Chapter Text
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It was the end of their second year at the Mosaic. The first anniversary of the night when they'd become--more than friends.
Starting in the afternoon, Eliot made as much of a feast as he could with the stone oven. By evening, he cleared their drawings from the table beside the Mosaic, then began setting out the dishes while Quentin put the finishing touches on their design for the day.
Eliot took more trips than he really needed to carry out all the dinner supplies, relishing each chance to observe Quentin climbing on hands and knees with his ass in the air, bending and picking up tiles, or the surprising grace with which Q dropped quickly to his heels, squatting to place or change a piece.
Eliot couldn't stop the fond smile tugging at his face, his heart warming at the sight of Quentin, his belly heating with the visceral memory of touching Q, all these nights they'd shared. The warmth spreading through him till it was all he could do to keep on mission, instead of dropping the bowls and wrapping his arms around Quentin, pulling him down right in the middle of those tiles.
When of course, he was hoping to do just that, way before the night was through.
But this was their one-year anniversary of being--together. He'd never had one of those before. And Q--god, the man of his fucking dreams. And his best friend. Rolled into one.
That was what made it so tricky.
And so delightful all at once.
All the more reason to celebrate, make it special.
From his time as a High King struggling to impart actual culture to the Fillorian court, it was easy enough by now to create a good cassoulet, ratatouille, tartiflette, and nicoise, among other things, using substitute Fillorian ingredients where needed. The dessert was simple: a pie of peaches and plums.
Eliot had enough practice at this point to know that while Quentin might say he preferred hamburgers and pizza, he would probably enjoy these tastes. Maybe more than he might admit.
This dream was rudely interrupted as Quentin sat down. "Eliot, what the heck is all this?"
"Q," Eliot said with dignity, "I went to a lot of effort to make a lovely dinner for you."
"I think you made this for yourself, Eliot."
"Don't worry," Eliot said breezily. "If your palate is too unrefined for even this simple fare, I can always make you a Fillorian croque monsieur."
"Oh, you mean your fancy toasted ham and cheese sandwich?" But Quentin was grinning. And once he done snarking and playing with his food, Eliot didn't miss the fact that Q actually took seconds from every dish Eliot made.
Desert done, Q's spoon clattered and he stacked plates. "Time for presents."
"Brace yourself, Q. Close your eyes." Eliot lifted his hands in a steady series of tuts that lifted the cover and the first layer of clothes from the mending basket behind Quentin. From the hiding space, a long, rectangular case of polished wood rose and floated to Quentin. "Hold out your hands. No, wider. A little wider…there."
As Quentin raised his palms, the box hovered gently down to meet them. "That's heavy!"
"Go ahead and look."
Quentin bent over the box, running his hands over the smooth, dark-stained wood. He glanced up at Eliot, who stood and walked closer, unable to repress his smile.
Quentin resumed his examination. A slender pattern of triangles and stars marked the edges of the lid. A carved intaglio displayed the head of Hebe, the Greek goddess of youth whose statue stood over the Earth Fountain in the Neitherlands. "It's beautiful, El."
"Press Hebe's head."
Quentin's thumb brushed the raised face of the goddess. With a click, the cover popped to reveal a group of small, hand-sized hardbacks, their covers stamped gilt or silver, their edges worn.
"Wow, El…" Quentin gently opened well-loved covers, lifting leaves of tissue to reveal engraved frontispieces and elegrant title pages. His fingers brushed the indentations of the printing press on quality paper.
The box contained a battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas; Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson; Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass; a collection of Hans Christian Andersen; and four books by George MacDonald: Dealings with the Fairies, At the Back of the North Wind, The Princess and the Goblin, and The Princess and Curdie.
"How on Earth…"
"I put out the word that I was looking for books left behind by Children of Earth. There are others, but these are the ones I was able to get my hands on over the past year. Of course, we're limited to what they'd have brought from Earth by about the late 1880s or early 1890s, depending on how Fillory and Earth are matching up at this point."
Eliot didn't mention the books Q might have loved that he'd had to pass on, due to price; there was only so much magical work he could take on above and beyond their work on the Mosaic and what they needed to barter for food and supplies.
"So these are…" Quentin studied the owners' signatures, round but graceful in the penmanship taught children of the Victorian era. "The favorite books of the kids who visited…what they grabbed when they left home…probably none of them would be older than thirteen."
"I'd imagine so," Eliot said softly. "What were you reading at that age?"
"Well, since ten or eleven, it was things like The Lord of the Rings, Rebecca, L'Morte d'Arthur, and Sherlock Holmes. You know, the usual stuff," Quentin quipped.
"I'll keep my eye out."
Quentin smiled, a grin breaking across his face like the sun, sending Eliot's heart soaring.
Quentin reached behind him, where his overshirt draped the back of his chair. He kept both hands back there for a moment.
"I know how much you miss music…and you have such a great voice, El. I could listen to you sing all day. I love the songs you remember. And especially the ones you half-remember and have to make up words." Quentin snorted a laugh.
Eliot chuckled, grinning at the memory of making Q laugh helplessly with some of those songs, which he pretended to sing in the most serious fashion.
