression mellows mildly, before he slides his hand around and runs his thumb over Quentin’s bottom lip. “The best part is that we even get to do this. That I’m going to take you to your room when we’re done here, and am going to relearn your body. And then,” his gaze goes distant as he watches his thumb sliding over Quentin’s tingling lip, “the best part is going to be waking up tomorrow. In your bed, all tangled up in each other. For real this time.” He meets Quentin’s gaze from beneath his eyelashes. “Not just a hazy memory we can’t catch anymore, Q. This time we’re us, and it’s going to be real.”
Quentin blinks. “You sure you don’t want me to blow you?”
Eliot laughs, full enough that it shakes both of them, until he’s sliding both of his hands down to the buckle of Quentin’s pants. “Remember when you thought I couldn’t be romantic?”
He makes quick work of the belt, while Quentin watches him breathlessly. “Remember when you thought—“ And then Eliot drops to his knees and looks up at him with a smirk as he pulls Quentin’s pants open, and all words seems to leave him. “Oh my god.”
“Say you love me.”
Quentin’s head pushes back against the wall behind him, “I love you, you jack ass.”
“There’s my Q.” Quentin’s eyes slide shut as he tries not to contemplate what exactly Eliot means by that particular statement. “For the record,” He adds, hand sinking into Quentin’s boxers. “And for emphasis . I love you, Quentin.”
———————
Later, when they’re curled up in bed, Eliot pressed up against Quentin’s back, their hands interwoven over Quentin’s hip, Quentin presses his face into his pillow and smiles. For no particular reason other than the knowledge that he’s here and he can.
And because Eliot is snoring into his neck.