Quentin continued, "So, I know it's frustrating that you can't remember more…and I thought…maybe it's not your thing, but you like musicals…oh, and I love the songs you just flat-out make up, too, and I really hope you'll remember them…"
Amidst this rambling, one of Quentin's hands emerged from behind his back, holding two things: a fat, bound book of blank staff paper, and…a whole book of Gilbert and Sullivan.
Eliot paged through it, delighted. It held all the lyrics, music, and book for H.M.S. Pinafore, The Pirates of Penzance, Patience, Iolanthe, Princess Ida, The Mikado, and more. "Oh, you are so going to regret this, Coldwater."
Quentin beamed at him. "I certainly hope so. Oh, wait, I got you something else." The other hand emerged.
Eliot blinked as Quentin plopped a fat tome on top of the first book, currently open to the music for "Behold the Lord High Executioner." "What…"
"Well, you love the musical…I hear you singing Javert sometimes…"
"Ummm…" Eliot bent his head over the actual novel, Les Misérables by Victor Hugo, which… "This is kind of you, Q--"
Quentin's brow wrinkled. "'Kind'? Faint praise, much?"
"It's like a million pages long--"
"And you don't read because you have a life?" Quentin snickered, leaning forward.
Eliot flushed, looking at Quentin, his actual life--then back down at the book. To hide the little smile that kept getting bigger, no matter how he told himself to stop.
"You're going to love it, El," Quentin said earnestly. "It's got everything. Love. Adventure. Heartbreak. French history. The quest for justice and happiness…if you want, I'll read it to you…"
"Sure. I'd love that. You have a great reading voice," Eliot said gruffly, but inside, his heart was singing.
They stowed their treasures inside the cottage, pausing for a kiss that quickly turned into five, arms around each other, warm and sweet. Pulling back, smiling at each other, fingers trailing down arms to catch each other's hands as they walked back outside.
Eliot cleared the table and set out more wine while Quentin lit the torches and spread the quilt on the Mosaic board. Just like the first time…sitting side by side, glasses of wine…
What could he toast to this time? His toast last year had been flippant, and strictly speaking in terms of prophecy, a massive failure: "To our first and last year at this thing."
He also didn't want to call too much attention to what this really was for him: not just the celebration of their arrival here, but of the time, in Eliot's mind at least, that Quentin had become his.
"Here's to you, Quentin Coldwater. The best companion for a quest a man could ever have."
Quentin smirked. "Eliot Waugh. Did you just call me the best…you've ever had?"
"That too."
Wine and kisses, just like the first time. Wine and kisses, and their absolute need and hunger for each other overcoming them so they lay down together right there on the Mosaic. They christened the Mosaic again, because once they started, they couldn't keep their hands off one another long enough to make it to the bed inside the cottage.
Besides, they laughed: It certainly made an appropriate ”fuck you" to the puzzle that had stumped them for so long.
They lingered afterwards, neither wanting to call it a night, smiling at each other with gentle touches in the torchlight, just taking the moment to appreciate all they had.
Eliot just--couldn't believe how lucky he was.
Eventually, they staggered back into the bed in the cottage, laughing because holding each other as close as they wanted to made it kind of hard to walk.
Eliot settled into bed with a sigh, Quentin wrapped deliciously in his arms.
All in all, it was a beautiful night. Everything…
Quentin was…everything.
Eliot held him tight, knowing this might be all they had. Here, while they solved this puzzle. They could be so easily broken by events and people in the real world, by their own complicated, messy lives.
Eliot's shit in Fillory, and his personal shit, period. Quentin's love for Alice, who might be gone now, but would that really last? And did Quentin--did Quentin really feel more for Eliot than friendship?
In his mind's eye, Eliot savored Quentin's smile that evening over dinner, as they joked and teased; feeling the sweet greed of Quentin's lips, that intense longing on Q's face as they started up, like it was something Quentin desperately wanted but was always surprised by, that face when he murmured Eliot's name--
So Eliot hoped. God, so much. But. They never spoke about it.
That might be Eliot's fault. Fear, again…he had to get over that…
Eliot sighed, pressed close, and kissed Q's hair.
---------------------
They hadn't bothered to shutter the window last night. Dawn shone bright in their faces, promising a sunny day--the kind that might have been unbearable in summer, but even now, heading into fall, could still make it hard to look at the tiles from certain angles.
Eliot snuggled close to Quentin, listening to the morning wind playing in the trees. The day birds called and whickered softly while Eliot lay there with Quentin in his arms, thinking, How did I get to be so lucky?
Apparently Q didn't feel the same way, because even before he fully opened his eyes, he started to scowl.
Eliot leaned up on his elbow and kissed Q's brow, gently pressing his lips to the furrows. But when he pulled back to meet Q's beautiful eyes, the frown lines had only gotten bigger.
"Another year. El, I thought you said our first year was going to be the last one we had to spend on this thing," Q said, quoting Eliot's toast from their first anniversary of working the puzzle--their first night together when it had been just the two of them, and no reason other than love.
"That was a toast, Q. It was a hope, not a promise." Eliot sat up. "I've been awake for a while. I'll make breakfast. Why don't you stay here and get some more rest?"
"Why? So I can pour more energy into the Mosaic? Feed this never-ending nightmare some more of my life?"
Eliot smoothed Q's hair and kept his sigh to himself. He climbed out, tucking the blankets back in around Q.
He tried to quiet the tremors of his heart by concentrating on whipping up the perfect scramble, Quentin's favorite eggs. Toasting the French bread he'd made yesterday, melting butter with a hint of garlic. He heated the smoked sausages he'd put by especially for this morning after their celebration. He dished out some more of the peach and plum pie.
He tried to tell himself everything was fine. Quentin was just tired. Anyone would be, after last night.
Let alone after two years of relentless work on a quest that was beginning to seem not just unsolvable, but endless.
Even if an endless quest with Quentin was exactly what his heart wanted right now.
While Eliot cooked breakfast, Quentin got up, shaved, washed up, dressed. They sat together at the table outside, in the open air. It was so fresh and bright here in Fillory's morning--so far before their own time that it felt like the morning of the world.
But for Q, maybe sitting beside the Mosaic itself was too much of a reminder. Or maybe it was the festive air of Eliot's breakfast preparations, complete with a handful of violets and peonies floating in a dish of water.
It was as though celebrating the actual anniversary had made things ten times worse for Q. For some reason.
All through breakfast, Quentin kept flicking dissatisfied glances at the tiles. He ate too quickly to have savored much, even the pie, like peaches and plums weren't their thing.
As soon as he was done, Quentin hopped down from his chair and started stomping around the tiles. “I’m sick of everything! This whole damned puzzle is a fucking waste of time. There’s literally no solution!”
Somehow, this wasn't the way Eliot had imagined their anniversary playing out.
Possibly, Eliot reflected, it hadn't been the best idea to highlight the length of time they'd been working on this.
How had he not guessed Quentin might react this way? How had he gotten it so badly wrong?
He watched, worried, as Quentin stormed around the tiles. So angry. With Eliot?
Quentin: the fond, secret light of his life since Eliot set eyes on the man; the best friend Q had so quickly grown to be. Quentin: maybe the one person in the world Eliot could literally talk to or listen about anything, and expect to be heard, and responded to in a thoughtful, kind way that broke his heart sometimes with the simplicity of how much Quentin cared.
“Well, let’s think about this,” Eliot said. “You calculated a ‘shitload’ of possible combinations. Isn’t it possible we just haven’t hit on it yet?”
Quentin kicked a red tile, which skittered across the others and came to a stop in the middle of the sandy Mosaic board. “I mean, what would that even look like? We’re two creative, very smart quys--"
“Thank you, Q--“
“Not meant as a compliment. Because we aren’t smart enough to realize that there is no fucking solution? I mean, we’ve tried everything. Everything!”
“Literally not everything.”
“Fine, enough of everything to know that one solution is no better than another!”
“Or any worse. So, if it all comes down to personal taste, we just have to figure out what the puzzle wants.”
“That--almost makes sense.” Quentin sat down abruptly in the middle of the messy puzzle, filled with tiles half-collected from their last attempt and scattered further by their enthusiastic play last night. He bent his knees and grabbed his ankles, looking like he wanted to make himself small. "I know it won't work to actually solve the puzzle, but what if we used magic to speed things up?"
Eliot crossed over, stood next to him. "How, by making time go faster? We'd age and die without even getting to experience--" Eliot bent and kissed him suddenly, as if the ability to do so was about to be snatched away. "No. Just--no."
"All right," Quentin said, sounding defeated.
"It's the end of the world to stay here with me?"
"I didn't say that."
Eliot sat beside him. Brushed Q's hair back so he could look into those unhappy brown eyes. Took Q's chin and tilted it up. Q put his hand over Eliot's and leaned into El's palm along his jaw. As Eliot bent down, Quentin arched up to kiss him. So that much was all right.
But Eliot's heart pinched. As they kissed, he supported Q's head with one hand, his other pressed to Q's back, holding him closer. Was Quentin being broken by this wearying task? Could Eliot even do anything to help? He wanted to lift Q's spirits, but how, when even the delight they found in each other's bodies didn't seem to touch it for long?
Eliot knew they needed to solve the puzzle--to bring magic back to a Fillory that would die without it. Quentin himself had long ago told Eliot how desperately he needed magic in his life just to be able to survive--feeling hopeless without that spark. They'd bonded about it during Q's very first days at Brakebills.
And then there was Eliot's secret. He wanted to stay here with Quentin for every last moment he could get with the man he loved.
Just in case this was the only chance they got.
But it wasn't fair to Q, was it? Not now, when they were definitely verging into the territory of making a significant sacrifice. Not so much for Eliot--he was happier here with Q than he'd ever been anywhere else, even accounting for missing Margo and all the niceties of the modern world. But for Quentin--
Selfish. So selfish of him, Eliot realized, as Q pulled back with a little gasp and tears in his eyes. "El, I want to see my dad before he dies."
That was it, wasn't it? The one thing Eliot couldn't bear to argue against.
So Eliot didn't argue with Quentin, just listened the rest of the day, his shoulders sagging further and further under the weight of everything but the tiles he carried, just for Quentin to randomly slap them down into any empty space.
Quentin grumbled and shouted one reason after another for why they shouldn't spend another day on this task. All his comments boiled down to one thing: "We can't afford to waste any more time here."
And every retort that leapt to his lips--helpful, snarky, hurt, or sympathetic--Eliot swallowed down.
Along with the contents of the wineskin.
---------------------
A day of trying not to argue with Q was exhausting.
After hours of slinging tiles around and trying to convince Eliot they should leave for home, Quentin had been done before sundown.
In the silvery dusk, Eliot calmed his nerves by sorting tiles so they'd be ready for the morning. Maybe starting fresh would restore Q's spirits, or at least make trying again seem a little bit easier.
Mostly he wanted a chance to calm down so that he wouldn't take any of his fears or frustrations out on Q. But sorting all those tiles was hard work, even if it felt like a chance to restore order and take his mind off their immediate problems. Halfway through, he had to light the torches to see the colors properly.
At last, he doused the torches and collected their sketches and chalk to bring into the cottage for safekeeping during the night.
Then Eliot climbed into bed, sliding his right arm beneath the pillows, snuggling his head in right by Q's. Gently slipping his left arm around Q's chest and his left leg between Q's. Q cradled Eliot's arm, and they lay like that in the dark, with a pale hint of moonlight glowing around the shuttered window that guarded against the nip of early fall.
Wonderful and warm, to snuggle up next to Q--always, no matter what petty altercations might've cropped up during the day.
But no matter how great it felt to stretch out and relax at the end of a long day working on--or even fighting over--the puzzle, Eliot couldn't settle.
Because he desperately needed to talk to Quentin, and he didn't know how.
Because their whole world--or his, anyway--might've just come upended, and panic kept clawing at his heart.
And because Quentin, once he launched into an argument he thought was right, didn't want to give up the fight.
Quentin's voice rose in the darkness. "It won't make any difference if we leave for a few days. We have all the pages showing the solutions we've tried. Let's take them with us, and when we come back, we can pick up where we left off."
Eliot groaned softly. "Quentin--" He felt his heart sinking through the floor. "How about we save this for the morning, yeah? It's been a long day…"
"I can't sleep until we settle this."
"I really don't want to argue with you, Q. Today of all days." Eliot's head hurt. His stomach hurt. His heart hurt.
"You need to discuss this with me, El. I'm not leaving you here, but--"
"Well, let's not rush it. For such a big decision, we ought to explore every angle of this thing. How about we take turns? We won't argue, but each day one of us will share all his ideas on the subject while we work. The other will just listen. Then we switch. After a few days like that, we discuss the merits of the case."
"This isn't a debate club, Eliot," Quentin said tensely.
“We don’t have to decide tonight.” Eliot thought he sounded eminently reasonable, from the edge of panic. He turned his head from where it had rested against Q's, so Quentin wouldn't feel the tear sliding down his cheek. Quentin and Eliot. Who would they be to each other if they went home? Eliot remembered who they'd been, before they left.
Best friends. Who secretly adored each other. Who'd made one false move, too soon, which caused so much hurt they were both afraid to try again.
It had taken two years of isolation to get to where they were now. Two years without distractions or interruptions. Without anywhere for Eliot to run when the feelings got too overwhelming.
Two years of staying long enough to realize he wasn't drowning in feelings so deep he couldn't fathom them--with someone so good--a love he'd never thought he’d have. It felt like learning to breathe underwater. Like flying.
He wouldn't trade it for anything. Even if he was in this alone.
“I mean, come on, El! It’s still going to be here. If it’s meant to be us, no one else is going to solve it in the meantime.”
“I’m not sure that’s how quests work, Q,” Eliot said cautiously, his head spinning.
“I think I’ve studied a hell of a lot more quests than you have.”
“Can we not--fucking do this right now?” He tried to push these heavy words off with a laugh. “Come on, Q. Isn't there anything you'd rather do? I mean, I had something else in mind for the night after our anniversary." He traced a line down Q's chest.
Quentin gave in good-naturedly, snarking even as he whipped off the bedsheets. “Well, it’s not like I’m gonna turn you down.”
Eliot leaned over and kissed Q. The bond between them rushed in, stronger than arguments or anger.
Q responded immediately, so loving, so generous, even when he was upset about something.
With a swift gesture, Eliot used TK to swing the shutter away from the window, because he wanted to see Quentin's adorable face in the moonlight, and every line of his beautiful body.
Eliot took his time, stroking Quentin's cheeks and forehead, smoothing his hair. Kissing gently, slowly, deeply. Kissing his way down Quentin's chest, every inch of his skin, wanting this moment to last. Wanting Quentin to know how much he loved him, in the one way he felt certain he could say it.
He'd never say it in such a naked way, but he worshiped Quentin's body. He played at irreverence, laughing, teasing, but sex with Quentin was as close as he came to religion. Or perhaps…he should call it love…
"You are so fucking gorgeous," Eliot pronounced with a smile, running a feathertip touch up Quentin's cock, so Q gasped. He cupped Q's balls while laving the head of Quentin's cock. Sucked Quentin all the way down, then pulled off to swirl his tongue over the head again for a while, repeating the maddening rhythm till Quentin began crying out softly.
"El, please," Quentin moaned.
Eliot swallowed Q down whole. Then it was hot and fast, alternating with slow and sweet, and teasing with one hand at Q's nipples and the other at his ass, and damned if Quentin didn't sound better than any song Eliot had ever heard and missed from Earth.
But Eliot wanted to be closer to him, didn't want things to end so soon. And, greedy, he wanted to feel Quentin's skin on his. With one long, lingering stroke, he pulled off.
"God, El, don't stop."
"Oh, you liked that, Coldwater?"
"You fucking know I do…"
Eliot, laughing. Quentin laughing, too.
Eliot gave him a bit more to honor the request, then slowly, deliberately worked his way back up Q's body, keeping a low profile, relishing the gentle brush of skin on skin, cock against cock. Before he even made it halfway up Q's chest, Quentin grabbed his shoulders, pulling Eliot into a hungry kiss.
Eliot rolled him on his side so he could take Quentin in his arms. Quentin, biting Eliot's lip, thrusting in his tongue. Such a sexy, enthusiastic kisser. Quentin tightened his hold, his hand on Eliot's hip pressing their cocks together. God, Eliot was so hard. Quentin rocked his hips and Eliot matched him, Quentin's slicked cock gliding over his. He moaned into Quentin's mouth.
"Oh, you like that, Waugh? You want a little attention?" Quentin teased. He moved his hand from Eliot's hip to stroke up along the sides of their cocks. Eliot gasped, vision going white as Quentin worked his hand between them. He kissed Quentin desperately, struggling to hold on.
But he didn't get the chance. Dirty kissing, friction, Quentin's hand, Eliot grabbing Quentin's ass and pulling him closer. Gasping into each other's mouths, their voices jumbled raw with "Fuck" and "Q" and "El" and "You're so beautiful." And kissing, kissing, till they couldn't anymore because Eliot was shouting as he fell over the edge, Quentin following, their cries mingling like their words.
Lying there in each other's arms, Eliot felt so close to Quentin. He had to try. “What if…when we go back. Will we--? Will we--?”
Quentin’s arms around him, only breaths away. Eliot kissed him, tender, trying to tell him, his heart burning with, Will we still be together? Will you still love me?
As if that had even been on the table.
Quentin, responding, warm and into it as always, stroking Eliot’s curls, pulling back at last to mutter, “Will we what, El?” The tone, so kind, like Quentin might know the answer, and was just waiting for Eliot to ask.
But Eliot couldn’t, quite. He buried his face in Quentin’s shoulder, hugging him tight, shuddering a little at how close he’d come to asking, bracing himself in case the answer was No.
Quentin stroked his back, holding him tight, murmuring their refrain, “I’ve got you, El,” maybe thinking Eliot was crying. He wasn’t not.
“Do you think,” Eliot gasped, “I mean, we--I don’t want to lose--"
Quentin held him quietly, just held him, and it was so peaceful there in the night. Quentin was so gentle, so warm, so here, the smell of him filling Eliot. When Eliot glanced up again, Quentin looked concerned but patient, as if he hadn’t already been tossing and worrying half the night about his desire to get home.
“You’re my home, Quentin,” Eliot said, before he could stop himself. “I just. I--wanted.” He drew a ragged breath. It came out in a rush. “Will we still--be together?”
Quentin grinned in the moonlight. “We’re together, El?” He laughed a little, a soft, delighted sound. Teasing. “That’s good to know.”
Eliot choked on a laugh himself, even though it was not funny. He fell back on a familiar, half-humorous tone, because, well. That was how he coped. “Bitch, what do you call all this?” He waved to indicate the two of them snuggled up in bed; the cottage; the Mosaic beyond. By extension, the whole second year they’d been here.
“A quest,” Quentin said, grinning. But he leaned in to kiss Eliot, eyes gleaming. Eliot could feel Quentin's mouth curving in a mischievous smile.
“O-kaay,” Eliot said, after another long, luscious interval of kissing in which his mind just disappeared, while their hands wandered with reassuring touches. “So, I guess I should tell you…you mean everything to me, Q." He hadn't said it, quite; but his throat wouldn't let anything else through.
But Quentin said it clearly, simply--brave as always, as if it was no special effort: "I love you too, El."
Eliot's heart soared.
Until it turned out this didn't make any difference to the argument.
"But I still want to go home," Quentin continued.
Because the reason went beyond all Q's fancy arguments about quest logic and the fact that they were so far back in Fillory's past they'd still have plenty of time to get this done even if they took a break. As if they could convince crazy Fillory to synch up to Earth's timeline in any predictable way.
“I want to see my dad,” Quentin’s voice broke, “before it’s too late,” and his face crumpled.
Eliot hugged him close as Quentin cried in that open, lost way that goddamn broke Eliot’s heart. “I know, sweetheart.” Kissing his cheek, stroking his hair. “I don’t want to stop you from seeing your dad. You two have a beautiful relationship. Hell, I love your dad, and I haven’t even met him. I wish--"
He had to stop for a minute. Hugging Q silently, stroking his back. Letting him grieve. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t say I wish I’d had a father like that. Finally managed, “I’m so sorry, baby.”
“It’s selfish,” Q got out at last.
“You always put everyone else first, Q. You have a right to be selfish sometimes. And I want you to see your father again. I really do.” Eliot hesitated. “But. I don’t even know if I should say this right now. The people of Fillory--they’re counting on me. They’re starving. The crops won’t grow. The whole place runs on magic. I’m their High King. I never wanted to be. Sometimes I hate it. Especially when you’re not there. But. They need help, Q. I have to try.”
“I know, El. You’re a good king.” Quentin clearly meant it, but there was such hopelessness in his voice. Eliot felt the despair sink into him: could he ask Quentin to give up his father? That sacrifice was real, not some hypothetical “missing our friends, missing out on our lives.”
And even if Eliot agreed, could he figure out the horomancy to get them back to Earth in their own time?
Q said, “I should have visited you more. I’m sorry. I missed you.”
Eliot sighed, all the sadness flowing out. “I missed you too, Q.” But he still couldn’t put it into words: what all this meant; what he thought the Mosaic might be leading up to.
They settled in, Quentin on his back, Eliot on his side, curling around Q. And Eliot tried to sleep. He really did. But he was also thinking, as he listened to Quentin’s heartbeat, as Quentin’s arm curled gently around his back. Even if Quentin disagreed, he had the right to know.
He levered himself up on an elbow, watching Quentin’s beautiful face in the moonlight. A dream passing over. Quentin muttered in his sleep. Eliot smoothed his brow.
Q opened his eyes, liquid in the moonlight, and Eliot was caught, just trying to memorize this moment, this feeling of Quentin in his arms.
Because it never really existed apart from the Mosaic. Except for that one night, with Margo. After which Quentin seemed to almost hate him, for a little while…
“Listen, Q,” he started, then stopped again.
It seemed a long time, or no time, when Quentin murmured, “Yes, El?”
Eliot pecked his lips, stroked his cheek. Tried again to say “Love” and ended with “Listen.”
Through the window, night sounds drifted…beautiful, eerie, raising the skin on his back. So many birds. Owls echoing the distance in the sky. Cold seeped around the edges of the blanket when Eliot pushed one foot down.
“Eliot, I really think--"
“Shhh. Just listen.”
The wind whispered in the trees, an autumn susurrus that rose and fell. They lay wrapped together in silence for a few moments.
“El, I just want to go home. I don’t know how much time Dad has left. I never thought it would take this long.” Q's voice roughened.
“I don't want to take that away from you. I know how important your dad is to you. Just, let me show you something. Come on, let’s go outside.”
Quentin sighed. Rubbed at his eyes. Sat up. Accepted Eliot’s hand. Eliot snagged the blanket and wrapped it around Q’s shoulders, putting an arm around Quentin’s back.
Out under the stars, the cold ground bit Eliot’s bare feet. He steered Quentin toward the Mosaic, spreading out the tile-patterned quilt over the blank, sandy playing board. While Eliot grabbed the pillows from the chairs, Quentin lay down, spreading out the blanket on top.
Night's chill crept through his clothes, so Eliot ducked back into the cottage to retrieve something else. He returned to unfurl a crocheted blue and silver afghan over Quentin, then finally slid under the covers on Q's left.
“What’s that, El?”
“Anniversary present. But I didn’t finish in time, so. It's kinda short.”
“It’s amazing. I didn’t know you could crochet.”
Eliot’s throat tightened, but he finished tucking in all the edges, then lay back looking up, with Quentin in his right arm and the cottage above their heads.
“My grandma taught me,” he managed to get out. “The only member of my family who really loved me. She would have saved me from my father if she could. But she died when I was seven. When I do things that remind me of her, it feels like she’s with me…”
“I love it, El,” Quentin said, his voice warm, kind. “You should do more things that remind you of her."
“I figured--we might want a souvenir of our time here together…” That hadn’t been it, exactly. But he didn’t want to tell Quentin just how much he didn’t want to go back. How challenging it might be to stay together there, with Eliot's life the shitshow it had been, his body just political chattel, married to a woman for the sake of a blade, and engaged to a stranger who was at least male but who was not Quentin. All for the sake of stopping a war over a kingdom that was all kinds of fucked.
Not to mention the recently revived Alice Quinn.
Eliot's desire to keep this life with Quentin couldn't be the deciding factor, not with Quentin's dad on the line. "But, you know, speaking of the quest, I think I figured something out. We should probably talk about that first…”
But for a while, they simply lay there in the quiet, wrapped up in the anniversary afghan, wrapped up in each other. Looking up at the sky.
“I love the stars. Night is so beautiful here,” Quentin murmured.
“It really is. Look, Q. The same constellations we’d see from Brakebills at this time of year. There’s the Pleiades,” Eliot traced the Seven Sisters, “and Taurus.”
“There’s Orion! My dad taught me that one.”
“Must be after midnight.”
“You’re a stargazer, El?”
“When I get the chance. Did you know the stars are time magic? We’re always looking into their past. What we see are time travelers…”
They shone so brightly. Eliot fell silent, listening to the great horned owl, cherishing the warmth of holding Quentin near. Trying to let his heart float on the beauty of the night, just long enough to get out what he had to say.
“All this…” Eliot waved to indicate the stars overhead, the two of them, the Mosaic, the cottage, the woods, “it’s all so fucking beautiful, right? I mean, even when we get frustrated with the puzzle, we’re spending all our days working on something together, working toward something, a noble goal of restoring magic and saving people’s lives. And we’re making art day after day.”
“Art,” Quentin snorted, but it was a friendly sound, not a scoff.
“It is art. We’re aiming to capture the beauty of all life using the tools at our disposal. Just like every artist. The tools are never enough, but we keep trying. Hoping to capture the essence of beauty even at its most abstract.”
“I guess.” Quentin nuzzled Eliot’s cheek. “You’re right about working together.”
“And there’s something beautiful about the way we keep trying…”
“I don’t think anyone else would,” Quentin agreed.
“So, I’ve been thinking, Q. That key didn’t just take us to the Mosaic in Fillory. It took us into the past. That’s not an accident. We know it means something, because we know that when Jane gets to the puzzle, it’s already solved, and the quester gives her the key. But what if it’s more than that? Horomancy usually is.”
“You mean, like the time loops. Jane needs the key to create the time loops…and we need the time loops to stop the Beast.”
“That too,” Eliot said, feeling the sadness press him down again: all they’d been through, all they’d lost. All that he and Quentin might yet lose. Whether they left, or stayed.
The chill of the early fall wind scooped over their heads and pressed against the blankets. Eliot hesitated, on the brink of it all. “I think I know how this works.”
Quentin turned to look at him in the moonlight, the starlight. Quentin’s beautiful face, alive with interest. Concern. Love. “What is it, El?”
"I--when I studied horomancy. There are two types of time magic. One requires a lot of power couched in a spell or enchanted device, like a key or a clock. Another--it’s cumulative. You build it layer by layer. That’s actually the strongest way to build a time device, too. Your own movement through time--capturing time itself, layer by layer. Recording it. The way we say great art transcends, or travels through time. The way a tree grows, or a mountain. Or a human life."
"Or the stars…"
"Exactly. A puzzle like this, it isn't anything obvious. I'm beginning to think it's time-based. After all, this quest started with time magic. We entered through a clock and stepped right into the past. That's a really strong sign. I don't think there could possibly be any one solution that's going to represent the beauty of all life any more than another."
Quentin heaved a deep sigh. "Then what are we doing this for? Why don't we go home?"
Eliot held Quentin's hand. "It's cumulative, Q," he said gently.
"What?"
"What if it's cumulative? A lot of time magic works that way. So, we’ve already done almost a thousand patterns. There’s only so much a set of tiles can do to express the beauty of all life. What if--it’s all of them? All the patterns, day after day. Our dedication…the effort we put in. At some point, all these fleeting patterns, built on the same space, using the same materials…it amounts to something."
"I'll say." Quentin's voice was deeply sarcastic.
"Just think about it, Q. If there's any solution to this thing…it has to be something like that."
"It does, huh? Is that why no one else solved it? No one else was stupid enough to sit around here for a couple of years wasting their lives--"
Hurt burnt Eliot's heart like a poker. He turned his face away so Quentin wouldn't see.
Quentin kept going on about life passing them by. But after a minute, Eliot realized Quentin sounded more pleading than angry. Was he trying to get Eliot to agree with him? Or hoping that Eliot would come up with a different answer?
Slowly, Eliot looked over. Quentin wound down, his eyes big and sad. Was this mostly about his father?
Heart aching, Eliot whispered, "It's not a waste." It was really all he could offer. He knew it was not enough.
"What did you say, El?" Q's voice, so small, like a child scared of the dark.
Eliot tried again. Forcing the words out through the knot in his throat. They sounded rough. "I--it hasn't been a waste for me, Q." He cleared his throat. "The Mosaic gave me you."
“Eliot,” Quentin said, his voice shaky. He pulled Eliot closer. Kissed him. They held each other like any other words might break them.
Eliot traced Quentin’s cheek. Tried to memorize every detail. The way the strands of Quentin's soft brown hair fell together. Intelligent, big brown eyes framed by thick lashes. Nose adorably crinkled in thought. Generous mouth, in every sense of the word.
"It's all so beautiful," Eliot whispered. "Our lives here…working on the Mosaic. And Q, think about it. It's not just our dedication and hard work. We're giving this thing everything we have. Putting all of us into it. All the--fucking love." Eliot had to blink so he could see Quentin clearly. “Just by the way, Q? You’re the love of my life. And that feeling is so big. Bigger than the universe, maybe." He drew a shuddering breath. “But every day, Q. I just--love you more. Every day spending time with you, loving you. Fucking you. It never gets old, Q. You’re amazing…”
"Like layers of time magic." Q's face--so serious, so intent--like he was solving a problem.
Feeling naked, Eliot wanted to run, to hide. To bury his face in Quentin's chest. He forced himself to keep going. "So, in addition to the patterns. What if it's us? We got a chance here we might never have otherwise. Because I've loved you for years, Q. The more time we spent as friends, the harder I fell. But aside from flirting--and especially after that threesome--I didn't have the guts to make a move. I loved you too much. I couldn’t bear to lose you as a friend. The stakes were too high--"
“You could never lose me, El. Not as a friend. Not as--anything. And--I mean, me too. I loved you for a while--before the threesome. I just never thought--till we got here--"
Eliot laughed shakily. "Well, thank god you're braver than I am," he said, through chattering teeth. “What I think I’m trying to say… It’s this amazing gift, yeah? The Mosaic. We’re dedicating ourselves to it, to this quest, but it--it’s giving us back something so much more…”
“Beautiful,” Quentin whispered.
Eliot could only nod, tears pooling in his eyes.
Quentin, kissing him…Eliot, losing himself in it, in Quentin…as always…
When they surfaced, coming up for a glimpse of the stars, for Quentin’s panting laugh, Eliot felt dizzy.
Because as much as Eliot loved him, he couldn't keep the truth from Q any longer.
“Horomancy is funny, Q. I don’t think we’ll be able to leave and come back later."
"Well, if we calculate the variables, the time slippage--"
Eliot shook his head. "The quest took us to the past. But if we reject the quest, would the key even bring us back here? And even assuming that works, we’d probably have to start all over again. Because horomancy--the daily build is cumulative. You can’t interrupt it."
"Eliot--what you're saying--it could take years. Years!"
"Exactly. And if the puzzle does what I think it will, and resets itself when we leave--just like it does between each quester--I just don't know if I have the heart to start at the beginning. So, if you have to go back--" Eliot's courage broke and he buried his face in Quentin’s chest, holding him close, listening to his heartbeat. “I’ll go anywhere with you, Q. As long as we’re together. Even if there’s no magic. You're more important to me…"
"El…" A gentle hand stroking his curls. "You love magic."
Unbidden, Eliot felt it again--that joy when they'd first stepped into the past--Magic, in the air, everywhere, dancing at the tips of their fingers. Nothing less than his life's blood singing, as they'd leaped into that epic hug. "So do you."
"So--we could stay here--do our job. At least we'd have magic."
"And each other…"
"And if we complete the quest, we'll have magic at home. Only that means my dad will die. Which, okay, I knew going into this thing…I just thought I'd have time to see him before, you know. I help kill him."
Eliot said with certainty, "Q, if there's one thing I know, it's that you'd never hurt your father."
"Yeah, but--killing Ember, killing magic--"
"Self-defense. It's not your fault that this world is so fucked up."
"Still--"
"Q, you can't have it both ways. Either you want to go back and see your dad…screw magic…or you want to help restore it…which I honestly think means staying here." Eliot paused, floundering for clarity, not sure how to help. "Q, did I ever tell you everything the Great Cock said to me when he gave us the quest?"
Knowing that every detail might be important, Eliot had been careful to memorize, repeating it from time to time. It had seemed especially important once they'd really gotten into some time here. He recited the relevant parts: You are a good king, but it is time to become a great one. In order to do that, you must travel to a land where you are no king, no magician, just a vulnerable man. … You have a brother of the heart with floppy hair. … You are parts of one whole. No one can do this alone. … Eliot, the quest I bestow on you is the task you were born for.
"It sounds a lot like our lives here," Eliot confessed. "I mean, we already know there's no one else willing to devote their lives to this thing. So maybe we really are where we're meant to be."
Though Eliot knew Quentin must have heard him recite this before, Q listened in silence, ever attentive to the details of a fantasy quest. It seemed to calm him, especially when Quentin responded by repeating his quote from the Fillory books about Jane Chatwin finding the puzzle already solved. Q sighed. "I was right all along. It's us. Isn't it." He sounded so tired. So defeated. Shivering.
Eliot touched his cheek. His hands had been under the covers while he hugged Quentin. Quentin's face was cold. "Oh god, I’ve kept you out here too long. I sleep hot so I don’t always notice…you’re cold, baby. Let’s get you inside and warm you up."
He stood, pulling Quentin up along with the blankets.
"I have to hand it to you, Eliot. You managed to turn this into your debate club after all," Quentin teased.
Eliot laughed. "I just know how much you enjoy a good argument."
In that moment, as Eliot tucked the blankets around Q and they stood facing each other, Quentin's face shone with mischief and love.
Eliot couldn't help it: brushing noses with Q, kissing him, Eliot vowed to enjoy every moment, as long as the quest might last.
He wrapped his arm around Quentin's shoulders as they stepped back over the threshold of their home.
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